just_muse_me September: Photographs
Set 3.6.1. FIVE times captured in photographs and ONE time there was no camera
[+] The photo is in black and white. The police officer’s blond hair is mostly hidden under his uniform hat. His nameplate reads “DENT, H”. Like the photos of his brother officers, he does not smile. The flag in the background denotes his patriotism, his sense of duty - to protect and serve. He does, and he does it well. He is liked by his peers. He lacks the ability to take that attitude home with him. He doesn’t protect his son, he doesn’t serve his wife. When his son sees the photo, he sees the truth - empty eyes, a flicker of hate, disguised as the shine of honor. After everything is said and done, the photo is packed in a box, the box packed in a storage facility. Cold. Empty. Harvey thinks it’s fitting.
[+] When they find Harvey’s wallet - in the charred remains of the warehouse, where it fell out of his pocket - the contents are mostly melted, burned. Among stuck-together-credit cards, there is a photo, the subject practically indistinguishable, a mess of colors running together. At the very bottom right-hand corner, nearly falling off the edge, however, is an unmistakably vibrant blue that looks vaguely like the curve of a woman’s hip. Once, it was a close-up of a brunette, hand on her hip, grinning as she rolled her eyes for the camera - his camera - a candid shot of her standing there in his living room, still in her court attire, but in her stocking feet.
[+] “Excuse me, Mr. Dent?” The photographer for the fundraiser walks over in their direction. By now, mostly everyone has cleared out. The evening is a bust, thanks to the Joker and his cronies. “Do you think-” He motions to the blond ADA who is helping clean up some of the mess. “Can I get the two of you - over there by the window - pretending to enjoy the evening, maybe with glasses of champagne or something -- just so we have something positive to mail out?”
Harvey laughs, unable to believe that after everything that’s gone on tonight, it still comes back to putting on a show. “Sure.” He glances at the ADA. “Nadine?”
“Of course, Mr. Dent,” she nods and walks over to the window with him, grabbing two glasses of champagne and handing him one.
With the snap of the camera, they are frozen in time, lifting their champagne glasses, presumably to Harvey Dent’s campaign for a better Gotham. Harvey’s hair is practically golden and his suit impeccable. Nadine is the picture of steadfastness, her own hair lighter, but done elegantly for the occasion. They stand close, but not too close. The only thing that betrays him is his eyes. They share with her a conspiratorial look that matches his grin.
The photograph is developed, but a series of events prevents its publication.
[+] A different American flag backdrop, a different blond H. Dent. The smile of this man is genuine, as is the gleam of hope in his eyes. This picture, however, is not framed, but enlarged and used as a backdrop for his memorial service. He sees pictures of it on TV as the news plays over and over again coverage of the “devastating death of Gotham’s White Knight”. He is not dead, but his life is certainly over.
[+] The photo is a typical school picture. The girl is about six, with wayward blond pigtails and a knowing, mischievous glint to her eyes and smile. She’s in a private school uniform. On the back of the photograph, in childish scrawl, it reads, “To: Daddy. Luv, Duela.” He keeps it in his wallet, a coveted spot where credit cards may have once been. But this is a different time now. Credit cards are oddly, like so many other things, a relic of the past. She is the future - the only hope of a future he has. The photo is both a reminder and a gift.
[-]. There is no need to capture the moment in photos or videos - he will relive it in his mind until he can make sense of it. Everything is broken. Literally - vases, plates, furniture, mirrors. It looks like a hurricane has gone through the apartment. When he realizes the depth of the destruction - to the apartment and to himself- as he takes deep, ragged breaths, as he watches the blond woman huddle in the corner out of fear, he knows, once again, just how far he has fallen. It hurts - more than it has in a long time - to know that with a few words, she’s destroyed him. He grapples with the feelings of betrayal by destroying what he can touch, holds his gun because it is the only sense of security he has left. The shred of her that belonged to him feels gone. For a moment, he feels gone, too.
[+] The photo is in black and white. The police officer’s blond hair is mostly hidden under his uniform hat. His nameplate reads “DENT, H”. Like the photos of his brother officers, he does not smile. The flag in the background denotes his patriotism, his sense of duty - to protect and serve. He does, and he does it well. He is liked by his peers. He lacks the ability to take that attitude home with him. He doesn’t protect his son, he doesn’t serve his wife. When his son sees the photo, he sees the truth - empty eyes, a flicker of hate, disguised as the shine of honor. After everything is said and done, the photo is packed in a box, the box packed in a storage facility. Cold. Empty. Harvey thinks it’s fitting.
[+] When they find Harvey’s wallet - in the charred remains of the warehouse, where it fell out of his pocket - the contents are mostly melted, burned. Among stuck-together-credit cards, there is a photo, the subject practically indistinguishable, a mess of colors running together. At the very bottom right-hand corner, nearly falling off the edge, however, is an unmistakably vibrant blue that looks vaguely like the curve of a woman’s hip. Once, it was a close-up of a brunette, hand on her hip, grinning as she rolled her eyes for the camera - his camera - a candid shot of her standing there in his living room, still in her court attire, but in her stocking feet.
[+] “Excuse me, Mr. Dent?” The photographer for the fundraiser walks over in their direction. By now, mostly everyone has cleared out. The evening is a bust, thanks to the Joker and his cronies. “Do you think-” He motions to the blond ADA who is helping clean up some of the mess. “Can I get the two of you - over there by the window - pretending to enjoy the evening, maybe with glasses of champagne or something -- just so we have something positive to mail out?”
Harvey laughs, unable to believe that after everything that’s gone on tonight, it still comes back to putting on a show. “Sure.” He glances at the ADA. “Nadine?”
“Of course, Mr. Dent,” she nods and walks over to the window with him, grabbing two glasses of champagne and handing him one.
With the snap of the camera, they are frozen in time, lifting their champagne glasses, presumably to Harvey Dent’s campaign for a better Gotham. Harvey’s hair is practically golden and his suit impeccable. Nadine is the picture of steadfastness, her own hair lighter, but done elegantly for the occasion. They stand close, but not too close. The only thing that betrays him is his eyes. They share with her a conspiratorial look that matches his grin.
The photograph is developed, but a series of events prevents its publication.
[+] A different American flag backdrop, a different blond H. Dent. The smile of this man is genuine, as is the gleam of hope in his eyes. This picture, however, is not framed, but enlarged and used as a backdrop for his memorial service. He sees pictures of it on TV as the news plays over and over again coverage of the “devastating death of Gotham’s White Knight”. He is not dead, but his life is certainly over.
[+] The photo is a typical school picture. The girl is about six, with wayward blond pigtails and a knowing, mischievous glint to her eyes and smile. She’s in a private school uniform. On the back of the photograph, in childish scrawl, it reads, “To: Daddy. Luv, Duela.” He keeps it in his wallet, a coveted spot where credit cards may have once been. But this is a different time now. Credit cards are oddly, like so many other things, a relic of the past. She is the future - the only hope of a future he has. The photo is both a reminder and a gift.
[-]. There is no need to capture the moment in photos or videos - he will relive it in his mind until he can make sense of it. Everything is broken. Literally - vases, plates, furniture, mirrors. It looks like a hurricane has gone through the apartment. When he realizes the depth of the destruction - to the apartment and to himself- as he takes deep, ragged breaths, as he watches the blond woman huddle in the corner out of fear, he knows, once again, just how far he has fallen. It hurts - more than it has in a long time - to know that with a few words, she’s destroyed him. He grapples with the feelings of betrayal by destroying what he can touch, holds his gun because it is the only sense of security he has left. The shred of her that belonged to him feels gone. For a moment, he feels gone, too.