Plink.
For a moment the coin seemed to hang in mid air, turning slowly. The yellowed light of the cell gleamed on the silver edges of the coin and, for a moment, it glinted brightly and then, blinding glint gone as suddenly as it had come, the coin plummeted, still turning round and round. Its owner caught it in the air and, with the dexterity that comes only of an idiosyncrasy repeated a thousand times, manipulated the small object back into a position he could flip it once again into the air from.
Plink.
Two-Face stared at the hall in front of his cell, barely conscious of the coin flipping, or his own hand flipping it. Across from his own room, past the narrow hallway, he could see into the cell of another inmate—someone he didn't know or just couldn't recognize out of costume, or from far away. For a moment, the former District Attorney wondered idly whether that stranger was as insane as himself.
He caught his coin in the air and, suddenly realizing he'd been flipping it, glanced down.
Scarred side up.
Plink.
Briefly, he wondered whether it was a good or bad thing for him that coins had been invented. On one hand, he was a slave to the coin, but on the other hand it made everything easier—made everything perfectly black and white, and left all his decisions up to chance. Besides, if there were no coins, it'd just be something else, wouldn't it? He thought for a moment that perhaps he should flip on how he felt about the coin, before realizing that was an answer in and of itself.
Scarred side up.
Plink.
That was twice it had come down with the same side showing. But that was exactly the beauty of the coin. No matter how many times it came down with the scarred side up, the next flip still had the same chance of showing the good side as it did for the bad. It was completely random—impartial, unbiased, random chance. It was something cold and perfect. Chance shaped the world; it ruined lives or made millionaires wantonly. There was no god, there was no karma, there was no fate—there was only the cold, random hand of chance and it's various accidents. Accidents like those that make an assassin's bullet hit or miss it's target, or those that make an idealistic young man a monster, or those that make a cell develop where there was no life and then go on to spawn a line of creatures that are vicious and cruel.
Scarred side up.
Plink.
Footsteps echoed through the hall, and Batman and Jim Gordon passed by, lead by a doctor. Two-Face tracked their progress, expressionlessly, with his eyes. It wasn't an unusual sight—Batman showed up at least every week, sometimes to bring in criminals and sometimes to talk to an inmate. The Commissioner showed up less frequently, but still wasn't an uncommon sight in Arkham's solemn halls. Numbly, Two-Face thought to himself that if the coin had come up on the other face all that time ago, he'd be walking with them.
Good side up.
Plink.
It was hard to keep track of time in a place like this, but Two-Face was fairly certain that soon the orderlies would be handing out medication. At Arkham, though, it almost wasn't worth giving the inmates their meds. The orderlies knew this, and they didn't try too hard to make sure that the pills they handed out were swallowed. Two-Face would flip on whether he swallowed his pill or hid it in his mouth and spat it out when the orderly left—just like he flipped on it every time.
Scarred side up.
Plink.