Author's Note: My first story on this site. I'm a huge Batman fan and now I'm finally writing something involving my favorite character Big Bad Harv. This has been a story that I've planned out from beginning to end, so I'll try not to get sidetracked. Thank you so much for reading my nightly written story.
Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything related to the universe. I own only my original characters. Rating will go from T to M. Chapters in the future will go through re-writing.
Pairing: Harvey.D/Two Face/OC
Synopsis: Their gazes met—his dark, hers focused. She didn't look upon him with disgust, pity or fear, something that he saw in the eyes of all the people that had been brought to him and those who even worked for him. It was the same look she had when he first saw her the previous night. Harvey admired it, Two-Face despised it.- [Two Face/OC]
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In The Blue Dark
"Harvey's in the sky with diamonds and he's making me crazy,
I come alive, alive,
All he wants to do is party with his pretty baby."
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It was by pure chance. His fate, entwined.
A flip of a coin dancing through the air sounded. It was flipped again and again, repeatedly, the nail of the man's thumb hitting the metal causing it to chime. The man's black trench coat fluttered.
The way she moved, walked. An indulgent, tempting creature draped in nothing but black, contrasting against the snow that had concealed every inch of Gotham. The snowfall made the city look less cruel and harsh. It was late into New Year's Day, and it was cold, sharp to the skin. He had seen her from across the road outside the club belonging to the Italian De Santis mob, walking, and then leaning against a black Rolls Royce with tinted windows, patiently waiting. Her hair falling over her shoulder in a large black wave and her pale cheeks were reddened from the snow flurry. He blinked, then they contemplated. She was joined by three men, all dressed in black. After discreet glances and a short conversation they started to get into the car, expect her, she stopped. A glance over her shoulder, as if she felt something touch her. He watched, then they argued and swore.
He had hoped she had seen him—no, then again—he prayed that she would stare right through. His fantasy wanted her to remain an illusion. She would be disgusted, sickened if she saw him. Her face showed no reaction and her gaze remained absorbed in his direction. It was then, it a tuck of long hair behind her earlobe, she climbed into the car and shut the door. She left, his infatuation faded.
The night poured with neon, flicking, a rosy sign of a naked woman baring her most intimate area lit the dark alley. The word Allure glowed over the building like a halo. The pulsing, rhythmic sound of music spilled from the club like an open vein. He was distracted by the irritating jeer of men in fine suits, drunk and slurring and grabbing pretty woman dressed in thin silk revealing their pale perky asses. Scum, the man believed.
"Boss, the car is ready." A goon appeared from behind the staring man, beige coat buttoned tightly, a thick scarf wrapped around his neck and over his mouth and nose. His identity partially hidden by the fabric, yet the weather was the excuse for any passing cop or patrol car. His hand fiddled with something within his pocket. A click of a gun and the metallic rustle of a bullet or two. He cleared his throat. "It's your call."
The man flipped the coin absentmindedly, a louder chime sounding as he flicked it from his thumb and it began to spin through the air. It fell and he caught it confidently. He opened his palm and looked down, eager, expectant. "We take everything." His voice deep, husky, hot breath escaping from his mouth and turning into white vapor. "Everything they have."
He dropped the coin into his tailored trouser pocket; his left leg was fashioned black with a pinstripe pattern and the other leg an off-white color.
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It was quick.
Gunfire, smoke and blood. Chaos.
The building had one entrance, only one, and with that information the cargo truck rammed through the two twin doorways and came to a halt. The floor was showered with glass and rubble. The alarm system sounded and the timer began to count down. The door from the back of the van reeled upward and twelve men jumped out, all armed and each wearing an individual warped, grisly mask, one side burned, the other clean and untouched. They raided the ground floor first, shooting and polluting the air with smolder as they threw a smoke grenade. The first guard lowered his gun realizing the ratio of how many men there were compared to the security. He stuttered something whilst being shoved against a wall, black tape winding around his mouth, then arms, and then legs. A gun handle was whipped across his face and fell limp like a ragdoll.
The vault was on the second floor, heavily guarded and protected by a security system that needed number recognition. The rest of security shouted a warning, aiming their guns and taking a warning shot at the ceiling. The withstanding party returned fire and didn't stop. The sound of gunfire echoed throughout the building, a cast of bullet upon bullet raining down onto the floor, the motion of the world slowing down as the bank security realized they had lost. The staircase was filled with the masked group and they began to hostilely instruct the guards to get on the floor.
Hit 'em good, hit 'em hard, Harvey.
Shut up. I can't think.
The guard's were forced into a corner, kneeling down and throwing their guns into a pile beside a henchman's foot.
The goon's boss showed, walking up the staircase, casually flipping a silver dollar and looking around at the anarchy indifferently. He was a clash of dark and light, good and evil. His suit reflected his damaged psyche. Dark, crisp fabric that that had been charred with acid meeting soft, clean white material that completed the journey down his arm and was clasped shut with a black cuff button. The right of his face was of Harvey Dent, facial hair neatly shaven, dark brunette hair slicked back and a high check-bone. His left side, tendon and muscle uncovered, second and third degree burning had burned away his ear and left his eye bulging, his lip burned away leaving a permanent growl that left his pearly teeth exposed.
He was met with the attentiveness of half his gang, the other half trying their most to break into the vault. Two-Face stood staring out onto the security team. The head guard was thrown to the floor in front of him, his pocket radio pulled from his chest by a henchman and stamped on in front of him.
The guard looked up; his gaze hard and fixated on the felon in front of him. His jaw clenched and his body quivered when Two-Face pulled a gun from inside his jacket pocket.
"The number. Give it us." Two-Face snarled, his 22 Magnum pistol so hard into the security's guard's head that it made the skin white from the intense pressure. The man breathed inward shakily.
The guard swallowed hard. "Please, please—you don't have to do this! My men, they have families, they—Harvey—" The sound of the ex-District Attorney's name caused a violent reaction and the guard received a kick to the gut. He curled into a fetus potion and choked, sucking up the air like a fish out of water. A henchmen came forward and pulled him straight again.
"We want the code!" Two-Face roared. There was something in his voice that dripped with venom, a warning, a last chance. The guard understood. Blood rolled from his mouth.
"Okay, okay, I'll give it." A bead of sweat fell down his forehead, then his neck. He was dragged back up and forced toward the security pad. He entered the ten-digit number into the pad and was then thrown to the ground. A gun again pressed to his temple as the whole gang began to raid the vault, filling bag after bag with efficiently piled money. It didn't take long for the vault to become almost empty.
Two-Face saw the security group from the corner of his eye. No one dead. Some injured. "Let's see if fate will show a little mercy." He flipped his coin; it went high before plummeting back down onto his hand. He looked. "Well gentlemen, good heads. Fate is on your side."
A police siren wailed from outside. The remaining gang members froze and looked over at their boss automatically. Two-Face made a gesture toward his group, and flipped his coin. He caught it and half-grinned at the result. "Too bad for these oncoming chumps. Bad heads. We kill 'em."
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The office was exquisite to say the least, a beautiful arch shaped roof, two rows of Whitestone pillars resembling the style of Romanesque architecture supporting it; the neatly carved stone showed off the skillful craftsmanship. The structure itself was very basic, a large room with a varnished table at the head and a leather cushioned chair behind it. Circling the table were two men, all wearing similar clothing that signified their alliance, and two women, one dressed in a feminine white dress, the other, Alex, was dressed in black.
They stood in silence, waiting. Very faint screaming could be heard, it was distant, but due to the silence it was all that they could hear. The room felt ominous and cold.
Alex stood on the far right of the table, detaching herself from the uncomfortable moment of misery that they were forced to listen to. She sternly looked out the window, watching as the city continued on living and pulsing with life and movement. It was only the previous day they had to go through a moment like this one, a meeting regarding all the mafia associations in Gotham, and the tension in the meeting room at the De Santis club was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Her breath became shallow and her chest tightened ever so unpleasantly at the sudden silence. Whenever there was noise there was existence and normality, the dead silence was the symphony of the dead.
The door opened and everybody turned and brought their attention to the man who walked in. All Alex could see was red, and then a crimson hand with a black sleeve rolled up to a toned bicep. The man wore trailered black trousers, pressed and fitted, and a black shirt that had been rolled up by the sleeves to avoid staining. His hair was like his attire, black and sleek, his face tan and sharp. His most distinctive feature was his left eye, permanently damaged after a fight with The Bat; it was ice blue, much unlike his natural eye that was an opaque brown. A line of scar tissue went across his eyelid and thick eyebrow.
"Ain't nothing like some good ol' exercise to start the day." Anthony broke the silence with his pearly smile and brazen talk. His Brooklyn accent thick, brooding. He took a small cotton towel from beside the small liquor bar that was on the left of the window. He wiped his hand casually, blood staining the white cloth. He paused, the silence heavy. Alex could smell him, expensive Cuban cigar smoke and scotch, it danced in her mouth and nostrils. His back was turned to his obeying audience. "Two hundred thousand. Damn."
She had worked under Anthony "Cottonmouth" Capone for a long time, so long that she would often forget she had once a normal life with her father on the outskirt of East Gotham. His was somewhat of a rumor in Gotham, he was very rarely seen, yet his very name caused great unsettlement and courteousness was given to those associated with him. Although she had seen much violence and evil in her time of working under Cottonmouth she still found it greatly disturbing when murder or torture was done with no hint of regret from the giver. He was sadistic; it was his nature. She had learned that over time. No light, no mercy, no feeling came from him. She hadn't completely become numb to his vicious behavior and she was afraid it showed. Yet, despite his cruelty, he was her savior. She couldn't forget that. All the ugliness and wickedness, he had saved her a long time ago. She loved him but despised who he was. He had broken a piece from him and buried deep inside of her and it continued to grow. He was like a stone statue of a Greek deity and she silently worshiped it every day in hope that something would be blessed upon her. It never was. And like a believer she was she never stopped praying and paying tribute for her saviour.
"What is it, boss?" Sebastian was the first to speak; his enquiring showed his straightforwardness attitude. He was thirty-something, tall and trim. He had been in the crime-family business for a long time and nothing really shocked him or made him show his true emotion. He barely spoke, only if it necessary, and whenever he did it was slow and with consideration. He was a solemn man that had reminded Alex of broken glass, getting closer and befriending him would only hurt.
"Gotham Bank, in Burnley. A heist went down last night." Anthony dropped the towel into a steel bin. He turned around. His face was like cold rock.
"Shit." Mikey swore. It was accidental, of course. Michael was young, he was shorter then Sebastian and had less muscle. His hair was brown and messy, facial hair unshaven, a rough rogue that made women swoon. He was something of a comic. He was a product of a troubled upbringing, a wasted youth and an alcohol filled adulthood. Alex often wondered how Mikey was here, the free sprit that belonged to no one but himself, his whole cheerful demeanor raised curiosity.
"Laundering money for Sullivan and De Santis." Anthony sat down in the chair that squeaked under his weight. He paused for a moment, his thought hidden with such a grave face. His large hands were stained a light pink from the blood. "Hm, Maroni, too."
"And us." Alex finally spoke, though softy. It was a statement. It was the reason they were all here. Anthony looked up at her, briefly, and smiled, he looked utterly wicked. He looked at her like she was bore. It was then Alex noticed he had the smallest drop of blood on his collar. It was hard to see, but it was there. She knew the Gotham Bank in Burnley had been laundering money for the mob for over a decade. They had an unbreakable connection that was first established from the late Carmine "The Roman" Falcone and not all staff that worked there had an accurate and thorough background check.
"The meeting yesterday," Mikey rubbed his stubble, thinking his next sentence carefully. "I thought we all, y'know, buried the hatchet?"
"I guess someone dug it back up." Sebastian clenched his jaw. "What do you want us to do, boss?"
"I want to know who it was." Anthony said in a voice went through Alex like a cold, sharpened knife. He ran a hand through his hair; a small strand held onto it and fell over his forehead. Although he acted calm and nonchalant about the whole situation, Alex knew there would be hell to pay. He was dangerous when something like this happened, like a desolate creature. It wasn't uncommon for him to reflect his angry and shower down on the city with that same rage. His voice became deep, a serious tone. "Tomorrow."
"There's a gathering, tonight. Just a little safe house get-together," He went on. He scratched the underside of his chin. His burning eyes were absent; they stared into an invisible horizon, unblinking. "Someone there will know. Although, I do have a suspicion."
"Where is it? Iceberg?" Zara inquired. From the corner of her eye Alex saw Zara fidget, she stood at the further back of the room, champagne hair curled and face soft and lustrous. She too, was another young woman. Herself and Zara were close, she was like a sister, a sister she had met twenty years into her life and her existence sank deep into Alex's being. She still remembered their very first memory together; Zara had been brought into the shared house of Cottonmouth's gang, she had been covered in blood, a man's blood Alex eventually discovered on a late drunken night between them both. In her nature Alex had decided to care and clean her. Like a child she took a traumatized Zara to the bathroom, undressed her from her filthy and bleeding clothing, bathed her in warm soapy water, dressed her again in an old sweater and put her into bed. A strange introduction that led into a friendship that lasted till this day. She continued on, "Stacked Deck?"
"It's at Venus." Anthony pushed himself out the chair and stood to his full height. He was tall—heck, he was towering—his posture straight. In her mind Alex saw the Venus nightclub, neon and beautiful woman, money and cigar smoke. The naked physique of Aphrodite standing on a beach shell, her blonde hair waving; the naked image of the goddess was a continuous theme throughout the entire nightspot. It was a place for only the richest criminal organization and wanted in Gotham, people who saw themselves as aristocratic, yet their entire fortune was based on crime. It was funny when thinking about it. But crime did effectively pay, even when caught and punished, they could buy their way out of jail. It was then Anthony suddenly turned to her. "I want an answer, Alex."
"Yes, boss." Alex replied routinely, voice monotone. His decision had been made. She was taken aback.
"I don't want a shootout." Anthony stepped toward Zara, and she smiled. His voice became much lighter, it carried less venom, and it sounded gentle. It wasn't secret that Zara and Anthony had a carnal relationship; he preferred her company when in a time of stress. "I want to keep as many bullets as I can, make 'em last, now that we're a good thousand down."
"Now," Anthony turned toward the window and looked out onto the city. His facade now disappeared. He wasn't the type to give out affection or respect without it being earned. Zara became a forgotten infatuation. "Get out."
It was then everyone vacated the room. It was like a spring trap when Alex felt Anthony hold her arm and stop her from walking. She stopped instantly, caught, predator upon prey. They become disconnected from the outside world when the office door closed with a click that made the hair on the back of Alex's neck rise. No one had turned his or her head in question to why she had not followed, as it should have been. Taking his hand gently away from her arm Anthony took a cigarette from a packet inside his trouser leg pocket. He indulged in the silence between them and hummed merrily to himself as he ignited the small flame from a silver zippo lighter. He inhaled deeply, blowing out smoke through his nose. He continued to hum a simple tune, checking his wristwatch, acting as thought Alex wasn't even present.
"You can do this for me, can't you, Alex?" He asked suddenly, moving toward her in a sluggish movement. He breathed smoke into her mouth. She inhaled it. It was strong and sent her dizzy and she found herself fighting against a pressure within her throat. It swilled around them like a blizzard.
"Yes. Of course, boss." Alex assured with a nod. He placed his strong, ring-covered hand on her shoulder. She suddenly felt a great weight on her back.
"Good." He leaned toward her and brought his mouth close to her ear. "I can always count on you." His grip reminded her of a vulture picking at a dead carcass. She didn't bend her back in retaliation but accepted the painful squeeze that made her flesh bruise. He let go with resentment. "You know Tom, right? Uh, Tom Mason, that's his name." He almost, almost laughed, but stopped himself.
"Yeah, of course. He works with me and Seb." Alex watched him intently. "Is something wrong?" She sounded uneasy, her own voice foreign.
"You don't have any attachment do you?" He raised an eyebrow with insinuation. He sighed in frustration. "You're not fucking, are you? He ain't got any connection to my inner circle, does he? I ain't letting this little nobody take anything from me."
"No, no," Alex felt humiliated. Her head felt stiff and bloated. "We don't talk. Nothing—nothing is happening."
"Huh, well," Anthony paused. "He's like a peach, ain't he?" He retorted cruelly. "Bruises so easily for such a big guy." She looked down at Anthony's collar again, very faintly; over the black shirt was that drop of blood. He dumped his cigarette into an overfilled ashtray. "They think they can steal from me and get away with it? They're dead. Dead." He sighed. He lifted his hand, his palm facing downward. It hung there, waiting to be touched. "…You know I trust you, Alex."
"Yes. Thank you." She took his hand out of respect. She kissed it tenderly, her mouth on his gold ring and his index knuckle. He was warm. She never expected him to be warm. It made him more human. Her mouth parted with his skin.
He walked toward the office door and left wordlessly knowing the toxin seed he had planted. He felt, satisfied.
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The Venus nightclub was in the Diamond District of Gotham. It had once been a storage warehouse, now it had been converted into a humongous nightspot. Alex had once thought the crime life was glamorous, exciting even, and herself amongst other young girls had been pulled into the shark-populated water that was Gotham City, the crime capital. There was no other life, not now, in too deep as one would say, a continuous ray of mistake after mistake and she found herself here. She cared though, that's what made her feel human, she felt. She couldn't just leave so simply, despite Cottonmouth's twisted game, she was still loyal. Manipulated more like, Alex sighed. It's this life or get ready to be forced into getting naked and dancing on hot poles. Try getting your fat ass up there.
Inside the club it was sticky hot and smelled of strong cigar smoke and the burn of whiskey. The large attendance danced and talked in the red darkness of the club. A live female singer sang old Jazz and performed with seductive confidence. A naked woman danced upon a table, her nimble body covered in sweat, a diamond neck chain shining and dangling between her soft breasts. A man, a young son to a crime lord laughed amongst stunning female company, offering his hand to a brunette on the right and taking her to the Champagne room. An overwhelming feeling of dangerous stuck Alex whilst she entered the club, stares of greed and hate, dangerous promises and the forbidding handshake between crime business men.
Sebastian wore a simple grey suit, his blazer shielding his gun holster he had slipped on prior to entering the building. He was ruggedly handsome, a dangerous demeanor, a more dangerous look. "So, you want to take a bouquet to the families of the scum that stole from us?"
"I think," Alex gently adjusted her black dress. A long slit on her right revealed too much leg than she was comfortable with. Her voice was even, controlled. "…we'll get more information with conversation than threatening people with a gun."
"It's business." Sebastian flatly stated. True, it was business. She knew Sebastian wasn't the type to cozy up and charm people into spilling information. He had a gun, and he found people spoke more when it was up against their ribcage.
"He doesn't want us to fight. We have to do this calmly." Alex looked up at him with a docile expression. "Stay low." He reluctantly nodded, accepting. He rolled a shoulder, pressing his left hand on it. A man mentioning a shooting, a woman sweet-talking a client, and a clack of a poker chip—everything blurred into one sound.
It was then Alex was approached. The man was lean and average height, expensive attire and greased back hair. He smiled widely, champagne flute in hand. "Good evening." He raised his glass. His eyes darted around the secluded area of the club like he was checking to see if anyone was within the shadows. He leaned forward. "I know who sent you. Cotton—" Before he could finish his sentence Sebastian flew at him like a wild animal. He shoved him against a wall. His glass flute hit the floor and shattered.
"What the fuck did you say?" Sebastian growled, deadly. He pressed the man up against a wall. "Little punk. Want to talk any louder? I'll rip you a new one."
"Seb!" Alex put her hand on his chest, pushing him away. "Stop! You know you can't." Sebastian let go and let the man fell to the ground in bewilderment. He struggled to get to his feet and held out his hands like they were a safe barrier between himself and Sebastian. He favored Alex's side and brought a thankful look to her.
"Look, look! I—I just recognized you. That's all! I got some information, some big information of the robbery last night. Ya gotta believe me." The man straightened his suit and brushed himself off. He noticed Sebastian's expectant gaze, he cleared his throat and continued, "Maroni got screwed over, too. He got tabs on who did it. Him and Cottonmouth have done business in the past. Good, business. We're family." The man loosed his tie, "We've got to stay close. Especially with The Bat freak screwing up our operations. We need to pull together. This is our city."
Sebastian retorted firmly, "You take us to him. Maroni."
"Yes—yes! Of course," He ran hand over his hair, "I was going to invite you both over. Please, please follow."
"Little creep." Sebastian commented under his breath. It was something that happened usually; if a mutual crisis had occurred crime organizations would huddle together in an attempt to resolve the problem. All had one common threat beside each other—The Bat. They had been like this since The Bat's first appearance and the war for Gotham had eased, yet hadn't completely vanished. The man had taken them down a staircase, leading to a mirrored hallway that vibrated with the sound of the music from above.
Then she saw a shadow. Smoke and light. A door that led to a privet room opened. The lighting changed from a deep red into a dark blue and she saw the man slip a chunk of money into a bouncer's hand. He opened the door; the room felt cold on her hot skin and relieved Alex from the thick, sweltering air outside. It was then the door clanked closed with brute force. Once inside the room both Alex and Sebastian turned to see masked men blocking the doorway. The bouncer's hand glittered, and Alex glanced, seeing a brass knuckle buster.
A beat.
Sebastian was grabbed from behind, his right arm forced behind his back, forcing him to kneel in front of the group. He glared up at the guy who had led them here like he could stare knifes into his face. The man was passed a suitcase by a grotesquely masked thug. "Who the fuck told you? Who paid you off, huh?" Sebastian's voice was firm, undaunted. Despite having two men holding him he pulled toward the man who had led them inside the room. "You lair. Someone told you we were coming. Look at me, you weak sonofabitch—"
With a movement so swift a switchblade was embedded into Sebastian's shoulder blade. He was on the floor, stunned and blood pouring down his white shirt like a volcano erupted. He went white.
"Oh my God—Seb! Let him go—!" Alex was grabbed from behind, her arm twisted painfully around her back. Her curled forward, feeling her balance slip and she tumbled to the floor in pain, shaking, thinking. Her other arm was taken and they both were wrapped together with something sticky, a rip, it was tape. A lot of tape, around and around, getting tighter with every round it made. The man pulled her into the second room. She saw the group drag Sebastian away, unconscious, still. The henchman pushed her onto a cushioned velvet chair. Her ribcage jolted from the force. He went around the chair again and again, circling her. She saw the gun in his back pocket. Her heart swelled painfully. Sweat arose and began to drip. Her blood stopped flowing into her right arm. Her voice trembled, "…Oh God…Seb..."
Then, she saw him, a silhouette against the darkness. The light was an assortment of blue and shadow. The Jazz music became hallow and faint. A moment passed and everything slowed and became still. The henchman went beside his boss, whispered something coherent in his ear and then returned to the tied captive.
Two-Face.
He was sat on a chair in the far corner of the room, a place where there was no light and his body was cast in shadow. His legs were apart and his arms leaned on them for support, his left hand loosely holding a revolver. His back hunched over, head level. His suit, black pinstripe and white fabric, was disheveled. His blazer was unfastened, so was his black shirt, one, two buttons open revealing his prominent collarbone and faint chest hair. His face, the right was of perfect skin, neat brown hair that was groomed, a narrowed dark eye that watched her intensely. His left, although lost in shadow she could see the deep, red scar tissue, melted tender skin that left muscle bare and cursed him with his permanent snarl.
"So," His voice was unexpectedly soft and sincere. It ran over her like a wave. "You're the people he's sent. Maybe, regain ownership of some missing investment." He chuckled deep within his throat and then argued with himself. "No, no. That isn't his style. Too subtle. Too cowardly."
He stole the money. Alex felt her chest tighten. Why would he say that? How? How does he know Cottonmouth—who told him—? Please, Seb. Please, please still be here. Alive. Hurt but alive.
The defaced man stood up. His obscure, unnerving gaze observed her, the longer he looked the more she could see the caged emotion that was within the stare, resentment and disinclination, like she was an inconvenient burden. They judged. They had an animalistic luster in them, something that wasn't human. Not now. "Three's a crowd." He said mildly. His was voice deep and well spoken, a somewhat refined manner about him. When the henchman didn't move from Alex's side, his voice changed. "Get the Hell out!"
Alex jolted. The unexpected, rapid change in tone stunned her. She could hear walking, music flowed into the room and the door closed shut, leaving her alone with the scarred outlaw.
He looked over the woman, taking in her appearance, clothed in a black dress that adored the shape of her voluptuous body and her peachy skin. She was curvy, her thighs thick and round. She sat like thorns wrapped around her, straight and stiff. Her face, framed with raven hair, was a host to a stream of brown freckles that bloomed on the bridge of her nose and across each cheekbone. Her thick, full but tamed eyebrows gave her a constant serious expression. Her eyes, they burned, like a dark forest. Her mouth a cupid bow, soft, brown lipstick dry. She had raw beauty, pale, bare. She wasn't stunning, too haunted, too forbidding. She looked straight into him, lashes fanned outward and curled.
What's Cottonmouth thinking?
Who does he think he is? We should kill her. We should kill them.
She's looking straight at us.
At you, you coward. She can see you're a wimp, weak. Fear. Hold her down. Suffocate her. Break her.
He took another step forward and leaned over her. He pocketed his pistol under a leather belt. He placed both of his hands on the chair, trapping Alex in her own prison between the back of the chair and his broad chest. His position was nothing but the caress of intimidation. She could feel his hot breath. He was close. She gazed at his face, his scar tissue. He looked, alone, sad. A blue vein ran like a river beside his left eye. She pressed herself further against the chair. "We ain't got his money." He grinned, the muscle on the right of his face giving him a charming smile, his left remained scowling, judging. "He's sent you here to die."
"Will I die?" She asked. The sound of her voice made the situation too real. They were conversing, meaning she was actually here. This is actually happening.
He pushed himself from the chair and shook his head. His voice became soft, sympathetic. "I can't tell you."
"You won't tell me." Alex suspected. A flutter of anger went through her body. She could feel herself shake with wild, uncontrollable emotion.
"This is your fate. Every decision, every action, every word, has led you to this very moment. You can't control this." He brought out a silver dollar from his pocket, it gleamed and reflected a small amount of light, then he turned it within his thumb and forefinger and she saw the other side had been severely burned, the face of the woman of liberty deeply cut through and jagged. He half-smirked, "It wouldn't be fair to not give your friend a chance. He isn't dead. Yet."
"A chance." Alex echoed, staring at the coin. She was no longer wary of showing her despair. The room spun and blurred like a carousel and he became the only thing in her version remained the same. "That's your decision. To give him a chance."
What?
Shut up, bitch.
"The decision of killing you or him doesn't rely on emotion. It's indifferent to how I feel about it." His voice was faded, unmoved.
"It's your defence." Alex pointed. She could perceive how his impaired mind worked. It was driving into deep water, not knowing whether the sea would be still or calm or violent or angry. She refused to look away, agonizingly longing for a tender mercy. "Please, please don't do this."
Defence?
Your argument. Our argument.
I know what she goddamn means. Shut up. You ain't no pretty-boy lawyer anymore.
It's my justice.
She saw his scarred hand curl, his other hand run flip his coin continuously. She watched the gleaming coin, spinning and spinning. "The coin isn't doing anything. It's you. You're the one tossing it." Alex argued. She looked deeply into him, searching for something, for understanding. She refused to believe his life relied on a piece of burnt metal. She saw his right russet eye widen, realization, disbelief and then utter denial. "You feel it takes away the responsibility for murder? You consider that fairness?"
Who are we to argue with fate?
No, murder is murder. An unjust act.
Unjust? UNJUST? I'll tell you what's unjust, Harvey. How every goddamn cop and crook has everything in common in this city. The law is unjust, the people are corrupt, and Gotham only has time.
"If the law is unjust, a man is not only right to disobey it, he is obligated to do so." Two-Face voiced loudly, angrily. Her interference was nothing but gasoline pouring over fire. They stared at each other for a long time, she was waiting, waiting—it seemed like an eternity. "Fate has brought you to us. Remember this," Two-Face balanced the coin on the tip of his thumb. "Killing him will not bring us satisfaction," He stood back, his arm angled outward. "And letting him live will not show how weak we are. We let the coin decide."
She remained in valiant silence. She stared at him through her mask that hid her fear and despair.
"You've accepted the situation." His smirk, showing briefly on his right, made him look cruel. He snarled. "I like that."
The coin rang through the air, spinning, silver glimmering in the small ray of light. It was a shining beacon of the unbiased result that was about to be told, an unforeseen result, a fair toss. Sebastian was about to be set free or be murdered, and her flip of fate would soon follow. The coin cut through the air, falling back down. Then time around her stopped and slowed. The only sound was her heartbeat pulsing throughout her body, signaling to fight, run, try. She refused. He caught the coin in his palm, and squeezed the metal, making sure the result was not shown. He then brought his closed palm to the top of his burnt left hand, muscle and ligament protruding.
She felt hot, burning. She couldn't focus on anything but the coin that was slapped perfectly in the centre of his hand. Her throat became dry, choking her.
Something began to rumble in his throat, faintly, and then she realized he was laughing. "Good head." A grimace dissolved his amused expression, and his gaze blackened, emptiness. His voice growled. "Damn." Their gazes met—his dark, hers focused. She didn't look upon him with disgust, pity or fear, something that he saw in the eyes of all the people that had been brought to him and those who even worked for him. It was the same look she had when he first saw her the previous night. Harvey admired it, Two-Face despised it. "He lives."
"Because the coin said he could." Her voice was small, quiet. "What about me?"
We flip for the girl.
We already did.
No, not for this. Make her suffer. Show him, show Cottonmouth what we can—
We use her.
"Why?" She went limp, defeated. He looked at her strangely, evenly.
The right of his face, his eye gleamed and mouth turned upward, amused, and then knowingly, "We wanted to show him we're the ones in control." Two-Face spoke with seething hate, for a moment it was scary. His trim physique hunched, as if his rage took control over his body. Then, he straightened out, refined and normal. "He doesn't want us, he's wanting the person who told us about the money, about you coming, about what he's got planned for Gotham. He's not a trusting man. In fact, he's paranoid. A lot of people want him dead. Yes, we would prefer him to be less of a hindrance. You're going to go back and tell him all about this, and he's going to feel…threatened. He's loosing control."
His voice became barely a whisper. It was soft, like falling snow. "Make us a deal." He walked to beside the chair, Alex didn't look, but she felt his presence on her left side. He lowered himself, his mouth near her ear. Alex couldn't bring herself look at him and focused solely on her breathing, in and out, slowly. "Instead of a stranger, I think you'd make a better acquaintance." He hummed.
"What?" Alex turned to him; the luck of the toss altered her attitude considerably. She came across insulted. "You can't be serious. No." His hand twitched and he brought the coin to her face, a threat that loomed at her and brought out more fear than had it been a gun. "Please, I can't. I won't."
"Well, I'll give you plenty of time to think. Your decision could benefit both of us." He put the coin inside his jacket pocket. Their eyes met briefly and he noticed how she didn't solely focus on his left side, but him as a whole. In that moment he showed rare, but necessary kindness. He unwrapped her bounds and set her arms free. She brought them to her front and placed them on her lap like an obedient child.
"No." Alex refused again. She found her mind reeling at the revelation that someone had been leaking information and had been getting away with it. It was an act that she assumed had been persuaded with money. It was a tightknit society Cottonmouth had, based on fear, the mere thought that someone was disloyal would conclude them leaving his care in a black coffin. Not only that, Cottonmouth would have great pleasure torturing and beating the person who deceived him. She didn't want to provoke him, but a split-second after that thought she refused again. "I'm not doing it. I don't care what—"
"You will care." Two-Face reassured, his voice domineering, all knowing. "He must trust you." His gaze went to her lap and crawled back up again to her face like he was inspecting her. He never betrayed his line of thought. "Think on it." He parted with that last sentence. He left the room. His overwhelming presence leaving with him but still it left her shell-shocked. Alex stood, now shaking and heart beating, alive. It was strange, that her fear came rushing to her now. She vaguely listened to the Jazz singer in the distance.
"I fell for your jivin' and I took you in, now all you got to offer me's a drink of gin.
Why don't you do right, like some other men do, get out of here and get me some money too."
Applause.
Sebastian.
.
.
.
It had been four days.
She watched Sebastian sleep. He breathed slowly, contently, his chest raising and falling. His clothing had been replaced with a white hospital gown.
He stirred, the comfort of sleep leaving him. He opened a singe eye that was caked with sleep. "Hi, Seb. You thirsty?" Alex opened a fresh bottle of natural spring water. She supported his head with her hand, lifting it to the head of the bottle and tilting it slightly. He drank desperately, he mouth dry and throat raw. A drop of water escaped from his mouth and went down his chin. "It's not whiskey. You won't be having any of that until the morphine is out your system. How you feeling?"
"Shit." His voice was quiet, weak. His natural grave expression hadn't changed. He stared at her. The memory of the night at Venus came back to him like a waterfall of recollection and pain. "That bastard got us. It was Dent's men. And someone—one of our own has been passing on info. We gotta—we gotta—Jesus, this hurts."
"You're going to end up with a pretty little scar on your shoulder, once the stitches are out." She teased. She screwed the top back onto the water bottle. "Do you remember, what you said, about me bringing a bouquet?" She smiled widely, one eyebrow raised. He turned to his head right and saw a large bouquet of whites lilies that had bloomed exquisitely and showered the bedside table with pollen.
"The fuck—I'm not dead yet." His brief smile was disturbed by a wince of discomfort. He hissed. "Are you hurt? That fucker didn't touch you did he? He didn't—fuck, I don't know—"
"I'm fine. He didn't touch me." She said comfortingly. He became less agitated in response. Her memory of the night was like a dream—a dream that she could scarcely remember. He hadn't harmed her, not so much put a finger on her. The opposite could have been said for Sebastian, she had ran into the other room to find him, but he wasn't there, only his blood. She did find him, thrown into a back alleyway with the garbage and homeless, hidden under black bags and cardboard. The knife had not been taken out, thankfully, if it had it could have caused my damage than good and he would have bled out or his ligaments would have been torn more.
The only thing she remembered was his proposition; You will care.
She looked up from her thought and noticed Sebastian had dozed off.
.
.
.
Two-Face sat alone, his feet prompted on top of his desk, thinking in the dark of an abandoned warehouse office. The snow gently fluttered outside from the grey sky. The silver dollar spun on the table like a ballerina. His hand hovered over the gleaming coin and he slammed it down flattening it. He peered at the result. "Good heads." He sighed, overcome. His expression was unchanged—cold and stoic.
It's been a week. The guy on the inside won't last long. He'll crack. They all do. And he'll be at the bottom of the river.
Of course. It's Anthony. He won't rest. A bubbling storm. He was like that when I prosecuted him as DA.
Use the dame.
He spun the coin again, allowing to dance over the table and eventually stop and fall the side. He remembered her freckled cheeks and perfect mouth and how she spoke to him.
Good heads.
.
.
.
The Bat flew across the moon. A scream came from an alley. A woman on the floor, half-naked, two men standing over her. Blood. Thick and heavy, oozing, flowing from an unknown source but at the same time he knew where it was coming from. His movement was swift and agile, he beat thunder upon the two men who ran and shouted and cried and swore. He was a myth, a fable, a mystery. He felt their fear and anguish and it revered him as the caped punisher he was, black against the night, body of steel, the feeling of righteousness.
Red and blue flashed upon the alley wall and a police car drove toward them. The woman was alive, breathing, scared but alive. The creature spoke, voice like iron, unnerving. It then flew away like a shadow, ripped and torn, finding a place against a gargoyle and looking over the beating city of night.
Gotham was alive and Hell rained.