If I Were a Gambling Man (Dr. Crane)

[harveydent]

Two-Face thrived here. You could even say that Two-Face was akin to this place. Where else would you find such stark contrasts at ease in the same containment? A place that contrasted and fought for dominance over every sense that stole across your person. The air thick with the bitter scent of cigarette smoke, sweet with the scent of alcohol, sour with the use of many bodies in a confined space. Sounds of laughter, sounds of rage all mulled together into a continuous murr, punctuated with the wearing presentation of the establishment itself. Harvey's hand moved to the cuff of his white button down dress shirt as if reminded of his own worn upholstery. Unbuttoning the buttons he pushed his sleeves up to the crook of his elbows, his eyes dancing from the men that sat around the same table as him to the room, his eyes following his mind's suit.

It was once a place that was loveingly crafted. The bar stools telling tales of once being a deep polished oak wood, the padded seats a red wine hue. The bar was extensive, a wall of various alcohol behind illuminated by low hanging shaded lights. The atmosphere kept to what was once intended to be quiet and soothing- that of a jazz bar- now oozed a sense of the hazy illumination that breaks through into a rats nest. An elevated floor wrapped around the corner of the bar and took up the furthest corner of the bar. A dance floor perhaps, or a place to setup live music. Now being used for storage of suspicious looking boxes. Two pool tables remain setup on the opposite side , the green felt maintained more than anything else that resided in the bar. The rest were taken up with tables, places to rest, places to make new deals, or in his circumstance, a place to play some-

“'ey Dent, we ain't got all day, you gonna go or whut?”

Mismatched eyes snapped back at the mans who addressed him, discontent rippling across his expression as a low warning growl slipped past marred lips. The owner of the voice faltered for only a moment, the flesh on his neck creeping slowly reddening giving his stress away. Two-Face remained silent, giving no other indicator away, he rolled the butt of the cigarette over his teeth in his mouth, the cherry at the tip illuminating briefly in rhythm to the man's breaths. His eyes moved back down to the cards that sat on the table before him, his fingers stilling from the idle playing with poker chips to bend back the tops of the cards so he could once more check his hand. He looked back up. Two had folded, one had raised, the other called. He looked at his cards again before throwing matching the others. The first man checked.

“ A'ight, read 'em and weep. Two pair!”

The thug thumped down his cards with such self assured victory, he stood as he performed the action moving to sweep up the chips in the centre of the table. In a single fluid motion Two-face placed his cards down with one hand, while the other moved with comfortable familiarity to the inner pockets of his blazer that hung off of the back of his wooden chair, swinging out a loaded .22 semiautomatic with such ease that the weapon for a moment seemed an extension of the mans arm. He forcefully deflected the grabbing mans arm with the blunt flat of the rifle with a painful crack. The motion continued in a upward swing until Two-face's arm was level to the man's heart.

“Four of a kind.” [/b][/color]

He fanned out the cards, showing four 2's and an Ace, his eyes never leaving the Loser's expression. The man showed no fear at the sign of the gun, desensitized to the panic that touch most who are unfamiliar with the weapon, but Harvey watched the struggle between being smart enough to shut the hell up about the loss. The Loser's expression settled on smug satisfaction.

“I think yer a damn dirty cheat.”

The gun rose to aim at the mans head, moving to rest the butt against Two-face's shoulder to give support to an imminent kickback.

“ An' I don't think you can shoot me, until you flip that coin of yours.”

The Loser nodded his head to the silver poxed coin that rested on the top of Harvey's poker chips. A true gambler to the last he mused to himself. His free hand moved over to where his coin rested, his rifle never wavering from it's mark. The bar had grown quiet, tension electrified the air, as the transpiring events called attention to the other bar-goers, wondering how the events would unfold... wondering if they should escape for their own sick, although morbid fascination held them fast. Worn finger tips brushed over the cool silver lightly, the gentle caress of a lover before lifting the coin into his palm, the weight familiar. As though the coin had a life of it's own within the mans hand, it danced from his palm to his knuckles resting between his pointer finger and thumb. In a sharp snap he flipped the coin.

The object glinted in the air, slowed from the importance of the action, before landing on the top of the poker chips in the middle of the table. All breaths were held as bodies leaned forward to read what it had landed on. The sweet image of an unmarred women profile on rested inconspicuously. As if coming from one body all breathes were released, the Loser's the most relieved sounding of them all. The sound was cut abruptly short but the sudden earth shattering bang that rang out in the small space, splitting the air wide open, stealing hearing away temporarily from it's aggressive sound. The rifle was fired. The Loser was thrown back from the force, falling over his wooden chair, hitting the cement floor behind him with a second just as sickening thud.

“Shit man! Jesus Christ!![/b]”[/i]

Amusement twisted Two-face's face into something much more monstrous. His body remained poised, his gun still aimed at the body that was no longer in the way. As though savouring the moment, unwilling to let the satisfying sensation meld away. Trembling from the trauma the Loser found his feet under him once more, using the table as an aid to steady himself. Blood oozed out from under his hand that clenched his now mutilated and utterly useless arm.

Two-Face waited for the inevitable question, lowering his arm finally, taking the last final soothing draws from his cigarette.

“I saw the goddamn coin! I won, it wasn't scar side up.”

Two-Face leaned forward, the Loser pulled back instinctively, although the action was merely to gather Two-Face's won chips, along with his coin once more.

“And I didn't shoot you in the head-” [/b][/color] he flicked his eyes up to meet the Loser's pointedly. His grin widened. “- Call it even.” [/b]

[Jonathan Crane - Scarecrow]

The looming debt that Dr. Crane owed still hung around him, like it had him by the throat. Outwardly all he projected was an unstable and uninviting stare into a glass of scotch with ice that had begun to precipitate down the sides. He wasn’t up for much of a drink tonight yet he had come to The Stacked Deck. The possible consequences of his actions were clear when he started this, of course the reward was far more important. He didn’t fear what was to come; having a loose tie to an end was what was bothering him. A slight upset, nothing that couldn’t be fixed by confronting or avoiding The Penguin all together. Somehow…he knew that confrontation was closer than before.

The booth around him was dark, the only booth in the room that was lacking a light. Being a more frequent visitor after he stopped going to the lounge, they gave up in keeping a light in the booth. It was costing them too much to keep replacing it every time Dr. Crane removed it or broke it. They were all too frightened to turn him away, so they let him have his booth in the back of the bar. He was usually a secluded man that kept to himself , though trouble seemed to follow him, and if it didn’t find him Dr. Crane was sure to cause it in the end. His reclusive nature is what brought him here in the first place tonight.

Normally VerMillion was around him or with him. Though she had become quite attached to him he did need to get away from her, especially since she lived at the lab with him. Leaving her alone at his hideout didn’t seem to concern him; she knew her way around and how to escape if necessary. Despite his inner loathing for the scum around him he came out anyway and sat quietly at his booth, lost deep in thought of his next moves.

The loud noises of The Stacked Deck didn’t seem to faze him. It wasn’t often he looked up from his thoughts to see a bar fight, or watch some drunkard hit on a woman at the bar. His lifeless stare just remained on the glass, never changing unless something could actually pull him from the depths of darkness in his mind. Dr. Cranes hand remained on the table only a finger gracing the top of the scotch glass.

Finally his cold stare was lifted back from lifelessness as he heard a familiar voice echo through the bar. There had been a sort of commotion coming from the poker table some distance away from him. His cold stare locked on to Mr.Dent more formally known as Two-Face in his current profession. A fascinating patient Mr. Dent would have made, a man with two sides to every thought in his body….to every fear in his mind. It had been some time since he had seen him last, though Dr. Crane was never a social man. Throughout the criminal world it was difficult for other professionals not to run into each other, even though the visits were rarely welcome.

The shot fired through the bar and made the standard scum of Gotham coward and ducked as the residual sound still lingered. Dr. Crane hadn’t moved, only did his eyes follow the man to the ground out of his chair. He didn’t kill him, but his fate tonight had obviously been decided by the flip of a coin. Such a weakening governing factor…to base your work upon luck and chance. Dr. Crane liked to plan in such a way where there was room for flexibility.

He soaked in the anxiety of the room, how could he resist such an opportunity that Mr. Dent had laid out so perfectly for him? For a moment he merely observed as the scene has finished, only pushing up from the booth and sliding out as the thug that had been shot rose to his feet finally. Before he left he grabbed his scotch from the table. Dr. Crane moved casually, sliding his free hand into his pocket as he walked, mindful that his mask was tucked carefully awake in the back lining of his slacks just underneath. He headed passed the crowd that had turned their attention to the commotion, paying little attention to their eyes as he heightened the anxiety with his presence. His focus was solely on the man that was now bleeding through his shirt, clenching tightly to his arm.

Dr. Crane walked up behind the man at first, nearly breathing down his neck. Moving to the side he locked eyes with the man’s peripherals, studying him. His several gestures he had made to look away from his injury had caught the doctor’s attention away from his assaulter. “Someone in your line of work… hemaphobic?” An unstable smile came across his features as he spoke the word. His clear uneasiness with the sight of blood was amusing. It was fleeting however as the doctor turned his cold stare to lock with Mr. Dent’s who looked as if he had thoroughly enjoyed the experience he had created for this man. “So you think you know what fear is?” He asked Two-Face, his voice barely above a whisper. The bar had been struck silent regardless; it would have been easy to hear.