Disclaimer: Two-Face belongs to DC.

There is a soft plink as the metal lands on the table. A quiet rolling sound as it spins along the wood. A dull thud as it tips over. The sound is quickly drowned out by the heavy doors to his office slamming open. A bruised and battered man is dragged inside and thrown onto the floor. The man looks up with wide, unblinking eyes.

He stares back, toying with the coin in his hands. Without looking he turns a photograph on the desk face down. He stands up and walks over to the man.

"You betrayed me."

Their eyes remain locked, but the traitor says nothing. The sweat pearls on his face.

"You didn't like the way I spent my money?"

Finally the man's eyes blink, and his gaze falters. But still he says nothing.

"No excuses. I like that."

He raises his hand, revealing the infamous coin.

"You know how this works."

The traitor makes a near imperceptible nod.


All eyes are on the little piece of metal as it flies up. It's incredible how long these moments can feel.


He peers into his open palm. Closes it. His eyes drift over to the breathless man in front of him. He breathes out.

"Let him go."

The traitor, white as a sheet, falls trembling to the floor. His eyes clench shut and his lips move in a silent prayer. The man's former colleagues stare down at him with stoic faces. Finally he mumbles into the floor.

"Thank you. Mister Two-Face, sir."

He pockets the coin but keeps his eyes on the traitor.

"You'll be escorted out of town. Hope it goes without saying I don't ever want to see you again."

The man is dragged out of the room, still shaking. The doors close softly behind them. He sits down, pours himself a scotch. Downs it just as the phone starts ringing. He lets it ring for a while, then picks it up.

"Is it done?"

He leans back and runs a hand through his miscolored hair. A deep voice answers.

"It's done. The shelter had no objection to your most generous contribution."

He strokes the unblemished side of the coin.

"He didn't protest at all?"

There's a slight chuckle on the other end.

"At first, before he saw just how much you were giving. Then he decided this was a gift from 'a saint', as he put it."

He frowns.

"Alright. We're going for the next target. Meet us there."

They kick down the door and rush inside. The mobster reaches for a gun, but he's beaten to the ground before he can get off a shot. He's raised up to his knees so he can look his enemy in the eye. Spots of blood dirty his clothes, a small trail runs from the corner of his mouth. He spits a mouthful onto the floor before speaking with a sneer.

"Whatcha waiting for? Want me to beg? Go fuck yourself."

He stares down at the man with a bored expression, drawls as he answers.

"No. I want you to watch."

He raises his hand, shows both sides.



The kneeling man clenches his jaw, his expression flitting between defiance and fear.

He closes his good eye as he stares at the coin, breathes out. Reaches into his jacket and pulls out a pistol, pointing it at the man's forehead. His men step back. His finger caresses the trigger.


He looks out of the corner of his eye. One of his men has a hand around the neck of a terrified woman. Her red dress trembles along with her body. He pulls the gun back. His victim releases a shaky breath, his wide eyes focused on the weapon. Sweat pours down his pale face as he tries to keep his dignity.




The gun is back at the man's head. A moment later the shot still rings in his ears, dulling the heavy thud that follows. The floor is spattered with red. A speck of blood lands on his right hand. A long, quiet moment passes. Then, with a nod, they're moving.

The woman drops to the floor, shaking, and crawls over to her lover. The red barely shows as it soaks her dress. Her hands sweep across the dead man's face, then fall to the floor, clenching into fists. She looks up at him through disheveled hair, her chin wobbling.

"You...you evil, disgusting... monster!"

He holsters the gun, breathes tensely, turns to leave. He takes a step, another, and there's a sudden weight against his back. With a thud he's pushed forward. The woman is on him, her fists pummeling into his back. He keeps walking. Finally she trips and tumbles to the harsh floor.

"I'll kill you," she manages between sobs.

He spares her another glance through the doorway, his bad eye focusing on her shaking body, her red dress and the messy corpse behind her.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

The door swings shut. He can still hear her screaming.

Later that night he is back in his office. He raises the photograph back up.


He sits alone, a glass of whiskey by his side. His fingers trace the picture.

"You can look now, Gilda."


The lights are off, apart from the blaring lights of the muted television.


The coin glitters as it spins in the air. He rests his head on one hand, stares dully at the coin's flight.


He catches it, turns it around in his fingers.




He sighs, downs the whiskey.


"No. Nothing like that."


"I'm fair."

His tired eye slowly closes, the other keeps its vigil.