HE LOVED THIS city ( He hated this city ). There was bitter water between him and the streets, poisoned with acid and burned limbs who dared to wander âpon them. He had sacrificed everything to try and keep the streets clean from crime, been pushing at the Falcones and Maronis, neglected his pretty wife and gotten drunk on tuesday evenings. He had LOVED the city, he had loved Gotham, but now it was but a cruel reminder of what could have been and what was lost. It made him want to cry ( It made him want to laugh ).
    Hand almost went to reach for coin at the promise of ONE last flip. Hope ? How stupid of him â dead men didnât get last chances and the Red Hood seemed more than happy to tell him so, muzzle digging into bi - colored hair. He had to give the kid credit. Rough chuckle fell from lips, tip of tongue wetting remnants of lower lip, and a grin, sinister and GROTESQUE and equally as terrifying as charming, spread across divided features.
    â  Go to HELL.  â
    But credit was not enough. Two - face had practice, felt a gun pointed at his back too many times to not know how to rid a man of his weapon. Survival of the fittest and everything THAT required ; he knew that a mere pistol only at his head would not be enough. He raised his hands, both of them at once, and held them visibly above his shoulders. Be on your best behaviour, BOY, show the good guy with the gun that he can put his faith in you.Â
    â  Pushing US would have been easier. But easy wouldnât have been satisfactory, would it ? â No warning as he turned, hands held up in ( Mock ) surrender grasping barrel of the gun â and he pulled ( To the left, muzzle away from features ) ; a tug - o - war with something not quite as innocent as a rope. â  Always a good sport !  â
    He was disappointed in this city.
   There was no room for hesitation. But the moment he had spent giving the man a chance for last words had regrettably given the bastard the time he needed to retaliate. Jason clenched his teeth as they grasped and clawed for control of the gun. Harvey pulls, he pulls back. Itâs locked and loaded, one slip of the finger and one or both of them could end up dead. Instead it slips from his grip, slips from Harveyâs, and is tossed skyward. Gravity pulls it down until the weapon is a mere broken spec on the pavement below.
   âGod damn it,â he groaned, annoyed at the loss of the weapon. Thereâs a beat where they both look down, before Jason reached into his back pocket for a knife. Despite his preferred execution method being out of the question, Jason was more than adaptable. Plan B would suffice if it had the same end result as Plan A.
   âYou know, I didnât want to make it too personal.â What he was doing was a favor to Gotham. It wasnât some personal vendetta, it wasnât a mere revenge mission. His mission, his goal was to act as the voice of Gotham, to defend her and her people. To make things right. To prevent lives from being lost. It wasnât personal.
   But in that moment, Jason was considering self-indulgence.
   âI should have killed you when I was a kid. I wanted to kill you back then.â Two-Face had murdered his father. It didnât matter that his dad was a piece of shit. It didnât matter that he was never there. Jason couldnât say if there had ever been a chance for his old man, but if there had been one, Two-Face had taken it from him before he even had it. Â
   âI used to have a lot more self-control. I guess Iâve changed.â
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