Open RP: see pinned post for details.
Skeptics and naysayers beware, for this time, hell really had frozen over. And what luck then, that they should be caught right in the middle of Cocytus, together with the rest of the sinners.
They shudder, mismatching hands pressed against dirty tiles as ice-cold water combs its way along the grooves and shapes of their shared body, before being devoured by the drain below.
The timing couldn't have been worse either, because as if by design, or by some divine intervention, the sudden cold spell that had descended over Gotham had made the asylum's boilers crap out like a wet kitten in a snowstorm. Now, Arkham isn't usually a place of warmth, both figuratively and literally, but this cold was bordering on insane, not to mention criminal.
Two-Face shuts their one good eye tight, fighting the urge to flee the freezing onslaught. The effort to simply force the discomfort to run with the stream is monumental for a drug-hazed mind - chill the only world it knows. Cold water, cold air. Cold heart, cold thoughts. All in circles, round, round, and down the drain, chaos born from certainty...
"Please turn around, Mr. Dent."
The water is temporarily turned off - a moment of solace - and the bilateral creature wastes no time in complying. They've got somewhere to be after all, and time's ticking. Feet move as healthy skin is sprinkled with goosebumps. Through the wire mesh, a young guard meets their eyes. The boy's features are almost completely drained of color as he stands gripping the water hose, as if it was the only thing keeping him alive. The kid must be new, because the weary crime lord doesn't recognize him, and they are usually good with faces.
Gone were the days when patients were allowed to shower on their own. Sure, privacy had been non-existent already back then, with inmates lined up like cattle and a good chunk of guards watching their every move, but it had been better. A small taste of autonomy, of normalcy. Nowadays one just got hosed down through hex net, like a feral animal. A temporary measure, the board had claimed, just like how the library had been temporarily closed for three months straight. You could thank the clown for that.
The older guard next to the youngling nods confidently - a good man, always fair. Two-Face's more merciful half prays never to meet him after a bad coin toss. The newbie, however, can't seem to decide whether to stare or look away entirely. At least he will have a good story to tell his friends later.
The tragically wet mob boss steels themselves again, tensing every muscle in anticipation of the next jet of freezing cold water, and yet, as it hits, it rips a whimper from their split lips. Both soft and harsh, neither alter wanting to front through this torture. After that, a walk through the full-body dryer, the temperature of the air pleasantly matching that of the outdoors, which leaves them shaking like a dog.
"It's fucking cold," Scarvey's harsh, guttural voice informs them as their uniform is slid through a slot in the wall, complete with a fresh pair of socks and underwear.
"Really?" The answer is delivered through the very same lips, but the voice speaking is much softer this time. Or it would be, if it weren't for chattering teeth. "I hadn't noticed."
"Zip it, Lawschool. You wanna get smart with me? I'll show you smart..."
"I won't be holding my breath."
"This plan of yours better work... or I'll have to make it work, the old-fashioned way."
"Calm down." The cotton of the undershirt is a welcomed feeling as the garment is pulled down over their shuddering torso. "We were the first two out of the cafeteria by a long shot."
Which was a rare occurrence. Greens and proteins had only hastily been sorted into their designated corners of the plate - slow and deliberate movements to prevent any leakage through an inconveniently missing cheek kept at a minimum - only speed had mattered. The shower had, admittedly, been a setback. The coin had wanted it.
"We'll get those blankets, no broken bones needed. You just wait and see."
Yes indeed, all this effort for a couple of blankets, if you could believe it. There were two things as certain as rain when it came to Arkham Asylum: One, Meatloaf Friday will bestow even the strongest of tummies with a visit to the loo never to be forgotten, and two, in case of boiler failure blankets will be provided. Flimsy, paper-thin blankets that couldn't dream of holding the weight of a small Beagle (once again, thank the clown for that), but blankets all the same. It was the least the board could do lest they find themselves with a fat lawsuit in their laps. All legally defensible, Harvey had made sure.
At the beginning blankets had been handed out, systematically, one per inmate. A sound system on paper, a disaster waiting to happen in freaking Arkham Asylum. Before long, a whole new blanket-based economy developed. Favors for blankets, debts to be paid. Deceit, strife, and eventually, bloodshed. One too many patients were found stiff, cold, and with an entire blanket shoved down their esophagus, and it was decided that changes had to be made. Nowadays, all blankets were simply provided through a box conveniently placed in the rec room. Patients (if deemed able) were left to provide for themselves, and as long as no throats were cut, the guards couldn't give two hoots regarding how things were handled.
The new system suited Two-Face just fine. Intimidatingly tall, broad-shouldered, and with a liking for weight lifting, they were blessed with a kind of physique that makes most people think at least twice before facing them. That said, a clever approach is sometimes preferable over knuckles with broken skin - thus speed. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.
They finish clothing themselves and pull one hand, two hands, through their damp, bicolored hair, trying to picture what it might look like. The only thing Two-Face hates more than mirrors is not having one.
The escort to the rec room is uneventful, if yet painfully slow. The guard in front moves as if deliberately trying to piss them off, and the mob boss has to remind themselves that there are no blankets in solitary.
They get to the rec room, eventually, and the moment the chains are removed from Two-Face's wrists the tall crime lord bolts away. Sure, quick steps across the floor of the next-to-empty rec room, heading towards the prized goal, dreams of warmth fueling them. Soon, soon no more shivering.
Two-Face stops in his tracks, transfixed by the sudden revelation. The box, the box supposed to be full of blankets, is empty.
