The Double Down Club

February 17, 2015: Gangs, assassination, cage fights, thievery. Just another day in Gotham (NSFW racial languages, death, blood and gore, ton'o swearing)

The Double Down Club

Its a club.



  • Chao Lin
  • Triads
  • Gangsta Disciples
  • T-Bone
  • Rosco
  • Yin-Yang Twins
  • In-Betweeners
  • Samantha
  • Delilah

Mood Music:

The Double Down Club doesn't exist in any official capacity. It exists in the shared basement of a pair of warehouses in a rather seedy part of Red Hook. The warehouses had once distributed motorcycles, that most favored of two wheeled vehicles. Many people might consider these things cliches, but Harvey Dent saw them as both good omens and necessary fung shuei. His madness required repetition, duality, be it that of yin and yang or merely a set of twins.

He has a set of twins with him tonight as he watches the cage. There's an upraised section of the basement that's been re-fitted like a 1920's speakeasy (actually a restoral, as this place served that precise purpose once), with the cage taking up what might've once been an orchestra pit and a dance floor. What was once the stage, where smoky-voiced women sang to half-drunk women in bobs and men in suits, a large chair in the center has been set up, plush and covered with bisected upholstery, red on one side and blue on the other. He's flanked by the twins, a beautiful albino girl in a striking black dress named Samantha and a girl of deep African complexion, her skin nearly night black, in a matching white mini who goes by the name Delilah. Sam smokes cloves, while Delilah sticks to Marlboro lights. They supply Two-Face from their supply in a strictly alternating schedule - each of them bear marks hidden by the dresses for times when they've lost track of whose turn it was. There are several other tables around, flunkies, henchman and various guests of the criminal persuasion - also a few alderman and at least one assistant district attorney.

The set-up is simple - Two men enter, one man leaves. Fights have no rules, except that you can't use any weapons and you have to stay in the ring. There are men outside the ring armed with blades to make sure those who try to roll out for a breather stop breathing quickly (or get thrown back in if they're thrown out by force). You don't gotta kill 'em, but you gotta make 'em at least stay down for a minute. No surrender or submission permitted - you get put in a leglock, dude's just gonna break your leg if you can't get loose - you can't tap out.

The air is filled with smoke and chatter, crowded tonight on fight night. It takes three hundred and a password to get in at the door, although vigilante types are known for getting around that sort of thing. The waitresses are scantily clad, and agents of Harvey distribute requests for girls and boys for pleasure, as well as gather and distribute winnings while they take bets. Currenly a fighter is collecting his fee while his opponent, his skull cracked, is getting thrown into a van to be dumped out on a street a few blocks away.

If the coin had come up clean, he'd have gotten dumped at a hospital. His bad luck.

Three hundred and a password happened to be a small price to pay for Kwabena Odame to get into this place. Granted, the password wasn't entirely easy to come by, but once pointed in the right direction, Odame proved to be, shall we say, 'resourceful'. To that point, some few hours past, a handful of alley rats were treated to the delicious feast of fresh man flesh, wrapped around the severed hand of an in-the-know fellow who just didn't want to be persuaded.

Word is, one of the higher-ups in the organized crime group known as 'The Triads' is here. This man, Chao Lin, is rumored to have connections to Europe. Connections which Kwabena is extremely interested in. Word also has it that someone's gunning for Lin, which means that Kwabena needs to keep the bastard alive, for the time being.

From his perch somewhere off in the crowd, Kwabena puffs on a menthol cigarette. He's dressed in a sturdy, black leather jacket, complete with a smattering of what appear to be bullet holes, beneath which is worn a sweater-knit, long sleeved shirt, gunmetal gray, and black jeans. Nothing too terribly surprising there, save for the fact that the leather jacket seems custom made. Designer, possibly Italian. Either he's so bad-ass that he was shot while wearing it, or the douchebag guido who made the thing actually shot it with a '357 just to make it 'authentic'.

Fucking designers, right?

Out from within the jacket comes a flask. The smell of bourbon spills when he takes a drink, then offers it to the thug next to him. "What is it with dese Gotham assholes, anyway?" he asks with a heavily accented voice. "Some few flew ovah de fucking cuckoo's nest."

As an abnormally cold winter seems to roll on forever, the heat in New York had gotten a little hot for Felicia. More accurately, they had gotten a little too hot for Black Cat; between the police seeming especially hell-bent on tracking her down, and various gang bosses seeming to want her pretty head on a platter. So the famed burglar decided to lay low, let the heat die down a bit and take a breather.

Yeah. Right. Even if it's true that New York is a little too anxious for her taste right now, this cat doesn't stay still for long, especially when a good amount of action is not all that far away over in Gotham. Of course, it requires some research; gotta know the territory after all. And what better way than to dust off an old alias to do some research. So soon enough, Felicia finds herself at the door of the Double Down, based on a tip from a friend who has been doing some business in Gotham over the past year. Want to get a load of the action, as well as see a pretty good preview of Gotham's distinctly unique nightlife? Go to this alley, give this passcode and try to not draw attention yourself. So cue Roxy Burns showing up, cute brunette bob wig perfectly attached atop her head and a slinky little black dress hugging her curves. Smiling sweetly, "Roxy" makes her way through the club, swaying her hips that makes it look like it comes naturally. The fight gets a curious glance from the newcomer who for the moment sticks to herself as she saunters over towards the bar, looking over the bottles. "A glass of merlot," she purrs out before allowing her eyes to slowly assess the situation, memorizing faces and looking for anything worth her attention tonight. Would be a shame to take the train all this way and not go back home with some keepsake.

Criminal types, all walks of life, this was the place for them. The smell of weed lingers off the GD, the Gangsta Diciples, all dressed for the weather with their white Nike's, jeans that hang off their ass with a belt looped around the thighs. Hats turned to the right, some sporting the NY logo and the other representing Gotham. Sure they came from the pits of Milwaukee and Chicago but this is where they made their home. They got in alright, three hundred a pop for five heads, Rosco leading the crew, a big dump truck looking mutherfucker who's shoulders span the earth and skin as black as tar. He didn't need a cap; dreads were twisted tight and right and tied back while the others were clean cut and shaved to precision. In that crew, a mix of tough bitches who were apple bottom jeans as if it were made for them, fur coats that were soon shucked so that sequins and weave to bring out the bling could be displayed to show their status.

And then there was Harper. How she got in? One didn't have to guess. Her plan was to actually get into the door and that was that. To put on her little ski mask and bust up the owners of the place and call the police to sweep up the mess. But they stuck close by; the recruiters, they didn't even really bother taking a look at her fighting prowess and the way she could handle herself in a fight. She looked the part, half shaved head with pink and blues, wiry build, fists that looked like they seen a hard life not to mention, the piercings in her face that she had to take out.

They made sure Harper couldn't get away, and without the know how, she didn't, there was only the escort that opened up the cage as Harper put on her game face even though she was scared as shit. Trying to be like Batman, yeah. Batman wouldn't have done this, get himself in the middle of a fight when he knew damn well he wouldn't make it out alive.

He wouldn't run away either. So Harper was there, right in the thick of it, pacing the ring as the crowd roars at the appearance of the little scrap, wife beatered up, saggy pants and bare fucking feet that meshes within the blood.

Two-Face notices everything going on, even if he doesn't necessarily recognize its significance. Kwabena's entrance is certainly noticed - the man's natural aura of menace, not to mention his bullet-riddled attire, marked him as someone to contend with - and he didn't belong to any of the local gangs or crews, at least not that were in alliance with Two-Face's mob.

Roxy's is noticed because Harvey is a man, despite some claims to the contrary, and men notice women like Roxy by pure nature, regardless of what color wig she's wearing. Lots of people wore disguises here, although Two-Face never allowed full masks - both Batman's minions and Black Mask's No-Face Gang were mask-junkies, couldn't help themselves. Or, at least, so he thought.

The girl, however, the little fighter, she definitely has his attention. Rosco's a truck, of course, and this isn't his first time - he came for the weekly fights and had always walked out with cash in hand and a "ho" on his arm. The lingering, gentlemanly part of Harvey Dent loathed that term - the other part of him found it perhaps too complimentary. On balance, perhaps ho was just right after all.

But this girl, this punkish, scrawny scrap - Two-Face recognized something there, a look he'd seen in his own eyes since his youth. That look is hungry, wounded, violent. That look comes from someone who's been hurt badly enough to want to hurt someone in return. Roscoe won fights because he was big and strong and he liked to show off, but he'd never been challenged. He didn't know what it was to want. Two-Face knew who he wanted to pick - but want didn't figure into it.

A small, metallic ting and a coin flips in the air. The club almost always goes half-silent when it happens, so you can hear it. That coin might be deciding what to order, who to bet on…or whether he should just open fire and kill every one of them on a whim. That's the thing with Two-Face. You never really knew what he would do. Because neither did he.

"Ten thousand on the girl," he says out of the ruined side of his mouth to Delilah, the lipless sneer conveying his voice in a harsh rasp as the dark-skinned girl quickly places the boss' bet.

Upon the newest fighter's appearance, Kwabena squints his eyes, looking past some notable faces to get a better view. There are quite a few people jeering and leering at her, but not so with the Ghanaian. You see, it's kids like Harper who just might have the grit to withstand hell and then some. A quiet little grin spreads across the African's face, partially concealed by taking a drag from his cigarette.

The flask is stowed away once the guy to his left is finished taking a hit. As he puts it away, the pungent odor of ghetto dank fills his nostrils, drawing Kwabena's eyes towards Rosco and those lovely representatives from the GD. He's done his time in Chi-Town, South Side no less; he'd recognize those stupid ass-draggers and their white Nike's anywhere. A smartphone is produced, and a simple SMS query sent to a contact simply listed as, 'R'. Another drag or two, white plumes of menthol cancer billowing around his head while the soft digital glow illuminates it and his dark skin. It only takes a couple of seconds for the response to come in, prompting him to stuff the phone away and commence the painstaking process of crossing through the crowd, headed toward a collection of well-dressed Asians not too far away.

These, of course, are representatives from the Triads. A casual gesture puts him next to one of them, during the precise moment when all goes silent during the precarious moment signified by the coin toss of Two-Face. There isn't much to his tone of voice when he declares, afterward, "Five thousand, large, on de scrappy one." Another drag of his smoke taken; he won't even look the Triad in the eye, for the slime didn't really deserve that kind of respect.

The Triad member turns to look at Kwabena with a glowering expression and a tight jaw. The stare lingers for a long while; had Kwabena not been wearing brown lenses to conceal the silver nature of his mutant eyes, things may have gone south in a pinch. However, the Asian mobster smells money all over this leather jacketed punk, so he nods his head curtly and answers, "Five thousand on the truck."

Kwabena offers a hand. The Triad takes it. Kwabena will put up with the bastard's macho, too-tight-for-comfort grip, at least for now. Nothing else is given in response; no wince, no grin, no telltale display of modified molecular structure. Just a handshake to secure his bet, and more importantly, his place in the crowd next to that group of Triads.

Felicia raises a brow at the sight of the scrappy young fighter as she enters into the pit. She drums her fingers along the bar, waiting for her drink to arrive. Once it finally does, she offers a sweet smile to her bartender, curling her long, slender fingers around the stem of her glass. "A thousand thanks, darling," she says, sure to disguise her typically neutral voice with a local accent she picked up from overheard conversations on the way in. She smacks her lips before reaching into her clutch. She pulls out two banded stacks of twenty dollar bills, each clearly marked as 500 dollars which she slides towards the bartender. "Place this on the girl," she purrs with a wink as she turns with a flourish to eye the action, leaning against the bar.

"Come on, runt, don't let me down," she whispers to herself before taking another calculated sip of her wine. Her eyes flicker towards the man of the room. The back of her mind she remembers a conversation with her contact.

"And how will I know this Two-Face?"

"Trust me, when you see him? You'll know it."

And he wasn't wrong, as the disfigured half visage causes Felicia to stare perhaps a bit longer than she means to. Wincing she turns her attention back to her drink and taking a long swig before looking back towards the fight, waiting for it to pop off. She didn't like this place; she looked forward to the prospect of robbing every patron should could see. And when she sees some of the bets that are coming in? Yeah…there is plenty to go around, as she takes notes of where all that cash seems to be disappearing to.

It was subjective. Whether Rosco was going to fight this little whelp of a girl or let one of the boys handle it was a thought he had as soon as he seen her enter into the cage. This would be fun, really. One punch would take the girl down from him but yet, he wanted to see the pain in her eyes as someone takes her apart piece by piece.

"Ay T-Bone.." The man mutters, heavy baritone crawling along the skins of the group as one steps forward, he was a bald dude, tall as Rosco yet wiry just like Harper. A few words were whispered as the recruiter stands by, and with a slow nod, T-Bone begins to move through the crowd, yet the noise within the room stops as the only thing that echoes through the walls…


Even Harper's eyes draw along the club, squinting within the limelight, everyone seems to be focused on the one man..


T-Bone was on the approach towards Two-Face, Rosco was already disrobing and suiting up to enter into the ring to dismantle the girl.. yet there were plans he had in store for her after the fight was done. Women don't walk into a place like this and expect to walk out alive; there were new members to the GD that needed an indoctrination and a bullet to the brain of some young skank would do wonders, after he teaches them how to properly dismantle a human body at the joints.

What did you all think? Pervs!

T-Bone dislodged from the group…

Rosco stepping into the ring with a crack of his meat-mitts and a deep, threatening laugh..

Harper with a defiant lift of her chin as she watches the man make ready to beat her down.. feet strafing behind one another as her own small hands curl into a fist…

The rest of the GD's follow the line of the club, hands pressed upon their chin to survey the goods .. Roxy catching an eye..

Chao Lin..

One of the GD pats the other and cants a head into the Triads direction..

How the fuck could these dudes get lucky..

All. In. One. Night.

Two-Face had been focused on the fight, but T-Bone's approach makes one of his eyes narrow. He could only narrow the one eye, after all. The other one only barely blinked, even that unevenly, the assymmetrical actions of his two eyelids often one of the more disturbing aspects of Harvey Dent's changed visage. If they knew what went on inside his head, they would find things far more disturbing than anything his ruined mess of a face might offer.

Two men in bisected black and white suite step forward, the garb marking them as part of Two-Face's personal crew, the In-Betweeners - called that both for their garb and because they stood between their boss and any danger and, sometimes, vice versa. Some people were better off with a clean death at the hands of the crew than facing the judgment of the coin.

A nod from Harvey allows T-Bone to approach, albeit escorted, to stand before the man. Two-Face rolled the coin across the knuckles of his left hand, back and forth from one side to the other without taking his hand off the armrest.

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both…" Harvey mutters, getting a confused look from the gangbanger.

"Yo, you talkin' t'me."

"No, I was talking to myself. I try not to throw pearls before swine," he says. "Something on your mind, T-Bone? Please, I'm listening, but only for so long. I don't want to miss the fight."

The announcer, meanwhile, a dwarf with a long ponytail wearing a tuxedo, has climbed up on a stool and taken a large mic dangling from the ceiling, "Ladies and gentleman, let's get ready to RUMBLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLE!!!" he says in his best Buffer impersonation. The cage doors are opened to allow the fighters access. And one of Two-Face's crew comes by to get a closer look at Roxy. She seems like the kind of girl that might draw top dollar with the right management, he figures.

Rosco takes to the ring. T-Bone headed for Two-Face. Kwabena doesn't need to pay close attention to what the other members of the Gangsta Disciples are doing; his message from 'R' was clarification enough. They're going after Chao Lin.

Lin, who stands to the other side of the Asian he's just made a heavy bet against.

Another drag of the menthol is taken, prompting the Triad to turn back to Kwabena with a sour look.

"Do you mind?"

"Yes. I mind."

The Triad glowers.

"Listen, noodah cup." Kwabena finally turns to face the Triad. His expression is untelling, the bland tone of his accented voice perhaps more unsettling than it should be. "You and yah littah band of flied lice fucks came to an illegah fight. Some thing tells me, dis ain't yah first ride on de pain train, so keep yah shit to yahself, or I'll take dat five thou right out of yah wasabi-shitting ass."

The Triad thug makes a motion to prepare a punch, but Chao Lin grabs the junior member's arm with a strong grip. The punk turns to Lin, who merely shakes his head in disappointment, before turning his attention back to the match.

Nonplussed, Kwabena turns back to face the match, while puffing on the last bits of his smoke. That whole display? Meant to peg Lin amongst the others, for only the ranking member would have the clout to stop a fight based on such foul, racial insults. It also gave him a nice glimpse of those other GD thugs who are gunning for Lin himself. All actions have a purpose, you see.

The flask is once again produced, another long swig taken, only this time, it's not offered to the wasabi-shitting asshole standing next to him.

Felicia, either as herself or Roxy or any other alias, is used to being watched, ogled, whatever. For the most part she doesn't mind; it's hard to complain when you're getting admired. But here, she was hoping to fly under the radar. Should have worn a longer skirt, she scolds herself silent as she glances around the room. She notices first the attention of some Triads, and then the approach of a man in a sharp suit. Her fingers tighten on the stem of her glass she approaches.

So much for under the radar as she turns towards the man and allows an even smile as she looks him over, eyes dancing as she leans back some more, causing her chest to jut out as well. A classic distraction, though from the way this man is dressed he is a professional. "Can I help you, hun?" she asks, gesturing towards the fight ready to start. "I was hoping to watch the fight, some money riding on it." She clicks her tongue against her teeth as she cants her head to one side. "So whatever you need, darling, I'd suggest you make it quick, and worth my time." She speaks with confidence, bravao, the aire of someone who belongs here; if she allows herself to seem out of place, she's afraid she'll be exposed as a fraud, an interloper who is up to no good.

Not that ANYONE is up to any good here, but that's besides the point, where did those bets get to?

"Hey. You see that piece over there?"
"Man, fuck that bitch. That one dude right chea in the club."
"Chao chicken shit. Whoever the fuck he is. Rosco been lookin' fo dat dude."
"Ay, we gon' wait til the fight over?"
"I'ono man. These bitches is slimy. You fuck'n blink an' get a chopstick in the dick."
"MAN! Ay my dude whats with you and dicks lately man.. that shit ain't cool.."
"It ain' even like that my guy.. chill out.."
"Naw dude, you gay."


Harper begins to move as the little dwarf exits the ring with a run and a slide off the side. She keeps her body loose, fluid, just like she saw in the movies. Shadow boxing, raw form, no teacher. She's got this. Hit them where it hurts. That's what she was going to do.

Rosco on the other hand took the calm approach, he didn't even put up his fists, he walks towards the girl calmly, his lumbering body towering over her as she looks up, her body bouncing side to side as Rosco takes the first swing.

Ducking out of the way was easy, she was going to tire the big dude out so she could knock him down cold, but what she didn't expect was the sharp kick of the large leg that slams right into her side that sends her sprawling onto her hip with a roll..


T-Bone tenses his jaw as Harvey speaks to him, his gaze canting left and right as he examines the crew, picking his words with diplomacy as he reaches into his coat pocket slow, retrieving a wad of bills that was carefully set upon the table.

"Rosco knows this is an easy fight. And for that, he wants to buy the ho when he's done with her. Two grand, all right there. You ain' even gotta worry about the clean up, me and my boys will handle that."


Harper scampers to her feet and breaks out into a mile run, there was an obvious pain in her side as she keeps herself straightened out. Her little ducks fly up as Rosco goes on the approach, faster than what she expects. She didn't have much of a reach, but once he nears she starts to swing. One two punch to the gut, form sloppy, one to punch to the jaw that hurts her knuckles and it shows.

Rosco is letting the girl hit him, both hands raising above his head to smash down upon her shoulders to drop her to her knees…


They roar and sing, money waved in the air as men in suits begin to collect the bets. Paper pads in hands, little pencils scribbling names and amounts, money taken in bags carried by elaborately dressed women..

The crowd is noisy, full of shouts and exclamations as the girl takes the first hit and Rosco grins, the big bastard already confident. Harvey watches with one eye while keeping the other on T-Bone. The girl taking an early hit didn't mean much to Harvey. He'd taken plenty of beatings in his time. He'd always been the one who ended up standing. If you didn't count a few rounds he'd done with…

Well, now you've reminded him of Batman. So much for his good mood.

"Two grand," he says, gesturing for Sam to scoop up the money, the albino girl counting it with rapid flicks of her black-nailed fingers, nodding as she completes the count and tucking it into her cleavage, "I've heard life is cheap in your neighborhood, but you're in my territory now, boy," he says, and yes, he fully understands the implications that come with him using that term. He does so deliberately, both to potentially provoke and to, at the least, humiliate. T-Bone likely didn't take shit from many people, but he would learn to take it from Two-Face and do it with thanks, especially if he was going to toss money down at him like he was some cheap bookie.

The voice that speaks now is a snarl, and those who know him know that this is his darker aspect speaking - he truly is one man, but he waxes and wanes, like the moon in the shadow of the earth, and it was a new moon as he gazed at T-Bone, "That's a down payment. Non-refundable. If you want the girl, you can come back with another four Gs. If you don't, well…then you can explain to Rosco why you just spent his two grand on nothing," he says. "Unless you have a problem with that?" he says, toying with the coin.

The pimp grins at Felicia, a gold tooth gleaming in his mouth, "Don't let me stop you, sugar, it's just…damn, you're so pretty. I'm what you call an agent, see, and I see a lot of talent, but you…you got somethin' special, I can tell you that right now. I was wonderin' if maybe I could get you to join my table, right up there by the cage? Get you a good close view of the fight an' you can put your drinks on my tab. And, if you and I get along, maybe we can talk business later. No pressure," he says. Two-Face's recruiters were smooth, not the kind to just grab a girl, jab a needle in her arm and put her on the street to pay for her junk.

Well…not in -this- part of his territory anyway. The other half was a different story.

The Triad and Kwabena are being watched. That's all - for now. But the tension, both with them and Rosco's gang, is noted.

Five thousand, large. That's fifty Franklins, folded up nice and neatly and pressed into a passing suit's hands. Kwabena looks on as his little Triad friend does the same. Then, his falsely brown eyes are looking back toward the fight. A frown comes across his face; subtracting all of the facades, he really didn't want to see the runt get stomped by a truck like Rosco.

Regardless, it's a scuffle amongst black-as-black gangsters that draws attention from the corner of his eye. Kwabena has an instinct for these kind of things; crap is about to go down. He can feel it. The cigarette is summarily tossed to the ground and snuffed out by the toe of his boot, while simultaneously, his hands get stuffed down into his pockets.

In the dark and smoky Double Down Club, it might be easy to miss. Tendrils of black smoke come seeping from one of Kwabena's pockets, snaking up the Triad's body, and slipping right into the thug's nostrils. Kwabena leans just slightly to the side, his arm stuffing down deeper into that same pocket, as if he were digging for something… only the perceptive eye might notice that there's no way his pocket goes quite that deep.

Meanwhile, the Triad begins to choke and gag, grabbing at his mouth and face, but the black tendrils are relentless. They smother his mouth and nose, delving deeper and deeper until the Asian just collapses on the ground, out cold.

Chao Lin turns to watch, mouth ajar, which is precisely why he's slow to respond when Kwabena spins around and curls his other arm around the mob boss. "Don't move," he murmurs, "or yah dead."

The smoke whips out of the downed Triad's mouth and back into Kwabena's pocket. His body is now positioned between Chao Lin and the Gangsta Disciples who were arguing about whether to pop Lin now, or later. Beneath the jacket and all of the clothes, there comes the sound of a strange popping, crackling, and hissing noise, like air being forced through any number of small fissures.

He's solidifying. The skin of his face, exposed on his fingers, it grows leathery at first, then becomes rock-like in nature. Easy to miss when you're simply one of the jeering and cheering crowd, but for the likes of Two-Face and his gang, well. Kwabena may have given away his poker face. He's not here for the fight, after all.

The man's words are not lost on "Roxy" as she simply grin. "Just business, huh?" she says before giving off a smoky laugh, biting her bottom lip and sizing him up, giving him the pleasure of having him think she's giving it a thought. "Interesting. Only one problem," she says evenly before leaning in to whisper to next bit of information against his ear, her perfectly manicured hand pressed against his chest. "I'm no one's whore. So move along doggy, you're barking isn't going to get you anywhere unless you're ready to buy me a drink."

Pushing off his chest slightly, she glances back around the room. She doesn't know all the players, but she can tell things are tense here, and it might be best to leave. But something about this fight keeps drawing her eye. Glancing towards the cage, she starts to concentrate more intensly. Directly on Rosco.

Luck is a tricky thing, and Felicia never really understood how exactly it worked. What she did know is that when she wanted things to not exactly go someone's way? Well her attention seemed to slide things a certain way. And right now all of her attention is on Roscoe, slowly crossing the room to make sure that her bad juju can make it through all the smoke and filth in the room, brushing past the pimp as she goes.

"C'mon boyo, show me what you got," she taunts under her breathe, lips curling into a knowing little grin.


"Maaan.." T-Bone starts, his body swaying, ready for a fight. If it wasn't for the fact that Rosco had mad respect for Two-Face? T-Bone would have been in his grill in a heartbeat. "Look dawg, you gonna get the rest of that change as soon as Rosco wins the fight. I know you put money on my nigga, you gonna get your payout /and/ that lil bit that you wantin' for that bitch."

IN THE RING: Harper was having a tough go at it, swinging, landing hits like the champ she thought she was and taking them all the same. One hard crack against the jaw causes her to spin and stumble, her arms flailing out to try to find something to grasp upon, yet a big meaty palm lands atop of her head to grip what little bit of hair she had left to forcibly turn her around.


The men and women made their rounds, bags full of money soon dispersing within the club. It was hard to see which way everyone went, but they all converge at the same place..

Near the exit door in the back.

That door leads to a long hallway, one door on the left that's immediately locked as the last woman with the bag enters. Further down and to the left, the bathrooms, and on the right, a back way exit that's heavily guarded by two big burly men.

"Nigga, we doing this shit now."
"Aight, goin' left."

The three GD's slip into the crowd, blending in as they know they could, slipping past a woman who was soon groped and passed on by. One man makes a wide berth enough to slowly approach Chao from the rear, his hand immediately shifting into his thick Jim Jone's coat, pistol soon gripped and trigger fingered, while the other two flank at the left and right.

They had no idea that Kwabena was with them.. and surely they would be sorry.


"What you say, paht-na? We got a deal or what?"


The fight takes a turn, Harper, face blooded and left eye swollen shut, clasps both hands together and performs an upwards pile hit towards Rosco's jimmy. His eyes grow wide as he immediately lets go, thighs clenching as his hands immediately grip his junk, a loud hollar and a collective 'ooooooo' rings out from the crowd..

Harper drives the point home, this is what Batman does. She's seen it, live and in action.. her fingers curl into a fist to draw back and jam right into the mans jugglar.. and he falls down flat..

It seems like /luck/.. was on Harper's side. Thank you Felicia Hardy!

The Triad and the Gs alike are observed from a catwalk nestled above and behind the crowd. There stand a pair of massive men, each of them at least four hundred pounds, Japanese trained in the art of Sumo and clad in the white and black garb of the In-Betweeners. These are Two-Face's cheap thugs, widely known as the Yin-Yang Twins by people who can't distinguish between Chinese and Japanese cultures. They never talk to anyone but Two-Face, each of them whispering simultaneously in opposite ears. They are his fists and they look down at Triad and G alike with disapproving eyes. The Double Down is meant to be a place of peace, where people can come to have fun and feel safe while watching other people beat each other to death. A wholesome, family activity if ever there was one.

The twins open their long black and white coats and pull out Tommy guns - two to each, the stocks braced easily against the bulk of their fat. They were the living embodiment of consequences.

The pimp sneers, "Shit, your loss, bitch," he says, making a rude gesture behind her back and stalking back to his table. Her luck does, indeed, however, have the effect she desired. Not that Harper didn't do a good job, smashing nuts and chopping throat, but it didn't hurt that the big bastard managed to fall just right, cracking his skull in that place boxers call 'the button', a spot on the temple that tends to turn out the lights like a shot.

Two-Face sees all this, every bit of it. He raises his left hand - a hand scarred, not by acid, but by his own choice, marked with burns and carvings that he's inflicted of his own free will. He raises one mutilated finger for the twins to hold that wrath until given permission. The other hand reaches into his jacket and draws out a .44 Magnum Revolver, pointing it immediately at T-Bone.

"Nice, isn't it? I call it the Russian, even if it's really as all-American as can be. Dirty Harry's gun, after all. Can blow your head -clean off-," he says in a dead-on imitation, "But I call it the Russian because it has six chambers and three bullets." he says and he flicks his thumb to free and spin the chamber before snapping it back into place.

"I have two problems with your 'deal': the first being, of course, that your man is currently sucking the cock of Morpheus in whatever slumberland the scrappy little girl just knocked him into - which is good for me, because I placed my money on her, but bad for you because Rosco just lost a lot of his scary mojo by getting his ass whipped by a 98 pound white girl in front of every crook worth a damn for thirty square blocks."

He cocks the hammer of the Russian.

"The second problem I have is that you and your boys are trying to conduct lethal business with the Triad under my roof. Without permission. The only blood that gets shed at the Double Down gets shed by me or on my order. And I don't care who started it or what your reasons are. I cannot permit you to violate my business model. It just isn't profitable."

The Twins make loud ratcheting sounds with their guns, aiming them down at the Triad table where Kwabena and the Gs about to unleash death all stand, while every other member of the G's suddenly finds a gun on him from one direction or another (including Rosco, who has a midget standing next to him with a .22 pressed in his ear).

Two-Face smiles, "But don't worry, T-Bone…I'll give you a fair chance. You might walk out of here or you might die. Simple question," he says as he raises his Magnum and points it at T-Bone's face at the same time he flips his coin.

"Do you feel lucky, punk?"

"What do you want?" asks Chao Lin, his cool demeanor seemingly unphased by Kwabena's taking of him. "Money?" A simple look toward the other Triads is enough of a clue for them to back down. As far as Lin is concerned, this guy is dessert for their practiced jujitsu.

Kwabena, however, has eyes on the GD'a flanking them. His eyes narrow just a touch, but it's not time yet. He has a moment, a message to deliver. With his hands upon Lin's shoulders, he leans closer to the mob boss's ear and whispers a simple word.


Chao Lin's expression darkens. His frame stiffens. He may begin to regret his decision, but he also had no interest in causing a stir in the bowels of Two-Face's den. That… typically didn't go well for anyone, even men as powerful as himself. Fortunately, he doesn't have much time to regret his decision.

Once the flanking GD are within arms reach, Kwabena makes his move. A knee is forced into the back of Lin's leg, forcing his legs to buckle. The Ghanaian follows Lin down until he's in a protective crouch over Lin's body, still serving as a barrier between the pistol-bearing thug coming up behind. However, he halts the motion of his next move, hands tightening a bit upon Chao Lin's shoulders rather than unleashing pain upon those flanking GDs. Truth be told, this whole affair put a bitter taste in his mouth, one he worked very hard to keep secret. Two-Face had a reputation, and the sudden turn of events proved just that. He was also rumored to be bat-shit crazy (see what I did there?), but at the end of the day, it's all working out for Kwabena and his plans to keep Chao Lin very much alive.

Of course, this has nothing to do with the luck of Felicia Hardy, but as they say, c'est la vie.

A very harsh glare is given toward the flanking Gangsta Disciples. Two-Face's words filter through the sudden silence that has taken the place, and with a coy little smirk, Kwabena leans forward to whisper another message to Chao Lin. "Vous sentez-vous chanceux?"

The sudden shift in the fight causes a smile to cross Felicia's mouth. The reaction from the crowd seems to suggest that she was in the minority of those who sided with the unknown punk rock gal. Taking a moment to make eye contact with the girl, she simply raises her wine before throwing back what remains in the glass.

Alright, enough fun, time for business. She turns and watches as the final bags of the house's take disappear. Immediately recognizing that door is a no go, she looks for another path towards that area, only to see a pair of bathrooms. "And Bingo was his name-o," she sing-songs before sauntering over towards the restroom, setting her glass down as she does. She clicks her heels towards the direction of the far wall and ducks into the ladies room. After quickly checking to make sure it's empty, she looks arounding the surroundings. If there is any kind of window to the outside, she uses it to assess the situation in the alleyway beyond.


Harper doesn't stop. The man topples over and she follows through, fist pounding into his face, one punch after the other, fingers blooded and teeth gritted through the pain of a fractured jaw.


T-Bone levels a gaze on those gathered around the table. It was one to many, and one carrying at least two personalities that he could discern, diplomacy was out the window.


A woman glances up into the rafters in time to scream..


Harper continues her assault on the man, caught up in the reverie of revenge, fists pounding hard into the mans face who at that point was not his own.. but it wasn't until the scream was heard, her fists stop working.. gaze lifted towards the crowd in time to catch the upraised glass of 'Roxy'. Harper could only squint an eye in acknowledgement, she could barely see the brown haired woman but knows that gesture of acceptance from anywhere. Here's to you, pretty lady. Here's to you.


The three men unleash a torrent of gunfire just about the same time the two men uptop does theirs, the hail of bullets flairing out in that direction, Kwabena's cover proves fruitful as the three men shake and rattle, riddled with holes.. one catching a bullet to the dome and falling down flat while the others writhe in pain.


Harper turns in time just to see the dwarf with the gun, pressed to Rosco's head. She lifts both of her hands, slowly, squinted eye..

And with a quick movement that's only seen in the movies and done by the Bat himself, the gun is promptly snatched from the midgets hand and trained at him with a tilt of her head and shaky, tired arms. Her chest heaves, a loud wheezing sound heard.. "Back the fuck up short stuff.. or I'll riddle your .. *HISS* .. jibblets full of.. *WHEEZE* holes.."


T-Bone was the last man standing. His homies went out like gangstas, dying a soldiers death in his eyes. He was all in, jaw hardened..


Felicia wouldn't have a hard time looking out the windows of the bathroom, they weren't too high from the ground and it would take minimal effort (if you stood on the toilet) to look out of. It would lead to the back entrance, dimly lit, a lone man standing at the door with an earpiece embedded in his ear. He was a large fellow, dressed as the rest, hands folded in front of his person with an ear trained to the door to focus upon the racket inside.

He had his orders, never to leave his post no matter what happened, and most weren't foolish enough to try to go for the money inside. He was still armed, dangerous, good at what he does. But tonight? To Felicia's luck? He was distracted.


"Naw nigga, do /YOU/ feel lucky?"

T-Bone reaches into his coat, the movement quick, gun produced and leveled towards Harvey..

The Yin-Yangs turn the GDs into almost parodies out of Scarface or some overblown kung-fu movie directed by the RZA. Blood shoots out in fountaining spurts, the hollow points exploding out of their chests, sending chunks of heart and lunk and gut along with all the crimson it soaked in splattering down onto Kwabena as he crouches over his new Asian friend. Every GD in the club, other than T-Bone and Rosco, find themselves immediately executed by an In-Betweener, a bookie. One even takes a knitting-needle shiv in the ear from one of the busty waitresses.

2 Small raises his hands in surrender as Harper disarms him, his voice still surprisingly deep for his size, "Hey, look, I got no problem with you, kiddo. You put up a good fight. He's dead whether you let me be the one shoot him or not. I wouldn't stand up for 'im too much unless you wanna go out the same way, y'know? Go get yer money, the boss has got this one."

All the ruckus, of course, leaves Felicia plenty of opportunity to do her work unnoticed, as everyone's focused on the actions, either the slaughter or the drama playing out at Two-Face's throne.

Two-Face rises with surprising speed for a big man, catching his coin in mid-air as he slugs T-Bone across the temple with his magnum, drawing blood that runs into the black man's eyes, knocking him stupid enough that he's easily disarmed by a nearby In-Betweener. They grab T-Bone and shove him to his knees at Two-Face's feet. He slips the Russian back into his pocket and looks at his left hand, and the clean face of the half-dollar staring up at him.

"You had your chance. This is what happens, see, when you decided to cross fate. I'd have let you walk out of here clean and let the crew pay for your sins. But you just had to try and fix the jury. Well, that's not how justice is dished out."

Placing his coin in his jacket he holds his hands out and Sam and Delilah each slide a pair of brass knuckles onto the boss' hands, "Lift him up," he says to the guards and they haul T-Bone to his feet as he woozily starts to come out of it.

"Clear out the carcasses and start sending people to the door. Party's over. And send the word out. T-Bone and Rosco's boys are dead to me. Which means you make 'em dead to everybody else."

The In-Betweeners stand there for a moment until Two-Face screams, the madness making his left eye bulge, "WELL??! WHAT'RE YOU WAITING FOR? GO KILL THOSE FUCKERS!"

And then he starts to take alternating turns, left and right, beating T-Bone to death one weighted blow at a time…

When the gunfire rings out, Kwabena hunkers over Chao Lin with his body. The bullets rain down all around, but those that come near ping off his body and go skittering off in all directions. His supersolid form may be impervious to gunfire of this type, but that doesn't mean it's painless. A grimace takes hold of his face, and his body twitches with every strike, but he stands his ground. Seems likely that the bullet holes in his jacket were not placed by some snooty Italian designer, after all. If they were, the art of it all is ruined, for when the gunfire stops, the jacket is all but shredded.

By his count, the lot of the GD crew have been mowed to pieces, save for T-Bone. T-Bone, who Kwabena spies facing off in a game of Russian Roulette with the ringleader of this party. His job here is done; Chao Lin is alive.

"…Gnaaauugh!" he gruffs when releasing his mutation to revert to its normal state of flesh, bone, and blood. Surviving gunfire this way is not his preferred method; it hurts like hell. Turning back to Chao Lin, he pats the Triad twice on his cheek. "See you round."

Kwabena's clothes then collapse to the floor. Where his body was is now a plume of black smoke. It hovers for a moment before pressing low to the ground and skating off between the legs of those being ushered away. He's looking for a quick exit, which just so happens to carry him along with hot air that is being blown out of an open window in the ladies restroom. Felicia Hardy will find herself momentarily enveloped in the tendrils of gaseous, living biomatter as it pours past her and into the alleyway beyond, where it goes soaring up into the air.

Meanwhile, back in the dark club, the smartphone tangled up in Kwabena's discarded clothing becomes a mangled and molten mess of mechanics when it's battery overloads. Seems whomever was on the other end of that line just triggered the phone's proverbial kill switch.

Kicking off her heels, Felicia delicately climbs atop the toilet to peek out the window, nearly slipping off and cracking her head open when the sound of gunfire starts to blast off in the other room. "Whoa, guess the rumors are true: Gotham gangs don't fuck around," she mutters to herself before looking back out the window. One dude, who seems to have been distracted by the sudden hail of gunfire as well. And while he's a big'un, she's dealt with plenty of burly dudes in her time to know the sensitive points.

"Me thinks it's time to blow this joint. Boring party anyway," she muses before taking a deep breathe, focusing her luck-field in the direction of the thug as she mentally diagrams her plan, reaching down to grab one of her stilletos by the heel. There is a reason that these things are named after an medieval dagger, and she plans to use it accordingly. As she raises it, a sudden chill strange sensation overcomes her as a gas passes over her, something about it making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. "Yeah, DEFINITELY need to get out of this town."

Taking deep breathes, she collects herself for a few seconds before she jumps into action. Setting her hands on the window sill, she hops up with her feet against the wall, a moment later crashing through the window behind the thug. The next, the heel is cranked back and then hurled forward, aimed squarely at the back of his head, or if he turned around fast enough a sizeable knot in his forehead. Of course seeing how she's not a major league pitcher, the toss doesn't exactly knock him out (and honestly, who throws a shoe?). Thankfully for Felicia, she's not quite done; the point of the shoe is to stun the thug long enough for the second move: a running charge and a leap, one foot planting in his chest so the other can rise in a half-crescent move to catch him in the chin.

THAT should knock out the bagman. Oh, and look, there's the bag left, filled with pretty pretty cash money for her to pilfer.


Someone has been watching the entire scene play out… someone with a deep affection for thieves..


Felicia's kick was true, knocking the big burly man out cold…


The sound of a distortioned scream is heard from the babe. For some reason, this one hearts. The formless void spreads along the electric makings of the city, mapping it's way towards The Double Down..


Harper still continues to leave the gun trained upon the short man, his speech, she felt it deep within her bones that this man meant the truth. Could she turn a blind eye and allow this man to be killed? What would Batman do?

A gaze soon falls towards the half face man beating the other to a pulp, the gun lowering just a little, then lifted yet again. "Let him live. Take me instead. Take me to him." The gun falls to her side as a finger points out towards Two-Face. She just won him a ton of money, this.. this could slide.. right?


The door, electronically locked seemingly opens of it's own accord, paving the way for Felicia to enter in without fuss..

IN THE CLUB: The lights seemingly flicker and dim for a slight moment, the power rerouted to another area within..


The door that houses the money? It was unlocked as well, but not pulled ajar. However.. she could hear it clear as day, the low buzz that flares to life, the *CRACKA-THOOM* echoing through the halls..

And once she opens the doors? Everyone inside would be electrified.. but not dead.


T-Bone tried to get a shot off but he was too slow, he wanted to go out in a hail of bullets just like his brothers. But the last moments of his life was spent on his knees… hardly worthy of a true OG.


Harper slowly stands from her straddling position off of Rosco, legs wobbled and weak, the gun dropping down upon the floor next to her foot as she takes a step off and back, knees soon buckling from the beating that she took, falling flat onto the ground with harsh breaths that rack her entire body. She'll be fine, she's just fucking tired. She's only human, after all.


Clawed fingers lightly scratch the jaw of a young woman, teasing play as fingers curl around her neck to check for a pulse. She was still alive, thank goodness, but tired from that display and effort. Lensed eyes remain upon the screen that displays The Double Down club, and with an approving nod and a turn, the click of heels mark her exit from the server room, the only evidence that The Woman was there was a sharp staccato laugh of approval.

Harper will find herself deposited safely in a yellow Taxi, #22, with two thousand dollars stuffed in her pocket. The taxi idles on 2nd street and the cabbie looks back and grins, "You wanna go to a hospital, kiddo, or a Denny's? Me, I could go fer a Grand Slam," he says, reaching up and spinning the Yin-Yang pendant dangling from his rear view mirror.

Two-Face finishes with T-Bone finally once he's reduced the gangbanger's face into a mushy pulp, like the inside of a cantaloupe painted in brown and red. The girls take his knuckles and wash his hands, getting him a fresh jacket as the bodies begin to be disposed of and, around the city, bullets rain down on unsuspecting gang members.

"C'mon, girls. Still got time left to burn. But I think I'm gonna need a double whiskey 'fore we get down to business."

Up high, on the landing of a fire escape, the cloud of smoke solidifies. Kwabena — now 'Shift', as it were — is cast in a form-fitting suit of gunmetal gray. Unstable molecules constitute the material, which transforms to mimic the molecular changes his body goes through. Only the quiet sound of air being displaced by solid material signifies this transformation, and he finds himself hunched over the railing of the fire escape, looking down into the alley below when Felicia makes her move.

Impressive. Also, there goes the take, bagged up and snatched up in one easy move.


Of course, this means that he's got a clever thief to hunt, for somewhere in that bag of cheddar are fifty Franklins. Technically, one hundred of them, considering he won that bet. Kwabena doesn't need to stick around to witness the act itself. He knows who's on the other line, he knows who is manipulating those locks, and he knows exactly why things just got a whole lot easier for Felicia. He'll simply have to hunt her another day.

A smirk crawls across the mutant's face, and his eyes, now their natural silver, glimmer in the pale moonlight. Perhaps she'll see him, perhaps she won't, but a wink is cast into the alley below a mere moment before he disappears again, smoke curling and rising into the cold, wintry sky.

As she reapplies her shoes, Felicia makes her way carefully to the door of the backroom, only to jump slightly at the sound of the surge on the other side. And when the door is unlocked? And the people on the other side of the door, all knocked out and a nice bag of money ready to be lifted? "Something's fishy," she says under her breathe before peeking in the bag, there being more cash than even anticpated as a wide grin crosses her face. "And I love fish," she adds before tightening up the bag and making her way back out. Scaling up the fire escape, she catches a glance of a figure above her watching before jetting off himself, tightening her grip on the bag.

She has to get out of town fast, before her lift is discovered and she gets the swiss cheese treatment. She shakes her head to shake the idea of what must have happened with all that gunfire. They deserved it, she tells herself. Otherwise, she'll have a very hard time falling asleep on her new cash mattress. Quickly she leaves the area, making sure to stick to the shadows as well as she can to keep her exit-path covered.

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