Talia

	This lovely woman is in her late twenties, and though she is
slightly above average height for a woman, at first glance she has a
delicate air about her. But the perceptive will notice her sleek grace and
the athletic lines of a woman in superb physical condition without it
hardening her form. Her hair is black and worn loose to hang down to the
middle of her back, sweeping over in the front to hide one eye. Both are
obviously blue, the sort of blue that shifts in color depending on her
emotion. Her looks are those of the best combinations of Arabic and
Mediterranean culture; the combination of her lightly olive skin and high
cheekbones renders her the beauty of the ancient world often scene on
vases and sculptures of antiquity. Her voice is light and melodic, easily
as light as a brush of silk, or as sharp and commanding as an iron glove.

	She wears a dark gray jumpsuit that zips down the front and is
left open at the throat. A pair of black gloves cover her hands from
finger tips to elbows, in addition to a utility belt of the same color,
fitted snugly to her waist. The final touches are upper arm and thigh
sheaths, as well as knee high boots - also black.

Batman looked at you.
Batman

	Standing about 6'2" and having a powerful and imposing build, this
masked figure is clad almost entirely in black and dark gray. His head is
covered by a black cowl that conceals the upper half of his features. A
pair of white eyeslits stare out of the mask with cold intensity, and
there's a pair of ear-like protrusions from the top of the cowl. What you
can make of his face is typically set in a grimly determined fashion, his
jaw squared, his mouth impassive.

	His torso is covered by tight fitting dark gray, with an oval disc
on the middle of his broad chest. The disc is a gold-yellow color, and has
the sharp edged shadow of a bat emblazoned upon it. Around his waist is a
belt of a similar color to the emblem's background, with a series of slim,
modular attachments clasped to it. On his forearms are a pair of black
gauntlets with a trio of spiky protrusions coming from their lower edge.
He has a pair of black, heavy treaded boots pulled up to about mid shin on
botth feet, and each bears a trio of protrusions similar to those on his
gauntlets. Wrapped about him is a heavy leathery black cloak with a
sharply pointed fringe around the base.

	The cowled man has a practiced air of authority and assurance
about him, his motions are precise and fluid in a way that almost belies
the apparent physical power in his frame. Intense and shrouded in shadows
wherever he may be, this is the Batman, mysterious and demi-mythical Dark
Knight Detective.

Two-Face(#728Pnc)

	This man is tall, slim and square-shouldered. He has a gently
sloping chin, a smooth complexion, well-coiffed brown hair, a genial,
easy, blue-eyed gaze, slender, lean arms, strong, well-formed hands, and a
confident, easy gait. On his right.

	His left side is horribly deformed and scarred, the skin a
horrible greenish-grey, twisted and hideous. His left eye is distended and
yellowish, with a burning red pupil, staring in an eternal, awful scowl of
hatred, his lips pulled back in a ghastly sneer. On that side, his hair is
splayed out wildly, whitened with a repulsive purplish sheen. His left
hand, though physically unmarred, tends to congeal itself into a crumpled,
twitchy mass of muscle and flesh. His voice is low and compelling, from
deep in his chest, though he almost always appears to be talking out of
the side of his mouth.

	His suit is white and black: split right down the middle. His
right side wears a white jacket with black cuffs and buttons, his left a
black jacket with white cuffs and buttons. His tie is silk, very
expensive, tied carefully, and white on the right and black on the left.
His shirt is black on the right and white on the left. His slacks have
clean lines and are obviously well-tailored, and are white on the left and
black on the right. His left shoe is a gleaming, well-polished black and
his right shoe is a gleaming, well-polished white. All in all, he gives a
rather dizzying, stomach-churning impression of wealth, power and
obsession.

Two-Face looked at you.

Dark. Dark and smoky, this back-room club of Gotham smells of beer and
blood, of visciousness and danger. The perfect place for all manner of
thieves, rogues, and cut-throats to hear the latest on job prospects while
lazing away with game, drink, and the occaisional woman. There are women
as well, dangerous as the men who are here, and one of them - the slender
figure that leans against the bar, exudes that brand of danger as well -
the sort that invites those around her to wonder if sticking their hand in
the cobra's basket just might be worth it.

Two-Face steps in through a side door. The level of conversation dips,
without stopping, as one shudder of recognition runs the whole room
'round, nobody quite willing to draw the attention of his horrible, ugly
visage by falling completely silent, though. He angles his way through the
room, bisecting it. Behind him is a large black man, thick-shouldered,
with massive hands and a black suit with a black tie and a black shirt and
black slacks, black shoes perfectly polished. Slightly to the black man's
left is a thin, pale caucasian woman, her head shaved, her eyes a pale
blue, her suit white on white on white on white, her face too hard to be
beautiful, her dress too pure to be attractive. A few other more generic
and perhaps less-valued henchmen come in on their tails, relaxing (too
much) at the bar, and at the tables. But Two-Face, with The Coin clutched
in his hand, visible to all as he passes, is heading to a side meeting
room door, perhaps there to take applications - or seek them out.

Unseen and without sound, an inky shape passes by the dingy glass windows
that face the equally dingy neighborhood outside of the establishment. It
moves fluidly off to one side of the building like the passing shadow cast
by a fan blade.

The imposing man who walked in must have given his henchmen the go-ahead
to disperse, because they promptly fan the room, some with more serious
miens, others with a relaxed, casual attitude. One squeezes in over by the
bar, next to the dark haired woman who's face is hidden by shadow. He
leers at her, saying something quietly and reaching forward as if to touch
his fingers to her chin.

Two-Face gives the woman a second glance. That in itself might not be
unusual - but it is a calculating, empty stare. The lights are on, there's
somebody home, but he has company, apparently. He keeps walking, not
really paying too much attention to her or to his underling.

The woman leans forward, her face still in shadow. Her own hand slides up,
slender fingers resting on the man's wrist and palm gently. She must have
said something or done something the thug seemed to find enticing, because
he starts to smile, closing the physical distance between them. But then
suddenly, there's a sudden, sharp jerking motion and the crash of a glass
shattering as it hits the floor. The man is halfway on his knees, howling
in pain; the woman has her hand firmly wrapped around his wrist in a lock,
her other hand holding her drink carefully. She half turns, not fully
facing Two-Face, her back still to the bar and face still in shadow. "This
piece of offal," she says in a suprisingly soft, exotic accent, "Is he
yours?"

Two-Face pauses in mid-step. Then he turns halfway to face her, the awful
scars rippling as he moves his jaw slightly. "He can take care of himself
if you can. It takes two to tango." he says with a flat tone. He doesn't
look interested at all - he looks angry at something that is happening
somewhere a great distance away. But he doesn't turn away, either.

There's a cry from outside. A muffled cry that doesn't carry all the way
into the bar. Then, rather more noticably, a few patrons near the front
window begin to stare outside at something. A few back away from their
tables while others simply sit and observe. A gracefully arcing shape
drops towards the glass - the shape of a man in a purple pinstriped suit,
his hands thrown up as if to protect himself.

Talia looks up, certain shock and uncanny certainty in her eyes. She
shoves the grunt in front of her to shield against the forthcoming shards
of glass upon impact.

Two-Face's face twists into an ugly smirk. "Two's company." he says,
taking a gun from his coat pocket. It's a .45, clean, simple squarish
chrome lines. "Three's....well. Three's /temporary/." he snaps, taking a
gun from his coat pocket. It's a .45, black, scraped, ugly, one grip
missing. He gracefully backpedals towards the rear entrance. But his eyes
take in everything. The ones that do well will be contacted again,
someday, perhaps for repentance, perhaps for new, violent work, depending
on which eye sees them.

The hushed tinkle of the glass Two-Face's goon dropped is followed after
that moment of hanging suspension by the shattering crash of the window
pane, sending the establishment's painted name and a few neon signs
skittering over the tables that front the bar. The ragged teeth of the
window look out on a smoky winter street that seems suddenly blacker and
sharper edge with the intervening window out of the way. It goes dead
quiet now. And a few degrees chillier.

Talia boots the thug she'd been using as a shield away from her, leaving
him still cursing softly, clutching his wrist to his chest and scuttling
back to his boss. Talia's body is one of calm repose, but the observant
can tell her body is tensed and ready. Bizarrely, she doesn't look at the
broken window, but rather...up.

Two-Face says, tersely, "Split up." That seems to get a response, almost
instinctive, from the ones that came in with him - they even flinch
slightly as they jerk up to their feet and start moving - fast. Even the
one that was blubbering and cursing and threatening Talia gets very quiet
and starts moving very quickly.

As guns, knives, and broken bottles begin to be brandished, Talia can make
out a figure dropping down from above the doorframe behind the bar. A
figure in black. Its right hand extends out like a blade in a chopping
motion, and the bartender...who carries a sawn off shotgun...seems to walk
straight into it. Clotheslined, the man drops out of sight with a very
startled grunt.

Talia can't help but allow a small smile, no more then a purse of her lips
to cross her face. She starts to edge out of the figure's line of motion,
as much getting out of his way for his convenience as it is to keep
herself from getting hurt. Moving along the line of the bar, she edges
back to the far end of it, keeping her face turned to shadow, trying to
keep on the defensive.

A door to the alley slams open and the sound of an engine revving comes
from that area. The woman in white steps forward. She looks tiny in front
of Two-Face, who looms like some repulsive demon behind her. "Not today.
It's /Wednesday/." he hisses. "This isn't right at /all/. No, no. No, no."
He raises his guns. A drunken thug, a nobody, just a drink-addled
extortionist stumbles between him and Batman as the hand around the black,
ugly .45 convulses, twice, BLAM, BLAM, spattering blood and bits of flesh
across the bar. The drunk, who had a mother, squeals, collapsing against
the bar, clutching at the wound. The other gun holds steady but doesn't
fire. "You idiot!" Two-Face says, almost sadly. "You got in his way." His
car is getting very close, and he is getting very far away.

Batman moves into a kneel by the fallen drunk, seeming to not notice the
other thuggery that swarms the place for a moment. The voice is all too
clear an indication of the other presence in the place. The one that he
wasn't expecting either. He looks bitterly at the spattered blood that
drips from the bar and then towards the door. His eyes meet the glaring
distended pupil of the beast and the staring eye of his friend and his
lips snarl backwards. Tensing as if to give chase, he is halted by his
concern for the state of the drunk's wound, which he ascertains with a
quick glance away from the doorway where Harvey Dent stands.

Two-Face keeps backpedalling, looking left, then right. "Quickly. Her." he
says, indicating Talia. With the silver, chrome gun. "No offense." he says
to her, then turns both eyes back to stare at Batman. "Take care of him.
And save her." he hisses, now half-way back through the tiny side meeting
room towards the back door. "Everyone is worth something. Everyone is
created equal. Everyone is worth /saving/." he cackles, sneering, his
voice a savage burst of sarcasm and cynicism. "Everyone. Right?"

[OOC] Two-Face has to go pretty quick. I'll do a couple more poses, then
let you two have the adventure of Talia, Batman and the faceless Two-Face
thug. I'll stay logged in with the log running, though.

Talia blinks, and it's a potentially fatal pause - there's a pistol at her
temple, the other hand balling her hair into a fist. The henchman jerks
her head back, forcing her to move when he begins to walk, using her as a
shield, and her features become clear in the dim light. She doesn't look
happy, and seems inclined to rectify her situation herself.

Batman hovers over the unconcious figure, hands partially visible in the
dim light as he moves from his kneel into a crouch. He looks with
deceptive calm from the shining chrome barrels of the guns pointed at the
woman and...at the woman herself. For the second time this night, the Dark
Knight is unable to conceal his surprise when he sees the dark, exotic
profile in the lamplight. He recovers his cold and business like demeanor
rather quickly, jaw set and determined.

[OOC] Talia says, "2F, are you tossing out some poses, or should we go
from here?"

Two-Face laughs harshly when he reaches the door. "So long." he says. The
longer the other henchmen can delay Batman, the cooler the trail will get.

[OOC] Two-Face says, "That's my last. I'll let you know if I make it back
in a reasonable time, but given this place's harsh idle-out policy, one of
you should start logging the rest."

Meeting Talia's eyes pointedly, the Caped Crusader looks towards her side,
at a conveniently placed bottle of vodka. He looks from it to Talia, and
then to the man holding her. There's a moment's pause as men begin to
encircle him and the bloodied figure at his feet.


Talia's brow arches just slightly. She raises her wrists just slightly -
indicating the freedom of her hands - and then uses them swiftly, batting
the gun back with one hand and elbowing the henchman's face with the
other. Completing her turn, she liberates pistol, kicks him into a table,
and then scoots out of the way, the gun now held on the henchman. She
looks back, arching that elegant brow once more, but seems to expect the
Dark Knight to already be too occupied to appreciate the moment's irony.

Suddenly, the Bat is in motion once more, upending and flinging a chair
sideways at two of the goons, smashing it against their heads. It
splinters into a dozen fragments and they topple over. He looks towards
the door with a strained grimace as Two-Face disappears and hears the
sound of the getaway car burning rubber. Time for reflection has gone with
the former D.A. however, as he's soon enjoined in close combat by the more
irate patrons.

Batman speaks above the ruckus in a clear voice as he deflects blows from
one of the criminal element. "No shooting." As if in response, a gun
cracks from a corner of the bar, missing him by a foot or two and taking
out a photograph of the proprietor in happier times.

Talia checks the thug - knocked out. She asseses the situation, and
determines that the gun will do potentially more harm then good. She
holsters it and begins to disperse the fringes of the little mob around
the Caped Crusader. She chuckles lightly, her action in suprising
synchronicity with his words. The laugh is suprisingly sweet, even as she
dishes out damage, and recieves some, in turn.

As Talia and Batman pummel the few remaining members of Two-Face's
entourage into submission, the rest of the bar begins to see the value of
discretion and begin to flee.

And as folks begin to flee, sirens begin to wail. Talia casts Batman a
look, and indicates the exit with an arched brow.

Batman palmstrikes the chest of a large man in biker regalia, sending him
backwards into a sprawl on the sticky barroom floor. He glances at Talia,
and nods, once.

Talia darts for the back exit, kicking and striking when necessary. When
she gets to the doorway she pauses only once, needing to know if he's
following, body poised to leap torward the fire escape just outside the
door.

Batman turns and flings a batarang at the clumsy gunman in the bar corner,
hitting him in the forehead with its blunt edge. The man wobbles for a
moment then slides against the wall in a seated position, KO'd. He then
stands before the gunshot victim on the floor and turns towards the
remaining goon squad, looking down the through his cowl's eyeslits at
them, daring them to make a move. Weighing their eyes with an icy white
glare, he makes his point. As they retreat from both the Bat and the
encroaching Gotham PD, he crouches by the wounded man. Batman swings up
over the fire escape, landing somewhat heavily on the gravel-topped roof.
The glare of red and blue strobes flare up from the streets below as he
moves across the space.

Talia stands a good portion from the edge, but looks over it. Her
expression is solemn, arms crossed over her chest, hands resting on her
shoulders. Her hair whips slightly in the wind, her figure slender enough
to look as if that wind could lift her right off the rooftop.

Batman pauses a foot or two from Talia, looking at her with a slightly
displeased expression, though his voice is softer than usual when he
speaks. "Talia - what brings you to Gotham?" His concern and curiosity are
evident as he moves around to face her, cowled eyebrows slanted down over
his eyes.

Talia doesn't look at him, her expression still on the scene below.
There's a long pause, and then she says quietly, "You." she turns and
looks at him then, searching his masked face. "Did you think it was for my
father?" she challenges, the painful knowledge of her betrayal of Ra's al
Ghul apparent in her memory. She looks to the side. "We are...estranged,
he and I. I work as I wish, now."

Batman's twinge of remorse...brief as it is...indicates the accuracy of
Talia's deduction. He clasps his hands on his utility belt, cape fanning
out slightly at his side, enfolding his shoulders in the wind. Lips pursed
consideringly for a moment, he asks "And your work brings you to my city."
He hesitates, then says "To this place. On this night. Were you here to
meet someone?"

Talia chuckles, a touch bitterly. "No. I was there because I'd heard of a
job prospect." she looks as if she's about to say something else, then
stops, and just stares at him, as if he's the only thing present. But
before she takes the step to throw herself against the hardened wall of
his coldness, she recovers herself and murmurs, "Gotham seemed as good a
place as any and I confess I.." she lifts her chin, "I wanted to find you.
Or for you to find me."

Batman listens quietly, head bowed slightly. He readies a batarang and a
length of rope, apparently intending to move on, to continue his pursuit
of Two-Face. "I won't prevent you from your work...unless it puts any of
Gotham's people in danger." He frowns a little, knowing that she knows him
well enough to know this without him having to say it. He pauses
uncomfortably once more, falling silent and grim as he regards the
Daughter of Ra's Al Ghul. "You know your presence will...distract me. Like
it did already tonight. Two-Face nearly killed a man. And he nearly killed
you."

"Distract you?" she pauses, and then suddenly, "Distract you?? Beloved,
you may have forgotten, but I will remind you that I am nearly as well
trained as you. Two-Face would have shot that man anyway, and I did not
need -you- to save myself." she steps closer, her expression challenging,
soft. "Your concern is an entirely different one. We both know that. But
some facts remain: I must fend for myself now, and you must do what you
must do. I had hoped..." she pauses, "It does not matter. Do you attend to
your prey, Beloved. Hunt well."

Batman looks at Talia's face with a somewhat resigned and guardedly
affectionate expression. Saying no more, he flings the batarang off
towards some distant outcropping and swings off into the canyon of steel
and concrete that make up his proving ground, disappearing once more into
the distance.