Pamela Isley slowly staggered into her cell and sat down limply on her bed, which was bolted to the stone floor. As the guards sealed the door and made their way back down the hall she straightened up and ran a hand through her hair with a weary sigh. The tranquilizer had no affect upon her, no chemical agent did unless she wanted to allow it to. She was resistant to every chemical compound on the planet, not even masters of toxin like the Joker of the Scarecrow could affect her with their poisons.

Her cell was unique. Most of the asylum patients were kept in the typical padded room with an iron door. In maximum security, however, the walls were steel-reinforced bunker grade concrete with arched peaks to resist explosive blasts. This wing of the facility was built shortly after the rise of the Batman, and the numerous psychotics who came to dwell in Gotham as his eternal opposition. For many Arkham inmates, blasting their way out—or having someone do it for them—was a very really possibility and Arkham's cells were designed accordingly.

The cell doors in the Max. Sec. ward were automated sliding doors made from five inch thick bullet proof glass. This ensured that the security patrols could see into the cells and clearly observe the inmates at all times, preventing the patients from attempting an ambush of their guards when food was delivered. The doors between the Max ward and the rest of the Asylum were twin non-reflective titanium vault doors. Only one could be opened at a time, a person had to step into the small passage between the two doors and seal the first one before they could open the second. Both these doors, and all the prison cell doors were operated by key cards, held only by select individuals.

Only the chief of security and his four captains, Dr. Arkham and the doctor assigned to treating a patient held cards capable of opening that patient's cell door. This meant that only 7 people in the hospital held cards capable of opening a patient's door. Pamela's cell was also outfitted with a special air filter in the ceiling. The specially built fan-filter system was designed to ensure that any enzyme, poison, powder, or pheromone she released would be pulled straight up into the filter rather than being able to escape out into the corridors. In addition to this protection any time a guard interacted with her they were required to wear gas masks. The four guards who were specially trained to handle Poison Ivy were all women, make them less likely to be susceptible to Ivy's pheromones... Or so they believed.

Arkham Asylum took no chances with Miss Isley. Her cell held no windows, and any vegetable or fruit included in a meal for her or the cells adjoining her own, Harleen Quinzel's and Jonathan Crane's, had to be thoroughly filtered to ensure no living seeds were in them. No living plant life was allowed to come within Pamela Isley's line of sight. The cell was a sad, miserable existence for a woman who thrived when exposed to fresh air, clean water, and sunlight. She resigned herself to spending most of her time lying on her bed, leafing through a small collection of books she was allowed to keep. Occasionally she would talk through the air grate to Harley on the cell to her left. She rarely deigned to talk with Jonathan Crane because, firstly, he was a man, and secondly he constantly badgered her to team up with him and help him create a fear-toxin with no antidote.

Tonight, Pamela sat on her bed with her head in her hands. She was drowsy already but the tranquilizer had yet to fully kick in. She was in that strange state of clarity one finds herself to be in when the waking world is slipping away and the relaxation of approaching sleep is close at hand. She could think clearly, calmly, and even gave a small satisfied smile at the peace of the moment... It was all ruined by an irritating "pssst!" from the vent grate that was set into the wall at the bottom of the cell, right under Pamela's bed. This was the easiest method of communication, while the cells were not sound proof they were very thick, as a result the only way to speak without being over heard was to whisper through the vents.

"Red?" A normally soft voice hissed at an irritating pitch.

Pamela sighed huskily and closed her eyes. "Harley, I'm tired."

"Oh! ...Sorry." The blonde whispered.

Pamela pulled back her covers and kicked off her slippers, sliding into bed and closing her eyes.

"Hey Red?"

Pamela pressed her plump green lips together in irritation, hissing back without bothering to open her eyes. "What?"

"Are ya okay?"

"I'm fine, Harley."

"Oh... Good!" Harley declared merrily.

Pamela sighed and closed her eyes, ready to sleep at last.

Crunch. Click. Crunch. Snap. Crinkle. Crunch.

"Harley?" Pamela asked quietly, interrupting the irritating rhythm of sounds.

"Yeah?" Harley replied from her cell.

"What are you eating?"

There was a sudden rustling and crinkling that Pamela guessed had to be Harley shoving a bag under her pillow.

"Nothin'..." Harley replied after a few moments.

"Harley, I heard it. We're not supposed to have unsanctioned food... Especially not sunflower seeds."

"How did you know!?" Harley gasped with awed excitement in her voice. "Red, are you turnin' psychic!?"

"I can smell the scent, and practically hear their burnt souls crying for revenge..." Ivy seethed in quiet indignation. "How can you sit their and eat innocent newborns, roasted in a fire before they even had a chance to grow?!"

"....Cause I'm hungry..." Harley replied in a sheepish whisper that was to cute for Ivy to ignore.

For all her hatred of human cruelty toward plant life, Harley was such a sweet, kind, innocent creature, proof that even humans could be redeemed with the proper care. Somewhere within the twisted roots of her form Ivy held a soft spot for Harley, more than that... She held love for her, as much love and care as she held for a rare rose or a beautiful fern.

"What did you get those seeds, Harley?"

"I called in a favor from Jervis."

At this Pamela's green eyes sprang wide open. Like Dr. Birch earlier in the evening it was that moment after a mistake has been made but before it's consequences begin, but unlike Dr. Birch this mistake was slow, and Poison Ivy had plenty of time to react to it.

"Harley... If you want to make up for eating those poor dead seedlings, there is something you could do to make me happy." Pamela cooed in a rich voice as smooth and intoxicating as fresh honey.

"There, there is?" Harley sniffled, rubbing at her nose as she sat in her bed, clutching the half-eaten bag of sunflower seeds and looking at it forlornly, as if it were a dead kitten she'd struck with a car.

"Mmmhmmmm, there is... Do you still have anyone who owes you favors...? Someone other than a current in-mate?

"Uhm-m-m-m-m-m!" Harley hummed in thought, scrunching up her face and sticking her tongue out. "Oh, oh! I have a guard who re-e-e-e-eally owes me a favor!"

Pamela gave a disgusted groan. "I'm not even going to ask what you did..."

"It's not watcha think!" Harley replied with a moderate tone of disgust. "I'm not that pent up!"

"...Just for the ones in clown make up." Ivy muttered, believing her words were to quiet to be heard, but Harley gave a hurt little gasp, and then a sniffle.

Pamela sighed and closed her eyes. "Harley... Harl... I didn't mean that. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, it's just been a long day. I'm sorry, Harl, please forgive me?"

Another sniffle echoed through the vents and Ivy persed her lips in distress. Harley could make a real racket when she was upset, the rival of any infant or toddler, and noise at this critical moment might spoil Pamela's idea.

"Harley, please, you can't be mad at me when I'm already mad at you for eating poor, sweet, innocent seedlings! It's just not fair!" Pamela reason, completely illogically.

Suddenly Harley ceased to sniffle. "I guess it isn't really fair to be mad at you when you're mad at me..." Harley declared slowly, as if trying to grasp the idea made her brain hurt.

Sometimes Pamela wondered how this woman had earned a Ph.D In psychiatry, but then, Harley had been the inspiration for her current actions.

"That's right Harley, it's just not fair. Now, do you want to make up for being an accessory to the murder of those poor little babies?"

"Uh huh!" Harley replied, sounding suddenly both sad and solemn.

"Good... Well, the best news is you've already begun to help me."

"I have?!" Harley exclaimed in wonder.

"Shhh, quiet dear. Yes, you have... you see, you've been a marvelous inspiration to me. You've been a big help for me in my therapy sessions with Dr. Birch."

"Really?" Harley asked, her voice still filled with child-like wonder.

"Oh yes... In fact, Dr. Birch has been such a wonderful help to me that I want you to do something for me that I can't do."

"What is it Red, I'd do anything for ya!"

Pamela's dark green lips curled into the wide patronizing smile one would expect from a queen addressing peasant subjects.

"Can call in your favor, and have some flowers delivered to Dr. Birch?"

"Flowers?? But Red won't that be moider too!?"

"Not chopped flowers you silly girl!" Pamela exclaimed in horror, cringing at the very idea of it. "I don't want her to receive amputees! I want to send her a potted plant, something pretty and fast growing, but it has to be anonymous, just have the florist deliver a generic shop card with no sender's name; if she knows it's from me she'll probably think I'm doing something nasty and throw it out. I just want to give her a thank you gift for all the help she's been to me."

"Aaaaaw, Red. That's awful kind of ya!"

"What can I say, Harley? I'm a kind hearted woman, I just want everyone to stop and take the time to smell the roses just like I do. Now, listen carefully because there's a very specific plant I want you to have sent to her, it's a beautiful flowering plant and I think she'll absolute adore it!"

"Okay, Red, sure! Whatever you say!"

"That's my girl..."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

A.N.

Summer's here, make sure you're watering your plants morning and evening to help stave off the effects of the heat.