Iconoclast War Part 2: Arkham Asylum Chapter 8: Heads or Tails, a batman fanfic

Chapter 8: Heads or Tails

July 3rd, 20xx

The Kitchens, 9:02 AM

Day 13

It was nearly two weeks into Joker's Regime and the quiet betting pools were straining at the seams. When Batman would arrive was no longer the point of hottest contention. Whether or not anyone would survive Joker's mad games and rule of the island had taken its place.

The lines that had been drawn during the initial takeover were beginning to blur. Joker's Games were slowly but steadily depleting the goon-pool, with White Shark taking a surprisingly heavy hit. On the other hand, Two-Face had so far come out fairly well, although some of that was to do with early victories that gave his men a reputation as fuckers too tough to cross. That, and they were in control of the kitchen, and he'd threatened to put human flesh in the meals, a la The Jungle.

Yet the growing sense of unease and the instinct to band together went beyond the dwindling numbers and faction led power plays. The island had lost faith in Joker. The big names were being killed in the gladiator games, everyone else killed in the still-running Joker Games, and there was little to indicate that this wouldn't spell out the remainder of their lives.

Harvey Dent considered all this as he sat in the backroom of the kitchens, flipping his coin pensively. The time had come to make a decision. He had tarried long enough.

He flipped the coin, watched it catch the light as it tumbled down. It landed in his palm, its weight satisfying in the way only a junkie truly understood. All he had to do was toss it up one more time and he would have its answer . . .

He pocketed it. He already knew the answer. There was no point in delaying the inevitable.

"Hound?" He called over his shoulder, alerting his top-most assassin and trusted goon.

"Yeah, Boss?"

He swallowed, his throat clicking. "Tell Cash I'm ready to make a deal."

…

July 3rd, 20xx

Security Room, 12:17 PM

Day 13

It took him almost three days, but Joker did in fact finally lay to rest his OTP theories on Johnny and Pammy. He'd had stalled a bit early on, largely as their couple name was giving him some trouble. Jommy and Panny were a touch too infantile, even for him. JonPam sounded like a transatlantic flight. Pamethan sounded like one of the meds the docs were always trying to get him to take. Jonala was little better. Poison Scarecrow sounded like the name of a grunge bad. A bad one.

He'd left off after IvyCrow. The less said on that, the better.

Truly, the travesty that were their combined names aside (although truthfully, he did kind of like the sound of Jonathan Isley, but maybe he was a traditionalist) almost made him set aside the thought of them, together, maybe even in love, aside in disgust. Besides, he was mad at them. Wasn't he? Well, usually. Probably. Pammy, at least, was extremely aggravating.

But then . . . well, something made him think of it. Harley? During one of their horizontal romps that she was still fond of? It was annoying to take off clothes but she was fond of that too, and sometimes it was . . . well, not better to do things that made her happy, but something. Preserved the status quo? Nah, he didn't care much for that.

Aaaaanyy whoooooo, she'd said something and he'd smacked her a little bit and then she'd cried and it made him think of . . . oh, who knew what, vulnerability, and Sharpie crying and bargaining for his life before Joker had tossed him from the window to his death down below, and then the notes in Sharp's office. Suddenly it all came together: there was a copied recording. Sharp hadn't found it.

Who copied recordings? Little shits. For what purpose? Blackmail, generally. And who, just who on the island was a little shit who stole information online and held it over the heads of those who had money/power/prestige?

Edward Nygma, that's who. Oh, he was so pleased he'd beaten him mostly to death. The little shit deserved it, honestly.

But then, doubt set in. He'd beaten Eddie mostly to death. Brain damage had uh, been a thing that had happened, there. And Eddie was not in the habit of writing down his passwords, or his methods for storing illicitly gained information. But he was in the habit of testing everyone else's intelligence, with his riddles . . .

Hmmmmm. Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.

So here Joker was, sitting before the mainframe computer in the security room, trying to determine what the riddle was.

Well, he knew some things, at least. It was weirdly easy to crack Riddler's entrance codes. Or had he been told them? He felt like he knew them. They were easy. Too easy?

Joker gasped. Was he a genius, too?

No, no. Focus. Where would the Riddler have left recordings? Especially about those of his fellow prisoners, both of whom could kill him very, very easily?

In places they would not look. Boring places? Yes. Boring places. Like the folder that read tax files.

Joker clicked it open, clicked on the first item . . . and quickly clicked back out. What was wrong with Eddie, putting his porn in the tax file? Honestly, why do that and have a seperate folder marked porn?

Taking a deep, steeling breath, Joker tried again. And his second attempt was far more useful. Porn taxes aside, he found the most boring and least useful place in all of Riddler's files that he could think of: the folder marked publishable materials. In it, were hundreds of riddles, conundrums, and a general airing of Eddie's narcissism in written and audio form. There were hundreds of subfiles, each marked with a day, date, time.

Joker's eyes glazed over. He'd have to search through all of them, particularly as Eddie had dismantled the search and find option throughout the database. His heart quailed—but then he screwed his determination to the sticking point.

He went through 8 files before his endurance gave out again. So many bad riddles. And the puns. Oh, the puns. But even sorting the files by size didn't help, because the larger ones contained voice recordings of Eddie's own voice, delighting in whatever conundrum he had devised.

I should kill him again, Joker thought.

Oh, but Bats would be disappointed with him! Ugh. What a life he led. These were the hard decisions. Oh, he might as well try a few more times. 4 more times. 2? No, 6. 6 was a weird number, and it wasn't 3. He hated 3. It was cliche.

And he might as well have fun with it. Closing his eyes, he moved the mouse at random and clicked. When nothing happened, he found he had clicked on the trash icon. He pouted hugely at the screen.

This was not going to plan. Time for try number 2!

Try number 2 gave him Eddie's monologue on the theory of relativity, and also why Batman was not so secretly a wealthy socialite in Gotham. No names of course, but it made Joker's lip curl nonetheless.

Everyone knew who Batman was. That wasn't the point. The point was that no one cared. Really, Eddie, this was why you were half beaten to death when invited to parties!

"Oh, this one, then," he muttered to himself as he clicked on a random sub-folder, knowing that nothing good ever happened on the third try, but he had to live through the disappointment to get to number 4.

There was only one file within, and it was an audio file.

Joker clicked it and then spun in the chair, waiting for Eddie's annoying (yet clear) tenor.

"I'd like to talk about control."

Joker stopped spinning. He set his feet down on the floor. That . . . was not Eddie's voice. It was Pammy's.

"As far as I can figure—and I admit, I have a dim view of humanity—the thing that connects all of us here is a need for control. Edward needs to flaunt his intelligence because it was the only thing he could do growing up. Joker needs to control the city through a series of incomprehensible games. Wesker needs his puppet to feel like a person, and Harvey needs his coin to make a choice."

"You need your hold over desire to feel powerful . . . "

"And you need to control our fears."

Joker paused the recording. He breathed deeply. His smile grew wide and vicious. He leaned forward until his nose physically touched the screen, clicked the play button, and then closed his eyes.

It was almost like he was right there with them.

…

At the end, he sat back, thought for a moment, and then scrolled back to several key moments of the interview.

"Jason Woodrue raped me just before—during as well—the administration of the serum that turned me into what I am now."

He shook his head. Oh well, make his life easy for him, would ya, Leafy? This was just . . . it was too easy. Just too easy.

"You asked why I won't develop an antidote for my—my kiss. My touch. My pheromones. That is why. Because I cannot. I am—I am afraid to be anything other than Poison Ivy, at the cost of being human or normal or . . . anything else that humans desire."

Jumping jehoshaphat, this laid all his fears to rest! The woman was begging for it. And from Crane! Not that he should judge, because he was a lanky, craggy-faced man who slathered his face in greasepaint, but still! Standards!

Anywho. His new plan would work perfectly for her, but would it for him?

"Is that why you're giving this to me? Because I gave you something of equal value? An intimation of my own painful experiences?"

"Oh, yes," Joker said throatily, leaning back in his chair. "Oh yes."

He loved killing multiple birds with a carefully planned fight or fuck fest. It was just the best.

….

(Also, upon sober reflection, he really thought their celebrity couple name should be Crasley.)

…

July 3rd, 20xx

Extreme Incarceration, 3:58 PM

Day 13

As far as drugged out vision quests went, she'd . . . well, she'd never had better, per se, but it could have left her without the fuzzy taste in her mouth when she woke up. Or, you know. The whole quivering limbs aftereffect nonsense.

Or the knowledge that the man she had loved more than any other was dead.

Batman was dead.

The fact that she was still crying was secondary. Distantly, she hoped it had been tasteful, quiet tears, rather than loud sobbing. For Victor's sake. Beyond that there was not a lot of pride left in her because Bruce was dead.

Batman was dead.

But no. No. No, that wasn't quite right, was it? She thought, as she wiped her tears on her forearm. Batman was not dead. Wasn't that the whole part of the vision? That all the Rogue's Gallery had known his identity the whole time, and preserved it so the game could continue? And that no matter how anyone tried—even Prometheus, who came worryingly close for her psyche—no one could become him . . . but her?

What's the difference between a cat and a bat? Bruce had deadpanned at her once, early on. It had been after a long chase, a fantastic game of cat and mouse-bat, and she had been half ready to take him right there, even before they'd had their first kiss. Just a letter. Just one.

It was a stupid thing to remember, but now all she could do was remember more. The good and the bad: their third kiss, their first truly awful fight. Bruce coming to her immediately after Jason died, and when he froze over the very next day, distancing himself from both her and Richard in the weeks that followed. The inevitable reunion, scars and and all. To that effect, all injuries from fighting all over Gotham, fighting together or against each other.

The way it took him forever to wake up in the mornings. How he refused to eat cilantro, saying it tasted like soap. The way he never, ever sang along to any song, ever.

There were even a plethora of memories of him on Arkham Asylum. Less in Extreme Incarceration, but as soon as she got out of here, she was going to get inundated with them. Honestly, it kind of felt like he'd spent half of his life here, carting villains in, making sure they stayed in, touring the facility with Gordon and Cash at least once a month . . .

Another memory rose, nearly as vivid as her drug-spurred dreams: Bruce as Bruce, spending a stolen few hours in her apartment. She couldn't remember how they got there, nor how he was able to steal a few hours away from his never-ending duties, but he had been almost cheerful. She had been a law-abiding citizen for a whole two months in a row, and she thought that might have something to do with it.

They had been talking of Arkham, as they often did. She had been worried about something, someone? Harley? She didn't remember now, but Bruce had assured her, 'I'll know if anything happens on Arkham Island, Selena. Even before Jim finds out.'

'What? How?'

He'd winked at her, a rare flash of humor. 'Because I'm the goddamn Batman.'

Whatever he said, he meant. That meant he would know before Gordon. And as Gordon still didn't know what was happening here, she could only assume that Bruce had some way of knowing that didn't connect to the apparently fallible security system.

That meant . . . "He has a base on the island," she whispered out loud, her voice cracking, throat sore. Of course he did, he was the goddamned Batman. He probably had the video feed rerouted to his cave so he could make sure everyone was in their cells before he went to bed at dawn. So, he had a cave. Base. Thing. But where? And why hadn't it been discovered before now?

Silly question. Where do bats live? Caves. She had to get to the cave system below the sewers. That meant . . .

"Shit," she whispered. "Now I really have to get thrown down to Croc."

…

July 3rd, 20xx

Joker's Lair, 8:19 PM

Day 13

In all her projected scenarios since being captured, Joan had not emotionally prepared herself for this.

"Now, you can't be the maid of honor, I've already promised that to Red. But I'd love it if you were in the bridal party! Oh, we'll have to put you in yellow. It would look so good with your skin tone!" Harley nattered away about her upcoming nuptials, spinning around the room with all the gaiety of a child. Yet there was also a manic tinge to it, like that child knew her toy was about to be cruelly wrested away from her.

Joan could only be glad Joker wasn't currently in the room. Yes, she was chained to a chair, but she could still move her arms and feet. She also hadn't been hit/gassed/tortured since she'd sassed him at her 'presentation', and while her anxiety and fear were at an all-time high, there was enough courage, training, and years as a psychologist behind her that she was able to answer as she might a patient . . . or even a friend.

"Harley, he's only doing this to hurt you. You know how his games end."

Harley kept spinning around the room, refusing to take offense, or see reason. "Shows what you know! It's serious between us. He even gave me a ring!"

She desisted her flouncing to waggle her fingers in front of Joan's face. Dr. Cassidy's engagement ring caught the dim light. Joan felt nauseous.

Harley's sharp eyes caught her reaction. "Oh, don't be such a party-pooper! Sarah's fine. Gave up her ring for the cause. Well, and maybe the finger too, but really, it's not so bad. She's one of the few ladies left on the island—it's a good thing she's such a good doctor, otherwise Mistah J might have given her to the men."

Even Harley winced, a fleeting micro-expression that Joan would have missed had she not been looking for it. She knew better than to capitalize on her guilt—it wouldn't last long, nor did it have the power to shape her future decisions—but seeing her chance for information, she took it.

"What about the other doctors?"

Harley thought for a moment, tapping her chin. "Ummm Penelope's gone, Zsasz got her. Good riddance to the bitch, am I right? And Dr. Wilson got killed in a gang fight. Adrian—Chen, of course—and Gretchen are still kicking, as is Dr. Brennan. And I'm pretty sure White Shark had Frank Olson as a personal doctor, so who knows what's happening with him . . . Oh, and Tommy, of course. Elliot. And believe me, I know that's a train-wreck waiting to happen, but I figure as long as we don't rely on him for actual healing, it'll probably be ok."

Joan blinked. For a moment there, Harley had sounded sane. Normal. Like she had during her residency, and then during her few, fated months at Arkham, before the Joker sunk his claws into her.

But speak of the devil and he shall appear. The door was kicked in, Joker sauntered through, and Harley went from cogent to squealing in a matter of moments.

"Puddin'!" She called out just before front hand springing over to him. She landed with expert precision and threw herself into his arms for a sloppy, greasepaint-laden kiss.

Joan averted her eyes and noticed Edward Nygma crawling on all fours, like he was some kind of pet. That in itself was strange enough—the man's ego could fuel a small city, had they a way to harness it as energy—but a second look made her blood run cold. Edward had lately been through the wringer. His smarmy face now resembled a Picasso. His lanky body was closer akin to a Dali.

What had happened to him? Joan could not identify the chain of events, but would bet anything it was at the hands of his new master . . . and that whatever it was, she would not survive it half as well.

Joker shoved Harley away, hard enough that she bumped into the far wall. "Enough of thaaaaaaat. I've got a few questions for Joanie. Jooooannnnie. Is the doctor in?"

Fear flooded her. Her mouth ran dry. Her voice was less than steady when she swallowed and replied, "I'm right here, Joker."

"Ohhhh goood," he sing-songed, walking closer until he loomed over her. "I've got a question for ya'. More than one, really. But you're the expert, so . . . what's up with Hatter these days? He's been acting oddly, and I want to know why."

Joan blinked. She hadn't seen Jervis Tetch since before the takeover. Still, a Mad Hatter that ws acting more oddly than usual was worrying. Particularly because he had been one of her two test subjects. "In what way? Does he need his medication?"

Joker waved his hand. "No, noooo. He's not being all twitchy and foamy at the mouthy. I just have a feeling about him, like he's up to . . . something I don't want him to be up to. Puppet-Man said he's been all . . . purposeful. I don't like it."

Joan had nothing more to contribute to this conversation (although her heart had leapt at the thought of Hatter being purposeful and still not needing his meds. Had that been part of her serum's influence? To what end?) so she addressed the underlying issue. "You want to know who you can trust. Or at least, rely on, to a certain extent."

Joker snapped his fingers. "Got it in one, lady. So? Gimme' the rundown!"

She swallowed, knowing she'd have to be very careful, even though all she was giving him was the truth. "Joker, you already know the answer to that: no one."

He stilled, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. Joan shivered, a reaction she couldn't help.

"Oh?" He said softly. Dangerously. "And why is that, Joanie?"

Joan thought briefly of Aaron's face, and how he had stood up to Croc time and time and time again, even after the beast had devoured his right hand. She would be no less. She would be brave. "Because all of the major players have their own agendas, and most include power. Autonomy. Many are going along with your regime because you have the upper hand, but if there is a chance to take you down, most, if not all, will jump at it. But if you're asking specifics, there is one more factor in play that makes it difficult to answer definitively."

Joker was, for all his posturing and pageantry, and extremely intelligent man. His shiny dark eyes took all this in with barely a flicker, and she had no doubt he would understand anything—anything—she told him. "And what is that factor?"

"Batman isn't here," she said quietly. "Without him to define their operative parameters, most normal patterns of behavior will slip. For some, it may not be so noticeable. I would imagine that the higher up one is in the hierarchy of the gallery, the more dependent they are—whether they know it or not—on Batman acting as a counter-agent, or oppositional force."

She couldn't tell if Joker was angry, or calm, or simply thinking hard. He just stared at her, and it was almost as terrifying as him prancing about with an open canister of laughing gas. "And how do you know this, Joanie? This special insight."

I am afraid, she told herself. But I am not speechless. My mouth still works. My brain still works. "Because in all my sessions with members of the Rogue's Gallery, Batman was the core of our conversations. It always came back to him, to varying degrees. Whereas with the run-of-the-mill gang members, he may have never come up. Or if he did, it was as a shadow of fear, or even as part of the criminal landscape."

Joker nodded smartly. "So. Trust the goons, jettison the big names. Got it. But uh . . . one more thing, before I leave you two to 'wedding planning.'" He said, with air quotes and everything. "What do you know about the compound, Joanie?"

It was so unexpected that there was no time to panic. All she could do was frown. "Oh lord." Her eyes flicked to Edward. "That . . . TITAN thing?"

Thankfully, it appeared Joker was sold on her innocence. That, and her reputation as anti-drug was helping her, even now. "No, no, no! The one Scarecrow's been working on! I know it was one of the doctor's pet projects—I'm betting Penelope had a side fetish, that woman was dirty—but I just can't figure out where it is . . . or what he's done to it."

Her fear rose up to choke her. But wasn't that what she needed? Keep using your mouth, Joan. Keep using your brain! "He's making a new fear toxin?" She breathed. Because of course that was what he was doing. She didn't know how Joker had learned all this without determining her or Ivy's involvement—or hell, maybe he knew Ivy was involved but he couldn't touch her—but his assumptions on Scarecrow's behalf cemented her own fears. Crane hadn't helped Ivy. He saw an opportunity to create a new toxin, possibly deadlier than before, and ran with it.

And now he was loose on the island. And he hadn't used it on her! Was he merely biding his time before unleashing it? Had he not finished it yet? What was his game?

"Whatever it is, I want it," Joker said, as he crouched down so that they were eye to eye.
"Can you imagine what he'd do with it?" He whispered, eyes wide, a caricature of concern.

Thinking that he'd undoubtedly moved it since she found it, she admitted, "If it's not in the Med Center, I don't know where he could keep it, Joker."

He reached forward. She flinched, but all he did was pat her cheek. "That's what we're going to find out, Joan."

"How?" The syllable was pushed past numb lips.

He stood, smiling paternally down at her. "You're going to have sessions with every man, super, and idiot on the island. Someone will know something. Maybe we'll make a new game of it! A treasure hunt!"

Someone would undoubtedly know about the caves. Christ, she was going to lead them right to the bunker.

"Wouldn't it be more efficient to just ask Scarecrow?" She attempted.

"Good idea, Joanie!" He crowed. "Let's have you talk to him first!"

Joan closed her eyes. She shivered. She couldn't help it.

"On second thought . . ."

She opened her eyes.

Joker was right in front of her now, his nose bare inches away from hers. She jerked back reflexively, but his hands on the arms of the chair kept her from tipping backwards.

"It might tip him off if we go in guns blazing," he whispered, his mad eyes locked on hers. "And besides, I really do want to know what Hatter's up to. Find that out for me, and something nice will happen. If you can't . . . well. Something not so nice will happen. To you. At length. And with great vigour. Capisce?"

She tried to nod but her neck would not work. Fear had locked her in place. "Yes," she gritted out.

"Good. Gooooooood. That's what I like to hear. Now, I'll leave you girls to your planning. I hear weddings are serious business! C'mon, Eddie. Let's get outta' here before they pull out the pinterest boards!" He hesitated at the door. "Oh, and Doctor? Did you know about . . .? No, no. Don't start there. What I mean to say is, have you ever given any thought to your patients finding love?"

She looked at him, dread and confusion in equal measure. "What?"

"Well, how do you feel about celebrity couple names?"

Joan had no idea what the hell was going on. "I . . . haven't thought about it?"

He shook his head, disappointed. "I don't know what I expected," he said, in exactly the same tone a disappointed mother of the PTA board might address a fiscal irregularity. "I always forget you are easily the most boring doctor here. Well. We're off!"

"Bye, Puddin'!" Harley called out, but with noticeably less enthusiasm than before. The Joker did not respond to her.

For once, Joan did not care. She was about done with her ability to empathize with Harley. Not when her own life and the lives of the men in the bunker were at stake.

You can do this, Joan, she told herself. Their lives are yours. Your life is gone. Be strong, and don't give him what he wants. Be smart, and your boys might just make it out of this alive.

She closed her eyes. After all this was over, and they all met up in—well, it better be Heaven—Aaron Cash was going to rip her wings off.

At this point, she might just let him.

…

July 4th, 20xx

Medical Center, 7:47 AM

Day 14

Crane had not called for Nygma, so when the ex-Riddler stumbled into his office at 7:47 AM on day 14 of the takeover, he was mildly surprised. Surprised and not entirely pleased. He could not experiment on Nygma, after all. Joker's broken pet was off limits to all but the temporary lord and master of the island.

He did entertain a touch of professional curiosity, however. Elliot was crowing about his newfound 'TITAN' formula, which apparently had the power to perform miracles. Joker had spent hours poring over the formula, but appeared disappointed when he realized every step of its completion was documented, and that only Penelope Young and now Thomas Elliot had a hand in his creation. Crane had allowed himself to hope that Joker might be put off the scent, but he barely appeared interested in TITAN, even though scant traces of Bane's Venom had been used.

Of course, there was no Venom on the island, and no way of immediately procuring any. Joker would no doubt be interested in tweaking TITAN to his own ends were he to ever leave the island . . . but until then, he, Joan, and . . . Poison Ivy were all at risk of Joker's wrath.

But he digressed.

"Edward, can I help you?" He asked, only half expecting an answer. While Edward had improved an astonishing amount since his . . . incident, he was still fairly nonsensical. He had also taken to wandering the halls and drawing gibberish on them. In green spray paint, no less. It was garish.

But Nygma surprised him. "Which is stronger, fear or . . . fear or . . . fear of . . . desire?"

Well. He hadn't expected this. A riddle, even now? Nygma perhaps was more stalwart than any could guess.

"Edward, do you need a tranquilizer?" He would give him one too. One unlaced with fear toxin, even.

Soft, Crane, he chastised himself, even as there was a whisper of another voice in his mind, softer, feminine, telling him there was no purpose to prolonging the broken creature's misery.

But Nygma would have none of it. He shook his head wildly, sending himself off balance, before stuttering, "No. No no NO. I need answer. Ri-rid-ridd-riddle me this, Scare c-c— c- c-crow. What is stronger, fear or d-d-d-desire?"

Now, Nygma had his attention. For fear was the only aspect under his purview. The other belonged elsewhere. That Nygma should be putting them together . . .

What did he know? Had he always known, and the beating had driven it from his mind? Why, then, was it resurfacing now? He had to play along. He had to determine what Nygma knew. "Fear, obviously. What's bringing this on?"

Crane could see Nygma's attempt at coherency. It was like a physical pull on his body, to make sense, to be understood. "He wants to know. T-t-t-to see. "

The pen felt very heavy in his hand. "He? The Joker?"

Nygma shuddered. "Wants to hurt you. And I-i-i-i-i-i—

"Ivy," Crane finished. His lips were the only part of him that could move. It wasn't just Nygma knowing, Joker had gotten there all on his own. Even though the product was gone, and all traces of their collaboration undone . . .

But that wasn't quite right, was it? There was the copied session, months and months ago. Had it ever been found? Listened to? He had not been told which one it was, but with a flash of insight he knew, nonetheless. He also knew just what Joker would do.

It was the one thing that he, himself would never do . . . and the one thing that could break them both.

The Riddler began to cry, great gobbing tears down his cheeks. "Nothing makes sense. C-c-c-c-can't think. Where's B-b-batman? He'll save me . . ." As suddenly as he'd entered, Nygma left, lurching down the hallway, half supporting his weight by leaning upon it.

Crane watched him scuttle off, and then looked down at his syringes.

…

July 4th, 20xx

Greenhouse, 12:02 PM

Day 14

Enough was enough, Poison Ivy decided. Joker had had Joan for at least 12 hours now, and only from the grace of his capricious nature and Harley's lingering fondness for her had he not already tortured the woman to an inch of her life. Joan would undoubtedly cave if Joker got his hooks into her, and then he would know all about the compound, their plans to use it on Harley, Ivy's hatred of him, Ivy's not-quite-forgotten desire to kill him, that Crane had been involved, and that Crane was apparently lying to Joker.

Also, the location of the bunker, which Ivy knew about due to her babies' limited ability to 'map out' the terrain they passed through, but had no desire to tell anyone about because she hated Joker, and refused to do anything that made him even passingly happy.

(It was all of this and least of all that she respected Joan. She did not care whether she lived or died, necessarily, but she would at least give her a quick death if the need arose.)

Still, something needed to be done. Joan held far too much critical information, and she needed to be extracted from her current situation. So Ivy spread her consciousness thin, becoming one with her babies, allowing her tendrils of self to disseminate along the miles and miles of greenery that ran like veins through the island. All they knew, she knew. All they saw, she saw. All the—

A lone humanoid shape hulking his way down the cave pathways, only a hundred or so yards away from the bunker.

Without taking her attention away from her babies, Ivy's human lips curved into a smile.

Perfect.

…

An hour later, her plan was set. The lone guard had been captured by her industrious babies, hogtied in their enthusiasm, and delivered to where he now hung suspended before her. Muffled by the iron control of her leafy darlings, he kicked wildly, trying to escape.

Ivy eyed him carefully. She didn't know this one, which meant it wasn't Zach Franklin or Bill North or even that doe-eyed Eddie Burlow. Most importantly, it wasn't Aaron Cash, and thus Joan would not attempt to murder her in a fit of rage, afterwards.

Still, he was beginning to cry, and that was unseemly. Also, it made the air smell faintly of salt. Ivy was not weak to tears, but she thought she could give him some sort of encouragement before she twisted him unto her own ends.

"If it helps at all, you are about to do the single most important thing you've ever accomplished in your life," she told him as she sauntered closer. She gestured with her fingers for the leaves to pull away from his face. He immediately began to plead and cry, proving his calibre as a worthless human.

"No, please. Please, Poison Ivy—I have a wife! Kids! Don't do this!"

Ivy stepped closer. "And Joan Leland needs to get out of Joker's clutches. You are the only way of doing so."

That didn't even spark a moment of confusion or realization. Just more tears and snot and pleas. "Please, no. Don't. Please! No! Don't DO THIS TO ME!"

She swooped in as soon as he began to scream. Her lips sealed his, and with a concentrated push of her mind-altering pheromones, the guard was no more.

What stood in front of her, after she pulled back, was a mindless puppet. Your newest zombie boyfriend! She could hear Harley sing out from the corner of her mind. She hoped Jonathan would never hear of this.

"I have a very important task for you," she said, her voice husky. "Listen carefully, Beloved . . ."

…

Ivy was prepared to do all manner of things to help the guard—Mike, she had learned from a surprised inmate, now dead of course—but in the end she had to do very little. She cleared a path for him, although she'd allowed the unfortunate inmate to trundle into his path. Mike needed prison attire, after all, to blend in well enough to gain access to the room in the Med Center Joker was holding Joan in.

After that, they had been astoundingly lucky. Harley was off 'planning for her wedding' (and Hell would freeze over before Ivy let that abomination go forth, 'maid of honor' be damned) and there were only a handful of guards for Mike to shoot, kill, and ultimately be killed by. He had spent his dying moments untying a wide-eyed, terrified Joan, who had needed no further instruction before scuttling off to the nearest secret tunnel entrance.

Ivy hadn't even needed to guide her, this time. Joan had learned much during her time in captivity.

All in all, a very successful afternoon. Which was probably directly why Joker was now at the front door of her demesne, with a handful of goons, White Shark and . . . oh. Jonathan Crane in tow.

Her heart fluttered. Both his presence and her reaction to him was unexpected.

Joker pressed the intercom with an insistent, pale, spindly finger. "Paaaaaammmmmy! You have visitorrssssssss!"

Her hand hovered over the intercom button. "Go away," she growled, but not very loudly. Or very empathically. She was too caught up in why he had come. Was it simply in a capacity as one of Joker's lap-dogs? Had they come to initiate hostilities? Or was he simply curious to see her?

"Pammy, open the door," Joker ground out, his voice no longer playful.

Why not? She thought. It wasn't like Joker could hurt her here. Not in the seat of her power. Not surrounded by millions of her supporters and friends. So she buzzed them through and then made her way to her . . . well, it could be considered her throne room. She was not an overly modest woman, and she preferred to call things as they were. What was once a tasteless monument to Martha Wayne was now her glory chamber, and she allowed her babies to run free. Every inch of the room was covered in flora, save for the floor, so that none would suffer the trod of even her careful feet.

It took them some time to find her. Time for the tension to mount. She was not worried about what Joker might say or do to her, after all. It was just how Crane might react. Had he told Joker everything? Or were they still keeping a secret from him, together?

(Would he look at her in disgust, after using the guard to her own nefarious ends in her own particular idiom? She had admitted that her use of 'boyfriends' was at its heart ruled by her own fears, but surely he could see the practicality of this?)

Unless he had gone over to the Joker's side entirely. Then this would be a very different outcome. Ivy tightened her hold on her most dangerous darlings reflexively, but did not summon them to attack. Not yet. She would wait to see where Joker led the conversation, and what White Shark, the hit boys, and Scarecrow had to say.

…

As it turned out, she didn't have to wait long. Joker stormed in, not a prance or wiggle in sight, cold and focused.

That probably wasn't a good sign, but Ivy refused to be intimidated. She summoned an exotic flower to her side, its protuberant petals protected by sepals as hard as iron, and stroked it. Hopefully, she looked intimidating, or at the very least, busy.

"Hello, boys," she cooed. "Can I . . . help you with something?" She glanced over her shoulder, but even so it was enough to see Crane was wearing his mask. He was Scarecrow, then. Damn.

"Pammy, Pammy. Ohhhhh, Pammy. Where is Joan?" Joker said by way of greetings.

Ivy let her head pull back, and her eyebrows rise. "What do you mean, where is Joan? I thought you had her. Don't tell me you lost her already . . ."

Joker's painted mouth pulled in a rictus grin. "Some lovestruck guard set her free. That's your modus operandi, isn't it, toots? So where is she?" His voice was a dark growl by the end, and it made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

It also made her drop her flower, because that tone of voice betokened battle. "I don't have her, Joker. Nor do I know where she is. Are you so sure that it was a lovestruck guard that freed her, and not some dissident a little closer to home?"

White Shark shifted, and so did two of his goons. Scarecrow remained still, eerily silent. Somehow, that was the hardest part of the proceeding.

"Oh, I'm fairly sure," Joker said, narrowing his eyes. "Unless you're saying you haven't been making any of your boytoys recently?"

"Oh no, of course I have," she replied blithely. "But I've stuck to my three a day. And only when they wander into my greenhouse."

"Well, was the guard one of them?" White Shark butted in, impatient.

Ivy smiled at him, her pouty red lips curling attractively. "Oh, the men I kiss don't get away. They're so fragile, they never last very long . . . So if I took your guard, he couldn't have taken Joan. He would have died for lack of me before he crossed half the island."

She was lying through her teeth, but as far as she knew, there was no way for Joker or Shark to know that. Maybe Jonathan. Had she told him specifics of her power? No, but he was brilliant and trained to read people's body language and sub-vocal cues.

Damn, he probably knew. But what would he do with that information?

Scarecrow chose this moment to join the conversation. "Then perhaps you can help us solve this quandary. If not your touch, what might make a man, of his own free will, choose to undertake a suicide mission to save Dr. Leland?"

Ivy stilled. That didn't sound like Scarecrow. That sounded like Jonathan, and even though she should know better, it made her stomach leap. She hadn't heard his voice this clearly in a long time. She wanted to hear it again.

"Many things, Scarecrow. Perhaps they feared she'd break under torture? Reveal something of the resistance? I was under the impression there were still a few guards holding out on the island. I assumed they have an agenda of their own." Her tone indicated that this was the only answer, let alone the most obvious. Really. Was it up to her to do all their work for them?

"The surviving guards report his somewhat addled determination. Love-addled, Miss Isley. That is your purview, is it not?"

Crane sounded cranky. Not upset, exactly, but something. Stressed? Tired? Annoyed with her because she used her touch on someone? No, wait, she'd done that before. Almost every day since they'd been 'freed.' So was he actually upset with her, or just faking it for Joker's sake?

Joker was staring at her with his dark, beady eyes, and she had to say something, so she opened her mouth and out came, "Perhaps love was a part of it, then. Love can be an extremely powerful motivator, or so I'm told. Joan was a brilliant, vibrant woman, and many found her attractive. I'd overheard more than one guard—and even an inmate or two—speak of her with a special regard. Perhaps he simply loved her more than he feared dying."

If she thought this was a return to their secret conversations, she was incorrect. Scarecrow turned his head, watching her out of the corner of his eye from behind his off-putting mask. White Shark scowled, angry and impatient as ever, but Joker barked out a laugh.

"It's like we're having two different conversations! Pammy, what's it going to take for you to tell me the truth?"

"I gave you the truth," she said. "But now I'm getting bored. Are we going to fight, now?"

"Not today, toots," he replied. "I'll give you one last chance. For Harrrrrrley's sake. Pammy, what's it going to take for you to be on Team Joker?"

"Nothing you can give," she shot back, willing her babies to creep in closer, hedging around the men.

"Oh?"

"Harley's freedom."

The Joker threw his arms open wide. "Hate to break it to you, Leafy, but until Bats gets here for his party, we're all happy prisoners on this madhouse island! So, if there's anyone to blame–"

"Not that kind of freedom," Ivy said quietly. "Emotional freedom. Freedom to make her own damn choices. You can't give anyone that. Least of all yourself."

"Watch it," he growled. "I'm starting to get annoyed."

"I'm always annoyed," she shot back. "Particularly when I think about you and Harley. Do you want to see what happens when I decide to release some of that tension?"

Her lovelies quivered in anticipation. White Shark glanced around nervously, hefting his machine gun. Scarecrow shifted, neither overly aggressive or defensive. Ivy readied herself—that many bullets would do terrible damage to her darlings, although the more hardy ones would see him as a challenge—but just then, Joker laughed.

"Oh, Pammy," he crooned, once he caught his breath. "These Mexican thingies—oh, what are they called? Churros? Haciendas? Standoffs, there's the doolally—they're getting a bit predictable. And they do so mess with my timing. But I have to stick to the plan. So stand down, Sharkey. We're letting Leafy live . . . for now."

Ivy narrowed her eyes. Someone else was testing Joker's patience? Did she have an unexpected ally somewhere on the island? Or was he just spouting nonsense, as per usual?

"You had best go then," she said in a bored voice. "Before I get lonely."

Joker sneered at her, and White Shark swung the gun a little too close to her direction, but Scarecrow did nothing at all. He simply turned and left, and the henchmen followed after.

Ivy watched them go, paying special attention to the thin set of Crane's shoulders. She remembered their last time together, before Joker took over the island.

May 30th, 20xx

The Green Mile, 4:13 AM

(22 days prior to takeover)

The only time Ivy had 'official' visitors to the Green Mile was when the island was on lockdown.

"Mike, get him in the cell! We've got a runner in Block 2!"

"Get in there, you filthy fucking—"

"Christ, he bit me!"

"Just hit him in the head and move on!"

Ivy sighed. Of course they would always send the absolute worst guards during lockdown, complete brutes. And loud, to boot. She watched through half-lidded eyes as a cadre of guards shoved hapless—and a few not-so-hapless—prisoners into the cells that lined the walls. They would be her guests for the next however many hours, until the guards either caught the person(s?) who had escaped; killed them, or Batman swooped in with all his brooding majesty and saved the day once again.

Boring. Ivy closed her eyes, and waited for the inevitable jeering. Once the prisoners, all of them male, regained their strait-jacketed bearings, many of them would begin jeering at her. A few might not, and they were the most dangerous ones. For they were the ones to escape the most, and knew that out in the wide world, there were many, many more plants at her bidding, and that she was one of the premier players in the Rogue's Gallery. She was a woman to fear, and so she smiled graciously at Killer Moth when he made nervous eye contact, and returned Black Mask's civil nod.

He could be so oddly polite to women. It was refreshing, but not enough to make her like him. She liked so few people, and it was difficult to entertain those feelings for them when she was locked up in an unbreakable dome.

Maybe it was time to do something about that? She wanted to wait for Joan to administer the serum to Harley, to observe if there was any change, but she was beginning to go a little stir crazy. She was giving serious thought to breaking out—the vines underground would be exceptionally helpful, but she admitted she needed a little extra nudge—grabbing Harley and the serum, and force-feeding it to her until she couldn't remember why she ever wanted the Joker in the first place. But she was not so idiotic as to think it would work. Even if all those things came together, she couldn't do it all on her own. She had half convinced herself that her last conversation with Jonathan was not as portentous as she remembered—of course the serum would work. He was a flawed being, not a perfect psychologist, and he admitted he didn't understand love at all—and that Joan's plan would be successful, even if just a little bit. But the beauty of the serum was that it needed psychological guidance to take an effect at all, and Ivy was no psychologist. Not like Joan. Or Jonathan.

Ivy grit her teeth. For he was the true, underlying reason she wanted to get out of Arkham. She had to get out so that she could distract herself with things that didn't lead back to Jonathan Crane. Or, if she were weak and admitted to her secret imaginings, wouldn't it be far easier to see him again if they were both free? For they'd never be allowed to see each other in Arkham again, not after Sharp had—

The door at the end of the hallway flew open, and another mass of prisoners surged through, led, pulled, and forced ahead by an equal number of guards. They were short-staffed tonight, a perfect night for an escape attempt. Ivy hoped it wasn't someone she hated. She especially hoped it wasn't the Joker.

Out of habit, she scanned the prisoners, not noticing the one Aaron Cash led right to her dome until he was nearly upon her.

"Sit here for a minute," Cash muttered. "I gotta' help Raoul. So help me, if either of you do something stupid—"

"We'll behave," the inmate responded, and Ivy froze. She knew that voice. But why would he be here, now? They never brought high-risk patients to the Green Mile, they marched them right through to Extreme Incarceration!

"Good morning, Miss Isley," Jonathan Crane said, not quite leaning on the bubble, but standing close enough so that they could speak quietly amidst the chaos. "It's not ideal, but I did hope for one more meeting before the project was completed."

"I asked for one," she said, barely moving her lips. She kept her gaze away, a stern force of will. "But Joan is nervous. Apparently, one of the recordings was copied before it was deleted. She didn't say which one."

There was silence for a moment. Then, "Copied. I see. Not from the mainframe. From the backups."

Ivy glanced at him, curious. "How did you know?"

Crane's lips twitched. "I ran this place. I know how the recording system works. You can't actually turn it off—all you can do is divert it to a satellite 'cloud' where it's held and only accessible if you have the login information. That way Sharp doesn't find it, but it's never truly lost. Do they know who accessed it?"

"No. Just that it had been copied. Whoever got to it covered their tracks."

They quieted for a moment, watching the chaos around them. Guards struggled to restrain a maddened prisoner, who screamed and bit and clawed. Cash was still helping Raoul with three of White Shark's men, who were trying to kill each other in the cage.

Drugs, maybe? What on earth was wrong with everyone tonight?

Ivy was desperate for words to bridge the gap between them, especially as they would not have this opportunity again. She looked at him again, at the dark hanks of hair that needed to be cut and washed and shoved back from his face. At his queer light eyes, his ignoble nose, his thin lips.

Perhaps he felt a modicum of what she did, as he glanced over at her and murmured, "And how is your end of the project holding up?
Was this all they had to speak of, now that their sessions were done? Be professional, Pamela, she said, surprising herself by using her original name. "Joan has been administering it to the control group, but she hasn't shared the full effects with me. I wouldn't expect her to, unless there was some chemical side-effect. But everyone seems healthy so far, from what Joan has monitored. She seems hopeful, even though it's only been a few weeks."

Crane hummed thoughtfully. "I would imagine the initial results are quite satisfying. Jervis in particular has been increasingly stable. Almost impossible to rile, as of late."

"You know who's in the control group?" Ivy asked, surprised. "She didn't even tell me."

He flashed a smirk. "Dr. Leland has not shared this with me, but I know who I would give it to. And he's a perfect candidate. As for the others, I would try Harvey Dent, maybe Roman Sionis . . . Bane would be an interesting case study, but more to see if one could wean him off his addiction to Venom . . ."

"Would you give it to me?"

He glanced at her, hesitating. "I'm not sure I'd need to," he said, slowly. "With you . . . there would be other ways I would explore, first."

Ivy did not ask to what end he would seek to mold her, change her, shape her. She wasn't sure she wanted to know. "And yourself?" She asked instead. "Would you put someone exactly like you in the control group?"

He blinked at her. There was an odd look on his face, and for a moment he watched her, struggling with something behind his glacial eyes. It was a powerful moment, and something in it made her want to touch him again. Nowhere specifically, and if pressed, she could not have answered how, but there was a pervasive sense of I want to be closer to him.

"I wouldn't have done," he said with a quiet accent. "But maybe I would have been wrong."

Ivy's breath caught in her throat. His gaze was too intense for a man to admit he'd been wrong. He was saying something else, wasn't he? But what was he actually trying to tell her?

"Jesus, who's on Scarecrow?" A guard yelled from across the room.

"I have him!" Raoul called out in his warm accent. "Aaron, to E.I.?"

Cash yelled back his assent, and Raoul took hold of Crane, not rudely, but firmly. He went with him without a fuss, calmly as if they were at a dinner party. Pamela watched him go, and was no longer surprised that the sight of him leaving was painful to her, in a way similar to, yet not quite the same as when Harley skipped away from her, laughing all the while. She did not want him to go. She wanted him to stand and speak with her for as long as they wanted, and maybe . . . just maybe, she wanted him to do so on the same side of the dome as her.

She would control her pheromones around him. She would. She wanted to talk to him after all, not some mindless zombie.

She ignored the melee around her, watching until they reached the doors that led to E.I. Then, in the moment it took for the door to scan Raoul, Crane looked back at her.

Ivy thought he might have smiled, but he was too far away to be sure.

July 5th, 20xx

The Arena, 9:47 AM

Day 15

Joker watched indistinguishable backup henchmen 3 through 8 laboriously paint the walls and floor of the arena witha concentrated mixture of salt, white vinegar, bleach and dish soap. It would take several coats—and they would dump the rest of the mixture on the floor just before the lucha en jaula—but without any concentrated weed-killer on the island (a grievous oversight, and one he wouldn't have made if he were Sharp, because who didn't want whole sheds full of MiracleKill? C'mon, the answer should be no one, because everyone wanted MiracleKill) it was the best they could do.

At the very least, it would cramp Pammy's style, and give their boy Johnny a fighting chance.

(It didn't even matter right now that their boy Johnny was hiding the biggest secret on the island. Joker would get it out of him, and have an oh so glorious time doing so. But Leafy had seriously upset him the other day, and he wanted her to get hers first. And oh, get it she would. One way or another.)

It took Joker a moment longer than it should have to realize Play-Doh had waddled up to him, still wearing Sharp's portly form.

"Yeeeeeeeeessssssssss?" He drawled.

Clayface's nose didn't even wrinkle at the overpowering smell of bleach and vinegar. Admirable, when indistinguishable backup henchmen #1 and #2 had already passed out from the fumes.

"I've been combing Sharp's office, since the resistance broke in," he said. "I found something interesting."

"Yeeeeeeeeessssssssss?" Joker said again, in exactly the same tone.

"I found a copy of the old blueprints of the island." He paused, for what Joker assumed was dramatic effect. "I think I know where the resistance has been hiding out."

Oh, that was unexpectedly good news. That was marvelous news, and Play-Doh was absolutely his new favorite. Sharkie, who? He cackled madly, gleefully for a moment before bringing himself back under control. "Excellent. Let's throw them a party, shall we?"

…

Uh oh, guys. Uh oh.