Warning: Pseudo-science ahead. Suffice to say the serum I am outlining is the stuff of comic books, and I am no chemist.
Chapter 2: Under New Management
June 22nd, 20xx
Arkham Tunnels, 10:18 AM
Day 2
...
Joan Leland surfaced slowly, luxuriating a little in that halfway place of sleeping and dreaming. Against her fatigue was murky panic and a sense that something was wrong. This was not the time or place for languid naps. It was not safe for her to sleep, not when the Joker had taken control of the island—
She woke in a rush as she remembered. She sat up quickly, bashing her forehead against something hard enough to send her back down immediately. Bright blobs of light swirled in front of her eyes, and vivid starbursts of pain made it impossible to think, or do anything other than breathe shallowly and try not to pass out again.
Eventually, when the worst of the pain had passed, she was able to take stock. She had hit her head on the low ceiling of . . . a cave? Tunnel? She didn't know where she was, but it was clearly not part of the asylum that she knew. Taking deep, steady breaths, she tried to figure out where she was, and what had happened after Ivy had promised to help her. She remembered being torn away from Aaron, and being hit on the head by some falling debris. Yet she also remembered coming to once before, probably because Ivy had used her plants to carry her, and the feel of thick vines wrapping around her appendages was not what anyone wanted, ever.
Joan had no more than opened her eyes before Ivy glanced back at her. "We're not there yet, Joan," she had reprimanded her. "Best to sleep a little longer."
"Let me down!" She had struggled to no avail. Ivy had frowned, sighed, and then stepped close to her. Flattening her palm in a parody of a blown kiss, she had pursed her lips, and blew off a fine layer of powder that had seemingly formed from Ivy's skin. Once Joan had a lungful of the stuff, she had slipped into a stupor and remembered no more.
Ivy had learned some new party tricks, Joan realized. The sex pollen everyone knew about, but she hadn't realized that Ivy had engineered a sleep powder as well. What else could have her unconscious for—she checked her watch, wincing at the date—for more than 24 hours?
In an abandoned tunnel, no less. Belatedly remembering that Killer Croc was exiled to the tunnel system underneath the island, Joan got moving in a hurry. She had to get the hell out of here before Croc smelled her.
One of the ways was blocked, however. Ivy had called up huge vines that trapped her on one side of the tunnel. Joan set off in the opposite direction, hoping there would be a way out, some sort of identifying marker that would assure her this wouldn't be the prison in which she slowly starved to death . . . but there were no identifying markers, she admitted after stooping along the tunnel for more than a quarter mile. This was not part of the tunnel system proper. There were no signs, no pathways, there was barely enough room for her to stand upright. This tunnel was dug by hand, or shovels at the best, and there were no lights to guide her. Only the flashlight on her cell phone kept her from walking straight into the walls.
Where the hell am I? She wondered. There was no way Ivy had gotten her off the island, but how could there be another set of tunnels separate from the paths used by Killer Croc? Unless they weren't on the grid, or made by official means . . .
"Oh, shit," Joan realized aloud. "This is how everyone escapes off the island." Or at least their cells.
Everyone but Killer Croc, who to her knowledge had only ever escaped with the help of other villains, or holes drilled or blown straight down to the sewers. This was not much of a relief. She had no idea where the tunnels led, nor how many bolt holes connected with the passageway. Running upon the Riddler, Scarecrow, or heaven forfend, Victor Zsasz in a dark tunnel with absolutely no way to protect herself was just as terrifying and far more plausible.
She increased her pace, stumbling in the dark with her arms outstretched. At times she crawled, at times she moved forward nearly blind as her cell phone's flashlight randomly went out as her cell phone battery slowly inched down to 0%.
It was at 2% when she registered the change in barometric pressure. There was a cool draft of wind in the tunnel, and while she didn't know whether she was headed north, south, east, or west, she was fairly sure she was headed upwards. A hundred more yards and she could see well enough to put her cell phone away. Yes, there was a faint, blueish light up ahead, courtesy of some glowing species of fungus that grew sparsely on the walls. It illuminated the rusted iron ladder leading up to a trapdoor.
Joan hesitated, looking up at it. Where it led she had no idea, nor who would be on the other side of it. Salvation or damnation, she thought, and she had no way of knowing until she went up there and tried to open it. She couldn't stay down here forever, so, wrapping her lab jacket around her bare hands, she pulled herself up the rickety, rust-laden ladder, hoping her weight would not cause the rungs to break and send her hurtling back down to the floor.
The rungs held, but when she tried to open the trapdoor it was locked. The circular hatch wouldn't give no matter how hard she tugged, and so she resorted to a desperate measure—she knocked.
When no one replied, nor did the trapdoor open, she tried again.
"Is anyone there?" She called out, pitching her voice low. Whoever was on the other side of the hatch—if anyone was on the other side of the hatch—she didn't want to reveal that she was a woman. Not straightaway, at least. Joan permitted that she wasn't thinking straight, but she was hungry, tired, and scared out of her mind, and her planning wasn't the best when she didn't have her glasses on.
"Hello?" She tried again, but was interrupted by the groan of the hatch as it was thrown upwards. The surprise was so great she almost fell back down the ladder. When she realized there were two semi-automatics pointed directly at her, her hands went slack in surprise and she did.
She let out a girly squeal as she fell down the hole, and the breath was knocked out of her when she hit the hard ground. Between desperately gasping for air and expecting a hail of bullets at any moment, Joan was too terrified to take a good look at the men aiming the guns at her. Thus when she heard someone land on the ground directly beside her, she did her best to scramble away, terrified.
"Joan! Joan, calm down!" A familiar voice ordered her. "It's me. You're safe."
She rose up on her elbows to see Aaron Cash standing above her, hand and hook raised defensively. "Aaron?" She breathed, completely amazed. "You're alive?" She thought she'd seen the last of him when Ivy separated them, and hadn't allowed herself to think about it since. It was too painful to contemplate when she needed to direct every ounce of her attention into escaping the island.
He extended a hand and she took it. "I've been here longer than most of the inmates," he said as he pulled her up. "I know this place like the back of my hand."
"You mean your hook, sir?" One of the guards wielding a semi-automatic offered. Joan was relieved to see it was no longer pointing in her direction.
"Can it, Eddie," the other guard up above, William North, said.
Joan was glad of their presence on many levels. Not least because had they not been there staring down at them from the lip of the trapdoor, she might have done something foolish, like throw her arms around Aaron. It was a reaction entirely born of the alleviation of fear, she told herself. She wasn't the only one prone to such a thing, apparently, because Aaron was still holding her hand, gripping it tightly like she was going to slip away.
"So Ivy kept her side of the bargain?" Aaron said quietly. "You don't know how worried I was that she wouldn't."
"She has some sort of sleep powder," Joan said. "She used it to keep me unconscious so I don't exactly know how we got to the tunnels, but I feel as if I've traversed half the island."
"You probably have," he said, letting go of her hand so that she could reclimb the ladder. "You've gone from the Penitentiary to about 50 feet from the front door of the mansion. Jesus, I can't believe she left you on your own, down here."
"What was she supposed to do, keep me in the Greenhouse?" Joan asked as she cleared the lip of the trapdoor, taking Eddie Burlow's hand as he helped her up.
"Probably not as safe as being here," Eddie said, his kind voice at odds with his riot gear.
"Where is here?" Joan asked, blinking as she adjusted to the dim light of the small, almost cylindrical room. There was a thick metal door not five feet ahead of them, covered in moss, and it was clear they were still underground.
"The bunker," Aaron supplied, hoisting himself up without help. "Welcome to the last safe place on the entire damn island."
Bill North stepped up to the door and brushed aside some of the greenery that masked the door, revealing a rusted mechanical apparatus. It looked something like a cross between a safe dial and monster's teeth with square pegs that had to fit just so into metal slots. Both the combination and the appropriate positioning were needed, and even then it took all three men to open the door. It was a better defensive position than the security room in the Penitentiary, Joan allowed, but there was a frisson of fear when she walked through the doorway.
This was the last line of defense, and it could easily be their tomb.
The bunker was about 40 by 20 feet in total, and made up of three rooms: the largest was the first unto which the door opened. In it was a table and several chairs, a rack for guns, and lockers of dated protective gear and rudimentary weapons. Several crates of canned food were kept there, a generator hummed in the corner, and there was an impressive array of gasoline cans stacked between the weapon lockers. There was an old Soviet-era microwave sitting on the ground near the generator, and several guards sat around the table, opening cans of food with their knives.
Off to the right was a small hallway that led to a bathroom that was dominated by a water storage/filtering tank, a toilet, and the smallest shower Joan had ever seen. Beyond that was the bedroom, where two twin sized bunk beds were shoved, leaving only an eight inch space to navigate between them.
The guards all spun to face them, and those with guns reached for them automatically. They relaxed when they saw who had entered, and one stood to greet her.
"Joan!" Dr. Stephen Kellerman exclaimed. "Oh, thank goodness you're all right!" He pulled her in for a quick hug, a surprising move from her most reserved colleague. When he pulled back she could see the fear etched in the lines of his face, and the skitter of fear in his dark eyes.
"It's a relief to see you too, Stephen." And it was. Stephen was, while fairly unsociable and prone to anxiety attacks, one of her more esteemed colleagues. Although better suited for research than patient interaction, he was thorough, empathetic, patient, and tried his hardest to be kind, which was a rarity on the island. His successes tended more towards abstract studies than his own patients, but Joan would never forget how he had, along with Aaron's help, done an 'end-run' around Jonathan Crane once—playing on Stephen's obvious fear of Crane to maneuver him into a position where he was infected with his own toxin, and thus defeated at his own game.
Crane had been transferred to her shortly after, and while she waited for him to try something similar on her, he hadn't yet. Biding his time, no doubt. Or perhaps waiting for this revolution.
"How did you escape Joker's men?" She asked.
He nodded at Jackson and Javier, two of the younger guards in the room, before taking a few steps back. He had always been skittish about touching women, and falling under Ivy's thrall a year or two back hadn't helped matters. "My car wouldn't start this morning, so I had to take a taxi here. I had an early shift the next day, so I decided I'd just sleep on my couch, rather than pay the taxi fare back home. The alarm woke me, and I ran into Jackson and Javier, and they got me to the bunker. How did you escape?"
"Ivy," she admitted, watching his wince.
"I made a deal to free her if she saved Joan," Cash clarified, his tone curt. "And while I'm hoping that doesn't come back to bite us in the ass—"
"Oh, it's gonna," Zach Franklin muttered, sitting at the table, resting his head in his hands. "That woman is nothing but trouble."
"I think we've got larger issues on our hands," an older guard named Raoul pointed out. "Joker's worse than anything on this island."
"Croc," Javier offered.
"Scarecrow," a guard named Mike piped up, a moment later.
"Ok, ok, let's leave the who's who of Arkham baddies for later," Aaron broke in. "Let's get Dr. Leland settled, and then maybe she'll have information that'll help us."
Stephan offered her his seat, which Joan gratefully took. Usually she was all for gender equality, but that wasn't after traversing the entire damn island by way of underground tunnels, apparently. When a guard named Steve gave her a water bottle and a can of baked beans, fresh from the microwave, she found she was ravenous. She ate and drank carefully, however, knowing that eating too quickly would make her sick. The men talked quietly while she ate, and only when she was finished did she realize the oddity of her being the only female in the bunker.
"Were none of the female guards on duty?" She asked. "Maria? Alex? Jen?"
Bill North and Louie Green exchanged a tight-lipped look. "Maria and Amanda were on duty tonight, I know that for sure," Louie finally said. "Probably three others in the women's wing. That was one of the first places the male inmates broke into."
"There's no clear way from the women's section to the bunker. They were bottlenecked. They didn't make it," Aaron said, firmly. "None of the women did."
Joan's hand fell forward, her spoon clattering onto the tabletop. "Oh, Lord," she whispered. Her hands felt as if they were weighted down with lead, otherwise she would have crossed herself. Raoul did so for her, and watching him, Javier's hand twitched as if he'd almost done the same.
"You, Ivy, and Harley may be the last three women on the island," Stephan said. "You need to be incredibly careful, Joan. Even though Joker called for the doctors to be spared, we're not sure if Gretchen or Sarah or Penelope are still alive. They might not be able to help themselves if they get a hold of you."
Her blood chilled. As was her general approach to fear, she became angry. She approached the situation head on. "My head is going nowhere near the sand, Stephen. I will fight with the rest of you. I will not let that man win."
Aaron shifted, and Joan had a feeling that were they alone, she'd be getting an earful. As it was, Eddie broke in, with his soft eyes and gentle concern.
"Fighting's not really what we've been doing, Doctor Leland," he said. "I mean, there's only twelve of us not counting you and Doctor Kellerman, and only five guns. We've all got tasers, but they only help us against maybe one or two prisoners at a time."
"We were thinking guerilla tactics," Zach explained. "But defending the bunker is the highest priority. We can use the tunnels, but no one opens the door leading to the mansion cemetery. No one."
Joan nodded. "Who else knows the bunker is here?"
"Nobody, now that Warden Sharp's gone," Bill said.
"But what about blueprints? There has to be something like that on the island."
"As far as I know, even the warden didn't know about 'em," Aaron replied. "Only I did, and I stashed 'em in here two years back after Croc's escape attempt. We've been studying 'em, trying to memorize all the tunnel locations and where they lead, but it's slow going. Some of them have caved in, and some of them lead to places that are currently inaccessible."
"Scarecrow gassed parts of the island," Jackson explained. "Joker, too. Brian was hit with it. We're hoping he can sleep it off—"
"He's still twitching. Too much might have got into him, already," Zach muttered.
Joan took a deep breath. "Ok. So we have hiding in the bunker, stealth runs for food and information, guerilla strikes for . . . what, revenge? A way off the island? And then what?"
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Joan had a feeling this was what they had been discussing earlier, and that they hadn't come to a conclusion.
"Wait for Batman?" Stephan offered, hesitantly.
Aaron shook his head. "I can't get anyone on the mainland, and I'm afraid to keep trying. Riddler's taken over the communications mainframe and he might be able to trace where our signal is coming from. And uh . . ." He trailed off momentarily, shifting his feet. "About two hours ago a supply ship came in, docked at the harbor. Joker's got inmates wearing our uniforms and the delivery went off without a hitch."
"Bat signal?" She ventured.
"All the way on top of the Clocktower," Raoul said. "There's no way to get there. Not even on a suicide run."
"Oh, shit," Joan breathed. "No one's going to know for days. Weeks!"
Aaron met her gaze, his expression resolute. "We're gonna have to save ourselves."
...
...
...
June 23rd, 20xx
Arkham Greenhouse, 8:09 PM
Day 3
...
Life under Joker's regime was, in some ways, not very different than the old regime, Ivy thought. For the most part, things went on with an unexpected normalcy. Meal times were kept the same, although the difference it made when men were chained and tranqed versus when they were free to run amok through the mess hall was obvious. Beyond that, however, inmates sat and unconsciously arranged themselves next to others who followed the same leader as they. Half the room at any given moment consisted of Joker's boys, their clown makeup jarring in the fluorescent lighting. There was always a table or two of White Shark or Black Masks's men, and Two-face's boys always sat nearest to the kitchens. Even Riddler had a table of his spies; clever, twitchy little rats that were always looking for the next juicy secret with which to barter their continued safety.
The cafeteria was early on designated a safe zone, where gang boundaries were done away with, and personal squabbles outlawed. This was due to Harvey and his boys who, for the first few days, shot and killed anyone who made too big a commotion. By dinnertime on the second day, most inmates had learned that the mess hall was neutral territory. Two-Face did not care which Rogue's power you were under. He had his coin, and a love of order. That was all.
In other ways, it was very, very different. The Joker had taken control of the loudspeaker, and updated the entire island on a variety of nonsensical and often frightening ideas whenever he had them. Harley tuned in occasionally with a more bubbly variant. There did seem to be a theme—Joker knew there were guards left on the island. Food was being stolen, and at times, guns, medical supplies, and clothing as well. Men were turning up dead, and not all could be accounted for by gang wars.
Rewards were given out for those who showed up with a freshly dead guard. As far as Ivy could tell, having overheard men talking about it near the Greenhouse, only one had been caught so far after the initial rush of murderous mayhem. She could only hope he hadn't been found in the tunnels, and thus would not lead, however roundaboutly, to Joan.
There were also rumors of experiments going on in the Medical Center. Men were uneasy about it, even though those experimented on were, to date, only the most deranged lunatics. Ivy had little trouble imagining what was happening there. Between Hush's surgical brilliance and Scarecrow's mad desire to drive everyone insane with fear, it wasn't difficult.
Ivy stayed well away, not wanting to see what Crane had reverted back to. She only hoped he wasn't using their compound. From her perch in the Greenhouse, her hand drifted down to a poisonous plant, and, lovingly stroking it's flat, veiny leaves, she allowed herself to remember.
...
October 5th, 20xx
The Green Mile, 4:30 PM
(9 months prior to takeover)
...
Dr. Joan Leland had first come to Ivy with the proposal for the compound on a rainy day in October. Ivy knew something out of the ordinary was going on when she was attended not by Maria Andrade, the senior most female guard in Arkham, but Aaron Cash. He lounged against the back wall of the Green Mile, watching carefully as Joan set up a plastic folding chair, and took a seat.
"Good afternoon, Pamela," Joan began.
"Joan," Ivy offered in return. She didn't like pleasantries all that much, but civility did mean something to her, and Joan was always polite.
"I'd like to try something different, today."
"No therapy then?" Ivy asked, leaning her body against the glass.
Joan shook her head. "I'd like your expertise on a project I'm working on."
That was intriguing. Ivy hadn't been allowed anything other than the most standard therapy sessions ever since she'd seduced Doctor Stephen Kellerman a few years back. Joan had been her doctor ever since, and while respectful, their sessions had been bland. This was new, and therefore interesting.
There might even be the possibility of escape.
"I'm listening," she purred.
Joan gave her a serious look before beginning. "I'm developing a chemical compound that enhances independence and cuts ties with individuals who are abusive. I'm hoping for increased empathy and connection with kinder individuals as a positive reinforcement to seek out healthier relationships. I'd like your input, and if possible, your assistance on the finer details of the compound."
Ivy blinked. That . . . was not what she had expected. "You're creating a compound? You?"
Joan gave her a small, half grin. "Well, I'm not the premier chemist here, but I can mix things together at an elementary level. It's when it goes beyond simple creations that I get stymied. I've got all the avenues of research all planned out, and have been collaborating with several leaders in the field who have been incredibly helpful in their own right, but the trick is the application—too much empathy with the wrong individual will only see them worse off than before. It's why something like this hasn't been made before, at least, not successfully."
In a world of fear toxin, laughing gas, and lust pollen, an empathy serum was somehow the most surprising of all. "And you think it's possible now?" Ivy had never heard of such a thing, nor could she immediately imagine how it could be done.
"I'm more than halfway there," Joan stressed, keeping eye contact all the while. "This is a reality, Pamela. It can be done, and with your help, will be done."
Ivy was still trying to understand how it would work, exactly. "So it enhances independence and promotes empathy, all at the same time?"
Joan grinned. "It also promotes mental clarity, at least in the short term. In a way, it makes you quite clinical, distancing you from your emotions, but then makes the positive connections twice as strong. It's not just making one cold to those who torment them, Pamela, it's strengthening the bonds with those that help them."
Pamela grew cold just listening to this. Was this some sort of trick to separate her from her babies? "Who is this serum for, Joan?"
Joan looked her dead in the eye when she admitted, "Battered women, primarily. And men. People who know their relationship is unhealthy but can't summon the emotional willpower to get out." She leaned forward, enunciating clearly, "I'll be blunt. This is for people like Harley."
"Harley! Why would someone like you care about Harley?"
Joan gave her a no-nonsense look. "Oh, was being friends with her in university not enough? Seeing her fall under the Joker's spell and being helpless to do anything about it while we were colleagues not enough either?"
"That was a long time ago. People change. Your serum isn't going to magically turn Harley back into the girl she used to be."
"It's not supposed to. The periods of mental clarity don't last long enough to affect the moral system, even if taken for prolonged periods."
Ivy leaned back, confused. She was very, very good at knowing when people—women, in particular—were lying to her, and Joan was in complete earnest. "Then why give it to her?"
"Because she's in an abusive relationship, Pamela, and if she stays close to the Joker, she's going to die!" Joan exclaimed before sighing, and lowering her voice. She rubbed her forehead before admitting, "Look, I know what you're saying, and you're right, I can't make her turn away from a life of crime. But I can and will do everything in my power to get her out from under the Joker's thumb. If this saves her, it'll be worth it. If it goes on to save other lives, it will be worth everything."
For a long moment, Ivy observed Joan. She'd never seen the tough doctor so emotional, which was interesting because emotional meant vulnerable, and vulnerable meant opportunity. Also, this project was right up her alley—she hated the Joker and his hold over Harley. She knew better than anyone what Harley suffered under his control, and that so much of it was by her own choice. If Harley could choose to leave the Joker once and for all, Ivy could protect her. Ivy would protect her, and that meant she was very interested in Joan's scheme.
Ivy's gaze flickered over to Cash, who watched with a disapproving air. Clearly, he did not like whatever was happening here. That meant that Ivy probably would.
"I'm listening," she admitted.
Joan sat up a little straighter. "As I said before, I've worked through the initial stages of testing. Theoretically it could work, but I need help on the finer points, and the synthetics . . ."
Ivy laughed, not unkindly. "You're asking for lab work? You're a fool if you think they'll let me out of my cage."
Several sheets of paper were held up to the glass. Ivy read them quickly and was unable to mask her surprise. "You got clearance for that? How?"
"By setting up a temp lab in Extreme Incarceration."
"And by putting your job on the line," Cash muttered, but both women heard him.
"I'll be worth it, Aaron," Joan chided him.
Ivy was more amazed it was happening at all. "Sharp is allowing you to do this? Warden Sharp, the narcissistic dunderhead?"
Joan sighed. "I told him it would rehabilitate you."
"And when it clearly does not . . .?" Ivy asked, honest to a fault.
"As long as I get the compound, I'm willing to deal with whatever comes next," Joan shrugged. "Believe me, it won't be the worst mistake made by a psychologist, here."
That was true, although Ivy had only heard rumors about Dr. Jonathan Crane's tenure here, and then Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, after that. "Do you have any of the findings with you? I could look at them now and let you know my initial opinions."
Joan patiently held up what information she had on hand to the glass while Ivy read through them, more carefully than she had the agreement to let her out of her cell in the dead of night, supervised by women at all times, and only to E.I. and back. She was surprised at the coherency of Joan's idea on paper, as well as some of her initial attempts. She could definitely see areas of growth, as well as where she would choose to work on to improve the efficiency of specific areas of the project, but there were so many synthetics in play and not enough bio-chemical elements . . .
"I can definitely help with this, but the amount of synthetics may be beyond my ability to manipulate. I hesitate to bring him up, but have you considered approaching Dr. Crane with isolated aspects of the project?"
"Absolutely not," Joan said without hesitation. "Pamela, he's the last person in Arkham I want knowing about this project. He's dangerous."
"Not to me. His toxins don't affect me."
"That's the least dangerous part of him," Joan argued. "Do you understand how brilliant he is? The only thing that keeps him from breaking out every week or working over the guards the way Joker did Harley is that he loses his goddamned mind as the Scarecrow. When he's lucid, he can and will destroy you."
Ivy pursed her lips. While she knew his reputation as a brilliant psychologist was well-deserved, she'd never had the opportunity to see him use it in person. Her interactions with him were largely with his cackling alter ego, Scarecrow. The few times they had interacted otherwise he was quiet, cold, reserved . . . and with all the energy of a coiled spring, waiting for the slightest chance to tear one down.
On the other hand, Harley had a removed fondness for him. He'd been one of her professors during her time in university, although Joan would have been just a little too old to have taken his infamous class on Fear and Anxiety. He allowed Harley to call him professor, in and out of Arkham, and while Harley took it in stride, Ivy thought that was interesting.
Most importantly, however, he was one of the most brilliant chemists she knew, and the creation of his fear toxin would make him more valuable than any other resource. "We need his brain, Joan. He could have fixed a lot of these isolated problems for his fear toxin."
"Pame—"
She held up her hand. "I understand your reluctance to approach him. But if I can get him to agree to assist me on this project, what would that be worth? Keep in mind I highly doubt either of us will be able to finish this compound without him."
Joan's body posture and expression grew cagey. "Besides samples of the compounds to use on Harley? What more do you want?"
An idea crystallized in her mind. She wanted it, and more than that, it would solve a long-term problem Joan hadn't mentioned. "I want a chance at the Joker."
"The compound won't work on him. I doubt there's anything to work on."
"You misunderstand me," Ivy said, her voice a low purr. "I want a chance to kill him."
"Jesus fuckin' christ," Aaron Cash murmured. "Now you've gone and done it, Joan."
Joan leaned forward and mouthed, so she wouldn't be picked up by the tapes, "Done."
Ivy blinked, surprised off balance for the second time that conversation. "You can't mean that," she whispered.
She raised an eyebrow. "Can't I?"
"This would cost you more than your job!" Ivy continued, quietly.
"I've come to terms with that," Joan admitted in a murmur. "I hate him more than you know. He's a mind-raping, abusive son of a bitch, who turned one of my friends into a simpering child, desperate for his attention and the chaos it creates. Harley's created her own persona , and she'll take full responsibility for her actions as a criminal, but I cannot forgive him for enthralling her so that she takes all his abuse and thinks it's love."
These were all things Ivy had thought before. These were her sentiments exactly when it came to Harley's relationship with her 'Mistah J,' and for a moment Ivy empathized so strongly with Joan it made her dizzy. Barring Harley, she had not connected with another human like this since her change. She had not thought she'd be able to connect with anyone other than Harley, and her laughing antics, beautiful smile, and fundamental optimism that even the Joker could not stamp out.
And here was Joan at the opposite end of that spectrum—serious, law-abiding, structured, and physically as dark as Harley was fair. Perhaps their brilliance connected them? Or their incisive observations? Harley was a trained psychologist still, even when she tried to forget it. Maybe it was that which made Pamela feel as if she could trust Joan, could perhaps even rely on her. She reminded her of Harley, except she had Harley's best interest at heart . . . something Harley herself had forgotten.
"I can't allow you that, Pamela," Joan said loudly, for the tape's benefit. "Either you accept the terms, or no dice."
"I'll need to have an opportunity to talk to Dr. Crane about all this," Ivy said, an idea unfolding. "I still think he's our best chance to make this work."
"He won't agree if you use your pheromones on him. He doesn't like being trapped or manipulated. Particularly by women."
"No, bring him here," Ivy said, her idea branching out details like some of her beloved vines. "I have an idea."
...
...
...
June 24th, 20xx
Extreme Incarceration, 2:37 AM
Day 4
...
Selina had spent about three and a half days in extreme incarceration (by her reckoning) and she was beginning to understand how Bane's vaunted focus was such a big damn deal. Particularly as they were only feeding her twice a day, and on the days when it was Jervis . . . well, she was staring at the ceiling hallucinating bats and kitties for hours, again.
He hadn't been by today, however, (it was Wesker, and she hated that twitchy little shit. Totally worth eating the sandwich he'd thrown into her cell off the floor because she'd given him the finger) and thus she was bored. Dutifully, she went through her physical exercises (the cells were a bit bigger, she gave them that, and there was plenty of room to stretch out in) and tried to carry on awkward conversation with Maxie Zeus, who'd been thrown in here with them last night. He was currently sleeping, so the conversation was pretty one-sided, to say the least. Victor ignored her as he always did, largely because he was a total party pooper. Even when she tried to talk about Batman in bed, he managed to ignore her. She was almost impressed, if only because mentioning the size of his package (and she'd measured it, to Bruce's weary dismay) generally had men exclaiming in envy, shock, or disbelief.
(Women too, but they tended to be more envious of her, rather than him.)
The boredom was going to get to her eventually. The hunger and thirst already was, but the loneliness and lack of stimulation was just as dangerous, so she tried to make up a game. The game was called What Would Batman Do?
He would have been out of this cell already, for one. With all his nifty gadgets and crazy ninja skills, he'd have been out in a hot minute. But she didn't have any explosive gel, batarangs, or a grapple gun lying around, and although she was a gymnastic master, the cell was solid cement all around, with only a small, barred aperture to look out of. While she could stick an arm out and wave hello to Maxie and Victor, she was well and truly trapped in here.
And so she moved onto round two of What Would Batman Do?
The answer was the same as step one of What Would Bane Do?
Meditate. Which was boring and not all that useful, when her only goal was impossible.
Selina sighed, and settled back against her cot. She hoped Harley would come by eventually, if only to give her something to look at.
…
…
…
An hour later, Maxie Zeus woke up.
"Hello?" He called out, his deep baritone echoing in the humongous chamber. "Who dares to lock up the almighty Zeus?"
"Morning, Maxie," Selina answered. "Did you sleep well?"
"Fine, yes, thank you for asking, but Maxie is not my name, young lady," he reprimanded her. Selina grinned as she wrapped a hand around the bar to her window. Maxie had always been fond of her. Men generally were, (take a hint Harvey) but he was more paternal than most.
"Sorry about that, Zeus. But uh, I was wondering if you remembered anything else about what's going on upstairs? You know, that whole thing about Joker's rebellion?"
He'd shared a little last night, mostly to Selina, but Victor had to be listening in as well. His news had not been optimistic. He'd had the run down on the gangs and what they controlled—Two-Face in the kitchen, White Shark running the Penitentiary, Black Mask and his men running Intensive—all the while sniffing that gods were above such things. From that Selina deduced he was off his medication, and that . . . wasn't a good thing. He was one of the inmates who seriously benefited from the anti-psychotics, and the fact that no one was going to administer them was a concern.
"That upstart foreign god?" Maxie roared. "His time is limited, mark my words! The great Zeus cannot be held captive in the Titans' pit for long!"
"Yeah, yeah, but what is he up to?" She prodded.
"Spreading chaos and anarchy in his wake! The soldiers of Olympus were all slain, although he did demand the continued survival of the healers. The three fates alone know what twisted plot he weaves!"
Guards dead, doctors spared, Maxie has no idea what's happening. Got it, Selina mentally paraphrased.
"It is a thankful thing my Amelia was spared all this," Maxie continued in a quieter voice. "I'd hate for her to worry."
Wait, wait, what? Amelia? That wasn't a Greek name, nor was that a Zeus-like thing to say. "Amelia?" She clarified.
"My human lover, of course!" He replied, back in god-mode. "My earthly consort, if you will. She was the only one whose spirit so resembled my fair Hera, who waits for me at the peak of Mount Olympus. Someday we shall be reunited, and then all the wrongs in this universe shall be righted!"
Oh, that's right—now she remembered. Maxie had been married, and it was only after the death of his wife (the aforementioned Amelia) that he had begun his descent into madness. Now that she thought about it, he and Victor could start a club: Slain Spouses Anonymous. Or, Evil-Doers Doing it in the Memory of Dead Wives.
Ugh, none of those were any good. She was losing her mind down here.
"Why'd the Joker throw you down here, anyway?" She asked.
"Because he fears my awesome might! He shackled my wrists so that I might not strike him down with my thunderbolts, and then threw me down into the realm of my brother, Hades, so that I might not rise up against him!"
"Wait, so are you saying Victor is Hades?" She asked, mildly diverted.
"Who is Victor? I know only Hades!"
Selina snorted. Imagining dour Victor Fries as the god of Hell would have been good enough to make her laugh, had she not been trapped in a cement box for the foreseeable future. "Who am I, then?" She asked. "Who was the Greek goddess of cats?"
"Do not play this game with me, daughter. Your name is Artemis, as you know full well."
Artemis . . . Artemis . . . was she the hunting one? Or the home and hearth one? The one with the owl, maybe? Selina didn't know, but she had a feeling that she'd hear all about her if they were all locked up for long enough.
"We need to figure out a better codename for the Joker than 'upstart foreign god,'" she pointed out.
"We could not refer to him by name at all," Zeus suggested. "He is undeserving of the power a title infers."
"I mean, I'm sure he'll come prancing down here eventually. It's what he does. God, he is an ugly, ugly man," Selina said, losing control over her thoughts. She was hungry, tired, and bored. She could be saying worse things, definitely. "With my luck I'll have to charm him to escape."
"Oh, I highly doubt that will work, Artemis," Maxie said. "The upstart foreign god doesn't like you much."
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June 24th, 20xx
Warden Sharp's Office, 5:37 AM
Day 4
...
In the darkness of Warden Sharp's office sat a lone figure, long legs propped up on the desk, spindly fingers crossed over a trim stomach. Dark eyes glanced over the eight security monitors, missing nothing. Each was connected to a different area of the asylum, and in almost every monitor there was some level of controlled chaos. This was how it should be, the watcher and progenitor of the madness decided, but there was a itty bitty, teeeeeeeny weeny problem.
The Joker was bored.
Sure, the overthrow had gone swimmingly, and everything had gone exactly to plan . . . but where was the fun in that? It had been four days and Bats hadn't shown up! What was he waiting for, an engraved invitation?
The Joker shook his head. He knew he should have sent one. Maybe Cash's other hand? Harley's panties? Selina's head?
No, no, too late for that. He already had plans for her, and he wanted her alive when Bats came to the island. Just imagine the drama! He would just have to wait and be patient. Good things came to those who waited, was that the phrase? The Joker thought that silly. Good things more obviously came to those who went out and strangled them to death, first, but in this instance . . . well, it wasn't like he didn't have plenty of other toys to play with before his playdate showed up.
Speaking of . . . the Joker swung his long legs down from where they rested on the desk. He focused on one monitor in particular, where the Riddler was industrially typing away. Even through the screen he could see Eddie-boy's smirk, his ridiculous preening, how pleased he was with himself that he had taken over the communications and security for the entire island.
"Somebody needs to be taken down a peg," the Joker murmured, his voice a low, threatening rumble. A wide smile cut across his face when he thought of a way to do it.
"Oh Harrrrleyyyy," he called out, knowing his girlfriend was currently napping but would wake whenever he damn well needed her to. "C'mere, would you? I've got an idea for a new game."
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RUN EDDIE RUN
