Triggers: Detached description of torture, some Perry Como? Could that be a trigger?

Even with 'the Riddler part' this is probably the happiest chapter. Yayyy!

Status update: A2- Half of CH 10 (last chapter) and then am done.

A3- Starting Ch 3

A4- Halfway done with Ch 1

Look guys I am getting there, is what I am saying.


Chapter 3: The Joker Games


June 25th 20xx

Medical Center lobby, 7:43 AM

Day 5

...

Dr. Thomas Elliot hoped that the Joker wouldn't call morning meetings all the time. He was on a schedule, and this posturing business would only serve to put him behind. The only fortunate point of this whole charade was that it was being held in the Medical Center lobby—had he been required to haul himself over to the Intensive Unit, or the Penitentiary, he might have rebelled.

Well, he would have thought of rebelling. Even he knew better than to go against the Joker in one of his whims.

"Do you know what this is about?" He leaned over and quietly asked his neighbor. Dr. Jonathan Crane looked back at him from behind thin, wire-framed glasses, rather than his scarecrow mask. That meant Hush could expect a rational answer. This stretch of sanity was the one unlooked for boon of their arrangement—Crane had displayed a curious control over his Scarecrow persona, and rather than immediately descending into the depths of madness full time, he used it only when terrorizing his patients in his half of the Medical Laboratory—the older, subterranean section.

"I can't say I do," he said quietly, with nary a whisper of his southern accent. Had Hush not known from his medical records that he was born and raised in Georgia, he might have guessed Gotham. Crane continued, "Knowing the Joker, it won't be immediately apparent, either."

"Did he have to invite half the island, this time?" Hush whispered, eyes tracking to the large number of individuals already in the room. It was almost in the manner of an imperial court. Every famed supervillain in the Rogue's Gallery was there, along with a cadre of handpicked henchmen, at least for those who had them. Two-Face, Black Mask, White Shark, Clayface, and the Riddler were all accompanied by at least five henchmen, while others like Firefly, the Ratcatcher, Mad Hatter, and the Ventriloquist were not. Of course, Hush and Crane had been working and thus had not brought along their 'assistants' or henchmen on loan from Joker's gang, and Poison Ivy, haunting the far corner, had declined to bring any of her zombie slaves.

"He is a showman," Crane noted. "He likes an audience."

Crane's light eyes flickered over the room and caught sight of Ivy. His left hand twitched, an aborted effort to reach for his mask which was hanging at his belt. It was the one defense he had against her pheromones, were she to begin releasing them into the room, and it was even more effective than Hush's ability to be clinically dispassionate.

He so hated the word sociopathy. It just didn't do him justice.

Before Hush could continue this unexpectedly rational conversation, the doors were flung open, and a long, thin leg stretched forth. The Joker held the pose for a moment, like he was the drum major of a marching band before quick-stepping down the hallway. The whole thing was a little like a circus, really, because at his side skipped Harley Quinn, replete with clown makeup; behind him marched two dozen henchmen, all similarly bedecked. Several had bowties, and Hush winced at the garishness of the display.

The Joker strode in, mimicking the sound of a trumpet. Hush glanced over at Crane to see how he was taking all this. It was just in time to see Crane's gaze fall to the ground, but he had not been looking in Joker's direction. He had been looking at the corner of the room which housed Two-Face, Firefly, and Poison Ivy.

Categorizing the threats, even now, Hush thought, distantly impressed. Yes, I very much prefer Crane to Scarecrow. Nothing gets done, otherwise.

"Gooooooooooooooooooood morning!" The Joker sang, throwing his arms wide to greet them all. "Oh, look at you all, up so bright and early, and all for little old me. So? Are you ready for the party?"

On cue, two of his henchmen activated their party favors and a small flutter of confetti drifted down. It would have been more compelling had they looked like they were enjoying themselves, rather than attending a funeral.

When no one else reacted, Joker sighed. "All right, all right, you've got me. It's not really a party. More of an . . . implementation of new laws in my regime, sort of thing. Harley! Bring me my scroll!"

"Sure thing, hun!" She chirped, before withdrawing an honest to god scroll from somewhere on her person.

Honestly, Hush thought. Sometimes I just don't get how our lives work. It's like we're in a comic book, or something.

Harley Quinn sauntered up to her boyfriend, gave him the scroll, and blew him a playful kiss. The Joker pretended to catch it until her back was turned, and then made a show of scrubbing his cheek, wearing a disgusted expression.

Next to him, Crane sighed. Hush silently agreed. It was, apparently, going to be one of those days.

Joker cleared his throat and unfurled the scroll, which fell to about six inches long. "Ahem. Heretofore and forthwith and all that hoodellally, I now declare that Poison Ivy can no longer wear pants. Hmm? Oh wait, that's not right." Sorry, he mouthed to her, grinning like a shark. He proceeded to turn the scroll upside down and then began again.

"Ah yes, much better. Now to . . . liven up this place a bit, at least until our guest of honor arrives, I've thought up some fantastic party games! Now I haven't completely decided, but I'm considering calling them the Joker Games. Because they're my games. Isn't that fantastic?!"

He paused, expectantly, glaring at several in turn. Eventually the Riddler began clapping nervously and it started a ripple effect among the henchmen. After listening to half-hearted applause Joker cut them off like an orchestral conductor.

"All right, all right, enough of that. Let me give you the rules of the Joker Games," he said with relish.

Most of the 'rules' were more like fairground games with a nasty twist, or so far as Hush could tell:

Whoever steals Harvey's coin wins a tub of acid!

Whoever steals a rat from the Ratcatcher wins a day off!

Whoever steals one of Humpty Dumpty's toys gets an extra meal!

Whoever steals a kiss from Ivy gets promoted!

Whoever steals a sample of Crane's fear toxin gets a lapdance from Harley!

Those particular games were fairly benign, (or at the very least optional) although obviously geared towards generating ill will and dissension throughout the camp. Hush was thankful only one of those 'pranks' would be happening in the medical center, and from Harley's earnest threats to castrate any man who came near her for a lap dance, he hoped Crane's formula would be more or less safe. Less hooligans running around the medical center meant less killing for him, and he'd much prefer to get on with his work, particularly when he had an entire medical center basically to himself, and so much opportunity to experiment!

There were a few other games that were slightly more involved, however. One in particular gave every man in the room pause.

"Ah yes, and here's a personal favorite," Joker began. He cleared his throat before saying, "Tag! I'm sure you're all familiar with the rules: Whoever is 'it' has to run around and tag people, and whoever you tag has to chase you down and kill you. If you don't tag at least five people in ten minutes or less, everyone in the Asylum is free to hunt you down themselves. Whoever kills the person who's 'it' gets a nice surprise . . . maybe immunity from ever being 'it?' Oh, I'm still working out those details. Maybe we need a couple rounds, first.

"Of course, you are allowed to use lethal force to protect yourself," the Joker continued, as if addressing a minor concern. "So I wouldn't tag people I'm fond of, if you catch my drift. But why would you? This exercise is a way of getting to know new and interesting people. Maybe your eyes meet over a crowded room . . ." He fluttered his eyelashes before growling, "And then you beat them to death with a crowbar."

Every one of Shark, Mask, Riddler, and Two-Face's henchmen froze. Even some of Joker's goons looked uneasy.

"The game is effective immediately, of course, but I'll have Harley make an announcement filling in the rest of the asylum on the rules, later. As for now . . . Roach!" He roared, and one of Black Mask's goons jumped.

"Uh, yeah?" He whimpered.

The Joker fixed a beady eye on him. "You used to be one of my boys, didn't you?"

The henchman was visibly shaking, now. "Uh, no?"

The Joker feigned surprise. "No? Really? Then how do I know your name?"

"Uh, boss, we have a Roach of our own," one of the clown-faced baddies quietly pointed out. "He's in Blackgate, remember?"

"Ohhhhh right!" The Joker exclaimed, snapping his fingers. He shrugged before pointing at Roach. "Oh well; I know your name; you're it!"

The unfortunately named Roach jerked as if he'd been electrocuted with a live wire. After a glance at his superior showed him that there was no salvation from that quarter—Black Mask was firmly in Joker's pocket—he looked wildly around the room, desperately searching for a target who he could and would kill with absolutely no provocation. He darted forward and landed a weak punch on the arm of Harvey Dent's smallest, wiriest man.

"Get 'em," Two-Face muttered, and his goon was after Roach like a shot. Neither man made it to the door. Moving with incredible speed, Two-Face's man pulled out a shiv and shanked Roach from behind as he reached for the door handle. Roach fell to the floor, crying out in pain, but Two-Face's goon pulled his head back and neatly sliced his throat.

Flicking blood off his knife, he turned to face the group.

"I see we may need to implement a head start. But well done, Harvey," the Joker murmured, dark eyes appraising the efficient assassin. "You certainly know how to pick 'em, don't you?"

Two-Face shrugged. "The coin never lets me down," he rasped.

Hush considered this as the assassin retook his place behind his leader. Two-Face may claim reliance on that infamous coin of his, but he hadn't relied on it just then. He'd ordered his man without consulting it, which was, as far as Hush could tell, out of character.

Interesting.

The Joker clapped his hands. "Well, you all see how it goes. We'll start a new round after the meeting, but first there's something that I absolutely must do. I've been so remiss in my duties as beloved—if not quite benevolent—overlord, I simply must address it now." He reached out a gloved hand towards the Riddler, who paled, his freckles standing out in stark relief.

"My right hand man, everyone!" The Joker announced, smiling proudly. "The man who made this alllllll happen. Eddie 'the Riddler' Nygma!"

The call for applause was more obvious this time, and even Hush contributed a few dry handclaps. The Riddler, sensing he was to be made much of rather than punished; preened, sketching a little bow to the largely unimpressed audience.

"He really is proud as a peacock," Hush murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Crane glanced over at him from the corner of his eye. "Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall," he quoted quietly.

Hush looked at him fully. He'd no idea Crane had a religious upbringing, and to an extent where he could correctly quote a commonly misquoted chapter of Proverbs? For it certainly couldn't be current religious beliefs, not with his lifestyle. Hidden depths, he inwardly commented.

Today was turning out to be very interesting, indeed.

"Thank you, thank you," Edward said, now comfortable and in his element. "You're too kind. It was nothing, really."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Eddie-boy! None of this could have happened without you! I mean, the communication mainframe alone! It's an achievement, my boy, an absolute achievement." The Joker was being practically paternal, and every one of his goons was stiff as a board. Even Harley Quinn was keeping her distance, rather than flitting about at the edges of Joker's attention. That was probably not a good sign, and so Hush remained vigilant, if a little impatient for this charade to be over.

He had patients to see, and lunatic minds to dissect, after all.

"Well, I suppose so," Riddler gushed, "If I do say so myself—"

"And you do, don't you? At great length!" The Joker nudged him with a sharp elbow, and Edward winced and folded over. "It's one of your greatest talents, talking about yourself. Everybody knows that, but I think I can play to your other great talent."

"Which is?" Edward wheezed.

"I have a riddle for you, Eddie-boy."

"Oh?" He asked, red brow climbing higher on his forehead.

"Riddle me this," the Joker began with a voice that was light and airy. "What is as inevitable as Batman's arrival and twice as satisfying?"

The Riddler blinked, no doubt running through hundreds of options in a very short amount of time. Annoying as he was, he did possess a surprising amount of intelligence. "Well, there are quite a few permutations of that particular archetype, but I would say—"

"I'll tell you," the Joker interrupted, throwing an arm around him. His voice dropped low and menacing. "Destroying your ego."

After that it was inevitable. The Riddler struggled but the Joker was implacable, and very, very strong. He overpowered him easily. Those in attendance watched quietly, uneasily, as the Joker beat Edward Nygma to within an inch of his life; first with his fists, then with a crowbar that appeared to come from thin air. Edward's moans and pleas for mercy tapered off eventually, but it took a long time for the Joker to be satisfied his point had been made—no one was safe in his regime. Not even those upon whom it relied.

He'd worked up a sweat by the time he pulled away from the quivering, bleeding, broken man on the floor. Only the shallow rise and fall of his ribcage revealed the Riddler was still alive. The Joker wiped his brow, and flicked a few droplets of sweat away.

"Woooo!" He sighed. "Worked up a sweat, there! Well, you know what they say about hard work and rewards. Now, any more questions?"

No one mentioned that no one had in fact asked any questions. They simply stared back at Joker, waiting to see what he would do next.

Joker clapped his hands. "In that case, class dismissed! Ah, except for you, Dr. Tommy. I need a word with you."

Hush narrowed his eyes, but dutifully walked over to the Joker, stepping over the Riddler on the way. "Yes?"

The Joker reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. He smelled like sweat, blood, and greasepaint, the coppery scent mixing ill in Hush's nostrils.

"I need a favor," he said quietly, leaning in. "See, I might have gone a little overboard with Eddie, and I'm not exactly ready for him to duck out the game, yet, so I need you to keep him alive for me. Pretty please?" He finished, twisting his features pleadingly.

Hush glanced over at the body on the floor. He both quailed and was intrigued at the thought of saving someone so close to death.

"I'll do my best," he said dryly. "If I could enlist some help moving him to critical care?"

The Joker snapped his fingers and several men stepped forward to carry the Riddler. Hush sighed and hoped this sort of thing wouldn't happen too often. He had enough things to do and patients to see without the Joker giving him more of them.

...

...

...

June 25th 20xx

Resistance Bunker, 11:47 AM

Day 5

...

Several days with the resistance had led Joan Leland to several uncomfortable determinations. One, that they couldn't continue like this indefinitely. While their air, food and water supply would hold out for months at least—the bunker was well-ventilated, connected to an underground well, and a few careful food runs had supplied bread, canned milk, fruit, and vegetables, as well—it was simply not feasible to assume that fourteen individuals would be able to coexist in such a small space without detection for more than a month at most. This was to say nothing of the smell, social clashes, or the arduous process it had become to wash their clothing, as well as themselves. One way or another, through detection or cabin fever, they would either be forced from or choose to leave the bunker, and as of yet Joan could not foresee any positive endings in either scenario.

Yet as of this morning there were no longer fourteen, as they had suffered two losses since her arrival in the bunker. Brian had not survived his exposure to the mixture of fear toxin and laughing gas, and he had died the night after Joan arrived. They'd had to dump his body in the bay the next morning, following a short, quiet moment of prayer and reflection; dragging his body down one of the winding tunnels to a sudden drop off high above the water.

Not a day later, Eddie, Bill, and Zach had nearly been caught on their last information run, while skulking around in tunnels near the Penitentiary. They'd been forced to fight and kill several inmates, which was difficult enough—particularly for Eddie, who had never killed a man, even in self defense—and had nearly gotten caught again when hiding the bodies in one of the old storage closets. They had made it back, but last night Steve had not, and Javier and Raoul had been forced to leave his body in the kitchens, surrounded by the corpses of two of Two-Face's men.

They were down to two doctors and ten guards from their original fourteen individuals total, and Joan knew the compounding psychological loss and wear on those that remained would wear them down eventually.

Her second determination was that the stress was already getting to Stephen Kellerman. She feared he would crack sooner, rather than later. When he wasn't poring over the notes he had taken from his office, or using the empty margins of them to sketch out plans and profiles of the villains in charge of the asylum, he was reverting more and more to a frightened shell of a man. She did everything she could to draw him back into socializing with the others, but she could not mother him and the rest of the men at the same time, and she suspected her efforts would soon not be enough.

Her last determination was that Aaron Cash might be the death of her, or at the very least, would drive her insane. He was as protective of her as she was with Stephen and the younger guards (Eddie, Jackson, and Taylor) and his hovering, in a space equatable to the size of a tin can, was not very subtle. He'd used his status to secure her one of the four cots in the 'bedroom,' which she kept giving away when he'd left, to Stephen, Raoul, and Bill in turn. He responded by giving her a quiet but concise piece of his mind when he found her sleeping on the floor, half-propped up by the wall. This was to say nothing of his physical presence, which, unless he was sleeping or out on a supply run, was almost constant. His refusal to let her go out on runs went without saying. She had begun sleeping in her shoes so he might not get the idea to hide them from her.

His bout of overprotective chivalry had not gone unnoticed. Bill North, one of his closest friends and colleagues among the Arkham staff, had headed him off at the pass a few times, distracting him with supply run plans or simply talking him into taking a nap. Zach Franklin, another of his friends, had begun to shoot her looks of commiseration whenever Aaron stayed too close for too long. Another of the senior most members of the security force, Louie Green, had taken to wordlessly handing her shots of whisky—a crate had been lifted from the kitchens, and it absolutely should not have been there in the first place but they were all reaping the dubious benefits now—anytime she growled at Aaron. Yesterday she'd had six shots in a four hour period, and thought that, were they not in terror for their lives, it might be a remarkable coping technique.

Eddie Burlow saw nothing wrong with it, however. "I think it's sweet," he told her, after she had groaned for a solid minute upon discovering Aaron had removed her shoelaces in her sleep, thus circumventing her reason for wearing them at all times. "He's so worried about you! Isn't that a good thing?"

Eddie was a rare flower who absolutely should not be a guard at Arkham, Joan decided. How he could be so effective with the inmates and sensitive with his colleagues was one of the great mysteries of the asylum.

"Eddie, that man has my shoelaces," she ground out, pinching the bridge of her nose. "What part of you thinks that is a good thing?"

He winced. "Um. It's so he can keep you close . . .? To, you know. Protect you?"

His eyes grew wide at her answering glare.

Later on, when she was alone in the bathroom for forty-five seconds of peace—they had all learned to do their business very quickly—she admitted something shameful to herself. It was easy to focus her annoyance and frustration on Aaron, but there was at least as much directed at herself. She felt safer when he was nearby, and last night had actually sagged into his touch when he'd put his hand on her shoulder. That moment of weakness could perhaps be forgivable, save for the fact that far worse would follow if she allowed herself to give into it. She was the head psychologist at Arkham, and she had not become so without becoming aware of herself. If she allowed herself to rely on him, take refuge in him, need him to feel safe, how on earth would she ever go on living without him?

I may be in some amount of trouble, she allowed, staring at her wan reflection in the cracked mirror. We need to get the hell out of here, already. Barring that, I need some sort of project; something to focus my mind on when Aaron starts to loom—

There was a quiet ding dong, and then a message piped in from over the island's loudspeakers, muffled, but still making it down to the bunker.

"Joker here! Just a friendly reminder that any notes on the mysterious 'compound' would be greatly appreciated. And by that, I mean GET YOUR REARS IN GEAR AND FIND ME THAT FORMULA!"

Just like that, Joan knew what she had to do.

First, however, she had to find her shoelaces.

Two hours later Aaron, Raoul and Javier came back to find Joan at the table, sketching out a plan with her fingertips on the map laid over the table top. Bill, Louie, and Taylor were watching closely, while Mike, Zach, and Jackson were sleeping in the bedroom. Eddie stood propped up against the wall, eating a can of corn, and Stephen, also sitting at the table, had his head in his hands.

"This will never work, Joan," he said nervously. "They must have combed your office already!"

"That's where you're wrong," she corrected him. "The offices they've looked through—and I'd bet my life on this—would be yours; Penelope Young's; Sharp's, obviously, and Gretchen Whistler's. I've never shown any interest in chemistry, and have openly looked down on the rising drug use in psychiatry. Everyone knows I favor the least invasive drug regimen among the doctors, so why would they look through my office for some experimental drug?"

"Unless Scarecrow or Ivy gave you up," Bill pointed out. Joan liked Bill a good deal. He was a man of eminent common sense, and tended to stay calm in crisis. This was due in part to his lack of imagination, but it was his adherence to discipline that made him such a stellar guard.

"If Ivy was going to give me up she would have done so when she had me," she argued. "Besides, she doesn't want Joker to get the compound. If anything, she's going to work to protect it."

"You sure about that?" Louie asked her.

Joan looked back over her shoulder at Aaron, who was watching them with narrowed eyes. "Is Ivy going to give Joker the compound, Aaron?"

"No," he said without hesitation. "She would not. What's going on, here?"

"Joker's getting desperate, Aaron," Bill said. "Dr. Leland needs to hide any evidence of the . . ." He waved his hand in an uncertain gesture." . . . concoction."

"And destroy the notes," she added. "They're cryptic, but in my office. While he probably hasn't looked there yet, he will eventually. We need to get in there and destroy them."

"Absolutely not," Aaron said, a knee-jerk reaction. "Woman, just let him have the damn formula! Even if it worked it wouldn't help him anyway!"

"We don't know that, Aaron," Joan said with a mighty effort to keep cool. "The side-effects were becoming quite pronounced on Harvey and Jervis. If Joker tweaks it—or god forbid, learns how to use it, he could create an army of hyper-loyal supervillains!"

"We kind of already took a vote," Louie offered up quietly. He too had been into the whisky, which made meeting Aaron's enraged expression slightly easier to face. "Six in favor, one against, one abstained. Even if you all vote no, majority's spoken."

"You're shit out of luck, 'cuz my vote counts for ten," Aaron said. "And—"

"This is greater than us," Raoul interrupted, his quiet Latin accent pitched low and soothing. "We cannot let the Joker make a new weapon if we could stop him. Why else are we guards here, if not to protect Gotham from the inmates?"

"I have a duty to protect all of you!"

"And our needs are greater than the people of Gotham? Our friends, families? Those we love?" Raoul asked.

Aaron growled. "If we go on this run, I highly doubt we're all going to come back alive."

"There are tunnels that lead very close to the wing my office is in," Joan pointed out, taking the blueprints from Taylor with a nod of thanks. "By our calculations, three or four of us could get in and get out in less than five minutes. Ten, if they've ransacked the office. If we time it just right, there would be no casualties."

"No casualties my ass. This is madness," Aaron stated. "And six of you voted for this?"

"Everyone but Stephen," Joan said.

"It's never going to work," Stephen moaned. "How can it?"

Aaron frowned, accusing them all with his eyes alone. "Who abstained, then?"

Eddie raised his hand, looking miserable.

"And why was that?" Aaron pressed him.

"Because I'm afraid of you yelling at me, sir."

"Not enough, apparently!"

"But it's the right thing to do!" Eddie burst out, finding his courage. "Even I know that! Raoul's right. We're here to keep everybody in Gotham safe, so that nobody else dies like my dad and my little brother, at the hands of some souped-up villain and his thugs." He breathed harshly and shook his head. "You know what, I can't stand by and watch the rest of my family die from some new poison. I'm sorry, but I'm changing my vote, sir. I say we destroy those notes!"

By the time he finished he was panting with emotion. Joan was stunned. She had no idea Eddie had family members who were killed by a supervillain's attack, and it certainly colored her perception of his calm demeanor and patience with the current residents of Arkham. The depths of his kindness and empathy must be deep indeed not to turn that pain into a desire for revenge.

She murmured, "Eddie, I'm so sorry—"

"It was a long time ago," he said abruptly. "And Penguin's dying anyway, so it doesn't matter."

"As long as it matters to you, it matters to me," she said. "Thank you for your bravery then and now."

"Yeah, well, it won't mean much if the boss doesn't let us go," he said, setting his jaw.

Every person in the room turned to look at Cash. No one said aloud what Joan knew to be true: that if her presence wasn't required on this mission, it would have been over and done with already.

Aaron, please! She mouthed.

He sighed mightily, bringing his right hand to his forehead, resting his hook against his leg. "God help us," he muttered. "All right, fine. What's your plan?"

...

...

...

June 25th 20xx

Cafeteria, 5:58 PM

Day 5

...

Ivy didn't have to eat anymore, not really. Or at least, not much. It was one of the easiest ways to see Harley, however, so she took advantage of the new and relaxed meal schedule to sit with her friend for dinner, poking listlessly at a dinner roll as Harley chattered a mile a minute about nothing at all.

"I told him I meant business Red, and in less than two minutes he'd gone from wielding that broken chair leg in my general direction to blubbering on the floor! Oh, it was priceless, I tell you!"

Halfway across the cafeteria, just at the edge of her gaze, a tall, thin man sat down at a table. Without moving her head Ivy focused on him. He'd been familiar even at the blurry edges of her peripheral vision, but there was an odd moment of surprised recognition in seeing Jonathan Crane. He looked tired, as he usually did, save for his times of manic elation as Scarecrow. He did not look around before slowly and methodically eating his own dinner, and she felt awkward for staring. She tilted her head back to Harley so it appeared she was giving her friend her full attention.

She wasn't, but it was the appearance that counted.

"Oh and then! Then! Someone actually made off with a sample of fear toxin, and do you know what he did with it?"

It was ridiculous, but she was relieved to see him; glad he hadn't suffered a similar fate as Edward. The Joker was clearly in a mood, and Scarecrow was one of the greater competitors for Batman's attention. If he felt threatened, would he hurt Crane?

No, thought Ivy, with a surprising amount of force behind it. I don't want that.

Harley continued her tirade, but only snatches of it filtered through Ivy's concentrated inattention. " . . . we sort of stared at each other for a moment, and I was like oh here it comes but then he started giving me a lapdance! And I didn't even have the serum anymore!"

Ivy tuned her out again in favor of reflecting on Crane's sudden appearance. He had not been the only person at his table, and it appeared that they were talking. Civilly, no less. What was he doing sitting with Harvey Dent and Thomas Elliot? Elliot made a removed sort of sense, although after working together all day she'd have assumed they wanted some time apart. Perhaps they were working through dinner on a project? But then why include Harvey?

More importantly, why hadn't any of them stabbed the other with a plastic fork, yet?

"And between you and me, he was kind of impressive. Had to be at least nine inches, if you know what I mean. And he was good. Definitely better than me, and that's not something a woman should say about one of Joker's goons! What makes a person that talented go into a life of crime? He coulda been an exotic dancer!"

Ivy tore her eyes away from the odd trio. Any mention of male genitalia brought back . . . unpleasant memories. Visceral ones. Memories that somehow managed to be undimmed by her change into a half-human, half-plant hybrid, even when so many other memories had faded away.

Harley leaned forward and poked Ivy's face with a limp french fry. "That got your attention? Honestly, Ivy. I could be talking about Mistah J in bed for all you know!"

"Oh, I'd know," she said dryly. "Believe me. We made a pact about that, and unless you want to be encased in sap for a week solid, you'll say no more on that subject, thank you."

Harley pouted. "Oh, you're no fun. And these fries are soggy! I'm getting new ones. Stay there, I'll be right baaaaaack!" She sing-songed as she skipped off across the cafeteria, spinning and dancing her way around burly, male inmates. Many of them didn't spare her a second glance, knowing the Joker wouldn't take kindly to anyone else playing with his toys. Others, who were newer to the system, gave her a lingering, appreciative glance. One or two nudged the men nearest to them, and made it clear through words or crude gestures what they'd do to her, if the opportunity presented itself.

Ivy made note of their faces, and planned for some of her more aggressive darlings to make their acquaintance later on.

Harley ran into a few of Joker's boys before she reached the line, however, and it appeared they had some sort of grievance to air. Knowing that Harley would end up mothering them—or smacking them silly, either way—Ivy's eyes drifted back over to Crane's table, just as he glanced over at hers.

Their gaze held for a moment, and then both looked away.

Ivy looked down at the tabletop and let herself remember.

...

November 14th, 20xx

The Green Mile, 2:17 AM

(8 months prior to takeover)

...

It took Ivy about a month to realize her initial assumptions regarding the serum were correct. While she'd made early progress, she was stymied by certain technical aspects of the serum. She needed assistance, and there was only one person in the asylum who could render it.

She'd told Joan this in their last session, and was therefore unsurprised to see Aaron Cash leading a guest into the Green Mile, early in the morning on a week when she was fairly certain Sharp was out in Gotham, promoting his chances for the mayoral election. The prisoner waited patiently in his straightjacket, not squirming or yelling as Cash unfolded the plastic chair and then pushed him into it.

Cash stalked away, saying, "15 minutes. That's all you get, and then it's back to Intensive for him."

"Thank you, Aaron," she said, but kept her gaze on her visitor. Dr. Jonathan Crane watched her with similar focus, although there was a hint of wariness about him. One was not called out of their cell in the middle of the night to talk to Poison Ivy. It appeared he was not too pleased that this anomalous occurrence was happening to him now.

Knowing she'd get nothing from him if she was not careful, Ivy tried to observe social niceties. "I apologize for interrupting your sleep, Doctor, but my options were limited."

Crane watched her carefully. He was not much older than her; bird-boned and well over six foot, with a wiry strength. Although not traditionally handsome, his face was long and expressive, and his eyes were surprisingly light, and the expression in them was very, very intelligent.

He was sane. Therefore, according to Joan, more dangerous.

"Good evening, Doctor Isley," he said, his voice raspy. It was a thin, cultured voice, with none of Batman's baritone rumble or Harvey's smoker's growl, or the resonance of Joker's manic tenor.

"I have a proposition for you," she stated bluntly. She saw no reason not to get to the point.

He narrowed his eyes, and his weight shifted almost imperceptibly backwards. "I'm not interested in that sort of thing, Doctor."

Ivy looked at him again, taking stock. Time had not been kind to him, nor had his years here, on and off. His skin was waxy, and the jut of his jaw was not what anyone would call attractive. His eyes were both exotic and strange—there was a rim of blue around the edges of the iris, but little color between that and the pupil, giving them an eerie, soulless look. Strands of dark hair fell messily across his face, and as he was bound so thoroughly he was unable to push them back. They shaded his unsettling eyes and the sharpness of his gaze. To someone who did not know him, nor what he could do, they might have underestimated him.

Ivy hoped she had not done just the opposite.

"Call me Pamela, please." In an odd twist, she'd decided that she'd prefer him to call her by her old name. It would create an intangible boundary, and would help her feel a little more in control. "And it's not that sort of proposition. I've been given leave to create a chemical compound, and I would appreciate your collaborative efforts."

Thinking there was no harm in sweetening the pot, she continued, "You're the only one that I could come to for help."

Unlike most other men—heaven forfend, Edward Nygma came to mind—he did not puff up, or preen. The doctor did not have much ego to speak of, or perhaps his vanity was not flattered by way of his talents and natural intelligence. Rather, he eyed her suspiciously. "Given leave to dabble in a lab? You? That's impossible. You're one of the most heavily guarded prisoners here."

Ivy raised her eyebrow. "The project is sanctioned by the Asylum, and it's been argued that allowing me to assist will help my rehabilitation. The process will build empathy, I'm told."

He shifted in his chair, rolling one of his shoulders. Ivy had not been in a straightjacket for quite some time now, but she remembered how infernally uncomfortable they were. That he no longer looked to be overly bothered by it spoke volumes as to his familiarity with it, and perhaps his ability to ignore the discomfort entirely.

That made Ivy cautious. If he were dispelling his discomfort mentally, what else could he do?

"And you need my help with . . . ?" He asked leadingly.

"I'm fine with all bio-matter, but I can't manipulate the synthetics well enough. You also have experience with a toxin that may be similar to this, at least in the fundamentals, so I thought you may have some insight on the bonding processes, later on."

He understood immediately. Really, it was something of a relief to communicate with someone so intelligent. Most of her conversations, other than those held with Joan which were stilted for other reasons, were with utter neanderthals, or lunatics out of their sainted minds.

Or Harley, of course, who was brilliant, but between her abstract creativity and her bubbly demeanor, that was something of a different beast.

"You're creating something similar to my fear toxin?" He clarified. "I can hardly see how that would be sanctioned by our dear Warden."

At the door, Cash cleared his throat. Ivy thought that if he weren't the chief of security, it might have been to cover up a cough. Maybe even a laugh.

"The opposite, in a sense," she corrected him. "The focus is on empathy, rather than fear. It's a mind-altering drug that relies on a system of neurochemical gratification to help those in abusive relationships gain the clarity to pull themselves free."

His queer light eyes tracked her face, never dipping to her body. It had been a long time since a man had not even reflexively admired her. It was an odd turn of events, particularly as she felt so thoroughly dissected. While the situation was wholly dissimilar, she hadn't felt so naked since her time with Dr. Woodrue.

"Miss Quinn," he said. "You're making this for her."

Ivy nodded.

Crane cast his gaze at the floor, hiding his thoughts behind surprisingly long eyelashes. He must have been teased as a child, Ivy thought, in a rare flash of her former humanity. His face cannot decide whether it is beautiful or ugly, striking or hideous.

"What exactly do you want from me?" He asked, and there was just a whisper of a familiar accent. It reminded her of her father. Harley had said something about his being from the south, and she thought it was interesting that she'd never heard it before when he was Scarecrow, only now when he was Crane.

"Assistance with the compound. They won't let you in the lab, but I would bring printouts of everything I'd worked on."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "And in return?"

Ivy took a deep breath. Here it was, the moment she'd assured Joan would go off without a hitch. Now that he was in front of her, however, on the other side of the bubble and thus unable to be influenced by her pheromones, she had a moment of misgiving. "I'd give you what you wanted."

His other eyebrow rose to match. "Which is?"

Either he couldn't imagine her giving him this freely, or he was punishing her for dragging him out of his cell in the middle of the night. Both were possible, and the latter annoyed her deeply, but she needed him. She could take her revenge later, but for now, she had to play nice.

"My fear," she said bluntly. "My hybrid-biology breaks down your toxin before it does much harm, so I offer it up, freely."

He was looking directly at her, so the flash of excitement in his eyes was obvious. That she had gauged his motivation and interest so perfectly gave her a moment of gratification. He may not be like other men, but she had found the way to make him tick.

He was not beyond playing coy, however. He leaned back in his chair, watching her carefully. "You're not serious. You can't possibly want to give me your fears."

"No, not particularly," she admitted, trying to make herself seem less hesitant about this than she was. "But I want a chance to save my friend. I can't protect her when I'm in Arkham, and the Joker has already proven that he can hurt her on either side of the asylum walls. It's been . . . getting worse, and he'll kill her if she stays with him. You know that."

At this point, almost everyone did. Two weeks ago the Joker had managed to put Harley into the medical center even though they were no longer allowed contact with each other. Asylum guards were still scrambling to determine how it had happened, and it made Ivy wish that the mad clown would just escape already so that Harley would have a chance to recover.

Crane's lips tightened, just a touch. After a moment he nodded, hesitantly. "I would require full sessions with you, Doctor Isley, and for as long as you require my assistance. I insist that you be honest with me, and I'll know if you're lying. If you lie to me, I'll lie to you, and you'll never have your compound."

He had been one of the most brilliant minds in the psychological field. Was still even now, if Joan's warning was to be heeded, but this was her only chance. Besides, what could he do with her fears? Were he—or anyone else—ever in a position to use them against her, she'd be in a position to use her powers against them.

"You can't tell anyone about the project, Doctor Crane. If Harley or the Joker find out . . ."

"I won't even tell Scarecrow."

That struck her as odd. He thought of them as two different beings? "Do we have a deal?" She asked, rather than explore that odd dichotomy.

His thin lips curved in a smile. "I look forward to working with you, Doctor Isley."

"Now there's an odd trio," Harley said, as she plunked down a new tray of fries, pulling Ivy from her memories. "Harvey, Dr. Tommy, and Professor Crane? I wonder why they're sitting together. I don't think they really like each other much."

"So few of us do," Ivy said. Feeling awkwardly caught out, even though there was no possible way Harley knew just who and what she had been thinking about, she changed topics abruptly with, "Harley, what has the Joker done with Joan?"

"Whaddaya mean?" Harley asked, a fry halfway masticated.

"I heard his men talking about her," Ivy lied, gauging Harley's reaction for information. "Why is he still putting out PA announcements about finding all the doctors if he already has her?"

Harley's eyes widened, tokening innocence. "But he doesn't have her, I'd know! I'm the one in charge of tracking down who's left! For instance, did you know that Stephan Kellerman was the last person off the island? He signed out only 30 minutes before the takeover, and as his car isn't here he must have just made it over the bridge before we raised it."

Ivy had no interest in hearing about Stephen. "Then why were his men talking about Joan?"

"Well, what did they say?"

"I can't tell babies don't speak English. All I can get is the gist."

Harley shrugged. "Well, her body hasn't been found yet, and Zsasz hasn't called in another doctor kill since Penelope Young. Boy, you should have seen Mistah J when that call came in. 'Stop killing the doctors!'" She said in a surprisingly accurate parody of the Joker's voice. "'What if I want to kill them later?'"

"Harley, focus."

"Sorry Red, it was hilarious. Maybe you had to be there. But about Joan, I dunno?" Her voice dropped and she glanced around reflexively, ensuring none of Joker's boys would overhear her. "I kinda hope she's in that resistance he goes on and on about. So what if we missed a coupla guards? They aren't going anywhere!"

"Then what about Selina?" Ivy pushed, leaving behind the subject of the resistance—a topic on which she knew far more about than the Joker, for once. "She's not in the resistance."

Harley looked away for just a moment. There's a crack, Ivy thought, and wished she had some of the compound. Finished or not, maybe she could have made it a fissure.

"He won't tell me," she admitted. "That's . . . probably not a good sign, is it?"

"No it is not," Ivy said, her heart sinking. "Not at all."

...

...

...

June 25th 20xx

Extreme Incarceration, 9:47 PM

Day 5

...

In between the two square meals of bologna sandwiches and water a day; pooping in a hole in the ground; the excruciating boredom of staring at the walls of her cell or the Extreme Incarceration room beyond; Joker's mad PA announcements which seemed to center on finding some mysterious serum or tallying up the list of goons killed by 'playing tag,'; Maxie Zeus slipping further into his delusions, and sleeping the most she'd ever had in her life simply because there was nothing else to do (and ok, let's be real, practicing the Art of Self Love because that was important too) Selina was learning things. Things like Victor, when he forgot he had company, would sing German folk tunes and also Perry Como hits in a surprisingly pleasant baritone. She was particularly fond of his rendition of 'No Other Love.' Were it not for the embarrassment obvious in his sudden cut offs when he remembered he wasn't alone—or that one time Maxie had tried to join in—she would have started making requests.

Oh, who was she kidding. She'd probably request 'Some Enchanted Evening' in a day or so, or 'Killing Me Softly With Her Song,' because Victor Fries wasn't the Fugees, but it was the only thing that passed for entertainment, down here.

She was going to try and hold off, though. She'd been . . . distinctly unpleasant for the last 24 hours, and she'd like to give the boys a chance to recover from her sharp tongue and bad mood. It wasn't their fault she was locked up in here, and if she continued to antagonize them just because she was hungry and thirsty and out of her mind with stress and boredom they wouldn't help her out even if they had an opportunity to do so.

(Besides, it was a Jervis day to be fed, and if she held on for just a little longer, she was sure he'd give her the vial of happy juice again, and she would take it gladly because her hallucinations would give her something to do.)

But it felt like it was getting later, and they hadn't been fed since Jervis came down for breakfast. Maybe he wouldn't come down again at all, and then they'd be shit out of luck because Wesker wouldn't come down to feed them (if the pattern held) until tomorrow's lunch. If that was the case—

"Artemis? Artemis, are you awake?"

Selina threw herself to the door of her cell a little more quickly than she meant to. It never paid to let a man know you were in need of attention, but she was, goddamnit. This was the worst, and she was never talking to the Joker ever again. Hell, if she knew it wouldn't make Bruce permanently end their clandestine, on-again, off-again tryst (of eight years now, and let's face it, they were pretty much dating. Hell, eight years was pretty much marriage in the super community) she would find a way to kill the Joker.

"Maxie? What's up?"

"I am not Maxie," the delusional mob boss roared. "How dare you disrespect me?"

"Sorry, Dad, you know how I get when I have a bad hunt," Selina said, thankful that Victor had unbent enough the other day while Maxie was asleep to tell her the bare bones of her 'character.' Maxie had been getting steadily more upset about her Greek mythological faux pas, and it really was for the best that they both play along.

Unbelievably, that drew a raspy laugh from the self-proclaimed god. "Out turning strapping young lads into stags again, eh, Daughter?"

Sorry, what now? Victor had not warned her about this. "Uhhh. Yes. That is a thing that has happened. At least once. Maybe twice? Yes."

"What was the name of the first young man that happened to? I can never remember," Maxie said, and Selina sighed. He always fell into a rage when she couldn't play along, and with his weird obsession with quizzing her on her fictional, Greek mythological origins, it happened pretty much every conversation now.

She opened her mouth, ready to say 'Jason,' (because she'd watched Jason and the Argonauts once as a kid, and besides, in her experience, the answer of 'Jason' to any bad thing/person/whatever was kind of a inside joke in the Batfamily, and she'd been conditioned) when help came from an unexpected corner.

"Actaeon," Victor Fries said, his low voice calm. "And it wouldn't have happened at all if he hadn't been spying on her in the bath."

Selina air pumped. Victor Fries for the win!

"Ahh, yes. Thank you, Hades. I suppose you would know all about him, as he went to your realm after the hounds ripped him apart."

There was a moment of mortified silence on Victor's part. Selina's moment of silence was spent with her hand firmly over her mouth, trying to keep from laughing. The image of grumpy Victor Fries as Hades, Lord of the Underworld, was still fantastic. Jesus, this was almost as good as the time 12-year-old Jason Todd had managed to tie 17-year-old Dick Grayson's shoelaces together, and the gymnast had faceplanted onto the pavement.

Jason Todd was such a little shit. It was probably why she liked him so much.

"And Artemis, really, you have to play more nicely with your suitors. Else you'll attract someone dangerous. One that will enjoy your harsh play a little too much . . ."

"Did you miss the part where I'm doing Batman?" She asked, a little incredulous. "That pretty much defines 'dangerous,' 'bad idea,' and 'really fucking hot,' all at the same time."

"Can we please stop talking about Batman in bed?" Fries whined.

"Not if our other option is Greek Pantheon Quiz," Selina snarked back.

"And just who is Batman?" Maxie asked, and there was another one of those long, uncomfortable silences. Maxie had never forgotten Batman before. Even in the depths of his madness, he had never forgotten the one who had fought him on the outside, returned him after his escape attempts, and whose shadow lingered over Arkham Asylum like a shroud.

Even Victor was stunned. "You don't . . . recall Batman?"

"Should I?" Maxie roared. He really only had two volumes: meek, and screaming his fool head off, Selina thought.

"Why should I care about foreign gods?" He continued. "For all I know he is no different to the painted upstart who has taken over Mount Olympus!"

"Oh, M—I mean, Dad, no," Selina said. "He's a good guy, really. He's always fighting and defeating the uh, Foreign Upstart God."

Yes, she had begun thinking of Joker as Foreign Upstart God. With all caps, and everything. There was nothing else to do.

"Then why do I not know of him? Why did he not address me, the god of gods, for the honor of courting my daughter?"

"Your priorities really need to be worked on, Dad."

Once again, Victor saved the day. "Batman is simply one of the names the mortals call him. He is the god Terminus, the master of boundaries. He defines the beginnings and the ends of all things, and keeps all of us—gods, mortals, and those in between—in their proper places."

Selina was hella impressed. Extensive knowledge of Greco-Roman mythology aside, this was the most talkative Victor had been since she'd been thrown down here, and she wasn't so naive as to misunderstand why. Maxie was losing it, and with the acoustics of this hell hole, they'd have front row seats to the inevitable breakdown. Particularly as Maxie had an issue with volume control, as she'd already determined.

"I see," Maxie said, mollified. "In that case, it is an honor to be this god's consort. Is this what you truly wish, Daughter?"

"Yes," she admitted, more honestly than was prudent, particularly with two other villains in earshot. "Yes."

Hours later, after they had not been fed and Maxie had mumbled himself to sleep, Selina called out quietly, "Hey, Victor?"

When he did not respond, she continued anyway. "Thank you. For before, with uh. 'Dad.'"

She hadn't expected him to reply, so when he finally did it startled her out of a light doze. "Our time down here is a marathon, not a sprint. Without his medication, I fear it will be a short one."

Great. Victor Fries was preparing her for the eventual madness and possible death of Maxie Zeus, and they were helpless to do anything to stop it. This was her life now, and Selina really, really, hated the Joker, and Harley too because that little bitch hadn't shown up in five days.

"At least you know more about his . . . pantheon than I do," she said glumly, feeling a lot like crying. "Hell, if not for you, I wouldn't even know which one Artemis was."

It was quiet for a time, in which Selina tried to go to sleep but it just wouldn't come. Maybe it was all the naps she was taking.

Eventually, Victor broke the silence. "Why does Batman not come, Selina?"

"I don't know!" She said in a rush, frustration making her honest. "He has to know the island has been taken over. He always knows. Something must have happened to—to delay him."

"He might not know this time," Victor argued. "Supplies are still arriving, and the Gotham City Police have not descended on the island en masse. I fear that the Commissioner may be taken in by Joker's deception. If he does not warn Batman, you may be here for quite some time."

Selina hesitated. Something felt wrong. Some nebulous thought or worry that she was unable to catch hold of, let alone define. It was probably connected to Bruce, and her mounting fear that amounted to why the hell hadn't he crashed this party, already, but for a moment she thought it was connected to something more specific. Police, maybe? They always monopolized Batman's time, and if there was a situation outside Arkham, maybe that was why he wasn't here yet?

It didn't feel right, but she just didn't have enough to go on.

"B has to have some sort of tracker on the island. Maybe on some of the more high profile inmates," she hypothesized. It's not like she knew for certain, but she also suspected he had at least one on her, somehow. "He has to know. He'll get here, Victor, and then he'll set everything right."

"Why has he not done so already?"

Selina closed her eyes and chased down the fear that threatened to swamp her. She could not run from her past, her failures, or herself in here, and the stagnation was making it so hard to be strong.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I'm trying not to think about that."

I apologize if I inadvertently quote the Joker from the Arkham Asylum game. I know he's said, 'Joker here!' and 'It's meeeeeeee,' and a whole bunch of other fun things ('You bring the wine . . . I'll make the salad) but I'm not looking up dialogue to quote. Obviously you know where it comes from if I accidentally do quote him!

Also, Aaron Cash is absolutely my favorite side character fromthe Arkham Asylum game. Why else you do play those games but to deal with his never ending frustration? The man doesn't get rattled, he just gets annoyed. Lose his hand to Killer Croc? Yell at Killer Croc. See Batman saving everyone? Yell at Batman to do side quests.

Love that man.

Also I am intentionally having Dr. Crane call Harley 'Miss Quinn' rather than Dr. Quinn, because that brings to mind that show of my childhood, Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman, and I just can't. I could not.

Forgive me. It was beyond my abilities.