Ugh. Well I've got my weeping hanky out if you know what I mean.

Trigger warnings: Non main character tortured to death. Not super graphic, but sad. Read end notes for identity, and how it ties in to the actual game.


Chapter 4: Olympus


June 26th 20xx

Medical Laboratory, 3:57 AM

Day 6

...

Dr. Elliot frowned as the PA system in the emergency room crackled to life. He'd hoped that by starting his work early he'd have a few blessed hours of peace and quiet. Not so, apparently.

"Good morning, everyone! I, Warden Joker, have an announcement. Ahem. Fiiiiirst, I'd like to congratulate the three current winners of Death Tag, whose names, I have been told, are Hound, Killer, and Brian. Not sure what their mothers were going for with names like that, but we're not here to judge! Particularly as I've seen who I assume is Killer in action and let me tell you. Hoooooo boy can that one move!"

Hush rolled his eyes before directing his attention back to the unresponsive body on the gurney. It had been a tough 24 hours for Edward Nygma, but it wasn't over yet. Wouldn't be until he either died or recovered, and from the amount of cranial damage he'd sustained, Hush knew he was doing him no favors by keeping him alive.

Joker's announcement continued as Hush worked. "Allllllso, I'd like to direct everyone's attention to the new game starting up today. It's called Harley with a Hammer, and let me tell you it's going to be loads of fun for the entire family! Well, or maybe just Harley and me, but hell! What do I care? Fun's fun!"

Joker laughed and laughed, and Hush sewed up an incision. His tools were sterile, the room was clean. His half of the Medical Center was 30 years and 2 renovations more modern than Crane's half. It had been common sense to split the Med Center up this way, as Hush had been tasked with collaborating with the surviving doctors to keep Joker's pets alive, alongside his own personal experiments. Crane, who had been let loose to tinker with his fear toxin on the lunatics in Cell Block D6, had argued that the older, subterranean rooms would more than suit his purpose.

At this moment, Hush was distantly grateful. As long as infection didn't set in, the Riddler stood a . . . well, it was barely a chance at all, but a chance of surviving nonetheless.

At least, until the next time the Joker snapped and beat him half to death with a tire iron.

"Lastly, just a reminder to good old Dr. Tommy. Do your best to keep my dear pet the Riddler alive. His passing might make Bats sad, and none of us want that! Oh, he'd be so disappointed with me if I let Eddie duck out of the party early!"

The Joker's tone was light, but Hush understood the inherent threat. "Understood," he murmured, although there was no way the Joker could hear him, as evidenced by the cessation of the PA announcement.

Hush sighed, and wished the Joker were not so mercurial. If he wanted his toys in good condition, don't beat them to death, next time.

Edward twitched against the table, and Hush eyed the table with a few samples of an experimental concoction. It might help him heal exponentially quickly, if Penelope's notes were of any use. As madness and a severely shortened lifespan were already in the cards, why not try it out on his patient?

Why not? He had nothing to lose . . . and it might just work.

...

...

June 26th 20xx

Resistance Bunker, 4:28 AM

Day 6

The team sent in for the notes ended up being Joan, because it was her office and she was the only one who had a hope of finding them; Aaron, because even though he'd returned her shoelaces he couldn't stop stalking her now; Zach, because he was the best shot of all the guards on the island, ambidextrous and everything, and Eddie, who had looked at them so earnestly with his big, brown, puppy eyes that no one could refuse him.

Bill North was left in charge of the Resistance, and Aaron had a quiet, yet animated conversation before they set out. Joan didn't know what it was about, but decided it wasn't worth it to ask. She was more involved in studying the blueprints and tunnel paths for the umpteenth time, making sure she knew the route like the back of her hand.

"Visualize success, and it will be yours," Zach murmured to her, nodding at the blueprints of the tunnels she was clutching. "You know the tunnels. You know the plan. You know your office, and you know where the notes are. Focus on the end result, and it will happen."
Joan looked at him, impressed. Is that how he approached his job, here? His life? No wonder he was one of the more successful members of the security team. "That's very good advice, thank you, Zach."

He shrugged, modestly. "My daughter's a yoga instructor, and that's what she tells her classes. I figure if she can get people to fold their legs behind their head like they are some kind of goddamn pretzel, she must know what she's talking about."

"Oh, Laverne's classes are really good," Eddie earnestly assured her. "Especially the hot room ones."

"You like the ones where she cranks up the room to 100 degrees?" Zach asked. "Good lord, son, she had her mother and I do that once and we thought we were gonna die!"

"But it makes you feel so flexible and in tune with yourself, afterwards!"

"You take yoga?" Joan asked Eddie. And the men here don't rip you to shreds over it? Went unsaid.

He nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, yeah. Twice a week, when I can. It's great!"

"When we're all done gossipping, do you think we could get a move on?" Aaron snapped, clearly in a lather to get moving. "Some of us have a death run to carry out."

Zach made after him immediately, but Joan caught Eddie's arm.

"You don't think we could drag Aaron to one of those yoga classes, do you?" She muttered.

Eddie's eyes widened. "Down dog would be pretty hard with only one hand. But if you were to ask him, I'm pretty sure he'd try."

Joan tried not to think of Eddie's assurance during their long trek through the tunnels. Why he was so sure she had any sway over Aaron was laughable, particularly after the events of the last week, when it was proven that he was bound and determined to do whatever he thought best. Sure, they were friends outside the asylum, and she was always a guest to his cookouts and barbecues and other family functions, but that was more because she was childhood friends with his wife, Letitia. She was also Daniel's godmother, and had usually looked forward to spending at least one major holiday with the Cash family, whether it was Easter, Thanksgiving, or Christmas, depending on her work schedule. Truth be told, never a week went by where she didn't see Aaron for at least an hour, whether at work or socially, and she'd long stopped feeling guilty for seeing Letitia far less, these days.

Most of the other guards knew this, and those that were close to Aaron had seen her at those family events, or observed their friendly camaraderie at the asylum. That had to be why Eddie thought she had some sway over him. That, or he thought her profession might render her more capable of talking Aaron into doing something he obviously did not want to do.

Eddie was clearly not taking Aaron's personality into account. The man's stubbornness was legendary, and there was very little talking him into that which he did not already want to do. Again, Joan knew this from both the asylum and his home, and was encapsulated by an argument she'd had with Letitia several years ago. It had been just after he had lost his left hand to Killer Croc, and his wife hadn't understood his drive to go back to work only days after he'd been discharged from the hospital.

"What the hell is wrong with that man?" Lettie had raged, charging up and down her immaculately tidy, one-story house. "He's just lost one hand to that monster, does he want to lose his fool head, too?"

"If he stays away he'll be perceived as weak," Joan had tried to explain. She hadn't been Aaron's re-entry interviewer—one of the few good mandates in place when it came to employee accidents in an otherwise toxic job—but Gretchen had filled her in on a few specifics, just to settle her own anxiety. "He's earned his position through a mixture of intelligence, strength, fairness, and a removed empathy, but also because he is reliable. The prisoners have come to respect him, and if he cannot get back in the saddle now, he may lose all he's worked for."

"And why's he working so damn hard for it, hmmm?" Letitia had challenged her. "He's been offered other jobs. Safer jobs. Better paying jobs! Why the hell is he sticking around in that hell hole?"

Joan, who could not imagine Arkham without him, had bristled. "He makes a difference, Lettie. He is saving lives and helping people."

"And is that all he's doing?" Her friend had said, jabbing a finger at her. "Really, Joan?"

Joan had come off a bad week, and was still shaken at seeing Aaron in the hospital, sans hand, drugged beyond sense just to deal with the pain and shock. Not knowing what Letitia was talking about, she had said some regrettable things. The crux of it was true, however: Letitia had never understood Aaron or his work, and by asking him to give it up, she was asking him to give himself up for her.

"And why shouldn't he?" Lettie had screeched at the end of Joan's tirade. "He married me! Married. Me!"

Joan had not physically struck Letitia since they were kindergarten, when Lettie's desire to be made much of, Joan's burgeoning obsession with understanding everyone, and inefficient time allotment for the rice box had all been factors leading up to the slap heard round the playroom. Joan did not hit her friend again that evening, but it was a near thing, and a solid month of frozen conversations might never have thawed had Danny not found a way, via his school play of all things, to bring them back together.

Back in the real world, Joan stepped on something brittle. It crunched beneath her feet and she looked down at something white. Her heart skipped a beat, thinking it was bone . . . but a second glance told her it was calcified rock. Next to it, however, was a scattered handful of playing cards, a few scraps of tattered fabric, and an ulna.

"Oh, Jesus," she murmured, and she had an urge, born of a Catholic childhood, to cross herself. "There are bones down here!"

Eddie patted her back and she stumbled on after Zach. People had absolutely died down here, she belatedly realized. It was sheer luck that not every inmate on the island knew about the tunnels—or knew the paths well enough to hide long enough to enact an escape plan. While the supervillains that terrorized Gotham may have used these tunnels a time or two—and thinking back of all the hare-brained escape plans over the last decade, it really was only a time or two—the average joes of the criminal underworld had to make do with traversing the labyrinth below the island. Those who could used their outside connections, or the pull they had on doctors, guards, orderlies, and cleaning staff insidethe asylum.

Something has to change, she decided, and it was with all the force and power of the life-changing decision that had her change her major from biology to psychology, in her last year of university. And if I survive to do it, I will make this change.

By the time they reached the end of the tunnel closest to her office, Joan's watch showed 6:49 AM. As far as they could tell, Joker had not changed much of the schedule in terms of breakfast and day-to-day matters—for instance, the inmates still slept in their cells every night, the only difference was that the doors were unlocked—and that meant that breakfast would be served from 7-8:30. The mouth of the tunnel, which opened behind a false wall of an old cleaning closet just down the hall from her room, was about 25 steps away from her office door. If they were quick and very, very lucky, they could be in and out without anyone seeing them. If they were only very lucky, there would be a fight, but they would be able to take them without any losses.

Joan, who did not have a weapon, felt understandably nervous about that. She watched Aaron check the fit of his hook before hoisting his pistol from his hip holster.

He looked at every person in the closet except for her. "Ready?"

"Yes, sir," Eddie murmured.

Zach merely nodded, gripping his pistols. There were only four pistols, and Louie had the last. Everyone else made do with the three semi's from storage, one of which was in Eddie's hold.

He toed open the closet door, peeking out through the crack. "No one east," he whispered. "Let's go, guns west."

The two other guards shifted minutely, and then Aaron threw the door open, back to the hallway, gun pointed towards the other end of the hallway. After a moment he gestured with his head for them to follow.

"Way's clear. Let's go. Eddie, cover the doc."

They were fairly sure this hallway wasn't monitored. Joan and the other doctors had put their foot down about being watched themselves like rats in a lab test. The lack of security cameras had allowed Kellerman to sleep in his office rather than call a taxi home, and for Joan to discreetly meet with Poison Ivy at three in the morning without detection, thus they were fairly sure it was safe. Still, they weren't about to take any chances, so Joan threw her coat over her head, hiding her features as she stumbled after Zach. Not being able to see anything other than what was right in front of her was horrifying. The world shrunk to Zach's legs and boots, and the frantic boom of her heart. There was a hand on her arm and she jumped, but then she looked at it and recognized the blunt nails, the surprisingly long fingers, the skin tone. Aaron was guiding her to the door, and she felt less frightened.

Damn it, Joan, just damn it all, she thought, as she fit the keys to the door, hand trembling. That it was still locked was an excellent sign, as was the lack of any goons within. It meant she wasn't on their radar, and that they hadn't connected her to Project Empathy.

The keys fitted in the lock and she turned it quickly, pushing the door open in a well-practiced motion. They all hustled inside, and Eddie and Zach took up stations flanking the door, hugging the wall, staring down opposite ends of the hallway. She and Aaron surged for her desk, and the first thing she did was unlock the desk drawer with her effects. She pocketed her reading glasses and took up her tablet but left her wallet—she had nowhere near enough money on her to bribe even the most desperate prisoner—and then rifled through her paper notes. Tearing out three pages that obliquely mentioned 'Project E,' she left the notes in the desk, just in case. She placed the tablet on top of the laptop and moved on.

"Hurry it up, Joan," Aaron murmured to her.

She was already moving to the bookshelf. "Just a minute," she whispered back. Removing three books seemingly at random, she flipped them open to reveal several data discs. Here was contained the early stages of her project, and what she had already sent out to collaborators across America and overseas.

"We need to break these, my tablet, and the laptop," she said. "Well enough that no data can be extracted." It was a thankful thing that her laptop's charger had been going kaput even before the takeover. Her laptop would have died in hours, well before anyone thought to access it to check if there was any information floating about in the interweb.

Aaron took the files and stuck them in his pocket. "Back at the bunker, otherwise we'll be overheard. Keep moving."

Joan went back to her task, pulling several journals from the shelves. She rifled through her desk drawers for a few loose doodles she had done on the project, and after five minutes, had it all. At least, she hoped she had it all. It was hard to think clearly when the pressure was on, but she couldn't remember anything else, and she had been careful to keep all her information in one of three places.

She placed all her papers on the middle of her linoleum floor. Aaron tossed her a lighter, and she set the pile of papers on fire. It was then that Eddie shifted nervously.

"We got incoming. Three from my side."

The fire crept higher. Joan stood to stamp it out but Aaron pushed her back. "Behind the desk," he ordered her. "Close your eyes."

Joan nodded and ducked behind her desk, thanking God it was so damned big. Poking her head out from the corner, she saw Aaron crouch down so he'd not be immediately visible from the window on her door. Zach pocketed his pistols and pulled out a switchblade. He must have picked it up off the body of an inmate, she thought, before she could hear the goons outside.

"Hey, do you guys smell something?"

"What, your ass? Yeah, I've been suffering for the last couple days."

"No, like smoke—holy shit! There's a fire in Leland's office!"

One of them scoffed. "It's just a little fire. Back in my day—"

"Put it out, dumbass!"

"But how'd it get there?"

"Who cares? Just go and stamp it out!"

"I'm not going in there! I hate fire!"

"Oh, is that why you've been giving Firefly the side eye?"

One of the groaned, clearly done with this. "Jesus, you pussy. We all go in, happy? C'mon."

There was a clatter at the door, and it swung open. Eddie and Zach moved with impressive synchronization, and each grabbed the goon closest to them, shoving them inside the room. The third, who had been just behind them, tried to run—but Zach had set all the sprinting records from his high school and hadn't lost much speed in the subsequent years. The last henchman was caught and dragged back in the office before he made it five steps, and after making only one strangled call for help.

Back inside the office, Joan watched as Aaron caught one of the hapless goons and neatly slit his throat with his hook. Eddie threatened the other with his gun, while Zach made quick work of the other with his blade, stabbing him in the kidney, and then as he fell, slicing his throat, as well. The last, perhaps knowing that the gunfire would bring hundreds of inmates to investigate, decided to push his luck. He charged Aaron. Brawling like a street fighter, he landed a couple good hits on Aaron's face and chest, before Aaron managed to get him in a chokehold. He held it for a long time, enough for the inmate to stop kicking and struggling, his face splotching red. Joan closed her eyes as the inmate died, more slowly and painfully than the others had.

When she opened them again Eddie was carrying her laptop and tablet, and Zach had the semi-automatic. The fire was just about burned out, and the papers were grey ash. Aaron was in front of her, looking down at her with what was, for just one moment, an expression of sheer misery.

"We have to go, Joan," he said, and out of habit, extended his hand.

Joan looked at it for a moment, and then back at him. She could still hear the choking gasps of the dead henchman, and the ease with which he had killed the other. Her skin should crawl at the thought of touching him. She should stand on her own and then be horrified to the depths of her soul.

Yet she was none of those things, and what did that make her?

A foolish, godforsaken woman, Joan decided, and reached up and took his hand, gripping it firmly.

...

...

...

June 26th 20xx

Greenhouse, 2:15 PM

Day 6

Ivy sat on a throne of her babies, watching closely, waiting carefully. Through her darlings she was accomplishing the former, spying through a network of their awareness to keep an eye on Harley. The latter was accomplished merely by remaining still . . . and by directing the growth of several of her more aggressive lovelies.

Both activities gave her notable pleasure, but only one had a sense of urgency attached. Harley was, as far as she could tell, being treated surprisingly well. The Joker was making much of her, a sure sign that it would go badly soon, but not yet. The very activity she was watching was an example of his 'regard' for her—a new addition to his horrifying array of 'games.' It said something about the tenacity of the players that the 'tag' game was still continuing strong, with only four winners and twenty seven dead over the past week.

As for his other array of 'Joker Games,' no one had approached her, of course, because to do so was death. Nor had the Ratcatcher been bothered, possibly because everyone, good or evil, hated rats. As for the others . . . Harvey and his men had a difficult time of it, killing off those who came after his beloved coin; the overgrown man-child had no toys left, and Crane was down exactly one vial of fear formula . . . but the winner of that challenge had chosen to give Harley a lap dance, apparently, and that had so amused the Joker that the goon had somehow been promoted because of it.

Ivy made no attempt to understand the ridiculousness of humanity. It simply wasn't worth it.

The newest game, however, gave her pause. Entitled, 'Harley with a Hammer,' it consisted of—so far as she could tell—Harley running around the room with a mallet, beating on henchmen indiscriminately. If one stole the mallet from Harley they could hit her with it . . . but the Joker watched the whole thing, and very few people were brave enough to hit his girlfriend in front of him. Particularly when he was blowing her kisses, and crooning morbid lyrics to made-up love songs to her over the speaker.

It was this display Ivy was watching now. So far, Harley was destroying the room, giggling madly all the while. And while Ivy was grateful that no one was doing her harm, there was a tension in her belly that spoke of impending doom. Things were going too well. They couldn't last, not when Harley was romantically tied to the incarnation of chaos. This was simply the lift before the fall, and the longer the Joker delayed his savage mistreatment of Harley—inevitable as spring following winter—the worse it would be.

Of course, then would be her chance to try and convince Harley to take the serum. If only she knew where it was! Joan might have known where it was, but it was more likely that Cash did, or one of their colleagues who spent more time in the Medical Center. Penelope Young, the opportunistic little whore, would no doubt have jumped at the chance to move the materials after Warden Sharp had ended the project, but Zsasz had killed her days ago. Now that she was dead and Cash and Joan were off the grid, there was no one on the island who might know where the serum was.

This did mean the Joker didn't know either, but that was a slim comfort. He would know eventually. Ivy knew from years' experience that he always found out the one thing you needed him not to know. In this case, he'd likely find the damn formula, give it to Harley as a guinea pig, and then she'd be even more bound to him, particularly if he wasn't a total asshole to her directly afterwards.

Ivy sighed. If only Jon—

Her thoughts were interrupted by an uninvited guest to her greenhouse. Her babies in the Atrium's silent shriek of fear was not the only warning. She watched on the security monitors she'd had some 'boyfriends' lift from the control room as Firefly stalked into the main room, hefting his equipment as he scanned the room, clearly gauging where to begin.

"Come on, you bastard," Ivy murmured. "Take five more steps."

She'd laid a trap for him two days ago by catching and seducing two of his most useful sources. He didn't have henchmen the way the major players did, but he had 'friends' in most of the big groups. Taking those two out with a kiss in one day was just Ivy's way of saying hello, as well as to punish him for torturing all of the greenery near the front gate of the Asylum. It was a veritable wasteland there now, and his reign of terror could not be allowed to continue.

Truly, she was doing the entire asylum a favor by curtailing his pyromania.

He took two steps forward, cautious. He'd scoffed at the notion that she could communicate with her plants—so many did, the foolish apes—but he was still hesitant about her power. If she were in the room this would have been a very different game. Although he wore a mask, it did not have the chemical filtering properties of Scarecrow's, and even if it did, it would provide no protection at all from her calling upon the massive vines that had slowly begun to take over the island—her long term project that she was able to accomplish from within her isolation bubble in the Green Mile. Once a Plan D for escaping the asylum, it was now a useful reminder to the male players in Joker's regime. Cross Ivy not, or her vines would cross you.

Back in the atrium, Firefly seemed to have decided that Ivy wasn't presently there, and thus he wasn't at risk. He took two more steps forward, so that he was nearly within range of her evolved pitcher plant. Without the recognizable 'spikes' of the venus fly trap, no one knew it was a carnivorous plant. No one feared it, even though it was five feet tall and three feet wide. It helped that the mouth of the plant was facing at a diagonal slant toward the ceiling, rather than directly towards its prey.

Firefly hefted his equipment toward a gorgeous array of night blooming 'Casa Blanca' lilies, and took that final, requisite step toward the pitcher plant.

The only warning was the creak of the plant's fibrous material. The pitcher plant swiveled quickly, and used its filiform appendage to scoop Firefly into its cup-shaped belly. Firefly struggled and used his flamethrower, but Ivy had been very smart and careful in breeding this particular darling. A thin veneer of non-flammable liquid coated the inside of the pitcher's plant's body, and the filiform appendage, the cap which kept its prey within, was stronger and heavier than steel bars.

The digestive liquid within—usually non-fatal to humans, but not after Ivy got through with it—made efficient work of the screaming, still-fighting Firefly. It took several minutes for the acid to wear through his uniform, but once it did, his screams became more vehement before tapering off entirely.

It only took 15 minutes. 20, tops.

As soon as she was reasonably sure Firefly was dead, she slunk through her lair, using the power of her babies to cross great chasms and otherwise impassable areas. Within minutes she was standing in the center of her atrium, frowning at the muddy footprints Firefly had tracked in. She stroked the body of her pitcher plant lovingly, knowing not everything on Firefly had been on the menu. Several minutes later, its body quivered, it's filiform appendage opened . . . and it burped up what little remained of Firefly's equipment that it couldn't digest.

"Oh, you magnificent darling," she cooed to her bloodthirsty flora. "You took care of that nasty man for me, didn't you? Was he tasty? Oh, I bet he was . . ."

After she felt her baby had been made much of, and more than thanked for services rendered—it had to eat something after all— Ivy turned her attention to the remains. She wasn't worried about being caught out. Not with Joker's 'three men a day' rule he'd set for her. He wasn't all that fond of Firefly either, twitchy little firebug that he was. No, it was her own morbid interest that caused her to crouch down to investigate the partially digested skull, the only human remains left.

One eye socket remained intact, and the mouth had lost its lower jaw, leaving it open in an endless, silent scream. Ivy cocked her head, and wondered if it was whole enough to mount at the front door, to keep bored henchman out of her domain. The integrity was too damaged, she suspected, and she wasn't sure it would work in any case.

Such thoughts did not disgust her in the least. Her sense of empathy did not extend to Firefly, nor to most of the survivors on the island. I doubt I would have cared even before my change, she thought. Perhaps I did not change as much as Jonathan thought . . .

...

...

December 18th, 20xx

The Green Mile, 2:38 AM

(7 months prior to takeover)

Ivy's first 'session' with Dr. Crane took place a month after his agreement to help. They were to have met two weeks earlier—he had already given her a broad template to work from, and several synthetics he suggested she begin manipulating—but it was also two weeks after the Joker had successfully escaped Arkham, in a breakout that left three guards and one janitor dead, and five more guards and one doctor injured.

Now that the asylum had recovered its equilibrium, it was the time to pay the piper, and Ivy watched quietly as Cash brought Dr. Crane into the room, wearing his straightjacket but sitting unchained to a chair set up just outside her bubble's curve.

"You got half an hour," Cash said brusquely, taking up his place at the door that led to the cell blocks. The other led to Extreme Incarceration, from which there was no escape. He was far enough that he wouldn't overhear them if they spoke quietly, but not too far that he couldn't react if Crane lost it.

"Thank you, Aaron," Ivy said politely. She hadn't had a chance to sink her hooks into him, and wondered how effective her pheromones on him would even be. His interlude with Croc showed incredible courage and strength, and his willingness to come to work every day proved equally impressive stamina and endurance. Still, it didn't hurt to lull him into a sense of false security.

From the amused glint in Crane's eye, he knew what she was about.

He cleared his throat before saying, "Doctor Isley, if we could begin—"

That wouldn't do. "Pamela, please," she interrupted him. "I do not enjoy being called Dr. Isley."

He cocked his head to the side. "Your doctorate was well earned. You were very well regarded in your field. Why does your title bother you?"

There was a vivid flash of memory: Dr. Woodrue breathing hotly on her neck, and stabbing pain down below. His bruising grip on her wrists, and the searing fire of the serum that pulsed through her blood . . . and the mocking way he called her Doctor Isley, all throughout the indignity he had visited upon her person.

Ivy inhaled, reaching for her babies below the bubble, taking comfort in the warm, mindlessness of their existence. "I simply don't like it. I prefer my given name."

"I prefer something a little less personal," he countered. "Is Miss Isley acceptable?"

"Is Professor Crane?" She asked, vaguely curious to see which title he preferred.

The corner of his mouth quirked upward, and she could not tell if it was from amusement or long-suffering annoyance. "Harley calls me that. I was her professor, once. You may call me that if you wish. Now, to begin—"

"You want to know my fears, yes—"

"No, no, let me be the psychologist here, Miss Isley." He said, a mild reprimand in his tone. "We have some time now that the Joker has escaped the asylum. I've no doubt that Harley will stage her own attempt eventually, which will affect the parameters of the project, but while she is injured and unable to do so, I'd prefer to move carefully."

He'd hate to miss something when this might be his only shot at her fears, Ivy thought ruefully. Let no one ever say he was magnanimous, or concerned with doing the right thing. "All right," she agreed. "Where shall we begin?"

The beginning was somewhat cliche, apparently. "Where did you grow up? What was your family life like?"

She blinked, a little surprised at the banality of the line of inquiry, but answered readily enough. "I grew up in Washington D.C, to distant parents. My mother was a wealthy socialite with a love for opera and travel, and I wouldn't see her for weeks at a time. My father was a radiologist from Georgia, who dabbled in biochemistry. When he remembered I was alive—he tended towards utter absorption in his projects—he would make an effort to connect with me, but for the most part, I was left alone with my plants." She smiled. "Even as a child, I knew what the superior form of life was."

Had he a clipboard, or even an arm free, Ivy felt he would have been industriously scribbling away, right now. "And would you say you were happy as a child?" He asked.

Ivy snorted. "Were any of us?"

Crane raised an eyebrow. "Enlighten me, please."

"No," she admitted. "I was miserable and antisocial. Boys liked me, and I didn't much care. I didn't understand them, or people for the most part, and did not wish to."

He let that be, and there was nothing in his expression that spoke of surprise. He expected all these answers, or perhaps was only asking them to set her at ease. "And in university?" He asked. "I know you completed all your degrees from Seattle University with full scholarship . . ."

If he knew where she studied, he no doubt knew who with. Ivy exhaled quickly through her nose. It didn't matter; she was going to tell him everything anyway. "I went to Seattle and studied botanical chemistry under Dr. Jason Woodrue. It was . . . his experiment that made me what I am today."

He leaned forward, every so lightly; eyes lit. Like a shark who smelled blood in the water, his attention was fixed on her. He'd caught the faintest of hesitations, the hushed echo of her avoidance of Woodrue. From her who was no longer a human being!

Joan was right. He is dangerous, Pamela thought. But so am I.

In opposition to his alert body language, Crane's voice was calm, relaxed, with just a hint of a southern drawl to put her at ease. "I met Dr. Woodrue at a convention once," he offered. "Noxious man, although he seemed intelligent enough. I spent the evening at the canape table, coaxing him into revealing his fears. He was, consequently, afraid of a rather common insect: the praying mantis." His light eyes flicked up to observe her. "I'd also venture that he was . . . unnerved by female superiority. I imagine you were not his favorite pupil."

Ivy knew he was building a rapport with her, even as he was subtly poking the edges of her emotional foundations. Even the faint accent could be because she had said her father was from Georgia. He could suspect part or all of Woodrue's treatment of her, but he couldn't know. Not yet. She had to move forward, and be brave and not remember Woodrue's breath on her face, or the pain administered at his hands . . . as well as other parts.

"No, but it didn't matter," she replied. "I was top of the class and my minor was in toxicology. I found ways to make his projects work, no matter how badly we got on, personally."

"Made them work in more ways than one, it would seem." Crane said, and his visual perusal of her changed body was ironic, rather than lecherous.

She looked down at herself, seeing the alien, green hue of her skin, her nails dark like the bark of a tree. Everything had changed—her voice, her thoughts, her body, her blood, her brain. All because of Woodrue, his experiments, and his mingled hatred and desire for her.

"I don't regret my change," she said, after a moment of quiet. "It was painful and frightening to become this, I won't pretend that it wasn't. But I am what I am. The pain and fear of my human body are far behind me, now, and in the end, all it really did was give a physical delineation to my connection with plantae, and my disconnect from humanity."

A moment later, she smirked. "Besides, new insight into the awareness of my babies is incredibly useful, don't you think?"

"And the pheromonal discharge?" Crane asked, dryly. "I fail to see how that benefits your plants."

"I will admit I never quite understood how that factored into Woodrue's experiment," Ivy lied. She knew exactly why he'd done that, and it had all been a failed attempt to seduce her. "The best I can figure is that he must have used DNA strands from plants that mimic such behavior, whether to attract bees, other cross-pollinators, or perhaps even a food source. That it works the way it currently does may be because I am still part animalia."

"Are you still mammalian?" Crane asked, in what could be for him, a moment of unguarded and not entirely useful curiosity.

Ivy made a face. "The doctors have assured me this is so. I highly doubt I could become pregnant at this point—I'm not viable with any species of plant or animal—but were I to meet and mate with a man entirely like me, I would carry and birth my young just as a human woman would, rather than seed them."

Crane leaned back in his chair, his expression blank. Ivy swallowed down her smirk. She had answered his question in that particular way expressly to make him uncomfortable. Men in Arkham, even self-titled 'Masters of Fear', did not generally enjoy hearing about childbirth, or the carrying of young.

Men were also weak, Ivy decided, and settled back for the inevitable return to Woodrue.

But Crane surprised her. "To paraphrase, Woodrue's experiment turned you from a human doctor into an animal-plant hybrid; a veritable species of your own with no hope of passing on your genes, attributes, or power. You choose to live as an eco-terrorist with the ability to manipulate plant life, and are often in direct opposition with humanity itself. You are alone in your cell in Arkham due to your pheromonal control, and you are almost equally alone when you are free—adrift in the putrid sea of humanity. Did I miss anything?"

Ivy could understand his intent to marginalize, anger, and then subtly connect with her with a surety that surprised her. She had not read people so well when she was one, herself. How was she able to do so now?

"I cannot say otherwise. But how am I any different than you?" She asked. "Apart from the shift in species, could not that argument be presented to you? You are also a terrorist, in the purest sense of the term. You have turned your back on humanity, and you use a powerful, primal emotion to control those around you."

"There is a vast and treacherous ocean between fear and desire, Ms. Isley," Crane reprimanded her.

"Fear and desire are fundamentally opposed, perhaps, but they are linked in their purpose—to manipulate one into behaving along certain parameters," she argued. "It could be argued they are the proverbial carrot and the stick."

"My goal is not simply control or punishment," Crane stressed, losing his icy control for the first time all session. "I want to learn every aspect of fear. My desire to understand it completely, totally, and fully has not dimmed, not even when . . ." He glanced to the right, just beyond her shoulder. "Not even when I am Scarecrow."

There it was again, that strange dichotomy. "Aren't you always Scarecrow?"

Crane went very still, and his thin lips quirked in a small, mirthless smile. "Oh no, Ms. Isley," he said quietly. "You'll know when I am him."

...

...

...

June 26th 20xx

Extreme Incarceration, 8:16 PM

Day 6

It was probably not a good sign when that shithead Wesker and his dinner trolly was accompanied by the Scarecrow, the Joker, and a bunch of the enormously muscled clown-faced goons. It was absolutely not a good sign when they dragged Maxie out of his cell, strapped him down to the main floor, and then made their merry way to the central control tower, where they would be safe from and control the electric currents that acted as a deterrent for escape.

"Oh, don't you dare, you motherfuckers," Selina hissed as she gripped the two, small bars of her cell window. "Joker!" She cried out, louder. "Let him go! He's done nothing to you!"

"Be still, my daughter!" Maxie cried out, not sounding at all upset about the current proceedings. "The Foreign Upstart God's pretensions will take him nowhere. For I am Zeus, god of lightning, and supreme ruler of—"

There was an audible bzzt as the electric floor was switched on, sending thousands of electric volts into the prisoner strapped to the floor. Maxie cut off and arched in pain, spasming as the electricity coursed through his body. It was shut off quickly enough, just a taste.

"Maxie! Are you ok?" Selina called out.

"I . . . am not Maxie," he slurred, and blood bubbled down past his lips when he spoke. He must have bit his tongue, Selina realized, and she hit her cell wall with flat hands.

"Goddamnit, Joker!" She screeched. "Leave him alone!"

The television screen mounted at the top of the control tower flickered on. The Joker sat only centimeters away from the camera, elongating his hideous face. In the background a mask-less Scarecrow, wearing a stained doctor's robe, tapped his syringe-tipped fingers against the console, while Joker's goons stood stiffly, trying not to attract their boss's attention.

"Oh, calm down Selina," the Joker said, his voice echoing violently in the cavernous space. "Unless you want to take his place?"

Selina growled, but before she could tell him exactly where he could stick his threats, Victor spoke up, sounding strained.

"What is the point of this?" He asked. "What will this prove? You have control of the island! You have control of all of us!"

"Yes, yes, yes, but I'm bored!" The Joker whined. "And Zeusie here annoys me, so I figured I'd finally do something about it. So sit back and relax, kiddos, because it's time for the show!"

With a hysterical cackle, the Joker brought a gloved finger to the console. He pressed an innocuous button, and the floor glowed blue for a moment before electricity began dancing on the surface.

Maxie Zeus's moan turned into a scream. The torture lasted longer this time, and Selina had to look away as he began jolting almost uncontrollably as the voltage coursed through him. She grit her teeth to keep from screaming like a dockwhore, and potentially turning Joker's attention onto her.

After it was turned off there was a long moment of silence, where all she could hear were Maxie's harsh, strained attempts to breathe. Too soon, there was the faint hum of the floor turning on, and then Maxie was screaming again, flopping like a rag doll against his constraints.

Silence, and then it all happened again.

After the fourth jolt, Maxie was no longer coherent. He cried openly, weak and pathetic. "Stop," he begged. "Please. Stop."

"Oh, whyyyyy would I do thaaaaat?" The Joker sing-songed. "This is really the best entertainment I've had all day, wouldn't you say, Whiskers?"

Arnold Wesker cringed, and then shoved his puppet forward.

"I'm always down for a good barbecue, boss," Scarface said. "I say, fry him!"

Wesker whimpered, clearly not quite in agreement. Being cruel to her was one thing—the worst thing he'd done was throw her sandwich on the floor—but electrocuting a man to death was apparently beyond his scope for comfort.

"Oh, buck up fattie," the puppet continued. "Don't be such a girl."

Somehow, this last penetrated Zeus's failing mind. "Amelia?" He called out, voice quavering. "Amelia, is that you?"

"Oh lord," Victor said, loudly enough for Selina to hear. The sympathy in his removed voice was enough to tip her over the edge.

She threw herself at the window again, but this time her attention was all on Maxie. "She's waiting for you, Dad!" She called out. "She's on—" she hesitated, having forgotten the name of Zeus's haunt for just a moment. "Mount Olympus! She's waiting for you at the top of Mount Olympus! All the gods are, but particularly her!"

It was not her finest moment, but she was fighting back tears. Zeus was physically and psychologically broken, and in his death throes was hallucinating his dead wife. She had witnessed terrible atrocities, but never something as horrendous and senseless as this.

"Oh, this is just touching," the Joker sneered. "Zeusie, let me tell you: there is no one on Mount Olympus. We torched your bar months ago. Everyone in it died, and your wife died years ago—"

"Go to her!" Victor bellowed, cutting through the Joker's amplified taunt. "Your goddess awaits you! Your kingdom awaits! Do not make Amelia wait, Zeus!"

Through an immense effort of will, Maxie picked his head up off the floor. "Hades," he rasped, in a final moment of coherence. "Artemis." He licked his lips. "I will not forget this."

"Neither will we!" The Joker exclaimed, and he jammed his finger down on the button. The shock was too much for Maxie. There was not even breath to scream—his body locked up, his eyes bulged from their sockets, and his body lit from within, illuminating his skeleton . . . and then he was gone. His body jerked on the floor like a hunk of wood, but he was beyond the reach of pain and fear and madness.

"Goddamnit!" Selina screamed, so utterly enraged that she couldn't think straight. "Fucking goddamn you, Joker! You will pay for this! This is the end, do you hear me? I will fucking end you! I'll fucking end you all!"

"Oooooooh!" The Joker squealed, before his voice turned husky. "You are certainly welcome to try. I can hardly imagine what you'll do when you're locked up in that block like a rat in a cage, but cats are supposed to be clever, aren't they? I'm sure you'll figure out something."

She screamed in rage, but Victor took up the crusade. "I will not stand for this, Joker!" He bellowed. "This is Extreme Incarceration, not your playground! I have kept my peace, but if you push me, you will discover how dangerous I can be even without my suit!"

That was unexpected enough to cut through Selina's rage. Victor's power over ice and cold didn't turn off, obviously, but she had thought he was as trapped as she was . . .

The Joker looked more interested than worried. "Oh, are you saying you'll break out of your cell to come get me? You'd have to deep freeze the entire room to survive, you know, and it's so big you might not even be able to do that."

"If it means getting to you . . ." Victor said, trailing off menacingly in his clipped, educated accent.

The Joker tapped his chin. "It would also mean killing poor little Selina, in the cell right next to yours. There's no way she'd survive the drop in temperature so close to the locus point. Oh, what a dilemma. Kill me and Selina and possibly yourself . . . or sit in your cell and be a good boy for a little longer. Hmmm. Decisions, decisions . . ."

"Don't be foolish, Victor," Selina said quietly, hoping he would hear and the Joker would not. "There will be another chance. Wait for it, no matter what he does. We can outlast him. We will defeat him."

"What was thaaaaaaat?" The Joker said, crowding the camera with a hand to his ear. "Something about ordering takeout?"

Victor said nothing, either mulling over her advice or sulking.

"That's what I thought," the Joker said smugly. "The game's not over yet, you two. I'm inordinately excited. It's going to be fuuuun!"

"You should just kill her now," Scarface argued. "Dames are always trouble, mark my words."

Wesker nodded emphatically, and Selina growled at him. Twerpy asshole, she was going to give him a piece of her boot the next time he fed her. She'd find a way to hurt him first.

"No, no, I have plans for her," the Joker waved them off dismissively. "But I suppose there's no harm in uh, buttering her up, first. Or is it softening her up first? Oh, I remember now. It's making her live through a panoply of her greatest terrors and worst nightmares, first!"

Selina froze. Oh, shit. Oh, shit, Scarecrow was in the control tower and she'd forgotten all about him.

The Joker offered up his signature Glasgow smile. "Oh, Johnny!" He called out, merrily. "Want in on the game?"

Scarecrow glanced over from where he'd been sitting, industriously scribbling away in his notebook. "As long as it's more educational than that," he said with a calm voice, tipping his head towards Zeus's corpse. "There was not much room for fear in his last moments."

The Joker swung the chair around, his long legs kicking out to give him more momentum. "No, but this is right up your alley! There's a cat that needs to see the doctor, if you know what I mean."

"I do," Scarecrow agreed, the corner of his mouth turning up into a small, but unmistakably pleased, smile. "I'm not much of an animal person, but I'm sure I could make an exception, just this once."

"Oh, shit," Selina breathed, and backed away to the far corner of her cell. "Shit, shit, shit!" A few years back she'd been dosed with Scarecrow's fear toxin, and it had been the worst fifteen minutes of her life. Bruce had given her his spare antidote, leaving him wide open for one of Crane's double-doses, and she'd barely been able to buy him the time he'd needed to master his fear and help her defeat Crane. It took him almost ten minutes to overcome it, and he'd kept fighting all the while. When she'd been dosed, she'd collapsed to the ground, twitching and crying until she'd received the antidote.

I have to be like Bruce, she thought in a panic, as she heard the control tower door open, and Crane's steps echo across the floor. I have to be like Batman. I have to be strong. I have to overcome my fears.

In no time at all Scarecrow was peering through the window, angling his non-syringe-tipped hand through the bars, holding a small aerosol can.

Selina looked up at him defiantly, gripping her hands into fists.

"Think of the bat, Ms. Kyle," he murmured.

She sucked in a surprised breath, and he sprayed his toxin into the room at the same moment. It was a small, controlled spritz, but as the air flow was so stagnant it was enough. She inhaled the chemicals almost immediately. There was only time to imagine Batman's costumed back, and the image of the bat signal projected onto the night sky.

After that, there was only terror.

Again, there's going to be little nods to the actual Arkham Asylum game, and Maxie Zeus being tortured with electricity (but not to death, if I remember correctly?) is a big one. The room where Sharp had strapped him to an electric chair made me jump the first time I played, and it really stuck with me, apparently.