Do you know what the most stressful part of Arkham City was? The flipping phone calls from Victor Zsasz. STOP USING TECHNOLOGY VICTOR IT WAS TOO MUCH FOR ME.


Chapter 5: Drink Me


June 27th 20xx

The Dock, Arkham West, 6:06 AM

Day 7

Victor Zsasz's body was found on the dock at sunrise on the seventh day. He was laid out on his back, blood dripping down through the wooden slats into Gotham Bay. He had been stabbed three times; once in each femoral artery, and his chest. Afterwards, his throat had been slit. His eyes were open, and his face was twisted into an odd expression. It was difficult to tell whether it verged more towards fear, or, more strangely, elation.

Above his head was a crude but unmistakable bat symbol, painted with smears of his blood. That, paired with Zsasz's nebulous facial expression, sparked rumors that Batman was on the island. If so, he'd have to be desperate enough to kill; a clear departure from his previous modus operandi. Inmates whispered theory after theory to one another. Batman was injured maybe, biding his time certainly . . . but he may just be there after all.

Odd how there was equal parts hope to fear, at that rumor.

...

...

June 27th 20xx

Resistance Bunker, 9:18 AM

Day 7

It took about three hours for those in the Resistance Bunker to learn about Victor Zsasz's demise, via one of Joker's ever-present PA announcements, and just like the inmates, they had mixed feelings about it.

"Thank fucking god," Bill sighed. "That's one big name psycho down."

"Hope Scarecrow's the next to go," Zach muttered.

Aaron leaned against the far wall, deep in thought and glowering. Raoul bowed his head, his lips moving soundlessly in prayer. Joan was impressed that his level of faith allowed him to (however briefly) mourn the passing of such a man. Hers certainly didn't.

"Do you really think it was Batman?" Taylor asked, hopefully. "Maybe he's on the island now!"

"Nah," Mike said. "Batman never kills. At least, never like that. I could see an accident here or there, but painting the docks red with Zsasz's blood? Doesn't sound like the big man to me."

"Unless the Joker was exaggerating," Taylor pointed out. "Maybe the bat symbol was done in red spray paint, or something."

"Batman's not on the island," Aaron said, in a tone of complete finality. "We'd know. We'd all know."

There was a moment of chastised quiet before Louie picked up the conversational baton.

"My bet's on Prometheus, then," Louie said, nodding at Joan. "He's Batman's 'Dark Mirror,' after all, according to the doc. Coulda thought he was being altruistic. Or maybe Zsasz just pissed him off."

Joan agreed with him, although there was enough leeway to make her uncertain. Most, if not all, of the residents on Arkham Asylum were defined by Batman, either in alignment or in opposition. Prometheus may have used the bat symbol (again, as long as Joker wasn't lying about all of this over his loudspeaker report) to identify with the hero . . . or someone may have used it ironically, or even simply to spread fear.

"It's impossible to say with the little information we have," she said. "Honestly, I'm more of a mind with Bill. If Zsasz's death means that we—or any of the inmates—make it out of this mess alive, I cannot mourn his passing."

She glanced over at Aaron, but he was steadfastly looking away from her. His right hand was wrapped tightly around his wrist, as if his false hand needed it to stay on.

Anxious tick, Joan thought, categorizing it as she would any other patient. Something has upset him, and I'm willing to bet it's not Zsasz.

Of course it's not, you idiot. He's upset because of you!

Aaron hadn't made eye contact with her since their misadventure in her office, even though they had come out, as far as she could tell, entirely on top. No loss of life on their side, no being discovered, her notes were all destroyed and could not be replicated. Win all around. So why then, was Aaron so pointedly ignoring her after a solid week of hovering?

What confounded her even more than his behavior was her own. Just yesterday she had been bemoaning her loss of freedom, as well as her shoelaces. Now, she was jittery and anxious in her own skin, and wanted nothing more than to go over there and make him talk to her. The loss of his attention had set her adrift, and she was beginning to understand Stephan's coming apart at the seams.

She needed him to annoy her. How could she be strong without that?

But it wasn't just that, she was honest enough to admit it, if only to herself. She needed all that he was and all he represented in a most immediate sense—her safety and survival depended on him, more than any other man in the bunker. He'd been head of security for the past eight years, part of the security team for five more, and knew more than anyone on the island—save for a few of the most dangerous inmates—its secrets and safety measures. If he couldn't keep her safe—keep them all safe—who could?

Joan looked down. But even that wasn't the full truth. She needed him, period. She needed his bullheaded attitude, his capability, his querulous strength. She needed his quick-witted intelligence, his vivid courage, quiet curiosity; his sassy rejoinders and hidden kindness.

All this and more was why she'd slowly, reluctantly, and completely helplessly fallen in love with him.

Joan let her head fall back against the bunker wall. She didn't like to admit it, even to herself, but she'd known about her feelings for Aaron for a long time. Long before the Killer Croc accident three years ago, and even before the uprising five years ago. Not before he'd married Letitia; back then he was just the guy her best friend was dating. It also wasn't when, a few years into their marriage, with little 3 year-old Daniel pitter-pattering through the house on bare feet and chattering adorably about cweamy peanut buttew, Letitia turned to her and said oh, did she know her man had just gotten a position at Arkham Asylum?

Joan had not known that, nor had she cared over much, not when she was finishing up her education and looking for a job of her own. Even when she came to Arkham a decade ago, it had been with nothing more than a sense of relief that she would know someone on her first day. But that had undoubtedly been the beginning. After years of working together, interacting in Arkham situations that ran the gamut from tedious to fraught to absolutely disastrous; offset by family parties, barbecues, holidays, and other outings outside of work; seeing him at his best and worst to really understand his calibre. Once that happened, she was lost. She had no idea how Letitia had the fortune to pick a man as steady and loyal and good as him, (Letty had always been a bit of a flitter bug, going from one good thing to the next, never taking it seriously) but once Joan saw it, there was no unseeing it.

For a good three years she fought it, carefully moderating her emotions around him and going on dates with every college-educated male within a fifty mile radius, but it was to no avail. There was no one she could care for more than Aaron Cash, for all his faults and foibles. No matter how hard she tried otherwise.

Yet he was a monogamous man and she a loyal woman and friend, so there was no point in attempting. Not when he was married to Letitia, her best friend, as well as completely uninterested in her. So she resigned herself to being a career woman. No family, no children, no blood-line legacy . . . just her work and the people she could help within the walls of the Asylum.

There were worse things, and most days she could content herself with all the good she was doing.

These were not most days.

There was the sound of scuffling feet from the hallway, and everyone glanced toward the hallway. Stephen Kellerman made his way from the bedroom, stepping gingerly into the main room of the bunker. His eyes were wide, as if surprised to see all of them awake and present.

"What did I miss?" He asked tiredly. Everyone had started asking that first thing after they woke up, knowing that the answer would invariably be more bad than good.

Raoul tapped the chair next to him, which was vacated by an exhausted Jackson, who was more than ready to take Stephan's bunk.

"Come sit with us," he invited.

At the same time, Louie said, "Zsasz is down."

"Hallelujah," Javier muttered, although he quieted at Raoul's stern look.

"Victor Zsasz?" Stephen repeated, astounded. "Good lord, that's unexpected. I'd always thought the man was too mean to die!"

Joan agreed, although she was not his primary therapist. She remembered the close call with Sarah Cassidy, however, and how only the Batman had been able to keep her from becoming yet another victim. He'd been assigned to Stephen shortly after, who had the good fortune not to be singled out as Sarah had.

Joan suspected that Zsasz found him boring. Joan also suspected that Stephen was carefully cultivating this opinion.

"Yeah well, some Batman wannabe kook took him out," Louie continued.

Stephen listened to the situation intently, and when it was over he leaned back in his chair. "It must be Prometheus. He's been growing steadily more obsessed with Batman over the last few months, and he'd started to refer to himself as if he were Batman."

"Do you think he'll keep offing baddies on the island?" Bill asked, with not much hope in his voice.

Stephen looked over at her. She shrugged. Prometheus hadn't been her patient. She didn't even know the man's name, although from what they did know of his life—he'd come from hippie parents who lived in a trailer, hadn't given him a social security number, and robbed and killed indiscriminately—his name could be anything from King Priam to Sunshine.

Some things were better off not knowing.

"I think so," Stephen murmured. "Whether or not this develops into a full-scale conflagration of war and retributory acts, I can't tell."

Louie sighed and slumped in his chair. "Yeah, I'm surprised Joker's been able to keep the lid on the island for as long as he has. How is he keeping the inmates from rising up and killing each other? The gangs alone should be going at it, but they're all sticking to the crazy fucking clown!"

The men at the table splintered into conversations. Bill argued that the Joker had more tricks up his sleeve, and Louie wanted to vent. Javier played devil's advocate and mentioned new strictures Joker could implement to keep everyone in line.

During all this, it appeared that Raoul was teaching Stephen how to pray the Lord's Prayer in Spanish. Joan was more interested in that, to be honest. She had noticed Stephen taking quiet moments with Raoul, Jackson, and Javier, who were the three practicing Roman Catholics in the bunker. It appeared that Stephen was attempting to take solace in their faith. Seeing the calming effect it had on him, she could only approve. Only a day or so ago she had feared he was reaching the breaking point, and anything that could keep him from toppling over was a godsend.

"Joan? Do you have a moment?"

She'd finally gotten Aaron Cash off her mind, and here he was reeling her back in again. She glanced up at him and nodded. He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor next to her, next to the huge crate of canned corn and whisky. He fiddled with his wooden hand. Joan, having eschewed the greater amount of social delicacies during her tenure on Arkham Asylum, stared at him until he found his words.

"Joan, I'm sorry you had to see that, the other day," he said quietly, yet distinctly. He did not look at her.

Something inside of her unclenched. That was what he was worried about? That was why he had avoided her? It made sense, but was so ancillary to her own fears that it almost made her laugh. "I'm not," she said bluntly.

His eyes cut in her direction but did not quite connect. "You—what? Wait, are we talking about the same thing, here?"

"I'm referring to your killing several inmates, yes," she said. "Unless you were talking about your unseemly obsession with my shoelaces, I am fairly sure I am on the right track."

"Unseemly obsession—" He sputtered, surprised into making eye contact with her. "Joan, you watched me slice someone's throat with my hook. His blood is on your clothes, because of me, and you're saying it doesn't bother you?"

The relief that he wasn't avoiding her for something she'd done, as well as the general fear of the situation—day seven of hiding on a madhouse island run by the Joker—made her brave. She leaned forward, and moving carefully, took his wooden hand between her own. The gesture would have held more weight had it been his hook, but she'd have to make do, here.

"Aaron," she enunciated clearly, "I see where you're coming from. I really do. But I've had some time to think it over, and I've decided I'd much rather deal with the aftermath than the alternative."

His dark eyes searched hers, looking for the lie she was not telling.

"Besides," she continued with a wry smile. "I was never very squeamish. I have a rating system on how artistic the blood spray is in gory films, remember?"

"But I did that," he murmured, his eyes still fixed on hers. "I killed a man in front of you. You, who took an oath to care for all those who needed it."

"If you're referring to the Hippocratic Oath, I should let you know that psychologists don't actually take that."

"Oh, don't give me that. You live that oath, Joan, don't pretend like you aren't here to do all the good you can!"

"And you are here to protect those lives," Joan argued, her tone rising before she remembered herself and brought it back down to a whisper. "I know as well as you that sometimes, sacrifices must be made for the greater good. Even if that weren't the case, it was clearly self-defense. My defense, even." They were staring at each other from a distance of six inches now, their expressions sparking with a mixture of anger and anxiety.

"I just—" Aaron cut off, dropping to a mumble, "I just don't want you to think of me differently. I don't want things to change because of this."

Joan's heart undertook a hard, fast double-thump. Lord help her, but this was a moment of vulnerability. From the man who could stop a riot with one hand behind his back, talk a (sane) inmate into his cell four times out of five, and had stood up to Killer Croc again and again and again, it was powerful enough. Coming from the man that Joan had loved—Jesus save her, loved—for at least the last seven years—eight years? Who even knew anymore?—it was devastating.

She wanted to take his other hand, feel the warm flesh of it against her own. She wanted to throw herself into his lap. She wanted to kiss him. She settled for blinking back an unexpected sting of tears and saying, "If you're saying I'm going to think differently of you because I've seen you kill a man, I might have to pencil you in for an appointment, Aaron." She gripped his wooden hand harder, pretending it was the real one. "Nothing will ever change the man I see," she continued, hoping the words would be oblique enough to hide the feeling with which they were delivered. "Nothing."

Stephen's voice rose above the din. "Sancti—santificado sea . . ."

"Sanctificado sea tu nombre, Stephen. Good, good. Try again." Raoul counselled him.

The moment broke. The men arguing Joker's tactics were now looking past Stephen's attempts to learn the Lord's Prayer—Joan assumed he must know the English equivalent already, otherwise what was the point—and were pointedly averting their gaze from Aaron and Joan.

Joan belatedly let go of his hand and thanked the Lord for her dark skin which did not show blushes easily.

Stephen, who did not realize his colleague had been caught in a semi-compromising position, continued blithely on. "Sanctificado sea tu nombre. Venga tu reino . . ."

Leaning back in his chair so as to have a clear view of his superior, Bill North asked, "What are we gonna do about the compound, Aaron?"

"What compound?" He asked, his voice gritty. The man needed sleep more than anyone, Joan thought, if he had forgotten that already.

"You know, Ivy's and the Doc's special serum?" Bill said, cutting his gaze over to her and giving her a nod.

Raoul lay a hand on Stephen's arm, interrupting their prayer.

"The notes are destroyed," Louie pointed out. "Can't we just let it rest?"

"Not if they find the finished product," Aaron growled. "Shit. We need to find out where the product was moved." He turned to look at her, and his gaze was intense. "Any idea who would know where it went?"

"Sharp," she said, sighing. "He was the one who ordered the closure of the project, he'd be the one to know where it went."

"Well he's no help to us now," Bill muttered.

"He could have left documentation in his office," Joan said reluctantly.

"He couldn't be that stupid, surely?" Stephan asked.

Everyone in the room gave Stephen Kellerman a look of censure. Raoul's was more pitying, but Stephen quailed under their combined efforts.

"I doubt there's anything explicit written down, seeing as any paper trail could be used by his political adversaries, but if there's any hint as to the compound's location, it would be in his office," Joan allowed, trying to defend her colleague.

"And what exactly are we looking for, then?" Aaron asked, back to the charged-up, combative persona he adopted in crises.

"Anything," she sighed. "We need to find that compound and destroy it. We cannot let it fall into Joker's hands!"

"Joan, we don't even know if it worked—"

"There was a definite effect, Aaron—"

"None of that even matters," Bill interrupted them, holding up his hands when they turned to fix him with twin glares. "Look, the point is, Joker's a more than competent chemist, and he's got Scarecrow working for him. Who knows what they'll do with the base formula, or whatever it is. They could twist it into Laughing Gas 2.0 or Fear Toxin Ultra. I don't know. I don't want to know. And if they do, and unleash it over Gotham, I don't want to sit here, safe, knowing I could've stopped it."

"But we don't know if Sharp kept any sort of documentation," Aaron argued. "This could just be a fool's errand where we do get killed!"

"Not necessarily," Louie argued, fairly coherently for a man who'd been taken surreptitious shots of whisky for the past hour. "There's a passage that leads to that end of the mansion, and as far as we can tell, Joker's holed up in Intensive Treatment. If we time it just right . . ."

"Maybe during one of his 'Joker games,'" suggested Bill. "It's not like anyone on the island can miss when one of those starts. There's PA announcements before each one!"

"It's crazy enough that it might just work," Louie finished. "As long as the game doesn't take place in the mansion, at least."

"This is gonna get us killed," Aaron said flatly. "Tell me I am not the only person who recognizes that."

Joan stood, dusting off her pants as she did so. It was an entirely superfluous gesture, as her clothes were stained with dirt, blood, sweat, and whiskey. They needed to find more clothes, soon, she thought, before answering Aaron's statement.

"Very possibly," she allowed. "But this is more important than our survival."

"How can you think like that?" He asked her standing and shifting away from her, towards the table.

Joan sighed deeply. "I realize that you have other considerations to live for. I don't have the family you do, the way many of you do," she said, addressing them all. "But I have my purpose, and it is to help broken people by healing their broken minds. And because I work in Arkham Asylum, easily the most dangerous institution of its kind, I am aware that any failure on my part could mean the injury or death of myself. Others. An entire city. Maybe all of New Jersey. The world.

"I have a responsibility to myself, and to everyone I ever knew, to keep the Joker from finding the compound. Doubly so as I was the one to engineer its creation. Whatever happens with that formula, it will be on my head. I cannot let this happen. I will not let this happen."

There was a moment of silence before Bill snagged Louie's full shot glass, downed it, and then said, "And I'm gonna help. I'm with ya, Doc."

Joan smiled at his support, but Aaron's hand came down on his shoulder.

"No, you are not," he said, quietly. "I need you to run the bunker—"

"Aaron, this is too important—" Bill argued, but Aaron rode over him.

"I need you at the bunker while I go with Doctor Leland," he finished. "You're my second in command, and if Star Trek has taught us anything, it's that Number 2 stays with the ship when the captain is away."

Joan blinked, and then blinked again. She had no idea he liked Star Trek. Could the man be any more perfect?

Aaron looked around the table. "You all are about to drop," he noted. "So I'll take Brian, Javier, and Taylor when their sleep shift is over. I'll crash with them until then. We'll scout twice, and after the plan is finalized, wait in the tunnels until the next Joker Game is announced. Then move in. Joan? Get whatever you need done, now."

"Yes, sir," she murmured.

Raoul crossed himself, and a moment later, Stephen did as well.

...

...

June 27th 20xx

Intensive Treatment Control Center, 11:18 AM

Day 7

The Joker spun in his padded chair, kicking his long, spindly legs to keep the momentum going. Everything was going according to plan, his games were in full sway, chaos had taken full control of the island . . . and he was feeling . . . oh, how would he put it? A touch missish?

No, not missish. Not today. Not exactly. But there was something that was bothering him, perhaps? Yes, he was bothered. By . . . by . . . ?

He snapped his fingers when it came to him. The serum, of course! He'd had control over the island for a full week and still had no idea what it did, where it was, who had made it in the first place . . .

Wellllllll to be fair, he did have a decent idea of who had made it. But even there, there were some lurking doubts. Johnny was the genius chemist, but there was simply no evidence of him creating the stuff! Even after Joker had reviewed the security footage from his wing for the last year, there was no sign of Johnny sneaking off to create a new formula.

(There was a surprising amount of footage of him being led off by Cash in the middle of the night, which was intriguing. Especially as he hadn't found where he'd been led to, yet. And it was when he was under Joan Leland's jurisdiction. Late night talks with the doc? Maybe, although probably not about anything good. She was known for eschewing drugs and favoring more behavioural techniques, so meeting him at 3:00 AM was likely just a power play, or a way of getting him off guard. Borrrringgggggg. It was way more fun to pretend that they were teaming up for some ungodly reason, or hell, reenacting his and Harley's courtship. Why not? It wasn't like Joan Leland was involved with the secret serum project. She was way too boring for that, and a total stick in the mud, who was always frowning at him and telling Harley to break up with him.

Boring. Borring. Borrrrring. Borrrrrinnnnggggggg.)

Buuuuuuuut on the other hand, Scarecrow really was a one trick pony. That fear stuff was a laugh, sure, but to branch out? No. It wasn't Johnny. But then who?

Penelope Young, perhaps? Ah, but Zsasz had killed her, before being killed off himself. And her office had been ransacked, which led to some kind of exciting stuff, but not the particular brand of stuff Joker was looking for. Had to be one of the other docs, then, but none of the remaining ones seemed to know anything about it. Their time facing physical and psychological torture assured him of that.

Eddie probably would have known, before he'd been beaten into insensibility. . . The Joker sighed before setting his feet—size 11, spats firmly in place—on the floor. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. Used to be the smartest man here, and now he was a drivelling wreck on Hush's table. Least he was still alive—Tommy really had done fantastic work, just phenomenal, really, his skills were absolutely wasted on his villainous vigilante career— but who was to say if he could even talk?

Maybe he should have thought twice about beating him nearly to death?

Joker nahh'd. He'd figure it out on his own. Easy come, easy go!

...

...

June 27th 20xx

Extreme Incarceration, 2:27 PM

Day 7

Selina came to awareness suddenly, unexpectedly; so breathlessly frightened that she could only manage a huffy little scream. It was not loud enough to echo in her cement holding cell, and thus did not draw Victor's attention. She lay back against the cold, hard floor of the cell, her heart thudding wildly, her eyes tracking the four, close corners of her abode. The last vestiges of the visions were present, and the nightmares would haunt her for weeks to come, but for now, the fear slowly faded away.

It shouldn't have, of course. Not without the antidote. Those who were under the influence of Crane's fear toxin were usually permanently addled, or so highly traumatised they were useless for years after. She also knew her own limits, and was under no illusions about her own resistance to the toxin. That she was coherent meant he had to have given her a smaller, less concentrated dose. And what had he said just before applying it? Think of the bat?

Thinking of Batman made her stronger. Made them all stronger, to be honest. He had to know that—he was a brilliant psychologist, after all. Putting that all together . . .

He's trying to help me without openly going against the Joker, she realized. But why? They weren't friends, nor could they stand each other. The only members of the gallery he gave the time of day to were Hatter and Harley, on the off occasion that they were in Arkham, and he felt like a game of chess or indulging in a scathing psychological discussion on an inmate, guard, or fellow doctor.

Otherwise he was a certifiable loner misanthropist who was, historically, trigger happy with his toxin and high-pitched giggle.

The entire situation didn't make sense, particularly when she was coming off of a Scarecrow fear trip. At the moment, however, she was prepared to live with the mystery. All she immediately wanted was to sit quietly and be grateful she wasn't dead. And as Victor wasn't shouting, singing, shaking the metaphorical bars of his own cage she could safely assume he was asleep and/or meditating, and that meant she got to sit in quiet for a time.

She'd tell him she was ok, later. For now . . . Selina pulled herself up and crawled over to the door, where they had left her a ham and cheese sandwich and a water bottle. At least it wasn't bologna. She ate slowly, counting thirty chews before each swallow, and by the time she'd finished her meal she had come to several determinations.

Bruce had not yet come for her, and that meant that he couldn't.

She had no idea how she felt about that. It was simply too large and frightening to consider head on.

There was dissension in the camp, but it was an undercurrent. Joker was still firmly in charge, and there was no love lost between them.

She was trapped in E.I with no help forthcoming, and she had no idea what to do next.

Selina laid her head back against the wall, breathed in deeply, and tried not to panic.

Several hours later, she was jostled out of a light doze by the mechanized doors to the E.I. activating. Feeling quite a bit better, Selina scrambled up and called out to Victor.

"Heya, Vic! Know what time it is?" She hoped it was dinner time.

His reply was immediate, and the relief in his voice was gratifying. "Selina! You're all right?"

Oops. Maybe she should have let him know sooner?

"Aha. Yep. Apparently. Nine lives and all that."

Selina's German was rusty, but she would guess his response to that was something along the lines of thank god for that, or may I please kill the cat?

As she said, her German = no bueno.

Before she could formulate a response, Jervis Tetch hopped up to glance in her cell. He was so short that he barely cleared the opening, but Selina caught a glimpse of his eyes—wide, and frightened.

"Jervis?"

"There's not much time!" He exclaimed in a stage whisper. "They're coming to hurt you, Alice, and I can't let that happen. But I can't protect you—you have to protect yourself!"

Does no one here know my name? She wondered, before she remembered that Victor, at least, did. Well, that made it official. He was her new favorite, she was calling it now.

"Protect myself? With what?"

"Yourself," he replied, his voice serious. "Have you never killed someone before?"

What had her life become that she was having a Murder Talk with Mad Hatter? Her eyes narrowed. "You know, I try not to do that," she hedged. "My boyfriend doesn't like it so much."

He hopped up again so she got a clear look of his face. He looked worried? Concerned? Yeah, that couldn't bode well.

"I suspected as much," he muttered. "Come here, come here!"

Selina did, because hey, what if he let her out? Her hopes were dashed when he tossed a vial at her, which she fumbled to catch. Upon doing so, she saw the label quite helpfully read, 'DRINK ME.'

"Uhhhh," she said, intelligently.

"It will break down inhibitive barriers, and allow you to do what you need to do. And do it you must. This cannot be allowed to happen. It's wrong."

Selina's blood ran cold. Jervis was one of the crazier inhabitants of Arkham, and if he was putting his foot down on an issue, it couldn't be good.

"What's wrong? What's happening?"

"They're coming," he said, his voice full of terror. "They thought you'd still be a prisoner to Scarecrow's fear, but Crane told me you wouldn't. I'm sorry, but I can't do any more than this. Good luck, Alice. Be strong."

He scuttled away, ignoring Selina's cries for him to come back and explain. He ignored Victor entirely, and after he left there was a good ten minutes of staring out at the E.I. main chamber, hoping he would come back again and assuring Victor she wasn't actually going to drink the mysterious substance her newest drug dealer had given her.

But then the doors opened again. This time, Arnold Wesker led them, and he did not bring the dinner trolley. Instead, he had three of the most notorious non-super criminals with him—all of them jailed for murder and rape.

"Oh, shit," Selina breathed, just as Victor started yelling holy hell.

The creativity and vehemence of Victor's threats were such that Wesker actually paused in his approach to her cell to address them.

"You could, in fact, do all that," he said in his reedy voice. "And you would likely be able to kill all four of us before we could escape. But then Ms. Kyle would die as well. And then . . . you."

Scarface laughed.

When the hell had he grown a pair? God, she was beginning to wonder who the fuck the puppet actually was—the wooden doll or the human. She decided then and there, when she escaped she was going to roast the Joker alive. Wesker would be the appetizer, however, and she had other, better plans for him. She'd make him wear his own intestines as jewelry before she let him die.

She looked down at the vial in her hand and knew what she had to do.

"I've got this, Vic," she called out, pulling on a bravado she did not feel. "But just in case I don't . . . Tell B I love him."

She threw back the contents of the vial, ignoring Victor's renewed attempts to hold Wesker's attention, and the jeering of the men he'd brought with him. They were activating the bridge that led to her cell now, and she was just swallowing the last of the drug. The chemical taste of the liquid made her gag, but the effects were immediate. The world became sharp, clear, slow, and she had never been so light and strong. Her entire being felt like a weapon, her body a perfect extension of her mind's singular desire—to destroy her enemies.

To survive.

The door opened and she threw the vial at the face of the first man in without conscious decision to do so. She rushed after it, surprising them with her speed, although she'd always been quick. The man swore and ducked the vial, but could not dodge her fists. One quick, uninhibited blow crushed his trachea, and he fell gasping to the floor, dying.

The other two swore and rushed her, one swinging a knife to subdue her, the other a baseball bat. Both were too clumsy and slow to touch her in her current state. Even had she not been drugged, she knew the confines of her cell better than they, and the one with the bat was stymied by his inability to swing without hitting his partner or the walls.

It was he that she targeted first. Graceful as a ballerina, smoother and more coherently than she'd ever managed before, she kicked herself off of the knife-wielder, shoving him to the far end of the cell. Using that momentum, she front handspringed toward the man with the baseball bat. She threw her legs around neck in a deadlier variation of the popular wrestling move, the hurricanrana. Before he could get her off, she brought her weight to bear, twisted, and snapped his neck between her thighs.

That took more time than she had to spare, however. The last goon recovered and sliced her with his weapon, tearing a superficial, diagonal gash down her back and left arm. Thankfully she was already in motion, using the momentum as the body fell to the floor to propel herself in the opposite direction.

Ignoring the hot gush of blood dripping down past her fingertips, she turned to face the last attacker. Again without her conscious choice, she assumed a martial position she had seen Bruce adopt many times in the past.
And then it was as if his voice came out of her lips. "Feeling lucky, punk?" She asked, in exactly his deadpan tone.

It was almost enough to make the last man hesitate. But baser thoughts controlled him. He pulled out another knife, licked his lips, and rushed her, blades held at the ready.

Violence was the beginning and end of her understanding. The scent of blood was in the air, and the world blurred around her as she moved. Yet it felt as if it was not just Bruce's voice, his movements inspiring her. She felt as if she was Bruce; was Batman. She could almost see the dark swirl of his cape as she used the wall as a launching point, gaining speed and momentum over her foe. She could almost feel the cowl over the smooth skin and delicate bones of her face.

It was this that inspired her to take a more direct approach to the rapist. Rather than flipping over him, she slid in below and between his blades, surprising him just long enough to put a move into practice she'd learned, but never utilized—rapid jabs to the stomach, nose, and then the throat.

The rapist's eyes bulged and expelled a spittle-laden, loud exhale. His knives clattered to the floor. His knees gave out soon after, and Selina had barely enough presence of mind to move out of the way as he fell. Before she could move for the doorway, however, it slammed shut, Wesker's furious face glaring at her through the window.

There were two bodies in the room with her. Wesker must have removed one, along with the baseball bat. And she was unsure whether the last was dead or not, but her exhaustion and malnutrition was catching up to her. This, coupled with the fading adrenaline, was enough for the world to grow dim at the edges of her vision.

Victor called out to her, and she remembered the odd sound of her own voice as she responded, but later she had no idea what she said. All she could think of to do was to sit with her back against the wall, and stare at the maybe-dead guy until she couldn't remember anything else.

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June 28th 20xx

Medical Center Grounds, 8:19 AM

Day 8

Ivy had not thought boredom would be a part of her tenure in Joker's Regime, but then again, she had been wrong before. Even Harley's visit—their third such sleepover—was not enough to assuage her moody curiosity as to how the other denizens of the island were doing. So, in a move so direct and unlike her that even she was surprised, she escorted Harley to the Medical Center the next morning.

Harley chirped along beside her, a little blonde bird so full of joy with herself and the world. Ivy knew it wouldn't last; couldn't last, but she would nurture her happiness until the hammer fell. That was part of the reason she convinced herself into attending her, after all. Knowing the direction from which danger would come was the first step to defending her friend against it. She had to make sure Hush and Scarecrow were not the prime threats, not totally under the Joker's thumb. The other players on the island didn't care as much about Harley personally. Hush and Scarecrow were the only two remaining threats now that she'd gotten a glimpse of what Harvey Dent was secretly up to.

That she hadn't seen Jonathan Crane in days was not a part of her decision. It simply was, and if Ivy was growing annoyed over the drift of her thoughts over the past few days, accelerated from their pace from over the past few months, she was certainly not going to address it now.

The guards at the Medical Center let them in without qualm, and showed a pleasing amount of fear when Ivy smiled at them. Harley shot her a happy, secretive little smile as they walked into the elevator that would take them down to the lower level—where Harley was to procure something or other from Hush, Ivy couldn't be bothered to know exactly what.

"You still got it, Red," Harley teased. "Those boys were falling all over themselves to let us in."

Ivy felt a strange, happy thrill in her heart, and so answered in kind. "It's not just me, Harley. I think one or two of them wouldn't mind a dinner date with you."

Harley shoved her playfully, but Ivy had been serious. Harley was a lovely woman, with perfectly formed features and a sparkle in her eye that even layers of greasepaint couldn't hide. Ivy suspected it was the dichotomy of her nature that drew the Joker to her—cute and sweet, yet murderously aggressive when prompted—but her obvious beauty could only help.

"Too bad dinner dates aren't on the menu for you, huh?" Harley sighed. "I mean, I love our girls nights out, especially when Selina's all spicy, but it would give us something to talk about. You, going out to dinner with someone. Well, you know. If you actually wanted to . . ."

Ivy could not imagine having dinner with someone, in an actual restaurant, with actual white tablecloths. Or any colored tablecloths. The point remained—she was not a woman who dated, nor could she imagine any romantic conversation being anything less than inspiring.

But she could imagine conversing normally, even pleasurably with a man, if not in a restaurant over dinner, than in some other nondescript locale. Like her cell, for instance. His cell. Or on a rooftop in Gotham. Or perhaps in a chemical laboratory somewhere, where they'd both be at an advantage, and he might unwind enough to smile, or even laugh—

Stop thinking of him! She commanded herself, for the umpteenth time. There is no point to this! He is certainly not thinking of you!

"Red?" Harley asked, head cocking to the side. "You ok?"

"Yes, Harley," she sighed. "Just . . . let's get this over with."

The elevator down to the subterranean levels of the Medical Center was shorter than Ivy remembered. Or perhaps that was her sense of anticipation talking. Or maybe it was the way Harley clung to her when they'd barely gone ten steps beyond the elevator, whimpering.

Scarecrow was here, and using enough of his fear toxin that it was seeping through the main laboratory doors. Ivy was, after a quick moment of flashing recall—hot breath, heavy hands, five-and-a-half inches of engorged flesh stabbing into her—able to master herself.

"I've got you, Harley," she promised her friend, and then dropped a quick kiss on her head to level out the effects of Crane's toxin. Harley came back a bit to herself, but seemed torn between the lingering fear and the subdued traces of Ivy's touch.

Hush, who stood watching his colleague's work from behind thick paned glass, seemed untouched.

"Good morning," he greeted them. "Ah, Harley. I see you've brought your friend."

"Red's behaving," Harley said, a little woozily. "Do you have the update?"

Hush handed over a thick packet of paper. "Everything is in there, but Edward's recovery is frankly astonishing. Since waking, he's regained more motor skills than I'd thought possible. The cranial damage is enormous, however. He has yet to speak, and I have no idea if he ever will again."

Harley did not even look down at the papers. "Thanks, Tommy. Mistah J will get back to you with anything else he needs. We'd better be going . . ." She turned to her friend. "Red? Red?"

It took her several tries and a shake to get Ivy's attention. She had let her attention drift, and her eyes wander where they would. And from the other side of the glass, unable to hear them or otherwise know they were there, Scarecrow—for it was undoubtedly he, wearing his mask and delighting in the sheer terror he was inflicting on his lunatic patients—turned to face her. His needled fingers clacked together before he dropped his hand down to the side. For a moment, he was utterly still in the midst of several cowering inmates, who were alternately screaming and skittering around the room in a helpless attempt to avoid him.

Scarecrow did nothing but stare at her, and until he looked away, she could not. She felt as rooted to the spot as if her babies had taken hold of her, yet his hold was on some other part of her, some unidentifiable, fundamental part of her.

She wondered what he saw when he looked at her, as both Scarecrow and Jonathan Crane.

"Much better," Hush muttered, not seeming to realize the oddity in Scarecrow's and Poison Ivy's staring at each other. "I've come to like when Dr. Crane is in control of himself. Interesting as the Scarecrow is, not much gets done when he comes out to play."

An eternity had passed since Ivy had come down here. Something akin to both fear and desire—yet in truth was neither—made her chest throb. Suddenly, she needed air and light and her babies, and so she acquiesced to Harley's tugs and, bidding a quiet farewell to Hush, allowed herself to be dragged back to the elevator.

Harley did not shake off the remnants of the fear toxin until they were walking back to the Intensive Treatment building, in the fresh air and sunlight. Then she found her voice, as well.

"What was that about?" Harley asked, with an upward glance.

"What was what about?" Ivy asked, still much preoccupied with how seeing Crane in his happiest habitat had made her feel.

"The professor," Harley said, as if everything should be obvious. "He stopped dropped and rolled when you walked in. Did you dose him? Or try to? He's been really careful around you, lately. Really minding his manners."

Ivy very nearly missed a step. She had not considered that. Did Crane fear her? She had not supposed so, beyond a very natural sense of caution. But it could go deeper than that. It might.

It must, a voice inside her whispered. You know why. And you know exactly how it feels.

"Not to my knowledge," she deflected. "But I don't see a difference. He's always been like that. He doesn't have much interest in being a 'boyfriend' as you so charmingly call them."

"Kind of a pity," Harley said, winking. "He was kind of good looking, back in university. Along with extremely intelligent and kind of funny, in a cutting, sarcastic way . . . Actually, I think the two of you might get along pretty well, what, with your terroristic activities and misanthropy and general disdain for humanity . . ." She sighed and shook her head. "But I don't think he likes girls, much. Or guys, for that matter. Or anyone. I remember how jumpy he got when that young English professor asked him out in front of our lecture group, once. Absolutely cut her into ribbons."

Ivy found that she wanted to hear none of it, for reasons she absolutely refused to get into. "And what of Scarecrow?" She asked.

Harley looked askance at that. "Whaddya mean?" Her attention sharpened. "I hadn't thought the dichotomy delineated any major changes in terms of his sexuality—or lack thereof."

"Nor do I," Ivy said, kicking herself for inadvertently sending her friend into 'psychologist mode.' "I just thought to mention it because that's who he is right now."

"But he's always Scarecrow," Harley said, still confused. It cleared up when she explained, "He's not a dual-personality, if that's what you're thinking. People with psychosis like his, it's all or nothing. And it's clearly not nothing."

But that wasn't right, Ivy thought later, on her way back to the Greenhouse after dropping Harley off at Intensive. For it was not always all or nothing with Dr. Jonathan Crane. He had alluded to the dichotomy several times during their sessions, and she'd seen firsthand the shift from one to another.

More importantly, she wondered if Crane was aware she'd been in the Medical Center this morning, or if he'd been too far gone in his Scarecrow persona to care.

January 15th, 20xx

The Green Mile, 1:49 AM

(6 months prior to takeover)

Ivy's second session with Dr. Crane was nothing like the first, largely because she wasn't having it with Dr. Crane at all. In his place had come the Scarecrow, with his wide, twisted grimaces, manic expressions, and an emptiness behind those pale blue eyes.

There was a veneer of civility to get Cash to go to his post, and then all bets were off. Scarecrow stretched his fingers at her, long and spindly, wiggling them like he had his syringes attached. His voice was higher pitched than normal, and utterly without accent when he asked her, "Aren't you afraid of what I know about you? I could hurt you with it. I could make you fear."

Ivy watched him impassively from beyond the glass, feeling nothing more than annoyance at having a wasted session and no further chemical insight.

"Aren't you afraid of what I know?" He coaxed her. "Even a little?"

"Not of you, Scarecrow."

"Then what?" He murmured, his voice soft. "What do you fear, Poison Ivy?"

Ivy saw no reason not to answer him honestly. It wasn't as if he could ever use such knowledge against her, after all, and there was professional pride that led her to admit, "Not what, but who. Jonathan is far more dangerous than you are, Scarecrow. All you can do to me is prance and posture. He looks. He sees. He knows."

A moment passed, and Scarecrow blinked in surprise. Then his entire body jerked like he'd touched a live wire. He looked down, his fingers splaying wide . . . but when he looked up again, he was Crane.

"Call for Cash, Miss Isley," he said, in a southern accent so thick it viscerally reminded her of her father. He must be Georgian, she thought, Deep South at least, even while calling Aaron to end the interview.

Her last memory of that particular encounter was the intelligence behind his eyes, fixed firmly on her, until Cash knocked him out with a blow to the back of the head.

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Do you know how long it took me to finish this chapter? Upwards of 8 months. That . . . is not good.

Just so you know, I do know the definition of 'missish.' Joker does as well, and is being kind of weird and playful in using it. If I missed the ballpark on that one, pretend it is an homage to Jane Austen, please.

Still couldn't use the words 'Dr. Quinn.' Let's pretend Hush and Harley are doctors on first name terms with each other. I still just can't.