AN I realize Poison Ivy's birthday is probably not in July, but in my alternate universe type thing, it is now!
I've also realized that I'm getting inordinately fond of this universe's Hush, who is a terrible representation of actual Hush. I've used him to start several chapters now, and I'm just so delighted when I get to write him. Whoops.
Trigger warnings: Drug use, violence, non main character death
Chapter 7: Bat Mortuus Est, Vivat Bat
(The Bat is Dead, Long Live the Bat.)
June 30th 20xx
Medical Center, 11:12 AM
Day 10
"Eddie. Your name is Eddie. Can you try saying your name, Eddie?"
"Egbl—dabl—edd—"
"Good, good," Dr. Gretchen Whistler said, her voice thin. She patted her patient, the broken Edward Nygma, gently on the knee. "You're getting there. We'll practice this more in a minute. I'd like to try using a larger muscle. Could you raise your left leg?"
Eddie's marred face was blank for a moment, and then his lips turned inwards. From his sitting position on the medical gurney, it was possible for him to lift both legs slightly, and then lower the right one. He held it extended at about 45 degrees for several seconds, before letting it fall back against the metal with a thump.
"Dobh—finghsl—" Eddie's face twisted in frustration, and Gretchen found that she pitied him, even after all he'd done.
"Very good, Eddie. This is wonderful progress." She patted him again before glancing back at Dr. Thomas Elliot, who watched the proceedings with an impassive expression.
His gaze cut to hers, and he readied his clipboard before he said, "Thoughts, Gretchen?"
She shook her head and wisps of greying hair, which escaped her bun, shook as well. "This is remarkable. There is no possible way he could have recovered this quickly from such terrible wounds. The brain damage alone should take years to recover from, if at all . . . and he's already regained most large motor functions, and his speech . . ." She trailed off, frowning. "I wouldn't be surprised if he begins speaking coherently within a few days."
"Try a few hours," Elliot muttered. "Is there anything you can think of that would lead to this kind of improvement?"
Gretchen frowned, trying to keep calm. Thomas Elliot could be remarkably professional, but he could also turn on a dime and kill her without remorse or warning. "I had thought you were doing something," she said cautiously. "There is no medical reason for his recovery. I had assumed something chemical, or . . ." She huffed, a moment of mirthless laughter. "God, I don't know. Magical, even."
"Mutagenic, perhaps?" He said, with a strange look in his eye. "Is it possible he could have the gene and that it's somehow aiding his recovery?"
"We test everyone here for that. Prisoners, guards, staff, janitorial workers . . . He was absolutely negative. Something of a rarity in the 'Inner Circle.' "
"Ah," Elliot mused, and he looked absolutely smug, now. "Then I suspect his recovery is tied to the particular medicinal regiment I have him on. I have been trying an . . . experimental concoction, of sorts. Something that had interested Penelope, before she passed. I'd like you to monitor him quite closely over the next few days, Gretchen. I'm not sure of the long-term effects on patients, and I believe we all have vested interest in him surviving,"
Gretchen glanced over at Eddie, and then the notes behind Elliot. She had no idea what Penelope had been working on, nor how Elliot could have twisted it to heal an inmate so quickly, but she was not so stupid as to refuse.
"Of course, Doctor," she said. It was in no small part a calculated move for survival. She had been beaten, starved, and terrified since the takeover, and yet she had undoubtedly fared the best of all the doctors. She was an older woman, never very attractive, and had a more motherly approach than most, which had built up enough goodwill for certain guards to handle her with a lighter touch. Other survivors, like Adrien Chen, Sarah Cassidy, and Frank Stevens had a worse time of it. Sarah was even missing a finger, now, and all because she had initially refused to give up her engagement ring.
She had survived that encounter, however, and Adrien had been allowed to sterilize and treat the amputation. But Gretchen could not forget the pain and degradation Dietrich Brenneman and Richard Stirling had faced, before they had died . . . not to mention the pleasure Victor Zsasz had taken in dismembering Penelope Young . . .
There was a knock at the door. It was opened a few moments later, and Jonathan Crane walked in. His mask was off, but in hand. No syringes tipped his fingers, but from the bulge in his lab pockets, he had come well-equipped.
Gretchen's blood turned to ice in her veins. Oh please no, she internally prayed in German, her native tongue. Not the fear toxin. Not again.
"Ah," he said, upon seeing the three of them. "Forgive the intrusion, I needed to check one of our medical files."
Elliot nodded towards the filing cabinets at the far end, and Gretchen focused her attention on being as small and non-threatening as possible. She hated Scarecrow, and not least because she had admired the man as Crane. He had been such a brilliant mind and yet he had fallen to evil.
Gretchen was also, as she had learned to her palpable dismay, extremely susceptible to his fear toxin.
Crane ignored her. "How goes the patient?" He asked Elliot, as he rifled through the files. He wore a backpack, which was so incongruous that Gretchen started. She had no idea why he was so interested in the paper copies, and assumed that something must have happened to the online database. Perhaps it was inaccessible now that the Riddler was out of commission?
She hoped so. She'd typed up quite a bit of personal notes and observations over the years, and hated the thought of anyone getting at them. In this situation, the wrong person learning what she truly thought of them could easily be deadly.
"Suspiciously well," Elliot said, still smirking. "You can put that in your report to the Joker, if you like."
Crane turned back to look at him, a folder open in his hand. Gretchen froze, her eyes tracking to the file. She recognized it with some surprise. Why was Crane interested in Pamela Isley?
Crane smiled thinly. "I only report on what takes place in my half of the Medical Center. I don't much care what happens elsewhere."
The two men stared at each other for a tense moment. Then Elliot nodded, turning his attention back to Gretchen.
"I'd like to start Edward on a more comprehensive treatment," he said, and Gretchen knew it was in oblique reference to whatever experimental medicine he was using. "I'm assigning you as his nurse. Feel free to do as much physical therapy as you think best, but keep an eye on his symptoms. Remember, Joker wants him alive."
In other times, Gretchen would have bristled at being spoken to in that way. Now, however, with her life on the line, she simply nodded.
"But all that can begin after Edward's nap," Elliot said. "Look at him, he's half asleep already."
Edward had slumped over on the medical table, eyes shut. Gretchen stood and helped fold his wretched, spindly limbs into a more natural position. Seeing the destruction of the narcissistic murderer did give her pause, but she compartmentalized—this man had done evil, and so evil had been done unto him. Perhaps even in equal measure. It did not change her pity for him, but it made her feel stronger, nonetheless.
Crane snapped the file shut. He couldn't have done much more than peruse the first page, which had her most basic information on it—name, age, place of birth, etc. He set the file among its fellows and moved for the door which Elliot opened for him, calling for Gretchen's guards as he did so.
"Gentlemen," he said, "Please escort the doctor back to her cell. I'll call for her in a few hours, so make sure she gets her rest. And perhaps a bit of food, as well."
"Yes, sir," one of them twanged. It was rare to find southerners in Gotham, but somehow, he had made his way here.
They cuffed her hands and led her, not too roughly, away. Crane strode out well in front of them, his long coat flapping around his skinny legs. He was making his way to the lower level, but he seemed to be taking his time. Perhaps he was distracted by something he'd seen in Pamela's file? Or was he simply thinking about the best way to drive everyone on the island mad with fear?
The door leading up to the main level of the island opened, and Harley Quinn pranced through, with her corset and mini-skirt, garish face paint, and dyed tips of her pigtails.
"Aw, hell," her other guard said. "It's Harley. Wonder what the Joker's gonna do now?"
"We'll be fine," the southerner said. "We've got the doc, we can't play that hide and kill game when we've got a prisoner in hand."
"Yeah, but we could be tagged for the hammer game," the other said. "That's not much better."
"Least ya don't die."
"Slammer did!"
"Yeah, but that's because he's an idiot. Who doesn't duck when someone swings a hammer at ya face?"
"Professor!" Gretchen heard Harley call out. "Just the man I wanted to see!"
Crane turned, and Gretchen was surprised to see his expression relax. He almost smiled at her, and that was never, ever a good sign. "Miss Quinn," he said, politely. "I could say the same. How goes it, outside?"
Harley giggled, in one of her too happy to be reasoned with moods. "Oh, same as usual. I'm here to check up on the Med Center, and Mistah J wanted to know how your experiments were going."
"They go well," he allowed. "But my daily report is nearly finished, I'll have it delivered to him within two hours. Nothing else of importance on the docket?"
Gretchen lost the flow of their conversation momentarily, as one of the guards halted. "Hey, Tim, mind if I stop by and grab something from the supply room? I have a feeling I'm gonna need it, later."
The southern guard waved him off. "Ah'll wait with the prisoner. Be quick."
Gretchen glanced at the remaining guard, but he was more interested in ogling Harley, and so that was where Gretchen's attention redirected. It was just in time to hear Harley say, "Wellllll, don't tell anyone, but it is Red's birthday tomorrow. I kinda want to do something special for her, you know? I mean, I'd throw her a party, but you know how Mistah J is about parties. He'd want to get involved in the planning, and then the next thing you know half the island is blown to smithereens!"
Gretchen frowned. Crane had somehow turned the conversation from Joker's demands to Pamela's birthday? Was that why he had checked her files? But why?
Crane adopted his most modest, unassuming visage. "I think she'd like a nice evening in with you, better."
Harley beamed up at him. "Really? Oh, you're so sweet, Professor."
His tone was dry. "I try. Were you going to give her a gift?"
Harley pursed her lips. "Mmm, I was going to give her the booze I lifted from Sharpie's stash. What do you think she'd like better, the red wine, or the absinth?"
Crane made a face at that. Perhaps some bad memories of alcohol, Gretchen wondered. "I would go with the wine. Here, I'll contribute." He swung his backpack round—carefully—and removed a small plastic bag containing two vials, emblazoned with the eternity helix.
Harley eyed the bottles carefully. "What are these for?"
"For drinking, naturally."
"But why—hey, wait a minute, I know these glasses! I left 'em behind in my office!" She scrunched her nose. "I hid 'em in the air duct. What were you doing back there?" She gave him a disapproving look. "That's also where I kept the contraband drugs I lifted off prisoners. You weren't indulging, were you?"
He adjusted his glasses. "Those were long gone by the time I discovered these, in what I would deem one of those rare, fortuitous moments in life. If they were yours originally, it's best to return them, is it not? Consider it an augmentation of your gift."
Harley continued to look up at him with squinty-eyed suspicion. "You haven't done anything funny with them, have you, Professor? No fear toxin or nothing?"
His eyes glinted as he grinned. "Of course not, Miss Quinn. Your friend would kill me if I tried . . ."
Gretchen was pulled away quickly after that, unable to hear the further specifics of their conversation. But six hours later, when she was called back to work on Eddie's physical therapy, she noticed shards of glass in the corner, the eternity helix just recognizable among them.
Whatever it was, Crane's plan wouldn't work, she thought, and was pleased, if confused. Crane's fear toxin couldn't be broken down into a powder, which would have been the only thing he could have possibly smuggled out in those vials. So unless he'd made some other sort of chemical creation, what had been the point of his plan in the first place?
Gretchen didn't know, but was thankful it would never come to fruition, regardless.
...
...
June 30th 20xx
Warden Sharp's Office, 3:18 PM
Day 10
The discovery, when it happened, was so quiet, so modest, that the Joker almost didn't realize that it was happening at all. Sharpie's old office had been combed after Leland and the guards had been discovered in it, but no one had found anything significant. Frankly, he didn't think there was anything significant to find. He would guess that they were looking for a way off the island, and there was none—he controlled all the routes to and from the island, by land, sea, and sky, and no one was going anywhere until he said so.
He knew about the tunnels of course. Everyone did. Well, everyone who was anyone, did. But even he did not know their depths and twists well enough to chase after them. Nor could he just gas them, because it might not work. At least one tunnel opened up onto a stunning view of the bay. Depending on wind and rain and blah blah blah, it might just suck the fear toxin/laughing gas/battle meth right out of the tunnels.
Also, it was too easy. And seeing as how he was bored, again, still, he wanted to prolong the game just a touch. Especially as the tunnels didn't actually escape anywhere useful. None of them made it to Gotham proper, they were just a series of ratholes and secret paths to other places on the island. And as he controlled the island . . . well, they were shit out of luck.
Sooooooo he'd just been kicking around Sharp's room, alone, because even he needed some time away from people every so often. Everyone was so loud with their weird insecurities and anxieties and moral codes. Now and then, a man just needed some time alone with himself and the anarchy within. So, while enjoying a moment of quiet and inner contemplations of graphic violence, he'd kicked a file that was just laying there. And out came a piece of paper, scrawled on with Sharp's nigh illegible cursive.
End Isley/Crane sessions immediately! Was how it began.
Just underneath it, indented a touch too far: Find and destroy all traces of copied recording! If it gets out, will ruin mayoral chances!
Joker's dark eyes gleamed. He saw all, very, very quickly. So, Johnny's late night sessions weren't with dour Joan Leland at all, but with Luscious Pammy? And with Sharpie's blessing? How had that gone down? Who thought that was a good idea?
Really, and they all said he was the crazy one.
Oh, but the thought of them having sessions together was fodder for his wildest dreams. Johnny and Pammy were like oil and water—it was inevitable that they'd get under each other's skins. Had Johnny lost his temper or had he played it cool? Had Pammy given him the truth or lied through her oddly white teeth? What in Batman's fat pants did they have to even talk about?
Maybe they'd gotten chummy? Oooooooooh that was almost impossible to envision but so deliciously weird so he'd keep on trying. He'd ship them together, he really would . . . except that it would end in blood and mayhem and death and broken hearts and destroyed cities . . .
. . . oh hell, who was he kidding? This was the good stuff, and they needed to get together, pronto!
Joker rubbed his hands together in glee. There was really only one way to find out whether his new OTP was in it to win it or just a flash in the pan.
He had to find a record of their sessions.
...
...
June 30th 20xx
Resistance Bunker, 11:02 PM
Day 10
"And then there were eleven," Louie Green muttered, and Joan gave him an appraising look. Were they to survive this, she was absolutely going to have drinks with this man after it was all over. Purely in a platonic capacity, but damn, if this man didn't do gallows humor better than just about everyone.
Also, he was a high-functioning alcoholic, and someone really needed to keep an eye on him.
He was absolutely correct, however. They were indeed down to eleven. She and Kellerman, Louie, Eddie, Bill, Zach, Raoul, Mike, Jackson, and Taylor—who had gotten hit on the head during his escape from the warden's office, and was too badly concussed to move—and Aaron, of course, who was refusing to speak to her, refusing to even look at her, and Joan was suffering from emotional whiplash so intense she could hardly diagnose it in herself.
Aaron's emotional lockdown was of lesser importance, she tried to tell herself. What she really needed to be focusing on was that they were down to eleven total, only three of which might be convinced to do her bidding over Aaron's. Of prime importance was that she now knew where her ill-fated experiment was kept and a safe place to dispose of it.
All they had to do was get it out of the Medical Center. They could dump it all in Gotham Bay after that. Thus diluted, the serum would be rendered essentially inert and there was nothing bio-chemically destructive in it. Even if there was, she would still do it, ecosystem be damned. The Joker was a more present threat to their cities' safety, and besides, the Gotham Bay had been ranked in Time Magazine as one of the most toxic bodies of water in the world for a reason.
(And for once, it wasn't a supervillain's fault. Just the rapacious capitalism inherent in Gotham's industry, which you knew had to be bad if otherwise worthless billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne had gotten involved in a clean-up effort.)
Yet Aaron refused to budge. He refused to send anyone after the formula, assuming it would be triply guarded, or, simply guarded by Jonathan Crane. Joan understood his reluctance, because Crane was terrifying in and out of costume, with or without his fear toxin. But she had made this formula. This had been her idea, her dream gone awry. She needed to be the one to fix it.
Even if she had to go behind the back of the man she loved to do it.
And now was the perfect time to set her plan in motion. In the bunker's common quarters were her, Louie, Jackson and Mike, all of whom agreed with her about the fate of the toxin, and might not immediately tell Aaron in a fit of misplaced chivalry. In fact, if she had to guess, Jackson was one of the two she would guess might outright act against Aaron's orders—he'd only been here a few months, and hadn't learned the mantra all the guards quietly repeated: Cash Knows Best.
But first… "Louie," she murmured, "I'm about to do something extremely ill-advised. If you don't want to be part of it, I'd suggest sitting in the bedroom for a bit."
Louie put his glass of whisky down. He gave her a look. "I will do no such thing. Raoul snores and Kellerman farts in his sleep. How Eddie sleeps through it is beyond me. I'm staying right here."
Joan narrowed her eyes. "Does the threat of treason hold any fear for you?"
He narrowed his right back. "I'm not getting in between your and Aaron's mating dance."
Well. Maybe she wouldn't go drinking with him, not if he got catty. "I'm talking about the formula Joker cannot get his hands on."
"Well in that case, you better outline your plan, because I'm the only senior officer in the room who would help you."
"And in the bunker?"
He hesitated. "Bill would want to, but he's second in command, and he might take that too seriously. Raoul would probably give you up, Zach would in a heartbeat, Eddie would too if only to keep you safe. Taylor's unconscious, and as for Jackson and Mike . . ." He made a see-saw motion with his hands. "Could go either way. Wanna' find out?"
Joan smiled. "Boys?" She called out, but not too loudly. Bill, Aaron and Zach were out scouting, but that didn't mean she wanted anyone else in the bunker to catch them conspiring. "Could you come here a minute? We need your help with something . . ."
…
…
…
In the end, all three came with her: Jackson and Louie to help her move the crate barricades that dotted the tunnels, and Mike to hold the gun. The samples themselves were small. She'd only had two dozen samples remaining at the end of the project, and eight could comfortably fit into a shoebox. It shouldn't be too difficult to move them as long as they could get them into the tunnel unseen.
They set off almost immediately, and did not leave a note. If Aaron couldn't figure out where they were, he was not meant to be head of security of Arkham Asylum.
It only took about half an hour to reach the closest tunnel to the Med Center. It helped that the older section was subterranean. Yet each of those minutes was nerve-wracking, and Joan questioned her resolve at least seven times. Only the stoic expressions on her companions' faces reassured her.
This tunnel connected to Harley Quinn's old office, via an artfully concealed trap door that led to a ventilation shaft that opened up into her office. The moment before they dropped the trap door was fraught—if someone was in Harley's office, they would most likely hear the creak of metal. They all glanced at each other, barely illuminated in the darkness, all four breathing heavily. Louie muttered one, two, three—and then Jackson opened the trap door.
Their good fortune was immediately apparent. The light that filtered up from the ventilation shaft was cold and blue, more a reflection of the generator-powered emergency lights than the fluorescent overheads of Harley's old office. They waited another two minutes, straining their ears for anyone in the room below, but it was silent.
"Go," Louie whispered again, and Jackson and Mike lowered Joan down into the ventilation shaft. The original plan had been for her and Jackson to carry the crates up into the shaft, or break them down as quietly as possible so as to get them out. As soon as she poked her head over the lip of the shaft she realized the plan had changed. Largely as the formula was laid out on the desk in three old cardboard boxes, previously used to hold files.
Joan froze at the sight of it. Trap? Probably. "I see it," she whispered back. "Change of plans. I can lift them out by myself." And count them, she thought internally. "Louie, you should head back."
"Are you insane?" He whispered back.
"Mike, cover me," she said, ignoring Louie. Then, glancing out once more out past the dirty windows, she dropped down into the room.
It was all too easy. She counted the glass vials—only missing two, which was either a very bad or a surprisingly good sign, having no idea what Penelope had done with them, if she'd even been allowed access to them at all—and Jackson grabbed them from his perch in the ventilation shaft. She had just given him the third when the door opened.
She glanced over her shoulder to see Dr. Jonathan Crane.
Her gasp must have given it away, because Jackson grabbed the box and scrambled backwards as if he'd been burned.
"Hello, Jonathan," she said, hoping that the boys would take her lead and run. That, and that Aaron might not kill them all, afterwards.
"Hello, Joan," he replied.
…
…
…
…
…
July 1st, 20xx
Resistance Bunker, 2:47 AM
Day 11
It took Crane three hours and two finished reports to remember that Joan was now his prisoner, and that Joker had long ago put out the asylum's equivalent of an APB for her. This was not so surprising. Joan remembered his focus had been immense, and interrupting him in one of his projects had been nigh impossible even before his alter-ego became known.
Yet this resulted in three endless hours tied to a chair after being threatened with fear toxin. Three hours trying to accept her fate, losing all feeling in her hands and feet. She held no illusions: Joker was depraved, and just about any man in this asylum would make her end long, degrading, and incredibly painful. In fact, Crane was just about the only person in the asylum who wouldn't physically harm her before she was killed, although it was arguably just as bad to spend a round in his experimental chair.
And there was no hope. Aaron wasn't stupid enough to come after her. He'd have to satisfy himself by taking out his rage on Jackson, Mike, and Louie. Not that she wanted this, as all the remaining guards had to work together to make it off the island. All she hoped now was that whatever happened to her, it was quick enough that she wouldn't be able to give them up. She had never held up under torture, before. She had never been tortured.
Clinical, dispassionate, removed, she counselled herself. If you lose yourself now, it's all over.
Rather than succumb to a shrieking mess, she was considering asking Jonathan what he was working on. Before she could do so, he addressed her without looking away from his computer.
"You know, Joan, for someone with not a lot of experience in the field, your first attempt was surprisingly coherent."
"Thank you," Joan said slowly, politely. She had no idea what he was talking about—her escape? Survival? The serum?—but she had gotten along fine with Crane when he'd been her superior and it was in part because she had been distant and polite. She could only hope that tack still worked.
He glanced over his shoulder. "I think the experiment would have failed in the direct application of the product, however. Most psychologists are not so selfless or pristinely unbiased as would allow them to be effective in this particular case. It would be far too easy to twist the product for their own particular ends."
Joan's blood ran cold. So Crane had found the formula, and understood exactly how it worked. Of course he would, he was the one person alive in a perfect position to do so—brilliant chemist, brilliant psychologist . . . He must have tinkered with it to suit his own nefarious ends, changed it, and then, in a fit of who knew what, left the original product for her to find.
Or maybe it wasn't the original product—
She breathed past the panic. It didn't matter if Crane had left fear toxin ultra or her original product, Louie and Mike and Jackson knew to dump it in Gotham Bay no matter what. What mattered now was only that she was caught. Even if Jonathan knew all about her project and had made him own, all she could hope for was the chance to take him down with her.
He glanced over his shoulder. "But I'm also a little disappointed, Joan. I hadn't particularly wanted the opportunity to tell you this in person. It would have been better for all of us had you continued hiding until the end."
Joan let out a ragged exhalation. Here it came. Even Scarecrow knew that whatever came next, it wouldn't be good.
He continued watching her with his queer, almost colorless eyes. "I know a few inmates who will be even more disappointed than I. One or two of them were quite fond of you."
"In that case, I can't convince you not to give me to Joker, can I?"
He gave her a wry smile. "No. Shall we be on our way?"
…
…
Joan was led before the Joker like a tribute in a Roman Triumph. He sat in Warden Sharp's old leather armchair, looking out over the arena he had made below the oldest level of the Medical Center, where Bane had once been held captive—don't think she didn't know all about it, Penelope Young—surrounded by a cadre of villains. Harley was there, obviously, but interestingly enough so was Pamela. Roman and Wesker were there, but not Harvey Dent. Joan didn't know what this meant in terms of power dynamics. Nor did she feel all that confident talking to the Joker when both Pamela and Jonathan were in the room with her.
Don't ask me about the goddamned formula, she inwardly begged. It was too much to ask that he wouldn't grill her about the missing guards. She had to marshal all her strength to withstand that.
When Joker caught sight of her he began giggling madly and wiggling like a fish. "Oh, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny!" He called out, kicking his legs. "You found her! Oh, tell me how you did it!"
"I didn't do all that much," he said drily. "She just wandered into the Medical Center."
Joan tensed, waiting for the hammer to fall. Now he would tell Joker about the missing guards, and the toxin . . . but another moment passed and Jonathan didn't. He didn't say anything at all.
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, but she couldn't tell what his game was. Nor why he was discreetly glancing at Pamela. Oh lord, were they in it together? Had she been wrong about them?
"Oh?" Joker said, astounded. "And why was she there?"
"You'd have to ask her," Crane replied. "I didn't interrogate her. I saved that particular pleasure for you."
Joker turned his mad gaze onto her, sharp as a laser and equally discerning.
Her stomach rumbled audibly. She hadn't eaten for close to 12 hours, and had been awake for most of it. Thirst she had dealt with, but in their haste to leave the bunker she'd forgone the usual can of vegetables.
"I was hungry," she said weakly. "I . . . had to come out of hiding to eat."
"Scavenging for food . . ." Joker said, his eyes lighting up. "Like a rat."
"Like a survivor," she said seriously. She had to sell it now. Never mind how badly he'd mock her. If she could make him believe she'd been hiding on her own it would be worth any amount of personal humiliation.
"What, didn't the guards feed you?"
She frowned and tried to look angry. "What guards? They're all dead."
Joker threw himself out of the chair and raised his arm like he was going to smack her. When she flinched, he patted her face gently instead. "Now, now, Dr. Leland. Don't be like thaaaat. We never had any sessions together, did we?"
"No, we did not," she said, clipped, without making eye contact. She watched him from the corner of her eye, a bit like she would watch a snake.
He pulled a sympathetic face. "And why was that? Were you . . . afraid of me?"
She swallowed the saliva that flooded her mouth. "I'd be a fool not to be. But even before I knew enough to fear, I refused. I'd already known what you'd done to Harley, and I couldn't forgive you for that."
He leaned in very close, the smell of his grease paint enough to make her gag. He whispered, "Do you know what I'm going to do to her?"
Joan stared back at him, trying desperately to be strong. She was not a woman given to romantic notions, but his eyes were deep and dark and twin fucking pools of madness. How had Harley fallen in love with someone so soulless?
Sweet virgin Mary, this was the devil made flesh . . . and he was going to rip her apart.
Just then, Harley sauntered forward. "Oh, puddin', don't scare her so," she mock-scolded him. Then she turned her attention onto Joan. She gave her a big hug before pulling back abruptly, hauling off, and smacking her square across the face. "That's for worrying me so!"
"Sorry about that," Joan whispered, hoping she wasn't about to get smacked again. Harley had always been deceptively strong, and her head had snapped back under the force of the blow.
Thankfully, Harley leaned in for another hug. "But I'm so glad you're here now. I have such big news for you. Mistah J and I are gonna get married! I told you he loved me. I told you!"
Joan couldn't help stiffening. She pulled back and looked at Harley like the world was ending. The world was ending. She was caught, her life was forfeit, and Harley was skipping off merrily to her final destruction.
He'd kill her on their wedding night. Bets had been placed on this between the less scrupulous members of staff, and Joan could feel this in her bones.
The Joker watched all this, his expression crafty. "I have a new idea," he crooned. "I was originally going to throw you down into the sewers; let Croc have a crack at you. But I think I'm going to keep you. I hear that even old Johnny boy had some interesting sessions with you. So you're going to pick my new friends' brains for me. I need to know who's going to try and rise against me, Joan! And you're the best tool I've got for that!"
Oh Lord of all, she was going to get to live? And he wasn't even asking about the guards? No, this had to be some trick. She would stay strong. And if it wasn't, she couldn't look too eager. He'd just change his mind. "Go to hell," she murmured, hoarse.
He tsked at her. "Now, Joan. That's not the kind of attitude we take under King Joker's reign. Positivity! And just remember—if you're good, I might be good to Harley."
Might. Joan was suddenly, incandescently furious. "Go to—"
She was smacked for the second time in as many minutes and it hurt a hell of a lot more when Joker did it. She nearly fell over, and by the time she'd swayed back into position, he wafted laughing gas in front of her face. It wasn't enough for a full, dangerous dosage, but she began giggling madly, her teeth chattering, her lungs almost locking in her chest.
She giggled for a long time, until she was able to relax enough to get her body back under control. She sucked in deep, heaving breaths, desperate to live just a little while longer.
"Ohhh Joany moany pony," Joker crooned nonsensically. "Your sass was cute, but you don't have a choice."
…
…
…
…
…
July 1st 20xx
Intensive Treatment, 9:29 PM
Day 11
Four hours after Edward Nygma was released from sickbay—under Hush's orders, and as an experiment to further test his enhanced healing abilities due to Penelope Young's secret 'TITAN' formula—the entire asylum knew that the Riddler was no more. What was left in his place was a broken and scarred gibbering maniac. His face was barely recognizable, and his limping gait was so different than his old, long-legged stride. Gone was his mocking showmanship, augmented by his distinctive, clear tenor voice. Now he babbled consonants and broken syllables, punctuated by brief moments of discernible sentence fragments.
One aspect of the man before survived: his tendency to color the walls with riddles and ciphers. Yet what he left on the walls no longer made sense to anyone, even when they were drawn in a clear enough hand to read.
The inmates did not touch him, knowing that between Hush and the Joker, retribution would be swift. The more superstitious ones left him alone due to his mysterious resurrection. He should be dead, but he had survived. For a man with no power other than his narcissistic intellect, this betokened something inexplicable.
The Riddler had died, but this broken thing had returned in his place. In many ways, he was little more than a ghost.
...
...
July 2nd, 20xx
Extreme Incarceration, 8:18 AM
Day 12
In the three days that followed Selina's epic showdown with the Joker, she had not, in fact, been thrown to Killer Croc. Despite Wesker's taunts, Joker hadn't come for her. Somewhere around day two and a half of waiting, it all came to a head and she had a minor breakdown. After two hours of cathartic tears and alternating rage, however, she had found a level of peace. So what if they threw her to Croc? She'd be out of this cage, and when that happened there was a chance for escape. She was the goddamned Catwoman, and she would act like it.
(Also, her outpouring of emotion had really discombobulated Victor. He was a part of that wonderfully high statistic of men who simply could not deal with crying women, and he had ended up singing Killing Me Softly for her towards the end. She hadn't even needed to ask!
It was official: Victor Fries was her new favorite, Harley could sit and spin.)
It helped that the memo about starving her hadn't quite made it through the ranks. This had become clear only six hours in, when Jervis had thrown in four—count 'em, four sandwiches, of different flavors and variety. From Vic's open appreciation, he too had collected on this unexpected bounty. Yet that hadn't been all he'd given her. He'd eyed her through the bars, and then thrown along several water bottles and another vial.
This one was labelled DREAM ME.
She held off for two days and five more clandestine sandwiches. Now, she held the vial in her hand, and outwardly debated.
"Hey, Vic?"
"Yes, Selina?"
"Are you sure I shouldn't drink the Hatter Vial?"
It said a lot about their burgeoning friendship that his reply was only mildly irritated, now. They were totally bros and no one would ever believe her. Her life sucked.
"Why on earth would you?" He asked.
"It feels . . . important. Like I should do this."
"Remember what happened last time?"
"Hey, it helped last time. Weird as that is to admit it."
"You're just bored."
She laughed. "Maybe! But it's a powerful motivator. What else am I supposed to do?"
"And if they come for you while you are incapacitated?"
She sauntered up to the bars and stuck her arm out to wave at him, even though he couldn't see it. "Then you can take comfort in knowing you have absolutely knocked Harley out of the running for my favorite Gotham vigilante."
Although it wasn't quite audible, Selina knew Victor was muttering to himself. Something probably along the lines of Heaven preserve us, or Can't she just die already, or, I fucking hate cats.
"Maybe Red, too," Selina mused. "But I wouldn't expect her to do a whole lot in this scenario. There's no plants in E.I.—she might not even know I'm here."
"Do you count her among your closest friends?" Vic asked, like the old relic he not-so-secretly was. In the vigilante scene he was practically a fossil. Probably why Selina liked shocking him so much.
She shrugged before she remembered he couldn't see it. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, as much as one can be with her. Well, disregarding Harley."
"And what might their advice be, on the subject of 'Hatter's Vial?'"
She could see it clearly. Ivy wouldn't give two shits, seeing as she was now immune to most ingestible substances. Harley would have two words for her: bottoms up.
She was mad at Harley. She shouldn't be taking her inner Harley's advice. But of course, that's exactly what she did.
Selina uncorked the vial and hesitated before bringing it to her lips. "Hey, Vic? It's been what, maybe two hours since Wesker was down here?"
"Give or take, yes."
"I'll let you know how the trip goes. Try not to miss me!"
She threw back the mysterious liquid, and immediately her vision dimmed. Man, that shit is potent, she thought. Maybe she should have done this on her cot, rather than on the floor.
Victor yelled at her as she fell back in a swoon, but she was already gone.
…
…
…
A little white cat padded carefully through the smoking remains of Gotham. Her coat was clean and bright; healthy fur shining innocuously against the rusting debris of fallen structures. But she was walking through an architectural wasteland, and as she picked her way through the corpse-strewn streets, her dainty paws soaked red.
She was not alone. Up ahead was a man who glowed green and wore a star on his finger—he fell choking, and when he hit the ground he disappeared. Several steps later there was a boy in adult clothing, shrieking as lightning hit him again and again. By the time he, too, disappeared, there was a handsome blond in a trenchcoat, exhaling a great plume of smoke which turned into a dragon. Once the dragonfire had consumed him, the little cat saw a great ball of shadow that wept and raged, but could not turn human again.
One by one apparitions appeared only to die. The last was the worst: two men sauntered into the street, ignoring the carnage around them. One was dressed in midnight and blue, smiling brightly as he tossed dark sticks up into the air, again and again. The other was dressed in red, pistols at his thigh holsters, his features hidden by a plastic helmet. Blue raised his sticks and assumed a martial position while Red lazily lifted a gun and pointed it at his fellow. The cat closed her eyes, yowling in misery. Her grief was such that she almost found words.
There was a crack of gunshot, and the whistling slice of a baseball bat—or escrima—cutting through the air. It was followed by two meaty thumps. When the cat opened her eyes again, however, the men were gone. Before her eyes was an office, familiar yet not. There were filing cabinets overflowing with loose papers, a wooden desk with a rotary dial phone, lit by an old banker's lamp. A cigar rested on an ashtray, and a pair of glasses rested at the far end of the desk.
Commissioner Gordon read the plaque at the edge of the desk. And it was he who stood at the end of the room, looking out the tall, rounded window. The cat edged closer. Beyond the glass, staining the stars with artificial light was a crude symbol of a bat, and seeing it jolted the cat even more than the fighting men did.
Batman, she thought, and just as she did, the bat symbol went out.
Terror froze in her veins. Ever so slowly, Commissioner Gordon turned. It took so long, too long, and the cat was terrified of seeing his face. So terrified that she closed her eyes and screamed—not like a cat could, but a woman. And when she opened her eyes again, she was a cat no longer. The dream had changed.
….
Selina was late. The faint strains of mournful organ music drifted in the air, passing through the thick wooden door of the cathedral. Rain fell in soaking sheets but she did not get wet. Her black dress and veil repelled water as well as any umbrella, and the ancient stonework of the cathedral gleamed with the reflected light of billions of raindrops.
The doors opened before her, and she stepped in. The pews were filled with thousands of mourners. Most she did not know, although most looked to be civilians. Some were only half-corporeal, like ghosts in a dream. Others were clearly not alive: a man sat fully ablaze, with a little girl who was missing half her head sitting on his lap.
Yet as she walked down the aisle, music growing louder with every step, she began to recognize people. There was Trevor, her favorite twisted Arkham guard. Aaron Cash with two hands of flesh. Dr. Whistler and Dr. Young sat with each other, weeping. Dinah Lance stood gripping the pew, her knuckles white. Barbara Gordon stood next to her, tall and slender and without any sign of physical trauma or pain.
Gordon, Gordon, Gordon—
She was not the only Gordon in the room. Commissioner Gordon stood behind the pulpit wearing a priest's robe, a mournful pull to his features. In front of him was the casket, and only then did Selina realize that this was a funeral.
But whose? Surrounding the casket was an odd assortment of individuals, although something about them struck her as sensible, at the time. The Joker stood listless, a translucent ghost, with nothing to define his chaotic nature. Harley Quinn shivered and cried, panicking because her love was no longer real. Scarecrow curled into a little ball behind the nave, too afraid to move. The Riddler was deaf and dumb, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Poison Ivy cocooned herself in her plants and would not come back out. Penguin burned his money on the braziers; Two-Face wept from both eyes; Prometheus laid down on the casket and with a shiver, died.
Selina stepped closer to the casket, her heartbeat thudding loudly in her ears. Just a few more steps and she'd be able to see past Prometheus, see who they were mourning. As she took those final steps she heard Victor Fries's voice in her ear.
I thought if he died, I'd have something to give Nora. But now there's nothing. Just emptiness.
Selina looked down into the casket and saw Bruce Wayne lying there, his handsome face serene and far, far away. The sight of it was expected but still it struck her to the heart. Even in the depths of her dream it felt like she was the one dying. Her heart was broken, and yet that was the least of it.
We all have our parts to play, Victor's disembodied voice continued. And most of us are afraid to break them. Doing so might break us; for it was he who polarized us and gave us our roles, all at once.
We need him, she realized. Even when Bruce dies, there must always be a Batman.
No one was surprised to see him lying there, no one mocking or upset. They had always known. Everyone knew it was Bruce. They just needed him to be Batman, instead.
Selina leaned down and the casket melted away. Bruce's face was cold and waxy, and very close to her own. She had no fear of touching his corpse—she had never loved anyone half so much. So she leaned in and kissed him, and knew what she had to do.
She thought she could remember telling Joker that Batman didn't define her. No matter how much she loved him, she could exist without him. And so she would. What's more, she would adopt his duty. His purpose. It was a way of being close to him, understanding him, becoming him that no one else could match.
She looked up from the casket and her lace veil hardened into his cowl, fastening itself to her face. Her dress was kevlar which fitted to her body's planes. On her chest was a bloody symbol of a bat. When she spoke, it was with his voice.
"I am Batman," she promised, and the world shook around her.
…
Selina Kyle awoke in her Extreme Incarceration cell, and knew that Bruce Wayne was dead.
...
...
July 2nd, 20xx
Joker's Arena, 7:48 PM
Day 12
Joker's second round of death matches was just as tasteless as the first, Ivy thought. She arrived in time for the main event: a fight to the death with two of the 'bigger names' from the Rogue's Gallery, hopped up on a twisted cocktail of Crane's fear toxin and aggression boosters. Although she would not mourn the passing of Tweedledee and Tweedledum—she couldn't be bothered with remembering their names, although she did know they were in fact cousins, rather than identical twins—she thought it warranted a personal showing . . . if only to keep an eye on Joan, who was chained at the neck and forced to sit at Joker's feet.
Like Princess Leia except not so squicky, Harley had chirped, when she'd told her about it. So no licking. Mistah J is, for all his faults, a completely monogamous man.
Ivy, who had never watched Star Wars, had no idea what that referenced, but the thought of Joan being forced to watch men kill each other while being half-choked by the Joker in his paroxysms of glee did not sit well with her, 'squicky' or not.
And this, after all of Ivy's assistance!
And yet she understood. There was only one thing that could draw Joan out of hiding, and it was the serum. Had she found it? Gotten it back to the Resistance? Destroyed it? But Jonathan had been the one to find her. Jonathan had been the one to bring her to Joker. Did that mean he had the serum? And he hadn't given it to Joker?
What had he been doing with it?
Ivy wanted to ask him but didn't know how to approach him without half the island knowing about it. If only he'd come to her Greenhouse! She wouldn't let her babies interfere with him, as long as he was cordial enough to them. And Joker didn't have video feed in her domain, her babies' had made sure of that. But he never showed up, and Ivy could only assume he had better things to do.
It made her angry, even when a long-forgotten part of her sighed typical.
With no way of talking to Joan, Jonathan, or even Harley (who sat on Joker's lap and kissed his grease-painted face), the battle itself was largely uninspiring. It was a sickening display of all that was wrong with humanity. The blood, spittle, stench; the desperate gasping and doomed struggle . . . none of it was clean, elegant, organic. It was disgusting, and Ivy was glad when it was over.
As was inevitable, one killed the other—she had no idea who was who. Yet what surprised her was when the victor immediately committed suicide at his cousin's feet. And while the men around her booed and jeered, and Joker was so annoyed that he swept Harley off of his lap and onto the floor next to Joan, Ivy was astonished to find a thread of redemption in the victor's final act. Even while suffering from Scarecrow's battle toxin, out of his mind and beyond all rational thought, he could not bear to be without his beloved cousin.
What sort of bond had they created to withstand even the great divide of death?
Had she ever created any bond half as strong?
...
...
April 19th, 20xx
The Green Mile, 2:02 AM
(3 months prior to takeover)
Ivy had spent the better part of a month deciding how to deal with the next inevitable meeting with Crane. And in the end, the decision was difficult. She had to give him what he wanted. And she had to do so blithely, eyes open, hands outstretched. It was earlier than she'd wanted, but the formula was almost ready to test. He'd given her more than he realized when helping her last. Once she figured out how to think through the third solution, it had helped her on her way to the fifth, sixth, and seventh.
That meant their time was potentially coming to a close. But it was not yet done, and Ivy didn't exactly like the feeling of not seeing him anymore. She liked the thought of revealing her fears to him even less, but once or twice, when she'd been absolutely alone in the Green Mile, she'd allowed that if her confession could make him think differently of her, it might be worth it.
So when Cash sat Crane in front of her during their next session, she took the initiative.
"I'd like to talk about control."
His eyebrows went up.
Ivy internally allowed that she could have settled on a more subtle opening statement. "As far as I can figure—and I admit, I have a dim view of humanity—the thing that connects all of us here is a need for control. Edward needs to flaunt his intelligence because it was the only thing he could do growing up. Joker needs to control the city through a series of incomprehensible games. Wesker needs his puppet to feel like a person, and Harvey needs his coin to make a choice."
"You need your hold over desire to feel powerful . . . " Crane led, peering closely at her.
Ivy swallowed. "And you need to control our fears."
He nodded before leaning back. He looked much more confident, and Ivy wondered what she had unintentionally given him.
It didn't matter, she would give him a lot more than that by the time tonight was over. "So what does Harley need, then?" She asked, hoping he would allow this deviation. "Why does she keep going back to him? Logically she knows he hurts her. She knows that when she dies someday, it will be at his hands."
He sighed. "Miss Quinn's diagnosis is, in its own way, as difficult as the Joker's—"
"Jonathan, give me your opinion. Please."
He looked at her, mouth folded thin. For a moment he was just a man. Tired, frustrated, and so utterly alien to her it was almost incomprehensible.
I want to touch his face, she thought, with a flare of something that might have been the old, pre—Ivy Pamela, or something entirely new. She did not like weakness, but this wasn't weakness. Vulnerability, perhaps, and something else that made her chest hurt.
"She loves him," he said, awkwardly. "Trite as it may be, that's all I can venture. In my very limited experience, love makes humans do . . . incomprehensible things. Love makes humanity itself incomprehensible. If I had ever been in love, perhaps I could explain it better. As it is . . ."
Ivy watched him for a long moment. She suspected that would be the answer, and that in the end, the compound wouldn't work on Harley. Not if love, the greatest empathetic tool in the human repertoire, was at the root of it.
"What we're doing won't help her at all then, will it?"
He looked down before replying. "I can't imagine how it would, no."
Ivy nodded, and her heartbeat was unaccountably loud in her ears. This was failure. Why then was she still gearing herself up to tell Jonathan everything?
Perhaps because I want to. Perhaps because I need to.
She swallowed and her throat hurt. It was too difficult to look him in the eye, so it was to his left ear that she announced, "Jason Woodrue raped me just before—during as well—the administration of the serum that turned me into what I am now." Her throat momentarily closed up and she had to fight it open again before she could continue, slightly less robotically, "That, along with my lifelong struggle for equality and autonomy is why I cannot . . . why I do not trust men. I had not originally intended to use my power to enslave them—I had not known that could happen until it did—but I would rather that happen than let them touch me, either on purpose or accident."
She let out a shuddering breath, and now her gaze was halfway across the room. She highly doubted she'd be able to look Jonathan in the eye ever again. This was a terrible idea, she regretted it immediately, but she was almost done. "You asked why I won't develop an antidote for my—my kiss. My touch. My pheromones. That is why. Because I cannot. I am—I am afraid to be anything other than Poison Ivy, at the cost of being human or normal or . . . anything else that humans desire."
It was quiet for a long time. So long that Ivy began to worry and fear in equal measure that Cash would hurry Jonathan away before any sort of resolution could be reached. Then she began to worry that he'd fallen asleep or simply didn't care or worse, was mocking her—
Her eyes cut to his before she could think better of it, and found that he was displaying none of those things. He watched her steadily, eerie light eyes narrowed, brow furrowed in confusion. It almost looked as if he didn't know how to respond, and Ivy had a moment for a frantic thought: Oh. I've broken him. I've broken the psychologist.
And maybe she had. She doubted that many people had done what she had—willingly and knowingly handed Scarecrow their weaponized phobia.
"Say something," she commanded him, but the clenching in her stomach and the tightness of her throat made it sound more like a plea. A whisper. Weakness.
His expression flickered. There was no other way she could describe it. When he spoke it was very quiet. "You could have strung this out for far longer. Perhaps never told me at all."
"I promised payment. Besides, aren't you supposed to admit such things in therapy?"
"Only if you feel better after doing so. Do you feel better after telling me this, Miss Isley?"
Her lips pressed in a line. No, she absolutely did not feel better, and it was obvious to everyone in the room that she did not.
He leaned forward again, eyes lit. "Why are you doing this? Why are you admitting this? Why are you giving me your fear?"
Ivy didn't know. A month of debate with herself had not illuminated the answer. She could think of half-formed snatches of motivations, but could follow none through to their finish. "I don't know," she started, before despairing of herself. "Isn't this what you want? Isn't it why you're . . . and I was wrong, last time," she said, changing tracks. "With what I said. I hadn't realized it could happen . . . the other way. Not to someone like us. I hadn't thought . . ."
She couldn't look at him. She, who could rip through stone with her vines; who could poison a man's mind with a flick of her long, red hair. Who had never been frail in her human life; who had never been emotionally dependent on any man.
"Is that why you're giving this to me?" He asked, and his accent was noticeable. "Because I gave you something of equal value? An intimation of my own painful experiences?""
Of course he would think of it as a base transaction. Of course he would lessen the value of her struggle. Furious, she jutted her chin and spat, "Of course not!"
"Then why?"
Ivy was angry and confused and said the first thing to mind. "I'm losing Harley to the Joker, and someday I will lose Selina too. If I'm lucky, to Batman. If I'm not, to a misstep in the dark . . . or maybe Harvey Dent, or that disgusting Cobblepot Penguin. And you—"
She cut off abruptly when she looked at his face. He had not been mocking her pain. He had not thought of it as a base transaction, quid pro quo. That odd, unsettled look that he'd been wearing earlier was back, and Ivy had the wild thought that maybe it was vulnerability. And if he was a fraction as unsettled as she was, well . . .
"And I?" He murmured. His eyes were very light, and very focused on her. She wanted to cover his gaze with her hands.
She wanted to touch his face, again.
Cash stood up. "Time's up."
Ivy felt a flash of panic. This couldn't end now. She tried to answer his question but couldn't just open her mouth and say I'm telling you this because I care for you. Instead, "I—I get along with very few people, Jonathan. I don't want to lose you to yourself."
Her answer didn't really make sense. But it was the truest and most profound thing she'd said all session, and it was what came closest to the wild rush of feelings that bubbled and boiled inside of her.
His parting words, delivered as Cash grabbed his arm to pull him away, made her close her eyes and sit silent and still for a long time.
"And what will we lose you to?"
…
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…
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…
Update: I am now on the last chapter of Arc 3, first chapter of Arc 4. I'm getting there, my people. It is happening.
