Remember, my Ivy is Arkham Asylum game Ivy, which means magical plant growing powers Ivy. Because of plot reasons. And general awesomeness reasons.
Also I quote the I AM BATMAN spiel from one of the incarnations. You'll know it when you see it.
Mostly one big trigger this time guys, and it's in non-con territory. There are more detailed notes at the bottom, but there are spoilers. This is the squicky chapter. It may be rapey, depending on how you look at it.
If the trigger triggers thee, feel free to read until "This was love, she was perhaps even in love, but she had an audience to appease." Then, skip until "Oh, bravo," Joker called out, stepping down to the bottom row of the arena. "I really am just so impressed. Crasley ftw, and I will go down with this ship."
Which, actually, may tell you all you need to know about that particular segment.
Chapter 9: Fear of Desire
July 5th, 20xx
The Green Mile, 9:18 PM
Day 15
The Green Mile used to be a no-go zone for most of the inmates, because all feared Poison Ivy or dreaded being locked up with the loonies. Some of the more self-aware inmates feared becoming a loony themselves, but for most it was just a veneer of stay the fuck away that permeated that section of the Penitentionary.
Now, after several weeks of pseudo-freedom, inmates were beginning to push against their boundaries. Not in the least because after two weeks, many had realized that they had gone from prisoners of the state of New Jersey to being Joker's prisoners. And, as one might expect, one of those situations had better benefits as to life expectancy.
So it was that these five inmates,—two from Two-Face's gang, one from Penguin's (now a satellite of Black Mask's) and two from Joker's gang—found sanctuary in the still largely ignored Green Mile. They had met several times, generally to get away from the mass slaughter and madness, and eventually Penguin Thug found a deck of cards. They began to talk, and out of a fear their superiors would find out, discussed anything but gang matters. Two had played trumpet in middle school. One had a sister who was gay. One had been tested positive for HIV before coming here, but wasn't sure it was correct because the street doctor who tested him gave out a lot of false positives to scare his patients into changing their behavior. One, due to head trauma and dyslexia, did not read much beyond billboard ads and largely-printed warning signs.
They became friends, of a sort. Out of necessity, if nothing else. Most importantly, they called a truce for those times when they met up and played cards. These were times of peace. There would be no violence during their 'breaks.'
There was one other aspect to their card games, and it was that the Riddler began to make an appearance in them. The broken Edward Nygma had taken to wandering the island, hobbling on spasming legs, arms outstretched to prop himself up against the walls, gibbering in his broken, but increasingly comprehensible English. He began to hone in on certain areas, decorating the walls with green spray paint. It might have had a different effect had anyone been able to read his message, but now his riddles were more incomprehensible than ever.
So on the 15th day of the takeover, those five inmates watched as the Riddler walked past them, stumbling about, marking green lines on the wall. As he had before, he stopped at the door to Extreme Incarceration and hesitated, almost as if he wanted the door to open for him.
"Think he wants to get in there?" Penguin Thug asked.
"It's locked," one of Two-Face's boys responded, shuffling the deck. "Only Hatter and Dummy-Boy can get in there. Well, and you know. Joker."
"I wonder why," Penguin Thug said. "Freeze is the only one in there, and he can't get out. Not without his suit."
"Who knows?" A third, the other of Two-Face's goons, said.
"Not us," the fourth said, and the fifth laughed with him. They were Joker's, and it was a long-standing (if quiet) joke between them.
"We never know nothin'," Penguin Thug said, sighing. "Whatever goes down, we don't know shit."
"We know more than him," the fifth said, pointing at the Riddler. "At least we have that!"
…
….
…
The Riddler, paying no mind to any of this, stared hard at the locked door to E.I. Something Important was behind that door. Something Necessary.
But what?
Why couldn't he remember?
And why couldn't he think of What He Had To Do?
July 6th, 20xx
The Green Mile, 4:12 AM
Day 16
It took Joan more than 24 hours to reach the bunker after being freed. There were many reasons for this, not least of which was her emotional distress of being freed by Mike, who had quite clearly been kissed by Poison Ivy. Inmates with guns had been hot on his heels, and barely had he cut through the ropes binding her to the chair before he'd given his life in sacrifice, using his body as a meat shield so that she could scurry away and reach the tunnel in time. In the initial moments of escape Joan had vacillated between mindless terror—like a rat, Joker had said, and now she really was in that particular mindset—grief for the desecration of Mike's mind and life; and regret that Ivy had gone so far just to keep any knowledge of the formula safe.
But foremost, Joan had wanted to survive. So she had dropped down into the tunnels and maneuvered them as quickly as she could, calling to mind the blueprints she had studied in the bunker. Thank god she had spent so many hours doing so, because the paths she needed were clear even in the dark. Inmates gave chase—and this path would be dangerous to take from now on, even with all the tricky twists and turns—but she was able to lose them quickly enough, doubling back through paths that looped, and one time, crouching down in a dark recess while a guard rushed past, his flashlight swinging madly.
None of the guards knew the paths as well as she, and it was this that saved her.
She waited in that recess for a long time, trembling in the dark. It was here that she came to terms with the events of the last few hours. Yes, Ivy had used her powers on Mike. But what choice did she have? She could not come herself, not without tipping the balance on the fragile truce between her and the Joker.
And if Joker and Ivy went to war, Harley would be the first victim. The first among many. With Batman gone, who could say where Joker's blood-soaked rampage would end? The entire island could go up in flames, depending on whether or not the rest of the gallery, and the men that followed them, went along with him.
Ivy was quite possibly the only major player standing against the Joker, and if she fell, it was almost certain that everyone else would as well. With her gone, there would be no check to Joker's power and perhaps to Scarecrow's as well, who was withholding his knowledge and interaction with the formula for unknown reasons. Fear of Poison Ivy's reprisal was the best reason she could think of, coupled with Crane's probable plan to take over the island after Joker had been thrown down. That solidified her determination. No matter what, Ivy had to stay in a position of power, stay alive, otherwise there would be no chance of surviving Joker's mad reign, let alone get off the island.
But there was no chance of that anyways, Joan belatedly realized, finally accepting what Stephen Kellerman had determined almost immediately. The facts had always been before her, but now she was forced to accept them. With Clayface impersonating Sharp and deliveries at the docks progressing as usual, and no major criminals to deliver to Arkham, Commissioner Gordon would not suspect until it was too late. Even if he did find out, what could he do? He couldn't call the army out to storm the island, and anything less than that was doomed to failure—the GCPD was stretched thin enough as it was. Only Batman could have saved them, and Batman wasn't here.
It had been two weeks and Batman still wasn't here. That meant he wasn't coming. That meant . . .
We're all dead, she realized, and a blanket of calm settled over her. It was oddly freeing to give up all hope, all anxiety. The outcome was fixed, the length of her life was set. There was no superhero arriving at the 11th hour to save them all. There were only the days, hours, or minutes allotted to her, and what she would do with them.
And what would she do with them? Joan pondered this in her state of shock, leaning back against the rock wall of the recess. Killing the Joker was out. While she wanted it more than anything, she knew she wasn't capable of killing the madman, not unless fate put a blessed rocket launcher into her hands. Even then, he'd probably find a way out, likely by using Harley as a meatshield.
No, what she had to do was clear a pathway. And while there were many people on the island who could kill the Joker, only one would, and that was only if she was convinced Harley was already lost.
Joan could do that part. She was a psychologist. She was very convincing.
And she wouldn't even be lying. Harley was lost, she could accept this now, along with her own inevitable demise. The friend from university, her fellow doctor at Arkham was gone; immolated in the fire of her mad desire for the Joker. Whatever echoes there may be of the bright, bubbly, brilliant young woman were mere ghosts in a crowded room. The serum would never have worked on her—she was someone else entirely, and who knew what would have come from her ingesting it? She would have never been Harleen 'Just call me Harley, Joan, otherwise they'll think I'm as black as you are' Quinzel ever again. She was Harley Quinn, the giggling madwoman at Joker's side.
So Harley . . . her old friend, colleague, and the guiding light for her extensive research that spanned the last two years . . . was gone. Emotionally, if not physically. For Joan, who had gambled away her entire career to save her, that was the blow that hit the critical point. She huddled down and wept. Silently, because she was being hunted, but for a long time she gave herself to her grief.
…
...
When the worst of it had passed, she dozed, drifting, snatching minutes of sleep at a time. She could not allow herself the luxury of anything else. Yet when it had been quiet for several hours, she crept out and continued her way to the bunker. Her tears and the scattered hours of sleep had in part rejuvenated her. Her resolve was set, even if she did not allow herself to think of the finer details.
Ivy had to come out on top, no matter the means. Only then would anyone (and she included Aaron foremost among them, because she loved that stupid man, and she wanted him to have a chance for life even at the cost of her own) have a chance of getting off the damned island.
She made her careful way back to the bunker, keeping a sharp eye for any lost inmates. As it turned out, she hadn't needed a sharp eye at all. A blind individual would have noticed that, as she crept closer to the bunker, inmates were there aplenty.
Joan pulled back into a tunnel, hissing a quiet shit. Up ahead, there were at least eight inmates, all carrying crates and weapons and what appeared to be assorted furniture from around the island. As she huddled there she heard one of them give an order that rose above the sporadic chatter.
"Pick it up, boys! Clayface wants all the tunnels blocked off, not just this one!"
"Yeah, easy for him to say," one of the inmates muttered, just loudly enough for Joan to hear. "He wasn't there when the roof caved in on that one tunnel near Sharpie's office. And Jones and Slice haven't come back from scouting that other tunnel—what if something happened to them?"
They'd figured out the tunnel system, Joan realized, and her stomach fell down to her boots. Did Aaron know? Had he and his surveillance been the reason for Jones and Slice's disappearances?
"Hey, at least we're here, rather than in the pit," someone replied.
"Yeah, but—"
A third inmate piped up, his voice reedy. "Hey did you hear? They're prepping the pit for something big. And my buddy, he's assigned to pit detail, he said they painted the walls with plant killer. Guess who the next big star's gonna be!"
Just when she thought it couldn't get any worse. The bunker would either be found or blocked off, and Joker was targeting the only person of power standing against him.
Focus, Joan, she told herself, but it was difficult. She hadn't eaten in over 24 hours, and the only water she had been allowed was not nearly enough. Her thoughts wanted to spin in a loop, and it was difficult to wrest them into a semblance of order. She wanted to sleep for a week, and eat a goddamn cheeseburger. Five cheeseburgers. With lots of pickles.
For Aaron, she tried again, but it was no better. Upon hearing her news, Aaron would rather sit on her than let her go back out into the fray, even if it meant trapping her in the bunker when there was no way out. He wouldn't care that she could make a difference, nor that waiting out the few remaining projected days of her life would be unbearable if she was forced to stagnate.
Fine, she thought again, getting a little huffy with herself. Do it for yourself, you big baby. Do it for all the days you won't get to live. Focus, make a plan, and get the hell out of here.
That was slightly more effective. She had always responded better to a kick in the pants than a pat on the back. Putting any and all thought of cheeseburgers out of her head—she would have cans of corn and beans and pears when she got back, instead—she stole off back down the tunnel from which she'd come. It forked about 100 meters down, and from that, she could take another fork, and hopefully bypass Clayface's blockade. If not, there was another configuration she could try. And if that failed as well . . . well, she would have to try her luck with the collapsed path from earlier. Eddie had found a way to them, when she and Aaron had been stunned on the underhang. If she could just make it there, she would be home free.
…
…
…
It took her some time and two tries, but Joan did in fact make it back to the bunker. She stumbled against the bunker door more than knocked, and she was so covered in dirt and grime that she felt like one of the urchin child extras in Oliver, but make it she did.
She didn't even start worrying that Clayface may have already taken over the bunker until the door opened surprisingly fast. The sight of two guns levelled against her did away that fear pretty quickly, however.
"Oh good," she muttered, swaying a little. "He hasn't gotten here yet."
Eddie lowered his gun, looking concerned. Bill North held it up a touch longer, but that was mostly because he was so stunned.
"Joan?" He breathed. "Oh my god. You're back?"
"Oh, thank god!" Eddie said, a little overexcited. "I'm so glad you're ok!"
"Can I come in?" Joan asked, tottering a little. "I need feeding. And washing. And I have some bad news."
"Is it about the blockade?" Bill asked, as he helped her in. "Because we're onto that. Aaron's leading a patrol right now, he just left."
"Oh good," she muttered. "Now, feed me, please."
"Ok, ok," Bill muttered, continuing to help her onto a chair. "But what happened? How did you get out?"
But Joan would say nothing until Eddie put a can of beans in front of her. And then a can of corn. And a mug of Louie's whisky. Bless him.
"Ivy got to Mike. Kissed him, commanded him to free me. He did, but he died doing so. Got to the tunnels, hid. Now don't talk to me until I've eaten all of this. We've got more problems than just Clayface."
Not completely heartless, Joan ate quickly. Even better, Eddie wordlessly got her a can of peaches when she made grabby hands at the crate they were kept in. She felt worlds better when the whisky was down her gullet. Probably not a good sign, but at least when all this was over she could go to AA meetings with Louie.
Oh, wait. No she wouldn't. Because she'd be dead. Damn, she almost forgot.
Sobered, she put down the empty cans and as quickly and concisely as she could, told Bill and Eddie all. Then, without waiting for their response, she took herself to the bathroom, and took a ten-minute, freezing cold shower—the fastest she could manage and still get all the grime off her body. Changing her clothes meant grabbing the smallest security uniform off the side of the basin, where it and several others had been left to dry. She left her dirty clothes on the floor, not planning on ever seeing them again. Cinching the too-large pants around her waist with Brian's shoelace—given to her unceremoniously after he had died—she stepped out to see that it was thankfully still just Eddie and Bill. Aaron and his force were still out, the others sleeping in the bedroom. It made her next step easier to undertake.
Bill took one look at her and his entire body slumped. "Oh no. Joan, no."
"Joan, no what?" Eddie said, looking between them.
"I have to," she said, making steady and hopefully reassuring eye contact. "Ivy needs to kill the Joker, and I'm the only one who can convince her to do it."
"There are other ways—"
"Not before she's put down in the pit. We are all on a timer, Bill. If I don't get out and warn her now, we are all dead."
"Joan-"
"Dead! Dead, Bill! And you know it! Now, are you gonna' stand in my way, or are you gonna' help me do the right thing?"
Eddie broke in, desperately. "But Cash—Joan, you don't know, but—"
Bill waved him off. "It's too late for that, kid," he said quietly. He sighed. "Fine. You snuck out when Eddie and I were checking on something in the bedroom. We hid your clothes, but you stole clothes and left. God help us all," he finished in a mutter, turning away.
Eddie came up and Joan tensed, thinking he would stop her. Instead, he threw his arms around her and hugged her tightly.
"Why are you doing this? You don't have to sacrifice yourself! We can come with you!"
"Oh no, child," she said, moved by his earnestness. "There isn't a one of you that I'd take with me. I'm walking this road alone, you hear? And it's so at least one of you might live. All of you might live."
"But Aaron—"
She cut him off. "I love that man more than I love my own life," she admitted, and lord above wasn't it a relief to say it out loud? Eddie tensed, but she kept going. "That is why you cannot use him to talk me out of this. He is why I am doing this."
Eddie pulled back far enough so she could see his big doe eyes, brimming with tears. Behind him, Bill muttered something that sounded ungraciously like Aaron Cash you slow-ass dumb fuck, but Joan wasn't quite certain.
"One thing though," Bill said, as she made her way to the door. "I dunno if it will help, but one of the goons thought it would be Scarecrow fighting Ivy, down in the pit."
"What?" Joan breathed. "Oh goddamn it. Why him?"
"What? Why not him?" Eddie asked, plaintively.
She paced back and forth. "He's become something of an enigma, as of late. A wildcard. And in the shower, it occurred to me that he might actually be taking the empathy serum. I'd originally thought he was behaving suspiciously well out of fear, or maybe even that Ivy got her hooks into him, but he's too stable for that. Too sane. Too . . . different. It's like he's not Scarecrow or Crane, but not vacillating between them, either. I don't know. It hasn't fallen into place, yet."
Bill shook his head. "Well, is he better or worse?"
"Better, for now," she admitted. "Especially as he didn't tell Joker about the serum. That may be good or bad, but he can't be fully in Joker's regime regardless. And if he and Ivy duke it out . . . I have to warn her. Jesus, if only I could warn him too . . ."
"It's too late for that," Bill said. "You have to pick one. Honestly, I'd go Ivy."
"Me too," Eddie said miserably.
Joan breathed out through her teeth. "Yes," she agreed. "Ivy. Even if none of this makes sense. She has power over plants, and is mostly immune to his fear toxin. What does Joker think . . ." She trailed off, suddenly seeing it all, bright, brilliant, and with the laden sense of inevitability.
"Oh no. Oh shit," she breathed, panic sparking like a wildfire. "The recording. The goddamned—"
Without finishing her sentence, she turned and ran out of the bunker, slamming the door behind her.
…
…
The door slammed shut, and Eddie looked at Bill. "Should we have told her what Cash is actually doing?"
"Nope. She's got her mission, we've got ours."
"But she doesn't know—he never told her—"
"There'll be time for that when it's all over. Don't lose sight now, Eddie."
He sighed. "I hate Two-Face's plan. Are you sure we can trust him? I mean, he's sending us right past Croc. Killer Croc."
Bill put a hand on his shoulder. "Look, he gave Aaron his coin. That means he's not really Two-Face right now. It'll all work out. It's what we've been planning for."
"But we are going after her, right? Eventually?"
"Of course we are! Now suit up, kid. I'll wake everybody up. We'll rendezvous with Cash along the way, but we are making this plan happen now. It's time to fight a way off this goddamned island." He caught Eddie's arm before he moved off. "Oh, and remind everybody to be extra quiet. Dent's uncharted tunnel goes right by Extreme Incarceration, so no extra noise. The last thing we need is for Fries or whoever he's got in there to notice us now . . ."
…
…
...
July 6th, 20xx
The Greenhouse, 9:47 AM
Day 16
Ivy had been ambushed before, plenty of times. Generally, it was by Batman or Harley. Never before had the Joker made his prancing way over to her corner of the island with so little warning, however. Or fanfare. Or even goons.
It was just him standing in the antechamber, the door closed firmly behind his back, jabbing repeatedly at the intercom with his forefinger. "Pammy? Hello? Is this thing on?"
She very much did not want to reply to him.
"It worked just the other day," he muttered to himself. "Paaaaammmyyyy I know you're innnn therrreeeeeeeeeeeee—"
The last time she had let him in she had very nearly given into the impulse to fight him, and only Crane's presence had kept her from doing so. Therefore, it was likely smartest not to answer, and bypass whatever unpleasantness was sure to follow.
. . . Unless this was her chance to kill him? She sucked in a quick breath. This could be her chance to kill him.
Now aware of her quickening heartbeat—such an odd, mammalian nuisance—Ivy unlocked the front doors. Yet the Joker, not being quite so stupid as she had hoped, did not move from the antechamber.
"Ahhh, that's better," he said, shaking his head as if he were catching the breeze. "But I'm not so stupid as to actually set foot in your demesne, alone. Honestly, Leafy. What do you think of me?"
Well, drat. She'd have to be a little more creative to take him out. "Do you honestly want to know?" She asked.
"Nooooo, what I really want to know is how do you feel about Crasley?"
Ivy blinked. "The . . . is that an island? A school? Or a surname?"
Joker blew a raspberry. "Oh it is absolutely wasted on you. Plebeians, all. I bet you've never read a single fanfiction in your life."
She really was thrown for a loop. Fanfiction? Crasley? She defied even Harley to pick up the pieces of Joker's mental train of thought.
"But let's move on, shall we? I've got some important news for ya, Pammy. Consider this your hand-delivered, gold-gilded invitation to tonight's Joker Game. And get this—you're the main event."
"No," she replied, inspecting her nails. One of the annoying aspects of her continued existence was that she had nails for dirt and minute particles of flora to get trapped under. Removing them wasn't feasible in the long term, however. She'd already tried that.
Another thing plantlife didn't have much of? Pus. Pus and blood.
"Seeeeee I thought you'd say that—'' The Joker wheedled.
"No."
"But get this. You're gonna' fight someone special, and you won't even die afterwards! And neither will he!"
"Still no, Joker."
"Ooooook, so, here's the thing. If you say no one more time, I'm gonna take this gun right here," there was the sound of a gun being cocked, unmistakable after all these years of crime in Gotham, "and shoot Harley in the head tonight when she's sleeping." His voice turned cold. "La lucha is in nine hours. Be there and ready to dance, or Harley's a cold slab of meat come morning."
Ivy froze, taken aback at the suddenness of the threat. Joker took the advantage to stalk off—not prancing, warbling, walking like a duck . . . nothing. He just walked away, gun at his hip, and that, more than anything, convinced her that she was in trouble.
She sat down hard and covered her face with her hands. A deplorable habit from her younger years, she'd thought she'd rid herself of the habit, but here it was again. Did she believe him? She may have to. He'd never used her affection for Harley this overtly before. It was always 'Ohhhh I wouldn't do that if you want Harley to have two legsssss,' or, 'A patient man is a man who doesn't gouge little holes into Harley's flesh with a melon scoop, so STOP TRYING MY PATIENCE.'
This was the first time he outright threatened. He was serious. He had to be.
But could he go through with it?
Harley could modify his behavior, but only just, and rarely. Ivy suspected he found her luck, resilience, and charm amusing, but that was not enough to sway him when he was in a mood. Only Batman had the power to change Joker's course outright, generally by defeating him/tricking him/trapping him/beating the shit out of him. So, with no Batman to stop him, would Joker go through with it? She had to assume so. That meant she had to take part in this death match.
But hadn't he said something about it being a special match? And that neither would die?
This would be the first main event where it wasn't to the death, and somehow, that made Ivy even more uneasy. She was one of the few mutagenically changed inmates on the island, and was much, much harder to kill than usual, but even a hail of bullets (were Joker to change his mind) would kill her. One head shot could kill her. If he changed his mind on the pacifistic outcome of the fight, she was dead.
But if she didn't, Harley was dead.
Put that way, there was really no choice at all, was there?
July 6th, 20xx
Outer East Island, 2:18 PM
Day 16
Something had Happened. Eddie didn't know what, but the human puppets all around him—they weren't people, he didn't think they were people, where were all the people?—were getting more and more . . . more and more . . . something. Some word. Bad. Angry.
Scared, there it was. That was the word. Scared.
It was hard to be outside now, because the puppets all had those grey and black things that were loud and made him scared and fall to the ground and cover his head. They would point them at the other puppets and then they'd fall down and red would come out and then the puppet wouldn't get back up again. Those things. Whatever they were called. Words were hard. Everything was hard. He didn't know anything anymore.
But the puppets didn't use the black things on him, so he would wander. It was dark out. There was no . . . no . . . yellow circle in the sky, and everything was dark and scary. Ominous. What was that word? Was it right?
Eddie didn't know. He didn't know much.
But as he stumbled his way from one hut to the next, always looking for who knew what, one of the puppets did something very strange. A shadow moved across the ground and the puppet saw it. He shook and shivered, and his head turned very fast to look everywhere, but especially up.
"It's the bat!" He cried, and that was when he did the strange thing. He dropped the black and grey thing, the hurtful thing, the scary thing. He ran away, covering his head with his hands, and did not stop until he ducked into one of the huts.
Eddie looked down at the dropped black thing. He bent down, which made strong pain everywhere, and his crooked, recently healed fingers traced the cold barrel of the . . . of the . . .
Gun, Eddie thought, the word coming back to him in a bright burst of clarity. Useful. Bang bang.
Eddie picked up the gun, and took it with him on his aimless ramble around the island.
He decided, as he usually did, to walk to E.I.
It just felt . . . necessary. Maybe today he would finally remember what he had to do there?
July 6th, 20xx
Arkham East, outdoors, 4:47 PM
Day 16
Sometimes, Harley Quinn felt a little bit like she was out of the loop. A ridiculous thought when she was one of the few who had been in on the island takeover plan from the very beginning, but lately, a few upsetting thoughts had begun to butterfly kick their way from the depths of her subconscious, and linger at the surface of the churning waters.
Thoughts like: where is Selina? And why did Mistah J keep telling her she'd have 'an important upcoming role?' What actually was this serum business? How and why did Joan escape when Harley could, at least nominally, offer some amount of protection? Why had Ratter and Jonesy, two of her favorite henchmen, quietly moved over to Harvey Dent's crew? Why was Mistah J in one of his infamously good moods when Batman still hadn't shown up?
(What was keeping him, anyways?)
And most immediately, why on earth was Professor Crane bearing down on her, in medical coat and sans mask, with the look of a man going to the gallows?
"Mornin', Professor," she said, brightly yet cautiously, always on alert for whether she would have to backflip away. One could never quite tell with Scarecrow how things were going to go. Usually, you could count on him to be polite when not wearing the mask, but their lives had been pretty topsy-turvy as of late.
"Miss Quinn," he said brusquely, in greeting. "Do you have a moment?"
"Of course," she chirped, yet continued giving him the side eye. "Whaddya need?"
"Just a quiet word. But one I won't have you running back to tell the Joker about. This is a private word, Miss Quinn. Can you promise me this?"
Harley blinked. Then she blinked again. "Professor, are you asking me to keep secrets from Mistah J?"
"It's about your friend," he said through gritted teeth. "If she's not important enough to you for a little discretion, then I would advise reordering your hierarchy of priorities."
At this moment, Harley experienced many things. A melange of emotions: anger at being told what to do, anxiety at the thought of keeping things from a power-mad Joker, curiosity at his secret message, and a spark of recognition at realizing he was talking about Pammy. All capped off with a pervading sense of what the hell was happening, here? It was not her finest moment. She may have blinked at him a third time, just to regain her bearings.
"Let me get this straight. You have something to tell me about Red that you don't want getting back to the Joker?"
He nodded curtly.
Well. This was interesting. And awkward. Time to make it more so! "Professor, are you trying to make girl talk?" She emphasized, her eyes wide, leading him to agree with her.
The man looked as if he'd swallowed an onion. "I—" He sighed. "Fine. Yes. I am attempting to make girl talk."
Well, he wouldn't get very far if he said it in the tones of a dying man. But Harley could forgive him. It was likely his first time. "Perfect! Mistah J hates girl talk and has strictly forbidden me to ever repeat any of it to him, so feel free! Whadda we need to talk about?"
Now it was his turn to blink. "Joker has strictly forbidden you to—the topic has come up?"
She nodded sagely. "You might not think it to look at 'em, but some of the boys are in touch with their feminine side. Others have girlfriends that talk a lot. I am their resource and their translator, and I get a lot of gossip too. But let's not beat around the bush. Spill the tea, Professor."
"Spill the-?"
Harley rolled her eyes. "What's going on, Professor?"
But his nerve had been shaken. There was distinct hemming. However uncomfortable he looked before, now it was even worse. He averted eye contact. He fidgeted. He was extremely close to shuffling his feet.
Harley was stunned. She had seen some strange things in her time, but this. THIS. This might just be the weirdest.
"I need you to promise me to . . . comfort your friend in the coming days," he finally said awkwardly, like his tongue was thick in his mouth. He also sounded like he was from the South, for a minute. Weird.
Then the implications of what he said caught up with her. "Wait, what? Why? What did you do?"
"What I—" He cut himself off, looking outraged. Then he looked at her, closely, scrutinizing her. "You have no idea," he murmured. "Has he not told you?"
That he was referring to the Joker went unsaid. "Told me what?"
"That she will be in the games tonight," he all but hissed, and Harley paled.
Oh, shit. Joker's hard rule that she not attend tonight's set of the games made a little more sense now. She also felt a little bit like crying, and maybe fighting something at the same time.
"He told me I couldn't come," she said quietly. "He said it wasn't a show for the ladies this time."
"For once, I agree with him," Crane said cautiously. "It would be better for you to wait in the Greenhouse. After she's . . . done, she will want . . . she would . . ." He trailed off, looking pained. "Just wait there. Be there when she needs you. Promise me this, Harley."
Oh god. Red was in the games and apparently not scheduled to die. Crane knew all about it and warned her. He had just used her first name.
"Ok," she said, quietly, completely freaked out. She tried hard not to think about why as he turned and left.
And then, after he left, she tried hard not to think about how he knew all this.
And why he cared enough to warn her.
July 6th, 20xx
Extreme Incarceration, 5:18 PM
Day 16
Clang—
Selina picked her head up off the cot. There it was again! Ghostly noises that echoed quietly throughout the cavern. It had been happening on and off for the 12 hours or so—well, at least as far as she could measure time down here—and it was real. It had to be.
Please please please tell her that she wasn't losing her mind down here.
"Hey, Vic? You sure you don't hear that?" She wasn't sure he'd reply. He had taken it kind of badly when she went on her vision quest, almost four days ago now. She'd been under for quite a while, and then, after weeping copious tears because Bruce was dead, she hadn't been the best conversationalist after. But the following days had given her time to grieve. (Well, maybe not enough time, as she doubted anything other than a lobotomy could keep the crippling grief from swamping over her during inopportune moments, but enough time to reach a plateau where she could summon the ghost of her usual snark. More importantly, however, it led her to a place where she could start thinking and planning again, and taking the Joker the fuck down was a surprisingly effective palliative against grief.)
Victor could have grieved in his own way, had he believed her. She hadn't kept the results of her vision quest a secret, although he claimed it wasn't much of a secret. Or true. He was a scientist, and needed proof, evidence, data. Batman wasn't dead until he saw the body.
She knew better. She only needed her intuition.
Still, he hadn't appreciated what he'd deemed her 'scare tactics.' He'd only begun talking to her a few hours ago, and she thought it might be because he was too tired to hold out against her incessant stream of questions.
Now, she was in luck.
"Hear what, Selina?" He replied, sounding like a parent who'd been quarantined with triplet toddlers.
"The . . banging and clanging. Kind of like someone is doing something in the walls?"
He was silent for a moment. Then, after another quiet clatter echoed, he said, "Ah. That. I had wondered . . . you must have a better location for acoustics. I can but barely hear it."
Oh, so she wasn't going crazy?
YESSSSSSSSS.
"Hear what, Vic?"
"There are tunnels behind the outer walls of E.I. From time to time, prisoners try to escape through them. Futile, of course, because they don't lead anywhere helpful."
Tunnels? Tunnels? Ok, how many times had she been incarcerated here and there were goddamn escape tunnels?
Why had no one told her this? Was this Boys Only Club information? What was this, the Island of the Lost Boys? Oh god it kind of was, if Joker was Peter Pan and Batman was Captain Hook and Killer Croc was obviously the Crocodile and Harley was Wendy. But Smee. Who would be Mister Smee?
Harvey Dent Harvey Dent Harvey Harvey Harrveyyyyyyy— She was amused at the thought of Harvey in pirate clothing, but the ensuing image of Bruce in pirate captain dress and with a hook for a hand shot her levity dead. She couldn't think happy thoughts about him yet, apparently. She was not even done crying over him, even worse.
"Go back to the part about escape tunnels," she said, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. "Because escape tunnels are incredibly useful, what are you talking about?"
"Not ones that lead to the under sewers where Killer Croc is kept," he replied drily.
Selina's face lit up like she'd just won the jackpot. Bruce's hypothetical base was hypothetically in the sewer system. If those tunnels could get her there . . .
"Annnnnnd do they connect to the E.I.? Like, from this room?"
Victor was silent for a long moment. "They . . . do. But Selina, it won't help you. Even if I could get you out, and you made it all the way through the tunnels, Croc is the only thing waiting for you on the other end!"
"Croc and Batman's secret base! He has one on the island, Vic! And if I can get there, I'll be able to get a message to Gordon. Or . . . whoever is left of the Batfam. Better yet, Oracle," she said, thinking out loud. "She's probably in a better position to help us, anyway."
"Joker has no doubt cut off all unsanctioned communications to and from the island—"
"Ok, this is Batman we're talking about here. Whatever he's got in the base will be completely unconnected to the mainframe, and you know it. I just have to get there. Then I can call in the cavalry."
Victor was quiet again. Then, "And if you are correct and Batman is . . . gone?"
There went her throat. Just closed right up from grief. Fuck. She swallowed three times before saying, "Br—the man is dead. But Batman won't be. I promise you this, Victor. No matter what I have to do, no matter what I become, I will not let this situation continue."
Unfortunately, because Victor was actually brilliant, he saw exactly where she was obliquely going with this. "Do not become what they are, Selina! Remember what Joker did to Maxie! Remember what he tried to do to you!"
"I wasn't thinking about going dark side," she said, but before she could finish, the doors opened and Tetch ran in.
"Alice! Alice!"
Annnnd back we were to the name calling. "Look, Jervie, if I respond to Alice once then everybody will be making up names for me, and then where will we be?"
But even from thirty feet away, glimpsed through the small aperture of her cell, Jervis's panic was obvious. "Alice!" He cried out again, clothes askew, hair a mess, fear lighting his face. "Alice, get ready to run. I'm setting you free."
Selina perked up. That was most excellent and timely news. But before she could say anything to Victor in a victorious and/or crowing manner, Jervis the killjoy continued with, "They're coming to kill you!"
Well, shit. That was never what a girl wanted to hear.
"Who, Jervis?" That was from Victor, even as Jervis began scurrying towards the control section at the back of the room.
"Who do you think?" He called back, before the outer door opened once again, and Wesker stepped through, with his puppet . . . and a gun.
"Shit," Selina breathed, before yelling, "Jervis, watch out!"
Her warning was too late. Wesker didn't even hesitate. He just aimed, fired, and Jervis fell to the ground. From his choked off scream and pained whimpering afterwards, he wasn't dead.
"Wesker!" Victor yelled, but he was ignored. The Ventriloquist took several calm steps towards the now crying Mad Hatter, and fired two more times.
For two long heartbeats, everything was silent. Selina went cold and numb. Hatter was dead, and she was next. Christ this would be like shooting a fish in a barrel, how the hell was she supposed to fight back against this? She was fucked. All he needed was one shot, or, ok, maybe four, because she was a slippery fucker, and then her resolve would be hopeless. They were all completely and totally fucked, unless—
"Vic!" She cried out. "After I'm gone, you know what you need to do!" Because even if he couldn't get to the Batcave, someone had to. Somehow. And if he was the only one who knew there was even a Batcave on the island, the onus of this doomed mission had just fallen to him. And he didn't have a cold suit.
Fuck, they were doomed.
Victor ignored her in favor of yelling at Wesker some more. "Wesker, no! You cannot do this! Batman will—"
"Batman won't do shit," Scarface interrupted. "Because if Batman was gonna do anything at all, he'd already be here, ya stupid refrigerator!"
"And what will Joker do when you've removed the best chance he has at luring Batman to the island?" Victor asked, desperately.
"Well," Wesker said, pushing up his glasses. "Seeing as how I had to shoot her in self defense during her escape attempt, not a whole lot. Jervis was the one who let her out and all."
That argument only worked if Joker was logical which, let's be real, he generally was not. But Selina didn't feel much exultation at the thought of Wesker being killed for killing her. It would be too late to gloat over it or anything. 'Cuz she would be dead. As was quickly becoming the most likely scenario, here.
Scarface snickered. "And all we had to do was tell Twitchy Tetch that Joker was coming to kill Alice. Easy peasy. Should've done this days ago!"
Oh, so it wasn't only her death Wesker was orchestrating? That schizo fucker was dead. She was so haunting his ugly tax accountant ass after all this was over.
"I will not stand for this," Victor promised.
"You're gonna have to," Scarface sneered. "Unless you want me to drop you down into the abyss right now?"
"Don't be stupid, Victor. You can outlast them. You have to win," Selina found herself calling, through numb lips. It seemed vaguely familiar. Had she said that before? Some of it? Oh shit, was she dissociating again? Maybe she should stop staring at Jervis's corpse. Yeah. That would probably help.
"Dames dames dames," Scarface crowed. "Always so fucking stupid. Not worth the price of tits and ass, in my opinion. Always so weepy and whiney and don't do it Arnold, please stop, I don't want this! You're all better off dead. Personally, I'm gonna enjoy this."
Wesker walked towards the control room. There was a tense moment of silence as he opened the door, and then Selina and Victor began talking all at once.
"I won't stand for this, Selina—"
"Don't piss him off any further—"
"He's going to drop me anyway—"
"You don't know that just be chill—"
"He's going to kill you!"
"Someone has to make it to the base!"
"He's going to kill you!"
"Yeah well, let's test that nine lives theory, shall we?" She finished, with a bravado she didn't truly feel.
The mechanical walkway to her cell raised, foot by foot, connecting her to the main platform. Selina watched it from the corner of her cell, gauging her chances. She was most likely going to die. Probably. But if there was any chance she could fake death, at least long enough to kill Wesker? She'd take those odds. She'd take them every goddamned time.
The ladder latched into position, shaking the cell. That had scared the shit out of her the first few times, but now it was nothing. Wesker emerged from the control, walking slowly—sauntering, really—towards her.
Then the door to E.I. opened, and the odds shifted.
Victor began yelling immediately, because he had a deathwish, apparently, but Wesker froze, concerned with who might be coming through. If it was Joker, his game was up. For the first time in her life, Selina hoped it might be the painted clown himself.
For not the first time in her life—more in keeping with every single time in her entire life— she felt nothing but bitter disappointment when the Riddler stumbled through. Although it did take her aback momentarily to see him all mangled and scarred. What the hell had happened to him? Then she remembered certain confusing PA announcements from Joker to Hush about keeping the Riddler alive. But Jesus God, what had happened to warrant this?
It was a little weird seeing him without the cane, which might actually have helped him in this instance. He was tottering around on unsteady feet, looking around like he wasn't sure how his body worked, but he did have a fucking machine gun so there was that.
Wesker also thought it was enough of an anomaly to address. "Eddie? How did you get in here?"
"Ya left the door open, numbnuts," Scarface said.
"Just put the gun down, Eddie," Wesker said, in a fairly good facsimile of a calming voice.
"Or we could just shoot him?" Scarface volunteered.
Eddie may have gurgled something in response to this, but Selina was too far away and it was too indistinct to make out.
"Oh puh-lease, let's just kill him!" Scarface said.
"No!" Wesker cried. "You know that Joker wants him alive. Catwoman is one thing. But Riddler—"
"Then ignore him. He's just a broken boy," Scarface said. "What's he gonna do?"
The answer, apparently, was to raise the gun, and in a moment of exemplary physical coordination (considering his condition) send a spray of bullets into Wesker's stomach.
Selina clutched the bars of her cell's aperture, eyes wide. She couldn't breathe. Nor could she entertain coherent thoughts, because all she had was what the fucking fuck on a recurring loop.
Dying Wesker was struggling through a similar line of thought because he was gurgling something similar. But Eddie's hold on the gun was not perfect, and the bullets had torn a line through Wesker's body, crosswise, and then continued until only a few feet away from the cell next to Selina's. Thankfully his finger must have slipped off the trigger—or he'd seizured to a stop, either way—and had dropped the gun entirely.
Wesker had dropped his as well, which was the only reason the Riddler was still standing sans bullet holes of his own.
"Rid—why?" Wesker gurgled.
"The thing," Riddler stammered. "I had—isn't this? The important—I don't . . . I need help. Need B-batman. Need—"
But Wesker did not hear Riddler's stumbling attempt towards coherency. His head rolled to the side and he died, leaving Eddie staring at Scarface.
Victor was yelling at Riddler to free her, to open her cage, but Selina, hating that goddamn puppet more than life itself, had another priority.
"Throw the doll over the edge, Eddie!" She screamed, and somehow he heard her over the din.
He stooped down, laboriously, and lilting to the side so aggressively she thought he would topple right over, and grabbed hold of the puppet. Lurching like a drunk man, he veered towards the edge of the platform. For a breathless moment she thought he might fall over too, but then he dropped the doll, and watched it tumble into the abyss.
Then he was stumbling up her walkway, and she could taste hope like a shot of tequila. Maybe he'd be coherent enough to free her. Oh god, maybe she wasn't going to die. Maybe she'd be set free right now.
The Riddler walked face first into the doorway and her hopes dimmed a little.
"Eddie, can you set me free?" She asked, as he caught hold of the doorway, keeping himself from falling off the ledge.
But he had other concerns. "I need—where's B-b-batman? I need—"
"If you let her out she will find Batman for you!" Victor roared from next door.
"Need B-batman. I can't—where is? I don't know I'm lost help me help me help—"
But Selina saw it. Jesus, all these vision quests she knew exactly what to do. "Eddie," she said, pitching her voice low. "I am Batman now. You've found me. I will help you."
Eddie swallowed thickly, and his words came tumbling out. "B-b-but you don't—don't look . . . don't look like B-batman."
Selina stepped back, availing herself of what little shadows she could, in her cell. She tilted her head down, but kept her gaze fixed on the broken Rogue. "I don't need to," she said simply, but with the ghost of Bruce's former steely determination. "Because I am the vengeance. I am the night. I. Am. Batman."
For a long moment Eddie stared at her, his hazel eyes glistening. Then he crumpled to his knees, weeping.
"Will you help me, Eddie?" She asked with the very last dregs of calm and self-control.
"Yes!" He wailed.
"Then this is what you have to do," she said.
And slowly, haltingly, he did it.
…
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…
…
…
July 6th, 20xx
Greenhouse, 6:32 PM
Day 16
22 minutes before Ivy went to meet her doom, Joan Leland tore through the atrium of her Greenhouse—no doubt coming from the tunnel system—dressed like security, and raving, rather more loudly than she needed to, about the Joker.
Clearly, Ivy had to be the voice of reason. As per always. "Joan, what are you doing? You can't be here! I only just got you free, and—"
"JOKER HAS THE RECORDING!" Joan hissed by way of greeting, before Ivy could do much more than calm her babies, who had nearly risen up against the psychologist of their own accord. She could hardly blame them. Humans were upsetting at the best of times, even ones she had a begrudging respect for.
Thus, it took her a moment to catch up. "Recording . . .?"
Joan looked as if she were two repartees away from taking her by the shoulders and shaking her. "The missing recording, Pamela! Of you and Crane! That's why he's putting you both in the pit tonight!"
Ivy froze. For a breathless moment, she had a hard time thinking of anything at all. It was Crane in the pit with her? Oh, of course it was. Because Crane had wanted her fear oh so long ago, and now he'd have the chance to use it.
Perhaps seeing her panic, Joan continued in a slightly calmer tone. "He knows. I don't know how he got it, but he knows."
"So this is to break me," Ivy said through numb lips. Because of course it was to break her. Joker was a battering ram of destruction, and maybe that was enough, but all she could think of was whether this had more subtle elements running through it. Was this the culmination of Crane's sessions with her? Determine her fear, lie to her to make her trust him, and then, when she least expected it, use it against her?
Oh God. She had trusted him. Liked him. Maybe even—
"Probably both of you," Joan said quietly. "Knowing Joker it hardly matters which. But Crane is the worst person he could have picked."
Ivy should be furious. Maybe she was. Maybe the burning, pricking sensation in her eyes was rage. But Joan was still talking, and maybe she'd help her make sense of all this. "What do you mean?" She asked. "Why is he the worst?"
A thought occurred to her—did even Joan know that Jonathan had manipulated her so easily?
Joan looked at her, and even Ivy could see how torn she was. Then she swore, loudly, before admitting, "Fuck! Pamela, Crane was . . . shit. He—as he was growing up, his grandmother . . . hurt him. There were sexual elements."
Ivy remembered the tail end of Crane's diatribe, which had cemented her burgeoning empathy for him: 'The women of my family did that, Miss Isley, and I paid for it all my young life. I have been on the receiving side of that kind of abuse, and if one of us is to relate with Harley, I cannot see it being you.'
Awful as it was, hope flowered in her heart. Had he not lied to her? He'd told her the truth?
"How do you know?" Ivy asked, not sure whether to believe, or if Joan was just parroting back what he'd implied on the recording.
Now Joan looked a curious mix of miserable and angry. "After Crane took over the asylum, Dr. Carraway took it upon himself to hire private investigators to comb through his past. It was wildly unethical—and why we got him gone—but he was looking for something we could use against Scarecrow. Apparently Crane wasn't the only boy his grandmother hurt—there were several young boys in her church that she preyed on. Probably more, but those were the few that would admit to it."
Ivy blinked, stunned. The doctors had known? There were facts, specifics? "You knew? This whole time? You all knew?"
Joan shook her head. "Just the senior doctors. But we weren't ever going to use it, Pamela, and Sharp never knew. Carraway mentioned it to a few of us before he went to the warden, and Kellerman headed up the official petition to remove him. Gretchen hammered it home when she reported the 'missing medical supplies' at the same time. Carraway was fired, that file was destroyed, and the matter dropped. If Crane hadn't admitted it, and the Joker hadn't managed to find the recording, he would have been safe."
"And he was transferred to you," Ivy breathed, feeling an odd, yet not totally unwelcome upswell of affection for the exhausted woman in front of her. "You, who would never use it against him. Never do anything unethical to him. He was safe with you. Just as Harley was." She smiled, flush with the reassurance of Crane's not having played her for a fool. "Arkham might actually have been a place of healing if all the doctors had been like you."
Joan looked at her, stricken and confused. This was probably warranted, as Ivy was still smiling. What was wrong with her? She was heading off to her rape or his, and yet all she could think and feel was that Crane hadn't lied to her, he had been honest with her, and that he hadn't betrayed her. Well, she wouldn't betray him. Whatever came, whatever happened . . . she would not hurt him. Not destroy him. She would choose him above herself. Even if that meant sacrifice.
Joan shook herself back into action. She also stepped through the clearest path the flora could provide to get to one of the rotting corpses on the floor. After gagging, the doctor ripped a good swatch of the security guard's cotton shirt, and extended it to her.
"Can you use this? Joker's painted the walls with makeshift weedkiller. We need to think outside the box."
Ivy eyed it. The cotton had been processed within an inch of its life. There was no life in it. It was absolutely unusable.
But it didn't need to be, not with what she'd planned.
"Yes," she lied. "But Joan, you can't be here. They'll catch you again. Go."
Joan jutted her chin. "But you—I have to help you."
"Not with this," Ivy murmured. And then, for the second time in her life, she drugged Joan Leland into unconsciousness, with just a puff of air and the pheromones from her skin.
"God . . . damn it, Pame . . ." Joan muttered, as she fell to the ground, struggling to the last to remain conscious.
Ivy sighed. Less than 14 minutes to get to the Pit, and now she had to hide Joan Leland again? But on second thought, maybe she didn't? No one would come here, not until she got back. She'd just move her sleeping body to the side of the atrium, underneath some of her friendlier foliage—yes, the fern that always quivered in delight whenever Harley showed up—and deal with this when she got back.
She had a date to meet, and a promise to keep.
…
…
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…
For all her bravado, Ivy felt a severe sense of misgiving the moment she entered the Pit. Like all the other events, it was attended by at least half the island, but unlike the other times, there were startlingly few weapons. Not that she had expected any weapons in the pit, especially when the weed killer dissipating in the air made her skin tingle unpleasantly, but usually the entire first row of the audience was taken up with men toting guns. Now, there were only a few, all surrounding the Joker.
Maybe he had meant it when he said no one would die tonight.
There were slightly fewer men in attendance. Not enough to make a statement, but just enough so that they weren't sitting elbow to elbow, jam-packed as closely as before. Not everyone on the island was a rapist, or got off on watching the degradation of others. It looked as if Two Face was underrepresented, although Black Mask was also down more than a few boys as well. Interestingly enough, they were even sitting within a few rows of each other, whereas before the leaders of the power groups had always maintained a good distance from each other.
Harley wasn't there either, which was a small mercy. Ivy certainly wouldn't put it past him to have the woman she cared for most watch her commit this indignity with the man she cared for most. She didn't know how to rank them, anymore. It used to be so easy: Harley, maybe Selina, occasionally a fleeting moment of respect for Batman, then everybody else.
Now she knew very little. Jonathan would be here, or Scarecrow, and then . . . things would happen. And she couldn't even determine in her own mind whether it was better it was him down in the pit, rather than . . . oh, say Harley. Because of course she couldn't hurt Harley, could not even think of wiping out her precious mind with her pheromones. But now she knew she couldn't do that to Jonathan either, and what did that mean?
She did not want to know what that meant.
Men were yelling at her, jeering at her to get naked already, and she hardly cared. Her heart was pounding, and the urge to fight her way free—another mammalian response, at odds with her hybrid biology—warred with an unnatural sense of stagnation. Her heart was beating wildly, the remnants of her parasympathetic nervous system were firing on all cylinders, but she also felt serene, in control. The eye of the storm, perhaps. Or shock.
She wanted to get this over with. She also wished it might not happen at all. And when Scarecrow stepped into the pit, followed by a cadre of goons with guns who took up their place at the gaping hole that served as an entrance, she had the odd thought that she should enjoy this while it lasted, because one way or the other, it would all be over soon. He was dressed in full regalia, fright mask and all, yet he had also foregone a shirt, oddly enough. He wore a loose pair of pants belted at the waist, and his syringes clicked as he wiggled the fingers of his left hand.
Ivy felt marginally underdressed in her standard wear, the pants and shirts a size too small. The guards had given her the wrong sizes since she'd entered the asylum. She was not so stupid as to not understand why.
Scarecrow took up his position at the far end of the ring immediately, leaving her no opportunity to reassure him. But what would she have said? She had no blessed idea how to put her resolve into words, nor if it would have mattered to him at that moment. Perhaps he was taking refuge as Scarecrow, rather than the somewhat more vulnerable Jonathan Crane. That meant this had become even harder. When she had decided to sacrifice her own comfort, safety, and mental well-being for Jonathan, it had been easy. It was far harder for Scarecrow, who would hurt her and perhaps even enjoy it.
Just then, Joker stood and gestured, theatrically, for silence. When the men finally quieted enough, he pulled out a megaphone and coughed directly into it. When those nearest to him stopped wincing and flinching away reflexively, he lifted one leg so that it rested on the head of the man in front of him, and struck a pose.
Harley had once called it the 'Captain Jack' pose, but for the life of her, Ivy couldn't see why.
"Thugs and goons and . . . shameless motherfuckers," he began, gleeful and dramatic. "Tonight we have a very special event. Personally, it's one I've been looking forward to for a very long time! The culmination of Crasley!"
Ivy narrowed her eyes. In shock she may be, panicking and dissociating in equal measure, but she still didn't know what that was, nor why Joker kept talking about it. From the looks of the men in the audience, neither did any of the men.
Scarecrow, on the other hand, just watched her. Silent and glacial and still.
Joker blew a raspberry. "Oh, you're all a bunch of poops. Anywho, as I was saying, it's a special show tonight, with something other than death on the menu. That's right—both of the contenders will leave the ring alive! But only one will remain . . . untarnished."
The men whooped, most already having figured out what was going to happen. It didn't take much intelligence to do so. The only thing Ivy wondered was at their sense of survival, because after this was over, she was murdering every single one of these worthless rape-enthusiasts.
"So here it is," Joker continued. "The one rule: the stronger must dominate the other. And uh, not to sound like a bad porno, here, but neither of you are leaving this pit until only one of you is satisfied. So place your bets now, boys! Because I want to know—and doesn't everyone?—which is stronger: fear or desire?"
Ivy closed her eyes for just a moment. Joker's prancing around the subject was horrific, but she understood all too clearly. One would have to rape the other to leave the pit. She told herself this, let the words take shape in her head. It wasn't enough to change her mind, but it did make this all the more real.
Then she opened her eyes just in time to see Scarecrow charging her.
"Shit!" She breathed, before hurling herself out of the way. She was by no means a good fighter, having spent all her years as a vigilante relying solely on her power. Nor was she a strong woman, as any excess musculature had atrophied since her rebirth as Poison Ivy. She barely avoided his roundhouse punch, and then immediately skittered out of range when he followed it up with a badly coordinated lariat.
He was taking this seriously, she realized. And she knew she should just let him, because then it would be over faster, but then she realized it might not be enough. Joker wanted a show. And more so, even after it was over, she had to put up some defense, because otherwise she would be targeted by every single person on the island.
So, for a little while longer she would duck and dodge, and make a show of barely avoiding his wild swings. And kicks, she amended, as his kick ended only a few inches from her nose. She went cross eyed looking at the ridges of his shoe. La lucha indeed.
He kept up his aggressive assault—and she, her desperate avoidance—for some time, until Ivy's breath was ragged, and it was slightly more clear that he was completely in control. He was playing with her, far more accustomed to physical activity than she was. Yet he hadn't landed a serious blow on her, aside from some glancing moments that she was able to twist and scurry out of. Yet if it hadn't been him this would have been over ages ago. With every step her enormous subterranean vines quivered at the edges of her mind, ready to leap up through concrete and stone to do her bidding, just as they had during the initial breakout. But she wouldn't use them until the end, after it was all over. It would ensure her escape back to the greenhouse, and—
Ivy paid immediately for her moment of planning. Scarecrow caught her and dragged her syringed hand over her chest, ripping through the material. His non-gloved hand held her in place by her hair, an odd and slightly unstable hold. Ivy managed to pull free, but her shirt was now hanging uselessly open in the front, exposing her breasts.
They were much smaller than they had been—plants did not need milk to feed their young, after all—but as they had been fairly large before, she still had enough for the men watching to gawk at. Her nipples peaked in the cool air almost immediately, and Ivy was furious. So furious that her babies down below twitched, feeling her want them . . . and then a seed plunked down on her shoulder, falling from her scalp.
It was followed by several others, and she understood. Scarecrow had ripped open her shirt as a distraction to thrust seeds in her hair. Seeds that she could potentially use against him. Dormant seeds of tiny hothouse plants that would essentially be just as useless as Joan's cotton cloth, but they told her two things: she was not fighting Scarecrow at all. She was fighting Crane, and like Joan, he had tried to find a way to ensure her victory.
Scarecrow circled her, talking to cover up her finding of the seeds. He pitched his voice high and eerie but she wasn't fooled. But she didn't have to be. The show they were putting on was for everyone else. This, here, in the ring, was just for them.
"We both know how this will go, Poison Ivy," he finished, after a short diatribe on how she would fear being underneath him. "No hard feelings, but I'm just doing what I have to do."
"As am I," she murmured. And then, even more quietly, "I'm sorry, Jonathan."
She threw up her hands, and the vines that had waited oh so patiently erupted upwards. The floor rumbled, pitching Jonathan off balance, and several feet away from her. Then, the vibrations became apparent enough that even the top row of the audience could feel it.
Ivy caught Joker's gaze and held it. "Hope you bet on desire," she called out, loudly enough for him to hear. Then, the vines burst through the floor, sending a shower of dust and debris all around them. Chunks of the floor that were six cubic feet exploded like projectiles into the audience. The weedkiller might have been enough for normal, garden variety plants, but nothing could have stopped this. Men scattered like ants, crawling over each other, throwing punches just to get out of the way. Ivy paid no notice to them. Her attention was riveted on Crane, who was caught round the middle by one of her vines. It had wrapped itself lightly around his ribcage. It looked much worse than it was.
She leaned in close and hoped she looked menacing.
"Do you want me to let you go?" She whispered, before she remembered that Harley would die, if she did that.
Silence for a moment, where his eyes tracked across her face, impeded by the mask. "No," he finally said. "Because he'll kill Harley, won't he?" His accent was thicker, moving south.
She froze, stunned. "You knew?"
"It's the only thing he has on you, to make you cooperate," he said flatly. "And if ah run now Ah'm as good as dead. Either he will kill me or you will."
If Ivy was a better woman-plant hybrid, she might have let him go. She could not, but there was still something she could do. "You could still overpower me," she said, her voice shaky. "I have no vines left."
This was a lie. But the offer was not.
This caused something to spark behind his icy eyes, but she could not tell what. His mask did not help matters, although at this tense of a moment, she doubted she'd be able to tell regardless.
Finally with a clear southern accent, "Ah can't become what she was. It will have to be you. Ahm sorry, Miss Ahsley."
Ivy licked her lips nervously. She had not planned for this. In all her projections, it had never been this. She had never dreamed that he would make the same decision she had, and what's more, effectively end all his chances for seeing her afraid by choosing to hurt himself rather than her.
There was a warmth in her abdominal cavity, akin and yet different to what she felt for Harley. Love, she supposed. It was more than a supposition. She loved Jonathan just as she did Harley, and it was different only because they were different from each other. Yet this moment belonged to Jonathan and herself, and so she banished Harley's influence to the far corner of her mind. This was love, she was perhaps even in love, but she had an audience to appease.
She turned around and faced the Joker again, noting that the stands were even less than half full now. Many had left, or many had been injured. It did not matter. The only person she had to fool was the Joker, who did not look pleased with her.
Well, she would have to change that, wouldn't she. She took a step back, so that the curve of her rump was resting just below the jut of Jonathan's hips. Then, without breaking eye contact, she wound herself down, following what she remembered of an almost forgotten dance move, dragging her body down his legs, and then back up. She didn't quite reach high enough to tell if it was effective in Jonathan's case, but in the Joker's . . . he held out a hand, and then men on either side pointed the guns away from her. A reprieve for now, as long as she kept the show interesting.
She would have to. Her two dearest depended on her.
Yet she would have to make some adjustments. He was so tall, and the height all in his legs . . . she'd have to improvise. So she directed her babies to take him down flush to the floor. The vines pulled his arms and legs akimbo, leaving him spread-eagled before her. Only then did the central vine release its hold on him.
And then Ivy had a choice to make. Poison on her lips, pheromones on her hands . . . how was she to arouse him without making him mindless, just another one of her 'zombie boyfriends'? And how could she arouse herself without him touching her?
The answer came to her almost immediately, although it was humiliating to contemplate. Yet it had to be done. The Joker wanted a show? Well, he'd have to be the cheap voyeur to Jonathan's.
She knelt down over his body, straddling his slim hips. Part of this would be incredibly easy, because all she had to do was shrug out of her useless shirt, and then every eye in the room was on her small breasts, tipped with surprisingly dark nipples.
Even Jonathan's eyes fell reflexively on them, and against her thigh she felt the beginnings of his erection.
She brought her hands up to her breasts and cupped them gently. Her thoughts skipped ahead to the future steps. She didn't do this often, and never with any type of penetration. Not even fingers. She would have to today, but first she needed to make sure she would be as wet as possible. And—
Ivy hesitated. And-Jonathan had closed his eyes. He wasn't even watching! Yet his breathing was getting slower, and the lump against her thigh had not gone down. Was that good? Or bad?
Without taking her hands away from her breasts, she leaned down and whispered to him, hidden from the others by the curtain of her hair. "Jonathan, I know that it's har—difficult, but you have to watch."
Through the eye holes in his mask she could see his eyebrows draw together. "What? What are you—"
"This is for you. I can't touch or kiss you without breaking you," she explained. "So all I can do to prepare you is by providing visual stimulation."
This made him crack open an eye at her. "And for yourself?"
She swallowed. "It's been a long time. I need preparation as well."
"Miss Ahsley—"
"Just watch me," she said, leaning back. Please, she mouthed, and somehow, her plea worked. He watched her steadily as she worked her breasts, palming them and rubbing them, only occasionally glancing up to gauge her resolve. He watched her as she dragged thin fingers across the smooth skin of her areolae, and pinched and rolled the rising nubs of her nipples. He watched her as the men around them catcalled, yelling out advice. He watched her as his penis grew steadily larger against the inside of her thigh, and her lower belly slowly grew warm and heavy and . . . what was this feeling? Anticipation?
Enough to continue the show, she thought, her nipples swollen and her own breathing beginning to grow ragged. It was easier when Jonathan watched her with such singular focus. It was almost as if they were the only two people in the room, and that they were choosing this, rather than being forced to do this or die at Joker's deranged hands. So easy, in fact, that when she rose to slip down her own pants—she now stood completely naked in the cold chamber, because what do plant-women want with underwear—she was brave enough to ignore the jeers from the audience, and knelt to fumble with the belt of his pants as well.
He was silent as she unbuckled his pants, silent as she pulled them down. His breathing was distinct now, and every inhalation pulled the mouth of his mask inwards. Had this been what his grandmother had done to him? She hoped not. She hoped—
Her brain stuttered for a moment when she pulled his pants to his knees. She had imagined his cock might be long and thin as he was, proportionate like his hands or his feet, but it would seem that genitalia followed a rule of their own. For it was long enough, she supposed, in that it looked far too big to put inside of her without being overly ridiculous, but it was the girth that made her brain stutter. It was much thicker than she thought, thicker than Woodrue's had been, thick enough that her mouth went dry and she licked her lips. Which was silly, because she couldn't put her mouth on him regardless. Not without a condom, at least. Nor did she need to do so. It just . . . looked oddly appetizing. And it was something about the unlikely girth that made her want to touch it in a wide variety of ways.
Mistaking her inexplicable sexual compulsion for reticence, Jonathan murmured, "You don't have to—"
"I want to," she interrupted him, before her face shuttered. Because that was the crux of it, wasn't it? She was aroused now, just looking at him made her want to . . . interact with it. And as her vaginal channel was just about the only part of her body that hadn't been otherwise negatively modified in her becoming, there was only one place to put it.
But first . . .
She straddled him again, and as she lowered herself just below his penis so she could look at it while she touched herself further, she was struck by how dark his eyes had become. Pupil dilation, she belatedly realized. At the very least, his body was trying to protect him from the coming rape. Or maybe he had seen her licking his lips at his cock and his own arousal had reacted in kind? Ivy didn't know. Her head was going oddly fuzzy, and the haze only increased when she slipped her fingers down to her sex and found it was moist enough to drip down onto his bare thighs.
Jonathan groaned and his head fell back against the undamaged floor. Ivy kept on touching herself, flicking the bud of her clitoris in a slow, unhurried rhythm. The angle was odd, but the sight of his penis made the burn in her quadriceps worth it. This was the closest she'd been to orgasm in months. Since she'd last come to Arkham, certainly.
God, it might even feel good when he was inside of her.
"You don't . . . have to look at it," he gritted out from between his teeth. He had picked up his head and was now watching her stare at his cock as she slipped one finger into herself. Was she wet enough? Undoubtedly, but she'd have to stretch herself as much as she could before thatwent inside of her.
"I want to," she breathed, unintentionally wanton. Was this what desire felt like? Good God, no wonder men had chased after her in school. She leaned to the side so that she could rest one palm on the floor and adjust her angle so that she could add another finger. Three.
This brought the ruddy mushroom head of his circumcised penis only inches away from her face. She exhaled and watched it twitch, a single bead of precum welling at the tip. "I wish I could touch it," she said unthinkingly.
He groaned. "Miss Ahs—"
"I know, I can't. It's not safe. I just. Just a little. I wish I could."
It twitched again, and his breathing was positively ragged now. His eyes watched her steadily, just her face. Maybe it was all too much for him. Maybe it was disgusting. Maybe he was afraid.
Or maybe he was as turned on as she was.
But she was throbbing now, and that anticipatory feeling was back. She was impatient, which was never how she thought she'd feel when faced with male genitalia. Impatient and curious and desirous. "Jonathan, I'm ready. Are you?"
That had him expelling his breath in a funny, sighing fashion. "Maybe too ready."
That was good, wasn't it? It had to be, because they didn't have a choice. So with one last look, Ivy lifted herself up and leaned over him, angling her hips so that the tip of his cock caught at her folds. Ah, now here was the fear, mingled with anticipation, mingled with whatever love her mangled heart was capable of producing. She slid down, adjusting every few centimeters, afraid to adjust him with her hands even now. But then the head of his penis caught just where it needed to, and the tip was within her. She exhaled roughly, legs trembling. But before she pushed down, sheathing him fully, she looked down at him.
"We're in this together. It's both of us. We're both—both powerless."
He let out another plume of air, the mask catching against his mouth. His eyes slipped shut and Ivy took that as he cue. Gritting her own teeth, she pushed herself down, letting her knees fall wider on the concrete, splitting herself to accommodate his cock.
"Nnnghhh!" she grunted, only keeping the vocalization behind her teeth at the last moment. It was an exquisite and unique pain, not quite like anything else. She had been hurt so badly before, hurt like this even, but it was like she couldn't quite remember the reality of it until it was thrust upon her. Childbirth was like that, where mothers almost immediately forgot the most immense pain in favor of birthing more children in the future. But this was immediate and stunning and still somehow so unexpected, and she froze in pain, her teeth gritted and eyebrows drawn together.
"Oh God," Jonathan whispered from below. "Ah can't—oh god. Oh please. Ah can't—" His hips stuttered, like it was an effort of will to keep them in place, his rump pressing firmly into the cold concrete.
And in the immediacy of her pain, she had almost forgotten her partner. Was he in pain? Scared? She had to reassure him. She leaned forward, lessening the pressure. "I won't break you," she mumbled, tipping her head down so her hair hid her expression. "I won't. I won't. You have to be strong. I'll be strong too, just—just let me . . ." She trailed off, a little distracted by how quickly the pain was ebbing. Changing posture had done much, and her body was adjusting. And when she lifted herself up just the slightest bit, it felt much better to lower herself back down. It felt even better the second time. And then again, the third.
The positive feelings were increasing exponentially, she thought, a little dazed, and she found a rhythm atop him. Because now there was no more pain, just a heavy pressure that spurred her onward toward pleasure that beat through her body like a heartbeat. And maybe Jonathan felt the same because his eyes were dark, dark, dark when he looked up at her, and his hips were pumping upwards slowly, matching her rhythm, jolting her body on top of his.
This was so different from how it felt to be taken in that too hot office building, the formula flooding her veins, Woodrue's hands on her breasts, his breath on her neck, his cock spearing her painfully. Then, she had dissociated, doing her best to disconnect from everything. Now she was hyper aware of her body and his—the hitch of his breath, every minute change in tempo, the shape of him within her, the cold air on her breasts. She wanted him to touch her, even knowing that he couldn't. She wanted him to kiss her, even though he couldn't do that either.
Ah, but could they? Just a little? He was wearing his mask . . . No, no, she had to be good. She had to just do this. He didn't actually want this, after all. Neither did she. That it was proving itself unexpectedly palatable was just a perk.
He started to shake, and his thrusts got faster, harder. It was hard to keep her moans behind her teeth, and also her balance. Was he close? He had to be, his eyes closed and his hips wild, but she wasn't quite there yet. She had to match him as best she could. So she brought one hand back to her clit and rubbed, hoping it would be enough, hoping it would spark her orgasm in time.
Oh god, it was effective. She had never manipulated her pleasure both externally and internally before, and it was almost overwhelming. She groaned, fingers speeding up. He was making little noises now, tiny vocalizations muffled by his mask. His cock felt so big and unyielding inside of her. She was close, so close—
He came inside of her. She couldn't feel it, not like she thought she might, but she could hear it in his breath, his choked off yell, the way his hips pumped up and stayed up, bucking her almost off his lap. And a few moments later there would be ejaculate sliding down to his groin, coating her insides, but for now she was almost there, just a few more rubs, a few more breathless moments, just a little bit more—
She followed him shortly after, rocketing up into an orgasm so intense she was almost frightened by it. Even before her change she had never come this hard, and it made her lose her sainted mind. For when the immediate euphoria had begun to dim, she chased after it and gave into a more subtle desire. Overcome, she kissed the outline of his mouth. It would be fine, it had to be, if the material could block his fear toxin surely it could block her poison? And she thought she could just feel, through the heavy synthetic material, his mouth moving back. Wishful thinking, no doubt, but she wanted to kiss his mouth more than she wanted anything else, at the moment.
For just a moment she rested there, warm and floating and perfectly content to pretend he might be kissing her back. But then came the sound of one person clapping slowly and purposefully, and Ivy startled away.
His softening cock pulled away from her body with an undignified noise, and she was torn, somewhat irrationally, between fleeing and covering every inch of his naked body with her babies so that no one else could see him naked.
She had forgotten that they were being watched. How could she have let herself go like that?
"Oh, bravo," Joker called out, stepping down to the bottom row of the arena. "I really am just so impressed. Crasley ftw, and I will go down with this ship."
Rather than attempt to parse what on earth he was talking about (Crasley again?) Ivy released her vines, freeing Crane. He sat up immediately, and grabbed his pants. He brandished his left, syringe-bedecked hand at the goon that came closest, and then he was sprinting out of the pit, clumsily vaulting over a chunk of concrete that blocked the exit.
Ivy watched him go, and her stomach went cold. She had the disconcerting realization that maybe Jonathan hadn't wanted any of that at all. No matter how much she had enjoyed it, it had still been rape, after all.
She had raped him. Rape, rape rape.
"You happy with the performance, Boss?" One of the goons asked.
"Oh, incredibly so," he said. "And a little inspired, if that's not tmi. It's probably tmi. But Harley will reap the benefits, so I'm sure that makes Leafy here quite happy!"
Ivy stood there, silent. She could not find the words. There were no words. A moment ago Jonathan had been inside her and now he was not and apart from that, she knew very little of anything.
Joker sent her an appreciative glance, but it was not directed to her body. He didn't even give her a cursory once over. "But I gotta say, I didn't think you had it in you. Thought you were all tease, no tickle, you know? This really proved me wrong. I might have to keep a closer eye on you from here on out, because—"
"Can I go now?" She interrupted tonelessly. She sounded like someone in shock, rather than a woman enjoying the afterglow of a stupendous orgasm.
Joker narrowed his eyes at her and grinned. "Sure thing, Pammy. You're gonna want to recover after your ordeal, huh?"
Her head jerked to the side, but her mouth had stopped up again. She turned and walked away. And as she did so, naked and dripping and dangerous, she heard the Joker say, "Now boys, I do have a confession to make. I am man enough to admit that Johnny has a surprisingly impressive cock. Not proportionate at all. Might even be bigger than mine! I did not see that coming. But uh, ha ha. Everyone saw his girlfriend come . . . !"
She shut her ears to his mens' responses. Resolve settled in her, deep and dark and dangerous. Harley be damned. She was going to kill him.
This was the end.
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...
Warning: Ivy and Scarecrow are forced, essentially, to fight or fuck, emphasis on the fuck. Joker pits them against each other in the pit with a whole arena watching. It is an emotionally laden experience, and consent is quietly/secretly/obliquely (yet verbally) given, but it's a squicky situation, particularly because it's under the Joker's control.
