"Let me get this straight."
The woman with the dark, reddish-brown hair is speaking in a low, dangerous South-American accent. She's wearing a faded green sweatshirt with tightly fitting jeans.
"It's a cruel joke that our taxes subsidise the inhumane practices of the dairy industry..."
Her dark green eyes flash, and a look of slow-burning rage crosses her features. She continues:
"And now you're trying to me charge extra for soya milk?"
The female Barista looks nonplussed by Poison Ivy's rant.
They get all types of crazies in here.
...
A few students are huddled over the work table in the centre of the room, sipping frappuccinos through straws and taking advantage of the free wi-fi.
The other customers are at the front of the shop, enjoying the April sun streaming through the glass.
In the back of the BarStucks, empty battered sofas and velveteen easy chairs are strewn around the low tables. There's no natural light here.
Ivy strides towards one of the sofas, pausing to glare daggers at an ear-phone wearing student for wasting napkins. He continues to write his essay on the mating habits of armadillos, oblivious to the Supervillaness.
She surveys the room with suspicion before sitting down.
A female student at the work table picks up both her laptop and a bag of lemon poundcake and donuts, and hesitantly approaches the Supervillaness. In the pocket of her jeans is $60 for coffee, sent by a kind reader.
"Ivy?"
The green-eyed woman impatiently glances at the timid fangirl who, on closer inspection, resembles a certain Artemis0simetrA.
"What did you want to talk about?" The question is blunt, no-nonsense.
The fangirl takes a deep breath, and begins:
"Since you're the least volatile character in the Batverse (baring the acts of eco-warfare), I was thinking maybe you could help me with this afternoons...um...get-together."
A look of baffled annoyance.
The fangirl explains herself:
"The people of Gotham may not realise this, what with the near-constant state of mayhem n' all, but there are a lot of us around who are pretty into the Batverse." She looks down at her Converses bashfully.
The baffled look turns to indignation at the mention of the Bat. The fangirl hurriedly continues:
"...and um, some of us want to learn more about your characters." She's turning a little bit red now. Oh dear.
The Supervillaness haughtily appraises the fangirl for a second, before rising to leave the table.
Now the fangirl looks sheepish:
"The front door is open, but you'll just end up walking in again through the back door. The quicker we get through the questions and dares, the quicker I'll release you. Sorry."
Ivy sits back down with narrowed eyes, crossing her arms.
"Oh, and one more thing." the fangirl says, looking serious.
"Things are going to get pretty crazy in here. So if you...um...help me keep the Joker from killing anyone, I promise I'll vote Green in the local elections."
A complex mix of emotions crosses Ivy's face. Affronted humour wins the day.
"Done." says the Supervillaness dryly, one corner of her mouth rising slightly.
Now there's a loud, sucking plop behind her, and two men fall through the air, landing on the battered sofa.
One is Bruce Wayne. The other is the Batman.
The two men turn to each other and look without speaking. Bruce Wayne reaches out hesitantly to touch the exposed face of his alter-ego, as Ivy watches with an amused smirk.
The fangirl slips into a chair and looks down at her laptop. Only three questions so far.
She's waiting for more before bringing in the rest of the crew.
Before mayhem ensues. :-P