Dr. Birch smiled, standing up behind her desk as Dr. Hayes was shown into her office by Holly Madison. The guard and the elder doctor seemed to be in an animated conversation right up until they reached the door.

"Thank you, Holly. And thanks for that letter too; you were right about those products." Belladonna said with a smile as she entered the room.

"My pleasure, Doc!" Holly replied, beaming. "You never looked better." The guard smiled at the two psychiatrists then closed the door, heading back down to the Max. Sec. ward.

Hazel smiled warmly and gestured to the same seat she'd offered to Dr. Arkham just days earlier then sat down behind her desk once more. "Well? What do you think, Doctor? Is my patient a viable candidate for rehabilitation?"

Dr. Hayes didn't respond at first. She gazed thoughtfully at her clip board, reviewing her notes and looking over the list of checked off boxes on the evaluation sheet. Finally she brought her gaze level with Hazel's and gave a slight sigh. "Though I hesitate to admit it, Doctor Birch, I can find no reason to prevent Pamela Isley from entering the rehabilitation program. Dr. Neilson is making his evaluation now, and if it is as acceptable as mine, I believe Dr. Isley will be in the rehab program by spring."

Hazel's eyes lit up with delight at the news. "Thank you so much, Dr. Hayes; I knew you'd see it once you saw her in person! If you had any idea what this means for me, and for her."

"Don't thank me, Dr. Birch." Belladonna advised gravely. "Pamela Isley may be on the road to recovery, but I am starting to grow concerned about your relationship with her. There is supposed to be a level of professionalism between us and our patients. We are mental health physicians providing consultation and support for sick individuals, not girlfriends sharing a pint of ice cream on movie night. There's a fine line that's walked within the halls of Arkham, between the patients and the staff, and I'm starting to think you've slipped over it."

Hazel sat in silence for a few moments, trying to figure out how to respond, or even what to say, to Dr. Hayes declaration. Finally she cleared her throat and shifted her posture in her chair to sit up my authoritatively.

"I assure you, Dr. Hayes, my interest in Pamela Isley is purely for the sake of her recovery."

"Nice as the sentiment is, Doctor, I believe the proper term here is... bull shit." the Italian psychiatrist replied. "I've seen this before. Doctor, and you know who I've seen it with. I know Isley's reformation could land you on It List, but this is not a game you're playing. This woman is dangerous... All of these people are. Just because she's sane doesn't mean she's reformed. f you'll recall, I was told how sane she was long before this evaluation."

For a moment both women were silent, thinking about Belladonna's evening conversation with Jonathan Crane, then Dr. Hayes broke the silence by clearing her throat and adjusting her glasses.

"I can find no medical grounds to prevent her acceptance into the rehabilitation program, but—Nh!"

"Dr. Hayes? Belladonna, are you all right?" Hazel asked, leaning forward at the strange noise the other woman had emitted.

"...I'm fine." Belladonna replied, seeming to force the words out with little puffs of breath, as if something was trying to prevent her from speaking.

After a few seconds she regained herself and settled in her chair once more, looking critically at Hazel. "As I was about to say, I think releasing her is a grave mistake. Still... She appears to be socially adept, stable, and mentally sound. There is no reason not to accept her into the program. Now, I've spent as much time in this place as I am willing to spend today. I will be remaining in Gotham over the course of this week, visiting friends and family."

Dr. Hayes reached into her purse and handed Hazel a business card. "If she does anything odd, or strange, anything out of what has become the norm, call me. And by Wednesday I expect to here from you for a personal appointment. If you won't speak with someone else you're damn well going to speak with me. I'm not going to sit by and- Hnh," she gritted her teeth, then forced the rest of her words out through them, "And watch you become the next Harleen Quinzel."

Dr. Hayes stood up then, nodded in farewell and turned, quickly leaving the room with a hand pressed to her temple as she did. Dr. Birch stared after her uncertainly, wondering both about the Doctor's own strange behavior and about her statement; could she be the next Quinzel? Was she that taken in by her patient? No, she wasn't that naïve; she didn't feel sympathy for the things Pamela had done, she didn't believe Pamela was forced into this roll by society the way Harley seemed to think the Joker was. She knew good and well that everything Poison Ivy had done in her life was on her own shoulders, and no one else's. Hazel was not the next Dr. Quinzel, she knew better, she knew what her patient had been, but she also knew her patient had changed for the better.

One would think that the branch office of the US Marshal's service in Pierre, South Dakota would be a fairly secure and comforting place to be. A large office building filled with law enforcement agents seems like a safe place; right up until you remember that the US Marshal's are responsible for Witness Protection, and many of the witnesses in the program are actually criminals themselves.

On any given day a number of dangerous people can be in the building, and the only reason they're not locked up themselves is because someone more dangerous than them wants them dead. This knowledge often kept Marshal Allison Blake from feeling completely comfortable when she was at work. The only time she did feel completely at ease was when she worked late, when the building was quiet and she could hear people coming from two halls away. When she could hear the elevator when it started up and notice the click of a door being opened or closed. She worked well in the late hours, and she put forth her best effort in silence when their were no distractions.

Tonight she was reviewing the federal crime file on Pamela Lilian Isley. Two days earlier she had been reevaluated by the doctors at Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. They were declaring her mentally stable, and advocating her candidacy into the Arkham rehabilitation program. The idea that a woman as sick as Isley might actually be able to recover gave Allison a certain sense of satisfaction, a pride in knowing that the job she did wasn't a useless one, that there was hope for all people, even the hardened criminals.

Still, what if the Doctors were wrong? Pamela Isley's father was in Witness Protection, directly under her care. The only man on earth who might truly be able to explain how Pamela Isley's mind worked, and he couldn't tell a soul. Every time he had made a public appearance of any sort she'd tried to kill him, three attempts had been made before he was approved for the protection program. He was relocated, renamed, and completely revamped to shed all ties to his former life. Marshal Blake was responsible for his well being, and she couldn't help but wonder: Was it truly safe for Pamela Isley to be released into the rehabilitation program? Was madness truly to blame for the things she had done?

Allison had been on the job for nearly a decade now, and in her experience she'd found that some of the sickest criminals in the world weren't actually insane at all; many of them were completely stable, they were just incredibly sadistic, cruel individuals who had some loftier view of themselves. They considered themselves above, or beyond, society and it's laws. Was Pamela Isley any different? Would a psyche evaluation and bottle of pills really make her stop committing crimes? Allison doubted it. The marshal had seen too many sickos that weren't really sick; she didn't believe a few therapy lessons could reform someone with a track record like Isley's.

As she mused over this, Allison became aware of something nagging at the back of her mind. She set the notification about Isley down on her desk and concentrated on her inner voice, trying to figure out what it was her mind was trying to tell her. Suddenly she became acutely aware of just how quiet the building had become. There was no rumble of an elevator from some other late night worker moving between floors, no distant clicking of shoes on polished tile; she didn't even hear the hum of the florescent lights anymore. The lights! Looking out into the hall she noticed they had actually gone out.

Pulling her gun from her holster she slowly rose from her chair, immediately dropping to a crouch as she moved toward the door to the hall way, peering into the darkened corridors. Who the devil had turned the lights out!? Stealthily the Marshal made her way out of the room and down the corridor toward the light switch. She was so preoccupied in how quiet it was, and how unsettling the building was at night without lights, that she didn't even hear the slight flutter of the cloak.

When she reached the switch and flipped it the lights flickered back to life and she turned to look back down the hall way. Her breath caught in her throat and she tried to lift her gun back up,but he was too fast. She hadn't raised it more than a few inches before his hand lashed out. He hit something in her arm, using just two fingers, and she felt a twinge that ran from her elbow straight to her hand, where her fingers suddenly went limp and the gun fell to the floor with a heavy clatter. The massive cloak billowed around him and beneath it he gave a simple flick of his ankle that sent the gun sliding down the length of the polished tile till it skid to a halt nearly a dozen feet away, near the door to her office.

"If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it while you were busy reading and I was standing behind you." He growled, while behind opaque white lenses she saw his eyes narrow the same way her boss's did when he was annoyed with a rookies screw up. Regardless of whether or not his claim was true or not, the mere idea that he might have been standing behind her the whole time, and the fact that he'd followed her all the way down the hall, made her feel like a rookie all over again.

"...Who are you?" She finally managed, her heart still pounding in his chest.

"You know who I am. You also know why I'm here."

"Isley."

"I need to speak with her father."

The Marshal shook her head at that. "Sorry, I can't do that, not even for you."

His eyes narrowed at that, his weight shifted forward and suddenly his face was mere centimeters from hers. He was so close she could feel his breath on her skin, and read the expression in his eyes.

"I'm going to talk Francis Andrews; I am being courteous by offering you the opportunity to be there when I do."

She stared at him for a moment; as if she actually had a chance of winning a stare down against him, of all people. After little more than a few seconds she closed her eyes in resignation. "Let me call him."

"No."

"He needs to-"

"I don't want him expecting this. Let's go."

Allison Blake now began to realize that she had absolutely no control over the situation. It was a very unpleasant feeling, she was used to always being in control. A badge and a gun did a lot for one's self-confidence, and some law enforcement agents get caught up in the power and authority those things bestow upon them. It lifts ones ego high, right up until you're stalked down a corridor, disarmed, reprimanded, and then ordered around like an intern on their fist day. It wasn't pleasant at all, and the only consolation she got out of the whole thing was that he allowed her to retrieve her gun before they left.

Allison headed out to the parking lot quickly; with the Bat on her heels she felt distinctly like a soul being stalked by the Reaper himself. She was hypersensitive to sound and movement now, her eyes darting around in the darkness. She felt paranoid, as if any moment he'd turn from crime busting vigilante into hellbent murderer ready to rip her apart. Outside of Gotham itself, no one in the normal world knew much about Batman, or his Rogues, she didn't know which stories were true and which ones were just water cooler rumors. What she did know was that she didn't want to find out.

"My car is right over-" She began, but was cut off by a low rumble like a jungle cat waiting to pounce. A soft blue glow from the undercarriage was the only illumination from the vehicle, the lights were kept off to avoid drawing attention and it's sleek, black aerodynamic form hugged low to the street. The scalloped fins over the back, and the tapering fuselage made it look more like a wingless jet than a car, and she was almost surprised that it had wheels instead of hovering. "...Whoa."

The cockpit slid forward, exposing the interior, and he vaulted over the side dropping heavily into the drives seat with a flutter of his cape and a light jostle of his armored uniform.

"Get in." He growled. She did it, without a split seconds hesitation, it wasn't until they roared out of the parking lot well above the speed limit that she finally felt hesitation, and the Pad Thai she had for dinner lurching in her stomach.

"It's a l-left at the first intersectio-"

"I know." He cut off her stammered words, then he handed her a simple gray paper bag with a wax glaze. The same bags airlines kept for air sick passengers. She grasped the bag desperately, as if it would some how magically help her keep her food in her stomach where it belonged. It actually worked until he made the left turn.