You could call Harley Quinn a great many things, bimbo, imbecile, slut, freak, but you would always have to wonder if any of those descriptions were accurate. Was she really that foolish, or was it all a cover to make people underestimate her? He knew better than to believe Harley Quinn was as dumb as she so often pretended to be, none of them were what they pretended to be, and like any good actress Harley knew when to get off the stage.

She was gone when he and Doctor Birch returned to the security lobby. As the detective took in the empty room the nagging question of where she went and what she was up to entered his mind.

Did she run to free him from his cell? No. She wasn't stupid. She valued self-preservation, trying to free him before he was ready for his next "performance" would be a risk to her own life; would she go to Ivy, or would she run on her own? That one had an easy answer, Harley hated to work alone, she didn't like to acknowledge her own actions. It was easier for her to misbehave if she could sooth her guilt by saying someone else coerced her. She would wait for Ivy somewhere and he would be able to track her down once the real threat had been contained.

"Get to the security room," he ordered Dr. Birch, "and remember–"

"Not to come out no matter what!" Hazel said with a quick nod before looking up at the vigilante, "Batman… Ivy… She's not… I thought she wanted her freedom, she doesn't, all she's wanted this whole time-"

" I know. Go. Lock the door, contact the police, make them aware of everything you can. Go!"

Dr. Birch locked herself inside the security office and a heavy clang announced the automated locks dropping into place. Satisfied that she would be safe the Batman turned to the next hall, walking past a guidance sign pointing the way to the interior garden.

A moment of true horror is a rare experience for a human mind, it is something so terrifying that it will extend beyond comprehension. The thoughts that are beyond the imagination are the only ones worthy of a title. These are the machinations of Jonathan Crane and the others like him, the ones who comprehended what terror could be found in the simplest of places. When man imagines the creature lurking in the dark corners of the mind he thinks he has understood what horror really is, but true horror is rarely so simplistic, it can manifest in the most innocent places and wait behind the sweetest smiles.

Pamela Isley was smiling at her father, the same sweet, beguiling he remembered seeing on her face when she was a little girl. Her green fingered touch upon his cheek was soft as a spring petal and her lips were shining like an apple as she leaned close to him and draped her arms around his neck, breathing in time with… Not with him, with the other thing, the thing that was growing around him, consuming him like the pit within the pulp of a peach.

It was a strange sensation, to grow and die at the same time. He was being overgrown. Was that the right word? Was there a word for this? Bark was growing over his skin, forcing his body to stiffen and calcify, and worse yet, it felt as if he was actually a part of the transformation. He could feel things moving inside his body, as if his bones were ready to grow beyond the confines of his own flesh. Panic seized his mind but his heartbeat was slowing down, making his body slow and sluggish as he made a feeble attempt to break free of the moss and vines that were beginning to crawl over him like the rising tide.

"Pam…? Sweet heart…please…"

"Shhh," she cooed, nuzzling her cheek against his gently, "the more you struggle the more painful the process…"

Something was happening to his fingers now, but it didn't make sense. The body didn't work this way, a human being couldn't just transform into a… a tree. She was making him into a tree! His fingers were growing before his eyes, twisting and stiffening like arthritic joints. Every moment was a twisted agony the he couldn't comprehend.

"For what it's worth, you were right. You never should have come back." she said, walking around him in a predatory circle as his shoes split open and his toes extended, worm like, into the earth, slithering and writhing in their search for nutrients.

Frank's mind scrambled to understand what was happening. He was powerless, immobile, and keenly aware that he was going to be able to feel every last moment of his life as it was stripped away from him. He was beginning to understand it now, he wasn't dying, he was transforming! The only thing he ever wanted was to show her how sorry he was for failing her as a father, and now he would have his chance!

A part of him resisted the notion, rebelling at the idea of servitude. The green was wrong, it was wicked, consuming him, using him like mulch, and all he could do to protest it was to utter a feeble creaking groan like an old tree pressured by an autumn breeze.

His life would take on new meaning, new purpose, he would serve the glorious green! Somewhere in the depths of his mind a part of him continued to resist, some misunderstood corner of his conscious couldn't accept the will of his beloved goddess. Why? How could any man refuse her service, how could a piece of him rebel so furiously at her will? He tried his best to smother it, but the struggle continued even as his body stiffened into a motionless rigor mortis.

"There's a good boy," Ivy cooed dotingly as the creeping moss consumed his flesh, calcifying into flakes of mottled gray and brown wood mulch. "It's so much easier when you relax… Now I admit the staff may be put off, repulsed even, by the idea of a tree grown from human flesh, but I promise I'll never let them cut you down. You'll be a better provider now than you ever were as a father, you can give shade, oxygen, and even a hiding place for the little birds and squirrels fleeing for their lives from one of the inmates who's taken one too many blows to the head from that black clad lunatic."

Frank groaned again, swaying his branches. The eyes were going to be the last thing to go, they were drying out, he had never felt anything burn so badly; he wanted to scream but a wooden moan was the most that he could manage.

The Asylum felt like it was closing in on him as he ran. Every new hallway was more claustrophobic and the longer he ran the worse it got. Ivy had kept him running all night, playing catch up after each new delay. He was getting tired, his lungs were burning and muscles ached from the exertion. He felt as if his innards were collapsing in on one another, sucked into a black hole gaping open within the core of his body.

By the time he reached the interior gardens his entire body ached in protest of the strain he was placing on himself. He felt as though the weight of his gear had doubled, the belt, the equipment, the cowl, the cape, the armor, every piece slowed him down a little more and every night he made it look like it was weightless. The cape felt like a wet blanket pulling him towards the ground as he finally reached the doors to the gardens.

Rushing headlong into a hostile environment that provided a home field advantage to his enemy wasn't an ideal scenario. He needed time to plan, to scout out the garden and pinpoint Ivy's location, but time was a luxury gave up when he decided to handle the case on his own. It had been a mistake, another scenario he would never be able to let go of. He didn't have the luxury of a Hollywood world to work in, there wouldn't be a last moment rescue here, the practical truth was that he was no longer attempting a rescue; he was just trying to apprehend the assailant before she could flee the scene of the crime.

As he dashed into the gardens he anticipated green men, a body, Ivy protected by a thicket of thorns and flytraps the size of Volkswagens, but all he saw was the tree. There weren't supposed to be trees in the inner garden. This was listed as the primary insertion point for Gotham SWAT in the event of a riot. Riot cops would be airlifted in and be dropped into the gardens, giving them access to all four sections of the main building from that central point; this new tree prevent such an operation. The wide branches fanned out, almost completely covering the opening looking up into the night sky. The logical line of thought suggested Ivy had grown it upon arrival, specifically to prevent a police airdrop, but something about the gnarled old Ash kept his attention.

It was a strange tree, its trunk curved backward like a soldier puffing his chest out and at its height it forked into two thick branches thrown out like upraised arms. Close to the fork of the tree resting at the height of its trunk he could see a strange knotted indentation as if the tree was opening a mouth to scream, raising its limbs to the sky and stretching branchy fingers in the last clawing grasps of a dying man.

A blow to the mind was always worse than a physical strike. The Batman recoiled half a step, revolted by the sudden realization of what he was looking at.

"My god, Ivy… What have you done?"

It was the perfect moment for a dramatic entry, and Poison Ivy loved a good entrance, but there was no reply to his horrified question. The gentle whisper of the wind in Franklin Pierce's branches was the only response in the quiet garden.