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“I’ve always been an admirer of your work,” said the Scarecrow to Poison Ivy. The two Rogues walked together in the dark tunnels of the Gotham City Sewers. It was more like the gargantuan underground labyrinth of Parisian catacombs than a city sewer line. They had slipped under a manhole cover in the chase from Batman and now walked together, sharing the light of the Scarecrow’s flashlight.
“Is that so?” she answered dubiously. “No doubt my work is impressive—but what do you care of plants beyond their—” she flicked a hand against his fear gauntlet, “—toxic qualities?”
“Your work as a Wayne Enterprises employee was unrivaled, my dear. I was enraptured by your work developing an algae that could break down oil spills. Shame that your former associates stole the credit. I ran into a few of them at my last funds heist," said the Scarecrow with a smirk.
Ivy pictured the screaming. “Maybe you do know my work,” Ivy said. They walked together in companionable silence for a few more minutes. It was this silence that let them hear the subtle echo of a clck-clck-clck. They shared a look. Every Rogue knew that sound. Batman was in the sewers and his echolocation devices were activating.
“This way,” whispered Scarecrow, and he led them up a manhole. Back in the city proper, he said, “Are you nearby here?”
They were still on Bleake Island. Ivy’s most recent base was on Miagani Island. “Not really,” she grumbled, already plotting her route. Scarecrow nodded.
“I have a small base nearby. You can stay the night, if you like,” he offered. It felt like an uncommonly kind offer from the standoffish Dr. Crane, but she and Crane got along well enough in Arkham. And, they both knew well enough that his toxins would not work on her.
“Lead the way then, Dr. Crane,” she said.
They ducked and twisted through the cramped streets of Bleake Island, Scarecrow leading the way. His latest base appeared to be a small apartment above a Chinese restaurant. No one even looked up as they passed through in their costumes.
“I make crystal meth for them to sell,” he told her, and Ivy nodded. She often grew marijuana plants for trading. The plant was surprisingly easy-going about its burning death, often lazily excited about the thought. Marijuana was a strange plant.
Scarecrow removed his hat and mask at the door. He unlatched the fear gauntlet and set it, too, to the side. The apartment was shabby, in the way most buildings on Bleake Island were old, with cracks running down the walls and patchy bits of drywall holding here and there. There was a wide area of chemistry equipment and chemicals stored about the room, but it held an organized sense of chaos to it, and it looked more like storage than working area. The actual workstation must be tucked away in another room.
“There’s a couch over there,” he said. “Throw pillow and blanket, too. I’m going to go take a shower. You’ll excuse me—fear toxin does tend to linger on the clothes.”
Something else caught her eye. Along the back wall, there was a long rack of well-cared for plants. He followed her gaze.
“Oh, right,” he said. “Those sunlamps are on a timer, but if you like, you can move them and turn them on manually. It’s not quite the same as sunlight, I understand, but if you’re… hungry?” He said it with the air of a question. Ever since becoming half-plant, Ivy could admit the sensation she felt without sunlight was a confusing analogy towards her memories of hunger.
“Thank you, Dr. Crane. That is most generous,” she said, and he nodded. He slipped away to his bedroom, emerging again with a handful of fresh clothes, and disappeared into the bathroom.
Ivy turned to regard the plants.
Plants understood their world, even if humans might not believe it. Ivy had known it as a child, and now, she felt it in her very being as she spoke with them. Plants knew what was dangerous and helpful to them, and some even understood guardianship. Those who understood the latter typically were houseplants or grew in well-tended gardens. The plants knew, on some instinctual level, that their growth depended on some mobile creature. These plants knew guardianship and would cry joyfully in the wake of a kind guardian.
Ivy approached the Scarecrow’s indoor garden. She expected plants of his study—indeed, she did recognize the strange blue Himalayan flower she knew his early toxin derived from, but there were others there as well. A sturdy aloe plant, a lofty sage bush, a cranky little cactus. Each greeted her joyfully, even half-asleep at this late hour. They stretched out with leaves and stalks, and having greeted her, searched instead for their guardian.
Ivy smiled. Some of the plants here were a few years old. They spoke of moving, carried carefully from base to base. They spoke of long-stretches where they were left without their guardian, but the careful timers for light and water still happened. They spoke fondly of their guardian’s return, the fresh nutrients in their soil then, the careful trimming and refining. They spoke warmly, like eager school children, and even as they twined around her fingers, they waved in the still air to search out their guardian.
The shower stopped. A few minutes passed and then Crane stepped out, a warm pair of flannel pants and a new T-shirt hanging off his skinny shoulders.
“Everything alright?” he questioned.
“Your plants like you,” she said. She left it at that.
“Good to know, I suppose,” he replied easily enough. “I’ll be going to bed then—that heist did not go as either of us wanted, I think.”
“What were you after, anyway?”
She had not expected to see Scarecrow when she broke into the botanical research labs of Wayne Enterprises. Both had been startled, she thinks, bumping into one another while coming around the corner and falling through some laser-alarm. It was a humiliating way to bungle a robbery. Best if they kept that whole chapter to themselves.
Scarecrow sighed. “Vanity, mostly. I heard that Wayne Enterprises was experimenting with a plant similar to my Himalayan flowers, and, well—”
“You wanted it for your own studies?” she said.
“Partially. I thought I could grow a few and study them.” He groaned. “Wayne’s probably going to have the experiments in that lab shuffled now though. Who knows where they’ll go. Still, it wasn’t terribly important, I suppose. At least you got away with your flash drive.”
“I’ll keep an ear out for you,” she offered. Crane said good night and disappeared into his bedroom, clicking the door shut.
Ivy sat with his plants for a while longer. It was maybe an hour before dawn that she stirred out of her quiet. Carefully, she padded over the Scarecrow’s shed costume, twisting out one of the noxiously orange vials of fear toxin. With careful, coaxing fingers, she asked the Himalayan blue flower for a few seeds.
The Scarecrow kept scalpels and disinfectant on hand—likely for torture, she admitted, but the blade was still sharp. She removed a spare pot from the bottom of the garden shelf. She pressed the seeds into the dirt, then snapped the vial in half, letting the fear toxin water it. The toxin had a sticky-sweet smell, but this formula was made for direct injection and did not aerosolize well. She sliced her palm with the scalpel as well, letting drops of blood hit the soil.
Dawn came. The Bat was nocturnal, and Ivy plucked an old coat with a hood from the Scarecrow’s hallway, covering her hair and hiding most of her green tint. It was time to go. She left a note written on the table next to her latest creation.
When Crane opened his bedroom door in the morning, Ivy was gone. The throw pillow and blanket were neatly folded, everything neatly back in place except for the new plant on the table. Its stems waved in the air, alive, and its flower heads seemed to be searching for something.
The plant in the pot was a wild combination of his blue Himalayan flowers and the bright orange of his fear toxin. It smelled sweet and familiar and he was sure if not for his immunity he would be wailing on the floor in terror. He carefully plucked the note from its place.
The sage put in a good word. She's friendly, I promise.
Crane looked dubiously from the note to the waving tendrils of the plant and cautiously reached out a hand. The plant seemed to sense his warmth, brushing its petals against his fingertips. He smiled.