The Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane opened its doors for the first time in November of 1921. The building had begun life as a lovely old mansion, standing proudly in the midst of similar neighbors, each home glowing with wealth and pride. But one by one, as the madmen of the world were paraded by, the neighbors quietly moved on. Their unattended and unsellable houses fell into heaps of ruin. After ten years, nothing was left but empty shells of rotting wood that had slowly succumbed to the forces of nature. The asylum had acquired their property at laughable prices in the interests of expansion.

The asylum had changed in the following decades. Splintered wood was replaced with concrete. Padlocks were removed in favor of sliding bars, which in their turn gave way to more modern door locks. What had once been a mansion had been gutted and rebuilt into a squat brick building that sprawled over the land like a forgotten corpse.

It had been renamed, as well - administrators had tried in vain to replace the old-fashioned word 'asylum' with its more modern counterparts. It had been known as the Arkham Hospital, and the Arkham Sanitarium, and even briefly as Mercy House - but in the minds of the public, it remained forever as Arkham Asylum.

When they'd left, so many years ago, the neighbors had also abandoned their beautiful flower gardens to go to seed. The weaker plants had long since disappeared, but their hardier counterparts flourished in wide swaths across the lawns. May's lush green grass was spotted with the purples of phlox and the vivid pinky-reds of rhododendrons. In the distance, a trailing web of deep green kudzu clung to the tall fence that enclosed the grounds.

The world was a jewel, locked away behind a grid of plexiglass and iron. And in her cell, pinioned to the bed by her wrists, Sorrow didn't even have the luxury of looking at it. Her only view was the pale yellowy-beige ceiling with cracked paint showing cold grey concrete behind it. She'd fallen so far in the handful of weeks since her first capture. Just over a month ago, she'd been the head of a rather successful little gang of crooks. They'd managed to relieve Gotham of well over half a million dollars in cash alone since they'd started. Things had been going so well...

Now she was locked away in a building full of lunatics and branded as one of them. She'd been lamed, tortured, and almost killed by the very same man who was supposed to be helping her.

So she'd tried to kill herself. Who hadn't? Her abortive attempt certainly couldn't be repeated within Arkham - there were surprisingly few rooftops to dive off of, and the cells and uniforms were carefully laid out so that suicide would be impossible inside them - so the restraints around her wrists were totally unnecessary. Unless, of course, the staff wanted to make absolutely certain that she wasn't going to be able to get away again...

People say that what you don't know can't hurt you. This is a false statement of gigantic proportions. Every day, people are injured and killed by things they didn't know about - the tainted meat let out by a company who didn't know about the toxins inside it, the invisibly slashed brake lines on a car owned by someone who didn't know they had an enemy, and even the surprise rattlesnake behind the couch of a deaf man. What you do not know about can kill you in the grisliest of ways.

Sorrow didn't know that she was safe, to the limited extent that that word applied to anyone within the asylum. Dr. Reginald Teng, the psychiatrist who had tried to turn her into his Great Experiment, had been stripped of his title and tossed into the nearest empty cell in Stonegate Penitentiary. The administration had cracked down on all staff, examining them and their practices thoroughly to prevent another incident. And the ACLU members, who loved cases like this, were constantly badgering the staff to be more and more humane to residents who would cheerfully have stabbed them in the eyes.

But, as in many institutions, what happened in the staff room stayed in the staff room. Doctors were expressly forbidden to discuss each other with the inmates, as always, and so no one passed on the news of Teng's fate to the people who needed to hear it most. The lion's share of the inmates knew anyway, thanks to the evening news, and those that hadn't were filled in on the details in their short visits to the rec room.

Sorrow, trapped in her cell, had been largely overlooked. Everyone knew, so everyone presumed that she knew too. They had forgotten that she'd spent her last few days on the outside holed up in her warehouse, away from all human contact, and that she hadn't been in police custody when Teng had been arrested.

She didn't know that she was safe, and so she had to assume that she wasn't. Oh, she knew very well that she'd been reassigned - her new psychiatrist, Dr. Lily Soehnlean, had flounced into her cell and prattled on about how lovely it was to meet her, and how she was certain that together they could work to make everything right again - but if he was still in the asylum...if he got control of her again, she would die. He would bide his time and play nice, and slowly talk the other doctors around to his point of view - and then she'd be gone.

She refused to wait for that to happen. It wasn't that she was giving up entirely. It was simply that, faced with two options - die now on her own terms, or die a horrendously painful death at some point in the future - she'd chosen the former.

Having a plan in place was a comfort. She could deal with whatever the asylum threw at her in the meantime, as long as she had that plan to snuggle up with in the dim twilight of Arkham's night. She was in control of her own fate, even if it wasn't exactly a good fate.

All of this goes a long way toward explaining why she was staring tight-lipped at the ceiling while a white-suited orderly shoved a spoonful of tuna casserole at her face. "You gotta eat sometime," he sighed.

She shook her head. No, she didn't, and they couldn't make her. Starvation wasn't the nicest way to die, but it was the only alternative left to her.

"C'mon," the orderly coaxed. "I've still got two more of you to feed, and they're gonna be getting pretty hungry soon."

"So go feed them first - mmmph!" She glared daggers at the orderly as he jammed the spoon into her mouth. Arkham's tuna casserole was revolting at the best of times, and being force-fed lumps of the rancid fish-and-noodle combination was not going to happen if she had anything to say about it.

The orderly grinned as she made chewing motions. "There, see? Good girl. Hey!" he yelped as the mouthful of casserole splatted neatly onto his pristine uniform.

"Get the hell away from me," she snarled.

"You're gonna eat this whether you want to or not," he snapped, grabbing her chin.

Fifteen minutes later, the plate was empty. Not that she'd eaten any of the food - in that respect, she'd won. In the process, though, she'd completely covered herself with bits of slimy casserole.

"You're disgusting," the orderly muttered, gathering up the dishes.

"Says the man with tuna in his ear," Sorrow said sweetly back.

He furiously dug it out with one finger, wiping the greyish fish fastidiously on one of the few remaining white patches on the front of his uniform. "To hell with this," he muttered. "I'll make Horace give you dinner."

"Don't bother. I won't eat it."

He rolled his eyes. "You'll eat, sooner or later. We'll see to that."

I'd like to see you try, Sorrow thought mutinously as he slammed her door.

The following days lumbered past at slightly under the speed of a tranquilized elephant. Sorrow spent most of it sprawled on her hard little bed, watching the sunlight drift in its regular pattern around her cell. It was remarkably easy to just lay back and let life happen around her.

They'd tried to get her to eat. Orderlies and doctors alike had alternately cajoled and threatened her with every privilege and punishment they had to offer. It didn't matter. Nothing really mattered anymore.

Today's orderly had barely been in her cell for five minutes with his hateful little tray. She let her head loll to the side and smirked at a crack in the ceiling. They were finally getting the point that she was not going to eat, no matter how weak she'd started to feel. Thankfully, the hunger had melted away into nausea at some point in the early days, so now she didn't even physically want to eat anything they brought to her.

Dr. Lily, flanked by a pair of orderlies, swung the door of her cell open. "You didn't eat your lunch," she accused softly, with a glance at her clipboard.

Sorrow shrugged.

"Or breakfast. You didn't eat last night, or the day before that..." Lily flipped through papers. "You haven't eaten for over a week. You have to eat something."

Sorrow shrugged again.

"You can't go on like this. What's wrong?" Lily pleaded. "Whatever it is, we can work on it together. I only want to help you, but I can't help if you won't talk to me!"

With a tilt of her head, Sorrow considered her for a moment. If she just told Lily - but no, that was a bad idea. Hadn't she been through enough to teach her that psychiatrists didn't really care about people like her? At any rate, she'd told Teng virtually nothing and he'd spun it into a web of lies to rival that of Baron Munchhausen's. What would happen if she went to a doctor with an actual problem? No, it was better to remain silent.

"You still won't talk to me?" Lily asked, a slightly wounded tone creeping into her voice as Sorrow looked back to the ceiling. "Not one word?" She paused, waiting for an answer that would never come. When the silence had stretched on too long, she sighed bitterly and tucked her papers back into their pile. "Then I'm afraid we have no other choice."

Dr. Lily set the clipboard down on the floor near the farthest wall and knelt next to it, fumbling with something that Sorrow couldn't see. One of the massive orderlies began undoing her wrist buckles, keeping a careful watch on her free hand as he unbuckled the other. She stretched and bent her wrists, wishing fervently that someone had taken the time to pry her out of Teng's gloves. A few little slaps and she could have been gone...

A rusty antique gurney squeaked into the room, followed by the second orderly. The narrow green cushions were split and taped together after years of abuse. And on the back, hovering over the headrest like a metal spider, was an intricate rack with a set of IV bags dangling from it.

Sorrow's scream could have broken mirrors. The orderlies pounced on her and did their best to transfer her thrashing body onto the new gurney while keeping one ear pressed to their shoulders to block out the sound. It was happening again, it was happening again, she had to get out...

"I told you to get the other gurney," Lily snapped, turning from the corner. A small syringe glinted in one hand.

"Other one's broken," the orderly shrugged, wincing as Sorrow slammed a numb knee into his hip.

"You could have at least waited until I gave her this," Lily scolded, weaving deftly between the orderlies. "It's for your own good, Sorrow," she said, slipping the needle into her arm.

Arguing did no good. Pleading did no good. The only possible thing that could save her now was fighting - but the drug slinking through her veins was making her arms heavy...her eyelids creaked shut without her approval and the world went away.

Federal regulations state that restraints are only to be used under the strictest of strict conditions. The misbehaving inmates are to be held in the least restrictive setting possible to stop them from harming themselves or others, and restraints are only to be used for four-hour stretches without further consultations with the doctor who ordered their usage.

In Arkham Asylum, particularly in the hallway that housed the rogues, things worked a little differently. Arkham was funded largely by the government, and anyone who has ever worked in a governmental facility will tell you that getting necessary funds requires hours of begging, threats, and shouted complaints. With a shoestring budget, the asylum could only afford so many staff members - and of those, the turnover rate was astonishing. The ones that remained demanded raise after raise, which the administration had to grant, or face losing half of their staff.

To put it simply, Arkham couldn't afford to care for their inmates as they were supposed to. The orderly that legally should have been watching Sorrow one-on-one the entire time that she was restrained had been called away to walk rogues to their therapy appointments, clean up the unholy mess in the lunchroom, and tend to all the other tedious tasks that filled an orderly's time. There were the things that had to be done to keep the place going, and then there were the mindless chores that weren't technically necessary like sitting and watching someone lay motionless and asleep on a bed.

Sorrow cracked a bleary eye open. The paint cracks on the ceiling spun and crossed over one another before settling into their accustomed spots. She fought to lift her head and saw the IV tubing sticking out of her arm. The bag next to her was nearly empty.

She'd been asleep for some time, then. He'd be coming soon. She had to get out, had to...had to do something...

They hadn't strapped her legs down. She still had enough feeling in them to raise her thighs and swing them back and forth, sending her useless calves swaying beneath them as she rocked. The wheels of the gurney started to lift ever so slightly off of the ground. One more...

The gurney fell to the ground with a metallic, rattling crash. Sorrow wiggled her knees up to her waist and numbly shoved her feet against the mattress until she lay in a somewhat crouching position over the headrest. Chains rattled on her gloved hands as she stretched them as far as they'd go under the bed, fumbling at the buckles holding the straps on until they parted under her fingertips.

She was free. She smacked the gurney until the wheels spun on their rusty swivels. Free!

But not for long. They'd be back at any moment. Well, maybe she could pry something useful out of this tangle of metal...and, as fortune would have it, the old, rusty legs of the gurney were practically falling apart as it was.

Twenty minutes passed before an orderly came by, arms loaded with filthy bedsheets. He glanced in, expecting to see Sorrow limply sleeping. Instead, she was seated on the floor, surrounded by wreckage that had formerly been a serviceable gurney. "Hey!" he yelped. Bedsheets scattered over the tile like fallen leaves as he wrenched his radio off of his belt. "Assistance needed, Cell 4R27, Four - Are - Two - Seven," he barked, fumbling the key into the lock with his free hand. The door creaked open as he stuffed the radio back into its holster.

Sorrow, armed with a heavy wheeled gurney leg, glared at him. "Stay away," she growled.

"Drop it," he warned, taking a step closer. In reply, Sorrow swung the heavy metal leg like a baseball bat. Little flakes of rust peeled off of it and left a brownish spatter of oxidized metal over the remains of the gurney.

Wild footsteps echoed in the hall as orderlies responded to the alarm. "Who the hell was supposed to be watching her?" the first orderly demanded, pointing at the jumbled mess of metal covering the floor of the cell. A general mumble of an answer indicated that no one had been told anything about her. They clustered together in the doorway, forming their battle plan as Sorrow tightened her grip on the long metal bar.

The orderlies slammed into action. Five of them dove into the cell, each aiming for their specific target - an arm, a leg, the iron bar - and two of them peeled away to fetch a replacement gurney and someone with the authority to dispense massive amounts of tranquilizers. The five inside the cell fought Sorrow, flailing and screaming, to the ground, pinning her solidly under their combined weight. The ones on her hands took the opportunity to double- and triple-check the handcuffs securing the gloves to her wrists.

Time passes slowly when you're being held. In Sorrow's case, it felt like an hour had passed, mashed out of existence by sweaty men in cheap cotton clothing. They filled her sight, talking to one another about anything but her as they kept her pressed to the linoleum. Then, seemingly from nowhere, there was the sting of a needle as it burned into her hip, and the world faded out like the end of a bad movie.

Being Poison Ivy's therapist was akin to being the nursemaid of a very spoiled toddler. Dr. Tanaka had heard tales in the past of Ms. Isley's previous therapists. Most had not had happy endings. True, she rarely killed her doctors, but she was adept at making their lives absolutely miserable if they did not do things her way.

The first impression, she'd decided, was absolutely fundamental to winning Pamela's trust. She scoured her office of anything that might irk or upset the botanist, down to the lack of notepads on the desk and the special metal chairs. She'd even changed her soap to something unscented.

It had worked, to some degree. When Ivy had first come into her office, she'd obviously anticipated being able to rip into the doctor about her abuse of plants. When there was no abuse to be found, Ivy had unconsciously given the doctor a little more credit than her therapists normally received. (This wasn't to say that she liked her - after all, she was still a human, and humans were bad.)

Dr. Tanaka had managed to stay on as Pamela's therapist for six years. In that time, since Pamela refused to talk about herself in any therapeutic fashion, they'd had the same conversations approximately three hundred times each - Plants are Good, Harley Needs A New Boyfriend, and Arkham Is Bad.

They were halfway through Arkham Is Bad on this particular day. Dr. Tanaka was focused on Pamela, her bright little eyes sparkling in the lights as she nodded agreement to each of the tired old complaints - the food was terrible, the beds weren't comfortable, she wasn't allowed enough plants in her cell...

"And the staff are getting entirely too overreactive," Pamela said. "I mean, really. Do you honestly think it should take seven men to restrain one woman?"

"It would depend on what you were doing directly before the staff intervened," Tanaka said.

Pamela's eyes flashed irritation with a world too stupid to understand her the first time around. "Not me," she sighed. "Sorrow."

Dr. Tanaka remained outwardly motionless. Inside, though, the bit of her mind concerned with solving the mystery of Pamela's psyche sat up like a hunting dog hearing a faint quacking in the reeds. "I think I might have missed that event," the doctor lied. As long as Pamela felt smarter or more well-informed than her, she'd keep talking.

Pamela rolled her deep green eyes to the ceiling. "It happened last week." Pamela recounted the events as she'd seen them from her cell just down the hall.

Dr. Tanaka nodded and made the correct concerned noises as Pamela railed about the sheer ineptitude of the staff. Inside, though, she was jumping up and down excitedly. Pamela did not talk about other people with any sense of camaraderie, with the exception of Harley Quinn, and yet she almost sounded...sympathetic to Sorrow's situation. (Sympathetic, for Pamela, generally meant not instantly wanting to kill them - but it was a start, nonetheless.) Any hint of seeming to care about other people, no matter how small, had to be encouraged.

Tiny Dr. Tanaka clicked through a few files on her PDA. "Yes," she mused, looking at a file containing a recipe for sauerbraten. "Yes, I see that in her records..." She put the PDA back into her drawer. "I wonder, I wouldn't want to impose on you," she murmured, folding her hands.


"I'm sorry, it was just a thought. But you were saying..." Tanaka trailed off.

"What were you going to ask?" Pamela asked suspiciously.

Careful, careful. "I was thinking that...well, it was you that first alerted us to the situation with Sorrow's former doctor. You're obviously a little more perceptive than we are, in this case," Tanaka said with a little uneasy chuckle. "If you could talk to her..."

Pamela regarded her cautiously. Dr. Tanaka fidgeted in the privacy of her mind. Had she gone too far with the flattery? Psychiatry was so much harder than most other breeds of medicine. They, at least, had room for a little trial-and-error. If she made a mistake with Pamela, she could kiss her working relationship with her goodbye. An orderly opened the door, and she waved her away for a few more minutes.

"What do you mean, talk to her?" Pamela finally asked.

Waves of relief tingled down her back. She hadn't seen through her. "Well, she's been going through some problems...she hasn't been eating, for one thing. If you could maybe convince her to start again, we'd really appreciate it. I might even be able to convince Dr. Carlson that you deserve to have that plant you've been wanting," she coaxed.

"I'll do it," Pamela agreed. Tanaka smiled and thanked her as the orderly re-entered and took her away. When she was fully gone, Tanaka reached into her bottom drawer and pulled out her notebook. If she could get Pamela to interact positively with Sorrow, it would be another tiny step toward regaining her sanity. And if she convinced Sorrow to start eating again, that would just be icing on the cake.

Permission for the visit wasn't given for nearly a week. By that time, Ivy had almost forgotten about it. She'd occupied herself today with the two little plants she was allowed, cradling the stems in her arms and letting the leaves wrap lovingly around her fingertips. But two minutes ago, her usual pair of female orderlies had swung her door open and beckoned her outside. Why they needed two guards to take her ten feet down the hallway was beyond her.

Nevertheless, with thoughts of that third promised plant dancing in her mind, Ivy strolled calmly down the hall and waited while her orderlies bickered with Sorrow's. "She can't go in!" the men were protesting. "We can barely get near her!"

There was a monstrous crash from inside, as if someone had dropped a Ming vase. "Get the hell out of here!" Sorrow bellowed. A mischievous little smile sparked onto Ivy's face.

She'd done a lot of thinking since that session. It was good that the doctors were finally recognizing how useless they were. Maybe one day they'd pack up and leave...or, more likely, they'd go back to leaving the rogues alone, just like they used to. Something about that conversation had bothered her, though, and it had taken her a while to pin it down.

Tanaka had almost sounded like she thought Ivy cared about Sorrow. That was an uncomfortable thought. Ivy didn't care about Sorrow - or rather, she didn't want to care. She wanted to remain just as she'd been a few years ago, when humans were bad and plants were good. It had been simple, then.

But then Harley Quinn had come along - sweet, chirpy little Harley who wouldn't let Ivy brush her away. And slowly, grudgingly, Ivy's love of plants had to give way ever so slightly to make room for a friendship with a silly, perky jester who would not be ignored.

The cracks in her defenses were starting to crumble a little more around Sorrow. It wasn't that she cared personally for her - she hadn't exactly been endearing, in the little time that they'd known one another. No, she cared more about Sorrow because of what she was. It was a kinship of sorts. On the surface, they were vaguely alike - red hair, a poisonous touch - but it was more than that. If nothing else, they'd both been experimented on by men who thought that their research was more important than their subjects. Ivy knew the kind of betrayal that took inside and out. If anyone knew what it was like to be Sorrow, it was Poison Ivy - and if anyone could snap Sorrow into behaving as a rogue should at Arkham, it was Ivy as well.

Though, from the amount of epithets flying from the orderly inside her cell, she wasn't going to need much persuading on that point. "Are you sure?" one of the men asked as the other scurried out of the room, holding a tray full of shattered ceramic. "She's mean today."

"She's always mean," the other said, dumping the tray hurriedly onto the lunch cart.

"Doctor's orders," the woman behind Ivy said. The male orderlies shrugged and stepped aside. 'Doctor's orders' was the magic phrase in Arkham. If doctors ordered it, orderlies obeyed - which was how Sorrow had gotten into such a mess in the first place.

Ivy sauntered past the orderlies into the little cell. Sorrow was glaring at the wall, ignoring the gaggle of orderlies in the hall as they talked to one another about her. "Get out," she snapped.

"Good morning to you, too."

Sorrow's head snapped around, sending her uncombed, greasy hair flying in a stringy puff around her head. "Ivy?"

Ivy nodded a hello and looked around the stark little cell. Patients were normally allowed up to three personal items for therapeutic reasons. Apparently, no one had seen fit to pass that information on to Sorrow, since her walls were empty. Ivy brushed down the front of her dull grey uniform and seated herself regally on the bed by Sorrow's waist.

"What are you doing here?" Sorrow whispered, glancing at the guards.

Ivy shrugged. "They said I should come and visit you." She ran a long green finger over a wrinkle in the blanket, lovingly smoothing out the remains of the poor mangled cotton plants that had gone into its manufacture. The orderlies were muttering to one another in the hallway.

Time to earn her plant. "Why aren't you eating?" she asked, locking eyes with Sorrow.

Sorrow shrugged and turned her face to the wall. "I'm not hungry."

Ivy narrowed suspicious green eyes. "Just like you weren't hungry at my greenhouse?"

"No. Yes," Sorrow muttered. "What's the point? I'm going to die anyway."

With a snort of disbelief, Ivy rolled her eyes. "Oh, you are not," she said, as if telling a toddler that monsters really weren't under the bed.

"How can you say that?" Sorrow hissed, glaring at her. "You know what happened!"

"Yes, I do. It happened. It's over."

"How the hell is it over?" Sorrow mocked, rattling her restraints.

"It's not going to happen again!" Teng was in prison! Why on earth did she think that he could possibly still hurt her?

"Sure it won't." Metal clattered on metal as Sorrow yanked pointedly on her wrist restraints again.

"It won't if you do what you're supposed to!" Ivy sighed. Rogues were many things inside Arkham - violent, wary, and delusional were generally the top three choices - but they were never suicidal. They never just gave in! There was a certain code of behavior that went along with being one of the Batman's adversaries that Sorrow clearly wasn't following. In the spirit of helpfulness (or, more realistically, in the spirit of letting the orderlies hear what the doctor wanted them to hear) Ivy said "Just do what they want and you'll get through this. Okay?"

"Do what they want," Sorrow said flatly.


"Fine." Moving at the speed of desperation, Sorrow thrust herself upward and buried her head into Ivy's shoulder. Ivy sat there, stunned, until she felt teeth sinking into her exposed neck.

"What is wrong with you?" Ivy shrieked, stumbling backward.

Sorrow, with a tiny smear of Ivy's toxic greenish-brown blood on her lips, fell back onto her pillow. "'M sorry," she mumbled. "Was the only way..."

Ivy turned imperiously to the orderlies. "She bit me!" she announced, gesturing with bloody fingers to the set of teethmarks in her neck. Her pair of orderlies raced inside, fumbling with their waist packs. But rather than tend to Ivy's injured neck, they were breaking out the antidotes and injecting all of them into Sorrow.

Ivy sighed dramatically and leaned against the doorframe, watching the pointless activity. If she wanted to kill herself so badly, let her. She'd never understand why Arkham wasted so much time and money on people who didn't want to live anymore.

At least she'd probably get a plant out of all of this.

The rec room buzzed with the quiet hum of busy inmates. Cards thwacked down onto heavy metal tables. The television, tuned to CNN, blared gentle monotony at the cluster of inmates keeping a careful eye on the government.

In the corner, Ivy was playing with the fronds of the fern while she decided on her new acquisition. Should it be an azalea? Jequirity? Maybe a nice lily...they were poisonous to cats, after all, and she was certain she could tweak its toxicity enough to get her out of this place sooner, rather than later.

"Hiya, Red!" Harley chirped, flopping down in a nearby chair.

"Mmm," Ivy said, mostly ignoring her.

"What happened to your neck?" Harley demanded, noticing the tiny white square of bandage.

"Sorrow bit me."

"She...bit ya?" Harley frowned. "That doesn't sound like her."

Ivy absently dusted a fleck of lint from a leaf. "She was trying to kill herself," she said, with the tone of one discussing a budding chef's inability to distinguish flour from salt.

"She what?"

"I'm poison, remember, Harley?" Ivy explained condescendingly.

Harley stuck out her tongue. "I kinda figured that out, Red!" she snapped. "Why's she tryin' to off herself?"

Ivy shrugged. "Who cares?"

"You do," Harley said.

"I do not. I don't like humans."

"You do too!" Harley repeated. "I can tell by the way yer tryin' to snap the arm of your chair off. If you really didn't like her, you wouldn't be gettin' angry."

Ivy, glaring at Harley, slowly uncurled her hand from the death grip it had had on the chair. "Anything else you'd like to share?" she said frostily.

Harley, used to Ivy's moods, ignored her. "We've gotta do somethin'," she mused, twirling a blonde pigtail around one finger. A spark of inspiration lit her face like the sun. "I know how we can fix it! Kinda."

Ivy inwardly moaned with frustration. We meant Harley wasn't going to shut up about it until Ivy pitched in to help. At times like this, killing everyone in sight and going home was looking more and more attractive. "What's your plan?" she sighed.

(to be continued)

Author's Note: Arkham's history is partly from Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth. The bit on proper usage of four-point restraints was taken from the HCFA/JCAHO standards for 2000.