Pamela Isley, or better known as "Poison Ivy", was never fond of therapy or deep Freudian discussions of any sort… or anything that didn't have to do with her beloved plant life, for that matter. You could even go so far as to state as fact that she actually despised the whole thing. The process in itself was always a mundane procedure- Doctors prod you and you always prod them right back. Most of the time just giving them the silent treatment will get them to send you back to your cell right away though.

Unfortunately, that doesn't always work on the new specs, the ones fresh out of grad school and raring to make money off whatever Rogue they get their hands on. Worst yet, some of them actually have the idea in their head that they can actually "cure" them.

As if talking about her mommy issues is going cure Pam of green skin and the ability to manipulate plant life.

It was at this point of time that Pamela remembered just how cold it was in the therapy room.

At least within her own counselor's office there was a small window to soak some rays from. The group therapy room, however, was a slab of pretty concrete grey, with a few chairs for decoration of course. Pamela had the sneaking suspicion that they wanted it this way for her too. She also very well knew that the Doctors knew she gained a lot of her strength from sunlight. It's why they had her confined to her cell all the time, stripped of her exercise necessities even. Why have happy, lively patients, when you can so easily control depressed, reluctant ones? This is how Pamela saw it, and she very well knew that's how the Doctors saw it too.

Now, if only she could break out of this place and…

Before Pamela could even finish her own thought about revenge served on a flowery thorn filled platter, her attention was once again redirected to the therapy group at session. For the last several minutes or so, Pam had been stuck with her own musings inside her head despite it being a group therapy. Problem is, the new Doc made it a mixed sex group therapy session. That meant Harley had planted herself to wherever her "Puddin" was to gush over him, and she was left being slabbed in the middle of Jane Doe and the Junkyard Dog. One with the personality of a brick wall and the other that had the stench to rival her best manure spring mix.

As if it wasn't bad enough sitting between these two the whole session forward, the Scarecrow just HAD to go on another one of his tangents. This meant another twenty or so minutes added to group therapy session, at least. Oh, and it was always the same old rant too. Fear this and fear that, I don't get enough respect around here, and woe is me- he who has never laid eyes upon the nude form of a woman before, and… wait.

Did she just hear him say potted plant?


"Now settle down there, Mr. Crane…" said the newest addition to the Arkham staff, Dr. Howard Turner, a short man whose height peaked at 5'6" at most. His face had a baby face complexion that made it difficult for his oversized glasses to stay on the bridge of his cute button nose.

"I will not settle down, child." Sneered a very disgruntled thin man, whose lanky figure towered over the one he was currently talking to. "…and that's DOCTOR Crane, to you." The man added with a huff.

"Mr. Crane, please. Let's not have to go through this again. You've had your medical license stripped away from you YEARS ago, remember? You are in no way fit to be giving me orders!" Howard said with much bravado in his voice, but his eyes and body language gave off the complete opposite of that, and it was all too easy for the ex-Professor Crane to pick up on those signs.

"Oh really now, and WHY is IT I'm not capable of giving you orders, hmm? Might I declare Mr. Turner, that I'm well over twenty years your senior, and have been in the practice much longer than you!" Crane closed the last statement with a nice good lean on his folded chair. The lean, mind, you, that your teachers in Elementary school always warned you about doing…

"Well, …" Dr. Turner began whilst pushing up his glasses. "If I DO recall correctly , you were dismissed from your job as a Professor for firing a gun, a loaded gun, in the middle of your classroom, might I add." By now 's glasses were already halfway down his nose again.

The man accused of this action just turned his head and snorted.

"Of course, it gave a perfect example of what the power of fear could do, as well as propelling my students to achieve better grades." Crane said the last part with a grin just shy of pulling off his face.

"Besides…" Crane continued. "It's not like anyone was FATALLY harmed, the student that was grazed with that shard piece was dozing off anyway; I assure you." He ended the last statement with a stern look before having his face once again visited by the ghost of a grin. He continued once more with a slight playfulness in his voice. "Ha, why I didn't even kill anything! Well, besides that stupid potted plant of course…"

It was at this point in time that Crane felt a jerk from the back of his chair that had his head hurdling to the nice solid floor behind him. What greeted him when he opened his eyes though, wasn't the bright florescent lights he was so accustomed to when gazing up at the ceiling. Oh no, what he was staring at was the fierce contorted features of Pamela Isley, AKA Poison Ivy.


"You…" choked a half sob, half cry from Pamela Isley. "K-killed an INNOCENT!"

Hot livid green eyes pierced into soft baby blue ones the size of saucers. It seemed like hours, staring into the lush depth of Poison Ivy's rage filled gaze, before Jonathan Crane could muster the courage to respond coherently.

"Y-yes…that I did." Before Jonathan couldn't even continue his remark, Pamela had him straddled with her hand in a viselike grip around his throat, fingernails just shy of tickling his jugular vein…

"Now Pamela, I ask of you to stop this at once!" Came the desperate cry from behind her. It's seems as though Dr. Howard had finally regained use some of his own marbles as well, and he was trying, keyword trying… to make use of them.

If he was really trying though, he would have called for the orderlies about twenty seconds ago. Seeing how Pamela had given him a good SHOVE after his latest plea before continuing once again with her confrontation with now trapped Professor Crane…

"Why, why, WHY, WHY, WHY?" Each outburst of the word gave Crane a stinging sensation in the back of his head what with how Pam was smacking it into the ground with the force of a thousand oil drills. "You MURDERER! How could you've done such a thing to an innocent creature of the Earth? First you RIP it from its mother for mere decoration and THEN you snip its life short by shooting it!" Pamela spoke harshly, in a tone almost bordering on a near screech.

"G-get off, GET OFF OF ME YOU HYSTERICAL WOMAN!" Crane made a none too expected shove himself, in a desperate attempt to relieve himself from Pamela's gaze and torture to his cranium. He took the few precious milliseconds of her stunned form to distance himself from her, and to find a semi secluded area of the room to hide from her unnatural fury.

Unfortunately though, there's not much use trying to hide in a room filled primarily with chairs and loonies crazier than the ones you see on the WB.

Pamela just looked at him, for a good thirty or so second before she decided to respond.

"You…" she began in a soft whisper, bordering on a hiss "TOUCHED me…" An eerie serene silence follow afterwards before it was broken by shrill laughter.

"BWAHAHAHA-HA-HA, oh god, check it out everyone! Stickman finally made it to second base with a girl!" The Joker, now keeling over in laughter, was pointing his bony white index finger at the people smack-dab center of the room. It seems that during the quarrel the rest of the Rogue's found it necessary to distance themselves from the dispute. This of course, made it so there was an arena of faces all surrounding this particular couple.

Pam's attention was directed at once to the Clown Prince of Crime, as was all her anger fury. Jaws clenched, and fists balled enough to make her hands bleed, she gave him a hardy stare. Before she could even start once more with even more added ferocity, Harleen Quinzel, AKA Harley Quinn, thought it was an appropriate time to speak up.

"N-now listen Puddin', Red, everybody…" Harley stammered out, trying her best to imitate her 'Doctor voice' that she had used long ago in similar situation but on a different side of things. "Why don't we forget about who killed what or who touched who? We've all killed or touched somebody in one point err another! Except maybe for you Professah Crane, I don't think you've ever gotten the ol' patty cake from nobodies, yuck." Crane just regarded her with a rather indignant glare, but said nothing unless he provoke the wrath of not one but TWO insane women.

"It's human instinct fellahs!" Ms. Quinzel continued with her pep talk. "So why don't we put this behind us and be on are merry way, after all…" Harley made a sweeping gesture to the now unconscious body of Dr. Howard Turner. "Howie baby's sleeping, and we would' ent want something' to wake him, ehh?"

The majority of the group of Rouge's seem to nod or grin in approval to the bouncy blondes proposal. Even Pamela herself was showing some signs of interests from a dark glimmer in her green eye's…

One woman in the back of the room however, did not like this. Or that is to say, the voices in her head did not like this.

"Oh no, no, no…" A women of dark hair and complexion whimpered to herself with her forefingers massaging her temple in anguish and frustration. "This will not do at all. The voices want fighting, they need fighting!"

"Vox, needed to make sure there was fighting…"

And it was after that statement from an echoed voice inside an insane woman's mind did Professor Jonathan Crane find himself face to face with an ice cold metal chair and the awaiting arms of unconsciousness.


When Jonathan Crane awoke, he was in the Arkham infirmary yet again. Arms and head completely enclosed in casts. One of the regulars passing by even decided to wave to him, before resuming duty tending to another broken and battered Rogue.

Crane just gave him a sniff and a huff before once again analyzing his surroundings and injuries. From the looks (and FEELS) of it, he certainly had a concussion of some sort. As well as some broken bones to top it off. Oh yes, those were always good for him…

"At least my legs are in still good condition." Crane mused. "That way, in case the staff just magically keeled over I could just WALK out of here…" It was a happy thought, but not necessarily a logical one, and Crane knew this.

It was after this thought that Crane's color sensitivity was restored, and he noticed he had his usual slew of pen notes scrolled on his casts that the other Rogues like to leave as sort of 'Get well' presents.

Now let's see, there was the usual riddle made by the Riddler in green ink. Some Lewis Carroll quotes made, of course, by the Mad Hatter, in purple ink no less. The bright, florescent pink made by Harley decorated with hearts and a series of XO's and… wait, what's this?

Upon closer inspection and some careful jerking Jonathan shifted his body to get a better look at the new shade of red that now decorated the right wrist of his cast. It was a deep shade of maroon, and it was scrolled in rather lavish curvy cursive and it read…


Above it was a rather delicate illustration of a potted plant.

One much like the one he…

Crane just stared absentmindedly out in front of him, too flabbergasted to even muse any further on the subject or how and when she got in here. All Crane wanted to do for the time being was take his pain killers, and hope to GOD that he could get his hands on some salt and vinegar before Pam got a hold of some begonias.