Gotham slept, shrouded in the bluish mist of Pamela Isley's spores. Charred buildings, shattered storefronts, frozen cars—the city lay still in ghostly silence. The Floravita Industries sanctuary beneath the docks was a green oasis for two hundred refugees, but the shadows of conspiracies were already gathering, their claws reaching for this island of life.
***
In an abandoned lab in the Narrows, rusted pipes dripped onto concrete, flickering bulbs casting shadows that danced like seizures. The Joker didn't just rock in his chair—he stormed through the room, crunching glass shards underfoot, mixing dust with blood from a cut sole. Pamela's bluish spores, trapped in a test tube, caught a beam of light, glinting like a poisonous sapphire in his grimy hand. His laughter filled the space, oppressive, hysterical, like brakes screeching before a crash.
"She put it to sleep!" he shrieked, hurling the tube at the wall, where it shattered, leaving a wet stain. "My city! My toy! My symphony of chaos! And that… garden fairy!" He froze, his face twisting into a grimace of almost childlike offense. "She stole my spotlight, Birdsy! Stole the agony, the death rattle! She turned Gotham into a… a cradle!" His voice dropped to a hot, hateful whisper. "But I know how to bring back the fun. I know, dear Johnny! We'll turn her paradise into a horror circus! Paranoia! Panic! They'll tear each other apart, trampling her green dreams! All to the tune of their own screams! Ha-HA-HA-HA!"
Scarecrow, Jonathan Crane, didn't just hunch over his microscope. He was glued to the eyepiece, his bony fingers, spider-like, twitching on the adjustment knobs. His breathing turned sharp, wheezing.
"She… dared…" he hissed, venom bubbling in his voice. "Her spores… they don't just sedate. They smother fear. Silence it!" He straightened abruptly, slamming a fist on the table, making test tubes rattle. "She stole the essence of my art! The very fabric of nightmares!" His eyes, behind thick glasses, danced with not just rage but a cold, pathological thirst for revenge. "I'll make her plants fear. Fear their own shadows! I'll weave such terror into her spores that every leaf will scream! Every fruit will taste of madness! They'll tear her oasis to shreds themselves!"
***
In Metropolis, in the sterile A.R.G.U.S. headquarters high above the ground, Amanda Waller sat at a glass desk, studying satellite images of Gotham. The bluish spore mist was visible from orbit, a ghostly shroud over a dying city. Her face was stone.
"This isn't just plants," her voice cut the silence, flat and cold as a guillotine blade. "It's a new-generation weapon of mass destruction. Isley put an entire metropolis to sleep. She could sedate a nation." Her finger hit the comm button. "Gamma Team. Infiltrate Floravita's sanctuary as refugees. Threat level: maximum. Primary objective: collect samples, study spore mechanics. Secondary objective: develop a neutralization protocol for the source. Isley and her labs are priority containment targets."
***
In another Metropolis skyscraper, where panoramic windows reflected cold stars and city lights, Lex Luthor stood, hands clasped behind his back. On the desk lay a report stamped LexCorp Bio-Security. Pamela's spores… they accelerated cellular regeneration in vitro by orders of magnitude. They hinted at potential surpassing his own gene-modification projects.
"Pamela Isley," he murmured, rubbing his smooth chin, his eyes alight with the cold thrill of scientist and predator. "Your green children… they could be the key. The key to cognitive matrix stability in synthetic flesh. The key to my true Superman." He turned to his waiting assistant. "Prepare Plan Verbena. Maximum diplomacy. Offer her LexCorp resources, protection… and a stake in the greatest biotech breakthrough of the century. Emphasize… mutual benefit. But prepare Plan B. In case the 'Queen of Green' proves too thorny."
***
In the Batcave, cold monitor light stung the eyes, casting sharp, howling shadows on stone walls. Batman stood at the console, his cape still as a mourning flag. Barbara Gordon sat across, her red hair tied back, but the shadows under her eyes were as deep as Gotham's chasms.
"Report," his voice was low, a subterranean rumble, taut with control. Every word an effort.
Barbara nodded, swallowing the lump of exhaustion in her throat:
"Sanctuary under the docks. Geo-engineering at its finest. Massive, built for thousands, currently holding about two hundred. Strict entry: photo, name, mandatory agreement to rules—respect others, no conflict, absolute ban on harming plants. The vines and moss… they don't just filter air. They produce it. Condense water from nothing. Bear fruit—apples, berries, all fresh, nutritious. Sleeping quarters—moss mattresses, impossibly soft. Food—plant-based, cooked in a communal kitchen. It's not a bunker. It's… a biological city of the future. Pamela Isley is the undisputed leader; they practically worship her. But… there's a shadow. One man. Cold, efficient."
Batman stayed silent. His fists slowly clenched, knuckles whitening. Images of the ghost city on the screens blended with the folder delivered by drone. Falcone's crypto wallets. Maroni's accounts. Names of dirty cops. A postscript about respirators. Each fact a cog in the monstrous machine Alex had set in motion.
"He triggered the war," Batman growled, his voice breaking with rage. "Lit the fuse, knowing how it would end. Knowing Pamela would use the spores. Knowing the city would fall. All of it… all these deaths, the destruction… it was the price. The price for chaos where only his structure survived and rose. And he handed me the key to the mob on a platter, so I… so we… would become complicit!" He spun from the screen, his shadow lunging across the wall like an enraged beast. "He's shaping his Gotham. From ashes and enforced sleep. Under Floravita's flag. Is that permissible? Pamela saved people… but caged them in his calculated prison."
His duty was to protect Gotham. But from whom now? The mob, already crushed by his own weapon? Alex, offering order built on bones? Alex played on the edge—no, he'd long crossed it, and the boundary had shifted under his feet. This game… it left a taste of ash and the sting of betraying his own principles.
"They sedated the city with a biological weapon, Barbara," he said, quieter but with icy resolve. "And while Gotham sleeps, Alex builds his empire in its underbelly. Your move was reckless. But… the intel is valuable. Your task now—stay their 'guest.' Observe. Memorize everything, but don't push. You're in the beast's jaws."
***
Beneath Gotham, in a secret chamber where the air was stale with ancient dust and cold stone, the Court of Owls convened. Stone walls, carved with owl reliefs, seemed to absorb torchlight rather than reflect it. Twelve figures in black robes stood around a massive black oak table, their owl masks—lifeless, terrifying—the only faces in this tomb-like silence. The Grandmaster, his mask edged in gold, raised a hand slowly, like the pendulum of an ancient clock. His voice, distorted by a device, was dead-flat, emotionless, like a sentence pronounced:
"Pamela Isley. Her interference exceeds acceptable chaos. Floravita Industries claims a new, uncontrolled power. Her sanctuary doesn't just draw crowds—it sows a dangerous illusion of hope. Her plants meet basic needs outside our system of control. This… is unacceptable."
The silence hung heavier than lead. A member in a silver mask, voice slightly higher but equally lifeless, broke it:
"Identifying the threat isn't enough. It's a tool. Her spores… they subdued an entire city. Imagine: a rioting mob, instantly sedated. Mass unrest, stopped with one release. A power to replace armies and police. A power we can wield."
The opposite side of the table responded instantly. A voice from a bronze mask, harder, laced with metallic venom:
"A tool? It's a ticking bomb! The masses see her as a savior, not us, the true rulers of the shadows! Her 'humanism' undermines the foundation of fear our control rests on! Her organizer—a ghost, untouchable. We can't control what we don't understand. She and her shadow must be erased before their 'new world' becomes reality for the masses."
The Grandmaster turned his head slowly, his mask almost alive in the flickering torchlight.
"Analysis accepted. Both arguments hold weight. But the fact remains: Isley and her structure exist outside our spheres of influence. This sets a precedent. Precedent is weakness." He tapped his knuckles lightly on the table—a sound like a hammer in a crypt. "Priority: neutralize the threat. Method: subjugation or elimination. Study the capture of her technology. Simultaneously, prepare an elimination scenario. Floravita Industries must not exist as an independent force. Proceed."
***
Alex woke gradually. Not a jolt to consciousness, but a soft ascent from the depths. The cold light of the secret base's monitors stung his eyes, the rustle of Pamela's vines, weaving the walls like living wires, a soothing backdrop. The moss beneath him was impossibly soft, the air sterile with a faint scent of ozone and damp earth. His mind was crystal-clear, his body charged like after a week's vacation, not a three-hour sleep under a biological weapon's spell.
The dining hall was a true oasis: wooden tables, dim green light from bioluminescent moss on the walls, the aroma of freshly cooked food. At its center—Pamela Isley. Her red hair cascaded like a fiery waterfall over her emerald dress. Before her, on a plate, sat a burger. And Pamela Isley, Mistress of Plants, was biting into it with obvious relish. Alex froze in the doorway, blinking as if to dispel a hallucination.
She noticed him, the corners of her lips twitching in a barely-there, almost human smirk.
"Well?" she said, gesturing for him to sit, her voice unusually light, with a hint of challenge. "Disappointed? Expected me to live on photosynthesis and dew?"
Alex sat across, his analytical mind scanning the object on his plate: golden bun, crisp lettuce, sauce dripping at the edges, a patty that, by all visual cues, mimicked beef. Skepticism whispered: Grass. Trickery. He took a bite. The flavor exploded—juicy, smoky pepper depth, salt, garlic, a tangy tomato kick. The bun—airy, with a sesame crust crunch. Lettuce—icy crisp. Sauce—a sharp, spicy punch. This wasn't just a plant-based mimic. It was a masterpiece of culinary alchemy.
"This…" he chewed, pausing for effect, "…is what you've been working on with the scientists instead of sleeping?"
Pamela laughed—a low, velvety sound, rare for her.
"Not only, dear strategist. Cosmetics—creams that heal burns overnight. Medicines—for migraines that vanish before you swallow the pill. And… special compounds. For… deep mental relaxation." She raised an eyebrow meaningfully, that familiar dangerous glint in her green eyes.
Alex glanced at the empty plate, feeling an odd satisfaction from this small victory over expectations.
"Looks like we just solved America's obesity problem," he quipped with a sardonic smirk. "Though… now they'll eat even more, since it's so damn good."
Pamela stood abruptly. With a predator's grace, she circled the table. Her fingers, cool and surprisingly tender, brushed the scar on his cheek. The touch was unexpected, intimate.
"I can make you stronger, Alex," she whispered, her voice thick as syrup but laced with steel. "Faster, tougher, like Harley."
Alex froze. The warmth of her touch clashed with a cold surge of wariness. He met her gaze, searching for subtext: care? Experiment? A bid to bind him?
"Ivy…" He gently moved her hand, his smirk hardening. "I'm flattered you see my potential. But 'enhancement' is a one-trick crutch. In a world with Superman, Shazam, the Flash… they don't care about a thousand enhanced Harleys or Alexes." He leaned back, locking eyes with her. "I have an idea to amplify your enhancement, make it foundational. But that's… for later. Spending resources now on making just a 'strong guy' is inefficient."
"And now?" she asked, perching on the table's edge beside him, her dress rustling. Her question was soft, but impatience flickered, the impatience of a queen.
"Now we're in the big game, Pamela," he replied, his voice turning businesslike, steel creeping in. "The mob's dust. Their accounts are frozen, their leaders in cuffs or on the run. Those my people grabbed in the chaos are in our cells. The rest are scattered." He gestured upward, to the sleeping city. "But this drew the eyes of the titans. Those who rule from shadows. We need an ironclad roof, Pamela. Or they'll crush us like ants when they decide we've grown too big." He stood, stretching his stiff neck. "Someone's about to make a move. Be ready."
Pamela slid off the table, her hands resting on his shoulders, strong fingers kneading stress knots with surprising skill.
"Between grand plans," her voice turned sweet, but demanding, "do me a small favor?"
Alex groaned involuntarily at the unexpected relief.
"If you massage my ears too, I'll definitely consider it," he tossed back, trying to keep the irony, but his voice wavered slightly.
She snorted, short and sharp, and tugged his earlobe—not painfully, but firmly.
"Enough jokes, soldier," she huffed, letting go. "Listen to the task." Her gaze turned serious, almost stern. "Help Harley. Pull her from the Joker's claws, for good."
Alex nodded, no hint of surprise.
"I was already planning to. I need her." Pamela's brow shot up, a silent question. "She's not just pretty, Ivy. She's a psychology professor. PhD. Research on manipulation, addiction, she knows Gotham's underbelly like no one else. And she's… tied to you." He paused, choosing words. "But the Joker… he didn't just break her. He embedded something in her. A drug? An implant? A psychological anchor? Even after your enhancement… she's not free. He's got her on a leash."
Pamela listened, her gaze unwavering, fingers unconsciously gripping the table's edge, knuckles whitening.
"There's a way," Alex continued. "Develop a compound—not a blocker, not a stimulant, but a key. Something to plunge Harley deep into her subconscious, where the Joker planted his 'hooks.' But she's not human anymore, so the key needs to be serious. Another option—a telepath." He snorted derisively. "But trusting telepaths is a last resort. They'll dig into her head and our secrets too."
"So, a compound," Pamela stated, her voice steady, but her eyes burned with resolve.
"Yeah. You and your geniuses—develop it. We'll test it gradually: caffeine addicts, smokers, petty junkies… scaling up. Final test—Harley." He spread his hands. "Problem is, I don't know where she is. Like she vanished into thin air."
Pamela looked away, her gaze sinking into the green depths of the sanctuary. Her eyes flashed brighter than emeralds for a moment.
"I don't know either…" she whispered. "But I feel… she's alive."
Alex stood, the weight of the new task and the tightening ring of threats settling on him.
"Then we get to work. Draft a plan. Find Harley. Make the compound." He stepped toward the exit, then turned, his smirk returning. "And, Pamela…" He nodded at the empty plate. "Toss a couple of those 'masterpieces' into my office. For inspiration."
She rolled her eyes with exaggerated irritation, but the corners of her lips twitched in an almost-smile.
Alex left, the walls of the Ark, this green paradise, starting to feel like a trap. The game was just beginning, and the stakes had soared to the heavens.