A Bad Night to be Ivy

Chapter by Clifford.cao aka RubberLotusShipper

In an abandoned greenhouse somewhere on the edge of Gotham City, Poison Ivy rolled her eyes. In her hands was a crinkled copy of the Gotham Post, detailing the latest updates on the recent Arkham mass breakout. Five inmates still at large... and as luck would have it, among those five was the worst. The absolute worst.

"What a world..." the green-skinned villainess chuckled to herself. "I give Harley a toy that I slaved over for years perfecting, all for the sake of creating a distraction... and that damn psycho-love crush of hers goes and gives me a distraction ten times as big for free...."

She tossed the newspaper aside. By now, over half the capes in Gotham were probably on the lookout for the Joker. There were times, Ivy mused, when he was tolerable... so long as he wasn't within a hundred feet of her. Or within a hundred feet of-

"Harley," the villainess gasped quietly. "Oh, sweet Mother Earth..."

Ivy knew that she could hope and pray all she wanted, but past experience only told her there was only one outcome. Joker would find Harley and knock another nine bells out of the poor woman both physically and emotionally. No matter how little Joker tried to find her or how hard Harley tried to avoid him, they would find each other again. Ivy knew that for a few brief moments, Harley's beloved Mr. J would make her the happiest clown on Earth but all too soon he'd tire of her and Ivy would see her best friend destroyed in front of her again.

"No," Ivy asserted, standing to her fee, "not this time."

However, little did the villainess know, at that time and place, what she really should have been more concerned with was herself than for her longtime girl-friend...

Outside the greenhouse, three figures stood beneath the cover of night, eyeing the structure with less-than-good intentions.

"This the broad's current address?" One grumbled, scratching a the area where his nose used to be.

"Anyone else in Gotham use abandoned greenhouses this time of year?" The second figure replied dryly in a hushed tone.

"Come on, lets just ketchup this tomato!" The third piped up, not even pausing to recognize the bad pun he'd just used. His companions exchanged an unspoken message of "Can I please kill him now?/No, wait till after the job's done - after that, I'll help you dig the grave" through annoyed glances, a habit that had become all but routine on this one night.

Nevertheless, the second figure removed a flare gun like weapon from his belt before popping open the barrel to load in a cylindrical cartridge. "Paycheck or not, bag and grab ain't normally my schtick."

"Stop your whining, bitch! Think I'm happy taking orders from a playboy?" White Shark groaned.

"Yeah! Like, you mustard be just a thrill seeker or--!" Condiment King was promptly silenced by the audible cocking of a gun before it was placed just millimetres from his chin.

"Do you want her to hear us?" Deadshot seethed, his eyes burning holes in the comically dressed villain's head even through his mask's lenses. "Let's just get this over with." He sighed, lowering his wrist mounted weapon and aiming the gun in the other hand toward the greenhouse. "You two prefer the direct approach?"

White nodded, gaining a level of personal respect for the man in front of him, a bloodthirsty grin creeping across his self sharpened teeth. "On three, boss?"

"It's Deadshot." The red and silver assassin gave him a smug look, even if Shark was insane, at least he was competent. The other he would just have to tolerate for now.

Together, the three of them continued toward the greenhouse at a brisk pace, coming to a halt less than ten feet away from the front door. Once more, Deadshot raised his weapon and readied his expert trigger finger. "One, two...

"THREE!" His two accomplices joined the call, covering their eyes as he did, and Deadshot fired the flare gun. The cylinder inside crashing through the glass exterior of Ivy's hideout and emitting a blast of intense light and sound.

All three rushed forward and smashed through the remaining wall and tackled the stunned inhabitant.

In the dark, dark depths of Abandoned Gotham Warehouse #726, a pair of lavender-gloved hands were clapping most appreciatively.

"Bravo, bravo, Mr Lawton!" The Joker chuckled as he watched the scene from one of the manifold computer monitors set up before him. Briefly, the Ace of Knaves stopped to feed himself from a small box of popcorn sitting on a stool nearby.

Idly, he wondered how long it would be before one of his enforcers - any one of them - realized that he was monitoring their every move through tiny cameras that he had accidentally dropped onto their clothing, not to mention he knew their official rap sheets intimately. This was, after all, an audition - only the best of the worst in the country got to be his henchmen. Did they really think that he wouldn't be keeping tabs on them every step of the way?

Since he had dismissed them, the seven enforcers had split into three teams. Team A was hunting down Harley directly. A real live catwoman and a teen prodigy assassin, they'd have her tracked down quickest if his dear Harley had struck out on her own. Teams B and C consisted of muscle, paid and/or crazy, and were gunning for her closest companions - himself excluded, of course.

However, before he could resume checking out the pilot episode of Green-Skinned Goddesses and the Mercenaries Who Pick Fights with Them (featuring Team B), a shrill buzzing filled his ears. The sort of shrill buzzing that only one device in his possession could give off.

Said device just happened to be connected to the hidden mic on a less-than-scrupulous cop he had managed to acquire from GCPD headquarters, to the tune of $10,000 a month. A small price to pay for keeping on top of old Jim Gordon's movements, in his humble opinion.

Growling, the Joker stepped away from the three monitors and picked up a headset. "This better be good, Rupert."

"It is," the slightly-crackly voice came through from the other end. "I just heard the commish talkin' with the Bat! It sounds like they got some kinda lead on where you are!"

The Joker's eyes narrowed. "And, pray tell, how would they have come across such leads?"

Immediately, the voice on the other end grew more panicked. "It wasn't me, Joker! I swear! They said somethin' about Dent-"

The Joker's jaw tightened. "Harvey, Harvey, Harvey..."

Breathing heavily, the Harlequin of Hate hung his head. His best pal, Two-Face... was a turncoat! Who would have guessed? Was there no one left in the world he could trust?

"Hey, wait a minute..." he growled. "That makes even less sense! How the hell would Harvey know-"

"Look, I didn't get all the details, but you know that Dent's got half 'a Gotham in his pocket! A bum can't move into a refrigerator box without him knowin'-"

The Joker's mood lightened, but only slightly.

"Very well, Rupert. I have to go now, but if I find out-"

"It's the truth! I swear!"

"Funny. The last person to say that to me was screaming it at the top of his lungs while I introduced him to my patented Joker Jelly... well, after a while, it was more along the lines of 'It's the trub-glub-glub..."

He punctuated the anecdote with one of his trademark, shrieking laughs. Rupert, wisely, took that as his cue to hang up.

The Joker, meanwhile, continued to laugh till his vocal cords began to feel sore. As soon as he stopped, a displeased look worked its way back onto his face. So, Fatman was onto him... he could be kicking down the door any second now... any other night, he would have welcomed the vigilante with open arms (and a hail of lead, and perhaps several tons of TNT), but not tonight. No, he was determined to see his little henches-to-be carry out their audition to the bitter end.

So it looked like he would be packing up, and leaving to spend another night at the most secure place in Gotham, law-abiding or otherwise. This location, in fact, probably qualified as both. With the added benefits of blackjack. And hookers.

"But before that..." he chuckled to himself.

For the next half an hour, he went over every inch of the warehouse, removing any and all traces and hints as to where he actually planned on going. In their place, he erected some less-than-subtle red herrings - a circled newspaper article here, an old photograph there. On his desk, he left behind a laptop with a rather incriminating browser history, pointing to no fewer than five of Gotham's less-than-legal "celebrities" as his possible collaborators.

And with that, he packed up his monitoring equipment and tossed it all into the trunk of a battered old convertible he had purchased (under an assumed name, but otherwise legally) just for this purpose. As one last touch, he slathered a layer of flesh-toned makeup over his face - more than enough to disguise himself from most eyes, especially in the dark of night.

With all preparations made, the Joker slid behind the driver's seat, reached into the glove compartment for a small Batman hand puppet, and pressed his foot down.

"It's a hundred and six streets to Ozzie, I've got a full trunk, half a loaded magazine, a third of an idea about what I'm going to do if Batsy catches me before I get there, it's dark, and I'm not wearing sunglasses."

As the engine roared to life, the Joker wiggled the hand with the puppet, who "spoke" with a voice suspiciously like his own:

"Hit it."