Who: Crane & Ivy What: The good doctor offers up some medicine. Where: Arkham When: Before the anti-fear plot. Warnings/Rating: None
It was the calmest that most people had ever seen Arkham asylum. The patients were quiet, the doctors were performing treatments and therapy sessions that were actually proving to be some good to those on the receiving end, and over it all sat Jonathan Crane, watching, supervising, and directing. Whispers were abound about what the good doctor was up to, because Crane’s reputation for cruelty was not something only a few people knew about. But everyone could change, right? So who was to say whether the man who used to be known as Scarecrow couldn’t change?
It was evident that he had called ahead about his visitor, for the guards at the front entrance knew she was coming, knew to escort her immediately to his office, that she was not to be left waiting. The way there was swift, and several locked gates barred the way to his office, security on several levels from unwanted guests. The trio of guards left her in front of an innocuous door, a brass nameplate to the side of the door reading Dr. J. Crane, PhD, bright and shiny from a recent polish.
She'd been here before, although the rarity in which she was on this side of the authoritative paperwork was quite substantial. The one thing that Ivy could appreciate about this current incarnation of Gotham was that its judicial system was ill-prepared to deal with the likes of her. There were no cells constructed that could hold her, no guards that could stall her. Perhaps the Bat would one day be of a sound enough mind to develop something as he had done in her past, but why? Ivy was a good little girl. Relatively - and certainly philosophically - speaking. What made her roll her green eyes was the way that everyone in the once halfway-illustrious rouge gallery as turning over a new leaf and playing at the game of civility. Didn't they understand that to do so only negated the purpose in which they'd once operated?
Ivy could see the crucial aspects of some change, though. Her clothing had certainly upgraded since the bronze days of old. Green didn't necessarily have to be a trademark, even if she did rather favor it. Her suit jacket was black, just like her slacks, her heels, and the frames of her glasses. Tulip red hair was fashioned into a twist, and a the rich evergreen of a flimsy scarf was cinched tight as a bowed garter around the pale swan-stretch of her throat. She was the paragon of professionalism, with a bemused stare beyond spectacles and her seamed stockings taking a suicide plunge into the shiny black of pinprick heels.
Once before his office door, she knocked. The action was discreet, even as the asylum guards abandoned her.
The knock to the door didn't cause him to lift his head, because he was waiting, so he continued working, files spread out over his desk, the perfect image of a good doctor at work. "Come in, Ivy," he called out, assuming it was her presence on the other side of the door. If he noticed or cared about the professionalism of her dress, it didn't show in his eyes, continuing to work until the door had closed behind her and she was seated in the oak chair across from him. Only then did he close the file, set his pen to the side, and look up towards her. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Ivy," he said in polite, professional tones. "I do hope you were treated well by the staff as they escorted you here. I must apologise for the security. I've had to take certain measures to ensure the continued safety of myself and those that I treat. It seems that some do not trust my promise of change within these walls." Some meant Batman, though he didn't really blame the masked man. Years of acting one way, it was hard to believe that a new leaf had been turned over.
"Spare me the Angel of Mercy routine, Jonathan." Crossing her legs, Ivy reclined back against the comfort of the chair with a satisfied drop of dark lashes while she eyed him from across the desk. "People like us? We don't change, Crane. Minorly, perhaps. There is a gentle curve of adjustment over time, and our alliances might waver, but the alignment never truly slips." She started to examine her nails under the office lighting. "So we've all stopped vying for the Bat's attention like needy children? I'd be proud of us if the alternative wasn't so disgustingly mediocre. You practicing genuine medicine like any ol' pharmacist at the local Walgreens, the Cat babysitting bats, and the Riddler.." Which she didn't even want to infringe upon with conversation because it felt like the strangest betrayal. Rogue gallery revamps weren't Pamela's thing.
She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment with reflection. Lime-tint fingers moved to unbutton the front of her secretarial jacket, exposing the old school green bodice of a vintage, criminal bustier underneath. Just a glimpse, though. A sliver of life through all that shadow. She'd been feeling a little nostalgic lately.. although not quite enough to put on the boots. "I swear the Joker is the only one that makes sense anymore.."
The crow was a man, like any other, and there was an appreciative glint in his eyes as Ivy settled down into the chair, curves and poison wrapped up in one. "I'm simply trying for a little subtlety this time around," he responded moments later, leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled together. Crane was dressed as always, the suit a bit battered, too short for his long limbs. Brown hair was a mess of waves that he kept tucked back away from his face, altogether too awkward and gangly to appear as anything but. "Pretend to be good, and the Bat keeps his eye on me quite closely. He'll start missing the other things that are going on around him, and by the time he does take notice, it's entirely too late for anything to be done. Hence, my current plan."
Reaching into the drawer to his right, Crane pulled out two syringes filled with a clear fluid, and these were pressed across the table towards Ivy. "As promised."
"So you are still wicked," she murmured with a proud twist to her beestung smile. Now that she was inside Arkham's walls, and more importantly behind the quiet solitude of Crane's office door, she could relax on maintaining the delicate appearance of a human scientist. Although that had once been her calling, it couldn't have been further from the truth now. Now, Ivy found that the more mundane elements of humanity irritated her on a physical level. Like a parasitic rash, the little things were unbearable. Clothes, conversation, caring. She tugged the spectacles from the bridge of her nose and withdrew the clip from her aestival hair. Rose petals spun with honey, and she combed her fingers through before reaching forward to inspect the pair of syringes. "Does this function as strictly a vaccine, or an antidote as well?"
The part of Jonathan Crane that was distinctly male could appreciate the vision that Ivy offered. Curves in all the right places, a wickedness that was alluring and frightening in the same breath, and the way she commanded control of herself in an act as simple as pulling the clip from her hair. He took only a moment to admire, a moment to appreciate the vision, and then he was back to being himself, Doctor Crane, master of fear, even if that had been abandoned on his current project. "This functions as a vaccine only," he explained, "though I've an antitoxin as well. I'm not as willing to part with that, sadly, so I do hope that the vaccine will serve you well enough. A simple injection, which I'm sure you can manage without help, though I'd be willing to offer it if you needed." Thin lips pursed in something that might have passed for a smile, and then he was leaning back, fingers laced in front of him in a thoughtful expression.
She tilted the needles up to to the light, where the office's fluorescence made the liquid inside seem to sparkle. Ivy thoughtfully tucked the doses into the front pocket of her jacket. Sea-toned eyes observed the bad doctor on the other side of his comfy desk. She smiled, but the humor was desert dry. "Stay where you're at, Crane. I have a certain distaste for men sticking me with toxins and drugs." Talk about bad memories.
Standing once more, she turned to go for the door without another word, but then she paused before quite reaching it. She didn't turn, and she didn't glance back in his direction. Rather, she turned her head just enough to see him where he sat. The king once more on his throne. "What are you hoping to accomplish with this? Or is it just chaos?" Chaos was usually the clown's schtick, but it was a motivator for other elements of the rogue gallery every now and then. Not chaos for chaos' sake, but as a functioning curtain of distraction for the rest of the world as one worked their real trick behind the scenes. If the doctor was up to something bigger, she wanted to know.
"I'd be a stupid man to stick you with anything at this point," Crane commented, lifting a brow at her. "We may not always see eye to eye, Ivy, but I have a healthy respect for what you're capable of, and my desire to stay alive far outweighs wanting to test your patience with me." The corner of his mouth lifted in a small smile as the woman stood, tilting his head to the side as he watched her go. "Accomplish?" he echoed, eyes widening in surprise. "Who said I wanted to accomplish anything? Perhaps I simply want to see the city burn." Whatever plans he had in the future were certainly not going to be divulged here and now. Even the crow had to have a few secrets to hold tight to. "But I can promise you, darling, that I'll give you a heads up before I do anything. I'd hate to be on the receiving end of your ire."
She rolled her eyes at the notion of watching the city burn. While she was fine with the prospect - perhaps literally so - she very much doubted that he bought into that ideal. Although with so much of the population writhing in their insanity, it would give him more patients with wings to pluck and pin. Not that she believed he would share all of the details with her. It went against their nature to divulge all of their dastardly plans; the rogue gallery was all full of back-stabbing sycophants. Hell, Clayface was the only one she could really count to stick by his guns, and even that was only because she had the disaster of a once-upon-a-time gangster half-hypnotized. "Mm," she murmured with consideration while the scientist spectacles were slid back into place on the bridge of her fair nose.
"I think you'd like it just fine." Her smile was plotting when she gave him a waggling of two thaumaturgic fingers in the form of a farewell salute. Vanishing out his office door, she slid with feral grace onto the arm of her guarded escort.