Leland Bartholomew was somewhat surprised to see Pamela again.  Twice in two days?  That was certainly a record for her.  But then, it wasn't every day that a friend attempted suicide.

     "Pamela," he said, rising from behind his desk.  "I assume you're here to see Harley again?"

     "Yes," she replied.  "Have you made any progress with her?"

     "Unfortunately, no," Leland admitted.  "She's still unresponsive.  She just looks straight ahead and occasionally moves her lips.  We're hoping that she's trying to communicate with us."

     Interesting.

     There was a look in Pamela's eye and her lips pressed together, as if she disagreed with his diagnosis but was trying not to say it out loud.  Which was certainly possible.  Ivy had made a habit, both as a patient and a visitor, out of disagreeing with doctors. 

     That habit, however, did not include keeping her opinions to herself, and that was what was interesting.  By the second or third time Pamela had visited Harleen at Arkham, Leland had decided to see if he could cure both women.  Pamela had shown a degree of sympathy and caring for other human beings that was startling for her.  It was possible that her visits helped Harleen.  It was equally possible that her visits helped Pamela's mental state as well.  Call it "behavioral modification through thinking about someone other than yourself".

     He was more optimistic about Pamela than Harleen, to be honest.  At least Harleen's cry for help suggested she wasn't lost yet, but Pamela continued to visit her.  More importantly, she had not been forcibly confined to Arkham herself in months.  It had to be a record for her.  It had to mean something that Pamela had gotten better at interacting with Harleen's doctors, keeping her temper in check and playing by asylum regulations.

     And this latest incident might just be the kick in the pants Pamela needed to make the next leap forward.

     Leland smiled.  "I'm sorry, I was thinking about Harleen's progress.  Let me take you to her."

     Pamela didn't say she could find her own way.  She didn't storm off without him.  She just nodded - maybe it was more a jerk than a nod - and allowed him to lead her there.

     Yes, Pamela just might be coming around. 

     Poor, deluded fools.  Harley was "trying to communicate" with them.  Hah!  She was communicating, all right - with the biggest fool of all, the one she'd created inside her own head!

     Ivy sighed.  Of course it was all up to her.  Even if they'd believed her, the doctors would have just botched it up anyway.  Idiots. 

     Whereas Ivy had a plan.  At last, a fucking plan!  She was finished assuming that Harley would get better on her own, because she wouldn't.  She would get worse, and her doctors wouldn't be able to stop it.  She was going to save Harley herself.  And, in a dreadful bit of irony, Ivy was going to do it by greening her. 

     Ivy had decided a long time ago that she was glad she'd never been able to green Harley.  The little clown was her only true friend.  That would have been corrupted by pheromones.

     So naturally, her plan was to get Harley out of Arkham, bring her home, and then keep her in a pheromone-induced state for… well, that part she didn't know.  Oswald had been greened for months.  Surely it hadn't taken THAT long to turn him into her permanent worshipper, but she had no idea of when the turning point had been.

     She'd just have to wing it.  For now Ivy had to worry about getting Harley out of Arkham.  Which was never going to happen, no matter how outwardly respectable she was, if they thought she was a suicide risk.

     But Harley wouldn't get better inside Arkham, and she wouldn't get out until she was better.  It was a total catch-22.  Ivy, however, had a plan for that too.  She'd be an inch away from retching the whole time, but she'd have to hold it down anyway.

     When she was certain they were all alone, Ivy sat on the bed right by Harley's bandaged right wrist.  Then Ivy leaned forward and hit her with a full blast of pheromones for fifteen long seconds.  Her sheets were positively drenched with it by the time Ivy was finished.  "Harley?" she asked gently.  "It's Red.  Come on, I need to talk to you." 

     Whatever Harley's mental state was, she couldn't resist the compulsion from the pheromones to refuse Ivy.  "Heya," she said, sounding just as tired as she had the night before.  "Is it morning?  I think my daily shrink session is in-”

     "Harley," Ivy said, willing herself to stay strong, "I need to speak to the Joker."

     Harley stared at her.  "Huh?  But you never-”

     "Harley," she said a third time, plowing straight ahead, "this is a special occasion.  And I'm sure he'll want to talk to me."  Her eyes hardened.  "To gloat, at least."

     "Red - run along and play now, Harley!"

     Ivy's spine seemed to lock up on her.  The transition had been immediate and flawless.  Almost as if a windshield wiper ran across her face, Harley's simple, sweet face was taken over by a malevolent, sneering presence.  "Joker," Ivy hissed.

     "Pammy," she - he? - replied.  "Didn't feel like sharing with Dr. Bart?"

     "They wouldn't have believed me," Ivy said.  "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

     "Heh-heh, perhaps I did.  But it's for the best, isn't it?  Isn't this something just for the three of us?  I know how close you and Harley are.  It'll be our secret.  Like we're in a club!"

     "If I had a club right now, I'd-”  Ivy tried to compose herself.  This wasn't the real Joker, this was a figment of Harley's imagination, given life by her madness.  But the likeness was so complete, it was too easy for Ivy to slip into the old hostility.

     But then, that was supposed to be the idea, wasn't it?  The Joker knew how much Ivy loathed him.  "He" would be suspicious if she treated him with anything other than disgust.

     There was one thing about this Joker, however, that Ivy suspected was different from the real one.  Privately Ivy could admit that the Joker was extremely intelligent.  She could also admit that however smart Harley was - and that seemed to change depending on how bubbly she was feeling that day - she wasn't as smart as he was.  Harley could duplicate the Joker's personality, but she couldn't duplicate his brilliance.

     The Joker was usually too smart to manipulate.  Ivy had to hope that a Harley-Joker wasn't.

     "Fine," Ivy went on coldly.  "We'll be the Joker-Isn't-Dead-But-Only-We-Know-That club."

     He sniggered.

     "Besides," she added, "I have my own reasons for playing along."

     "Pammy, of course you do!  You never do anything unless there's something in it for you.  Expecting a little quid pro quo?  Perhaps I could put a smile on your sunflowers!"

     Ivy almost choked on that.  Where had that remark come from?  Did Harley believe that deep down?

     "No," she said instead.  "You've already given me what I wanted, Joker."  She smiled cruelly.  "Harley's safety."

     The Joker's eyes narrowed.  "And how do you see it like that?"

     "Because you've gone to great lengths to make people think you're dead.  Even now, nobody has figured it out.  You must have something really big planned.  Something hysterical.  Something that won't be as good unless you're 'resurrected' at just the perfect moment.  Otherwise you wouldn't have gone to the trouble."

     "And won't the look on their faces be a laugh!" the Joker chortled.  "Brucie will be so relieved, too.  He might even throw me a Welcome Back! dinner."

     Nothing about the Joker had ever made sense when he was alive.  But his obsession with Bruce Wayne had always stood out as being especially senseless.  First Selina, then him.  What was it about Wayne that turned all the Rogues into his groupies?  "That's why I'm so happy, Joker," she said.  "Because as long as you want everyone to think you're dead, you'll have to leave Harley right where she is."

     "P-shaw!  I can't break her out, it's true, but Harley's done it herself plenty of times.  Which only goes to show what incompetents they have on staff here!"

     "Maybe, but you've done too good a job faking your death, Joker," Ivy said carefully.  This had to be done just right.  "Since you're dead, you've had Harley go through the grieving process.  But she's laid it on too thick.  You know how you've always said she messes up all of your plans."

     "Hah!" the Joker said.  "Tell me about it!  Why I keep her around is a mystery to me, I tell ya!  Why you keep her around, well… you can understand why everyone thinks you're sleeping with her."

     Ivy clenched a fist behind her back.  Yes, she hadn't been entirely untruthful when she said Harley was accident-prone.  Yes, Harley had made her life more difficult at times.  But Harley was more than just an object of desire for her!

     "As I was saying," she said through gritted teeth, "she's gone overboard with the grieving process.  And you didn't make matters better when you cut her like that.  Now her doctors think she's suicidal!"  Ivy relaxed her jaw.  "Now, if she's a woman with nothing left to live for, why would she break out of Arkham?"

     The Joker opened his mouth, then closed it again.  Then he looked to his right.  "Harley," he sighed.  "Always overacting."

     Her?  The Joker had been the biggest ham of them all!

     "But Mistah J," Harley said, speaking in her own voice again as her face went from cruel to panicky, "you said to act like you were dead!  I wouldn't have nuthin' to live for if you were!"

     Ivy's heart withered.  Nothing to live for?  Without the Joker Harley had nothing?  "What about your bestest pal?" she shrieked mentally.

     "If I wanted them to think you were suicidal, I would have just killed you!  Granted, then you'd be dead, but it'd be really believable!"

     She wondered where exactly Harley believed the Joker was.  Was he invisible?  Hiding behind the walls perhaps?  It didn't matter, though.  As long as Harley needed him to live, she could believe anything.

     "Now I can't break you out without making people suspicious," the Joker went on, "and they'll never let you leave if-”

     Ivy became very still.  Harley wasn't as smart as the Joker, but she HAD to be smart enough for the Joker to figure it out for himself.  And when he did…

     The Joker smiled at Ivy, pleased with himself.  "You know, Pammy, if we Rogues didn't enjoy gloating so much, we'd all have succeeded a long time ago."

     "I don't know what you're talking about," Ivy lied.

     "You were so pleased I'd outsmarted myself that you just had to come and tell me," the Joker said.  "You're about as predictable as a whoopee cushion!  But now that you've brought it to my attention, there's a very easy way around the problem, and I have enough time to do it.  All Harley needs to do is get better."

     "No," Ivy said.  "They'll never believe-”

     "Everybody falls for that sweet-little-girl routine of hers.  If Harley starts 'moving on', her doctors will practically fall over themselves to put her on fast-track rehabilitation!  They'll let her walk right out the door on her own, and when that happens, I can finally set my plan in motion."

     "No," Ivy repeated, standing up and taking a step back.  "I won't let you do this.  I'll stop you!  I'll-”

     "Pammy," the Joker said, shaking his head dolefully, "you could never save her from me before.  What makes you think you'll do any better this time?"

     Instead of saying anything else, Ivy turned on her heel and bolted out the infirmary, acting just like she had the last time she'd talked to "him".  She didn't hear any laughter behind her, but she didn't expect to.  No one could know he was "alive".

     But that was all right.  It was a crazy plan, appealing to Harley's madness, getting her to pretend to be sane so Ivy could get her out of Arkham and cure her for real.  But it might actually work now! 

     Now all she had to do was keep a much closer watch on Harley's progress while keeping the Rydbergii in business long enough until Harley was released.  Selina had promised to help with that, but Ivy had an idea or two that proved just how desperate she was. 

     Still, she began walking out of Arkham at a normal pace than she had the last time she was there..  The "Joker" might not be able to laugh now, but once she got outside, she'd laugh more than enough for the both of them.

     Ivy narrowed her eyes, then looked up and glared at Clayface.

     It didn't faze him, like nothing she'd ever done fazed him since he first started coming there.  "Sorry, I can't help you with this."

     She looked back down.  Then she started counting her fingers.  "Tequila, rum, gin, vodka…"

     "It's not a Long Island Iced Tea until you add something else, Pammy," he said. 

     Ivy sighed, then turned away from him.

     "Are your eyes closed?"

     "Yes," she said through gritted teeth.  Then she reached her right arm out, nearly knocking over a bottle of Kamchatka.  Ivy hesitated, took two steps to her right, grabbed one of the bottles in front of her, and opened her eyes.  "And triple sec," she added.

     "Very good, except that's a bottle of Jim Beam in your hand," Clayface said.

     Ivy looked at it.  "Shit," she muttered.

     "You're getting better, Pammy," he said.  "You want to be a bartender in Gotham, you need to know how to make any drink without cue cards, and you need to know where every brand of liquor is located behind you before you even turn around."

     "I do not wish to be a bartender," she grumbled.  "But cash is still tight, and I can't afford to hire another one.  I was barely able to mail my annual contribution to the ELF."

     He didn't point out that she also had to tend bar as long as her clientele came in to watch her serve.  Then he paid attention to what she'd said.  "The Earth Liberation Front?" Clayface asked dubiously.  "Those yahoos who blow up SUVs and mansions?"

     She nodded as she put back the bourbon and selected a DeKuyper & Son brand of triple sec.  "They think too small and they're too conservative, the poor dears, but at least they mean well."

     "Uh-huh," he said.  She was probably their patron saint. 

     "It's all the fault of that bitch Jenna that I have to learn this," Ivy went on, her mood turning even darker.  "Stupid trumped-up groupie."

     "Well, one could consider it a useful skill even if you don't work as… what did you just say?"

     "What?" Ivy asked.  "It's all Jenna's fault?"

     Life was so much easier when she could blame someone else for everything, he thought.  "The part about her being a groupie."

     "Oh," Ivy said indifferently.  "She used to be a groupie.  A wannabe, actually.  She tried to audition to be my sidekick, if you can believe it."

     One side effect of Clayface's mutation was that certain figurative phrases such as "jaw-dropping" became all too literal for him.  At the moment, he could feel his eyes involuntarily becoming "wide as saucers".  "She used to be a groupie?!"

     "Mm-hm.  Honeysuckle.  Like I'd let a henchwench pick her own name.  Anyway, she was stupid and irritating, and I wasn't interested.  Besides, I was holding the spot open for Harley once she…"

     "Got her head on straight and left the Joker?" Clayface asked rhetorically.

     Ivy nodded but said nothing more.

     Real shame what happened to Harley, he thought, but he didn't say that.  He'd brought Harley up a few minutes after he'd arrived, and Ivy was adamant that she didn't want to talk about it.  So instead, he focused on the issue at hand.  "I don't suppose you've told anybody this?"

     "No," Ivy said.  "I do not enjoy speaking of her."

     He put a hand over his face.

     "What?"

     "Pammy, I'm sure you're aware that groupies and women like 'Honeysuckle' are good for a roll in the hay and not much else."  It occurred to him that he had just implied that Pammy had firsthand knowledge of that fact, but considering the rumors about her and Quinn - hell, there had to be one or two lesbian groupies, didn't there?  "So it never occurred to you that if the Rogues found out one of THEM was running Jenna's, they would be less likely to go there?"

     Ivy blinked.  “Well, um-”

     "A few words to Jervis, and the whole underworld will know she was one of THEM in a day.  Hell, they'll think the club is her way of trying to become part of our little society again!"  Clayface shook his head.  Long-range planning was not typically a Rogue's strong suit. 

     "Hm," Ivy said.  Then she smiled.  "Well, I believe that can be arranged.  Oh yes, that will prune her branches quite nicely."

     He chuckled.  "Until that happens, though, you're stuck behind that bar.  But at this rate, it won't be long before you're ready to handle the difficult part of bartending."

     Ivy's eyes widened slightly.  "More difficult than this?"

     "Well, technically, no, it should be the easier part.  But you're you, so it'll be harder."

     She crossed her arms.  "I don't think I like your tone of voice, Hagen."

     "See, this is what I'm talking about.  Has anyone ever told you that your interpersonal skills stink?"

     "I beg your pardon?" 

     "Jesus Christ, Pam, it's not rocket science for most people besides you.  Whenever you get it into your head that you have something to say and you need a better audience than the shrubbery clinging to your booth, you don't talk to people, you talk AT them.  You always pick the topic of conversation, you hog all the oxygen, and then you let up just long enough to let the other guy agree with you!"    

     "As much as I tolerate you for coming in during closing hours to assist me with the alcohol," she said angrily, "and as much as I need to get better at this as soon as possible, the last thing I need is your insults."

     Clayface sighed.  "I'm just trying to warn you.  You can't pull that shit with your customers.  The theory isn't that tricky.  It's all about the execution with you.  Wait for them to talk, pay attention to what they say, pretend you care, and then tell them what you think they want to hear!  You might want to try that in other social situations too, Pammy."

     She didn't answer him that time.  She just stared at him for a few moments, and then left the bar without another word.  She disappeared up the stairs and into her office.

     He shook his head.  He should have mentioned that too - don't storm out of the bar whenever the customer says something you don't like. 

     Ivy leaned against the office door behind her.  She didn't bother turning on the light.  She just stood there and breathed heavily.  Why had she reacted that way to his last remark?  All right, yes, she didn't appreciate his tone of voice, but it wasn't until -

     Listen, pay attention to what he has to say, Pamela.  If he's shy, ask him what he likes, draw him into a conversation…

     She gasped and put a hand over her mouth.  That was it.

     He'd sounded uncomfortably like her mother.

     Pamela Isley had not thought about her parents in years.  They were dead of course, had been dead for years, and they hadn't been on speaking terms prior to that either.  Bertram and Rose Isley hadn't exactly supported her crusade.

     When had her mother spoken such words to her?  It would have to have been - the prom?

     Ivy grimaced like she'd drank something foul.  She went over to her desk and sat down, leaving the lights off.  She hadn't thought of her parents in years because she hadn't thought of that life in years.  That life was the life of a different girl, and that girl wasn't someone she remembered fondly.  That girl interfered with a public image she'd carefully cultivated over time, not to mention how she saw herself.  Goddesses weren't like that. 

     Pamela's childhood had not been an unpleasant or abusive or impoverished one.  Her parents had loved her in their way, and had raised her in the middle-class lifestyle they had not aspired beyond.  Her mother had a greenhouse in the backyard, and she had taught Pamela to care for plants, to treat them gently, and to cut them off when they tried to grow unchecked.

     But she was embarrassed to admit that Pamela Isley was not the teenager whose lead the other girls followed.  She wasn't the one who had the boys wrapped around her finger.  Those had been other kids, the popular ones.  Pamela wasn't popular growing up.  She would never have been mistaken for a cheerleader.  She was the only girl in the Science Club.

     It was only natural that she had gravitated toward plants more and more as she got older - two hours in the greenhouse after school, four or more Saturdays and Sundays.  They were clearly superior companions to the boys and girls her age.  They responded predictably to the right stimuli, they rewarded your efforts by opening themselves up to you, and they didn't give a shit if you weren't the bubbly blonde with the perky breasts.

     Ivy chuckled mirthlessly.  She wondered if Harley had been a cheerleader.  She bet she had been.  Fuck, she was the Joker's sidekick, it was part of her job description! 

     At any rate, plants were nothing like humans.  She had tried communicating with the kids around her.  But she would talk about the things that mattered to her, and they would look at her without comprehension.  Why didn't they get how incredibly fascinating plants were?  Then she got frustrated, they made offensive remarks, and she stormed off.  So even before that day, Pamela was already learning which was the superior species.

     That day was a day during summer vacation between her sophomore and junior years.  She had been alone in the greenhouse, ministering to the schizanthus pinnatus she'd painstakingly nursed back to health.  As she was about to move on to some rudbeckia hirtas, however, something had arrested her motion.  Pamela had looked down and seen that her fingers had somehow become entangled in the leaves of the butterfly flowers.  She'd gently tried to free her hand for a few seconds before she realized… her hand wasn't stuck in the leaves.  The leaves were clutching her hand.

     Then Pamela had raised her eyes and discovered that every single blossom on the plant was directly facing her, as if they were staring at her.

     And lastly she found that every other flower in the greenhouse was doing the exact same thing.

     Her breath had caught in her throat for a few moments before, feeling almost absurd, she had lightly shaken the leaves holding onto her fingers.  "You're welcome," she'd said quietly.

     She'd talked to her plants for a long time.  This was the first time they had ever - well, if they hadn't exactly talked back, Pamela had felt something like a ripple of satisfaction pass from the schizanthus to her.  Then the flowers let go of her and resumed their original positions.

     Almost anyone else, Pamela had reflected later, would have either shrieked and fled, or stomped the "devil" plants flat.  "Anyone else" probably included her parents too.  But Pamela had experienced something akin to religious ecstasy.  She could communicate with plants - no, she had earned the privilege of having plants communicate back.  Everyone, including her doctors at Arkham, persisted in the belief that Ivy had obtained her powers after that little incident years ago.  They couldn't understand that she'd been born with it. 

     From that point on, she had withdrawn further from the humans who didn't understand her and toward the plants that did.  She gave them her love every day, telling them about everything going on in her life, and they loved her unconditionally in return.  It was only natural that, by her senior year, she had not one "human" friend, but dozens of infinitely more precious "plant" friends.

     By that time, however, her body had undergone other changes as well.  Most importantly, her breasts had grown to the point that even the musclebound jocks would have seen if Pamela had had little interest in fashion trends or cosmetics.  Even as her figure filled out in all the right ways, Pamela had escaped notice in her shapeless sweaters and loose-fitting pants.  While the boys watched cheerleader practice after school, no one paid attention to the hips of a future goddess when she was spending her time working on botanical projects in the chemistry lab in her white coat and goggles.  

     Regardless of that, the fact remained that there were no popular members in science club.  But they were certainly smart enough to realize there was a real, live girl in their midst, and as senior prom rolled around, one of the boys had asked her.  Pamela had been quite surprised; she'd forgotten about the prom, as an irrelevancy that obviously no one would be asking her to.  But she'd said yes, and not just because she was shocked there was anyone left at school who wanted to spend time with her.

     For one thing, the club member in question had been in a car accident over summer vacation.  He'd shown up in the fall with crutches and his jaw wired shut.  Unsurprisingly, his social standing had slipped from "outcast" to "leper".  But Pamela had appreciated his company.  His inability to speak coherently let her talk about things to her heart's content.

     More importantly, her parents had gone from curious to concerned to worried over the course of senior year.  They didn't understand why their beautiful daughter never spent any time with other students.  They didn't know why she was in the greenhouse all the time.  And Pamela certainly couldn't tell them.  She had started getting the intuition that they were going to limit her time with her plants.  The prom date gave her the chance to nip that in the bud.   

     Her mother had been thrilled.  Here was her only daughter, finally going out on a date!  It made her go a little overboard with the planning.  Pamela had submitted to it all - the dresses, the hair, the makeup, the shoes - for the sake of the plants.  That was all it had meant to her until the night of the prom when Pamela had looked in the mirror.  Just because Pamela had never cared about her looks, she still knew what "beautiful" looked like.  That night, "beautiful" looked like her.

     Of course, she'd nearly lost her temper when she realized she'd have to wear a dead flower on her wrist all night, but that had been the only hiccough of the evening.  As soon as her date arrived at the house, his ability to speak had regressed to the day after the car accident.  And once they'd arrived at the high school gymnasium, Pamela became the sunflower, and every boy there the bee.  At first no one had even known who the gorgeous redhead with the incredible body was.  Some even thought her date had hired an escort.  That element of mystery had only enhanced their interest.  She'd basked in the boys' adoration that night, and in the knowledge that all the girls were enviously talking about her.  It wasn't the same as the love she felt come from her plants, but it was similar, powerful somehow.  Pamela was the center of attention that night - and she resolved to chase that feeling in the future.

     Before the adulation, before even the arrival at the house of her nonentity date, though, her mother had taken her aside for some last-minute advice.  "Listen, pay attention to what he has to say, Pamela.  If he's shy, ask him what he likes, draw him into a conversation.  He'll be more likely to be interested in what you like that way," she'd said. 

     Pamela had nodded at the right times, but by the end of the night she had forgotten the advice.  Why bother?  All she had to do that night was lean forward a little and any useless nearby boy would do whatever she wanted.  That lesson had been the really important one, and it had worked for her all throughout college too.  There she had twisted one date after another around her finger.  She wasn't attracted to any of them, and these were the handsome ones, but having an unending series of personal servants had been nice.  And she was definitely attracted to the power. 

     And of course, once she'd acquired her pheromones, the lesson had been doubly correct.

     Hagen, however, seemed immune.  Well, of course, he didn't have hormones, much less a puny third leg to do the thinking for him.  But then everyone seemed immune these days.  Wayne was so sickeningly in love with Selina that he didn’t even know she was trying to green him!  And she just couldn't seem to use her beauty to get what she wanted any more.  It was so frustrating - but then, now that Ivy had taken a good look in the mirror, it was painfully apparent why.  Her looks simply weren't what they used to be. 

     Without her beauty, what did Ivy have left?

     You reap what you sow, Pammy.

     Her insides clenched. 

     You don't talk to people, you talk AT them.

     She didn't want to believe those worthless men had been right.

     Listen, pay attention to what he has to say, Pamela.

     But she could believe that her mother had been right.  That she'd spent her entire adult life doing it the wrong way - and now she was reaping the consequences.

     So she'd just try a little harder at having actual conversations with people.  How difficult could it be?

     To be continued…