A C T I : T H E R O O T O F A L L E V I L
G O T H A M C I T Y
March 17th, 2017 - 5:44 AM | The Garden of Eden
When visiting Gotham Park, one could be forgiven for presuming that the sprawling wood and greenlands were all it had to offer. Venture deeper into its turf, and one might find the curiously tucked-away tourist hotspot of Gotham Zoo. But whilst on the surface the park did indeed boast idyllic scenery and public attractions (as well as an ideal stomping ground for thieves), the most noteworthy point of interest would require visitors to venture deeper still... To dig down, way beneath the grass and dirt, and into strange new territory: a garden, lush and bountiful, hidden deep beneath the city.
It was a curiosity, no doubt, that such a verdant sanctum could exist down in the depths of Gotham, however it seemed to be dutifully cared for, as though some devout and green-fingered agent had spent his every hour maintaining the underground paradise. Indeed, closer inspection would reveal that the plants down there had everything they needed to survive: water flooded into a large pool, presumably from the river above; a natural warmth emanated from every wall, near-sweltering in its clime; strange, organic pods hung from the high ceiling, filled with some foreign ooze that glowed bright with bioluminescence and cast a pallid green hue over the entire habitat. And, of course, the flora did benefit from the tender nurture of one such caretaker. For it was here, in her Garden of Eden, that Poison Ivy made her home.
She sprawled idly over a giant leaf, cushioned pleasantly amongst the green. She was quite the ethereal sight to behold, seeming entirely neither human nor plant, and instead occupying an uneasy middleground: her skin tinged with green, and sprouting botanic vestments styled to fit her decidedly humanoid frame, whilst her hair curled up like prize-winning roses. Her emerald eyes seemed fixed upon something up high, affixed to the roof of the garden; though there was no degree of intensity to her gaze. Rather, her lips seemed to curl ever-so-slightly in cold amusement, as she looked upon the human silhouette that seemed to float within one of the glowing, alien pods. A wave of her hand in its general direction caused it to burst.
The contents of the vessel spilled downwards; a male human form amongst a thick, sap-like liquid emptying themselves onto the padded floor. With a weary groan, the man seemed to stir from whatever amniotic slumber the fluids had enabled. As he brought himself to his feet, Poison Ivy barely moved an inch, her soft gaze continuing to linger upon him as she watched his dawning confusion take hold. He looked around, seeming both alarmed and amazed by the environment he'd awoken to. But his expression switched swiftly as his eyes fell upon the plant-woman. Raw and terror washed over his paling features, as the memories of how he'd found himself here rushed back into his skull. Memories of her.
Poison Ivy chuckled.
"Well, fancy seeing you here," she quipped, moving slowly from her seat to approach the trembling man. His very core urged him to flee; run; find some hideaway or escape route; but his legs found themselves rooted, frozen in part by fear and in part by the mesmerising aura his captor seemed to exude. He somehow found the focus to blurt out a panicked plea.
"Wh-what do you want from me, demon?" he demanded, though not with any sense of imposition. So weak was his tone, that it barely earned more than a wry grin in response from Poison Ivy.
"Oh, come now, Mr. Fairchild," she cooed; her words sweet like nectar but her tone dripping with venom. "We have been very clear in our simple request: stop murdering us!", she spat, rage so clear in her last words that every tree in the garden seemed to shiver at the sound of her voice. Mr. Fairchild was similarly shaken.
"But we -- we haven't murdered anyone!" he yelled, pleading his innocence with a degree of sincerity. Poison Ivy rolled her eyes, seeming to have neither patience nor empathy for the man's situation.
"Oh, you poor, ignorant fool," she snarled, hate in her eyes as she brought herself nose-to-nose with her victim. "The Monteverde, you worm." As she spat the words into the man's face, he seemed to be flooded with realisation; as though some great epiphany had taken hold, and suddenly his predicament made sense. As the wheels of his brain began to piece the information together, and the implications made themselves clear, Mr. Fairchild seemed once again to become gravely concerned.
"That was you?" he asked, in apparent disbelief. "Those crazy letters? The destruction of our HQ in Peru? I-it was all you?" Poison Ivy seemed unmoved by his realisation, as if inconvenienced by the glacial pace he was taking to catch up. "Look," he said, glancing around the garden. "You like plants, I-I get it. Really, I do," he said, doing a poor job of feigning sincerity. "But... Come on! You can't murder trees! You don't have to do this, I-I'll call off the work out there! They'll be out by lunchtime! But you gotta let me go..." he pleaded. "This is madness!"
"Too little, too late," came her cold reply. "Too much blood stains your hands."
"No, please!" he begged. "We didn't kill anyone! No man has died for our work in Monteverde!" Sweat dripped from his forehead, from both the humidity of the room and the fear that ran through his veins and vibrated in his bones; the kind of fear man only feels when they look directly into the eyes of someone who is about to kill them. And Poison Ivy's eyes did not blink.
"Then, I suppose it's time we did something about that," she finally retorted; her voice equal parts smug and icy, before she adopted a warmer tone and seemed to call out into the foliage; like a mother, calling to her child. "Georgia, my dear..."
A gargantuan pink blossom, easily the centrepiece of the room, seemed to shudder at the mention of its name, flowering on command and opening its petals. It would have been a beautiful display; one of awe and wonder, were it not for teeth that lined the inside of the plant's concealed mouth. Rows upon rows of razor-like blades, circling down into a waiting maw of blackness, from which, as it would happen, several tough vines burst forth, grappling Mr. Fairchild by the limbs and dragging the screaming man towards its bottomless pit of a mouth. As the petals once again closed, sealing the businessman inside, his gargled wailing become pained and tortured, before falling silent.
Poison Ivy sauntered over to the great beast of a bud, stroking her hand delicately along one of the behemoths that were its rosy petals. She looked at the giant plant lovingly, addressing it like only a mother could:
"Now, Georgia, what have I told you about chewing your food?"
It was a curiosity, no doubt, that such a verdant sanctum could exist down in the depths of Gotham, however it seemed to be dutifully cared for, as though some devout and green-fingered agent had spent his every hour maintaining the underground paradise. Indeed, closer inspection would reveal that the plants down there had everything they needed to survive: water flooded into a large pool, presumably from the river above; a natural warmth emanated from every wall, near-sweltering in its clime; strange, organic pods hung from the high ceiling, filled with some foreign ooze that glowed bright with bioluminescence and cast a pallid green hue over the entire habitat. And, of course, the flora did benefit from the tender nurture of one such caretaker. For it was here, in her Garden of Eden, that Poison Ivy made her home.
She sprawled idly over a giant leaf, cushioned pleasantly amongst the green. She was quite the ethereal sight to behold, seeming entirely neither human nor plant, and instead occupying an uneasy middleground: her skin tinged with green, and sprouting botanic vestments styled to fit her decidedly humanoid frame, whilst her hair curled up like prize-winning roses. Her emerald eyes seemed fixed upon something up high, affixed to the roof of the garden; though there was no degree of intensity to her gaze. Rather, her lips seemed to curl ever-so-slightly in cold amusement, as she looked upon the human silhouette that seemed to float within one of the glowing, alien pods. A wave of her hand in its general direction caused it to burst.
The contents of the vessel spilled downwards; a male human form amongst a thick, sap-like liquid emptying themselves onto the padded floor. With a weary groan, the man seemed to stir from whatever amniotic slumber the fluids had enabled. As he brought himself to his feet, Poison Ivy barely moved an inch, her soft gaze continuing to linger upon him as she watched his dawning confusion take hold. He looked around, seeming both alarmed and amazed by the environment he'd awoken to. But his expression switched swiftly as his eyes fell upon the plant-woman. Raw and terror washed over his paling features, as the memories of how he'd found himself here rushed back into his skull. Memories of her.
Poison Ivy chuckled.
"Well, fancy seeing you here," she quipped, moving slowly from her seat to approach the trembling man. His very core urged him to flee; run; find some hideaway or escape route; but his legs found themselves rooted, frozen in part by fear and in part by the mesmerising aura his captor seemed to exude. He somehow found the focus to blurt out a panicked plea.
"Wh-what do you want from me, demon?" he demanded, though not with any sense of imposition. So weak was his tone, that it barely earned more than a wry grin in response from Poison Ivy.
"Oh, come now, Mr. Fairchild," she cooed; her words sweet like nectar but her tone dripping with venom. "We have been very clear in our simple request: stop murdering us!", she spat, rage so clear in her last words that every tree in the garden seemed to shiver at the sound of her voice. Mr. Fairchild was similarly shaken.
"But we -- we haven't murdered anyone!" he yelled, pleading his innocence with a degree of sincerity. Poison Ivy rolled her eyes, seeming to have neither patience nor empathy for the man's situation.
"Oh, you poor, ignorant fool," she snarled, hate in her eyes as she brought herself nose-to-nose with her victim. "The Monteverde, you worm." As she spat the words into the man's face, he seemed to be flooded with realisation; as though some great epiphany had taken hold, and suddenly his predicament made sense. As the wheels of his brain began to piece the information together, and the implications made themselves clear, Mr. Fairchild seemed once again to become gravely concerned.
"That was you?" he asked, in apparent disbelief. "Those crazy letters? The destruction of our HQ in Peru? I-it was all you?" Poison Ivy seemed unmoved by his realisation, as if inconvenienced by the glacial pace he was taking to catch up. "Look," he said, glancing around the garden. "You like plants, I-I get it. Really, I do," he said, doing a poor job of feigning sincerity. "But... Come on! You can't murder trees! You don't have to do this, I-I'll call off the work out there! They'll be out by lunchtime! But you gotta let me go..." he pleaded. "This is madness!"
"Too little, too late," came her cold reply. "Too much blood stains your hands."
"No, please!" he begged. "We didn't kill anyone! No man has died for our work in Monteverde!" Sweat dripped from his forehead, from both the humidity of the room and the fear that ran through his veins and vibrated in his bones; the kind of fear man only feels when they look directly into the eyes of someone who is about to kill them. And Poison Ivy's eyes did not blink.
"Then, I suppose it's time we did something about that," she finally retorted; her voice equal parts smug and icy, before she adopted a warmer tone and seemed to call out into the foliage; like a mother, calling to her child. "Georgia, my dear..."
A gargantuan pink blossom, easily the centrepiece of the room, seemed to shudder at the mention of its name, flowering on command and opening its petals. It would have been a beautiful display; one of awe and wonder, were it not for teeth that lined the inside of the plant's concealed mouth. Rows upon rows of razor-like blades, circling down into a waiting maw of blackness, from which, as it would happen, several tough vines burst forth, grappling Mr. Fairchild by the limbs and dragging the screaming man towards its bottomless pit of a mouth. As the petals once again closed, sealing the businessman inside, his gargled wailing become pained and tortured, before falling silent.
Poison Ivy sauntered over to the great beast of a bud, stroking her hand delicately along one of the behemoths that were its rosy petals. She looked at the giant plant lovingly, addressing it like only a mother could:
"Now, Georgia, what have I told you about chewing your food?"
