Into the Fire [Tiff]

[Pamela Isley - Poison Ivy]

Perhaps surprisingly, it's possible for Pamela to be patient. She doesn't exercise that skill very often, but she has it. And it's serving her very well at the moment. She didn't notice when she first entered the room that there wasn't a clock in it, nor did she pay attention to the fact that she isn't wearing a watch. But she's keenly aware of it now - has it really been as long as she thinks it's been or is her drab surrounding messing with her perception of time? It's hard to be certain.

She's also keenly aware that they keep this room a bit too cold. Especially given that she's still wearing the same skimpy dress that she was wearing when she was kidnapped days ago. She tries to ignore the fact that she needs a shower. On the other hand, the reflection on what's obviously one-way glass indicates that, given the circumstances, she still looks amazing.

But she doesn't feel very amazing - who would in this circumstance? They didn't even ask if she wanted anything to eat. And there isn't so much as a glass of water in this room. Only the cold metal chair she's sitting in, a long table, and another empty chair on the other side. So much for that Agent Tiff promising to make it quick. Then again, she hasn't solved the problem of what happens when someone under the influence of her pheromones wanders back out of their range yet, so promises made underneath their influence mean nothing if they change their minds.

She idly wonders how this room is affecting her pheromones - a closed in space like this would tend to concentrate them, but given the probably intentional draft and the size of the room it wouldn't be that powerful. Which might be just as well, since she's certain that they'll be recording this and it would be suspicious if anyone didn't act like themselves. In fact, she's sure that they're recording her now, not that there's anything suspicious about the way she's idly staring at the walls.

The room's only door is given a glance as she wonders what the apparent hold-up is. She's very eager to answer their easily handled questions so that she can get home and take a long nap in the sun. Yes, that sounds very nice! After she does a quick check on the most fragile of her plants. Then she can start calling the most loose-lipped of her acquaintances and inform them that she's alive and well, and they'll pass that along to everyone worth telling.

She hasn't the slightest concern about this little meeting. Well, maybe a fragment of a concern about the fact that they took her purse. But when they open it, they'll only find a very liberal amount of make-up, her credit cards. Nothing at all alarming. At least if they don't touch some of the make-up, but there's no reason for them to do that. But there's no way they'll find the carefully concealed pocket in the lining that provides access to the more questionable items she likes to have with her. No, she fully expects that some unrelated interruption has come up and that they'll be here in a moment, ask their questions, and send her on her way.

[tiff]

The door to the interrogation room opened. From the very first, stiff step that Mathew took into the room, it was easy to see that this mood had shifted drastically from the one the woman had seen when they'd exited the van earlier that evening. His face reflected tension in the way his brow were furrowed, his lips a deep set frown, and the very place his intense glare was directed. He strolled to the table right across from Pamela. He didn't bother to take a seat.

“Ms. Isley, I'm going to be blunt with you. I don't think you'll be leaving here. I'm afraid you may be staying for a while. Don't worry you'll be made quite comfortable.” His voice was devoid of any of the niceties he'd offered her previously. These interrogation rooms were drafty which was very fortunate for him so that her pheromones were not affecting him and he was easily able to press the urge to be kind to her in his displeasure. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Certainly I bet you're wondering why.”

He grinned in furious humor. “Simple. You see I make sure my people are thorough. They were going through your purse and just as I was about to come in here to ask you some questions in which I bet you had already rehearsed answers—most of you women always do—I get a call. Two of my people are dead. And here's the really funny part, they have your cosmetics on their skin. The lab is running tests, but I figured I could let you explain first, while the rest of your purse is now being perused very attentively.”

He gestured with his hand, remaining standing still. “Explain, please, Ms. Isley.”

[Pamela Isley - Poison Ivy]

Pamela looks up as the agent enters the room. "Finally," she mutters to herself, but whatever else she might have said or done is put on hold when she takes in the man's expression. And when he starts to talk, perhaps the most remarkable thing about her reaction is just how little of it there is. Her face remains blank and expressionless as he describes what delayed him, and even for a few moments afterward. Because she's literally having a difficult time figuring out how to react.

For most people, reactions to these sorts of things come naturally, but it's been a long time since an expression has reached her face in public that wasn't fully purposeful and intentional. But what can she do here to get herself out of this? Suddenly images of the large number of armed government officials between herself an the exit come to mind. And without her purse, she has no other weapon other than herself. Which is hardly adequate for the task physically. Which means that the only hope she could possibly have would be in words. But what are the words that will negate what they're now finding in her purse? Do they exist? A problem she's never had to face before.

Her mind carefully grapples with what he said, sorting out what he's indicated that he knows, what he probably also knows, what he will know soon, what he'll know after he's had a longer time to probe, and what he still doesn't know. Surely there must be something else she can use there. And yet, surprisingly, she's drawing an absolute blank. She could attempt to claim some form of ignorance, but what would that do? Surely they won't let her go until they do some checking at the very least, no matter what clever lie she comes up with, and they'll easily discover that the sophisticated concoctions that taints most of her make-up are so skillfully designed that only someone with an education similar to her own could have come up with it. The only one still living in Gotham, in fact. Damn.

Reluctantly, her mind shifts over to 'Plan B', and after that long, empty pause she takes a deep breath and finally says, "It's Doctor Isley - I studied botany and toxicology at Gotham University. I was a very good student." There, she explained. She leans back in her chair, her expression still mostly blank but now grazed by just a hint of intense thought.

[tiff]

He watched her, waiting for any reaction and the fact she didn't really react was a reaction in itself. It meant she was a guarded person. How lovely, he thought reflexively, the connotation not pleased at all. He still overlooked sitting and instead, did the exact opposite. He moved to stand straight again and seemed to think over her words before shaking his head.

“Well, Dr. Isley,” he replied curtly, “that's all well and good, but I'm afraid for me it's doesn't really explain it. Running experiments in a lab and lacing your cosmetics are two different things and as I can see, you're wearing some right now. Want to volunteer a sample, I'm sure it'll clear this right up. We can start with your lips...since it was lipstick and the like that killed my men.” He told her easily, eyes finding hers again.

[Pamela Isley - Poison Ivy]

Still appearing to be wholly unmoved by what he's saying, Pamela neatly crosses her legs and comments, "What's in my cosmetics is of no concern to me if it doesn't cause me any harm. I thought that you simply wanted to look in my purse, or I would have said something." She shakes her head as if disappointed in Agent Tiff for his lack of foresight.

"But if you'd like a sample of what I'm wearing, I won't object," she adds. No, objecting would probably only make things worse in one way or another. Though actually, at the moment she's only wearing mascara and a little lip gloss. Normally she wears more, not that she needs it, but most of what she had been wearing when she'd been kidnapped had worn off by the time she got access to her purse again so all she's wearing is what she's put on since.

But while the mascara is completely normal, just as he guessed what's on her lips isn't. It was the poison in the lip gloss she's wearing now that killed the man who helped her escape, and the fastest acting poison she's got at the moment. A real masterpiece - it will probably take them days, and a very good expert, to analyze the complex molecules properly and be able to give a solid measure of just how deadly it is. Or they can simply let her kiss someone and watch them die in less than a minute.

The faintest of smiles reaches her face as she comments, "I suggest wearing gloves, though." While she isn't necessarily proud of the unintentional deaths of his agents, she does happen to be extremely proud of her poisons. And perhaps there's the silver lining to this situation - if her poison gets analyzed then she'll soon be infamous, and it was annoying having to keep her sheer genius hidden.

[tiff]

His dark brown eyes narrowed on the woman who reeked of sex. It was not the fact that she actually sex, but rather she was the embodiment of such an action. Every mans fantasy wrapped into a woman, who based on her very words, would kill you. It was similar to what he was taught during school in Texas. Sex might tempt you as the devil does so, but if you fall, death and pregnancy is your only future. She proved that very true lesson. To think, she could actually wear such a toxic creation. His men had yet to fully analysis the lipstick, but with their death, it did not take a genius to know it was a type of poison.

He nodded, standing straighter in his suit. She certainly would not be leaving the headquarters unless it was to a segregated cell in Romania. "It might not have a harm to you, but it certainly affects others. I am assuming you knew this before putting on the cosmetics, unless you are admitting to me that you can not attract a guy to your side," he stated coldly, with little edge to his tone. He was controlling his anger. He had dealt with demons before, he could easily handle Leviathan. His personal experience with this demon was while they had master over lust, their vanity was their biggest weakness.

"If the lipstick does result in being toxic we will be force to determine how you made it," he paused as he glanced away from the woman and up to the ceiling. With the Lord, he would be forever safe. "You have quite a lovely garden," he said softly, not looking at the woman.

[Pamela Isley - Poison Ivy]

Though Pamela is extremely aware of just how much trouble she's in right now, you wouldn't know it to look at her. She looks perfectly calm, maybe even mildly bored, as he talks. "To say that is untrue would be an understatement," she replies simply with a nod to his first statement, her expression passive. She's never bothered to count just how many boyfriends she has, though quite a few of them think that they're the only one. The rest probably think that they're one of only a few. Idiots, all of them, though they're all either very free with their money or very well connected and therefore useful to have around. And that's not even counting the number of wealthy men who are still being affected by her perfume. To say that it's an understatement is probably also an understatement.

His second statement prompts a return of her small smile as she comments, "I wish your scientists luck." Hah, they'll need it! Analyzing what it's made of is one thing, but figuring out the process of making it is another. He'd have to find the missing Dr. Woodrue for that, though perhaps one of his other students could take a crack at it - she never did keep tabs on the other three.

But his last comment causes her stomach to sink like a stone: it's not the actual making of the poison that's the tricky part, it's the creation of the plants those chemicals are extracted from. That is certainly something he could more conceivably track down. It would probably take a lot of time, given the sheer number of plants she has and how much lab work it would take to check them. Then again, that's not the only secret they'd uncover in her garden if it was closely looked at. And so many of her plants would be so harmed in the process. She's not sure whether to be full or rage or despair at the idea.

But the part of her that's angry is now firmly pointed at Agent Tiff at the moment. And raging at him will not protect her babies from these monsters. No, there must be a way for her to protect them, and it will help nothing if she lets her anger take control of her. Even if the idea of killing this man is appealing, it would only make things worse. So she's able to bridle her temper, and her voice sounds perfectly natural when her smile strengthens and she says, "Why thank you, I'm very proud of it."

[tiff]

All those tainted with vanity can never let a lie on their persona pass. Her response to his statement was expected, and caused his eyes to whip back to the red head woman. The entire conversation was being recorded. Tiffany was an intelligent man. He knew when handling important socialites or any person within the one percent, he had to handle the person differently. The FBI director would want far more important proof before they would be allowed to contain the person. She was supplying the proof herself. "So you admit, you knew the effects the lipstick would have on others," he confirmed.

What also caught his attention was the rage that had radiated off her over his simple comment on her garden. It appeared he had been correct in that assumption as well. A woman who dedicated her life to studying plants and created a large garden in her back yard, obviously held an unnatural obsession to plants. Obsession was only another sin to add to her already piling amount. He gave the briefest of smirks. "Unfortunately, we will have to go through your garden to help us determine what exactly you have put into the cosmetic. If we cannot find the particular plant that produced such a potent chemical, I am afraid it will be burned. A hazardous plant living in Gotham is a not a risk I will bring upon these people," he stated firmly from his stiff position. "I can avoid this entire process if you merely inform me on how and what you use to make it," he finished.

The woman was dangerous. He understood. There was something unnatural about her. She did possess poisonous blood, only a heathen from the underworld would ever have such a talent. To think she had manage to hide herself within society. It was disgusting. "And if you do decide to be corporative, I would enjoy knowing the location of Harvey Dent as well," he added. He felt many times during his stay that he was merely stopping a river with his bare hands. He would catch one criminal only to need another one. His hands could not stretch far enough to hold them all.

Oswald Cobblepot, Arnold Wesker, and Pamela Isley were in there custody, but they had yet to find the other dirt on this street. He needed more men. He needed more hands.

No, he was giving a supply. He would have to use it correctly. God has his reasons. He must never ask for more then offered.

[Pamela Isley - Poison Ivy]

Pamela says nothing to his statement about her admitting it. It may be blatantly obvious that she knew perfectly well the danger inherent in wearing extremely toxic makeup, but she's not going to come out and say that she did it on purpose. Silence is the only correct answer to that statement.

This time she's able to keep her anger under the surface as he talks about her plants, though it takes a bit of effort. Instead she forces herself to consider his words very carefully so that she can use as much of it as she's able to. "I would be happy to tell you how I make it," she says mildly, as if offering to share a recipe, "It isn't easy to explain, though I suppose I could write it down for you. Though it would be rather difficult for me to explain in words what I use to make it - the proper ingredients are difficult to distinguish from their nearest look-alikes, and there's no set pattern to how I organize things, and I'm not a fan of labeling anything. I'd be happy to show you if you took me there." Yes, perfectly cooperative just as he wants her to be.

The next topic he brings up is a much easier one for her to discuss. "Harvey?" she asks, as if surprised that he's bringing that up, even though she isn't. Her fake expression of calm transitions seamlessly into a very real expression of mild amusement. "I'd be all too happy to tell you where he is. Unfortunately, I haven't the slightest idea. We're not exactly friends - in fact, the last time I saw him we literally almost killed each other," she explains. It's so easy to answer questions where the honest reply is the best one. "Though it my case it was strictly in self defense," she hastens to add, "Unless you want to claim that I provoked him by my mere presence, he attacked me first." She shrugs at that and comments, "Believe me when I say that I'd love to see him behind bars for no other reason than spite. But I just don't know anything."

[tiff]

He nodded at the small window in the door before looking back at the woman. "You will not be leaving here," he stated blankly. She was far too dangerous and had already killed his men with the toxic lip stick. If the demon wish to leave it would be straight to isolation until the devil dragged her back to hell. The innocence in her voice gnawed at her skin. Lucifer was a fallen angel. He was beautiful and tempting, that was why mankind fell to his arms too easily. This woman seemed to represent very much the same thing. She acted innocent and offer beauty and money. It all was an act. An act that Tiffany found utterly disgusting.

"You poisoned him with your blood," he repeated the sinful talent with slight disgust. "How did you manage to procure that ability?" he asked, wondering the contract with the devil she had made. The door opened after he stated the question. A woman came in with blank sheets of paper and a pencil. She placed it on the table. "Write the formula," he ordered as the woman walked back outside. Tiffany kept his eyes on the pencil. He did not enjoy giving anything somewhat sharp to a demon, but he wanted his faculty to determine the antidote to such a horrid creation.

He waited patiently. His hand underneath his jacket to reveal his gun, a mere second away from his hand.

[Pamela Isley - Poison Ivy]

Pamela sighs quietly as she picks up the pencil and starts to write on the provided paper. There's a stereotype for women like her; if a woman is both wealthy and beautiful, they must be unintelligent. But that's not the case for Pamela Isley, who seems to have everything as she writes down her formula. She's never written any of them down before, preferring to keep it all in her head. It made sense: keep everyone from the police to her colleagues from seeing what she's up to. But she sees no reason not to write it now.

It's one of a very large number of poisons she's come up with, though many of them are similar. This is one of the best, the best she's ever come up with for a poison that kills quickly, though she suspects that she'll be able to do better with more practice and experience. It's not just a list of ingredients to be mixed, but an entire process. Sometimes the formula needs to be heated, other times it needs to be left to set, most of it pretty straightforward when it's spelled out except a particular splicing technique necessary near the beginning - that's the tricky part. Dr. Woodrue discovered it and taught his students, so as far as Pamela knows they're the only ones who could make it.

And as she'd stated, the ingredients are practically non-sensical; she knows her plants well enough to tell which is which without having to bother to give them proper names - she's always had a sixth sense for plants. She is able to come up with a way identify each one for the purposes of writing the formula - some of them do have taxonomic names, not that they'd be on any list since they're hybrids she created herself, while others she can only describe as 'the latest of the diffusa series', or the 'lusticanicus/volcanica cross'. Of course the whole thing is utterly brilliant - two and a half pages of brilliant. And it flows quickly and easily from the pencil to the page.

As she writes, she allows the activity to distract her from what she's saying. "Like I said, I studied botany and toxicology at Gotham University. I was one of four students of Dr. Jason Woodrue," she starts, her voice calm and matter-of-fact at first until she gets to the name of her old professor. Though she attempts to say it exactly like the rest, even with her rather formidable level of control over her expressions and tone, she cannot completely hide the fact that she's still literally murderously angry at the man. If he were to step into this room she would not hesitate to strangle the man to death with her bare hands.

But then she takes a breath and continues on as if that didn't happen. "The other three were Philip Sylvian, Linda Ridge, and Alec Holland - though I think I remember hearing that Alec and Linda were engaged or something awhile back," she says as an aside. She never did keep track of them, so she's unaware that the two did, in fact, marry. "I was the top student, and I think that's why he chose me. Jealousy," she adds, "It was about three years ago - I was working late one night with him in the lab at the university on one of his projects when he made... advances..." She trails off a little, suspecting that she doesn't need to say more.

By now she's having to force herself to concentrate very carefully on what she's writing in order to avoid paying too much attention to what she's saying. "That's when he attacked. Dosed me with sedative so I couldn't fight back then whatever the hell he wanted. After I passed out from the toxins, I woke up in the hospital two weeks later and was told that my blood was full of poison that couldn't be removed, but that I was lucky because I nearly died twice while I was out of it, and that Dr. Woodrue..." her voice is once again full of pure hatred for the man "...had managed to evade the authorities. Hasn't been seen since."

She finishes one more line before setting down the pencil and looking back up at Agent Tiff as she states, "That is how I gained that 'ability'." Though her expression now is mostly blank now, there's also a certain coldness to it. She can't tell that story without at least partly reliving it, and its full of so much suppressed anger - not just at Dr. Woodrue, though he's the focus - but also at every other human being who failed to intervene. It reminds her how horrible and worthless people are, and how even stuck in this situation she has to remain in as much control as possible. So much control that nothing of the kind ever happens to her again. And how Agent Tiff is just another terrible man who she really shouldn't have to put up with. If she only had her purse right now...

[tiff]

"He sounds like a despicable man," he states honestly. Men who allowed their lust to get in the way of their values and morals were no better then any other scum. He takes note to her writing. The pages continue with each statement as if the words hardly effect her thoughts of the poison. It only proved to him, how truly dangerous this woman was. He had asked for only one description of one toxin. If she could expand in such detail of one, it meant she had information on others. How many toxins or poisons did she know how to create? She was a perfect example of a preemptive approach. She had yet to attack, but she was on the verge. It only would take one tipping point, and she would probably kill the entire city. He knew the CIA had these same thoughts about Iran, if Iran were to ever become nuclear. You do not have the judicial evidence to invade, but the threat still exist. Thankfully, PROTECT provided the FBI with what they needed.

He did not need evidence. It just had to be a threat. She was certainly a threat. For that reason, she would be held.

"Did he not make advances before that night?" he asked, prying for information. He had been an FBI agent for seven years now. He knew how to ask question to enact emotions. People attached themselves to easily to rage. The sinful emotion allowed them to easily make mistakes. "I find it strange that a man would become so violent on the first rejected advances. I also find it strange, that if these were not the first signs of advances that you did not report him to the authorities." He stood in his position, still towering over the woman.

"Why do you have poison lip stick, Dr. Isley?" he asked again, almost randomly to other questions.

[Pamela Isley - Poison Ivy]

Pamela's knowledge of poisons is effectively limitless thanks to the fact that if a poison to suit her purposes doesn't exist, she could probably invent one. Really, her limitation with poison is a matter of what she can imagine. Which is the same limitation that she has with her plant hybridizations, if she has enough supplies. Except that when it comes to plants she can imagine a lot more - there's only so many uses for poison, after all. And actually, those two talents work hand in hand; her plants help her make poisons and vice versa. It hadn't been until Dr. Woodrue had taught her his techniques that she gained any interest in toxins, though she learned quickly.

His additional questions about Dr. Woodrue do nothing to ease the slight coldness to her expression. "No, he did not," she answers the first quietly, emotionless. But an underlying bit of tension clouds her tone as she responds to his next few statements. "I never said I rejected them," she replies almost sourly, "The man was clearly insane - but also a genius." And as she says that last part a telling thing happens to her voice. The anger is still there, but becomes secondary to another feeling: admiration. It had been the old Pamela he'd approached, the shy girl who knew she was pretty but was timid around men. The one who was amazed by the sheer genius of her professor - no, his advances weren't unwanted. Being attacked and turned into a test subject instead, on the other hand...

Fortunately, she's easily distracted from that line of thought by that last question: one that she initially greets with an expression of confusion. It's as if it takes her a few moments to remember why she does that herself, before she states, "For my own protection - in case I need it. I'm beautiful, rich, single, and live alone in Gotham. A woman needs to be able to protect herself. The very fact that I had to escape by myself from being kidnapped by Nightwing not an hour before you found me should be ample evidence of that." Still not really a good enough reason for going to such lengths when a normal woman would settle for pepper spray, but considering the fact that she herself isn't quite conscious of the real root reason for her lip gloss it's the best she can do.

[tiff]

As a student, she hadn't rejected her professor's advances? He closed his eyes at that statement in frustration. The victims at times were just as much at fault as the criminals. They had to follow the correct moral guidelines. If they didn't, they should not be surprised when the devil picks each one of them off as easy as a person plucks an apple from a tree. The woman allowed her physical need to get in the way of proper conduct. It was immoral. Nonetheless, this Doctor was still in the wrong. He would have to follow up research and locate the Doctor. He could not have a man like that running about the earth. Who knew what other naive creature he would tempt into darkness. It reminded him too much of the snake and Eve. He didn't comment on it further. He merely nodded to her statement.

His eyes reopened, finding the next statement far to dangerous. Protection was understandable, but death was as sinful as the attack. "It is a dangerous city. We are hoping to change that," he commented truthfully to the woman. "But your lipstick kills those who touch it. Death is extreme for protection, Dr. Isely. It could force yourself behind bars even if the action was out of self defense. So again, I must ask, why do you carry lipstick that has the potential to murder others?"

He already knew the woman was dangerous, but he was looking for the motive. He wanted to understand what exactly she was after. She obviously was distrustful of men because of her previous encounter. She had a fascination with plants. Besides for those two aspects, he knew little about her plans or motivations. Had she spoken with others? Did she have conspirators? He needed to determine if she was alone, or plotting a large attack. He also wanted more information on Harvey Dent, a true rogue he needed to lock behind bars.

[Pamela Isley - Poison Ivy]

The confusion shifts into a small frown as she considers the answer to that one. Why does he even care why? Isn't it enough that he's found enough evidence to lock her away forever? Of course, she'll manage to find a way out - she always does. Like the way she escaped from Nightwing and the way she got herself released from that hospital when the doctors wanted to study her. Men are weak - too weak to keep hold of her. Of course, now she's fighting back against the urgency of getting back to her garden before they can hurt her babies.

"I don't see how it can be considered 'extreme' to remove a terrible, worthless human being from this overpopulated planet. It's doing everyone a favor, really," she says, allowing her frustration with this line of questioning to show. Analyzing your own motivations when they're steeped in psychosis and you're unwilling to admit to yourself that you're anything but completely sane is difficult, and she doesn't like doing it. She tugs idly at the hem of her short skirt. Between being kidnapped by Nightwing and now this interview in a cold room she wishes that she'd had the foresight to dress a wee bit more conservatively to that charity auction. Or stayed home for that matter, if she's going to make random wishes.

But if Agent Tiff thinks that her carrying around toxic lip gloss that is lethal on contact is alarming, she'd like to see what he'll make of the sarin if he finds it. She could clear a room with that stuff and wouldn't have to touch anyone - kind of the point of having it, actually. Women who do not wish to ever be controlled again have a tendency to become rather paranoid, after all, and like to be prepared for the worst case scenario. And paranoid people also have a hard time working with anyone, which is why she's strictly alone. Well, except the men who supplied her with some of the more questionable chemicals she worked with - but they don't know her real name and were arrested not that long ago. Might recognize her face, but she's 'Poison Ivy' to them. And of course they didn't ask and she wouldn't tell what she did with those chemicals: always very quiet little plans so that she wouldn't be caught. Looks like that tactic isn't going to work anymore.