Potted Plant [Jeremiah]

[Pamela Isley - Poison Ivy]

"MURDERERS!" Poison Ivy wails at the top of her lungs as she's wheeled into the asylum. They've brought her in tied down to a stretcher, as she's been extremely quick to use even the slightest bit of freedom of movement to attempt to harm anyone nearby no matter how pointless or ineffective that is. Even wearing a straitjacket and tied firmly she struggles against her binds, repeatedly attempting to free herself so that she can go after the orderlies wheeling her in.

And they're having a bit of an odd reaction to this. "Are you sure she's supposed to be here? She seems like such a nice lady..." one of them asks the doctor on duty at this late hour.

"MURDERERS!!!" Poison Ivy screams at him. It's the only thing that she's said for quite some time now. But, then again, she's not exactly in touch with reality at the moment.

Seeing this, the doctor looks at the orderly as if he's gone mad. Then again, he's not standing within range of her pheromones, and the orderly is. They're all lucky that she can't use their chemical influence to her advantage when she's in this state. "Yes," the doctor replies with an authoritative scowl, "Put her in one of the holding cells - Dr. Arkham will want to handle her treatment, and she'll keep in there until he comes in."

With those orders, the orderlies untie the woman from the stretcher and carry her into the holding cell, leaving the straitjacket on, and being very careful as they do so since Poison Ivy attempts to use the opportunity to both kick at them and hit them with her head. Unfortunately, they're professionals, used to violent patients, and she's not that strong. Even if they can't seem to shake the sense that they're doing the wrong thing keeping her here, but knowing that they'll be fired is the stronger influence for now.

Once in the cell, she calms down somewhat, but that proves to only be because she's alone - it's fortunate that the holding cell is padded, as the moment that she sees or hears anyone moving outside of the room she throws herself against the wall as if trying to break through it an attempt to get to them, screaming her new favorite word. Only when she feels completely alone does she sit against the wall and rest, utterly exhausted by her struggling but finding enough energy to repeat the process every time she can sense any hint that there's someone outside of her cell.

And though several hours pass before Dr. Arkham arrives in the morning, she doesn't seem to be getting even the least bit calmer. The only change is that she gets progressively more exhausted as time passes, eventually reaching the point that she seems to drift off between disturbances even though she awakes again immediately at the next one.

[Jeremiah Arkham - Black Mask]

It’s a law in Gotham that nothing, absolutely nothing can proceed in peace for long, and if there’s a man beyond Batman and his entourage of legal and not-so-legal partners who is aware of that rule intimately, it’s Dr. Jeremiah Arkham. Arkham Asylum hadn’t seen an escape in weeks, hadn’t seen the transferral of any new violent patient in longer and construction was finally concluded to repair and upgrade the asylum following the removal of the FBI. For Jeremiah it actually had seemed as if he was in for a least an extended bout of peace, as peaceful as one can expect when they were the head of Arkham Asylum and had more enemies within the range of mentally ill than in the range of Gotham’s sane.

It appeared that number had dropped once again. Arkham swore it had to be the water, something that polluted the drains or the air.

Arkham’s morning had begun as it usually did. He had pulled himself the warmth of his bed and his wife, made coffee, drove to work, picked up his tangible files and then went to the staff lounge to get another mug of coffee. It was while he was sipping this second cup of his liquid breakfast, the sun just now beginning to peek over the side that he found amongst the papers the slips of paper that always made his lips purse and his body tense.

A police report upon which was attached a request for a ninety day psychological evaluation: a new, potential patient. A new potential, dangerous patient by the looks of it. Jeremiah set the coffee mug down and began to leaf through the papers, expression becoming blank as he did so.

Her name was Pamela Isley.

It was an hour and several calls later before he was walking the halls of the building where the newest patient was being held. He appreciated being informed that he had to meet with her when he’d walked in that morning, by which he was less than pleased that no one had told him and he’d had to have discovered it for himself, but he let out a deep breath and moved down the hallway. The red rays of dawn were streaming through the windows now, would be shining through the windows of Ms. Isley’s cell as well and the lighting, stark and fluorescent would have flickered on as well.

He turned a corner and saw the cell door illuminated in the hall. He was going in bare. No one had returned his calls; he hadn’t had time to wait for them. The woman had been imprisoned all night and no one as far as he knew had spoken to her yet. She had been waiting long enough. He could find out what he needed later, for now he could introduce himself and go off what he had, which though little, was better than nothing he supposed.

It would have to be.

[Pamela Isley - Poison Ivy]

The moment that the smallest bit of sunlight reached into the cell, Poison Ivy instinctively moved into it. It only does so much for her while she's in this state, but it does soothe her emotions slightly and give her a little energy. Not much, since she's still lacking in sleep all night, but some and certainly to a better degree than the other lighting.

Though that slight bit of soothing light and warmth hardly changes the way she reacts the the subtle sound of footsteps in the hallway near her cell. Though she'd been dozing, her eyes snap open immediately and she forces herself to her feet - a difficult task with a straitjacket on. But the instant she has her feet underneath her she charges at the wall that the sound seems to be coming from. "MURDERERS!!!" she screams as she slams into it, as if trying to break through it. Fortunately the thick padding on the walls keeps her from either harming it or herself.

She makes no attempt to peer though the small window in the doorway, not caring who it is that's approaching. No, it doesn't matter who - they're all murderers and they all deserve to die. Shifting slightly to follow the sound of the person, she throws herself into the wall again. "MURDERERS!" she yells, her voice just slightly hoarse by this point.

[Jeremiah Arkham - Black Mask]

He’d not even made it the complete way to the cell before there was a commotion. It wasn’t the thumping that caught his attention the most, however. It was her shriek. And not even the content of it, but its intensity—though he could tell this had been a usual occurrence from the slight rasp he caught in her voice. He rushed to the window and peered in. What a sight he saw.

It doesn’t take much time for him to recognize the face. He’d known her as socialite and then had known that she had had a hand in ousting the FBI from Gotham. Yet she looked…wild. That was the word for it. The straitjacket only leant to the picture of her pale complexion and the circles that tinged the bottom of her eyes. He read weariness in every line of her body, but more than that he saw a savageness that contoured her face, thread into her voice. How had he not recognized the name on the file to the face before him now? He can question those later, he reasoned. Now it was about calming her down. He raised his fingers to his face and adjusted his glasses. This was going to get worse before it became better, he knew. She was likely to scream more at him, but it was a point he conceded to as he took a deep breath and let it.

“Ms. Isley, no one here is going to hurt you.” He began calmly, in the tone of voice he often used to reassure his patients. “Please calm down.”

[Pamela Isley - Poison Ivy]

It isn't until she hears a voice that Poison Ivy stops her assault on the wall, immediately turning to the source of it. And indeed exhaustion is written all over her - her skin is not simply pale, but actually has a hue that almost looks gray. Between her yells she's breathing somewhat hard, and she's just a little wobbly on her feet. She's had a very, very long night.

But aside from fatigue, the only other emotion to be seen is not fear, but anger. Intense, burning rage that already consumes her, but seems to instantly double when she sees the source of the voice. "MURDERER!!!" she shrieks directly at him, charging at the door this time and slamming her shoulder into it as hard as she can. Which isn't as hard as she could have hours ago, but hard enough that one would not want to be directly in her path. And when that assault on the door proves futile, she simply tries again. Fortunately it's just as padded as the rest of the room. But there is no sign that she understood either his words or the intent of them - she clearly has the complete opposite intention in regards to him.

Clearly, whatever is driving her now is very strong to be keeping her at this level of intensity for long enough to make her so clearly worn out and with no sign that she'll stop soon.

[Jeremiah Arkham - Black Mask]

There had been times in Jeremiah’s life that he had felt akin to a prey animal: stalked, huntered, scented, and the predators all desired nothing more than his complete slaughter. The look in Pamela’s eyes, spoken of in every line of her weary face remind Jeremiah of what it feels like to be viewed in such a light. He stiffens at the lust in the woman’s eyes, not lust for the physical, but lust for violence and blood. It is immediately clear that she has not comprehended his words. He knows she heard them, the snap of her body tells him she heard noise, like the snap of a twig beneath a deer’s hoof, but she has not understood. His body stands like a tripwire, tight and twanging as his brown eyes are wide in shock at the unfiltered rage that bleeds into Pamela’s.

Then she pounces. Instinct makes him lean back as her body impacts the door and her screech of that one word echoes again shrilly down the hall. Then she does it again. And then again. He had seen her haggard, but as his senses familiarize to the constant sound of her charge, he draws himself back and peers into the cell once again at her.

Her body is shaking under strain, her skin is ghoulish, her breath labored. He looks again at the file in his hands, her banging now a noise he can drown out. Who had brought her here, who had seen her placed in a cell, and what had happened to her? He remembers her name, recalls events she had been connected to. Yet he is still blind as to why she is manic, but he knows that there will be no speaking to her, no conversation, unless he can either break through that veil of madness that has overtaken her—and it is madness, a shield of unhinged rage and turmoil that possesses her. She is unreachable and unless he can find a trigger to pull to snatch her out of it, he’ll have to wait her out.

He does so for thirty minutes, taking to leaning against her cell, listening for what she does, her reactions. Thirty minutes is the equivalent of time it will take for this routine to get old. Watching someone attempt an action only to come up with the same result time and time again, is uninteresting, tedious, numbing, and boring. There’s no challenge in it and as he prepares himself for possible disappointment, he thinks about just what he’ll do if there’s no breakthrough in that span of half an hour.

[Pamela Isley - Poison Ivy]

If the man had gone somewhere she could no longer sense him, even if it hadn't been far, then Poison Ivy might have given herself a chance to rest again. Instead, even though he's now quiet, she can see him still standing there outside of the door and that encourages her to keep trying to attack him in spite of the obvious futility.

And for the first several minutes it might seem that simply standing there will accomplish nothing. But, after some time, the screams become less frequent as she struggles more to catch her breath in between and the pauses between impacts on the door become longer as she has to take a break between assaults. The volume of the impacts on the door also start to decrease - she's at the last of her strength and it's fading from her quickly.

The paperwork indicates that she was brought in by the police, who reported that she'd been tied up and handcuffed inside one of the greenhouses at Wayne Botanical Gardens when they responded to a signal from one of the Bats. And, given her quite obvious mental state (and perhaps to keep the number of times they had to listen to her scream at them to a minimum) they'd naturally brought her directly to the asylum.

The doctor on night duty had been just about as enthusiastic about having her thrust into his hands, and obviously preferred to spend the end of his shift doing things other than trying to figure out how to bring the woman back to her senses. At least he'd taken the time to scrawl a few notes indicating that he'd observed her long enough to conclude that she didn't appear to be injured in any substantial way, and his description of her behavior indicates that the only real difference between now and when she was brought in is that she wasn't as tired.

Only a few minutes before the half hour mark, most of the sounds from the cell would cease entirely as an intended blow to the door instead ends with her slumped against it, and once she's leaning on it she finds that she just doesn't have the strength to push herself back fully to her feet. "...murderer..." she mutters weakly to herself as she does the only other thing she can - lets herself fall to the floor in front of the door.

She pants heavily, her will to fight still keeping her conscious, but her unfocused eyes hint that her mind - such as it is - has at least temporarily retreated elsewhere. But she's not exactly resting comfortably on the padded floor - she's covered in sweat and is getting somewhat cold in spite of the fact that the straitjacket actually does help with that, but she also shows some signs of dehydration for her efforts.

Which would be a hint to anyone who knows about them that the air in the cell is absolutely saturated with her pheromones by now... assuming that the person in question knew about them to begin with. Of course, in her present state of mind they merely cause people to become enamored with her rather than give her any control over them - without her telling them what to do with that feeling, what they do about it is left up to them.

[Jeremiah Arkham - Black Mask]

One would think it’s mind-numbing and abysmally tedious to stand with their back to a door while the woman within attempts to repeatedly smash through it, all while screaming a singular word. When Jeremiah thought of it in that context, certainly it seemed the most non-conducive thing he could do, but there was another side to it. It did not appear anything he’d said was bringing her from the mania she’d arrived in according the doctor on the night shift, and he’d seen the signs of her own energy being low. It was merely a waiting game. Perhaps to hear her knock against the door in tandem with her shrieks, it fed something else in him. The satisfaction that her efforts were futile and yet she tried and tried, and her determination was interesting.

It lasted for over an hour which was impressive and she fought to her last conscious thread. Even more so. Whatever had riled her up, whatever event she’d been subject to at the hand of Batman or his flock of fledglings was of interest if it brought her to this mindless state. Yet he could ask those questions later. He listened as her charges stopped and then the sound of her slipping to the floor reached his ears. He turned and peered into the window. She was still physically conscious, but one look at her told him was now safe to be around. He opened the door careful not to hit her as he slips inside.

And then everything changed.

It wasn’t that was depraved of what his mind was telling him about her: that she was physically exhausted, looked very uncomfortable, and that she had all the tell-tale signs of dehydration. It was that suddenly it seemed this perturbed him greatly, more so than it would if she were merely a patient and she doesn’t seem so harmful. I mean, if he was locked in here like her, he was certain he’d have acted the same way. He came to her side quickly and turned her over. She was even beautiful as weak as she was. He placed a hand to her cheek, concern filling his eyes. “You’re cold, my dear.” He told her in a quiet voice and brought her closer as he took his radio from his pocket.

“This is Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, are there any available orderlies around the holding cells?” While he waited for an answer he smoothed back Ivy’s hair and smiled. “It’ll be alright, I’ll get you somewhere more open, and get you some fluids. You shouldn’t be in this dingy little cell anyway.”

“Dr. Arkham, Joe and I are around, whatcha need?”

“Cell Fourteen, young woman, late twenties…she needs to be moved to a better cell and given some minor medical attention. Poor thing is dehydrated, needs more room.”

There is a pause and then, “We’re on our way.”

It doesn’t take long for them to arrive and the effect is the same. They’re questioning why a beautiful lady like that is stuck in a cell and confined to a straightjacket, but they find a gurney and she’s lifted onto it ready for transport to a cell in the medical bay. Arkham insisted on coming along as they wheeled her out of the room, but the moment they were back into the open air, Arkham, still concerned albeit not as obsessed with her well-being stopped walking. “On second thought, just make sure I’m told what cell she’s moved to and keep me updated on her status please.” He felt suddenly out of sorts, trying to figure out what just happened to him. He knew what’d he felt in that cell and its strength compared to now.

He needed more information before he spoke to her again and she needed to rest and regain some semblance of coherent, logical thought. He shook his head. Arkham just got stranger it seemed. No big surprise there.

[Pamela Isley - Poison Ivy]

Poison Ivy proves to be quite limp to the touch, and aside from a little flickering of her eyelids when she's turned over she doesn't seem to be aware at all of anything outside of herself. Her condition remains unchanged until the orderlies arrive, but though she shows no signs of movement as she's loaded onto the gurney her breathing starts to even out once they leave the cell. But in spite of that slight positive sign, she remains otherwise catatonic as she's wheeled away.

Not too long after her arrival at the medical bay, Dr. Coleman reports that Ms. Isley is responding well to treatment. In fact, shortly after the IV drip with fluids was started, the patient shifted from her unresponsive state and fell into a comfortable sleep. The doctor promises to inform Dr. Arkham the moment that she wakes up. Though as might be expected by how tired the woman was before, it isn't until evening that there is any further word.

"Hello, Dr. Arkham, this is Dr. Coleman. I calling to inform you that Ms. Isley has finally woken up. I went in to check on her a moment ago; she appears to be alert but rather passive. She didn't respond to any of my questions, but she did spit in my face and I suppose that's a positive sign. She's no longer showing symptoms of dehydration, though I am somewhat concerned that the pallor of her skin hasn't improved. I'd like to..."

There's a sudden, long pause before she adds in somewhat of a daze, "Sorry, I was hit by a sudden wave of dizziness. I..." There's another pause, and someone else can be heard asking Dr. Coleman if she's alright. Apparently not, because the woman fails to speak into the phone again. Instead what can be heard from the other end of the line is the suddenly panicked voice of someone else alerting everyone withing earshot that they need help with Dr. Coleman. One of the people thus summoned hangs up the phone.

Dr. Coleman is still alive when Dr. Arkham gets there, but though she has plenty of her colleagues on hand trying to treat her she's fading quickly from multiple organ failures. It will be some minutes yet before the woman actually dies, and several more before those trying to prevent it will admit defeat, but there is one person in the medical bay who already knows that death is the inevitable outcome.

And she's laying quite quietly on her hospital bed. Partly because she's currently tied there with restraints - unlike the orderlies who brought her in, Dr. Coleman had been quite sure that they were necessary. You never know what state of mind a psychotic patient will be in when they wake up, after all. But though she has no choice but to remain in bed, she has apparently chosen to do so quietly rather than yelling or fighting against her restraints. Instead she's simply staring off into space somewhere above the ceiling, her expression largely blank aside from some hints of deep thought. And she's quite content to remain that way until someone has the audacity to try to interact with her.

[Jeremiah Arkham - Black Mask]

Dr. Arkham is panting by the time he’s entering the Medical Facility. It’s not necessarily because he was rushing up there as soon as the line went dead, but a combination of that, anger, and pure panic. It doesn’t matter at the moment that Jeremiah’s now has what can he gathered of her entire history up until she disappeared off the social grid after the FBI was ousted from Gotham, nor that along with at least having started thumbing the various and vague police reports, that the hospital has finally gotten back to him. He should be expecting a call within the next twenty-fours from her attention physician, because her records have disappeared—they disappeared long ago after some incident—but he knows two things.

Two things the FBI has had no hand in helping with as they have yet to send him anything other than that they will “at the earliest convenience supply the documents gathered information on Ms. Pamela Lillian Isley.”

Jeremiah knows that in some way, the former botanist is responsible for Dr. Coleman’s sudden decline in health. He also knows that his mental state and those of his guards were altered when they stepped inside her holding cell earlier that morning. She’s also responsible for that. He doesn’t know how she did it, but he knows she did and that’s the mindset he enters the Medical Bay in.

When he enters, to call the scene havoc would be an understatement. Patients are distressed by the commotion. They’re yelling and screaming. Dr. Coleman has been moved to an uninhabited bed, but he hears the tell-tale signs of her vitals, flat-lining. He doesn’t care that in this chaos, he’s not noticed. He just continues forward and catches Melina’s arm as she rushes past. She stops immediately. He nods to her. “If,” he has to give the slight hope, “if you can’t bring her back, I want her blood tested. Few things infect a person only to have them deteriorate so quickly without others soon showing the same symptoms. Keep an eye out for that.” He swallows. “Be safe.”

He releases her and with a glance to the doctors trying to revive Coleman he makes the decision not to add to the disruption over there. He instead picks his way to the doorway where Pamela is confined to her bed. His eyes meet hers.

“Awake, Ms. Isley? I see you’re in better form than before, but I’ll cut the chit-chat, how’d you do that?” He points over his shoulder. “And why?”

[Pamela Isley - Poison Ivy]

Fortunately for the rest of the medical staff, it would take direct skin contact with the lingering traces of Poison Ivy's saliva still on Dr. Coleman's skin for the poison to inflict anyone else. And even then the dose would only be enough to make someone feel somewhat ill and certainly not die; Poison Ivy herself was unsure if she'd managed to give the doctor a high enough dose until she heard the commotion that started within the half an hour window between exposure to a lethal amount and first symptoms. Had it been longer then that would have meant that the doctor would have likely lived - not the outcome that she was hoping for.

So she is quite content as she listens to the doctors, patients, machines, and other indications of chaos and failing life. She can't say that she's actually happy about it - she takes no pleasure in taking a life unless it's deeply personal - but there's a certain amount of satisfaction to be had when things go her way. Especially when she's otherwise had a thoroughly rotten day and it's taking her mind off of all the horrible other things that she doesn't want to have to think about right now - they can throw her in a medical ward and tie her down, but they can't stop her from having power over life and death.

But her thoughts are interrupted when a man appears in the doorway. She ignores him until he speaks to her, but for a moment her only response is to turn her eyes toward him and regard him thoughtfully. But finally she speaks, her voice quiet and calm - quite in contrast with the noises going on outside of her room. "I am Poison Ivy," she corrects immediately, though the hint of irritation in her tone is very slight and is traded for near amusement as she adds, "And I'm not going to answer 'how' - that would be telling." But no, she's not going to deny it was her. There'd be no point of that anyway - she has enough murders attributed to her by this point that adding one more hardly matters. Revealing how she did it, on the other hand, would make it easy for them to make it more difficult for her to do that in the future should she wish to, and she can't have that.

And a blood sample from Dr. Coleman would only be a small help in indicating what happened to her. If analyzed carefully enough, it would reveal trace amounts of toxins, many of them unknown, though those unknown chemicals must be what caused the death of the woman as the known toxins are slower acting and in sub-lethal amounts. And there wouldn't be enough of the unknown chemicals to do a proper analysis on them from what could be isolated from that blood sample, leaving many questions unanswered.

"But I'll explain why - I didn't like the woman," she adds, her voice now openly irritated, "She seemed to be under the impression that I'm ill and, while I'm certain that my condition is fascinating, I most certainly am not and do not appreciate the curiosity of the medical profession. The only problem I have at the moment is hunger, which is to be expected since I haven't eaten anything for nearly a day now. And is it really necessary for me to be tied up like this?" As if to demonstrate, she pulls against one of the restraints keeping her arm in place.

[Jeremiah Arkham - Black Mask]

The Medical Staff has an unknown illness on their hands. Jeremiah is at least put at ease seeing that they’re wearing gloves and the standard masks. Yet they’re also, Dr. Arkham included even as he faces the culprit himself, on the lookout of any signs of illness amongst themselves. Jeremiah knew that the woman had done something, could divine that the illness was spread by skin contact, but beyond that he unaware if the dose could kill again. He’s not afraid to admit that he knows little about this, not pleased either, but unless she chooses to tell him—and the look on her face when he walks in couple with the blantant fact she ignores him until spoken to tell him how little of a chance there is of that—he’s in the dark.

He doesn’t move from his position in the doorway. She’s killed once and he’s not in the mood to be next. Let her note his caution, at least he has it. At least he’s not underestimating her. He doesn’t know what to expect and he’d rather proceed with care. He knew that many didn’t think him careful, but he is. He just wasn’t one to sit around once he figured out a solution and he wasn’t afraid to try one either. He meets her green-eyed gaze and he notes that while her complexion is not his, it looks healthy, glowing. It’s not the ashen gray he had seen on her before. She also seems to be in possession of her conscious this time around too. Her voice is soft, but she speaks well, and he catches every word. He lets his mouth curl into a smirk before he answers. “Poison Ivy, then, may I call you Ms. Ivy,” he asks and then chuckles, “I suppose it would be telling wouldn’t it? Though I suppose despite that something has been accomplished. My inkling was proven right in that it was you.” He is stating the obvious, but she could have denied it, most innocent people do, her refusal to deny it proves his previous accusation right. Now he just has to figure what she exactly did, and that would mean waiting for the lab work. That’s all he had and when he was disappointed by it, it would just be one more thing he’d have to accept.

“So you killed her simply because she took an interest in your condition?” He asked eyebrow raising and smile falling away into a serious expression. “Your pigmentation is quite fascinating, you’re right, but I hardly think you physically ill. While not a usual color, it certainly looks healthier than the grayish hue your skin held when you were first brought here.” He uncrossed his arms. “Though after spitting at a doctor, I would think being tied up is rather lenient to keep you, though it would hardly deter you from doing it again. I can, however, bring you food after which, I’ll decide whether you’re to be released from your bindings or not.” He explained to her. “What would like, Ms. Ivy?”

[Pamela Isley - Poison Ivy]

The caution of the man is indeed noted. While it would be very convenient to Poison Ivy if he underestimated her, and she would most certainly have taken as much advantage of that as possible, in a way she actually prefers that he doesn't. It may make things ultimately harder, but she takes it as a sign of the respect that she deserves. In fact it prompts her to feel a hair's worth of respect for him in return - not much, but if he's so quick to identify her as someone he needs to be careful about then perhaps he's not a total waste of a person like so many others.

"You may," she replies simply to his question about her name. 'Ms. Ivy' is plenty respectful, after all, and doesn't presume to imply that she's the same person she once was. She may have continued with the name for a few years after her... transformation, but after that point Pamela Isley was merely a persona - a helpful tool that was discarded when it outlived its usefulness. She gives a wry smile as the doctor expresses his suspicions - it doesn't take a genius to guess that the woman was killed by the toxin expert she was caring for not long before her sudden, rapid, and total decline. Naturally, she has nothing to say on that subject.

His comments on her motivations for this most recent murder, on the other hand, is a completely different matter. "I'm sure that, having not experienced it yourself, you cannot appreciate what it's like to be studied," she says, severe annoyance still clouding her tone, "It's extraordinarily unpleasant, especially when the idiots doing it will never understand what they're looking at. I have no intention of being in that position again." And the particular sharpness with which she says that last sentence is full of more than enough venom to indicate that she would quite happily kill anyone who even considered doing such a thing. Even though she's lucid now, she still possesses the same capacity for very intense emotion - it's just that it's now being directed by a rather intelligent mind instead of being allowed to run wild.

It would be inaccurate to say that her emotions are all that under control, however. She may be mostly back to her senses, but her feelings are rather raw at the moment and it's uncertain whether she can't hold them back or if she simply doesn't want to. But while her mental state is profoundly questionable, it's true that her physical state is much better. If she was truly healthy her skin would turn a rather remarkable shade of green, but she herself doesn't know that since she's yet to pay careful enough attention to her own health for that result. But though she's still very pale it's a shade very similar to what a normal person with very fair skin might be if they were just a little anemic - still a bit odd looking, but a definite improvement on the near-gray that was more obviously unhealthy.

But she wasn't lying when she said that she's hungry, and the thought of a meal is very quick to stick in her mind. "I cannot imagine how you expect me to be able to eat with my arms this restrained, unless of course you intend to spoon feed me," she says somewhat sarcastically, expecting him to concede that point if only because it would be rather easy for her to spit on anyone who attempted to do any such thing. Her expression becomes rather neutral as she adds, "But as long as you keep the so-called 'medical professionals' away from me, you have no need to fear me. And I'm a vegan who is hungry enough to eat almost anything." In fact, a large part of her doesn't really feel much like eating - the request for food is prompted by the fact that she feels somewhat less like ignoring her pangs of hunger.

[Jeremiah Arkham - Black Mask]

The fact is that Jeremiah does respect Ivy. He is aware of the risks; that she is dangerous, and that giving her the caution due to that person is better than believing in whatever arrogance tells him otherwise. He knows it’s false. The woman who is now being declared dead behind him is all the prove he needs and he’d be a fool not to take that proof. Jeremiah does in fact respect a great many of his patients, even if a certain few of them disbelieved that. He understands what many are capable of and takes precautions to let them know that he is aware. Most of the time, however, he is viewed to be cruel. He’ll take that because in that way, is he not admitting to them that they are a threat?

So he intends to be at the least, civil with Poison Ivy and despite her fervent disagreement with him he remains that way, though his own expression darkens, “Oh, don’t mistake me for the common drabble, Ms. Ivy, I have in fact known that annoyance. I can assure you it wasn’t by the likes of these ‘idiots’ as you call them, though. Yet I know what it’s like to studied rather intimately and not because I was simply found interesting, no my spectator would enjoy nothing more than finding out what makes me tick only to rip it from me.” His tone is bitter, but obviously not directed at her and after he is finished with that diatribe it takes only a few sensitive seconds before his body relaxes and his mouth eases from the grimace it had been holding. He seems to return to himself.

“That being said, I do actually understand the irritation and will do my best to make sure that people are aware you are not be gawked at or studied unless you so choose to allow it. While your condition is interesting, as I’ve stated, I quite understand the risks one would need to take if they wanted a closer inspection, and I’ve not got death wish with you. I don’t understand what I’m looking at, but I respect your privacy. Patient are not, you have now regained coherency and as such that means the power to refuse medication or the like.” He decides to tell her the last part, because he’s more than aware that despite being cognitive now instead of the manic, mindless shell he’d encountered earlier, she is much more dangerous now. She realizes what she is capable of and can plan and plot. Intense emotions were more dangerous when one could control them, because then they had the ability to think through them. So now she’s more of a threat and he isn’t expecting no matter her seemingly better mental state that she still isn’t rather “affected” by whatever state she’d been in before. Yet as long as she remains conversational and conceding, so will he. Jeremiah nods to her argument against her continued restraint. “It was a bluff. I don’t need you fatally infecting anyone else. What will happen, however, is for the safety of my staff.”

He does agree that the point that she won’t be able to eat like that and he’s quite aware she’d repeat the poisoning process again and as interesting as it would be, as much as it would offer another specimen to test, he’s not in the mood for anymore paperwork for the agency of insurance and workplace accidents today. Or press coverage. They were annoying buzzards.

“You won’t be spoon fed, and I’ll keep the others away if you’ll allow me the pleasure of your company. You’re a vegan? Haven’t had one of those, but…if you give just a moment, I’ll make you something to eat. I hardly believe the chefs are aware of how to prepare a vegan plate, but I do." He was quite a connoisseur of food; cooking was his hobby, his stress relief from the asylum, and having been unmarried for almost forty years before he’d met his wife, he’d learned to cook because it was healthier than living off fast food. He entered the room fully and looked at her binds from his standing point. “Do I have your permission to approach and remove your binds? I’ll take your word that you mean me no harm. I’ll keep the doctor’s away from you. I’ll even introduce myself, Ms. Ivy. I’m Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, though with who you were before now, I think you may know who I am well enough.”

[Pamela Isley - Poison Ivy]

As the man attempts to explain that he actually does understand her feelings, Poison Ivy scoffs quietly. Some might be curious enough to ask him exactly who he was talking about, but she just doesn't care. Instead she simply mutters, "You make it sound as if you think that's worse - I wish the interest was personal. It's better than being a curiosity that nobody actually gives a damn about." Not to mention the fact that what he's describing sounds like it's coming from only one direction. And that's easily solved by killing whomever your stalker is. She, on the other hand, would have to kill an extremely large number of people to be rid of the ones that want a piece of her. Not that she's opposed to that idea, aside from how annoying it would be and how much time it would take. At least the world has one less nosy doctor in it now.

But though she doesn't believe that he's actually capable of truly empathizing with that particular complaint, at least what he's saying indicates that he'll prevent any repeats. Though she's certain that it's more because he's concerned that she'll kill someone again and not because he actually cares about her feelings or anything like that. She doesn't respond directly to his promises of privacy, though the way she relaxes somewhat and her temper seems to settle will be probably taken as an indication that she's satisfied by his words.

It isn't until he admits that she'll have to be untied before she can eat that a somewhat pleased smile reaches her face. Here she is, caught in this terrible place, tied down, and yet still in control. Or at least somewhat in control - she's already certain that it wouldn't take that much effort on her part to manipulate her way out of here, but given what happened the night before perhaps arranging her immediate release is a bit premature. She's lucky that her fight with Nightwing had occurred in a situation that didn't give him any clues or reason to try and find her hideout - that would have been worse. But not being one to trust luck to help her, she knows she needs to find a way to have even more control - enough control that she doesn't end up here...

Pulling her thoughts away from that, she realizes she's being politely asked for permission to approach. Well, just because she doesn't have enough control doesn't mean that she doesn't enjoy what she has. Her hands turn palm upwards as if showing him that she's unarmed (not that it's actually possible to really disarm her) as she says, "Yes, I've heard the others talk about you, Dr. Arkham. And by all means, relieve me of these - I hardly have a reason to harm whomever shows me that kindness." Not that she's ever needed much of a reason to kill anyone...