In the deepest pocket of Gotham’s forgotten greenhouse district—where the air always smelled like rain that never quite fell—Poison Ivy had built her newest hideout: a living palace stitched together from vines, bark, and the kind of flowers that looked innocent right up until they started hissing.
At the center of it all sat her throne.
Not a chair, really—more like a confident declaration made of polished wood and curling ivy, with carved leaves that spiraled like little smug smiles. The armrests were knotted roots. The back rose like a cathedral window. And the seat? Suspiciously comfortable, as if the forest itself had decided to invest in lumbar support.
Ivy lounged there like she owned not only the room, but also the concept of rooms.
“Okay,” she said, tilting her head, “let’s go over the agenda.”
Across from her stood a nervous henchman in a recycled-fabric jumpsuit that read TEAM PHOTOSYNTHESIS in bright green letters. His name tag said Derek, which was unfortunate, because the plants kept calling him “Mulch Boy” behind his back.
Derek cleared his throat. “Right. Agenda. Um. Item one: the giant carnivorous lilies are eating the delivery guys again.”
Ivy waved a hand. “We’ve talked about this. Put a sign out front.”
“A sign?” Derek blinked.
“Yes,” Ivy said patiently, like she was teaching a kindergartener to stop licking outlets. “Something friendly. Like, ‘Welcome! Please do not approach the man-eating lilies.’”
Derek scribbled. “Okay, yes. Great. Item two: the vines have started… uh… rearranging the furniture.”
The furniture in question was currently being dragged across the floor by a vine the thickness of a forearm, as if the plant were redecorating while watching home improvement shows.
Ivy watched it slide the table exactly two inches to the left. “That vine has taste,” she said.
“And item three,” Derek said, lowering his voice, “the new recruits are… um… confused about the throne rules.”
Ivy’s green eyes narrowed. “Throne rules?”
Derek gestured weakly toward Ivy’s boots.
Oh.
Ivy smiled. It was the kind of smile that made people consider switching careers into something safer, like lion-taming or juggling chainsaws.
“Derek,” she said softly, “are you telling me… people are questioning my throne protocol?”
“I’m not questioning it,” Derek blurted. “I love the protocol. Everyone loves the protocol. The protocol is… very… botanical.”
Ivy leaned forward. The living throne creaked in a way that sounded like an old tree laughing.
“My dear Mulch Boy,” she purred, “the throne protocol is a key part of the brand.”
She lifted one boot, slowly, deliberately, like a villain revealing a dramatic prop—only the prop was laced leather with leaf-shaped buckles.
Derek swallowed.
Ivy set her boot on the throne’s armrest and began unfastening it with the calm confidence of someone who knew the moment had tension.
“You see,” she said, “some villains use smoke. Some use monologues. Some use… unnecessary lasers.”
Derek nodded quickly, as if lasers were personally offensive.
“I use atmosphere,” Ivy continued. “Fear. Drama. Presence.”
The boot slipped off with a soft thump onto the mossy floor.
Derek’s gaze flickered, immediately realizing he had no idea where to put his eyeballs without getting fired.
Ivy flexed her toes once—casual, like she was testing the air—and then rested her bare foot on the throne’s armrest.
“Also,” she added, “it’s comfortable.”
The vine that had been moving furniture froze mid-drag, as if even it wanted to watch.
Ivy reached down and removed the other boot. Then, with a satisfied little sigh, she settled back into her throne and crossed one leg over the other, letting the sole of her raised foot face outward like a warning sign written in flesh and confidence.
She lifted a purple orchid she’d been twirling between her fingers like a villainous microphone.
And right on cue, the hideout’s entrance exploded inward.
Not with fire—because Ivy didn’t do fire—but with a dramatic crash of splintered wood, flying leaves, and offended vines.
A figure burst through, cape flaring, landing in a heroic crouch that screamed, I practiced this in the mirror.
Batman.
He rose slowly, scanning the room with the intensity of someone who could smell crime the way sharks smell blood.
Ivy didn’t move.
She simply angled her foot a touch higher and smiled like she’d been expecting him the whole time.
Batman’s voice was gravel and disapproval. “Pamela.”
“Bruce,” Ivy replied sweetly. “You’re early.”
“I’m on time.”
Ivy tapped her orchid against her palm. “That’s what you call it.”
Batman’s eyes flicked to the throne.
Then to the boots.
Then—very briefly—to the sole of her foot displayed like a confident exclamation point.
His jaw tightened in a way that suggested he’d just walked into a situation he hadn’t prepared for in his tactical briefings.
Behind him, a vine tried to close the door. Batman shoved it away without looking.
Derek whispered to himself, “Oh no. The bat’s here during protocol.”
Ivy’s lips curled. “You broke my door.”
“You’re committing eco-terrorism.”
“I’m committing eco-justice,” Ivy corrected. “And your definition of ‘door’ is really more of a ‘suggestion made of wood.’”
Batman stepped forward. “I’m shutting this down.”
Ivy leaned back deeper into the throne, letting the living leaves curl around her like a dramatic cape made of plants. She held the orchid up between two fingers and spoke with the calm relish of someone about to deliver a line she’d practiced.
“This is where I plant fear…” Her eyes glittered. “…Sole-ly for you.”
There was a beat of silence.
Even the vines seemed impressed.
Batman paused.
Then—because Gotham was Gotham and nothing could ever be normal—he said, flatly, “That pun was unnecessary.”
Ivy’s smile widened. “Oh, it was necessary. It was destiny.”
Derek, who had never been able to resist a pun in his life, made a tiny sound that could only be described as a giggle trying to escape a hostage situation.
Batman’s head snapped toward Derek.
Derek immediately coughed like he’d swallowed a bee. “Allergies.”
Ivy waved a hand. “Don’t mind him. He’s compostable.”
Batman turned back. “Enough. Surrender.”
Ivy sighed, as if Batman had asked her to stop breathing. “Bruce, you’re always so tense.”
A vine slithered out from the throne and offered Ivy a leafy fan like she was a queen in a very aggressive garden.
Ivy fanned herself. “Tell me… do you ever relax?”
Batman’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a spa.”
Ivy nodded gravely. “True. If it were, you’d be forced to remove your boots.”
Batman looked personally offended by the concept.
“Oh,” Ivy added, tone airy, “don’t worry. You’d keep the cape. I’m not a monster.”
Derek whispered, “She might be.”
Ivy snapped her fingers and a vine gently poked Derek in the side like, shh.
Batman took another step forward.
Instantly, the greenhouse floor shifted. Vines rose like living barricades. Flowers bloomed at unnatural speed, petals unfurling like tiny stage curtains.
Batman stopped.
“Cute,” he said.
Ivy nodded. “Thank you. The flowers rehearsed.”
Batman’s gaze swept the room, calculating. “You’re stalling.”
“Am I?” Ivy asked, innocent as a deadly berry. “Or are you… distracted?”
Batman’s eyes flicked—again—toward Ivy’s throne pose.
Ivy’s sole was still framed perfectly, as if the entire hideout’s lighting had been designed by a cinematographer with a flair for villainy. The throne itself seemed to lean into the moment like it was proud of her.
Batman’s mouth became a thin line.
“You’re trying to unsettle me.”
Ivy gasped, truly scandalized. “Bruce. I would never.”
A vine reached down and nudged Ivy’s boots farther away like it was hiding evidence.
Batman pointed at the vine. “Stop that.”
The vine froze, then slowly pretended it was just… a decorative vine. Very normal. Nothing to see here.
Ivy tilted her head. “I’m just sitting.”
Batman stared.
Ivy sweetened her voice. “Comfortably.”
Batman looked at the throne again. “You built a weaponized chair.”
Ivy blinked slowly. “It’s not weaponized. It’s aesthetic.”
The orchid in her hand shimmered. A faint mist curled from its petals—soft, glittery, and very much not OSHA-compliant.
Batman’s eyes narrowed further. “Poison.”
Ivy smiled. “Perfume.”
Batman looked unconvinced.
Ivy lifted her foot slightly, wiggled her toes once with the theatrical confidence of a stage performer, and said, “You know what they say… you can’t fight nature.”
Batman’s voice was stone. “I’ve fought nature. Twice last week.”
“That was weather,” Ivy corrected. “And frankly, the weather won.”
Batman’s cape shifted as he prepared to lunge—
And then the throne spoke.
Not with words.
With a low, creaking groan like an ancient tree clearing its throat.
Batman paused again, because even he had to respect a chair that sounded like it could file taxes and crush your enemies.
Ivy patted the throne affectionately. “He doesn’t like you rushing me.”
Batman’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a chair.”
“It’s a throne,” Ivy corrected. “And it has feelings.”
Derek whispered, “And opinions.”
Ivy shot him a look.
Derek immediately added, “Good opinions.”
Batman exhaled—one of the rare moments where he looked like he might be tired of Gotham itself. “This ends now.”
Ivy sighed dramatically and sat forward, setting both bare feet on the ground with a gentle, deliberate motion—like a queen rising from court to declare someone a traitor.
For one terrifying second, Derek thought she was about to unleash a rainforest of doom.
Instead, Ivy pointed her orchid at Batman like a wand and said, “Fine. If you insist on ruining the vibe…”
Batman tensed—
Ivy snapped her fingers.
A vine whipped up and slapped a fresh sign onto the broken doorway.
It read, in cheerful handwritten script:
PLEASE WIPE YOUR FEET BEFORE ENTERING.
Batman stared at the sign.
Ivy smiled brightly. “House rules.”
Batman’s voice was dangerously flat. “You’re mocking me.”
Ivy shrugged. “I’m educating you.”
Then, with a slow grace that was equal parts regal and ridiculous, she sat back down, reclined into her throne, and lifted one foot to rest on the armrest again—sole facing outward like she was resuming her favorite chapter in a very petty story.
“Now,” she said, eyes gleaming, “where were we?”
Batman stared at her.
The vines stared at Batman.
Derek stared at the sign like it was the only stable concept in his life.
Finally, Batman said, “You’re unbelievable.”
Ivy gave him a satisfied little smile and twirled her orchid again.
“And you,” she replied, “are sole-ly predictable.”
Somewhere in the greenhouse, a flower bloomed out of sheer pettiness.
And Batman—because he was Batman and absolutely no one would ever believe this story if he told it—took one more step forward…
…and very deliberately wiped his boot on the mossy floor before advancing.
Ivy’s grin turned downright delighted.
“Oh,” she purred, settling deeper into her throne, “this is going to be fun.”
No comments:
Post a Comment