Gotham choked under a leaden sky, where clouds, heavy as mafia debts, threatened to smother the city. The streets, drenched in rain and despair, glistened under the sparse streetlights, their light struggling to pierce the curtain of rain. Opposite loomed a half-ruined building—once a proud factory, now a skeleton covered in gargoyle statues. Their stone faces, eroded by time, stared down at passersby as if judging them for not having fled this cursed place. The air reeked of wet asphalt, rust, and something sickly sweet—garbage or someone's faded hope for a better future.
On a rough bench made from weathered planks sat a man in his mid-twenties. A burn scar, crimson and jagged, stretched from his temple to his chin like a map of his personal hell. He wore a tattered coat that might have once been stylish but was now soaked through. A cigarette smoldered between his fingers, a thin wisp of smoke rising to mingle with the mist. He took a drag, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and muttered, staring at the clouds:
"What a disgusting city."
His voice, hoarse with a hint of mockery, sounded as if he were addressing not himself but Gotham itself, expecting an answer. The city, of course, remained silent, but that didn't stop him. He leaned back on the bench, ignoring the creaking planks, and continued his monologue as if rehearsing a stand-up routine for the empty streets.
"You know, Gotham, you're like a bad comedy where all the jokes are your villains. Take Penguin, for instance. Strutting around like a turkey at a banquet with that umbrella and top hat. Deals in weapons but looks like he's about to open a fish market. Or the Riddler. Thinks he's a genius, but really, he's obsessed with dollar-store crosswords. Always leaving his 'brilliant' riddles, as if Batman has nothing better to do than solve his puzzles. And the Joker…" The man fell silent, his gaze darkening as if staring not at the street but into some abyss. "The Joker isn't a clown, as everyone likes to think. He's a mirror that shows people their own rot. He tears apart human nature, makes them writhe in horror at themselves. His chaos isn't for laughs; it's to drag out everything people hide. No one wants to see their true face, so they call him a clown. But his terror is the truth that even the bravest turn away from."
He smirked, took another drag, and the ash from his cigarette fell onto the wet asphalt, dissolving instantly in the rain. He shifted his gaze to the street, where shadows flickered in the distance—passersby or minions of some gang. Gotham's mafia, he thought, is a joke in itself.
"And the mafia?" he continued, as if the city were listening. "Falcone, Maroni, those guys with their thousand-dollar suits and gold chains. Call themselves 'families,' but they fight over turf like street dogs over a bone. They even have a code of honor, can you believe it? A code! In a city where garbage collectors take bribes to leave the trash. They act like kings, but their empires are just warehouses full of contraband and a couple of casinos with marked cards."
He fell silent, watching the rain intensify, turning the street into a mirror reflecting blurred lights. Gotham was a living but diseased organism. Its arteries—the alleyways—were clogged with crime, and its heart—the skyscrapers downtown, where corrupt politicians and the wealthy sat—beat sluggishly, poisoned by corruption. This city didn't just accept its monsters; it bred them, fed them, and set them loose until they tore each other apart. Or until someone decided enough was enough.
The man stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of the bench, tossed the butt into a puddle, and stood up. His coat clung to him, but he seemed not to notice. Rain streamed down his face, washing away the ash from his fingers but not the despair in his eyes. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked down the street, not looking back at the gargoyles that watched him with empty eyes. His footsteps sounded muffled, almost lost in the noise of the rain.
"Something has to change," he said aloud, and this time there was no mockery in his voice. Only weariness and something else—a spark that in Gotham usually flickered out faster than it ignited. "This city… it needs to be saved or put out of its misery."
The street ahead dissolved into the gloom, but the man already knew where he was going. Gotham's rain was left behind the rusted gates of New Eden, but its dampness still clung to his coat as he walked toward the greenhouse. Once called the city's "green future," it had now become the domain of Poison Ivy—a queen who had turned the botanical garden into a jungle where humanity was an unwelcome guest. The glass walls of the greenhouse, cracked under the assault of vines, let in dim light, and inside, shadows flickered: thorns, flowers with toothy maws, leaves sharp as blades. The air was thick, infused with a sweet, poisonous scent that immediately triggered a mental alert:
Airborne toxins: pheromones, mild sedative effect. Concentration: non-lethal—10%. Recommended distance: 2 meters.
His strength wasn't muscles or weapons, but information. His mind, like a detective game, provided clues, piecing together the world faster than the Riddler could devise his puzzles. He had come not to fight, but to talk. Ivy wasn't just a villain; she was the queen of this green hell, and he was here for an audience. But her "subjects" clearly weren't welcoming to guests.
He stepped inside, and vines, thick as ship's ropes, stirred along the walls.
Vine movement: reaction to footstep vibrations. Sensitivity: high—80%. Probability of aggression: 60%.
He moved carefully, placing his feet only on bare concrete where there were no roots. I'm not hiding that I'm here, Pamela. You already know. Flowers resembling Venus flytraps but the size of watermelons slowly turned their jaws toward him.
Plants: carnivorous, possibly sentient. Connection: centrally controlled by Pamela Isley. Threat level: high—70%.
"Come on, Your Majesty," he muttered, his voice echoing off the glass walls.
Sound: causes leaf vibration. Leaf tilt angle: 12 degrees toward the source. Sound source: you.
The plants stirred as if whispering. He smirked. Of course, they're talking to her. In Gotham, even the flowers are spies.
He moved deeper, skirting a puddle where spores floated like tiny eyes.
Spores: toxic if inhaled. Effect: paralysis. Activation probability: 50%. Minimum safe distance: 1 meter.
He pulled his collar higher, though he knew it was weak protection. In the center of the greenhouse stood she—Poison Ivy. Her throne was woven from vines and roots, and she sat like a queen, her skin shimmering green, her eyes seeing more than he could hide.
Central organism: Pamela Isley. Control over plants: complete—100%. Threat level: critical—90%.
"I've come to talk," he said louder, and her lips twitched in a slight but wary smile.
Pamela's reaction: interest—40%, suspicion—60%. Vine movement: slowed but not stopped.
"Why are you here?" Her voice was soft as silk but with a poisonous undertone.
Voice tone: wariness—70%. Probability of trust: low—20%.
He held her gaze. "I need your power, Pamela. You can change this city. Gotham is rotting, and I know you're not happy with how things are."
Pamela's attitude toward humans: hatred—80%, especially toward men. Probability of aggression at mention of cooperation: 85%.
He paused but continued, ignoring the warning. "Think about it: three years of your career. You destroyed factories, demolished plants, struck at greedy corporations. And now? You're here, in an improvised palace, walled off from the world. You've rejected humanity, but is that what you wanted?"
Her eyes narrowed, and the ground beneath his feet trembled. Sharp roots, like spears, burst from the concrete, cracking it, and stopped five centimeters from his chin, quivering with restrained force.
Threat: display of power. Intent: to intimidate, not to kill. Pamela's emotions: anger—75%.
He didn't move, keeping his hands in his pockets. "But despite that, you didn't go to the jungles. You didn't flee Gotham. You're still here, Pamela. That means you want to change it. I can help you."
She looked at him seriously, frowning, and the vines around tensed as if awaiting a command.
Pamela's reaction: thoughtfulness—50%. Probability of attack: decreasing to 40%.
"You're too bold for a human who stepped into my home," she said, rising from her throne. "You didn't trigger a single trap. What is your power?"
He smirked. "My mind sees everything. Clues: movements, intentions, threats. I know where to step and where not to. It's not magic, just… I see the puzzle that others don't."
She stepped closer, her movements smooth and seductive, but not out of a desire to charm—it was as natural as breathing.
She stopped a step away from him, her eyes boring into his. "Then tell me, what am I about to do now?"
He grinned wider. "Make it a French kiss."
Her lips curved into a slight smile, and she leaned closer. The kiss was quick, but he felt the venom of her power trying to break his mind.