Whether through bribery or genuine negotiation, Jude's efficiency skyrocketed once the flowerpots entered play.
Batman watched him produce small pots from beneath the oversized black robe with mechanical regularity—pull out pot, plant climbs in, pot disappears back under robe. Repeat. The cowl's tactical analysis subroutines kicked into overdrive, calculating whether the robe concealed some kind of spatial manipulation technology. Magical storage, perhaps. Dimensional pocket. Something that explained how ten full flowerpots fit under fabric that should only hold three, maybe four at maximum.
"Alright." The Ghostface mask turned toward him, Jude's voice muffled but satisfied. "That's the last four. We can go home now."
"Your flowerpots—"
"No. Absolutely not. Don't even think about it." Jude's tone went sharp. "I promised them. Either they go to the promised land of abundant grass and water, or they return to their original owner. Those are the only two options."
Batman already knew who the "original owner" was. The question was how to find Poison Ivy before she noticed her plants were missing.
"I will locate their owner," he said carefully. "But the 'promised land' needs to remain under observation."
"It's a garden. Just a garden."
"..."
"Don't do the silent brooding thing. This isn't just a garden—it's plant paradise. And it's not in this world anymore, so you don't have to worry about the vines escaping and causing problems."
Batman's head tilted fractionally. A statement, not a question: "Not in this world."
"The dead have their own space. Beasts have their own space. Why shouldn't plants get one too?" Jude shrugged under the robe. "Look, if you're paranoid about it—which you are—you can check on them regularly. With me. But I'm not just handing them over. I keep my promises."
The certainty in Jude's voice carried weight. Batman filed the information away—dimensional storage, plant communication, supernatural garden access—and moved on. He had other problems tonight.
The Batmobile's engine roared to life. Jude climbed into the back seat, still wrapped in his cheap horror costume.
"Remember to give me five stars, dear customer!" he called as the vehicle accelerated into Gotham's darkness.
Batman didn't respond. He had four more leads to track, three surveillance posts to check, and at least one crime family to intimidate before dawn.
Back in his apartment, Jude stripped off the Ghostface mask and black robe, dumping both on a chair. He was halfway to bed when a thought stopped him cold.
Batman had never actually explained what happened. Not the full story, anyway. Poison Ivy wouldn't randomly attack Gotham's elite without reason. She was an eco-terrorist, not a financial criminal. Plant manipulation for corporate manipulation? That required motive.
Jude grabbed his phone, checked the date. Not a holiday. St. Patrick's Day was still days away, so the Holiday Killer wasn't involved. Which meant something else was in play.
"Let's see what major events happened recently."
He opened the news app, scrolling through headlines. Financial section, business deals, mergers and—
There.
A familiar face stared back from a corporate press photo.
Bruce Wayne.
The headline read: "Gotham Bank Approves Partnership with Falcone Imports: Wayne Group Subsidiary to Facilitate 'Mutually Beneficial' Deal"
Jude read the article twice, stomach sinking.
"Earlier this month, Gotham Bank's board of directors voted to establish a partnership with Falcone Imports. The collaboration is expected to generate substantial profits for both Gotham Bank and its Wayne Group subsidiary. While Bruce Wayne is primarily known for his playboy lifestyle, his business acumen continues to exceed expectations..."
Bullshit. Bruce would never approve money laundering for the Falcones. Which meant the other directors had forced the resolution through. Directors who, under normal circumstances, would be Wayne loyalists. Even the ones who disliked Bruce personally wouldn't actively work against him.
Unless they had no choice.
Jude pulled up Gotham Bank's executive roster. Ten familiar faces looked back from the screen—every single one a victim from tonight's rescue operation. The remaining board members? Probably didn't need controlling. Fence-sitters who'd vote with whoever looked like they were winning.
"Poison Ivy helped Falcone Imports partner with Gotham Bank," Jude muttered, mind racing. "She helped Falcone launder money through Wayne's own subsidiary. The world really is that small."
He thought it through twice more, checking for holes in the logic. Found none.
Satisfied, he flopped onto the bed and closed his eyes.
Outside, an evening breeze carried a single green leaf through the chimney and down into the cold fireplace.
Jude had been lucky tonight. During the entire negotiation process, he'd encountered no resistance from Poison Ivy. No counterattacks from the vines. No sudden complications.
Not because she couldn't interfere.
She'd noticed the moment the first vine was extracted. But Poison Ivy had been somewhat... occupied.
Wayne Manor. Night.
A woman sat in the chair beside the fireplace, nearly naked except for soft plant-fiber undergarments that left most of her green-tinted skin exposed to the air. She sipped tea with casual elegance, completely comfortable in her state of undress.
It wasn't exhibitionism. This was practical. Pamela Isley could photosynthesize through her skin—absorbing nutrients and energy directly from light. Clothing interfered with that process. The less she wore, the better she functioned.
In fact, dressing up as a flower girl in a burqa to sell cursed roses in the fountain square had been the only time she'd worn real clothes in weeks. An annoying necessity.
Alfred wasn't in the manor—she'd confirmed that before entering. Which meant she could wait here in peace for Bruce Wayne to return home.
The control attempt from Valentine's Day still rankled. Those chocolates had somehow broken her influence, and she still didn't understand how. When she'd controlled the Wayne Group executives afterward, she'd taken extra precautions. Stronger vines. Deeper integration. No more surprises.
But Bruce himself remained unconquered. Unacceptable.
She'd treat him better than the others, of course. No vines burrowing through organs. He was too beautiful to damage. She'd keep his body pristine while his mind bent to her will.
"Hmm?" Poison Ivy paused mid-sip. "Who's removing my vines?"
The sensation was distant but unmistakable—her parasitic plants being extracted one by one, relocated to... somewhere. She couldn't track where.
Before she could investigate, wind rushed past her face.
"You're sitting in the wrong seat!"
A black shape materialized from nowhere—all claws and fury and hissing rage. Catwoman slammed into her with the force of jealous violence, talons raking across exposed skin.
"You're mine!" Selina snarled, every word dripping venom. "He's mine! All mine!"
Poison Ivy jerked backward, panic flashing across her face. She looked like someone caught in bed with someone else's spouse—which, metaphorically, she absolutely was.
"Kitten! Let me explain—"
"You're a weed in someone else's garden!" Catwoman's claws found purchase again, drawing blood. "A weed that needs to be pulled out by the roots!"
Ivy was suddenly, desperately grateful that Bruce Wayne hadn't come home yet. Being caught nearly naked in his manor by his girlfriend while plotting to mind-control him? The optics would be catastrophically, hilariously bad.