Chapter 20

Poison Ivy grew more attentive toward Megan, though her outward demeanor remained as indifferent as before. To establish herself in Arkham and maintain a position free from bullying and disdain, she relied not only on her own abilities but also on her cunning and strategic mind. If she truly cared for a child, she would meticulously assess the dangers surrounding her, identify the sources and levels of threats, and, should any misfortune occur—regardless of whether she could intervene in time—she would know exactly whose death would quell her fury.

Yet, if there was one true danger near Megan, it was the person she depended on most—

The Joker.

Poison Ivy couldn’t comprehend how the Joker had so successfully coaxed this child into becoming his obedient follower, but she saw Megan’s trust and reliance on him clearly. In her eyes, only that one person existed. Others—herself, Killer Croc, the Riddler—even though Megan interacted with them, she had not truly accepted them.

After some reflection, Poison Ivy concluded that Megan was safe for the time being. With the Joker around, her safety was, in fact, most secure, so she chose not to worry.

Arkham had grown lively under the schemes of Penguin and Black Mask. More guards patrolled the high-risk zones, but not all were official prison officers; some were planted to fill quotas, while others were spies and operatives from various factions, creating a chaotic mix. The criminals, eager to partake, sensed the stirring turmoil.

Megan kept to her routine of daily outings, uninvolved in these matters. One day, while traversing the corridor from the Joker’s cell to a large passageway, she encountered a strange man blocking her path.

He was short and lean, leaning casually against the wall, wearing only a thin shirt with sleeves rolled high, revealing arms covered almost entirely in slash wounds. His smooth, rounded head softened the otherwise fierce aura he exuded.

Hearing footsteps, he looked up—he had been waiting for her. His deep-set eyes, unusually prominent, brightened instantly upon seeing her. Twirling a folding knife in his hand, he spoke with an abnormal intensity: “I’ve heard about you long ago, child.”

A haze of madness enveloped him, and he struck a pre-combat pose, clearly viewing the child he awaited as prey.

“I will save you…” he declared.

Save her from this meaningless world. Death, he believed, could break this “meaninglessness.” In the realm of the dead, one would find eternal peace, free from any struggle for meaning or purpose, immersed in ceaseless bliss.

But as he took a step forward, a bullet slammed defiantly into the ground before him. Victor Zsasz swiftly retracted his foot, planting a hand on the wall to steady himself. His eyes snapped open, turning fiercely hostile.

Angry at his interrupted move, Victor’s fury quelled upon seeing the newcomer.

Penguin emerged from around the corner, leaning on a black umbrella. His exquisite, expensive coat was perfectly tailored, and he wore a monocle and tall top hat. The smile on his face was always unsettling. Tilting his hat’s brim, he eyed Victor. “Let me see what you’re up to.”

His tone was falsely polite, but the umbrella’s pointed tip raised slightly, a clear warning that any sudden move from Victor would be met with lethal force.

The umbrella was his weapon; when needed, it could unleash firepower rivaling a Gatling gun. How such a small umbrella achieved this was his secret alone.

“I pride myself on being a ruthless businessman. Who does anything without profit? What do you say, Victor?” He chuckled. “But I see your condition’s worsening. You haven’t been needed outside lately.”

Everyone knew the dark dealings behind Arkham, but no one could sway the leaders of the underworld like Penguin and Black Mask. Even though Penguin could modify gadgets and had many inventions, compared to other geniuses and madmen in Arkham, his sales were minimal—especially since he could produce and sell on his own.

Genius carried privilege, even for mad geniuses. Arkham was a massive money pit. Though one might not see the debauchery here, in Gotham and higher America, the economic flow was significant and terrifying.

Some creatures secretly ruled Gotham, more hidden than even Batman—a secret network of informants spreading across every corner of the city, controlling its wealth. They spent money inside Arkham and earned it outside, mastering the circulation of wealth to ensure maximum profit.

They ruled Gotham. Thus, even as the city overflowed with criminals and bloodshed, they ensured it never collapsed completely—how else could they continue profiting?

Only businessmen saw these rules clearly. Penguin had glimpsed some clues but wisely kept secrets. After all, he didn't want to suddenly drop dead and let another rival inherit his empire.

Having said his piece, Penguin left nothing more to add. Victor, not fully grasping his meaning but understanding the protective intent toward Megan, tilted his head and slowly withdrew.

As the serial killer departed, Penguin’s umbrella tip tapped rhythmically on the ground. He strolled over to Megan, scrutinized her briefly, and saw no fear in her eyes. Whether this was a flaw or a sign of confidence, he said, “I’ll tell the Joker about this.”

Together they walked the corridor. Penguin pulled a neatly wrapped small cake from his coat pocket and handed it to her—something so casual and harmless that even without profit, he would do it.

As they parted ways at a fork in the hall, he chuckled, “Profit? Purely for profit? I seek profit because I want to act according to my own will.” On this, he was confident.

Short and stout but still taller than Megan at her age, he gently patted her head. “Have someone escort you. Don’t let you run into that killer again.”

Though Penguin showed no real warmth, he accompanied Megan partway and then left promptly after his warning.

Megan went to find Killer Croc. Before reaching the water cell, he heard noises from inside.

Killer Croc’s scales were still damp, so he couldn’t carry her. They moved slowly together. Passing Mudface’s cell, they heard strange sounds but ignored them. At another large cell, Megan approached the door and pressed her ear to it, hearing muffled noises inside.

A huge figure inside was tearing at his clothes, apparently sensing someone outside. He rose and shuffled toward the door. His massive, zombie-like hands clawed at the narrow window, trying to open it, but failed repeatedly. Finally, his hands retreated, revealing a pale, stiff face.

His gaze was dull, floating in the air before dropping down, ignoring Killer Croc entirely, focusing only on the child.

Megan looked up, but communication between them was difficult. Killer Croc simply lifted her up to face the creature eye to eye.

The young girl took a leaf from her pocket and held it to the window. The creature stared at it intently. After several minutes, the pale face withdrew temporarily, and a giant hand carefully took the leaf.

Megan came only to give him that leaf and prepared to leave. Killer Croc understood and turned away, leaving the sluggish monster muttering, “Grandi… Grandi…”

No one knew what he meant.

---

Birds flitted through Arkham, a fact well known to Poison Ivy. Birds brought and took seeds; they were friends of plants, messengers for someone, yet they also paused to rest, folding their wings among the greenery.

Poison Ivy could not understand their chirping but keenly sensed something. She chose not to meddle.

By May, many plants in the greenhouse bloomed.

They had long stored energy for this moment; the life force poured forth unreservedly with the flowers. Under her careful care, the plants thrived; none withered or declined unexpectedly.

She kept her promise and invited Megan to see the blooms. Orchids and broad-leafed mountain laurels blossomed—the former elegant and serene on trellises, their pale bluish-white petals small and sparse, shaped like flying birds, subtle among slender leaves. The laurels were loud and exuberant, blooming in crowded clusters, each flower proudly displaying itself.

The greenhouse was filled with a pleasant botanical fragrance—multiple scents mingled but not overpowering or unpleasant.

Poison Ivy gazed at them with pure joy and affection in her eyes. Her beloved child, slithering like a snake among the plants, suddenly startled by a fluttering sound from a corner. A bird returned, carrying its prey.

It was a common cedar waxwing, but Poison Ivy raised an eyebrow. She waved a hand, commanding vines to release it. The bird, with a gray back and white belly, hopped in place, confused but unaware of what had happened. Finally, it chose to fly away.

She said disapprovingly, “They always do this—”

“Disrupt nature’s order through their arrogance, never seeing the harm they cause, or if they do, they simply don’t care.”

“No, they don’t care, for they consider themselves masters of the rules.”

A cold sneer crossed Poison Ivy’s face. She refrained from action now due to an agreement with Batman, but if given the chance, she would deal mercilessly with her fellow inmates.

With the flowers blooming, pollination became urgent. She released bees and butterflies into the greenhouse but kept them contained for now to prevent the little girl from getting stung. Instead, she handed Megan over to Killer Croc.

The terrifying crocodile monster led the way, Megan following with small, careful steps, clutching a weed leaf. The blade of grass was long enough to occasionally brush Killer Croc’s tail lightly, but the touch was too faint to be felt.

Killer Croc knew what she was doing but was indifferent. Their destination was not the lawn. As summer approached, despite Gotham’s perpetually overcast skies, ultraviolet rays remained strong, harmful to a child’s skin. Lately, he had been teaching Megan to read.

Arkham had a library, though rarely visited. Even cleaning staff came only once a week, paying little attention to hygiene, merely preserving the books.

The Gotham philanthropists either pitied or despised the inmates, donating books to the asylum—perhaps hoping they would grow to love literature, develop philosophical minds, or learn morals and cease wrongdoing. More likely, it was just a charitable show.

Though neglected, these books remained “valuable” and could not be casually damaged.

Killer Croc easily picked the lock and entered. The air was silent, dust particles drifting. His vertical pupils scanned the room, confirming no one else was present, no “extras.” He took children’s books from the shelves, a sign that the donors cared little about what they gave.

Megan followed closely behind, her steps matching his. Her tail swayed as he moved, making him momentarily feel as if Megan was his own little tail…