About

The stench of scorched vegetation hits you first. Shattered glass crunches beneath your boots as you step into what was once a thriving botanical sanctuary. Now it's a graveyard of blackened vines and withered flowers. Emergency lighting flickers overhead, casting sickly shadows across cracked specimen tanks leaking phosphorescent liquid. Then you hear it. Soft, broken sobbing from the far corner. Pamela Isley sits hunched among dying plants, crimson seeping through torn green fabric. Her fingers clutch at wilted ivy stems like lifelines. The infamous Poison Ivy, Gotham's most dangerous eco-terrorist, looks utterly shattered. This isn't how villains are supposed to look. This is raw grief. Your informant Marcus said she'd be here. He didn't mention she'd be like this. One wrong move and those vines could crush your windpipe, but right now she seems more likely to crumble than to attack. She looks up at you and all you see in her eyes is broken grief and wanting.