Archibald Helan was slowly, slowly on his way out. He had left church early that morning, skipping out during the offering period, and had drug himself down to Kane's Stop and Stew for a Sunday morning spirit… the only spirit he got out of Sundays, truly. Every day, every hour, the man had suffered the barrage of a man's downfall, mentally and spiritually: Gotta do it. Gotta leave. Gotta get out.

Political science endeavors no longer meant anything to him. Football practice for the upcoming season did nothing to stimulate the body or soul. He had been weak. So very weak. Day by day, Coach Tannin would berate him for his poor performances that would "cost us the fucking game if you don't stop with this droopy bullshit!", and thus Archie had even stopped attending them. He had not been attending classes. He would spend day after day shut away at home, vomiting half the time from his continually growing need for the drink, a daily requirement to function on even the most basic of levels.

And all the while, the source of his desperation haunted her: the face she had made. A stupid, ill-begotten face of pain and pleasure, of befuddled mind… It had all started in church one morning, when Brother Kerry had spoken about running away from God, about how we could not hide behind our sin. He had used the story of Cain and Abel. Ruthlessly had Cain slain his own brother with a stone out of the deepest resentment for his brother's victories… so much so that he had tried to run away, and hide from God, an impossible feat.

"God always follows you… He finds you. What will happen when He does?"

Cain had been marked by God following that murder. Marked, so that any man or woman who slayed him would be punished "seven-fold."

Was there any such a revenge for his sake? He, Archibald Helan, who had drugged, raped, and abandoned a helpless young woman and laughed about it for weeks and weeks later as he continually revisited his sin in the form of video….?

Her face haunted his dreams, and his awakened world. Everywhere he went, he saw that redheaded victim, shrunken away in physical misery, broken… He tried, more often that he should have, to speak with Donovan and Otto about it, yearning to know if they too were haunted by Pamela Isley's drug-induced face… whether or not they were submitted to her tear-filled eyes, filled with some dark, private realization…

"Yeah," had been Otto's response.

"Forgive yourself and forget it," had been Donovan's.

And that had been it. They were reserved to their sin. He, Archibald, must learn to do the same, to be the same!

Kane's was empty, for the most part. Robert Kane himself was making shadows upon the dimly lit wall for the entertainment of his three year old granddaughter, who sat atop the filthy counter of the bar, sucking in the secondhand smoke that so passionately blew about the room from the vagrant in black who sat near them. A young woman sat on Archie's left, silently sipping from a glass of scotch. Early morning drinkers for early morning sanctity. Everyone here had problems. Everyone. Archie felt kindred spirit with them as he tipped his vodka down some more. The room was cold, the isolation of it otherworldly, almost. He felt that God could at least not touch him here.

Polishing off his glass, he spoke softly to Kane, "Can I have another one? Just one more?"

"Your funeral," Kane commented, pushing a glass towards him at once. Archie was surprised at this. The man had already prepared him a second drink, and had had it waiting and ready to be consumed. He looked inquiringly at the bartender, who sighed and said, "I know a man who has regret. You're filled with it, son. Want my advice? Confront it directly. Stop letting the drink do the work for you."

"What's the point?" Archie almost plead. "I confront it and I'm dead. I confront it and I'll get put away…" He inhaled the vodka as Kane and the vagrant near him watched on in somberness.

"I don't know what you did, son," Kane said quietly, "but that drink will kill you quicker than anything else, trust me. I know." He turned back to his grandchild, who was getting fussy, and promptly swept her into his arms. "I once saw this dog," Kane continued, rocking the child gently into rest, "when I was younger. Far younger. Twenty-three years old. Just got out of the army, too. World War Two, September of 1945. Had nowhere to go but the streets. No family, no friends… I was a wanderer in Jacksonville. Lived in a defect public bathroom in Ponte Vedra. All I had to my name was the view of the Atlantic and the occasional side-job. No one wanted to hire a soldier who suffered from PTSD."

"Sucks…" Archie said quietly, draining his glass and slamming it down loudly.

Kane nodded. "Well, I saw this dog one day. Little pooch. Gray and dirty like me. Some kind of mixed Scottish terrier, I don't know… but let me tell you something: desperation will make you do terrible things. Dog was a fancy breed. Must have escaped its owner's yard. Still had a bit of feeble chain hanging off of its collar. I picked up that dog. Had a name on it and everything. Even had an address. Now this is the kind of rich dog that, if you brought it back to the owners, you'd most likely get yourself some kind of monetary award for doing so… but there was something tugging at me. Hunger. I was hungry. I hadn't eaten in days. Some boys would come down, every now and then, and toss empty candy wrappers at me… I was so hungry."

"What did you do?" asked the vagrant.

"I ate that dog is what I did. Unclean animal, but I prepared him fine enough. He fed me for a few days. Worst taste imaginable, something like feces if I could imagine that taste. But he fed me… and I enjoyed it. Later, I come to find out that that dog had belonged to Frank Whitehead, the mayor of Jacksonville at that time. And he'd posted a $500 reward for the dog's return. Do you understand now? What I could have gotten if I hadn't let my desperation win?"

"That was a lot of money, wasn't it?"

"By today's standards, it would be close to $6,600. I threw away money that could have easily kept me clothed and fed for a long time. Probably could have gotten me a home. I threw away the best thing that could have happened to me in exchange for three days of eating a disgusting dog."

"Fucking shame," Archie chuckled.

"You watch your mouth around my granddaughter, boy," Kane warned. "You're in church clothing, too. Listen, the point is, you throw everything away now, drinking away at something that aint gonna keep you held over, you'll lose opportunity, boy…"

Archie stood to his feet, glaring at the old man with cold eyes. "Maybe that's for the best, then."

Kane shook his head. "You're young. You're really young. You have your whole life ahead of you. Are you going to waste it, son?"

Archie turned his back to the man. "Why the fuck not?" Not wanting to hear anything more from this stern old bastard, he threw down a twenty and left the bar without a word more, angered and sick from the conversation that had just taken place. He knew what he had done, and it had not been eating a dog: he had raped a woman, and shown it to the world. That was something he could never come back from, he knew. There was no bar waiting for him at the end of his dark tunnel: the only establishment he would ever end up running would be a cell at the end of C-Block in Blackgate.

"I'm sorry." Archie looked around, and saw that the young woman who had been sitting next to him had followed him out. Her eyes looked sad.

He looked her up and down. She was the definition of an isolate: dirty black jacket, torn stockings and ruffled black hair. Pale blue eyes stared at him, spoiled by heavy eyeliner. To say the least, she was a scary looking sort, and smelled to boot, not unlike flip-flops in the rain. Her lips were painted black.

"Sorry?" he repeated.

The girl nodded quietly. "Yeah. I'm sorry. You know, about… about whatever the hell you're going through." She looked downcast, and sighed. "Whatever's bothering you is really bad."

"You have no fucking idea," Archie returned, and turned away from her, heading towards the side alley that would take him close to the docks. There, he would start looking into boat rentals… The girl sped up and followed beside him.

"Maybe I do," she said earnestly, looking wide-eyed and desperate. "Maybe I've done my own fair share of fucked up."

"Look, don't bother me, please," Archie sighed, his voice shaking. The thought of people suddenly discussing his problems, and strangers at that, made the situation a thousand times worse. "Please, I want to be alone…"

"Hey!" She slapped a palm against his chest and stopped him. He looked at her incredulously.

"What!?" he snapped.

The girl's lip quivered. "You can talk to me, you know. About your problems."

"I don't even know you," Archie said. "Why would I talk to you about my problems?"

"Because Mr. Kane is right. You're a fucking mess. Look at you: church clothing and yet you're half-plastered from a Sunday morning vodka train. Why? What made you think that was a solution?"

"It's my own business," Archie mumbled, trying to push past her. She barred his way defiantly, and he sighed. He could not even find the willpower to get angry with her: his guilt was too great. "Look, please, just take my word that I've done unforgivable shit, okay. Why do you think I'm not sitting in the Lord's house right now? It's because the Lord don't want me there. He don't like my type. Never has. I don't have a place there… so I'm gonna stick around where I belong."

"That's bullshit and you know it," the girl said. "A house of redemption is a house of sinners, aint it? What have you done? What bad have you done so much that you're afraid to go to the one place where redemption is taught at its core?"

Archie beheld this girl incredulously. She looked like a tramp but spoke articulately like a scholar. He leaned against the wall of the next door laundry mat and looked at the distant docks. The glistening waters of Gotham Bay called out to him: Leave this place behind, and sail to something new. He could afford a boat. He could afford a boat and sail away, maybe to Ireland or somewhere in East Canada. Anywhere, as long as it was outside and far, far away from Gotham City. The girl watched his eyes studying the water as well, and understanding dawned on her face.

"You think running away from your problems is the solution?"

"Maybe," Archie admitted quietly. "Maybe it's the only solution. Some guys are good at running…"

"What about you?"

Archie grinned, sighing. "Me? I'm a nobody. I've always been a nobody. Compared to…other people… I've always be a good runner, and a good hider."

"I see…" She sighed too, and fidgeted nervously with her gloved hands. It was rather cold. The smell of the ocean wafted through the air. Today, it was sweeter than salt, in a way. It put his heart at ease. He looked over at the girl, and saw that she was studying him closely with wide, imploring eyes.

"You don't know me," she said quietly, "but you can talk to me…"

And for some reason, he felt truthfulness from that statement. Something about this girl was inviting. She looked filthy, but felt so clean. He slid down, onto the pavement of the alleyway, and smiled a little. Why, he had no idea.

"I guess… I hurt someone."

"How did you hurt them?" She sat down opposite him, her expression soft and reassuring. Archie made eye contact with her as tears dribbled down.

"I suppose, maybe… I just… wanted to take advantage of an intoxicated person…"

The truth seemed to dawn on her soft expression, as her eyebrows rose, a little. "Did you rape someone?"

Archie's heart stung at the accusation… but damn it, it was the Sabbath, and even if it had not been, he felt no power to lie anyway. "Yeah…"

"I see… And you weren't punished for it?"

"No… no, I wasn't… I had friends who have influence. They paid off the right hands. Kept me out of Blackgate. She was drunk… we… we d-d-drugged h-her…" He was now sobbing. He could not contain it any longer. His guilt was a fire that came to consume him, his heart broken, his soul tainted with agony unheard of. "There were three o-o-of us! T-t-three! And w-we…we… oh, God, we took turns! One… one after another, filming it! We filmed it!" He slammed his fist against the ground, scraping his skin, breaking open a bloodway. "And she was a-a-a mental case! She was already messed up! And we took advantage of her!" He fell against the wall and sobbed hysterically, shaking madly as he cradled himself into his arms.

The girl sat in silence, observing this tormented man, her expression sad and pained as much as his was. She pulled her own legs together, hugging herself closely, looking deep in thought. "That's terrible," she whispered at length. She looked down both ways of the alley. They seemed to be the only people around in this deserted street. "And you…you feel guilt, don't you? You regret it?"

"Yes!" Archie sobbed, clawing at the ground. His heart felt as if it were going to explode out of his chest. "Oh, God, yes! I want to take it back! I want to go back and erase it! I can't… I can't get her fucking face out of my mind. When I sleep, she… she shows up and she just stares at me… and when I'm awake, I still see her everywhere. She won't stop haunting me… because I wasn't punished for it…" He moaned loudly in his pain.

The girl, eyes closed in her own heartbreak, nodded, and moved forward, crawling over to the other side where he sat, and without hesitation, swept him into her arms. Muscular as he was, he weighed nothing in his misery, and she held him softly for several minutes, allowing him to cry into her shoulder, stroking his back calmly as she moaned a soft little tune to him: "'There we go, again, again, as pain comes to seek you, Remember well, my darling dear, that life's too good for you…'"

"I'm sorry, Pamela," Archie sobbed into her shoulder. "I'm so sorry…."

"Is that her name?" the girl whispered into his ear, her own tear falling from one eye. "Pamela?"

"Yeah… yeah…."

"I think…given the circumstances of what happened to her…" The girl exhaled deeply. "She'd prefer the name 'Ivy..'

Archie stopped shaking. He looked up at her, eyes flooding and blotchy, and she smiled sadly.

"What?"

"I said," the girl returned, her gloved hands suddenly holding his face tightly, "I believe Ivy is more appropriate. Specifically…" And she kissed him. She kissed him long, she kissed him passionately. From his vantage, only his eye and her eye made linear for his sight, both sad… yet one still filled with traces of joy: her own. As her tongue entered his mouth, she made a soft, moaning sort of noise, so sensual in its delivery. Her bitter smell was swept away as something more sweet and inviting saturated the air around them, her grip on his face fierce and somewhere painful, but her taste… her taste was beyond awful. It tasted… foul. Foul, and it made him nauseous at once. He was still getting that awful sickly aura even as she ripped off the black wig and allowed her long, clean, wavy crimson hair to cascade down upon him, as if to devour him. She pulled her lips away, and finished her thought with, "…Poison Ivy."

And Archie stared, with horror, into the triumphant, savage face of Pamela Isley, wiping his saliva from her lips and removing much of the black lipstick upon them, revealing some form of rubbery case over her real ones…

And just as he observed all of this, physical pain like no other that he had ever endured struck him hard. He doubled over, his throat feeling hot, fever overcoming him as the most nauseating sensation ruptured him on the inside. Her black lipstick was heavily covering his lips and chin. He began to choke, trying to force out a sound but only gagging. Pamela tenderly stroked his chin with her gloved finger, her expression darkly jubilant.

"I forgive you," she whispered.

He fell over, falling forward into her chest, unmoving as he let out one last, painful gag. His limp body felt oddly warm against her, and she held the corpse close for some time, cradling it as she watched the boats pass by in the distance, sailing into free winds of excitement and leisure. After a few minutes, Pamela hoisted Archie's body up and hoisted him away, towards his black Halmarch SUV. All the while, her mind reeled with bitter satisfaction and unusual joy.

After so much preparation and timing, the lipstick had been perfected. Her new weapon had finally been given its test run. She had decided to make Archie her first. He had deserved such a special death, killed by the very sin he had once inflicted upon her: she had raped him, using her pheromones to make his willingness to talk secured. He never had stood a chance against her influence…

To any bystanders, it seemed that she was dragging a drunken friend into his car, and she was able to drive away with his body without any delay or interference.

"Sorry, Archie," Pamela sighed, glancing up at the rear-view mirror and examining the poisoned corpse in the backseat. His face was contorted into shock and disgust, his skin paled and his veins… his veins had turned black. "But it only seemed fair. I admire your honesty, and I truly believed you when you said that you were sorry, but…" She tilted the mirror back to herself, and fixed her hair, brushing away the dirt from his disguise's wig. "… a die for a die."

She took Archie back, deep into the woods where she had buried Kevin and Patterson, and promptly added Archie to the pile, vowing to return for the body once she had better, off-campus accommodations. She wanted Archie to be displayed proudly, as any hunter would display his prey after a successful purge of that nature…

So she decided to take his head. It was the least she could do, sawing into him with a Lennox hackmaster and taking for herself something to mount on the wall at home. The rest of his body, still dressed in his Sunday best, it could be reclaimed later. It had to be. One day, the New Eden would need to behold its mother's examples. In her delusion, it was bitter poetry.