When Pamela Isley awoke from the deepest, most isolating sleep she had experienced in such a long while, she found herself nude, covered from head to toe in long strands of what appeared to be Boston ivy, and Woodrue gently asleep beside her. She did not brush the ivy off of her (which, she assumed, had been a "gift" to her, from him), but instead turned on her side and watched him sleep, frowning as her head slightly twanged. She felt disoriented in the mind, drunken by some form of stupor, as if she had had much to drink in the past night. No memory of ever falling asleep occurred to her… and little memory of events from last night remained.

She could remember the sex. She could remember the talk, too. Bits of both, really. Nothing concrete in fullness. But her body remembered. She warmed up considerably as she gazed upon the sleeping man who had brought such joy into her life in such a short amount of time. It was Sunday now, and the light creeping in through the window told her that morning was awakening along with her.

The room was a mess, to be sure. Blankets disordered, clothes scattered everywhere, sweat sewn into the fabrics… a night of the ultimate, it had been. Whatever had gone on, whatever had been lost to her, she would make Jason recount every last sensual detail. And then the planning would begin. The planning would commence for their battle initiation… or, hell, they could just go to the bowling alley or Gotham Amusements. Something about this man reminded her that she was allowed to have a life outside of her bounty hunting.

She watched and stared at the sleeping man for minutes upon minutes, basking in the sight of his handsome features, his darkly skin and sweet, sweet lavender scent… and remembered his story. He and his sister Pampadora had been close. Pampadora, a genius, had understood plants and shown them grand love and tender care, and had removed Jason's parents as an obstacle when they were dragging him away from his destiny… She wanted to know more about Pampadora. It seemed crucial to understand where Jason Woodrue had come from, and what drove his purpose.

When she had had her fill, she decided to dress. Today was a day for a public outing indeed, and she wanted to look her best. She casually glanced into the corner of the room. Archibald Helan's head lay decomposing on the floor, and the smell was quite strong, now that her senses returned to her in her awakened state. She had kicked the head off of the bedside table to have better privacy with her love, Jason… and now found the presence of the head disorienting. Oh Archie, you party pooper. She made her resolve. Fetching a plastic garbage bag from the kitchen, she wrapped the head up and decided that she would dispose of it. She still had the rest of the body. The secret warehouse building near the Diamond Docks held many things for Pamela Isley. She had taken to collecting things and storing them away in secret there, and only she had the key. Archie's body was preserved well enough in that warehouse. She did not need the head for the future display that she would build…

Wow… sometimes, I feel like I'm a psycho or something.

Anywho to any do, she skipped about, swinging the bag to and fro, pondering what should be done about this noble head. Otto Rock and Donavon Ventimago both came to mind as she swung Archie's remains about. So much time had passed since that night…sometimes she forgot that they still existed, and were still out there. Rock had previously been made coach's assistant on the football team, and Donovan's family had paid a large donation to the athletic department to maintain new, more efficient equipment. Both of them had been named in the news, and yet… and yet she had forgotten her purpose. Her goal. Archie could not remain dead alone. He had to be joined. Otto and Donovan had to join him.

That's just it, isn't it? That's what I want to do today. I want to murder one of them. Yes… yes, I think that will make for a nice Sunday.

But where to find them? She had already gone back to the farm where she had been mutilated. They had moved out long ago. A new family lived there, a happy one with happy chicks and happy pigs. She had no idea where Otto Rock lived now… but she knew where Donovan lived. He was still a god of the Rapture Suites, just off campus property. An apartment complex of queens and kings. But so much had happened to distract her from her mission. Woodrue, the success of the poisoned lipstick, the maintenance of Alissa…

Alissa…

She needed to feed Alissa. She had completely forgotten to check in on the woman after the two of them had gotten home. Alissa needed to be fed, and changed into decent clothes. As quietly as she could, Pamela tiptoed away, down the basement stairs with Archie in one hand, and a bag of gumballs in the other. Maybe Alissa would eat these…

Alissa was gone. Alissa was not there. Archie and the gumballs clattered to the floor, and Pamela's shriek was grand enough to awaken the dead.

"NO!" She desperately pulled apart Alissa's nest, thinking that perhaps the girl was just hiding under a table or such… but Alissa was gone! She was nowhere in that damp, stinky basement. Pamela's heart began to thunder in a series of frantic beats, her breathing intensifying, utter terror overwhelming her. She began to pull at her red locks, her teeth gritted into a terrible rage. No, no, no, no… this was not happening. This could not be happening!

She fell to her knees, her hands shaking wildly as she begged a prayer to Mother Earth: "Let me find her! Let me find her! Let me find her! Oh, Spirit, oh, Mother, let me find her!"

"Ivy?"

Pamela spun around. Jason was standing at the top of the stairs… good old Jason. He was still nude, still beautiful, still god-like… but his face was filled with deepest concern. She could not help it. She threw herself at the top of the stairs and began to cry.

"J-Jason… Jason…"

Woodrue smiled kindly. "Do not be alarmed, Ivy. Do not be alarmed at all."

"You don't understand… don't understand…" And she reached into the corner of the room and pulled something from a toolbox. It was a box cutter. She pushed out the little blade and held it before her, grimacing. "I'm sorry, Mother… I'm sorry, Mother…" She sniffled loudly as she cut into the flesh of her arm. Woodrue, frowning deeply and sprinting down the stairs, cried out, "What in the blazes are you doing!?"

He yanked the cutter from her grasp as she sliced through her skin, shaking as she looked up at her, his penis wiggling about in her face… but now was not the moment for adoration. This was a time for suffering, a time for acknowledging one's failure.

"G-give it back!" she begged, slamming her fists upon the floor, her hair cascading over her face. "I failed Mother… I failed Mother…"

Woodrue tossed the cutter away and yanked Pamela to her feet, shaking her wildly as he forced her to make eye contact. Het wet green eyes dripped as she stared into his brown windows.

"What-is-wrong-with-you!?" Woodrue demanded, and he felt the urge to slap her. Blood was dribbling down from her arm and onto the floor. Pamela, however, miserable in the face, bowed her head, her lip trembling.

"She escaped," she whispered. "Alissa escaped…"

Woodrue nodded. He had figured as much that this was what had set her off. "As a matter of fact, she has not."

Pamela jerked her head up, her eyes wide. "W-what?"

"Alissa Jagner, your prisoner, has not escaped, Ivy. She is in special custody. My custody."

Pamela's heart leapt… and it was not necessarily a good leap, either. She stared at him, disbelieving… even angry. "What!?"

"I took her, in the night. She has been transported away. She was dying in filth and vileness. Her conditions were beyond unsanitary."

"Where is she!?" Pamela demanded, and her hands shot forward. They were around his throat in an instant. Woodrue found himself surprised by her speed… and equally surprised that she did not squeeze, which to him, defeated the purpose of having them there to begin with.

"She is safe. I've taken her to my home, Ivy, and cleaned her up. She's being cared for by friends. You realize that she would have died, the state she was in, had she continued to stay down there in your basement."

Pamela jerked away, her throat bubbling in anguish, and she turned away from him, hands slamming down upon her work table. A beaker of highly poisonous, liquefied hemlock crashed onto the floor… but she did not move. Woodrue yanked her away as the poison flooded about the area where she had been standing.

"Come on," he insisted, pushing her towards the staircase, "this room is deadly for you right now."

Deadly? Deadly, he had said? She was deadly… she could do anything she wanted to do right now… like poison him. And so she ran up the stairs and away from him, blinking back angry, angry tears. What did he mean, he had Alissa moved!? What in the hell did he mean that he had taken her to be cared for by friends!? What friends!?

When Woodrue reached the summit, he found her throwing on a summer dress, hands shaking in poisonous rage. She gave him a deadly look.

"I should kill you now…" She raised her hand. The spray bottle of Mortrius extract aimed to sap away his life. Her expression was so hate-filled, so monstrous and venomous… and to him, sexy. He grinned.

"Why, Poison Ivy… you wouldn't…"

She would. She was not thinking. She was not comprehending his usefulness or the night she had just spent with the man. She was lost, snapped into rage that bore no comprehension. She sprayed…

…and sprayed, and sprayed, and sprayed. Each time Pampadora squired the bottle of green liquid, a new flower budded to life from its lonely little black pod. Young Jason sat upon his sister's bed, clapping with utter delight each time she produced new life… and Pampadora swelled with joy. Her brother's laughter was gold. It was her own personal delight.

"You try," she offered, handing the bottle to him. And he sprayed. And sprayed. He felt god-like and powerful, growing flower after flower with this magic spray. He had become the Creator in that moment, the Lord of the Earth! And Pampadora… Pampadora cheered and clapped each time he grew something new. Now, the long, rectangular pot was filled with abundant life, sunflowers of green and pink, poinsettias of blue… nothing natural, merely perfect. It broke the rules of nature… and they were both fine with that.

They were together. It was a fine time to be…fine.

He laid across the bed, snuggled into his sister's arms, who held him close and brushed his hair with her hand, humming the soft melody of "Heartbreak Hotel" into his ear. She wanted his closeness. His. He, a thirteen year old boy of wide, curious eyes, and her, a twenty-one year old goddess in body and mind. They were a union unbreakable. Unsinkable ships sailed the loveliest.

She smelled so good. Her scent was heaven to his flaring nostrils. It was like lavender in the deepest bloom. Lavender would always be his favorite, forever and ever, because she had once idolized it as her favorite. And whatever Pampadora said went.

Tall, slender, blonde… she was perfection to his sights. He felt so much lesser than her… so much in his life of degradation. He was nothing beside her. He was air. She was everythingness. And yet she held him still… yet she held him close and loved him, and he could feel every single insistence of that love.

"What do you want to do when you leave the house, Jason?" she asked him, kissing the back of his head. Jason considered the goddess's question. She deserved only the best response.

"To fulfill the dream that we share," he answered in a dignified, firm tone, his heart beating rapidly… "The dream of a thriving planet."

"My dream, then… I see. And how would you accomplish our dream, Jason?"

"By following you, sister. By following every step you take, and doing what you tell me to do."

Pampadora smiled. He could feel that smile on the back of her head as her lips pressed into his hair. Those perfect, perfect lips… How he wanted to brush his own against them, and taste her perfection for himself. She heated his blood. She heated his soul. But he knew that he could never touch her. He was too imperfect, by a marginal degree, of course, but still enough. Rationalizing a 150% perfection rate for Pampadora Woodrue, he theorized at thirteen that his current capacity of perfection was at a meager 143%, and that this was dismal indeed, polluting his worthiness to touch her like that beyond repair… for now. He would have to grow into something god-like to even begin to fathom touching her…

She hugged him tightly, loving him. He may die from his infatuation, if she did not release him soon… but she was the goddess, and it was not his right to complain, in an exterior or interior way.

"You'll do just fine," she whispered to him. "You'll do more than fine. I will see to it. I'll never let you go astray for that path. I'll never let anyone drag you down, ever again… ever again."

She glanced nastily at the staircase landing beyond her bedroom door. Downstairs, still tied to the chairs in the kitchen, their veins filled with the potent concentrations of enhanced hemlock, their parents stared into nothingness forever. She would remove them, in time, but she wanted them to be there for a little while, so that Jason could be constantly reminded of how much she loved him, and how free he was now. She had cut out all of their photographs already, leaving only her and Jason in what few the two of them had taken together. There would have to be so many more. She wanted mountains of photographs of her and her brother. They must never, ever be apart.

And then, as she pondered their futures, she noticed the cut. It was a pathetic little cut, so small and already in the process of healing that one should not have noticed it at all. But there it was, staring her right the fuck in the face. It was shaped like a little crescent moon, and looked as if it had been deep when it first came to be.

"Jason," she whispered, her voice trembling, her heart pounding, "what is this cut on your neck?"

Jason, at first, did not answer. He was still lost in his own thoughts, his fantasies pleasurable to behold. His sister upon her throne of flowers… and he, worshiping at her feet… and dead, dead mom and dad, strung up in the trees, watching them and unable to stop them…

"Jason!" Her voice rang sharp and true, and his heart broke at once. He had made the goddess raise her voice to him! Bastard Bastard Bastard! He wanted to hit himself. He wanted to scratch himself.

"Goddess…?" He said the word aloud, and then remembered how she wanted him to call her by her name. "Pampadora…?"

"I asked you where the cut on your neck came from." Her voice was so quiet. So quiet.

He gulped. He knew where the cut had come from. It was a few days old, but he had not told Pampadora. She was too busy with things that mattered. Too perfect to concern herself with the affairs of mortals like him. But the goddess demanded answers, and he had to give them to her.

"The man at Yale and Strom." He shivered at the thought of the fat fuck with the stupid whip… that black whip, what with the crescent shaped metal piece on the end…

"Man… at the Yale and Strom?" Her voice had turned into a whisper now, and it shook. NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! She can't be scared, or upset! NOT HER! NOT THE GODDESS! "What man…?"

"The fat one… the stupid fat one, with the big nose and black beard…"

She thought only for a second, and nodded. Her eyes were colder than cold. They were frigid. True ice. The vacuum of space. "Milton Yale."

Jason nodded, wincing. Milton Yale, the man who had chased after him with the whip… and all Jason's crime had been was stealing a few pints of water. It had been a very, very hot day, the sun boiling him and the wind hiding from the heat. He had been out fishing, alone, near the Bridabell Pond, and after hours of catching nothing but flies and ants, he had come back onto the road that passed near Adamsville Village. He would always call Pampadora to come and pick him up, using the elderly Miss Smatch's telephone. She always gave him cookies when she did this.

But he had just been so thirsty… and he had not brought his pocket change with him that day…

I'm sorry! he had begged as the pints were whipped out of his hands, cascading onto the dirty floor at his feet. I'm sorry, I'm sorry!

Ye little fooker. Stealin my sheet. Yale had a stupid accent. Jason could never tell if the old fuck was from England or Mexico, but what he did know was that the fatso was ugly, smelled like garbage and had the temper of a mama bear in heat.

He had whipped Jason good. So very good. And Jason… Jason had ran from that place, bawling his eyes out. He did not ask for Miss Smatch's phone that day. He had run, run, run, run, and then run some more. He remembered secluding himself out in the fields near the Timberly Farm, remembered seeing the old man driving about on his crimson Massey-Harris 20… remembered the fear in that moment. But he could not tell Pampadora, because Pampadora would get really, really angry, and he did not want her getting really, really angry.

She was really, really angry. Holding him closer (was that even possible?), she whispered intently, "Why-did-he-hit-you?"

Jason smiled. He actually smiled. Her breath on his neck was ecstasy. For a thirteen year old boy, he felt like a man in that moment.

And so he told her why. He told her every detail, from how much the whipping had hurt to the smell of tuna that had so badly ranked the fatso. Pampadroa closed her eyes, exhaling deeply, her mind racing like a calculator. Calculating…calculating…

"Get dressed."

Those were her words. And her word was law. He did get dressed… and so did she. Gone went her summer gown, and on came something much, much better. The scarlet bodycon dress hug her body tightly, her long, curly blonde hair flowing beautifully down her back. Her heels, black as the night and shining. He had simply dressed in his farming clothes, the stupid suspenders making him look childish and lesser… but she took his hand gladly, and knelt before him, staring deeply into his eyes.

"From now on," she said to him, "I'm going to be your teacher. Answer me."

"Yes, Pampadora!" Jason piped up at once. She nodded, her expression suddenly cold. So very cold.

"And as your teacher," she continued, "I am going to instruct you. Teach you things about life that you need to know, Jason. Teach you things that you must know."

He nodded, feeling a lump in his throat. Was he worthy to learn? Was he worthy to know?

She led him downstairs, hand in hand, her heels clunking loudly against the mahogany floor. All the while, her expression remained so icy that Jason swore the house may freeze over at any moment… which would be suitable for all this stupid heat… but not so much for their plants…

Their first stop was at dead mother and father. Pampadora thumped daddy's forehead and gave the body a look of disgust. "Lesson number one," she said, "fuck them."

"Fuck them," Jason agreed, nodding loyally. Whatever she said went. Fuck their parents. Pampadora thumped mommy on the forehead now. "Lesson number two: especially her."

"I understand, Pampadora," Jason agreed, and he did. "Fuck her especially."

Pampadora nodded too, looking disdainful at the pair of them. "They paid for their ignorance with their lives. They held us both back, Jason. But never again. Never again."

"Never again," Jason agreed. Was that lesson three? Never again? He wondered if he should ask. But Pampadora was not taking him by the hand and leading him away. They weren't finished with the day's lesson, not yet. In the car, Jason sat silently and attentively, waiting for Pampadora to tell him the next lesson. But she said nothing, her expression fierce and deadly as she punched on the radio, blasting classical into their awaiting ears. Beethoven was the only person in the car who spoke right now, and he spoke with non-verbal means. So much more fitting, too, Jason thought. The world was a happier place when people were silent. Except for Pampadora. He could listen to her speak forever. Mom and dad, though? They could not speak anymore. No more telling him he was tracking mud in the house, or that he was being a greedy little pig for getting into the Little Debbies… no more fucking bedtimes, either. Once Pampadora had removed their parents as an issue, she and Jason had stayed up all night, trashing the house, breaking windows apart and ripping up curtains. It had been so pleasurable. She had even let him hit mommy and daddy in the heads with a hammer. No candy had come out, of course…

"Be wild, Jason," she had instructed him then, "be contagious."

Whatever the hell that had meant, he had agreed. Now he just needed to know how to be both of those things. Well, he had reasoned, tearing up half the house had qualified as wild. But what about the contagious part? Was he supposed to sneeze in someone's dinner or something?

They drove right into Adamsville Village. Miss Smatch was watering her petunias. She gave a little wave at their car as they passed by, her eyes filled with concern. She had heard about Yale's attack on the boy… but no one seemed to care, save for her. Pampadora nodded curtly at her as she drove past, and Jason beamed a smile.

And what would you know? Yale himself was sitting on the porch of the store that he ran alongside Mr. Harold Strom. Milton Yale… what a pathetic man. But Jason was excited now, because he knew what was going to happen. Pampadora was going to give the fat fuck a talking to!

Pampadora pulled the car into the drive. Yale noticed them at once, and smirked. His expression said it all. Come back for more, little prick? it said.

Pampadora kissed Jason on the forehead. "Follow me, Jason."

Yes ma'am!

He followed her. He would follow her forever. By now, the afternoon was getting to its hottest point, and the streets were abandoned. This little country hole in the wall was practically a ghost town. They did not even have asphalt. It was all gravel and dirt. Milton tipped his Stetson to the vision of loveliness before him, and grinned at Jason, who was cowering behind his sister. Pampadora's expression never went warm until this moment… she smiled. But when Jason looked at that smile, he felt danger. This was not a happy smile. It was a narrow-eyed, plotting smile… the same smile she had worn when she had removed Mr. and Mrs. Woodrue from this life. It was a beautiful smile, and he cherished it so.

"Evenin," Milton burped. "Yer lookin fine this afternern, Merse Werdrer."

To hell, Pampadora thought, disgusted. Can the man even speak right?

"Milton Yale." When she said his name, she felt sick. "What are you doing, you ponderous gorilla, you?" She was not very creative at insults. A genius who could mutate the DNA of plants and flowers, who could jot down the intense system of trigonometry in seconds and predict what was going to be said next in a conversation with perfect accuracy… and her creativity was squandered at the sight of the grotesque man.

"Gerlla?" He burped. "Wassat?"

Pampadora had had enough. Already, she had. Not five fucking seconds. She shook her head.

"I want to purchase something," she said, jerking her head at the store. "And I want you to get it for me."

"Werta ya lookin fer?" Milton sighed and tossed his empty beer can aside. The fat bastard clambered to his feet, brushing his beard with a dirty hand. As if he could possibly win the affection of the goddess. Jason seethed with rage. But Pampadora was smiling now, and her eyes had widened. Jason knew this smile, too. It was the smile that had saturated her lips when she saw something that she could overcome… The two Woodrues followed the fat slob into the store. From down the street, little Miss Smatch watched from her window. Finally, Yale's going to get his, she thought. How right she was… even if she did not realize just how right, and in what way.

Milton spread his arms around the store, looking at her with ready eyes. "Well?" Pampadora chuckled. Finally, a word from his mouth that sounded somewhat comprehensible… but he still said it with a slur, so really it was more like, "Werl?"

She walked forward, and kicked the door shut with her heel. It slammed a little, the bells at the top jingling and jangling with delight. Jason leaned against the wall. Lesson time. Pampadora sized the man up, tapping her chin inquiringly. Milton was looking aggravated.

"Whaddya wernt!?" he demanded. "Erm on my break right now… wanna ged back ter my ber."

She was so repulsed by his accent. So was Jason. She shook her head sadly.

"Jason's neck," she began, "has a nasty cut on it." She stopped there, looking at him intently, waiting for him to respond. Jason was feeling elated. She was going to chew him the hell out. If only Jason realized in that moment just how much she was going to chew…

Milton nodded unapologetically. "Lertle shit stole frerm me. I warped him good."

"Yes, you did… but he's my brother, you see. He is my brother, and I his protective sister. Do you know what that means, Milton Yale?"

"Merns you need to get ert of mer ster, befer I werp you ter."

"Oh, you're going to hit me? You're going to hurt me?" She saddled up to him now, getting very, very close indeed. Too close for comfort, in Jason's eyes. She did not want him that to her… or vice versa.

"Lesson three, Jason," she said, not taking her eyes away from the bewildered, reddening Milton Yale, "if you don't like someone, hurt them." She was close enough to kiss him…

And… that's exactly what she did. Jason's heart erupted into pain and misery as he watched. Her hands were wrapped around his cheeks at once, and she was kissing the ugly, fat fuck with a wild passion, positively biting at him. The man looked so surprised… and his wide eyes turned to Jason with some kind of demented glee. They sparkled and sparkled…

And then, they went cold. Cold, and empty. His elation froze upon his face. His body jerked. Pampadora released him, and Milton Yale fell backwards, onto the floor, where he stared up at her in disbelief and shock… and that's all he did. Forever. His face did not move from that position. He could only stare forward… and the rest of him refused to move too.

Pampadora exhaled deeply, wiping her mouth in disgust with a little black handkerchief from her bra. And Jason saw her red lipstick smear onto the handkerchief as she did. Her natural pink lips glistened, free from the red coating that she had adorned herself with. Still, Milton Yale did not move. Somehow, Jason knew that the man would never move again. Pampadora had made him still… just as still as mommy and daddy.

She offered a hand to her brother… and he took it. Jason stared down at the man with wide eyes.

"He's dead…" he whispered. Pampadora smiled.

"Almost," she corrected. She knelt down before Jason and stoked his cheek. He loved the way she touched him… "Paralyzed, actually. Atropine, from a nightshade cutting. A powerful, paralyzing poison, Jason. His heart is slowing…his breathing is leaving him. Soon, he will be so, so, so dead, Jason… And I want you to do something before he goes." She walked away from the stunned, silent Jason, and picked up something hanging from a nearby rack. The wonderful things you find at the local retail. It was a backsaw, and looked really, really dull. Perfect, in other words. She handed Jason the saw. He felt warmth and excitement rush through his body as he held the deadly weapon in hand, grinning up at her. Now knew what the lesson was. If you don't like someone, hurt them! Better yet… saw them up while they've been paralyzed by your sister's poisonous lipstick. Pampadora leaned against the counter, pulling one of the bastard's beers out of the nearby mini-fridge, and she began to enjoy the drink as she scooted in the man's direction, commanding her brother to, "Saw, please… before the poison kills him."

And saw Jason did. He sawed and he sawed, sitting atop the man as if he were a lover. First the man's hands… then the man's head. Of course, by the time Jason had even started to saw into the first hand, the poison had already killed the bastard… but Jason did not know it, and Pampadora did not care to tell him. She was enjoying the show too much. She kept encouraging him to "hurt him some more, hurt him some more, he's not dead yet!" and finally agreed to congratulate Jason's first "murder" as soon as the head went rolling away, some half an hour later. The puddle of blood was like a mini-ocean, drenching Jason's knees and hands. Pampadora sat down on the floor with him, kicking off her heels and taking the saw from Jason. She began to cut him apart now, too, and she dedicated much, much longer time to the craft. His limbs fell away… and then pieces of the limbs fell away… It was beautiful for both of them. Jason loved his sister more than he had ever loved her before in that moment. She was more than a goddess. She was… there was no word. His hands shook excitedly as he stared at the blood staining his clothing and fingers.

When the man came to resemble a mass of bloody nothingness upon the floor, Pampadora dropped the saw and brought Jason close to her. She held him against her bosom, and cradled him in her arms, humming, once more, the tune of "Heartbreak Hotel" to her young worshiper. Jason Woodrue felt so safe and so secure in her hold… he had never loved her so much in his entire life…

And he felt that same love, in this beautiful moment, for Pamela Isley. He saw Pampadora in her, and relished her. The action, the meaning, the daringness… that cold look upon her face was the same expression that Pampadora had worn that way. His sister stood before him, for a moment, as the poisonous spray saturated his face and nostrils. He closed his eyes, breathing it in happily. How he had found Pampadora at last! How so indeed! She was standing before him, but her hair was crimson instead of gold. This was the only difference… but even that could be fixed, in time.

He stood there and relished Poison Ivy's toxic attempt… and relished her surprise when he did not die. Not that she wanted him to, of course. But she was crazy, and had not a rational mind when she had attacked. This was simple truth, and he acknowledged it fairly. Had it been anyone else… well, the poor bastard would have died horribly, wouldn't he?

But Jason Woodrue would not die today. Not when there was so much work to be done. He stepped forward, and embraced Pamela Isley passionately… as passionately as he had embraced Pampadora, as the sun had descended down upon Yale and Strom on that hot, summer day… and Pampadora had realized just how much Jason really did love her….

This is the moment of forever, he thought, then and even now.