While Adam busied himself with his own commentary in the hotel, Lois Lane pressed on with her next question during the live broadcast:
"It's hard to imagine that just a year ago, 21 senior officials of your government—including you, General Lionel, were indicted by a U.S. district court on charges of trafficking and corruption. Even Gotham's billionaire Bruce Wayne has publicly stated that he refuses to meet with you. What is your response to these allegations?"
General Lionel's expression turned stoic as he replied, "This is nothing but political persecution. Why now—when we've just committed to completely banning coca cultivation? Doesn't the United States want to see us succeed in this? Perhaps there has been some misunderstanding, but we are determined to prove our sincerity through action. If they wish to impose sanctions, then we will defend ourselves."
Adam, watching the interview on the hotel's TV, gave a mocking chuckle. He pointed at the screen and said to Deadshot, "Hah, this guy's just posturing. Want to bet the next thing out of his mouth will be a plea for money and aid?"
Jason, perched on the sofa with a bowl of snacks, immediately perked up. His wide-eyed curiosity was impossible to ignore.
"Teacher," he asked, "you said before that most of the profits from the coca trade go to the middlemen. If this warlord already controls the country's resources, why doesn't he just keep expanding his old business?"
Adam smirked. It made sense that Jason was this intrigued—after all, Red Hood's future empire in Gotham would be built on drug rings. The kid's fascination with how power and money flowed was already showing.
"Because drug money, as big as it looks, is worthless when you're talking about running a country," Adam explained, fishing for a lighter before remembering Jason was watching and putting it away. "A proper national economy runs on a cycle: agriculture provides food and raw materials for light industry, light industry produces goods that generate wealth, and that wealth feeds heavy industry—things like infrastructure, manufacturing, and tech. But coca cultivation produces nothing a country can build on. No raw materials, no food security. A nation can't survive on crops that rot minds instead of feeding bellies. Even with modern greenhouses and chemical fertilizers, agriculture alone is too unstable—climate, pests, market shifts… it's all fragile. Without industry and technology, a country stays stuck in the dirt."
Almost on cue, General Lionel spoke again, echoing Adam's thoughts. "Coca cultivation has existed here for over a century. To ban it now is not easy. We face enormous challenges. We need international support such as technology, equipment, medicine, so that our people don't starve as we transition. We don't want our nation to collapse simply because of this ban."
Adam rolled his eyes. 'Called it.'
"Alright, enough politics for today," Adam said, glancing at his watch. "Jason, it's already 9 o'clock. Time for bed, and don't even think about skipping a bath tonight!"
Jason tried to bolt, but Adam caught him by the collar, dragging him into the bathroom while the kid whined like a cornered cat.
"Deadshot," Adam called over the sound of running water, "what's our schedule tomorrow?"
"Got a notice," Deadshot replied, checking his phone. "We're visiting the ban zones at 8 a.m. sharp. Don't be late."
"Noted," Adam said, lathering Jason's hair with enough shampoo to drown his protests.
Morning arrived, and Adam's group boarded a vehicle provided by the general, heading toward the outskirts of San Pedro Sula. Jason was left behind at the hotel—much to his sulky dismay.
There, Adam finally met the rest of the Gotham inspection team, exchanging quick introductions before his attention was drawn to a young woman in the group.
Pamela Lillian Isley.
She was just a recent college graduate, working as an assistant at Gotham's Institute of Toxic Botany—a position where she mostly fetched coffee, cleaned glassware, and stayed out of the way. By some strange twist of fate, she had ended up replacing her boss, Dr. Jason Wood, as Gotham's biological representative for this anti-drug investigation.
It was shocking, but knowing Bruce Wayne's influence and penchant for "charming hires," Adam wasn't entirely surprised.
Adam, however, knew something the others didn't. Pamela's future was tragic and extraordinary. She would eventually be manipulated into a cruel human experiment that would alter her very biology—turning all the blood in her veins into chlorophyll, rendering her immune to toxins, bacteria, and disease.
She would become Poison Ivy, Gotham's most dangerous eco-terrorist.
Poison Ivy's powers would one day terrify even the strongest heroes. Her lips could secrete toxins potent enough to enslave or kill, and her pheromones allowed her to control the hearts and minds of nearly anyone, except, Batman.
She had once used her powers to enslave Superman himself, sparking a brutal clash between the Man of Steel and the Dark Knight in the infamous Hush storyline.
And that was only the beginning. Her botanical knowledge allowed her to engineer hybrid plants—monsters of thorn and vine—that could level cities. Even the Swamp Thing, had admitted that Pamela's connection to plant life was a mystery beyond his own comprehension.
But the girl sitting quietly before Adam was nothing like the future Poison Ivy.
Pamela sat hunched in the corner of the bus, knees drawn close, trying to make herself invisible. Her bright auburn hair framed a face that was delicate and timid, her green eyes downcast. She looked like a frightened rabbit abandoned in a den of wolves. ᴛhis chapter is ᴜpdated by No(ᴠ)ᴇlFire.nᴇt
"Hey, Deadshot," Adam whispered, leaning toward his bodyguard. "I'm heading to the back row. Need to check the view."
Deadshot shot him a side-eye and snorted, "Oh, sure. 'Check the view,' huh? Don't tell me you're hitting on the country girl now?"
Adam grinned but didn't reply. He simply got up, walked to the back of the bus, and plopped down right beside Pamela without hesitation.
The poor girl jumped, startled by the sudden intrusion.