When Pamela Isley only narrowly escaped death in the terrible, horrible lab accident that mysteriously took the life of her dear mentor Jason Woodrue ... well, let's just say a few crocodile tears were shed. Academic politics more or less demanded that she exhibit some grief.
Rumors can be so toxic.
Now she's got bigger fish to fry, however, which doesn't preclude her slipping off occasionally to this charming interdimensional getaway.
"There's been some scientific skepticism about the supposed benefits of green tea."
One persona Bryce got good at as she went in and out of Ivy League universities: the big-eyed, slightly clueless heiress. (Compared to being the Bat, it's practically relaxing. Damn her throat hurts.)
"All right," Ivy is somewhat mollified, "well, most mass-produced crops-- which Camellia sinensis is, since every suburban housefrau with five pounds to lose is chugging it now-- aren't rotated with any frequency. It depletes the soil, in a few years nothing else can grow. Everyone loses."
She glances down at her tea and pulls a wry face. "I got to like it when I was in Asia. But there are ways you can deal with that, right? Nitrogen-fixing crops or something?"
All right, so she's not perfect at the bubble-headed type.
"The trouble comes when agribusiness interests won't convert any of their precious cash-yielding land." She makes a disgusted face. "Work it a few years, salt, burn, and move on."
She'd add the real problem, which is that it's perverse to breed plants together like chattel just so you, special snowflake humanity, can reap all the benefits, but she's learned that even in the bar at the end of the universe, people tend to react badly to that line of reasoning.
Rumors can be so toxic.
Now she's got bigger fish to fry, however, which doesn't preclude her slipping off occasionally to this charming interdimensional getaway.
"There's been some scientific skepticism about the supposed benefits of green tea."
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She takes a sip, then glances sidelong at the redhead. Very pretty, she notes absently.
"That so?"
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Ivy smiles, leaning her elbows on the counter.
"But mostly I've read it's those cancer-curing claims you have to watch out for."
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She makes a face. "Personally, I think Camellia sinensis is over-farmed."
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"You're drinking it."
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One persona Bryce got good at as she went in and out of Ivy League universities: the big-eyed, slightly clueless heiress. (Compared to being the Bat, it's practically relaxing. Damn her throat hurts.)
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Ivy sighs.
"Please tell me you're from a universe that grasps the concept of sustainability."
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She glances down at her tea and pulls a wry face. "I got to like it when I was in Asia. But there are ways you can deal with that, right? Nitrogen-fixing crops or something?"
All right, so she's not perfect at the bubble-headed type.
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"Sometimes that works," she agrees.
"The trouble comes when agribusiness interests won't convert any of their precious cash-yielding land." She makes a disgusted face. "Work it a few years, salt, burn, and move on."
She'd add the real problem, which is that it's perverse to breed plants together like chattel just so you, special snowflake humanity, can reap all the benefits, but she's learned that even in the bar at the end of the universe, people tend to react badly to that line of reasoning.
She's so fucking glad she photosynthesizes now.
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"Isn't capitalism grand."
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At the sound of the crack, her lips had pursed into a small oh; now she smiles.
"You okay, hon? That didn't sound pretty." Hon rolls off her tongue without the southern or sorority-girl inflection. It's a closer relative to baby.
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"Yeah, it's fine. Tough work-out today."
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