Epilogue: The Garden of Lois

Sun. Water. Earth.

Her roots dug deep. Her branches reached for the sky. The seeds within her grew. Days and nights merged into one long cycle; Lois Lane never truly slept. She was awake, aware, and yet dreaming. When the dawn came, her flowers opened, face turned toward the sun. Soon, the gardener would come.

Drool puddled in her mouth. Bees buzzed, but they could not pollinate her flowers. Earthworms coiled about her roots. She could feel the seeds swell in what had been her belly, swollen now like a gourd. Every day, the gardener would come...and cum. The hard cock sliding down her throat. The rich protein pouring down her gullet. Feeding her the nutrients that her sprouts needed to grow.

Every day.

The sun was high in the sky. Discontent disturbed the plant-woman's meditations. Where was the gardener?

Something moved through the Green. Huge, like an elephant among the forest. The leaves and grasses awoke to his passing...yes, Him. Lois could sense his coming, even before he found her. So huge, masculine, a living ****, it made her buds swell just to feel the passing of his presence...and then it stopped and focused on her.

Not with her long-unused eyes did Lois see him. The somber face, almost human, of matted plant matter. The deep-set eyes and heavy brow. He knelt and gathered himself. Carefully, swamp-stained fingers peeled back her petals, so that he stared full into her face.

"Little flower," his voice rumbled, the memory of lungs moving the air. His breath smelled of bright green growing things. "I have found you at last. Your friends have been very worried...hmmm."

A hand settled on the swollen gourd at the base of her body. The bloated green breasts began to ooze a sweet, milky sap from the dark green nipples as she felt his fingers gently explore the rind that covered her womb.

"This complicates things," the Swamp Thing hummed to himself.

They spoke then, though "spoke" is wrong, since Lois had no more words to speak with. Yet she had memories, images, flavors, sensations. Strung together into a narrative of her pollination, transplantation. Over and over, the image of the gardener returned. The shape of the cock, the sound of the voice, the hot thick sludge of her fertilizer sliding down the plant-woman's throat. The Swamp Thing kept his own council, until the end.

"Your gardener is...gone, little flower," he rumbled. "There are roots the stretch even down to Hell, and there she is bound. For you...well, we will do what we can."

Superman stared at the Swamp Thing as he relayed the message.

"She is...with sprouts," he rumbled, the English words coming with difficulty. "We must allow her to...germinate...before we attempt restoration."

"But she's alive?" He said. The Swamp Thing nodded.

Batman laid a hand on the Man of Steel's shoulder.

"It's all in the hands of the mystics now," he said. "Zatanna assures me that they've captured Blaze, and I have round-the-clock security on the garden. We'll find a way to bring her back."

With haunted eyes, Superman nodded. He stared at Swamp Thing.

"Is there anything I can do?" The most powerful man on the planet spoke with an air of desperation.

"Hmmm," Swamp Thing considered. "You could...talk to her. Plants...like talk."