Over so many years, Pyrrha bristles with the right combination of words to hit John with. It's a bit like using mysterious munitions, not quite sure where the mark will land. Gets the job done.

The next marshmallow burns on the altar of their partnership while Pyrrha crouches to grab one bottle from below the sink and reaches up for another up high. She pulls out a shot glass and a whiskey glass. The first she fills with the bleach from below the counter. The second she fills with wine meant for cooking not drinking. She motions to the row of bribes which include a black crisped marshmallow threatening to collapse to goo.

"Not quite the same Earths," Pyrrha notes. John's cagey and a touch wounded. They aren't on good terms. She's not playing matchmaker, but if they're both running around trailing blood from open wounds, they aren't going to get anywhere.

"There's a lot of people from Earth here," she notes, "Why her? What about her? Is she really the only one to steal from the president?" It's his own jokes again, coming back to haunt him. Ten thousand years is a long time to sit in the background and watch.