Batwoman (Vol. 1) Issue #6
The air over Gotham Harbor was a brutal blend of freezing industrial fog and the stale tang of the Gotham River. The docks—a desolate stretch of rusting cranes, stacked shipping containers, and slick, oil-stained concrete—were usually deserted before dawn. Tonight, however, the silence was shattered by the low rumble of heavy-duty engines and the hushed, professional cadence of military operators.
The meeting took place under the single, sickly yellow glow of a massive floodlight illuminating Pier 4. Two distinct groups stood facing each other across the narrow concrete apron.
On one side were the mercenaries. Commander Jacquelyn "Terminal" Reece stood like a pillar of unforgiving resolve, clad in her matte-black S.K.U.L.L. tactical armor, her white-painted skull faceplate catching the light. Beside her, Bob and Carter, the two soldiers who had betrayed Batwoman at the cathedral, stood guard, their heavy assault rifles held at port arms. The four matte-black Humvees, built for war, were parked neatly behind them, their heavy armor a silent promise of overwhelming force.
Between the two groups, secured on a light military stretcher, was Rose Canton. She was deathly pale, dressed only in a thin white hospital gown that offered no warmth against the biting cold. A clear IV drip was inserted into her arm, and the thin, sedated flow of fluid was keeping Thorn locked away.
Facing Terminal were the men who represented Project M, the client.
Dr. John Stacy, the Director of Project M, bounced on the balls of his feet, his enthusiasm seemingly immune to the cold. He was dressed in a pristine, if slightly eccentric, tweed suit, his dark eyes sparkling with manic anticipation. He looked less like a scientist and more like a giddy child waiting for Christmas.
Beside him stood Professor Hugo Strange, tall and imposing, his large frame cloaked in a heavy, expensive trench coat over his usual turtleneck. Strange was the epitome of professional detachment, his cold, observant eyes behind his circular glasses taking in the entire scene—the soldiers, the machinery, and the unconscious subject—with clinical assessment. He carried a heavy, reinforced medical case, presumably for the recovery and transport of their asset.
"Right on time, Jackie!" Stacy chirped, rubbing his hands together. "I can always count on you. Did she give you any trouble after the little incident in the cathedral?"
Terminal’s modulated voice was flat. "The asset is secured, Johnny. Full sedation. No complications after the initial, expected… resistance from the vigilante." She nodded toward the stretcher. "Payment for the recovery and delivery of Project Holland Subject 002: Rose Canton."
Strange stepped forward, pulling a small, specialized syringe from his medical case. He didn’t look at Rose, only at the readout of the vital monitor attached to the stretcher.
"The dosage appears correct," Strange stated, his voice a low, emotionless baritone. "She will remain compliant for the next six to eight hours, which is ample time for transport back to the facility. The secondary sedative, a fast-acting paralytic, is prepared for immediate administration should Subject 002 display any unexpected consciousness."
Stacy grinned, practically vibrating with energy. "Excellent, Hugo, excellent! The work cannot go on without her, can it? We are so close to truly understanding the… the connection!" He glanced at Terminal. "Your work here is done, Jackie."
Terminal gestured to her two men. "Bob, Carter. Transfer the asset to the client transport."
Carter and Bob moved to lift the stretcher, their armored forms easily managing the weight. The moment their hands touched the metal of the stretcher frame, the night exploded.
A high-pitched whine sliced through the harbor air, followed by the deafening sound of an explosion. Not a contained military blast, but a massive, chaotic eruption of fire and shrapnel.
The first of the S.K.U.L.L. Humvees, the lead transport, vanished in a massive orange fireball, sending its two-ton frame flipping onto its side. Before the shrapnel could even finish raining down, a second, equally devastating explosion consumed the Project M cargo van parked thirty feet away, the vehicle—meant to transport Rose back to her cage—contorting into a molten wreck.
The explosions had been perfectly timed and placed. They weren't meant to kill, but to neutralize the threat and seize the asset.
"Secondary explosives are armed on all remaining vehicles! Evacuate immediately!" a voice—electronic, sharp, and distinctly female—boomed over the mercenary comms.
Terminal spun around, her massive rifle sweeping the darkness for the source of the attack. "Batwoman! I should have known!"
From the top of a towering, thirty-foot container stack, a figure in crimson and black armor vaulted into the air. Batwoman, her cape billowing dramatically, swung down on a thin, high-tension cable launched from her grappling gun.
T he assault had been sudden, devastatingly effective, and utterly focused. Batwoman had her gear back. The utility belt, the grappling gun, the custom explosives—everything was in place. The humiliation of the betrayal had been channeled into cold, precise fury. She had used mini-explosives fashioned from her remaining batarangs and timed detonators, targeting the fuel lines and engine blocks. The S.K.U.L.L. and Project M transport capabilities were now molten junk.
She landed with a crash amidst the chaos, standing directly in front the unconscious Rose Canton, her twin collapsible batons extended, sparking with stored electrical charge.
"The deal is off, Terminal," Batwoman grated, her eyes narrowed through the cowl. "You don’t get to sell a victim back to her tormentors."
The dock was immediately plunged into pandemonium. S.K.U.L.L. soldiers Bob and Carter, dazed but alive, scrambled for cover behind the remaining two Humvees, their training taking over.
"Suppressing fire! Engage the vigilante!" Terminal roared, but her voice was lost in the crackle of burning fuel and the echoing sirens of fire trucks now surely converging on the pier.
While Terminal brought her massive assault rifle to bear, Hugo Strange reacted with immediate, clinical self-preservation. He didn’t waste a second on heroics or even shouting. He simply turned, dropped his medical case, and sprinted into the maze of stacked shipping containers, his imposing figure quickly melting into the shadows.
Dr. John Stacy, however, remained rooted to the spot, his face illuminated by the licking flames of the wrecked Humvee. He didn’t appear panicked. Instead, his eyes were wide, glittering with an almost transcendent joy.
"This is amazing!" Stacy whispered, his hands clasped under his chin. "This is so much better than working in a lab!"
Batwoman, meanwhile, needed to secure Rose. Her batons were immediately brought into play, deflecting the burst of fire Terminal launched at her. The sound of high-caliber rounds pinging off the armored plates of her suit was a familiar, unwelcome sound.
"Bob, get the asset!" Terminal commanded, keeping Batwoman pinned down with another stream of fire.
They had no idea Batwoman was one step ahead. With a powerful kick, she flipped the stretcher containing Rose Canton, sending it skidding along the concrete toward a deep shadow near the quay edge. The action was violent, but the skid provided the impact needed.
The sudden, chaotic movement and the proximity to the inferno were enough to break through the pharmacological chains holding Rose Canton down.
Her eyes snapped open. Not the tearful, confused eyes of Rose, but the glowing, vibrant green pits of pure, primal anger.
A sound ripped from her throat—a dry, rustling hiss that had no human origin. The clear IV tubing in her arm shattered, the plastic cracking like dead wood. The needle was torn out, leaving a small, black dot of plant life already growing on her pale skin.
The air around Rose Canton was no longer just cold; it was charged.
The transformation began, not violently as before, but with slow, terrible deliberation. Her skin darkened, the bark spreading across her limbs like a disease in fast motion. The red hair twisted into thick, fibrous green vines that coiled and pulsed with life.
Thorn was awake. And she was furious.
“Amplectimini mortem, daemones!” she screeched.
She raised her arms, and the dock answered.
It was not a gradual growth, but an immediate, cataclysmic connection to the living matter of the area. The air ducts and vents of the surrounding warehouses, previously dormant, tore open as thick, rope-like vines of English Ivy—mutated, thorn-covered, and pulsing—snaked out.
Thorn wasn’t just controlling the plant life. She was connecting to the industrial environment as well.
The great, iron-wrought mooring lines, thick as a man’s torso, suddenly became rigid, twisting and coiling like metal pythons. A massive, rusted shipping container, marked ‘Hazardous Materials,’ groaned as thick, powerful roots exploded from the concrete beneath it, tipping the container onto the S.K.U.L.L. Humvee behind which Carter was taking cover.
The screech of tortured metal was followed by a wet, sickening thud.
Bob, the remaining S.K.U.L.L. operator, raised his rifle to fire at Thorn, but two massive, six-inch-diameter dock pilings, previously used to anchor ships, burst from the ground like wooden spears. One skewered his chest armor with impossible force, lifting him high into the air, the other impaled his rifle. He hung there, a grim trophy of Thorn’s rage.
The battlefield had shifted from a military operation to an organic horror show. The dock was becoming Thorn’s garden, and the S.K.U.L.L. operators were the weeds.
Dr. John Stacy stood in the center of the carnage, his face wet with the spray of metal shards and organic matter, his tweed coat stained with a mixture of oil and blood. He was absolutely ecstatic.
"A greater spectacle my eyes have never beheld!" he screamed, bouncing higher.
A thick, multi-barbed tendril, looking like an ancient, razor-sharp black hawthorn branch, emerged from the exploded Humvee wreckage. It was nearly ten feet long and moved with the speed of a striking viper.
The tendril slammed into Dr. Stacy.
It didn't just hit him; it wrapped around his chest and abdomen, constricting with the force of a hydraulic press. Stacy’s maniacal scream morphed into a gurgling shriek of pain. The massive tendril pulled back, slamming Stacy against the metal side of a crane support. The impact crushed his ribcage with a sound of shattering glass, and a large, rusted chunk of I-beam, pulled from the ground by Thorn's control, impaled him through the stomach, pinning him to the steel support.
Stacy’s dark eyes, still wide with a strange mix of agony and joyous amusement, stared at the monstrous form of Thorn. Blood, steaming slightly in the cold, poured from his mouth.
"I have never seen a greater monster or miracle in the world…" he managed to whisper before his head slumped forward.
Batwoman, locked in her own brutal engagement, spared a glance for the scientist. He was gone. Impaled and crushed. The swift, uncompromising justice of his own experimentation.
Terminal ignored the destruction of her team and the apparent death of her client. Her focus was singular: Batwoman.
"You pathetic little amateur!" Terminal roared, tossing her now-empty assault rifle aside. She pulled two massive combat knives, their blades sharp and scuffed, from holsters on her chest. "You think you can play war with the big dogs"
Batwoman's reply was a blur of crimson and black.
The two fighters met in a shower of sparks and clanging metal. Terminal was a pure, brutal machine—a heavyweight boxer's devastating power translated into close-quarters military combat. Her armor was thick, her movements economical, and every knife thrust was aimed at a joint or a gap in Batwoman’s armor.
Batwoman, however, had the advantage of superior training variety and speed. She was an Olympic-level gymnast, an elite military mind, and now, a street-level brawler. She met Terminal’s power with precision.
Terminal swung one knife in a wide, sweeping horizontal slash. Batwoman ducked under it, the air whistling over her cowl, and drove the butt of her electrified baton into Terminal’s armored side. The mercenary grunted, the heavy armor muffling the blow, but the jolt of electricity made her momentarily seize.
"You’re slow, Terminal!" Batwoman shouted over the din of the battlefield, pushing the attack.
Terminal recovered, moving with a desperate, wounded ferocity. She lunged, dropping the knife and using her armored fist to drive a devastating uppercut into Batwoman's jaw. The blow didn't shatter the cowl, but it rattled Batwoman's brain, making her stumble backward.
Terminal pressed the advantage, closing the gap, a relentless force of black armor. She grabbed Batwoman’s left arm and twisted, trying to lock the joint.
But Batwoman used the momentum. Instead of fighting the twist, she let the pain drive her, pivoting sharply and unleashing a savage, unarmored boot-kick to the side of Terminal’s thigh. The S.K.U.L.L. commander let out a muffled cry of pain—that section of the military armor was less reinforced.
A crack in the foundation.
Batwoman didn't let up. She moved like a striking snake, dropping her electrified batons and using her gauntleted hands. She grabbed the collar of Terminal's armor, ignoring the woman's panicked struggle, and slammed her knee upward, aiming for the center of the skull faceplate.
The impact was loud, conclusive, and sickeningly final. The specialized fiberglass and ceramic composite of Terminal’s skull faceplate fractured instantly, tearing away from the rest of the helmet. The white, menacing mask spun into the air and clattered onto the oil-stained concrete.
She stared up at Batwoman, her green eyes wide with shock, before her head lolled back, unconscious.
Batwoman stood over her, breathing heavily, the remnants of her adrenaline fading to an icy, exhausted calm. Terminal was defeated.
Batwoman dropped her batons and turned toward the carnage.
Thorn was the nexus of a living storm. The cathedral’s initial attack was amateurish compared to this. The dock was unrecognizable—a nightmare ecosystem of warped steel, crushed containers, and the silent, impaled bodies of the S.K.U.L.L. soldiers.
Thorn, her bark-skin glistening, stood with a look of terrifying, cold satisfaction. The anger was gone, replaced by a strange sense of exhaustion and peace.
Batwoman glanced at the crane support where Dr. John Stacy had been pinned.
The thick, rusted I-beam was still there. The crushed ribcage imprint was clear in the dented metal. The blood was still pooled on the concrete below. But the body of Dr. John Stacy was gone. Not dragged, not pulled—there was no trail. Simply vanished.
The shock of the missing body was immediate and profound, a moment of impossible confusion in a night of savage certainty.
Before Batwoman could process the mystery, the air was filled with a new sound: the distinct, organized wail of Gotham City Police sirens. Dozens of them. They were closing fast, alerted by the massive explosions and the sheer scale of the chaos.
Batwoman looked at Thorn, then at the sound of the approaching sirens. There was no time.
She sprinted toward the living plant being Thorn, who was starting to revert, the bark receding to human skin, leaving her as the shivering and terrified Rose.
"Rose!" Batwoman grabbed the young woman’s arm, pulling her to her feet. "Listen to me. The police are coming. You need to go. Run. Find a place where you are safe, where no one can find you. Leave Gotham. Don't stop running."
Rose Canton, pale and trembling, looked at the figure in the bat mask, then back at the nightmare garden she had created. She nodded slowly, the guilt and fear battling in her eyes.
"Thank you," Rose whispered, her voice reedy and weak. She turned and, using the shadows of the containers, disappeared with the same silent speed as a natural hunter.
Batwoman turned to face the onslaught.
The first patrol cars squealed onto the pier, their headlights momentarily blinding. Dozens of uniformed officers and detectives poured out, their weapons drawn.
"GCPD! Freeze! Drop your weapons and get on the ground!"
Batwoman raised her hands slowly, making herself visible. She gestured toward the unconscious form of Terminal, the massive assault rifle lying abandoned, and the bodies of the S.K.U.L.L. soldiers.
"She’s the head of S.K.U.L.L., Commander Jacquelyn Reece," Batwoman stated, her voice low and modulated. "Private military operation. They were involved in… the transfer of highly illegal bio-weapons research."
A familiar figure pushed through the throng of officers—Detective Renee Montoya, her face grim, her eyes hard. She looked at Batwoman, then at Terminal’s unmasked face, and finally at the wreckage of the dock. The look was complex: shock, anger, and a deep, weary understanding.
Montoya approached the mercenaries, not Batwoman. "Secure the perimeter. Cuff her. Get a medical team here. Don’t touch the victims until forensics arrives. I want a full breakdown of this private military firm and who they work for."
As officers moved to secure Terminal and the surviving S.K.U.L.L. team, Montoya turned back to Batwoman. Their eyes met. The silence was thick, filled with the unspoken questions of the night.
Montoya just gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Go.
Batwoman took the cue. She fired her grappling hook, not to escape, but to ascend. She shot up onto the crane high above the pier, a black and crimson silhouette against the rising smoke and the flashing police lights. The GCPD had control. The objective—saving Rose and stopping Terminal—was complete.
She left the investigation to the professionals. Her work was done.
Kate Kane slipped back into her brownstone apartment at the crack of dawn. The sky was just beginning to lighten, casting a bruised, pale-blue light over Gotham. She had taken the long way home, running through the alleys, changing out of her suit in a secret location in the apartment building’s basement.
She was exhausted, bruised, and operating on pure adrenaline and fury. The missing body of Dr. Stacy, the impossible escape, played on a constant loop in her mind. It was a terrifying variable she couldn’t solve.
She quietly shut the apartment door and leaned against it, taking a deep, shuddering breath. The air in her home smelled of strong coffee and Renee’s familiar, comforting perfume.
She stripped off her civilian clothes, which felt alien on her skin after the armor, and walked toward the bedroom, planning a two-hour blackout sleep before having to concoct a convincing story for being out all night.
She stopped in the doorway.
Renee Montoya was sitting on the edge of their bed, fully dressed in her street clothes—khakis, a sweater, and her trench coat draped over the chair. She wasn't asleep. She was holding Kate’s batarang.
Renee looked up, her expression unreadable, calm despite the gravity of the moment.
"And you’ve been using my spare workbench in the basement since January.” Renee said, her voice “I put the lock back on, but the scent of poly-ceramic dust and gunpowder lingers."
Kate felt the floor dissolve beneath her feet. The secret she had guarded with her life, the necessary compartmentalization, was gone. She stood there, naked and vulnerable, exposed in a way the worst of Gotham's muggers had never managed.
She couldn’t deny it. She didn’t want to lie.
Montoya cut her off, her voice suddenly firm, laced with the exhaustion of a detective who’d just seen a city nearly swallowed by chaos.
"I was at the harbor, Kate. I saw the wreckage. I saw your military commander, Reece. And I saw you save that woman."
Renee stood up slowly, putting the batarang and the coat on the bedside table. She walked across the room until she was standing directly in front of Kate, close enough that Kate could feel the heat radiating off her skin.
Renee reached out, and with a gentle, calloused hand, touched the slight bruise forming high on Kate’s cheekbone—a ghost echo of Terminal's uppercut.
"I can’t stop you," Renee stated. "I’m a cop. I work within the system, even when it’s flawed. You’re outside it. But that doesn’t make you wrong. It just makes my life a hell of a lot more complicated. The Bats are ghosts. But you… you’re my life."
She pulled Kate into a fierce, desperate embrace, holding her tight, a silent vow of acceptance and fear.
"Just promise me, Kate," Renee murmured into her shoulder. "Don’t let the mask become the person."
Kate closed her eyes, the familiar scent of her home and her love washing away the cold of the harbor. "Never," she promised. "I’m always coming home."
Miles away, deep beneath gloomy Arkham Island and the gothic Arkham Asylum, Professor Hugo Strange walked briskly through the sterile, concrete corridors of the Project M subterranean facility. He paused before a room designated ‘The Holland Project Archive.’
Inside the clean, brightly lit space, Dr. John Stacy sat casually in a high-backed ergonomic chair, running his hands through a manila folder. He was dressed in a fresh, identical tweed suit. There was no blood. No crushed ribs. No impalement wound. The only sign of his recent trauma was the faint, lingering smell of copper and harbor oil on his coat.
Strange stared at him, his professional calm severely strained. "Dr. Stacy. I saw the report. The pilings, the I-beam, the massive internal trauma. You were dead."
Stacy looked up, his dark eyes sparkling with an alarming level of mirth. He snapped his fingers. "You worry about the wrong things, my balding buddy. We might not have the woman, but we still have possible candidates provided by Doctor Woodrue."
Strange approached the chair, his fists clenched. "I don’t care about the subject at the moment. I designed the medical protocols for Project M. There is no known compound, serum, or genetic stabilizer we possess that can reverse a full-body structural failure."
Stacy shrugged, leaning back in his chair, a mischievous, child-like glint in his eye. "A magician never reveals his best tricks, Hugo. Especially not to the man who thinks he knows the entire grimoire. Let's just say I have a slightly… enhanced constitution. A gift, perhaps, from an earlier experiment. It certainly makes field research more interesting."
He paused, a dark, self-satisfied smile curling his lips. He leaned forward and whispered, "I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live"
Strange recoiled slightly, the phrase carrying an unknown reason. It was from John 11:25, a quote about Lazarus. He said nothing more, simply turning on his heel and walking out, leaving Stacy alone with his triumphant laughter and his strange, unkillable secret.
Rose Canton walked. She walked until the concrete gave way to grass, the streetlights were replaced by the moon, and the stench of industry was finally purged by the damp, sweet smell of fertile earth.
She was in Dastmalchian Forest, a massive, ancient tract of protected land just outside Gotham’s municipal border. She moved instinctively, drawn by the pull of life and the deep, silent promise of safety.
The physical exhaustion was immense, but the exhaustion was also a comfort. The deeper Rose sank into the forest, the further Thorn receded. She was just Rose again: frightened, damaged, and alone, but finally free.
She stumbled to a stop in a small clearing, surrounded by towering, centuries-old oaks. She sank onto the soft, cool bed of moss and wept, the raw, human emotion purging the last of the Green’s savage hatred.
"A terrible night for a stroll, Rose Canton," a voice stated, smooth as polished stone and utterly devoid of inflection.
Rose froze, her eyes snapping up.
Standing in the shadow of a massive oak, perfectly still, was a man in a crisp, black business suit. His skin was transparent—she could see the delicate lattice of his skeleton beneath the clear membrane of his flesh, the faint network of veins.
"My name is Director Bones," he introduced himself, extending a translucent, gloved hand. His voice was deep and resonant. "I represent the Department of Extranormal Affairs—the D.E.A. We have been tracking the Project M cell for months, and we intercepted the communications regarding the Holland Subject."
Rose stared at the skeleton man, fear giving way to a weary curiosity. "Are you… going to lock me up?"
Bones’ voice was calm. "Project M is a criminal enterprise. You, Rose, are a victim, like myself."
He tilted his head. "The world is too small for you to hide from everyone, Rose. But there are places you can hide safely. Places where your… abilities can be studied and managed. Places where you will be protected from men like Hugo Strange and Commander Reece."
He paused, letting the silence settle around them, broken only by the rustling of the wind through the massive leaves.
"The D.E.A. offers you sanctuary, Rose. A new life. A chance to control the ‘shadow’ and find peace. You can run forever, or you can come with me and finally stop."
Rose Canton looked at the transparent man, the embodiment of a new, different kind of impossible. She looked back into the deep, dark heart of the forest. Running was exhausting. Safety was a mirage she had chased for too long.
With a deep breath, Rose Canton, the victim of Project Holland, pushed herself to her feet and took a tentative step toward the man named Director Bones.
"Where are we going?" she whispered.
"Somewhere safe, Rose. Somewhere you can learn how to bloom."
