The winter months had been cruel to Gotham. As January faded to make way for February, there were no signs of sunlight, and the promise of spring - a lie. Banks of smothering, grey cloud descended over the city. Blankets of snow hugged the sidewalks, and shards of ice decorated the tallest spires of the highest buildings. It was a winter unlike any in modern memory, claiming the lives of even the hardiest rough-sleepers. The city was ugly to look at even at the height of summer when the central park was lush and green - in winter it was downright depressing.

It was quiet in the streets of midtown, where the upper class of Gotham clashed with the criminal underworld, all at the expense of the middle-class, good-willed citizens simply trying to make ends meet. Crime had been quelled of late, as the shadow of a bat moved through the night under the moonlight. The heart of criminality was kept beating by the blood of the poor, and enriched by the wealth of the rich. Without both, they had become desperate. The icy weather had also frozen the brackish waters of Gotham Harbour, making the shipping of goods to the city docks increasingly difficult.

Many had fled in the wake of an approaching polar vortex, the tip of its deadly eye having already left much of New York uninhabitable. Gotham, however, lay a hundred kilometers from the path of the vortex - safe, for now. Still, with the temperatures plummeting, the city was still very much alive. The rapid decay of the climate was the least of many people's concerns however, as unemployment skyrocketed to new levels. On the other side of the street, there was a protest outside the shopping mall. A number of stores had closed, resulting in substantial job losses. The government, initially, was to blame for Gotham's employment crisis, but the rising figures of homes being repossessed, and the sheer volume of people thrown onto the streets was the fault of The Westwood Corporation. In the past month or so, the corporation had moved its pharmaceutical sub-branch to uptown Gotham, the skyscraper glistening like a diamond even in the encompassing clouds. It even rivalled Wayne Tower - which had stood watch over Gotham for thirty years - for its height and modern design.

The grey concrete covered in a fine blanket of snow was suddenly pushed aside by a man with a shovel, complaining as a young woman marched past. "Don't mind me, love, just doin' a job 'ere you know."

She almost didn't notice when a pile of snow was thrown against her back, soaking her fur coat. It was all she could do to exhale, rolling her eyes before continuing down the pavement. She hugged her arms to her chest, rubbing her gloved-hands together as her breath erupted from her parted lips in the form of a white poof.

A stack of newspapers was thrown across her feet, splashing a puddle that sprayed muddy water across her black tights. "Excuse me, do you mind?"

The news-agent simply winked at her - enjoying his handiwork. "Sorry, didn't you see you there."

Her gaze followed the gentle fall of frozen rain to the front cover of the newspaper. She rushed to seize a copy, crushing the paper as she held it possessively. A strange tearing sensation ripped across her chest, tightening her lungs and stealing the warmth from her blood as the headline read: "WESTWOOD HEIRS: DEAD."

"Are you 'gonna stand there and gorp all day or what?" he said, leaning against the newsstand with a cigarette hanging from his lip. "Buy it or wear it, lady."

Her hands trembled, before she reached into her coat-pocket and tossed a dollar in his direction. "Thank-you," she murmured, the rosy complexion of her cheeks turning deathly white.

It was all over the news. The central boulevard of Gotham's midtown had large, interactive screens hanging from the surrounding buildings. Various news networks reported the same information: the heirs of the Westwood fortune were dead. She felt a great degree of disgust, particularly for those appearing to celebrate the news in the streets around her; drunkards jeering in delight, and even a flock of wealthy women chuckling amongst themselves. And in that moment, she witnessed something seldom seen in Gotham - people united in joy, hatred even.

It was true: the Westwood's were vastly despised, especially by Americans. By far the world's greatest corporation, the Westwood family were the first to be declared trillionaires, and lived and breathed like the Roman consuls of old, leading a life of indulgence, and most importantly - power. In the west, power was everything. Even in a city like Gotham, power corrupts the most noble of men, turning them into depraved criminals.

While the crowd around her rejoiced, Georgina retreated into the nearby alleyway, slumping against the brick wall. She clutched her chest, the fabric of her leather-bound gloves crunching as she held her head in her arms. The voice of reason inside her advised that she should be happy, and in many ways, she agreed. Not like this. She told herself, the newspaper falling from her grasp. Her eyes were bloodshot, watered by her tears as they streamed down her cold cheeks, almost freezing as soon as they hit the ground.

Georgina gathered herself. There were far more important matters to attend to. Her shadowy silhouette vanished down the narrow pathway as the snow continued to cascade from above, covering the newspaper she had discarded next to a set of overflowing bins. The black and white images of two corpses began to disappear, one stained with a horrified expression plastered across her face, the other with a flower growing from his mouth, forks of amber-green veins spiralling across his face. The very sight of them was enough to chill her blood, but to see them dead, knowing they must've suffered before the end - sickened her to the stomach.

The double-doors swung open. At the end of the alley, seemingly concealed from the view of the public, was a small, rundown apartment complex that had been renovated to accommodate the editorial department of the Gotham Gazette, one of the city's lesser-known papers. Throughout the morning, the paper's social media had been exploding with activity.

As it failed to fit in with the politically-motivated, fake-news agendas of the more major papers in Gotham, the audience the paper appealed to mainly consisted of young adults, rebellious and enthusiastic towards entertaining conspiracy theories. At the helm of such a paper, was Alexander Sullivan - her boss.

"Georgina," he said, as she walked through the door, dragging her wet feet and snow-covered hair with her. "Why do you look so glum? Haven't you heard the news?"

He was flanked by a young woman, around about her age, but with a much more juvenile personality. She crossed her arms. "Have you finished editing my story yet?"

She darted in between them as they dispersed, dropping her satchel bag against her desk. Daisy Applegate and Alexander Sullivan - truly a toxic duo. More brawn than brains, and yet she was forced to work for them. "What story? I already finished editing the Bat vigilante piece you covered."

"Yeah, and?" she said, in a shrill voice, "that's yesterday's news. You're behind schedule. If you can't keep up with my talents, I might have to find another editor who can."

"Oh I love cat fights," Alexander explained in added enthusiasm.

"It would hardly be a fight, just look at her. Practically skin and bone."

Georgina's teeth ground together as she faked a smile, firing up her laptop. "My apologies, Ms. Applegate," she said, fighting the urge to be sarcastic - as tempting as it was. "If you could email me the details, I'll be sure to edit them for you."

"Today," she snapped.

"...Today?"

Daisy's tone quickly sharpened. "Oh, I'm sorry, do you have somewhere better to be?"

"I have a lecture this afternoon," she said, remembering the only bright spot the day surely had to offer. "I was hoping to have a clear desk by that time."

She laughed. "Is that right?" Daisy stormed over to her office.

Her boss cut in, leering over her. "You think you're something special, don't you? With your perfect little high-heels. Let me tell you something, girl, you work for me. I won't allow anyone under my thumb to waltz off half-way through their shift without a good excuse."

"It's not an excuse," Georgina said, "it's my future."

Daisy reappeared, carrying a huge stack of documents that caused her knees to buckle under the weight. She practically slammed it down on her desk, dusting her hands shortly after.

"What are these?"

"These are all the leads I have on the Bat," she informed, rather proudly. "Finish editing them, and maybe you can get to class in time."

Her heart sank. She scrolled through the endless streams of white sheets. "There's over three-hundred pages here - I'll never get them edited in time. This is completely unfair!"

"Life's unfair," Daisy whispered, smirking maliciously, "the sooner you accept your place in it - below us - the better off you'll be."

She felt her tear-ducts beginning to swell again, just like they did when she read that headline for the first time, but she remained composed, and simply nodded, keeping her head low as an awkward silence fell over the editing department.

"That goes for all of you," Alexander said, staring across the row of desks where a number of other staff were watching the situation unfold. "If you want to get paid this month, work hard."

The duo exited the room, practically skipping together like infants down the hallway, their laughter reverberating off the walls.

Georgina held her forehead. A hand pressed itself against her shoulder. "Are you alright?"

She peaked an eye through the gap in her fingers. It was Juliana, one of the paper's professional writers - arguably her only friend in this hellhole of a job. "Fine. Every time they talk I feel a migraine coming on."

"I know the feeling," Juliana said, "they seem to love treating us like shit."

"Disposable puppets would be more accurate."

Juliana rubbed her shoulder, comforting her. She had been working at the paper for a few years now, and had watched out for Georgina these past four months. The stack of papers was taller than the poor girl herself. "Give these to me - I'll take care of them for you."

Georgina revealed her face as she looked up. "You don't have to jeopardize your own career for my sake."

"My career is a dead-end," she said. "You, on the other hand, have so much success ahead of you. There are so many opportunities out there for a brilliant scientist. I would kill for a mind like yours."

"...That's if I even graduate - "

" - And what do they pay scientists nowadays, hundreds of thousands a year?" Juliana interrupted, looking around the room as she took the pile from her desk. "They pay us a pittance, and that's being generous."

She grabbed her arm, gently, before she could turn away. "You're wasted here," Georgina said, softly. "They'll fire you for helping me."

Juliana's slender, cracked lips formed a wide grin. The straggly, long, grey hair fell over one of her eyes as she replied. "Thank heavens for small mercies."

Friends were few and far between for Georgina. Those she did consider her friends she kept close, and in frequent contact. Juliana Northrop was a charming, elegant, but passionate woman in her late fifties, with grey hair and a slender, ageing figure, and was the very embodiment of her grandmother. They had formed quite an attachment these past few months, and whenever she felt like crumbling from the torturous ways of Daisy Applegate, Juliana was always there to pick her up.

"Go," she ushered her from her desk. "I'll cover for you, sweetheart."

"What about you?" Georgina asked, concerned as she reluctantly grabbed her coat.

There was the flicker of doubt in her eye, one she hoped the young woman didn't notice. For a woman of her age, finding employment in the current state the city was in was virtually impossible. Juliana cared little for her own welfare, as she saw a great deal of herself in Georgina; her long, silky dirty-blonde hair falling in waves across her back reminding her of her youth, when she attended fancy parties and was championed as the 'next big thing' in modern literature. The years had not been kind to her, and it showed as her voice cracked slightly. Yet she still maintained a hopeful, reassuring tone. "Come on, me? I'll find something else in this rotten town, don't you worry."

The other staff members exchanged worried looks. The Gotham Gazette was hardly a place for an experienced, elderly writer like Juliana to spend her final years in the industry. To serve under those two incompetent heads of the paper was an injustice.

"You shouldn't have done that," warned the paper's photographer, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "I know she means a lot to you, but you have to think of yourself. Why help her by putting yourself at risk?"

She blinked. "No one else will."

"Perhaps," he said, "that's a good thing."

"A...good thing?"

The photographer replied. "Gotham is no place for the weak of heart, you know that better than anyone. It'll eat her alive. Maybe Daisy's right - she needs to learn her place in this town before it's too late."

Juliana scoffed at the notion. "That girl may put on the visage of vulnerability, but at her core, she's just as fierce as the rest of us."

"You know her better than anyone," he admitted, placing a cup of coffee by her side, sliding the cream mug across the oak desktop. "Do you really think she has it in her?"

That brought a smile to her face. "Even the most delicate flower can bloom in the darkness."

The short trip across Gotham in the back of a dirty tram allowed Georgina time to compose her thoughts. Her heart still ached, and for the life of her, she couldn't get those ghastly images out of her mind. Her life had been turned upside down, and - as she dwelled on it the longer the journey dragged on through the frost-bitten downtown - the more she came to understand the sacrifices of those who loved her. Her eyes were dry, a numbing, empty sensation coursing through her veins as she stared out the window, her warm breath causing it to fog up.

It was beginning to reach the middle of the afternoon, and the tram was full to the brim; average, everyday people just trying to make their way home after a long day. The rail system was the brainchild of Thomas and Martha Wayne, the famous billionaires who pledged their lives to saving Gotham from the brink of economic collapse. When it was first constructed in the late 1980's, the city was on its way to recovery, albeit steadily, and - for the most part - the Wayne's were held in high regard.

Now, as she hugged her chest, eyes darting between the endless columns of graffiti and flickering, broken lights, the undesirable aroma of human sweat filling the enclosed space around her, the dream of the Wayne couple had seemingly perished. It was ironic that one of the very people they had tried to save gunned them down in an alleyway, all for the green paper in their pockets.

There was even a section of graffiti she recognized. The ink was etched across the plastic board in dark purple - a colour associated with a man whose name had since faded from living memory, a secret shared only by the victims of his madness.

Georgina felt eyes burrowing into the back of her head. She seldom travelled on the tram to downtown - it was dangerous. For a young woman trying to make her way in Gotham, a woman alone, there was good cause to be on alert. A few thugs had been pushing and heckling some pensioners not far from where she was sat, and at one point, one of them noticed her in the corner, reaching for what could only be a gun in his coat. She kept to herself, paying them no attention.

The gusts of wind flowing down the tram sent a shiver running down her spine. As the tram ground to a halt at the station, Georgina was among the first of the flock to filter out onto the platform, glancing over her shoulder with every turn and weave, carving a path to the concrete steps that lead down into a narrow street.

She froze half-way down the steps, dreading the thought of looking up, only to find a group of pigeons dispersing, wings fluttering in the air. Fear began to creep into the forefront of her mind, drowning her other senses as she stumbled over her feet, and before she knew it, rather than catch the bus like she did at the same time every day, she found herself wandering down a narrow street.

The street itself was dimly-lit, but above all - quiet. There were voices at the end of it, and as she appeared around the corner, a neon sign greeted her. The light pulsating from the metallic coils was bright-blue, blinding: feminine. It read: "SOFIA'S SAPPHIRE". She'd heard stories of this place; a club in the depths of Gotham's underworld, though she never expected it to be within such a short distance from the tram station.

Her eyes widened in shock when two tall, hulking men appeared at the end of the street. She hid behind the corner, peeking around to watch as a white, unmarked lorry reversed towards the entrance to the club. There were muffled voices coming from inside. More men joined them, emerging from behind the dull-blue silk curtain of the main doorway, carrying semi-automatic rifles. They grumbled something akin to human trafficking and working girls. When the container was unveiled, Georgina watched as a number of terrified, half-naked women were forced out into the cold, held at gunpoint. To her immediate dismay, most of them appeared to be minors; adolescent girls still weeping for their mothers.

Some of them offered resistance, and hit their bound wrists against the men forcibly escorting them inside the club. One of them refused to enter, clearly shaken by the screams echoing from behind the curtain.

"What the fuck is wrong with her?" one of the thugs queried, kicking her ankles. "Looks like we've got another broken one."

Another joined the conversation, much to the amusement of his colleagues. "Damaged goods, right boys?"

The girl couldn't have been older than thirteen, her entire body trembling to the core. She clung to the truck for dear life, gasping for breath like a crazed, cornered animal. She was barely-clothed, clad in a torn, black top, beige shorts, bra-strap on show, covering her small breasts - hardly suitable attire for such weather. From the dark tone of her skin, and the length of her thick, braided black hair, she was most likely smuggled into Gotham from India, or a similarly Asian country.

"I say we give 'er to Butch," another suggested, callously. "He likes 'em a bit broken in." That earned a few laughs from the gang. "She looks cheap anyway - I say we do 'er in. Sofia won't mind."

"Sofia won't mind...what, exactly?" The sound of heels clapping against the street-blocks caused the men to tighten their postures.

On the other side of the lorry, a luxury, white Bentley Mulsanne pulled up to the club. Out of the passenger side stepped a middle-aged woman, presenting herself in a white and black suit, high, crimson heels, poofy, full lips smothered in dark-violet lipstick. Her very presence commanded respect.

Sofia stroked her well-manicured fingers across his chest. "Are you suggesting I dispose an invaluable source of income, Vincent?"

He stood firm. "No, mistress."

"I think that's exactly what you're suggesting," she explained, her voice incredibly soft, plagued with false comfort. Sofia turned to face the others, shooing them away with a flick of her hand. "Continue."

The girl never ceased her pitiful whining, even as Sofia stood in front of her, a less-than-satisfied expression spreading across her pale, narrow cheeks.

She took her hand, gently at first. "Do you have a name?"

"Jehla," she said, frowning - distrust flickering in her brown pools.

"Jehla, what a pretty name. I'm sorry you've gotten caught up in our little sideshow here. My...father," Sofia gritted her teeth, "has men all over the city who would pay handsomely for your...company. Now, are you going to behave and accompany these fine gentlemen? There's all sorts of candy in there. I bet you'd like to try some."

The girl was smart enough to see through the woman's words. She leapt up, catching Sofia off-guard, and bit her arm, biting down with enough force to cause pain.

Sofia's men quickly grabbed her, holding her back as she gasped, feigning exasperation before her ruby lips curved into a smirk. "Stubborn little bitch, aren't you?"

"She won't be able to work on the circuit," Butch explained.

"It's fine," Sofia said, humming as she stroked the girl's hair. She turned her back to them, squinting as she almost caught sight of Georgina peering around the corner. "Where there's a problem..." The terrible bellow of a gunshot echoed around the surrounding walls. Blood stained the back of the lorry, ruining the pristine white overalls. Smoke rose from the end of her handgun, encrusted in diamonds and gold plates. The girl collapsed: lifeless. Sofia blew over the barrel. "...There's a solution. Clean up this mess. I don't want clients getting cold feet."

Georgina cupped her mouth, screaming into her hands as she pressed her back against the wall. Snow made way for the gentle drizzle of rain. They felt like tiny daggers of ice splintering against her skin. Nothing could prepare her for the silence that fell over the street, or the river of blood that trickled its way past, flowing down a sewer drain.

She looked to her left. There was a very narrow passageway leading around the back of the club that fed into the main street. Georgina was already running behind schedule, and any further delays would put her in a bad spot.

As the sounds of the voices faded into muffles, she slid her way past a few wooden crates, eyes fixed on the opposite street, hoping her presence would remain undetected. The criminal gangs that ruled the shadows of Gotham's underworld were not to be taken lightly, a fact of life she had witnessed first-hand, the ringing of the gunshot still echoing around her head.

Her heart stopped when she felt it - something organic. A pair of soft hands grabbed her by the collar, holding her close. "You know what they say about curiosity and the cat? I thought I saw you skulking about over here."

Georgina froze. She imagined then and there she would be shot, simply for being a witness to murder, the woman's grip tightening as she pushed her against the wall.

"What's wrong?" Sofia asked, pouting her lips. "Afraid I'll bite?"

"You didn't have to kill her," she protested.

"An expert on crime as well as a lurker, are we?"

Her eyes fell over the handgun dangling in Sofia's coat pocket. "I won't say anything. Not to anyone."

"Oh, they all say that," Sofia laughed, coiling a few dirty-blonde strands of hair around her gloved-finger. "Then they blab to the GCPD, we hunt them down, and - well - you probably know the rest. This is Gotham - a person's word only goes so far. How can I be sure you won't say anything?"

She dwelled on the question for a moment, the rich aroma of Italian perfume flooding her senses. It smelled expensive, but failed to detract from the fear coursing through her veins. "I haven't exactly made a deal with a gangster before," Georgina said, a large gulp flowing down her throat.

Sofia edged closer, pulling her around the corner and into a small storage area located at the back exit of her club. "You're a pretty girl," she said, taking a moment to glance over her features. "Hmm, can you sing? I'm in need of some new bar staff."

"Shoot them too?" Georgina raised a brow.

"...Did you like that?" Sofia tightened her grip, her full lips pursing, hazel-brown eyes sparkling. "Would you do it? Succumb to that power, the power to take a life?"

She laughed, nervously. There was a strange sensation in her stomach, not unlike something fluttering within. She wasn't sure if it was the fear of death, or the manner in which this big-time criminal presented herself, that silky, dominant tone that seemed to set her pulse alight. Her body resisted, and her feet felt glued to the ground.

Her lips widened into a broad, inquisitive grin. "You did," she sighed. "I'm blessed with gifts few women possess. I can always tell what a man wants, what he enjoys, what he...desires." The fabric of her leather gloves creased as she gently rubbed her index finger along Georgina's lip, which - despite her stern resistance - dropped somewhat. "But, to determine what heats a woman's blood - that is a rare gift."

"Y-you think you know me," she mumbled, her mind screaming for her to flee.

"In the space of a minute?" Sofia cupped her chin, looking deep into her eyes. "Yes, yes I think I do. You're an open book. Just look at you: there's a rain-cloud hanging over your head."

Georgina battled her emotions. "It's been a...difficult day," she admitted, sarcastically.

"Difficult? Haven't you heard, the - "

" - Westwood heirs are dead?" she interrupted, "not everyone is dancing in the streets about it."

The woman's grip moved to her neck, fingers coiling around her skin, choking her slightly. "You're angry at me for shooting that girl - do you have any idea how many people the Westwood family have killed?"

"...Thousands?"

Sofia's mouth hung agape. The sheer innocence - or ignorance - of this young woman was astonishing to her. "Millions. I've killed what, a handful of people in my time? If that. I run a lucrative business here, under the shadow of my father. Compared to them I'm an ant."

"But, why kill anyone?" Georgina's voice broke.

"...Why!?" she cupped her chin again, squeezing her cheeks between her digits. She shook her head. "How long have you lived in Gotham, girl? This is how it is. In this world, it's either kill, or be killed. If I hadn't cut off your little escape route just now, what do you think would've happened?"

She opened her mouth to speak, only to be swiftly silenced.

Sofia mimicked her expression, mockingly. "Exactly. You wouldn't have even been able to scream for help when my men trapped you in the corner, tearing your clothes off like starving animals, raping you repeatedly, until - when they were finally bored of you - left you to freeze and die."

Her cheeks turned blue. "Am I supposed to be grateful for this divine intervention?"

"You think I'm...divine?" she asked, voice lilting as her face crept closer.

"No, I - "

" - That's what you said." Sofia pushed her slender frame against Georgina's, displaying her surprising strength by keeping her pinned against the brick wall. It was frightening, but at the same time, oddly comforting. "Divine," she blushed, caressing her hair, "you really are a sweet little thing, perhaps too sweet for this town." The rain continued to drizzle down upon them as Georgina gasped, her head held in place as the gangster leaned in for a kiss, their lips barely touching before she turned away, directing her tongue up her cheek, slathering it in saliva, her moans audible throughout the affectionate display. "Hmm, now, about this pickle between us. I can't possibly risk letting you go, but, I don't want to kill you either. You're...how do I put it - involved now."

"I...can single a bit," Georgina plucked up the courage to inform her, despite her strong reservations in doing so. "Does that offer still stand? Will you leave me alone if I," she gritted her teeth. She had left one side-job behind her, and was now faced with another, far more degrading one. "Work for you?"

Sofia grinned, pulling her sharply from the wall to stand before her. "See? How hard was that?"

Harder than you'll ever know. Georgina thought.

"I might point out," she said, dusting her coat down. "Under my strict guidance you'll learn respect for me, and understand exactly why my business is so popular."

"...S-strict?"

"Strict." Her tongue rolled across her upper-lip, suggestively.

She gulped again, visibly this time.

"Meet me in this spot tomorrow night, eight o'clock - sharp," Sofia instructed, walking towards the other end of the street. "And remember," she raised her voice, retrieving her trusty handgun to spin it around her finger, "speak a word of this to anyone and I promise you - there'll be a bullet with your name on it."

Georgina imagined her luck had just about run dry. The well of fortune, as her grandmother would say, ran deep in her family. But here, in this city, in Gotham, she had no luck at all. Her mind had become an ocean storm, waves of emotions churning, foaming, one dedication clashing with another. And now, on top of everything else, she had a gangster on her back. Class would be starting soon, but she still had barely enough time to make it across town to fulfill her most important promise.

Not far from Arkham City, a small hospital stood on the outskirts of Gotham. It was privately-funded, but regularly used by the poorer residents of the city. During her brief visits every week, Georgina had heard whispers amongst the hospital staff that the pharmaceutical products, expensive equipment and professional doctors were funded by the ruling criminal gang that operated out of the Narrows, deep within Arkham City. Throughout the years when the caped-vigilante was active, the hospital's funds had dried up, to the point where those responsible for its inception were preparing to ship out to Midway City. With his recent absence, however, the hospital had quickly become active again.

The rain had failed to melt much of the snow that littered the hospital grounds away. The shards of ice that clung to the rooftops were dripping, however, and as she walked through the front entrance, still shell-shocked by the day's events, she noticed a significant warmth radiating from the vents above.

She knelt down by one of the grates. Out of sight, growing in the corner where a hole in the brickwork allowed sunlight to penetrate through, was a highly unusual flower. It was most unlike any she had encountered before. The stem was thin, lime-green, but riddled with bright-crimson thorns, which appeared to glow upon contact. She removed her fingertips from their reach, just as the flower's petals dispersed, revealing their brilliant, blue-yellow colours. Georgina was captivated. In the botanical laboratories at GCU, there were a number of unusual plants from all around the world, gathered in one extensive greenhouse complex. All paled in comparison to the gem she had discovered.

The area of snow around it, and behind the brick wall, had melted away. The heat she had felt upon entering the hospital, to her amazement, was apparently caused by this flower. Georgina snapped out of her trance as a shrill voice on the microphone filled the hallway. For now, she would have to abandon her find, and hope that it still remained in place when she returned. She had no idea, as she made her way past a group of patients, that - beneath the foundations of the hospital, a network of giant vines had begun to lynch off the pipes supplying water to the structure. A gentle trickle of water flowed through one vine in particular, whisking it away to an unknown location elsewhere in the city.

Georgina glanced at the clock hanging on top of the wall. She had an hour before class began. There were sickly patients slumped across the spongy red chairs all around her. Some were children, pale-looking, their hair falling out in places, others completely bald. It made her nervous being in such close proximity to those on the cusp of death, when she had witnessed death not long ago. The image of the young girl's blood flowing down the drain still played back in her mind, and try as she might, it proved impossible to shake.

A nurse appeared in the doorway, hanging off the frame. "Ms. Sarkissian?"

"Yes?" Georgina replied, popping her head up from the crowd that had gathered besides her.

"She's ready for you now," she informed.

Georgina breathed slowly, following the nurse down the dimly-lit hallway. "Thank-you for using my adopted name, we were hoping to keep our identity under the radar, especially in Gotham."

"We are fully aware of your family connections." The nurse didn't even look in her direction as she marched on. "My employers respect the privacy of their clients, so long as they pay well. Which, I'm afraid, brings me to raise some outstanding points in regards to your next payment."

They stopped at the end of the hall, lingering in the doorway of a small room. "Don't tell me they're raising the prices of her treatment?"

She nodded.

"Now? How much?"

"Her condition has worsened in the past few days. We're doing all we can, but to maintain and limit the spread of the cancer requires skills way beyond the talents of our doctors," the nurse explained, coldly. "With the type of cancer she has, we need to undertake a major operation to remove the tumor. And, in order to do that, we need...more."

Georgina was handed a brown file. Almost immediately her eyes scanned over the document. "Fifty-thousand a week?"

"It's out of my hands, Ms. Sarkissian," she said, airily. A disinterested look appeared on her face in that moment. It wasn't her job to care, only to serve the criminals that ran the show behind the scenes without question.

Her heart ached again, but this time, as she reluctantly entered the room, stunned by disbelief, one of the strings snapped, the pang of pain caused in its wake radiating across her entire chest. She wasn't sure how she was still alive - the pain was like a hot knife carving its way through her aorta. At any moment she thought she might drop and bleed out. Upon seeing the frail, withered form of what was once a beautiful woman barely clinging onto life in the hospital bed, death would've been preferable.

"...Mother?" she said, softly.

Erin's breathing had been labored that afternoon. A nasal cannula was attached to her face, providing her with oxygen. Her lungs burned, but she could - for now - breathe fairly normally. "My Ginny," her cracked, pale lips barely had enough strength to form a smile. "I wasn't sure if you'd come."

"Don't be silly," Georgina exclaimed, stroking the wisps of her silver hair. "I wouldn't rather be anywhere but by your side."

She wheezed. "But you would."

"Don't exert yourself." The young woman fought the urge to look away, but she couldn't help it. "How...how are you feeling?"

"Hmm," Erin folded her eyes, "like I'm a trillionaire."

Georgina paused. "...You know?"

"You don't spend all day in this dump without hearing news of the outside world," she said, "I hear everything. So, Fenston's prince and princess decided to bite the dust."

"And that doesn't bother you?"

Erin coughed, lifting herself up to a higher sitting position. "I only wish he could've been there to see it."

"Surely you don't mean that," she asked, narrowing a solitary brow. "They were our family too."

"YOUR family!" Her breathing became more fractured as she attempted to raise her voice, and in her anger, only served to weaken herself. "Not a day goes by when I don't think of what he did to me, to us. We were everything to him, don't you remember?"

"...Of course I remember," she said, visions of her childhood resurfacing from the graveyard of memories she'd long since buried.

"The world was right there, ripe for the taking," she sighed, reminiscing. "And then he just...abandoned us. The only two out of eight billion who mattered. And for what? All because I couldn't give him a son. I was too weak for him." Erin looked down at herself. "Well, he wasn't wrong, good old Fenston."

Georgina grimaced. It was tough seeing her mother in such a state. "It's not too late. The doctors, they can still fix this."

"Ginny, look at me."

She turned away, trembling.

Erin persisted. "Look at me."

In her mind, she still saw her mother as the young, happy woman she'd been when they lived in England, when they would play in the gardens of the mansion grounds, chasing butterflies through the hedgerows, singing songs to the blossoming trees. The image faded as she watched her, the once healthy, rosy cheeks replaced by slender, wrinkled skin, veins popping from her arms, barely holding any substance to them at all. The blooming hedgerows also disappeared, replaced by a hospital bed, machinery filling the spaces where flower patches once stood.

"You don't feel an ounce of remorse for that man, you understand? You have to be tough now."

She sobbed. "I'm not strong enough. We should never have come here."

Erin rested her palm atop her hand. "You put too much pressure on yourself. Do you know what I think?"

Georgina looked up, eyes bloodshot. "W-what?"

"I think you're the strongest person in the world, and one day, everyone will know it," she winked. "Listen to me now. I don't want you wasting your life worrying about me. The future is yours - seize it."

"They can still save you," she said, a lengthy pause filling the room. "I can still save you. I've been working on something in the labs, they haven't spotted me yet, I've been wise enough to hide it from them, but - "

" - Ginny," Erin tapped her hand. "Stop."

"...I can't stop. You're all I have."

Erin said, confidently. "Yes you can, and you will. There's a darkness in you that lingers in the blood of every Westwood since Barclay of the mid-1700's. Use it. Wield it. Show those brainless oafs at the University just what you're capable of."

She smiled slightly, wiping a tear from her eye. "What if I fail?"

"Well, then I suppose you'll just have to kill them all..." she humored.

That appeared to cheer the young woman up to an extent. She held her mother's hand. "I will do all I can to make a difference, I promise. But I won't stand by and watch you die. I know I can find a cure."

Her mother simply nodded in silence, cupping her mouth as she yawned. There was no use fighting, and she was exhausted. "Do you mind? It can get so uncomfortable, and I'm so tired. I'm always...so...tired."

Georgina adjusted the pillow, watching as Erin began to drift off. She looked at her properly for the first time in years. The tears suddenly dried up. Her fingers curled into tight fits, shaking, cracking, eyes full of hate, but most importantly, determination. The sight of her mother had ignited something deep inside, hidden away, and a newfound heat began to grow in her stomach.

She returned to the spot where she had encountered the flower previously, and - to her relief - rediscovered it perched in the exact same place. Checking to see if no one was watching, she picked it from the grate, breaking the seal of its stem before placing it in her coat pocket. There was something that drew her to the flower, some ethereal will persuading her to simply take it. Unbeknownst to her, as she fled the hospital and hailed a cab on the side of the street, a pheromone trail oozed from the flower, melting the surrounding snow and ice as it ebbed and flowed through the cool air. In that moment, a pair of bright green eyes opened.

The city streets of Gotham were far and away more depressing than she had anticipated. The icy conditions didn't sit well with her long, lush magenta-red hair. As she walked through the dark alleyways, accompanied by her mutated servant, the woman that was once Pamela Isley began to fill the walls with the sound of her soothing voice. "It seems my darlings have already taken up root in this foul city. These worthless, mammalian sacks walking around with unbridled arrogance to their steps," she spoke, tending to a few weeds that were dying by a couple of overflowing bins. "There's human filth everywhere. How are plants expected to grow under such toxic conditions? No matter, no matter - Mother Nature is here now."

As she ran her green-painted fingertips over the brown, torn leaves, they suddenly began to grow monstrous in size. The slabs of concrete split apart as their roots swelled, rapidly expanding in every direction, their stems climbing to the top of an apartment staircase on the side of the adjacent building. It was all she could do but stand and admire her handiwork; a simple touch enough to convince the ailing plant to flourish, all for her.

"Turkish Baths. Bane, darling," Ivy snapped her fingers, practically skipping up to an entrance of some description. "This looks promising."

The brute of a man lumbered up to the wooden slats, spray-painted in various, luminous colours. His fists pounded against the woodwork, snapping them clean in two, grunting as he did so. Ivy simply admired her palm as she waited, a purple-red leaf resting in the centre.

Dust flowed from the wake of the destruction as the two entered the former bathhouse. It had long been deserted, but there was another criminal gang, sporting UV-painted masks and hoodies, squatting on the premises nonetheless. They were defensive at first, taken by surprise as the huge, hulking form of Bane smashed his way through the entrance, but when the lithe shape of a dainty redhead appeared behind his shadow, stealing the limelight for herself, they became entranced.

"A little fixer-upper if you ask me, but nothing a little greening won't improve," she said, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. It was only when the gang leapt up from their silk pillows did she cast her chlorophyll-gaze upon them with disdain. "Ah, a minus - current tenants."

"You look good enough to eat," one of them openly suggested.

Ivy grinned. Her fiery mane of hair was concealed by a translucent, forest-green headscarf, and her slender frame clad in a sparkling, green-diamond bodice. Her arms were concealed beneath the soft, tight, light green fabric that matched those that covered her long, firm legs, complete with leaf-patterned, heeled-boots that almost reached her knees. She was, in a better sense of the word, irresistible in the eyes of the UV-gang.

"That I am," Ivy agreed, silkily. "Why don't you...come and get me, if you can?" Her hand pressed against the activation pad that allowed the increase of venom to flow through Bane's body, building his strength tenfold.

The gang barely stood a chance as they battled with the monolith to reach the green-clad prize - a diamond in their eyes. One of them managed to land a blow against his side, as Ivy laughed in amusement, enjoying the show. She had grown rather fond of Bane - he was proving rather useful as her bodyguard.

Ivy gently waved her hand as they scattered into the alleyway, passing the brick wall and tall, black-iron gate that still stood nearby. "Don't forget to die on your way out."

The Turkish Baths was far more extensive - as Ivy began to explore her conquered setting - than she was previously lead to believe. There was a massive pool covered by a randomly-painted tar-pool sheet in the centre of the structure, with a glass ceiling allowing sunlight to flow down across it, reflected by panels to various parts of the bathhouse. Her boots clapped against the dusty, wooden boards strewn across the ground as her verdant cape trailed behind her. "Yes," she breathed, nasally. "This will do nicely. A fine canvas for my lush domain." Ivy turned towards Bane, using the extensive, subterranean root system she had weaved across the city to detect the flow of water beneath the ground. In a manner consistent with her impatient disgust, she motioned to Bane. "What is this floor?"

Obeying her commands, Bane formed a large hole in the floor, using his strength to form a depression deep enough for Ivy to access the large, water-swelled root below.

She crouched, exhaling as her eyes glowed. "I can feel you, sweetheart." Her hand hovered over the hole, fingers extending as the ground began to shake. She closed her eyes, straining her power as - within moments - the large vine crashed to the surface. "There you are. Have you been collecting water for my new slice of paradise?" Ivy gestured towards her pocket, stroking the earth. "My scouts have been assessing every corner of this wretched city, searching for the perfect location to grow my garden. Through them, I can see, feel and hear everything in Gotham. Enough of that for now - let's redecorate."

From her silk pouch, housed within her cape, Ivy retrieved a number of seeds. They resembled pebbles, except they had their own glow to them, a bioluminescence that interacted with the touch of her shimmering skin. She dropped them into the ground, filled with water by the thick vine, and began to crack open.

She stood back, raising her arms as tendrils began to slither and coil their way around the bathhouse, flowering and blooming. "It took evolution millions of years to create paradise - let's see if I can do better." The remnants of the bathhouse, marred by the pollution of the UV-gang, were swiftly consumed by gigantic plants, stretching to fill every nook and crevasse, exploring every niche within the structure. It was a natural process enhanced by her own unique biochemistry, and - with a little help from her scientific mind - one that worked to gradually transform the Turkish Baths into her own version of a rich, tropical rainforest: a garden of Eden. Ivy sat herself down on a chair by the plunge pool, watching in smug satisfaction as her lair formed before her very eyes. She crossed her legs over one another, and said. "Bane, I seem to have discovered a means of acquiring the proper tools to begin developing my growth enzyme. Gotham University. The laboratories there house a secret that I simply must claim for my own devices."

Ivy pouted her venom-filled lips as a large, fluorescent orchid bloomed besides her, stroking the multi-colored petals. One of her scouts, a flower, near the outskirts of the city, had - curiously - been picked up. Although the connection was being severed with each passing moment, she could see where it was being taken - the University itself. She grew comfortable in the chair as she watched the green image fade to black. There was a brief flash of an ID card inside a coat pocket, the momentary blur allowing her to ascertain the identity of the holder.

"...Georgina...Sarkissian," she purred, the woman's face becoming clearer as it formed a detailed picture in her mind. "Undergraduate in biochemistry, lectured by Dr. Erskin, head of the college of Environmental and Biological Sciences." Ivy couldn't help but bite her lip as she allowed the information to flood her. She turned to Bane, unfurling her long, magenta-red hair to allow it to breathe in the new pollen currents that descended from the flowering orchids above, who had returned to her side. "I can't help but wonder if there are any openings for a teaching position at GCU."