Batwoman

The Reality Wave doesn't just ripple; it shatters.

In the original timeline, Kate Kane was the pinnacle of discipline. As Batwoman, she was a shadow in the night, a tactical genius with a razor sharp mind and a fierce, unwavering devotion to her identity. She was a woman of iron will, her combat suit a masterpiece of armored utility, her heart anchored by her love for women and her sense of justice.

Then, the Wave strikes.

The dark, brooding atmosphere of Gotham City warps. The gothic spires don't disappear, but they become garish, twisted, and neon drenched. The shadows become loud. The very air tastes of bubblegum, gunpowder, and cheap, intoxicating pheromones.

Kate Kane is in the middle of a high stakes rooftop pursuit when the shift happens. One moment, she is calculating the trajectory of a Batarang; the next, her brain feels like it's being scrubbed with pink sandpaper. The tactical HUD in her cowl flickers and melts, transforming into a garish, smiling jester mask.

Her armored, tactical bodysuit begins to groan and stretch. The heavy Kevlar plates soften, turning into tight, skin tight latex that clings to her with a ****, erotic suction. Her muscular, combat ready physique undergoes a violent, hyper feminine expansion. Her shoulders narrow, her waist cinches in with a sickening, magical snap, and her hips flare out into massive, swaying curves that make her balance on the rooftop nearly impossible. Her breasts, once firm and functional for combat, swell into enormous, heavy globes that bounce rhythmically with every breath she takes, threatening to burst through the red and black latex.

The most devastating change, however, is the mental erasure.

The fierce, independent Kate Kane is drowned out by a manic, high pitched giggle that seems to vibrate from her very soul. Her memories of her sisters, her parents, and her love for women don't just fade they are rewritten as "boring," "unfun," and "totally wrong." The concept of a woman's touch suddenly feels... empty. Shallow. Like a snack when she is starving for a feast.

Her eyes, once sharp and calculating, become wide, vacant, and shimmering with a permanent, **** out lust. Her lips swell into a thick, permanent pout, coated in a layer of glossy, cherry red lacquer.

"Puddin'!" she squeals, the word erupting from her throat with a manic, breathless joy.

She isn't looking for justice. She isn't looking for a mission. She is looking for him.

A shadow looms over her not the disciplined shadow of a hero, but the chaotic, laughing shadow of a monster. The Joker steps into the moonlight, his grin wider and more jagged than ever. He isn't a villain to be defeated; he is the sun around which her entire, hollowed out world orbits.

"Ready for some fun, Harls?" the Joker cackles, his voice a grating, ecstatic rasp.

Kate no, Harley doesn't even reach for a gadget. She lunges at him, her massive hips swaying provocatively, her hands reaching not to strike, but to grab, to pull, to worship. She presses her enormous, latex clad chest against his lanky frame, her eyes rolling back in her head as she catches the scent of his madness and his musk.

"Anything for you, Puddin'!" she chirps, her voice a vapid, melodic trill. "Just tell me who to use... or who to be used by! I'm feeling so... so empty!"

She looks out over the Gotham skyline, and instead of a city to protect, she sees a playground of men waiting to be worshipped. The Bat symbol on her chest has been replaced by a giant, grinning red heart, and the only mission left in her head is the pursuit of the next massive, throbbing thrill.