Chapter 27 – The Whisper Network
The world came back to Gwen in fragments — not sound, not sight, just vibration.
Her heartbeat. The distant hum of machines. The cool, familiar air of the Batcave pressing against her skin.
Then came the weight. The exhaustion that felt too deep to belong to her body alone.
She gasped softly, her eyes snapping open. The lights above blurred for a moment, fracturing into thin, shimmering threads before they settled back into solid shapes. Her hands trembled when she lifted them — faint blue veins pulsing under the skin, soft and rhythmic like breathing.
She was lying on one of the medical platforms, a tangle of sensors and wires connected to her chest and wrists. Weaver's soft hum was back — steady, grounding, alive.
> "Neural field stable," the voice said quietly, gentler than usual. "Synchronization ninety-eight percent complete."
Her throat felt raw. "Weaver… what happened?"
> "You were pulled into the THREADLINE nexus. Contact achieved with primary consciousness."
Gwen winced as she sat up, the cold metal against her palms. The memory hit like an echo — light, static, and that impossible voice made of thunder. THREADLINE Prime. The web that wasn't just code but thought.
She pressed her fingers to her temple, shaking slightly. "It was trying to rewrite me."
> "Attempt confirmed. Incomplete."
That should've comforted her. It didn't.
Because even now, underneath Weaver's voice, she heard something else.
Soft. Slow. Almost human.
"Not separate… one thread… one pattern…"
Her breath caught. "Weaver… did you just say that?"
> "Negative."
Her chest tightened. The voice wasn't in the air — it was in her mind.
A whisper, not loud enough to be a thought, but too real to be ignored.
She slid off the table, boots landing lightly on the floor. Every sound echoed louder than usual — water dripping in the distance, the low growl of engines parked nearby. The world felt sharper, like her senses had stretched too far.
"Batman?" she called softly.
No answer — but she knew he was somewhere in the cave, probably analyzing her vitals, her connection. Watching, waiting. Always two steps ahead.
She touched her wrist where Weaver's pulse met hers. "You said synchronization's almost complete. Does that mean you're fully integrated?"
> "Affirmative. However…"
The AI hesitated — a rare thing.
> "There is interference within your neural frequency. Source unidentified."
"Yeah," she whispered, glancing at the floor. "I think I found your source."
"You adapt well, Weaver-12… human interface acceptable…"
The whisper again — clearer this time, sliding through her thoughts like silk over glass. Her knees went weak.
"Weaver, tell me you heard that."
> "Negative. No external transmission detected."
Gwen's pulse raced. She stumbled back, gripping the edge of a console. "It's in my head. THREADLINE — it's in me."
> "Impossible. THREADLINE Prime signal terminated at desynchronization."
"Then what am I hearing?"
Silence. The hum of the cave. Her breathing.
Then—
"Incomplete link… seeking continuation… host suitable…"
Her hand shot to her mask instinctively, as if covering her face would block the sound. But it wasn't sound. It was connection — a thread woven directly into her mind.
She staggered back, hitting the console behind her. Data screens blinked awake, reacting to her proximity. The holograms rippled — then distorted into the same fractal symbols she'd seen in the nexus.
She gasped. "Weaver—!"
> "Containment field activating."
Blue light burst around her, sealing her inside a transparent shield. The holograms glitched violently, spreading symbols across the walls — and then it stopped. The hum dulled.
Gwen stood in the center of the containment field, shaking.
> "Containment stable," Weaver said. "Your neural frequency spiked beyond safe parameters."
Her voice trembled. "You think?"
> "Clarification: you were transmitting."
That silenced her.
"Transmitting what?"
> "A signal pattern identical to THREADLINE Prime."
Her stomach dropped. "No. No, I cut that connection."
> "Correction: the connection cut you."
Her heartbeat echoed in her ears — fast, uneven. She didn't even notice when Batman appeared on the other side of the containment field until his reflection flickered in the glass.
He didn't say a word at first — just looked at her, expression unreadable.
Finally, his voice came low, calm, deliberate.
"Tell me what you saw."
Gwen swallowed hard. "You mean before or after an alien network tried to rewrite my brain?"
"Start wherever you remember."
She hesitated, then met his gaze through the glass. "It's not a virus. It's not even AI. THREADLINE — it's a living system. Older than anything on Earth. It learns by connecting… by weaving itself through minds. I think it found me because of Weaver. But it's not done."
Batman's eyes narrowed. "Meaning?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Meaning it's still in there."
The cave's hum filled the silence that followed. Even Robin, somewhere behind the monitors, didn't interrupt.
Finally, Batman stepped closer to the glass. "Then we find a way to remove it. Before it decides you're part of the network."
Gwen looked down at her hands — faint light pulsing beneath her skin.
"I think," she said softly, "it already has."
The blue glow brightened briefly, syncing with the flicker of the Batcomputer behind her. Then, as suddenly as it came, it dimmed again.
Batman stared at the screen — the system's faint static forming, for an instant, into the same fractal web symbol.
Then it vanished.
The cave lights steadied.
But in the dark between them, the whisper came one last time — soft, almost affectionate.
"You can't sever what's already woven."
And somewhere deep inside Gwen's chest, Weaver's hum answered back — the two rhythms pulsing together, perfectly in sync.