David Icke was sort of right
Another DC #1 with almost as many boobs as text bubbles. But as this issue reveals itself, so does Voodoo's motive for using her body to manipulate the same sex-starved, slobbering parts of the male psyche some other comics are seen to pander to.
After the cleavage, the most striking aspect of this issue is Sam Basri's simple art style. Fans of ultra-detailed comic-book art might not like it, but it foregrounds faces (where the important detail is) and looks stylish in a way that evokes Y: The Last Man (the main male character even looks like Yorick.)
If not for a reference to Superman on a magazine cover, this could be taking place in its own universe. That would actually be more fitting, as it seems like a horror story built on the simple idea that anybody you see could be a murderous, shape-shifting, reptilian alien; that could lose some of its magic when surrounded by gods, superhumans, and other alien species.
The characters were flat in this issue: Fallon establishes herself as a takes-no-nonsense sort of woman, but other than that, characters end the issue dead, unexplored, or incidental to the plot. Voodoo herself is more of a monster than a person, and I haven't been made to care whether or not she kills everybody else here. The dialogue isn't funny or riveting enough to make up for the lack of narration, either, so I can't care too much about the people in this story.
Voodoo has potential. But after one issue, it's still just potential.