Chapter 26

Chapter 26

In the quiet lounge, Harley, nestled against Pamela, twitched her nose adorably in sleep. A thin trickle of drool ran down Ivy's cheek. The air slowly filled with the tantalizing aroma of fried potatoes. Harley swallowed in her sleep, her nose quivering harder, and she woke. Pamela grumbled, stirred by the scent, then felt the wet spot on her shoulder.

"Ugh… Bulldog," she muttered in disgust, pushing away from the damp patch and poking Harley in the side.

They stretched and shuffled to the kitchen, where Alex, in an apron, deftly wielded a skillet. Harley, still groggy, beelined for the coffee machine. Pamela plopped at the table, staring at the cooking process with silent demand.

Pouring coffee, Harley snapped awake, as if recalling her last thought before waking. She spun to Alex, eyes glinting.

"So, you're modified! Spill! Flying yet? Got super-duper strength? Dick down to your knees now?" She fired questions like a machine gun.

Alex, focused on the skillet, answered evenly, "Not quite… Not quite… You can check the last one if you want."

Unfazed, Harley bounded over and nonchalantly patted his crotch through his pants.

"Mmm… Seems the same," she noted with clear relief, heading back for coffee. "Phew! Didn't wanna bang a horse, honestly."

Pamela, watching, frowned.

"'Not quite'?" she echoed, catching the oddity in his responses about strength and flight. "What's that mean? Alex, you're not flying? And the strength…?"

Alex plated the potatoes, removed his apron, and sat across from them.

"I tested my… upgrades while you slept," he began, snapping a crisp potato in half. "Normally, I'm stronger—about Harley's level post your mods. But there's a 'second mode.'" He paused, gathering his thoughts. "I can… accelerate my perception and reactions insanely. One second of real time stretches to about 223 seconds in my head. I can think, move, act in that accelerated flow. And during that one real second…" his voice hardened, "…my strength, speed, and endurance hit levels like Superman or Kara. Basically, in that moment, I'm a top-tier metahuman."

Pamela leaned forward, intrigued.

"Why just a second? And no flight? I did everything right with Kara's data… It's weird."

Alex shook his head, sliding plates to the women.

"You did all you could, and it's brilliant. The issue isn't you—it's the source material. Kryptonians…" he glanced aside, as if picturing their tech, "…are the pinnacle of genetic engineering and biotech. We might've caught up in gene editing, but in everything else… we're not even close. So don't worry. I'm happy. One second of acceleration and super-strength is a hell of a tool."

They ate in silence, savoring the simple meal. Harley, finishing her coffee, asked, "So, smartass, what's the plan with purple scarecrow dickhead?"

Alex pushed his plate aside, his gaze sharpening.

"It's complicated. Penguin wasn't fully under your toxin's control, just visually. He's in cahoots with Scarecrow. And Scarecrow, based on his named allies—'Bane, Two-Face, gangs'—is working for the Joker. The Joker's assembled a… League of Evil. Penguin gave us a location, the power plant—it's a trap. Question is: why?"

He laid out the logic chain:

1. If we took his word and sent mercs there, they'd be killed or captured. But they're cannon fodder. We lose no key players, only learn Penguin's a traitor. Not a big enough win for them.

2. If they'd lured you, Pamela—that's serious. But they didn't try. So the goal's something else, or they're making us think it's something else.

3. I suspect the Riddler's behind it. He's a clown obsessed with puzzles, but his plans are grand. He likely didn't show himself to Penguin to keep his involvement hidden.

4. But Riddler knows or guesses there's a strategist behind Pamela. He'd assume we'd see through Penguin. This is an opening move in a game with too many possibilities and questions. Does he know I'll spot Penguin's deception? And so on.

Pamela blinked vacantly, her brain clearly overheating from the logic.

"I… I don't get it." She spread her hands helplessly. "How do you predict someone predicting your prediction? It's… infinite!"

Harley looked at her with pity, stood, walked over, and patted Pamela's head like a distressed child.

"Poor Rosey… Head hurt?"

Alex grinned. He took a grape, hid it in his fist, and extended both hands to Harley.

"Guess which hand."

"Left!" Harley said confidently.

Alex opened his left hand—the grape was there. Harley smirked triumphantly.

"Round 2," Alex said, hiding his hands again.

"Right!" Harley declared.

Alex opened his right hand—empty.

"Round 3," hands clenched again.

"Right!" Harley repeated stubbornly.

Empty.

"Round 4."

"Right!"

Empty.

"Round 5." Alex's voice stayed calm.

"RIGHT!" Harley shouted, furious.

Empty.

"Round 6."

Harley, teeth gritted, glared at his hands, braced to lose again.

"Left…"

Alex opened his left hand—empty. He calmly opened his right, revealing the grape, and popped it in his mouth.

"Here's the deal," he said, chewing. "Round 1 was a test shot.

- Round 2: I think like you: 'He thinks I'll pick the same hand, so I'll switch!'—level 2, and I keep the grape in the left. You win nothing, so you up your prediction game.

- Round 3: You're at level 3—'He thinks I'll pick the same, so he'll put it in the left, but since it's Alex, he'll predict that and go right'—so you say 'Right.'

- Round 4: You think, 'Now it's definitely right.' You're not reasoning anymore, just emotional, and pick 'Right'—empty again.

- Round 5: You're pissed and double down, but still lose.

- Round 6: You've accepted defeat and pick left.

The key is to play one level above your opponent. If I'd assumed you'd predict my prediction of your prediction, I'd lose. If I played three levels up, I'd win, but not on sound reasoning. In real life, with more than just left or right, you'd lose."

Harley caught his drift.

"Okay, makes sense. But how do we counter Riddler? He's playing these games!"

Alex grinned—bold, almost Joker-esque.

"Rule one: If they're weaving clever plans, crush them with brute force. If that fails, rule two: Don't play their game. Rule three: If they drag you in, flip the board. Add chaos, pull a joker. Fools are unpredictable because their moves are instinct, not reason." He stood, eyes blazing with excitement. "Rule four: If you're losing, escalate. They challenge you to fists—grab a gun. They shoot pistols—launch a rocket. In our case? They bait us to the power plant. We'll go. But not on their terms." His grin widened, dangerous.