Chapter 27

Edward Nigma, the Riddler, pressed himself against a cold, rusted beam in the bowels of the abandoned power plant. The shadows were thick as ink, the air heavy with mold, machine oil, and… fear. His sharp mind, usually cold and calculating, now raced like a chess master before a decisive move. The plan is flawless, he assured himself, fingers tapping nervously on his tablet. Penguin is the perfect pawn in their minds. He'll spark paranoia in their strategist. The mysterious "X" behind Ivy… Nigma pictured his opponent. …his head's splitting with guesses now. He sees conspiracies in every shadow. Nigma judged by himself—such an intellectual challenge would've driven him wild with excitement.

He was certain. They'd come here. To the power plant. Because this was their true target. Here hid them: the Joker, Scarecrow… and himself, the puppeteer. The power plant wasn't just a trap—it was bait for hunters of Gotham's most dangerous beasts. But to ensure their arrival and prevent a remote strike that'd reduce his intricate trap to dust, he'd taken a step that turned even his own stomach.

Innocents. Ordinary people. Snatched from dark alleys. Handed to madness. The Joker, with his surgical nightmare, had warped their faces into grotesque parodies of Two-Face, Penguin, Scarecrow. Stitches like spiderwebs pulled skin into horrific grins, cuts mimicked scars, eyes wide with mute terror under taut flesh masks. And Scarecrow… oh, Scarecrow had implanted microcapsules of his hellish cocktail—toxins to burn away sanity, turning them into twitching, hissing puppets driven by blind rage on command. Perfect bait for Power Girl. Living embodiments of suffering she couldn't ignore.

"Seventy percent," Nigma hissed into the dark, his voice dry as a leaf scraping metal. "They'll send her. She's the hammer: fast, strong, recklessly compassionate, the perfect victim for our mousetrap. The key—the kryptonite cage, courtesy of Lex Luthor. It'll sap Kara Zor-El's superhuman might to that of a strong athlete; her speed won't save her once she's inside. And then… Bane will break her." Amusingly, Luthor asked for nothing in return, though Nigma suspected his interest in Pamela Isley—but what did it matter, as long as the cage worked?

Monitors in the makeshift control nook flickered dimly. Suddenly, a shadow darted across one screen, slicing the air with a faint buzz. A scout drone. Predictable as a Monday morning.

"Obvious," Nigma snorted, pressing a button. Jammers roared. The first drone plummeted, shattering on the concrete with a crunch. But more followed. And more. They zipped past, their cold electronic eyes scanning the gloom. "Fiber-optic connection? Fine, let them look. Let them see them."

Figures flashed on the screens. Distorted, for now just shifting uneasily in their gruesome "costumes." A "Scarecrow" in a tattered robe, a "Two-Face" with half a charred face, a "Penguin" with a hump. Under layers of makeup and shadow, their faces looked unnatural but… lost.

BOOM!

The sound wasn't just loud. It was physical. A shockwave rattled the power plant. Dust rained from the ceiling of the control nook. On the main screen, showing the exterior, she stood in a crater from her impact. Power Girl. Her white suit cut through the grimy half-light, red cape fluttering like a bloodied banner. Her face… oh, her face was a mask of pure, unbridled fury aimed at the "villains" holding innocents in terror. Her eyes blazed with cold white fire. She surged forward, a white lightning bolt.

Nigma couldn't suppress a triumphant sneer. "Predictable!" he exhaled, venomous glee in his voice. "Seeing suffering, she forgets caution. Walks into the trap like a moth to flame."

Power Girl burst into the hall. Massive steel doors slammed shut behind her with a bone-rattling clang. The steel jaws snapped closed. She didn't look back. Her gaze, full of wrath, scanned the figures in the hall's center, bracing for battle… and froze.

Shock.

At close range, light through broken windows revealed details the drones missed. Amateurish makeup. Crude stitches unnaturally pulling skin. The eyes… Gods, the eyes! Not the crazed glint of villains, but wild, animalistic fear mixed with pain and utter confusion. These weren't disguised criminals. These were people. Mutilated beyond recognition, forced into nightmarish roles.

"No…" Power Girl's whisper dripped with horror and disbelief. Her fists unclenched. Rage gave way to soul-chilling realization of monstrous cruelty. "What did you do to them?!"

Nigma pressed a hidden button.

Hell began.

A click echoed in the hall—soft but fatal, like a switch flipping in the hostages' minds. Their bodies jolted as if shocked. Eyes rolled back, leaving bloodshot whites. Mouths twisted into silent, agonized grimaces, drooling foam. Then convulsions—torturous, joint-wrenching spasms. Their "villain" costumes became tight shrouds as the people inside transformed into jerking puppets, driven by the blind, uncontrollable fury of Scarecrow's toxins.

With a gut-wrenching, rasping howl—more animal death rattle than human—they tore into each other. Nails became claws, ripping skin and clothes. Teeth sank into flesh—shoulders, arms, necks. A gaunt woman in a mock Penguin costume bit into "Two-Face's" arm, tearing out a chunk. A man in a "Scarecrow" robe smashed his head against the concrete, gurgling, as another "villain" clawed his back to the bone. The air filled with the crunch of breaking bones, the wet rip of flesh, incoherent screams of agony and madness. This wasn't a fight. It was a cannibalistic sabbath staged by tortured victims.

"STOP! STOP IT!" Power Girl screamed, her voice breaking with horror and despair. She lunged forward, unable to bear the sight. Her strong hands tried to pull the fighters apart, hurling them away with strength still potent. But, blinded by poison and pain, they saw no savior—only another threat, another source of unbearable fear. Her efforts only fueled the chaos. She felt her hands slip on blood and sweat, filthy fingers scratching her cuffs. Despair choked her. They're dying! They're killing each other!

Then, with a deafening metallic screech, the Cage dropped from the ceiling. Bars glowing with kryptonite's sickly green light locked around her and the writhing hell of flesh. The glow licked her skin—a familiar, weakening sensation, but today it felt trivial against the surrounding nightmare. She stood trapped in the center of this bloody whirlwind, cape stained, face contorted in horror and helpless rage. She scanned for the true villain behind this.

Nigma, watching her turmoil, pressed his radio's button, voice sharp: "Bird's in the cage! Phase two!"

One "civilian," disguised as Scarecrow and still thrashing among the fighters, froze. With a sharp, unnaturally precise motion, he tore off the grotesque rag mask. Beneath was a familiar, scar-riddled face… not a victim's. Bane. The real one. His eyes, shifting instantly from crazed glint to cold, calculated fury, locked onto Power Girl. A small remote materialized in his hand. "This is our ring," he growled, voice low as an avalanche. "The others… played their part. Time to clear the trash."

He pressed the button.

Silence.

For a split second, the hellish noise stopped. Power Girl glimpsed a tiny red light on the remote, the cold resolve in Bane's eyes. Then…

The nightmare found its sound.

Not a roar, not a blast. A wet, tearing sound of flesh. Like dozens of overripe fruits bursting from within. The hostages' bodies swelled, skin stretching to its limit, thinning, and… rupturing. Not from external force. From inside. A wave of warm, sticky crimson flooded outward, mixed with chunks of flesh, bone shards, innards, and cloth scraps. The kryptonite bars turned scarlet, thick streams running down them. The floor became a slick mess of blood, body fragments, and unrecognizable debris. The air reeked of coppery blood and the sharp, nauseating stench of torn guts.

Power Girl stood at the epicenter. Her white suit was gone, drenched in thick red. Blood coated her face, ran through her hair, clung to her eyelashes. A pinkish shred dangled on her shoulder. She felt the sticky warmth seeping through her suit, the sickening smell hitting her nostrils. Her body shuddered, stepping back instinctively—not from weakness, but from primal revulsion and horror. She froze, trembling, breath ragged. Then… she looked up. Through the blood dripping from her brows, her eyes—not just furious but crazed from the nightmare, burning with icy hatred—found Bane, standing inside the cage mere steps away, his figure also splattered red.

Bane didn't wait. He stepped forward, his massive fist—capable of crushing concrete—clenched, raised for a devastating blow to her blood-soaked head.

The strike landed with titanic force. Right on target.

But the sound was wrong.

Not the sharp crack of flesh. Not the crunch of bone. A dull, wet SPLAT. The "Power Girl's" head… exploded. Not into bone and brains, but into clumps of sticky, dark-brown mud. The body collapsed under the blow, like a sandbag, melting into a shapeless puddle, mixing with the blood, flesh, and guts on the floor.

Silence. Thick, oppressive, broken only by the soft drip of blood from the bars. Even Bane froze, fist still extended, coated in clay, blood, and bits of what was moments ago a "face."

Then the mud stirred. Clumps crawled, fusing, rising at alarming speed. A clay pillar formed, quickly shaping into something massive, crude, far taller than Bane. Features emerged—a wide, grinning mouth, deep eye sockets. The figure loomed to its full, towering height, its body glistening with wet, earthy sheen under the kryptonite's green glow and the red blood on the walls. Clayface. He slowly turned his malleable head toward the stunned Bane, just a step away.

"Well," his voice rumbled, low as an underground tremor, mocking as a creaking door. "Rate my acting. One to ten?"

In the control nook, Nigma stood rooted. His tablet slipped from numb fingers, shattering on the concrete. He didn't notice. His wide eyes, behind his glasses, were glued to the screen where the clay giant taunted his strongest fighter. His perfect plan, his layered intrigue, his genius calculations… crumbled to dust. Not from strength. Not from speed. From deception. Crude, primal disguise. He'd been outwitted. They'd turned his theater of cruelty against him. The feeling was sharper than a knife, burning like acid. This wasn't just failure. It was mockery of his very existence—his intellect. Cold, sticky fear mixed with all-consuming, humiliating rage ran down Nigma's spine. He wasn't just beaten. He was ridiculed. Unbearable. On the screen, the image flickered—blood dripping down the camera lens in the hall created the effect of crimson tears streaming across his monitor.