Somewhere in Egypt:
A sprawling house sat in the middle of nowhere, far from cities and curious eyes. Inside, a man in his late fifties sat cross-legged on the floor.
His dark hair, streaked with white, was tied back neatly. A close-cut beard framed his face, trimmed with deliberate care. He wore a dark green robe, his hands resting lightly on his knees as he sat in meditation.
When the room's door opened, he did not flinch. A young woman stepped inside, her long black hair swaying with each step, pale blue eyes lowering with respect.
She stopped a few feet behind him, "My liege," she spoke and waited for his response.
Ra's al Ghul opened his emerald-green eyes, disturbingly calm and sharp expression hung on his face. He rose to his feet without hurry, retrieving a tablet from a nearby stand.
"Athanasia, I assume you saw the announcement," he said.
"Yes, Superman seems fully ready for an open war. And it seems certain that Supergirl and Flash have already joined Batman's side."
Ra's scrolled through images and videos on the screen. His gaze lingered briefly on a still shot of the white-haired stranger who'd taken down Wonder Woman.
"And then there is the new one," she paused and continued, "there is no record of him before this incident. It seems like he simply appeared out of nowhere."
"This is of no concern to us," Ra's said flatly as his finger stopped on an old image; Batman and Superman, who were once allies standing side by side.
For a moment his mask slipped; hatred burning through his eyes, like a heat that radiated from a red-hot metal rod pulled from the forge, but his stoic expression immediately returned.
"The time we have waited for draws near. Let the gods of this world bleed each other dry. And when the war reaches its fever pitch, we will step in."
He turned the tablet; handing it to her, "Contact Professor Pyg. I want a full report. His progress cannot be delayed."
Athanasia bowed slightly, and replied in a crisp tone, "understood." She then walked out, leaving him there, alone with his thoughts.
Inside a Secret facility, Egypt:
The room was dark except for the white glow of a surgical lamp. A man in his forties lay strapped to a steel-framed bed, wrists and ankles pinned tight under black belts.
His mouth was forced wide by a crude metal spreader, skin pulled taut until it split at the corners. Every attempt to scream only tore at the flesh more, leaving him gasping in sharp, ragged breaths.
Tears ran down his face. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't beg.
Out of the shadows, footsteps echoed; it was a slow and steady walk. A figure stepped into the light; a man in a pig's mask, porcelain cracked at the edges, half his human face visible beneath the snout.
A clean white doctor's coat hung over a gray shirt and brown trousers. His hands rested behind his back, as he strode forward with a neat, almost formal posture.
Professor Pyg stopped beside the bed and tilted his head, watching the man's chest rise and fall in panic.
"Breathe slower," Pyg said softly, his voice was muffled but disturbingly calm. "If you hyperventilate, you'll pass out. And I don't want that. Not yet anyways."
The victim thrashed weakly, muffled sobs clawing at his throat. Pyg leaned closer, his mask softly brushing against the man's cheek.
"I need you awake. Every second of this matters, after all." He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a scalpel, holding it up to the light like a jeweler inspecting a diamond.
"Let's begin." He said as he gently brought the scalpel down, not at all bothered by the man trying his best to resist what he was about to do.
The scalpel touched his skin, the sharp cold metal sending shivers down his spine. The man convulsed, muffled shrieks breaking out of his stretched mouth. His throat tore from the strain, the sound devolving into raw gasps.
Pyg didn't flinch. He pressed the blade down with an uniform pressure, dragging it from his sternum to stomach. Not fast but not merciful, either.
The cut was shallow at first, just enough to paint the metal red. He hummed as he worked, the tune unrecognizable, like a child making up notes at random.
"Shhh," Pyg whispered. "You're ruining it with all that noise. This is a delicate work, and don't worry, you won't bleed to death. You'll feel the pain, yes. But that's the part of a great change."
The man bucked against the straps, veins standing out on his forehead. Pyg stopped, pulled a cloth from his pocket, and gently dabbed the sweat off his patient's face.
"Better. You don't want to look sloppy for your transformation, do you?" He set the cloth aside, then leaned closer until the man could smell the sour breath behind the mask.
"You feel the pain, don't you? The fire in your nerves. That's the beauty of it. That's when I know I'm still human too."
The scalpel slid deeper this time, parting muscle. The man's body jerked violently, hands straining against the leather restraints until the skin broke. Pyg tilted his head, watching the blood bead on the man's wrist.
"Lovely symmetry," he murmured as he looked back at the muscles he was carving up. "You bleed like everyone else. And yet when I'm done, you'll never bleed again. Dolls don't bleed. They just… smile."
He dropped the scalpel into a tray and picked up a big metal staple, it was clunky and stained. He pressed it to the man's chest and drove a line of metal teeth into the fresh wound.
His body writhed, muscles spasming, but Pyg only chuckled softly, fastening staple after staple like he was sealing fabric.
The straps cut deeper into his wrists. Every desperate jerk of his arms only tore the skin more. The contraption at his mouth kept his jaw wrenched open, skin splitting at the corners, blood mixing with spit.
All he could manage were hoarse, animal noises that rattled out of his throat, each one burning more than the last.
Pyg then moved around the table with unhurried steps, the metallic staple glinting beneath the surgical lamp.
He hummed softly; singing an off-key and broken little melody. More chilling for the quiet joy that he was reveling in.
He then put away the staple and grabbed the scalpel again, then pressed the blade against the man's upper arm and drew a line, slowly and gently parting flesh as if he were opening a gift.
His body convulsed again, and Pyg chuckled gently. "Ahh, I know what you're thinking," he said; his tone was almost soothing, almost kind.
"Why you? Why this? What did you do to deserve this?" He leaned close, the pig mask brushed against his cheek again, as his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Nothing, nothing at all and that's the grand and absolute beauty of it." He paused then added in a more chilling tone, "there is no reason, no higher calling. Just a grand art and with it, me, making masterpieces."
"I do it… because I can, to whomever I want to. Because you can't stop me, that's all." He bent close to the man's ear, whispering now, his tone returning to that eerily tender voice.
"Each time I carve you up, I learn something new, the delicate intricacies and beauty of a conscious life. And when I hear you break, when your eyes go dull and your screams turn into whimpers; that's the moment I know you're mine forever."
The man's eyes bulged, tears running down the sides of his face. Pyg's scalpel dipped deeper, widening the cut, then traced another across his muscles, carefully making places for the modifications as the man's blood kept welling, warm against the cold steel.
"You must think I'm cruel, and well, this is cruel, there is no denying it," Pyg murmured, humming the words into his own song, "but I'm giving you something greater than life. You'll never age, never decay and never be forgotten. A doll is forever."
He stopped humming, set the scalpel down, and raised his bloodied hand. His fingers snapped, Two spotlights flared in the upper corner of the room, revealing what was on the other side of the glass panel.
The man's breath hitched. His scream caught in his throat. Suspended by crude harnesses, two figures hung in the light. A girl no older than fourteen, and a woman perhaps in her thirties.
Their skin was waxen, mottled with the bruises of countless procedures. Stitches laced their limbs like grotesque embroidery.
Their eyes were open, glassy and vacant, yet their chests rose and fell shallowly; they were alive, barely alive.
The man's body strained against the restraints, his muffled cry tearing his throat raw. He knew them. They were his wife and his daughter.
They had been gone for months, disappeared during one of the raids of Superman's regime forces. Pyg watched his face carefully, then laughed. Not loud, not manic but a soft, almost fatherly laugh that curdled the air.
"There it is," he whispered. "Recognition, reunion. You see how easy it is for me? No one notices when people vanish in times like these."
"All eyes on the wars, on the tyrants and gods wreaking havoc. No one looks into the darkness. And in these shadows… I make art." He stroked the man's hair with mock tenderness, voice lowering again into that calm, soothing tone.
"Shhh. Don't cry, don't tremble. You'll join your family soon. A family shouldn't be apart, and I've already prepared something special for you."
He moved to a nearby table and lifted three porcelain masks, each polished to a shine. One small, one feminine, one masculine. He held them up with pride, turning them so the man could see.
"Look how beautiful they are. A perfect set. Mother, daughter, father. All, together, forever, under my tender love."
He placed the masks down carefully, reverently, as though they were holy relics. Then he picked up his scalpel again, stepping back toward the table.
"Now," Pyg said softly, almost tenderly, "let's finish preparing you for the change."
The scalpel kissed the flesh once more, and the man's muffled and stifled screams filled the dark room. Pyg then adjusted and crafted whatever sick modifications he wanted and then pressed the stapler across the cut in his upper arm. The man's body arched off the table, then slumped, trembling.
The big staple now paused just above the man's trembling chest when a faint buzz broke the silence. Pyg tilted his head, almost apologetic, then set the tool in his hand aside with a delicate clink.
"Forgive me," he said softly to his "patient", patting the man's shoulder as if excusing himself from polite company, "duty calls."
He crossed the room to a cluttered metal table, picked up a circular communicator, walked out of the room and clicked it on.
"To what do I owe the pleasure, Ms. Athanasia?" His voice instantly changed into something different, less soft, more brisque and arrogant with an anxious undertone crept beneath it.
From the other side, the woman's voice came through, "Our Liege demands a full report on your progress. The time we act is coming closer."
Pyg smiled beneath the mask, though his hands fidgeted, "Of course, ma'am. I haven't slacked, I assure you. In just a few hours, the tally will reach… ten thousand, seven hundred and seventy-three Dollotrons."
His tone quivered at the edges, a manic lilt threatening to slip through, but he restrained himself, "And with Professor Ivo's work; ah, such brilliant work. The Amazo improves with every new modifications I do every time. A pity, Mr. Ivo is no longer with us."
"Just transfer all the data and spare me the details." Athanasia's reply sounded normal, but Pyg could inherently sense the disgust laced in her tone she tried her hardest to hide.
Pyg froze for a moment, then laughed softly, the sound more unsettling than anger. "As you wish." He cut the line, staring down at the communicator, an excited smile finally breaking through.
'Soon,' he thought, 'you'll all be part of my grand masterpieces.' He chuckled, then started laughing out loud, a manic, uncontrolled laughter. "Soon!" His voice echoed through the whole place.
A Few Days Later; Inside the Insurgency Aircraft:
The engines hummed beneath their feet as the aircraft cut across the skies. Around the comms table stood Satoru, Harley, Flash, and Supergirl.
While the rest were in their signature outfits; Kara was dressed in a white shirt and blue pants, square-framed glasses perched on her nose, her hair tied back in a loose ponytail.
At the center, Bruce's hologram flickered, a pale blue projection of light above the table. "Anything new on Superman?" Flash asked, arms folded tightly.
"None," Batman said. "And it's not just Africa. The Regime is pulling soldiers back from almost everywhere; only the major hubs in Europe, Asia, and the U.S. remain fortified. Superman's been completely silent since his announcement."
Kara's brow furrowed. She knew Kal well enough to know that he was planning something, but what? "Do you know where they're regrouping?" She asked.
"Mt. Justice for most of the operatives. Washington D.C. for the commanders. The White House is crawling with his elite forces."
Satoru finally spoke, raising a brow. "And the president?"
"He is mostly just a figurehead," Flash cut in, "the Regime makes most of the calls."
Kara leaned forward, and spoke in a lower voice, "have you detected any Yellow Lantern activity?"
"Not on our radar," Batman said. "Why?"
"Sinestro," she muttered. "He and Kal… they aren't friends, but they have an understanding. And I don't know what it is, but Sinestro doesn't seem like the one to follow without a price."
Bruce gave a slight nod. "I'll increase the surveillance. Any Lantern activity and we will know."
He shifted his gaze across the team. "You've all read the mission files I sent, I hope?" They nodded in turn.
Satoru tapped the edge of the projection, pulling up a new file. "This Poison Ivy; Dr. Isley? She a part of this team or not?"
Harley flinched at the name. Batman's voice stayed even, "not formally, no. But she's been against the Regime since day one. We've crossed paths and helped each other out before."
Harley muttered, "and what was she doing in Egypt, anyways?"
"Her own research," Bruce gave a short and abrupt reply.
The hologram shifted again, scrolling with different files and data. Satoru's eyes narrowed, "so tell me," he said, tapping on the projection, "how the hell did no one notice thousands people going missing, until now?"
"This number isn't anything major if you compare it to the death toll and overall missing numbers after a Regime takes over a nation," Batman said flatly.
Harley leaned on the table, palms resting atop the fiber glass, "Africa and South America have always been the toughest places for the Regime. Just more bodies and messier outcome."
Satoru leaned back, eyes narrowing. "So what makes this any different?"
"After the soldiers started pulling back from the smaller regions, Dr. Isley noticed a surge of the same patterns, repeating throughout Egypt," Batman's voice didn't waver.
Flash scanned the file in front of him, "There were no dead bodies. No one witnessed the disappeared people being killed or taken. People were just… gone."
"Pamela doesn't have exact numbers," Batman continued, "but with how many reports and complaint are now piling in, it's already past ten thousand."
Satoru raised a brow, "you think someone's been taking advantage of the chaos?"
Kara flinched slightly. She didn't need anyone to point it out. While the conflict was on both the Insurgency's and Regime's hands, more so on theirs; the chaos and aftermath was mostly theirs.
"I'm afraid someone has been taking 'that' advantage for a few years now," Batman admitted. And that made more sense, cause it would have been to obvious if thousands of people went missing in just a few days.
The room now went quiet as the gravity of the situation slowly settled in. and the silence was now getting uncomfortable, suffocating even.
Satoru sighed, breaking the silence, "then let's hope we're wrong and that all of this just folds into the usual death toll."
No one dared to argue. No one dared to voice what they were all already thinking. Satoru, though, had already decided; it wasn't a coincidence.
Coincidence didn't happen ten thousand times. His gut told him something miserable, waited for them on their destination.
When the briefing wrapped up, Bruce's image blinked out, and the team broke off. Harley immediately passed out, snoring loud enough to echo off the hull.
Flash moved up to the cockpit to bother the pilot. Kara sat by the window, staring out at the endless spread of clouds with that empty look Satoru had been seeing for the past few days.
"You holding up alright?" he asked, as he walked towards her seat.
She turned her head, blinking out of her daze, "what? Sorry- I didn't hear you."
Satoru tilted his chin, voice perfectly straight. "I asked if you're holding up, or if I should see about getting you an emotional-support Kryptonian dog."
Kara gave him a half laugh, slightly awkward but real, "I'm fine."
"Sure." He pulled himself down and sat in front of her, leaning back on the seat, "you know they're not angry with you, right?"
Her eyes narrowed in confusion, but she knew what he meant; the looks she kept getting, back at base, the hesitation in their eyes that hadn't faded. How wouldn't she notice it?
"Well," he added, shrugging, "maybe they are. But they also know that you saw enough to walk away, and believe me that does counts as something."
Her gaze locked on his, light blue against his deep azure, as if she was trying to figure out how he knew what to say.
"All I'm saying is," he continued, "it'll take time before they stop seeing the old you. That's just how people work."
Her eyes widened ever so slightly before drifting down. When she looked up again, the dullness in them had lifted if only a little. "Thanks… I guess I needed that."
A sigh slipped out of her, softer than the tension that had been clinging to her for days. She tilted her head, curiosity edging her tone. "So… you really are from another dimension?"
"Yup." He nodded with the same cheery expression, "whole other universe."
"You're from another planet, right?" he asked back.
"Krypton," she said, her voice dipping into a softer, almost mournful tone, "but it's long gone now."
Satoru, being the awkward pep-talk guy, said with a faint grin, "well, if it helps, I can't go back to my world either." And shrugged at the end.
Kara frowned and thought, 'Isn't that supposed to be sad?' She said, "How is that supposed to help?"
He shrugged, "People often find solace in the fact that they're not the only one stuck. Not out of malice or to make it worse; just so they don't feel alone."
For the first time since she'd joined their side, Kara chuckled, the corner of her mouth curling into a genuine smile, "you're weird."
"Compliments taken," he said, bowing dramatically with both hands.
She laughed again, a bit easier this time, giggling a bit more. They hadn't talked much before. Maybe Batman had known exactly what he was doing when he sent them onto this mission together.
"Hope I'm not interrupting," Flash said as he strolled up beside their seats.
"Yup, you definitely are," Satoru answered flatly.
Barry froze, not sure what to do with that. Kara muffled a laugh behind her hand, while Satoru added, "Bro, stop acting like a teen and sit down."
Barry scratched the back of his head and slid into the seat next to him. "We've still got some time before we land… anyone hungry?" He asked.
Before either of them could answer, Harley popped up between the seats like a jack-in-the-box, grinning ear to ear. "Me, me! I'm starving!" She raised her hand like she was in her school.
A few minutes later they were all crowded around the table, a spread of whatever food they could scrape together laid out in front of them.
It was anything hot and fresh, but at least it filled the gap. Everyone noticed that Satoru ignored everything except the sweets, happily demolishing desserts one after another.
"You don't eat anything else?" Kara asked, curiosity edging her voice as she watched him work through another slice of cake.
"I just need calories. My eyes burn through them like a jet engine," he replied between bites.
Flash perked up. "Really? I also have to put down like ten thousand calories a day."
"Rookie numbers." Satoru waved him off with his fork, too busy enjoying his cake to even look up.
The three of them glanced at each other. The way he sat there with that little grin, cheeks full, eyes half-lidded… he looked almost like a cat basking in sunlight. And damn it, it was cute.
Then Satoru smirked. "Now, now, I know I'm handsome, but don't just fall in love with me out of the blue like that."
The moment shattered, their mental image of the smug, battle-hungry maniac with that feral grin snapping right back into place. None of them answered, choosing to focus on their food instead.
To be continued!