Green Gotham

Alex woke with the sensation of a wad of fur stuck in his mouth. He spat irritably, pulling out several long hairs—blinding white with defiant blue tips. Harley's, no doubt.

He propped himself up on an elbow, every muscle aching in protest. Fucked to death—the phrase hit with unnerving accuracy. Applicable? Absolutely. He scanned their makeshift moss bed. Pamela sprawled beside him like a starfish post-storm, red hair disheveled, face serene in sleep. Harley curled on her side, pressed against Pamela, white-blue hair splayed across the moss, right hand resting carelessly on her friend's chest, a thin trickle of drool escaping her mouth. Almost idyllic, if not for the full-body soreness.

The thought of a harem flickered in his mind. Then a correction: No, more like Harley started a harem and roped Pamela and me into it. Or… a triangle? Does a harem need more than two? If everyone's active with everyone, does each have their own harem? His head throbbed, not just from physical exhaustion but from philosophical tangles. He scratched his nape, wincing as his back and shoulders burned with familiar pain. A night with Harley was a cardio and strength workout in one brutal package.

Groaning, Alex extricated himself from the warm nest and headed to the kitchen. Slipping an apron over his tattered clothes, he set to work. Today's breakfast: mini soufflé omelets, airy and delicate.

The aroma of rising soufflés, garlic, and tomatoes outdid any alarm clock. Harley burst in first, awake and ravenous, smacking Alex's ass with a loud slap as he set plates on the table.

"My hero!" she winked, laughing.

Pamela appeared next, stretching languidly.

Alex served portions and watched. Harley stuffed half an omelet in her mouth, eyes widening with delight. Pamela broke off a piece with her fork, paused after tasting it, and whispered, awestruck, "Soft… yet firm… melts like magic."

Harley, mouth full, nodded vigorously. "Mmph! Yup!"

Alex allowed himself a smug grin. Breakfast passed in surprising comfort—no awkwardness. Everyone understood what had happened; no words were needed.

Finishing, Harley leaned back, licked her spoon, and fixed Alex and Pamela with a playful look.

"So, my lovely love slaves! Plans for today?" She ticked off fingers: "Option A: Take over the city? B: The world? C: Make a super-plant that IDs enemies by DNA and… chomp-chomp?" She pinched Alex's waist. "And smartass, you gotta bulk up! Though…" her gaze turned sultry, "…you're damn cute all helpless post-sex."

Alex flinched at the pinch but smirked—she was teasing.

"Take the city?" he rumbled, pouring coffee. "Maybe."

"The world?" Harley propped her chin, beaming.

"The world?" Alex snorted, sitting. "Doubtful, but the super-plant sounds intriguing." He turned to Pamela, shifting to business. "How's that project going?"

Pamela sipped water, her gaze sharpening, scientific.

"Kara's DNA… it's not just code. It's a super-code. Encrypted, compiled at a level our biology barely grasps. Imagine the world's most complex program's source code, compiled into machine code for an unknown processor. I'm reverse-engineering it—decompiling back to readable source to understand its principles. But it's… tedious. Each 'instruction' in her DNA isn't just a gene; it's a network of interacting elements, like one line of code running an entire OS."

"Hold up!" Harley leaped up, eyes blazing. "You trying to become Superman? Super-Alex?" Her mind raced. "I can see it! We're banging on Everest, thin air…" She clutched her throat, mimicking choking, face contorted in ecstatic grimace. "…I'm gasping, getting a total high!" She squealed, collapsed back into her chair, and cackled.

Alex sighed, his eyes flickering with irritation and practiced tolerance.

"You're a massive perv, Harley."

Pamela nodded fiercely. "Huge!"

Harley beamed, as if awarded a medal for Outstanding Debauchery.

Alex stood, expression turning serious as he cleared plates.

"Jokes aside, time for business. The city's major hurdles are cleared. Grants for new districts are nearly approved. Factories are retooled for your fruits and extracts. Meds based on them are patented, in final clinical trials. But…" He paused, his gaze cautious. "It's going too smoothly. When fate doesn't trip you directly, it's just winding up for a harder hit. So, I propose two priorities:

1. Stockpile military gear. Focus on advanced air defenses. Anything looms on the horizon—shoot it down.

2. Send A.R.G.U.S. a clear message. Waller and her dogs stay out of our city and our business. Their last 'attention'—that implant in your head, Harley—was enough. Next visit will be their last. Time to draw red lines."

Silence fell again, not cozy but tense, charged with the understanding that calm breakfasts and wild nights were just a breather. Harley's smile faded, her gaze sharpening. Pamela nodded, green eyes narrowing. The game was on.

A month whipped by in a flurry of small but pivotal events, laying Gotham's new foundation:

1. Parahumans Bluff: Alex posted a calculated message on Parahumans, directly naming A.R.G.U.S. as the orchestrator of Pamela's assassination attempt. "Next interference, and Amanda Waller's dirty secrets go public to every soul on this planet. Don't test us." No proof, but they didn't dare call the bluff.

2. Pesky Lex: Lex Luthor's offers—investments, tech, "mutual partnerships"—arrived near-daily. Alex trashed them unread. Trusting that bald manipulation genius was self-disrespect.

3. Green Wave: Pamela's plants, bearing food, medicine, and clean air, spread globally like living fire. In Africa, droughts and hunger retreated before her creations. Entire regions breathed anew, "Ivy" spoken with reverence.

4. Tomboy Bond: Kara Zor-El became a frequent base guest. Their odd friendship solidified… over a screen. Playing Chained Together nearly ended in fists—Kara's super-speed reflexes crushed human competition. But A Way Out…

"I told you the ending's sad!" Kara sniffled, wiping tears with her fist, smearing streaks on the chair's armrest.

Alex silently offered a tissue box. A crying Kryptonian was a rare sight.

5. Dock District: The docks were unrecognizable. Classic gothic—pointed spires, arched buttresses—now framed Pamela's mutant flora. Living tapestries of deep purple, venom-green, and neon-blue vines and flowers, some glowing softly at dusk, clad the walls. Residential zones boasted "living walls"—vertical gardens yielding beauty, clean air, and fresh fruit straight to tables.

6. Dark Shopping: While the city bloomed, shadow channels delivered other goods. Advanced air defenses, anti-tank systems, comms, and recon gear quietly filled Root's secret warehouses. A peaceful facade needed steel teeth.

Today's dawn felt different. Alex walked Root Base's familiar corridors, but it was like treading a cliff's edge. Transformation day.

Pamela's lab greeted him with the soft hum of equipment and familiar scents—ozone, greenery, something metallic. At the room's center, lit by lamps, stood a plant-based capsule, like a giant lily bud of polished dark-green biopolymer, veined with pulsing light. Inside shimmered viscous, moonstone-hued liquid.

Pamela stood at a console, fingers flying over holographic interfaces, triple-checking thousands of parameters. Her face was a mask of focus. Harley perched on a table, swinging her legs in bright socks, like she was waiting for a bus, not a world-altering event. A cap reading "I ♥ DIK" crowned her head.

Seeing Alex, Harley hopped off with acrobatic grace.

"Patient's here!" she announced with a playful salute. "Strip, darling. Spa time!"

Alex sighed. It was necessary—sensors needed skin contact, biopolymer gel every pore. He shed his shirt and pants, standing naked. Harley circled him, eyes glinting, appraising.

"Hope you don't turn into a muscle mountain," she purred, stopping close, gazing into his eyes. "Though…" her glance dipped, "…some 'mountains' are already pretty nice."

Alex's lips curled into a devilish smirk.

"Scared when I'm super-strong, I'll pay you back for all your… sins?" He stressed the last word, recalling the night that left him limping for two days.

Harley theatrically gasped, hand over mouth.

"Oh no! My sweet boy turning villain?!" Her eyes held no fear, only eager curiosity. She stepped closer, suddenly serious. "Good luck, smartass. Come out… upgraded." She rose on tiptoes, planting a quick, almost tender kiss at the corner of his mouth.

"Alex," Pamela called, stepping from the console. The capsule hissed, its "petals" parting to reveal the pulsing, glowing liquid within. "Get in."

Alex nodded, stepping toward the capsule. He climbed onto its small platform. Harley, with a straight face, as if brushing off invisible lint, gave his bare ass a resounding smack and winked.

"Don't dawdle, we'll miss ya!"

Alex shook his head, hiding a smile. Nerves? Sure. He'd triple-checked Pamela's calculations, simulations, Kara's DNA data. All perfect. But theory wasn't flesh and blood. Seven days. Seven days of isolation as gene therapy and biopolymers rebuilt him cell by cell.

He took a deep breath, scanning the lab: focused Pamela, playful-watchful Harley. His choice. Their future.

"Let's do this," he muttered.

The capsule's petals closed, the inner light intensifying. His last thought, as consciousness faded under the cocktail of sedatives and nutrients, wasn't of strength or flight:

Hope Gotham doesn't burn to the ground in seven days…

The capsule sealed, a glowing green cocoon pulsing with life. Operation "Upgrade" had begun.