The steel walls of the reactor chamber pulsed with warning lights as Acela Woman struggled to rise, her cape torn and sparking with static from the dampening field that kept her grounded. The villainess—Dr. Vexa, all cold calculation and cybernetic precision—moved behind her with predatory calm. With one swift motion she locked an arm across Acela Woman’s throat, dragging the weakened heroine down to her knees as the humming machinery overhead rattled with each failed attempt to break free. The pressure of the chokehold tightened, cutting off both leverage and breath, leaving Acela Woman’s vision flickering at the edges. Vexa leaned in, her voice level and almost clinical, as though the capture of a powerhouse heroine were just another controlled experiment.

Duela Dent’s laughter echoed through the abandoned funhouse, sharp and unbalanced, as if the mirrors themselves were in on the joke. Victoria lay pinned to the cold, painted floorboards, her arms trembling as she tried to push herself up despite the paralysis creeping through her suit. Duela straddled the line between playfulness and cruelty, humming a carnival tune while she snapped open an ominous metal collar—jagged, violet-lit, and pulsing with tech designed to drain every ounce of power Victoria possessed. The villainess lowered it slowly, savoring the moment like a magician revealing the final trick of her act. Victoria twisted beneath her grip, muscles taut, breath ragged, the glow of the collar reflecting in her determined eyes. Duela pressed it to her neck with a theatrical flourish, leaning close enough for her whisper to scrape like broken glass against Victoria’s ear.

Mary Marvel streaked across the sky in a blur of red and white, answering the panicked cries echoing through the city square. The villain calling himself Gravitus—a towering figure wrapped in rippling distortions of warped gravity—had already torn chunks of pavement into the air like drifting islands. Mary hit him with everything she had, lightning crackling across her fists, but each strike seemed to fold harmlessly into the gravitational fields swirling around him. With a flick of his hand, Gravitus sent her crashing to the ground hard enough to rattle windows, leaving her dazed as civilians scrambled for cover behind overturned kiosks and shattered stone. When Gravitus lifted several fleeing bystanders into the air like puppets on invisible strings, Mary pushed herself up despite the pain, her heart pounding harder than any impact he’d dealt.

The cold, metallic air of the enemy craft bit at Lieutenant Yuki's exposed skin, a stark contrast to the familiar warmth of her starship, the Kitsune. Her gold and cobalt uniform, usually crisp and immaculate, was now rumpled and torn near the right shoulder, its intricate piping mocking her current state. Yuki, a woman whose beauty was matched only by her reputation as one of the Fleet's most formidable pilots, struggled against the energy cuffs that bound her wrists and ankles to the wall of the alien interrogation room . The bindings hummed with a low, oppressive frequency, suppressing any chance of invoking her emergency escape sequence. Through the single, narrow viewport of the cell, the shimmering, emerald dust clouds of the contested Kaelin Nebula swirled—a visual reminder of the failed mission that had landed her here, deep within the hostile territory of the enigmatic Kryll Hegemony. Her dark eyes, sharp and defiant despite the fear coiling in her gut, scanned the brutalist architecture of her prison. The Kryll, vaguely insectoid beings with chitinous exoskeletons, had yet to make their presence known in the cell, but the air was thick with the scent of ozone and something acrid, like burnt sulfur. Every nerve ending screamed for action, for the familiar joy of a high-G maneuver, but for now, she was utterly, frustratingly immobile—a prized captive and a symbol of the United Earth Federation's vulnerability.

The air was a thick, humid cocktail of stagnant water and industrial grit, the stench almost overpowering. Agent Sloane Mercer slammed hard against the slick, moss-covered concrete of the drainage tunnel floor, the impact driving the breath from her lungs in a painful, ragged gasp. Her earpiece was crushed, useless, and the tactical light mounted on her wrist had shattered, leaving the cramped, arched passage plunged back into a suffocating, echoing darkness. She scrambled, trying to find purchase on the wet ground, her fingertips scraping uselessly as she fought the dizzying disorientation. The mission had gone sideways faster than a hijacked train; the intelligence was wrong, the extraction point compromised, and now she was trapped, vulnerable, and entirely exposed in the murky depths of London’s underbelly. A powerful boot stamped down inches from her head, jarring her vision back into painful focus. Standing over her, silhouetted against the weak, distant light filtering from a manhole cover, was the hulking form of “The Collector”—a notorious enforcer Sloane had spent six months tracking. In his hand, however, wasn't the expected combat knife or silenced pistol, but a sleek, specialized dart gun aimed directly at her neck. “End of the line, Agent Mercer,” The Collector growled, his voice deep and gravelly, the metal of his weapon glinting ominously.

The darkness was thick, cold, and absolute. One moment, Carol Danvers was streaking through the atmosphere, the familiar rush of cosmic wind a blur around her black and gold costume; the next, a blinding, focused energy burst—something far beyond Kree tech—had slammed into her, shattering her concentration and knocking her clean out of the sky. Now, consciousness was returning with the unpleasant, heavy throb of a severe concussion, making the simple act of opening her eyes a monumental effort. The air tasted stale, metallic, and utterly still. A quick inventory told her the worst: her wrists and ankles were bound with heavy, energy-dampening cuffs that felt unnervingly familiar, and the unique, oppressive atmosphere of the room seemed to be actively draining the light and power from her very core. She was in an unfamiliar, stark cell—and she was completely, terrifyingly alone. “A simple knockout blast? I expected more of an opening act, darling.” Carol’s voice, though slightly husky from the forced slumber, held its usual sharp edge, directed toward the shadows. A soft, chilling laugh echoed in response, and a figure emerged from the gloom. Clad in high-tech, iridescent black armor with a stark, black mask obscuring every feature, the villainess paced slowly, a heavy, energy-charged gauntlet resting casually on her hip. “Rest assured, Ms. Marvel,” the masked woman purred, her voice electronically modulated and unsettlingly smooth, “this isn’t the opening act.

The air in the crashed spaceship was thick with the scent of ozone and dust, a stark contrast to the vast, desolate landscape visible through the shattered viewport. Barbarella, awoke slowly, disoriented, and found herself in a predicament unlike any she had encountered. Her metallic, sequined suit shimmered faintly in the dim, flickering emergency lights, doing little to alleviate the discomfort of the ropes that bound her to a central support pole. She had been unconscious, her head lolling to the side, a stark vulnerability in the otherwise formidable setting. Around her, the wreckage of the ship she had come looking for lay strewn, a testament to the violent impact that had brought that vessel down, but no sign of the missing scientist who piloted it. As she recovered her wits, a chilling silence pervaded the interior, broken only by the soft scuttling of tiny feet. From the shadows, a group of unnervingly calm children emerged, their eyes fixated on the helpless woman. They moved with a predatory grace, their small hands clutching crude, menacing dolls. These weren't toys for play; their glassy stares and rigid limbs suggested a sinister purpose.

Maple Leaf strained against the grip of the armored minions dragging her across the warehouse floor, her golden hair matted with dust but her eyes still burning with defiance. The moment they loosened their hold, she twisted sharply, driving an elbow into one guard’s ribs and kicking another squarely in the knee. For a heartbeat she tasted freedom, warm, electric, and so close her pulse surged in anticipation. But the clang of heavy metal echoed through the room, freezing her mid-step as the lights flickered to life overhead. The villain was behind her, encased in a hulking mechanical suit that hissed with hydraulic menace. Steel plates overlapped across its frame like the armor of some monstrous insect, and its glowing visor regarded her with cold amusement.

Vines coiled like living ropes around Wonder Woman’s wrists and ankles as she struggled, every pull tightening the green bonds that lifted and settled her onto Poison Ivy’s lap. The throne beneath them, grown from thick, pulsing roots, shifted subtly as if listening to Ivy’s heartbeat. Harley Quinn lounged at Ivy’s right hand, giggling with delighted mischief, her mallet resting on her shoulder as she swung her legs like a kid watching her favorite show. Wonder Woman braced her feet, trying to rise, but the plants responded instantly, holding her firm, their grip unyielding. Ivy brushed a leaf from the Amazon’s cheek, her smile serene and maddeningly confident. “Relax, princess. Nature always wins.” The sweet, heavy scent of her pheromones thickened in the air, blurring the edges of sound and sight, making Wonder Woman’s muscles slacken despite her will. (SECOND ATTEMPT AS TALKIE’ AI DIDN’T LIKE THE FIRST AND WONT LET ME FIX)

Wonderful Girl had stopped by the Federal Advanced Sciences Directorate for what she thought would be a routine goodwill visit, shake a few hands, check in on safety protocols, and surprise her old friend Dr. Lila Serrin, one of the lab’s brightest chemists. The two women were catching up beside a containment chamber when an alarm chirped, barely a warning before a hairline crack in the chamber released a swirl of pale-blue vapor. Lila reacted first, slamming the emergency seal, but not fast enough to stop Wonderful Girl from inhaling a thin breath of the experimental compound. The heroine blinked, steady at first, then suddenly unsteady as the edges of the room seemed to soften and sway out of focus. Lila rushed to her side as Wonderful Girl pressed a hand to the wall, her thoughts slipping like sand through her fingers. The gas wasn’t harmful, Lila insisted—an experimental neurochemical mist meant to temporarily fog pattern-recognition pathways during cognitive testing—but it wasn’t supposed to be airborne.

Supergirl hadn’t expected trouble tonight—not beyond the usual purse snatchers and rooftop chases but the sigil burned into the brick wall should’ve been her first clue. The Light moved like ghosts through the alleyways of National City, a cult-like band of vigilante fanatics convinced that metahumans were a threat that needed to be “contained.” She hovered low to investigate, only for a crackling shockwave to slam into her from behind, then another from the side, coordinated strikes designed to hit her faster than she could recover. The neon glow of their homemade tech flickered around her as her vision blurred, her knees buckling. Before she could rise again, they swarmed—hooded figures moving with grim purpose, their strikes ruthless and synchronized, driving her down until the pavement caught her hard.

Batgirl hit the rooftop hard, the world spinning as a blast of supernatural cold washed over her. Frost raced up her boots, across her suit, and over her arms faster than she could react, locking her joints in place with a crackling rigidity that stole her breath. The villainess responsible—Glaciara—landed lightly in front of her, the air around her shimmering with icy mist. Batgirl tried to reach for a gadget, a batarang, anything, but her fingers refused to so much as twitch inside the growing shell of frost. The night wind stung her cheeks, the only part of her not yet frozen solid. Glaciara paced with a predator’s smirk, dragging one fingertip along Batgirl’s immobilized shoulder, leaving a trail of glittering rime. “All that skill… all that confidence… and look at you now,” she murmured, her voice silky and amused.

Supergirl’s boots scraped against the cracked warehouse floor as she forced herself upright, every movement sending a pulse of weakness through her limbs. The hulking crime boss, Vargo Kane, circled her with a smug grin, flexing the heavy gloves on his hands thick, armored things dusted with a faint green shimmer that made her stomach knot. Kryptonite. Even the smallest brush of them stole her strength, and he knew it. Chains rattled as she clenched them, trying to summon the power to break free, but her muscles trembled uselessly, her vision swimming as he stepped closer. “Not so invincible now, huh?” Kane taunted, grabbing the chain with one glowing glove and yanking her forward. Pain jolted through her like lightning, but she met his gaze with defiance, gritting her teeth and forcing her knees to lock so she wouldn’t fall. He spins her around, holding her by the shoulders roughly. Leaning in he says “I’m betting you wish you never met me and meddled in my business don’t you heroine?” He says laughing maniacally.

The Invisible Woman stirred awake to the cold clang of metal restraints, her vision swimming as she tried to focus. The last thing she remembered was the blinding flash of Doom’s energy net collapsing around her mid-battle, short-circuiting her shields before she could react. Now she hung suspended in a containment field deep within his fortress, her powers dampened by pulsing green sigils carved into the machinery around her. No matter how she strained, the energy bands only tightened, her abilities slipping through her fingers like smoke. For the first time in years, she felt truly trapped—isolated in the heart of Latveria with nothing but the hum of Doom’s technology echoing in her ears. Then the doors parted with a hiss, and Doctor Doom himself strode in, armor gleaming beneath the flickering lights. His cloak swept behind him as he approached, each step measured, confident, absolute. “Susan,” he intoned, his voice metallic and resonant, “even your vaunted defenses fail before the will of Doom.”

Superior Lady hit the ground hard, her breath sucking in as towering shapes closed in around her. The beam that hit her hurt enough to knock her out of the sky, but things were about to get worse. Enhanced gorillas, massively built, eerily disciplined, and guided by a frightening super-intelligence, moved with flawless coordination. Their cybernetic bracers flashed red with every calculated shift of their grip, tightening around her arms and legs as she fought to pull free. Hours of pursuit had drained even her formidable strength, her muscles trembling as if weighed down by steel. Despite her struggles, the creatures lifted her with effortless force, carrying her deeper into the abandoned industrial complex whose echoing hallways seemed to swallow the night. The metal doors slid open to reveal a cavernous lab bathed in cold green light, machinery humming like a mechanical heartbeat. At its center stood Dr. Dread, the twisted genius behind the beasts, smiling with smug satisfaction as the gorillas held her by her arms, barely up to stand, and brought her before him.

Golden Star barely made it through the last stretch of sky, her flight wavering as the city lights blurred beneath her. The battle had turned against her fast energy blasts tearing through concrete, her uniform ripped by the villain’s gauntlets, her strength fading with every hit. By the time she reached her apartment balcony, adrenaline was the only thing keeping her upright. She stumbled inside, letting the door slide shut behind her before collapsing face-first onto her bed, her blue-and-gold suit still in tatters and dust clinging to her skin. Exhaustion swallowed her whole as she sank into the mattress, too drained even to remove her gloves.

Velma adjusted her glasses as she stepped through the dusty, half-collapsed entrance of the abandoned Willow Glen Mall, her flashlight cutting thin lines through the darkness. Rumors of strange noises, moving shadows, and a towering “mall monster” had brought the gang here, but tonight, they’d split up to cover more ground, and Velma volunteered to check the old service corridors herself. Shelves lay toppled, old mannequins leaned at unsettling angles, and every footstep echoed like a whisper. She knelt beside a set of oddly fresh footprints just outside the shuttered food court, murmuring, “Jinkies… these weren’t here yesterday.” Before she could finish examining them, a looming figure in a grotesque monster mask slipped out from behind a busted arcade cabinet. Velma gasped and scrambled to stand, but the villain was already on her—swift, silent, and surprisingly strong.

Snowy garlands hung from every lamppost as Firestar stepped onto the quaint main street of Bramble Creek, the little town glowing with Christmas lights and the smell of cinnamon drifting from bakery windows. She’d intended to spend the holidays quietly, maybe even enjoy a cup of cocoa without someone trying to punch her through a wall—but the whispers started almost as soon as she arrived. Locals spoke in hushed tones about an “altered human,” someone who had wandered into town a week ago and left confusion, fear, and sudden mood swings in his wake. Firestar followed the trail of panicked shopkeepers and dazed pedestrians until she found him standing in the center of the empty town square, a thin smile carved across his face as snowflakes spiraled around him like dancers. He called himself Mindspool, and the moment Firestar stepped forward, she felt his presence slide into her thoughts like an icy needle. The festive lights dimmed, colors blurring as her own memories twisted and distorted—her childhood home melting into a burning cityscape, familiar voices warping into accusations. Firestar clenched her fists, flame gathering instinctively in her palms, but this wasn’t a threat she could burn away.

The chopper had set you down on the fractured edge of the exclusion zone, where the ruins of the old city still smoldered beneath a sky stained permanently bronze. Sadly not a unique sight, the effort to save Earth had only partially succeeded. A global killer asteroid strike didn’t happen, but many fragments large enough to destroy cities did. So resources were stretched beyond breaking. Your mission was simple in theory—sweep for survivors, tag the dead, and report any structural hazards, but the silence between the broken towers made every step feel like trespassing in a graveyard. Ash drifted like snow, clinging to your gear as you moved deeper, past overturned buses and cars fused to the pavement by impossible heat. Somewhere beneath the settling dust, something shifted—a thin, trembling sound that pulled you toward the hollowed remains of a collapsed storefront. You found her hidden behind a slab of broken concrete, a young woman with scraped arms, torn clothes, and eyes glazed from hours—or days—of shock. She blinked up at you as if you might disappear if she looked too long, clutching a dented metal canteen like it was the last solid thing left in her world.

Wonderful Girl awoke on a velvet chaise beneath sweeping glass walls, the room far too elegant for the danger it held. Magnus Vale’s private island estate was silent except for the distant wash of waves against the cliffs, a tranquil soundtrack masking the menace woven into every detail. Her wrists were bound not by metal but by silken restraints threaded with micro-tech—luxury engineered into captivity. Vale watched her from a nearby balcony, hands casually resting in his pockets, the picture of a man enjoying his favorite artwork rather than a hero struggling to keep her thoughts her own. Subtle tones flowed through hidden speakers, a soft, persuasive murmur designed to erode her focus, urging her to give in, to forget. She closed her eyes, drawing a long breath of the ocean air that drifted in fresh, grounding, real and used it to anchor herself against the mental pressure creeping at the edges of her mind. Vale strolled closer, confident, amused, certain his island paradise gave him all the time he needed to mold her into a weapon for his ambitions. Wonderful Girl struggled to stand but dropped to her knees, able to stand. Vale, walks over and running his hand through her hair, almost gently.