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The investigator leaned in, eyes like cheap steel. "So you think you can just waltz in and smash the Superman statue, huh? What—want to join Batman's little resistance by making a scene? Since you're so eager to act like a maniac and an anarchist, we'll send you straight to the Trench for that."
Jason said nothing. The cuffs bit at his wrists. He let the smirk work the edges of his face, a small thing to keep the room off-balance.
The interrogation door slid open and Cyborg stepped in—clean, efficient, a chrome silhouette that swallowed the light. He nodded to the investigator, who hesitated a beat and then left, closing the door behind him. The two of them were suddenly alone.
"You said his name is Giorno Derossi," Cyborg said, voice low and mechanical as he nudged a hand scanner toward Jason. He ran a quick sweep: data spilled across his ocular HUD.
"An Italian immigrant. Arrived eight years ago. History of violence and petty crime." He looked up from the readout. "Who put you up to this?"
Jason leaned back against the chair like a man who'd been waiting for this conversation all along. He sounded casual, almost apologetic, the role of the guilty ruffian cheap and deliberate. "None of that. Look—those Regime dogs nearly killed a friend of mine for writing on a wall. I saw red. One of them came at me. I snapped. I went too far. That's all."
Cyborg's face betrayed nothing. He tapped the HUD and the readouts danced. "You expect me to believe you have no ties to the Resistance? A metahuman with…that power? Come on. You want to avoid the Trench? Give me a name. A location. Help us stop this—help yourself."
Jason let the bait sit a heartbeat, then shrugged like it was a joke. "Oh, fuck off with the scare tactics. I didn't do anything that warrants the Trench. Judges will rule in my favor."
"Not here." Cyborg's voice was a flat steel blade. "This is Superman's Regime. He is the judge. We are the executioner. When you go to the Trench… you'll sing like a bird." He stood, an ordered motion. "Get him out of here."
Guards flooded the doorway. Rough hands shoved and hauled. A hood was yanked over Jason's head, pinching cold against the sweat at his temples. He was bundled into the back of a transport as cameras blinked like stars.
The next hours blurred: a plane with blacked-out windows, the metallic sway of a transfer, then a submarine's confined air. Jason tasted salt and diesel and the metallic tang of compression. He kept a ready smile under the hood, amused by the theater of it all.
When they finally shoved him through a hatch and peeled the hood away, light hit him like an accusation. He stood in a clinical white cell that might have been lifted from a nightmare of asylums—bare walls, a narrow bed bolted to the floor, a single stainless toilet. Sterile. Intentional. Meant to strip a man down to nothing.
"Wow," Jason said aloud, the sound of him in the room like a dare. "Quite the shitty place."
The Supermax Prison—deep in the Mariana Trench—stretched invisible around him: pressure, technology, and the Regime's certainty wrapped in concrete and steel. Jason's cuffs were cold against his skin, but his eyes were warm with something else. The game had only just begun.
.....
The cell door sighed open after days of stale air and thin meals. A guard barked the number like a roll call. "Inmate 778 — out now!"
Jason flexed his wrists against the cold cuffs. The guard hustled up and ran a scanner along the padded collar clamped at his throat. "Meta-human nullifying collar — check." He leaned close, voice flat: "You get one hour in the courtyard. Keep to yourself. Any suspicious activity and it's a month in solitary. You think this place is bad? You aren't ready for the Solitary. Move slow. Don't try anything stupid."
Jason smiled with all the innocence of a man about to do something very stupid. "Yes, sir. Just wanted a stretch. Thanks."
They shoved him through the heavy doors and into the yard—if you could call this slab of concrete and barbed steel a yard. Guards lined the perimeter, and a few prison drones hovered like flies. Jason sniffed the air and let a humorless laugh go. "Y'all call this a courtyard?"
"Keep your comment to yourself," the guard snapped, shoving him forward. "Say another word and you'll be back in a cell."
Jason walked the length of the place, cataloguing faces: Grodd in a containment harness, Bane wrapped in straps, King Shark slumped in the artefecial sun, Captain Boomerang pacing, Guy Gardner nursing his jaw. "Sheesh—the whole squad's here," he muttered. He scanned for his target.
At a metal table in the far corner, alone and twitching with contained energy, sat Mr. Terrific. He watched the yard with a wire-tight jaw, fingers worrying a simple tool. Jason slid into the bench opposite him like someone who belonged.
"Looks like someone's already planning his escape, eh?" Jason said casually.
Mr. Terrific didn't even blink. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Friend," Jason replied. "A friend who wants you out of here."
The tech savant snorted. "You from the Regime? Don't waste your breath. I've heard every angle."
Jason kept his tone level, low enough that the guards couldn't hear. "I could take out every guard in ten seconds and snap every collar off these people. But I need to know—if I remove your collar, does your suit come back online? I need you to open a portal before I level this place."
Mr. Terrific's eyes went sharp as razors. "Are you out of your mind? Whatever game you're playing, I'm not part of it."
"Really?" Jason leaned forward, like he was about to reveal a secret and not an execution plan. "You gonna give up after calling me all this way from another world?"
Something in the line—haunting, precise—punctured whatever resolve the man had left. Mr. Terrific almost stood, then forced himself to stay seated. He breathed. "The plan… worked," he whispered. "you gotta Keep it quiet. And yes—the collar is holding me down. But it's not purely tech: Raven's magic is woven into it. It's a hybrid. It—" He cut himself off.
The sentence never finished.
Jason's fingers made a motion like a scalpel. The air around the collar shimmered for a fraction of a second—no visible slash, no sonic crack—then the band snapped and clattered onto the table, severed clean as if cut by invisible wire. Not an atom seemed to shift in the mechanism, and yet the collar lay inert and defeated.
A stunned breath left Mr. Terrific. His suit's HUD flickered, the dormant systems waking with a soft mechanical chorus. "You… how did—?"
Jason's grin was a blade. "You good now?"
"Yeah," Mr. Terrific said, eyes darting to the corridor. "My systems—coming online. But we don't have a plan. How do we get out?"
Jason didn't bother with drama. He threw one quick glance across the yard. Inmates shifted, guards paced, drones blinked. Then, with a gesture like flipping a switch, the same thing happened to every collar in the courtyard: each one clattered to the concrete, a chorus of metal hitting stone.
Guards hollered. Men hit the ground on instinct, then scrambled up with a new kind of hunger in their eyes. Grodd's harness strained, Bane flexed, King Shark rose like a slow tide.
Jason laughed, and it sounded dangerously like triumph. "Let the fun begin," he said—voices, footsteps, and chaos spilling out like a wound opening.
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If you Like this story! Check out my other storys ! Shadow Monarch in DC! and Dragon Slayer in Marvel!
AND
If you wish to read more or simply support me just because ? than check out my patreon at
"https://www.patreon.com/Riadooo"
You can Get Access to 3 More Chapters OR 7 More Chapters if you want !