The man wore a suit of constantly shifting metal, constantly forming and re-forming; a type of technologized plate armor, with shimmering blue bands of plasma coursing through entire design.
"It's authenticity, my friend," he said, pacing in a semicircle around his captive. "That's the problem. At one time...during one particular, golden era...you used to have it."
Behind the man, dozens of screens displayed troops spread throughout the underground complex; on several, skirmishes were being fought. At the touch of a button, all the screens' channels switched, and began broadcasting a dizzying bombardment of hyper-kinetic color. After the initial visual shock receded, the screens' content became clear: dozens and dozens of cartoons.
"And now, you don't."
The man's captive suddenly thrashed beneath his bindings, prompting a subdued frown on the man's behalf; at the touch of another button, a set of needles on the end of a robotic arm pierced the captive's shoulder and released payloads of sedative into his bloodstream.
"That's the only reason I'm doing this. Not because I hate you – god, no. Because I want to fix you."
From a heap of titanium shackles, a battered and drugged Batman met the man's gaze, totally impassive.
"They'll be arriving soon. And then you'll see."
****
Wally chuckled to himself as the seven mecha-henchmen before him stumbled face-forwards onto the ground, their powered suits suddenly disconnected from their internal assessed the remaining horde: two more powered-suit contingents bringing plasma-rifles to bear, and a piloted mech.
No external seams on that guy, the Flash observed. Could be trouble.
He crouched down into a sprint and headed towards the lusciously vulnerable power-connectors springing from the henchmen's back suit-panels.
Lucky for me that I brought backup.
Green Lantern hovered complacently in front of the mech's gigantic, twin ocular receptors. They glittered hungrily, locking onto the glowing figure as iridium missile-launchers clicked into position at the mechanical beast's waist.
"Uh...any time now, GL!"
The Flash prepared to take out the final group of rifle-wielders, who were beginning to take aim and squeeze rounds off in the direction of both superheroes. Wally eyes the mech's missile-apparatus; the radiation off those things could cause a problem.
"What do you think, Wally? Laser-cutters? Plasma-Superman? A team of primate mechanics with wrenches?"
"I don't think it matters, Kyle!"
The mech's missiles began sputtering to life as Wally raced around the rifle-bursts, heading towards the final seven henchmen's weapon-sources. They hadn't gotten the message that they were about to be trounced.
"Come on, man!" GL hollered over his shoulder, ignoring or forgetting about the teammates' Martian-provided mental link. "How often do we get to deconstruct robots this big?? Someone put a lot of thought into this design!"
"I DON'T CARE, KYLE!"
The last few henchmen were battered into unconsciousness at super-speed, and Wally whirled 'round to the sound of laser-guided missiles preparing to launch. GL vanished from his mind; the Flash began calculating trajectories and speeds. Wind pressure to lateral fins; switch the flight paths and get them out of immediate area...
But instead of firing a volley of ballistic death missiles, the mech's red LCD eyescreens widened in panic. A shattering clank echoed from his belly and, suddenly, his limbs clattered harmlessly to the floor. The pulsing red light of its outward panels shorted and disappeared; panels fell away, revealing a skinny man bound helplessly in a tight black pilot-suit. He grinned apologetically...bashfully, even...at the two heroes. The flash glowered, as the pack of glowing green monkeys armed with screwdrivers piled out from the remains of the death-machine.
"...Seriously? You almost got us killed and then decided to go with the primates?"
"Yeah," Kyle sighed, "it really deserved better. But I just couldn't get the image out of my head once I said it, like a bad pop song, and when something's stuck in my head..." He lifted his fist, where the green emerald ring sputtered an excited plasma-light. "Well, you know."
The Flash glowered. The black-leotard-clad pilot cleared his throat from within the wreckage of his mech.
"Hey, uh...guys, if I could just say, I'm actually a big fan, and this whole thing is one big mis-..."
One super-speed-punch later, he was unconscious.
"Come on," said Wally, "we'd better get to the control room and make sure the big guys are holding up OK." A moment later, it was just Kyle and a slipstream alone amidst a pile of unconscious henchmen.
That's your whole problem, West, he psychically beamed with as rueful a mental tone as possible, you're all substance; no style. With a glimmer, green shackles appeared around the arms and legs of the mounds of criminals, and then Green Lantern was gone, racing after the fastest man alive.