DC: I Became A Godfather

After a whirlwind of clattering tools, muttered formulas, and triumphant "aha"s, Edward Nygma finally pushed up his black-rimmed glasses and stood tall like a composer finishing his magnum opus.

"Ha! It's done! Come see for yourself, Adam!" he declared with unmistakable pride. "This—this is real engineering. Not that garbage you were using before."

Adam, cigarette dangling from his lips, leaned forward with a practiced smirk. He'd been waiting for this.

"Twelve ports," Nygma continued, gesturing grandly to the beast of a machine beside him. "Simultaneous burning across all drives. Output increased by 33%, energy consumption down by 42%. There isn't a better model within a twelve-kilometer radius, guaranteed. In fact, I'd bet on it."

Adam delivered the praise like a seasoned diplomat, weaving admiration, awe, and just enough exaggeration to make Nygma beam like he'd won an award. He let the man bask in it for a full minute before asking casually:

"So… how do you work it?"

Because knowing Nygma, this wasn't going to be just a button press and a green light. If he didn't ask now, he might end up frying something or accidentally broadcasting pirated content to the mayor's house.

"Oh, don't worry," Nygma waved it off, slipping into his familiar lecture tone. "I know you never went to college or received any technical training, so I built a custom program with full automation. It'll handle everything: audio-video sync, bad sectors, mosaic errors—you name it."

Adam raised an eyebrow at the backhanded insult, but let it slide. This was how Nygma showed love… apparently.

"And I've optimized the GPU and CPU load balance so all resources stay focused on burn efficiency. High-power fans, battery fail-safes, thermal sensors—no overheating, no crashes. It's practically nuclear-proof."

Adam quickly waved a hand and cut him off.

"Hold on, Ed—you said 'almost done' earlier. That means something's still unfinished?"

Nygma, who'd just been riding high on his own brilliance, deflated slightly. He hesitated. Then muttered, barely audible:

"Well… I still haven't found a nice wallpaper for the desktop interface. And the audio system—uh—well, right now, everything plays at full volume. Can't adjust it yet."

Adam burst into laughter, clapped the Riddler on the shoulder like an old drinking buddy, and grinned widely.

"That's it? You scared me. I thought you were talking about a fatal flaw. Who cares about wallpaper and volume? You've done me a huge favor, Ed."

What Adam didn't say: he didn't even see the wallpaper. He didn't care about the desktop or the theme music. As long as the DVDs came out crisp, synced, and sold, the rest was noise.

He slid a blank disc into one of the new drives. The machine came to life with a whir of harmony—ports opening, lights blinking, drives humming. It was a technological symphony. The system burned, rotated, replaced—all on its own.

"You're a lifesaver," Adam said, arms wide. "You should stick around more often. Arkham might not be a paradise, but the people are warm, the drinks are strong, and we treat our brothers right."

Nygma blushed at the praise, murmured a polite thanks… and promptly asked to go home.

Zhou packed up a small bag for him and volunteered to drive. Halfway through their ride back toward Gotham's downtown, a thought struck him.

"Hey… Ed. That program you built—didn't you say it auto-checks the audio-video quality?"

"That's right," Nygma said proudly from the passenger seat. "You don't have to lift a finger. It scans everything for errors before finalizing the burn."

Adam's brow furrowed.

"Uh-huh. But… wait. If I'm not around to check the disc manually, how exactly is it analyzing the content?"

Nygma blinked. Completely unfazed.

"Oh, that's simple. The system plays the disc content aloud and visually. The software tracks lag, distortion, desyncs—all based on live playback."

Adam's cigarette almost fell out of his mouth.

"Wait. Playback? Out loud?" His voice rose an octave. "Didn't you say you couldn't lower the volume on that system yet?"

"Yeah, the audio is still a bit loud during the tests," Nygma admitted nonchalantly. "But you're not in the room when it happens. It won't bother you."

Adam stared at him, eyes wide with dawning horror.

"No—I mean—if the machine is blasting full-volume playback… then won't everyone else nearby hear it?"

Nygma nodded, confused but earnest.

"I suppose. But you're the police, right? If someone complains, they can file a report."

Adam nearly drove into a pole.

He stared at the man beside him. Was this a prank? A setup? Was Nygma… laughing inside?

But no. There was no guile, no hidden smirk. Just Edward Nygma, pure as snow, sipping from a thermos and happily humming a melody.

"This guy…" Adam pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's not malicious. He's just emotionally tone-deaf. A walking glitch in the social matrix."

He sighed.

"Forget it. I'll just consider this… collateral damage."

After all, compared to what Nygma had done before—or would do in the future, this was nothing.

Back when the U.S. military tried to recruit Nygma for his intelligence, he lasted less than six months before hacking their own servers out of boredom. He wasn't trying to steal secrets. He just wanted to prove he could. The move exposed classified data, compromised the Suicide Squad's covert operations, and nearly caused an international incident.

Now that was a disaster.

Compared to that, Adam's little PR nightmare in Arkham was barely a blip.

Meanwhile, inside the precinct garage, a symphony of… questionable sounds echoed from the newly installed burners.

Coos. Groans. Rhythmic gasps.

A multilingual opera of seduction and scandal. Officers paused, glancing toward the garage with baffled awe.

By morning, the stories had spread like wildfire.

Adam had ascended. In the mouths of whispering colleagues, he was no longer just a detective—he was a legend.

"Did you hear?"

"They say he took on hundreds—hundreds, I tell you!"

"Women of every shape, size, and accent!"

"The garage was a battlefield of passion!"

"They call him the Dragon of Arkham now…"

"They say he has enough stamina to fuck the sun too."

Old ladies in Chinatown began lighting incense in his name.

Every female clerk at the records desk avoided eye contact, blushing.

And somewhere, back in Gotham's downtown, the Riddler still had no idea what he'd done.