Stand Tall: Origin of a Supervillain
Copyright© 2026 by Dragonpig
Chapter 1: The Valentine’s Day Massacre
The battle sled vibrates beneath Stan’s boots, hovering silently in the moonlit sky above Cupid’s penthouse. Below, the building glows with soft pink and red neon. Somewhere inside that gaudy monument to commercialized love and lust, Cupid is probably counting his money or doing something equally hedonistic.
Stan grips the controls, his candy cane clipped to his magic belt. The modified sled—one of Santa’s hand-me-downs—purrs with barely contained power. Jets, missiles, laser arrays. All courtesy of Sugar Mama’s technical brilliance and Mrs. Claus’s... cooperative resource acquisition.
“Ready, Bella?” Stan asks, glancing at his henchwoman.
“Stanley, bubeleh, you remembered to eat before this whole mishegoss, yes?” Sugar Mama’s voice crackles through his earpiece, warm and concerned despite the impending violence. “You can’t go attacking holiday mascots on an empty stomach. What if your blood sugar drops?”
Stan sighs. “I’m fine, Sugar Mama.”
“Fine, he says. You’re always fine. And then what happens? You get shaky, you make mistakes, and then—oy gevalt—someone gets hurt. Did you at least bring a snack? Some nuts? A granola bar?”
“I’m about to launch an assault on Cupid’s operation,” Stan says through gritted teeth. “I don’t need—”
“You need to take care of yourself, that’s what you need,” Sugar Mama interrupts. “What am I, chopped liver? I worry! Is that such a crime? A nice boy like you, running around at all hours, plotting world domination—”
“Holiday domination,” Stan corrects.
“—holiday domination, fine, whatever makes you happy. But you still need to eat properly. Superman never appreciated me, that schmegegge, but at least you listen. Sometimes. When you feel like it.”
Stan allows himself a small smile despite the tension. Sugar Mama has been like this since the day he found her in Superman’s trash heap—a Kryptonian AI with the personality of a worried Jewish mother and the technical capabilities of a god. The Man of Steel’s loss was definitely Stan’s gain.
“Ready, Bella?” Stan asks again, glancing at his henchwoman.
The teddy bear stands at the edge of the sled, clutching a snow cone in one hand. She looks adorable—all fuzzy brown fur and button eyes. The black martial arts obi around her waist is the only hint that she’s more than she seems.
“Born ready, boss,” Bella says, her voice chipper.
“At least she’s practical,” Sugar Mama says approvingly. “Such a good girl, that Bella. Stanley, you listen to her, you hear me? She’s got a good head on her shoulders. Fuzzy shoulders, but good ones. If she tells you to retreat, you retreat. She’s like your big sister, that one. Looks out for you.”
“Sugar Mama—”
“I’m just saying! A mother worries. Well, a Kryptonian AI with maternal subroutines worries. Same difference.”
Without another word, Bella jumps.
Stan watches her plummet through the darkness, a small brown blur against the night sky. Mid-fall, the snow cone shifts, melting and reforming into a gleaming katana that catches the moonlight. Bella twists in the air, landing feet-first through a skylight in an explosion of glass.
The screaming starts immediately.
“Oy vey,” Sugar Mama mutters. “And so it begins. Stanley, I’m activating the Kryptonian scanners. You’ll want to see this, even if it’s going to give me agita.”
Stan’s heads-up display flickers to life, and suddenly the penthouse interior materializes in crystal-clear clarity. The alien scanning technology cuts through walls, floors, and ceilings like they’re tissue paper. He can see everything—every heat signature, every movement, every detail rendered in crystal clarity.
Bella’s image splits. One becomes two. Two becomes five. His adorable teddy bear henchwoman and her clones tear through Cupid’s security like a furry, unstoppable tornado.
“Look at her go,” Sugar Mama says, pride evident in her voice. “Such a machaya, that girl. Five clones! You see this, Stanley? This is what happens when you train properly and eat your vegetables. I bet she had a good dinner before this.”
Succubi in lingerie scramble for weapons, their wings fluttering in panic. Security guards—human, muscular, probably former models—rush toward the commotion. None of it matters. Through the scanners, Stan watches Bella move like furry violence, her katana flashing as she cartwheels, spins, and strikes with precision that would make Bruce Lee weep.
A succubus with bat wings lunges at one of Bella’s clones, claws extended. The clone sidesteps, plants a hand on the succubus’s back, and sends her crashing through a glass coffee table.
“Oof, that’s going to leave a mark,” Sugar Mama comments. “Scanners are showing ... yes, she’ll be fine. Mostly bruised ego. The table’s kaput though.”
Another clone disarms a guard with a spinning kick that shouldn’t be possible for something with stubby teddy bear legs. The guard’s weapon—some kind of baton—goes flying across the room.
“Beautiful form!” Sugar Mama kvells. “You see that technique, Stanley? Bella’s been practicing. Such dedication! She makes me plotz with pride. Like the daughter I never had.”
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