Access Power Girl's Stats...

The reporter's thoughts spurred faster as her organic brain interacted more deeply with the new processing devices wired into her skull. Almost instinctively, secondary processing was distributed to the nearby drones, and the former reporter sifted through their memories. Her natural capabilities enhanced to superhuman levels, Cunt Prime quickly seized on inadvertent glimpses the drones had of Brainiac's private files. His personal preferences.

The former Lois Lane's face remained motionless as she began to access the stats for Brainiac's ideal female figure. Thousands of images of Power Girl flooded into her brain. Almost as an afterthought, she used her own credentials to access the databases at the Daily Planet. Every wardrobe malfunction, every nip slip, upskirt shot, glimpses of battle damage. In her mind's eye, Cunt Prime built a perfect three-dimensional model of Power Girl. Her broad shoulders and muscled arms and legs, the trim waist and flaring hips that gave that the hourglass waist, the seemingly gravity-defying bosom, the golden hair...

Yellow filaments pushed through Cunt Prime's bald scalp, artificial polymers woven of plastic and gold. Subtle shifts took place within the cyborg's body as artificial muscle fibers buffed up her arms and legs; thin and toned thighs became thicker and more powerful. Hips cracked to achieve the desired width and shape, then titanium alloys grafted themselves onto the gap. The swollen breasts that sagged under their own weight, taut as implants, rose as the muscles beneath them strengthened, and the saline contents changed in consistency to better match the bounce and wobble. Even her lips plumped up to better match the trademark pout of the blonde Kryptonian.

Until the figure that lay on the table, with her drooling slit and impressive proportions, looked very much like a lime-green clone of Power Girl, with Lois Lane's face.

Cunt Prime shifted her head, testing the range of motion in her transformed body. All diagnostics were green. There was a sense of power in this new body. All systems reported optimal capabilities. Yet as she considered the forms of the four slightly desiccated and disheveled drones, who had drained their own bodies to supply hers, Cunt Prime knew that wouldn't do.

"Go to your regeneration creche," Cunt Prime ordered. "And prepare for modification."