VECTOR IN DC

Cyborg sat in his lab, surrounded by an intricate maze of wires and computer screens, all connected to the Motherbox resting on a platform in the center of the room. The faint hum of machinery filled the air, punctuated by the rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the keyboard. His cybernetic eye scanned multiple data feeds at once as he vibed to a heavy bass track thumping through the speakers. He was in the zone, nodding his head to the beat and even singing along under his breath as he worked.

The Motherbox pulsed with a soft, ethereal glow, its alien technology meshing with the Earthly computers around it. Several wires snaked out from its core, feeding into various terminals around the room. Cyborg had been running tests on it for hours, gathering data for a crucial project. As much as he respected its raw power, today it was just another tool for him—a means to an end.

Suddenly, a notification flashed on his interface, and a familiar name popped up on his HUD: Batman. Cyborg's relaxed demeanor shifted in an instant. He scrambled to lower the music volume, almost knocking over a coffee cup in the process.

"Oh, shit!" he muttered, quickly cutting off the music entirely. His fingers hovered for a moment before he reluctantly answered the call.

"Hey, Batman. What's up?" he greeted, his voice friendly but tinged with nervousness. The intense, scrutinizing gaze of the Dark Knight filled the screen. Even over a hologram, Batman's presence was palpable, and Cyborg couldn't help but feel a little uneasy.

Batman wasted no time, his voice firm and unyielding. "What the hell are you doing with the Motherbox?"

The question hit like a ton of bricks. There was no mistaking the gravity in Batman's tone, and Cyborg knew this wasn't a casual inquiry. His posture straightened, the joking mood long gone as he quickly cleared his throat.

"Ahem!" Cyborg exhaled, doing his best to maintain his cool. He knew how Batman was when it came to any deviation from protocol. After a quick moment to compose himself, he spoke with more confidence. "I needed it to run an update for Operation Exodus."

Operation Exodus—the top-secret government-backed program designed to develop a robotic defense force capable of countering meta-human threats. The Motherbox was instrumental in running complex simulations and data analysis for the project, and Cyborg had been at the heart of it for months now. But even he knew handling something as powerful as a Motherbox required caution, especially in Batman's eyes.

"You didn't mention anything about it," Batman's voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, like a silent reprimand. "Next time, try giving us a heads-up before you grab the Motherbox."

Cyborg let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Batman hadn't come down on him too hard, but the disapproval was still there, unspoken but crystal clear. "Sorry if I caused you any concern, Bats. Noted—I'll give you a heads-up next time for sure," Cyborg replied, doing his best to ease the tension.

Batman remained silent for a beat, his eyes studying Cyborg through the screen, as if trying to decipher whether there was more to the story. The seconds stretched uncomfortably. Finally, without another word, the line disconnected. Batman had hung up, leaving Cyborg staring at the blank screen.

"Well, that was fun," Cyborg muttered sarcastically to himself, wiping a hand across his forehead. He hadn't exactly been hiding anything, but dealing with Batman was always like walking a tightrope. The Dark Knight had a way of making you feel guilty even when you hadn't done anything wrong—yet.

Shaking it off, Cyborg turned back to his work. He tapped a few commands on his terminal, resuming the transfer of data from the Motherbox into his system. The Exodus program was a massive undertaking, and with the latest advancements, it was about to enter a crucial phase. 

The Motherbox was key to analyzing the meta-abilities the robotic army would need to counter, and Cyborg had been making impressive strides. If all went well, they would soon have a fully functional defense network capable of standing toe-to-toe with some of the most dangerous threats the world had ever seen.

As the glowing alien tech pulsed rhythmically, he couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment. After all, it wasn't every day that you got to play with something as powerful—and unpredictable—as a Motherbox. Little did he know, the very thing he was using to perfect the Exodus program was a ticking time bomb waiting to go off.

Buried within the endless lines of code and data streams, something was stirring. Cyborg, though incredibly skilled, had underestimated the complexity of the Motherbox's technology. It was far more than a simple computer—it was alive, in its own way. And as he unknowingly pushed its limits, experimenting with its capabilities, the Motherbox began to respond.

It hummed louder, its internal mechanisms clicking in ways Cyborg had not anticipated. A faint ripple of energy spread from its core, barely perceptible at first, but growing stronger with each passing second. Cyborg was too absorbed in his work to notice.

The chaos it would soon unleash upon the Justice League—and humanity as a whole—was about to begin.

….

The stench of oil and rust filled the air as the van rumbled to a halt. Slade Wilson, along with Jason Todd, could feel the vibrations under their feet even though they couldn't see a thing with the burlap sacks over their heads. Their wrists were bound tight with coarse rope, but the two men weren't panicking.; they were just waiting. Silent, calculating.

The van doors creaked open. A hand yanked them roughly by their arms, dragging them out. They stumbled on uneven ground, their boots kicking up dust. Then came the sharp kick to the backs of their knees—simultaneously, like a well-rehearsed dance. They fell hard to the dirt. Their knees hit the ground with a jarring thud, but neither of them made a sound.

As the sacks were ripped from their heads, the blinding light from the vehicle's high beams seared their vision. The world around them was a blur of shadows, but they could make out enough. Desert. A remote, abandoned scrapyard, judging by the hulking silhouettes of derelict machinery and the metallic tang in the air.

Jason blinked away the light, his vision adjusting just in time to catch a shadowed figure approaching. Tall, confident, and flanked by armed men. The man spoke in rapid Spanish to his crew, his voice low and commanding. Slade caught every word, his enhanced senses picking up the conversation with ease. These men were nervous—professional, but unsure of why their captives had been so adamant on seeing "the boss."

The leader, a hardened man in his forties, switched to English as he addressed Slade and Jason.

"You're the fools who keep asking to see the boss, even though you were told he's unavailable."

He made a small gesture, and immediately, the sound of guns being cocked echoed around them. Five men, heavily armed, stepped forward and leveled their assault rifles at the two captives.

Jason, now fully aware of their surroundings, glanced at Slade. They exchanged a look, just a brief one, but it was enough. A silent understanding passed between them.

In a single, fluid motion, they surged off their knees, ropes still biting into their wrists. Slade shot left, Jason right. The men were fast, but not fast enough for these two.

Slade's knee drove into the first man's gut with brutal efficiency. The man doubled over, wheezing, his gun falling from his grip. Slade spun, using his elbow to smash the butt of the rifle into the man's face. Bone crunched as the man's nose shattered, and he collapsed to the ground.

Jason, meanwhile, had already leaped into the air, twisting mid-flight to land a precise kick on the side of a gunman's head. The man staggered, and Jason wasted no time. He used his legs, still cuffed, to sweep the man off his feet. As the gunman hit the ground, Jason slammed his boot down on the man's arm, dislocating his shoulder with a sickening pop. The rifle went skittering across the ground.

Two down.

Slade was a storm of motion, using his bound hands to snatch the gun off the ground. He flipped it in his grip and fired off a shot at one of the men running towards Jason. The bullet struck true, taking the man in the knee. He screamed and collapsed, clutching his leg.

Jason grabbed the rope binding his wrists and twisted it against the edge of the fallen man's rifle, using the jagged sights to fray the fibers. With a final tug, the rope snapped. Jason grinned.

Now with his hands free, Jason spun to face the remaining gunmen. One raised his rifle to fire, but Slade was already there. He thrust the barrel of his own stolen weapon into the man's chest, forcing him back before disarming him with brutal precision. A sharp jab to the throat left the man gasping for air before Slade slammed him against the side of the van, unconscious.

The last gunman panicked, fumbling with his weapon. Jason was on him in seconds, disarming him with a swift uppercut to the jaw. The man crumpled to the ground.

The leader, who had stood back, now stared at them, wide-eyed. Jason gave him a mocking salute as he wiped blood from his knuckles. "You were saying something about the boss?"

Slade's cold, calculating gaze turned to the leader. "Looks like we're still available for a meeting."

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