VECTOR IN DC

As the car gradually rolled to a stop beside a small but lively roadside restaurant, Slade and Jason exchanged a brief glance before turning their attention outside. Warm, humid Moroccan air drifted through the open windows, carrying with it the rich aroma of grilled meat, exotic spices, and freshly baked bread, all mixed with the faint sting of exhaust from the steady stream of traffic passing by. Slade shut off the engine, his lone eye immediately sweeping across the street with the habitual vigilance of a predator.

Their target wasn’t difficult to spot.

Miguel sat comfortably at a weathered plastic table beneath a faded canopy, leisurely working his way through a generous plate of kebabs as though he didn’t have two dangerous men coming to meet him. There wasn’t the slightest trace of concern in his posture, only the easygoing confidence of someone entirely at home.

Without exchanging another word, Slade climbed out of the vehicle with Jason close behind. Gravel crunched beneath their boots as they crossed the narrow street at an unhurried pace, their calm approach carrying an unmistakable sense of purpose. Reaching the table, neither man waited to be invited. They simply pulled out two empty plastic chairs and sat opposite Miguel, the atmosphere around the table tensed up almost immediately.

Miguel glanced up from his meal, taking his time to finish chewing before flashing them a grease-stained, utterly carefree grin.

"Oh, you’re here."

He gestured lazily toward the spread of food in front of him.

"Want anything?"

The question was delivered with such casual friendliness that it almost felt insulting.

Neither Slade nor Jason acknowledged it.

Slade simply fixed Miguel with a cold, unwavering stare, one that had made seasoned killers second-guess themselves. Even Miguel shifted slightly beneath the weight of that gaze before quickly masking it with another smile.

Jason, meanwhile, barely spared Miguel more than a passing glance. His attention continuously drifted across the surrounding streets, quietly assessing rooftops, alleyways, parked vehicles, and nearby pedestrians with a subtle but efficient sweep with his eyes. Old instincts refused to let him relax, especially when walking into an unfamiliar meeting.

Completely unfazed by the silence hanging over the table, Miguel leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as though he were about to reveal a valuable secret.

"They’ve got the best food in this part of town."

He leaned back again without waiting for a response, casually spearing another piece of grilled meat before popping it into his mouth, seemingly oblivious to the tension simmering around him.

Slade’s patience was already beginning to wear dangerously thin as his expression hardened.

"We didn’t come here for a fucking culinary review," he said, each word came off measured and cold. "We came to meet your boss."

Miguel merely smiled again, apparently immune to the hostility directed his way.

"Yes, yes," he replied with an easy nod. "I did say that."

He paused deliberately, his eyes flicking between the two men before allowing the silence to linger just a little longer than necessary.

Jason immediately recognized what he was doing.

The bastard was stalling.

"But...?" Jason prompted, his voice calm, though the growing edge of irritation beneath it was becoming increasingly difficult to miss. Ever since arriving in Morocco, he’d been operating on a short fuse, and Miguel’s habit of dancing around straightforward answers was doing nothing to improve his mood.

Miguel raised both hands in a mocking surrender, letting out an easy chuckle that only served to make the atmosphere around the table even more irritating.

"Relax, relax. I did say we’d meet him, but..." He deliberately let the sentence hang in the air, looking far too pleased with himself as he dragged out the suspense.

Jason’s patience finally began to crack.

His expression became stern, and when he spoke, his voice had dropped into a dangerous growl.

"Don’t tell us to fucking relax." His unwavering eyes locked onto Miguel’s with some intensity behind them. "Do we look uneasy to you?"

The challenge lingered between them, daring Miguel to continue playing games.

Slade, meanwhile, remained perfectly silent.

He didn’t need to say anything.

Simply sitting there with his cold, unreadable expression was enough to suffocate the conversation beneath an invisible weight. After a few long seconds, he gave the slightest tilt of his head, silently instructing Miguel to stop wasting time and get to the point.

Miguel sighed, leaning back in his chair as he casually wiped his hands clean with a napkin.

"Look," he began, his tone losing some of its earlier playfulness, "the boss isn’t someone you just walk in and meet whenever you feel like it. He’s... occupied."

He hesitated briefly before continuing.

"Something’s come up. He’s dealing with a few complications that need his full attention."

Jason had heard enough.

Leaning forward across the table, he fixed Miguel with a sharp, suspicious stare.

"So you dragged us halfway across Morocco..." he said evenly, "...just to waste our time?"

Miguel immediately shook his head.

"No, no. Nothing like that." He held up a hand as though trying to calm things down. "It’s just bad timing. That’s all. He’s handling a situation that can’t wait."

Slade finally moved.

Leaning forward just enough to invade Miguel’s personal space, he spoke in a measured tone that somehow carried more menace than shouting ever could.

"We didn’t come here for excuses."

His lone eye remained fixed on Miguel without so much as a blink.

"We came here to solve that situation for your boss, not sit around waiting until he decides he’s available."

A brief pause followed.

"Our employer isn’t known for patience."

Another beat.

"And frankly... neither are we."

For the first time since they’d arrived, Miguel’s confidence noticeably wavered.

The easy smile he’d been wearing began to falter as he shifted uneasily in his chair, suddenly aware of just how oppressive Slade’s presence truly was.

"Look..." Miguel started cautiously. "You can’t just show up expecting the boss to—"

"You think we’re here as a favor?" Slade interrupted.

His voice never rose even though it didn’t have to.

"You think we flew halfway across the world because we had nothing better to do?" He leaned in another fraction, every word delivered as though if they weren’t in a public establishment Miguel would most likely have a gun pressed right against his head by now.

"No."

"We’re here because your boss has a problem."

A brief silence settled over the table.

"And now..."

His eye narrowed ever so slightly.

"...it’s our problem to solve."

"Like we’d let Americans solve our troubles as though we’re incompetent to do so ourselves. You think we are jokers?" Miguel asked, and with hesitation or pause, Slade replied.

"Am I laughing?" He coldly replied. Bis voice carried a certain weight that caused Miguel to glance at his hands as though a loaded gun might be beneath the table between them and pointing at him as an heavy silence settled over the table.

The bustling restaurant carried on as though nothing was wrong, conversations blending with the clatter of dishes and the aroma of grilled meat drifting through the warm Moroccan air. Yet around the three men, the atmosphere had become suffocating.

After several long seconds, Miguel finally cleared his throat.

"You really want to meet the boss, huh?" he asked, the confidence in his voice noticeably diminished. He gave a reluctant nod before adding, "Fine... but I don’t think you’re going to like how this part goes."

His eyes flicked toward the street.

Before either Jason or Slade could question what he meant, two broad-shouldered men silently approached from behind. Their footsteps were almost completely swallowed by the noise of passing traffic and the chatter of nearby patrons.

Jason sensed them immediately.

His hand instinctively twitched toward the metal fork lying beside his plate, every muscle in his body coiling like a spring ready to snap.

Before he could move, Slade calmly reached over and gripped his wrist.

It wasn’t forceful, but firm enough.

A slight shake of the head was all the message Jason needed.

’Wait.’

Jason’s jaw tightened, frustration flashing across his face for the briefest moment. Every instinct screamed at him to react first and ask questions later, but years of fighting against Slade had taught him when to trust the older mercenary’s judgment.

Reluctantly...

He stayed still.

The next moment, black fabric dropped over both their heads.

Rough hands pulled them backward from their chairs, the hoods cutting off their vision almost instantly.

Jason instinctively tensed, resisting for only a fraction of a second before forcing himself to stop. Slade, by contrast, didn’t struggle in the slightest. His posture remained relaxed, almost indifferent.

He already understood what was happening.

Whoever Miguel worked for clearly valued secrecy enough that no one reached their employer without first surrendering their sense of direction.

Through the thick fabric covering his head, Jason heard Miguel’s voice one last time.

"Congratulations, boys."

The grin in his voice couldn’t be missed even without seeing his face. .

"The boss is ready to have that chat."

- - -

[The Hall of Justice, Washington, D.C]

Batman stood alone within the dimly lit operations chamber, his imposing silhouette outlined by the cool blue glow of the holographic displays suspended before him. Streams of data flowed across multiple screens as he conducted one of his routine system sweeps, cross-referencing League assignments, security protocols, equipment inventories, and recent activity logs. Everything appeared exactly as it should—orderly, predictable, and without incident.

Then, a silent alert flashed in the corner of his HUD.

With a swift glance toward it, he realized the notification originated from the Watchtower.

Batman’s expression grew more serious, almost imperceptibly. The Watchtower’s silent alarms were reserved for only the most sensitive situations. They weren’t triggered by system glitches or routine maintenance, and certainly not without authorization. If one had activated now, then something outside normal operating parameters was already unfolding.

Remaining as composed as ever, he immediately accessed the Watchtower’s security network. His fingers moved swiftly across the holographic interface as live inventories and surveillance feeds filled the displays around him. It took only seconds for him to identify the anomaly.

One storage compartment stood empty.

The Mother Box.

A faint crease formed beneath the cowl as Batman quickly pulled up the vault’s access records, expecting to find an authorization code or scheduled transfer.

There was none.

His mind immediately began assembling possibilities with as much relentless efficiency as the detective could. The Mother Box wasn’t just some other artifact locked away in League custody, but an immensely powerful piece of New Genesis technology, capable of manipulating space, matter, and dimensions in ways few beings truly understood. In the wrong hands, its potential consequences bordered on catastrophic.

Yet despite the implications, Batman’s heartbeat never quickened.

He remained perfectly still, methodical, and focused for a calm mind could operate without better than one that is agitated.

Leaning back only slightly in his chair, he brought up the surveillance recordings and began reviewing them frame by frame. The footage accelerated, rewound, and advanced again as he searched for the exact sequence of events that had triggered the alert. Every movement, every timestamp, every environmental detail was carefully examined until he reached the moments immediately preceding the alarm.

Batman stopped the recording.

Then pressed play.

The footage revealed no forced entry.

No unidentified life signs.

No breach in the station’s defenses.

Instead, a familiar figure casually entered the secured storage area.

Cyborg.

The footage showed Cyborg calmly removing the Mother Box from its secured containment unit.

Batman’s brow furrowed beneath the cowl, though his composure never faltered. Of everyone in the League, Cyborg was among the last people he would expect to handle the Mother Box without prior authorization. They had discussed the device’s dangers on more than one occasion. Cyborg understood its capabilities better than almost anyone alive and knew exactly why it remained under strict supervision. If he had taken it, then there had to be a reason.

Batman intended to find out what it was.

Without hesitation, he switched to another surveillance feed, this time accessing recordings from Cyborg’s laboratory earlier that day. The spacious room looked much as it always did, crowded with advanced equipment, unfinished prototypes, and scattered technological components waiting to be assembled. At the center of it all stood Cyborg, leaning over a workbench with the Mother Box resting directly before him. Soft blue light pulsed from his cybernetic eye as streams of data flowed between his systems and the alien device, suggesting he was conducting some form of analysis.

Batman replayed the footage at a reduced speed.

Frame by frame.

Every movement was scrutinized.

Cyborg displayed no signs of distress. There was no hesitation, no urgency, and nothing to suggest coercion or outside influence. If anything, his posture reflected complete concentration, as though he were carrying out a carefully planned procedure.

Which only added to the mystery.

What exactly was he trying to accomplish?

And more importantly...

Why hadn’t he informed anyone?

Batman’s fingers hovered over the holographic controls, ready to establish a direct communication link with Cyborg.

He stopped himself.

Not yet.

There wasn’t enough information.

Cyborg had earned the League’s trust countless times over, and despite how unusual the situation appeared, Batman refused to allow suspicion to replace evidence. Jumping to conclusions had never been his way.

Instead, he redirected his attention toward the Watchtower’s diagnostic systems.

Within seconds, a comprehensive scan of Cyborg’s laboratory was underway, searching for anything remotely out of place—unauthorized access attempts, fluctuations in power consumption, encrypted transmissions, dimensional anomalies, or unexplained energy signatures. As the systems processed the request, Batman continued reviewing the surveillance footage, studying every adjustment Cyborg made, every interface he opened, and watching the interaction between his cybernetics and the Mother Box.

Something refused to fit.

Cyborg was meticulous to the point of obsession when conducting experiments involving alien technology. Omitting a report or bypassing established protocol simply wasn’t like him.

A serious look settled over his face.

One possibility after another passed through his mind. Had Cyborg somehow been compromised?

Was the Mother Box influencing him?

Or was he executing a plan that, for reasons still unknown, he had chosen not to share with the League?

His grip tightened slightly against the edge of the holographic console.

Whatever the answer, Batman intended to uncover it.

The Mother Box represented far too great a risk to be removed, studied, or activated without proper oversight.

"Alfred," Batman said, his voice calm and measured as the communicator activated.

"Yes, Master Wayne?" came Alfred’s familiar reply.

"Prepare the Batplane for a possible trip to the Watchtower. Something unusual is happening, and I need to investigate it personally."

"Right away, sir."

The communication ended.

Batman never took his eyes off the monitor even for a second.

Whatever Cyborg was doing...

He intended to have answers.

Soon.