PROJECT: OVERCLOCK (Ignition)
The lights in the underground complex never dimmed. They couldn't—because the people inside needed to forget time existed.
Deep beneath a decommissioned Cadmus facility, now scrubbed from every public and classified database, a cavernous hangar had been converted into a laboratory that felt more like a weapons forge. Steel walkways crisscrossed above a circular test floor. Banks of monitors displayed slowed-down combat footage on endless loops.
Batman.
Solomon Grundy.
A blur of motion that didn't belong to human limits.
Amanda Waller stood with her hands clasped behind her back, eyes locked on the footage as it replayed for the hundredth time.
Batman didn't just move faster.
He thought faster.
That was the problem.
"That's the frame," General Hercules said, his voice low and gravelly. "Freeze it."
The video paused on a single impossible moment—Grundy's fist inches from Batman's head, muscles flexed, momentum unstoppable.
Batman had already moved.
Not dodged—decided.
The suit responded as if it had anticipated the strike before it happened.
Rick Flag Sr. exhaled slowly. "Reaction time that fast shouldn't be possible without metahuman enhancement."
"And yet," Sam Lane replied, arms crossed, "medical scans confirm he's still human."
Amanda Waller turned.
"That," she said coldly, "is why Project OVERCLOCK exists."
The Scientists
They stood in a line.
Some furious.
Some terrified.
Some far too curious for their own good.
Dr. Emil Hamilton adjusted his glasses, eyes flicking between the screens and the guards stationed behind them.
Clifford DeVoe—The Thinker—smiled faintly, already calculating angles no one else could see.
T.O. Morrow looked offended, as if reality itself had insulted his intelligence.
Will Magnus said nothing, his gaze fixed on the frozen frame of Batman mid-strike.
Amanda Waller stepped forward.
"You're all here because you're the best," she said. "And because every one of you was previously working on technology that could threaten national security."
She gestured to the screens.
"This is your new assignment."
A technician tapped a console. The footage resumed—Batman dismantling Solomon Grundy with brutal efficiency, every movement precise, economical, devastating.
"This technology," Waller continued, "allows a baseline human to operate at near-metahuman combat effectiveness without mutation, magic, or alien physiology."
Rick Flag added, "We don't know how it works. We don't know where it came from. And Batman sure as hell isn't sharing."
Hercules stepped closer, looming.
"You will replicate it."
Silence.
Dr. Hamilton finally spoke. "You're asking us to recreate something we don't understand—without schematics, without access to the original—"
"—by the end of the year," Waller interrupted. "Yes."
DeVoe's smile widened. "And if we refuse?"
Waller leaned in just enough for him to see her eyes.
"You go back."
No one asked where.
They all knew.
The Mandate
Project OVERCLOCK's objectives appeared on the central display.
PRIMARY GOAL:
Re-engineer Batman's time-dilation combat technology.
SECONDARY GOALS:
• Develop a controllable interface
• Eliminate psychological dependency
• Ensure military obedience protocols
FINAL APPLICATION:
Human-operated super-soldiers capable of countering rogue metas, mind-controlled heroes, and extraterrestrial threats.
Magnus broke the silence. "You're not trying to build another Batman."
"No," Waller said. "Batman can't be controlled."
She turned back to the screen.
"We're building something better."
Elsewhere — The Light
Lex Luthor stood alone in his office, hands resting on the glass overlooking Metropolis.
Behind him, a hologram replayed the same fight—different angles, enhanced resolution, extrapolated data streams.
He paused it himself.
Batman blurred.
Not vanished.
Not teleported.
Compressed time around himself.
"A Sandevistan," Lex murmured.
The name tasted unfamiliar—and dangerous.
Queen Bee's voice echoed through the secure channel. "You're certain?"
Lex nodded. "Cybernetic time-acceleration. Rare. Advanced. And not native to this world's current technological curve."
Vandal Savage's voice followed. Calm. Interested. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," Lex replied, "Batman didn't invent this alone."
Ocean Master scoffed. "You're suggesting outside influence?"
Lex smiled thinly.
"I'm suggesting someone gave him a shortcut."
His fingers danced across the console, pulling up older files—Damian Wayne. The Fire Shadow. Disappearances. Gaps in surveillance that shouldn't exist.
"And," Lex added quietly, "the same someone is feeding the League of Assassins."
Silence followed.
Savage finally spoke. "Find the source."
Lex's eyes gleamed.
"Oh, I intend to."
Teen Titans Tower — Unaware
The tower stood quiet against the morning sun.
Training rooms empty.
Common area still.
Only the hum of machinery and distant waves filled the air.
Nightwing stared at the message on his phone again.
Damian:
Going off-grid for a week. Raven and I.
Don't contact me. Handle Batman.
He groaned and dropped onto the couch.
"Kid disappears into a private pocket universe," he muttered. "Batman's tech breaks the laws of physics. Government's probably losing its mind."
Starfire glanced up from the kitchen. "This is bad?"
"This," Nightwing said, rubbing his face, "is the calm before the universe punches us."
High above the tower, unseen, a ripple passed through reality—subtle, wrong.
Something old had noticed the shift.
Somewhere Beyond
In a place without direction or mercy, something stirred.
A presence pressed against the barrier between worlds, testing it.
Not yet.
But soon.
The echo of power released recently—controlled, contained, restrained—had not gone unnoticed.
Earth was preparing weapons.
And weapons, sooner or later, always got used.