Flashback — While Damian and Raven Were Gone
Day One
Nightwing stood alone on the balcony of Titans Tower long after the sun had dipped below the horizon, the ocean reflecting city lights in broken silver lines. His phone rested in his hand, screen dark now, but the echo of the conversation still rang in his ears.
He had told Batman.
He hadn't had a choice.
Bruce Wayne's silence on the other end of the line had been worse than anger. A pause so precise, so controlled, it felt like a blade being measured before a strike.
Then came the voice.
Cold. Flat. Calculated.
"Dick."
Just his name. Nothing else.
Nightwing had straightened instinctively, spine rigid despite the thousands of miles between them.
"If my son is not back at Titans Tower within one week," Bruce continued, "I will personally remove you from your duties and bring you back to the Batcave."
A beat.
"And I will remind you what it means to be responsible for someone else's life."
The line went dead.
Nightwing let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his face. He knew that tone. Knew it far too well.
The memories came unbidden.
Being younger. Faster. Cockier. Thinking he'd outgrown Batman's shadow.
The mission he'd rushed.
The villain he'd underestimated.
The split second where he'd chosen flair over certainty.
And the aftermath.
Bruce hadn't yelled. He never did.
He'd trained him instead.
Two days of relentless drills. No sleep beyond power naps. Combat scenarios layered on top of exhaustion. Mistakes punished not with anger, but repetition. Again. Again. Again.
Until Dick learned the lesson carved into his bones:
When you're responsible for someone, your pride doesn't matter. Your comfort doesn't matter. Only the mission—and the person you're protecting.
Nightwing exhaled slowly, staring out at the ocean.
"…Yeah," he muttered to himself. "I deserve that."
Inside the tower, Starfire was already aware of what had happened. She'd known the moment Damian's message came through. She hadn't judged him for it—if anything, she'd smiled, amused in that gentle, alien way of hers.
But Bruce Wayne wasn't amused.
And Dick Grayson was about to pay for it.
Day Two
Deep underground, far from the public eye and even farther from oversight, Project OVERCLOCK took its first real step toward catastrophe.
The facility had once been a Cadmus black-site—sterile, reinforced, hidden behind layers of bureaucratic misdirection. Now it buzzed with renewed purpose. Guards lined the corridors. Cameras tracked every movement. Armed drones hovered in standby alcoves.
In the central chamber, Amanda Waller stood with her hands clasped behind her back, watching through reinforced glass.
Beside her were General Sam Lane, Rick Flag Sr., and General Hercules—each of them silent, tense, fully aware that what they were attempting bordered on reckless.
On the other side of the glass stood the prototype.
It was bulky. Crude. A pale imitation of Batman's new suit—thick plates of experimental alloy strapped over a powered exoskeleton. Cables ran along the spine like exposed nerves. A compact drive unit sat between the shoulder blades, humming with restrained energy.
They'd named it Prototype Alpha.
The test subject was a soldier. Decorated. Loyal. Carefully vetted.
He stood rigid as technicians finished locking the final clamps into place.
"Neural sync at sixty percent," one scientist reported nervously.
"Cognitive load rising," another added.
"Stabilizers holding—for now."
Amanda Waller didn't look away.
"Activate," she said.
The suit came alive.
Time dilation wasn't visible—but it was felt.
The soldier's pupils dilated instantly. His breathing hitched. Muscles tensed as though electricity ran directly through his nervous system.
For a brief, terrifying moment, it worked.
He moved.
Faster than human reflexes should allow. A blur of motion as he crossed the chamber in a heartbeat, stopping inches from the reinforced wall.
Gasps filled the control room.
"Reaction speed confirmed," Sam Lane said quietly.
Rick Flag frowned. "He's shaking."
Inside the suit, the soldier screamed.
It wasn't loud at first—more like a strangled gasp as his mind tried to keep up with what his body was doing. Blood trickled from his nose. His hands clawed at the air as if reality itself were slipping.
"Neural feedback spike!"
"Brain activity exceeding limits!"
"Shut it down—now!"
The order came too late.
The soldier's scream turned inhuman.
Energy surged outward—not controlled, not contained. The drive unit overloaded, arcs of light snapping violently through the exoskeleton.
Then—
Boom.
Not an explosion of fire, but of force.
The glass cracked. Consoles shattered. The shockwave threw scientists to the floor and blew open containment doors down the corridor.
Inside the suit, the soldier collapsed—blood pouring from his eyes and ears, his body convulsing once before going terrifyingly still.
Silence followed.
Then alarms.
Red lights flooded the facility as emergency protocols kicked in. Smoke filled the chamber. Sprinklers activated, hissing against sparking machinery.
Amanda Waller didn't move.
She stared at the ruined prototype, jaw clenched, eyes cold.
"Casualties?" she asked.
"Test subject is dead," a trembling technician replied. "Neural overload. Total synaptic collapse."
As medics rushed in, chaos rippled outward.
And in that chaos—
Some scientists ran.
Not all of them were loyal. Some had been brought here in chains—captured after previous crimes, coerced into service with promises of reduced sentences or outright threats.
They saw the opening.
Two guards went down before they knew what was happening. A blast door jammed half-open. Someone triggered a smoke charge.
By the time security regained control, three scientists were gone.
Rick Flag swore under his breath.
Sam Lane slammed a fist against the railing.
General Hercules snarled something about incompetence.
Amanda Waller finally turned away from the glass.
"Let them run," she said calmly.
The others looked at her.
"They won't get far," Waller continued. "And if they do… they'll spread rumors."
A thin smile crossed her face.
"Which means we'll learn who else is interested in this technology."
She looked back at the ruined suit.
"OVERCLOCK isn't dead," she said. "It's just begun."
Her gaze hardened.
"Find me a solution. I don't care how."
Far away, beyond government bunkers and buried failures, Damian Wayne slept peacefully beside Raven, unaware of the storm gathering in his absence.
But the world hadn't stopped turning.
And consequences—like time itself—never slowed down for anyone.