Days Four Through Seven — Fallout
Day Four
Amanda Waller did not believe in ghosts.
She believed in leverage, pressure, and outcomes.
So when Project: OVERCLOCK's primary testing wing went dark—alarms silenced, biometric monitors flatlined, and one of the volunteers reduced to a scorched outline on reinforced steel—she did not panic.
She calculated.
The room still smelled of ozone and burned circuitry when the remaining generals arrived. Screens replayed the moment on loop: the prototype activating, neural load spiking past redline, the subject screaming once before his nervous system simply… quit. Not a clean death. Not fast enough to be merciful.
General Sam Lane folded his arms.
Rick Flag Sr. stared at the floor, jaw tight.
General Hercules didn't blink at all.
"This wasn't supposed to happen," Lane said quietly.
Waller didn't look away from the screen.
"No," she agreed. "It wasn't."
What none of them said aloud—what sat like a live wire between them—was the truth: this death wasn't just a failure.
It was a liability.
Because the man who died inside that machine wasn't some anonymous volunteer pulled from a black-site prison.
He was the future son-in-law of the Secretary of Defense.
And that meant this wasn't staying buried.
Day Five
Will Magnus and Dr. Emil Hamilton had already known the truth before the prototype ever powered on.
They had warned her.
Both men had done the math, run the simulations, and come to the same conclusion independently.
You couldn't brute-force Batman's technology.
Not in a year.
Not in five.
"To replicate a system that manipulates perception, neural throughput, and reaction time at that level," Magnus had said, voice steady, eyes sharp, "you're looking at decades. And even then, the mortality rate would be unacceptable."
Hamilton had nodded grimly.
"The human brain isn't built for that kind of sustained acceleration. The suit works because Batman built safeguards we can't see—and maybe can't understand."
Waller had listened.
And then she had smiled.
Because Waller didn't need success.
She needed movement.
So she let them do it.
She allowed Magnus and Hamilton—along with a handful of other captured scientists—to construct a semi-functional prototype. One that looked convincing. One that powered up.
One that would kill whoever wore it.
The explosion that followed was loud enough to mask everything else.
Including the escape.
By the time security realized what had happened, the scientists were gone—ghosts slipping into safe houses scattered across the country.
Waller filed her report within the hour.
Cause of failure: Escaped scientists.
Negligence. False claims. Unauthorized prototype activation.
She signed it with a calm hand.
Day Six
The Secretary of Defense learned the truth at dawn.
He had approved his future son-in-law's participation under the belief that OVERCLOCK was years from live testing. A theoretical program. A research initiative.
Not a rushed experiment.
Not a death sentence.
He listened in silence as the briefing officer finished.
Then he stood up.
And slammed his fist into the table hard enough to crack the wood.
"You told me this was safe," he said, voice shaking—not with grief, but with fury. "You told me this technology wouldn't be tested for years."
The President tried to intervene.
"Calm down. We're investigating—"
"No," the Secretary snapped. "You're covering it up."
The room went quiet.
"I want names," he continued. "I want accountability. And if this project is not shut down immediately—if I don't see arrests, courts-martial, and blood on the floor—I will take this to the press."
He leaned forward.
"My daughter lost the man she was going to marry because someone wanted results faster."
Then he turned and walked out.
The President didn't stop him.
Two hours later, Project: OVERCLOCK was officially terminated.
Publicly.
Privately, Waller watched the shutdown orders roll in and said nothing. She had already moved the remaining data. Already buried redundancies inside other black programs.
Still—
Even she understood when to retreat.
The President issued the final statement that evening:
Project OVERCLOCK is discontinued.
The escaped scientists are declared responsible.
A nationwide manhunt is authorized.
Kill-on-sight.
Waller accepted the scapegoats.
And lived to fight another day.
Day Seven
Somewhere far from Washington—
The world cracked in quieter ways.
At the Young Justice headquarters, the argument had been building for weeks. Small things. Looks held too long. Words chosen poorly.
Wally tried to laugh it off.
"It was nothing," he said, hands raised. "Just friendly flirting."
Artemis didn't laugh.
She had seen it.
The way he smiled.
The way he didn't notice her watching.
"I'm done," she said.
The room froze.
"What?" Wally blinked. "Artemis, come on—"
"I need space," she interrupted. "From you. From this. From pretending everything's fine."
She didn't yell.
That hurt more.
"I'm taking a break," she said quietly. "From the team. From being a hero."
And before anyone could stop her, she was gone.
That night, Artemis packed a single bag.
Her thoughts turned to one person.
Her sister.
Cheshire.
And the strange power she carried now—the Devil Fruit. The League of Assassins. The secrets that tied everything together.
If Artemis wanted answers, she knew exactly where to start.
Elsewhere
Far beyond government eyes.
Far beyond hero surveillance.
Two people slept peacefully.
In a place untouched by politics, demons, or war.
Damian Wayne lay still, breath slow and steady.
Raven rested against him, listening to his heartbeat—strong, constant, grounding.
For one week, the world could burn.
And they wouldn't know.
But storms were gathering.
And when they returned—
Nothing would be the same.