VECTOR IN DC

As the car coasted to a stop near the small, bustling side restaurant, Slade and Jason exchanged brief glances. The humid Moroccan air was filled with the mingling aromas of spices, grilled meat, and the faint tang of exhaust from passing cars. Slade cut the engine, casting his cold, calculating gaze across the street. There, sitting casually at a plastic table, was Miguel—halfway through a plate of what looked like kebabs, utterly unconcerned about their presence.

Without a word, Slade and Jason stepped out of the car. The gravel crunched beneath their boots as they approached Miguel's table, their strides purposeful and unhurried. They didn't wait for an invitation, pulling out the plastic chairs and seating themselves across from him, creating an instant atmosphere of tension.

Miguel looked up from his meal, chewing slowly before flashing them a greasy, nonchalant smile. "Oh, you're here," he said, gesturing to the food in front of him. "Want anything?" His tone was casual, too casual for Jason's liking.

Neither of them answered. Instead, Slade's single eye bored into him with an icy glare that made Miguel shift slightly in his seat. Jason, on the other hand, barely acknowledged the man, his eyes scanning their surroundings with a practiced sharpness, as if expecting trouble at any moment.

Miguel, unfazed by their silence, leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "They have the best food in the area," he said, before leaning back and popping another piece of meat into his mouth, completely ignoring the tension that simmered at the table.

Slade's gaze hardened, his patience already wearing thin. Miguel may have been relaxed, but he was pushing his luck. "We didn't come here for a fucking culinary review. We came to meet your boss," Slade said, his voice low, each word carrying a threat.

Miguel smiled again, completely unbothered by the venom in Slade's words. "Yes, yes, I did say that. But…" he began, his voice trailing off as he glanced between the two men. Jason's eyes narrowed as he sensed the delay—Miguel was playing games, and Jason wasn't in the mood for it.

"But what?" Jason asked, his tone calm but laced with a growing annoyance. The kid had been on edge since they landed, and Miguel's casual demeanor wasn't helping.

Miguel raised his hands in mock surrender, chuckling lightly. "Relax, relax. I did say we'd meet him, but…" he paused again, clearly enjoying dragging this out.

Jason's temper flared, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "Don't tell us to fucking relax. Do we look uneasy to you?" His eyes locked onto Miguel's, daring him to try and pull any more bullshit.

Slade remained silent, but his mere presence was enough to amplify the tension. He gestured with a slight nod, signaling Miguel to get to the point already.

Miguel sighed, leaning back in his chair and wiping his hands on a napkin. "Listen, the boss isn't someone you can just meet on a whim. He's busy, dealing with some... complications right now." His tone shifted slightly, growing more serious as he attempted to explain.

Jason was done playing along. He leaned forward, his intense stare boring into Miguel, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "So you dragged us all the way out here just to waste our time?"

Miguel raised an eyebrow, shaking his head. "No, no, not at all. It's just—this is bad timing. He's handling a situation that requires all his attention."

Slade leaned forward, his gaze unrelenting. "We didn't come here for small talk. We're here to fix that situation, not wait for your boss to decide he's ready. Our boss isn't the patient type, and frankly, neither are we."

Miguel hesitated, his usual smirk faltering slightly. He shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of Slade's cold, unblinking stare. "Look, you can't just show up and expect the boss to—"

Slade cut him off with a calm but menacing voice. "You think we're here as a favor? You think we flew halfway across the world because we felt like it? No. We're here because your boss has a problem, and it's now our problem to solve." He leaned in closer, his tone dropping even lower. "Do we look like jokers to you?"

Miguel felt a chill run down his spine, the humor drained from his face. His lips twitched nervously as he tried to maintain his composure. Slade's icy blue eye held him in place, not giving him the chance to slip out of this. "Am I laughing?" Slade's words were cold as steel.

After a tense pause, Miguel cleared his throat, his voice shaky. "You really want to meet the boss, huh? Fine. But you're not going to like how this goes." He nodded toward the street, and before Jason or Slade could react, two large men approached from behind, their footsteps barely audible against the noise of the busy street.

Jason's hand twitched toward the fork on the table, ready to spring into action, but Slade calmly grabbed his wrist, giving him a subtle shake of the head. Wait, his gesture said. Jason clenched his jaw, his muscles tense, but he trusted Slade's judgment. For now.

Without warning, the men threw black bags over their heads, pulling them from their seats. Jason instinctively resisted for a split second, but Slade remained calm, his body relaxed. He knew what was happening. This wasn't a fight—they were being taken to the boss.

Miguel's voice sounded distant through the fabric of the bag, his smirk practically audible. "Congrats, boys. The boss is ready to have a chat with you."

Jason's mind raced as they were led away, his anger simmering beneath the surface. But for now, they'd play along. The game had only just begun.

…..

[The Hall of Justice, Washington, DC]

Batman stood alone in the dimly lit chamber, his form outlined by the glow of a holographic monitor in front of him. His eyes, hidden beneath the white slits of his cowl, flicked across multiple screens filled with streams of data. It was a routine scan—cross-referencing recent activity logs, security checks, and League assignments. Everything appeared normal, until a silent alarm blipped in the corner of his HUD, alerting him to an anomaly at the Watchtower.

His eyes narrowed. The Watchtower's silent alarm was never triggered lightly, and for it to go off now, something unexpected was in motion. Calm and methodical, as always, he quickly accessed the security feed. A frown tugged at the edges of his lips beneath the mask. One item was noticeably absent from its storage: the Mother Box.

Without a word, he swiftly keyed into the storage facility's logs, hoping for an easy explanation, but none came. His mind worked like a supercomputer, processing the implications. The Mother Box, a piece of highly advanced alien technology, was among the most dangerous items in their possession. If it had been stolen or tampered with, the consequences could be catastrophic. But, as ever, Batman remained composed, his heartbeat steady despite the gravity of the situation.

Sitting back in his chair, he continued scanning through the footage, fast-forwarding and rewinding until the moments leading up to the alarm caught his attention. He paused and played the footage, watching intently. The camera showed no external breach or intruder. Instead, he saw a familiar figure: Cyborg.

Cyborg appeared to have taken the Mother Box. Batman's brow furrowed beneath his mask, but his calm never wavered. Why would Cyborg, of all people, remove the Mother Box without alerting anyone? The two of them had discussed the potential risks of the Mother Box before. Cyborg was well aware of its power and the potential danger it represented. There had to be a reason, and Batman intended to find out what it was.

Switching feeds, he accessed Cyborg's lab, pulling up surveillance from earlier that day. The lab was cluttered with the usual high-tech gadgets and half-finished projects. Cyborg was at the center, hunched over a table, with the Mother Box set on the workbench in front of him. His eyes glowed a faint blue as his cybernetic parts interfaced with the box, running what appeared to be tests.

Batman watched closely, replaying the footage in slow motion, looking for any subtle cues. Cyborg didn't seem panicked, nor did he show signs of being under duress. In fact, his body language suggested focus, even intent. But what was he doing with it? And why hadn't he logged his activity?

Batman's fingers hovered over the console as he prepared to send a direct comm link to Cyborg, but he paused. He needed more information before confronting him. Cyborg was a trusted member of the League, but this behavior was out of the ordinary, and Batman wasn't one to jump to conclusions without solid evidence.

Tapping into the Watchtower's diagnostic systems, Batman began running a full scan of the lab, seeking any irregularities—unauthorized access codes, fluctuations in energy output, or abnormal signals. As the scan initiated, Batman continued watching the footage, studying every movement Cyborg made, from the moment he touched the Mother Box to the adjustments on his interface.

Something wasn't adding up. Cyborg was meticulous in his work, but the lack of communication was concerning. Batman's eyes darkened as the possibilities ran through his mind. Could Cyborg be compromised? Or was there a larger plan at play, one that Cyborg hadn't yet disclosed?

His fingers tightened on the edge of the console. Whatever was happening, Batman would get to the bottom of it. The Mother Box was too powerful to be mishandled or experimented on without thorough oversight. For now, he would watch and wait—analyzing every piece of data until the full picture came into focus. Then, if needed, he would confront Cyborg, and the truth would come to light.

"Alfred," Batman said, his voice low and steady through his communicator.

"Yes, Master Wayne?" Alfred's familiar voice responded.

"Prepare the Batplane for a potential Watchtower visit. Something unusual is happening, and I need to handle it personally."

"Right away, sir," Alfred replied without missing a beat.

Batman closed the communication, his eyes locked on the monitor. Whatever Cyborg was up to, he needed answers. And soon.

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