Shadows After OVERCLOCK
The dismantling of Project OVERCLOCK did not end with alarms or explosions.
It ended with silence.
A silence so heavy it pressed down on the upper floors of the Pentagon, where deals were made behind closed doors and blame was traded like currency. Officially, the project had collapsed due to "unforeseen technical instability" and "criminal negligence by rogue scientists." Unofficially, everyone who mattered knew better.
Amanda Waller stood at the center of that unspoken truth.
She had survived worse. She always did.
But this time, something was different.
The Secretary of Defense Knows
The Secretary of Defense did not raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
He sat across from the President in a private office, hands folded, eyes tired in a way that only came from grief sharpened into fury. His future son-in-law was dead—burned out from the inside by a prototype that should never have been rushed, never have been activated, never have existed in that form.
And Amanda Waller had signed off on every acceleration.
"I don't have proof," he said calmly. Too calmly. "Not yet."
The President said nothing.
"But I know," the Secretary continued. "And you know that I know."
The silence stretched.
"I won't make this public," the Secretary said at last. "Not today. Not tomorrow. But she will not be given power like that again. No black projects. No unilateral authority. No more bodies for her ambitions."
The President exhaled slowly.
He nodded.
Amanda Waller would remain useful—but contained.
And containment required distraction.
A Mission She Couldn't Refuse
The orders came directly from the Oval Office.
Amanda Waller read them twice, expression unreadable.
Objective:
Protect Princess Ilana Rostovic of Pokolistan.
Secondary Objective:
Capture Circe alive.
Threat Profile:
Circe and her paramilitary cult, The Sons of Themyscira.
The President had framed it carefully—an international crisis, a diplomatic incident waiting to happen, a sorceress whose power rivaled gods. It was the kind of mission that looked like trust.
It wasn't.
It was exile with a leash.
Waller understood that immediately.
Pokolistan was far from Washington. Far from Congress. Far from the shadows where she usually pulled strings. This mission would keep her busy, visible, and—most importantly—away from anything resembling political leverage.
She smiled thinly.
"Fine," she said. "I'll handle it."
Inside, she was already calculating.
Circe Moves in the Open
Circe was no ordinary target.
She was ancient. Cunning. A master of magic so refined it bordered on reality manipulation. She could twist flesh into animals, metal into dust, bullets into butterflies mid-flight. She saw futures like reflections in broken glass—never whole, but always dangerous.
And now she wanted Princess Ilana Rostovic.
A princess from a small Eastern European nation with little global power, but a bloodline older than most maps. A bloodline Circe had been watching for centuries.
That alone made Waller uneasy.
Circe did nothing without reason.
The Sons of Themyscira—her fanatical followers—had already attacked diplomatic convoys, ambushed security forces, and left messages carved in stone and flesh alike.
"The old blood will return."
Whatever Circe wanted, it wasn't a ransom.
It was destiny.
The Creature Commandos Deploy
Waller assembled her team quickly.
Not Task Force X—not yet. This required something different. Something deniable, expendable, and capable of handling supernatural threats without drawing Justice League attention.
The Creature Commandos.
General Rick Flag Sr. stood at the head of the briefing room, posture rigid, jaw tight. He had not forgiven Waller for OVERCLOCK—and she knew it—but he was a soldier. He followed orders.
For now.
Around the table sat monsters in human uniforms:
Frankenstein, silent and imposing, eyes sharp with centuries of battle.
Bride, cold and calculating, her loyalty a blade always pointed somewhere.
G.I. Robot, humming softly as internal diagnostics ran.
Nina Mazursky, adjusting her breathing apparatus, eyes wary but resolute.
Weasel, unpredictable as ever, chained more by protocol than metal.
"They protect the princess," Waller said flatly. "They neutralize Circe's forces. And if Circe herself appears—"
"Capture," Flag said.
"Alive," Waller confirmed. "I want answers."
Flag studied her for a moment longer than necessary.
"And if things go wrong?"
Waller's smile returned—thin, dangerous.
"Then they go wrong very far away from Washington."
Elsewhere, the World Turns
Far from government briefings and magical conspiracies, life continued.
At Titans Tower, Damian Wayne trained with the team, his movements sharper now—not just faster, but more deliberate. He listened. He coordinated. He trusted.
Raven noticed.
She didn't say anything, but she felt the difference in the way he moved beside her in battle, in the way he checked on civilians first, in the way his hand found hers without thinking when the danger passed.
Something was coming. She felt it in her bones.
Demons never stayed quiet for long.
And Circe's name carried weight even in the darkest corners of her soul.
Waller's Quiet Calculations
As the transport plane lifted toward Pokolistan, Amanda Waller sat alone, reviewing satellite feeds and arcane reports.
Project OVERCLOCK was dead—for now.
Batman's technology remained out of reach.
But magic?
Magic was unpredictable.
And sometimes, unpredictability was a weapon.
If Circe could be captured—studied—understood…
Waller's fingers tightened around her tablet.
No. Not yet.
First, survive this mission.
Then, rebuild.
She always did.
Far away, unseen and unacknowledged, darker forces stirred—ancient eyes watching mortals scramble, demons whispering across dimensions, timelines bending not from machines, but from choices.
And Damian Wayne—though no one else knew it—stood closer to the center of it all than anyone realized.