Chapter 3: Demon of Gotham (Part 3)
The briefing room deep within the Pentagon was a temple to control and surveillance.
The lighting was deliberately dim—not dark enough to strain eyes, but muted enough to make the screens dominate. Banks of monitors lined the walls, displaying live feeds from satellites, drone footage, real-time threat assessments scrolling in green text against black backgrounds. The hum of servers and cooling systems provided constant white noise, a mechanical heartbeat that reminded everyone present that this room never slept.
At the center sat a circular table—polished mahogany, large enough to seat twenty but currently occupied by eleven. The table was ringed by ergonomic chairs upholstered in black leather, each positioned with mathematical precision. Embedded in the table's surface were individual touch screens, dark now, waiting to display classified data at a moment's notice.
The people seated here were not politicians who smiled for cameras or generals who gave press conferences. These were the ones who operated in shadows, who signed orders that never saw public light, who could reduce nations to ash with a phone call or a keystroke.
And among them, four stood out.
---
AMANDA WALLER , Director, A.R.G.U.S.
Charcoal-gray pantsuit, tailored to perfection, no wrinkles despite the late hour. No jewelry except small pearl earrings—tasteful, understated, the kind that suggested refinement without vulnerability. A single **closed folder** sat on the table in front of her, untouched. She'd memorized every word inside it hours ago.
She sat with the posture of someone who belonged, who'd earned her seat through competence rather than connections. Her expression was neutral, unreadable, the mask of a woman who'd learned to control every muscle in her face.
---
GENERAL WADE EILING , Chairman, Joint Chiefs of Staff
Full dress uniform, medals arranged in precise rows across his chest—each one a story of blood spilled and orders followed. Silver hair cropped military-short, jaw squared like it had been carved from granite. He sat directly across from Waller at the opposite end of the table—the deliberate power positioning of a man who wanted her to know he considered himself her equal in this room.
His eyes were steel-gray, cold, and he watched Waller the way a hawk watches a snake: with respect for the danger, but absolute certainty that he could strike faster if necessary.
---
SECRETARY CALVIN SWANWICK , Secretary of Defense
Dark navy suit, American flag pin on the lapel, wire-rimmed glasses that caught the monitor glow. He sat to Eiling's immediate right, close enough for quiet consultation. The two men occasionally leaned toward each other—old alliance, shared skepticism, a united front against proposals they deemed reckless.
Swanwick's face was lined with the exhaustion of a man who'd spent twenty years making impossible decisions and living with the consequences. He looked at Waller not with hostility, but with the wariness of someone who'd seen her operate before and knew she always had an agenda.
---
DIRECTOR BONES , Director, D.E.O.
Gray suit, no tie, shirt buttoned to the collar. He sat mid-table on the left side, slightly apart from everyone else—a distance he'd chosen deliberately. His face was pale, almost skeletal, with sunken cheeks and eyes that reflected light strangely, as if they weren't quite human.
He didn't fidget nor Did he take notes. Just watched, absorbing information with the patience of someone who'd learned that silence revealed more than questions.
---
The room was silent.
Not the comfortable quiet of people at ease, but the oppressive stillness of individuals who'd taken an unspoken oath to reveal nothing through body language or premature words.
Then—
Secretary Swanwick cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the hum of machinery.
"Director Waller." His voice was formal, clipped. "You requested this emergency session with the board." He adjusted his glasses, a gesture that might've been nervous on anyone else but read as deliberate skepticism on him. "I have three meetings after this, two of which involve actual sitting senators. So I trust—" he leaned forward slightly, "—that what you're about to show us is worth pulling us away from those obligations."
Amanda Waller met his eyes without blinking.
' The hook's set. Now to reel them in slowly.'
"Secretary Swanwick," she said, voice calm as still water, "I promise you—what I have is not only worth your time, it may be the most important briefing you attend this year."
She stood, the movement smooth and unhurried, and walked to the massive screen dominating the wall behind her. In her right hand, a small remote—matte black, government-issue.
She pressed a button.
The screen flickered to life, bathing the room in cold blue light.
"Gentlemen," Waller began, turning to face them, silhouetted against the display, "five years ago, humanity suffered a catastrophic attack. An invasion from a hostile alien force led by an entity calling itself Darkseid."
[Footage Scene:]
The screen displays aerial footage of Metropolis—buildings collapsed, streets cratered, fires burning unchecked. Emergency vehicles swarm like ants, utterly overwhelmed. The camera pans across scenes of devastation: a skyscraper split down the middle, a city bus overturned and burning, civilians fleeing in panicked waves.
Waller clicked the remote.
[Footage Scene:]
Gotham City. The Gothic architecture scarred by plasma burns and structural collapse. The Narrows district flooded, water pouring through shattered sewers. Police barricades erected around mass graves covered with tarps.*
Another click.
[Footage Scene:]
Coast City. Central City. Similar devastation. the kind of damage a Category 5 hurricane would leave if it were sentient and cruel.
[A.N - Canon Event Reference: Justice League: War]
Waller's voice remained steady, clinical. "The damage was extensive. Thousands dead. Billions in infrastructure destroyed. And the psychological impact? Incalculable. Humanity learned that night that we are not alone—and that what exists beyond our atmosphere does not necessarily wish us well."
She paused, letting the images sink in.
"A few months after Darkseid's attack, we faced another crisis. Atlantis declared war on the surface world, framing humanity for the assassination of their queen—a murder actually committed by one of their own operatives."
[Footage Scene:]
New York City, partially submerged. Water rushing through subway tunnels. The Statue of Liberty standing in chest-deep water, waves lapping at her torch. Atlantean soldiers in advanced armor marching through flooded streets.
[Canon Event Reference: Justice League: Throne of Atlantis]
"Once again," Waller continued, "the losses were massive. The damages, catastrophic."
General Eiling's patience snapped. "Director Waller, why the history lesson?" His tone was sharp, dismissive. "We were all there. We know what happened. And if memory serves, the Justice League handled both crises."
Waller didn't react to the interruption. Instead—for just a fraction of a second—her lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile.
'There it is. The opening I needed.'
The smile vanished so quickly it might never have existed.
"General Eiling," she said, voice dropping half an octave, "that is precisely my point."
She clicked the remote again. The screen went dark.
"The Justice League handled it. Superman stopped Darkseid's forces. Aquaman ended the Atlantean war." She turned to face the table fully, hands clasped behind her back. "And what did we do?"
Silence.
"What did the United States military do? What did the Navy, the Air Force, the Army—what did humanity's defense infrastructure accomplish during either crisis?"
She let the question hang.
"Nothing."
Several men shifted in their seats, discomfort rippling through the room like a stone dropped in still water. Waller caught every microexpression, cataloged every tell.
'Got them. Now twist the knife.'
"We sat in bunkers," Waller continued, voice hardening, "and we watched. We twidled our thumbs. We prayed that beings we barely understand—beings who are not accountable to any government, any law, any oversight—would save us."
She took a step forward.
"And they did. This time."
Another step.
"But what happens next time? What happens when Superman decides Metropolis is more important than Washington? When Aquaman prioritizes Atlantis over New York? When the Flash is occupied in Central City and can't respond to an emergency in Los Angeles?"
Swanwick frowned. "Director, the League has proven themselves—"
"They've proven they're capable," Waller interrupted. "Not that they're reliable. Not that they're ours."
She clicked the remote once more.
Footage Scene:]
Post on X, Twitter , Facebook .
"SUPERMAN FOR PRESIDENT ?"
"WHY ELECT HUMANS WHEN GODS EXIST?"
"META-LEADERSHIP NOW ?"
The room went very still.
"How long," Waller asked quietly, "before the civilian population loses faith in us? How long before they start clamoring for metahumans to be in charge?"
She let that image linger.
"How long before they start voting Superman into office?"
The silence was absolute.
Director Bones spoke for the first time, his voice dry as old paper. "What are you proposing, Director Waller?"
Waller's expression didn't change. "A way to fight back. A way to ensure that humanity is never again dependent on the goodwill of beings we can't control." She gestured to Jessica, who stood by the door. "A way to regain the people's trust."
Jessica moved efficiently around the table, placing **folders** in front of each seated member. Waller remained standing at the head of the table, never having sat since the briefing began.
The officials opened their folders in near-unison.
Confusion rippled across faces.
Secretary Swanwick lifted a photograph—black substance contained in a glass case, tendrils pressing against the interior as if testing for weakness.
"What... is this?"
Waller clicked the remote.
[Footage Scene:]
Satellite imagery. Date stamp: Five years ago. Two objects entering Earth's atmosphere, trajectories highlighted in red. They split—one angling toward Metropolis, the other toward Antarctica.
"Five years ago," Waller began, "three months after Darkseid's invasion, NORAD detected a breach in Earth's atmosphere. Two objects of non-terrestrial origin entered our airspace during the chaos of the invasion—which is why detection was delayed."
She clicked again.
[Footage Scene:]
An empty pod, sleek and alien, recovered from a crater in Metropolis. Scorched. Damaged. The interior foam-lined but vacant.
"The smaller object landed in Metropolis. Recovery teams retrieved a transport pod—empty. Whatever it carried is missing. Location unknown."
Another click.
[Footage Scene:]
The Antarctic. A massive ship half-buried in ice, black hull etched with crimson circuitry, alien and menacing even in stillness.
"The larger object crashed in Antarctica. Analysis confirmed it's a spacecraft—design unknown, technology centuries beyond ours."
General Eiling leaned forward. "Are they connected? Same origin?"
"Initially, we believed so. But research proved otherwise. The pod and the ship are from different sources. Different technologies. Different purposes."
She gestured to the folders. "Inside the ship, we recovered items of significant interest."
Jessica pressed a button on the console. The screen shifted to show the **black substance** in high definition—rolling, shifting, alive in ways that defied physics.
Secretary Swanwick frowned. "What is that?"
"Nanomachines," Waller said. "Self-replicating. Adaptive. Resistant to electromagnetic pulses, radiation, extreme temperatures. Nearly indestructible unless subjected to sub-zero conditions, at which point they enter dormancy."
She clicked the remote.
[Footage Scene:]
Lab footage. The black substance spreading across a metal plate, consuming it, reforming into a blade-like shape. Researchers in hazmat suits observing from behind reinforced glass.
"The material is programmable. It responds to electromagnetic signals, reshapes itself on command, and replicates at an exponential rate when provided with raw materials."
Bones tilted his head. "Weaponizable."
"Extremely."
Waller clicked again.
[Footage Scene:]
The stasis pod from the ship. Inside, frozen is Vilgax—pale green skin, tentacles hanging from his jaw, red eyes closed, body encased in ice.
Swanwick's breath caught. "Is that... is it dead?"
"No." Waller's tone was matter-of-fact. "It's in stasis. Fully preserved. Biologically viable. It would only require controlled thawing to revive."
Eiling's voice was sharp. "Are you suggesting we wake it up?"
"I'm suggesting we study it. Learn from it. And if necessary—" Waller's eyes were cold, "—weaponize it."
Eiling leaned back, jaw tight. "So your proposal is to turn alien tech into weapons. That's your grand plan?"
Waller's expression didn't shift.
'Almost there. One more push.'
"General, it's no longer a proposal."
She clicked the remote.
The screen changed to new footage—timestamp: One week ago. Lagos, Nigeria.
[Footage Scene - FPS Mode:]
The camera feed shows a first-person perspective—someone wearing a helmet with a heads-up display. The view bounces slightly with movement. On the ground , Parasite—a hulking, purple-skinned metahuman—rampages through downtown Lagos, draining energy from cars, streetlights, anything electronic, growing larger with each absorption.
A voice crackles through the comms—Rick Flag Jr, his voice is calm.
"Team, we are weapons-free. Objective: neutralize Parasite if possible. Terminate if neutralization fails. ROE is clear. Execute."
The perspective shifts—the wearer is aboard a helicopter, looking down at the city. Three other figures are visible in peripheral vision, each wearing similar tactical gear.
"Thirty seconds to drop zone. Check your gear."
Hands enter frame—gloved, checking a rifle, adjusting straps. The HUD displays biometric data in the corner: heart rate steady, oxygen levels optimal.
"Go, go, go!"
The team leaps from the helicopter onto a rooftop, then down to the street level. The camera view tilts, shows the ground rushing up—
—then the hands extend, and black tendrils erupt from the palms, spiking into the building's side, slowing the fall with biomechanical precision.
THUMP.
Boots hit pavement. The HUD flickers:
[ANALYZING TARGET...]
Parasite looms ahead, twenty feet tall, glowing with stolen energy.
[ANALYSIS COMPLETE. SWITCHING AMMUNITION: GENETIC DISRUPTORS LOADED.]
The rifle in view shifts—barrel glowing faintly green. Weak points on Parasite's body are highlighted in red.
"All units—FIRE!"
Four rifles open up simultaneously. Green bolts streak through the air, slamming into Parasite. The creature roars, convulsing, shrinking as energy is forcibly drained from its body by the specialized rounds.
Within seconds, Parasite collapses to its knees, weakened.
One of Flag's teammates fires a tranquilizer dart. It strikes center mass.
Parasite slumps, unconscious.
"Target secured. Prepare for extraction."
[End of FPS Mode]
---
The briefing room was silent.
Every official stared at the screen, expressions ranging from shock to awe to barely concealed unease.
Waller allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.
'And checkmate.'
"Gentlemen," she said, voice quiet but carrying absolute confidence, "I give you the Null Division."