The ARGUS command center, buried deep within a secret underground facility somewhere isolated in the Nevada desert, pulsed like the heart of a silent war machine. The air was filtered and dry, thick with the constant hum of industrial fans and the rhythmic click of mechanical keyboards, echoing in an almost hypnotic rhythm that filled the vast hall. Rows of modular desks, made of matte steel with integrated touch panels, were aligned in perfect symmetry, each occupied by analysts wearing plain black uniforms, eyes fixed on high-resolution monitors displaying incessant streams of data: global maps with red lines tracing the routes of spy satellites, encrypted reports flashing in binary code, and feeds from hacked surveillance cameras in cities around the world. The floor was made of non-slip black rubber, absorbing the hurried footsteps of the agents, and the reinforced concrete walls were covered with acoustic panels that muffled any external sound, creating an isolating bubble where the outside world seemed like a distant illusion. Cold, white LED lights illuminated everything without unnecessary shadows, projecting a sterile glow that made the operators' faces look like pale, expressionless masks, focused on their screens like monks in digital prayer.
At the center of this surveillance orchestra, an elevated platform offered a panoramic view: a 10-meter-wide main panel, composed of curved screens forming an immersive semicircle, displayed a rotating holographic globe with red dots flashing in strategic locations—energy anomalies detected in real time, marked with classification seals: "High Risk," "Priority Alpha," "Immediate Intervention." The air carried a faint scent of ozone, emanating from the liquid-cooled supercomputers that hummed in the background, processing terabytes of data per second. It was a place where world secrets were dissected, global threats neutralized before they flourished, and heroes—or vigilantes—kept on a tight leash.
At that moment, firm, rhythmic footsteps cut through the ambient hum. A short, Black woman entered the main hall, her immediate presence dominating the space like a gravitational force. Amanda Waller—dark skin gleaming under the cold lights, short, gray hair cut in a practical military style, piercing brown eyes that seemed to probe souls—walked with an erect and unwavering posture, her impeccable black suit molding to her compact, athletic body, her low heels echoing like the beat of a war drum. She exuded raw authority, the kind that didn't need shouting to be obeyed—a woman who had risen through the ranks of the American government by stepping on the bones of bureaucrats and traitors, now leading ARGUS with an iron fist. Accompanying her were two men: on the right, Rick Flag Sr., older, his face marked by deep wrinkles from years in the field, short gray hair and a sparse beard, dark gray tactical uniform with discreet ARGUS insignia, cold and calculating blue eyes inherited from a life of dirty missions. On the left, Rick Flag Jr., younger, athletic and defined body under the same uniform, short blond hair and a clean-shaven face, sharp green eyes that conveyed a determination inherited from his father, but with a layer of idealism that made him unpredictable.
The room, already a hive of activity, seemed to subtly quicken with her arrival—keys typed with more urgency, glances diverted to screens, as if no one wanted to be caught idle under Waller's scrutiny. She stopped in the center of the raised platform, the two Flags positioning themselves a step behind, flanking her like loyal sentinels. Her eyes swept the hall once, absorbing everything in a glance—reports flashing, analysts hunched over, the hologram of the globe slowly rotating with red dots pulsing like open wounds.
"So, guys," Waller said, her deep, authoritative voice cutting through the air like a sharp blade, echoing through the speakers embedded in the walls so everyone could hear effortlessly. She crossed her arms, her suit fitting perfectly on her broad shoulders, and fixed her gaze on the central hologram. "What do we have?"
Rick Flag Sr. stepped forward, his military posture impeccable, his dark gray uniform without a wrinkle, his polished boots gleaming under the lights. He cleared his throat once, his voice hoarse from years of smoking cheap cigars on long missions, and replied with trained precision: "We've detected the same energy frequency in several locations around the planet. An unusual signature, with irregular peaks and wavelengths that don't correspond to anything on Earth. Our researchers analyzed the data—high probability of extraterrestrial origin. The patterns indicate controlled emissions, possibly from devices or portals. We're monitoring in real time, but the sources are intermittent, as if they were camouflaging themselves."
Waller nodded slowly, her brown eyes narrowing, her face impassive but her lips pressing into a thin line of calculated irritation. The air around her seemed thicker, as if her presence sucked the oxygen from the room. "Great. As if Superman flying around like he owns the sky wasn't enough, now we have some other cosmic problem falling into our laps. Can you tell me more?"
Rick Flag Jr. stepped forward, his athletic body moving with the grace of someone trained for combat, his fitted uniform revealing defined muscles without ostentation. His voice was softer than his father's, but imbued with the same determination, the subtle Southern accent echoing in the drawn-out vowels: "Apparently, this energy is reappearing in countries that are not allies, and especially not allies of the League. We've detected spikes in Bialya, Markovia, and even Qurac—nations with a history of instability and dubious alliances with superpowers. The patterns suggest testing or calibration, but without a clear geographic pattern. It could be an alien artifact being activated in multiple locations, or entry portals. We're cross-referencing with data from spy satellites, but the interference is strong."
Waller snorted softly, a sound of disdain that echoed through the room like a subtle warning, her eyes fixed on the hologram that now blinked with new red dots in remote locations: isolated deserts, dense jungles, inaccessible mountains. She uncrossed her arms, her hands clenched into loose fists at her sides, short, unpainted nails digging into her palms. "It's going to be harder to get information from these godforsaken countries. If it's anything connected to the League, they'll bury it before we even sniff it. How's the team doing?"
Flag Senior responded first, his voice hoarse and direct, echoing with the authority of someone who had led teams through hell on Earth and beyond: "My team is already ready and prepared for any type of activity. We have specialists in extraction, cyber intelligence, and urban combat. We're just waiting for the missions to be selected and prioritized."
Waller nodded once, her gaze fixed on the hologram, but her mind already calculating risks and alliances. She turned her face to her son, the movement minimal, but laden with expectation: "And you, Junior?"
Rick Flag Jr. cleared his throat, adjusting his posture, the dark gray uniform stretching over his broad shoulders. His voice was softer, but with a tone of determination that echoed his father's: "I'm still recruiting some members. Not everyone has accepted the terms of the job. Some are demanding more guarantees of immunity, others are on side missions. But I'm pushing—I should close in 48 hours."
Waller frowned, her lips tightening into a thin line of controlled irritation, her brown eyes gleaming with an impatience that made agents tremble. She uncrossed her arms, one hand going to her hip, her posture as firm as a commanding statue: "Speed this process up. Conflicts on the planet are escalating. Civil wars in Markovia, nuclear tensions in Qurac, and now this energy signature that doesn't smell right. Something big is about to happen—and we need full teams to handle whatever comes."
She began to walk across the room, short, determined steps, her low heels echoing on the non-slip rubber floor like the ticking of a relentless clock. The analysts at their desks unconsciously straightened as they watched her pass, keys typing with more urgency, glances diverted to the screens. Waller stopped in front of the main panel, the hologram of the globe slowly rotating, red dots flashing like open wounds on various continents. She observed for a second, her mind calculating unseen scenarios, before turning back to the Flags.
"And speaking of conflicts," she said, her voice low but laden with subtext, her eyes fixed on her father, "how is our little boy who went away to be picked up?"
Rick Flag Sr. stepped forward, his face marked by deep wrinkles hardening slightly, his sparse beard trembling with the movement of his jaw. He cleared his throat, his hoarse voice echoing with the coldness of someone reporting facts, not feelings: "Ah, he's still alive, but recovering. His healing is truly impressive for him to have survived such aggravated damage. His body is recomposing itself—skin regenerating in layers, internal tissues restructuring—but his mind... his mind is another problem. He's in an induced coma now, to give his brain time to process the trauma."
Waller nodded slowly, her lips curving into a cold smile that didn't reach her eyes, the black suit fitting her compact body perfectly as she crossed her arms again: "Any chances of putting him into action?"
Flag Senior hesitated for a split second—a rare sign of doubt in a man who had witnessed horrors beyond imagination—his voice lowering slightly: "I don't even know if he's sane enough to be at work. The pain he suffered... it was beyond human. His body is recovering, but I don't know if his mind will come back. He could wake up broken, with permanent neurological damage—loss of coordination, memory lapses, or worse, psychological instability."
Waller watched the hologram for another second, the globe slowly rotating, the red dots blinking like silent warnings of a world on the brink of chaos. She turned to the two of them, her brown eyes gleaming with relentless determination, her voice echoing like a final verdict: "He'll be back. Slade is like a demon. He always comes back. And he'll surely want revenge on whoever hurt him like this. Interesting, isn't it? A boy managed to face one of Earth's greatest assassins as if it were nothing."
Flag Jr., who had been silent until then, stepped forward, his athletic body moving with the grace of someone who grew up on battlefields, his short blond hair gleaming under the cool lights. His voice was softer, but still tinged with professional curiosity, his green eyes fixed on his superior: "Do you have any plan to help Slade recover faster?"
Waller gave an enigmatic smile, her lips curving in an arc that mixed cunning and coldness, her brown eyes gleaming with unrevealed secrets. She uncrossed her arms, one hand going to her chin in a thoughtful gesture, short nails touching her dark skin: "Just thinking about something. But focus on your mission. I'll take care of Slade."
She paused, the air in the room seeming to thicken around her, the analysts at nearby desks typing more urgently, as if sensing the change in the air. Waller turned to the hologram again, the red dots flashing like throbbing wounds on the globe: "Regarding the energy signatures we're picking up. I'll send a report to the League. Even though they have aliens and traitors with them, they can still be useful. To do some rough work for us."
Rick Flag Sr. and Jr. stared at each other for a brief second—exchanged glances filled with silent surprise, the father's eyebrows furrowing slightly, the son's eyes widening for a split instant. They hadn't expected this: Amanda Waller, the woman who saw the Justice League as an uncontrollable threat, a collection of gods and freaks operating above the law, now planning to use them as "brute force"? The father cleared his throat, breaking the silence, his hoarse voice echoing with a hint of doubt: "For the League? Doesn't that go against everything ARGUS stands for? They don't follow government protocols."
Waller turned to face them, her brown eyes fixed on the two like lasers, her black suit fitting her compact frame perfectly as she uncrossed her arms: "They're tools, Flag. Aliens, traitors, heroes—it doesn't matter. If they're useful for cleaning up the mess before it reaches our gates, I'll use them. No remorse. Dismissed."
The final word echoed like a hammer striking an anvil. The two Flags nodded in unison—the father with a short, military nod, the son with a more reluctant movement, his green eyes gleaming with inner doubt. They turned and left the hall, their footsteps echoing on the non-slip rubber floor, leaving Waller alone on the raised platform. She watched the hologram for another minute, the globe slowly rotating, the red dots blinking like silent warnings of a world on the brink of chaos. Her lips tightened into a thin line, her mind calculating unseen scenarios, fragile alliances, and inevitable betrayals. The air around her felt thicker, as if her presence were sucking the oxygen from the hall, and the analysts at nearby desks typed more urgently, sensing the change in the air.
The room returned to its previous rhythm—keys clicking, monitors flashing, the hum of fans filling the void. Waller descended from the platform with short, determined steps, her low heels echoing like the ticking of a relentless clock. She stopped in front of an isolated workstation where a young analyst—pale face, tired eyes behind thin-rimmed glasses—was furiously typing on a touchpad. "Prepare the report for the League," she ordered, her voice low but laden with subtext. "Include all the data on the energy signatures—spikes, locations, spectral analyses. But filter out the sensitive stuff: nothing about our parallel operations or interceptions. Make it look like a 'voluntary collaboration.'"
The analyst nodded quickly, fingers flying across the keyboard, the monitor reflecting lines of code and graphs that flashed in confirming green. Waller watched for a second, her mind already calculating her next moves: the League would be useful for the "brute force," investigating extraterrestrial threats while ARGUS pulled the strings behind the scenes. But if the heroes became a problem... well, she had plans for that too. The hall continued its relentless work, the hologram of the globe slowly rotating, the red dots flashing like pulsating wounds on a living body. The world outside spun, oblivious to the fact that, in the shadows, Amanda Waller was already weaving the webs that could change everything.
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