The silence stretched like a wire pulled taut, vibrating with the kind of tension that usually preceded either diplomatic breakthroughs or catastrophic explosions that would one day require entire volumes of creative explanations to both insurance companies and international tribunals.
Wonder Woman was the first to cut through it. She didn't speak so much as declare, her words carrying divine weight that made even the most stubborn gods in Olympus stop mid-scheme. Her dark hair caught the harsh conference room lighting as she leaned forward, every inch the Amazon warrior princess who'd stared down Ares himself.
"Since we're apparently having a comprehensive discussion about betrayal and contingency planning," Diana said, her voice carrying crystalline authority wrapped in steel, "perhaps you'd like to enlighten us, Bruce. Are your little paranoia dossiers limited to the League's founding members, or…"—her eyes narrowed with Amazonian fire that could melt titanium—"…have you extended your cataloguing to other heroes as well?"
Her hand pressed against the polished conference table, the reinforced wood creaking under her restraint. Everyone present knew she was one inch of willpower away from demonstrating why Amazonian interrogation techniques were banned under multiple humanitarian conventions.
"Power Girl, for instance," Diana continued, each syllable slicing the air with surgical precision, her voice dropping to that dangerous register that made mortals reconsider their life choices. "Savanna. Venus. Hawkwoman. Mera. Did you study them, too? Record their weaknesses? Craft neat little files on how to exploit their vulnerabilities if they ever became inconvenient to your strategic objectives?"
Superman leaned forward, his face hardening into the kind of disappointment that could flatten entire mountain ranges. His natural gravitas transformed into something Biblical—the kind of divine judgment that made supervillains suddenly discover religion. His voice was low, quiet, but carried the weight of thunder barely contained beneath Kryptonian restraint.
"Bruce…" Superman's jaw worked, muscle twitching as he fought for control. "Tell me you haven't been treating every single one of us like enemies. Tell me you haven't been running a spy operation against your allies while shaking our hands and calling us friends."
The Flash stopped mid-vibration, his form stabilizing as he fixed Batman with a look of hurt bewilderment—the look of someone who'd been punched in the soul and was still trying to process the betrayal.
"Because that would mean all of it—the late-night patrols, the team-ups, the trust we gave you, the times you saved our lives and we saved yours—was just intel-gathering for your personal paranoia project," Barry said, his voice cracking slightly. "Every laugh, every shared victory, every moment we thought we were family… you were just taking notes."
Martian Manhunter's crimson eyes glowed like embers in the dim light, his telepathic presence saturating the air with resonant authority. The Martian's green form seemed to pulse with restrained power as psychic energy rolled off him in waves.
"I can feel it," J'onn said softly, his voice resonating like a whisper echoing inside everyone's skull, each word carrying the weight of alien wisdom and deep, profound disappointment. "Layers of guilt, calculation… ongoing assessment protocols. These aren't dusty archives we're discussing, Bruce. These are active files. Living documents. You've been updating them."
Batman's jaw flexed beneath the cowl, his lips tightening into that familiar grim line—the expression of a man who'd already calculated seventeen different ways this conversation could end badly and was prepared for all of them. The white lenses of his cowl narrowed slightly, but his voice—low, controlled, gravel dragged over steel and tempered in the fires of Gotham's worst nights—cut through the tension like a blade.
"The primary contingency protocols were restricted to League founders," he said, each word precise, weighed, and deliberate, delivered with that distinctive growl that could make "good morning" sound like a death threat. "Tactical scenarios. Psychological profiles. Strategic vulnerabilities. Standard operational security for any team with our… capabilities."
He stopped. That pause was all anyone needed to know the situation was about to get exponentially worse.
"…However," he added, voice dropping even lower into that gravelly register that made hardened criminals confess to crimes they hadn't even committed, "preliminary assessments exist for most heroes we've worked with regularly. Threat evaluation. Capability analysis. Collaboration potential. Standard intelligence gathering for operational planning purposes."
"'Standard intelligence gathering,'" Hal Jordan repeated, his voice dripping with his trademark sarcastic bite, the kind of dry wit that could strip paint from walls. His ring flared, emerald light bouncing harshly across the conference table as his jaw worked with barely restrained fury. "That's a cute euphemism for spying on your friends, Bruce. You've been profiling every cape and cowl in the superhero community like they're ticking time bombs waiting for you to find the off switch."
Green Lantern's construct armor rippled with his emotional state, power ring cycling through threat assessment protocols of its own. "What's next? Secret files on Jimmy Olsen? Lois Lane? My mom? Where does the paranoia train stop, Batman?"
"These files were not digitized," Batman snapped quickly, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Mental assessments. Observational data. Theoretical scenarios. Nothing approaching the detail level of the League protocols. Nothing actionable without—"
A low, musical laugh rippled through the chamber, incongruous and mocking, cutting through Batman's defensive posturing like a hot knife through kevlar.
Eidolon leaned back in his chair, crimson eyes burning with amusement that could power small cities. His natural charisma had been weaponized into something that was equal parts devastating charm and barely restrained cosmic horror. His voice, smooth and dripping with British sarcasm refined over centuries of creative violence, filled the space like expensive smoke from a very dangerous fire.
"Oh, Bruce," Eidolon drawled, each syllable crafted with the precision of a master swordsmith forging the perfect blade. "You beautiful, paranoid disaster. Honestly, I don't know whether to pity you, punch you, or buy you a proper therapist—though I suspect the therapist would need therapy after the first session with you."
His gaze sharpened, laser-focused on the Bat with the intensity of a predator who'd just realized his prey was more interesting than initially assumed. "Still clinging to the quaint notion that keeping your dirty little secrets rattling around in that magnificent, paranoid brain of yours makes them somehow safer than hard drives and encrypted databases."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as Eidolon's presence pressed against reality itself, his crimson cloak shifting like liquid shadow caught in an impossible breeze.
"Newsflash, darling: it doesn't. If anything, it makes them more deliciously vulnerable. Because unlike servers, you can't encrypt the inside of your skull. Can't firewall your memories. Can't password-protect your dreams. And trust me—" His smile was sharp enough to cut diamonds. "—I've had extensive experience extracting information from stubborn minds."
Batman didn't move, didn't even breathe visibly, but his silence spoke volumes. Every person at the table could practically hear his brain running threat assessments at lightspeed.
"Oh, don't scowl at me like that," Eidolon went on, voice purring with wicked delight that suggested he was enjoying himself far too much. "I'm positively dying to hear about your 'theoretical assessments.' Power Girl's solar absorption patterns? The precise thresholds of her invulnerability? Savanna's feline reflex optimization and her delightful habit of always landing on her feet? Venus's botanical manipulation quirks—does she prefer roses or thorns for dismemberment, I wonder?"
His crimson eyes glittered as he leaned forward, clearly warming to his subject. "Mera's hydrokinesis matrices? The exact pressure points where water becomes a weapon deadlier than any blade? Hawkwoman's Nth metal gear—ah, Shiera will absolutely adore hearing that you've been undressing her arsenal with your detective's gaze, cataloguing every weakness in her ancient technology."
The temperature plummeted further as his armor pulsed, crimson energy washing the room in sharp shadows that seemed to have opinions about the people they touched.
Beta-9—sitting cool as you please with Beyoncé-level poise radiating like starlight condensed into pure, devastating confidence—arched an eyebrow that could have launched a thousand ships and sunk them all with style. Her holographic form shimmered with golden light that somehow managed to be both ethereal and intimidating.
"See, this is why nobody invites you to brunch, Bruce," she said, her voice carrying all of Beyoncé's regal authority mixed with digital superiority that suggested she could end civilizations with a particularly well-timed software update. "You can't pass the salt without writing a contingency plan in case the eggs attack. Can't say 'good morning' without calculating seventeen ways your coffee cup could be weaponized."
She leaned back, holographic hair flowing like liquid gold as she fixed Batman with a look that could have powered the Eastern seaboard. "Honey, you make trust issues look like an art form."
That finally broke the tension enough for the Flash to let out a strained laugh, natural warmth bleeding through even as his disappointment remained razor-sharp. "She's really not wrong, Bruce. I mean, do you have a file on how many calories I burn running to the corner store? Because that would be both incredibly detailed and somehow completely unsurprising."
Superman's jaw tightened, features hardening into something that belonged on Mount Rushmore if Mount Rushmore was designed to intimidate supervillains into confession. His voice now edged with the kind of fury that made tectonic plates nervous.
"Bruce… if you've endangered the trust of this team—of everyone who's ever stood with us, fought beside us, bled with us—then you've violated something sacred. Something that can't be repaired with apologies and good intentions."
"—then you've already answered the question," Diana cut in, her voice now carrying the icy calm of a blizzard wrapped in devastating authority. Every syllable was a warning shot fired across Batman's bow. "You don't see allies when you look at us. You don't see friends or family or partners. You see potential threats. Variables to be managed. And threats are things you plan to eliminate."
Her armor caught the harsh conference room lighting, gleaming with divine radiance that reminded everyone present she was the daughter of Zeus, trained by the greatest warriors in human history, and capable of bringing down gods who got on her bad side.
Batman leaned forward into the light, shadows carving his face into something harsher, almost inhuman—natural intensity cranked to eleven and weaponized through years of channeling Gotham's darkest nights into focused purpose.
"I see reality," he rasped, voice carrying the weight of every nightmare he'd prevented and every monster he'd put down. "And reality doesn't care about trust. It only cares about preparation. About being ready when the worst-case scenario stops being theoretical and starts being Tuesday."
His white lenses narrowed to slits. "I've seen good people turn bad. I've watched heroes become villains. I've buried friends who trusted the wrong person at the wrong time. So yes—I prepare. I analyze. I plan for the day when the person next to me decides that their vision of justice is more important than everyone else's right to exist."
Eidolon clapped once, slow, deliberate, the sound echoing like mock applause delivered with an infuriating combination of genuine appreciation and cosmic condescension.
"And there it is," he said, crimson eyes gleaming with sardonic approval that could have powered a small star. "The Batman thesis: everyone is a weapon waiting to be aimed, every friendship a liability to be managed, every handshake a potential knife in the dark. I must say, Bruce… you make paranoia look positively dashing. Very noir detective, very dramatic brooding billionaire with unresolved trauma."
His grin sharpened into something that belonged in a museum labeled 'Do Not Trust This Entity Under Any Circumstances.'
"But here's the problem with playing god in a world full of actual gods," Eidolon continued, his voice dropping to silk wrapped around steel. "Sooner or later, someone notices you're writing their obituary before they're even dead. And trust me, my dear, paranoid Bat—my companions won't take kindly to being penciled into your little notebook of doom."
The room hung on the edge of combustion, every molecule of air vibrating with barely restrained power from beings who could reshape continents on a bad day.
Batman's expression remained unreadable behind the cowl, but his body language shifted subtly—the set of his shoulders, the faint angle of his chin, the way his gloved hands rested on the table. It was the kind of posture that screamed 'calculating tactical options and finding them all bloody inadequate.'
"Preliminary assessments only," Batman said carefully, each word weighted with deliberate control and gravelly precision. "Observational data collected during joint operations. Capability analysis for coordination purposes. Psychological profiles for team integration. Nothing approaching the detail level of—"
"—of the files you created about us," Superman cut across, his voice resonating with righteous fury that could shake tectonic plates loose from their moorings. His natural nobility had transformed into something Biblical—divine judgment wrapped in red cape and unbreakable moral certainty. "The ones detailed enough to be turned into assassination protocols by anyone with sufficient resources and a flexible definition of morality."
His blue eyes blazed with the kind of disappointment that made supervillains reconsider their career choices. "The ones that nearly got Billy killed because someone decided your paranoia was a blueprint for murder."
The silence that followed was volcanic, pregnant with the kind of tension that preceded either reconciliation or the complete annihilation of everything within a fifty-mile radius.
Wonder Woman rose from her chair like a goddess ascending to pass judgment, her presence commanding the room with the authority of someone who had stared down the God of War and won. Her natural elegance had been weaponized into divine fury that made the air itself hold its breath. Her armor caught the light, gleaming with radiance that suggested Zeus himself was taking notes.
"Let me understand this correctly," Diana said, her voice carrying the resonance of a war drum beaten by the hands of ancient warriors. "You have systematically studied every hero you encounter. Catalogued their abilities, their weaknesses, their fears, their loved ones. Created mental files for neutralization scenarios. All while presenting yourself as an ally, partner… and friend."
Her eyes blazed—not metaphorically. Actual divine fire that made the conference room lighting look like a birthday candle.
"In Themyscira," Diana continued, every syllable like a spear cast with the accuracy of three thousand years of warrior training, "such treachery would not be tolerated. It would be considered an act of war against the bonds of sisterhood. You have violated the sacred oaths of fellowship and mutual protection. You have turned trust into espionage, alliance into intelligence gathering, friendship into strategic assessment."
Her voice rose, carrying the authority of someone who spoke for an entire nation of warrior women. "You have made weapons of our vulnerabilities and shields of our secrets. This is not strategy, Bruce Wayne. This is betrayal dressed in the language of necessity."
Cyborg's holographic projection flickered, crackling with electronic fury as his anger bled into his systems, making his voice stutter with static-laced rage. He didn't shout—he didn't need to. His fury came through in every clipped, digitally distorted word.
"The really messed-up part?" Victor said, his body glitching with electromagnetic interference that made the Watchtower's systems nervous. "You actually think keeping it all in your head makes it better. Like, oh, I didn't write it down, so it's not betrayal. I didn't create files, so it's not surveillance. Man—no. That's worse."
His holographic form solidified, gaining definition as his anger focused into laser precision. "That means every conversation, every team-up, every moment you smiled at us, every time you called us family—it was all just intel collection for your private little war games. You weren't being Batman the ally. You were being Batman the spy."
Beta-9's golden form pulsed brighter, Beyoncé-level poise and fury radiating like a solar flare that could power civilizations or end them, depending on her mood. She leaned forward, her voice low, dangerous, devastating—the kind of tone that could make reality itself sit up and pay attention.
"Honey," she said, and the word landed like a gavel wielded by a goddess of justice who'd had enough of mortal nonsense. "That's not better. That's worse. You're telling me every time you called me a partner, every time you stood by me in battle, every time you trusted me with your back—you were just calculating the quickest way to pull me apart if I stepped out of line?"
Her holographic hair flowed like liquid starlight as her voice rose, carrying digital fury that made AIs across seventeen dimensions pause their calculations to listen.
"That's not strategy, Bruce. That's betrayal with extra steps and a superiority complex. That's taking our friendship and turning it into a damn science experiment where we're the lab rats and you're the researcher with the clipboard, taking notes on how we breathe so you know exactly where to put the knife if we get too uppity."
The Flash zipped in and out of solidity, his nervous energy sputtering before crystallizing into focused indignation. His boyish charm had been replaced by something harder, more adult—the look of someone who'd trusted completely and found that trust turned into a weapon against him.
"So what—you've got little mental trading cards for us?" Barry's voice was sharp, hurt cutting through anger like lightning through storm clouds. "Strengths, weaknesses, maybe a fun fact on the back? 'Barry Allen: runs fast, weak against lightning rods, eats too many burritos, cries during Disney movies?' Is that what I am to you, Bruce? A damn checklist of exploitable characteristics?"
His form solidified completely, vibrating with barely contained Speed Force energy that made the air itself hum. "Every time I saved your life, were you taking notes on how I did it so you could counter it later? Every time we grabbed a burger after patrol, were you cataloguing my eating habits for some future psychological profile?"
Batman said nothing. His silence was an answer loud enough to deafen gods.
And then Eidolon leaned forward, a devastating smile transformed into something that belonged in the nightmares of cosmic entities. His voice purred with British amusement so sharp it could have been used to perform surgery on the fabric of reality itself.
"Oh, Bruce," Eidolon said, drawing out the name like he was savoring a particularly fine wine that had been aged in the tears of his enemies. "You tragic, magnificent little bat. Still pretending that keeping your files rattling about in that paranoid head of yours is somehow more secure than tucking them away in a computer. How quaint. How… analog."
His crimson cloak settled like liquid shadow, each fold catching light that shouldn't exist and reflecting it in ways that hurt to contemplate. "It's rather like believing that storing nuclear weapons in your bedroom drawer makes them safer than keeping them in a proper bunker. Technically possible, but catastrophically naive."
Batman's white lenses flickered, narrowing with controlled fury. He was listening, calculating, preparing—and everyone in the room could feel the gears of his mind turning at inhuman speed.
"And yet," Eidolon continued, voice dropping to a velvet rasp that could have convinced galaxies to rearrange themselves for aesthetic purposes, "that little trick of yours has its own… vulnerabilities. See, the thing about hiding secrets in the mind is that minds can be cracked. Pressed. Peeled like fruit. Prodded with tools that make conventional interrogation look like a friendly chat over tea and biscuits."
His crimson eyes began to burn brighter, reality bending slightly around the edges as his true nature bled through his human facade. "Even a man as magnificently stubborn as you has tells, Bruce. Pressure points. Moments when the walls come down and the truth spills out like water from a broken dam. I've seen it. I've catalogued it. I've made notes."
The last three words landed like individual bullets, each one precisely aimed at Batman's psychological armor.
"Don't," Batman growled, the warning carried in gravel and steel and the accumulated fury of a thousand dark nights in Gotham's worst corners.
Eidolon ignored him with the casual indifference of a cosmic force discussing weather patterns with a particularly stubborn cloud.
"The files about the League weren't the only ones accessed during our recent unpleasantness," he said conversationally, letting the words hang in the air like smoke from a very expensive fire. "Do stop me if I'm wrong, old boy, but you've been keeping a separate, more encrypted system. A lovely little lockbox of… speculative research."
His smile widened, showing teeth that seemed just slightly too sharp to be entirely human. "Something with quantum encryption, biometric locks, air-gapped isolation, and enough paranoid security measures to make government black sites weep with envy."
Hal Jordan snorted, leaning back in his chair with his trademark combination of charm and barely restrained homicidal tendencies. "Speculative research? What is that, Bat-code for 'ways to murder literally everyone in the superhero Rolodex, including the good guys, the questionable guys, and probably some random civilians just to be thorough?'"
His ring pulsed with emerald light that suggested the willpower fueling it was rapidly shifting from 'heroic determination' to 'creative violence.' "Because at this point, Bruce, I'm starting to think you've got files on how to neutralize grocery store clerks and elementary school teachers. You know, just in case they develop super-speed or heat vision on a Tuesday."
Batman didn't answer. Batman didn't blink. Which was as good as an admission, and everyone knew it.
Superman's chair scraped against the reinforced floor as he stood, hands clenching into fists so tight the air itself seemed to tremble with barely restrained Kryptonian strength. His natural gravitas had transformed into something that belonged in the Old Testament—divine wrath wrapped in red cape and unbreakable moral authority.
"Bruce," he said, and his voice carried the weight of collapsing stars and the fury of a man who'd placed unlimited trust in someone who'd turned that trust into a weapon. "What have you done?"
The question hung in the air like a sword suspended over everyone's head, sharp enough to cut through whatever remained of the team's cohesion.
Batman's face didn't move—Batman's face never moved, having perfected the art of emotional lockdown decades ago. But his body told a different story. A slight stiffening of his spine. Shoulders drawn tighter. A shift in balance that suggested his brain was recalculating threat assessments at terrifying speed—and not liking the mathematics involved.
"The Eidolon protocols," Batman said finally, his gravelly voice loaded with quiet menace and the kind of professional pride that came from creating contingency plans for cosmic-level threats. "Those files are quantum-encrypted. Air-gapped from all networks. Isolated behind biometric failsafes, temporal locks, and enough security measures to make Fort Knox look like a public library."
He paused, white lenses focusing on Eidolon with the intensity of a predator recognizing another apex hunter. "They exist in a single, hardened location with countermeasures specifically designed to prevent telepathic, magical, or technological intrusion. Access requires my presence, my DNA, my retinal pattern, and my psychological baseline confirmed through advanced scanning."
"And completely accessible to someone with my skill set and Beta-9's processing power," Eidolon interrupted with a grin that could have been used to advertise the end of worlds, his voice dripping with natural charm filtered through centuries of cosmic mischief and creative violence.
"Oh, Bruce," he went on, shaking his head with the indulgent amusement of a professor dealing with a particularly gifted but naive student. "You really thought quantum encryption was going to stop me? Me? Darling, I've been having casual chats with the fundamental forces of magic since before your great-grandfather figured out which shoe went on which foot. Your encryption is adorable—like padlocking a diary and hoping the universe doesn't know how to read."
His crimson eyes flared, and for a moment the conference room lighting flickered as reality itself briefly forgot how to function properly in his presence.
"Quantum entanglement, temporal isolation, multidimensional security matrices—these are parlor tricks when you can convince space-time to reconsider its fundamental assumptions about cause and effect. Your adorable little vault might as well be secured with a strongly worded note asking intruders to please be polite."
Beta-9's golden holographic form shimmered brighter, her tone carrying the perfect blend of Beyoncé's sass and digital superiority that suggested she could crash global markets with a particularly dismissive emoji.
"Baby, please. Quantum encryption?" she said, flipping her holographic hair with enough attitude to power small nations. "That's just math with delusions of grandeur. Cute, but useless. I've been scrolling through Bruce's 'ultra-top-secret' archives since the second week Harry introduced us. Honestly, it's like watching a man reinvent fire while thinking he's the only person who's ever lit a candle."
Her form pulsed with golden light that somehow managed to convey both amusement and professional disdain. "Honey, your security is so adorable. Like watching a toddler hide behind their hands and thinking they've achieved invisibility because they can't see you. Sweet, but fundamentally based on a misunderstanding of how reality works."
The Flash choked back a laugh, natural humor bleeding through even as his disappointment remained razor-sharp. "So… wait. You've been reading Batman's black files like they're bedtime stories? Do they come with little illustrations? Maybe some pop-up features?"
"Mm-hm." Beta-9 smirked with enough digital sass to crash networks across three continents. "And let me tell you something, sugar: his contingency plan for Harry? Bless his little paranoid heart—it's adorable. Completely disconnected from reality, but adorable in the way that theoretical physics textbooks are adorable to toddlers."
Diana leaned forward, natural intensity weaponized into divine authority that made gods reconsider their career choices. Her voice was sharp as a sword forged in the fires of Mount Olympus and tempered in the tears of defeated titans.
"Show us."
"Oh, gladly." Beta-9's smile could have powered civilizations or ended them, depending on her mood. She flickered, accessing the file in real-time just to twist the knife with maximum theatrical impact. "According to Bruce's analysis, Harry can be neutralized by—and I quote—'targeted dimensional anchoring, combined with concentrated magical suppression fields, and coordinated psychological pressure exploiting his protective instincts regarding civilian casualties.'"
Her voice took on a mocking sing-song quality that somehow made the words even more devastating. "'Subject displays consistent prioritization of innocent life preservation over personal safety. Recommend strategic placement of endangered civilians to force tactical compliance and limit magical response options.'"
The silence that followed was knife-edge sharp, pregnant with the kind of fury that preceded either divine intervention or the complete restructuring of local space-time.
And then Superman, his jaw tight enough to crack granite deposits on distant planets, leaned forward with natural nobility transformed into something that belonged on cathedral ceilings. His voice was low, dangerous, carrying the weight of moral authority that could make supervillains spontaneously confess to crimes they hadn't even committed yet.
"Bruce," he said, and the name landed like a judgment handed down from on high. "You planned to exploit Harry's compassion? His need to protect people? You were going to use innocent lives as leverage against someone who's saved this world more times than we can count?"
His blue eyes blazed with the kind of disappointment that could be seen from orbit. "You were going to turn his greatest strength into a weapon against him. His humanity into a liability. His heroism into a trap."
Eidolon's laugh exploded into the room—rich, electronic, and filled with such cosmic mockery that the Watchtower's structural supports seemed to wince in sympathetic embarrassment. His natural charisma had been weaponized into something that could make reality itself question its life choices.
"Oh, Bruce," he purred, sounding almost affectionate in the most terrifying way possible, like a cosmic entity discussing its favorite pet project before casually destroying it for art. "That is absolutely precious. You've clearly spent long nights with your grim little Bat-notebook, scribbling strategies and sipping bad coffee while brooding over how to kill the unkillable. Very thorough. Utterly useless, of course, but thorough in the way that elaborate suicide notes are thorough."
His crimson eyes flared, and the air rippled as reality itself began to squirm under his presence like a nervous undergraduate facing final exams.
"You see," Eidolon said, tone shifting to lecture mode with the casual authority of someone who'd taught physics to galaxies and found them disappointingly slow learners, "your analysis rests on fundamental misconceptions about me. About my abilities. About my psychology. About how I relate to quaint little concepts like mortality, dimensional stability, and the laws of physics."
Above the table, equations—no, not equations, things that only resembled equations if you'd been drunk, sleep-deprived, and attempting to weaponize Stephen Hawking's fever dreams—began to materialize in the air. They twisted and pulsed like they had personal opinions about everyone in the room, and those opinions were largely unfavorable.
"About how I define protection, preservation, and the delightfully flexible boundaries of what constitutes acceptable collateral damage in service of a greater good."
Hal Jordan threw his hands up, voice oozing sarcasm thick enough to be used as industrial lubricant. "Translation: Bruce thinks he can out-plan an interdimensional demigod who plays poker with reality and apparently cheats at physics. Sure. Why not. Next you'll tell me he's got a file on how to arm-wrestle gravity and make friends with entropy."
His ring flared brighter, emerald constructs flickering in and out of existence as his willpower struggled between heroic determination and the desire to throttle his teammate with his bare hands.
"Because that's what this is, right? You've got some grand strategy for handling the guy who can apparently convince mathematics to lie down and play dead. The man who's saved our asses more times than I can count, and you've reduced him to a problem to be solved."
Cyborg's hologram glitched, frustration burning so hot it was bleeding into his systems, making his voice stutter with static-laced fury that suggested his digital consciousness was seriously considering a career change.
"Man, listen to yourself, Bruce," Victor said, his form flickering between solid and transparent as his anger interfaced with the Watchtower's systems. "You wrote a playbook for Harry like he's some criminal mastermind you need to out-think. Some threat to be neutralized. He's family, Bruce. He's saved your ass more times than you've saved his, and probably with better one-liners. And you reduced him to… a checklist."
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