The silence after Batman's arrival had weight.
He stepped farther into the room, toward the center of the oval table. The dark of his cape dragged behind him, soft against the polished floor.
Then, quietly, without changing his pace, he added, "John's right."
The words hit harder than any order.
Superman's posture shifted instantly. Surprise cut into his face like a faultline forming mid-sentence. Across the room, a few eyebrows raised. Some sat up straighter. Others just blinked in disbelief.
Batman's voice didn't rise. He didn't need it to.
"As dangerous as Arias Markovic is," he said, eyes passing over the room, "he's the only reason there's global peace right now."
He stopped walking. Not behind a chair. Not at the head. Just at the table's edge, still standing.
"There is no tactical, political, or humanitarian gain in provoking a confrontation with him at this time."
Superman looked like he'd been slapped.
"Benefits?" he echoed, incredulous. "Since when do we do what we do for benefits? We protect people. Their freedom. Their right to live free of people like him."
His fists clenched slightly at his sides.
Batman didn't flinch.
"Then who will keep them safe from themselves?"
The question dropped like a floorboard caving in.
Superman stared at him. Not in anger. Not yet. But the foundation of something deeper—betrayal, maybe—settled behind his eyes.
He didn't answer.
Not immediately.
It was Hawkman who filled the silence.
"The previous government was a joke," he said simply. His Thanagarian accent clipped the words without softening them. "And this one's foundation—however stable—is built on something your laws never permitted."
He folded his arms, voice neutral. Observational.
"So my question is: if we do focus on Arias Markovic—or if we don't—what are the consequences of either decision?"
The room didn't react at first. Just thought.
He wasn't wrong. And it irritated people that he wasn't wrong.
Hawkman, like many of the off-worlders on the team, didn't see the moral dilemma the same way. He hadn't grown up under Earth's systems. He hadn't spent years putting faith in the illusion of accountability.
Hawkgirl, seated just one chair down, shook her head slightly.
"The consequences of one," she said, "are thousands more dead. The consequences of the other? A new, unknown ruling system."
She glanced at the others. "If you ask me, we can only hope Arias really does have the people's best interest in mind."
Artemis scoffed under her breath. "That's a good one."
The sarcasm wasn't hidden. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed.
But to her surprise, the next voice wasn't one she expected.
"Well…" M'gann said softly, "he has helped a lot of kids. Especially those who didn't feel like they belonged anywhere."
Her voice stayed low, almost guilty. "I've been on a lot of the boards they talk on… mostly metas. Some alien. They talk about how things used to be. How people treated them. Then they talk about Gotham. And the Ark Academies."
She hesitated.
"They don't sound afraid. They sound… happy. Like it's too good to be real."
It was a quiet confession. A private thought accidentally said aloud.
She didn't meet anyone's gaze. Except J'onn's. He didn't nod. He didn't speak. But she felt it—his understanding. The kind of solidarity only shared by two people who knew what it meant to be born unwanted.
No one said anything for a long moment.
Then John Stewart spoke again, more grounded than angry now.
"If any of you spent enough time off this planet," he said, "you'd understand—humanity's biggest threat has always been its own systems. Not alien invasions. Not gods. People."
He leaned forward.
"Most self-destructive race in my opinion. Because we keep electing leaders who only care about their own power. Not the people."
He scanned the room.
"The League won't last forever. What happens when we're gone?"
Batman finally spoke again, as if to answer John.
"When the first line of defense falls," he said, "a society without structure collapses. Fast."
He didn't raise his voice. But every syllable sharpened the air.
"If we hadn't united against Darkseid, Earth would've been taken."
No one interrupted him.
He looked at Superman last.
"A system that works is the only real shield. And right now, Arias has the only one that's holding."
Batman's words didn't settle anything. They weren't meant to. If anything, they stirred the water deeper—pushing the debate from ideological friction into full philosophical fracture.
The League wasn't shouting now. But the silence between sentences had a sharper edge than the earlier argument.
Superman straightened, his expression composed but far from calm. The light in his eyes wasn't just righteous—it was relentless.
"We can't leave this up to him," he said, turning his gaze toward the others. "If the League is going to stand for anything going forward, it should be helping the people build something real. Something fair."
He didn't yell. He didn't need to. The conviction in his tone carried further than volume ever could.
"We help establish a system built on justice. Democracy. Global unity through cooperation, not coercion."
He glanced briefly toward Batman. "If we don't, then we're just endorsing dictatorship through silence."
Batman didn't flinch. "And if we do?" he asked, voice low. "If we step in, play savior, disrupt the only structure currently holding global peace… what happens then?"
He walked a few slow steps closer toward Superman.
"You think the world will thank us when trade collapses? When rogue nations spark proxy wars in the vacuum?"
He didn't raise his voice either. But his words carried weight like lead.
"Arias isn't fair. But he's working. And people are breathing easier. If you think this world can survive a second power collapse, you're not looking hard enough."
The room stirred.
It wasn't about who was right anymore. It was about what kind of world they wanted to build—and how much blood they were willing to spill to do it.
Superman's vision was clear: a League-guided effort to rebuild Earth's political framework from the ground up. A digital democracy protected by League oversight, with localized representative councils supported by metas and non-metas alike.
A transparent world system where no one individual held unchecked power. It was inspiring. Impossible, maybe. But inspiring.
Batman's was simpler. Keep the current balance. Mitigate damage. Prevent collapse. Guide where possible, interfere only when necessary. It wasn't hope. It was control.
That difference was becoming unignorable.
Martian Manhunter stood up slowly, his deep voice cutting through the room like a calm bell.
"We'll get nowhere arguing," he said. "We can vote on this. A motion."
No one disagreed.
"All in favor of Kal-El's motion—to begin groundwork toward establishing a new global system and aiding people in creating it…"
Hands rose. One by one.
Aquaman. Aqualad. Black Canary. Artemis. Robin. Martian Manhunter himself. Hawkman.
Superman raised his own hand last.
"Eight," J'onn confirmed.
"Opposed?"
Hands again.
Dr. Fate. Zatanna. Miss Martian. John Stewart. Hawkgirl. Batman. M'gann's hand hesitated, but it stayed up.
"Seven."
Superman didn't smile. No one did. The vote didn't feel like resolution. It felt like aftermath.
Even the air seemed heavier.
Hawkman looked down the table toward Hawkgirl. She didn't return the glance. Just crossed her arms and stared ahead.
Batman shifted slightly, his eyes catching Robin in the corner of his vision. Robin didn't look back. Instead, he glanced across to Zatanna and M'gann, subtle confusion in his brow. Artemis and Canary exchanged a similar look, both registering the quiet break forming beneath the surface.
John scoffed quietly.
"This'll be fun to explain to the next generation," he muttered.
Then—
**BEEP**
**Whirrrrrr**
The table's center came to life. A blue-hued projection burst upward, shimmering into the shape of a globe, then focusing in on the upper edge of the solar system.
An alert klaxon hummed in the background. Quiet, but constant.
Superman turned immediately. "What is that?"
Batman stepped closer, fingers working the panel at the edge of the table.
"Satellites positioned in orbit beyond Neptune," he said. "The early warning grid."
The display flickered once before sharpening. Grainy footage came into view—streaks of green light, fast and organized, moving through space in formation.
Zoom.
The image enhanced just enough to resolve uniforms.
Green Lantern insignias.
Multiple.
Every gaze in the room shifted at once.
Batman's voice didn't waver.
"Friends of yours?"
His eyes locked on John Stewart.