"I'm here with you today right outside the Hall of Justice where the Justice League had their first public execution," The reporter's bored voice wafted through the open bathroom door, right to Nightwing's ears. Dick stood under the showerhead, letting the water make a steady rhythm on his shoulders. Looking down at his feet, he watched the crimson red water turn into a lighter shade of pink, and slowly become clearer as more and more of the iron-smelling liquid was washed off his body. Dick was accustomed to this. Rubbing grimness and blood off his body was something he had to do after almost every battle, but usually the blood was his own.

Jason's body had been difficult to carry in the state of confusion that Dick had felt. He was sure that he had left a clear trail of red to his bike with the way he dragged Jason, but he couldn't find the time to care. He vaguely remembers feeling Jason's warm body, and thinking that maybe there was still time to save Jason, thinking that he might be alive. Dick's hopes were always let down when he checked Jason's pulse.

Now, after an hour of driving to the closest, safest place he knew, Jason was dumped on the couch, and Dick had ran under the water to get any remnants of his brother off him. He could hear Tim in the living room, rearranging Jason into a more comfortable position. Dick couldn't help but pause, and think. When had everything gone wrong? How had the Justice League gain so much power?

It was handed to them, Dick thought bitterly, already knowing the answer. They're our heroes. Why wouldn't we trust them?

The reporter continued with a, "We all know," and Dick's thoughts were shattered, and he listened to the television as the noise mingled with the pound of the water, "that the League have been executing for some time-- starting with known criminals like Lex Luthor, although they were always done away from prying eyes. It seems that now they have upped their game, making it known to everyone that those were not a temporary thing. This execution was the one of Jason Peter Todd, also known as The Red Hood."

Dick started to scrub harder, until his skin matched the pink of the water. When his fingers started to go numb and his arms started to hurt, he finally stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist. Standing in front of the fogged mirror, he wiped once, looking at the distorted refection of his eyes as water droplets ran down the glass. He wasn't sure if they were red from tears or soap-- and he didn't care. His chest ached either way, and he knew there was nothing he could do about it.

He could hear static come over the reporter's voice, and he broke his own eye contact to make out her words. "Although many are happy that the criminal is off the streets," Dick growled at this, "there seems to be mixed reactions to the latest news that was let out by Nightwing-- Batman's former protégé. Apparently, this hard-core villain was also Batman's son, making Batman the executor-- or dare I say it-- murderer of his own child. Here are some of the reactions of people in the crowed ..."

Dick was slightly surprised that the reporter had been allowed to say such cruel things about the Justice League, because if the radio he listened to on the way here through his haze and tears was anything to go by, the League had already gained control of media. Then he heard the crowed, and put the slimmer of hope away.

"...say it might seem a little heartless, but now we know they won't let their feelings get in the way of justice and..."

"... don't know about everyone else, but I'm just glad to know my son is safe from that monster..."

"...they're willing to get the job done, that's all that really..."

"...only got what he deserved? Yeah, I think so..."

"...stupid, murderous piece of crap that Batman killed..."

"...I can live without fear knowing that he's gone, I can fulfill my dreams and..."

Dick's fist collided with the mirror, shattering the image of his blue irises. Now the image of himself was cut and jagged as he pulled his hand away, and he could see the crease between his brow deepen. He should have known. Bruce always told him, the best way to get rid of an unwanted idea was to introduce it. Then crush it so no one would want to fantasize about it.

Despite the claim that there were "mixed" reactions, all the interviewed people gave the same basic message: "Red Hood is bad" and "Batman did the right thing". Dick knew that that wasn't right. Killing wasn't the answer. How was Bruce letting them do this?

A voice refocused his thoughts on something else, and his eyes landed on Tim, drying tears of his own and standing straighter. He was trying to re-compose himself, just like Bruce had taught him: Put away your fears and focus on the moment. It's not about you at the moment. It's about the target. You have no feeling-- You have one end to reach, and that is your goal. 

"I'm fine," Dick answered, waving away the mirror as if it could actually move. "I just-- I'm fine. The shower helped. Can you just... shut the T.V.?" Tim showed no emotion on his face-- oh, he looked so much like Bruce when he did that-- and just nodded, walking slowly to the remote and pushing the button to turn it off. The reporter's voice faded, her smile doing the same as the black of the screen took over the brightness of the day and the joy of the crowed. He caught a glimpse of the front steps of the Hall behind them, and he could still see a dark, red spot where Jason's body had previously been sprawled.

He could feel his chest ache again, knowing that the body was now in front of him, laying on the couch, but he didn't look down at it. Another felling bubbled in his chest, and he could hear a low growl rising from his lips. Red-hot anger flashed against his vision, and he could see Tim tense behind him.

"The Justice League..." Dick remembers the last words the reporter said before they were plunged into silence, and he would fight that idea and fight these people until they were no longer left standing, because he knew it wasn't true. What these people were doing was wrong, and that was something that was drilled in his mind since he was a child. "...truly are our lords."