Summary: In the aftermath of Wake the Dead...
Disclaimer: The same as usual. Not mine, blah, blah, blah.
It's a small, undecorated room. Guest quarters they call them. There is no window. A single bed is made with tight white sheets and a blue blanket. Pushed under a small desk is a silver-colored metal chair, its only comfort being a slightly padded seat. The overhead light is a harsh fluorescent. A high open-air rack holds empty hangers. No pictures adorn the walls; no computer or video screen is available.
On the deckplate in the center of the room lies an abandoned weapon constructed from Thanagarian Nth metal. No physical evidence shows on its spiked head, but the mace took part in a killing not three hours prior.
A mercy killing.
Stopping a mindless monster.
Crushing an empty shell.
Betraying a friend.
The door to the tiny adjoining bathroom is open. Choking sounds of dry heaves periodically break the monotony of sobs. Curled into a tight ball on the cold metal floor next to the toilet, she trembles and snivels and allows lava-hot tears to burn her cheeks. Shayera Hol, formerly of Thanagar, shamefully hides under her own wings. Visions crash through her mind as violently as her electrified mace impacted Grundy's skull.
It wasn't personal.
But it was.
Isn't as simple as that.
But it is.
Never lied about that.
But it's still the truth.
Outside the room, newer members of the expanded Justice League go about their business. Whispers of shock are exchanged.
He will find "appropriate" assignments for her in the coming days, the shapeshifter tells the group.
Anytime we need someone to turn against us and kill someone, she's the person for the job, the woman says.
The man in black and green quickly chastises.
She saved hundreds of people today, the man in blue reminds the group.
Saved us all, the man in red adds.
It's not up for debate again, the man in Kevlar snaps.
A turncoat is in their midst.
A broken warrior lies coiled in a corner.
Hawkgirl has rejoined the League.
A hero is home.