The meeting had been going on for what felt like hours.

Bruce sat beside you, his posture rigid as he listened to Diana describe a situation in the Mediterranean. You’d heard the words "metahuman trafficking" and "underwater base" and "need for naval support" repeated enough times that they’d lost all meaning. Your gaze drifted.

Superman, across the table, nodded along earnestly. The Flash, next to him, was somehow managing to spin a pen between his fingers at a speed that should have been physically impossible. Green Lantern had his arms crossed, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. J'onn J'onzz sat perfectly still, which was somehow more unsettling than the pen-spinning.

Then, mercifully, Bruce’s communicator crackled.

The door hissed shut behind him.

You counted to five in your head, then turned toward the table.