The "inspectors" office was far more utilitarian than I had anticipated. I imagined something pretentious, ultra modern - a workspace that might reflect Lex Luthor and his regime. Instead, I was led into a small windowless room lined with filing cabinets. Mr. Big-and-Beefy pushed hard on my bad shoulder and forced me into an aluminum chair facing a nondescript metal and Formica desk. I growled in pain and shot him a look. Everything about this guy said "I am a sadistic man with a small sliver of power and I intend to abuse it."

I sat in silence, counting my rabbit- fast heartbeats, until a severe looking woman in a tightly tailored suit took her seat on the other side of the desk. She idly flipped through a file in front of her, and then waved her hand dismissively, "You may go, Officer Davis."

"Ma'am?" he dug his fingers into the back of my neck, asserting his control over me.

"Was I not clear? And remove the bite guard, you know that's excessive force. You should thank me for not writing you up." She looked at him, sighing, eyebrows raised in expectation.

I could see Davis suppress a sneer before he did as he was told, removing the leather binding from my chin with a warning look at me. I smiled sarcastically.

Good to know there's someone here who can control this asshole.

"Go." The woman shooed him out with her hand, then returned her attention to the folder before her.

The wall clock marked the seconds... minutes… as she wordlessly turned page after page. Photographs, notes, newspaper clippings. All about me. I shifted uncomfortably in the seat - How could they know so much about us, when we knew so little about Them.

"Well, well, Mr. Grayson. You are an interesting man." She folded her hands in front of her on the desk and met my venomous glare with a deceptively soft expression. "My name is Inspector Marie LeGrande, and my job is to gather the necessary information about detainees before they go in front of the Tribunal."

We had only minimal intel about how this new government actually worked, other than a vague knowledge of how Draconian it was. Most offenses were punished with slavery as an Enforcer, or public execution. There had been no mention of a court system of any kind. My eyes tightened with confusion.

She smiled. Half warm, half cunning. "Feel free to ask questions, Mr. Grayson. Transparency is very important to our process."

Curiosity got the best of me. "I was under the impression that the mask-and-cape crowd was killed on sight. Why am I here?"

"You mean why did we treat your wounds and give you nutritious food instead of shooting you like a dog in the street?" Her smile didn't fade, but it became more and more unsettling as she spoke, "President Luthor is a man of compassion - we have laws against outright cruelty."

Keep it together, Grayson. You don't exactly have the upper hand, here.

I scoffed, fighting to keep my voice at a reasonable volume. "Compassion? Was murdering Clark Kent an example of Luthor's compassion? Maybe the meaning of that word has changed since he conquered the world."

"Terrorists," she emphasized, "do face execution. Wanton disregard for the rule of law and endangerment of the citizenry is not tolerated."

I rolled my eyes, tiring of the doublespeak, "That brings us back to my original question: why am I here?"

She didn't respond. Instead, she turned her attention back to the file. "How old were you? When your parents were murdered and were press-ganged into life as a child soldier? Eight, nine?" She clucked her tongue in feigned sympathy.

I tightened my jaw, closed my eyes. I did not like where this was going.

"I only ask because it's rather a point of contention with the Tribunals." She leaned back and continued, "Do we hold terrorists accountable if they were forced into aberrance as minors? The consensus has been to extend a chance at rehabilitation to former child-soldiers. Though, to date, few have taken the offer. It seems the so-called 'Justice League' was well practiced in conditioning underage recruits. They'd all rather be executed than put their skills to use for their government."

My dumb mouth took the bait. "Well, your sales pitch could use some work. Most people aren't going to go for the 'join us or die' approach."

She scowled, a harsh rebuke against my misplaced humor. "And what approach did Bruce Wayne use? Did he offer you a chance at vengeance? Did he hand out morsels of praise like sweets? Or was it worse than that? I can only imagine the horror of having the Batman as a father."

The saccharine concern in her voice coupled with that vile patronizing smile - it was all I could do to keep my temper in check.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," I spat.

"Really? Because, in a rational world, a grown man beating a third-grader under the guise of 'sparring' in order to 'train' him to act as a criminal accomplice is considered abuse, Mr. Grayson." She looked at me like I was the most pitiful person she'd ever met, and my body tensed in rage against the tight restraints.

"He used you. He's still using you, counting on your blind devotion to keep his location a secret." Her face contorted in disgust. "Think about the rest of your family. Don't your brothers deserve a chance at life away from such a corrupting influence? If you tell me where you have been hiding, I can help them."

She flipped to a new page, running her finger down a list of names. "Damian, for example, is still a minor. He wouldn't face repercussions of any kind, and he would be placed in a real, loving home with certified, competent foster parents. Timothy? He would have access to the best computers available to us - he could be a real asset in our efforts to reclaim the world's natural and technological resources after the damage wrought by the 'Justice League'."

Slowly, she pulled out a small photograph and slid it to the edge of the desk for my inspection. "And I know your relationship with Jason is… atypical. Though, with such a troubled background, it's little wonder that the two of you have no concept of healthy family behaviors. Regardless, I'm sure it would wound you deeply if you were to learn he was killed because you chose not to cooperate."

Trembling, I leaned forward. The picture was dark and grainy, but unmistakable. Jason and I, tucked away in an alley, locked in a passionate and desperate kiss. His hands pressing my wrists against a crumbling brick wall. The photo was months old - I remembered that night vividly. The night I told Jason we couldn't be together like that anymore. But it didn't matter - it was damning leverage.

I bowed my head, tightened my jaw. Shame grew in the pit of my stomach. And fear, too. I cursed myself for playing along with her sick game for even a minute. And now I was exposed. Emotionally compromised. I kept my gaze fixed at my feet as she stood.

"Think about the option of rehabilitation. Really think about it." She closed my file abruptly, and headed for the door, opening it as aged hinges creaked in protest. "You have some time. It can be months before an investigation like this is complete. That's a very long time to spend in solitary confinement. Especially for someone like you. We'll talk again. Soon."

She walked into the hallway and waved Davis into the room. Brutally, he hauled me to my feet and tugged me back to the cell. My cell. My new home. Because I wasn't going to play her game a second time. Even if it killed me