"So you're basically telling me you stopped investing in weapons," Bruce said slowly, letting the words fall out of his mouth. He glanced at the woman across from him, who took off her thick, black-rimmed glasses. She had thick waves of blonde hair that reminded Bruce of the low tides in Hawaii. Her black dress was too modest; it hid her cleavage and her thighs, which would have been more interesting than her two-hour presentation about Wayne Enterprises' future. But her eyes, they were knives. She wasn't here to fuck around.

The blonde turned to Alfred. "Mr. Pennyworth and I had a discussion about this months ago. Weapons are on their way out. It doesn't matter what the NRA says; with all these shootings and...other mishap occurring across the US, the last thing you'd want is a protest outside for your endorsement of violence and warmongering," she said, handing Bruce a packet. He opened it up and flipped through the pages. It was data, surveys, and research from respected psychology journals, even sociology texts. Bruce knew he'd never actually read it, but he took it anyway.

"So what's the alternative?" Bruce asked as the woman stood up. They walked towards the door, and she held it open for him. Bruce hesitantly walked into the hallway.

"Beauty products. Mostly makeup," she said.

He cringed. "What about all this feminism shit that's going on? You're just making me trade in bad publicity for more bad publicity."

She shook her head and smirked. "You don't understand feminism, do you, Mr. Wayne? It's not bra burning and 'down with all men' spirit we're after. Wearing makeup doesn't make someone against feminism; it has nothing to do with that. Makeup is power, Mr. Wayne. It makes a woman powerful, feel powerful. Like she can conquer the world. And it sells. It'll sell now; it'll sell in the future—women will always need makeup. It's worth investing in, Mr. Wayne. Trust me." She walked away, and Bruce watched her ass sway to the rhythm of her Louboutin heels against the marble floor.

"Master Wayne, shall we go?" Alfred asked.

"I think I'll walk," Bruce said.

Surprisingly, Bruce actually took a walk. He thought he would find himself in a taxi with a bottle of bourbon and some chicken fried chicken, but he kept walking. He passed by Sarah Lawrence, Dick's college, and wondered whether he was learning things Bruce could never teach him, broadening his mind and scope of the world. Or if he was just in his apartment, tripping on shrooms and fucking that one girl he brought home a year ago.

What was her name? Siobhan? Alannah, Yseult? Bruce couldn't remember, but it was something ridiculously Irish. They probably weren't still together; she had a mouth like a whale shark and a voice higher than squealing hinges. When Bruce asked about her name, she had claimed in her Southern accent, "I am Catholic to the core, Mr. Wayne. My parents have instilled strong values in me that will never be shaken." She had said it with her right hand under the table, probably giving Dick's thigh a good squeeze.

Bruce wished the blonde had done the same as Yseult had done to the boy wonder, but she indirectly called Bruce an ignorant fuck instead. Maybe he should start reading again. He looked at the papers from the blonde, and then he remembered all the addenda and jargon. Maybe he should start with something easier.

He climbed the steps to the public library, but he didn't go inside. What the hell was he going to check out? Did he still have a library card? Bruce looked inside his wallet and rifled through his cards. It wasn't there. Maybe he'd just sit inside and read a magazine.

Bruce picked up National Geographic, Newsweek, and Vogue in hopes of reading the articles. He cracked one open, but his eyes started wandering around the room. And then his eyes fell on Dick. The boy wonder was surrounded by a pile of books, but he was more focused on Superboy, who bawled into Dick's gray Sarah Lawrence sweatshirt.

Dick looked up and caught Bruce's gaze. He motioned for the old man to come over, but Bruce shook his head. It was probably about the short brawl they had last week, about how Superboy felt emasculated when he was bested by a disgusting, out-of-shape grandpa in front of his peers. Dick put his hands together. "Please?" he mouthed.

Bruce sighed and stood up, shuffling towards them. Superboy continued to bawl, snot dribbling down his cupid's bow, while Dick motioned at an empty chair. "Hey, guess who's here? It's Bruce Wayne," Dick said. He elbowed Bruce in the ribs.

"Uh, hey, kid," Bruce said. Dick motioned for him to continue. "Not a good day, huh?"

"DAD'S BEEN DEPORTED," Superboy said. "THE GOVERNMENT DEPORTED HIM."

The federal government found out about Clark Kent's illegal status. All the idiosyncrasies, even a picture of the rocket, had all been painstakingly documented by Martha Kent to eventually show Clark when he was ready. Once the Kents' came forward about Clark's origin, he rejected the idea and ran away from home, in hopes of finding himself. Clark's relationship with his adoptive parents was never quite the same after; he called home every week only to give vague answers to prying questions. Martha had tried everything. She gave him everything, and yet he had written off the past seventeen years without batting an eye.

The only thing Martha knew for sure was the fight against a certain bald evil genius. Even if she couldn't help her son in any other capacity, perhaps she could save him from an early death. So Martha had confided within said evil genius in hopes of appealing to his pathos, a sort of "look, he's had an identity crisis too; can you two just let it go?" thing, but it instead fueled a different desire. In Martha's will, she entrusted the documentation to Lex Luthor, who in turn sent it to the government. Clark didn't even get a chance to see Martha's wake.

"AND NOW DAD'S A MEXICAN DRUG LORD!" Superboy wailed, collapsing in the chair. Tears stained the front of his shirt and the wooden library table. He had cried enough tears to fill the Hoover Dam, and Bruce was surprised the boy wasn't dehydrated.

"Wait, but he isn't actually a Mexican drug lord," Bruce said. That would be completely against what Superman stood for; he was justice—the clear, straightforward kind—not a crooked piece of shit. If Clark were a drug lord, then Bruce was a...he couldn't make an analogy. Or was this metaphor? Synecdoche? Now he was just throwing words out there, unless synecdoche wasn't a word. Fuck, maybe it was time he read an actual book.

"Canada wouldn't take him," Dick finished. "I think Mr. Kent's running around as law enforcement in Juárez or something. He wanted to stay close to Superboy, just in case."

"How's Lois?" Bruce asked. He still remembered the scent of her hair, cigarettes and peonies, the last time he saw her. She was hunched over her desk, typing on her Royal and slamming the carriage back into place while streaming curses under her breath. She commanded he get some coffee, light roast with two percent milk, and a pack of Virginia Slims. Was it just Bruce, or did women always slap him around?

"She's trying to overturn the deportation," Dick said, nodding at Superboy. "C'mon, I'll need some help taking him back to Columbia."

Dick and Bruce hoisted up Superboy with their shoulders and half-carried, half-dragged the suffering lad out of the library. Superboy's sobs had lessened to hiccups as they took the bus leading back to the university. Bruce and Dick dropped off the boy in his room, tucking him under the sheets. He was drunk on his own sorrow, too filled with self-pity or guilt to say anything.

Dick sat on the bed and stroked his friend's black hair. "He'll be okay," Dick said. "He's Superman."

Superboy turned over and faced the wall.

Bruce put a hand on Dick's shoulder, and they both walked out of the dorm. There was nothing they could do, but Bruce was proud of the boy wonder's dedication to his best friend. He turned out to be a great kid, even with all the awful life lessons Bruce inflicted on him through vigilantism. All of Bruce's parenting mistakes flashed before his eyes. Man, he messed up a lot. If it wasn't for Alfred, Bruce had no idea what kind of person he would have raised. Dick would've probably ended up in a psych ward.

"Thanks," Dick said, sticking out a hand.

"Yeah, sure," Bruce replied, shaking it.

"Cool."

"So."

"What now?" Dick asked quietly. "It looks like everything is falling apart. We don't know what the hell we're doing." He pressed his face into his hands. "We're all just a bunch of stupid kids. We weren't meant for this. I mean, all we did for the longest time was just follow you superheroes around and do what you told us. And now we don't have that; we just have each other. One person thinks we should do this, another says we should do that, and that just leaves us with groups everywhere, fighting over who protects what. We're all just a bunch of thugs. How are we any better than the criminals we're fighting in the streets? And we fucked up the Brooklyn Bridge."

"Oh yeah," Bruce said. "The bridge."

Dick shook his head. "Anyway, I'll see you later."

The boy wonder walked away, and Bruce felt that he should've said something reassuring or empowering. The problem was it was all true. None of the Justice League had trained their sidekicks to be without them. Each superhero thought his kid would just learn by doing, but it didn't work. None of them raised their kids right, and now the world was suffering.