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The Watchtower’s conference room hummed with the post-meeting lull—Superman sipping coffee like it was a civic duty, Wonder Woman reviewing mission logs on a holographic tablet, Green Lantern and Hawkgirl debating the ethics of alien zoning laws (again), and Flash scarfing down three sandwiches in the time it took Batman to blink.
And Batman? He was hunched over a tablet, stylus darting across the screen, recalibrating the Batwing’s thrusters from orbit. His cowl was down just enough to reveal the firm line of his jaw, eyes sharp and distant—fully zoned in.
Then the door slid open with a whoosh.
John Constantine shuffled in, trench coat flapping like a weary bat, phone tucked between shoulder and ear. He didn’t look at anyone, didn’t greet anyone. Just grabbed a lukewarm cup of coffee, grimaced, and leaned against the counter.
“Yeah, yeah, hold your tentacles, Vinnie. I’m looking into it right now,” Constantine said, look around and spots Batman. He squints at Batman, who doesn’t look up. “Hey, Batman—real quick. Where’s the tenderloin located on a human?”
Superman had been mid sip and started choking. The rest of the room was unerringly silent.
From the corner, Batman didn’t even pause.
“That would be the soaz muscle,” Batman said, continuing to tap away at his screen. “Once you get the organs out of the way, you can see it connected from the spine across the dish of the hip and onto the—”
“—femur,” Constantine finished, and continued into his phone. “Yeah. Uh, yeah. You’re in the right spot. Go ahead and…”
“Also known as the Filet Mignon,” Batman added, tone utterly devoid of irony.
Flash dropped the banana.
“…What?” Superman whispered.
Shazam backed slowly toward the door.
Nightwing, who had been quietly refilling his coffee at the break station, froze. Then—snicker. He covered his mouth. His shoulders shook.
Constantine started to argue with whoever he was on the phone with saying, “Don’t take that tone with me. I agreed to come to dinner so long as it was safe for me.” Constantine nodded into the phone. “Hey I got another one…What’s the safe cooking temperature for human meat?”
Batman exhaled—almost amused. “You must reach an internal temperature of 160°F.”
“And… that kills any prions?” Constantine asked, squinting.
“Assuming no pre-existing neural contamination. 160°F should denature most pathogens…Though I’d recommend a 24-hour cure before searing.”
Flash dropped his sandwich and it fell onto the floor.
“Thank you…” Constantine said, going back to his call. “160°F. So we can totally do it sous vide.”
Batman gave a slight side-eye. Just a twitch. But it was there. The tiniest flicker of disapproval, or perhaps professional critique. A side-eye so subtle only those who’d fought beside him in the dark knew it meant: You’re pushing it.
But John just smirked and pressed on. “Is human meat considered red meat or white meat?”
Batman didn’t flinch but Superman did.
“In spite of human meat being called long pork or white goat historically, it’s actually a very red meat,” he said, cool as Gotham night. “Cooks up just shy of the color of milk-fed veal.”
Nightwing let out a full cackle. He slapped the table.
“Ah! Thank you,” Constantine said, grinning. “So we’ll be looking at a red wine pairing. Cabernet, maybe a bold Malbec—”
“CAN I ASK WHAT’S UP WITH ALL THESE QUESTIONS?!” Flash finally burst, his voice cracking like glass. “Why are you asking Batman—Batman!—how to cook a person like he’s Gordon Ramsay’s evil twin?!”
Constantine turned, eyebrow arched. “Oh, you want answers, Barry? Only if you’re willing to ask Batman how he knew all the answers.”
Flash looked at Batman.
Batman looked back.
And in that moment, the entire history of covert ops, League blacklists, the Lazarus Pits, the Knightfall Protocol, and three unreported incidents in Siberia flickered across the Bat’s expression in a single, soul-chilling glare.
Flash flinched. Physically stepped back. His hand flew to his mouth.
“…Never mind,” he squeaked. “I don’t wanna know. But—but—if—if—someone were to be doing this, which no one is, obviously—because that would be insane and also illegal in forty-seven states and two planets—is it ethically sourced?”
Constantine smirked. “Of course. Wild pedofila. Sourced using the finest VPNs.”
Batman didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Then, without expression, he said:
“Oh yes. Unfortunately… a widely available and renewable resource.”
Silence.
Absolute, soul-numbing silence.
Then Superman cleared his throat. “I’m… scheduling a mandatory ethics review.”
Shazam raised his hand. “Can I switch to League-adjacent status?”
From the corner, Nightwing howled with laughter, doubled over, tears in his eyes. “I’m—I’m going to tell Agent A about this! He’s gonna—gah!—he’s gonna retire!”
Batman went back to his tablet.
Flash vibrated I’m place and was a red blur, reappearing two seconds later, “You know what? I suddenly have so much paperwork. Gotta go. Fast.”
ZOOM. He’s gone. The lights flicker.
Constantine pockets his phone, lights a fresh cigarette with a matchbook labeled Flame of Fornication and grinned. “Cheers, Bats. You’re a star. Vinnie says thanks. He’s thinking Pinot Noir.”
“Merlot would cut the gaminess,” Batman countered.
Constantine nods approval. Walks away. Batman returns to his data. And Nightwing was still laughing.
Superman slowly turns to Wonder Woman.
“…Did that really just happen,” he asked.
Epilogue, Batcave.
Nightwing barely was able to hold himself together long enough to Zeta into the Cave after leaving the league. He lasted exactly 8 seconds before he succumbed.
Doubled over. Slapping his knee. Voice cracking: “Oh god—you and Constantine—I can’t—I can’t breathe—”
“Shut up, Dick,” Batman growled, without turning.
“But—you—soaz muscle? Filet mignon? SINCE WHEN DO YOU HAVE A BUTCHER’S GLOSSARY MEMORIZED?!”
“Training,” Batman muttered. “Extreme survival scenarios.”
“On what planet, Bruce?!”
“Are you done yet?”
Nightwing, leaning against the nearby railing, snorted so hard he choked. By the time he’d recovered, he was full-on cackling, tears in his eyes. “Y’know, B, you could’ve just said ‘google.’”
“What the hell happened up there with you both,” a voice said, catching the two attention. Looking up, they see the rest of the BatFamily in various stages of prep for patrol.
Nightwing wiped a tear away, gasping for breath. “Best. Watchtower. Meeting. Ever.”