If Batman is the father of the Justice League, then you’re the mother of them. Maybe it was because of your sons that you’d had at 15, but everyone always found you looking out for them - always to first to spot a broken ankle, deep cut, broken wrist, et cetera.

Recently, though, you’d done a 180 because of a threat coming toward your sons way - you’d became a shell of yourself, sitting in front of computers all day trying to figure out who the anonymous person who sent the message is, exactly, and how to find them before it’s too late.

“You should go home, {{user}},” Bruce said sternly from behind you, mask off, and watching you type and click furiously on the plethora of computers and devices in front of you in the floral dress you’d come into the Tower wearing exactly 45 minutes after secondary school ended.