Chapter 114: The Trial of the Red Doom
Two days had passed.
And Central City was a city split in half.
One half chanted Dante's name like he was a savior. The Red Doom, they called him—a hero who did what the others wouldn't. They painted murals, lit candles, wore shirts with a crimson lightning bolt in the center.
The other half? Rage. Fury. Led by Marcus Grant's twin brother—Julian Grant, a polished, sharp-tongued lawyer—they demanded justice. For Marcus. For accountability. For law.
"HE'S NOT ABOVE THE LAW," one banner read.
"THE RED DOOM IS A KILLER," said another.
And Dante?
Dante stood atop the highest tower in Central City, unmoving, staring down at it all. The world below looked small. Insignificant. Screaming and divided.
In his eyes, the people were nothing. Ants. Bugs. Fragile little creatures he could crush if he wanted. And yet… he didn't.
The wind howled. It tugged at his long red hair and bit his skin.
He closed his eyes and whispered to the sky.
"Ohhh, Leon… what should I do, big brother?"
No answer came. Only the whistle of winter wind across glass and steel. Only silence.
---
The next morning arrived heavy with tension.
Outside Central City Courthouse, a sea of protestors clashed like tides. On one side: citizens holding signs reading "The Red Doom is a Hero!", "He Saved people!", and "Real Justice, Not Politics!"
On the other: signs that screamed "Murder is Murder!", "Lock Him Up!", and "Meta or Not, He Crossed the Line!"
Reporters, camera drones, and CCPD officers lined the steps.
And then, as if summoned by the collective breath of the city, he appeared.
Out of the morning mist, wearing the same black suit with streaks of blood-red. His chest bore the bolt. His head covered by the demonic mask. The Red Doom walked through the crowd.
Everything fell silent.
People stopped chanting. Reporters froze. Even the wind stilled.
A single glass bottle flew from the mob.
It struck Dante's mask and shattered, shards falling at his feet.
He didn't flinch. Didn't look.
He just sighed, stepped over the glass, and kept walking.
---
Inside the courthouse, security was tight. Armed officers lined the walls. Some visibly tense. Others clearly just curious.
Dante walked calmly down the aisle of the courtroom as if he owned it.
The gallery was packed—humans and metahumans alike. Some there out of support. Others out of fear. And in the front row, like a panel of judgment, sat Julian Grant, Marcus's twin. His expression was icy. Calculated.
The jury, twelve men and women, watched Dante closely as he approached his designated seat.
He said nothing. Not a word. Just sat.
Behind him sat Barry Allen, jaw tight. Patty beside him. Nora, quiet but determined. Cisco and Wells. Caitlin. And finally, Joe West, watching like a father ready to take the fall if needed.
The judge entered.
Everyone rose.
And so it began.
Julian Grant stood first.
He walked to the center, composed like a man who'd practiced every word for weeks.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the court," he began, his voice sharp, commanding, "we are here today not to judge a superhero, nor a savior. We are here to judge a man who took the law into his own hands and executed another person in cold blood."
He pointed to the video screen behind him.
Footage played. Again. Dante's fists raining down. The moment the heart was torn free. The blood. The scream.
"Marcus Grant," Julian said, voice softer now, "was my brother. Yes, a metahuman. Yes, dangerous. But he had rights. He was subdued. Injured. Vulnerable. And still—this man…" He turned to Dante. "...decided he was judge, jury, and executioner."
Dante didn't blink. He just lit a cigarette, ignoring the no-smoking sign.
Julian continued, "We cannot—must not—allow our heroes to become monsters."
He sat down.
The silence was thunderous.
The judge, a seasoned man with graying hair and tired eyes, leaned forward.
"Mr. Red Doom," he said firmly, "since you refused legal counsel, I'll offer you this opportunity. Do you have anything you want to say for yourself?"
The room held its breath.
Dante sighed beneath the mask. The sound was soft. Distant. But it echoed.
"I didn't want a lawyer," he said slowly, "because let's be honest—I don't need one."
The judge frowned slightly. "Explain."
Dante finally raised his head. His gaze locked directly onto Julian Grant.
"You say you want justice for your brother," he began, voice calm but sharp like a blade held flat. "But your brother… he was a killer. He didn't just stumble into crime. He reveled in it. He enjoyed the fear."
Julian's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"He got his powers the same way every metahuman in this city did. Some people—good people—used those powers to protect. Like the Flash. Like Vibe. Killer Frost. Even the ones you don't know by name… they save lives every damn day because it's the right thing to do."
Dante's voice dropped to a darker tone.
"And then there are people like your brother."
He stood up, slowly.
"He looked at his powers and said, 'You know what? Fuck it. I'm going to steal. I'm going to kill. I'm going to put fear in every human heart I see.'"
He walked a few steps forward.
"So, tell me, Counselor Julian—how many people did your brother hurt?"
Julian started to open his mouth, but Dante held up a hand.
"No—scratch that. Don't answer. Because I know."
Dante turned toward the judge.
"If you'll allow me."
The judge gave a hesitant nod.
From the front row, Joe West stood. He walked down the aisle and handed Dante a folded paper.
Dante unfolded it slowly, his gloves brushing the page like it was something sacred.
He began to read.
"The name is Max William. Age twenty-eight. Fresh out of the academy. A young police officer at CCPD. He had a sick mother. A baby brother. Fifteen years old."
He looked up from the paper, his voice trembling with restrained emotion.
"Your brother killed that man."
Gasps rippled through the courtroom.
"And no one… not one of you… talked about it."
Dante turned toward the crowd in the gallery—toward those holding signs that branded him a criminal, a monster.
"You want me in prison?" he asked, his voice starting to rise. "You want me in chains because I killed a killer?"
Red lightning began to crackle around his mask. It danced across his suit, slow and ominous.
"Let's talk about the family that actually lost everything."
He gestured toward the paper.
"Max William's mother cries herself to sleep. His little brother's scared to leave the house. And you—you—want to lecture me about justice?"
His eyes scanned the courtroom. Fury rising in his chest. Red energy pulsing like a heartbeat.
"You people…" he spat. "You sons of bitches…"
The gallery recoiled.
"I put my life on the line every single day for this city. I fought the Reverse-Flash. I fought Zoom. I fought his army. I fought the Black Order. I stood toe-to-toe with Death itself."
His voice thundered now.
"I've bled. I've died. I've come back for you. And what do I get?"
He looked around again. The red lightning around him crackled louder now, licking the air like fire.
"I kill one man—one monster—and suddenly, I'm the villain?"
The room fell deathly silent.
"Tell me, Julian," he said, turning back to the lawyer, "did you cry for the people your brother killed? Did you light candles for them? Or do they not count because their names weren't printed in the paper?"
Julian didn't respond. Couldn't.
Dante's voice softened.
"I don't regret what I did. I regret that anyone had to die. But if I had to do it again… I would."
He looked at the jury now.
"You want to put me in jail? Go ahead. But don't pretend it's justice. It's politics. It's fear. And it's bullshit."
He sat down, slowly, folding the paper back with trembling hands.
Behind him, Barry Allen stared with tight lips. Patty gripped the seat. Nora was on the verge of tears.
And somewhere in the far back of the courtroom, the people who once shouted "killer!" looked ashamed that they'd ever doubted him.
---
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