The door fell closed behind Hooded Justice, and for a while, silence reigned.
Then, Mothman slowly shook his head: "Unbelievable."
There were murmurs of agreement from the rest of the assembled Minutemen, and Silhouette narrowed her eyes, looking at the door as if she were thinking about going after HJ.
"He just gets worked up about these things, that's all." Nelson's voice had an apologetic tone to it, but it didn't do anything to soften the expressions of those still at the table with him.
"Worked up?" Byron scoffed, giving Metropolis a derisive glance. "So him supporting the Nazi regime is "getting a little worked up", huh?"
Nelson's lips were pressed into a thin line, and he glared right back at Byron: "He has very strong patriotic feelings for his home country, which is more than can be said for some people in this room."
Mothman smirked, leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed in front of his chest: "Well, if to you, patriotic means racist and fascist, then I think I'll pass on that one, Nelly. But then, you've made your own standpoint quite clear when it comes to what you think of other races, haven't you."
"Byron." Bill gave Mothman a look from across the table, something between a warning and a plea. Byron seemed to consider going on with his tirade, but then just shrugged, sighing, and reached for the bottle that was standing in front of him, re-filling his glass.
Once again, silence reigned, until it was broken by Nelson, who was no longer looking at Byron, but was rather picking at the table with one fingernail. Nelson's voice was quiet, almost as if he were speaking to himself: "None of you know him like I do. You just see him as the crimefighter, the mask, but... well, let me tell you, he's had a pretty hard life. His family had to emigrate because things were just so bad after the Great War, and he's never had the comforts most of us here had, growing up. He always had to fend for himself. So you really can't fault him because he wants to see his home country restored to its former glory, so that people won't have to suffer the same fate."
"Oh, shut up." Silhouette's voice cut through the end of Nelly's little speech like a knife. Her gaze was fixed on Nelson, dark eyes glittering with supressed rage, the lines on her face as harsh as her tone: "I don't care if he was raised by a pack of dogs. You might think that it excuses him for supporting a madman and murderer, but then, you probably don't care who he supports, as long as he's fucking you into the matress every night."
Nelson gaped, his face turning almost as white as the wall behind him. Apparently, he wasn't the only one shocked by Ursula's words. Hollis, who had up until now kept his quiet, stood up, raising a hand towards Ursula in a placating gesture: "Silhouette, I really don't think..."
"You keep out of this, Hollis," Ursula snapped, herself rising from her chair and pointing a long finger in Nite Owl's direction. Then, she turned back to Nelson, leaning forward almost threateningly, her palms slamming down on the table: "Have either of you even read Hitler's book? Because if not, you should. You see," she gave Metropolis a smile that was almost terrifying in its sweetness, "he doesn't like people like you. Not a bit. You're depraved, sick, and not worthy of even being alive."
Straightening up, Silhouette raised her chin, looking down at the Minutemen: "Oh, and HJ's not the only one who you don't know. Just for the record? I'm Jewish."
With that, Ursula grabbed her riding crop, which had been lying on the table, and marched out of the room, not even bothering to slam the door behind her.
After a few seconds, Mothman calmly got up, took the bottle and followed her. He found her outside, leaning against the wall next to the front door, angrily dragging at her cigarette.
"Congratulations," Byron chuckled, "you couldn't have shut him up better if you'd punched him in the face."
Silhouette exhaled a plume of smoke, then gave him a wry smile: "Just hand me the bottle, would you?"