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Everything was a choice.
Everything had a consequence, and he sometimes believed in the butterfly effect because of this.
It wasn’t so much a choice to stop going out on all but the most important missions as it was the only way he’d survive. It also wasn’t a choice to not wear the suit when he did go out, as that’d be the quickest way for him to find the insurgency. Just as these weren’t choices, it was also not a choice to wear the non-Bat-themed body armor they did have. Unfortunately, even with all of Bruce’s once-considerable resources, getting ahold of quality body armor (especially enough for a small army) was a difficult task.
So it was a choice to refuse to take the best pieces of body armor that they did have.
Even if it wasn’t presented as a choice, Bruce simply knew that the insurgency refused to send him out into the field in anything but the best they had, and that was unacceptable. So he made it a choice. Bruce wasn’t anything special, after all. He merely had… a more personal reason to dislike Superman. So anytime he was allowed out, he consciously (and subtly) distributed the ‘good’ bits of armor among the men and women who went with him. Of course he made sure that the armor he did end up with was in working order. Of course he did. It would be stupid not to. But he refused to be treated differently from anybody else in the insurgency.
The only piece of equipment he did not skimp on was the dampener.
Superman had told him long ago— back when life was simple— that he’d memorized Batman’s heartbeat. While many things had changed, between Kal-El and Bruce Wayne, and the general state of Earth, this, he was positive, was not one of them. Therefore, Bruce was certain that it would be a death sentence for him to go out into the field (or even outside) without masking his heartbeat. So he always, always, always made sure that the device was working and that he wore it.
Everything was a choice, everything had a consequence, and Bruce was often the one bearing the burden of both sides of that equation. So when he heard from one of the insurgency’s sources that a large cache of kryptonite had been discovered, he immediately felt sick. It’s a trap, his mind told him. Maybe it’s not, his gut argued. An opportunity you can’t afford to miss, his heart said. Bruce had to make a decision here, and it could either doom them or save them.
It could not do both.
He paced in his office— located deep in the bunker— until he felt he would go mad. Then Bruce sat at his desk and thought until he fell asleep. He was woken up by a concerned member of the insurgency a few hours later. And to think Bruce had once thought his social schedule as ‘Brucie Wayne’ was busy. Ha. Bruce asked for more information from his source and when he got it, he went to the rest of the insurgency’s leaders and announced their new operation.
And the butterfly flapped its wings.
“BRUCE!” The sudden rumbling of the floor and the loud, panicked voice in his ear jolted him awake. Bruce blinked open his heavy eyes, coughed at the gathering smoke, and took in the fairly-destroyed, newly-blown-up warehouse. He and a force of elite, trusted insurgency members had come to the ragged, still semi-radioactive edges of what used to be Metropolis to retrieve the kryptonite— their hope. It had been a trap. But the real kick to the gut?
The kryptonite was here; Kal-El had actually authorized his people to leave a large chunk of it out as bait.
Bruce gasped and coughed again as he took in another lungful of too-smokey air. He noted, displeased, the tangy taste of blood on his tongue. And the agony in his gut. Like a lit blowtorch was being held against his skin. As he shifted, Bruce couldn’t hold back the groan that escaped his lips. His eyelids fluttered. “Batman, I need you to focus on me, okay? Batman!”
Another loud, echoing bang sounded against the distant door.
Minutes after the insurgency arrived, the regime’s super-soldiers had ambushed them. Miraculously, someone had managed to grab the kryptonite, which was the only reason Kal-El’s men had not managed to capture and dispose of all of Bruce’s people yet. Unfortunately, they had managed to shoot Bruce himself. And they’d only managed this because he had chosen to swap out his bullet-proof vest with someone else’s.
The wing flap became the ripple became the tsunami after all, it seemed.
His eyelids fluttered open at the sudden, painful pressure that was being applied directly on the gunshot wound. Bruce grunted, and ground his teeth; he refused to scream or groan. He’d taken worse. This was nothing compared to the pain of his ex-best friend breaking his back. The agony must have kickstarted his brain— or maybe that was the adrenaline— because his immediate surroundings suddenly came into sharp focus, and Bruce realized that it was Black Canary who was bent over him.
“G-go,” Bruce wheezed. “If you have… the kr-kryptonite, leave me.”
The walls shuddered again, and another person ran past them. Oh. It seemed Canary had already moved him to a more secluded, secure area of the barricaded room. Everyone raised their guns, clearly readying for the super-soldiers to storm in. “No, Bruce! If they get you, it’ll—”
“T-they won’t. Not if you hide… me. Then I can… distract… them.”
Black Canary visibly paled. “How, exactly, are you going to do that? You’re bleeding out.”
Bruce gnashed his teeth and sat up. As soon as she saw what he was trying to do, Dinah helped him. He did gasp as his back thumped against the concrete wall. “D-dampener!” he wheezed.
She recoiled. “No. No, Bruce. I— that’s suicide. He’ll… no, I can’t let you do that.”
Bruce snarled. “You… have to! Before it’s t-too late and… this all… is f-for nothing.” He fixed Black Canary with a beseeching look. “They’ve already… called him, I’m s-sure. This is the… only way anybody… stands a-a… chance of escaping. We need the k-kryptonite… too much… not to t-try.”
Dinah’s bottom lip trembled. She and Bruce stared at each other, and Bruce held firm. Finally, Black Canary looked away and nodded. She quickly smeared some antiseptic over the wound, and tightly bandaged it. She inspected her work, frowning. Dinah met Bruce’s gaze again. He nodded— it’d have to do. It wouldn’t be enough. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”
Choices and consequences, Bruce thought grimly. Everything was choices and consequences.
As Black Canary moved away, and stood, they shared a long, serious look. “T-tell Catwoman… I-I love—”
“I will,” Dinah said quietly. She blinked, and her bottom lip trembled. The room was rocked by another shudder. Black Canary took one last long look at the man who had been Batman, and turned away without saying goodbye; they had both known the potential pitfalls of this mission. “Gomez, I need a distraction! We’re moving out. Go, go, go!”
Bruce closed his eyes for the battle, and focused on saving his strength for later; he’d need it.
As soon as it’d quieted down somewhat, Bruce removed the field bandage. I’m sorry, Selina, he thought. But she’d be better off if his plan worked. They all would. And that meant he couldn’t let Clark Kal save him. Bruce breathed slowly and let himself bleed out.
Sometime later, he fumbled for the vest’s latches, and his vision whited out at the movement. But Bruce managed to do it. Then he reached for the belt’s lead-lined compartment. There was a reason he’d chosen to go out wearing this particular piece of Batman’s equipment. There was a reason that the insurgency needed that kryptonite so much— Bruce had stolen the largest shard of kryptonite they did have—
They needed it in case he failed.
With shaky fingers, he twisted the belt around, so the half-open lead-lined pouch was shielded by his body. Then he placed the sharpened, honed tip of the kryptonite shard face-up in it. Bruce left the compartment open— the lead shielding only worked when the pouch was closed (but Kal’s super-vision never worked on lead)— because he had a plan. A plan that relied on both the Kryptonian’s residual… emotions towards Bruce and his underestimation of Batman’s physical ability to attack him.
Superman had always underestimated Bruce’s willingness to get his hands dirty; and now, with the rise of the regime, there was only one level that he had not been forced to sink to— yet.
But, Bruce told himself, sourly, he had not wanted to do this. It had been Kal who had brought them here. He’d forced Bruce’s hand. After all, Kal had been the one to toe the line, bend all the rules, and break the most important one. He had been the one to shove them towards the brink, and Bruce— he was just finishing what Superman had started. Bruce brought his clumsy, heavy hands up, and whacked at the dampener until all the lights on it went out. Hopefully his people were long gone from here. He inhaled once, deeply. Closed his eyes.
A sudden wind ruffled his hair. “Batman.”
Bruce opened his eyes and squinted up at the blurry form of Superman. He blinked, and the man being before him came into focus. And what an awesome sight Superman was, Bruce thought grudgingly. The Kryptonian floated above Bruce— which was just petty, considering that Bruce was already looking up at him from his place on the floor— and his arms were crossed. His cape floated lazily behind him, and not a stitch of cloth or hair was out of place. Clark had always known how to put on a show. However, though Kal managed to make his face and body language impassive, his eyes were not. They gleamed with emotion. But which, Bruce couldn’t tell. “K-Kal.”
“Judging by the amount of blood here— assuming it’s yours— you seem to be in quite the pickle, Bruce.”
Bruce chuckled slightly. He didn’t bother to wipe up the trickle of blood that flowed down his chin. Kal-El’s face wrinkled in disgust. “Y-you’d be right… about… that.”
Superman sighed. He suddenly looked impatient. “Surely you didn’t call me here just to watch you die. So tell me what you’re willing to offer me to—” Bruce blacked out for a second, and the rest of Superman’s words were lost.
He blinked open his eyes, and let his hand slide away from the messy, unbandaged wound in his gut. “I…” Bruce coughed. “Think… i-i-it’s… a little late… for th-that.” He chuckled again.
Kal-El sighed. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic. What’s the point of this, Bruce? Did you really think that I was going to just stand here and watch you bleed out?”
“P-petty… b-bastard.”
“True. But you’re too valuable. So…” Superman scooped Batman into his arms. Bruce’s head lolled against his shoulder for a second before he forced it away from Kal’s body.
“H-hey, C-Clark.” Superman’s eyes glowed red for a second, and his face went marble white. Then his expression smoothed over. Batman smiled. It looked rather garish with his blood-stained teeth. “Karma’s... a r-real… bitch.” More quickly than either man had thought possible, Bruce’s fingers found the concealed piece of kryptonite in his belt.
With one, quick motion, he swiped the sharp end over Superman’s throat.
Bruce spluttered at the salty taste of the alien’s blood— some of it had gotten into his mouth. Then he coughed. The Kryptonian gurgled, and the whites of his wide, surprised eyes became more visible. Superman clutched at the long, jagged gash in his neck with one hand, and the sounds that came from his mouth were choked off and animalistic— pained.
Kal-El fell onto his back, and lay, twitching, on the floor with Batman’s body sprawled over him.
Bruce squeezed the shard of kryptonite in his fist and wheezed. Beneath him, Clark continued to gurgle. But he stopped moving after a while. Bruce sucked in a breath and felt a few tears run down his face. “I… I-I’m sorry, Clark… but… y-you gave… me… no c-choice.” Bruce groped around the floor for Superman’s hand. He found it, held it in his own weakening grip, relaxed his muscles, and closed his eyes.
Everything had a consequence.