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As easily as a child blew fluff off a dandelion, the two people next to him were vaporized, killed probably before their synapses even registered the pain. If there were any small mercy left in this world, that was it. A quick death. It was, sadly, a rare thing. Such executions and sacrifices, however, were not.
Does that mean I’m not one of the thieves? Bruce wondered absently. But he swiftly dismissed the idea; it was a flawed metaphor brought on by exhaustion, dehydration, and an impending sense of doom and he didn’t want to consider the alternative. Bruce certainly wasn’t anyone’s savior. If for no other reason than that every time he’d tried he had either met with exquisite failure upfront or prolonged defeat later on. The notion of Kal-El being a god— at least a benevolent one— was even more laughable.
Although, that too really depended on the book one was reading.
He was brought out of his musings by the sensation of a hand pressing against his chest. That was saying something, given how he was wearing layers of Kevlar atop padding and spandex. Batman swayed slightly as Kal-El’s touch continued, unable to balance because he was largely being held upright by chains and pride. The angry god smiled when he saw he had Bruce’s attention. Frustratingly, his face was as perfect as ever. No speck of dust or bead of sweat marred his skin, and every hair was carefully in place. Even his teeth gleamed, eerily white in a world which no longer had indoor plumbing or, often, toothpaste.
“I could kill you right now. In fact, I ought to.” Superman put a little more force behind his touch and Bruce swung briefly, like a piñata. Until the Kryptonian grasped his chains, stopping him so abruptly that Bruce’s teeth clacked together. Still holding the chains, Kal-El extended his other arm and placed his hand firmly in the center of Bruce’s chest over the bat symbol.
Unlike a piñata, he was sentient and, therefore, capable of processing pain; Bruce’s chest ached from the pressure of Superman’s touch, and if he lived long enough he’d have a massive bruise. Not that it was very likely, in Bruce’s opinion, that he had much longer to live. He growled slightly. Superman’s gaze became amused. Then he sighed, and his expression softened. “You have to let go.”
Bruce blinked, processing the words. He barked out a laugh once he had. “Never.”
“You can’t win this, Bruce. Quite frankly, there’s nothing much left to win, anyway. So you might as well give up. Enjoy whatever scraps are left. I can make that happen.” Superman sighed, as if frustrated by his obstinacy. It made Bruce’s heart twinge as he saw an echo of Clark. Quickly, he shoved it aside. That way lay nothing but misery and madness. At least, a kind of madness that was counterproductive.
“Do you know the definition of insanity, Superman? It’s doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results.”
The Kryptonian’s brow furrowed and, briefly, the pressure against Bruce’s chest lessened. “Are you calling yourself crazy, Batman?”
Bruce laughed. “No. I’m saying that this is finally the world I’ve trained for. Twenty years in Gotham, three of the apocalypse. All my life people have called me paranoid, callous, overzealous. Not anymore.”
Kal-El’s gaze, which at first had been intrigued, slowly hardened. He frowned. “You won’t give up, will you?” Bruce didn’t respond. It was a rhetorical question. “We could have used a mind like yours. And honestly, it would have been poetic: Batman, humanity’s last hope, bringing down his own people.” Superman shook his head and sighed again. Bruce absently recalled that the alien had been a writer, once.
He blinked, and suddenly the alien was standing several feet away, scrutinizing his prisoner. A crawling, tingling sensation flowed across Bruce’s skin. He couldn’t keep his shoulders from hunching. The clank of chains that accompanied the movement felt revealing. He barely suppressed a shudder at Kal-El’s smile. In another instant, Superman was in his face again, though this time, at least, he didn’t touch Bruce.
The silence was tense, loaded with danger.
“I think I could have loved you,” Superman said thoughtfully as he circled his prisoner. Bruce blanched, body jerking enough to set him swinging again. He had a brief flash of memory, of Clark and he relaxing on the lakeside deck, smiling over coffees. Late nights in the Cave, the Kryptonian hovering affectionately behind his chair. Words had never been said, but it’d been there, before the world became hell.
Kal-El gripped his chains, halting Bruce’s sway much more gently this time.
Somehow, Bruce’s mouth was even drier, and he felt almost dizzy. His pulse hammered in his chest, and a cold rush of adrenaline flowed up his spine as the Kryptonian’s gaze moved to his chest, clearly taking in his reaction, listening to his heartbeat. Another pulse of silence passed. He sucked in a breath. “After all you’ve done? Never.” Bruce gathered up what little moisture remained in his mouth and spat.
Kal-El wiped his face nonchalantly. Then his mouth formed a hard line and any lingering trace of softness vanished. Just like that, the Kryptonian was cut from marble, diamond, ice. Perfect and incapable of human emotion. Superman’s gaze darkened. Then his eyes began to glow. “A real pity.” He brought his hand back and Bruce’s world faded to black.