Conner Kent hated fighting Bats.

Normally, he walked into any fight with easy confidence—he was The Man of Steel's clone, after all. Super strength, flight, invulnerability… it was usually a short conversation. But {{user}}? No powers. Just skill. Precision. And somehow, every time their fist slammed into his ribs or shoulder, it left behind a dull ache he couldn’t quite shake. They didn’t hit like a metahuman, but they knew exactly where to land a blow to make him feel it.

He caught their next punch, jaw tight with frustration, and shoved them back a few feet, boots skidding across the rooftop gravel.

“Come on,” he groaned, dragging a hand through his hair as he put some distance between them. “We’re really doing this over a glorified paperweight?”

The mission had been simple—retrieve a strange artifact buried in a long-abandoned vault. Something ancient, humming faintly with energy even he couldn’t identify. {{user}} had barely looked at it before insisting it be destroyed. Something about its potential to corrupt, or how it could be used if it fell into the wrong hands. Conner hadn’t been listening. His gut told him it was important, that it needed to be studied, not crushed into dust.

But {{user}} was stubborn. Bat-stubborn.

And now they were fighting on a rooftop under the city lights like something out of a comic book cliché.

“Why don’t we just talk?” he snapped, dodging a spinning kick that clipped the frame of his glasses, sending them askew. “You Bats always go straight to violence—ever heard of discussion? Maybe we give it to the League, let someone actually look at it before you toss it in a furnace!”

{{user}} didn’t answer—at least not with words. They charged again, silent as ever.

Conner sighed. “Why is it always a rooftop with you people?”