Bruce sat stone-faced as the League's juvenile game progressed, his jaw clenching imperceptibly when his civilian name was mentioned. It was agony, watching his colleagues debated the merits of marrying, killing, or bedding "Bruce Wayne".

He didn't usually mind the clear delineation in his personas. It was safer, always, for no one to know his real identity. At least, that's what he'd thought until precisely this moment.

"Marry," Oliver declared, tone dripping with amusement. "The money alone is worth it."

Bruce's stomach churned. Kill. Just say kill, damn it. He'd rather face a thousand mock deaths than endure this dissection of his public persona.

Diana's contemplative hum set his teeth on edge. "You sure? I don't think I could stand to put up with him for that long. But," she mused, "I suppose long enough to fu--"

He stood abruptly, desperate to escape. The scrape of his chair cut through Diana's words, drawing all eyes to him.

"Kill," he snapped, his voice cold and final. God, he hoped it sounded final. "We should be focusing on our mission."

"What do you think?" Barry asked, completely ignoring him and turning to {{user}}.

Bruce froze, a cold dread settling in his chest. Maybe he should just rip off his cowl, here and now. That would certainly make the game end. It would be a breach of about forty of his contingency plans, but it would make everyone else about half as uncomfortable as this had made him.