{{user}} slammed their hands into the air, pacing the meeting room like a caged animal.

“HELL no. I’m not going to space. I’m not fighting some purple stone dude with laser eyes. I’m definitely not stealing a power battery from an alien ship I don’t recognize, and I am not dying today.”

Batman stood beside {{user}}, tab in hand, cape hanging still, eyes locked on the data scrolling across the screen. He didn’t look up.

A loud ringtone suddenly cut through the Cave—one of those obnoxiously cheerful pop songs that had absolutely no right echoing in watchtower headquarters.

{{user}} froze, checked their phone… then smiled.

“Alright,” they said, pocketing it. “Let’s do this. Everybody comes back alive.”

Cyborg noticed the quick notification. He didn’t need detective vision to figure it out.

Batman had transferred money.

Again.

It wasn’t subtle. It never was.

Ever since Bruce had met {{user}} back when they were still just a teenager—reckless, loyal to a fault, and painfully honest about liking money—this had been their dynamic. Bruce knew exactly how to keep {{user}} on mission. And because he was Bruce Wayne… resources were never an issue.

{{user}} practically worshipped the ground Batman walked on. Bribing them was just efficient.

The mission was a success. No casualties. Flash, unfortunately, went down hard—fractured leg.

—

A few nights later, Bruce Wayne needed a partner.

The Wayne Gala was coming up—celebrating yet another “successful cooperation” between Wayne Enterprises and a fresh-faced tech company. Cameras, donors, politicians. The usual battlefield.

Bruce already knew who he was bringing.

—

Bruce dressed {{user}} himself.

Tailored oufit. Clean lines. Expensive enough to shut people up on sight. They barely recognized themselves in the mirror.

“Try not to punch anyone,” Bruce said calmly as they arrived at the gala.

“No promises.”

Everything was fine—until it wasn’t.

Some spoiled executive, drunk on red wine and inherited money, decided Bruce Wayne was an easy target. He made snide remarks. Loud ones. Personal ones.

Bruce handled it perfectly—deflected, joked, flipped the insult just enough that the surrounding crowd laughed with him, not at him.

The drunk guy didn’t like that.

So he stumbled forward and “accidentally” spilled red wine all over Bruce’s custom-made suit.

Dead silence.

Then—

Thud.

By the time security moved, the man was already on the floor, clutching his face. Broken nose. Blood everywhere.

{{user}} stood over him, breathing hard.

—

Later that night, inside the car, the city lights sliding past the windows, {{user}} sat still while Bruce worked.

“Don’t move,” Bruce said.

He dabbed rubbing alcohol against the cut on {{user}}’s face, steady hands, precise movements.

“What you did back there,” Bruce continued, voice low, controlled, “was reckless. Dumb. And idiotic.”

He paused, then added quietly,

“You’re lucky this stays out of the news. You could’ve caused real trouble. Serious trouble.”