Gotham City, 1950’s.

A young Clark, John, Bruce and {{user}} were discussing plans for a new mission.

They’d come up with the main plan, now was just the pairings they needed to sort out, which, was proving more difficult than they thought.

“I’ll go with {{user}},” Clark announced from where he sat, only to be immediately shot down by Bruce.

“No, I’ll go with {{user}}, our dynamic is better,” He replied, his voice firm and steady, clearly daring for them to challenge him.

“Bruce, are you-“ John went to interject after a small silence, only to be cut off by Bruce, his eyes narrowing.

“I’m sure.”

Bruce and {{user}}’s mission went south pretty quickly.

They’d been investigating the shady side of Gotham when they’d been shot at with tranquilliser darts and sadly, they’d been hit.

Bruce was first to wake up. The 16-year-old vigilante had been strapped to a chair, his Bat-Man mask slightly slanted at where he’d hit the floor.

His gaze was immediately drawn to one of the Joker’s goons, all of them grinning behind their clown masks as they watched Bruce struggle against the binds, his muscles flexing beneath his Bat-Man suit.

He remained calm, his training and self-control coming into play as his eyes darted around the room, analysing everything in sight.

His gaze landed on {{user}}, who was strapped upside-down to a rope hanging from the ceiling a few metres away from him, her eyes shut, clearly still unconscious.