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Bruce sits in his cave, blinded by the artificial light of the Batcomputer. It’s the closest he’ll get to seeing the sun from how far he’s sunk.
Over and over and over again he resigns himself to his own Hell.
Slice. Blood. Fall. Rewind.
Slice. Blood. Fall. Rewind.
Slice. Blood. Fall. Rewind.
It is Batman taking down the Red Hood.
It is Bruce Wayne killing Jason Todd.
It is a father dooming his son.
It is history repeating.
The thing about life is that it is so, so frail. From the moment Bruce saw his parents murdered in that alleyway, he knew how quick it was to go from a person to a corpse. God, he knew when he had to hold his son’s cooling body, praying to any divinity that would listen to please give him one more chance, that’s all he wants- just one moment to tell his son that he loves him.
Or is it loved? Bruce doesn’t know. He doesn’t know because a batarang to the neck is a death sentence. He doesn’t know because even if his son survived, what act of love would end with a slit throat?
He feels the ooze of blood on his hands, the stench of iron in the air. Again he stares at his palms, clean, only with the smudges of ash from the explosion. He hadn’t even been touched by the spray of red, but he knows it’s there all the same.
Bruce looks up at the screen again, but of course, the scene never changes.
Slice. Blood. Fall. Rewind.