Bruce massaged his forehead. Regardless of the circumstances that led him here, he was surely, steadfastly, assuredly sure that he must be standing in the ninth circle of hell.
“Hey, B,” Clark greeted, beaming brightly like he’d just seen the light of his life, or something as ridiculously sappy as something like that. Bruce fought the urge to shield his eyes from the brightness.
Fine, maybe this wasn’t hell. Purgatory, perhaps.
“Clark,” he acknowledged stiffly. Bruce wasn’t entirely sure how to act– they were in the Watchtower, but they weren’t in for duty. The code name rule sat silently inside Schrodinger’s box.
“I’m really glad you decided to allow this to happen again. Even if it was only just for your kids. It was a really helpful de-stressor. Everyone’s been talking about how much more relaxed they’ve felt since the game.”
Bruce grunted. He most certainly was not any less stressed since the game. In fact, he could confidently declare that he was even more stressed than the last time.
“I think everyone’s working a little better together, too,” Clark continued. “It’s a shame John and the others can’t join us this time, so we’ll enjoy it two-fold for them.
Bruce grunted again. It was certainly not a shame, and he was thankful that, for once, not everyone in the League would be able to see him with his children. Not because he was scared of being soft or anything like that, of course. It was for their own safety. Game night with the kids was a life-or-death situation he was certain the League would not be able to handle.
He sighed and slid his helmet on.
“Let’s just get this over with,” he grumbled, as the rest of the players gathered around the League table.