Run.

The adrenaline was rushing through his veins, the rush starting to make his breath heavier as he held the gun. It wasn't pleasurable. It was dangerous. Everything in his body told him to drop it. Everything in his body told him he shouldn't-- couldn't-- do this. Yet here he was, burring the metal rim in a tangle of strawberry hair.

Get up.

Fight.

There was no danger. There was nothing to fight. The man in front of him was untied. Unharmed. Perfectly capable of self-defense. Yet he chose to sit there, kneeling in front of the men and women the people of earth have come to know as gods. He let his body stay relaxed, his eyes closed. The man was ready. He was accepting. Bruce knew all too well: This man was not scared of death, because once death was the only thing he was.

Leave.

He could hear the sound of Clark's announcement into the microphone. Bruce knew what that meant. This man had to go. This young, precious, beautiful, rebelling and trouble-making man had to go. Bruce was supposed to pull the trigger, but he could only stare into the blue-green hues in the iris of this man. They held so much anger. Just like him. He could feel Clark hover next to him as he continued to stare. Clark was getting mad. The crowed was watching. There was no backing out. Not now. Despite the distance, Bruce could feel Clark's breath. He could sense his anger without looking back. Bruce could only whisper to himself, "Remember why you're doing this."

Don't come back.

He remembers wanting to say one word to him. That same word floated in his head since. There were so many things he wanted to apologize for. So many things he wanted to say. Things they never got to do. He still wish he had the courage to say that one word. He had the courage, once. That was a long time ago.

Jason.

He woke up before he could pull the trigger.

Run.