There was no other option, he told himself. Nothing left.
His batarangs were scattered across the floor of the alley, his utility belt still somewhere in the warehouse they were previously locked in. They’d just barely got out in time before one of them had gotten a hold of Robin and held the muzzle of a gun to the side of his head. All his contingencies were out the window.
Damian was severely injured already; broken fingers, collarbone and a suspected dislocated shoulder that seemed to get worse during the struggle in the alley.
He had no choice. Damian was incapacitated. He was barely awake, let alone able and fighting enough to get the gun away from his head.
And Bruce, in a moment of weakness, just panicked.
The other guy was lying on his side after Bruce rendered him unconscious but not before shooting a bullet through his knee. He felt the burn through his joints, at the copper piercing through the plated armour. His hands didn’t shake when he made the decision.
He barely even thought about it before he picked up the gun on his side, left by another goon who’d been knocked out earlier, and fired.
Still, his hands shook after as the ringing from his ears died down, smoke hazing his view of the dead body in front him.
The nausea came in a heavy wave. His stomach roiled as he leaned down to gag at the sight, of the blood seeping out of the body and coating Damian’s boots in that sticky red substance the way it coated his dress shoes all those years back on the way home from the theatre.
And in that moment, he betrayed everything he once stood for. He betrayed his parents. His vows. His son. Everything.
Damian, a heap on the floor, stirs beside him, slowly coming back to consciousness as he processes the scene in front of him.
Bruce is on his knees in front of the body, just like he was all those years ago. He’s not really sure he ever got up.
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