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"Think about it."
Superman makes a very un-Superman face. It says a lot about the length and depth of their relationship that he feels comfortable enough to do so, and that Batman doesn't react to it, still quiet and waiting for a response as he sits in front of the Batcave's computer, cowl down and face half-lit by the glowing screens.
"I am thinking about it," Clark says. "And I don't like it. I like even less that you called me at 3am, my time, to get me to come over for this."
"Your personal preferences are irrelevant." Bruce gestures to the data he's collected on the screen with a simple tap of the fingers, wasting no movement as always. "The data exists regardless. This is the most logical conclusion to reach."
"There's nothing about this that's logical," Clark mutters under his breath, and Bruce shoots him a patented BatGlare. He ignores it, as always.
"This isn't baseless conjecture," Gotham's Knight stresses through gritted teeth. He's doing that thing Clark hates where he acts like he's explaining a concept to a kindergartner just because Clark hasn't immediately agreed with him. "There is even precedent for this, if you've bothered to pay attention-"
"-I know there's precedent," Clark says, pinching the bridge of his nose. He needs to sit down. It's too early for this, even for someone with his physiology. Thinking some unkind thoughts about his best friend, he pulls up a chair next to Bruce and settles in gracelessly. "I read the briefing on the parallel world with the Justice Guild of America, same as you."
"Our situation may work in reverse. Rather than a parallel universe perceiving us through a lens of fiction, our actions may be the direct results of another's writing."
"Or drawing." Superman spins his chair around slowly. "Superheroes were originally comic books, right?"
"Comics are written before they're drawn, Clark."
"I didn't know you were the authority on the creative process of comics and cartoons."
"Clark."
They were getting off topic. Clark sighs, reaching out to grip the computer's table to stop the slow spin of his chair. Time for a different approach. "Bruce. Does it honestly matter?"
"Does it matter?" Bruce echoes the question in a Bat-toned growl, the tail end of his sentence rising in an angry lit.
"Hear me out." Clark leans back in his seat, palms open, placating. "Let's say- hypothetically, because I'm still not sold on this idea- that our actions are planned and controlled by a single individual or a team of writers and/or artists. They're not aware that we're aware, because who writes fiction thinking it's reality, but it impacts and shapes our world all the same. Does knowing honestly change anything we've done or what we're going to do? Are we going to save people any less?"
"That's not the-"
"I may not have your level of control issues, Bruce," The Kryptonian says with just enough of an edge that his friend actually shuts up and listens for a second. "But I'm not thrilled at the idea of someone blowing up my home-world just so I could have a dramatic backstory. But that's because I'm a person with thoughts and feelings; I could understand someone doing that for something they believe to be a character. I mean, we have even our own works of fiction that examine this concept."
"That's not the point."
"It's not?" Clark blinks, genuinely surprised.
Silence. Clark is content to wait, as his companion has never been the type to not speak when he's ready, but the silence is concerning. The more the buildup, the more likely that whatever Bruce has cooked up is going to be headache-inducing. Perhaps terrible, perhaps wonderful, most likely world-changing, but always headache-inducing. It's impressive, honestly.
"If we can determine the genre of the series we're in," Bruce says finally, tapping his fingers at the data on-screen again with a note of apprehension. "And learn the stylistic tendencies of respective writers or even directors... we can predict the unfolding of future events."
What.
"Wait." Clarck straightens, looking over at Bruce with alarm. "You're not having an existential crisis, are you."
Bruce sends him another Look, saying flatly, "We work with a goddess, Clark." As if that's supposed to explain the entirety of his views on life, the universe, and everything else.
"You want to cheat." The realization comes out in a wheeze. "You don't care about the futility of our actions on a grand cosmic scale, you want to rig the system via metagaming."
Bruce arches a brow, silently saying 'of course, what else would I call you at 3am for you idiot' and Clark throws his head back and laughs, the sound ringing through all the crevices of the Batcave. The idea of it isn't really all that terrifying; what really gets to Clark is knowing that if anyone could actually pull it off, it'd be Batman.
"Oh we're fictional alright," The superhero says after calming his laughter into quieter chuckles. "Because there's no way you're a real person."
Bruce's eyes narrow, but not enough to hide the fact he thinks this is a little funny too. "Technically, none of us are."
"Enough with the pseudo-nihilism. Show me the calculations you're using for this thing."