Maybe if Clark weren't looking for it -- or something, if not that -- he'd miss it.

But he is, so he doesn't. Rolling to sit, first, watching Bruce turn aside, before climbing to his feet when he recognises a return to position. By the time Bruce turns back, there's a smile ready for him, crooked, a glint of canine. "I think General Zod took it personal," he says, pacing into position, "that a Kryptonian without any kind of genetically encrypted destiny he could recognise, without a lick of training, might go toe to toe with him. It's what he was made for, being a warrior."

Which is what Kal-El was intended for too, but not in the same way, not through the same methods. "How long did it take you? To make you what you are."

Twenty years in Gotham City, but he had to start somewhere.