Chapter Text
Rain had been falling like knives for hours.
Not that Gotham cared.
Grime, blood, rain, rot… the masochistic city took it like gospel. Lightning split her sky, white veins carving through black clouds. Thunder rolled in after, rattling the bones of buildings that should’ve collapsed years ago.
Batman didn’t move.
Ten stories up, on the ledge of a condemned apartment complex, he stood with his boots planted on slick concrete. His cape dragged behind him. It was waterlogged and heavy with the city’s filth. Freezing rain crept down his cowl, slithering through suit seams and tracing a path down his spine.
He didn’t flinch. Not for the cold. Not for anything.
Somewhere around hour six—maybe seven—time lost meaning. He’d stopped checking it. Stopped checking comms. Stopped checking vitals.
The cold had made its way in hours ago. First at the edges… fingertips, joints, knees. Then deeper. The kind of cold that made your body ache in places you forgot could hurt.
A stubborn part of him was almost glad that the city had been granted peace tonight. There were no screams. No gunshots. No sirens. Just the storm.
The rest of him didn’t buy it.
Batman didn’t believe in quiet.
Quiet got people killed.
So he stayed. Watched. Waited. Another hour or so.
Above him, far beyond the clouds—someone was listening.
Superman hovered in orbit, the blue planet turning beneath his boots. He hadn’t meant to listen. He never meant to listen…
But he did.
Bruce’s heartbeat was slow. Slower than Clark liked. Faltering in the way it did when Bruce pushed too far. Which was always…
He knew Bruce’s habits. Knew he’d stand there until the city told him otherwise. Knew he wouldn’t leave until he was certain no one was bleeding in the dark.
But soon dawn bled into the sky and Clark sighed in relief.
That was Batman’s cue.
Bruce shifted at last. Then stepped off the ledge. His boots landed on the fire escape with a wet slap. The puddle he hit further down smelled like gasoline, piss, and something that had definitely died weeks ago.
Classic Gotham welcome mat.
Then he was gone—descending into darkness, vanishing between rusted stairwells and brick. Bruce could finally punch out. But he wouldn’t sleep at the manor. Not really. If he was lucky, the ghosts would stay quiet. If not… well.
They always had a lot to say…
Beep!
His gauntlet chirped.
In the alley, the Batmobile stirred to life. Warm headlights flared through the rain. Steam burst from the vents as the canopy slid open with a hydraulic hiss.
Water pooled at Bruce’s boots as he climbed in. The top sealed with a click, shutting out the storm. Heat flushed through the suit as systems kicked in—compression, circulation, muscle relaxant. Then, the dash lit up, neon green blooming across the interface.
SYSTEMS ONLINE.
“Welcome back, sir. Armor integrity: 100%. Suit condition: optimal. Vitals indicate prolonged wakefulness and elevated stress chemistry. For ideal performance—and continued existence—please complete one full sleep cycle of ninety minutes. I’ll warm the suit before you wake.”
Concern, politely coded. He almost appreciated the effort.
Bruce didn’t answer. He’d heard the speech too many times. Ignored it too many times.
The HUD blinked, offering the usual olive branch.
SUGGESTED: POWER NAP EN ROUTE — ACCEPT?
The prompt lingered. Then faded. The system assumed he’d be asleep within minutes.
It was always wrong.
Click!
The wipers swept clean arcs across the windshield. Outside, rain fell harder. Sheets of it slammed against the reinforced shell.
Bruce tapped the main screen.
AUTO-PILOT ENGAGED.
The engine purred, and the car eased forward. Bruce didn’t recline. Didn’t let his head fall back. Outside, the storm blurred Gotham into rusted metal and old brick. It all bled together. He watched it pass.
Silver-gray eyes scanned every corner. Every alley. One final sweep. One last check.
Nothing.
And then—
Something flickered in the rearview. A shape. There and gone.
Bruce turned, but the back seat was empty. The sky looked empty too. He stared too long. One hand on the headrest. The other hovering near his batarang holster.
Eventually, his hand dropped.
Probably nothing.
Far above, something was very much there. It crouched on the cathedral’s spine, nestled between gargoyles. A cloak, red as fresh blood, curled in the wind.
It watched Bruce with a wide smile on its face.
A wolf wearing a god’s skin.
Down below, Bruce exhaled, breath fogging the window. He didn’t know what he’d almost seen. Didn’t know how close it had come.
Didn’t know his future had already started watching him back.
The Batcave opened and swallowed the Batmobile. Tires shrieked against the ramp as it took the curve fast and spun onto the platform. The landing ring shuddered, groaned, then locked into place with a heavy clank.
Overhead, scanners dropped from the ceiling. Red beams crisscrossed the cabin, sweeping over Bruce—reading pulse, mapping blood loss, and tracking every trace of smoke, sweat, and iron.
“Vitals registered. Heart rate elevated. Cortisol surge detected. Muscular fatigue: critical.”
He didn’t need a machine to tell him that.
The cockpit hissed open and heat bled out. Steam rose from Bruce’s shoulders as the pod lifted him. He tugged the cowl off. Underneath: ashen skin, week-old stubble shadowing a strong jaw, and eyes sunken into violet bruises.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t call for Alfred. He just stood there… breathing. One hand pressed against his eyes, hard, like he could shove the exhaustion back in.
It never worked…
He stepped onto the platform and crossed to the Batcomputer. His hands found the keys before his mind caught up. Muscle memory.
The giant screens flickered to life, and green light spilled across his face. Gotham unfolded across the monitors in street grids, heat maps, and incident logs. He typed, logging the night’s data.
Filtration systems hummed in the vast space. Water dripped from a stalactite overhead, each drop marking time like a slow metronome, ticking down something inevitable.
Above, the bats stirred.
Bruce stilled. Fingers hovering above the keys. Every nerve went alert.
The bats were warning him.
“Still as beautiful as I remember.”
Not Alfred. That voice didn’t belong here.
Bruce knew that voice.
He turned. Slowly. One hand hovering inches from his belt. Not too obvious. Just enough to be ready.
The shadows shifted. Two burning red slits opened in the dark.
Something stepped forward.
The first thing Bruce saw was the cape. Red. Torn at the edges. Dripping with… something. The droplets hit the cave floor one by one. Not water. Blood. Black and thick.
The stranger finally stepped forward into the glow of the monitors, revealing a face Bruce had seen too many times. It wore that grin. That same fucking grin.
Ultraman.