The rooftop still crackled beneath their boots—or boot and hover, technically. Sparks sizzled from the flattened HVAC unit that had lost a fight with one very annoyed Kryptonian. Below them, a car alarm bleated like a goat with a hangover, and honestly, that was probably the least dramatic thing happening right now.
Kara floated about a foot off the ground, arms crossed and eyes glowing faintly. You could practically hear the heroic angst radiating off her like heat waves. Helena, meanwhile, squatted beside her gauntlet like it was a bomb she was defusing or a Nintendo Switch running "Mortal Kombat: Apocalypse Edition."
"So," Helena said, dragging the word out like it owed her money, "do we lurk in the shadows like cryptid versions of ourselves, or do we knock on Wayne Manor's front door with muffins and a trauma dump?"
Kara blinked. "Wait, do we have muffins?"
"No," Helena deadpanned. "Multiversal armageddon. Muffins didn't survive the Boom Tube."
"Tragic." Kara sighed and dropped to the rooftop with a soft thud, cape still smoking at the edges. She brushed off the ash like it was glitter she was too polite to comment on. "Okay, stealth's not getting us anywhere. And I'm fresh out of patience for spelunking through another Batcave like I'm a raccoon in a crop top."
Helena shot her a look. "Hey. I live in Batcaves. That's offensive to my people."
"I'll send a fruit basket to the bats," Kara muttered. "Point is, we've lost everything—our Earth, our friends, even our decent snacks. We can't afford a screw-up. Not here."
Helena raised an eyebrow. "So… full honesty?"
Kara nodded. "Cards on the table. All of them. No mysterious 'I'll explain later' nonsense. We find this world's Bruce and Kal, and we tell them everything. Who we are, what happened to our Earth, what's coming."
Helena winced. "Yikes. That's, like, third-date vulnerability. You know, 'Here's my trauma, my dead planet, and my extensive collection of therapy notes.'"
Kara smirked. "We're already emotionally naked and covered in ash. May as well go full disaster."
"Lovely image." Helena wrinkled her nose. "Thanks for that."
They stood there in silence for a moment, the wind tugging at Kara's scorched cape and Helena's hood. Below, the city pulsed with life—unaware, unbothered. No Omega beams splitting the sky. No screaming. No flying skull fortresses raining fire. Just regular chaos. Traffic, sirens, and the low hum of a city that didn't know it was on the edge of becoming ash, too.
Yet.
"You think they'll believe us?" Helena asked finally, softer now.
Kara's eyes flicked across the skyline—spires and antennas, blimps and gargoyles—then locked onto something distant and warm. Hope. Or maybe a late-night pizza place.
"They'll believe me when I lift a tank with one hand," she said. "And they'll believe you when you hack the Batcomputer, punch Batman in the ego, and disable five surveillance drones while sipping coffee."
Helena smirked. "I'd do that. With extra foam on the coffee."
Kara's smile faded. "But it's not them I'm worried about. It's that Eidolon guy. He looked at that camera like it was a mirror. Like he knew we'd be watching."
Helena tapped her gauntlet like it owed her answers. "You think he's one of us?"
"I think he's something else entirely," Kara said. "But we won't know until he makes a move. So until then? We do what we came here to do. We play nice. Be honest. Be vulnerable. And try not to punch anyone through a building."
Helena nodded slowly. "Should I bring the trauma PowerPoint after all?"
Kara arched a brow. "You have one?"
"Oh yeah," Helena said. "Wilhelm scream, sad trombone, dramatic lightning transitions. I was working on a 'world ended, so did my trust issues' slide, but I ran out of time."
Kara laughed. It was short, but it was real.
"I love you," she said, suddenly.
Helena blinked. "Okay, that definitely sounded like a goodbye."
"It's not. It's a reminder." Kara stepped forward, her expression serious again. "Because this world? It might be our second chance. Or maybe our last."
Helena looked at the city like it might look back. "Then let's not blow it."
"Literally or figuratively?"
"Both would be ideal."
Kara glanced toward the east, where the Wayne estate sat like a gothic mansion from a horror movie that had way too much money.
"Wayne Manor first?" she asked.
Helena sighed. "Start with the Bat. Always. Then we deal with the Boy Scout."
"You know I'm going to have to carry you, right?"
Helena deadpanned. "Yes, please announce it to the entire skyline."
"You want bridal style or fireman's carry?"
"Surprise me."
Kara rolled her eyes, wrapped an arm around Helena's waist, and—with a whoosh—they were airborne, a streak of red and black slicing through the night sky like a warning shot.
Below them, the city continued living.
Blissfully unaware of the two survivors flying toward its last hope.
Unaware of the war on the horizon.
But not for long.
—
In Gotham…
Let's be honest—nothing good ever happens in a warehouse at 3:12 a.m.
Unless your idea of "good" involves illegal Venom knockoffs, enough weapons to arm a minor dictatorship, and a floor so sticky it could double as flypaper. The place smelled like mildew, gasoline, and a pizza that had been left out long enough to develop sentience and apply for a job at Arkham.
Eight goons. Six crates. Two vans. One buyer who thought he was too cool for the whole "street thug" aesthetic. Instead, he showed up in a pinstriped suit that practically screamed, I do tax fraud on the side.
"Tell your boss the product's clean," rasped one of the dealers, a man who looked like he ate cigars for breakfast and regrettable life choices for dinner. "We keep the formula tight. You keep the money flowing."
"I'm not interested in tight," the buyer said, adjusting his gold cufflinks like he was about to make a TED Talk about Ponzi schemes. "I want results. Super-strength, zero side effects, no scales, no frothing at the mouth. Last batch turned my enforcer into a feral squirrel."
And just like that—BOOM.
Well, technically not a boom. More like a KRAKK as the roof decided it didn't want to be part of the building anymore.
Because, surprise: when Batman drops in, he drops in.
He hit the crate like a thunderclap with a cape. Wood splintered. Men swore. Guns came up. And Gotham's personal Grim Reaper rose from the dust cloud like he'd just finished bench pressing the concept of fear.
"Meeting's over," Batman growled.
Because of course he growled. The man didn't talk—he emotionally damaged vowels into submission.
Then all hell broke loose.
One guy screamed and fired wildly, which was about as effective as throwing a sock at a tank. Batman moved—no, glided—through the chaos like a particularly angry rumor. He disarmed one goon with a bone-snapping twist of the wrist, bataranged another in the neck, and politely introduced a third to the concept of gravity via an elbow to the sternum.
The buyer dove behind a crate, shouting, "Abort! ABORT!"
Batman bat-glared so hard the crate probably filed for witness protection.
That's when the second hole appeared in the roof. A very different kind of crunch—less gritty noir and more alien meteorite with jazz hands.
Cue sparkles. Cue cape. Cue chaos 2.0.
Kara Danvers—Supergirl, sunshine incarnate, and currently rocking the world's most inconvenient Uber Eats pose—swooped through the gap with a scowl, a blur of blonde hair, red boots, and "I just fought three shadow demons and still look like I belong on a Vogue cover" energy.
Also: she was carrying Batgirl. Fireman style.
"Can we please stop breaking ceilings?" Helena grunted. "I like ceilings. Ceilings are great. They hold up roofs."
Kara landed like a feather made of doom, setting Helena down gently on the least blood-covered part of the floor.
"Sorry," Kara said, flashing an award-winning grin that probably made Boy Scouts forget their oaths. "Didn't want to drop you in the middle of the 'Batmurder in Progress' zone."
Helena cracked her neck. "You just did."
Kara blinked. "Details."
Batman didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe, probably.
His eyes locked on the pair of them, the tension in his shoulders cranked so high you could've used him to tune a piano.
Helena pulled her hood back and looked around at the unconscious bodies like someone checking off a grocery list. "So. This is either the aftermath of a stealth takedown or you threw a rave and forgot the music."
"This is the music," Kara whispered, mock-dramatic.
"I can hear you," Batman said.
"We know," Helena replied dryly. "It's the bat ears."
Batman's cape shifted. It wasn't movement—it was menace. He studied them like he was deciding whether to interrogate or impale.
"I don't do second chances," he said.
"Cool," Kara said brightly. "We're more of a 'third times the multiverse collapses' kind of group."
Batman's eye twitched. Possibly the only time in recorded history.
"Explain," he growled.
Helena held up a hand. "Do you want the short version or the one with footnotes and trauma?"
Batman took one ominous step forward. "The truth. Now."
Kara looked around, hands on hips. "Okay, so: we're from a parallel Earth that got Thanos-snapped by something called the Shadow King. Our Bruce died. Helena and I barely escaped with our butts intact. Which, side note, you're welcome for saving hers three times this week."
"I was fine," Helena muttered.
"You were unconscious and leaking sarcasm," Kara shot back. "Anyway. We traced the energy signatures of the collapse to this universe, and surprise! You've got your own flavor of doom brewing."
Helena added, "Long story short: we're here to help. Or warn you. Or both. Multiverse stuff. It gets weird."
Batman just stared.
Kara leaned in, hands on her knees like a kindergarten teacher.
"You can test our DNA, scan us, put trackers in our boots, whatever. But Bruce—sorry, Bat-Daddy—you're gonna want us around."
"I will never be called that," Batman said.
"See?" Helena said. "That right there? That's exactly how our Bruce responded."
Behind them, one of the dealers groaned.
"Seriously," the man moaned. "What the hell is even happening?"
Kara turned and flashed a dazzling smile. "Oh sweetie, this is just the pre-show."
Batman folded his arms. "You've got ten seconds to prove you're not lying."
Helena smirked. "Good thing we brought a PowerPoint."
Kara stepped forward. "And also? One of your biggest rogues is already compromised. We saw the shadows inside him. Twisting. Feeding. And they're just getting started."
Batman's eyes narrowed.
"And if we don't stop them?" Helena said, voice suddenly flat and serious.
Kara looked up at the cracked ceiling.
"Then this world ends just like ours did. Only slower. Messier. With a lot more screaming."
A heavy silence fell. Broken only by the soft clink of a batarang being reholstered.
Batman turned away and stalked toward the shadows.
"Follow me," he said. "You're explaining everything."
Helena looked at Kara. "Think he likes us?"
"He didn't throw us into a wall," Kara chirped. "That's basically a hug."
And just like that, the Bat, the Girl of Steel, and the snarkiest Batgirl in existence vanished into the night.
Because in Gotham, when the world teetered on the edge of oblivion, that's where the real story began.
—
Helena crossed her arms and took a deep breath. Not because she was nervous. Please. Helena Wayne didn't do nervous. But when you were getting the patented Bat-Glare—you know, the one that could make a mugger cry and a SWAT team rethink their life choices—you at least pretended to be a functional, breathing organism.
Kara, still brushing chunks of drywall off her shoulder like it was designer glitter, floated a few inches off the warehouse floor, flashing a sheepish smile at the very intimidating, very tall man in the cape.
"So, um… long story short?" she said, in the tone of someone who absolutely knew the story was not going to be short. "We're kinda, sorta… not from around here."
Batman didn't blink. Didn't twitch. He just stared. Like he was trying to laser through both of them with sheer suspicion.
Helena sighed. "Alternate universe," she said flatly, like it was something you picked up at the multiverse's yard sale. "You're Earth-Prime, right? Well, we were Earth-Two. Emphasis on the were."
Batman's head tilted. In Bat-language, that was basically him screaming, "Keep talking."
Kara hovered higher, arms crossed, hair doing that perfectly tousled thing it really shouldn't have been doing after being thrown through a collapsing dimension. "Our Earth went full end-of-season finale. Big cosmic boom. Darkseid-level boom. Like 'we brought snacks and still didn't survive' boom."
Helena added, "Ten years after the first invasion. You just had that here, yeah? Boom tubes, alien dog-things, nightmare fuel with wings? Well, round two showed up back home, and this time, Darkseid didn't bring a monologue—just fire."
Kara's voice softened, floating downward. "Everyone we knew... gone. Clark. Lois. Diana. Even Bruce."
That got Batman. Barely. Just a clench of the jaw, the Bat-equivalent of gasping in horror.
Helena stepped in, quick. "Not your Bruce. Mine. And no, before you get defensive—I'm not claiming to be your daughter."
Batman narrowed his eyes.
Helena rolled hers. "Alternate Bruce. Raised me. Taught me how to disappear into shadows, emotionally repress myself, and throw sharp things at people who deserve it. The usual."
Kara looked over. "She turned out great, though."
"Aw. You're just saying that because I saved your sparkly space butt from a parademon swarm."
"I saved you first."
"Did not."
"Did too."
A throat cleared, like a thundercloud had a cough. Batman. Very not amused.
"Focus," he said, voice doing the 'punch-you-in-the-soul' thing.
Helena nodded. "Right. Sorry. Banter is our trauma response."
Kara added helpfully, "It's either that or cry. And mascara's hard to fix mid-flight."
Batman stepped forward, cape shifting behind him like judgment incarnate. "So you're telling me... you two survived the destruction of your Earth, drifted through something between realities, and crash-landed here, in my city?"
"Pretty much," Helena said.
"And you're here because?"
Kara exchanged a look with Helena. The kind of look that said this might sound crazy—which, considering everything, was saying something.
"We don't know why we survived," she said. "One second, I'm flying through fire and shadows, trying to stop the Watchtower from falling into a cosmic death hole. Next second? Floating in nothing. Void. Static-y in-between space. No stars. No time."
Helena's voice dropped. "And then… something pulled us. Like a hook under the skin. Ripped us out and spit us out above Gotham. Your Gotham."
Kara shrugged. "Multiversal Uber. One star. Would not recommend."
Batman's silence got heavier. Like he was trying to decide if punching them would answer more questions than asking them.
"Proof?" he said finally.
Kara's eyes flared for half a heartbeat—heat vision, barely restrained. Then she reached into the side of her suit and pulled out a small, half-melted device. Burnt. Singed. Still giving off faint sparks of Bat-tech vibes.
"Our world's Bruce gave this to me," she said, voice barely a whisper. "Right before everything fell. His personal communicator. You can scan it. DNA, encryption key, multiversal sadness—we've got the full combo."
Helena tugged up her pant leg to reveal a faded scar. "And if that's not enough, I've got this. Clock tower accident. Twelve years old. Tried to Batman without training wheels. My Bruce stitched it up himself and told me if I was gonna jump off buildings, I'd better learn to land."
Batman's face didn't move. But something in his eyes shifted. Like someone pressed pause on his internal Bat-denial.
He said nothing for a long, uncomfortable, Bat-sized moment. Then finally:
"You're not staying here."
Kara blinked. "Wait, what?"
"This city's not safe for wild cards. Especially not now."
Helena raised a brow. "This from the guy who keeps a psychotic clown on speed-dial?"
Kara elbowed her. "Helena."
"I'm being polite! That was my polite."
Batman stepped back, shadows swallowing his boots. "You've got twenty-four hours."
"To do what?" Kara asked.
"To prove you're not a threat."
Helena crossed her arms. "And if we can't?"
"Then I'll stop you."
Kara gave him a look that was part disbelief, part admiration. "You know, you really do have a type. Dark, brooding, and scary-good at threats."
Helena leaned in to Kara. "Told you. Just like our Bruce. But more jawline."
Batman turned. Walked toward the exit like a storm with a grudge. Cape trailing. Shadows swallowing him whole.
But just before he vanished, his voice echoed back:
"Try not to blow up any more rooftops."
Kara grinned. "He didn't say no to the PowerPoint."
Helena groaned. "You actually made the PowerPoint?"
"I survived a multiversal collapse and a year in the void. What else was I supposed to do? Knit?"
Helena gave her a look. "Please tell me you didn't bedazzle it."
"…Maybe."
—
The Batcave was doing its usual impression of a techno-gothic cathedral: eerie, cavernous, and filled with the sounds of gentle water drips, quiet data streams, and the occasional annoyed chirp from a bat who really didn't sign up for this Airbnb situation.
Bruce Wayne—aka Batman, aka Gotham's most emotionally constipated billionaire—stood in front of the Batcomputer, his cape tossed over one shoulder like a particularly dramatic scarf. He hadn't moved in hours, unless you counted the kind of twitchy finger-dance that meant he was hacking something no one else on Earth had business hacking.
Floating in front of him was the scorched communicator—the one handed over by a very earnest, very strong blonde girl who had insisted she was from another Earth. It rotated slowly in a holographic display like a rotisserie chicken of cosmic trauma.
Alfred descended the stairs, utterly unphased by the tech wonderland, and carrying a tray like it was Excalibur. The tray contained tea, a sandwich that probably had feelings about being ignored, and a quiet judgment you could feel from twenty feet away.
"You've been down here five hours, Master Wayne," Alfred said, setting the tray down with that polite but unmistakable clink that translated to eat or I call Superman.
"I've gone longer," Bruce replied, not looking up. He was eyeballing encryption code like it had insulted his parents.
"Yes," Alfred said, dry as a desert. "And that would explain why Master Hadrian once hallucinated he was fighting the Easter Bunny in your honor."
"He still won."
"Only after he tried to interrogate it."
Bruce said nothing, mostly because he hated when Alfred was funnier than him. Which was often.
The communicator pinged softly. On the screen, the internal clock chip froze at exactly ten years ago, sealed in a radiation-resistant casing that screamed "apocalypse insurance" to anyone who spoke Doomsday fluently.
"She wasn't lying," Bruce muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Their world ended."
Alfred raised a brow, slowly stirring sugar into the tea like a Bond villain in retirement. "And the other girl? The one with your cheekbones and your charming people skills?"
"She moves like me," Bruce said, still staring at the scanner. "Thinks tactically. Left-handed. Good instinct for cover. Hates capes."
"Truly, the resemblance is uncanny," Alfred said. "All she needs is a ten-billion-dollar trust fund and a Bat-shaped inferiority complex."
Bruce's jaw tightened, which Alfred took as a sign he'd hit the mark.
"She's angry," Bruce added after a beat. "Controlled. Stubborn. Has something to prove."
"So… one of yours, then," Alfred said, pouring the tea. "It's like a talent scout for emotionally damaged orphans."
Bruce peeled off his cowl and set it on the table with all the ceremony of someone dropping a loaded gun. The shadows under his eyes looked like they'd unionized.
"They'll come here," he said. "They're smart. Resourceful. And if I'm right, they've got nowhere else to go."
"You've already decided," Alfred said.
"I've accepted the inevitable," Bruce corrected. "Not the same thing."
Alfred handed him the tea, which Bruce accepted out of sheer surprise. (He usually forgot tea existed until it was cold.)
"And when they arrive?" Alfred asked. "Do we start with the full Gotham welcome package—DNA test, security scan, and awkward family dinner?"
"Depends," Bruce said, eyes back on the screen. "On what they need. Information. Shelter. A fight."
Alfred gave him that look. The one that was half 'concerned father figure,' half 'I raised you better than this, you emotionally unavailable gargoyle.'
"And what about what you need, Master Wayne?"
Bruce didn't answer. Because of course he didn't.
But then the Batcomputer pinged—louder this time. A low hum filled the cave as motion sensors detected two figures nearing the estate.
"Proximity Alert. Unauthorized entry detected. Two lifeforms. One Kryptonian. One Wayne DNA signature. Partial variance."
Bruce stood. The kind of stand that came with a cape flourish and a decision to ruin someone's evening.
"They're here," he said.
Alfred didn't blink. Just started straightening his tie. "Shall I prepare the guest rooms, the infirmary, or the holding cells?"
Bruce took a slow breath.
"…Yes."
—
The front door of Wayne Manor creaked open with all the melodrama of a gothic horror film or, as Kara put it, "the start of every haunted house movie ever where the blonde girl dies first."
She floated half an inch off the ground—because flying was faster than mopping—and turned a slow circle as she hovered just inside the threshold.
"Is it just me," she asked, adjusting the strap of her duffel bag, "or does this place practically smell like unresolved trauma and rich people problems?"
"Definitely not just you," Helena said, stepping in beside her, boots clicking on the marble like a countdown to something important. Her coat dripped faintly from the drizzle outside, but she didn't seem to notice. Her dark eyes weren't scanning the room for exits or enemies. They were looking for something else.
And then they found him.
Alfred Pennyworth.
He stood at the base of the grand staircase, spine straight as a sword, suit crisply pressed like it had come with its own dry cleaner. His hair was dark with just a hint of gray, and his expression was somewhere between polite indifference and deep existential disappointment in your life choices.
So, basically: peak Alfred.
"Miss Wayne," he greeted, voice like aged scotch and British disapproval wrapped in a velvet ribbon. "And you must be Miss Zor-El. Or do you prefer 'Kara'? I find Kryptonians can be particular."
Kara blinked, mid-hover. "Oh, you know who I am. Cool. That's not terrifying at all. Kara's fine. Also, hi. We brought a healthy amount of interdimensional trauma. Hope that doesn't mess with your feng shui."
Alfred's lips twitched, which was basically the Pennyworth equivalent of laughing out loud.
"I've hosted worse. A Martian once occupied the west guest wing for several weeks. Left green skin flakes in the linen closet. Took ages to explain that to the cleaning staff."
Helena stepped forward, stopping only a few feet away from him.
"Alfred…" Her voice broke on the second syllable. Just a hairline fracture. But it was there.
He studied her with the quiet intensity of someone looking at a photograph that shouldn't exist.
"I gather I wore the same face in your world?"
"You wore the same heart," she whispered.
There was a pause. Not awkward. Just heavy with things unsaid.
Alfred's eyes softened, the weight of a hundred shared losses behind them. "Then I'm glad to see you again, Miss Helena."
Kara nudged her gently with an elbow. "You gonna cry? Because I'm definitely gonna cry if you cry. And if I cry, it'll float. I've ruined people's furniture that way."
Helena blinked rapidly, then shot her a glare. "Do you ever stop talking?"
"Nope," Kara chirped. "Sun-powered and sarcasm-fueled. It's a whole thing."
Alfred cleared his throat, ever the diplomat among weirdos. "Well then. I've been informed the guest rooms are being aired out, the infirmary restocked—just in case—and the holding cells checked. A formality, I assure you."
"Wait," Kara said, hovering higher to look down the hall. "Did you say holding cells? Is this a manor or a Bond villain's lair?"
"Yes," Helena said flatly.
Kara spun slowly mid-air. "Okay, cool, love that for us. Do I get a room with windows, or are all the guest suites more... Dracula-chic?"
"That depends," Alfred replied without missing a beat, "on whether or not you plan to use your heat vision in the kitchen again. Master Bruce still hasn't replaced the last toaster someone 'accidentally' vaporized."
"Okay, that was one time," Kara said defensively. "And toast should not take ten minutes, Alfred. That's just science."
Alfred merely raised an eyebrow. Somehow, without moving a muscle, he judged her entire existence.
Helena, meanwhile, watched the exchange with something dangerously close to a smirk.
"I'm assuming Bruce is brooding somewhere underground?"
Alfred gave her a look that could have been carved from dry British stone. "Of course. Where else would he be?"
"Great," Helena muttered. "It's like nothing's changed. Except everything."
Kara lowered to the floor, stretching dramatically. "So, do we get a tour? A secret password? Maybe a T-shirt that says, 'I survived multiversal collapse and all I got was this gothic mansion'?"
"I'll have one printed," Alfred replied dryly. "In the meantime, please follow me. Mind the rug—Lucius tripped over it last week and insisted I tell guests it's cursed."
He turned and walked into the manor with the graceful efficiency of a man who's seen gods, aliens, and billionaires behaving badly—and still served them tea at 4 sharp.
Helena and Kara exchanged a glance.
"You good?" Kara asked softly.
Helena nodded once. "Yeah. Just… trying not to hug a man who technically isn't my Alfred."
"I say go for it. What's he gonna do? Out-British you?"
They followed Alfred deeper into the manor. The door creaked shut behind them, sealing the past away—or maybe letting it in. Hard to tell in a house full of ghosts.
—
Somewhere below Wayne Manor—beneath the marble, the memory-laced hallways, and at least three hidden wine cellars Batman pretended didn't exist—the Batcave pulsed with quiet menace and flickering LED lights.
The air down here was a cocktail of ozone, machine oil, and unsolved trauma. You could practically bottle it and sell it as Eau de Justice.
Batman stood like a statue carved from brooding, eyes locked on the glowing console in front of him. Data streamed across the massive screen—biometrics, thermal readings, facial recognition scans, even a suspiciously detailed psychological profile built in 2.4 seconds flat.
Subject: Wayne, Helena. Heart rate: 82 bpm. Emotional spike at keyword: Alfred. Likelihood of punching someone in the face in the next hour: 72%.
Subject: Zor-El, Kara. Heart rate: 57 bpm (show-off). Emotional spike at keyword: holding cells. Likelihood of accidental property destruction: 100%, but she'll say "Oops" in a really charming way.
Batman didn't smile. That would've been like asking Mount Rushmore to wink.
But his jaw did unclench ever so slightly. For Bruce Wayne, that was basically a ticker-tape parade.
He reached for the console, fingers moving with calm, deliberate purpose. No wasted motion. Just maximum dramatic impact.
"Beta-9," he said.
The cave speakers purred to life, and a voice glided through the room with all the poise of a Grammy-winning diva who absolutely knew her worth.
"Yes, Sir?" Beta-9's voice echoed, smooth and rich, like a velvet glove dipped in power. "You rang?"
Batman exhaled—one of those exasperated, silent sighs that somehow carried the weight of seventeen failed Robins and a caffeine addiction.
"Contact Eidolon," he said, voice gravelly enough to sand wood. "Tell him we've made contact. Survivors from another Earth. I want everything he's got on interdimensional threat response."
Beta-9 paused, which was impressive considering she technically had no lungs.
"And how would you like me to phrase that, Sir? Something poetic like 'We have ghosts from another reality knocking on the door of our trauma mansion'? Or should I keep it strictly professional?"
Batman stared at the monitor. Somewhere behind those eyes, you could practically hear the Bat-brain calculating how many seconds it would take to rebuild the AI without the sass filter.
"Professional," he muttered.
Beta-9 made a sound that was suspiciously close to a chuckle. "Copy that. Anything else, Boss Brood?"
Batman hesitated.
It was barely a second. But it was there. The kind of pause that meant his brain had just skidded across an emotional pothole.
Then: "Tell him… one of them called me 'Dad.'"
Beta-9 didn't reply immediately.
When she did, her voice was lower, gentler. Still fierce. But softer around the edges.
"Understood, Sir. Compiling emotional subtext. Packaging for divine-level cryptid. Transmission in three… two…"
She didn't finish the countdown out loud, which was good, because Bruce had already tuned it out. He was staring at the screen again, at the still image of Helena—her posture stubborn and guarded, her face a carbon copy of his own steely glare. A daughter he'd never raised. But somehow… still his.
The cave fell silent, except for the ever-present drip of water and the low hum of supercomputers that could probably hack into the moon if they felt like it.
Somewhere overhead, Alfred was probably brewing tea and judging the multiverse in silence.
And deep in the shadows, Batman stood completely still—surrounded by memories he hadn't made, burdened by futures he didn't yet understand, and already planning for a war he hadn't even told his team about.
Because that's what Batman did.
Plan.
Prepare.
Protect.
…And maybe, just maybe—learn how to be a dad.
Eventually.
No promises.
---
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