Phantom's Inner World.
The Mind Palace is unrecognizable.
Once, it had been simple — a safe place J'onn helped him create: soft walls, a single bed, a TV flickering with memories of the Team — a refuge built for healing.
Now, it's a cathedral of chaos.
The space has grown vast and unnatural, stretching impossibly far in every direction. Shadows cling to the walls like living scars. The doors — dozens of them — are all still here, some pristine, some splintered and worn. But now?
They rattle violently.
Every "DO NOT ENTER" door quakes on its hinges like something monstrous claws at the other side, desperate to break through.
The ceiling drips. The floor trembles. The air feels heavy, charged with static.
Kade stands in the center.
Barefoot. Bare-chested.
The storm roars around him, but his eyes are fixed on a single point in the distance — a sound pulling him forward.
"If you're hearing this… I've been compromised."
The voice cuts through the storm like a blade.
Batman's voice.
It echoes everywhere, warped and distant, but it's unmistakable.
Kade whispers to himself, almost afraid of the words: "Bruce?"
The sound reverberates, stirring the shadows like water disturbed.
The voice repeats, clearer this time: "If you're hearing this… I've been compromised."
And suddenly, he knows.
Knows what it means. Knows why he's hearing it.
"It's time."
He walks forward.
Past the rattling doors, each one whispering old ghosts — "47.""No name.""No past."
He keeps his eyes forward.
At the end of the hall, a new door stands.
It shouldn't exist.
It wasn't here before.
It's black. Blacker than any shadow in the palace.
The handle isn't metal or wood — it's bone-white, like skeletal fingers reaching out.
Carved across the front in precise, jagged letters:
PROTOCOL PHANTOM.
His chest tightens.
This isn't J'onn's door. This isn't healing.
This is Batman's.
This is a command.
He hesitates.
Every instinct tells him not to touch it.
What's behind this door isn't peace. It's war.
But then he hears the voice again, low, direct, meant only for him: "If you're hearing this… I've been compromised."
Kade exhales. His hand trembles as he reaches for the handle.
The doors behind him scream in their frames.
He opens it.
Light — blinding, white-hot — consumes everything.
The storm, the palace, the ghosts.
---
The first sensation is pain.
Kade's eyes snap open, pupils dilating violently as sterile light invades them. He gasps — a sharp, ugly sound — as the first breath in months scalds his lungs. Every inhale feels like inhaling knives. His chest convulses, his heart stuttering before slamming back into rhythm.
The pod opens with a long, venomous hiss, and shadows spill out with him like smoke escaping a fire, instinctively coiling in jagged arcs across the floor. They cling to the edges of the room, restless, searching.
He trembles. Not just from the cold still clinging to his bones, but from the memories. The fragments slam into him without warning — Cadmus drills, Slade's voice, the feeling of blood on his hands — all blurring together, each one louder than the last.
He lurches forward, graceless, bare feet slapping metal. The Watchtower's floor is freezing against his skin, but he barely feels it. He collapses to his knees, palms splayed against the cold steel, head bowed as if gravity itself has become unbearable.
He doesn't speak. He doesn't move.
Only breathes.
Shadows gather closer, wrapping around him like armor, like an old habit he cannot break. His trembling slows, but only slightly. The room is silent, but he feels watched. Judged.
Slowly, Kade lifts his head — eyes flicking across the unfamiliar chamber, searching for an exit, an anchor, something real.
And for a moment, there's nothing but the echo of his breath and the steady pulse of his rage keeping him awake.
--
The silence feels heavier now. Almost intentional.
That's when Kade notices it — the case.
It sits beside the cryo-pod like an invitation. Black, matte, unmarked. But not new. The edges are scuffed, the latches hand-scratched, as if it's been opened and closed countless times. Not Cadmus-issued.
Kade moves toward it slowly, bare feet whispering against cold metal. His hands — still trembling from the thaw — hover over the latches.
Click.
The lid opens with a measured hiss.
Inside:
Upgraded shadow-tech gear. The gauntlets are heavier than his old ones, integrated with compact compartments and retractable shock nodes — built for both offense and control. His cloak has been refitted, layered with spectral fiber that blurs his outline under low light — Batman's touch is all over it: stealth-first.
An encrypted drive. Sleek, palm-sized, pulsing faintly with a red standby light.
And a batarang.
Not just any batarang. It's old. Hand-forged. The edges dulled by time and use. The weight of it feels deliberate — a token, not a tool.
Kade's fingers brush it first. A tremor runs through him at the thought: He left this for me.
He plugs the drive into the pod's console. The screen sputters, static crackling before cutting to black.
And then — Batman.
He stands in frame, cloak still, cowl shadowing his face more than usual. No theatrics. No posture. Just a man prepared for the worst.
Batman (recorded): "If you're hearing this, I've been compromised. The League, too. By the time you wake up, I won't be myself — not fully. What's taken us…It doesn't leave survivors. But I left this for you because you're different."
Kade stiffens. The shadows around him quiver like they're listening too.
Batman: "Inside this case is everything you'll need. The gear — rebuilt for you. Stealth-cloak with spectral lining: harder to track in low light. Gauntlets — reinforced for impact and equipped with sonic emitters. The drive — encrypted with League intel. It'll auto-purge if accessed by anyone but you."
Batman leans in slightly. Even through the hologram, his voice feels like a command.
Batman: "I built this for one reason: you are my contingency. Not my weapon. Not my failsafe. My contingency."
The word lingers. Kade feels it in his bones.
Batman: "You know what they made you at Cadmus. You know what you're capable of. Use it. You'll need to find the others — the Team — if they're still themselves. If they're not… You know what has to be done."
Kade's jaw tightens. He doesn't like where this is going.
Batman: "If the League can't be saved, shut us down. All of us. No hesitation. That's why it has to be you, Kade. Because I trust you to make the call I never could."
His name hits like a hammer. Kade. No code names. No titles.
Batman straightens. His face hardens, as if bracing for the inevitable.
Batman: "You are more than what they made you. Prove me right."
The message ends. The screen fades to black.
Kade stands there, motionless, the hum of the cryo-pod filling the room like a low dirge.
His hand lingers on the batarang, closing around it until his knuckles ache. He doesn't know why, but it feels like holding a promise. Or a burden.
Slowly, he pockets it.
The shadows coil tighter around him, like they know what comes next.
--
For a long time, Kade just stares at the case.
The message is over, but Batman's words won't stop replaying:
"You are my contingency."You're not my failsafe. You're my contingency because I trust you."Prove me right."
It's like a mantra and a curse all at once.
He forces himself to look at the encrypted drive still slotted in the console. Data scrolls across the screen — League contingencies. Detailed. Cold. Clinical.
Superman. Wonder Woman. Flash. Aquaman. Names of gods are reduced to targets with weak points. He scrolls through them mechanically, but every line burns. Not just plans. Instructions. Things Batman never wanted anyone else to read.
Kade recognizes the structure — Cadmus taught him to see patterns like this. Takedowns. Assassination files. Batman built them with precision that makes Cadmus look clumsy.
This isn't a mission file. It hits him suddenly. This is a kill list.
Kade exhales slowly. He understands now: Batman didn't wake him up to save the League. He woke him up to end it if it couldn't be saved.
The thought makes his hands shake.
He closes the files. He can't look at them anymore.
His gaze falls back to the gear. Slowly, almost reverently, he reaches for the gauntlets. They're heavier than his old ones — not by accident. Each compartment, each plate, is designed for adaptability. He slides his hands into them. The servos hum to life, syncing with him like they've been waiting.
Next, the cloak. The fabric catches the sterile light strangely, bending shadows around him until it feels like wearing a living thing. It settles on his shoulders with a weight that feels like more than armor.
Kade glances at his reflection in the cryo-pod's glass — at the blackened figure staring back.
For a moment, he sees Cadmus's Phantom. Then, for a moment longer, he sees Batman. And he hates that he can't tell which one he is anymore.
His hand drifts back to the batarang. The old, battered thing feels alien in his grip. Not a weapon. A reminder.
Batman's voice echoes in his head again: "Be better than me."
Kade closes his eyes, clenching the batarang until his hand aches.
Kade (quiet, to himself): "You're asking me to kill gods, old man."
Silence answers him.
He sheathes the batarang in the cloak, securing it close to his chest. It doesn't feel like gear. It feels like a promise he doesn't want to keep.
Kade exhales one last time — slow, deliberate.
If they woke me up early, it's worse than I thought.
He stands. Straightens. The boy who stumbled out of the pod is gone. In his place: Batman's contingency.
--
The Watchtower hums like a living thing.
Deep within its corridors, Savage and Klarion stand mid-discussion, an ancient warrior and an ageless child wrapped in darkness. The words between them die instantly as both stop cold.
Klarion tilts his head unnaturally, cat-like ears twitching. A grin stretches across his face, wide and sharp.
Klarion: "Ohhh… that's new." (a giddy, sing-song whisper) "Something just woke up."
Savage doesn't share his excitement. He doesn't need to. The faint upturn at the corner of his mouth is enough.
Savage: "No." (low, certain) "Someone."
Every compromised Leaguer turns their head in eerie unison, predatory and patient. Something has shifted.
The Bioship.
Aqualad stiffens in his seat. The hair on his arms stands on end, his breath catching like a man suddenly submerged.
Aqualad: "Did you feel that?"
Zatanna swallows hard, her fingers twitching as if the magic in her veins just woke up.
Zatanna: "Like… like the air just got heavier."
Robin doesn't answer at first. He checks his gauntlet, reading a ping that only confirms what his gut already knows.
Robin: "He's awake."
Final Scene — The Ghost Steps Into the War Setting: Cryo-Chamber Exit.
The cryo-chamber door hisses open with the groan of metal surrendering.
Kade steps through.
His silhouette stretches unnaturally in the corridor light, shadows crawling at his feet like living things, answering his unspoken call. The newly fitted cloak sways with his movements, catching the light like liquid darkness. The reinforced gauntlets glint under sterile glow.
The batarang rests in his hand, not as a weapon but as a weight — a reminder of what's been asked of him.
His face is unreadable. No boyish fear. No Cadmus-trained emptiness. Something else.
Batman's voice echoes in his skull like a ghost:
"Be better than me."
Kade doesn't flinch at the words. He doesn't question them.
He rolls the batarang in his palm, feeling its edges bite faintly against his skin.
Kade (quietly, to himself): "Let's see how this goes."