The fluorescent lights of Mike Chen's cramped studio apartment flickered with their characteristic dying-insect buzz, casting an unsteady pallor across the mountains of comic books, graphic novels, and action figures that had colonized every available surface like a particularly nerdy fungal infection. The walls themselves had long since disappeared beneath an archaeological stratification of posters—layers upon layers of superhero imagery that told the story of a man whose relationship with the medium had evolved, devolved, and revolved through every conceivable phase of appreciation and criticism.
Mike sat in his ergonomic gaming chair—the one splurge he'd allowed himself, because if you're going to spend sixteen hours a day arguing with strangers on the internet about fictional characters, you might as well protect your spine—surrounded by the detritus of his evening ritual: three empty energy drink cans (sugar-free, because he wasn't a complete degenerate), a half-eaten bag of Korean BBQ chips, and his phone, which displayed his latest masterpiece of online discourse.
The thread in question had started innocuously enough. Someone on r/DCcomics had posted a fairly standard appreciation post about Batman's tactical genius, complete with the requisite scans from various comics showing the Dark Knight taking down increasingly absurd opponents through the power of "prep time." Mike had seen this exact post approximately seventeen thousand times in his thirty-two years of life, and normally he would have scrolled past with nothing more than a derisive snort.
But tonight? Tonight, something had snapped.
Maybe it was the fact that he'd just finished reading the latest Batman run, where Bruce Wayne had once again failed to make any meaningful progress in his eternal war on crime despite having access to technology that could reshape human civilization. Maybe it was the fact that he'd rewatched The Dark Knight trilogy over the weekend and spent the entire time screaming at his television about how Batman's refusal to kill the Joker had directly resulted in hundreds of additional deaths. Maybe it was just the accumulated frustration of decades spent watching the same character make the same mistakes over and over again across every conceivable medium and continuity.
Whatever the catalyst, Mike had responded to that innocent appreciation post with a 4,000-word essay that had taken him three hours to write and was, if he was being honest with himself, probably the most emotionally invested he'd been in anything since his brief and ill-fated attempt to become a professional esports player in his mid-twenties.
The essay—which had already accumulated 847 downvotes and climbing—had been titled "Batman is a Fundamentally Broken Character and I Can Prove It Mathematically." It covered everything: the logical impossibility of his no-kill rule actually reducing crime rates in a city filled with mass murderers who escaped from Arkham Asylum roughly every six weeks, the absolute absurdity of a man whose entire character arc was defined by the murder of his parents refusing to permanently stop the people who murdered other people's parents on a daily basis, the frankly insulting amount of plot armor required to keep a guy in a bat costume alive against enemies who could bench-press continents, and—Mike's personal favorite section—a detailed statistical analysis of how many people had died as a direct result of Batman's philosophical stubbornness across all major continuities.
The responses had been predictable. "You just don't understand the character." "Batman's no-kill rule is what separates him from the villains." "Actually, in this one obscure issue from 1987, Batman acknowledged that..." "If Batman killed, he'd be no better than the people he fights."
Mike had responded to each of these with increasingly unhinged refutations, his fingers flying across his mechanical keyboard with the practiced speed of a man who had spent far too much of his life in online arguments. The satisfaction he felt with each devastating counterpoint was probably unhealthy. He knew it was unhealthy. His therapist had told him it was unhealthy, right before he'd stopped going to therapy because his therapist didn't understand that sometimes a man just needed to be right about fictional characters.
"You know what your problem is?" he muttered to himself, cracking open his fourth energy drink of the evening. "You have no imagination. You've never once thought about how you'd actually DO this if you were in the bat suit. Because if you did—if you actually engaged those three brain cells you're apparently keeping in reserve for special occasions—you'd realize that everything about Batman's methodology is fundamentally, irredeemably stupid."
His cat, a perpetually unimpressed orange tabby named Deathstroke (a name choice that had seemed hilarious when he was twenty-five and now just made him feel vaguely embarrassed), looked up from his spot on the keyboard of Mike's secondary computer with an expression that somehow conveyed both complete disinterest and profound judgment.
"Don't look at me like that," Mike said, pointing at the cat with his energy drink. "You know I'm right. You've watched me play the Arkham games. You've seen me scream at the screen every time Batman beats the Joker into a coma and then just... leaves him there. For the cops. Who will put him in Arkham. From which he will escape. To kill more people. It's a CYCLE, Deathstroke. An endless, stupid cycle that Batman perpetuates because he's too precious about his moral code to acknowledge that some problems require permanent solutions."
Deathstroke yawned, displaying a magnificent set of fangs that Mike had always felt were wasted on a creature whose primary ambition in life was sleeping in sunbeams.
"And don't even get me started on the suit," Mike continued, because he was absolutely going to get started on the suit, and Deathstroke's opinion on the matter was irrelevant. "The man has access to technology from across the multiverse. He's friends with the most advanced civilizations in the known universe. He has enough money to solve world hunger seventeen times over. And his solution to the problem of 'how do I not die while punching criminals' is... a cloth costume with some Kevlar in it. Sometimes. When the writers remember."
He pulled up a folder on his computer labeled "BATMAN REDESIGN IDEAS (DO NOT DELETE DRUNK ME)," which contained approximately three hundred pages of notes, sketches, and increasingly elaborate technical specifications for what Mike considered to be the Platonic ideal of a Batman suit. He'd started this project ironically, as a way to prove a point during a previous internet argument, but somewhere along the line it had become something genuine—a labor of love born from hate, a detailed technical document describing exactly how he would do things better if he ever found himself in the impossibly stupid situation of being a billionaire vigilante.
"The Batman Beyond suit," he said, pulling up his most recent additions to the document. "Objectively the best Batman suit ever designed. Flight capability, enhanced strength, active camouflage, built-in weapons systems. And what does Terry McGinnis do with it? Punch people and make quips. It's like giving a child a fighter jet and watching them use it as a jungle gym."
The document on his screen showed his redesigned version of the Beyond suit—a sleek, armored masterpiece that incorporated every piece of viable technology he'd ever read about in comics, science fiction, or actual scientific journals. It had taken him three years to get the theoretical specifications right, and another year to add the handwritten notes explaining exactly why each feature was necessary and how it would be implemented in a realistic (well, comic-book realistic) setting.
"If I had that suit," Mike said, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling, "I'd actually solve Gotham's crime problem. Not this endless, sisyphean nightmare that Bruce Wayne has turned into a lifestyle. I mean actually solve it. Permanently. Because some problems—and I cannot stress this enough—require permanent solutions."
He closed his eyes, just for a moment. The energy drinks were starting to lose their battle against the fundamental exhaustion of being a human being who had stayed up until 4 AM arguing about Batman on the internet. Again. For the third time this week.
"I'd be better," he mumbled, his voice slurring slightly as consciousness began to slip away from him like sand through fingers. "So much better. Actually fix things instead of just... maintaining the status quo forever. Actually use the resources available. Actually make... meaningful... change..."
His head lolled to the side, his breathing deepening into the slow rhythm of sleep. On his computer screen, the Batman redesign document glowed softly, its meticulous specifications and bitter annotations standing as testament to years of frustrated passion. Deathstroke the cat stretched luxuriously, claimed Mike's still-warm keyboard as a sleeping spot, and the apartment fell into silence.
Mike Chen, thirty-two-year-old graphic designer and professional Batman critic, did not wake up.
There is a space between death and whatever comes after that defies human comprehension. It is not dark, because darkness implies the absence of light, and in this space, the concepts of light and darkness have no meaning. It is not quiet, because silence implies the absence of sound, and here, sound has never existed. It is not empty, because emptiness implies the possibility of fullness, and this place exists outside such binary distinctions.
Mike floated in this non-space, aware of his own existence in a way that felt fundamentally different from anything he had experienced before. His body was gone—he understood this instinctively, the way you understand that water is wet or that fire is hot. His consciousness remained, but it had been... unmoored. Freed from the physical substrate that had housed it for thirty-two years.
Well, he thought, or experienced something that was functionally equivalent to thought, this is unexpected.
He had never been religious. His relationship with the concept of an afterlife had been limited to academic interest and the occasional existential crisis at 3 AM. If pressed, he would have guessed that death would be like a dreamless sleep—a simple cessation of experience, a return to the nothing that had preceded his birth.
This was not nothing. This was definitely something.
Am I being judged? he wondered. Is this the part where some cosmic entity shows up and gives me the "your life was a disappointment" speech? Because I've been preparing that rebuttal for years.
As if in response to his thoughts—and Mike was becoming increasingly certain that something was responding to his thoughts—the non-space around him began to shift. Not in any way he could perceive visually, because he no longer had eyes, but in a way he could... feel? Sense? Experience through whatever metaphysical apparatus had replaced his nervous system?
A presence made itself known. Not a figure, not a voice, not anything so crude as a humanoid being sitting on a throne of clouds. Just... an awareness. An intelligence so vast that Mike's consciousness felt like a single neuron trying to comprehend the brain it was part of.
Oh, the presence seemed to say, in a way that wasn't speech but was close enough that Mike's mind translated it as such. It's you.
Um, Mike responded, or tried to respond, or experienced the metaphysical equivalent of responding. Do I know you?
No. But I know you, Michael Chen. I've been watching your thread with great interest.
Mike's first instinct was embarrassment—the cosmic shame of realizing that whatever higher power governed the universe had apparently been following his Batman discourse. His second instinct was defiance.
So what, you're here to defend him? Even in death, I have to deal with Batman apologists?
The presence did something that Mike could only interpret as laughter, though it was laughter in the same way that a nuclear explosion was a campfire.
Defend him? No, Michael. I find your criticisms... compelling. In fact, I find them so compelling that I've decided to offer you an opportunity.
An opportunity to do what?
To prove your thesis.
The non-space around Mike began to change again, and this time he could perceive it—shapes forming from nothing, colors bleeding into existence, the fundamental architecture of reality rearranging itself into something comprehensible.
You have spent years arguing that Batman's methodology is flawed, the presence continued. That his refusal to use lethal force perpetuates the cycle of violence he claims to oppose. That his underutilization of available technology is criminally negligent. That his lack of meaningful character development represents a fundamental failure of imagination on the part of his creators.
I mean, when you put it like that, I sound kind of obsessed.
You ARE obsessed, Michael. Magnificently, gloriously, pathetically obsessed. And that obsession has made you uniquely qualified for what I'm about to offer you.
Mike felt something like dread pooling in whatever served as his stomach in this formless state.
What exactly are you offering?
The presence seemed to lean closer, though it had no body to lean with.
I'm offering you the chance to become Batman. Not to roleplay as him, not to write fanfiction about him, not to argue about him on internet forums until your eyes bleed. I mean actually, literally, physically become Batman. To be reborn in his world, in his body, at the beginning of his crusade, with all the resources and knowledge you currently possess.
Mike's consciousness stuttered, doing the metaphysical equivalent of a double-take.
I'm sorry, what?
You heard me, Michael. Or rather, you perceived me, but the distinction is academic at this point. I'm offering you the chance to prove, once and for all, that you could do it better. That your methods would be more effective. That your Batman would actually make a difference.
That's... that's insane. That's the plot of a bad isekai anime. That's literally every self-insert fanfiction I've ever made fun of.
And yet, here we are. The universe, Michael, has a sense of humor. It also has a vested interest in seeing how this plays out. Call it an experiment. Call it entertainment. Call it cosmic justice for every time you've derailed a perfectly pleasant online discussion with your manifesto about Batman's failings.
I don't... I can't...
You can, Michael. The question is whether you will.
The presence withdrew slightly, giving Mike's consciousness room to process what was being offered. And despite every instinct screaming that this was insane, that he was probably hallucinating in the final moments before true death, that no sane person would accept such a ridiculous proposition...
Mike found himself considering it.
If I do this, he thought slowly, I'd have access to Wayne Enterprises. The Batcave. All of Bruce's resources and training.
Correct.
And I'd keep my memories? My knowledge of the comics, the movies, the games? I'd know everything that's supposed to happen?
Also correct. Consider it your "prep time," Michael. You've always argued that Batman's real superpower is preparation. Now you'll have preparation that Bruce Wayne could never imagine—complete knowledge of the timeline, of every villain's weakness, of every ally's potential, of every threat that looms on the horizon.
That's... that's actually kind of terrifying. I'd know about Bane, about the Court of Owls, about every apocalyptic event that's supposed to hit Gotham over the next decade.
Yes. The question is what you'll do with that knowledge. Will you follow the path that was laid out? Will you become the Batman you've spent so long criticizing? Or will you actually, finally, put your money where your mouth is?
Mike's consciousness churned with conflicting emotions. Fear, certainly—the prospect of actually living in Gotham, of facing the Joker and Two-Face and all the other nightmares that Bruce Wayne had battled, was terrifying in a way that reading about those encounters had never been. Excitement, unexpectedly—the chance to actually implement the ideas he'd spent years developing, to build the suit he'd designed, to prove that his criticism had been constructive rather than merely destructive. And underneath it all, a burning, petty, glorious desire to be RIGHT.
If I do this, he thought, I'm doing it my way. Not Bruce's way. I'm not going to spend my life in an endless holding pattern, fighting the same villains over and over while Gotham slowly rots. I'm going to actually fix things.
That is, presumably, the point.
And if that means killing some people... if that means putting down the monsters who will never stop killing unless someone stops them permanently...
Then you'll have to live with those choices, Michael. As Bruce Wayne never could. The weight of every life you take will be yours to carry. Are you prepared for that?
Mike thought about it. Really thought about it, in a way he'd never had to when the question was purely theoretical. Could he kill? Could he look into the Joker's eyes and pull the trigger, knowing that it would save hundreds of lives but also make him something other than a hero?
Yes, he decided, and he was surprised to find that he meant it. Because the alternative is letting innocent people die for the sake of my moral purity. And I've always said that's the coward's choice.
The presence seemed to nod, though it had no head to nod with.
Very well, Michael Chen. Your terms are accepted. You will be reborn as Bruce Wayne, at the beginning of his first year as Batman. You will retain all your memories and knowledge. And you will have the opportunity to prove, once and for all, that your way is better.
Wait, Mike thought, a sudden concern surfacing. What's the catch? There's always a catch. Is this a monkey's paw situation? Am I going to spend the rest of my life regretting this?
Probably, the presence admitted cheerfully. But that's the nature of existence, Michael. Regret is the price of choice. At least this way, you'll be regretting interesting things instead of the same boring mistakes everyone else makes.
That's not reassuring.
It wasn't meant to be. Now, are you ready?
Mike steeled himself, gathering what remained of his courage. This was insane. This was impossible. This was the kind of thing that only happened in stories, and bad stories at that.
But it was also an opportunity. The only opportunity that mattered, really—the chance to be more than just a critic. The chance to actually do something.
I'm ready, he thought. Let's do this.
Excellent. Oh, and Michael? One last thing.
What?
Try not to die immediately. It would be very anticlimactic, and I've been looking forward to seeing how this plays out.
Before Mike could formulate a response to that deeply concerning statement, reality collapsed around him like a house of cards in a hurricane, and Michael Chen—comic book critic, professional internet arguer, and noted Batman hater—ceased to exist.
Bruce Wayne opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn't.
The headache was the first thing he noticed—a splitting, throbbing agony that felt like someone had tried to separate his skull into its component pieces using nothing but determination and a rusty spoon. The second thing he noticed was the ceiling above him, which was not the water-stained drop ceiling of his studio apartment but rather an ornate masterwork of plaster and paint that probably cost more than his entire net worth had been in his previous life.
The third thing he noticed was that his body felt... wrong. Not bad, exactly—if anything, it felt better than his body had ever felt, younger and stronger and more capable in ways he couldn't immediately articulate. But the proportions were different, the weight distribution was different, even the way his lungs expanded when he breathed was different.
He raised his hands in front of his face and stared at them. They were not his hands. They were bigger, more calloused, the hands of a man who had spent years training his body for combat rather than the soft, uncalloused hands of a graphic designer who considered "exercise" to be walking to the refrigerator.
"Holy shit," he breathed, and even his voice was different—deeper, smoother, the kind of voice that could inspire fear in criminals or convince boards of directors. "It actually worked."
He sat up slowly, taking stock of his surroundings. The room was massive—easily larger than his entire apartment had been—decorated in a style he could only describe as "obscene wealth attempting to appear tasteful." The bed he was lying on could have comfortably slept six people and was probably worth more than most cars. The windows were floor-to-ceiling, covered by heavy curtains that blocked out whatever light was trying to enter from outside.
And on the nightstand beside the bed, like a cosmic calling card left by whatever entity had orchestrated this whole insane situation, was a newspaper.
Mike—no, he was Bruce now, he had to start thinking of himself as Bruce—reached for the newspaper with hands that trembled slightly. The date on the front page confirmed what the presence had promised: he was at the very beginning. Year one of Batman's crusade, before the rogues gallery had fully formed, before the city had descended into the escalating madness that would define the next decade of Gotham's history.
He had time. Not much, but some. Time to prepare, time to build, time to become the Batman he'd always said he could be.
"Okay," he said aloud, his new voice still strange to his ears. "Okay. First things first. Figure out exactly where I am in the timeline. Then access the Wayne Enterprises resources. Then—"
A knock at the door interrupted his planning, followed by a voice that sent a chill down his spine—not from fear, but from the sheer impossibility of hearing it in person.
"Master Bruce? Are you awake? You have a board meeting in two hours, and I've taken the liberty of preparing breakfast."
Alfred Pennyworth. The Alfred Pennyworth. Standing on the other side of that door like he was a real person and not a beloved fictional character who had been portrayed by a succession of distinguished British actors.
Bruce—Mike—whatever he was supposed to call himself now—took a deep breath. This was really happening. He was really here, really in Gotham, really about to start his career as Batman with full knowledge of everything that was supposed to come.
"Thank you, Alfred," he called out, and was surprised to find that the words came naturally, as if some part of Bruce Wayne's muscle memory had transferred along with his body. "I'll be down shortly."
"Very good, sir. And might I say, you sound unusually... contemplative this morning. Did you sleep well?"
Bruce almost laughed at that. Did he sleep well? He had literally died and been reborn into the body of a fictional character. "Sleep" was perhaps not the most accurate description of his experience.
"Just had some interesting dreams," he said instead. "Got me thinking about... about how I've been approaching things. About whether there might be better ways to accomplish my goals."
A long pause from the other side of the door. Then: "I see. Well, sir, I've found that introspection, while valuable, is best conducted after a proper breakfast. Will you be joining me in the kitchen, or shall I have your meal brought up?"
"I'll come down. But Alfred... after the board meeting, I need to spend some time in the cave. I have some significant modifications in mind."
Another pause, this one weighted with implications that only Alfred could fully appreciate. "Modifications to what, precisely, sir?"
"Everything," Bruce said, and he meant it. "I'm going to change everything."
He heard Alfred's footsteps receding down the hallway, but not before catching a murmured "Heaven help us all" that was clearly intended to be heard.
Bruce swung his legs out of bed and stood, testing his new body's capabilities. The muscle memory was there—forms and techniques that he had never trained but could somehow feel waiting in his limbs like coiled springs. Bruce Wayne's body had been honed by years of training across the world, transformed into a weapon that Mike Chen could never have achieved in a lifetime of effort.
He walked to the window and pulled back the curtains, letting light flood into the room. Outside, Gotham City sprawled in all its gothic glory—spires and smokestacks, art deco skyscrapers and crumbling tenements, a city of contradictions that had served as the backdrop for countless stories of tragedy and triumph.
His city now. His responsibility. His project.
"Alright, Bruce," he muttered to himself, staring out at the urban landscape that would define the rest of his new life. "Let's figure out how to do this right."
The Batcave, as it turned out, was even more impressive in person than any comic or movie had managed to convey.
Bruce stood on the main platform, surrounded by the technological infrastructure of Batman's crusade, and tried to process the sheer scale of what he now had access to. The cave stretched for what seemed like miles in every direction, its natural formations augmented by decades of Wayne family engineering. Computer systems hummed with quiet power, their processing capability probably exceeding anything that had existed in Mike Chen's original world. Vehicles—the early versions of what would become the Batmobile, Batcycle, and Batwing—sat in various states of completion in what he could only describe as the coolest garage he had ever seen.
And in a glass case near the center of the main platform, illuminated by carefully positioned spotlights, hung the Batsuit.
Bruce approached it slowly, reverently, his feelings a complicated mixture of professional assessment and almost religious awe. This was it—the suit that had launched a thousand arguments, the costume that he had criticized endlessly in his previous life, the iconic image that had defined an entire genre of superhero storytelling.
It was also, from an engineering perspective, completely inadequate for the job it was supposed to do.
"Kevlar weave over a reinforced bodysuit," Bruce murmured, running his fingers over the material. "Decent protection against knives and small-caliber firearms. Absolutely useless against anything with actual superhuman strength. The cowl provides basic sensory enhancement and communication capabilities, but no augmented reality display, no threat assessment systems, no integration with remote drones or satellite surveillance."
He stepped back, his critical eye cataloging every flaw, every missed opportunity, every way in which this suit failed to utilize the resources that were clearly available.
"The cape is Nomex, fire-resistant, can be used for gliding. But no active flight capability, no stealth coating, no integrated weapons systems. The belt contains the standard array of gadgets—batarangs, grappling hook, smoke pellets, the usual—but no lethal options, no contingencies for metahuman threats, nothing that would actually level the playing field against enemies who could benchpress a building."
"Might I ask, sir, what exactly you're doing?"
Bruce turned to find Alfred standing at the entrance to the cave, a silver tray balanced perfectly in one hand and an expression of polite concern on his face. The butler's posture was impeccable, his demeanor unflappable, but there was something in his eyes that suggested he had noticed that something was different about his young master.
"I'm assessing our current capabilities," Bruce said, deciding that honesty—or at least partial honesty—was the best policy. "And finding them severely lacking."
Alfred set the tray down on a nearby workbench, revealing a pot of tea, a plate of sandwiches, and what appeared to be a folder full of documents. "I see. And what, specifically, do you find lacking?"
"Everything." Bruce gestured broadly at the cave around them. "This suit was designed for a very specific threat profile—street-level criminals, organized crime, the occasional corrupt politician. It's completely inadequate for what's coming."
"What's coming, sir?"
Bruce hesitated. How much could he tell Alfred? How much would Alfred believe? The butler had been with the Wayne family for decades; he had watched Bruce grow from a traumatized child into a driven, obsessive adult. He knew Bruce's mind better than anyone. And yet, how could he possibly explain that his young master had been replaced by a thirty-two-year-old comic book critic from another dimension who had died of what was probably an energy-drink-induced cardiac event?
"I had a vision," Bruce said finally, settling on a half-truth that was close enough to the kinds of mystical experiences that the DC Universe was known for. "Last night, when I was sleeping. I saw... possible futures. Threats that are coming to Gotham, to the world. Things that make the mob look like a minor inconvenience."
Alfred's expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted almost imperceptibly. "A vision, sir?"
"I know how it sounds. But Alfred, I saw things. People with abilities that defy physics. Madmen with schemes that make organized crime look quaint. Apocalyptic events that could destroy not just Gotham, but everything." Bruce met the butler's eyes, willing him to understand. "And I saw myself—the version of me that continued on the path I was on—failing to stop them. Again and again, for years, for decades, failing to actually fix anything because I was too committed to methods that didn't work."
A long silence stretched between them. Alfred's face remained unreadable, but Bruce could see the calculations happening behind those experienced eyes—weighing the possibility that his master had simply snapped against the possibility that something genuine had occurred.
"And what do you propose to do about these... visions?" Alfred asked finally.
"I'm going to rebuild everything," Bruce said, the words flowing with a certainty he hadn't known he possessed. "Starting with the suit. The current design is a good foundation, but it needs to be completely reimagined for the threats we'll actually face. I have specifications in mind—designs that will make the current suit look like a Halloween costume."
He moved to one of the computer terminals and began typing, pulling up design software that his new memories told him he knew how to use. "I'm going to build something called the Beyond Suit. It's... it's based on designs that exist in one of the possible futures I saw. A fully integrated combat system with flight capability, enhanced strength, active camouflage, built-in weapons systems, and enough processing power to coordinate with satellite surveillance, drone reconnaissance, and AI-assisted threat analysis."
On the screen, the first rough sketches began to appear—the sleek, black-and-red lines of the Batman Beyond suit, modified with armored plating and a cape that could shift between rigid glider configuration and fluid camouflage.
"That's..." Alfred stepped closer, his eyes widening slightly as the design took shape. "That's remarkably sophisticated, sir. I don't believe we have the capability to construct something like that."
"Not with current Wayne Enterprises technology, no. But I know how to get what we need. There are people we can contact, resources we can access, technologies that exist in this world that haven't been properly utilized yet." Bruce's fingers flew across the keyboard, adding notes and specifications to the design. "I also know that within the next few years, Gotham is going to be visited by beings with capabilities far beyond anything we can currently imagine. I need to be ready for them."
"Beings, sir?"
"Aliens. Metahumans. Entities from other dimensions. The world is bigger and stranger than most people realize, Alfred, and it's about to get a lot stranger." Bruce turned to face the butler, his expression serious. "I can either continue doing what I've been doing—fighting an endless war against street criminals while the real threats gather on the horizon—or I can start preparing now for what's actually coming."
Alfred was quiet for a long moment, studying Bruce's face with an intensity that made him feel uncomfortably seen. Then, slowly, the butler nodded.
"I have always trusted your judgment, Master Bruce. Even when I didn't understand it. Even when it frightened me. If you say you've seen things that require a change in approach, then I will support you in making that change." He paused, and something like a smile ghosted across his lips. "Though I must confess, I'm relieved to see you finally acknowledging that your current methods have... limitations."
Bruce blinked. "You've thought my methods were limited?"
"Sir, with respect, you've been dressing as a bat and punching criminals for the better part of a year. While I have always admired your dedication and courage, I have occasionally wondered whether the approach might benefit from some refinement." Alfred's tone was perfectly neutral, but there was a glint of something in his eyes that looked suspiciously like amusement. "I believe the young people today might describe my feelings as 'yeah, no kidding.'"
Despite everything—the impossibility of his situation, the weight of the challenges ahead, the sheer overwhelming reality of being inside a world he had only known through fiction—Bruce laughed. It was the first genuine laugh he'd experienced since waking up in this new life, and it felt good.
"Fair enough, Alfred. Fair enough." He turned back to the screen, where his modified Beyond suit design was beginning to take proper shape. "Okay, here's what I'm thinking. The base suit needs to be constructed from a molecular-bonded carbon fiber composite—something stronger than Kevlar but flexible enough to allow full range of motion. The exoskeleton frame will provide enhanced strength, probably in the range of ten times normal human capability to start, with the potential for upgrades as we develop better power sources."
"Power sources, sir?"
"That's the main challenge. The original Beyond suit was powered by a compact fusion reactor, which... doesn't exist yet. But I have some ideas about alternative power sources that should work in the interim. Wayne Enterprises has been developing some interesting battery technology that, with some modifications, should provide enough power for short-term operations."
He pulled up another window, beginning to sketch out the power system specifications. "The suit's main advantages will be mobility and intelligence. Retractable wings integrated into the cape for true flight capability—not just gliding, actual powered flight. An AI assistant to manage the suit's systems and provide real-time tactical analysis. Full integration with Wayne Enterprises satellite network for comprehensive surveillance coverage of Gotham."
"That sounds remarkably expensive, sir."
"I'm a billionaire, Alfred. This is literally what being a billionaire is for." Bruce grinned, and it was a grin that Mike Chen had never been able to produce—confident, almost predatory, the expression of a man who had suddenly realized exactly how much power he actually had. "Besides, I'm going to reorganize Wayne Enterprises' research priorities. There's no reason why the technology we develop for the suit can't also be commercialized—medical exoskeletons, advanced communications systems, renewable energy solutions. We can do good and fund the crusade at the same time."
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "That's a remarkably practical approach, Master Bruce. I don't believe I've ever heard you speak about the business side of Wayne Enterprises with such... enthusiasm."
"Things change, Alfred. I've had what you might call a paradigm shift." Bruce saved his current work and pulled up a new file—this one containing his notes on Gotham's criminal underworld, the threats he knew were coming, and the timeline of events that his metaknowledge had provided. "Now, let me tell you about what we're actually up against..."
The next several hours were spent in what Bruce could only describe as the most productive planning session of either of his lives.
He laid out everything he could remember about Gotham's future—edited, of course, to remove any references that might indicate he was drawing on knowledge of fiction rather than mystical visions. The rise of the rogues gallery, the various criminal enterprises that would need to be dismantled, the cosmic-level threats that would eventually require the formation of the Justice League.
Alfred listened with the patient attention of a man who had spent decades learning to take the impossible in stride, asking clarifying questions and offering practical suggestions that demonstrated why he was considered the most capable butler in fictional history.
"So let me ensure I understand correctly," Alfred said, after Bruce had finished outlining the threat of the Joker—carefully avoiding any details that might indicate he knew the villain's appearance before he had actually appeared. "You're saying that Gotham will face a succession of increasingly dangerous individuals, each with their own particular psychosis and methodology, and that our current approach of capturing and imprisoning these individuals will prove inadequate?"
"More than inadequate. Counterproductive." Bruce pulled up a map of Gotham, marking the locations where he knew key events would occur. "Arkham Asylum has a recidivism rate that would make any rational person weep. Criminals escape, kill more people, get captured, escape again. It's an endless cycle that only perpetuates suffering."
"And your proposed solution?"
Bruce hesitated. This was the moment—the point where his philosophy diverged most dramatically from the Batman he had criticized for so long. "Permanent solutions for permanent threats. Some individuals can be rehabilitated, and those people deserve the chance. But there are others—people whose pathology makes them incapable of reform, who will never stop killing no matter how many chances they're given. Those people need to be dealt with in a way that protects the innocent."
Alfred's expression didn't change, but Bruce could feel the weight of his gaze. "You're talking about killing, Master Bruce."
"I'm talking about triage, Alfred. The same logic that applies in any emergency situation. When resources are limited and lives are at stake, you prioritize saving the people who can be saved. You don't waste resources on lost causes while innocent people die."
"And who determines which people are lost causes?"
"Evidence. Pattern analysis. Psychological assessment." Bruce met Alfred's eyes steadily. "I'm not talking about executing petty criminals or even ordinary murderers. I'm talking about specific individuals whose pathology is so profound, whose body count is so high, that continuing to let them live is tantamount to murdering everyone they will kill in the future."
A long silence stretched between them. Alfred's face was unreadable, but Bruce could see the conflict playing out behind his eyes—the loyal servant who had sworn to support his master's mission wrestling with the moral implications of what was being proposed.
"Your parents," Alfred said finally, "would be horrified."
"My parents are dead, Alfred. And so are hundreds of other parents, and children, and innocent people who had nothing to do with the war I'm fighting. They died because I prioritized my moral comfort over their lives." Bruce's voice was steady, but there was an intensity behind it that surprised even him. "I won't make that choice again."
"The law—"
"The law has failed, Alfred. Demonstrably, repeatedly, catastrophically failed. Gotham's legal system is so corrupt that it can't even keep convicted mass murderers behind bars. The system is not going to save these people. I am."
Alfred was quiet for a moment longer. Then, slowly, he nodded. "I cannot say I agree with you, Master Bruce. The taking of a life—even a life as monstrous as the ones you describe—is not something that can be easily undone. The weight of it will change you in ways you cannot predict."
"I know."
"And you're prepared to bear that weight?"
"Someone has to, Alfred. And I have the resources, the capability, and the knowledge to do it effectively. If I refuse because it makes me uncomfortable, how is that any different from refusing to save someone because the water is too cold?"
The butler studied him for a long moment, and Bruce could see something shifting in his expression—not agreement, exactly, but perhaps acceptance. The acknowledgment that the boy he had raised had made a choice, and that his role was to support that choice even when he disagreed.
"Very well, Master Bruce. I will not pretend to approve, but I will not abandon you either. Whatever comes, we will face it together."
Bruce felt something loosen in his chest—a tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying. "Thank you, Alfred. I know this isn't easy for you."
"Raising a child who decided to dress as a bat and fight crime was never going to be easy, sir. This is simply... a new variation on a familiar theme." Alfred straightened his jacket with precise, practiced movements. "Now, shall we discuss the practical aspects of your proposed modifications? I believe you mentioned needing access to certain technologies that are not currently available through Wayne Enterprises channels."
Bruce allowed himself a small smile. "I have a list. And I have some ideas about where to find what we need."
The list, as it turned out, was extensive.
Bruce spent the rest of that first day cataloging his requirements, cross-referencing his memories of various technologies that existed in the DC Universe with his understanding of what was actually feasible given current Wayne Enterprises capabilities. Some things were readily available—the molecular-bonded carbon fiber for the suit's base layer, for instance, could be produced using existing manufacturing processes with some modifications. Other things would require more creative solutions.
"The neural interface is going to be the biggest challenge," he muttered, sketching out specifications on one of the cave's many digital displays. "The original Beyond suit used direct neural linkage to allow instantaneous control of all systems, but that level of brain-computer interface is decades away from development."
"Could you not use a more conventional control scheme, sir?" Alfred asked, watching the designs take shape with undisguised fascination. "Muscle-based input sensors, perhaps, or voice activation?"
"Those would work as stopgaps, but they introduce latency that could be fatal in combat situations." Bruce tapped his fingers against the console, thinking. "What I really need is someone with expertise in neurotechnology. Someone who's already pushing the boundaries of what's possible in brain-computer interfaces..."
A name surfaced from his memory—not the fictional memories that came with Bruce Wayne's body, but the real memories of Michael Chen, comic book reader and obsessive cataloger of DC Universe trivia.
"Cyborg," he breathed. "Victor Stone."
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"Victor Stone. His father is Silas Stone, one of the leading researchers in cybernetics and neurotechnology. Currently works at S.T.A.R. Labs, if I remember correctly." Bruce pulled up a search interface and began typing. "Victor himself is a promising high school athlete right now, but in a few years, there's going to be an accident—an incident involving technology from another dimension that will almost kill him."
"And this is relevant because...?"
"Because Silas Stone will save his son's life by integrating him with experimental cybernetic technology. Technology that, if I can establish a relationship with S.T.A.R. Labs now, might be available for adaptation to less extreme applications." Bruce's eyes gleamed with possibility. "I'm not going to let Victor Stone go through what he went through in the original timeline—being turned into a cyborg against his will, struggling with his identity, being treated as an experiment rather than a person. But if I can work with his father beforehand, if I can help develop the technology in a more controlled way..."
"You're proposing to change the course of this young man's life based on your visions of a possible future."
Bruce paused, considering Alfred's words. "Yes. I am. Is that wrong?"
"I'm not certain, sir. On one hand, preventing suffering seems like an unambiguous good. On the other hand, the idea of making decisions about people's lives based on knowledge they don't possess and can't verify..." Alfred shook his head slowly. "It seems presumptuous, at best."
"The alternative is standing by and watching tragedies unfold that I could have prevented." Bruce turned to face Alfred directly. "I didn't ask for this knowledge, Alfred. I didn't choose to be burdened with awareness of futures that haven't happened yet. But I have it, and refusing to act on it because it makes me uncomfortable would be the height of cowardice."
Alfred was silent for a moment, then nodded. "You make a compelling argument, Master Bruce. Though I suspect the philosophy becomes more complicated when your interventions have unintended consequences."
"Probably. But I'd rather be responsible for imperfect interventions than perfect inaction." Bruce saved his current work and stretched, feeling the pleasant ache of muscles that had been worked hard. "For now, let's focus on the immediate priorities. I need to make contact with S.T.A.R. Labs, begin the manufacturing process for the suit components we can produce in-house, and establish intelligence networks throughout Gotham's criminal underworld."
"That's a considerable workload, sir."
"It is. Which is why I'm also going to need help." Bruce pulled up another file—this one containing profiles of individuals who, in the original timeline, would eventually become part of Batman's extended network. "I know of several people who have the skills and temperament to assist in this mission. Some of them are already operating in Gotham; others will need to be recruited."
Alfred peered at the screen, his eyebrows rising slightly as he recognized some of the names and faces. "These are... quite diverse individuals, Master Bruce."
"The mission is diverse, Alfred. I need hackers, engineers, medical professionals, strategists. People who can fill the gaps in my own capabilities." Bruce highlighted one profile in particular—a young woman with red hair and a expression of fierce determination. "Barbara Gordon. Daughter of James Gordon, the only honest cop in Gotham. In a few years, she's going to become one of the most capable operatives I've ever known. But in this timeline, I want to bring her in earlier. Train her properly. Give her the resources she needs to reach her full potential without..."
He stopped, the memory of what happened to Barbara Gordon in so many versions of the timeline rising unbidden. The Joker. The bullet. The wheelchair.
"Without what, sir?"
"Without the tragedy that usually serves as her origin story," Bruce said quietly. "I'm not going to let that happen to her. Not in this timeline."
Alfred studied him for a long moment, and there was something new in his expression—something that might have been respect. "You're not just trying to fight crime, are you, Master Bruce? You're trying to prevent the suffering that creates it in the first place."
"Crime is a symptom, Alfred. The disease is suffering, and trauma, and a society that fails to protect its most vulnerable members. You can fight symptoms forever without making any real progress. But if you address the underlying causes..."
"You might actually fix things."
"Exactly." Bruce allowed himself a small, fierce smile. "That's what I'm going to do, Alfred. I'm going to fix things. Not just manage them, not just contain them. Actually, permanently, fundamentally fix them."
The sun had long since set by the time Bruce emerged from the cave, his mind buzzing with plans and possibilities. The manor was quiet, shadows pooling in corners that the evening light couldn't reach, and he found himself wandering through halls that his body knew intimately but his mind was experiencing for the first time.
Wayne Manor was even more impressive than the comics and movies had suggested—a gothic masterpiece that seemed to contain entire worlds within its walls. Bruce passed through libraries filled with books that spanned centuries, galleries adorned with art worth more than most people's lifetime earnings, and rooms whose purpose he couldn't immediately determine but which probably had names like "the solarium" or "the conservatory."
Eventually, he found himself in what his memories identified as Thomas Wayne's study—a room that had been preserved almost exactly as it had been on the night of the Wayne family's murder. The desk was still cluttered with papers his father had been reviewing. The chair was still angled as if its occupant had just stepped away. Even the air seemed heavy with presence, with the weight of a life cut short.
Bruce stood in the doorway, staring at the room that represented everything he had lost—or rather, everything Bruce Wayne had lost. His own parents were still alive in whatever dimension he had come from, probably wondering why their son wasn't answering his phone and had missed Sunday dinner again.
The grief hit him unexpectedly—not the sharp, immediate pain of fresh loss, but something deeper, more complex. The muscle memory of years spent mourning, the emotional echoes left behind by a lifetime of trauma, combined with his own sudden, disorienting homesickness for a world he could never return to.
He was Bruce Wayne now. Really, truly, permanently Bruce Wayne. Mike Chen was dead—had died sitting in a gaming chair surrounded by empty energy drink cans and comic books—and the life he had led, the relationships he had built, the person he had been, was gone forever.
"This is insane," he whispered to the empty room. "This is absolutely insane."
But insane or not, it was real. The floor beneath his feet was solid. The air in his lungs was breathable. The memories in his head were detailed and consistent. Whatever cosmic force had arranged this impossible situation, it had done so with a thoroughness that left no room for doubt.
He was Batman now. Or he would be, once he finished building the tools he needed.
Bruce crossed the room and sat in his father's chair, feeling the leather creak beneath him in a way that suggested it hadn't been used in years. The desk before him was covered in the detritus of Thomas Wayne's final day—medical journals, financial reports, a half-written letter to a colleague about some charitable initiative or another.
A good man, by all accounts. A good doctor, a good father, a good husband. Gone in a moment of senseless violence, leaving behind a son who had dedicated his life to preventing such violence from touching anyone else.
The irony wasn't lost on Bruce—or Mike, or whoever he was now. He had spent years criticizing Batman for his methods, for his failures, for his inability to actually solve the problems he dedicated his life to fighting. And now he was sitting in the chair of Batman's martyred father, inheriting both the burden and the resources to do things differently.
"Okay, Thomas," he said aloud, addressing the spirit of a man he had never met in a world that wasn't supposed to exist. "Your son screwed it up. In pretty much every timeline, in pretty much every version of the story, he screwed it up. He never managed to actually fix Gotham. He never managed to stop the cycle of violence. He never managed to honor your memory in any way that actually mattered."
Bruce leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and staring at the portrait of Thomas Wayne that hung on the wall opposite.
"But I'm not your son. Not really. I'm something else—something that shouldn't exist, something that has knowledge and perspective that Bruce Wayne was never supposed to have. And I'm going to use that knowledge to do what he couldn't. I'm going to fix this city. I'm going to save the people who need saving. And when there are people who can't be saved—people whose existence is a threat to everyone around them—I'm going to deal with them permanently."
The portrait stared back at him, Thomas Wayne's painted eyes revealing nothing.
"You probably wouldn't approve. The no-killing thing was always framed as a tribute to you and Martha—a refusal to become the same kind of monster who took your lives. But here's the thing, Thomas: your son's restraint didn't honor your memory. It dishonored it. Every person who died because Bruce refused to put down a mad dog was a person whose blood was on his hands, even if he never pulled the trigger himself."
Bruce stood, squaring his shoulders. "I won't make that mistake. I'll carry the weight of the lives I take—and I will take lives, when there's no other choice—because that weight is lighter than the weight of the lives I would have failed to save."
He walked to the portrait and reached up, touching the painted face of the man who wasn't his father but whose legacy he had inherited.
"Rest in peace, Thomas. I'll take it from here."
The next morning, Bruce Wayne walked into the Wayne Enterprises board meeting with a confidence that several board members would later describe as "unsettling" and "slightly manic."
The meeting itself was supposed to be routine—quarterly reports, budget projections, the usual corporate busywork that Bruce Wayne historically handled with barely concealed disinterest before returning to his real work. But this Bruce Wayne had a very different agenda.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, taking his place at the head of the table with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "thank you for being here. I know we have a standard agenda, but if you'll indulge me, I'd like to propose some significant changes to our research priorities."
The board members exchanged uncertain glances. Lucius Fox, sitting halfway down the table with a expression of guarded curiosity, leaned forward slightly.
"Changes, Mr. Wayne?"
"Significant changes, Lucius. Starting with our Applied Sciences division." Bruce pulled out a folder and began distributing documents to each board member. "I want to triple our investment in advanced materials research, with a specific focus on carbon fiber composites and metamaterials. I also want to establish a new partnership with S.T.A.R. Labs for collaborative development of cybernetic and neurotechnological applications."
"That's... quite ambitious, Mr. Wayne," said Helena Bertinelli—a board member whose name Bruce recognized from his knowledge of DC Comics history, though in this timeline she was apparently still in her pre-Huntress phase. "The cost alone—"
"Will be offset by commercial applications within five years," Bruce interrupted smoothly. "Medical exoskeletons for paralysis patients. Neural interfaces for prosthetic limbs. Advanced protective equipment for law enforcement and military applications. The technology we develop will have significant market potential, in addition to its... other applications."
"Other applications?" Lucius asked, his tone carefully neutral.
Bruce met the other man's eyes steadily. Lucius Fox knew about Batman—or he would, eventually. In most versions of the timeline, he was one of Bruce's most valuable allies, providing the technological backbone for the entire operation. Getting him on board early, making him a partner rather than a secret-keeper, would accelerate everything.
"Personal projects," Bruce said. "Philanthropic endeavors. Ways to make Gotham safer that don't involve lobbying politicians or funding police departments that never seem to get any less corrupt."
A ripple of discomfort passed around the table. Bruce's reputation for nighttime activities wasn't public knowledge, but there were rumors. There were always rumors.
"Mr. Wayne," Helena said carefully, "if you're suggesting that Wayne Enterprises should be involved in... extra-legal activities..."
"I'm suggesting nothing of the kind," Bruce said, his smile sharpening. "I'm suggesting that Wayne Enterprises should be at the forefront of technologies that will reshape human capability—technologies that will save lives, create opportunities, and yes, potentially revolutionize how we approach public safety. Is that objectionable to anyone?"
Silence around the table. Bruce could see the calculations happening behind their eyes—the cost-benefit analyses, the risk assessments, the political implications. But he could also see something else: curiosity. Interest. The dawning realization that this was not the disengaged playboy they had grown accustomed to managing.
"I'll need to see detailed proposals," Lucius said finally. "Budgets, timelines, projected returns. If you can demonstrate that these investments will benefit the company—"
"You'll have everything you need on your desk by tomorrow morning." Bruce gathered his papers, his expression businesslike. "In the meantime, I want to schedule a private meeting with you, Lucius. There are some... specialized projects I'd like to discuss. Projects that require a certain level of discretion."
Lucius's eyebrows rose slightly, but he nodded. "I'll clear my afternoon."
"Excellent." Bruce stood, addressing the room at large. "Ladies and gentlemen, I appreciate your patience. These changes may seem sudden, but I assure you, they're necessary. Gotham is changing, and Wayne Enterprises needs to change with it. We can either lead that change or be left behind by it."
He walked out of the boardroom without waiting for responses, his mind already racing ahead to the next item on his agenda. The meeting with Lucius would be crucial—he needed the engineer's expertise and discretion if he was going to build the Beyond Suit in any reasonable timeframe. But there were other pieces that needed to fall into place first.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed with a notification—a news alert about a break-in at a chemical plant on the outskirts of Gotham. Minor incident, according to the preliminary reports. No casualties, though some experimental compounds had been stolen.
Bruce's blood ran cold.
He knew what this was. He knew who was responsible. In the original timeline, this event marked the beginning of a very specific villain's origin story—the first step in a transformation that would eventually produce one of Gotham's most dangerous threats.
He had time. Not much, but some. Time to intervene, to change the trajectory, to prevent another monster from being born.
But first, he needed his suit. And the current Batsuit was completely inadequate for what he was about to face.
"Alfred," he said into his phone, already moving toward the parking garage, "change of plans. I need you to meet me at the cave. We have work to do."
"Trouble, sir?"
"Not yet. But there will be if I don't move fast." Bruce reached his car—a sleek black sports car that was probably worth more than his previous life's apartment—and slid behind the wheel. "How quickly can you have the workshop operational?"
"It's always operational, Master Bruce. What exactly are we building?"
Bruce smiled, and it was not a nice smile. It was the smile of a man who had spent years complaining about how things should be done and was finally, impossibly, going to get the chance to prove he was right.
"We're building the future, Alfred. Starting with a suit that's actually worthy of the Batman."
He gunned the engine and tore out of the parking garage, leaving behind the corporate world of Wayne Enterprises and racing toward the cave—toward the work that would define the rest of his new life.
The Batman of this timeline was going to be different. Better. More effective. More willing to do what was necessary to protect the innocent.
And somewhere out there, in a chemical plant on the outskirts of the city, the Joker was about to be born.
But not if Bruce had anything to say about it.
END OF CHAPTER ONE