Inside the cavernous, sprawling Batcave, Batman sat alone. His body was broken, but his resolve remained an immovable monument of iron will.
He sat in the dark, a man keeping company with the secrets of the entire world. From the high, jagged ceiling, water droplets fell—*tap, tap, tap*—sounding like a rhythmic, lonely elegy for his eternal isolation.
Batman paid the atmosphere no mind. His eyes, cold and analytical, were fixed on the data scrolling across his screen, scrutinizing his own experimental records with the detached cruelty of a scientist.
Experimental Record: Serial Number Angel-07
Gene Collapse Trigger: The immediate removal of the suppression bracelet initiates a total genetic collapse.
Genetic Incompatibility with Humans: Estimated at 92%. This far exceeds the established safety threshold of less than 15%.
Energy Output Peak: Absolute measurement is currently impossible. It is inferred that the Angelic genes contain a form of energy generator that operates beyond observable dimensions. The explosion triggered by genetic collapse is capable of causing planetary-level annihilation.
Subjective Experience Report: The user experiences an intense sense of consciousness detachment. The emotional modules are forcibly "purified," trending toward absolute neutrality. This process is accompanied by profound, agonizing existential pain.
Risk Assessment: Extreme.
Uncontrollability: Extreme.
Recommendation for Re-use: Exercise maximum caution. Do not deploy unless all other options are exhausted.
Note: This is strictly incompatible with "Chaos Factor" genes. Compatibility is zero. Any attempt at hybridization will result in catastrophic consequences—the star system containing Kepler-186f remains a bloody and definitive lesson in this regard.
***
These were the cold, hard notes Batman kept within the encrypted depths of his private laptop. The term [Chaos Factor] was merely a placeholder, a code name for a mysterious and terrifying power he was too cautious to even record by its true name.
It is worth noting that Kepler-186f was the very planet that Superman and other members of the Justice League had once designated as the site for Batman's "Asylum."
Many people, had they known the truth, would find it difficult to believe that there wasn't at least a shred of personal spite behind Batman's "experiment" that had erased that planet and its entire surrounding star system from the map of the universe.
"Demons and Angels... the genetic proximity between them is actually this high. I have to wonder if the so-called God got lazy when He was designing these two species."
Bruce Wayne's eyes were as sharp as a hawk's, scanning the newly recorded data on the Angel genes over and over again. His fingers unconsciously rubbed the stubble on his chin.
His focus was so absolute that it seemed as if the entire universe had been condensed down into the dimensions of that single, glowing screen.
Even as his brain raced through a thousand complex simulations and risk assessments, he still found the mental bandwidth to critique the Creator. If there were a Bravest Man in America contest, Bruce Wayne would surely have the potential to sweep the top five spots.
*Clang—!*
The heavy alloy door of the Batcave, perfectly disguised as a jagged rock wall, shuddered. Accompanied by a nearly inaudible hydraulic hiss, it slid open.
Footsteps approached from the darkness beyond—steady, rhythmic, and carrying the unmistakable, quiet confidence of an old-school gentleman.
"Alfred, it is not time yet." Bruce did not turn around. His eyes remained glued to the screen as he spoke the nickname that belonged to the only person in Gotham who could hear it.
The newcomer was, of course, Alfred Pennyworth—Bruce's loyal butler, his mentor, and his most steadfast anchor to humanity.
Dressed in an impeccable, crisp black tuxedo, Alfred carried a silver-grey metal sealed case that looked quite heavy. As the "Butler-man"—the man who single-handedly raised the average life expectancy of superheroes—approached the wheelchair, his weathered but clear eyes flashed with a pang of heartache that he couldn't quite hide.
"Master Bruce, are you alright?"
Alfred could see it instantly. Bruce's state was abysmal. His face was an unnatural shade of pale, like a man who had just survived a terminal illness, and cold sweat still clung to his temples.
Bruce's right hand, resting on the arm of the wheelchair, suffered from a subtle but uncontrollable tremor. None of this escaped Alfred's sharp eyes.
Alfred placed the case gently onto the workstation. He didn't open it immediately. Instead, he let out a long sigh, his voice filled with a mixture of helplessness and his characteristic, stubborn concern.
"Master Bruce, if I may be so bold... the frequency with which you have been using quantum neural link technology to pilot those clones recently is far too high."
"Even for a nervous system as reinforced as yours, this level of consciousness projection and sensory synchronization is an immense burden. I fear you are walking down a... precarious path, Master Bruce. One that leads further and further away from where you belong."
Only Alfred could speak to Batman this way. He was the one man on Earth who knew at least ten percent of Batman's secrets—a staggering figure when compared to the Justice League members, who likely hovered around 0.1%. Alfred was, without question, the person Bruce trusted most in this world.
"I am fine." Bruce finally tore his eyes away from the screen. He turned his head toward the old butler, his expression a blank mask of calm, though his voice was gravelly and thin.
"My brain is functioning within parameters, Alfred. I have been closely monitoring my neural activity indicators and physiological levels. I am recording everything. The risk is within controllable limits." He gestured vaguely toward the laptop.
"Every data point from every session is archived. The archives themselves act as a safeguard, a form of monitoring."
As he spoke, he maneuvered his wheelchair toward the metal case. It required a dual-factor authentication—retinal scan and fingerprint—to open. The lid slid back with a silent hiss, revealing several rows of specialized low-temperature test tubes.
They were filled with shimmering, multi-colored liquids that seemed to glow with their own internal light. Beside them lay a set of precision, needle-less injectors.
*Click!*
Bruce expertly retrieved a vial of a strange, ice-blue reagent. He snapped it into the injector, pulled back the sleeve of his combat suit, and pressed the device against his vein. Without a second's hesitation, he pushed the trigger.
As the cold liquid entered his system, Bruce's brow furrowed slightly. He could feel the sensation of power being forcibly bound, a violent energy being suppressed and shackled deep within his marrow.
Remarkably, as the reagent took hold, a hint of color returned to his deathly pale face. The trembling in his hand stabilized with visible speed.
The faint stirrings of a psionic riot within him fell into a dead silence. Batman's hand had been shaking because his internal psionic energy had begun to flare up, triggered by the immense emotional and mental strain of his recent actions. Now, that power was caged once more.
Batman, the man standing at the absolute peak of mortal potential, was actively rejecting a supernatural gift that millions would have killed to possess. That reagent was nothing less than a high-potency "superpower" suppressant.
"Thank you. I feel much better now."
Setting down the empty injector, Bruce seemed ready to dive back into his digital surveillance and tactical planning. Even if these methods seemed trivial in the face of a god like Darkseid, Batman would not—could not—leave them undone.
"Actually," Alfred said, his brow furrowing even deeper. He sighed again, his voice dropping into a somber, heavy register. "Master Bruce, what I worry about... is not merely your physical health."
His words carried a weight of profound concern. Bruce's fingers, poised to begin typing again, stopped dead in mid-air. An extremely odd, almost unreadable expression crossed his face.
"Alfred... you haven't been reading those 'essays' Ian wrote, have you? The ones he circulated online about me? You should know better than anyone that he is only chasing clout, trying to harvest some form of faith-based energy for himself." Bruce looked Alfred up and down, his eyes narrowing.
Alfred's expression became momentarily awkward. He cleared his throat and adjusted his bow tie with practiced dignity.
"Of course not, Master. I have never doubted that you are a hero with... let us say, a very unique behavioral pattern. I am simply speaking as an old man who watched you grow up. I am offering concerns based on simple common sense."
He pointedly avoided the word "insanity."
"Good." Bruce was silent for several heartbeats. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched into something that was almost a "smile," though it looked rigid and hollow.
Alfred looked the King of Gotham straight in the eye and spoke slowly.
"I am worried about your psyche, Bruce. The death of a clone might be tactically insignificant. However... what happens if you become accustomed to that death?"
"If you spend your life remotely 'experiencing' death over and over again, what happens to your reverence for life itself? What happens to your perception of your own existence? I fear you are becoming numb, Master Bruce. Numb to the very thing you fight to protect."
He didn't need to say more. The fear in his voice was plain.
"Relax, Alfred. If that day ever comes—if my mental defenses finally collapse and I become a monster that sees death as nothing—there are already arrangements in place to end my life."
Faced with the question, Bruce fell silent once more. After a heavy sigh, he shifted his tone, attempting to use a dry wit to soften the crushing weight of the conversation.
"As for becoming so used to death that I mistake my original body for a clone and accidentally kill myself... well, perhaps you can use the inheritance I leave behind to pull some strings. Find a professional to fish me out of Hell. Nowadays, that doesn't seem like such a difficult task—I believe you know exactly who is handling that kind of business."
Batman's attempt at humor was a blatant deflection. The joke wasn't funny, especially coming from him; it felt forced, a jagged piece of dark irony intended to end the discussion.
"..." Alfred looked into Bruce's eyes. He saw the distance there, the growing coldness. Knowing his master's character, he knew that pushing further would yield nothing.
He suppressed his worry, burying it deep in his heart with a final, helpless sigh. He followed Batman's lead and changed the subject, his voice returning to its usual steady tone.
"Very well, Master Bruce. In that case, can you tell me exactly what has happened? The Justice League communications are virtually exploding. Princess Diana and Barry are beyond anxious; they are demanding to know what has occurred and why you have told everyone to prepare for the ultimate sacrifice."
At the mention of the "Justice League" and "sacrifice," the ghost of a smile on Bruce's face vanished instantly. It was replaced by an icy, absolute seriousness.
"Originally, the plan was for all of us to protect Barry. We were to ensure that, no matter the circumstances, he would have the chance to run back into the past and reboot the universe. But it seems he no longer even realizes he possesses that power."
He looked up, his gaze seeming to pierce through the stone layers of the cave, through the atmosphere, and into the cold depths of space.
"It is the threat," Bruce's voice was a low, steady rumble. "One of the greatest threats ever to hang over Earth—over the entire universe. It is finally erupting."
Alfred froze. He realized almost instantly who Bruce was talking about. His face went pale as he asked tentatively, "Darkseid?"
He was, after all, privy to the League's most sensitive intelligence.
"Yes." Bruce nodded slowly, confirming the nightmare.
Alfred took a sharp breath. Even a man as composed as he could not remain calm at the mention of that name. He immediately thought of the most immediate, practical concern, his words coming faster now.
"Then... do we need to activate the 'Ark' protocol immediately? Should I contact the young masters? Perhaps we should prioritize getting Master Damian onto the pre-set refuge ship. If I recall correctly, he is in Metropolis today, visiting the Kent children."
In Alfred's mind, the continuation of the Wayne bloodline was the only priority that mattered in the face of total annihilation.
However, Bruce shook his head. "No, Alfred. There is no need."
"Why?" Alfred was stunned. "Surely we should give the children at least a fighting chance..."
"Because of Apokolips," Bruce interrupted, delivering the news that changed everything. "Darkseid's stronghold, his seat of power... it has been destroyed. Completely. By an unknown force or individual. There is nothing left. Not a single scrap of debris remains."
Alfred's eyes widened in sheer disbelief. This news was even more staggering than the threat of Darkseid himself. Apokolips... the heart of the dark empire... just gone?
Bruce continued in a flat, clinical tone, as if he were simply reading a report on a stranger. "This means Darkseid has lost his foundation. He has lost his army, his resources, his world. He is now a true, unrestrained 'lonely tyrant.' Rage and a pure, unadulterated desire for destruction will swallow whatever remains of his reason."
"If... if we fail to hold the line, if we cannot stop him, then given his nature, he will not be satisfied with conquest. He will seek to tear everything out by the roots. He will use every means at his disposal to hunt down every soul in every corner of the universe, ensuring that no potential threat survives."
"Under those conditions, do you really believe those few hundred refuge ships—with their weak engines and obvious signatures—would serve any purpose? Against an enraged Dark Lord? They would only delay the inevitable, or worse, become toys for Darkseid to use to torture us. The spark of humanity can no longer be preserved in that way."
Batman's eyes were cold, reflecting a cruel clarity that had already seen the end of the road.
Alfred was silent. He knew Bruce was right. When destruction is absolute and indiscriminate, flight is a lie. This was no longer a standard war; it was a final judgment.
Bruce turned back to his workstation, but his eyes were unfocused. He leaned back in his wheelchair, looking up at the simulated, vast, and false starry sky on the cave's ceiling. His voice became very soft, carrying a trace of exhaustion he could no longer hide, yet anchored by an immovable resolve.
"I have done what I can. I have severed his wings. I have ensured the battlefield is limited to him alone as much as possible." He was referring to the destruction of the secret factory.
"Now..." His voice trailed off, as if he were looking into the real deep space where the battle was currently raging. "Now we see if Clark can hold the line."
The Batcave fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Only the hum of the computers remained, a silent witness to the weighing of a world's fate.
"I see." Alfred stood by Bruce's side, his heart heavy with a weight he had never felt before. He knew that the crisis Earth faced now was beyond anything they had ever encountered.
And as always, hope seemed to rest on the shoulders of the man in the blue suit and red cape, somewhere far above the clouds.
Speaking of trust.
As the years passed, Bruce had come to trust Clark with a depth that few understood. Even a man as pathologically paranoid as Batman had to admit that Superman possessed a divinity that was the only true hope for humanity.
"However..." Alfred stood there, his brow furrowed. His voice was hesitant. He knew the terror of Darkseid. Darkseid was a god of darkness, a being whose power eclipsed any threat Earth had ever faced. To place all of Earth's hope on Superman alone—even if it was Clark—felt like a desperate, impossible gamble.
After a long moment, the old butler couldn't help himself.
"Master Bruce... if... and I mean only if... Mr. Kent also fails to hold the line? Do you... have another backup plan? A Plan B?" He stepped forward, his voice trembling with a worry he couldn't suppress.
Alfred wasn't afraid of Bruce saying "no." In his experience, Batman always had a Plan B, and a Plan C, all the way to Z. This man would never put the survival of the planet into a single basket.
"The backup plan..."
Bruce did not answer immediately. He fell into a deep silence, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the arm of his wheelchair. In the dim, flickering light of the monitors, the profile of his face looked like it had been carved from cold stone.
A few seconds later, he spoke slowly. "Previously... yes. There were several contingencies. The 'Doomsday Protocol,' a plan to unite all remaining metahumans for a final stand. There was a plan to make a dangerous deal with certain ancient, primordial entities..."
Alfred listened. He knew of these plans, and he knew they each carried risks that were almost as bad as the threat itself.
However, Bruce's tone shifted. "But now... I have found a solution that is much more effective."
"More effective?" Alfred's curiosity was piqued. For Bruce to call something "more effective" than his previous master plans was unheard of. What could it be?
"Yes." Bruce had no intention of keeping this from Alfred. He turned his head and looked at the butler, his blue eyes reflecting the screen's light with a cold, terrifying rationality.
"The implementation of this plan," Bruce said clearly, "depends entirely on whether Clark dies in battle."
Alfred froze. "I... I don't follow. Why would his death be the trigger?"
Was it a plan to clone him? To use his body? To turn him into some kind of undead weapon?
"It doesn't make a huge difference," Bruce continued, his tone as casual as if he were discussing a grocery list.
"But there is a subtle difference in the operational procedure."
He paused, then said the words that made Alfred question his own ears.
"If Superman falls, I will immediately find Ian Kent. And I will tell him—Superman was brutally slaughtered by Darkseid. He died in agony, and Darkseid didn't even leave a piece of him behind."
"I have already finished rendering several high-quality AI videos to support this story." Batman's plan was so dark, so twisted, that perhaps only the Joker would have truly appreciated the brilliance of it. No wonder they were called soulmates.
"..."
Alfred was speechless. His eyes twitched violently. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He had no idea how to respond to a plan this... bizarre.
The Batcave remained silent for nearly half a minute. Alfred struggled to process the information, trying to find the logic, but his mind simply couldn't keep up with the cold-blooded efficiency of his master.
Finally, he found his voice. It was dry and cracked. "And... and what if Mr. Kent survives? What if he doesn't die in space?"
Bruce lowered his voice, leaning in as if sharing a deep secret. What he said next made Alfred feel like the world was truly ending.
"That is the extra step I mentioned—"
Alfred held his breath.
"You can imagine what that extra step entails. But the result is the same. I will still tell Ian Kent that Superman was brutally slaughtered by Darkseid, and that his death was long and filled with pain."
Batman had become a broken record.
"??????"
Alfred was completely lost. Not just his eyes, but his entire face seemed to spasm with disbelief. He looked at Bruce's expressionless face and felt a wave of pure absurdity wash over him.
So... there was no difference?! Regardless of whether Clark lived or died, the message to Ian Kent was going to be exactly the same?!
Ian Kent was the backup plan? And what was that "extra step"? Was Batman really implying he would find a way to finish off a surviving Superman just to ensure his "backup plan" worked?!
Alfred didn't dare ask. Bruce's personal trust in Clark might be real, but Batman's view of "Superman" as a strategic resource was something else entirely.
"The children raised by the Kents are not normal. Especially the last one." Bruce seemed completely unaware of Alfred's internal shock. He turned back to his screen, his tone as flat as if he were discussing a minor tactical adjustment.
***
In Metropolis.
Ian's once-pristine "new-new-new" home was once again a pile of rubble. This time, however, it wasn't his fault.
Debris was scattered everywhere, furniture smashed to splinters. The cause of the destruction was the Batmobile, which sat in the middle of the ruins without a single scratch on its frame.
Ian had already claimed it as "compensation," covering the Bat-symbols with giant stickers of his own face. Ian was currently busy digging through the wreckage with his bare hands, searching for the refrigerator.
"Achoo!"
Suddenly, Ian let out a massive, bone-shaking sneeze. His hands, which he had transformed into industrial-grade shovels, almost reverted to their human form.
He rubbed his nose and turned with a look of absolute seriousness toward Raven. She was leaning against a tree that had been tilted by the shockwave, her arms crossed.
"Someone must be thinking about me. Secretly. In the middle of the night. It's just my uncontrollable charm, Raven. Don't worry, it's not a cold. I'm not going to infect you."
Ian was, as always, the picture of self-absorbed confidence. Few could truly understand him.
Raven, draped in her deep blue hooded robe, maintained her aura of mysterious calm. She raised an eyebrow, looking at Ian's smug face, and asked in a flat tone.
"Are you sure about that?"
Raven felt that Ian's narcissism had grown by several magnitudes since they last met. She didn't even want to imagine what kind of person would be thinking about him in the middle of the night—the very thought felt like something she shouldn't be picturing.
Ian, however, had already seen where her mind was going.
"Don't knock it. I've always kept myself clean, but I did some checking. The 'Stocking Superman' mold uses a lot more material than the others, and people have already started a crowdfund for it on several sites. Manufacturers are bidding way more for me than they did for Homelander!"
"Oh, by the way, you know who Stocking Superman is, right?"
As he spoke, Ian was practically pointing at his own chest.
Raven was truly beyond speechless. There was no lust in Ian, no hidden meaning—just pure, concentrated vanity.
"I don't even have that thing! Why are you bragging to me about it!" Raven snapped, black lines of frustration appearing on her forehead. She knew exactly what he was talking about.
"It's fine, we're buddies. If you give me Trigon, I'll give you a hot-swappable model. You can hang it on your belt, your hand, or even your forehead—hey, this is America, we're all about freedom here."
"It'll help you blend in with that LGBT crowd in the Titans. I've raised plenty of Angels; you can pick whichever one you want and I'll pull it for you." Ian wasn't good at being charming.
But he knew that if he wanted to keep Trigon for himself, he had to keep the woman in front of him happy.
"Just keep digging!" Raven groaned, having reached her limit.
"Right! Business first!" Ian remembered his goal and nodded. But he didn't start digging immediately. Instead, he turned and looked at Raven with a look of pure expectation.
More black lines appeared on Raven's forehead. Ian just stared. She sighed. She had no choice. She had to start the song again.
"Invincible Ian... dig, dig, dig... in the... tiny garden... he digs, digs, digs..." Raven had been doing this for a while now. She began to hum once more, her voice full of misery.
Hearing his accompaniment, Ian was finally satisfied. To the tune of Raven's nursery rhyme—which, in her voice, sounded more like a dark, demonic curse—he happily resumed digging through the ruins of the Kent home, searching for the refrigerator.
Deep inside the wreckage, he could already hear the sound of the demon Baal snoring inside the fridge.