Dawn crept over Gotham in shades of grey and pale yellow.
All the children had gone home. Or rather, gone back to the streets where they lived.
The soup kitchen sat empty beneath its snow-covered awning. The red-hot charcoal had burned down to pale grey ash that looked like more snow. Flames had died to embers. Smoke drifted lazily through the shelter. The massive pot retained only a trace of warmth. The chirping voices of children had faded, leaving only a solitary Santa Claus sitting beside the pot, spoon in hand, looking exceptionally desolate.
"Santa Claus" stared at the whitening sky. A few stars were barely visible through dark clouds. He adjusted the studio lights to shine a little brighter.
Then he heard footsteps.
Batman walked through the dark alley, breathing hard.
His cape was shredded, useless for gliding. His suit was riddled with holes from bullets and blades. Even with fast-acting hemostatic spray suppressing the bleeding, bright red blood still leaked from his nose and split lip. He'd gone through three full utility belts tonight. Every broken bone in his body ached. Every movement brought intense pain.
Even so, his steps remained steady. No stumbling. No faltering.
This was exactly what he'd expected. Better, even. Most of his old injuries had healed recently, and tonight's performance had been exceptional.
He was like a beast at critical health. Peak combat effectiveness. He'd turned the tide countless times in this state, survived situations that should have killed him. Anyone who underestimated Batman in this condition met the same fate as all his previous enemies: defeated, broken, thrown into either Blackgate or Arkham.
He walked slowly out of the alley.
In the distance, dim light illuminated a small awning. Warmth in the deep darkness.
He walked toward it.
Staggered into the shelter.
Collapsed onto a wooden chair.
Santa Claus in red turned to look at him with surprise, then turned back to the pot. He ladled two bowls of warm leftover porridge and handed one to Batman.
"Last two bowls. Don't waste food." Jude's voice was matter-of-fact. "Most annoying thing in my hometown."
Batman stared at the bowl.
Finally took it.
"Why is everything so bad today?" Jude asked conversationally. "Looks like something big happened tonight?"
"...Why are you here cooking porridge?"
Answering questions with questions. Very Batman.
"My car was stolen. I chased it. Found some children almost freezing and starving to death. So I built a soup kitchen." Jude shrugged. "Can't tell you exactly why, but it's good for me and the kids."
The beginning made sense. The conclusion was deliberately vague.
"Wayne's construction crew was fast," Jude continued. "Finished the whole stall in half a day. Set up pots and stove. Besides charging money, I've got no complaints."
Batman didn't respond. Just watched Jude drink porridge.
"It's not poisoned," Jude said. He casually reached over and scooped a spoonful from Batman's bowl. "Don't be ungrateful. If you don't want it, I'll drink it myself."
Batman finally moved. His breathing evened out. He stood. "Your potion?"
"Can't tell you. Don't ask." Jude shook his head. "Ask and I'll commit seppuku."
The gambit hadn't worked.
Either the target was hiding something, or he'd seen through the strategy. Batman processed both options. The pain was real. The injuries genuine. But coming to the soup kitchen had a purpose. Batman never did anything unnecessary. Never showed weakness without reason. When he deliberately displayed battle damage, it meant he wanted to lower someone's guard.
Gather intelligence. Test responses. Assess capabilities.
Jude had many secrets. Quite a lot. But those secrets hadn't caused negative impact on Gotham City. Strange items kept appearing. Strange actions continued. Yet Batman had never considered moving against him unless he broke the law or caused harm.
But whether to act was one thing. Intelligence gathering was another.
Batman's philosophy was simple: He might not plan to deal with allies, but he must have a way to deal with them if necessary. Don't ask whether teammates will do certain things. Ask whether you can stop them from doing those things.
Unfortunately, showing weakness hadn't worked.
So in the last wisps of smoke escaping from the porridge shed, two figures sat quietly facing each other. One black, one red. Both drinking warm porridge in the dim morning light.
It was warm. Mellow. Batman thought silently. Though the taste differed, it felt like the dinners Alfred prepared every night. Elegant. Loyal. Sometimes ignored, but usually consumed.
His body began to change.
Wounds stopped bleeding. Started healing. Rapidly. The pain and fatigue disappeared. Bones that hadn't fully healed stopped aching. Strained muscles relaxed. Slightly damaged internal organs returned to normal function.
He looked down at his body. The bat suit remained torn. But beneath the tears, the flesh and blood wounds had vanished without a trace.
"You added the potion to the porridge?"
"No. But porridge has about the same effect as the potion."
Batman immediately thought of the children who'd drunk it. He looked at Jude again with new assessment.
At this moment, he almost believed Santa Claus was real.
When Jude turned to stack bowls on the high pile of dirty dishes and turned back around, the black bat had disappeared.
"Well." Jude smiled faintly. "That's very Batman."
"Master, with all due respect—what sort of magic did you encounter? Or is there really a Santa Claus in the East End?"
Alfred stared at the examination results.
All previous injuries had vanished. Broken bones healed. Muscle fatigue erased. Even the titanium alloy pins and iron screws inserted to stabilize his skeleton were gone, replaced by perfectly healthy bone. His physical condition was frighteningly pristine. Looking at smooth, scar-free muscle tissue, undisguised joy appeared on Alfred's weathered face.
"I think from today on, perhaps I should hang a stocking by your bedside every Christmas?"
His voice trembled slightly. "Or should I join a religion? Is there a Santa Claus church?"
"That's not necessary."
Facing the old man who'd suddenly become childlike with hope, Bruce Wayne sighed. Alfred had always been like this. Genuinely happy about every good thing that happened to Bruce. Still treating Batman as an ordinary young man who needed care.
"Give me the phone first. I need to discuss something with Lucius."
Bruce looked at the examination results one more time. Perfect health. No chronic pain. No limitation in movement. Like his body had been rebuilt from scratch.
Like a miracle.
"The Wayne Group shouldn't remain indifferent to what that Santa Claus is doing."