Location: Daily Planet rooftop, Metropolis
Time: After sunset — which, in Metropolis, is when the real stories happen.
Here's the thing about Metropolis rooftops: they've seen some seriously weird stuff. Moonlit kisses between star-crossed lovers, award-winning photos of the city skyline, alien invasions (casual Tuesday), and the occasional giant robot attack. But tonight? Tonight was shaping up to be a new kind of weird.
Superman touched down on the Daily Planet roof with all the grace of a man who'd been flying since he was twelve and still occasionally ran into buildings. His cape did that dramatic billowing thing it always did, because apparently even alien fabric had a sense of timing.
Clark Kent — because let's face it, the glasses weren't fooling anyone who actually paid attention — surveyed the scene with the practiced eye of someone who'd seen way too many people standing on way too many ledges.
There was Henry Ackerman, former reporter, former somebody, standing at the edge like the city had already pushed him off and he was just waiting for gravity to catch up.
"Henry," Clark called out, keeping his voice warm but steady. It was the same tone he used when talking scared cats out of trees, except this cat had a press badge and a serious case of existential dread.
Henry didn't turn around. But he did smirk — just enough for Clark to catch it with his super-vision.
"Well, if it isn't the big man himself," Henry said, his voice carrying that particular brand of tired that comes from too many late nights and too many disappointments. Not sad-tired. More like... bored-tired. "Little late, aren't you? What's it say about me that even you didn't care enough to save me before tonight?"
Clark stepped closer, hands open and visible. Standard de-escalation procedure, chapter one of the superhero handbook. "It says you're wrong."
Henry barked out a laugh, sharp and bitter like week-old coffee. "Oh sure. Go ahead. Tell me I 'matter.' Tell me it's never too late. I've seen your press conferences, pal. You've got the whole inspirational speech thing down to a science."
Clark actually frowned at that — and for a split second, you could see the smallest crack in the Big Blue Boy Scout façade. Not that most people would notice. But Henry? Henry was a reporter. Reporters noticed things.
"You do matter," Clark said, and there was something in his voice that made it clear he wasn't just reading from the superhero script. "Even now. Especially now."
Henry let that hang in the air for a moment, like he was tasting the words. His fingers twitched — another thing Clark's enhanced senses picked up — and he finally glanced over his shoulder, flashing a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Funny," he said, his voice dropping to something almost conversational. "That's exactly what you were supposed to say."
Before Clark could parse that statement — and his brain was already running through about seventeen different interpretations — Henry spun on his heel, trench coat flaring out like he was auditioning for a noir film, and pulled a pistol from inside it.
"Wait—" Clark started, but then the world exploded into green light.
The sound was deafening — like the roof itself had decided to scream in protest. A Kryptonite bullet slammed into his chest, dead-center below the S, and the pain was instant, hot, and sharp. Like drowning in acid while your lungs caught fire and someone played dubstep directly into your brain.
Clark staggered back, falling to one knee. The whole "invulnerable" thing had some notable exceptions, and glowing green rocks were pretty much at the top of that list.
"You—" he gasped, looking up at the man who was definitely not Henry Ackerman anymore. Or at least, not entirely.
Henry grinned wider — and ripped the coat away to reveal gleaming silver armor beneath. Hissing pistons, plates of steel etched with faintly glowing circuitry, and enough high-tech death machinery to make a military contractor weep with joy.
The man's voice dropped into a gravelly growl that sounded like it had been filtered through a garbage disposal full of broken glass.
"You got it now, boy scout," he rasped. "I'm not Henry. Not anymore. Henry... gave up. I just borrowed what was left."
Clark's fingers dug into the gravel as he tried to rise. The Kryptonite burned like a second heart, pulsing poison through his system with every beat. "So what... do I call you?"
"Metallo," the cyborg said, like he was introducing himself at a particularly violent networking event. "And you can call me the guy who's gonna put you in the ground."
"Catchy," Clark managed, though his voice was strained. "Did you workshop that... or was it more of a... spur-of-the-moment thing?"
Metallo crouched low, the red glow of his cybernetic eye bathing Clark's face in hellish light. He was close now. Too close. Close enough that Clark could smell the motor oil and ozone coming off his mechanical parts.
"I should thank you, y'know," Metallo sneered, his voice dropping even lower. "You made this so damn easy. Show up, say all the right things, act like you care... all while handing me the only opening I needed."
Clark forced himself to breathe, even though each breath felt like swallowing glass. Even through the pain, his tone remained calm. Almost — almost — amused. "You're... welcome. But you don't have to... keep breathing in my face... to say thanks. Seriously, when's the last time... you had a mint?"
Metallo chuckled at that, a dry, cruel sound like rusted metal grinding together. But his smile faltered just slightly. "You're a funny guy, Superman. Too bad funny don't stop bullets."
"Depends on the... delivery," Clark wheezed. "My timing's usually... better than this."
"You wanted to save him," Metallo said, his voice going soft in a way that was somehow more terrifying than the growling. "Poor little Henry Ackerman. But who saves you, huh? Who's coming to rescue the rescuer?"
Clark's vision blurred. The city lights shimmered below, doubled and warped like he was looking through water. But through the pain — through everything — he still looked Metallo dead in the eye.
And even now, beaten and bleeding and collapsing, Clark Kent still managed a grin.
"Someone," he said.
Metallo's jaw tightened at that. "What?"
Clark chuckled faintly, despite himself. "There's... always someone."
The words weren't much louder than a whisper, but they carried. And Metallo actually took half a step back, because something in Superman's tone suggested he wasn't just being optimistic.
Because the air had changed.
A faint, unsettling ripple rolled through the shadows behind them, like reality had developed a minor glitch. The wind picked up, even though no storm clouds were in sight. The light from the Daily Planet globe dimmed — like the darkness was actively swallowing it.
And then the whisper. Low. Cold. Absolutely not the wind.
"Step away from him."
Metallo froze. His mechanical eye darted toward the sound, servos whining as his head turned. "What the hell—"
Clark closed his eyes and — even through the agony — allowed himself the faintest smirk. "Told you."
And from the darkness at the far edge of the rooftop, something moved.
A figure in black emerged from the shadows like he owned them. Cloaked and hooded, with a cape that fluttered against all reason and physics. Armor black as obsidian, etched with crimson veins of power that glowed faintly like dying embers. The mark of the Deathly Hallows — warped and alive — pulsed on his chest like a heartbeat.
And two crimson eyes burned from the depths of his hood.
Metallo straightened slowly, every servo in his body whining in protest. His sneer was back, but there was something wary in it now. "You. You're not even supposed to be here."
The figure kept walking, slow and deliberate, each step cracking the gravel underfoot. When he spoke, his voice carried the kind of crisp British accent that could make a grocery list sound like a royal decree.
"I'm here enough," Eidolon said, his voice quiet but cutting through the wind like a blade. "And you, my mechanically-enhanced friend, have made what we in the business call a mistake."
Metallo snorted, trying to recover his bravado. "What're you supposed to be? Some kinda wizard? Or just another guy with a cape fetish?"
Eidolon stopped walking. He tilted his hood just enough that the full, blazing glow of his eyes landed on Metallo like a pair of spotlights. "Oh, I'm a wizard, certainly. But I'm also having a rather unpleasant evening, and you've just made it considerably worse."
"Yeah?" Metallo growled, raising his weapon. "We'll see about that—"
"No," Eidolon said, raising one gloved hand with casual precision. "We really won't."
He whispered something low, ancient, and decidedly angry. The gun crumpled in Metallo's hand like a soda can, metal screaming as it compressed.
Metallo roared, lunging forward with his remaining hand extended like a claw. But Eidolon was already there, moving faster than any normal man should be able to move. He caught the cyborg's punch mid-swing, and the roof cracked under the force of the impact.
"Wrong answer," Eidolon said mildly.
And then — with one titanic shove — he sent Metallo skidding across the roof like a hockey puck on ice. The cyborg crashed into the rooftop access door, denting it severely.
Eidolon didn't even watch him go. His attention was already back on Clark, who had collapsed fully onto the gravel now, the glow of Kryptonite still eating at him like radioactive acid.
Eidolon crouched next to him, one black-gloved hand already glowing crimson with another incantation. "Right then. Let's see about getting that nasty green rock out of you."
Clark opened one eye and managed a faint grin. "Told you. There's always someone."
Eidolon tilted his head just slightly, and for the faintest second — just the faintest — you could almost hear the smirk in his voice. "Yes, well. You're welcome. Though next time, perhaps consider ducking?"
"I'll... take that under advisement," Clark wheezed.
Somewhere behind them, Metallo groaned and started to rise again, servos whining and sparks flying from damaged components.
But Eidolon's eyes were already on him, burning brighter than before.
"Don't," he said, in the same tone someone might use to tell a dog to stay off the couch.
And this time... Metallo listened.
For about three seconds.
Then he roared and charged anyway, because apparently common sense wasn't part of his cybernetic upgrades.
Eidolon sighed. "Americans. Always so dramatic."
---
The thing about Metallo, Clark decided as he sat on the gravel trying not to die from Kryptonite poisoning, was that he really knew how to ruin an evening.
Not that Superman had evenings in the traditional sense. Between constant emergencies, Justice League briefings that could've been emails, and pretending he wasn't Clark Kent every time someone glanced at him funny, "evenings" were mostly theoretical. Like unicorns, or a day without someone trying to blow up Metropolis.
But still. He hadn't planned for this.
Eidolon stood on the rooftop like he owned it, cloak whispering behind him like a living shadow with trust issues. His crimson eyes glowed like a pair of angry embers, and he didn't look impressed. But then again, Clark suspected Eidolon didn't look impressed with much. The man could probably watch the sun rise and critique its timing.
Metallo, meanwhile, was very impressed with himself. He stalked forward, sparks raining from his joints like the world's most dangerous disco ball, voice gravelly and mean, like someone had taught sandpaper to swear and given it anger management issues.
"You think hiding behind your freak-show parlor tricks makes you better than me?!" Metallo snarled, his cybernetic eye glowing brighter as he charged like a linebacker made of knives and bad life choices. "I tore Superman apart! What makes you think you're any different?!"
Eidolon raised a hand — just one, with all the casual effort of someone swatting a particularly annoying fly — and a crimson ward shimmered to life with a low thrum that made the air taste like copper and regret.
Metallo hit it at full speed.
And immediately regretted every decision that had led to this moment.
The impact sounded like a semi truck slamming into a brick wall at highway speeds. The whole roof shook. Somewhere below, a car alarm started wailing, and Clark was pretty sure he heard someone yell something unrepeatable in at least three languages.
Metallo staggered back, his chestplate cracked and sparking. But not his ego. Oh no. His ego was still alive and well and apparently running on backup power.
"You call that a fight?!" he barked, shaking his head like a wet dog with serious emotional problems. "C'mon, you smug little—"
His fist swung in a haymaker that could've leveled a building. Another ward caught it mid-air with a deafening snap of magic that made reality hiccup.
"Fight me like a man!" Metallo roared, pulling back for another swing. "Stop hiding behind your magic tricks and fight me!"
And that's when Eidolon finally tilted his hood back, ever so slightly, and for the first time since arriving... smiled. Or at least the kind of smile you felt in your bones, even if you couldn't see it under the shadow of his cowl.
"As you wish," he said, his accent sharp and proper enough to slice bread and critique the loaf it came from. "Though I do hope you stretched first. Wouldn't want you to pull something important."
And then... Eidolon lowered his hand.
The wards dissolved like morning mist.
Clark blinked, his vision still swimming slightly from the Kryptonite. "That... might've been a mistake," he muttered to himself.
It wasn't.
Eidolon moved — fast enough to make even Superman's enhanced reflexes struggle to track him. One second he was standing there all broody and British, the next he was in Metallo's face with all the subtlety of a thunderclap in a library.
The first strike was an open-palm slap across Metallo's jaw hinge. Yes, slap. A very British way to start a fight — polite, but devastatingly effective.
CLANG.
The sound echoed across the rooftop like a church bell made of violence. Metallo's head snapped to the side, sparks shooting out of his mouth like a busted toaster having an existential crisis.
"Oh good," Eidolon drawled, already ducking under Metallo's wild return swing with fluid grace. "It does rattle. Hate when they don't rattle. Makes you wonder if you're doing it properly."
He came up inside Metallo's guard, cloak swirling like liquid shadow, and drove an elbow into the cyborg's spine with surgical precision. The reinforced plates there buckled like aluminum foil.
Metallo spun, swinging wildly with both arms. "Stand still, you limey piece of—"
Eidolon ducked. Again. His movements were economical, precise, like a deadly ballet performed by someone who'd majored in violence with a minor in style. His foot scythed out in a perfect sweep, knocking Metallo's legs out from under him with the efficiency of a man who'd clearly done this before.
"I'm stronger than Superman," Eidolon mused aloud, crouching beside Metallo as he hit the roof with a boom that probably registered on seismographs. "You lot never shut up about being able to hold your own against a man who doesn't ever let loose, do you?"
Metallo scrambled back to his feet, howling like a wounded animal. "I'll tear you apart with my bare—"
Eidolon's knee connected with Metallo's chest before he could finish the threat, sending him sprawling again. The impact left a dent in the armor that looked suspiciously like a smiley face.
"I'm faster than him too," Eidolon added casually, stepping around Metallo like he was inspecting a particularly irritating antique at a garage sale. "And, frankly, infinitely more creative with my violence."
Metallo lunged again — which was, objectively speaking, a terrible idea. Eidolon sidestepped like he was dodging raindrops, grabbed the cyborg's right arm mid-swing, and with one smooth motion that would've made a professional wrestler weep with envy, ripped it clean out of its socket.
Sparks flew. Oil splattered. Metallo screamed.
"Oops," Eidolon said dryly, twirling the sparking limb once before tossing it over his shoulder like a discarded umbrella. "Butterfingers."
Clark winced from his spot on the ground. "That's... one way to disarm someone."
"I do appreciate wordplay," Eidolon replied without missing a beat, then immediately caught Metallo's left arm as it swung toward his head. "Though I prefer mine with a bit more substance."
He twisted slowly, deliberately, until the metal groaned and sheared like it was made of tin foil instead of military-grade steel. Then snapped it off at the elbow with one smooth motion that looked disturbingly casual.
"Now, now," Eidolon chided, crouching down and forcing Metallo to look at him. "That temper's going to get you in trouble one of these days."
"You..." Metallo wheezed, oil leaking from his joints like mechanical tears. "...you can't just—"
"Oh, I can," Eidolon cut him off softly, crimson eyes blazing brighter now. "And frankly, you begged me to. 'Fight me like a man,' you said. Well, congratulations. You've just been fought by one."
With one last, almost delicate twist of his hand, Eidolon tore the primary power core — and the glowing Kryptonite shard — from Metallo's chest. The green light died instantly, like someone had flipped a switch on the world's most dangerous nightlight.
Metallo slumped, twitching faintly like a broken toy.
"Alive," Eidolon muttered, turning the Kryptonite shard over in his palm like it was nothing more than an ugly paperweight. "But useless. Which, given your general contributions to society, seems appropriate."
He flicked his fingers and the shard vanished in a faint pop of magic that smelled like ozone and disappointment.
Then he finally turned back toward Clark, who was sitting up now, his color returning as the Kryptonite's influence faded.
"Right then," Eidolon said, brushing imaginary dust off his gloves. "Crisis averted. Villain defeated. Tuesday successfully managed."
Clark looked up at him with a weak but genuine grin. "That wasn't in the Justice League handbook."
Eidolon cocked his hood to one side, as if considering that, then sniffed dismissively.
"I don't do handbooks," he said briskly, extending his gloved hand to help Clark up. "Far too many pages. Not enough pictures. And they always assume you're going to follow the rules."
Clark chuckled despite himself and let Eidolon haul him to his feet. "The rules do have their place."
"Yes," Eidolon agreed solemnly. "In the bin, usually."
Behind them, Metallo groaned weakly, trying to roll over without the benefit of functional limbs. It wasn't going well.
Eidolon glanced over his shoulder, voice colder than the January wind whipping around them.
"Someone from the League can pick up the trash," he said flatly. "I'm sure they have protocols for mechanical refuse."
Clark winced, looking at the dismembered cyborg with something that might've been pity. "Y'know, I was gonna give him the benefit of the doubt. Talk him down. Find the good in him."
"I'm sure you were," Eidolon replied without a trace of judgment. "It's what you do. Very admirable, really."
"But you just..." Clark gestured vaguely at the scene of mechanical carnage.
"Dismantled him like a particularly aggressive IKEA bookshelf?" Eidolon suggested helpfully. "Yes, well. That's what I do."
They walked toward the edge of the roof together, Clark's cape billowing behind him in the wind, Eidolon's cloak seeming to absorb light rather than reflect it.
"You know," Clark said as they both stepped up to the ledge — one draped in red and blue hope, the other a walking shadow streaked with crimson fire — "I don't think I'll ever get used to the way you work."
"Good," Eidolon said, his voice curling into the faintest hint of a smirk. "I'd hate to be predictable. Predictable people are boring, and boring people don't get invited to the interesting parties."
"Is that what this was? A party?"
"More of a hostile takeover, really. With significantly better refreshments."
Clark actually laughed at that, shaking his head. "You're completely insane."
"I prefer 'creatively unhinged,'" Eidolon corrected. "It sounds more professional."
And as the sirens wailed somewhere far below, they leapt into the night — one flying with the confidence of someone who'd been doing it for years, the other seeming to fall upward with style.
Metropolis would be safe.
For now.
Though someone was definitely going to have to explain the arm-shaped dent in the Daily Planet roof.
---
Meanwhile, in the wreckage...
Metallo twitched once, his remaining systems struggling to reboot.
"This isn't over," he whispered to the empty air.
Somewhere in the distance, a cat meowed.
Even the city's strays weren't impressed.
—
Here's what you need to know about flying with Superman: the man makes it look easy. Not just the actual flying part — though that's impressive enough — but the whole cape-billowing, perfectly-positioned-for-maximum-dramatic-effect thing. Clark Kent flew ahead like he was posing for a superhero calendar, cape snapping in the wind with the kind of precision that made kids point and photographers weep with joy.
Behind him, Eidolon moved completely differently. Where Superman conquered the sky through sheer force of will and alien genetics, Eidolon seemed to negotiate with it. The very air folded around him, carrying his dark, crimson-veined cloak in a slow, sinister dance that defied at least three laws of physics and probably a few more that hadn't been discovered yet.
It wasn't flying, exactly. More like the atmosphere had decided to give him a lift out of professional courtesy.
Clark glanced back over his shoulder, squinting against the wind. "You're quiet. That's not normal."
Eidolon's hood shifted slightly, glowing eyes flickering like coals in a dying fire. "Because I'm thinking."
Clark's frown was visible even from thirty feet away. In his experience, when Eidolon started thinking, things usually ended up on fire. Or dismantled. Or both.
"What about?"
"Tonight's pattern," Eidolon said, his voice low and clipped, carrying clearly despite the wind. "You weren't the first."
Clark's heart did that thing hearts do when they suddenly remember they're supposed to be keeping you alive. "What do you mean?"
Eidolon leveled with him, cloak fluttering like a dark banner in a very stylish hurricane. "You were fourth. Fifth if you count West — but the kid's stubborn. Solved his own mess before I could show up and be dramatically helpful."
Clark swallowed hard, which was difficult to do gracefully while flying at Mach 2. "Who else?"
"J'onn first," Eidolon said, his tone flat as a morgue slab and about twice as cheerful. "Trusted the wrong glass of water. Laced with magnesium carbonate. Within minutes, he was doused in magnesium dust and set alight. Fire designed to burn for weeks."
Clark's jaw clenched so hard it was a miracle his teeth didn't crack. "Is he okay?"
"Alive. Barely. I put the fire out." Eidolon's voice carried that particular British understatement that made 'nearly died in agony' sound like a minor inconvenience. "Took some doing. Magnesium burns rather enthusiastically."
Clark exhaled, relief mixing with dread in a cocktail that tasted like regret and responsibility. "And the others?"
"Then Diana." Eidolon's voice darkened like storm clouds with a grudge. "Injected with nanomachines. Rewrote her perception. Everyone she saw wore Cheetah's face. Innocents, allies, friends... all enemies. Nearly killed herself from the strain of trying not to hurt what she thought were threats."
Clark's fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white against his gloves. "That's... that's psychological torture."
"Quite," Eidolon agreed. "Whoever designed it knew exactly which buttons to push. Diana's greatest strength turned into her greatest weakness. Rather clever, in a utterly despicable way."
"And Hal?"
A humorless chuckle escaped from under Eidolon's hood. "Hal Jordan was trapped in a collapsing mine. Fear toxin tailored by Scarecrow himself — made him believe he'd failed the hostages, that he was unworthy of his ring. He removed it and waited to die."
Clark's eyes flashed with something that might've been anger if Superman got angry. Which he didn't. Officially. "Someone's been studying us."
"With surgical precision," Eidolon confirmed. "With intent. With resources. This isn't some amateur with a grudge and a chemistry set."
Clark's voice dropped to that particular octave that made villains reconsider their life choices. "Not Luthor?"
"Too elegant. Too personal." Eidolon's cloak rippled in a wind that definitely wasn't natural. "Luthor's brilliant, but he's got the subtlety of a brick through a window. This is... artistic."
The Watchtower's silhouette emerged from the clouds ahead — a lonely sentinel in the void, looking exactly like what it was: humanity's last line of defense against things that went bump in the night and tried to conquer the galaxy.
"And Barry?" Clark asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know.
Eidolon nodded once, a gesture that somehow managed to be both grim and resigned. "Mirror Master. Trapped West with a bomb tied to his wrist. Slow down, boom. Cut it off, boom. Three-mile radius."
Clark winced. "Did he—?"
"Figured it out himself. Vibrated through an abandoned lighthouse wall, phased past the bomb, outran the blast. Brilliant and reckless, like always." There was something that might've been fondness in Eidolon's voice. "Though he did complain about the lighthouse's décor the entire time. Apparently, it clashed with his costume."
Clark shook his head, breath visible in the cold upper atmosphere. "This isn't random. It's an execution list."
"Indeed." Eidolon inclined his hood in what might've been approval. "And you nearly joined it tonight."
The Watchtower's landing bay yawned open below them, swallowing them in light and gleaming metal. The sight should've been comforting — home base, sanctuary, the place where heroes gathered to plan and heal and occasionally argue about whose turn it was to buy coffee.
Instead, it looked like a target.
Clark touched down first, boots ringing on the steel floor with the kind of solid, reassuring sound that said 'Superman has arrived and everything will be fine now.' Eidolon glided in after him, shadow following shadow, his landing silent as a whisper in a graveyard.
"We have enemies," Eidolon said quietly, his voice echoing like a threat in the cavernous space. "And now, they have my attention."
Clark squared his shoulders, cape settling around him like a red and blue declaration of war. "Then let's find them."
Eidolon's eyes burned brighter, a promise and a warning all at once. "Oh, we will. And when we do..." He trailed off, but the unspoken threat hung in the air like incense at a funeral.
"Just remember," Clark said, his voice carrying that particular Superman brand of gentle authority, "we're the good guys. We don't—"
"Cross lines? Kill people? Torture information out of suspects?" Eidolon's voice dripped with the kind of sarcasm that could strip paint. "Don't worry, Superman. I remember the rules."
"Good," Clark said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced.
"Of course," Eidolon added casually, "I never said I agreed with them."
Two very different kinds of hope walked into the Watchtower — ready to hunt ghosts in the dark, with very different ideas about what to do when they found them.
The night was young, and someone, somewhere, was about to have a very bad day.
—
WAYNE MANOR — EARLY MORNING
Here's the thing about Gotham City that nobody puts in the tourist brochures: it's like that friend who always has drama. You know the one. Just when you think you've helped them sort out their life, they call you at 3 AM with a new crisis that somehow involves their ex, a stolen car, and a very angry penguin.
Except in Gotham's case, replace "penguin" with "homicidal clown" and you're getting warmer.
Bruce Wayne had just stumbled back from what could generously be called "a Tuesday night" in Gotham. Which is to say, he'd spent the last eight hours playing violent hide-and-seek with people who thought bank robbery was a legitimate career choice. His cape was shredded, his cowl had a crack that would make a windshield jealous, and somewhere under all that kevlar and brooding, he was developing what medical professionals might call "a really bad mood."
He'd barely managed to drag himself out of the Batmobile—which, by the way, was making a noise that sounded like a dying whale with anger management issues—when Alfred appeared. Because of course Alfred was already there. The man had a supernatural ability to show up with bad news at precisely the worst possible moment. It was like a superpower, except infinitely more annoying.
"Master Wayne," Alfred said, standing in the Batcave with his usual silver tray and a manila folder that practically screamed *YOUR day is about to get worse*. "Perhaps you'd like to sit down for this."
Bruce just glared at him while wrestling with his cape clasp, which had apparently decided to become his mortal enemy. "If this is about me missing another board meeting, Alfred, I swear I'll—"
"It isn't about the board meeting, sir," Alfred interrupted with the kind of smooth professionalism that could make a root canal sound pleasant. "Though I must say, watching you make grown billionaires weep is always entertaining. This is considerably more... urgent."
Bruce stopped fighting with his cape. When Alfred used words like "urgent" in that particular tone, it usually meant someone was either dead, missing, or about to be. Sometimes all three.
"Define urgent," Bruce said, though his voice had dropped to that gravelly Batman register that meant business.
Alfred set the file down on the computer console with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb. "The graves of Thomas and Martha Wayne have been disturbed, sir."
Bruce went very, very still. Not the good kind of still, like a hunting cat. The bad kind of still, like the moment before a building explodes.
"Disturbed how?" he asked quietly.
Alfred opened the folder with the kind of reluctance usually reserved for tax audits. "I wish I could be more specific, Master Wayne. Unfortunately, there's very little left to be specific about. The coffins were opened. They're empty."
For a moment, Bruce just stared at him. Then he turned on his heel and started stalking toward the Batmobile with the kind of purposeful stride that suggested someone was about to have a very bad day.
"Sir," Alfred called after him, "might I suggest—"
"No," Bruce said flatly, already climbing into the driver's seat. "Whatever you're about to suggest, no."
"I was merely going to recommend backup," Alfred said mildly, though there was steel underneath the politeness. "This has 'elaborate trap' written all over it in letters large enough to be seen from space."
Bruce paused with his hand on the ignition. "Since when has that stopped me?"
"Since never, sir," Alfred replied with a sigh that contained approximately forty years of exasperation. "Which is precisely why I worry."
The Batmobile roared to life, and Bruce was already backing out of the cave when Alfred called out one last time.
"Do try not to die, Master Wayne. The paperwork would be absolutely dreadful."
---
WAYNE CEMETERY — DAWN
The thing about Gotham at dawn is that it looks like the city is trying to apologize for all the horrible things that happened during the night. The sky was doing its best impression of a bruised peach, all purple and gold, and there was just enough fog rolling through the cemetery to make everything look like a gothic movie set.
Unfortunately, Bruce wasn't in the mood to appreciate atmospheric lighting.
He moved through the mist like a shadow with anger management issues, his cape billowing behind him in a way that would have looked dramatic if he weren't so focused on the growing dread in his chest. The Wayne family plot was at the top of a small hill, surrounded by elaborate headstones that belonged to Gotham's oldest families. People who had built this city, shaped it, and—in his parents' case—died trying to make it better.
The headstones loomed out of the fog like silent sentinels: THOMAS WAYNE. MARTHA WAYNE.
The earth around them looked like it had been hit by a very focused earthquake.
The coffins were gone. Not just opened—gone. As in, someone had taken the time to excavate them completely, leaving behind two perfectly rectangular holes that looked like open graves waiting for new occupants.
Bruce knelt beside his father's headstone, running his gloved fingers through the loose soil. The earth was still damp from the night's work, and he could see the deep gouges where something—or someone—had pried the coffins free with enough force to splinter the wood.
This wasn't grave robbing. This was personal.
"I wondered how long it would take you to arrive," rumbled a voice from behind him.
Bruce spun around, his cape swirling, and immediately wished he hadn't. Because standing there in the fog, looking like someone had crossed a professional wrestler with a really angry rhinoceros, was Bane.
Seven feet of muscle, scars, and a breathing apparatus that made him sound like Darth Vader's scarier older brother. He was grinning, which was somehow more terrifying than if he'd been scowling.
"Bane," Bruce growled, automatically shifting into a fighting stance. "I should have known."
"Should you?" Bane asked, tilting his head with mock curiosity. "Because I was under the impression that the great Detective had lost his edge. Tell me, Bruce Wayne—or do you prefer Batman in this setting?—did you even suspect, or did you simply rush here like an angry child?"
Bruce didn't answer. He was too busy calculating distances, angles, and the fact that Bane was standing between him and any reasonable escape route. Not that he was planning to escape, but it was always good to keep track of these things.
"Nothing to say?" Bane continued, taking a step closer. "How disappointing. I had hoped for more stimulating conversation before I killed you."
"You talk too much," Bruce said, and launched himself forward.
The fight was brutal, fast, and—if Bruce was being honest—not going particularly well. Bane was stronger than he remembered, faster than someone his size had any right to be, and he fought with the kind of clinical precision that suggested he'd been planning this for a very long time.
Bruce threw everything he had at him: precise strikes to pressure points, joint locks, even a few moves that weren't strictly speaking legal in any sporting organization. Bane shrugged them off like mosquito bites.
"You disappoint me, Detective," Bane said, catching Bruce's fist in mid-swing and twisting until something in Bruce's wrist made a sound like a twig snapping. "I expected more from the man who destroyed the League of Shadows."
He threw Bruce backward into his mother's headstone, which cracked like an egg.
Bruce rolled away just as Bane's fist smashed into the marble where his head had been a second before. He came up swinging, landed a solid hit to Bane's ribs, and was promptly backhanded across the face hard enough to make his ears ring.
"You fight like a man with nothing to lose," Bane observed, advancing slowly. "But we both know that isn't true, don't we? You have everything to lose. Your city. Your mission. Your precious moral code."
"Shut up," Bruce snarled, wiping blood from his mouth.
"The truth hurts, doesn't it?" Bane smiled wider. "You've grown soft, Batman. Comfortable. You've forgotten what it means to truly suffer."
He grabbed Bruce by the throat and lifted him off the ground with one hand. Bruce clawed at Bane's grip, kicked at his chest, but it was like fighting a statue that had come to life and decided to hold a grudge.
"Allow me to remind you," Bane said conversationally, as if he weren't currently strangling someone. "Your parents died in an alley, helpless and afraid. Soon, you'll join them. But first, you'll know what it means to be truly powerless."
He turned toward the open grave—his father's grave—and Bruce realized with growing horror what Bane intended to do.
"Wait," Bruce gasped, still clawing at Bane's hand. "The bodies—where are they?"
"Safe," Bane replied. "For now. But I thought you might appreciate the... symbolism of the gesture."
He dropped Bruce into the open grave like a sack of particularly troublesome laundry. Bruce hit the bottom hard, his already-injured ribs screaming in protest, and before he could scramble to his feet, Bane was already shoveling dirt into the hole.
"Sleep well, little bat," Bane called down, his voice calm and almost cheerful. "When you wake up—if you wake up—perhaps you'll understand what it truly means to be broken."
The last thing Bruce saw before the coffin lid slammed shut was Bane's silhouette against the dawn sky, and the terrible realization that this had all been planned. Every detail. Every moment.
He was buried alive in his father's grave, and somewhere in Gotham, Bane was just getting started.
Which, as Tuesday mornings went, was definitely in the top five worst ways to start the day.
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