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He had been to many places.
He painted the bat symbol on the rough stone walls of caves, alongside scenes of people hunting mammoths with spears; beside the statues in temples, drawing pursuit and scolding; on the ruins of a wasteland, where the air scorched his lungs; in the corners of castle walls, with the moat flowing slowly below.
Sometimes he remembered his name, sometimes he didn’t. But he knew this symbol was so important—more than his insignificant life, more than his flickering sanity, more than his aching body, his lost heart, and his boiling soul.
Sometimes, he suddenly remembered why.
"Hand over the money! Don’t try anything funny, you—"
"Don’t shoot, please! Take whatever you want—"
"Dad! Mom—"
"Get behind me, Bru—"
The noise dissolved into screams in unison. The gun and bullets clattered to the ground with a metallic clang, and the mugger collapsed at his feet.
Gotham. Winter night. Crime Alley.
He was Batman.
Batman slowly turned to face the terrified gazes of Thomas and Martha Wayne, who were desperately pushing their young son behind them.
He had killed Batman.
"I thought you were something from a nightmail," sixteen-year-old Bruce Wayne said, staring at him. "Mom and Dad never talk about that night. They clearly think it left me traumatized."
Bruce didn’t quite remember what he was like at sixteen, but he was fairly certain his knuckles and face were always bruised back then. Boarding school wasn’t the best place for a withdrawn, traumatized boy to survive. But it seemed to have treated this world’s young Wayne well. The boy’s hair was neatly trimmed, and his school uniform had probably been spotless three hours ago—now, thanks to his general technology final project, the sleeves and the edges of his gloves were smeared with oil stains, likely beyond saving. There was also a smudge of grease on his face, and his grimy gloves clutched a wrench tightly, the grip betraying his tension.
He likes working with his hands, Bruce thought. Smart, diligent, excellent grades, well-mannered, and smoothly integrated into social circles. No one doubted that Gotham’s young Wayne had a bright future ahead.
"How’s your college application going?" Bruce asked. Young Wayne blinked in surprise.
"I probably shouldn’t answer your questions, but it’s not a secret anyway," Wayne replied. "Wharton School of Business. I’d prefer engineering, honestly, but if I’m going to run Wayne Enterprises someday, this title sounds better."
And a sense of responsibility, Bruce added silently. He’s already mapped out his life, calmly accepting the trade-offs necessary to achieve his goals.
"If?"
"I plan to go into politics. After undergrad, I’ll go to law school." Young Wayne’s gaze sharpened as he stared into Bruce’s visor, as if trying to figure out whether the monster before him dared to stop him. "I’ll become the mayor of Gotham and change this city for good—fill it with light and happiness."
Hmm. Undoubtedly too trusting. Acting on instinct would land young Wayne in serious trouble sooner or later.
"Did you come all this way just to ask about my studies?" Wayne’s voice carried a hint of curiosity, and he lowered the wrench slightly. "I thought you might be from hell, but that seemed rude. And your cape and armor look like some kind of Kevlar—no theological text mentions that."
At least he’s observant. Bruce had to divert some effort to keep his mouth from twitching. He crouched on one knee, took out a package, and slid it across the floor to Wayne’s feet. Wayne hesitated for a few seconds before crouching to pick it up, weighing it in his hand.
"Get to know your city," Batman said. "Gotham doesn’t need lofty idealists. Walk its streets, every alley, every factory, every dock. Listen to what people are saying, live their lives, taste their food—until you’ve built a complete map of Gotham in your mind. Once you truly understand what needs to be done, you’ll be able to see what’s inside."
For a moment, young Wayne was speechless, his fingers flexing around the package. Bruce could see the thousands of questions crowding his mouth—doubts, objections, maybe even pleas for help.
"My parents invest in most of Gotham’s charities. They encourage me to talk to people on the front lines—child protection workers, doctors, firefighters… But they don’t want me getting too close to the real Gotham, especially at night. They think I’m not ready yet. I think they’re still shaken by what happened eight years ago." There was a note of complaint in Wayne’s voice before he shrugged. "But I don’t think that’s enough. To really change Gotham… You agree, don’t you?"
When Batman didn’t answer immediately, Wayne frowned slightly.
"Uh, I haven’t even asked—what should I call you?"
"You’ll know," Bruce replied. "Your thoughts and your parents’ concerns are both valid. Before you take that step, you must be prepared—even if you’ll never feel ready enough. At the very least, make sure the first gangster you meet doesn’t kill you."
"I’ll… take your advice into consideration," Wayne said, clearly dissatisfied, as he stuffed the package into his pocket—adding another fresh oil stain to his pants.
"Barring unforeseen circumstances, I’ll return to you on this day eight years from now. The exact timing may vary. If you still can’t see what’s inside by then, I’ll take back my gift," Bruce said. "If I die, someone else will come in my place."
"You’re human, right?"
"Yes."
"Then—"
"I have to go."
A gust of wind swirled up from Batman’s feet, his cape billowing as it rose, giving young Wayne a full view of the monster before him. The boy’s eyes widened, and then he ran forward, tearing off his gloves and letting them fly behind him. The closer he got, the stronger the wind became. Wayne instinctively raised one arm to shield his eyes, but the other stretched stubbornly toward Batman.
"At least shake my hand?" The thickness of his boots made Bruce taller than Wayne, who tilted his chin up to meet the lenses of batman's mask, blue eyes full of defiance and challenge. "I never thanked you for saving my family."
Batman let out a grunt and, just before vanishing from this universe, allowed his gloved hand to meet the boy’s outstretched palm.
This time, he could be absolutely certain—the time flow between the two universes differed by a factor of four. The twenty-four-year-old Wayne bore traces of fractures on his nose bridge and cheekbones, well-healed but unmistakable to a trained eye.
"Good evening, Batman." The young Wayne had clearly been waiting on the rooftop of Wayne Tower for some time, now greeting him with a playful smile and gesturing to the lounge chairs, small table, and a mini-fridge stocked with drinks and snacks behind him. "I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I prepared according to my own tastes."
"Since you’ve completed the last task, you can have this too." Bruce allowed himself a faint smile and tossed the package over. "If you ever judge that a disaster exceeds what Earth’s current forces can handle, use this to call me."
Wayne caught it deftly, motioned for him to sit at the table, handed him a can of energy drink, and then immediately tore open the package to examine the multiversal communicator. Beyond technical means, Bruce had also enlisted Zatanna’s help to ensure zero time lag in the call—though real-time communication remained impossible. That was for the best. Bruce had no intention of forming excessive ties with this universe; his goal was merely to prevent its destruction due to his interference.
The landing point wasn’t fixed, and while confirming Wayne’s location, Bruce briefly surveyed Gotham in this world. Most of his safe houses naturally didn’t exist, nor did the construction projects he’d spearheaded. Yet compared to the Gotham of his own twenty-fourth year in the records, this city was far from identical. Every five or six blocks housed a community clinic he didn’t recognize, and he spotted over a dozen affordable housing projects, public restrooms, waste management facilities, and legal service centers in various stages of completion—some even located in spots eerily similar to his own plans.
Because the Wayne couple lived in this world, relentlessly advancing plans that should have been cut short by their deaths. Changing Gotham had been his parents’ lifelong wish, and many of his own ideas had stemmed from those long-sealed folders. Bruce closed his eyes behind the helmet, pushing aside the thoughts clouding his mind. Those weren’t his parents—they were Wayne’s. This was their Gotham. Beyond mitigating the negative effects of his interference, he had no right to meddle in anyone’s life in this universe.
"There won’t be a Batman here anymore, will there?" Wayne suddenly asked. He’d set the communicator aside, his expression grave. "I’ve considered many possibilities—that you’re from the future, an alien, a mob enforcer… But you don’t belong to this universe at all, do you?"
"You’ve read up on parallel universe theories."
"Did you come to this world to save my parents?"
It was a question laden with many others. The materials Bruce had given Wayne included information on most of Gotham’s superpowered criminals, but their identities—and the recorder’s—were obscured, serving only as a prompt for Wayne and the GCPD to act faster if these threats emerged. Even so, Wayne might have pieced together some of the prerequisites for these records to exist.
"No, that was an accident," Bruce replied. "I was attacked, lost in time and space, and not fully conscious. Before my family and allies brought me back, I kept jumping across different eras and parallel universes. When I took down Joe Chill, I wasn’t entirely aware of what I was doing."
That was the truth. No matter how many times he searched his conscience, he could swear he’d acted purely on instinct to save a family from an armed robbery. Perhaps precisely because of that, his moral burden had lifted. Bruce had vaguely hoped… but the many changes in the correct timeline didn’t include this one, so locating this Batman-less universe became another item on his to-do list.
"You jumped in front of a gun to protect us without knowing what you were doing?"
"For the past fifteen years, I’ve done this every night. I don’t need a reason."
Wayne kept staring at him, silently demanding more answers. This wasn’t part of Bruce’s plan. Wayne couldn’t—and wouldn’t—force him, but he’d already subverted in the young man’s life. He did owe this innocent soul an explanation.
He raised a hand, undid all the clasps, and pushed the cowl back.
"You really are…" Wayne’s lips parted several times, though not in shock at his identity—more like sheer awe. For a moment, Bruce also wondered what the young man saw in his face.
"...In your world, your parents were killed that night."
Bruce nodded.
"And then you decided to become—Batman."
"It took me some time to decide what I’d become," Bruce stated. "At first, I wanted revenge. But my parents were gone no matter what, and later I realized revenge was far from enough. What I needed was to truly change Gotham, to ensure no child would ever kneel weeping in an alley again."
He’d accepted it. All he could do was try his best in the present. Batman had no right to take lives, nor to gamble the fate of an entire world to alter an unchangeable past. The Lazarus Pit forever bubbled with toxic fumes in a corner of his mind—if he weren’t Batman, he’d never have known of its existence, and being Batman meant he would never desecrate the souls of the departed so.
"So you saved us without a second thought," Wayne murmured, his tone almost reverent. "I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. Alfred trained me. The more I learned, the more I realized how far I was from what you did when you took down Joe Chill—though I still have to say, BATMAN? Seriously? Why a bat?"
"I briefly considered Sharkman and Birdman," Bruce deadpanned. Wayne burst into laughter.
"I’ve thought about it for a long time. I won’t become Batman, or any other ‘-man.’" The young man’s voice was firm. "I understand why Gotham needs Batman. Your methods might work, but I still believe there’s a better way."
"That’s your decision to make." Bruce stood, pulling the cowl back on. "I should return now. If you don’t call me, we’ll meet again eight years from today. Tell your Alfred to go home and sleep early—your parents will worry about you."
Wayne, however, brightened with delight. "You spotted him! I’ve never managed that."
"You don’t need to."
“Well, how’s your Alfred?" Wayne’s tone shifted slightly—this wasn’t a question he’d ask himself. Not for a moment did Wayne doubt that Alfred would be by Bruce’s side.
"After my parents died, Alfred raised me. To me, he’s a second father," Bruce said. "He’s supported me all along, even now."
"He must be so proud to be your accomplice," Wayne relayed before adding, "After our last meeting, I decided to postpone college. Alfred helped me convince Mom and Dad. He taught me how to protect myself, and the tricks of impersonation. We disguised ourselves as father and son and lived near Crime Alley for three months. Later, I took on three more aliases, living in different neighborhoods—two years in total. By then, I felt I knew what I needed to do, so I resumed my studies."
"On the way here, I passed a few of your safe houses and the Wayne & Pennyworth Legal Firm." Bruce wasn’t entirely sure what emotion swelled in his chest—melancholy? Warmth? Or pride? In a way, Wayne had answered part of his unspoken question. The grown boy hadn’t indulged in comfort under his parents’ shelter but stepped out to face the city’s fists, striving to shield its most vulnerable.
"I made some enemies and took a few hits," Wayne admitted, rubbing his nose. "But you’ve endured a thousand times worse, haven’t you? If you could do it, so can I. Eight years from now, my Gotham will be better than yours."
Bruce finally laughed—after all, he wasn’t about to shed tears in front of his younger self.
"We’ll see."
As expected, he received the first call just eight months later—though the reason wasn’t what he’d anticipated. It was an Apokoliptian invasion, and the scale was staggering. The timelines of disasters in the two universes didn’t perfectly align, but the similarity was undeniable: the scattered superheroes, fighting alone, stood little chance. Bruce joined the battle in an older version of his suit to avoid revealing he wasn’t this world’s Batman. Beyond the essentials needed to defeat Darkseid, he offered little guidance. They’d have to learn teamwork on their own and shoulder the heavier burden of protecting Earth.
They did pretty well, since the interval was longer than he’d expected—another nine months passed before Wayne called him again, this time to deal with an attack by the Appellaxians. By now, Wayne Enterprises had become one of the Justice League’s primary sponsors, and young Wayne was a respected public figure. With his endorsement and their prior experience, Bruce’s cooperation with the League went much smoother. After the battle, just as he was about to return the communicator, he received a message from Wayne on a separate channel.
In this world, after years of groundwork, Wayne Enterprises had established Bat Ltd., a subsidiary fully managed by young Wayne, specializing in supplying the GCPD with non-lethal equipment like bulletproof vests. The company also frequently developed and distributed antidotes and other emergency supplies to both the police and civilians during crises. When asked why he chose "Bat" as the name, Wayne had simply smiled and said, "Bats are cool, aren’t they?" Naturally, the Justice League, sponsored by Wayne Enterprises, also used many of its products—including their communicators.
Young Wayne invited him to Gotham. The agreed-upon deadline hadn’t arrived yet, so it was likely for another matter. Bruce gave his confirmation but was still slightly surprised when Wayne led him to the cave beneath the manor.
"I still have to emphasize—I don’t agree with your methods, but at this stage, we do need Batman." Wayne seemed reluctant to admit it. "I can’t let you risk your life for my world without any backup. Tell me what you need, and I’ll have it ready before the next global crisis."
Bruce silently surveyed the surroundings. Compared to his own, this Batcave was still quite rudimentary—no T. rex model, giant penny, glass cases, or cow stalls symbolizing Batman’s burdens. Wayne had procured the most advanced computer available in this world, replicated around two hundred of the Batarangs Bruce had previously left behind, and stockpiled a variety of bulletproof gear and weapons. As if to mock him, many of these items were adorned with bat stickers.
"From the past few battles, I guessed you don’t use guns, but just in case, I got a few classic models."
"I don’t."
"Noted." Wayne woke the computer and opened a folder—its structure clearly mirrored the files from the hard drive Bruce had given him. "I’ve kept some records in case you need reference while here."
Bruce offered suggestions on the Justice League’s mission reports, delaying the moment of hesitation. He knew he shouldn’t look, but in the end, he clicked open the Gotham files. Commissioner Gordon remained, but the GCPD’s turnover rate was about a third faster than in a world with Batman. Bruce’s heart ached as he spotted several familiar names on the casualty list—it felt like he’d killed them himself. Still, he was relieved to see Harvey Dent still working with Wayne to reform the justice system. Without Batman to rely on, survival pressure had forced the GCPD to adopt a more efficient response model much earlier.
Facing the victim profiles was even harder. He’d expected many who should have been saved by Batman, but—
"Richard Grayson? Do you know him?" Wayne keenly noticed the hitch in his breath.
After his parents’ murder, Dick entered foster care but vanished after just a year. Half a year before the Appellaxian invasion, the GCPD raided the Court of Owls’ primary stronghold in Gotham, and Dick was rescued alongside other Talons. Prior to that, he’d carried out three known assassinations. Currently, Dick had completed hospitalization and entered resocialization, working at a monitored family diner.
"How is he?" Bruce heard his own voice turn strange, his gaze frozen on the photo of Dick’s vacant eyes.
"Recovering remarkably well. He broke free during the police raid and assisted them—probably why he regained his senses faster than the other Talons." Wayne sounded pleased. "He’s quite popular now. I have high hopes for him… How is he in your world?"
Brave, kind, sincere, selfless—the most loving person Bruce had ever known. Sensing Bruce’s lack of approval, Wayne’s voice darkened with anger and unease.
"He could have been saved earlier, couldn’t he?" Wayne demanded. "What did I miss?"
Bruce closed his eyes behind the cowl, giving up the futile struggle, and searched for Jason’s name. Wayne made another sound of surprise.
"When Alfred and I lived in Crime Alley, the Todds were our neighbors. They were never well-off, but after Willis Todd died, things got worse." Wayne’s voice was thick with guilt and anger. "I should’ve paid more attention… By the time I realized Catherine was using, it was too late. I sent her to rehab, but she still died of an overdose. I failed her and Jason."
Shortly after his foster mother’s death, Jason was sent to juvenile detention for repeated theft. Thanks to Wayne’s efforts, he was placed on probation and transferred to an alternative school. His grades were excellent, but he had two records of fighting and responded poorly to therapy.
"Did he have a better life in your world?" Wayne pressed.
"...I don’t know." Bruce searched for Tim and Cass next—no records.
"The Drake kid next door? And is Cassandra Cain related to David Cain?" Wayne was losing patience. "I should probably stop asking how these kids are connected, huh?"
Without Batman, the League of Assassins presumably had little interest in Wayne’s genes, meaning Damian wouldn’t exist. This wasn’t his world, these weren’t his children, and Wayne bore no responsibility for them—he shouldn’t be blamed for their circumstances. Even if their fates pained him, it was only an extension of his feelings for this city.
"I know them." Bruce took a deep breath. "Most of them are still very young in your world. Given the right opportunities, they could become vital forces in rebuilding Gotham."
"Give me a list, then." Wayne’s tone was calm. "I’ve been meaning to make some younger friends."
"Thank you."
"Just doing my part for Gotham’s people."
He had only visited once without Wayne's knowledge.
"Oh." Understanding flashed across Alfred's face as he lowered his gun. "Come here, lad."
Bruce failed to control his strength—his fingers tore through the butler's pajamas, yet Alfred only held him tighter, soothingly rubbing his back.
"I'm sorry." He nearly curled into the older man's embrace, tears breaching the cowl's barrier. "Forgive me, Alfred... I'm so sorry..."
"You've done all you could, Master Bruce."
"...You don't know."
"I do." Alfred gently patted the back of his neck. "The mere fact that you stand here proves you fought tooth and nail to prevent this outcome."
When the eight-year deadline arrived, he wasn't prepared to find Wayne confined to a wheelchair.
"I suppose this didn't happen to you," Wayne said lightly, though the lines around his mouth and eyes when he smiled betrayed his suffering. "Bane—he and his employer took issue with my campaign proposals."
Bruce's fists clenched so tightly his hands went numb.
"It did happen," he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. "The doctors gave me almost no chance of walking again. It took me seven months."
"Seven months," Wayne repeated, as though it were a promise.
"I haven't reviewed your medical records yet. I don't know if your injuries match mine."
"Of course. Though I'd hoped I'd finally faced a trial you hadn't." Wayne wheeled himself toward the Batcomputer. "Regardless, that's not today's focus. And for heaven's sake, don't let Alfred see that look on your face."
At thirty-two, Wayne's Gotham surpassed Bruce's year on year in safety, civil rights, basic living standards, employment rates, and healthcare. After his injury, Wayne hadn't withdrawn from the mayoral race—his bravery against crime and his family's contributions during Gotham's lawless period had earned him overwhelming public support. Barring unforeseen circumstances, his election was virtually guaranteed. Given the time dilation between universes and Wayne's late-start advantage, under his leadership, this Gotham might officially surpass Bruce's in next eight years.
"Gotham's wellbeing shouldn't be a competition. Though I expected you'd be happier about it."
"This isn't *my* Gotham, Batman. It's *ours*." Wayne leaned back in his wheelchair with a sigh. "This city has always had Batman's protection. Yours had only you."
"Not just me. I don't work alone." Bruce hesitated. "I have a... team. We haven't been at our best lately, but I have absolute faith in their ability to protect Gotham in my absence. That's why I could come here without worry."
"I'd have liked to meet them."
"Perhaps next time."
Wayne's injuries closely mirrored his own, which eased Bruce's tension slightly—but it also meant he had more to do.
"Your wounds aren't just physical. You've been pushing yourself too hard." He pulled off his cowl and knelt before the wheelchair. "Listen, you were never obligated to live the life I did—neither of us was. I chose to become Batman. You chose not to. Neither was wrong. These crimes, these deaths... they aren't your fault."
Wayne fell silent, chest rising and falling sharply before shoving Bruce's hand away.
"What would you know?" he demanded. "Do you think I can't read your face? I disappointed you! You think I should've done better! You regret this!"
"Regret?" Bruce said softly, though his pulse roared in his ears. "Regret that your parents—*our* parents—are alive? Do you truly believe that, Bruce?"
"...No." Wayne turned away. "That's not what I meant."
"I'm not disappointed. *You* think I am—no, you *want* me to blame you. Because that's what you're doing to yourself." Bruce held his gaze. "All I'm saying is this wasn't your fault. Whatever comes to mind when you hear those words—it *wasn't your fault*."
"Easy for you to say." Wayne's jaw tightened. "You have no idea what my mistakes cost—what happened to my city."
"Believe it or not... I do." Bruce stared into those blue eyes, so much like looking in a mirror he'd never expected to exist. "You've kept Batman as your secret for too long. That secret broke me once. I should've realized it would do the same to you. You need to open up. To trust and accept help... and a great deal of physical therapy."
After a long pause, Wayne said, "I'll try."
Bruce nodded. "Good."
"And," Wayne added, "if you expect me to believe that, then you'd damn well better believe what happened to me wasn't your fault either. Don't you dare patronize me, Bruce. Never forget—I'm also Batman. Just the non-Batman variety."
Wayne's universe seemed free of imminent disasters, but Bruce found he didn't mind.
"Glad to see you're still standing, Mayor Wayne."
"Thank you, though I didn't summon you here to admire my legs or this ridiculous tux." Wayne handed him a hard drive. "Happy birthday, Bruce."
"Thank you, *Bruce*." He slipped it into his utility belt. "I hear other things have changed for you. Congratulations."
"Apologies for not inviting you to the wedding." Wayne's smile was radiant, as if happiness overflowed from his very being. "You're a father, yes? Any advice?"
"My advice? Be prepared..." Bruce's lips quirked uncontrollably. "…to face the fact that you'll never be prepared."
Call it poetic justice.
When Thomas and Martha appeared on-screen, Bruce's breath caught—then stopped entirely. They were far older than in his final memories of them, dignified and elegant, their gazes brimming with warmth.
"Hello, Batman. I'm Thomas Wayne, Bruce's father. This is my wife, Martha." Thomas spoke warmly as Martha nodded, her carefully styled curls swaying. "Bruce has told us about you. We can't thank you enough for guiding and watching over him all these years. You've helped him become such an extraordinary young man..."
Meanwhile, in another universe unseen by Bruce, blue light flickered to life in the cavern beneath Wayne Manor, illuminating a question the youngest Wayne (though not for much longer) knew all too well. Once, he'd spent days agonizing over the answer, typing every conceivable word—vengeance, justice, peace, dreams come true—only to receive patient, stubborn rejections each time. Now, the correct letters were muscle memory, the lock disengaging almost before he realized it.
What is the reward for being Batman?
Being Batman.