Chapter 1

A/N: I had to take some artistic license for the ages of the Bat Family in this fic, so I apologise if not everything fits chronologically! It has something to do with the fact I've never read a batman comic. But Sophie has and hopefully she won't get TOO mad at me for messing up personalities/relationships/timelines/facts etc.

Also this is my first fanfic, so please give me constructive criticism :)

Tim:

The Bat Cave was in disorder, with boxes and equipment strewn over the floor and ever y surface available. The alarm, with the last of Wayne Manor's power, blared ear-splittingly throughout the building, and the smell of gasoline served only to cover the rotten stench of decay.

In the centre of the chaos stood a young boy, just 15 years old, trying hard to control the crazy proceedings. Tim Drake, a.k.a. Red Robin, was on the brink of despair. Waving over to Dick Grayson, their designated pilot, he gave the older boy the signal that he could begin to prepare for take-off. The movement sent a twinge down Tim's left arm, stemming from a red and angry-looking bite mark around his wrist. The wound was several days old, but showed little sign of healing. Darn, thought Tim bitterly, Batman had a nasty bite on him. Sighing, he wondered just how the whole world had fallen apart so quickly.

It had all started, of course, with the kid. The Scared Kid, an internet phenomenon that had proven to be more fact than fiction, or fear. The short video was of a child, a boy, in his bedroom. Terrified beyond reason, the kid kept jabbering on about "three mothers and a father", with chattering teeth. There were flashes of grownups with dead eyes. No-one had believed it to be real at first, just another viral video doing the rounds through YouTube, Facebook, Tumblr etc.. They'd laughed, joked, mocked the child and made remixes of the track. Funny, right? Then the killings started. A day later, the internet vanished. Nobody was laughing any more. Flash forward a year, and the planet was in the throes of a zombie apocalypse, although Tim had to admit that the terminology wasn't quite correct. For starters, the illness only seemed to affect those under the age of 17. Secondly, the sufferers were not so much the Living Dead as the Living… Flu-Sufferers. The Ultimate Influenza. Death-Flu. Super-Flu. (This term was more fitting than the others, as the first celebrity casualty had been Superman. Something about his alien immune system made him more susceptible.)

The screeching sound of metal against metal brought Tim back to the present, and he looked down to see an obstinate 9 year old trying to push a bazooka through the cabin door. Realising it would be more trouble than it was worth to argue with Damian (the current Robin), Tim left the boy to his futile task and stepped into the plane to take a look at their cargo. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out a large misshapen shadow in the far corner of the wire cage, hunched over like a beast and gnawing on a rotten bone.

It was Bruce Wayne.

All the money in the world hadn't saved him, and now the infamous billionaire-turned-superhero had become as bestial as his name. The family had searched and searched for a cure, not just for Bruce but for Alfred as well, but it had all been in vain. Alfred had left in the Batmobile three months ago swearing that he'd find a way to save them all as, he said, without him they couldn't bloody well find a batarang in a haystack, much less find a way to keep each other safe and well. That had been over 5 months ago, and the others knew with deep certainty that he wouldn't be coming back to the Manor. Cassandra, Stephanie and even Barbara were nowhere to be found. So that had left the 3 of them, Dick, Tim, and Damien, with a father figure who couldn't tell a hand grenade from a bath bomb. (There had been a few disasters, but that's another story…..). There was good news, however, which placed their spirits high and was the reason for their departure today. Rumours were circulating of a company called Promithios, based in Britain, that was linked somehow with the spreading of the disease. Tim knew that this would be their final hope for a cure. He moved into the cockpit to aid as Nightwing's co-pilot, knowing that although his reflexes weren't as good, there was NO way they were letting the 9-yr old fly the plane. Yes, he was perfectly qualified. No, it didn't make any difference. Damien didn't seem too fussed, in the end. He had wedged his bazooka behind the steering wheel, and seemed content gazing at it and rubbing his hands gleefully. So it was with soaring spirits that the plane flew out of the Bat Cave and drifted away from the house that had, in the past year, turned from their home to their prison. They were going to find a cure. Everything was going to be alright.

…

"Get in, loser, we're going 'copting" yelled Damien at the warehouse.

"Goddamit", swore Jason Todd, and squeezed himself in to the plane.

"Welcome aboard the Batplane!" cried Dick, pulling his little brother in for a much-despised hug.

"MMMRGGFFLLBB" said Tim, who was completely smothered.

Shadowman:

In the streets of London, a boy called Shadowman was following a pack of strangers – the term he used for grownups, zombies. More and more sentinels had appeared recently, lined up along the streets, so he'd left his den and headed outside to investigate. It had been 2 days since he had spoken with Ed, the blonde boy from the Tower of London, and in a weird way he found himself missing the other boy's company. He mentally shook himself. He didn't miss Ed enough to forget how rowdy his friends had been – especially that bonehead Kyle, who was only at home when he was swinging that big axe of his, Brainbiter. What Shadowman needed was a thinker, someone who used their brain to solve problems, who took in every little detail and /cared/. Unfortunately there were too few of those around, since the zombies had taken over. Their numbers had been growing steadily over the last few weeks, flooding the streets, and Shadowman was getting worried. What were they preparing for? he wondered. He had seen them get smarter, using weapons and even planning intricate ambushes. He should know, he had watched one from a crane and gotten caught in the tail end of it. The rest of the kids hadn't stood a chance.

An abandoned car lay on its side in the street, and Shadowman crouched behind it to watch a hoard of grownups shuffle past at the end of the road, blocking off his next turning. He swore quietly to himself. He'd have to take a side road, one that would take him closer to Buckingham Palace than he would like to have gone. There was too much of a risk at that place. Shadowman had no doubt that Jester, his ex-best friend, thought him dead – and he was in no hurry to let the truth slip. When Shadowman did reveal himself, he wanted it to be on his own terms. Jester had left him half-dead on the side of the railway tracks, and while Shadowman could see why Jester had done it, why he himself almost had, that didn't remove his hurt feelings. So he would confront Jester in his own time.

Walking carefully along the street, he heard a low noise from the sky – the kind you would hear every day in London, the sound of a plane. But there were no more planes from London Heathrow. What's more, this plane didn't sound very healthy. Maybe Shadowman's memory was rusty, but this putt-putt-putt noise sounded more like a plane in trouble. The hum of the engine broke up suddenly time and time again. It wasn't getting any quieter, however… until he realised too late that the plane was CRASHING. Terrified he ducked beneath an overhang and watched as a large private jet, painted all black, soared just a few metres over his head. The noise was deafening. The plane faltered once more, then ….. Crash. The sounds of screeching metal went on for an eternity, and rubble fell around Shadowman's feet as he hid, protecting himself as best he could from the onslaught. When the ringing sound became more bearable he slowly stood up, brushed the dust from his clothes, and half-ran over to where the plane had been headed.

What he saw made him jolt and stop suddenly in his tracks, like something had pulled his switch out at the plug. Or someone. Someone had reached the crash site before him. Leaping over the fallen brickwork by the cockpit was a dot of colour, indistinguishable from this distance. But Shadowman knew that patchwork coat anywhere. Jester had beaten him there.

Shadowman plunged out of sight, but he need not have worried. Jester never had been one for confrontation – and besides, all of Shadowman's careful camouflaging had rendered him almost invisible. Still, he lay there and considered his options. Should he march over there now, and fight Jester for claim over the fallen aeroplane? He dismissed that idea as soon as he thought of it. There was no need to start something unnecessarily, and besides, going down there would put Shadowman in danger – something he strove actively to avoid. Alternately, he could wait until Jester had left, and reveal himself then. Check the plane for any supplies, and be gone before anybody knew he was there. Every stranger for miles around had likely been sent scurrying back into their holes like rats, so the coast was clear. And as it turned out, Jester had made the choice for him. He was nowhere to be seen. So keeping low to the ground, Shadowman made his way to the heap of smashed metal. What would he find?