With a sharp beep, the chemical composition analyzer announces the completion of the current analysis session.
Putting down the coroner's report of the latest Joker Toxin victims, Bruce Wayne walked toward the machine. His multiple injuries—fractured ribs, dislocated shoulder, laceration wounds across the abdomen, sprained ankle, saucer-sized bruises all over the body—assert their presence with agonizing pain as he moves. He brushes the sensation aside. He's long accustomed to the pain of the flesh.
The analysis result shows the clue-cum-calling card the Riddler left behind after his attack on the Penguin's lair is a plain strand of catgut string made of sheep intestines.
It might be a challenging puzzle, if Bruce hadn't already learned the answer by chance. In the city-wide turf war among newly emerged costumed villains over the former empire of Carmine Falcone, the Riddler's next target is Two-Face.
Harvey…
An eternity ago, on the way to the Half Moon Club, Harvey and he walked past a newsstand full of papers featuring the bold move of the city's D.A. against organized crime. One of them bore the title "Harvey 'Apollo' Dent to Tackle East End's Dark Underbelly." "I wonder why they keep calling me 'Apollo,'" Harvey mused, a wry half-smirk hanging on the corner of his mouth. "It's not like he's an all-around good guy. Thanks to Nietzsche, few people think about the duality of Apollo himself—a nature embodied by the strings often at his fingertips, attached to either a lyre or a bow, both his symbols. Lyre strings and bowstrings, made of the same material using the same method. They're the same, basically. Yet plucking lyre strings Apollo makes divine music, through which wonders like the walls of Troy are born, while pulling bowstring he shoots arrows of plague and sudden death. Creation and destruction, the same god delivers both."
Bruce doesn't remember his reply. Some meaningless quip, probably. Back then, little did he realize how prophetic Harvey's remark was. Little did he foresee he'd soon lose a good friend and a staunch ally to the evil of city he vowed to protect.
…Little did he know past losses, no matter how great, wouldn't make future losses hurt less.
Harvey is now his enemy. A series of expertly planted false trails, in addition to the divergence of their crime-fighting approaches, have eroded Jim Gordon's faith in Batman. Even Alfred has become more distant than ever.
Bruce brought Alfred's estrangement on himself with his increasingly anti-social behaviors. He understands he ought to try to make amends, but his endeavor to contain the ongoing chaos has left him little energy to deal with interpersonal issues.
He is alone.
A flock of bats swoops down from the cave ceiling and glides right past Bruce, breaking his brooding reverie. These normally peaceful creatures have disturbed him three times over the last half an hour. Bruce presses the bell push. Alfred's special feed will pacify their agitation.
After several failed attempts to reach the only other person under the same roof, Bruce heads upstairs. Alfred is likely in the master bedroom laying out the clothes for his social engagement later on. Too absorbed in work, Bruce has forgotten to inform him he won't be getting out of the Batsuit any time soon—Bruce Wayne will give way to Batman tonight, like he has done every night over the past two weeks.
A bout of disorientation hits Bruce after he steps into the library from behind the grandfather clock. He must have stayed in the darkness for so long that even the mellow rays of the late afternoon sun shock his system. Blinking as his eyes adjust to the new lighting, he makes his way to his butler.
In the family wing hallway, Bruce freezes mid-motion while opening the door to his bedroom.
On his bed reclines an elderly man he's never seen before.
"So, it's the time," the man says softly, his countenance lighting up.
It's too late to salvage his secret identity, so Bruce makes no effort to pull on his cowl. Furthermore, judging from the lack of surprise on the man's end, he seems to be privy to the knowledge already.
Who is he?
The man's sprightly sky-blue eyes and the heavy wrinkles around them present a peculiar contrast, rendering his precise age a difficult guess. The body beneath cotton pajamas and woolen blanket retains noticeable musculature. In his prime, the man must've possessed impressive physical prowess. A pair of callus-covered hands rests relaxed in his lap. On his left ring finger—
That's—
Bruce's feet carry him forward. A closer examination confirms his initial impression—it indeed is his father's wedding band. But his father's wedding band is sitting together with his mother's rings in a safe of his own design installed in a location known only to himself—or it should be. How come—
"I see I've made a mistake." A tincture of apology colors the man's tone. "I thought you were someone else."
"Who?" Not yet recovered from the trance of stupefaction, Bruce hears himself ask.
The man lowers his lashes, from underneath which flows thick, melancholic tenderness. "Someone I haven't seen for a long time. Someone I feel I'll be meeting again soon."
Raised solely by a reserved Englishman from the age of eight onward, Bruce finds the open display of strong emotions foreign and frankly disconcerting. When it happens near him, an urge to distance himself from the emoter always takes over his entire being. Yet this stranger…this stranger somehow makes him want to instead reach out and—
And what? Reason returns to Bruce. He lacks the most basic grasp of the situation. Any impulsive action would be injudicious.
The man lifts his eyes back up to meet Bruce's, giving him a reassuring smile. "You must be quite at a loss as to what's going on. Rest easy. Everything's fine. You're in the middle of an inter-universal displacement. In other words, you've entered a universe parallel to yours. The breakage of universal barriers has been occurring occasionally in the vicinity of the manor ever since—well, let's leave it here. Given that the same incident may happen in the future of your universe as well, 'spoiling' the details for you might lead to unnecessary complications."
In Bruce's reality, researchers have recently proved the existence of parallel universes. If he encountered the man before the breakthrough, Bruce imagines he wouldn't even begin to consider the plausibility the man's explanation without a great deal of convincing. The multiverse has a good sense of timing.
Speaking of time—
"You're saying alongside the inter-universal displacement a temporal displacement takes place. And the universe I just left is behind this one in the multiversal timeline."
"Yes, on both counts."
Bruce surveys his surroundings. Although the bedroom largely remains the same as his, he does pick up several signs of time passing that corroborate the man's claim.
"Now that you trust me, where was I before you interrupted?...Oh, I meant to tell you such inter-universal disorders are invariably brief. You'll get back to where you're from presently."
The potential repercussions of universe crossing flood Bruce's mind.
"And don't worry, these disorders pose little danger if treated with caution," adds the man, as though he's heard Bruce's thoughts. "You reached this conclusion yourself after extensive study and experimentation—extensive even by your standards."
The way the man speaks of his version of Bruce Wayne denotes a familiarity that takes years, if not decades, to build. Occupying the master bedroom of the Wayne Manor, wearing Thomas Wayne's wedding band, being on close terms with Bruce Wayne—this man who belongs to the future of a reality similar to Bruce's, who can he be?
Bruce takes another thorough look at him.
The "pepper" strands of his salt and pepper hair indicate he once had a full head of jet black locks. Black hair, blue eyes—typical Wayne coloration. Yet his jawline differs from that of generations of Wayne men significantly. He's also of a smaller stature compared to Bruce and his immediate forefathers. Nevertheless, sometimes physical traits don't get passed down. All the evidence at hand points to this man being family.
Should it be the case, the Thomas and Martha Wayne of this universe gave birth to more than one child. And the man in front of Bruce is either the native Bruce Wayne's brother or nephew—or great-nephew, if Bruce's time jump is big enough.
You've overlooked an alternative explanation. A faint voice in the back of Bruce's head points out.
Optimism regarding his own future, Bruce thought the foolish thing had gotten gnawed to death by the permeating grimness of Gotham. Apparently, a shred of it still clings to life, waiting to make a futile stand in times like this.
It's impossible that the man comes from his counterpart's line. The Bruce Wayne of this universe is—or was; Bruce suspects the latter—Batman too. To be Batman is to sacrifice one's connection to humanity. In less than two years, Bruce's crusade against crime has already robbed him of the few true friends he ever had. No relationship other than enmity survives the burden of the cowl. Family has no place in the shadow of the Bat. To think, the Dark Knight being a husband and a father—
Bruce wants to sneer at the absurd idea, but he fails. It dawns on him that a sneer is too close to a smile, and it's been so long since he last smiled that his facial expression muscles have become rusty.
"Bruce, look at me."
Upon hearing the gentle yet insistent voice, Bruce realizes he has been lost in thought. He raises his head.
The setting sun lends the man's blue irises a golden tint. From where Bruce is at, his eyes look like flames.
Those burning eyes gaze into Bruce's. "You've been trying to figure out who I am since you saw me. I'm sorry, Bruce, but I'm afraid I can't give you an answer. There are, however, things I can say, and I hope you'll listen with your full attention."
Bruce gives him a solemn nod.
"At times, your life and your fight may appear overwhelmingly bleak. If I may venture a guess, they do at this moment. So much so you probably have resigned yourself to life-long loneliness and misery. Trust me, things will change for the better. The harsh winter around you, though it seems everlasting, will pass. You will find company in fellow fighters for justice, and through companionship you will find happiness and love."
Bruce's chest constricts at the sincere confidence the man radiates. He averts his face, not wishing him to detect the hints of doubt his written across his features.
He looks back at the man's direction after regaining the control over his expression. The man's intense stare is still fixed on him—no, not him, something behind him.
Curious, Bruce follows his line of sight.
The mantelpiece above the fireplace is laden with photos and hologram images. Bruce sees himself—older, but undoubtedly him—in several. He looks happy. Even when he's not smiling, his eyes hold a glint of mirth. He has company in most of the pictures. Apart from Alfred, he doesn't recognize any of the numerous people at his side, although one man—
A strange, buzzing tingle runs through Bruce, throwing him off balance.
"The inter-universal disorder is correcting itself." The man's calm, wistful voice comes from behind him. "We're about to part ways."
Bruce whips around to the mysterious man who he met mere minutes ago yet feels like an old friend.
The last light of the day has faded, but the man's eyes still shine bright and clear.
"Don't abandon hope. Spring never skips its turn. Keep an eye for the signs of it."
Bruce's reply catches in his throat as he finds himself standing in his own bedroom, facing an empty bed.
Walking over to the fireplace, he runs his fingertips across the empty mantelpiece, recalling the collection of pictures he got but a glimpse of.
Those pictures, on top of the man's heartfelt words, chip away at the cold, hard belief rooted in the bottom of his heart that Batman will stay forever a lone wolf. The Bruce Wayne of the universe he stumbled into managed to lead a happy life surrounded by loved ones while being Batman. Perhaps, perhaps—
"My apologies for my lateness, sir." Alfred emerges from the hallway, a dress shirt in hand. "I was unavoidably detained. A dozen bats barged into the laundry room when I was ironing your shirt. I had to escort them out one by one."
"Alfred—"
"Spring never skips its turn. Keep an eye out for the signs of it." The man's parting words ring in Bruce's ears, causing his order for Alfred to put the shirt away to die on his lips.
"Master Bruce?" Alfred casts him an expectant look from next to the valet stand.
"Never mind."
"Very well, sir. If there's no more way I may be of service, I'll now bring the car around from the garage. The trip to the Amusement Mile under the current traffic conditions will take approximately twenty minutes. To ensure you won't be late for the Foundation Dinner and the performance afterwards, I suggest we leave at seven o'clock sharp."
"I'll go down at five to. Thank you, Alfred."
"My pleasure, sir," Alfred answers, visibly taken aback by the display of gratitude.
"Do you happen to know what this year's performance is?" Bruce asks as an afterthought when Alfred turns to leave.
"I believe, sir, the organizing committee has invited Haly's Circus."
oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo
"Don't abandon hope. Spring never skips its turn. Keep an eye for the signs of it."
Once Dick Grayson finishes his parting words, the world blinks, taking his unexpected visitor away.
"See you soon, Bruce," Dick murmurs, caressing the ring on his finger.
Thank you for reading.
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