Chapter 2
Pain. A biting, cold sensation was the first thing that greeted me as consciousness slowly crept back in. My limbs felt weighted down, numb, and the air around was not only freezing but bore a certain weight to it, pressing down on me. My ears strained in the stifling silence, catching the low hum of machines nearby and the occasional gentle drop of water as ice melted somewhere in the distance.
Gritting my teeth, I tried to force my heavy eyelids open. The room was dimly lit, the blue hues of cold light refracting through what seemed like crystalline walls of ice. The gentle light created an almost hypnotic pattern on the floor. For a moment, I felt disoriented, my senses overwhelmed by the cold and unfamiliar environment. The last thing I remembered was the heat of battle, the relentless force of an enemy... and then a blinding light as I was thrown into this strange place..
I gingerly tried to sit up, a sharp sting reminding me of the injuries I had sustained. Glancing down, I noted the expertly applied bandages that adorned my limbs and torso. But by whom? And where was I now?
Fleeting memories came rushing back. There was an alley, rain, gunshots... and a man with a face divided between life and horror. Instinctively, my fingers sought out a weapon, but there was none. My heart raced as the weight of my actions pressed down on me. I frowned. I needed to find out where I was.
Pushing off the table, my feet connected with the cold, slick floor beneath. My steps were hesitant, echoing softly within the icy chamber. My curiosity was piqued by the workstations I happened upon, cluttered with unfamiliar tools, vials, and tubes.
Yet, what truly caught my attention was the grand, translucent chamber towards the rear. Suspended within was a figure. A woman, her face serene and her form appearing almost ethereal. Long, blonde hair floated around her as if she were underwater, and her attire seemed old-world, out of place with the advanced machinery surrounding her. It was a hauntingly beautiful sight.
"I see you're awake," came a soft voice, tinged with steel and a hint of a threat. Startled, I turned to find a tall figure emerging from the shadows. My senses were truly off from the battle if the man could sneak up on me. His skin was an unnatural shade of pale, almost blending in with the icy walls, and he wore a suit of cold blue, complete with glasses that obscured his eyes. The man's demeanor seemed, for a lack of better words, cold, much like everything else in the chamber.
"You," I started, trying to form a coherent question amidst my confusion, "Who are you? Where am I?"
The pale man watched me for a moment before answering, and in that silence, the weight of his gaze was palpable. But more than any answer he could provide, my primary concern was understanding this place and my role within it.
My senses were on high alert, each one amplified by the sheer unfamiliarity of my surroundings. The room was colder than any I'd ever been in, the frigid air prickling my skin and making my breath fog up before my eyes. Every sound echoed in the emptiness — the low hum of machinery, the occasional drip of water, and the steady breathing of the pale man in front of me.
The pale man began to speak, but the words were incomprehensible — the syllables unfamiliar, the rhythm different from anything I recognized. His voice was deep, tinged with an underlying note of caution. I tried to focus on his face, to discern some hint of his intentions through his expressions, but his gaze was as cold and inscrutable as the room around us.
Seeing my evident confusion, he paused, seeming to weigh his next move carefully. Then, he tried another language. It was stilted, rough around the edges, but I recognized it as an attempt at another language. Still I did not understand. I shook my head at him and tried speaking.
"Do you know this language?"
He frowned for a moment before speaking in another dialect. It was odd, like hearing a child butcher basic grammar, but I could make out his words.
"You... understand?" He enunciated each word slowly, with evident effort.
I nodded, "Yes."
There was a flicker of something in his eyes — relief, perhaps, but it was quickly veiled by that ever-present caution.
"Who are you?" I managed to ask. My voice was weaker than I liked, a raspy whisper in the cold.
The man hesitated for a moment, his gaze darting to a glass chamber in the corner of the room. Inside, a woman lay suspended, her serene expression contrasting starkly with the turbulent emotions I sensed in the man beside me.
"Dr. Victor Fries," he finally responded, his voice revealing nothing of his thoughts.
I processed the name, letting it settle. This man was similar to one I had known before. The chilling memories of Orochimaru's lair, of experiments, and of the constant shroud of death and despair came flooding back. Fries's surroundings evoked those memories, but as I observed the man more intently, I began to see stark differences.
While Orochimaru wore his malice and ambition proudly, this man seemed consumed by profound sorrow. His sanctuary, cold as it was, didn't emanate the same oppressive dread. Still, caution was paramount.
Sensing my distraction, Fries took a cautious step back. "You... safe here," he said in his rough approximation of my language. The sentence was fragmented, but the meaning was clear.
Still, his wary demeanor told me that he wasn't entirely sure of that himself. I understood his caution. After all, he had taken in a complete stranger — one he'd found injured and vulnerable. I might represent a threat, especially if the brief memory I'd recalled was anything to go by.
For a moment, we simply observed each other. His guardedness mirrored my own, two strangers in a frozen wasteland of a room, trying to make sense of an unexpected encounter. As the silence stretched on, I was acutely aware of my own vulnerability, of the slow but persistent beat of my heart, and the dull ache of my wounds.
"Clothes? Sword?" I asked suspiciously. The man tilted his head and gestured towards a corner of the room. My chokuto and pouch full of kunai rested against a steel wall. The man spoke again, "Clothes destroyed."
I nodded. Made sense. We stared at each other silently for several long moments. Something about this man was dangerous, but I could not tell what.
Then, as if reaching a silent agreement, Fries turned away. "Rest," he said, the single word heavy with unspoken meanings. And as my eyelids grew heavy, and the cold seemed to envelop me, I realized that for now, I had no choice but to do just that.
Over the next few days, a cautious rhythm formed between Dr. Victor Fries and me. Even with our language barriers, we managed to find ways of communicating — through broken sentences, gestures, and extended silences. Although I began to trust him, a lingering wariness remained. A part of me wondered if this trust was a weakness. Was I making yet another mistake?
The cold was ever-present, seeping into my bones, my very being. Sometimes, when the chill was too much, I'd catch myself reflecting upon my past, the memories of my family and the decisions I had made. The frigid environment seemed to amplify those memories, making them even more haunting.
But in those moments of quiet reflection, my thoughts didn't only linger on my past. They were constantly drifting back to that intense battle beneath the temple, to the mysterious, powerful figure I had fought. And the even more perplexing realization that I was now in a world entirely foreign to me. The architecture, the technology, the language — everything was different. It was disorienting and unsettling.
I had nearly had a panic attack when this became clear to me, but had schooled my emotions after several moments. The Rinnegan was a powerful tool capable of space-time ninjutsu. Perhaps I was merely in the future, shot forward in time. Or perhaps I truly was in another dimension similar to Obito's Kamui ability. Ultimately, it mattered little. I did not know how to replicate the technique. It had been an act done during pure panic in the face of death. I would have to fully recover my chakra before I began experimenting. Though for that matter…I was in no hurry to return to my world.
One evening, the lantern's dim light casting flickering shadows, Fries adjusted some machinery connected to a glass chamber. Inside, a woman seemed in an eternal, quiet slumber. I watched him, noting the tenderness in his actions, the intensity of his focus. His actions, the care he showed, stirred something within me. Memories of my family, particularly Itachi, flooded back.
"You care for her deeply," I found myself observing, my voice barely above a whisper, still struggling with English.
He stopped, turning his piercing gaze on me. "She's my wife, Nora." The weight of his emotions was evident in every syllable.
There was a pause, one filled with understanding. Two souls, scarred by decisions and bound by past tragedies, sharing a silent moment of camaraderie.
Eventually, I gestured to the chamber, urging him to share more.
"An illness," he murmured, eyes fixed on her serene face. "I've tried to cure her. Everything I am, everything I have... it's for her."
The intensity of his dedication was palpable. It reminded me of my own obsessive journey for revenge, my relentless quest for power. Our paths were different, yet strikingly parallel.
We were wrapped in a silence once again. This wasn't the uncomfortable quiet of strangers but a shared introspection between two souls who understood loss.
After a while, Fries spoke, his voice soft. "The lengths we go for family..."
I didn't respond verbally, but my thoughts raced. Yes, the lengths... Memories of my clan, of Itachi, swirled in my mind. My own actions, driven by vengeance and pain, weighed heavily on me.
Seeing my distant expression, Fries tilted his head slightly. "Regret is a powerful thing."
Once again, I stayed silent, but internally, I agreed. My own regrets felt like shackles, binding and unyielding.
"We live with our choices," he said after a while, his voice echoing in the cold. "Whether savior or sinner, hero or villain, the line blurs."
The weight of his words settled over us, punctuated only by the machinery's soft hum. In that cold room, with our shared burdens, the distinctions between right and wrong, past and present, seemed less clear than ever.
Over the next several days, I could feel my strength returning as my body felt close to being healed. The renewed flow of chakra within me felt like a comforting old friend after days of feeling eerily incomplete. Every fiber of my being seemed to hum with an energy I had desperately missed. But with this resurgence of strength came a restlessness, a hunger to explore and understand where fate had brought me.
Venturing out of the cold confines of Fries' lair, I was met with an immediate gust of humid, urban air. The place bore a stark contrast to anything I had ever witnessed. There was an underlying aura of bleakness, a grim pall that seemed to shroud the city.
Before I could step further into the sprawling labyrinth of Gotham's streets, a voice echoed behind me. "Be cautious," Fries intoned, his voice carrying a gravity I couldn't ignore.
I nodded in response, my own instincts reinforcing his warning.
As I walked, the sheer magnitude of the towering structures overwhelmed me. They reached upwards, lost amidst the fog and dim light, as if they were trying to touch a heaven that had long since abandoned this place. Bright neon signs, in languages I was still grappling with, flickered erratically, casting an eerie glow over the grimy streets. The streets were littered with garbage, with people shrouded in tattered clothes occasionally sifting through them, their faces marked with desperation.
The hustle and bustle were almost deafening — cars honking, distant sirens, muffled conversations, and the occasional scream or shout that no one seemed to pay much heed to. It was organized chaos. Yet, amidst all this, a troubling realization dawned upon me: the very essence of this world, despite its superficial differences, bore an uncanny resemblance to the hidden shinobi villages. Power dynamics, the vulnerable trampled underfoot, and shadows lurking in every corner.
My senses, trained and honed from years of shinobi life, picked up on hushed transactions in alleyways, on the quick hand exchanges and the menacing glares. Crime, it appeared, was as much a part of Gotham's identity as its impressive skyscrapers.
Suddenly, a scream cut through the cacophony, followed by a chilling laughter. It wasn't a laugh borne out of joy but rather one that echoed madness. I turned to the source, spotting a group of garishly dressed men. Their faces painted white with exaggerated smiles and green hair, they had cornered a woman, her fear palpable even from a distance.
My hand twitched instinctively towards the kunai pouch I usually wore, only to grasp air. I had none of my usual weapons. A foolish mistake on my part. But I didn't need them. Not for the likes of these thugs.
In an instant, I was there, interposing myself between the woman and her would-be attackers. Even without uttering a word, my stance, my aura spoke volumes. I didn't need to speak their language for them to understand the warning in my eyes.
Without giving it a second thought, my Sharingan flared to life, the distinct tomoe spinning as I attempted to ensnare their minds in a genjutsu. An image of their worst fears would deter them, I believed. But a split second later, I felt a growing unease — nothing happened. There was no grip, no chakra pathway to manipulate within them.
Chakra... They don't have it. How?
This was a first. The intrinsic life energy, chakra, which was the very foundation of every jutsu I'd ever cast, seemed non-existent in them. For a brief moment, this realization left me vulnerable, the weight of being in an entirely different realm pressing down on me.
One of the thugs, perhaps interpreting my momentary stillness as weakness, lunged forward with a switchblade glinting menacingly in the dim light. My instincts took over. Dodging swiftly, I grabbed his wrist, redirecting the momentum and throwing him into his comrades. Their raucous laughter had now transformed into grunts of pain and surprise.
Without the option of genjutsu, I resorted to what I knew best: taijutsu. I did not need to resort to ninjutsu. Such thugs were beneath the power even my weakest techniques would bring. Taijutsu would suffice. The elegance and precision of my movements, each strike, and block, were more than enough to handle these street thugs. It was a dance, a lethal one, and they were outmatched.
The last one, seeing his partners groaning on the floor, fear evident in his eyes, decided to run, but not before throwing a crumpled bill towards the terrified woman, perhaps a meager attempt at reparation.
Breathing heavily, I turned off my Sharingan, the familiar red hue dissipating. The woman, clearly shaken, mouthed a word that I was beginning to recognize as 'thank you' and hurriedly disappeared into the night.
As I continued my exploration, the recent encounter weighed heavily on my mind. Genjutsu, one of my most formidable tools, had proven ineffective. This world, devoid of chakra, was new territory, and I was stripped of some of my most trusted abilities.
This place... I need to understand it better, to adapt. I thought, feeling an unfamiliar sense of vulnerability. Gotham's night was far from over, and I had much to learn.
I spent the next few hours observing the underbelly of this place. I utilized the cash the thugs had thrown to purchase myself some food. It seemed food here was quite similar to my home,but with far more variety. I ended up purchasing a meal known as a "Hot Dog." It was quite good. It would be several more hours before I returned to Victor's lair.
The sliding door to the lair hissed open, allowing a blast of cold air to rush out and greet me as I stepped inside. The bluish tinge of the room's lights cast long shadows that seemed to stretch into infinity. Victor Fries was seated at his desk, engrossed in what appeared to be intricate blueprints of some sort.
He looked up as I entered, his glowing red goggles momentarily catching the ambient light. There was a curiosity in his eyes, an unspoken question perhaps. I took the initiative.
"Victor," I began, my voice laced with unease from the night's events, "I need to clarify something.
He nodded slowly, motioning for me to sit across from him. I hesitated, then finally took the proffered seat, placing my hands on the table. The cold metal seemed to echo the chill in the room. I observed him carefully before speaking, "I am not from this world."
His gaze intensified, the icy detachment momentarily replaced by genuine interest. "Go on," he prompted.
"I come from a different place, a different...reality. There, I was a ninja, and we used something called chakra. It's a life force that many of us harness for abilities." I swallowed hard, thinking back to my fruitless attempt to use the Sharingan's genjutsu on the muggers. "When I tried to use my abilities here, they didn't work as expected. The people of this city, they don't seem to have chakra."
Dr. Freeze leaned forward, resting his chin on interlaced fingers. "Your language, while similar to Japanese, is modified in ways I've never heard of. It did make me wonder if you hailed from somewhere...unfamiliar. As for this chakra, we have nothing of the sort here. Tell me more about it."
I took a deep breath, diving into an explanation that was once second nature to me. "Every living being in my world has chakra. It's a mix of physical and spiritual energy, which we can mold and shape to perform various techniques. The Sharingan in my eyes, for instance, allows me to cast illusions, copy techniques, and see movements faster than most. Yet...here," I hesitated, the vulnerability of my situation pressing on me, "it seems ineffective."
Dr. Freeze listened intently, his eyes never wavering from mine. When I finished, he leaned back, mulling over my words. After a heavy pause, he finally spoke. "This world, Sasuke, is unlike yours. We do not have 'chakra' as you described. However, that doesn't mean this place lacks extraordinary abilities."
He paused for emphasis, perhaps gauging my reaction, "There are those among us with powers, both heroes and villains. They don't draw from an internal force like your chakra. Instead, their abilities are often the result of genetics, experiments, or other unexplained phenomena."
Intrigued, I pressed, "Like who?"
A faint smile played on his lips. "There's Superman, the last son of Krypton, an alien world far beyond this planet. He possesses strength, speed, and abilities far beyond any normal human. Then there's the Flash, who can run faster than the speed of light, and Wonder Woman, an Amazonian warrior with strength and agility. And that's just to name a few."
I tried to process this information, to understand the dynamics of this world's powers. "And they are...?"
Dr. Freeze interjected, "Heroes. Protectors of this world. They've recently formed an organization, a union of sorts, called the Justice League. Their objective is to counteract threats that one hero alone might not be able to handle. It is a necessary, but somewhat unfortunate organization as my chief nemesis, the one who would foil my plans to save Nora, counts himself among their members."
I frowned, "And who is this?"
"The Batman."
xxxxxx
Deep beneath the sprawling estate of Wayne Manor, in a cavern as ancient as Gotham itself, stood a monument to vigilance: The Batcave. Stalactites hung low from its ceiling, dripping into the vast abyss below. Screens flickered, each displaying a myriad of data, maps, and surveillance feeds, all connected to the city above. In the midst of it all, the Batcomputer stood, a monolith of technology and intelligence.
Bruce Wayne, or as Gotham's underbelly feared him, The Batman, stood stoically in front of the colossal screens. His cape draped behind him, blending into the shadows of the cave. The Kunai he'd retrieved from the warehouse was clamped securely in a metallic vice. Scanners buzzed around it, capturing every minuscule detail, every molecular structure.
"The metallurgy doesn't match anything we've seen in Gotham," Bruce murmured, reading the results displayed in real-time. "This isn't just a street weapon. It's something more...alien."
From a distance, the soft clicking of shoes echoed. Alfred Pennyworth, his loyal butler and confidant, approached, holding a tablet that displayed various stats. "Master Bruce," he began, his tone carrying a hint of concern. "While I understand this knife demands our attention, there's something else you should see."
Bruce didn't look up but nodded for Alfred to continue.
"There's been a noticeable increase in gang violence over the past week," Alfred swiped through various graphs and news headlines on the tablet. "It seems that with Mr. Dent's sudden absence from the underworld scene, various factions are attempting to fill the power vacuum."
Bruce sighed deeply. "Harvey," he murmured, turning away from the computer, his eyes distant. "I remember when we campaigned together for a better Gotham. He had such a vision, such hope. And then, everything changed."
Alfred watched him closely, offering a soft, empathetic voice. "You did everything you could, Master Bruce. The city, its corruption, it...changed him. And in the end, he made his choices."
"Yes, but at what cost?" Bruce's gaze was piercing, haunted by past decisions. "Had I been there for him more, could it have turned out differently? Could Harvey have been saved from becoming Two-Face?"
Alfred stepped closer, resting a reassuring hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Regret is a burdensome weight, sir. You've saved this city countless times, but you're only human. You can't save everyone."
Bruce looked down at the Kunai still under analysis. "This weapon," he pointed, "is from somewhere else. Its design, craftsmanship, even the material—it's all foreign. And it's tied to Harvey's killer."
Alfred's brows furrowed. "You believe there's a new player in Gotham?"
Bruce nodded slowly, determination settling in. "And I'm going to find out who they are."
Gotham's skyline was a serrated edge against the inky horizon, its buildings lit with the sickly yellow of street lamps and neon signs. Shadows moved furtively in the back alleys, whispers of illicit dealings filled the night. But tonight, those shadows held a more imposing figure. The Batman, silhouette sharp against the dim moonlight, stalked the rooftops. Every leap, every landing was precise, a testament to his intense training and singular focus. But tonight, there was a rawness in his movements, an edge that Gotham's underworld would soon feel.
A scream echoed below, snapping The Batman's attention to a narrow alley. Three thugs surrounded a terrified civilian, their intentions clear. Without hesitation, The Batman descended upon them. His cape billowed as he landed, creating a dark vortex that seemed to swallow him whole before he emerged from it.
The first thug barely had time to register the shadowy figure before a powerful fist sent him sprawling. The second, pulling out a knife, lunged. The Batman sidestepped, used the man's momentum against him, and sent him crashing into a pile of trash cans. The third, wide-eyed, dropped his weapon and tried to flee. But he wasn't fast enough. With a swift movement, The Batman ensnared him with a grapnel, pulling him back.
"Talk," Batman growled, lifting the thug off the ground with one hand, his voice an octave deeper, more threatening. "I'm looking for information on Two-Face. What do you know?"
The thug's bravado had vanished. "I don't know nothin' about Dent, I swear!"
The Batman's grip tightened. "I'm not in the mood for games."
A voice, weak with fear, piped up from behind them. It was the second thug, nursing a bruised jaw. "There's talk... about some new guy. Took out some of Joker's men."
The Batman turned his gaze to him. "Describe him."
"Strange lookin'. Red and purple eyes. Moved like... like nothing they'd ever seen. Rumor has it he's not from around here," the thug spat blood as he spoke.
The Batman's eyes narrowed. "Where can I find him?"
The thug hesitated, weighing his options, then blurted, "Don't know! But it happened down by the docks. Look for Cherry Booker! She's the hooker the dude saved."
Releasing the first thug, The Batman nodded. "You'd better hope you're telling the truth." With that, he vanished into the shadows, leaving behind a trio of battered men and a story they'd tell for years.
As The Batman moved through the night, his thoughts raced. A foreign player with unfamiliar abilities in Gotham was dangerous. The Batman's thoughts whirled as he navigated the labyrinthine streets of Gotham. The news of this new player caused his mind to turn towards the offer from the League. He remembered the conversation vividly.
It had been on the Watchtower, the League's new orbital base. Diana had been the one to broach the subject, her expression earnest. "Bruce, Gotham is your city, we respect that. But with the increasing threats, maybe it's time you let the League help."
Flash had chimed in, his voice light, trying to add levity to a tense situation. "Come on, Bats, think of it! Superman and I can clean up the streets in a flash!"
The Batman had given him a sidelong glance. "That's the problem, Barry."
He remembered looking out from the Watchtower, seeing the Earth below. Gotham was just a tiny speck from up there, but to Bruce, it was the world. His world. A delicate ecosystem of crime and justice. Introducing superpowers into that mix? It was a recipe for chaos.
His thoughts drifted to Metropolis, its skyline forever altered after Superman's battles. Towers toppled, streets upended. It had been a war zone. Clark Kent, Superman, was a good man. Bruce knew that. More than that, Clark was a friend. But the sort of enemies he drew? They were of a different caliber, a global, sometimes cosmic, threat. Gotham was fragile, built on a knife-edge of balance. If one of Superman's foes decided to focus on Gotham, the city wouldn't stand a chance.
Escalation. It was a term Bruce was all too familiar with. When he had first donned the cowl, the criminals had been simpler, their methods crude. But as The Batman had evolved, so had they. If superpowers entered the equation, what monstrosities would rise up to challenge them?
"Thank you for the offer," he had replied to the League, his voice resolute. "But Gotham remains my responsibility."
Diana had nodded, a hint of sadness in her eyes. "Very well, Bruce. But know that we're here if you need us."
And now, with the arrival of this new player, with strange abilities, The Batman could not help but wonder if he'd soon have to reconsider that decision. But for now, he remained resolute. Gotham was his to protect. No matter the cost. He continues to make his way towards the docks district.
Not more than an hour later, he finds himself in a room that smells of smoke and some dirty needles cover the floor. From a shadowy corner of the room, The Batman observes Cherry. The dim lamplight highlights the exhaustion on her face, a testament to the life she leads. She's young, probably not too far into her twenties, but the city's hardships have aged her beyond her years.
The Batman's trained eyes sweep the room. He notes the worn-out makeup on the dresser, the stray cigarette butts in an ashtray, and the faint scars on her arms. Each detail tells him a story, a glimpse into her life. As she sits on her bed, removing her heels, he chooses that moment to make his presence known.
The gust from the window makes her jump, but she doesn't scream. Brave. When she finally spots him, there's surprise, fear, but also a strange sense of understanding in her eyes. They both know the darker sides of Gotham, after all.
"What do you want?" Her voice quivers slightly, but it holds.
"I need information," The Batman replies, his voice a modulated growl.
"About what?" she asks, a defensive tone sneaking in.
"The young man who saved you," The Batman says, emphasizing the last part. "The one with the eyes."
She visibly shuddered, recalling the incident. After a moment's hesitation, she spokes, "He wasn't like the others. He's just a kid, probably not even eighteen. Those eyes though... one red, one purple. But when he looked at me, I saw... pain."
The Batman processes this, piecing together the puzzle. A kid took down Harvey? In Gotham, age rarely spared anyone from its clutches, but something about this felt different.
"Did he say anything? Mention a name?" he inquires, searching for leads.
She shakes her head. "No words, just a silent plea. Maybe he's lost. Just like many of us in this city."
The Batman nods, already considering his next move. "If you come across him again, or even hear whispers about him, reach out to the GCPD. Ask for Gordon."
She hesitates for a moment, biting her lip, "Batman... he saved me. He might be different, but he's not... bad. Be gentle with him, okay?"
Batman's eyes soften for a fraction of a second, something few ever witness. He acknowledges her words with a curt nod.
"I'll find the truth," he says simply.
As he heads towards the window, Cherry's soft voice nearly stops him, "Thank you."
He makes his way out into the night.
xxx
Thoughts? Suggestions?