Now, the night is his. George Wayne, the Batman, moves like a shadow across Gotham's underbelly. A week of hell. A week of pain. A week of learning. The Reading System hums in his viens—a constant river of information. Every punch thrown at him, every bullet he evades, each criminal technique: all absorbed. Processed. Mastered.
"You're getting cocky, kid," The Darkest Knight's voice rumbled in his mind.
Batman pays no heed. He sits perched on a gargoyle, watching a drug deal go down. Five thugs. All armed and dangerous. Child's play.
They play out as he descends, vengeance personified. The first thug goes down even before he understands what hit him. The second fires wildly. Batman reads the trajectory, moves way before the trigger's pulled. It's a dance of violence. Brutal. Efficient.
"Behind you!" The Darkest Knight warns.
Batman spins. Catches the knife inches from his face. Twists. The thug screams as his wrist snaps.
Sirens wail in the distance. GCPD. Once a threat. Now an inconvenience.
"Time to go, Bat-boy," The Darkest Knight cackles.
Batman grapples to the rooftops. The cops arrive, guns drawn. But he's already gone. A ghost in the night.
He lands on a neighboring building, watching the chaos below. Detective Bullock, red-faced and furious, bellows orders.
"Find that freak! I want him in cuffs by sunrise!"
Batman smiled beneath the cowl. Seven days ago, those words would have sent a chill down his spine. Now? They were almost… funny.
"Don't get too comfortable," The Darkest Knight cautions. "Pride comes before the fall."
"I know my limits," bleats Batman in return.
He spins, and the cape flutters. The city, sprawling and stretched. His city. His problem.
The fear's still there. The adrenaline still courses through him. But now… now it fuels him. Drives him.
He leaps into the void. Batman. Another night. Another fight. The legend grows. Gotham trembles. And George Wayne, the boy who died, fades further into memory.
* * *
Cameras click. Strobe light against the Gotham skyline. George Wayne stands at six feet something, his frame imposing, making the tiny reporter before him seem even smaller. Lois Lane can only be described as all sharp eyes, probing—microphone used like a weapon.
"Mr. Wayne, your last donations to Gotham's underprivileged youth have people say they raised anything between few and several eyebrows. Is it another billionaire's last-ditch shot at good PR? Your comment?"
George's laugh is practiced, perfect. A mask as good as the one he wears at night. "Ms. Lane, if helping kids is good PR, then I'll take all the publicity I can get."
Lois doesn't smile. Her pen taps against her notepad, impatient. "And what about the rumors of a vigilante terrorizing Gotham's criminal underworld? Any thoughts on this… Batman?"
But then, for just a moment, a darkness beneath showed through. Something primal fluttering beneath the facade fluttered across his face. Whispered the voice of the Darkest Knight in his mind: "Careful, kid. She's sharper than she looks."
George broke off, recovered halfway through his sentence, and let the smile return. "Every city's got their share of urban legends, Ms. Lane. I'm more concerned with real problems. Poverty. Corruption. Things we can change in the light of day."
The interview carries on, a dance of questions and carefully crafted answers. But things have shifted. The air crackles with tension. Lois leans forward; her perfume is a subtle intoxicant. Her questions grow less pointed, more personal.
When the cameras clicked off, Lois held back. "You're not what I expected, Mr. Wayne," she said, her voice low.
He feels the pull, the heat. The Darkest Knight's laughter echoes in his skull. "Go on, kid. You've earned it. One night of fun won't kill you."
He knows better. He's read the stories, lived the life. Batman doesn't get the girl. Batman doesn't get to be happy. But George Wayne isn't just Batman, is he?
"Call me George," he says, his voice husky. "And maybe we could continue this conversation over dinner?"
Lois smiles, a predator's grin. "I thought you'd never ask."
The night unfolds in a blur of expensive wine and shared laughter. The penthouse suite at the Gotham Royal feels like another world. Far from the grime and violence of the streets below.
Clothes drop off skin, the skin meets the skin, and George forgets. He forgets the cave waiting below; he forgets the city that needs him; he forgets the price of his crusade.
In the afterglow, Lois sleeps. George stares at the ceiling, the full weight of his choices pressing on him. The Darkest Knight's voice may be silent, but George can still hear its disapproval.
A siren wails in the distance. Gotham calls.
George heaved a deep sigh and rose. Duty called. The suit was black and grey and unforgiving. Pulling on its cowl, the Darkest Knight glanced back at Lois.
"This can't happen again," he muttered.
The Darkest Knight finally speaks, its voice dripping in sarcasm. "Sure, kid. Keep telling yourself that."
Batman steps out into the night, leaving George Wayne behind. The city stretches before him, a jungle of concrete and sin. His city. His burden.
One night of weakness. One moment of humanity. That's all he'll allow himself. From now on, there's only the mission. Only Batman. At least that's what he keeps telling himself.
Batman couldn't shake an extremely simple feeling, swinging between buildings: something was really off, that somehow a line had been crossed. Hopefully a lesson learned.
The night was charged, the air electric, with tension—a little unforgiving—as was the city. It pulsed, its underbelly, with hatred, ignorant of the inner demons that gnawed at the man behind the mask. But the streets didn't give a flying damn about George Wayne's personal hell. They only knew the Bat.
And the Bat had a job to do.
He rose from the very darkness of the city and appeared on the edge of a dilapidated skyscraper. His towering figure, torn against the neon-strafed horizon, perched on a weathered gargoyle, imbued with all the animation as though the stone he sat upon were part of his avenging soul. His every muscle was taut with the pent-up energy of a predator about to strike.
The belt was yellow, almost shiny, like a warning; a slash of deadly promise against the night-black armor. Not a suit of Kevlar and leather, but a second skin forged in rage and purpose. Seemed like the shadows clung to him, as even the darkness of Gotham recognized its master.
"Damn, kid. You really stepped in it this time," the voice of The Darkest Knight echoed in his skull.
George just grunted, his chiseled jaw clenching. "Shut it. I don't need your commentary."
His mind wandered back to Lois Lane, her scent still clinging to his skin. He'd tasted her, claimed her in ways Superman never could. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
"Playing with fire, Georgie-boy," the voice cackled. "Changing the timeline. Big no-no."
George's narrowed eyes beheld the vast mystery behind the cowl. "Maybe it needs changing."
The comm in his ear came alive with a crackle. Through the dark of the night, a voice cut like a knife in the form of Alfred's crisp British accent. "Master Wayne, a situation at the docks. Apparently, Penguin's men are unloading a shipment of… unusual cargo."
"On it," George growled, his voice the rumble of thunder.
He launched from the edge of the rooftop, cape billowing out behind him like wings of darkness. The Reading System strobed through his brain, mapping the cityscape, playing out trajectories. He glided between buildings, a dark god of vengeance.
On the docks, Penguin's goons scurried for cover like roaches. George hit concrete hard, the surface cracking beneath his boots. "Evening, boys," he growled. "Mind if I crash the party?"
Gunfire erupted. George became liquid shadow, dodging bullets, breaking bones. Symphonies of violence, brutal and exact, each punch, every kick sent to the Reading System, absorbed and streamlining technique with each blow.
When dust settled, George stood amidst the groaning bodies. He walked over to a shipping container and tore the doors off their hinges. Inside it were row after row of cryogenic pods, each holding a sleeping meta-human.
"Well, well," the voice in his head purred. "Looks like Cobblepot's been busy."
George tapped his comm. "Alfred, get Gordon down here. We've got a situation."
As the wails of sirens began to reach the scene, George grappled away, disappearing into the night. His mind drifted back to Lois, to the way she'd gasped his name in the dark.
"You're in deep, kid," the voice warned. "This ain't some comic book anymore."
George landed on the roof. The outline of his stirring figure shone in the light of the moon. "No, it is better," he agreed, voice low.
He pulled out the phone, hesitated a moment before dialing Lois's number. With this, he braced himself to be able to face whatever was coming.
"Lane," came the abrupt answer.
"Lois," George purred, voice sliding like silk, "got a story for you. Penguin's moving meta-humans. Docks. One hour."
"And why should I believe you, Mr. Wayne?" Lois's voice practically oozed doubt.
George chuckled and fell into his Batman growl. "Because I said so."
The sharp intake of breath on the other end was satisfying. "I'll be there."
George finished the call with a broad smirk on his lips. The voice in his head cackled. "Playing with fire again, kid."
An hour later, Lois's heels clicked on the concrete at the docks. From the shadows, George emerged, his imposing figure causing her to catch a breath.
"Ms. Lane," he rumbled, "so glad you could make it."
Her eyes narrowed. "Cut the act, George. I know it's you under that cowl."
George's jaw clenched. "Dangerous accusation."
His heartbeat picked up when Lois took another step closer, smelling so sweet. "Dangerous game you're playing."
Her eyes met his, and spark flew between them, igniting the lit tinder of tension. With one hand, Lois brushed the emblem on his chest. "Nice suit. Tailored?"
That's about all he could stand. Snaring Lois close, George jerked her towards him. "You don't know what you're messing with."
Lois's breath was caught. "Show me."
Their lips smashed readily together, raw and full of need. Inside George's head, the voice crowed, "That's it, kid.
The Gotham night applied them, its body entwined with the shadows of the docks. George's huge frame dwarfed Lois, his muscles rippling beneath the suit. They broke apart, breathless, eyes locked in silent understanding.
"So," Lois husked out. "This is what the Dark Knight does in his spare time."
George's jaw tightened. "Dangerous game you're playing, Ms. Lane."
"I like danger." Lois traced the bat emblem on his chest with a finger again. "And I like what's underneath even more."
That voice in his mind cackled. "She's got you by the balls, kid."
George growled, low and menacing. "This doesn't change anything."
"Doesn't it? I know who you are, George Wayne. I know what you do." Lois's voice was challenging.
There was a silence between them, heavy with ink-stained truths. George's mind raced. The flashing Reading System analyzed Lois's body language, her expressions.
"And what will you do with this new knowledge?" he asked finally, his voice rough as gravel.
The softness in her eyes could fall. "The same way I've always done it. Report the truth. But some truths… some truths are better left unwritten."
With great relief, George felt his features remain staid. "Smart woman."
"Smart enough to know the world needs Batman," Lois replied. "And smart enough to know when to keep a secret."
George nodded, once. The unspoken agreement hung in the air between them, as solid as any contract.
"Now," Lois said, her tone shifting. "About that story you promised me."
George's lips quirked in a half-smile. "All business, Ms. Lane?"
"Always," she shot back, but her eyes sparkled with something more.
At the back of his mind, the voice chuckled when they talked about Penguin's meta-human trafficking ring. "You're in deep, kid. But, you know, maybe that's not so bad."
George just turned from him, however, balanced on the desk and listening to Lois, the works of her mind, the fervor in her eyes as she fleshed out the story. In this Gotham, in this reality, all bets were off. Batman had another to call on among the press—the rest was yet to be defined.
* * *
George Wayne was a towering, insistent presence in the shadows of the Batcave, mirroring the screens of the Batcomputer—blinking and flashing. The voice in his head came on with a whisper: "Alone again, kid. Just like old times."
George's eyes had narrowed down to focus on the monitor replaying Lois Lane leaving Gotham: "She'll be back," he growled, more to himself than to the voice.
The sound of bats shrieked within the cave, the dripping of water echoed hollow at this distance. George spun, his cape whirling about him, striding over to the display of suits. He ran a gloved hand over the chest emblem, the yellow outline shining in the poor light.
"Playing dress-up won't make you a hero," the voice goaded.
It clenched George's jaw. "Shut it. I've got work to do."
He moved to the Batcomputer, fingers flying over the keys. Crime reports, police scanner chatter, and underworld rumors flooded the screens. George's eyes darted from one to the next, his mind racing.
"Superman's out there somewhere," he muttered. "Probably fumbling with his powers like a kid with new toys."
The voice chuckled. "And you think you're ready for him? For the League?"
George slammed his fist onto the console. "I will be. I have to be."
He stood, towering over the keyboard. At sixteen, he was already a mountain of muscle and determination. The Reading System flashed in his mind, analyzing patterns, predicting outcomes.
"Years," George growled. "It'll be years before they show up. If they show up at all."
He passed the Batmobile, running his hand along the sleek lines. "Until then, Gotham's mine. My city. My rules."
The voice in the back of the man's mind cackled. "Big words for a brat playing at make-pretend."
George's eyes flashed hot with anger. "I'm not pretending. I'm Batman."
Back in the Batmobile, he cranked up the engine. All kinds of possible scenarios were racing through George's head as he peeled out from the cave onto the Gotham night: Superman; the Justice League; all theory, all hypotheticals. But Gotham was real, and it needed him now.
* * *
The alleyway stank of piss and rottenness. George Wayne, this world's Batman, towered over the crumpled form of a would-be rapist. Blood dripped from his gloved knuckles, each drop a testament to the rage barely contained beneath his cowl.
"Please… don't." the scumbag whimpered, trying to inch away.
George's boot came down hard on the man's hand, crushing bone. A scream pierced the night.
"Shut up," George growled, his voice a guttural rasp. "You don't get to beg. Not after what you tried to do."
In his mind, the voice cackled. "Finish him, kid. Make him an example."
George's fist clenched. For a moment, just a heartbeat, he saw himself doing it. Snapping the bastard's neck. Making sure he'd never hurt anyone again.
Something stopped him. Not decency. Not some high code he lived by. Just... disgust.
"You ain't worth it," George huffed, and made one last kick that laid the rapist out cold.
He turned to his victim, a girl, hunched back, against the wall, eyes wide in terror and awe.
"It's okay…" he said, his voice soft now. "Go home and be safe."
She ran off into the night.
George grabbed onto a nearby ledge, his huge figure dark against the sickly yellow sky of Gotham. The voice chuckled in his head.
"You could've ended him, you know. No one would've blamed you."
George's jaw clenched. "I don't need your permission to kill, old man. I do what's necessary. Nothing more."
"And that, kid, is what makes you dangerous. You're not bound by rules. You're free."
As sirens wailed in the distance, George considered this truth. He wasn't the Batman from the comics he'd read in another life. He was something else. Something more primal. More adaptable.
"Necessary," he muttered, tasting the word. "Yeah. I can work with that."
He fell through the night, a grim sentinel teetering on the verge between justice and vengeance. The city of Gotham trembled from its very foundation, knowing that a savior stood in that dark place—a savior unlike anything else.
This wasn't a Batman who couldn't kill. He was simply a Batman who didn't. Not generally, at least. And in that choice, in that awful freedom, he was different from—all previous capes.