"Metron."
"Bruce."
Batman tensed, his hands clenching unconsciously. He never believed his underground stronghold was impenetrable—he was too pragmatic for that—but he hadn't expected this visitor.
Metron, the most intelligent of the New Gods, sat before him. A being with little allegiance to his pantheon, obsessed with knowledge above all else. That alone made him dangerous.
But Metron wasn't just a genius. He was a genius with the powers of a god.
"I heard you were dead."
When Dr. Manhattan himself decides someone's fate, death tends to be final. And yet, here Metron sat—on the very device Batman had stolen from him. The Mobius Chair.
The same theft that had indirectly led to Metron's demise.
Batman needed to understand his intentions fast. If Metron wanted revenge, Batman was at a loss. Countermeasures were his specialty, but he hadn't exactly been carrying Radion around in anticipation of a resurrected New God. And with the Mobius Chair's precognitive abilities, Metron had undoubtedly foreseen this encounter.
Metron smiled. If it was on a human face, he might have mistook it for something threatening, but Batman recognized it as something else—a subtle display of satisfaction, perhaps even amusement.
"I was. Clearly, that changed." Metron's tone was almost playful. "You're worried about my feelings on you causing my death. Don't be. What I have in mind hardly counts as revenge—at least, not in the way you expect."
Batman studied him. Metron was always sharp, always aware of every possible conversational outcome. If his intentions were innocent, he'd be direct. He'd dispel any suspicion immediately.
But he wasn't doing that.
"You are planning something," Batman said. "And it is a form of revenge."
This time, Metron's smile turned truly dangerous.
"You're one of the few people who isn't a total bore to talk to," he mused, leaning forward. "Fast enough on the uptake that I can actually enjoy having precognition."
He paused, his expression shifting, as though working through a puzzle and reaching an elegant solution.
"Across all the conversations I'm having with the different future versions of you, you are, as usual, correct."
Metron drifted closer, his presence looming over Batman.
"I don't mean to harm you or your loved ones. I have no interest in mind games like the lunatics you deal with in Gotham. I have no plan to expose your identity or turn the League against you."
Then, suddenly, he leaned in—close enough that their faces nearly touched.
"I plan to do what you did to me."
His glowing eyes reflected Batman's masked face.
"I will separate you from your life's work. Take it. Twist it into something it was never meant to be."
Metron grinned.
"And you, Bruce Wayne, will die trying to take it back."
Batman raised an eyebrow. "The Justice League will catch on long before you accomplish that. Superman. Wonderwoman. The others. They have an annoying habit of seeing through deception."
Metron laughed. Loudly.
"Oh, this is fun. I'd love to drag this out, but my window for this little stunt is closing."
A mechanical gauntlet materialized on his hand.
Before Batman could react, Metron snapped his fingers.
The world blurred. His body swayed. His consciousness slipped.
As darkness claimed him, he saw the inside of a decayed, abandoned building.
Then—nothing.
"Damian? You awake, bud?"
The voice was unmistakable—Dick Grayson.
…
"He's still playing possum," Barbara Gordon giggled. "It's safe, kid. You can wake up."
…
No response.
…
"Tim, wanna wake him up?" Dick sighed.
"I'd be honored."
Light footsteps approached—stealthy but not quite practiced enough to go unnoticed. Air shifted. They were going for his face.
Springing to action, Damian Wayne kicked at the incoming hand. His attacker's hand narrowly dodged. He used the momentum to launch himself into the air, twisting midair to land in a defensive stance, one hand instinctively reaching for his batarangs—
Shit. He'd gotten too comfortable. He wasn't in his League of Assassins days anymore; he didn't keep weapons on him when he slept at the Manor. What a great time to break that habit.
"Hey, calm down, little man. No one's trying to get you," Tim Drake chuckled.
Damian, now fully alert, scanned his surroundings. The warehouse was old, rundown, mostly empty. Moonlight trickled through gaps in the rusted ceiling. In front of him stood Red Robin—Tim Drake—or at least an illusion of him.
He risked a glance toward the other voices. Nightwing and Oracle. Barbara was sitting on the ground, against one of the rusted metal pillars. Not in her wheelchair. Nightwing, suited up but a scuffed jaw, leaned against the same pillar.
They looked smug. Amused. Definitely them.
Damian exhaled sharply, pointing at each of them in turn.
"Shut up."
Nightwing grinned. Damian hated that grin.
"You thought you were kidnapped?" Tim asked.
"I went to bed in a secure, windowless room with a comfortable mattress and woke up on cold cement in an unfamiliar location. What would you assume?" Damian shot back, straightening his posture as if he hadn't just been caught off guard.
"And when we spoke?" Barbara tilted her head. Her tone was gentler than the others, but the small smirk at the edge of her lips was still there.
"Illusions. Or mental games designed to lower my guard."
"You're too paranoid," Tim teased.
"I'm not paranoid. I'm cautious. If you were a villain and I trusted you, I could've been injured."
"If I was a villain, why would I wait for you to wake up?"
"Should I rely on people like the Joker to employ common sense?"
…
"Touché," Tim admitted.
Damian brushed imaginary dust from his sleeve. "Why are we here?"
"Batman told us to stay," Dick answered.
"This isn't a training exercise. Oracle doesn't attend group training anymore, and you wouldn't show up looking like you just lost a fight." Damian narrowed his eyes at Nightwing, who rubbed his bruised jaw.
"I never said it was training."
"He was already here when I woke up," Barbara added. "Then Jason woke up."
"Jason was here?" Damian frowned. "Where is he?"
"Gone," Tim replied, nodding toward Dick's injury. "He and Dick got into it. I woke up halfway through and caught the tail end of the argument. Jason left. Batman returned soon after and went after him."
"I take it I woke up shortly after that?"
"Nah, you were out for a while. How long, Babs?"
"Eleven minutes, thirty-five seconds."
"See? We didn't want to disturb your beauty sleep."
Damian ignored Tim. He was about to ask another question when something caught his attention—a faint rustling sound just outside the warehouse. His head snapped toward the noise. The others tensed, following his lead.
"Someone's here," he whispered.
A pause. Then—soft footsteps.
"It's me."
Batman's voice carried through the narrow steel doorway just before he stepped into the light. His cape trailed behind him, his silhouette swallowed in shadows. To most, his expression would seem impassive. But to them, the tension in his posture was clear. His encounter with Jason hadn't gone well.
His gaze flicked between them, assessing for injuries beyond Dick's jaw. A silent moment passed before he exhaled and, for the first time, allowed himself to sit. Not his usual composed movement—just a fraction slower, betraying the weight of whatever was on his mind.
"I'm glad you're all safe," he said, raising a hand before any of them could interrupt with concern.
"I need you to know that I'm fine. Everything is fine," he repeated, then hesitated. "We're just… in a predicament regarding our location. We're not in Gotham anymore."
Barbara's brow furrowed. "We're also not in Metropolis, New York, or Washington D.C. Either." She caught the others' questioning looks and elaborated, "I keep an up-to-date mental list of abandoned places like this in those areas. This place isn't on it."
Batman nodded. "We're in Japan. Or, at least, we should be." He pulled a crumpled piece of litter from his belt. "The signage and packaging in the area all point to Japan. It's not just aesthetic—it's authentic."
Tim crossed his arms. "So? You and Dick speak Japanese fluently. We'll figure it out."
"I'm not finished." Batman tossed a device to Tim.
Tim flipped it over, pressed a button. Shook it. Pressed another. His frown deepened.
"This is working, right?"
Dick leaned in. "That a GPS?"
Batman nodded. "It runs on the Justice League's satellite network."
Barbara caught it when Tim tossed it to her. A moment later, her face darkened.
"The signal's gone," she said. "It's like the Watchtower itself doesn't exist."
Silence. Then—
"Does that mean…?"
"Yes," Batman confirmed. "We've either been displaced in time to a point where the Watchtower doesn't exist… or we're on another Earth."
The weight of that realization settled over them. Batman let them process before rising to his feet, steel returning to his posture.
"I have some things to tell you."
As he recounted the events leading to their arrival, understanding, shock, and unease spread across their faces. Damian, to his credit, remained composed. Mostly.
"What's the plan?" he asked when Batman finished.
"We secure necessities before anything else," Batman said.
"Like our gear?"
"No. More basic. Food, clothing, shelter. In a city, those all require the same thing."
"Money," Dick supplied.
"Exactly. My accounts likely don't exist here, so we'll need to find alternative methods."
Barbara nodded. "I also need a wheelchair. And we need intel—laws, politics, culture. If this is another Earth, things could be drastically different."
"Agreed," Batman said. "There's also the matter of the three others who arrived with us. Two left before I woke up. Jason was the third."
"Do we track them down?"
"No. Jason made it clear he wanted nothing to do with us. The other two are skilled—they'll find us if they need help."
A long silence settled before Tim broke it.
"So… what first?"