Chapter 94: Brother
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With Alfred having left for the main universe, there was no one trustworthy left around Night Owl. As a result, the force he relied on to rule Gotham consisted entirely of unmanned war machines—tanks, drones, and automated helicopters—all connected through the Owl Computer Network. Night Owl alone held the highest-level clearance, granting him full control over this mechanized army.
Facing an army devoid of human emotion or hesitation, Dean finally had the chance to go all out. Tapping into the power of the Omnitrix, he selected one of his most effective transformations—Upgrade. The living techno-organic alien bonded with his body, and in that form, Dean's power was tailor-made to dominate low-intelligence machines.
These lifeless weapons weren't capable of adapting or learning from their mistakes—and even if they did manage to land a hit, Upgrade's abilities allowed Dean to instantly regenerate or switch to a fresh possession. Two hundred tanks? That just meant two hundred extra lives for him.
His only concern was the Omnitrix's time limit. If he failed to eliminate every tank before the transformation wore off, he'd have no choice but to draw Hoshikudaki—the Rainbow Swordsman—and start hacking his way through steel and fire.
Upgrade had one clear weakness: he couldn't override machines connected to high-level AI systems. If a machine was hardwired into the Owl Computer's central intelligence, full control would be out of reach.
But such elite programming was reserved for Night Owl's private systems. The mass-produced tanks deployed across Gotham weren't built with that kind of budget or concern—they were expendable pawns.
As the smoke cleared, Penguin and Harvey Dent emerged from the sewer tunnels. The street before them was littered with the smoldering husks of tanks and shattered drones. Metal still hissed from residual heat. For most people, the sight would be overwhelming. But not for these two. They'd both seen their share of war, power, and collapse. The only thing they felt was a sense of validation.
If Dean truly was the one prophesied to save this world, then this level of devastation was merely par for the course.
Penguin immediately took to organizing the remaining rebel troops, ordering them to fall in behind the broken frontlines. Meanwhile, Dean moved calmly toward the last helicopter he had downed. The metal chassis groaned under its own weight, its rotors twisted and sparking, the barrel of its gun hanging limp.
The green stripe on Upgrade's face pulsed with energy.
"There's one left," he muttered.
"No! Please—wait, don't!" a voice cried out.
Trapped beneath the bent wreckage of the main rotor assembly was Commissioner Gordon. Bloodied but conscious, he raised his hands as best he could. "Night Owl forced me! He has my daughter—Barbara—under surveillance. If I didn't follow orders, he said she'd disappear. I never wanted this!"
He coughed, feigning weakness, his voice shaking. "Damn Night Owl… He's a monster… I swear, one day I'll see him behind bars…"
As the words spilled out, trying desperately to gain sympathy, Dean simply narrowed his eyes. With a flick of his hand, a laser beam surged from Upgrade's chest, carving a clean path through the tank Gordon had been trapped under. The alien matter that made up Upgrade's form retracted and flowed back into the Omnitrix, returning Dean to his human state.
"I wasn't talking about Night Owl," Dean said coldly. "I was talking about you, Commissioner Gordon."
He stepped forward, his boots crunching over glass and shell casings, and looked down at the Earth-3 version of a man he once respected deeply in his own universe.
"You're not going back alive, Gordon. Even if I let you walk, Night Owl would make sure your corpse is hung in the streets before dawn. So why keep groveling? You may as well die with some spine."
Gordon's lip twitched. He wanted to say something clever—some biting retort—but survival instinct kicked in first. "You misunderstand. Lord Night Owl won't concern himself with this skirmish," he snapped, his fear folding back into arrogance.
Dean tilted his head, quietly impressed at the speed of Gordon's transformation—from cowardly traitor to loyal sycophant in under five seconds. The Gordon from his own world would have rather died than betray his principles.
But this Gordon was a creature of power politics, a villain who used cunning and flattery to climb the ranks. In many ways, he was more dangerous than Night Owl himself.
But Dean didn't end him. Instead, he calmly pulled a pair of reinforced handcuffs from his belt.
"James Gordon," he said with quiet authority, "you are under arrest."
If this had been the same Dean who first stepped into this dystopian Gotham, he might have executed Gordon on the spot. But time had changed him. He now understood that true justice wasn't about vengeance—it was about law. Real law. And to destroy evil at the roots, the law had to be resurrected, its authority restored. Batman hadn't been feared just because he was a shadow in the night—he was respected because he believed the law could change things. That's why Bruce Wayne had once placed all his hope in Harvey Dent.
And here on Earth-3, there was no twisted coin-flipping criminal. There was only the Bright Knight. A man who had endured impossible hardships but remained unbroken. A man who still stood for something.
Dean made a silent vow: No matter what it takes, I will bring Harvey Dent back to the main universe. Alive.
After cuffing Gordon, Dean turned his attention to the downed chopper. Something wasn't right. He noticed there was no body in the cockpit. The seat was empty. His eyes sharpened.
"Commissioner Gordon," he said slowly, "You weren't the only one on this helicopter."
Bang!
A sudden gunshot rang out—but instead of piercing flesh, it collided with an invisible barrier and ricocheted off harmlessly. The bullet bounced off Dean's psionic telepathy shield, slamming into the metal hull of the helicopter with a deafening clang. My
He pivoted sharply, zeroing in on the pilot who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. The man stood calmly amid the wreckage, his presence oddly composed despite the chaos.
Dean squinted. "Let me guess… you're the Night Owl."
The man didn't answer at first. Instead, he began to strip off his oversized bomber jacket, the thick fabric sliding from his frame to reveal sleek, obsidian-black armor beneath—intricate, layered, and high-tech, laced with subtle blue circuitry that pulsed faintly with life. He reached up and pulled a matte-black owl-shaped cowl over his face. The lenses clicked into place, glowing faintly.
"You guessed it," he said.
And then, without a word of warning, his armored fist came crashing forward like a piston. Dean barely managed to cross his forearms in time to block the blow. The impact sent him skidding back across the concrete, boots grinding against the pavement as momentum forced him into a crouched landing.
He winced slightly, rubbing the point of impact on his forearm. "Alright," he admitted. "That one actually stung."
The look of confusion behind Night Owl's mask was subtle, but unmistakable.
This armor wasn't just a costume. It wasn't even like Bruce Wayne's traditional Batsuit. This was an enhanced exosuit powered by kinetic amplification and compact energy cores—designed to crush bones, shatter walls, and turn even the strongest men into paste with a single punch. At max output, it could go toe-to-toe with powerhouses. Against an ordinary human, it would've embedded them into a concrete wall.
But this man—Dean—only flinched.
He's not normal, Night Owl thought. Maybe not even human.
Dean grinned slightly, sensing the hesitation. "Starting a fight just because someone shows up uninvited? Not even going to ask who I am?" His tone was light, almost sarcastic, but beneath the façade, he was expanding his telekinetic field, casting a wide mental net to detect any reinforcements or hidden traps. He had no idea how far Night Owl's paranoia extended.
But if Night Owl was anything like the Batman of Dean's Earth, then Gotham was his sovereign domain. No outsiders, no exceptions. Not even fellow Syndicate members would interfere here.
Night Owl lunged again, armor humming with energy. "I'll snap one of your legs first," he said coolly, "just to make sure you don't run off before I get answers."
From Night Owl's perspective, Dean looked like a speedster—fast, unorthodox, unpredictable. His aggression was understandable.
But Dean wasn't about to be outmatched. With one swift motion, he drew the Changhong Sword from the sheath across his back. The blade pulsed with ancient light as it met armor.
CLANG!
The tip sliced clean through half of Night Owl's forearm plating, sparks bursting as the armor's layered alloy tore like paper.
Dean stepped back casually, sword at the ready. "Nice answer," he quipped. "But your flexibility needs work… brother."
Night Owl froze.
"Brother?" His voice was sharp, guarded. "You're calling me that? What—are you claiming to be Bruce?"
Dean didn't blink. He stood tall, his grip loose but confident on the sword hilt behind his shoulder. His eyes burned with intensity, the street's firelight dancing in their reflection. "That's right," he said. "Bruce Wayne. Brother Thomas."
Night Owl—Thomas Wayne—stared for a moment, as if genuinely trying to calculate whether he was being mocked or mind-gamed. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched with disdain.
"You're a Chinese. And you expect me to believe you're Bruce? Are you trying to piss me off?"
Dean's expression didn't change. "What's so hard to believe? From where I stand, you're the one who looks wrong. A white man in Gotham? In my world, that'd be the real anomaly."
Thomas fell into a moment of silence.
And for the first time, he couldn't immediately rebut the logic. He had no Alfred in this world, no true multiverse database to draw from. As far as he knew, anything could be true. Maybe in another Gotham—on another Earth—Bruce Wayne had a different face, a different origin, a different culture.
Maybe Gotham belonged to China in that world.
"Infinite Earths," Dean said, his voice softening as he leaned into the role. "Endless possibilities, Thomas. Like me seeing you again… The last time we met was when I sealed you in a concrete pillar and watched it sink into the Atlantic."
Thomas didn't rise to the bait. His brain was moving too fast, running simulations, analyzing every piece of information Dean had given him.
"So in your universe," he said at last, "you beat me." His tone didn't suggest bitterness—only evaluation. "But I'm not that version of Thomas Wayne. I'm stronger. And I don't lose to trash."
As if on cue, an Owl fighter jet shrieked from the clouds above and opened fire.
The air ripped apart as machine gun fire thundered down. Dean's telepathic barrier took the first wave, holding briefly—but the barrage was too dense. He couldn't maintain the shield while staying mobile.
So he dropped the chicken charm's passive defense and surged forward instead, gripping the Changhong Sword tightly.
"When man and blade become one… we are invincible!"
In a flash of radiant crimson, Dean hurled himself skyward, slicing straight through the storm of bullets. His form blurred, merging with the blade's energy. The night sky lit up as the sword's arc cleaved the jet clean in two.
BOOM!
The fighter split apart and fell on either side of Dean as he landed, the fireball exploding behind him like a myth brought to life. Smoke billowed upward, casting long shadows across his frame. He stood tall amidst the wreckage, calm, resolute, ethereal.
A sword god descended into Gotham.
Thomas couldn't help it. He stared. "You learned that while traveling the world?"
Dean casually sheathed the Changhong Sword across his back. "Of course," he said with an easy smirk. "It was passed down to me by my master."
Thomas narrowed his eyes.
He wasn't buying it—not the story, not the flair, and definitely not the name.
This man might've known Bruce Wayne. Hell, he might even be someone from a world where Bruce was different.
But this wasn't Bruce.
Not his Bruce.
And whatever this man's real identity was, Thomas Wayne—Night Owl—was going to tear it out of him.
---
Dean had done it on purpose.
He understood the kind of man Thomas Wayne—this universe's Night Owl—truly was. With a mind sharpened by trauma and paranoia, Night Owl wouldn't trust anyone, not even his own reflection. No amount of proof would convince him of Dean's authenticity. In fact, the more plausible the story, the more suspicious he'd become.
So Dean fed him an obviously fake identity. Something that wouldn't hold up under scrutiny—but just barely enough to make him second-guess himself. That seed of doubt was more valuable than the truth.
High above Gotham, in one of the many encrypted networks operated by the Crime Syndicate, a message buzzed through Night Owl's cowl interface.
[From: Johnny Quick]
[Saw your fight. Night Owl, looks like your "brother" is too much for you. Want backup?]
Typical Speedmaster. All speed, no tact. He was buying the whole "Bruce and Thomas" brother angle like it was gospel.
[I'll handle my own affairs. Stay in your lane and mind your jurisdiction.]
His pride wouldn't allow him to accept help—not yet. More importantly, the fight was at a stalemate, and he knew it. Dean wasn't running, and he wasn't pressing the attack either.
That meant there was room to talk.
"You want to keep things between us?" Thomas finally said aloud. "Then come with me. Somewhere less… exposed."
Dean gave a small shrug. "Lead the way."
Truthfully, he had no better options. Ever since the resistance was driven underground, intel on the war against the Anti-Monitor had become hard to come by. Dean's goal—finding his mother—was tangled up with the past. And the only lead he had left… was Cindy, one of the Syndicate's criminals.
If he wanted answers, he had to start digging through the filth. And Night Owl, for all his menace, might be the only one willing to talk before shooting.
Unlike the other Crime Syndicate members, Thomas wasn't entirely evil. He was a tyrant, yes, but his focus remained squarely on Gotham. As long as the crime stayed outside city limits, he didn't lift a finger. But within Gotham?
(T/N: I don't know if author really knows the plot)
He was absolute.
And he had no mercy. That was the key difference between him and the Bruce Wayne Dean had known. Batman had rules. Night Owl had results.
He didn't maim. He executed. Two guns. Two shots. No witnesses.
His crimefighting was surgical—and brutal.
He also didn't trust Johnny Quick, despite being Syndicate "allies." In fact, Night Owl had far more contingency plans than the Batman of Earth-Prime. His lead-lined safe houses, his surveillance webs, his anti-metahuman tech—it was all proof of a man who expected betrayal from everyone.
Their destination was one of those safe houses. Technically a wine cellar, but reinforced like a war bunker.
Inside, it was cool and dimly lit, with the faint scent of oak and copper in the air. Thomas moved with quiet precision, selecting a bottle of aged red wine from a rack and pouring it into a long-stemmed glass. He held it out to Dean.
Dean glanced at it, then casually pulled a bottle of Coke from his inventory, the plastic crinkling as he twisted the cap.
"No offense," he said, "I don't drink."
He'd even torn the label off the bottle, just in case. Night Owl didn't need to know where it came from.
Thomas tilted his head, mildly impressed. "Most people would've taken it to be polite."
Dean shrugged and sipped from the Coke, burping loud enough to break the tension. "Hiccup~ Sorry. Carbonation."
But Thomas was already analyzing.
He didn't drink the wine… because he thought it might be poisoned. That means poison works on him.
That was valuable intel. Dangerous, too.
Dean could feel the man calculating. He kept his expression neutral.
Night Owl swirled his wine. "This bottle? Worth about two grand. A dictator from some forgotten country once gave it to me—hoping the Syndicate would spare his family."
Dean raised a brow. "Let me guess… didn't work out?"
Thomas's face didn't change. "No. I didn't kill them, though. Someone else in the Syndicate did. I just took the wine cellar."
He leaned against the counter, sipping calmly.
"But the truth is," he continued, "that country doesn't even exist anymore. Wasn't the Syndicate who wiped it out. It was the Anti-Monitor. He erased nearly everything—flattened entire nations. He killed millions. Including their neighbors."
He set the glass down, watching Dean closely.
"In the end, we defeated him. Saved over three billion lives. So tell me, Bruce… do you think that makes us criminals?"
"Do you know Amanda?" he asked coldly. "Back in our world, people like you don't get medals. They get collars. Thrown into Task Force X and sent to die for the government."
He let the words hang heavy in the air.
The Suicide Squad.
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