April 20, 2065, 01:15
Batcave, Beneath Wayne Manor, Gotham City
Elias Kane's boots pounded the Batcave's stone floor, his breath ragged as he sprinted from the vault. The cloaked figure's rasping threat "Grave robbers don't get to play hero" echoed in his ears, a venomous hiss that sent chills down his spine. His HUD goggles sparked, their night-vision feed fritzing as the cave's red alarms strobed, casting jagged shadows across dormant consoles and the tattered Robin suit in its cracked glass case.
He slid behind a rusted Batcycle, its frame cold and slick with condensation, and peeked over the handlebars. The vault, where he'd glimpsed the Batsuit's black armor, had sealed shut with a hydraulic groan, its lock glowing red. The Bruce Wayne hologram had vanished, but its warning lingered: The cave sees all. Elias's pulse thundered whatever that figure was, it moved like a predator, and he was the prey.
A metallic clank reverberated from the cave's upper levels. Elias bolted, weaving through stalagmites, his gear clattering against his patched jacket. He vaulted over a fallen chair, its legs snapping under his weight, and reached the spiral staircase. His boots skidded on the rusted steps as he climbed, the air growing colder with each frantic step. A dart whizzed past, grazing his ear, and embedded in the wall with a dull thunk. Poisoned, no doubt he could smell the acrid tang.
Elias didn't look back, leaping over the railing into Wayne Manor's crumbling hallways. The storm outside roared, rain lashing through shattered windows, soaking the cracked marble floor. He sprinted through a dust-choked library, dodging toppled shelves, their books spilling like broken wings. Behind a splintered oak desk, he caught his breath, his datapad buzzing with the smuggler's map. A service tunnel nearby his only escape. But his goggles pinged: a heat signature, closing fast. The figure was hunting him, a shadow moving with lethal grace. Elias gripped his graphene lockpick, his knuckles white, and whispered, "Not today, ghost."
August 15, 2035, 02:47
Gotham Central Bank, Financial District
Damian Wayne, 21 and hardened by five years as Batman, soared through Gotham's rain-slicked skyline, his grapple gun's whine slicing the night. The Gotham Central Bank below burned, flames roaring from shattered windows, their orange glow clashing with the city's neon veins. The Riddler's latest game a heist masked by a citywide blackout had spiraled into chaos, and Enforcer drones buzzed like vultures, their spotlights slashing the dark.
Damian landed on the bank's roof, his enhanced Batsuit humming with tech: shock-resistant plating, neural-linked HUD, and a cape that billowed like a storm cloud. Tim Drake, Red Robin, was already there, his fingers dancing over a security panel, hacking its circuits. "Took you long enough," Tim growled, his voice tight with pain from a prior injury. The Batfamily was fraying Dick in Blüdhaven, Barbara running Oracle remotely, Jason a rogue killer. Damian felt the cracks in his bones.
"Move," Damian snapped, kicking through a skylight in a shower of glass. They dropped into the vault level, landing in a crouch as sparks rained around them. Riddler's goons scrambled below, rigging explosives to the safe. Damian launched into motion, a blur of black and steel. He tackled a thug, slamming him into a crate, then spun, hurling Batarangs that disarmed two more in a flash of silver. Gunfire erupted, bullets pinging off his suit as he rolled, coming up behind another goon and snapping his wrist with a brutal twist.
Tim grappled a shooter, shouting, "Damian, ease up!" But Damian was a whirlwind, his League training unleashed. A stray bullet grazed Tim's shoulder, and Damian's vision went red. He charged the shooter, slamming him against the vault door, his fists a relentless storm crack, crack, crack until Tim yanked him back. "Enough!" Tim roared, blood seeping through his suit. "You're losing it!"
The fight spiraled explosives detonated, the vault erupting in a fireball. Damian shielded Tim, debris raining as they swung out through a shattered window. Sirens wailed below as the Riddler escaped, his laughter echoing over the chaos. Back in the Batcave, Tim shoved Damian against a console, his face pale. "You're not Bruce, and you're sure as hell not Ra's. Get it together, or you'll bury us all." Damian's chest heaved, the Batsuit's weight heavier than ever. He stared at his bloodied gauntlets, Talia's words whispering in his mind: Join your grandfather.
April 20, 2065, 01:28
Service Tunnels, Beneath Wayne Manor
Elias crawled through a rusted service tunnel, the air thick with mildew and the stench of decay. His datapad's faint glow lit graffiti-scarred walls, crude tags left by squatters who'd braved the manor's ruins. The tunnel led to an old sewer line his escape route. Behind him, the heat signature had vanished, but Elias's nerves screamed. That figure moved like a nightmare, and he wasn't safe yet.
The tunnel tightened, forcing him to his knees, his jacket scraping against jagged metal. He paused, catching his breath, and noticed a loose panel. Prying it open with his lockpick, he found a dusty holo-disc, its Wayne Enterprises logo glinting faintly. Elias pocketed it, his scavenger instincts kicking in if he survived, this could be his jackpot.
A low hum vibrated the tunnel, and Elias froze. His goggles flared, detecting micro-drones tiny, wasp-like machines with red lenses and buzzing blades. They swarmed, their stingers slashing at his arms. Elias yelped, swinging his datapad, smashing one into the wall with a spark. Another sliced his jacket, drawing blood, before a voice crackled through their speakers: "You can't outrun the past, Kane."
Elias scrambled forward, the drones' buzz fading as he burst into the sewer, splashing through ankle-deep filth. He ran, the tunnel's walls dripping with slime, until he emerged into Gotham's outskirts. Dawn's gray light filtered through the storm, but Elias's hands shook. That voice knew his name first the hologram, now this. He clutched the holo-disc, his lifeline, and kept moving, the city's neon glow a beacon in the distance.
March 22, 2040, 23:12
League of Shadows Stronghold, Himalayan Mountains
Damian, now 26, knelt on a stone floor in a torchlit chamber, the League of Shadows' stronghold a fortress carved into the Himalayas' icy peaks. The air was thin, sharp with the scent of incense and steel. Ra's al Ghul stood before him, ageless and commanding, his green eyes glinting like a serpent's. Ten years as Batman had saved Gotham from collapse Joker's final rampage, a Two-Face coup but the city had bled Damian dry, its rot seeping into his soul. The Batfamily was gone, scattered or dead, and the cowl had become a noose.
"You've seen the truth, Damian," Ra's intoned, his voice a low rumble. "Gotham is a cancer. Join me, and we will cleanse the world."
Damian's hands trembled, his cape pooling around him like spilled ink. Bruce's code never kill, never surrender clashed with the League's ruthless pragmatism. Talia stepped forward, her silk cloak whispering against the stone, her gaze both proud and cold. "You are my heir," she said, "but you must choose your destiny."
Damian rose, his movements deliberate, and met Ra's's stare. He'd stopped short of murder as Batman, but his methods had darkened, alienating even Oracle. The League offered power, a chance to reshape the world. That night, he shed the Batsuit, leaving it in the Batcave, and donned the League's armor a sleek, black tunic with emerald accents. As he followed Ra's through the stronghold's winding halls, the torches flickered, casting shadows that danced like specters of his past.
April 21, 2065, 06:03
Neon Bazaar, Old Gotham Slums
Elias slumped in a grimy booth at the Neon Bazaar, Gotham's black-market heart, the air thick with the scent of fried circuits and cheap synth-alcohol. Around him, smugglers haggled over Kryptonian relics, their voices drowned by the thumping bass of a nearby club. His arm throbbed, bandaged from the drone cuts, but the holo-disc in his pocket burned hotter. He needed answers before he could sell it or run.
Zara Voss, a fixer with a cybernetic eye glowing red, slid into the booth, her leather coat creaking. "You look like death warmed over, Kane," she said, tossing him a stim-patch. "What's worth dragging me out at dawn?"
Elias pushed the holo-disc across the table, its surface catching the neon glow. "Found this in Wayne Manor. There's more tech, maybe the Batsuit. But something's guarding it. I need intel."
Zara's eye whirred, scanning the disc. "Wayne tech, pre-2050. Nasty stuff. Word is, the manor's cursed scavengers go in, don't come out." She leaned closer, her voice a hiss. "But there's a shadow in Gotham. Not Enforcers, not gangs. Something older, meaner."
Elias's stomach churned. The figure from the cave? He paid Zara for a decryption key, her warning trailing him as he left: "Whatever you're chasing, it's already got your scent." He slipped into the crowd, dodging a drone hawking holo-ads, and headed for his safehouse, the holo-disc a ticking bomb in his hand.
March 23, 2040, 03:30
Batcave, Beneath Wayne Manor
Damian returned to the Batcave one last time before joining the League, his boots echoing in the hollow space. The cave felt empty without Alfred, who'd retired years ago, or the Batfamily's chatter. He stood before the Batsuit's pedestal, its cape draped like a shroud, the air heavy with memories. Oracle 2.0, the cave's AI, flickered to life, its voice a synthetic echo of Barbara Gordon. "You're abandoning him, Damian. Bruce believed in you."
Damian's jaw clenched, his hands tightening on the League's blade at his hip. "Bruce was wrong. Gotham's a disease, and I'm done playing doctor." He uploaded a final command, locking the cave's systems to deter scavengers, but he couldn't destroy it. The Batsuit, the cave it was all that remained of his father.
As he turned to leave, Oracle 2.0's voice followed, soft and haunting: "You'll return. The Batman always does." Damian paused, then swung his grapple gun, soaring up the cave's platform. The lights dimmed, the cave sealing behind him, a tomb for the hero he'd never become.
April 21, 2065, 09:47
Elias's Safehouse, Burnley District, Gotham City
Elias's safehouse was a cramped loft above a chop shop, its walls plastered with maps of Gotham's ruins and scavenged tech. He plugged the holo-disc into a jury-rigged projector, Zara's decryption key unlocking its secrets. The image flared to life: Bruce Wayne, younger but gaunt, his eyes sharp with urgency, recording a message.
"March 2029," Bruce said, his voice a low growl. "If you're seeing this, I'm gone. The Court of Owls is moving they've infiltrated Wayne Enterprises, the GCPD. I've hidden contingencies in the cave: Oracle 2.0, the suit, Project Trinity. Trust no one, not even the family. The truth is in the manor."
The recording cut off, leaving Elias reeling. The Court of Owls a myth, a secret society thought extinct. And Bruce's death in 2030, a heart attack? Lies. His datapad pinged, detecting a signal from the manor the cave's systems were reactivating, broadcasting a distress call. Elias's hands shook. He'd stirred something bigger than relics, and now the past was clawing its way out.
April 21, 2065, 10:22
Burnley District Streets, Gotham City
Elias stepped into Burnley's rain-slicked streets, heading for a tech dealer to analyze the distress signal. He didn't see the cloaked figure until a grapple line snared his legs, yanking him into an alley. He hit the pavement hard, rolling as a blade flashed overhead, slicing through a neon sign with a shower of sparks.
The figure from the cave loomed, its face hidden by a tactical mask, voice modulated but chilling: "You took something that doesn't belong to you." Elias scrambled up, swinging his lockpick like a dagger, but the figure parried with a flick of its wrist, disarming him. It moved like a shadow, fluid and deadly, pinning Elias against a dumpster with a forearm to his throat.
"Who are you?" Elias gasped, kicking at the figure's knee. It didn't flinch, but Enforcer drones buzzed overhead, their lights flooding the alley. The figure vanished, melting into the shadows, leaving Elias gasping. He clutched the holo-disc, its weight a promise and a threat. The Batman's secrets were alive and someone would kill to keep them buried.