Here's something they don't teach you in Rich Kid 101: when you spend your nights dressed as a giant bat punching criminals in the face, the universe develops what psychologists would politely call "a twisted sense of humor." Most people worry about taxes, traffic jams, and whether their Netflix subscription is worth it. Bruce Wayne worried about psychotic clowns, genetically enhanced wrestlers, and—apparently—being buried alive by said wrestlers in his own family cemetery.
Because Bane, it turned out, had minored in Psychological Warfare with a concentration in Really Messed Up Irony at Whatever Horrible Place Produces Steroid-Enhanced Maniacs University.
The first thing Bruce noticed when consciousness decided to drop by for an unwelcome visit was that he was definitely not in the Batcave. The second thing he noticed was that he was lying in what his concussed brain immediately identified as a coffin. Not just any coffin—this was the Rolls-Royce of eternal resting places. Mahogany that probably cost more than most people's houses. Brass fittings that could have funded a small country's education budget. Silk lining in midnight blue that matched his favorite cape.
Even when someone was trying to kill him, apparently his subconscious maintained standards about interior decorating.
The darkness pressed against him like that one friend who doesn't understand personal space, except this friend was trying to suffocate him. Every breath felt like trying to inhale pudding through a straw. His ribs were having what could only be described as a really loud argument with the rest of his body, suggesting that Bane had used his chest cavity for percussion practice before the whole "premature burial" thing.
Now, most rational human beings in this situation would have immediately started what psychologists call "completely losing their minds." There would be screaming, frantic clawing at wood, hyperventilating until they passed out—the whole panic-induced death spiral that generally ended with becoming a permanent resident of wherever they'd been buried.
Bruce Wayne, however, had stopped being rational the night his parents were murdered in Crime Alley. Also, he'd been trained by Giovanni Zatara, a paranoid Italian stage magician who believed the solution to every problem in life was "more practice escaping from death traps."
So instead of panicking like a normal person, Bruce lay perfectly still in his premium coffin and thought: *Well. This is inconvenient.*
Then: *Giovanni owes me twenty bucks. He said I'd never actually need the buried-alive training.*
The old magician had put Bruce through every claustrophobic nightmare imaginable during his training years in Europe. Water tanks that locked from the outside. Boxes buried in sand. Straitjackets underwater. Getting buried in snow, dirt, and what Giovanni cheerfully called "miscellaneous substances that will build character and probably give you nightmares."
All while Giovanni stood over him with a stopwatch, taking notes like he was grading a particularly deadly exam, occasionally offering helpful commentary like "You are dying too slowly" and "In Italy, we would have escaped by now, probably while looking fashionable."
*"Panico è morte, Bruce,"* Giovanni's accented voice echoed in his memory. *"Panic is death. You breathe like you have all the time in the world, even when the world is trying very hard to kill you. Also, stop slouching. Posture is important, even when suffocating."*
So Bruce breathed. Slow, controlled, meditative breaths that would have impressed a Tibetan monk and definitely would have made Alfred proud. Each exhale was measured like he was conducting a symphony orchestra instead of trying not to die in a box. Each inhale was calculated to maximize oxygen efficiency while his analytical mind—the same one that could calculate trajectory angles while being thrown off buildings—began cataloguing his situation with the thoroughness of a very obsessive accountant who happened to specialize in death traps.
**Current Status Assessment:**
- Coffin: Premium mahogany with brass fittings. Bane clearly had expensive taste in where he buried his enemies. This thing probably cost more than Bruce's first three cars combined.
- Structural integrity: Compromised due to what appeared to be impact damage. There were stress fractures along the left side panel. Shoddy burial work, really. Bruce was disappointed in the craftsmanship.
- Burial depth: Approximately six point seven feet, based on soil pressure differential and temperature readings. Standard cemetery depth. How boringly traditional.
- Air supply: Four minutes of oxygen remaining at current breathing rate. Two minutes if he did something stupid like panic. Thirty seconds if he started hyperventilating like an amateur.
- Chances of survival: Significantly higher than his last quarterly board meeting with Lucius Fox, which had involved pie charts and PowerPoint presentations and was therefore technically a form of psychological torture.
- Overall assessment: Tuesday was definitely going on the "Worst Days Ever" list, right between "The Day Joker Filled the Batcave with Pudding" and "The Day Alfred Found Out About the Secret Taco Bell Receipts."
His utility belt was still intact—praise whatever deity watched over obsessively prepared vigilantes with trust issues and way too much money. The belt had survived explosions, acid baths, and that unfortunate incident with the giant mechanical penguin that nobody talked about anymore because it was embarrassing for everyone involved.
More importantly, the pendant was still there. Bruce found the small obsidian disk in its hidden compartment, his fingers tracing the faint crimson sigil etched into its surface. The thing hummed against his gloved fingertip like a cat with separation anxiety, which was either comforting or deeply concerning. Bruce hadn't decided which yet, but he was leaning toward "concerning" because most of his magical artifacts fell into that category.
Three quick presses. The universal "I'm probably about to die horribly, please bring snacks and excessive firepower" signal he'd worked out with Eidolon back when they'd first started their interdimensional bromance.
Somewhere across the multiverse, in whatever ridiculously expensive mansion his British friend currently called home, Eidolon would feel that magical ping and hopefully remember he had responsibilities that didn't involve his ever-expanding collection of interdimensional girlfriends. The man had a tendency to get distracted by pretty faces and interesting apocalypses, which was understandable but also really inconvenient when you were suffocating in a box.
But Batman didn't sit around waiting to be rescued like some damsel in a very expensive coffin. That was rule number one in the unofficial Vigilante Handbook, right after "Always carry more explosives than you think you need" and "Never trust anyone who wears purple for non-ironic reasons."
Besides, this was personal. Bane had made it personal when he'd decided to bury Bruce Wayne in the Wayne family plot. There was psychological warfare, and then there was just being a complete psychopath about it.
Bruce shifted as much as the narrow confines allowed, which wasn't much—coffins, it turned out, were not designed with "dramatic escapes" in mind. He drew his knees up to his chest and planted both armored boots against the foot of the coffin. The angle was terrible, the leverage was worse, but he'd worked with less. Like that time he'd escaped from a car trunk while handcuffed, blindfolded, and suffering from what Alfred had medically termed "a concussion of heroic proportions."
He drove both feet forward with surgical precision, targeting the stress fractures he'd identified during his initial "wow, I'm buried alive, how about that" assessment. The impact sent shockwaves up his legs and made his already-abused ribs sing opera in several different keys, none of them pleasant.
Nothing. Not even a polite creak of acknowledgment.
*Right. Apparently when you pay premium prices for coffins, you get premium structural integrity. Who knew expensive wood was actually expensive for a reason?*
Bruce reset his position like he was adjusting for a second serve in tennis, except instead of trying to ace his opponent, he was trying to not die in a wooden box. He took another measured breath and adjusted his angle by exactly three degrees, because physics was something he'd learned the hard way—usually while being thrown into walls by various genetically enhanced criminals with poor impulse control.
This time when he kicked, the entire coffin groaned like an old ship in a storm that was having second thoughts about its life choices. The sound was beautiful—the musical note that meant "expensive wood starting to give up on the whole 'keeping people buried' thing."
*That's more like it. Come on, you overpriced piece of mahogany. Let's see what you're really made of.*
Another breath. Another kick. Wood splintered with a sound like breaking bones—which was disturbing but also encouraging, because it meant the coffin was finally getting with the program. A small avalanche of dirt trickled through the newly formed crack, pattering against his cowl like the world's least pleasant rain shower.
Most people would have panicked at the sight of earth falling into their makeshift tomb, because dirt falling into your coffin generally meant things were about to get significantly worse. Bruce just smiled grimly in the darkness, because the smile was important. It reminded him that he was still Bruce Wayne, still Batman, still the guy who'd made the arguably insane decision to dress like a nocturnal flying mammal and punch crime in its stupid face every night for the past seventeen years.
The smile said he wasn't broken. Not yet. Not ever.
"You know, Bane," he growled into the darkness, his voice already dropping into that distinctive gravelly tone that made criminals reconsider their career choices and city commissioners put in for transfers to literally anywhere else, "this isn't even the worst grave I've been in this month."
Which was absolutely true. Just last week he'd been temporarily deceased courtesy of a Lazarus Pit malfunction that had left him technically dead for three hours and seventeen minutes. Alfred had been so annoyed about the whole thing that he'd made Bruce fill out paperwork explaining why he'd died without permission. Apparently even death required proper documentation in the Wayne household.
One more breath. One more kick. This time, he put everything behind it—seventeen years of training with the world's most paranoid mentors, every ounce of rage at being buried like a corpse in his own family's cemetery, every stubborn cell in his body that refused to lie down and die for anyone's convenience, and possibly some leftover frustration from that morning's board meeting where someone had suggested they "pivot to cryptocurrency."
The coffin lid exploded outward in a shower of splinters, brass fittings, and what had probably been very expensive silk lining that was now completely ruined.
Dirt immediately began pouring in like the world's least welcome waterfall—cold, heavy, and tasting distinctly of earthworms and whatever unfortunate things had been buried in Gotham soil over the past century and a half. Most reasonable people might have been concerned about cave-ins, suffocation, or the very real possibility of being crushed under several tons of Gotham's finest cemetery dirt.
Bruce Wayne had stopped being reasonable around the same time he'd decided that "dressing like a bat" was a sound career choice.
He began to dig. Not frantically—panic was still death, Giovanni's disapproving ghost whispered in his memory—but with the methodical, relentless determination of a man who'd made "refusing to give up" into both an art form and a lifestyle choice. One hand up, pushing through the earth like the world's most determined mole, while the other cleared space around his face so he could continue the whole "staying alive" project that had worked out so well for him so far.
His cape was already shredded beyond repair, his cowl cracked like an egg that had been dropped from a significant height, but the suit's reinforced Kevlar fibers held against the abrasive soil. Bruce had spent more money on that suit than most people spent on houses, and it was finally paying dividends in the "not being completely destroyed by dirt" department.
Every inch upward was a victory. Every handful of earth pushed aside was another step away from becoming a permanent resident of Wayne Cemetery's most exclusive underground neighborhood. His lungs burned as the oxygen grew thinner, but he'd held his breath longer during underwater escapes from various death traps designed by people with clearly too much time on their hands. His muscles screamed in protest as tons of earth pressed down from above, but he'd carried heavier loads while scaling Gotham's towers in pursuit of criminals with poor judgment and even worse fashion sense.
He thought about his parents, buried somewhere in this same cemetery under much more peaceful circumstances and probably not having to claw their way through six feet of dirt to get out. He thought about Alfred, probably in the Cave right now, polishing the Batcomputer and wondering why Bruce was late for their evening "make sure Batman isn't actually dead this time" check-in.
He thought about Bane, undoubtedly somewhere in Gotham at this very moment, probably telling his minions about how he'd finally killed the Batman and could they please stop bothering him about their dental coverage because he was trying to enjoy his victory.
*Wrong on all counts, you steroid-enhanced moron. The only thing you've killed tonight is my good mood and a really expensive coffin.*
His gloved hand finally broke through into cold morning air, and Bruce Wayne allowed himself exactly one moment of pure, simple gratitude for the sensation of Gotham's polluted wind against his fingertips. It was still Gotham air—which meant it probably contained at least seventeen different carcinogens and the hopes and dreams of people who'd made really poor life choices—but it was air, and it wasn't inside a coffin, which made it automatically the best air he'd breathed all day.
Then he dug faster, harder, with the desperate efficiency of a man who'd already been dead once this month and found the experience severely overrated.
His head and shoulders emerged from the earth like some kind of apocalyptic jack-in-the-box, dirt cascading from his tattered cape, fog swirling around the broken headstones and twisted trees that made Wayne Cemetery look like the set of every horror movie ever made, except with better landscaping and significantly higher property values.
The pre-dawn light was gray and weak, filtering through Gotham's perpetual cloud cover like divine disappointment made visible. Which was pretty much Gotham's natural state, so at least that was normal.
Bruce pulled himself completely free of his temporary grave and stood among the weathered monuments to Gotham's dead, covered in mud and blood and looking exactly like what he was: a man too stubborn to stay buried, too angry to stay down, and too Batman to die quietly in a box like a reasonable person.
He took a moment to appreciate the cosmic irony. Here he was, standing in the cemetery where his parents rested, where he'd sworn his original oath on their graves all those years ago as a traumatized eight-year-old with more determination than common sense. Bane had probably thought he was being poetic, burying Batman in the Wayne family plot. Like some kind of twisted poetry about how the Wayne family legacy was finally dead and buried.
Instead, he'd just reminded Bruce exactly why he fought this war every single night, no matter how many times he got thrown off buildings, blown up, or apparently buried alive by wrestlers with anger management issues.
For this city. For these people. For the stubborn, probably completely insane idea that Gotham could be saved from itself, one punched criminal at a time.
His comm system crackled to life with a sound like electronic static being tortured by very small, very angry demons with technical difficulties.
"Honestly, Bruce," came a voice smooth as aged whiskey and twice as likely to get you into trouble before breakfast, "I leave you alone for twelve bloody hours and you manage to get yourself buried alive. Do you have any idea how much paperwork resurrection requires these days? The interdimensional bureaucracy is absolutely barbaric. I had to fill out forms in triplicate just to get a permit to rescue you from beyond the grave."
Eidolon. Right on schedule, and already complaining about interdimensional bureaucracy like it was his job.
Bruce straightened to his full height, cape settling around his shoulders like the wings of some vengeful gargoyle with serious anger management issues, and stared toward the cemetery gates where Gotham's skyline brooded in the distance like a city-sized headache that had decided to become architectural.
"Took you long enough," he said into the comm, his voice carrying that particular note of gravelly irritation that meant someone was about to have a very bad day and it probably wasn't going to be him.
"Took me long enough?" Eidolon's voice carried that distinctive note of British indignation that usually preceded something expensive being blown up in the name of justice. "I'll have you know I stopped to handle three different crisis situations on my way here. The Justice League is having what I believe you Americans call 'a bit of a situation' while you were taking your little dirt nap. Someone's going around trying to murder League members, apparently. Tuesday, you know how it is. Can't a fellow enjoy a quiet cup of tea without someone trying to end the world?"
"Eidolon."
"Right, yes. Priorities. Mustn't let the whole 'attempted murder of my brother-in-all-but-name' thing distract from the bigger picture. I don't suppose this impromptu burial was part of some elaborate twelve-step plan you forgot to mention during our last coffee chat? Because if it was, I have some serious concerns about your strategic planning process."
Bruce began walking toward the cemetery gates, each step leaving perfect muddy boot prints on the cracked pavement like a trail of evidence that Batman had been here, had clawed his way out of the earth itself, and was extremely displeased about recent events. Somewhere out there in Gotham's maze of corruption and bad decisions, Bane was waiting. Somewhere out there, the city's criminals thought the Batman was dead and buried and no longer their problem.
They were about to learn the important difference between "buried" and "broken."
"Welcome to Gotham," Bruce said, and even through the static of interdimensional communication, his smile was audible—the kind of smile that made smart criminals suddenly remember they had urgent business in other cities with better weather and fewer vigilantes. "Hope you brought explosives."
"Oh, Bruce," Eidolon's voice carried that particular note of British anticipation that usually preceded something expensive being blown up spectacularly, "you know me so well. I brought enough explosives to level a small country. Or a large building. Possibly both, depending on how this evening goes and whether anyone annoys me before teatime."
Because here's the thing about trying to bury Batman—and this was something Gotham's criminal element never seemed to learn, no matter how many times Bruce demonstrated it with extreme prejudice: You'd better make absolutely, completely, one-hundred-percent sure he stays buried.
Because if he claws his way back up through six feet of dirt, if he stands among the graves with mud in his cape and murder in his eyes, if he rises from the earth itself like some kind of avenging angel with serious anger management issues and a really expensive utility belt...
Well. That's when you remember why they call him the Dark Knight.
And why Gotham's criminals have started keeping night lights on and seriously considering career changes.
—
By the time they reached the Batcave, the only thing darker than the ancient rock walls was Bruce's mood—which, considering he'd just clawed his way out of his own grave like some kind of extremely well-funded zombie, was saying something.
The Batmobile roared into its berth with all the subtle grace of a mechanical dragon having an emotional breakdown. The engine's dying growl echoed through the cavern like the last breath of something very large and very angry, which was pretty much exactly how Bruce felt at the moment.
Eidolon—or Harry, as he'd been known back when they were kids and the biggest threat to their lives had been Martha Wayne's attempts at homemade cookies—followed behind with that irritating magical silence of his. His black dragonhide armor still pulsed faintly with crimson veins, like some kind of really expensive mood ring designed by someone with serious anger management issues. The cloak billowed dramatically behind him despite the complete lack of wind in the cave, because apparently even basic physics bent to Harry's will when he was feeling theatrical.
Which, knowing Harry, was most of the time.
Alfred was already waiting at the foot of the stairs, because Alfred had developed what Bruce suspected was an actual superpower: the ability to appear wherever he was needed most, usually with exactly the right supplies and exactly the right level of British disapproval. Today's equipment included a silver tray balanced perfectly in one hand and enough judgment in his expression to power a small judgmental country.
"Well," Alfred said in that dry, precisely clipped tone that could make seasoned criminals confess their sins and ask for tea, "it seems I need to update the 'Master Bruce's Near-Death Experiences' ledger again. And the dry-cleaning bill. Again. And..." His steely gaze shifted to Harry with the kind of look that suggested he was calculating exactly how much additional work one interdimensional wizard was going to add to his already substantial workload. "...the guest list. Again."
Harry's helmet and hood retracted in a swirl of crimson magic that looked like liquid starlight having an argument with geometry. The face underneath was exactly what you'd expect from someone who'd been Bruce's honorary little brother for the past twenty years: sharp cheekbones, perpetually mischievous expression, and those unsettling emerald eyes that seemed to see straight through whatever BS you were trying to sell him. The eyes were currently glowing faintly, which meant Harry was either amused, annoyed, or about to set something on fire. With Harry, those three states weren't mutually exclusive.
"Good to see you too, Alfie," Harry said, and his voice carried that smooth, cultured British accent that made everything sound either incredibly sophisticated or incredibly dangerous. Sometimes both. He strode forward with the casual confidence of someone who'd probably just saved the world before breakfast and plucked a steaming bowl off Alfred's tray without asking. "Ah. Chicken soup. The true elixir of life, according to Jewish grandmothers and British butlers everywhere. I trust you've made one for me as well? I did just prevent your employer from becoming a permanent resident of Wayne Cemetery, after all."
"Of course, Master Harry," Alfred replied, though his tone suggested that the inclusion of a second bowl was more out of well-trained hospitality than actual affection. "Though I do wish you'd given me more advance notice. I would have prepared something more substantial for someone who's just performed rescue operations. Perhaps a nice roast with Yorkshire pudding."
"Next time I'll schedule my dramatic rescues around your meal planning," Harry said solemnly, then completely ruined the effect by grinning like the troublemaker he'd always been. "Though you know how it is with emergency situations. Very inconsiderate of other people's dinner schedules."
Bruce dropped into the chair at the Batcomputer with a low grunt that expressed his feelings about the day, about being buried alive, about Bane's psychological warfare tactics, and about the universe in general. Alfred, because he was Alfred and therefore practically psychic when it came to Bruce's medical needs, was already fussing over his injuries with the efficiency of someone who'd spent decades patching up a man with a dangerous hobby and poor self-preservation instincts.
Harry had somehow managed to perch himself on the corner of the console like some kind of interdimensional cat who'd decided the expensive computer equipment was the perfect place for a snack break. He spooned soup into his mouth with the kind of serenity that suggested he hadn't just spent the morning pulling Bruce out of a grave and then apparently preventing the systematic murder of the entire Justice League.
"I've already healed you as best I could on the way here," Harry said conversationally between bites, as if magical healing was just something you mentioned in passing, like commenting on the weather. "Your ribs were... let's call it 'creative modern art.' Several pieces of what used to be solid bone were doing their best impression of abstract sculpture. Fixed now, though you'll probably be sore for a few days. Consider it character building. You can thank me later, preferably with something stronger than tea. I'm thinking aged whiskey. The expensive kind."
Bruce's fingers were already dancing across the keyboard with the kind of focused intensity that usually preceded someone having a very bad day. "Status," he growled, his voice dropping into that gravelly Batman register that made criminals reconsider their life choices and city planners wonder why they'd ever approved building permits for places with gargoyles.
Harry didn't even pause in his soup consumption. "Right. The League situation. Someone's been very busy last night, and not in a good way. Attacks on multiple members, all coordinated, all precisely timed, and all clearly using information they shouldn't have had." He held up his free hand and began ticking off incidents on his fingers, crimson sigils flickering faintly around each digit as he spoke. It was probably unconscious magic, the kind Harry did when he was thinking hard or getting angry. Sometimes both.
"Martian Manhunter first. Some creative soul laced his drink with magnesium carbonate—completely harmless to humans, absolutely devastating to Martians—then set him on fire with enough concentrated magnesium to keep him burning like a torch for weeks. J'onn was screaming. I've never heard him scream before. Quite disturbing, really. I doused the flames, but he'll need time to recover from both the physical trauma and what I imagine was a rather psychologically scarring experience."
Alfred made a soft sound of distress. Even after all these years of patching up superheroes, the butler still had a soft spot for J'onn, probably because the Martian was one of the few League members who actually complimented his cooking.
"Wonder Woman was next," Harry continued, his tone growing darker. "Ambushed at the docks while investigating reports of suspicious activity. Nanomachines in her bloodstream—microscopic, nearly undetectable, and programmed to hijack her visual cortex. Made her see everyone as Cheetah. She was about to massacre a crowd of innocent dock workers who had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Savanna held off the actual Cheetah—because of course Barbara Ann was involved in this mess—while I knocked Diana unconscious before her heart or brain could give out from the strain. The nanomachines were designed to kill her if she fought them too long."
Bruce's jaw tightened. Diana was one of the strongest people he knew, both physically and mentally. The idea of her being used as a weapon against innocents was exactly the kind of twisted psychology that made his "no killing" rule very, very difficult to maintain sometimes.
"Flash was simultaneously dealing with his own crisis," Harry said, warming to his subject in the way he always did when he had a captive audience for his stories. "Mirror Master—and honestly, what is it with rogues and their obsession with alliterative names?—had planted a bomb on Barry's wrist. Molecular-level adhesive, impossible to remove without taking the hand with it, and rigged to detonate if the Flash slowed down below Mach 1 or if he tried to phase it off. The blast radius would have taken out half the Eastern seaboard. Barry solved that one himself, clever boy. Phased through the wall of an abandoned lighthouse at exactly the right frequency, left the bomb inside the structure, and kept running. The lighthouse is now a crater, but no one was hurt."
"Resourceful," Alfred murmured approvingly. He'd always liked Barry, probably because the young speedster was one of the few superheroes who still said "please" and "thank you" and occasionally brought flowers for no reason other than politeness.
"Green Lantern's situation was rather more psychological," Harry continued, his expression growing grim. "Sinestro lured Hal into an abandoned mine with reports of trapped miners. Hit him with concentrated fear gas—not Scarecrow's amateur hour toxins, but something custom-designed to target Hal's specific psychological weaknesses. Convinced him he wasn't worthy of the ring, that he'd failed everyone who'd ever counted on him, that the universe would be better off without him. Hal was seconds away from removing the ring and letting himself be buried alive when I arrived. It took some... creative persuasion to talk him down."
The way Harry said "creative persuasion" suggested it had involved magic, probably of the mind-affecting variety. Bruce made a mental note to check on Hal later. The Green Lantern had always been more psychologically fragile than he let on, and fear gas attacks tended to leave lasting effects.
"And Superman..." Harry's voice grew quieter, more serious. "Poor Clark. Someone called in a jumper at the Daily Planet building. Clark responded as Superman, spent twenty minutes talking the man down from the roof, convinced him that life was worth living, that there were people who cared about him. Real inspirational stuff. The kind of thing that makes you believe in humanity again."
"Let me guess," Bruce said grimly. "It wasn't what it seemed."
"The 'jumper' was Metallo in disguise," Harry confirmed. "Soon as Clark got close enough, the bastard shot him point-blank with a kryptonite bullet. Chest wound, nearly took out his heart. I pulled the bullet and threw enough healing magic at him to stabilize the situation, then dismantled Metallo into his component parts. I may have been slightly more thorough than strictly necessary. The bits are scattered across seventeen different dimensions. Some of them are probably still screaming."
The cave fell silent except for the distant sound of bats somewhere in the upper reaches and the steady hum of the Batcomputer's cooling systems. Bruce's fingers had never stopped moving across the keyboard, but now they paused as the search results populated on the massive screen.
ACCESS: TOWER OF BABEL PROTOCOLS. COPY COMPLETE.
The words glowed on the monitor like an accusation written in electronic fire. Bruce's jaw tightened until Alfred probably worried about his dental work, and his eyes narrowed to the kind of slits that usually preceded someone getting punched through a wall.
"Bloody hell," Harry said softly, leaning forward to read the screen over Bruce's shoulder. "They didn't just steal your files, did they? They weaponized them."
The Tower of Babel protocols. Bruce's most classified, most protected, most morally questionable secret. Contingency plans for neutralizing every member of the Justice League, carefully designed and constantly updated, just in case any of them ever went rogue. Just in case Superman decided he knew better than democracy. Just in case Diana decided mortals weren't worth protecting. Just in case Barry decided that saving people was less important than preventing all crime everywhere by running fast enough to change history.
Just in case Bruce ever had to stop his own friends from destroying the world with good intentions.
Except whoever had stolen the files hadn't stopped at "neutralize." They'd taken his carefully calculated, precisely limited plans and turned them into something else entirely. Something lethal.
The files flashed across the display, each one a testament to Bruce's paranoia and tactical brilliance and moral flexibility. Each one now corrupted, perverted, turned into a weapon designed not to stop the League but to kill them.
Alfred's hand settled gently on Bruce's shoulder, warm and steady and reassuring in the way that only Alfred could manage. "Master Bruce?" he said quietly.
Bruce didn't look away from the screen. His voice, when it came, was low and gravelly enough to make even Harry straighten slightly in his perch on the console. It was the voice that came out when Batman was truly, deeply, unforgivably angry.
"They're using my plans," he said, each word precise and controlled and carrying the weight of every mistake he'd ever made. "My contingencies. My..." He paused, jaw working. "My paranoia."
He didn't need to finish the thought. The implication hung in the cavernous air like smoke from a funeral pyre. Bruce Wayne had created the weapons being used to kill his friends. Batman had provided the blueprint for the Justice League's destruction.
Harry's emerald eyes flared with actual fire for just a moment—not metaphorically, but literally, tiny flames dancing in his pupils before settling back to their usual unsettling glow. His expression shifted from lazy amusement to something far sharper, more dangerous. Something that reminded you that Harry Peverell might look like a charming rogue with good cheekbones and expensive taste in magical armor, but he was also one of the most powerful beings in any dimension, and his moral code was significantly more flexible than Bruce's.
"Well," Harry said, his voice carrying that particular note of British understatement that usually preceded something expensive being blown up in spectacular fashion. "That's rather rude of them, isn't it? Using your own work against your friends. Terribly unsporting."
He slid off the console with liquid grace, the kind of movement that suggested extensive martial arts training and possibly some supernatural enhancement. "I suppose this means we'll be having words with whoever's responsible. Strong words. The kind of words that leave craters."
Bruce stood slowly, the weight of his responsibilities settling back over his shoulders like a familiar, unwelcome cloak. He turned toward the armor display where a fresh Batsuit waited, polished and ready and loaded with enough high-tech equipment to outfit a small military unit.
"Alfred," he said, his voice carrying that note of command that meant Batman was taking over from Bruce Wayne. "I need you to contact the League. Tell them to go to ground, maintain radio silence, trust no one. Someone has access to information that should be impossible to obtain."
"Of course, Master Bruce," Alfred replied, already moving toward the communications array with the brisk efficiency of someone who'd been coordinating superhero crises since before Bruce had learned to tie his own cape. "Shall I prepare the usual emergency protocols?"
"All of them," Bruce confirmed. "And Alfred? Tell them..." He paused, jaw working as he struggled with words that had never come easily to him. "Tell them I'm sorry. And that I'm going to fix this."
Harry was already checking his armor, running diagnostive spells that made the air shimmer with crimson light. "You know, Bruce," he said conversationally, "I've always admired your contingency planning. Very thorough, very professional, very 'paranoid billionaire with trust issues.' But I have to say, this is exactly why I never write down my plans for killing my friends."
"You have plans for killing your friends?" Alfred asked, sounding more curious than concerned.
"Oh, absolutely," Harry replied cheerfully. "Savanna alone requires at least three different approaches depending on which personality is driving that day. But I keep them all up here." He tapped his temple. "Much harder to steal thoughts than files, and significantly more entertaining when people try."
Bruce was already suiting up, the familiar ritual of becoming Batman helping to center his thoughts and focus his anger into something useful. "Any idea who's behind this?"
"Someone with extensive resources, detailed intelligence, and a serious grudge against the League," Harry mused, his own armor beginning to glow more brightly as he prepared for whatever came next. "Also someone with a flair for psychological warfare and apparently unlimited access to supervillains. The coordination alone suggests either a government operation or someone with government-level resources."
"Ra's al Ghul?" Bruce suggested, though even as he said it, he knew it didn't fit. Ra's was dramatic, but he was also practical. This was personal in a way that didn't match the League of Assassins' usual methods.
"Possibly, but I doubt it. Too crude for Ra's, not enough environmental destruction." Harry's eyes were beginning to glow more brightly, a sure sign that he was getting excited about the prospect of violence. "No, this feels like someone who knows you personally. Someone who understands exactly how to hurt you in the most psychologically damaging way possible."
The cowl settled over Bruce's head with a soft electronic whir as the suit's systems came online. Suddenly he wasn't Bruce Wayne anymore, traumatized billionaire with abandonment issues and a dangerous hobby. He was Batman, the Dark Knight, Gotham's protector and the Justice League's strategist and the man who'd made contingency planning into an art form.
"Then we find them," Batman said, his voice now electronically modulated and carrying that distinctive growl that made criminals confess their sins and ask for lighter sentences. "We find them, we stop them, and we make sure they understand why you don't use my friends as weapons against each other."
Harry grinned, and the expression was both charming and absolutely terrifying. "Now that," he said, "sounds like a proper Tuesday night in Gotham. Shall we go remind someone why they shouldn't play chess with the bloody Devil?"
Batman turned toward the Batmobile, cape billowing dramatically behind him in a way that would have made Harry proud. "Time to fix what I broke," he said grimly.
And somewhere in Gotham's maze of shadows and corruption and bad decisions, someone was about to learn why Batman's contingency plans worked both ways.
After all, when you know exactly how to kill your friends, you also know exactly how to save them.
The only question was whether Bruce would be fast enough to do it before the body count got any higher.
But then again, Batman had been racing against impossible odds for seventeen years.
He wasn't about to stop now.
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