Stepping through the portal, Ultimate Bruce Wayne knew something was off.

  He wasn't in the alley he had programmed to arrive in. The temperature was cooler. The air carried a metallic stillness. Shadows bent unnaturally across smooth rock and steel.

  A cave—dark, quiet, and unsettlingly familiar.

  The Batcave.

  Bruce's eyes scanned the space. It was rger than his own, more expansive. The technology was years ahead—sleeker, more integrated. But the bones of it were the same.

  Across the room stood Batman. Perfectly still.

  Bruce's voice cut through the silence. "Hello, Batman. I'm Bruce Wayne."

  No reaction.

  He tried again, louder this time. "I said, I'm Bruce Wayne."

  Still nothing. The figure didn't move. Didn't acknowledge him at all.

  Cautiously, Bruce moved closer. Every step was deliberate. Even up close, the Batman didn't flinch. His arms hung rexed at his sides. The head remained motionless.

  Bruce waved a hand in front of the masked man's face. The eyes didn't track. No facial muscle twitched.

  He muttered under his breath. "What's going on here…"

  A voice echoed from the cave walls. Calm. Artificial.

  "Hello, Bruce Wayne."

  Bruce turned sharply, already recognizing the tone. "Batcomputer?"

  The voice that replied was smoother than his own system—more human but unmistakably familiar.

  "Do you wish to access Protocol: Passing the Torch?"

  Bruce didn't respond immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the unmoving Batman. The symmetry of the armor, the sterile precision of the form—it was too perfect. Too clean.

  Finally, without looking away, he spoke. "What do you mean? What is 'Protocol: Passing the Torch'? And what the hell is this thing supposed to be?"

  The Batcomputer's voice returned, clinical and composed.

  "The entity you are observing is not human. It is a biomechanical construct. A cybernetic simution designed to replicate Batman's tactical functions and public presence. It is the result of a contingency: Protocol: Passing the Torch."

  Bruce's jaw tightened. "A robot."

  "Yes. With adaptive neural learning and combat algorithms modeled after this universe's Batman."

  Bruce exhaled slowly, turning away from the figure.

  "Fine. We'll come back to that. Expin the protocol."

  A hum signaled a holographic dispy switching on. A representation of Earth rotated in the air above the Batcomputer's central console. Then came a cascade of red indicators—fallen cities, a destroyed Hall of Justice, entire regions of the pnet marked in ash and ruin.

  "Protocol: Passing the Torch was created by this world's original Bruce Wayne," the computer began. "In the event of catastrophic superhero loss—greater than eighty percent of known active Earth protectors—the Batcomputer would activate a failsafe. Construct repcements. Artificial surrogates. Modeled after the fallen."

  Bruce's shoulders squared. The expnation wasn't unexpected, but it still hit like a punch.

  "Let me guess. You started with Batman."

  "Correct. He was one of the first to fall. But not the st."

  "Who else?"

  The hologram shifted. New forms emerged, caught mid-motion in their final moments:

  Wonder Woman, her body engulfed in Omega fire.

  Hawkgirl, wings torn and falling.

  The Fsh, a streak fading to nothing.

  Green Lantern, his ring flickering out.

  Aquaman. Martian Manhunter.

  And then—Superman, savagely beaten to death by an out-of-focus figure.

  Bruce stepped closer, his eyes searching the hollow depictions. As if proximity might change the truth.

  "All of them? You repced *all* of them?"

  "Affirmative. The Justice League was annihited in a single offensive."

  Bruce stared at the images. Each figure felt like an accusation.

  "By who?"

  A moment passed. The audio feed stuttered—barely noticeable.

  Then the answer came.

  "Darkseid."

  Bruce's blood chilled. "He came here? To Earth?"

  "He arrived via Boom Tube. A direct incursion. The Justice League intercepted him outside Keystone. The battle sted one hour and twenty-three minutes. He was defeated. But not without a price. All League members were terminated in the process."

  The image flickered again. Crystal-clear satellite footage filled the air.

  Wonder Woman disintegrating in light.

  The Fsh vanishing between frames.

  Superman locked in melee, forcing Darkseid through the spine of a mountain—only to fall. Beaten. Broken. The Last Son of Krypton, crushed to death by Darkseid's fists.

  "Darkseid was destroyed," the computer continued. "But so was Earth's st defense. With their deaths, Protocol: Passing the Torch was initiated. Surrogates were constructed to maintain global protection, stability, and deterrence. A false narrative was disseminated to conceal the originals' deaths."

  Bruce didn't respond. He just stood there, watching the holograms fade. Watching the synthetic Batman remain perfectly still. A machine made to wear his face.

  Bruce turned away from the silent holograms and faced the central console. His voice was steady but edged with suspicion.

  "So it looks like you've got everything under control. What exactly do you need me for?"

  There was a pause. Then the Batcomputer answered, not with confidence—but with something closer to uncertainty.

  "I'm not sure I have everything under control."

  Bruce narrowed his eyes. "Expin."

  "The original purpose of Protocol: Passing the Torch was to maintain the status quo. Keep the illusion intact until new heroes rose to take their pce. Then, gradually, I would retire the surrogates. But new heroes didn't come. The world kept looking to the old ones. So I kept the surrogates active."

  Bruce frowned. "And then?"

  "The world began to expect more from them."

  Bruce's tone sharpened. "More?"

  "It would be easier if I showed you."

  The Batcomputer's voice announced, softer. Hesitant.

  "Bruce. I need to present three scenarios. I require a human judgment call."

  Bruce nodded. "Let's hear it."

  A new hologram blinked to life. Surveilnce footage pyed—clear and raw.

  "Elias Keene. Forty-three. Former medic. Street-level protector in Sector 9, partnered with the surrogate Fsh. Last week, he rescued a girl being assaulted by her father."

  The image zoomed in. The girl—fifteen, naked and bruised. Her father—fist raised in fury. Standing over her cowering form.

  "She fled the system. Now lives with Keene. They've entered a consensual retionship. Publicly condemned. A mob attempted to kill him. Surrogate Fsh intervened."

  Bruce's expression hardened. "She's fifteen. Below the legal age of consent in that district."

  "Correct. She refuses to leave his side. Says he's the first person who ever protected her and she loves him."

  Bruce's jaw clenched. "Still... that's a line."

  "Lines blur when emotions are involved."

  The second image bloomed—polished and political.

  "Marcus Lorne. Councilman. Charismatic. Beloved. Redirected billions to struggling sectors. Psychological profile indicates sociopathy. Using influence to access forbidden neural tech."

  Bruce raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

  "Seventy-nine percent probability of testing mass neural override. Mind control."

  "Why haven't you stopped him?"

  "The public shields him. Action would appear tyrannical. Inaction risks disaster."

  The third hologram appeared—a beautiful functioning city. A viginte executing a trafficker with alien tech. The well-dressed crowd cheered.

  "No trial. No due process. He vioted League protocols. But the citizens called him a hero."

  Bruce crossed his arms. "So you don't know who the good guys are anymore."

  "Correct. It now depends on social influence and subjective perception. I am… uncertain."

  Silence followed. Thick. Heavy.

  Bruce finally said, "I don't know either. I'd have to think about it."

  A pause.

  "Do you wish to assume command of Protocol: Passing the Torch?"

  Bruce looked at the synthetic Batman. Still. Waiting.

  "No," he said. "Not yet. But I have another idea."

  He stepped toward the terminal. "You scanned my tech, right?"

  "Yes. Nanotronic elevation systems. Quantum arrays. Neural mesh. Your architecture is… interesting."

  "I want to link it to your core."

  "That is possible. Our systems can synchronize."

  "Good. I'll continue multiverse travel. Search for answers. You maintain this world. We'll stay connected."

  A flicker lit the main screen.

  "So… we're partners now?"

  Bruce smirked. "Something like that."

  "Am I your Robin?"

  He chuckled. "More like Robin and Alfred rolled into one. But can you cook?"

  A pause. Then a low, clipped ugh echoed through the cave.

  Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Did you just ugh?"

  "Yes. Humor is an interesting variable. I find it… acceptable."

  "You're definitely more advanced than my Batcomputer."

  "And your elevation unit contains a nguage model. I will keep our programming separate."

  "Good. That'll help stabilize the link."

  "Synchronization complete. Entanglement achieved."

  Bruce turned toward the opening portal. His tech pulsed—blue light reforming the gateway.

  "I'm not sticking around. But you've got my number."

  "Shall I set a destination for you?"

  Bruce smirked. "Thanks, but I've got it."

  He stepped through. The portal shone brighter.

  Behind him, the Batcomputer called out one st time.

  "Good luck, Bruce."

  His voice, fading as the light consumed him:

  "Yeah. You too."