Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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The sky above Metropolis cracked open with a sound like thunder gasping for breath. On a rooftop overlooking the city, Batman stood motionless, cape fluttering as energy danced across the skyline. A swirling rift—a tear in space itself—churned violently above the LexCorp building, pulling matter and light into its vortex.

“This isn’t a standard dimensional breach,” he said into the comm. “J’onn, confirm.”

Inside the Watchtower, Martian Manhunter’s voice was strained but focused. “Confirmed. It’s not magic, not alien. It’s unstable quantum architecture—some kind of rip between realities. We're trying to contain it, but… It’s spreading.”

Wonder Woman was already on the ground below, helping evacuate civilians, while Superman hovered near the vortex, attempting to shield the upper atmosphere from a possible collapse. Batman moved to deploy a dampening charge—too late. The vortex pulsed once.

Then again.

Then it *swallowed him whole*.

A sharp tug. Pressure. Silence.

Then—

---

**Impact.**

Concrete. Cold. Wet.

Batman groaned low as he rolled onto his feet in a narrow alley bathed in artificial light. Above him, neon signs flickered. The city was familiar in shape but wrong in tone. The noise was off—too polished, like a synthetic hum had replaced the usual chaos of urban life. He scanned his environment. Cameras on every corner. High surveillance. Commercial branding on the sides of police cruisers. A billboard nearby displayed a glowing image of a man in sleek white and silver armor, windswept hair dramatically tousled, suspended mid-air above a city skyline.

"Zephyr – The Winds of Justice! Brought to you by Vought International."

The ad cut to Zephyr standing with children, smiling like a messiah in branded boots, conjuring a playful spiral of air to lift a balloon skyward. Batman’s eyes narrowed. The image froze on the ad’s final frame—a brief flash of corporate logos followed by another: “Project J: A Better Tomorrow Starts Today.”

He rewound it on his lens feed. There—just for a moment. The Vought seal stamped over a security badge labeled "Level Seven – R\&D – Juvenile Assets Division.

That wasn’t just a public campaign, this was a layered broadcast. And 'Project J'? That was a buried message. He tapped his comm.

“Watchtower, come in. This is Batman. Do you read?”

Static.

Again.

Still static.

He crouched and scanned the skyline. The tallest building gleamed like a monument to profit—Vought Tower. Batman opened his portable terminal, running diagnostics. The tech worked, but the networks were heavily encrypted. Different architecture, but he could adapt.

“I’m in a parallel dimension,” he muttered. “Controlled by a megacorporation. Hero culture appears manufactured. Controlled media. Staged narratives.” Above him, the screen shifted again. Zephyr was now being interviewed on a talk show, hair still windblown indoors.

“So tell us, Zephyr—how does it feel to save lives every day?”

Zephyr grinned like he practiced it in the mirror. “It’s about inspiring people. Giving them hope.”

Batman didn’t blink.

"Hope doesn’t need a trademark."

His eyes drifted back to the brief flash of Project J. A child-sized question mark in a world full of masks. Batman stood, cloak drawn around him.

“Time to see what Vought is really building.”

---

Chapter Text

___

By day, Bruce Wayne was a mask. By night, Batman was the truth.

But here—in this universe—he needed a new mask entirely.

The suit was gone, hidden in a case stashed on the edge of the city’s industrial zone. He couldn’t afford to draw attention—not in a place where capes were corporate mascots and security drones tracked every heat signature in the sky. So he became someone else. He became Nathan Black—an investor from Newark, New Jersey, interested in Vought’s expanding tech frontier. A fake identity, backed by a forged digital trail Batman had generated in under an hour using data harvested from the city’s outdated infrastructure.

It worked.

Because in this world, money spoke louder than morals.

The Vought Tower lobby gleamed like a church made of plastic and glass. Digital walls scrolled with endless loops of propaganda: Zephyr conjuring a tornado to extinguish a fire. Crimson Countess giving a speech at a ribbon-cutting. Testimonials from soldiers praising Vought’s "Supe-assisted tactics." Bruce stepped onto the elevator with two board members and a PR assistant who didn’t even blink as he scanned his clearance badge. Vought’s security was invasive—but complacent.

He’d hacked the system through a side node near a traffic camera on 44th. No one noticed.

“Mr. Black,” said a perky young woman as they ascended, “we’re honored by your interest in Vought’s private ventures. Most investors only care about the shows and streaming rights—but I hear you’re more… R&D curious?”

Bruce smiled faintly. “I like to see where the future is really made.”

She grinned. “Then you’ll love the pitch deck.”

thirty minutes later, Bruce sat in a high-rise conference room with mirrored walls, staring at a touchscreen presentation about "enhanced juvenile development." The language was vague—nutritional protocols, experimental hormone sequencing, controlled stimuli conditioning. And yet every chart pointed back to one thing:

Subject J.

There was no image. No footage. Just a redacted silhouette, surrounded by words like potential, containment, and threshold events. He leaned back, absorbing it all while pretending to admire the city view.

“We believe Subject J will be our apex asset in under five years,” said a slick man in a navy suit. “Think Zephyr meets tactical drone control. Self-sustaining. Loyal.”

“Where is Subject J now?” Bruce asked, his tone calm.

The executive smiled. “Off-site. Very secure. But don’t worry—he’s being trained with all the right influences.”

That told Batman everything he needed to know—and nothing at all.

The meeting ended. Bruce shook hands, smiled for a camera, and left with a branded data drive tucked in his pocket.

That night, in a stolen utility tunnel deep beneath Vought Tower, Batman returned.

The cowl was back on.

The utility belt rearmed.

The real work began.

He decrypted the data drive using his own off-grid AI cluster. Layer after layer peeled back. Behind the press releases and sanitized phrases, he found classified memos, biometric logs, and internal evaluations of a child named John.

No last name.

No origin.

Just: John.

There were notes from behavioral specialists. Reports on “emotional suppression.” Video logs of energy spikes when the child was under stress. Keywords: aerial instability, laser emergence, maternal void response.

Then came a still image: a boy no older than nine, seated in a sterile white room with no windows, looking down at a stuffed toy on the table in front of him.

Alone.

Bruce stared at the image. This wasn’t a Supe, it-he was a child in a cage. He opened a private journal file in his gauntlet, reserved only for League-critical intel.

> *Subject identified: “John.”
> Age: 9.
> Abilities: Unknown—likely unstable.
> Situation: Contained, manipulated, dehumanized.
> Threat: Not currently.
> Priority: High.
> Objective: Locate, observe, protect.*

Batman closed the file and stood in the shadows of this twisted reflection of Newark.

“This isn't your world, John,” he said under his breath. “But I won’t let them make you into theirs.”

---

Chapter Text

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The facility wasn’t in Vought Tower. That would’ve been too obvious. Batman traced the data trail from the encrypted drive to a shell corporation buried inside Vought’s logistics division. The paperwork claimed it was a medical research site in rural South Orange, New Jersey—a rebranded Cold War bunker, now operated under the name Haven Hills Youth Wellness Center. On paper, it housed troubled gifted children.

In reality, it was a prison.

Two nights later, under the cloak of moonless cloud cover, Batman perched atop a pine tree along the perimeter of the compound. His lenses filtered infrared through fog. The fencing was electrified. Drones circled the interior like vultures on autopilot. Automated gun turrets tracked body heat.

And at the heart of it all—the Johns room.

Buried beneath reinforced earth and layered steel, Batman had found its schematics. No doors. No windows. Only an access tunnel from above. Inside was a controlled environment: white padded walls, no sharp corners. And one occupant.

John.

He was seated on the floor, small shoulders hunched, hands clutching the same worn-out plush toy seen in the surveillance file. Cameras monitored every movement. Notes were scribbled on digital clipboards by unseen observers. Batman filtered audio through the compound’s open satellite dishes.

A male scientist's voice crackled into his comms:
"Subject remains compliant. Laser emergence triggered only under elevated cortisol. Current phase: emotional resistance testing."

A female voice responded:
“Limit contact for the next forty-eight hours. The less connection, the stronger the imprint when we reintroduce praise stimuli.”

Batman’s jaw tightened. They were starving the boy emotionally—on purpose.

At 2:14 a.m., he moved.

He disabled a guard drone mid-air with an EMP pellet and used its descent as cover to glide silently onto the rooftop of the compound. Then he dropped a sonic disruptor into a ventilation shaft, scrambled the cameras, and disabled the turret feed through a wireless spike.

Six seconds.

That’s all it took to breach the outer wall. Inside, the hallway lights flickered under his cloak. His boots made no sound.

He reached the lab observation deck and overrode the biometric lock. The room was empty—its operators gone, likely remote-monitoring from another site. On the cams, he saw John sitting alone, whispering to the stuffed animal. Batman reached for the mic, paused. He didn’t want to scare him. Instead, he activated a controlled lockdown and entered the chamber through a ceiling hatch. He landed without a sound. John looked up—wide-eyed, startled, ready to run. But Batman didn’t advance. He knelt instead, slowly lowering his cowl. Not fully—but enough to show a human face beneath the armor.

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

John’s voice was raspy, unused, full of hope. “Promise?”

Batman met his eyes. “Promise”

The boy hugged his toy tighter. “They said I’d be the greatest hero.”

“They want to make you a weapon,” Batman said quietly. “But that’s not what a hero is.”

John stared, confused. “Then what is?”

Batman didn’t smile, but his voice softened.

“Someone who saves others. Even if no one asks them to.”

John looked at the door. “They’ll be back.”

Batman nodded. “That’s why I’m getting you out.”

Ten minutes later, the alarms started blaring. Batman carried John in one arm as smoke filled the corridors and emergency systems overloaded. He moved through shadows like liquid steel—every step precise, every strike silent. Nonlethal takedowns only. He didn’t want John to see blood.

Outside, the Batwing shimmered into view—its cloaking field fading as it lowered between pine trees. The ramp opened, ready. John looked back only once. The building he’d called home his whole life—his glass room—was already shrinking behind the treetops. He turned to Batman. “Where are we going?” Batman fastened him into a crash harness beside the cockpit.

“Somewhere safe. Somewhere with real heroes.”

---

Chapter Text

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Camden, New Jersey – Abandoned Apartment

Rain tapped the cracked windows of the third-floor walk-up, its sound mixing with the faint hum of a space heater. Batman had chosen the apartment for two reasons — it was off the books, and it had a view of the alley below. A perfect place to vanish. John sat on the worn couch, knees pulled to his chest, eyes on the flickering TV screen. The images were all static until Batman adjusted the rabbit-ear antenna and got an old news channel to come through. No Vought coverage yet. That was good. Batman moved quietly around the apartment, every step deliberate. He’d taken his armor off and was wearing plain black fatigues. Without the cowl, his face was still shadowed, hard to read.

John broke the silence. “Are we staying here forever?”

“No.” Batman kept working, cleaning and reassembling a grapnel gun. “Just until I know Vought isn’t tracking us.”

John shifted. “They will. They always find people.”

“They won’t find me,” Batman said, the certainty in his voice more like fact than hope.

Batman had stripped both their clothes for any trackers, run chemical baths on them, and burned John’s old shoes. He’d also swapped John into thrift-store jeans and a hoodie — nothing that screamed “science experiment.” At night, Batman slipped out, returning with food, burner phones, and newspapers. John never heard him come or go. During the day, Batman drilled him in small but important survival skills: how to spot a tail, how to listen for changes in an environment, how to tell if someone was lying just by the rhythm of their speech.

“You want me to be like you,” John said one afternoon.

Batman didn’t look up from the paper he was scanning. “I want you to survive.”

---

Three days into hiding, Batman found something — a name recurring in his investigation into Vought’s black-ops work.

Grace Mallory.

She wasn’t on the payroll, but she knew things she shouldn’t. Enough to make her a target. Enough that she might have answers he needed.

If she could be trusted.

---

Night – Abandoned Subway Tunnel

The laptop’s glow lit Batman’s face as he scrolled through stolen Vought documents. His contact in this world — an anonymous hacker who called himself “Needle” — had sent him encrypted files. The kind that didn’t officially exist. Every thread Batman pulled on kept leading back to Grace Mallory. A decorated CIA operative. Served in special operations. Classified missions involving superhumans. Officially retired — unofficially, she’d been watching Vought for decades.

She had no known family. No current address. Even her past postings had gaps wide enough to hide in. Batman leaned back, hands steepled under his chin. Mallory was dangerous, not because she was reckless, but because she was patient. She played the long game. That made her hard to read. He checked a grainy surveillance still — a woman in her late fifties, sharp eyes under a wide-brimmed hat, stepping into a coffee shop in Newark. She moved like someone who knew she was being watched but didn’t care.

“Grace Mallory,” Batman muttered.

John stirred from his cot in the corner. “Who’s that?”

“A possible ally.”

“Or an enemy?” John asked.

Batman’s lips curved slightly. “That’s what I intend to find out.”

---

By the end of the night, Batman had a plan. They would keep laying low for another two days, then head north toward Newark. If Mallory was what he suspected — a woman with her own war against Vought — she could be exactly the leverage he needed.

If she wasn’t…
He’d make sure she never knew they were there.

---

Chapter Text

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*Newark, New Jersey – Riverside Diner*

The diner smelled like burnt coffee and fried eggs. Neon buzzed in the window, casting sickly green light over the cracked leather booths. Grace Mallory sat in the back, facing the door — a habit from a lifetime of not trusting anyone. She was nursing a cup of black coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago. She wasn’t expecting company. The bell above the door jingled. A man in a dark coat entered, moving with a predator’s precision. He wasn’t loud, but everyone in the diner seemed to notice him anyway — the kind of presence that unsettled people without them knowing why.

Grace’s eyes narrowed. 'Not one of mine… not CIA… not Vought.' He stopped at her table.

“Grace Mallory?”

Her first instinct was to deny it. But the way he said her name — like he already knew the answer — made her curious.

“And you are…?”

He didn’t answer right away. He slid into the booth opposite her, the shadows somehow clinging to him even under the diner’s harsh lights. “My name isn’t important,” he said. “What matters is that we have a common enemy.” Grace gave him a slow, skeptical look. “If you’re here about Vought, I don’t work with strangers. And I sure as hell don’t work with people who won’t even give me a name.”

Batman’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m not from here.”

The words caught her off guard. She’d dealt with plenty of unstable operatives before, but this one wasn’t rambling — he was deadly certain.

“You’re telling me you’re… what, an alien?” she asked dryly.

“No. Another world. Another fight.” He reached into his coat, pulling out a small, worn photo and sliding it across the table. It was of a boy with dark blond hair, sharp blue eyes, wearing a thrift-store hoodie. Grace frowned. “Who is he?”

“His name’s John. He’s the reason I’m here.”

She pushed the photo back. “Why should I care?”

“Because,” Batman said, leaning forward just enough for his voice to drop into something cold and deliberate, “Vought made him. And if they get him back, they’ll turn him into something far worse than you’ve ever seen.”

Grace studied him for a long, quiet moment. There was something in his tone — not desperation, but certainty. The kind that came from someone who had already decided what lines they’d cross. She took another sip of coffee. “Alright, stranger. Let’s say I believe you. Why bring him to me?”

“Because you’ve been fighting them longer than anyone. And because you’re the only one who might know where the bodies are buried.”

Grace smirked faintly. “You’re assuming I’ll help.”

Batman stood, placing a small burner phone on the table. “I’m assuming you’ll think about it.”

Without another word, he walked out into the rain, vanishing into the city like he’d never been there at all. Grace stared at the phone for a long moment, then finally pocketed it. She didn’t trust him. She didn’t even know what he was. But something told her she hadn’t seen the last of the man in the shadows.

---

*Newark, New Jersey – Safehouse Apartment*

John was sprawled on the couch, frowning at the flickering television. Batman had left him with a stack of old comic books and a strict order not to open the door for anyone. It had been two hours since Batman left to “meet someone,” and John was bored out of his mind. He was also starting to wonder why the man in black armor treated him like some kind of priceless artifact. The lock clicked. The door swung open. Batman entered silently, rainwater dripping from his cape.

John sat up. “So? Did they believe your crazy story?”

Batman didn’t answer right away — just closed the door, checked the hallway, and then set a paper bag on the counter.
“Dinner,” he said. John peeked inside. Burgers. Greasy, wonderful burgers. He was halfway through unwrapping one when he noticed Batman’s mood hadn’t shifted.

“You met her, didn’t you?” John asked through a mouthful of fries. Batman’s eyes flicked to him. “Grace Mallory. Former CIA. She’s been fighting Vought from the shadows for decades.”

John swallowed. “And…?”

“She’s cautious. Doesn’t trust me.”

“Shocker,” John smirked. “You’re creepy, you know that? You show up in full armor, don’t tell people your name, and just… stare at them.”

Batman ignored the jab. “She might help us. But I need her to make the first move.”

John leaned back, chewing thoughtfully. “So… we just sit here and wait?”

“Yes.” Batman’s tone left no room for argument. “If she calls, it means she’s ready to talk. If she doesn’t, we find another way.”

---

Chapter Text

---

Two Days Later

The burner phone on the table buzzed once. Batman answered on the second ring. “Stranger,” Grace’s voice came through, sharp and no-nonsense. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. You’re either insane… or you’re telling the truth.”

“I’m telling the truth.”

“Then I want proof. Meet me tomorrow, 9 a.m., Pier 14.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed. “That’s exposed.”

“That’s the point,” Grace replied. “If this is a setup, I want everyone to see what happens when it goes wrong.”

She hung up before he could respond.

---

Later That Night

John watched Batman cleaning gear at the kitchen table. “So, what’s she like?” Batman didn’t look up. “Smart. Suspicious. Dangerous if cornered.”

“She sounds like you,” John muttered. Batman paused for just a second before resuming his work. “Get some sleep, John. Tomorrow’s important.” John didn’t push further, but as he lay awake in the small bedroom, he couldn’t shake the feeling that whoever this Grace Mallory was, meeting her was going to change everything.

---

Newark Waterfront – Morning

The air was cold and damp, carrying the smell of salt and rust. Seagulls circled overhead, their cries echoing over the empty pier. Grace Mallory stood near the edge, hands in the pockets of her coat, eyes scanning the gray expanse of water. She’d been in her share of questionable meetings, but this one topped the list. No backup. No snipers. Just her and a single pistol tucked into her coat pocket — because she had no idea what she was about to meet. A shadow moved across the pier.

Batman emerged from the fog without a sound, the black of his armor swallowing the light. Grace had to fight the instinct to reach for her gun. “You’re on time,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “You said you wanted proof.” His voice was low, calm — but there was weight behind every syllable. Grace smirked faintly. “Right. Let’s see the mysterious thing you were so keen on protecting.” Batman stepped aside. Behind him, a boy emerged from the mist, wearing an oversized hoodie and clutching a paper bag like it was a treasure. His hair was blond, and his eyes an unnerving shade of ice blue.

Grace’s expression didn’t change, but she was already studying him like a puzzle.

“This him?”

“Yes,” Batman said. “John.” The boy shifted uncomfortably. “Uh… hi?” Grace crouched slightly to meet his gaze. “How old are you, kid?”

“Ten,” John answered. “I think.” He glanced at Batman, uncertain. Grace straightened. “And why exactly should I care about him?” Batman’s tone sharpened. “Because Vought made him. He was born in a lab in 1984. They’ve been raising him in isolation. He’s… not like other kids.” Grace’s brows rose.

“You saying what I think you’re saying?”

Batman didn’t flinch. “He’s Soldier Boy’s son. And if Vought gets what they want, he’ll be worse.” Grace turned her eyes back to John — the way his stance seemed coiled with quiet energy, the way his gaze flicked constantly to potential threats without even realizing it. “And you,” she said to Batman, “risked everything to get him out.”

“Yes.”

Grace let out a slow breath. “You’re either the biggest damn fool I’ve ever met… or the only one with a spine left in this rotten city.” Batman didn’t respond. Finally, Grace jerked her head toward the warehouses inland. “Come on. I’ve got somewhere we can talk that’s less likely to get us shot.” John blinked. “So… you’re helping us?” Grace gave him a thin smile. “Let’s just say I’m interested.” As they walked, John fell in step beside Batman.

“She’s intense.”

Batman didn’t look at him.

“So am I.”

---

Chapter Text

---

Location: An Abandoned Auto Shop, Newark

The smell of motor oil and dust filled the air. Old tires lined the walls, a rusted hydraulic lift sat in the center, and in the back, an office space had been converted into something that could pass for a living area — if you didn’t mind sleeping next to shelves of brake pads. Grace shut the door behind them, locking it with a heavy deadbolt before tossing her coat onto a cracked leather chair. “Sit,” she told Batman and John, nodding toward a table in the corner.

John hesitated, eyes darting around the cluttered room like he expected someone to burst out from behind the tool racks. Batman didn’t sit — he stood behind the boy, his silhouette a dark, immovable shadow. Grace leaned against the table. “So. I’ve heard plenty of whispers about Vought’s little… extracurricular projects. Never had proof. Until now.” Her gaze flicked toward John. “He’s the proof.”

Batman’s voice was low. “They’ve been raising him off the grid. No records, no paper trail. Compound V in his blood since before he was born.” Grace’s jaw tightened. “You’re saying they started with him in utero?”

“Yes. And they’ve been conditioning him ever since.”

John’s fingers clenched around the edge of the chair. “I’m right here, you know.” Grace looked at him for a moment, her expression unreadable.

“Yeah, kid. You are.”

She turned back to Batman. “And you—what’s your angle? Nobody risks this much without a reason.” Batman didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, it was measured. “Where I come from… we protect children from people like Vought. No matter the cost.” Grace waved a hand, almost brushing his words aside. “Yeah, yeah — ‘from another world.’ I remember. Still not buying that part.”

“You don’t have to believe it,” Batman said. “It’s the truth.”

Grace’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t push. “What I do believe is that you pissed off some very dangerous people. And now you’re hiding here in Newark until… what? Until they forget about you?”

“That’s the plan.”

She almost laughed — almost. “You’re insane. But I like insane. Sometimes it’s the only thing that works.” John shifted in his seat. “So… you believe him?” Grace gave the boy a sideways glance. “Let’s just say I’ve seen enough dirty Vought laundry to know when something’s real. Doesn’t mean I trust either of you yet.”

Batman didn’t argue. He just asked, “Can we stay here?" Grace smirked faintly. “For now. But I’ll need to know everything — every detail about how you found him, what they were doing to him, and why the hell Vought would keep him so hidden for so long.”

Batman gave a single nod. “You’ll have it.” Grace pushed away from the table. “Good. I’ll start making calls. But one thing, Bats — if anyone comes looking, I don’t care how real your ‘other world’ story is, we burn this place and we run.”

John looked between the two of them. “…Do I get a say in this?”

“No,” they both said at the same time.

---

Two Days Later

Grace had been in the business long enough to know that everyone, no matter how careful, leaves a trail. The trick was figuring out where the first breadcrumb had been dropped. The man calling himself Batman? He was a ghost. Not the kind you get in CIA black files — worse. The kind that didn’t exist anywhere. From her spot in the office-turned-bedroom, Grace kept her laptop angled so the doorway stayed in her peripheral vision. She’d waited until Batman took John on another “training session” — which, from the muffled noises she’d caught before, involved more calisthenics and less actual fun than the kid probably hoped for.

She typed a query into one of her old backdoor databases, running it through layers of encryption and dead drops. Normally, if someone was an operative, you could at least find whispers — fake names, redacted incident reports, payroll anomalies. But this man? Nothing. No tax records, no military service, no agency contracts.

Just… empty.

She leaned back, staring at the screen. “What the hell are you, Bats?” she muttered. A beep interrupted her thoughts — a message from an old contact in the intelligence community. She opened it.

From: FALCONER
Subject: Your guy in black

Not one of ours. Not one of anyone’s. I checked. No agency’s ever claimed him.
Only thing I’ve heard is rumor — masked vigilante operating out of some ‘Gotham’ place that doesn’t exist on any map. Sounds like BS.
If you’re smart, walk away.

Grace smirked slightly. Gotham. He’d mentioned that name once before, like it was supposed to mean something. She shut the laptop just as the safehouse door opened. Batman walked in first, followed by John, who looked sweaty, annoyed, and very done with life. “I hate push-ups,” John announced, flopping into the chair Grace had sat in during their first night here.

“They’ll keep you alive,” Batman said simply, removing his gloves. His eyes flicked to the closed laptop on Grace’s desk. She noticed the way his gaze lingered there for a second too long. “You working?” he asked. Grace shrugged.

“Always.”

Batman didn’t push. He never did — but she could tell he knew she was digging. John looked between them. “You two are weird.” Grace smiled faintly. “That’s the job, kid.” Batman’s voice was low.

“No, John. That’s the world.”

Grace filed that away — along with the fact that Batman might not just be hiding from Vought. Whatever his story was, it went deeper than either of them were admitting.

And she was going to find it.

---

Chapter Text

---

Location: Newark Safehouse – Late Evening

Batman was quiet — even for him.

John had finally fallen asleep on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that was too big for him, breathing soft and steady. Grace sat at the kitchen table, sipping black coffee, pretending to be engrossed in an old newspaper she’d scrounged from a corner store. But Batman’s eyes kept drifting to the desk in the corner — specifically, to the faint impression of fingerprints on Grace’s closed laptop. “You’ve been checking into me,” he said at last. Grace didn’t look up. “I check into everyone I work with.”

“I’m not your work.”

She smirked faintly. “You brought a kid who’s on Vought’s radar into my life. You’re work.” Batman said nothing for a long beat. His eyes flicked toward John.

“What did you find?”

“Nothing,” Grace admitted. “Not even a bad alias. Which tells me you’re either very good, or you’re not from here.” Her tone was almost teasing, but Batman could tell she was fishing for a reaction. He gave her none. “Then you already know what I told you before,” he said, turning toward the window. “I’m from somewhere else. And if you want to keep John breathing, you’ll focus on that instead of me.”

Grace leaned back in her chair. “You keep saying that like it’s supposed to mean something. But the only thing that matters is that Vought doesn’t get their hands on him again.” Batman didn’t answer. But the small tightening of his jaw told her she’d struck a nerve.

---

Location: The Box – Vought Secure Containment Facility

The observation deck looked different without John in it.

Dr. Findley stood behind the door, looking through the small window, staring at the empty bed, the idle toys, and the still camera feeds, which now showed only static. Every so often, she’d glance at the security reports — satellite sweeps, surveillance from nearby towns, police chatter intercepts.

Still nothing.

Her assistant stepped up beside her, holding a tablet. “Satellite pass over Trenton picked up… something. Could be him.” Findley snatched the tablet and studied the grainy infrared shot — a heat signature too small to be John’s full output, but odd enough to note. “It’s not enough,” she said. “If he’s suppressing his emissions, we’ll never find him like this.” The assistant hesitated. “Then what do you want to do?”

Findley’s gaze hardened. “We widen the search. Every city, every street camera. He’s not just valuable, he’s property. And property doesn’t stay missing forever.” She turned toward the glass again. The empty room seemed to mock her.

---

Location: Newark Safehouse – Same Night

Batman stood at the window, scanning the street below. Grace was still at the table, pretending not to watch him. “Someone’s looking,” he said quietly. Grace set down her coffee. “Vought?” He nodded.

“And they won’t stop.”

Grace glanced at John sleeping on the couch. “Then I guess we make them regret it.”

---

Location: Newark Safehouse – Pre-Dawn

The first sign came at 4:12 a.m. A low hum, just barely audible, threaded through the safehouse walls. Batman’s eyes snapped open. He was on his feet in seconds, moving without sound toward the window. Down on the street, a white utility van idled two blocks away. No logos. No plates. They’d found them. Grace stumbled into the living room in a T-shirt, rubbing her eyes. “What the hell’s your problem?” she muttered.

“Wake John. Pack light.” Batman’s voice was flat, controlled — but urgent. Grace blinked, confused. “It’s not even—”

“Now.”

Something in his tone cut through her stubbornness. She turned and went for the couch where John was still curled up. “Kid, time to go.” John stirred, bleary-eyed. “Wha—?” Batman was already strapping on his gear, eyes darting from shadow to shadow outside.

“Thermal scan sweep. I can feel it.”

Grace shot him a skeptical look.

“Feel it?”

“I’ve dealt with this tech before. Not from here, but close enough.”

She rolled her eyes. “Here we go again with the ‘not from here.’”

“You can keep pretending I’m crazy, or you can stay alive,” he said, locking the last buckle on his armor. Grace swallowed her retort. The van’s engine cut off, replaced by the faint crunch of boots on asphalt. “Go,” Batman ordered.

---

Location: The Box – Vought Operations Room

Dr. Findley leaned over the shoulder of a tech, eyes scanning live body-heat imaging. “There,” the tech said, circling three red blobs on the screen. Findley smiled faintly.

“Found you.”

She tapped her comm. “Alpha team, stand by. Non-lethal retrieval. We can’t damage the asset.”

“Copy that,” came the reply.

---

Location: Newark Safehouse – Back Exit

Batman ushered John through the back door into an alley. Grace was right behind them, still carrying her coffee mug — because, as she muttered, no one runs on empty. “Where are we going?” she hissed.

“Somewhere they won’t follow.”

“And that is?”

Batman glanced over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

Grace scowled. “Try me.”

“Another world.”

She groaned. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Better than being dead.”

The sound of boots echoed closer. Batman pulled out a smoke capsule and crushed it against the ground, filling the alley with thick gray fog. By the time Vought’s team cleared it, the three of them were gone.

---

Chapter Text

---

Location: Paterson Industrial District – Dawn

The weak light of dawn sifted through the broken windows of the abandoned textile plant. Dust hung thick in the stale air, disturbed only by their footsteps. Batman stood near a concrete platform, eyes scanning the gray horizon. John sat on an overturned crate, rubbing his arms to ward off the chill. Grace leaned against a rusted support beam, arms crossed, her expression tight with concern. “You say you’re from another world,” Grace said quietly, voice sharp but measured.

“Have you had any way to contact it? Anyone there who knows what’s happening here?”

Batman’s gaze was steady.

“Not yet. Crossing between worlds isn’t simple. I’m working on a way, but it will take time.”

Grace shook her head slowly. “Time we don’t have. Vought’s closing in, and every second we stay exposed puts John in danger.” John looked up at them, worry clear in his bright eyes. “What happens if they catch me?” Batman crouched beside him, voice calm.

“Then everything we’ve done will be for nothing. That’s why we need to be smarter, stay ahead.”

Grace exhaled sharply, then nodded. “So what is your plan now? We can’t stay here.” Batman turned to her. “You have safehouses.”

Narrowing her eyes, Grace gave a small, tight smile. “More than a few. We’ll move between them. Keep Vought guessing.” John rubbed his hands together. “Are they safe?” Grace’s eyes softened briefly. “As safe as I can make them.”

Batman looked between the two. “We move at first light.” Grace pushed off the beam, glancing once more around the derelict factory. “Lead the way. But remember — I’m not just along for the ride.”

Batman gave a faint nod. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

---

Location: Grace’s Safehouse – Late Morning

The safehouse was bare but fortified — reinforced shutters, a tangle of radio equipment, and a wall map with pins marking old Vought facilities. Grace worked the perimeter as John sat on the couch, nervously swinging his legs. Batman hunched over the workstation, assembling a jury-rigged device from scavenged parts and unfamiliar tech. A faint hum filled the room as Batman adjusted the dials.

Grace finally broke the silence.

“What exactly are you building?”

“An amplifier,” Batman said without looking up. “If it works, it might let me send a signal to the Justice League.” Grace blinked, suspicion hardening in her eyes. “The Justice League? That’s the first time you’ve dropped that name. Who the hell are they supposed to be?” Batman kept his tone even.

“Allies. Protectors. They’re from my world.”

Grace scoffed, crossing her arms. “So, let me get this straight: you’re from another world, and now you’re saying you’ve got some secret club of capes ready to swoop in and save the day?”

Batman didn’t flinch. “They’re not capes. They’re the only ones I trust with this.”

John tilted his head. “They’re like superheroes?”

Batman gave a small nod. “Yes. But different from Vought’s creations. They don’t answer to corporations. They don’t exploit the people they protect.” Grace’s eyes narrowed further. “Convenient story. And how do you know they’ll even come? Or that you’re not just chasing smoke?”

Batman paused, finally meeting her gaze. "They will come, John's future depends on it." With her eyes still narrowed, "You really believe this thing will work? What happens if you fail to contact this organization of yours?”

“Then John's future will be compromised, and I refuse to allow that to happen.” The communicator crackled, then went dead again. Batman’s jaw tightened. “No response yet.”

Grace exhaled, tapping her fingers against her arm. “You’d better be telling the truth, because if this is some fairy tale you’re feeding us… it won’t just be Vought you’ll have to worry about.”

John looked between them, anxiety written on his face. “Are we safe here?” Batman adjusted the device, his voice steady. “For now. But we’ll keep moving. Grace has more safehouses. We’ll stay ahead of them until help arrives.” Grace gave him a long, unreadable look. “If it ever does.”

---

Chapter Text

___

Location: Grace’s Safehouse – Midnight

The safehouse was quiet except for the hum of the improvised communicator on the desk. John had finally drifted off on the couch, curled up beneath a threadbare blanket. His breathing was steady, soft — the sound of a child finally finding a moment’s peace. Grace lingered at the edge of the room, arms crossed, watching Batman adjust dials in the half-light. The man was meticulous, methodical — but impossible to read. She waited until she was sure John was asleep before breaking the silence.

“Alright, Batman,” she said, keeping her voice low, sharp. “We’re alone. Now you’re going to tell me about this Justice League.” Batman didn’t look up immediately. He finished typing a line of code into the communicator, then sat back, shadows cutting across his cowl. “They’re from my world. A collective of individuals — each with abilities, each committed to protecting people.”

Grace arched a brow. “That’s a nice pitch. But around here, that’s exactly what Vought says about their Supes before they put them on a billboard. What makes your crew so different?” Batman’s tone was steady. “Because we’re not for sale. Not beholden to corporations or governments. We answer to no one but the people we protect.” Grace studied him, skeptical.

“You expect me to believe there’s a whole team of selfless do-gooders just waiting on the other side of the universe? You’re telling me they’re real?”

Batman’s silence was his only answer. Grace pressed further. “You’ve seen what Vought does with power. What’s to say your so-called Justice League isn’t just another version of the same? Masks. PR. Hidden sins.” Batman’s gaze didn’t waver. “Because I know them. I’ve fought beside them. They’re flawed, yes. Human. But they don’t compromise the mission.”

Grace leaned against the wall, arms folded. “Then prove it. If you want me to keep risking my neck, moving John from one safehouse to the next. I need more than bedtime stories. Who are they? Names. Faces.” Batman hesitated — just for a fraction of a second. “Superman. Wonder Woman. The Flash. Aquaman. Green Lantern. And others.” Grace let out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“Those sound like comic book characters, not people. And you expect me to bet my life, his life—” she nodded toward the sleeping John “—on them being real?”

“They’re real,” Batman said firmly. “And they will come.”

Grace didn’t answer. She stared at him for a long moment before turning toward the window, the city lights faint in the distance.

---

Meanwhile – Vought Headquarters, New York City

A boardroom of glass and steel. Screens lined the walls, displaying heat maps, satellite footage, and intercepted police reports.

One screen froze on a blurry figure in black armor moving through an alley. Another captured a faint outline of John beside him.

A suit in a tailored three-piece leaned forward, voice cold. “We know they’re alive. Contained to New Jersey. Every asset, every resource goes into tightening the net. We find the boy, we recover the boy. And anyone with him?”

The silence was broken by a smirk from one of the executives.

“Collateral.”

The orders were clear.

---

Location: Grace’s Safehouse – Early Morning

The static hum of the communicator filled the cramped room. Batman sat at the desk, eyes locked on the flickering monitor, calibrating frequencies with the patience of a surgeon. Grace leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping bitter coffee, while John sat cross-legged on the floor, drawing lazy patterns on the dusty floorboards. “You’ve been at that thing all night,” Grace said finally. “And so far, nothing but static. How long are you going to keep chasing ghosts?”

Batman didn’t look up.

“Until they answer.”

John tilted his head, curious. “So… this Justice League. Do they have kids like me?” Batman paused, glancing at him. “Not like you. But they fight for children like you.” John’s brow furrowed. “Do they wear costumes too? Like you?” Grace smirked.

“Now that’s a good question.”

Batman’s fingers stilled briefly on the console. “Yes. Most of them.” John hesitated, then asked the question that had been building for days. “What about you? What’s your name? It can't be Batman.” The room went quiet. Grace looked up from her cup, intrigued. Batman regarded John for a long moment, the cowl casting his face in shadow. At last, his voice came low, steady.

“Bruce. Bruce Wayne.”

John whispered the name to himself, testing the sound. “Bruce.” His lips tugged into a faint smile. “That sounds… normal. Not scary.” Grace raised an eyebrow. “Bruce Wayne, huh? You don’t exactly strike me as the suburban type.” Bruce ignored her jab and returned his attention to the communicator. But for the first time since they’d met, the rigid lines of his body seemed to ease, just slightly.

---

Meanwhile – Watchtower, Justice League Headquarters (Earth-0)

Across another universe, deep in orbit above Earth, the Justice League sat in uneasy silence. The monitors of the Watchtower flickered with a strange, distorted signal — faint, but insistent.

Cyborg’s hands flew across the console. “It’s not local. The frequency’s wrong. Hell, the laws of physics look wrong. But… it’s consistent. Somebody’s trying to reach us.” Superman leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Do we know who?” The screen pulsed again, the distortion briefly forming the outline of a familiar bat-shaped symbol before dissolving back into static.

Wonder Woman’s voice was quiet but certain.

“It’s him.”

The room fell silent, the weight of recognition settling over them.

Batman was alive. Somewhere.

---

Chapter Text

---

Location: Grace’s Safehouse – Evening

The rain outside drummed steadily against the boarded windows, masking the hum of the communicator. Grace sat across from Bruce at the table, her sharp eyes fixed on him. John was sprawled nearby on the couch with a stack of comic books Grace had scavenged from a corner store, his legs kicking idly in the air. Grace leaned forward. “You gave me names before — Superman, Wonder Woman, Flash. But that’s not enough. Who are they really? Who’s behind the masks?”

Bruce didn’t look up from the communicator.

“That isn’t my choice to make.”

Grace’s tone sharpened, “Don’t give me that. If they’re real, and if you trust them as much as you say, then telling me who they are shouldn’t matter. Unless you’re hiding something.” At that, Bruce finally raised his eyes. “Their identities are theirs to protect, not mine to hand out. Trust isn’t built on exposing secrets.”

Grace held his gaze, frustrated. “You expect me to keep risking my neck for you and the kid while you keep me in the dark?”

Bruce’s voice was even, firm. “You’ve seen what Vought does with information. If their names get out, they won’t be safe. And neither will John.”

Grace’s tone hardened, “You’re asking me to buy into this fairy tale about a Justice League, and you’re from a different damn world, Bruce. Fine. I believe you but if that’s true, then what danger could my knowing their names possibly pose? Vought can’t touch them there. No one here can. So why not just tell me?”

Finally, Bruce raised his eyes, his expression unreadable beneath the cowl. “Because secrets don’t stop being dangerous just because you cross a border. Or a dimension. The people I fight beside deserve the right to protect who they are. I won’t take that from them — not for you, not for anyone.”

The tension between them stretched, taut and unyielding. Grace sat back, jaw tight, but said nothing more.

Later that night, John padded over from the couch, clutching one of the comics. He sat beside Bruce, holding it up with a shy grin. “They kinda remind me of what you said about your League.” Bruce glanced at the bright panels of caped heroes in four-color ink. “Not the same,” he murmured. John shrugged, “Still… I think it’d be cool. To have friends like that. People who’d fight for you,” said John. For a moment, Bruce’s hand hovered above the boy’s shoulder, then rested there gently.

“One day, John. You’ll have that.”

John leaned into the touch, his smile soft and tired. Within minutes, he nodded off against Bruce’s side, the comic slipping from his hands.

---

Later – Alone

The room was quiet now. Grace had gone to check the perimeter. John was fast asleep again. Bruce sat in the dim glow of the communicator, staring at the boy’s small frame curled under the blanket.

He had risked everything to bring John this far. But questions gnawed at him, heavy and relentless.

John needed more than safety. He needed guidance. A childhood. A family. Someone who could teach him how to control his gifts — how to be human, not a weapon.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed in thought. Who should raise him?

Himself? The League? Someone else entirely?

The communicator pulsed faintly, as though waiting for an answer he didn’t yet have.

---

Location: Grace’s Safehouse – The Next Night

The safehouse was quiet, save for the soft hum of Bruce’s communicator as he worked the dials again. Static flickered across the small receiver, faint pulses of data breaking through. Grace sat with her arms crossed, eyes narrowed at him. John rested at the kitchen table, chin propped on his hand, his restless gaze shifting between them. Grace broke the silence. “You’ve said a lot about this so-called League, Bruce. But if they’re real… if they’re everything you claim… why haven’t they answered you yet? Maybe they’re not there. Or maybe they don’t care.”

Bruce didn’t look up. “They’ll answer. I just have to break through.”

Grace shook her head, unconvinced. “Or maybe you’re clinging to ghosts from a world you’ll never get back to. Or say you do manage to get in contact, to go back home. What happens when you drag a kid like John into their world? You think they’ll just open their arms? Or will they see him for what he is — Vought’s creation?”

Bruce didn’t look up. “They’ll see him as a boy.”

Grace scoffed. “You don’t know that. Power like his… people don’t look at it and see a child. They see a weapon. A liability. Or a time bomb.”

John shrank at her words, frowning at the table. “I’m not a bomb,” he muttered.

Bruce finally turned, his voice firm. “You’re not. Don’t ever believe otherwise.”

John looked up at him, eyes wide. “But what if she’s right? What if they don’t like me?”

Bruce’s expression softened, if only a fraction. “Then they’ll have to answer to me. But I know them, John. They’ll see you for who you are, not what Vought tried to make you.”

John nods his head, "Okay," he says. John bites at his lip and then curiously ask, " So do any of the Justice League have kids? You said they didn't have any like me but do they have kids at all, do you have kids?"

Bruce’s gaze softened, just slightly. His voice came low, almost reluctant. “Not my own. But there are young people I’ve… trained. Looked after. They’ve fought beside me. They’re like family.”

John blinked. “So… like me?”

Bruce held his gaze for a long moment. “In some ways. But you’re not like anyone else, John. You don’t need to be.”

Grace crossed her arms tighter, steering the moment back. “And these friends of yours — family or not — you won’t even tell us their names. If you’re stuck here, why not? They’re safe. They’ll never know I asked.”

John’s voice cut in before Bruce could reply. “What’s it like?”

Bruce glanced at him, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“Your life,” John said, leaning forward, curiosity written all over his face. “Not the League — you. Do you have a House? And your friends. Do you eat dinner with them, or is it always just… fighting bad guys?”

Grace smirked faintly. “Good question, kid. Even Batman’s gotta eat.”

Bruce studied John for a long moment, then answered quietly, “I have a home. Not much of one. But yes — I eat, sometimes with them. I sleep. Not as much as I should.”

John frowned. “What about the ones without powers? You said your friends aren’t all like me. What makes them special if they don’t have… y’know.” He held out his hands, mimicking the crackle of heat vision that wasn’t there.

Bruce’s voice was steady, but softer than usual. “They chose to fight anyway. Some of them are the bravest people I’ve ever known. They stand next to gods and don’t flinch. They don’t need powers to matter.”

That seemed to plant a seed in John’s mind, his eyes widening just slightly. “So… people like Grace?”

Grace raised a brow, glancing between them. “Careful, kid. Don’t go flattering me too much.”

Bruce gave the faintest hint of a nod. “Yes. People like Grace.”

Grace shifted in her chair, uncomfortable at being folded into the conversation. “And you expect me to believe they’d just… take him in? No questions? No fear?”

Bruce turned back to her, his tone hardening again. “They’ll have questions. But they’ll listen. They don’t see weapons first. They see people.”

---

Meanwhile – Watchtower, Earth-0

The signal broke through again, louder. Clearer.

Cyborg’s fingers flew across the console. “Got something. Not just noise this time.”

Static fractured into half-formed words — the faintest trace of a child’s voice.

Superman’s eyes narrowed. “He’s not alone.”

Wonder Woman’s reply was measured, but firm. “Then whoever he’s with may be just as important as he is.”

---

Chapter Text

---

Location: Grace’s Safehouse – Two Days Later

The storm outside had passed, leaving the safehouse steeped in the damp silence of early morning. Grace was gone for the moment — securing supplies and checking on another location — leaving Bruce and John to the rare stillness that came after days of tension. John sat on the floor, legs crossed, staring at the small, intricate pieces of a disassembled radio that Bruce had given him. “What’s this for again?” he asked, brow furrowed as he tried to fit a wire into place.

Bruce looked up from where he sat across the table, cleaning a small utility blade. “Discipline,” he said. “Patience. Every part has a place. If you rush it, it breaks.” John frowned but kept trying. After several failed attempts, he muttered, “Feels like it’s already broken.” Bruce’s lips twitched, almost a smile.

“Then fix it.”

It took nearly an hour, but John finally connected the last wire. When the radio crackled softly to life, he beamed.

“I did it!”

Bruce nodded. “You followed directions. You learned how it fits together.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “You’ll find that’s true for more than just machines.” John tilted his head, studying him. “You mean people?” Bruce hesitated, “Sometimes. People break in ways you can’t always fix. But you can help them… hold together.”

John went quiet, the words landing somewhere deeper than Bruce expected. After a while, John spoke again, softer this time. “You said you had… people you looked after. Those people you trained.”

“Yes.”

“Do you miss them?”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. The rain began to tap faintly against the window again, the rhythm filling the silence.

“Every day,” he said finally.

John nodded, as if that made sense. Then, cautiously: “Would you ever train me?”

Bruce looked at him — really looked at him. The boy’s eyes were bright but searching, hopeful in a way that hurt to see.

“You’re already learning,” he said finally. “One step at a time.”

John smiled faintly, that small answer meaning more than Bruce likely realized.

---

Later That Evening

Grace returned just before dark, dropping a duffel bag on the table. Her eyes moved immediately to Bruce and John — John now asleep on the couch, curled beneath a threadbare blanket. She crossed her arms, “You’re good with him. Better than I expected.” Bruce said nothing.

Grace’s voice lowered, more measured now. “You really think your world would take him? After what he’s been through here?”

Bruce’s gaze lingered on John. “If they don’t… I will.”

Grace studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “You sure you’re not just replacing someone you lost?” Bruce didn’t flinch, though something flickered behind his eyes, “Maybe. But that doesn’t change what he needs.” Grace sighed, rubbing a hand over her face.

“You said your League sees people, not weapons. Let’s hope that’s true. Because if you’re wrong, bringing him there could destroy him.”

Bruce didn’t respond — but when Grace left the room, his eyes returned to John, sleeping soundly for the first time in days. He’d seen children turned into soldiers before. He’d promised himself it would never happen again.

And as the faint hum of the communicator filled the dark, Bruce Wayne made a silent vow:

If the Justice League wouldn’t take John…

He would.

---

Location: Grace’s Safehouse – Three Days Later

The flickering lightbulb above the kitchen sink cast a pale, uneven glow across the safehouse. Grace leaned over a spread of old files, government reports, and newly printed intel she’d smuggled out through her remaining contacts. The air smelled faintly of coffee and dust. Bruce stood across from her, arms folded, silent as he scanned each page she laid out.

“Two disappearances in the last twenty-four hours,” Grace muttered, tapping her finger against the paper. “Both from a Vought facility in upstate New York. One was a tech engineer; the other a handler. They’ve started moving staff — quietly.”

“They’re cleaning up,” Bruce said flatly.

“Or scrambling,” she replied. “Either way, they know they lost something big.”

Bruce glanced toward the other room, where John sat curled on the couch, flipping through a tattered comic book.

“They’ll come for him.”

Grace didn’t argue, “That’s why we keep moving.” She slid a map across the table. A series of safehouses marked in red ink dotted the northeastern corridor — a careful escape chain she’d spent years maintaining. “There’s a place outside Atlantic City. Isolated. Secure. No ties to my name. We’ll stay there until you can get through to your… League.”

Bruce gave a short nod, “We move tonight.” Grace looked up, frowning.

“You sure? He’s just starting to settle.”

“The longer we stay, the more likely they find us,” he said. “They’ll track movement patterns, trace resources. It’s only a matter of time.”

Grace sighed, rubbing her temple. “You really think they’ll risk a full search for one kid?”

Bruce’s eyes hardened. “He’s not just one kid, Grace. You’ve seen what he can do. They’ll never stop looking.”

---

Meanwhile – Vought Tower, New York City

The boardroom was silent, save for the faint hum of the city below. The lights were dimmed, the skyline stretching endlessly behind the glass walls. Stan Edgar sat at the head of the table, calm and expressionless, hands folded neatly before him. Across from him, a nervous scientist adjusted his glasses. “Last known trace: New Jersey,” the man said, his voice tight. “Movement patterns indicate a targeted retrieval. Signals were jammed in the area. Whoever took the asset knew what they were doing.”

Stan regarded him with a level, unblinking stare.

“Do you know what that tells me?”

The man swallowed. “Sir?”

“It tells me we’re not dealing with a random act,” Stan replied evenly. “We’re dealing with someone trained — someone patient. Someone who knows exactly what Vought is capable of.” He turned his gaze toward the two figures at the far end of the room. Zephyr leaned casually against the window, the faintest ripples of air circling his hands. His demeanor was relaxed, but his eyes gleamed with anticipation. Beside him, Black Noir stood utterly still, the dim light reflecting off the matte finish of his armor. His presence filled the room without a single word.

Stan rose, adjusting his suit jacket, “You’ll both lead the retrieval. Quietly. I want no public incident, no media trail, and no evidence that this ever happened.” Zephyr smirked, “And if whoever took him doesn’t play nice?” Stan’s response was crisp. “Then ensure they never play again.”

Zephyr chuckled softly. “Understood.” Noir didn’t respond. He simply turned and left, silent as a blade slipping into its sheath. Stan watched them go, his expression unreadable.

“Bring the boy home,” he said quietly. “Alive. We’ve invested too much to lose him to sentiment.”

---

Chapter Text

---

Back at the Safehouse – That Night

Grace finished packing the last of their supplies while Bruce checked the perimeter. John watched them quietly, sensing the unease neither of them voiced. “Are we leaving again?” he asked softly. Bruce crouched beside him, meeting his eyes, “Yes. Somewhere safer”, he said matching John's tone. John’s voice wavered.

“Will they ever stop looking for me?”

Bruce hesitated. “No,” he said truthfully. “But they’ll never find you if we stay ahead.” John nodded, trying to sound braver than he felt, “Then I’ll help.” Bruce gave him a faint, approving nod before turning back to Grace. Grace met his gaze.

“If your League doesn’t answer soon, we’re going to run out of safehouses.”

“Then we build new ones,” Bruce said.

The two locked eyes — a silent understanding forming between the pragmatist and the soldier. Neither trusted easily, but both knew the fight wasn’t over. And far above them, in a tower of glass and secrets, Stan Edgar’s hunters were already on the move.

---

A few hours later

The night sky stretched endlessly above the backroads of southern New Jersey. Clouds rolled over the moon, and the narrow strip of asphalt ahead looked more like a scar through the dark than a road. The hum of the car engine was the only sound between them. Grace drove, eyes sharp behind her glasses. She hadn’t spoken much since they left the last safehouse. Every few miles, she’d check the rearview mirror, fingers twitching near the pistol holstered beneath her jacket.

In the passenger seat, Bruce watched the treeline blur past — every branch, every shadow cataloged in silence. His mind was elsewhere, flickering between data frequencies, encryption protocols, and the faint pulse of the transmitter he’d been modifying in the duffel bag at his feet. In the back seat, John had fallen asleep, head resting against the window. Even in sleep, he looked uneasy — his hands twitching every so often, as if dreaming of flight. Grace finally broke the silence.

“You really think they’ll find us?”

Bruce didn’t look away from the dark road. “If they want to. They have satellites, drones, assets across the state. But they don’t know how I think.”

Grace gave a short, dry laugh. “Oh, great. The billionaire ninja thinks he can outmaneuver a multinational corporation.”

“I’ve done worse,” he replied evenly.

That silenced her for a while.

---

By dawn, they reached the old farmhouse. The place looked like it hadn’t seen a soul in decades — chipped paint, sagging porch, an old weather vane spinning lazily in the wind. But the walls were solid, and there were no security feeds, no satellites watching. It was invisible, exactly what they needed. Grace parked near a row of dying trees and got out first, stretching her legs. “Not bad. Not good either, but not bad.” John climbed out next, his small frame wrapped in Bruce’s spare jacket. He blinked up at the house.

“It looks sad.”

Bruce crouched beside him, scanning the horizon. “Sad means no one wants it. That’s good.” John nodded slowly, then followed him toward the porch. Inside, dust motes swirled in the pale morning light. Grace moved through the rooms methodically, checking for hidden cameras or signs of intrusion. Bruce found a spot near the kitchen window, setting up his modified transmitter.

Grace glanced over her shoulder. “You’re still trying to reach them.”

“Yes,” Bruce said, not looking up. She leaned against the doorframe. “You’ve been saying that for weeks. And you really expect your people — your ‘Justice League’ — to pick up the phone across universes?” “I’ve done harder things,” he said simply.

Grace smirked, “I’ll bet you have. Still doesn’t sound real.” Bruce glanced at her then, the faintest shadow of irritation crossing his face.

“Reality isn’t defined by belief.”

She raised her hands in mock surrender, “Alright, space man. Keep your secrets.” That evening, John sat by the small wood stove while Grace unpacked what little food they had. Bruce was soldering wires at the table, the faint blue spark of his tools lighting up his face in flashes. John broke the quiet first, “You really think your friends will come?” Bruce paused mid-solder.

“Eventually.”

“What are they like?” the boy asked. “Your friends.” Bruce set the tool down and leaned back, considering. “They’re... different. Stronger than most. But not perfect.”

“Do they have kids?” John pressed.

“Some of them do,” Bruce said, his tone measured. “They fight for them. For everyone’s.”

John hesitated, then asked softly, “Do you?”

Bruce looked down at the circuitry in front of him. His jaw flexed, but his voice stayed calm, “No... I never did.” John looked at him closely, as if searching for something behind the mask.

“Why not?”

Bruce met his gaze. “Because some of us aren’t built for normal lives.” John nodded quietly, mulling it over. “I think you’d be a good dad,” he said after a moment. That caught Bruce off guard. For a heartbeat, the hardened lines in his face softened — but only just. He said nothing. Just reached out and gently pushed the transmitter toward the edge of the table.

“Time to sleep.”

---

Chapter Text

---

Farmhouse — Later that night

Grace joined Bruce at the window. The forest outside was pitch black. “You think they’ll keep chasing him forever?” she asked. “Yes,” he said. “He’s proof of everything they want and everything they fear.”

Grace crossed her arms, “Then maybe we should stop waiting on your League and start building a plan that doesn’t depend on a miracle.” Bruce didn’t respond right away. His eyes were on the faint glow of the transmitter, its pulse slow and steady. “The plan is to survive until I make contact. After that… we find him a future.”

Grace studied him for a long moment. “You actually believe that, don’t you?”

“I don’t have the luxury of not believing.”

Outside, the wind shifted. A faint rustle of branches broke the silence — and far off in the distance, something metallic hummed, too rhythmic to be nature. Grace stiffened. “What was that?”

Bruce’s gaze narrowed toward the dark tree line. “Trouble getting closer.”

---

Location: Vought Tower, New York City
Time: 06:47 A.M.

The city below glittered with early-morning light, but the boardroom atop Vought Tower was kept dim — deliberate, sterile, controlled.

Stan Edgar liked it that way.

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the skyline as a muted briefing played across the room’s central display — satellite footage, sensor readouts, and maps dotted with faint red markers spreading southward. The technician presenting the data was sweating through his collar. “We’ve narrowed their movement to the southern New Jersey region. They’ve stayed off all major highways — manual travel, no digital footprint.”

“Smart,” Stan murmured. His voice was calm, even. “But not invisible.” He turned slightly, his gaze falling on the two figures standing by the glass. Zephyr leaned against the window frame, arms crossed, his reflection gleaming faintly in the morning light. The faint swirl of air around him stirred the blinds, restless, eager. Beside him stood Black Noir — silent, motionless, unreadable behind his matte-black mask.

Stan gestured toward the display. “The subject is alive. He’s traveling with two unidentified adults. One of them is the asset’s caretaker — a former intelligence officer who’s been off the grid for years.”

“Grace Mallory,” Zephyr said smoothly. “I’ve heard of her. Real patriot type.”

“Patriotism,” Stan replied, “is just another form of branding.” He tapped the screen, zooming in on the map. “They’re moving between safehouses. Each one cleaner than the last. Whoever’s helping her knows our playbook.” Zephyr raised an eyebrow, “You think someone on the inside tipped her off?”

“I think,” Stan said, “we’re dealing with someone who understands us better than they should.” His eyes shifted toward the window again — toward the clouds curling low over the city. “And that makes them dangerous.”

---

Later — Vought Tactical Division

The hangar bay buzzed with quiet efficiency. Rows of armored vehicles and drones sat prepped and waiting, engineers and handlers working in synchronized precision.

Zephyr adjusted the cuffs of his combat suit, the blue and silver fabric shimmering faintly with embedded tech filaments. He looked every bit the poster hero Vought had trained him to be — charming smile, deadly capability, and zero moral hesitation.

Black Noir stood nearby, checking his weapon loadout. Zephyr grinned at him. “You know, sometimes I think Stan keeps you around just to remind the rest of us we’re expendable.” Noir didn’t react. He never did. A voice echoed from behind them — cold and measured. “You’re not expendable, Zephyr. You’re replaceable. There’s a difference.”

Stan had entered the hangar, a tablet in hand. The room instantly quieted.

He walked between them like a general inspecting soldiers. “This mission is not a PR exercise. There will be no cameras, no collateral, and no evidence of pursuit. The boy is to be recovered intact. His companions are not to be killed unless absolutely necessary.”

Zephyr gave a sharp half-smile. “You make it sound like we’re going after royalty.”

Stan didn’t look up from his tablet. “In a way, you are. That boy represents decades of research, billions in investment, and the closest thing Vought has to divinity. If you fail, there won’t be a second chance.”

Zephyr exhaled slowly, his grin fading.

“Message received.”

Stan stopped, finally meeting his gaze. “Good. Because I’m not sending a retrieval team. I’m sending the reminder that Vought doesn’t lose what it owns.” He turned and started for the exit, “You leave within the hour.”

Zephyr watched him go, then looked at Noir. “You ever get the feeling we’re not heroes anymore?” Noir tilted his head slightly — the faintest movement — before turning back to his gear.

Zephyr laughed once under his breath. “Yeah. Me neither.”

---

Stan’s Office – Later

When the hangar doors closed and the briefing was over, Stan returned to his office — a quiet glass box high above Manhattan. He poured himself a drink, the ice clinking softly in the silence. On his desk sat a file marked SUBJECT: HOMELANDER (John). The first page was a photo — a small boy with pale eyes and a tentative smile.

Stan studied it for a long moment before speaking to no one in particular.

“Even gods need handlers.”

He closed the file with quiet precision, slid it into a drawer, and locked it. Outside, the city lights burned against the glass — and far to the south, two of Vought’s most dangerous assets were already on the road.

---

Chapter Text

---

Location: The Farmhouse – South of Atlantic City
Time: 11:02 A.M.

Rain clung to the windows in thin sheets, blurring the gray world beyond. The farmhouse creaked under the weight of wind and time, a forgotten shelter for people who had nowhere else to go. Grace sat at the kitchen table, sifting through a small pile of aging CIA files and intercepted Vought transmissions. Every so often she’d glance toward the window, as if expecting headlights to appear in the mud-soaked drive. Bruce stood at the far corner of the room, working silently over the open casing of his signal transmitter. The machine pulsed faintly — its rhythm slow, steady, and so far unanswered.

“You ever sit still?” Grace muttered, eyes never leaving her paperwork. “No,” Bruce replied without looking up. Grace snorted, “Figured as much.” He kept adjusting the transmitter, and for a while, the only sound was rain on the roof. In the living room, John sat cross-legged on the floor, scribbling in a notebook he’d found in one of Grace’s supply crates. The kid had been quiet most of the morning — too quiet.

Bruce noticed.

He crossed the room and sat beside him. “What are you writing?” John blinked and held up the notebook. “Names. Yours and Grace’s. And… maybe names for your friends, too. The ones from your world.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, “You already know their names.”

“Yeah, but not what they’re like,” John said, scooting closer. “You told me before they were heroes. But what’s their life like? What do they do when they’re not saving people?”

Bruce hesitated — the kind of hesitation that meant a dozen memories had just resurfaced. “It depends on the person,” he said finally. “Clark… he has a family. He tries to live quietly when he can. Diana teaches. Barry works with the police. They have normal lives between the chaos.” John frowned slightly, “And you?” Bruce’s answer was simple.

“I work.”

John tilted his head. “All the time?”

“All the time,” Bruce said. “It’s what I’m good at.”

“That sounds lonely,” the boy said softly.

Bruce looked at him — the kind of look that could freeze air. But this time, it softened just slightly. “Sometimes it is.” John went back to doodling on the page — rough sketches of capes and masks, written names beside them in crooked handwriting. Superman. Wonder Woman. Batman.

After a moment, he looked up again.

“Do they have… kids?”

“Some,” Bruce said.

“Do you like being around them?”

He blinked. “The kids?”

“Yeah. The kids. Are they like me?”

Bruce thought of the young heroes who had come and gone through his life. Of the ones he’d trained, the ones he’d buried, and the one now sitting in front of him. “Not exactly,” he said. “But they’re brave. And stubborn. They want to make things better.” John’s expression brightened.

“Then maybe they’d like me, too.”

Bruce allowed himself the faintest smile, “I think they would.”

Grace’s voice cut through the moment from the kitchen. “We’ve got a problem.” Bruce stood and joined her. She turned her tablet around, showing him the faint, glitchy outline of a moving heat signature. “This came from one of my old satellite piggybacks — low orbit, unregistered by civilian networks. Vought’s running sweeps again.”

Bruce studied the display. “Pattern?”

“Moving south,” Grace said. “They’re not broadcasting, but it’s too clean to be random movement. They’re looking for something.”

“Us,” Bruce said.

Grace exhaled. “Yeah. Us.”

She rubbed her forehead, thinking. “You know, you could’ve picked a less terrifying company to piss off.”

“I didn’t pick any of this,” he replied.

“That makes two of us.”

By evening, the farmhouse had gone quiet again. Grace checked the windows, her pistol holstered tight, while Bruce worked in the corner — his eyes flicking between his transmitter and the shadows outside. John watched him from the couch, “You really think they’ll come?” he asked. Bruce didn’t answer right away.

“If the signal gets through.”

“What happens when they do?” John pressed.

“Then we figure out what comes next.”

John thought about that. “And if they don’t?”

Bruce met his gaze. “Then I make sure you’re safe another way.”

John hesitated, voice small. “Do you ever wish you didn’t have to fight?”

Bruce leaned back, folding his hands. “Every day.”

“But you still do it?”

“Yes,” he said. “Because if I don’t, someone else pays the price.” John nodded slowly, letting that settle in his head. “Grace says you’re not like people here.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened slightly, “She’s right.”

“She said you don’t trust anyone.”

“I trust people who earn it,” Bruce said. “She’s getting close.”

John smiled. “So am I?”

That drew a quiet breath of laughter from Bruce — rare, dry, almost human.

“You’re doing better than most.”

Later that night, when John was asleep, Grace found Bruce standing by the window again, his eyes fixed on the darkness beyond.

“Signal still dead?” she asked.

“For now,” he said. “But I’ll get through.”

She folded her arms. “You’ve been saying that for days.”

He turned toward her, expression steady. “Then I’ll keep saying it until it’s true.”

Grace studied him — the exhaustion behind the control, the weight behind every word. “If these Justice League people are real, what makes you think they’ll even care about this world?”

“They will,” Bruce said quietly. “Because that’s who they are.”

Grace raised an eyebrow. “And if they’re not what you remember?”

He didn’t answer.

---

Outside, the wind picked up.
The farmhouse groaned under the strain of another storm rolling in.
Neither of them noticed the faint shimmer of something metallic, far off through the rain — hovering for just a moment above the trees before vanishing into the clouds.

The hunt was closer than they knew.

---

Location: The Farmhouse – South of Atlantic City
Time: 4:43 A.M.

The world outside was still dark when Bruce opened his eyes.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep — he’d only rested his head against the wall for a moment — but something had pulled him awake.

A vibration.
Not from the transmitter.
Not from the old refrigerator humming in the kitchen.

Something outside.

He rose silently, moving through the farmhouse like a shadow, and cracked the living room curtain half an inch.

Nothing.

Just the field, silvered by moonlight.

But the air felt wrong.
Charged.
Like someone had walked across his grave.

Behind him, a tired voice whispered, “You're doing it again.”

Grace leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, her hair in a messy bun that somehow made her look more dangerous. “Paranoid perimeter check number six for the night.”

Bruce’s eyes never left the window. “Someone’s close.” Grace scoffed, “We’ve been over this. Nobody could’ve tracked us this fast.”

“The air changed.”

Grace blinked.

“The air. Really.”

But then she paused — because coming from him, it wasn’t a wild claim. It was a warning. Bruce let the curtain fall shut.

“Wake John.”

Grace didn’t hesitate after that.

---

Elsewhere — 6 Miles North

Zephyr’s POV

The forest canopy rolled like black waves beneath him. Zephyr moved through the air without sound, riding currents only he could sense. Below, Black Noir sprinted through the trees — fast, precise, cutting through brush like a knife.

Zephyr hated working with Noir.
He hated the silence, the way Noir never reacted, never acknowledged, never—

A ping vibrated on the scanner strapped to Zephyr’s arm.

HUMAN THERMAL SIGNATURE — THREE TARGETS
APPROXIMATE DISTANCE: 5.4 MILES
DIRECTION: SOUTH-SOUTHEAST

He grinned. “Bingo.”

Noir didn’t slow as Zephyr descended beside him.
The masked man simply tilted his head — an acknowledgement, a warning, or nothing at all.

“You know,” Zephyr said, “if this kid is half as strong as they say, we should probably get a bonus for bringing him back alive.”

Noir didn’t respond.

Zephyr rolled his eyes, “Right. Forgot you’re about as chatty as furniture.”

But as he looked ahead, he caught something in the air — a faint disturbance, a subtle shift in pressure.

Movement.

Human.

Running.

“We’ve got motion.”

He smiled wider.

“Targets are on the move.”

Noir’s posture sharpened.

---
The hunt accelerated.