(Three Months Ago)
Bruce ran through the dark warehouse pounding his boots on the concrete, shouting "Dick, get out of there now" as flames licked the walls and smoke choked the air—he turned a corner and saw Dick hunched over a crate, fiddling with a teleporter transponder that beeped fast with wires sparking, and The Batman stood behind him barking "Destroy it all, Nightwing, we can't let those weapons get out, they'll kill millions" in a voice cold as steel. Dick nodded and flipped switches, turning the device into an implosion bomb, saying "I've got this, Bruce, just stay back" but Bruce lunged forward yelling "No, Dick, stop, you don't have to do this" and reached out as the air tightened and the room shook—Dick looked back with wide eyes saying "it's too late, I'm sorry" and the device hummed louder pulling everything inward. Bruce clawed at the ground and screamed "Dick, no, get away from it" but Batman grabbed his arm snarling "He's doing his job, let him finish" and held him back as the implosion hit, sucking crates and steel beams into a black point—Dick shouted "Bruce, help me" before vanishing in the crush with flesh tearing and bones snapping, a flash of his black tunic swallowed whole—and Bruce pounded the floor cursing "You killed him! You bastard!" at Batman who stood there watching. "It had to be done," he replied, like it meant nothing.
Bruce jolted awake and sat up in the batcave's chair breathing hard but staying silent with sweat soaking his shirt—he rubbed his face feeling stubble scrape his palms and hair hanging greasy and tangled nothing like the sharp figure he used to be. He turned his head and looked at the batcomputer screen that glowed with news feeds flashing crime reports—Gotham's chaos and crimes around the world scrolling past his eyes one after another worse every time.
One article popped up and blared "Riots Tear Through Gotham's East End Again Tonight" with a reporter saying "looters smashed every storefront on Kane Street and left three dead before cops even showed up, it's a war zone out here and no one's stopping it" over footage of burning cars and masked figures swinging bats.
Another flashed "Bank Heist in Bludhaven Leaves Twelve Dead" and the anchor reported "they blew the vault with military-grade explosives and gunned down guards like it was nothing, police say it's the fifth major hit this month and they've got no leads" as shattered glass and bloodstains filled the screen.
A third scrolled "Arson Wave Hits Metropolis" with a voice shouting "Firefly torched half the industrial district and laughed while he did it, saying 'this city's next' before vanishing, Superman's nowhere in sight and we're on our own" over shots of factories swallowed in flames.
The last one looped "Global Crime Surge Overwhelms Interpol" and a tired official muttered "warlords are carving up Europe and cartels run South America now, we're losing ground every day and no hero's stepping up" while maps showed red zones spreading like blood.
Bruce sat there staring and rested his hands on the desk watching it all until Alfred shuffled down the stairs carrying a tray saying in his clipped British accent "Master Bruce, you should sleep in your bed and not down here again, it's not healthy staying glued to that screen all night." but Bruce kept his eyes locked on a fire sparked by Firefly raging across a warehouse district with flames flickering in his pupils—he stood without a word and scraped the chair back heading up the cave stairs into the manor, walking through dim halls, stepping into the bathroom, turning on the faucet, splashing water on his face, running hands through his beard. He looked up and saw not himself in the mirror but Batman staring back with cowl sharp and eyes hard—he blinked and shook his head splashing more water but the reflection stayed glaring and he gripped the sink before turning away.
He walked into the study and sat at the desk flipping through old case files, he suddenly felt movement and saw bats fluttering in the corners and shadows stretching across the walls—he rubbed his eyes and looked again finding nothing yet felt them watching.
He stood and paced the hall catching a glimpse of a young Dick flipping off the banister landing with a grin saying "Watch this move, Bruce, bet you can't keep up" but Bruce froze reaching out and Dick vanished leaving empty air—Bruce muttered "not again" and kept walking.
Days passed and he wandered the manor seeing Batman in every reflection, glass doors, polished silverware and even the windows at night—each time he turned away with jaw tight and hands clenching until one day Damian stormed in slamming a fist on the table shouting "Get off your ass and be Batman again, Gotham's dying out there and you're just sitting here like a coward."
"The Batman is dead" Bruce said with voice flat staring at the wall.
Damian kicked a chair and yelled "You're letting everyone down, Dick wouldn't want this" but Bruce turned back to the window seeing bats swarm outside—he walked away hearing Damian curse behind him.
Tim came next knocking soft and sitting across from him asking "Have you seen the reports, Bruce, it's bad out there and we could use you, maybe we can figure this out together" but Bruce cut him off saying "I'm not him anymore"
Tim sighed and left saying "Think about it at least" under his breath.
Barbara wheeled in later showing him drone footage of fires and shootouts saying "Gotham's in chaos, Bruce, people are dying every night and we need Batman back, you can't just sit here forever" but he said nothing repeating "I'm sorry Barbara." with eyes locked on a bat flapping in the corner.
Weeks dragged and he sat in the cave staring at screens hearing Dick's laugh echo and seeing Batman loom in the shadows.
Damian yelled again saying "you're a disgrace to the family" and Tim pleaded "we're losing everything you built" and Barbara showed more clips begging "do it for Dick if not for us" but the voices piled up and failures screamed in his head like Dick's death, him spiking his best if not only friend with Red Kryptonite, hunting down and nearly killing an eighteen year old just because of his parentage.
One day he stood and walked to Alfred saying "I'm leaving." grabbing a coat from the rack.
Alfred turned folding a shirt and asked "When will you be back, sir?"
Bruce pulled the coat on and said "I don't know" heading for the door as Barbara rolled up grabbing his arm saying "you can't just run, Bruce, we need you here" but he shook her off walking out.
He drove to his private air strip and climbed into a private jet starting the engines himself taking off alone flying east over the ocean leaving Gotham's lights behind heading for Asia with no plan just sky ahead.
...
Bruce slouched in the jet's cockpit, the engines buzzing low against the thin Himalayan air. He'd been flying east for hours, staring at jagged peaks stabbing up through the gloom below. Faint snow glinted on their edges under a thin moon, casting pale shadows across the rugged sprawl. Tired eyes burned from days without sleep, heavy lids drooped over gritty sockets. Thick exhaustion settled into his bones, a weight he couldn't shake. He didn't bother fighting it anymore—too many nights staring at screens, too many ghosts clawing at his skull. Sleep grabbed him quick, yanking him down into the festering pit of the oast.
The stadium reeked of burnt flesh, melted plastic seats, and soaked blood pooling on the trampled turf. Fifty thousand lives snuffed out in a blink—Joker's green gas had rolled through the stands like a plague, choking screams into gurgles, swelling faces purple until they burst like overripe fruit. Bruce sprinted across the field, crunching ash under his boots, snagging his cape on twisted steel beams jutting from the wreckage. The glowing scoreboard blinked 0:00, a silent jab at his failure. Too late again, always too late—fifty thousand dead because he couldn't move fast enough, couldn't outsmart the clown one more time. Shrill, wild laughter sliced through the smoky haze, a sound that grated his nerves raw. Joker danced atop the press box, his torn purple suit flapping in the hot wind, loose green hair whipping around his chalk-white face. He waved a detonator in one bony hand, flashing a wide grin with yellowed teeth.
"Batsy!" he crowed. "You missed it—boom, pop, gone! I turned fifty thousand balloons into a big, bloody mess, and you weren't even here for the show!"
Bruce vaulted a wrecked seat, itching fists clenched tight, eager to smash that grin into pulp. He tackled him mid-twirl, splitting concrete as they crashed down. Wheezing, Joker cackled through a busted lip, blood dribbling down his chin. Bruce's fist cracked his jaw, snapping bone with a wet crunch.
"I've got you now," Bruce rasped, pinning his chest with a heavy knee. "You're done."
"HA-HA-HOO!" Joker spat, splattering blood across Bruce's cowl. "I think this was our best game yet, Bats! You should've heard the panic, seen the fireworks—round two's gonna top it, I promise!"
Bruce yanked him up by the collar, slamming him against the dented booth frame. Creaking metal groaned under the force. Wailing sirens closed in, slicing the haze with flashing red and blue lights. Swarming cops clicked cuffs around Joker's wrists, dragging him toward a waiting van. He twisted back, grinning at Bruce with that same unhinged gleam.
"HEE-HEE-HA!" he shouted. "I'll catch you next time, pal—this ain't over for us!" His bouncing laugh echoed off the shattered ruins, wild and piercing, as the slamming van doors cut him off.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP! Bruce jolted awake, his heaving chest slick with sweat, soaking his shirt through. The blazing red cockpit flashed warning lights, blaring alarms pounding his ears. The shaking jet rattled like it was coming apart, battered by screaming wind outside. He wiped his face with a shaky hand, shaking off the clinging dream, and seized the yoke. Torn lightning ripped the sky apart, boiling black clouds loomed over the Himalayas, swallowing the peaks below. Pounding rain smeared the windshield into a blurry mess, distorting the world outside. The spinning altimeter dropped fast—24,000 feet, 23,500—plummeting quicker than he could think. "Damn it," he muttered, pulling the limp stick with both hands. The lurching jet groaned, its straining engines drowned by booming thunder shaking the frame.
A sudden electric jolt slammed through, tearing the left wing off with a shrieking rip. Spraying sparks lit the dash, choking smoke stung his lungs and eyes. "Move!" he growled, smacking the dead stabilizer. It flopped useless in his grip. The dipping nose spiraled into the storm, pitching him forward. BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!—louder now, a relentless death chime drilling into his skull. Unbuckling, Bruce staggered across the tilted floor, stumbling to the rear. He needed that parachute.
The rattling cabin popped bolts loose, clattering against the walls. He punched the locker open with a grunt, splintering metal under his knuckles. The tangled pack fell into his fingers, straps catching on his sweaty palms. Then—BOOM—the tail tore away, blasting roaring wind inside. Yanking pressure slid his boots back across the slick floor. Clawing nails dug into a seat, gripping tight, but snapping bolts tore it loose. Flying out, he sucked into the black night, tumbling into the void with nothing to hold.
Free fall swallowed him whole. The howling storm roared in his ears, cracking lightning flashed—BOOM-BOOM—flickering bat shapes danced in the swirling clouds. His flapping coat flailed against the biting wind, useless against the icy grip tearing at his skin. The lost parachute spun away, a faint speck vanishing in the storm. His twisting body flipped, smearing the world into blurred gray peaks and white snow far below. Unknown height stretched beneath him, a vast drop pulling him down. The fast fall clawed his face with frigid air, stinging his eyes, numbing his fingers as he plummeted through the tempest.
Stretched time slowed to a crawl, each second dragging like mud. His thudding pulse eased, fading to a dull thump. This was the final moment—no fight left, no tricks up his sleeve. Death loomed, a cold end he couldn't dodge. He let it sink in deep, washing over him—no more running from the crushing guilt, the endless failures piling up like bodies. Dick's implosion in that warehouse, his betrayal of Clark with the Red Kryptonite he'd forced on him, Joker's stadium slaughter—all those ghosts could rest now. He'd join them soon, bury the pain with them. Flickering faces drifted through the whipping wind, haunting him one last time.
Floating Clark swayed into view, his rippling cape framing piercing blue eyes. "I trusted you," he said. "You let me down."
Steady Diana appeared next. "I needed you most," she said. "You pushed me away."
Selina slipped past, flashing glinting claws. "I waited for you," she said. "You left me, never came back."
Rolling Barbara wheeled through, locking piercing eyes on him. "I built myself up because of you," she said. "You walked out when we all broke."
Damian balled his fists, glaring with a deep scowl. "I'm alone, you abandoned me, Father," he said. "You left me behind."
Tim stayed calm, his cold accusation cutting deep. "I learned justice from you," he said. "You threw it away everything you taught me."
Alfred held a steady tray, his quiet voice murmuring low. "Ive watched you fade, lad," he said. "It broke my heart."
His parents even, Thomas and Martha—reached out to him with their hands. "We raised you for more, son," they said together.
Dick landed close, his piercing blue eyes cutting through the wind. ", Bruce," he said with a sad smile. "You can still fight... Wake up."
Snapping eyes widened. Flashing lightning flared—another bat symbol—and a gasping breath punched his chest. Fight. Dick's burning voice echoed in his skull—"Wake up." The rushing ground glared up with white peaks, snow patches sharpening below. Flaring instinct snapped alive, surging through him. He wasn't done—not yet. Spreading arms and legs flattened his body out, slowing the drop. His billowing coat caught air, tugging against the fall. Drag, not a parachute, but enough to work with. Scanning eyes locked on a steep slope below—thick snow piled deep at the base, a soft landing if he hit it right. Training clicked into gear—angle the body, use the coat's drag, aim for the drift. Risky odds, but he'd beaten worse, clawed out of tighter spots.
Twisting wind shoved him sideways, straining the tugging coat. Looming peaks sharpened in his vision, growing snow patches gleamed brighter as he closed in. Aimed legs braced for the drift, his flat body held steady against the buffeting gusts. Roaring air stung his eyes, blurring tears into streaks, but his focus didn't waver. Closer now—rushing white slope steepened, the unforgiving drift swelled below.
Slamming impact—WHUMP—buried him in exploding snow. His tumbling body rolled fast down the slope, kicking up powder in a wild spray. Searing pain ripped through his ribs, a popping shoulder screamed as it wrenched loose. Curling tight, he let the swallowing drift take the hit, cushioning the brutal fall. Stinging powder blasted his face, slowing the frantic slide. Shredding coat burned with friction, clogging snow packed into every crease of his clothes. Bleeding momentum faded, and he stopped, buried deep in the freezing white. Crashing silence fell hard, broken only by fogging breaths rasping in the biting cold.
Clawing hands freed him, caking sticky snow onto his tangled beard as he dragged himself out. His aching body flopped onto his back, sprawling limp on the drift. Burning chest heaved—cracked ribs, maybe broken, stabbed with every breath. Screaming shoulder dangled useless, a dislocated arm hung limp at his side. Shaking legs twitched, bruised but holding him up if he tried. Staring eyes watched the churning storm above, dimming lightning swallowed the dancing bat shapes.
He lived. Barely.
...
Bruce wandered through the Himalayas for a day now, trudging across snow-covered slopes. He dragged his feet through drifts, leaving uneven trails behind him. His coat hung in tatters, flapping against his legs as wind cut through the holes. He shivered, hugging his good arm across his chest while his dislocated shoulder dangled limp, sending jolts of pain with every step. His beard crusted with ice, he blinked snow from his lashes, squinting into the gray blur ahead. He sucked in air, feeling it burn his lungs, then exhaled clouds that vanished quick. He kept moving, digging his boots into the ground, forcing himself forward because stopping meant dying. He chewed his cracked lips, tasting blood, and swallowed to keep his throat from drying out completely. He looked for shelter, scanning ridges and cliffs, but saw only more snow and rock stretching endless. He had to survive, had to keep going, so he pushed on, step after step, ignoring the ache in his legs, the hunger gnawing his gut, the cold seeping into his bones.
He walked, but his mind churned, dragging up demons he couldn't outrun. He saw the stadium again, fifty thousand dead because he let Joker live. He pictured the clown's grin, the gas canisters, the bodies piling up, and asked himself why he didn't end it. He thought of Two-Face, Penguin, Riddler, thousands more gone because he locked them up instead of finishing them. He clenched his fist, feeling the weight of every life he could've saved, every family that wouldn't be mourning if he'd crossed that line. He shook his head, muttering to himself that he had to believe in something, had to trust the system, but doubt gnawed louder, telling him he was wrong, telling him his hands stayed clean while others bled out. He kicked a rock, watching it tumble down a slope, and kept walking, wrestling with the truth that maybe his code was a lie, a shield for his own weakness.
A laugh echoed behind him, cutting through the wind. He spun, boots slipping, and saw Joker standing there, white face glowing against the snow, green hair whipping wild. The ghost pointed, cackling loud, accusing him with every word.
"You're just as nuts as me, Batsy!" Joker said. "You love our little games, don't you? I kill, you chase, we dance—admit it, you get off on it same as I do!"
Bruce gritted his teeth, stepping forward, shouting back at the figure. "No! I'd never sink to your level, you bastard! I fight for something, you destroy everything!"
Joker threw his head back, laughing harder, clutching his sides like it hurt. He wiped a fake tear, grinning wider, mocking Bruce with every breath.
"Oh, Batsy, you're a riot!" he said. "You know who did me in? Mark—the kid you hunted, the one you nearly killed! He smashed my skull, and millions cheered! I hear they threw parties when I croaked, slept easy knowing I was gone for good!"
Bruce froze, fists trembling, staring at the ghost while wind howled around them. Joker leaned closer, voice dropping low, dripping with venom.
"But you couldn't do it, could you?" he said. "You let me slaughter all those folks because you love your precious broken system! I bet you watched them die, telling yourself it's noble, but we both know it's crap!"
Bruce roared, lunging at him, swinging his good arm to smash that grin. His fist hit air, Joker vanishing, and he stumbled, tripping over a ridge. He fell, rolling down a steep slope, snow crunching under him, rocks scraping his back. He slid, tumbling fast, then landed hard at the bottom, sprawled in a drift. He panted, breath fogging quick, shivering as cold bit deeper into his skin. He lay there, chest heaving, staring up at the gray sky, feeling ice soak through his torn clothes. Figures appeared above him, shadows against the clouds—Dick, Jason, Oliver Queen, Shazam—all dead, all watching him.
"I'm sorry," Bruce said, voice cracking as he looked at Dick. "I let you die in that warehouse, I couldn't stop it, I failed you."
He turned his head, meeting Jason's eyes. "I left you with him, I didn't get there in time, it's my fault you're gone."
He shifted, facing Oliver. "I didn't warn you about Nolan, I should've seen it coming, I'm sorry you paid for it."
He looked at Shazam, swallowing hard. "You were just a child, I shouldn't have sent you in there."
He took a shaky breath, staring at them all. "You were my friends, my family, I failed every one of you, please forgive me, I don't deserve it but I'm begging you."
They gazed down, small smiles tugging their lips, eyes soft despite the cold. Dick stepped closer, voice firm.
"Bruce, get up," he said.
Bruce shook his head, snow crunching under him. "I can't, I've got nothing left."
Jason crossed his arms, glaring down. "Bruce, get up, now."
Bruce pushed with his good arm, trying to lift himself, but his legs buckled, and he fell back into the drift. "I can't do it, I've failed too much, it's over."
Oliver leaned forward, bow slung over his shoulder. "Bruce, get up!"
Bruce gritted his teeth, straining to rise, roaring as he shoved against the snow. His shaking legs wobbled, muscles burning, but he pushed harder, growling through the pain. Shazam knelt closer, lightning scar faint on his chest.
"Bruce, you get up!" he said.
They all leaned down together, shouting as one. "Get up!" They reached for him, grabbing his arms, his coat, pulling him to his feet. He stood, swaying, and then they were gone, air empty where they'd been. He blinked, snow stinging his eyes, and took a step. He kept walking, dragging one foot after the other, forcing himself through the drift. He pushed beyond his limits, ignoring the fire in his chest, the dead weight of his arm, the cold locking his joints. He stumbled, caught himself, walked more, hours blurring as wind whipped his face, snow piling on his shoulders. He squinted ahead, blurry eyes catching a shape—a building, a vague outline in the haze.
He staggered closer, boots crunching ice, breath shallow and quick. He reached the steps, climbing one, then two, hauling himself up with his good hand gripping the edge. His legs gave out on the third, and he collapsed, sprawling across the stone. He passed out, vision fading black, snow dusting his still form as wind howled over the temple.
___________________________
Bruce woke up in the temple, groaning as he rolled onto his side on a straw mat. He pressed his hand to his chest, feeling the dull ache from his cracked ribs, then touched his shoulder, flinching when pain shot through it. He sat up slow, blinking at the stone walls around him, carved with swirling lines that looped and twisted. He noticed oil lamps hanging from chains, flickering with yellow light, casting shadows that danced across the room. He looked up, seeing wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling, then heard a low hum of voices chanting from somewhere down the hall. He shifted his legs off the mat, grunting as they trembled under his weight, then leaned back against the wall, catching his breath. He saw monks in orange robes moving past the open doorway, some carrying wooden bowls, others holding scrolls, glancing at him with quick nods before continuing on. He rubbed his eyes, feeling grit under his lids, then wiped sweat from his brow despite the chill in the air. An old monk shuffled toward him, leaning on a cane, his bald head wrinkled like crumpled paper, his eyes squinting through a calm smile that seemed to see right through Bruce. He knelt beside him, pressing gentle hands to his ribs, feeling the bones, then lifting his arm to check the shoulder, moving it slow to test the joint.
"I see you're awake now," the monk said in English, his voice slow and warm. "How do you feel today after all that rest?"
Bruce nodded, clearing his dry throat with a swallow. "I'm fine. How did I get here? Who are you?"
The monk chuckled, patting Bruce's arm before sitting back on his heels. "I found you passed out on our doorstep a few days ago, half-buried in snow and looking like death itself. We brought you inside, warmed you up, bandaged your wounds as best we could with what we have. I'm Tenzin, just an old man who keeps this place running."
Bruce rubbed his neck, feeling rough bandages under his torn shirt, then shifted to sit straighter. "Thank you, Tenzin, for pulling me out of that mess. Where are we at right now?"
Tenzin smiled, folding his hands over his cane, resting it across his knees. "You're in the Drakmar Temple, hidden high in the Himalayas, miles from any road or city you'd find on a map. It's a quiet place, good for healing, far from the noise of the world."
Bruce frowned, pushing off the wall to stand, testing his legs as they wobbled under him. "I need to leave soon, get back home to Gotham."
Tenzin laughed, a soft sound that echoed off the stone walls. "I wouldn't recommend you try that yet. You should stay here until your body heals up, then head out when you're not falling apart. It's the wiser choice."
Bruce paused, looking at the doorway, then sighed, easing back down onto the mat. "Alright, I'll stay for now, but not long."
Tenzin nodded, standing with a creak of his knees, leaning on his cane. "You're free to wander the temple whenever you feel ready. I'd suggest you stretch your legs soon, it'll help you get your strength back."
Bruce rested there for a while, letting his breathing settle, then got up, hobbling through the temple's halls with slow steps. He passed rooms where monks knelt on cushions, chanting low prayers that vibrated the air, smelled incense drifting from small altars with brass bowls and burning sticks. He peeked into chambers, seeing shelves stuffed with scrolls, statues of grinning Buddhas sitting cross-legged, wooden benches where monks wrote with quills on parchment. He turned a corner, stepping out onto a courtyard paved with flat stones, squinting as sunlight bounced off fresh snow piled around the edges. He looked down, spotting a small village below the temple—huts with slanted roofs, smoke curling from chimneys, kids kicking a leather ball in the dirt, monks hauling water in buckets from a well. He watched them for a bit, seeing some chop wood with axes, others herd goats into pens, a few sweep paths with brooms, all moving like they'd done it every day of their lives. He walked back inside, finding the library—a big room with tall shelves, dusty books stacked high, tables cluttered with open texts, sunlight streaming through cracked windows onto the floor. He grabbed a book from a shelf, sat on a stool, started reading about ancient wars, monks who fought with staffs. He stayed there for days, flipping pages under lamplight, barely touching the rice bowls monks left by his elbow, sipping water from a clay cup when his throat scratched too much to ignore. He lost himself in the words, not knowing what to do next, not knowing who he was without the cape. He saw Batman's shadow flicker on the walls, loom in the corners when he turned his head, but shook it off because that wasn't him anymore, wouldn't ever be again.
One day Tenzin joined him in the library, shuffling in with his cane tapping the stone floor, his robe brushing the ground. He greeted Bruce with a nod, knelt beside him, checked his ribs by pressing light fingers to the bones, then lifted his arm to test the shoulder, rotating it slow. "I see your injuries are healing well," he said, sitting back with a pleased grunt, resting his hands on his knees. "Won't you join me for a walk outside? I think this library gets a bit stuffy for my liking after too long."
Bruce closed the book, sliding it onto the table. "Sure, I'll come with you."
They walked together through an open corridor, a balcony running along one side, overlooking snowy peaks piercing a clear blue sky, wind rustling through gaps in the stone. Bruce leaned on the railing, feeling the breeze hit his face, then turned to Tenzin, stepping beside him. "I want to thank you again for helping me out of that snow. If there's anything I can do to repay you, anything you need, just ask me."
Tenzin chuckled, waving a hand like brushing off dust. "I don't need a reason to help someone in need, it's just what we do here. But if you insist on repaying me, I'd like to hear the story of how you ended up on my doorstep."
Bruce nodded, looking out at the mountains, tracing the ridges with his eyes. "I was flying my plane over these mountains, got caught in a storm, lost control, and crashed somewhere out there. I wandered for a day, dragging myself through the snow, before I collapsed on your steps."
Tenzin tilted his head, tapping his cane once on the floor. "I think you're lucky to be alive after that, it sounds like an arduous journey to survive. But I'm more interested in why you were on that plane, not just how you stumbled here."
Bruce paused, tightening his jaw, staring down at his boots scuffed with dirt. He didn't answer, reluctance clamping his throat shut, his hands fidgeting at his sides. Tenzin watched him, squinting with a look that saw past the silence.
"I've seen many people pass through this temple over the years," Tenzin said, resting his cane against the railing. "Some come seeking knowledge, reading books like you, some want discipline, training their bodies, some need health, healing wounds. But at their core, they're all the same to me—they're lost, searching for something they can't name."
Bruce exhaled, shifting his weight off the railing. "I left because I wanted to find answers."
Tenzin hummed, leaning forward a bit. "We all seek that in life, it's a difficult task no matter who you are."
Bruce continued, lowering his voice. "I needed to find my purpose because my old one died."
Tenzin tilted his head again, tapping his cane lightly. "Why do you think your purpose died?"
Bruce swallowed, meeting his gaze for a moment. "It died when I let my adoptive son die for the greater good."
Tenzin nodded slow, resting both hands on his cane. "That's a difficult choice you made."
Bruce pressed on, clenching his hands into fists. "I believed in my purpose my whole adult life, thought I was right sticking to it, but because I didn't act, thousands died—my friend, my family, all gone because I held onto my beliefs instead of doing what needed doing."
They walked into a meditation room, stepping onto a wooden floor where Tenzin pointed to a cushion. Bruce sat, crossing his legs, watching Tenzin grab a pot from a shelf, pour tea into two clay cups, hand one to him. "This tea comes from leaves grown on these slopes," he said, settling across from Bruce. "They sprout in spring when the snow melts, soak up sun through summer, get picked in fall by the villagers, dried over winter in sheds, then end up here for us to drink after a long day."
He sipped his own cup, gesturing to Bruce. "Try it, I find it relaxing after too much thinking."
Bruce lifted the cup, sipped the hot liquid, nodded because he liked how it warmed his throat, eased the tightness in his chest. Tenzin set his cup down, folding his hands in his lap.
"I see you carry a lot of guilt with you," he said. "It weighs you down heavily, more than those injuries ever could."
Bruce gripped the cup, staring into the brown swirl. "It's my fault they died, Tenzin. If I'd done things differently, stepped over that line, they could've lived."
Tenzin sipped again, watching him over the rim. "Many people live haunted by ifs and what-ifs in their lives, wondering what they could've changed. Some, like you, try controlling everything because if you manage the unknowns, you can handle whatever comes."
Bruce stayed silent, feeling the words cut close, but didn't respond, just shifted his grip on the cup. Tenzin leaned forward a bit.
"I believe our choices matter little in the grand scheme of things," he said, sipping once more before setting his cup aside. "You say you're responsible for your friends' deaths, but millions of decisions by thousands of people, including your friends, led to that moment—small ones like where they stood, big ones like what they fought for, all equal in the end."
He rested his hands on his knees. "Taking all that on yourself is disingenuous to me, even hypocritical."
Bruce frowned, sliding his cup onto the floor. "How is it hypocritical?"
Tenzin tapped his cane once. "You believe your friends died because of your code, yet you think more control is the answer?"
Bruce stood, raising his voice. "What else am I supposed to do!"
Tenzin looked up, staying calm. "Perhaps the hardest thing you can do."
They paused, silence hanging heavy between them. Tenzin leaned back on his cushion.
"Accept that your friends died, it was their time, and you need to move on," he said.
Bruce clenched his fists, stepping forward, shouting loud enough to echo off the walls. "You're wrong! I could've done something, I did it, I murdered them, I killed Dick with my own hands!" He broke, sinking to his knees, sobbing into his palms as tears streaked his face, his shoulders shaking.
Tenzin rose, shuffled over, rested a hand on his shoulder, squeezing light. "We hold onto those we love from the moment we meet them, Bruce. I think that's good, it gives us strength, power, even in the darkest places we find ourselves."
He squeezed again, kneeling beside him. "When they die, that strength turns to poison, one we won't release because letting go feels like forgetting, even if it tears us apart."
He settled next to him, voice steady. "Let go, Bruce. If they were your loved ones, they've forgiven you already, they'd want you to do the same for yourself."
Bruce wiped his face with his sleeve, voice trembling. "How can I move on? I have no purpose now, it's gone."
Tenzin sat back, crossing his legs again. "I don't think purpose is found out there, it's forged inside, like a flame lit in an empty space where nothing grows. It starts small, barely there, offers no heat, but it grows if you feed it."
He sipped his tea, setting it down after. "The world doesn't hand you purpose, it strips it away—loss takes it, failure breaks it, betrayal twists it, time wears it down—and when it's gone, you're left with choice. That's existence to me: purpose isn't given, it's chosen, sometimes over and over until it fits."
He looked at Bruce, eyes steady. "You have a purpose, but you must choose it again, decide what it'll be."
He set his cup aside fully. "Now let go of those haunting you, give them peace."
Bruce wiped his eyes, looking up slow. He saw Dick, Jason, Oliver, Shazam standing by the balcony door, wide open, pouring bright light in so he couldn't see the mountains beyond. Shazam stepped forward, grinning wide like he used to.
"I never blamed you, Bruce," he said. "I'm thankful you let me live my dream as a superhero, it's all I wanted." He walked through the doorway, vanishing into the light.
Oliver gave a two-finger salute, nodding once. "Tell Dinah I'll be waiting for her," he said, stepping through after.
Jason crossed his arms, staring hard. "Keep up the fight I gave my life for, don't let it go to waste," he said, following the others.
Dick lingered, smiling at Bruce, hands in his pockets. "I'll miss you, Bruce. I hope I see you again someday. I had a lot of fun with you, swinging around Gotham." He turned to the doorway, paused, looked back. "Goodbye."
Bruce nodded, choking out the word. "Goodbye, Dick."
___________________________
Weeks passed in the temple as Bruce healed, spending his days training to rebuild strength lost from months of sitting around doing nothing. He started slow, walking laps around the courtyard, feeling his legs steady under him, then moved to lifting stones monks piled near the well, grunting as he hoisted them over his head before dropping them back down. He sparred with younger monks, ducking their staff swings, blocking kicks with his forearms, teaching them moves he'd learned in Gotham's back alleys. He ate rice and broth with them, sitting on benches in the dining hall, listening to their chatter about harvests and prayers, nodding along even if he didn't join in much. He slept better on the straw mat, waking without groaning, stretching his shoulder to test it, finding the pain gone, ribs knitting solid again. He laughed sometimes, joking with a monk who tripped carrying water, feeling lighter, more like the Bruce who used to prowl rooftops, but still lost inside, unsure what came next. He let go of Dick's death, Jason's, Oliver's, Shazam's—stopped seeing their ghosts in every shadow—but purpose eluded him, a blank space he couldn't fill. He kept training, running up temple steps, punching sacks of grain until his knuckles bled, pushing himself because it was all he knew how to do.
One morning he met Tenzin again in the meditation room, sitting on cushions as sunlight streamed through the open balcony door. Tenzin shuffled in, leaning on his cane, smiling at Bruce as he settled across from him. He poured tea from a pot into two cups, handing one to Bruce, then sipped his own before speaking. "I see you've recovered fast," he said, tapping his cane on the floor. "You train harder than the younger monks around here, put them to shame with all that running and lifting."
Bruce took the cup, sipping tea, setting it down on the cushion beside him. "I appreciate your hospitality, Tenzin, and everything you've guided me through these weeks."
Tenzin waved a hand, dismissing it like swatting a bug, then poured more tea into his own cup. "I enjoy your company, Bruce, and the insights you bring when we talk, but we both know you don't belong here forever. Your destiny lies on another path, not in these mountains."
Bruce nodded, looking at the steam rising from his cup, then met Tenzin's eyes. "I know that's true, but I'm not sure what path I'm supposed to take. I worry I'll make the same mistakes again, that if I choose the purpose I had before, I'll end up in the same place, watching people die because of me."
Tenzin sipped his tea, nodding slow as he swallowed. "I understand that's a valid worry. Many in your spot think they can change where they end up while walking the same road over and over."
He hummed, setting his cup down, resting his hands on his knees. "Tell me about this code you keep mentioning, the one you say cost so much."
Bruce leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, staring at the floor. "My code is simple—I don't kill, no matter what happens, no matter who they are or what they've done. I lock them up, let the law handle them, because taking a life crosses a line I won't step over, it keeps me from becoming like them, keeps me human."
Tenzin nodded along, listening close, then set his cane aside when Bruce finished. "I think perhaps that's where you're at fault."
Bruce frowned, sitting up straighter, looking at him. "How is that a fault? How can I justify killing anyone?"
Tenzin raised a hand, shaking his head. "Don't misunderstand me, Bruce—I see honor in mercy, but I also see necessity in killing sometimes."
He leaned back, folding his hands, starting to explain what he believed. "I think life is sacred, born from the same root, every person and creature tied together, but no life stands beyond judgment because value isn't absolute. To keep the world balanced, the corrupted have to be culled sometimes, like cutting rot from a tree before it spreads and kills the whole thing. I believe nature, fate, society need harmony, that excess—cruelty, greed, even mercy stretched too far—brings ruin, so the way demands temperance, not just standing by. Justice lives, it's not some dead rule on paper—when words fail, when wisdom can't fix it, righteous death becomes a tool to right the scales, not something to glorify, but something to accept when things tip too far. I say no one escapes the scales—kings, peasants, beasts, even gods get weighed, and those who break harmony face consequences, no matter who they are or what they meant to do. I offer mercy always, give them a chance to turn back, but if they spit on it, the blade follows."
He picked up his tea, sipping again, looking at Bruce over the rim. "You're not stooping to their level when you kill them, Bruce. You're doing a service, one that's necessary when they've gone too far."
Bruce looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers, thinking of blood he'd never spilled. "What about the law? I can't just ignore that."
Tenzin set his cup down, tapping the floor once. "The rules of men favor those who write them, always have. Tell me this, my friend—would you let the law stop you from saving a woman and child in danger?"
Bruce shook his head quick. "Of course I wouldn't."
Tenzin nodded, leaning forward. "Then it's the same thing, just bigger—cutting out rot that's festered too long, saving more by ending one."
Bruce rubbed his knuckles, staring at the floor. "What if I lose control, Tenzin? What if I can't see what's right like before, when I let things slide too far?"
Tenzin smiled, resting his cane across his lap. "That's why friends are one of life's great gifts—they keep us honest, Bruce, they're treasures who hold us to ourselves when we stray."
He leaned back, sipping tea again. "I say no man fights alone, he needs people around him. You shouldn't isolate yourself this time, Bruce, trust others to stand with you."
Bruce tilted his head, repeating it. "Trust people."
He frowned, looking at Tenzin. "What if they betray me? What if they're not trustworthy?"
Tenzin laughed, a deep sound that bounced off the walls. "That's life, Bruce—I can't promise they won't, but if you spend all your time worrying about what might happen, you'll miss what's happening right now."
Bruce stood, brushing his hands on his pants, nodding at him. "I thank you, Tenzin, you've given me a lot to think on today."
He walked out of the room, stepping into the corridor, thinking as he moved through the temple halls. He passed monks sweeping floors, carrying baskets of bread, nodding at them as he went, his mind turning over what Tenzin said. He thought about the world outside, how heroes dwindled while villains multiplied, news reports he'd seen on the temple's old radio flashing in his head—riots in Gotham, heists in Bludhaven, fires in Metropolis, no one stepping up to stop it. He pictured the Justice League, how they'd stuck to rules, let threats grow, watched people like Joker kill again and again. He stopped at a window, looking out at snow drifting off peaks, imagining a new group, heroes he could find, train, guide—ones who'd do what needed doing, end threats permanent, never let another stadium burn because of mercy. He clenched his fist, feeling purpose flicker, not solid yet, but there, something he could shape if he chose it.
He kept walking, heading for the temple's main doors, pushing them open with both hands, stepping onto the stone steps outside. He looked up, seeing a cloud of bats swarming overhead, circling against the gray sky, their wings flapping loud in the quiet. He stood there, watching them, breathing in the cold air, letting it fill his lungs.
It was time to go home.
(AN: So this was just a little scene to give you some background on what's been happening with Batman over the past few months. I kinda speed ran it cause I didn't want to spend too long on it but yeah that's how Batman came back with a new team. Ones that kill. I thought it was reasonable explanation for bringing in some invincible characters. Anyway hope you enjoyed the chapter.)
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