Wayne Manor - Medical Bay, Two Hours Later
"Your stubborn refusal to rest is going to kill you one day, Bruce," Leslie Thompkins said, removing her stethoscope with a disapproving frown. "And that's assuming this Lazarus compound doesn't do it first. We have no idea what the long-term effects might be."
Bruce remained impassive on the examination table, his torso bare and revealing the miracle of his healing. Wounds that should have taken weeks to close were now merely pink lines on his skin. Even the older scars had faded significantly—a roadmap of past injuries rendered almost invisible by whatever regenerative properties the Lazarus water contained.
"The compound is metabolizing cleanly," he replied. "My system is already returning to baseline."
Leslie gave him a look that had cowed him even as a child. "Your physical parameters, perhaps. But these neurological readings are concerning." She gestured to the brain scan displayed on the nearby monitor. "Your amygdala and limbic system are showing unusually high activity levels, consistent with states of extreme emotional arousal or aggression."
Bruce glanced at the scan, noting the bright flares of activity in regions of his brain that should have been showing more controlled patterns. For a moment, the image seemed to shift before his eyes, the colorful representation of his neural activity morphing into something that resembled a bat's spread wings, pulsing with unnatural vitality. He blinked hard, and the illusion faded.
"It's temporary," Bruce insisted, struggling to ignore the momentary distortion. "Talia warned it would happen."
"Ah yes, Talia," Leslie's tone cooled noticeably. "Your League of Shadows friend who decided injecting you with an unknown mystical compound was preferable to conventional medical treatment."
"It saved my life," Bruce reminded her.
"This time," Leslie conceded, making a notation on her tablet. "But at what cost, Bruce? These readings suggest potential long-term neurological impacts we can't even begin to predict." She set the tablet down and fixed him with a direct gaze. "And then there's the psychological component. Alfred mentioned you had an... altercation with the boy this morning."
Bruce's expression hardened. "Dick and I had a disagreement about his training. It's being handled."
"Is it?" Leslie asked skeptically. "Because what Alfred described sounded less like a mentoring discussion and more like two people triggering each other's deepest traumas."
"I would appreciate it," Bruce said with careful control, "if my household matters remained private, even among trusted associates."
Leslie was unmoved by his formality. "That 'household matter' is a grieving child who just lost his parents in circumstances horrifyingly similar to your own. A child who's now shouting that you're not his father, while you're experiencing chemically-induced mood instability." She crossed her arms. "Forgive me if I consider that relevant to your medical situation."
Bruce sat in silence for a moment, recognizing the genuine concern beneath Leslie's professional frustration. She had known him since that night in the alley—had been the one to examine him after his parents' murder, to observe the psychological withdrawal that had concerned even the police psychiatrists. Her perspective carried weight he couldn't simply dismiss.
As Leslie continued checking his vitals, Bruce felt a sudden, unnatural chill sweep through the medical bay. The temperature plummeted, his breath fogging in the suddenly frigid air. The lights flickered, shadows stretching abnormally across the sterile surfaces.
"Did you feel that?" he asked, muscles tensing.
Leslie looked up from her tablet, confusion evident in her expression. "Feel what?"
Before Bruce could respond, he noticed two figures standing in the corner of the room. His parents—Thomas and Martha Wayne—or rather, grotesque parodies of them. Their elegant evening wear was tattered and stained, not just with gunshot wounds but with the unmistakable signs of long burial. Thomas's face was half-decayed, bone visible through rotting flesh. Martha's pearls hung around a neck that showed clear signs of decomposition, the iconic necklace embedded in greenish, desiccated skin.
"Why didn't you save us, Bruce?" his mother asked, her voice emerging from a throat that shouldn't have been capable of speech, maggots visibly squirming at the corners of her mouth. "You were right there. You watched it happen."
"You couldn't protect us," his father added, his surgeon's hands now skeletal, fragments of burial cloth still clinging to fleshless fingers. "What makes you think you can protect that boy? You'll fail him too. Just like you failed us."
Bruce fought to keep his expression neutral, knowing these were hallucinations—manifestations of the Lazarus compound affecting his neural pathways. He focused on his breathing, using meditation techniques learned in Tibet to center himself. When he managed to break eye contact with the horrific visions, sweat beaded on his forehead despite the supernatural chill.
"Bruce?" Leslie's voice cut through his momentary dissociation. "Your heart rate just spiked to 140. What's happening?"
"Nothing," he lied, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. "What would you suggest for my condition?"
Leslie's expression softened slightly at this concession. "For your physical condition, continued rest and hydration. The foreign compound appears to be clearing your system without organ damage, thankfully." She hesitated before continuing. "For your psychological state... I'd recommend temporarily suspending Batman's activities until we're certain the emotional volatility has passed."
A low, rumbling laugh seemed to emanate from somewhere behind Bruce. He didn't need to turn to know what was manifesting—but the pull was irresistible. Against his better judgment, he glanced over his shoulder.
There it stood—not the bat that had crashed through his window years ago, but something far more monstrous. A hulking, demonic creature with leathery wings that spanned the width of the room, its body a mass of muscle and sinew covered in coarse black fur. Its face was a nightmarish blend of human and bat features, with elongated jaws filled with razor-sharp teeth. Most disturbing were its eyes—massive, glowing red orbs that seemed to burn with infernal fire.
"Suspend us?" the bat-demon growled, its voice a sound of grinding stone and tearing flesh. "We are not something you can simply set aside, Bruce Wayne. We are your true self. The face you hide behind that weak, human mask."
The creature moved closer, its massive wings casting impossible shadows across the medical bay. Leslie continued her examination, completely oblivious to the monstrous presence now looming over them both.
"Your humanity is merely a pretense," the demon continued, hot breath on the back of Bruce's neck. "I am what you really are. What you were always meant to be. Surrender to me completely, and nothing in this city will ever threaten what is yours again."
Bruce was already shaking his head, both at Leslie's suggestion and at the hallucination's demands. "Not possible. There are still three assassins in Gotham with active contracts. People will die if I don't stop them."
"And what happens if you lose control while confronting one of them?" Leslie challenged. "If this rage you're experiencing overwhelms your judgment in a critical moment?"
The bat-demon's wings expanded, filling Bruce's peripheral vision with darkness. Its clawed hand reached for his shoulder, the touch burning like ice. "We don't lose control," it hissed. "We are control. We are vengeance. We are the night. Embrace your true nature. The boy needs the demon, not the man."
"It won't happen," Bruce said with quiet certainty, forcing the hallucination back through sheer willpower, refusing to acknowledge the creature's touch.
Leslie studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "There was a time when you would have at least considered my medical advice, Bruce."
"There was a time when Gotham didn't need Batman," he countered. "Times change."
A heavy silence fell between them, laden with years of similar conversations and growing differences in perspective. Leslie had never approved of Batman, had argued against Bruce's vigilante path from the moment she'd deduced his identity. Yet she had never refused to treat him, never betrayed his confidence—her disapproval balanced against her recognition of the good he had accomplished.
As Leslie prepared another injection—a mild sedative to help regulate his neural activity—Bruce caught the scent of expensive perfume. A feminine figure perched on the counter across the room, examining her clawed gloves with casual interest.
"Poor Bruce," Selina Kyle purred, though Bruce knew she wasn't really there. "Always torn between the mission and those pesky human attachments." She stretched, catlike, her costume gleaming in the clinical light of the medical bay. "You know you can't have both. That's why you always push us away. Me. Talia. Anyone who gets too close."
Her phantom form slid from the counter with feline grace, stalking toward him. "What are you so afraid of, Bruce? That you might actually be happy for once? That you might have something to lose?"
Bruce closed his eyes, concentrating on pushing back against these manifestations. When he opened them, Selina was gone, but Talia stood in her place, still wearing the robe she'd had on when she left the manor at dawn, her dark hair falling loose around her shoulders.
"Beloved," the phantom Talia said, her eyes holding the same intensity they had during their night together. "Did you think my father's waters would leave you unchanged? The pit reshapes all it touches. It reveals what truly lies beneath your carefully constructed control."
She moved closer, her phantom form somehow carrying the same scent of exotic spices and subtle perfume that had lingered on his sheets after she'd gone. "You must choose, beloved. The woman or the mission. The boy or the bat. You cannot serve both masters forever."
Behind her, his parents' decomposing forms watched with hollow, accusatory eyes. The bat-demon's wings enveloped them all, a canopy of darkness that seemed to pulse with Bruce's heartbeat.
"At least promise me you'll monitor your emotional state," Leslie's voice cut through the hallucinations, pulling Bruce back to reality. "And if you feel yourself losing control, you'll withdraw from the field until it passes."
Bruce nodded once, forcing himself to focus on the real person in the room. "Agreed."
"And the boy?" Leslie pressed.
"What about him?"
"Are you planning to continue involving him in your crusade?" Her tone made her opinion on this matter abundantly clear. "Because from a developmental perspective, I should warn you that—"
"Dick's role is limited to analytical and investigative training," Bruce interrupted. "Nothing in the field."
As he spoke, he caught a glimpse of movement near the ceiling—a small, acrobatic figure swinging through impossible space, dressed in bright colors that contrasted sharply with the medical bay's sterile environment. The phantom Dick performed a perfect quadruple somersault before landing silently beside phantom Talia, both of them watching Bruce with expressions that mirrored each other despite their different features—concern mixed with determination.
"You can't protect me by locking me away," phantom Dick said. "You'll only drive me to find my own path. Just like you did."
"He has your stubbornness, beloved," phantom Talia added. "And your need for justice. Did you truly believe you could bring him into your world without consequences?"
"For now," Leslie noted skeptically, unaware of the hallucinations plaguing Bruce. "But I've seen how he looks at you, Bruce. The way he follows your movements, studies your techniques. He's already modeling himself after you, whether you intend it or not."
The observation struck uncomfortably close to Bruce's own concerns, especially with the phantom Dick now demonstrating fighting moves that were unmistakably Batman's, but blended with circus acrobatics.
"I'm aware of the psychological dynamics at play, Leslie."
"Are you?" she challenged gently. "Because from where I stand, it looks like you're acquiring a protégé whether you want one or not. The only question is whether you'll provide the structure to keep him safe, or whether he'll follow your path of self-taught vigilantism with all its attendant risks."
A high, maniacal laugh cut through the medical bay, sending ice down Bruce's spine despite his knowing its source wasn't real. The sound ricocheted off the walls, growing in intensity until it reached a pitch that seemed to vibrate through Bruce's very bones.
"HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAA!"
The Joker materialized from the shadows behind Leslie, his grotesque smile stretching impossibly wide, green hair wild against the stark white of his face. The phantom clown was more terrifying than the real version—his features exaggerated beyond human possibility, that eternal grin stretching literally from ear to ear, eyes bulging with manic glee.
"Oh, Batsy!" the clown prince hallucination cackled, slapping his knee in exaggerated mirth. "You, a mentor? That's the best joke I've heard all year! You can't even keep yourself together, let alone guide junior through the wonderful world of vigilante trauma!"
Bruce's jaw tightened as he fought to ignore the phantom. The Joker danced around Leslie, making mocking faces behind her back as she continued speaking, unaware of Bruce's psychological torment.
"Think of it, Bats," the Joker continued, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. "Little Robin Redbreast, following in Daddy Bat's footsteps. Ooh, the symmetry! The potential for tragedy! It's almost too perfect!"
He leaned in uncomfortably close, his phantom breath somehow carrying the scent of chemical toxins and decay. "Behind all the stern and batarangs you're just a little boy in a playsuit crying for mommy and daddy. It'd be funny if it wasn't so pathetic. Oh what the heck, I'll laugh anyway. HA HA HA HA HA!"
Each "HA" seemed to strike Bruce like a physical blow, each laugh driving spikes of pain through his temples. The Joker circled him predatorily, those impossible eyes never blinking.
"We're two sides of the same coin, you and I," the phantom Joker whispered, suddenly serious. "You dress up as a bat, I dress up as a clown. We both saw the absurdity of existence and chose our costumes accordingly. The only difference is, I embraced the joke that is life."
He spread his arms wide, his grin somehow growing even more grotesque. "You're one more bad day away from being me, Batsy. And every night you send junior out there is another chance for him to have that one... bad... day."
Bruce felt his hands clench into fists, the Lazarus-induced rage surging at the phantom Joker's taunts. A monitor beside the examination table began beeping more rapidly, registering his elevated heart rate.
"Bruce?" Leslie's concerned voice cut through the hallucination. "Your cardiovascular readings are spiking again. What's happening?"
With immense effort, Bruce forced the phantom Joker back, using mental techniques Ra's had taught him for resisting psychological manipulation. The room seemed to constrict around him, all the apparitions closing in—his decaying parents, the demonic bat, Selina and Talia on either side, the monstrous Joker, and phantom Dick looking increasingly lost and vulnerable amid these manifestations of Bruce's fractured psyche.
"Nothing," he managed, his voice remarkably steady despite the chaos in his mind. "Minor discomfort from the healing process."
The Joker made a mocking disappointed face before fading, his last laugh echoing through the medical bay. His parents melted into the shadows, their decomposing forms dissolving into the darkness. Selina and Talia lingered longer, their expressions mirroring each other in ways that would have been impossible in reality—both showing a mixture of longing and resignation. The bat-demon was the last to recede, its massive wings folding as it sank into the shadowed corners of Bruce's consciousness.
"You can't push us away forever," the demon growled as it faded. "We are always here... waiting for you to accept your true nature."
For a blessed moment, Bruce saw only reality—Leslie checking his readings, the medical equipment functioning normally, the room properly lit and at normal temperature. His mind felt clearer, the Lazarus-induced visions temporarily subdued by his disciplined resistance.
The respite lasted less than a minute.
Across the room, his parents reappeared, their decomposition even more advanced. The bat-demon emerged from behind them, its wings spreading wider than before. Selina and Talia materialized on opposite sides of his bed, their phantom forms somehow more solid, more present. And the Joker—the Joker's laughter started again, building from a distant giggle to an approaching cacophony of manic hilarity.
Bruce closed his eyes, focusing on his training. This wasn't the first time he'd faced psychological warfare. During his time with the League, Ra's had subjected him to hallucinogenic compounds far more potent than what remained of the Lazarus water in his system. He had learned to function despite sensory distortions, to maintain his mission focus regardless of mental interference.
One by one, he acknowledged each hallucination—not fighting them directly, but recognizing them as manifestations of his own psyche. His parents represented his guilt and loss. The bat-demon embodied his darker impulses, the parts of himself he kept tightly controlled. Selina and Talia reflected his conflicted desires for connection despite his commitment to his mission. The Joker personified his fear of losing control, of crossing the line between justice and madness. And Dick—phantom Dick represented his fear of failing someone who depended on him, of history repeating itself in the worst possible way.
With each acknowledgment, the apparitions lost some of their power. They didn't disappear completely, but they receded to the edges of his awareness, becoming more manageable.
"Bruce?" Leslie's voice sounded distant, though she stood right beside him. "Are you listening? Your readings are stabilizing, but I'm still concerned about these neural patterns."
Bruce forced himself to focus on her words, using them as an anchor to reality. "I'm listening," he said, his voice steadier than he expected. "Continue."
Leslie frowned slightly, clearly suspecting there was more happening than he was admitting, but she continued her assessment. "The Lazarus compound appears to be metabolizing, but more slowly than I'd prefer. I want to take another blood sample to track the degradation rate."
As she prepared the syringe, Bruce carefully monitored the hallucinations. They remained at the periphery of his vision, watching but no longer actively tormenting him. He had found the balance—for now. The real question was whether he could maintain it under the stress of combat, particularly against someone as physically overwhelming as Bane.
"I should warn you," Leslie said as she drew the blood sample, "that physical exertion will likely accelerate the compound's effects on your neurology before it accelerates its elimination. If you insist on going back out as Batman before this is fully processed, you're risking psychotic episodes that could endanger not just yourself, but anyone around you."
Bruce nodded once, acknowledging her warning without promising to heed it. The hallucinations stirred at her words, pressing against the mental barriers he'd established, but he held them at bay.
"I understand the risks," he said simply.
Leslie capped the blood sample, her expression making it clear she knew exactly what his non-answer meant. "Of course you do," she sighed. "Just like you understood the risks of training in that cave full of bats. Just like you understood the risks of confronting Carmine Falcone when you first returned to Gotham. Understanding risks has never been your problem, Bruce."
"Then what is?" he asked, genuinely curious about her assessment.
"Believing they apply to you," she replied without hesitation. "Believing that you have the same human limitations as the rest of us."
The bat-demon stirred at this, its wings extending slightly from the shadows. "We don't," it whispered, just loud enough for Bruce to hear. "We transcend human weakness. We are more."
Bruce ignored it, focusing instead on Leslie's very real concern. "I appreciate your candor, Leslie. Always have."
"Then appreciate this," she said, her voice softening slightly. "That boy needs Bruce Wayne more than he needs Batman right now. He's lost his parents, Bruce. He's looking for guidance, for stability. Not just training in how to hunt down killers."
Before Bruce could respond to Leslie's gentle admonition, the medical bay door slid open to reveal Alfred.
"Pardon the interruption," the butler said with practiced formality. "But I thought you should know, sir, we've received confirmation that Bane has begun moving within Gotham."
Bruce was immediately alert, sliding from the examination table with fluid grace that belied his recent injuries. "Details?"
"Our monitoring system flagged unusual activity at the docks last night," Alfred replied, handing Bruce a tablet. "Surveillance footage confirms it's him. He appears to have established a base of operations in one of the abandoned warehouses in the industrial district."
As Alfred spoke, Bruce saw his parents reappear behind the butler, their decomposing forms now joined by the massive shape of the bat creature, its wings enveloping them in shadow. Talia and Selina stood at opposite sides of the room, while the phantom Dick performed silent acrobatics through the empty space between. The Joker's disembodied laugh echoed faintly, like a distant radio playing at the edge of perception.
Bruce closed his eyes, calling upon every discipline he'd mastered over years of training. When he opened them, his gaze was clear and focused, the hallucinations pushed back by sheer force of will.
"He's making his move," Bruce said, studying the footage. "Earlier than I expected. The previous assassins waited longer before revealing themselves."
Leslie's expression tightened with disapproval, but she made no further attempt to dissuade him from whatever course of action he was already planning. She had learned long ago the futility of arguing with Bruce once he had committed to a path.
"Your system hasn't fully cleared the Lazarus compound," she reminded him instead, professional to the end. "Expect continued mood fluctuations and potentially unpredictable strength variations as it metabolizes."
Bruce nodded, handing the tablet back to Alfred. "Noted. Thank you, Leslie." He turned to Alfred. "Has he made any direct moves against law enforcement or civilians yet?"
"None that we're aware of, sir. Though given the pattern established by our previous visitors, I'd expect something rather dramatic before the day is out."
"Then we have time to prepare," Bruce said, already moving toward the exit. "I need to review everything we have on him. And I have a session scheduled with Dick in thirty minutes."
"Ah yes, Master Richard's cognitive analysis training," Alfred said. "Though after this morning's... discussion, perhaps a postponement might be advisable?"
Bruce paused at the doorway, his expression hardening. "No. We maintain routine, especially now. Dick needs structure, not avoidance."
As he reached the hidden door that connected to the manor's main wing, the hallucinations returned with renewed intensity. His partially decomposed parents stood directly in his path, their spectral forms seemingly solid enough to block his way.
"Don't do this, Bruce," his mother pleaded, maggots visibly crawling through the bullet wound in her chest. "Not while you're compromised. Not while that poison is in your system."
"You're not thinking clearly, son," his father added, skeletal fingers reaching toward Bruce. "You're risking not just yourself, but everyone who depends on you."
Bruce forced himself to walk forward, passing through the phantoms as if they were smoke. The cool sensation as he moved through them sent a shiver across his skin, but he didn't slow his pace.
The bat-demon flew ahead of him into the passage, its massive wings scraping the walls, its blood-red eyes burning with unnatural fire. "Feed the rage," it growled. "Use it. Become truly unstoppable."
"No," Bruce whispered, not breaking stride. "I control the rage. Not the other way around."
Selina appeared at the curve of the passage, leaning against the wall with casual grace. "You're lying to yourself, handsome," she purred. "Control is just an illusion you maintain to keep yourself going. Deep down, you're as broken as the rest of us."
Bruce continued past her, his steps measured and deliberate. Talia waited at the end of the tunnel, her expression softer than the others, almost sympathetic.
"The waters reveal truth, beloved," she said as he approached. "Your deepest fears, your strongest desires. You must face them, not suppress them, if you wish to master what the pit has awakened in you."
"I know what I am," Bruce replied, though not aloud. "And what I'm not. The water changes nothing."
The Joker's laugh echoed down the passage, growing louder as Bruce neared the exit. The clown's disembodied voice taunted, "Lies, lies, lies! You're changing by the minute, Batsy! Evolving into something... wonderfully unpredictable!"
Bruce emerged into the manor's study, the afternoon light filtering through the curtains a stark contrast to the clinical brightness of the medical bay. The phantoms followed, spreading throughout the room like living shadows.