Bruce... felt nothing. No pain, no fear, not even emptiness. Just nothingness. He knew he should be dead. He saw the explosion. He felt the heat of the flames. He was at the epicenter. Even if it hadn't been for the fire, the tons of rock that collapsed on top of him wouldn't have left him a chance.
But, against logic, he was.
Then... a voice.
It pierced through the shroud of nothingness like the distant ringing of a bell. Familiar and alien at the same time.
"Bruce... Bruce Wayne..."
He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids seemed unyielding. He tried to move, but his body wouldn't listen. It was as if he was trapped in the prison of his own consciousness.
"Did you think it was over? That this was the end of your story?" - the voice grew louder, acquiring a distinct note of irony.
"Oh no, Bruce. The game is just beginning."
"W-who... you?" - Bruce wheezed, but he wasn't sure if anyone heard him.
"I'm? I'm more than you can understand. Call me... Watcher. Architect. God, if it pleases you."
Bullshit. It must be delirium. Agony before death. A mind game. But the voice sounded too real.
"You should be dead, Bruce," the voice continued.
"Buried under tons of stone and ash. But ... you see, your ending was too good. Too concise. Too... complete."
Bruce tried to make sense of the words. What did "too good" mean?
"Your... fans," the voice seemed to savor the word.
"They yearn for more. They're begging for a revival. They want to see Batman again, in new adventures, in a new, even crazier story! But to bring back the Arkham series after an ending like this... it would be a spit in the face of everyone who loved it. It's too easy. Too... pathetic."
The voice went quiet for a moment, as if mulling something over.
"So... I have a better solution. You will be my puppet. My pawn in a NEW game. I will bring you back. I'll give you a second chance. But, uh. don't expect things to go back to the way they were."
Strange, unfamiliar words rang in the voice. Words Bruce didn't understand. Words in some ancient, forgotten language.
"Hush, hush, Bruce," the voice, a self-appointed God, sounded both affectionate and threatening at the same time, like a trainer preparing to release an animal from its cage.
"Don't worry. I won't leave you completely out in the cold."
"For the initial phase... "let's call it a starter kit. "I'll give you back your last suit. It will be a... a symbol. A reminder of who you were."
Bruce felt a faint, vague sense of relief. At least there was something familiar, something to hold on to in this chaos.
"And your gear, of course. Batarangs, harpoon, smoke bombs... whatever you'll need to survive. For now."
Then the voice became harsher, drier.
"But don't expect me to spoil you, Bruce. No money. No support. No Wayne legacy. It's all in the past. You're starting from scratch. You're nothing. You're dust in the wind."
There was a wicked, unconcealed joy in the voice.
"I'm interested to see how you do, Bruce. How you, a billionaire used to luxury, will survive in this new world. No money, no connections, no support. Just you and your will. Just you and your suit. Just you and my... game."
"You... who are you really?" - Bruce hissed.
The voice laughed.
"It doesn't matter, Bruce. All that matters is that I'm here. And I'll be watching you. I will savor your triumph. Or your downfall. The choice is yours. But remember. I will always be there for you."
Then the voice went silent. Not at all.
Bruce felt his consciousness begin to clear. He was able to move his fingers. He opened his eyes.
He was lying on the cold, muddy ground. All around him was pitch blackness. He didn't know where he was. He didn't remember how he had gotten here.
He sat up and looked around. In the darkness he could make out the outline of a building.
Then he saw it.
Lying next to him. His suit.
He reached out and touched the cold surface. Memories flashed back.
Denial. Reflexive, instinctive. Bruce, or what was left of him, did not put the suit on. Now, after everything he'd been through, after this monstrous invasion of his mind, donning Batman's armor seemed wrong. The suit lay beside him like a snakeskin discarded by a former version of himself.
The first order of business was to survive. To survive and make sense of what had happened.
He struggled to his feet, feeling every muscle protesting. The world around him shook. Struggling to keep his balance, he took a few steps and realized he was standing on a roof.
On the roof of some building.
Carefully, afraid to stumble, he stepped to the edge. And froze, amazed at what he saw.
A vast, shining city spread out before him. But it wasn't Gotham. Not the Gotham he knew and loved. It was a city flooded with neon lights. Tall skyscrapers pierced the sky like needles.Holographic billboards hung in the air, urging him to buy something new, something shiny, something unnecessary.
This wasn't Gotham. This was...some other world.