Bruce had heard whispers, low murmurs in the underbelly of Gotham—a new armored figure stalking the streets like a ghost, dressed in the silhouette of a knight, wielding a hulking blade like something out of a medieval and sci-fi fever dream. Criminals were found beaten half to death.
Bruce didn't like imitators.
And The Batman had come to collect.
The battle began without words. Gotham had no room for pleasantries.
Bruce's massive form hurtled forward, axe gripped tight, carving an arc through the air so dense it whistled like a banshee. The blade smashed into the concrete pillar beside the knight—not because he missed, but because Ethan had barely dodged in time.
The axe didn't just strike the pillar. It sank into it. Several inches deep.
Ethan's mind reeled.
'This guy... is he on Venom or what?!' the thought cracked through his nerves like thunder. The sheer force of the strike rippled outward, small tremors shaking dust loose from the ceiling. His armored boots skidded across the floor as he tried to regain balance.
Even regular Batman was able to lift over a thousand pounds and more with his armours in some cases. But this version? Broader, thicker,more muscular as he had to rely on his body more because of his lack of supreme wealth. He was built like a moving fortress. And even if the armor lacked some of the more advanced enhancements, his sheer size and strength spoke volumes.
Still, Ethan wasn't just brawn. His mind was a weapon in itself—sharp, fast, trained in biophysics, biochemistry, bio-everything. He didn't think he matched Bruce's genius. But,he was sure he would be better than Bruce in quite a few categories.
Categories,that wouldn't have made sense in the real world....
"I need to up my game," Ethan muttered under his breath, sweat prickling at the back of his neck beneath the deadweight of his helmet.
He dodged left. Big mistake.
The cape, torn and tattered like forgotten flags of war, unfurled. But this wasn't just for theatrics. One jagged edge whipped around like a steel-tipped chain, aiming for his throat. Ethan's armor—Dead Knight—thankfully took the hit. The metal screeched, sparks flying, but he held his ground.
"Sturdy armor..." came the gravelly voice. "I'm gonna take it."
Ethan blinked. 'Riiiight,' he thought. 'Gen Z Batman in this universe. Great.'
Bruce advanced without pause. The cape moved independently, launching strike after strike, dragging cracks across the concrete floor and ceiling. Each motion had Ethan dancing backward—an artless, frantic dance of survival. And then it came.
A tremor in his spine.
He looked up—too late.
A fist the size of a small surged forward, enhanced with steel knuckle dusters glowing faintly from internal kinetic coils. Ethan barely brought up his arms in time to block.
CRACK!
The impact hit like a small car crash. Ethan flew backward, smashed into a wall, his head denting the concrete. Cracks spidered out behind his skull like ice fractals on a windshield.
"Ah, shit," Ethan muttered internally. Even without pain, that was... unpleasant.
More punches came. Each like a thunderbolt. Bruce didn't just hit—he manipulated. He twisted Ethan's limbs, used his own armor's pressure points against him, and dislocated his left arm with surgical cruelty. By the end, Ethan's body was a mess of broken bone, torn tissue, and dented metal.
Dragged like a carcass, he was hauled down the rusted stairwell and chained—yes, chained—to a concrete pillar in the middle of the penthouse's lower floor.
Bruce stood over him like a judgment statue, silent and menacing.
And then Ethan twitched.
Crack. Snap. Squirm.
Not bone breaking—healing.
Bruce turned at the sound. He narrowed his eyes behind the cowl.
"I didn't want to attack you," Ethan croaked. "But you left me no choice!"
He tensed his legs. Only his legs had healed so far. He tried to break free of his bonds but what came out were only desperate noises.
"Ah... only leg bones healed, not the arms... forget I said that," he added, his voice deadpan. Humiliated. But honest.
"You heal," Bruce said. Not a question—an observation. Cold. Analytical.
"I don't wanna fight you," Ethan replied, testing the chains, metal groaning. "But I will take back what's owed.....THAT SMOKE!"
His joints snapped back into alignment. Muscles re-knitted. Nerve endings sparked alive. The process wasn't pleasant—but it worked.
Bruce stepped back, fingers flying across a nearby portable computer. He noted everything down: regenerative speed, psychological patterns, muscle regeneration efficiency. Then he returned with... knives. Not to kill. To test.
Ethan didn't wait. With a sudden roar, he shattered the chains, dashed forward, and slugged Bruce in the chest.
The punch landed.
Bruce staggered.
"That punch..." he hissed, voice strained. "Feels like... getting hit by a small car."
"How do you even know what—" Ethan started. "You know what, that was a stupid question."
Bruce moved in close. Ethan braced for another impact. But Bruce didn't strike. He dived.
Straight through the glass window.
The Batman fell like a spear into the clouds below.
Ethan blinked. Rushed forward. The night wind cut his face as he peered down through the shattered glass. Just mist. Rooftops. And shadow.
"Where the hell's he going to land?" he muttered. His heart beat like a war drum.
He wanted to jump. His new body could take it. But his old self? The man who was powerless just days ago? Still scared.
His fingers trembled.
"My fears... catching up."
He remembered being mortal. Remembered that icy fear of heights. Remembered falling once and breaking his spine so bad he couldn't walk for six months.
But now...
"No. I must not let fear rule me. This is the beginning of something. A long road. And I need to extinguish fear to walk it."
With that, he leapt.
They say passing through clouds feels like being flayed by a thousand tiny razors. Ethan could confirm. His ability muted pain but not sensation. So he felt every cold stab. Every microscopic sting. Every gust that slammed into his body like a freight train.
But he didn't cry out.
He fell. Then twisted midair.
The clouds parted. The city bloomed below.
Gotham—ugly, beautiful, infinite. It gleamed with crime and brilliance alike.
Ethan caught himself, snagging a ledge with his fingers. His body swung, then crack!
"Let's talk, for fuck's sake!" he shouted into the void.
He looked up.
A massive axe pommel had landed squarely on his trapped hand.
"Talk!" he barked again.
A shadow loomed above. Batman.
"That's what I've been trying to do this whole time!" Bruce snarled.
"What are you?" he asked.
"Human!" Ethan shouted back.
"You can regenerate."
"Yeah, lots of people can! This is a world full of metas!"
"What's your name?"
Ethan raised his free hand, pointed to his helmet and then his.
Bruce paused.
"You can heal. So this shouldn't be a problem," he said flatly—and kicked Ethan's hand off the ledge.
"FUCK YOUUUUUU!" Ethan screamed as he fell again, second time that night.
Below, in the alley, a young couple were snapping selfies under the moonlight.
"Can't believe we're in Gotham!" the girl beamed.
"Yeah—" her boyfriend started.
CRASH.
A tall armored figure slammed into the ground behind them like a meteor. Concrete cracked. Air exploded. The couple turned, eyes wide.
"ARRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHH!"
They ran.
Behind them, Ethan's twisted limbs hung like a puppet snipped of its strings. His arms bent the wrong way. His spine sagged unnaturally. But slowly—horribly—he began to stand. Limbs snapping back into place with sickening clicks. Bone grinding against bone. Metal plating shifting like tectonic plates.
He stood.
The Dead Knight stood once more.
"Ah fuck!...ah...that hurts." he said as he desperately crawled away.
His bones,although enhanced,don't seem to be able to handle the force of flying through the air and falling from a hundred story skyscraper in a suit of armour.
"I need to change that...."