[File "The Broken Bat's Memories" has been synchronized.]
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[Data Log: In the corrupted timeline of Earth-99, that Batman abandoned his code.]
[He began with the Joker. Then the Riddler. Bane. Two-Face. Penguin. Falcone... He dragged the Ventriloquist to absolute psychological ruin, forcing the old man to use his own severed flesh as toys.]
[He did not stop. He slaughtered Superman, the Flash, and Cyborg when they stood against him. He crippled Nightwing, Robin, and Batgirl when they begged him to cease. Until all that remained was a hollow, broken old man, kept alive only by the tubes, wires, and cold steel of a mechanical exoskeleton.]
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Bruce felt as if a physical detonation had occurred inside his skull.
Power. Rage. An all-consuming, glacial hatred surged through his veins.
Every single one of them deserved to die. These rotten freaks are destroying this world. The old man on the floor deserves to be torn apart limb by limb—
No.
I am not the Broken Bat. I am not even Batman.
Bruce snapped back, his knuckles white as he gripped the edges of his cowl. The foreign memories struck his mind like shrapnel, causing his temples to throb with sickening force. He let out a breathless, harsh laugh under his breath.
Heh.The old man of Earth-99 had truly crossed the threshold.
There is pragmatism, and then there was absolute madness. A hero requires a code to remain human. A strict line in the sand.
Morality didn't need to be as rigid as the original Batman's ironclad vow. Rigidity caused a spine to snap under a bootsoles like Bane's. Flexibility meant survival.
And yet… he had to admit, this version of Batman was terrifyingly effective.
That version of Batman had systematically purged Gotham's rot and neutralized the world's most powerful metahumans. If it weren't for the complete physical and mental collapse that followed, the system's danger rating for that imprint would be far higher than a mere Level E.
"Hnnn…"
The residual tide of foreign grief and fury continued to lap at his consciousness. A dark, intrusive urge spiked within his chest: a sudden desire to drag Arnold Wesker into the shadows and paint the tiles with him
Bruce felt like he was in a video game with flashing red text: 'Morality -1… -1… -1…'
Memory pollution, Bruce deduced, forcefully crushing the invasive impulse and tossing it into the mental trash. Psychological backflow from the synchronization.
Killing the Ventriloquist right now accomplished absolutely nothing. It was a waste of a perfectly good asset.
Good Batmans raise the ceiling of morality, Bruce thought, a cold, detached amusement replacing the anger.
Evil Batmans drop the floor.
Me? I don't care about the ceiling or the floor. I am just ..... Me.
If the real Batman viewed Gotham as a tragic play that required his martyrdom, and an evil Batman viewed it as a slaughterhouse, then the transmigrator viewed it as a high-stakes production.
If someone put the classic trolley problem in front of him, he wouldn't pull the lever or sacrifice himself—he'd take a high-resolution photo of the crash and sell it to the highest-bidding network for cash.
They were simply on entirely different wavelengths.
Of course, this mental detachment only worked because Earth-99 Batman was too far gone.
If the system eventually located a more persuasive, calculated, or subtly manipulative dark Batman... would he be able to hold the line so easily?
Unknown. For now, it didn't matter.
Bruce turned his focus back to the present.
This does give me some confidence against Bane.
He flexes his gauntleted fingers. His physical frame remained unchanged, but his mind was suddenly heavy with decades of flawless combat instincts, tactical muscle memory, and lethality.
But hand-to-hand proficiency was a minor comfort in a universe crawling with literal gods.
Even the Broken Bat had survived his crusade through sheer, unadulterated luck before the end.
Relying on the mysterious, ticking clock of the "Alfred Protocol " was a fool's game. His original plan remains superior.
It had never been his style to rely on fate or cosmic handouts.
He looked down at the floor.
Arnold Wesker stared up at him with blinking, tear-stained eyes. The baby Batman plush cradled in his frail arms chirped mechanically through the speaker: "Yes! That's what a good dog should do!"
"Woof!" Arnold barked reflexively.
"Speak human," Bruce commanded, his voice cold.
"I'm... I'm sorry..." Wesker whispered, shrinking back.
Bruce ignored the apology, his internal calculation already shifting to the next phase. The snowball was officially rolling. With the Ventriloquist successfully turned into a psychological puppet, Bruce could remain entirely in the shadows, letting others absorb the risk while he directed the script.
Through Wesker's established underworld connections, he could systematically reach out to other factions in Gotham's underground.
Better yet, he had access to the Wayne enterprises fortune. He could siphon off black-budget funds to hire elite international mercenaries from across the globe.
Villains acting as the vanguard. High-end guns-for-hire covering the flanks. No martial honor, no chivalry, and no fair play. Even if Bane possessed three heads and six arms, he would be ground into absolute paste by overwhelming logistics and firepower.
Go into battle personally? Face Bane in an alleyway? As if.
He'd rather jump off Wayne Tower than cosplay Batman at night.
After all, he was a transmigrator.
Yes, he adored Batman. He loved his comics and his abilities. But live as Batman?
Why would anyone voluntarily give up a billionaire's life to dress like a bat and beat up homicidal clowns?
Also, don't forget the child soldiers in tights. What kind of maniac recruits kids to fight murderers?
Bruce Wayne was clearly insane.
But he, the traveler, was not.
His only goal now: neutralize Bane, who knows his identity—then retire.
He would spend his days in comfortable, billionaire decadence, enjoying luxury, fine vintages, and high society.
That's the life he deserved. That's why he worked so hard in Hollywood in his last life.
As for the future of Gotham? Or the world?
Please. Why should he risk his life when an invincible Kryptonian and a five-thousand-year-old Amazonian princess existed somewhere out there in the world?
He hadn't spotted Clark Kent's name in the Daily Planet columns yet, nor had he verified Diana Prince's presence in the antiquities departments of the major museums. But Lois Lane's investigative reports were already circulating. It was only a matter of time before the heavy-hitters arrived to take center stage.
Until then, his only job was to survive the Knightfall crisis. Once Bane was taken off the board, it would be time to pop the champagne. And play with a few girls while we are at it.
If the universe faced an apocalypse later down the line, he would provide funding, offer exact structural spoilers from his meta-knowledge, and watch the show from a safe distance. But actually putting himself in the line of fire? Don't expect it.
Bruce smiled to himself.
"Arnold," Batman rumbled, the dark silhouette leaning over the trembling old man. "It's time to contact your friends in the mercenary business. Let's see who is looking for a fat paycheck."
The cannon fodder is ready to be mobilized.