The rain had eased by the time Tom found himself walking through the streets of Gotham, his coat pulled tight against the cold air. Neon lights flickered from storefronts, casting fractured reflections in the puddles that still clung stubbornly to the cracked pavement. The city pulsed with life, but it was the kind of life that felt heavy and dangerous, like a coiled snake ready to strike.
Tom kept his head down, his footsteps steady as his thoughts churned. The weight of Kaelith’s revelations pressed on him like a physical force. He had no purpose, no plan, and no clear direction. Whatever this entity wanted from him, it hadn’t bothered to explain. It had thrown him into the deep end of a universe he barely understood, tethering his survival to a demon with her own motivations.
What do I even do? he thought, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He passed a darkened alley where shadows seemed to shift unnaturally, and his pace quickened instinctively. Gotham wasn’t a city that welcomed indecision, and every instinct he had screamed at him to keep moving, to not let his guard down.
His mind raced through possibilities. He could lay low, try to eke out a quiet existence, and hope the universe forgot about him. But was that even possible in a place like this? Gotham wasn’t the kind of city that allowed you to stay invisible for long. Someone—or something—would find him. And if Kaelith’s warnings were true, his choices could have consequences.
Tom paused at a crosswalk, the red glow of the signal bathing his face. He glanced at the reflection in a nearby window. His own face stared back, pale and drawn, with dark circles under his eyes. He barely recognized himself. What am I even doing here? he wondered again.
Kaelith’s voice echoed in his mind, a memory that refused to be ignored. Whatever you do here, it’s up to you.
He scoffed quietly, stepping onto the crosswalk as the light turned green. “Some choice,” he muttered. But as much as he wanted to give in to the despair clawing at him, a stubborn part of him refused to quit. If he was here—if this was his reality now—then maybe there was a reason, even if he couldn’t see it yet.
Tom’s steps slowed as he reached the edge of a small park, the shadows of skeletal trees stretching long under the pale streetlights. He stopped, leaning against a railing and staring out at the dark expanse of the park. His breath misted in the air, the chill biting at his skin, but he barely felt it. He had to figure out his next move.
As he stared into the void of the park, his thoughts turned to the heroes of this world. The ones he’d read about, watched on screen. The ones who could save cities and even worlds. Could they save him?
Batman, he thought, the name coming unbidden to his mind. Gotham’s guardian. The Dark Knight. If anyone could protect him in this city, it was Batman. But the thought was almost laughable. Batman wasn’t known for his warmth or his trust. And what would Tom even say? That he was from another universe? That he had a demon attached to him? Batman would sooner interrogate him than help him.
Superman, his mind offered next. The Man of Steel. A beacon of hope, strength, and invincibility. If anyone in the Justice League embodied pure good, it was Clark Kent. But Metropolis was a long way from Gotham, and Tom wasn’t sure how he’d even get there. Besides, what could he offer Superman? He wasn’t some damsel in distress or an innocent civilian caught in a catastrophe. He was an anomaly.
Then there was Wonder Woman, Diana of Themyscira. A warrior, a diplomat, a literal demigod. She might have the wisdom to understand his situation—or the power to decide he was too dangerous to let roam free. The idea of facing her judgment made him shudder.
And what about the others? The Flash, with his speed and optimism? Green Lantern, wielding willpower as a weapon? Martian Manhunter, with his telepathy and alien insight? Each of them had their strengths, but each came with risks. How would they react to him, to the knowledge he carried? Would they even believe him?
Tom leaned further into the railing, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his thoughts. Each hero had their pros and cons, their potential to save or screw him over. And Kaelith? She wouldn’t care either way. Her only concern was keeping him alive, not what kind of life he led. For her, he was a means to her own survival.
But as he stared into the dark expanse of the park, another thought crept in, forcing him to pause. Am I overthinking this? He let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. This world was full of impossibilities, from portals to demons, to literal gods walking among men. Compared to that, a dimension hopper wasn’t the strangest thing these heroes had encountered.
He straightened slightly, his mind racing. He doesn't have to spill everything. He didn't have to talk about Kaelith or the entity. I just have to give them enough to help me figure out where I am, when I am, and what’s going on.
His lips curled into a humorless smile. “Weirder things have happened in this universe,” he muttered. The prospect of going to Batman suddenly felt a little less daunting. If anyone could help him it was Gotham’s brooding detective. And if he was lucky, Batman might even tolerate his presence long enough to give him a clue about what to do next.
The thought settled over him like a small, hesitant ember of hope. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He pushed off the railing, his steps more deliberate now as he walked back toward the city streets. The cold air bit at his face, but his resolve carried him forward. For now, his next move was clear: find Batman—or, more likely, Bruce Wayne at Wayne Manor. He needed answers, and if anyone in Gotham had them, it was the man behind the mask. The idea of walking up to the gates of one of the most secure estates in the city felt absurd, but it was the simplest way to begin.
Tom sighed, pulling his coat tighter against the night chill. "Guess it's time to meet the Bat," he muttered, stepping into the shadows of Gotham’s labyrinthine streets. The city’s gritty life a reflection of his own chaotic thoughts. The dim glow of streetlights flickered as he trudged toward a bus stop he’d spotted on a nearby street map. The air was heavy with the smell of rain-soaked asphalt, mixed with the faint tang of distant smog.
He passed shuttered storefronts and alleys filled with the detritus of a restless city. The weight of his decision pressed on him, but he held on to the sliver of resolve he’d found.
Ahead, the faint glow of the bus stop sign broke through the haze of the streets. Tom picked up his pace, pulling his coat tighter around himself. But before he could close the distance, multiple hands grabbed at him, yanking him into a narrow alley. The motion was so sudden and forceful that he stumbled, slamming into a damp brick wall.
“Wallet,” a gruff voice demanded. Tom turned his head to see a group of three men, their faces partially obscured by hoods and scarves. One had a knife glinting in the faint light, another carried a metal pipe, and the third stood back.
Tom’s pulse quickened. He raised his hands instinctively. “Look, I don’t want any trouble—”
“Didn’t ask what you wanted,” the leader cut in, his voice low and threatening. He gestured with the pipe. “Hand it over.”
Tom clenched his fists, his pulse spiking as adrenaline surged through his veins. Do something! his mind screamed. He swung a punch at the man holding the knife, his fist connecting with the side of the mugger’s jaw. For a brief moment, he thought he might have the upper hand.
The man stumbled back, more surprised than hurt. “Big mistake,” the leader growled. Before Tom could capitalize on the moment, the man with the metal pipe swung it at him, catching him hard in the side. The pain was immediate and searing, driving him to his knees.
Tom tried to push himself up, but the group descended on him. One of them landed a solid punch to his face, sending his vision swimming, while another drove a boot into his stomach. He swung wildly, desperate to fight back, but his blows were ineffective against their overwhelming force. They were experienced, and he was just... him.
“Wallet,” the leader barked again, but this time it wasn’t a request. As Tom struggled on the ground, the man with the knife grabbed his coat and yanked the wallet from his pocket. The others continued their assault, each kick and punch driving him further into the cold, wet pavement.
Finally, the leader called them off with a sharp wave of his hand. Tom lay gasping for air, his body screaming in pain as the man rifled through the wallet. “Guess you’re not worth much,” the leader sneered, pocketing the cash before tossing the empty wallet to the ground.
“Let’s go,” he said, his voice cold and dismissive. The group melted into the shadows, their laughter fading into the distance as Tom was left bruised and beaten in the alley.
As he lay there, trying to catch his breath, a thought pierced through the haze of pain. Kaelith. He forced his head to the side, half-expecting to see her emerge from the shadows. “Where... were you?” he croaked, his voice barely audible.
Her voice echoed in his mind, sultry and teasing. “I only have to keep you from dying, Tom. Not from everything else.”
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He let out a bitter, pained laugh that quickly turned into a groan. “Great. Thanks for nothing,” he muttered, clutching his side as he slowly pulled himself to his knees. His wallet lay in the dirt, empty but intact. He grabbed it, cringing at the sharp pain that flared through his ribs.
Tom leaned heavily against the wall, the cold bricks digging into his back as he fought to steady his breathing. The reality of Gotham—and his place in it—hit harder than any of their punches. “This place,” he whispered to himself, “Sucks.”
Tom remained slumped against the cold wall, each ragged breath sending jolts of pain through his ribs. He gritted his teeth, pushing the agony aside as he forced himself to his feet. His legs wobbled beneath him, and the world spun briefly, but he steadied himself with a hand against the brick.
The bus stop was still a block away. Blood stained his shirt, seeping from a shallow cut along his forehead, and his entire torso felt like it had been smashed in a vice. He pressed a hand to his side, wincing as his fingers brushed what he was certain was a broken rib. The night wasn’t over, and it was already testing the limits of what he could take.
“Alright, Tom,” he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse and barely audible. “One step at a time.”
Each step was a battle. The streets were quiet now, save for the occasional car splashing through puddles on distant roads. He didn’t bother wiping the blood off his clothes—it wasn’t worth the effort. If anything, it was just another layer of camouflage in this city. Nobody in Gotham would think twice about a battered, bloody man limping down the sidewalk.
Kaelith’s voice rang in his mind again, rich and teasing. “You’re still alive. That’s what matters.”
“Easy for you to say,” he hissed through clenched teeth. His anger flared briefly, but it was a candle against the storm of his exhaustion. He didn’t have the energy to argue with her, not now.
The bus stop appeared ahead, a flickering fluorescent light casting harsh shadows over the empty bench. Tom collapsed onto it with a groan, clutching his side as he leaned back. For a moment, he allowed himself to simply sit, his body aching and his mind racing. He needed to get to Wayne Manor, but the distance between where he sat and that sprawling estate now felt insurmountable.
Still, there was a grim determination in the pit of his stomach. The muggers had taken his cash, but not his resolve. If Gotham was going to chew him up, he wasn’t about to make it easy, as he grabbed the stash of money he hid in his shoe.
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Tom limped through the empty street, each step a battle against the pain radiating from his ribs. After taking the bus as close as it would go, he found himself outside the wrought-iron gates of Wayne Manor. The imposing estate loomed in the faint light of dawn, its grandeur starkly contrasting with the battered state he was in. Bloodied and exhausted, Tom took a deep breath.
The first rays of sunlight spilled across the manicured grounds, and he hesitated, unsure of what came next. The gate stood tall, locked, and unmoving. Beyond it lay a path that could either save him or destroy him.
“Guess this is it,” he muttered, leaning heavily on the gate as his battered body cried out for rest. He couldn’t afford to second-guess himself. Batman was his best shot surviving here.
Looking around for a way in besides breaking and entering, he noticed a small call box near the gate. Limping over to it, he hesitated, wondering what he would say. Gathering his courage, he pressed the button and waited.
A crackle of static filled the air before a calm, measured voice with a distinct British accent answered. “Wayne Manor. May I inquire who’s calling?”
Tom’s throat tightened. “Uh… hi. My name’s Tom. I… I need to speak with Bruce Wayne. It’s important.”
There was a pause, and Tom’s heart pounded as he imagined being turned away. But the voice returned, still unwavering and polite, though tinged with curiosity. “Mr. Wayne is indeed home. Might I ask the purpose of your visit?”
Tom swallowed hard. “It’s… complicated. I really just need to talk to him.”
Tom let out a shaky breath, leaning against the call box for support. He hadn’t been dismissed outright. That was a start. Tom glanced around while trying to ignore his fatigue and pain. The crackle of static returned, and the calm, measured British voice spoke again. “Mr. Wayne does not typically entertain unannounced visitors, especially those he does not know. And I must say, he’s not acquainted with anyone named Tom.”
Tom’s heart sank. His exhaustion threatened to overtake him as he leaned harder against the gate. “Please,” he said, his voice rough and desperate. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. Just give me five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
There was a long pause, and Tom could feel his pulse in his ears as he waited for a response. Finally, the voice returned, polite but firm. “Very well. Wait here.”
A faint buzz sounded, and the massive gates groaned to life, slowly swinging inward to reveal a long, winding driveway bordered by perfectly manicured hedges. Tom stared for a moment, his exhaustion momentarily overridden by disbelief. He hadn’t expected them to actually let him in, especially without having to drop any of Batman’s secrets or hint at some other meta-knowledge he had about this world. Yet here he was.
Leaning heavily on the gatepost for support, he gathered what little strength he had left and began limping forward. Every step sent sharp jolts of pain through his side, but the sight of the sprawling Wayne Manor at the end of the path kept him moving. The first rays of sunlight illuminated the grand structure, its imposing silhouette a mix of elegance and intimidation.
"Five minutes," Tom muttered to himself, clutching his ribs. "That’s all I need."
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Inside Wayne Manor, Bruce Wayne stood by a large window in the study, the faint glow of dawn spilling through the heavy curtains. The rain had subsided, leaving the city bathed in a muted, gray light. His mind lingered on the night’s events—a long patrol through Gotham’s streets. Crime had been quieter than usual, though not without its chaos: a break-in at a jewelry store, a rooftop scuffle with a low-level gang, and a few hours spent pursuing leads on a recent string of armed robberies. None of it stood out. None of it explained the gnawing feeling that something bigger was on the horizon.
But it was the anomaly that occupied his thoughts most. The Batcomputer had flagged it earlier in the night—an energy signature unlike anything Bruce had encountered before. He’d spent the better part of an hour running scans and cross-referencing databases, but the results had been inconclusive. A burst of energy, originating somewhere on the city’s south side, had dissipated as quickly as it appeared. Too fast to trace, too distinct to ignore.
A sharp knock on the door broke his concentration, and Alfred stepped in, his movements measured as always.
"Master Wayne," Alfred began, his tone calm but laced with curiosity. "There’s a rather unexpected visitor at the gate. A young man, claims his name is Tom. He’s quite battered, by the looks of him."
Bruce turned from the window, his expression sharpening. "Did he say why he’s here?"
"No specifics, sir. Merely that it was ‘important.’" Alfred adjusted his posture, his gaze steady. "He also sounds quite desperate. He insisted on speaking to you directly."
Bruce’s brow furrowed as he processed the information. "Desperate people don’t usually show up at my front gate unless they know something," he said, his voice low and thoughtful. "How does he look?"
"From the camera he looks exhausted, injured, and quite determined, I would say." Alfred gave a small nod. "I’ve granted him entrance, as per your usual protocol. He’s making his way up the drive now."
Bruce crossed his arms, his mind already working through the possibilities. A bloodied stranger showing up at Wayne Manor wasn’t unheard of, but it was rarely a coincidence. "Keep an eye on him," he instructed. "I’ll meet him at the entrance."
"Of course, sir." Alfred gave a slight bow before leaving the study.
Bruce lingered for a moment, his gaze turning back to the window. Below, the sprawling grounds of Wayne Manor stretched out, bathed in the pale light of morning. Somewhere beyond those gates, this stranger was making his way toward him. With a faint sigh, he turned and headed toward the main hall.
From the large front doors, Bruce caught sight of Tom limping up the driveway. His clothes were torn and bloodied, and his gait was uneven, but there was a resoluteness in the way he carried himself. Bruce’s sharp eyes took in every detail—the way Tom clutched his ribs, the tension in his movements, the faint tremor in his hands. This wasn’t just a random vagrant. Whatever had brought him here was serious.
As Tom reached the base of the stairs leading to the entrance, he stopped, leaning heavily on the railing for support. Bruce pushed open the double doors, stepping out onto the top of the stone steps. The two men locked eyes, the tension between them palpable.
"Tom, is it?" Bruce’s voice was calm, measured, but carried the weight of authority.
Tom nodded, his breath ragged as he struggled to stand upright. "Yeah," he managed, his voice hoarse. "Thanks for… letting me in." He clutched his side, the pain evident in his every movement.
Bruce’s sharp gaze swept over him, assessing every bruise and cut. "You look like you’ve been through hell," he said, his voice level but probing. "Why are you here?"
Tom hesitated, leaning against the railing for support. The weight of everything he wanted to say pressed down on him, but he knew he had to keep it simple. "I need your help," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I think you’re the only one who can give it."
Tom’s legs buckled as he finished the sentence, his vision swimming as the exhaustion and pain overwhelmed him. He collapsed onto the cold stone steps, unconscious before he hit the ground. Bruce’s expression shifted subtly, a flicker of concern crossing his face as he stepped forward.
"Alfred," Bruce called over his shoulder, his tone calm but commanding. The older man appeared instantly, his sharp eyes assessing the situation.
"It seems our guest has exceeded his limit," Alfred remarked, moving quickly down the steps to kneel beside Tom. He checked Tom’s pulse, his movements practiced and efficient. "He’s alive, but he’s in poor shape. Likely dehydration, stress, and those injuries aren’t helping."
Bruce nodded, his jaw tightening. "Let’s get him inside. Prep the medical kit."
Together, they lifted Tom carefully, Alfred supporting his shoulders while Bruce took his legs. They carried him through the grand entrance and into the manor, the heavy doors shutting behind them with a quiet finality. The faint light of dawn painted the walls as they disappeared deeper into the house.
As they walked, Bruce’s mind raced with theories about who this could be. A desperate con artist? Unlikely—his injuries were too real, and his exhaustion too raw. A victim of Gotham’s violent underbelly? Possibly, though most wouldn’t trek to Wayne Manor for aid. A connection to the anomaly the Batcomputer detected? That thought lingered the longest, the timing too coincidental to ignore.
Bruce’s sharp intellect began to catalogue the possibilities. If Tom was connected to the anomaly, what role did he play? Was he a catalyst, a victim, or something more dangerous? Whatever the answer, Bruce knew he couldn’t rely on assumptions. The moment Tom was stable, he would begin his research, scouring every lead and database for connections. And if this stranger posed a threat, Bruce would be ready.