Tom stirred, a dull ache radiating through his body as he slowly opened his eyes. The world came into focus in fragments—a high, ornate ceiling, warm sunlight filtering through heavy curtains, and the unmistakable comfort of a soft bed beneath him. He blinked, disoriented, his mind struggling to piece together how he’d ended up here.
His ribs protested as he shifted slightly, the pain enough to bring back the memories: the alleyway, the muggers, the long walk to Wayne Manor, and collapsing on the steps. But now, he was here, in a room that was leagues above anything he’d ever experienced. The air smelled faintly of lavender and clean linen, a stark contrast to the damp streets of Gotham.
“You’re awake,” a voice said, calm and distinctly British. Tom turned his head to see an older man standing near the door, a tray in hand. Dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, the man carried himself with a quiet authority.
“Where am I?” Tom croaked, his throat dry.
“You are in Wayne Manor,” the man replied, setting the tray on a nearby table. “Master Bruce instructed that you be tended to. You gave us quite the fright, collapsing as you did.” He picked up a glass of water from the tray and handed it to Tom.
Tom accepted it with trembling hands, taking a cautious sip before speaking again. “You must be Alfred.”
The man inclined his head with a small smile. “Indeed. Alfred Pennyworth, at your service.” He retrieved a small cloth and moved closer, carefully dabbing at the dried blood on Tom’s forehead. “You’ve had a rough night, I see.”
Tom let out a weak laugh. “That’s putting it lightly. I didn’t think I’d actually make it here.”
“Well, you did,” Alfred said, his tone reassuring. “And while I can’t promise you a warm welcome, you are safe for the moment.”
Tom frowned, his mind still muddled. “Safe... from what?”
“That, I suspect, is a question better answered by you,” Alfred said, stepping back and straightening his jacket. “Master Bruce will be along shortly. In the meantime, try to rest. You’ll need your strength.”
Tom wanted to ask more, but his energy was already waning. Alfred’s calm demeanor was oddly soothing, and he found himself sinking back into the plush pillows as the butler turned to leave.
“I’ll inform Master Bruce that you’re awake,” Alfred said, pausing at the door. “Do try not to overthink for the moment. You’ll have your chance to speak soon enough.”
With that, Alfred left the room, leaving Tom alone with his thoughts. He stared at the ornate ceiling, his mind a swirling mix of questions and exhaustion. But as the door clicked shut, a small smile crept onto his face.
Alfred. In the flesh. Even in his battered state, the realization gave him a brief spark of excitement. He’d always considered Alfred Pennyworth a hero in his own right. No powers, no gadgets, just unwavering loyalty and calm in the face of chaos. And now, here he was, speaking to the man who had stood beside Batman through everything.
But alongside the excitement came a flicker of nervousness. He’d blurted out Alfred’s name without being introduced. Would that raise suspicion? He wasn’t sure how much he wanted to reveal yet, and he didn’t know if the butler had noticed—or if he was simply too polite to comment. That thought alone was enough to momentarily distract him from the pain.
What now? he thought, the weight of his situation pressing down on him once again.
"Lost in thought, are we?" Kaelith’s voice cut through the stillness of the room, sharp and tinged with irritation.
Tom jolted upright, a sharp pain radiating through his ribs as he turned to look around. "Kaelith? What the hell—" his voice trailed off as she materialized at the foot of the bed, her presence filling the room with an almost suffocating intensity.
"Oh, relax," she snapped, her arms crossed as she leaned against one of the ornate bedposts. "I’m not here to coddle you, Tom. Believe me, if I had a choice, I wouldn’t be here at all."
Tom frowned, confused by the sudden venom in her tone. "What’s your problem? I didn’t ask for this either."
Kaelith’s eyes narrowed, her frustration bubbling over. "My problem, dear Tom, is that I’m a powerful being in my own right—one who’s bent the rules of reality more times than I can count. And now? Now I’m reduced to a glorified babysitter, tied to your fragile existence."
Tom blinked, taken aback by the raw anger in her voice. "I mean… I didn’t exactly sign up for this either."
"Oh, I know," Kaelith said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "But unlike you, I don’t get the luxury of stumbling around cluelessly. I have to watch, powerless, while you make mistake after mistake. Do you know what it’s like to have power—real power—and not be able to use it?" She straightened, her gaze burning into his. "It’s humiliating."
Tom hesitated, unsure how to respond. "So what’s your solution? Just yell at me every time you’re annoyed?"
Kaelith let out a bitter laugh, the sound low and cutting. "My ‘solution’ is simple. Keep breathing. Don’t die. That’s all I care about. You survive, I survive. That’s the deal." Her voice softened slightly, but the edge remained. "You think you’re lost? Try being stuck as a shadow to someone who has no idea what they’re doing."
Before he could respond, she dissolved back into the shadows, her parting words hanging in the air. Tom exhaled heavily, sinking back into the pillows as his mind churned with thoughts. What did I get myself into?
The sound of the door opening snapped Tom out of his spiraling thoughts. His eyes shot open to see a tall, broad-shouldered man entering the room. Even without the iconic cowl, Tom recognized him immediately. Bruce Wayne carried an air of quiet authority, his sharp features set in a neutral expression that seemed to take in everything at once.
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“You’re awake,” Bruce said, his voice calm but probing. He stepped closer, hands in his pockets, though his posture was anything but casual. His demeanor radiated vigilance.
Tom sat up as much as his aching ribs would allow, his heart pounding under Bruce’s scrutiny. “Yeah,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “Barely.”
Bruce stopped a few feet from the bed, his piercing eyes locked onto Tom. “You had quite the night,” he said, his tone measured. “You collapsed on the steps of my manor. Care to explain why you came here?”
Tom hesitated, feeling the weight of the question settle over him. “I didn’t know where else to go,” he admitted. “I needed to talk to you. I have information… things I think you need to know.”
Bruce’s expression didn’t waver. “Information about what?” he asked, his tone neutral but edged with suspicion.
Tom took a steadying breath, choosing his words carefully. “About this world. About you, Gotham, and… people like you.” He paused, searching for a way to frame it without sounding unhinged. “Look, it’s complicated, but I wouldn’t have dragged myself here if it wasn’t important.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly, his scrutiny intensifying. “You don’t seem like someone who stumbled here by accident. And you know more than you’re letting on. Start talking.”
Tom swallowed hard, the enormity of what he was about to admit settling over him. “I’m… not from here. Not from this world. In my world, people like you don’t exist. No superheroes, no meta-humans, no vigilantes.”
Bruce’s expression didn’t shift, though his silence carried weight. Tom pressed on, his voice steady despite the fear gnawing at him. “But we know about you. We know about Superman, Wonder Woman, the Justice League. In my world, you’re… fiction. Stories. Comic books, movies, shows. Everyone knows who you are—or at least who they think you are.”
Tom hesitated, gauging Bruce’s reaction before continuing. “I came through a portal. I don’t know why or how, but I’m here. And I know things… things about you, about the League. Secret identities, abilities. Stuff no one here should know.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened, his posture shifting slightly. “Convenient,” he said, his tone colder now. “You expect me to believe you simply appeared here, carrying knowledge no outsider should have? Forgive me if I’m not inclined to take this at face value.”
Tom flinched under the scrutiny but held his ground. “I get it,” he said quickly. “I’d be suspicious too. But why would I lie about something this crazy? If I wanted to hurt you, why would I come here like this?”
Bruce’s silence was unnerving, his calculating stare unbroken. Finally, he spoke, his tone measured but sharp. “You claim to know our identities. Prove it.”
Tom exhaled, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for the most straightforward example. “You’re Batman,” he said quietly, watching Bruce’s expression. “Dick Grayson is Nightwing or maybe Robin still. Barbara Gordon is Batgirl. Superman is Clark Kent.” He hesitated, his voice softening. “I… I don’t want to say more. I’m not here to weaponize this. But I swear, I’m telling the truth.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed further, his demeanor unreadable. He crossed his arms, his tone still cold. “If what you’re saying is true, your knowledge is both a threat and an asset. What’s to stop you from using it against us?”
Tom met his gaze, his voice earnest. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. I’m just trying to survive. And honestly? I don’t even know everything. The stories in my world are inconsistent, full of different timelines and versions. Half of what I know might not even apply here.”
Bruce studied him for a long moment, the tension in the room palpable. Finally, he spoke, his tone still guarded. “I believe you believe what you’re saying. But belief isn’t proof. Until I have more, you’ll remain under watch. Wayne Manor is secure, and for now, it’s the safest place for you.”
Tom let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, relief mingling with lingering tension. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I know this is a lot. I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”
Bruce’s expression softened just slightly, though his eyes remained sharp. “You needed help. That’s enough for now. But don’t mistake this for trust. That will take time—and evidence.”
Tom hesitated before adding, “There’s something else I need to tell you. It’s about Jason Todd.”
Bruce’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly, but his eyes sharpened. “Go on.”
Tom swallowed hard. “In my world… there are stories about what happens to Jason. He… he’s targeted by the Joker. There’s… a warehouse, a bomb. The Joker uses it to kill him.” His voice trembled as he added, “I thought I could warn you before it happened.”
Bruce’s expression remained controlled, but his jaw tightened. “It already has.”
Tom’s breath caught, his heart sinking. “What?”
“Jason’s death,” Bruce said quietly, his tone laced with a mix of regret. “It’s a reality I’ve already lived through.”
Tom stared at him, the words sinking in like stones. He’d come here hoping to change something, to make a difference, but it seemed he was already too late. He lowered his gaze, guilt and frustration warring within him. “I… I’m sorry. I thought I could stop it.”
Bruce’s expression softened slightly. “Your intentions were good,” he said. “But this only raises more questions about your knowledge—and the timeline you’ve landed in.”
Tom nodded, the weight of his own powerlessness pressing down on him. “I’ll tell you what I can. But… there’s still so much I don’t know. The stories are so inconsistent. I don’t even know if what I know can help.”
Bruce studied him for another long moment before nodding. “We’ll figure that out. For now, focus on recovering. There will be more conversations.”
Tom hesitated before speaking again. “If you don’t trust me, there’s a way to confirm what I’ve told you. Wonder Woman’s lasso of truth… she could use it. You’d know I’m not lying.”
Bruce’s eyes flickered with interest, though his expression remained neutral. “An intriguing suggestion. But even with the lasso, your knowledge poses risks. You’ve admitted there are gaps and inconsistencies. What happens when you refuse to speak on certain topics?”
Tom’s breath hitched, his gaze lowering. “It’s not that I wouldn’t want to. There are things… things I can’t say. Not without drawing attention I’d rather avoid. There are creatures… forces in your world that I know about but can’t afford to provoke. Some knowledge is… safer unsaid.”
Bruce’s stare remained steady, but his tone softened slightly. “That’s a dangerous line to walk. But I understand the necessity of caution. We’ll approach this carefully.”
Bruce straightened, moving toward the door as their conversation came to a close. Before stepping out, he reached into his pocket and tossed a phone onto the small table beside Tom’s bed. "Here. If you need anything or something comes up and you can't find us in person, use that to contact Alfred or me."
As the door clicked shut behind Bruce, Tom let himself relax into the bed. The plush mattress beneath him felt like a distant luxury, a stark contrast to the brutal events of the last day. His ribs ached with every breath, but the pain was manageable compared to the storm of thoughts swirling in his head.
For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt a glimmer of stability. It wasn’t perfect—far from it. He was still battered, lost, and carrying the weight of knowing far too much and too little all at once. But he was safe, at least for now, and that was something he hadn’t allowed himself to believe could happen.
Tom stared at the ornate ceiling, taking a slow, steadying breath. He didn’t have all the answers, and he likely wouldn’t for a while. But Bruce’s matter-of-fact demeanor and Alfred’s quiet reassurance had given him something he hadn’t expected: a foothold. Step by step, he could start figuring things out, even if he had no idea where those steps would lead.
While he was far from okay, he realized that didn’t mean he was entirely adrift anymore. This world was terrifying and unpredictable, but for the moment, he had space to breathe, think, and plan. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.