The Batcave trembles as if the Earth itself is resisting what has just happened. Stalactites shed small pebbles into the abyss. The deep, ancient cavern groans in protest while the cold light of the Batcomputer flares against stone walls.
Batman stands in front of the main console, an immovable silhouette against a storm of cascading alerts.
Red, blaring warnings dominate the screens:
"GLOBAL MAGICAL EVENT DETECTED."UNKNOWN DIMENSIONAL PARTITIONING: EARTH SPLIT INTO TWO SEPARATE PLANES."
He flicks through live feeds — empty streets with cars still idling, swings creaking in abandoned playgrounds, a skyscraper construction site littered with tools dropped mid-use. The world hasn't slowed. It's been cut in half.
Alfred (over comms): "Sir… the world's gone mad."
Batman: (flat, cutting) "Not mad. Divided."
He isolates the energy readings, layering them over a map. Two signatures flash across the globe — one adult, one child — jagged magical divides like fresh scars across a living body.
His jaw sets, the muscles in his face rigid as stone.
And then — a new window interrupts everything.
AUTOMATED CONTINGENCY PROTOCOL — SUBJECT PHANTOM.
On a secondary feed, the Watchtower's cryo-chamber appears. The pod glows faintly, systems waking, as if the computer itself senses the weight of this crisis.
Alfred: "It's triggered his failsafe."
Batman doesn't answer immediately. He just stares at the screen, reading the cold, impersonal prompt:
"CRISIS-LEVEL EVENT DETECTED. INITIATE ASSET RELEASE?"
His gloved hand hovers over the confirmation key.
Batman: "…"
The sound of his breath is the only noise in the cavern.
His hand still hovers over the key. One press, and the pod opens. One press, and the boy inside wakes.
Batman's reflection stares back at him from the polished black surface of the Batcomputer — fractured by warning prompts, ghostly against the cascade of red alerts.
Batman (to himself):" It's just protocol. That's all this is. A contingency."
He scrolls through Phantom's file, the words ASSET — SUBJECT PHANTOM flashing on-screen beside his face. The clinical language makes it sound easy.
"If I release him, I'm not endangering him. I'm activating him. That's what he was built for. That's what he agreed to. He knew this could happen."
But the memory creeps in — the frozen boy's face behind the frost. The photos in his room. The word carved into the wall: FRIENDS??
He exhales, sharp through his nose.
"This isn't a child I'm thawing. It's a solution. A failsafe. Nothing more."
Even in his head, the words feel hollow.
His hand lowers slightly toward the key… then stops.
Batman: "Damn it."
His hand curls into a fist.
---
The pod glows in the darkness, a faint, cold light radiating off frost-caked glass. Phantom's still form floats inside, eyes closed, breath shallow but steady. Thin tendrils of vapor snake from the seams, vanishing into the sterile air.
Close-up: The pod's interface screen flickers.
"AWAKENING PROTOCOL INITIATED."
A low hum builds from the machinery, deep and unnerving — like the pod itself is drawing a breath.
J'onn enters. His steps are near-silent, but his presence fills the room. He looks at the pod, his normally serene face shadowed with concern.
J'onn: "You're waking him."
Batman's voice crackles through the comms. Calm. Controlled.
Batman (over comms): "It triggered automatically."
J'onn: "Then override it. Now."
Phantom's mind.
The bright, carefully constructed "room" in his head — the bed, the photos, the looping TV — shudders.
A sound creeps in. A deep, rolling rrrrrrrr. Like an engine trying to start. The TV screen cuts to static for a moment, then flickers violently between images: the Team laughing… Slade's mask… Cadmus hallways drenched in red alarms.
Phantom jolts on the bed, clutching his head.
Phantom (whispers): "Not yet… not yet…"
Back to the cryo-chamber:
The pod's hum grows louder. Systems whirring. Vital signs spike on the monitor — heart rate climbing fast.
Batman (over comms): "If Klarion is behind this, the League is divided, the Team is outmatched—"
J'onn (sharply): "You and I both know what waking him means."
The words land heavily.
The pod emits a warning tone — insistent, sharp. A countdown begins flashing in small text: RELEASE IN: 00:12.
J'onn steps closer to the pod, voice firm but quieter now.
J'onn: "He is not your emergency hammer, Bruce."
No reply.
J'onn: "You're not just unleashing him on Klarion. You're unleashing him on himself. His mind is fragile. He is still frozen in progress — still healing. You wake him now, you may lose everything we've built."
Silence.
The countdown hits: 00:04.
Batman's voice cuts in. Final.
Batman: "Override code: Arise."
The pod goes dark. The alarms die. The hum cuts off with a metallic sigh.
Inside, Phantom's vitals plummet back to baseline.
Cut to: Inside the mind again.
The TV snaps back on, the static vanishes, and the room steadies. Phantom stays on the bed, breathing hard, staring at the door of his mind-palace that reads: DO NOT ENTER.
He doesn't move toward it. He just stares.
Back to the cryo-chamber:
J'onn exhales, the quiet relief palpable.
J'onn: "You made the right choice."
Batman doesn't answer.
On the feed in front of him, the frozen boy drifts back into stillness.
Phantom's Mindscape.
The room is quieter now. The TV hums softly, looping grainy clips of the Team laughing over dinner. The static from earlier is gone, but the edges of the images flicker like a struggling connection.
Phantom sits cross-legged on the floor, a notebook open in front of him. He sketches clumsy outlines — Robin's mask. M'gann's smile. A crude drawing of the Team together.
He pauses, staring at the unfinished figures.
Phantom (to himself): "I'll get it right. This time."
He looks around the room. It's grown since J'onn first helped him build it:
Brighter walls.
A rug by the bed.
Shelves lined with little objects — memories of moments with the Team he's held onto.
He's remaking himself, piece by piece.
Then — a sound.
BANG.
Phantom freezes.
It came from the far end of the room. The door.
The one J'onn told him not to open.
The one that reads, in crude etched letters: DO NOT ENTER.
BANG.
The door rattles. Dust drifts from its frame.
Phantom stands slowly, every muscle tight.
BANG.
A voice bleeds through. Muffled, indistinct — but deep. Male.
Voice (muffled): "You know what to do when you wake."
Phantom's breath catches.
Phantom: "No."
Voice: "You know your purpose."
The door handle jerks violently.
Phantom steps back, heart hammering.
Phantom: "Stay closed. Stay closed. Stay closed."
The TV behind him flickers to static again.
Then — silence.
The door stops shaking.
Phantom drops to his knees, shaking, staring at that warning carved into the wood.
Phantom (whispering): "Not yet… please, not yet."
Batcave — Later.
The cave is silent but alive — a cathedral of stone and shadow. Monitors bathe Batman in cold light, painting sharp edges across his cowl.
On the main screen: the Team in chaos.
Zatanna, hands shaking but chanting incantations that barely hold together.
Robin, barking orders with a voice that's steadier than his eyes.
Conner, bruised and bleeding but still swinging.
M'gann, holding up a telekinetic shield as if sheer will can keep them alive.
They are terrified. Improvising. Surviving.
Batman watches, unmoving.
On a smaller monitor off to the side: Phantom's pod feed movement. No change. Just the frozen boy, untouched and waiting.
The Batcomputer hums quietly. The only other sound is the Team's frantic comm chatter bleeding through the speakers — young voices straining against the weight of the world.
Alfred approaches from the shadows, a tray of untouched tea in his hands. He sets it down on the console, but Batman doesn't glance at it.
Alfred: "May I ask, sir… why did you stop it?"
Batman doesn't answer immediately. He exhales slowly, still watching the screens.
Batman: "Because they need to do this themselves."
Alfred doesn't leave. Doesn't buy it.
Alfred: "Or because you're saving him for something worse?"
Batman's hand tightens on the edge of the console, leather gloves creaking. He doesn't look at Alfred.
Batman: "He's not ready."
Alfred: "Or you're not."
The words land like a blade.
Batman's jaw sets. He doesn't respond. Doesn't blink. Just stares at the feed of the frozen boy — the living weapon he forged into a contingency.
Alfred studies him for a long moment, then speaks, softer now.
Alfred: "You see the child, Bruce. You just won't admit it."
Batman doesn't move.
Alfred: "The question is… when you do wake him… will he still be a child? Or only what you've made him?"
Silence.
The Team's voices fill the void again — M'gann screaming for Conner to move, Robin cursing under his breath, Zatanna's spell sputtering mid-chant.
Batman doesn't turn away from the screen.
The camera drifts to the smaller monitor: Phantom's face through the frost. Still. Cold. Silent.
But waiting.
Phantom's Mindscape.
The room is calmer now. The TV hums softly, playing one of Phantom's chosen loops — the Team eating dinner together, Robin cracking a joke that makes M'gann snort-laugh, Zatanna rolling her eyes fondly.
Phantom sits on the floor, back against his bed, knees drawn up. He's quiet. Tired.
The air shifts — J'onn manifests near the door.
J'onn: "You felt it, didn't you?"
Phantom doesn't look at him right away.
Phantom: "The rrrrr sound. Like the pod was waking up."
J'onn: "Yes. Your failsafe was triggered. For a moment, you were nearly called back."
Phantom glances at the TV, watching the loop as if it steadies him.
Phantom: "But… they stopped it."
J'onn: "Batman did. He overrode the release."
Phantom takes that in, silent for a moment.
Phantom: "Then… he didn't think it was time."
J'onn: "No."
Phantom exhales, deep and slow.
Phantom: "Good. That means… the next time they wake me… it'll be for something that matters."
He turns his head slightly, meeting J'onn's gaze.
Phantom: "And when they do… I'll be ready."
J'onn studies him, weighing the words, then nods once.
J'onn: "Then we will make sure you are."