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Chapter 93: Parallel Worlds
George, whose true body was now fully residing in the Suicide Squad World, had been keeping himself busy these last few months. His daily life here was tightly structured—training, reading, experimenting—but more than anything else, combat training had taken center stage.
Today was no exception. George and Bruce were on the mat again, their bare feet planted, their breath steady, their arms loose but ready. The moment the bell rang, they were off.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The rapid sound of gloves striking flesh echoed across the sparring floor.
Each movement was precise, deliberate. Their fists cut through the air with intent—not like friendly drills, but something closer to a measured brawl. Neither held back, though George still limited himself slightly. He had to. If he fought seriously, the entire session would be pointless. Bruce wouldn't land a single strike.
But even toned down, George gave him enough to push the limits.
Bruce was good. Very good. He moved with fluid aggression, transitioning cleanly between boxing, Krav Maga, and Wing Chun. Every step was efficient, every attack tight. He'd trained with the League of Shadows, after all—this wasn't someone who needed basics.
Still, George's reflexes were faster. His reach longer. His stamina practically bottomless.
There were moments—fleeting ones—where George almost forgot to suppress his strength. Like when Bruce leaned in for a double jab-cross, and George instinctively moved to counter with a palm strike that would've shattered a rib.
He caught himself just in time and twisted the angle of the blow, turning it into a sweep instead.
Bruce blocked it with a raised knee, grunted, and stepped back.
George dropped his leg and exhaled through his nose.
"Alright, Bruce," he said calmly, brushing his forehead. "Let's stop here for today. I've got something to take care of."
Bruce rolled his neck and stepped back, grabbing a towel. He didn't say anything at first—just tossed the towel over his shoulder and looked at George for a second longer than necessary.
It wasn't suspicion. It was curiosity. The kind that grew over time, once you realized your sparring partner wasn't just a fast learner—but something else entirely.
To Bruce, George didn't get tired. Ever.
He didn't slip. He didn't flinch. And he didn't bruise.
If that wasn't strange enough, George's body felt like steel when struck, but never once had he made Bruce feel outclassed. He always let the fight stay just within reach.
Bruce didn't voice any of that. But George knew. He saw it in the way Bruce paced himself now, how he no longer wasted energy probing for weaknesses that weren't there.
George grabbed a water bottle and took a slow sip, then glanced to the side. A moment earlier, a message had flashed into his awareness—sent from one of his clones back in the Marvel Universe.
This one had been left behind on Hogwarts Island, managing daily tasks and monitoring global activity while George's true self trained here. That clone had just received a call from Britain. King George V was nearing death, and certain influential families were being quietly summoned. George's name was on that list.
He lowered the bottle.
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "What, is Grand Master going off to save another world again?"
George cracked a faint smile. "No world-saving today. Just some old-world business to attend to."
Over the past six months, their relationship had shifted. Bruce no longer viewed George as an unpredictable wildcard—at least not completely. Somewhere between the combat drills and the occasional debates on tactics and philosophy, they'd settled into a rhythm.
Bruce even trusted him—if not with Gotham, at least with breakfast.
"Everything alright back home?" Bruce asked, adjusting the wraps around his wrists.
"King's dying. Old-world politics are about to get messy," George replied. "But manageable."
Bruce gave a slow nod. "You ever get tired of bouncing between worlds like this?"
George looked at him, amused. "You ever get tired of waking up every day knowing you have to punch someone in a mask?"
"Touché."
They both laughed, the first real sound of ease since the session started.
George snapped his fingers and cast a small "Cleaning Spell," brushing away the layer of sweat and dust on both of them.
Bruce didn't comment—but George caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. The man would never admit it aloud, but magic did make laundry easier.
"I'll see you when I see you, Bruce," George said as he stepped toward the exit. "Keep the Batmobile clean."
Bruce leaned back against the wall. "It's already cleaner than your record, wizard."
George vanished.
Back in his apartment in Gotham—this world's version of Gotham, anyway—George stood quietly for a moment, hands on his hips. The main objective of this long trip had been self-improvement, and though he'd made massive strides, there was still a lot to do.
He disbanded the remaining clones in this world, allowing their memories to stream into his mind one after the other.
Some had been monitoring Star Labs in Metropolis. George now had enough detailed recordings and data from Professor Zoom's experiments to begin building his own Speed Force gateway.
Others had been working on alchemical trials, deciphering the Witch's sealed powers, or simply testing theories with new magical matrices.
And a few had just… read. Quietly. Dozens of books that might've seemed unrelated—mythology, old engineering manuals, ancient magical scripts—but all of it had value.
After sorting through the influx of memories, George finally sat down.
One thought lingered: this world, this particular version of the Suicide Squad timeline, didn't line up with the one he remembered.
The starfish creature, Project Starro—it never happened. Joker had broken Harley out of prison early. Amanda's team scattered before anything big kicked off. This wasn't the "canon" version.
It was something else. A splinter. A branch.
A parallel timeline with its own outcomes.
And George had been part of that divergence.
He stood, collected himself, and opened a gate.
Back in the Marvel Universe, he emerged into his castle's study. Fred's younger son, now taking over as head butler, was already waiting.
"Sir, the plane to London is ready."
George nodded. "Very good. Prepare the necessary files. I'll be needing the ones on British inheritance law."
Fred hesitated, then asked carefully, "Are we expecting resistance?"
George looked up. "They've never liked outsiders. But I'm not one anymore, am I?"
Fred gave a brief smile. "No, sir. Not for a long time."
Later, on the plane, George sat back and let the silence settle. He looked out the window at the clouds slipping beneath him.
Bruce Wayne, Gotham, Star Labs, The Speed Force, it was all still there—unfinished business, stored away.
But for now?
He had a monarchy to inherit, and not even magic could make that paperwork go away.
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