Chapter 5: The Bat's Shadow
The system's faint Ding echoed in Alex's mind as he watched Tony soar off in the Mark 2, the suit's repulsors cutting through the night sky like a shooting star. Contact with a hero—his cousin, no less, now fully embodying Iron Man—had triggered the reward he'd been waiting for.
[Credit Earned: +1 (Contact with Hero - Iron Man)]
[Current Credits: 1]
Alex smirked, pocketing the mental note. One step closer to another simulation, another edge. But the world's chaos didn't pause for his system. News of Bruce's return had hit like a thunderclap, pulling Alex back to the estate's Wayne wing, where shadows seemed longer and secrets thicker.
Fueled by the grief of his parents' "murder" and a burning vow to prevent others from suffering as he had, Bruce Wayne had dedicated the last four years to forging himself into a weapon against crime. As the Wayne heir, he'd inherited vast wealth and resources from Wayne Enterprises, channeling them into a relentless pursuit of peak human potential. His body became a temple of discipline—muscles honed to perfection, endurance pushed beyond limits. His mind sharpened like a blade, absorbing knowledge in forensics, criminology, and tactics.
In this merged universe, Bruce's global odyssey took him to the edges of myth and shadow. He trained in Nanda Parbat under the League of Assassins, mastering lethal arts from Ra's al Ghul's disciples, though he rejected their fanaticism. Whispers of Marvel's underbelly drew him further: sparring with Hand ninjas in hidden dojos, glimpsing the ethereal gates of K'un-Lun where he studied chi manipulation alongside echoes of the Iron Fist legacy. Back channels through Aunt Helena's SHIELD connections granted him access to classified archives—blueprints for surveillance tech, profiles on metahuman threats—but she kept him at arm's length, protecting the agency's secrets from even family. "Some doors stay closed, Bruce," she'd warned in coded letters.
Now, in 2007, Bruce returned to New York-Gotham, a changed man at 21. To the world, he was the same as Tony: a playboy billionaire, flashing smiles at galas, charming socialites with tales of exotic travels, his public facade a mask of hedonism and excess. Tabloids ate it up—Bruce Wayne, the prodigal son, back to reclaim his throne. But only Alex and Alfred knew the truth of his nights. The estate's underbelly hid a transformation: inspired by a bat crashing through Wayne Manor's study window one stormy evening—a eerie nod to his comic origins—Bruce had crafted the Batman persona. A symbol of fear to terrorize the criminal underworld.
Using Wayne Enterprises' R&D labs, Bruce developed gadgets that blended Stark-level innovation—drawing from Uncle Howard's archived designs—with his own detective ingenuity. Batarangs with embedded trackers, a utility belt stocked with grapnel guns and smoke pellets, an armored suit woven from experimental kevlar-alloy composites. Batman emerged as Gotham's shadowy protector, dismantling mob bosses like Carmine Falcone, exposing corrupt officials in City Hall, and probing emerging superhuman threats—rumors of Compound V-enhanced thugs that Alex still hadn't connected to Vought. His methods clashed with SHIELD's red tape and Superman's idealistic patrols; Bruce saw the Man of Steel's hope as naive in a city as rotten as Gotham, where justice demanded darkness.
At first, Bruce tried to hide it from Alex. The Batcave—a vast cavern beneath the estate, accessed via hidden elevators stocked with monitors, vehicles, and prototypes—became his sanctum. Alfred, ever the enabler, covered for him with excuses about "late-night business meetings." But Alex, armed with his Assassin's Creed sensitivity and reincarnation smarts, couldn't be fooled. One night, drawn by faint echoes of machinery, Alex slipped through the shadows, parkour fundamentals guiding him past security sensors. He descended into the cave, heart racing as he beheld the array: the Batmobile's sleek chassis, holographic crime maps flickering blue.
Bruce, in mid-suit-up, whirled at the intrusion—nearly lunging in a reflexive strike that could have floored a lesser intruder. Alex froze, hands up, but Bruce's poker face snapped into place: impassive, eyes like steel. "You shouldn't be here, Alex." His voice was gravel, the Batman's growl bleeding through. But Alex, with his heightened senses, felt the undercurrent—Bruce's pulse spiking, a flicker of fear not for himself, but for exposing his cousin to this world. Relief mixed with annoyance, emotions Alex read like an open book despite the stoic mask.
"I know what you're doing," Alex said, stepping closer. "And I'm not telling. We're family, Bruce. Let me help."
Bruce hesitated, then nodded curtly. "Stay out of the field. For now." The cave's secrets unfolded that night—Bruce sharing glimpses of his arsenal, Alex offering insights from his meta-knowledge without revealing too much. A bond deepened, two shadows against the light.
But as Batman prowled, the multiverse stirred. Whispers of Court of Owls meetings—still unknown to Alex as Hydra puppets—echoed in Gotham's underbelly, and across the city, a supe's laser eyes gleamed with interest in the Wayne-Stark alliance.