Finn was, by his own admission, a waste of potential.
At twenty-three, he was a perfect digital native—his childhood a blur of cathode rays, his adolescence a steady diet of fiber optics and glowing screens. He was a creature of the internet, a citizen of the thousand-and-one worlds that existed just beyond the glass of his monitor. He was fluent in code, lethal in games, and a master of esoteric lore. His personal library consisted of terabytes of fanfiction, manga, academic papers on quantum physics (the stuff that sounded like magic), and, most importantly, comics.
Specifically, DC Comics.
Batman, to Finn, wasn't just a character; he was a philosophy. He was the ultimate proof that money, obsessive training, and an unbreakable will could defy gods and aliens. He was the fantasy of every weak, average guy who wished they could just do something about the madness of the world. Finn loved the man, the myth, the legend, but unlike the billionaire hero, Finn lacked the funds, the genetics, and, crucially, the iron will.
His 'lair' was a one-room apartment in a forgettable part of a forgettable city. The only light came from the triple monitor setup where he juggled his low-effort freelance coding gigs—just enough to keep the ramen flowing and the electricity running.
Tonight, however, the glow was different. It was an almost frantic, blinding white.
Finn wasn't coding; he was playing. Or, more accurately, he was watching himself play. He was the current top-ranked player on the global server of "Apex Syndicate: Galactic War," a tactical MMORPG that demanded a terrifying level of micro-management and predictive strategy. His avatar, a heavily armored sniper named 'NightSentinel,' was currently dismantling a ten-man raid team in a dazzling flurry of calculated headshots.
He felt the familiar, dull throb behind his eyes, a sensation he usually dismissed as a minor side effect of a three-day, caffeine-fueled binge.
"One more win," he mumbled, his voice a dry rasp. "Just one more, and I hit the legendary tier reward chest."
The reward wasn't just in-game currency; it was a limited edition, real-world statuette of the game's final boss, a collectible that would sell for thousands. That money would buy him time—time away from the grueling, mind-numbing cycle of 'code-eat-sleep-repeat.' It would buy him a week of genuine, blissful rest.
His fingers flew across the keyboard and mouse, executing a complex series of feints and counter-attacks. He was an extension of his avatar, his mind processing data faster than the average supercomputer.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The rhythm was off. It wasn't the sound of the mechanical keyboard. It was something deeper, internal.
He frowned, leaning back in his worn, squeaking gamer chair. His focus broke for a split second, and in that moment of weakness, his avatar took a critical hit. The 'NightSentinel' staggered, the red health bar plummeting.
"No! Not now, you garbage fire!" Finn yelled, frustration tearing through his concentration. He slammed the desk—a habit he knew he should curb, but the adrenaline was spiking.
A sharp, searing spike.
It wasn't behind his eyes this time. It was in his chest. It felt like a fist made of ice and fire had suddenly clamped down on his heart.
He gasped, a raw, strangled sound. The world, which had been a crisp, high-definition spectacle of lights and numbers, began to flicker.
The game's audio—the triumphant fanfare, the enemy team's taunts—turned into a distorted, demonic shriek. The bright white light from the screens seemed to implode, pulling the color from his vision, leaving only a sickly, gray haze.
My heart... I think... I'm having a heart attack.
The irony was brutal. The guy who spent his life avoiding physical exertion, subsisting on processed junk, and sacrificing sleep for a digital high was being taken out by the most cliché and predictable enemy: his own neglected body.
He tried to reach for his phone, a pathetic four inches away, but his arm felt like lead. He collapsed onto the cheap, stained carpet, the impact jarring the breath from his lungs. The air smelled dusty, stale, and faintly of copper—the scent of his own dying essence.
His last sight was the glow of the monitors—a brilliant, otherworldly blue that pulsed with a strange, magnetic energy. The game was still running. His health bar was empty. His character, NightSentinel, had dissolved into a plume of digital smoke.
[GAME OVER]
The words, rendered in a massive, pixelated red font, weren't on his screen. They were emblazoned on the inside of his eyelids.
Then, silence. A profound, absolute void.
There was no white light, no tunnel, no judging angels. There was only a System Prompt.
...Processing...
...Soul Signature: Recognized. Anomaly Detected.
...Current Status: Host Deceased. Temporal Signature: Severed.
...Error: 'Apex Syndicate' Lore Files Conflict with Reality Axiom.
...Executing Protocol: REBOOT.
Finn, or what was left of his consciousness—a desperate, tiny sliver of his former self—felt a pull. It wasn't the gentle tug of oblivion; it was the violent, shearing force of a cosmic hard drive defragging his existence.
He felt his memories being scanned, categorized, and filtered. All the mundane, pointless data—the hours wasted on social media, the failed relationships, the regret—it was all being compressed, marginalized.
But the Core Data... the lore, the characters, the intricate, beautiful, terrifying history of the DC Universe... that data was being prioritized.
...Target Universe: DC-Prime. Chosen Host Candidate: Bruce Wayne.
...Conflict Analysis: Subject Finn possesses knowledge of future events. High-risk insertion. Override: Future knowledge is necessary for host survival and task completion.
...TASK: Maintain the Balance. Do not allow the Joker to succeed. Do not let the Crisis begin prematurely. Preserve the integrity of the Batman narrative.
...Warning: Host's consciousness will be merged with the original soul. The synthesis will be painful. The memories will become one.
*...INITIATING SYNTHESIS. *
The pain of the heart attack was a gentle hug compared to what followed. Finn's essence was stretched, twisted, and then—shoved—into another vessel.
He felt the sudden, crushing weight of grief. It wasn't his grief; it was deeper, more primal, a wound that never scabbed. He saw a pearl necklace scattering across a cold, wet pavement. He heard a shriek that was instantly smothered by the deafening crack of a gunshot.
He was suddenly a small boy, wearing a ridiculous, tiny tuxedo. He was huddled next to a weeping, towering figure—Alfred, the steady rock. The pain in his chest was no longer a heart attack; it was a perpetual, icy void where his parents used to be.
Thomas and Martha.
The names echoed in his mind, and they were his parents. He loved them. Finn's memory of his own distant, indifferent parents was instantly overwritten, replaced by the warmth, the laughter, the tragic, spectacular love of the Waynes.
The synthesis was happening at light-speed.
He remembered Finn's twenty-three years of mediocre struggle, but that memory was immediately overshadowed by Bruce Wayne's eight years of privileged, golden childhood.
Finn's knowledge of Batman's entire career—the decades of comics, movies, and animated series—slammed into Bruce's soul like a runaway train.
The Bat-Family. The Robins. Joker's schemes. The Court of Owls. Darkseid. The Multiverse.
It wasn't just data; it was instinct. Finn knew what Bruce had to do. Bruce's soul understood the WHY. Finn gave the new amalgamated soul the HOW and the WHEN.
The knowledge of the future. The knowledge of how to win.
He woke up with a gasp, his small, eight-year-old body drenched in cold sweat.
The room was vast, dark, and heavy with antique furniture. He was in Wayne Manor. He was in Gotham.
Alfred Pennyworth, looking impossibly young and weary, was instantly by his bedside, a silver tray with warm milk clutched in his hand.
"Master Bruce," Alfred sighed, the relief palpable in his voice. "Another bad dream, I presume? You were shouting."
Bruce—no, Finn-Bruce, the nascent Batman—sat up. His eyes, now permanently etched with the wisdom and trauma of two different lives, scanned the shadows. He didn't see ghosts; he saw the future. He saw the thugs, the monsters, the gods waiting to break his world.
He looked at Alfred. The kindest, most loyal man in three realities.
"Alfred," the boy rasped, his voice small but unnervingly clear. "I need you to call the groundskeepers. I want the old unused well on the north side of the estate opened up. The one my father sealed when I was a baby."
Alfred blinked, his perfect butler composure momentarily fractured. "The well, sir? I believe your father deemed it structurally unsound. And... why, Master Bruce?"
Finn-Bruce swung his legs over the side of the bed. The weight of his new identity settled upon him—the crushing legacy of the cowl. He had Finn's pragmatic intelligence and Bruce's driven trauma.
He stood up, eight years old, and already infinitely older than Alfred could ever guess.
"Because, Alfred," he said, the shadow of a future gravelly voice already in his throat, "I need to look for my fear. And I need a cave."
He knew what came next. The training. The years abroad. The discipline. He knew all the steps on the path to becoming Batman.
But he wouldn't be The Batman. He would be A Better Batman. A proactive Batman. A Batman who knew the Crisis was coming and wouldn't be caught unprepared. A Batman who could use his knowledge of the Multiverse to recruit allies before they were needed. A Batman who would not let a single Robin die.
He looked out the window at the oppressive, smog-choked sky of Gotham. The city was a character from a comic book, but the grief and the cold air were devastatingly real.
I died for a ridiculous statuette, Finn-Bruce thought, a ghost of a self-deprecating smile twisting his lips. And now... I live for everything.
The Final Reboot was complete. The game was no longer a simulation. The stakes were infinite.
[QUEST LOG UPDATED: Survive the Path to Batman. Objective: Begin Training. Failure Condition: Death or Compromise of Secret Identity.]
[DIFFICULTY: HELL MODE. WELCOME TO THE DC UNIVERSE.]