The old Bat held Barry Allen's body, questioning whether he had fallen into the same madness as his wife.
Yes. In this world, only Bruce Wayne had died in that alley that night. His parents had survived.
After personally killing the man who murdered his son, Thomas Wayne became Gotham's masked vigilante, pouring his grief year after year onto the city's criminals with lethal force.
And Martha Wayne, unable to bear the sorrow after her son's death, blamed Thomas. She blamed herself.
The torment and longing drove her completely insane. She carved two slashes into her own lips, and beneath the storm clouds on her face, she finally smiled for the first time since her son died.
Barry Allen had painted Thomas a picture of a world he longed for—a world where his son lived. But in less than a moment, that longing had turned into the ravings of a madman.
Thomas noticed the thunder rumbling above his head. Even the falling raindrops seemed to pause for an instant. He looked up and saw a figure draped in a red cape.
The man stared down at him from above. Lightning flashed through the air and struck against him, yet it could not harm him in the slightest—only made the 'S' emblem on his chest shine all the brighter.
The two locked eyes like that, standing in a strange silence for a long moment.
No.
Thomas, on high alert, suddenly realized the figure wasn't staring at him—but at the corpse of Barry Allen in his arms.
"Who are you?!"
Thomas demanded to know his purpose. But in the blink of an eye, the red cape vanished from the sky as abruptly as it had appeared, as though everything the old Bat had seen was nothing but an illusion.
The Flash was dead.
Joey, unwilling to accept it, had confirmed it himself at close range.
A storm surged within his heart. A strange, complicated emotion washed over him. If not Barry—then who would save this world?
---
Kansas. The Kent farm.
Times were hard. Conflict burned in every corner of the globe. Though America, far away from the problems, had remained relatively untouched for now, as long as Atlantis controlled the oceans, they were lambs waiting for slaughter.
Since Wonder Woman and Aquaman had gone to war, refugees and drifters from the Atlantic coast had poured inland toward places like Kansas. Even in rural Smallville, once known for its simple and honest folk, Jonathan Kent now slept with a weapon beneath his pillow.
There was another disturbance outside the farm tonight. It was already the fourth unwanted intrusion this week.
First it had been a few drifters trying to smash down his front door. Then a red-caped stranger had pushed his way in without permission. After that, the same man had changed into ordinary clothes and tried to sneak in...
Without exception, each had been driven off by the barrel of Jonathan's gun.
Awakened yet again, Jonathan picked up his double-barreled shotgun, reassured Martha, and got out of bed to see what was happening.
But this time was a little different.
It was the same group of drifters from a few days ago—but they had brought more people. They were holding crowbars and steel pipes from who knew where, drunkenly banging on the wooden garage door.
"Hey! You there!"
Jonathan stepped out of the house, raising his shotgun and shouting firmly, "You need food? Water? Clothes? I can give you all of that!"
"No, Mr. Kent. We don't want that."
The one who spoke was a thin, dried-up man. His expression was dazed, his lips cracked. He grinned as he spoke, revealing a mouthful of rotten teeth.
"...We don't need that anymore."
Kent recognized him. John Corben, or something like that. He'd seen him in town two weeks ago—a man who had fled from a coastal city. Unable to reach any relatives here, he had been sleeping on the streets.
Just like the other townsfolk had done before, Jonathan had taken the man into his home for a night. The next day, he even introduced him to old man Hans at the bar, asking him to give the fellow some odd jobs. But a few days later, when Jonathan went back, Hans told him the man had disappeared.
Now it seemed he hadn't truly disappeared after all.
John was slowly advancing toward Jonathan Kent, paying no attention to the shotgun aimed at him. "Kent, can you help me one more time? How about giving us this place of yours?"
"Don't come any closer." Jonathan's finger tightened on the trigger. "Leave now, and nobody gets hurt."
"Hahaha!" The group only laughed harder. John lunged forward, growing bolder. "Do you even have the guts to pull the trigger?"
Jonathan stared in shock as the man rushed him and tackled him to the ground. He had meant to smash the butt of the gun into the man's jaw, but age had dulled his reflexes. He went down hard.
The bastards roared with laughter at the sight. One of them was already staggering toward the house.
"No! Martha! Run!"
Pinned to the ground, Jonathan struggled with all his strength and shouted a warning to his wife. His heart sank to the bottom.
Boom!
A thunderous blast tore through the air, whipping up a violent gust that knocked everyone off balance.
Jonathan realized John, who had been on top of him, was suddenly gone. Looking up, he saw the young man from yesterday—the one in the red cape. He had thought the kid was just some clueless young man in a costume trying to scare people.
He hadn't imagined the man was truly superpowered.
Now the young man hovered half a meter above the ground, red light glowing from his eyes. In his hand, he held John Corben by the throat, letting him squirm like a worm from lack of oxygen.
"No!"
Jonathan instinctively tried to stop him. He knew his words probably wouldn't matter. In this world, most caped vigilantes were like Batman—wielding their powers to decide life and death over ordinary people.
But the young man clearly heard him. Without hesitation, he tossed the bastard in his hand aside like trash.
"Sigh."
Joey let out a quiet breath, then strode forward and slapped each of the drugged-up addicts one by one, knocking them fully out of their dazed state.
"Get the hell out of here. Come back again and I'll break your legs!"
Jonathan watched as the group scrambled away from the Kent farm under the young man's threat. He was about to offer his thanks when the other beat him to it—with anger.
"What's wrong with you? You bought a gun with no bullets?"
The only reason Joey hadn't burned those scumbags to ash at the start was because he'd seen the shotgun in Jonathan Kent's hands.
It was nothing more than a stick.
Kind-hearted Jonathan hadn't even bought a single box of ammunition for it.
Those punks had clearly known that too.
Jonathan tried to explain, "I figured just having the gun would be enough to scare those poor people off..."
"That only works if they don't know it's unloaded! The moment they find out, this is what happens!"
In the past, Joey's relationship with his adoptive father had been built on quiet understanding.
He helped Jonathan with farm work; Jonathan taught him how to spot field rat burrows. He carried two cases of beer for him; Jonathan gave him five dollars.
Joey had never clashed with the stubborn middle-aged man before.
But this time was different.
He practically jabbed a finger in Jonathan's face as he shouted:
"You stubborn old fool!"