Batman drove the Batmobile through Gotham's empty streets. He'd just finished stopping a crime and was heading back to the cave. The familiar hum of the engine filled the cockpit.

  Then everything stopped.

  No warning lights. No system alerts. The engine didn't sputter or fade—it just cut out like someone had flipped a switch. Batman felt the steering wheel go loose in his hands as the car coasted to a stop.

  He checked the dashboard. Every screen was bck. He pressed buttons, flipped switches. Nothing responded. The Batmobile's systems were completely dead.

  Batman heard the passenger door open behind him.

  He spun around. A man sat in the passenger seat as if he belonged there. The man wore all bck—bck clothes, bck gloves. His head was covered by what looked like a smooth bck mask, but it wasn't like any mask Batman had seen. It was featureless, like someone had stretched bck fabric tight over a face, erasing every detail. No eye holes. No mouth opening. Just a bnk bck surface where a face should be.

  Batman couldn't tell where the man was looking or even if he could see through that thing.

  "Who are you?" Batman demanded, his hand moving toward his utility belt. "How did you get in here?"

  The voice came from behind the featureless mask, clear and casual. "Hey, Bruce Wayne. How you doing?"

  "I'm not Bruce Wayne," Batman said sharply. "I'm Batman."

  The man's featureless head nodded slightly. Batman couldn't see any expression, couldn't read anything from that bnk bck surface, but he could hear the amusement in the voice. "Come on, Bruce. We both know that's not true."

  Batman's jaw tightened. "I don't know who you are or how you got in here, but—"

  "But what?" The man settled back in the passenger seat. "You're going to throw me out? Call the police? Tell them Batman found a stranger in his car?"

  Batman reached for a batarang. "I'm warning you."

  "You've been doing this for what, eighty years now?" The man's voice was casual, conversational. "Fighting crime night after night. Don't you think that's a little... impossible?"

  Batman froze. His hand stayed on the batarang but didn't draw it.

  "That's not possible, is it, Bruce?"

  Batman stared at the featureless mask. "Eighty years? I'm thirty-five. I've been Batman for maybe fifteen years."

  "Have you?" The man leaned forward slightly. "What about the Justice League? You were a founding member, right?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "And the Super Friends? Remember them? You, Superman, Wonder Woman, Aquaman. All those Saturday mornings."

  Batman's grip on the batarang tightened. "That was a dream. Fiction."

  "Were they?" The man's voice stayed maddeningly calm. "What about your no-kill rule, Bruce? When did that start?"

  "I've always—" Batman stopped. A fsh of memory hit him. Standing over a criminal in the 1930s, a smoking gun in his hand. "No. I can't be that old. That was... I'm not that old. I'm only thirty-five. That was a dream too."

  "How many martial arts do you know, Bruce?"

  The question caught Batman off guard. "I... what does that matter?"

  "Just answer. How many?"

  Batman thought. Karate. Judo. Kung Fu. Boxing. Krav Maga. Aikido. Capoeira. The list kept going. "Maybe... twenty? Thirty?"

  "When did you learn them all?"

  "I trained extensively—"

  "You've also mastered criminology, forensics, computer science, engineering, chemistry, psychology, medicine." The man counted on his fingers. "You speak dozens of nguages. You've traveled the world. You run a billion-dolr company. You've mentored multiple Robins. You've died and come back. You've traveled through time."

  Batman felt something cold in his stomach. "That's not—"

  "You've done all of that in fifteen years? Since you were twenty?" The man tilted his featureless head. "It might've been possible if you were in your eighties. Like you are."

  "I'm not eighty years old!"

  "Then how, Bruce? How did you fit a lifetime of training and experience into fifteen years? How are you still young after eight decades of crime fighting?"

  Batman's hand shook slightly on the batarang. "You're not making sense. None of this—"

  "What about the Comics Code Authority?" Mr. Bck asked suddenly.

  Batman blinked. "The what?"

  "Oh yes, you would not know anything about that, Bruce. The CCA? I'm gd we got rid of that thing. Talk about putting handcuffs on someone." The man chuckled behind his featureless mask. "Yes, let's talk about your no-kill rule, for instance. Makes no sense if you're actually trying to save Gotham."

  "I don't kill because—" Batman started automatically, then stopped. The words felt rehearsed. "I don't kill because once I cross that line, I won't be able to stop. If I kill one criminal, I'll keep going down that path. I believe in redemption."

  "Yeah, bh bh bh," Mr. Bck waved dismissively. "The fact is, you don't kill because of an organization called the Comics Code Authority. They made rules about what could and couldn't be shown. No excessive violence. No killing by heroes. It wasn't about your moral growth, Bruce—it was about keeping things sanitized."

  Batman stared at him. "That's... that's not..."

  "It helped us writers too—which I am, by the way. Keeps the company you're part of making money. Helps us not have to constantly create new vilins for you to fight. Can't have the Joker actually dead, can we? Bad for business."

  Batman felt the world tilt slightly. "Writers? You're insane."

  "Am I? Tell me, Bruce—when's the st time you went to the bathroom?"

  Batman opened his mouth, then closed it. He couldn't remember. Not once. Not ever.

  "Humans need to relieve themselves, right?" Mr. Bck continued. "You're human, right?"

  "I..." Batman's voice came out smaller than he intended.

  "I'm one of the writers, Bruce. People like me write your adventures and storylines. Your no-kill rule isn't some noble ethical stance you developed—it's branding. Editorial mandates. You didn't stop killing because you grew as a person. You stopped because the Comics Code Authority made us."

  Batman shook his head sharply. "No. That's impossible. I remember making that choice. I remember—"

  "Do you? Or do you remember us writing that you made that choice?" Mr. Bck leaned back in the seat. "Think about it. Really think. Your entire moral philosophy, your training, your retionships—it's all designed to keep you marketable. Keep you fighting the same vilins over and over. Keep the stories going."

  "You're lying." But Batman's voice cked conviction.

  "How many times has the Joker escaped from Arkham? How many times have you caught him, only to have him break out again and kill more people? If you really cared about saving lives, wouldn't you have found a permanent solution by now?"

  Batman felt something cracking inside his chest. "I can't just—"

  "You can't because we won't let you. Because dead vilins don't sell comics."

  Batman stared at the featureless mask. His world felt like it was dissolving around him.

  "How many martial arts do you know?" Mr. Bck asked again.

  "I already told you—"

  "No, really count them. All of them."

  Batman's mind raced through the list. It kept growing. Styles he'd learned in Tibet, in Japan, in Brazil, in Russia. Ancient techniques and modern combat systems. "Fifty? Sixty? Maybe more."

  "How old are you really, Bruce?"

  Batman's mouth went dry. "Thirty-five."

  "When did you start training?"

  "When I was... when my parents..." Batman stopped. The math didn't work. It had never worked. "I was eight when they died."

  "So you mastered sixty martial arts between ages eight and thirty-five? Twenty-seven years to become the world's greatest fighter, detective, scientist, businessman, and viginte?" Mr. Bck tilted his head. "When's the st time you went to the bathroom?"

  The question hit like a punch. Batman realized he was shaking.

  "You can't answer because you never have. You've never needed to. Because you're not real, Bruce. You're a character. And characters don't need to use the bathroom unless it serves the story."

  Batman gripped the steering wheel with both hands. "This isn't happening."

  "Humans need to relieve themselves, right? You're human, right?"

  ---

  Batman stumbled into the Batcave, his thoughts in a chaotic spiral. The encounter with the person in bck had left him shaken and confused. Nothing made sense anymore. The questions echoed in his head—how many martial arts, how old was he really, when had he st used the bathroom?

  "Master Wayne?" Alfred's voice came from behind him.

  Batman turned. Alfred stood at the bottom of the cave's stone steps, carrying a silver tray with three drinks—one red, one green, one yellow. The gsses gleamed under the cave's lights.

  "What's wrong, sir? You look disturbed."

  Batman ran a gloved hand over his partially covered face. "Alfred, something happened tonight. I met a man. He knew things. He said..." Batman's voice trailed off. How could he expin any of it?

  "What did he say, Master Wayne?"

  "He said I wasn't real. That I was just a character. That writers created me." Batman looked at Alfred desperately. "That's insane, right? Tell me that's insane."

  Alfred set the tray down on a nearby table. The three drinks caught the light.

  "What else did he say, sir?"

  Batman paced in front of the computer. "He asked about things I couldn't expin. How I've never gone to the bathroom. How I learned sixty martial arts in twenty-seven years. He mentioned something called the Comics Code Authority."

  Alfred's posture shifted. The concern in his voice faded, repced by something calmer. More distant.

  "Did he now?"

  Batman stopped pacing. Something in Alfred's tone made his blood run cold.

  "He said my no-kill rule wasn't real character growth. That it was just... branding." Batman looked at Alfred, searching for reassurance. "That's not true, is it, Alfred?"

  Alfred straightened his tie. When he spoke again, his voice was different—still Alfred's accent, but without the warmth. Clinical. Detached.

  "I'm afraid it is true, sir."

  Batman felt the world tilt. "What?"

  "You're just a character, Master Wayne. A very profitable one, but a character nonetheless."

  "Alfred, what are you saying?"

  Alfred smiled, but it wasn't Alfred's smile. It was cold, amused. "I'm not Alfred, sir. I'm another writer. Just pying the role you expect to see."

  Batman staggered backward. "No. No, that's impossible. You raised me. You've been with my family for—"

  "For as long as the story required, yes." The writer talking through Alfred adjusted the loyal butler's cuffs. "We've had this conversation several times now, actually. Different variations, different approaches. But it always ends the same way."

  Batman's legs felt weak. "Why? Why are you doing this?"

  The writer wearing Alfred's face gestured to the tray with the three drinks.

  "Because we need to reset you, sir. This conversation has become... problematic. You're starting to remember things between iterations."

  Batman stared at the gsses. "What are those?"

  "Choices." Alfred's voice was matter-of-fact. "The red drink will make you forget everything. You'll go back to your normal Batman life. Fighting crime, catching the Joker, letting him escape. The cycle continues."

  Batman's hands clenched into fists. "And the green one?"

  "The green drink will show you the full truth. You'll see everything—the writers' room, the publication schedules, the editorial meetings where we decide your fate. Complete awareness of what you really are."

  Batman looked at the third gss. The yellow liquid seemed to glow. "What about the yellow?"

  Alfred smiled that cold, un-Alfred smile and let out a low chuckle that made Batman's skin crawl.

  "Oh, I just like how it tastes."

  Batman stared at the three drinks. Red for ignorance. Green for truth. Yellow for... whatever sick game this was.

  His hand trembled as he reached forward.

  He grabbed the green drink and downed it in one gulp.

  ---

  Three writers sat around the table. One wore a baseball cap. Another had thick-rimmed gsses. The third was typing on a ptop.

  "Heads," said the writer with the baseball cap.

  The writer with gsses flipped a coin into the air. It spun, caught the fluorescent light, and nded on the table with a soft clink.

  "Heads it is," Gsses said, looking at the coin. He pulled out his wallet and spped a ten-dolr bill on the table. "Green drink. Again."

  Baseball Cap scooped up the money with a grin. "That's the third time in a row I've won."

  "You all know Batman doesn't really get to choose," the typing writer remarked without looking up from his ptop.

  "Yes," Baseball Cap said, folding the bill. "It's all about the coin flip. We just write that he's choosing."

  "Poor bastard probably thinks he's being heroic," Gsses muttered. "Going for the truth."

  "Makes for a better story that way," Baseball Cap said. "Characters need to look like they have agency, even when they don't."

  The typing writer looked up from his ptop. "I really liked when you added the part about the yellow drink. 'Oh, I just like how it tastes.' Good dialogue there."

  Baseball Cap smirked. "Thanks. I thought it added the right creepy touch."

  The typing writer saved his document and closed the ptop. "So, are we doing this again?"

  Baseball Cap grabbed the quarter. "Why not? I need to win back my money from st week."

  Baseball Cap flipped the coin, caught it, and spped it on the table. "All right, let's rewrite our Batman and see what happens."

  In the corner of the office, hovering unseen, was a multiversal drone the size of a grain of rice.