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…In a parallel universe, that Batman broke his code.
He started with Joker. Then Riddler. Then Bane. Two-Face. Penguin. Falcone…
...He bougth the ventriloquist to tears and made him play with his cut off body parts as toys...
He didn't stop even at that.
He didn't just kill villains—he killed anyone who tried to stop him: Superman, Cyborg, Flash…
He crippled Robin, Nightwing, Batwoman, and every other ally who opposed him.
Until all that remained was a broken old man, held together by tubes and wires.
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Bruce felt like his mind had been detonated. Power. Rage. Hatred. Every single one of those people deserved to die...
No.
I'm not the Broken Bat. I'm not even Batman!
The emotions swallowed him for half a second before he snapped back. The memories struck his brain like shrapnel, making his temples throb.
This—this is why Batman needs a code. A leash. Justice is not indiscriminate vengeance.
Of course, morality doesn't need to be as stiff as Bruce Wayne's used to be. Flexibility is survival.
But still… he had to admit, this version of Batman was terrifyingly effective.
He'd wiped out most of Gotham's supervillains and several top-tier superheroes.
If not for his physical and mental collapse, his threat level wouldn't be just E.
"Hnnn…"
The tidal wave of memories continued. Regret, grief, fury—all poured in.
A violent urge surged up: to destroy Gotham. To torture and then kill the ventriloquist and bathe in his blood.
Bruce felt like he was in a video game with flashing red text: 'Morality -1… -1… -1…'
"This has to be memory side effects. Corruption. Psychological pollution."
He gritted his teeth. 'But what would killing the ventriloquist even accomplish?'
With a snap of clarity, Bruce crumpled those invasive thoughts and tossed them into the mental trash.
"I get it now. Good Batmans raise the ceiling of morality. Evil Batmans drop the floor.
Me? I have no morality ceiling or floor. I'm just… me."
Proud.jpg
He wasn't Batman. He didn't share Broken Batman's worldview or pain.
If Batman was solving the trolley problem, Bruce was the guy selling photos of it to newspapers for cash.
They were on completely different wavelengths.
Of course, this detachment only worked because Earth-99 Batman was too far gone.
If it had been a more persuasive or compelling evil Batman... would the outcome be the same?
Unknown. For now.
Bruce turned his focus back to the present.
'This does give me some confidence against Bane.'
He flexed his fingers. His body still felt normal, but he now possessed all of the Broken Bat's fighting knowledge and muscle memory.
But so what? In a world full of gods, what did hand-to-hand combat even mean?
Even Broken Batman only survived by pure luck several times.
And this "Alfred Protocol"?
Forget it. His original plan still sounded better.
It's never been Bruce's style to rely on mysterious powers or fate.
He turned back to the ventriloquist.
Arnold stared up at him with blinking, moist eyes. The baby Batman plush in his hands kept chirping:
"Yes! That's what a good dog should do!"
"Woof!"
"Speak human language."
"Sorry…"
Bruce ignored him. So far, everything was going smoothly.
The snowball was rolling. With the ventriloquist under control, he could stay hidden, manipulating others into doing his work.
Through Arnold, he could recruit other villains. He could even use Batman's money to hire mercenaries from around the globe.
Villains in the front. Guns-for-hire behind them. No martial ethics.
Even if Bane had three heads and six arms, he'd be pounded into peanut butter.
'Go into battle personally? As if.'
He'd sooner jump off Wayne Tower than cosplay Batman at night.
After all, he was a transmigrator.
Yes, he loved Batman. He loved his comics and his abilities. But live as Batman?
Why would anyone voluntarily give up a billionaire's life to dress like a bat and beat up clowns?
Also, don't forget the child soldiers in tights. What kind of maniac recruits kids to fight murderers?
Bruce Wayne was clearly insane.
But he, the traveler, was not.
His only goal now: neutralize Bane, who knows his identity—then retire.
He'd enjoy luxury, wine, and socialites, wasting his days in comfortable decadence.
That's the life he deserved. That's why he worked so hard in Hollywood in his last life.
As for Gotham's future?
Please.
You think he'd lift a finger when Kryptonians and 5,000-year-old Amazons exist?
He hadn't spotted Clark Kent at the Daily Planet yet, nor Diana Prince in Boston's museums…
But Lois was already active, so it was only a matter of time before those two powerhouses showed up.
So now, all Bruce needed to do was survive Bane.
Then? Pop champagne. Play with a few girls.
World ending? Not my problem.
That's what aliens and demigods are for.
If the universe is in crisis, he'll just show up with cash, commentary, and maybe a meme.
He might help with spoilers and money but that's it. Don't expect more.
Bruce smiled to himself.
'But first… time for the ventriloquist to call in the "mercenary support.'
Cannon fodder, mobilize.