After The Fall

by Inocent_reader

Summary:

Amid the scars of a war that changed the world, Robin faces the emptiness left by the loss of his friends, mentors, and his father, Bruce Wayne. By his side, Midoriya awakens in a universe completely different from his own, carrying the pain of having watched many of his companions fall in the fight against All For One. Between two worlds and two griefs, they find themselves on the same journey: moving forward when everything they once knew has been left behind — and discovering that, even in the midst of loss, it is still possible to find purpose.

Notes:

• Inspired by After the Fall of Olympus by Killthespare

Hello everyone, and welcome to my new saga: Knights of Tomorrow.
This story has been in my mind for years, ever since I read the masterpiece called After the Fall of Olympus.
It will be a tribute, but it won’t be the same — in fact, it will be quite different.
Let’s begin.
This is the first story in this saga, After The Fall, and it will mark the beginning of Year One in this series.
Chronologically, it starts in August 2010 and ends in late September.

Chapter 1: The Day the Sky Fell

Chapter 1 — The Day the Sky Fell

Part 1( Midoriya Izuku's POV)

The sky was in shreds.

There were no clear lines between cloud and earth anymore — everything was a swirling vortex of darkness, torn apart by jagged bursts of light. Lightning carved through the cracks in the heavens like incandescent veins, briefly revealing the devastation below. The air reeked of scorched iron and dust, a suffocating mixture that filled the lungs like the smoke of a fire with no end.

Entire buildings hung suspended for moments before crashing down, split in half, spinning slowly like the skeletons of a city that no longer existed. Sheets of metal and chunks of concrete were hurled for miles by invisible shockwaves. Each impact reshaped the landscape — twisting the ground, bending steel beams, and sending debris flying in chaotic arcs.

And breaking through the black clouds above, two figures clashed like titans.
Every strike they traded seemed to carry the weight of continents, capable of shattering mountains. The bursts of energy didn’t sound like ordinary thunder — they were like the toll of an apocalypse, ringing in the end of all things.

In the center of that suspended chaos, Midoriya Izuku hovered in the air. His body, covered in dozens of wounds, bled from long, deep cuts; his breathing was heavy, uneven. And yet, his eyes burned — not with pain, but with a feverish determination. The kind of fire found in someone who no longer fought for himself, but for everyone left behind.

The air around him pulsed with the power of One For All, expanding and contracting in almost visible waves, each surge in sync with the pounding rhythm of his heart.

Ahead of Midoriya stood Shigaraki Tomura — or what was left of him.

The villain’s body was a collage of nightmares: torn muscle knitting itself back together in endless cycles, bones jutting outward like natural blades, skin split with deep fissures that throbbed like living wounds. Multiple twisted arms erupted and withdrew from his back and shoulders, as if the flesh itself had its own will and was searching for something to destroy.

The air around him felt heavier, corrupted. Each step left deep imprints in the fractured concrete, and wherever his hands touched, the ground crumbled into dust, a victim of his Decay.

Shigaraki’s eyes weren’t just red — they were pits of madness, glowing with a hunger for annihilation that knew no rest.

"Midoriyaaaaaa!" he roared, his voice reverberating like the bellow of some ancient beast, deep and ragged, cutting through the crash of falling debris.

In an almost feral lunge, he sprang forward. The force of the leap shattered the ground beneath his feet into hundreds of fragments, the air displacement cracking like a whip. The claws that formed at his hands were a chaotic fusion of super strength, elongation, decay, and bone manipulation — each finger stretching into uneven, razor-sharp blades.

His charge wasn’t just fast. It was relentless. Shigaraki tore through debris, ripping through beams and walls in his path, each impact sending shockwaves that rattled the battlefield.

Midoriya’s muscles tightened as he triggered Gearshift, breaking the logic of physics and vanishing into a blur. Pain screamed through every fiber of his body, but he forced himself into a vertical burst, unleashing Fa Jin and compressing all remaining energy into an upward blast — slipping past the killing blow by mere inches.

WHOOOOSH!

The claws sliced into the side of his mask, tearing part of it away and exposing his bloodied face to the choking air.

Shigaraki came down on him like a living landslide, muscles coiling for a final thrust. The bone blades on his hands lengthened even further, curving into a predatory arc. The skin around them split, spilling faint motes of Decay dust that hung in the air like burning ash.

"DIE!!!" he roared, the sound melding with the thunder, swallowing the space around them.

The strike came as a barrage of cross-cutting blows, each one tearing the air with a sharp, snapping crack. The pressure alone shattered nearby debris into fragments, the ground beneath them collapsing into a jagged crater.

Midoriya twisted in midair, Gearshift snapping into place. It felt like every bone screamed in protest, but he ignored the pain and drove himself into a diagonal burst out of the attack’s path. The blades passed within inches of his skin, the air displacement so strong it ripped away the side of his mask, revealing the right half of his face streaked with blood and sweat.

Shigaraki’s breathing was ragged, uneven — as if the very act of existing was an assault on the world itself. He didn’t pause to recover. He twisted his torso and lashed out again, this time driving his claws into what remained of a suspended building, cleaving it in half with a single motion. The fragments flew like a rain of jagged spears.

Midoriya reacted on instinct. Blackwhip lashed out, hooking onto a floating steel beam, yanking him forward with brutal force. In the next instant, he channeled One For All into his legs, Fa Jin’s stored energy roaring through his muscles like a thunderclap.

Heat surged through his body, his skin tingling, the air around him trembling.

"SMASH!!!" he roared, and the kick slammed into Shigaraki with every ounce of strength he had left.

The impact was sharp, followed by a shockwave that shattered chunks of concrete midair and sent the villain crashing into distant wreckage. The sound echoed across the ruined landscape — and for a moment, the battlefield went silent, save for the faint cascade of falling rubble.

Midoriya’s breaths came in broken gasps, each inhale like shards of glass in his lungs. He knew that strike would have obliterated any other opponent.

But not Shigaraki.

And he was right.

From the haze of debris, a shadow moved — slow at first, then faster and faster. Chunks of concrete began to crumble midair, reduced to dust at his touch. Within seconds, the silhouette sharpened: Shigaraki was walking forward, his body knitting fractures back together as if merely stretching his muscles.

His skin, torn and burned from the impact, mended itself in a grotesque ballet of flesh and bone rearranging. New appendages sprouted from his back, twisted like exposed roots, each one ending in razor-sharp bone blades.

"You… still think you can stop me?" His voice was low but steeped in a contempt that vibrated in the air. "Midoriya… I’ll tear you apart… piece by piece…"

In a single leap, he closed the distance in the blink of an eye, unleashing a fan-shaped strike with six claws at once. The air displacement was so intense that nearby steel beams bent under the pressure.

Danger Sense erupted in Midoriya’s mind like a deafening siren. He twisted his body in midair, dodging the first slash, then the second, then the third. But the fourth nearly clipped his shoulder, slicing open his sleeve and the skin beneath.

More claws followed in relentless succession. There wouldn’t be time to evade them all.

On instinct, Midoriya’s hand dove into his side pocket and triggered Smokescreen. A thick swirl of black smoke burst outward, swallowing the battlefield in every direction. The air grew almost solid, muffling sound and warping shapes.

He moved quickly, using Blackwhip to hurl himself toward a high perch of broken debris, feeling the heat of his own blood running down his arm.

But even hidden, he knew the truth.
Shigaraki was still there, hunting.
And he didn’t need sight to find him.

The smoke wrapped around everything like a choking shroud. Inside it, each of Midoriya’s breaths came with a sharp stab in his lungs, as if the air itself had turned into microscopic blades. His heart pounded unevenly, each beat echoing in his temples.

He crouched on a floating slab of concrete, bracing against his knees to keep from toppling. One For All still pulsed in his muscles, but the familiar heat was fading, replaced by uncontrolled spasms. Every recent use of Fa Jin had ripped more out of his body than it could give. His arms were broken in multiple places; his fingers numb; his vision blurring at the edges.

Why… why can’t I beat him?

He tried to focus on the smoke, but other images pushed in: Shigaraki, moments ago, taking hits that could level buildings and still rising — his body learning, adapting, regenerating more efficiently with each strike.

No matter how much damage I do… he comes back. He always comes back.

Memories surged unbidden. The faces of One For All’s predecessors — firm silhouettes that had stood with him in his mind for so long — were now silent, only watching. No words of encouragement. Only the weight of what had to be done.

You told me to live. To pass it on…

But maybe that wasn’t his role. Maybe he wasn’t the link meant to carry hope forward. Maybe he was just… the last barrier.

He lifted his gaze beyond the smoke and, for an instant, saw All Might’s smiling face in his mind. Then Uraraka. Iida. Bakugo. His mother. Little Eri. Each image tangled with memories of embraces, promises, and fear. And with them, the vision of what they’d lose if Shigaraki escaped: ruined hospitals, fallen heroes, civilians with no future.

If I fall here… the world goes on. But if he gets out…

The answer came like a steel wire tightening in his mind:
I can’t win. But I can make sure he doesn’t either.

It was then that a different sound cut through the smoke-thickened silence — the unstable hum of a portal being held open. Midoriya turned and saw, in the distance among the rubble, Monoma Neito crouched low, struggling to keep a wavering vortex alive. His hands shook, teeth clenched, as if holding it was a battle against his own body.

Midoriya’s body moved before his mind caught up. He turned his bloodied face toward him and shouted:

"MONOMA!"

The blond’s head snapped up, eyes wide. He was crouched behind a fallen slab, body hunched as if trying to hide from the war raging around him. In his hands, the unstable glow of Kurogiri’s copied quirk spun into a small, flickering portal, threatening to collapse at any moment.

"MAKE A PORTAL!" Midoriya took a step forward, using Blackwhip to keep from falling. "NOW! NO DESTINATION!"

Monoma blinked in disbelief.
"You… you’re insane!" His voice shook as much as his hands. "You could end up in the middle of the ocean! In space! You could… die!"

The pressure in Midoriya’s chest mounted. Danger Sense wouldn’t stop screaming — Shigaraki was closing in. There was no time for drawn-out arguments.
"THERE’S NO OTHER WAY!" he roared. "It’s this world’s last chance!"

The silence that followed lasted only a second — but it was enough for both of them to understand the weight of the choice.

Monoma averted his eyes, and for a moment, the arrogance that usually shaped his face was gone. In its place was fear — and something close to respect. He drew a deep breath, nodded once, and murmured:
"If it’s to save everyone… then so be it."

His hands spread open, and the portal’s energy flared into a burst of violet light. The black circle solidified, spinning with the speed of a whirlwind. Air began to be pulled in, lifting dust, debris, and even small stones that floated toward its center.

The sound was like a distant roar, mixed with the echo of something alive — and hungry.

Midoriya clenched his teeth, tasting blood as it trickled from the corner of his mouth. Shigaraki was close now, his shadow cutting through the smoke, bone blades poised for the final strike.

There was no room left for doubt.

Shigaraki’s roar tore through the haze before his silhouette emerged.
"MIDOOORIYAAAA!"

He lunged in a monstrous leap, bone blades spiraling outward in jagged patterns, ready to shred anything in their path. The impact of his feet hitting the cracked concrete sent fractures racing across the surface like glass under strain.

Midoriya drew in a deep breath. Gearshift was already active, warping time and space around him. The Fa Jin stored in his muscles burned like liquid fire, ready to detonate. One For All pulsed like a second heart, each beat heavier than the last.

Danger Sense screamed in the back of his mind — but this time, he didn’t move to dodge.

Shigaraki closed in, his eyes blazing with hatred, his mouth open in a scream that mixed madness and the hunger to destroy. Bone tendrils lashed forward, aiming to seize any part of Midoriya’s body.

At the very last moment, Izuku exhaled and roared:

"UNITED STATES… OF SMASH!!!"

He poured everything into it — Fa Jin erupting into pure force, Gearshift accelerating every fraction of movement, One For All screaming through every fiber of muscle. The air compressed with a sharp crack before exploding outward in a devastating shockwave.

His fist slammed into Shigaraki’s warped chest with an impact that made the space around them vibrate. The shockwave ripped debris from the air and sent cracks spiderwebbing through the concrete for hundreds of meters. The sound wasn’t just loud — it was deafening, as if the world itself had screamed.

Shigaraki’s body was hurled backward, spinning wildly, regeneration straining to keep up with the damage and failing under the brutality of the blow. Midoriya didn’t give him the chance. Using Blackwhip to launch himself forward, he closed the gap and, with the last remnants of his strength, drove him straight toward Monoma’s portal.

The vortex spun like a cosmic maelstrom, ravenous, the air pulling inward in violent currents. Shigaraki tried to drive his bone tendrils into debris to anchor himself, but Midoriya slipped past, seizing the villain’s main arm and twisting until the bone snapped.

With a final roar, he shoved Shigaraki into the darkness.

The villain vanished instantly, swallowed by nothingness.

The portal’s pull surged without warning, and Midoriya felt his own body being dragged in after him. He could have pulled back. He could have let it close. But he didn’t.

For a moment, he looked toward the shattered horizon.
If this is the end… then let it be worth it.

And he let himself go.

The portal snapped shut with a crack, and the world went silent.

 

Part 2– (Robin’s POV)

 

The smell of smoke and ozone clung to the metallic air of the mothership, mingled with the heavy stench of burnt oil and molten steel. Every breath scraped the throat, as if the air itself carried fine dust and glowing particles.

The wail of emergency sirens echoed like an irregular heartbeat through the curved corridors, broken by the metallic pops of an overburdened frame. The floor vibrated beneath Robin’s boots — not from explosions, but from a deep, steady pulse that came from the ship’s very core. It was as if the steel giant knew it was dying, screaming silently with every second.

Flashing red lights swept the halls in one-second cycles, painting the world in alternating shades of blood and shadow. Between each strobe, the walls seemed to close in, casting long shadows that crawled forward like grasping fingers.

Robin moved with measured steps, feeling the weight of the silence between sirens, passing the smoldering remains of metallic sentinels. The heat from earlier battles still radiated from the wreckage — twisted armor plates and burst circuits giving off an acrid, electric tang.

The fencing blade in his hand dripped dark oil, mixed with strands of burnt wiring clinging to the edge like melted webs. He flicked his wrist in a practiced motion, shaking off the excess before pressing on.

With a sharp click, he tapped the detonator on his belt.

2 minutes.

"Two minutes, Wally," he said, voice steady, not glancing at the partner sprinting up behind him.

Kid Flash appeared at his side in a rush of hot wind, kicking up flecks of dust and metal from the floor. His suit was torn in several places, face smeared with soot and scratches, and his eyes — red from the smoke — struggled to hold onto a smile.

"Two minutes ‘til the end," Wally replied, forcing the grin. But Robin knew that smile. It was the one Wally wore when he’d already accepted the inevitable.

The emergency lights pulsed, and the corridor ahead opened like the jaws of a metallic beast. From within, ranks of sentinels marched in perfect rhythm, eyes glowing red like smoldering coals. Their arms shifted with a mechanical snap, revealing spinning blades and embedded gun barrels.

The metallic stomp of their march pounded in Robin’s skull. He didn’t hesitate.
"Incoming!" he shouted.

Wally moved first, blurring into a yellow streak. A rush of hot air trailed him, scattering the thick smoke. In less than a second, three robots were sliced in half, their torsos crashing to the floor still sparking.

Robin was already in motion, a batarang spinning between his fingers before sailing forward. It ricocheted off the wall, cut through the chest plating of a sentinel, and snapped back into his palm with a crisp slap. Without breaking stride, Robin vaulted over an advancing enemy, driving his blade into the neck joint and twisting his wrist, sending a spray of sparks.

1 minute, 45 seconds.

The ship groaned overhead, a long, low sound like metal bending under impossible weight. The tremor shook loose pieces of ceiling, some bouncing harmlessly off the sentinels’ armor.

More poured in from side doors, shifting formation to encircle them.

Wally blurred down the corridor, punching and kicking enemies with such speed that he left a trail of sparks in the air. Robin, meanwhile, kicked off the right wall, using the momentum to launch himself high before sending a second batarang on a double arc — shattering the optical sensor of one bot and jamming the joint of another.

From the corner of his eye, Robin spotted a sentinel closing in from behind. He spun, yanked the electrified cable from his belt, and snapped it around the machine’s neck. With a crack, the current surged through its body, overloading its circuits until they burst in a cloud of black smoke.

Wally reappeared at his side for a moment, chest heaving.
"This… is getting worse."

Robin didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the countdown projected on his gauntlet.
1 minute, 30 seconds.

More enemies. More smoke. More metal screaming against metal. And with every passing second, the corridor seemed narrower, more suffocating.

An explosion rattled the floor. Heavy blast doors slammed open, spewing more automatons. Robin and Wally reacted on pure instinct.

Robin rolled sideways, whipping his cable around another sentinel and frying its circuits with a metallic snap.

Wally spun midair, smashing two more bots with the force of his own momentum.

Robin checked the timer on his HUD: 1 minute. The ship was sealed, engines in overdrive, corridors swarming with sentinels. He cycled through every possible route, every alternate path, every hackable system — but he’d already run the scenarios a thousand times. The evacuation plan had died with the others. All that was left now was to make sure no one else died because of this.

If we can’t get out… at least we can make sure they don’t either.

The corridor reeked of smoke and scorched oil. The whirring of sentinel blades hummed in the distance, mingling with the unbroken scream of the sirens. Between skirmishes, Robin and Wally pressed themselves against opposite walls, stealing a few precious seconds to catch their breath.

 

Sweat ran down the back of Robin’s neck, gluing the mask to his skin. His breathing was heavy, but his eyes stayed locked on the countdown in his HUD. 1 minute and 10 seconds.

Wally leaned against a wall panel, trying to ease the weight in his legs. His suit was torn in several places, soot smudged across his face and arms. He kept his gaze on the floor for a moment before speaking, his voice carrying something between frustration and regret.

“Artemis would’ve blown this up without a second thought…” he muttered, almost to himself.

Robin glanced at him but said nothing.

Wally let out a short, humorless laugh.
“And… she would’ve punched me right after, just to make sure I wouldn’t try it alone.”

Robin managed a tired half-smile.
“She definitely would’ve.”

The silence didn’t last long. Wally took a deep breath, eyes drifting toward the chaos ahead.
“I should’ve asked her out… Not for a mission, not for anything heroic. Just… for a date.”

Robin stayed silent, but his gaze softened.

“I always thought I’d have time,” Wally went on. “One more mission, one more week, one more excuse… and now—” His voice faltered, and he quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Now she’s gone.”

He inhaled sharply, and when he spoke again, there was steel in his voice.
“But I’m gonna make sure this—” he gestured vaguely toward the corridor swallowed in chaos, “—is worth it.”

Robin nodded. No more words were needed. The countdown hit 1 minute exactly. The hiss of the next set of doors opening cut through the moment.

The floor trembled again, and Robin tasted the metallic tang of fear in his mouth.

It wasn’t Apokolips. It wasn’t Brainiac. Not even Darkseid.

It was… something. Something they couldn’t name. Something that had wiped out the entire Justice League in less than forty-eight hours. Superman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern… all of them.

And now it’s just us.

The slam of blast doors closing behind them rang like a final note. For a few seconds, the corridor stood empty, the distant wail of alarms filling the air. Robin’s wrist display read 58 seconds.

The silence that followed didn’t feel natural.

It wasn’t the silence of calm.
It was the silence of something about to happen.

Robin scanned the sides, his instincts screaming. Even the constant metallic hum of the ship had changed. The deep vibration underfoot turned uneven, as if the ship itself was hesitating.

Wally, still catching his breath, frowned.
“You hear that?”

Before Robin could answer, a wave of heat rolled down the corridor, making the air shimmer like glass about to shatter. Emergency lights began to flash faster, throwing shadows across the walls like trapped creatures trying to escape.

And then came the sound.

Low. Deep. Impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t an explosion. It wasn’t a collision. It was a tear—like space itself was being ripped open.

The hair on the back of Robin’s neck stood on end. Wally instinctively stepped away from the center of the hallway.

The floor shook again—but not like before. This tremor had a strange, uneven rhythm, accompanied by a deep, resonating hum that rattled in their bones. The air grew heavier, dragging them down, as if trying to pin them in place.

Then the metal ahead began to distort. Not physically—but visually. The corridor lines bent, warping as if seen through rippling water. A tiny black point appeared, slowly spinning in place.

It grew.

The surface twisted into a liquid-like vortex. Its edges pulsed, spitting violet sparks that hissed when they hit the floor.

Robin’s eyes narrowed, a batarang ready in his hand.
“This… isn’t from the ship.”

The portal spun faster, swallowing light and sound from the hallway. Wind pulled everything toward the center—dust, debris, even fragments of metal ripped from the walls.

And then something came through.

No—burst through.

The first thing Robin saw was movement—multiple twisted arms, jagged spikes jutting at impossible angles, patches of exposed bone that seemed to slice the air itself. The creature slammed into the floor with the weight of an avalanche, denting the metal and splitting it open with showers of sparks.

Its scream didn’t just come from its throat—it came from every part of its body, a raw, uncontrolled sound that clawed straight into their skulls. Its eyes—if they were eyes—burned crimson, pure madness trapped in unblinking spheres.

It moved like a living wave of destruction. It dug its warped limbs into the walls, tearing steel plates free like paper, and crashed through an entire structural column, leaving a trail of wreckage, severed cables, and smoking circuits.

Robin and Wally backed away on instinct. Just being near it felt wrong—like heat and suffocating air mixed with the stench of burning flesh and industrial oil.

The creature hurled itself into the opposite wall, ripping another hole through the structure. And while its roar still echoed, the portal behind it remained open.

A second figure emerged.

This time, it wasn’t an explosion.
It was almost… a collapse.

A boy slipped out of the vortex, dropping to his knees the moment his feet hit the metal floor. His hands braced weakly against the deck, every movement a fight against his own body.

Robin frowned, keeping the batarang ready. Wally also moved into a defensive stance, though there was hesitation in his eyes.

The boy had green hair, long enough to fall over his face, soaked in sweat and blood. His green uniform was torn in several places, burns and cuts exposed. The white gloves were scorched, and a small yellow cape—now in tatters—hung from a single shoulder.

He was gasping, like someone who had run until nothing was left. The sound of his breathing was heavy, uneven, and his gaze—still dazed by the ship’s light—seemed to be trying to figure out where he was.

For a moment, his eyes opened wider, and something like hope flickered in them. But fatigue won. His body gave in, and he fell back to his knees, almost collapsing forward.

“Where… where am I…?” he murmured, his voice weak, almost swallowed by the distant rumble of the ship. The words came in Japanese, strange and incomprehensible in the silent corridor.

Robin and Wally exchanged a quick glance.
The countdown on Robin’s wrist brace read 30 seconds.

The portal behind the boy began to shrink, closing slowly, as if time itself were being stretched by force.

Robin advanced cautiously, crouching in front of him without lowering his guard.
“Who are you…?” he asked in a low voice.

The boy lifted his face, and Robin saw something beyond the exhaustion and pain: there was determination there—raw and unshakable—as if, despite everything, he was still ready to fight.

And, in the middle of the chaos, the blood, and the sparks, Robin thought only:

Who… or what… just stepped into our hell?

 

Part 3

 

Robin kept the batarang raised, every muscle tight, ready to throw. His mind was racing with possibilities, but none of them made sense.

The boy in front of them looked more exhausted than threatening — chest heaving, wide eyes trying to take in his surroundings, but unable to process the destruction around him.

Kid Flash took a hesitant step forward.
“Hey… you… you okay?” he asked, still panting, a thin line of blood running down the side of his face.

The stranger slowly lifted his gaze. That look… Robin recognized it.

Lost.
Disoriented.

Like someone dragged from one nightmare straight into another, even worse.

“Where… where am I?” he repeated, this time in English, knees trembling as he tried to stand. His scorched, torn uniform barely clung to him. The right glove was gone, revealing a hand covered in scars and fresh wounds, raw and throbbing.

Robin swallowed hard, taking in every detail.
“This… isn’t the time for that,” he said, mind already calculating distance, timing, and exits.

Then he pointed to the timer on his wrist:

00:20

“This place is going to blow in less than twenty seconds,” he stated, voice sharp and commanding.

The boy blinked, as if only now grasping the weight of the situation.
“Blow…?”

Wally pointed back toward the improvised bombs they’d planted, already pulsing and seconds from detonation.
“The whole ship’s going up. We…,” he paused, drawing in a breath, “…we were going to stay and make sure it happened.”

Robin’s eyes narrowed as he turned toward his friend.
“Wally…”

The speedster met his gaze with the same look he always had when facing something far bigger than they could handle. Robin almost said Don’t be stupid, but time wasn’t a luxury they had.

The ship’s ceiling shook.

A deafening crash roared from above, followed by a deep, ripping sound — like metal being shredded by claws. An entire section of the structure caved in, throwing plates of steel and twisted cables through the air. Robin felt the vibration rattle all the way into his teeth.

The boy flinched, shielding himself with his arm. Robin and Wally instinctively stepped back in sync.

Through the gaps in the collapsed structure, Robin saw movement. First, a jagged shadow. Then, the burning red gleam of two eyes — no, two coals — cutting through the darkness like blades.

The creature pushed the wreckage aside as if parting curtains. Its deformed body was armored in bone-like plates and jagged spikes, each step leaving deep grooves in the metal floor. The scrape of its claws against steel echoed through the corridor, accompanied by harsh, rapid breaths — almost human, but saturated with hate.

It didn’t slow down. It tore an entire panel from the wall, ripping out sparking cables, and crushed a downed sentinel into scrap with a single blow.

Robin didn’t blink. His mind mapped out routes, distances, possible cover points… and discarded them all.
No time.
No chance.

Cold sweat prickled at his neck. Without taking his eyes off the thing, he asked the boy,
“He with you?”

The stranger locked his gaze on the advancing creature. Even gasping for air, his fists clenched, the muscles in his arm tightening like cables pulled to the breaking point.

“He… he followed me…” His voice was low, rough.

00:10

The timer on Robin’s wrist pulsed like a cruel reminder. The creature was less than fifty feet away, closing fast.

Robin opened his mouth to give the order, but the boy moved first — spinning on his heels so fast the displaced air slapped against Robin’s face.

“No time!”

Before he could react, Robin felt the boy’s arm clamp around his waist with bone-crushing strength, knocking the breath out of him. The other arm did the same to Wally, lifting him as if he weighed nothing.

“What the—?!” Wally’s voice cracked in shock.

Robin barely had time to tense. The grip was tight, almost brutal, but there was something in the way the boy held them — every muscle screaming not to let go.

Then came the jump.

The metal groaned beneath his feet before giving way. With a roar, he drove power into his legs and launched forward. The impact made the floor boom like a giant drum, and the wall ahead exploded in a deafening crack. Shards of steel and bursts of sparks flew in every direction.

The wind from their momentum tore through the smoke and acrid scent of ozone, pressure slamming against Robin’s chest. The boy broke through the first barrier with his shoulder, the second with a kick that warped the frame, and the third by knocking down a beam that threatened to crush them.

Every collision with the metal sent thunder rolling through the corridors. Robin tried to keep his eyes open, but the blasts of air and flashing lights blurred his vision.

Even so — even as they were hurled through steel and smoke like rag dolls — the boy’s grip never loosened.

He’s not letting go.

Who is this guy?! Robin thought.

Inside the stranger’s mind, everything was chaos. Names didn’t make sense anymore. The sky was wrong. The air felt different. The monster that had followed him—hungry… and these two… these two were just kids like him.

I can’t let them die. I’ve seen too much… lost too much.

He shouted,
“JUST HOLD ON A LITTLE LONGER!”

00:05

The narrow corridor opened into a wider section of the ship, littered with loose beams and panels floating in the air thanks to unstable gravity. The boy charged forward like an unstoppable force, ignoring the weight of his own body—and the two he carried.

Each leap landed heavier than the last. The metal beneath his feet sank and warped, cracks spiderwebbing out before breaking apart completely. Beams blocking the way were either crushed or hurled aside, clanging against the walls with deafening metallic crashes.

00:03

A tear in the hull let the first blade of space-light in, cutting through the smoke-heavy gloom. It was cold, distant, glinting off the sweat and blood streaming down the boy’s face.

Robin squinted against the sudden brightness, and for an instant, he was reminded of another escape—a bombing in Gotham, when Batman had dragged him through underground tunnels. But here, there was no Batman. Just this complete stranger who moved like he’d done this a thousand times before.

His left arm trembled, and Robin could tell the grip was starting to slip. Still, he didn’t slow down.

00:02

Another jump. The final wall of the fuselage loomed ahead, reinforced with thick titanium plates. Robin barely had time to think no way before the boy gathered every ounce of strength he had left and roared, driving his leg forward like a sledgehammer into the obstacle.

The impact thundered through the ship. The titanium split, breaking apart into fragments that spun lazily before being sucked out into the void.

Space swallowed them whole.

Suddenly, there was no sound—only the emptiness and the cutting cold that pierced through every layer of clothing and skin. The sky unfolded into a black canvas studded with stars, framed by drifting chunks of debris, some still glowing hot.

00:00

The explosion.

The flash behind them was so intense it turned shadows into pure light for a full second. A second sun was born, swallowing the mothership in a sphere of fire and shrapnel. The shockwave caught them even here, carried through metal fragments and sheer kinetic force, slamming into Robin’s body like a physical blow.

Wally cracked his eyes open, catching a glimpse of the fading blaze.
“He… he saved us…” he muttered, almost in disbelief.

Robin still clung to the stranger, feeling the crushing pressure around his chest—not just physical, but the strange certainty that, right now, this boy was the only thing standing between them and the end.

Below them, the Earth—or what was left of it—stretched vast and silent.

The stranger held them both tight, as if the world itself depended on it. And maybe… it did.

 

Part 4– (Robin’s POV)

 

The air sliced across Robin’s face like razor blades—burning and freezing at the same time. It wasn’t just the wind—it was the brutal, merciless speed pressing against every muscle and bone, as if trying to crush him against the chest of this unknown boy.

The roar of the explosion still echoed far above, mixing with the deafening whistle of the wind tearing through his ears. The pressure made his eyes water, and he had to force his eyelids open just to glimpse something through the whirlwind of clouds.

His chest burned from lack of air. Every second of that fall felt like a constant punch to the ribs, which throbbed beneath the ironclad grip holding them in place.

The boy—bleeding, exhausted, but unshakable—twisted his body mid-dive, shifting their positions as if he could control not just his own weight, but theirs too, against gravity.

Robin barely registered the movement before the shout tore through the wind:
“Hold on!”

The impact began before they even hit the ground. The air seemed to compress, dense and solid, until the resistance finally gave way—and they ripped through the clouds like a missile.

The world exploded into light, dust, and sound. A deep boom rose from the ground as they hit, and Robin felt the shock travel up his legs, through his spine, and slam into his skull.

The ground erupted under them, opening a crater of shattered concrete, loose dirt, and twisted steel still clinking as it fell.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Just the sound of settling dust and bits of metal raining around them.

The boy knelt, gasping, his arms still shielding Robin and Wally.

Slowly, he released them—wide green eyes scanning the surroundings, disoriented, like a wounded animal in unfamiliar territory.

Robin pushed himself up, knees protesting, ribs aching from the brutal landing.

Kid Flash crawled to the crater’s edge, coughing through the dust, then turned back, staring at the stranger with a mix of disbelief and relief.

“What… who—” he started, but his voice faltered.

Robin stepped forward, eyes locked on the boy.

He lifted his gaze, breathing hard, and spoke in a hoarse voice:
“Izuku… Midoriya… hero… hero name… Deku…”

The sentence came out broken, fragmented—like his mind was still trying to catch up to his body.

Robin frowned.
Hero?

At another time, he would’ve asked questions, pressed for answers. But right now… there was no room for doubt.

Robin straightened, his torn cape shifting in the wind.
“Robin,” he said simply, his voice steady—used to quick introductions under fire.

Beside him, Kid Flash raised a hand, still catching his breath.
“Kid Flash… but you can call me Wally.”

Midoriya blinked, swaying slightly, as if the world around him was still off-balance.

He then pointed toward the sky—still heavy with smoke and debris.
“Shigaraki… he—”

Before he could finish, a grotesque roar split the air, coming from the direction of the explosion.

A low, irregular crackling began to break the silence—like something splitting apart from the inside out.

Robin’s eyes lifted toward the horizon, and the fine dust in the air seemed to pull away on its own in the presence of what was coming.

From the burning wreckage of the ship, a silhouette emerged.

Twisted.
Inhuman.

Every step it took sank into the ground, cracking the metal and concrete like thin glass. Its body was sheathed in a grotesque shell of flesh fused with warped steel, smoking fragments still welded to it.

When its eyes flared a vivid, burning red, Robin felt an instinctive chill crawl down his spine. This wasn’t just anger. It was an ancient, rooted hatred—as if this monster had crossed worlds just to get here.

The wind carried the metallic scent of blood and the acrid sting of smoke, and each step it took made the ruins tremble, as if the ground itself rejected its presence.

Then it stopped.

Its head tilted slightly to the side.

The smile split into a warped arc full of jagged, broken teeth.

“DEKU…” it growled, the vibration of its voice carrying through the ground to Robin’s boots—an echo so deep it felt like it came from the earth itself.

The name sounded heavy, far too loaded to be just a nickname. Robin didn’t understand its meaning, but he could feel the threat woven into it.

Beside him, Kid Flash drew a deep breath, fists clenched. Robin twirled two batarangs in his fingers, keeping his eyes locked, measuring the distance, calculating—though every instinct in his body screamed to run.

And that’s when he realized: the boy in front of them wasn’t going to back down.

Even with trembling knees, even with a body on the brink of collapse—

“Run…” he said, without even looking at them. “He’s… mine.”

Robin swallowed hard.

 

Robin fought to catch his breath, his heart pounding, and only two thoughts cut through the haze:

Who is this guy…?

And more importantly—

How the hell did he get here…?

 

That kid could barely stand… and yet…

Before them stood nothing more than a blood-covered young man, upright like a shattered statue, caught between the wreckage of a half-destroyed land and the monster hellbent on tearing him apart completely. It was as if he were holding up the very sky with his back.

Shigaraki stepped forward, sinking deeper into the ground, the rubble crumbling under the weight of the creature.

The sky behind him burned in shades of orange and gray, as though the entire world was on the verge of collapse.

Robin made a move to pull another gadget, but Midoriya raised his hand to stop him.
“Please…”

That look…
That look…

Robin knew it well.
It was the look of someone who didn’t expect to survive, but was going to fight until their very last breath.

Kid Flash hesitated, glancing at Robin, waiting for the call.

Then, in the distance, another thunderous boom — the final collapse of the ship, its burning remains still lighting the horizon.

Time was running out.

Robin clenched the batarangs in his hand, teeth gritted.

But before he could decide anything, Shigaraki roared again and charged, tearing through the last few meters between them like a hurricane of flesh, metal, and pure hate.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
Even the wind stopped.

Midoriya closed his eyes for a moment, as if reaching for strength from a place only he knew. Then, he drew in a deep breath. The air around them was pulled into his lungs with such force that Robin felt the sound in his own ears.

The ground beneath their feet began to crack before he even moved.
Shigaraki raised his clawed hand, each joint popping like dry wood splintering, his shadow growing over all of them.

Midoriya’s eyes snapped open.
It was like watching a spark turn into a storm.

He stepped forward, aligning his entire body like an arrow. Muscles screamed, veins bulged, and Robin could swear he felt the heat radiating from that instant.

Then came the voice — not just a shout, but the declaration of someone who had already decided the fate of the next second:

“Detroit… Smash!!!”

The impact hit with a violence that shattered sound itself. First, a blinding white flash swallowed everything. Then, a shockwave blasted outward in all directions, kicking up a storm of dust, rock, and debris.

The air was ripped from Robin’s and Kid Flash’s lungs as they were hurled backward, sliding along the rim of the crater. The ground split in fractures that stretched for miles, as if the planet itself had felt the blow.

Down below, the clash of the two titans rumbled like endless thunder. Shigaraki was driven back, tearing up the earth, leaving a deep trench before finally planting his feet and roaring in defiance.

The light faded, revealing two silhouettes in the haze — still locked together, still straining to push the other back. It was raw strength against pure hatred, and every inch gained seemed to cost the entire world.

Robin watched, unable to look away.
There was no way to predict the winner.
But he knew one thing — this fight would change everything.

The dust hadn’t even settled, but Robin and Wally could already feel the weight of what was happening at the crater’s heart. Each renewed clash between the two echoed like a thunderclap, accompanied by brief, lightning-like flashes bursting from the ground.

Wally steadied himself, his face streaked with dust and strain, trying to see through the swirling smoke.
“He… he’s holding his ground.” His voice was tinged with disbelief, like he couldn’t trust his own eyes.

Robin, still on his knees, kept his gaze fixed. He didn’t let himself blink. This wasn’t just strength — it was endurance. It was the fight of someone who, even on the verge of collapse, refused to take a single step back.

Through the haze, Midoriya’s and Shigaraki’s figures alternated in dominance: at times, the hero driving the villain back, opening craters under his feet; other times, the villain countering, sending the boy skidding and shattering the ground beneath him.

The sky above seemed to lean over them, heavy with smoke and embers, as if the world itself were watching.

Robin took a deep breath. Something about this felt different. It didn’t seem like just a battle between strangers. It was… personal.
He hadn’t known the kid’s name until seconds ago, but he could feel it — Midoriya was fighting for something far bigger than his own life.

A fierce roar tore through the wind, followed by a wave of heat that made Robin’s tattered cape snap against his legs. Wally took a step back, but Robin stood firm, as if the sight anchored him to the ground.

Down below, Midoriya dug in, his entire body shaking, before unleashing one last punch that made the light explode once again.

Robin didn’t know how this would end.
But one thing was certain — after tonight, he would never forget the name Deku.

Chapter 2: The Final Flame

Notes:

Double release!
This time, we’re going to end the fight between Midoriya and Shigaraki once and for all.
I truly hope I managed to convey what I always envisioned as the ending for My Hero Academia.

Chapter 2: The Final Flame

 

Part 1(POV- Midoriya Izuku)

The ground beneath his feet was no longer fertile soil.
The farmland that once stretched as far as the eye could see had become a dead field, covered in black ash and craters torn open by the explosion of the mothership.
Between the smoking fissures, twisted steel and alien metal plates lay scattered like the bones of a slain giant.

The air was heavy, dense with the stench of combustion and burned sap. The few stalks of crops still standing were charred, leaning with the wind like specters of a lost harvest.

But what made that field truly deadly was not just the destruction caused by the crash.
It was what the monster ahead of him was doing to what remained.

Shigaraki Tomura took a step forward, and one of the ship’s hull plates beneath his claws began to decay.
The metal — strong enough to pierce through the atmosphere — rotted away in seconds, turning to silver dust that the wind carried off.
One of the massive wrecks behind him — a fragment of the engine — shuddered and collapsed into fine sand, disintegrated by an earlier touch.

Izuku felt every sound like a threat.
One wrong step and he could sink into a hidden crater.
One reckless move and a corroded beam would come crashing down on him.

He tried to sidestep, seeking an angle… but a sharp crack came from his left.
A metal support, warped by the explosion’s heat and corroded by Shigaraki’s touch, collapsed, dragging cables and panels that slid down, nearly striking his shoulder.
Izuku stepped back on instinct — and only then realized Shigaraki was already closer.

The monster didn’t need to just attack him.
The battlefield itself was on his side.

Yet Izuku stood there. Upright.
By miracle — or sheer stubbornness.

Every breath burned like he was inhaling blades.
His left arm — the only one still responding properly — ached as though the muscles might snap.
His leg throbbed, ligaments screaming in protest.

But he was there.
Face to face with the monster.

Each step that thing took sank the ground and spread cracks, as if the earth itself feared to hold him.
His eyes were two black eclipses, glowing with a hunger that didn’t seem human.

Izuku swallowed hard.
He no longer hoped to walk away unscathed.
But there was something he could not let die: responsibility.

A memory sliced through his mind, sharp as a blade:
"Even if you can’t save everyone… save one. Save what you can."
All Might. Always All Might.

Shigaraki didn’t wait.
His twisted legs coiled, and he lunged like a beast, leaving a crater where he stood.
The touch of his right hand on one of the ship’s wrecks spread Decay like a metallic plague — the entire panel dissolved into dust in the next instant, sending shards flying toward Midoriya.

Izuku raised his arm and twisted his body to evade, but the movement left him open to the second strike.
Shigaraki, already in midair, rotated his torso and hurled a wave of corroded debris, propelled by the force of his leap.
The impact tore the ground behind Midoriya, erupting into a dense cloud of dust and sparks.

He barely had time to catch his breath.
Shigaraki’s shadow loomed over him, claw outstretched, ready to touch the ground.
Izuku jumped back — and the spot where he had stood turned into a deep hole, the earth and metal rotting away until they vanished.

Shigaraki didn’t stop.
Using the wreckage as stepping stones, he leapt to the side and came in again, this time aiming to crush him with brute force.
Every step crushed the structures beneath his feet, opening fresh traps in the field.

Midoriya darted left, feeling the air slice past his ear as a claw missed by mere inches.
But Shigaraki was already spinning again, his left hand extended.
Decay touched a fallen beam — and in less than a second it turned to dust, dropping a rain of cables and sharp metal fragments over Izuku.

The hero dove to the ground, rolling beneath the wreckage, his heart pounding.
Shigaraki was forcing him to move, to burn through energy, to make mistakes.

And with each dodge, the terrain shifted again.
More holes. More traps.
More corroded metal scattered like thorns across the field.

The metallic groan of decaying wreckage still echoed as Midoriya dug his foot into the ground, feeling his sole slide over dirt mixed with metal dust.
There was no time to think — only to act.

He dragged air painfully into his lungs and twisted his body, leg drawn back, right arm ready.
The wind sliced around him as he leapt.

“St. Louis Smash!”

The impact of his kick against Shigaraki’s forearm resounded like a muffled explosion.
The force was enough to drive the villain back, his feet scraping the ground until he slammed into one of the ship’s warped pillars.
The metal groaned and bent under the weight.

Midoriya landed hard, his knee nearly giving way.
But there was space now.
Small, but enough to breathe.

He didn’t waste it — bent his knee and dashed in a zigzag, trying to get away from the most devastated area of the field, searching for a spot where he could turn the terrain to his advantage.

 

But Shigaraki didn’t give him that chance.

The villain twisted his body, and his left hand brushed against the column behind him. Decay spread through the structure, which crumbled in a second. Sharp metal fragments and taut cables snapped free like whips, flying toward Midoriya.

He dodged two, but the third grazed his cheek, leaving a hot, wet cut. Before he could regain his balance, Shigaraki was already upon him again, leaping like a predator and coming down with both hands spread wide.

Midoriya threw himself to the side, but the villain’s impact on the ground opened an irregular crater, throwing up dust and debris that struck him in the back.

The message was clear: no matter how much he retreated, Shigaraki was going to force him to stay close.

The weight of the dust still fell on his shoulders as Midoriya planted his feet on the crater’s edge. He couldn’t keep backing off. Every second only gave Shigaraki more ground to shape the field to his advantage.

He took a deep breath, ignoring the metallic taste in his mouth, and charged forward.

The sound of his boots striking the ruined ground echoed, alternating with the boom of compressed air around him.

Shigaraki raised one hand, ready to spread Decay. Midoriya didn’t dodge.

“Texas… Smash!”

The punch slammed into the villain’s torso like a battering ram, hurling him against a pile of twisted metal beams. The impact made the metal vibrate, and small sparks leapt as parts of the pile gave way.

For a moment, the field fell silent — the muffled sound of Midoriya’s breathing filling the air.

Shigaraki rose slowly, and that’s when Midoriya saw it.
Between the cracks in the shell of flesh and metal, the eyes…
They weren’t just the empty, soulless slits from before.
For an instant, there was something human there.
Fear.

Midoriya froze.
The weight of doubt hit him like an invisible blow.

But that flicker lasted less than a blink. The gaze turned cold, empty, and hungry again.

Shigaraki twisted his body, breaking the beams with his shoulders, and charged forward. Midoriya’s hesitation had been the perfect opening for the villain to regain the offensive.

One step, two… and the distance vanished.

Midoriya realized too late that the next attack wouldn’t come only from the front. The villain ran his hand along the ruined ground — and Decay spread like a wave, making the earth beneath the hero begin to disintegrate.

The ground began to split in quick cracks, as if invisible roots spread beneath the soil, but instead of life, they left only dust and emptiness.
Midoriya reacted on instinct: bent his knees and leapt back, the soles of his boots touching for a second what remained of a section of the crashed ship’s hull.

Behind him, the spot where he’d stood seconds earlier became an uneven, smoking pit, with debris cascading inward.

But Shigaraki didn’t give him time to breathe.
With a sharp spin, he raised his right hand and released a blast of compressed air — a brutal impulse generated by the grotesque muscular reinforcement in his arms. The current hit Midoriya like an invisible punch, throwing him back.

Still in midair, he caught sight of the second attack: loose metal fragments scattered across the field began to move, pulled by an unstable magnetic field, colliding with each other until they formed makeshift projectiles.

Midoriya raised his arm, trying to shield himself, but the shrapnel tore through the already shredded fabric of his uniform and opened red lines across his skin.

The last projectile — a twisted steel bar — came spinning like a spear.
He deflected it by mere inches with a side kick, feeling the impact reverberate all the way to his hip.

He landed with difficulty, his feet sinking slightly into the loose, ash-mixed soil.

Shigaraki was advancing again, and Midoriya felt the pattern.
The villain was chaining his quirks together with no breaks, as if trying to force him into making a single mistake that would decide the fight.

Midoriya’s chest burned, but he adjusted his stance, ready to respond.

Shigaraki, however, was already lifting his hand — fingers spread, ready to touch the ground and spread Decay over a much larger area.

Shigaraki’s fingers touched the soil — and the world seemed to sigh before giving way.
Decay spread in all directions, tearing away entire layers of earth, debris, and metal as if they were powdered glass.

Midoriya felt the air thin, the ground tremble, and he knew that if he let this continue, the entire area around them — including the spots where civilians were still hiding among the wreckage — would be consumed.

He didn’t think.
He bent his legs and launched forward, his boots cracking the ground in a single burst.

His body answered with pain, but the movement was pure instinct.
He leapt low, straight into the villain’s range.

“Detroit… Smash!”

The punch struck Shigaraki’s deformed forearm before the spread could be completed. The impact twisted the villain’s arm to the side with a dry crack, breaking his contact with the ground and halting the disintegration’s advance.

Fragments of earth and metal still floated in the air, dissolving in the wind, but the surge had stopped.

Shigaraki staggered a step back, but didn’t retreat.
The smile was still there — wider now, as if he had enjoyed the audacity.

He counterattacked immediately, using his free arm to hurl a barrage of debris shaped into blades, each piece spinning fast enough to cut steel.

Midoriya twisted his torso, dodging the first, but the second struck his shoulder, tearing fabric and flesh. Blood ran hot, and the pain came like a hammer, but he didn’t stop.

His feet sank into the ashes as he regained his stance.

Shigaraki began circling the field, and Midoriya realized he didn’t just want to hit him — he was trying to herd him toward a specific area, where taller wreckage created a narrow corridor.

It was a trap.

And still, Midoriya ran straight into it.

The narrow corridor of wreckage groaned under the wind. Rusted metal sheets hung like jagged blades, held aloft by twisted wires. The ground was littered with uneven fragments of the ship, each step ringing out in a muted metallic echo.

Midoriya kept his eyes locked on Shigaraki, but he knew every detail around them was part of the villain’s trap.
Shigaraki moved slowly, almost dragging his feet—like a predator that didn’t need to run to catch its prey.

Then, both of Shigaraki’s hands rose.

Decay began to spread from the points where the metal sheets rested, making them snap free and drop like improvised guillotines. At the same time, he whipped up dense clouds of dust and soot with an air manipulation quirk, shrouding Midoriya’s vision.

A sharp, almost snapping sound came from the left.
Before Midoriya could react, a steel bar spun out from within the cloud, twisting like a drill.

He ducked on instinct, feeling the air slice past his head—only to drop himself right into the path of the second threat: the ground ahead beginning to crumble under Decay.

The narrow space and coordinated strikes were no accident.
Shigaraki was forcing him toward the wreckage walls, where there’d be no room to escape.

And then came the killing blow:
A massive slab of metal—part of the ship’s outer hull—fell, pulled down by both gravity and an unstable magnetic manipulation. The weight was enough to crush a concrete building.

If he stayed still, he’d be buried. If he jumped the wrong way, he’d land right into Decay.

Time stretched thin.
Each heartbeat pounded like a distant drum.

He pulled in a breath, tasted the metallic tang of blood—and exploded into motion.

“St. Louis Smash!”

The blow rose in a sharp arc, meeting the falling slab at the perfect instant. The force redirected its path, sending it crashing down mere inches from his head and carving a smoking crater into the ground.

But the move came at a cost—the impact rattled his entire arm, and something tore deep in his shoulder.

Shigaraki saw the opening instantly and lunged, palm open, reaching for any piece of Midoriya’s body to disintegrate.

That hand sliced through the air like a living blade.
The sound of fingers closing was enough to chill anyone’s blood—because Midoriya knew that if that palm touched him, not even One For All would save him.

The world narrowed.
There was only the twisted face of the villain and that open hand.

Midoriya twisted his body, activating Fa Jin in his legs. Stored-up energy detonated in a sideways burst, yanking him clear of the attack at the last second. The air between them hissed as Shigaraki’s fingers passed within inches of his uniform.

He didn’t stop.
A Smokescreen billowed out, filling the tight corridor with thick, suffocating fog. At the same time, Blackwhip lashed from his arms, anchoring to two beams above.

“Manchester Smash!”

Pulling himself up with Blackwhip, Midoriya spun in the air and came down with a crushing kick powered by Fa Jin. The impact smashed into Shigaraki’s warped shoulder, driving him back and cracking part of the exposed bone structure.

The villain staggered but didn’t fall.
His pitch-black eyes sparked with irritation.

From within the smoke, he roared—a deep, almost inhuman sound—and unleashed another wave of Decay, devouring the metallic remains on the floor.

Danger Sense flared like needles in Midoriya’s skull. He swung away with Blackwhip to a taller pile of wreckage, barely escaping the creeping wave of destruction.

Perched atop the debris, panting, he realized that with each exchange, Shigaraki was getting more aggressive… and faster.

Then, for the first time, Midoriya understood—this fight might not end in minutes, but in seconds that would decide everything.

Shigaraki paused for an instant.
His deformed body trembled as though each muscle was being pulled in a different direction.
And then… something changed.

Black veins pulsed under his pale skin, and multiple quirks manifested at once. A warped gravitational field distorted the air around him, pulling shards of metal into chaotic orbits. Bone claws elongated, curving into scythe-like blades. Decay spread along the floor and up the wreckage walls like starving roots.

Midoriya had no time to think.
Danger Sense exploded again, and he dove aside as a blast of compressed air ripped through the smoke, tearing an entire chunk from the heap he’d just stood on.

Shigaraki was right behind it, tearing through the haze with a brutal combination: one claw sweeping down from above while Decay ate away at the ground beneath Midoriya’s feet.

Using Blackwhip to swing between two leaning slabs of debris, Midoriya dodged the killing touch. Then he channeled Fa Jin into his legs and spun midair—

“Delaware Smash: Air Force!”

The cutting pressure slammed into Shigaraki’s twisted chest, forcing him back two steps. But the villain didn’t stop.
Gathering the floating metal plates, he flicked his wrist and sent them all at once—deadly projectiles spinning toward Midoriya.

Midoriya threw up a Smokescreen to mask his movement, rolling behind a half-melted metal column. The projectiles struck with thunderous impacts, splintering the structure until it nearly collapsed.

The dust began to settle.
Both still stood.
Both breathed hard.

And then, as if reading each other’s thoughts, they lunged at the same time.

The ground trembled from the coming collision… and the scene froze at the instant before their blows met, the outcome left hanging in the air.

 

Part 2

The sky—once clear—was now a heavy, oppressive ceiling of gray, choked by the smoke rising from the wreckage of the ship.
Scattered fires burned in twisted shards of metal, littering what had once been a vast, green pasture—now a graveyard of steel and flame.
The grass, once vibrant, was nothing but a scorched carpet, scored by deep gouges where debris had slammed into the earth.

And in the middle of it all—two figures.

No… two forces colliding: Izuku Midoriya and the monster that had once been Tomura Shigaraki.

Midoriya was on his knees, breath ragged, the damp soil sinking beneath him. Blood—his own and someone else’s—streaked his torn skin, each cut throbbing with every move.
Ahead, the villain slowly rose from amidst the warped hull of the ship’s main frame, smoke curling around him like restless spirits.

And then Midoriya saw it.
A detail his combat-trained mind could not ignore.

The wounds weren’t closing.

Shigaraki’s right arm—or what was left of it—hung mangled, torn flesh exposing bone, yet there was no grotesque, instant regeneration to save him this time.
His chest, blackened and pierced by explosions, still bled freely.
The muscle fibers—once taut and defiant—now trembled, fragile.

Midoriya’s eyes widened, his chest expanding with a breath of hope he hadn’t dared feel in a long time.
His trembling hand braced against his injured leg as he forced himself upright, the wet grass and soft earth pressing against the soles of his battered boots.

And then—like a shaft of light cutting through the haze—he understood.

He’s… not regenerating.
The realization hit alongside a flash of memory. A blinding light. An unbearable heat.

The explosion.

It surged through his mind like a lightning strike—
The ship tearing apart from the inside, the crushing force, metal ripping apart, flames swallowing everything.
And Shigaraki… right there.
At the center.
Inside, when it all was reduced to cinders.

He took the full brunt. Flesh, bone… brain. Not even his regeneration could take all that at once.
Midoriya’s gaze locked on the open wounds, the streaming blood, the flesh that stubbornly refused to knit back together.

The conclusion hit like a drumbeat against his ribs—

He’s at his limit.

That was it.
The monstrous force keeping him standing… was cracked.
And now—for the first time since that abomination appeared—he bled like anyone else.

Hope—raw and defiant—flickered to life inside Midoriya, threading itself through the pain and exhaustion.

Shigaraki turned his head toward him, his face twisted, his eyes devoid of humanity.
But Midoriya saw more.

The ragged breathing.
The knee that faltered for just a second.

Shigaraki let out a hoarse, guttural roar, and in a sudden move, slammed his remaining hand to the ground.
The soil ahead crumbled into dust, Decay spreading like a gray tide, swallowing the scorched grass and corroding chunks of the ship’s hull.

Midoriya reacted instantly, triggering Smokescreen—a dense cloud engulfed the area, cutting off the villain’s line of sight.
From within the fog, he whipped out Blackwhip, the dark tendrils lashing around a hunk of metal and yanking it into place for cover.

But Shigaraki didn’t relent.
His fingers spread, unleashing a compressed blast of air—one of his stolen quirks—sending debris hurtling like improvised shrapnel.

Midoriya leapt aside, rolling across the dirt and using Blackwhip to sling himself upright. A jagged piece of metal screamed past his shoulder, tearing another line through his already shredded uniform.

“You’re… not gonna… stop…” he growled through clenched teeth, realizing the monster still had enough fight left to play dirty.

With one last burst, he broke through the smoke, circling wide as Shigaraki tried to decay another swath of ground.

Then, without hesitation, Midoriya closed the gap.

Boots digging deep, he sidestepped a falling steel beam and twisted his torso with explosive force—

“Wyoming Smash!”

The punch connected squarely with the creature’s left flank, hurling it into a massive section of fuselage that cracked under the impact and toppled over, sending up a cloud of dust and sparks.

The force of the Wyoming Smash slammed Shigaraki against the wreckage with a metallic crash, but he didn’t stay down for long.
With a guttural roar, the villain thrust his one good hand forward and, in a sudden motion, unleashed a razor-sharp blast of air, shearing off slivers of steel from the debris and hurling them at Midoriya like lethal blades.

Midoriya’s arm shot up instinctively, Blackwhip lashing out to intercept part of the shrapnel—but one jagged fragment still found his shoulder, drawing a grunt of pain.
He couldn’t give an inch.

Launching forward, Fa Jin detonated in his legs, the stored energy blasting him ahead like a cannon shot.
Shigaraki swiped for him, fingers seeking any contact to trigger Decay, but Midoriya twisted midair, vaulting over the mangled arm and landing behind him.

He barely had time to set his footing before the villain whipped around, loosing an unstable electric discharge that crackled across the field, striking a piece of wreckage and bursting in a shower of sparks.
Midoriya took a step back, heat scorching his side, but he was already moving again.

Twisting his torso, he funneled all his strength into his right arm.
Veins stood out, muscles locking tight.

“Detroit Smash!”

The blow landed flush, driving Shigaraki into the wreckage with enough force to bend steel plates and send another wave of sparks into the smoke-choked air.

The sharp crack of impact still rang out as Shigaraki slid sideways, slumping against the debris.
For a moment, Midoriya thought he wouldn’t rise… but he was wrong.

The villain planted his good hand into the ground, Decay spreading in jagged circles, devouring soil and reducing steel plates to dust.
Midoriya sprang back, vaulting over a beam even as it crumbled under his feet, the wave of destruction chasing him like a black tide.

Not this time! he thought, bursting Smokescreen to shroud his retreat.
Inside the haze, Blackwhip shot out, latching onto a tall fragment of wreckage and swinging him wide out of the kill zone.

Even with his body shaking, Shigaraki ripped a steel bar from the ground, spinning it like a makeshift spear before hurling it toward where he thought Midoriya was.
The hero ducked, the projectile hissing overhead before embedding into a structure with a ringing clang.

Emerging from the smoke, Midoriya triggered Fa Jin again, dumping all stored energy into a vertical leap.
From above, he spotted the villain staggering forward—still deadly, fingers spread and ready to erase anything they touched.

There was his opening.

Midoriya dropped in a perfect arc, channeling the strike into his left arm this time.

“Nebraska Smash!”

The punch rose like an uppercut, slamming into Shigaraki’s warped jaw and sending him flying back until he crashed into a jagged fuselage spike jutting from the ground.
The metallic clang fused with the villain’s ragged groan.

For a second that felt eternal, Shigaraki hung there, pinned against the steel.
The only living sound between them was the wind dragging ash across the field.

Midoriya panted, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.
Every muscle screamed to stop, but One For All throbbed within him—not as mere power, but as a chorus.
The voices of the past bearers echoed in his mind, each carrying memories of their battles, their falls, their victories.
It was as if they were all here, watching, demanding he deliver the final blow.

Shigaraki, swaying, let out a nearly animal growl and stepped forward.
His feet dragged through the soaked earth, leaving a trail of mud streaked with his own blood.
His eyes, though clouded, still burned with that ancient hatred—not just for Midoriya, but for everything alive.

The hero lifted his head.
The gray sky pressed low over them, clouds heavy as if ready to crush the land.
Columns of smoke twisted like serpents, shaping the stage of a nightmare.
And at the center of that hell, two fates faced each other.

Midoriya clenched his fists.
Fa Jin thrummed in his legs, Blackwhip coiled around his arms like black flames, and what remained of Smokescreen spread slowly, thickening the air.
Gearshift came online one last time.
He felt every quirk within him answer, as if One For All itself understood what was about to happen.

It’s now… or never.

“Gear Fifth!”

Shigaraki raised his one good arm, fingers spread wide, ready to unleash Decay one last time.
Midoriya charged.

Time shattered into fragments.
Every step he took boomed like distant thunder.
The ruined battlefield, the twisted wreckage, the stench of iron and gunpowder—all of it blurred into a single, suspended instant.
And when he leapt, it felt as if the entire world was holding its breath.

The villain’s eyes snapped open with a flicker of recognition—not fear, but a silent understanding that this fight had reached its final verse.

Midoriya roared, his voice tearing from his throat, carrying the weight of everyone who had lost something to this monster:

— UNITED STATES OF SMASH!!!

His fist drove into Shigaraki’s chest with titanic force.
The sound of flesh and steel breaking echoed across the field.
The villain was hurled into a wall of metal, sliding down until he lay still between scorched grass and smoking plates of armor.

Midoriya dropped to his knees, arm hanging limp, lungs burning.
He looked… and saw.

The regeneration never came.

The monster. The leader of the Paranormal Liberation Front. The heir to the Demon King.

Was dead.

Part 3

The impact still echoed in the air, as if the very ground had chosen to hold on to the memory of the force just unleashed.
For a few seconds, the flames clinging to the wreckage seemed to dance more slowly, as though the wind itself hesitated to blow.
Dust hung suspended in the dim gray light filtering through the heavy clouds above, each mote frozen in place, trapped within the moment.

Midoriya remained there, unmoving, the pounding of his blood in his ears louder than anything else.
His entire body trembled, not only from pain but from the crushing weight of a battle that seemed, at last, to have ended.
The air reeked of iron and smoke, and the lingering heat of the explosions still burned against his wounded skin.

A twisted fragment of fuselage groaned in the distance, toppling slowly onto the scorched earth, the metallic crash echoing like the final note of a funeral hymn.
Only then did he realize—there were no more screams, no charging footsteps, no relentless noise of destruction.

The world, finally, had gone quiet.

For a heartbeat so brief it could have been the earth’s own sigh, there was no pain, no cries, no fury.

Only the sound of the wind, dragging leaves, dust, and ghostlike curls of smoke through the smoldering graveyard that had once been a ship soaring through the skies.

Midoriya dropped to his knees, his arms hanging lifelessly at his sides. Every breath came as a ragged spasm, as if the air itself was no longer meant for him.

Blood ran freely, hot, soaking into the blackened earth beneath him like a final offering.

Around him, the pasture lay in ruin—scarred by craters, dotted with small fires crackling between shards of metal, soot, and scorched flesh. The wreckage that had carried them here was scattered like the bones of a fallen giant. The stench of burned oil, plasma, blood, and smoke hung so thick it felt like a choking veil draped over the world.

And before him lay the misshapen figure of Shigaraki.

Or what remained of him.

The massive body—grotesquely fused muscle, bone, and flesh—was sprawled across the center of the field like a rotting hill. The black veins that had once pulsed with frantic life were now still. Shigaraki’s eyes, moments ago burning with hatred and madness, stared into nothing. Empty. Dead.

Midoriya lifted his gaze, his breathing shallow.

His legs shook; his right arm no longer obeyed him. His hero costume was destroyed, reduced to scorched rags fused to his skin by burns and dried blood.

And yet… he stood.

His chest heaved, his lungs threatening to tear apart, but he held himself upright.

And he smiled.

It was a broken smile—sad, fragile, as unsteady as the body that bore it. Tears mingled with the blood and soot on his face, hot and heavy as they fell, beyond his will or desire to stop them.

It’s over, he thought, clinging to those words the way a drowning man clings to the last plank of a sinking ship. It’s over…

The sky seemed a little brighter—not clear, but less crushing. As if the entire world, too, had been holding its breath and now let out a cautious sigh.

Midoriya closed his eyes for a moment.

The weight of his eyelids felt like ancient stone.
When they shut, the ruined battlefield faded, replaced by a different kind of silence—not the suffocating hush of destruction, but one that came from within, from a place deep enough to still keep its memories untouched.

The heat of battle gave way to a warm breeze, carrying the familiar scent of home-cooked food.
For an instant, he swore he felt gentle hands brushing his hair back—exactly as his mother used to do when he was a child.
He heard the faint sound of footsteps racing across a schoolyard, the echo of laughter, the cadence of voices long gone.

These memories didn’t come as sharp images, but as fragments—a glance exchanged, a half-finished gesture, a phrase spoken in the middle of another.
It was as though his heart itself was choosing the most fragile, most human moments to remind him of what he had been fighting for.

And then, slowly, the faces began to appear.

Bakugo, shouting in the middle of explosions.

Uraraka, smiling shyly at some café.

All Might, gripping his shoulder and saying, You can be the next.

Iida, Shoto, even Aoyama.

Jirou.

Faces he would never see again.

And among them, his mother, holding a notebook with his name written on the cover.

“You always wanted to save everyone, Izuku… she said. But who’s going to save you?”

He trembled.

He took a stumbling step forward, moving closer to the monstrous body.

He needed to confirm. Needed to see with his own eyes that this thing was no longer a threat. That Shigaraki — or whatever he had become — was finally at rest.

"It's over..." he whispered, his voice hoarse, like a prayer. "I did it..."

That was when he noticed it.

Something.

A wet sound.

Like living flesh being pulled. Like muscles twisting in the silence.

At first, Midoriya thought it was just his mind playing tricks on him — an echo of the battle, the distant creak of cooling metal, or maybe some piece of the ship giving way.

But no... something was wrong.
The sound wasn’t coming from the wreckage, nor from the wind.

It was close. Too close.
And it had a rhythm.

It began faint, like the snap of a taut rope in the dark, but soon grew wetter, more organic, each snap accompanied by a viscous stretch that made his skin crawl.

The air around him seemed to grow heavier, saturated with a metallic, rotten smell that seeped into every breath. A slow, relentless shiver crawled up his spine, like something unseen was touching him from within.

His eyes locked on Shigaraki’s chest.
And then he realized — the sound was coming from there.

He froze.

Shigaraki’s body... was shaking.

No. Not the whole body. A specific point.

The torso.

Midoriya saw it. A movement. Pulsing. Rhythmic.

As if the heart was still there, still beating… even if faintly.

"No..." he breathed, taking a step back, terror flooding through every crack in his exhausted mind.

But before he could react — before he could even think — the sound turned into a tear.

A grotesque, organic snap, like leather ripping and bones splintering under pressure.

The final snap wasn’t just a sound — it was a rupture.

The torn skin split open like old fabric ripped apart by force, releasing a jet of thick, black fluid that splattered against Midoriya’s face and chest, burning his skin like acid.

The stench hit him like a punch, a suffocating mix of clotted blood, rotting flesh, and something chemical, corrosive, that made his stomach churn.
For a moment, he thought Shigaraki was simply falling apart… until he saw what came next.

Something moved inside the gaping wound.
First, just a glimpse — a pulsating, living mass, laced with veins glowing a dirty red, as if the very blood inside it was aflame.

Then, the movement turned violent.
Bony hooks and blades of cartilage tore their way out, shoving ribs and muscle aside in an eruption of flesh and fluid.

And then they emerged. Tentacles.

They moved like starving serpents, covered in black, foul-smelling slime, with bony spikes jutting from their tips like spears.

Midoriya tried to react.

His muscles, screaming in pain, contracted purely on instinct — the instinct to survive.

He felt One For All surge, a green flash racing through his body — but it was like trying to light a bulb in the middle of a blackout.

The power was there, but diluted, weak, as if every thread of energy had to fight its way through a sea of lead.

The first tentacle didn’t just touch him — it struck like a living spear, slamming into his hip with a sharp crack.
Midoriya nearly fell, but another lashed low, snaking around his ankle.

The grip was so immediate he felt the blood being forced upward in his leg, a painful tingling spreading fast.

He punched the tentacle, feeling the bones in his hand protest, but the blow sank into its elastic, wet flesh without doing real damage.

A third came in from the flank, too fast to block, coiling around his good arm and yanking it down with inhuman strength.

Midoriya fell to his side, his face hitting the muddy ground, and before he could rise, two more struck — one clamping around his waist, the other winding tight around his neck.

The air vanished in an instant.
The pressure was so crushing he saw black spots crawling into his vision.
The tentacles didn’t just hold — they pierced.

Bony spikes burst from the living flesh, stabbing through his suit and into his skin, locking him in place like prey caught in the fangs of a predator.

He screamed. Not just from the pain, but from sheer terror.

It was like fighting a sea of snakes with claws and teeth, each pulling in different directions, but all wanting the same thing — to drag him into the pulsing core of that thing.

And then, with devastating force, the tentacles pulled — not like something dragging a corpse, but like something reclaiming something precious for itself.
Each yank was a brutal blow to his stamina, ripping away his breath and strength.
With every foot he was dragged, Midoriya felt the ground slipping away beneath him, dirt and wreckage scraping his legs as he was hauled forward.

 

The sound was grotesque.
Living flesh stretched and tore around the tentacles, each movement releasing a wet hiss, as if something were breathing inside that dead carcass.
Chunks of coagulated blood and fluid splattered across his face, hot and sticky, clinging to his skin like a second layer.

He tried to dig his heels into the ground, but the mud mixed with oil made him slip.
His fingernails scraped against a fallen sheet of metal, but the tentacles squeezed his arm with such force that he heard the dull crack of his own bones giving way.
Pain exploded through his entire body, but there was no time to process it—another yank robbed him of his last shred of balance.

And then he saw the final destination.
Shigaraki’s open chest, pulsing and contracting like a starving organism, its jagged edges moving in and out in a sick rhythm.
From inside came a damp heat and muffled breathing, as if something was only waiting for its prey to come close enough.

With every second, Midoriya was dragged closer.
The sound of the heart—that heavy, rhythmic thump—grew louder, filling everything, drowning out even the wind.
It was like being swallowed, not by a mouth, but by an entire world made of living flesh.

Enveloped in a suffocating, hot, sticky cocoon, Midoriya felt like he was being submerged alive into a sea of viscera.
The heat wasn’t just physical—it sank into his bones, pulsing in the same rhythm as that malevolent heart, syncing with his own heartbeat as if trying to replace it.

The space was tight, the slick, pulsating walls closing in on him, pressing against every joint, every open wound.
Black slime dripped over his face, seeping into his mouth and nose, burning like acid and leaving a metallic, bitter taste that made him gag.
He tried to spit it out, but the viscous filth clung to his tongue like it had a will of its own, sliding back down his throat.

The sound around him was muffled but constant: a wet gurgling, the slow tearing of tissue, and the heavy pounding of the heart—so close he could feel the vibration shaking through his ribcage.

The air—if it could even be called that—was saturated with a putrid stench, every breath feeling like a sentence of poisoning.

The pressure increased.

The organic walls closed tighter, creaking and popping, compressing him until his shoulders threatened to dislocate.
The pain was no longer in waves—it was constant, a burning blade running through every nerve.

Every breath felt like he was inhaling his own life out of himself.

And deep within, something—some consciousness or instinct—was watching him from inside that living flesh.

As if Shigaraki, or what was left of him, was still there, feeling every spasm, every breath, savoring his despair.

The air inside that organic prison was thick, almost solid.
Every attempt to inhale seemed to fill his lungs not with oxygen, but with a hot, suffocating mass that burned from the inside.

The pressure kept building, forcing his bones to creak and his joints to bend against his will.

There was a low, almost imperceptible sound all around him—a deep, uneven murmur, like voices trying to speak through dense liquid.

Shapeless words formed and broke apart, like echoes of memories that weren’t his.

The living wall pressing against his face pulsed as if it had a heart of its own.

And with each beat, Midoriya felt something crawling over his skin—a sticky sensation, like thousands of tiny roots or microscopic tentacles trying to burrow into his pores.

He tried to turn his head, but there was no space to move.

Every muscle he strained was met with an even tighter contraction from the prison, wrapping around him as if trying to mold him into its shape.

Claustrophobia mixed with primal panic.
It was as if Shigaraki’s very body was trying to absorb him—not just physically… but erasing, piece by piece, who he was.

For a moment, he felt himself falling.
There was no ground, no gravity—just the sensation of plummeting into an endless abyss where the very concept of up and down didn’t exist.

The heat around him began to change. It was no longer just physical—it burned in his mind, seeping into his memories, warping faces and voices until they were unrecognizable.

The images of everyone he had ever known dissolved like ink in water, their colors bleeding into a deep, throbbing red that pulsed to the beat of that monstrous heart.

Midoriya tried to scream, but there was no sound.
His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out—as if even his voice had been stolen from him.

The only thing left was the beat.
Heavy. Slow.
Like a hammer striking the center of his mind, counting down until there was no thought left—only instinct.

And then… even instinct was gone.

The fall stopped.

There was no more light, no more heat, no more cold.
Only an absolute silence that felt eternal—like the universe itself had forgotten he existed.

 

Part 4 – The Final Flame

Midoriya opened his eyes.

But there was no air to breathe.
No ground beneath his feet.
Not even a body he could call his own.

He simply… existed, suspended in the black, silent vastness he knew all too well.

The Core.

The heart of One For All.

That boundless space made of nothing, and yet heavier than any battlefield.
Here, light didn’t come from a sun or stars, but from the silhouettes standing side by side like sentinels. The eight previous wielders watched him, unmoving, their gazes serene… and yet burdened with a silent melancholy.

But they weren’t alone.

Standing before them, set apart like a stain on the pure fabric of that place, was the man they all feared—
The one they had never been able to drive out for good.

All For One.

He didn’t appear as the deformed creature, fused with muscle and hatred, that Midoriya had fought on the battlefield. Nor as the colossal monster that had risen in the physical world moments earlier.

Here, he stood tall, clad in immaculate black attire, as if dust and blood could never touch him.
The metal mask covered his face, cold and unmoving, but there was something in it—some imperceptible contour—that gave the sense he was smiling without moving at all.

The nonexistent air grew heavier.
His mere presence was suffocating. Not because he yelled or threatened, but because he occupied the space as though he owned it.
And, in a way… he did.

But what truly froze Midoriya’s heart lay at his feet.

Shimura Tenko.

Not the monstrous Shigaraki, but a fragile boy, no more than six years old.
His skin was pale, hair unkempt and shadowing his face, wrists and ankles bound by thick chains, so tight the flesh around them was swollen and bloodied.
His small shoulders trembled, muffled sobs escaping as if he was afraid even to cry.

Midoriya tried to step forward.

Nothing.

It was as if the Core itself kept him in place, forcing him to watch.

All For One tilted his head slightly, like one greeting an old acquaintance.
When his voice came, it did not travel through the air—it was everywhere, echoing directly in the minds of everyone present.

"Congratulations, Izuku Midoriya…" he said, with the calmness of one stating the obvious.
He paused, his unseen gaze sweeping across the faces of the former wielders.
"Congratulations to all of you. You fought with strength, courage… and above all… stubbornness."

A quiet, joyless chuckle reverberated through the void.
It was like a fissure, spreading across the invisible ground.

"But now, it’s time to end this."

He raised his gloved hand, turning the palm upward.
His fingers spread slowly, as if he was about to grasp something that rightfully belonged to him.

"It’s time for me to absorb One For All… and become what I was always destined to be."

The last word fell heavy, like a seal slamming down on a tombstone.

"A Demon King."

Midoriya felt the weight of the title sink into him like a blade. But before he could respond, the line of wielders shifted.

Hesitant, like branches bending in the wind.

Nana Shimura closed her eyes, her voice low, almost a whisper.
"He’s come this far, Yoichi. Far beyond what we hoped…"

Daigoro Banjo clenched his fists, every muscle in his silhouette tense.
"But that bastard still thinks he can take it all…"

Yoichi, the first wielder, stepped forward.
His feet made no sound, yet every movement seemed to echo within Midoriya himself.
His gaze was calm… but there was weariness in it. A weight of centuries.

First, he looked at All For One.

Then, he turned to Midoriya.

And he smiled.

It wasn’t a smile of victory, but of peace.
The peace of someone who had finally accepted the price to be paid.

"Yes," he said, voice steady. "It’s time to end this."

Midoriya blinked, as if Yoichi’s words had cut straight through every layer of fear, urgency, and doubt all at once.

He opened his mouth to ask exactly what he meant… but there was no time.

Yoichi took a slow breath, like someone gathering the last of their strength before stepping off a cliff.
“I’ve always known what needed to be done,” he said with the calm of someone speaking to an old friend. “I just never had the courage.”

Midoriya frowned, taking a hesitant step forward.
“Courage for what…?”

Yoichi raised his arms—not to present himself, but everyone standing behind him.
“To give… everything.”
For a moment, the weight of those words made the entire Core seem to contract.

Nana Shimura stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
Her face was turned toward All For One, but her eyes… her eyes were on Midoriya.
There were tears there—not of fear, but of pride.

“Midoriya… you already carry more than any of us ever could,” she said, her voice tight with emotion. “But to win now, you need all that we have. And there’s only one way that can happen.”

Daigoro Banjo cracked his knuckles.
“That’s right, kid. Time to pass the torch for real.”
He chuckled, but it was a low, almost sad laugh. “One last time.”

En, Hikage, Kudo, and Bruce didn’t speak right away. They simply moved, forming a half-circle.
In each of their eyes, Midoriya saw something different: acceptance, longing, determination… and, above all, faith.

Yoichi closed his eyes, and Midoriya felt the ethereal air start to vibrate.

Then it began.

There was no wind in the Core, yet something—whether the power itself or the souls that sustained it—began to move around them.
A subtle warmth, at first just a shiver, grew into a rising wave filling the space.
The edges of the vestiges’ silhouettes began to glow—not with solid light, but like living embers, crackling silently.

Midoriya’s eyes widened.
“Wait… you don’t have to do this! I can still fight, I can—”

Nana shook her head, cutting him off.
“You can… but only because we’re going to give you the last spark.”

And then came the final acceptance.
One by one, they leaned forward, allowing their solid forms to dissolve.
Their outlines became golden sparks, drifting through the air like fireflies.
There was no pain on their faces. Instead—there was a rare lightness, as if they were going home.

Banjo raised his fist in farewell.
“Take him off the map, kid.”

Hikage smiled for the first time in years.
“Let this be his last breath.”

Yoichi looked at Midoriya one final time.
“And let it be your first, free of his weight.”

Then, they all turned to face All For One.

The glow intensified, the sparks swirling together, spinning until they fused into a single towering flame—alive, pulsing like a heart.
And in unison, the eight voices rang out, so firm they made the void tremble:

“One For All is a flame.”

The firestorm rose higher, stretching up into the nothing above them.
Its heat didn’t burn Midoriya—but to All For One, it was like a sun unleashed at point-blank range.

For the first time, he stepped back.

All For One raised both hands, trying to hold back the wall of fire surging toward him.
From his fingertips, dozens of stolen Quirks erupted at once—blades of compressed air, walls of black steel, pulsing energy fields, even blasts of ice and pure darkness.
Everything he had ever stolen. Everything he had hoarded for centuries.

But the flame didn’t stop.
It didn’t just burn—it consumed, devouring every barrier with a dry crackle, like wood being reduced to ash.
Ice turned to vapor before it could touch it.
Steel dissolved like wet paper.
Darkness… simply unraveled, as if it had never existed.

All For One roared.
“YOU THINK THIS IS ENOUGH?! I AM THE ORIGIN! I AM THE END! I CREATED YOU!”

But the voices answered, cutting through his rage with perfect unity:

“And like any flame… we can feed.”

The blaze surged forward, a molten river swallowing a dam.
It hit All For One with a force that was more than physical—it was spiritual.
Midoriya felt the impact echo inside his own chest, as if the energy were part of him—and it was.

His mask began to melt.
First, the golden trim warped like wax in the heat.
Then, the polished black gave way to flesh… which vaporized instantly, leaving only an acrid, metallic scent that drifted away in the void.

He tried to cling to something, but there was nothing.
The once-steady fingers crumbled to dust as they closed.
His screams changed—not rage anymore, but pure fear.

“No! I still—!”

The fire gave him no space.
It surged into every crack, every fragment, burning through not just his body, but his essence.
Midoriya could see—whether he wanted to or not—shards of memories and malice being ripped away like rotten boards from a collapsing house.

The eight voices roared one final time:

“Burn his soul… FOREVER!”

The flash that followed wasn’t light.
It was absence.
A void where, for centuries, an unshakable terror had existed—and now… it was nothing.

When the light finally faded, there were no more screams.
No more mask.
No more All For One.

Only faint golden embers drifting in the void, like star dust… and one by one, they winked out.

The emptiness settled.
The last remnants of the predecessors’ sacrifice floated slowly, like golden snowflakes that would never touch the ground.
There was no sound—no wind, no breath, not even the echo of the screams that, just moments ago, seemed to tear this place apart.

Midoriya was on his knees.
Hands clenched over his thighs, shoulders hunched, his whole body trembling.
It wasn’t physical exhaustion.
It was the weight—the crushing weight of knowing it was over.

And yet… there was no rush of relief.
The absence of All For One didn’t bring an explosion of joy, only a heavy silence.
It felt as if the universe was taking a deep breath before deciding what would come next.

The young hero slowly lifted his head.
The space around him was the same—the Core, the dark void he knew—but somehow it felt… less cold.
Still shadowed, but with an odd sense of rest, like a room finally shut after a long night of storms.

Then he heard it.

Footsteps.

Small, hesitant ones.
They didn’t echo in the air, but Midoriya felt each one reverberate as if they were stepping inside his chest.
He turned toward the sound.

And there he was.

Shimura Tenko.

Not the Shigaraki torn apart by battle.
Not the villain shaped by hatred.
Just a frail little boy, barefoot, dressed in simple torn clothes, as if he had just escaped from somewhere he should never have been.

Messy hair fell over his face, but couldn’t hide his eyes—wide, still afraid, but without the burning spark of the monster he had become.
The eyes of a child.

The chains that had bound him were gone.
Where the iron had once torn into his skin, there were only faded marks now, like old scars that no longer hurt.

Tenko walked slowly, as if unsure whether the ground would still be there for the next step.
Every time he glanced at Midoriya, it was like he was searching for something… maybe confirmation that he wasn’t alone anymore.

Midoriya took a deep breath—and realized that, for the first time since the fight began, the air didn’t burn in his lungs.
Still kneeling, he straightened his posture and extended a hand forward.

"Hey, Tenko."

His voice came out soft, almost a whisper, but in the void it sounded like the only sound that existed.

Tenko froze.
His eyes widened.
His lips moved slowly, forming a silent question before he could manage to speak for real.

"You… know my name?"

Midoriya nodded.
There was no rush in his reply—he wanted every second of this moment to be etched into the boy’s heart.

"I do," he said with a faint smile. "I’ve always known."

Tenko blinked, confused.
"But… why call me that? Everyone calls me… Shigaraki."

The name came out hesitant, as if he wasn’t even sure he wanted to say it.
Midoriya drew in a steady breath, leaning forward until he was at the boy’s eye level.

"Because that’s not your real name," he answered, firm but gentle. "It’s just a mask they put on you. The weight they forced you to carry. But it’s not who you are."

Tenko looked away, as if searching the ground for proof he could believe those words.
His small fingers pressed into his legs, his whole body trembling lightly.

"Then… who am I?" he asked, his voice so thin it sounded like it had taken years of silence just to break free.

Midoriya felt the knot in his throat tighten.
There were so many things he could say—so many truths and lies he could offer—but he chose the only answer that wouldn’t tarnish this moment.

"You’re Tenko. Shimura Tenko," he said, his voice steady but filled with compassion. "A boy who just wanted to play with his dog in the yard. Who wanted his mother’s hug. Who cried out for help, and no one answered."

Tenko squeezed his eyes shut, as if the memories were a storm threatening to knock him down.

Midoriya went on, carefully, almost surgically.
"You were swallowed by a pain no one should ever feel. And… he used that. Used you to hurt the world."

The boy’s breathing trembled.
When he opened his eyes again, they were glassy with unshed tears, but there was something new in them—not hope, not yet, but a spark that could become it.

Midoriya held out his hand again.
"But now you’re free, Tenko. And… I’m here."

For a moment, Tenko didn’t move. Then, slowly, he stepped forward and took the offered hand.
It was a fragile, hesitant touch… but it was real.

And in that instant, Midoriya knew that, for the first time, he wasn’t just winning a fight.
He was saving someone.

The fragile touch of Tenko’s fingers made the hero squeeze his hand gently, as if holding something made of glass.

Tenko swallowed hard, his voice still trembling.
"I… I hurt so many people…"

Midoriya didn’t look away.
"Yes." he answered, without softening the truth. "But it wasn’t just you. He shaped you for this, broke who you were, and put someone else in your place."

The boy lowered his head.
"I… I don’t want to forget what I did… but I also don’t want that to be all I am."

Midoriya stepped closer and placed his free hand on Tenko’s thin shoulder.
"Then start again. Here. Now."

Tenko stared at him for a long moment. Then, with an almost imperceptible movement, he stepped forward and threw himself into the hero’s arms.

The embrace was tight, urgent.
Small hands clung to Midoriya’s torn tunic as if he were the last safe place in the world.
The hero closed his eyes, resting his chin on the boy’s messy hair.

"I’m here now." he whispered. "And you will never be alone again."

Tenko’s crying was no longer the same muffled sob as before.
Now there was something freeing in it, as if each tear washed away a little of the darkness that had surrounded him for so long.

Slowly, a warm light began to envelop the boy’s body.
It was soft, golden, pulsing like a heart.

Tenko stepped back just enough to look at his own hands, startled and amazed.
"What… what’s happening?"

Midoriya smiled, despite the tears running down his face.
"You’re going back. To where you always should have been."

"Will it hurt?" the boy asked, with the insecurity of someone still afraid to suffer again.

"No." Midoriya replied. "It will be light… like the summer breeze in your backyard."

For a moment, Tenko seemed not to believe it. But then, a small smile appeared on his face — a real, childlike smile.

He took another step and wrapped Midoriya in one last embrace.
"Will you be okay?"

"I’ll try." the hero said, his voice choked. "Because now… I have one more reason."

The golden light intensified, covering Tenko’s body until his outline began to fade.
There was no pain.
No fear.
Only warmth.

And when the last fragment of that child dissolved into the air like golden dust, Midoriya understood it wasn’t a farewell.

It was freedom.

Chapter 3: Even Without Them

Notes:

Hi everyone, I’m releasing another chapter today as a way to wrap up the beginning of this story.
I realized it might not have been clear which Young Justice alternate universe Deku ended up in, so I’m posting the third chapter in hopes that everything will be cleared up.

Chapter 3 – Even Without Them

Part 1 (POV – Robin)

 

The acrid smell of burning and charred flesh hung in the air like an invisible weight. Every step Robin took over the uneven ground was accompanied by the muffled crunch of debris and the lazy drift of dust in the smoke-saturated air. At his side, Kid Flash moved with his usual agility, but even he seemed to hesitate before the grotesque sight that stretched out ahead.

A few meters away, the shapeless mass that had once been called Shigaraki lay writhing, pulsing in slow, grotesque rhythms as if trying to reorganize its own flesh. It was no longer a man, nor even a monster. It was a pulsating cocoon, purple and black, with strands of muscle and shattered bone exposed—a twisted parody of a giant heart.

Robin felt his fingers tighten involuntarily around the detonator strapped to the side of his suit. The weight of that small object seemed heavier than anything he had ever carried. He took a deep breath, feeling the mask cling slightly to his face, and kept his eyes fixed on the creature.

“Is he in there?” Kid Flash’s voice was hesitant, almost swallowed by the smoke.

Robin didn’t answer right away. The image of Midoriya being swallowed by the abomination still burned in his mind—the flash, the roar, and the silence that followed.

“It has to be…” he muttered. “Midoriya was… swallowed by that thing.”

Kid Flash took a step forward, but Robin grabbed his shoulder, firm.

“No. Not yet. We figure out what’s going on first.”

The cocoon contracted, letting out a wet, cracking sound that reverberated through the field. A gush of dark, viscous liquid spilled onto the ground. Robin clenched his jaw; the smell was now suffocating—a metallic, sickly-sweet stench that burned the throat. Kid Flash turned his head, coughing.

“This reeks of death.”

Robin knew the smell of death. But this… this felt older. As if something was being remade from scratch—wrongly.

They had watched the entire fight from a distance, hidden among the rubble. They had seen every blow, every explosion… and in the end, the transformation. Robin pulled one of the last explosive charges from his pouch. His stock was nearly gone, but that thing needed to be contained.

“We’re setting the explosives,” he said, trying to sound cold.

“And if Midoriya’s still alive in there?”

Robin hesitated for a moment. At thirteen, he had already made choices that came with heavy costs… but none as uncertain as this.

“Either it frees him… or it gives us a chance to pull him out.”

Kid Flash nodded without another word. The two began circling the cocoon, attaching charges to its weakest points. Sweat ran down Robin’s face as he fixed the last one, feeling the irregular pulse of the flesh almost like breathing.

“We’re done,” Kid Flash said.

Robin raised the detonator. His fingers hovered over the button, but the world moved first. The cocoon shuddered violently, cracking like tearing leather. Muscle fibers split apart, and hot steam rose, revealing a figure.

Through strands of flesh that melted away, Izuku Midoriya emerged. Unharmed. Bathed in the dim light, his chest rose and fell in a calm rhythm far too steady for someone who should have been dead.

Robin froze for a moment, his heart pounding—not just from relief, but from confusion. Kid Flash darted forward to catch him before he could fall.

Robin grabbed the shredded costume floating in the sludge. It was beyond repair, its edges dissolved. None of this made sense.

“What now?” Kid Flash asked, as if afraid to break the silence.

Robin deactivated the detonator. “Now we get out. Before that thing changes its mind.”

As they retreated, the cocoon shuddered one last time. The sound it made wasn’t a roar, nor a death rattle. It was a lament. Low, deep… so human it sent a chill down Robin’s spine.

It trembled once more, letting out a guttural, hollow sigh… a sound that wasn’t death.

It was grief.

And then, at last, it went silent.

 

Part 2

 

Silence hung over the charred ruins, broken only by the dry crunch of Robin’s boots grinding into the blackened earth and the steady thud of Kid Flash’s hurried steps as he carried Midoriya on his back.

Robin’s cape, now wrapped around Midoriya’s unconscious body, fluttered faintly as they moved away from the battlefield where both heroes and monsters had fallen. In one hand, Robin carried the damaged remains of Deku’s suit — the gauntlets, part of the scorched chest armor, the burnt hood, the one-piece jumpsuit torn in several places. The yellow cape, destroyed by the slime from the cocoon, had been discarded along the way.

Robin walked ahead, eyes sharp and cold, scanning the surroundings with calculated movements. His wrist computer displayed a rough map of Kansas, marking destruction zones, impassable areas, and potential safe routes.

Kid Flash shifted Midoriya’s weight on his back, letting out a breath heavy with effort and concern.

“He’s breathing steady…” he said, almost as if reminding himself, eyes fixed on the devastated horizon.

Robin gave a small nod but didn’t answer right away.

They kept moving, crossing what had once been open fields, now reduced to a graveyard of twisted metal, charred trees, and deep craters.

The wind carried ash through the air, painting everything in a gray layer, as if even nature had surrendered under the weight of tragedy.

After several minutes, Robin stopped abruptly at the top of a small rise, the view opening into miles of silent destruction.

His chest rose and fell slowly as his eyes swept over the distant wreckage, registering every detail: the blackened trails left by the battle, the spot where the monstrosity that had once been Shigaraki had stood… and beyond, the empty space where they had once fought alongside the greatest heroes on Earth.

He closed his eyes for a moment, his fist tightening involuntarily.

Batman… Superman… Wonder Woman… Martian Manhunter… Zatara… even Green Arrow, who never missed a chance to mock my flips — all of them…

A sharp pang cut through his chest, stealing his breath for an instant.

Robin drew in a slow breath, forcing himself to lock away the grief that threatened to spill over.

This wasn’t the time. Not here.

Later.
He would make room for mourning later.

For now, there was only the mission.

He turned to Kid Flash, his expression hard as steel over the rubble.

“We keep moving,” he said, voice low but steady. “The nearest city is Salina. About twenty kilometers southeast.”

Kid Flash frowned, glancing at the holographic map projected from Robin’s wrist computer.

“Twenty kilometers…” he muttered, shifting Midoriya again. “I can do it. Just need you to clear the way.”

Robin nodded.
“Let’s go.”

He shut off the visor, dismissing the hologram, and drew one of his combat sticks, the retractable blade snapping out with a sharp click.

From here on, the terrain grew even more treacherous — chunks of concrete, destroyed vehicles, and lines of trees knocked down by the trail of destruction.

Without hesitation, Robin moved ahead, leaping over blocks of debris and sidestepping exposed metal, while Kid Flash followed closely, keeping Midoriya secure and balanced.

As they moved, the sky began to shift into shades of orange and purple, the sun sinking slowly beyond the horizon — a silent spectacle that seemed to mock the chaos they left behind.

For a brief moment, Robin looked up, letting the cold breeze brush against his exposed face under the mask.

The world keeps going… even without them…

He swallowed hard and kept moving.

“When we get to Salina, we’ll find a temporary shelter,” Robin said without turning. “Then… we figure out our next move.”

Kid Flash gave a nervous chuckle.
“‘Figure it out’? I don’t even know how we’re still alive…”

Robin allowed himself a faint, fleeting smile.
“Because we don’t have any other choice.”

Kid Flash glanced sideways at him, catching the tension in the gloved fist.
“You miss them too, don’t you?”

Robin didn’t answer.

But the silence was answer enough.

They pushed through a stretch of scorched low forest, where broken trunks stood like the skeletons of a greener past, and soon reached a partially destroyed road that would lead them straight to Salina. Twisted tires, shattered road signs, and blackened blast marks marred the cracked asphalt like open wounds on a dying body.

Robin brought his wrist computer back online, confirming the route.

“Fifteen kilometers left… if we keep this pace, we’ll make it before nightfall.”

Kid Flash nodded, gritting his teeth, and together they pressed on — crossing the devastated landscape with determined steps, carrying not just an unconscious ally, but the weight of a world that had ended.

And still… they didn’t stop.

Because someone had to keep moving forward.

 

Part 3

 

The entrance to the city appeared on the horizon like a scar.

Salina, once a quiet refuge in the heart of Kansas, was now a mosaic of ruins and scattered fragments of what used to be civilization. Communication towers lay toppled like the bones of giants, streetlights hung at broken angles over cracked, scorched streets, and the wind carried charred newspapers advertising events that would never happen.

Amid the wreckage, some life still clung on. Thin children peered through broken windows, pulled back by nervous hands. Elderly figures shuffled between piles of debris, carrying makeshift bags. Every face that emerged from the shadows seemed to measure the two young heroes with a mix of curiosity and distrust — as if the sight of a uniform was a bitter reminder of how many times they had been abandoned before.

The sound of Robin’s boots striking the concrete echoed between the fractured walls, sharp and deliberate. Kid Flash kept pace, breathing hard as he adjusted Midoriya’s limp weight on his back. Robin’s cape, wrapped like a shroud around the unconscious boy, fluttered with each cold gust of wind, the frayed ends brushing against the cracked asphalt.

They passed a burned-out gas station, the rusted shells of cars still lined up as if waiting for their turn at the pump, and a church without a roof, its bells shattered on the ground. The air carried a heavy mix of old smoke, rusted metal, and damp earth.

It wasn’t until they reached the edge of an old central square that Robin raised his arm, bringing them to a halt. The silence here was so deep that even the faint rustle of ashes felt too loud.

Robin tapped his wrist computer. The holographic display flickered several times before stabilizing, showing a crude map of the city — and then, a faint blinking blue point a few blocks away.

“There’s a Zeta-Tube still active,” Robin murmured, eyes narrowing beneath the mask. “No idea how, but it’s still online.”

Kid Flash let out a tired sigh. “Then that’s our way out.”

Robin nodded and started forward, weaving through the narrow streets.

They moved in near silence, as if afraid that speaking too much would shatter the fragile focus keeping them going. The silence was a shield — and inside it, they carried everything: the trauma, the uncertainty, the fear.

As they drew closer to the signal, Robin stopped beside the shattered sign of an old diner, scanning the half-collapsed buildings around them.

“There’s barely anything left…” he said quietly, his voice nearly swallowed by the cold wind whispering through the ruins.

Kid Flash stopped beside him, adjusting Midoriya’s weight again. “Not of us either…” he added, his gaze distant.

Robin clenched his fists, jaw tight.

“You know,” Kid Flash said after a beat, “I always thought… even if the world ended, they’d find a way. That somehow, they’d still be here.”

Robin let the cold air fill his lungs, the faint scent of smoke and dried blood clinging to it.

“They’re not,” he finally said, voice stripped of any illusions. “And maybe now… it’s just the two of us.”

Kid Flash gave a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t know what hurts more… losing them, or realizing there’s so few left to remember them.”

Robin didn’t answer. He just kept walking.

They crossed a few more shattered blocks, passing what used to be a park — now an open lot buried under rubble — and the overturned carcass of a police cruiser. On one of the few standing walls, someone had scrawled in charcoal: Heroes Don’t Die.

People watched from the shadows, but no one stepped forward. Trust in heroes was gone. Hope… was gone. All that remained was survival.

Finally, they reached it: an old, half-collapsed electrical substation. Miraculously, the Zeta-Tube’s entry stood intact, its control panel still glowing faintly green.

Robin stepped forward, brushing dust off the console. Every button felt heavier than it should.

“It’s operational…” he confirmed, almost surprised — and, for a second, suspicious.

His fingers hesitated over the keys. If this was the last functioning tube… what if there was nowhere left to go?

“Where to?” Kid Flash asked without looking up.

Robin hesitated a moment longer before typing the sequence. “Batcave,” he said quietly.

Kid Flash’s gaze lifted to the bat symbol still flickering on the interface. “You think… anyone will be there?”

Robin didn’t answer right away. He stared at the emblem, once a sign of security, strategy, and strength. Now… it was just an echo.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But… it’s the only safe place we have left.”

Kid Flash gave a slow nod and stepped closer.

Robin activated the stabilizers. The hum of the Zeta-Tube filled the ruined room, louder than it should have been, as if the walls themselves were warning them.

His fingers lingered over the console, brushing away the grit. He half-expected the green glow to flicker and die before they could step through.

There were no guarantees.
This might be the last time the system ever worked.
And on the other side… there might be nothing but darkness.

Kid Flash shifted Midoriya’s weight again, saying nothing. He just looked at Robin, as if willing him to be certain — knowing full well there was no such thing as certainty anymore.

When Robin pulled the lever, the floor trembled, the vibration crawling up through his legs as if the structure itself was fighting to keep the jump stable.

For a heartbeat, the green flash lit their faces, revealing exhaustion, battle scars, and something deeper — the fear that no one would be there to meet them.

And then… they were gone.

 

Part 4

 

The green light of the Zeta Tube faded with a brief hiss, and silence settled heavily over the Batcave.

The place was shrouded in shadow. Only a few low spotlights along the walkways cast timid beams, stretching long shadows over the jagged stone walls. The distant drip of water echoed, rhythmic, as if marking every second since this sanctuary had lost its guardian.

Robin stepped off the platform with a slight stumble, his body exhausted. Just behind him, Kid Flash emerged, carrying Midoriya on his back, wrapped in the dark cape—more a shroud than a hero’s mantle.

Dick felt the sting of sweat under his crooked mask. In his left hand, he gripped the torn pieces of Midoriya’s suit, salvaged from the cocoon. They weren’t just scraps of fabric and metal; they were proof that, in the middle of ruin, some things were still worth keeping.

Footsteps echoed from the top of the metal staircase. Firm, deliberate steps… familiar ones.

Robin lifted his head, and for a moment, time seemed to stretch. Every strike of a sole against metal rang like an echo from another life—nights when, after long missions, Alfred would descend calmly to greet him with a warm towel and a dry remark. But now there was something different. Each step carried a slow, almost dragging weight, as if even the sound itself had grown tired.

And then, Alfred Pennyworth appeared.

He wore his eternal dark suit, though the tie was slightly askew. His hair, once perfectly combed, now fell loosely over his forehead. Robin noticed, with a pang, there were more white strands there than he remembered. The deep-set eyes, marked by sleepless nights, locked onto him. Alfred stopped at the top of the steps, unmoving, and in that instant Dick saw a faint tremor in the hand holding the silver tray.

What followed lasted only a moment—but long enough for both to feel the weight of the months that had kept reunions like this apart.

The tray slipped from his hands, the impact ringing alongside the crash of shattering porcelain. Alfred’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Master Richard…” The voice came out as a whisper, trembling, laden with relief and pain.

Dick opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came. His throat closed, and his eyes, locked on Alfred, began to lose focus. The images rushed back, sharp and cutting, like blades.

The drone feeds flickering on-screen as he and Wally watched helplessly from a safe distance. Interference alerts mixing with the muffled sound of familiar voices over the comms. The line of heroes advancing toward the enemy ships… and then, the light. Not just any flash, but an incandescent beam so intense it warped the world’s colors. He saw Diana vanish in golden flames, Clark’s cape torn apart in the air like ash, and, lastly, Bruce’s silhouette—still for an instant—before being swallowed by the beam, gone without even a shadow left behind.

What lingered wasn’t the sound of the blast, but the silence after. A cold, unreal silence that not even the drones’ static could fill.

It was Alfred who moved first.

His footsteps echoed louder than they should, each strike on the metal stairs carrying the weight of all the years and all the losses. When he reached the boy, he hesitated just long enough to make sure the figure before him wasn’t another cruel mirage.

Then he closed the space between them and pulled him close, wrapping him in a firm, almost crushing embrace.

Dick froze. He felt the warmth of Alfred’s suit against his chilled skin, the faint scent of old coffee mixed with paper—the same smell he remembered from mornings in the manor. For a moment, there was no Batcave, no cape, no mask. Just the hold of a man who had been, time and again, the anchor that kept him whole.

The emotional blow landed before the physical reaction. Dick didn’t cry, but his body gave way, his shoulders dropping, the weight of the mission and the loss spilling out as if he had finally found somewhere to set it down. Alfred kept one hand firm on his back and the other at his nape, just like the nights when the boy woke screaming from nightmares Bruce insisted he needed to learn to face alone.

In that embrace, Dick wasn’t the hero who survived. He was the son who had come home—and the home, though wounded, still stood.

“He didn’t come back… did he?” Alfred asked, his voice low but steady.

Dick swallowed hard before answering. The images struck again: the view through the drones, the League’s final charge, beams of energy slicing the sky like blades of black light, and then… nothing but silence and heat radiating from the screen until it felt like fire was burning his own skin.

“Neither him. Nor any of them,” he said, and the echo of those words seemed to vanish into the high ceiling of the cave.

Alfred closed his eyes for a moment, as if absorbing the blow of news he had already known to be true. When he opened them again, there was pain—but also that stoic spark that had always kept him standing.

The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating. Kid Flash remained at a distance, respecting the moment, though his face was tight, close to breaking.

Alfred loosened the embrace, resting a hand on Dick’s shoulder before looking at Midoriya.

“And this young man?”

“A friend,” Dick replied, discreetly wiping his eyes. “He saved the world… or at least what’s left of it.”

Alfred nodded, as if he’d known already. He moved toward Kid Flash, helping him lay Midoriya down on one of the medical platforms. Carefully, he adjusted the cape around the boy and rested his hand on his forehead.

“Feverish, but stable,” he said, activating the sensors.

Dick walked toward the alcove where the suits stood on display. His own was there, almost untouched except for the dust. Beside it, Bruce’s suit remained—somber, motionless, empty.

He touched the bat emblem with his fingertips.

“I thought he’d come back,” Dick said, his tone teetering between confession and defiance. “Always thought that. Even when the League fell… even when the city started going dark… I thought he’d find a way. He always does.”

Alfred stepped closer, his face in shadow but his eyes fixed on him.

“He always comes back,” he agreed. “But this time… Master Richard, I don’t believe there was a way. And it wasn’t for lack of trying.”

Dick’s gaze drifted back to Bruce’s suit, hanging like a silent specter, and the cold touch of the bat symbol seemed to draw something harder than grief from within him: resolve.

“Someone has to carry on. If it’s not me…” he drew a breath, “there’s no one left.”

“No,” Alfred corrected, his hand firm on Dick’s shoulder. “It’s not just about carrying on what he did. It’s about not losing yourself trying to be him. The world has already lost Batman… don’t let it lose Richard, too.”

For a moment, Dick wanted to argue, but the weight of those words silenced him.

His gaze slid to Midoriya, lying motionless under the cold light of the scanners. The young face, marked by small scars, looked peaceful now, but Robin knew—behind that stillness, there was a weight that rest could never erase.

“I think… he’s lost a lot too,” he murmured. “Friends, allies… maybe even someone he thought of as family. But he kept fighting. Even when his world was falling apart.”

Alfred followed his gaze, his features softening.

“Then he understands.”

“Understands what?” Dick asked, glancing back at the butler.

“What it means to fight when hope is no longer within reach,” Alfred said, calm but heavy with meaning. “What it means to stand up for the thousandth time, even without knowing if there will be another.”

Dick took a deep breath, letting those words sink in. He felt there was something in Midoriya that mirrored him—not in looks, not in manner, but in the weight he carried. Maybe, if they could both keep standing, one could stop the other from sinking.

“Perhaps… together, you can find a new path,” Alfred said, almost as if reading his thoughts.

Dick didn’t answer right away, but for the first time since stepping through that Zeta Tube, it didn’t feel like he was just surviving. There was a possibility, however small, of building something again. Not what they had before—but something new.

As strange as it felt to think that about someone he had only just met.

Chapter 4: When Victory Isn’t Enough

Chapter 4 — When Victory Isn’t Enough

Part 1

The hum of the Batcave’s systems filled the space with whirs and faint crackles, a constant whisper in the back of the mind. For Dick Grayson, it was just another reminder that everything they’d known was gone.

Sitting at the edge of the Med Bay platform, elbows resting on his knees and head lowered, he looked far too small for the vast cavern around him.

Wally wasn’t far, leaning against one of the natural stone pillars, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the stretcher where the boy — Midoriya — lay unconscious. Still wrapped in Robin’s cape, the boy breathed steadily yet didn’t move, a jarring contrast to the fury with which he had fought.

For long minutes, neither of them said a word.

The constant hum of the Batcave’s systems blended, in Dick’s mind, with another sound he would never forget: the sharp crackle of the drones transmitting that last mission. All it took was a blink, and he saw it again — columns of light tearing the sky apart, incinerating Barry, Diana, Clark… and Bruce. The image trembled, warped by the heat, before the screen went black.

On the other side, Wally had been there too, seeing it all through that same cold, distant lens. No shouts, no goodbyes… just bursts of energy and the silence afterward, far too heavy to be real.

It was that silence that now filled the cave.

“We did it…” Dick murmured, more to himself than to Wally. His voice was swallowed by the cavern’s vastness, muffled by its echoes.

Wally let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Did what, Dick?” He turned slowly to face him. “They’re all dead. Barry… Clark… Diana… even Bruce…”

The name caught in his throat, as if speaking it would cut deeper than it could heal. Dick didn’t answer. He ran a hand over his face, covering his eyes for a second, fighting against the wave of emotion threatening to break him from the inside.

“I saw it…” Wally went on, his voice cracking. “I saw when Superman fell. I saw when the Flash… when my uncle…”

He shut his eyes tight, shoulders trembling with the effort of holding himself together.

“The whole world…” he finished, but the words died there, swallowed by the void.

Dick clenched his fists, nails almost digging into his palms.

“We did what we could,” he said, with a hardness that didn’t convince even himself.

Wally let out another hollow laugh.

“Did we? Really? We’re here, alive… but what about the rest? There’s no one left. Not the Team… not the League.”

He looked at Dick, his eyes damp.

“Maybe it’s just us now.”

Wally turned away, pressing an arm across his chest as if holding something inside that threatened to break. He didn’t cry — not because he didn’t want to, but because he feared that once he started, he wouldn’t stop.

Dick knew that kind of restraint well. The same one he used to keep himself from falling apart. They weren’t just teammates. They were survivors of something no one their age should have gone through.

In that moment, their pain didn’t need words. It was enough to know that, despite everything, there was still someone there to stop the other from falling.

“I… I don’t know what to do, Wally,” Dick admitted, his voice faltering for the first time. “There’s… there’s no one left to tell us what to do.”

Wally walked over and sat beside him, letting silence speak what words couldn’t.

For a moment, Dick lowered his head and allowed silent tears to run down his face. He didn’t need to hide them. Not here. Not now.

“We won… but it feels like we lost everything,” he murmured.

Wally nodded, too drained to disagree.

The soft hum of the Med Bay machines reclaimed the room. Dick lifted his head, his gaze falling on Midoriya — the boy they barely knew, but who had saved their lives.

“He… he’s not even from here,” he said, almost absentmindedly.

Wally’s eyes also went to the unconscious boy.

“That kid fought that… monster… alone.”

Dick nodded slowly, voice still low.

“And the monster… Shigaraki… or whatever it was… wasn’t from this world either.”

He stood, as if something inside him had been lit. Walking to the main console, he began activating holographic panels. Flickering images filled the air: explosions, corrupted data, fragments of comms from heroes already gone.

“Look at this kid,” he said, pointing to the footage of Midoriya emerging from the portal mid-battle. “Those abilities… that’s nothing like anything we’ve seen.”

Wally frowned.

“You think it’s… multiverse?”

Dick shrugged.

“Maybe. Or something bigger. But he’s not from here. And he fought. He fought for a world that wasn’t even his. And he won.”

For a moment, Dick’s gaze drifted to a dark corner of the cave.

Built into the stone there was the old compartment where Bruce had kept the Batsuit. Now, it was empty.

The place where it had once hung was more than just an empty niche in the rock. It was a silent tomb, a mark that Bruce Wayne’s era had ended. Shadows pooled there, and Dick had the feeling that if he reached out, he’d feel the cold of all those nights beside him — the training, the reprimands, even the rare moments of approval.

It wasn’t just absence. It was a constant reminder that, no matter how hard he tried, he would never be that man.

Dick walked over, brushing his fingers across the metal surface worn with time. The bat symbol was still there — grey and silent.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

“You know what to do, even when I’m not there.”

Bruce had said that once. On an ordinary night, without urgency, without drama. Just the two of them on a rooftop, watching Gotham sleep.

But Dick had never truly believed that day would come.

He leaned his forehead against the cold wall beside the empty case, feeling the weight of a legacy pressing down on shoulders far too young.

“I’m not him, Bruce…” he whispered. “I never was.”

A hand rested on his shoulder. It was Wally.

“And no one ever expected you to be,” he said, gently. “But if anyone can carry on… it’s you, Dick.”

The boy took a deep breath, stepped back, and wiped his eyes. He turned toward the consoles again, his gaze falling once more on Midoriya.

“We owe him. And the world.”

Wally nodded, his voice now with a bit more resolve.

“We do. But it’s not just on you, okay?” he added, with a faint smile. “If you’re gonna dive into some crazy plan, call me. Like always.”

Dick let out a small laugh — the first in days. Faint, but real.

He stepped closer to the central table, fingers hovering over the controls.

“Let’s find out who he is. And what we do next.”

Wally walked to the Med Bay, looking down at the boy still asleep. Midoriya’s destroyed suit — or what was left of it — lay folded on a table beside him: scorched fabric, torn reinforced fibers, melted metal.

Dick had carried it here, keeping every piece.

It was what Bruce would have done.

Maybe… it was what a real hero would do.

They both looked at Midoriya.

And even without saying a word, they knew what had to be done.

The world had ended.

But as long as one still stood and breathed…

…it wasn’t over.

Part 2

The precise click of Dick’s fingers on the panel echoed through the cavern, followed by a metallic awakening: pistons shifted, internal gears rotated, and the Med Bay system came to life with a low, steady rumble. Narrow beams of light swept across the room, reflecting off the rough stone walls and casting long, wavering shadows that made it feel as if the cave itself was breathing.

The scent of heated metal and ozone began to spread, mixing with the natural chill of the underground. Screens lit up in sequence, displaying lines of code and incomplete anatomical diagrams.

Midoriya lay motionless on the examination bed, surrounded by articulated arms that hovered over him like silent sentinels. Every motion of the machines produced a hum or a sharp click, blending with the soft pulse of the sensors attached to the boy’s body.

At first, Wally stayed several steps away, quietly observing. But as the holographic projections took shape, he moved closer. His eyes shifted between the lights and Dick’s face, trying to read every microexpression as his friend adjusted commands with near-mechanical precision — the reflex of someone trained for years at Batman’s side.

It was more than a simple scan. It felt… like an investigation. A silent interrogation where the subject was unconscious and the truth would come only through streams of data.

Wally tilted his head slightly, studying Dick’s focused expression. “So? What’s the verdict?” he asked, his voice still rough, breaking the heavy silence.

Dick didn’t answer right away. He adjusted one of the sensors, synchronized the molecular resonance frequency, and only then exhaled softly.

“This… doesn’t make sense,” he murmured, frowning.

His eyes narrowed, fixed on the screen, as if every number and graph were trying to tell him a secret he couldn’t yet decipher. The cursor blinked, waiting for the next command, while green lines of data scrolled rapidly, showing readings that didn’t match anything stored in the Batcave’s database.

He’d seen strange results before — rare mutations, lab experiments, even alien physiologies — but nothing, absolutely nothing, fit what he was seeing now.

His fingers flew over the keyboard, filtering information, comparing it against hundreds of other scans from past missions. A crease formed between his brows.

Wally, picking up on the shift in the air, asked, “Okay… is this the kind of silence that means you’ve found something really good… or really bad?”

Dick didn’t answer. He leaned closer to the screen, enlarging a 3D model of Midoriya’s torso. It was… too clean. No scars, no fractures, no lingering microdamage — the kind every fighter accumulates over time, even the most protected. It was as if his body was built never to wear down.

When he finally spoke, there was a weight in his voice — not pure shock, but something between fascination and caution. “Wally… I’ve never seen anything like this.”

He gestured to the hologram.

“His body is… perfect.”

Wally let out a disbelieving laugh. “Perfect? Like Superboy?”

Dick shook his head. “No… better. Much better.”

He zoomed in, revealing internal structures: muscles, tendons, bones.

“No malformations. No old scar tissue. Not even a slightly misaligned bone or a tooth out of place. Everything is perfectly symmetrical, optimized…”

He pointed to the projected muscle fibers.

“His muscle density is… insane. There’s a natural strength here that surpasses most metahumans I’ve ever seen.”

Wally’s eyes widened. “Like… Kryptonian level?”

Dick hesitated, switching to another readout — bone density and structure analysis.

“His skeletal durability is… off the charts. I don’t even know how that’s possible for a human.”

He made more adjustments, running an additional scan with bioenergy sensors.

“And his metabolism… is unbelievably efficient. It converts energy so precisely it practically wastes nothing.”

Wally glanced at the unconscious boy. “So he’s like… a superhuman?”

“Not exactly,” Dick said, frowning deeper. “This isn’t a mutation. And it’s not genetic engineering like Superboy.”

He typed in a rapid command, splitting the monitor into three sections: in the center, Midoriya’s full scan; on the left, the metahuman database; on the right, alien and mystical physiology records.

One by one, Dick ran comparisons — relative strength, bone density, muscle elasticity, regeneration rate. Nothing matched. Not Kryptonian. Not Martian. Not Atlantean.

It wasn’t until he accessed a restricted file, marked with the red seal of “Maximum Access – Wayne,” that he found something close: the detailed scans of Diana Prince, Wonder Woman.

Her hologram appeared beside Midoriya’s, and Wally let out a low whistle. “Okay… now I get why you’ve been so quiet.”

Dick’s eyes moved between the two projections. The similarities were undeniable — muscle fiber composition, bone density, cellular recovery rates. But there were subtle differences, as if Midoriya’s body had been shaped not by magic or divinity, but by some other… force. Something unknown.

“If Diana is what happens when a god decides to make a perfect warrior…” Dick murmured, more to himself than to Wally, “…then Midoriya is proof another path can reach the same result.”

Wally stayed silent, letting it sink in.

Dick leaned back, staring at the two holograms side by side. “Wally, if he’s not from here… that means there are worlds where beings like him are common. Or…” He paused, the words heavier now. “…worlds where he’s the only one.”

“You’re talking multiverse,” Wally said, his brow furrowed.

“Maybe more than that,” Dick replied, crossing his arms. “The multiverse is still… familiar. Alternate Earths, different versions of us. But what if he didn’t come from a version of our Earth at all? What if he’s from a place with no connection to it? A universe that doesn’t even follow the same rules as ours?”

Silence thickened between them. Wally’s gaze returned to Midoriya, still unconscious, his face relaxed despite the tension in his muscles. “If that’s true… then he didn’t just lose friends and allies. He lost everything.”

Dick nodded slowly. “And still, when the chance came, he fought for a world that wasn’t his.”

For a long moment, they simply stood there, watching the boy. It was impossible to tell which burden was heavier — the one Midoriya carried here, or the one he would now have to bear. Dick turned back to the console, closing the scans and locking all files under maximum security.

“We need to know more. Who he is. Where he came from. And… why he was here.”

He stepped to the bed, resting a hand lightly on Midoriya’s shoulder — a silent thank-you.

“He’s stable,” Dick said, glancing at Wally. “No risk to his life. And with his physiology, he’ll recover fast.”

Wally let out a sigh of relief, crossing his arms. “A hero from another world…”

“And maybe…” Dick added, “one of the last we have.”

Wally stepped closer, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on Midoriya’s face. “You know… I’ve seen a lot of people afraid, Dick. Afraid to die, afraid not to make it home… even afraid to fight. But him…” He shook his head. “…it’s different.”

“Different how?” Dick asked.

“It’s like he’s carrying someone with him. Not physically… but here.” Wally tapped his chest. “Like every punch he threw, every time he got back up… it was because of a promise. Not for himself… but for someone else.”

Dick was quiet for a beat. “Promises… they drive us. And they destroy us.”

Wally nodded. “Even without knowing who he is… I think that promise is still holding him up. Even now.”

They both looked at the boy again. Midoriya’s face was peaceful, free of pain, yet his body still held a readiness — as if he might leap into the fight again at any moment.

“How old do you think he is?” Dick asked.

“Sixteen? Seventeen, maybe,” Wally guessed.

“Older than me,” Dick muttered. “And he fought like someone who’s already lost everything before.”

He turned to the computer and began a voice log.

“File: Midoriya. Begin recording. Preliminary data indicates extra-universal origin. Subject exhibits superhuman physiology with traits similar to mythological entities. Current status: stable. Subject saved this Earth from an unidentified hostile threat. Further analysis required.” He paused. “But above all… he saved us.”

He ended the recording. The echo of his voice lingered in the cave.

Wally gave a small, sad smile. “He’s not just a hero, Dick.”

“No?”

“He’s proof there’s still hope.”

Dick didn’t answer. He only nodded. And together, they remained there, standing over the boy from another world… who might just be the last spark of light left in theirs.

 

Part 3

 

The heavy silence of the Batcave was broken only by the faint hum of the Medical Bay’s automated systems, monitoring Midoriya’s stable condition.

Dick stood by the edge of the console, leaning forward, eyes fixed on the unconscious boy. Wally stood beside him, silent as well, his gaze focused but distant, as if staring far beyond the stone walls.

“It’s over…” Wally murmured, without looking at him.

Dick blinked slowly, as if the word felt strange. “Yeah… it’s over.”

A brief silence followed before Wally let out a tired sigh, rubbing his face. “But… do you feel like it’s not really over? Like… part of us is still there?”

Dick didn’t answer immediately. The weight in the air said it all. After a moment, he straightened. “Maybe seeing how the rest of the world is… will help us understand.”

Wally raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but gave a faint nod. “Or it’ll just remind us they’re not here anymore.”

“Yeah…” Dick said, already turning to the terminal. “But I need to see.”

The screens lit up, showing multiple anchors and reporters broadcasting images from across the globe: Paris, Tokyo, Moscow, São Paulo… all with the same thing in common—battle ruins, rubble, and the remains of the invader ships.

One reporter took center screen, speaking live. His voice carried a mix of disbelief and relief:

“…and we repeat, all ships of the invading force fell from the sky simultaneously, just over two hours ago. According to military experts, there was no coordinated action or terrestrial weapon responsible. They simply… dropped.”

The images shifted to smoldering ships lying in fields, destroyed buildings, and civilians emerging from shelters, still stunned.

Children covered in dust.

Civilians holding makeshift flags, painted bedsheets bearing the Justice League symbol.

An old woman crying, kneeling before a torn Green Lantern doll.

Elsewhere, a child clutched a Superman figure—the arm hanging by a thread, as if it had fought to the end as well.

“Many believe this victory came from the efforts of the heroes who still fought back. Although we don’t have official confirmation, sources close to the UN indicate that this was possible thanks to one last desperate push… from those still standing.”

The feed cut to a hastily painted mural on a wall in Berlin. Faces of Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman, Flash, Aquaman, Martian Manhunter… and many others. Below them, in blurred, rushed letters, were the words: Thank you.

Wally looked away, closing his eyes and clenching his fists.

The cameras showed more than destruction—they revealed a world trying to stand again with trembling hands. A boy in Mumbai knelt on a cracked sidewalk, using colored chalk to redraw the Flash symbol.

In New York, someone had tied a torn piece of red cape to a lamppost, letting it sway in the wind like a silent banner.

In Sydney, a group of firefighters carried an American flag and a soot-covered Justice League banner to the top of a still-smoldering building.

Every image was a cruel reminder: there were no familiar voices answering the call anymore. Every scrap of fabric, every child’s scribble was a desperate attempt to hold onto what had already slipped away.

Dick switched off the monitor, and silence once again swallowed the cave.

For a few seconds, neither could even take a deep breath.

“They…” Wally began, but his voice broke.

He swallowed hard and tried again:

“They shouldn’t have…”

But he didn’t finish. There was no way to.

Dick just nodded, unable to put into words what they both knew.

He turned away from the monitors, his eyes low. “They’re all gone, Wally…”

The echo of his words seemed to spread through the cave, as if the cold stone walls absorbed and returned their grief.

The distant hum of the machines became deafening in the quiet. Dick felt the air grow heavy, every breath like pulling air through water. He placed his hands on the nearest table, as if his body was giving way under the weight of the absence now filling the place.

Wally looked away, because meeting his friend’s eyes then was like looking in a mirror—both broken in different ways, but by the same loss.

The list came out without strength, but every name carried unbearable weight.

“Bruce…”

The image of him, steady and unmoving atop Gotham’s gargoyles, flashed in Dick’s mind. The father figure who never said I’m proud of you, but whose presence meant everything.

“Clark… Diana… Barry…”
Mentors, idols, anchors. Gods among men, now lying silent.

“Kaldur… Conner… M’gann…”
Friends. Teammates. Brothers and sisters in arms.

Dick hesitated, but Wally finished for him, his voice a hoarse whisper:

“Artemis…”

The name seemed to tear something inside. Wally looked away, as if facing Dick would mean admitting her absence was real.

Every memory came back raw—laughing on smaller missions, playful banter, the way she always met him head-on, without fear or filter. And above all, the last time he saw her… no goodbyes, no right words, just another we’ll talk later that would never come.

He felt as if he’d let something important rot in silence, and now the regret burned hotter than any wound.

“I should’ve asked her out,” he muttered. “She… she always gave me chances. And I always acted like an idiot.”

The silence that followed was made of grief and regret.

Dick only nodded, his throat tight.

“And now… it’s just us, isn’t it?” Wally asked, his voice breaking.

Dick nodded slowly, running his hands through his hair and stepping away from the monitor.

“Just us two…”

But his eyes drifted toward the Medical Bay, where Midoriya lay breathing, stable and unconscious.

“And… him.”

Wally let out his breath slowly, as if releasing the last spark of hope he had left.

“What do we do now, Dick?”

Dick stayed silent, thinking, until he turned back to the control panel.

“First… we find out everything we can about him.”

He paused, looking again at the boy with green hair.

“And then…” His voice faltered for a moment, but he steadied it, hardening his expression. “Then… we figure out how to move forward.”

Wally nodded, though without conviction.

“I don’t know if I can, man…”

Dick gripped his shoulder—a silent gesture of support.

“Neither do I…”

The two of them stood there, side by side, looking at the unconscious boy and, beyond him, the vast emptiness of the Batcave… now so quiet, so empty… so full of ghosts.

Victory had cost them everything.

Now… all that remained was to find out if there was still a future worth fighting for.

Part 4

The faint beeping of the Medical Bay monitors changed rhythm, as if something had awakened alongside the boy’s heartbeat.

Dick’s head shot up instantly, his trained eyes catching every variation on the screen. Wally, slouched in a chair a few meters away, straightened up in an almost reflexive motion.

Midoriya stirred slightly, his breathing becoming uneven. His eyelids twitched before opening with effort, revealing green eyes that took time to focus. The cold, metallic ceiling of the Batcave was the first thing he saw, but the soft lighting made him blink several times.

The smell was different. There was no dust, no smoke, none of the destruction he’d grown used to in the last few days—only a faint metallic scent mixed with ozone from the equipment. The steady sound of the monitors, the distant hum of ventilation systems, the muffled echo of water dripping somewhere deeper in the cave… everything was strange.

He tried to move his arm and felt the resistance of cables and sensors attached to his skin. His body felt heavy, like he’d run himself to the limit and then slept for days.

“Where…?” His voice came out hoarse, weak, as if his throat was still raw from the strain of his last battle.

Dick stepped closer, his face partially lit by the bluish glow of the monitors, his expression neutral but his gaze sharp, studying every reaction.

“You’re safe.”

Midoriya turned his head slightly, recognizing Dick’s silhouette and that of another boy—red-haired, in a yellow suit marked by red lightning bolts—watching him with exhaustion in his eyes.

“Where… am I?” he asked again, with more strength this time, forcing himself to sit up. But Dick placed a hand on his shoulder, silently urging him to stay still.

“Gotham City… United States of America… planet Earth.”

Midoriya blinked, confused, as if the words took a moment to arrange themselves in his mind.

“Planet… Earth?”

Dick nodded.

Midoriya let out a breath of relief, though the tension didn’t leave his body completely.

“And you?” Dick asked then, folding his arms. “Where did you come from?”

Midoriya hesitated, glancing around as if expecting some kind of trick, but seeing the seriousness in Dick’s eyes, he replied:

“From the city of Musutafu… Japan… also on planet Earth.”

The two of them went silent for a moment, the weight of the coincidence hanging in the air.

Midoriya was still processing Dick’s answer when Wally, in a quick motion, was already tapping on a tablet.

“Wait… Musutafu, right?” he repeated without looking up.

The speedster’s fingers flew across the screen, but seconds later his frown made it clear something was wrong. He turned the tablet first to Dick, then to Midoriya.

“It doesn’t exist.” His words were blunt, almost cold. “There’s no city called Musutafu in Japan… or the United States… or anywhere.”

Midoriya blinked several times, as if he hadn’t understood at first.

“Can… you show me?” he asked, urgency creeping into his voice.

Wally handed him the device.

Midoriya began typing quickly, searching maps, databases, online encyclopedias. Nothing. The screen returned irrelevant results, blank pages, digital silence.

The first pang of panic hit in his stomach. He tried again: “U.A. High School.” Only found schools that had nothing to do with the one he knew.

Another search: “All Might.” The greatest hero of his world… here, it was just a meaningless set of words.

The air felt thinner. The beeping of the monitors seemed to fade, like it was coming from underwater.

He typed “Musutafu” again—slower this time—and when the screen came back empty once more, memories struck almost cruelly: his mother fixing his hair in the kitchen, the steam of freshly cooked rice, the echo of hurried footsteps in the U.A. hallways, Uraraka’s smile, Iida’s voice calling them to training…

None of it existed here.

His fingers trembled when he noticed something in the corner of the screen: the date.

08/16/2010.

His heart kicked hard, painfully, like the floor had been yanked out from under him—despite the fact he was lying down.

The tablet nearly slipped from his hands.

“No… that can’t be…” he murmured, his voice barely more than a lost breath.

Dick leaned in slightly, alert. “What is it?”

Midoriya dropped the tablet onto his chest, breathing deep, trying to pull his thoughts into order. The battle. Shigaraki. The light. The void.

“What year did you say it is?”

Wally frowned. “Two thousand ten…?”

Midoriya shut his eyes tightly, his fingers curling into the bedsheets. “This… this isn’t possible…”

Dick stepped closer, his shadow falling over the boy. “What do you mean?”

Midoriya took a deep breath and forced the words out like he was lifting a crushing weight off his chest.

“I… I’m from the year 2216.”

For a moment, the Batcave seemed to grow heavier, swallowing even the hum of the equipment.

Wally’s eyebrows shot up, a half-smile of disbelief flickering before vanishing. “You’re serious…?”

Dick didn’t react with disbelief—he stayed still, processing. In his eyes, there wasn’t complete surprise… but rather the quiet recognition that, after all they’d seen, this wasn’t impossible.

“Time travel…” he murmured to himself. “Or another timeline… maybe another universe…”

Midoriya looked away, as if shielding himself from the weight of it, but the truth had already lodged in him like a cold blade. He wasn’t just far from home… he was two centuries away from it.

“How… how did this happen…?”

Wally leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression somewhere between tired and deeply pained. “Man… we’d like some answers too…”

Dick stepped back slightly, glancing at the Medical Bay monitors, as if the cold precision of the machines could help order the chaos in his thoughts.

“Whatever happened… you’re here now. And you’re alive.”

Wally let out a sad chuckle. “Which is more than we can say for most of our friends…”

Midoriya finally looked at them—really looked—and saw, for the first time, the weight they carried.

“You… lost someone?”

Dick and Wally shared a silent look.

“All of them,” Dick said quietly.

The silence that followed was thick, as heavy as the air deep underground.

Midoriya bit his lip, guilt and sympathy in his eyes. “I… I’m sorry…”

Dick shook his head, pushing back the emotions threatening to rise again. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Wally pushed away from the wall and stepped closer, gesturing toward Midoriya with his chin. “Whoever you are… you saved our lives. We’re still here… because of you.”

Midoriya opened his mouth to respond, but closed it again, unsure of what to say.

Dick took a steadying breath. “Your name is Midoriya, right?”

Midoriya hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Yes… Izuku. Izuku Midoriya.”

Dick nodded back, committing the name to memory. “I’m Richard Grayson… but you can call me Dick.”

Wally offered a small, tired smile and waved. “And I’m Wally… Wally West.”

Midoriya took another deep breath, looking at the two of them… then at the cold ceiling of the Batcave.

“I guess… we have a lot to talk about…”

For the first time, Dick allowed the corner of his mouth to lift, though the light in his eyes was still dimmed by loss. “Yeah… we do.”

Wally shot Dick a side glance, then looked at Izuku and asked under his breath, almost as a reminder: “You think we can trust him?”

Dick didn’t hesitate. He studied Izuku one more time—the way he breathed unevenly, the way he was still trying to take it all in, the way he didn’t pretend to be stronger than he was.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I trust what he’s done. And for now… that’s enough.”

Unaware of that exchange, Midoriya closed his eyes for a moment and whispered to himself, “Mom… I don’t know what to do.”

And so, even with different worlds, different times, and different griefs… there, in the silent heart of the Batcave… three survivors were finally beginning to take the first step forward together.

 

Part 5

The silence in the Batcave had weight. It wasn’t just the absence of sound—it was the kind of silence that made the air feel thick, forcing every breath to be slow, almost cautious. The soft beeping of Midoriya’s heart monitor stood out like a mechanical pendulum, marking time in cold, relentless intervals.

The constant hum of the automated systems came from somewhere high above, reverberating through the stone and metal walls, mixing with a faint scent of oil, dust, and ozone. Even the sound of a drop of water falling in some distant tunnel seemed to echo for far too long, as if it didn’t belong there.

Dick stood still, leaning against the edge of the console, his eyes fixed on the unconscious boy before him. His shoulders were tense, but the control on his face masked the accumulated exhaustion. Wally, a few feet away, couldn’t keep completely still; he shifted his weight, adjusted his hands in his pockets, glanced around—any movement seemed better than facing the weight of that moment.

For a few moments, no one spoke. It was as if opening their mouths would shatter the fragile structure holding them all upright.

Midoriya blinked a few times, making sure he had heard right.
Two thousand one hundred and sixteen.

The number echoed in his head like a hammer. It wasn’t just a distant date—it was the year he had lived every single day, every battle, every loss. And now it was also a cruel reminder that his entire world was over two centuries away.

An invisible weight seemed to press down on his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. His stomach churned, and for a moment, he was afraid he might throw up. He wiped his sweaty face, feeling his skin cold but his forehead hot. Each heartbeat felt like a muffled blow against his ribs.

“How…? Why?” The question pounded in his mind, but it refused to find a voice.
Memories of his final battle with Shigaraki came in disjointed flashes—lights, screams, the smell of dust and blood, and then… nothing. Just darkness, until he opened his eyes here.

It wasn’t just confusion. It was grief. Grief for what he had left behind—for everything he would likely never see again.

“All of them…” he murmured, looking at Dick and Wally.

“Yes,” Dick replied, his voice heavy, without hesitation.

Wally stepped back a little, hands in his pockets, pacing slowly across the cave as if he needed to keep moving to avoid being swallowed by the memories.

Dick stayed beside the medical bed, solid as ever, but the tightness in his shoulders betrayed the effort it took not to break.

Midoriya bit his lower lip, glancing around again.

“I… I fought Shigaraki… I was in the middle of a war… and now… I’m here. And you…”

He drew in a shaky breath, his throat tight.

“…lost everything.”

Dick took a slow breath before answering, and Midoriya noticed even that simple act seemed to cost him effort.

“The invasion started a few days ago,” he said, speaking slowly, as if arranging each word carefully to keep from revealing too much. “They came from all sides. An intergalactic army… ships, machines, soldiers the Green Lantern Corps couldn’t hold back.”

His tone wasn’t just grim—it carried the weight of a memory that refused to die.

Wally added, eyes fixed on the floor, “They were… things we’d never seen before. Weapons that cut through the atmosphere like it was paper. Whole cities vanished in seconds… without warning.”

Midoriya swallowed hard. “And… Superman?”

Wally looked up, a faint, humorless smile tugging at his lips. “He was our best. The symbol of everything we had left to hope for.”

Dick nodded but didn’t meet anyone’s gaze. “And even then… it wasn’t enough.”

A strange pause followed—the kind of silence that comes when there’s nothing left to soften the truth.

“We fought,” Dick continued, his voice low. “All of us. To the end.”

Midoriya closed his eyes, trying to picture it—and he could. The world he’d known in 2216 had also been the end of an era of peace.
The war with the Paranormal Liberation Front and its true leader, All For One, had shattered hero society in mere days. It had taken countless heroes and friends from him, forced him to leave U.A., and now, it seemed, had cost him his entire world.

“What… what happened?” he asked, bracing for the answer.

Wally sighed and turned, leaning against one of the workbenches. “One by one… they fell. First the strongest… then the rest…”

Dick finished the thought, his gaze unflinching. “The two of us… and a few others… held out until the very end.”

He paused, breathing deeply, the pain evident even in his controlled posture.

“But… when we were about to die… you appeared.”

Midoriya frowned, trying to make sense of it. “Me?” The word came out raw, almost without strength.

Wally nodded slowly.
"Yeah. You just appeared out of nowhere… right in the middle of the chaos. And with you came that other guy… the villain."

Dick leaned slightly forward, resting his hands on the edge of the table, his gaze locked on the boy as if trying to see straight through him.
"We did what we could to hold the line… but what happened after… that was you."

Midoriya felt his breath quicken, a chill running across his skin.
"What… did I do?"

Dick didn’t look away, and his voice cut through the air like cold steel.
"You killed him."

Midoriya froze. The sound of the heart monitors seemed to grow louder, marking each beat like a war drum.
"Shigaraki…?" he asked, barely above a whisper.

"Yeah," Dick confirmed without blinking. "We saw it. It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t clean. But you… ended him."

Wally, who had been silent until then, spoke up, his tone a strange mix of respect and unease.
"And that’s what saved the world… or what’s left of it."

Midoriya slowly sank back against the cot, the weight of the revelation pressing down on his shoulders. Defeating Shigaraki had been his goal for so long… but hearing he had done it under such brutal circumstances, in a world that wasn’t even his own… left a bitter taste.

Wally picked up the remote for one of the screens and switched it on.
"Maybe… you need to see this."

The image first came with static, then stabilized into a live news feed. Immediately, the sound of helicopters, sirens, and distant voices filled the cavern, breaking the heavy silence.

The reporter spoke with quick, uneven breaths, the microphone trembling slightly in his hand.
"…and we repeat, all alien ships—previously responsible for the global devastation—fell from the sky simultaneously. No warning signs. No detected weapon or coordinated strike. They just… fell."

The camera shook as it swept over a smoke-filled avenue in London, where twisted chunks of alien metal still sparked. In Tokyo, a wreck the size of a building crushed entire blocks. In Nairobi, crowds gathered around a shattered hull that, just hours ago, had been spitting death.

Midoriya kept his eyes on the screen, taking in every image as if he could smell the smoke and scorched metal from where he lay.

The reporter continued:
"We have no scientific explanation yet… but officials and survivors believe this was the result of the final effort of the heroes who remained."

The scene shifted to New York. A scorched red cape hung from the top of a light post, swaying gently in the wind. A group of soot-covered children painted Justice League symbols on broken walls with pieces of charcoal.

In Mumbai, a boy knelt on the cracked street, drawing the Flash emblem in bright chalk. In Sydney, firefighters raised an American flag and another with the League’s emblem atop a destroyed building.

Each scene was a portrait of a world desperately trying to believe there was still a future.

Midoriya felt a knot tighten in his throat. Victory didn’t smell like triumph—it smelled like ashes.

The camera cut to an anchor, his voice thick with emotion.
"Humanity… owes its survival… to these heroes."

Midoriya blinked a few times, trying to push away the sting in his eyes. What he saw on the screen felt bigger than any war he’d ever fought. His world had fallen… but this one looked shattered down to silence.

He took a breath, but his voice came out almost in a whisper.
"You… saved the world…"

Dick immediately looked away, as if the words were just another weight on already tired shoulders. His hand clenched into a tight fist, and when he spoke, his voice was dry.
"At what cost?"

Wally let out a short, humorless laugh. His eyes were damp, his smile bitter.
"At least… we won." But even that word felt hollow.

Silence returned, dense and heavy.

Midoriya looked back at the images. Children without parents. Families clutching broken picture frames. A woman hugging the burned uniform of someone who would never return.

He forced himself to swallow, his voice tight.
"What… what will you do now?"

Dick took his time answering. He stared at the console in front of him, eyes fixed on the buttons as if searching for an answer there. Finally, he lifted his head.
"We survived." The word hung in the air, raw. "And… we’ll make sure this world keeps going, somehow."

Then he looked directly at Midoriya, his gaze cutting through any doubt the boy might have had.
"And you, Izuku… you’ll have to decide what you’re going to do."

Midoriya felt the weight of each syllable. The promise he carried in his heart—the one to become a symbol—now felt farther away, but no less necessary. Maybe even more urgent.

He drew a deep breath and nodded, a quiet spark in his eyes.
"I… will help."

Wally raised an eyebrow, trying to soften the moment with a tired smile.
"Of course you will, hero."

But even there, deep in the cave, the echo of that newfound commitment felt like a silent vow between three survivors who couldn’t—wouldn’t—let the last hope die.

Midoriya lowered his gaze. He remembered All Might’s words, the tearful promise: "You can become a symbol."
Even here, in this fractured time, in a world not his own… the promise still beat in his chest.

He felt the weight of the uniform he no longer wore, but still carried on his shoulders. The legacy of One For All. The legacy of an entire generation who believed in something greater.
The promise wasn’t dead.

Not yet.

Dick turned back to the console, his fingers gliding over the keys with the precision of someone who had memorized every command long ago. The sharp click of the keys echoed through the cavern, almost like a metronome marking the start of something new.

Wally, leaning against the workbench nearby, crossed his arms as he watched. Behind his tired eyes was a focused vigilance, as if he didn’t want to miss a single movement.

Midoriya remained seated, his gaze shifting between the two of them. His breathing had steadied, but inside his chest, his heart still pounded—not out of fear, but from the weight of knowing that this choice—to stay and help—bound him to this world as much as his own promise ever had.

“We don’t know if there’s anyone else,” Dick said without turning. “Maybe it’s just us.”

The words reverberated in the cold air of the cave.

“But if it is…” He paused, glancing briefly at Midoriya and then at Wally. “Then we have to make their sacrifice mean something.”

A brief silence followed. Not heavy like before, but steady—like the moment right before a handshake.

Midoriya nodded. Wally nodded.

Neither of them smiled. Neither of them needed to say anything more.

Just three names, three broken stories, three hearts still willing to fight.
In the heart of the Batcave, beneath the hum of machines and the echoes of memories, a bond was forged—one that needed no ceremony, sealed in loss, strengthened by grief, and sustained by the relentless refusal to give in.

Chapter 5: Between Ghosts and Promises

Chapter 5 — Between Ghosts and Promises

Part 1 (POV – Midoriya Izuku)

"Are you sure you want to walk?" Dick asked, stopping beside the cot.

Midoriya nodded, pushing himself up by his knees. "If I stay still, my head’s going to explode. I need… to see where I am."

Wally shrugged, but a faint, sad half-smile escaped. "Then you’re getting the guided tour. It’s not exactly the happiest trip in the world."

"It’s not supposed to be happy," Dick replied, already moving ahead. "It’s for you to understand."

Midoriya frowned. "Understand what?"

"What’s left."

And so they started walking.

The silence in the Batcave was almost sacred—and heavy.

It wasn’t just the absence of sound, but the dense presence of something that clung to every stone, every machine, as if the air itself had been soaked in stories and ghosts.

The rhythmic echo of dripping water was lost in the depths, blending with the low hum of the servers and the distant drone of a ventilation system that seemed to breathe with the place. The metallic scent of aging steel mixed with the faint trace of old oil, grease, and settled dust. The damp chill rising from the raw rock walls seeped into the bones, as if the cave itself wanted to remind anyone who entered that the world outside no longer existed as it once had.

It was like walking through a mausoleum.
Not just one of technology—but of memories.

Dick walked among the darkened terminals, his short cape swaying slightly with each step. Under the weak glow of the hanging lamps, his figure cast long, broken shadows against the jagged walls. With every step, he felt the weight of the place pressing down on his shoulders. Once, this had been the heart of a network that connected heroes across the world. Now, it was the tomb of their era.

Wally followed close behind, saying nothing. His gaze stayed low—not out of inattention, but as if his eyes were avoiding the weight of what the place represented. The barely audible drag of his footsteps betrayed a weariness that wasn’t physical.

Midoriya, still wearing the hospital pajamas, came last. His steps were careful, almost hesitant, as if he feared any noise might profane the space. Though his body was steady enough to walk, there was a hesitation in the way he moved—not from pain, but from something that hurt more: the emptiness.

The emptiness of everything left behind.

Their footsteps echoed over the cold, metallic walkways.

To the left, a massive control panel sat lifeless.
Several loose cables hung like exposed veins, and on the table beside it, there was still a coffee mug, its contents dried into a crust at the bottom. No one had had the time—or the will—to clean it.

Midoriya brushed his fingers over the dusty surface of a workbench scattered with tools. A fallen wrench, scattered bolts… it looked as if someone had dropped everything and left in a hurry. He wondered if he should ask what had happened, but the heavy silence around him convinced him to keep his mouth shut.

Farther ahead, one of the platform lifts was stuck halfway, suspended in midair, holding a partially dismantled Batmobile. Missing parts, open panels, and a film of dust revealed how long it had been there.

Wally averted his eyes from that car. He knew exactly which one it was and who had driven it last.

The group passed a cracked glass wall, behind which the armory could be seen. Many shelves stood empty, and those that still held weapons looked untouched for months. The internal lights flickered irregularly, as if the system itself was resisting its final shutdown.

Midoriya felt crushed by the atmosphere. This wasn’t just a hideout—it was a living memorial. And every object, every corner, was an unmarked grave.

Dick stopped before a raised circular platform, surrounded by terminals and projectors. "This is where the main table used to be." His voice was deep but without emphasis, as if the act of remembering alone carried enough weight. "Batman held meetings here with the core members of the League."

Midoriya looked around, picturing the circle filled with legendary figures he knew only by name. Now, only three shadows moved through the ruins.

"And now…?" he began to ask, but the question trailed off before it could leave his lips.

Dick didn’t answer. He just kept walking toward a higher section of the cave, where a row of mannequins stood—now all empty.

Missing uniforms.

Dust outlines where weapons had once hung.

A place built for heroes. Now, only memories.

Dick kept moving, and Midoriya followed, still taking in every detail of this place that felt frozen in time.

They climbed a narrow ramp that led to a more elevated, isolated section of the cave. As they approached, the air seemed heavier, as if every step pulled them deeper into a memory that didn’t want to be revisited.

There, lined in silence, stood several combat mannequins.
Some still wore intact uniforms, preserved like relics. Others were bare, only a hollow, dust-covered silhouette marking where a hero had once stood.

Midoriya stopped when he noticed one mannequin—clean, dustless, without a suit—as if someone had cared for it recently. The pedestal gleamed under the soft light, standing alone.

Dick stopped in front of it.
“There’s always someone left…” he said, without looking at anyone.

Midoriya lifted his gaze. “What?”

“In the stories,” Dick continued, his tone distant, “there’s always someone left to tell. To remember.”

Wally, walking behind them, crossed his arms and looked upward, as if trying to see something beyond the rocky ceiling.
“Someone to carry the names of those who fell.”

Midoriya fixed his eyes on the pedestal, picturing what had been there: a black cape, a bat symbol, a cold mask. And he understood without needing to ask.

“Bruce…” Dick said, the name carrying a strange weight. “He didn’t leave notes. He didn’t leave final instructions. But I know what he’d expect from me.”

He paused for a moment.

“To get back up.”

Wally gave a sad smile.
“He was always good with motivational words, huh?”

Dick shook his head but smiled faintly in return.
“No. He was terrible at it. But… he showed it. Showed it through action.”

Midoriya lowered his eyes, taking a deep breath. Those words, that veiled grief… it all felt too familiar. As if he could hear them in the voice of someone else who had also lost everything, yet kept moving forward.

All Might…

The memory of the fallen Symbol of Peace pulled him back for a moment. The pain in his chest—the same.

“I… lost everyone too,” he said, his voice nearly breaking.

Dick looked at him then, no longer with suspicion in his eyes, but with empathy.
“Tell me about them,” he said. “If you want.”

Midoriya hesitated. For a moment, the fear that no one could understand gripped his chest. But here, in front of these two, in this cave built of loss, he felt that maybe… he would be understood.

“I was part of a school,” he began. “A school for hero training. U.A. We trained to protect people… to keep the peace. I had friends there—Uraraka Ochako, Iida Tenya, Todoroki Shouto, Bakugo Katsuki… Jirou Kyouka… and my mentor, All Might.”

Wally sat on a nearby workbench, listening closely. Dick remained standing, arms crossed, focused on the boy.

“We fought against a man named All For One. A villain who could steal Quirks… powers… and use them as weapons. He destroyed everything. When we thought we had beaten him… he came back. With Shigaraki. They wiped out almost the whole world. Not much was left.”

Midoriya drew a deep breath, eyes fixed on an empty point in space.
“And then… I fought him again. It was hard… I lost hope of winning and tried something drastic, I guess. And after that… I ended up here.”

Silence lingered for a moment.

Dick stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Then… you understand.”

Midoriya nodded, squeezing his eyes shut to hold back tears.
“Yes… I understand.”

Wally let out a sigh.
“Still hurts like hell, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Midoriya replied. “But… if we’re still here…”

“Then we have to make it count,” Dick finished.

The three of them stood there in silence once again. But now, it was a different silence.

Not the silence of mourning.

The silence of something beginning to rebuild.

Maybe not hope.
Not yet.

But companionship.

A fragment of relief among the ruins.

Dick looked at the two of them, then at the darkness of the cave. The Batcave was wounded. But still standing. Just like them.

“There’s always someone left,” he repeated. “Even if it’s just us.”

And this time… no one disagreed.

 

Part 2 (POV – Robin)

Robin typed with precision, but the keystrokes sounded muffled in the Batcave, as if even the noise was afraid to echo too loudly in that emptiness. Every command he entered produced a short burst of static, coming and going like the shallow breaths of a dying man.

The air was cold, heavy. The dampness from the stone walls seemed to cling to the skin, and the faint metallic scent mixed with the dust that had settled into the cracks of the tables. The main monitor displayed nothing but code and incomplete signal bars — each failure like a silent blow to their hope.

Wally stood beside him, arms crossed, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his attempt to seem calm. His foot tapped against the floor almost imperceptibly, an involuntary reflex. Behind the mask, his eyes shifted between the screen and Dick’s face, as if searching for some positive sign that never came.

The silence, broken only by the occasional pop of the radio, began to feel mocking — as if the world itself refused to answer. It was the kind of waiting that made seconds feel like minutes and minutes stretch into hours.

Dick kept his gaze fixed on the screen, his fingers repeating sequences of codes known only to a few members of the League. Small, secure commands, like passwords whispered in a nearly extinct language. He didn’t speak, but his posture said it all: if there was anyone alive, anyone even remotely conscious, this would reach them.

Wally opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a different sound. A low beep echoed from the console — a sound they hadn’t heard in weeks.

Both leaned forward. On the monitor, a symbol slowly began to take shape, blinking in an irregular pattern. When it finally appeared, Wally held his breath.

It was a red arrow.

The symbol pulsed on the screen like a heart trying to find its rhythm again. For a moment, neither of them moved, afraid that any motion might erase that fragile connection.

“It can’t be…” Wally whispered, his voice barely audible.

Dick, eyes locked on the screen, didn’t answer. His thumb hovered over the connection command for a few agonizing seconds. Then, with a single press, the symbol dissolved into static, and the image began to form.

Roy Harper’s face emerged piece by piece, like a torn photograph being restored pixel by pixel. First a blurred outline, then washed-out colors, and finally — almost — clarity.

Wally let out a shaky breath when he saw him. Roy was almost unrecognizable: soot covering half his face, a gash on his forehead with a trail of dried blood running down his cheek, his uniform torn in several places, exposing bruised skin. But the eyes… the eyes still burned with the same intensity as always.

Dick felt his chest tighten. Part of him wanted to speak immediately, but another part simply froze, taking in every detail.

“Dick… Wally…” Roy’s voice came with a backdrop of static, weak, almost swallowed by the interference. Still, it carried a weight no distortion could hide. “I thought you… that no one…”

The silence stretched for a second before Dick managed to reply, his voice steady but low.

“We’re here. We made it.”

Roy looked away, pressing his lips together, as if those words stirred memories he could barely hold back. He took a deep breath, but his voice still cracked halfway through.

“Ollie and Dinah… didn’t make it.”

Wally closed his eyes and lowered his head, as if trying to hide his expression. Dick just blinked slowly, keeping his eyes on Roy.

The weight of those words didn’t just hang in the air — it filled it, making the cave feel even denser, colder.

Dick took a deep breath, a knot tightening in his throat. He wanted to say something — anything — but words felt too small for the weight of what Roy had just shared.

“I’m sorry, Roy,” he finally said, and the raw sincerity in his voice made even Wally lift his head.

Roy nodded slowly, but there was no relief in the gesture. It was more an acknowledgment that between them, there was no room for lies or empty promises. Only painful truths.

“Star City’s in ruins,” Roy continued, his voice steady only through sheer will. “But there are still people alive. A few cops, a few civilians. We’re trying to keep order… without them… it’s almost impossible.”

Dick closed his eyes for a second, exhaling in a controlled way. When he opened them, he spoke quietly but with weight.

“Green Arrow held the line until the very end. If it weren’t for him… and Canary…”

The silence lingered, and Wally, eyes fixed on the screen, finished for him:

“…the world would have fallen even faster.”

Roy didn’t respond immediately, but the way his lips trembled said enough. That pain was far too familiar to all of them.

In that moment — in the space between words and the weight they carried — a silent bond formed. They were separated by hundreds of miles, but it felt like they stood side by side, holding each other up not with strength, but with presence.

Wally stepped closer, his hand on Dick’s shoulder, and looked at the screen.

“You’re not alone, man. Not anymore.”

Roy took a deep breath. His image flickered slightly, then he nodded.

“And you two… what happened with the invasion? Was that you?”

“Nothing good,” Dick replied. “But we protected what we could. And… we had help. You’re gonna want to hear about that later.”

Then, as if fate knew the moment needed to be broken before it collapsed under its own weight, a new signal flashed in the corner of the screen.

“We’ve got someone else,” Dick murmured, leaning in to open the connection.

The screen flickered, and Roy’s image was pushed into the corner as the new feed slowly opened, static and distortions filling the view. Gradually, the figure of a woman emerged.

The face was unmistakable. Zatanna Zatara.

Her black uniform was torn in several places, the hat was gone, and her long brown hair fell in disarray over her shoulders. But what truly stood out were her eyes—red and swollen, as if crying had been the only constant in recent days.

“Dick… Wally…” Her voice trembled in a way neither of them had ever heard before. She brought one hand to her mouth, as if she needed to confirm they were real. “My God… I thought… I thought no one else had survived.”

The contrast with Roy was striking. He was battle-worn, holding his pain behind a hard armor of composure. Zatanna, on the other hand, let every emotional fracture show.

Wally, feeling the weight of her gaze, forced a half-smile.
“Hey, Zee… guess we’ve still got more lives than we should.”

She let out a laugh, but it was fragile, almost a disguised sob.
“Where are you?”

“In the Batcave,” Dick answered, without looking away from her. “And you?”

“San Francisco…” She paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I’ve got a shelter here. Small. The city is… destroyed. But I managed to raise a magical barrier. I don’t know how much longer it will hold. It’s getting weaker.”

Dick nodded, already running through possibilities in his mind. As he processed, he noticed something in Zatanna’s eyes: despite all the pain, there was a spark. A small flame stubbornly refusing to go out.

It was different from Roy’s hardness, but just as necessary.

That’s how survivors were made—completely different in their ways, but always with something inside that refused to die.

“Are you alone?” Dick asked, his voice steady.

For a moment, Zatanna looked away. The question seemed simple, but the silence that followed was more eloquent than any immediate answer. She took a breath, and when she looked back at them, her eyes were brimming with fresh tears.

“Yes…” she whispered. “But not by choice.”

The Batcave felt quieter. Even Roy, in the corner of the screen, tilted his head, listening.

“Everyone else…” Zatanna’s voice broke. “They either fell… or just vanished. Since that day, I’ve been doing what I can. I use illusions to throw off patrols… I reinforce the barrier when the magic fades… I create enchanted food. But…” She bit her lip, hesitating. “There are children here, Dick. Families. They look at me like I can save all of them… and I’m not sure I can.”

Wally swallowed hard.
“You can, Zee.”

She gave another laugh, this one without humor.
“I try to believe that. Sometimes it works. Other times… it feels like I’m just delaying the inevitable.”

Roy leaned closer to the camera, his expression hard.
“Delaying the inevitable is still resisting. Sometimes that’s all we need until help comes.”

The words hung in the air, heavy but not cold. Dick absorbed them in silence, watching Zatanna as if weighing not just her situation, but the strength she still carried.

It was strange—each of them had survived in completely different ways. Roy, through physical resilience and emotional steel. Zatanna, through quiet obstinacy and a broken but still-living faith.

And in that moment, Dick realized that despite their differences, they were all fighting for the same thing.

Wally cleared his throat, trying to stay functional.
“You’re not going to stay alone. We’ll find a way. Keep in touch. Reorganize.”

Zatanna let out a humorless laugh.
“Reorganize? Wally, the entire League… all the pillars… they’re gone.”

“I know,” Robin said, his eyes locked on the screen. “But it’s not just the League that matters now. It’s what’s left.”

Zatanna took a deep breath, trying to keep her voice steady, but the tremor was still there.
“I… I don’t know if I can. My father… my father is dead.”

Wally straightened, unsure if he’d heard her right.
“Zatara…?”

She nodded slowly, pressing her lips together to keep her emotions in check.
“He helped me protect the shelter until the last second. He used everything he had to hold the magic… to keep the creatures away.” Her breath shook. “When the barrier he raised started to break, he… he looked at me and smiled. Said he was proud. And…” Her voice cracked, forcing her to swallow the sob, “…and he asked me to live.”

Dick kept his eyes on her, saying nothing at first. It wasn’t just empathy—it was recognition. He knew the weight of losing someone who guided more than just your path as a hero.

“He believed in you until the very end, Zee,” he said firmly. “And you’re honoring that.”

Zatanna inhaled deeply, not answering right away. When she did, her voice was lower.
“And because of that, I wonder if I’m strong enough for this. But… it’s all I have left. To keep going.”

Roy looked away, as if Zatanna’s pain was something he also knew too well. Wally, on the other hand, forced a small smile.
“If that’s what he wanted… then we’ll make sure it was worth it.”

For a few seconds, silence reigned. Not an empty silence. A silence of respect.

Roy spoke again.

"Dick… are you going to take the lead?"

The question hung in the air. Heavy. Loaded with meaning.

Dick looked away for a moment, as if the shadows of the cave were easier to face than the question. When he finally answered, his voice was controlled, but carried a weight that couldn’t be hidden.
"No. I’m not going to take the lead… but someone has to do something."

Zatanna watched him through the screen, and for a moment, the boy she knew seemed different — harder, more distant.
"And you think you can be that someone?" she asked, not as a challenge, but as if she wanted to be sure.

"It doesn’t matter what I think." Dick straightened his back. "The Batcave is still operational. We still have technology. Remote bases. What’s left can be rebuilt… but it won’t be quick. Or pretty."

Wally glanced sideways at him, his voice tight.
"And if no one else shows up?"

Dick took a deep breath before answering.
"Then we work with who’s left."

The terminal began blinking with new signals — anonymous transmissions, fragments of voices, broken coordinates. Echoes of a world trying to connect again.

Roy let out a breath.
"Three heroes talking to ghost signals in a dark cave… this should be the start of a joke."

Zatanna managed a faint smile.
"Only if the joke has a happy ending."

"Doubt it." Dick shook his head. "But maybe it can have a new beginning."

That’s when a weak, yet clear voice broke the silence.
"A new beginning… is all we need."

Dick and Wally turned at the same time.

Midoriya was awake, propped up on one elbow on the cot. His face was pale, exhaustion plain to see… but his eyes were steady.
"I don’t know how I ended up here," he said, voice hoarse but resolute, "but if you’re willing to fight… so am I."

Wally shot Dick a quick look, and a tired smile appeared on his face.
"Welcome to the mess, hero."

Dick crossed his arms, allowing himself a faint smirk.
"Then we’re four. Five, if we count Roy."

Zatanna, on the other side of the screen, discreetly wiped away a tear and nodded.
"Maybe we can still start something."

The terminal beeped again with distant signals, but no one turned toward it. In that moment, the number was small, the hope fragile… but the next step was set.

There, among ruins and ghosts, they knew:
It wasn’t the end.

It was the beginning.

Part 3( POV- Midoriya Izuku)

The silence of the Batcave was broken only by the constant hum of the electronics and the faint clinking of keys being pressed.

Midoriya Izuku sat before one of the secondary terminals, eyes fixed on the multiple screens sliding past, his hands trembling slightly over the keyboard.

Robin had given him restricted access to the files — not total, but enough for him to start understanding the world he had fallen into.

“You can use the console,” Dick had said before moving off to help Wally with communications. “Just… try not to hack all of Gotham, okay?”

Midoriya had managed a faint smile. But now, staring at the slowly rotating insignia of the Justice League on the screen, the smile was gone.

He pressed Enter.

“File: Justice League History.”

Images began to flash by.

Superman lifting a car as if it were made of paper. Wonder Woman standing before an army, her golden lasso shining like a sun in the middle of a storm. Green Lantern shaping constructs of energy through sheer willpower. And finally… Batman. The shadow among gods, charging against an enemy who towered over him without a moment’s hesitation.

Midoriya held his breath. The images were different, but… familiar. In Musutafu, he had grown up watching videos of the Pro Heroes in action — All Might smiling even with a battered body, Endeavor standing against hordes of villains, Eraserhead protecting his students even when exhausted.

But here… the impossible was routine.

He clicked to advance.

The images changed. Now they were wars. Alien invasions. Massive shadowy creatures that looked torn straight out of a nightmare. Heroes fighting side by side, falling, rising again… until the screen flickered.

The most recent file opened on its own, as if it wanted to be seen.

“Extinction Event — Alien Invasion.”

Midoriya hesitated.

Then, he clicked.

The display filled with raw footage: Metropolis in flames. The sea rising over Themyscira. A fleet of black ships blotting out the sky, spewing beams of light that devoured everything. Death came like a clean cut — no time for heroes or civilians to react.

He saw Superman struck by multiple energy beams, his red cape burning in the air before his body vanished into the light. He saw Wonder Woman’s sword shatter against one of the invaders before she was swallowed by an explosion. He saw Giovanni Zatara raising a massive magical shield to protect civilians, only to be obliterated along with the spell when the sky broke apart.

And at the end… he saw Batman, surrounded by fire and smoke, casting one last look at a drone camera before disappearing into the wreckage.

Midoriya clenched his fist on the table, his chest tightening.
They had lost.
What he saw wasn’t just the death of individuals — it was the death of pillars, of beacons that held an entire world together.

He blinked several times, trying to push away the image of Giovanni Zatara consumed by the light. That man wasn’t just a magician — he was a father to someone still out there, alive, carrying that weight.

The silence of the Batcave now felt like a distant echo of the roar in those recordings. The screens showed heroes surrounded by crowds, backed by comrades, fighting together… and yet, what remained now were a handful of survivors, scattered, hidden, speaking through fragile transmissions.

It was like going from a packed stadium to an empty hallway.

In Musutafu, Midoriya knew that if he called, someone would answer — a Pro Hero, a classmate, someone willing to fight. But here…
Here, he realized there might be no one left to answer the call except those in the cave with him right now.

He saw himself in the footage — a green blur tearing through the mothership with raw fury.

“I… was there.”

But now…

He glanced away at the pale reflection in the monitor beside him.

“What am I here? An intruder? An accident?”

He wanted answers. But he wasn’t sure if he had the strength to look for them.

That’s when the memory came.
Not of a battle, not of a war cry… but of a quiet night, on the dorm balcony at U.A., when the wind carried the scent of the sleeping city.
All Might, already in his weakened form, leaned on the railing, gazing at the horizon as if searching for something beyond the distant lights.

“Midoriya…” he had said, that deep voice tinged with an unusual softness, “being a hero… isn’t about always winning. Or about saving the whole world all at once.”
He had paused, as if weighing every word.
“It’s about standing up every time the challenge is in front of you. Even when everything seems lost.”

Back then, Midoriya hadn’t fully understood the weight of those words.
But now, sitting in a cave that had once been the command center of the world’s greatest detective, surrounded by echoes of a past that wouldn’t return, he felt the meaning of every syllable.

It was as if All Might was standing there in the dark, telling him that no matter how much the world fell apart… the responsibility to rise was still his.

He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath.

And when he opened them again, he saw the Justice League insignia differently. Not just as a symbol of what was lost. But as a promise of what could be rebuilt.

The soft click of footsteps echoed through the cave.

Dick appeared beside him with two mugs, the smell of hot coffee mixing with the cave’s cold air.
“How you holding up?” he asked, offering one.

Midoriya took it, hesitant.
“Still… trying to figure out who I am here.”

Dick let out a short, tired laugh.
“Yeah… welcome to the club.” He took a sip of his coffee, grimacing slightly at the strong taste. “You know, I’m not officially part of the League. Never was.”

Midoriya’s eyebrows rose.
“But… you’re Robin.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t give me super strength, X-ray vision, or a flying cape.” He rested the mug on his knee. “I was just ‘the Batman’s kid.’ A trainee. And… Batman trained me to never fail. That’s a lot for anyone, especially when you’re, I don’t know… thirteen and should still be playing video games.”

Midoriya stared at the screen in front of him.
"I inherited something too… a huge power, from someone I admire more than anyone. But… deep down, I’ve always wondered if I was the right guy for it."

Dick let out a short breath, almost a laugh.
"Okay… so that’s two things we have in common."

For a few seconds, only the hum of the monitors filled the space. Dick swirled the coffee in his cup, staring into it as if searching for an answer inside.
"The truth?" he continued. "I don’t think anyone ever feels ready. But if we wait until we are… the world will already be gone."

Midoriya looked up.
"So… how do we keep going?"

"We don’t keep going because of a symbol." Dick shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "We keep going because someone has to. And… because, whether we notice it or not, we don’t know how to stop."

Midoriya blinked, a small smile forming.
"Too stubborn to quit?"

Dick returned the smile.
"Yeah. And a little stupid too."

They both laughed quietly, the sound echoing softly through the cavernous space.
Midoriya leaned back in his chair, turning his gaze back to the League insignia on the screen. Before, it had looked like an epitaph. Now… it felt like a starting point.

Dick downed the rest of his coffee in one gulp, set the cup on the table, and stood.
"So, Deku…" he said the nickname naturally, as if it had already been part of the team for years, "welcome to the mess."

Midoriya looked up at him.
"I… want to help rebuild. For real."

Dick didn’t answer right away. He simply extended his hand—not like a formal leader, but like someone saying, Alright. We’re in this together.

Midoriya looked at that hand for a moment, feeling the weight of it. It was strangely similar to the day All Might had offered him his power… only now, there was no promise of invincible strength. Just the promise that he wouldn’t fight alone.

He shook it.
The gesture wasn’t long, nor dramatic, but it carried a quiet strength.

There, in the cold, empty heart of the Batcave, a boy from Gotham and a hero from another world made an agreement that needed no oaths.
It wasn’t about inheriting perfect legacies.
It was about building something new… from the ashes.

—
Part 4

The silence before the meal wasn’t uncomfortable, but it carried that peculiar weight of people trying to get used to living after a war.

The improvised electric stove crackled softly, and the steam escaping from the pot mixed with the cold air of the Batcave, creating a thin mist that danced under the dim light of the lamps.

In the background, the distant echo of water dripping into the cracks of the walls was a reminder that this place was, in the end, just a cave shaped by the hand of someone stubborn.

Dick stirred the stew with almost methodical focus—as if cooking was just another mission to complete. Beside him, Wally cut the stale bread with quick movements, though his expression betrayed a certain weariness in his eyes.

Midoriya watched them, and something about that scene—so simple, so mundane—held him in place. They weren’t superheroes in that moment. They weren’t survivors from different worlds.

They were just three boys trying to create a little bit of normalcy amidst cold concrete and electrical cables.

It was… comforting.
And at the same time, painful.

“It’s not much, but… it’ll do,” Dick said, serving the stew into three metal bowls.

“Man, you should’ve let me handle this. I’m the master of microwave cuisine,” Wally teased, taking his bowl with a tired smile.

“Wally, cooking in the microwave doesn’t count if you burn half of what you heat up,” Dick replied, raising an eyebrow.

Midoriya let out a restrained laugh, surprised at himself for still being able to laugh.

They sat around one of the central tables, pushing aside equipment and crumpled papers, turning the heart of the Batcave into an improvised dining table.

" So… " Wally began between spoonfuls, "you also started young in this hero life, right? I mean, you mentioned earlier about that school… U.A., wasn’t it?"

Midoriya nodded, blowing on the hot broth.
"Yeah. It’s where we trained to become heroes. I… had friends there. Uraraka, Iida, Todoroki…"

Wally shook his head, clearly impressed.
"A school just for heroes still sounds amazing to me!" he said with a crooked smile. "Although… knowing my luck, I’d probably end up in detention on the very first day."

Dick, with a discreet smile, added, “I started as Batman’s partner. I was… nine years old when I first wore this suit. Sounds crazy now.”

Midoriya looked up, curious.
“What was it like… being trained by him?”

Dick shrugged, glancing at his worn gloves.
“Strict. Demanding. But… fair. Batman always knew how to draw out what I didn’t think I had. The ‘R’ on the chest… he said it was to remind me I didn’t need to be his shadow. That I was Robin, with my own light.”

Midoriya smiled in admiration. Wally leaned in, nudging Dick’s shoulder.
“You’re forgetting to say the uniform had green shorts and a yellow cape! I thought it was awful.”

“I was a kid, Wally,” Dick replied, laughing.

Wally pointed his spoon at Midoriya.
“Speaking of outfits… that hood of yours with the ears is kind of unusual, don’t you think?”

Midoriya’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Hey! I like it! It’s a symbol for me! It was meant to be inspired by my mentor…”

“Leave him alone, Wally,” Dick said, raising a hand, amused. “We all had embarrassing costumes. Mine was… way too colorful and those little shorts didn’t help. But Bruce said the colors were a target. He wanted enemies to look at me… not him.”

Midoriya grew thoughtful.
“In my world… most people are born with powers. We call them Quirks. But… being a hero… it’s not just about having power. It’s a choice. You decide how much you’re willing to sacrifice.”

The tone of the conversation shifted, growing heavier. Wally set his spoon down in the bowl, staring at the table.
“Yeah… sacrifice. We know that well.”

Dick stayed silent, his gaze fixed on the shadow the lamp cast over the table. For a moment, all the laughter was gone, and the weight of what they had lost hung in the air again.

Midoriya then spoke, quieter this time.
“In my world, being a hero is a profession. But… even with powers… not everyone chooses to fight. Because fighting… means losing. Friends… family… parts of yourself.”

Dick looked at him as if he saw not just a survivor, but someone who, despite his youth, understood the same pain they carried.

Wally lifted his head, breaking the silence with a crooked smile.
“I guess that makes us three idiots who chose to fight anyway, huh?”

Midoriya smiled without answering. He looked at his hands, clenching them into fists, remembering All Might’s words… “Put on a smile and keep moving forward.”

“I promise,” he said firmly, looking at both of them. “I’ll help you. With everything I have. No matter what happens.”

Dick straightened, resting his elbows on the table.
“Then that makes three of us,” he said, extending his hand toward Midoriya.

Midoriya shook it firmly, feeling a different weight in the gesture. It wasn’t just a promise. It was a pact.

Wally, without ceremony, threw an arm over both their shoulders.

 

“If we’re going to rebuild the world, then we’re doing it our way. And fair warning—you’re stuck with me.”

The three of them laughed. Short, but genuine.

In the cold vastness of the Batcave, surrounded by ghosts and loss, three young men from different worlds and different times had just forged a new alliance.

It wasn’t the Justice League.

It wasn’t a new Team.

It was something simpler… and maybe stronger.

And it was a beginning.

(Shared POV)

At that moment, none of them really understood what they were sealing.
It was just a simple meal. A handshake. A joke to cut the weight of the moment.
But in the absence of everything they had once known, small gestures took on the weight of eternal promises.

Midoriya could feel the steady grip of Dick’s hand, and for a moment, he saw the reflection of All Might in his eyes—not through physical strength, but through silent conviction.

When Dick looked at Midoriya, he recognized something he knew well: the stubborn will to keep going, even when there was no one left to lead the way.

And Wally, despite his easygoing demeanor, knew that the hands gripping his own were the same hands that had once carried worlds on their shoulders.

There were no perfect uniforms here, no untouchable symbols, no infallible leaders.
Just three kids who had lost too much… but still refused to give up.

Maybe this was what Batman had meant, years ago, when he told him Robin didn’t need to be anyone’s shadow.

Maybe this was what All Might had tried to teach Midoriya when he said a smile was a hero’s first line of defense.

Maybe this was what Wally had always believed, even if he’d never put it into words—that running alone meant nothing if there wasn’t someone waiting at the finish line.

When they let go of each other’s hands, there was something different in the air.
The Batcave was still cold and silent, but it didn’t feel as empty.

The hum of the computers and the faint drip of water now sounded like the slow rhythm of a heartbeat—one that hadn’t stopped with the fall of the League, only waited to be revived.

They didn’t know if the world was ready for them.
But they knew they were ready for the world.

And deep down, each of them carried the same quiet certainty:
A legacy doesn’t end… as long as someone is willing to carry it.

Chapter 6: Promises in the Silence

Notes:

Hey everyone, sorry for the delay.
I really had trouble putting this chapter out—no matter what I did, I just couldn’t feel satisfied with the final product. Honestly, I’m still not completely happy with it, but I’ve realized it’s probably not going to get much better than this.

Chapter 6 – Promises in the Silence

 

Part 1

 

The constant hum of the Batcave’s systems echoed in the cold, dense air like a mechanical murmur that never ceased. The sound blended with a distant drip, its soft echo resonating against damp stone walls. The shadows of the metal columns stretched under the faint glow of the screens, and some equipment bore thin layers of dust—a silent portrait of everything that had been left behind.

The air carried a faint metallic scent, a mix of oil, grease, and moisture. With each step, a light metallic creak reverberated through the empty space, a reminder that, though alive with machines, this place was far too devoid of people. The bluish light from the monitors painted their faces in pale tones, casting distorted shadows that moved like silent specters around them.

Dick stood at the main console, his fingers moving with calculated precision. Every command sent felt like it was crossing an ocean of silence, searching for answers in the electronic void.

Wally leaned against a column, arms crossed, drumming his fingers against his bicep in an uneven rhythm, as if trying to keep his restlessness in check. The usual mischievous glint in his eyes was dimmer now, replaced by something that felt like impatience mixed with concern.

Farther back, Midoriya watched in silence, his hands loosely curled at his sides. He took in every detail—the slight twitch at the corner of Dick’s mouth, the way Wally avoided looking at the League’s symbol, the sound of every beep hitting like a gunshot in his chest. No explanations were needed: that silence spoke more than any report.

"Anything?" Wally asked. His voice carried an unusual weight for someone who usually spoke too quickly.

Dick didn’t answer right away. Another signal sent. More static.
"The same two points as always," he said at last. "One in Star City. Another in San Francisco."

Wally raised his eyebrows. "Roy and Zatanna…"

"Roy’s still in the city, keeping civilians safe," Dick explained, adjusting the console’s filters. "I managed to track the signal from his hood."

He paused briefly before continuing. "Zatanna’s sheltering with survivors. The signal shows she’s pushing herself past her limit… probably keeping protective spells active."

Wally let out a sigh and stepped down a few steps, sitting heavily. "So they’re still out there…" A brief smile crossed his face, quickly replaced by concern. "…but alone."

"Alone, but alive," Dick corrected, and for the first time, a trace of relief crept into his tone.

The sharp beep that cut through the air didn’t draw gasps of surprise—it simply made all three of them straighten instinctively, as if a silent order had just been given. It was almost a conditioned reflex—months of waiting and silence had taught them that each message was a reminder there were still pieces on the board.

On the console, the words appeared with the same blunt objectivity as always:

> "Star City holding. Improvised shelter. Civilians safe. Do not approach yet."

 

Dick read it without rushing, his eyes passing twice over the last sentence. Wally let out a short sound through his nose, half a laugh, half a sigh.
"He never changes…" he muttered, speaking more to himself than to the others.

Another beep. This time, Midoriya leaned forward slightly, as if he already knew who it was from.

> "I’m fine. Protecting who’s left. Don’t take risks. You’re our hope now. — Z."

 

The "Z." faded slowly, but it didn’t need to be on the screen to stay in their minds. Wally gave a small, crooked smile, shaking his head.
"Same stubbornness as always…"

Dick closed his eyes for a moment—not to rest, but to etch those words into memory. It wasn’t news that they were alive, but hearing it again, confirming it again… it still carried weight.
"They’re still out there. Still holding on."

Deep down, Midoriya didn’t need to say anything. He knew that feeling well: the lukewarm relief that never fully warmed you, and the urgency that always followed right behind.

Dick kept his gaze on the screen for another moment. "They’re doing their part. It’s up to us to do ours."

From the far end of the platform, Midoriya stayed silent. He didn’t need details—he already recognized that kind of look. Hope hanging by a thread.

Dick straightened, planting his hands on the console.
"We’re still a team… even if we’re in pieces."

Wally lifted his chin, trying to hide the tension with a sideways grin.
"So, boss… what’s the next move?"

Dick stepped away from the console, the sound of his boots echoing on the metal platform. He stopped before the cracked emblem of the Justice League, his eyes tracing each fracture, each burn mark.

"Not erased. Just marked."

His hand clenched into a fist, and what came next wasn’t a rehearsed speech—it was a promise, spoken with the ease of someone who had already decided long before he said it:

"When we’re ready… we regroup." He glanced at Wally, then at Midoriya. "No matter how many of us are still standing."

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind that sealed agreements. Wally gave a slight nod, and Midoriya answered only with a firm look.

There was no audience, no records, but for the three of them, that moment was worth as much as any official oath.

--

Part 2

 

The Batcave remained silent except for the steady drip of water from the stalactites and the constant hum of the automated systems. The air was cold and dry, carrying the scent of oil, metal, and damp stone. On the walls, uneven shadows danced as the monitor lights shifted, casting bluish reflections across the faces of Dick, Wally, and Midoriya.

Along the suspended walkways, thick cables and old pipes crossed like exposed veins, blending with advanced technology. In one corner, vehicles covered with tarps held the weight of past stories, while tool-littered tables spoke of hasty repairs with no time for organization.

The central console glowed with a cold light, partially illuminating the stone floor, while the cavern’s dark expanse vanished into the distance. Everything here seemed designed to remind them that, even in the heart of technology, Gotham still rested on something primal—almost wild.

Dick logged something into the console without looking away from the screen.
"Roy managed to stabilize part of the situation in Star City," Dick said, typing rapidly. "He’s keeping the rescue teams running."

"And Zee…" Wally paused, frowning. "Her signal’s still unstable, but at least we heard her voice yesterday. She’s helping evacuate families, even with the city in chaos."

Midoriya glanced at the holographic map, letting relief mix with unease.
"So… we still have active allies," he said, more to himself than to the others.

Dick gave a small nod.
"And they need us to get there before things get worse."

The words lingered in the air until Midoriya noticed the list of unanswered transmissions in the corner of the screen—names that, even without knowing them, gave him the sense this world had lost more than it had gained in recent days.

Dick’s gaze remained fixed on the console.
"Exactly. And they’re fighting to hold on to what’s left."

Midoriya’s eyes lingered on the list of unanswered signals, blinking red on the side of the display. They weren’t just codes and frequencies—each one represented someone who wasn’t there to respond. A familiar weight settled in his chest, the same feeling he’d had arriving too late to save someone.

Wally crossed his arms, looking away as if avoiding what it meant. For him, every lost codename was a voice that would never speak over the comms again, an ally who wouldn’t see the end of this crisis.

Dick’s face stayed impassive, but his hands clenched on the console. He’d spent nights staring at that list, clinging to the irrational hope that a new signal might appear. None ever did.

The silence between the three wasn’t empty—it was full of absences.

Wally caught Midoriya looking at the list.
"We’ve tried everyone. Lanterns. The League’s response teams. Even old emergency frequencies. Nothing."

"Other than them… nothing," Dick said flatly. "It’s like shouting into a desert."

The weight of his words hung there until Midoriya stepped forward.
"Then… it’s us." His voice didn’t waver. It was a simple, direct statement—but it carried a weight Dick and Wally knew too well.

Dick turned away from the screens to study him. There was something in that tone, that steadiness, that reminded him of the longest nights beside Batman.
"That’s exactly what Bruce taught me," he said quietly. "When no one else can act… you go. Even if you’re not ready."

Wally let out a sigh, unable to hide a sad smile.
"Guess that philosophy doesn’t change, even with interdimensional invasions."

Dick activated the holographic map again, zooming in on the United States and plotting routes from Gotham to Star City, then to San Francisco.
"Flying would be fastest. But the Batplane… hasn’t been operational since the evacuation."

"By land?" Midoriya suggested.

Dick rotated the physical map so they could all see, tracing a straight line from Gotham to Star City.
"This is the most direct route… and the most dangerous," he said, pointing to red-marked areas. "These spots are instability zones—no recent intel."

Wally leaned over the table, drumming his fingers. "And here, in the middle, there’s a bridge that was already in bad shape before all this started. If it’s down, we’ll have to take a huge detour."

Midoriya studied the route like he was seeing each mile in his head. "What if we avoid the main highways? In my world, when a city was blocked off, we used parallel routes through less obvious areas… slower sometimes, but less guarded."

Dick raised an eyebrow, surprised by the logic.
"Gotham’s got an old network of tunnels and underground passages. Many were used during the evacuations. But outside the city, it’s open terrain… and problematic."

"And the Zeta Tubes?" Midoriya asked, already expecting the answer.

Wally gave a short, bitter laugh.
"Most are destroyed or offline. Star City, Metropolis, Central City… all down."

Dick ran a hand through his hair, then turned to a shelf and pulled down an old physical map, unfolding it on the table with a snap.
"We’ll have to chart a safe route. Every mile’s going to require improvisation. But priority’s clear: Star City first. Roy can give us logistical support. Then we head to San Francisco to help Zatanna and the civilians."

Wally studied the map with a pragmatic look, though exhaustion was written on his face.
"And after that?"

Dick didn’t answer right away. The question seemed to echo in the cave, the walls refusing to give it back. Finally, he murmured,
"After that… we see how we can keep going."

Midoriya leaned over the map, his eyes set with determination.
"Whatever it takes… we have to go. Now."

Dick looked at him again, seeing that stubborn spark—one he’d seen in his own reflection years ago.
"You’ve been here two days and you already want to fix the whole world?" he asked with a faint smirk.

Midoriya gave a shy smile, but his gaze didn’t waver.
"I don’t know how to do anything else."

Wally clapped him on the back.
"Welcome to the team, Deku."

Dick gathered the map markings, folding it up.
"Before we leave, Gotham has to be secure. We’ll reorganize the supply points and make sure the city stays stable while we’re gone."

Wally nodded.
"And try to get the Batmobile in running condition. Because, let’s be honest… crossing the country on a motorcycle isn’t an option."

Midoriya looked between them, feeling—for the first time since waking up in this world—that he was part of something.

As the cold light of the monitors washed over the Batcave, they charted their first steps in a broken world. There were no perfect plans—only the certainty that if they didn’t move now, no one else would.

–

Part 3

 

Dick, Wally, and Midoriya moved through narrow corridors and elevated platforms, each step echoing softly through the vast space. The metal walkways groaned under the weight of their boots, and from time to time, a drop of water would fall from somewhere high above, vanishing into the distant echo. For Midoriya, every detail was almost overwhelming—a living labyrinth where every corner seemed to hold a secret or a story.

As they descended one of the side ramps, the ambient light dimmed even more. The ceiling, high enough to swallow entire buildings, seemed to disappear into the darkness. It felt like walking into the heart of something ancient, where the cave itself seemed to watch those who passed.

Dick paused in front of an old control panel, running his hand over the worn keys. He sighed, signaling the other two with a brief wave.
“Let’s check the vehicles,” he said, his voice calm but carrying a tension he couldn’t quite hide.

Descending into one of the underground storage bays, the three of them came face to face with a collection of Batmobiles covered by heavy tarps, each one representing an era, a mission, a memory.

The thick fabric slid to the floor, revealing a car with simple, elegant lines—far from the armored, intimidating versions that would come later.

The matte black paint seemed to absorb the cave’s dim light, emphasizing the rounded contours of its long hood and low cabin. At the front, two round headlights looked like watchful eyes, and the narrow grille resembled the subtle smile of a predator lying in wait.

There were no wings, turbines, or visible armor—only the clean design of a vehicle built for speed and discretion. The wheels, with polished metal rims, reflected the light as if holding onto the shine of countless nights spent on Gotham’s streets. It was a car that carried the elegance of a bygone era, but also the shadow of the battles it had faced.

Wally let out a low whistle.
“Now that’s presence… No matter the time period, this would always make someone think twice before going up against Batman.”

“It was one of the first… my father…” Dick’s voice faltered, and he closed his mouth before more words could escape. For a moment, he stared at the car as if the black paint held memories no one else could see. To him, it wasn’t just a vehicle—it was one of the first times he had felt like part of something greater.

He remembered nights when Bruce, even more serious than usual, would adjust the car’s systems in silence, while Dick, with his short cape and colorful uniform, tried to follow every movement.

The weight of those memories settled in his chest, and he looked away, as if afraid that letting one detail slip would reopen an old wound.

Midoriya, silent, took everything in. Every vehicle, every weapon on the shelves, every suit hanging on the wall was a mark of a story, a battle… of a hero who might no longer be there.

“It’s… impressive…” Midoriya murmured, lightly touching the cold metal. “It feels like it could come to life at any moment.”

“Everything here has a story,” Dick replied, stepping back and looking up at the high ceiling of the cave, where the bat symbol was carved into the stone—eternal, indestructible.

While Robin and Midoriya inspected the vehicles, Wally wandered toward the back, moving quickly until he stopped dead in front of an old costume locker. Inside was the classic Robin uniform: the yellow cape, the red-and-green tunic, the green gloves.

He picked up the mask and turned to Dick, smiling with a nostalgic glint in his eyes.
“Hey… remember this?” he asked, holding up the suit.

Dick stared for a few seconds, then let out a short, bittersweet laugh.
“Can’t believe I used to wear that…” he said, walking over and touching the suit gently. “I looked like… a colorful pigeon.”

Wally chuckled, and Midoriya smiled faintly, even if he didn’t fully understand the weight that uniform carried for them. It was more than clothing—it was the beginning of everything.

Dick took a deep breath, then closed the locker, like someone closing a chapter in a book.
“Let’s go… we’ve got what we need.”

Before leaving, Dick searched one of the compartments and pulled out some regular clothes, handing them to Midoriya.
“Here. So you don’t have to keep walking around in those hospital clothes.”

“Thank you…” Midoriya said, accepting the bundle. They were simple—jeans, a black T-shirt, and a dark jacket—but after being adrift for so long, they felt like armor.

Once they had changed and prepared the supplies—non-lethal weapons, medical gear, tools—the three of them stood before the chosen Batmobile.

“This one’s fast, durable, and… intimidating enough to keep people at a distance,” Wally said, running his hand across the hood. “Perfect for getting to Star City and making it clear we’re not here to mess around.”

“It is,” Dick agreed, his voice firm but tinged with lingering melancholy.

They approached the bat symbol carved into the stone wall. For a moment, no one spoke.

The symbol seemed to watch them in silence, unmoving and eternal. The cold cave lights cast long shadows from its edges, like open wings covering the entire ceiling.

Dick kept his gaze fixed, feeling the weight of every night that emblem represented—not just for Gotham, but for him. Wally, standing beside him, crossed his arms as if he could feel the gravity of the moment too, even if he tried to keep a casual stance.

Midoriya, on the other hand, had no memories tied to it, but he understood the power a symbol could carry. Quietly, he compared it to the emblems he had once worn on his own uniform, and a knot tightened in his throat.

For a moment, no one moved. It was as if they all understood, without saying a word, that they were standing before something greater than themselves—and that, somehow, it was now part of them too.

Midoriya glanced at Dick and Wally from the corner of his eye, then looked back at the symbol.
“I’ll honor this,” he thought, clenching his fists.

The soft sound of footsteps echoed on the cave’s metal floor. Alfred appeared in the distance, his posture impeccable and a polishing cloth still in hand. His eyes swept over the prepared Batmobile, the organized gear, and the three young men standing together.

“May I ask,” he said, his calm tone lined with concern, “what exactly is the reason for this… sudden departure?”

Dick hesitated, exchanging a quick glance with Wally and Midoriya.
“It’s an important matter,” he answered carefully. “Don’t worry—we’ll be back.”

Alfred’s brow furrowed slightly, a mix of worry and resignation. He stepped forward and rested a hand on Dick’s shoulder.
“I know there’s no point in asking you to stay… but please, take care of yourselves. And if possible, bring yourselves back in one piece.”

Wally tried to lighten the mood with a grin. “Don’t worry, Alfred. We’ll be back before you start missing your tea.”

“Indeed, Mr. West, it’s impossible to find anyone who drinks as much tea as I prepare,” the butler replied with a faint curve to his lips.

He then looked at Midoriya. “Young Master Midoriya, do not hesitate to ask for help if you need it. This house may not be yours… but for now, it is the closest thing to a home we can offer you.”

Midoriya nodded, moved by the words.

With one last wave, Alfred stepped back, letting them go. The sound of his footsteps faded into the cave, but the silent worry lingered in the air.

Dick took a deep breath and, without looking back, said, “Let’s go.”

They climbed into the Batmobile. Dick took the wheel, Wally sat in the passenger seat, and Midoriya settled into the back, looking out the window at the dark cave they were leaving behind.

The engine purred to life, the vehicle glided up the inclined ramp, and in seconds, they vanished into Gotham’s night—heading for Star City.

The beginning of a new mission… and perhaps, a new future.

Chapter 7: Steps Beyond the Storm

Notes:

Let's keep going with this story, now following our group of heroes on their journey across the country.
I didn’t want the text to just say, “and they drove to Star City,” so I gave some real weight to the whole trip. I hope it came out well and not over the top.

Chapter 7 – Steps Beyond the Storm

 

Part 1

 

The Batmobile’s engine purred low, filling the heavy silence that hung between the three young passengers as they traveled down the empty highway. Its headlights cut through the gloom in steady beams, illuminating rusted road signs and stretches of patched asphalt. Twisted trees lined the roadside, casting claw-like shadows across the ground.

Occasionally, a glint of metal flashed in the distance—abandoned cars covered in dust and leaves—or the silhouette of a lone bridge rising against the horizon. The smell of heated rubber mixed with the cold air slipping in through small gaps, carrying a faint scent of damp earth and far-off smoke. Gotham was now behind them, wrapped in its familiar shadows, and the road ahead stretched out like both a promise and a warning.

There were no more alien ships in the skies, no battle cries echoing between buildings… but there weren’t many people either. Cities sat in a state of shock—civilization still standing, but still recovering from an irreparable trauma.

Dick Grayson kept his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel. He didn’t need to speak for the others to understand the weight he carried. With every passing mile, the bat emblem on the dashboard seemed to remind him of those missing: Bruce, Diana, Clark… all of them.

In the passenger seat, Wally West rested his elbows on the door and gazed out the window, his face lit in cold light from the console. He tried, without much success, to keep the mood light.

“Man… seriously, you still haven’t explained why you’re the one driving,” Wally said, turning from the window to look at his friend. “I’m literally faster than this car.”

Dick raised an eyebrow, keeping his focus on the road. “Because, for starters, it’s called the Batmobile, not the Flashmobile.”

“It could be. I’d give it a way better name—something like… Lightning Wheels.” Wally grinned, pleased with himself.

“And that’s exactly why you’re not driving,” Dick replied, a faint, tired smile tugging at his lips.

“Oh, come on… you’re not even old enough for this.”

“And you’ve got super speed, but you’re still stuck in the passenger seat. I’d say we’re even.”

Wally was still laughing at his “Lightning Wheels” joke when Midoriya, in the back seat, let out a quiet chuckle. “That… kind of suits you,” he said without thinking.

Wally turned back to him with a satisfied grin. “See, Dick? The rookie approves.”

Midoriya looked away to the window, still smiling, though the thought came silently: They talk like old friends… even after everything they’ve lost.

Dick shook his head. “I’m not looking for approval. I’m looking to get us there alive and without drawing attention.”

The serious tone made Midoriya straighten up slightly, settling back into watching the world outside—but with the strange sense he was, little by little, becoming part of their rhythm.

The car fell silent again.

“Empty roads, end of the world, crashed alien ship… feels like a bad B-movie,” Wally murmured with a faint smile, though it faded quickly, as if even he felt guilty for trying to lighten the mood.

In the back, Izuku Midoriya’s eyes stayed fixed on the passing scenery—curious, cautious. Every small town, every bridge, every ruin they passed was another piece of this new world he was starting to understand. He didn’t ask questions—not yet. He was still taking it all in.

“How long until we reach Star City?” he finally asked.

“About two days… if we keep the route clear. We’re still in New Jersey. We’ve got a few thousand miles before we hit Washington state,” Dick replied without taking his eyes off the road. “We’re crossing the country, after all.”

Midoriya nodded, staring ahead. He had never crossed such a long distance in a vehicle like this—especially not in a world so different from his own. The silence returned, thick as fog.

A few minutes later, Wally tried again. “You’ll like Star City. It’s—well, it was—beautiful. Lots of life, lots of color.” He paused, sighing. “Roy—the guy we’re meeting—he’s kind of gruff, but he’s got a good heart.”

Midoriya smiled faintly but didn’t reply. The name “Roy” was only familiar because they’d mentioned him before, and because they’d spoken over a video call. Still, the way Dick and Wally talked about him made it clear—he mattered.

“He’s… like you?” Midoriya asked after a moment.

“How do you mean?” Dick glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

“A… sidekick?” Midoriya hesitated on the word, remembering not everyone took to it kindly.

Wally chuckled briefly, more from nostalgia than humor. “Yeah. He was Speedy. Kid archer with a massive inferiority complex… but good. Really good.”

“Now he’s Red Arrow,” Dick added with a faint smile.

The name lingered in the air until Midoriya said softly, “The heroes in this world… you grew up together, fought together…”

“And lost together,” Dick finished quietly, as the Batmobile sped on through the deserted road.

The silence that followed stretched on. Dusk painted the sky in orange and purple as shadows grew long over the asphalt and ruins.

“And Star City?” Midoriya asked, as if to steer them away from the heaviness. “Was it… badly damaged?”

Wally’s tone was serious. “Roy says they held out better than most. He managed to organize resistance, protect civilians… but…” He made a vague gesture. “Nothing came through untouched.”

Midoriya’s fingers curled slightly into the fabric of the clothes he’d chosen back in the Batcave, still getting used to wearing something other than a hospital gown or his hero uniform. He didn’t know exactly what to expect, but a familiar feeling stirred in his chest—the need to help.

“When we find Roy… what will we do?” he asked, more to himself than to them.

“See how we can help,” Dick answered, voice steady. “Protect what’s left. Bring back whoever’s still out there.”

“And make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Wally added, eyes on the horizon.

The Batmobile pushed forward, swallowed by the road, while the sun sank behind them, leaving only the scars of the world they were struggling to rebuild.

 

---

The fuel gauge was dangerously close to empty when Dick spotted a lonely gas station on the side of the road, just after they crossed the bridge marking the Pennsylvania border. The sign creaked in the wind, its paint faded from decades of wear.

“Time to refuel,” Dick said, steering toward the pump farthest from the entrance.

The station’s owner, a middle-aged man in a worn baseball cap and plaid shirt, stepped out of the shop, wiping his hands on a rag. His eyes widened the moment he recognized the car—and then the two costumed passengers.

“I… I know you! Robin… and Kid Flash, right?”

Wally grinned, pulling back his hood. “That’s us. Still on the job.”

“You… you saved the world,” the man said, his voice catching slightly. “After everything… I never thought I’d see one of you again. Thank you… really.”

Dick gave a respectful nod, skipping speeches. “There’s still a lot of work to do.”

Midoriya watched in silence, his gaze shifting between the man and the two heroes, taking in the ease with which they handled moments like this.

“I can’t pay you back,” the attendant said, “but the gas is on the house.”

“No need,” Dick replied quickly. “Keep it for someone who needs it more.”

The man smiled stubbornly. “Then at least take some hot coffee and snacks for the road. You’ll need them.”

Wally didn’t argue this time. “Now that, we’ll take.”

A few minutes later, with the tank full and three steaming cups in hand, they climbed back into the Batmobile. As the door shut, Midoriya murmured, almost to himself, “In my world… heroes rarely stopped for coffee with the people they saved.”

Dick started the engine, meeting his eyes in the rearview. “Then maybe it’s time to change that here too.”

The deep growl of the engine filled the air again as they pulled away, carrying more than just fuel with them—they carried a reminder of why they kept going.

–

Part 2

 

After leaving the gas station, the Batmobile pushed on along the interstate, but the trip wasn’t as smooth as Dick had hoped. Entire stretches of highway were blocked by debris—abandoned, crumpled car shells, twisted metal signs, even fallen utility poles still waiting to be repaired. More than once, Dick had to slow down and veer off onto side roads, winding their way through narrow, dimly lit streets to get around the blockages.

Once, a convoy of rescue trucks was partially blocking the way as crews worked to clear warped beams from the asphalt. The team leader spotted Robin and Kid Flash, gave them a grateful nod, and opened up a makeshift lane so they could pass.

Crossing through Pennsylvania, they stopped at a small roadside diner where the smell of coffee and fresh-baked pie almost cut through the tension of the journey. The waitress, recognizing Robin and Kid Flash, hesitated for a moment before smiling and quietly thanking them for what they’d done. Wally, a little embarrassed, cracked a joke about preferring coffee to applause, while Midoriya curiously observed how the two heroes handled that kind of attention.

Farther ahead, a partially collapsed bridge in Ohio forced Dick to leave the main highway. The detour took them onto dirt roads where the Batmobile roared past open fields and weathered barns. They passed families hauling furniture and supplies in pickup trucks, some stopping to watch the black car go by like they’d just seen an apparition.

That night, they stopped to refuel at a small station lit only by buzzing fluorescent bulbs. After a moment’s hesitation, the attendant recognized Robin and Kid Flash, thanking them for “still being out here.” Wally replied with a tired smile and a quick quip, while Midoriya took it all in, absorbing every detail.

The country was still breathing—but with effort. Every mile made it clear that the road to Star City would be long and marked by scars.

—

The first streets of Star City emerged on the horizon like wounds in the landscape. The Batmobile rolled forward slowly, swerving around abandoned cars, downed poles, and fresh craters in the pavement that hinted at recent explosions. Broken glass tinkled in the wind, and bent traffic signs hung like even the metal itself had grown weary.

A few three- and four-story buildings still stood, their facades scarred with soot and windows boarded over with rough planks. On the sidewalks, small groups of survivors carried boxes or pushed carts, some pausing to glance at the black car as it passed. Now and then, someone recognized Robin and Kid Flash inside, giving a hesitant wave—not with excitement, but with a mix of hope and doubt.

The old Batmobile slowed as they reached Star City’s limits. The streets were quieter than they should have been for a city this size. The asphalt bore fresh marks—craters, tracks of destruction, and hastily abandoned barricades. Even with the invasion over, the trauma was stamped into every corner.

Dick Grayson navigated carefully through the wreckage. The car, while ordinary enough by Wayne standards, stood out against the near-apocalyptic backdrop. There was no traffic, no sirens—only scattered groups of civilians tending to the injured, moving supplies, or watching warily for any unusual movement.

“Roy said he was keeping a relief post downtown,” Dick said, checking the small GPS that, surprisingly, was still picking up Red Arrow’s signal.

Wally, fidgeting in the passenger seat, looked at the few faces on the street. “They… made it,” he murmured with some relief. “At least some of them.”

From the backseat, Midoriya soaked in every detail. The similarities and differences to the cities in his own world stood out starkly—the way people clung to order in chaos, how the sight of heroes carried a quiet hope… and how destruction still marked everything.

“You think he’s okay?” he asked, leaning forward between the seats.

“Roy?” Wally grinned despite his nerves. “He’s tough.”

Minutes later, Dick pulled the Batmobile up in front of a partially destroyed public building, the “City Hall” sign hanging by a single wire. At the entrance, volunteers and a few armed civilians kept watch, while a makeshift resistance symbol—a red bow painted on a wooden board—made it clear who was in charge.

“This is it,” Dick confirmed, cutting the engine.

As they parked, the silence broke with the metallic click of weapons being readied. From behind the improvised barricades, figures emerged—some wearing patched-up vests, others in mismatched local security uniforms.

Hard stares and tight fingers on triggers followed the trio as they stepped out of the car. A cold wind swept down the street, tugging at a makeshift flag bearing the red bow symbol, but none of the guards lowered their defensive stance.

Dick took a step forward, keeping his cape tucked in and his hands visible. Wally raised his in a peaceable gesture, while Midoriya stayed quiet, tense, ready to move if things went south.

The guards exchanged glances, sizing them up as if weighing allies and threats at the same time. The weight of the moment wasn’t just in the weapons—it was in the fact that, in times like these, even the arrival of heroes had to be verified carefully.

Wally took another step forward, hands still up. “Easy! We’re friends. We’re here to see Red Arrow.”

One of the guards, a middle-aged man with a wary look, narrowed his eyes, finally recognizing Wally and Dick after a few seconds.

“Kid Flash… Robin…” he muttered, lowering his weapon slightly. “He’s inside. Doing… as well as he can.”

–

Part 3

 

The night ended with each of them disappearing into the shattered streets, carrying out the tasks Roy had assigned. When they returned, exhaustion clung to their movements and to the dust on their clothes—but there was also a quiet relief, the kind that came from knowing they had done something that truly mattered.

The next morning felt different. No less scarred by destruction, but alive with signs of movement: hammers echoed down the streets, voices rose to coordinate efforts, and children darted between piles of rubble as if, for a few fleeting minutes, everything was normal again.

Dick, Wally, and Midoriya met near the main building. For a moment, they just stood and watched. No words were needed to understand that this was the kind of change measured not in hours, but in small, steady steps.

Roy was already waiting for them, standing beside a map spread over a broken table. His red bow, hanging from his back, swayed gently in the morning breeze. When he saw them, he lifted his chin, giving them a quick once-over.

“Good work last night,” he said plainly. “But we’ve still got a lot ahead of us.”

The makeshift command post Roy had set up inside Star City’s old police station was quiet at this hour. The sirens that once blared without pause had fallen silent with the end of the invasion, leaving only the distant hum of generators and the occasional metallic rattle from structures weakened by the blasts that had torn through the city.

“It wasn’t easy to put this together,” Roy began, cycling through images projected on the wall—destroyed zones, evacuation points, survivor reports. “Communication lines are still badly compromised, but a few things are clear.”

He tapped the keyboard, pulling up a digital map of the United States. Small green and yellow dots marked safe zones and areas with active vigilantes or resistance groups. “Here, Star City, is starting to pull itself back together. City hall and the police are trying to get control again, setting up defense lines and civilian aid posts.”

Wally folded his arms with a heavy sigh. “At least one city’s getting back on its feet… doesn’t sound like many others got that lucky.”

Roy nodded grimly. “You’re right. A lot of places are without leadership… without heroes.”

A familiar heaviness settled over them, one they’d carried ever since the day the Justice League fell. Dick closed his eyes briefly, took a steady breath, and asked:

“What about Zatanna? Any word?”

Roy tapped again, and a blue dot appeared on the west coast. “Same as what she told me on the video call we had earlier, back when you guys were still in the cave. She’s with a group of civilians who managed to stay hidden during the invasion. Sent a message two days ago saying they were alive but running low on supplies. Since then… contact’s been spotty.”

Dick’s gaze hardened on the projection. “Then San Francisco’s our next stop.”

Roy looked at the three of them, his eyes weighed down by exhaustion and responsibility. “It’s far, and it’s dangerous. Main routes are compromised—whole cities in collapse, stretches taken over by looters and militias… and we don’t know how many other survivors are still out there.”

Midoriya clenched his fists lightly against the table, taking it all in. The projection, the lines on Roy’s face, the restrained expression on Robin—it all drove home the scale of a disaster he hadn’t seen firsthand but was now feeling in full.

“What about the rest of the heroes?” he asked, his voice steady but carrying a quiet respect. “Any other contact?”

Roy shook his head. “Nothing big. Some local vigilantes, resistance pockets… but the main ones, the ones we knew… they’re either gone or missing.”

Wally turned away, pressing his fingers to his temples, fighting the emotion creeping in. “We… we were a team. Now… look at us.”

Dick met his eyes, his own expression just as wounded. “We’re still a team, Wally. Doesn’t matter how many are left.”

Silence held for a moment before Roy, ever practical, raised his hand and pointed back at the map.

“We’ve got two options: head straight for San Francisco, sticking to what’s left of the highways—which could be risky—or go through cities still showing signs of life, maybe resupply, maybe even find others.”

Dick nodded slowly. “But every stop’s a risk.”

“Exactly,” Roy said.

Midoriya leaned closer, scanning the points on the map. “Do you guys think… there’s still hope? Of finding more heroes… of putting this all back together?”

Dick let out a long breath, his gaze drifting to the darkened League emblem in the corner of the projector. “I don’t know, Midoriya… but I do know this—if we don’t try, there won’t be anyone left to do it.”

Wally managed a faint smile. “And we’re way too stubborn to quit now.”

The three exchanged a silent look—an unspoken pact that didn’t need words: they’d keep moving forward, no matter the fear, the pain, or the uncertainty.

Dick turned to Roy. “You coming with us?”

Roy’s mouth curved in a faint smile as he adjusted the bow by his side. “Star City still needs me… for now. But once I’m sure this place is holding steady, I’ll find you.”

Dick nodded. “We’ll keep the channel open.”

Midoriya straightened, drawing in a deep breath as the weight of the decision settled in. “When do we leave?”

Wally’s tired features lifted into a small grin. “As soon as we’ve got the plan locked in and the Batmobile fueled up.”

Roy shut off the projector and crossed his arms, studying the three young men standing before him. “You’ve got a world to rebuild… and if anyone can do it, it’s you.”

Dick extended his hand, and Roy took it firmly—a silent gesture of respect and camaraderie.

Later that night, as they pored over physical maps and traced possible routes to the west coast, a quiet conviction settled among them: Los Angeles would be the next step—and, hopefully, the beginning of rebuilding something bigger.

For now, though, all they had was each other—and the unshakable resolve that as long as they were still breathing, the fight wasn’t over.

Notes:

And for those waiting for a big dose of action in this story, unfortunately, I’ll have to disappoint you — this first arc of Knights of Tomorrow won’t have any more action. It will focus on the effects the fall of the Justice League had on the world and on our protagonists (Dick and Izuku), as well as on other characters.

The action will properly begin in the next arc.

Chapter 8: On the Road to Tomorrow

Notes:

Hey everyone, back again with another update to keep this journey going.
I know sometimes it might feel like I’m dragging things out more than necessary, but that’s just how I write. I can’t simply say ‘and then they traveled to the city and arrived there.’ For me, the fun is in the details — the scenes, the dialogues, and letting you see this world through the characters’ eyes. That’s the part I really enjoy sharing with you.

Chapter 8 – On the Road to Tomorrow

Part 1

The air inside the Batmobile carried the scent of heated rubber and gasoline, a constant reminder that the engine—though nearly silent—never truly rested. Through the cracks of the windows slipped an uneven breeze, bringing with it the metallic tang of dust kicked up by the military convoys ahead.

The hum of the engine blended with the rush of wind against the car’s frame, punctuated now and then by the distant clatter of shifting steel, echoes of a city still fighting to rebuild itself.

The temperature inside wavered. Heat radiated upward from the asphalt through the tires, seeping into the cabin, only to be broken every so often by sharp, cooler gusts sweeping in from the east—carrying with them the mingled scents of smoke and far-off salt air.

Dick’s hands gripped the wheel with practiced steadiness, his eyes scanning the horizon with the precision of someone who understood that every turn of the road might hide the unexpected. The glint of sunlight on the windshield cast fleeting shadows across his face, hardening his expression.

In the passenger seat, Wally bounced his leg lightly, his gaze wandering across the passing scenery. For all his attempts at appearing relaxed, the rhythm of his fingers drumming against his knee betrayed his impatience.

In the back seat, Midoriya sat quiet, eyes locked on the windows as the world drifted by. He had expected to see ruins, a landscape swallowed by silence and despair. But it wasn’t quite that. Instead of ghost towns and wastelands, there were signs of motion—of recovery. Supply trucks lumbered along in slow-moving convoys. Cranes hovered over fractured buildings. Here and there, clusters of volunteers cleared debris by hand.

Electronic signs along the highway flashed warnings: “Checkpoint ahead. Follow local authority instructions.” And farther down: “Humanitarian relief center—5 miles.”

Wally leaned back, propping his feet on the dash, fiddling with a civilian radio. Static broke apart the words of a gravel-voiced announcer:

“… the Army maintains presence across all major capitals… the search for surviving heroes continues… unconfirmed reports place Metropolis under quarantine… in Gotham, local authorities begin regaining control…”

The Batmobile’s speedometer held steady—not slow, not reckless. Dick drove with the same laser focus he applied to everything: eyes locked on the road, hands unyielding on the wheel. For him, the act of driving itself seemed like a way of keeping the world in order.

Midoriya drew his knees up, resting his chin on them. The images outside clashed with the memories of his homeland—the U.A., his classmates, the Pro Heroes. So many gone. So much left behind. Yet here, even amid devastation, life pressed forward.

“They keep going…” he thought, a knot tightening in his chest. “Even without their heroes.”

The Batmobile rolled past a halted convoy. Armed soldiers lined the road while civilians unloaded crates from a truck. Children darted through the crowd, laughing, blissfully unaware of the weight of recent loss.

“They’re not stopping anytime soon,” Wally muttered, breaking the silence, nodding toward the scene.

“They can’t,” Dick replied, his voice clipped, eyes never leaving the highway. “If they stop, it all ends.”

Midoriya glanced at them, struck by how naturally they spoke about survival, as though they had long since folded the disaster into their lives. For him, the wounds were still fresh, still raw. For them, it was already something to endure, to live with.

Every so often Wally twisted the dial, catching fragments of local broadcasts. One voice, far too upbeat, declared:

“…and despite the hardships, the people of Central City gather this afternoon for a symbolic celebration—the partial reopening of the central plaza. Another reminder that, even without our greatest defenders, we can endure.”

Wally let out a short laugh.

“Yeah, that’s my city,” he said with a crooked smile. “Bet the plaza’s still full of holes, but they’ll throw a party anyway.”

Dick stayed silent, steady as stone behind the wheel.

Midoriya returned his gaze to the passing landscape. This time, a neighborhood scarred by direct impact: charred buildings, wrecked cars, snapped utility poles. But among the ruins, sparks of life—makeshift tents rising, an ambulance handing out supplies.

The silence returned, heavy but not hostile, as though each of them needed that quiet to process what they saw.

Midoriya traced a hand across the worn leather of the seat, imagining the history this vehicle carried. It wasn’t just a car—it was a symbol, a testament to resilience. Just like this world. Just like them.

“Three hours to the next stop,” Dick finally said, eyes flicking briefly to the rearview mirror, checking on Midoriya. “Try to get some rest.”

Midoriya nodded but couldn’t close his eyes. The world outside refused to pause. Broken as it was, it moved on. And somehow, now, he was part of it.

Far ahead, the sun began to sink, spilling orange across the horizon, as the Batmobile pressed forward—silent, relentless, alive.

 

—

Part 2

Hours had passed since they’d left Star City behind.
The Batmobile—an older model, discreet, its frame more grounded than the sleeker versions Midoriya had seen in files and reports—rolled to a quiet stop along the shoulder of a small town road.

Dick cut the engine and exhaled.

“We’re running low on fuel. And I think we all need to stretch our legs,” he said, glancing at Wally and Midoriya.

They stepped out slowly. The air carried the faint tang of old smoke and dust, but underneath it lingered something human—food being cooked, iron being hammered, life piecing itself back together.

The town, its battered sign still managing to read Welcome to Keystone Springs, was little more than a cluster of modest homes, cracked asphalt roads, and makeshift lamp posts. Civilians hauled planks of wood, stacked bricks, raised temporary frames. It wasn’t desperation, but it wasn’t joy either—just the relentless need to keep moving forward.

The heart of the place beat in uneven rhythm. Once-broad streets had been rerouted by rows of lumber, where crews carried buckets of improvised cement. Hammer strikes rang out in a rough cadence against fractured walls, blending with the constant hum of small generators powering a scattering of lights. Wires stretched like spiderwebs from windows and doorways, held up by bent hooks or twisted scraps of metal.

In front of a bakery, a line had formed. The smell of fresh bread cut through the dusty air. A woman balanced a tray piled high, exhaustion written across her face, but still smiling at the children tugging at her sleeves. Kids ran around with sticks for swords, darting between scaffolds and rubble, turning ruins into castles in their minds.

And here and there, signs of hope had taken root: a street musician strumming a guitar with only three strings, hastily written posters taped to walls with words of encouragement, and even an old town flag rising stubbornly above the debris, fluttering with quiet defiance.

Midoriya took it all in, every detail. In Japan, he’d seen this before—after disasters, when ordinary people rebuilt without waiting for heroes to fix everything. Here, it was no different.

“I’ll see if I can trade for some fuel,” Dick said, heading toward a makeshift workshop where a middle-aged man with oil-stained arms was overseeing repairs on a battered military truck.

Wally trailed him a few steps, then stopped when he spotted a stand set up along the sidewalk. A kindly older woman was selling bread wrapped in clean cloth.

“I think I’ll grab something too. What do you say, Izuku? Hungry?”

Midoriya hesitated, then gave a small nod.
“A little…”

They walked over. The simple, comforting aroma of fresh bread mixed with the steam of soup boiling in a pot nearby, and Midoriya’s stomach growled before he could stop it.

“Two, please,” Wally said, handing over a few coins.

The woman smiled, wordless, and passed them the bread.

They sat on the curb while they ate, watching the town churn with movement. Kids chased after a patched-up ball while a few adults debated how best to rebuild a bridge further south.

“Funny…” Wally said after a mouthful. “I thought things would be… worse.”

Midoriya nodded, glancing around.
“I thought it would all be empty. But… they’re still here.”

“That’s the point,” Wally said, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “They keep going. With or without us.”

He tore into the bread like someone who hadn’t eaten properly in days and let out a satisfied groan.
“Man… this is better than any fast food joint back in Central. I think I’m gonna miss this bread once we’re back on the road.”

Midoriya took a smaller bite, chewing slowly. The flavor was simple—salty with a faint sweetness at the end. It wasn’t like anything from home, but it had something… honest. His eyes flicked to the woman at the stall, still smiling softly as she arranged more bread in a basket.
“It tastes like… effort,” he murmured.

Wally raised a brow.
“Effort?”

Midoriya nodded, searching for the words.
“Like… you can feel the work in it. She’s exhausted, but she still chooses to feed people. Back in my world, after disasters, I saw families do the same thing. Small things that kept everyone standing.”

Wally was quiet for a moment, staring at the bread in his hand. Then he let out a short laugh.
“You really can turn anything—even food—into an inspirational speech, Izuku.”

The boy blushed, shaking his head.
— N-no, that’s not it… I just… feel like every detail matters.

Wally bit into another piece, thoughtful.
— Maybe that’s what Dick sees in you. Me… I just run. I’m fast, useful… but you, somehow, notice the things nobody else does. Reminds me of another guy I once knew.

Midoriya didn’t know how to answer. He just kept chewing, eyes fixed on the children chasing the patched-up ball. Their laughter rang louder than the hammering in the distance.

—

Robin appeared at the entrance of the workshop, his short cape shifting slightly with the draft. The mechanic, his apron stained with grease, stopped what he was doing and narrowed his eyes. Silence rippled through the workers; everyone recognized the symbol on his chest, even far from Gotham.

— You need something, mask? — the man asked, cautious but curious.

Robin nodded.
— Gas. Just enough to reach the next town. — His voice was steady, controlled, without arrogance.

The mechanic frowned.
— Fuel isn’t cheap. Or easy to get. Each gallon can mean the difference between a family surviving or being stranded on the road.

Robin crossed his arms, his gaze fixed.
— I’m not asking for free. I’ll pay what’s fair. — He pulled a small stack of bills from his belt, showing it only for a moment. — I can also offer something more valuable: knowledge.

The man raised a brow.
— Knowledge?

Robin stepped aside and pointed at the military truck being repaired.
— The front axle’s misaligned. Keep it like that and it’ll break again before it runs twenty kilometers.

A murmur ran through the workers. The mechanic squinted at him, skeptical.
— You know engines?

Robin tilted his head slightly.
— I know survival. And never to trust first impressions. — He let the words hang, almost like a challenge. — If I’m right and I can stabilize the truck, you give me one gallon.

The man studied him in silence, then shrugged.
— Alright, Bat-kid. Show me what you’ve got.

Robin rolled up his gloves and knelt beside the chassis. His hands moved with precision, adjusting parts and directing the helpers with quick, sharp instructions. Within minutes, the engine roared back to life, smoother, steadier.

The mechanic cracked a surprised grin.
— Not bad. Guess that symbol isn’t just for show after all.

He shoved a gallon forward.
— A deal’s a deal. Take it.

Robin gripped the metal handle and nodded.
— Thanks. — Then, before leaving, he added: — Hope that truck lasts more than twenty kilometers now.

The mechanic chuckled, shaking his head.
— Heh… you remind me of someone. Stubborn, but never backing down. Maybe the world still needs stubborn types like that.

Robin didn’t answer. He just adjusted his cape and walked back to rejoin the others.

— Got enough to reach the next stop — he reported. — And also a backup route: the main bridge is damaged, so we’ll take the secondary road.

— Not every day I see you working as a mechanic, partner. — Wally’s tone was playful, but his eyes carried relief.

Midoriya, however, seemed more impressed than surprised.
— You actually fixed their truck?

Robin set the gallon down with a heavy thud.
— It didn’t cost me anything. And we got what we needed.

Wally crossed his arms, a smirk tugging at his lips.
— Not bad, leader. But next time, let me handle the negotiations. I’m way more charismatic.

— Charismatic or troublemaker? — Robin shot back, dry.

Midoriya muffled a laugh, shaking his head.
— Doesn’t matter, as long as we keep moving.

The three shared quick glances, and the tension that had hovered since morning seemed to ease a little. They returned to the car lighter, even if the road’s weight hadn’t disappeared.

The Batmobile’s deep growl filled the air once more as Robin turned the ignition. The freshly earned gallon would only last a few more miles, but it was enough to keep them going.

As the car rolled out of the city, Wally leaned his cheek against his fist, watching through the window.
— Y’know, part of me wanted to stick around. Help fix something. — He shrugged. — But I guess we don’t really have that luxury, huh?

Robin didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed locked on the secondary road, the reflections of splintered trees sliding past the windshield. Only after a few seconds did he speak, low:
— Every stop is a test. We see how the world goes on without us… and we have to decide if we step in or move on.

Midoriya, from the back seat, lifted his gaze.
— And what do you decide, Robin?

The question lingered. Dick tightened his grip on the wheel, remembering the wall sprayed with the simple words: We keep going.
— I decide… we need to be ready. When the right moment comes, we’ll fight for what’s left. Until then… we keep going too.

Silence settled inside the car, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was silence of understanding—heavy, necessary.

The Batmobile accelerated, disappearing down the secondary road, while behind them, Keystone Springs kept building its own invisible walls against the void.

The radio crackled again, carrying distant news:
— “… support groups established in San Francisco… Zatanna Zatara reported as one of the leaders organizing civil resistance…”

Midoriya clenched his fists quietly at the name.

San Francisco.

They were on the right path.

 

—
Part 3

The Batmobile slid down the side road when a metallic snap cut through the growl of the engine, followed by a deep, uneven rumble. Dick steered the car onto the gravel shoulder, and the vehicle stopped with a faint screech of brakes.

The world outside hung somewhere between fatigue and stubbornness: the wind passed through the low vegetation with the sound of torn paper, a crooked sign announced “DETOUR — BRIDGE 17 CLOSED”, and, in the distance, steady hammering answered the constant hum of a generator. Just a few kilometers away, Springfield Junction took shape in silhouettes: a peeling water tower, the ripped awning of a gas station, a church steeple covered by a blue tarp. On the opposite shoulder, a utility truck waited, amber lights flashing, while two volunteers in fluorescent vests picked up branches and bumper fragments.

“Damn it…” Dick muttered, switching off the engine.

Wally and Midoriya leaned over the dashboard as a sequence of red warning lights began to blink. Heat rose from the engine bay like the breath of an oven, carrying the smell of hot oil and worn rubber.

“Looks like time wasn’t so generous with this model,” Wally said, forcing a smile as he pushed the door open.

Dick unlocked the hood. As he lifted the cover, a wave of hot air blew into their faces. A thin haze shimmered over the fan; a dry belt groaned at their touch; a hose displayed a spiderweb crack. Deep inside, the fan blades scraped the casing with every attempted turn.

Midoriya stepped closer, cautious, unsure of where to place his hands. The reflection of the cloudy sky trembled in the chrome parts; a drop of fluid fell somewhere hidden with a spaced tic.

“…,” Dick only answered with a short sigh, brow furrowed, fingers running over cables and clamps until he found the slack that shouldn’t exist.

Nearby, two children stopped their bikes to stare at the black car. The younger one pointed, the mother called them back with a quick gesture, and moved on, pushing a wheelbarrow full of tiles.

Wally crouched beside the front tire, pressed his ear close to the fender, and gave it a technical tap that did absolutely nothing.

“Yeah… definitely bat-language,” he joked, standing up awkwardly.

Dick closed his eyes for a moment, calculating. Then, he bent again over the engine bay, pulled a rag from the trunk, and wiped grease from his hands, already thinking about what he could improvise out there in the middle of nowhere.

“Any chance we can keep going?” Izuku asked, hesitant.

Dick frowned, fiddling with cables and valves.

“Not without some adjustments… and parts we don’t have.”

As they weighed their options, Dick’s communicator crackled, and soon Roy Harper’s familiar voice came through:

“Hello? Dick? Wally? Midoriya?”

Dick picked up the device.
“We’re here.”

“I’m already on the road, heading your way. Where are you now?”

Dick looked around, then at the small town sign in the distance, partially covered by a fallen tree: “Welcome to Springfield Junction.”

“Near Springfield Junction, secondary road 82. The Batmobile… had a setback.”

Roy let out a muffled laugh.
“Even the Batmobile breaks down? I’m shocked.”

“It’s at least a decade old…” Dick replied, while Wally beside him gestured “half a century.”

“Alright. I’m about two hours away. Hang tight.”

The communicator hissed and went silent.

Dick shut the hood and leaned against the car, wiping the grease off with an old rag from the trunk. Midoriya lingered nearby, looking out toward the town which, though scarred, pulsed with activity: civilians clearing debris, trucks unloading supplies, utility poles being repaired.

The silence stretched until Dick noticed Midoriya looked far too absorbed.

“What’s on your mind?”

Izuku hesitated, then turned, eyes still fixed on the horizon.
“What it means… to be a hero here.”

Dick raised an eyebrow, arms crossed.
“What do you mean?”

Midoriya clenched his fists.
“In my world… being a hero was everything I ever wanted. But here… the world lost almost all its greatest protectors. I don’t know if I can truly be a hero in this place, with everything so… different.”

Dick stayed quiet for a moment, then stepped away from the car, standing beside Izuku. He looked up at the sky, heavy clouds drifting, and then spoke:

“Bruce… Batman… he always told me one thing. ‘A hero isn’t the one who never falls, but the one who always rises.’”

Izuku slowly turned, hearing every word as if they were anchors cast into the stormy sea of his mind.

“No matter the world, Izuku. No matter who’s left or who’s fallen. What matters is that you rise. Always.”

Midoriya drew a deep breath, his eyes shimmering with a mixture of emotions.
“I… I don’t know if I have that strength.”

Dick chuckled softly and shook his head.

— You’re probably the strongest among us.

Izuku’s eyes widened.

— What do you mean?

Dick looked at him, half amused, half serious.

— When you were unconscious, we ran some tests. Just to make sure there weren’t any hidden injuries… and, man… your body… — he paused, searching for the words. — It’s practically divine. No flaws. Perfectly symmetrical. Insane muscle strength… you could probably lift tons, even without… without activating anything.

Midoriya blinked, confused.

— That… that doesn’t make sense. Without One For All, I should be normal.

Dick frowned.

— What do you mean?

Izuku bit his lower lip. His gaze faltered for a moment. Then, as if only now realizing what Dick was saying, he lowered his eyes to his own hands. He stretched his fingers, turning them slowly under the dim light.

Taking a deep breath, he stood up and walked toward a piece of polished metal serving as a makeshift mirror. He ran his hand over his own face. His eyes widened.

No freckles. None. His skin looked clean, almost flawless. His features sharper, more harmonious… handsome, even. More than he remembered ever being.

Hesitant, he pulled up his shirt, revealing his abdomen. No scars. None of the cuts, stitches, or marks from the countless battles he had fought. Everything was gone.

— I… — his voice came out weak, almost a whisper. — I don’t have anything anymore. All my scars… they’re gone.

For a moment, he stood in silence, staring at his reflection as if looking at a stranger.

— I always carried those marks… they were reminders of what I lived through… — he murmured. — But now…

Slowly, he lowered his shirt and turned his stunned eyes back to Dick.

— This isn’t just One For All… it can’t be.

Dick watched in silence, his expression wavering between surprise and empathy, as if he didn’t know what to make of it either.

Izuku took another breath, trying to organize the storm in his head.

— My power… One For All… it’s a singularity. A power inherited, passed from one person to another. Before it, I was just… a powerless kid.

Dick tilted his head, surprised.

— And now?

— Now… I don’t know. Since I woke up here… I haven’t felt One For All the same way. But… if my body has changed…

They both fell silent, their minds tangled in theories too complex for that moment.

Izuku blinked several times, his brow furrowed in pure confusion.

— But… if I really do have all this strength… how haven’t I broken anything yet? How haven’t I cracked the ground just by walking… or ripped a door off its hinges by accident?

Dick rested his chin on his hand, thoughtful, then answered calmly:

— Self-control. You’re holding your strength back without even realizing it.

Midoriya’s eyes widened. — Self-control?

— Yeah — Dick said, looking at him seriously. — Think about it: if your body can lift tons, but you haven’t caused any crazy accidents so far, it can only mean you’re restraining yourself. Even subconsciously.

Izuku wrestled with the idea, biting his lip.

Robin went on:

— Let me ask you something… before you got here, did you already train your strength? I don’t just mean the power itself, but the way to use it, contain it, adjust every movement.

Midoriya raised his eyes, recalling years of exercises, falls, fractures, painful lessons until he finally managed to control each muscle in sync with One For All. Slowly, he nodded.

— Yeah… I spent a long time training… just so I wouldn’t destroy myself.

Dick smiled lightly.

— Then there’s your answer. Your body already knows how to hold back. Even if your power isn’t responding like before… you’re still the guy who learned how to tame something that could destroy you. That instinct doesn’t just vanish.

Midoriya took a deep breath, his eyes lighting up with realization.

— So… I’m not some monster out of control… I just need to trust myself.

Dick nodded firmly.

— Exactly. You already have the discipline. Now you just need to believe it’s still there.

It was Wally who, as always, broke the tension.

— Well… at the end of the day… we’re three technically illegal guys, driving across the U.S. in a stolen car.

Dick and Izuku slowly turned to him, and Wally raised his hands with a grin.

— Think about it. Classic setup: wanted heroes, black car, crossing ruined cities, chased by a redheaded archer. Sounds like the plot of a bad movie.

Dick let out a short laugh, while Midoriya finally smiled, his shoulders relaxing.

— Guess we’ll have to test that once we get back — Dick said, turning his eyes back to the Batmobile’s engine, already planning the next repair attempt.

Midoriya nodded.

— Yeah… let’s.

In the distance, the sounds of the city blended with the wind, and even in that setback, one thing was clear: they were moving forward, together.

 

—
Part 4

The headlights cut through the dust of dusk, and the jeep screeched to a halt beside the damaged Batmobile. Roy climbed out, adjusting the quiver on his shoulder, gave a low whistle, and walked over to the black hood.

“Hurts to see a classic like this…” he murmured, brushing his fingers along the edge without actually touching. “This old bat saved half our nights. Sad to see you on a tow truck… and by ‘tow truck,’ I mean me.”

“Older than all of us put together,” Dick said, giving the hood two light taps — a gesture almost like a farewell.

Roy answered with a faint smile. He patted the side of the car, respectful.

“Stay cool, dinosaur. We’ll come back for you later.”

He lifted his gaze to Dick and Wally; relief at finding them alive flickered across his face before vanishing beneath his usual practicality.

“You’re still in one piece. Good sign.”

Wally cracked a tired grin, Midoriya adjusted the straps of his backpack.

Roy spun the jeep keys around his finger, exhaled, and jerked his chin backward.

“Ready to roll?”

“Like never before,” Wally replied, stretching his arms, grateful to finally abandon the Batmobile’s uncomfortable seat.

Midoriya nodded silently, casting one last look at the car that—even broken—seemed to carry a symbolic weight of the world they’d lost.

Roy popped the trunk of his own ride — a rugged, weathered jeep, but still functional — and began loading everyone’s gear.

“Not as stylish, but at least it moves,” he said, giving the side two solid knocks.

Doors slammed with metallic clicks, and the old suspension groaned under the weight of four bodies settling in. Dust rose into the cabin, mixing with the faint smell of oil and worn-out fabric. Outside, gravel crunched beneath the tires as the headlights carved tunnels of light through suspended haze.

Within minutes, the group was on the move, climbing the winding mountain road that snaked slowly upward to a natural overlook. The engine growled as night wrapped the landscape in hues of blue and gray.

From the backseat, Midoriya watched the narrow road grow steeper.

“Will we really be able to reach her?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Roy nodded, eyes locked on the path.

“Zatanna knows how to hide. But she also knows when she needs to be found.”

Dick sat quietly by the window, his thoughts far away.

The jeep rumbled low, advancing along a road that felt endless. Wind slipped through cracks in the windows, carrying the mix of fuel and cold earth. Streetlights were rare; most of the way was lit only by the headlights, painting a tunnel of dust ahead.

Wally leaned on the window, fingers drumming restlessly more than rhythmically.
“We should’ve grabbed snacks,” he muttered. “If I pass out mid-trip, don’t blame me. Heroes have metabolisms too.”

“You ate three sandwiches before we left,” Roy shot back without looking. “If you pass out, it’s laziness.”

Midoriya let out a small chuckle — the first since they’d left. He sat with a notebook on his knees, pen unmoving. The road’s jolts made writing impossible, but maybe that was just an excuse — his mind was too full to organize anything into words. Still, hearing Roy and Wally’s banter lifted some of the weight pressing down on his chest.

In the passenger seat, Dick’s eyes stayed fixed on the darkness beyond the beams of light. Every so often, he glanced back, checking on Midoriya, before turning forward again, where the road stretched endlessly.

Roy’s voice finally cut through the stillness.
“Don’t overthink it. If we made it this far, we can make it to San Francisco.”

It wasn’t exactly an inspiring remark, but the dry tone carried a quiet confidence that settled the air inside the jeep.

Silence returned, heavier this time. The engine’s hum and the tires’ grind against asphalt filled the cabin like a constant, hypnotic soundtrack.

Wally shut his eyes briefly, letting his body sway with the road. Restless as he was, exhaustion had caught up with him.
Roy’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, his face dimly lit by the dashboard. His hard gaze never left the road, but behind that composed look was fatigue. He knew the journey carried more than physical weariness — each of them bore their own weight.

Dick’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, meeting Midoriya’s for a moment. No words were spoken, but the silent exchange was enough. Both knew they were thinking the same thing: this was bigger than them, but retreat wasn’t an option.

Midoriya lowered his gaze to the closed notebook resting in his lap. He ran his finger along its worn cover, as though the touch could order the storm in his head. Responsibility pressed harder with every mile closer to their destination.

Dick exhaled slowly, shifting in his seat. In his mind, old voices echoed — orders barked, lessons drilled, nights in Gotham. But now there was no greater shadow to follow. He was the one who had to steer his life’s wheel, even if he wasn’t the one driving.

Minutes later, the jeep crested the last stretch of road and reached a natural plateau. Roy killed the engine, and they all climbed out, walking slowly toward the cliff’s edge.

There, before them, San Francisco sprawled across the horizon.

The city lights still clung to life — not as bright as before, but flickering in uneven clusters. Shattered glass towers reflected the last hues of twilight, while plumes of smoke coiled upward from scattered points, twisting into the heavy air.

Helicopters cut across the sky, red lights blinking, while distant sirens and alarms carried faintly, echoes of a world struggling to hold together.

Midoriya hugged his coat tight, the cold wind sweeping down from the mountains, laden with the smell of smoke, metal, and scorched concrete.

“Looks like…” he began, but faltered, words failing.

Beside him, Dick finished:

“Looks like the city’s still breathing.”

Wally crossed his arms, eyes fixed on the smoke columns.
“And took a heavy beating.”

Roy stayed silent for a moment, then pointed toward the eastern outskirts, where fewer lights shone.

“She’s there. Zatanna… holed up in an improvised shelter, away from the center. That’s where we’ll find her.”

Dick nodded slowly, absorbing the words.

Midoriya glanced from the city to his friends. They all carried the marks of the road: dirty clothes, weary eyes, and above all, the weight of a mission that seemed greater than themselves.

“Should we go now?” Izuku asked, a note of anxious energy in his voice.

Dick shook his head, gaze fixed on the horizon.

“No. We’ll rest a few hours.”

He turned, eyes firm on each of them.

“The next step… it’s going to be decisive.”

No one disagreed. There was no room left for recklessness.

The four of them stood side by side in silence.

San Francisco stretched out below, battered but unbroken. Just like them.

Midoriya drew in a deep breath of the heavy air, as if imprinting the moment into memory.

And then he understood something: no matter where he stood, no matter how much the world had changed… he could still walk alongside people who believed in the same ideal.

The road had carried them this far.

The horizon waited.

And with it, perhaps… a new purpose.

Chapter 9: Between Ashes and Hope

Chapter 9 – Between Ashes and Hope

 

Part 1

 

The car rolled slowly through the broken streets on the outskirts of San Francisco. The view outside was a jarring mosaic: buildings scarred with shattered glass and burned façades, yet still lived in by people unwilling to abandon what was left of their lives. At every corner, makeshift barricades rose — broken furniture, barbed wire, sandbags, anything that could offer the illusion of safety.

Roy eased off the gas when a group of armed civilians appeared, blocking the road ahead. Without hesitation, Dick lowered the window and lifted his arm, revealing the bat symbol etched onto his gauntlet, still intact despite everything.

One of the men — a veteran with a dirt-streaked face and weary eyes — gave a silent nod and motioned them through.
“Go straight ahead. She’s waiting.”

No one needed to ask who “she” was.

They drove on, the engine whispering between the ruins, tension tangled with expectation. When they finally turned the last corner, the theater came into view: a classical building with half-collapsed Greco-Roman columns and faded old marquees. The gilded trim that once gleamed at the entrance now lay dulled, smothered in ash and soot.

And yet, there was still life there.

Civilians moved in and out of the structure, hauling supply crates, tending to the wounded, or simply huddling for shelter beneath the cracked arches. Amid the devastation, the theater had become a refuge — a fragile island surrounded by wreckage.

Roy parked and cut the engine, exhaling a long breath. No one moved right away. They all sat in silence, taking one last moment of stillness before crossing an invisible threshold.

Dick was the first to step out. The hot air of the ruined city closed in on them, carrying the sting of smoke and scorched concrete. Midoriya followed, with Wally and Roy right behind.

The heavy doors of the theater groaned open. And there, in the center of the lobby, lit only by the faint glow filtering through shattered stained glass, stood Zatanna.

She stood tall, arms crossed, her weary gaze trying to disguise the weight of the last few weeks. There was strength in her stance, the kind born not from ease but from sheer refusal to collapse — not in front of them, not in front of all the eyes watching in silence.

Their footsteps echoed across the cracked marble floor, drawing her gaze upward.

For a fleeting moment, a spark of recognition softened her expression at the sight of familiar faces — Dick, Roy, Wally… even young Midoriya. And, against all odds, she forced a faint smile. Not one born of joy, but of necessity — the kind meant to inspire confidence.

“Zee…” Dick murmured, voice low, almost reverent.

She nodded, holding her breath before speaking.
“You came.” Her voice carried a firm edge, though frayed by exhaustion. “That… means more than I can put into words.”

The pause that followed was heavy with all the things that didn’t need to be spoken. Grief lingered, not as a confession of weakness but as an unspoken truth etched into her eyes. And still, she stood.

Roy lowered his gaze out of respect. Wally shoved his hands into his pockets, unsure of what to say. Midoriya simply looked at her, seeing in her the same struggle he carried — the fight to keep standing no matter the weight pressing down.

Dick walked forward slowly, deliberately, until only a few steps separated them. He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he reached out and placed a hand on Zatanna’s shoulder.

She accepted the gesture, her posture still tall, unbroken. It wasn’t surrender. It was acknowledgment — she was grieving, but she wasn’t defeated.

“I’m sorry I can’t offer more than this makeshift shelter,” she said, drawing a deep breath. “But it’s all I have left.”

Dick shook his head, giving her shoulder a light squeeze.
“You don’t need to apologize. You’ve already done more than any of us could ask.”

For a moment, the world seemed to fall silent — the distant noises, the crackle of an improvised fire, the hushed voices of survivors in the background. All of it faded into nothing.

Midoriya watched quietly, repeating to himself the vow he had made: to keep moving forward, no matter how hard it became.

Together, the group crossed the lobby, following Zatanna deeper into the refuge. There was no need for speeches. Respect for pain, the unspoken bond of those who had already lost too much, was all they could offer.

As they walked, Midoriya glanced at Zatanna from the corner of his eye, seeing in her reflection the raw edge of his own recent loss.

There, in that ruined theater, surrounded by survivors and ghosts alike, they all carried the same burden: to endure — even when it felt impossible.

And so, without fanfare, without further words, they settled into the refuge, letting the silence speak for them all.

–

Part 2

 

Zatanna pushed open the door of a small reserved room and motioned for everyone to come in. The space was cramped, with a few chairs lined up against the walls, a worn-out couch, and an improvised table cluttered with maps and scribbled notes. A torn curtain covered the window, letting in only a faint trace of the dying twilight.

As the door shut behind them, silence dropped over the room like a suffocating weight. The dry creak of the wood echoed through the narrow space, and suddenly even the sounds from the street — distant shouts, crates dragging, the crackle of a fire — seemed muffled.

The air was heavy, thick with the staleness of old dust mixed with smoke that clung to everything. Dust motes floated lazily in the dim light, as if the room itself were breathing slowly.

Zatanna stood in the center, her body rigid, fists clenched, chin held high — trying to maintain the same wall of strength she had carried until now. For a moment, it seemed like she would stay unshaken, just taking deep breaths, forcing the impression of control.

She opened her mouth, as if to say something practical. But her voice broke before the first word. She pressed her lips shut, swallowing hard, trying to pull herself together.

Another deep breath, like someone clinging to a last thread of composure. But it came out shaky, and a sob slipped through before she could stop it.

She tried to hide it, closing her eyes and rubbing her face as though it were only fatigue. But the next sob was louder, raw — impossible to disguise.

Her hands trembled as they covered her face. Tears, held back for so long, finally broke free, running down in uneven streams.

“I… I can’t anymore,” she whispered, her voice splintered, before the sobs overtook her.

Dick froze. For a second, the sound of her crying seemed to fill the entire room, echoing off the worn walls. He stepped forward, hand half-extended, but pulled back again. There was no gesture that could ease Zatanna’s pain right now.

She turned away, hugging herself, shoulders trembling under the weight of grief.

And then — as if her breakdown were a signal, a trigger — the room itself seemed to shift.

Dick shut his eyes, swallowing hard, and memories pierced through like knives: Bruce. Solid, unshakable, the figure who had shaped him since childhood. The man who taught him to fight, to survive, to keep discipline even when everything collapsed around him. Now… gone.

For a moment, Bruce’s deep voice echoed in his mind: “Control your breathing. Fear only wins if you let it.”
The memory squeezed his chest like an iron chain.

The absence of Bruce was a void no words could ever fill.

Beside him, Roy stood still, arms wrapped tight around himself, eyes locked on some empty point on the floor. He didn’t need to speak; everyone knew who haunted him now. Oliver Queen, the Green Arrow. The man who pulled him off the streets, who taught him not only how to fire a bow, but to fight for something bigger. Now, silenced forever by the cruelties of this broken world.

Oliver’s image rose sharp: laughing, nudging him on the shoulder during training. “Get back up, kid. A mistake is just another chance to get it right.”
The echo of that laughter only made the silence crueler.

Roy inhaled sharply, as if swallowing back a scream.

Wally kept his gaze fixed on the floor, hands tight on his knees. Zatanna’s muffled sobs seemed to reverberate inside him, clashing with the memory of Barry Allen. The Flash. His uncle, his mentor, his hero.

In his mind, Barry was running alongside him on a makeshift track, voice light and reassuring: “One step at a time, Wally. Just one step at a time.”
Now every step felt heavier than the last.

Wally bit his lip hard, forcing down the tears that threatened to break loose. Not here. Not now.

And then there was Midoriya.

He looked at Zatanna with quiet sorrow, but inside him the turmoil was unbearable. The image of All Might burned bright, as if the man were standing right before him — that fearless, reassuring smile that had lifted him so many times when all seemed lost.

Midoriya’s fists trembled as he clenched them. He muttered without realizing:
“All Might…”

The memory hit him full force. That wide grin, that raised fist, those words that changed his life: “You can be a hero.”
The pain of that absence stung as sharply as the pride of carrying his legacy.

He remembered the last battle, the last words, the final time he felt that overwhelming presence beside him. Now… only memory. An ideal that endured, but a man no longer there to guide his steps.

Midoriya blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. His eyes burned, but he would not give in.

Around them, silence thickened. Words were unnecessary. Each of them was drowning in the same invisible weight: loss.

The people who had been their beacons, their pillars, their foundations — now reduced to painful memories.

Zatanna’s sobs finally softened, tapering into small hiccups, until she sat down on the couch, drained, hugging her knees.

Dick moved closer, this time sitting beside her, saying nothing. Just there. Roy leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes red but dry. Wally rested his forehead in his hands, forcing slow breaths, keeping himself from breaking. Midoriya stood back in the corner, leaning against the cracked wall, staring up at the ceiling.

Each of them sat with the same emptiness, the same burden.

And yet, despite it all, none of them could — or would — allow themselves to collapse.

The world had already lost too much.

So they breathed in silence, gathering every fragment of strength left, knowing they would soon need to decide their next steps… together.

–

Part 3

 

The silence lingered in the room—dense, suffocating, as if each of them were trapped inside their own maze, unwilling—or unable—to escape. The tears had dried, but the pain was still palpable, drifting through the air like an invisible haze. Dust and smoke clung to every corner of the old theater.

A torn curtain let in a narrow band of moonlight, cutting across the splintered wooden floor like a silver scar. Tiny motes of dust danced slowly in that beam, suspended in time, caught between shadow and light.

Zatanna raised her head slowly, drawing in a deep breath, fighting against the tremor that still lingered in her voice.

“Grief… can wait,” she said, her voice fragile but steady. “There are still people out there who need protecting.”

Her words hung in the air like a thin strand of light piercing the darkness. It wasn’t much, but it shifted the weight pressing down on them.

Dick leaned forward, and even the sound of his voice felt different—less smothered, more alive.
“She’s right. We can’t stop. Not now.”

Roy let out a heavy sigh and pushed off the wall. The floorboards creaked under his steps, the sound echoing in the narrow room.
“Fine… but what exactly do we do from here?”

Dick rested his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor as if arranging pieces of memory.
“I tried everything the Batcomputer still has. Coded lines, emergency protocols, even the oldest backdoors.” He lifted his gaze to meet theirs, sharp and serious. “I used Batman’s own login to get into the comms.”

The room froze. He didn’t have to explain: if not even the Batman’s access worked, then the network was far more broken than they feared.

“And?” Roy broke the silence, his voice low.

“Nothing.” Dick shook his head, frustration cutting into every word. “The only ones I reached were you. Roy—through Oliver’s leftover channels. Zatanna—because your father had an emergency key linked to the system. Beyond that… it’s just static. Broken signals. Noise. And silence.”

He exhaled, almost defeated.
“It’s like the world’s been erased.”

Midoriya, sitting in the corner, blinked wide-eyed.
“Then… you’re saying it’s just the four of you left?”

“No.” Dick’s response was immediate, firm. “I refuse to believe that. There are others. Survivors. Fighters. They’re just… cut off. And we need to find them.”

“Then we need something more direct,” Wally said, pacing, arms crossed tight across his chest. “Some way to broadcast to whoever’s still out there without relying on dead lines.”

“And what, exactly?” Roy shot back, one brow raised. “Walkie-talkies? Carrier pigeons?” His sarcasm carried more despair than humor.

Midoriya raised his head, hesitant.
“Isn’t there… some kind of central place? Somewhere heroes used to gather?” His tone was innocent, genuine—he really didn’t know.

Wally and Roy traded a look before Roy turned to him.
“There is. Or… there was.” He breathed deep. “The Watchtower.”

Midoriya blinked, confused.
“The… what?”

Roy gestured vaguely, searching for words.
“It was—maybe still is—the base of Earth’s greatest heroes. A station in orbit, watching the whole world. From up there, they could track threats, coordinate ops, stay connected to anywhere.”

Midoriya’s eyes lit up with awe.
“A space station… just for heroes? That’s… amazing.”

“Yeah,” Wally muttered, though his voice was heavy, bitter. “It was the heart of everything. And when it went dark… it was like the whole world went with it.”

Dick rubbed his jaw, the weight of it settling on him.
“Even if the Watchtower’s still running… we don’t have access. Only the League did. Not me. Not any of us.”

The words hit like a final sentence.

Zatanna sat quiet for a moment. Her fingers brushed, almost instinctively, against the pendant hanging from her neck. The touch stirred an old memory. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind, soft but firm: “Always keep a way back, daughter. One day, you may need it.”

She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, then looked up at the others. Her voice came low, hesitant—yet clear enough to shatter the silence.
“I have access.”

Every head snapped toward her.

“What?” Roy was the first to react, disbelief sharp in his tone.

Zatanna gripped the pendant tightly, as though anchoring herself to it.
“My father—Zatara. He gave me a permanent pass. Said it was precaution, in case something went wrong. Made me promise I’d keep it. And I did.”

Wally froze mid-step, his arms falling limp to his sides as if her words drained the strength from him.
“You’re saying… you can open the Watchtower?”

“I can try.” Her voice steadied now, stronger.

Dick studied her in silence, the shock in his eyes replaced quickly with focus.
“That changes everything.”

Roy let out a low whistle, shaking his head.
“You’ve been sitting on that ace all this time… and only now you drop it?”

Zatanna met his look, unwavering despite the dry streaks on her cheeks.
“I wasn’t sure it would work. I didn’t want to give false hope.”

Midoriya stepped forward, his voice glowing with unshaken faith.
“This could be it. Our chance. You… you can really take us there?”

Zatanna nodded, clutching the amulet tight against her chest.
“Yes. But we’ll need a safe access point.”

The silence broke again when Dick spoke, already piecing together the risks.
“If that pass works… there’s one way.”

All eyes turned to him.

“The Batcave’s Zeta-Tube.” His words hit heavy, but his tone carried determination. “It’s probably the only one still working. If the Tower’s still up there… the Zeta will get us in.”

Roy arched a brow, half a smile tugging at his lips.
“So we’re going back to Gotham.” He shook his head. “Didn’t think I’d ever say that again.”

“Or what’s left of it…” Wally murmured—but his eyes carried a spark they hadn’t before.

Midoriya straightened up, almost eager, even under the weight of the mission.
“Then let’s go. If there’s even a chance of finding others… we can’t waste it.”

Zatanna finally loosened her grip on the pendant, as though releasing an old burden. Her voice was hoarse, but steadier than before.
“My father always said that even when everything seems lost, there’s still a path forward. Maybe… this is ours.”

Dick rose to his feet, steady and unyielding. The chair creaked behind him as he placed a hand over the makeshift maps on the table. He looked at each of them in turn before his gaze settled, sharp and resolved.
“Then it’s decided. We head to the Batcave. And if we reach the Watchtower… we won’t be alone anymore.”

No one spoke. But around that table, a silent pact was made.

The theater was still cloaked in shadow, dust still hung heavy in the air… yet between them, something had shifted.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the room wasn’t ruled by grief.

It was held together by the promise of purpose.

 

—

Part 4

 

The plan took shape quickly—precise, cold, and steady, the kind of clarity only those who had already faced the end of the world could muster.

Dick leaned over the map spread out across the makeshift table. With his finger, he traced a long line, cutting across almost the entire country.
“From San Francisco all the way to the East Coast. Gotham’s in New Jersey.” His voice was steady, but there was a tension buried in every word. “If we stick to this route, skirting the worst of the devastation, it’s still going to be a long and dangerous trip.”

Roy let out a low whistle, crossing his arms.
“‘Long’ doesn’t even cover it. That’s crossing a whole country through a graveyard of cities.”

Wally gave a nervous laugh, running a hand through his red hair.
“You think I don’t know that?” He shook his head, eyes fixed on the map. “When we left Gotham with Deku and Dick, I didn’t think I’d last a week on this crazy road trip.”

He glanced toward Roy and Zatanna, his expression softening.
“But I had to try. Even if it was hopeless… I just wanted to see you guys again.”

The silence that followed was short, but heavy with unspoken truth. Even Midoriya, quiet in the corner, gave a small nod, understanding the weight of those words.

Dick lifted his gaze from the map, answering calmly:
“Then it’s settled. We know where we’re going now. And we can’t afford to falter.”

Midoriya straightened slightly in his seat.
“And now we go even farther,” he said, his tone serious but with a light in his eyes. “If there’s even the smallest chance of gathering heroes again… it’s worth it.”

Roy snorted, shaking his head.
“Still the optimist, huh?” But beneath the dryness, there was respect in his voice.

Zatanna kept her eyes fixed on the map, as if she could see more than lines and roads.
“The path is brutal. But it’s the only one. If we have to cross this broken country… then we’ll cross it together.”

Dick looked at each of them in turn before returning to the map.
“Then it’s decided.”

Wally gave a short, dry chuckle, but it was genuine. Midoriya nodded in silence, absorbing the gravity of the plan.

Zatanna lingered on the map for a few more moments, as though she could glimpse the dangers hidden in its curves and lines. Finally, she looked up, her face set with quiet resolve.
“Then we go together,” she said, her voice carrying the calm strength her father always admired in her. “We know what awaits us, but we also know what’s at stake.”

Dick closed the map with a sharp motion and turned toward her.
“Before we leave…”

Zatanna nodded, already knowing what she had to do.

Without hesitation, she walked toward the theater’s main hall, where dozens of civilians—men, women, children—were gathered. Some sat in silence, others busy with routine tasks. The theater, crumbling as it was, had become a sanctuary—a fragile bubble of safety in the chaos.

As she stepped onto the small improvised stage, the murmurs faded. All eyes turned to her, and the weight of expectation pressed down as heavily as the responsibility she carried.

“I… have to leave,” she said, her voice trembling, but firm. “But I won’t leave you unprotected.”

A low murmur rippled through the crowd, like a restless wind.

With a single gesture and words of power that flowed as naturally as her own breath, she strengthened the wards around the entrances, weaving fresh spells of concealment and protection. A faint light crawled across the walls, fading into the stone but leaving behind a palpable sense of safety.

Before she could continue, a little girl clutched a ragged doll to her chest and stepped forward.
“You’ll come back, won’t you?” the small voice cut through the silence.

Zatanna knelt before her, forcing a soft smile despite the weight in her chest.
“I’ll do everything I can to come back. But even if I can’t…” she touched the girl’s shoulder gently, “…you won’t be alone.”

One of the community leaders, a weary man with a lined face, spoke up.
“If you go… who will protect them? Who keeps us safe?”

She stepped down from the stage, moving toward him and the others who had taken on leadership roles during these weeks. She gave clear instructions, dividing responsibilities, appointing those who had already proven their strength.

Finally, she embraced each of them in turn, holding on just a little longer each time—as though she were passing on both trust and farewell in the same breath.
“Take care of each other. And don’t lose faith,” she whispered.

The eyes that followed her out of the hall carried a mix of fear and hope, reverence and desperation. To many of them, Zatanna was the last thread connecting them to a world that had already slipped away.

The others were waiting by the van—a battered old vehicle, scarred by too many battles, but still holding together.

Without looking back, Zatanna climbed inside and shut the door.

The engine gave a low growl as they pulled away from the theater, winding along the mountain road skirting Los Angeles. The city, half in ruins, shrank in the rearview mirror—lingering like a wound that refused to close.

From the higher road, they could see columns of smoke rising in the distance, black streaks across a gray sky, silent memorials to all that had been lost.

The van rattled forward in silence, the hum of the engine and the crunch of tires on broken asphalt the only soundtrack.

It was Midoriya who finally broke it.

He leaned forward slightly, glancing at Zatanna with curious eyes that also tried to ease the weight hanging in the air.
“Zatanna… can I ask you something?”

She turned from the window, offering him a tired smile.

“Where I come from… I never knew magic was real. I always thought it was just stories, fiction.” He scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed. “But you… you’re really a magician?”

Zatanna let out a soft, genuine laugh—tinged with sadness, but real. She lifted her hand and whispered a word backward, and a small orb of light bloomed in her palm, floating gently between the seats.

Midoriya’s eyes widened, awestruck.

“It’s real,” she said, letting the orb dissolve into smoke. “It always has been. Magic is… both an art and a responsibility.”

Her gaze shifted back to the window, though her voice softened, carrying something precious.
“My father used to say magic is a language… and a bond. It demands sacrifice and understanding… but above all, it exists to protect.”

Midoriya smiled, soaking in every word as if he’d just glimpsed an entirely new world.

The group fell into silence again, but it wasn’t the heavy silence of grief this time. It was lighter—the kind born from scars that no longer define, but remind.

The road stretched ahead, winding through scarred hills. The sun dipped behind the mountains, bleeding orange and purple into a sky already choked with smoke and the creeping edge of night.

Beyond the horizon, Gotham waited.

And beneath the Wayne Manor, the Batcave.

Dick stared out the window, his fists curling slightly.
“We’re going home,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

No one answered. They didn’t need to.

Every pair of eyes turned forward—toward the road, toward what waited for them, and maybe, just maybe… toward hope.

Chapter 10: A Home Awaits

Notes:

Alfred Pennyworth is the best character in the entire Batverse, and I hope I have done justice to his greatness.

Chapter 10 – A Home Awaits

 

Part 1( POV--Alfred)

 

Wayne Manor was drowned in a silence too thick, almost unnatural. Not the comfortable hush of lazy mornings, when sunlight slipped through the curtains carrying the promise of another day in familiar routines.

Nor the quiet of midnight, broken only by the ticking of the old hallway clock. But a heavier silence, dense and suffocating, the kind that clung to walls and furniture. The silence of a house that had lost its soul.

The echo of Alfred’s footsteps rang too loudly through the corridors, as if the manor itself had forgotten how to welcome voices. The walls, once witnesses of laughter and arguments, now answered with nothing but stillness—thick as fog. Even the creak of the floorboards under his feet sounded different, slower, almost mournful.

He stopped for a moment before one of the great stained-glass windows in the hall, where the morning light spilled in blue tones. There was no one left to admire the play of colors across the floor. A sharp ache tightened his chest. The whole house seemed to be waiting—for something, or for someone.

As though the rooms, the furniture, even the air trapped in the corridors for years, sighed with him.

Steam rose, fogging the glass of the kitchen window as Alfred let himself drift into a brief daydream. He gazed at the grounds beyond, vast and seemingly untouched. How many times had he watched Bruce crossing that same lawn, moving like a shadow, training himself past the limits of endurance?

How many times had he seen young Dick flipping and tumbling, laughing at his own failures before rising to try again?

Now, the lawn was only grass. Green, indifferent, untouched by absence. Beyond the walls, the world burned.

He lifted the teacup to his lips, the warmth spreading through his throat and chest, though it did little to chase away the shadow rooted there. Carrying the cup, Alfred entered the main room, quietly lit a lamp, and, with a restrained sigh, turned on the television.

Images exploded across the screen: smoke rising from cities left unrecognizable, fallen monuments, makeshift quarantine zones, masses of people fleeing. Children crying. Mothers screaming. Men with rifles trying in vain to impose order where none remained. The anchors’ trembling voices repeated the question echoing across the globe:
— “What will become of the Justice League?”

Alfred switched it off after only a few seconds. He didn’t need the answer. He already knew.

Bruce’s absence was a void impossible to name. Not just an employer, not just a hero. He had been a son, a partner, a life’s mission. Clark, Diana, John, Arthur—all gone, dead, or lost beyond reach. A world without its gods. Gotham without its Dark Knight.

The black screen reflected Alfred’s face back at him. Deeper wrinkles than he remembered, thinning hair, shoulders no longer able to bear the weight they once had. “The last adult,” he thought, and the irony almost made him smile. Never in his life had he imagined himself as the anchor for youth… and yet that was exactly what he had become.

Dick… only thirteen. To Alfred’s eyes, still the boy who had needed rocking through nights of nightmares, who sought approval in every drill, who forced a smile even after he fell.

Now forced to wear not only the mask but also a burden heavy enough to crush grown men. Even from afar, Alfred could see how the boy had straightened his shoulders, hardened his gaze, swallowed his tears so the others wouldn’t falter.

Wally… fifteen. Always running, always laughing, always hiding his own fears behind jokes. Alfred knew him well enough to see the truth—that beneath the restless energy was a vulnerable heart. And now, he ran endlessly, as if afraid that stopping meant being consumed by grief he refused to face.

And the newcomer… Midoriya. Sixteen, but a stranger in every way. Separated from his homeland, his friends, even his culture. Fighting beside strangers for a world that wasn’t his own.

Alfred had never had the chance to know him deeply, but it didn’t take long to understand. The boy burned himself—literally—for the sake of those he barely knew. His spirit was clear to anyone who looked: someone who chose, every day, to shoulder a burden never meant for him—yet bore it anyway.

Roy, Zatanna… so young, so scarred. Children molded by loss, turned into soldiers far too soon.

Alfred closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, letting his own breath echo through the emptiness of the manor. The air smelled of old wood, fresh tea, and memories that would never return.

All of them… teenagers who should have been living their youth, yet sacrificed every second to protect others. Refusing to stop, refusing to cry, because they knew if they did, the world itself would crumble. They pressed forward not out of coldness, but because they felt too much.

And he, Alfred Pennyworth, was the last adult left within reach. The last who could remind them that before being heroes, they were still human. That they deserved to rest, to smile, to make mistakes. That, despite everything, they still had the right to simply be… kids.

He opened his eyes. The gray sky weighed heavy over Gotham. The silence still clung, thick and unyielding. But Alfred no longer feared it.

Not anymore.

Because he knew they would return. Wounded, tired, exhausted… but alive. And when they did, they would need someone to remind them of who they were. That there was still a home waiting for them.

That, even in the deepest dark, hope still remained.

–

Part 2

 

Alfred walked slowly through the halls of Wayne Manor, and each step made the wooden floor creak softly, as if the house itself remembered those who had once passed through. The sound echoed between the silent walls, carrying a weight that went beyond emptiness: they were like vessels of old voices that insisted on remaining.

Dust had gathered upon furniture once immaculate, subtle marks of abandonment in a place that, though grand, now seemed like a mausoleum of memories. In the paintings and stained glass, shadows stretched, reminding him of nights when the manor pulsed with life — Bruce’s sharp commands, the noise of training in the underground, the brief, timid laughter of Dick in rare moments of rest.

Now, the silence was almost sepulchral, heavy, so dense it seemed to press the air against his chest. With each room he crossed, Alfred felt as though he walked a fine line between present and past, where the ghosts were not seen, but felt in every detail.

Alfred stopped before the closed door of the movie room and, for a moment, hesitated before entering. He pushed it open slowly, and the soft groan of the wood was swallowed by the silence of the room.

The aligned armchairs, the darkened screen at the front… everything seemed frozen in time. But for Alfred, that space would never be just a projection room. It was one of the few places where Bruce and Dick had shared truly simple moments.

He remembered one night in particular. Bruce, still wearing his usual austere expression but without the Batman suit, had sat in the back of the room with the boy. There had been no speeches, no hidden lessons. Only an old film projected on the screen, and a comfortable silence that Alfred had only ever seen exist between father and son.

Dick, laughing softly at certain scenes, ventured comments that broke Bruce’s habitual rigidity. And Bruce, though restrained, let small signs escape — a faint smile, almost imperceptible, or the way he inclined his head toward the boy, as if absorbing that instant with the intensity of someone who knew such moments would be rare.

Alfred, back then, had watched from afar, content. To him, that movie room was more than a refuge: it was proof that, even amid the darkness, Bruce still allowed the boy he had chosen as his ward to be just that — a boy.

Now, staring at the empty rows, Alfred felt a stab of pain. The dark screen reflected back only silence, and the echo of memory was more vivid than any projection could ever be.

He drew a deep breath, as though the still air of that room were heavier than usual, and closed the door gently. The sound echoed through the manor like a farewell, and he resumed his slow steps down the halls.

Alfred pushed open the door of the library, and the soft creak of the hinges sounded louder than it should in that silence. The air inside carried a different weight, steeped in dust and the old wood of shelves that rose to the ceiling. It was a solemn room, a refuge of knowledge, but also a stage of moments he would rather not revisit.

His eyes fell upon the old leather couch, still marked by use. It was there that, years ago, he had found Dick after one of his first missions alongside Batman. The boy had been curled up, the mask barely removed from his face, the cape fallen to the ground as if it had been too heavy to carry. He trembled almost imperceptibly, but enough for Alfred, with his experience, to notice at once.

On the boy’s lap rested an adventure book. The pages lay open, but Dick’s fixed eyes never moved beyond the same line. He clutched the volume tightly, as if those pages could anchor him to something normal, childish, human.

Alfred remembered the uncomfortable feeling that had consumed him at seeing him like that: the contrast between the colorful fantasy printed in words and the empty gaze of a boy who had already seen, up close, how cruel reality could be.

That night, without saying a word, Alfred had sat beside him. He had offered no advice, no speeches — he had simply stayed there, in silence, until the tremor in Dick’s shoulders slowly faded. Only then did he calmly tell him a story. Not about justice or vengeance, but about simple bravery: that of keeping on walking even when your feet want to stop.

Now, looking at that same empty couch, Alfred felt his heart tighten. The boy who once needed to cling to adventure books to remember he was still a child… was the same one who now led others through a world with no pages to turn, only shadows to cross.

Dick, at only thirteen, bearing on his shoulders what no grown man should have to carry… let alone a boy.

And he was not alone in that burden.

Wally.

Alfred rested one hand on the back of the couch, gazing out the window.

Wally, always so vibrant, so restless, now ran… ran more than ever. Not to escape, but to keep helping, to keep others from falling.

But deep down, Alfred knew — and the knowledge pressed painfully against his chest — that the boy hadn’t even stopped to seek news of his own family.

Mrs. Iris…
His parents…
Perhaps they were alive, perhaps not.

And Wally, faithful to what he had been taught, faithful to what Barry had instilled in him — “always run to help others, even if it costs you” — simply kept running, without even allowing himself to look back.

It was a silent sacrifice, perhaps unconscious, but brutal.

Alfred closed his eyes briefly, feeling the weight of it all.

Midoriya, too, a foreigner in a world not his own, fighting with the same determination as the others, as if he were not just a lost boy.

Roy, Zatanna… each with their own griefs, their own losses, which they kept to themselves like invisible scars.

All of them, united by a terrible choice: to ignore their own mourning, to smother despair, so that others might have a chance to survive.

And he…
The only adult left.
The only one who could see clearly how much it consumed them, even if they did not notice — or refused to.

Alfred lifted his gaze to the portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne hanging on the wall.

What could he do?

The question lingered in his mind, cold and inevitable.

And then, almost without realizing it, he whispered into the emptiness:
— Remind them… that they are still human.

Yes, that would be his role.

He could not stop them from fighting — they would never accept that — but he could ensure that, at the end of each battle, they still had somewhere to return to… and a reason to remain more than mere symbols.

They were young.
They were human.
And he, Alfred Pennyworth, was the last adult there… and he would not let them forget it.

 

–

Part 3

 

The old phone on the kitchen wall broke the silence with a dry, metallic ring, so out of place in that sleeping mansion it seemed to echo through the halls like a call from ghosts.

Alfred, drying his hands on the apron, lifted his eyes to the device. He stood still for a moment, listening to that repetitive sound, almost hesitant, as if even the machine were aware of the gravity of what it carried. He drew a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and walked toward it, each step heavy with quiet dignity.

“Wayne Manor,” he announced as he answered, with the unshakable politeness that neither war, nor loss, nor solitude had ever stripped from him.

On the other end, a familiar voice, tinged with weariness:
“Alfred… it’s Lois. Lois Lane.”

He closed his eyes for a brief instant, recognizing not only the voice but the weight of a world that no longer existed.
“Miss Lane…” he replied, solemn and warm. “It’s good to hear from you.”

There was a brief pause on the line, filled with the faint tremor of held-back emotion. Then Lois spoke again, her tone wavering between urgency and fragility:
“I… I called because I needed to know if at least Dick… and maybe someone else… was still alive.”

Alfred drew a slow, steady breath, letting his voice carry the weight of reassurance.
“Master Dick is alive, Miss Lane. And he is not alone.”

Alfred sat down in the worn leather armchair, the phone still warm in his trembling hand. Lois’s voice carried across the line with a mix of firmness and exhaustion.

“I still can’t believe it all… ended like this.”

“Neither can I, Miss Lane. Neither can I.”

On the other side, a pause—memories intertwining with his own.
“You know… Clark used to talk a lot about Dick. Said the boy had the same stubborn courage as Batman, but… lighter. That he could still smile, even after a bad night.”

Alfred smiled sadly.
“Mr. Kent treated him almost like a son. And Master Dick admired him the same way. Many times, I saw him more excited about a visit from him than about any Christmas gift.”

A muffled, brief laugh.
“I remember… once Clark came back from a patrol with you and told me Dick insisted on showing him how the cinema room projector worked. Wanted Superman to watch the same old cartoon you used to.”

The memory tightened Alfred’s chest.
“Yes. Robin Hood, 1938. Master Dick loved to imagine Bruce as Errol Flynn in green tights, but he would never admit it out loud.” His voice broke for an instant before steadying again. “Mr. Kent pretended not to notice when Bruce smiled in the dark of the room.”

Lois drew in a breath, hesitating:
“Jon, Martha and I are in Smallville. Safe, for now. Helping however we can.”

Alfred let out a discreet smile.
“That brings me relief.”

“As soon as I can… I’ll come to Gotham. I need to see Dick. I need to see all of you.”

“The doors will always be open, Miss Lane.”

They exchanged brief goodbyes, heavy with what was left unsaid. When the line went quiet, the silence felt even heavier. But not for long.

The phone rang again. Alfred already knew: the next voice would carry a different kind of pain.
“Wayne Manor,” he repeated, composure intact.

On the other end, a broken voice:
“Alfred… it’s me… Iris.”

He closed his eyes, bracing like a soldier before an inevitable blow.
“Mrs. West…”

The name alone sounded like a prayer.

“I… I had to know. I couldn’t reach him. Wally… I…” Her voice cracked, every word turning into fragments.

Alfred drew a deep breath before answering.
“Mrs. West… calm your heart. Master Wally is alive.”

An immediate sob. Iris took a few seconds before she could speak:
“Thank God… I hadn’t heard anything since the beginning… Barry is gone… and I feared I had lost them both.”

“I understand your torment, ma’am. But I can assure you: Wally is well. And he is not alone. He has been a vital force for Master Grayson. For all of us.”

“He… he’s taking care of the others, isn’t he? That’s what Wally does. Always wanted to prove he could carry more than people expected of him.”

“That is correct.” Alfred allowed himself a small smile. “Young Master West has inherited far more than Mr. Allen’s speed. He inherited his courage… and his heart.”

And then, the name escaped her throat:
“Barry…”

The sound lingered in the air like a ghost. Alfred tightened his grip on the receiver, keeping his voice steady.
“Wally is honoring his memory, Mrs. West.”

On the other end, she wept. Alfred did not try to fill the space with empty words. He simply remained, present, holding that silence between sobs, like someone offering an invisible shoulder.

When Iris finally regained her breath, she whispered:
“I’m sorry… I just…”

“There is nothing to apologize for.” His voice was firm, yet gentle. “The world has changed. We are all just trying to find a way through it.”

She breathed deeply.
“I’m helping as much as I can in Central City. But… it’s all so hard.”

“I understand.” Alfred spoke with the calm of one who had seen the worst of war. “When you can, come to Gotham. The doors will always be open to you and yours.”

Iris gave a faint laugh, through tears.
“Thank you, Alfred… thank you for taking care of him.”

“Always,” he answered without hesitation.

When the line went dead, silence returned. Alfred remained still for long moments, the phone still in his hand. Then he lifted his eyes to the window: Gotham’s sky, gray and heavy, seemed to watch in silence.

Voices that survive.

And he knew, more than ever, what his role was: not just to keep their bodies safe, but to preserve their bonds, their memories… and the humanity that still remained.

 

—

Part 4

 

The soft click of the phone settling back into its cradle echoed faintly through the empty kitchen, and then silence returned—thick and familiar, like an invisible curtain draped over every corner of Wayne Manor.

Alfred stood still for a moment, his eyes resting on the dark, polished wood of the counter, before releasing a quiet sigh. No more voices. Only memories.

He left the kitchen and moved through the silent halls, each step echoing like a recollection. The walls held more than paintings and furniture; they carried the muffled laughter of young Bruce, the hurried footsteps of Dick rushing off to training, the deep voice of Bruce calling him to yet another night in Gotham.

He climbed the stairs with his usual quiet grace and, as he had done countless times before, entered Bruce’s study.

Here, time seemed to have stopped.

The portrait of the Wayne family still hung above the fireplace, untouched, a monument to what had been lost—and to what, somehow, still endured.

Alfred drew closer, his eyes tracing Thomas’s stern expression, Martha’s graceful smile… and then, inevitably, resting on Bruce. So young in the painting, yet already shadowed by the weight that would follow him for life.

Beside it stood a smaller, more recent photograph: Dick, caught in a rare, carefree smile—the kind of smile that now felt so far away.

Without realizing it, Alfred let his fingertips graze the edge of the frame.

“Now it’s me…” he murmured, a weary half-smile tugging at his lips. “…the last adult left.”

Not a warrior. Not a hero. Just the caretaker.

The guardian of the home.

It wasn’t his mission to battle villains or save cities. His task, perhaps the most essential of all, was to ensure those young ones never forgot who they were… nor where they belonged.

He turned with renewed purpose and began walking through the manor, silent as if performing some ancient, sacred ritual.

His first stop was Dick’s room. He opened the windows to let in the cool Gotham air but left the heavy curtains drawn, knowing the boy—now a leader—needed as much shelter as fresh air. He made the bed with military precision, then softened the pillows, remembering how, as a child, Dick used to complain they were “too hard to sleep on.”

Next, he crossed the hall and opened the door to an empty room near Dick’s. He paused at the threshold, eyes scanning the dusty, silent space.

“This one will do for Wally…” he murmured, pulling the curtains aside and letting fresh air sweep in.

He set about preparing the room: laying out clean sheets, folding an extra blanket at the foot of the bed, and placing a pitcher of fresh water on the dresser.

“I hope this will be comfortable enough for him…” Alfred reflected quietly, with the sober understanding that comfort had become a rare luxury these days.

He walked down another hallway and prepared two more rooms. There was no certainty—only hope.

As he stretched the sheets with practiced precision, his thoughts drifted to Roy. A simple room, practical, without many adornments—just as the boy would likely prefer.

And in the next room, he added more delicate touches: a comfortable chair by the window, where Zatanna might sit to read or meditate, just as he knew she liked to do.

He paused for a moment, staring at the empty room.

— I hope you come with them… he whispered, his words swallowed by the silence that echoed back at him.

At the last door, Alfred slowed his steps. This room he had reserved for Izuku, the young man from another land—whose very presence still felt like a mystery to everyone. Preparing a space for him wasn’t just about smoothing sheets or dusting furniture. It was symbolic.

He entered, turned on the lamp, and looked around at the untouched space. The bed was made, the desk clean, the walls unmarked by life. It all carried the coldness of something new, impersonal. Alfred ran a hand across the back of the chair and let out a quiet sigh.

— An empty room is not a home, he murmured to himself.

So he added small details: an extra blanket folded at the foot of the bed, a glass of water on the nightstand, the curtains drawn just enough to let the moon peek through. Simple things, but enough to give warmth to the space.

When he was done, he stepped back to observe. There were no memories here—no photographs, no traces of a past, unlike Dick’s room. But there was space. Space for the boy to write his own story. Space, perhaps, for new bonds to form.

Alfred closed the door gently, as if sealing a blank chapter waiting to be written.

When he finished, he looked down the long corridor and drew in a steady breath.

Now came the task that, perhaps, mattered most: making the house feel like home.

He returned to the kitchen and began preparing a hot meal, just as he once did in times of peace.

He set a pot of water on the stove, waiting as it began to warm, then unwrapped a fresh bundle of basil. The leaves released a sharp, green fragrance that quickly filled the air. Alfred smiled faintly, thinking of Dick.

The boy—no, the young man who had grown before his very eyes—always preferred something simple: pasta with tomato sauce and fresh basil, served with warm bread. Nothing extravagant, nothing excessive. It was curious—amid a life built on shadows, danger, and masks, Dick always sought light in the most ordinary of things.

As Alfred finely chopped the basil leaves, his thoughts deepened. Perhaps that was Dick’s greatest gift: the ability to turn the ordinary into something extraordinary. Where Bruce saw discipline, Dick found freedom. Where others chased glory, Dick only longed for a touch of normalcy.

Maybe that, Alfred mused, was what made the boy the heart of the house—and perhaps, someday, the heart of something greater.

A quiet chuckle escaped him. For Wally, no dish was ever enough—so long as it came in abundance. A lasagna and a generous heap of fries would be a safe choice for the restless speedster.

When his mind turned to Midoriya, Alfred hesitated. The boy was still finding his place here, but his roots were clear. Ramen, perhaps—or a simple curry—something to remind him of a faraway home.

Roy’s meal was easy to decide: roasted meat. Strong, straightforward, without pretenses—just like the boy himself.

And Zatanna… memories stirred of long conversations with her father. Herbal teas, delicate butter cakes—small comforts that spoke of both her and Zatara.

As he sorted ingredients, set the oven, and stirred sauce in the pan, another thought crossed his mind—half practical, half tender:

— How am I going to get them to actually sit down and eat?

He could already imagine it. They would return exhausted—yet restless, heavy with adrenaline and the weight of their choices.

Perhaps he would have to insist, with that look even Bruce never dared challenge… or perhaps he would simply leave the table ready, letting the irresistible aroma of food fill the halls, drawing them in without a word.

When everything was prepared, Alfred lit the fireplaces in the rooms, cracked the curtains to let in the dim glow of the evening, and finally made his way upstairs.

He stepped onto the terrace.

The Gotham sky hung heavy, scarred by rising columns of smoke—open wounds that refused to close.

The cold wind carried with it the metallic tang of ruin, and the distant wail of sirens.

Alfred stood tall, hands folded behind his back, breathing deeply.

The sky darkened slowly, but his eyes remained fixed on the horizon, where city and chaos merged.

He knew they would come.

They always came.

And when they did…

With an automatic gesture, he straightened his jacket, squared his shoulders, and with the calm certainty of a man who had never doubted his purpose, murmured to himself:

— They’re on their way. And when they arrive… there will be a home waiting for them.

Chapter 11: Beneath the Guardian’s Shadow

Chapter 11 — Beneath the Guardian’s Shadow

 

Part 1

 

The hum of the jeep’s engine echoed faintly through the vastness of the Batcave, small and almost inadequate against the enormity of the space. For a fleeting moment, Alfred felt the absence of the deep, resonant growl of the Batmobile, that familiar sound which so often heralded Bruce’s return. Now, it was an ordinary vehicle descending the metal ramp, carrying not only weary youths but also the weight of a legacy they were still learning to bear.

Inside, silence mingled with heavy breaths. Roy kept both hands firmly on the wheel, his eyes fixed forward, as if forcing himself to be the anchor for them all. Wally tapped his fingers lightly against the door, incapable of stillness even in exhaustion.

Midoriya watched the cavern with sharp eyes, drinking in every detail as though it were his first time. Zatanna sat upright, determined not to reveal the unease gnawing at her. And Dick, in the front seat, remained quiet, his gaze locked on the tunnel ahead where the diffuse light of the hideout blurred into shadow.

Alfred waited at the foot of the ramp, posture straight though his heart raced. For an instant, he almost expected Bruce to emerge from the vehicle, as he had countless times before. Instead, he saw on those young faces the same mixture of fatigue and resolve. In that moment, he knew—it was time to treat them not as visitors, but as rightful heirs to a home that had to endure.

He stood as he had so many times over the decades, hands clasped behind his back, posture impeccable, eyes steady though unrest churned within. Around him, the cave felt frozen in time: computers dark, armor stands empty, Bruce’s absence a wound invisible yet present in every stone, every shadow, every silence.

The engine cut off, and the silence that followed was heavier than the ride itself. Dust settled slowly on the damp stone floor as the jeep doors creaked open, one by one.

Wally jumped out first, ever eager to be in motion, though Alfred noticed the subtle drag in his step—nothing escaped trained eyes. The boy tried to mask his fatigue with a brief grin, but the shadows under his eyes betrayed him.

Midoriya followed, adjusting the straps of his backpack as if trying to disappear inside it. His gaze, though sharp, flitted restlessly, as if weighing each detail to avoid seeming out of place.

Zatanna brushed her hair back with an almost automatic grace, elegance defying exhaustion that revealed sleepless nights. Roy came next, tall and upright, a soldier standing guard over the others. Alfred recognized the effort—it was the attempt to keep them steady, even as weariness seeped into his stance.

Last was Dick. The boy kept his head high, but Alfred saw the weight in his eyes. Not just fatigue, but the burden of choices far too heavy for his years.

Alfred said nothing. He did not see victors, nor the defeated—only survivors who refused to stop moving.

They had barely stepped out before the discussion began, like gears unable to grind to a halt.

“Is the Zeta-Tube here still functional?” Zatanna raised a small enchanted trinket, arcane symbols flickering faintly in the cave’s blue glow. Her voice wavered between urgency and uncertainty. “Will it actually get us to the Tower? I know it’s late to ask, but… I’m nervous.”

“It’s locked to League members only,” Dick answered without hesitation, already moving toward the central console. The precision in his tone betrayed the exhaustion in his body. “But if we use Batman’s clearance, we can bypass the system. It’ll work. It has to.”

Wally was at his side before he even finished, his eyes racing across the terminal, trying to keep pace with his own quick thoughts.

“The Tower’s our only shot at centralizing comms,” he said, tension sharp in every word. “We can’t waste time. Every hour, someone out there could be in danger.”

Midoriya gave a quick nod, though his gaze was heavy, close to breaking.

“We can broadcast a wide signal,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Find out who survived… who can still help… who’s still fighting.”

As their ideas tumbled over one another, Roy stood silent a few paces back, arms folded, eyes in constant motion. He didn’t need to speak—the soldier in him was still scanning the cave like hostile ground.

Impatient, Zatanna already pressed her charm to the Zeta-Tube’s panel, whispering formulas so quietly even she didn’t seem to believe them.

And Alfred… continued watching. The way each of them clung to the next plan, the next step, the next fight. It wasn’t just urgency. It was escape. Escape from the silence, from the grief, from the loss that screamed loudest when one stopped moving.

Bruce had done the same. For years. Until the day he simply didn’t come back.

Alfred closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath, summoning strength for the inevitable. When he opened them again, his decision was firm.

He stepped forward. The echo of his shoes rang through the cavern, sharp and commanding, and all five young heroes turned at once—as if only now realizing he was there.

Standing tall, hands clasped behind his back, Alfred faced them with a calm that didn’t request space—it claimed it.

“I’m afraid,” he said, voice low but steady, filling every corner of the Batcave, “I cannot allow you to continue.”

The words dropped like a stone into a still lake, shattering the rush of anxious planning.

Dick reacted first. He stepped forward, confusion plain in his eyes.

“What do you mean?” he asked, stunned. There was no defiance in his voice, only disbelief. The idea that Alfred might truly stop them seemed unthinkable.

And in that moment—before five exhausted youths, ready to break themselves before they’d ever stop—Alfred understood. He could no longer just be the butler, the quiet guardian who mended uniforms and prepared meals.

He had to be the adult they had forgotten still existed.

The voice they did not know they wanted.
But desperately needed.

–

Part 2

 

The silence that followed Dick’s question was thick, almost tangible, as if the very air of the Batcave had grown too heavy to breathe. Alfred’s eyes swept, with practiced calm, over each face before him: five young souls, all scarred by wounds no one could see, all driven by an urgency that looked less like a mission and more like an addiction.

He didn’t move, didn’t even draw a deep breath before speaking. He didn’t need to. His voice, when it finally came, was low, measured, and impossibly steady—like the relentless ticking of a clock counting down to its final hour.

“Since the end of the invasion…” he began, letting the words echo across the cavern’s emptiness, “…you haven’t stopped for a single moment to breathe.”

It wasn’t an accusation. There was no anger in his tone. Only a statement. A cold mirror he was holding up for them to see.

“You just kept moving forward. Like soldiers. Not like people.”

The weight of those words landed instantly. Wally looked away, shoulders sagging as though a burden he had pretended not to carry suddenly became too heavy to disguise.

Midoriya’s brow furrowed slightly, his fist clenching unconsciously at his side. Roy stayed rigid, jaw tight. Zatanna’s gaze fell to the floor, her eyes lost in some far-off memory. And Dick… Dick stood his ground, silent, his jaw locked tight, unable to summon a reply.

Alfred shifted just enough to turn toward Wally. His tone was soft—almost affectionate—but carried the sharp precision of a blade that never wavered.
“You…” he said slowly, each word pressed like a weight upon the boy’s shoulders, “haven’t even tried to contact your family.”

Wally’s head snapped up, eyes wide as if struck by a blow no one else could see. His mouth opened, ready to protest—but nothing came out. His silence betrayed the truth.

Alfred’s gaze did not break. His expression remained calm, unshaken.
“Iris West called the Manor earlier.” He paused, letting the name linger in the cavern like a ghost. “Desperate. Begging for news.”

Wally’s chest tightened, and he turned away, fixing his eyes on some nonexistent point on the ground. His fingers drummed nervously against his thigh, a twitch born of his caged speed. Each tap grew faster, more frantic—like he was trying to outrun the truth the only way he knew how.

“She asked if you were still alive,” Alfred added—not raising his voice, but with a firmness that pressed down like a stone.

Wally’s heart skipped, his fists clenched, and he swallowed hard. For the first time since the conversation had begun, his eyes glistened, though he blinked too quickly to let the weakness surface.

And in that heavy silence, her image came rushing back: Iris—her warm smile, the faint smell of fresh coffee in the kitchen, the way her voice called his name when he came home late. All of it felt so distant now, so painfully out of reach, that it hurt worse than any wound a battle could leave.

He wanted to speak. To say he was trying, that there hadn’t been time, that the world needed him more than a phone call. But no excuse could survive beneath Alfred’s gaze.

Then Alfred turned to Dick, and the silence that followed was different from the one he had left with Wally. Heavier. More intimate. His eyes—tired, but still steady—settled on the boy in front of him, seeing far beyond the mask.

“And you, Master Dick…” Alfred began, his voice low, controlled, but weighted enough to make the boy’s heartbeat quicken. “The one among them who should understand what it means to carry a legacy… and yet, you keep hiding behind it.”

The butler took a single step forward, his shadow stretching across the boy.
“You are not Bruce.” His tone wasn’t accusatory, but absolute—like a verdict. “You don’t need to be. But by insisting on carrying the world the way he did, you are only repeating the same mistakes… and that, my dear boy, is the very last thing Bruce would have wanted for you.”

Dick’s chest rose and fell rapidly. He didn’t look away, but his jaw trembled with the tension he fought to control. In the back of his mind, a memory pulsed: his first training session in the Batcave, the first time Alfred handed him a warm glass of milk after patrol. Simple moments—but reminders of who he had been before the darkness.

And now, hearing those words, Dick felt as if he stood at an invisible crossroads.

“Lois Lane called as well. She was crying.”

Dick didn’t look away, but his pupils widened slightly, and Alfred caught the small, involuntary twitch of his hand curling into a fist.

“Both of them were looking for you,” Alfred added, his gaze sweeping across the group. “And neither of them received so much as a single word in return.”

He let the sentence hang in the air, heavy enough to sink into each conscience like a stone into deep water. Only then did he draw in a breath, slower, deeper, and stepped toward Midoriya, who stared back at him with a mix of confusion, respect, and unease.

Alfred raised one hand—not to touch him, but to point, as if indicating a truth that couldn’t be denied.

“And you…” His voice was so soft it nearly sounded like a caress, yet it carried the sharp edge of accusation. “…a boy from another world… you seem to care more for this one than for yourself.”

At last, Alfred turned fully to the green-eyed youth, who had remained silent until now, his fists clenched so tight the knuckles shone white. Midoriya didn’t flinch, but there was something restless in his gaze—something Alfred had seen before.

It was the same fire he’d watched burn in Bruce countless times: the unspoken vow to sacrifice again and again until nothing remained but the shell of a hero.

“And you…” Alfred’s voice softened, but it did not waver. “I know what you’re thinking. ‘If I push past the limit, if I endure more pain, if I stand alone, maybe I can save just one more person.’”

Midoriya blinked, startled, as though Alfred had opened a secret book he had never shown anyone.

“But do you know what happens to men who think that way?” Alfred pressed on, walking closer, step by step. “They die. They die early, they die exhausted, they die without ever realizing the people they left behind will never recover from their loss.”

The words landed like hammer blows in the silence of the cave.

Midoriya tried to answer, but his voice cracked:
“I… I can’t… I can’t stop. If I stop, someone else will suffer in my place.”

Alfred drew in a slow breath and finally rested a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. There was no anger in his eyes, no harsh judgment—only a sorrow that felt centuries old.

“Listen to me, young Midoriya. What drives you right now is not courage. It is guilt. And guilt does not build heroes—it only breaks them. I saw it in Bruce. I saw it in every soul who thought they could carry the world alone. And I will not stand by and watch it take you too.”

Midoriya inhaled sharply, fighting against the sting in his eyes. For the first time that night, he didn’t look like a hero bracing for the next fight. He looked like a boy, crushed beneath the weight of a thousand defeats that were never truly his.

Alfred kept his hand steady on his shoulder, his voice low and unwavering:
“You don’t need to destroy yourself to prove you can save. If you truly wish to honor those already gone, then do it differently. Live. Endure. Take care of yourself—so that you may care for others.”

He lingered there for a moment longer, holding Midoriya’s gaze, before stepping away. His eyes moved to Roy and Zatanna, sharp as if he were reading familiar pages from a book.

“And the two of you…” His tone now carried a weary note, one that made him sound older than his years. “…instead of guarding yourselves, you’ve taken upon your shoulders the burden of entire cities. Star City… San Francisco…”

The cities named sounded like epitaphs in the cavern’s silence.

Roy kept his unshakable expression, as always, but Alfred noticed the faint tremor in his stance—the weight he didn’t want to admit. Zatanna discreetly bit her lower lip, clutching her cloak tighter around her body, as if the fabric could serve as armor too frail to shield her from words that struck with such precision.

Then Alfred straightened to his full height, hands folding once again behind his back—the posture he always assumed before delivering the words that mattered most.

His voice rang out, grave, deliberate, final:

“This burden will break you.”

He let the sentence fall like a funeral bell in the vastness of the Batcave, before finishing with a hardness that left no room for argument:

“And I, as the only adult present, cannot allow that to happen.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

None of them moved.
None of them spoke.

They only stood there, frozen, like soldiers who had just been told their march was canceled—unsure what to do with their own feet, which until now had never stopped moving.

Wally breathed in ragged gasps, eyes glassy with unshed tears.

Midoriya stared at the floor, struggling to understand how someone could know so much about him with so few words.

Roy held his ground, but the nails digging into his palms betrayed the cost of his restraint.

Zatanna looked as if she had aged ten years in the span of ten minutes.

And Dick… Dick remained fixed on Alfred, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with frustration—but above all, with the painful recognition that Alfred was right.

And yet…

“We can’t…” Dick began, his voice low, almost as if he were trying to convince himself otherwise. But Alfred raised one hand, silencing him with a sober gesture.

“No one leaves tonight,” he decreed, with the unquestionable authority of someone who had spent a lifetime caring for heroes who thought themselves immortal. “Whatever business you think cannot wait… it will. Until tomorrow.”

And then, when it seemed silence would reclaim the cavern, Dick stepped forward, eyes blazing, his voice cracking between rage and desperation.

“We don’t have that kind of time!” he shouted, a cry that came not just from his throat, but from his soul, from the anguish of knowing the world outside was still burning.

And Alfred simply looked at him, unmoved.

–

Part 3

 

The cry of Dick echoed through the Batcave, vibrating against the cold stone and the silent monitors. The weight of Alfred’s words still lingered in the air, like a mist too dense to disperse quickly, but the urgency in the young heroes’ hearts was stubborn, unyielding—as it had always been.

Dick stepped forward, his gaze hard, his hands clenched into trembling fists.

“We don’t have time for this!” he repeated, his voice steadier now, as if he were trying to convince himself as much as the others. His chest rose and fell rapidly, each breath a struggle not to drown inside his own urgency.

Before the butler could reply, Wally surged ahead, his body leaning forward, vibrating with restlessness, as though his energy no longer fit inside his skin.

“There are people out there who need help!” he exclaimed, and it seemed as though his very breath wanted to race ahead of his words. An impatient tremor ran through his legs, like he was a heartbeat away from bolting.

Midoriya lifted his face slowly, and for a moment his silence was louder than any shout. His eyes gleamed—not with fury, but with something rarer: a conviction almost innocent, almost pure.

“To sacrifice oneself… is a hero’s duty,” he said without raising his tone. It was as though he were simply stating a law of nature. There was no challenge, no hesitation. Only certainty.

Roy, who had remained silent until then, crossed his arms, his shoulders rigid like forged steel. When he finally spoke, there was no warmth in his voice, only the merciless cold of a blade.

“Protecting people is the legacy we were left with.” His eyes narrowed toward Alfred, but they did not plead; they demanded. “No matter what happens, we have to move forward.” It was a vow, not an opinion.

Zatanna clutched her cloak tightly, her fingers trembling against the fabric as though it were the only thing keeping her heart in place. When she raised her face, her voice came out broken, but her vulnerability only heightened her strength.

“Being a hero… is the legacy my father left me.” She drew a deep breath, and tears threatened to spill, glittering in her eyes. “I… I can’t give up.”

And then, silence. The chorus had been formed. Each of them had spoken not only their arguments but the reasons that defined them. Ideals so deeply rooted they shaped not just their choices, but their very identities.

Alfred listened to them all without moving a muscle more than necessary. His posture remained upright, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression unshaken. There was no judgment in his eyes, no disdain. Only the patience of someone who had seen the same cycle repeat far too many times to believe youthful stubbornness could be conquered by mere words.

He waited until silence fully settled, like dust after an explosion. Only then, without raising his voice or altering his tone, he spoke the words that would end the confrontation:

“Twenty minutes until dinner.” The pause was brief, but firm, enough to halt any immediate protest. “Wash up, eat, and rest. Tomorrow, you may try to save the world again. Tonight, allow me to save you from yourselves.”

The declaration sounded more like an order than a suggestion. There was no room for negotiation. The authority with which Alfred delivered those words did not come from hidden power, nor from superhuman abilities. It came from something far more solid, and therefore far more unyielding: experience, responsibility, and love.

The young heroes, like soldiers hearing the call of a martial trumpet, began to stir, opening their mouths in simultaneous protest, voices overlapping with fragmented phrases.

“But, Alfred…!” Wally tried.
“We need to…” Roy began.
“We can’t just…” Zatanna said, already taking a step forward.

But Alfred didn’t wait for their protests to gain strength. With precise, unhurried motion, he turned to the Batcave’s central panel and, without even glancing at the young ones, entered a sequence of commands.

The sound came suddenly: a brief hum, almost imperceptible, followed by absolute silence.

The lights that had illuminated the platforms began to shut down one by one, plunging the cave into controlled dimness. The monitors went dark with a soft click. The Batcomputer emitted a final beep and powered off. The communications system dropped. The walkways retracted. The blast doors closed automatically with a dry metallic snap.

Everything. Every system. Every tool. Every escape route.

Shut down.

Alfred turned then, his expression serene, almost paternal, and completed the gesture with the unyielding calm of someone who cared and protected—even against the will of those being protected.

“Good evening, gentlemen and lady.”

And with that, he calmly began to ascend the stairs leading to the Manor.

The group remained there, in the half-darkness of the Batcave, stunned, paralyzed, like soldiers who had just been told that, for the first time, they would not march into war.

 

—

Part 4

 

The dry snap of the panel shutting down reverberated through the Batcave like a funeral toll, cutting through the air and leaving behind a void that seemed to pulse in its wake.

Alfred said nothing more. He turned, his hands still clasped behind his back, like a general refusing to prolong a lost battle, and began climbing the stairs with the same calm, measured pace as always. Yet, in that instant, every step sounded like a hammer nailing shut the coffin of something they weren’t sure could ever be recovered.

The silence left in Alfred’s wake weighed heavier than any order. None of them dared to follow him immediately.

Wally was the first to crack, grumbling:
"Seriously? We can fight armies of aliens, but we can’t argue with a butler?"

Roy scoffed, punching the nearest wall. The sound rang sharp in the cavern’s gloom.
"He’s not just a butler…" he said, his voice trembling with restrained anger.

Zatanna let out a long sigh, as though she already knew the battle was lost.
"He never argues to lose," she murmured, folding her arms.

None of them would admit it aloud, but the feeling was the same: they all felt like children caught in the middle of a mischief. Masked heroes, yes. But before Alfred, they were only young ones under the roof of a man who cared for them with an authority impossible to contest.

The darkness around them seemed to seal the lesson: this was not the time to fight, not the time to argue.

It was the time to accept.

The main lighting system was dead. Only the emergency lights, strategically placed, still glowed, casting long shadows across the uneven walls of the cave, twisting their silhouettes into silent specters.

Dick’s gaze drifted to the Zeta Tube, now useless, its small red light showing the system was down. The same tube that had carried him countless times between missions, pulled him out of danger, that had been the thin line between being here… or out there.

He alone made no attempt to speak. Deep down, he knew it was pointless— not against Alfred. But there was more: somewhere inside, he felt the butler was right.

The memory of Bruce cut through him like a shadow: how many times had he watched Batman work through the night, without pause, as though his body were nothing more than a machine serving the mission?

How many times had Dick himself been dragged into that same relentless rhythm, believing that to rest was to show weakness?

And yet, there was Alfred, enforcing silence and rest not as concessions, but as orders. As if to say: "The war isn’t yours alone, boy."

Dick drew in a long breath, looking at his friends—tense, frustrated, eager to go back to the fight. Perhaps it fell to him to understand what Alfred was trying to show. Perhaps leadership wasn’t only about knowing when to act, but also when to stop.

And now… he repeated the same gesture. A cycle that would not break.

Dick lowered his head, letting out a quiet sigh as the shadows swallowed him.

Beside him, Wally fidgeted with his communicator, turning the useless bracelet over and over between his fingers, restless and fast, until he realized… it wouldn’t work. It was shut down.

He stopped, inhaled deeply, and for an instant his expression lost that electric spark he always carried. His face emptied, distant.

What if… he called her?

The thought pierced him like an arrow out of nowhere: Iris.

She had called the manor earlier, desperate for news. What if, instead of always running from everything into speed, he simply… called her? He told himself he couldn’t—there was no time—but now, with everything shut down, standing still… would he have the courage?

Wally closed his eyes and let his arm fall to his side, resigned, not even trying to press the communicator again.

Away from the others, Midoriya stood with his eyes fixed on the stone floor, the emergency lights faintly reflecting against the damp surface. His fist was clenched tight, as though he were crushing the very instinct that had always driven him forward.

His mind pulled him far away, to the streets of Musutafu, to that night when, exhausted and broken, he tried to leave U.A., believing it was better to face everything alone, to sacrifice himself for everyone, even at the cost of his own life.

And All Might… All Might chasing after him, begging him to stop, trying to make him understand that even heroes need to rest, to retreat, to… live.

But he hadn’t listened back then. And now, once more, here he stood, fist tight, knees ready to run… yet the world around him shut, forcing him still.

Midoriya exhaled slowly, opening his hand, finger by finger, as if each one breaking free was a piece of resistance giving way.

Further back, Roy and Zatanna exchanged a silent look—unspoken understanding born not of victory, but of shared frustration.

Roy leaned against one of the metallic pillars supporting the cave’s upper structure, his arms crossed. His hardened eyes seemed fixed on some distant point, but in truth, they dragged him back to another time, another place…

Dinah.

She and Oliver arguing, always the same refrain: "You need to stop, you need to rest!" And Oliver, stubborn, so much like him, answering with that same cold stare Roy now saw reflected in himself.

How many times had Dinah tried to make them understand? And how many times had they ignored her?

Roy squeezed his forearm, as if he could grasp the past and reshape it, but he knew… it was far too late.

Zatanna lowered her eyes, staring at her own feet, before allowing her mind to drift back to another time.

Giovanni Zatara. Her father.

So many nights, she practiced spells until late, pushing herself past her limits, and he would always come into her room, place a firm hand on her shoulder, and say, with that gentle accent, “Enough, daughter. Magic needs rest too.”

And she… she never listened.

Until time ran out, just like now.

She took a deep breath, blinking hard to keep the tears at bay, before raising her gaze again and meeting Roy’s eyes. No words were needed. They both understood.

The silence that now filled the Batcave was dense, heavy, as though the stone walls and ceiling had pressed in even closer around them, smothering whatever fragments of resistance still remained.

Finally, after long minutes in which no one dared to shatter that void, Dick lifted his eyes again, staring at the dead Zeta-tube panel, and let out a bitter half-smile, murmuring more to himself than to the others:

“I should’ve expected something like this from Alfred…”

The words lingered in the air, like a seal closing the night for good.

No one replied. They didn’t need to.

Notes:

Hello everyone, another chapter finished.
I know it might feel like I’m stepping on the expectations of those waiting for these heroes to become the new symbols of this world.
In a way, I am—but for a valid reason: they’re too young.

Robin: 13 years old
Deku: 16 years old
Kid Flash: 15 years old
Red Arrow: 18 years old
Zatanna Zatara: 14 years old

They are far too young to truly be heroes, and Alfred knows it.
That’s why it’s not the time for action yet.
That moment will come—but not while these characters are still in denial about their grief.

Chapter 12: The Day Alfred Won

Chapter 12 — The Day Alfred Won

 

Part 1

 

The muffled sound of footsteps echoed through the long corridors of Wayne Manor, mingling with the faint creak of old wood beneath each step. The silence that filled the house was not one of peace, but of something burdened with too many memories—every painting, every door, every shadow seemed to carry fragments of a time that would never return.

Dick walked ahead, and no one needed an invitation to follow. His leadership wasn’t forged through orders, but through habit, through trust built in battles and nights when all they had was faith in each other. As they climbed the wide staircase and crossed the grand hall, he could almost feel the weight of history engraved in those walls, as though every stone still echoed with the presence of Bruce and Alfred.

When they reached one of the second-floor corridors, the silence seemed to deepen. The dark wooden columns, the vaulted ceiling, the unlit chandeliers, and the embroidered tapestries cast a solemn shadow over every detail. Entering felt like stepping into a sacred place, where even the air seemed heavier, thick with invisible memories.

Dick slowed his pace, letting his fingers slide across the cold wall, the texture of the wood seeming to pulse with echoes of another time. He stopped in front of the first door, and the entire manor seemed to hold its breath along with him.

“I imagine Alfred put you all here…” he said with a faint smile, one that couldn’t lighten the weight of the place. “He always did that—the rooms closest to mine.”

As he spoke, the corridor itself seemed to watch them. The old portraits on the walls—solemn figures in gilded frames—stared with unmoving eyes, as if silently judging the young ones who now occupied the space. The tapestries, woven with hunts and battles, weren’t just decorations, but reminders of a tradition that demanded sacrifice.

The others remained quiet. The high ceiling carried strange echoes of their breathing, and the hallway became more than a passage: it was testimony. A line between past and present, as if each closed door held not just a room, but an expectation of everything still to come.

Dick let his gaze sweep across the neatly lined doors and exhaled a long breath. His voice carried no command or pride, only memory.

“I saw this so many times… Bruce arguing with Alfred… about missions, about rest…”

He paused for a moment, and the memory came sharp and vivid. Bruce, standing rigid before the computer, his eyes weighed down with urgency. Alfred, posture perfectly straight, his calm unshakable, holding a tray of tea like it was a shield against the stubbornness of the Dark Knight. Their voices echoing through the Batcave: one deep, inflexible; the other patient, but unyielding.

“And most of the time… Alfred won.” Dick gave a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “We never stood a chance.”

The hallway returned the sound of his laugh as a faint whisper, and for a moment he felt small again, seated on the stairs, eavesdropping on the argument, hoping Bruce would give in while secretly admiring how Alfred always had the last word.

Now, guiding his friends through the corridor, pointing out rooms and leading them as though he knew exactly where each one belonged, Dick felt the weight of it. For the first time, it was as if he was repeating Alfred’s role. And what unsettled him most was the thought that maybe he needed to become that for all of them.

Wally raised a brow at Dick’s comment, letting out a crooked grin. He tried to crack a joke to ease the tension, but his voice came out low, drained of energy.
“So… even Batman lost arguments to Alfred. Who would’ve thought…”

It was all he could manage. The manor felt too big, too quiet. He remembered the constant noise of Central City, the sound of his aunt’s laughter, the smell of burned pancakes from the kitchen back home. The contrast hurt.

Midoriya, on the other hand, felt out of place. His eyes scanned every detail of the corridor: the heavy chandeliers, the embroidered tapestries, the stern portraits. It was all so different from his life in Musutafu, from his messy little room filled with notebooks scattered across the floor. The sophistication felt foreign, and the thought of his mother tightened his chest with longing.

Roy kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his gaze locked on one of the doors as though looking straight through it. The luxury of the manor didn’t impress him—it unsettled him. Not because it dazzled, but because it reminded him of everything he never had. He’d grown up in unstable places, borrowed rooms, makeshift homes. This order, this silence… it was for sons of complete families. Not for him.

Zatanna brushed her fingers along the embroidery of a nearby tapestry. The cold, rigid fabric beneath her touch dragged her back to an old memory: nights of practicing magic until exhaustion, only for her father, Giovanni, to enter and rest a steady hand on her shoulder, saying with that gentle accent, “That’s enough, my daughter. Magic needs rest too.” She had never listened. And now, with his voice only in memory, the silence of the manor weighed heavier.

Dick opened one of the doors, revealing a warm, elegantly simple room: a large bed with spotless linens, a tidy desk, a private bathroom tucked in the back.

“All the rooms are like this,” he explained, gesturing. “Comfortable beds, clean towels, extra sheets… maybe even a first-aid kit. Alfred thinks of everything.”

Exhaustion hung over the group, visible in the way each of them avoided speaking. The silence of the manor seemed to amplify the weight of the burdens they carried.

At the end of the corridor, Dick stopped at a larger door.
“This one’s mine.” He looked at them each in turn. “Settle in, take a shower, change clothes… we’ve got a little time before dinner.”

Wally was the first to react, exhaling a sigh before pushing open a door.
“Too much luxury for a speedster…” he muttered, but the joke trailed off weakly. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Roy opened the next door without a word, vanishing into his room. The dry click of the door sounded almost like defiance.

Zatanna cast Dick a brief glance—half complicit, half grateful—before slipping into her room.

Midoriya was last. He placed his hand against the doorknob, hesitating, as though he needed to take in every detail of this strange routine, trying to preserve it in his mind. Then he drew a deep breath and stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him.

Dick remained alone in the corridor, his eyes sweeping across the closed doors that now held each of his companions. He inhaled slowly, feeling the invisible weight of the silence.

“They need this…” he thought, before opening the door to his own room.

The familiarity embraced him instantly: old photographs, the wide window, the neatly organized closet. In the bathroom, he turned on the shower, letting the water heat up. In the mirror, his reflection showed deep circles under his eyes, tense shoulders, and a weary stare.

A bitter smile tugged at his lips.
“Alfred wins again…”

And he let the hot water fall over him, washing away, if only for a moment, the weight he refused to let go.

In the corridor, the doors remained shut. Guarding tired bodies. Guarding restless minds. Guarding silences only the manor seemed to know how to keep.

 

—

Part 2

 

The muffled sound of doors closing still lingered in the air, while each of the young heroes now found themselves isolated, surrounded by the silent and welcoming walls of their own rooms.

 

---

Wally

In the room closest to the stairs, Wally quickly tossed his red jacket onto the chair beside the bed and sprawled out on his back for a few seconds, staring at the ornate ceiling. The room felt too big, too quiet, too comfortable—a brutal contrast to the urgency pounding in his chest.

His eyes drifted to the communicator on the nightstand. It was shut off, mute, useless. Wally reached out, picked it up, and gripped it tight, almost pressing the activation button. For an instant, he imagined Iris’s voice on the other side: a silly joke, a bit of advice, or just that safe silence of someone who had always believed in him.

But his hand trembled, and he pulled back, dropping the device back onto the table. A long sigh slipped from his lips.
“At least… this is better than just waiting,” he muttered, stripping off his clothes with his usual speed, as if he were still preparing to run.

He turned the shower knob and stepped under the hot water, trying in vain to wash away the frustration clinging to his chest.

 

---

Roy

In the next room, Roy dropped his bag by the spotless desk and leaned both hands against the edge of the bed. The reflection in the mirror stared back at him: clenched jaw, sharp, unyielding eyes, as if he didn’t know how to live at rest.

It was the same look he remembered seeing as a kid—Dinah arguing with Oliver about how far to push, how much to sacrifice. The fights always ended the same way: slammed doors, heavy silences, promises left hanging.

He traced a scar on his arm, a reminder of one of those times he’d followed Oliver without thinking, and let out a dry laugh.
“Guess the legacy lives on…” he muttered, pulling off his shirt.

The bow resting against the wall loomed over him, mute and imposing, a reminder that he could never truly set down the life he carried. Roy opened the bathroom door and found neatly folded towels and the faint scent of lavender waiting for him.
“Of course Alfred thought of everything…” he added, stepping inside and shutting the door.

 

---

Zatanna

Farther down, Zatanna stood motionless by her bed. The room was spacious, elegant, but her eyes went straight to the desk, where a vase of fresh flowers had been placed. She moved closer, brushing her fingers over the petals and breathing in the soft fragrance.

The memory came instantly: her father’s voice, deep and patient, entering her room on nights when she practiced spells too late.
“Zee… you need rest too. Magic isn’t just effort—it’s balance.”

She smiled faintly, her heart tightening, and looked up at the ceiling as if she could hear him calling down the hall. But there was only silence.

Closing her eyes for a moment, a bitter question crept in: was she really honoring his legacy… or just repeating the same mistakes?

She sighed and made her way to the bathroom. On the counter, Alfred had even left a bar of soap with a familiar, gentle scent. The simple gesture felt like an invisible embrace.

 

---

Midoriya

Midoriya stood for long moments, studying the room like someone confronting foreign territory. The space was wide, overly neat, too luxurious. Nothing like his messy bedroom back in Musutafu, where notebooks piled up across the floor.

He sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground. His fist clenched tight. The memory returned sharp and clear: All Might running after him that night when he tried to leave U.A., begging him to stop, to rest, to not destroy himself in the name of duty.

He had never known how to listen.

And now, here he was again, forced to stop by someone else’s decision, feeling the weight of that same stubbornness pressing down on him.

He took a deep breath, slowly opening his hand, and stood. He opened the bathroom door and found the soft mist already filling the air, as if Alfred had somehow anticipated his need. Midoriya gave a faint smile—not of joy, but of respect—and began to prepare himself.

 

---

Dick

Meanwhile, Dick had already finished his shower. Dressed in simple, comfortable clothes, he ran a towel through his hair before meeting his own reflection in the mirror. The same tired eyes, the same weight on his shoulders.

Only this time, he wasn’t alone.

He turned the doorknob and stepped back into the hallway. The lined-up doors were all shut, holding behind them companions who, for the first time in too long, had been forced to stop.

He lingered there for a few seconds, looking at each door as though tempted to knock, to make sure everyone was alright. But he resisted the impulse. Alfred would trust the silence. He had to do the same.

Taking a slow breath, he straightened his posture and murmured to himself,
“Alfred wins again…”

Then he started down the hall, ready to call them when dinner was on the table.

 

—

Part 3

 

Dick walked ahead, his steady, quiet footsteps echoing softly down the wide, immaculate hallway. He stopped at each door, knocking lightly, carrying that same calmness he always seemed to have, even when the world around him threatened to collapse.

“Dinner’s ready… shall we?” he called, his voice low but carrying an authority born not of command, but of familiarity.

One by one, the doors began to open.

Wally was the first to appear, tugging at the zipper of his red jacket, his hair still damp from the rushed shower. He didn’t speak—just gave a short nod and fell into place beside Dick.

Roy followed, hands stuffed in his pockets, his guarded eyes sweeping the hall before settling on his friends.

Zatanna emerged with a soft sigh, brushing back her loose dark hair, her eyes holding a mix of weariness and determination.

And finally, Midoriya stepped out, straightening his shirt with one hand while the other remained unconsciously clenched into a fist, as if his body still couldn’t let go of tension.

Dick waited until they were all gathered, then turned and led them down the wide, silent staircase to the ground floor.

As they descended, he glanced back, seeing them in line, following him without a word. For a brief moment, the sight struck him hard: how many times had he himself followed Alfred this way… after a hard mission, after a fight with Bruce…

When they reached the first floor, Dick guided them down broad hallways lined with old portraits and dark wooden furniture until the double doors of the dining hall appeared before them.

The doors opened with a faint creak, revealing a room prepared with meticulous care. The long table of solid wood looked as though it belonged to another world, untouched by the chaos raging outside. Silver candlesticks lit the space with soft flames, reflecting off perfectly aligned cutlery. A fire crackled quietly in the hearth, filling the room with warmth and the scent of burning wood.

It was welcoming. Warm. Ordered.

And because of that, uncomfortable.

The young heroes entered slowly, almost reluctantly. The grandeur of the room seemed at odds with their exhausted bodies and restless minds still chained to the urgency of action.

Alfred stood at the head of the table, erect, impeccable as always, his hands folded before him. He inclined slightly in courtesy and announced with calm composure:

“Dinner is served.”

None of them dared argue.

They walked to their seats and sat down slowly.

Silence hung heavy in those first minutes.

The faint clink of silverware, the soft sound of soup being ladled, the crackle of the fire… These were the only noises in a dining hall that suddenly felt far too large for such a small group.

Wally stirred his soup absently, staring into the broth as if answers were hidden there.

Roy sipped water, his eyes fixed on the flames, lost in thoughts no one dared intrude upon.

Zatanna rested her hands in her lap, taking a steadying breath before unfolding her napkin and laying it across her legs, an automatic attempt at composure.

Midoriya still looked uneasy with the formality of it all, but he tried—visibly—to mimic Dick’s subtle manners, as though this too were part of some unspoken training.

And Dick, at the end of the table, simply observed.

Alfred placed the last dish, bowed slightly, and before retreating, spoke in that calm, unwavering voice:

“I’ll be in the kitchen. If you need anything, just call.”

The dining hall felt like a fragment from another world. The long table, the aligned silverware, the crackling hearth—all was order and warmth, while outside the world still lay in ruins.

They ate in silence, every movement weighed down. Alfred had served the meal with his flawless precision, then left them, leaving only the fire and their own thoughts to fill the room.

For several minutes, the only sounds were spoons scraping porcelain, bread being broken, the quiet pop of burning wood.

Wally was the first to break the tension, muttering while still staring at his soup.
“So… what do you think he did with the Zeta-tube?”

Dick lifted his eyes, almost smiling without humor.
“He shut everything down. Like he always does.”

Roy gave a short, dry laugh.
“No wonder he always wins.” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Funny, isn’t it? We spend years trying to be independent, but in the end, one word from him and here we are—sitting like kids on timeout.”

“Maybe because that’s still what we are…” Zatanna murmured, stirring her soup slowly. Her voice trembled, but it was sincere. “My father always told me not to lose myself in the mask… and I think I was starting to forget that.”

Silence fell again, until Midoriya raised his gaze. His eyes shone—not with tears, but with something between shame and honesty.

“In my world… I always thought being a hero meant never stopping. ” His hand tightened into a fist against the table. “But now… maybe I’m starting to understand that stopping is part of it too. That…” He hesitated, drawing a breath. “…even All Might stopped when he had to.”

Wally propped his elbows on the table, letting out a heavy sigh.
“I… couldn’t call her. ” The words slipped out almost soundless, but everyone knew who he meant. “Aunt Iris called here, Alfred told me… and I didn’t even try to answer. I don’t know if… if I can hear her voice right now.”

Roy glanced at him from the side, his eyes hard, though not cold.
“At least you’ve got someone who might still pick up the phone.” His voice was low, heavy, hanging in the air like a blade.

Dick set his fork down, looking at each of them in turn.
“Don’t you see?” he said, calm but firm. “That’s exactly what Alfred’s trying to remind us. If we forget that we still have family, friends… people who love us… we’ll end up just like Bruce.” He paused, his voice catching. “Alone. Lost.”

No one answered right away. Only the fire snapped in the hearth.

Then Wally gave a nervous chuckle and muttered,
“He won again, didn’t he?”

Zatanna gave a small, humorless smile, but there was truth in it.
“He always wins.”

Midoriya nodded, finally relaxing his fist.
“Maybe… that’s for the best.”

For the first time that night, the table filled with voices. Quiet remarks about the flavor of the soup, short laughs over past missions, memories of Bruce, of Oliver, of Zatara. It wasn’t light conversation, but it was human.

And in that imposed dinner, they became something they hadn’t been in a long time: a group.

When the meal ended, they rose together.

Dick led them back into the hall, where one by one they said goodnight and disappeared into their rooms.

“Goodnight…” Zatanna murmured, closing her door softly.

“See you tomorrow…” Wally answered, already rubbing tired eyes.

Roy simply nodded, slipping into the room beside his.

Midoriya lingered a moment, looking at Dick as if he wanted to say something… but only gave a small smile before turning into his room.

Dick stood alone in the hall for a few seconds, staring at the closed doors… listening to the mansion’s silence, so familiar, so full of memories.

He drew a deep breath and entered his own room, shutting the door behind him.

Night had come.

And tomorrow… would be a new day.

 

—

Part 4

 

The corridor fell into silence the moment the last door closed.

The manor seemed wrapped in a heavy peace, broken only by the occasional creak of the old wood or the faint whisper of wind slipping through the tall windows.

Inside the lined rooms, one by one, the young heroes surrendered—or at least tried to surrender—to rest.

 

---

Zatanna

Zatanna sat on the edge of her bed, legs crossed, staring out the window. Moonlight slipped partly through the curtains, drawing silver lines across the dark carpet.

For a moment, she touched the pendant she always wore, closing her eyes and whispering a prayer in an ancient language, words learned long before any mission or battle.

Then she let out a long sigh, lay down, and kept her gaze on the ceiling, listening to the rhythm of her own breathing until, slowly, sleep began to take her.

 

---

Roy

Roy stood for a while by the window, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the emptiness outside. The sky was clear, stars shining in their indifference, and he felt that old knot in his throat—the one that always surfaced when control slipped through his hands.

For a second, he considered opening the door, walking down to Dick’s room, starting some meaningless conversation… but no.

He let the thought die there, turned away, pulled his boots off with a sharp motion, and dropped onto the bed.

Sleep didn’t come quickly, but he was used to waiting.

 

---

Midoriya

Midoriya stood beside the bed, staring at the backpack he had left untouched, as though still unsure this reality truly belonged to him.

He moved to the desk, where a block of paper and a pen waited.

Sitting down, he began scribbling without much thought—details of the day, impressions of the Batcave’s equipment, potential strategies for future missions.

It was what he knew how to do: process emotions through action, through thought, through planning.

Only after several filled pages did exhaustion catch up to him.

He folded the sheets, slid them back into his bag, and finally lay down. The ceiling above seemed infinitely distant, but for the first time in days… he allowed himself to close his eyes without resistance.

 

---

Wally

Wally, unlike the others, couldn’t even think of lying down right away. The weight of the day clung to his skin, impossible to shake.

He sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the old rotary phone Alfred had left on the dresser, resting like an artifact from another age.

Drawing in a breath, he reached out and slowly turned the dial. The mechanical clicks, so different from the digital tones he was used to, echoed in the silence of the manor.

Lifting the receiver to his ear, his heartbeat quickened as the ring pulsed in his chest.

“Hello?” Iris’s voice came through, familiar but shaded with a melancholy he didn’t remember hearing before.

“Hey… it’s me,” he said, his voice weaker than he wanted.

“Wally…” she whispered. The silence stretched for a heavy second before she added, “I… I didn’t expect your call…”

“Sorry, I…” He ran a hand over his face, eyes closed. “I just… needed to hear your voice.”

“I needed that too,” she answered, her smile almost audible despite the weight of shared grief.

“How… how are you?” he asked, hesitant, already fearing the answer.

She breathed deeply.

“Surviving,” she admitted. “Since the invasion ended… it’s been strange. The city’s still standing, but… Central City will never be the same.”

Wally squeezed the phone tighter.

“I know…”

Another silence stretched, not uncomfortable, just real.

“Jay’s still here,” Iris added, with a hint of hope in her voice. “Doing everything he can to keep things safe.”

A small smile tugged at Wally’s lips, his eyes burning.

“Of course he is. The old man’s always been tough as nails.”

Iris let out a short laugh, but it quickly faded.

“After… after Barry was gone…” She faltered, then drew a breath. “I didn’t think I’d even be able to leave the house. But… the city needed someone. And I had Jay…”

“You’ve always been stronger than you think,” Wally said firmly, even as his voice shook.

“And you?” she asked softly, almost afraid of the answer.

“Just… trying not to break,” he admitted, smiling even though she couldn’t see it.

She didn’t respond at first, only sighed, and then whispered:

“I wish you were here.”

“I do too,” he said quietly.

And then, unexpectedly, they laughed together—the kind of laugh that’s equal parts sorrow and hope, the kind that only people who share both can truly understand.

They spoke a little longer—about neighbors who stayed, friends who left, places that felt too empty—until the quiet between them made it clear it was time to hang up.

“Take care of yourself,” she murmured.

“You too,” he said. And even after the line went dead, he held the receiver there, as though it still carried the fragile thread tying him to what was left of his world.

Only after a few seconds did he set it back down, lie on the bed, and for the first time that night… smile.

 

---

Dick

In the room next door, Dick was already lying down, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling with that same contemplative look he’d known all his life.

He knew Alfred wouldn’t appear to lecture him or turn off the lights. He knew Bruce wouldn’t step through the door to pull him into another mission.

He knew that, tonight, silence was all there would be.

And strangely… it didn’t feel so bad.

Turning to his side, he adjusted the pillow and closed his eyes, finally letting the weariness win.

 

---

And so, one by one, each room of Wayne Manor sank into silence.

Outside, the night carried on, indifferent to human worries.

And in the heart of that house steeped in history, five young heroes searched—in their own ways—for a moment of peace… before the next day called them back to reality.

Chapter 13: Those Who Remain

Chapter 13 – Those Who Remain

 

Part 1

 

The metallic corridor leading to the command room felt endless, each step echoing like the first sound to break months of abandonment. The automatic doors slid open with a slow groan, revealing the heart of the Watchtower.

Dick was the first to step inside. For a moment, he just stood there, staring.

The room was vast, almost disproportionate, with rows of dark consoles and swivel chairs aligned like silent sentinels. Above them, the massive central screen covered the entire wall, reflecting nothing but its own darkness. On the floor, the emblem of the League could still be seen, faded and worn, like the ghost of what it once represented.

No voices. No sound. Only the faint hum of backup power still keeping parts of the system alive.

Wally came in second, and even he — always restless — stopped for a few seconds, eyes darting across the room with something between unease and reverence. Zatanna folded her arms, her posture tense, as if she had just stepped onto sacred ground. Roy scanned the infrastructure with a soldier’s eye, as if assessing a battlefield long abandoned. And Midoriya… his eyes shone with a mix of awe and disbelief.

Dick Grayson drew in a slow breath, his gaze locked on the Watchtower’s control panel. Even with the core systems partially active, the atmosphere was cold, impersonal, far too quiet for what he had always been told was once the vibrant center of the greatest force for justice the world had ever known.

He swallowed, the weight of responsibility settling like an anchor in his chest. Around him, the others waited: Wally, leaning on the command table, his eyes lost in the scattered monitor lights; Zatanna, arms wrapped around herself, struggling to stay composed; Roy, arms crossed, impatient; and Midoriya, standing beside Dick, his face filled with silent respect and unguarded admiration.

The Japanese boy had never been here before — in truth, none of them had. Not even Dick. He had only heard Bruce’s stories about the Watchtower, about its imposing presence, its symbolism of unity, a satellite suspended above the world. And now… here they stood, without their mentors, without the League, staring at a hollow chamber that echoed not just their footsteps, but absence itself.

Midoriya broke the silence, his voice hesitant but edged with genuine curiosity.
“Dick… can I ask you something?” He waited for the leader’s eyes before continuing. “If the Batcave also had communication systems… what makes this different? Why come all the way here?”

The group turned to Dick. He exhaled slowly, planting his hands on the panel.
“The Batcave had… limited access,” he explained, his tone steady, though quiet. “I could use Bruce’s clearance to scan frequencies, send out bursts of messages… but it was like tossing bottles into the ocean. They might reach someone… or they might not.”

Wally crossed his arms, thoughtful. “And here?”

Dick nodded. “Here, it’s different. The Watchtower wasn’t just built as a base. It was built to be the League’s nerve center.” His fingers brushed across icons pulsing in red. “Every hero ever recognized by the League, even the distant affiliates, their contacts are stored in this system.”

Zatanna narrowed her eyes, voice low. “You mean to say…?”

“I mean the General Call doesn’t request. It commands.” Dick’s jaw tightened. “It forces the signal through. If anyone’s still alive… they’ll hear it.”

The silence that followed carried a sacred weight. Even Midoriya, who didn’t know the full history of the League, felt the gravity of it.

Then Roy muttered, “And if no one answers?”

Dick lowered his eyes, Bruce’s deep voice echoing in memory: This protocol exists only for when everything else has failed.

“Then it means… we really are alone.”

Only then did he start the sequence.

A soft chime of initialization pulsed through the chamber, like a heart restarting after long silence. The floor vibrated beneath their feet. On the central screen, transmission lines expanded outward like ripples across water, stretching across the Earth, crossing continents, oceans, deserts of silence.

And Dick could only think one thing: Let them hear us. Let someone answer.

General Call… last hope, he thought, as he pressed the final button. The message would spread in waves, just as Bruce had once explained: first through national channels, then international, and finally to the mythic allies. There was no guarantee who was left alive. No certainty who would respond.

The silence after the signal was suffocating. The panel displayed a pulsing graph, showing the transmission waves sweeping across the planet, touching continents, seas, the most remote corners of the globe. Each point that signal reached carried both a plea and a summons:

We are alive. If you are too… answer.

Dick exhaled slowly and stepped back, resting his hands on the edge of the console. His eyes slid toward Wally, whose fingers drummed nervously against the metal surface, then to Zatanna, who kept her eyes shut—whether in silent prayer or simply to keep her emotions from spilling over, he couldn’t tell.

Midoriya edged a little closer and asked in a voice barely above a whisper:
“Is this… how the League did it?”

Dick managed a faint smile, unable to tear his gaze from the screens ahead.
“I never saw it myself… but Bruce used to tell me. He said that whenever the General Call was made, it was always the most solemn moment. Because it meant the world needed them… more than ever.”

Midoriya nodded, swallowing hard. The weight of absence felt heavier now, thick as a fog wrapping around them inside that steel chamber, surrounded by memories that weren’t theirs—yet had somehow fallen on their shoulders.

Seconds dragged like hours.

Dick lifted his eyes to the massive central display. Still, no response.

Zatanna finally opened her eyes and whispered, breaking the silence:
“They’ll answer…”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Blue pulses swept across the console, broadcasting the signal across the globe. But beyond that… nothing. No voices. No reply.

Wally’s fingers tapped the table faster, sharper, as though he could hammer a response out of the void. Zatanna’s lips moved silently, prayers without sound. Roy stood statue-still, though the tension in his jaw betrayed the effort it took to stay calm. Midoriya clenched his fists so tightly that the knuckles had gone pale.

Dick stared at the display, feeling the room close in around him. Even the echo of his own breathing sounded louder than the hum of the machines.

And then the thought cut through him, cold and merciless: What if there’s no one left? What if we really are the last ones?

He blinked hard, trying to shake it, but the fear lingered like a shadow he couldn’t escape.

Just as the weight threatened to crush them, a sharp beep pierced the silence—small, almost insignificant, yet enough to make every single one of them hold their breath at once.

One of the monitors lit up, words flashing across the screen:

“Connection Established: North America.”

It felt like the whole room exhaled together.

Dick clenched his fists, took a steadying breath, and looked around at the others.
“All right,” he said, his voice firm despite the knot in his stomach.

As the first flickers of video began to form on the monitor, Dick straightened his back, drew in a deeper breath, and fixed his gaze on the screen—ready to face, one by one, the survivors who remained.

And in that moment—despite the fear, despite the grief—something inside him sparked.

A fragile thread of hope.

—

 

Part 2

 

The first image stabilized slowly on the main screen, as if the system itself—so long unused—hesitated before revealing what was left of the world.

A woman appeared. She was in a small apartment, the paint peeling from the walls, a broken window behind her letting in the pale glow of sunset. She wore a suit Dick recognized from old records: Rocket, once the partner of Icon.

She drew in a breath before speaking, her voice tired but steady.
“This is Rocket… South Dakota… I’m alive. I need instructions.”

For a moment, no one breathed. The sound of that voice cut through the silence like a flare in the dark. Wally straightened in his chair, his heart racing. Zatanna’s hand went instinctively to the pendant at her neck, as if in silent prayer. Roy exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Midoriya’s eyes widened, awestruck, as if witnessing a miracle.

Dick felt his chest tighten. There were survivors.

Before he could answer Rocket, another signal chimed on the console:

“Connection Established: Alan Scott.”

The screen beside her flickered to life, revealing the aged but resolute face of the very first Green Lantern. Alan sat at an old wooden desk, surrounded by maps and books, as though he had been waiting for this call for days. His gaze was direct, unwavering, and the faint green aura from his ring betrayed that, retired or not, he was still ready.

“This is Alan Scott… receiving the call. Awaiting instructions.”

Dick swallowed hard, fingers curling against the armrest. Bruce had spoken of him more than once—the first man to wear the Lantern’s mantle, a pillar of justice from another age. To see him here, steadfast despite the years, stirred something unexpected in Dick: for a fleeting second, he felt like a boy again, listening to Batman’s stories.

And then another alert flared across the console:

“Connection Established: Jay Garrick.”

The paternal, steady face of Jay filled another part of the screen. His hair was now completely white beneath the winged helmet, but his eyes still carried the same spark Wally had always described.

“Jay Garrick, the first Flash… I’m here. And it’s good to know… there are still others.”

Wally’s hand flew to his mouth, smothering a laugh that broke into something dangerously close to a sob. His eyes blurred instantly, and he turned his head, trying to hide it. For him, this wasn’t just another hero of the past. This was family—Barry’s family, and now, his link to that legacy.

Another ping.

“Connection Established: Wildcat.”

The feed opened to a man with a rugged frame, hands still wrapped in tape, as though he had just walked out of a sparring match. Behind him, an improvised gym littered with battered punching bags.

“Wildcat. Heard the call. I’m in.”

Roy’s arms folded tight, as if to cage something inside. Oliver had spoken of Wildcat often—always with respect, always with that edge of admiration reserved for men who refused to bend. Seeing him here, still standing, was a brutal but powerful reminder: the world could collapse, but some men would never yield.

Dick drew a deep breath, his eyes sweeping across the four faces now glowing on the screen. Veterans. Survivors. Despite everything the world had lost, they remained.

The system pulsed again.

“Connection Established: Latin America.”

The image resolved into El Dorado. Behind him, vivid colors of a city nestled against the rainforest. Yet his expression was solemn, his voice marked with quiet strength.

“El Dorado, checking in. Times are hard… but I’m alive.”

He gave a respectful bow of his head. Dick answered with a brief nod, the gesture almost ceremonial. His presence was a reminder that this call was not just American—the world itself was answering. Fragmented, but still breathing.

Moments later, the console lit once more:

“Connection Established: Europe.”

Static filled the feed before a gravelly voice rasped through.

“Constantine… online.” A heavy sigh. “Somebody, for the love of God, tell me there are cigarettes on this bloody satellite…”

The image steadied, showing John Constantine: gaunt, eyes ringed with fatigue, a half-empty bottle of whiskey at his elbow. Yet behind the weariness, the same irreverent spark flickered, undimmed.

Wally let out a nervous chuckle, whispering under his breath:
“He’s exactly how Barry described him…”

Before Dick could respond, another feed opened beside Constantine’s:

“Connection Established: Jason Blood.”

The man appeared in a room lined with books and arcane symbols. He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment.

“Jason Blood… ready to listen.”

His presence made the air heavier. Zatanna swallowed hard, feeling that familiar weight of the supernatural. This was no longer just a gathering of survivors. It was a reminder that forces beyond humanity itself had answered the call.

The next cycle brought another voice.

“Connection Established: Africa.”

First came the image of Vixen. Behind her was a crowded shelter full of women and children, their curious eyes peering toward the camera. Yet her gaze was steady, unwavering.

“Vixen, East Africa. Responding to the call.”

Almost at the same time, another screen lit up: Impala, standing tall on a hilltop, the sky behind him painted in the colors of sunset.

“Impala… alive and ready.”

Dick allowed himself a brief smile. This wasn’t just an echo of resistance—it was a cry rising from every corner of the planet.

“Connection Established: Asia.”

First came Rising Sun, with Mount Fuji looming majestically in the background. He bowed with formal respect.

“Rising Sun, Japan. Standing by.”

Next, Thunderlord appeared, his eyes sharp, his voice deep.

“Thunderlord, Taiwan. Awaiting coordinates.”

And finally, Katana. Her face was severe yet serene, with ancient symbols etched behind her.

“Katana… listening. I bring word from Oceania. Tasmanian Devil is alive… but isolated.”

Zatanna drew in a deep breath. Even she, who lived among the impossible, seemed shaken by the sheer scope of what they were witnessing.

Each new voice, each new face, reinforced the same thought pounding in all their minds: They were not alone.

Then came the final signals.

The console flickered with intensity, as though the system itself strained to reach the next frequencies.

“Connection Established: Mythic Realms.”

The screen revealed the crystalline spires of Atlantis, columns of coral lit with a bluish glow that shimmered in the clear waters surrounding the throne. At its center, regal and unyielding, stood Queen Mera.

Silence fell instantly. Even their breathing seemed to hold still.

“Atlantis answers.” Her voice was clear, commanding, like a current that would not be stopped. “The Queen stands with you.”

Every syllable carried power. Her gaze didn’t just convey presence—it conveyed promise. A vow of support, of battle, of a sea that would not remain idle as the surface world fell.

Zatanna let out a sigh that seemed to carry weeks of tension, relieved to know the kingdom beneath the waves still endured.

Before they could fully absorb it, another screen flared to life.

“Connection Established: Themyscira.”

Torchlight danced across white and gold marble walls. Upon the central throne sat Queen Hippolyta, clad in ceremonial armor. Her purple mantle draped across the steps, her expression regal yet unyielding.

She raised her chin, and her voice rang out like an ancient decree, echoing beyond the Tower’s walls:

“Themyscira stands ready. Where shadows gather, our swords will shine.”

The declaration silenced even their thoughts. Roy turned his eyes away, unsettled by the weight of her presence. Wally swallowed hard, visibly shaken. And Midoriya, though unfamiliar with the legend in full, felt a shiver trace down his spine.

Dick looked at all the faces now gathered on the screen: survivors, veterans, magicians, kings, and queens. Each image was a spark—fragile alone, but together… a firestorm.

And in that moment, he understood.

This was not just a call for survival. It was the rebirth of something greater.

He glanced around: at Wally, whose smile was wet with tears; at Roy, brushing his eyes discreetly; at Zatanna, radiating both relief and strength; and at Midoriya, fists clenched, absorbing every detail.

Then Dick leaned forward, activating the general channel.

“This is Robin… to what remains of the resistance. We are alive. And we will fight.”

The images lingered on the screen, like portraits in a gallery celebrating what still endured.

And for the first time since they had entered the Watchtower, Dick felt it deep in his chest: they were no longer alone.

 

—

Part 3

 

The initial silence, after the connection stabilized, was broken by Dick. With a slight nod, he invited everyone to speak. There was no need for haste, no military protocol. This wasn’t war anymore—this was what came after.

He drew in a deep breath, his eyes traveling across the panels, to the images of each hero scattered around the world, like faint stars left behind after a great collapse.

“I think… it would be good for us to know how things are out there,” Dick suggested, his voice calm but steady.

Rocket was the first to speak, her face carrying the weight of someone still unaccustomed to such responsibility.

“South Dakota is… too quiet.” She bit her lip, eyes shifting away. “The streets still feel like ghosts. But kids… fifteen, sixteen years old… they’re raising walls, painting signs, handing out food. It’s like… it’s like the generation that lost their parents decided they’re going to rebuild the world on their own.”

Dick nodded, feeling the strength hidden in the young woman who, at just eighteen, carried the hopes of an entire city on her shoulders.

Wildcat spoke next, his voice as rough and clipped as ever:

“This ain’t the silence of mourning,” he said flatly. “It’s silence of fear. People look at the sky like the invasion’s about to start again. They go out, they work… but nobody talks. Feels like fighting in an empty ring—every punch echoes too loud.”

Dick noticed the others nodding subtly, silent gestures of agreement.

Alan Scott cleared his throat, his deep voice filling the chamber.

“In New York, we’re raising new walls every day… but no one knows if we’re the same people behind them.” His gaze hardened. “Rebuilding’s possible. What I don’t know is if we can rebuild… ourselves.”

Jay Garrick, always the paternal presence, added:

“Central City doesn’t run anymore,” he said softly, his words carrying quiet metaphor. “People used to live in a rush. Now… they walk. They stop to help, they share what little they have. The city lost its speed… but it found its heart.”

El Dorado leaned forward, his voice calm, but resolute.

“Here… no one waits for governments or heroes. Families cook for ten, others bring water. The cities are broken, yes, but people have learned to smile again… even if only for a few minutes.”

From Japan, Rising Sun bowed slightly before speaking.

“In Japan, we pray every day.” His tone was reverent. “Every temple is filled with families honoring the dead. It’s a nation in silence, yes… but it is a silence of reverence, not of defeat.”

Then came Impala, his voice calm and strong, carrying the weight of the savanna behind it.

“In Africa, we bury our dead at sunrise,” he said gravely. “Every tribe lost people, but no tribe is alone. We weep together. And when the weeping ends… we sing. That’s how we endure.”

Dick drew in a long breath and closed his eyes for a second. This was exactly what he needed to hear.

And then Constantine lit a cigarette with the insolent calm of a man who knew everyone hated him for it. He took a deep drag, exhaled slowly, and gave the camera a sideways look.

“Well… hate to ruin the group therapy session, but it ain’t all sunshine and roses.” His lazy accent dripped disdain. “Magic’s a bloody mess. Unstable, cracked… like glass about to shatter in your face.”

He leaned closer, his tired but sharp gaze cutting through the room.

“Every spell I try feels like it could tear me in half… or rip a hole in the whole damn world. And you know why?” He let the cigarette dangle between his fingers, his voice dropping low, almost like a lament. “…Because the bloody champion of magic—Captain Marvel—is dead.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Zatanna immediately leaned forward, her voice tight.

“John… I can look into this. If magic is unstable, I can help, we can—”

But Constantine laughed. Harsh. Bitter. Like a punch to the gut.

“Oh no, no, no…” He shook his head, pointing the cigarette at the camera like a weapon. “I’m not gonna sit here drinking and smoking while some grieving girl tries to shoulder a burden I can’t even bloody carry myself. If it’s all on you, Z…” He exhaled twin streams of smoke through his nose. “…then you might as well kill me now.”

Zatanna pressed her lips together, her eyes wet, but she didn’t answer.

That’s when Jason Blood, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. His voice was low, steady, carrying weight.

“He’s right. We can’t let you bear this alone, Zatanna. I’ll help. Magic needs us now.”

But Jason hadn’t even finished before Alan Scott raised his hand, commanding attention. His voice, deep and paternal, filled the virtual chamber.

“All right, let’s be clear about one thing.” Allan Scott’s gaze moved from screen to screen, each veteran face reflecting decades of experience. “The chaos was immense, but not total. There are still adults alive—organizing cities, maintaining improvised governments, coordinating communities.”

Jay Garrick nodded, adding, “People need stable examples, not kids running themselves into the ground. We—the older ones, the ones still standing—will handle the immediate rebuilding. We’ll help restore hospitals, supplies, communications.”

Allan drew in a slow breath and leaned closer to the screen. “And I’ll reach out to the government and the UN. The world needs to know there are still heroes alive—that they’re not alone. That message has to reach the civic leaders, it has to be official. If people believe we’re finished, the chaos will only grow.”

Vixen leaned forward, her tone firm. “And you young ones… you need to stop. It’s not cowardice. It’s survival. The world needs you to rest now, so you can fight tomorrow.”

Allan’s voice resonated, grave and steady, filling the screens. “The world needs stability. You’ve already carried more than you should. Now it’s our turn to bear the weight.”

The words hung in the air but did not settle easily.

Wally was the first to break, leaning forward, his voice spilling out fast as if it couldn’t be contained. “But… we can’t just sit around! There are people who need help right now!”

Zatanna clenched her fist on the table, her voice tight. “It’s not fair. I know I can still do something.”

Roy crossed his arms, eyes locked on the screen. “If you want to rebuild from the top down, fine. But we can still fight on the ground.”

Midoriya lifted his head, his voice low but resolute, heavy with determination. “A hero… doesn’t retreat.”

The silence that followed was crushing, until Jay Garrick leaned closer. His paternal eyes rested on the young group with the tenderness of a grandfather speaking to his grandchildren. “And precisely because you are heroes… you need to stop now. You are not disposable tools. You’ve done enough. More than anyone had the right to expect from you.”

Allan nodded in agreement. “You gave the world a flame when there was only darkness. But that flame must be preserved. If you burn yourselves out now… what will be left for tomorrow?”

The weight of those words made the Tower’s command room feel even colder. Wally lowered his eyes. Zatanna bit her lip. Roy clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. Midoriya only closed his eyes, breathing deep, trying to wrestle down the instinct that always pushed him forward.

Then Mera’s steady voice cut through the silence. “Before anything else, we must face our losses. Next month, Atlantis will hold Arthur’s funeral. It’s what my people need now.”

Hippolyta lifted her chin, her tone carrying the solemnity of a queen. “And Themyscira will do the same for Diana. Farewell is necessary. Mourning is not weakness… it is discipline.”

Allan Scott turned on his screen, eyes settling firmly on Rocket.

“How old are you, girl?”

Rocket blinked at the question, but lifted her head and answered, “Eighteen.”

Allan nodded, then looked toward Wildcat. “Then… Wildcat… I want you to go to South Dakota. Help this girl.”

Wildcat sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “Fine… my city’s quiet for now. I can do that.”

Rocket opened her mouth, starting to protest. “I… don’t need a babysitter!”

But no one paid her objection any mind.

Jay Garrick leaned in, fixing Wally with the same look he’d used years ago when Wally was just an impulsive kid. “Wally… I want you to stay put for a while. Iris… she’ll come for you soon.”

Wally blinked in surprise. “But… I could just run back… it’s—”

Jay shook his head. “No. Stay. Rest… you’ve already done enough.”

Wally lowered his gaze, and after a moment, nodded silently.

Then Allan Scott leaned forward again, the faint green glow of his ring casting light over his features. His eyes locked on Dick, as if the screen itself weren’t between them.
“Dick…” he said, his tone grave but not harsh.

The young leader raised his head, swallowing hard.

“Have you… prepared a funeral for Bruce?”

The silence that followed seemed eternal. The knot in Dick’s throat tightened until it nearly choked him. He drew a long breath, his hands curling into fists on the table, and answered in a voice low, almost a whisper.
“No…”

Allan nodded slowly, with the serenity of a man who understood pain without needing to name it. “Then do that first. Before you worry about the world… worry about him. Honor him. Only then can you move forward.”

All eyes turned to Dick. Wally, his face tight with concern. Zatanna, her eyes shining with tears. Roy, silent and respectful. Midoriya, gazing at him with the admiration of someone who knew this burden should never fall on a boy—but who also saw he carried it all the same.

Dick breathed deeply, fighting to hold himself together, and nodded. “I… will.”

The silence that followed was no longer one of protest, nor of defiance. It was the heavy silence of mourning… and of acceptance.

—

Part 4

 

The cold glow of the holograms flickered, wavering in the thin air of the Watchtower’s command room. It was as if even the systems themselves, strained by time and war, hesitated to sustain that fragile link binding survivors scattered across a broken planet. Silence had descended after Alan Scott’s final words—dense, heavy, almost tangible.

For a moment, no one breathed deeply. No one dared to break that stillness. The air seemed thick with the weight of unspoken losses, the kind no speech could heal. And it was in that pause that a voice rose, unexpected, slicing through the quiet like a blade:

"Who is… that one?"

The question carried no hostility, but the grave, suspicious curiosity of someone long accustomed to sniffing out anomalies. Jason Blood tilted his head toward the corner of the screen, his eyes narrowing as if he had only just noticed the young figure seated further back, quiet as a shadow.

Izuku Midoriya.

He had been there the whole time, but his stillness had rendered him almost invisible. He had listened to every word, every promise, every memory recalled by the veterans—without daring to interrupt. Now, all eyes turned to him. Rocket’s brows rose in surprise. Vixen’s watchful gaze measured him from a distance, as though weighing his strength. Even Hippolyta, who until then had held her regal composure, tilted her chin slightly, appraising.

Midoriya slowly lifted his head. His green eyes were tired, rimmed with the exhaustion of more than just body—they carried a stubborn resolve, the reflection of someone who, even crushed beneath responsibility, refused to break. He didn’t speak. He simply held their gazes.

Dick sighed and straightened.

"He showed up at the end of the invasion," he explained, his voice low but firm, each word carrying a quiet shield of protection around the boy. "He saved my life… and Wally’s. He did what many of us… couldn’t do."

Wally’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, almost imperceptible but filled with genuine gratitude. Zatanna lowered her eyes, acknowledging in silence.

Midoriya, however, looked down again, shoulders tight. He sought no recognition, no title. He was simply there, breathing beside them, trying to convince himself he still belonged at that table of survivors.

No one pressed further. Jason Blood gave a small nod, registering the boy’s presence but demanding nothing more. The matter died there, swallowed by the weight of heavier griefs.

Alan Scott leaned forward slightly, the faint green shimmer of his ring flickering against his austere expression. His voice came deep, burdened with responsibility.

"I’ve received contact from the government," he said, pausing as though measuring each word. "They want to know if it’s true. If the League has really fallen completely. They asked… if a collective funeral should be held. For all of them."

The room sank into silence. The act of officially confirming that loss seemed a weight greater than any battle.

Alan continued, never breaking eye contact with the screen.

"I told them yes. That the League… is gone." He drew in a deep breath before adding, "But I will also tell them there are still heroes. That resistance remains. You. Us. Those who are left."

Zatanna’s eyes widened, her breath caught as though she’d been struck. Rocket covered her mouth with a trembling hand, unable to process the thought of formalizing a loss she was still trying to deny. Vixen closed her eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply, as though bracing herself against a truth she had already sensed.

The younger heroes exchanged tense looks. For the first time, it felt real—that soon the entire world would know the League was truly gone. And in some unspoken way, they would begin to be seen as successors.

Wally froze. Barry’s name rang in his mind like a wound torn open. The laughter, the lessons, the quiet counsel of his uncle—distant now, yet so alive it hurt. He dropped his gaze to his trembling hands, hiding the weakness as best he could.

Across the feed, Jay Garrick looked at him with the same paternal warmth he had always carried. He didn’t speak, but his eyes said everything: I know what you lost… and I’m here.

Hippolyta held her regal posture, but her voice, when it came, carried the weight of a grieving mother.

"Themyscira will do the same for Diana. She deserves every honor… and more."

Queen Mera leaned forward, her tone as steady as the tide.

"Arthur will be remembered. Atlantis is already preparing the rites."

Each declaration struck like a hammer blow, sealing the truth that the League—once the shield of the world—now lived only in memory, epitaphs, and monuments yet to be built.

Then Alan’s gaze turned directly to Dick. His tired, steady eyes bore no judgment, only respect.

"And when the time comes," he said, his voice softer now, "I expect an invitation."

Dick swallowed hard, the lump in his throat threatening his voice. He nodded slowly, firmly, managing only a whisper.

"You’ll get one."

Alan’s reply carried no judgment, only quiet understanding.

"Then do it. Before you worry about the world… bury your father."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Wally turned away, lips parting as though to speak but finding no words. Zatanna clenched her eyes shut, tears threatening to break free. Midoriya stared at Dick, eyes wide, recognizing in those words a command that could just as easily apply to himself: face the loss, instead of running forward.

One by one, the veterans began to sign off.

Hippolyta inclined her head, her stern gaze softening for a heartbeat.
Mera lifted her chin in respect before her image dissolved into blue fragments.
Wildcat gave a short nod, like a promise to return if called.
El Dorado placed a hand over his chest in silent reverence.
Jay Garrick, before disconnecting, spoke softly but firmly to Wally:
"Rest, kid. Barry would’ve wanted that."

Wally bit his lip hard, nodding silently.

Finally, Constantine stubbed out his cigarette in a dented ashtray and muttered, "If this funeral’s good for anything, it’ll be to remind us that even the immortals… aren’t." And with that, he disconnected without waiting for a reply.

The holograms flickered, one by one, until only the dim afterglow of fading systems remained, returning the room to the cold quiet of the Watchtower.

Dick stood still, eyes fixed on the metal table before him, breath heavy. The dead screen reflected the image of a thirteen-year-old boy carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders—a boy now tasked with planning the funeral of Earth’s greatest hero.

Behind him, Midoriya remained. Quiet, motionless, breathing deeply as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. Their eyes met briefly, and in that silence was a shared truth: two young men who hadn’t chosen their burdens, but who knew, somehow, they had to bear them.

Dick closed his eyes and drew in a long breath, letting the room’s sacred stillness settle around him.

Outside, the world still bled. But in that moment, a new promise was being forged.

Not of victory. Not of glory. But of endurance.

Because even in funerals… there was hope.

Chapter 14: Grief and Legacy

Chapter 14 — Grief and Legacy

 

Part 1

 

The silence that followed seemed to have a weight of its own.

The Watchtower’s command center, with its panels still humming faintly from the backup systems, felt larger than ever. The metallic echo of the room amplified every breath, every restrained movement, as if even the air had grown too heavy to breathe.

The empty chairs arranged around the command table looked like seats reserved for ghosts. It was easy to imagine that, in another time, they’d be occupied by Diana, Clark, Bruce, Arthur… all of them debating strategies, drawing plans, saving the world. Now, only the emptiness remained.

Cold lights reflected against the vast glass window overlooking the Earth below. The planet spun silently in space, serene and calm — a cruel contrast to the chaos they all knew was raging beneath its surface.

Dick felt his chest tighten. The space, once sacred as a symbol of unity, now felt like a mausoleum.
And for several minutes, no one dared to utter a single word.

Dick stood still, eyes locked on the dead screen. Alan Scott’s words echoed in his mind, reverberating like an inevitable verdict: “They’re organizing a funeral for the entire Justice League.”
Beside him, Wally sat with his arms crossed, head lowered, wrestling against a storm only he could feel. Zatanna clenched her fists on her knees, seated at the control table, staring at the floor as if she might shatter into pieces at any moment. Roy kept his distance, leaning against one of the steel columns, his hollow eyes fixed on the vastness of space beyond the window, pretending at a control he didn’t actually have.

And Midoriya… he just sat there quietly. In one of the swivel chairs, hugging his own arms, as though trying to ward off a cold that wasn’t really there. His eyes shifted from face to face, quietly studying the broken expressions of heroes who, until recently, had only been legends to him.

The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating like fog.

Midoriya cleared his throat before speaking, as if he had to summon courage just to pierce that silence. His voice came out low, uncertain, every word tiptoeing on forbidden ground:

“I… I know this isn’t the right time… but…” He looked down at his hands, pressing his fingers into his arms. “…the Justice League. What… what were they like?”

The question hung in the air like shrapnel, slicing through every other thought.

Midoriya instantly felt all their eyes turn toward him, filled with surprise, pain, and in some cases, even indignation. He swallowed hard, trying to explain himself in a rush:

“I… never knew them. I read about them, watched old recordings… but it’s not the same.” His voice cracked, raw and sincere. “For you… they were everything. I just… I just want to understand.”

The silence grew heavier, as though even the Watchtower itself held its breath.

Wally was the first to react. He dragged both hands down his face, covering his eyes as if the question itself was too much to bear. His chest rose and fell rapidly, each breath sharper than the last.

Zatanna squeezed her eyes shut, her fingers gripping the fabric of her uniform in her lap. To her, the question wasn’t just a reminder — it was like hearing the echo of her father’s voice calling her “Zee,” before he disappeared forever.

Roy turned away instantly, his jaw clenching hard. The muscle twitched as if fighting against tears he refused to shed.

Dick remained motionless for a few long seconds, the tension etched across his face betraying the weight he carried. He didn’t scold Midoriya, didn’t shut him down. He simply closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, and forced himself to answer.

Dick opened his eyes slowly, the air still trapped in his chest. Straightening slightly, he seemed to wrestle with himself, every word harder than any battle.

“They were…” His voice came out rough, faltering at first. He had to swallow hard, his fingers digging into the table’s edge until his knuckles turned white. “They were… the best of us.”

He lifted his gaze to Midoriya, not with reproach, but with raw pain.

“Not just heroes… they were family. Mentors. Parents.” Each word trembled, but he refused to stop. “When the world was falling apart… they held it together. Even when they were breaking inside, even when no one could see it.”

For a moment, Dick’s eyes fell to the metallic floor beneath his feet.

“Bruce…” The name slipped out barely above a whisper, but it echoed in the silent chamber. “He wasn’t just Batman. He was the man who saved me. Took me from a ruined circus, gave me a home, a mission… a family.”

His breathing grew heavier, eyes wet, but no tears fell. He raised his chin instead, bearing the pain like armor.

“Everything I am… everything… is because he believed in me. Even when he didn’t believe in himself.”

Wally let out a nervous laugh that dissolved almost immediately into something closer to a sob. He rubbed his face, his fingers trembling.

“Barry… he was the most optimistic guy I ever met.” His voice cracked right away. “Always had a joke ready, always found a way to make me smile.”

He shook his head, eyes glassy.

“But… it wasn’t because life was easy for him. It was because he knew that if he didn’t laugh… no one else would. He ran faster than anyone else, not just because he could… but because he thought he had to save everyone, be everywhere, all at once.”

Wally’s breath hitched, his voice breaking.

“And in the end… he was fast enough to save us. But not… fast enough to save himself.”

His hands dropped slowly into his lap, his shoulders trembling.

Roy cleared his throat, trying to hold steady, but his voice came out low, rough, laced with both bitterness and grief.

“Oliver…” He started with a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Oliver was an idiot. Arrogant, stubborn, always thought he was the only one who knew what was right. And I… I spent half my life pissed at him for it.”

Roy closed his eyes, taking in a sharp breath, but he kept going.

“But he never stopped fighting. Never. Even when everything was falling apart, he still believed the world could be better… and that we had the obligation to try, even if it was impossible.”

His voice faltered, and he turned his face away, as if unwilling to let them see him crack.

"He taught me everything… how to shoot, how to survive, how to stand up after every fall." Roy paused, the silence stretching painfully before he whispered again, his voice breaking. "And now… he’s gone. And I… I never told him that… that I forgave him."

He turned his gaze away, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white, as if trying to hold back anger that no longer had anywhere to go.

Zatanna was slower to speak. Her fingers trembled against the napkin she still held, and when she finally raised her eyes, they were already glistening with tears.

"My father… Zatara…" Her voice cracked, forcing her to take a deep breath before continuing. "He… he was always the greatest magician I ever knew. Everyone saw him that way… but to me, he was just… my dad."

She swallowed hard, and a fragile smile flickered across her lips.

"I remember nights when he’d catch me sneaking spells in my room. He never scolded me. He’d just rest his hand on my shoulder and say, ‘Zee, even magic needs to sleep.’"

A small laugh escaped her — soft, fleeting — before it broke into a sob. "I never listened. Not once."

The tears finally slipped free, streaming down her face as she shut her eyes tight.

"And during the invasion… he paid the price alone. He did what he always did… he protected others before himself." Her voice collapsed into a whisper, raw and childlike. “And I… didn’t have the strength to save him.”

She turned her head, trying to hide her tears, but the weight of her confession had already filled the room.

Midoriya’s chest tightened, words locked in his throat. His eyes shifted between them, each drowning in their grief, and even without having known these heroes personally, he understood. The emptiness. The loss. The kind of absence that cut deeper than any wound.

That was when Dick lifted his eyes again. His voice was low, steady, as if he were speaking to everyone at once — or maybe to no one in particular.

"They were… the Justice League. Not just superheroes… but symbols. Of hope. Of strength. Proof that no matter how dark the world got… there would always be someone willing to stand and fight."

Wally nodded faintly, a sad smile tugging at his lips.

"And now… I guess that someone is us."

No one answered. They didn’t need to.

Midoriya lowered his head, staring at the floor. The weight of this world — so different, yet so painfully familiar to his own — finally pressed down on him completely.

They remained there for long minutes, wrapped in the silence only grief can build. But beneath it, faint and fragile, lingered a truth none of them could deny: despite everything… they weren’t alone.

—

Part 2

 

After leaving the Control Room behind, the group kept walking through the Watchtower, quieter than ever. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but heavy, thick with things unsaid, as if the walls themselves whispered all the memories they couldn’t put into words.

The corridors led them almost instinctively through familiar passages until, turning a corner, they found themselves in front of one of the training rooms.

The door was slightly ajar, spilling a faint strip of light across the dim corridor. Dick was the first to stop, his hand brushing the doorframe, his eyes fixed on the space inside.

Nothing had changed within. The elevated platforms still stood tall, the obstacle nets hung motionless from the ceiling, and the combat dummies bore the scars of countless drills—scratches, burns, deep cuts that testified to battles long past, as if from another lifetime.

The air smelled of dust, laced faintly with iron and oil. It felt like time itself had stopped the moment the League abandoned that space, leaving it as a silent memorial.

None of them stepped inside. For a few seconds, they just stood there, each feeling the weight of the room in their own way. Wally looked away, swallowing hard. Zatanna pressed her fingers into her cloak, as if holding back a painful memory. Roy stayed rigid, his stillness a clear sign of his discomfort.

It was Dick who broke the silence, his voice low, almost reverent.

“We… we haven’t really stopped to face this, have we?”

Then his gaze turned toward Midoriya.

The boy frowned at first, confused, until the memory hit him with force. His body had changed. Everyone had noticed it from day one: his frame now perfectly proportioned, sculpted; his skin without scars; the raw, unearned strength he carried. And here, in front of these scarred dummies and quiet platforms, he was forced to confront it.

Midoriya slowly raised his hands, opening and closing his fingers as if seeing them for the very first time.

“Yeah…” he muttered, hesitant. “I… I’d almost forgotten.”

Silence fell again until Wally tried to ease it, letting out a shaky laugh.

“Forgotten? Man… you look like you walked straight out of a Greek statue catalog. Forgetting that is impossible.”

Dick kept his hand against the doorframe, his voice firm as he looked back into the room.

“We should use the Watchtower’s facilities to investigate this.”

“Now?” Midoriya asked, eyebrows raised.

Dick shrugged.
“Why not? We’ve got everything here. Equipment, databases…” He glanced at the others, who nodded in agreement. “It might help to understand what happened to you.”

Midoriya hesitated. He wanted to—but not now. Not yet. His mind was too crowded, just as empty as the Watchtower itself. And besides… there was something else they had to do first.

He shook his head gently.
“No… not today. I think… this can wait.”

They lingered a moment longer at the doorway, as if simply looking into the training room was its own silent act of respect. None of them said it aloud, but they all knew this space still held the echoes of voices no longer there—orders, laughter, arguments, advice.

Dick was the first to move, closing the door with care. The soft click of wood against frame echoed down the corridor like a period at the end of a sentence.

“Just one more reason to come back,” he murmured, almost to himself.

No one answered, but their footsteps down the corridor carried a new weight. It wasn’t just the silence of mourning anymore—it was the awareness that they were walking toward something they could no longer delay: the farewell.

The silence stretched with every step, until Wally suddenly stopped. Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, his eyes fixed on the polished marble floor. He took a deep breath, like even a simple sentence demanded courage.

“The League…” he began, his voice lower than usual, almost swallowed by the echo of the corridor. “The League deserves a funeral. A collective one. All of them.”

For a moment, no one spoke, but the words hung there, reverberating between them like an undeniable truth.

Zatanna was the first to lift her gaze, and even without speaking, the shimmer in her tear-filled eyes confirmed what they were all already thinking.

Roy nodded, his eyes distant, focused on something beyond the hallway.
“Yeah… but…” he paused, breathing heavily, “…I need my own goodbye too. Something personal.”

Zatanna clenched her fists, but kept her chin high.
“So do I.”

Dick didn’t need to say anything. They already knew.

It was Midoriya who asked, his voice small, as if he feared the answer.
“You… you want separate funerals?”

Dick leaned against the wall, looking at the group before answering.
“We’ll hold a collective funeral. That’s the least we can do. But… each of us also wants, needs… to do this in our own way. For the one we loved most.”

He turned to Wally, who nodded with a sad smile.
“For Barry,” he said simply.

Then to Roy, who didn’t hide the pain in his eyes.
“For Oliver.”

Zatanna took a deep breath, her voice breaking.
“For my father.”

And finally, Dick lowered his gaze, closing his eyes for a moment.
“For Bruce.”

The name lingered in the air like a whisper—too heavy to ignore, yet too light to fill the void it left behind.

Midoriya stayed silent, his eyes moving from one to the other, taking in every word as if each was a blow to his chest. He hadn’t known Oliver Queen, or Zatara, or Bruce Wayne. But hearing them speak, he felt as if he had trespassed into a place he didn’t belong.

His hands clenched the hem of his shirt, knuckles white. The weight of this was unlike any battle. It wasn’t just pain—it was history. Legacy. Something he didn’t have.

“They carry the memory of those who raised them… who shaped them…” he thought, his heart racing. “I… I don’t have that here. I don’t belong to this world. I don’t share this pain. Or this legacy.”

He took a shaky breath, his throat tight. The comparison rose unbidden—All Might. The man who had been his symbol in another world. A memory distant and unreachable, one no one here could ever understand.

Finally, with a trembling voice, Midoriya whispered:
“I… I don’t have anyone to remember here. I don’t have a legacy… like you.”

The words hit the air heavy. They weren’t self-pity, nor a complaint. Just a raw truth. A reminder that he came from somewhere else, and that his presence among them was an exception in a world not his own.

The group turned to him. Wally bit his lip, unsure what to say. Zatanna lifted her gaze, eyes soft with unspoken compassion. Roy kept his expression hard, but looked away—as if the honesty of that confession had struck something deep.

But Dick stepped forward. He stopped in front of Midoriya, his gaze steady, his voice low, almost a whisper.
“Then… build one.”

Midoriya’s eyes widened, startled.

Dick continued, calm but unwavering.
“You don’t have to be from this world to leave your mark on it. None of us started with a legacy. We only inherited one because… we survived. And now it’s your turn.”

The silence that followed was different now. No longer just mourning—something had sparked.
A flicker.
Something new, being born.

—

Part 3

 

Before leaving, the group gathered once more in the command room.

The central console still glowed with that cold, bluish light, casting sharp beams across their weary faces. The same walls, the same machines… and yet everything felt different now. The Watchtower, once a symbol of power and unity, now hung in orbit like a mausoleum.

Dick stepped up to the main terminal, his fingers moving with precision across the controls. The metallic clicks echoed through the vast chamber until a soft beep confirmed the operation.

He pressed both palms against the console, exhaling slowly.

“Done,” he said firmly. “The link between the Watchtower and the Batcave will remain active. Always.”

It wasn’t just a technical adjustment. It was a bond. An invisible thread connecting past to future, the fallen to the living, what had been lost to what still might endure.

The others nodded quietly, as if instinctively understanding the weight behind his words.

For a long moment, they stood still, gazing at the monitors, at the stars beyond, almost as if waiting for old voices to echo back. But the only answer was the low hum of the systems.

Zatanna was the first to break the silence. She stepped forward, resting a hand lightly on the console—like someone sealing a vow.

“Magic still needs me,” she said softly, though her voice didn’t waver. Her eyes shimmered, but her resolve didn’t falter. “My father spent his life fighting forces that could have destroyed the world. If I stop now… it would make his sacrifice meaningless.”

Roy uncrossed his arms and stepped closer. His eyes fixed on the console screen, where an old archive still showed Oliver Queen, grinning among the League.

“Ollie was a fool,” Roy said, his voice sharp. “Arrogant, stubborn, always convinced he knew better than everyone else. But… he never backed down from what he believed in. Not once.”

His breath hitched, but he pushed through.

“If I don’t keep going… if I don’t carry that forward… then all the hell he put me through won’t mean anything. And I won’t let his legacy die with me.”

Wally lifted his head, running a hand through sweat-damp hair. This time, there was no attempt at a smile. His voice trembled, fragile but true.

“Barry ran to protect the whole world. Always fast, always there before anyone else. And now… the world is slower, broken. But I can’t let that be a reason to stop. If he was everywhere he was needed… then I will be too. Even if it’s step by step.”

Dick closed his eyes briefly, absorbing every word. When he spoke, his tone was low and solemn.

“The League has fallen,” he said, letting the truth hang in the air. “But what they stood for cannot fall with them. We’re not here to replace anyone… we’re here to carry it forward.”

The four of them turned their eyes to Midoriya.

He hesitated. The words seemed trapped in his throat. Finally, he raised his head, his green eyes shining beneath the console’s cold glow.

“I… I never knew the League,” he admitted, his voice raw. “I didn’t fight beside them. I didn’t grow up in their shadow. I don’t have a legacy here.”

The silence thickened again.

Midoriya clenched his fists, drawing in a shaky breath before finishing.

“But I’ve seen what they mean. I’ve seen what you’ve lost. And if what’s left of this world needs someone… then I’ll fight. Not for what I inherited… but for what we can build.”

A knot formed in Dick’s throat, but a faint, satisfied smile broke through.

No one else spoke. They didn’t need to.

For a few seconds, they simply stood together, committing the unspoken promise to memory: the Justice League’s legacy would live on—not as copies, but as continuation.

At last, Dick turned and activated the teleport sequence.

The soft pulse of energy filled the chamber. Emergency lights glowed gold, wrapping the five of them in a translucent field, like a radiant cocoon.

They gathered in the center of the platform, shoulder to shoulder. The beam flared around them, a brilliant light that felt more spiritual than technological.

And in the blink of an eye—they were gone.

The command room fell silent.

The monitors still pulsed faintly. The Watchtower, suspended in orbit high above Earth, was no longer just an abandoned station. It had become something else—at once a mausoleum, and a beacon. A monument reminding the world that hope could still endure.

And down below, new heroes were already preparing to carry the mantle the League had left behind.

Chapter 15: Departures and Promises

Notes:

Hello everyone, thank you for sticking with me up to this point, and thank you for all the comments and kind words.
Also, thank you for being patient with me and with the slow pace of this story. But now, after this chapter, we’ll officially be heading into the final stretch of Volume 1 of Knights of Tomorrow: After the Fall.
It’s time to start picking up the pace.

Chapter 15 — Departures and Promises

 

Part 1: POV — Wally West

 

The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of Wayne Manor, turning the dust in the air into drifting specks of gold. It was a gentle warmth, one that never reached Wally West’s chest.

He walked slowly—deliberately slowly—as if each step had to prove there was still solid ground beneath his feet. The house’s silence wasn’t empty; it had small sounds woven into it: the old floorboards creaking, a distant clock ticking, the faint sigh of the walls themselves. But none of it felt like the wind in his face. None of it felt like running.

Since they had returned from the Watchtower, speed seemed useless. Running wouldn’t turn back time. Running wouldn’t catch up to Barry.

He stopped at one of the windows and pressed his palm to the cold glass. Outside, Alfred was trimming the rose bushes with his usual precision, each careful gesture somehow holding the world in place. Wally thought he should be out there saving someone, fixing something—but then he realized: some days, “staying” was also a way of saving what remained.

A memory flickered—Barry ahead of him, laughing over his shoulder, tapping Wally’s helmet in challenge: “One day, you’ll take the lead.” Now the track ahead was nothing but silence.

Behind him, quiet but familiar footsteps approached. Wally didn’t turn. Dick’s voice, low and respectful, filled the space between them:

“She’s here.”

Wally just nodded. He didn’t need to ask who.

Minutes later, the crunch of tires on gravel carried through the grounds. Wally knew—before the sound of the engine, before anything—who it was. His heartbeat stumbled, not like a sprinter’s rush, but like a misstep.

Iris West.

She stepped out of the car in a gray overcoat cinched tight against her frame, hair pulled back in a hurried bun, sunglasses hiding the puffiness around her eyes. Wally didn’t need to see them. He had known that look since childhood, when Barry would take him over for dinner on quiet Central City nights. Iris had always been steady, always found the right words to calm both Barry’s storms and his own. But now—for the first time—she seemed smaller, as if the world had taken more from her than it could ever return.

She opened her arms before speaking, and Wally ran toward her—not as a speedster, but as a nephew, as a boy. The hug was tight, desperate, as though they were both clinging to each other to keep from falling into the void.

“Wally…” Her voice cracked under the weight of everything left unsaid.

He closed his eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of lavender clinging to her coat. For one fleeting second, it was like being back in her kitchen in Central, Barry cracking jokes while Iris brewed coffee. The moment broke too quickly.

When they finally pulled apart, she lifted her hands to his face, forcing a smile that hurt more than it soothed.

“How are you holding up?”

It was an automatic question, but her eyes—hidden behind the lenses—begged for an answer that didn’t exist.

“Surviving…” Wally murmured, unable to hold her gaze for long.

Iris nodded, understanding more than words could convey.

Behind Wally, Dick appeared—quiet as ever, but steady in a way only someone who knew what it was to lose the larger-than-life could be. He extended his hand to Iris, respectful.

“It means a lot that you came,” he said, his voice calm but carrying a weight of sincere gratitude.

Iris clasped his hand firmly, then turned her gaze back to Wally. Her reply came like a vow:

“I promised Barry I’d take care of him. And I will.”

Alfred, standing watch by the door, inclined his head in silent reverence. He didn’t speak, but his eyes carried something Iris immediately understood: respect and solidarity.

Then Midoriya stepped forward, hesitant, shoulders tight, hands fidgeting at the hem of his shirt. He seemed even more out of place before her, almost shrinking into himself. Iris studied him for a moment, and the air softened.

“You must be Izuku Midoriya,” she said gently.

The boy bowed slightly, his voice timid.
“Y-yes… it’s an honor to meet you.”

She smiled—a tired smile, heavy with grief but warm with kindness. She reached out, touching his arm lightly, as though acknowledging an unexpected ally.

“Thank you… for standing by him.”

Midoriya flushed, eyes darting away. He gave no answer, only bowed again, silently carrying the weight of her gratitude.

Wally turned back to the group, inhaling deeply.
“I guess… it’s time.”

He faced Dick first. Dick pulled him into a crushing hug, almost refusing to let go.
“Keep in touch… and remember—the Manor is always open.”

“I know…” Wally answered, with a shaky half-smile.

Then, to Midoriya’s surprise, Wally hugged him too, clapping a hand firmly on his shoulder.
“Look out for Dick, Deku. He needs you more than he’ll ever admit.”

Midoriya nodded seriously, no hesitation in his expression.

When Wally turned to Roy, he found the archer standing with arms crossed. A long silence stretched before Roy finally huffed and opened his arms in mock impatience.
“Come on, kid, before I change my mind.”

The hug was quick but strong. As they pulled apart, Roy muttered under his breath, rough but sincere:
“Make Barry proud.”

Wally’s smile wavered with emotion.
“Always.”

At last, he met Zatanna’s eyes. She didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward and embraced him immediately, holding him with the care of someone clutching something fragile and precious.
“You’re not alone, Wally. You never will be.”

He closed his eyes, the truth of her words breaking through his defenses. His reply came ragged:
“Thank you, Zee.”

Then he stepped back, looking at the group one last time. Raising a hand in farewell, he turned toward the waiting car beside Iris.

Before climbing in, he looked back, his voice steady even as his eyes brimmed:
“I’ll let you know as soon as we arrange Barry’s funeral. I want all of you there.”

Dick, Roy, Zatanna, Midoriya, and Alfred all nodded together—a silent promise shared between them.

And so, Wally climbed into the car, departing at Iris’s side, while his friends stood in front of the Manor, feeling another absence carve its space in the heart of their fragile family.

 

—

Part 2 — POV: Roy Harper

 

The sound of Iris and Wally’s car engine had already faded when Roy Harper closed the door of Wayne Manor behind him. He stood there for a long moment, eyes locked on the empty drive as if he could somehow hold on to time.

But he couldn’t.

Another chapter had ended—and he knew the next move was his.

He walked down the manor’s quiet hallways, passing through the sitting room where remnants of the last few days still lingered: Alfred’s forgotten teacups, one of Dick’s blankets draped carelessly over a chair, and a broken arrow of his own lying on the table—a failed attempt to train, to distract himself from the noise inside his head.

Roy picked up the arrow, turning it over between his fingers. From the moment he’d returned here with the others, he’d known he couldn’t stay forever. He wasn’t the kind of man who settled.

And now, without Ollie…

The name lodged in his throat, but he didn’t speak it aloud. He didn’t need to.

He stepped out onto the back veranda and found Zatanna sitting in silence, her gaze fixed on the endless green lawn. The breeze stirred her dark hair, but she was still as stone.

Roy leaned against the doorframe, watching her for a moment. Both of them had lost too much. Both of them were broken.

“He was…” Roy finally said, breaking the silence.

Zatanna didn’t answer right away. She only gave a small nod, her eyes never leaving the horizon.

Roy crossed the space and sat beside her, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together.

“I think it’s time for me to go too,” he admitted, his voice caught somewhere between resolve and hesitation.

Her eyes shifted to him, sharp and searching, as if she could read beneath his skin. “To Star City,” she said—not as a question, but as a certainty.

Roy exhaled, staring down at his boots, the scuffed leather dusted with dirt he hadn’t bothered to wipe away. “I can’t put it off. I need to see it with my own eyes.”

She understood. She felt the same pull, the same need to return to where the pain was sharpest.

“You’ll arrange the funeral?” she asked softly.

Roy bit his lower lip, eyes hardening. “The government’s planning a collective funeral—for all of them.” He paused, drawing a long breath. “But that’s not enough. Not for him. Not for Green Arrow.”

Zatanna’s lips curved in a bittersweet smile. “Not for my father either.”

They fell into silence, listening to birdsong in the distance, the kind of sound that made the world seem untouched—even when it wasn’t.

Roy looked at her again. “And you?”

She inhaled deeply before answering. “Tomorrow. I have to go back to San Francisco.”

He nodded. Of course. Neither of them could stay here, hiding behind the cold safety of Gotham’s walls.

“When you… arrange it—” he started, but she cut him off with a faint smile.

“I’ll let you all know. Every one of you.”

Roy returned the smile, though it was the kind that barely masked the pain and faded almost as quickly as it came.

He rose, casting one last glance at the manor. “Guess I should pack.”

She stayed seated, watching him walk away with those same heavy shoulders he always carried.

Roy made his way slowly through the manor, the old floorboards creaking under his boots. This place wasn’t his home—just another shelter, like all the others since Ollie’s death.

Passing the main hall, he caught sight of Dick and Midoriya bent over a table, whispering over maps. They clung to logistics as if strategy could fill the hole in their chests. Dick’s fingers drummed restlessly on the edge of the paper, betraying the strain behind his composure. Midoriya scribbled dutiful notes, as if discipline could substitute for grief.

Roy lingered in the doorway, tempted for a second to step in, to be drawn into that fragile sense of normalcy. But no. His burden was his alone.

He pressed on.

The hallway swallowed him in shadows, and for a heartbeat, he almost heard Ollie’s voice echoing there—sharp, impatient, calling him for another drill, another mission. He could almost see him at the far end of the hall, arms crossed, brow arched in that familiar look whenever Roy took too long.

The emptiness hit so hard it made Roy close his eyes, pulling in a ragged breath.

By the time he opened them, he was already at the door of the bedroom Alfred had prepared for him. He turned the knob, stepped inside, and let the silence consume him whole.

He closed the door behind him, leaning back against it, his head tipping until it thudded against the wood. For the first time since Ollie’s death, he allowed himself to just breathe—to listen to the beat of his own heart and try to believe it was still strong.

He crossed to the bed, opened his pack, and began placing his few belongings inside: the uniform, the gloves, the bow—always the bow.

His hands froze over the quiver. Some of the arrows still bore Ollie’s craft.

Roy squeezed his eyes shut, drew a shaky breath, and then fastened the quiver shut with a decisive snap before tucking it into the pack.

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the closed door, waiting for the night to pass, for tomorrow to come—when he’d somehow find the strength to say goodbye.

One more time.

—

Part 3 — POV: Zatanna Zatara

 

Morning arrived wrapped in a thin veil of mist that blanketed the gardens of Wayne Manor, giving the scene an almost ethereal quality—like the world was suspended between two times: the past Zatanna needed to leave behind and the uncertain future calling her forward.

She snapped her small suitcase shut with a sharp click, but the sound echoed louder than it should have, as if the manor itself wanted to remind her of the weight in that gesture. She lingered there, one hand resting on the leather lid, breathing deeply. There wasn’t much inside—just a few clothes, parts of her costume, and her father’s grimoire, carefully wrapped in dark cloth, as though it were too fragile to face the light.

Her fingers moved slowly over the surface until, almost unconsciously, she opened it again. She had to look, one last time.

First, she lifted the blue crystal necklace resting on top of the grimoire. She held it between her fingers, letting the chain slip across her skin. The memory struck instantly: Giovanni Zatara placing it around her neck when she was still a teenager, his stern but proud smile etched in her mind. “One day, you’ll be greater than me, my daughter. And when you doubt that, hold this crystal and remember.”

Her throat tightened.

She placed the necklace back into the suitcase and carefully touched the cover of the grimoire. The scent of old leather, incense, and dust still carried his presence. Her fingers traced the worn edges, each scratch a scar of battle, each stain a story.

“I’ll do this right, Dad…” she whispered, so softly it almost blended with her breath.

There were also a pair of black gloves—the same ones she had worn during her first performances. A faint smile tugged at her lips as she remembered trying to mimic Giovanni’s stage tricks, insisting she could pull them off alone. He had laughed, corrected her, and applauded anyway, even when the spell fizzled.

Zatanna closed the suitcase again, this time firmly, as if each movement was a silent pact with the past. She stepped back, letting her gaze fall on the room: the tall antique mirror reflected her tired eyes, her rigid posture, and the strain of trying to appear stronger than she felt.

The room seemed too large for her. Too large for someone leaving without anyone waiting at home.

When she opened the door, the Manor’s hallway greeted her with its characteristic silence—not empty, but filled with echoes. Every painting, every sculpture on its pedestal, every unlit chandelier carried memories that weren’t hers, yet pressed onto her shoulders as if they were.

Her footsteps echoed on the polished floorboards. The sound brought her back to childhood, sneaking through the backstage halls of theaters her father had filled with illusions. Those corridors had echoed too, but with warmth, life, and magic. Here, the echoes were solemn. The echoes of mourning.

She stopped by the grand staircase leading down to the main hall. Resting her hand on the carved wooden banister, she closed her eyes and breathed in. The Manor’s smell was unique: aged wood, dust meticulously cleaned by Alfred, and something else… something that smelled like discipline.

“How many times… did they walk these stairs?” she murmured under her breath, as if afraid the walls might answer.

She pictured Bruce descending in silence, cape trailing in shadow. She pictured a younger Dick running after him, a boy trying to keep pace with the man who was Batman. The image made her smile faintly—but the smile didn’t last.

She continued down the hall, the shadows stretching along the walls as she neared the entrance to the Batcave. Each painting seemed to watch her, each detail whispered of memories that weren’t hers, yet somehow now belonged to her as well.

Step by step, she felt she was crossing a threshold. Not just leaving the Manor behind, but closing a chapter of her own life.

When she finally descended into the cave, the damp chill of the stone climbed through her shoes, seeping into her body like a summons. Darkness and the distant drip of water wrapped around her until the white lights came alive, revealing the vast space: the Batcave.

A place that always felt larger than any other—not because of its size, but because of what it meant.

 

---

The sound of her footsteps echoed against the metallic floor as she reached the final step. The Batcave opened wide before her, a subterranean world unto itself. The air was cold, damp, with lights strategically placed to illuminate key areas—the Batcomputer, the Zeta-tube platform, the worktables scattered with equipment—while vast corners remained shrouded in darkness.

She set her suitcase down beside the platform, the leather hitting the metal softly. In that moment, her eyes found the others.

Roy was already there, adjusting the quiver on his back. His movements were sharp, restrained, like someone who kept his hands busy to avoid thinking too much. But Zatanna knew the façade. She knew the rigid posture was only there to hide a heart still torn wide open.

A little further ahead, Dick was checking the Zeta Tube’s panel with the meticulous attention he had inherited from Bruce. Every command was entered with the precision of someone who could not afford mistakes. The cold glow of the screens reflected in his eyes, which—though steady—betrayed the fatigue and weight of responsibility he carried.

And then there was Midoriya. Always slightly apart, always watching more than speaking. His green eyes followed every detail, filled with curiosity and a strange reverence. But what struck her most was his visible effort not to take up too much space, not to impose himself. He seemed to understand he was witnessing something deeply personal—and yet he remained, as if his very presence was his way of offering support.

Zatanna drew in a deep breath, letting the weight of the moment settle in her chest. The chill of the cave, the respectful silence of her friends, the unspoken tension of a farewell drawing near.

When she took her first steps toward them, it felt like crossing an invisible threshold. Every glance that lifted to meet her carried a silent weight: they all knew what was about to happen, but none of them seemed ready to put it into words.

She stopped beside Roy and Dick. The archer gave her only a brief look, heavy with complicity and something deeper—a mute acknowledgment that both of them were about to leave, but would remain bound no matter the distance.

Dick, for his part, said nothing. He merely tilted his head slightly, the way he always did when he wanted to convey trust without resorting to long speeches.

It was Midoriya who finally broke the silence. His voice was low, but steady, carrying that peculiar mix of nervousness and courage that seemed to define him.

“You… won’t be alone.”

Zatanna froze, holding his gaze for a few seconds. The simplicity of the phrase hit her like a spell. He wasn’t promising great feats or offering impossible plans. He was simply promising presence.

And in that moment, she realized it was exactly what she needed.

Roy was the first to step closer to Dick. She watched from the corner of her eye as he gripped his friend’s shoulder firmly—not just as a warning, but as though leaving a piece of himself behind.

“I’ll send the coordinates once everything’s ready,” Roy said, his voice low but filled with conviction. “I want you and Deku there.”

Dick only nodded. No more words were needed; the pain and the loyalty were already in their eyes.

Zatanna then stepped forward. For a moment, she hesitated. Part of her wanted to leave in silence, to vanish into the Zeta Tube’s light and spare herself the pain of goodbye. But they deserved more than that.

“You…” she began, her voice nearly breaking. She steadied herself, drew a breath, and held each of their gazes. “…you’re my family now.”

The words came out more intimate than she intended, but she didn’t regret them. They were the truth. They were all she had left.

Dick’s eyes met hers, and for the briefest instant, the leader’s mask fell away. He looked once more like the boy she had known years ago, trying to be far stronger than his age allowed.

“We’ll be there,” he answered simply, but with a firmness that made Zatanna believe it.

Midoriya, surprising her, stepped forward. His face flushed red with nerves, but his voice did not waver.

“I… I’ll be there too. No matter what.”

The conviction in that phrase, spoken by someone who didn’t even belong to this world, struck Zatanna in an unexpected way. A soft warmth spread through her chest, and for a moment, the absence of her father hurt a little less.

She smiled at him—melancholy, but genuine—and laid her hand on his shoulder. The boy stiffened in surprise, but didn’t pull away.

“I know you will, Izuku,” she said, using his name deliberately, as acknowledgment. “And that means more than you realize.”

Roy cleared his throat quietly, as if unwilling to admit the scene had touched him. Alfred, meanwhile, approached with his impeccable composure, though Zatanna caught the paternal glint in his eyes.

“I wish you both a safe journey, Mr. Harper… Miss Zatara,” he said with a slight bow. “And remember: this house will always be open to you.”

Zatanna felt a lump in her throat but managed a smile. Alfred was a reminder of constancy—that some things in the world remained steady, even when everything else seemed to collapse.

“Thank you, Alfred… for everything.”

And then, the moment arrived. Roy was already standing on the platform, his quiver slung across his back, still as a statue. Zatanna drew a deep breath, gave one last look to each of them, and stepped up beside him.

The Zeta Tube’s bluish light began to swell, wrapping around them.

Before she vanished, Zatanna raised her hand and whispered—almost like a spell, though it was only a farewell:

“See you soon, family.”

And then, in a soft flash, she and Roy were gone.

One bound for Star City.
The other for San Francisco.

Each carrying their grief.
Each carrying their promise.

In the cave, the echo of goodbye lingered. Dick closed his eyes for a moment, Alfred remained upright, and Midoriya, silently, swore to himself that he would honor those promises at their side.

And so, once again, the Batcave fell quiet—keeper not only of secrets, but of the bonds that remained to uphold the future.

—

Part 4 — POV: Midoriya Izuku

 

The soft blue glow of the Zeta Tube still shimmered faintly, casting wavering shadows along the cold stone walls of the Batcave. Midoriya stood frozen, staring at the empty space where, just moments ago, Roy and Zatanna had stood.

The silence that followed was thick, almost tangible, pressing against his chest like the weight of a responsibility he couldn’t yet fully name.

Dick stood beside him, his eyes fixed on the darkened monitors, his posture stiff—discipline worn as armor against grief. Alfred, with his usual quiet grace, was already retreating toward the mansion above, leaving the two of them alone.

Midoriya drew in a deep breath, tasting the chill and dampness of the cave. His hands fidgeted restlessly, clenching and unclenching as if searching for something to hold on to. They were all leaving, one by one, returning to cities, to families, to memories that still meant something. Wally had Iris. Roy had Star City. Zatanna had San Francisco. And Dick… he had Gotham, the shadow of Bruce, and Wayne Manor — a constant anchor in the chaos.

And him…

He had none of that.

No mentor whose funeral he had to arrange.
No city calling him home.
No certainty he even belonged here.

All he had was the empty cavern.
And these people, who somehow had decided he was one of them.

“They… they really will come back, won’t they?” he asked finally, not realizing how quiet his voice was.

Dick turned from the monitors. For an instant, the mask of the vigilante slipped, revealing only the friend.

“They will,” he said, firm enough to sound like a promise. “They all swore it.”

The words echoed through the cavern, but Midoriya couldn’t fully cling to them.

He breathed in again, the metallic tang of machinery mixing with the damp scent of stone. Nothing here smelled like home. Even Dick’s footsteps on the concrete rang hollow, like he was walking through a world Midoriya had never been meant to inhabit.

He thought of his mother.
That tiny kitchen back in Musutafu, the morning light streaming through the curtains, the smell of fresh rice, the whistle of the old kettle. A simple place, but it had always been enough.

Now… that home was a universe away. Maybe it didn’t even exist here. Maybe it never had.

Midoriya stared at his hands, opening and closing them tightly. Everyone else spoke of funerals, of cities, of people they had to honor. He had none of that. Nothing to bury. Nothing to reclaim.

Just the cave.
Just the silence.
Just the companions who had chosen to accept him, even without understanding where he came from.

“Do I really belong here…?”

The question weighed in his mind, as heavy as the silence itself.

He closed his eyes. And suddenly, the empty Zeta platform wasn’t empty at all. He saw it again: the acrid stench of dust and blood, the searing burn of Shigaraki’s decay against his skin, the manic rasp of laughter scratching at his mind.

The memory of being truly alone. No teachers. No classmates. No All Might. Just him, standing against an enemy that seemed to carry the hatred of an entire ruined world.

And still, he had fought.

When he opened his eyes, the cave was just as silent, but the memory clung to him like a wound that would never heal. Only two people had seen that moment: Dick and Wally. He still didn’t know if they’d seen courage in him… or just a desperate boy flailing against something he could never beat.

He clenched his fists, feeling the echo of that fight ripple through him. Unlike the others, he hadn’t lost a mentor. He hadn’t lost a guide. All he had was that battle, that crushing solitude.

And now, staring at the empty platform, that same emptiness gnawed inside him.

The silence of the Batcave deepened. Until Dick’s footsteps approached.

A hand settled on his shoulder. Midoriya startled slightly, lifting his head. Dick’s face was calm, but his eyes carried more than authority. They carried recognition.

“You already promised, remember?” Dick said, voice steady, low. “You said you’d be at all their funerals. They’ll be waiting for you there.”

The words spread through Midoriya like unexpected warmth. He swallowed hard, doubts still clawing at him.

“Even though I’m… from another world?” he asked softly, almost ashamed.

Dick didn’t hesitate. He allowed himself the faintest smile, quiet but real.

“Especially because of that.”

Midoriya inhaled deeply, and the crushing weight eased just enough. For the first time since the others had left, he believed—maybe—he had a place here.

“I’ll be there,” he said, this time with conviction.

Dick nodded, and for a while they just stood together in silence, staring at the dormant Zeta Tube.

Midoriya thought of Barry. Of Oliver. Of Zatara. Of Bruce. Heroes he had never known, but whose absence burned through the eyes of his friends until it felt like his own. He couldn’t share in their memories. But he could share in their promise — the vow to carry forward the flame that threatened to die with them.

Maybe he had no legacy.
No name etched into this world’s history.
But he could help carry theirs.

And with that thought, for the first time, he felt less like a stranger… and more like a hero.

At the top of the cavern stairs, pale daylight filtered in, spilling thin beams through the cracks that connected the cave to the surface. Gotham stirred above them — indifferent, broken, but alive.

Midoriya raised his eyes to that light and let a single thought slip free, almost a whisper.

“The future is still open.”

Dick heard, but said nothing. He simply let the silence settle again.

And in that quiet, Izuku Midoriya found something he hadn’t expected.
Not a home. Not yet.
But a certainty.

He wasn’t alone.
And when the call came, he would stand with them.

Always.

Chapter 16: The Hero

Notes:

Let’s keep this story going. Now we’ll finally address the question that’s been hanging in the air since the very beginning.

What happened to Izuku Midoriya?
What happened to One For All?

Let’s find out.

Chapter 16 — The Hero

 

Part 1

 

The steady, methodical hum of the Batcave’s machines was, that morning, less oppressive than in the days before. Hidden fans whispered softly, the distant drip of water from the stalactites kept an irregular rhythm, and the glow of still-active screens cast a bluish light that painted cold shadows across the stone walls.

That space, which had always seemed grand and alive when Bruce was there, now felt larger, empty—like an abandoned sanctuary. Every metal bench, every monitor, every platform seemed to hold the silence of old battles—and of a warrior who would never return.

In the middle of all that vast, cold emptiness, Alfred stood out as a calm and steady figure, carefully adjusting the holographic terminal’s controls. The contrast was almost symbolic: amid steel, concrete, and tireless machines, there was still the quiet warmth of humanity.

Dick Grayson paused for a moment at the top of the metal staircase, watching the scene. The sound of his own footsteps echoed softly through the cavern, and for the first time in days, he allowed himself to feel the strangeness of that silence. He drew in a deep breath, letting the chill of the cave fill his lungs before slowly making his way down toward the command center.

He descended carefully until he reached Alfred, who—as always—stood impeccable, adjusting details on the holographic console. Even in the face of silent grief and the emptiness left by Bruce, the butler’s dignity never wavered. He organized, coordinated, kept the house—and the family—standing.

For a few seconds, Dick stayed quiet, simply watching Alfred. At a distance, he looked like the man the world saw: impeccable in his suit, precise in his movements, posture straight, every gesture carried with discipline and elegance.

But for Dick, there was so much more there.

Alfred wasn’t just the one who kept the mansion in order. He had been the one who held Dick’s hand on his first night after the circus. The one who had taught him how to tie a tie before those early galas, who prepared compresses for every wound Bruce pretended not to feel. The man who always knew the right word when the distance between Bruce and him had grown too wide.

Looking at Alfred now, Dick realized that maybe he, more than anyone, was the anchor holding them together.

He drew in a breath and finally broke the silence.
“Alfred…”

The name came out heavy, carrying all the hidden memories of those years.

The butler raised his eyes and offered a faint smile, his expression calm but concealing the same grief they all carried.
“Master Richard,” he replied, formal as always, though his tone was gentle. “How are you feeling today?”

Dick hesitated. He wanted to say “fine” and leave it at that, but he knew it wouldn’t be honest.
“I guess… a little calmer,” he said at last, rubbing the back of his neck—his usual gesture when words didn’t come easily. “And… I wanted to know how the preparations for Bruce’s funeral are going.”

Alfred nodded slowly, his hands pausing over the console, as if this was a conversation he had long expected.
“I’ve already begun all the necessary arrangements,” Alfred said, his voice low but steady. “I contacted the Kane family, and a few trusted allies. Everything will be handled quietly, without letting the press turn it into a spectacle.”

He paused, his eyes shifting back to the terminal as if calculating every unseen detail.
“I chose a location that is discreet, secure… but worthy. The kind of place Bruce would have tolerated, even if he would never have asked for anything for himself.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “It will be more than a funeral. It will be a moment to remember him… and to prove that what he built didn’t vanish with him.”

A chill ran down Dick’s spine. It wasn’t just about saying goodbye. Alfred was telling him, without needing to say it outright, that all eyes would also be on him. That somehow, the weight of that legacy had already been laid across his shoulders.

He nodded, crossing his arms as he looked out at the vastness of the Batcave.
“And… when do you think…?” He couldn’t bring himself to finish.

Alfred finished for him, his serenity unshaken.
“In no more than a week, everything will be ready. I’m arranging it with the discretion Bruce would have wanted… and ensuring it’s worthy of him.”

The silence stretched for a few moments before Dick finally asked, his voice quieter:
“Is there… anything I need to do?”

Alfred’s gaze softened, full of both affection and firmness.
“At the moment, no, Master Richard. Only… prepare yourself.”

Dick frowned slightly.
“Prepare… how?”

Alfred tilted his head slightly, choosing his words with care.
“Prepare yourself emotionally. Allow yourself to feel… and when the time comes, consider… if you wish to say a few words.”

For a few seconds, Dick just stood there, his mind circling endlessly.
“A speech…” he repeated softly, almost to himself, as if the word was heavier than he could carry.

He swallowed hard and pressed his hands against the edge of the command table.
“I… I don’t know if I can, Alfred.” His voice cracked, full of frustration. “What could I possibly say that would be worthy of him? How do I sum up what Batman… what Bruce… was?”

For a moment, Dick felt like the boy back at the circus again, hearing applause that meant nothing. The child Bruce had rescued, trained, shaped until he became someone who could inspire others. And now, all of that past seemed to converge on this one moment: to speak in the name of the man who had never lived for himself, but always for the mission.

Alfred stayed calm, letting him speak, until finally resting a firm hand on his shoulder.
“You don’t need to carry this alone, Master Richard,” he said softly but firmly. “I will be by your side… as I always have been.”

Dick lifted his eyes, startled by the tone. He saw not just the caretaker of the mansion, not just Bruce’s ally, but the man who had held his hand through countless nightmares when he was still just a boy.

For a moment, there were no titles, no uniforms. Just two people left behind in Bruce Wayne’s absence.

The knot in Dick’s throat tightened, but he managed a trembling smile.
“I know, Alfred… and… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Alfred dipped his head slightly, hiding the emotion stirring in his chest behind his usual composure.
“Believe me, Master Richard… I feel the same.”

Dick closed his eyes briefly, letting those words sink in.
“I just… wish he were still here,” he admitted, voice breaking though he didn’t cry.

Alfred nodded, squeezing his shoulder gently.
“So do I, Master Richard.”

For a few long seconds, they stood together in silence, a silence that spoke louder than words ever could.

At last, Dick pulled himself back together, wiping his eyes discreetly with the back of his hand and forcing a weak smile.
“Thank you… for everything, Alfred.”

The butler smiled back, wearing that classic expression of a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders but never let it show.

“Always, Master Richard.”

Dick turned then, beginning the climb up the metal stairs that led back to the mansion, his footsteps echoing softly through the cavern.

Halfway up, he stopped, glancing one last time at the place where he had trained beside Bruce countless times, where they had faced villains, planned missions… where he had grown up.

A tight knot rose in his throat, but he drew in a steady breath and kept climbing.

The day, though marked by absence, felt lighter.
At last, after days of darkness and turmoil, there was a rare, brief truce.

And Dick knew he had to hold onto that moment… before the next challenge arose.

 

---

As Dick resumed his climb up the stairs of the Batcave, Alfred remained in silence, watching him vanish into the shadows. The figure of the young man — no longer just Bruce’s “Robin,” but someone now carrying the weight of a legacy — blended into the cavern’s darkness.

For a moment, Alfred closed his eyes. This was only the beginning. The funeral would be necessary, yes, but it would not be the end of the story. Gotham still breathed above — and with it, crime, threats, and enemies that would not respect grief.

He drew in a slow breath, letting it escape as a nearly imperceptible murmur:

“The storm always returns… and we will have to face it.”

Above, the first rays of morning pierced through the heavy curtains of the mansion, casting beams of light across the corridor Dick walked. For the first time in days, he didn’t look away from the brightness. He let it guide him, even knowing deep down that the sun would soon be hidden again.

But for now… there was a rare truce.

 

—

Part 2

 

Dick walked through the quiet halls of Wayne Manor with slow but deliberate steps. Every wall, every painting, every relic carried memories—some good, others far too heavy to bear in that moment. Emerging from the hidden passage that connected the Batcave to the manor, he drew in a deep breath, letting himself feel the lighter air of the familiar space above, so different from the cold silence below.

Crossing the main hall, he paused by the glass veranda, his gaze lingering for a moment on the garden outside. The leaves barely stirred in the soft morning wind. The city beyond carried on with its routine, oblivious to the absence of one of its greatest protectors. Gotham felt… strangely calm.

Turning from the window, Dick resumed his walk toward his room. He was halfway up the stairs when he caught the sound of soft, measured footsteps ahead.

Looking up, he spotted Izuku Midoriya standing near a bookshelf, absently flipping through one of Bruce’s old volumes. The boy looked lost in thought, focused yet adrift. Dressed simply in a dark green T-shirt and black pants, his expression carried something new—maturity, carved in by hardship. Dick knew it hadn’t been there when Izuku first arrived in Gotham.

“Hey…” Dick called, offering a faint smile.

Midoriya snapped his head up, quickly closing the book like a kid caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“Ah… hi, Dick,” he replied, a little awkward, sliding the book back into place before stepping closer.

Dick stopped in front of him, arms crossing.

“You doing okay?”

Izuku nodded, though he admitted after a beat, “I think… I’m still getting used to everything. It all happened so fast…”

Dick let out a quiet sigh, a silent agreement.
“Tell me about it.”

For a few seconds, neither spoke. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—it carried something unspoken, a language built from loss, battles, and unspoken promises.

Then Dick broke it.
“I was heading to my room, but…” He hesitated, studying Izuku with a thoughtful look. “You know, there’s something I’ve been putting off for way too long.”

Midoriya tilted his head, curious.
“What is it?”

Dick rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes flicking down to the floor before meeting his again.
“We promised, remember? To evaluate you. To figure out exactly how you’ve changed… after everything that happened.”

Izuku’s eyes widened slightly, the memory surfacing of that vow made in the middle of chaos—always delayed by another mission, another emergency, another tragedy.
“That’s right…” he murmured, his hand lifting to his chin. “I… never really stopped to think about it.”

Dick nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“Neither did I. But now…” He glanced around, taking in the manor’s stillness. “For the first time in weeks, there’s no emergency. We’ve reestablished contact with the heroes still out there, and we’ve got the network to reach them if anything happens. The funerals are all that’s left—and none of those have dates yet.”

A flicker of excitement lit up Izuku’s face.
“So… now?”

Dick arched a brow, teasing.
“You got anything better to do?”

Izuku laughed softly, shaking his head.
“Not really.”

“Then let’s go,” Dick said, gesturing for him to follow. “Back to the Batcave. We’ll use the Zeta Tube. I registered us on the system during our last trip to the Watchtower. We can go anytime now.”

Izuku brightened as he fell into step behind him.
“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Dick confirmed as he opened the hidden passage leading back down into the cave.

As they descended together, Izuku asked, “So… who else did you register?”

“Everyone who was with us: Wally, Roy, Zatanna.”

Izuku’s smile widened.
“That’s great… it’ll make it easier for us to meet up again.”

Dick nodded, though his expression dimmed as the memories of yesterday returned.
“Yeah… but it also means everyone’s already going their own way. Roy and Zatanna left yesterday.”

Izuku fell silent, the weight of it settling in.
“It’s strange, isn’t it? We spent so much time together, like a team…”

“Yeah.” Dick exhaled slowly. “But I think that’s how it’s supposed to be. Everyone… processing things in their own way.”

The path back to the Batcave was lined with silence. The sound of their footsteps echoed against the marble floors of the manor, blending with the faint creak of old doors and the subtle groan of aged wood.

Dick’s fists remained tucked in the pockets of his jacket, his gaze fixed forward, leading them with the unthinking precision of someone who knew the path by heart. Midoriya trailed beside him, his eyes wandering the walls lined with portraits from another age, each frame whispering of lives now gone, though barely two weeks had passed.

Down the spiral staircase they went, each step echoing against the cold stone until the cavern opened up before them—a vast hollow carved beneath Gotham.

The Batcave spread out in silence. The glow of monitors still pulsed in shades of blue and white, stubbornly alive, but there was no longer the clatter of Bruce’s keystrokes, no sarcastic remark from Alfred offering tea, no metallic clang of weapons being tested or engines revving. Just the hum of security systems, steady, indifferent to absence.

At the foot of the stairs, Midoriya stopped, his gaze drawn upward into the vast shadows.
“It’s… so quiet,” he whispered, as though afraid to break it.

It wasn’t just the silence of stone. It was a silence that sank into the bones, the same emptiness he’d felt since that last battle with Shigaraki. The voices of the One For All users—once constant companions in his head—were gone. No whispers. No guidance. Just… nothing.

That same silence pressed down on him now, mocking him. A reminder that in this world, he was alone. No teachers. No classmates. No All Might.

Only the Batcave. Only the emptiness. Only the faint thread tying him to these few people who had decided, against reason, to accept him.

Beside him, Dick gave a small nod, as though he understood. He walked straight to the Zeta Tube console.
“Yeah,” he answered simply, his voice steady—an anchor against the emptiness.

Dick’s hands flew over the keys, his movements sharp, precise. He activated the teleporter with the confidence of someone who had done this countless times. At just thirteen, his command of the systems made it seem like he had been born to sit in that chair—to bear that weight.

Midoriya watched in silence, caught between admiration and unease. Dick always seemed in control, even when the world collapsed around them. His steady gaze, his squared shoulders, his unshakable demeanor—it all radiated a discipline Izuku wasn’t sure he possessed.

He lowered his eyes to his fists, clenched and unclenched in nervous rhythm. These were the hands that had fought Shigaraki, the hands that once carried the blazing power of One For All. Now they just felt… empty.

Strange. Younger than him, Dick bore the weight of an entire legacy with a calm Izuku could only envy. And here he was, a stranger from another world, unsure if he still had the power that had once defined him.

Every keystroke from Dick seemed to declare: I know exactly who I am.
And every breath from Izuku seemed to whisper back: I’m still trying to find out.

“Wally… Roy… Zatanna… they’ve all gone home.”

Izuku’s eyes lifted to the cavern ceiling, where bats drifted silently in the shadows, oblivious to the hollow ache below.
“For the funerals…” he murmured.

Dick paused at the console, his back still turned.
“Yeah. Barry’s, Ollie’s… and Zatara’s.”

The weight of those names hung between them, heavy as stone.

Izuku stepped closer, standing beside him, eyes on the glowing panel. The Zeta Tube was live, ready to carry them to the Watchtower.
“It feels… like a different world now,” he said at last.

Dick let out a short sigh, almost a laugh without joy.

“Because it is.”

Midoriya turned his face toward him, as if seeking confirmation that he wasn’t alone in that strange sensation—that feeling that everything, absolutely everything, had changed.

But Dick kept his eyes locked on the screen, gaze far too hardened for someone his age.

He looked away, pressing a final command.

“Now it’s just us.”

Midoriya didn’t know what to say.

He let his eyes wander over the stone walls around them, over the metallic echo of their footsteps, over the cold, damp smell that seemed to cling to everything. None of it reminded him of home in Musutafu. None of it reminded him of the warmth of that tiny apartment where his mother always waited, with a nervous smile and trembling hands.

His chest tightened. It had been three weeks since he’d arrived in this world, and for the first time, he allowed himself to wonder: did Inko Midoriya exist here? Was there, somewhere on this devastated Earth, a woman crying for a son who would never come home?

The thought crushed him from the inside out.

The Batcave’s cold lights reflected in his eyes like a cruel reminder: he had no place to return to. There was no U.A., no classmates, no mother. Only this strange place, built of steel and silence, and these people who, though nearly strangers, had decided to accept him.

For a moment, Midoriya felt the weight of emptiness heavier than the One For All itself.

Izuku lowered his gaze to his own hands, slowly clenching and unclenching his fists, as though he no longer recognized his own fingers.

Three weeks.

Three weeks since he’d been torn from his world and thrown into this nightmare.

Three weeks since, in that final battle, the vestiges of the former One For All users had burned away the essence of All For One, sacrificing themselves to end the threat once and for all.

Since then… he hadn’t spoken to them again.

No more meetings in that vast black plane where the past users once waited.

He could no longer reach the core of One For All, could no longer feel the familiar presence of the quirks he had inherited.

He placed his hand over his chest, clutching his fist tight against his heart, as if he could reach that place, as if he could find those echoes of power again…

But there was nothing.

Only silence.

Was One For All still the same? Or had it been left behind in the world he lost?

And him… was he still the same hero?

Dick’s voice broke through the spiral of silent thoughts:

“Shall we?”

Midoriya lifted his head and nodded, unable to hide the tension stiffening his shoulders.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

Dick set a hand on his shoulder, giving a firm squeeze—a silent gesture that said, we’re in this together.

And then, without another word, he activated the command.

“Authorization granted. Transport initialized.”

The blue beam of light engulfed them, and in a second, the Batcave was gone—replaced by the familiar hum of teleportation and the strange sensation of a body being torn apart and reassembled across space.

When the sensors shut down and the glow faded, they stood on the metallic platform of the Watchtower, the Earth curving below in a sweep of blue and white through the immense observation windows.

Midoriya stepped forward, lifting his gaze to that vast, eternal sight.

“It still feels… unreal,” he whispered, feeling the emptiness left by the absent heroes echo through the colossal halls.

Dick didn’t answer. He simply started walking, his footsteps echoing against the cold metal of the corridors.

Midoriya followed, passing through empty rooms and hallways that once buzzed with life. Now, only the hum of automated systems remained, carrying on as always, indifferent to the absence of those who once commanded them.

Soon they reached the Main Training Chamber.

The door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a vast space clad in reinforced alloys, multiple holographic panels, and advanced simulation modules.

Dick went straight to the console, activating the systems with the practiced precision of someone who had done this hundreds of times.

Lights came to life in sequence, and a floating hologram bloomed in the center, displaying training parameters.

“It’s going to be a full assessment,” Dick explained, fingers flying across the commands. “Strength, speed, endurance, energy output… and also a biological scan.”

Midoriya nodded, drawing in a slow breath as tension tightened in his chest.

Dick glanced sideways at him, softening his expression.

“We just want to know where you stand now, Izuku.”

Midoriya clenched his fist at his side and replied with a small but sincere smile:

“Alright. I’m ready.”

Dick smiled back, and with a gesture, activated the first module.

The lights shifted, systems calibrating, as the Watchtower—silent, monumental—stood witness to the beginning of a hero’s evaluation.

A hero still searching to understand who he truly was.

—

Part 3

 

The hum of systems powering on filled the vast metallic chamber as cold lights traced the perimeter of the training arena. Midoriya drew in a steady breath, his eyes roaming over the countless high-tech devices—some familiar from stories he’d heard about this world, others completely alien.

“Alright, Izuku.” Dick smiled, resting his hands on his hips as he activated the holographic panel in front of him. “Let’s start with the basics: strength, endurance, and reaction speed.”

Midoriya nodded, curling his fists lightly, feeling that familiar warmth gathering in his muscles but resisting the urge to call on One For All. Not yet.

Dick walked over to one of the walls and pressed a button. A metallic thunder echoed as a massive hydraulic press descended from the ceiling, its reinforced arms resembling construction machinery—but far more advanced. A polished plate at the top read: “Training System — Superman/Wonder Woman.”

“Seriously?” Midoriya’s eyes widened as he took an involuntary step back. “That’s… their equipment?”

Dick smirked.

“Yeah. Whenever they needed to push themselves—or take it light in Superman’s case—this was the setup. Don’t worry, I already adjusted the parameters to measure properly. I just want you to push this bar as hard as you can. No One For All, got it?”

Midoriya exhaled deeply, gripping the cold steel bar. The chill seeped into his skin, sending a shiver down his arms. He braced his legs and pushed.

The machine groaned, gears whirring as the simulated weight increased in increments: 100 tons… 500… 1,000… 5,000.
Izuku’s muscles responded with a smoothness he had never known before. No pain. No risk of bones shattering. Just… raw strength.

Numbers streamed across the holographic screen in front of Dick. He typed rapid adjustments, calibrating the limits as his sharp eyes tracked every shift.

“Keep going, Izuku.” His voice was calm, but focused.

The weight climbed: 10,000… 20,000… 40,000… 50,000…

Midoriya blew air through clenched teeth, sweat dampening his brow, but he showed no real strain. Finally, the display beeped, flashing red: “Safe Limit Reached: 100,000 tons.” Dick raised his hand.

“That’s enough. We don’t need to push it further today.”

Izuku let go of the bar as if it had burned him. He stared down at his hands, stunned.
“One hundred… thousand tons?” His voice shook. “That doesn’t… that doesn’t make sense.”

Arms crossed, Dick’s mouth curved in a half-smile.
“Not to you. But by our standards… it’s terrifying.” He tapped the panel. “For comparison: Superman wouldn’t even break a sweat doing that. But you, Izuku… you just stepped into League heavy-hitter territory.”

A chill ran down Midoriya’s spine.
“Back in my world… trying that would have shattered every bone in my body.”

“Exactly.” Dick raised an eyebrow, almost teasing. “And now, if you’re not careful, you’ll end up breaking the machine instead.”

Midoriya laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, though his wide eyes betrayed his disbelief.

Dick guided him across the training floor to a track lined with glowing blue sensors. A panel overhead read: “Speed System — Adjustable.”

“Barry used this to warm up before the real races,” Dick explained, inputting commands. “I set it to human levels… and a little beyond. Let’s see where you land.”

Midoriya stepped into position at the starting line, drawing a steady breath. His fingers trembled faintly. Since waking in this world, he hadn’t really tested how fast he could move without tapping into One For All.

“Ready?” Dick asked.

“Ready.” Izuku’s reply was steady.

“Then go.”

The signal beeped—and Midoriya exploded forward.

Within the first second, he had already passed 100 km/h. The sensors tracked in real time: 200… 300… 400 km/h.
His body stayed relaxed, the wind slicing across his face. No pain, no desperate strain.

Faster: 500… 600 km/h. The world blurred.

At 1,000 km/h, the air shattered around him with a deafening crack. A vapor cone flared for a heartbeat before vanishing—he had broken the sound barrier.

Dick’s eyes widened, and he let out a low whistle.
“Impressive…”

Izuku finally slowed, pulling back to the line, chest rising with steady breaths. He was sweaty, yes—but not winded. More than that, he was stunned.

“That… that can’t be right,” he muttered, staring at the numbers. “I… I broke the sound barrier… and I didn’t even use One For All.”

“Welcome to your new body, Izuku.”

Midoriya bowed his head, struggling to process.
“In my world… running like that without power would have torn my legs to pieces.”

“And here, you just proved you can handle it.” Dick clapped him on the shoulder. “And this is only the beginning.”

Izuku’s lips tugged into a small, awed smile.
“I guess… my body’s adapted more than I thought.”

“Yeah. Looks like it has.”

After the sprint, Dick led him into a smaller chamber within the training hall. The walls and ceiling bristled with embedded sensors. A circular mark glowed in the center of the floor.

“Now for reflexes,” Dick said, firing up a side console. “Bruce always said it didn’t matter how strong or fast you were if you couldn’t react in time.”

Midoriya stepped onto the circle, steadying his stance.
“Alright… what do I do?”

With a quick command, a cylindrical device descended from the ceiling, its surface dotted with multiple ports.

“This system launches impact rounds,” Dick explained with a raised eyebrow. “Non-lethal—but I don’t recommend taking too many hits.”

Before Izuku could respond, a sharp beep sounded. In the next instant, a sphere shot straight at him.

His hand snapped up instinctively, catching it mid-air.

Another fired. Then another. One from the left, two from the right, another from above. Izuku’s body moved on its own, twisting, leaping, snatching projectiles before they hit the ground.

Dick tracked everything from the console, his eyes wide.
“Incredible… your reaction rate’s way beyond any normal human.”

Midoriya pressed on, panting but focused. The system accelerated, barraging him with rapid-fire rounds. He moved like he was already in combat—dodging, blocking, intercepting without hesitation, as if every muscle had been sharpened for this.

Finally, the device wound down with a dull chime. Metallic spheres clattered across the floor while Izuku stood tall in the circle, shoulders rising and falling.

He looked down at his hands, still trembling slightly.
“I… I’ve never reacted that fast before. Not even with One For All.”

Dick closed the panel and stepped closer, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“Then I think the assessment makes it pretty clear—you’ve changed. A lot.”

Izuku took a deep breath, trying to process it.
“That’s… scary.”

Dick shrugged, folding his arms.
“Scary? Maybe. Useful? Definitely.”

They moved back to the main training hall, where Dick had Midoriya run through a series of jumps and strength exercises. Vertical leaps that cleared a hundred meters with ease. Weightlifting that could have crushed a truck. Short sprints so fast the metal flooring warped under his steps. Each reading pushed far beyond not only human standards, but even most metahuman benchmarks.

Finally, Dick leaned against one of the consoles, arms crossed and a grin spreading across his face.
“Well… officially, I’d say you’re brushing up against Kryptonian levels.”

Midoriya frowned.
“Kryptonian?”

“Oh, right…” Dick shook his head, remembering Izuku was still piecing this world together. “Let’s just say… you’re nearly at the level of a god.”

Midoriya’s eyes widened, shocked, before a nervous laugh escaped as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“That’s… terrifying.”

“Yeah,” Dick agreed, his smile softening. “But now comes the interesting part.”

He walked back toward the center of the room and gestured for Midoriya to join him. When the boy stepped into position, Dick activated a new panel, and a circle of hovering sensors whirred to life around them, glowing with blue light.

The training chamber still hummed with echoes from the last speed test. Midoriya was breathing a little harder now, wiping sweat from his forehead, while Dick adjusted the sensors with practiced precision.

“Okay, Izuku…” Dick’s tone shifted, serious now, his arms folding as he fixed his gaze on him. “We’ve seen what your body can do. But… before we push into your powers, I need to understand something.”

Midoriya blinked, confused.
“Understand… what?”

“One For All,” Dick said plainly. “How it works, where it came from, who carried it before you. You keep talking like it’s not just some power, but a legacy. If we’re going to measure this right, I need you to lay it all out.”

Midoriya hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. Then he nodded.
“Alright… you’re right.”

He stepped forward into the center of the room, drawing a steadying breath.

“One For All wasn’t born like a normal Quirk. In my world, there was a man—a villain—called All For One. He could steal Quirks from people and give them to others.” Midoriya paused, the weight of the memory heavy in his voice. “He tried to give a ‘stockpiling’ Quirk to his younger brother… but his brother already had a hidden ability: the power to pass a Quirk on. The two merged, and that’s how One For All was born.”

Dick listened in silence, eyes sharp and focused.

“That power was passed down, carrier to carrier, growing stronger each time, building up energy and memory. I’m the ninth. Before me, eight others wielded One For All… each leaving something behind.”

Midoriya raised his hand, faint threads of energy sparking across his fingers.

“At first, I thought it was just strength. But over time, I learned I’d inherited the Quirks of the other users too. Blackwhip, from the fifth. Danger Sense, from the fourth. Smokescreen, from the sixth. Float, from the seventh…” He smiled faintly, almost reverently. “And Gearshift, from the second.”

Dick let out a low whistle.
“So you’re carrying… all of them?”

“Yes,” Midoriya said with a solemn nod. “Each one had a voice, a presence. They guided me, taught me… right up until the final battle. But when I got here…” His expression darkened. “The voices went silent.”

Dick narrowed his eyes.
“But the powers are still there.”

“They are,” Izuku confirmed, voice steady. “But now… it’s just me.”

For a few seconds, silence hung heavy between them. Dick processed the words, like he was piecing together a puzzle.

“So let me get this straight…” he said, ticking off points with his finger. “One For All was born from two fused powers. Passed down through eight predecessors. Each left their strength and abilities behind. And now… you’re the last one.”

Midoriya drew a deep breath and nodded.
“The last.”

Dick exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
“Well… nothing like running tests on a teenager who basically has a living nuke inside him.”

Midoriya chuckled awkwardly, but the sound faded quickly, leaving only the steel in his eyes.

“I don’t want this to be a bomb, Dick. I want it to be a flame. Something that protects this world… the way it did mine.”

Dick studied him for a long moment before allowing a small, genuine smile.
“Then let’s find out together how far that flame can go.”

He turned back to the panel, fingers flying across the controls.
“Time to see what each Quirk can do in your new body.”

 

—

Part 4: Gearshift and Fa Jin

 

The space seemed to bend inward around the Watchtower’s training arena, a colossal chamber of reinforced steel, shifting platforms, and towers of sensors spread across every corner. Through the curved walls, panoramic windows framed the silent expanse of the blue planet below, spinning lazily as though Earth were nothing more than a living model.

The heavy clang of the doors echoed as they sealed shut, reverberating across the floor like a metallic heartbeat. Dick tapped a control on the panel, and a sequence of white lights flickered to life along the domed ceiling, activating the security grid.

He turned to Midoriya, who stood at the center of the arena, breathing steady, his dark-green suit aligned, emerald eyes steady with focus.

“Ready?” Dick asked, one brow arched, his tone casual.

Midoriya nodded, a spark of anticipation in his eyes. They had spent the entire morning testing his physical limits—strength, endurance, reflexes—and the results had been nothing short of staggering. But now… it was time to go further.

Dick pulled up the holographic tablet and initiated the next sequence of tests.

As he watched Midoriya prepare, the Watchtower’s systems streaming data in real-time, he voiced the question that had been gnawing at him since the start.

“Izuku… back in your world—could you use the quirks of the previous holders without activating One For All fully?”

Midoriya froze, blinking in surprise. The answer had always been the same.

“No…” he shook his head, still catching his breath. “I always had to activate One For All first. Without it… nothing.”

Dick crossed his arms, thoughtful, brow raised.

“Then let’s test it. Try Gearshift. Just that. No One For All.”

Midoriya swallowed, frowning.
“I don’t know if that’ll even work…”

“Only one way to find out.” Dick’s half-smile was firm.

Midoriya exhaled deeply, closing his eyes. He had always started with One For All, letting the energy surge through his body before reaching for the others. Now… he would go straight to the source.

He extended his hand, focusing on Gearshift—and to his shock, the response was immediate.

The air cracked as his arm snapped forward in a punch so fast it detonated with a sharp, sonic clap. The shockwave rattled the arena, the readings on Dick’s display flashing red.

“It worked…” Midoriya muttered in disbelief, staring at his fist. “I triggered Gearshift… without One For All.”

Dick let out a low whistle.
“So it’s not just you that’s changed… it’s the way One For All is bound to you.”

Still trying to process it, Midoriya barely reacted before Dick gestured to the arena.
“Alright. Let’s see how far this goes.”

Midoriya bent his knees, inhaled—and then vanished in a blur. His body moved like it had been freed from invisible chains. He streaked across the chamber in a green flash, reappearing at the far end almost instantly.

The monitor flared: Mach 5… Mach 10… Mach 15… Mach 20.

He skidded to a halt, sliding across the steel floor, shoulders rising and falling.

“I didn’t even have to shift gears…” he said, stunned. “Before, I had to climb from first through fifth. Now it’s like… there’s only accelerate.”

Dick studied the data, then the boy himself.
“You didn’t just break your limits. You broke the rules of your quirk.”

Midoriya opened and closed his fists. The sensation was sharper, cleaner, more direct.

“Gearshift… changed.”

Dick smirked, folding his arms.
“Changed you… or did you change it?”

Izuku didn’t answer. But one thing was certain: this wasn’t the power he had inherited. It was something new. Something only he could wield now.

“You’re fast,” Dick said with a sideways grin. “But… still not Barry.”

Midoriya chuckled, shaking his head, the tension easing from his shoulders. Sweat dripped down his temple, but excitement gleamed in his eyes.

“I don’t want to be,” he admitted. “I just need to be the best me.”

“Good answer.” Dick tapped at the controls. “Gearshift’s solid. Supersonic, but not stellar. You’re nowhere near light speed, but for a kid who used to shatter his bones just trying… this is more than enough.”

Midoriya smiled faintly, pride settling into his stance.

Dick’s gaze hardened.
“Now, let’s see if the others work the same way.”

Izuku’s heartbeat spiked at the thought.
“You mean… try to trigger another quirk without One For All?”

“Exactly. Pick one.”

He hesitated for a moment—then instinct took over.
“Fa Jin.”

Dick raised a brow.
“Good choice. Let’s see if you can stockpile energy without the full boost.”

Midoriya inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. Fa Jin—the art of building kinetic energy and releasing it in explosive bursts. It wasn’t just strength. It was rhythm. Timing. Instinct.

He began to move.

Slow steps. Forward, back. Shoulders rolling, arms shifting. Every motion wound an invisible spring inside his muscles.

And then—he felt it.
The pressure mounting.
The body begging to release.

His eyes widened.
“It’s working…” he whispered.

With a sharp shout, he launched forward.

His body detonated like a cannon shot, feet gouging deep into the steel. In a single leap, he tore across fifty meters, threading between two columns like a missile, landing on one knee at the far end.

The impact shook the arena.

Dick blinked at the readouts.
“…Okay. That was strong.”

Midoriya straightened quickly, his legs vibrating with potential. He sprinted again, winding more power, then spun and vaulted skyward. He soared through three levels of platforms, climbing like a rocket until his hands clamped onto a suspended girder.

Elapsed time: under a second.

Another whistle from Dick.
“Cross-arena leaps and vertical bursts… impressive. But still shy of orbital.”

Midoriya dropped down lightly in front of him.
“Good enough?” he asked, breathless but grinning.

Dick laughed, closing the tablet for a moment.
“More than. Your charge-and-release cycle is near your body’s limit already—and you didn’t crater the entire floor, just a few platforms. You’re learning control.”

Izuku glanced back sheepishly at the deep grooves torn into the reinforced steel.
“…Sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” Dick said with a pat on his shoulder. “The Watchtower’s survived worse.”

They both laughed, the tension easing just slightly. For a moment, the cold, sterile chamber felt a little more human.

Then Dick stepped back, triggering the next program. Machinery stirred beneath the floor, rising structures shifting into place, lights casting long shadows across the arena.

He turned with that same mix of challenge and admiration in his eyes.

“Alright… warm-up’s over. Time to see how you handle the rest.”

Midoriya’s heart thundered—not from strain, but from anticipation.

The real test had only just begun.

—

Part 5: Danger Sense and Blackwhip

 

The training chamber hummed softly as the new configurations locked into place. Retractable towers rose from the floor, mechanical arms unfolding like metallic serpents, each one equipped with cannons, blades, and precision-attack devices.

Dick stepped back to the edge of the arena, leaning casually against a railing, tablet in hand.
“Ready, Izuku?” he asked, activating the simulation with a quick tap.

Midoriya rolled his shoulders and drew a deep breath. His muscles still carried the lingering heat of Fa Jin, but this test would be different. This wasn’t about strength—it was about instinct.

The lights flashed red, and within a heartbeat, the mechanical arms fired—bursts of energy, retractable blades, homing darts.

But before anything could land, the world slowed.

Midoriya knew the sensation, but this time it was sharper, clearer. The tingling at the base of his skull wasn’t just a vague alarm—it was as if a flood of data had been dumped straight into his mind.

“Technological threat detected. Level 2. Right, 35 degrees.”

He moved before even looking, sidestepping the energy bolt that cut through the air.

Another pulse shot down his spine, followed instantly by more information:
“Mechanical threat. Retractable blade. Level 1. Above, 87 degrees.”

He rolled to the side just as the blade slammed down, gouging the floor.

From his vantage point, Dick narrowed his eyes. Midoriya wasn’t just reacting—he was anticipating, moving as though guided by an invisible map of every threat in the room.

Two more alerts flared at once, overlapping in his head:
“Chemical projectile. Level 3. Left, 10 degrees.”
“Energy burst. Level 2. Front, 15 degrees.”

Midoriya leapt forward, swatting the dart away with his forearm before twisting midair to avoid the blast. The impact flared behind him, painting the arena in harsh light.

Breathless but exhilarated, he let a grin slip.
“It’s not just… a warning anymore,” he murmured, ducking another strike. “Now it tells me what it is, how strong it is… and where it’s coming from!”

Dick scanned the data feed, eyebrows shooting up.
“You’re… cataloging attacks in real time?”

“Yes!” Izuku shouted, twisting away from another blade. “It’s not just instinct—it’s like… a radar in my head!”

Then the Danger Sense screamed:
“Concentrated energy burst. Level 2. Behind. 180 degrees.”

Without hesitation, Midoriya spun midair, Blackwhip bursting from his arm in a crack of energy to block the shot. The blast ricocheted into the reinforced wall, while he landed smoothly on his feet.

Panting lightly, eyes shining, he whispered, “I think… Danger Sense evolved too.”

Dick shook his head in disbelief, his expression part shock, part admiration.
“Izuku… you’re operating on a level that only top-tier defensive metas can reach. This—” he gestured at the still-bristling turrets and towers—“this is elite-tier reaction speed. Even if these were trained human snipers, you would’ve dodged every one of them.”

Izuku rubbed the back of his neck, flustered.
“Yeah… I guess I’m starting to trust my body more.”

Dick shut down the panel with a flick, then waved a hand toward him.
“Alright, kid… time to play with ropes.”

Midoriya drew a steady breath and raised his hand. Energy crackled, dark and blue, snapping into existence as whips of raw force uncoiled from his arms, writhing like living chains.

But these weren’t chaotic lashes anymore.
No—there was control now.

He felt it instantly. Each strand pulsed like an extension of his own muscles, waiting for direction.

He opened his palm, and one whip solidified—rigid as steel. It speared straight through a lightweight metal platform with a deafening crunch. With his other arm, he let the energy go liquid, fluid, spreading across the floor like a living shadow. It slithered up a nearby pillar, wrapping tight before yanking it forward with startling force.

Dick’s eyes widened.
“You’re not just controlling them… you’re shaping them,” he said, amazed. “Before, you could only keep basic whips going. Now… you’re toggling between solid and fluid in real time.”

Izuku nodded, eyes gleaming with excitement.
“It’s like… I get to choose what they are. They feel like part of me now.”

Testing further, he sprouted two extra arms of Blackwhip from his back, mimicking his movements with uncanny precision. With a flick of thought, he dissolved them, then formed a curved barrier in front of himself just as Dick triggered another test blast. The shield shuddered but held firm, dispersing the energy harmlessly.

Izuku’s grin widened.
“It’s like Blackwhip finally stabilized. The more I trust it, the faster it responds.”

Dick chuckled, folding his arms.
“You’re starting to look like a Green Lantern without a ring.”

Izuku laughed briefly, then focused again. He spun out multiple strands, weaving them into a three-dimensional web around himself. With a swing, he vaulted upward, anchoring to a point above, twisting midair to spin into a cocoon-like sphere before dropping lightly back to the ground.

The moment he touched down, he dismissed it all with a thought. The whips disintegrated into glowing blue sparks, leaving silence behind.

He stood there, chest rising and falling, eyes bright with revelation.
“Before, I could barely control it… now it feels like I unlocked a new instinct.”

“Exactly,” Dick agreed, stowing the tablet. “It’s like a muscle. The more you trust it, the more it answers. Before Blackwhip was just raw instinct—now it’s turning into creativity.”

Izuku flexed his hands, still buzzing with residual energy.
“Feels like playing with a new toy,” he admitted, chuckling.

Dick laughed.
“A toy that can level buildings… but yeah, pretty much.”

For a moment, the arena didn’t feel like a cold, sterile chamber in orbit. It felt like two teens messing around in a backyard, testing limits, forgetting the scale of what they were really doing—tapping into one of the most powerful quirks on Earth, with the whole planet hanging silently beneath their feet.

Then Dick keyed in the next program.
“Next test initiated,” the system intoned, lights shifting across the arena.

Dick shot Izuku a knowing grin.
“Ready to vanish?”

Izuku rolled his shoulders, neck cracking as he loosened up.
“Always.”

--

Part 6: Smokescreen and Float

 

The lights of the training arena shifted again, now glowing with a soft bluish hue, as if announcing the start of a magic trick.
Dick twirled the holographic tablet in his hand, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Alright, the stage is all yours… Houdini.”

Midoriya drew a deep breath and, with a subtle flick of his fingers, activated Smokescreen.

At once, thick clouds of pale gray mist began pouring from his body. It started as a thin veil, then thickened, swallowing the arena’s center whole. The haze spiraled and churned, alive, until in seconds it devoured Midoriya’s entire figure.

Dick stepped closer, stopping a few meters from the edge of the fog, watching carefully.

The haze swallowed the center of the arena — to Dick, a wall of gray; to Midoriya, a living map.

The moment Smokescreen expanded, Danger Sense stopped being a vague alarm and became language. Clear signals flared across his mind, layered and precise:

> [Technological | Level 3 | 2 o’clock] — retractable turret arming a dart.
[Mechanical | Level 4 | 11 o’clock] — descending blade adjusting its course.
[Human | Level 0 | 5 o’clock] — Dick, non-hostile presence.

 

It wasn’t just “danger, beware.” It was what, where, and how severe. Every ping brought exact direction, intensity, and nature.

Midoriya adjusted his breathing, stepped forward, and thinned the smoke in a narrow frontal strip, letting it flow like a light curtain. To the left, he thickened the fog, dragging it into a swirl — a decoy phantom sprinting across that flank.

> [Technological | Level 3 | 2 → 1 o’clock] — dart fired.
[Mechanical | Level 4 | 11 o’clock] — blade descending.

 

He simply leaned his torso. The dart sliced past. Half a twist, and the blade cut only empty air where he’d been a heartbeat earlier. The smoke carried two false silhouettes — one at the right edge, another just a dense trail on the left. Dick bit the bait, his gaze snapping to the first “movement.”

Midoriya already had a clear path behind him. Danger Sense confirmed:

> [Human | Level 0 | 5 → 6 o’clock] — Dick, no hostile intent.

 

He slipped out of the fog like a whisper and stopped just meters away.

“Boo,” he said, stifling a laugh.

Dick jolted, then cracked a grin, still scanning the dissolving haze.
“Damn it, Izuku! You made me look the wrong way.”

The smoke collapsed into lazy spirals as Midoriya deactivated Smokescreen. He flexed his fingers, stunned by the new precision.

“Before, it was just a tingle… now I know where, what, and how dangerous it is,” he explained, excitement bright in his voice. “I can even modulate the smoke to create false trails.”

Dick gave a low whistle, glancing at the data logs.
“Okay… that’s the kind of skill that’ll drive enemies paranoid. Practical invisibility, full cover, confusion… and you move through it like it’s your home turf. Can you control the range?”

Midoriya thought for a moment, then held out his palm.
“I think so… depends on how much energy I channel. Here, I barely used any, but—” He exhaled a quick burst, releasing a cloud thick enough to hide half his body, then scattered it with a wave. “—looks like I can regulate it.”

“Fine control,” Dick nodded, impressed. “Very good.”

Midoriya grinned, satisfied, then cleared his throat like an actor preparing for the next scene.
“Alright… time to float?”

Dick’s smirk widened. He gestured toward the towering arena ceiling.
“Let’s see Peter Pan in action.”

Midoriya inhaled, focusing. The air around him shimmered, and then… weight vanished. His feet drifted off the floor, rising smoothly. He expected only to hover — just a few meters like always.

But this was different.

It wasn’t just lightness. It wasn’t gravity releasing him. It was a constant force, steady and unwavering, holding him firm, as if the world itself had decided he no longer had to fall.

Midoriya leaned forward slightly… and the air obeyed. His body slid forward, smooth as silk.

No arm smashes.
No kicks for propulsion.
No One For All burst.

Just thought. And he moved.

“What…?” he muttered, eyes wide.

Dick looked up from the panel, watching with sharp interest.
“Keep going, Izuku. Higher.”

Midoriya obeyed. He shot upward in a straight line, faster than ever before. In seconds, he was dozens of meters up, heart racing — not from effort, but exhilaration.

He twisted in the air, tested turns. Left. Right. The body followed like precision machinery, as if space itself had become an extension of his will.

“I… I can… fly!” he shouted, laughing in disbelief.

Dick crossed his arms, smiling wide.
“Welcome to the club of people who don’t need stairs.”

Midoriya flipped upside down, laughing again, before righting himself. The sensation was too natural, too free, like he’d been born for it.

“Try accelerating,” Dick called, activating more sensors.

Midoriya braced, then leaned forward — and blasted off.

A thunderclap rattled the arena as he shattered the sound barrier, leaving rippling shockwaves in his wake. Dick’s monitors flashed warnings:

“Mach 1… Mach 2…”

Midoriya pressed harder, the air warping around him. In under fifteen seconds, the numbers blazed yellow:

“Mach 4 achieved. Stabilizing.”

He slowed, landing as if stepping off a stair. Gravity reclaimed him gently. His chest heaved, his eyes wide, a stunned grin stretching his face.

“Before… I only floated,” he whispered, breathless. “Now… I can fly. As fast as a fighter jet…”

Dick’s smile softened, but his tone was serious.
“Flying changes everything, Izuku. Own the sky, and you own the fight. You can reach any enemy… or any ally who needs you.”

Midoriya glanced toward the arena ceiling, still buzzing from the speed humming in his body. For a heartbeat, he pictured combining Float with Gearshift — soaring beyond anyone’s comprehension — or weaving Blackwhip into impossible maneuvers, a living fighter jet dancing in combat.

He said nothing. But the grin spreading on his face said enough.

“I think… I could get used to this,” he admitted, adjusting his uniform, still half in disbelief.

Dick clapped his shoulder.
“Oh, you will.”

He returned to the console, fingers flying.
“Only one left.”

Midoriya arched a brow.
“The dangerous one, right?”

Dick glanced back, the smirk of challenge unmistakable.
“Exactly.”

The arena rumbled, walls splitting open to reveal new mechanisms and traps. The amber glow deepened, bathing the chamber in a warlike hue.

Midoriya steadied his breathing, his stance tightening as the room shifted into a battlefield.

The real test was about to begin.

--

Part 7: One For All

 

The arena fell silent in a way that was different this time—not the idle hum of machines, but the hush of someone holding their breath before a leap. Midoriya walked to the center and stopped, not in a fighting stance, but slowly kneeling, his hands resting on his thighs.

“I don’t want to break anything today,” he said, without looking back. “I just want to try and feel it again.”

Dick stepped back a few paces, setting the tablet down on a stand, simply watching.

“Go ahead. I’m here.”

Izuku closed his eyes. He drew in a deep breath, counting silently. One, two, three… He let One For All ignite without rushing: filaments of green-gold light traced across his skin, pulsing like veins beneath the surface. The deep vibration of the Watchtower’s systems seemed to fade away, the cold steel beneath his knees vanishing until it felt like nothing but a memory.

The world receded—first the sounds, then the weight—until all that remained was a warm glow in his chest, a coal burning in the dark, calling to him.

Izuku followed the ember.

The warmth spread until it consumed everything, and suddenly the floor beneath his knees wasn’t metal anymore. Midoriya opened his eyes and found himself in a vast, undefined space, wrapped in soft white mist—not cold, but still… too quiet.

Before him rose a colossal circular table, forged from translucent material that pulsed with an inner light. Around it stood eight thrones of stone, aligned like eternal sentinels.

And in each one sat a former wielder of One For All.

But they did not speak. They did not move. They did not breathe.

The figures were flawless statues of pale stone, frozen in expressions of resolve, calm, or fury, each captured as if about to utter one last word. Familiarity struck him like a blow: he knew every face, every line, every detail—yet none of their eyes followed him anymore.

His gaze traced each of them, his heart pounding heavily:

The First, Yoichi—frail, kind, seated with his hands clasped as though still pleading for a better future.

The Second—rigid, imposing, his jaw set in eternal defiance, the one who had always believed in victory against the impossible.

Beside him, the Third, arms crossed, locked in stern determination, as if still ready to scold Midoriya for any weakness.

Further down, the lean figure of the Fourth, Shinomori, eyes closed in serenity, though his posture carried the weight of the curse that had broken him.

The Fifth, Banjo, bearer of Blackwhip—his grin forever etched, as though he were about to make a joke that would never be finished.

Next, the Sixth, En, firm and youthful, a flicker of energy frozen before it could ever fade.

Then came the grave presence of the Seventh, Nana Shimura, still regal, still upright, still the hero who gave everything. Her short hair carved in stone like a crown of wind.

And last, the Eighth: Toshinori Yagi—All Might. Even as a statue, the Symbol of Peace radiated strength. His broad smile, frozen in time, seemed to want to reassure him still: there was hope.

Midoriya’s fists clenched. He remembered each of them. Every conversation, every warning, every sacrifice.

But now… they were only petrified memories.

At the center of the table blazed a colossal white flame, pure and intense, the heart of it all. With every pulse, the entire space vibrated—and instinctively, Midoriya knew: this was the core of One For All.

One throne remained empty, its seat turned toward him.

Izuku’s throat tightened.

“This… is my place…” he whispered, his voice swallowed by the vast echo.

He stood before the empty throne for long seconds, his heartbeat thunderous in his chest. The white flame pulsed in steady intervals, like a heart—no one’s heart, not his, not another’s, but all of theirs together.

He reached out, hesitant, his fingers trembling as they hovered above the vacant seat. A chill ran down his spine.

There were no more voices.
No more whispers.

That silence… was not temporary.

At last, he understood.

The former bearers were no longer there to guide him. Their bodies, their souls, their essence had burned away in the final battle against All For One. The sacrifice that had freed the world had consumed them completely.

All that remained were these statues—testimonies of lives devoted, etched into the eternity of One For All. Crystallized memories, but unable to move, to speak, to comfort.

Izuku pressed his hand against his chest, as if to steady the crushing weight pressing down on him.

“So… it’s true…” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I really am… alone.”

His eyes scanned each frozen face: Yoichi, the beginning of it all; the Second and Third, who had never stopped fighting; Shinomori, who bore the burden until he shattered; Banjo, En, Nana, Toshinori… all of them.

They had given everything.
And now, their legacy rested entirely in his hands.

The white flame surged higher, as though in answer. Its light washed over the chamber, casting his shadow across the empty throne.

Midoriya swallowed hard, the knot in his throat burning. He dropped to his knees before the table, fists pressed against the translucent floor.

“I promise…” he rasped, his voice raw. “I’ll carry this. I’ll carry you.”

Tears stung his eyes, but he did not cry. Instead, he breathed deeply, letting the warmth of the flame pass through him.

And in that moment, he finally understood.

One For All was no longer a chorus.
It was him.

No more voices.
Just his.

As lonely as it was, there was a strange clarity in it. For the first time since inheriting the quirk, Midoriya felt like he was no longer a guest in the legacy of others… but its final heir.

He rose slowly, his gaze steady on the flame.

“I don’t have a legacy like theirs… but I can carry theirs forward.” His whisper became a vow.

And the flame flickered, as if it had heard.

---

Part 8

 

The metallic echoes of shattered debris still reverberated across the silent training arena as Midoriya leaned against one of the twisted columns, his eyes fixed on his own hand.

The circuits of energy had faded, yet the echo of that force still pulsed beneath his skin, throbbing like the invisible weight of a crown.

Dick paced slowly through the wreckage, his gaze following the deep scars carved by every punch, every leap. Finally, he stopped at Midoriya’s side, crossing his arms with an impressed sigh.

“So…” he began, his tone caught somewhere between clinical and conspiratorial, “let’s break it down: raw strength…”

He glanced up at the towering ceiling of the arena, as if mentally doing the math.

“Without One For All, you hit one million tons.” He let out a short, incredulous laugh. “That’s enough to lift mountains, Izuku.”

Midoriya’s eyes widened slightly, still struggling to process the absurdity of that number.

Dick’s tone shifted, more serious.

“With One For All at one hundred percent… we can’t measure that here. But if the quirk used to boost your strength fifty times over, and now the core has doubled in size…” He paused, locking eyes with him. “Then we can safely deduce your multiplier is one hundred times.”

Midoriya drew in a deep breath, chest heavy.

“One hundred million tons…” he murmured, testing the weight of the words. It wasn’t just strength—it was something that defied imagination.

Dick swiped over to the next tab on his tablet.

“Speed: baseline sprint is supersonic, Mach 4 with Float. Add Gearshift, you’re hitting Mach 20. Combine everything—Gearshift, Float, and full One For All—and you’re brushing up against Mach 800. Still nowhere near Barry, of course, but…” He smirked. “Who is?”

Midoriya let out a weak chuckle, glancing away.

“Reflexes: metahuman tier. You reacted to multiple simultaneous strikes, catalogued every threat, and dodged like it was second nature.”

He thought of Danger Sense—no longer just a vague warning, but a fully-fledged radar. Even now, he could feel the faint echo of that invisible web humming around him.

“Durability: bulletproof without breaking a sweat.” Dick raised a finger. “With One For All active… missile-resistant. Maybe more.”

Scrolling further, he began reciting.
“Gearshift. Used to be tied to ‘gears,’ right? Not anymore. No more clicks, no more shifting. Just acceleration—straight up. Mach 20, effortless. You realize what that means? Even Bruce couldn’t keep up with you.”

Midoriya rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish.
“Before, I could only use it alongside One For All… now it’s natural. Like breathing.”

“Fa Jin,” Dick continued, shaking his head almost in disbelief. “You used to need wide movements to build momentum. Now? A single step. A wrist turn. It’s like walking around with a cocked weapon every second of the day.”

Midoriya nodded, lowering his gaze to his feet.
“Every movement winds it up. It’s hard not to get carried away… but it’s dangerous too.”

“Exactly.” Dick swiped again.
“Danger Sense. This isn’t just a ‘tingle’ anymore. You’re reading intensity, threat type, direction. You’ve basically got a built-in radar.”

Midoriya inhaled sharply.
“It feels like… a HUD in my head. I can tell if it’s tech, magic, or brute force.”

Dick gave a low whistle.
“Bruce would’ve killed for that.”

“And Blackwhip,” he continued. “This one shocked me the most. It’s not just ropes anymore. You mold it—shields, extra arms, weapons. You even mimicked elemental constructs.”

Midoriya flexed a hand, letting faint blue sparks coil in the air.
“The more I trust myself, the easier it is to shape it.”

Dick grinned.
“Turning creativity into a weapon. That’s rare.”

“Smokescreen,” he said next. “Used to just be a smoke curtain. Now it scrambles sensors, blocks radar, blinds detection systems. Combine that with Danger Sense, and you’re practically invisible to anyone who should have the upper hand.”

Midoriya smiled faintly.
“It used to be a hiding spot. Now it’s territory.”

“Well put,” Dick nodded.

“Float,” he went on. “Not just levitation anymore. You actually fly. Up to Mach 4.”

Midoriya’s expression softened as he recalled the feeling.
“Before, I needed to punch or kick the air for propulsion. Now… it’s real flight.”

“That makes you global mobility tier,” Dick remarked with obvious pride. “And finally… One For All itself.”

Silence pressed between them.

Midoriya closed his eyes, voice low but steady.
“They’re gone. The vestiges. Only statues remain. The core… has doubled.”

Dick exhaled slowly.
“Then the power doubled too.”

Midoriya clenched his fist.
“And now… it’s just me.”

Dick shut the tablet with a sigh.

“In summary: Izuku Midoriya, you’re at the top. Without a doubt, you’re a high-level metahuman. Maybe the strongest on Earth right now.”

For a moment, silence reigned.

Midoriya closed his eyes, trying to process it: he was, very likely, Earth’s strongest hero. The new Number One.

In his own world, that title had been a dream. A shining symbol. A mountaintop where he could stand tall, smile, and reassure everyone: “You’re safe now.”

Being Number One back home meant following All Might’s footsteps, hearing crowds chant his name, feeling the warmth of collective hope. It was glory. Recognition. Proof that rising up had been worth it.

But here…

Here, Number One was just silence.
No crowds.
No cheers.
No symbol to celebrate—only symbols shattered, buried beneath rubble and gravestones.

Clark. Bruce. Diana. Barry.
The world had lost its greatest, and in their absence, “the strongest” didn’t sound like triumph.

It sounded like a sentence.

Midoriya tightened his fists, the One For All humming in his muscles. He had reached the pinnacle. But a cold iron crown brought no comfort—only the reminder of its weight.

In Japan, he had dreamed of being the greatest to save everyone.
Here, being the greatest only meant there was no one left.

He opened his eyes, catching his warped reflection in a broken blade on the ground.
He wasn’t the trembling boy anymore, terrified of carrying a symbol.
But he also wasn’t Superman.
Or Batman. Or Flash. Or Wonder Woman.

He was just… Izuku Midoriya.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

Breathing deep, he let the truth settle. Maybe he was the strongest now. But strength wasn’t what the world truly lacked.

Dick noticed his silence, reading the weight unspoken. He didn’t try to soften it with numbers this time. He simply stepped forward and asked:

“You okay?”

Midoriya opened his eyes. The smile he offered was weak, but real enough not to worry him too much.

“Just… thinking.”

Dick nodded. No more explanation needed. He let the moment breathe, then shifted the focus forward.

“Then let me reframe it. You’re not ‘the strongest on Earth.’ You’re the guy who’s going to help us rebuild.”

Midoriya blinked, surprised.

Dick gestured toward the exit, where golden light slipped through the seams of the automated doors.

“This isn’t about replacing Clark, or Bruce, or any of them. It’s about us. Me, you, Wally, Zatanna, Roy… everyone who’s still here. The world’s lost plenty, but it hasn’t lost its ability to stand back up.” He smirked faintly. “And you know that better than anyone.”

The knot in Midoriya’s chest loosened. The crown still weighed heavy, but the way Dick put it turned the burden into purpose.

He clenched his fist and raised it firmly.

“Then let’s pick up the pieces… and build something new.”

Dick smiled, satisfied.
“Now we’re talking.”

And together, they crossed the wrecked arena. The twisted metal, shattered columns, and cracked floor stayed behind—not as ruins, but as reminders of the first step toward rebuilding.

Ahead, the sunlight waited.

Chapter 17: The Demon King

Chapter 17 — The Demon King

 

Part 1

 

The medical wing of the Watchtower was a place where time seemed to slow down — not out of tranquility, but because of its sterility. White lights ran in continuous bands along the ceiling, reflecting off the polished steel floors like sharp, gleaming blades.

Transparent panels displayed rows of suspended instruments, motionless mechanical arms awaiting commands, and holographic monitors pulsing with cold, emotionless readings. There was no space for human error here, no improvisation, no warmth — only the clinical precision of machines that seemed to judge, in silence, every cell passing through their sensors.

Midoriya took a deep breath as he followed Dick into the center of the chamber, as if he needed to brace his body to cross hostile territory. The air inside was too pure, sterilized to the edge of artificiality, stripped of the scent of dust, sweat, or life. Only the chemical odor of constant cleaning remained. Each step he took echoed too loudly, amplified by the chamber itself, as though the room wanted to magnify his unease.

The absence of natural sounds only deepened that discomfort. Instead of wind, leaves, or human breathing, there were only the occasional beeps of monitors and the steady hum of electronics. The space felt less like a hospital and more like a spacecraft’s capsule.

Dick, however, was unaffected. His movements were controlled, precise, and sure. His face steady, his eyes sharp, his entire body radiated the confidence of someone who had walked that corridor dozens — perhaps hundreds — of times. To him, it was routine. To Midoriya, it was silent judgment.

“ This scanner will map your skeletal structure,” Dick said, pointing to one of the machines, “and this one will analyze your musculature for any microfractures.”

Midoriya only nodded. He knew it wasn’t the first time. Weeks earlier, when he had been rescued unconscious from the ruins of the invasion, Alfred and Dick had already put him through these machines. Back then, the reports had come out cold, objective, filled with numbers and graphs he hadn’t even been aware of. Now, however, things were different. Now he was awake. Now he would be forced to face every result.

He stepped onto the circular platform as instructed. A translucent capsule lowered slowly, sealing him in a hermetic glass cocoon. As the white lights began to swirl around him, invisible beams swept across his skin, bones, and muscles, stripping away every layer of who he was. Midoriya closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing, but the sensation was impossible to ignore: as though the truth of his very existence was about to be revealed.

The machine vibrated softly, its cold warmth running across his skin. Yet even more disturbing than the scan itself was the thought that kept whispering at the back of his mind:

How did this happen?

When the capsule rose again, Dick was already holding out a small vial.

“Saliva,” he requested, as if it were just another line in a protocol.

Midoriya complied without hesitation, though a shiver ran through his arms. He vaguely remembered — hazy flashes from when he had first woken up in the Batcave — that this had already been done. Alfred had mentioned complete examinations while he was unconscious, and part of him felt this was just repeating the inevitable. The difference was cruel: this time, he was aware of every second.

He returned the vial, and within moments the console projected a dance of genetic chains before them, rotating in the air like his body was nothing more than an equation to be solved.

Next came the needle. A robotic arm descended in absolute silence, its precision merciless. It touched his forearm and pierced the skin with mechanical ease. No pain, only pressure.

Midoriya watched as the blood slid down the tube — red, alive — collected in exact volume and stored with chilling indifference. He drew in a breath, suddenly feeling exposed. Not because of the needle, but because he knew that every drop would soon be translated into reports and numbers that defined him more completely than he ever could.

How did this happen?

The console lit up in succession until a complete holographic model of Midoriya’s body hovered before them. It rotated slowly under the cold light, displaying bones, muscles, nerves, even cellular structures in terrifying precision.

Dick crossed his arms, scanning the flood of data appearing in real time:

Pulmonary capacity: 100%
Muscular strength: beyond recorded human limits

Bone density: unbreakable under normal conditions

Immune system: flawless

Genetic mutations: none detected

Systemic failures: nonexistent

The system ran a cross-reference against League medical records. For a moment, the screen flickered in silence… until finally, a single name appeared:

Cross-reference: Diana Prince — Wonder Woman.

Midoriya’s eyes widened at the name, one he’d only heard in fragments of conversation since arriving in this world. Diana. He had never met her, never seen her in action. She was already gone when he had fallen into this nightmare. To him, she was only a figure wrapped in stories and memories.

Dick let out a low breath, almost reverent.
“Diana…” he murmured, before glancing at Midoriya. “She was what happens when a god decides to craft a perfect warrior.”

He gestured to the hologram of Midoriya’s body, rotating before them.

“And you… look like the result of the same goal — but from the opposite direction. It’s like someone forced every part of your body into absolute perfection.”

Midoriya looked away, his throat tight. He didn’t know what to feel. He had never seen Diana alive, and now his body was being compared to hers — a legendary heroine, a goddess in flesh and blood. And him? Just a boy who still didn’t understand how he had woken in this world at all.

Perfect.

The word rang more like a sentence than a blessing.

The weight of it brought no relief — only sharpened the question clawing at him.
How did this happen?

He turned his face from the hologram, feeling more exposed than any open wound had ever made him. Dick said nothing more, and didn’t need to. The silence of that room was louder than any diagnosis.

Midoriya clenched his fists, as though an answer might be hiding in his own hands. But there was none.

Perfection was not a gift. It was a burden.
And staring at the metallic floor, he repeated the question once more, desperate, like a prayer unanswered:

How…?

But no machine in the Watchtower could respond.

Not yet.

–

Part 2

 

The sterile hum of the medical wing still pressed down on them. Dick, motionless before the projection panel, studied the floating graphs like someone contemplating an ancient enigma—familiar, yet not fully deciphered. His gaze was sharp, not the gaze of a thirteen-year-old boy, but of someone forged by necessity: to understand, to survive, to anticipate. And in that moment, the pieces began to fall into place in his mind.

He broke the silence, not with a question, but with a statement—almost like reciting a mission report he’d reviewed a thousand times.

“—The first time I saw you,” he said, voice low but steady, “was when you came through that portal… throwing that monster. Shigaraki.”

Midoriya lifted his head. The name lingered in the sterile air like a reminder of something he had kept buried under layers of urgency and survival. Dick remained still, but his eyes drifted past the monitors, pulling on the thread of memory with a precision only he could have.

 

---

The flashback struck with brutal clarity.

The sharp roar echoed across the mothership’s corridor when the portal burst open, spitting Midoriya into the blaze. Breathless, covered in soot, he hurled Shigaraki into the steel walls, splitting beams and caving in the ceiling.

Robin and Wally froze mid-movement, explosives in their hands, turning instinctively to fight. But what they saw was a boy—unknown, from nowhere—appearing in the middle of chaos.

“This place is going to blow in less than twenty seconds,” Dick declared, his voice firm, like an order from the field.

The boy blinked, as if only now grasping the gravity of the situation. “Blow…?”

Wally pointed behind them, to the makeshift bombs already pulsing, seconds from detonation. “The whole ship’s gonna go. We were—” He stopped, breathing hard. “We were gonna stay and make sure.”

The ship’s ceiling groaned before any answer came. A metallic roar split the corridor as the monstrous figure advanced, its burning eyes cutting through smoke and ruin.

Midoriya didn’t wait. In a single motion, he grabbed both Robin and Wally as if they weighed nothing. His leap shattered the metal floor, tearing a path through walls and beams. Every impact thundered around them. To Robin, the world became flashes of light, twisted steel, and rushing air. He still remembered the crushing grip, the certainty that Midoriya would not let them go.

And then—the sky. They tore through the fuselage, and the void swallowed them. A second later, the explosion erupted behind them, devouring the mothership in a sunburst of fire.

Robin had never forgotten that moment: the certainty that without this stranger, they would have died there.

Midoriya was the first to stand among the debris, his eyes locked on the shape rising from the wreckage—Shigaraki, or what was left of him. The body was warped, monstrous, less human than abomination.

That was when the true battle began.

Robin remembered every detail: Midoriya charging, each blow like thunder, Shigaraki’s form convulsing, fighting, refusing to die… until at last, it broke.

Midoriya had won.

But it was no clean victory.

Shigaraki’s body, already unconscious, began to collapse—not flesh, but a grotesque mass, amorphous and alive. It surged like a living trap, engulfing Midoriya, wrapping him in a pulsating cocoon.

Robin had shouted, had run, but it was already too late. The cocoon sealed shut in a heartbeat, swallowing Midoriya whole.

And then… silence.

Robin still remembered the despair of that moment, the helpless certainty of loss.

But against all reason, minutes later, as the wreckage still burned, the cocoon split apart.

And from it… Midoriya emerged.

But not the same.

 

---

Back in the present, in the medical wing, Dick let out a slow breath, as if reliving every second of that memory. He turned to face Midoriya, eyes grave but curious.

“That’s where it all started… wasn’t it?”

Midoriya didn’t answer right away. The images still pulsed in his mind: Shigaraki’s strength, the desperate fight, the cocoon’s suffocating embrace. And, above all, what came after—the inner landscape, the core of One For All, the final confrontation.

But that… would be the next piece.

For now, he simply lifted his gaze to the hologram of his own body, still spinning in silence before them. And for the first time, he felt the weight of a truth he had avoided until now.

Maybe it was there… in that moment… that he stopped being only “himself.”

–

Part 3

 

The silence returned to dominate the medical wing, but for Midoriya, it was no longer the sterile hum of the machines nor the faint buzz of the scanners slowly rotating around his body.

It was an inner silence.

A pause.

As if each heartbeat was simply waiting… waiting for him to accept what, deep down, he already knew.

Midoriya took a deep breath and, as he exhaled, plunged once more into that memory.

 

---

He closed his eyes… and, in an instant, was back in that place.

The Core.
The vast, black silence where One For All pulsed like a living star.

They were there.
The eight previous bearers, motionless, serene, and melancholy, like sentinels standing on the edge of inevitable fate.

And before them… the shadow.
All For One.

Not the grotesque monster of the physical world, but a towering presence clad in black, the polished metal mask radiating suffocating authority. His very existence seemed to occupy all the space.

Midoriya’s gaze locked on the boy crouched at All For One’s feet.
Tenko.

Chains bound his wrists and ankles, his flesh torn, his body too fragile to bear so much hatred. He was not the monster Izuku had fought… not Shigaraki. He was only a frightened child, crushed beneath chains larger than himself.

Midoriya tried to advance, but his feet refused to move.
It was as though the Core itself forced him to watch.

— Tenko… — he whispered, his throat tight.

His fists trembled, nails digging into his palms. The urge to run and tear those chains apart burned in every fiber, but it was useless. He could only watch — and that helplessness was worse than any pain.

All For One raised his hand, the mask glinting with the distant flame of the Core.
— It’s over. One For All will be mine. I will be the Demon King.

The title struck Midoriya like searing iron. But before he could respond, Yoichi stepped forward.

The First looked at All For One, then at Midoriya, and smiled — not in triumph, but in acceptance.
— It’s time to end this.

Nana Shimura stepped up, laying her firm hand on her brother’s shoulder. Her eyes met Midoriya’s. There was tenderness there, but also tears held back.
— He’s come this far… and only he can finish it.

Banjo clenched his fists, letting out a short, almost bitter laugh.
— That bastard isn’t taking anything. We’ll leave it all to you, kid.

Midoriya felt his heart sink.
— Wait! I can still fight, I can—!

But Nana only shook her head, her smile steady despite the tears.
— You can. But only because we’re going to give you the last flame.

One by one, they began to shine.
Banjo raised his fist in farewell.
Hikage smiled, light, for the first time.
Yoichi closed his eyes, peace on his face.
Nana stood tall, like a mother shielding her child to the very end.

Midoriya screamed, but his voice was swallowed by the light.

Their silhouettes dissolved into golden embers, swirling in the void like eternal fireflies.
And together, their voices rose, so firm the Core itself shook:

— One For All is a flame!

The fire was born.
At first, only sparks, scattered embers drifting in the void. But then, as the eight silhouettes faded completely, the sparks drew together, spiraling in wide circles, turning like constellations in motion.

The void ignited.
The small blaze became a wall, and the wall a pillar that rose to the unseen heavens of the Core.
It wasn’t just fire. It was living light, incandescent, charged with their will.

Midoriya instinctively raised his arm to shield his eyes, but there was no heat to scorch his skin, only weight — a weight crushing his chest, making him feel tiny, insignificant before something divine.

The flame roared like a newborn sun, a white-gold sphere pulsing in waves, each beat echoing the rhythm of a heart.
The heart of eight generations.
The heart of One For All.

It grew until it filled the entire space, swallowing the black void and leaving only brilliance. And within that brilliance, Midoriya could feel.

No more voices of the bearers, no more figures around him… but their presence remained, fused into the fire.
Pride. Hope. Determination. Love.
Everything they were, everything they suffered, everything they carried — now it was here, in that flame.
Within him.

And when All For One roared, straining against the light, Midoriya finally understood: that flame was not just power.
It was the end of a cycle.
And the beginning of another.

When the brilliance faded, Midoriya was on his knees.
Alone.

At the Core’s center remained only the white flame.
Greater. Stronger.
Purified.

The body he now carried was the result of that sacrifice: the perfect vessel.
But the price… was solitude.

 

Midoriya opened his eyes back in the medical wing, the echo still burning in his mind.
The machines were real again, the cold metal too, but the weight had not left.

The images were gone, but the feeling… remained.

He turned toward Dick, who still watched him in silence, as if respecting the time every person needs to digest their own truth.

And then, without even realizing, Midoriya whispered to himself:

— This is the body… All For One wanted to have.

Dick’s brow furrowed slightly.

Midoriya raised his eyes, now sharper, more aware:

— A perfect body. Capable of bearing any power, any Quirk. No limits… no weaknesses.
— Except instead of him… it’s me.

The pieces of the puzzle were finally in place.

But what the puzzle formed… Midoriya wasn’t sure he could — or wanted to — face just yet.

–

Part 4

 

The diagnosis was complete. The puzzle, assembled.

And yet, in the sterile hush of the medical bay, under cold lights and pulsing monitors, Midoriya felt that the greatest battle wasn’t over. Not against a villain. Not against a monster. But against the very idea… of what he had become.

He sat on the edge of the cot, feet pressing against the metal floor, cold enough to remind him of the U.A. infirmary—and at the same time, too distant from anything that felt like “home.” His breath echoed back from the walls as though it belonged to someone else. Raising his eyes to the glass panel, he caught a reflection too sharp to deny: same green uniform, gloves scuffed, boots reinforced… but the body beneath was no longer that of a boy who stumbled, strained, broke, and learned. It was a body that no longer gave way. And that hurt in a place no machine could measure.

A memory struck like lightning: Recovery Girl frowning—“you can’t keep doing this, boy”—while he laughed sheepishly, arms wrapped in casts for pushing One For All too far. Another followed: All Might’s thumb up, steady and bright—“you can do it.” And beyond them both, the simplest, cruelest image: his mother, Inko, setting a bento on the table, hands trembling as she tried to steady her voice, asking if he’d be home early. If she saw him now—perfect, unbreakable—would she feel relief? Or fear at something less than human?

A thought cut through it all: If I never break again, how will I know my limits? If nothing hurts me, am I still… me?

He shut his eyes, drawing in air though there was no shortness of breath—just habit. The room smelled of sterile metal and promises that meant nothing. The perfection stamped across the holograms loomed like a sentence: flawless. Every system intact. No cracks. No margin for error, where once he had learned to grow.

The words slipped out before he chose to speak, a thread of sound that maybe he hadn’t wanted Dick to hear:

“I’ve become… what he wanted to be. The Demon King.”

The title echoed in his skull: Demon King. It wasn’t just a word. It was everything All For One had sought to embody—the apex of tyranny, the flawless body that never falters, a presence suffocating by existence alone.

Midoriya felt that if he accepted that title without protest, he risked losing “Izuku.” It was as though the enemy still lingered, whispering from the shadow of his power: “No matter what you claim, this body is my design. You are my legacy.”

And that cut deeper than any wound.

He remembered another cruel title from childhood: Quirkless. A label that defined what he was not. Now, this new one sought to define what he was—the exact opposite. From a boy with nothing to a being with everything. From powerless to perfect. From invisible to Demon King.

Perhaps that was what frightened him most: realizing that both extremes, though opposed, stole the same thing from him—the chance to simply be Izuku Midoriya.

Dick approached, arms crossed, leaning against the wall, his eyes sharp but absent of judgment.

“Demon King, huh?” he said, voice dry, the kind of tone only someone who’d seen too much could muster. “Funny… you don’t look like one.”

Midoriya let out a short, humorless laugh.

“It’s not about appearances, Dick…” He raised his hand, studying his fingers as he curled them into a fist. “It’s about what my body can do now. About… what I am now.”

Silence.

Around them, the screens cycled through perfect vitals, flawless genetic structures, muscles calibrated to impossible density, neural systems responding with absolute precision.

The screens around him displayed flawless vitals, impeccable genetic structures, precisely calibrated musculature, and nervous systems reacting with absolute precision.

Perfect.

But for the first time, Midoriya wondered… was perfection a gift or a curse?

He remembered All For One’s words in that mental landscape: “The ideal body.” “One that can contain every power.” “Without limits.”

And he understood.

This was what All For One had always sought. Not just stealing quirks, but finding a vessel that would never shatter under their weight. One that could keep growing, accumulating, absorbing… Without ever stopping.

And that body… was now his.

Midoriya stood, walking slowly toward the nearest panel where his reflection gleamed clearer. He touched the glass with the tips of his fingers.

His eyes, once bright with the pure hope of a hero-in-training, now carried a different light: darker, more restrained… yet paradoxically more determined.

“I am what he wanted to be…” he murmured, almost like sealing a verdict.

Behind him, Dick tilted his head slightly, his voice calm but firm: “And what are you going to do with that?”

Midoriya closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again, holding his own reflection’s gaze as if locked in a silent duel.

“I don’t know yet.”

He still stared at the glass when Dick’s voice cut through the silence—not cold, not distant, but steady, laced with something rare: care. “Izuku… do you know what I see when I look at you right now?” Dick asked, unfolding his arms and stepping closer.

Midoriya didn’t answer. His reflection was easier to face than the gaze of someone who still believed in him.

“I see a kid carrying a massive burden,” Dick went on. “But still a kid. Not a weapon. Not a monster. Not what this All For One wanted you to be.”

He stopped beside him, his expression serious, but his eyes… his eyes carried the weight of someone who had stood in the same shadows.

“You know… Bruce carried titles too. Batman, the Dark Knight, the Demon of Gotham…” Dick sighed, remembering. “But at the end of the day, he was just Bruce. A man who chose to fight, and who had to make that choice again every single day.”

Midoriya turned, startled by the comparison.

“What I mean,” Dick finished, resting a hand on his shoulder, “is that what defines you isn’t this perfect body or this overwhelming power. It’s the choices you’ll make. Today, tomorrow, always.”

Midoriya drew a deep breath, feeling the solid weight of Dick’s hand, and for the first time in a long while, the burden didn’t feel unbearable.

He lowered his eyes, Dick’s words echoing inside him. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore—it was almost… comforting.

“But… what if I make a mistake?” he asked suddenly, his voice low, carrying the doubt that never left him. “What if this power pulls me down the wrong path?”

Dick didn’t hesitate.

“Then you come back,” he said plainly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Everyone messes up, Izuku. Even the greats. Even Bruce.”

Midoriya blinked, confused. “B… Batman?”

Dick smirked, half-nostalgic, half-sad. “Especially him. But what made him Batman wasn’t being perfect. It was that he always got back up. Always chose to keep going.”

The words struck deep. Midoriya clenched his fists at his sides, feeling that contradiction inside him: a body that couldn’t break… and a soul that still felt fragile.

“I don’t want to be remembered as a Demon King…” he admitted, finally meeting Dick’s gaze. “I want to be remembered as someone who helped. As someone who saved.”

Dick nodded firmly. “Then that’s who you’ll be. Because at the end of the day, you’re not alone. I’m here. And Wally would be too, if he could right now. And the others… all of us.”

The air in Midoriya’s chest loosened. For the first time, he could breathe without bracing for the worst.

He raised his chin, looking at the reflection in the panel again. The figure still felt unfamiliar, almost foreign. But now, there was something different in his eyes. Something that didn’t come from the One For All or the perfect body. It came from him.

“I’m not the Demon King…” he repeated, stronger this time. “I’m Izuku Midoriya.”

Dick’s smirk widened, satisfied. “And that’s more than enough.”

They stood in silence for a few moments, but it wasn’t cold silence anymore. It was the silence of a pact, of trust sealed without needing more words.

And when Midoriya stepped away from the panel, walking side by side with Dick toward the exit of the medical wing, he felt that, for the first time since arriving in this world, he wasn’t just carrying a burden.

He was sharing it.

Notes:

Hello everyone, another chapter successfully completed.
Even though I’m not 100% satisfied with what I wrote, I can’t really improve it any further.
So, we now have the conclusion to the mystery about Izuku’s body — since he himself still didn’t know the exact state of it.

The concept here is that Izuku’s body has essentially become the perfected version of what All For One attempted to achieve with Shigaraki in the final arcs of My Hero Academia. All For One’s ultimate goal was to create a flawless body — one that could endure unlimited power and merge with One For All, allowing him to ascend into what he called the “Demon King.”
He failed. But Izuku, unintentionally, succeeded. Thanks to the sacrifice of the previous One For All users and the act of consuming All For One himself, the enhancements that All For One tried to force on Izuku’s body while he was trapped inside the cocoon were amplified to the absolute extreme. What All For One could never accomplish for himself, Izuku inherited — not by design, but by circumstance, sacrifice, and sheer will.

Chapter 18: What We Lost

Chapter 18 – What We Lost

( Midoriya Izuku's POV)

 

Part 1: The Burial of Bruce Wayne

 

A week after the tests at the Watchtower, the funerals began.
The rain fell thin and constant, as if the sky itself refused to accept the end of one of its greatest guardians.

Midoriya stood a little behind the others, his hood pulled over his head, letting the water run down the fabric and drip onto the gravel path. The Wayne Manor avenue was silent, except for the whisper of rain and the muffled sound of earth being moved in the distance.

The open grave lay ahead, surrounded only by those who could truly call Bruce Wayne family.

Alfred stood there, rigid as an old oak, his gaze fixed on the coffin, but his hands firmly clasped behind his back, refusing to yield to the weight of grief. Beside him, Dick Grayson — the closest Bruce ever had to a son — remained unmoving, his cold, damp eyes fixed on the unfinished headstone.

Midoriya felt out of place. He had never met Bruce Wayne. He knew his legacy — as everyone in the heroic world did — but he hadn’t known the man, hadn’t heard his voice, hadn’t received his guidance. And yet, here he was, a silent representative for someone who couldn’t carry this grief alone: Dick, the friend he had come to admire and trust.

Further ahead, Lucius Fox gave a brief speech, his voice controlled but heavy with meaning:

> "Bruce Wayne was a man of vision... not just in business, but in humanity. He saw where no one else did. He did what no one else dared."

Lucius finished his words, and for a moment, the silence felt absolute. Only the sound of rain filled the space between the mourners.

Then, Alfred stepped forward. The butler was immaculate as always, but the rigidity of his posture seemed designed to contain what his heart could not.

His voice came out clear but low, without flourishes:

> "Bruce Wayne was not just the master I served. He was the boy I cradled in my arms when he lost his parents. The young man I watched become something greater than he ever believed himself to be. And, in the end, he was also... my son."

Those last words cracked the mask of serenity for a moment. Alfred closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and then stepped back with the dignity of someone who had said everything without needing to add more.

Dick hesitated for a few seconds. He disliked speeches — it wasn’t his way of expressing pain. But when all eyes turned to him, the boy stepped forward.

His shoulders heavy, his fists clenched.

"I…" His voice faltered, but he recovered, firmer. "I’m not going to talk about the Playboy, the Philanthropist, or the Billionaire. Everyone knows who he was. Everyone knows what he did."

He paused, staring at the coffin, and continued:

"I’ll talk about Bruce. The man who gave me a home when I had nothing. Who trained me, pushed me, taught me… and who, even without ever saying it out loud, loved me like a father."

The rain thickened slightly, as if the world itself bowed.

"I carry what he gave me. Not just the inheritance, not just the lessons. I carry… the faith he had in me." Dick’s eyes glistened, but he held his stance. "And I promise, in front of all of you, I won’t let that die here."

Dick drew a deep breath and then stepped back, standing again beside Alfred.

Father and son — by blood or not — had spoken.

And the silence that followed was heavier, truer, than any other words.

Midoriya kept his eyes on the ground, respecting the moment while wrestling with the strangeness of being there, among legends, among bonds he didn’t share.

The silence after Alfred and Dick’s words was broken by discreet steps on the soaked gravel.

From the side of the avenue, Thomas Kane approached, his daughter at his side.

The middle-aged man bore the lines of one who had endured too many losses. His gaze was steady, but there was no pride — only respect.

He stopped at the grave, bowing his head slightly toward the coffin.

"Bruce was always more than a Wayne." His voice was deep, controlled, but carried a note of restrained pain. "He was a Kane too. Blood of our blood. We lost a nephew, a cousin… but above all, we lost someone who never ceased to be family."

As he spoke, the young woman beside him stepped timidly forward. Kate Kane, her pale face marked by rain, her eyes red yet resolute.

She took a breath and added:

"I didn’t spend as much time with him as I would have liked. But… I knew who he was. And I knew that, even from afar, Bruce Wayne was always watching over us. Not just over Gotham, but over all of us."

Her words hung in the air with painful sincerity.

Kate bowed briefly before the coffin, placing a single red rose on the dark wood.

Thomas placed a hand on his daughter’s shoulder, and together they stepped back, returning to the others.

Beside Lucius, Alan Scott stood impeccable in a classic suit, a green handkerchief in his pocket — a silent nod to his own legend. Alan didn’t speak; he watched with eyes hardened by the experience of burying many.

Jay Garrick, standing near Alan, broke protocol and approached Alfred, discreetly shaking his hand. The old butler inclined his head in wordless gratitude, never breaking his gaze from the grave.

Wally West and Roy Harper were there too, both silent, unmoving, like soldiers standing at attention. Midoriya noticed the tension in Wally’s shoulders, the way he clenched his hands tightly at his sides, as if holding back his own energy threatened to crack under the strain of grief.

Zatanna stood farther back, beside a gnarled tree, clutching her father’s old top hat tightly — a silent shield, even though he was still alive, as if this grief was foreshadowing another.

Midoriya drew a long breath, allowing himself to look up just as the gravediggers began lowering the casket. The sound of the straps sliding echoed through the damp air, a hiss almost symbolic — the last breath of an age coming to an end.

No further words were spoken, no public prayers offered. Only the respectful silence of those who had not come to say goodbye, but to endure the absence together.

He noticed Dick step closer to the grave, kneeling briefly beside it. He didn’t speak. He didn’t cry. He simply placed an old coin atop the closed casket — something Midoriya didn’t understand, but instinctively knew wasn’t meant to be understood. Only respected. In that instant, Izuku didn’t see Robin. He didn’t see the calculating leader of the Watchtower. He saw a son at his father’s grave — a boy raised in the shadow of a man larger than life, now forced to learn how to live without that shadow.

The weight on Dick’s shoulders wasn’t that of a vigilante. It was that of an orphan.

Midoriya tugged his hood lower, fingers tense, a strange ache pressing in his chest. It wasn’t his grief. Yet he wished, with all his heart, that he could share that burden with his friend.

As the casket descended, Izuku’s eyes drifted across the gathered faces.

The veterans.

Alan Scott stood tall, almost immovable, his suit immaculate, a discreet green handkerchief in his pocket — but the heaviness in his eyes betrayed him. There was something ancient about him, something that transcended the simple act of being present. It felt as though history itself was bowing in respect at this grave.

Beside him, Jay Garrick kept his hands clasped before his chest, his expression grave yet touched by an innate gentleness that even grief couldn’t erase. The man who had once been the original Flash looked down at the wet earth with the calm of someone who had already buried generations of friends… and still stood.

Midoriya’s throat tightened. This wasn’t just Bruce Wayne being laid to rest. It was the reflection of everything they represented — decades of struggle, sacrifice, and hope carried through the longest nights.

The void left by that casket wasn’t only personal. It was historic.

And in that moment, Izuku understood: strength alone wasn’t enough. To inherit. To continue. To carry — that was the true weight of legacy.

 

He bowed his head, absorbing the lesson like a scar pressed into his spirit, even if he didn’t yet know how to bear it. The grief wasn’t his, but he shared it all the same.
The ceremony ended without further words. The mourners began to disperse in small clusters, each respecting the silence of the other.

Izuku saw Alfred linger by the grave, immovable, as if standing watch one last time. Dick remained at his side, both of them so alike in that moment — two men who had lost not only a friend, but a pillar.

Wally and Roy were the first to leave, walking together in silence along the rain-soaked path of the estate. Zatanna followed, but paused briefly beside Midoriya. She met his eyes, offered a silent nod of recognition, then moved on.
Izuku started to walk away too, but turned once more toward the freshly covered grave. Now the headstone bore words both simple and final:

Bruce Wayne
“More than a symbol.
A man who never gave up.”

He had never known Bruce Wayne. He didn’t share the memories or the pain of those around him. But he knew, with absolute certainty, that the man buried here had left behind a void so vast, it could never truly be filled.

And in that void, his friends would have to find a new path forward.

Izuku pulled his hood tighter and walked on — wordless, yet firmly resolved to be there, whenever he was needed.

–

Part 2: The Burial of Barry Allen

 

The sky seemed to understand the gravity of the moment—again. If the rain had wept for Bruce, now it was the wind that mourned for Barry: fast, restless, whistling through the hills like a final message from the fastest man alive. There was no storm, but the cold air carried a silent weight, as if nature itself held its breath in respect.

Midoriya stood there once more, among legendary figures, wrapped in a silence he didn’t know how to break—and deep down, perhaps didn’t want to.

Barry Allen’s coffin, the man known as the Flash, rested on the grass, surrounded by red and gold flowers—the same colors he wore as a hero, now marking his farewell.

Iris West stood at the front, steady as stone, though her eyes brimmed with tears. Beside her, Joe West held her hand, offering quiet support that spoke louder than words.
Alfred was there again, discreet and imposing, as always, standing with Dick Grayson and the others who had learned, more than once, how to endure loss. Alan Scott and Jay Garrick, veterans who seemed to have survived every era, stood a little apart but watchful, like silent sentinels of history itself.

Wally West stood still before the coffin, though his body betrayed him. His shoulders shook beneath his coat, and his clenched fists went white, as if he were trying to hold back not only his strength but his grief. The boy who had run countless times to save the world now seemed to have nowhere left to go. No speed could carry him away from that grave, no race could outrun this absence.

Midoriya wanted to step forward, to offer a word, a gesture, anything. But he held back, sensing this was sacred ground—pain he could not invade. He hadn’t known Barry Allen, hadn’t felt the weight of his presence. Yet he could see, with cutting clarity, the void his absence left behind.

Beside Wally, Roy Harper and Zatanna stood in silence. Roy’s gaze was hard, fixed—the look of someone who had long since learned not to show pain in public. Zatanna, once again, held her father’s hat close to her chest, as if it were a shield against these farewells piling one atop another.

The ceremony began with only a few words. No long speeches, no pomp. Just Joe West, voice rough and breaking, saying:

“He was a good man… a good uncle, a good husband… and the greatest friend anyone could ask for.”

Simple. Direct. Exactly how Barry would have wanted.
Iris stepped forward, her trembling hands resting on the polished wood of the coffin. The fine rain reflected in her tear-brimmed eyes as she whispered, soft enough for only those closest to hear:

“You always ran… but you always came back to me.”

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and added:
“I can feel it… you’re not coming back.”

Then she stepped back, no more words needed. Love itself lingered.

Next came Jay Garrick, who calmly placed an old helmet—his own, the first of the speedsters—on the coffin. He left it there for a moment, a symbolic offering, then retrieved it with a silent nod of respect.

The coffin began to lower, and Midoriya held his breath as the ropes slid, echoing the same sound he’d heard the week before. It was a sound that seemed to steal the air itself—not by its volume, but by what it meant: an end.

As the earth started to cover the coffin, Wally slowly removed a worn pair of red gloves from his hands—the last Barry had given him, just before the invasion. He clutched them tightly for a moment, breathing as if memory weighed more than fabric. Then, wordlessly, he laid them on the polished wood, letting them rest with his uncle.

It wasn’t a speech. It wasn’t a vow. It was a gesture that said more than words: Wally wasn’t just burying his hero—he was inheriting the race ahead.

When the final shovel of earth fell, Wally squeezed his eyes shut and turned aside, drawing a long, ragged breath as if trying to steady the pace of his grief.

At that moment, Midoriya stepped forward instinctively and set a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Wally’s eyes opened, surprised, meeting his. No words passed between them, but none were needed. Midoriya didn’t know what to say, and Wally didn’t need to hear anything. He only needed to know he wasn’t alone.
Midoriya stayed there until the burial ended. Dick and Roy came to stand at Wally’s side in silence. Zatanna joined them too, forming a small circle of mourning and solidarity.
As the others began to drift away, Midoriya lingered, looking at the fresh grave where Barry Allen’s name was now carved in stone:

>Barry Allen
A hero. A friend. A lightning bolt that will never fade.

Midoriya swallowed hard, closing his eyes for a moment.
Once again, he hadn’t known the man… but he knew the weight of his absence. And he understood that honoring Barry’s memory wasn’t just about being there that day—it was about being there for those he left behind.

Turning, he walked on with the others, once again certain that—even in a world not his own—he had to be present.

---

Part 3: The Burial of Oliver Queen

 

The wind felt sharper that day, sweeping through the secluded clearing where the funeral was about to take place. Unlike the previous burials, this one carried an even more intimate tone, almost secret, as if nature itself wanted to shield the space for those who came to say goodbye.

Midoriya stood a little farther back, as he always did. He had never met Oliver Queen, never met the Green Arrow, but he was there… because Roy Harper was. And because, somehow, the bonds between these people also bound him, even if he didn’t yet know exactly how or why.

The clearing was surrounded by ancient trees, and at its center, the dark wooden coffin rested on a bed of dry leaves.

Thea Queen, Oliver’s sister, stood at the front with the expression of someone who had fought through every tear until none were left. Beside her was Conor Hawke, the son Oliver had met far too late, but who now stood firm, a simple wooden bow slung across his back as a quiet mark of inheritance.

Roy stood near them, tense, his eyes fixed on the horizon as if part of him was somewhere else—or perhaps… with Oliver, somewhere beyond that moment.

Further back, Alfred, Dick Grayson, Alan Scott, Jay Garrick, Wally, and Zatanna formed a small circle of silent support, just as they had at the other funerals. Midoriya was among them, feeling once again that subtle dislocation—like someone watching a play whose story he only knew through secondhand summaries.

No priest, no formal speeches.

Thea was the first to step forward.
The dark wood reflected the pale glow of the overcast sky, and for a moment she simply stood there, unmoving, staring at the coffin as if waiting for it to shift, to open, to return the brother who had vanished so many times… and always come back.

With trembling fingers, she placed her hand on the cold surface. Clutched between her fingers was an old brooch shaped like a green feather—a worn trinket Oliver had given her when she was still a child. She pressed it against the coffin, eyes closing.

She breathed deeply, fighting back the tears threatening to break through the iron wall she had built within herself.
“You promised…” she whispered, voice breaking. “You promised you’d come home.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowed hard, then released the brooch onto the coffin and stepped away, not once looking back.

Roy came next.
His steps were heavy, dragged forward as if weighted down by something that refused to let go. He stopped before the coffin but didn’t raise his hand to touch it. He only stared, his eyes red, his jaw clenched tight.

For long seconds, it seemed he wouldn’t say anything. The silence thickened, almost suffocating.
Then, in a voice too low to carry beyond that intimate circle, he murmured:
“I never said this… but… thank you.”

The words slipped out like a secret, almost torn from him, harder than any battle.

Roy’s “thank you” wasn’t only for being saved, nor just for the lessons. It was for having someone who believed in him when he didn’t even believe in himself.

He drew a long breath, shoved his hands into his coat pockets, and stepped back slowly, never once looking over his shoulder.

Midoriya watched every movement, every glance, not knowing what to feel beyond that strange, heavy empathy. Once more, he hadn’t known Oliver Queen—but he knew Roy. And in Roy’s eyes, he recognized something he had already learned to see: the emptiness left when a mentor is gone.

Dick stepped forward, laying a hand on Roy’s shoulder as he withdrew. Roy didn’t react right away, but eventually nodded, accepting the wordless gesture of understanding.

Wally kept his distance, arms crossed, gaze lost among the trees.
Zatanna remained silent, clutching her father’s hat tightly against her chest.

The coffin was lowered discreetly—no music, no rehearsed words. Only the sound of ropes and leaves shifting in the wind.

When the first shovelfuls of earth began to cover the coffin, Midoriya noticed Roy didn’t look away. He stood rooted, watching until the wood disappeared completely beneath the soil.

For a moment, silence swallowed everything.
No one seemed able to break it.

Then Conor stepped forward.
Calmly, he unslung the simple wooden bow from his back—not the strongest, not the most precise, but the one Oliver had given him on the first day they met.

He raised the bow, aimed at the gray sky, and drew the string.
The arrow vibrated, taut, catching the dull light as if it were a fragment of the archer’s very soul.

Then, he released.

The shot cut the air with a sharp, clean snap, soaring upward until it vanished into the clouds.
It was quick, but it carried something solemn, almost ritualistic.
Not just grief. An homage.
A bow should never remain silent at an archer’s farewell.

Midoriya watched the arrow disappear into the clouds, and even without grasping every meaning, his chest tightened. It felt as though that arrow had carried something with it—the last word, the final farewell of a son to a father he’d barely had time to know.

When the arrow vanished into the sky, no sound replaced it.
Even the wind had stilled, as if the forest itself had paused to witness Conor’s gesture.

No one moved.
No one tried to fill the space with words.

The silence wasn’t empty—it was dense, almost tangible, a veil draped over everyone present.
It was the kind of silence that demanded no explanations, no speeches.
Only respect.

Midoriya felt that weight seep into his chest. Not the pain of losing someone he’d known, but the pain of witnessing what Oliver had meant to others.

And he realized that this shared silence was perhaps the truest farewell: all of them bound together by absence, all of them carrying the void Oliver had left behind.

Alan Scott and Jay Garrick stepped forward, offering a brief nod of respect before quietly withdrawing.

Midoriya lingered a little longer, his eyes on the gravestone now marking that clearing:

> Oliver Jonas Queen
The Emerald Archer — He never missed when it mattered most.

 

Beside him, Dick let out a quiet sigh, as if trying to exhale the weight built up over the past few weeks.

Midoriya turned slowly and followed the others, leaving behind yet another farewell… another memory that wasn’t his, yet somehow pressed heavily inside him all the same.

 

---

 

Part 4 – The Burial of Giovanni Zatara

The sky was gray, heavy like the mood among those present. The farewell ceremony for Giovanni Zatara was held in a discreet cemetery, far from the city, surrounded by old statues of angels worn down by time and rain. It was the kind of place where magic seemed to naturally blend into the world, where the sacred and the profane could coexist without anyone daring to question it.

Midoriya felt the weight of the week pressing on his shoulders. It wasn’t just the goodbyes—it was the feeling of walking alongside people who mourned losses so deep, while he himself remained silent, a mute and respectful witness. Even so, he couldn’t escape the discomfort of feeling, once again, like an intruder.

At the front of the coffin, covered with a black cloth embroidered with arcane symbols, stood Zatanna.

She did not cry.

There were no tears, no sobs, only a hard gaze fixed on her father’s coffin, as if she were trying to hold up, all by herself, the weight of a world crumbling before her.

A little farther back stood John Constantine and Jason Blood. Both wore grave expressions, like veterans accustomed to dealing with death—especially the deaths of their own.

Alfred, Dick Grayson, Alan Scott, Jay Garrick, Wally, and Roy formed the same silent circle of support that had already become routine at these successive funerals, fragile pillars holding up a structure that stubbornly refused to collapse.

Midoriya stood a little behind them, as always.
The cold wind made the dry leaves scrape across the stone ground, and the only sound breaking that heavy silence was the faint flutter of the black shroud covering the coffin.

There were no formal speeches.

Zatanna slowly approached and stopped before the coffin.
From where Midoriya stood, just a few steps behind, he noticed how her fingers trembled slightly as she drew a deck of cards from her pocket—the same deck he had seen in her hands during training, when her movements were always steady and precise.
This time, there was no performance. Only weight.

She drew a single card: the Ace of Cups.
For a moment, before placing it on the coffin, Midoriya noticed her lips move without sound, as if repeating something to herself—perhaps a memory, perhaps a promise.
When the card rested on the wood, she raised her hand and spoke, firm, but with a tiny pause that only someone attentive would notice:
“Tats ekil a yromem.”

The card ignited in pale blue flame, the fire dancing until it dissolved into the air.
Zatanna did not blink. But Midoriya saw the tightness in her jaw, as if that simple, elegant gesture had cost more strength than any spell.

When the blue flame vanished, the air around them seemed to change.
Midoriya couldn’t tell if the wind had grown colder, or if it was something else—something that came from both the earth and the heavens at once.
John Constantine inclined his head, pulling a lighter from his pocket as if it were part of a ritual. Jason Blood, on the other hand, closed his eyes and began chanting in Latin—ancient sounds Midoriya couldn’t understand, but which sent a shiver down his spine.

For a moment, the scene felt heavier than any funeral he had witnessed.
It wasn’t just about burying a man.
It was as if everyone there was helping to close an invisible door, ensuring Giovanni Zatara’s soul would be guided to somewhere beyond the understanding of the living.

Midoriya swallowed hard.
He had no idea how that magic worked, but he knew he was witnessing something sacred—something he had no right to interrupt.

Zatanna stood still until Dick stepped closer and placed a hand on her shoulder. She remained unmoving for a few seconds, then exhaled all at once, as if finally letting out a sliver of the pain.

“He always said…” she murmured, without looking at anyone. “…that magic isn’t about power, but about intention.”

Dick nodded silently.

Alfred stepped forward, followed by Alan Scott and Jay Garrick, helping with the final rites.

The coffin was lowered slowly as Zatanna watched, her composure unbroken.

Then John Constantine approached. He didn’t look like a man made for funerals. His wrinkled trench coat, the unlit cigarette tucked behind his ear, and the whiskey bottle in his pocket made him seem out of place among the mourners. Still, as the coffin descended, he stepped forward with strange solemnity.

Midoriya noticed Constantine didn’t look at anyone—only at the dark wood carrying his friend. He pulled the bottle from his pocket, opened it, and let a thin amber stream spill onto the fresh soil.

“For you, old man…” he muttered, low, as if it were a secret meant for no one else. Then he took a swig, swallowing hard, and stepped back, his shoulders slumped in a way that betrayed even his irreverence had limits.

Jason Blood followed soon after, in absolute contrast. The man carried himself with rigid, almost ceremonial posture, like an ancient priest. He closed his eyes, raised his hands, and began chanting verses in Latin. His deep voice seemed to resonate not only in the air, but in the very ground beneath his feet, and Midoriya felt another shiver climb his spine—as if the prayer carried real weight, more than words.

For an instant, the cemetery’s silence bent to that chant, as if the old angel statues watched closer.

When Jason finished, he lowered his head in respect, his stern gaze glistening, and returned to the others.

Midoriya, though he didn’t understand the language, still grasped the meaning. This wasn’t just saying farewell to a friend. It was the burial of a pillar in the world of magic.

When the final clump of earth fell over the coffin, Zatanna remained still.
She did not cry. She did not tremble. But Midoriya could see on her shoulders a weight almost unbearable.

And in that moment, he realized something: Zatanna wasn’t trying to be strong just for herself.
She was trying to be strong for her father, for his memory, for everyone who still looked to her for magic… for hope.

Midoriya felt a knot tighten in his throat.
He knew that feeling well—the fear of collapsing in front of those who needed to believe in you.

When she turned to walk back toward the group, her eyes briefly met his.

Her face remained upright, controlled, as always.
But her eyes told another story.

There was pain there. Pain that was beginning to spill over the edges of her mask of strength.
Not loose tears, but an unstable gleam—like glass beginning to crack from within.

Midoriya realized in that instant: Zatanna was not okay.
She wasn’t the untouchable daughter of Giovanni Zatara, the magician who inherited a legacy. She was a young woman holding her pieces together with the invisible hands of willpower, to keep them from falling apart.

She stopped beside him and whispered:
“Thank you for being here…”

Her voice sounded steady, but faltered at the end, like a taut string about to snap.

Midoriya couldn’t answer.
He only held her gaze in silence, recognizing someone balancing at the edge of an abyss.

And in that instant, he knew: Zatanna was breaking, little by little.
But even so… she remained standing.

Midoriya stayed where he was, watching her walk away with steps too firm for someone carrying so much weight. He noticed how each gesture seemed calculated, as if the simple act of walking were a containment spell—holding her pieces together, refusing to let grief shatter her.

And for the first time since all these funerals began, Midoriya felt a deeper empathy.
He knew that feeling too—the fear of crumbling in front of others.
The fear of showing you were in pieces.

The epitaph was carved into an aged marble plaque:

> Giovanni Zatara
Illusionist, Magician, Father.
“True magic is living with courage.”

 

Midoriya discreetly clenched his fists, as if trying to etch those words into his skin.
Because he knew it wasn’t only Zatanna who needed that courage.
He did too.

The group began to disperse slowly.
The wind grew stronger, and the heavy clouds promised rain at any moment.

Midoriya gave one last look at the grave, then turned, following the others away from that place, with the bitter feeling that this series of farewells was finally over…
But the emptiness each one left still lingered, silent and dense, inside them all.

Notes:

And that’s it, folks. The great heroes are officially gone. And yes, they won’t be coming back magically—this was a definitive farewell for our young heroes.

What did you think about the chapter being entirely from Midoriya’s point of view?
I wanted to show the feelings of someone who, as an outsider, witnesses so much loss.

Chapter 19: When the Heroes Are Gone

Chapter 19 — When the Heroes Are Gone
Part 1
Silence filled every corner of Wayne Manor’s vast living room, broken only by the deep, controlled voice of the news anchor echoing from the television. The gray light of late afternoon filtered through heavy curtains, casting long, unmoving shadows across the classical furniture.

Midoriya sat on the edge of the sofa, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the cold glow of the screen. He didn’t blink. He didn’t sigh. He just listened.
“After weeks of national mourning, the United States government has announced it will hold the official burial of the Justice League in two weeks’ time…” the anchor reported, her voice weighted with solemn reverence.
“The Hall of Justice, partially restored, will serve as the stage for this historic ceremony…”

The images that followed seemed to come from another world. Thousands gathered in public squares, candles glowing in silent vigils, murals painted hastily with the League’s symbols. Children wore shirts emblazoned with the red “S.” Women wore golden tiaras as makeshift crowns. And in a nameless alley, someone had sketched a black bat across cracked concrete.

Midoriya felt his chest tighten
.
These people weren’t just mourning heroes. They were mourning friends, idols, protectors they had grown up seeing, hearing, trusting. Each one had a personal story: “I saw Superman save my street.” “Wonder Woman inspired me.” “Batman scared me, but he also kept me safe.”
He had none.

To him, they were only names — legends he’d learned of too late, through secondhand stories. And yet, the emptiness etched on the faces of the crowds clawed at him as though it were his own
.
Even through the heavy curtains, faint echoes of honking cars and voices drifted from the streets outside. Gotham itself seemed to hold its breath, absorbing the news like a final blow.

The broadcast shifted to the president’s official address. He stood at a podium adorned with the national seal, flanked by silent flags
.
“On behalf of a grieving nation… we invite all surviving heroes to join us at this ceremony, to honor those who gave everything to save the world.”

Midoriya released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He rubbed his face with both hands, not to ward off sleep, but the weight of reality.

Then he switched off the TV. The absolute silence that followed was broken only by the faint creak of the manor’s aged wood.

“All surviving heroes…”

The words clung to him like invisible chains.

He pressed a palm to his eyes, rubbing hard. It wasn’t fatigue. Not physical, at least. It was deeper — the strangeness of existing between two worlds.

Before coming here, names like Superman, Wonder Woman, and Batman meant nothing to him. They were legends of another universe, figures he only came to know through Dick, Wally, Roy, and Zatanna’s memories.

And yet now, he felt as if he bore part of their responsibility. As if, inheriting the world they left behind, he had no choice but to stand in their place.

“Do I even have the right to go? To be there?”

The question echoed painfully. As a hero, he owed respect. But as a person… he was still just a stranger. An intruder in a house of mourning that wasn’t his.

It was the same feeling he’d carried through all the funerals: standing off to the side, merely a witness. He remembered Alfred’s silence by Bruce’s grave, Dick’s coin, Wally’s trembling fist at Barry’s burial, Conor’s arrow loosed into the clouds for Oliver, Zatanna’s burning card for her father. He had been at every one. Always at the back. Always the outsider.

The quiet was interrupted when the door opened with a discreet creak.

Alfred Pennyworth entered with unshaken composure, balancing a silver tray with a steaming cup of tea. His steps were soft, nearly soundless on the polished floor, yet carried decades of discipline and silent grief.

He placed the tray carefully on the coffee table, the routine as precise as ever, as though even in mourning, order itself was the anchor holding the house together.

Midoriya looked up briefly. Alfred’s gaze held no curiosity, only care — restrained, measured, knowing the balance between presence and intrusion.

Without a word, the butler stepped back, pausing by the fireplace. The portrait of Bruce dominated the wall above, and Alfred lifted his eyes to it, searching for a silent answer. Only after a long, contained sigh did he turn and leave, leaving the boy alone again.

And yet Midoriya realized: that simple gesture, part of daily routine, meant more than any speech. Alfred treated him as someone who belonged.

Alone once more, Midoriya’s gaze drifted back to the massive portrait of Bruce Wayne above the fireplace. The sober, impenetrable expression seemed to weigh on him, as though Batman himself still lingered, waiting for an answer, a choice. The portrait carried more than the man’s likeness — it bore the weight of his legacy.

A shiver ran down Midoriya’s spine. He had never met Bruce Wayne, never heard his voice or his lessons, yet standing beneath that gaze, he felt judged. It was as if the Dark Knight’s eyes demanded: “And you? What will you do now?”

His throat went dry. The tea on the table cooled untouched, and the silence grew heavy until he dared to break it with a whisper, breathless but loaded with meaning:

“Would he go?”

The question wasn’t only about Bruce. It was about Clark. Diana. Barry. Oliver. About what it meant to be a hero in a world stripped of all its symbols.

And as the mansion’s shadows stretched around him, Midoriya knew that sooner or later, he would have to answer.

—

 

Part 2

 

Midoriya descended the stone steps with hesitant strides, the echo of his shoes faint in the cold, cavernous space. The Batcave, though silent, felt alive — not with the energy of its prime, but with the weight of memories frozen in time.

The glass cases that once held uniforms were coated in a fine layer of dust, as though even the symbols inside had lost their purpose. The latest Batmobile sat in the corner, still scarred with soot from the last battle — a metallic wound no one had dared to erase.

The central terminal cast its bluish glow against the shadows, screens cycling through old files and reports as if Dick returned night after night, trying to relive a time that would never come back. Each flicker of light made Midoriya feel as if this place was less a base and more a mausoleum.

At the heart of it all, in front of the enormous terminal, sat Dick Grayson. He wore a black hoodie, gloves tossed aside, his hands gripping the edge of the desk as if the contact with something solid was the only way to stay grounded.

Midoriya stopped a few steps back, drawing a deep breath. He hesitated. He wanted to respect the space, the grief, the solitude Dick had been nurturing here for weeks. But the weight inside him had grown too heavy.

He stepped forward.

“Dick…” he called, his voice low, as though afraid to disturb the fragile balance of the cave.

Dick didn’t turn. His eyes remained fixed on the scrolling code and images before him, as if every second on the screens was a shield against facing the world outside them.

“You busy?” Midoriya pressed, trying for a casual tone, though the words came out more fragile than intended.

“Always.” The reply was clipped, dry, almost automatic — like a conditioned reflex.

Midoriya bit his lip, dropped his gaze for a moment, then lifted it again with renewed resolve.

“I… I saw on the news. About the ceremony. The official burial for the League…”

The words had barely left his mouth before Dick cut him off, voice firm, sharp as steel:

“I’m not going.”

He didn’t shout. There was no explosive anger. But the tone carried the weight of stone, an absolute refusal that pressed down on Midoriya’s chest.

Midoriya had braced for it, but the sting still hit deep. He took another step closer, now standing beside the chair where the youngest Grayson sat.

“I think… I think it matters,” he said, struggling to find the words. “They were… your family too. Maybe… maybe you haven’t had the chance to really say goodbye.”

Dick kept his eyes on the screens, but his fingers trembled faintly against the desk. The monitor’s glow lit his face, and Midoriya saw that behind the cold exterior, something was close to breaking.

“I already said goodbye,” Dick muttered, softer now, as if repeating the words to himself. “At Bruce’s grave. At the others’. I don’t need some public farewell — speeches, flags, presidents trying to play at being heroes.”

The last word dripped with quiet disdain. And in that moment, Midoriya realized: Dick wasn’t rejecting the ceremony itself. He was rejecting the pain of reliving it all over again.

Silence fell. Midoriya clasped his hands tight, fingers interlocked, his voice quivering when he finally spoke:

“I can’t go alone…”

Dick’s brow furrowed, the rigid mask faltering. It wasn’t an excuse or a whim. It was a raw plea, stripped of all defenses.

Midoriya lifted his gaze, and for the first time in weeks, Dick met his eyes. He didn’t see reports, battles, or the cold demands of heroism in them. He saw the vulnerability of a boy who, despite immense power, still felt like a foreigner. He saw the burden of someone who had inherited an unbearable weight… and who now begged, silently, not to carry it alone.

“I need you,” Midoriya finished, his voice breaking.

The silence in the Batcave deepened. Even the hum of the computers seemed to fade, as though the machines themselves were holding their breath.

Dick sat frozen for long moments, his eyes locked on Midoriya’s. Gradually, the hardness in his expression softened. His shoulders eased, as though invisible armor was falling away piece by piece.

He turned fully in his chair, elbows resting on his knees, and exhaled a long, weary sigh.

“If you go… I’ll go.”

Midoriya blinked, taking in the words like something rare, precious. He didn’t speak. He only nodded.

He knew Dick didn’t want thanks. Just someone to stand with him.

The terminal continued to cycle through echoes of the past: mission logs, Bruce’s files, recordings of battles that felt distant now, almost unreal. The glow lit the Batcave with cold reflections, reminders of all that was gone.

But for the first time in weeks, Dick wasn’t staring at them. He was staring at Midoriya.

And Midoriya felt something loosen inside. He still carried doubt, unease, the nagging sense he didn’t fully belong. But none of that mattered right now. Because he wouldn’t be alone.

Dick leaned back, resting his hands on his knees, eyes heavy with exhaustion and grief. But beneath it, there was something new: a spark of decision.

Midoriya stood, body finally easing, as though he could breathe again.

Neither spoke. They didn’t need to.

The silence between them wasn’t suffocating anymore. It was understanding. Camaraderie.

On the central screen, a frozen image lingered: the Justice League, united on a mission, their faces steady, uniforms pristine. A cruel reminder of a time that would never return.

Midoriya looked at the image, then at Dick.

Dick did the same.

And without words, they shared the same thought: somehow, they would keep going.
Not to replace those who were gone.
Not to bear the world alone.
But to stand together when the world needed them again.

The future remained uncertain. But that night, for the first time, Midoriya knew he wouldn’t face it alone.

--

Part 3

 

Midoriya climbed the stairs from the Batcave back into the mansion slowly, his heart still racing after the conversation with Dick. He felt relief, yes, but also apprehension. Convincing Dick had been hard… and now he needed to talk to the others. He had to gather what was left of them — not only for himself, but because, somehow, he knew it was what Bruce would have done.

He sat in an armchair in the library, drew a long breath, picked up his phone, and, with a hesitant touch, made the first call.

 

---

Call 1 — Wally West (Central City)

The screen lit up, and soon Wally appeared. He was lying sideways on a couch with a large bucket of fried chicken wedged between his chest and arm. The TV in the background blasted a loud sitcom, canned laughter filling the room like it was trying to drown out the silence that really lived there.

“Hey, Mid,” Wally greeted, mouth half full, lifting a piece of chicken as if to toast. The smile was quick, automatic. But his eyes… didn’t follow.

Midoriya returned a nervous, almost timid smile.
“Hey, Wally… You… doing okay?”

Wally shrugged, chewing slowly.
“As good as it gets, right?” he said, before glancing back at the TV and forcing a laugh in sync with the canned one.

Midoriya watched in silence. He noticed how Wally’s smile died the moment he looked away, his shoulders tense despite the lazy pose. The chicken was just distraction; the sitcom, just a shield.

Midoriya took a breath. No time for circles.
“You… saw the news?” he asked, his voice firmer than he expected.

Wally stopped chewing. The piece of chicken froze in midair for a second before he dropped it back into the bucket. The smile disappeared.
“Yeah,” he said flatly, eyes locked on the floor.

Silence stretched, heavy. Midoriya’s grip tightened around the phone.
“I… I’m thinking of going,” he said carefully. “I think… you should be there too. They were your family, Wally… your friends. Maybe it’s time to say goodbye for real.”

Wally sighed, dragging a hand over his face, covering his eyes. The sitcom droned on, but he didn’t hear it anymore.
“I don’t know, man,” he muttered, voice shaking. “I don’t know if I can. Feels like… like everything will crash all over again if I go. Like I’ll relive every damn second.”

Midoriya swallowed hard, chest tightening.
“I’m scared too,” he admitted honestly. “But you don’t have to face it alone.”

Wally stayed quiet. The only sound left was the hollow laughter on TV, now bitter. Then, suddenly, he let out a small, nervous laugh — half-sob, half-surrender.
“Okay,” he said, looking up at the camera. His eyes were red, wet, but there was steel in his voice. “If you’re going… I’m going. Not leaving you alone in this.”

Midoriya closed his eyes briefly, like that okay had lifted tons off his shoulders.
“Thanks… really.”

Wally gave a tired half-smile.
“See you there,” he said, ending the call.

The screen went dark, leaving Midoriya staring at his own reflection. One step forward. Still more to take.

 

---

Call 2 — Roy Harper (Star City)

The call rang several times before Roy picked up. The camera wobbled, showing him sprawled on a bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. The room was dim and messy, as if it mirrored the weight inside him.

“Talk,” he said curtly, barely glancing at the screen.

Midoriya hesitated but forced the words out.
“I… I wanted to talk about the ceremony. The League’s official burial…”

Roy closed his eyes and scoffed, impatient.
“Not happening.”

The answer hit like a punch. Midoriya drew in a breath, voice gentler, careful.
“I know you don’t want to. I get it. But… they were part of your life, Roy. Your family. Not being there… won’t change that. It’ll only make the emptiness heavier.”

Roy stayed silent, eyes fixed on the ceiling. No anger, no explosion. Just the heavy silence of someone too worn out to build another wall.

Midoriya clutched the phone tighter.
“I never knew them. Not like you did. But maybe that’s exactly why you should go. Because they were yours. Because they were part of you.”

A long sigh escaped on the other end. Roy dragged a hand over his face, covering his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was low, raw.
“Fine,” he muttered. “See you there.”

The call dropped.

Midoriya sat still, staring at the black screen. It wasn’t victory, not relief. Just proof that they were all broken… but still trying not to collapse.

 

---

Call 3 — Zatanna (San Francisco)

The camera opened to Zatanna on her couch, a tub of ice cream in her lap, spoon forgotten in her hand. A movie played in the background, but she wasn’t watching. Her face carried the exhaustion of weeks of mourning, eyes red as if from tears shed earlier.

“Hey, Midoriya,” she said softly, her voice faint.

“Hey,” he answered, giving a small, tentative smile. “You… saw the news, right?”

She closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. That was answer enough.
“Yeah,” she whispered, the word dragging.

They sat in silence for a moment. Zatanna stirred the ice cream absentmindedly, never eating.

“I don’t know if I can do it, Midoriya,” she admitted, voice trembling. “There’ve been so many funerals… so many goodbyes. I don’t know if there’s any part of me left that can take another.”

Midoriya’s chest ached.
“I get it,” he said carefully. “They weren’t mine… but they were yours. Your family. And I think that’s exactly why… you need to be there. Because this goodbye… is yours.”

Zatanna lifted her gaze to the screen. Her wet eyes glistened in the faint light. A fragile, painful smile touched her lips.
“You talk like you’re not part of this too…” she murmured, almost accusing.

Midoriya looked away, unable to answer.

Zatanna wiped a stray tear quickly, then straightened, her voice firmer.
“Alright. I’ll go.”

Midoriya blinked, surprised.
“Really?”

“Really,” she nodded. “Because you’re right. They were our family. And someone has to remember that.”

Her smile held, fragile but real. Midoriya mirrored it, warmth flickering where there had only been weight.

When the call ended, he set the phone down and leaned back, eyes shut. One by one, they’d said yes. Not because it was easy — but because it was right.

 

---

Midoriya let the phone fall into his lap and closed his eyes. They were all in this together now. He didn’t know if it would bring relief, but… it was what they could do.

At least they wouldn’t be alone.

 

--

Part 4

 

The silence weighed heavily in the Wayne Manor library. Towering shelves, lined with volumes embossed with the family crest in gold, stood like mute witnesses to yet another story of loss and resilience. Midoriya ended the last call, the phone resting warm in his palm from the contact.

He sat there, motionless, as if time itself had frozen in that instant.

The farewells pressed on him. Not only the funerals, but the way each loss reshaped those who remained: Wally, Roy, Zatanna, Dick. They all carried deep scars, memories of giants who had been their families, their guides. Midoriya did not share those memories, but he felt their echo in every gesture, every silence.

It was as if the weight of that legacy also extended to him.
He heard light footsteps approaching.

“You did it, didn’t you?” Dick asked, stopping at his side.
Midoriya lifted his gaze and met Dick Grayson’s eyes — so young and yet so ancient. He only nodded, too drained for words.

Dick stayed quiet for a few seconds, then sat down in the armchair beside him, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, unconsciously mirroring Midoriya’s posture.
That was how they often sat these days: side by side, silent, but present.

This time, however, Dick broke the silence.

“I don’t know if I want to go for them…” he admitted, his voice low, almost rough. “I think it’s for us. To remind ourselves we can still stand, even after everything.”

Midoriya absorbed those words in silence. And he understood: it wasn’t only about honoring the dead, but ensuring the living didn’t collapse with them.

The soft, measured sound of footsteps interrupted the moment.

Alfred appeared in the doorway of the library, carrying himself with the same elegance and discretion as always. He asked no questions; he merely observed the scene — two boys, burdened with weights far heavier than they should bear.

There was something almost paternal in the way Alfred leaned on his cane, his face etched with lines not only of age, but of years spent waging silent wars, serving not just the Wayne family, but the symbol of Batman itself.

After a few seconds of contemplation, he spoke, his voice calm and steady:
“The Wayne family… and their friends… always attend.”
Midoriya raised his eyes, surprised by the firmness in those words. Dick did not react outwardly, but Midoriya noticed the slight tremor in him, as if the butler had touched a memory still raw.

Alfred stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the portrait of Bruce above the fireplace, before continuing, more softly:
“I stood beside him through too many funerals. And in every one, he never failed to be present… even when he was the last one left to attend.”

The silence that followed carried weight, but not grief. It was almost an unspoken instruction: if Bruce had never failed to honor the fallen, then neither could they.
Midoriya slowly turned his head until his eyes settled on the portrait above the fireplace.

Bruce Wayne.

The Batman.

The painting was large, imposing, and yet somehow solitary. Bruce stood on one of the mansion’s balconies, his gaze fixed on Gotham’s horizon, as if forever expecting the city to demand something from him. There was no cape, no mask. Just a man in formal attire — but with the shadow of the Dark Knight written in his stance.

Midoriya shivered. He had never met Bruce, had never heard his voice or his lessons, but it was impossible not to feel his presence in that portrait. It wasn’t merely the image of a billionaire or a hero. It was the memory of someone who had chosen to become more than a man — and who, in the end, had paid the price for it.

A symbol.

The word echoed in his mind.

He wondered if Bruce truly believed he could save Gotham alone, or if he only pretended, night after night, because he couldn’t bear to watch anyone else fall. Perhaps that was what it meant to be a symbol: not standing above others, but standing ahead of them — taking the blows no one else could.

Midoriya’s hand traced slowly along the armrest of his chair. He would never be Bruce Wayne, never have that sharp mind or that cold resolve. But maybe he could learn something from the portrait watching him from above: that symbols weren’t made of perfection… but of choices.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the silence of the library wash over him. When he opened them again, his mind was no longer only in the manor, but with the faces he had just seen through his phone: Wally, hiding pain behind jokes; Roy, rigid as a wall ready to crumble; Zatanna, holding herself together by threads; and Dick, at his side, carrying the weight of a name larger than his age should allow.

They were broken. Each in their own way, each fighting to survive the emptiness left by the giants who came before. But they were still here. Still breathing. Still had each other.
Midoriya drew in a deep breath.

“We’ll go. All of us.” he murmured, as if speaking softly so as not to scare away the fragile conviction rising within him.

This wasn’t Midoriya’s story. They weren’t his mentors, his gods, his symbols.

But they were the ties of the friends now walking at his side. And that was enough.

Because, in the end, it wasn’t about inheriting the weight of Clark, Bruce, or Diana. It was about not letting the void consume them.

It was about moving forward.

Midoriya rose from his chair, and Dick rose with him. As they left the library, with Bruce’s portrait watching from above, Midoriya no longer thought of himself as a stranger in a foreign world.

He thought only of the silent promise he made there: to walk beside them — not to replace those who were gone, but to make sure those who remained never fell.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Knights of Tomorrow