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Chapter Text

Alfred Pennyworth woke up at six a.m, got dressed, had a cup of coffee, and went on to perform his duties for the day: dusting, cooking a meal for Master Wayne, entering the Batcave for some maintenance work, and analyzing recent criminal activity for his boss.

Alfred Pennyworth was one of the few people in the world who know his master Bruce Wayne had the secret identity of Batman, the Dark Knight of Gotham City. Bruce Wayne had been Batman for more than fifteen years and Alfred had been his most important assistant from the beginning. From helping him design new gadgets to assisting him in his field operations, Alfred had always been there, always loyal, always offering his best.

It was that spirit of concern and loyalty that led Alfred Pennyworth in front of Bruce's room ready to open the door. Bruce's duties as Batman, the vigilante hero of Gotham meant he had to act during the night, and he seldom returned home before five a.m. To maintain himself Bruce Wayne needed six hours of sleep every night, which meant he would not wake up until eleven a.m. It wouldn't hurt to check how he was doing though Alfred thought.

It was seven a.m when Alfred stood in front of Master Wayne's bedroom and touched the handle … when the beeper of his belt buzzed.

Alfred's eyes widened in surprise and fear. The buzz meant something important had happened, something terrible. What was wrong?

Alfred took one big breath, then another, turned the handle, entered Bruce's room as quietly as possible, and looked at the bed. Bruce Wayne was there — thank goodness for that! — and was sound asleep. Alfred looked around. The room seemed in order, everything was in its place. Satisfied, he took another breath and quietly exited the room, closing the door behind him.

Only two types of events would cause that buzzing sound. Either Master Wayne was in big trouble or something terrible of enormous magnitude had just happened in the world. Fortunately, there was a specialized application in his and his master's smartphone connected with his beeper via Bluetooth that scanned the internet for such terrible news. With trembling and sweating hands, Alfred Pennyworth picked the phone from his right inner coat pocket, turned the screen on and started reading.

“What the hell!” he said when he read the news, almost dropping the phone. Alfred looked at the phone again and reread the message.

“This cannot be!” he said, in a louder voice this time. Wasting no time, he opened the door rushed to the bed.

“Master Wayne! Wake up! Master Wayne!”

It had been a rather unpleasant night for Bruce Wayne. For starters, a date he had with a beautiful blonde had been a failure. She had been too snobbish and too rude.

At about twelve o'clock, Bruce Wayne had returned to Wayne Manor to start his night as Batman. Unfortunately, his target for the night — a mob boss — had been better prepared for trouble than he had anticipated. He had double the number of bodyguards Batman had expected, and they were more heavily armed than he had estimated. He had taken seven shots to the chest and although his Batsuit armor had absorbed them, he still ached from their impact to his body.

At five a.m he returned to the Batcave and went upstairs to sleep. But before sleeping he remembered he had forgotten to inform Alfred about an urgent meeting with foreign investors at ten a.m. Dammit! He was hurt, tired, and he would only sleep for four hours to be on time!

In fact, he would barely sleep more than two hours during the night...

“Wake up! Master Wayne!” Was that a dream or Alfred really had shouted at him? If it was a dream it involved all of his senses because someone was touching his shoulder in a very violent manner.

No, he was not dreaming. His butler was for real. But why? Had he remembered to inform Alfred for the meeting after all and Alfred was trying to wake him up?

“Master Wayne!” Alfred said, his eyes wide and his face in an expression of fear. The moment he looked at him, Bruce Wayne instantly woke up. Alfred would never wake him up like that for no reason at all.

“What is wrong Alfred? Tell me,” Bruce said.

“The Big One Master Wayne!” Alfred replied. “We must hurry!”

Being Batman means among other things excellent reflexes. Within half a second, Bruce Wayne almost jumped from the bed to the floor. Both men started running for the library.

There was an old clock in the library that looked like a replica of Big Ben in London. It was one of the ones with a pendulum that made a sound every sixty minutes when the new hour started. It was also the place where Bruce Wayne and his butler Alfred had hidden the secret switch that opened the secret entrance to the Batcave.

Bruce pressed a hidden button behind the watch with his right index finger. The button had a fingerprint identification scanner and combined with the pressure of Bruce's finger deactivated an electronic lock behind one of the walls to the library. Alfred pushed the part of the wall and a secret passage opened. Both men rushed to the passage, Bruce still barefoot.

Bruce closed and locked the door to the passage behind them with a bolt while Alfred stood in front of another door with a fingerprint identification panel and a numeric keyboard. He put his right index finger to the panel until a light flashed green. Wasting no time, he typed the four digits needed to unlock the door in front of him. For this month the digits were in succession 1, 9, 4, 5.

With a chill on his spine Alfred realized what the four digits symbolized. 1945, the year the first nuclear weapons were used.

As soon as he typed them, the door opened and both men entered the small elevator behind it. There were two buttons on it. The first one was for ground level and the second for the Batcave that doubled as a nuclear shelter. Alfred pressed the second button. Bruce looked at him in a puzzled look.

“Look for yourself Master Wayne,” Alfred said offering his smartphone. Bruce Wayne took it, turned its screen on and read the message. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and read again. The message was in capital letters. “THE PLANET IS AT WAR! NUKES EVERYWHERE! WASHINGTON, NEW YORK, PEARL HARBOR ARE HIT!”

Both men remained silent. None of them dared to ask whether Gotham City would be spared. Both of them knew it wouldn't. It was only a matter of hours at best.

As soon as the elevator stopped, both men rushed outside. Alfred activated the mechanical lock that isolated the Batcave from the surface, while Bruce undressed and started wearing one of the spare Batsuits available.

“OK Master Wayne. We are safe for the time being.”

“Unless they fire a nuke against Wayne Manor,” Bruce Wayne replied. “OK Alfred, let's check what is going on.”

There was a powerful computer and Alfred switched it on. Bruce entered his login and password, searched the internet for major news sites and started reading.

“Nuclear weapons have hit Washington! The White House and the Pentagon are in ruins! The President is still missing! Did he survive?”

“Strategic Air Command Bombers in the sky!” another site announced, also offering a link to its commanding officer's Twitter account. “We are going up, we are attacking, and we are not coming back! God bless America!” The news site announced the Head of Strategic Air Command was inside on of the bombers to personally guide it to its destination.

Meanwhile, the situation was deteriorating. San Francisco, Houston in Texas, Tampa in Florida, New Jersey, Detroit, and Dallas … all of them nuked. How millions had already died?

Bruce Wayne searched the internet for worldwide news. Europe, Asia, Africa, Latin America … all of them hit by nukes. What had happened there? Had the world gone crazy within the last twenty-four hours?

“Peking in flames! Shanghai hit by three nukes!”

“Will anyone survive Master Wayne? Will they spare anyone?”

“I don't know Alfred. It is as if they want to spend all their arsenals.”

In another computer monitor, a map of the world appeared. The oceans and the seas appeared dark blue while the land appeared light green. Red spots showed the land areas hit with nuclear weapons. It appeared as if every major city on Earth had been hit. Washington, Moscow, Paris, Peking, … the dots were everywhere. In some areas like Central Europe, the United States Eastern Seaborne, and China biggest port cities they even formed clusters. These were the areas most hit.

The map on the screen was updated every minute. To their' horror, the dots increased after each update. Vancouver in Canada appeared to have survived for instance. But only two minutes and two updates later two red dots appeared on it.

Bruce Wayne used a computer mouse to focus on a particular area on the map and zoomed a few times to bring Gotham City into focus. No red dots marked it. Would their luck hold?

A sudden vibration knocked both men on the floor. Everything not bolted somewhere fell to the floor as well. Alfred fell on top of Bruce Wayne and his head hit his employer's right shoulder.

“I am so sorry Master Wayne,” Alfred said trying to get up. A few seconds later both men were on their feet only to both fall to the floor again when a second powerful vibration occurred. Once more Bruce stood, then helped Alfred on his feet.

Both men looked at each other, their eyes wide with fear. They stood there, motionless. They both understood, they both knew, they both only needed to turn their heads ninety degrees to see the truth. But none of them could bring himself to do it.

“It's OK Alfred,” Bruce Wayne said. “Let's face the truth together.” Alfred couldn't speak, couldn't even breathe. He barely nodded and turned his head ninety degrees to his right while Bruce turned his head ninety degrees to his left. Both men were looking at the Gotham City map on the monitor now.

The map of Gotham City was covered with two big overlapping red dots, the unmistakable sight of a nuclear explosion. There was no denying it now.

“We have run out of luck Mr. Wayne. Will anyone survive this?”

“Only the ones in nuclear shelters Alfred … and the ones in the subway.”

“The subway … how many people are inside it right now?”

“Not many I am afraid. It is still too early in the morning.”

The Gotham City Metro was one of the biggest construction projects in Gotham City. Created by Construct Inc, the Wayne Enterprises construction subsidiary, the Metro had one circular rail line that run under the perimeter of Gotham City center. The line was about twenty kilometers long and there was one station every one thousand meters. In addition, there were many underground tunnels for pedestrians that connected many parts of the city with the stations.

Dr. Lucius Fox, CEO of Wayne Enterprises had three major considerations when Bruce Wayne asked him to personally supervise the Metro construction process. One, the construction should be very sturdy and the main line and the stations should be as deep underground as possible because Bruce Wayne wanted the Metro to double as a nuclear shelter. Two, the construction should be of high quality to last for decades. Three, there would be a connection between the Batcave and the Metro plus many hidden areas where Batman could operate.

Bruce Wayne knew the Metro offered many opportunities for crime from pick-pocketing to acts of terrorism. On the other hand, the Metro allowed Batman to move from one place of the city to the other using faster and without detection.

The red dots in the map kept increasing. It appeared as if every city with more than half a million inhabitants had been nuked. Who had started it and why? Was it a misunderstanding? Was it a powerful crisis brewing for a long time until it caused a catastrophe? Bruce Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth had no way to know.

“It is all pointless Master Wayne. We are doomed!” Alfred said in a whisper. Batman realized his loyal butler was sitting on the floor unable to stand up. There were tears in his eyes and he appeared catatonic. The magnitude of the destruction had hit him hard.

Bruce Wayne checked another monitor that showed a map of the Gotham City Metro with information about each station. According to the map all station doors were closed. He breathed a sigh of relief. These doors were made of reinforced steel ten inches thick and could withstand nuclear blasts. In addition, when thy closed the Metro became airtight and radiation-proof.

How many people had already died? Bruce Wayne checked internet sites around the world. To his dismay, most of them were gone. “Billions gone!” were the only words in one of the remaining ones … just a few seconds before its signal was lost. Checking the map with the red dots only showed him red dots everywhere. And as a reminder, the ground shook under him, the unmistakable sign of another nearby nuclear blast.

“What did we do?” It was Alfred's voice. He still was sitting on the floor, still sobbing.

Would there be more survivors in other parts of the world? Or would the survivors in the Gotham City Metro be the last ones? Bruce Wayne didn't know.

Bruce looked at Alfred again, then back to the monitor with the map of the Metro. Thousands of people were trapped in it, and they would remain so till the radiation levels decreased outside, something that would take decades to happen. What would happen to them during those decades?

Bruce analyzed the situation. Human beings created laws, customs, and states to give order to chaos and help themselves improve their odds of survival and prosperity in the world. Now everything had fallen apart. The official authorities in the city like the mayor or the chief of police were either dead or dying. Even if they somehow survived, how many would still obey their commands?

Why had Bruce Wayne become Batman? Because he wanted to help people fight crime when the official authorities couldn't or wouldn't. What should Batman do when the official authorities were either gone or about to lose their legitimacy to the eyes of the people? Would he sit on the floor and cry just like Alfred already did?

Batman did not accuse Alfred for sitting on the floor and crying The nuclear war had already caused millions of deaths, something even the most hardened people would find devastating. But apart from that, it also shattered a man's faith in basic human common sense and basic human goodness.

“What have we done? Why did we become such monsters?” Alfred whispered.

It would be so easy to sit on the floor and cry, Bruce Wayne thought. But Bruce Wayne hadn't become Batman because his default mode of action was passivity. He hadn't become Batman because he had lost faith in humanity. And last but not least, he hadn't become Batman only to abandon his fellow humans when they most needed him.

Bruce Wayne looked at his reflection on a computer monitor. He was wearing the Batman costume, the one he had worn for so many years fighting criminals and helping his fellow Gothamites. He turned to face Alfred.

Alfred Pennyworth looked at Master Wayne. He looked at the man who had been his boss and also his best friend for the past thirty years. He looked at Bruce Wayne wiping his tears, steadying his body, picking up his cowl and putting it on.

Alfred Pennyworth didn't need any talking, any explanation, any encouragement. He stood up, wiped his tears as well, and waited for his Master's command.

Batman looked at his trusted friend, a thin smile on his lips.

“Alfred,” the Dark Knight of Gotham said, “I don't know if there are survivors anywhere else. I don't know if the mayor and the police will maintain order. But I know one thing.”

“Yes Master Wayne?”

“The people down there will need help to survive till help arrives. And Batman might be their only hope.”

“It certainly looks that way Sir.”

“And Batman will need his best friend and the best butler in Gotham City to help him. Will you help me Alfred?”

“Till my last breath Master Wayne! Till my last breath!”

Chapter Text

        
        6 am.
        The small alarm clock rang next to the man's head. With a slight curse, he grabbed it and pressed the snooze button. Still feeling groggy, he tried to stand up.
        "Good morning, Master Wayne," a man said from a distance.
        Bruce Wayne smiled, the first and probably his last smile for the day. 
        He had lost everything during the last twenty years: his friends, his relatives, his house, his fortune. Only his best friend remained alive, ready to serve him at all times.
        His friend and his duty to serve.
        "Good morning, Alfred," Bruce replied and stood up. 
        He looked around him. His room was very small and frugal. It only had a bed, a small table with the alarm clock on top, and a small closet with his last remaining clothes. Nothing else. No thick and elegant carpets like his bedroom in Wayne Manor. No mahogany furniture, no silk curtains, no expensive silverware.
        Bruce had built that small room purely for auxiliary purposes. He used it only when he was too tired to return to  Wayne Manor after a night of action. Or when he was too busy to leave his center of operations and needed a quick nap. Or when he really wanted to find some isolation to focus on a serious issue. Only after the nukes hit Earth's major cities and the Wayne Manor became too irradiated did he make it his permanent and only residence.
        Bruce picked up a pair of washed out jeans, a pair of socks, and a pair of shoes. He had lost count how many times he had worn the pants and the shoes, and even Alfred had lost count how many times he had mended the socks. 
        After putting his clothes on, he exited his small room and entered the Batcave. Alfred was somewhere in it, maintaining the equipment and gathering intel for him.
        
        Batcave! That was how Bruce Wayne had nicknamed the nuclear shelter his father had built under the Wayne Manor decades ago. After his parents were murdered, Bruce had spent long nights there, alone, isolated, trying to escape from the people around him. He wanted to think and think hard.
        Gradually, Bruce returned to the surface and started socializing. He became a well-known playboy, flirting, womanizing, and having fun.
        But all of it had been an act, a carefully constructed lie to hide his true values, his true purpose, his true identity. His real identity was Batman, the crime fighting vigilante who roamed the streets and the roofs of Gotham City hunting down criminals. The persona of the playboy had been a careful misdirection. Only Alfred knew about his identity. 
        In addition, only Alfred knew where Batman's center of operations was. He and Bruce had spent years converting the nuclear shelter to the center of operations for the masked vigilante.
        The Batcave was the ideal shelter for Batman. It was quiet, isolated, and safe, able to withstand even a nuclear attack. It was also very convenient: nobody could reach it except Batman and Alfred, and both of them could do so within seconds from a carefully hidden entrance inside Wayne Manor.
        The Batcave was the place where the masked vigilante analyzed his cases, where his crime lab was located, and where his training equipment was. It was also the place he spent hours thinking, contemplating, and learning, all to become a more effective anti-crime warrior.
        And after the nuclear war, it was his only home left.
        
        Batman opened the door and entered a small room. There were dozens of monitors on the wall. Some of them still transmitted images, but most of them were black, some of them permanently. A man was sitting on a big chair in front of them, and taking notes on a yellow notepad.
        "Hello, Alfred. Any news from the world?"
        "Do you want the good ones or the bad ones first, Master Wayne?"
        Bruce Wayne tried to smile. It was a forced one, the smile someone gives when he has lost all hope but still wants to inspire others to maintain theirs.
        Had Alfred realized he was faking it? Perhaps. It was Alfred who had raised him after his parents were murdered. It was Alfred who knew him better than he knew himself. But he never complained that Bruce was faking his optimism. And Bruce never found the courage to ask him about it.
        Alfred himself had lost hope from day one, the day the nukes hit the Earth. As for Batman himself... it had been a much more complex story.
        "OK, Alfred," Bruce said, playing along. "Tell me the good ones first."
        "Just one, but you are going to like it. Your breakfast is ready."
        "These are wonderful news. What do we have for breakfast?"
        "Oh, the good stuff, sir. Mushrooms and coffee made of mushrooms."
        "Incredible!" said Bruce, trying to sound enthusiastic. "Do we also have mushrooms in the oven for lunch?"
        "I opted for mushroom soup today," replied Alfred. "It was lighter for the stomach."
        "Great news, Alfred. And that  means we have... two good news today!"
        It was a lame attempt to cheer Alfred up, but it somehow  worked. Alfred lost his usual gloomy exterior, even if it was for only a few seconds.
        "Would you like the negative ones now, sir?"
        "Are they urgent?"
        "Nope, they can wait for after your workout."
        
        Bruce smiled and finished his coffee. It was not as good as the original one made by coffee beans and its taste left a lot to be desired. But when you are isolated in a confined underground area because the Earth above you has become radioactive waste, your options are limited.
        Bruce Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth were not the only ones who had to alter their lifestyles. All surviving humans  had to do the same. Gone were the fresh fruit and vegetables. Gone was the fresh meat. Gone was fishing.
        For most survivors, mushrooms became the most common source of food. It was a matter of practicality: they required no sunlight to grow, they didn't require expensive and complex facilities, and there was a great variety of them. You could also use them to replace many types of food: soups, mushrooms in the oven, mushroom coffee, and many others.
        
        There was a small gym inside Batcave. It was ten times smaller than the one Bruce had at Wayne Manor, and it only had basic equipment. Nevertheless, it was Batman's favorite gym. Before the war, It was where he went to distress after a tiring day. After the nuclear holocaust, it was the place he visited every morning to maintain his physical strength and to his sanity. Working out was his own form of meditation.
        
        7am.
        Batman finished his workout. He did dozens of squats, push-ups, triceps, plank, and some weight lifting. It was necessary for him if he wanted to maintain his body. Sweating, he exited the gym and went for a cold shower.
        There was only one small shower in the Batcave. It took water from a well, dozens of meters below ground. Fortunately, the radiation had not contaminated the water. Unfortunately, there was not enough energy to heat it, so Batman had to take his showers cold.
        Bruce didn't complain though. Even after the war, his living conditions were much, much better than the ones the vast majority of the survivors faced. There were many people in the Metro who could only shower once a month. Not to mention that for most “home” was nothing more than two square meters and a curtain.
        
        His quick shower over, Batman put his clothes back on and went to finish his breakfast. Mushrooms again. At least Alfred cooked a different type every day for variety.
        His breakfast over, Bruce headed for the control room. Alfred was already there, having spent hours looking at the monitors and taking notes.
        
        There were dozens of cameras in the Metro Station. Wayne Enterprises had installed them when they built the Metro. Their primary use was to inform the Station Chief about  accidents, but they also served a vital secondary function: they monitored crime. And since Bruce Wayne controlled Wayne Enterprises, he had arranged the signal from the cameras to not only reach the Police but also the Batcave.
        Unfortunately, many of those cameras were no longer functioning. Many were destroyed during the first days after the war, when people found shelter in the Metro. They were sad, they were angry, they had lost loved ones, and they wanted to smash things to vent their feelings. And cameras were an obvious and easy target to destroy.
        Fortunately, most of the cameras were hidden and survived the wrath of the angry crowds. But even they could not survive the lack of spare parts. One by one, they went out of action.
        Yes, Batman is fast and agile, but he cannot observe all stations at all times. Only cameras could do that, but only if they functioned. Keeping them working soon became a top priority for him.
        Batman and Alfred did their best to maintain the cameras. They had the foresight to store spare parts in the Batcave before the war. They also tried to salvage as many functioning parts from destroyed ones. 
        The efforts paid off. In 2033, many years after the war started, the camera network still functioned, a remarkable achievement.
        But despite their best efforts, most cameras were gone, leaving huge gaps in their coverage. Even worse, most destroyed ones were in the stations with the most riots and the most troublemakers. That made sense, of course: the more the troublemakers, the more the damaged stuff, and the harder for Batman to approach the area and repair the equipment. Alfred and his boss had the least coverage in exactly the areas they needed it most.
        Nevertheless, they persisted. They had lost hope for humanity, they had lost hope about the future, but they continued. And they would continue till the bitter end...
        
        "Talk to me, Alfred. What have you seen?"
        "The usual stuff, sir," said the loyal servant. "The quiet places remain quiet, the troublesome ones remain unseen for the most part."
        "How about our friends in law enforcement?"
        Alfred looked at him. There was a Metro Police Station tasked with crime prevention in the subway. Its members were the only law enforcement survivors in Gotham City .
        Before the war, Batman had established ties with law enforcement. He had a working relationship with Commissioner Gordon - the only totally honest police officer Gotham City had - that had benefited both parties. He provided the Police with intel about organized crime, and he occasionally captured dangerous criminals for them. As for Gordon, he discreetly - and illegally - provided him with intel about specific criminals. It was a win-win for both parties.
        After the nukes hit Gotham City, the cooperation continued. Batman exchanged information with the last Police survivors, and he assisted them whenever he could. Every morning, he received a message from them, a message Alfred was about to present him.
        "Nothing specific," Alfred said. "Things are as quiet as usual."
        "What about the clown?"
        Alfred sighed. The 'clown' was none other than the Joker, Batman's archenemy. He had survived the war, and he was hidden in the Metro. The Police tried to monitor his moves, and they informed Batman whenever they learned something about him.
        "No news, sir, I am afraid."
        "No news is good news. Or it means that asshole is up to something."
        "We have no cameras there. The closest one left is at the next station, an area outside Joker's control."
        "No use to us. OK, Alfred. No need to overanalyze it. Time to get to work."
        "You'll use the Heavy or the Light one, sir?"
        Batman thought for a second. He used two types of Batsuits in the Metro. The Heavy one had strong, bulletproof armor and more room for equipment. It was the one you used to survive in a fight. On the other hand, its weight made it more tiring for the body. You could only wear it for short periods of time before your exhaustion.
        The Light one was for extended use. You could spend days wearing it. But you sacrificed all the protection the Heavy one provided. You would be in a hopeless situation in a fight.
        In the end, Batman opted for the Light one, as he usually did. Granted, he would be more exposed if something unusual happened, but his mission for the day was a relatively safe one.
        
        A few minutes later, The Dark Knight of Gotham was ready. He memorized the list of tasks Alfred had prepared for and headed for the Batcave exit.
        "Good luck, Master Wayne. I'll keep an eye for you!"
        "Thanks," was all Bruce could say.
        
        
        

Chapter Text

Since Batman had been the one who built the Metro - as Bruce Wayne - he had made lots of secret modifications to help himself in his crime-fighting role. Some were simple ones, like the secret access that connected the Batcave to the main Metro tunnel. Others were more complex and had required lots of planning and foresight.

The most important and the most valuable one had been the Bat Metro as he and Alfred called it. That was a small tunnel, barely sixty centimeters in diameter that ran parallel to the main tunnel.

It had not been that hard to build the little tunnel while building the Metro. Supposedly, it had been built to add electricity cables and water pipes to the already existing infrastructure. 'Coincidentally' many different companies had built it, each creating a small part of it. Also 'coincidentally', other companies were to install the cables and the pipes, but for some 'inexplicable' reason they never did. 'Coincidentally', nobody knew the full picture, except Bruce Wayne himself.

The result had been the one Bruce and Alfred had wanted: a tunnel Batman could use to quickly go from one place of the Metro to the other.

Before the war, the Dark Knight had used the tunnel to quickly move around the city without anyone noticing. It was much more discreet than his car (the Batmobile) or his aircraft (the Batplane). Alfred had once jokingly called it the Bat Metro, Bruce had agreed, and the name had stuck.

Before the war, the Bat Metro was an auxiliary means of transportation. After the war, it was the one and only the Dark Knight had. Its existence was a well-kept secret Bruce and Alfred had never shared with anyone and they never would, for obvious reasons.

Originally, the Bat Metro had a small electricity powered wagon. Batman would load it with the necessary items for his task at hand, ride it, and be anywhere in the city within minutes. Afterwards, he would use one of the many secret exits and... voila! Let the criminals look at the sky while the Dark Knight attacked… from underground!

Batman stood up and headed for the Bat Tunnel entrance. His vehicle was there, parked and secured with a lock. It was a bit of a futile gesture since nobody had ever approached all those years. Nevertheless, Batman hadn’t survived all those years by taking chances.

The Dark Knight entered the small wagon, the Bat Train as he called it. Unlike an ordinary train, it was very small and very cramped. That made it a bit uncomfortable to ride, but there was no other way it could fit into such a narrow and confined tunnel. It had the size of a coffin, the only differences being it was cylindrical to fit into the tunnel and the man inside it was alive.

Batman laid down in an upside-down position. Fortunately, he was not claustrophobic, but it was still very cramped. He could barely move his legs to pedal the vehicle. Yes, he would have preferred it to move with electricity, but he could no longer do that. Even if the shockwaves from the nuclear explosions hadn’t cut the electricity cable inside the tunnel, the collapse of the electricity grid would after a couple of days.

Batman had tried to solve the problem with batteries that Alfred charged every night. For a while he could move as fast as he did before the war. But as the years passed, the batteries lost their power. One day, they stopped functioning after fifty meters, forcing the Dark Knight to crawl the small tunnel to return to the Batcave.

Since he could no longer use electricity, his only option was human power. That meant either his arms or his legs.

The Bat Train pedaling system was a rudimentary one. The pedal was attached to a wheel with teeth that connected to a line with teeth at the bottom of the tunnel. Originally, an electric engine powered the wheel, but now Bruce’s legs did all the work.

There were no breaks in the system. If Batman wanted to stop, he simply stopped pedaling. There was also no gearbox to change the vehicle’s speed or to get it in reverse. If he wanted to move faster, he pedaled faster.
If he wanted to go in reverse, he just pedaled in reverse. There was also no steering wheel and no need for it; the tunnel’s turns were all very gentle, and the Bat Train turned by itself on the small tunnel’s rails.

The whole system was very simple to create, operate, and most of it maintain. Batman never forgot to praise Alfred for building it. It was the best they could build with their extremely limited means, and it worked! What else could he ask?

Nuclear explosions are very powerful and destructive. Especially if they hit big population centers like Gotham City. Their shockwaves destroy the buildings, filling the ground with debris. The radiation that follows poisons the air, the ground, and the debris, slowly killing the remaining survivors.

A few days after the nukes hit Gotham, Batman had entered the Bat Train and made a full circle around the Bat Tunnel. As he had expected it, the debris had blocked most of the secret entrances. In the remaining ones, radiation levels were so high he opted to seal them, unwilling to let radiation and radioactive waste fill the tunnels.

Bruce Wayne and Alfred understood there had been survivors out there, survivors that might need their help. Some of them had been friends, relatives, colleagues, employees at Wayne Enterprises. It had been a sad decision to abandon them to their fate, but what could the Dark Knight do? Going outside to assist them would kill him. Who would then help the survivors inside the Metro, especially during the first, extremely critical days?

To be on the safe side, Batman had placed lead plates in the inside of the Bat Train, plates he had made just in case of nuclear war. (He hadn’t installed them before the war because they would add to the weight and thus make the train slower. Besides, they made the already cramped interior even more cramped). They had worked admiringly well, keeping radiation levels safe at all times. Granted, Batman now had to pedal harder, and his shoulders touched the train interiors, but staying alive was a higher priority.

The only thing outside the lead protection was the antenna of a specialized radiation counter. It was mechanical, meaning it could operate without batteries, something extremely useful in an emergency. With some difficulty due to the cramped space, he slowly reached the ON switch, pressed it, and held his breath.

Nothing, then a very low dosage of radiation, well within acceptable levels. Batman breathed a sigh of relief. There was no radiation close to the Batcave. There never had been and he was happy that continued. Satisfied, the Dark Knight restarted pedaling. He would take another sample three hundred meters away.

Tracking radiation levels was a vital task, ensuring no leaks were created that would jeopardize the safety of the Metro survivors. The Bat Tunnel was strategically placed on top of the main Metro tunnel, meaning Batman was ideally placed to spot increases in radiation levels.

The second task Batman always undertook during his tunnel patrols was camera maintenance. It has already been mentioned why functioning cameras were important. And unlike radiation tracking, that only took a few minutes total, fixing broken cameras was a very time consuming process.

For starters, the cameras were in the most unlikely places. That had been by design, to ensure people would not find and destroy them. They would channel their frustration to the visible ones, leaving the hidden ones intact.

The tactic had worked remarkably well. Not a single hidden camera had been destroyed due to sabotage or during a riot. On the other hand, having cameras in hidden places meant it was much harder for Batman to reach and repair them.

To ease things, Batman had created mini-tunnels connected to the Bat Tunnel. Each had a hidden camera at its end and a cable that connected the camera to the Batcave.

Such cameras were relatively easy to maintain. No other human was in the tunnels apart from Batman - and occasionally Alfred – and the only other lifeform roaming the place was the occasional rat.

Unfortunately, rats had the nasty habit of eating exposed cables. In fact, that was the most common reason why the tunnel cameras stopped transmitting. Fortunately, Batman and Alfred had developed methods to stop them: they covered most exposed wires with clay, and they set up rat traps to capture as many of the dangerous creatures as possible. On the bonus side, if a rat had recently died meant Alfred could add some meat to his mushroom-themed menu. Provided of course you didn’t mind eating a rat and its meat was still fresh and radiation-free.

There was a dead rat next to one of the cameras, that had eaten the cable ten centimeters from the connection to the main circuit. It was one of the malfunctioning ones he had programmed to repair. He checked the rat. It was still fresh, so he placed it on a bag he had in the Bat Train for that occasion.

His future dinner secure, Batman focused on the repairs. The cable insulation was damaged but the cable itself appeared to be fine. Some duct tape and some clay would solve the problem within minutes.

Apart from transmitting camera signals, the cable surrounding the Bat Tunnel could also transmit sound. There were many plugs where Batman could put a telephone device and call Alfred. It was a handy way to inform him about destroyed cameras, radiation leaks, tunnel collapses and various other emergencies. A walkie talkie would have been more practical, but it was impossible to have a signal underground.

“Uncle here,” Alfred said at the other end of the line. That was the code name he used whenever he spoke on the phone. He never used Alfred’s name or surname or anything else that could betray his identity. Nobody had breached the Bat Tunnel yet, but why to take unnecessary risks?

“Hi uncle,” Batman replied, also not using his name. “I fixed the first item.”

Alfred checked the monitors. One of them had come to life while it previously had no signal. It showed a group of people gathering mushrooms in the main tunnel outside one of the Metro stations.

“I also brought dinner,” Bruce continued.

“Great,” came the reply. “By the way, your friend called.”

The ‘friend’ in question was none other than Commissioner Gordon, in charge of the last surviving police officers of Gotham City. He never called unless it was important. What did he want?

“He invites you for a visit in his place,” Alfred continued. “Today, if you can make it.”

“OK,“ Batman said. “Anything else he wants?”

“Yes, two of his neighbors had a … disagreement. He wonders whether you could help them.”

“Fine,” Batman said, a bit annoyed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Batman knew what Alfred meant with the last comment. The neighbors in question were not individuals but neighboring Metro stations, each one behaving like its own semi-independent country. More often than not, such neighbors maintained peaceful relations with each other. But sometimes things got out of control, and someone had to interfere. Sometimes the mediator was Gordon, or one of his delegates. But most of the time it was the Dark Knight himself.

It annoyed Batman whenever something like that happened. Partly because of the extra time he needed to spend on top of an already busy schedule. Maintaining dozens of cameras and kilometers of cables took hours every day. But mostly it was something else: despite the catastrophe that hit humanity, some people hadn’t learned their lesson. The nuclear holocaust had been the result of nuclear war, and the war had been the result of disagreements that got out of hand. Why haven’t some people learned that and continue getting their own disputes out of control?

Nevertheless, Batman would interfere. Batman would assist. Batman would mediate. That was his duty.

Another question was, what else did Gordon want? He hadn’t just requested mediation; he had also asked for a meeting, obviously for another issue. What did he want? What was the issue in question? It had been a year since they had last met in person. What was so important to require that?

The Dark Knight had no way to know and no reason to make assumptions in his head. In a few hours, his tasks would be over, he would be back for lunch, and Alfred would tell him more. No reason to worry at the time. His life philosophy was the one the Stoics advocated: worry about things you can control, not the ones you cannot. And with that final thought, he entered the Bat Train and pedaled for two hundred meters. He had another radiation sample to take, another broken camera to fix. And then more pedaling and more repairs. Until the end of the tunnel.

Chapter Text

2013…
Arkham Prison was like no other. It was a category on its own. It was the most secure of the most secure prisons ever built. It was the ideal home for notorious, irredeemable criminals like the Joker!
Escaping from a place like that was impossible. It had three layers of thick walls surrounding it, each made with high-quality reinforced concrete. The main building walls were equally strong. It was more like a modern day fortress than a prison. Even a heavily armored brigade would have trouble attacking a place like that.

It was such a great twist of irony; Batman would always tell himself. It had been he - as Batman - who had captured Joker and put him behind bars. It had been he - as head of the Wayne Enterprises Construction - who had built the prison . And it had been he - as the philanthropist Bruce Wayne - who had donated the money to equip its guards. But all that effort and expenses had backfired! Instead of confining Joker, Arkham Prison had ended up saving him!
Yes, having three layers of reinforced concrete is a great idea when you try to stop a heavily armed group of criminals who want to free their friends. But the same walls ended up absorbing the shockwave of the nukes that hit Gotham. Yes, having a main building built like a bunker is great if you want to confine criminals. But the same building ended up saving the criminals' lives during the nuclear attack.
It had been a chaotic day when the nukes hit Gotham… except for the prison! Amazingly, the explosions killed zero prisoners. The nuclear fallout that followed also failed to claim a single prisoner's life. The strong construction had saved their lives.

Yet, within a few days, most of the prisoners were dead. They had killed each other, each trying to grab the last drops of water and the last scraps of food for himself. The interior of the prison became a deadly arena where everyone fought against everyone else. Rapists, pedophiles, white-collar criminals, serial killers, and gang members, all entered a vicious fight for survival.
In such an environment, psychotic mass murderers, like Joker, had the advantage. Yes, child molesters are awful, but they are used to attack small and unprotected children, not well-built and hardened criminals. Yes, many criminals are evil and vicious, but it takes a special kind of vicious person to murder you in cold blood and feel no remorse about it.
The first to go where white-collar criminals. These were non-violent people, who were in jail for fraud and other financial crimes. None of them was violent and becoming so at the drop of the hat would be impossible. The lucky ones had quick and relatively painless deaths. The unlucky ones…
After one week, less than ten criminals were alive. And the most vicous of them became their leader. As Batman had correctly anticipated, that man had been none other than… Joker.

There were no prison guards left to stop Joker and his new gang. Most were in their homes when the nukes hit, instantly dying. The ones on duty abandoned their posts and tried to reach their families. None of them survived the radiation.
Rumor has it that only one guard remained in his post and tried to bring order. He entered the prison, his sidearm drawn. He was alone, faced with dozens of hardened criminals. Rumor has it he killed a dozen of them and used his last bullet on himself.
Rumor has it his name was Tom Blake…

Arkham Prison was in Joker's hands, but now what? The criminals were trapped. Remaining in the prison meant a slow death. There was no food left, except from the corpses. Their meet would soon end if they didn't rot first. And the water was running out. They had to move outside. But that meant death from radiation. If only there was another route…

It had been Bruce Wayne's idea to connect the Metro with Arkham Prison. Ironically, it had been his fight against Joker that had brought it…

In 2008, Batman's anti-vigilante efforts were at an all-time high. Gotham City authorities could no longer ignore him and he was officially a wanted man. In reality of course, no police officer tried his hardest to arrest the masked crime-fighting crusader. Why to risk their lives against someone who - truth be told - did their job easier?
Joker was another story. He had killed lots of people, including several police officers. Every member of Gotham's law enforcement wanted him dead or at least behind bars. But the ruthless criminal was a smart and resourceful opponent, and he constantly evaded the law. But Joker had one weakness: he hated Batman and wanted him dead.
Commissioner Gordon and Gotham's District Attorney Harvey Dent took advantage of that weakness. Harvey Dent "revealed" he was Batman, he was arrested, and placed into an armored police truck with heavy escort. The idea was to bait Joker into attacking the truck, allowing the authorities to arrest him.
When the night came, the police convoy with Dent inside moved in the streets of Gotham. Joker could not resist the temptation. He and many of his henchmen attacked the convoy using machine guns, rocket launchers, burned vehicles, and everything in between. A fierce street battle started that involved rocket attacks, helicopters, and Batman himself.
In the end, the good guys won and captured the Joker. But the price had been heavy: a helicopter and several police vehicles were gone. A dozen police officers had lost their lives, including the helicopter crew.

That attempt had been particularly violent, but it had not been an isolated event. Attacks to free prisoners or to murder important eye-witnesses were common. Granted, that particular attack had been a bait, with the authorities wanting the bad guys to attack. But most of the time they simply wanted to avoid trouble.
Even when no attacks happened, you had to close the roads ahead of time, you needed dozens of police officers for protection, and you needed to be on alert for everyone close to the police convoys. Was the street florist really a florist? Or was he a hired gun who hid a bazooka under his roses? Was the young lady with the stroller really a mother? Or was she an elite assassin, ready to grab a submachine gun from the stroller?
It would have been nice if an alternative route existed. If only someone could move criminals underground...

Since the Metro tunnel passed below Arkham Prison, the Court, and Police Headquarters, why not use it to move the dangerous criminals? Metro security cameras made it hard to set up an ambush in the tunnels, it was a much faster route, and it did not require the police to close entire city blocks to move a single psychopath. Bruce Wayne had proposed the idea and had volunteered to finance it as well: he would donate the funds to buy an armored train to move prisoners and he would build secure entrances from the tunnels to the Prison, the Court, and the Police HQ free of charge.
The Police had loved the idea. It simplified the risks and the logistics, and they would get it for free! The Mayon and the Gothamites had liked the idea as well: less traffic jams, less danger from stray bullets, more satisfaction, and more votes for the Mayor.

Unfortunately, the whole plan backfired the moment the nukes hit Gotham. The special underground entrance to move people from the tunnel to the prison was the same Joker used to escape to the Metro.
Normally, there were two steel doors blocking the entrance, both secured with electromagnetic and key locks. Normally, there was a generator to provide electricity in case the power grid failed. Normally, the keys for the locks were in secure places within the prison.
When the nukes fell, the electricity grid collapsed. The generators took over, but they ran out of fuel a few days later. And since all the guards were gone, Joker and his new friends could search the entire prison at their leisure.
With most police officers dead, with the city in ruins, and with Batman too busy trying to assist here and there, Joker saw the opportunity and took it. He and his henchmen subdued the scared survivors of Arkham Station and declared the foundation of a new, independent country. Soon, petty criminals would join them from other stations.

Sadly, Batman had no way to know what was going on. Joker and his gang were experienced criminals, and they knew the visible cameras were not the only ones. Within weeks they had found every hidden camera Batman had placed on the station and destroyed it. Batman could not see anything in the one station he needed to see the most.
Soon, rumors of abuses and crimes reached Batman's ears. He could neither confirm of verify them. But he could not help. The bad guys had barricaded themselves in their new kingdom. Approaching from a secret tunnel entrance was also impossible. Part of the Bat Tunnel had collapsed, and it had collapsed exactly in the area close to Arkham Prison.

The only information Batman learned about Joker came months later. It was the name the psychopath had given to his new kingdom. He called it the...

… Jokerland!

Chapter Text

Why do people fight each other? Partly out of boredom: you are confined in a very narrow area like the Metro, with very few things to do. How do you break the monotony? An exciting adventure appears as a good way to go.

Of course, there are more important reasons than boredom. You can divide them in two broad categories: material, such as resources, and psychological, such as power, prestige, and authority.

The above principles applied to all of human history, in individuals and in groups of various sizes: team, corporation, village, city, state, alliance of states. They still applied in the  confined spaces of the Gotham City Metro. Each station was now a small, autonomous city-state. Each station had its own rules, organization, and resources, its own leadership, customs, and distinct population.

And each station competed with the others on a daily basis.

But how had the Metro ended up like that? Why had its population fractured into smaller units?

It all started when the nukes fell. Some Gothamites - the lucky ones - ended up in the Metro. That allowed them to survive the nuclear blast, the heat, and the radiation.

But now what? Returning to the surface was impossible. Radiation would kill them within a few days. They would have to adapt to a new, permanently underground life.

Within a few hours, the trains stopped moving, a direct consequence of the destruction of the electricity grid. Only some emergency lights remained on here and there. Each station became isolated from the others.

Two days later, cell phone transmitters stopped working because the backup generators powering them ran out of fuel. You could no longer phone or connect to the internet. You could not talk to people in other stations, you could not talk to survivors outside the stations (if any existed), and you could not read the news.

Smartphones in people's pockets became useless toys. You could only use them to play mobile games. Within a few days even that became impossible: they ran out of battery.

Three days later, the last backup batteries in the Metro ran out of energy. Emergency telecommunication between the stations stopped. 

Walking on foot became the only means of transportation. Face-to-face talking became the only means of communication.      

In the beginning, there was no fracture. All people of all stations behaved as a unified group. After all, they all spoke the same language, they lived in the same city, and they faced the same catastrophe. Batman had hoped his fellow Gothamites would remain unified against that common threat. But soon, geography started playing its role.        

Since walking in a dark tunnel is scary - especially during the chaos a nuclear war creates - most people opted to remain in the stations they had been when the nukes fell. After all, there was no reason for them to move any more. Their jobs were gone, along with their employers. Their homes were radioactive ruins. Their friends and families were gone.

Since they could only talk face-to-face, most surviving Gothamites limited their communications to the people next to them. Communication between different stations became nearly impossible. The survivors started forming strong personal and emotional links with the people in their stations and no links at all with the ones in other stations.

It was the beginning of the Metro’s fracture.

As the years passed, Batman observed an interesting phenomenon. Each station had gradually developed its own identity, distinct from the identities of other stations. Each station now had its own rituals, identity, and unique character. A sort of patriotism soon followed. Each station's people no longer identified themselves as Americans or Gothamites. They said they were from Tom's Station, or Stadium Station.  

A new order had emerged. Soon, borders between stations were formed, and systems of governance emerged. It was nation-building and city-building on a small scale.

Clashes between stations soon started. It was partly to find something meaningful to do and partly to have access to the scant resources of the tunnels. Some of them became violent with people dead and wounded.

Soon however, such conflicts stopped. All stations started organizing groups of armed men and women for their protection. They also erected barricades in the tunnels to better defend themselves.

Apart from that, the stations - with some assistance from Batman - started growing their own food. It was mainly mushrooms, capable of surviving and growing in the darkness. Any other type of food was considered a rare luxury.

The city-states of ancient Greece mostly consisted of two things: a city and surrounding countryside. The city-states of the Gotham City Metro were somewhat like that: each station was a "city”, and the tunnel was the "countryside". And just like the ancient times, the more of the countryside you had, the stronger you could become. The more meters of a tunnel a station you controlled, the more "land" you had and the more food - mushrooms - you could produce. The more food it produced, the higher the chances its people would survive. And of course, if you had food surpluses, you could store them for leaner times or you could trade them for other vital stuff such as clothes or tools.

What happens when one station expands, and its "borders" reach the ones another station has established? Conflict. Usually, such borders are far from each other, leaving a buffer space between them. But as each station expands its territory, the buffer  becomes smaller and smaller. Eventually, the borders of the two stations are next to each other. What happens then?

Answer: it depends. During the past twenty years, Batman and Alfred had witnessed the full spectrum and made a list of what could possibly happen:

- Friendly resolution: Both stations agree to stop expanding. They even agree to reestablish a buffer zone to avoid misunderstandings.

- Merging. The two station-states agree to unify themselves to one. The borders between them are removed, and the buffer zone between the borders becomes a mushroom farm. That in turn increases the need for farmers and decreases the one for border guards, so some of the latter become the former.

- Small-scale conflict. The two "countries" agree to compete and agree that the winner takes the disputed territory.

Such fights can take many forms: they might be just demonstrations, such as a weight-lifting competitions. They might be wrestling matches between two "champions" or two groups of people. Or they can be violent fights to the death.

- All-out war. The two countries cannot reach a resolution, so they fight till one side surrenders.

Such conflicts no longer happened. One, because most stations are almost equal in strength. Nobody has a decisive advantage in numbers. Two, because the attacker has a lot of disadvantages: there is only one path of attack - the tunnel - that is only a few meters wide. That means you can only make a frontal attack against a very a narrow front, something extremely difficult. And since most defenders have barricades, you will deplete your forces attacking them, allowing your opponent to exhaust and finish you.

- Third-party resolution. Both sides agree they cannot resolve their differences peacefully, but they don't want to resort to violence. So, they agree to invite someone to suggest a commonly-accepted solution.

Usually, Batman was the one both parties invited, and with good reason. It had been Batman the one who provided them with food and means to produce mushrooms during the first chaotic days of war. It was Batman who constantly monitored the tunnels, helping, and protecting whenever and wherever he could.

Most people considered him their savior. (Except of course... Joker!)

Batman finished his lunch and drank some mushroom coffee. He looked at Alfred.

"So," Batman asked his friend. "Which are the stations?"

"Tom's and Martha's, sir."

Batman had to take a deep breath upon hearing the names. Tom's station was officially named Thomas Wayne Hospital Station. Martha's Station was originally Martha Wayne's Orphanage Station.

It was obvious why Bruce Wayne would feel bad.

"Out of all stations..." he muttered.

"Sorry, sir," Alfred replied. "But the tunnel length is shorter there. There was no room for buffer zones there."

"I know. OK, what's the problem?"

"Border dispute."

"The usual stuff. Dammit, it's at the other end of the Metro!"

"Sorry, sir."

"Alright, I am going. Message Gordon."

"Yes, Master Wayne. He also said he wants to meet you. Something about Jokerland."

Jokerland. Joker's little kingdom. What was the bastard up to again?

"OK," he said, resigned. "I'll go after I finish with the negotiations.

His lunch finished, Bruce Wayne stood up and headed for the armory. There was a second Bat Suit there, much heavier and stronger than the one he usually wore. It provided him with better protection, but it restricted his mobility and made pedaling the Bat Train slower and more tiring.

"Taking precautions I see, Master Wayne."

"Yes, but my legs are gonna ache."

"I will prepare something for that, Sir. Good luck."

"Thank you, Alfred."

And with those words, the Dark Knight of Gotham City entered the Bat Train. His purpose was always the same: to serve, to protect, to help.

To be the guardian angel of the last Gothamites alive.

Like he always did.

Like he would always do!

Chapter Text

        It took Batman twice his usual time to reach Tom's Station. Two were the reasons for that. One, he wore his heavily armored suit, the one that restricted his movement. Two, he needed to pace himself. If he pedaled fast, he would be too tired to fight in case things got ugly.
        Generally speaking, Batman hated violence. He preferred theatrics and intimidation to achieve his goals. However, things often got out of control and the Dark Knight of Gotham had lost counting how many times he had to save himself from violent opponents. 
        After so many years fighting crime, Batman could only assume this: you can never know when things get ugly. You must be prepared at all times. More often than not, things will be OK, but you can never guess when.
        While pedaling, Batman wondered what the two stations were up two. Did they want to fight and wanted someone to mediate? Did they want to merge? Did they want to de-escalate from a conflict out of control?
        
        Inside Arkham Prison, a man dressed as a clown was sitting on a leather chair. He looked at the four people in front of him. Two of them were on their knees, their arms handcuffed behind their backs. The other two were standing guard next to them, wearing full-face masks and carrying spiked clubs.
        The man dressed as a clown stood up from the chair and approached the tied man in front of him. He looked at him, then at the tied young woman.
        “So?” he asked the two masked men. “What is going on here?”
        “Well, boss…” the one of them started saying. But the man dressed as a clown cut him short.
        “You know how to address me!” he said, a angry tone in his voice.
        “Yes, King Joker,” the man said, cowering in fear, despite being twice as big.
        “Better,” Joker said. “Now, tell me what happened.”
        “This man over here,” the masked man said, “was working on the tunnels. But this morning…”
        “Let me guess,” Joker said, a menacing tone on his voice. “He decided to oversleep.”
        “Worse than that, King Joker,” the other man said. “He decided to defect.”
        Joker’s eyes widened in rage. He slapped the tied man, then the woman next to him.
        “To defect? To defect and tell our big secret to the other station?”
        “Yes, Joker,” the tied man said, defiance in his voice. “I wanted to warn them.”
        Joker slapped the man again, then looked at the young woman next to him. He observed them both carefully. 
        “You look like two drops of water,” he said. “Let me guess. She is your daughter. But where is your wife?”
        “She died when the nukes fell,” the young woman said. Her tone was equally defiant.
        “Oh, I see,” Joker said. “My condolences then,” he added in mock sympathy.
        Silence filled the room. Joker let it hang for a few seconds for effect.
        “So,” the the ruler of Jokerland said, “we have a problem here. Let us see what the best way to deal with it is.”
        
        Bruce Wayne and Alfred had spent a considerable amount of time designing the Bat Tunnel. Their major concern was for Batman to move as fast to a crime scene as possible.
        To achieve that, they had created dozens of hidden exits in the tunnel. Batman could use the closest to a crime scene and surprise the bad guys. 
        Batman needed to be very careful when using those exits. If not, someone would notice him and discover the Bat Tunnel, his hidden ace all those years.
        How could the Dark Knight maintain secrecy? He could not use the exits inside the stations because the people in them would immediately notice him. That limited him in the ones in the main tunnel.  
        Still, risks existed. What if an exit was above a mushroom farm? What if he entered the main tunnel when a patrol from one of the stations happened to be below him? What if a group of criminals happened to pass?
        Fortunately, the camera system was operational on most areas. That system had saved his life on dozens of  occasions. But the cameras were not working everywhere, and the Dark Knight often had to resort to violence to survive. Hopefully, he would not have to do so today.
        
        A long time ago, two wonderful people got married in Gotham City. Billionaire philanthropist Thomas Wayne married Martha, a good-hearted socialite with important charitable work. One year later, the happy couple became parents when their son Bruce was born.
        Apart from being a billionaire, Thomas Wayne worked full-time as a doctor. As for Martha, she worked twelve hour shifts to help the orphans. After Tom and Martha got married, they combined their forces and funded a new hospital and a new orphanage in the city.
        A few years later though, tragedy struck. And it did so at the most unexpected of circumstances. An armed robber named Joe Chill ambushed Tom, Martha, and  Bruce while they exited a movie theater. Things got ugly and Chill opened fire, killing Tom and Martha Wayne and leaving Bruce an orphan.
        To honor their memory, Gotham City authorities renamed the hospital Tom built as Thomas Wayne Hospital. They also renamed the orphanage as Martha Wayne orphanage. It was fitting that Wayne Constructions would do the same to the Metro stations next to the buildings Bruce's parents had so lovingly built and managed.
        
        Tom’s and Martha’s station had always a special place in Batman's heart. Apart from the memory of his parents, it was their contribution to the wellbeing of the Metro survivors that inspired him. Tom’s Station was next to the Thomas Wayne Hospital, meaning hundreds of doctors and nurses used it every day. That meant dozens of people with medical skills were in it when the nukes fell. Their contribution to the rest of the Metro survivors had been invaluable.
        The same principle applied with Martha’s Station. Many social workers had survived the nuclear blast there, providing the other survivors with people skilled in human psychology. The death and destruction the nukes had caused, the great loss of life, and the fact all survivors had lost loved ones meant  therapy skills were in great demand. And of course, the surviving social workers also took care of the many Metro orphans.
        Batman always wondered what would have happened if there had been no Metro stations next to the hospital and the orphanage. How many of the survivors would have remained alive those twenty years? How many would have remained sane?
        That was why Batman was so saddened there was conflict between these two stations. If the most caring people of all  could not solve their differences peacefully, what hope was there for the rest of the stations? What hope was there for the rest of humanity?
        
        Batman connected the phone device on the main wire.
        “Talk to me,” he told Alfred at the other end of the line.
        “All clear,” came the reply. “You are free to go.”
        “Anyone in the tunnels?”
        “Two delegations. Two people each. All unarmed.”
        Good, Batman thought.  Unarmed people are usually diplomats. 
        Batman smiled. After twenty years of constant conflict in the tunnels, he approached every negotiation as prelude to violence. It was a rare phenomenon when people solved their differences in a completely peaceful manner. Years of isolation in each station had formed strong prejudices against other stations. Even when two stations started with peaceful negotiations, things usually escalated into violent confrontations. 
        Would the two stations be the exception? Would they solve their differences peacefully? Well, there was only one way to find out.
        
        “Here he is,” a man in his early sixties told the woman next to him. “The Dark Knight of Gotham himself.”
        “I see him, Mr. Director!" a woman in her forties said. 
        “He saved my life once,” the man said.
        “And mine twice,” the woman replied. “Once in the tunnels, and once before the war. Batman is my hero!”
        
        At the other end of the tunnel, an elderly man stood in attention. His name was Dr. Stevens and he was wearing a white robe, like the ones hospital doctors did. Like he had done himself before the war, when he operated patients and directed the Thomas Wayne Hospital. In the Metro, he wore the robe as a symbol of authority.
        When the nukes fell, Dr. Stevens evacuated the on duty hospital personnel to Tom's Stations. Afterwards, he led a group of volunteers back to the hospital to gather as many medical supplies as they could and bring them back to the Metro.
        After the nukes fell, the trapped survivors in Tom’s station had to fend for themselves. Dr. Stevens was everyone’s choice to lead them. He had accepted the responsibility with reluctance but determination. Batman always admired his strength of character and resolve.
        Had the man decided to start a war with Martha’s Station? The Dark Knight thought it unlikely. But why did they want him to interfere in their negotiations?
        
        Dr. Stevens and a young man in his early twenties, approached the Martha’s Station delegation. Batman was already there, chatting with the man and the woman there.
        “It was a few months before you arrested the Joker,” the woman told the Dark Knight. “I was still in University back then, returning from my lessons. And then… two muggers attacked.”
        “And then what?” Batman asked her.
        “One of them drew a long knife. God, I don’t remember their faces. Oh wait, now I remember. They were wearing masks.”
        Batman smiled. He had stopped so many crimes before the war. Stopping two armed robbers was something he did so often he had lost counting long before those two assholes had tried to rob that lady at knifepoint.
        “But,” the woman continued, a bright smile on her face, “I remember what happened then.”
        “What happened?” the Batman asked, in a cordial tone. "I cannot remember myself."
        “They ran away like rats!” the woman said. “You scared them, and you didn’t even touch them!”
        The Dark Knight shrugged. He had stopped hundreds of petty crimes like that in the past. He just approached and the bad guys ran away. He had done nothing special. Nevertheless, he was happy when people were grateful.
        “Thank you so much!” the woman said.
        “You are welcome,” the Dark Knight replied. "I just did my duty."
        At that moment, Batman heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The delegates from Tom’s Station had arrived.
        
        While Batman and the delegates were talking, a handcuffed man and a woman were standing in front of a prison cell.
        “Well, my friend,” Joker said. “You neglected your duties today. You tried to defect. You tried to betray YOUR KING!”
        “Yes,” the man said, in defiance. “And I would do that again for a masked clown like you!”
        “I could have killed you right away,” Joker said. “But I have a better plan. Open the cell!”
        One of the two masked men took and placed a key it on the lock. It took some effort, but in the end the door opened.
        “Don’t you love it?” Joker said. “Electromagnetic locks are all out, but conventional ones with keys work perfectly.”
        “You’ll put me behind bars?” the man said.
        “Not you,” the clown said. “Her.”
        Joker looked at the cell. The masked men nodded and pushed the woman inside.
        ”Lock her in!” Joker said. “And give me the key!”
        The ruler of Jokerland smiled, a menacing smile on his face.
        “Now my friend, you have three options. One, trying to take the key from me. A bit difficult because you are handcuffed, and we outnumber you three to one. Also, because all three of us are ruthless murderers, while you aren’t.
        “Two, you tell us to put you in one of the cells. The good news: all of them are radiation free. The bad news: they are also water and food-free. The worse news: the same applies to your daughter. We’ll let both of you locked until you die of hunger and thirst.”
        “And how will that help you?”
        “Well, you’ll die of thirst before dying of hunger. That means there will be enough meat on you to feed my people!”
        “You are a disgusting clown!” the man said.
        “And your daughter will be a very tasty soup!” Joker replied, a hysterical tone on his voice. “Or do you recommend we roast her?”
        The man remained speechless.
        “Undecided I see,” the psychotic criminal said. “Perhaps, you opt between boiled or roasted. Or, you try to consider OPTION THREE!”
        The man gave Joker a resigned look.
        “What is option three?”
        “Simple. Since you costed us in productivity, the fair thing will be to increase it. And there is an easy way to do that.”
        “Which way?”
        “You’ll bring us tools.” 
        The man looked at Joker, a horrified expression on his face.
        “Yes, that is correct, Mister. You are going to exit that door back there, out in heavily radiated Gotham City, go to the nearest hardware store still standing and bring us pickaxes and shovels. And I know how to motivate you for that!”
        Joker took the prison key and placed it around the man’s neck.
        “Here is Option Three,” the evil madman said. “This is the only key that unlocks your daughter's cell.
        "You get out and bring us what I asked. You fail to return, you condemn your daughter to death. If you take too long to return, radiation will poison your body. Your daughter will survive... but not you!
        "If you try to reach another station… well, good luck with that! They won’t open their gates for you and even if they do... how exactly are you gonna pass through the Jokerland garrison?”
        “You are a lunatic!” the man said.
        “I’ll consider that as a compliment. Now, decide on your options. Attack us, become a prisoner, or go outside. Being the considerate ruler I am, I will leave you… five seconds to decide!”
        
        Unaware of those nasty developments, Batman stood in attention. An official ceremony was about to start.
        “I, Dr. Stevens, President of the Thomas Wayne Station…”
        “I, John Blake, delegate from the Thomas Wayne Station…” the man next to Stevens said.
        “I, James Spader, Head of Martha Wayne Station…” the man from Martha’s said.
        “I, Nikki Stewart, Deputy Head of Martha Wayne Station…” the woman who had congratulated Batman said.
        “I, Batman, the masked protector of Gotham City,” the Dark Knight finally said.
        “We gathered here,” Dr. Stevens said, “to seal a deal, a deal that is twenty years overdue. After months of negotiations, we decided to… merge out two stations into one.”  
        Batman was delighted! Merging two stations was something very rare. It had only happened twice in the past twenty years. And it had only lasted once. Mistrust and fear for each other was very strong.
        “Thomas and Martha Wayne,” Nikki said, “could have chosen to be separate. But they chose to be one. They chose to marry and have children.”
        “Sadly, both passed away. But not before they gave birth to a son.”
        Batman tried his hardest not to cry. It was so touching people would say such things about his family. But he could not show any emotion. Doing so would betray his true identity, an identity he had tried for decades to keep a secret.
        “We don’t know where their son is,” Dr. Stevens said. “Most likely he lost his life when the nuclear warheads hit our city. But his memory lives on.”
        It was a bit strange for Batman to hear that. No, Dr. Bruce Wayne is alive and kicking. (OK, he only kicks if you are a bad guy).
        “John? It is time for you to talk.”
        “Yes, sir,” the young man said. John cleared his throat and started talking.
        “I, John Blake, was only two years old when the nukes fell. I remember nothing about the world before the war. I know nothing about how life was back then. And sadly, I remember nothing about my parents.
        “But I know this. Every day, every hour, every moment, we have two options. The first is to abandon all hope, to sink into despair, to hate ourselves and each other. It is the easy way. It is the simple way. It is the wrong way.
        “The second choice is to fight. It is to take ownership of our problems. It is to not let them grind you down.
        "Yes, we face great problems. But I know this! In the end, no matter what, we the citizens of Gotham City, we the members of the human race will recover. We shall rebuild humanity, no matter what."
        
        Batman was delighted. That young man had heart. And most important of all, he had courage... and the rarest of human qualities.
        
        Hope!

Chapter Text

The four delegates and Batman shook hands. The Bruce Wayne Alliance was born.
        To make it more official, the delegates signed a contract commemorating the event. "During Year 2033, we the representatives..."
        It was a nice break from a grim reality. After so many years of fighting, of gloom, of pessimism, some people were trying to improve things. Such people were the reason Batman had maintained his faith in humanity. (Although he had come close to the breaking point on so many occasions.)
        "OK, time for celebration," Dr. Stevens said and grabbed his bag. 
        The former head of Thomas Wayne Hospital opened his bag  and produced a bottle of high-quality Tenessee whiskey for everyone to drink.
        "I kept it for a special occasion," he told them.
        Batman smiled. Before the nukes fell, he - as Bruce Wayne - used to offer bottles of that particular distillery as a gift. He even had purchased the distillery to ensure their supply never stopped! 
        As a socialite, he had drunk a lot of the stuff himself. He also  kept a healthy supply of it on his cellar to offer to his guests. Last but not least, he had stored some in the Batcave, just in case. 
        Perhaps some bottles still existed after twenty years. Batman
        made a mental note to ask Alfred when he returned. He had lost counting how many years had passed since he had his last glass.
        
        Speaking of glasses, you need the appropriate ones for the occasion. In theory, you can put elegant whiskey on a plastic cup. But only crystal glasses will do it justice.
        Once more, Dr. Stevens proved his worth. From his small bag he produced five crystal glasses.
        "A gift from Bruce Wayne," Stevens told them. "Along with the whiskey. I believe it suits the occasion."
        Everyone agreed it was mostly suitable. The good doctor poured a good measure of the precious liquid to everyone's glass.
        "To the Alliance!" they said in unison and toasted.
        Despite his secret desires, Batman politely refused to touch the whiskey. He was still on duty and he didn't want the alcohol to ruin his concentration. John Blake volunteered to drink Batman's portion himself, much to everyone's amusement.
        "Cheers, Mr. Blake," Batman said and patted him on the back.
        
        It was a nice break from an otherwise monotonous and gloomy reality. But the day was far from over. The Dark Knight still needed to visit Commisioner Gordon. He saluted the delegation and off he went.
        
        2013, the day the nukes fell..
        The sound of the alarm clock in the small windowless room was deafening. Commisioner Gordon woke up turned the light on.
        After blinking to adjust his sight, Gordon looked around him. The room was tiny, only two by three meters. It was also very frugal. It only had one cot, a small mirror on the wall, and a small chair where Gordon had placed his clothes on.
        The Commisioner looked at the alarm clock. It was 5 am, one hour before the day shift started. Plenty of time to get dressed, have some coffee, grab a couple of candy bars for breakfast and get an update about the day ahead.
        Normally, Gordon woke up at six. Today however was a special occasion. The tension between the United States, China, and Russia had reached the breaking point and everyone was tense. 
        Some of his colleagues had even placed bets about the war.
        - Would a war start? (Most thought it would)
        - Would nukes be fired? (It was a fifty-fifty one)
        - If nukes were fired, which country would fire them first?
        The Commisioner himself had declined to take part in such bets. Partly it was out of principle: he hated gambling in all its forms. But mostly because it was pointless. OK, you bet the Russians will fire their nukes first. Congratulations, you won! But now the nukes will hit your country and you'll be dead. Now what? How will you collect your winnings?
        Gordon wore his suit and fixed his tie on the mirror. He was sharply dressed, the way he liked it. Police regulations were not that strict on how to dress - unless you wore a uniform - but he wanted to set an example to his people.
        The Commisioner exited the small room and closed the door. Everyone around looked at him. He looked back, he nodded, and everyone returned to work.
        
        Gordon was inside the Gotham City Metro Surveillance Room, the place where the signal from every camera came.
        The room he had slept during the night was for duty officers. It was strategically placed next to the Surveillance Room, to allow for quick responce to emergencies.
        Next to the Surveillance Room was an underground Police Station. Its official name was Gotham City Metro Police Station but it was better known as Station Police. 
        Station Police was responsible for maintaining order and security in the Metro. Every day, groups of uniformed and plainclothes police officers exited it to patrol the trains and the stations. They arrested criminals, brought order when needed, and kept an eye for potential trouble.
        During the previous days, things had deteriorated. The threat of war made everyone nervous. Intensity was higher, people were more stressful and angry, violent crimes were more frequent. Plainclothes police officers reported added levels of negative and fatalistic language among the people who rode the trains. Gordon and his colleagues hoped things were just temporary.
        A uniformed woman approached Gordon and gave him a cup of coffee and two candy bars. He thanked her and started unwrapping the first one.
        "You really need to stop eating them, sir," she told him.
        "I know," he said, touching his belly with his left hand. "But they are a great stress relief. Especially today."
        "Yeah," she said, "things don't look good."
        "Is it the usual not-good?" he asked. "Or worse?"
        
        The 'usual not-good' was a bitter but humorous way to describe the situation down there. Generally speaking, Metro duty was undesirable. You were underground the whole day, not seeing the sunlight. You were confined in a very restricted area, while your colleagues above ground could at least patrol the city in their cars. 
        Finally, being underground made you somehow 'invisible' to the big bosses. They could not see the arrests you made or the order you brought. Journalists rarely paid attention to what you did. Your chances for promotion were lower.
        For those reasons, police officers tended to avoid the Metro. Practically nobody volunteered for underground duty. VIP protection, SWAT teams, and Vice squads were much more desirable posts.
        To counter that, the Police Chief had instituted a system of rotation. Every police officer in the city was required to spend a few weeks every year underground.
        In theory, it was a good system. Everyone would spend the same amount of time underground, ensuring a steady supply and quality of personnel. It would also ensure fairness.
        The reality was different though. Whoever could skipped rotation. Using excuses and connections - with senior officers or with politicians - many never served underground. It was amazing how many police officers 'realized' they were claustophobic or how many were deemed 'too necessary elsewhere' to be rotated.
        As the years passed, the Metro became the place where those without connections went. That included Commisioner Gordon, who refused to play political games in exchange for promotions. And since those underground had no connections, it was harder for them to ensure funding. Things were stretched to the limit and only Bruce Wayne's generous donations helped things a bit.
        All the above made those serving underground feel neglected and second-class police officers. Morale was generally low and that had made Gordon extremely scared. It is one thing facing a crisis with well-funded and high-morale people. It is another doing so with an underfunded and low-morale force.  
        
        "They are even worse, sir," the police woman said. "Much worse."
        "That war," Gordon said and started eating the candy bar. "I hope it never starts."
        The young lady didn't reply. Her eyes were widened in shock and terror. She couldn't speak.
        "Sandra?" Gordon said. "What is going on?" 
        But the woman could not reply, only taking big breaths to calm herself. Her eyes were fixed on something. 
        Puzzled, Gordon turned to look himself... and he froze in terror!
        "Someone turn the volume up," he ordered.
        
        What Gordon and Sandra had seen was a television monitor,  showing the news from the Gotham City TV. The presenter's face was white with terror. But what was even worse were the headlines on the screen.
        "THREE NUKES HAVE HIT LOS ANGELES! TWO NUKES JUST HIT NEW YORK."
        "Oh, shit!" Gordon whispered. "It started."
        "Please God," Sandra said, in tears, "please, make them stop."
        But at that moment, the TV announcer shattered Sandra's last hopes.
        "We have General Curtis Le May, the head of Strategic Air Command on air," he said. "General?"
        "This is General Le May. In five minutes each and every bomber in the Command will be airborne."
        "Is it for deterrence, sir? Please! Tell me it is deterrence!"
        The TV presenter was screaming on air. He could not believe what he was hearing.
        "This is not deterrence. We are attacking! And all bombers are carrying extra nukes."
        "Did I hear that well, General? Extra nukes?"
        "That's right. We'll carry just enough fuel to reach our targets. The rest of the load will be nukes."
        "But how will you return?"
        At that moment, a loud vibration shattered the ground. Everyone not seated fell on the floor, including Gordon.
        "They hit us!" the presenter said. "The nukes hit Gotham City! Run to the shelters!"
        "We are going!" the General said on TV. "We are attacking! We are not coming back!"
        Three seconds later, the TV signal was gone, never to come again.
        Everyone in the surveillance room fell silent. Another vibration followed; a second nuke had hit Gotham City. And then everyone did the same: they all looked at Commisioner Gordon.
        Gordon looked back. He knew what that meant: in a crisis, everyone is looking at the leader. He would have done the same himself... but nobody in the room outranked him.
        It was a critical moment. If he broke, Station Police would break. If he held himself, Station Police could remain intact. And only if law enforcement remained functioning would the Metro survivors stand a hope.
        Gordon looked around him. These were the people he would have to work with. There was little hope police officers above ground would survive and rush to the tunnels. There would be no reinforcements.
        "Alright," he said. "Let's do this."
        And reluctantly, Commisioner Gordon became the leader he had to.
        
        2033...
        The Bat Train stopped three hundred meters away from the barricade. The Dark Knight exited it and plugged his phone device to the main communications wire.
        "Talk to me," he told Alfred.
        "The coast is clear," came the reply. "You are free to go."
        What time was it? It must have been at least six pm. Batman had been on duty for at least twelve hours.
        During the first years, Batman wore a watch on his wrist and had a clock inside the Bat Train. But their batteries eventually ran out and he could not find new ones to replace them.
        The only clock remaining was a big and bulky one inside the Batcave. It ran on radioactive isotopes, a source of energy that could last for two centuries.
        The good news? That clock was extremely accurate and would tell the time for centuries. The bad news? It was too big to move it outside the Batcave.
        There was only one way for Batman to learn the time.
        "What is the time?" he asked Alfred on the phone.
        "And I was wondering when you would ask. Six pm."
        "Twelve hours today. How nice!"
        
        What is the time? Such a well-known and universal question. People had invented so many different ways to keep an eye on it: pocket watches, wrist watches, tower clocks, smartphone apps...
        But it had not always been like that. For most of human existence, people had no concept of time as we know it. They only cared about the seasons - to plan their harvests and other activities, - the days of the week - to know when a religious holiday was - and whether it was day or night. You have no need for a watch for any of them. 
        Telling what the time was only became important during the 19th century. The reason? Railway schedules. You needed to be on time to catch the train. In addition, the Industrial Revolution turned farmers into industrial workers. You needed a specific schedule for them: the time you started working, the time you finished working, the hours of work you would be paid every day.
        But when the nukes fell, telling the time lost all meaning. You no longer needed to arrange a meeting at a specific time because the person you wanted to meet was fifty meters away, inside the same station. You just walked there.
        Batman and Alfred had noticed that. Life in the Metro had regressed at the level of ancient times and measuring time had been one of the first things to go. 
        Actually, it was even worse than that. In ancient times, people could tell the seasons apart and the day from the night. But that no longer applied underground. What difference was there between winter and summer? Both were the same underground: rainless, windless, humid, and cold.
        The same applied to the days. All were the same underground: an endless, moonless, starless night.
        
        Poetic and philosophical considerations aside, Batman had a job to do. Yes, most people in the Metro no longer measured time, but Gordon did. It was the only way for him and the Dark Knight to coordinate themselves.
        He hadn't seen Gordon in a year. What was going on there?
        
        Walking slowly, Batman reached the Police barricade.
        "Stop right there and identify yourself!" a strong male voice said.
        He could see them. Eight heavily armed police officers, carrying rifles and wearing helmets and bulletproof vests.
        "This is Batman, the Dark Knight of Gorham City!"
        "Welcome to our Station!" an elderly Police Officer said. "The Commissioner is waiting for you."
        And with those words, a steel door opened, allowing the Dark Knight in the Station...

Chapter Text

"To serve and to protect."

That was the first thing Batman saw when he entered the station. It was a motto most police forces in the world had.

Before the war, the motto had two uses. One, to remind the citizens of Gorham that the Police were on their side. Two, to remind the police officers what their duty was. After the nukes fell, the meaning of the words had become stronger. The police officers had lost everything: their houses had become radioactive ruins; their families had become radioactive dust. Serving and protecting the survivors was the only activity left for them, the only meaningful alternative to an otherwise futile existence.

Sadly, serving and protecting became increasingly difficult as time passed. With telecommunications down, Gordon could not issue instructions to the frightened Metro survivors. With electricity down, the trains stopped, and police officers could no longer use them to reach faraway stations.

Like all other survivors, the police had to adapt to the new reality. They could only move on foot, and they could only issue orders in person, which also meant moving on foot. That in turn meant their authority and influence could only reach the closest stations, leaving the most distant ones to fend for themselves.

The people in the distant stations were obviously very unhappy about that. They felt abandoned and developed a strong dislike for the Police. It took years for things to calm down.

In the end, a new order emerged. Each station formed its own small city-state, along with a government and a militia that enforced order. That militia became the army and the police force of every station. More often than not, the militia had no ties with Gordon and the Gotham City Police survivors.

Only the police cameras remained functioning. But they didn’t last for long. Angry survivors destroyed many of them and rats ate the cables of many others. As for the surviving one, they were gradually losing their signal due to dwindling energy reserves and mechanical failure.

Batman had tried his best to assist Gordon and the Police. He had repaired dozens of cameras, he had mediated in many disputes, and he had helped the survivors as much as he could. He also had provided intelligence for many police operations. The Police always treated Batman as their savior.

"Batman is here!" a loud voice said.

At once, the training stopped. Everyone started gathering around him.

"We hadn't seen you for a long time," a policeman said.

"Welcome back, sir," another one said. "It's an honor seeing you."

"I hope you visit us more often," a third one said.

Some police officers wanted to shake hands with him, something Bruce was happy to do. He had not become the Dark Knight for fame and recognition, but he still enjoyed the praise as much as most people.

Nevertheless, he had a job to do. He had come to the station to see Gordon. What was his old pal up to?

"Commissioner Gordon?" one of the police officers said. "Yes, he is expecting you. He is on the top floor."

The Gotham City Police Headquarters building was directly above Station Police. Just like Thomas Wayne Hospital, it had direct access to the station below.

Before the war, there had been plans to reinforce the building and turn it into a giant nuclear shelter. That would allow the people in it survive the war and thus be able to provide support and assistance to their fellow Gothamites. It would also house additional survivors.

The plan was soon approved, and US Army engineers started working on it. They had finished with the central staircase and the top floor, but the nukes fell before they could continue with their work. Sadly, the nukes fell early in the morning when the building was almost empty. Very few people were in the building at the time, and none of them had survived.

Nevertheless, the building had served the Police even after the war. It had remained standing after the nukes fell and its reinforced areas had remained radiation proof, providing Gordon and his people with extra storage and accommodation space. In addition, the building was tall and allowed the Police to scan for activity outside the Metro.

The Stair Test. That's how scientists call it. It is simple: you climb the stairs without stopping. At the end of the third floor, you stop and try to catch your breath. If you are fit, you'll breathe normally within a few seconds. If not, it will take you longer. It's a simple and effective way to measure your level of physical activity.

When Bruce was younger, things were easy. He would climb six floors on the Wayne Tower, and he would barely feel it. But the years had passed, and it showed.

"I am getting older," he whispered himself, as he stopped to take a breath after four floors.

 In his defense, he was wearing his heavily armored suit and he had pedaled for the greatest part of the day. A twelve hour shift would tire even the youngest and fittest men.

Nevertheless, Batman could not escape the hard truth. He was in his fifties now. Alfred was in his seventies. The years had passed. Alfred could no longer keep up physically. He could only assist remotely, behind a monitor or as an analyst.

But concerns about old age would have to wait for another moment. After more than a year, he would meet Gordon. That in itself was important. Gordon was the only high-ranking officer in Gotham City Police Batman truly respected.

After climbing all the floors  - and frequently stopping to catch his breath - Batman reached the top floor,  the only radiation-proof part of the building apart from the stairs. Before the war, the area was the Gotham Police VIP area: the Chief of the Police and other high-ranking officers had their offices there, along with their secretaries. There was also a windowless conference room the surviving police officers had converted to a warehouse.

The Police Headquarters was one of the few buildings in Gotham remaining standing and relatively undamaged. It was also the tallest one remaining. It was much taller than Arkham Prison, but the Prison was overall bigger. Arkham Prison had also been totally radiation-proof, unlike this building.

The Chief of the Police office door was open. A man wearing a trench coat was inside, his back turned on him. He was looking at something through a powerful set of binoculars mounted on a tripod. What was he trying to observe?

Before Bruce made another step, the man started talking.

“My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;” the trench coat man said.

Batman smiled. He recognized the voice. It belonged to Gordon, alright. He also recognized the words. They were from a poem, written a long time ago.

Batman decided to play along.

“Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!”, the Dark Knight said.

“Nothing beside remains. Round the decay,” Gordon said, and turned to face the Dark Knight.

“Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare,” Batman said.

“The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

“Ozymandias,” Batman said. “By Percy Bruce Shelley.”

“Yes,” Gordon replied. “Early 19th century.”

“So, fitting for our situation,” Batman bitterly remarked.

“Indeed.”

Ozymandias is a poem about a fictional king of the East. Once powerful and mighty, he was left with nothing but the ruins of a once great kingdom. You can only despair observing how mighty the king had been… and how much had fallen.

It was a fitting symbolism for humanity. Once upon a time, humans controlled the world. They had invented, built, created, on a size and scale and magnificence no other living organism could ever hope to emulate. Yet in the end, only the ruins remained…

… and the despair observing them and remembering what they once were.

Batman approached Gordon. The two men smiled to each other and shook hands.

“Long time no see, Mr. Dark Knight.”

“Long time no see, Mr. Chief of Police.”

Gordon smiled upon the last remark. He never had the ambition to become Chief. He had never played politics to get ahead, he had never tried to befriend a politician or a high-ranking officer to help him get promoted, and he despised those who did so. His ambition had always been to help the citizens be safe, to help his colleagues do their job better, and to help the city be a better place.

Nevertheless, Batman was right. Gordon was the Chief of Gotham City Police now. Since everyone outranking him was dead, Gordon had become Chief by default. On the other hand, all the surviving police officers had been underground anyway. Nothing had changed on a practical level.

“I still remember the first time you and I met,” Gordon said. “It was about thirty years ago. I was still a uniformed cop, patrolling the streets.”

“And I still remember what you did,” Batman replied. “You refused to take a bribe. That’s why I chose to cooperate with you.”

After he turned eighteen, Bruce Wayne embarked on a self-discovery trip around the world. After various adventures  - and more than a few misadventures - he had ended up in Far East, training under an intelligent and influential mentor. He had learned the arts of stealth, of theatrics, of intimidation and of hand-to-hand combat.

After three years, Bruce realized the best way to use his skills were as a crime-fighting vigilante in Gotham. In order to protect himself and his identity, he decided to wear a mask and a costume that imitated one of the most famous night creatures: the bat. He was now the Batman.

Soon, Batman made his presence felt. He attacked small time criminals and terrorized them. But organized crime still remained outside his grasp. Only someone in the know could provide him with the necessary info. Sadly, the only ones in the know were either criminals – who were by definition dishonest – or police officers – who were mostly dishonest. Could there be an honest cop somewhere?

In the end, Batman found the person he needed. It had been Gordon, perhaps the only honest police officer in the city. One night, Batman approached him and proposed a partnership.

After some misgivings for secretly – and let’s face it, illegally – cooperating with a vigilante, Gordon fully embraced his cooperation with the masked vigilante. Soon, they started sharing intel. Batman would shadow the people the police were too incompetent – or too corrupt – to shadow, while Gordon would provide info about the ones Batman had no time to observe. Batman would attack the ones the law wouldn’t touch, while Gordon would attack the ones too powerful for a single individual to deal with.

It was very fruitful cooperation, allowing Gordon to arrest many high-profile criminals. As a side effect, it allowed him to raise through the ranks without use of politics. That in turn gave him access to even more valuable intel, intel he once more shared with Batman.

Their cooperation continued even after the nukes fell. Batman would visit the stations the police could no longer approach. He would also venture outside and provide the police with much needed supplies, such as weapons, ammunition, bulletproof vests, etc. (The supplies in Station Police and the HQ building were exhausted within a few years).

What was Gordon up to tonight? Was the Police running out of bullets again? Had medicine run out? Time to find out.

“Look at Arkham Prison,” Gordon said and gave Batman the binoculars. The latter took them and adjusted them for better visibility.

“What have you spotted?” the Dark Knight asked.

“Lots of movement. Its central gate opened several times during the past days.”

“People getting in and out?”

“Yes. All the time. The last one exited a few hours ago. If he stays out as much as the others before him, he’ll be back in a few minutes. Do you see him?”

Batman took a good look.

“Yeah, I see him.”

The man outside looked around him. So many ruins blocked his path in most directions. He was tired, having spent hours scavenging for what Joker had demanded.

But he had no choice. He either found what Joker wanted, or his daughter died. That was certain The only uncertain was whether Joker’s henchmen would rape her first.

He had been lucky. There had been a huge supermarket not very far from Arkham Prison. The nukes had destroyed the place, but you could still enter the basement, where its warehouse was.

After hours of digging with bare hands, the man had found what he needed: helmets, shovels, pickaxes, and buckets. He took them all and started his return trip.

It was night, but the man had no problem seeing. Two decades in the dark Gotham Metro tunnels had helped him – and everyone else – adjust his vision and be able to see even the tiniest source of light. He could easily make the outline of Arkham Prison in the distance.

The man kept walking towards the big prison gate. Hopefully, he would be back in time. He kept walking carefully, unaware a masked vigilante was observing his every move...

“He is the third one,” Gordon said.

“That’s not that much,” Batman replied.

“For today.”

That shocked Batman. What was that lunatic clown up to?

“And three more yesterday,” Gordon continued. “All carrying digging equipment.”

How do you obtain something you don’t have? There are two ways. One, you buy it. Two, you create it yourself. Before the war, most people opted for the first solution. It was simpler, faster, and more convenient. You don’t need to know how to build a smartphone or a car. You just buy one.

Why to buy instead of creating? Because many things require the cooperation of dozens or even hundreds of people to be created. Cars, refrigerators, and washing machines are just some examples of them. They also require raw materials you need to ship from different parts of the world. It is a complex and demanding process no single individual can master. Better spend some money and buy the finished product.

When the nukes fell, things changed. Global supply chains collapsed. The specialized workers who built things died. The very few who survived were scattered, away from their machines, and unable to produce anything. Each Metro city-state was too tiny to have the specialized workforce pre-war states had. Their people could only build basic tools and do basic things. But that was their only option left; buying had stopped being one.

On the other hand, … the Police could no longer arrest you if you ventured outside and stole something!

That gave birth to a new profession in the Metro: the scavengers. They were people who got outside and took things. Sometimes, they just grabbed whatever they could and exchanged it with whatever they could negotiate it with. Other times, they went out looking for something specific. Sometimes, they got out on their own initiative, while others they followed orders. Sometimes, they got out because they chose to, while others because someone forced them to do so.

A few people had become scavengers during the first days. But most of them had lost their lives, trapped behind ruined buildings or slowly dying from radiation. Soon, the profession became obsolete. Conditions inside the Metro had somehow stabilized, and the ones most likely to venture outside had already died.

Only the Joker maintained scavengers. Batman had no specific intel about them, but he was certain they were coerced into doing what they did.

Why did Joker want digging equipment? Was it because he wanted to peacefully increase his food production? That would make sense: shovels are very useful in farming. That would help him increase his population and gradually expand his territory. Or he would sell the extra food for power and influence.

But the key word here was gradually. It would take decades for that clown to expand like that. No, else was going on.

“Oh my God!” Batman and Gordon said in unison.

Chapter Text

If Batman had a watch with him, he would have noticed the time was ten pm. That’s right: he had been on duty for sixteen hours straight! What a day!

It had been a very long and eventful day, the most eventful in years. He had done his usual duties – observing, repairing his cameras, checking for radiation – but also much more than that. He had seen two stations merging peacefully – something he had never expected to see –  and had a meeting with Gordon, the first after a long time. Sadly, the meeting had been about that psychotic clown and his sinister plans.

It was time for the Dark Knight to return home. He saluted Gordon, he exited the station, and entered the Bat Train. Before leaving, he promised Gordon he would keep his eyes and ears open for Joker.

It was close to midnight when Batman reached the Batcave. He could have moved faster but he was wearing his armored suit, which restricted him somehow. That suit gave him more protection, but it was heavy and pedaling wearing it was tiresome. And of course, no matter how much he hated to admit it, he was getting older.

“Welcome back, Master Wayne,” Alfred said. “I see your many social obligations kept you busy.” He was trying to sound formal and lighthearted at the same time.

“What can I say, Mr. Pennyworth,” Bruce Wayne replied, in an equally formal and lighthearted tone. “It’s all because I have a charming personality.”

Both men burst into laughter. And why not? Humor was the only thing they had to reduce tension. Going for a walk in nature, a common advice psychologists give, was out of the question. (Unless you wished to die of radiation.) Talking to a therapist was theoretically possible – there were some surviving in Martha Wayne Station – but reaching them was extremely difficult. Only humor, workout, and a sense of purpose remained for the survivors.

On the other hand, you cannot just laugh with for reason at all. Only idiots do so and lunatics. And Joker!

But today, laughter was justified. It had been a mostly good day.

“Would you like some dinner, Master Wayne?” Alfred said, keeping the formal tone. Batman decided to keep playing along.

“But of course, Alfred. I will change into an evening dress, and I will join you as soon as possible. Please don’t tell me what the dinner is. I like surprises.”

“As you wish, Master Wayne. Would you like a drink to accompany your meal?”

“Now that you say it, there is a special brand of whiskey ...”

A few minutes later, Batman was sitting on the dinner table. He had opted to dress formally, something he very rarely did: polished shoes, a freshly ironed three-piece suit, and a matching necktie. Alfred was also formally dressed and had opted to use porcelain dishes and silverware for their meal. He also had placed two crystal glasses on the table.

“I have a pleasant surprise for you, sir,” Alfred said and picked a bottle from under the table.

Bruce looked at the bottle, then looked again. A wide grin was formed on his face.

“Tennessee whiskey!” Alfred’s boss said.

It was the same brand Tom’s and Martha’s delegations had used to celebrate their union, their new and united future. Batman had wisely declined to drink then – he was still on duty – but now the time had come to enjoy the simple pleasures of life.

The meal was nothing spectacular – with the exception of the fine whiskey. Just mushroom soup with some rat meat to add to the taste. Still, it was much better than usual.

“I never expected I’d enjoy eating rats,” Bruce said.

“Me neither,” Alfred said, and took a sip from his drink. “They have become a rare and mostly welcome delicacy.”

“A fine addition, nevertheless. To an already interesting day.”

“So, how was your day, Master Wayne?”

Bruce spent the next minutes describing the meeting with the delegations, and the subsequent meeting with Gordon. Alfred was appalled that Joker sent people outside to steal digging equipment.

“We need to keep our eyes open,” Alfred said. “Too bad we no longer have cameras in Jokerland.”

The mood was getting negative, so Bruce decided to steer the conversation to a more pleasant direction. There was one thing Batman was happy and impressed about and he lost no opportunity to tell Alfred about it.

“Alfred, today I met the rarest type of human in existence. So rare his type is, I thought his kind had been extinct years ago.”

“What kind of person was he?”

“A true optimist, Alfred. A true optimist.”

~~ 0 ~~

Three days later…

Batman woke up and followed his daily routine: working out, a cold water shower, and entering the Bat Tunnel. There he used the Bat Train to maintain the cameras, check for radiation, and listen to conversations in the stations. Occasionally, he entered the main tunnel and tried to struck conversations with Metro survivors. He wanted to learn as much for Joker and his activities as possible.

To his disappointment, there was no intel about the psychotic clown. That was to be expected though. Each station was its own independent state now, with limited information about other stations. The typical individual in the Metro knew a lot about the station he/she lived in, the basics about the stations next to his/hers, and practically nothing about the rest of the Metro.

To learn more, Batman needed to venture closer and closer to Jokerland. He hated that, because the closer he approached Joker’s kingdom, the more dangers he faced. Most psychopaths and sociopaths had ended up in Jokerland or to the stations closest to it. Some of them were ex-convicts Batman himself had arrested. How many of them would try to seek revenge for what had Batman done to them?

Nevertheless, Batman had to take the risk. Commissioner Gordon believed Joker had sinister plans and Gordon was smart, capable, and experienced. More than enough of a reason for Batman to listen and be worried himself. Besides, Bruce had seen people exiting Arkham Prison with his own eyes, returning with pickaxes, shovels, and other digging equipment.

What did Joker need with that equipment? There were two major thoughts:

1. The harmless one. When you live underground, the only peaceful way to expand your territory is by digging. You dig to create more space for homes, for mushroom plantations, or to increase your storage space. Many stations had tried digging, but with limited success. To find digging equipment you needed to venture outside, and nobody would volunteer for that.
2. The sinister one. In an underground setting, the only way to attack your enemies is though the tunnels. But there is no room for maneuver in them. You can only make frontal assaults against prepared and fortified positions. That puts you at a severe disadvantage… unless you secretly dig your own tunnel and make a surprise attack at your enemy’s rear!

Since he was dealing with the Joker, Batman quickly dismissed Option A. The question was: how fast could Joker’s henchmen dig?

Batman exited the Bat Train and entered the main tunnel. Two mushroom farmers were there, digging some mud with primitive tools. He observed three more further away.

He was two stations away from Jokerland, the closest he had approached in years. Close enough to learn something about that clown, but far enough for Joker’s goons to attack him.

Within seconds, the five farmers stopped working and looked at him. Batman carefully observed them. Four of them were less than twenty years old, probably born underground after the war. The fifth was in his mid-forties and appeared to be their supervisor.

Carrying their shovels – more like pipes actually – the five men approached. There was something in their movement that alerted Batman. He had seen the same moves both before and after the war, both above ground and underground. Those guys meant trouble.

Batman sighed. He had not fought with anyone for months. He had hoped people would keep it that way. But no, there will always be idiots to ruin his day. There will always be morons to attack.

The question of course was why. What would those people gain from attacking? Would they gain prestige? Had Joker placed a bounty for the Dark Knight’s head? Who knows, the shovels Joker’s scavengers brought from outside were a type of reward. “Bring me Batman’s severed hand and I’ll give you a shovel. Bring me his head and I’ll add a pickaxe to the deal!”

Batman looked at the tools those guys used. They were very primitive and apparently very fragile. Slightly better than using your bare hands. A real shovel would be a vast improvement for them.

The five guys approached, until they were three meters away from Batman. Their leader gestured for them to stop and took wo steps forward.

“You are in trouble, Mister,” the man said.

“How so?” the vigilante replied.

“We don’t like you. And we don’t want you here.”

“And I thought people of your station were hospitable.”

“Cut the crap, Mister. Joker wants you out of here.”

“Joker is in Jokerland. This is not Jokerland.”

“He pays us to get rid of you.”

“What does he pay you for?”

“Pickaxes, shovels, necessary stuff to increase our mushroom production.”

Yes, that could explain Joker’s sudden enthusiasm for equipment. It seemed plausible. What made that clown so dangerous was the combination of high-level intelligence with psychopathic ruthlessness. Giving equipment to his neighbors was a stroke of genius. One, because they would become friendlier towards him and lower their guard against his plans. Two, because that reward would turn them against Batman, the one person in the Metro that clown mostly hated.

It still made no sense. Yes, Joker was smart, but he was also psychotic. Even if he could find a peaceful method achieve his aims he would opt for a more violent one. Bribing people with pickaxes and shovels was not that clown’s style.

But such thoughts would have to wait for later. There were five people Batman needed to face in front of him.

“We outnumber you five to one,” the leader of the team said.

“Yeah,” Batman replied, an amused tone on his voice. “You only need fifteen more to have a chance.”

It was not bravado. Batman had fought multiple opponents at the same time on many occasions. Five untrained foes are no problem when you have fought against ten of Rhas Al-Ghul’s ninjas… and won! Hopefully, those farmers would come to their senses.

At that moment, something amazing happened. The leader of the group smiled!

“I know what you mean, sir,” he said in a friendly tone. “A few years before the nukes fell, I was a student in Gotham.

I was studying accounting, and I was dating a young student in the University.

“One night, during a date, six thugs carrying pipes, crowbars, and knifes surrounded us. They wanted to beat me up and rape my girlfriend. Can you guess what happened next?”

It was Batman’s turn to smile.

“Let me make an educated guess. A man wearing a bat costume interfered.”

“Exactly,” the man said, enthusiasm in his voice. “I remember as if it happened yesterday. It took you sixty seconds to drop all six of them unconscious.”

“OK, fine,” Batman said. “But if I could easily defeat six opponents, what makes you think the five of you are a match for me?”

“We are no match for you, sir. But people in the distance are watching us. We have to make it look like a confrontation.”

Batman nodded in agreement. He knew what the ex-accountant meant. If they appeared friendly, the other people in the station would ask them why they had been that way. Even worse, they might punish them for that.

“Joker’s offers have corrupted our station,” the farmer said. “We badly need equipment for our mushroom farms. Joker is the only one who provides us. His influence has grown.”

“But Joker is a lunatic.”

“I agree, but not everyone sees it that way.” Yes, desperate times make people do desperate things.

Nevertheless, a grateful ally inside the station would be a valuable source of information. Batman decided to exploit that unexpected piece of good luck.

“I cannot ask you to change the opinions of the others,” the Dark Knight said, “but can you keep your eyes and ears open for me?”

“I can do that, sir. And so can these four gentlemen around me.”

“Thank you for that,” the Dark Knight said. Then he looked at the youngsters.

“How about you, gentlemen? Can I trust you?” he asked the young men. “Is your friend over here telling the truth?”

“He is not our friend, Mr. Batman,” the one of them said. “He is our father. And yes, you can trust us all.”

Their father? Yes, that made sense. Why would a middle-aged man talk so openly in front of people much younger than him? It is difficult to trust someone much younger or much older than you, unless he is your father or your son. Batman himself was no exception: it had taken him years to fully trust Alfred – who was two decades older than him – and for Alfred to fully trust him.

“Their mother is the young lady I was dating back then,” the middle-aged man said, “the one you saved that night. We got married a few days before the nukes fell. All of our children were born underground.”

“Congratulations,” the Dark Knight said. “I wish you remain happily married for a long time.”

“Thank you so much, sir,” the man said. “Take care.”

It was nice that people still found happiness under such sad circumstances. Batman saluted and left; he was happy he had gotten five – six if he counted the man’s wife – new informants.

But the problem remained: very few people knew anything and very few of them were willing to assist Batman. As for Gordon, he kept informing him about Joker’s whereabouts. He still sent people outside to bring more and more equipment. Something big was about to happen…

A few days later…

A big red light flashed in the Batcave. Bruce and Alfred looked at it, terror in their eyes.

“Something terrible just happened, Master Wayne,” the butler said.

“Oh my god,” Batman said. “It is…”

Chapter Text

Batman and Alfred looked at the light. It was a big, circular one, with the image of a bat on it. It made a very distinct projection at the opposite wall.

“The Bat Signal!” Alfred said.

Years before the war, Batman suggested a signal Gordon could use in emergencies. It was a big searchlight with the image of a bat on it. When Gordon turned it on, the light beam with the bat shadow would appear on the clouds. It was a fast and effective way to contact the Dark Knight, without waiting for their next secret meetings. Such meetings took days to arrange. Sending the signal only took minutes.

The Bat Signal – as both men called it – was a great idea. It preserved Bruce’s identity, something that an email or a phone call might compromise. In addition, the signal served an important psychological function: it struck fear in the minds of criminals and hope in the hearts of law abiding citizens.

Obviously, Gordon should only use the Bat Signal for dire emergencies, not for arresting small-time burglars. He had done so twice only. One, when a group of dangerous criminals escaped Arkham Prison. Two, when a masked clown named Joker became an out of control criminal and started cooperating with the mob.

On both occasions Batman had responded. He arrested the dangerous criminals one by one – punching the ones resisting – and tracked Joker down. The clown had tried to fight back, but in the end the Dark Knight prevailed. Joker would remain in Arkham Prison until day the nukes fell.

When the nukes fell, their shockwave destroyed the Bat Signal. But even if it had survived, nobody would see it. You cannot see the clouds when you hide underground. Gordon needed another way to contact his ally.

Batman soon solved that problem. He created a new underground system, consisting of two parts: a small wireless transmitter he placed in Gordon’s office, and a second one inside the Bat Tunnel. Whenever Gordon activated the first transmitter, the second one would receive a signal that would instantly reach the Batcave through the main Bat Tunnel wire.

In twenty years, Gordon had never used the transmitter. Yes, there had been crises, but none of them had been a huge and catastrophic one.

What terrible thing had happened today?

“I think Joker is the reason why,” Alfred said, while his master was entering the Bat Train.

“That makes two of us,” Batman replied and closed the hatch. He started pedaling as fast as he could.

Once more, Batman reached the top floor of the Police Headquarters building. Once more, he saw Gordon observing Arkham Prison with his binoculars.

“OK,” Gordon said, suddenly turning. “Here is what happened.”

After his escape from prison, Joker enjoyed a great advantage. Arkham Station – the one he later named Jokerland – was a big one. It served the prison, the wardens – who lived in houses close to it – , and many other people in the area. It was twice as big as its two nearby stations. And when the nukes fell, it had twice as many survivors in them… for Joker to rule.

Despite this, Joker could not capture the other stations. His only way to access them was through the main tunnel, which was heavily defended from both stations. Despite that, the notorious criminal made multiple attempts to breach the defenses. But they all failed, because frontal attacks favor the defenders, and he was the offender.

The years passed. Joker ruled his small kingdom with an iron fist. Nobody dared questioning him. The ones who did were executed and their corpses became dinner for the survivors. His henchmen were better trained in close-quarters combat than anyone else in the Metro, except Batman himself. But he still could not overcome the other two stations’ defenses.

In the end, a bright idea crossed his mind. If he could not win by a frontal assault, he could win by attacking the rear. After thinking and analysis, he came out with a brilliant plan. These are the steps he followed:

Step One. He moved his Station’s barricades closer and closer to the other station’s territory. That allowed him to expand Jokerland in the tunnel and secure more territory for food cultivation. The other station tried to react, but Joker had a huge numerical superiority and better trained troops. The other side fought valiantly but lost. The new barricade was only fifty meters away from the other side’s one.

Step Two. After building his barricade, Joker’s troops started attacks against the other station’s barricade. Those attacks were very small scale – five to six people mostly – and had no chance of breaching the enemy defenses. But they were very systematic. Several such attacks occurred every day, keeping the other side constantly on edge.

In addition, Jokerland troops constantly banged the tunnel walls with sticks, making loud noises all the time. It was an obvious a form of psychological warfare, but it was much than that …

Step Three. While the noise and the small-time raids kept the defenders distracted, Joker’s scavengers were raiding the surface for digging equipment. The reason? To provide Joker with the means to dig a tunnel.

Granted, scavenging is very dangerous. The ruins, the radiation, and other still unknown threats have caused lots of deaths to those venturing outside. But since defying Joker was even worse, those people chose the lesser of two evils.

Within a few days – and despite the losses – the necessary equipment was there. Joker donated some to one nearby station – not the one he was about to attack – to buy their tolerance and turn them against Batman. But most of it was used by his own troops… to dig a tunnel on their enemies rear!

The barricade Jokerland had erected prevented their enemies from watching their activities. The loud noises prevented them from listening to them.

Joker’s people kept working around the clock. There was no stop. A henchman would dig for one hour straight, then give his shovel to the next one and take a two-hour break. They dug two hundred meters of tunnel – a hundred to reach the enemy’s barricade and a hundred more to be at the right distance – within a few days.

It was all ready for the next phase…

Step Four. Joker had three hundred henchmen under his command. The militia defending the nearby station had a third of that. He left fifty to defend Jokerland and sent a hundred-and-fifty to directly attack the enemy barricade. The other one hundred…

The frontal attack was fierce and very noisy. To stop it, the defenders sent most of their militia there. In the beginning, they were winning, stopping all climbing efforts and killing several enemies. Joker didn’t worry though. A hundred men were inside the tunnel, ready to burst like a wave.

Suddenly, the walls fell. Within seconds, one hundred of Joker’s troops exited the tunnel. The noise and the confusion gave them valuable time to encircle the defenders. Eighty militia were suddenly between two fronts…

It went as anyone could guess. Joker’s troops were better trained and equipped and easily overpowered the defenders. Some of them perished in the attack and the rest were forced to surrender.

“And that is how it happened,” Gordon said. “Twenty years for Joker to decide to attack, twenty days to plan it, and only twenty minutes to do it.”

“It took him too long to decide,” Batman said. “Unusual for that clown.”

“It was not lack of determination,” came the reply. “It was high levels of radiation. Joker had sent scavengers in the past. But they almost never returned. Too much radiation at the time, too much rubble. Radiation levels have decreased somehow.”

“A good point. His scavengers could survive longer outside. Or he found enough ‘volunteers’ to get out. But let me tell you this. Radiation is still high outside. Most of those ‘volunteers’ wouldn’t last long after their return.”

“Joker only needed them to go out and get some equipment. As long as they returned, he didn’t care about their survival.”

“True,” Batman said. “That clown is a ruthless psychopath.”

 “Now,” Gordon said, changing the topic. “You might wander why I used the Bat Signal. I mean, yes, what Joker did was terrible. He killed dozens, and he expanded his small empire to a second station.

“On the other hand, all this is finished business. Informing you about that situation was not so urgent. You would probably find out on your own within a day or two. Besides, there is nothing you can do about it.”

“Correct,” Batman replied. “Joker now controls two stations, and I cannot overpower him. If I could, I would have done so years ago. What is going on?”

“The Vault,” Gordon said. “Are you aware of it?”

“The Vault?” Batman said, shocked. He had never heard about it before.

Long before Arkham Prison was built, DARPA (Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency) established a facility in Gotham. Like similar ones in other cities, the people there were involved in classified research.

Like all Gothamites, Batman was aware of that facility. Like most of them, he was curious about what they researched. Partly, it was the normal curiosity people had. Partly it was fear: what if a criminal stole something dangerous from there, like a suitcase nuke? Partly, it was business opportunity: could Wayne Enterprises benefit from the research there? Could they built a new product in partnership with DARPA?

Bruce Wayne had made multiple attempts to learn more. But all is efforts had failed. Nobody would talk about what they researches. His attempts to enter the facility as Batman had also failed. Security was very tight.

People in that place knew how to keep their mouths shut and their doors locked.

When the nukes fell, the facility was seriously damaged. The building was ruined and burned. Whatever those people were researching was lost. Whatever dangerous things they were storing were gone, becoming ashes and smoke.

Or so everyone had thought…

“A few of the researchers survived,” Gordon said. “They hid in the Metro Station next to Jokerland.”

“Makes sense,” Batman said. “It was the closest station to the facility.”

“Some of them were still alive when Joker captured the station. The majority were killed or captured in the attack. But a couple of them survived and reached Station Police. I interrogated them before notifying you.”

“What did they tell you?”

“That there was a hidden bunker inside the station. DARPA built it secretly without informing the Metro builders. They call it… the Vault.”

Batman thought it for a few seconds. As Bruce Wayne, he vaguely remembered a specific term in the Metro creation contract. According to that term, the US Corps of Engineers were allowed to enter a station, block access to it, and modify it as they wished. Wayne Enterprises had no right to object and no right to learn about the specific modifications.

DARPA had built a secret underground bunker and Batman was totally in the dark about it. OK, that had made sense before the war. But after the nukes fell?

“Did you ever hear about the Vault in the past?” Gordon asked.

“No. How about you?”

“Nope. But I understand their reasons.”

“So do I.”

“One,” Gordon said. “How to reach us? Foot travel in the tunnel is very dangerous. These two guys are lucky they reached Station Police alive.”

“Two,” Batman said. “Telling others in the station. Too dangerous. Some of them might be tempted to open that Vault.”

“Too dangerous indeed. I am sure it contains more dangerous stuff than paperclips and pencils.”

“Not to mention Jokerland is nearby. A single individual would be enough to spill the beans to that clown.”

“Three,” Gordon said. “OK, say they told us years ago. What could we do? I am understaffed here, and I can barely help nearby Stations. Going out there would be impossible.”

“The same applies to me. I have an entire Metro to assist. And besides, what could we do?”

“That’s what those survivors thought. For twenty years, they kept their secret to themselves. They never discussed it with each other, they never told anyone else, and they never tried to inform us. They were right. It was safer that way.”

“Until Joker occupied their station,” Batman said. “Now he has access to it.”

Back in Jokerland…

“So,” Joker said, smiling. “Let me see the final results. Four hundred people in our new Station. One hundred of them a militia. Thirty members of the militia are gone. We have roasted militia for barbecue, guys.”

The assembled henchmen laughed. Some of them because they really liked meat, regardless of the source. Others because if they stopped laughing would face Joker’s wrath.

“Put the survivors in jail. Place the barbecue grills in the main hall, in front of the cells. I want them to watch!”

It was sadism, but it was more than that. It was an extreme form of intimidation. Joker wanted the prisoners to see what would happen to those opposing him.

Joker knew what would happen. Prisoners always chose one of the three options:

1. Joker would simply execute them and barbecue the remains.
2. Passive submission. They would neither provide Joker with valuable intel nor oppose him. Joker would spare them and keep them as slaves. Someone had to maintain the mushroom farms of his newly captured territory after all.
3. Active collaboration. Some people are greedy. Others are scared. In both cases, they are willing to talk in order to improve their situation. These were the interesting ones, the ones Joker learned most from. How many of them would he find among the survivors?

One hour later, all survivors were in their cells… including three scientists who had worked for DARPA before the war. Two more were among the thirty dead militiamen. Two more had reached Station Police, having escaped at the last minute. They were currently inside a small interrogation room, talking to Batman and Gordon…

“So,” Batman told one of the surviving scientists. “What do you know about the Vault?”

“Not much sir,” came the reply. “I was only twenty-two when the nukes fell. I was essentially an intern.”

“So was I,” the other scientist replied. “I was doing my PhD and part of my job was to assist most senior scientists.”

“In a sense we got lucky,” the first one said. “We were working long hour days and that means we had to be in that building very early in the morning. We could also not afford having a car, so we used the Metro.”

“That saved you,” Gordon commented.

“Yes,” the first scientist replied. “The nukes fell at dawn, and we both were inside the Metro at the moment.”

“What was the research you were doing in that lab?” Batman asked.

“Data analytics for biological research,” the first one said.

“Computer Science,” the second one said.

“Do you know what the Vault contains?” Batman asked.

“No,” Gordon said. “They already told me they have no idea.

“We were both interns,” the second scientist said. “They would not entrust such a secret to us.”

“We only had heard some rumors,” the first one said. “We only learned more after the war.”

“Two of our colleagues took as aside one day,” the second scientist said. “They told us about the Vault. They told us it was built at the lowest level of the Station, below the train tracks.”

“But they never told us what it contained,” the first one commented. “Despite our repeated questions, they only told us the contents should never exit the Vault.”

“I see,” Gordon said. “But now Joker contains the station. Can he find the Vault himself? After all, you lived in a small station for decades and you only found out because your senior colleagues told you.”

“No,” the first scientist said. “There is only one entrance. And US Engineers built a wall in front of it.”

“Makes sense,” Gordon said. "Concealment and added strength.”

“In other words,” Batman said, “Joker has no idea the Vault exists.”

“True,” the first scientist said.

“Unless of course,” Batman, “Joker forces your colleagues to talk.”

“Oh shit,” Gordon said.

At that moment, the room became very silent…

Chapter Text

The silence was deafening. Nobody dared breaking it. Everyone was trying to contemplate what Batman had said. Yes, the Dark Knight had stated the obvious and it was easy for everyone to intellectually process it. But psychologically processing it was another story.

“We are in trouble,” Gordon said, breaking the silence. Batman looked at him. Gordon returned the look and nodded.

“So,” Batman asked the two scientists. “How many people were in your Station?”

“Four hundred,” the first one said. “Twenty managed to escape. About fifty were killed in Joker’s invasion. That’s how many I estimate anyway.”

“It will take days for Joker to interrogate your colleagues,” Gordon said. “But when he does…”

“I know,” the second scientist said. “They won’t last long. Neither will the secret.”

“The question,” Gordon said, “is what the Vault contains. If it’s something harmless, we have no reason to worry.”

“Sadly,” the first scientist said, “we know nothing about it. Those in the know are either dead or Joker’s prisoners.”

“True,” Batman said, “but there must be information somewhere. The Vault’s blueprints, the combination, a list of what it contains, anything.”

“Something written, yes,” the second scientist said. “If there is something, it is somewhere in the DARPA facility. But the last time I was there was twenty years ago. I doubt anything survived.”

“Well, it’s a start,” Batman said. “So, assuming you were head of the facility, where would you store…”

A few minutes later…

Batman and Gordon stepped outside the room.

“Alright,” Gordon said. “This is the hard part. You know what I am gonna ask you.”

“Go outside, enter the DARPA facility, and search the ruins for intel about the Vault. Then I come back, and we examine the intel.”

“More or less. We don’t know what the Vault contains. If it contains research data we are OK. Nobody has the computing power and the raw materials to use them. But if it contains a nuke or a virus.”

“Correct. Besides, those senior scientist might just be trolling the younger ones.”

“Perhaps. Now, I understand you have already done so much for me, the Police, the survivors. I cannot force you…”

“I will do it.” There was determination in Batman’s voice.

“Thank you so much, my friend.”

It was an emotional moment. Both men had known each other for almost thirty years. They knew they would have each other’s back on all occasions.

But there was no time for emotion. Both needed to set feelings aside and focus on the task like professionals.

“I will keep the scientists in the Station,” Gordon said. “They are homeless, and I cannot send them to another station.”

“Most stations won’t accept them anyway. There is too much prejudice.”

“Correct. We cannot risk letting them talk about the Vault.”

“Yes,” Batman said, “better avoid the security risk. Besides, you could use some extra manpower here.”

“Of course! I was understaffed even before the war started. And you can guess how many good men and women I lost during all those years.”

Batman nodded. After the nukes fell, many people were angry and blamed the authorities for failing to protect them. The darkness, the uncertainty, and the confined conditions of the Metro only made things worse. Soon, many people channeled their anger to the Police. Many police officers lost their lives during those days.

Under those conditions, asking for volunteers became next to impossible. No matter how many times Batman had tried, the reply was always negative. Although many recognized the need for law enforcement during those troubled times, the frustration and negativity were very strong. Some survivors were also afraid the police would retaliate for their dead colleagues.

As the years passed, each station formed its own city-state and its own militia. Each militia became – among other duties – each station’s law enforcement. Moreover, the anger against Police gradually stopped. Nevertheless, people preferred joining their militias. Gordon was therefore unable to spare people for Batman.

“Sorry, my friend,” Gordon said. “I cannot spare anyone, even the two newcomers. You’ll need to recruit from the local militias.”

“I will see what I can do,” Batman said, and started leaving the station.

Back in the Batcave…

“Going outside?” Alfred said, his eyes wide in surprise.

“Yes,” Batman said. “We are going to do it. I must find what the Vault contains.”

“It will be very dangerous. The place is full of radiation.”

“Correct.”

“There will be ruins everywhere, Master Wayne. You will need to take lots of shortcuts.”

“Equally correct,” Bruce replied.

“There might be hostile creatures out there. Mutants, wild animals immune to radiation, etc.”

“Yes, I’ve considered the possibility.”

“And I am getting older, barely able to keep up.”

“Time passes for everyone, Alfred. You, me, Gordon, the people in the Metro…”

Alfred was in the verge of tears. Yes, Alfred was in his seventies now. How much longer could he fight? How much longer could he work?

Bruce knew how much Alfred wanted to help. But he also knew Alfred would never let himself become a burden. What could Bruce do?

Meanwhile in Arkham Prison…

“So,” Joker told the sixty-year old man sitting opposite him. “Despite your age, you were part of your Station’s militia.”

“It was my duty to fight to protect the Station and the people in it,” the man replied.

“And…” Joker said, carrying an old passport. “You fought. But you failed to save the station Dr… Johnson. Oh, my goodness! We have a PhD owner here!”

“Yes,” Johnson said, in defiance. “I used to be a scientist.”

“How nice of you!” Joker said and gave a mock military salute. “It’s an honor to have a Doctor of Sciences here. I am wondering what secrets a man of science like you carries.”

“Whatever secrets I carried were lost when the war started,” the scientist replied. “There is nothing left. Nowadays I am just another mushroom farmer who also happened to serve in his station’s militia.”

“No, Mister,” Jocker said. “Oh, sorry,” he said in mock apology, “I meant Doctor. This station is the closest in the DARPA facility. I am sure that several scientists survived the nukes. And I am sure that some of them are still alive.”

The leader of Jokerland paused for effect. While pausing, he slowly removed a small knife from one of his pockets. It was very small, but also very sharp.

Joker gently touched the man’s cheek with it. It was not a big wound, but enough to draw some blood.

“I am going to gather all of you the scientists,” Joker said in a slow and menacing voice. “When I do so, I will put you all in separate cells and start torturing you one by one. I will keep torturing until either one of you talks or one of you dies.”

“But there is nothing I can tell you,” the scientist said. “I was just a computer scientist; I was not researching any weapons or stuff like that.”

“Perhaps,” Joker said, and made another cut. “Or perhaps you are a bad boy, and you are lying. OK, that’s it! I have an idea!” Joker started laughing in his usual hysteric way.

“That’s it! That’s it! I have a great idea. Do you want to hear it? I am sure you want. I am sure you think I am gonna barbecue you if you refuse. Guess what! You are right! That’s exactly what I am gonna do! So, Doctor, what do you say? Do you want to hear my idea?”

“I am all ears, Mr. Joker.”

“Oh, nice, you have manners. Good, you spared yourself another cut. OK, OK, here is the idea. You give me one good secret and I stop torturing you. Even better, I spare you and your colleagues. You’ll of course serve me as mushroom farmers. But hey! At least my men won’t roast you!”

The scientist looked at Joker. He knew the man meant every word. He had done much, much worse things before the war started. Twenty years underground had only increased his sadism and cruelty.

“Alright, alright,” the scientist said, resigned. “There is an underground bunker and…”

Alfred was sad. He really wanted to assist his master. But his advanced age could prevent him from doing so. His spirit was willing and able. But what about his body?

Batman was also concerned. But he knew Alfred still had something to give. Yes, his body was not what is used to be. But Alfred was still capable and useful. Too bad he was demoralized.

“Look at my works ye mighty and despair,” Alfred said, quoting Shelley.

“Shelley was a great poet,” Batman said. “And ‘Ozymandias’ was a great poem. But I would suggest Lord Tennyson.”

“Which one of his many poems, Master Wayne?”

“How about ‘Ulysses’?” the Dark Knight said. “Could you quote the last six lines for me? I think you remember them by heart”

“But of course,” Alfred said. Batman noticed a thin smile on his butler’s face.

Alfred cleared his throat and started citing:

“ Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
     We are not now that strength which in old days
     Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
     One equal temper of heroic hearts,
     Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
     To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

“I believe there is a man in the Batcave the poem refers to,” Bruce said. “I wonder what his name is.” Alfred smiled.

“I think his name is Alfred Pennyworth, sir.”

“Made weak by time and fate… but strong in will.”

“To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.” Batman smiled. His old friend and servant was back in the game!

“Mr. Pennyworth, I believe there is an adventure waiting outside for us.”

“For the good of Gotham and its survivors, Master Wayne.”

“One the Dark Knight cannot accomplish on his own.”

“He will not be alone. His loyal servant will be with him.”

“Prepare the radiation suits, Alfred. We are going outside.”

“Yes, Master Wayne!”

Chapter Text

Six am, Batcave…

Bruce Wayne woke up and followed his usual routine: a cold water shower and a morning workout. A usual day, like the thousands he had lived so far, but with one exception. Today, he was going outside.

Bruce still remembered the day the nukes fell. How could he not to? How could anyone not to? He had returned late the previous night, less than three hours before the war's start. He had been sound asleep when the first atomic weapon hit the United States. He would have remained so if Alfred hadn't woken him up and essentially dragged him to the Batcave.

For the next twenty years, the Batcave ended up as his and Alfred's permanent residence. It was much smaller and much less comfortable than Wayne Manor. But it was radiation-proof and had all the equipment the Dark Knight would need for his new mission as protector of the Metro survivors.

Batman looked at Alfred. The latter was cleaning two black anti-radiation suits. One of them had cowls, the same pattern all the Dark Knight's suits had.

"Your anti-radiation Bat-suit, Master Wayne," Alfred said. "It follows the same fashion as the rest of your Bat-equipment."

"What  can I say, Alfred? I am a fashion icon." It was a below average joke, but it worked. Alfred cracked a bit.

"Yes, sir," Alfred said, amused. "Apart from the fashion, there is the minor issue about the contents of the cowl."

"Yes, the transmitters in them. What about them?"

"They no longer work. You won't be able to receive messages to your satellite."

Batman thought for a second. The satellite in question was the Wayne Sat, a private satellite he had launched into space a few years before the war started. It had been a very expensive idea, but it was worth it: it would provide Bruce with unlimited encrypted communications with all his corporations worldwide. It would also allow him - as Batman - to eavesdrop for illegal activities.

Alfred himself had made the feasibility study about the satellite. According to it, the cost reductions for its use would cover the investment cost in ten years, a relatively short amount of time. Unless of course something terrible happened.

The terrible happened three years later. Nuclear war started and the Russians detonated a nuke in the upper atmosphere. The explosion destroyed the satellite, and its debris were burned in the atmosphere. But even if it had survived the nuke, what use would Bruce Wayne have for it? The war destroyed all Wayne Enterprises corporations on Earth.

"Well," Batman replied, after remembering the story, "since there is no satellite…"

"Exactly," Alfred said. "But I suggest you keep the cowls. They add to your image."

"Of course, Alfred," Bruce said, in mock pride. "You can go to war without a radio, but you can never go unproperly dressed!"

"By no means, sir. That is a disgrace our ancestors would never forgive."

After the suit cleaning was over, Batman and Alfred carefully examined their components. Each suit consisted of a pair of boots, pants, a shirt, a pair of gloves, and a helmet, all airtight. The helmet also had a filter to absorb the pathogens in the contaminated air.

Apart from that basic equipment, the suits could be upgraded with some optional additions: a radiation-proof backpack to store equipment, Kevlar plates for protection from firearms, and a belt to carry equipment.

Batman and Alfred hadn't used the suits for many years. Fortunately, there were no leaks in them. The various parts fit perfectly. To be certain, Batman put his suit on and asked Alfred to carefully examine it again. Alfred did so, finding no problem. Afterwards, Bruce had his butler put his suit on and examined it. He found no problems.

"OK," the Dark Knight said. "Suits are OK. Next part of the equipment?"

"Kevlar vests and backpacks."

"Forget the Kevlar," Batman replied. "They are too heavy. And too hot."

"True," Alfred replied. He knew what happened to his boss whenever he wore his heavy Bat-suit, the one with the Kevlar plates on. Bruce had to spend twice the physical effort for the same result. He always returned to the Batcave exhausted.

It would be even worse outside. Inside the Metro, Batman mostly pedaled in the Bat Tunnel. The tunnel was mostly level, with very gentle inclines. Batman knew exactly how to do it. If a gentle and predictable route tired Bruce so much, what would happen to the much harder and must less predictable outside? How could Batman - or the much weaker Alfred - climb them with the added weight?

Apart from that, Kevlar made you very hot. Wearing it was like wearing thick winter clothes. That was no big deal inside the Metro, because the temperature was low. But outside, temperatures would be much higher, especially during the day. Besides, the radiation suits were already very hot. No need to add to an already unbearable situation.

"We won't have lots of protection," Alfred said.

"If we put the Kevlar on," Batman replied, "we'll collapse long before that."

"Correct, sir. But are we going outside unprotected?"

"Not at all, Alfred. Not at all."

Supposedly, Batman had one basic rule, one he should never break, no matter the circumstances. The rule was simple: thou shalt not kill. No matter what, Batman was not to kill his opponents. He could punch them, wound them, tie them, put them in a box, but under no circumstances should he kill them.

In theory, it was a noble idea. It is not your job to decide whether someone is to live or die. Leave that decision to where it belongs, that is the justice system. Limit yourself to arrests. Apart from that, by not killing others - even if they are criminals - you protect yourself from the sadness and remorse taking a human life brings. And last but not least, you can always convince yourself you are not like those you hunt: they are murderers, but you are not.

As the years passed, Batman gradually abandoned the rule. In the beginning, it was because he faced impossible situations. If your only two options are dying and killing the bad guy who attacks you, what do you do? Besides, is killing someone in self-defense a crime? The justice system says no, so Batman broke no law doing so. Besides, is it morally wrong to kill someone who tries to kill you?

After the nukes fell, the situation became chaotic. With great reluctance, Batman fully abandoned the rule. If he could spare the criminals, so be it. If not, so be it again. Saving innocents was more important.

Unfortunately, Batman had applied his no-kill rule for so long, he had been unprepared for the new situation. In the pre-war days, he would never use firearms. In the post-war days, he would… but he only had two shotguns!

"Here we go," Alfred said. "Our glorious arsenal."

Batman looked at the two weapons in front of him. The first one was a twin-barreled shotgun with long barrels. The second one was a short-barreled one. Both had the same caliber and could use a variety of ammunition: birdshot, heavy pellet shot, single pellet shot, incendiary, armor piercing, and many others.

Batman examined the long-barreled weapon. There was not much to examine though. It was a basic type of firearm. You just flipped it open; you loaded it with one shell on each barrel, you flipped it close, you put the safety to off, you aimed, and you fired. That was all. Simple, straightforward, and effective.

Maintaining the weapons was equally simple; you just flipped them open and pushed a piece of oiled cloth in each barrel with a rod. And that was it. There were no complex mechanical parts in them, like the ones semi-automatic rifles and pistols had. That was especially good post-war, because you cannot find - or manufacture - spare parts underground.

The two shotguns were effective weapons. They had decent accuracy and great stopping power. That was especially true with the longer one. Its extra barrel length gave its shots more speed and accuracy. On the other hand, the short-barreled one was lighter and easier to aim, making it better for Alfred who was physically weaker than Bruce.

Unfortunately, twin-barreled shotguns are overall mediocre weapons. Being easy to maintain is of course a plus, but you can only fire twice before reloading. Compare that to an MP-5 submachine gun that carries a 50-round clip, and you get the picture.

All things considered though Batman preferred the shotguns. Yes, they needed constant reloading, but they remained reliable after twenty years. In contrast, many weapons the Police used were no longer operational.

Alfred finished examining his shotgun and loaded it with armor piercing shells. Next to him, Batman did the same. Afterwards, both men fastened ammo belts around their waists, each carrying twenty shells.

In addition, both Alfred and Batman carried backpacks. They contained radiation detectors, extra ammo, food and water in sealed containers, flashlights, candles, and anti-radiation pills. Finally, Batman carried his most well-known weapon: the batarang, a type of boomerang capable of incapacitating enemies at medium distances.

"I think we are ready, Master Wayne," Alfred said.

"Lead the way, Master Pennyworth! To the surface!"

A few seconds later, both men were standing in front of the elevator entrance. The elevator was a small one, that only moved between two floors: the ground level where Wayne Manor was, and underground where the Batcave is. Bruce Wayne had used it hundreds of times during his vigilante days.

Years ago, long before the nukes fell, Batman installed two thick steel doors in both entrances. He had done so for two reasons. One, to protect himself in case a villain breached Wayne Manor. What is the point in having a shelter if its only entrance is not protected? Two, the door was radiation-proof, allowing him and Alfred to survive in case something terrible happened.

The precautions had paid off. After twenty years, no radiation had leaked through the elevator shaft. Moreover, nobody had intruded through that area.

Nevertheless, Batman remained careful. While Alfred was slowly opening the door, the Dark Knight loaded his shotgun and aimed it at the entrance. If there was a hidden intruder there, he would receive two highly powerful doses of pain and death.

The door slowly opened, revealing the elevator cabin. There was nobody inside.

"I have used the elevator for years," Batman said. "I never found an intruder."

"As you would say: better safe than sorry," came the reply.

"Correct. Let's do it, Alfred."

Batman shouldered his weapon and entered the elevator. Meanwhile, his butler unshouldered his and aimed at the ceiling. If there was a hidden intruder, that was where he would come from.

While Alfred was covering the ceiling, Batman closed the door. Afterwards, he grabbed the elevator winch. It was stuck, but after some effort it started moving. He turned it clockwise and the cabin started moving upwards.

In the old, pre-war days, an electrical engine powered the elevator. It allowed Batman to cover the fifty meters between Wayne Manor and the Batcave in five seconds. But after the nukes fell, electricity became scarce. Just like the Bat Train, Bruce and Alfed had to install a human-powered system. It was an effective but very slow solution: you needed fifty minutes of turning the winch to cover the same distance the electric engine would cover in five seconds.

"It is still better than the stairs," Alfred said.

Batman nodded. Taking the stairs would be much faster, but it would tire them more. It also meant they could carry fewer things upon returning to the Batcave.

In any case, the comment was purely academic. There were no stairs for the Batcave. The only entrance was from the elevator.

"Home, sweet home," Batman said after almost an hour. There was sadness in his voice.

"How many years since we last surfaced?" Alfred said. "Five? Or is it more?"

"Five years, Alfred," Batman said and prepared to open the door. Next to him, Alfred aimed his short-barreled shotgun to the entrance.

The two men looked at each other. Despite wearing helmets, they could read each other's feelings and moods. Both were sad. They had lived in Wayne Manor their entire lives. But they knew what they would face when they opened that door: ruins, destruction, and sad memories.

"It never gets easier, does it?" Alfred said.

"Never," Batman admitted. "But we gave Gordon a promise."

Batman slowly pushed the door. It couldn't move. Something was blocking it from the other side. Using all his strength - and Alfred's assistance - the Dark Knight pushed again.

After a few tries the door opened. Batman and Alfred stepped outside; their shotguns ready to eliminate any threat. There was none though. Taking a deep breath, the two men stepped into Wayne Manor…

Back in the Metro…

"So, my friends," Joker said. "DARPA facility, huh?"

The three men nodded. They could not move because Joker's goons had tied their arms and legs. They could not talk because Joker himself had tied their mouths. They could only nod.

"I see we agree here. Good! Now, let's do some calculations. When the nukes fell, ten of you escaped in that Station. Right?" More nods followed.

"How many of your colleagues escaped into other Stations?" Negative nods followed.

"Understood," Joker said. "How could you know? Each station is its own city-state now."

"OK, back to this Station. You were ten. How many were alive when we captured the station?"

Joker raised ten fingers. The three men gave negative nods. He raised nine, then eight. Nothing. It was only when he raised seven that the nods became positive.

"OK, seven. But I only see three of you here. Where are the others? Let's see. How many were killed when we took the Station?" He raised two fingers, and all nods were positive.

"OK. Five survivors from DAPRA. Three of you here, where are the other two?"

"You don't know. Well, I'll take your word for that. But if you lie…" Joker said and took a small but very sharp knife from one of his pockets.

"I promised your friend here," Joker said, touching one of the three men's shoulder, "that if you tell me the truth, I will spare you. Do you see these guys around you?"

The three scientists looked around. They saw ten tall and muscular men, wearing clown masks. All of them were carrying sledgehammers.

"These are my elite troopers," Joker said. "They will break the wall behind you. If the Vault is behind it, you'll survive. If not, my troopers have orders to use their sledgehammers on your bodies!"

Joker left the room, his hysterical laughter filling the atmosphere. The troopers started hitting the wall. The tied and gagged scientists… let's say they were in panic mode.

Holding their shotguns, Batman and Alfred ventured forward. They pushed the obstacle aside and entered Wayne Manor Main Hall.

Batman looked at the obstacle, a sad expression on his face. Once upon a time, it had been a wall clock, resembling the Big Ben in London. His father had brought it from England a long time ago, long before Bruce was born. It had survived for decades in Wayne Manor, it had survived the war, it had survived for fifteen years in an abandoned place...

… only to collapse for some reason.

There was a sad symbolism there. You last for so long, until one day…

"I remember when I helped your father install it," Alfred said, almost in tears. "I remember you played with it as a kid. And now… it's gone."

"Let's take it back to the Batcave," Bruce said. "Silly we never did so all those years."

"Good idea, sir," the butler said. "I still wonder how it fell down. What kicked the clock down?"

A shadow suddenly appeared from the nearest corridor.

"You mean… who kicked clock down,” the Dark Knight said…

… and raised his shotgun.

Chapter Text

Batman had heard the rumors time and time again: there are creatures outside. People called them… the Mutants.

The rumors about the Mutants were contradictory. Were they tall and muscular as some people claimed? Or were they short and weak? Were they able to fly or could they only walk? And most important of all: were they peaceful or were they hostile?

Batman had been unable to determine which of the about was true. Perhaps the Mutants were hostile. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they were strong, perhaps they were weak. Or perhaps the Mutants did not exist, and some people were lying for one reason or another.

Years ago, the Dark Knight decided to investigate. Partly because of his natural curiosity. Partly because he wanted to determine how big a threat the Mutants were. But how could he find the truth? There were so many contradictory versions about them; he could not determine which ones were accurate.

Perhaps more than one version was true. Perhaps some people had met friendly mutants, while others had met hostile ones. After all, some human beings are friendly and some hostile to you. It’s not a stretch to assume another species is like that.

The only way to be certain was if Batman investigated himself. But that meant frequent visits to the surface. In theory, he could do it. He would put his radiation-proof Bat-suit on, climb the elevator, and get out. But afterwards, he or Alfred would need to decontaminate the suit, meaning they would need to burden their already busy daily schedules. Moreover, they would  need to use decontamination materials, which they were in very short supply in the Batcave. Batman’s ventures outside would soon deplete them. Then what?

The limitations in logistics had forced Batman to restrict the frequency of his ventures. He had also been careful never to stay more than a few hours outside. That in turn meant he could only cover short distances. He had never ventured more than half a kilometer away from Wayne Manor. It was far from ideal, but there was no other way. Better to preserve his limited ability to go outside than lose it within a few months.

After weighting the pros and cons, Batman had opted not to investigate the Mutants. Apart from the logistics, going outside would expose him to additional danger, something he could not afford. It was not cowardice, but concern for Alfred, Gordon and the Metro survivors. Besides, the Mutants were no threat. For twenty years not a single one had entered the tunnels. As long as Gothamites remained in the Metro, they were safe.

Nevertheless, Batman still took his precautions. His daily patrols in the Bat Tunnel were not only to investigate potential radiation leaks and to maintain the camera system, but also to check for Mutans. In addition, he always carried his shotgun whenever he got outside.

The footsteps suddenly stopped. Then they started again.

“Is it testing us?” Alfred whispered.

“I wish I knew,” Bruce Wayne replied.

Both men tensed and took aim with their shotguns. But the noise stopped again.

Suddenly, they heard footsteps again. They were loud. The creature was running!

Batman looked at the shadow. It was becoming smaller, as if the creature was leaving.

Without hesitation, he rushed forward. Alfred followed him.

Batman never reached the creature. His suit was heavy, even without the Kevlar plates. He was tired after an hour of turning the elevator winch. And the distance he needed to cover was almost ten meters, in a dark corridor full of debris. He only heard the sound of footsteps and broken glass.

“I missed it,” he told Alfred, when the latter came.

“It was a long distance, sir,” his butler said.

“The rumors were true. Mutants exist.”

“But not much more than that.”

“Correct,” Bruce replied. “Was the creature peaceful and got scared? Or was it hostile and made the rational choice to retreat because it was outnumbered?”

“We’ll never learn. Unless we come across it again.”

Batman looked out the window. But he could not see much. The light of the sun blinded him. He could not spot the creature even if it was black as the night.

“Twenty years underground,” Alfred said. “It changed us.”

Batman nodded. Alfred was right. All Metro survivors had to live in perpetual darkness, like a moonless night with no stars. There was no electricity, so the main source of light were candles and oil lamps. After years, their eyes had adjusted to those weak sources of light. The downside was that whenever one of them saw the light of the day, they needed a lot of time to adjust to the more powerful light of the sun.

“OK,” Batman said, after a few minutes, “I can see now.”

“So, can I,” his loyal servant replied. “Shall we?”

“Let’s go.”

It was not only logistics and personal risk that kept Batman underground. It was also… sadness!

Wayne Manor was the place Bruce Wayne was born. It was the place he had made his first steps, the place he had first played with his toys. It had been his parents’ home, his home, Alfred’s home and residence. It was the place he had invited so many guests, the place he had hosted so many parties, the place he had signed deals, seduced beautiful ladies, made plans, executed plans, and so many other activities it would take pages to mention.

Wayne Manor was Bruce Wayne’s home. It always had been, and it would always be.

“So many memories,” the Dark Knight said, misty eyed.

“They never leave,” Alfred replied. “You’ll feel that when you reach my age.”

What made Bruce and Alfred so sad was not only the memories of people gone. It was also the sad state the place had. Once upon a time, Wayne Manor was the most beautiful building in Gotham. Thomas and Martha Wayne were very proud of that. So had been Bruce, who spent considerable time maintaining and improving it.

But after the nukes fell, everything changed.

Wayne Manor had been a lucky building. It was in the outskirts of the city, so nukes didn’t devastate it like downtown buildings. Radiation levels were also lower here. Nevertheless, the destruction was considerable. The shockwave from the nukes destroyed most windows, allowing radiation to enter the building. Gradually, the winds carried radioactive dust inside the building; dust that covered every surface and contaminated most of its rooms.

Bruce took a deep breath and approached the wall. There was a painting there, hidden behind bulletproof glass. It was not something of great artistic significance, just an oil painting a decent painter had made decades ago. But it was the content of the painting that mattered.

The painting showed three people: a well-dressed, middle aged man, an elegant woman in an equally elegant dress, and a young boy wearing a tie sitting between them.

“My father,” Bruce said. “My mother.”

“And you in the middle, Master Wayne,” Alfred said.

“One year before I lost them,” Bruce said, a tear falling.

Alfred touched his best friend’s shoulder.

Remembering your deceased parents and your former, peaceful life was important, even necessary. Nevertheless, the main reason Batman had exited the Batcave was not memories. He had given his word to Gordon, and he needed to check about Joker’s whereabouts. He touched the bulletproof glass, he dusted it with his glove, and took a long last look at his parents.

“See you at my next visit,” he said and turned to his right.

“Are you thinking what I am thinking, sir?” Alfred said while observing his boss’ movement. He knew where Bruce was heading to.

“Yes,” came the reply. “We might get lucky.”

Apart from a place for living, partying, and socializing, Wayne Manor was a place of work. Bruce had a big and luxurious office there, an office he frequently used. He found it quieter than his office in Wayne Enterprises Tower. He could concentrate better there and sneak some time to visit the Batcave. And saving on transportation time didn’t hurt either.

For security reasons, Bruce Wayne had installed a safe in his office. It was where he stored sensitive info like business deals still under negotiation, classified research projects, and plans for the Metro…

Was it possible the Army Corps of Engineers had sent him the Vault plans? Unlikely, but as Alfred had suggested, they might get lucky.

Behind his desk, there was an oil painting, also behind bulletproof glass. Unlike the one in the main hall, it depicted a wooden sailing ship of old times. It was a gift from an old friend in New York, a friend no longer alive (a nuke had claimed his life two decades ago). It was another sad reminder of a long gone past.

Setting sentiments aside, Batman sat on his old chair. It was very cumbersome, because he wore his anti-radiation suit, a very thick and restricting piece of garment. It took him a lot of effort to succeed. Fortunately, radiation hadn’t destroyed the chair.

“Like the old days, Master Wayne,” Alfred said, smiling. “You on your desk, I to maintain the house.”

“You did a great job all those years,” Batman commented, smiling as well. “Sadly, it’s full of dust now.”

“My apologies, sir,” the butler said. “The vacuum cleaner didn’t work.”

“Yeah, those nukes destroyed the electricity grid. Not to mention the slight inconvenience of caring about the Metro survivors.”

“Yeah, I had to reset my priorities.”

“Anyway,” Batman said. “Time for the secret button.”

With more effort, Batman pushed a button under the desk. Behind him, the painting moved. There was a safe behind it…

“Like the movies,” Alfred said.

“Yes,” Batman replied. “Not to mention a painting is a more beautiful sight.”

The safe had a keyboard on it. What was the combination?

“OK, Alfred, open the safe.”

“I would love to, but you never told me the combination.”

“Look opposite you. At the painting.”

The painting in question depicted a famous Catholic Church in Paris.

“What does the painting depict?” Batman asked.”

“Notre Damme, sir. One of the most famous churches in the world.”

“Does it remind you of a specific novel, Alfred?”

“Yes, the Hunchback of Notre Damme.”

“Who wrote it, Alfred?”

“Easy question,” the butler replied. “Victor Hugo.”

“Correct. And which was his most famous work?”

“Les Misérables, Master Wayne.”

“And who was their protagonist?”

“Jean Valjean.”

“Correct. Time for you to guess how Jean relates to the safe password.”

Alfred smiled and approached the keyboard. He knew the five-digit code to type.

Alfred only needed one try. With a quiet sound the safe opened and Batman approached with his backpack open.

“Which one, sir?” the butler asked referring to the documents neatly stored inside the safe.

“All of them,” Batman said. “We’ll analyze them back in the Batcave.”

Alfred nodded. The less they stayed outside the better. Besides, how could they examine the documents wearing thick anti-radiation gloves?

Bruce closed his backpack and placed it on his back. He looked around the room. Where else could he find documents about the Vault?

With some effort, the Dark Knight opened the desk drawers. Some of them broke in the effort. Sadly, there was nothing of use there. All the documents in the drawers had become radioactive dust.

There was only one thing Batman took from the drawers: a small medallion his father had given him many, many years ago. It had two parts, linked by a chain: one where his name was written and one where his father’s and his mother’s name was.

Batman placed the medallion in his backpack and stood up.

“I wish I could stay forever here,” Bruce said.

“But as you would say, sir,” Alfred said, “duty calls.”

“That’s right. Let’s go to DARPA.”

“May I recommend a small detour, sir? It will only take us a few meters away from our destination.”

“I am listening.” Alfred explained the idea.

“I agree,” Batman replied. He took a look around to absorb the place for a final time.

There was nothing more to be said. Both men stood up and headed for the Wayne Manor main entrance.

Chapter Text

After spending a few minutes for their eyes to adjust, Batman and Alfred exited Wayne Manor. Using a pair of strong binoculars, the butler scanned the horizon.

“It’s so sad,” he said after a minute. “All that destruction.”

Alfred was right. Wayne Manor was on top of a hill, allowing him to have good visibility all around him. Which was a bad thing… because he could see the damage and the destruction Gotham had suffered! Most buildings were in ruins; some were flat like pancakes. It was as if a gigantic hammer had fallen upon the city.

Bruce took a careful look at his friend. All those years, Alfred had mostly remained inside the Batcave. He had only exited it to enter the Bat Tunnel. He never had travelled in the main tunnel, he never had visited a station, and he never had ventured outside the Metro. Unlike Batman, Alfred had never seen how extensive the destruction had been.

“I never told you about the destruction,” Batman said. "I knew it would break your heart.”

“You were right, sir,” came the reply. “I mean, my mind knew what to expect, but it’s always different when you see it.”

Batman could hear the sadness in his friend’s voice. It is always the same story. No matter what you think of something, you cannot fully comprehend it unless you see it, unless you feel it in your bones.

On the other hand, Batman had been acclimatized to the catastrophe. He saw it every time he exited the Batcave. He saw it when he and Gordon had one of their meetings on top of Police HQ Tower. Yet it never got easier; your sadness never leaves you.

Taking more deep breaths to calm themselves and spending more time to fully adjust to the morning light, Batman and his sidekick stood up.

“So, Alfred,” the Dark Knight said. “I like your idea, but we cannot afford to waste time. We only go there if there are no obstacles.”

“A most prudent precaution, sir,” the butler replied and handled his binoculars.

Batman spent the next minutes carefully examining a specific part of the surrounding area. He knew exactly what to look for.

“OK, I found a clear path. Let’s go Alfred.”

“On my way, sir.”

“Jesus, it’s been twenty years since I last visited that place. And forty-three since…”

~ 0 ~

October 28^th, 1990.

“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Wayne,” George Papadopoulos, the Mayor of Gotham City, said from the podium. “Dear Bruce. It is a great honor to have you with us tonight.”

Thomas and Martha Wayne stood up from the front row of seats. Their eight-year old son hesitated, but only for a second. Since it was an official occasion, Bruce was dressed in a suit and wearing a necktie.

“The honor is all ours, Mr. Mayor,” Thomas Wayne replied when he, his son, and his wife reached the stage. “It is a great honor to be here tonight and commemorate the 50^th anniversary of the No-Day.”

Bruce looked at the wall at the other end of the big room. There was a huge Greek flag hanging from it. There were also some words written, but he could not understand them. They were in Greek, not English.

“Mayor Papadopoulos,” Thomas said, taking the podium. “If memory serves me well, you were among the brave Greeks who risked their lives back in 1940.”

“That is correct, sir,” came the reply. “And I have a souvenir from that war.” He touched his right leg with his cane, the place where an Italian bullet had hit him fifty years ago.

“For the Italians in the audience,” the Mayor jokingly said, “Italy surrendered in 1943, and the war ended in 1945. We are all friends now.” That brought some laughter from the audience.

There was only one person in the audience who didn’t laugh. His eyes were fixed on Martha Wayne…

… and the expensive jewelry she wore.

After the necessary pleasantries were exchanged, Thomas Wayne stepped on the podium for a short speech.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,

“Fifty years ago, an awful man had a terrible vision. After he enslaved the people in his country with his fascist regime, he wanted to expand his grip to his neighbors. He wanted them to have the ‘pleasure’ of becoming his slaves as well.

“That man was Benito Mussolini, that country was Italy, and that neighbor was Greece.

“But our friend Mussolini overlooked one critical detail. He overlooked the fact the Greeks would oppose him, like they had done so on many different occasions, against so many different invaders.

“On October 28^th, 1940, Mussolini presented the Greeks with an ultimatum. He had expected they would simply say “Yes” and let him occupy their country. But instead, they said “No” and fought hard against him and his armies.”

A wide applause followed. Many in the audience waved small Greek flags. That impressed Bruce. He had never suspected so many Greeks would live in Gotham. On the other hand, Gotham had millions of people. If thousands of them were Greeks, they would easily fill the ceremony hall of Gotham’s City Hall.

Thomas Wayne cleared his throat and continued his speech.

“Thousands upon thousands of Greeks were called to arms to defend their country. Most of them did so happily and with a great sense of duty and patriotism. And our Mayor was one of them.

“George and the rest of the Greek Army had to fight two enemies: the determined Italian Army and the brutal winter of the Albanian mountains. They succeeded on both, making his country and the rest of the world proud.” A strong applause followed.

“In 1941,” Thomas said, “Germany invaded Greece. The reason? The Italian Army had failed. Their soldiers were unable to defeat the determined Greeks. Attacked from two fronts, the brave Greeks capitulated. But many of them – including George – fled to the Middle East to continue their struggle.

“Once more, George did his duty. Once more, he put his neck on the line. Once more, he served without regard for himself.

“Sadly, post-war Greece was devastated. George could find no employment there, no way to support himself and his relatives. His only option was to immigrate to the United States. He ended up in Gotham City, with three objectives in mind: to serve his new country, to support his family back in Greece, and to strengthen the bonds between our two countries.

“The years passed. George became a distinguished member of the community, married a wonderful lady here in Gotham, and served the public both in the private and the public sector. He never forgot his roots and did everything to remind us in Gotham about Greece and Greeks back in his country about Gotham City. He never forgot his vision: to build a museum here in Gotham City to commemorate those who lost their lives in that war.

“I am not a Greek myself, but I know what George and everyone else in this room regrets: that the Gotham City History Museum has no room for the Greek-Italian War of 1940. Yes, many in Gotham – myself included – would love to see the museum expand. We want to remember the heroes who fought against the fascist threat. We want to remember how terrible war is in order not to fight it again.

“Sadly, the City cannot afford to do the expansion. There are budget constraints, there is a recession, there are financial difficulties, and so many other issues. As an entrepreneur, I know about them first-hand. But we would do a disservice to our children, and our grandchildren if we never made that expansion, if we never taught them a living piece of history.

“For that reason, I decided to do my duty, the same way our Mayor has for the past five decades. My son, Bruce, has something for you.”

Bruce Wayne, his father, and his mother had practiced the moves dozens of times: how Bruce should move, how should he stand, how should talk, everything. He had heard his father making the speech dozens of times in front of him, his mother and their butler Alfred Pennyworth. (Alfred also played the part of the Mayor in the rehearsals).

Everything went according to plan. The moment Thomas Wayne said the words, Bruce stood up and approached the Mayor.

“This is a donation for Gotham, Mr. Mayor,” Bruce said.

The Mayor took the envelope, thanked young Bruce, and opened it. It contained…

“A cheque for the creation of a new wing in our History Museum!” the Mayor announced. “Thank you so much, Mr. Wayne. The City Council, and the Gothamites both of Greek and non-Greek origin will forever be grateful.”

Loud cheer and applause followed. All members in the audience were clapping. Except for one…

It had been a very happy night for Bruce. He had made his first public appearance, he had helped his father and his mother, and his father had promised him to get him to the movies afterwards.

What he and nobody else noticed was that the mysterious member of the audience had stood up while Thomas Wayne and the Mayor were shaking hands…

“So, Bruce,” Martha Wayne asked her son, when they were outside the City Hall. “What do you think about the ceremony?”

“Those Greeks were so brave,” the young boy replied. “I wish I’ll have their courage if the time comes.”

“Do you still want to learn Greek?” his father asked. “You seem very interested in ancient and modern Greek history.”

The Waynes kept talking and walking, like most happy families do. They didn’t notice the man following them. He was coming from behind them, so they couldn’t see him. The city noises covered the sound his footsteps made. He was approaching fast.

The man had said no words; he had made no demands. He had only shot and killed Bruce’s defenseless parents. Bruce had run away, a move that saved his life.

The killer wasted no time chasing Bruce. He took Thomas Wayne’s wallet and his golden watch. Afterwards, he took Martha’s jewels and purse. He had been lucky: the wealthiest man in Gotham and his wife had no bodyguards with them!

(In reality, Alfred Pennyworth had been their bodyguard. He had military training and a concealed carry permit. But he had been sick that night and had stayed in Wayne Manor to recover.)

The killer’s luck ran away sixty seconds later. A brave Police cadet heard the gunshots and order him and rushed to the crime scene. The criminal tried to open fire, but there is a huge difference between shooting unarmed people in the back and trying to do so against a trained and armed opponent. The cadet fired three times, killing the robber.

A few days later, Alfred Pennyworth officially became Bruce’s stepfather. His first act was to learn the identities of the killer who murdered his employers. He learned he was called Joe Chill. Chill was a mob enforcer with a gambling addiction. He did the occasional armed robbery to cover his gambling debts.

As for the cadet, it would not be the last time his and Bruce’s paths would cross. The man would rise through the ranks to become… Commissioner Gordon!

“Joe Chill,” Alfred had said in tears, “Joe Chill! Why did you kill?”

~ 0 ~

2033…

“I wish I had been there with you,” Alfred said. “I would have protected your parents.”

“It was not your fault,” Bruce said. "You were sick.”

Bruce and Alfred had spent years debating the issue. For years, Alfred had insisted he should have been more careful and not get sick or that he should have accompanied the Waynes on October 28^th despite his sickness. Bruce had insisted that all people get sick, so Alfred made no mistake for being so. In addition, it had been Thomas Wayne who had insisted that Alfred should remain in Wayne Manor to recover. And Thomas Wayne had been a physician.

It had taken years for Alfred to stop feeling guilty.

The alley where Bruce’s parents were murdered laid ahead. Fortunately, it was not covered in rabble despite the nuclear bombardment and twenty years of neglect. Even better, no Mutants appeared while Alfred and his boss approached.

There was a marble plaque on the wall, with golden letters written on it. It had been Bruce who paid for it the moment he reached adulthood and took full control of Wayne Enterprises.

Alfred cleared his throat and read the words on the plate: “On October 28^th, 1990, Thomas and Martha Wayne were murdered in this alley. May their memory lives forever.”

“It was 2000, when you ordered that plaque,” the butler said. “You had just turned eighteen and you wanted to travel the world.”

“I had full confidence in you,” Bruce said. “I knew Wayne Enterprises were in good hands. And I wanted to discover the world and myself.”

“And you did!” Alfred said. “You returned and wanted to turn yourself to a Bat-costumed vigilante.”

“Yes! I became Batman!”

“Your parents would be so proud of you, Master Wayne!”

The Dark Knight nodded. If there was a God up there, if there was a soul, his parents would be somewhere out there. They would be smiling, proud their son had become a vigilante, proud he had helped the last Gotham survivors remain alive.

“From a certain point of view, my parents were lucky.”

“What do you mean?” Alfred said, but suddenly stopped. He understood exactly what his best friend meant.

Thomas and Martha had spent their entire lives helping people. They had hired, they had donated, they had built an orphanage and a hospital, they had given to the poor, to the City of Gotham, and to many others. They had done so because they believed in the inherent good of humanity. What would they think if they learned humanity had destroyed themselves like that?

“At least it would give them comfort knowing that their son helped thousands survive,” Alfred said.

“You mean… their son and their trusted butler. I would have failed without you, Alfred.”

“Thank you for your kind words, sir.”

“They are true, and you know it.”

Batman opened his backpack and took the medallion from it. He looked at it. It consisted of two parts, one with his parents’ names and one with his. With a gentle move, he separated the two parts.

Bruce Wayne looked at the plaque. He reread the words in it. He inclined his head and muttered a short prayer. Afterwards, he pinned the part of the medallion with his name on the plaque. He would keep the other part for the Batcave.

For twenty-three years, Bruce never worked on October 28^th. Every year, he took a break from his day activities as head of Wayne Enterprises – but never the night ones, as Batman – to remember his parents. He also remembered the brave struggle of the Greeks during that day, a struggle that inspired him to fight and not let the sadness of his parents’ death consume him.

During his journey to find himself, Bruce had spent some time in Greece. He visited museums, ancient temples, and most important of all tombs where fallen heroes were buried. He spend a day in the tomb of Marathon, and another one in Thermopylae, the place where the Spartans and the rest of the Greeks made their heroic last stand against the Persian Empire. It was on October 28^th , 2003, standing in front of the monument of Thermopylae, when Bruce had made his decision to become a vigilante.

Sadly, the nukes changed that. For twenty years, Batman had to stay underground, trying his hardest to help the people there. He was working every day, including weekends, holidays, and days of remembrance. And he never ventured so far to reach the place his parents were murdered.

Batman and Alfred took a final look at the plaque. They stood in attention for a few minutes, honoring the memory of Bruce’s parents.

But it was time to move on. Radiation suits cannot last forever. Besides, what would Bruce’s parents say? That the best way to honor their memory would be by assisting people, not by spending all your time mourning.

“Let’s go, Alfred.”

“To DARPA, sir?”

“To DARPA. To honor my parents and to assist the survivors.”

“Lead the way, Master Wayne!”

Chapter Text

The way till the alley was clear of debris… but the way ahead was full of them. Remains of parked cars, parts of walls that had fallen, broken furniture the shockwave from the nukes had thrown away. And the worst of all… human remains!

Fortunately, there was a path ahead. Batman had spotted it from Wayne Manor and confirmed its existence standing on top of a destroyed truck. Unfortunately, the path in question had many twists and turns, making their route longer. To make things even worse, such a path would leave them extremely vulnerable.

“OK,” Batman said after climbing down from the truck. “We opted to remove the armor from our suits.”

“To be faster and lighter. I would be unable to walk with so much Kevlar surrounding my body. Not to mention the heat.”

“Correct. And those suits are very cumbersome.”

“Our only defense is our firepower. Unfortunately…”

“The path ahead is narrow. We won’t have a good field of view.”

“Exactly,” Batman said. “Lots of places for a Mutant or a scavenger to hide and ambush us.”

“And even if we spot them first,” Alfred said, “our reaction time will be very short.”

“Yes. Not to mention those Mutants know their area while we don’t.”

“And the fact we are just two of them while they might be hundreds.”

The two men remained silent for a few seconds. Alfred smiled. He knew what his friend wanted to hear.

“In other words,” the butler said, “we won’t get bored.”

“Certainly not,” Batman said, in casual danger mode. “I mean, what is the purpose of venturing outside if the only challenge is the debris and the radiation?”

“You are right, sir. I mean, why to go to the surface after twenty years if I only try to climb debris? I can do my workout in the Batcave.”

“See? And the best part? It’s all free of charge.”

“Really?” Afred said, his voice full of enthusiasm. “What are waiting for?”

Humor helps you overcome the difficulties of life. Or at least it helps you mitigate their effects. The worse the conditions, the more you need humor. And Batman and Alfred faced the worst conditions imaginable, conditions the memories of Wayne Manor and the death of Bruce’s parents only made worse.

But they knew how to cheer each other up.

The DARPA complex was kilometers away. Batman knew where its general direction was thanks to his pre-war crime-fighting patrols and an old Gotham City map he had in the Batcave. He also had a general idea about the condition of the streets, because he had observed them from the Police HQ Tower. Most of them were impassable due to debris, but there were still avenues they could use.

It was impractical to bring a map on the surface. Holding it with thick gloves was impossible, not to mention a gust of wing could easily take it away. Batman and Alfred had to memorize the route they would take. Fortunately, both of them had lived in Gotham for decades and they knew most streets like the backs of their hands.

“Iceberg Street,” Batman said. “Unless you have a better idea.”

“Nope. I see that Main Street is completely blocked.” Two multi-story buildings had collapsed in front of it and dozens more had further ahead. It would take them days if they chose that way.

Alfred checked the radiation levels. They were much higher than close to Wayne Manor. That was to be expected. A huge crater was in front of them. It was at least twenty meters deep and a hundred meters wide, the result of an accurate nuke twenty years ago.

“I wonder whether it was from a bomber or from a missile,” Alfred asked.

“Our Strategic Air Command bombers,” Batman said, “made a final, desperate attack against Russia.”

“I will remember it till my death. Their commanding officer took off in the last bomber, never to come back.”

“Yes. He and his people were killed by enemy aircraft, enemy anti-aircraft missiles, or from the blast of their own nuclear weapons.”

“I wonder if we find anything relevant in the DARPA complex. Perhaps a plan or a letter saying goodbye.”

“We could,” Batman said. “Although, it’s more of an academic issue now.”

“By the way,” Alfred said, “what do you think of them?”

“Those who fired the nukes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I no longer hate them. I haven’t forgiven, I haven’t forgotten, but I no longer hate. Deep inside me, I know those who started it deserved to die in the destruction they themselves created. They deserved to become radioactive dust. But you know what Alfred?”

“I know, sir. They had exactly that fate. Their headquarters would be prime targets for destruction, each hit with multiple thermonuclear weapons. They either became dust, or they were vaporized.”

The two men remained silent for a few seconds. Then, without a word, they both aimed with their shotguns forward and started moving.

The first thirty minutes of walking were uneventful. No Mutants appeared from their hiding places, no scavengers attacked, and no debris suddenly fell on their heads.

To minimize risks, Batman and Alfred walked in the middle of the street. That gave them more space and time to react against an attacker. It also protected them from something falling, since the structural stability of most buildings was probably nonexistent. Besides, a smart opponent could always drop something on you instead of risking a direct attack.

On the other hand, walking in the middle of the street meant they were exposed to the sun. With no ozone layer to protect them – thank you, nukes! – and wearing thick anti-radiation suits that essentially acted as greenhouses, Bruce and Alfred felt like boiling eggs. There was a protective layer inside the suits for the heat, but even that had its limitations.

“I am sweating,” Alfred said. “I need water.”

“And they used to call it Iceberg Street,” came the reply.

The two heroes had exited the Batcave early in the morning, when the temperature had been lower. They had also spent time inside Wayne Manor. Being indoors protected them from the sun rays and the heat. Going to the alley where Bruce’s parents had been murdered had been challenging but there were places with shade along their way. But now their luck had ran out.

Using a hole in his suit mask, Alfred placed a radiation-insulated canteen on his mouth. He gulped some of it, relieving his thirst. Next to him, Batman covered him with his shotgun. After Alfred finished, they switched roles.

Our heroes kept their slow walk, careful not to step into debris. It would be difficult to stand up if you fell with all the added weight and reduced mobility the suit caused. It would be bad if you fell on something hard and had your body bruised. It would be catastrophic if you fell on something sharp that wounded you and tore your suit.

Although the debris were not high enough, they were all over the place. Rocks, radioactive and rusty remains of cars. Human skeletons. A scene of sadness and destruction both men tried their hardest not to look at.

After twenty more minutes – and two detours to avoid a destroyed school bus and a garbage truck – Batman and Alfred stopped behind a wall. It was the only place that provided some safety and some shade for them to rest. It was also a good place to examine each other.

“OK,” Batman said. “Turn around.”

A few minutes later, the examination was over. Alfred’s suit was OK. So was Batman’s. Except for one thing.

“Your filter is orange, Master Wayne.”

“So is yours.”

Wearing a filter was necessary to keep radioactive substances away from your mouth and your nose. But after some hours, even the most effective filter will exhaust its life. You’ll have to quickly replace it to avoid a slow and agonizing death.

But how often should you replace a filter? If you took too long, you’d face the consequences of radiation. If you replaced them too soon, you’d discard a perfectly working filter. That won’t harm you in the short run, but you will exhaust your supply sooner than necessary. This is not an issue during peacetime,  but it’s a serious problem if you faced Batman’s post-war shortages.

Fortunately, you could easily tell when a filter needed replacement. An unused one was green. As it absorbed radiation, its color gradually changed, first to yellow and then to red. Yellow meant the filter was half-used. Red meant you needed to replace it immediately. An orange color meant you were somewhere in between. You could still breathe safely, but you needed to hurry! Have a new filter ready ASAP!

Replacing the filter was easy. You simply unscrewed the old one and screwed a new one in its place. The only problem was you could not do it yourself. Someone else had to do the job for you and ensure the new filter was properly placed. When Batman had ventured outside alone, that had been no concern. He never stayed out long enough for his filter to need replacement. He had exceeded that amount of time today, but he had his trusted friend to assist him.

A few minutes later, both men had fresh filters. They had also rested a bit, something necessary. The DARPA building was still away, but they would never reach it if they exhausted themselves. Besides, Batman was in his fifties and Alfred in his seventies now.

Whenever Bruce or Alfred turned their eyes, they saw the same picture. Debris, destruction, disaster, death. It was so disheartening to think once upon a time people were living there, but they had now perished. Yes, there were still survivors, but only a small percentage of Gotham’s population were alive. Less than one in a hundred probably.

Nevertheless, our heroes persisted. They kept walking down Iceberg Street, maneuvering through the debris, keeping an eye for each other, and trying their best not to think of the disaster ahead. They were moving slowly, but steadily.

Soon, a familiar building appeared in front of them. Batman smiled at the sight of it.

“Iceberg Lounge,” he said. “I have a lot of fond memories from that place.”

“Yes,” Alfred said, smiling. “Your friend the Penguin.”

“Yes, Ozzie the Penguin. But he hated it when people called him like that.”

“He was such a cooperative fellow.”

“Yes, but only after the third punch.”

Ozwald – aka Ozzie – Cobblepot was one of the most prominent mob bosses in Gotham. He was the owner of Iceberg Lounge, one of the biggest bar-restaurants in the city. Iceberg Lounge was situated in the middle of Iceberg Street. Ozzie used to say the street had taken the name from his place, but since Gothamites had named that street that way decades before Cobblepot was born, nobody had believed him. Nevertheless, the man kept trying.

The place was profitable and had lots of customers. But its main purpose had been as a front for Ozzie’s more illegal activities. In the establishment basement, away from indiscreet eyes, Ozzie laundered money, offered highly paid ‘escort’ services, and made deals with other mob bosses. Iceberg Lounge was Ozzie’s headquarters.

As the years passed, Batman got interested in the gangster’s activities. He even infiltrated the place twice, punching and kicking his way to Cobblepot. Both times, the mob boss had agreed to cooperate and provide the Dark Knight with the intel he needed. The first time, Batman had to punch Ozzie a little. But Ozzie had

What had happened to Ozzie when the nukes fell? Most likely, he had spent his last days there, hidden in the basement; the only place radiation could not reach him. He had been surrounded by his last henchmen and whoever else had happened to be there. They had probably eaten, drank, and partied as if there was no tomorrow. Which, in fairness, was absolutely true!

“He went out the way he wanted it,” Alfred said.

“Yeah,” Bruce replied. “Partying and drinking and gambling… until they all died. I don’t know if it’s good or pathetic.”

“Fifty-fifty, Master Wayne.”

Batman had never liked Cobblepot. He had been a dirty coward, ready to sell you off for profit and safety. Nevertheless, he was sad about his passing. He was greedy, but not a psychotic sadist like Joker. He would only kill you if you undermined his authority or if you wanted to kill him. On the other hand, Joker…

It was funny, but the building itself had survived its owner. It was still standing, and Batman was certain its basement still existed, despite the damages. But he had no desire to enter it. Why to enter a dangerous and completely dark place, full of dead bodies just to satisfy your curiosity?

Batman and Alfred passed next to Iceberg Lounge. Batman was covering the area to his front and to the right, while Alfred did the same with their left and their back. It was the only way to be prepared against all threats.

Suddenly, both men heard a strange sound, the sound a body does when it falls from a height.

“A Mutant!” Alfred said.

Chapter Text

Where had that mutant come from? Was it hidden behind a rusty car, ready to ambush them? Or had it jumped from the roof of Iceberg Lounge?

The mutant was a strange creature. It looked both familiar and unfamiliar to Bruce and Alfred. Familiar because it somehow resembled a human: two legs, two arms, one head, two eyes. Unfamiliar because it looked like the Gollum from the Lord of the Rings; and it was white as snow.

Was white the color mutant creatures had? Perhaps radiation had affected their skin cells making them all pale. Or perhaps, that only applied to those particular mutants.

Batman raised his shotgun. But the creature remained still. It did not try to attack or retreat.

“It appears harmless,” Alfred said.

“I wonder if it can talk. So many questions to ask.”

Batman, always the eager to learn, was fascinated. A creature from another world! Did it speak their language? Could it cooperate with the Dark Knight and Alfred?

There was so much Bruce ignored about those creatures. Were they one group or many? Had they formed a complex society like the one humans had? Were they sterile or could they give birth to children?

 If the latter was the case, there must be both male and female mutants. Was the creature in front of them a male or a female one? Should Batman and Alfred classify it as male, because it looked like Gollum, who happened to be a male character in Tolkien’s most famous work? None of them was a chauvinist, or believed one gender is inherently superior to the other. But it would be nice to know.

Apart from that, the creature was short. It was about one meter and thirty centimeters tall – about four feet – and that was a very short height for humans. Only dwarfs and children are that short. Was the creature a child?

But the most puzzling part was its expression. Batman had no way to know what its facial expressions meant, but if they matched the ones human had, then…

“He is scared,” Alfred said. Despite this, he kept aiming it with his shotgun.

Was the mutant scared because of Batman and Alfred, two unfamiliar creatures wearing those strange suits and carrying those strange things in their hands? Or was he – or she – afraid of something else?

Then a few seconds later…

… another mutant appeared!

Unlike the small and relatively weak Alfred had first seen, this one was big and muscular. He was two meters tall, and he looked like a bodybuilder. He appeared strong enough to defeat both of them one-handed. And unlike the smaller one, he appeared to be hostile.

Batman made a quick comparison between the two mutants. They looked familiar, the shorter one being a small-scale version of the bigger one. As if they were…

“Members of the same family?” Alfred asked.

“We’ll soon find out,” the Dark Knight replied. “We only need to observe the little one.”

Alfred nodded. His friend had a point. If the big mutant was hostile towards the little one, the latter would try to run away. If not, it would reach for the bigger one. After all, the two creatures from the Metro carried unfamiliar objects in their hands and had no way to express their intentions. Even humans would find them creepy.

In reality of course, the two Metro creatures were good people, and they had ventured outside to help others. But that’s how the humans appeared to the mutants.

The seconds passed. The small mutant divided his attention between the bigger one, Batman, and Alfred. Then he calmly approached the bigger one. The big one gently lowered himself – or herself if we talked about a mother – and gently patted the small one’s head. The small one hugged the big one.

All hostility left the big mutant’s face. He stayed there, motionless. He was observing and calculating. Were the two strange creatures from the underground friendly or hostile? One minute passed like that.

In the end, the big creature shrugged and turned his back on them. The small one followed him. Both disappeared inside Iceberg Lounge.

“Funny,” Batman said. “Penguin’s old headquarters became a place for mutants.”

“He could not even dream of that.”

There was nothing more to see there. Yes, non-hostile mutants were an interesting sight, one Batman would love to further investigate, but there were other priorities at the time. Taking a final look at Iceberg Lounge, Batman and Alfred continued their mission.

In Jokerland…

“Oh,” Joker said, in mock surprise. “What do I see here?”

Joker’s henchmen had done their job. After many hours of hitting the wall with sledgehammers, it had collapsed, revealing a hidden room behind it. After more hits, they created a hole big enough for a grown person to enter standing up.

Joker entered the room, carrying a small lantern a scavenger had salvaged a long time ago. It burned mushroom remains and emitted a dim light. Joker had to approach very close to the wall to see.

The psychotic clown gently touched the wall. His fingers gradually moved from the rough and warm cement surface to the totally flat and cold steel. Touching up and down and using his lantern, Joker finally saw the full picture: there was a huge steel door in front of him.

Placing his ear on the door, Joker made a gentle knock, then another.

“Nobody home,” he told himself. Then he started banging on the door like a lunatic.

“Nobody! Home!” he shouted. “Nobody home!”

“Bring more light,” the leader of Jokerland ordered.

A scared henchman immediately rushed in. Joker grabbed the big lantern the man carried and examined the door more carefully.

The door was two meters high and two meters wide. It had a big handle in the middle, but Joker could not turn it no matter how much he tried. Had the handle stuck after twenty years? Or was there an activation mechanism, one he had no idea how it worked?

After more examination, Joker found a small steel plate with written instructions on it.

“One,” Joker read loudly. “The Vault is to be accessed only in the event of nuclear war.”

“Hmm, OK,” the psychotic criminal said. “We fulfill that criterion. Next?”

“Two. The Vault is to be accessed by authorized personnel only.”

Joker smiled. DARPA had given him no security clearance.

“Well, my long dead friends,” he said, “I thereby authorize myself. Whoever objects should raise his hand.” Obviously nobody did. The US government was long gone, the DARPA scientists were all dead – except three who were tied and gagged – and no Joker henchman would ever dare opposing his boss.

The question remained though. How could Joker open that door?

Putting his ear on the door, Joker knocked again. It was a very rough way to estimate the strength and the thickness of the door, but it was the only one he had. He was not specialized in burglary, but he still had a good ear for locked doors.

“You are as thick as a Central Bank Vault,” Joker said.

The next second, Joker was outside the secret room. He eyed the tied scientists.

“Bring them in,” he ordered. His henchmen nodded and grabbed the three scientists. “Let me see what they really know about the Vault.”

In Police HQ Tower…

“So,” Commissioner Gordon told the two surviving scientists who had found refuge in Station Police. “Raise your right hands, both of you.” The scientists nodded and did as instructed.

“Repeat after me…”

Gordon spent the next minutes saying the oath every police officer in Gotham had taken. Both scientists repeated the oath without missing a comma.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Gordon said. “As head of Gotham City Police Department – whatever is left from it anyway – I officially welcome you among our ranks.”

“It’s an honor to be part of the Police Department,” the youngest of the scientists said.

“I am glad you see it that way,” Gordon said. “Now, the reason the oath ceremony took place here and not in the Metro Station is not only due to symbolism, but also pragmatism. I want you to take a good look at the DARPA building using the mounted pair of binoculars I have placed there. I want you to examine the place and see what you see.”

The youngest of the two scientists took a step forward. Gordon had already focused the binoculars on the building. The man spent a couple minutes examining the place.

“Fortunately,” the scientist said. “The building appears not to be damaged. Commissioner, have you noticed what happened to the buildings around it?”

“Yes,” Gordon replied. “They have collapsed. I always believed the DARPA building had special reinforcement inside it to withstand nuclear blasts. Does that reinforcement include radiation-proofing?”

“It does, sir,” the eldest scientist said.

“Hey!” the scientist said. “I see some people outside!”

“Yes,” Gordon replied. “I asked Batman to visit the DARPA complex. He probably has a sidekick his identity I am unaware of.”

“But there are five people out there! Oh wait, there are two with uniforms and two… Mutants?”

“What?!” Gordon said and rushed for the binoculars.

Three mutants appeared, one from the left, and two from the right. And if the body language was accurate, these three were looking for trouble.

“Are we gonna shoot first?” Alfred asked.

“The gunshots could alert more,” Batman replied. “Only shoot if I tell you. Take the one to the left.”

Batman was frustrated. Twenty years ago, he would have easily evaded his enemies, climbed to a higher ground and safely observed the situation. Alas, he could not do that now. The buildings around him were crumbled, he carried no hooks or rope, and he wore a heavy and cumbersome suit. He was mostly a sitting duck, unable to move.

And he only had two shells in his shotgun.

The mutant from the left moved. He appeared to be aggressive, waving his hands and roaring. He was like a big ape, and he moved fast.

“Shoot him!” Batman said.

Alfred had already raised his shotgun and was aiming at the creature’s chest. He needed no further probing. The moment Bruce spoke, he pulled the trigger.

Despite his age, the fact he wore a cumbersome anti-radiation suit with thick gloves, and his lack of practice with the shotgun, Alfred found his mark. The armor piercing slugs hit the mutant square on the chest. The creature staggered, slowed, and looked at its chest in shock. But it didn’t die and looked at Bruce’s friend.

Alfred knew what that expression meant. It meant he had pissed the creature off. There is a saying that the wounded prey is the most dangerous one. Apparently, the same applied to that mutant.

The creature started moving again. But Alfred would take no chances. His second shot was to the head, killing the creature.

Meanwhile, Batman had his back turned on Alfred. He was not neglecting his friend, but he could not deal with the threat the two other mutants presented if he lost eye contact with them. They had remained stationary, but that could soon change. And it did the moment Alfred fired his second shot.

“To their heads!” Alfred said.

“Thanks,” Batman replied and aimed at the closest enemy.

Batman carried a longer shotgun, meaning it was more accurate and the slugs moved faster. He would have no problem killing his opponent. The first enemy fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

What would the second enemy do? Batman had abandoned his No-Kill-Rule years ago, but he still tried to spare his enemies whenever he could. If the mutant chose to retreat, Batman would leave him alone.

The creature stopped, looked at his fallen comrade, and… charged ahead.

“Idiot,” Batman said and fired again.

The rest of the journey was uneventful. A couple of mutans appeared again, but the sight of their dead comrades apparently scared them, and they dared not attacking Batman and Alfred.

It was noon when Batman and Alfred reached the DARPA complex. To their amazement, it had survived mostly intact.

“It was a sturdy building,” Bruce said. “Its builders had probably intended it as a nuclear shelter.”

“And also, because the buildings around it absorbed most of the shockwave,” Alfred mentioned, observing the surrounding area.

There was a razor wire fence surrounding the complex. But after twenty years, it had all become rusty and radioactive. Taking a bolt cutter from his backpack, Batman cut a hole in it.

“This is it, Alfred. The one place in Gotham I never gained entrance to.”

“Despite your best efforts, Master Wayne.”

“I have to give credit to the people working here. I could not infiltrate as Batman, and I could not convince them to allow me entrance as Bruce Wayne. And I tried everything.”

“Including using your playboy skills,” Alfred said with a smile.

“Not to brag about it,” Bruce said with a grin, “but I yes. Sadly, the few women I tried to flirt were too focused on their work. I had some successes though.”

“Yes, I remember that tall blonde one you invited to Wayne Manor,” Alfred said. “It was 2012 if I remember correctly.”

“Correct. But sadly, even she would not talk. At least, she was skilled in bed.”

“That’s comforting, sir,” Alfred said, a proud grin on his face.

The conversation stopped at that point. Nobody wanted to continue, because then they would start talking about what happened to that lady. Both knew what had happened afterwards: she and Bruce had gracefully broken up after a few months, Bruce had survived at the last moment in 2013, but she…

There were two main entrances to the place: the main gate and the back door. The back door was always close, except during emergencies. Since the two surviving scientists only knew the passcode for the back door, Batman had no option but to try his luck there.

After some more walking – and after changing their breathing filters again – Batman and Alfred reached the entrance.

“You know,” Alfred said, “even if we find nothing about the Vault …”

“... we’ll still benefit from visiting the complex,” Batman said completing his friend’s thoughts.

That was a good assumption. The DARPA building appeared to be in good condition. Radiation levels inside it were probably low. Most of the equipment in it would be intact. It would do no harm if they obtained additional anti-radiation masks, anti-radiation filters, medicine, and perhaps firearms and ammo.

The two men stood in front of the door. As Batman knew from pre-war observation, and as the two surviving scientists had told him, there were two small keyboards there. They were at a distance of three meters to prevent a single person from typing on both at the same time.

Fortunately, Batman knew the codes. Nobody had changed them all those years. He also had Alfred.

“Let’s do it,” he said.

“Say the code, Master Wayne!”

Chapter Text

Reaching the DARPA complex is one thing. Gaining entrance is another. On the bright side, Batman had no need to blow the door up. He only needed to type the password. On the not so bright side, he had never been inside the complex and nobody had told him the access codes.

“OK,” Alfred said. “Now what?”

“Don’t worry,” the Dark Knight replied. “We might not have the password, but we have the key to it.”

“That makes sense. We have two panels with two eight-digit codes. People can easily mistake them, unless you provide them with something solid to anchor their thoughts on.”

“The anchor in question is from history. Let me explain.”

You are the head of DARPA. You want to convince the Mayor of Gotham to give you space to build a research facility in the city. How do you do that?

Answer: you find what the Mayor likes and provide it in abundance. Mayor Papadopoulos was a Greek, meaning DARPA needed to illustrate that particular aspect. And the best way was by promising most researchers and scientist in Gotham would either be Greeks or immigrants from Greece.

DARPA kept its promise and the Mayor his. Before the nukes fell, half the people in the complex there were of Greek origin. They spoke Greek almost as often as English and had posters of Greek history on the walls.

On a more mundane level, the people in the complex used Greek history to help them on simple, everyday things. The two passwords that opened the back door in the DARPA building were based on two different incidents of Greek history.

“So,” Alfred said, “which two incidents?”

“The surviving scientists were not of Greek origin. But they remembered the first password was about ‘the last Emperor’.”

“And the second one?”

“About the resurrection of Greece.”

“I know both dates, sir,” Alfred said with a smile.

“So do I. OK, type the first password while I type the second.”

Alfred typed the eight-digit code: 29051453. Batman did the same with his: 25031821.

It only required one try. The door opened without a sound and the two men entered the complex. It was impressive its mechanism worked so flawlessly after so many years.

“Nobody had used it since the nukes fell,” Batman said.

“Not to mention they overengineered things. A good way to keep things working when the supply of spare parts ends.”

The moment they entered the building, a dim light flashed above them. It was the emergency system, only to be activated on special occasions.

“It’s good we won’t have to use our flashlights,” Batman said. “But let’s not remove our helmets.”

“A good point, sir,” Alfred replied. Even if radiation never entered this place, the air would be far from pure and healthy. Not to mention the awful smell.

Just in case, Batman closed the door behind him. There was no reason to allow mutants or scavengers to ambush them. He could still open it from the inside if he wished.

“Alright,” Alfred said. “Where could the plans for the Vault be?”

In theory, everything would be stored in digital form. It is easier to make copies that way, easier to search them, and easier to transmit them in a computer network. In practice, how many computers would still work after twenty years? And even if they found one working, would it be connected to the emergency power system? And even if it was connected, what would its password be?

Batman and Gordon had asked the two surviving scientists about that. Their reply:

1. None of them could remember a password they hadn’t used for twenty years.
2. You need to reset your password every two months, or you lose access to your workstation until the systems administrators unlock it for you. And since no system administrator had survived the nukes…
3. They were low-level researchers, meaning they had no access to the Vault or its contents. After all, they only learned about it after the nukes fell and they still knew nothing about its contents.

Data in paper form were much more reliable at a time like this. You need no password to access them, and you can read them without electricity. (A candle or an oil lamp will do the trick). On the other hand, you cannot store everything on paper; you need to prioritize. The reasonable action is to create backups for the most important issues.

Would those paper files contain info about the Vault? Batman was certain they would. You don’t build such a well-protected facility deep inside the Gotham City Metro just to store paperclips. Moreover, you don’t let such sensitive data be unprotected. You buy a fire-resistant safe and store them there with lock and key.

Alfred’s question was correct: they had no idea where those files were stored. But the fact DARPA had to store them somewhere safely limited the places they needed to search.

Where to start searching? The most obvious idea was to go straight for the top. If there was one person in the entire complex who had access to everything, that person was none other than the head of Gotham City DARPA facility. Fortunately, there were signs on the walls to lead them to his office.

Batman and Alfred had to climb two flights of stairs and follow two corridors. The dim light made them look haunted. Hopefully, no corpses were on the floor. Both men were hardened crime-fighters, but better avoid such a sad sight.

“I wonder how many people were inside when the nukes fell,” Alfred said when they reached the second floor.

“Who knows? The nukes fell very early in the morning. On the other hand, this facility was tied to the US Pentagon. DARPA was mostly for military research. Perhaps they were on alert that day.”

“The surviving scientists,” Alfred mentioned, “were outside the facility when the nukes fell.”

“Correct,” Bruce said, “but they were low-ranking ones. Perhaps the alert only included senior personnel.”

“A good point, sir.”

After following the dimly lit Batman and Alfred reached the closed door.

“Thomas Hawkins, PhD,” Batman read. “Head of DARPA Gotham Research Division.”

“The name rings a bell,” Alfred said. “But I cannot remember it now.”

Just for the fun of it, Batman knocked on the door. Predictably, there was no reply.

“He must be away,” Alfred said. “Shall we wait until he returns?”

“Oh, let’s wait him inside,” Batman said, completing the – admittedly lame – joke.

Batman turned the knob. But the door wouldn’t open. He looked at it and the doorframe. He knocked again, twice.

“Wood,” he said. “OK Alfred, stand aside.” Alfred nodded and took two steps back. He knew what his boss was about to do.

Batman aimed at the lock at point black range. He fired with both his shotgun barrels, completely destroying the lock and the wood around it.

The Dark Knight kicked the door and entered the room. The light of the emergency bulbs was dim, but after twenty years in the Metro darkness, he had no problem with such weak sources of light. He could easily make the details in the room.

It was a relatively small room. It only had one small desk with a computer monitor on it, a chair on wheels behind it, two visitors’ chairs in front of it, and a couch. Obviously, Dr. Hawkins was the type of boss who spent long hours at work and used the couch as a bed instead of spending time returning home for the night.

There were two portraits on the wall. The first one was with him and a young man uniform.

“United States Air Force,” Batman said, looking at the first picture. “It was during the young man’s graduation from flight school.”

“Jonas Hawkins,” Alfred said, reading the name on the man’s uniform. “Probably Dr. Hawkins’ son.”

“They look like two drops of water,” Batman agreed. “A proud father next to his proud son.”

The second portrait was of the same officer, but two decades older. His uniform was different and had medals and epaulettes on it.

“General Jonas Hawkins, USAF,” Alfred read loudly. “Head of Strategic Air Command.”

“That’s how you remembered him,” Bruce said. “It was his voice during that fateful day.”

When the nukes started falling, General Hawkins gave a brief interview to a Gotham City journalist. He said he had issued the final order the Strategic Air Command would follow: load all available bombers with nukes and fly to Russia. To set an example, Hawkins would take off on the last plane.

The journalist had asked how they would come back. The General’s reply:

“We are not coming back!” Alfred said. “These were his words.”

None of the bombers came back.

“I wonder what his father thought about it,” Batman asked. “Was he proud his son did his duty, even during such a tremendous crisis? Or was he sad he lost him in the flames of nuclear war? Or was he sad his son had ordered the death of millions?”

Nobody could answer that question. Both men looked at each other for a few seconds. It was all another sad reminder of the war and its consequences.

They found Dr. Hawkins in a small bathroom adjacent to his office. Or better stated, what remained of him: a pair of shoes, socks, a three piece suit, a mummified corpse holding a loaded pistol and a big hole on the back of his head.

“He choose the quick way out,” Batman said. Apparently, the man had put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. It had been quick and painless.

“In a sense, that’s the best way to go,” Alfred said. “Why wait to die from radiation or starvation or dehydration? You know the nukes have hit Gotham, you know your son is gone, you know there is no hope for you or humanity. You have nothing to live for. Why to prolong your suffering?”

“Exactly. We had something to live for. That kept us alive.”

“Indeed, Master Wayne.”

Both men looked at each other for a few seconds, then nodded. Mourning about the dead would come later; it was time to resume search.

The first area of search was the bathroom. None of course believed Dr. Hawkins had stored classified documents there. But bathrooms are the usual storage areas for bandages, medicine, and other very useful equipment.

“No radiation here,” Alfred said after looking at his radiation counter. Batman nodded and grabbed some packages from a cabinet on the bathroom wall. They were sealed and they contained bandages. He also picked some sealed iodine bottles.

With careful moves, Batman picked the pistol and unloaded it. He placed it in his backpack, along with the magazine. Meanwhile, Alfred went to the desk and started opening the drawers.

“A scissors,” the butler said, “pens, pieces of paper, pencils, a box of bullets for the pistol...” Before the war, having all that stuff – except the bullets of course – was a trivial thing. But now, they were worth their weight in gold.

Alfred kept opening the drawers. He found a printed map of the building, a very useful item in case he and Bruce wanted to search the place, and Jonas’ graduation certificate from the Air Force Academy. He kept the map and placed the rest back in the drawers.

Meanwhile, Batman carefully moved Dr. Hawkins corpse and placed it on the couch. It was the least he could do. He muttered a quick prayer and started searching the walls for hidden safes.

It only took a minute. The safe in question was behind General Hawkins’ portrait.

“Alfred,” the Dark Knight said. “Search for combinations.”

“I think I found it,” his butler said, after a few seconds.

Batman examined the paper Alfred gave him. Yes, it could work.

Supposedly, you should avoid passwords others can easily guess. That means you should avoid birthdays, important anniversaries – marriage, graduation, etc. – and other numbers easy to guess. In reality, people often forget passwords. Using something familiar as a reminder is an obvious security risk, but you lower the chances of losing access to something critical during a crisis.

Guessing the safe combination proved to be an easy task. It was Jonas’ graduation date from the Air Force Academy, as written in the graduation certificate Alfred had found.

Batman pressed the numbers on the keypad and the safe opened. Using his flashlight, he examined the contents: the Presidential Medal of Freedom, honoring Dr. Hawkins’ contribution to his country, a handwritten letter signed by the President of the United States accompanying the Medal, and three thick dossiers. Batman placed the dossiers on the desk and started examining them.

“OK,” he told Alfred. “The first one is titled as: Gotham City Metro Underground Storage and Protection Facility.”

“The Vault,” the butler replied.

“Exactly. Do you have space in your backpack?”

“Yes, I’ll take it.”

While Alfred was placing the dossier in the backpack, Bruce examined the other two. One of them was titled “Operation Twilight” and had Jonas Hawkins name on it next to his father’s. The other one was titled “DARPA facility census.”

“Here we go,”  he said. He skimmed the table of contents until he reached what he needed.

“The basement,” he told Alfred.

“What is there?”

“Anti-radiation suits with spare parts, weapons, ammo, and lots of medicine of various types.”

“Great. But we’ll need a cart to carry them.”

“We’ll find one somewhere. I know there is a lot of debris outdoors, but there is a lot of stuff here.”

“Sure, I can clear the way,” Alfred said. “Downstairs, Master Wayne?”

“Downstairs.”

While Batman and Alfred were climbing down the stairs, a man was navigating Arkham Prison.

“You, you, and you,” he told the three men in front of him. “Go to the DARPA complex and try to get in.”

The three men were loyalists. They were brainwashed fanatics that would do whatever their boss asked. Including going out without radiation suits.

“Yes, King Joker!” they said in unison.

Chapter Text

Using the map and the signs on the walls, Batman and Alfred reached the basement.

“Hopefully,” Alfred said, “it won’t require another password.”

“Yes,” the Dark Knight replied. “I have no idea how to crack them.”

Fortunately, their luck held. The steel door to the basement was open. Batman examined it with his flashlight. There was a message written on it.

“Protection from,” Batman read loudly, “fire, radiation, chemical agents, biological agents. To always remain closed and locked in case of fire and other emergencies.”

“But they left them open,” Alfred said. “Did they forget to close them in the panic that ensued? Weren’t those doors supposed to close automatically?”

“Well, the average building is supposed to have an automatic fire protection system. And the fireproof doors always close in case of emergencies. Supposedly, the DARPA building would have an even stronger systems.”

“But it didn’t. Unless of course…”

Alfred didn’t finish his thoughts and didn’t have to. Bruce Wayne perfectly understood what his friend wanted to say but couldn’t. The doors were open not because the system had somehow failed, but because… the survivors had chosen to open the doors themselves!

Why would people open the doors? Why would they remove the only protection they had? Wasn’t it better to just remain in a safe, radiation-proof shelter, with food and water in abundance?

In reality, things are more complicated. OK, you survived the nukes because you happened to be in a building with sturdy construction and a nuclear shelter. The shelter is well-equipped: you have purified water to drink, tons of canned food to eat, perhaps some electricity to be able to read in the darkness. You have the rest of the survivors to keep you company, and you have advanced telecommunication systems to contact the outside world.

OK, now what? You remain inside the shelter talking to the same people about the same things, time and time and time again. You will soon get bored. Meanwhile, you will keep trying and trying to contact the Government, people in the outside world, survivors in the military, private citizens with radios… only to never receive a single reply.

Meanwhile, your well-stocked food stores keep dwindling. Yes, they can sustain you for months, but then what? No matter if it is three, six, or sixteen months, one day you will open the last can of food, drink the last drop of water, enjoy the last interesting conversation. You will be hungry, thirsty, and utterly. You cannot survive that, and even if you could, what would the purpose be?

“According to Viktor Frankl,” Alfred said, “the people less likely to survive in the Nazi concentration camps were the ones who had lost their will to live. They just sat in the mud, smoking their last cigarettes, and refusing to do anything. No threat, no punishment, no encouragement would make them move. None of them survived more than forty-eight hours after losing their will.”

Batman nodded in silent contemplation. Viktor Frankl had been a prominent 20^th century psychiatrist. He had introduced the logotherapy method, a highly effective way to treat patients with psychological problems. Apart from that, he had been a prisoner in Nazi concentration camps for three years. So had his parents and his wife, all of which perished in them.

What Dr. Frankl had described were real life observations from inside those camps, observation he narrated in “Man’s Search for Meaning,” his most well-known book. Bruce and Alfred had read the book many times.

Life had lost its meaning for the survivors. And the food had almost ended. What did they have to lose?

“They asked themselves,” Batman said, “Should we stay inside and slowly die in a sunless basement? Or should we go outside and see the sun for the last time?”

“If your options are between a slow death from starvation and a slow one from radiation…”

“Perhaps some of them tried to reach the Metro Stations,” Alfred said, and his eyes suddenly widened in horror.

“It was probably during those first chaotic months,” Batman said. “Who knows how many tried to reach the Metro and failed.”

“The doors were automatically sealed, sir. It was the only way to ensure people inside would survive.”

“I know. I designed the system myself. We could not spare the outsiders, no matter how much we would love to. Even if they survived, most of them would be dead within days from the radiation they had already absorbed.”

“So sad,” Alfred said. “But let me tell you this, Master Wayne. You could not go outside and save those people. You would not have reached them in time.”

“I know, Alfred, I know.”

Batman and Alfred reached the basement. It consisted of three main areas: a computer room, a storage area divided into smaller rooms, and sleeping quarters. Scientists and guards on night duty used the latter during peacetime. It was also where the last DARPA survivors had spent the last months of their lives.

Most of the rooms were empty, except one. Two naked bodies covered with a blanket were lying on a bed. They were the mummified corpses of a man and a woman.

Batman approached the bed. A half-drunk bottle of whiskey was next to it, covered in dust. An envelope was lying next to it. He picked up the envelope and read the handwritten words on it.

“To the person who finds it. Please keep it and read our story.”

“It will make for a sobering reading, sir,” Alfred said. “Better read it after we return.”

“A good point,” Batman said and placed the envelope inside his backpack.

The rest of their stay in the basement was pure business. They found a cart and loaded it with two unused anti-radiation suits, lots of filters, and loads of medical supplies. They even found a radiation-resistant hood to cover and protect them on their return trip to the Batcave. Unfortunately, the doors to the armory were locked. Since it would take hours to find the keys, Batman opted to try his luck next time. Using a ramp, Batman slowly and carefully pushed the car to the ground floor.

“You know,” Alfred said, “we need to change the access codes to the complex.”

“In case Joker has tortured the scientists he has captured, and they remember the passwords themselves.”

“Certainly. We should also repair the wire we cut. We don’t want to give Joker or his scavengers the impression someone has entered the complex.”

“Good thinking”, Batman said. Fortunately, he already had picked up a thick roll of barbed wire from the floor.

A few minutes later, Batman and Alfred exited the building, changed the access codes and repaired the wire. Nobody would realize they had been there.

“Like we never set foot in here,” Alfred said.

“Correct,” Batman replied. “But don’t forget to cover our tracks.”

Alfred nodded. He was holding a shovel exactly for that reason. He would use it to clear the debris before the cart. Afterwards, he would put them back in place to conceal their movement.

Alfred’s job was very time consuming, but necessary. The Joker would soon send scavengers outside to learn more about the Vault. What if they saw the path of the debris and followed it to Wayne Manor? Batman hadn’t spent decades keeping his identity and his hideout secret, only for Joker to learn about them because of carelessness.

The process was slow and tiring, but straightforward. Fortunately, Batman and Alfred had their backpacks on the cart, which made their movement easier.

Meanwhile, the three goons Joker had ordered outside…

“Hey,” the first one said. “Just look at that.”

The other two men looked at the direction the man pointed at. They saw a man with a radiation suit slowly pushing a cart and another one shoveling the way in front and behind him.

“The suits look familiar,” the second goon said. “The color, the cowl, the movement.”

“It’s… Batman!” the third one said.

“What the hell?” the first one said. “You are right! The bastard! I spent five years in jail when he arrested me.”

“I spent ten,” the second one said. “I got out one year before the nukes fell.”

“I got twenty,” the third one said. “I only served five.” The other two looked at him in awe.

“You had a great lawyer,” the first one said.

“Nope, just good luck. Nuclear luck,” he said with a chuckle.

“You know what I am thinking?” the first one said.

“The moron came outside unarmed,” the second one said. “Only his friend is carrying a shovel.”

“Three men with axes against two with one shovel,” the third said. “Easy prey.”

“We kill them, we cut Batman’s head, we bring it to our King, and he’ll be grateful for an eternity.”

“Let’s do it,” the third man said and stood up. The others followed.

For their return journey, Batman and Alfred were following a different route. It was twice as long and took them closer to Arkham Prison, which made things more dangerous. On the other hand, it had much less debris, allowing Batman to push the cart uninterrupted. It also had much wider and open spaces, meaning they could see scavengers and mutants from a long distance.

For ease of movement, Batman and Alfred had placed their shotguns under the hood. It was also a neat way to keep the weapons clean from dust. Granted, the weapons had already gathered dust on their way to the DARPA complex, but why add to it when you can avoid it?

“Sir,” Alfred said. “I need to inform you of something.”

“That three assholes with axes are behind us and move from cover to cover, waiting for us to move behind that building in front of us to attack.”

“Correct. And our shotguns are under that hood.”

“I can easily access mine.”

“It can only fire two shots. They are three.”

“Well, Alfred, how skilled are you in hand-to-hand combat?”.

“Do you want me to shout a war cry as well?” Alfred replied with a smile.

“I would be delighted, Alfred. Truly delighted.”

“The Jack Reacher way, sir?”

“The Reacher way, yes.”

The moment the cart made a hard right turn, the three goons broke cover. On cue, Batman and Alfred turned to face them.

“Hello,” Batman said. “Nice day for a walk, isn’t it?”

“Came to help us?” Alfred asked, playing along.

“Go to hell, Batman,” the first scavenger said. “You put the us in jail.”

“I put lots of scum in jail,” the Dark Knight replied. “Including that asshole you call your king. How about refreshing my memory?”

For some reason, he remembered what those particular idiots had done. But he wanted to mess with them a bit. It was mostly for fun, but also to have an edge.

“You put me in jail for breaking a glass,” the first one said.

“For breaking a glass to a drugstore and stealing medical supplies,” Batman replied.

“You arrested me for helping an old lady cross the street,” the second said.

“You had her at knifepoint and wanted to steal her purse, you asshole.”

“You arrested me one day after my mother was raped,” the third one said.

“Yeah, you dimwit, because it was you who raped her. You are lucky you only got twenty years because.”

The two groups kept staring at each other for a full minute.

“OK, assholes,” Batman said. “My friend over here and I wear anti-radiation suits. We can stay the whole day and tomorrow like that. But you cannot. So, I suggest you go back to your silly boss and tell him the Dark Knight sends his regards.”

“You are coming with us,” the robber said. “Along with your friend and your cart.”

“And if we refuse?” Batman asked.

“Then we kill you both,” the motherfucker said. “We take your head to Joker, because he always wanted to keep it as a souvenir, your corpses become dinner, and your suits and whatever and carry become spoils of war.”

“That makes sense,” Alfed asked, “but how exactly are you going to achieve that? You see, we won’t go down without a fight.”

“That’s understandable,” the burglar said, “but we have the advantage. We are three; you are two. Your suits restrict your movement. I also see you only have one shovel while we have… three axes!”

“And I see,” Batman said, “that I have a shotgun!”

“OK, assholes, here is the deal. I count to three. If you leave before that, I spare you. If not, I am gonna kill you. Do you feel lucky, punks?”

Alfred was amused. He had never heard his boss quote ‘Dirty Harry’.

The three Joker’s henchmen remained silent.

“Start counting,” Batman told Alfred.

The Reacher Way Alfred had suggested a method to deal with enemies when cornered, just like the one Batman and his sidekick faced. It was named after Jack Reacher, a fictional character created by British author Lee Child. In Child’s novels, Reacher is a drifter who only owns the money in his pocket and the clothes he wears. Nevertheless, he is tall, smart, strong, intimidating, with an impressive military background, and firearms proficiency. He also gets involved with multiple enemies in each novel and often resorts to violence to defeat them.

In one of the novels, Reacher has cornered a bad guy. Both are armed, so how will they resolve the situation? Reacher proposes something: he will count to three and on three both men will raise their pistols to shoot. In Batman’s case, he would count to three and then shoot while his opponents try to rush him.

Reacher, the experienced combatant, is certain about one thing: his opponent won’t keep his part of the deal. His opponent expects Reacher to shoot on ‘Three’, so he won’t be psychologically ready for a move on number ‘Two’. He theorizes that most people would have the same thought pattern in a situation like this. That made them predictable, allowing you to counter their moves.

In Batman’s case, waiting till ‘Three’ was a death sentence. He only had two shots, and his opponents were big and strong. They would maneuver, making his aim harder. He would kill one, but he would have no time to reload. Alfred would take an axe to the head, and so might he. No way!

How do you counter that behavior? Easy. If they are going to attack on ‘Two’, you move faster and attack at ‘One’. They expect you to keep your word and attack at ‘Three’ because it is you who suggested it after all. Your attack takes them completely by surprise. And that’s how you win.

Alfred and Batman had practiced the technique countless times. And since both were Jack Reacher fans, it was obvious how they would name it.

Alfred stared at the burglar, the shortest of the three enemies. He slowly raised his shovel and took a deep breath.

“Adios, motherfuckers,” Batman whispered.

“One,” Alfred said. The three goons grabbed their axes. And Batman pulled the trigger…

Just like Reacher, Batman attacked first. His aim was true, and he killed the motherfucker with a shot to the head. As he had expected, his action – and the gruesome sight a blown head – put the two surviving enemies off balance.

It would take them two seconds to recover. The Dark Knight only needed one.

The second shot was the end of the burglar. Only the robber survived, only to see Alfred approaching him. More out of instinct, he raised his axe to defend himself.

Alfred had no hope of winning there. His enemy carried a deadlier weapon, he was stronger, and he was at least two decades younger. But winning was not the objective here. The objective was to buy time for Batman to reload.

The last criminal deflected the attack with his axe. He then tried to hit Alfred, only for the latter to deflect in turn. The bad guy was about to try again, when a slug pierced his belly.

The bad guy fell to the ground, on his knees. He looked at Batman, only to see him take aim with his shotgun. The next second the Dark Knight pulled the trigger again…

Things remained the same till the Batcave. No mutants appeared and no scavengers presented themselves. It was still a tiring march, but they managed. Hungry, thirsty, and nearly exhausted, Alfred and Bruce reached Wayne Manor and took the elevator to the Batcave. Their adventure was over.

It was night when the two men finished unloading their cargo. They were hungry and tired, but their job was far from over. They needed to decontaminate their suits and everything they had brought with them. And most important of all, they needed to shower and examine themselves for radiation.

It took two hours for the process to end. But in the end, everything was radiation-free, and the two men were clean and ready for dinner.

“I am starving,” Batman said. “Tell me you made dinner before we left.”

“I did, Master Wayne. Would you like some fine whiskey to accompany it?”

“By all means, Alfred, by all means.”

Chapter Text

It had been a great dinner, that’s how Bruce Wayne felt. Nothing spectacular, just mushroom soup with some whiskey to accompany it. Yet he found it awesome.

Was it because eating is a great way to relieve tension? Could be. After all, Batman’s day had been the most intense he could remember in years. He had killed two mutants and three scavengers, risking his life on two different incidents. Moreover, he had taken lives. He felt no remorse about killing; after all, he was defending himself and Alfred. Killing those people would save multiple lives in the future. But you are not human if you feel nothing about the deaths you cause, no matter how much the dead deserve it.

Was it because Batman had been tired after a full day outside, wearing a hot and cumbersome anti-radiation suit? Certainly. Not to mention it made his psychological strain worse.

“You are a true badass, Alfred,” Batman said, while sipping his drink. “You rushed that asshole.”

“I forgot the war cry,” the butler replied. “I tried to be stealthy.” It was one of those silly jokes you say to reduce tension. It worked, with Batman nearly choking on his drink from laughter.

“By the way,” Batman said, “I noticed your weapon was longer than his. How was that?”

“Oh, genetics, Master Wayne. Genetics.” Both men burst into laughter.

The dinner was over, and the question was: should they read about the vault now, or should they get some rest first? On the other hand, time was running, and the Joker would force his people to work around the clock until they broke the Vault’s door. On the other hand, Bruce and Alfred were very tired. They could barely keep their eyes open.

It was human nature that determined the final outcome. Both men fell asleep and remained so for the next eight hours.

In Bruce Wayne Station, a young man looked at himself on a small mirror. He was trying his best to shave in the darkness.

Suddenly, he heard a sound. An elderly man was approaching. He was the leader of the Station.

“Going on a date, Mister Blake?” the elderly man asked.

“You could say it that way, sir,” the young man replied. “I was about to visit you and ask your advice on something.”

“Well, here I am,” the elder statesman said. “What is it that you wish to ask?”

“I don’t know how to phrase it best. Let me put it that way. Every station has two main professions, right?”

“Yes, mushroom farmers and militia. Most people are farmers and there is a small, permanent militia. We farm when there are no attacks and reinforce the militia only when there is an invasion. So?”

“The permanent militia does sentry duty. But since Tom’s and Martha’s Stations merged in Bruce Wayne Station, we no longer have borders between us. Sentries between the two stations are no longer needed. And since our food needs remain the same…”

“Yes. Less sentries, the same farmers, therefore we can afford to have a smaller permanent militia.”

“Exactly.”

“Let me guess, John. You wanted to leave the station, but your sense of duty prevented you from doing so. And I think I know where you want to be.”

“What do you think, Doctor?”

“You have a sense of duty and a spirit of adventure. Your best option is to combine them. That only leaves you two options: as Batman’s sidekick and as a police officer.”

“Yes,” the young man said. “But since Batman hires no sidekicks, that only leaves me the Police.”

To John Blake’s amazement, the doctor smiled.

“You know, a long time ago, many years before the nukes fell, I had a dream. I watched those uniformed men, driving their fast vehicles, blaring their sirens, arresting the bad guys. My dream was to become one of them, a police officer in Gotham.”

“But you became a doctor,” Blake replied. “You became head of Thomas Wayne Hospital.”

“Well,” the elderly statesman replied, “you cannot remain fourteen forever. There comes the time when you realize you either need to abandon your childhood dreams or modify them to reality.”

“But how being a doctor be the same as being a police officer?”

“Well, young man, I had a knack for medicine. And I soon realized the Police are like an immune system. They attack those who threaten the health of the body of society. They try, in their own way, to cure us from criminals, terrorists, and many other troublemakers. So, I became a type of police officer, helping the human body keep pathogens away, the same way the police keep the city troublemakers away.”

“That’s an interesting way to see things.”

“It might sound silly, but it worked for me.”

The two men remained silent for a bit. It was the professor who broke the silence.

“Let’s face it, John,” he said. “The Metro is a small and very sick society. Gordon and Batman are doing their best to help. So do you, here in this station. Therefore, no matter whether you stay or leave, I know you are going to be useful.”

“What should I do then?”

“The question is what do you like best. Mushroom farming or law enforcement?”

“Well… law enforcement,” the young man replied with a grin.

“The matter is settled then.”

“With your permission, I would like to travel to Station Police and apply for a post there.”

“Of course, young man. I suppose you also want me to write a letter of recommendation for Commissioner Gordon.”

“Thank you so much,” John Blake said.

“And who knows,” the elder man said, “one day, you might join Batman for an adventure. Something I guarantee will never happen if you never leave this station.”

It was early in the morning when Batman woke up. Alfred was already up and monitoring the screens in front of him. He had the Vault file on a table next to him.

“Good morning, Master Wayne,” Alfred said. “Slept well?”

“Like a log,” came the reply. “I am well rested. How about you?”

“The same. I woke up, made coffee and breakfast and checked the monitors. There is no strange activity thank God.”

“I suppose the same will happen in the Bat Tunnel. By the way, did you look at the file from Dr. Hawkins safe?”

“Just a quick glance, sir.”

Batman took the file with him and started reading. It had a wealth of information in it.

According to the file, the Vault – as the underground bunker was called - had been designed to be in close proximity with the Gotham City Metro. The idea was to have a safe storage area both immune to nuclear weapons and easy to access in case of emergencies.

To keep the creation of the Vault a secret, DARPA kept its plans hidden from the Gotham City Council and Wayne Enterprises, the company that ended up building the Metro. In addition, DARPA never informed Bruce Wayne, head of Wayne Enterprises, about their plans. There was even a written order to that effect.

With curiosity, Bruce Wayne read the order. To his amazement, the order specifically mentioned him. His amazement turned up to eleven when he saw who had signed it.

“Alfred, did you know the President of the United States signed an order about me?”

“What can I say. They really took security to the extreme.”

“That means,” Bruce said with a smile, “that I just violated US President’s orders.”

“Don’t worry, Master Wayne,” Alfred replied, an even bigger smile on his face, “I won’t tell anyone. I know how to keep your secrets.”

Alfred’s comment, despite its lighthearted nature, was absolutely true. Decades ago, Bruce Wayne decided to become a vigilante and adopt a secret identity. He had only told Alfred about his intentions. Alfred had kept the secret for many years, both before and after the nukes had fallen. He had given an oath to himself to take that secret to the grave, unless Master Wayne gave him specific orders to the contrary.

Taking a sip from his mushroom coffee, Batman resumed reading.

The construction of the Vault was assigned to a special group of Army Corps of Engineers personnel. All of them were handpicked for their discretion, strong work ethic, and willingness to work on weekends, national holidays, and most important of all, night hours. Last but not least, all of them had excellent service records with no negative citations at all. It was probably the most elite of elite engineer units.

To build the Vault, the engineers selected an area next to a specific Metro Station. They chose it because the soil was extra hard there, mostly consisting of granite. The hardness of the soil would reinforce the layers of cement, steel, and titanium built around the Vault. It would also make unauthorized attempts to breach it harder.

“Hey,” Batman told Alfred. “Did you know the walls were one meter thick?”

“Not even Fort Knox is that safe,” Alfred commented.

“Let me see how Joker will penetrate that.”

On the minus side, digging at that specific area had major problems. One, the harder soil meant slower digging speeds and added construction time. According to an attached report, it would take three times more time to dig compared to other areas.

In addition, secrecy remained the top priority. Everything else had to be sacrificed to maintain it, including digging speed. That meant the Engineers had to be extremely quiet and should only work during the late night hours when everyone else was asleep, including the Metro construction workers.

Another issue the report mentioned was the small number of engineers. That was necessary to maintain secrecy – the more people know about a secret, the easier it is for one of them to reveal it – and to keep the state bureaucracy under control. Transferring twenty US Army Engineers to build the Vault is much easier than transferring two hundred and leaves far fewer traces.

For the above reasons, the Vault construction was very slow. According to the report, it continued even after the Metro opened, only finishing in 2012, one year before the war started. Secrecy remained a top priority with the Vault builders, who only worked between 1 am and 6 am, the hours the Metro was close.

Apart from secrecy, the other major problem was physical security. The Vault was only one Station away from Arkham Prison, something the report repeatedly mentioned. The report authors concluded the prison created a serious security risk. What if Arkham Prison inmates escaped and took control of the Station that housed the Vault?

Under normal circumstances, that would be impossible. The prison had the highest security measures possible, and Gotham City Police would converge in the Station within minutes to arrest the troublemakers. But what about the abnormal circumstances a nuclear war would cause? Would the Police be able to arrest escaped convicts then? Unlikely. Besides, the reason security measures were that high was because the prison ‘guests’ were very dangerous criminals. What would happen if a nuclear war caused a security collapse, allowing those dangerous criminals to escape and take control of that particular station?

Batman had no need to imagine that scenario.

“Jokerland,” he told himself.

According to the report, the probability for a group of criminals entering the Vault was negligible. Nevertheless, if they were in the station, they could prevent authorized personnel from reaching it.

Batman put the file down and started thinking. Something didn’t fit.

“Something troubling you, sir?” Alfred asked.

“Something is off. OK, I get it. DARPA tried their best to maintain secrecy. And they did an amazing job. As Bruce Wayne, I learned nothing about the bunker.”

“President’s orders, sir. Followed to the letter.”

“As Batman, I never noticed anything. Not before the nukes fell, not after. I only learned about that bunker because of those two scientists who informed me and Gordon about it.”

“It’s because its builders worked during the night to maintain secrecy. They worked quietly to prevent accidental overhearing.”

“True,” Batman said, “but we miss something here. The precautions were to prevent us from listening to them. But we still could see them!”

“Of course!” Alfred said. “How could they move to the Vault construction site like that? There were Police cameras, Metro personnel, police officers on patrol. How could they approach the Vault without anyone seeing them all those years?”

“Exactly.”

“Impossible, sir.”

“True. Unless...”

“Unless, Master Wayne?”

“Unless the engineers had created another entrance. An entrance they could use to secretly enter and leave the place without anyone noticing.”

“That makes perfect sense,” Alfred said. “It would help them maintain secrecy while building the Metro. And they could keep that entrance as an alternative point of entry in case criminals overrun the Metro Station. Two birds with one stone.”

“Three birds,” Batman said. “They could use that entrance to transfer whatever they needed in the Vault.”

“Yes, sir. I wonder what they transferred though.”

“Here is another report,” Batman said. “I think it will answer our questions.”

At the same time, Batman’s greatest adversary was fuming. Everything seemed to go wrong during the last twenty-four hours.

For starters, he could not open the Vault’s door. His henchmen were pounding on it with sledgehammers to no effect. The material the door was built with was stronger than the steel the sledgehammer heads were made of. Apart from scratching the paint, the sledgehammers had no effect. Two of them had already broken.

In addition, his search party had failed to return. The three volunteers he had sent outside remained missing. He had no hopes of them returning alive. After so many hours, radiation would have taken care of them even if they somehow had survived in the outside world.

What had happened to them? Had the Mutants ambushed and killed them? Had another group of scavengers fought with them and defeated them? Had Batman…

“Yes,” he told himself. “That masked troublemaker might be behind it.”

Soon, another group of volunteers went outside. They carried axes and wore thick clothes that somehow protected them from radiation. Their orders were to scan the area close to the station and be back after two hours max.

The report Batman read was exactly what he needed: a detailed analysis of the contents and capabilities of the Vault. According to it, the bunker was a multi-purpose storage facility. It was radiation-proof and airtight to prevent accidental leaks. And strong enough to prevent unauthorized entry.

You could use the Vault to store practically everything. You might want to store a copy of the Declaration of Independence, along with a rare stamps collection. Or you could go to the other extreme and store a nuclear device. Or you could opt for a more humanitarian approach and store vaccines and medicine. It all depended on what DARPA, and by extension the US government considered worth placing there.

But what did the bunker store now? Fortunately, there was a detailed list of contents. It was last updated in 2013, just two days before the nukes fell. It was obvious nothing had changed in the meantime.

“Let’s see,” Batman read. “Anti-radiation suits, medicine and medical equipment, reading material with practical advice for post-nuclear war life.”

“Makes sense,” Alfred replied. “It will help a lot of people.”

“So far so good. I’d rather not have Joker take them, but it’s not the end of the world if he does.”

Batman kept reading.

“Firearms, live ammo. OK, that would be awful.”

“Yes, he could supply his henchmen with rifles and try to conquer the Metro.”

“Pretty bad for certain. But there is more.”

Batman read the last two lines on the list. He reread them twice more to make certain.

“Oh, shit,” the Dark Knight said.

“What is it? A nuclear bomb?”

“Worse than that, my friend. Much worse.”

The last items on the list were biological weapons. There were dozens of airtight canisters, all containing highly contaminating and highly lethal strains of well-known viruses and pathogens.

“Incubation period,” Batman read, “Type of transmission: airborne. Lethality… Morbidity…”

Alfred and Batman remained speechless for several minutes.

“If Joker opens the Vault,” the Dark Knight said,

“…we are all dead!”

Chapter Text

Chapter New  - Can Joker win?

Batman and Alfred went through Dr. Hawkins’ file again. Was that possible? Had the authorities really stored that many canisters of biological weapons down there?

“If my calculations are correct, Master Wayne, there is enough material here to infect the entire Gotham City population within a few hours. And we are talking about all the city, not just the Metro here.”

Batman had done the same calculations, independently from Alfred. He had reached the same conclusion. If someone secretly placed hundreds of canisters in Gotham and activated them at the same time, their deadly content would spread and infect thousands within minutes. Within a day everyone in the city would carry the pathogens in their bodies.

In theory, the authorities could order a lockdown. People would remain in their homes to prevent them from infecting each other. In practice, only after the first symptoms appear would authorities realize what the problem was. It would be too late by then.

If the risk of infection was that high, why would the Army secretly store such dangerous weapons underground? What did they want to accomplish? Fortunately, the file contained the answers.

 The biological weapons were to be used outside Gotham, against a foreign army that had invaded the United States. Strategic Air Command would use its stealth bombers to air-drop canisters of biological agents against big enemy troop concentrations. Within days, many invaders would be dead, and the survivors would be too sick to fight back, allowing the infantry and the Marines to defeat them.

US authorities would use bioweapons in Gotham, but only if the enemy overrun the city. It would be a last ditch effort, an act of desperation to turn the tide of war. According to that scenario, civilians would not be infected, because they would have evacuated the city days before.

Of course, the probability a foreign army would march that deeply into US territory was very low. Nevertheless, the authorities needed to be ready for that. It was partly prudence, partly Cold War mentality.

In the end, nothing of the above happened. No foreign army invaded US soil, because there was no foreign army left.  Nobody ordered the biological weapons to be used, because nobody with the authority to give that order had survived the war. The weapons remained in the Vault, unused and forgotten.

Until a psychotic clown learned about the Vault…

The three henchmen stood in attention, facing Joker. Three corpses were lying in front of them. They belonged to the three men Joker sent outside but never came back.

“So, you found them close to our station,” Joker said.

“Yes, my King,” one of the henchmen replied. “Only a few minutes away on foot.”

Joker examined the corpses. They had gunshot wounds on their faces and their bodies.

“Shotgun blasts,” Joker said. “From a distance.”

“A Police Officer?” one of the henchmen asked. “Has Gotham City Police returned to the streets?”

Joker considered the point. In theory, it made sense. In practice, no. Why would the depleted police forces waste time and manpower patrolling radioactive waste nobody lived in? After all, there were too few to patrol the Metro itself.

No, someone else had killed his henchmen.

“Batman. Once more he obstructs my plans. I hate that guy.”

“But, King Joker,” a henchman said, “Batman has a no kill rule,”

“No longer,” came Joker’s reply. “You can follow no-kill rules when you know your friends in the Police will arrest the criminals you have punched unconscious. But when the Police are holed in the Metro, unable to assist you, what do you do?”

“You are right, King Joker,” the third henchman said. “But all those years, Batman had never killed any of us. Our scavengers never reported his presence. And besides, why to go outside when the people he spends his time assisting are inside the Metro?”

Joker smiled. He liked those three henchmen. They made smart observations. They had potential.

“You are right,” the lunatic clown said in a calm tone. “Something made him change tactics. What could that be?”

It was a rhetorical question. All four of them knew the answer.

“The Vault,” said the first henchman.

“Batman learned about it.”

“The scientists told him,” said the third one.

“Not the ones we have here,” Joker said. “There were others, outside our reach. Our friends the scientists might know about them, though.”

The three henchmen rushed to bring the three captured scientists for interrogation.

Back in the Batcave, Bruce and Alfred repeated their calculations.

“According to the report,” Alfred said, “a bioweapons release in Gotham would infect the entire population within twenty-four hours.”

“Things will be worse in the Metro area,” Batman commented.

Both men gasped in horror. Gotham City was out in the open and had many times the area the Metro had. If such a huge area could be infected within a day, what would happen to the much smaller and fully enclosed area the Metro had?

Apart from that, conditions were much harsher underground. Gotham City had its Mayor and the City Council, a central authority that could coordinate efforts against bioweapons. There was no such central authority in the Metro. Granted, people in the stations remained US and Gotham City citizens and had the obligation to follow the Police’s instructions. In reality, they did so in name only. Besides, with phones and announcement systems down,  how could Gordon inform the Metro survivors in time?

The worst part though was another. Pre-war people were generally healthy. Yes, many of them were obese and suffered from chronic health problems, but their situation was generally acceptable. Not so for post-nuclear war Metro survivors. Living in squalid conditions, never being in the sunlight, psychologically tormented about the war and the devastation it caused, malnourished and undernourished, the Gotham survivors were in very poor health. A virus released against in the Metro would kill a much higher percentage of the population compared to pre-war estimates.

The only saving grace was that each station was at a distance from the others. But if Joker infected one station, the survivors would escape to other stations and transmit the viruses. Or Joker would force them to do so at gunpoint.

“We are talking about what?” Alfred asked. “Five times the mortality? Ten?”

“Even mild cases that require two days of hospitalization will become fatal.”

“Time to talk to Gordon, sir?”

“Time to talk to Gordon.”

Once more, Batman found Gordon on top of Police Headquarters Tower. Once more, he was observing the surrounding area with his binoculars.

Just for the fun of it, Batman decided to enter quietly. As he had expected, Gordon heard him and returned to face him, a smile on his face.

“Are you playing your usual tricks, Batman?”

“Just easing the tension, Commissioner.”

“Good thinking. Because our friend the clown just sent three men down there. Come and watch for yourself.”

Batman saw the three men reaching the barbed wire fence surrounding the DARPA complex. Two of them were carrying axes, the third a bolt cutter.

“They know about the Vault,” Batman said.

“I agree. But they failed to open it, so they try to enter the complex to find more.”

“They’d need to pass the fence first.”

“Easy with bolt cutters.”

“They’d need to open the door.”

“Easy if they know the password for. We both know Joker tortured the captured scientists.”

“Unless someone went there first and changed the password.”

“Yes,” Gordon said, smiling. “I saw a guy with a Bat-anti-radiation-suit yesterday.”

“It was a risky endeavor,” Batman said.

“Yes. You and your assistant killed three mutants and three of Joker’s henchmen. My men observed it all from the binoculars here. I also saw you leaving the place with a cart full of supplies.”

“Yes. Medical supplies mostly, and some intel. Sadly, the armory was locked, so I could find no weapons for you.”

“Too bad. Speaking of intel, what did you find about the Vault?”

“It’s sitting on your desk.”

While Gordon was reading, Batman observed the DARPA complex with the binoculars. Joker’s three henchmen had cut the wire and were facing the back door.

What would they do now? They had two options. One, try to break the sturdy metal door with their axes. Two, try to guess the password. Predictably, they tried option one first. After ten minutes of hitting, they achieved nothing and switched to option two.

Batman made some quick calculations. Guessing an eight-digit combination, with ten different numbers for each digit, meant guessing one number correctly among ten million. To guess two such combinations, you needed to guess that in the square power. In other words, your chances were one in one hundred trillion! Even if you could type one such combination every minute – that was how fast the system allowed you to do so – you needed one hour for sixty combinations, one day for less than 1,500, and one week for barely ten thousand. You would need ten billion weeks to guess them all.

If you had average luck, you’d get your answer about halfway, meaning you ‘only’ needed five billion weeks or about one hundred million years to succeed. No human creation would be left standing after such a long amount of time.

“Good luck, idiots,” Batman whispered.

Gordon finished reading the basics in the file and stood up. He had a somber expression.

“I really had hoped the Vault only contained medical supplies and ancient coin collections.”

“Let’s face it, it was an unrealistic hope.”

“If only they had built it somewhere away from Arkham Prison. We would have avoided that mess.”

“They needed strong soils to support the Vault.”

“Yes, and sadly the only such place was close to Arkham Prison. Had we known that, we would have built the prison elsewhere.”

“Except we didn’t know,” Batman said. “Neither you, neither I, neither the Mayor, neither Bruce Wayne. The Vault was a top secret project.”

“They should have told us.”

“It’s too late for blaming now. Those responsible are already dead.”

“Yes, the question is what we do now,” Gordon said.

“In theory, there is nothing to worry. According to the file you brought me, the Vault is very sturdy and can withstand a lot of abuse.”

“Except the fact I cannot access the weapons and medical supplies in the Vault.”

“Sadly,” Batman said, “this report is wrong in the one area you and I are experts on.”

Batman’s statement was spot on. The people who wrote the Vault file had done their homework concerning crime, but their analysis was completely off the mark. Their conclusions for a post-war society were in many cases the opposite of what really happened.

According to the analysis, two were the most likely scenarios about post war Gotham:

1. That nuclear war would be of small scale. The Army and the Police would suffer huge casualties, the civilian population would have millions of death and wounded, but in the end things would stabilize. Within days, the Army and the Police would restore order.

The United states would be severely weakened, and perhaps foreign armies would invade US soil. If that were the case, the Army would open the Vault and Strategic Air Command would use the contents against the invaders

The authors of the report recognized that anarchy might break out. Perhaps people would riot. Or perhaps prisoners from Arkham Prison might survive the war and conquer the station housing the Vault. But they assumed Gotham Police would remain strong enough to restore order. They also assumed infantry or Marine units would converge to the Vault to assist the police officers.

1. That nuclear war would be totally devastating. There would be very few survivors left, perhaps none. These last survivors would gradually deplete the remaining food and water reserves. None of them would survive for more than one or two years. The authors of the report recognized that criminals might escape from Arkham, but even if they did, they would not survive long enough to try to open the Vault.

In the end, nobody would survive and open the Vault. After centuries, its deadly contents might leak, but nobody would be alive to be harmed by them. And nobody would be alive to care.

In reality, an intermediate scenario happened. The war was devastating, but not to the extent that nobody survived. Thousands were holed in the Metro and remained alive after twenty years. The reports’ authors had not anticipated that Gotham’s wealthiest citizen – who also happened to be a masked vigilante – would have a pre-war contingency plan to save lives and would spend each one of his post-war days keeping the survivors alive.

 Sadly, those precautions had allowed Joker to survive and prey on the survivors of one of the Metro Stations. But in balance, Bruce Wayne’s plans had done more good than bad. Things might change again though.

“According to this report,” Gordon said, “less than thirty criminals would occupy the station, they would be very lightly armed, and the Police will drive them off within a month at the latest. An extremely optimistic scenario.”

“Correct,” Batman said. “It also mentioned a wall the US Engineers built a wall to hide the entrance to the Vault. Supposedly, the criminals would never tear that wall down because nobody would tell them about it.”

Gordon nodded. Joker controlled hundreds of people, not the thirty the report had assumed. He had controlled them for decades, not the few months the report had assumed he would. And they knew about the wall and the Vault behind it, because the captured scientists had talked.

Thirty people working for a month without tools could never enter the Vault. But what about three hundred, already possessing digging equipment and no time limits?

Batman and Gordon reexamined the schematics. The Vault main entrance was made of steel, reinforced with titanium. Impossible for Joker to penetrate. The walls, however, were made of steel-reinforced concrete, a much weaker material.

As for the surrounding soil, it was made of granite, a strong and sturdy type of stone. Nevertheless, hadn’t Joker dug a tunnel to flank his enemies on that same soil? Weren’t the Metro tunnel walls made of steel-reinforced concrete? And yet Joker had penetrated them. Granted, the Vault’s walls were thicker and had more steel in them, but the principle was the same. What would stop Joker from using the equipment he already had and dig till he entered that bunker?

“Certainly not the Army,” Batman said. “They are all dead.”

“Or the Police,” Gordon said. “We are much less than Joker’s troopers and almost out of bullets. We have switched to hoplite warfare tactics, like the ancient Greeks.”

“Or Batman,” the Dark Knight said. “For twenty years, I could not even approach his area. His henchmen would surround and kill me within minutes.”

“But how do we defeat him then?”

“Fortunately, Commissioner, I have a plan…”

Chapter Text

While Batman was talking with Gordon, Alfred had an equally important job to do: he needed to better analyze the situation he and Bruce faced. How would the Joker attack? What would his plans be? How much time did they have to stop him?

And most important of all: how to stop him?

A few hours ago, he and Batman had done a preliminary analysis of the situation. It was mostly based on the file they had recovered from the DARPA complex. The file contained a good analysis of the situation, but it had its limitations on at least two areas. One, it greatly underestimated the power, and the capabilities organized crime has. Two, it provided limited information about the soil surrounding the Vault.

Fortunately, Alfred could address both issues. Being Batman's sidekick for decades had made him an expert in all types of crime, especially organized one. As for the soil where Gotham's buildings stood, he was even more fortunate. Wayne Enterprises had very detailed information about it. It was vital for them to have that knowledge in order to build the Metro.

Sipping some mushroom coffee – sadly there had been no  real coffee in the DARPA complex - Alfred reread that part of the report about organized crime. It was professionally made, with well thought arguments and charts to better illustrate the issues at hand. The conclusions though were wrong.

The authors believed that in case of nuclear war, the catastrophe would be too small to destroy the state structure, allowing the Police and the Army to survive and overtake criminals near the Vault. If the catastrophe were too strong for anyone to survive, the authors believed not even the criminals would survive it; therefore, no need to examine what would happen.

Alfred went to the last page of the report and examined the names on it. All the authors were academics, graduates of prestigious universities. But according to their bios, they had spent their entire adult lives inside academia! None of them had worked a single day in the private sector!

"Elitists," Alfred said, a bit disappointed, and kept reading.

As an old saying says: if you only have a hammer, you can only see nails. Its meaning is that if you have trained your mind  - for one reason or another - to think in a certain way, it is easy to fall into a certain pattern of thought. You only give attention to specific data, and you interpret what you see a certain way, ignoring data and opinions that contradict yours.

How are academics trained?  By taking classes taught by academics, by interacting with other academics, and by reading books and scientific papers written by academics. In other words, people of theory talk to other people of theory and read theoretical analyses of reality. They rarely if ever talk to people with real life experience.

Apart from that, academics are essentially public sector employees. They work in state universities and their salaries are paid by the government. The only money they receive from the private sector, apart from the taxes that finance them and their research, are donations a wealthy philanthropist - like Bruce Wayne! - might pay.

Such ignorance made many academics form a distrust for the private sector. Add the leftist ideology many of them have, and you have the roots of prejudice there and then.

That was why the authors of the report were so wrong about Joker and his success as a king of crime. One, they were unaware of what the private sector is capable of! To them, the private sector is only good for normal, crisis-free times. But during emergencies, only the public sector can save the day.

They failed to imagine that a competent entrepreneur named Bruce Wayne would have prepared for the war. They failed to anticipate Bruce would have converted the Metro to a huge underground nuclear shelter capable of housing thousands.

Alfred had to give the authors some credit too. They had anticipated anarchy would break down and the Police would be unable to stop it. That happened within days. But they had failed to anticipate what would happen next. They had assumed that the last survivors would soon die, unable to organize and feed themselves.

How had the authors made such a mistake? Once more, because they underestimated the competence and resilience the private sector had. That was true both for Bruce Wayne and for the individual citizens who hid in the Metro. After the initial shock, they organized themselves into small city-states without state supervision. They created rules to govern themselves and militias to enforce them. Bruce had provided the infrastructure, but the people had to rise to the occasion on their own for things to work.

Sadly, the qualities which allowed Bruce, Alfred, and the other Gothamites survive were the same ones that allowed Joker to establish his underground kingdom. And there were two main reasons for that.

One, Joker would not have survived on his own. He had no idea how to find food in a post-apocalyptic Gotham. He also had no idea about mushrooms that could grow underground with no sunlight. He only obtained them when he and his henchmen captured their first station.

Two, organized crime can be very effective. Criminals can be very smart and competent. Criminal organizations like the Cosa Nostra have operated for centuries. They started from Italy, but they eventually spread their tentacles to America and other continents. They started with extortion, blackmail, prostitution and illegal gambling, but they eventually expanded to illegal drugs trade, and even cybercrime.

Joker was no exception. He never controlled a huge organization, like Cosa Nostra, and he only limited his activities in Gotham. Nevertheless, he had caused quite a havoc for such a small number of people he commanded.

Bruce Wayne's skills had given Gothamites the ability to survive. The Gothamites' skills had allowed them to use what Bruce had provided. But Joker's skills had allowed him to take advantage of that. Just like crime always takes advantage of people’s honest work.

Setting the questions about academics and criminal competence aside, Alfred focused on a more pragmatic issue: what would Joker do with the Vault?

Alfred had no doubt Joker wanted to open the Vault. There was a treasure waiting for him behind those doors. But how would he do it?

Plan A was the obvious one: Joker would order his men to pound the Vault’s door with sledgehammers. They would pound and pound for the next couple of days.

Alfred had no doubt about their enthusiasm. Give a criminal a big and strong safe next to him and you can be certain he’ll spend every waking hour trying to open it. It will become an obsession!

But no matter the enthusiasm, you cannot defeat physics. The Vault door was too strong to break. Joker’s henchmen would only break their sledgehammers trying to open it. Then what? What would Joker's next move be?

Would Joker admit defeat? Would he just abandon the Vault and focus on other things? No way! No self-respecting criminal would ever do that. The Vault was there, a challenge for every bad guy in Jokerland. Not to mention how much Joker would benefit from its contents.

Failing the direct approach, Joker would go for Plan B: search for alternative entrance. Failing to find one - the most probable outcome - he would switch to Plan C: create his own entrance. That meant digging!

Since Joker had the manpower, he could – and probably would – go for Plans B and C simultaneously. His strongest men would start digging while rest would start searching.

Reexamining the Vault plans, Alfred was puzzled and shocked. The only entrance was the one inside the Metro Station! No alternative points of entry existed. Was that possible?

Batman and Alfred had already concluded such a hypothesis was impossible. How had the US engineers secretly moved so much soil and equipment through the Metro without anyone noticing? Answer: they couldn’t. There was another entrance somewhere.

But the plans showed nothing of the kind. What was going on?

Taking a piece of paper and a pen, Alfred jotted down his thoughts. That was something he always liked doing. Putting words on paper was an amazing way to improve his focus and reach better conclusions. Sadly, he had been unable to do it for decades.

"Thank God we found supplies in DARPA," Alfred told himself.

There were two options about the alternative entrance. One, that US Engineers built It, used it for their needs, and then sealed it, never to use it again. Two, that the entrance was still active. Which option was more plausible?

After careful analysis, Alfred concluded that the second entrance still existed. He even made a list of reasons why:

One, single point of failure. Having one entrance made it harder for unauthorized personnel to enter the place… but it also increased the chances someone authorized couldn't! What if part of the Metro collapsed because of the nukes and the debris blocked the entrance? What if an enemy elite unit parachuted in Gotham and captured that particular station?

Two, logistics. One entrance meant one route to the Vault. And that one route would pass through crowded Metro stations, causing delays and security risks at the worst possible moment. Why not just maintain a secret entrance to double your speed and ensure that half the bioweapon canisters would reach their destination no matter what?

Three, secrecy. Yes, the report mentioned no second entrance existed. What if the Vault builders had kept that information from the report authors? Who knows, perhaps the authors had no security clearance to learn about the report. Or perhaps US Engineers had orders to keep the entrance a secret. Or perhaps the authors had received that order as well.

It made perfect sense, Alfred thought. An entrance that officially did not exist! Even if spies stole Vault’s schematics, they would never find that alternative point of entry. Granted, they would suspect it existed, but without precise instructions, they would never find it.

Who could possibly know the secret coordinates of the second entrance? Alfred had no idea, but he suspected very few people did. The head of Strategic Air Command, the President, the Secretary of Defense, and perhaps three or four senior officials would be the only ones privy to the secret. Sadly, none of them had survived the word to tell him or Bruce.

That is the problem with secrets. If too many people know, you risk a security leak. If very few people know, you risk them taking their secrets to their graves. How many times was a secret lost forever when the last person who knew about it passed away?

Alfred sighed. Three decades ago, an idealistic young man had an idea: he would become a masked vigilante dressed like a bat. He only told his butler about it. Now the butler was in his seventies and the vigilante in his early fifties. Would their secret die with them? Perhaps it would.

Setting that sad thought aside, Alfred returned his focus on the task at hand. Since those who knew about the entrance were dead, Batman and Alfred would need to discover it for themselves.

To find a hidden entrance, you have the following options:

1. You search every building until you find it: you enter every building and basement, you knock on the walls, you go down the sewer shafts, etc.
2. You don’t lift a finger and do all your research from your armchair. You read maps, reports, you interrogate people on the know, etc.
3. The hybrid approach: you do as much research from your armchair as possible to narrow down your search area, then you switch to field search in the small area you cannot reduce further.

Option A was out of the question. Using it meant they ventured outside and searched dozens of square kilometers. That would be a very time consuming option even by pre-war standards. Batman would have to neglect his duties inside the Metro for extended periods of time to do so. He and Alfred would have to face mutants, Joker’s henchmen, obstacles, and last but not least radiation. They would ran out of anti-radiation filters long before they searched even one tenth of the area they should.

Option B was the safe one. Instead of taking life-threatening risks outside, they used data and common logic to find what they needed. Sadly, no matter how good your analysis is, it can only get you that far. In the end, you’ll have to go outside. You cannot enter the Vault just by making educated guesses about its entrance.

Option C was the obvious one. You use a safe method to reduce your search area, then you examine what is left. It was B and A in sequence.

Having decided on his approach, Alfred took another sheet of paper and continued his analysis. Where could that entrance be? It could not be inside or close to the Metro, because the workers would have spotted it. Therefore, it was further away, meaning US Engineers had to build a tunnel to reach the Vault. There was no other way.

How long could that tunnel be? A short one or a long one? Generally speaking, a shorter one made more sense. It was faster and cheaper to construct, reducing overall build time. It was also safer to operate. Let’s say the probability a small part of the tunnel collapses is one out of a thousand for every kilometer of its length. A ten kilometer tunnel would be ten times riskier.

Apart from secrecy, what other criteria should the tunnel entrance meet? Answer: easy logistics. A shorter tunnel greatly helped there. But you needed to examine the city geography to learn more. To do so, you needed a map of the city.

Fortunately, the Batcave had one such detailed map. Before the war Batman and Alfred constantly used it to plan their operations against crime. Batman also used the map as Bruce Wayne to spot potential business opportunities in real estate. It was more than an ordinary map with street names, buildings, and distances. It also contained details about organized crime (where each crime boss’ area started and where it finished), building heights (to know where Batman could climb and where not), and building ownership (for Bruce to keep track of his financial empire and his competitors’).

Bruce had ensured there was a new version of the map every month. It was the only way to keep himself and Alfred updated with Gotham’s picture as best as possible.

Sadly, the last time the map was updated was a few days before the nukes fell. The people Bruce paid to provide updates were all dead – except for Gordon – and all city survivors were underground, unable to assist him. In any case, there was no need for a map when everything above ground has become radioactive waste and you only operate in the Metro. For twenty years, the map had gathered dust in a closet.

Nevertheless, the map could still serve a purpose. US Engineers had built the Vault before the war, so they had to rely on how Gotham was back then, not now. So, how could they think?

1. Alfred had already analyzed that.
2. Easy logistics. They needed a tunnel to easily transport material fast.
3. The Vault was built to withstand a nuclear attack. The tunnel needed to be the same. It would be pointless to build a bunker if nukes caused the entrance to collapse.

Alfred marked a spot on the map where the Vault’s coordinates were. Afterwards, he drew a circle around it: for the distance of three kilometers. Which buildings would fulfill the above criteria?

Buildings closest to the Metro had more people and more traffic, which reduced secrecy. Building further away ensured more secrecy but made logistics more difficult. And the risk of a nuclear catastrophe was roughly the same on both occasions!

“You wanted the canisters to drop them from a bomber,” Alfred said. “Didn’t you?”

That considerably narrowed the search criteria. Strategic Air Command bombers could not land on downtown Gotham. But they could use Gotham International Airport to do so! Gotham Airport was big enough for Boing 747s to land, meaning bombers of equal size like a B-2 Spirit, or a B-52 also qualified.

Which parts of the circle were closest to the airport? Alfred marked that area of the map. He noticed the  DARPA building was inside that area. Could the hidden tunnel entrance be there?

Afred looked at the building’s coordinates. It was not very far from the Vault and armed guards would prevent the curious from approaching. After all, Batman himself had failed to enter the place on multiple occasions. On the other hand, everyone would notice if trucks carrying soil left the building.

Apart from that, the building was too obvious a choice for a secret entrance. If the enemy overrun Gotham, the DARPA complex would be the first place they would try to capture. Granted, the soldiers guarding the place would put a valiant fight, but could they win with pistols and rifles against elite paratroopers equipped with anti-tank weapons? And even if the enemy failed to capture the place, what if they simply destroyed it to cut the access to the Vault?

Alfred looked at the time. Hours had passed since he had started his analysis. Bruce was still outside, either talking with Gordon, or patrolling the Bat Tunnel. He had made progress, but he was still away from a definite answer.

“At least we have time,” Alfred told himself. “Joker will need to dig through granite.”

But time would eventually run out…