New SHAZAM in Flashpoint World - Chapter 10

Chapter 10: Wayne Manor, Multiple Flashes, and an Unimpressed Bat

Gotham City unfolded beneath Jack like a dark, brooding flower, its shadowed petals a labyrinth of grimy streets, gothic architecture, and towering, soulless skyscrapers. As he descended from the cloud cover, the city’s infamous atmosphere grew more potent, a palpable miasma of old secrets, lingering despair, and a gritty resilience that was almost beautiful in its defiance. He flew lower now, the wind carrying the distant sounds of traffic, the occasional siren, and the faint, metallic tang of industrial pollution. This was no Metropolis; Gotham wore its scars openly, its darkness an integral part of its identity.

Locating Wayne Manor wasn’t difficult. He just asked someone on the street, and he told him. It placed it several miles outside the city proper, nestled in the Palisades. Comic book lore also painted a consistent picture: a vast, ancestral estate, isolated and brooding, much like its owner. As he approached the coordinates, the densely packed urban sprawl gave way to rolling hills, ancient forests, and a winding, poorly maintained road. And then, there it was.

Wayne Manor. It was an imposing gothic structure, all sharp gables, shadowed eaves, and dark, ivy-choked stone, perched on a hill overlooking the desolate landscape. It looked less like a home and more like a mausoleum, a monument to a forgotten dynasty. The grounds were extensive, bordered by a high, wrought-iron fence that was showing signs of rust and neglect. The gardens were overgrown, the once-manicured lawns now wild and unkempt. It was the perfect lair for a reclusive, possibly broken, former Dark Knight.

Jack circled the estate once from a high altitude, his Shazam-enhanced senses scanning the area. He felt a prickle of apprehension. This was it, the point of no return. He couldn’t just land on the doorstep in his “John Smith” civvies and ask to speak to Mr. Wayne about an impending alien apocalypse. He needed to make an impression, or at least, be prepared for a less-than-welcoming reception. He was still in his Shazam form, the red and gold suit a beacon against the gloomy backdrop. For a moment, he considered changing, but then discarded the idea. If he was going to petition Batman, he might as well do it as the demigod he now, however reluctantly, was.

As he prepared to descend, a strange sensation prickled at the edge of his awareness – a faint, almost imperceptible thrum in the air, a subtle distortion that his normal human senses would never have registered. It wasn’t overtly magical like the Rock of Eternity, but it was… energetic. Power. More than one source, he thought. And close. Very close. Within the Manor grounds.

Others? His internal alarm bells went off. Are they Zod’s scouts? Unlikely, too soon. Other heroes? In this hero-forsaken world? The surprise threw him off balance for a moment. He had assumed he was alone in this, the first active super-being to surface in decades. Clearly, he was wrong. This complicated things. Were they friend or foe?

He decided a direct approach, albeit a cautious one, was best. He descended slowly, landing with a soft whisper of displaced air on the vast, cracked flagstone driveway in front of the Manor’s imposing oak doors. The place felt eerily silent, a heavy, watchful stillness hanging over it. He half-expected a battalion of robotic bats or a grumpy, shotgun-wielding butler to emerge.

Instead, the first sign of life came from his left. A blur of motion, red and yellow, so fast it was almost subliminal. Jack, thanks to the heightened senses and processing speed that came with his powers, tracked it, tensing for an attack. The blur resolved itself into a young man, probably early twenties, with wide, frantic eyes and sandy hair sticking out from a makeshift cowl. He wore a modified red tracksuit, emblazoned with a crudely painted yellow lightning bolt. He skidded to a halt a dozen feet away, his posture a mixture of aggression and fear.

Before Jack could speak, another blur, almost identical but somehow… different, less polished, more erratic, zipped into view from the right, flanking him. This one also wore red, but it was a different suit, more high-tech, yet also showing signs of damage. This Flash – because they were both clearly speedsters, both versions of The Flash – looked younger, maybe late teens or early twenties as well, with a lean, almost haunted look.

“Whoa, whoa, hold on!” the first Flash (Tracksuit Flash, Jack mentally dubbed him) said, his voice tight with adrenaline. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The second Flash (Alternate Flash, for now) just stared, his eyes narrowed, vibrating slightly on the balls of his feet, ready to bolt or attack.

Jack held up his hands, palms open. “Easy, guys. I’m not looking for a fight.” He tried to project calm, though his heart was pounding. Two Flashes. This was definitely Flashpoint. The movie. He recognized Tracksuit Flash as the Barry Allen from the primary DCEU timeline, the one who’d caused all this. Alternate Flash must be this reality’s native, younger Barry.

“Then why are you here?” Alternate Flash demanded, his voice raw, suspicious. “And what’s with the costume? You with Zod?”

“Zod?” Jack scoffed, a genuine sound of disgust. “Definitely not. Quite the opposite, in fact. My name is… Super Jack.” He winced internally at how ridiculous it sounded said aloud, but he was committed now. “And I’m here for the same reason I suspect you are. To talk to Bruce Wayne. About Zod. About saving the world.”

Tracksuit Flash and Alternate Flash exchanged a look, a silent communication passing between them. The tension eased, but only fractionally.

“How do you know about Zod?” Tracksuit Barry asked, his gaze searching. “His message just went out.”

“Long story,” Jack said. “Really long, involves multiple dimensions and a very pushy wizard. The short version is, I know what’s coming, and it’s bad. Extinction-level bad. We need Batman.”

Just as he said the name, the massive oak doors of Wayne Manor creaked open with a groan that echoed in the stillness. A figure emerged, stepping out of the deep shadows of the entrance hall into the gloomy daylight.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and even in the dim light, Jack could see the roadmap of a hard life etched into his face. This was Bruce Wayne, but not the suave playboy or the grim, determined Dark Knight in his prime that Jack knew from most comics. This man was older, probably in his early fifties as the records suggested, his dark hair streaked with grey, his face deeply lined, his eyes holding a weariness that seemed to sink into his very bones. He wore a simple, dark sweater and old, faded jeans, but there was an undeniable presence about him, a coiled, dangerous stillness that even age hadn’t entirely extinguished. He looked like a retired predator, one who could still bite, hard, if provoked.

He surveyed the three costumed figures on his driveway with an expression of profound, monumental disinterest. His gaze flickered over the two Flashes, then lingered on Jack for a moment, taking in the bright suit, the cape, the sheer physical power Jack radiated, before dismissing him with the same weary apathy.

“More of you,” Bruce Wayne said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, devoid of any inflection. “Get off my property.”

Tracksuit Barry stepped forward. “Mr. Wayne, please, you don’t understand. General Zod is coming. He’s going to destroy the Earth if we don’t stop him. We need your help. We need the Batman.”

Wayne’s lips twisted into something that might have been a sneer, or perhaps just a grimace of distaste. “Batman’s dead,” he said, his voice flat, final. “Died a long time ago. And this world?” He made a vague gesture that encompassed everything. “Let it burn. It’s not worth saving.”

The words, cold and utterly devoid of hope, hung in the air, a chilling pronouncement. The two Flashes looked stricken, their faces falling. Alternate Barry looked like he was about to protest, but Wayne cut him off with a look that could freeze lava.

Jack, who had been observing this exchange with a growing sense of dismay, felt a familiar surge of cynical exasperation. He’d known this Batman would be difficult, but the sheer, nihilistic indifference was something else. The fanboy in him was a little heartbroken; the pragmatist was deeply annoyed.

A dark, humorless chuckle escaped Jack’s lips. He couldn’t help it. All three heads turned towards him, Wayne’s with a flicker of something – perhaps annoyance at the interruption – in his dead eyes.

“Well,” Super Jack said, his voice a resonant baritone that carried easily in the quiet air, a forced cheerfulness coating the words. He gestured vaguely towards the glowering Wayne. “Nice to see Bats is still a ray of sunshine in every reality.”

Alternate Barry winced. Tracksuit Barry shot Jack a look that was part warning, part exasperation. Bruce Wayne’s expression didn’t change, but Jack thought he saw a muscle twitch in that granite jaw.

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Three super-powered beings, desperate to save a world, faced off against a broken hero who couldn’t care less if it all turned to ash. The fight against Zod, Jack realized with a sinking heart, might be the least of their problems. Getting this Batman to even acknowledge there was a fight was going to be a battle in itself. This was not going to be easy.