New SHAZAM in Flashpoint World - Chapter 12
Chapter 12: Splitting the Party
The heavy oak door of Wayne Manor thudded shut, leaving Jack and the two Flashes standing in the gloomy twilight of the overgrown driveway. For a moment, none of them spoke, the weight of Bruce Wayne’s profound apathy, and his equally profound permission, settling over them. The cave entrance through the library, west wing, grandfather clock, A Tale of Two Cities. It was a classic Batman trope, almost comically so, and in another lifetime, Jack might have geeked out over the sheer predictability of it. Now, it was just another surreal step in a journey that had long since departed from any semblance of normalcy.
Tracksuit Barry was the first to break the silence. “Well,” he said, letting out a shaky breath that plumed in the cool air. “That was… about as welcoming as a root canal. But at least he didn’t set the dogs on us. Or, you know, activate a giant penny to roll us flat.”
Alternate Barry, still vibrating with a mixture of leftover frustration and nascent hope, just nodded towards the Manor. “The library. West wing. Let’s go. We don’t have much time.” Zod’s twenty-four-hour deadline was a ticking clock in all their minds.
They found the library easily enough. It was a vast, two-story chamber, lined floor to ceiling with dusty, leather-bound tomes, the air thick with the scent of old paper, neglect, and forgotten knowledge. Most of the furniture was draped in white sheets, like ghostly sentinels guarding secrets. The grandfather clock stood in a shadowy alcove, tall and imposing, its pendulum still, its hands frozen at some forgotten hour. It exuded an air of gothic melodrama that was pure, undiluted Batman.
Alternate Barry, a native to this world’s strange undercurrents, approached it with a kind of nervous reverence. He located the specific volume – A Tale of Two Cities, its spine worn, its title barely legible in faded gold leaf – and hesitated for a beat, exchanging a look with Tracksuit Barry. Then, he pulled.
There was a low groan of protesting mechanisms, a sound that hadn’t been heard in years, followed by a soft click. The entire section of bookshelf beside the clock, grandfather clock included, swung inwards with surprising smoothness, revealing a dark, yawning opening. A gust of cool, subterranean air, carrying the faint, unmistakable scent of damp earth, bat guano, and something metallic and vaguely chemical, wafted out.
“The Batcave,” Tracksuit Barry breathed, a note of awe in his voice despite the grim circumstances. Even in this broken timeline, the legend held a certain power.
They descended a narrow, winding stone staircase, the only illumination coming from Tracksuit Barry’s phone and a few flickering emergency lights that seemed to activate as they passed. The steps opened into a vast natural cavern, its ceiling lost in impenetrable shadows far above, much like the Rock of Eternity, though this place felt colder, more oppressive, less magical and more… engineered. Relics of a bygone era of crime-fighting lay scattered about, draped in tarps or gathering thick layers of dust: the sleek, angular fins of what was unmistakably a Batmobile, albeit an older model; glass display cases containing faded costumes and bizarre trophies; a massive computer console, its screens dark and lifeless, dominating the central platform. It was a tomb of heroism, a monument to a Batman who no longer existed.
Alternate Barry, guided by a memory or an instinct he didn’t know he possessed, headed straight for the main console. Tracksuit Barry, his expression a mixture of wonder and sorrow at the state of the place, followed, Jack bringing up the rear, his Shazam-enhanced senses taking in every detail, every shadow, every lingering echo of a once-great purpose. The Wisdom of Solomon hummed in his mind, cataloging, analyzing, noting the outdated technology, the signs of long disuse.
“Alright,” Tracksuit Barry said, his voice businesslike as he reached the console. “Let’s see if we can get this relic powered up.” He was clearly the more tech-savvy of the two speedsters, his fingers flying over dusty control panels, flipping switches, checking connections. After a few tense moments, a low hum filled the cave, and one by one, the massive screens of the Batcomputer flickered to life, displaying an archaic but surprisingly functional operating system.
“Okay, parameters,” Tracksuit Barry prompted, turning to Jack. “You said Kara Zor-El, Russian crash site, years ago?”
Jack nodded. “As specific as I can be. Look for unusual geological impact signatures in remote Siberian regions from, say, twenty to thirty years back. Cross-reference with any suppressed Soviet-era military reports, black site construction in those areas, unexplained energy signatures detected by older spy satellites… anything that points to a long-term, clandestine operation involving advanced, possibly non-terrestrial, technology.” He was essentially outlining the breadcrumbs that would lead to a needle in a continent-sized haystack.
Alternate Barry, his eyes glued to the main screen, began inputting the search queries, his fingers a blur. Tracksuit Barry assisted, his own speed allowing him to sift through secondary data streams, filtering out false positives, refining the search algorithms. The Batcomputer, old as it was, churned through terabytes of archived data, its processors whirring with a renewed, if somewhat strained, sense of purpose. Jack watched them, a silent, towering figure in red and gold, the faint glow of the computer screens reflecting in his eyes. He could follow the logic of their search, the Wisdom of Solomon providing him with an instant understanding of the complex data they were navigating, but this was their domain. They were the detectives here, the digital archaeologists.
Time stretched, marked only by the clicking of keys, the hum of the ancient computer, and the occasional muttered comment between the two Flashes. The search was painstaking, sifting through decades of Cold War paranoia, geological surveys, redacted intelligence files, and grainy satellite imagery. Several promising leads turned into dead ends – meteor impacts, forgotten weather stations, abandoned gulags. The initial burst of hope began to fray.
Then, Alternate Barry let out a sharp hiss. “Wait. Got something.”
All eyes focused on the central screen. It displayed a topographical map of a remote, mountainous region in northern Siberia, an area largely unpopulated, known for its brutal winters and impassable terrain. Highlighted on the map was a small, almost imperceptible anomaly – a circular depression, geologically inconsistent with the surrounding landscape, dated from approximately twenty-two years prior.
“Impact crater?” Tracksuit Barry murmured, leaning closer.
“Possible,” Alternate Barry replied, his fingers flying across the keyboard, pulling up more data. “Now, cross-referencing with known military installations… nothing on official records. But… pulling up declassified satellite imagery from the last two decades…”
A series of images flashed on the screen, showing the gradual construction of a sprawling, heavily fortified complex built directly over and around the anomaly. It was clearly military, yet its design was unlike any standard Russian base. There were strange, windowless structures, massive power conduits snaking across the permafrost, and a perimeter fence that looked capable of repelling a small army. Recent thermal imaging showed unusual energy signatures emanating from deep underground.
“No official designation,” Tracksuit Barry observed, his voice tight. “No public records. This place doesn’t officially exist.”
“But it’s there,” Alternate Barry finished, his eyes wide. “Heavily fortified, remote, built around a probable impact site of an alien object, emitting strange energy… If Kara Zor-El is anywhere, she’s there.” The conviction in his voice was absolute. They had found it. A secret Siberian fortress, a prison for a alien.
A surge of adrenaline shot through Jack. They had a target. A tangible location. The first step of his desperate plan was within reach. He looked at the two Flashes, their faces illuminated by the glow of the screen, their expressions a mixture of grim determination and renewed hope. They would be thinking about infiltration, about how to get past those defenses, how to rescue Kara.
But Jack had already run the calculations in his own mind. Bruce Wayne was still their biggest wildcard, their most crucial potential asset for the larger war against Zod. He needed to be brought on board, fully. And that was a job for persuasion, for appealing to a shared history (however alternate) that only these Flashes, particularly Tracksuit Barry, might be able to leverage. His own powers, meanwhile, were tailor-made for a different kind of task.
He stepped forward, drawing their attention. “Alright, speedsters,” he said, his voice calm but carrying an undeniable authority that still surprised even himself. “You two have your work cut out for you here.” He nodded towards the upper levels of the cave, in the general direction of the Manor. “You work on convincing Scrooge McBat. He’s got the toys, the tactical genius, and frankly, you’ve got a better chance of getting through to whatever’s left of Batman in there than I do. My bedside manner with brooding billionaires is, shall we say, underdeveloped.”
Tracksuit Barry opened his mouth to protest, but Jack raised a hand, forestalling him. “Time is a luxury we don’t have. Zod isn’t going to wait for us to hold a committee meeting. We need to move on multiple fronts. You work on Bruce. I’ll handle the jailbreak.”
“Alone?” Alternate Barry asked, his voice laced with disbelief. “That place looks like a fortress. You don’t even know what you’re walking into.”
Jack allowed himself a small, confident grin. It felt good, this decisiveness, this sense of purpose, however terrifying the actual mission was. “Don’t worry about me,” he said, flexing his hands, feeling the thrum of divine power just beneath his skin. “I’ve got a feeling I’m uniquely qualified for a bit of high-security extraction.” He winked. “Besides,” he added, a genuine note of enthusiasm creeping into his voice, “flying is my new favorite thing.”
Before either Flash could voice further objections, Jack turned, the white and gold cape billowing behind him. He strode towards the shadowed entrance of the Batcave, his mind already racing, picturing the Siberian wasteland, the frozen fortress, the Kryptonian girl trapped within. He didn’t need the stairs this time.
He reached the base of the natural shaft that led up to where the Manor presumably stood, paused for a brief moment to focus his will, and then launched himself upwards. With a surge of power that was now becoming almost second nature, he shot up through the darkness, a blur of red and gold, a living thunderbolt. He burst out from the hidden exit (he’d figure out how the Flashes got out later – maybe the clock had a return switch), emerging into the gloomy twilight over the neglected grounds of Wayne Manor.
Without a backward glance, he oriented himself eastward, towards the vast, frozen expanse of Siberia. The mission was insane. The odds were astronomical. But for the first time since he’d been ripped from his own reality, Jack felt something other than fear or bewilderment. He felt a spark of fierce, almost joyful, determination. He was Super Jack. And he had a damsel to rescue.
With a final, powerful thrust, he tore across the darkening sky, a streak of crimson and gold against the bruised canvas of a world teetering on the brink, leaving two bewildered Flashes and the ghost of a Batman behind him. Russia, and whatever horrors awaited him there, lay ahead.