New SHAZAM in Flashpoint World - Chapter 17

Chapter 17: Bat-Persuasion and a Desperate Gamble

The gaping silence left by Kara’s explosive departure hung heavy over the stone terrace of Wayne Manor. The setting sun painted the bruised clouds in hues of blood orange and violet, a disturbingly beautiful backdrop to the trio’s shattered hopes. Alternate Barry sank onto the weathered bench Kara had just vacated, his head in his hands, the picture of dejection. Tracksuit Barry paced, a caged tiger of frustration and dwindling time, his gaze fixed on the spot in the sky where Kara had vanished.

Jack leaned against the moss-covered statue, the cold stone a stark contrast to the thrumming divine energy within him. He replayed Kara’s anguished words in his mind, her accusations, her raw, unfiltered pain. “I came seeking refuge… you imprisoned me, tortured me for eight years!” The Wisdom of Solomon offered him a clinical understanding of trauma responses, of betrayal aversion, of the psychological impact of prolonged captivity and sensory deprivation. But it didn’t lessen the knot of empathy in his chest, nor did it offer an easy solution. Kara wasn’t a problem to be solved; she was a grievously wounded individual, and her reaction, however detrimental to their immediate goals, was utterly, tragically understandable. His earlier dark humor felt flat, inadequate in the face of such profound suffering.

He watched Tracksuit Barry, who had finally stopped pacing. The speedster’s face was a mask of grim determination, the earlier despair hardening into a renewed, if weary, resolve. This Barry, Jack knew, was driven by more than just saving this world; he was fighting to restore his own, to undo the catastrophic mistake that had birthed this nightmarish Flashpoint reality. He couldn’t afford to give up.

With a deep, steadying breath, Tracksuit Barry turned towards the imposing, shadowed bulk of Wayne Manor. “He has to help,” he muttered, more to himself than to Jack or his alternate self. “There has to be something left of him, something we can reach.”

“He made it pretty clear,” Alternate Barry mumbled from the bench, not looking up. “He doesn’t care. He wants the world to burn.”

“No,” Tracksuit Barry countered, his voice surprisingly firm. “That was the despair talking. That wasn’t… Batman. Not really. I’ve met others like him, versions of him. Underneath it all, there’s always something more.” He started walking towards the Manor’s main doors. “I’m going to find him.”

Jack pushed himself off the statue. “Want backup?” he offered, though he wasn’t sure what he could add to a heart-to-heart with a broken Bat.

Tracksuit Barry paused, gave Jack a grateful but conflicted look. “Maybe… maybe let me try first. Speedster to Bat, or something. If I can just get him to listen…”

Jack nodded slowly. He understood. This was something Barry felt he needed to do, a connection he needed to try and forge based on his knowledge of other Batmen.

Tracksuit Barry disappeared into the gloomy depths of the Manor. Jack and Alternate Barry were left in the fading light, the silence stretching between them, thick with unspoken anxieties. Alternate Barry finally looked up, his eyes filled with a miserable combination of helplessness and a dawning, reckless idea.

Inside, Tracksuit Barry found Bruce Wayne in the cavernous, dust-sheeted library, the same room that hid the entrance to the Batcave. Wayne was staring out of a tall, arched window at the darkening grounds, a glass of what looked like amber liquor in his hand, a solitary, brooding figure framed against the twilight. He didn’t turn as Barry entered.

“I thought I told you to get off my property,” Wayne rumbled, his voice flat, without surprise. He’d probably heard Barry approaching from a mile away, even without super-hearing.

“You did,” Barry admitted, stepping further into the room, the scent of old books, dust, and expensive solitude heavy in the air. “But I can’t do that. Not yet. Not while there’s still a chance.”

Wayne took a slow sip from his glass. “There is no chance. There is only the inevitable. Some of us just see it coming sooner than others.”

Barry moved closer, standing a few feet away, his posture earnest, his voice dropping to a more personal, persuasive tone. “Mr. Wayne… Bruce. I know what it’s like to lose people. To feel like the world has taken everything from you. I made a mistake, a terrible mistake, trying to save someone I loved, and it broke my world. It created… this.” He gestured vaguely to their surroundings, to the palpable wrongness of this reality. “I am trying to fix that. But even if I can’t, even if this world is all that’s left for now, doesn’t it deserve a defense? Don’t the people out there deserve someone to fight for them?”

Bruce remained silent, his back to Barry, a statue of indifference.

Barry pressed on, his voice gaining intensity. “That girl, Kara. What happened to her… it was a tragedy. A crime. But that man out there, ‘Super Jack’ as he calls himself, he’s from another reality too. He didn’t know her, owed her nothing. But he went into a Siberian fortress, alone, and pulled her out. He’s risking everything for a world that isn’t his, for people he doesn’t know. He’s trying to do something.” Barry paused, letting the words sink in. “If strangers are willing to fight for this world, how can you, its former protector, the man who once dedicated his life to fighting for the innocent in this very city, do nothing?”

He took another step. “Zod isn’t just a threat to this Earth. He’s a Kryptonian warlord with a fleet. If he conquers this planet, who’s to say he stops here? What if his actions, his victory, ripple out, destabilizing other realities, causing even more suffering?” It was a gamble, a piece of emotional blackmail wrapped in a desperate plea, but he had to try every angle. “Your inaction here… it could have consequences you can’t even imagine, far beyond this broken timeline.”

For a long, agonizing moment, Bruce Wayne didn’t move, didn’t speak. The only sound was the faint clinking of ice in his glass. Barry waited, his own hope dwindling with each passing second. He’d laid it all out – empathy, responsibility, the example of others, even a veiled threat of wider consequences. If this didn’t work, nothing would.

Then, Bruce slowly turned, his face still a mask of weary cynicism, but his eyes… there was something different in his eyes. A flicker. Not hope, not yet, but perhaps a grudging acknowledgment, a stirring of something long dormant. He looked at Barry, truly looked at him, and then his gaze seemed to go past him, as if seeing the ghosts of his past, the weight of his legacy, the sheer, overwhelming mess of it all.

“You’re a fool,” Bruce finally said, his voice a low rasp. “All of you. Chasing windmills. Fighting battles that can’t be won.” He took another sip of his drink, then set the glass down on a dusty mahogany table with a decisive click. “This world… it’s already dead. It just doesn’t know it yet.” He paused, and for a terrifying second, Barry thought he was about to dismiss him again.

But then, a different set of words came. “Fine,” Bruce Wayne bit out, the word heavy, reluctant, like a man agreeing to his own execution. He looked directly at Barry, his eyes cold, hard, but with that new, almost imperceptible flicker of something akin to… resolve. “We try. We fight. But we do this my way. No reckless charges, no half-baked plans. My way. Understood?”

Relief, so potent it almost buckled Barry’s knees, washed over him. It wasn’t a cheering, flag-waving declaration of heroism. It was a grudging, conditional, almost resentful agreement. But it was an agreement. The Batman, or some shadow of him, was back in the game.

“Understood,” Barry managed, his voice thick with emotion.

As this fragile alliance was being forged in the gloom of the library, out on the terrace, Alternate Barry had reached his own breaking point. He looked at Jack, his young face etched with a desperate frustration. “I can’t just stand around,” he said, his voice tight. “I’m useless like this. That girl… Kara… she has so much power. You,” he gestured at Jack, “you’re like a god. And him?” He nodded towards Tracksuit Barry, who was just emerging from the Manor, a look of weary triumph on his face. “He still has his speed. I have nothing.”

He stood up, pacing agitatedly, his slight frame thrumming with a desperate energy. “That facility in Siberia… they experimented on her. They probably learned things about Kryptonian physiology, about how to negate powers, or… or how to induce them.” His eyes lit up with a wild, reckless idea. “The lightning. The chemicals. That’s how I got my speed in the first place. It was an accident. But what if… what if it wasn’t entirely random?”

Jack frowned, a sense of unease stirring. “Kid, what are you saying?”

Alternate Barry stopped pacing, his gaze fixed on Jack, his eyes shining with a dangerous, desperate resolve. “I need my powers back, Jack. I need my speed. If we’re going to have any chance against Zod, if I’m going to be anything more than a liability, I need to be The Flash again.” He took a deep breath. “I need to recreate the accident.”

Tracksuit Barry, having rejoined them, overheard the last part, his face paling. “Barry, no! You can’t! It was a one-in-a-billion chance! You could kill yourself!”

“I’m already as good as dead if Zod wins!” Alternate Barry shot back, his voice raw with conviction. “This is my world. I have to be able to fight for it. Properly.” He looked from Tracksuit Barry to Jack, his expression pleading, yet unyielding. “I have to try.”

The declaration hung in the air, a new, desperate gamble laid upon the table. Even as one crucial piece, Bruce Wayne, reluctantly agreed to join their doomed crusade, another, Flashpoint Barry, was proposing a path that could either give them another vital speedster or cost him his life. The path to saving this world, Jack realized, was going to be paved with impossible choices and terrifying risks.