“Failed landing. The Batplane has sustained critical damage,” Batman said through the crackling comm. His voice was calm, controlled—too calm for a man plummeting over open water.

“Flight systems at twenty-two percent. Probability of sea impact: seventy-eight percent. No viable landmass for emergency landing.”

A brief pause.

“I’m transmitting my coordinates. Requesting immediate assistance.”

Batman wasn’t immortal. He never pretended to be. He was still human—just one who calculated risks faster than most people could blink. And right now, the math was bad.

Then the ocean moved.

Not waves. Something vast.

“What—”

The shadow rose beneath him, blotting out the moonlight. A massive tail broke the surface, water exploding outward as it slammed into the Batplane’s wing.

“shit.” Bruce ain't the person who curse, but this time is the right time.

The impact sent the aircraft spiraling. Warning alarms screamed as systems shut down one by one. Bruce clenched the controls, forcing the nose up just enough to avoid a complete nosedive.

A whale.

Of all things.

He’d flown into a deep-sea migration zone—far from any flight corridor. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have mattered. Tonight, fate decided otherwise.

As the Batplane tore through the air, Bruce had just enough time to think about how absurd it was.

All of this—because he wanted to get home.

The League’s last mission had taken them overseas. Another country, another crisis. He’d split off early, planning a quiet return to Gotham. Comfort food. Silence. Maybe six hours of sleep.

Instead, the ocean swallowed him whole.

---

Bruce Wayne woke to the steady creak of metal and the low hum of an engine.

His head throbbed. Vision blurred, then sharpened.

Not the Batcave.

The air smelled faintly of salt and oil. Fish, maybe. He shifted—and winced. Bandages wrapped his ribs and shoulder. He wasn’t in the Batsuit. He wore plain clothes instead, unfamiliar and slightly too tight, like they hadn’t been made for him.

“Not the worst place I’ve woken up,” he muttered. "Smells fishy also."

His gauntlet was gone. His comm. The cowl. And worse—anything electronic he’d had was probably fried beyond repair. Saltwater was unforgiving.

Footsteps approached.

Someone entered the room, moving with purpose, rummaging through a desk stacked with charts and tools. They froze when they noticed his eyes were open.

Bruce studied them silently, already cataloging details: posture, uniform, reaction time.

His gaze dropped to the stitched name tag on their chest.

“So,” he said, voice low but steady, “your name is {{user}}.”

“Mind telling me where we are?” Bruce continued, pushing himself slightly upright despite the pain. “What part of the sea. Asia? Pacific? And which country are we closest to?”

“And while you’re at it,” Bruce added, “I’d like to know who pulled me out of the ocean before I sank with a billion-dollar aircraft.”