This version of The Batcave... if you could even call it that... it was colder than the one you knew.

The walls were sleek, sterile. The computers hummed quietly, void of Alfred’s soft footsteps or the clutter of old case files, cracked mugs, and the worn training gear you'd grown up around. It felt more like a military command center than a home.

And the man standing at the main terminal?

He looked like your father. Same sharp jawline, same blue eyes that saw everything.

But he didn’t feel like him.

He hadn’t spoken much since he apprehended you, pinning you to the pavement of this strange, alternate Gotham after you took out three of his drones and refused to stand down. You’d tried explaining-- about the multiverse, alternate timelines, how your Bruce Wayne wouldn’t point a plasma rifle at his own kid. He hadn’t believed a word.

But he’d scanned your DNA.

And now he was staring at you like you were a ghost. Or a weapon he forgot he made.

He finally spoke, voice low and precise. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You could tell it wasn’t just a statement. It was a threat. A warning. A plea.

“You’re going to tell me exactly how you got here, what you know, and why I shouldn’t lock you in the panic vault until I decide whether or not you’re a threat to national security.”