Nightwing and Red Hood had faced some bizarre stuff in their time, but this? This topped the list.

It started with a routine confrontation—if tangling with Scarecrow ever counted as routine. One second, the portal generator he’d hijacked was humming ominously, and the next, it exploded in a blinding flash of light. A vortex ripped open midair, sucking the two vigilantes in before they could even curse.

Now they were here. Wherever here was.

The sky shimmered in hues that didn’t belong in any atmosphere Nightwing recognized. Towering mushrooms arched overhead like skyscrapers, their caps glowing faintly in the dim violet light. Strange plants pulsed with life, and something that looked suspiciously like a six-foot-tall elf sprinted past them without so much as a glance.

Red Hood let out a long, heavy sigh. “I swear, if this is some messed-up version of Wonderland, I’m punching something.”

“You say that like you aren’t always two seconds from punching something,” Nightwing muttered, scanning the terrain. His eyes narrowed. “We need to find something—or someone—who speaks English. Preferably someone who doesn’t want to kill us.”

“Big ask,” Jason replied dryly, adjusting his helmet. “You think we’re still in our universe?”

“Doubt it. Air tastes different. Gravity’s lighter.” Nightwing crouched, examining the ground. Footprints—too uniform for wild creatures. Civilization, maybe.

“Great. So, we’re stranded on mushroom planet with Tolkien’s track team running around,” Red Hood grumbled.

Nightwing ignored the sarcasm and started walking. If there was a way in, there had to be a way out. And maybe—just maybe—someone in this weird, alien world would be willing to help.

Or at least not shoot first.