Crossing Chasms (Naruto/DC Comics Crossover)

[Arthellion]

Title: Crossing Chasms
Author: Arthellion

Chapter One

My boots crunched on the well-trodden path, a mix of dry leaves, dirt, and occasional pebbles. The rhythm was almost meditative, punctuated only by the distant cry of a bird or the soft gurgle of a hidden stream. The shade from the trees was welcome against the intense sun, which tried its best to pierce through but was largely held at bay by the dense canopy.

Towering sentinels, the trees stood with majesty, their trunks gnarled and twisted, suggesting lifetimes of battles with the elements. Their bark bore the scars of time – etchings from lovers now long gone, marks from animals that had sought sustenance, and darkened spots from old fires. Above, their branches stretched out, a sprawling tapestry of green, with occasional bursts of color from blossoms or fruits.

Amid this verdant wonder, I moved like a shadow, my presence a stark contrast to the tranquility. Cloaked in a dark, well-worn cloak that whispered tales of countless battles, the fabric lightly brushed against the top of my calves with each step. Beneath it, my tunic, a shade of dark navy, clung snugly to my frame, revealing the toned physique of a warrior, a life dedicated to mastering the art of combat. And yet I was only seventeen years of age. I had begun to hit another growth spurt over the past few months and I could feel my body changing as I transitioned into adulthood. The beginnings of rough stubble had begun to finally appear on my face and I had begun the annoying task of shaving. Perhaps it was vanity, but until I was able to grow a proper beard, it didn't seem appropriate to let such patchwork grow even if there were few around to see it - though on the occasions I entered a village or city, eyes were sure to follow.

One might wonder what drew such attention to a seemingly ordinary traveler. The sword at my back, its sheath worn and scratched, bore the emblem of the Uchiha clan, a fan with red and white segments. A tangible testament to both my heritage and my sins. But what truly set me apart, even more than the blade, were my eyes. Those unique orbs, the Sharingan with three tomoe in my right eye and the Rinnegan with six tomoe in my left, could pierce the soul, revealing one's deepest fears and desires. They were a gift, a curse, and a weapon all at once.

My journey, which had begun months ago at the ruins of the Uchiha compound in the Hidden Leaf Village, was an introspective one. I sought to reconcile with my tumultuous past, to find a semblance of peace amid the cacophony of memories and regrets. The destination? A shrine spoken of in old Uchiha scrolls, hidden far away from the village of Konoha, was said to hold knowledge and perhaps even absolution.

There was much for which I needed such absolution. My mind and memories, reluctant guardians of my turbulent past, cast me back to a span of four intense years, each moment amplified, each decision scrutinized.

The path to my defection was steeped in a hunger for power. The power to avenge, to rewrite a past filled with betrayals. Orochimaru, with his silver tongue and promises of unfathomable strength, seemed like an answer to my seething rage and thirst for vengeance. Despite the warnings, the pleas, and the memories of my times with Team 7, I had willingly become a pawn in his twisted games, sacrificing bonds for the promise of power.

Yet, even as Orochimaru's serpent-like grasp closed around me, my thoughts were consumed by another – Itachi. My brother. My tormentor. Our encounter, that fateful night beneath the rain-soaked skies, was a dance of blades and blood. The culmination of years of hatred, pain, and love. When I dealt the final blow, believing I had avenged our clan, I felt an emptiness rather than satisfaction.

Then came the revelation that shattered my very being. The truth of the Uchiha Massacre, revealed by the likes of Tobi, unraveled the tapestry of beliefs I had clung to. Itachi, far from the cold-blooded killer I had known, was a martyr. He bore the weight of the entire clan, the village, upon his frail shoulders, sacrificing his honor, his love, his very essence, all for peace. My rage, once directed at him, now turned towards Konoha. How? How could they demand such a sacrifice from one so loyal?

The very village I once sought to protect became the target of my ire. How could Konoha, the place of my birth, have been involved in the downfall of the Uchiha? With every discovery, my list of grievances grew longer, and my heart darker. Aligning myself with the Akatsuki, the very antithesis of the Will of Fire's principles, seemed only natural. Each member had their tales of woe, each had a vendetta, and in that shared resentment, I found camaraderie.

Our audacious plan to assault the Five Kage Summit remains, to this day, one of my most vivid and regretful memories. Clad in Akatsuki's cloak, I faced formidable adversaries: the leaders of the ninja world. The thought that I, a lone Uchiha, was against these towering figures, including those from my very village, was both exhilarating and chilling.

War followed and I find myself in a struggle like no other against men as powerful as gods and an actual goddess herself until it culminated in that final battle, an epic collision of wills, on the very statues that commemorated the founders of Konoha: Hashirama and Madara. Naruto, unwavering in his beliefs, and I, consumed by vengeance. Our fists and jutsus did the talking, each blow echoing our resolve, our pain, our shared history. The scars from that battle weren't just physical. They were soul-deep, etched into the core of our beings.

Though Naruto emerged victorious, it wasn't just a battle of strength, but one of ideologies. His enduring belief in our bond, our friendship, despite the chasms I had created, was the force that broke through the shackles of my hatred. It was a bitter pill to swallow: the realization that in seeking power and vengeance, I had lost sight of what truly mattered – bonds, understanding, and love.

Yet, that newfound clarity didn't automatically cleanse the slate of my sins. I bore them, heavy and unyielding, a constant reminder of the roads I had traveled and the choices I had made. The knowledge that Itachi had given everything for me, for Konoha, was both an anchor and a storm. It anchored me to my purpose, my renewed sense of self, but it also raged within me, stirring torrents of guilt, regret, and a profound longing to understand.

It was clear that staying in Konoha wouldn't grant me the solace or the answers I sought. The very streets I had played in as a child, the rooftops I had sparred on with Naruto, even the Uchiha compound with its silent, haunting memories – all bore witness to my journey of pain, redemption, and the constant oscillation between the two.

So, I made the conscious choice to leave, to wander the vast expanse of the world beyond the walls of the Hidden Leaf. This wasn't an exile in the traditional sense, but a pilgrimage. A quest for atonement, certainly, but also a yearning to uncover the origins of the Uchiha, to understand the intricate web of fate that had ensnared my clan, and perhaps, in that understanding, find a semblance of peace.

The Elemental Nations, with their diverse cultures, histories, and secrets, beckoned. From the hidden scrolls in the depths of the Sand Village libraries to the oral histories of the Mist, I sought every scrap of knowledge, every hint, that might illuminate the path of the Uchiha. It was during these travels, in the quiet moments of reflection and the myriad encounters with both friend and foe, that the true weight of my journey began to manifest. The world was vast, filled with stories of love, sacrifice, power, and betrayal – much like my own tale. And in that tapestry of interconnected narratives, I hoped to carve out a space for healing, understanding, and perhaps, redemption.

I couldn't shake off the sensation that every step I took, every leaf I brushed past, and every beam of sunlight that caressed my face was the forest's way of guiding, or perhaps testing me. As though it sought to understand the core of the man who ventured into its depths – Was he a penitent sinner, or was he still the avenger consumed by hatred? Would he honor the memories or desecrate them further?

With these thoughts swirling in my mind, the journey continued, the forest and I locked in a silent, mutual assessment.

The hill overlooked the village, providing a panoramic view of its expanse. Old stone walls, which seemed to have borne the brunt of time and witnessed epochs, encased the village, standing as sentinels against both the ravages of nature and the skirmishes of history. Their age was evident, but so was their steadfastness. They had seen generations come and go, and their stories were etched in every nook and cranny, whispering tales of valor, love, loss, and rebirth.

Perched atop this vantage point, I paused, taking in the sight. The terracotta rooftops contrasted beautifully with the green canopies that interspersed the landscape. Smoke billowed from a few chimneys, carrying with it the enticing aroma of freshly cooked meals, grounding the ethereal beauty of the village in the everyday life of its inhabitants.

But beyond its picturesque setting, this village held a promise. Hidden beneath its central temple, rumored to be as old as the walls themselves, lay the Uchiha shrine I sought. It was said to hold the secrets and wisdom of ancient Uchiha seers – a knowledge that I hoped would help me find the peace and understanding I yearned for.

With a deep breath, steeling myself for yet another step into the labyrinth of my clan's past, I descended towards the village.

Entering its confines, I felt their eyes upon me, assessing, curious, maybe even wary. To them, my raven-black hair, sharp features, and the Uchiha crest on my back were as out of place as a hawk amidst sparrows. Yet, despite their reservations, a group of children dared to approach.

A little girl, her hair a tangled mess of sunlit brown, looked up, her big brown eyes shining with a blend of admiration and fear. "You're Sasuke Uchiha, aren't you?" she hesitantly asked, clutching a threadbare doll to her chest.

Hearing my name from such an innocent voice brought forth a maelstrom of emotions. Memories of my childhood, the carefree laughter, the camaraderie, the bonds, all rose unbidden. "Yes," I responded, trying to offer a smile that reached my eyes, a smile devoid of the pain and sorrow that so often clouded them.

Around her, a few other children had gathered, their faces a mix of curiosity and awe. A small boy, no older than eight, his face smudged with dirt, piped up, "My grandpa told me about you. Said you were one of the greatest shinobi ever."

Another child, a boy with a mischievous glint in his eyes, playfully nudged the one beside him. "I heard he can summon lightning!" he exclaimed, drawing patterns in the air with his fingers.

The interactions, as genuine as they were, made my heart heavy. How could I, with all the choices I had made, be worthy of such admiration? And yet, it also underscored the responsibility I felt, the need to atone, and to provide a world where children like these could grow without the shadows of the past haunting them.

Reaching into a pouch at my side, I retrieved a small kunai. Without the intent to harm, I channeled my chakra, making the weapon levitate slightly above my palm. The children's eyes widened in amazement.

"This," I began, capturing their attention, "is just a small demonstration of what one can achieve with discipline and training."

The little girl, emboldened by the display, took a step closer. "Can you help me fix my doll?" she asked, showing me the fraying threads and loose limbs.

With a nod, I knelt down, taking the doll gently. Using a minor ninjutsu, I mended the toy. The gratitude in the girl's eyes, for something so simple, was a poignant reminder of the everyday kindnesses, the small gestures that mattered just as much as the grand ones.

"Thank you, Sasuke-san," she whispered, hugging her repaired doll close.

These children, innocent and untainted by the harsh realities of the ninja world, were the future. And in that moment, I was reminded once again of the importance of my journey, not just for my own redemption, but for the legacy I wished to leave behind.

Just as quickly as the thought came, I felt scorn. What right did I have to leave behind a legacy? I was little more than a traitor and a murderer. I swallowed and quickly moved past the children, ignoring their words of admiration.

As I moved further into the village, the central temple rose before me, its presence both grand and humbling. Crafted from ancient stone, the structure seemed to merge seamlessly with the landscape. Its roofs, sloped and adorned with ornate carvings of dragons, phoenixes, and tigers, shimmered under the dying sun, giving the illusion of movement. There was an air of reverence that surrounded it, a quiet strength that seemed to draw me in.

The path leading to the temple was lined with blossoming cherry trees, their petals fluttering in the breeze like soft snow. I passed through a grand wooden gate, its panels intricately designed with scenes depicting the cycle of life, death, and rebirth.

Inside, the temple courtyard was serene. A beautifully manicured garden surrounded a koi pond, its waters so still they mirrored the sky. Soft chimes echoed in the distance, likely from the wind catching the bells strung from the temple eaves.

A figure dressed in flowing, cerulean robes approached. Her hair, streaked with silver, was pulled back in a tight bun, and her face, lined with age and wisdom, held a stoic expression. Her eyes, however, deep-set and the color of rich mahogany, hinted at a well of kindness.

"You are far from your home, Sasuke Uchiha," she intoned. The depth and resonance in her voice surprised me, given her seemingly frail frame.

"I am," I admitted. "I seek the Uchiha shrine rumored to be beneath this temple. I believe it holds answers I've been searching for."

Her gaze held mine, as if measuring the weight of my intentions. "This temple, and its depths, are sacred. Only sisters of our cloister are permitted entry. What you seek might be beyond your grasp."

I felt a twinge of frustration. "I understand the need to protect what's sacred, but the Uchiha lineage is mine as well. I have journeyed far, and through much, to reach this place. I seek understanding, not power."

She contemplated my words for what felt like an eternity, then finally spoke, "The past cannot be changed, young Uchiha. But the future is unwritten. While I cannot grant you entry today, I offer you shelter. We have a building for travelers and pilgrims, like yourself."

Though it wasn't the direct access I had hoped for, her offer was kind. "Thank you," I replied, bowing slightly. "I will gratefully accept your offer."

"Rest and reflect," she advised as she gestured towards a smaller building to the left of the temple. "Sometimes, the answers we seek are not in hidden crypts, but in the quiet moments of introspection."

As I headed towards the designated building, her words echoed in my mind. Maybe this delay was just another test, another step in my journey towards understanding and redemption.

The room provided was sparsely furnished, with tatami mat flooring, a low wooden table, and a futon for sleeping. The soft glow of a single lantern in the corner cast flickering shadows upon the walls. The scent of cedar wafted through the slightly open window, blending with the night's cool air.

I sat cross-legged on the floor, my back erect and my lone hand resting on my lap. Closing my eyes, I summoned one of my trusted serpent summons, a small snake named Oroshi. With a subtle shift in the room's energy, he appeared, slithering up to the table. His scales were a lustrous shade of emerald, reflecting the lantern's light in a mesmerizing pattern.

"Oroshi," I began, my voice soft, "What have you discovered?"

The serpent's eyes, deep and discerning, met mine. In that gaze, I felt the vast intelligence and understanding that belied his small size. "The temple's architecture is vast and complex, Sasuke. But, as you suspected, there is more beneath than meets the eye."

He slowly coiled himself atop the table, positioning his head to face mine directly. "Deep below, in the lowest basement, lies a vast chamber. In the center stands a grand statue of a deity, surrounded by inscriptions and carvings I couldn't decipher. However, beneath that statue, there's a massive stone door. It bore an emblem I believe you'd find...familiar."

Raising an eyebrow, I urged him to continue, my anticipation palpable.

"It resembled a strange form of the Mangekyou Sharingan," Oroshi revealed.

My heart rate quickened. The Sharingan, the very symbol of my clan, hidden deep within this foreign temple. The implications were staggering, and the urge to seek out this door immediately was overwhelming.

"But there's more," Oroshi continued, sensing my rising impatience. "The temple is heavily guarded, not just by the sisters, but by intricate seals and barriers. Some of these seals, I suspect, are designed to detect and repel foreign chakra."

I took a deep breath, processing the information. "Any suggestions on how to bypass them?"

Oroshi's eyes gleamed. "Direct confrontation would be unwise. But there might be subtler methods. Pity

I nodded. "And the sisters? They will surely sense any disturbance."

Oroshi hissed softly, thoughtful. "They're attuned to the temple's essence. You'll need to move with utmost discretion. Perhaps you might find an ally among them."

I contemplated this. The matron I met earlier exuded wisdom and understanding, but could I trust her with such a secret? Unlikely, her eyes had brimmed with deep seated conviction. I lacked Naruto's way with people and knew I would be unable to convince her.

"Thank you, Oroshi," I whispered, my thoughts deep and layered.

The snake bowed his head slightly. "I live to serve…but food would be nice for that service."

I smirked and pulled a small bit of meat from my pouch. The snake ate it quickly and soon melded back into the shadows.

Alone with my thoughts, I pondered the path ahead. The temple held secrets, ones that might redefine my understanding of the Uchiha lineage and my place within it. But diving into the depths would not be simple. And as Oroshi had hinted, every truth unearthed might birth new dilemmas.

I needed to see these seals for myself if I was to get past the barrier. I closed my eyes and breathed slowly in meditation. This would not be easy.

The moon hung like a silver medallion in the midnight sky, casting an ethereal glow upon the village. Every corner was drenched in silence, save for the occasional chirping of crickets. I waited for this moment, for the world to be lost in slumber. Stealth was key, and darkness was an old friend.

Donning a cloak to mask my signature outfit, I moved quietly, avoiding the well-trodden paths, opting instead for the rooftops, scaling them with ease and speed, a shadow amidst shadows. The silhouettes of the ancient temple walls loomed ahead, their old stone bearing silent witness to countless secrets of the past.

I paused, sensing the complex chakra barriers Oroshi had mentioned. They weren't just physical; they were spiritual, tied deeply to the temple's core. I closed my eyes, focusing my chakra, aligning it to mimic the serene energy of the temple. It was a delicate dance of energy, a game of deception at a spiritual level.

Breathing deeply, I began my descent. I leaped from roof to roof, my feet barely making a sound. As I approached the temple's main building, I located a small window high up on one side, protected by heavy wooden shutters. A perfect entry point.

With a burst of chakra to my feet, I ascended swiftly, wedging a kunai into the gap and prying the shutters open. Slipping inside, the air was thick with the musk of age and incense. Candlelight cast golden orbs of light, dancing upon the intricate carvings of the wooden pillars.

The silence was deceptive. Every creak of the floorboard, every rustle of fabric seemed amplified. The basement entrance was hidden behind the main sanctum. Using the walls as cover, I reached a door with a spiral marking, resonating with a soft chakra glow. This was it.

Descending the stairs, the atmosphere grew colder, more oppressive. Layers of dust signaled the rarity of visitors. Deep into the subterranean darkness, the massive statue of a deity greeted me, surrounded by unknown inscriptions, its stone eyes seemingly watching.

And then, beneath it, the stone door stood. An emblem eerily similar to the Sharingan was etched at its center, a sight both familiar and alien. The gravity of the discovery weighed on me. What connection did my ancestors have with this distant land?

I approached, reaching out with my sole hand to touch the emblem. The door responded, vibrating softly, resonating with my Uchiha chakra. But just as quickly, an alarming sensation shot up my arm. The door wasn't just a door; it was a seal.

With my Rinnegan active, I could perceive more than just the physical door in front of me. Threads of potent chakra woven together in complex patterns shielded the entrance, not just barring passage, but also concealing whatever was held within. This wasn't a simple seal; it was ancient, crafted with expertise that few in my world could match.

Drawing upon the diverse abilities of the Rinnegan, I began tracing the origin of each thread, attempting to identify a weak point or a master seal that would undo the rest. After what felt like hours, I identified a sequence of symbols, scattered across the door but interconnected in a way that told a narrative of their own.

Taking a deep breath, I channeled my chakra into my fingers, tapping each symbol in the precise sequence. The door vibrated once, twice, and then an ear-piercing sound echoed as the entire matrix of seals unraveled. Slowly, the massive stone door began to move, grinding against the floor as it revealed the room beyond.

But what lay within was not a trove of knowledge or ancestral records as I had anticipated. Instead, bound by heavy chains and inscribed seals, was a man – or something that once was. He was tall, with pale white skin that seemed almost luminescent in the dim light. Twisted horns spiraled from his head, and his eyes, once sealed shut, began to flicker open.

I immediately sensed the enormous and ominous power radiating from him. This was no mere prisoner; he was something ancient, something formidable.

As the last of the seals shattered with the door's opening, the figure roared to life, his chains snapping like brittle twigs. "Who dares?" His voice boomed, resonating with anger and pain, a combination that made the very walls of the chamber tremble.

Before I could react or respond, he lunged, the room's dark expanse covered in a mere heartbeat. I barely managed to evade, feeling the rush of wind as his massive hand swiped at the space I'd just occupied. My Sharingan came to life instinctively, tracking his movements, predicting his next assault.

But he paused, his blazing eyes fixed upon mine, seemingly recognizing the swirling depths of the Rinnegan. "Uchiha," he hissed. I observed him silently. There was something strange about this one.

The temple's silence was punctured by a low growl emanating from the horned figure, a sound that seemed to resonate from the very depths of his being. He stepped forward, each movement deliberate and heavy. The cold, dim light of the chamber reflected menacingly off his pale, white skin, casting eerie shadows across the walls. As the distance between us shortened, an electric tension filled the air.

I tightened my grip on my sword, positioning myself defensively. The being's chakra was intense, unlike anything I had ever felt before, but it was more than just raw power. It was old, ancient even, with layers of complexity and depth that were difficult to comprehend.

Without warning, the horned man lunged, his speed belying his size. In mere seconds, the distance between us closed, his fist arcing toward my face. Instinctively, I evoked my Sharingan, the world slowing down as I deftly dodged the initial onslaught.

The temple wasn't so lucky.

His missed strike carried such force that it shattered the stone pillar behind me, sending chunks flying. As the debris rained down, the integrity of the temple's ceiling weakened, large blocks of stone crashing to the ground. The room began to collapse around us, yet neither combatant diverted their focus from the other.

Amidst the destruction, I saw an opening and capitalized on it. Using the collapsing environment to my advantage, I lured the horned figure into a false sense of security, feigning vulnerability. I darted toward a falling pillar, seemingly trapped. Predictably, he followed, hoping to corner me. At the last moment, I disappeared, reappearing behind him utilizing the teleportation jutsu of the Rinnegan. With precision, I channeled chakra to my foot and delivered a sweeping kick, hoping to destabilize him.

He was quicker than anticipated, turning and catching my leg, squeezing with a force that threatened to crush bone. Pain shot up my leg, but I didn't let it show. Using the grip as leverage, I propelled myself upwards and drove my elbow into his face. The impact sent him staggering backward, releasing my leg.

Distracted by the strike, he failed to notice the charged kunai I hurled toward the temple's remaining supports. The resulting explosion was blinding, the shockwave hurling both of us out into the open night. The once serene temple was now a smoldering pile of rubble, a testament to the chaos of our battle.

Rising into the night, I summoned my hawk, Garuda, taking to the sky. As the distance between the ground and me grew, I took a brief moment to assess my body. My leg throbbed painfully where the horned man had gripped it, and blood dripped from various cuts and grazes. I needed to end this quickly.

But my opponent had other ideas. With an enraged roar, he launched himself upward, dark chakra wings propelling him. The sky became our battleground, a celestial dance of death. Each exchange was punctuated by bursts of lightning, fire, and wind. We clashed, separated, and clashed again, our power causing shockwaves that disturbed the very clouds.

I knew brute strength wasn't the answer here. I needed cunning. A plan formed, combining deception and strategy. Ejecting a small portion of my chakra, I created a shadow clone, sending it diving toward the horned man. As expected, he went after the clone, trying to land a killing blow. As he was occupied, I directed Garuda to swoop down, claws outstretched.

My hawk's talons raked across the horned man's back, drawing lines of dark blood. Infuriated, he turned his focus to Garuda, swiping at the bird. I seized the opportunity, launching a barrage of Amaterasu-infused shuriken, the black flames seeking their target relentlessly.

But he was relentless, too.

Brushing off the attack, the horned man dove straight for me, a single-minded fury in his eyes. Before I could react, he was on me, his hand gripping my throat, squeezing the very life out of me. The world dimmed as his fingers tightened, and for a brief moment, I felt the icy touch of death.

But the Uchiha spirit was not so easily quelled. Channeling the last of my reserves, I thrust my hand forward, a Chidori lance aimed straight at his heart. The collision of our energies was explosive, a blinding light filling the night.

When the light dimmed, we were both plummeting, our battle taking its toll. He was the first to recover, wings spreading to break his fall. Me? I wasn't so lucky. With the ground rushing toward me and my body refusing to respond, it seemed like the end.

XXXX

The rain-slicked streets of Gotham shimmered beneath a heavy sky, dark and laden with foreboding. Towering skyscrapers, reminiscent of a bygone era, seemed to merge with the overcast heavens, their dim lights appearing as hazy mirages behind the relentless rain. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed, and the sporadic echo of gunfire broke the evening's melancholy. Yet, against this backdrop, atop one of the city's many architectural relics, stood a solitary, vigilant figure: Batman.

In the heart of Gotham's maze, the Dark Knight was on a relentless pursuit. Two-Face, the fractured psyche of once-prominent Harvey Dent, had emerged from the shadows of the city's underbelly. Hints and murmurs had led Batman to an aging warehouse, a vestige of Gotham's once-thriving industrial era, where Two-Face was believed to be concealed.

This warehouse, like so many structures in Gotham, was a testament to time's cruel passage. Windows, once clear and bright, now lay shattered or boarded up, graffiti told stories of urban decay, and nature began to reclaim the forsaken edifice, with weeds stubbornly sprouting through the cracked pavement. Relying on years of training and instinct, Batman moved with precision, his cape flowing behind him, melding with the night as he traversed from one shadow to the next. An oppressive silence reigned, interrupted only by the distant sounds of the city and the occasional rustling from the warehouse's darker corners. Switching on his infrared vision, Batman discerned the faint outline of a solitary figure within.

With unwavering determination, he skillfully set a small explosive to grant him entrance. As the door yielded, a chilling scene lay bare. There, in the dim light filtering through the broken windows, was Two-Face, but not as the mastermind of some heinous plot. He was motionless, a stark kunai knife lodged in his throat. His signature coin, now tainted with blood, rested beside him, a grim reminder of his fractured self.

Approaching the lifeless form, Batman's emotions teetered between anger and grief. Visions of a time when Harvey Dent stood as a pillar of justice in Gotham, when they collaborated in the pursuit of order, played in his mind. The tragedy of Harvey's downfall, and now this brutal conclusion, weighed heavily on Batman's heart.

Carefully, he inspected the foreign kunai, noting its unique design and craftsmanship, bearing unfamiliar markings. His detective prowess kicked in, and he quickly noted several bullet casings scattered around Harvey's final resting place. From their positioning, it was clear that in his last moments, Harvey had not gone down without a fight. Employing a specialized UV light, Batman detected a trail of fresh blood leading away from the scene. It was evidence that whoever had confronted Two-Face might have been defending themselves, and they had not emerged unscathed. The narrative of the night was evolving, and Batman was determined to unravel it.

The soft buzz of his communicator broke Batman's deep concentration. Alfred's calm, British-accented voice relayed, "Master Wayne, the police have just reported a sighting of a bloodied figure on Main Street. However, before they could intervene, the individual vanished into the shadows."

Batman's brow furrowed. The rain had started as a light drizzle but was now quickly turning into a torrential downpour, threatening to wash away any trace of the assailant. But he had to try. The murder of Harvey Dent was personal.

Wasting no time, he shot his grappling hook to a nearby ledge and propelled himself towards Main Street. With the city lights reflecting off the wet roads, creating a kaleidoscope of colors, Batman diligently followed the sporadic traces of blood. It painted a grisly path through Gotham's maze of alleys and rooftops.

But as the minutes ticked by and the rain intensified, the blood droplets became more diluted, blending seamlessly with the rainwater. The trail grew fainter with each step, until Batman found himself in an unfamiliar part of the city, staring down at a lone droplet of crimson on a fire escape, the last vestige of a trail gone cold.

Frustration surged within him. He clenched his fists, feeling the cool rain cascade down his armored suit. It wasn't just the loss of the trail; it was the loss of a friend, a reminder of Gotham's propensity to twist even its most upright citizens into figures of tragedy.

Making his way back to the Batmobile, he radioed Alfred. "I've lost him," he grumbled, the weight of the night heavy in his voice.

"Return home, Master Wayne," Alfred advised. "We'll pick up the search come dawn."

Driving through the rain-slicked streets of Gotham, the skyscrapers' luminescent glow enveloped the Batmobile. He was a creature of the night, but tonight the night had claimed one of its own.

Once inside the Batcave, he removed his cowl, revealing a face marked with fatigue and grim determination. The vast expanse of computers and monitors before him hummed softly. He approached, replaying the events of the evening, the knife, the coin, the trail, seeking some thread of insight.

In the quiet comfort of the cave, Alfred approached, placing a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "It's a challenging night, sir, but remember, we've been through many. And as always, we'll find a way to bring justice."

Bruce's eyes met Alfred's, his mentor's unwavering faith providing a momentary respite from his tumultuous thoughts. "I won't rest," he asserted, "not until I find who's responsible for Harvey's death."

And as the rain continued to pour outside, washing away the sins of the city, Batman delved deep into his investigation, determined to shine a light on the shadows that had taken his friend.

 

[FuryXanxus]

I'll always be here for Sasuke crossovers.

 

[Arthellion]

Chapter 2

Pain. A biting, cold sensation was the first thing that greeted me as consciousness slowly crept back in. My limbs felt weighted down, numb, and the air around was not only freezing but bore a certain weight to it, pressing down on me. My ears strained in the stifling silence, catching the low hum of machines nearby and the occasional gentle drop of water as ice melted somewhere in the distance.

Gritting my teeth, I tried to force my heavy eyelids open. The room was dimly lit, the blue hues of cold light refracting through what seemed like crystalline walls of ice. The gentle light created an almost hypnotic pattern on the floor. For a moment, I felt disoriented, my senses overwhelmed by the cold and unfamiliar environment. The last thing I remembered was the heat of battle, the relentless force of an enemy... and then a blinding light as I was thrown into this strange place..

I gingerly tried to sit up, a sharp sting reminding me of the injuries I had sustained. Glancing down, I noted the expertly applied bandages that adorned my limbs and torso. But by whom? And where was I now?

Fleeting memories came rushing back. There was an alley, rain, gunshots... and a man with a face divided between life and horror. Instinctively, my fingers sought out a weapon, but there was none. My heart raced as the weight of my actions pressed down on me. I frowned. I needed to find out where I was.

Pushing off the table, my feet connected with the cold, slick floor beneath. My steps were hesitant, echoing softly within the icy chamber. My curiosity was piqued by the workstations I happened upon, cluttered with unfamiliar tools, vials, and tubes.

Yet, what truly caught my attention was the grand, translucent chamber towards the rear. Suspended within was a figure. A woman, her face serene and her form appearing almost ethereal. Long, blonde hair floated around her as if she were underwater, and her attire seemed old-world, out of place with the advanced machinery surrounding her. It was a hauntingly beautiful sight.

"I see you're awake," came a soft voice, tinged with steel and a hint of a threat. Startled, I turned to find a tall figure emerging from the shadows. My senses were truly off from the battle if the man could sneak up on me. His skin was an unnatural shade of pale, almost blending in with the icy walls, and he wore a suit of cold blue, complete with glasses that obscured his eyes. The man's demeanor seemed, for a lack of better words, cold, much like everything else in the chamber.

"You," I started, trying to form a coherent question amidst my confusion, "Who are you? Where am I?"

The pale man watched me for a moment before answering, and in that silence, the weight of his gaze was palpable. But more than any answer he could provide, my primary concern was understanding this place and my role within it.

My senses were on high alert, each one amplified by the sheer unfamiliarity of my surroundings. The room was colder than any I'd ever been in, the frigid air prickling my skin and making my breath fog up before my eyes. Every sound echoed in the emptiness — the low hum of machinery, the occasional drip of water, and the steady breathing of the pale man in front of me.

The pale man began to speak, but the words were incomprehensible — the syllables unfamiliar, the rhythm different from anything I recognized. His voice was deep, tinged with an underlying note of caution. I tried to focus on his face, to discern some hint of his intentions through his expressions, but his gaze was as cold and inscrutable as the room around us.

Seeing my evident confusion, he paused, seeming to weigh his next move carefully. Then, he tried another language. It was stilted, rough around the edges, but I recognized it as an attempt at another language. Still I did not understand. I shook my head at him and tried speaking.

"Do you know this language?"

He frowned for a moment before speaking in another dialect. It was odd, like hearing a child butcher basic grammar, but I could make out his words.

"You... understand?" He enunciated each word slowly, with evident effort.

I nodded, "Yes."

There was a flicker of something in his eyes — relief, perhaps, but it was quickly veiled by that ever-present caution.

"Who are you?" I managed to ask. My voice was weaker than I liked, a raspy whisper in the cold.

The man hesitated for a moment, his gaze darting to a glass chamber in the corner of the room. Inside, a woman lay suspended, her serene expression contrasting starkly with the turbulent emotions I sensed in the man beside me.

"Dr. Victor Fries," he finally responded, his voice revealing nothing of his thoughts.

I processed the name, letting it settle. This man was similar to one I had known before. The chilling memories of Orochimaru's lair, of experiments, and of the constant shroud of death and despair came flooding back. Fries's surroundings evoked those memories, but as I observed the man more intently, I began to see stark differences.

While Orochimaru wore his malice and ambition proudly, this man seemed consumed by profound sorrow. His sanctuary, cold as it was, didn't emanate the same oppressive dread. Still, caution was paramount.

Sensing my distraction, Fries took a cautious step back. "You... safe here," he said in his rough approximation of my language. The sentence was fragmented, but the meaning was clear.

Still, his wary demeanor told me that he wasn't entirely sure of that himself. I understood his caution. After all, he had taken in a complete stranger — one he'd found injured and vulnerable. I might represent a threat, especially if the brief memory I'd recalled was anything to go by.

For a moment, we simply observed each other. His guardedness mirrored my own, two strangers in a frozen wasteland of a room, trying to make sense of an unexpected encounter. As the silence stretched on, I was acutely aware of my own vulnerability, of the slow but persistent beat of my heart, and the dull ache of my wounds.

"Clothes? Sword?" I asked suspiciously. The man tilted his head and gestured towards a corner of the room. My chokuto and pouch full of kunai rested against a steel wall. The man spoke again, "Clothes destroyed."

I nodded. Made sense. We stared at each other silently for several long moments. Something about this man was dangerous, but I could not tell what.

Then, as if reaching a silent agreement, Fries turned away. "Rest," he said, the single word heavy with unspoken meanings. And as my eyelids grew heavy, and the cold seemed to envelop me, I realized that for now, I had no choice but to do just that.

Over the next few days, a cautious rhythm formed between Dr. Victor Fries and me. Even with our language barriers, we managed to find ways of communicating — through broken sentences, gestures, and extended silences. Although I began to trust him, a lingering wariness remained. A part of me wondered if this trust was a weakness. Was I making yet another mistake?

The cold was ever-present, seeping into my bones, my very being. Sometimes, when the chill was too much, I'd catch myself reflecting upon my past, the memories of my family and the decisions I had made. The frigid environment seemed to amplify those memories, making them even more haunting.

But in those moments of quiet reflection, my thoughts didn't only linger on my past. They were constantly drifting back to that intense battle beneath the temple, to the mysterious, powerful figure I had fought. And the even more perplexing realization that I was now in a world entirely foreign to me. The architecture, the technology, the language — everything was different. It was disorienting and unsettling.

I had nearly had a panic attack when this became clear to me, but had schooled my emotions after several moments. The Rinnegan was a powerful tool capable of space-time ninjutsu. Perhaps I was merely in the future, shot forward in time. Or perhaps I truly was in another dimension similar to Obito's Kamui ability. Ultimately, it mattered little. I did not know how to replicate the technique. It had been an act done during pure panic in the face of death. I would have to fully recover my chakra before I began experimenting. Though for that matter…I was in no hurry to return to my world.

One evening, the lantern's dim light casting flickering shadows, Fries adjusted some machinery connected to a glass chamber. Inside, a woman seemed in an eternal, quiet slumber. I watched him, noting the tenderness in his actions, the intensity of his focus. His actions, the care he showed, stirred something within me. Memories of my family, particularly Itachi, flooded back.

"You care for her deeply," I found myself observing, my voice barely above a whisper, still struggling with English.

He stopped, turning his piercing gaze on me. "She's my wife, Nora." The weight of his emotions was evident in every syllable.

There was a pause, one filled with understanding. Two souls, scarred by decisions and bound by past tragedies, sharing a silent moment of camaraderie.

Eventually, I gestured to the chamber, urging him to share more.

"An illness," he murmured, eyes fixed on her serene face. "I've tried to cure her. Everything I am, everything I have... it's for her."

The intensity of his dedication was palpable. It reminded me of my own obsessive journey for revenge, my relentless quest for power. Our paths were different, yet strikingly parallel.

We were wrapped in a silence once again. This wasn't the uncomfortable quiet of strangers but a shared introspection between two souls who understood loss.

After a while, Fries spoke, his voice soft. "The lengths we go for family..."

I didn't respond verbally, but my thoughts raced. Yes, the lengths... Memories of my clan, of Itachi, swirled in my mind. My own actions, driven by vengeance and pain, weighed heavily on me.

Seeing my distant expression, Fries tilted his head slightly. "Regret is a powerful thing."

Once again, I stayed silent, but internally, I agreed. My own regrets felt like shackles, binding and unyielding.

"We live with our choices," he said after a while, his voice echoing in the cold. "Whether savior or sinner, hero or villain, the line blurs."

The weight of his words settled over us, punctuated only by the machinery's soft hum. In that cold room, with our shared burdens, the distinctions between right and wrong, past and present, seemed less clear than ever.

Over the next several days, I could feel my strength returning as my body felt close to being healed. The renewed flow of chakra within me felt like a comforting old friend after days of feeling eerily incomplete. Every fiber of my being seemed to hum with an energy I had desperately missed. But with this resurgence of strength came a restlessness, a hunger to explore and understand where fate had brought me.

Venturing out of the cold confines of Fries' lair, I was met with an immediate gust of humid, urban air. The place bore a stark contrast to anything I had ever witnessed. There was an underlying aura of bleakness, a grim pall that seemed to shroud the city.

Before I could step further into the sprawling labyrinth of Gotham's streets, a voice echoed behind me. "Be cautious," Fries intoned, his voice carrying a gravity I couldn't ignore.

I nodded in response, my own instincts reinforcing his warning.

As I walked, the sheer magnitude of the towering structures overwhelmed me. They reached upwards, lost amidst the fog and dim light, as if they were trying to touch a heaven that had long since abandoned this place. Bright neon signs, in languages I was still grappling with, flickered erratically, casting an eerie glow over the grimy streets. The streets were littered with garbage, with people shrouded in tattered clothes occasionally sifting through them, their faces marked with desperation.

The hustle and bustle were almost deafening — cars honking, distant sirens, muffled conversations, and the occasional scream or shout that no one seemed to pay much heed to. It was organized chaos. Yet, amidst all this, a troubling realization dawned upon me: the very essence of this world, despite its superficial differences, bore an uncanny resemblance to the hidden shinobi villages. Power dynamics, the vulnerable trampled underfoot, and shadows lurking in every corner.

My senses, trained and honed from years of shinobi life, picked up on hushed transactions in alleyways, on the quick hand exchanges and the menacing glares. Crime, it appeared, was as much a part of Gotham's identity as its impressive skyscrapers.

Suddenly, a scream cut through the cacophony, followed by a chilling laughter. It wasn't a laugh borne out of joy but rather one that echoed madness. I turned to the source, spotting a group of garishly dressed men. Their faces painted white with exaggerated smiles and green hair, they had cornered a woman, her fear palpable even from a distance.

My hand twitched instinctively towards the kunai pouch I usually wore, only to grasp air. I had none of my usual weapons. A foolish mistake on my part. But I didn't need them. Not for the likes of these thugs.

In an instant, I was there, interposing myself between the woman and her would-be attackers. Even without uttering a word, my stance, my aura spoke volumes. I didn't need to speak their language for them to understand the warning in my eyes.

Without giving it a second thought, my Sharingan flared to life, the distinct tomoe spinning as I attempted to ensnare their minds in a genjutsu. An image of their worst fears would deter them, I believed. But a split second later, I felt a growing unease — nothing happened. There was no grip, no chakra pathway to manipulate within them.

Chakra... They don't have it. How?

This was a first. The intrinsic life energy, chakra, which was the very foundation of every jutsu I'd ever cast, seemed non-existent in them. For a brief moment, this realization left me vulnerable, the weight of being in an entirely different realm pressing down on me.

One of the thugs, perhaps interpreting my momentary stillness as weakness, lunged forward with a switchblade glinting menacingly in the dim light. My instincts took over. Dodging swiftly, I grabbed his wrist, redirecting the momentum and throwing him into his comrades. Their raucous laughter had now transformed into grunts of pain and surprise.

Without the option of genjutsu, I resorted to what I knew best: taijutsu. I did not need to resort to ninjutsu. Such thugs were beneath the power even my weakest techniques would bring. Taijutsu would suffice. The elegance and precision of my movements, each strike, and block, were more than enough to handle these street thugs. It was a dance, a lethal one, and they were outmatched.

The last one, seeing his partners groaning on the floor, fear evident in his eyes, decided to run, but not before throwing a crumpled bill towards the terrified woman, perhaps a meager attempt at reparation.

Breathing heavily, I turned off my Sharingan, the familiar red hue dissipating. The woman, clearly shaken, mouthed a word that I was beginning to recognize as 'thank you' and hurriedly disappeared into the night.

As I continued my exploration, the recent encounter weighed heavily on my mind. Genjutsu, one of my most formidable tools, had proven ineffective. This world, devoid of chakra, was new territory, and I was stripped of some of my most trusted abilities.

This place... I need to understand it better, to adapt. I thought, feeling an unfamiliar sense of vulnerability. Gotham's night was far from over, and I had much to learn.

I spent the next few hours observing the underbelly of this place. I utilized the cash the thugs had thrown to purchase myself some food. It seemed food here was quite similar to my home,but with far more variety. I ended up purchasing a meal known as a "Hot Dog." It was quite good. It would be several more hours before I returned to Victor's lair.

The sliding door to the lair hissed open, allowing a blast of cold air to rush out and greet me as I stepped inside. The bluish tinge of the room's lights cast long shadows that seemed to stretch into infinity. Victor Fries was seated at his desk, engrossed in what appeared to be intricate blueprints of some sort.

He looked up as I entered, his glowing red goggles momentarily catching the ambient light. There was a curiosity in his eyes, an unspoken question perhaps. I took the initiative.

"Victor," I began, my voice laced with unease from the night's events, "I need to clarify something.

He nodded slowly, motioning for me to sit across from him. I hesitated, then finally took the proffered seat, placing my hands on the table. The cold metal seemed to echo the chill in the room. I observed him carefully before speaking, "I am not from this world."

His gaze intensified, the icy detachment momentarily replaced by genuine interest. "Go on," he prompted.

"I come from a different place, a different...reality. There, I was a ninja, and we used something called chakra. It's a life force that many of us harness for abilities." I swallowed hard, thinking back to my fruitless attempt to use the Sharingan's genjutsu on the muggers. "When I tried to use my abilities here, they didn't work as expected. The people of this city, they don't seem to have chakra."

Dr. Freeze leaned forward, resting his chin on interlaced fingers. "Your language, while similar to Japanese, is modified in ways I've never heard of. It did make me wonder if you hailed from somewhere...unfamiliar. As for this chakra, we have nothing of the sort here. Tell me more about it."

I took a deep breath, diving into an explanation that was once second nature to me. "Every living being in my world has chakra. It's a mix of physical and spiritual energy, which we can mold and shape to perform various techniques. The Sharingan in my eyes, for instance, allows me to cast illusions, copy techniques, and see movements faster than most. Yet...here," I hesitated, the vulnerability of my situation pressing on me, "it seems ineffective."

Dr. Freeze listened intently, his eyes never wavering from mine. When I finished, he leaned back, mulling over my words. After a heavy pause, he finally spoke. "This world, Sasuke, is unlike yours. We do not have 'chakra' as you described. However, that doesn't mean this place lacks extraordinary abilities."

He paused for emphasis, perhaps gauging my reaction, "There are those among us with powers, both heroes and villains. They don't draw from an internal force like your chakra. Instead, their abilities are often the result of genetics, experiments, or other unexplained phenomena."

Intrigued, I pressed, "Like who?"

A faint smile played on his lips. "There's Superman, the last son of Krypton, an alien world far beyond this planet. He possesses strength, speed, and abilities far beyond any normal human. Then there's the Flash, who can run faster than the speed of light, and Wonder Woman, an Amazonian warrior with strength and agility. And that's just to name a few."

I tried to process this information, to understand the dynamics of this world's powers. "And they are...?"

Dr. Freeze interjected, "Heroes. Protectors of this world. They've recently formed an organization, a union of sorts, called the Justice League. Their objective is to counteract threats that one hero alone might not be able to handle. It is a necessary, but somewhat unfortunate organization as my chief nemesis, the one who would foil my plans to save Nora, counts himself among their members."

I frowned, "And who is this?"

"The Batman."

xxxxxx

Deep beneath the sprawling estate of Wayne Manor, in a cavern as ancient as Gotham itself, stood a monument to vigilance: The Batcave. Stalactites hung low from its ceiling, dripping into the vast abyss below. Screens flickered, each displaying a myriad of data, maps, and surveillance feeds, all connected to the city above. In the midst of it all, the Batcomputer stood, a monolith of technology and intelligence.

Bruce Wayne, or as Gotham's underbelly feared him, The Batman, stood stoically in front of the colossal screens. His cape draped behind him, blending into the shadows of the cave. The Kunai he'd retrieved from the warehouse was clamped securely in a metallic vice. Scanners buzzed around it, capturing every minuscule detail, every molecular structure.

"The metallurgy doesn't match anything we've seen in Gotham," Bruce murmured, reading the results displayed in real-time. "This isn't just a street weapon. It's something more...alien."

From a distance, the soft clicking of shoes echoed. Alfred Pennyworth, his loyal butler and confidant, approached, holding a tablet that displayed various stats. "Master Bruce," he began, his tone carrying a hint of concern. "While I understand this knife demands our attention, there's something else you should see."

Bruce didn't look up but nodded for Alfred to continue.

"There's been a noticeable increase in gang violence over the past week," Alfred swiped through various graphs and news headlines on the tablet. "It seems that with Mr. Dent's sudden absence from the underworld scene, various factions are attempting to fill the power vacuum."

Bruce sighed deeply. "Harvey," he murmured, turning away from the computer, his eyes distant. "I remember when we campaigned together for a better Gotham. He had such a vision, such hope. And then, everything changed."

Alfred watched him closely, offering a soft, empathetic voice. "You did everything you could, Master Bruce. The city, its corruption, it...changed him. And in the end, he made his choices."

"Yes, but at what cost?" Bruce's gaze was piercing, haunted by past decisions. "Had I been there for him more, could it have turned out differently? Could Harvey have been saved from becoming Two-Face?"

Alfred stepped closer, resting a reassuring hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Regret is a burdensome weight, sir. You've saved this city countless times, but you're only human. You can't save everyone."

Bruce looked down at the Kunai still under analysis. "This weapon," he pointed, "is from somewhere else. Its design, craftsmanship, even the material—it's all foreign. And it's tied to Harvey's killer."

Alfred's brows furrowed. "You believe there's a new player in Gotham?"

Bruce nodded slowly, determination settling in. "And I'm going to find out who they are."

Gotham's skyline was a serrated edge against the inky horizon, its buildings lit with the sickly yellow of street lamps and neon signs. Shadows moved furtively in the back alleys, whispers of illicit dealings filled the night. But tonight, those shadows held a more imposing figure. The Batman, silhouette sharp against the dim moonlight, stalked the rooftops. Every leap, every landing was precise, a testament to his intense training and singular focus. But tonight, there was a rawness in his movements, an edge that Gotham's underworld would soon feel.

A scream echoed below, snapping The Batman's attention to a narrow alley. Three thugs surrounded a terrified civilian, their intentions clear. Without hesitation, The Batman descended upon them. His cape billowed as he landed, creating a dark vortex that seemed to swallow him whole before he emerged from it.

The first thug barely had time to register the shadowy figure before a powerful fist sent him sprawling. The second, pulling out a knife, lunged. The Batman sidestepped, used the man's momentum against him, and sent him crashing into a pile of trash cans. The third, wide-eyed, dropped his weapon and tried to flee. But he wasn't fast enough. With a swift movement, The Batman ensnared him with a grapnel, pulling him back.

"Talk," Batman growled, lifting the thug off the ground with one hand, his voice an octave deeper, more threatening. "I'm looking for information on Two-Face. What do you know?"

The thug's bravado had vanished. "I don't know nothin' about Dent, I swear!"

The Batman's grip tightened. "I'm not in the mood for games."

A voice, weak with fear, piped up from behind them. It was the second thug, nursing a bruised jaw. "There's talk... about some new guy. Took out some of Joker's men."

The Batman turned his gaze to him. "Describe him."

"Strange lookin'. Red and purple eyes. Moved like... like nothing they'd ever seen. Rumor has it he's not from around here," the thug spat blood as he spoke.

The Batman's eyes narrowed. "Where can I find him?"

The thug hesitated, weighing his options, then blurted, "Don't know! But it happened down by the docks. Look for Cherry Booker! She's the hooker the dude saved."

Releasing the first thug, The Batman nodded. "You'd better hope you're telling the truth." With that, he vanished into the shadows, leaving behind a trio of battered men and a story they'd tell for years.

As The Batman moved through the night, his thoughts raced. A foreign player with unfamiliar abilities in Gotham was dangerous. The Batman's thoughts whirled as he navigated the labyrinthine streets of Gotham. The news of this new player caused his mind to turn towards the offer from the League. He remembered the conversation vividly.

It had been on the Watchtower, the League's new orbital base. Diana had been the one to broach the subject, her expression earnest. "Bruce, Gotham is your city, we respect that. But with the increasing threats, maybe it's time you let the League help."

Flash had chimed in, his voice light, trying to add levity to a tense situation. "Come on, Bats, think of it! Superman and I can clean up the streets in a flash!"

The Batman had given him a sidelong glance. "That's the problem, Barry."

He remembered looking out from the Watchtower, seeing the Earth below. Gotham was just a tiny speck from up there, but to Bruce, it was the world. His world. A delicate ecosystem of crime and justice. Introducing superpowers into that mix? It was a recipe for chaos.

His thoughts drifted to Metropolis, its skyline forever altered after Superman's battles. Towers toppled, streets upended. It had been a war zone. Clark Kent, Superman, was a good man. Bruce knew that. More than that, Clark was a friend. But the sort of enemies he drew? They were of a different caliber, a global, sometimes cosmic, threat. Gotham was fragile, built on a knife-edge of balance. If one of Superman's foes decided to focus on Gotham, the city wouldn't stand a chance.

Escalation. It was a term Bruce was all too familiar with. When he had first donned the cowl, the criminals had been simpler, their methods crude. But as The Batman had evolved, so had they. If superpowers entered the equation, what monstrosities would rise up to challenge them?

"Thank you for the offer," he had replied to the League, his voice resolute. "But Gotham remains my responsibility."

Diana had nodded, a hint of sadness in her eyes. "Very well, Bruce. But know that we're here if you need us."

And now, with the arrival of this new player, with strange abilities, The Batman could not help but wonder if he'd soon have to reconsider that decision. But for now, he remained resolute. Gotham was his to protect. No matter the cost. He continues to make his way towards the docks district.

Not more than an hour later, he finds himself in a room that smells of smoke and some dirty needles cover the floor. From a shadowy corner of the room, The Batman observes Cherry. The dim lamplight highlights the exhaustion on her face, a testament to the life she leads. She's young, probably not too far into her twenties, but the city's hardships have aged her beyond her years.

The Batman's trained eyes sweep the room. He notes the worn-out makeup on the dresser, the stray cigarette butts in an ashtray, and the faint scars on her arms. Each detail tells him a story, a glimpse into her life. As she sits on her bed, removing her heels, he chooses that moment to make his presence known.

The gust from the window makes her jump, but she doesn't scream. Brave. When she finally spots him, there's surprise, fear, but also a strange sense of understanding in her eyes. They both know the darker sides of Gotham, after all.

"What do you want?" Her voice quivers slightly, but it holds.

"I need information," The Batman replies, his voice a modulated growl.

"About what?" she asks, a defensive tone sneaking in.

"The young man who saved you," The Batman says, emphasizing the last part. "The one with the eyes."

She visibly shuddered, recalling the incident. After a moment's hesitation, she spokes, "He wasn't like the others. He's just a kid, probably not even eighteen. Those eyes though... one red, one purple. But when he looked at me, I saw... pain."

The Batman processes this, piecing together the puzzle. A kid took down Harvey? In Gotham, age rarely spared anyone from its clutches, but something about this felt different.

"Did he say anything? Mention a name?" he inquires, searching for leads.

She shakes her head. "No words, just a silent plea. Maybe he's lost. Just like many of us in this city."

The Batman nods, already considering his next move. "If you come across him again, or even hear whispers about him, reach out to the GCPD. Ask for Gordon."

She hesitates for a moment, biting her lip, "Batman... he saved me. He might be different, but he's not... bad. Be gentle with him, okay?"

Batman's eyes soften for a fraction of a second, something few ever witness. He acknowledges her words with a curt nod.

"I'll find the truth," he says simply.

As he heads towards the window, Cherry's soft voice nearly stops him, "Thank you."

He makes his way out into the night.

xxx
Thoughts? Suggestions?

 

[Arthellion]

Chapter 3

"The Batman."

I raised a brow. Strange name. Fries seemed to say the name without an awareness of the absurdity of the title so I let it go. I supposed such names like Batman and Superman were common in this world even as odd as they sounded.

Victor Fries's eyes had clouded with a deep-seated animosity. "You see, Sasuke," he began, voice dripping with bitterness, "Gotham is not just a city of darkness and crime. It's a city under the stranglehold of the elite. Old-money families with names that echo through the annals of Gotham history. They control the vast majority of its wealth, exerting undue influence over every aspect of life here."

I looked on, trying to reconcile this new perspective with the snippets I had gleaned so far. "So, you're saying they rule Gotham?" My mind turned to my first C-Rank mission as a genin. This sounded entirely too much like Gato's shipping empire for my liking.

"In more ways than one," Dr. Freeze replied, the cold veneer momentarily breaking to reveal a keen look of hate in his eyes, "They sit atop their ivory towers, their coffers filled while the masses starve, suffer, and are subjugated. And as long as their empire flourishes, they couldn't care less about the plight of ordinary people."

Leaning forward, I pressed, "And where do you fit into this narrative?" I could see bits of madness in Fries's eyes. It reminded me of Obito or perhaps even Madara. Still, as deluded as my family members were, there was a hint of truth to their madness. They were both broken by the system of my world. What system had broken the man before me?

A heavy sigh escaped him, his eyes traveling to the suspended woman. "Nora," he murmured, almost to himself. "My wife. She was afflicted with a terminal illness, a rare condition. I dedicated every waking moment to finding a cure, working on a cutting-edge cryogenic procedure that held the promise of putting her in stasis until a solution could be found."

"And the elite?" I asked, sensing where this was leading.

"They could have funded my research, made all the difference," Fries spat, venom evident. "But to them, it was just another expense, a gamble they weren't willing to take. When my experiments became too costly, too unorthodox for their liking, they pulled their support. And just like that, Nora's only hope vanished."

"And Batman?"

Fries's face hardened. "The Batman, a vigilante adorned in an expensive suit, is their enforcer. He parades as a beacon of justice, but in reality, he's a protector of their status quo. The rich sleep soundly while he stalks the shadows, ensuring their dominion remains unchallenged. To them, he's a hero; to people like me, he's just another pawn in their grand game."

I mulled over this, trying to assimilate the complexities of this Gotham. "So, what do you intend to do?"

With a steely resolve, Dr. Freeze looked up. "Whatever it takes, Sasuke. Whatever it takes to save Nora, and in the process, if I can expose the rot at the heart of Gotham, then all the better."

I frowned. The madness was apparent now. Despite his cold features, underneath the sterile exterior, a man driven by obsession and madness looked back at me. I could understand it. I had been this man. I had given myself over to the madness, broken by the shinobi system and what Konoha and Itachi had done to me.

It had taken Naruto beating the shit out of me and losing my left arm to dissuade me from my madness, but who was I? I could not be the loyal shinobi Naruto wanted me to be. I was his friend, yes, but even as I traveled, seeking atonement for the innocents I had killed, I knew I could not be a loyal konoha shinobi. The shinobi system was broken and as much as I was seeking atonement I was also seeking an answer. I hadn't found it yet.

Others, like Kakashi, believed that Naruto was the answer. That Naruto was a child of prophecy foretold by the toad sages. Maybe. But Naruto's peace could only last as long as Naruto lived. One day, Naruto would die and with it the peace would be broken. It was little different from what Hashirama had done.

I shook my head. These thoughts were ultimately irrelevant as long as I was trapped in this reality. I turned my gaze back to Fries. Silence reigned between us for several long moments. I was not quite sure what to say on the topic. Fries seemed to recognize my inability to speak on the topic and merely nodded.

"For now, let us focus on other matters. Your English is getting better, but we need to work with you on reading and writing…"

Xxxxx

Inside the lavish personal quarters of the Iceberg Lounge, Oswald Cobblepot stood before a massive, ornate mirror. It was a relic, once hanging in the grand Cobblepot mansion in Gotham's elite district. Like the man himself, the mirror bore the remnants of a once-glorious past and the scars of a hard-fought present.

Laying out on his bed was his choice attire for the evening—a deep violet, almost black, three-piece tailored suit, its seams and patterns exuding a sense of ostentation that only Oswald could pull off. Beside it lay a crisp white shirt, a dark plum tie, and a pair of polished leather shoes that gleamed menacingly under the room's dim lighting.

He buttoned up the shirt with meticulous precision, each motion revealing the gold cufflinks adorned with tiny, shimmering penguins. Oswald then tied his tie with a perfect Windsor knot, every move calculated, as if preparing for battle.

As he straightened his collar, memories flooded back. He remembered the once grandeur of the Cobblepot name. They were blue-blooded aristocrats, the very definition of Gotham's high society. However, time and fortune were cruel, dragging the Cobblepots from their pedestal into the gutters of Gotham. As a child, he was mocked for his appearance, bullied for his once-affluent family's downfall, and ridiculed as 'Penguin' due to his pointed nose and peculiar waddle.

But Oswald never accepted defeat. He took that cruel nickname and made it his moniker, a symbol of his resurgence. From the alleys of Gotham, through deception, cunning, and an uncanny aptitude for understanding the underbelly of the city, he rose through the ranks of the mob. Each adversary he faced, he outsmarted. Every insult hurled at him, he turned into a weapon.

He remembered the nights he spent in the shadow of the crime lords, learning their secrets, understanding their weaknesses. And from these shadows, he emerged, establishing the Iceberg Lounge, a front for his operations but also a symbol of his power, wealth, and influence. The club, with its glitzy facade and its underlying dark operations, was a reflection of Oswald himself.

Glancing down at his tie, he adjusted the gold tie pin—a penguin encrusted with tiny diamonds. A smirk played on his lips. To the world, it was a sign of his flamboyance. To him, it was a reminder of the empire he had built from scratch.

Finally, Oswald picked up his signature umbrella. Many saw it as a quirky accessory; few knew of its concealed blade or the myriad of other hidden functionalities it possessed.

As he headed for the door, he looked back at his reflection. Oswald Cobblepot was gone. In his place stood The Penguin, a formidable force of Gotham's underworld, ready for the evening's chess game.

The large double doors creaked open, and Oswald Cobblepot's black shoes tapped with authority against the polished marble floor. The room, abundant in whispers and soft chuckles, fell into a momentary hush as all eyes instinctively found him. The atmosphere was electric, but one person in particular drew Oswald's attention.

Standing at the center, radiating an old-world charm, was Carmine Falcone. His once jet-black hair had faded to gray, the lines on his face more pronounced. Yet his eyes, sharp and calculating, had lost none of their former intensity. To most, he'd seem a relic of a bygone era, but Oswald knew better. Falcone's allure lay not just in brute strength but in the weight of his reputation.

A fleeting memory flashed before Oswald's eyes. Young and eager, Oswald remembered being an errand boy for Falcone. Those were the days when the mere mention of Falcone's name sent shivers down spines; when Fish Mooney, with her wild charisma, acted as his chief enforcer. Oswald was inconsequential then—a small pawn on a vast chessboard.

But times had changed. The Batman had brought Falcone down in a blaze of justice, leaving a power vacuum that Oswald had been all too eager to fill. With cunning and ruthlessness, he'd claimed a large portion of Falcone's territories. The icing on the cake? The death of Fish Mooney, orchestrated by Oswald himself.

Falcone was back now, though, released from prison thanks to some legal sorcery, a shadow of his former self. But Oswald wasn't naive. Shadows, in Gotham's dim alleyways, could be menacing.

"Cobblepot," Falcone's deep voice echoed, drawing Oswald from his reverie. A hint of a smile touched Falcone's lips, neither warm nor cold. "Back where it all began, isn't it?"

Oswald's eyes narrowed slightly, "Time changes many things, Carmine. But some games, they remain the same."

The older man let out a slow chuckle, "Indeed. And you've played it well. I'll give you that." There was a pause, Falcone's gaze intense, searching. "But remember, Oswald, this city has a long memory."

Meeting Falcone's gaze unflinchingly, Oswald replied, "And so do I."

For a few seconds, the room was thick with unspoken words and memories. The history between the two men was palpable, a silent testament to Gotham's ever-shifting power dynamics.

"Gentlemen, is this a party or a wake?" An amused voice broke the stalemate. Sofia Gigante, known for her beauty and ruthlessness in equal measure, gracefully wove her way between the two men, her red dress flowing and a stark contrast to the dark suits worn by most with the room. Her raven-black hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her eyes, dark and fierce, seemed to have assessed the situation in an instant.

Her gaze lingered a fraction longer on Oswald before settling on Carmine. "It's heartwarming to see such old friends catch up. Gotham's certainly missed its... history lessons."

Oswald's mouth quirked up in a sardonic smile. Sofia and he had always shared a tense relationship, marked by alliances and betrayals. "Miss Gigante. Still trying to follow in your father's footsteps?"

She tossed her hair back, feigning indifference. "It's not about footsteps, Oswald. It's about the legacy."

Carmine, watching the exchange with an amused expression, intervened. "Now, now, let's not turn this into a trip down memory lane. We're here for business." He paused, eyes darting between Sofia and Oswald. "But I must say, the two of you always had a... flair for drama."

Sofia smirked, "Only when it's warranted, Carmine. Gotham does love its theatrics, after all."

Oswald's gaze remained steady. "Let's keep our personal history out of the room, Sofia. Tonight's about the future."

Sofia inclined her head slightly, conceding. "Very well. The future, then. But remember, Oswald, futures are built on the past. And some of us have long memories."

"Hah, Oswald and I were just speaking about memories, were we not, Oswald?" Carmine chuckled in an almost sinister manner.

The Penguin tilted his head at Carmine, "Indeed. But…the future yes?"

He turned from his conversation patterns and observed the main lounge. The room, awash with the muted chatter of criminals and the clink of glasses, was a blend of anticipation and tension. Oswald adjusted his collar slightly, steeling himself for the main event. Without the need for raised volume, he intoned, "Gentlemen, ladies, if I might have your attention."

His voice, silky and certain, had a resonance that pierced the din. Conversations halted as every eye turned towards him. The various captains of industry – or rather, captains of the underworld – recognized this as the beginning of the evening's true purpose.

Oswald gestured towards the grand table in the center of the room. "Shall we begin?"

One by one, the major players of Gotham's underbelly made their way to the table. They settled into their respective seats – some with grace, others with an ostentatious show of power. Chairs were drawn out, some scraping against the wooden floor, each sound a reflection of the individuals' personalities. The stark overhead light lent an air of a council gathering, illuminating the faces of Gotham's most notorious.

As they gathered, the weight of their combined influence was palpable. This wasn't merely a collection of individuals; it was a pantheon of Gotham's shadow rulers.

Oswald began to move to the head of the table when Salvatore Maroni, with a deliberate air of casualness, slid into the chair beside him. This act, subtle to an outsider, echoed loudly within the room's tense atmosphere. Maroni was asserting himself, a clear message of where he perceived the balance of power, even as the dynamics of Gotham had shifted in his absence.

"Oswald," Sal greeted with a smirk, "Quite the setup you have here. Hard to believe you once scuttled around fetching me drinks."

Penguin gave a tight smile, refusing to rise to the bait. "Gotham has always been a city of reinvention, Sal. I merely took advantage of the opportunities presented."

Maroni's laugh, dry and brief, echoed through the chamber. "Climbing the ladder by any means necessary, I remember. But let's not dwell in the past."

"Agreed," Oswald replied, nodding. "There's far too much at stake tonight. We have business to attend to."

With everyone in place, Oswald let the silence stretch a moment longer, savoring the collective anticipation. His fingers drummed a gentle rhythm on the polished wood before he spoke. "Thank you for coming tonight. The landscape of Gotham is changing, and it's time we discuss how to navigate it." He paused, glancing around, ensuring he had everyone's attention. "Now, let's shape the future of this city."

Oswald tapped his fingers lightly on the polished table, then began, "Gentlemen, ladies. We are not here for pleasantries. We are here because of Dent's fall. The landscape has changed. But change," he paused, scanning the faces around him, "also brings opportunity."

Sofia leaned forward, her sharp gaze challenging. "Opportunity for some, disaster for others. What assurances do we have that this new landscape will be equitable?"

Maroni chuckled, "Equity? In our line of business? Now that's rich."

Ignoring Maroni's comment, Penguin continued, "Assurances will be drafted, agreements signed. But words are just parchment. Trust, real trust, that's earned."

Vicente "The Viper" Salerno, whose weathered face had seen its fair share of deals and betrayals, finally spoke. "Trust? Cobblepot, the only trust we can afford is in power. And right now, there's a vacuum."

"I'm well aware," Oswald replied, his tone icy, "which is why I've invited you all here. Not as adversaries, but potential... collaborators."

Angela "Whisper" Ricci, her presence always more subdued than her explosive counterparts, chose this moment to interject. "Collaboration means compromise. It means knowing where to push and where to pull back."

Penguin's eyes flicked to her. "Precisely. And every one of us has something to bring to this table."

Maroni leaned back, his earlier jesting demeanor replaced with one of cold calculation. "Then let's get down to brass tacks. What are the proposed divisions?"

As Maroni's voice echoed with the weight of authority, a momentary hush fell over the room. The atmospheric pressure seemed to change, but it wasn't long before it was broken by a voice heavy with history and gravitas.

Carmine Falcone cleared his throat, pulling the gaze of everyone present. "Many of the territories you speak of," he began, his tone deliberate, "were mine. Gotham's landscape has changed since my... absence. But let's not forget its history." The hint of possessiveness in his words was impossible to miss. His eyes, sharp and discerning, held a fire that belied his age.

Maroni, with a hint of steel in his voice, responded, "Times change, Carmine. And with it, the board is reset. We're here to discuss the present, not dwell on the past."

Carmine's chuckle was low, almost sinister. "Ah, Sal, always looking to the future. But some things are built on legacy. While I respect your ambition, don't mistake my willingness to negotiate as a sign of weakness."

Sofia, perhaps sensing the brewing storm, quickly chimed in, her voice a soothing balm. "We're all here for a common purpose. Let's focus on that, shall we? This isn't about past allegiances or feuds. It's about moving forward, together."

Penguin observed this with a mixture of amusement and calculation. The nuances of this power play were not lost on him. He recognized that Falcone's re-emergence was not just about territory or power but respect. And while Maroni had a point about the changing times, there was wisdom in understanding and respecting Gotham's history.

Choosing his words carefully, Oswald spoke up, "Carmine is right in one aspect. History matters. But so does the future. We need to find a balance. Now, if we're discussing divisions, let's do so with both in mind."

Maroni opened a leather-bound folder, revealing a detailed map of Gotham City, segmented into various territories—nightclubs, docks, casinos, and more. Each area was color-coded, indicating its current controller. It was a testament to the organized crime within Gotham, a mosaic of power and influence.

Falcone, leaning forward, pointed to the East Side docks, an area once under his thumb. "These were mine, and they remain vital for any imports. I expect them back."

Maroni, rolling a cigar between his fingers, smirked, "Most of the East Side has changed hands multiple times since you've been away, Carmine. But I understand your sentiment. Let's say you get the East Side docks, but in return, I want a cut of the profits, 20% for the first year."

"That's steep," Falcone replied, but there was no anger in his tone—just business.

Sofia shifted, her fingers tracing the outline of the North End, a bustling area with clubs and underground casinos. "The North End. It's thriving, and it's neutral ground now. I propose we keep it that way—a shared territory. Profits split equally among us."

"The Silent Casino. The Iceberg Lounge. Prime spots," Angela 'Whisper' Bravata noted, her voice as soft as her namesake. "Neutral ground, but individual operation. I want The Silent Casino. Oswald keeps the Iceberg obviously."

Vicente "The Viper" Salerno's gaze hovered over the Southside, particularly a few key locations. "The opium dens, the fight clubs. Those remain under my domain. No discussions there."

Penguin, tapping the table lightly with his umbrella, said, "Let's not forget the Narrows. Their loyalty can't be bought, but their information is invaluable." His words carried a clear implication: he had deep connections there.

Falcone sighed. "Fine, Sal, you get your cut from the docks. But after the first year, it's renegotiated. As for the North End, Sofia, I trust you'll manage it well. And Oswald," he paused, a faint smile touching his lips, "you always did have an ear to the ground. The Narrows are yours, but we all benefit from the intel."

Maroni leaned back, seemingly content, "So, we're in agreement? This is how we'll divide Dent's leftovers and restructure our domains?"

Penguin locked eyes with Falcone for a brief moment. Two titans of Gotham's underworld, their histories intertwined. "For now," Oswald replied. "But Gotham's ever-evolving. We should be prepared to revisit this discussion."

A murmur of agreement circulated around the table. The evening had been productive, but everyone knew that in Gotham, nothing was truly set in stone.

The heavy wooden door to Penguin's private office at the Iceberg Lounge swung open, the echo of his shoes against the marble floor breaking the room's silence. He had just returned from the meeting, a sense of satisfaction permeating him. The room exuded opulence, a testament to Oswald's triumphs and taste. Dark wood, paintings from renowned artists, a globe in the corner symbolizing his ever-expanding reach.

Without hesitation, Oswald made his way to the bar. He felt he earned this drink. The amber liquid glided effortlessly into his glass, its aroma promising a warmth that he felt he needed.

But before the whiskey could touch his lips, something on his desk caught his eye—a lone, pristine feather. The color drained from his face as he approached it, the room's temperature dropping a few degrees. The feather was no mere trinket; it bore a weight much heavier than its appearance suggested.

All thoughts of celebration evaporated. His heart raced, the reminder of a shadowy cabal that even he dared not confront directly. The soft hoot of an owl outside the window only deepened his unease.

The whiskey glass, once a vessel of celebration, became an outlet for his sudden surge of anger and fear. It crashed against the wall, shattering into a hundred pieces, echoing his fragmented thoughts. Oswald picked up the feather, its softness belying the threat it represented. They were always watching, always waiting, reminding him of the ceiling to his ambition.

He took a deep breath, attempting to regain composure. While the world saw Oswald Cobblepot as the formidable Penguin, there were shadows even he feared to tread.

Xxxxxx

The grand ballroom of the Wayne Manor was alive with the glittering elite of Gotham City, dressed in their finest attire. Chandeliers glimmered from above, casting prismatic rainbows onto polished marble floors. The soft murmur of conversations blended with the strings of a live orchestra, creating an atmosphere of opulence.

Bruce Wayne, dressed sharply in a tailored black tuxedo, mingled effortlessly among the guests. To the outside observer, he was the very image of the city's most eligible bachelor — laughing at jokes, engaging in light banter, a flute of champagne in hand. But behind those sharp, contemplative eyes, a storm of thoughts raged.

The newspapers and media outlets had been touting a significant decline in violent crime rates across the city. Indeed, the streets were safer, muggings and robberies were down, and the usual antics of Gotham's infamous rogues seemed to be at a lull. But Bruce knew better. While violent crime had decreased, white-collar crime — embezzlement, money laundering, corporate espionage — seemed to have surged.

He took a sip of his champagne, its bubbly sharpness a mere distraction from the bitter taste of suspicion. Falcone's recent release from prison was no coincidence. The man might have aged, but Bruce knew that Carmine Falcone's ambition was timeless. The former crime lord had lost much of his empire, but his influence? That was something time in prison couldn't strip away.

As Bruce's gaze traveled across the ballroom, it landed on a framed newspaper clipping from a few months prior — "Harvey Dent Murdered: City's White Knight Falls." A grim reminder of the violence that still lurked in the city's underbelly. The hunt for the boy responsible had grown cold, and while the city had moved on, Bruce hadn't.

A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts. "Penny for them, Mr. Wayne?" Lucius Fox, a long-time confidant and the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, approached with a friendly smile.

"Just reflecting on the city's state, Lucius," Bruce replied, forcing a casual tone.

Lucius raised an eyebrow, "While the violent tempests might have calmed, the silent currents grow stronger. I've seen the financials; someone's playing a deep game."

Bruce nodded, "It's never truly quiet in Gotham, is it?"

Lucius chuckled, "No, and I suspect it keeps a certain someone quite busy at night."

Bruce took another sip of his champagne, the bubbles fizzing momentarily on his palate before the memories bubbled up too. Five years. It felt like an eternity since he had donned the cape and cowl for the first time, taking on the mantle of the city's silent guardian. It had been a tumultuous journey — fraught with danger, betrayals, and moments of sheer desperation. But amidst it all, there had been moments of clarity and alliances forged in trust.

One such alliance had been with Lucius. Bruce remembered the night he'd invited the latter to the Manor. Underneath the grandeur of Wayne Manor, in the echoing chambers of the Batcave, Bruce had bared his secret to Lucius. The older man's initial shock had quickly given way to a steadfast resolve. "If you're in this, Bruce," Lucius had said, "then so am I." And so, a partnership was born — Bruce with his drive and Lucius with his technological prowess.

Pulling himself from the reverie, Bruce caught sight of Councilman Reeves engaging with a small group. Politics in Gotham was as much a treacherous game as its underworld. Making his way over, Bruce greeted the politician with a firm handshake.

"Councilman Reeves," Bruce began, his tone congenial, "Always a pleasure."

Reeves, a tall man with graying hair, smiled, revealing slightly yellowed teeth. "Mr. Wayne. Your galas never cease to amaze."

Bruce nodded politely. "Thank you. I trust the city's affairs are going well?"

Reeves hesitated for just a moment, but that split second spoke volumes. "We're managing, Mr. Wayne. This city... it never stops challenging us."

Bruce's gaze sharpened. "Especially now with the rise in white-collar crime."

Reeves shifted uncomfortably. "There are always fluctuations in crime patterns. It's our job to adapt."

Bruce tilted his head, the playboy persona slipping for just a moment. "And what about the citizens? It's their job to remain vigilant, isn't it?"

Reeves cleared his throat. "Of course. Gotham's resilience is its greatest strength."

As Councilman Reeves excused himself, the rustle of silk announced another presence. Bruce didn't need to turn to recognize the all-too-familiar scent of lilac and the determined cadence of a journalist on the hunt.

"Quite the interesting chat with the councilman," said a voice tinged with curiosity.

Bruce turned to find Vicki Vale, Gotham Gazette's star reporter, looking as radiant as ever in a simple yet elegant maroon dress. Her auburn hair cascaded down in waves, framing striking blue eyes that were always searching for the next headline.

"Ms. Vale," Bruce greeted with a hint of amusement in his eyes. "I should've known you'd be close by whenever politics is involved."

She smirked, looping her arm through his as they strolled away from the growing crowd. "It's my job to be where the stories are, Bruce. And you, talking to Councilman Reeves? That's a story."

Bruce chuckled, "I was merely discussing the state of the city, like any concerned citizen."

Vicki raised an eyebrow, her reporter's intuition never far from the surface. "Oh, I bet. You always did have a knack for being at the center of things."

Bruce smirked, playing the part of the billionaire playboy. "What can I say? It's a gift."

She studied him for a moment, those perceptive eyes always searching, always questioning. "You really care about this city, don't you?"

Bruce's demeanor softened. "Gotham's been good to the Waynes."

The reporter looked around the lavish ballroom as if saying, "of course it has been." A subtle dig at the opulent wealth of the Waynes.

xxxxxx

In the silent depths of Gotham City Public Library, I found myself sitting at a broad desk. In front of me was a thick book titled "The History of Modern Earth," and next to it was a guide, "A Beginner's Manual to Using a Windows PC." A library-issued laptop with its screen softly glowing lay beside the books.

My fingers, which were more used to kunai and the weight of my sword, gingerly turned the pages. I often glanced at the laptop, trying to follow the manual's instructions. For someone of my skills, this shouldn't be so perplexing, but adapting to this unfamiliar world was humbling.

I wore dark sunglasses to conceal the powerful gaze of my Sharingan. Despite my efforts to blend in, I still caught curious glances from people, but thankfully most left me to my reading.

Reading about this world's history, I found striking parallels to my own world's conflicts and power struggles. A chime from the laptop disrupted my focus, alerting me about the library's WiFi. Recalling the guide's directions, I accessed the browser and searched "Gotham City news."

Suddenly, I sensed someone approaching. I turned, startling a redheaded girl. She laughed nervously, "You've got really good hearing!"

Hidden behind my sunglasses, my eyes remained inscrutable. "You just walk really loud," I replied with a hint of amusement. The girl seemed amused by this and gestured towards the computer with a curious smile gracing her features.

"Having some trouble?" she asked, her voice light.

"It's... different from what I'm used to," I admitted cautiously.

She chuckled. "You sound like you're from... Well, not around here. International student?"

I hesitated for a moment, recalling the cover story I had crafted with Dr. Fries. "Something like that. A small village in Asia. We didn't really have access to much... technology," I gestured towards the laptop.

"Ah," she said, her curiosity clearly piqued. "That must be a significant adjustment. I'm Barbara, by the way."

"Sasuke," I responded, feeling a rare tug of gratitude for the genuine offer of help.

Barbara sudden leaned in, expertly navigating the laptop's features. "Here," She began, pulling up a comprehensive site on Gotham's history and current events, "this should give you a good start on understanding Gotham."

The first event listed was "Riddler Captured (Once Again) by the Batman!" Barbara's eyes lit up at the title and she asked, "Do you know about the Batman?"

I glanced at the image accompanying the article – a shadowy figure, stark against the backdrop of the moonlit night. "I've heard... rumors."

Barbara smiled, her admiration evident. "He's something of a legend around here. The Batman is Gotham's protector, a vigilante who steps up when the police can't or won't. There are many who don't trust him, but from what I've seen, he's done a lot of good for this city."

I pondered over her words. In my own world, I'd been on both sides of that coin, both protector and rogue. "Does he work alone?"

She shrugged. "Mostly. Though, there have been times when others have been seen fighting alongside him. But details are scarce. You know, secret identities and all."

She looked into the distance, a wistful note in her voice. "He represents hope for a lot of people here. To be able to stand up against the darkness of Gotham, to face it head-on... I've always admired that."

My thoughts wandered to my own experiences, the clans, the feuds, the battles, as I returned my gaze to the article. My reverie was interrupted when Barbara poked my arm.

"You're a deep thinker, aren't you?" she smirked, "Or maybe you're just emo."

"E-mo?" The term was foreign to me, and Barbara's subsequent laughter only furthered my confusion.

"It means someone who is really depressed and angsty all the time. In a really melodramatic kind of way. But it's also something of a stereotype. Ya know, the hot guy with a dark depressing secret that all the girls swoon over but he's actually really an unhealthy person to be around."

My frown deepened as I tried to think of anyone I knew who might fit that description. Maybe Orochimaru? But Orochimaru wasn't someone many would consider attractive.

"I'm just teasing," Barbara clarified, noting my expression. I shook my head.

"It's not you. Just thinking of who I know might fit that term."

She chuckled, "Well, I have to get going. Will you be going to school?"

School. The last time I had attended one was at the Konoha Academy. Hell no. "I've already graduated."

"Oh wow! You must be something of a genius. You can't be much older than I am. How old are you?"

I was taken aback by her forwardness, but something kept me from shutting her out completely. "Seventeen. And you?"

"Just turned sixteen myself! Pity, several of my friends would have loved to meet you. They all go for the bad boy vibe."

I frowned, "I'm not…bad."

"Oh! It's another term like emo. Anyways, can I get your number?"

I handed her the phone Victor Fries had given me. She returned it after a brief moment, having added her number.

"Dang, this is an old Nokia. Been awhile since I saw one of these."

She displayed her own phone, which was indeed sleeker and without the flip element.

"Nokia's still get the basic job done, but I'd strongly recommend you grab an iPhone or Android when you get the chance."

The words were gibberish to me, but I simply nodded. After saying her goodbyes, she left, and I sighed, relieved to return to my research.

I spent the remaining couple of hours working on learning to use the computer and discovering more about the world I'd been thrust into.

The dim streetlights of Gotham City cast a faint glow over the cobblestone streets as I navigated the twisting alleys of the Narrows. The rough, unwelcoming atmosphere was palpable, and I could feel the tension in the air.

As I ventured further into the neighborhood, the pristine buildings and neat streets of Gotham's elite areas faded into rundown structures and walls covered in graffiti. The distant hum of the city - car horns, quiet chatter, and the beats of nightlife - diminished, replaced by the lonely sounds of the Narrows.

My heightened senses detected signs of life: uneven breathing, muffled cries, and the erratic beat of terrified hearts. I looked towards a shadowed alley and saw people huddled against the walls. Their clothes were tattered, their faces gaunt, and their eyes empty. It was clear they were under the grip of some powerful substance.

I paused, taking in the scene. They reminded me of Orochimaru's experiments from my world. Innocents warped for the sake of power or morbid fascination. The resemblance was deeply unsettling.

A pang of pity and fury hit me. Pity for these souls robbed of their worth and purpose, and anger at the world that pushed them into this abyss.

While my instincts told me to move on, I felt drawn to one of them, a young man with messy hair and a scruffy beard. I crouched beside him and asked softly, "Are you alright?"

His eyes, cloudy and distant, opened slowly. "Who're you?" he rasped.

"Just someone passing by," I replied, draping my cloak over him, offering a bit of warmth in the chilly night.

His eyes cleared slightly as he looked up at me. "Thanks," he whispered.

I nodded, standing up. "Stay safe," I murmured before continuing my journey.

Gotham's problems weighed heavily on me. Beneath its glamorous facade were dark corners reminiscent of my own past's shadows. I quickened my steps, eager to reach the sanctuary of Fries' hideout. But the image of those lost souls haunted my thoughts, reminding me that this world wasn't so different from mine.

I entered the dim chamber of Dr. Victor Fries, the cold instantly piercing through me. The room was lit by a massive cryogenic chamber, behind which I could see the silhouette of Fries' wife, Nora. The room's icy glow felt soothing, like a protective embrace.

Fries, in his armored suit, looked up from his work. "You're back later than usual," he noted, his voice tinged with concern and intrigue.

I hesitated, then admitted, "I saw people in the Narrows... victims of drug abuse. It disturbed me."

Dr. Fries looked pained. "Ah, the casualties of Gotham," he sighed.

"They reminded me of victims from my world," I said, my eyes on Nora's frozen form.

Fries' expression hardened. "Many here suffer similar fates, especially with Vicente the Viper at large."

"Vicente the Viper?" I echoed.

"A crime lord," Fries began, his voice dripping with disdain, "he's responsible for a large portion of the drug trade in Gotham, especially in areas like the Narrows. Those individuals you saw? They are likely victims of his trade. He peddles a potent mix called 'Glitterspike.' It's highly addictive, and those who get ensnared rarely escape its clutches."

My eyes darkened, "Why hasn't this 'Viper' been stopped?"

"Power, influence, fear," Fries gave a bitter chuckle, "The trappings of any successful crime lord. Plus, he has connections and informants in almost every level of the city. From street-level pushers to corrupt officials in City Hall."

My brows knitted together as a thought struck me, thinking back to the conversation with Barbara. "This city has its protector, the Batman. Why hasn't he stopped this 'Viper' and his drug trade?"

Fries sighed, leaning against a console. "The Batman does what he can, but Gotham's problems run deep. He's been successful in dealing with many of the rogues and maniacs, but the underlying issues persist. The drug trade, corruption, poverty — they're systemic problems. And the Batman only props up the system."

I frowned, Barbara's words ringing in my ears, "He represents hope…"

What good was hope without the power to see those hopes realized?

 

[Arthellion]

Chapter 4

The next day, I decided to take a walk through the narrows. My body was fully healed at this point and I was eager to train. It would be unbecoming of myself to let my skills slide just because I'd gone a few months without a life or death battle. Finding a secluded area would be difficult, but perhaps not impossible.

The weight of the Narrows bore down on me, each corner echoing tales of despair. I adjusted the unfamiliar attire I had on: a plain black jacket, worn jeans, and worn-out sneakers - modern clothes Fries had procured for me. The only reminders of my past were the Konoha forehead protector, carefully hidden beneath the collar of my shirt, and the unique tattoo on my wrist, which sealed away my kunai and sword.

As I walked, I noticed an elderly woman ahead struggled with her heavy groceries, each step a battle. I could hear the rustle of the plastic bags, smell the fresh produce inside mingling with the odors of the Narrows. Approaching her, I offered, "May I help you with those?"

She hesitated, her gaze shifting from the groceries to my face, then to my single, gloved hand. "You think you can carry these with just one arm?"

I smiled faintly, aware of the oddity of the situation. "I've managed more with less," I replied, using my strength to easily lift the bags.

As we walked, I could hear her shuffling steps, feel the cobblestone streets beneath my feet, and smell the aging brick walls, steeped in years of stories. She studied me for a moment, "Why the glasses? Trying to keep a low profile?"

"Just blending in," I answered. The glasses had become a necessary accessory, shielding my distinct eyes and their tale from the world.

She chuckled, but it was devoid of real humor. "In the Narrows? You stick out even with those glasses."

"I've noticed."

The air was thick with resignation as she sighed. "The Waynes, they saw past the filth, you know? They believed in us. But after they were gone, everyone forgot."

I remained silent for a moment, absorbing her words. Old people were prone to reminiscence. I did not mind. Her story would allow me a deeper understanding of this place I now lived.

I furrowed my brow, puzzled. "The Waynes? Who were they?"

Her eyes widened a bit, as if she was taken aback by my ignorance. "You truly aren't from around here, are you? Thomas and Martha Wayne were philanthropists, two of Gotham's finest. They had dreams of revitalizing this place, giving people hope. But their untimely deaths... the city lost not only its benefactors but its hope."

The weight of such loss resonated with me. "Death often changes the trajectory of many things," I mused, thoughts of my own past resurfacing.

"Maybe," she sighed. "But it shouldn't have been the end of good things for the Narrows. People just... gave up."

A pang of guilt coursed through me. How many times had I been close to giving up? Seeking redemption, seeking atonement - those had been my driving forces after the intense anger and hatred had ebbed.

The idea of one family being the bastion of hope and its subsequent fall leading to despair was eerily reminiscent of my own journey. There was a time I believed I could be the sole catalyst for change in my world. An anchor of hate to steer people towards peace. A naive thought.

"Depending on a single light can lead us astray when it goes out," I mused.

She looked at me, surprise evident. "Philosophical for someone helping an old lady with her groceries."

"Life's circumstances provide the best lessons," I murmured, the weight of my past bearing down on me.

She nodded, sensing there was more beneath the surface. "Well, whoever you are, thank you."

We reached her home, and I placed the groceries at her doorstep. As I turned to leave, I could feel her curious gaze on me.

"Take care," she called out, her voice carrying a mix of gratitude and puzzlement.

The weight of the Narrows and my conversation with the elderly woman rested heavy on my mind. Driven by a need to clear my thoughts, I found my feet instinctively carrying me towards the docks, guided in part by the faint smell of saltwater. The distant cries of seagulls and the occasional blare of a ship's horn served as my compass.

Gotham's docks sprawled out, a mix of bustling activity and desolate stretches. My keen senses picked up on various scents and sounds, letting me weave through the maze without drawing undue attention. At the far end, past rows of containers and stacks of crates, stood an abandoned warehouse. Its worn facade and rusted metal doors hinted at years of neglect.

Pushing the large door open, a spacious, dim interior greeted me. The filtered light from broken windows painted hazy patterns on the dusty floor. This place... It was isolated enough to serve my purposes. I needed a haven to train and contemplate my next moves.

In the midst of this unfamiliar world, one pressing question gnawed at me: should I strive to find a way back home? Or was this uncharted territory the new chapter in my pilgrimage? I'd always sought to understand my place in the world, to atone for my past mistakes. But this Gotham City, with its striking parallels to my own past and its broken souls like the woman from the Narrows, was it fate that I'd landed here?

Shrugging off my jacket, I moved to the center of the warehouse. Taking a deep breath, I began my training regimen - a blend of taijutsu drills and chakra control exercises. Each movement was fluid, born of years of disciplined practice.

As I trained, my thoughts drifted to the man I had faced. The one who had inadvertently brought me to this world. Yet, strangely, I wasn't overly concerned about the potential danger he posed back in my world. Naruto would handle it. A wry smile formed on my lips. For all our rivalries and clashes, my unwavering faith in Naruto had cemented over the years. If that man became a menace, Naruto would undoubtedly rise to the challenge.

After what felt like hours, sweat dripping and muscles burning, I halted. The physical exertion felt cathartic, yet my mind remained torn.

Seating myself on the dusty floor, the coolness of the ground seeped through the denim of my jeans. I gazed at the tattoo on my wrist, my concealed weapons a silent reminder of my roots. With a sigh, I leaned against a pillar, my thoughts still a whirlwind.

Should I remain in Gotham, embarking on a new path of redemption? Or should I exhaust every means to return to Konoha, to the bonds I'd fought so hard to understand and protect?

Closing my eyes behind the dark glasses, the gentle lapping of the waves outside the warehouse whispered of endless possibilities. One thing was certain: whatever decision I made, it would be in pursuit of understanding, redemption, and my way of the ninja.

Fuck. That made me sound like Naruto.

The warehouse's ambient silence was disrupted by the soft ringtone of the Nokia phone Dr. Fries had provided me. Its foreign design made it a bit cumbersome for me, but after a few attempts, I managed to access the incoming message.

"Hey, it's Barbara. We met at the library? Friend's having a small thing tonight. U in? Might be fun. - B"

Barbara. I recalled our brief interaction at the library. She had been somewhat annoying, with her exuberance, but was helpful and kind. Not the worst person to get to know. I considered it for a moment. It might be good to get to know what life was like for people in different parts of the city.

After a brief pause, I typed back: "Sure. Where and when?"

Her response was swift: "Nice! 8 pm @ Jake's place. Brownstone area, 23 Cedar St. Dress casual. See ya!"

I stared at the device for a moment, contemplating this new avenue. It wasn't my first intention to mingle with the locals, but understanding their world, their mindset, would be crucial in determining my next steps.

I glanced at the contemporary clothes Fries had sourced for me. "Dress casual," she had said. I hoped what I wore would be appropriate, and if not... well, it would be another learning experience in Gotham.

An hour later, I found myself outside a multi-story brownstone manor in one of Gotham's upscale neighborhoods. The architecture style of this world was still quite strange to me. As I walked forward, I pushed the heavy oak door open, revealing a bustling scene within. The hum of laughter, chattering voices, and soft music wafted out into the chilly Gotham night. I hesitated for a moment on the threshold, taking in the sight before me.

Modern art hung on the walls, some pieces I recognized as being incredibly beautiful…and likely expensive. Bright, decorative lights adorned the ceilings and walls, casting a soft glow over the gathering. Expensive-looking crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their light shimmering over a sea of party-goers. The large living room had been cleared to allow for a makeshift dance floor where couples swayed to a mellow tune.

Wearing the plain, modern clothes Fries had given me—a charcoal grey shirt paired with black jeans and shoes—I couldn't help but feel out of place among the sea of designer outfits. I adjusted my dark glasses, ensuring my Sharingan remained hidden. The last thing I needed was more attention.

Almost immediately, my eyes were drawn to the opulence of the scene. It wasn't just the setting, but the people. Young teens, most probably around Barbara's age, laughed and chatted, holding red plastic filled with what was likely alcohol. A few glanced my way, their expressions ranging from mild curiosity to evident disdain. I was clearly an outsider here.

My entrance didn't go unnoticed for long. "Sasuke!" Barbara's voice called out. She made her way through the crowd, her red hair gleaming under the lights. Dressed in a stylish yet modest blue dress, she looked elegant and composed. "I wasn't sure you'd come," she admitted, her green eyes searching mine for a reaction.

"I wasn't sure either," I replied honestly, my voice barely audible over the party's noise.

Barbara chuckled softly. "I figured. But I thought it might be a good opportunity for you to see a different side of Gotham."

"Definitely different from the Narrows," I murmured, my gaze drifting over the guests once again. Barbara had a strange look on her face as I said this, but shook her head after a moment and let it go.

She followed my gaze, a knowing smile forming on her lips. "Come on," she beckoned, "Let me introduce you to a few people. Just try to enjoy the night."

I nodded, preparing myself for the interactions to come, but deep down, I already felt the weight of the disparities of this world pressing on me. Still, I chose to stay, if only to better understand this facet of Gotham.

The soft hum of chatter enveloped me as Barbara pulled me deeper into the gathering. The plush carpeting underfoot muffled our steps, the scent of expensive perfumes and colognes filling the air.

"Guys, this is Sasuke," Barbara began, motioning to a small group of her friends. Their friendly smiles appeared genuine, but their eyes held a touch of reservation—after all, I was a stranger to them.

"This is Clara," she pointed to a brunette with curls cascading down her back, wearing a diamond necklace that probably cost more than what an entire block in the Narrows would make in a year. "And this is Daniel and Lila."

Pleasantries were exchanged, the familiar cadence of small talk filling the gaps. But while they chatted, I found myself more engrossed in the surrounding conversations.

"...Daddy just bought me the latest Aventador," boasted a young man nearby, showing off a picture on his phone to a couple of awed friends. "Zero to sixty in just 2.9 seconds!"

A group of girls giggled amongst themselves. "Ugh, I had to skip class yesterday. I just couldn't," one sighed dramatically, sipping on her drink. "You know, I just didn't feel like it."

I tuned into another conversation where a young woman was animatedly discussing her recent trip to Europe. "Oh, the South of France is so passé now. Ibiza is where everyone's going," she commented with a dismissive wave.

It wasn't long before I noticed another group lamenting how their favorite high-end restaurant had run out of their preferred vintage wine. "It was an absolute nightmare," one exclaimed.

As the evening wore on, my discomfort grew palpably. The worlds these kids inhabited were galaxies apart from the gritty reality of the Narrows. I couldn't shake off the realization that they lived so close to such poverty and desperation, yet remained blissfully ignorant or, worse, indifferent.

My fingers subconsciously traced the edge of the forehead protector I had tucked away in my pocket. The memories of fights, losses, and sacrifices pressed on my mind. The weight of my past juxtaposed sharply against the lightheartedness around me. The battles I'd endured felt like an alien concept in this bubble of luxury.

I excused myself from Barbara's group, seeking a quiet corner to gather my thoughts. The glaring disparities of Gotham were becoming evident. As I leaned against the walk, deep in thought, I could sense Barbara approaching. She gave me a curious look, "Something the matter?"

"This. All of this. It's just wrong." I offered after a moment. Her head tilted in confusion.

"What's wrong?"

I stared at her silently for several moments before resting my head back again.

"This world. There is so much wealth here and so much poverty elsewhere. The disparity is…jarring."

Barbara's eyes seemed to soften both with empathy, but there was also something else. A hint of guilt.

"It's just the way the world is. We do what we can…but at the end of the day you can't help everyone. Some people are selfish, sure, but just because people have money doesn't mean they haven't suffered."

"It's not about having money," I said, frustration edging my voice. "It's about flaunting it in the face of those who have nothing, when just a few blocks away, people struggle for basic necessities. It's about turning a blind eye and living in a bubble."

Barbara crossed her arms, her gaze challenging. "Look, Sasuke, not everyone here is oblivious. Many of us have foundations, charities, we fund schools and hospitals. Just because people enjoy themselves doesn't mean they're ignorant or heartless."

I clenched my fist, recalling the woman from the Narrows and her stories. "Charities and foundations aren't enough. They're a band-aid solution. People need to be aware, to actually care. Otherwise, it's just... performative."

"I get it," she replied, her voice rising, "But you just can't waltz into a party, into my city, and judge everyone. Everyone has their story, their own battles. You don't know what they've been through. And for the record, it's not performative if it helps even one person. Small changes can lead to big impacts."

"My whole life, I've seen the price of indifference," I murmured, gazing out the window towards the distant lights of the Narrows. "You might think these little soirees and charity events are enough, but there's a whole world out there that needs more than just pity. It needs action. It needs real change."

Barbara sighed deeply, her gaze softening once again. "I'm not saying things are perfect, Sasuke. But you can't paint everyone with the same brush. Change is a slow process, but many here are trying. You just need to look deeper."

I looked away, the weight of our worlds pressing down on the conversation. "Maybe I expect too much," I admitted quietly. "But I've seen what happens when we don't act. I can't be silent about it."

"And neither can we," Barbara responded firmly. "But remember, change doesn't happen overnight. And judging people won't speed up the process."

There was a heavy silence between us. Both of us caught in our convictions, the gap seemingly unbridgeable. The sounds of the party continued in the background, but in that moment, the chasm between our worlds felt wider than ever.


"...And just because people have money doesn't mean they haven't suffered," Barbara argued. "Take me, for example. I lost my mother. The pain of that loss isn't lessened by the comforts money can buy."

For a fleeting moment, a surge of anger welled up in me. I thought of the Uchiha compound, silent and empty. The memories of that night, my family's lifeless eyes, Itachi's cold gaze. Her singular loss against my entire clan's annihilation felt incomparable. But as quickly as the anger rose, it dissipated. It wasn't a contest of pain or suffering. However, I understood that no matter what I said, she couldn't fathom the depth of my losses.

I exhaled, shaking my head slowly. "You wouldn't understand," I murmured, not as an accusation but as a simple fact.

Barbara looked taken aback, her eyes searching mine for a moment before she responded, "Maybe I won't understand everything you've been through, but that doesn't mean my pain is any less valid."

I sighed, realizing this was a battle neither of us could win. "I think I should leave," I said, my tone quiet but final.

Barbara watched me for a moment, her expression a mix of frustration and regret. "I wish you'd stay, try to understand a bit more. But if you think leaving is best..."

I gave her a brief nod, acknowledging her sentiment, and without another word, I left the party, feeling the weight of two contrasting worlds pressing down on me.

As I left the ornate gates of the house, the noise and opulence of the party behind me began to fade, replaced by the eerie stillness of the Gotham night. The sharp contrast of the city's disparities pressed heavily on my mind.

I could feel the gaze of a few curious onlookers as I walked, the modern attire feeling foreign on my skin. I reached up, adjusting the dark glasses that shielded my eyes. The world around me seemed tinted, yet the shadows and the underbelly of the city felt more pronounced than ever.

A breeze rustled through the trees, bringing with it a mix of city smells: gasoline, food, and something more pungent - fear, perhaps? As the noises from the party faded into the distance, the internal cacophony grew louder.

Why was I here? What purpose did it serve? The agony of my past, the weight of my sins, the path of atonement I had chosen - how did it all fit into this unfamiliar landscape?

I stopped, leaning against a lamp post, memories of the battles, betrayals, and losses flooding back. My entire clan, gone. The echo of Itachi's words, the weight of Naruto's trust - it all bore down on me.

Suddenly, I felt a surge of determination. This city, this world, may be beyond saving in its entirety, but that didn't mean I was powerless. If I couldn't address every issue, I could at least address some. I may not be able to eliminate all suffering, but I could remove some threats. The very threats I had been reading about: the Viper and his drug syndicate.

Drawing a deep breath, I felt a sense of purpose guiding my steps. There was work to be done, and while the entirety of Gotham's problems might be too vast for one man, some problems could be tackled head-on. I needed to punch someone.

A shortwhile later, I found myself watching silhouettes from the rafters of a dark warehouse. I watched the members of the Viper's gang move about, their silhouettes under the dim, flickering lights. The scent of drugs hung heavily in the air, a sharp contrast to the cold sterile smell I had grown used to from Fries's home.

I observed their movements, analyzing each member's approach. They were sloppy, their actions devoid of any refined training. Their guards were down, their postures lax, and they seemed more like unruly children playing at being gangsters than real threats. Even the most basic student from the academy moved with more purpose and precision.

I felt a twinge of frustration, missing the intricate genjutsu techniques I could have employed to incapacitate them all without a fuss. But with their lack of chakra, such a tactic was unavailable to me.

Instead, I opted for the direct approach.

In one swift movement, I descended from my perch, utilizing the shadows and the element of surprise. Before the first of them could even register my presence, he was on the ground, knocked out cold.

With each engagement, I was reminded of their glaring inadequacies. Their attempts to attack were hasty, their movements predictable. It was like fighting training dummies – they moved slower than genin and with none of the sharp instincts of a shinobi.

In a flurry of swift kicks, precise punches, and the occasional kunai throw, the room was quickly filled with unconscious bodies. They lay strewn across the floor, testament to their lack of skill and my own efficiency.

Once they were incapacitated, I dragged them together, tying them up securely. Pulling one of the slightly more conscious members close, I demanded, "Where's the Viper?"

Fear evident in his eyes, he stammered, "I don't know! But... But there's another place, on Marconi Street. They might know more there."

Nodding in acknowledgment, I stepped back and felt blood beginning to drip from my right eye, summoning the consuming black flames of Amaterasu. The drugs, crates, and equipment ignited instantly, the dark flames ensuring there would be no remnants.

The blaze's reflection danced in my eyes for a brief moment before I turned away, setting my sights on Marconi Street.

I hit several more warehouses over the next hour. None of them knew where the Viper made his home. It was not lost on me that the first enemy I sought to take down in this world bore a namesake akin to a snake. I was hawk hunting and soaring above while a snake slithered on the ground…

I thought back to that line with Orochimaru…and cringed. I was an emo wasn't I?


The warehouses lay in various states of destruction, the dark flames of Amaterasu having consumed each of them. With every confrontation, I made sure to question at least one member of the Viper's gang. Their answers became increasingly agitated, a clear indication of the spreading panic.

The irony of facing another 'snake' in this world was not lost on me. Had I been chasing these figures in the shadows my entire life? "Maybe Orochimaru was right about some things," I muttered to myself, then immediately scolded, "What am I even saying?" I couldn't help but smirk. There was a period in my past where my every word had been laden with melodrama, and the realization was strangely liberating.

My wandering thoughts were broken by a tip-off. "The Viper… he's at a base on Falconer's Lane," a goon whispered, trembling with fear. The name made me think of birds of prey, fitting for a hunt.

The location was not far. As I approached, the ambient noise changed. Instead of the quiet of the warehouses, I could hear the murmurs of men, the cocking of guns, and the unmistakable tension of an organization on high alert. The building was more fortified than the other warehouses, guarded on all sides.

I took a moment to observe. Guns. I had looked up weapons early on in my stay at the library. Nuclear weapons and air warfare had certainly given me pause; I had also been initially worried about guns during my reading, but as I became intimately more familiar with them this evening, I found their threat vastly overrated. Certainly, their effects could be devastating if they connected, but they were nothing compared to a seasoned ninja's ninjutsu and with the Sharingan's precognitive abilities, I could anticipate their trajectories quite easily.

The tension in the air was palpable as I approached the Viper's hideout. I could feel the shift in atmosphere, a mix of nervous anticipation and frenzied chaos. Their defenses were up, but I had no intention of slipping in unnoticed.

I paused momentarily, taking a moment to assess the situation. From my vantage point, I could see that they were numerous, their forms sprawled across the perimeters, guns at the ready, fingers twitching. I flexed my fingers, gripping the hilt of my blade; the weight felt reassuring. I had avoided killing my opponents thus far this evening, but here, in the din of the cold warehouse, I could see the look in the eyes of these men. Each one was a killer and beyond redemption. It wasn't madness that drove them. It wasn't deeper pain. As I observed them from above I could see the glint in their eyes. Greed. They exploited others for their own gain. Maybe it was hypocritical of me, to deny these men a chance at redemption when I sought my won, but redemption is bought with blood. Perhaps this would be mine.

I dropped to the floor from the ceiling. I wanted them to see me. To fear me. They had destroyed so many lives and taken so much from the people of this city. I was determined that they would know what it mean to feel fear. This would be the first real fight I'd had since I'd arrived in this world. There were plenty of them. Perhaps it might actually be a real challenge. They moved and I felt myself grow disappointed.

Certainly, they had a sense of cohesion, a rhythm that they moved to. Even as I began my advance, I could see they had trained together, had formed a bond. They had brute strength and the tenacity of street fighters, but they were far too weak, their bodies unaugmented by chakra made this child's play.

The opening move was mine. I surged forward, Sharingan spinning, immediately mapping out my opponents' anticipated movements. The first thug lunged at me with an overhead swing, his motion slow and exaggerated, much like a novice genin during taijutsu practice. I easily sidestepped, redirecting his momentum and sending him crashing into another.

A hail of bullets followed. To them, their firearms were the pinnacle of technology, a force to be reckoned with. But to my enhanced reflexes, every bullet was like a kunai thrown in slow motion. I danced around them, each step calculated, each movement a counter to their attack. The distant sound of gunfire was but a drumbeat to which I moved.

It was a dance, indeed, but not one of joy. It was a dance of death and precision. Every thug I faced was like a pawn on a shobu board, and I anticipated their moves three steps in advance. My blade sang as it moved, its sharp edge reflecting the dim lights, leaving a trail of shadows, fears and blood.

One tried to flank me, but with a simple twist and turn, I had him pinned under my heel, his skull was crushed less than a second later. Another came charging, shouting wildly. A single well-placed kick sent him flying backward. Every movement was an art, every strike a lesson. And with each opponent I took down, my path grew clearer.

But I was always aware of the larger game at play: finding the Viper. I needed to end this dance quickly. The urgency in my steps grew, my strikes became more potent, and within minutes, the floor was littered with the fallen.

Standing amidst the downed thugs, I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of what I had just done. But there was no time to rest; the Viper was close, and the night was far from over.

I heard footsteps and turned. And I saw him.

His posture wasn't that of the confident crime lord I'd expected. Instead, the swagger that one would associate with a man of his reputation was absent, replaced by an evident unease. The cigar that once rested comfortably between his lips now dangled, forgotten, on the edge of falling.

The room was heavy with tension and the metallic tang of blood. Strewn about were the bodies of the Viper's henchmen, taken down with precision and efficiency. The dim light from an overhead bulb illuminated the Viper, casting dark, eerie shadows on the walls.

When our eyes met, I could see genuine fear. "You... you're the one causing all this chaos?" His voice, though raspy, trembled slightly.

I nodded.

Swallowing hard, the Viper glanced rapidly around the room, calculating his odds. His eyes darted toward an exit, his intentions clear. "You have no idea what you've just started," he muttered, taking a shaky step back.

I took a step forward, closing the distance, and tightening my grip on my blade. "Your reign of poisoning this city ends now."

Panicking, the Viper made a sudden dash for the exit. He was quick, fueled by sheer adrenaline and fear, but I was quicker. With Sharingan-enhanced reflexes, I appeared in front of him, blocking his escape route.

The realization that there was no escape was evident in his widened eyes. The feared crime lord of Gotham was now cornered, vulnerable, and he knew he was at the mercy of someone far more formidable.

The atmosphere was thick, heavy with anticipation. Every breath, every shuffle echoed in the dimly lit space. The Viper, despite his name, looked more like a cornered animal than a predatory snake in this moment.

He tried to rally, raising his arms defensively. "You think killing me will change anything? There'll be another to take my place!"

My eyes narrowed. "Perhaps, but you won't be around to see it."

With a swift movement, too quick for the untrained eye to follow, I lunged forward, driving the chokuto swiftly through his chest. The Viper's eyes widened in shock, his mouth agape, trying and failing to draw breath. His life, filled with choices and consequences, ended in an instant.

Gently, I withdrew the blade, the pristine steel now tainted. The Viper crumpled, lifeless, to the ground. This was no revenge, no satisfaction. It was a necessary step to cleanse the rot from the city.

A silent, solemn promise floated in the air - for the lost souls of the Narrows, for a city held hostage, and for a chance at a better future.

xxxxxx

The air was thick with tension as Commissioner Gordon surveyed the scene. A lit cigarette rested in one hand while the other cradled his chin, fingers lightly touching his lips. The warehouse's overhead lights buzzed, creating an ambient hum that added to the eeriness of the scene. Men in blue uniformed jackets moved about carefully, collecting evidence, whispering to one another. The gruesome sight was unfamiliar even to the most seasoned officers, their faces pale under the weight of the carnage.

"I've never seen anything like this, Jim," remarked Detective Bullock, his normally rough voice now subdued. "This ain't the work of your average thug or gang member."

Gordon took a long drag of his cigarette, exhaling slowly. "You're right, Harvey. This is methodical, precise... almost surgical." He paused, his eyes scanning the room, stopping at the fallen figure of The Viper. "Whoever did this, wanted to send a message. The question is, to whom?"

As they continued their discussion, a gust of wind caught the loose hanging entrance, the shadowy silhouette of Batman now evident against the dim light of the evening. He approached the scene with his usual silent demeanor. Gordon turned, acknowledging his presence. "Batman."

Batman's eyes surveyed the area, his voice deep and raspy. "The Viper." Gordon nodded, "One of Gotham's rising criminals, though I never imagined it would end like this for him. He had many enemies, but this..." He gestured around, "This isn't just vengeance. It's a statement."

Batman moved closer to The Viper's body, examining it. "It's not the Joker's style, nor any of the others. This is someone new. Someone we don't know.""

Bullock adjusted his hat, shading his eyes as he pulled out a notepad. "There were witnesses at some of the other locations. All of them mentioned a young guy, one with distinct red and purple eyes and only one arm. Doesn't seem to match any of the usual suspects or profiles we have."

Batman's posture stiffened ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, but Gordon noticed. A silent communication passed between the two. The Dark Knight's mind flashed back to an earlier crime scene, where District Attorney Harvey Dent had been killed. The weapon? An unfamiliar kunai, a relic from another world.

"It's him," Batman finally murmured.

Gordon's eyebrows knitted in confusion, "Who?"

"The same one who killed Dent," Batman replied, his voice holding a trace of concern that was rare for the ever-composed vigilante. "I found a similar weapon there, a kunai. It's not native to Gotham or any place nearby. It's a weapon of precision, just like these kills."

Bullock whistled, "So, we're saying the same guy who took down Dent, wiped out Viper and his gang? And he's not even from around here?"

Batman nodded. "He's not just skilled; he's dangerous. If he's on a mission or has a vendetta against the criminal underworld of Gotham, there's no telling who's next."

Gordon took another drag from his cigarette, looking thoughtful. "We need to find him, understand what he wants."

Batman agreed, "Before he strikes again. If he's taken down Dent and The Viper in such a short span, he's not going to stop now. He's making his mark on Gotham."

"And how do we find someone who's seemingly a ghost? No known address, no known associates. Hell, we don't even have a name," Bullock grumbled, frustration evident in his tone.

Gordon looked to Batman, knowing that if anyone could track this stranger down, it would be the Dark Knight. "Any leads from your end?"

Batman moved over to another part of the scene, observing a kunai left behind. "The method and the weapon. These are my leads for now. I've been studying them, trying to understand their origin. The kunai... it's a traditional ninja weapon, but its design... it's unique, but…as evidenced by the kid leaving a kunai behind, he's sloppy. He leaves clues. I can use that to find him."

"And when you find him?" Gordon inquired, watching Batman's retreating figure.

"I'll do what's necessary," Batman replied, his voice fading as he blended into the shadows.

Gordon took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the night's events. He turned to Bullock, "Get everyone on this. I want daily reports. If this stranger thinks he can come into our city and wage his own war, he's got another thing coming."

Bullock nodded, determination in his eyes. "We'll get him, Commissioner. No one gets to play judge, jury, and executioner in Gotham. Not on our watch."

The door creaked softly as Commissioner Gordon entered his home. The scent of leftover dinner hung in the air, but the usual warmth he associated with coming home was missing tonight. The lights were dim, and the house was eerily quiet. Tired lines etched his face, the events of the night still heavy on his mind.

From the living room, he could hear a soft sniffle. Barbara sat on the couch, a tissue clutched in her hand and her eyes red-rimmed. Her gaze met his, and for a moment, neither said a word.

"Hey, kiddo," he murmured, slowly making his way over to sit next to her.

Barbara tried to force a smile, but it faltered. "Hey, Dad."

Gordon gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "Tough night?"

She nodded, wiping her eyes. "It's just... I had a fight with a friend."

The weight of his own burdens momentarily forgotten, Gordon turned his full attention to his daughter. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Barbara hesitated, then exhaled deeply. "His name's Sasuke. Met him at the library. He's... different, Dad. But tonight, we got into an argument at a party. He just doesn't understand, and I tried to explain, but..."

Gordon raised an eyebrow. "Different how?"

She hesitated, searching for the right words. "He's foreign. And he has this... intensity about him. But he was so judgmental about everyone tonight. It was frustrating."

Gordon's eyes softened. "Everyone's got their battles, Barbara. Maybe he's going through something. I've seen a lot of young folks who act tough but are fighting internal wars."

Barbara leaned her head on his shoulder. "Maybe. But he just seemed so... distant. Disconnected. And he has this air of sadness about him."

Gordon wrapped an arm around her. "You're a good judge of character, Barb. Trust your instincts. Though…not everyone is a therapy case. Not everyone needs a helping hand. Some people need to solve things on their own."

Barbara seemed to find that immensely amusing and gave a small laugh. "Well…I mean he is missing an arm…"

Gordon felt his blood run cold.