Batman: Eternal: Season 3, Episode 8 - Sub-Zero

“You can’t keep any of your damn promises,” Tim growled, shoving clothes into the duffel bag.

“So… what? You charge into the unknown on your own?” Bruce asked.

“You sent me into the field as Batman. I went up against Deathstroke and lived.”

“He let you live,” Bruce explained.

“Out of my way,” Tim said, pushing past Bruce to get to his closet. He needed more pants.

“Tim, you’re not leaving,” Bruce said, gripping his arm.

“You’re not stopping me,” Tim shot back. He shook his arm free.

“I’m not letting you have your suit,” Bruce warned.

“I’ll use the old one,” Tim said, “Works better for stealth, anyways.”

“And where’s your old suit hiding?” Bruce asked, smugly.

“I took it up from the Batcave,” Tim smirked, “Figured I might need it for missions you didn’t necessarily approve.”

With that, Tim reached under his large bed, and dragged out a long black case. It was bulletproof and had three layers of security. All manual, so it couldn’t be hacked. First was a 4-digit code. Next was a pattern of buttons. Finally was a keyhole. Tim grabbed his pillow from the bed, tore it open, and produced a key.

As Bruce stood by, almost impressed, Tim entered the code. 2983. He then punched in the little buttons to form an R. Lastly, he jimmied the key in, and turned. The case clicked. Tim lifted the top to reveal his old costume.

His newer costume had gone for a more streamlined Robin look. It was bright red chested, with green shoulder and forearm armor. His pants were form-fitting and black, with green shin guards and hip plates. His bright yellow belt was as prominent as ever. He also wore the ever-popular domino mask. His logo was two yellow R’s on the left of his chest. His cape fell loose, ready to stiffen if he needed to glide.

His old costume, however, was much different. The torso was dark red with a black X across the chest, meeting in a yellow circle. The circle contained the Red Robin insignia. The headgear was a cowl similar to Batman’s, minus the ears. The cape was hooked to the arms, and spread like feathers. The pants were bulky and jet black, with a few compartments for gadgets.

Tim began to wiggle into the costume.

“Stop it,” Bruce ordered.

Tim swatted Bruce, but Bruce caught his arm, squeezing tightly.

“Are we doing this?” Tim challenged, “Right now?”

“I’ll do what I need to,” Bruce said.

“What you need to do is help me free my friend from the Phantom Zone!” Tim exclaimed, “Just help me get the parts. I’ll build the machine on my own. I figured out how it works.”

“No. We’re catching Deathstroke and his employer, first,” Bruce growled.

Tim shoved Bruce away. Bruce’s nostrils flared, and his eyes widened. He charged at Tim, tackling him to the floor. Tim rolled over on top of Bruce, and held his arms down. Bruce’s head thrashed, trying to bite Tim. Tim swiftly leapt away from Bruce, trying to assess the situation. Surely Bruce wouldn’t actually hurt him… right?

Seconds later, Tim was slumped against the wall, bleeding from his forehead. Bruce had hurled a porcelain lamp at top speed across the room. Tim couldn’t react.

“What’s wrong with you?” Tim asked, dazed.

Bruce hefted Tim up into the air, his teeth grinding. He slammed him against the bed like a ragdoll. Tim kicked free, and ran out of the room. He pulled the door shut to catch his breath.

Bruce clawed and pounded at the door, confirming Tim’s suspicions. Bruce was under the influence of the Phantom Zone Radiation. He’d had an episode of memory loss. When Tim shoved him, Bruce’s primal instincts were to fight back. However, with his ancient mannerisms, he couldn’t even open a door.

Tim propped himself against the door, then barged in. The door smacked Bruce in the face, knocking him to the ground. Tim spun around Bruce, hooked his arm around his mentor’s neck, and pulled ever so slightly.

“Come on, Bruce. Come back.”

Bruce passed out, and Tim stood up.

“Damian!” Tim yelled, his voice echoing through the mansion.

No response. Had something similar happened with Damian? Was he okay?

Tim raced through the house, and eventually found Damian on the ground floor, in the living room. He was sitting a few feet away from the gigantic, glowing TV. He clutched a PS4 controller, with headphones secured over his ears. He had been entranced by the video game he was playing.

“Damian?” Tim asked, waving his hand in front of Damian’s face. Damian paused the game, removed his headphones, and looked up.

“You interrupted my game,” Damian stated, “I’m started to improve.”

“Starting, actually, but points for the contraction,” Tim said, “Look, Damian, we have to go away for a little bit. Your dad needs some alone time. He’s stressed about Deathstroke.”

“I will kill the orange man,” Damian growled.

“Justice! Not vengeance!” Tim shouted, shocked, “Hasn’t Bruce been drilling you with that saying?”

“Where shall we go?” Damian asked.

“Just into Gotham. For a few days. I’ve got a project- well, a few projects now- that I need to work on.”


- - -


14 YEARS AGO…

“I didn’t give a shit about what happened next, as long as I killed the Kristall,” Bruce said in the car with Alfred.

“B--? Wh---? Excuse me, sir?” Alfred exclaimed.

“He doomed Dmitry to a slow death after he witnessed his family have their brains splattered over the ground. A fate I came close to,” Bruce said, his face darkening.

“If you kill the crooks, you’re no better than they are!” Alfred argued, “They’ve got families too. Friends. Maybe even just acquaintances who would feel a strange emptiness that they can’t explain.”

“Alfred, you were in the army,” Bruce shot back, “You’ve killed.”

“And you have no idea what I’ve gone through ever since,” Alfred said, letting out a long sigh, “I can’t let my son go through the same thing.”

Bruce put a hand on Alfred’s shoulder, lovingly. He smiled, only to have the smile fall away seconds later.

“It’s too late,” Bruce said, “Because I did it. I found that bastard, towards the end of the revolution. I refused to use a gun. So I killed him. Myself. My own two hands. Clasped around his head. A quick twist and a deafening snap.”

“Good God,” Alfred said, pulling his car off the road. He put his head in his hands.

“Keep going, Alfred. We need to get to the Manor.”

“You snapped his neck?” Alfred asked with watery, red eyes.

“I- I felt the things. Had the nightmares. Dealt with the guilt. I decided that I needed a spiritual rebirth. I headed to southern Asia. Maybe I could catch some Buddhist monks and they could enlighten me or something.”

“Stop your damn story,” Alfred ordered, “We’re not glossing over the fact that you snapped a man’s neck.”

“No. We’re not. But you wanted to know how I got wrapped up in all of this. So I’m telling you. We will talk about the killing later. Right now, I need you to get me home. Step on it,” Bruce said, with a scary amount of authority.

Alfred took off.

“No one wanted to fly me down to India. It was typhoon season. Eventually, a young pilot nervously stepped up to the challenge. He said it was the least he could do after I helped rid the town of the Metel.

“The day we were to depart, I suggested he allowed me to fly down myself. I promised to pay him for the plane. He agreed, and I used some funds from the Metel to pay him.

“I took off on my own soon after, hoping to reach India before my inner demons killed me.

“I reached the Himalayas quickly. Unfortunately, storms blocked my way. I was smart enough not to fly through them and risk crashing in the middle of nowhere. I landed the plane on a little plateau in the Hengduan mountains. That’s when I stopped being smart.

“I sat on a cliff, wrapped in a blanket, admiring the view before the storm arrived. Winds pushed through before the rain and lightning. The gusts were strong enough to spook me. The surprise was what sent me tumbling.

“I tore down the side of the mountain, shredding my body.”

“Doesn’t look like you’re shredded,” Alfred observed, “In the literal sense, at least.”

“That’s the strange thing,” Bruce nodded, “When I woke up, I was fine. I was approached by an old man in regal robes. He informed me that he had healed me in something called a Lazarus Pit. A natural spring that returns vitality.

“Immediately, I asked if they were a religious group. A group that could help me find myself. If they had magical healing pools, surely they were. The man answered that he was the leader of a group that would, indeed, help me find myself.

“For the first few months, they brainwashed me. In a sense. They made me believe they were truly good. Spiritual. Free from inner demons.

“Then they started making me do things. First I beat up on small thugs in villages nestled in the mountain range. They convinced me it was the right thing to do. I believed it. I wasn’t killing anyone.

“The small time shakedowns didn’t phase me. When they moved me to killing, I was concerned. Again, they assured me it was right. They were the League of Assassins. They were solely responsible for making sure the world operated as it should. They removed what they saw as evil as if it were surgery. Remove the tumor, save the body. Remove the evil, save the world.

“The problem was, not everything they saw as evil truly was. Such as, well, here.

“I had been reborn into the League. Khafaash, I dubbed myself. Bat. let go of my previous life, and embraced the League- killing and all.

“The leader of the League, Ra’s, saw me as a worthy heir for when not even the Lazarus Pits could keep him alive. To make sure I was completely loyal, he wanted me to burn every single bridge. Literally. Gotham had to fall.”

“And now you’re here,” Alfred finished.

“And now I’m here,” Bruce nodded, “Alfred, I’ve done some messed up shit while I was away. I don’t expect you to forgive me-”

“I suppose I’ll get there eventually,” Alfred sighed.

Bruce smiled before continuing, “I just ask that you help me right my wrongs.”

“That is what I’m for,” Alfred said.

Almost ten minutes later, they pulled up the long driveway leading to Wayne Manor. Bruce sprung out of the car, and shot inside.

Nothing had changed. Except for the dust. Dust was everywhere, on every surface, all throughout the air. It was insufferable.

“We’re gonna need to clean this place after all this is over,” Bruce said.

“I’m thrilled.”

Bruce threw his bloody clothes to the ground, and rushed upstairs to change. He then ran back outside, over to a small, dilapidated garden that Alfred had failed to tend to in Bruce’s absence.

“We need to regrow the plants too,” Bruce said, right before opening the door to a shed at the corner of the garden.

“Looking forward to all of these chores, sir.”

Bruce walked to the back corner of the shed. There was a bright green cabinet full of gardening tools on the ground. Bruce pushed the cabinet aside, revealing a hole in the ground.

“Where are you going?” Alfred asked, “That leads down to the cave system. You’ll get lost.”

“I just need one thing.”

Bruce grabbed a long rope from the wall, wrapped it around a stake, and drove it into the ground.

“I’ve done this before,” Bruce assured.

Bruce rappelled down into the pitch-black hole. Once his feet hit the rocky ground with a satisfying tap, bats started to shriek.

“Calm yourselves,” Bruce said to himself, reaching down to pick up a folded suit. He tucked it under his arm, and climbed back out.

“What was it you needed?” Alfred asked upon Bruce’s reentry to the surface world.

“This,” Bruce said, laying the suit over the cabinet. It was a dark gray jacket with black sleeves. The arms and chests were padded with a simple polyethylene compound that could stop slower projectiles. There was a black balaclava sewn into the gray hood, with cut pieces of a baseball helmet on the inside. It gave the appearance of a bloated head, but it provided some protection. The black sweatpants only had foam along the inside, with knee pads for joint security.

“What are you planning on doing with ‘this’?” Alfred asked.

“My best,” Bruce admitted, “I don’t know if I can single-handedly stop this siege, but I can do my best to help.”

“Your best is going out dressed up like a shadow and beating up on the assassins?” Alfred cocked an eyebrow, “Why don’t you do a public appearance. Downtown. Show Gotham that their controversial celebrity has returned. Rally the troops. Like you did in Yakutsk.”

“I’ll rally the troops. But they don’t need Bruce Wayne. They need… this,” Bruce said, gesturing to the suit, “A nobody. Rising up to battle the bad guys. It’s the plot of every action movie ever.”

“Okay,” Alfred gave in, sighing, “But when you’re out there, giving the assassins a taste of your fist, just remember- justice. Not vengeance.”


- - -


PRESENT…

Tim looked around at the motel room. One queen bed with a few gray spots on the sheets. A stained recliner that was a weird shade of blue. A TV from the Stone Age.

“Better than nothing,” Tim shrugged, tossing his old Red Robin suit on the bed, “Damian, settle in.”

“I like the big house,” Damian groaned.

“Smart little boy,” Tim chuckled.

Tim turned on the TV to destress. To his dismay, it only had one channel. The news. The news was always depressing. This time, it was just rattling.

The story was about the Bat-Symbol. It had been sprayed in ice. All over City Hall.

“I really don’t need this right now,” Tim muttered, standing back up, “Damian, you stay here.”

“I can help. I train. I’m ready,” Damian promised.

“Two contractions in one day!” Tim marvelled, “Damian, I know you’ve trained. You’re a great fighter. Maybe better than me. Maybe. But I don’t know how much restraint you’d be able to show. So you need to stay here. Guard this room from intruders.”

“Ass,” Damian grumbled.

“Hey! That’s one part of Western culture I don’t want you picking up on!” Tim shouted.

Tim relaxed his shoulder, tussled Damian’s short hair, and put on his suit.

“Be good,” Red Robin instructed, before leaving the motel room through the tiny window.

Red Robin shot across the city, switching between his grappling gun and wingsuit within seconds. He made it to City Hall quicker than ever before, thanks to the motel being in the heart of the city.

Police were gathered around the ice symbol, debating what had happened.

“Maybe the serial killer is an ice-romaniac,” one cop joked to another, “You know, like pyromaniac, but-?”

“Shut the hell up,” the other said playfully.

“What went down here?” Red Robin asked, coming up between the two police officers. He knew full well they had no clue. He just wanted to make his presence known.

“Where’s Batman?” the first cop questioned.

“I asked first,” Red Robin said.

“No clue. Now you answer.”

“I’m right here,” Batman said, striding up behind Red Robin.

“Batman?” Red Robin was shocked.

Suddenly, Batman’s mouth morphed into a concerned frown.

“Clear the area. Now,” Batman ordered.

The cops rushed off, yelling at their brothers and sisters in arms to get away from the building.

“I’m picking up sub-zero temperatures on my cowl scanner,” Batman explained to Red Robin, “Not just the symbol. The culprit is still here.”

“Br- Batman, do you remember anything from earlier today?” Red Robin asked, warily.

“Of course. Why would you ask something like that. I’m more concerned about you. Running off with Damian while I was napping. Where were you?” Batman inquired.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about after this,” Red Robin said.

“Batman,” a deep, mechanized voice boomed, “Come peacefully, and the bird lives.”

“Show yourself,” Batman ordered.

“You already know where I am. Your sensors. I have them too,” the voice said. A figure stepped out from the shadow of a tall building. He was a hulking steel machine. Frost covered some of the suit, while other parts were shiny. His head was contained in a capsule that shot up from the neckline of the suit. His head was tall and oval shaped, with very defined features. His cheekbones were high, his eyebrows thick, his nose sharp. His eyes were glassy, his lips chapped, and his skin… a pale blue. A breathing apparatus was hooked up to the machine to regulate oxygen inside the capsule. What looked like a larger version of Penguin’s cold gun was hooked to the side of the suit.

“Why did you do this?” Batman asked, “What purpose does graffiting City Hall in ice serve? It’ll just melt away.”

“It got your attention, didn’t it?” the mech-man mocked.

“You wanted me here?” Batman almost laughed.

“Y- Yeah,” the mech-man nodded, his voice slipping for a second.

“He’s nervous,” Red Robin pointed out, “We’ve got this.”

“Of course we do,” Batman confirmed, “Take out whatever weapon is on his side. I’ll keep his attention.”

“Can do,” Red Robin nodded.

“Why did you want me here?” Batman asked, “To prove yourself? To prove you’re a big boy who can take on the big, bad Bat?”

Red Robin began to slink away while Batman held mech-man’s interest.

“I want you for… hostage money,” mech-man said after thinking for a few moments.

“Are you sure you know what you want?” Batman mocked.

Red Robin aimed his grappling gun at mech-man’s crazy, rectangular gun.

“Of course I do!” mech-man roared.

Red Robin fired, catching mech-man’s weapon, and pulling it towards him. He caught the gun. It was frigid to the touch.

“No one messes with Mr. Freeze!” mech-man shrieked, his voice breaking again.

“Mr. Freeze?” Red Robin laughed, while playing cold-potato with the gun, “Oh this is priceless.”

Batman raced to Mr. Freeze, and started landing blows left and right. Red Robin got himself under control, and prepared to use the cold gun. The freezing temperatures seemed to burn his fingers. But he needed the shot. With a clear blast, he pulled the oversized trigger.

The beam of pure cold slammed into Mr. Freeze, knocking him away from Batman.

“Just the boost I needed,” Mr. Freeze said, almost uncertainly. Was it really the boost he needed.

“Drop the freeze-ray, Red!” Batman ordered.

“This dude runs off cold?” Red Robin wondered out loud, “Maybe Mr. Freeze really is a fitting name.”

Mr. Freeze struggled with Batman. They were two titans, pushing against each other, occasionally throwing a punch.

Batman stared deeply into Mr. Freeze’s eyes.

“You’re scared,” Batman stated, “Terrified. You don’t want to be doing this. So stop.”

Mr. Freeze stopped pushing, allowing Batman to topple him.

“I have to do this,” Mr. Freeze said in a meek voice.

Batman took a step back. There was genuine emotion in Mr. Freeze’s robotic voice.

Mr. Freeze pulled a canister off of his suit, and flung it at Batman. It exploded as if it were an ice frag grenade. Ice shards shot into Batman, knocking him back.

Mr. Freeze took off.

“Batman, you good?” Red Robin asked as he shot past his fallen master. He was in hot pursuit of Mr. Freeze.

“Fine,” Batman assured.

Mr. Freeze turned into the shadow of the building he had appeared from. Red Robin followed close behind, using his grappling gun to cover the distance faster.

When he finally got ahead of Mr. Freeze, he perched on the side of the gas station directly in the villain’s path. He waited for the perfect time to leap down and strike.

Then, he felt something like a searing scratch across the back of his head.

He fell forward, off of the gas station, and went unconscious.