Flipping Through the Pages
Copyright© 2026 by Dragonpig
Chapter 30
Batman drove the Batmobile through Gotham’s empty streets. He’d just finished stopping a crime and was heading back to the cave. The familiar hum of the engine filled the cockpit.
Then everything stopped.
No warning lights. No system alerts. The engine didn’t sputter or fade—it just cut out like someone had flipped a switch. Batman felt the steering wheel go loose in his hands as the car coasted to a stop.
He checked the dashboard. Every screen was black. He pressed buttons, flipped switches. Nothing responded. The Batmobile’s systems were completely dead.
Batman heard the passenger door open behind him.
He spun around. A man sat in the passenger seat as if he belonged there. The man wore all black—black clothes, black gloves. His head was covered by what looked like a smooth black mask, but it wasn’t like any mask Batman had seen. It was featureless, like someone had stretched black fabric tight over a face, erasing every detail. No eye holes. No mouth opening. Just a blank black surface where a face should be.
Batman couldn’t tell where the man was looking or even if he could see through that thing.
“Who are you?” Batman demanded, his hand moving toward his utility belt. “How did you get in here?”
The voice came from behind the featureless mask, clear and casual. “Hey, Bruce Wayne. How you doing?”
“I’m not Bruce Wayne,” Batman said sharply. “I’m Batman.”
The man’s featureless head nodded slightly. Batman couldn’t see any expression, couldn’t read anything from that blank black surface, but he could hear the amusement in the voice. “Come on, Bruce. We both know that’s not true.”
Batman’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know who you are or how you got in here, but—”
“But what?” The man settled back in the passenger seat. “You’re going to throw me out? Call the police? Tell them Batman found a stranger in his car?”
Batman reached for a batarang. “I’m warning you.”
“You’ve been doing this for what, eighty years now?” The man’s voice was casual, conversational. “Fighting crime night after night. Don’t you think that’s a little ... impossible?”
Batman froze. His hand stayed on the batarang but didn’t draw it.
“That’s not possible, is it, Bruce?”
Batman stared at the featureless mask. “Eighty years? I’m thirty-five. I’ve been Batman for maybe fifteen years.”
“Have you?” The man leaned forward slightly. “What about the Justice League? You were a founding member, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“And the Super Friends? Remember them? You, Superman, Wonder Woman, Aquaman. All those Saturday mornings.”
Batman’s grip on the batarang tightened. “That was a dream. Fiction.”
“Were they?” The man’s voice stayed maddeningly calm. “What about your no-kill rule, Bruce? When did that start?”
“I’ve always—” Batman stopped. A flash of memory hit him. Standing over a criminal in the 1930s, a smoking gun in his hand. “No. I can’t be that old. That was ... I’m not that old. I’m only thirty-five. That was a dream too.”
“How many martial arts do you know, Bruce?”
The question caught Batman off guard. “I ... what does that matter?”
“Just answer. How many?”
Batman thought. Karate. Judo. Kung Fu. Boxing. Krav Maga. Aikido. Capoeira. The list kept going. “Maybe ... twenty? Thirty?”
“When did you learn them all?”
“I trained extensively—”
“You’ve also mastered criminology, forensics, computer science, engineering, chemistry, psychology, medicine.” The man counted on his fingers. “You speak dozens of languages. You’ve traveled the world. You run a billion-dollar company. You’ve mentored multiple Robins. You’ve died and come back. You’ve traveled through time.”
Batman felt something cold in his stomach. “That’s not—”
“You’ve done all of that in fifteen years? Since you were twenty?” The man tilted his featureless head. “It might’ve been possible if you were in your eighties. Like you are.”
“I’m not eighty years old!”
“Then how, Bruce? How did you fit a lifetime of training and experience into fifteen years? How are you still young after eight decades of crime fighting?”
Batman’s hand shook slightly on the batarang. “You’re not making sense. None of this—”
“What about the Comics Code Authority?” Mr. Black asked suddenly.
Batman blinked. “The what?”
“Oh yes, you would not know anything about that, Bruce. The CCA? I’m glad we got rid of that thing. Talk about putting handcuffs on someone.” The man chuckled behind his featureless mask. “Yes, let’s talk about your no-kill rule, for instance. Makes no sense if you’re actually trying to save Gotham.”
“I don’t kill because—” Batman started automatically, then stopped. The words felt rehearsed. “I don’t kill because once I cross that line, I won’t be able to stop. If I kill one criminal, I’ll keep going down that path. I believe in redemption.”
“Yeah, blah blah blah,” Mr. Black waved dismissively. “The fact is, you don’t kill because of an organization called the Comics Code Authority. They made rules about what could and couldn’t be shown. No excessive violence. No killing by heroes. It wasn’t about your moral growth, Bruce—it was about keeping things sanitized.”
Batman stared at him. “That’s ... that’s not...”
“It helped us writers too—which I am, by the way. Keeps the company you’re part of making money. Helps us not have to constantly create new villains for you to fight. Can’t have the Joker actually dead, can we? Bad for business.”
Batman felt the world tilt slightly. “Writers? You’re insane.”
“Am I? Tell me, Bruce—when’s the last time you went to the bathroom?”
Batman opened his mouth, then closed it. He couldn’t remember. Not once. Not ever.
“Humans need to relieve themselves, right?” Mr. Black continued. “You’re human, right?”
“I...” Batman’s voice came out smaller than he intended.
“I’m one of the writers, Bruce. People like me write your adventures and storylines. Your no-kill rule isn’t some noble ethical stance you developed—it’s branding. Editorial mandates. You didn’t stop killing because you grew as a person. You stopped because the Comics Code Authority made us.”
Batman shook his head sharply. “No. That’s impossible. I remember making that choice. I remember—”
“Do you? Or do you remember us writing that you made that choice?” Mr. Black leaned back in the seat. “Think about it. Really think. Your entire moral philosophy, your training, your relationships—it’s all designed to keep you marketable. Keep you fighting the same villains over and over. Keep the stories going.”
“You’re lying.” But Batman’s voice lacked conviction.
“How many times has the Joker escaped from Arkham? How many times have you caught him, only to have him break out again and kill more people? If you really cared about saving lives, wouldn’t you have found a permanent solution by now?”
Batman felt something cracking inside his chest. “I can’t just—”
“You can’t because we won’t let you. Because dead villains don’t sell comics.”