Flipping Through the Pages
Copyright© 2026 by Dragonpig
Chapter 51
The Batmaker materialized in the sparse apartment, his quantum interface powering down. He looked around the clean, Spartan space and nodded. Good—I’d hate to have to run into Jason right now.
He moved through the apartment quickly, opening cabinets and drawers. “Where is it?”
The bedroom closet held a few jackets and some boots on the floor. He pressed his hand against the back wall. The panel slid aside, revealing a hidden compartment.
“Jackpot.”
The Red Hood suit hung inside: leather jacket, tactical gear, and the red helmet. The Bat Maker lifted the helmet and found what he needed: a single strand of dark hair caught in the lining. He put the helmet back and closed the compartment.
In the kitchen, the Bat Maker pulled out a syringe-like device from his pocket. He inserted the hair into a chamber at the base. The strand dissolved, and the syringe filled with a milky-looking liquid.
“Okay, time to take my medicine.”
He injected the serum into his arm and closed his eyes against the burning sensation. His body shuddered as the genetic material integrated with his own. Many a time I’ve done this, he thought through gritted teeth. If I could just find a Taskmaster, this would be so much easier.
The burning faded. The serum didn’t give him Jason’s abilities—it gave him the potential to develop them through training. Just like when he’d found Green Arrow’s DNA in another universe. Each injection added new possibilities to unlock.
The Bat Maker stored the empty syringe. Jason Todd’s fighting potential now lay dormant in his genetic code, waiting to be developed.
He activated his quantum interface. Time to move on to a universe with a Krypton. But before that, I need to offer a certain disgrace an opportunity that he should not refuse. He dissolved from reality, leaving no trace except for one missing strand of hair.
Charles Victor Szasz sat against the familiar brick wall, his stomach gnawing at itself. Another day, another group of pedestrians pointing and laughing.
“Hey, look, it’s insane Szasz!”
“Still think Batman’s Bruce Wayne, crazy man?”
He closed his eyes and waited for them to pass. Same routine, different day. The mockery had become as regular as sunrise, but it never stopped hurting.
“Hey, hungry?”
Charles looked up to see a well-dressed man standing over him. The face clicked into place immediately—expensive clothes, confident bearing.
“Wait,” Charles said, squinting up at him. “I remember you. You’re the one who gave me that meal, took me to—”
“Yeah, about that.” The man gestured toward the street. “Let’s go back to Blimpie’s.”
Charles struggled to his feet, his legs shaky from hunger. Three days since I last ate anything substantial. As they walked across the street, he studied his benefactor more closely. The same expensive clothes, the same confident bearing. But there was something different this time—a purpose in the man’s movements that hadn’t been there before.
Inside Blimpie’s, Charles ordered the same foot-long Italian sub, chips, and a cookie. His hands trembled slightly as he unwrapped the sandwich. The man across from him ordered just a coffee this time.
“Nothing in life is free,” Charles said between bites, his reporter instincts kicking in despite his desperation. “So what do you want exactly?”
The man smiled. “You’re right. Nothing in life is free. I want to offer you a job opportunity.”
Charles paused mid-bite. A job? After all this time? “What?” he asked suspiciously, though he kept his voice neutral. Too good to be true. Has to be.
“You like to figure out answers to questions, right?”
“Yes,” Charles said carefully.
“I can tell you’re a person of good observation. You think outside the box.”
Charles nodded, his mind racing. This could be anything. Could be a setup, could be someone making fun of me. But... His stomach cramped with hunger, reminding him of his reality. What choice do I have?
“Okay,” he said. “What’s the deal?”
The man leaned forward. “My name is Bruce Wayne, and I’m from a different universe. I need someone to do some detective work for me.”
Different universe? Charles thought. Either this guy’s crazier than people think I am, or... He remembered the Joker’s words, remembered how everything impossible had turned out to be true. Maybe crazy is just what people call things they can’t understand.
“Your only purpose would be to find certain things for me, figure things out. You like stuff like that, correct?”
“Correct,” Charles said, his heart beginning to race. Detective work. Real detective work again.
“What’s the catch?”
“There is no catch. All your needs will be met. You’ll get paid a salary, live comfortably. You won’t be ridiculed—you’ll be appreciated for your intelligence.”
Charles stared at the man claiming to be Bruce Wayne from another universe. This is insane. But so was everything else I figured out, and I was right about all of it. He looked around the sandwich shop, then back at his benefactor. Right now my life is ridicule and starvation. Whatever this is, whatever the real catch might be, it has to be better than dying slowly on the street.
“You’re serious?” he asked.
“Completely.”
Charles took another bite of his sandwich, buying time to think. I’ve got nothing left to lose. Nothing. And if he really is Bruce Wayne... The pieces clicked together in his mind. Bruce Wayne is Batman. This Bruce Wayne says he’s from another universe. That would make him another Batman. Why would Batman need a detective?
“Sure,” Charles said, surprising himself with how quickly the word came out. “I accept.”
Whatever this really is, he thought as relief flooded through him, at least I won’t starve.
The bass thumped through Meteor Bar’s sound system as Chad Thunderstroke flexed his way through the crowd. At six-foot-three with a jawline that could cut glass and abs that looked airbrushed, he was the kind of guy who made women turn their heads and men unconsciously suck in their stomachs.
“Hey there, beautiful,” he said, sliding up to the bar next to a woman with striking features and intelligent eyes behind trendy glasses. She wore a trench coat over a surprisingly form-fitting dress. “I’m—”
“Some dude,” she finished, not looking up from her tablet where she was running complex calculations.
“Yeah! How’d you know?”
Dr. Elena Vasquez glanced up, took in his perfectly sculpted face and the way his shirt seemed painted onto his muscular frame, and felt her scientific objectivity take a brief vacation. “Lucky guess,” she said with a smile. “I’m Elena.”
“Elena,” he repeated, leaning closer with a grin that had launched a thousand Instagram followers. “So what do you do when you’re not looking absolutely incredible?”
Despite herself, Elena laughed. The line was terrible, but his delivery was so earnestly confident that it somehow worked. “I’m a theoretical physicist. I study dimensional barriers and quantum tunneling.”
Chad nodded sagely, having understood maybe three words. “That’s so hot. Smart girls drive me crazy.”
Two hours and several drinks later, Elena found herself writing her address on a napkin. Her colleagues would be horrified—she was giving her number to a man who’d asked if “quantum” was a type of protein powder. But God help her, he was gorgeous, surprisingly sweet, and she hadn’t gotten laid in eight months.
“Come by around nine,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll be in my ... lab.”
Chad’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning. “Your lab? Kinky. I love a woman with hobbies.”
At 9:15 PM, Some Dude stood outside Elena’s house—a modest two-story with an unusual amount of electrical cables running to the basement. He’d spent forty-five minutes perfecting his hair and choosing the tank top that best showcased his arms.
The front door was unlocked. He let himself in, calling out, “Elena? Babe? Ready for some ... experimentation?”
Her voice echoed from somewhere below: “Down here! Just ... give me five minutes to finish the final calculations!”
Chad wandered through her living room, noting the framed diplomas, scientific journals, and what looked like a Nobel Prize sitting on her bookshelf like a paperweight. Smart girls were so mysterious.
Following the sound of humming machinery, he found a staircase leading to the basement. The walls were lined with equipment that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie—banks of computers, cables thick as his wrist, and in the center of it all, a circular platform surrounded by a ring of metal that crackled with energy.
“Whoa,” he breathed, moving closer to the glowing portal. The air around it shimmered like heat waves. “Elena, this setup is wild. Very ... atmospheric.”
“Almost ready!” her voice called from behind a bank of computers. “Just don’t touch anything!”
But Some Dude was already reaching toward the portal, mesmerized by the swirling light. It looked warm, inviting, like the world’s most expensive mood lighting. Maybe this was her thing—some kind of elaborate roleplay setup. He’d dated a girl once who was really into costumes.
“Here goes nothing,” he said with a grin, and stepped into the light.
The world exploded into sensation—colors that didn’t have names, sounds that weren’t quite sounds, and the strangest feeling of being stretched like taffy across impossible distances. Then everything went black.
Behind her computer array, Elena looked up at her readings and frowned. The dimensional barrier was fluctuating wildly, and her sensors were detecting some kind of massive gravitational anomaly. That was impossible—her experiment was designed to create a tiny, stable viewing portal to observe parallel dimensions, not...
Her screens went white. Every alarm in the lab started screaming at once. And somewhere in the chaos of sound and light, she heard the one thing that would haunt her for the rest of her short life: the deep, geographical rumble of a planet about to explode.
Chad woke up face-down on what looked like purple sand under a red sun. His head felt like someone had used it as a basketball, but otherwise, he felt ... amazing. Better than amazing. He felt like he could bench press a building.
He pushed himself up with one hand and accidentally launched himself fifteen feet into the air.
“Okay,” he said, landing gracefully despite having no idea how. “That’s new.”
The landscape around him was alien but beautiful—crystalline formations jutting from lavender plains under a crimson sky. In the distance, he could see a city that looked like it was made of glass and silver. “Elena?” he called out, looking around. “Babe? Where did you go? This is next-level kinky, but I’m into it!”
A shadow fell over him. He looked up to see three figures standing on a flying platform descending from the sky—tall, pale people in flowing robes, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and concern.
“Greetings, stranger,” one of them said in accented English. “I am Zara-El of the House of El. You appear to be ... not of Krypton. From where do you come?”
Chad gave his most winning smile. “Earth! Though honestly, I’m not really sure how I got here. I was supposed to be hooking up with this scientist chick, and next thing I know...” He gestured at the alien landscape.
The three Kryptonians exchanged glances. “Earth,” Zara-El repeated slowly. “I am ... afraid I have troubling news about your home planet.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Our long-range sensors detected a massive gravitational collapse in your system approximately one hour ago. Earth has been ... destroyed.”
Some Dude blinked. “Destroyed? Like, the whole thing?”
“I am sorry. You appear to be the last of your kind.”
There was a moment of silence as this information sank in. Then he shrugged. “Well, that sucks. But hey, this place seems pretty cool! And I’m feeling fantastic. Must be the change of scenery.”
The Kryptonians stared at him. Clearly, grief affected different species in different ways.
“What should we call you?” Zara-El asked gently.
Chad thought about it.
“You know what? Just call me Some Dude. That’s what everyone says when they see me anyway—’some dude just saved my cat’ or ‘some dude helped me move my couch.’ It works.”
And so it was that Some Dude became the first and last son of Earth on Krypton, completely unaware that his casual hookup had accidentally destroyed his entire planet—and completely unbothered by his planetary orphan status, because there were so many attractive Kryptonian women around and he could apparently fly now.
The red sun, it turned out, had some very interesting effects on human physiology.
The basement of Kek-Mor’s Authentic Kryptonian Pizza had seen better days. Water stained the ceiling tiles, the fluorescent lights flickered, and the air smelled like old cheese and failure. It was the perfect meeting place for the League of Ineptitude.
“Gentlemen,” announced Kev-El, a lanky Kryptonian with the posture of a question mark, “this week’s meeting is now in session. As usual, we gather to discuss the ongoing crisis of ... him.”
The other members shifted in their folding chairs. Jor-Van, whose gut hung over his belt, cracked his knuckles. “You mean that Earthling bastard who’s ruining our lives?”
“Some Dude,” Kek-Mor spat, and the name fell from his lips like a curse. “The so-called hero of Krypton.”
“Hero,” Jor-Van laughed bitterly. “He’s not a hero. He’s a planet-destroying home-wrecker who got lucky with some cosmic radiation.”
“Actually,” piped up Nim-Quel, a nervous-looking guy with thick glasses, “the red sun doesn’t emit radiation per se, it’s more about the difference in spectral output affecting his cellular—”
“SHUT UP, NIM!” the other three shouted in unison.
Kev-El stood up, his fists clenched. “Let me tell you what that muscle-bound moron did to me. What he took from me.”
He began pacing the small room, his voice rising with each word. “I had everything, guys. Everything. Lila was the most beautiful girl in Sector 7—long silver hair, eyes like blue crystals, a smile that could stop traffic. And she was MINE. We’d been dating for two years. TWO YEARS!”
“Get to the point,” Jor-Van muttered.
“The point is that we were happy! Sure, I wasn’t the strongest guy, or the richest, or the smartest—”
“Or the best looking, or the funniest, or the most interesting,” Kek-Mor added helpfully.
Kev-El shot him a withering look. “We were HAPPY. Until that cursed day when Zod decided to hijack Flight 247 to New Kandor.”
The room fell silent. They all remembered the news coverage. “Lila was on that flight,” Kev-El continued, his voice cracking. “Business trip. I was supposed to be with her, but I had to work late at the Department of Forms and Permits. When I heard about the hijacking...” He slumped back into his chair. “I was in shock. I couldn’t do anything. I’m not a hero, guys. I issue permits for food trucks.”
“So what happened?” Nim-Quel asked, even though they all knew the story.
“What happened is that HE showed up,” Kev-El snarled. “Flying through the air like some kind of god, his perfect hair not even messed up by the wind. The hijackers had these military-grade plasma rifles, and he just ... he tanked the shots like they were water guns. Then he ripped the door clean off the aircraft—while it was still flying!—and tossed the hijackers into the clouds like they were made of paper.”
Kev-El’s hands were shaking now. “And the whole time, he had this stupid, oblivious smile on his face. Like saving a plane full of people was just another Tuesday for him. Which, knowing him, it probably was.”
“But here’s the real kicker,” Kev-El’s voice dropped to a whisper. “When the plane landed safely, Lila ran off to thank him. And I ... I just stood there. This beautiful, god-like being had just saved the woman I loved, and all I could think about was how small I felt standing next to him.”
Jor-Van nodded grimly. “The comparison trap. We’ve all been there.”
“She gave him her number,” Kev-El said flatly. “Right in front of me. While I was still shaking from thinking I’d lost her forever, she looked at this guy—this perfect, heroic, devastatingly handsome guy—and handed over her contact information like I wasn’t even there.”
“Did you say anything?” Kek-Mor asked.
“What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey honey, I know this guy just saved your life and the lives of two hundred other people, but could you maybe not flirt with him because it hurts my feelings?’”
The room was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator in the corner.
“She left me three days later,” Kev-El continued. “Said she needed to ‘explore her options’ and that I seemed ‘emotionally unavailable’ after the incident. Emotionally unavailable! I was processing trauma!”
“That’s rough, man,” Nim-Quel offered.
“You know what the worst part is?” Kev-El looked around the room at his fellow failures. “I know—we all know—that if Some Dude hadn’t been there, those people would have died. Including Lila. So part of me is grateful to him. But the other part, the bigger part, hates him with every fiber of my being. Because he didn’t just save her life. He showed her what a real man looks like.”
Jor-Van raised his soda can in a mock toast. “To Some Dude. The guy who makes the rest of us look like genetic mistakes.”
“Cheers,” the others mumbled, clinking their drinks together in the most depressing toast in the history of malehood.
“Alright,” Kev-El said, wiping his eyes. “Who’s next? Kek-Mor, you want to tell your story?”
Kek-Mor cracked his knuckles and leaned forward. “Oh, I’ve got a story for you guys. And it’s going to make yours look like a love song.”
Kek-Mor stood up from his chair, which groaned under his weight. He was a large man—not fat, exactly, but soft in the way of someone who’d spent too many years behind a computer screen and not enough time doing anything requiring physical movement. His beard was unkempt, his clothes slightly too small, and his eyes held the particular bitterness of someone who considered himself unappreciated by the world.
“My story,” he began, adjusting his thick glasses, “is about intellectual compatibility. Something none of you mouth-breathers would understand.”
“Here we go,” Jor-Van muttered.
“SILENCE, caveman!” Kek-Mor boomed. “You want to hear about Some Dude ruining lives? Let me tell you about Zara-Van, the most beautiful and brilliant woman in New Kandor. PhD in quantum mechanics, legs that went on for days, and an ass that could make a grown man weep.”
“Classy,” Kev-El said dryly.
“She was PERFECT for me,” Kek-Mor continued, ignoring the interruption. “Finally, a woman who could appreciate intellect over brawn. Someone who understood that true compatibility comes from mental stimulation, not physical attraction.”
Nim-Quel shifted uncomfortably. “Didn’t you meet her in a chat room for people arguing about theoretical physics?”
“It was a FORUM for academic discourse!” Kek-Mor snapped. “And yes, our first conversation was a three-hour debate about the practical applications of dimensional theory. She was impressed by my knowledge of quantum mechanics and string theory. We had real chemistry—intellectual chemistry.”
“So what went wrong?” Kev-El asked, though he suspected he knew.
Kek-Mor’s expression darkened. “What went wrong is that she was needy. Constantly wanting ‘attention’ and ‘quality time’ and other emotional nonsense. I’m working on a revolutionary new algorithm that could change the way we understand space-time, and she’s bothering me because I missed our dinner reservation.”
“How many dinner reservations did you miss?” Nim-Quel asked quietly.
“That’s not the point! The point is that great minds need space to work. I was on the verge of a breakthrough that could have made us both famous, and she couldn’t see past her petty need for constant validation.”
Jor-Van leaned back in his chair. “Let me guess. She got tired of being ignored and went out with her friends.”
“She went to a bar with her girlfriends for something called ‘self-care night,’” Kek-Mor spat. “I told her she was being dramatic, but did she listen? Of course not. Women never listen to logic.”
The other members exchanged glances. Even for the League of Ineptitude, Kek-Mor was pushing it.
“Anyway,” he continued, “while she was out wasting time socializing, a Class-7 Destroyer Bot broke free from the Kandorian Defense Center and started tearing up downtown. Military-grade weaponry, energy shields, the works. The kind of thing that takes a full squadron of our best fighters to handle.”
“But?” Kev-El prompted.
“But some dude shows up,” Kek-Mor’s voice dripped with venom. “Flying around in that ridiculous tight costume, posing for the cameras. And what does he do to this highly advanced killing machine? Does he use strategy? Does he analyze its weak points? Does he apply any kind of intellectual approach whatsoever?”
“I’m guessing no,” Nim-Quel said.
“He backhanded it. ONCE. One smack and a trillion-credit piece of military engineering crumples like paper. Then he stands there flexing while chunks of robot rain down around him, and every woman in a five-block radius starts swooning.”
Kek-Mor sat down heavily, his chair creaking ominously. “Including Zara-Van. My girlfriend. My intellectual equal. She took one look at this brain-dead muscle freak and apparently forgot everything she ever learned about the value of intelligence over physical prowess.”
“She gave him her number too?” Kev-El asked.
“Worse. She asked HIM for HIS number. Right there in the wreckage, while the city’s still cleaning up robot parts, she walks up to him and says, ‘I’m Zara-Van, and I think what you did was amazing.’”
Kek-Mor’s voice cracked slightly. “You know what he said back? ‘Cool name, babe. You look smart. I like smart girls.’ That’s it. That’s the level of discourse that won over my girlfriend of two years. ‘You look smart.’”
“Did you try to fight for her?” Nim-Quel asked.
Kek-Mor looked at him like he’d asked if fish could fly. “Fight for her? What was I supposed to do, challenge Some Dude to an arm-wrestling contest? The man can kick buildings into rubbish. I’m a theoretical physicist with carpal tunnel syndrome.”
“You could have, you know, talked to her,” Jor-Van suggested. “Maybe apologized for neglecting her needs and promised to be more attentive.”
“Why should I have to apologize for having priorities?” Kek-Mor snapped. “She knew I was working on something important. A woman who truly understood me would have supported my work instead of demanding constant entertainment like some kind of emotional vampire.”
The room fell silent. Even for the League of Ineptitude, this was uncomfortable territory.
“So she left you for Some Dude?” Kev-El asked finally.
“She left me for the IDEA of Some Dude,” Kek-Mor corrected bitterly. “Turns out she didn’t want an intellectual equal after all. She wanted someone who would pay attention to her, make her feel special, treat her like she mattered more than quantum equations. She wanted emotion over logic, presence over genius.”
He looked around the room at his fellow failures. “But here’s what really gets me: Some Dude probably doesn’t even remember her name by now. He’s got a new girl every week, and she’s just another notch on his ridiculously tight belt. She threw away a meaningful relationship with someone who genuinely understood her mind for a chance to be another entry in his little black book.”
“Have you talked to her since?” Nim-Quel asked gently.
“She tried to call me once, about a month after she moved out. Said she wanted to ‘explain her feelings’ and hoped we could ‘work things out.’ As if I’d take back someone who chose brawn over brains the moment she got the chance.”
Kek-Mor’s hands were balled into fists now. “Some Dude didn’t steal my girlfriend, guys. He just ... exposed her. Showed me that she was never really the intellectual partner I thought she was. She was just another shallow woman who talked a good game about valuing intelligence but folded the moment a pretty face with perfect abs showed up.”
Jor-Van raised his can again. “To Zara-Van. Another woman who couldn’t appreciate what she had.”
“Cheers,” the others muttered, though this time the toast felt even more hollow than the last one.
“Alright,” Kek-Mor said, settling back into his protesting chair. “Jor-Van, you’re up. Let’s hear how the golden boy ruined your life.”
Jor-Van smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant expression. “Oh, my story’s different, guys. See, Some Dude never stole my girlfriend.”
The others looked confused.
“That’s because I’ve never HAD a girlfriend. But I’ve got a theory about why that is, and it all comes back to him.”
Jor-Van heaved himself up from his chair, which was a process that involved several false starts and at least one wheeze. At thirty-five, he was the oldest member of the League, and his body showed the effects of years of poor diet, no exercise, and the kind of bitter resentment that aged a man from the inside out.
“My story,” he began, “isn’t about losing a woman to Some Dude. It’s about never having a chance with one in the first place, thanks to that muscle-bound freak.”
He started pacing, which was more of a slow waddle around the small basement room. “See, guys, I’ve done the math. Before Some Dude showed up on our planet, I had statistical probabilities. There were women out there who might have been interested in a guy like me—someone stable, reliable, with a good job at the Department of Atmospheric Regulation.”
“What kind of job?” Nim-Quel asked.
“I monitor cloud formations,” Jor-Van said defensively. “It’s important work! Someone has to make sure our weather patterns stay within acceptable parameters. Do you know what happens when atmospheric pressure drops too rapidly?”
“No,” Kev-El said flatly.
“Well, neither do most people, which is why they don’t appreciate the vital service I provide to society!” Jor-Van was getting worked up now, his face turning red. “But that’s beside the point. The point is that I had VALUE to offer. Maybe I’m not the most handsome guy, or the most charismatic, but I’m dependable. I’m the kind of man who shows up, who pays his bills on time, who’s never missed a day of work in fifteen years.”
“Sounds thrilling,” Kek-Mor muttered.
“Mock me all you want, but there are women who value stability! Or at least there WERE, before HE showed up and ruined the entire dating ecosystem of Krypton.”
Jor-Van stopped his pacing and faced the group. “You see, I’ve been studying this scientifically. I’ve created charts, analyzed patterns, conducted thorough research into the mating preferences of Kryptonian females. And what I’ve discovered will shock you.”
He pulled out a tablet and started swiping through what appeared to be dozens of graphs and spreadsheets. “Before Some Dude’s arrival, the average Kryptonian woman had realistic expectations. They were looking for partners who were maybe 20-30% more attractive than themselves, with compatible personalities and shared values.”
“Where did you get this data?” Nim-Quel asked suspiciously.
“I’ve been monitoring dating app statistics, conducting surveys, and observing social interactions at various public venues,” Jor-Van said matter-of-factly.
“You mean you’ve been creeping on women,” Kev-El translated.
“I prefer ‘conducting field research,’” Jor-Van sniffed. “And my research shows that Some Dude’s presence has fundamentally altered female expectations across the board. Suddenly, every woman on Krypton thinks she deserves a man who can fly, lift tanks, and looks like he was carved from marble by the gods themselves.”
He swiped to another chart. “Look at this data! Since Some Dude’s arrival, standards have skyrocketed 300%. Women who used to be perfectly happy with normal guys are now holding out for superhero-level partners. The market has been completely distorted!”
“Maybe they just realized they could do better,” Kek-Mor suggested.
“Better than WHAT?!” Jor-Van exploded. “I’m a good person! I’m kind, I’m loyal, I have excellent hygiene—”
“Debatable,” Kev-El coughed.
“—and I would treat a woman like a QUEEN! But do any of them give me a chance? No! Because they’re all too busy fantasizing about Some Dude’s abs and his stupid perfect hair.”
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