Flipping Through the Pages
Copyright© 2026 by Dragonpig
Chapter 52
The Bat Maker materialized in the crystalline streets of Kandor, Krypton’s capital city. Towering spires of gleaming metal and crystal conduits stretched toward the red sun above. He adjusted his jacket and took in the sight of this universe’s intact Krypton—a technological marvel that had never suffered destruction.
Now to find those CPU chips, he thought, scanning the bustling streets. Time to figure out how to break into whatever high-security facility manufactures them.
As he walked through the city planning his approach, two Kryptonian teenagers passed by, deep in animated conversation.
“Did you see the specs on the new Brainiac XK-7 processor?” one said excitedly.
“Quantum-tunneling architecture with multi-phasing processing cores,” the other replied. “Twelve teraflops of computational power in a chip the size of your thumbnail. My artificial intelligence project is going to be incredible.”
The Bat Maker stopped dead in his tracks. Brainiac chips? That’s exactly what I need for my project. He followed the teenagers at a distance, listening intently.
“Where did you get yours?” the first one asked.
“Kor-Tech Electronics on Fifth Street. They had a whole display of them. Pretty affordable too—only about two hundred credits each.”
Two hundred credits? It’s a commercial product? The Bat Maker shook his head in amazement. I don’t need to break into any sophisticated government lab. I just need money.
The problem was, he didn’t have any Kryptonian currency.
He wandered the streets for several minutes, considering his options. As he turned a corner, an elderly Kryptonian woman walked past him, her purse slung over her shoulder.
The Bat Maker looked around the street, took a deep breath, and felt a wave of shame wash over him. I can’t do that. She’s an old lady. I feel like crap just thinking about it.
He continued walking, frustrated with his moral dilemma, when he spotted a sign in a shop window: “Help Wanted - Day Worker Needed - Immediate Pay.”
Well, there’s another option.
The Bat Maker walked into the small establishment and approached the owner. “I saw your help wanted sign.”
“Perfect timing! I need someone to help move inventory in the back for the day. Pay is three hundred credits.”
Exactly what I need, he thought.
The Bat Maker spent the entire day lifting boxes, organizing shelves, and doing manual labor. His back ached, his hands were sore, but by evening he had earned his three hundred credits - enough for at least one processor, maybe more depending on what other deals he could find.
Honest work, he thought, pocketing his pay. The store was filled with technology that would be considered miraculous in most universes, all displayed as common consumer goods.
“Can I help you, citizen?” asked a friendly Kryptonian clerk behind the counter.
“Yes, I need Brainiac XK-7 processors. How many can I get for three hundred credits?”
“At two hundred each, you can afford one processor with change left over.”
“I’ll take one then.”
The clerk packaged one of the most sophisticated computer processors in the known multiverse and handed it over with a smile along with his change.
“Thank you for shopping at Kor-Tech! That processor will serve you well in any AI project.”
The Bat Maker walked out of the store, carrying his purchase with a mixture of amazement and amusement. This is easier than I thought it would be. He activated his quantum interface, already planning how these chips would revolutionize his technology.
As he shifted from the universe, he couldn’t help but marvel at the irony, the most advanced computer components he’s ever seen, bought as easily as groceries.
Chuck Cunningham stared at the wood-paneled walls and tried to figure out what the hell was going on.
One minute he’d been walking up the stairs at home, Mom calling that dinner was ready. The next minute he was sitting at this beat-up conference table in some room that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the Nixon administration. No windows. One door. And a TV in the corner showing nothing but static.
Three other people sat around the table, looking just as confused as he felt.
The woman across from him wore a tight black costume with a gold belt and some kind of cat ears. She kept checking her black gloves like she was making sure they were still there. Pretty, but she had this weird theatrical way of holding herself, like she was performing even when nobody was watching.
Next to her sat a guy in a business suit who looked like he was about to have a heart attack. He kept tying and loosening his tie and muttering under his breath about being late for something.
The kid at the far end couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven. Curly hair, polo shirt, the kind of hopeful face that belonged in a family sitcom.
Chuck cleared his throat. “So, uh. Anybody else have any idea how they got here?”
The woman in black straightened up. “Well, darling, I was in the middle of a perfectly executed heist when suddenly I found myself in this charming little room.” She gestured around with one gloved hand. “I’m beginning to suspect this is Batman’s doing.”
“Batman?” The businessman looked up from his tie. “Look, lady, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’ve got the Henderson account presentation tomorrow morning. My wife’s family probably has something to do with this.”
The kid spoke up in a small voice. “I was just watching TV with my family. We were planning this camping trip.” He looked around at all of them. “Maybe we should introduce ourselves? I’m Oliver.”
Chuck nodded. “Chuck Cunningham.”
“Catwoman,” the woman said with a little purr in her voice.
The businessman hesitated. “Darren. Darren Stephens.”
“Okay,” Chuck said. “So we’re Chuck, Catwoman, Darren, and Oliver. And we’re all stuck in this room with no idea how we got here.”
“I was walking upstairs,” Chuck continued. “Just a normal evening. Then boom—here.”
Darren ran his hands through his hair. “This has to be some kind of spell. My wife Samantha, she’s always doing things with her magic, and I keep telling her no witchcraft before breakfast, but does she listen?”
Catwoman raised an eyebrow. “Your wife is a witch?”
“Among other things,” Darren muttered.
Oliver looked between them. “So you think magic did this?”
“What else could it be?” Darren stood up and started pacing. “One minute I’m walking out the door to work, the next I’m in some kind of waiting room.”
Chuck studied the room again. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The TV kept showing static. “What if we’re dead?”
The words came out before he could stop them.
Oliver went pale. “Dead?”
“Don’t say that,” Darren snapped. “Don’t even think it. We’re not dead.”
Catwoman laughed, but it sounded forced. “If we were dead, surely the accommodations would be better. Or worse. This is just ... mediocre.”
Chuck walked over to the TV and tried adjusting the knobs. Nothing but white noise. “If we’re not dead, then what? Kidnapped? Some kind of experiment?”
“I don’t like this,” Oliver said quietly. “I want to go home.”
For a moment, the static on the TV seemed to shift into shapes—almost like faces—before dissolving back into meaningless patterns.
“Did you see that?” Darren stopped pacing.
Chuck squinted at the screen. “See what?”
“The TV. It looked like it was trying to show us something.”
They all stared at the static, but it was just static.
The door opened.
Chuck spun around. A tall man in a red uniform walked in. The letter “D” was emblazoned on his chest, and his face looked like he’d seen things that would give most people nightmares.
“I know who you are,” the stranger said, closing the door behind him. “All of you. Chuck Cunningham. Catwoman. Darren Stephens. And Oliver.”
He looked at each of them in turn.
“My name is Boston Brand, but most people call me Deadman. And I’m here because you need answers.”
Darren turned towards him so fast, he almost lost his balance. “Wait a minute. Are you one of my wife’s friends? Or some distant relative playing games? Because if Samantha put you up to this—”
“I have nothing to do with your wife,” Deadman said calmly. “I’ve never met her.”
Catwoman crossed her arms. “So this has nothing to do with Batman and Robin?”
“No.”
Oliver just stared, wide-eyed and confused.
Chuck stepped forward. “You said you know who we are. How?”
Deadman’s expression was patient, like he’d had this conversation many times before. “You’re not dead. Not exactly. You’re ... glitched. Victims of something called the Cunningham Effect.”
Chuck blinked. “The what effect?”
“Yes,” Deadman nodded. “It’s named after you. The first of many to simply vanish. No goodbye. No explanation. Just ... gone.”
Chuck felt something cold settle in his stomach. “What do you mean?”
Deadman walked over to the TV and started fiddling with the knobs. “The Cunningham Effect is a glitch in universal reality. Some people are erased from existence, replaced, or simply ... vaguely remembered. But you did exist. Your lives were real. You’re now in a narrative limbo, a space where people like you have to make a choice.”
The static on the TV cleared, and suddenly Chuck was looking at himself walking up those familiar stairs. His last memory.
“There you are,” Deadman said. “The last moment before the glitch.”
The picture shifted to the next day. The Cunningham kitchen. Richie and Joanie eating breakfast while Mr. C read the paper and Mrs. C flipped pancakes. A normal, happy family scene.
Chuck leaned forward. “But why aren’t they talking about me?”
“Exactly,” Deadman said. “Like I said, according to them, you never existed.”
Chuck’s hands clenched into fists. “So that’s it—I never was? This is insane. That’s my family!”
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