Chapter 92: The Eternal Birdcage
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Let me say it again—Dean absolutely hates prophecies. He finds them vague, manipulative, and far too convenient. But he is very curious about the person who made this particular prophecy.
"Can you tell me who came up with it?" Dean asked, his voice steady, but the question was loaded.
The Penguin swirled his red wine in the glass, watching the shimmering liquid reflect the dim light. It had a strange, almost hypnotic hue.
With a smirk, he downed it in one smooth gulp.
"Who knows?" he said casually, wiping his mouth. "One day, the rumor just started spreading among the rebels. The three of us each thought the others had cooked it up to keep morale high. Turns out… maybe there's some truth to it after all. A little propaganda goes a long way."
The Bright Knight, still dressed in the stoic dignity of a fallen prosecutor, didn't touch his wine glass. His discipline hadn't faded even in this broken world.
"It's also possible," he said, voice clipped, "that Owlman caught wind of this and sent someone intentionally. Someone to play games with our heads. Penguin, I still think you brought this stranger in too recklessly."
Dean nodded slightly. That definitely sounded like something Owlman would pull—master of plans, manipulator of shadows, the man who never stopped thinking ten moves ahead.
"To be fair," Dean added, "I've had time to observe since I arrived, and I don't see any signs of rebellion strong enough to threaten the Crime Syndicate. People outside… they don't look like revolutionaries. They look like folks trying to pretend the world hasn't ended."
White Mask sighed, his voice airy and passive:
"I told you this method wouldn't work."
The Bright Knight turned toward him with that ever-serious glare.
"If you weren't using your mask to suppress their despair," he said, "there wouldn't be a rebel movement at all."
That one statement hit Dean harder than anything they'd said so far.
It explained why the people he passed in the city seemed wrong. Too cheerful. Too warm. Too… fake. They weren't Gothamites—not in the traditional sense. They were living under the psychic influence of White Mask, who had been radiating artificial hope this entire time.
Dean glanced at the man in the center of the room—the quiet one, the one who hadn't said much since this conversation started. So this was the one playing the real long game. White Mask. The quietest of them, yet the one exerting the most control.
Dean absentmindedly touched the side of his head.
Good. The protective sigil carved by the Raven was still there, etched into his skin. His thoughts remained his own.
Thinking back, he realized where he slipped up. He hadn't expected a street beggar to see through him.
He certainly didn't expect that beggar to be The Penguin—and with eyes as sharp as ever.
But there was no use pretending now.
"I'll be straight with you," Dean said, his tone honest. "I'm not from this world. I arrived recently, and I haven't caught up to what's been happening. My intel is outdated. I need context—I need to know what happened since… everything."
The trio exchanged brief glances.
White Mask raised his hand and tapped the side of his mask.
"I have to keep focusing on pleasant memories," he said quietly. "If I start remembering the horrors, if I let those feelings in… the rebels will feel it too. And they'll break."
With that, White Mask stepped back, bowing out of the conversation entirely. It wasn't a refusal—it was necessity.
Penguin, on the other hand, had already grabbed the wine bottle and was blowing across the mouth of it like a flute. He slumped forward, letting the wine do the rest.
That left only one.
Dean turned toward the Bright Knight. "Then I'll take your version."
The Bright Knight sighed and rubbed his temples, muttering under his breath, "Always trouble… Just like the boss…"
Then, louder: "Fine. I'll give you the basics. But don't expect deep secrets or classified intel—this is all public history."
And so, he began.
"It all started five years ago…"
The Crime Syndicate. A seven-headed hydra of chaos and domination. The twisted mirror of the Justice League. Each one a force of destruction in their own right.
Ultraman, the tyrannical Kryptonian, the self-proclaimed god from the stars.
Owlman, master of the shadows, strategist of terror, King of Gotham.
Superwoman, Lois Lane twisted into a demigoddess of power and manipulation.
Johnny Quick, the unstable speedster addicted to velocity and anarchy.
Deathstorm, the scientist turned living nuclear reactor.
Power Ring, the fear-consumed coward wielding the corrupted Green Lantern ring.
Atomica, the triple agent who played every side against the middle.
"And yeah," the Bright Knight added dryly, "there's Sea King too. He can talk to fish… Talk!"
He gestured as if hearing dramatic music. "(Cue dramatic BGM.)"
Dean blinked.
"…Right."
The Crime Syndicate ruled with terror, domination, and impossible power. But even with all their might, they hadn't managed to fully rewrite the world. They were strong, yes—but not unchallenged.
Because, as broken as the world had become, people still resisted. Not openly, not foolishly, but silently, in shadows. Pockets of resistance. Embers of rebellion.
The Syndicate could burn everything to the ground—but the idea of justice couldn't be fully snuffed out.
Somewhere out there, heroes still existed—hidden, waiting, watching for a moment to strike.
But then, everything changed.
The Anti-Monitor arrived.
And in a single confrontation, the Crime Syndicate was annihilated.
"They never stood a chance," the Bright Knight said quietly. "Not against something on that scale. Ultraman's strength? Owlman's plans? Superwoman's invulnerability? It didn't matter. They were bugs beneath a god."
Even Ultraman's so-called unmatched power… wasn't worth anything to the Anti-Monitor.
It wasn't just defeat.
It was obliteration.
"After that initial defeat," Harvey began, his tone level and emotionless, "half the world was consumed by the Anti-Monitors. Entire nations threw their full military force against them… but it didn't matter. The Anti-Monitors wiped them out with a gesture—like swatting at flies."
He wasn't exaggerating. He was recalling history. A catastrophe. A tragedy.
But as he spoke, there was no rage in his voice. No grief. No satisfaction. Just… emptiness.
Even just listening, Dean could feel the hollowness in Harvey's words. A despair that went deeper than anger. It reminded him of the first time Darkseid came to Earth—when humanity stood powerless before a god of conquest. But back then… they had the Justice League.
Now? Dean looked around. If that level of annihilation truly happened, if half the planet had been erased… how was Gotham still standing?
Harvey, ever the realist, answered without being asked. "It was the Crime Syndicate."
Dean raised an eyebrow.
Harvey continued, "They won't admit it. Hell, none of them will. But it was the Syndicate who pushed back the Anti-Monitor. After the first crushing defeat, they regrouped… and they saved what was left of the world."
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High above Gotham, perched in the ancient Clock Tower, an owl sat still—motionless, like a statue carved from shadows. Its feathers blended into the dusk as it gazed through the cracks in the clock face.
Inside, a man stood before a glowing holographic projection of Earth, the globe spinning silently in midair. He was tall, cloaked in darkness, and unmistakably resembled Batman—if Batman had chosen control over justice. His sharp jawline was hidden beneath a cold, expressionless owl mask.
Thomas Wayne Jr.. Or, as some now called him, Owlman.
He studied the globe silently, frowning beneath his mask.
"After our first defeat," he muttered to himself, "I analyzed every flaw. Every error. And I realized something—the Anti-Monitor is not invincible. Not truly. He can be challenged… if the Crime Syndicate unites. If we consolidate our forces, focus our will, fight as one."
He paused, knowing the weight of what he was saying.
"But asking the Syndicate to truly unite is… a paradox. A contradiction. We are predators—each with our own ambitions. To expect loyalty from wolves is naïve. So I developed a contingency. A backup plan. One that was never meant for the Anti-Monitor originally… but for my fellow Syndicate members."
His hand hovered over the console.
"I gathered them all. Every surviving member. And I distributed four talismans—relics of unknown origin, containing power even I don't fully understand. With their blessing, we confronted the Anti-Monitor once more."
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if reliving the battle.
"We didn't win… but we survived. We wounded him. Drove him back."
His voice dropped lower.
"But we all know—he will return. And yet… some of us have forgotten. Grown complacent. Deluded."
The console flickered. Two video files opened side-by-side:
One showed Metropolis, its streets echoing with drums, fireworks, and crowds praising their savior.
The other showed Central City, glittering with lights and celebrations, as if the apocalypse had never happened.
In Metropolis, Ultraman, the Earth-3 version of Superman, lounged in a ceremonial Kryptonite-powered rickshaw, letting commoners carry him through the streets like an emperor.
In Central City, Johnny Quick stood proudly at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for "Johnny's Amusement Park"—his newest vanity project.
Owlman's voice cut through the feed, flat and cutting:
"I didn't give you those talismans so you could worship yourselves. Especially you, Johnny Quick."
The camera focused on Johnny's smug expression. He was whistling while accepting applause.
"You lost the Rabbit Talisman, Quick. And with it, your ability to break the light barrier. You cost us our advantage—our future. And here you are, playing games."
The words hit hard.
Johnny's grin faltered. The memory of his fall from grace—the moment he lost the talisman—burned deep.
His reputation in the Syndicate had crumbled. That's why he created his own kingdom in Midtown—built his amusement park, constructed his loyalist followers. A monument to himself.
He clenched his fists and hissed through gritted teeth:
"Don't bring that up again, Owlman! That thieving brat, that traitorous wench—I swear, I'll find her. I'll rip her apart and take back what's mine!"
But Owlman wasn't finished.
While Johnny stewed, Ultraman—more arrogant than ever—refused to let Owlman's scolding go unanswered.
"Watch your tone," he snapped. "You're talking to Kal El, rightful ruler of this planet, leader of the Crime Syndicate."
He puffed out his chest, proudly displaying the large, silver "U" insignia on his chest—not the S of Superman, but the curved horns of Ultraman, twisted into a symbol of supremacy.
"I acknowledge the Anti-Monitor is a threat," he said, smugness leaking from every word, "but I haven't wasted my time. Did you see the Kryptonite carriage? I don't need to rely on brute strength alone. Through technology, mutation, exposure, and will, I've evolved. And the talisman only made me stronger."
He stepped forward in the frame.
"It's been five years. I've trained. I've adapted. If the Anti-Monitor returns and he's the same as he was back then… I'll defeat him myself."
Owlman's silence said more than words.
Behind his mask, his expression twisted in disgust. The arrogance. The delusion. The sheer recklessness.
He leaned closer to the screen.
"Let me remind you," he said darkly, "I gave you the talismans. I found them. But I never claimed to own them. I am only their discoverer. And if—when—the original owner of those talismans comes for them…"
He paused.
"I sincerely hope you're still this confident when they arrive."
When the topic shifted to the original owner of the talismans, even Ultraman went silent. And that alone said everything. For a man who feared almost nothing, whose arrogance had no ceiling, to suddenly hold his tongue—it revealed the truth better than words ever could.
He knew the power those talismans possessed. But more importantly, he knew the kind of being who had created them.
And that—that—was the second looming threat.
Owlman subtly took control of the conversation again, his voice measured, calm, as if he'd never lost the lead:
"We're all split across different territories. If the Anti-Monitor makes a move on Atlantis, by the time we arrive, it'll already be gone. Sea King will have been swallowed whole."
Sea King let out a low groan, almost too quiet for the mic to pick up.
Seriously? He was just casually used as an example—and no one said a damn word in his defense?
Was he really that unpopular among the Syndicate?
Across the screen, Superwoman sat back, studying the others through narrowed eyes. She tilted her head slightly toward Owlman, picking up the thread with perfect timing.
"Owlman, what's the status on the contingency plan you suggested five years ago?" Her voice was low, velvet with menace. "If the worst-case scenario plays out, we are not going down with these pathetic slaves."
The lenses on Owlman's mask gleamed.
"This call is the contingency," he replied flatly. "That's why I summoned you all."
Before anyone could react, Johnny Quick leaned into frame, his grin sharp and twitchy. "Enough of that—what about Atomic Girl? You got any word from her? C'mon, Owlman, you know I miss my baby!"
Owlman didn't even blink. His voice turned icy. "Don't interrupt me, Johnny. This isn't about Atomic Girl. And it's not Alfred either."
He pulled up a new file and tapped the projection screen. A grainy clip began playing—Gotham's grimy architecture filling the frame.
"This was pulled from one of the surveillance feeds I personally installed in Crime Alley."
Every eye on the call locked onto the feed. These weren't ordinary people—they didn't need a slowed replay to catch the flash of movement. A figure zipped past in a split second, barely visible to human eyes… but not to them.
"I only found this anomaly two days ago," Owlman said. "And if it weren't for the… peculiarities of Crime Alley, I wouldn't have bothered checking the footage at all. Gotham has too many surveillance feeds. But this one? It stood out."
He paused, then added, "I made a personal trip to the alley. I found traces of Speed Force residue."
Johnny's eyes widened with sudden excitement. "That thief! Reverse-Flash! I knew it—she's back! I'll rip her apart—"
"No," Owlman cut him off, his lips curling slightly. "Not her. This wasn't the Reverse-Flash."
He let the silence hang just long enough to unsettle the group.
"But whoever this was… they're more valuable to us than she ever was."
The camera feed shifted to show a worn schematic—pipes winding through layers of infrastructure. A red circle blinked on a specific intersection of tunnels.
The screen zoomed in.
[Iceberg Lounge]
"I never removed the rebel flag," Owlman said, voice low and calculated. "I left it untouched… so it could serve a greater purpose when the time came."
He straightened his cloak, his silhouette growing darker against the projection's glow.
"Heroes are predictable. They're always drawn to justice, to symbols, to places where their cause feels strongest. And they will always gather under the same banners… because that's what they believe in."
He paused, eyes scanning the map.
"And I believe in patterns. I knew that if a visitor from another universe arrived—one hunting for answers, for purpose—they'd end up there. They'd go to the flag. They'd go to the birdcage beneath it."
He stepped away from the table, his cloak fanning out behind him.
"The underground cage I built."
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