Ding dong! Ding dong! Ding dong!...
The ancient manor's doorbell rang repeatedly as a chubby little creature flew in front of it, madly pressing the button with its tiny claws. The sound echoed through the empty halls of Wayne Manor, insistent and urgent.
In the Batcave beneath the manor's rear mountain, Alfred pulled up the surveillance feed linked to the doorbell, then suddenly felt like his brain couldn't process what he was seeing. The screen showed something he'd never encountered before, despite his years of unusual experiences.
What kind of creature was this? A flying hamster with wings? Why were the wings growing from its head? The creature hovered impatiently, continuing to press the doorbell.
Alfred then remembered a previous phone call—from Zatanna. Nothing more, nothing less.
His butler instincts told him this odd little guy was probably Zatanna's magical pet. It seemed the most logical explanation for such an unusual visitor.
So he asked through the doorbell:
"Little fellow, where's your master? Has she not taken care of the demon yet?"
The creature, Patamon, was a bit bewildered by the random question. "Alfred the butler, are you mixing something up?"
In a cute voice, the little guy replied, "What? What master? I'm my own master! Also, I'm not a pet! I'm now a Digimon—Patamon!"
A bit snappy, but still adorable in its indignation, the creature's round eyes looked directly at the camera.
Digimon?
Alfred was also puzzled. This strange-looking, talking creature—was it a magical being? Or a demon from another world that Zatanna hadn't finished off? The term wasn't one he was familiar with, and that concerned him.
Afraid this little guy would suddenly reveal a demonic side like those in horror plays, Alfred gently tried to soothe it:
"My apologies, little one. Aren't you Miss Zatanna's pet? I believe she should be arriving soon."
That sentence had a double meaning: calming Patamon down, while also warning the little demon—Zatanna's almost here, behave yourself. Alfred had learned to be cautious over his years of service.
But Patamon didn't really understand the implication. "Zatanna?" The name sounded oddly familiar to Max. Who was that again? The recognition was there, floating just at the edge of memory.
Before he could recall, the green emblem on Patamon's chest suddenly began flashing red.
Beep—beep—beep—beep—BOOM!
Time to transform!
Max, who was about 1.5 meters tall and floating half a meter in the air, suddenly transformed back into his human form and dropped to the ground with a thud. The transformation was instant—a flash of light that left a young boy where the creature had been.
Alfred: "…"
What just happened? A demon turning into a person? Or was he a person all along? Alfred remained silent, observing carefully through the security system.
Everything that had just happened had completely shaken the old butler's worldview.
Alfred prided himself on having seen all kinds of strange things in Gotham over the years—but this? He'd never seen this. Not once in all his time serving the Wayne family.
A bizarre creature suddenly transformed into what appeared to be a young boy—estimated age, twelve or thirteen—in a flash of red light. Was this even logical? The butler's mind struggled to make sense of the transformation.
"Ahhh—this concrete ground's really hard!"
He said it so naturally—nothing like someone with mysterious powers. Just a child complaining about a hard fall.
Alfred: "…"
"Are you alright, young... sir?" Alfred's professional concern broke through his shock.
"I'm fine! I'm fine!" Max dusted himself off, stood up, and beamed a sunny smile at the camera. "Mr. Butler, I'm here to see Batman! Is he home?"
Alfred: "…"
He felt like he had stayed silent more today than he had all year. Each new revelation left him momentarily speechless.
Had the master's identity been exposed? That shouldn't be possible. Then how did this child know? Alfred's protective instincts immediately kicked in.
Using his professional calm tone, Alfred firmly denied it:
"No, young sir. This is Wayne Manor. Only Master Bruce Wayne lives here—not Batman."
His tone was deliberately cold, keeping the uninvited guest at arm's length. Years of protecting Master Bruce's secret had made this response automatic.
But Max had come specifically to cling to this "big leg" for help—shameless as could be.
"Oh, that's okay, Grandpa Butler! I can wait until Master Bruce returns.
Uh, can I come in for now? I'm really hungry… Transforming takes a lot of energy. And I haven't eaten for two days."
That string of words left the old man unsure how to respond. The child's casual manner conflicted with the seriousness of knowing Batman's identity.
This kid clearly knew Bruce Wayne was Batman.
As a dutiful butler, Alfred decided to respond formally and dismissively:
"Apologies, young sir. Wayne Manor does not accept visitors. If you wish to see Master Wayne, please schedule an appointment through Wayne Enterprises."
That was a clear rejection, delivered with the polite firmness Alfred had perfected over decades.
But suddenly, Max had a lightbulb moment. He remembered the name—Zatanna!
He exclaimed, "Wait! Wait, Mr. Butler, I remember now! Zatanna—the magician Zatanna! Daughter of the great magician Giovanni John Zatara! She's coming!?"
"Oh? You know Zatanna the magician? If you'd like, I can get you an autograph." Alfred's tone remained measured, but his interest was piqued.
"No! That's not the point! The point is—you called Zatanna when Gotham went into chaos! That means this event is magic-related, isn't it!?"
In his heart, Max thought: In the DC Universe, if magic is involved, it's never a small matter. Magical events affect entire cities at a minimum, and in extreme cases, they can reboot the whole universe. No matter what—it's crucial I stay.
"..."
Alfred once again fell into silence. Anyone who understood magic clearly wasn't just an ordinary child.
For all he knew, this kid might be one of those ancient wizards from the plays—ones who looked young but had lived for centuries. The thought was disturbing.
Click—
Creak—
The gates of Wayne Manor suddenly opened. The heavy metal doors slowly swung inward, and Alfred's voice came through the intercom.
"Come in, young sir. I believe we should have a talk about what you know."
Max grinned. Score! Free food secured!
——
At that moment, the Batplane was spraying fear gas across the city—small doses, multiple times. Even Batman didn't want to overdose the population.
Before doing so, Batman had warned the GCPD: Make sure everyone wears gas masks!
This version of the antidote was actually a modified version of Scarecrow's fear toxin. (Scarecrow had originally developed the gas just to see people's terrified expressions, so it wasn't highly lethal. Most fatalities came from weak hearts—people literally scared to death. Batman's modified formula fixed the long-term side effects, but the fear response remained.)
After the fear gas was sprayed, most people eventually recovered from the laughing fits—but new issues arose.
Strong emotional spikes caused many to faint from pure terror. Ordinary citizens collapsed across the city, their bodies unable to handle the sudden shift from uncontrollable laughter to paralyzing fear.
Those with weak hearts suffered cardiac arrest from the fear. They clutched their chests and fell, victims of their own bodies' response to the extreme emotion.
GCPD officers scrambled to search the unconscious citizens for heart medication. If they had it, things were manageable—a single bottle could save several lives. Every officer was trained for emergency response, but few had expected this scale of crisis.
In Gotham, heart disease was almost a luxury. (Only the rich had stable enough lives to develop heart problems. The rest lived too chaotically for it.)
This was Gotham, after all. Ordinary citizens needed strong hearts just to survive here. Living in this crime-ridden city required nerves of steel.
Think about the lunatics in Arkham Asylum—their commitment to breaking out and causing chaos was unmatched.
The insane stunts they pulled were enough to send weak-hearted folks straight to the afterlife. (Once the weak-hearted were weeded out, only the strong survived.)
"F*ck! This is your solution!?"
Gordon was furious. He never expected Batman's approach to be this brutal and direct. His voice carried both anger and disbelief as he watched civilians collapse around him.
As a man, Gordon considered Batman a hero.
But in the choice between suffocation and heart attacks, Batman had gambled—hoping heart patients carried meds and that there'd be enough to stabilize the situation.
From his standpoint as GCPD Commissioner, though? Batman had just done what Scarecrow only dreamed of—he made all of Gotham inhale fear gas.
If Scarecrow were here, he might've bowed to Batman in admiration.
"Gordon, take care of them! The real mastermind hasn't shown up yet—I need to head to Arkham!" Batman said over the comm, then cut the connection before Gordon could protest further.
Gordon's anger toward Batman now redirected to the real villain behind it all.
"Damn you, Joker!!!"