Fictional Conduit

"So this is it," Mason said to himself as he looked out the window. Gotham City, the city of so much crime there's a literal gateway to hell in Arkham Asylum. The city was a jagged sprawl of shadow and decay, its skyline punctuated by looming towers and the faint glow of neon signs struggling against the perpetual smog. Rain slid down the window, distorting the view but doing nothing to obscure the oppressive weight the city seemed to carry. Mason exhaled slowly, his breath fogging up the glass for a moment.

He could feel it, the pulse of the city, like a living, wounded beast. Every corner had its predators; every shadow hid a threat. Gotham wasn't just dangerous; it was insidious, infecting everything it touched. A normal person wouldn't last a week.

"Could have at least sent me to a world with at least a happy start," he sighed to himself as he massaged his forehead.

This was the DC universe, moreso, one in the dark verse! In this verse, Joe Chill killed all the Waynes in that alley as they were leaving to home from the theatre! In this world, there was no and there will never be Batman!

Mason slumped against the cracked wall of his dingy apartment, the weight of his predicament bearing down on him like a collapsing building. The dim bulb overhead flickered as though mocking his thoughts.

"Of all the multiverses," he muttered bitterly, staring at the rain pounding against the grimy window. "I end up in this one. No Superman to punch the sun back on. No Wonder Woman to inspire hope. And no Batman to strike fear into the scum of Gotham."

He snorted humorlessly, rubbing his temples as the enormity of the situation settled in. This wasn't just Gotham City—it was that Gotham City. The one where hope had died in Crime Alley, snuffed out alongside the Waynes. No masked crusader emerged from that tragedy, no Dark Knight to turn the city's darkness against itself. Just another violent statistic in a city where despair ruled supreme.

Here, the shadows weren't haunted by a caped figure of vengeance. They were filled with something worse: unchallenged predators. The Falcone crime family ran the city like a personal empire. The GCPD was either corrupt or too broken to care. Even the rogues' gallery that defined Gotham's madness was subdued—less theatrical, but more brutally efficient in their reigns of terror. Without Batman, the freaks had learned to cooperate, dividing the city like warlords.

It was a nightmare. And Mason was smack in the middle of it.

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Could have sent me to a world with a few rainbows or something. Maybe the one where Batman and Superman have brunch every Sunday."

His sarcasm did little to mask his rising panic. The DC universe was already dangerous enough, but this Darkverse? It was like someone had turned the knob on cruelty and chaos up to eleven. And him? He wasn't some invulnerable Kryptonian or godlike metahuman. He was just a guy with a cheat ability that sounded cool on paper but came with no instructions or guarantees.

"Fictional Mimicry," he muttered to himself, the words feeling both like a lifeline and a curse. Sure, it let him copy the powers of fictional characters, but that only worked if he could think strategically. One wrong choice, and he'd be dead faster than Joe Chill could pull a trigger.

Leaning back, Mason stared at the ceiling. "Alright. Step one: survive. Step two: figure out how to turn this hellhole into... slightly less of a hellhole."

He needed power, real power. This wasn't a world where he could afford to play it safe. If there was no Batman, he'd have to be something worse to stand a chance. Something that even Gotham's nightmares would fear.

His mind wandered to the possibilities. Who would he mimic first? Someone versatile, someone powerful. He needed durability, strength, and a way to stay hidden until he got his bearings. A grin tugged at his lips as an idea took shape.

If Mason were to be honest with himself, Batman had always been his favorite superhero since he was a child. The allure wasn't just the gadgets, the brooding nature, or the iconic suit—it was the sheer ingenuity of the man behind the mask. Sure, skeptics might roll their eyes at the notion of Batman trading blows with literal gods, pointing to "plot armor" as the explanation for how a mortal man could outsmart Darkseid or dismantle Superman. But to Mason, that wasn't the point.

The real magic of Batman lay in his mind—the unrelenting determination to win, no matter the odds. For Mason, it wasn't about the fists but the brilliance behind them. The contingency plans, the years of training, the foresight to always be three steps ahead of everyone else, whether ally or enemy. Batman was the ultimate chess player, and the board was his world.

"Prep-time Batman," Mason thought with a smirk, recalling countless internet debates and memes. The man could take down anyone if you gave him enough time. It didn't matter if it was a god, a demon, or an alien powerhouse. Prep time was the equalizer. Even non-fans had to admit, if there was one character who could defy impossible odds with nothing but his intellect and sheer willpower, it was the Dark Knight.

But now Mason wasn't just a fan sitting in front of a screen. He was in a world where Batman didn't exist—no Bruce Wayne, no Caped Crusader watching over Gotham. All that stood between this dark, broken world and utter chaos was...him.

And he had the mind of Batman.

It was a daunting thought, but also thrilling. Time to prove if prep time really is the deadliest superpower.

With bated breath, Mason closed his eyes and focused. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a mountain. He had never actively tried to use his power before—it had always been passive, an instinctive ability he hadn't truly tested to its limits. But now, he willed it with an intensity born of desperation and determination.

I need the mind of Batman, he thought. His intelligence, his skills, his discipline—everything that makes him who he is.

For a moment, nothing happened. Doubt crept in, whispering insidious thoughts of failure. But then, like a dam breaking, a flood of knowledge and instincts surged into his mind. It wasn't painful, but it was overwhelming—like trying to drink from a firehose of raw data and muscle memory.

Years of martial arts mastery etched themselves into his muscles, the knowledge of a dozen combat disciplines aligning in perfect harmony. His senses sharpened; he could hear the faint hum of a flickering streetlight outside, the distant screech of tires on Gotham's grimy streets. He became acutely aware of every inch of his body, his posture, even his breathing.

But it was his mind that felt the most transformation. Strategies and tactics unraveled in his thoughts, complex and intricate as a spider's web. He could see weaknesses in his surroundings, vulnerabilities he hadn't noticed before. The trash bin by the window—perfect cover. The fire escape—an escape route or ambush point. A pencil on the table—potentially lethal in the right hands. His hands.

When he opened his eyes, they were sharper, more calculating. He felt...different. The world no longer felt overwhelming but manageable, malleable, a chessboard where he now knew every piece and potential move. It wasn't just about survival anymore.

It was about control.

Mason exhaled slowly, feeling his newly sharpened mind begin to evaluate everything at a rapid pace. He didn't just feel like Batman. For all intents and purposes, he was Batman.

"This… this is insane," he muttered, his voice calmer, more measured than before. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he clenched his fists. "No, this is just the beginning."

With renewed focus, Mason turned toward the window, looking out over Gotham's dark skyline. This city had no protector, no hope, no guiding hand to pull it out of the depths of its despair. That was about to change.

"Gotham," Mason whispered, the faintest edge of a growl in his tone, "your Dark Knight has arrived."