Batman had long since hacked into the communication line between Cid and headquarters, so every conversation they had—even Beatrix's—was within his earshot. Naturally, he was fully aware of the plan to stop the psychic storm, and of Cid's decision to sacrifice himself for the mission.
So of course, he couldn't just stand by and watch.
Beatrix thought to himself: if it had been him in Cid's place, he probably wouldn't have had the courage to make such a fearless decision. Which only made the agent's actions all the more admirable.
But fortunately, he didn't need to have that kind of noble, self-sacrificing spirit to carry out the mission.
Because he was just… a player in a game.
And since this was a game, he could confidently and boldly do things he wouldn't dare do in real life.
Since this was a game, he could wield powers he didn't actually possess—without fearing injury, death, or judgment.
He could act on instinct and do what was right, without restraint.
In a way, that made his ideals almost uncannily aligned with the philosophy Bruce Wayne embodied when he first became Batman.
As a normal human—even a rich, well-trained one—he could still be targeted and killed.
But when he donned the mask, when he became a symbol, he became unbreakable.
And now, through a keyboard and a mouse, Beatrix had become that symbol—unshakable and indomitable.
Batman stepped into the eye of the psychic storm. Instantly, the overwhelming laughter—harsh, mind-rending—flooded in from every direction.
Through his headset, Beatrix heard the laughter swirling in full surround sound, making him feel like he was actually inside the madness.
That laughter was the infection taking hold. It drilled into the listener's mind, growing louder and louder until only the strongest-willed could press forward.
But Beatrix had a simple solution.
He… turned down the volume.
With the volume reduced, the screeching laughter naturally became more bearable.
And if necessary, he could even mute the game entirely—or boot up a background app to play Teletubbies music on loop.
That's a common gamer tactic when facing horror games.
Whether it's ghosts or eldritch gods—none of them stand a chance against Teletubbies.
Before long, Batman reached the eye of the storm.
There stood a man—still in the form of the one called Mike—but he was no longer human.
He had been thoroughly infected, now serving as an avatar for some ancient, unknowable entity.
He had become a walking, talking source of contagion.
As soon as the figure entered his field of view, Beatrix immediately had Batman lock onto him from a distance.
From his loadout, he selected a throwing weapon—pressed right click to aim, left click to throw—and a sleek, bat-shaped shuriken flew toward the target.
But the man noticed the projectile from afar.
He tilted his head slightly, and the shuriken missed, slamming harmlessly into the wall behind him with a sharp thunk.
"Didn't even hit me," the man sneered, his grin widening to a grotesque stretch.
"Looks like you're not that impressive after all."
What he didn't notice was that the shuriken embedded in the wall blinked twice with a faint red light.
A moment later—
BOOM.
The hidden explosive in the shuriken detonated, blasting the wall to pieces. The shockwave hurled debris in all directions, and the man was thrown into the dust, crashing hard.
Before he could even stand—
Batman was already charging.
The man barely had time to adjust his footing when Batman's punch came flying in.
Beatrix quickly executed a step-cancel combo, dodging the counter and retaliating with a devastating strike.
The man responded quickly, opening his hand to try and block Batman's fist.
But he had miscalculated.
The moment Batman's gauntlet made contact, a surge of blue electricity exploded outward.
Arcs of energy erupted from his fist, burning the man's palm to a bloody mess.
Beatrix could almost smell the scent of cooked flesh through the screen.
This was one of Batman's custom upgrades—shock gauntlets.
Against regular thugs, Batman rarely turned up the power.
But against inhuman entities like this?
He went all-in.
Beatrix: "Infected boss appears! Go, Batman! Use Thunderbolt!"
And it worked beautifully.
The electric surge didn't kill the man, but his arm went limp—his muscles spasmed, leaving him stunned.
On screen, a finisher prompt appeared above the man's head—signaling a moment to perform a final move.
This kind of prompt only appeared when the enemy was stunned or immobilized.
Now was the perfect time for a clean execution.
The man's infection level was over 80%. He was already dead inside—just a husk of flesh like a zombie.
So Batman's no-kill rule didn't apply.
Batman got behind him, snapped a special batarang from his belt, restrained the man with one arm, and—
Sliced straight through his throat.
The sharpened blade cut through like butter, dragging a long crimson line across the neck.
The man's head dropped cleanly from his shoulders.
His body twitched once… twice… then collapsed.
Blood gushed like a river.
The severed head rolled twice, coming to rest in a pool of its own blood.
The laughter stopped.
But the storm didn't.
Instead, it grew even darker.
The streets and buildings vanished into a sea of stormclouds.
The sky above churned with oppressive blackness.
The severed head began to move.
Like a miracle, it rolled itself upright, turned, and faced Batman.
But this time—
It wasn't Mike's face.
Beatrix's eyes widened.
It was the face of Bruce Wayne's father.
Thomas Wayne.
A middle-aged Western man with sharp features and a curled mustache.
Even through the blood and distortion, Beatrix recognized him instantly.
"Father…?"
Batman's voice wavered. He stepped back, visibly shaken.
Beatrix, watching through the screen, felt a chill run down his spine.
"What the hell is happening…?"
Somehow, the image filters had changed. The screen had tilted ever so slightly, darkened at the edges, and blurred—
As if… Batman was hallucinating.
This was a common visual cue in many action games—when the protagonist was poisoned or afflicted with madness, the screen would simulate a distorted perspective.
Apparently, even Batman couldn't resist the psychic storm's influence.
Then came the voice:
"Why…
Why didn't you stop him?"
The decapitated head—Thomas Wayne's—spoke in a lifeless, hollow tone.
Its eyes were dull and dead, but its mouth moved.
He was referring to the man who had shot Bruce's parents that fateful night.
"You should've tried.
Even as a boy—you should've done something."
Beatrix knew this was nonsense.
Bruce had only been eight years old.
He was just a helpless child.
If he had tried to resist, he might've died too.
This wasn't Thomas Wayne talking.
This was Batman's own guilt and trauma—weaponized.
Even after all these years, he still blamed himself.
Still wondered… what if.
Batman stumbled back, unwilling to look at the face.
Then, the hallucination changed again.
A dark alley.
Broken streetlamps.
Scattered pearls clattering to the ground like tears.
A beautiful woman in an elegant dress lay in a pool of blood.
Her wide, staring eyes locked onto Batman's.
"Bruce… help us…
It's so dark…
I'm scared…"
Batman trembled again.
"Mother…"
Cruel as it was, this was exactly why Batman's story hit so hard.
Like how Spider-Man writers always refuse to let Uncle Ben live—
Batman's origin story is built on grief.
There's even a meme of cosplayers pretending to be Thomas and Martha Wayne—
Every time they see a Batman at a convention, they collapse in front of him, playing dead.
It's dark humor. But it works—every time.
Beatrix quickly tried to regain control.
He moved Batman's POV away from the hallucinations.
WASD still worked, but Batman's movement was sluggish.
He couldn't run.
Couldn't jump.
Couldn't attack.
He knelt down. The screen dimmed further.
The alley vanished.
The storm returned—an endless, suffocating void.
Then came the voice again:
"See?
You've proven my point."
"Everyone fears the void. The unknown. That which they cannot control."
"Especially you.
I don't know who you really are, but I can feel it.
You're more afraid than anyone."
"And to fight that fear—you dress like a demon.
You play the part of a monster."
"You try to control everything. To avoid the chaos.
Because deep down—you're terrified."
Batman remained on his knees.
A faint exclamation mark blinked in the corner of the screen.
A system tooltip: Hero is at the brink.
Low HP, low stamina, or mental instability—any of these could trigger a forced recall.
In game terms: he was close to dying.
The voice continued:
"We're the same, you and I.
Cut from the same mold."
"You fight fear by becoming a symbol.
I fight fear by becoming… nothing."
"My power was born for this.
For all those who feel helpless and lost."
"Through me, they can tear off their masks.
Become their truest selves.
Become 'Nothing.'"
"Let those who pretend to rule feel what it's like to lose everything."
Then—
Mike reappeared.
Grinning madly.
Holding a fire axe.
Beatrix slammed his keyboard—desperate to regain control.
But Batman wouldn't respond.
Then, the camera shook.
A twitch.
Batman's finger moved.
Beatrix didn't hesitate.
Reflexes from 20 years of gaming kicked in.
He spammed right-click—Counter button.
The axe came down.
Batman blocked it with a palm strike, knocking the axe off course.
Then, he rolled—dodging by a hair's breadth. His cape was sliced, but he was alive.
"What?!"
Mike was stunned.
But before he could react—
Batman struck.
Two full-powered electric punches surged through his body.
Batman grabbed his arm, pulled him in, raised the batarang—
And slashed across his throat.
"Why?"
Mike gasped.
His twisted grin finally wavered.
"You're not even a mutant… how…?"
He couldn't understand.
Only mutants could resist this kind of mental attack.
And even they couldn't recover once infected this deeply.
This… was impossible.
But Batman only gave him one answer.
"Because I'm Batman."
Slice.
The batarang flashed.
The head dropped.
And the storm…
ceased.