Chapter 1 - Food
Part 1

Three years ago, everything changed. Our hopes… Our dreams… Our very ideas… It all changed three years ago…

…when four innocent people were publically executed in Metropolis, in front of millions to see.

Two days later, Wayne Tower collapsed. The next day, my secret identity was revealed, and soon everyone knew that Batman was Bruce Wayne. On that day, Superman stood in front of hundreds of reporters and spewed the secrets of the League. Everyone knew that Wonder Woman was Diana Prince, that the Flash was Barry Allen, that Green Lantern was Hal Jordan, that Cyborg was Victor Stone, that the Martian Manhunter was John Jones, and that Superman was Clark Kent. Even non-League heroes at the time were exposed, like Green Arrow.

Eight days later, the world got its first taste of Superman's rage. Those four people murdered in Metropolis? They were Jimmy Olsen, Perry White, Martha Kent…and Lois Lane-Kent—four members of Clark's family. Clark had the support of nearly every person on Earth, including mine, but he was too blinded by anger and grief to see it. So, on a normal Tuesday, the skies turned red in Metropolis…

…and Superman destroyed the entire city.

No one knew why Clark did it. We would never know. But he did it. In nearly one hour, Clark demolished every building in Metropolis. Nearly four thousand people died, and eight million people were left without homes or shelter. Those numbers still confuse us to this very day.

After that act, Superman was officially banned from the League. We tried taking him down, but we were no match for him. All those years he'd been holding back his power, and then he was finally letting it all out. He nearly killed Cyborg. He ripped Manhunter in half. Clark had gone insane.

Hal said something snappy to him, and Superman reacted in the worst way possible: he blew up Coast City. Hal was touched by fear, and as a result, he lost his power ring.

In less than a month, Superman had made himself the supreme ruler of the world. No one dared oppose him, fearing that he would destroy their homes if they did. He built New Metropolis, which became the center of his empire.

Then came the apocalypse. Darkseid and his Parademons attacked Earth, and total war broke out. Everything was destroyed. The world had turned into a wasteland. Instead of helping the planet recover, Superman used the opportunity to tighten his iron grip…and all of Earth suffered for it.

I'd had enough. The world didn't deserve to suffer any longer. I, along with Diana, Barry, Hal, and a few friends from Gotham, formed a small resistance. We offered refuge to people who needed it—which, needless to say, was a lot of people.

We called the resistance…Old Metropolis, in remembrance of everything Superman once stood for and believed in. Old Metropolis has been functional for nearly three years.

This is the story of our fight. I am Bruce Wayne. Batman. The Dark Knight.

The Superman the world used to know is gone. There's no getting him back. He's been corrupted by fear, pain, and distrust. He must be stopped; Superman's rule must come to an end, so help me God.

Present Day.

Dust and sand blew everywhere, relentlessly chipping at the camp that was Old Metropolis. Lemon-colored clouds billowed across the gray, lifeless sky. There was nothing but desert and dunes as far as the eye could see. The landscape was simply called…the Wasteland.

Bruce Wayne walked across the camp, wearing a tattered coat, along with a black cloth wrapped around his face, shielding him from the grit. There was no use wearing his signature cowl any longer; the refugees needed to see the man behind the mask.

Old Metropolis was almost the size as a small town. Three thousand people lived in the camp, under the protection of Bruce Wayne himself. Bruce managed to get four actual buildings (albeit tiny) constructed in the camp—one was the mess hall for the refugees to eat in, one was an infirmary, one was the bathhouse, and the last was the Main Office, where the leaders and organizers of the resistance could work.

And since Old Metropolis was a resistance, everyone was afraid that, one day, Superman's regime would find them and burn them to the ground. Everyone…except Bruce. He knew that one day Superman would find them, and he was prepared for that day. Old Metropolis was a home for refugees first and a resistance second, but it was still a resistance, and Superman hated resistance.

The camp barely had enough food and water. Underground, there was a small aquifer, and it was projected to last Old Metropolis for twelve years…if the water was used very, very frugally. Everyone was always thirsty, especially Bruce. He lived off of only one glass of water a day. He only ate one meal: lunch. He paid a food company to secretly drop off any excess food they had in the trucks. Sometimes, the truck brought enough for the refuges to feast like kings. Other times, the truck barely brought any food at all. The unpredictable nature of the deliveries made everyone eat sparingly, for fear that one day they wouldn't get food at all.

Bruce was on his way to the outskirts of the camp, where the truck usually arrived. It wasn't long before the rig emerged from the dust in the distance. Bruce patted his side, making sure that his tranquilizer gun was still in his coat pocket. Old Metropolis's food had come from the exact same person for the last three years, and Bruce still didn't fully trust him. He was carrying the means to the refugees' survival, and if the camp didn't get food, Bruce would've been the first person he'd answer to. What was more, if Bruce hadn't been paying the person in the first place, they would all be starving.

The truck parked to a stop, and slender, middle-aged man hopped out. He also wore a cloth around his face to help protect against the sand, as well as sunglasses. His outfit was camouflaged, as if he was military.

"Mister Wayne," the driver said, giving Bruce a nod.

"Draven," said Bruce.

The two made their way behind the trailer, which the truck had been pulling.

"How are things?" Bruce asked. "Any new develpments?"

"Hey, I ain't up to snuff on stuff like that," Draven said as he opened the hatch. "I just deliver food from New Metropolis over to Gotham. I tell ya, Mister Wayne, the Eyes are looking a little more carefully. It's hard pretendin' the truck's completely unloaded when they're watchin'."

"The…Eyes?" questioned Bruce.

"Yeah. The Eyes. They're these little robots that fly around. Surveillance an' all that. Superman still thinks the resistance is in Gotham, I guess. He's huntin' ya, y'know."

"I know," said Bruce, "and he'll find us, eventually, and when he does, Diana, Barry, Hal, and I will be ready."

"If ya say so," said Draven. "Now, I've got some bad news for ya…"

The trailer opened.

It was completely empty.

Bruce swung his head toward Draven. "Where the hell is the food?" he asked through clenched.

"I— I'm sorry, Mister Wayne. I told you about the Eyes. I… I had to unload it all…"

"Dammit," Bruce muttered. He looked into the empty trailer, then back at Draven. "I'm not gonna pay you for this."

"Hey now, I think I deserve a li'l somethin' for comin' out here. The sandstorms really give the truck a wallop."

"Draven… The refugees need food."

"Y'know what, Bruce? I coulda just chose to not show up at all. The truck's empty, so why bother comin' here? Well, I thought I'd be the man that I am and—"

"Just…shut up, please," Bruce said, putting his hand up. "The last delivery, you only brought a few loaves of bread. The delivery before that, you only brought seventy cans of soup. Draven, there are three thousand people living in this camp. Each and every one of us is starving."

"A-all right, Bruce, I… I'll do better next time. Promise." He closed the trailer and sealed the hatch.

"See you," Bruce said simply as he started off back to the camp.

Draven climbed into the truck and drove away, off into the sandstorm that was only a few miles away.

The next thing Bruce knew, Barry Allen—also known as the Flash—was walking next to him. "Hey. I saw what happened," he said. "No food?"

"No food," affirmed Bruce. "I… I'm not sure what I'm gonna say to the refugees."

"They'll understand," Barry said with a positive tone. "Stuff like this happens."

"We've often come back with a bare minimum," said Bruce, "but never empty-handed. Hope is slipping away. Superman and his army will find us, and when he does, I'll have to defend Old Metropolis, and to do that, I may have to do something I never thought I would—"

"Bruce, stop talking like that. Look, Hal's in the Main Office. Let's go there and figure something out. We always do."

". . . Okay."

As the two entered the camp, Bruce tried not to look at the refugees. They all looked the same—tattered, worn, beat up, dirty, and skinny. His heart throbbed in his chest as he heard their sobs. For the first time ever, the Bat-Man had come back with no food.

Bruce hated their suffering. They didn't deserve to live this way—all because of one warlord's terrible battle with another warlord. Superman and his army versus Darkseid and his Parademons. It wasn't just a battle, it was an apocalypse. Flashes of death and destruction zipped through Bruce's mind.

"Damien…" he whispered.

"What was that?" Barry asked, breaking Bruce away from his short torment.

"N-nothing," Bruce said, cleaeing his throat

The Main Office looked like a large interrogation room. The building contained just one room, and that was the Office itself. The only objects in it were a desk and a few lawnchairs. That was it. Hal Jordan was sitting in his spot at the desk—furthest to the right—sorting through maps. The former Green Lantern looked up as he heard Bruce and Barry walk in. He easily read the expressions on their faces.

"No food?" he asked.

"No food," Bruce and Barry said at the same time.

"Damn. So, what're we gonna do? We're all gonna starve if this keeps up."

"Agreed," said Bruce. "I have a plan. I've had it for a long time, actually. It's risky, though."

"Well, what is it?" asked Barry. "I'm willing to try anything at this point."

"I know. That's why…we're going to steal a food truck."