Godfather Owl: Guardian of Batman

"Stupefy!"

A stunning spell shot forward, but Kathoom lazily dodged it, letting out a yawn.

"What's with all the excitement?" the owl asked. "This isn't your first time dealing with this."

Bruce stood at the entrance of a large building, his wand—the Elder Wand—already back in his hand. He responded with a calm, almost detached tone.

"You're right. I've experienced this too many times to be upset."

He added, "I was just using you for a bit of training."

Bruce had prepared himself mentally before entering this new world, and as expected, his suspicions were confirmed.

The building before him was yet another orphanage.

The sign above the entrance read: Vought Orphanage.

Accepting this reality, Bruce pocketed his wand and prepared to step inside. Kathoom fluttered after him, following closely.

But just before Bruce crossed the threshold, he spun around suddenly—

"Stupefy!"

"Spell Rebound!"

A shimmering shell of magic appeared around Kathoom, perfectly timed. The spell Bruce cast rebounded back at him.

Eyes wide, Bruce barely had time to wonder whether the owl's quick reaction was pure instinct or a sign Kathoom had been anticipating his move all along.

Just as the stunning spell was about to hit him, Bruce managed to counter it.

"Enervate!"

The spells collided—the Stunning Spell struck him just as the Reviving Spell activated. The effects canceled each other out, leaving Bruce slightly unsteady but otherwise unharmed.

"Bruce, are you all right? How could you be so careless?"

Kathoom hovered above him, wings flapping as if he were wagging a finger. "I've told you many times, young man, you need to take care of yourself out there!"

Grinding his teeth, Bruce didn't bother retorting. The spell had been reflected—meaning he'd lost this round.

Losers had no right to complain.

With a huff, he got back to his feet and walked through the orphanage's doors.

"I've just realized something," Kathoom said, perching on Bruce's shoulder and ruffling his hair playfully.

"What?"

"You like to huff a lot. Like this—'hmph!'"

"Hmm?" Bruce responded with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, like that!" Kathoom chirped, recalling the countless times Bruce's father, Thomas Wayne, had done the same in the comics.

"What does it even mean?"

Was it some kind of secret family tradition?

"It's just a habit," Bruce said, shaking his head.

Together, they stepped into the Vought Orphanage.

"Oh, by the way, I just thought of something too," Bruce began.

"Let's hear it."

"If you cast a reflection spell right after I cast one, what would happen?"

"Are you planning a magical game of ping pong?"

---

From the moment Bruce entered Vought Orphanage, he noticed something was off.

This place was unlike the other orphanages he'd encountered.

Wayne Orphanage had been cold and dreary. Santa Fe Orphanage was abandoned and eerie. But this one…

The building was bustling with people in white coats, all moving briskly without making eye contact.

The windows were barred shut with iron grates, giving the place the atmosphere of a prison rather than a haven for children.

"Kathoom, what is this place?" Bruce whispered. "What kind of world have you dragged me into?"

What kind of orphanage needed such intense security?

Unless…

They were housing something more dangerous than children.

"Relax, Bruce. Just take a look around," Kathoom replied dismissively. "If anything happens, I'll Apparate us out."

Bruce was about to argue when a hushed voice called out from behind him.

"Bruce! What are you doing back here?"

He turned to see a woman in a lab coat rushing toward him, her expression a mix of urgency and alarm.

The moment she reached him, she used her coat to shield him from view.

"You went through so much trouble to leave this place—why would you come back?"

She gestured toward the exit. "Go, quickly!"

Though her words were clear, Bruce was still processing their implications.

Was this place really so dangerous?

Before he could press her for answers, two men in black suits burst into the room, panting heavily.

"There you are, Master Bruce!"

They each grabbed one of his arms as though he were a runaway criminal.

"You vanished so suddenly!"

"Get him out of here," the woman in the lab coat urged. "And this time, keep a closer eye on him!"

The two men didn't waste any time, hauling Bruce out of the orphanage and through three separate streets before finally stopping to catch their breath.

"My little prince," one of them gasped, removing his hat to wipe his bald head.

The other added, "Do you have any idea how much it cost us to get you out of there the first time?"

"How much?" Bruce asked flatly.

"You dare to ask?!"

The bald man practically leaped into the air.

"It was a fortune!" his partner interjected.

"Paid in advance out of your inheritance," the bald man added, now considerably calmer.

"That's right." His partner nodded solemnly.

"You spent my money?" Bruce narrowed his eyes. "Do you even have names?"

"I'm Dupont."

"And I'm Dupond."

The two exchanged a sly grin, their introduction practiced and polished.

"Dupont and Dupond, is it?"

Bruce huffed, crossing his arms. "Just tell me how much money I've inherited this time."

The duo exchanged another look before Dupond finally answered, "Master Bruce, congratulations. Your father left you… one billion dollars."

"Now that's more like it."

Bruce smirked inwardly. For once, it seemed this version of his father hadn't tried to shortchange him.

---

The handoff was quick and left Bruce standing alone on the sidewalk. Dupont and Dupond didn't bother explaining the world's peculiarities or the dangers of the orphanage.

All they left behind was a thirteen-year-old boy, seemingly abandoned to his fate.

As Bruce wandered aimlessly through the streets, he was struck by the sheer number of billboards towering above him.

The faces on the advertisements weren't unfamiliar.

A blond man wearing a steel-blue bodysuit, draped in the American flag.

A red-haired woman dressed like a gladiator, her outfit both practical and provocative.

And a figure clad entirely in black, their identity obscured beneath a mask.

Everywhere he turned, these figures dominated the skyline.

"This world seems to thrive on entertainment," Bruce mused, glancing up at the bright displays. "It's refreshing to be back in a modern society."

He passed a shop window where a television played a street interview.

The scene featured the blond man in the American-flag outfit, surrounded by two children.

It seemed to be part of a children's program.

"Homelander, sir!" one of the kids piped up, their tone full of awe. "How many lives have you saved so far?"

"Hmm."

Homelander gave a charismatic, almost smug smile.

"Let me ask you this: do you remember how many slices of bread you've eaten?"

"Wow!"

The kids erupted into cheers, their admiration practically radiating off the screen.

"Homelander, you're the greatest hero ever!"

"Hero? Me? No, no, no."

Homelander shook his head with mock humility.

"I'm just a patriotic citizen with a little extra ability."

He stepped closer to the camera, pointing directly at the audience.

"But you, my friends—you're the real heroes."

"Wow!!!"

The children screamed, overcome with excitement.

Outside, Bruce watched the broadcast with a furrowed brow.

"Why does this guy remind me of Lockhart?"

"Could be the bright smiles," Kathoom offered, perched casually on his shoulder. "But unlike Lockhart, Homelander's got real powers—and a professional PR team."

"Professional team?" Bruce's interest was piqued.

Looking back at the towering billboards, he began to connect the dots.

These weren't just celebrities.

They were superheroes.

And in this world, superheroes were living like celebrities.

The idea left Bruce uneasy.

If heroes are tangled up in fame and fortune, can they still stay true to their mission?

Driven by a need for answers, Bruce set off to learn more about this world's so-called heroes.

It didn't take long to find information—if anything, it was overwhelming.

A trip to the nearest bookstore yielded shelves of material: magazines, biographies, and exposés all dedicated to the lives of superheroes.

After pouring through the content, Bruce pieced together the basics.

This was the age of superheroes, with Vought International recruiting naturally gifted individuals to join their ranks.

These "supes" were dispatched across the country to maintain law and order.

And at the very top of Vought's hierarchy stood their crown jewel: The Seven.

Originally seven members, the group now consisted of six:

Homelander, Queen Maeve, Translucent, A-Train, The Deep, and Black Noir.

As Bruce flipped through pages of profiles, a realization hit him like a lightning bolt.

"Kathoom, something isn't right!"

"What now?" the owl asked lazily.

"These Seven—they remind me of the Justice League!"

"That's ridiculous," Kathoom scoffed. "It's just a coincidence."

"A coincidence?"

Bruce's suspicious glare bore into the owl.

"Are you sure you didn't copy the Seven when you told me about the Justice League?"

"I swear I didn't!" Kathoom raised his wings in mock offense.

"You're lying!"

Bruce jabbed at the pictures furiously.

"Look—Superman is just a knockoff of Homelander. Wonder Woman? A rip-off of Queen Maeve! Aquaman is just a dollar-store Deep, and Flash? That's obviously A-Train!"

He paused dramatically, pointing at Black Noir.

"And this guy? He's just a wannabe Batman!"

"Now, wait a second," Kathoom retorted. "Why does Black Noir have to be a copy of Batman? Isn't that a little biased?"

"Well…"

Bruce hesitated. "Maybe because he's… you know… a man in black?"

Kathoom sighed. "You mean… a Black man in black?"

---

Oh, hey there, Traveler! 🍃 My friend here is the one bringing these stories to you—quite the talent, wouldn't you agree? If anything feels off, just give them a nudge—they're always happy to make things even better.

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Here's to more adventures and endless inspiration~ 🎵