Going Ghost! (Young Justice) Chapter 133: Vengeance

[Third Person POV]

Bruce calmly recounted what had occurred, his voice even and deliberate, though he deliberately kept his explanation vague. He didn’t go into too much detail—out of respect for Danny

Bruce sat back in his chair, posture stiff but composed. Beside him, Superman leaned against the console, arms crossed over his chest. His cape draped lazily across his shoulder. There was a sympathetic look on his face—a mixture of sorrow and quiet frustration that came from wanting to fix something he couldn’t.

“I see
” Superman said after a pause, his voice soft yet heavy with empathy. “Poor kid. No one that young should ever have to make a decision that hard.”

Bruce hummed in quiet agreement, the sound low and thoughtful. His eyes remained on the monitors, but his mind was elsewhere. Then, he noticed Clark turn slightly, his expression shifting with purpose.

“Why don’t you give him to me for a day?” Superman asked suddenly.

Bruce blinked, turning his head just enough to give him a questioning look. “What?”

Clark hesitated, his eyes falling to the ground for a moment. “I just can’t get that sound out of my head,” he said softly. “That cry. It wasn’t just pain—it was
 loss. Desperation. I want to help him somehow. No one should ever be pushed to the point of making a sound like that.”

Bruce’s gaze softened for a brief moment before he hid it behind his usual stoicism. “I appreciate that you want to help,” he said. “But are you even qualified to deal with someone going through that kind of grief?”

Superman gave a small, sheepish laugh. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I’d like to think I could be, but I won’t pretend I’m an expert. Still
 what I think he needs right now is support. People. Positivity. And I don’t mean to offend you, Bruce, but Gotham isn’t exactly the place for that. The city itself feels like it’s mourning something.”

Bruce raised a brow, silent for a long beat before giving a faint nod. “No offense taken. In fact, I agree,” he said quietly, eyes narrowing as he considered the idea.

Encouraged, Superman brought his hands together, almost pleadingly. “It could just be for the weekend,” he continued eagerly. “He can stay in Metropolis. We could go on patrol together, maybe talk, get to know each other. I’m a great listener, you know.”

Bruce turned his head slowly, fixing him with that unimpressed glare he’d perfected over the years. “You’re way too excited about this,” he said dryly. “That alone makes me hesitant to agree.”

Superman winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he muttered, before smiling awkwardly. “It’s just
 you’ve got Robin, Green Arrow has Speedy, Flash has Kid Flash, and Aquaman’s got Aqualad. Everyone’s got a partner. I guess I just wanted to know what it’s like to have someone like that.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “So you do have ulterior motives.”

Clark immediately waved his hands in defense. “No, no, no—come on, Bruce! You know me better than that. I do want to help the boy. The partner thing is just
 an added bonus, that’s all.”

Bruce scoffed lightly, turning away as if to hide the faintest twitch of amusement tugging at his lips. “I’ll give it some thought,” he said after a moment. “I can’t make a decision like that on a whim. I’ll need time to think it through.”

“Thank you,” Clark said with genuine warmth, and before Bruce could stop him, Superman pulled him into a quick, firm hug. “I’ll be fine with whatever you decide. I know you’ll choose what’s best for him.”

Bruce grimaced. “You have five seconds to stop touching me.”

Superman instantly pulled away, hands raised in surrender, a sheepish grin on his face.

Bruce stood from his chair and straightening his suit. “Now go. I’ll contact you when I’ve made a decision. Until then, you’re just getting in the way.”

“So mean
” Superman pouted as he floated backward toward the exit tunnel, but he didn’t argue. He knew when Bruce’s patience had run out.

As the sound of Superman’s departure faded and silence reclaimed the Batcave, Bruce turned toward the glass display case housing his Batsuit. He stared at it for a long moment, eyes narrowing, his reflection splitting across the reinforced glass.

The cave was quiet again—but Bruce’s mind was anything but.




“Ughhh
” Penguin groaned, rubbing his swollen face in pain before jerking upright, gasping for breath as the chill of the prison wall pressed coldly against his back. His head throbbed, his vision still hazy from unconsciousness, and for a moment, he didn’t know where he was.

Then it all came rushing back—the fight, the blinding flash of light, that Ghost.

He blinked rapidly, squinting around his dim cell. The air reeked of metal, damp concrete, and old despair. He pushed himself up with a grunt, brushing dust off his coat before realizing in a moment of bitter recognition—his fine suit was gone. In its place was the dull prison jumpsuit stretched tight around his round belly.

“No
 no, no, no!” he hissed, eyes darting around frantically before twisting his head down at himself. He let out a guttural roar, stomping his feet like a furious child. “I was so close! So close to being king—king of the entire world! Everyone was supposed to bow before me! To fear me!” His voice cracked with fury. “But nooo
 because of that meddling Ghost it all fell apart! I’ll make him pay for this! You hear me? PAY!”

He began pacing the cramped cell, muttering curses under his breath, spitting words like poison. His stubby fingers clenched and unclenched as he ranted to himself, promising revenge, imagining the Ghost’s downfall in every violent way his mind could conjure. His voice grew louder, his laughter more deranged—until suddenly, he stopped.

The air had changed.

A chill ran through the room, a suffocating heaviness that made the small hairs on his neck stand up. He noticed a dark shape stretching across the floor—a shadow that shouldn’t have been there. The shape moved and grew, long and deliberate, until it formed two sharp, unmistakable points.

Penguin froze. His breath hitched. His eyes, wide with dread as he stared straight ahead, he didn't dare turn around.

Standing silently in the darkness of the cell, blending almost completely into it, was the figure of Batman. Only the faint gleam of his eyes cut through the black, glowing white and cold as winter.

“Oswald Cobblepot
” Batman’s voice rumbled, deep and resonant, echoing off the concrete walls. It carried no warmth, no humanity—only purpose. “Do you know why I’m here?”

Penguin’s throat tightened. He swallowed hard, the sound of his gulp audible even to himself. “F-for
 for revenge?” he managed to croak, his voice trembling as he looked slightly over his shoulders

Batman’s silhouette shifted, his cape unfurling behind him like the wings of some monstrous creature. “No
” Batman growled, his tone dropping lower, darker, until it sounded less like a man and more like a force of nature.

And then, in one swift motion, he lunged forward, spreading his cape wide like a predatory bird descending on its prey.

“For vengeance.”

Penguin’s eyes bulged as the darkness swallowed him whole. “AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” His scream pierced through the prison halls—high-pitched, shrill, almost girlish, echoing endlessly down the corridors until every inmate and guard could hear it.




Minutes later, the heavy rhythm of boots pounded against steel floors as a squad of guards rushed down the dimly lit hallway. The sound of alarms and radios crackled faintly in the distance, drowned out by the metallic echoes of their footsteps.

But before they reached the cell—the screaming stopped.

The silence that followed was far worse.

When they arrived and swung open the barred door, every guard froze. Flashlights flickered across the room, revealing a sight that rooted them in place.

Hanging upside down from the ceiling, wrapped tightly in a thick black cable, was Oswald Cobblepot—the Penguin himself. His round body swayed slowly, like a grotesque pendulum. The remains of his jumpsuit were shredded, hanging off him in tatters. Blood streaked across his face, mixing with tears that still glistened under the harsh beam of the flashlights. His features were barely recognizable, swollen and discolored, painted in red.

One of the guards gagged, stepping back. Another whispered a quiet curse under his breath, unable to look away.

From above, a single drop of blood fell, hitting the floor with a soft plip—forming a small crimson puddle beneath him.