Convergence

Paul Muad'Dib Atreides had known strange things in his life.

He had seen visions of the future, walked the sands as a god among men, and commanded legions of Fremen warriors with nothing more than his presence. He had conquered, he had liberated, and he had become something greater than a man—a myth, a prophecy fulfilled.

And yet, nothing in his experience had prepared him for Mat Cauthon.

The man was lounging on a rock, chewing on a piece of dried rations like he had zero concerns about the absurdity of their situation. His ridiculous wide-brimmed hat was tilted low over his eyes, and his coat—half formal, half rogue—looked like it belonged on a drunken noble who had lost his estate in a bet.

Paul, still grappling with the impossibility of it all, sat across from him, studying this strange man with the lazy grin and the spear across his lap.

"I should start from the beginning," Mat said, exhaling like this was all a terrible inconvenience to him personally.

Paul expected some kind of carefully worded strategy, some political maneuvering, something that reflected an understanding of how to win allies through careful persuasion.

Instead, Mat threw caution to the wind and just said it.

"Alright, look," Mat began, waving a hand. "You're not gonna believe half of this, but I don't bloody care anymore. I've been thrown into a mess of a world, and I've had it with playing nice. So here it is: We've been ripped from our own realities, smashed together into some kind of Frankenstein nightmare, and now there's an evil sorcerer version of Mickey Mouse trying to 'sanitize' everything into a kid-friendly paradise of terror. You, me, cowboy over there—" he gestured at Roland, who was watching the exchange in silence, "—and everyone else? We're all stuck in this together."

Paul said nothing.

Mat sighed. "We don't know how deep this rabbit hole goes, but the mouse has to go down." He leaned forward, pointing at Paul with his half-eaten ration. "You? You've got the army, the strategy, the charisma. But what you don't got?" He tapped his temple. "A working knowledge of how stupid luck changes the game. That's where I come in."

Paul was speechless.

He had spent his entire life studying strategy, politics, the intricate dance of fate—and now, here was this man, this completely insane, reckless rogue, throwing everything out like it was a bad tavern story.

Mat looked at him, waiting.

Paul narrowed his blue-within-blue eyes. "You speak without calculation."

Mat snorted. "Mate, you have no idea."

Paul glanced at Roland, who was still standing near the tower's base, listening in silence. The Gunslinger's gaze was unreadable, but Paul could tell that even he was intrigued by Mat's unapologetic bluntness.

Paul finally spoke. "You're either a fool or a madman."

Mat grinned. "Oh, probably both. But here's the thing—you like that, don't you?"

Paul frowned.

And then he realized it.

He did like it.

There was something refreshing about Mat's lack of pretension. Paul had spent his life surrounded by prophecies, reverence, followers who spoke in whispers of fate and destiny. Even those who opposed him feared him.

But Mat?

Mat didn't care about prophecy. He didn't bow.

He was just some lucky bastard thrown into chaos and rolling with it.

And Paul realized—that was exactly the kind of person he needed.

Before he could respond, a high-pitched, annoyed voice interrupted.

"SO WHAT YOU'RE SAYING," Megumin whined, "IS THAT I STILL CAN'T BLOW UP ANYTHING?!"

Paul turned toward the small mage in the oversized hat, who was pouting with dramatic fury.

Roland finally spoke, his voice low and firm. "You so much as think about destroying this tower, and you'll end more than just this world."

Megumin blinked. "Wait, what?"

Roland crossed his arms. "The Dark Tower is the center of everything. You take it down, the entire multiverse crumbles."

Megumin's entire expression fell apart in real time.

"B-But… but explosions…" Her lip quivered. "The ultimate explosion…"

Mat patted her head. "There, there."

Megumin collapsed onto the sand, face-down, mourning. "This is the worst day of my entire life."

Paul, still processing everything, exhaled sharply. He looked toward his waiting Fremen army, then back at Mat.

"You truly believe this enemy—this 'Sorcerer Mickey'—is a threat worth uniting against?"

Mat spread his arms wide. "If you wanna stick around long enough to see this world turn into a theme park nightmare, be my guest."

Paul glanced at his people. The Fremen warriors looked to him for guidance. They trusted his wisdom, his Sight, his leadership.

And something in the Pattern, something unseen, was pushing him toward one decision.

Paul turned back to Mat. "Very well. The Fremen will stand beside you."

Mat grinned. "See? I knew you'd see reason."

What Paul didn't know—what nobody knew—was that this wasn't just about strategy.

It was Mat's luck.

The dice had rolled, and Paul had chosen a side.

Paul turned to Roland. "And you?"

Roland's blue bombardier eyes locked onto the tower one last time. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"I'll go with you," he said. "If this is truly about the multiverse, I aim to see it through."

Megumin, still sulking, perked up slightly. "So… can I blow up Mickey Mouse?"

Mat threw an arm around her. "Now that's something I can get behind."

Paul sighed.

This was going to be the strangest war he had ever fought.

Shrek was having a bad day.

Well, to be fair, he had been having a bad week, ever since some magic-wielding dimwits decided to tear reality apart and drop a bunch of loonies into his world. But this?

This was something else entirely.

He trudged through the dense jungle, swatting away giant mosquitoes the size of his fist and muttering angrily to himself.

"First, I get Jedi and superheroes in me swamp. Then I get thrown into a bloody haunted forest. And now—now I'm in a jungle filled with who-knows-what, probably dinosaurs or worse, and I got a flying man, a brooding knight, and a masochistic lunatic as travel companions."

He turned his head and grimaced.

Yep. There they were.

Superman, hovering slightly off the ground, his cape billowing dramatically even though there was no wind.

Jon Snow, brooding like he was posing for the cover of a fantasy novel.

Darkness, smiling in anticipation, probably hoping they'd get ambushed so she could take a beating.

And then there was Rand, looking around like he could feel the world bending around him or some weird nonsense like that.

Shrek sighed. He missed the simplicity of swamp life.

Just as he was contemplating turning around and leaving them all to die, something crashed through the jungle ahead.

Branches snapped, vines tore apart, and suddenly—

A man burst out of the foliage, panting, clutching a golden artifact in one hand.

His clothes were ripped, his iconic fedora barely hanging onto his head, and his face was covered in dirt and sweat.

He skidded to a halt, his eyes wide as he took in the group before him.

Then, without missing a beat, he gasped:

"RUN."

Shrek raised an eyebrow. "Oh, what now?"

And then the Vikings appeared.

A horde of axe-wielding, fur-clad, battle-crazed Vikings exploded from the jungle after the strange man, roaring in fury.

The lead Viking was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a wolf pelt over his armor, his hand gripping a massive battle-axe. His eyes locked onto the man with the fedora, and his face twisted into an expression of pure wrath.

"You thieving rat!" he bellowed. "I will flay the skin from your bones and feed you to my hounds!"

Shrek blinked.

Jon drew his sword.

Rand reached for his magic.

Superman crossed his arms, unimpressed.

And Darkness?

"Ohhhhhh YESSSS!" she shivered with joy.

The man with the fedora raised his hands defensively. "Okay, okay! In my defense, I didn't realize the golden idol was yours until after I stole it!"

Shrek let out a long, tired sigh. "Oh, for the love of Donkey, this is too much."

The lead Viking took another step forward, eyes blazing with fury. "I am Uhtred, son of Uhtred! Lord of Bebbanburg! And I do not take kindly to thieves!"

Shrek threw up his hands. "Great. Great! Just what we needed—more bloody people who shouldn't exist! First Tarzan, now Vikings? What next? Napoleon riding a bloody T-Rex?!"

Jon Snow, ever the stoic, turned to the stranger in the hat. "Who are you?"

The man adjusted his fedora, gave a tired grin, and said, "Jones. Indiana Jones."

Shrek facepalmed.

"OF COURSE IT'S BLOODY INDIANA JONES!"

The Vikings tightened their grip on their weapons, ready to charge.

Jon and Rand prepared to fight.

Superman looked mildly annoyed.

And then—just as things were about to explode—

Rand exhaled.

The air around him shifted. The Pattern bent.

And suddenly, the battle didn't happen.

The Vikings hesitated.

Uhtred blinked, his anger suddenly distant, confused. His battle-lust faded as if it had never been there.

Even Indiana Jones lowered his arms, looking around as if he wasn't sure why he had been running in the first place.

Rand lowered his hands, the glow of power fading from his eyes.

Shrek scowled. "Alright, what did you just do?"

Rand turned to him. "I am ta'veren. The Pattern bends around me."

Shrek narrowed his eyes. "So what you're saying is… you've got plot armor?"

Rand hesitated. "Essentially, yes."

Shrek groaned. "Bloody typical."

Uhtred, still processing everything, frowned. "So… you're saying this world is wrong?"

Jon nodded. "Something is warping reality. People from different worlds are being pulled into this one."

Indiana Jones exhaled, adjusting his fedora. "Well, that explains a lot."

Shrek threw up his hands. "AND YOU'RE ALL JUST OKAY WITH THIS?!"

Uhtred crossed his arms. "If this Mickey Mouse sorcerer is trying to bend the world to his will, then I will fight him. I do not kneel to false kings."

Jones chuckled. "Well, I already pissed off the Vikings. Might as well piss off a cartoon mouse while I'm at it."

Jon nodded. "Then we move together."

Shrek sighed.

"Fine. But if the bloody Muppets show up, I'm leaving."

And so, with Vikings and an exhausted archaeologist in tow, the journey continued.

Wednesday Addams was not impressed.

She had been thrown into many bizarre situations before—family vacations, summer camp, the mundane horrors of suburban life, a dreadful Academy of snobbish young adults—but nothing quite like this.

A haunted castle? Acceptable. An army of classic monsters following her every command? Reasonable. But now she was surrounded by grown men in capes, a loud Norseman with a hammer fetish, and a whiny, perverted idiot who couldn't stop making goo-goo eyes at her.

She mentally cataloged her observations, one by one, as they moved through the darkened halls of the castle.

Batman – Tragic Rich Man with Emotional Issues

Wednesday had met brooding, black-clad individuals before. She came from a long line of morbidly stylish depressives. But this one? He took himself so seriously, lurking in shadows like a Victorian widow whose husband had "mysteriously disappeared."

He thought he was clever, but Wednesday had already determined his entire character within the first five minutes:

Suffers from deep emotional trauma.

Billionaire, yet somehow chooses to be miserable.

Has the body of a warrior but the vibes of an exhausted librarian.

Growls like a chain-smoking cryptid.

Would he survive in her family? Probably. Would he enjoy it? No.

Obi-Wan Kenobi – Ghost Man Who Pretends He's Alive

He carried himself with the weight of a thousand regrets, but his beard was well-maintained, which suggested at least some attempt at self-care.

She had never seen someone so polite yet so obviously suffering.

Has the posture of someone who apologizes when people bump into him.

Looks like he could win any fight but would rather give life advice instead.

Force powers? Basically magic but with a pretentious name.

Probably calls his depression "a disturbance in the Force."

Would he survive in her family? No. He was too emotionally stable to be an Addams, but his life was tragic enough to be adjacent.

Thor – Overgrown Labrador in Human Form

Wednesday had encountered overenthusiastic, battle-loving lunatics before. Thor was perhaps the loudest.

Talks like a Shakespearean idiot, but with confidence.

Laughs too much. Unacceptable.

Treats battle like a friendly drinking contest.

Possesses god-like strength yet willingly associates with mortals? A fool.

Would he survive in her family? Yes, but he'd never know he was in danger.

Kazuma – A Walking Embarrassment

Wednesday had seen pathetic men before, but this one was a masterpiece of mediocrity.

Overconfident for no reason.

Cowardly, but not clever enough to get away with it.

Has attempted to flirt with me three times already.

Failed three times.

Will probably fail a fourth time.

Would he survive in her family? Only as a pet.

Tyrion Lannister – A Drunk Philosopher with a Death Wish

Wednesday could respect this one.

Highly intelligent, but self-destructive.

Hides deep wounds behind sarcasm.

An alcoholic.

A realist.

An alcoholic.

Has killed before, would kill again.

Would he survive in her family? Yes. He'd be the favorite.

As they moved deeper into the castle, Wednesday found herself mildly entertained by their interactions.

Kazuma had tried and failed to flirt with her again.

"I like a girl with a dark, mysterious aura, you know," he said, leaning against the moss-covered wall in what he probably thought was a cool pose.

Wednesday barely glanced at him. "And I like men with functioning brain cells. Pity neither of us got what we wanted."

Kazuma immediately crumbled to his knees, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded. "Ughhh! The PAIN! It burns!"

Aqua patted him on the back. "It's okay, Kazuma! You'll get rejected by someone else soon enough!"

Wednesday sighed. Idiots.

Eventually, they entered a massive, circular chamber at the heart of the castle.

The walls were lined with ancient carvings, and a massive stone throne sat at the end of the room. The air was thick with malevolent energy, and even Batman's usual stoicism cracked slightly.

And then…

He stepped forward.

A towering armored figure rose from the shadows, wreathed in black fire, his helm gleaming with pure, unholy malice.

A deep, resonant voice filled the room.

"WHO DARES ENTER MY DOMAIN?"

Silence.

Wednesday felt Kazuma tense beside her.

Then—

Kazuma did the most pathetic thing she had ever seen.

He screamed like a child and immediately hid behind Thor.

"S-Sauron?!" he squeaked. "W-WHY IS IT SAURON?!"

Sauron took a step forward, the ground trembling beneath his might. His burning gaze swept across the group, and even Tyrion looked like he regretted his life choices.

Batman and Obi-Wan immediately prepared for battle.

Thor grinned.

Tyrion took a very long sip of wine.

Kazuma?

Kazuma just shook violently.

Wednesday observed all of this and concluded that, for the first time since arriving here, she might actually be mildly entertained.

She clasped her hands together. "This should be fun."

Steve Rogers had fought in a lot of wars.

He had led men into battle, faced impossible odds, and stood against threats that no one else could have handled. He had fought Nazis, HYDRA, aliens, killer robots, and gods.

But nothing in his experience had quite prepared him for marching through a desert with an army of sand-dwelling warriors, a legendary gunslinger, a self-proclaimed explosion mage, and an absolute scoundrel with the luck of the devil himself.

Steve glanced toward Mat Cauthon, who was riding alongside Paul Muad'Dib, lazily twirling a dagger in his fingers.

They were two entirely different men—yet, at the same time, eerily similar.

Paul rode with the air of a king, his posture straight, his piercing blue-within-blue eyes surveying the horizon with a strategic mind. His presence commanded loyalty, and his people followed without question. He had conquered nations with his words alone.

Mat?

Mat rode like a man who accidentally stumbled into leadership and was very annoyed about it. His coat flapped lazily in the wind, his spear rested casually across his lap, and he somehow looked like he was half a second away from taking a nap.

But Steve wasn't fooled.

Mat Cauthon played the carefree rogue, but his people trusted him just as much as Paul's trusted their messiah. Maybe even more, because Mat didn't ask for leadership. He just… ended up in it.

And despite his grumbling, he took responsibility.

Steve had seen leaders in his time. The ones who wanted power and the ones who earned it.

Mat Cauthon? He was one of the latter.

Steve smirked to himself. He had a feeling he was going to like this guy.

Steve adjusted his shield on his back, his eyes scanning their surroundings. Beside him, Wonder Woman strode with the grace of a warrior, her golden armor gleaming even in the desert haze.

He had fought alongside plenty of incredible warriors in his life—Black Widow, Bucky, Thor—but there was something different about her. Something he couldn't quite place.

He finally spoke. "That shield of yours—Amazonian steel?"

Diana glanced at him, a small smirk playing on her lips. "Forged by the gods themselves."

"Impressive," Steve said, tapping his vibranium shield. "Mine's a bit more modern, but it gets the job done."

Diana studied him for a moment. "You carry yourself like a man out of time."

Steve chuckled. "Well, that's because I am."

She raised an eyebrow. "I understand the feeling."

Steve glanced at her. "Yeah?"

Diana's smirk faded slightly. "The world I left behind is not the world I walk now."

Steve nodded slowly. He knew that feeling all too well.

A comfortable silence settled between them as they marched.

Then, just as Steve was about to ask her more, Diana spoke again, her voice softer. "The only man I ever loved was also named Steve."

Steve stumbled.

He barely caught himself, his brain completely short-circuiting as he processed that information.

Diana's lips curved into an amused smile, as if she had expected that reaction.

Steve cleared his throat. "Oh. Uh. That's—wow. That's… something."

"Indeed," Diana said, her expression unreadable.

Steve felt like he was back in the 1940s, fumbling through a conversation with Peggy Carter. His super-soldier reflexes had saved him from countless fights, but they were useless against this.

Diana, clearly enjoying his flustered state, continued, "You carry yourself like him."

Steve swallowed. "I… hope that's a good thing."

Diana smiled softly. "It is."

Steve opened his mouth, but before he could think of anything remotely intelligent to say—

A screeching roar filled the sky.

The desert shook as shadows swept over them, moving at incredible speeds.

Steve immediately snapped to attention, eyes narrowing as he scanned the sky—

And then his heart dropped.

Because flying toward them, in perfect attack formation, were a squadron of X-Wings.

Mat, ahead of them, groaned loudly. "Oh, for the bloody Light's sake! What now?!"

Diana drew her sword, her amusement replaced with battle-readiness.

Steve tightened his grip on his shield.

This just kept getting worse.

Superman had faced many strange things in his life.

He had fought alien warlords, stared down gods, and even punched time itself on more than one occasion. He had died, come back, and saved humanity more times than he could count.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

As he soared through the skies above the jungle, his cape billowing behind him, he looked down at the absolute insanity marching below him.

A horde of Vikings.

A giant gorilla.

Indiana Jones.

Shrek.

And himself. The Last Son of Krypton. Leading an army through the jungle like some mythological fever dream.

Superman sighed.

"Yup. This is my life now."

Tony Stark hovered beside him, his repulsors humming softly.

"You know, Big Blue, you should really say something motivational right now," Tony quipped, lazily rolling through the air beside him. "Something heroic. Maybe throw in a 'truth, justice, and the whatever-the-hell-is-happening-right-now' speech."

Superman barely glanced at him. "We need to stay focused, Stark."

Tony grinned behind his helmet. "Ohhh, look at you, being all serious. Come on, loosen up a little! You're flying above an army of Vikings, a giant gorilla, and—seriously—is that Indiana Jones?!"

Superman exhaled. "Yes."

"And Shrek."

"Yes."

"And we're going to fight Mickey Mouse."

Superman rubbed his temple. "Yes, Stark."

Tony laughed. "Oh, man. If I told myself yesterday that I'd be in a cartoon multiverse war, I'd have ordered extra scotch just to deal with it."

Superman didn't respond, but he couldn't deny the truth of it.

He had been in weird situations before, but something about this was beyond logic.

The universes were merging. The timeline was shattered. And now, every world, every legend, every myth and story was colliding together.

He was marching beside beings that shouldn't exist together—but they did.

Because nothing made sense anymore.

Tony tapped his helmet. "So, tell me, Superman, do you ever get pissed off? Or is it all 'golly gee, I'm the perfect boy scout' all the time?"

Superman gave him a flat look.

Tony smirked. "See, that's what I mean! You don't even get flustered! I mean, c'mon, I just compared you to a Boy Scout, and you didn't even twitch. That's weird. Even Captain 'Apple Pie' America gets mad sometimes."

Superman sighed. "Tony—"

Tony cut him off. "I bet you even apologize when someone punches you."

Superman crossed his arms. "I don't have time for this."

Tony grinned. "Okay, okay! Just checking if I could break you. So far? Nothing. You are impossible to annoy."

Superman let out a calm breath, his patience as unbreakable as his skin.

Tony, clearly annoyed that he wasn't getting a reaction, rolled over mid-flight and dramatically groaned. "You are no fun, Supes."

And that's when shit hit the fan.

A blast of red energy ripped through the jungle, scorching trees into ash.

Superman immediately turned, his eyes locking onto the source—

And what he saw made his stomach drop.

A massive tear in reality had formed in the sky—glitching, shifting, twisting in unnatural ways. And from it, something emerged.

Warships.

Massive, planet-destroying warships.

And leading the charge?

A fleet of Imperial Star Destroyers.

Superman's eyes widened. "Oh, no."

And then?

The TIE Fighters came screaming down.

The jungle exploded into chaos.

Vikings shouted in confusion.

Indiana Jones dived behind cover as the trees around him were vaporized by laser fire.

King Kong bellowed in rage, swatting at the incoming ships like they were flies buzzing around his face.

Superman shot forward, intercepting a barrage of blaster fire before it could incinerate their forces.

His eyes flashed red, and with a single searing blast of heat vision, he vaporized an entire squadron of TIE Fighters mid-flight.

Tony whooped. "Oh, NOW we're talking!"

Shrek, dodging blaster fire, yelled, "OH, COME ON! CAN'T WE GET FIVE BLOODY MINUTES WITHOUT SOMEONE TRYING TO KILL US?!"

Jon Snow, sword drawn, shouted over the noise. "WHAT ARE THOSE?!"

Tony swerved through the air, dodging laser fire. "THE BAD GUYS FROM STAR WARS, YOU FURRY MEDIEVAL PSYCHOPATH!"

Superman shot past him, slamming into a TIE Fighter at full speed and ripping it in half before it could strafe their forces.

Then, a familiar, terrifying sound echoed through the sky—

The shriek of an incoming X-Wing squadron.

And leading the charge?

Darth Vader's TIE Advanced X1.

Superman's eyes narrowed.

"Things just got worse."

Sauron laughed.

It was a terrible sound—deep, resonant, and full of cruel amusement. The walls of the ancient castle shook with his mirth, and the very air itself seemed to tremble beneath his will.

The Dark Lord stood before them in his full might, clad in blackened armor, his towering form wreathed in flame and shadow. His spiked helm, a thing of pure malevolence, tilted slightly as if he were regarding them with the utmost contempt.

"You are but insects before me," Sauron intoned, his voice echoing as if from the depths of the void itself. "Pitiful creatures who dare to stand against the rightful ruler of all things. Your suffering shall be legendary."

Batman barely had time to react before the first attack came.

Sauron swung his massive mace, and the world shattered around them.

Tyrion Lannister had experienced many terrible things in his life.

He had been beaten, ridiculed, hunted, and betrayed—but nothing compared to the sheer force of power that slammed into him.

He barely had time to register his body being lifted from the ground before his bones were crushed inward like a paper doll, his insides turning to mush before he even hit the far wall.

His lifeless corpse crumpled to the ground, a useless pile of broken limbs and crushed flesh.

Aqua, standing beside Kazuma, screamed in absolute horror. "TYRION, NOOOOOOO!"

Kazuma, for once, didn't have a joke.

Then, before anyone else could react, Sauron turned and swung his mace again.

Obi-Wan Kenobi moved with Jedi reflexes, his lightsaber igniting in a desperate defense—

But it didn't matter.

The sheer force of the blow sent Obi-Wan spiraling through the air, his body collapsing in on itself before he even hit the ground.

His corpse landed in a heap, his once-proud robes soaked in blood.

Wednesday Addams, watching this unfold, raised an eyebrow.

"So," she mused, "we're dying now. Interesting."

Sauron turned his attention to Wolfman next.

The beast roared and leaped forward, claws extended—

But Sauron merely raised a hand.

The dark magic erupted from his fingertips, engulfing Wolfman instantly.

The creature didn't even have time to scream—his entire body was ripped apart at a molecular level, his essence scattered to the void.

There was nothing left.

Batman gritted his teeth.

They had just lost three fighters in less than a minute.

And Sauron?

He wasn't even trying yet.

Batman immediately analyzed the situation, his mind moving at the speed of a supercomputer.

They were outmatched. Completely.

Sauron wasn't just strong—he was unstoppable. His magic nullified Obi-Wan's Jedi abilities, his strength made a mockery of Wolfman's physicality, and his power turned Tyrion into an afterthought.

They had no way to win.

Which meant they needed a plan.

Batman turned to the only other person in the room with a tactical mind sharp enough to match his own.

Wednesday Addams.

The girl was still eerily calm, standing with her hands clasped behind her back, observing everything like she was judging the performance of a school play.

"You see it too," Batman muttered.

Wednesday barely nodded. "We are small things in a large, unforgiving world. The only way to defeat the wolf is to be the fox."

Batman narrowed his eyes. "You have an idea?"

She tilted her head. "I always do."

Kazuma, still standing in absolute terror, waved his arms. "OKAY, OKAY, STRATEGIZING IS GREAT, BUT CAN WE NOT DIE WHILE YOU THINK?!"

Aqua, sobbing, clutched Kazuma's leg. "TYRION! OBI-WAN! WOLFMAN! THEY'RE DEAD! WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO?!"

Batman and Wednesday exchanged a silent glance.

There was a way.

It wasn't victory—not yet. But there was a way to survive.

They just had to buy time.

Batman looked up at the towering form of Sauron, who was now slowly advancing on them, his flaming mace dragging across the stone floor.

He exhaled.

And then?

Batman ran straight at him.