If there's no-one beside you when your soul embarks

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Who: Batfamily and the usual hangers on, tag yourselves in
When: Night of the 7th, morning of the 8th
Where: The Batcave, and then the East shore of the city
Summary: Tears. Lots and lots of tears. All the heartache. Then we set fire to Batman.
Warnings: Violence, character death, funeral, heartbreak, blood, batkids fighting. Will probably add to this

Comments

[City]

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[Tim and Jason fighting in the streets? Running into Clark on his way back to base? This is the place for non-Batcave stuff.]

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Somewhere between the SERO tower and the Batcave, Clark walks, steadily onwards, grieving, speaking with people, raising his voice--his temper is frayed, and his pain reaches into his voice. Seeing is harder than it had been at the beginning of his walk, the pain of his stinging eyes agonising. He was using them to defend himself from the bloodthirsty attacks of the Darkness monsters, but every blast of heat vision hurt him as much as the attacking monsters, recurring injury that only the rising sun could heal.

Bruce felt light in his arms - deceptively so. He was easy to carry, his head lulled against Clark's shoulder in such a way that it took real effort not to look down into the abyss that was his empty skull. Every time he did, his fingers would clench. They would bruise if Bruce still could.

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She didn't care who saw her or how early it was. She's already outside and moving through the streets, the fastest she'd ever actually tried to be. Buildings rushed past her as she sprinted; the monsters couldn't catch her, and if they did, she had the FP shells in her pistol for them. Her mind was on one destination only, and that was the baseball diamond, where she promised that she would see Batman's body, that she would confirm it was him for her own eyes. It wasn't that she didn't trust Superman. Far from it; she trusted his word. But she wanted to see it. She needed to.

This was Bruce Wayne, Batman, friend and ally. She needed to know.

She finally slowed down when she got close enough to the diamond, jogging the rest of the way. She waited for him, her eyes on the dark. She drew her gun and took a few out if they were far enough away. If they got too close, she killed some with her claws. It didn't make her feel any better, even if it was an outlet for her pain and misery.

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Clark never varied his pace, not even when he saw Re-l standing in the diamond waiting, attacking anything that came too close. He kept his burden steady, held against his chest as though sleeping.

A tiny Bruce held to his chest--eight years old, but with the mind of the bat. Eight years old and so fragile; tiny and human. His own words echoed back like cruel a cruel portent.

"Have you ever considered being realistic? You know--not pushing yourself beyond your limits? I know it's sort of your thing, but one day it's going to get you killed."

The baseball diamong was where it had begun for all of them, and it was a good place to rest, to step away for a moment before he crossed the last few blocks and carried him into his cave, and straight to his distraught children.

"Re-l." Not 'Miss Mayer', as usual, and Clark barely had the energy to deepen his voice. His eyes were on Bruce as he lay him down, still gentle, as though he might rouse him from his sleep.

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He looked like he was resting, unconscious from a fight or from an accident. For a moment, she almost let her guard down. She almost relaxed. But no, as Superman drew closer, she could tell it was too late. She walked towards them, her gait rigid, uncertain. Her mind was abuzz with denial, every fabric of her being telling her that this wasn't happening. But it was, wasn't it? Here he was, unmoving, lifeless.

Re-l's lower lip quivered once; she almost spoke. But what could she say? There was nothing.

As she came to Bruce's side, she sank down to her knees in the grass and put a hand over his chest, on the bat symbol, and looked him over. His head... Oh God. Her eyes were wide as she took the sight in and she wondered if she would be sick if there was anything in her stomach.

She looked down at his face now and she watched his prone form, unmoving, for a long time. He wasn't getting up. He was really dead. "Batman," she whispered under her breath, his name breaking on her lips. Bruce. I'm so sorry.

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Clark stepped back, moved to a distance of fifteen feet or so, far enough that he could turn his back from her and bow his head and not let anyone, least of all her, see the defeat and anguish that for a few moments gripped in. Her pain, the way her expression fell, the blood draining away in horror; it was how he felt but could not show. He longed to claw at the poly-carbonate armour until he somehow forced Bruce to not be dead. He wanted to shake him until his bones rattled.

Every conversation had felt like going through the motions, upending people into their own oceans of torment and heartbreak while denying himself his own. He felt like he might break if the slightest pressure was applied, a tap against his heel and like Achilles he would shatter like glass.

His eyes hurt when he cried, but the burning he'd inflicted earlier was a good cover for the tears. Quietly he turned back toward her, eyes low, and said nothing.

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It only took a few minutes of staring at his body for the tears to start. She didn't make a sound, but she allowed herself a little time to weep for the man she had come to trust and know so well over the few months he was here. He looked out for her and for the city. He sacrificed himself, night after night, for the sake of people he had never known and for people who didn't appreciate all that he did. And now he was gone.

Stupid. It was all so goddamn stupid. Why didn't anyone understand all that he had done? Why was he still hated? She thought of all the people who would never get Batman or Bruce Wayne, and it almost made her angry.

She curled her fist over Bruce's chest, over his heart, and she closed her eyes. She wished she had some power, something, to bring him back. Anything. Why bother being a Proxy, one who can create and take life, if she couldn't even save someone so close to her

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He felt the same way. Bruce was a magnificent man, and it was easy for someone close to him to just see all the strife and hardship of living the life he did. None the less it was a life he had chosen. He fought for people who probably didn't deserve it. He never killed. He never demanded even a 'thank you' from the people who owed him their lives and more. He had gone after Sylar not only for Carrie but because there were people here who couldn't defend themselves, and maybe he could end it before more lives were taken.

It had claimed his own.

Clark moved back over when she spoke, dropping down to one knee beside her and dropping his arm over her shoulder, squeezing gently.

"You didn't make him go out there tonight, alone. He made that decision. We should have been able to stop this, but how could we when we didn't know his plans? Nobody knows what he's planning but him, and that's the way it's always been." A pause. "What will you do now?"

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It made her so bitter. This one man couldn't even be saved by the city that he had so often protected. It was frustrating. Her hand smoothed over the bat symbol absently and she raised her other hand to wipe the remaining tear or two from her face. Bruce wouldn't want it like this. He wouldn't want her sitting here, endangering Superman and herself, mourning for a dead man. He would want her to be working, back on her feet, protecting her city. Protecting what he no longer could

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Despite the pain, despite being mere inches away from the reality of the body below them. His friend and hers. Bruce--Such a fool. Didn't he realise that his death would have consequences? That it would effect others like this; the way it was effecting Re-l, him, the way it made his heart beat hard against his chest like a bird trying to throw itself through the walls of a paper cage.

"He'd better come back; I'm not going to forgive him otherwise."

He looked up at Re-l quietly, his eyes momentary piercing as they fixed on her hair, the side of her face. Did she know? Clark thought back to that moment where Bruce had been shot, and his curiosity wandered. It would explain things if she did.

Letting go of her shoulder, despite the fact that it broke her reassuring contact on his hand, he moved once more to hook his arms underneath Bruce's body, lifting him with ease, as though gathering up a sleeping child.

"His children are waiting."