Batter

Gotham's Mournin

It was dawn.

Purple, pink, blue and oranges-they shined on the bright silver-faces of Gotham's buildings. The sky was still deep with the blue of a very dark, cry-filled night. And here, began a new day. The rising sun would soon dry the wet streets, clearing all evidence of the storms that rocked it's foundation the night before. All will be cool, cool, calm crisp morning. It was cruel of nature to do so, giving Gotham such a bright and hopeful day.

Those just awakening that morning, rubbing the sleep from their eyes, the remnants of a particularly nice dream itching in the backs of their skulls. Showered, fresh, looking ahead for a new day, a new job, a new raise, the first day at school. Eating their simple and nutritious breakfast, little teeny-weeny children watching mom flip eggs in the frying pan. Teenagers, passing around the cold pizza, sipping on brewskies on the front lawn of someone's house they don't know. Some stopping in for their morning coffee at the local café. Munching a stucco-and-cardboard tasting power bar on their way to work...

And the television is turned on.

The News begins.

'Batman is Dead.'

So shine on, mother nature, and create them a wondrous day, free of clouds and disaster. Gotham turns a blind eye.

Somewhere, in this fine, fine city, right at this moment, a taintless detective was painfully recounting the night before on paper.

Somewhere, in this fine, fine city, right at this moment, a laughing clown was being led from a small padded cell to the activity room in Arkham.

And somewhere...in the bowels of this jungle of steel, in the-abysmal muck that is the wastelands of Gotham...

There was a someone who wasn't a someone crawling, through the grime and salt, bleeding, strangely broken, hanging on by a spider's thread to...something he did not know he was hanging onto.

The will to keep clawing at the earth, to return to solidity, above the waves and currents, what was he crawling for? What did he need to save? Something needed to be protected, and cared for. It wasn't there anymore.

A back pressed against soft, grainy movable ground. He was suffocating, ripping off what was hugging, strangling his body, tossing it back into the dark he came from. Was there something to look for. Was there something to find. Why did he have the drive to keep going, keep moving, remain between the hard place, and....what hard place. And what.

What, what what.

It was right there, right on the periphery, -something- was there, staring at him.

It was gone now.

It was cold.

"...What are we going to do about this. The office. Meetings-personal galas."

"I called this morning, and told them he was having me stay here until all this business is cleared up. I gave notice we might leave the country, on account of personal safety. I've cancelled everything, and closed down the building. They've told everyone to go home."

"...That should...work well enough, for the time being..."

"...I think we should turn off the news. Get some sl-"

"Are you interested in anything to eat? I'm sure, this, uh...whole thing was very, very stressful..."

"...No. No, I'm fine. Thank you, Alfred."

"...I'll make some tea."

Lucius Fox turned his eyes out the window. Early afternoon. An entire night spent at a police station, only to show up on the doorstep of Bruce Wayne's penthouse, face to face with...a red-eyed butler. He had been watching the news, since Bruce had left that evening.