Title: Birthrights
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Batman Beyond/Justice League Unlimited Crossover
Disclaimer: I don't own either Justice League Unlimited, or Batman Beyond. All credit goes to Bruce Timm and Co. for their hard works. I don't own the toys, but I do take them out and play with them every once in awhile.
Author's Note: This has been bouncing around in my head for quite some time now, and I haven't gotten around to typing it, but now I have the time. And, ironically, the drive, since I've been slowly updating my Batman story as well. This story takes place about three years beyond Epilogue, and bear with me, because it's going to be a bit confusing: setting up the fanon mythos beyond the canon mythos has its tricky moments. Hope you enjoy the story!
Summary: Sometimes, echoes of the past have direct effects on the future. (3 years post-Epilogue)

1

Dark, cold, and rainy. The day, newly broken, grayed and dark, was nothing like he'd pictured, not on this day. He'd always joked about it, said the day should be sunny, all daisies and butterflies, just to smite his mentor, and look at it now. Even in death, the world seemed like it couldn't let him go, not quite yet, and even the heavens rained in denial of it.

Today was the day Batman died.

"Colleagues, family, and friends, we are gathered here not to cry tears of sadness at his passing, but tears of celebration, as we honor the great man he was. As he always quoted to me, 'there are only two absolutes in life: you are born, and you die', so must we accept this absolute today. Today, we lay Bruce Wayne to rest beside his parents." Dick Grayson's voice seemed old, older than normal at age eighty-six, like he'd been reliving one of his old Nightwing days and tried doing it full force. It was sad, seeing him leaning on his walker like some retiree in a retirement home, his light blue jacket hanging loose over his black trousers and black dress shirt. He knew the former acrobat had once fit those clothes, but now… now…

Dick continued, addressing the meager crowd around the coffin, the empty coffin, as the real one had yet to see the light of day. "Bruce was more than just a foster father to me. In all aspects, he was my father, heart, body, mind and soul. The world never knew how great he truly was in life, because they only saw one side to him. As his foster son, I had the chance to see him as others never could. If he had never taken me in, I would've been on the streets, fighting for scraps out of a trashcan, with no goals, no dreams, and no hope. In spite of our differences, I realize now that we weren't just on the same page: we were the same, inside and out. We were made out of the same stuff, from the same mold. Because of Bruce Wayne, I lived the life most people would kill for… and others died for." He paused, coughed, and sighed. "I can't believe the Old Man's gone. Half the time, I swore he would outlive Armageddon." Almost the entire crowd had to chuckle at that one. Although there weren't that many, a great number knew exactly what Dick had said, in all aspects, and he, this aforementioned solemn man of thirty-five, was one of them.

It was then that Dick turned to him, smiled sadly, knowingly, and nodded his head, speaking directly towards him. "I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

"Yeah. Not even speeding bullets could stop him if he didn't want them to."

"Ladies and gentlemen, my brother, Terry Wayne-McGinnis."

Terry could be sure a few people were surprised when they found out; Wayne's lackey? His son? Even now, three years later, he could barely believe it himself. Bruce Wayne is my biological father. In one way, it made quite a few things about himself make sense, but in others, it was a weirding experience. For example, connecting with Dick, and referring to each other as "brother", even though there was more than fifty years between them, ranked high on the weird list. But, over the past two years, it was slowly becoming natural. Especially after the Fallout.

He hugged Dick closely, then took the podium, scanning the crowd carefully to see… was he… Yes he was. Slag it, he cursed to himself, frowning at the one person he desperately did not want to see here, nor anywhere except where he was honor-bound to be. Clark's here.

Clark Kent. Superman. At Batman's funeral. In a perfect world, this was where he should be, his eyes crinkled with tears at the loss of an old friend. In a perfect world, where there was no Fallout, there was no Superman, and there was just Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter for the Daily Planet, friend of Gotham bachelor and millionaire Bruce Wayne, this funeral was the last step in an overwhelmingly long journey of friendship. But no, the world, as Terry knew it, was never perfect, and never would be.

The last time he saw Clark… or was it Jordan now? Clark Kent, or Jordan Elliot? Somewhere along the lines of aging more than gracefully and working for a business which made its money on suspicions and curiosity, Clark had to expose himself as Superman, move from Metropolis, and carry on his way as another man, another mask. But anyway, the last time he saw Clark, Terry wanted to kill him for all he'd done. He wanted to take a kryptonite bullet and a gun and do away with him, but now… Now he could do nothing.

He had almost begun his speech, the one he rehearsed this morning, when someone caught his eye. A girl, in the back… she wasn't invited, not that he knew of. He was sure of that. For one, she was too young; for another, he'd never seen her before in his life. Black, waist-length hair, almost indigo eyes behind a pair of oval black glasses, slender build. In her thirties, it looked like, but a young thirty-something. Strange… Terry made a mental note to check the guest list before taking his turn at the podium. "Bruce Thomas Wayne was almost superhuman. Through the tragedy of his parents' deaths, he conquered his fears and decided to use his resources to make sure no child would ever have to experience what he went through, or face the world alone. Before I knew him as my mentor, and later, as my biological father, I knew the name Bruce Wayne went synonymous with charity." He scanned the crowd, and seemed almost surprised when the same girl he saw before was slightly shaking her head and frowning at him. What? "B-bruce was a great man," he stuttered, surprised. Terry paused, and by the tenth shake, he sighed, frustrated. "When I first met Bruce," he admitted finally, "And I mean, when I really met him, I first thought he was an old, stuck-in-the-mud, fart. I thought he was pompous, arrogant, demanding, stubborn, and someone who wouldn't lift a proverbial finger to help you if he had the strength to lift one. He was, to put it mildly, the 'Boss from down below'." More laughter. "But then I got to know him. Like Dick, his son, Barbara, one of the few women who have stuck with him over the years," he smiled at her, standing next to her husband and holding his hand, "and Tim, his other son, after them," he nodded to Tim Drake, standing in the front row with his wife and family, "I got to see a side of Bruce no one had ever seen before. I got the rare opportunity to see the man behind the mask. Ladies and gentlemen, you can never see what I saw in him. You can never be there, right behind him, like I was. And you all will never know how great he truly was. He's the stuff legends were made of. I guess… I guess he was like Batman: doing what little he could for the sake of the human race; not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Here's to you, Bruce. I love you, you Old Fart."

By ten, most everyone, what little people there were, had gone home, and Terry was left alone with the Bat family. His family, he supposed, now that he was not only cemented in it by occupation, but by blood as well. He hugged Barbara tenderly, and wiped a tear or two from her eyes. "Hey, and here I thought the police commish wasn't allowed to let anyone see her cry."

She shrugged. "I just can't believe he's gone. He's finally gone…"

"Yeah. And like Dick said, I thought he was going to be around forever," agreed Tim, stroking her head. "He was a tough old bat."

"I'm proud of you, Terry," Dick replied, piping up for the first time since his eulogy. "Bruce would be too."

Terry nodded, feeling a tear slip down his cheek. "Thanks, Bro."

"No, I mean it. In and out of costume, you're a man he could be proud to call his son. You're everything I wasn't at your age."

"Yeah right. You're twice the man I am."

"Maybe I was in my prime, but not anymore. By the way, speaking of who we were, what's with the new name? Nostalgia?"

"Thought I'd make everything official for all the Gothamites still doubting my identity. Besides, Thomas Wayne's legacy is in my blood too now, whether I like it or not. I have to live up to something besides the costume."

"Really?" Visibly startled, Tim's eyes widened. "Is that right? I thought that sounded weird when I read over it this morning. But then I thought, 'eh, Wayne's probably his middle name or something'. Have you had it long?"

The younger man sighed. "No, I changed it last week. Starting this week, my name's hyphenated. Bruce would've liked it… I think. Never really knew with him."

Dick laughed. "No, he would've been furious. 'McGinnis, what are you doing? You took my suit, and now you want my name. Stop stalling and get back to work'."

"Bruce was always like that," chimed in a voice behind them, older, familiar, but unwelcome. "Never could get a word in edgewise with him. And the hard part was he was always right, no matter what."

Terry stiffened, his ice-blue eyes as cold and hard as stone. "You shouldn't be here, Clark. Leave, now, before I call the rest of the Justice League to take you out."

Clark just stood there, his wisened, sorrowful eyes crinkling at the corners; his crow's feet suited him well. In a black suit, tie, rustled hair and a slouch, he'd given up the old owl glasses for a pair of slimmer, rectangular "bifocals", but no matter how he tried to hide it, there was still no mistaking the jutting chin, the broad shoulders, the glint of his eyes. No, although the years had been good to him physically, they had been terrible on him everywhere else: Clark was getting sloppier all the time, and looked more like Superman in a suit than Jordan Elliot/Clark Kent every day that passed. "I'm here to pay my respects to my friend, Terry."

"As Superman, or Clark Kent? Or is it Jordan Elliot now? I lost track of who you really are. It really doesn't matter anyway, because I'm still telling you to bite me and shove off," he retorted, the power of telling off the world's most powerful being flooding through him, making him bolder with each moment. "I have the ring, and I'm not afraid to use it."

"Terry, I'm sorry. You know I'm sorry, and if there was something I could do to make it up to you, you know I'd do it."

"But there isn't, is there?"

A hand placed itself on his shoulder, and Barbara hissed in his ear. "McGinnis, maybe this isn't the best place for a showdown. Can it until later."

"She's right," agreed Dick. "Not the time, not the place. Let it go for now. Let him stay a bit longer, so he can enjoy the after party cocktails before we pound him into a pulp."

"Dibs on the first round," piped up Tim.

"Fine," replied the Kryptonian. "Have it your way. Excuse me, Commisioner Gordon. Dick. Tim."

When he was rhetorically out of earshot, Terry gritted his teeth and cracked his knuckles. "I'm going to kill him."

"We all will, McGin—Terry," stuttered Barbara, then sighed, shaking her head at her blunder. "That's going to take some getting used to."

Tim agreed, and stared after Clark, distant. "Things change, Babs. Things don't stay the same anymore."

The mess was disaster zone material, and it kept coming, thanks to the thousands of guests who apparently came for the food and not for the recently deceased. From used napkins to crumbling cookies, the Wayne Manor looked like it needed more than a cleaning service: it needed a miracle. Terry sighed, dejected. Great, he thought, snatching a used china plate from the buffet table and stacking it on top of another. I hosted a zoo at Batman's funeral. "He would kill me for this."

"Most likely," replied a voice almost too low to hear, and, startled, Terry accidentally dropped his plate. "I've heard he wasn't too fond of social gatherings." He hadn't even noticed she was there. Her long, ebony hair reached to her waist, a long, light lavender sweater wrapping around her slender frame. As she drew closer to him, he noticed how indigo her eyes were behind her glasses, lighter in the middle, then deepening to a dark blue at the edges. A thin, grim line substituted a pair of full lips. If it wasn't for her grimace, he would've considered her attractive.

"Bruce was something of an oddball. Billionaire bachelor, philanthropist, playboy. You'd think he'd live for this stuff, but all it did was made him feel how out of place he was."

She nodded. "From what I have heard of him, he was an outsider at his own parties."

"Yeah. Sad, really: even when he fit in, he never really did. And, I'm sorry, but who are you?"

"You shouldn't have sent Clark away. He had every right to be here." That stopped him, but before he could get a word in edgewise, she kept hammering him as she approached. "He was seeing to an old friend." Bending down, she quickly made short work of all the large china pieces, and handed them to him. "After what they've both been through, together, I had hoped you would have seen that."

"Who are you?"

She adjusted her glasses. "You know, he looked after you. Watched your back when your father couldn't. That's the kind of person he is. In fact, he probably watched you the most, wanting to make sure you could live up to Wayne's legacy."

This girl was cutting deeply into uncharted territory. "Who are you?"

"Marti. You can call me Marti, as if that makes any difference."

"How do you know all this, 'Marti'?"

"I have my ways. Anyway," she shrugged, nonchalant. "I have to go. I'm sorry about the plate."

Creepy, he thought, watching her weave through the crowds of people around her. And my Bat sense is tingling. Something's not right. He narrowed his eyes, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Marti. No last name, probably one of a billion girls, and she left in the blink of an eye. Looks like I'll be working late tonight. Real late," he muttered. "Perfect."