A/N: Stupid plot bunnies won't leave me alone. A sad little one-shot; enjoy!
The tour guide finished her monologue and beckoned for the group to follow her to the next room. The sightseers shuffled along, some with reflective expressions on their faces, others staring up in awe at the towering figures as they passed. A boy, maybe ten years old, reached up to run a soft hand over the name etched into the base of the last statue. No one noticed except for the young man in the wheelchair, who lingered a ways behind the rest of the group. When the boy looked back to see who was watching him, the young man gave him a tiny smile; the boy returned it with a little wave and then turned around as he was pulled along by his distracted mother.
The young man waited until the group's chattering and the sound of their footsteps echoed into silence. Then he wheeled forward, coming to a halt before the velvet rope that barricaded the display. He let his eyes drift, lingering for a moment on each name: Aqualad. Miss Martian. Superboy. Artemis. Robin. They were all there. All but one.
Wally West was so still he might as well have been a statue himself as he continued to gaze up at their faces, so high above his, carved in cold, hard stone. He came here every year, on the day that it had happened, to honor them. And to curse the cruel twist of fate that had let him live, the only survivor, confined to a wheelchair for life. The former speedster had lost count of how many times he'd wished to be with them: a statue, nothing but cold, unfeeling marble, towering over tourists that flocked here to ogle at the dead heroes. He wanted more than anything to stand among their ranks once more; instead he was separated from them by a velvet rope.
It shouldn't be this way, he thought bitterly, tears stinging his eyes. I shouldn't be alive… I should be with them…
He didn't realize how long he had been sitting there, lost in his tortured thoughts, until the sound of voices approaching shattered his reverie. The tour group coming back. Or a new one coming in. He didn't care. With a huge effort of will he tore his eyes away from his friend's faces and turned his head towards the source of the noise.
It was the first group coming back from their tour. Wally maneuvered his chair backwards, away from the statues, and prepared to sneak back into the group from behind. He had been here long enough; it was time to go.
No one noticed him slide smoothly back into the stream of people as they all ambled for the entrance. There was a 'gift shop' outside where many of them would spend the next half hour or so. Wally turned his head and looked the other way each time he passed it, unable to bear the sight of it. Mount Justice had become a museum, a tourist trap just like the Hall of Justice; a place for bored vacationers to come and blow an afternoon when they needed a break from the beach. It made him feel sick.
He listened to their unconcerned chatter, all the voices blending together, a torrent of meaningless conversations. He bit his lip, barely restraining himself from screaming at them, berating them all for their callousness, making them understand what had been lost that night… and they were all just milling around discussing it like it was the weather…
"But, Mommy, I don't understand," a small voice rose above the roar of adult chatter. Wally froze, looking around for the source of it. This was something new. "Why did they all have to die? Weren't they the good guys?"
It was the little boy. Wally could have cried for sheer joy.
"They were the good guys," the boy's mother said, but she sounded impatient. "That's why they decided to do what they did. Maybe you'll understand when you're older."
He wanted to slap her.
"Come on; let's go look at the gift shop and see if we can find something for Daddy."
The boy's face was still furrowed in confusion as he let his mother pull him along. Wally couldn't take it anymore. "Excuse me," he called, wheeling after the boy and his mother. People skittered out of his way as he carved a wide path through the crowd to get to them. "Excuse me, ma'am?"
The woman turned instinctively, certain she couldn't be the one he was addressing. "I'm sorry," he said, "I couldn't help but overhear your son's question. May I speak to him for a moment?"
The boy had recognized him from before; timidly he let go of his mother's hand and came to stand before Wally. His eyes were downcast and he shifted nervously.
"It's all right," Wally said reassuringly. "I have the answer to your question. And I think you're old enough to understand."
He was sure he could feel the woman glaring at him, but this was important. "Those statues in there," he said quietly, so the boy had to lean forward to hear him, "were put up in honor of the five greatest people who ever lived. They were heroes, but not very many people knew who they were because they were so young. They worked hard to make the world a safer place so that people like you and me could have normal lives." He tried not to let the bitterness creep into his voice.
"But why did they die?"
"Because… it's hard, kiddo, I know, but in real life, sometimes, the good guys don't always win. There's not always a happily ever after. But," he said firmly, reaching out with both hands to grip the boy's shoulders, "it's always important to do the right thing, no matter what might happen to you if you do. That's what separates the good guys from the bad. It's not about winning, it's about doing what's right. They knew that. When everything looked black, they could've run. They could've hid and saved themselves. But they knew better; they knew they had to choose the right thing over the easy thing. So when the time came, they gave their very lives to protect you." The boy looked up, an unidentifiable look in his wide eyes.
"That's why they died; they knew what was really important. Now you do too." He let go of the boy's shoulders and reached behind his head, unfastening the chain he always wore around his neck. "I'm going to give you something, but you have to promise to always take good care of it." The boy nodded fervently, and Wally took his small hand and placed the chain in his palm. A shining arrowhead hung on it. Wally had found it in the aftermath of that awful night and worn it ever since; this was the first time he had taken it off. "This belonged to one of them. Artemis. Keep it, and always remember. Never forget. Do you promise?"
"I promise."
Wally nodded, and closed the boy's fingers around the arrowhead. Their eyes met once more, the boy's solemn gaze making him swell with some emotion he couldn't name. "You'd better go back to your mother now," he whispered.
"Thank you," the boy replied, and then he wrapped his thin arms around Wally's neck in a quick hug. Wally blinked, shocked, as the boy ran back to his mother, who had a stern look on her face. "What have I told you about talking to strangers?" she said sharply, grabbing his arm and dragging him away.
"He's not a stranger, Mommy."
It was impossible. But Wally thought that somehow, the boy must know. He must have sensed who the man in the wheelchair really was.
He turned and wheeled away slowly. Away from the crowds, from the noise, from the commercialism. It didn't bother him so much now.
Almost five years had passed. He would never forget.