The Funeral

The official service had been formal, preachy and seemed wrong. It had talked about Tim's position on the force, his friendly attitude, and his techie knowhow. This event was a bit more revealing. Batman sat at the head of a long wooden table. A mug of whiskey in his hand, as he mumbled about fond memories, and held back tears, the two females sat to his left, both teary eyed and remorseful. To his right sat a sombre Nightwing and a vengeful Red hood. Dick spoke first.

"Maybe Tim had the right idea, I mean, aren't we all getting a bit old for this? A life with no masks, no secrets, now that sounds good to me!" To this, Barbara nodded in agreement, and Steph whimpered a little.

"No, you idiot!" Jason yelled angrily. "Going clean is exactly what got Tim killed, the masks are what allow us to remain effective, and the secrets are what keep us alive!"

Tension grew, as both Dick and Jason refused to speak next, both comically fuming at each other. Until the silence was broken by the sobbing of the younger Batgirl.

"He...he's really dead!" She whimpered, and, suddenly, a trapdoor opened from the roof, blasting loud music and dispersing confetti, which surrounded the room, causing Steph and Barbara to hit the deck, and Batman and Nightwing to wrap their capes around themselves instinctively. Jason drew both guns, aiming them frantically, trying to locate the source of the commotion. Finally, the coloured streams of paper settled, revealing a grinning Damian, proudly posing on the nearby bookshelf.

"Someone said the magic word!" He exclaimed cheerfully. "Drake is DEAD!"