Disclaimer: I do not own either Young Justice or its related characters. Such are the property of DC Comics, Warner Bros. Entertainment and Cartoon Network. I'm just borrowing them for some non-profit entertainment.

World Without

Chapter Seven: Survivor's Guilt

Back at her apartment, Lois made a cup of hot chocolate for the Superboy –with extra, extra marshmallows and whipped cream.

He didn't drink it. Just held the warm mug in his hands and stared at a photo on the wall, while the whipped cream melted all over his hands and dripped on Lois' knock-off Persian carpet.

Lois wasn't quite sure what to do. She didn't exactly have much experience with children. Not since she actually was a child. She knew how to be a big sister, but mostly only to a younger sister. Her only experience with teenaged boys was from the perspective of a teenaged girl, and that wouldn't help much in this situation. If he were an adult, she'd just slap him on the shoulder and tell him to suck it up. But he wasn't an adult. He was a distraught child. Less than a child. He was only a few month old. He was a baby.

How do you comfort a baby?

You cuddle it. Hold it in your arms and rock it with steady motion and ridiculous cooing sounds.

Yeah… that wasn't gonna happen here.

In the end, Lois laid out a shamwow under the Kid's dripping cup to save herself a little bit of carpet cleaning, and sat down on the couch next to him. She wrapped one arm around the boy's broad shoulders in a half hug and asked, "Do you wanna talk about it?"

The Kid was silent for long moments and Lois began to wonder if he just didn't plan on answering her. He just continued to stare at that photograph on the wall. It was one from their engagement party –her's and Clark's. Clark's face was in profile, feeding a slice of cake to a three-quarter view of Lois (who was smiling like an idiot). In profile, his glasses didn't cover as much of his face; the thick leaded glass didn't subdue that unearthly shade of blue that was his eye. With a strand of hair falling carelessly out of place and that ridiculously happy smile on his face, he looked more like Superman in that photo than he did Clark Kent.

Did the Kid see it? Was that why she sometimes caught him staring at pictures of Clark when he thought she wasn't looking? Did he recognize her late fiancé as his genetic-parent?

Finally, after a prolonged pause, he said, "Do you think he's right?"

"Who?" Lois blinked, not having the slightest idea of whom he was talking about. Clark?

"Batman." And the way the Kid said that, choking out the name like it was something thick and painful to swallow. "Am I just a punk kid in a costume?"

He placed his mug down on the coffee table and pressed his sticky hand to the S on his chest.

"I don't really know what this means." He admitted. "I know it stands for Superman. But that was the name the papers gave him and he was wearing it before that. Is the S for something else? Selfless. Star. Supporter. Sympathetic. Savior. What? I don't know! There's so much I don't know! Those people died today because I didn't know that my landing could destabilize the bridge. That I could cause it to collapse! Batman knew! But I didn't. I don't know anything."

Superman would be ashamed of him.

Not knowing what else to do or say, Lois scooted closer and wrapped her other arm around him so that he was in a good and proper hug. Hugs were supposed to be good for children, right? "Oh, Kid…" She said. "You know lots of stuff. Just the other day, you schooled me on the history of Kasnia."

"That's not the same!"

"Shush." Lois pulled him closer to her and began stroking his dark hair rather like a cat. "Listen, you're young and you're new at this. You'll learn as you go. Now you know that dropping two-hundred pounds of dense kryptonian teenager on an already weakened structure will break it. So, are you gonna do that again? No."

"But Superman-"

"Superman made his mistakes too. He wasn't perfect. We all just like to imagine he was because he's gone now. But let me tell you –that man was no saint." In all the best ways, but that was none of the kid's business. "Plus, he was older than you when he first came to Metropolis, his powers were more developed. You did the best you could, with the abilities you have."

The Superboy gently pushed her away. He stared at her with forlorn crystal eyes and it was hard to tell if her words had any effect on him at all, or if he were just suppressing his distress so that she would stop bothering him.

"Thanks, Lois." He said. Standing from the couch. "But I think I just wanna take a walk, if you don't mind. I… I'll call you if I'm gonna be out late."

And he left. Out the door, not the window.

The trucks went their two separate ways and the Team divided up to follow each one as escort. It was a quiet summer night, the peaceful kind that you just didn't get in Gotham. It would be really nice if the night stayed peaceful and nothing terrible happened to interfere with the Team's mission. But, the Batman knew enough to know that, that wasn't going to happen. Otherwise, what was the need in using the Team as an extra security contingent at all?

He watched two separate dust trails disappear into the night. They would be fine. True, they were young and still getting used to one another, but they were a Team and thus far had worked rather well together. The Caped Crusader did not need to worry about them.

…Not when there was another teenager in more need of concern.

'Are you gonna tell me its all my fault?'

It seemed the super-clone was affected much more deeply by his words than the Dark Knight originally thought. True, his comment about the boy's landing early in the incident was a bit gruff and snappy. But he meant it as a mid-crisis coaching –something he did often enough with Dick. But the young super-clone was no Robin. He was more emotionally fragile. He tumbled into the world already a teenager and standing in a greater man's shadow. He never had a chance to gain the life experiences that allowed for people to build emotional strength.

The super-clone needed some deep empathy therapy. And Bruce knew just the place where he could get it…

The young Superman didn't really know where he was going. He certainly didn't have a specific destination in mind.

Wearing his red and blue uniform with its 90s V-wait, hands hanging limply at his sides, head down, eyes sullen and forlorn. He looked more like a boy in a costume then the real Second Superman he kept claiming to be. This fact was driven home when he was tapped on the shoulder by someone wanting to complement him on his 'Superkid' cosplay. The Kid mumbled out a subdued "Thank you" because it was what his programming told him was the socially appropriate response, but he was not glad for the comment in the least.

It was true. What Batman had said back at the Cave. He was just a punk kid in a costume. Even the Metropolis locals agreed –he was 'cosplaying' (whatever the hell that was!). He was putting on a costume and pretending to be more than he was. A hero. A champion. A savior. A Superman. But all he really was, was a copy. A cheap imitation. A counterfeit Superman.

He passed by a bookstore that was having a clearance sale on a photo documentary of the Doomsday Massacre. The Kid paused outside the store's window to stare at the book's cover. Beneath the title and credited photographer 'James Olsen' was the image of Superman's cape. Torn and tattered, but still vibrantly red against the drab and dreary background of the destroyed downtown area. The photo showed it caught on a broken piece of pipe, jutting up out of the rubble. Blowing in the breeze. The yellow S almost dead-center. Even in death, Superman still flew.

That was a peculiar thought. It was uncharacteristically poetic of him.

But he couldn't fly. All the super-clone could do was jump immeasurably high. It was almost like flying. He could leap tall buildings in a single bound. But, inevitably, gravity would always grab hold of him once more and drag him back earthward. The young Superman heaved a sigh and turned away from the store window with the photo documentary and resumed his walking.

It was then that he walked smack into another person. His head down, eyes focused on the sidewalk rather than in front of him, the Kid didn't see the man until his face had already impacted a rather impressive beer-belly. The man staggered backwards a few paces, his large belly bouncing him off the brickwall-like body of the super-clone. The Kid muttered a dejected "Sorry" and resumed his stride, only to have a beefy hand grab his shoulder, making him pause. He turned around, wondering if this was going to turn into one of those petty street brawls that were supposed to be so common in Suicide Slum.

But when he lifted his eyes, it was to see the face of a middle-aged man looking down on him with something akin to curiosity and wonder, tempered by a healthy dose of skepticism and then accented by sympathy. It was a good thing Cadmus had programmed into him how to read human facial expressions; he never would have made sense of his asymmetrical features otherwise.

"Yer that new Sooperman, ain't ya?" He said.

The Kid was about to reply with something akin to 'Yeah. What's it to you?' But the words drained out of him before they could even pass his lips. In his head, he heard Batman calling him nothing more than a punk kid in a costume and after his failure at the bridge this morning, he had to admit that the Dark Knight was right. "I'm not Superman."

The man seemed to study him for a moment after that. Then, as if commenting on the weather, he said, "Ya look like ya could use somethin' ta eat. Name's Bibbo and I got a place on the corner."

And so, the Kid found himself being guided to a nice dinner at a busy intersection right on the edge between the Bay area and Downtown. He was plopped down on a stool at the bar while Bibbo tromped behind the counter to a glass cake stand, but rather than a cake this one held a pie instead. He cut a slice for the super-clone, heated it in a microwave for a few seconds and then served it with whipped cream. What was it with people and trying to give you whipped cream when you were sad? Lois piled it on his hot chocolate, and now this guy was putting on his pie.

"Sooperman liked this." Bibbo announced proudly. "Said it wuz the second best on Earth."

"Oh." Was all the Kid could think of to say in response. He cut a piece off with his fork and raised it to his mouth. It was worlds better than the grocery store bought stuff Lois kept in stock. He didn't know if he'd call it 'second best on the planet' or anything. He hadn't really been everywhere on Earth yet in his short life and he certainly hadn't taste tested every apple pie in the world. But if Superman said it, then it must be true. After all, the real Superman never told a lie.

The young super-clone glanced around the dinner, studying his surroundings. He'd been living and heroing in Metropolis for a month now, but hadn't really given much attention to becoming better acquainted with her or the people who lived here. It was a nice, clean, well lit dinner. With wide windows, teal colored booths, plastic tables finished to resemble lacquer. On the wall behind the bar were a number of signed photographs. Mostly local celebrities the Kid didn't recognize, all headshots and portraits signed and framed. But placed in a positing of honor above all of them, hung by a black ribbon rather than a hook and wire was a picture of Superman.

It was a full color clipping from the Daily Planet. A full-body image of Superman in profile, facing off against what looked like a gigantic ape in the middle of Downtown. But it was signed.

'To Bibbo,

'Thanks for your help with Titano. Good luck with the new place'

Then, in the place of a signature was a series of geometric shapes and odd symbols, most notable of which was the pentagonal shield, but in place of the trademark S was instead a figure-8.

"May I see that?" The Kid asked, pointing to the picture of Superman.

Bibbo paused for a moment, looking rather like someone had just asked him to hand over one of his kidneys. But after a beat or two passed he gave a slight nod and turned around to –reverently- lift the black ribbon off its hook and pull the picture down. He set it on the counter a safe distance from the Kid's pie plate.

"I asked Sooperman ta sign this after we fought this giant monkey."

But the kid was only half listening. He studied the odd super-shield, with a figure-8 in place of the usual S. It was part of Superman's signature, which meant it was part of his name, and his signature was in an alien language. (That made sense, since he was supposed to be from another planet.) He once again herd Batman's voice in his head, felt him jabbing a finger at the S on his chest. 'You don't know what this means or what it stands for.'

And he really didn't.

The Kid studied the three characters preceding the 8-shiled. Every strait line, every curve every dot of Superman's signature, of his kryptonian name. "He really signed this…"

"Yeah." Bibbo beamed with pride. "But that's just the kinda guy he wuz."

He remembered Robin saying something very similar the night of his liberation from Cadmus. 'Superman was… he was the kind of guy who would take time to humor a little boy's stupid request for an autograph, or listen to a pre-teen's complaints about his guardian. He was more than bright red underpants and giant-robot fights.'

And what was he? Was the super-clone anything more than infantile tantrums and broken bridges?

Bibbo watched the boy scrutinize the picture and autograph. Finally, after a prolonged pause, he said, "Ya never met Sooperman, did ya."

The Kid just shook his head.

"Well, ain't that somethin'. All this time, I wuz thinkin' you were his son, or somethin'."

"No." He once again shook his head. "Superman doesn't have a son. I was made from him. I'm supposed to replace him. But I never met him. I know less about him than the average guy on the street. I've made so many mistakes wearing his shield. I… I think he'd be ashamed of me."

"Sooperman?" Now it was Bibbo's turn to shake his head. "Naw. He ain't ashamed of no one that tried ta do good. If anythin' he'd be proud to have inspired ya ta do what yer tryin' ta do."

"You think so?" Asked the super-clone, needing to hear it even if he didn't believe it.

"…Okay, Bruce. Bye-bye." Martha Kent hung up the phone and heaved a heavy sigh.

Jonthan put his arms around her, but it was unclear whether the gesture was to comfort her or himself. All the news reports about the new 'Superman' had stirred up his heart condition. It was bad enough that his son hadn't even been dead a year yet, that they didn't even get to bury his body in their family plot because he was entombed in another state, but to hear that he'd already been replaced… it hurt. A great deal. But, though he didn't really count himself a Christian anymore, Jonathan Kent was a firm believer in 'Judge not, lest ye be judged.'

It was not the Superboy's fault he had been created to replace Clark. He never met the boy and from what Bruce told Martha, he wasn't a 'bad kid', he was just young, confused, and in need of some guidance. He and Martha raised one super-powered son into a fine man, they could raise another. It might even be nice to have a child in the house again.

"Can we put 'im in the guest room instead of Clark's old room?" He asked, speaking into his wife's neck.

"Of course!" Martha replied, patting her husband's hand. "I wouldn't dream of putting him in Clark's room."

Bibbo was nice. It seemed a lot of the people in Metropolis whom considered Superman a friend were nice. Lois gave him the use of her spare bedroom, Jimmy and Perry from the Planet bought him sodas, and Bibbo gave him pie and tried to reassure him. They were all very nice people.

It was a shame that Batman wasn't as nice as the late Superman's other friends.

But then… Batman worked with Superman on an almost daily basis. Not just within the Justice League, but also as partners –the World's Finest. Lois, Jimmy, Perry and Bibbo were nice, but they couldn't possibly know his genetic-parent as well as the Batman knew him. And the Batman said the Superman would be ashamed of him. No amount of reassurances in the world could change that truth. Lois, Perry, Bibbo and Jimmy were nice. But Batman knew the Superman best.

'He would be ashamed of you.'

Continuing his walk from the dinner, the young super-clone found himself on one of the many paved jogging trails that wound through Centennial Park. It was not the same trail he had saved the jogger on. Abut all trails in the park lead to the statue. Superman's Tomb.

The bullet holes that had pot-marked it a month ago were repaired and the statue gleamed in the failing evening light. With the sun setting over the city behind it, the statue's shadow was thrown over him. The Kid was quite literally standing in Superman's shadow. He looked up a his genetic-parent, silhouetted against the early evening sky, feet spread in a confident stance, one fist resting on his hip, the other arm supporting a perched baled eagle. What would the real Superman think of him?

'He would be ashamed of you.'

Would he? What Cadmus had taught him about Superman made it seem like he was the kind of man that loved everyone. That he tried to save innocents and villains alike. What would he have said today, if he had witnessed the incident at the bridge?

'You're just a punk kid in a costume.'

'Your landing destabilized the bridge. They're dead because of you!'

The young clone fell to his knees in front of the statue. Yes. That would be what the real Superman would say. It was all his fault. All those people in the bridge died because of him. Batman probably could have handled it on his own. He didn't have to jump in and try to be a hero. If he hadn't, the bridge wouldn't have collapsed. Nothing terrible would have happened. But he just had to be a hero.

Lois said he did the best he could with the abilities he had. But Batman was a normal human with no powers and he did a better job. She said that Superman made mistakes and wasn't perfect, but he couldn't think of any instances where that was true.

Bibbo said Superman would be proud that he inspired the young clone to use his powers to help others. But while he did have only the purest of intensions, his biggest attempt to help thus far instead turned into his biggest tragedy. How could Superman be proud of that?

He rested his forehead on the pedestal bearing nothing more than the S-shield in place of whatever words people usually placed on headstones. The Kid heaved a heavy sigh and spoke to the aground.

"Hi." He said. "Sorry I haven't really come to visit you since I… ever. You don't know me and you probably hate me right now. I'm wearing your symbol, but you never gave it to me. I don't even know what it means, not really. Does it stand for 'super', or something else? I saw a similar character in your signature. Is it a kryptonian thing?"

He sighed again and raised his eyes to look up at the statue. It was dark now, the bronze-plated face of the Man of Steel thrown into shadow by the angled light of the lamps that lined the path.

"You can't answer any of these questions. Because you're dead. But… I donno. I just… I messed up today and everyone's saying I should feel so bad. But… you wouldn't have failed. You would have saved everyone. I've been calling myself 'Superman', but… I'm really not. I'm just a punk kid in a costume playing at being a hero."

He lapsed into silence after that. Lowering his eyes back to the S-shield in the pedestal. He didn't knw how long he sat there, just staring at the symbol. Cadmus gave him the symbol, painted in onto his chest before he even awoke to conscious thought. He believed it was his by right. But the shield wasn't theirs to give, or his to take. It was Superman's and Superman had passed away without bestowing custodianship of his legacy to anyone.

No one had the right to give the symbol away. No one had the right to take it.

A shadow fell over the boy and he looked up to see a pointy-eared silhouette over the S-shield on the pedestal. Batman. The young clone turned around, and sure enough, there was the Caped Crusader. Standing silent as the shadow he cast, cape hanging over his frame, making him look more like a dark specter than a man. It was an eerie effect and the Kid suddenly had an idea of how he was able to be such an affective crime fighter even with no powers. He knew it the night he was liberated from Cadmus, but this just drove the fact home.

The Batman was scary.

Not knowing what to do or say. Not knowing what Gotham's Dark Knight wanted from him. The super-clone had a short bout of word-vomit and just voiced how he was feeling.

"Are you going to tell me I shouldn't be here? That I have no right to visit his tomb? How dare I stand where he stood?" The Kid stood, glaring at the caped figure of the Batman. You're right, okay! I get that now. I am just a punk kid in a costume. I don't know anything about him or what this stands for. And, after my failure today, he probably would be ashamed of me! All I am is infantile tantrums and broken bridges. I… I'm no Superman."

The clone lowered his eyes at that admission, speaking more to his feet than the Dark Knight. If he had kept his focus on the man's face, he might have caught the slight up-turn of the man's lips. A small smile of approval.

"Now, you're ready." He said, earning only a startled look of confusion from the boy. "Come with me."