A/N: Again, apologies for waiting six months before publishing this third chapter. Besides the fact that my grades are dropping rapidly and that I've been suffering from writer's block (partially due to the fact that my English teacher hates my style), I was also hesitant to publish this due to the subject matter. Everyone was so eager to find out how the great Batman died. I wanted to heighten the tragedy by giving him a death that was not glorious, but a mere coincidence. Because Terry is careless on occasion, and accidents will always happen. Thus, please do not expect anything of this chapter. I'm sorry I could not bring myself to give Terry a more grandiose death scene.

I have considered writing an actual continuation to this story, as in what happens with the legend after the death of Bruce Wayne as well as Terry McGinnis. This means a story with an actual plot, which I frequently have difficulty with, and it also means putting up with my writing style some more too. If you'd like me to continue the tale, please say so in your review.

Disclaimer: If Batman Beyond belonged to me, its production would not have been halted after 52 episodes. Enough said.

Solid Curtains and Shades of Red

He is gone, now.

And the legend is gone too.

But then again, the legend died nine years ago, with the death of the McGinnis boy.

Imagine that. Some kid just out of juvenile hall can invade Bruce's darkest, most deepest secrets, can steal the most treasured item of Bruce's life, and then suddenly, that kid has given meaning to the life of a dying old man.

And given meaning to my life, too.

I see death a lot in this business. I started seeing it when I was still young, still bright and athletic, and still in love with the mystery and romance of being a savior, hidden under the cloak of the night. And under his shadow, too, he who taught me everything that I ever knew, who taught me how to run, how to fight, how to watch, how to wait, how to find. And thus, I knew how to find, upon his death, what had happened to my mentor, my friend, my love. The slightest discoloration of the skin, the slack muscles, an expression that mixed peace, sorrow, weariness, relief. A lesser experienced person would have believed it as old age, perhaps even one such as myself with so many years in the business would make the mistake. But I gazed upon his face, I noted the shade of his skin and the way his face was set, and I knew, as I knew, before I analyzed the cup on the tableside and even before I read the letter, I knew, as I had known the secrets that had haunted him through these years, that it was not old age that killed him.

I wonder if I blame Terry. I've blamed him for a lot of things before, for some things that he didn't do, some things that he did. But still, the kid always meant well.

That's the trouble with this business. Kids don't belong in it. Of course, I shouldn't be talking; I wasn't much older when I started. But still, I was little more than a shadow when I started out, in a way, tagging along behind the illustrious Batman and Robin. I wasn't out there, alone, and by myself. I mean, sure, Terry had Bruce on the computer, always watching him, but honestly, telecommunications will only go so far. At seventeen, Terry had a tough chore ahead of him, and very little to help him through it.

Tim Drake was even younger. And Bruce and I, and sometimes even Dick, would watch over Tim, and still, he suffered. He suffered grievously. And Bruce swore that he would never endanger another young partner. Yet Terry managed to find away to burst in upon his life, and I guess something in his bright-eyed, eager and headstrong manner reminded Bruce of a dream that was still possible, another person could still protect the city when he was gone.

Sometimes I wonder who had it worse, Tim or Terry. But no mentor should have to suffer the pain of outliving his pupil. Especially when he goes back on his word of never allowing harm to come to another of his companions. And, I guess seeing the death of Terry, after the psychological helplessness of Tim, after the emotional wounds of Dick and after my own pain and pride, I think that the dark stains upon his life overpowered him, and he chose to sink beneath their shadows.

Nine years is a long time to die, and he chose the slow way to do so. Perhaps he was half-heartedly hoping that another young man, bright-eyed, would enter his life, would stroll into his world, and would somehow redeem him. The poison he had taken, it was probably a weak one, but taken regularly, it had accumulated, and mixed with the proper other toxin, he had chosen this day to die, the anniversary of a day of death. But I don't know for sure, though. I spoke to him little in these past nine years, for he had become unnaturally recluse, even more so than he once was, speaking to no one for weeks on end. It was little help that the press had found his secret, had clamored at his gate, hounding him for interviews and appearances. I did what I could to help, but I succeeded in little more than learning how completely helpless I was in my own city. But this much I could do, I could tell the authorities that he had died of old age, that there was no need to perform a full chemical analysis or autopsy, I could arouse suspicion but save whatever was left of Bruce Wayne's soul. I had to, to the best of my abilities, do what I thought he would want, which was to die without people noting his loss, and to go quietly and be at peace with himself at last.

I was helpless too, the day when Terry died. Otherwise I would have stopped them, stopped them from crowding to tear the mask from his face. But my efforts were as futile as my wish that he had not fallen from the sky, that he had not perished under the roar of cars in the streets that night.

Nature sometimes plays about with the sort of dramatic settings that appeal to Shakespeare. As I look out the window now, transparent though my reflection floats upon it, I see the mist and the rain, sheets of the thin, needle-like crystals falling and dancing in mourning of a hero. It was a dark and stormy night when Terry died, too, only then, it was not just rain and mist but thunder and lightning as well. A dangerous night to be out, especially for a seventeen year-old deprived of sleep. And it wasn't even his fault entirely, it could have happened to anyone. Only coincidence said it would happen to him.

Ironic isn't it, that for all his glory, for all his ability, Batman would die in an automobile accident. And without even having the consolation that it wasn't entirely his fault. But it was a rainy day, the roads were cold and slick, moisture seeping into the dust and turning it to a wet, frictionless clay.

I was on the road that night, in a patrol car, and I was watching the skies, and I had noted the Batmobile speeding above me. No more than noted, for I had not thought anything out of the ordinary would happen.

And nearing an overpass, something happened. I've seen accidents before, but when I think about that night, I have to close my eyes and bite my lip to keep the tears from falling, and push away that bitter taste of salt in my mouth. They say that doctors should never have to operate on the people whom they love, but I'm Commissioner Gordon. I have to see everything that happens within my city.

Another car had come, careening off of the highway, through the railing. Without the magnetic propulsion of a road directly beneath it, the car could do little else but fall, arching away from the road before slamming the full force of its weight against the jet black vehicle speeding directly below it.

The Batmobile is designed to avoid such incidents, by the same magnetic propulsion that keeps cars on the roads, but it responds to the driver alone, and the night was late and the driver was young and tired. The Batmobile can withstand relative impact, but the metal it was made of had become badly dented, the force of the blow had sent it spinning madly in a wide turn, and under the weight of the car on top of it, the two masses began plummeting together to the street below.

And when I saw the slim black shape eject itself from the masses, I sensed the beginning of something terrible waiting to happen. I knew then that he had become confused, disoriented, and had begun to panic. The thunder was loud that night, and as his rockets fired and he shot upward, his wings silhouetted against the city lights, a jagged whip of cold blue tore downward, amidst the bleeding downpour of the midnight sky.

Below, the two hovercraft had fallen together, but not without warning, and around them, people were swerving, successfully avoiding the wreckage, if just barely. But with crackling blue sparks, another figure fell from the sky, a human shape, that startled those below, and as the cars scurried about like ants, the unexpected presence was enough to shatter the luck, and as Terry McGinnis, the second Batman fell, he crashed through a windshield with enough force to propel the vehicle forward, into a mass of metal, sparks and gears. When I examined the vehicles several days later, I found that the suit had withstood the blow. Enough so that it had carried the boy through the car, and into the engine. I remember the shards of metal that flew out that night, and the sudden blast of heat that wrenched sweat from my skin.

No more than a minute could have passed by at that time, and eventually, the panic subsided, but the cars still came to a stop, inching to a halt as the blaze was gazed upon in solemn horror. Fire-fighting trucks were arriving, and I watched them as they watered out the flame, knowing that no person, no matter how well protected, could be capable of surviving a blast of that magnitude. I remember my voice quavering and my head spinning that night, as I woodenly gave out the proper protocols, and ordered them to "tend to the wounded". I remember not remembering at all, not hearing, not thinking, not knowing anything but a sense of sorrow, of loss, of regret. I had scene death before, but nothing struck me as this did.

The body of the Dark Knight was there, limp as a rag doll, even the mask was twisted in a grimace of pain and death. The outer covering had been ripped away, exposing the vast network of circuits beneath, and in some case, even flesh that was lacerated or burned.

And all around me, people were crowding. Clamoring, "It's Batman! Take off the mask! Who is he? Let's find out!" And the news crews gathered around with their cameras and their bright lights, casting a kind of ghostly white shadow on the pitch-black uniform, a dizzying, glitzy brightness.

"Stay back! Let him be! Have you no respect for the dead?!" I remember crying that much out. But weakly, for upon that last word, my voice cracked, for I myself had admitted that much allowed, what I had known but dreaded to be true. And from behind, the crowds surged past me, pushing me away, and I was to weakened, to strained by the events of the night, to make threats with my gun while there cold and vicious hands tearing and clawing at the body, the uniform, and lastly, pulling the mask away.

I remember looking up as the crowd gasped in surprise, and I remembered that it was then that I had finally let the tears fall. For that was not the bold, hot-headed youth that I had so often scorned in the past, but it was a young man, uncertain, scared, but ever hopeful. And amidst my tears, I heard the news reporters chattering into their microphones, and I heard the policemen under me abandon their duties so that they could hurriedly identify the McGinnis kid. And I stood there for a long time, staring at the wreckage, watching as they pulled Terry McGinnis's body out of the twisted metal and the smoldering flames, and I watched my entire life flash before me, as if it was my life that had been lost. For my life had been a life of a legend, and that night, I stood there and watched the legend die.