Bruce Wayne died peacefully in his sleep in the early morning hours of an unseasonable warm October day. The announcement of his death spread quickly over the globe. The talking heads of the multiple news networks prefaced his name with the words philanthropist, industrialist, and business giant. But those who truly knew Bruce Wayne, knew that the one moniker owed to this man would be spoken of only amongst themselves, hero.
He had known he was dying. For all the times he faced death with a stoically set jaw, he had indulged himself in the last weeks of his life with sentiment. He had planned a dinner. Present were old friends, although more truthfully most were only acquaintances now, since the responsibility of maintaining friendships was never one he took to heart. Present were Commissioner Barbara Gordon, Clark Kent, Rex Stewart, Zantanna and a few others. These were the people who knew him as both Bruce Wayne and Batman. He had wanted to see them all one last time. To make right a few of the many regrets he had in his life.
He also wanted them to witness his final blessing to his namesake, to both of them. For sixteen years Terry McGinnis had worn the garb of Batman. But still, he had only ever been a shadow of the original. No more. The secret of Terry's birth was unknown to even these, the closet of Bruce's friends, but no one questioned that he was his heir in all things. And while they may have found it auspicious, no one suspected the whole truth when Bruce presented his friends with the latest addition to the clan, Bruce Wayne McGinnis, the newborn son of Terry and his wife Dana.
Bruce Wayne was laid to rest in the Wayne family mausoleum. Flanked by his parent's bodies, his was set in a sealed coffin of marble. Few knew where the magnificent stone had come from. A gift from the island of Themysicra, to honor one of the few men who dared to step upon its shore and not only live to tell of it, but who became one its own heroes.
The pomp and majesty of his burial rivaled that of an Egyptian prince. After a service, where thousand of mourners stood out in the now cold autumn rain, his body was bore from the great Gotham cathedral by an honor guard of hundreds of Gotham's finest. These were citizens of Gotham who knew Bruce Wayne only as the man behind the money of numerous charities that, in the decades of his patronage, had help so many in their time of need. Employees of Wayne Enterprises, who would always say that working for Bruce Wayne was the best job of their lives. The decent salary he paid and the benefits he made sure were always available to them, had made their and their families lives better. The many students who received scholarships for school, who found their way out of the slums and projects of Gotham through hard work, education, and the generosity of the Bruce Wayne. And so many, many more.
It was days later that one last memorial was held in honor of Bruce Wayne. They entered not by the great iron door that secured the hallowed ground, but by a magical portable opened by Zantanna. They came to set one last monument to the fallen hero. A statue, carved from some of the great stone from Themysicra. An angel, wings and arms spread wide. The sculptor had left it to the imagination whether she was in the last act of releasing the soul or accepting it. Below, carved into the base, an inscription.
Here lies Bruce Wayne, a son of Gotham.
There had been some debate over what should be the epitaph to this man. There were those who wanted to claim him as a hero to the world. But in the end it was Clark Kent, Superman, who reminded each of them, it had never been Bruce's desire to be a hero to all. His heart, his soul and now his body belonged first and foremost to the city of Gotham.