"You are done, then?"

The man, eternally dressed in symbolic black, said nothing. His hands grasped the neck of a bronze saxophone, strangling it until his knuckles turned white and the bones creaked softly, undetectably.

"Your work is finished. There is no one left for you to save, Saxophonist." Soft, yet firm. A brisk autumn wind giggled past them. He shivered as it touched him, sneaking a cold taste of his skin. The sensation left him gasping for breath, his wind stolen by its own kind.

"You can rest now, you know. There's nothing to keep you here, to keep you awake." She shivered with him, sharing his trembling life-throes. It had been decades since their last meeting, years that had wrinkled her face and bent her spine. Her eyes were a tired violet, like wilting irises. She had not aged well. The weight of living breaking her as it broke all others. No one aged well… except those who did not age.

The sun hung fat and close, a pregnant woman sighing as she laboriously lowered herself onto the ground. The wind punted a can around their feet, making it yammer like a playful dog. It barked its way between the bent and twisted balcony bars, plummeting off the roof to the streets below, lost into the mist and shadows.

The man forced himself to loosen his grip on the saxophone and leaned it gently against the bars. He placed his hands on the rail- just so. Wrinkled fingers slipped next to him, instinctively finding the spot they had filled so many years ago. He looked at the hands, flesh sagging gently in quiet surrender to gravity. The fingers were bony, brittled and gnarled.

"What is keeping you here? You've been working towards you goals for so many years…Why are you hesitating now?" He could almost see the young girl he had known, her delicate arms, the youthfully mature face, the wise-beyond-her-time attitude…

The wind rushed again. He clutched at himself, trying futilely to be untouched by the cold. It mocked him, tugging his ribs. "You can feel it now, can't you. Feel yourself living."

Ice crystals snuck into his lungs, setting up freezer-burned castles. He coughed, dislodging a few. "I… I can feel myself dying."

"It's the same thing. You've just forgotten."

"Is it like this for everyone? This-" He coughed again. "-this cold?" She nodded, and he shuddered. "What a miserable existence. Small wonder that abuse existed. I feel like I want to hurt you, just so that I can forget my own pain for awhile." The chill that pervaded his body could be eased by her blood, he knew. He wanted to break her, to sooth himself with her cries…but that would go against everything he believed in, everything that he had taught.

The relief would only be temporary, anyways. This 'soul-frost' always came back. She was silent, gazing unperturbedly out on the partially demolished buildings. The brilliant shine on the old windows had worn down in the century since their last meeting. The once-proud skyscrapers were crumbling under their own weight, slowly decaying beneath the autumn sunset. A hundred years ago, the homeless would have wandered the pockmarked streets, scrabbling with each other for scraps.

He had put an end to that. There wasn't a single person in Jump City who was without shelter, and cities all across the world had already begun to adopt the practices he had taught. Poverty was on its way out. They didn't need him anymore. So… why was he so unwilling to rest?

"I am afraid, I think." He told the wind. "I have worked so long to reach heaven that I forgot what it was I was working for. I don't remember what its like to love God, or why I should want to go to paradise. I am afraid to let go of my work, no matter that it doesn't need me now. It's all I know."

"That is all any of us know, truly. But you have been working for much longer than a regular human. Heaven was cruel to you in that." She huddled inside the blue sweater clinging to her arms as a fresh wind ruffled her skirts. "It was not fair to keep you here for so long. I think… God is not as loving as he is said to be. Blasphemy it may be, but he seems more like a machine than a doting father. More interested in the well-being of the whole than of the individual. It's really the only way, but some suffer because of it. The whole can't be maintained and improved without sacrifices."

"That doesn't make it any less painful for me."

"I know. I am sorry, Saxophonist; but I can't make it better. I'm a sacrifice, myself."

"I-" he broke off, convulsing silently, clenching his eyes closed. His face lost color, cadaver-like. "…I don't want to die!" He choked out, trembling. "I haven't lived yet, I haven't had fun or been married, or read the great classics or…" He shook, staring into the wind with wild eyes.

Her soft voice barely crested the bluster. "Would it have made a difference if you had?" No response, but she knew he was listening. A bit of the wildness faded. "What kind of a measure of life is that? How many books you've read, or children you've produced- it doesn't matter, in the end. You helped rid the human race of a great evil. That's all anyone, even God, can ask of you."

"But, why? Why was it me who had to go through all of this?"

"Because the individual must work for the good of the whole, else they both fail. It's like…you're a kidney in a huge body. Sometimes, the kidney gets overworked. Abused. But-it has to keep working, else the body becomes poisoned and everything dies. You are a part of something much larger, a part of the divine plan of a machine. It goes past you or me."

"You think that every person who ever lived is a tool, a 'deus ex machina' of sorts…Raven, are you saying that there is no such thing as an individual mind?"

She laughed dryly. "Of course there is. The kidney and the heart can't have the same set of instructions. The body wouldn't work if every part acted the same way. There's no denying that each person is different, but there's also no telling whether or not those differences are free will or just another one of God's creations. Either way, the species depends on these differences, on the individuals chosen to make a difference."

"So- my life was necessary to keep the body functioning? To keep society working?"

"Yes. A grain of sand balancing an entire beach. It's a delicate wire that God draws, but he draws it well."

He nodded, half to himself and half to her comment, shivering spasmodically. His hands found the saxophone and held it lovingly, gently. "I…am afraid." He said quietly.

"Everybody is, when faced with their own death. Oblivion, the unknown, is a terrifying thing."

Wind rattled down the instrument's throat, producing a low mournful wailing that captured the attention. He listened to it in surprise. "When I first met you on this roof, so many years ago, I tried to play your song. But, for whatever reason, I couldn't capture it. That note…it was you, Raven, in a way that I could never play. Wind in a machine…"

She smiled, understanding. He coughed, then let out a short, barking laugh and raised the saxophone over his head, offering it up. "I submit!" He cried into the wind, to the wind, to god, to death. "I will rest. My work is finally, finally done!" The saxophone glimmered, shimmered, and dimmed, and he gently, lovingly hurled it over the balcony railing. She watched it fall, disappearing into the shadows below…

He was gone when she turned back. Simply, completely, austerely gone. Wind rushed gleefully through her, touching but not gripping. She sighed and achingly made her way to the stairs. The Saxophonist's face had been ecstatic, relieved, and completely unselfish, ready to accept his place by the machine who loved and yet did not love. She was happy for him, happy that he had found peace, and yet…she was so envious…

The steps were old. They hadn't been beautiful, the first time she had tracked him down, but now they threatened to crumble under even her slight weight. She paused halfway down, touching the railing and watching in her mind's eye as she, young, pursued the ghost. The Titans were waiting for her at the Tower, waiting for her to report. They had been so shocked when she informed them that anyone who went after the player would answer to her.

She smiled at the memory, sighed, and continued on. The bottom floor was in even worse repair, littered with glass and garbage. The café, once a new building on the outskirts of the city, had been abandoned as the buildings spread past it and competition forced it out of business. It was now at the hollowed-out core, waiting to be demolished. Most of the inner city was like that, now.

A fence covered the entrance, a deterrent for what few 'gangs' remained, mostly a bunch of kids who didn't know what gangs used to be like. She fazed through it, stumbling slightly on the other side. Her powers had become harder and harder to use as time passed. Much of it was lack of use, a muscle left largely dormant. Some of it, though, was age. Her decrepit body no longer had the sheer physical endurance for the higher magics, no matter how able her mind remained.

She wandered aimlessly, not wiling to go back to her empty apartment. Ever since Cyborg had turned himself off, she had been so lonely. Nightwing had been the first to go. The Boy Wonder, as he had still been fondly called by his friends, had died in his armchair at a ripe old age of eighty-seven, leaving behind Wayne Enterprises for his wife and son to manage. Starfire joined him six months later after setting her affairs in order. His protégé was still running around somewhere in Africa, beating down the crime there with his mix of martial arts and green energy bolts.

Raven had gone to both funerals. She, Changeling, and Cyborg had each said a handful of words at Nightwing's ceremony. Starfire had entered into a ritual of silence, as was apparently tradition in Tamaran. They spoke again at her funeral, well prepared words that masked the overwhelming grief.

They were buried in the old Tower grounds. Reporters, fans, international dignitaries, everyone who could showed up. It was broadcasted worldwide, and some countries declared the day a national holiday out of respect.

Changeling went a couple of years later, leaving behind thousands of mourners and the legacy of a very successful acting career. His wife, a pleasant blond he'd met while shooting a movie, played the grieving widow well. The rind that concealed his distinctive coloring onscreen came off, leaving behind the green that had faded only slightly from his youth. He would have wanted it that way, never ashamed of what he was. The children looked largely like their mother, except for the odd pale olive tinge to their hair… He had kept his humor till the very end. It was hard for Raven to imagine life without prank calls left on her answering machine.

She and Cyborg, who was still devastated by the death of his long-time best friend, had tried living together for a short time. It fell apart quickly, feeling too much like trying to complete a puzzle with all but two pieces missing. He spent most of his time at Star Labs, anyway. Her own job at the psychiatric ward sorting through the minds of the crazies kept her busy, but not busy enough.

They kept in contact over the following years, annual visits and occasional phone calls. Eventually, they were the only ones left. Speedy and Bumblebee passed; Aquaman swam into the ocean for his final entombment. The twins, Mas y Menos, went out hand in hand. Hot Spot supernovad, taking out a chunk of forest with him. Wildebeest disappeared into the wilderness. She suspected that even the old Hive members had long since died.

Years passed, and more years passed, and she retired long past the time she should have. She lived in her lonesome apartment, meditating the days into a blur of not-time. Her blood, part immortal and part human, kept her body alive for far longer than that of a normal person. She watched as those she loved died, and she meditated, and she remained behind…

Cyborg had confided in her, during one of their lunches, that he was tired. "Not physically," he clarified. "Mentally. I should have died a long time ago, with the rest of our generation." His metal parts were still as polished as they had ever been in their youths, and she suspected that his synthetic muscles were as strong as ever. But he was slumped, worn down. His eye, the real one, looked as weary as she knew her own did.

So, it came as no real surprise a year later when she learned he had voluntarily powered down his mechanical parts. She went through the tired motions of going to the funeral, said a few words to the press, and…nothing. Years passed, and years passed, and years passed…

There was no telling how long her blood would stave off death. It was like that old Greek legend about the man who had been granted immortality, but not eternal youth. He wasted away, cursed to forever age and never die. But at least he was cared for by the goddess of love, Aphrodite. Raven was all alone.

Occasionally, the blur of days was broken up by reporters or students looking for an interview from a person who remembered the era of gangs, poverty, and crime for a school report or an article in a corner of the newspaper. Sometimes the current mayor asked her to perform a ceremony. She involuntarily declined, refusing to be a trained monkey. She did get some satisfaction, though; when whoever the mayor was at the time realized she didn't know his name. Leadership, she had found, changed too often for her to bother keeping up with.

A roaring sound assaulted her ears. Her wanderings had brought her to the bay, the water a green-grey in preparation for the oncoming winter. The sun had fallen sometime during her musings, leaving only the thinnest line of red light on the horizon. It was barely enough to see by, but out across the swells an island could be made out. The island that had once held a proud tower of great renown, and now held only the dust of four forgotten heroes.

Nightwing had ordered the tower to be destroyed when it became apparent that the Titans' services were no longer needed. It was a symbol, he had said, that the city didn't need protection anymore. All Raven knew was that she had to help tear down the only home she'd had since she came to earth.

With the end of the Tower came the end of the Titans. They scattered, Nightwing and Starfire traveling to other countries to continue fighting on their own, Changeling and Cyborg settling down to their careers and families, and Raven…Raven was left to her meditation.

She shivered, and wished for her old cloak for the first time in a long while. The island waited, stonily silent, for the final piece of its collection. She wanted to be there, with her friends, but the wind teased, refusing to grasp her.

She stood for a long, long moment, silent tribute and sentinel of the only family she had ever known. Her heart ached…and she didn't bother to suppress the feeling.

"Hey-ma'am! Ma'am!" She whirled, summoning a black glow to her hands. A Peacekeeper stood, unconcerned, a few feet away. "There's going to be a storm." He told her gently. "You might want to get inside." She banished the magic on her hands, embarrassed by her outdated instincts.

He was right, she realized. The wind had ushered in dark clouds, blotting out what was left of the light. "You could catch your death of cold on a night like this."

Raven stared at him, then laughed humorlessly as she turned her feet towards her dark, empty apartment. "That-" she said as her bones ached in protest. "-is a very tempting offer." And she left the bemused Peacekeeper behind. Tempting, but no. She would wait until the wind caught her, and she would experience the ultimate relief of finishing her own work, the relief that had been on the Saxophonist's face. She could only hope that it didn't take her another century to be caught…