Interior Batcave. Still in the suit, Terry stands in a transparent decontamination unit. He is a brooding, ebony statue in a wash of pale mist. Pushing out gently, we see Bruce, paler than usual and leaning on the controls for support. We can presume he's removing any trace of the gas.
Time jump. Terry removes the mask – we see his haunted expression – and places it into a compartment. It's whisked away. As the suit is placed into that compartment piece by piece, we see just how damaged it was by Inque and the green gas.
Time jump. Terry sits sideways on a gurney, now wearing civilian clothes, his hair still damp from decontamination. Bruce is testing his reflexes. Tersely, he asks, "Do you feel anything, anything, like nausea or difficulty breathing?"
"No," Terry sighs.
Just as relieved as he is, Bruce moves away. He still seems to be having trouble standing. He wipes some sweat from his brow. The dog nudges him. It's still whining nervously.
"We have less than 24 hours to stop that gas from shipping," says Terry.
"I'll need a week to rebuild the suit," sighs Bruce. "Some parts aren't made anymore."
Terry is speechless. This is unacceptable.
Bruce begins, "The police can—"
"The police work for Powers!"
"There's at least one person we can trust," Bruce says cryptically.
Terry springs to his feet and marches into a different section of the cave. He finds a few spare masks.
"McGinnis," Bruce calls, breathing shallowly. The dog cries.
"I saw what that shit can do." Rifling through a dusty, cluttered work table, Terry finds a gauntlet. He hesitates. He's trying not to break down. "I watched them die…"
Bruce collapses into a chair. The dog licks his hand fervently. "Even I can't save everyone," he says. Then, grudgingly, almost tenderly, he murmurs, "You risked your life. That's the most that anyone…"
Back to Terry. He's regained his composure. He's thinking about it. Thinking maybe Bruce just complimented him. Curious, he turns to look back at the old man.
The chair topples over, and Bruce hits the floor, motionless.