It was a beautiful day. The kind of day that was just perfect for flying, as Beast Boy used to say. The breeze was calm, and the sun was not too overbearing. The peace and tranquility of the day made it that much harder on the crowd gathered in Titan City Cemetery to bear what was about to occur. This was the day that Luther Stone would be put into the ground.

While that name would not turn too many heads in Titan City, his alias would bring hundreds to tears. He was the former Teen Titan known to the world as Cyborg. His sudden passing had left the heroes of the Titan family searching for answers. What they uncovered had been rather unsettling: Cyborg's cybernetic components had been wearing down faster over the years, and his biological components had become intolerant of the new types of cybernetic technology he was attempting to upgrade himself with. Ultimately, the biological side of the Titan had rejected the new tech, and he died of a massive aneurysm in his sleep. Never once, however, did he reveal his condition. Never once had he sought advice or pity from his teammates. He had been a strong hero, right to the very end. Sadly, the man who had helped create him, Brother Blood, suffered a similar fate a few years prior when his own technology turned on him, so no answers remained for the surviving heroes. There was only sadness, and grief. Today, they would lay one of their own in the ground, and nothing in the world was going to change that. But little did that crowd know that this day would go down in history…or, more accurately, infamy…

"As Dick Grayson, the former vigilante hero known both as Robin and Nightwing, completes his first day as CEO of Wayne Enterprises' Titan City branch, many of the city's citizens have reflected on the strange road that Grayson took after his very public retirement. After winning over the people with his declaration of freedom and his push to allocate more funds for public housing, the former hero decided to show off his dangerous fighting skills during a short stint in the Las Vegas-based Ultimate Fighting Championship, or UFC. He would retire after a year and a half with 14 wins and no losses, and retired a champion there as well – The UFC Light Heavyweight Champion, to be exact. But all of these publicity stunts paled in comparison to the events that transpired nearly four years back at the funeral of Grayson's former Titan teammate Luther Stone, the birth name of the hero Cyborg. The news team of WJMP now takes a look back at the events of that fateful day. As a warning, the following footage may be too explicit for younger viewers, so parental discretion is advised…"

As Father O'Malley spoke out over the casket of the fallen Titan, his friends gathered silently in a circle around his grave. Cyborg had never really been one for religion, but he had left a stipulation that he be buried with Catholic honors. His father had been a highly religious man, and some of it had brushed off on the hero. He wasn't really sure where people went to went they died, but he at least hoped there would be a better tomorrow waiting just around the bend.

Titans from near and far had come to pay their last respects. Even those who had since retired, included Argent and Pantha, had made an appearance. Cyborg's lasting impression on all of the heroes made him someone worth praise and honor, but this resonated no more so than within the heart of Beast Boy. Cyborg had been the only man who really treated him as an equal. After Nightwing's departure, Starfire became reclusive, and Raven always seemed preoccupied with everything in her life except for him. Cy had been the beacon of hope, even during those dark days when all the news talked about was the ever-rising body count of 'The Crusade' and the names of villains cut down by the 'New Messiah' himself.

'New Messiah.' BB's face wrinkled in disgust at the sound of the name. He wasn't sure whether or not the hero had chosen the name himself or had it coined for him by a quick-witted writer for the newscasters, but he had grown sick of hearing about him. Thankfully, his retirement meant that his ugly mug wasn't plastered all over the newsprint. For all of the tragedy today, this was the moment that Cyborg would get his time in the spotlight. 'Front page, above the fold', the green Titan envisioned. 'Cy would've liked that.'

Suddenly, his ears perked up. The sound of a car pulling up on the gravel walkway had caught his attention. Slowly, he looked over his right shoulder – and spotted a jet black limousine coming to a stop. The sound of more tires came up the walkway, only these belonged to the local news.

'You've got to be fucking kidding me,' he thought, feeling his blood pressure rising. But it was true. The back door of the limo opened, and Dick Grayson emerged from the confines, a black dress jacket over his equally-black business suit. So much for being above the fold. Dick's arrival had just screwed that all up.

"What the fuck is he doing here?" Beast Boy said out loud, loud enough for the other Titans to hear him. Stunned, they turned and looked at Grayson as he strolled through the field, a small group of private security following close behind. A murmur of disapproval ran through the crowd of heroes, but the citizens who had come to pay respects simply smiled in appreciation as their legendary hero arrived to say goodbye to an old friend.

Soon enough, the hustle and bustle of camera crews and reporters filled the field as Grayson whispered something into Father O'Malley's ear. Looking around, BB gritted his teeth. This solemn day of remembrance was slowly becoming a media circus.

Father O'Malley stepped down from his position. At this point, the service entailed a few words being spoken on behalf of the deceased by his friends. However, it seemed that Grayson had just bullied his way to the first spot. Always had to take the spotlight for himself, BB surmised. Prick couldn't even be civil on the day a teammate was to be buried.

As the reporters pushed in, dying to hear the words of the former Titan, the heroes who had gathered began pushing back, angry that they had desecrated this event for little more than a big PR stunt. As the calamity raged, Grayson stood in front of the casket, a few sheets of paper in his hand. Without a word, he raised his other hand into the air, making a fist as he did so. Within moments, the media hounds ceased their shoving match, and silence fell over the grounds. As much as the attending heroes despised Grayson, they couldn't help but feel in awe of his ability to control the public with a simple gesture.

Shuffling through the papers in his hands, Dick cleared his throat. He had prepared this speech specifically for this moment, and it was time for the truth to be told.

"Ladies and gentlemen of Titan City," he began, looking into the camera more often than into the faces of the heroes before him, "I have come here today, to these hallowed grounds, to say goodbye to a friend and a colleague. Though many of you may not have known Luther Stone the man, you definitely have known Cyborg the Titan. In all honesty, the two were one in the same. He never compromised who he was, even in the dark days that followed the disassembly of the Titans. Back when I was still with them, Cyborg and I were two of a kind. He was always the one who could make the tough decisions, and had no qualms about helping others do the same. All in all, he was a true fighter, a hero who fought for truth, justice, and, when all was said and done, the last slice of pizza."

The crowd burst out in laughter at the well-timed remark. Even Starfire and Raven had to chuckle at Grayson's timing. However, Beast Boy was unperturbed. His gaze was cold as ice as Dick shrugged his shoulders playfully. He didn't deserve to be up there. He hadn't been the one to watch Cyborg deal with his problems. He…he hadn't been the one to find him unresponsive on the floor of the Tower. He hadn't tried to resuscitate him, to save him from the dark abyss. This was a day of solemn respect. Now all of a sudden Hotshot Grayson makes an appearance, and everybody's all chuckles? 'Fuck him', BB thought, grinding his teeth in rage. 'Goddamn tool doesn't care about Cy at all. All he wants is fucking Brownie points from the people of this city.'

"In all seriousness, though," Grayson said, continuing on with his speech, "Luther Stone was a man who never changed his outlook on what justice was, and what it should be. He never once thought that darkness could grip the city with such strength as to choke it slowly out of resistance. He never thought things would ever get so bad that the Titans couldn't handle it."

BB's brow furrowed. There was something wrong with this, he just knew it. Grayson's tone was changing. He wasn't sure if the other heroes had noticed it, but the former Titan seemed to be setting up something.

"Looking back on all the years, and all that Cyborg has done for this city, I have to said, as God is my witness, that Luther…" Dick paused as he struggled to fight back the tears, "….that Luther Stone was, beyond the shadow of a doubt…the sorriest piece of shit it has ever been my displeasure to know."

The hammer had come down. The jaws of every hero in attendance hung open as Grayson dropped a bomb in their laps.

"That's right, I said it," the man said, an unpleasant smirk coming to his face. "Cyborg was a goddamn coward. Like I said, he never changed his ways. He always thought that the old ways would be enough. Never once did he think that maybe, just maybe, the old ways were dead and buried. He wanted to play nice! He acted as if the bad guys we faced would still treat us like we were little kids! He wasn't going to put his ass on the line for the people of this city, that's for damn sure! He would have rather sat up in his little fucking Tower, sipping hot toddies and watching Lifetime, while your children bled in the streets!"

A chorus of boos emanated from the group of heroes, but it was slowly being drowned out by the thunderous cheers from the citizens of Titan City as their hero spoke the truth.

"Cyborg could never bring himself to do what needed to be done," Grayson said, his voice like an evangelist among the true believers. "For that, he was weak, and his body was weak, and he deserved to die writhing on the floor like the goddamn parasite he was!"

Grayson came to a stop on his mad tirade. The heroes were utterly furious, hurling obscenities at him with abandon. Meanwhile, the people of Titan City were chanting his name. It was time for the big finale.

Raising his hands into the air, he grinned. "So, I now ask for you all to join me in prayer," he said, slowly. "Pray for the eternal soul of Luther Stone, for he shall burn in hottest pits in the deepest parts of Hell for all fucking eternity!"

Suddenly, there was a flash of movement, and Grayson quickly ducked a wide right delivered by Beast Boy. The hero had quite enough of the former Titan's mouth, and now he was looking to break it. However, the aging Titan could have sent that punch Western Union by the looks of it.

"You goddamn motherfucker!" BB shouted, as Grayson's security team sprung into action and restrained the man. "He was our friend! He was our friend! Don't you dare fucking talk about him like that! I swear, Grayson! I swear I'm gonna skull fuck your eyes out the back of your head!"

"I'd like to see you try!" Dick said, shoving the man back.

With the fistfight contained, the cameras moved in to try and get shots of the dueling Titans. But it seemed Grayson had already had his fill of publicity for the day.

"Get that fucking camera out of my face!" he shouted, grabbing the lens and breaking it off with ease. End feed.

"This final explosive encounter would be the last time the surviving members of the Teen Titans were seen in public. Despite the heckling from former heroes who disapproved of Grayson's methods during his 'Crusade', he was considered to be one of the most influential men ever to step foot into this fair city.

Despite the long list of villains Nightwing took down in his career, some would escape his devastating reach. Former criminal and magician Mumbo Jumbo would denounce his ways, moved to the Eastern Seaboard, and changed his name. For security purposes, we will not reveal his new identity, as the former criminal still fears retribution from the retired vigilante. In addition, Brother Blood, the headmaster of the H.I.V.E. academy, would also escape persecution only to die two years after 'the Crusade' ended from complications arising from his cybernetic components – a fate shared by his former protégé, Luther Stone. But, as the detractors of Nightwing's 'Crusade' have always been eager to point out, the sacrifice of life never led the vigilante to the man whom he had been gunning for. The man who had changed his life and quite possibly gave him the strength to attempt 'The Crusade' in the first place: The legendary mercenary turned crime boss Slade Wilson, also known as Deathstroke the Terminator. Despite all the resources Nightwing had in hand, he never located his nemesis. However, we here at WJMP News have learned from seized documents taken by police from Slade's former hideout in the old clock tower of Titan City that the mercenary had contracted melanoma during the years, and that it had metastasized to other vital organs in his body. The last snapshot of Slade, taken nearly ten years ago by government agents in Nairobi, Kenya, revealed that the former crime lord had been reduced to a living skeleton. It is the belief of this news crew, and those who have seen the evidence, that Nightwing's enemy would have ultimately died alone in the wilderness, thereby leaving the people of Titan City with the question of what might have been…"

"Turn that shit off, would you, Alfred?"

The flat screen LCD flickered off, leaving a tired old man silently staring back at his reflection. But this wasn't just any old man. This was the man who had brought justice to the streets of a crime-ridden city using only his skill and technological know-how. He was the man whom the tabloids had dubbed 'The Greatest Cult Icon of All Time', and he was, whether he liked it or not, the man who had just put Dick Grayson in power.

"You know, Master Bruce, the techno-wizards in your R&D department have indeed created a device for controlling electrical equipment such as this," the refined old butler spoke, directing his comments to a grizzled former billionaire playboy swirling around a glass of scotch in his hand. "I believe it is called a remote, and it happens to be sitting on your desk. You should give it a try one of these days."

Bruce Wayne smiled and shook his head. "I'll keep that in mind, Alfred," he said.

The two gentlemen were standing in the executive penthouse sitting on top of Wayne Enterprises' parent company. Outside, the cool night air of Gotham whistled around the building. A storm was brewing, and it looked as if it could strike at any moment. Inside, however, esteemed guest and friends of Mr. Wayne were mingling, enjoying a party set up by their own benefactor in celebration of the first major expansion on the business as well as the appointment of Wayne's former ward to the highest position in the company with the exception of his own. Strangely, the host of the party was further down the hall, sitting in his auxiliary office and getting drunk as a skunk. But, he wasn't alone.

"Well, I haven't seen you this down in the dumps since they fished the Joker out of the old cannery processor," a familiar voice reached Bruce's ears as Alfred left the room.

"You weren't the one that had to track down all those cans of premium psychopath in oil, Jim," The businessman said, turning to look at his old friend, Jim Gordon. Old was definitely the word that described the two men. Bruce was already fifty-seven, while the police commissioner was nearly pushing seventy. Still, these two men had seen more in their lifetimes combined that many people would ever see…or would want to.

"That I wasn't," Gordon said, laughing. "Still, your guests are out there celebrating, while you're in here sulking and drinking alone."

Now it was Bruce's turn to laugh. "What's there exactly to celebrate, Jim?" he said, shaking his head. "The fact that I just spent $4.6 billion dollars on the most technologically advanced building on the Western Seaboard, or that I just put a mass murderer in charge of it?"

"A mass murderer, though, whom the people of Titan City love," a female voice interjected itself into the conversation of the old men. Turning to look, the playboy found himself looking at another Commissioner Gordon – Acting Commissioner Barbara Gordon, to be precise. "Look at you two," she said, shaking her fiery red hair with a grin, "You're like a couple of old soldiers thinking back on the days of war."

"We are a couple of old soldiers," Jim said, grinning back. "You are, too."

Barbara laughed. "I'm not that old," she said.

"Yet," Bruce said, playfully.

The woman gave the playboy a devious look, shaking her head yet again. "Well, if you decide to come out of your hole, you'll know where to find me," she said. "I'll be the one in the little black number with the chip on her shoulder."

"I'll keep my eyes open," Bruce said, holding his glass up. A moment later, the two old men were once again alone.

"You know, I still don't understand why you put Dick in the position you did," Gordon said, walking over to the window, his hands in the well-worn pockets of his tan trench coat. "I mean, he made a mockery of himself. He turned his back on his training, on his creed – on you. Why the hell did you give him so much influence in the company?"

"What the hell was I supposed to do, Jim?" Bruce said, joining his old friend in taking in the view of the city below. "The man's practically a god in Titan City. If I had appointed anyone else and passed him up, the entire city would be on its' way here to lynch me right now."

Gordon laughed. "Look on the bright side, Bruce: Since Grayson killed all the villains in Titan City, chances are they wouldn't have been able to hire someone to kill you if you had refused."

The two men had a hearty laugh about that. Still, the underlying morality of Gordon's words struck a chord with Bruce. He had never trained Grayson to fight as dirty and as deadly as his enemies. To do so was a mockery of his training and of his creed, the same creed that Wayne himself had set all those years ago: Never, under any circumstance, kill those whom you protected the city against, regardless of how vile they were. Doing so made you no better than they were.

"So, three weeks and counting, eh?" he said, opting to change the subject. Grayson had been on his mind all day, and it was time to set him free.

"What, you trying to push me out?" Gordon said, smirking. The two were now on the topic of the aging Commissioner's upcoming retirement. With Barbara set to replace him, Jim didn't have too much time left, but he wasn't about to let that slow him down. "Everybody's been telling me, 'You've done a good job. Now go relax.' Hmph, like I really saved Gotham City alone or something."

"Well, you were the one who had to stand out among the public and explain why six city blocks just went kablooey in the blink of an eye," the playboy said, smiling.

"So did you," Gordon said, skeptically.

"Yes, but nobody was thinking that I was partially responsible for it," Bruce retorted.

Sighing, the billionaire put an arm around his old friend. This man had covered his ass so many times and kept his secret for so long he was practically a member of the Wayne family. A good thing, too, since he had all but disowned the man he had considered a son.

"Look, Jim," he said, confidently. "Life isn't all about saving lives and protecting the people. If you don't give a little bit of that time to yourself, the only thing you'll have at the end is a wall of plaques and a heart of ice."

Gordon nodded his head, accepting his dear friend's view. "I know Bruce, and I'm thankful for every day I have on this planet. There's just one little snag about my career coming to an end."

The playboy was perplexed. "What's that?" he asked, a puzzled look on his face.

The commissioner gave him a weak smile. "I hate golf," he said, quietly.

The two men burst out in loud laughter. The era of these old men was slowly coming to a close, and they weren't exactly sure about where the next turn on the road of life would take them.

"Speaking of retiring," Gordon said, wiping his eyes, "when are you going to hang up the cape and belt and be a former superhero-slash-businessman-slash-ultra rich bastard?"

Bruce sighed, and resumed looking out the window. "Well, I was hoping that one day Dick would take up the mantle for me, but he's got his own things now," he said, softly. "He retired in his prime. Such a waste. If he had just stayed on, and kept the creed, who knows what he could have done. As for Tim…well, some people are better off retired."

"What about you, Hotshot?" Gordon asked, slapping a hand onto Wayne's back.

Bruce turned his head, flashing the trademark smile that had reduced countless women to jelly. "Oh, I don't think I'm going anywhere," he said. "Nobody's gonna retire me."

Miles Winslow slowly rotated his neck, feeling the vertebrae cracking as he loosened up the tension in his body. Well, not exactly tension. More like…boredom. He and his new recruit had been stationed late to guard the private elevator to Bruce Wayne's penthouse. Sure, they were getting overtime, but the wait was just so tedious. Since the fall of the Joker, Gotham's crime rate had dropped sharply. Robberies and assaults were still rather high, but any metropolis was bound to have some sort of criminal element afoot. Well, maybe all metropolises not named Titan City. About twenty years back, when Miles was a snot-nosed little recruit himself, that town was still named Jump City. Appropriate name for it, especially during that time. The only way to escape the chaos was to leap from the roof of your building and become street pizza. Then Nightwing went apeshit on everyone from hardened supervillains to kids jaywalking across the street. Guess when a nutcase like that is hiding in your neighborhood it makes good sense to be nice. It was either that or be dead. And if there was anything Miles didn't want to be, it was to be dead. He was two weeks from retirement himself, and he frankly had gotten too old for this shit. All he wanted was to get his pension, his gold watch, his check, and a nice space on the back nine – not all necessarily in that order. Ah, a good looking girl to bring him drinks and sponge him down on a hot day wouldn't be a bad touch, either.

The security guard's golfing fantasy was broken by the sound of footsteps slowly making their way in his direction. Although the old man had decent eyesight for his age, he couldn't quite make out the face of the gentleman that was coming towards him. Not wanting to move from his comfortable position, he nudged the kid next to him with his elbow.

"Hey," he said. "Go ask that guy if he's got an invitation."

The rookie nodded, and swiftly made his way to the end of the short hallway, intercepting the unknown figure. He had good timing, and a courteous attitude, Miles observed. He should go far in this company - maybe even becoming Chief of Security like he was.

"Sir," the recruit told the gentlemen in an orderly manner, "this elevator is off-limits to those who have not been officially invited to Mr. Wayne's celebration. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to- !"

The guard stopped as a ceramic-handled tonto pierced the front of his chest, exiting out the back near the base of his head. The move was clean and precise. He had never seen it coming.

"Here's my invitation," the figure in front of him said, twisting the blade with incredible ease. Within a moment, the steel slide out as easily as it went in, and the rookie hit the floor without as much as a sound.

The elder guard, on the other hand, was listening to his heart pounding in his chest while his mind was racing. What the hell had just happened? Why did the kid fall down like that? Who the fuck was this guy?

The last thing Miles Winslow ever saw was a cold steel spike coming right for his eye.

Barbara Gordon looked up at the ceiling as the lights in the guest hall began flickering. Each bulb was flashing quickly in a random sequence, creating a strobe light effect that had spread out over the floor.

'Strange,' she thought. 'Wayne Enterprises is designed to stay in power even in the event of an emergency.'

Barbara had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. As a cop, she had learned to trust those instincts, and now was one of those times. Bruce and her father needed to know what was up – if they didn't know already.

As the elevator doors closed, the old feeling was coming back. Flexing his fingers and cracking his neck, he ran the checklist through his mind again. There was nothing out of place. Good. Being out of the game for so long, even he had begun to think that he might have lost his edge. If that demonstration of skill against the two security guards in the lobby was anything to go by, it was sort of like riding a bicycle. He had never forgotten. Taking a deep breath, his mind was set. The smoke bombs were in place. Activation in three, two, one…

Guests began panicking as smoke began pouring out of the air vents around the room. Between the flickering lights and the building smoke, the guest hall was beginning to resemble a crowded nightclub in Thailand. People bumped into one another as they tried to see the paths in front of them. Amidst the confusion and the panic, no one had heard the distinct DING of the elevator doors as they opened.

It was time.

Rata-tat-tat. Rata-tat-tat. The song of twin Heckler & Koch MP-5's rang out in the hall of Bruce Wayne's penthouse. It was music to his ears. This was a song that he hadn't heard in a long time. A lullaby from years past, come all the way to Gotham City.

Come to sing them all to sleep.

The guests were nothing more than frightened sheep, running in circles and screaming. Thankfully, the rain of lead had a way of bringing a calming silence to the hall. A young woman, screaming her head off one second, lying on the floor with it nearly blown off the next. Everything was coming back. The thrill, the pursuit, the instinct.

BLAM. Two more down. Child's play. Left gun goes CLICK. Out of ammo. One finger ejects the clip, other hand pops in a fresh one. Rata-tat-tat. Game on.

The guest hall is silent. Those who could escape to the other rooms had. Those who couldn't died. Simple semantics. Pure logic. Nothing more. The hallway stood bare, beckoning his call. Guns down, safety's on. Too tight for a gun fight. Hard to dodge bullets in such a contained space. Pistol's set, safety's off. Wasn't about to walk into no man's land with no protection. Look back at the hall. Elevator's locked. Guard's key floating in a leaking punch bowl. He didn't need it anymore. Then again, neither did the guard.

Focus ahead. Time to move.

Bruce came to a rest at the end of his pole. The last minute and a half had been a blur for the aging hero. First Barbara came into the room, saying something about a bad feeling in her gut. Then, smoke began pouring out of the vents. He had tried to contact the guard station, but there was no answer. If there had been a fire, the automated system would have sounded.

That's when the shooting started. He had told Jim and Barbara to stay hidden, and wait for him to return. The head on the bust of Bruce Wayne had gone up, and the concealed button pressed, revealing the secret area behind the bookcase. Old habits die hard.

Bruce took a quick inventory of everything. All of it was in working order. It may not have been as advanced or as technically sound as his usual, but the auxiliary Batsuit would do the trick.

The billionaire playboy grabbed the cowl, and stared for just a moment into its' eyeholes. Tonight, the Bat would fight again.

He could hear the footsteps coming up the stairs. The nightshift must have found the men he had left. They would be upon him soon. Let them come. It was simply one step closer to their death.

As the heavily armored strike team emerged from the stairwell, they took in the sight of the intruder. Batons raised, they were prepared for anything. Anything but what was coming next.

His thumbs flicked up, releasing the twin katanas from their scabbards. Five against one. Acetate plastic against fire-tempered steel. It was truly an unfair fight.

The Kevlar plates of the strike team's bulky armor may have be strong against lead, but not against steel – especially when the steel was cutting around the plates. Spinning blades came from every direction, slicing through baton, armor, and flesh in a single stroke. Years of training and teaching cut down in ten seconds. Perhaps if they had trained in a more useful defensive style they would have still been alive. Not much that could be done about it now.

Others were waiting, just around the corner of the stairwell. At least one little man with a big gun. He could smell him. He could feel his fear. Walking by, the pistol drew from its' holster. That man would never get the chance to fire his big gun. The bullet had been right between the eyes. He didn't even need to see it to know how it sounded.

Three more were coming down the hall, guns drawn. It only took a second to take aim, and three more to end the charge. He was nearing the end of the hallway. His prize was in reach.

Barbara Gordon had stepped out into the hallway. The gunfire had settled in the hallway, and she could make out a figure making its' way towards the office. Whoever it was, it was clear that he or she was responsible for the attack on those guests and the strike team.

As the figure neared her position, the woman pulled a .38 from a holster strapped against her thigh. It was a backup weapon, but it was the only thing she had. Stepping from the shadows, she quickly took aim.

"You're out," she said.

He felt the pain ran through his right arm. Blood began oozing from the bullet wound in his shoulder as the dull noise of a small caliber weapon rang in his ears. Turning, he saw a woman in a black dress, a small metallic object in her hand. Her fiery red hair hung limp from her shoulders as she demanded to see his hands.

As one went up, the other trained the pistol.

"As you wish…"

Barbara took in a deep, gasping breath. She could feel the punch of the three rounds hitting her chest before the explosive sound reached her ears. As she collapsed to the granite floor, her last thought was that she should have listened to Bruce after all.

"BARBARA!" Jim Gordon cried out in horror as he watched his daughter fall from the gunshots that had embedded themselves deep within her chest. He had sought shelter under an oak table on the right side of the room, and had witnessed the final moments of Barbara's life in full view. The smoke was slowly clearing. Exhaust fans had been turned on by maintenance, probably per Bruce's order.

The old man cursed himself. Fifty-plus years in his career he had never been without a sidearm, and the night he needed that cold steel the most it was sitting in his bureau by his bed. A lot of fucking help it would do him there. Here he was, basically with the dick hanging out as a brutal psychopath headed his way. For the first time in his life, he was actually hoping he would make it to his retirement. He even felt like maybe playing a couple rounds of golf. Anything he needed to do to get out of this alive.

As the figure came into view, the aging commissioner had trouble believing what he was seeing. His eyes may not have been the best in the world at his age, but they were telling him something that seemed impossible.

The orange and black outfit fit like it always had. The physique was massive. The weapon belt couldn't have weighted less than twenty pounds, but he carried it like it was nothing. And the mask…that mask. There was nothing like it. No one else could have done what had been wrought that night except him. The legend.

"…It's unfathomable," Gordon said, his heart skipping a beat as he watched the dead rise before him. It was then, at the strangest of times, that he recalled a section of lyrics from a song Barbara had played back during her university days when he had went to see her. He had scolded her, he remembered, for listening to such harsh and brutal lyrics. In this new light, as his eyes glanced back down at his daughter's prone form, nothing in those words had been nearly as brutal as what he had seen on this night. They had all but faded from his mind, but there they were, burning with a new intensity:

Bring it all on
Come and take on what you fear
I'm the storm
That towers overhead
Ticking time bomb
With an infinite charge
Bringer of torture
The master is here
Everyone falls…

The truth was evident. The Terminator was back.

Slade Wilson felt good. Ten years back, he was on death's door. Now, he was back with a vengeance. Back behind the mask, he seemed nearly invincible. Just the way he liked things.

Scanning the room slowly, he was well aware of Jim Gordon cowering below the table. Needless to say he was probably overcome with grief over the death of his daughter. It was her own fault. Had she stayed put, had she not opened fire on him…well, not too much he could do about it now. Everyone makes mistakes. Some people pay a much bigger price.

Suddenly, a chair came whistling through the air. Looks like old man Gordon still had some fight left in him.

Gordon nearly toppled over as the chair struck Slade's forearm. The wood splintered, leaving the commissioner defenseless and lacking the element of surprise.

'It's unreal,' Jim thought to himself as he stumbled back on to the hard floor. 'He didn't even flinch! What the hell has happened to him?'

The merc looked down at Gordon, his good eye glaring at him through the mask.

"Don't go and have a coronary on me, Commissioner," he said, his emotionless tone just as haunting as well he had used it on the Titans. "Something tells me you won't be retiring as soon as you think."

"Fuck you!" the old man said. He may have been down, but he was not going without a fight.

"Save your strength, old man," Slade said, once again scanning the room. Nothing yet. "I'm not here for you."

"Then what do you want?" Gordon asked. Sadly, he feared he might already know the answer to that question.

The mercenary cocked his head to the side. The commissioner could feel his eye starting down at him. It felt as if he was looking deep into his soul for an answer.

"Where's Bruce Wayne?" he asked.

Third scan. This time, a significant change…

"Here I am."

Slade shifted his weight back on his heels, and narrowly dodged the leather-clad fist that was aimed for his chin. His opponent quickly recovered, and stood tall before the merc.

"You move pretty well for a dead man." Though the voice was Wayne's, the piercing eyes behind the cowl and cape said it all. The Batman had arrived.

"I was going to say the same about you," Slade said, shifting his left shoulder forward. He was ready for the Bat to throw everything he had at him.

"I'm not dead," Batman said. Despite the age, he still moved with the grace and skill he had nearly twenty, thirty years earlier. The only difference is that it took more out of him to keep up that pace. But Slade was older that him. Not quite as old as Jim, but damn near it. This shouldn't be a problem, he surmised.

"Yet." The single phrase was delivered by the merc with a slight tinge of confidence. It was as if he had seen the future, and already knew what was to come.

The two legendary fighters sized each other up for a moment. Each knew a great deal about one another, and neither was planning on giving an inch. This would be the last stand for one of them.

It was time.

Batman took the aggressive front, launching a side stepping kick towards the masked face of Slade. The merc ducked down with ease, and delivered a roundhouse sweep that caught the back of the hero's heel. As he fell to the side, the Bat posted with his arm and executed a back flip, putting him back on his feet. Slade came in hot, a wide right swing that glanced right off the tip of Batman's mask as he narrowly deflected it. Now in close, the Bat threw a couple of hard elbow shots. Slade, however, held his forearms like a Muay Thai fighter and blocked the shots. A wide right by the hero was finally answered by a right hook that sent Batman sprawling onto the ground.

Bruce shook off the cobwebs inside his head. How was this possible? Slade didn't seem to be weakened by the man's powerful blows. He was known far and wide for leveling even the toughest opponents with a single solid shot. The mercenary not only shrugged off his blows, but he seemed faster, and stronger. Wayne's physical conditioning was amazing for a man his age, but Slade had been considered dead for years. He had practically been a living stick figure when they last had Intel on him. There was no logical way he could have recovered to that extent. But Slade Wilson had not just recovered – he had excelled.

Batman dragged himself to his feet, and launched another assault. This time, he planned to pull out all the stops. But that idea fell flat when Slade parried a left cross and caught him with an uppercut that sent tremors down his spine. He was playing with Bruce. No matter what move he made, the merc knew exactly where to stand to be just out of range and exactly where to punch to make the biggest impact on his opponent's body. The aging hero realized, horrified, that Slade must have been planning this for quite a long time if he knew how to outmaneuver and outfight him. He was getting sloppier by the second, and his opponent continued to wail on him with punches that seemed to bear superhuman strength. Finally, with one massive sweeping kick, the merc caught the Bat right in the back of the head. On the button.

Pain exploded through Bruce's head as he took a knee, trying to find his bearings. His nose leaked crimson, and his organs felt like they had been through a meat grinder. Slade had broken the Bat.

'No, it's just not possible,' the hero thought, his scrambled mind searching for answers.

Suddenly, two hands grabbed up Batman by his cape. Bruce Wayne, the hero of Gotham City - both as entrepreneur and caped crusader – found himself being flung through the air and across his office. The massive impact of his body against the glass window shattered it into a rain of shrapnel for those passing in the streets below. Try as he might, this was one Bat who couldn't fly. It was over…

His hand gripped hard, the leather of his glove being shredded as the hero clung to the broken frame of the window. Glass shards pierced his palm, and blood ran down the side of the building, but he hung on. Too tired to heft himself up back inside, he simply clutched to his lifeline. He could remember days that had been much better than this. Then again, there were days that ended pretty much the same way as this one had. Such was the life of the Batman.

Gordon simply sat in stunned silence as Slade made his way over to the window. Once again, musical lyrics floated through the poor man's mind. Same day, same song, same doting daughter – the same one whose blood was slowly leaking out onto the floor in front of him. All this was simply too much for his mind to bear. Something inside of his brain simply…snapped.

As frenzied laughter poured from his wrinkled lips, his well-gone mind ran those lyrics in repetition:

Here comes the pain
You're no different from the rest
Victim is your name in my vicious wasteland
Here comes the pain
Your destruction manifests
Lying there broken looking up as I still stand

Bruce was aware of the merc's presence as he hovered over him. The cat and mouse game had gone on long enough. It was time to give Slade a taste of the good stuff…

That was when he heard the CLICK.

Looking up, he found himself looking down a tunnel of darkness. It was much like the first time he had encountered the caves beneath Wayne Manor as a child. The day he faced his fear and found the symbol he would use to strike back at the evil in Gotham. But this one was different. As he looked deeper, he could only see a dead end. An end that would change the world as it was. Bitterly chuckling, Bruce Wayne, the Batman, had found out he was going to retire after all.

As Slade pulled the trigger, he felt only one thing. The only thing a mercenary could ever truly feel.

Recoil.