The city of Gotham was still in the process of rebuilding the Brooklyn Bridge. The reconstruction's pace was slower than Bruce's dead parents, with long, steel beams piled everywhere, cranes and compactors and excavators littered all along the edge of the East River. For months, there had been no construction workers and no surveyors, because Gotham had no funds left to continue the repairs. Rich knew there was no money in the bank, but the mayor sought solace in the obvious lie of the bridge's supposed rebuilding.

All the city's funds were hemorrhaging out to corrupt officials and to Young Justice. So many young, budding superheroes came to the city looking for work, knowing that there was some extra asskicking to do with the retirement of Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, and many others. Many were idealists—they were here to restore order, peace, confidence. Instead, Young Justice turned Gotham into a shit show. The city ran rampant with criminal activity, and more than half the police force either retired or accepted bribes, causing Young Justice to blame each other for the massive spike in Gotham's fuckedupness. The group of young heroes split into factions, fighting each other for turf to protect, or sliding over to the dark side to earn more cash on top of the government's generous stipend.

But none of the members of Young Justice had any idea what they were doing. Some only fought petty crime, claiming to protect the weak and innocent, while others hunted down big projects, scouting out the docks for highly illegal activity. Everyone had a different idea of what a superhero was, and none could be consistent.

Rich wondered if he could rally the rest of Young Justice into working together while slumped in the teal velvet armchair. Each arm had many burnt holes from cigarette ash, the velvet smelling like a stale cigar shop. Did anyone remember what the Justice League, their mentors, had taught them? It didn't matter that they were all different people with different backgrounds and different ideals—nothing would get done if all they did was fight over everything.

Everyone else around Rich knocked back cans of Natural Light, dancing to Kid Flash's shitty dee-jay playlist. Almost all of it was Skrillex songs from 2011, with a few '90s cover songs by pop-punk bands. This happened every Friday at Rich's faction of Young Justice's hideout, which was cleverly called Hideout. Supergirl charged $20 at the door, except for ladies in line before midnight. Rich hoped that the funds would go to new equipment, or repairs on the old, hand-me-down Batmobile, but instead the cover fee went to a pink neon sign to hang above the grungy entrance, Hangout written in all caps sans serif. That, and liquor. So much liquor.

"DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!" Wonder Girl shouted, drunkly roundhouse kicking someone in the chest. He flew into a brick wall, frat hat soaring into the air. The other boys shrank back. "I AM DRUNK. THAT DOES NOT GIVE YOU THE RIGHT TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF ME!" she growled, slowly raising her fists.

The group hurried toward their unconscious friend and rushed out the door, Supergirl holding the door for them. One of the frat boys winked and licked his lips. She sucker punched him straight in the nose. "Blacklisted," she said, "I mean, if you didn't catch that already."

Rich helped Supergirl usher the rest of the crowd out as Kid Flash cut the music. Wonder Girl somehow made it to the brown leather couch by herself and rolled onto her side, groaning. "What is wrong with men nowadays?" she asked as Rich placed a pillow behind her head. "Do they just think we exist to fuck them?"

"Just think if you weren't Wonder Girl," Rich said, draping his leather jacket around her. "Just think about what would happen if you were an average human girl who was smashed. Bad things could have happened."

"Rich, could you not be depressing as fuck for once?" Wonder Girl asked. "It didn't happen, I'm not a normal girl, and let's just move past this."

"Are you listening to yourself?" Rich turned to Supergirl and Kid Flash. "We're supposed to be protecting the innocent, the defenseless, but look at us! We invited those people to come! We just okay-ed their shittiness!"

"Hey, man, calm down. No need to get worked up about this," Kid Flash said, putting a hand on Rich's shoulder. "It's just one time. It's not like this shit happens all the time."

"BUT IT IS!" Rich shouted. "IT IS HAPPENING ALL THE TIME! HAVEN'T YOU BEEN LISTENING TO THE NEWS? HAVE YOU BEEN GOING OUTSIDE AT NIGHT? DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH CRIME THERE IS NOW?"

Supergirl stood up. "I don't need to listen to this," she muttered while stomping out the door. It slammed shut behind her.

Wonder Girl groped the air, trying to grab ahold of Rich's arm. She must have been seeing double, since she held the air instead. "Look, honey," she slurred, "I get it. You wanna be righteous. You wanna be the hero. But guess what? No one believes in us anymore. No one gives a shit about us. What the hell is gonna happen if you get a real bad injury, huh? You think the doctor's gonna try his best to save sweet old Nightwing? Well, guess what? They're trying to kill us off, just like Native Americans. This town hates superheroes. All we've done in their eyes is destroy everything and kill people. So just enjoy what the city's giving you before they amend any of the Superhero Laws."

Rich looked at Kid Flash, who shrugged.

Fuck, Rich thought.

–

Bruce stabbed at the salad Selina Kyle made him, which contained cucumbers, lettuce, and tomato only. The dressing was lemon juice and olive oil—mostly lemon juice—making his lips pucker. Fucking salad. Bruce shoveled the lettuce into his mouth. Fucking fuck.

Selina rewound the news as Bruce violently finished his meal. "So this blonde woman," she started, pausing the screen. It was The Blonde, her voluminous, golden retriever-blond hair turned into massive waves reflecting the flashes from the photojournalists' cameras. Her glasses were gone; her golden eyes focused on the audience, her red painted lips half-open in speech. She was glorious, and Bruce shrank at her beauty. Had he been in the same shape as he was last year, he would have a massive hard-on, but now he was all too conscious of his sad sack appearance. "Deirdre Deasey. I heard she's very skillful when it comes to business," Selina said, tracing the edge of her glass with her index finger. "Smart lady. Pretty too. Is that why you picked her, Bruce? Did you need a young, buxom woman in your life again?"

"My board of advisors picked her while I was out of town," Bruce grumbled, grinding cucumbers between his teeth. "I still can't believe Wayne Enterprises is investing in skincare and feminine products."

Selina shrugged. "How's little Dick? Is he still in school? Fighting crime?"

Bruce stared at his empty bowl. How was Dick? Was he doing well? Did he miss fighting crime with Batman? Was he eating right? How did his final exams go? That's a thing they still do in college, right? Final exams?

"Dick is fine. I think," Bruce replied.

Bruce thanked Selina for the meal and drove himself home in his new Bentley. The Maserati was thrown into a junk yard on the outskirts of town, mostly because Bruce wanted a new car. The Bentley was a custom jade green and rumbled when he stepped on the gas. He loved it almost as much as he loved watching Teen Mom.

Bruce dragged himself up the main stairs, heaving when he reached the top. Right as he was about to reach the door, Alfred opened it for him. "Master Dick is inside," Alfred said, handing Bruce a handkerchief. "Please wipe your face, sir. You're dripping with sweat."

Bruce dabbed his face with the hankie and went inside, Dick sitting on the leather couch. He looked smaller since the last time Bruce saw him with Superboy, muscles missing somehow. Maybe Dick was working out less. His leather jacket didn't seem as snug, just looser, like it had grown. Was something wrong? Oh God, did Bruce have to play father? Where was Alfred?

Dick stood and smiled. "Hey, old man," he said. "What's going on?"

"Nothing much. Just had lunch with Cat Woman," Bruce said, sitting down. He wiped his face again. "What about you? You don't usually visit."

"Oh, you know. Just checking up on my favorite retired superhero," Dick said, elbowing his mentor. Bruce looked at the kid's face, and he looked tired, worried.

"Is, uh, something wrong?" Bruce asked.

"Well, um. I think that, uh, Superboy may have skipped the rest of the semester to go to Mexico."

"...Why the hell would he do that?"

"To go look for Superman."

"Oh, Jesus Christ. Is there anyone without daddy issues in Gotham?"

"And none of the Teen Titans want to fight crime anymore."

Bruce whipped his head around to look at Dick. He narrowed his eyes. "You're joking."

Dick shook his head and sat back down on the couch. Bruce joined him. The era of superheroes was over; maybe it was unfair of the Justice League to force these kids into these roles. Maybe they were all horrible parents forcing kids to fight at a young age. In any case, it was too late. The sidekicks were adults with ideas and feelings and dreams. Bruce only wished he knew what Dick wanted, but he was afraid to ask.