Bruce, like almost everyone in the galaxy, hated Juarez. He felt heavy drenched in sweat and constricted by his tight Spanx. He finally understood why women stopped wearing corsets but felt glad that when he looked in the mirror, his lumps were gone. All he could think about was Superman's unwavering physique; the difference from Clark's youth was his graying temples, soon to be the color of salt. In fact, Bruce couldn't think of any other differences—no wrinkles, or loss in memory, or muscle deterioration. Can't win with fucking aliens. Bruce's sweat bloomed under his pits. He'd only been outside for five minutes.
"Alfred, are you absolutely sure he's here?" Bruce asked, lowering his Tom Ford sunglasses. "I don't see this asshole—I mean, Clark, anywhere."
"Sir, Mr. Kent is right behind you."
"C'mon, Alfred. I'm not gonna fall for that." Bruce turned around and almost bumped into Clark's hard, muscular chest. Clark still looked like he was carved out of 6' 7" marble, his chin still sharp and strong. Bruce touched his own chin and remembered he had two. It looked like the Spanx wouldn't fool anyone, just himself.
"What brings you down here, Bruce?" Clark asked, rolling up his white linen shirt. The buttons on his chest were tugging against the linen, on the edge of bursting and hitting Bruce in the face. Just another reminder, if he had already forgotten, of what Bruce had lost in his retirement. Whatever. Bruce had intellect. He didn't remember what the hell synecdoche was, but that wasn't important. Wait, wasn't that a city in New York?
"I'm, uhm, I'm looking for Superboy," Bruce said. "He left school to see you."
"He lefT SCHOOL?!" Clark shouted. "What do you mean he left school?! Does he know how much money Lois and I spend to pay for his tuition?! EVERYTHING that I do for that brat, my CLONE, everything . . . it's like he doesn't even care!" Clark narrowed his blue eyes at Bruce. "Does Dick do this? Is he just as ungrateful?"
"Whoa, hey. You and Superboy have a very different relationship than Dick and I." Bruce was not about to get caught in this melodramatic shitstorm.
"Superboy needs a good swift kick in the ass to set him straight. Where is he?" Clark put his hands on Bruce's shoulders and shook them. "Where in the hell is Superboy?!"
"Jesus, Clark," Bruce said, with vibrato as Clark continued to shake him. Bruce regretted coming here. He wanted to go home.
–
Nightwing held his foot on Scarecrow's neck. "Tell me what the hell you did," Nightwing growled as Scarecrow writhed under his foot, choking. He pressed harder. "Tell me now."
"You couldn't kill me if you wanted to," Scarecrow replied, laughing. "Batman taught you well, didn't he? You seek his approval so much that you could never kill anyone, in fear of losing his fatherly love. Or do I smell a little bit of an Oedipus Complex here? Your love for daddy—is it sexual, boy wonder?"
"Fuck you." Nightwing twisted his foot against Scarecrow's neck. "I don't kill, because I think it's wrong."
"Or because you're weak," Robin chimed in. "Just kill the bastard; he'll just get out again. In fact, let me handle it."
Scarecrow coughed, and Nightwing moved his foot to Scarecrow's chest. "The anesthesia is all there! This town is too messed up to do anything quickly anymore. You have to plan months in advance and ask for so much permission from all the turf wars . . . what the hell happened to this city? You can't get anything done here, not even a little . . . experiment . . ."
"Robin, just tie him up."
They tied up Scarecrow and dropped him off at Arkham Asylum. Nightwing climbed into the hand-me-down Batmobile, while Robin slid into the passenger seat. "So, what now?" Robin asked. "Gonna go beat up some muggers? Catch some robbers? Pay a visit to Penguin?"
"I gotta go study for my exams. Next time," Nightwing said, starting the engine. He backed up and zoomed towards the bridge.
"Aww, come on. This is the first time in months that I've been fighting crime. I've just been going to school and playing soccer. We can't just go back already! It's too early!" Robin crossed his arms against his chest. "Besides, you're an English major. What kind of studying do you even need to do?"
"Plenty. I'm dropping you off at Wayne Manor, and you and Alfred can figure something out."
"You're a bad brother, and an even worse friend."
"I try."
Alfred was waiting in the Batcave when they drove in. Damian immediately jumped out of the car after Rich parked, running past Alfred and up the stairs to Wayne Manor. Rich sighed and shook his head as he grabbed his civilian clothes. The year had been hard enough with his thesis, but with the retirement of the Justice League and the fuckery that was Young Justice, Rich wondered if he should stop his superhero career and move on with his life. But, in a way, wasn't this a test? If Rich, Nightwing, could survive through this slump with his little piece of Young Justice, the Teen Titans, then maybe there would be hope. Maybe Wonder Girl, Supergirl, and Kid Flash would finally realize they do love fighting crime and would come back around. Or he could just give up and go to UC Irvine for grad school.
But what about Damian? Now that Bruce was retired, who would mentor him into becoming a good superhero?
Rich rolled up his Nightwing costume and stuffed it into his backpack. He reached for his leather jacket. He felt sore from beating the living shit out of Scarecrow; it had been a while since he had worked out. His jacket felt loose everywhere—not nearly as fitted as it was months ago. Even his Nightwing suit sagged in places. Damian was in better shape than Rich was, and he was a 10-year-old.
Rich waved goodbye to Alfred, who handed him a check for the apartment. Rich hesitantly took it. "Master Rich, it is all right to need and accept help, especially if it is offered to you," Alfred said. "It is also all right to ask for help, if you need it." He looked Rich in the eye. Alfred might have been old, but he was the smartest, most intuitive person Rich had ever met. Rich averted his gaze.
"I, uh, should go." Rich held up the check and smiled sheepishly. "Thank you."
"One more thing, Master Rich," Alfred said as Rich pulled on his helmet. "He doesn't say it, but Master Bruce appreciates your visits."
Rich nodded and climbed onto the Ducati. He slammed on the gas and zipped through Gotham, and he should have felt free, with his leather jacket slapping against him, with the roads nearly empty under the dim orange glow of the streetlamps. But all Rich felt was the weight of fear in his chest. All he felt was trapped.