Bruce Wayne stood motionless as a statue, facing the view of Gotham City, eyes closed.

Dick Grayson lay in the next room, critically ill with massive internal injuries; he’d survive, he has to!  The events of the last two days whirled again in Bruce’s mind, questioning every decision, looking for where he went wrong, but it was academic.

Alfred entered the dining room, suit pristine as always.  He noticed that the food on the table was still there, largely untouched, just moved around the plate in absent minded arrangement.

“Sir, you need to eat,” he ventured softly. Bruce didn’t answer; just opened his eyes to the scene before him.

The sun had long descended now, but the orange glow remained.  Gotham was burning still, even after two days.  The fires dotted across the city like some sick map of terrorism.

This was only the beginning.