by HarveyKent
November, 1987:
“Superman?” Dick Grayson, in Batman’s costume, said kindly. Superman’s attention was drawn away from the stars. He looked at the youth he had known for so long, grown into a man, wearing the costume of his mentor. “Clark, it’s time for you.”
Nodding, Superman stepped away from the edge of the bubble, glanced out at the faces of the men and women who had known Batman, known Bruce Wayne, fought side by side with him, saved his life and been saved by him, and faced death at his side many times. They all looked to Superman, to the man who had known him best, for words of comfort in their time of loss.
Superman glanced at the statue, the silent tribute to the man they had all come to say farewell to. What could he say? How could he frame into words his feelings at this time?
Clearing his throat and choking back a sob, Superman spoke. “Of my friend, Bruce Wayne,” he began, “I can say only this. He was my hero.”
The heroes gathered together in the name of a fallen friend were silent. Nothing more needed to be said.
The End