The crowd is still, watching and waiting for the moment everyone breaks. Like watching for the end of the earth, silence of everyone is mind-numbing. I can feel the eyes of the crowd, and the way the burn and dig into my skin. Can they read me? Do they even care? Who the hell are these people? They all blur together. Gray into gray into gray. So Gotham.

Commissioner Gordon's speech seemed to last forever. Like a teacher he goes on about our sinking Utopia and how these officers are just two more in the growing line of death. He urges us, the public, to do our part to stop crime. The aging man points to the flag blowing in the wind. "That is," he says, his eyes unturned toward our country's banner, "our inspiration toward a better tomorrow."

All the eyes in the place are watching it, all but me.

My eyes hang on the other flags on the coffins, the ones drawn over the coffins of the dead. Those are the flags that should be looked toward, the ones draped over our fallen. Those flags know our Gotham, they meet its victims before the ground does. The one in the sky know only of the values sewn into it; liberty and freedom. Oh God, the serenity of that promise makes me sick. I turn away, my head toward the ground.

Someone gasps. A woman, definitely. Too unbearably to see a moment of grief from a mourner I guess. Not crying, lady, just gonna puke.

Liberty and freedom? Right. Crime and depravity take over here. We do what it takes to survive in this hellhole. We protect our own, serve ourselves, and weep and bury our dead. But when two "beloved" and "esteemed" officials of the sacred law lose their live in a news worthy story, we all gotta pitch in.

Beloved to whom? Esteemed to you? Who the hell are you fooling?

To me, I guess. To me they were heroes, shining stars of example and pride. Dug from the lowest of the low and brought up to leagues only topped by the big guy. They loved our city, they loved its people, they loved me. They would die before anything happened to an innocent, and that's what they did. This city gave them meaning to fight for its residents and it finally gave them the ending they had always thought they would have. Well, he died too, saving this wasteland. Batman, the first vigilante. He saved this city, died for this place. Can't say I blame him, I mean. This is home after all, isn't it?

But if it were me, I would have watched it burn.

So I wouldn't have to. I wouldn't have to dress up as an flying mammal and scare big bad mobsters back to their poker tables, only to be killed by a guy with some horrible dentistry. Is that any way to go? I just wanna choke on a Cheeto and die. Is that such a hard thing to ask?

At least it won't be like them.

A glass shattered, bullet fired, body on the floor, death. I shake my head to block out the images of that day. But they all flood back in through the broken dam of my memory.

It's all a fucked up mirage in my mind. My lungs screaming for oxygen, the pound of the torrent rain on my skin. The screams of the sirens. Arms enfolding me, holding me back. A swish of the black cape. And the ghost eyes staring at me, reveling my picture in they're orbs.

I never knew the human body had so much blood.

And blood gets everywhere.

I later learned they died stopping a fully crazed, high robber. Who knew they were still selling automatic guns these days? But that's just a guess, they really don't know who it was. Could have been Kurt Coban back from the dead for all I know. Nah, not Kurt, maybe Johnny Cash?

"I will make you hurt." I mumble in song. My "guardian" notices my slip up, resting his hand on my shoulder. I shrug it away. I don't even know him, just a another blue blood newbie. Sent to do his public duty and sit the crazy girl.

The crazy girl, the one who doesn't need people. The one you can handle herself, thank you very much. I won't break down, you mewling, crying dolt. How can I? With this many eyes watching me, I couldn't live with myself if I slipped up and shed a tear. Newspapers' and reporters show up at my door every day, same questions, same stoic answers. Vale will eat my grief right up, I can't let this city win. I can't let it take me down.

The mumbles from the crowd grow more as the priest calls us to pray. Cute. Pray to what? God? Jesus? Virgin Mary? How 'bout a gun? Or a bottle of the finest Brady? Can that come down on a cloud with angels and salvation? Pretty please, Jesus? I wanna get shit-face drunk. Again.

God, please make them stop. I can hear all their prayers as the priest blesses my parents bodies. I bite back a scream.

They aren't there, shit head! Leave a message?!

The murmurs are full of the finest and grandest bull I've ever heard. "We were friends." Right, because you watched the game with Dad every Sunday. Oh wait, no. That was me. "They were the kindest of people." Because you knew them so well.

"Please, help their little daughter, Lord you know she'll face tough times ahead-."

"Tough times?! Ahead?!" I break the murmurs they all look at me. The cop in charge of nutcase numero uno mutters a sorry and shoots me a look. Yeah, yeah. Behave. Don't do anything stupid.

"Sorry, just got caught up in all the holiness." I look up to see the preacher motioning us again. "Whoops, can't miss fake prayer."

This time they keep their conversations with God.

Now the Commissioner leaves the podium with the crowds turning to meet his movement. They all look at me as he nears, their eyes full of pity, face full of sorrow. God, would all just leave? Why are you even here? I'm part Italian, but damn! Like rabbits I tells ya!

My puffy eyes burn, I can feel the sobs coming back. No not here. Not. Here.

And the murmurs start again.

Someone yells something from the crowd, can't make it out. I-I. Oh.

"Leave the damn girl alone, can't ya see she's fed up with this bull?"

I whirl around fast and catch his eye. He nods at me and I give him a smile. Unspoken thanks, reassurance that someone else finds the utter stupidity of this. Then he's gone, back into the crowd of cast-downed faces and leaky eyes. And I'm alone again.

The commissioner nears. Gordon's face is aged, his hair graying. I can his work written all over his face. His is the witness to everything Gotham churns out. Late nights and early mornings of death cut lines into his smile. It's sweet and grandfather-like, I notice as I try to smile back. But I can't all control seems to have left me, leaving me with just instinct. I try again to no prevail. I seem faded and alone, I guess, as the Commissioner's hand rest on my shoulder, the slight murmurs of the crowd tell me so. Back again? What are you people? The fucking paperclip?!

His other hand raises to my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. "Don't cry, sweetheart."

Crying, I didn't even. No, nonononono. God dammit, hold it together Kate. Come on. Just get over this. Just get through it.

"Your father once told me he loved it when you'd smiled. He said it was like the sun."

He told that all the time. He used to call me "Sunny". And know my vision blurs, control gone. It's all gone.

Gordon slips something cold into my hand before moving back to the podium. They're the badges of my mother and father. I can't force myself fall back into step. Beat's gone, and I'm stranded out on the note. The face of the stoic girl from all the interviews falls and the weight is finally here. Like an avalanche it looms over me and swallows me whole, until I'm swimming in it. My stomach does flips and beads of sweat form on my brow. I feel sick, like something vital has been ripped out of my body.

And all I can see is that day. It goes through my head like clockwork over and over. The news of the shooting, the anxiety, the storm overhead. It never leaves, it only grows in it memory. Fireworks explode in front of me and the world dances away into the bleak night. I clutch my head as it pounds the cold steel of the badges biting into my hot forehead. My head bursts letting out small useable specks of thought and love and lose onto the ground. The pavement meets my face and pain bursts open, but its numbing away, back into its hidey hole. I blank away, the crowd's alarm of screams still blaring in my ears.

"They said you had a panic attack."

Well that's just fantastic.

"Hey you don't look so good. You want me to get the doctor?"

"No." Headaches back, it pounds at the front of my head, collapsing my skull. Pinch the bridge of my nose, and sign. I can't stand the look of this guy. What's his name again? Rodriguez? Sanchez? They all look the same, some sweaty looking green cop looking for a vote of gratification and a job well done from the boss. So who you think they come and see? The poor little sick girl with the murdered parents. Aw, how sweet.

"What did happen to you?"

Sigh and rattle off the same spiel as I did for the rest. Going down the list of crap and injuries I sustained during my little episode. Broken eye socket, fractured wrist, two broken fingers. Plus a great lookin' shiner and a split lip. They're keeping me in observation, running test after test after test. Sadness? Despair? An overwhelming sense of doom?

Check, check, and check.

All the while the GCPD blues keep coming to tell me how sorry they are, and how scarred they were. Good Lord in Heaven, I think I might just pinch my IV and see what it does. Maybe I'll go into a coma. Yeah, that'd be my luck.

"But damn kid, you just fell strait over. I, I thought maybe you were having one of those seizures or something. It freaked out all of GCPD out."

I huff and sink lower into the hospital bed. The IV needle reminds me of its presence and I stifle a groan.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare anyone. I mean it's just my parents funeral. Ya know, the only family I had? And all that bull? Yep, no sweat. Hey can you tell me where exactly they got shot? Maybe play a game of connect the dots?"

The effect of my words is registering all over his face. He mumbles something and takes his leave. Finally he's gone, he smelled God awful. Like two dollar aftershave and cigarettes.

"Grace, just what the heck was that? You know he was only trying to help you."

Wham. There it is, the next cop on the roster. The big, bad Comish himself.

"Save it Gordon, I've heard enough for today. 32 flavors of 'I'm so sorry for your dead parents'. Can't you post a guard outside my door to keep them away?"

He laughs, smiling at the ground. I can see new white blooming out of the brown. He looks done, just exhausted. He sits, putting his hand on my shoulder. "Really that bad, kid?"

"Really," I say with a breath. "I mean, it's just all of it. I can't even think about them, I-." I feel the onslaught of depression again. My chest tightens and I can't breathe. No, not again. I gulp down my feelings and compose myself.

"I know kid, I know." His hand grips my shoulder. Reassurance is painful and pain is something I can't handle right now.

I have to swallow again, forcing down emotions. Not yet, not now, maybe not ever. But defiantly not here. These doctors see any hint of grief and they start shoving pills down my throat, again.

I switch the subject. "It's not just that. It's this shit food too. God, everything tastes the same. Everything! It's like I'm eating a burger and it tastes like freaking sand! And this damn gown."I fling it around for emphasis. "Welcome to the leg show!" I see a nurse scowl at me. Cute, lady. I flip her off and stick out my tongue.

He chuckles and removes his hand, relief, finally. "Sorry, no money here kid. Recession and all of the load. Just going to have to deal with it for now. And watch your language, you can say it, just be quieter about it."

I smile. "I'll try." I lower my voice and add. "But this food really is shit."

Gordon laughs outright now and I find myself chuckling along. Strange, I don't feel the empty anymore. The laughter dies and its back again. Crippling me with its questions, I have to know. I need to know.

"Did you find him?" I blurt out suddenly. No, no! Recoiling back I shift around the sheets trying to think of something to stop him, but his answer comes to quickly.

"I can't lie to you, Grace, you know that. No, we haven't found him. It's like he's just disappeared, here and gone."

Just like Mom and Dad. "Oh, I mean, nothing? Nothing at all?"

He shakes his head, his hair falling into his eyes. "A little thing here and there, nothing conclusive. Yet."

Yet. My dad called it the fake word. It means nothing ever. Now were never gonna now who it was. Who killed them

I force myself again, gotta keep calm. "And what from our leotard friend and his boy wonderful?"

He smirks."Your nicknames top all the GCPD, you know that? And it seems that they can't find them either."

"Well, he's no Batman."

Gordon stands and ruffles my hair. "No he's not. But Nightwing's the closest thing we have to him." He smiles sadly. "We will find him, I promise. Until then Grace, take care of yourself. Call me if need be. Alright?"

I nod and he leaves. I slump back in the bed again. They won't find him, now of them will. He's too smart I guess, to deceiving.

Exhaustion sweeps over me like a blanket, it's all crashing down now. My head touches the pillow and I'm out cold.

But then the nightmares start again.