Nov. 9 || Dreaming
Gotham lay toppled before his feet, NoMan'sLand once more - the city ravaged by the quake and left to rot. There was so little here: no heat, no electricity, no running water, no food, no medicine. Money, jewels, art... All worthless in this wintery wasteland. But a coat? A flashlight? A can of beans? Bullets?
People found very creative ways of killing one another when the usual routes weren't available to them.
This had once been the Financial District and was now LoBoyz territory - unless the remains of the GCPD had already initiated the gang war between the LoBoyz and the Street Demonz, in which case, this was Blue Boys territory. Tim supposed it didn't matter. Not here, and not any more.
Graves populated the area, squeezed into every bit of space between the buildings the way the living would crowd into Times Square every New Year's Eve. Victims who'd been crushed in the quake were strewn like broken dolls between the tombstones, still bloody. Further out, the bodies changed to victims of The Plague, bodies piled and awaiting burning. On the distant horizon, smoke rose from the cratered remains of the blasted Blüdhaven.
Tim stood in front of the four graves that began the cemetery, head bowed in respect even as the freezing wind tugged sharply at his cape and biting at the skin of his bare face. The names on the graves were different - Jack Drake – Stephanie Brown – Conner Kent – Bart Allen - but the epitaph underneath all read the same thing: You Failed Me.