The sky is on fire.
Or, at least, for a moment the whole and total of his vision as he looks up is fire and as the nuclear bright burn lights up his retinas,
Bruce Wayne thinks it wouldn’t be so bad – being annihilated into the grave dirt behind Wayne manor. A crater in the grass by the tomb stones.
Alfred wouldn’t have to bury him that way.
But it doesn’t happen. The fire streaks over the low boughs of the willow bent by the grave plot, breaking into a dozen molten orange tails.
A large core piece the shape of a minnow rips over the southern slopes of the estate, lighting up the sky for an instant, then impacting at the edge of the trees.
Above: the sky is alight with meteorites, hundreds of them, burning up in high atmo and screaming down through the thin ozone layer to arc unknown trajectories toward Gotham. It’s beautiful.
Like the indifference of an A-bomb as it lights up the world.
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