You lay amongst the bricks, concrete, rebar, wood beams and broken glass—your chest still moving up and down as with each raw, hoarse breath.

Ruby red rivulets of blood flow from your shoulder—stuck in place by a piece of rebar that it was impaled on—your eyes flutter, but you’re too far gone in pain to even register what’s happened.

Your body is covered in debris, and you’re propped up slightly, while your chin rests against your chest. Seeing you as you were…it looked like you were sitting on a grotesque, mangled throne of rubble and steel rebar.

The rising sun shone down on you through the dust filled air, making you look like a hero abandoned by gods, left to die in the ruins.

The scene was cast in a deathly quiet—the only sound being your rattling lungs.

Your comm flickers to life and the voices of your family—the Bat Family—filter through, breaking the silence.

Yet, you can’t understand them, much less respond.

Minutes later the sound of running boots can be heard before they suddenly stop next to you.

“No…god no,” a voice says—it’s your father, Bruce Wayne, “Kid, talk to me.”

He drops to his knees before the throne of destruction that you’re pinned to, impaled on the steel rebar.