No Survivors

“Wayne residence.”

Alfred listened for a moment. Alfred could handle anything with aplomb. It's what he did. He prided himself on never becoming flustered or overwhelmed, but the blood drained from his face as he dropped the receiver. It had never happened before.

This...

He was found a moment later by a maid who'd heard the clatter of something falling. Surprised by his obvious shock, Cynthia knelt down to retrieve the handset, a tinny voice coming from the dropped handset. “Hello, hello?”

“Yes? Who's calling, please?”

She listened, thanked the man and said she'd be sure that Mr. Wayne got the message as soon as possible. She turned to Alfred, sitting too erect, too stiff. “You heard?” His eyes flicked to the phone still in her hand.

“Yes. I, we must verify this, we can't assume. It could be a mistake or a joke, someone playing a tasteless prank.”

They knew it wasn't, but he was right, they had to be sure. She turned on the TV to CNN.

“We have breaking news just coming in...a commercial airliner is reported down in a wooded area near Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. The plane, flight number six-three-three, a 737 owned and operated by Northwest Airlines, was en route from Gotham to Chicago when Harrisburg International Airport received several distress calls from the pilot.

Information is still coming in but the initial reports indicate that possible wind-sheer may have been a factor.

We have no information regarding survivors at this time and families are being notified by the airline.

Stay tuned to this channel for more information as it becomes available.”

“I must contact Master Bruce. I...” He stopped. “I, I'll go to his office, he can't hear this over the phone.”

“No, you're too upset, I'll drive you, Mr. Pennyworth.”

“I...” He nodded. Anything just so they got there quickly. En route Alfred made a call. “Mr. Fox, please, it's urgent.”

“I'm sorry, but Mr Fox is in a meeting, may I take a message?”

“You may get him out of his meeting. It's vital that I speak to him; tell him it's Alfred calling. Please.”

“He said that he wasn't to be disturbed, sir, I'm sorry.”

“Miss, it is imperative that I speak to him immediately. Get him.” The tone of his voice did it, the mixture of authority and pathos. A moment later he was connected.

“Yes Alfred, what is it?”

“Forgive my interrupting but is Master Bruce with you?”

“Yes, is there something I can help you with?” There was some reason Alfred wasn't going directly to Bruce.

“There may be tragic news and he must be told in person. I should be there in a few minutes, until then please make certain that he doesn't hear any news reports or that anyone speaks to him. I beg you.”

In the background he could hear, muffled as though the phone was being covered with someone's hand, Lucius saying 'This will just be a minute, Bruce, 'sorry.' There was the sound of a door opening and closing as he obviously walked into another room. “I can talk now, what's going on?”

“Dick's plane has been reported crashed in Pennsylvania. I've not heard any official confirmation or know the extent of casualties but I must tell him myself.”

“Oh my god, of course. I'll make sure he doesn't get this from anyone other than you.” A beat. “I'm sorry.”

“Thank you, sir. We're just arriving in the garage. I'll be there in just a moment.”

Alfred went directly to Bruce's corner office, standing and looking unseeing out the floor to ceiling windows while he waited.

In a minute or two Bruce was there, silently closing the door behind him. It had to be bad for Alfred to take this kind of precaution and care in delivering whatever message he had, his concern clearly for 'the master' despite his own obvious shock.

Whatever it was, it was bad. It could only be...

“Tell me.” His voice was quiet, all pretense of his shallow social mask gone, leaving the incisive, intelligent professional and hero.

“The airline called and it's on the news—his plane is down.”

Bruce's head jerked to the side and he inhaled quickly, as though he'd taken a punch to the jaw.

“Dick?”

“We don't know yet.”

“And...?”

“That's all so far, just that it's down.”

“Where?”

“Near Harrisburg.”

His eyes focused inward as he turned to his private computer. “Oracle, verify plane crash south central Pennsylvania in the last hour.”

A few seconds later they heard. The detached answer “Verified. Northwest flight 6-3-3 lost power and crashed in a wooded area three miles north of Harrisburg at nine thirteen AM eastern time.” A momentary pause. “Forty-one minutes ago. Early reports are that there are no known survivors. Emergency equipment is on the scene and NTSB have arrived.”

Bruce cut the link and picked up his phone, dialing Dick's cell number. “We're sorry, but the number you're calling is unavailable, please hang up and try again later.”

He dialed another number, “Clark, check a plane crash in...yes, that one. Dick was supposed to have been aboard. Let me know what you find.” End of call. Crisp, matter of fact.

He dialed again. “...Stan Wilder, please. Bruce Wayne calling...Stan, I need to know if my ward was on that plane of yours that just went down...Grayson, R or maybe D. I'll hold....” They waited as seconds and then minutes ticked by. Finally, “I see.” He kept his composure, gave nothing away. “Yes, thank you.”

He sat in the leather desk chair, too still, his voice stunned. “He was on the passenger list, seat 3-A.”

“But...he said that he'd be at dinner this evening. I was planning to cook his fav...why was he going to Chicago?”

“Just for the day. He was doing me a favor, going to help open that hospital wing we funded, cut the ribbon so I wouldn't have to. He was supposed to be back by six for dinner, for your birthday.”

There wasn't anything to say. All they could do was wait for confirmation that he was actually, on the flight, that there was no mistake, that the DNA matched or that, by some miracle, he'd missed the flight or somehow survived.

“I was supposed to go. He offered yesterday because he knew I didn't want to bother; I wanted to work on that security upgrade at Akhram. He went in my place.” Bruce lowered his head just a little. “He's only eighteen.”

“Bruce, you can't possibly blame this on yourself. I won't allow it.” His voice was hollow, distant, grieving.

There was nothing to say, nothing either of them wanted to deal with now.

They waited.

They waited for Clark to report in, for the news to catch up with what was going on, for the airline to call.

For Dick to let them know he was fine; he'd missed the flight, been caught in traffic, went to the wrong gate, given his seat to a widow—something.

The news spread through the executive floors, filtering down to the lower areas as people told one another that Mr. Wayne's son had been on that plane. So young, so smart, so handsome and now who would take over when the time came? Terrible, just terrible.

The poor man.

The updates started on the news, on CNN and MSNBC. The local channels ran crawls along the bottom of the screen.

Bruce didn't watch any of them.

Thirty minutes passed, forty, an hour.

He grabbed his personal cell phone as it rang, the one only a handful of people had the number for. “Yes?”

It wasn't Dick.

“Yes, thank you. I understand. Of course, yes.”

He sat, the phone still in his hand. “Clark will be here in a moment.” He pushed a button on his desk. “When Clark Kent arrives, please show him in.”

Five minutes later.

“First of all, I didn't find any trace of him but it's—bad; there isn't much left.”

“Fire?”

“Yes, the fuel; it was still burning at well over a thousand degrees and...”

“Not much left. I see.” There was an awkward silence for a long minute or so, the facade of calm still in place. “Thank you.”

With nothing more to say, Clark left after a gentle squeeze to Alfred's shoulder, the old man using all his energy to control himself.

The silence was thick, weighted and pervasive.

“Sir, I think, perhaps we should return to the manor. There may be calls.”

Bruce's eyes were fixed on his desk, at the empty work space as he toyed with an expensive pen. He didn't speak, just stood and walked to the door, letting himself out to the outer office, the secretary’s area, also quiet as his assistants tried not to watch him. The word had spread through the floor quickly. He paused, waiting for Alfred to catch up.

“We have two cars here, I drove myself and you brought the Bentley, I assume...”

“I'm sure it will be safe, sir.”

Bruce nodded without listening or caring. Down in the garage Cynthia slid behind the wheel of the big car, leaving the Porsche locked in Bruce's parking space as she drove the two men back home.
 

* * *

“Information is coming in about that horrific plane crash this morning. Initial reports of severe wind sheer seem to have been correct as the likely cause. The pilots reported problems to the Harrisburg airport but efforts to redirect them to safer airspace were unsuccessful.

“Tragically, there are no reported survivors. The plane was flying at full capacity, carrying one hundred and thirty-seven passengers and five crew members. All one hundred and forty-two people are presumed dead, making this the largest loss of life in an American plane crash in seven years.

“We have unconfirmed reports that Jude Hudson, star of the just released 'Pirates of the Mediterranean, Part four', Congressman Joseph Talley of Ohio and Richard Grayson, adopted son of Billionaire Bruce Wayne were all aboard the doomed flight

Stay tuned to this channel for updates as they come in.”
 

* * *
 

The news started to spread. Clark informed the Justice League, Lucius Fox made a announcement throughout Wayne Enterprises as well as a statement to the press stating that their prayers were with all the families affected and they were trying to stay optimistic.

The Justice League told the Titans. Oracle knew almost as soon as it happened.

 

* * *
 

Barbara Gordon read the monitor in front of her, the main one, the one she lived her life by.

Dick couldn't be dead. It wasn't possible, he was too—alive. And he wasn't even nineteen years old. He was scheduled to start at Hudson in a few months and he had everything ahead of him; more friends, falling in love, a family of his own, success beyond any reason and he was supposed to go through all of it with that smile on his face, getting more handsome by the day.

He was Robin, he was the last Flying Grayson, he could defy gravity, it was what he'd been trained to do since he was a toddler.

He could beat the best criminal minds on the planet—or off planet, for that matter. He lead the Titans, worked with the JLA and was thinking about going off on his own, becoming an new hero, taking on a new identity.

'Only the good die young', that old song lyric.

Jesus, he couldn't be dead. It had to be a mistake. He'd surprise them all, walk in like it was just another day and laugh at their shocked faces.

He had to.
 

* * *
 

“I'm just saying that if the Grayson kid was really toasted then the old man has to find someone else to take his place as the heir apparent.”

“And you think it might be you?”

“I'm gonna give it the old college try. You find a void and fill it; that's how you get ahead in this world and, c'mon, why not?”

“Cripes, Sam—the poor guy isn't even cold yet, you could at least wait till after the funeral.”

“You snooze, you loose.”

“Uh-huh, you really want to try to get on old Bruce's good side? A hint—lose your brain and take up golf.”

“I like the wine, women and song part of his life, actually.”

A brief pause. “Y'know, I met him a couple of times and Grayson was actually a nice guy and smart, too.”

“Yeah, well, shit happens.”

 

* * *
 

The statement went out as soon as the list of the passengers on the downed plane hit the airwaves. “Mr. Wayne is devastated by this morning's news and has gone into seclusion until positive identification is made of his beloved ward, Richard. Until that time we will have no further announcements and ask for privacy in this tremendously difficult time. Our heartfelt prayers and sympathy go out to the families and friends of everyone who was aboard flight 6-3-3.”

Lucius stuffed down his own emotions about Dick's loss and started on dealing with the ramifications of Wayne Enterprise's loss instead. Dick was, as everyone knew, the only likely successor to Bruce and now...now they had to look elsewhere and soon to protect stock prices and confidence in the company as a whole.

Sighing, he pulled out the file he kept in the locked drawer of his desk, the short list of possible candidates and began reviewing the names and resumes inside. The list was comprised of men and women who were beyond qualified; MBA's from Harvard and Yale, Ph. D's in economics and finance from Oxford, Stanford and Princeton and all had experience, creativity and would, without question, handle the job with professionalism and finesse. They'd even been vetted regarding their integrity and commitment to charity and philanthropy; an exemplary group any company would be lucky to have on their staff.

He could throw a dart at any of them, it wouldn't matter. They were all qualified and one of them might very well get the call, but none of them would ever really fill the position as far as Bruce was concerned, because none of them would ever be more than an employee.

None would fully meet Bruce's needs simply because none of them was Dick Grayson.

 

* * *
 

Two hours crawled by as they waited for the phone to ring. Even in that hellish inferno there had to be something to prove Dick was, indeed, lost. A trace, a scrap of something; anything, something.

The plane had fallen from twelve thousand feet.

Clark had said it wasn't likely—but Clark made a cursory recon while he extinguished the fire. His mind wasn't focused, even Superman could be distracted once in a while, even him, even when it was Dick they were worried about.

Bruce was holed up down in the cave and would likely remain there for a long time. Alfred was worried but he was nursing his own fresh grief and would attend to the master soon enough. But now, right now he found himself opening the heavy mahogany door in the family wing and going inside. The drapes were closed against the sun, the room closed up, waiting for it's owner to come back and bring life back to it.

Waiting, hushed.

The bed was still unmade.

Without proof there was still hope.

He'd gotten up so early this morning to get to the airport, dragged himself up, dressed and skipped breakfast, saying he'd grab something.

Alfred pulled back the heavy velvet, allowing the sunlight to stream in, lighting the dust motes floating in the slightly stale air and flooding the heavy furniture and bright circus posters framed on the walls.

He saw the small boy, dwarfed by the massive bed, huddled in the center, hugging the dog Alfred had allowed upstairs for the first time, until; “How on earth did that animal find her way in here? I'll have her outside in a jiffy, Master Dick.”

“Um, that's okay, I don't mind if she stays here; she's already asleep and it would be kinda rude to make her move...”

“If you insist.”

The dog stayed for years, sleeping on the bed, keeping the bad dreams at bay.

He looked at the bookshelf. Master Dick was a reader, something not many people knew about him, but it was true. Granted, his tastes ran to the escapist, but he also took his work seriously and there were rows of volumes on anatomy, forensics, true crimes, chemistry and a dozen other subject mixed in with the science fiction.

He saw the older boy sitting at his desk, school books opened in front of him, hating the homework but knowing Robin couldn't fly until it was finished.

The posters on the walls and the framed photo of the Flying Graysons in costume which lived on the bureau; remnants of his past which had shaped him. The shaping had taking a different direction after the murders, of course. Public performances had become stealthy escapades at night hidden in the shadows instead of played out under the glare of spotlights. It didn't matter, Dick had shown in either setting.

'Born to be center stage, that was what the master always said, the pride obvious if unvoiced.

He was—he is—exceptional. Bright, intelligent, athletic beyond any measure, good-hearted, compassionate and passionate all at the same time and tied together with an unwavering sense of the absurd and humor. And loyal, so terribly loyal. He'd followed—he follows—Batman anywhere, goes without hesitation when one of his friends calls, risks his life without question.

Or flies to Chicago to cut a ribbon so Bruce didn't have to.

Alfred turned to leave the room, looking around once more, noticing how empty it was without Dick to bring it to life, just a collection of furniture and lifeless souvenirs, meaningless without their owner to give them purpose.

He silently pulled the curtains together and closed the door.

 

* * *
 

The news dealt Titans Tower a stunning blow.

Without Dick Grayson, without Robin their mainspring wasn't just broken, it was gone.

“It can't be true, Roy, it can't, I won't believe it. Dick killed in something as pedestrian as a plane crash?
And in a plane he wasn't even flying? It just so, it's too random and it's, oh god, it's so pointless. Wind sheer, that's what they're blaming? Not Dick, I won't believe it.”

Roy held Donna, knowing that while she and Dick weren't intimate, at least not physically, they were closer than siblings and had been for years. If things had been different it could well have been Robin sharing her bed instead of himself. She cried for a long time, her shaking finally, slowly ending as she stayed where she was, letting him hold her and, no question, knowing that he needed the contact as much as she did.

Wally was the one who told them, having heard from his Uncle Barry at JLA headquarters, saying how Superman was as close to tears as anyone had ever seen him, barely in control of himself. The reaction from the League members was silence, sadness and knowing that they'd lost not just a young friend, but a valued co-worker and likely future member.

Hal spoke first, “He was—special.”

“He kept Batman human, as human as he ever got, anyway. Without him to set some perspective, I'm don't know...” Ollie shrugged, Batman out of control? They'd have to watch him, maybe suggest a leave of absence for him for a while.

Diana was pragmatic, as always. “A real loss, he knew everyone, everyone trusted him and he could lead people I didn't think would follow anyone.”

“Boys shouldn't be doing men's work.” Arthur never was one for sentiment, but they knew to ignore him.

“You might want to keep that opinion to yourself, Fishman.” Diana again, not one to suffer fools lightly.

Unable to stand it anymore Wally'd left home, racing to the Tower to see his old friends but it was worse there. Donna was falling apart, Roy knew he'd lost his best friend and the man who always had his back, no matter what and the others—they knew a hole had been punched in their lives that would be this side of impossible to fill.

Garth, still reeling from Tula's loss was struck dumb, as though something incomprehensible, something impossible had happened and, in a way, he was right. He reacted as he tended to, dove in the water and disappeared, probably for several months.

Dick Grayson, Robin, f'God'ssake, dead in a plane crash?

Okay, probably even Dick never really thought that he'd live to see grandchildren, but dead at not even twenty?

Jesus.

 

* * *
 

(Voice over film of crash site, smoking wreckage with some flames still visible, bodies covered in sheets and tarps, scorched trees and rescue workers.) “News from today's crash site remains grim. No survivors are reported and emergency workers are attempting to retrieve as many bodies as possible though, due to the extreme heat of the fuel fed fire, this reporter has been told that there isn't much to recover. Wind sheer remains the most likely cause of today's tragedy but an official announcement will wait until after the black boxes, recovered earlier, are examined. Family members are being kept secluded away from reporters and being tended to by clergy and psychologists both in Chicago's O'Hare Airport, the flight's destination and here at Harrisburg International where a number of people have come to attempt to identify remains, though we're told that's impossible in most cases. Dental records have been requested to be forwarded to NTSB. More as information becomes available.”

 

* * *
 

Alfred silently made his way down to the cave, listening before he approached the Master. Hearing nothing, he walked to the pool of light around the main computer and set down the covered tray. “You have to eat, sir.”

“Maybe later, thank you, Alfred.”

“Anything new?”

“No.” The picture on the screen was the charred wreckage, the same picture from the news on CNN and all the local channels. No one could have survived that, it would be impossible. The heat at the height of the furnace-like fire was estimated at over fifteen hundred degrees.

“I can't imagine this place without him, sir.” He didn't expect an answer and so was surprised when he was halfway up the stairs to hear, “I can't, either.”

 

* * *
 

Dusk of that endless day, Alfred started snapping on a few lights. His instinct was to keep to his usual routine to stop himself from breaking down and so was in the kitchen washing potatoes and preparing the London Broil for the grill. They could be served tomorrow as a steak sandwich and hash-browns, if he could get Bruce to eat then, which he knew was unlikely. Knowing it was a useless exercise, he set the table in the small dining room the removed the place setting and replaced it at the kitchen table.

When Dick had been there and Bruce was out, it had been their open secret, neither of them liking to eat alone if they didn't have to, enjoying the mutual company and the boy feeling more at ease with the informality. But then, that was Dick, always in jeans and a tee-shirt when he wasn't on display as 'Bruce Wayne's ward' or watching TV from the floor, sprawled with a soda and bag of chips, insisting there was no point in dirtying a bowl.

He'd been a fish out of water when he'd arrived, having the most basic concept of manners, at least by Wayne standards, having to be taught the use of the myriad silverware and various glasses. Getting used to a school uniform and rolling his eyes at the rituals of the rich and famous, skipping any event he thought he could get away with and ditching out early when he had to make an appearance.

But he'd adapted, learned how to fit in and thrived. He was everything they could have hoped for and beyond.

Intelligent, dedicated, easy-going and handsome beyond all reason.

And he loved his new family fiercely and without embarrassment, often throwing an arm around Alfred or Bruce without any awkwardness that one might expect from an adolescent.

He was...Alfred broke at the memories, at what they'd lost far, far too soon. Bent over the counter, his face buried in his hands, he cried as a child does when something is wrongly and irretrievably broken and can't ever be put right.

“Alfred? Alf, are you okay?”

No, it was impossible, wishful thinking, a mistake brought on my shock and grief.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Alf?”

“Richard, how can, but where did you co...I don't understand.” He looked, yes, it was him. It really was him. Somehow, impossibly, it was him.” “How...?”

“How what? I told you I'd be back for dinner; it's your birthday, remember.” Now Dick was the one who didn't understand. “Did I miss something?”

No answer, just Alfred staring as if he'd either seen a ghost or was wondering if he was going to wake up from a dream.

“I brought a present.” Dick hopefully held out the small wrapped gift.

“Where have you been?”

“...Chicago, didn't Bruce tell you? I opened that hospital wing he financed.” This was getting seriously weird. “What's going on?”

“Your plane crashed in Pennsylvania about half an hour after take-off, haven't you seen the news?”

“I—no. I was busy...it crashed? And you thought—oh my god.”

Alfred was at the intercom, “Master Bruce, come up to the kitchen, immediately.”

“What is it, Alfred? I'd really rather not.”

“Young man, you come up here—Master Dick is home!”

“Alf, you thought I was—Jesus, I had no idea, I didn't listen to any news and I was in and out of Chicago so fast that—God, I'm sorry.” The boy was stricken, knowing what his family and friends had been through.

Bruce came in, doubting until he saw with his own eyes and forgetting himself enough to put his arms around Dick in a relieved hug. “How? I called Stan Wilder...”

“The head of the airline?”

“He said you were confirmed on the passenger list, how did you, what, how?”

“It wasn't anything, I was at the gate all checked in and John Goldwyn walked by, saw me and said he was on his way to Chicago, too. He offered me a ride on his company's jet and so I took it. I told the gate attendant but he was busy and I guess he didn't hear me. My god—you thought I was dead?”

“Master Superman and Miss Oracle confirmed that there were no survivors. It was announced to the JLA and the Titans and Lucius made a statement to the media.”

“Oh my god, I'm so sorry. Jesus.”

“I tried your cell phone and...”

“Yeah, I forgot to charge it; you know I always forget.”

Alfred wiped his eyes again, this was becoming maudlin and he knew the master would be embarrassed later. “Right. I. For one, am ravenous. I suggest that you change your clothes, Master Dick, and you, Master Bruce have twenty minutes to refresh yourself for my birthday dinner. Off with both of you.”

Twenty minutes later they sat down at the kitchen table, Alfred knowing it was Dick's preferred place to dine. Emotional outbursts not being generally accepted in Wayne Manor, they confined their conversation to the matter at hand, the birthday.

Alfred lay awake later that night thinking and going over and over Dick's miraculous return from the dead.

This time.

8/28/09
 

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