XIV. the warp of death
When the black dissolves, all Bruce can see is white. Nothingness. A blank, eternal space that looks to stretch on forever.
And then out of nothing, comes everything. Superman stands there, feet outstretched, cape fluttering although there's no wind. Then his eyesockets melt into his head, fiery blazes of burning orange flame, and the cape seems to droop and drip down onto the floor until it's blood, and the inconspicuous suit fades away into bone, the red and blue melting into a ribcage, a femur, a spine. He stretches out a skeletal hand, and the fingers elongate until they begin to drip and the blood and the black climb across the floor to Bruce, into Bruce...
A faint, faint yell in the far distance. Bruce's whole world is turned upside down, and it feels like he's being spit back out of something. His heart is hammering, climbing up into his throat, and his mouth is dry. When he opens his eyes, he can see the League heading towards him, but it's not them. They're all as half-dead as Superman was, dragging blood across asphalt to smear on him, choke him, gag him-
As if moving through water or thick quick sand, he finds his hand and sets it down on the ground. Then the other. And he rises so he balances precariously on his knees, and then he's retching into the ground. Everything swirls and warps, distorting, and he can't find his own brain through the hazy thoughts.
Bruce wipes his mouth. All of a sudden, as if someone were shouting ferociously right in his eardrum, comes a call. "Bruce!" Who is Bruce? That is his name. "Bruce!" He turns then, slowly as his head will allow, and Superman stands there.
Superman splits into two, then three, and all of them circle around him with torn uniforms and exposed bone. They all melt back together into one, but he begins to melt, darkening, into something else hideous and grotesque. Bruce only watches in horror, blood rushing in fear, as the eyeballs drop out of his skull and the sockets fester with cracking and drying blood; the arms and legs hang as the skin peels off from them, layer by layer, and there is no bone underneath the flesh.
Superman reaches into his chest, and rips the chunk of himself out, taking the "S" with it. But there is only an empty space where the heart should be, a cavernous hole of emptiness where arteries are already clotting and veins are blackening.
The Man of Steel reaches out this time, and his long, bone fingers slide over Bruce's skin, touching, feeling, violating...
"No," Bruce says hoarsely, barely audible over the pounding of his own heart drum, then says, "GET AWAY FROM ME." He thinks he shouts it. He's still on his knees, struggling to stay upright, hands on the ground.
"GET AWAY," Batman screams, and his hands curl and face contorts into something of genuine, pure terror.
"What's wrong with Batman?" Flash asks, but there's none of the usual humor in his voice, only fear for someone else. Barry stands shock-still, as if he were right above a landmine, and he knows something is very, very wrong.