Immortal

By Inscriber

Summary: Conner knows they are gone. He knows they won't come back. But his friends deserve more than holograms. –Conner's thoughts on the destruction and his solution.

They were just holograms, memories of those whose time had already passed. Yet, they had seemed almost alive, so bright with color, every detail preserved perfectly. From the way Tula's thin cheeks had been flushed like a cherry, or Ted's eyes had still seemed to be searching his surroundings, or the way Jason still seemed posed to move. Even Artemis, with her steely eyes off-set by her confident smirk seemed one step away from breathing.

It choked them all to see them like that, to watch the holograms diligently, to catch the occasional flicker of light and remember that those imitations were imposters, monuments to those who will never blush or learn or laugh again. Tula will not calm the ocean ever again, her magic settling the troubling storms. Tim's overzealous movements will not rumble from the gym again, his brash actions will not take his spar partners or enemies by surprise ever again. Ted will not crack open his books and laze about in the library with his free time, and he won't discuss electronics with Nightwing or philosophy with Megan. Artemis will not whip them into shape, never visit, will never breathe life into Wally again – none of them will ever be there again. They are gone.

Those figures had frozen their friends in time, and yet it seemed so insignificant, those holograms hidden where only heroes could mourn for them.

Where was the justice for Tula, who died so Kaldur could live? Or Ted, who served the cause with all of his mind, body, and soul? Where was respect that Jason had earned for his efforts, for the sacrifice of a life so young? Didn't Artemis deserve to be remembered? She had gone against her family and brought honor to the Crock family name, had defended her friends, had fought by their side until her last breath. Didn't all of them deserve something?

Who would remember them? Where was their recognition? They had earned so much more than cramped cave walls, where their heroic acts, their sacrifices, would go unnoticed. They were worthy of more than holograms that lit an empty hole in a rocky ground. They deserved plaques, statues made of gold – they had earned thanks, and celebrations in their honor – their deaths, their sacrifice shouldn't have gone unnoticed. Their lives had been meaningful, but the world had continued on without them, as if they hadn't mattered. As if they hadn't even been here.

Conner sighed – he'd visited that room a lot. He'd spent endless staring at those testaments, the statues that had been configured in their honor.

Sure, losing his first and only home had sucked – he'd felt punched in the gut, beaten down. But losing those holograms, knowing that his friends had been denied even that small gesture of acknowledgment...That'd hurt. It'd made him angry. He might have leveled the Mountain had his former leader not already taken the pleasure. Rooms can be replaced; more souvenirs can be collected, but not people. People cannot be rebuilt or regained, and though they'd been only holograms, they had been all that were left.

He'd visited that cave a lot, every other day most of the time, to look at all those he had failed. All of the lives he'd helped lose. All of the ghosts he'd created.

He can still see Tula curled up in his arms, can still feel her body quiver from the effort of breathing. He can still feel the sticky warmth of her blood dropping from her arm and down onto his skin. He can still hear her ragged breaths; feel her slowing heart as it betrayed her, pumping the poison further and further into her blood stream. He can still see himself yanking the dart from her arm; even though it'd done its job already. It'd felt good to crush it in the palm of his hand, though it'd also hurt to see how effortlessly he'd crushed it, to wish it'd been himself to be hit – he'd have never even felt it, it would have never pierced his skin. He can still feel her skin grow so suddenly cold – can still feel the last pulse of warmth before Tula went still and the light faded from her ocean-tinted blue eyes.

He can still hear his leader his at him in a vile tone, his eyes hardened and his lips curled back, "You should have saved her."

And he hates to admit that he agrees with those words. He hates to know Kaldur had taken Tula's sacrifice and squandered it. Aqualad claimed to have left the League to avenge her, but he had only ensured Tula had died for nothing – she'd died for him.

He can still see Batgirl perched on a ledge during a fight, her form hanging slightly over the edge as she holds onto Ted's hand, who is dangling in her grasp. The pain is as clear in his mind as it was that day as her grip loosens and Ted tumbles to the ground, surprise overtaking his features, along with this strange acceptance. He can still hear Batgirl shrieking as he dropped to the floor – he never really landed.

He's still falling in Conner's mind, and he always will be. He'll never hit the ground, his suit will never save him, and Conner will never jump in time. Until the day he dies, Ted Kord will still be falling in his mind, and Conner will never save him.

He will always remember standing by Jason's grave, Nightwing standing statue-still with one hand leaning against the tombstone, his head down and his lips uttering a never-ending apology. He'll never forget the feeling of failure. It's not his fault Jason isn't there, but Conner still feels the guilt that Nightwing and Batman haven't already claimed. He'll never really pick up the pieces. There should never have even been a coffin made for one so small.

Artemis has died every day since Conner last saw the light fade from her eyes. He sees her every day, though it's worse because hers is the most recent wound. Her death is vivid, raw in his mind as he watches her skin lose color again and again, her lean body going limp in Nightwing's arms. Her focused eyes, her steely glare that had always cut through anyone else's, the silver spheres that had shown such a wide range of emotion, go blank. And she dies. Over and over. Every day. And there's nothing anyone can do.

She's joined Ted, Tula, and Jason – they all haunt him. And he never saves them.

Conner remembered what Jaime had said to Bart, that day the buzzing little speedster had asked why those large holograms weren't out where they could actually be seen. Jaime had been right, even though Conner hadn't commented much on the subject. The League didn't want to advertise just how fragile they really were. And part of Conner can understand that – respect it even – to a certain degree. The world wasn't ready to admit that its heroes were vulnerable to death. No one was in a hurry to correct it either; everyone was comfortable with the idea that the good guys always win. But they don't.

Tula didn't win. Nor did Ted, or Jason. Or Artemis.

It's common knowledge to heroes that their job is dangerous, that every time the slip on the mask they might die. But the League doesn't go around broadcasting that it's just as susceptible to death and pain as anyone. They are just as vulnerable as anyone.

Despite the capes and powers, behind the cowl and spandex, there is flesh and bone.

Conner didn't want to make the case that they were blindsided by tragedy, that no one expected it – each of his friends had known the risks and still decided to be heroes. He just wanted someone to acknowledge that they'd been here. That Tula, Ted, Jason, and Artemis had made the ultimate sacrifice in the hopes that a better future awaited them. They'd died, and there should be more to their passing than flowers on a grave. There should be more than statues that didn't even exist anymore. His friends were gone, and only a handful of people cared. No one knew about the brave girl from Atlantis, or the intelligent young man who'd devoted his life to making the world a better place. No one missed the little orphan boy who'd been murdered by the Joker, or about the archer who'd been killed the blade of her former leader.

Ted had once told Conner that heroes never truly died until they were forgotten. He'd read it in a book once, had told Conner that the people had gone, but their names, their deeds would live forever. Their actions would go down in history. They would live forever because their legacy would.

Conner believed him.

He would never forget. And no one else would either. He'd made sure of it two days after the Hall of Justice had been destroyed, taking the monuments of his friends with it.

Conner had made a plaque, and had set it in the ashes of the former Hall of Justice. It was a gold plate welded onto a dark oak slab that was incased in marble, roughly two feet long and about a foot wide. Outlines of all four of the fallen heroes were etched into the gold background with accuracy. Conner had shoved it far into the dirt, and had Jaime use his laser-canon to sear them into the ground. It was fused to the ground forever, where the world could see – in fact, the presence of two heroes standing in the debris of the iconic spot had already drawn attention of a crowd that was waiting excitedly at the sidelines, trying to view what the two were leaving. Conner and Jaime both knew there would be consequences for doing anything like this without League consent, but something needed to be done. The world needed to know that his friends had been there. There needed to be proof that this world had once been graced with four other people who would never be there again. Four people who had breathed and laughed, who had cried and hurt, who had been happy and sad – four people who had fought for everyone until they couldn't even fight for themselves.

Conner and Jaime had stared at the plate for a long time before parting ways, reading the inscription a few times before leaving:

In the immortal memory of our friends, family, and heroes:

"A hero never truly dies until they are forgotten"

Aquagirl, Blue Beetle I, Robin II, Artemis

Not by breath, but by memory,

Heroes will live forever

Rest in peace

He might not have saved them, but the world would know.

His friends, his team – his family – had been here.

And perhaps the world was right. Maybe they were immortal.

Maybe heroes were eternal not because they were, but because the actions are.

Author's Note: Soo, I went to write for Illusion. Unfortunately, I had just watched the latest episode, so my brain produced this instead.