A sprawling Gotham lies before him, below him, around him, a dark ever-present hum. It both fascinates and repels his otherworldly senses, as much apart from the world as it is a part of it. He sighs, thinking it’s not unlike its reticent, deadly protector.
“Who knew the Overman is prone to melancholia?”, emanates from the shadows behind him.
He grimaces, just for a moment, relieved he’s facing away from that gravelly voice. “Who knew things that go bump in the night have such a unique and irrepressible sense of humour?”.
There’s an almost imperceptible sound of surprise in response. He turns with a slightly bemused smile, finding himself hovering a half-metre off the rooftop floor. He waits.
The silence stretches, strangely companionable. “Nietzsche? Not what one would expect from the world’s golden boy, the champion of mankind”.
There’s something genuine buried in those biting words. He smiles widely, oddly comforted by the sarcasm. It was not something he experienced often, if at all, in his public role. It brought normalcy, however brief, to an abnormal…no, an alien existence. “Perhaps…” he says thoughtfully, “or perhaps one should not have such expectations of a being defined solely by those who don’t truly know or understand it…him…”.
His laser-bright smile dims slightly as he glides back to the precipice, gazing unseeingly into the murky night sky. He senses movement, Gotham’s knight now beside him. He always feels his presence when he’s near, it’s disconcerting yet impossibly familiar somehow. It grounds him like nothing has before. He doesn’t fear the thought as he believes he should. He waits.
“Perhaps”, the sentinel concedes huskily. A fleeting moment of connection and he’s alone once more.
And we're under the same stars
And that's as close as we get tonight
It only took the once to know how special we could be
if we were left alone