Alien feet meet terra firma and Bruce does not turn around, his shoulders do not tense; that he can see well enough in the dark to have noticed Superman lurking along the parapets of his crumbling childhood home should not be surprising. He's in too contemplative a mood to have been flustered by the appearance - pulse ticking up only now, and only a little. His fingers are curling in the ends of high yellow stalks of weeds.

"First day of construction's tomorrow," he says at length, low voice eerie in the cold stillness.

He and Diana and Alfred had spent a long time, planning and designing and sifting through contractors. He had spent even more, mapping everything out. Some imaginary architect's name is on the blueprints. Bruce Wayne can't be good at much of anything, on the record.

"It'll never look like this again."

No longer a skeleton, no longer a mausoleum for a past he won't speak of that must be composed of more than just his absent parents. Something else has been keeping Wayne Manor dead. It should be a good thing, to breathe life into it. But he seems sad.

Bruce turns his head.

"No sword or miniskirt, I see."