Chapter 26: The Butler Hears the News
Alfred Pennyworth had just finished dusting the last shelf in the sitting room, the one Bruce and the others always pretended they didn't use or care about, but still somehow always managed to be cluttered with case files, half‑read books, and the occasional batarang some of them had forgotten they left there, along with the many other items they gathered throughout the day and week.
His knees reminded him that he was not, in fact, the spry young man who once ran across battlefields with a medical kit and a bad attitude, but he refused to let age win any more than Bruce did.
He straightened his back, gave the shelf a final approving nod, and allowed himself the rare luxury of sitting down. The remote felt almost foreign in his hand; he didn't get many quiet moments with it. He clicked the TV on, hoping for something simple, maybe a cooking show or one of those nature documentaries where the narrator whispered like the animals might hear him through the screen.
Instead, every channel was the same.
The Gotham Zoo. Sirens. Reporters talking over each other. A shaky phone video of a massive winged shape blotting out the sun. Alfred blinked, leaned forward, and turned up the volume just enough to catch the frantic commentary.
". . . .witnesses say the creature lifted a man straight off the ground . . . ."
" . . . .a dome of unknown origin has sealed off the garden area . . . ."
". . . . .GCPD is urging civilians to remain calm . . . . ."
". . . . .possible metahuman involvement . . . ."
He sighed, long and tired, the kind of sigh that came from years of watching Gotham try its best to tear itself apart while he and one very stubborn man tried to stitch it back together. The news anchor kept talking, but Alfred had already heard enough. He didn't need to see the footage again to know what it meant. He turned the TV off, set the remote down with a soft clack, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Well," he muttered to himself, "so much for a quiet afternoon."
He stood, joints protesting but obeying, and made his way toward the basement door. He didn't hurry; he didn't need to. He already knew what he'd find. Bruce Wayne was many things, but subtle about danger was not one of them. Alfred descended the stairs, then the stairs beneath those stairs, the air growing cooler and the hum of the cave's machinery rising to meet him.
By the time he reached the lower level, he wasn't surprised in the slightest to see Bruce already suited up, cape draped over his shoulders, cowl in place, checking the readouts on the Batmobile like a man preparing for war. The car's engine gave a low, eager rumble, as if it sensed trouble and was impatient to be unleashed.
Bruce didn't turn when Alfred approached; he didn't need to. "The fastest route is underground," he said, voice already in that clipped, focused tone he used when the city was in trouble. "If the dome only covers the surface, I can get in from below."
Alfred clasped his hands behind his back, watching him with the same mixture of pride and worry he'd carried for decades. "I suspected you'd say something like that, sir. I take it you've already seen the reports."
Bruce nodded once. "Man‑Bat."
Alfred hesitated, then shook his head. "Not Kirk. Not Francine. They're both still in lockup, getting treatment. Which leaves only one possibility."
Bruce paused, jaw tightening beneath the cowl. "Rebecca."
Alfred hated the way that name sounded in this context. He remembered her as a baby, tiny and quiet, with eyes too big for her face and a grip strong enough to latch onto his finger and refuse to let go. He'd hoped the medicine had worked, that she'd grow up without the curse her parents carried. But Gotham had a way of dragging old nightmares back into the light.
"I fear the treatment may have worn off," Alfred said softly. "Or perhaps it was never as permanent as we hoped."
Bruce didn't answer, but he reached for a small case on the workbench. Inside were several doses of the Man‑Bat cure, each one carefully labeled, each one a reminder of how many times they'd had to use it. He loaded them into his belt with practiced efficiency.
"Just in case," he said.
Alfred nodded. "Of course."
The ramp leading deeper into the cave lit up as the Batmobile rolled forward, each light flicking on in sequence like a trail guiding him into the dark. Alfred watched him go, the familiar ache settling in his chest. He'd seen Bruce leave like this more times than he could count, always heading toward danger, always carrying the weight of the city on his shoulders. The lights dimmed behind the car as it descended, swallowed by the cave's vastness.
Alfred stood there for a moment, alone with the fading echo of the engine. The sight of a man‑bat creature still worried him, but the dome worried him more. He didn't know what it was yet, but he had a few theories, none of them comforting. Psychic. Technological. Magical. Gotham had no shortage of possibilities, and none of them were ever simple.
He exhaled slowly, straightened his jacket, and turned back toward the stairs. There would be more to do soon. There always was. But for now, all he could do was trust Bruce, trust the mission, and trust that whatever was happening at that zoo, it wouldn't spread beyond the garden.
He hoped.
Gotham rarely granted such favors.