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The corpse on the floor did not gaze at him accusingly. Alfred had long since found that corpses bore little of the emotion which the living liked to attribute to the dead. Even still, he couldn't help but think this one in particular seemed rather disappointed.
Fortunately, the click of a connected phone line interrupted his musing.
“Mr. Gordon? I’m afraid there has been an incident at the Manor.”
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When his son dragged another little boy into his crusade - getting this one killed - Alfred swore he wouldn’t let it happen again.
When his remaining grandson came to him, face already bruising, to hand over his keys and explain that he’d been kicked out again, Alfred had pretended it was only the heat of the moment, the emotions of Jason’s death.
He still promised himself that he would keep any further children away from Master Bruce.
Then along came Master Tim, who so desperately wanted to be involved, so desperately needed a purpose. Bruce was much more protective now, careful with this new soldier. He and Master Dick were mending their relationship, again. Surely Alfred didn’t need to worry.
Old habits died hard, after all. Alfred had long grown used to accepting orders without question.
Miss Stephanie was similarly determined to don a mask, but determination wasn’t enough to save her. Perhaps this was where matters truly got out of hand and Alfred should have stood his ground. He would not allow any more child soldiers, but he did not try to stop Dick or Tim.
But Miss Cassandra was already so skilled, perhaps even stronger than Master Bruce. Alfred did not question her decisions.
Master Damian arrived, also well trained, and so determined to be Robin that Alfred knew his own objections would come to naught. Master Dick knew what it was like, fighting this war as a child, surely he would be able to protect the children.
There were more deaths, some lasting longer than others, and Alfred wondered when he had become so skilled in lying to himself.
There were shouting matches in the cave and on the rooftops. There were bruises. There were punches, and kicks. There were the emotional injuries, which were even easier to ignore.
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There was a trip to Ethiopia, with a child who should never have had to return. Alfred was finding it ever harder to justify his silence, but still impossible to break this habit of decades.
There was yet another child dead, this time before their very eyes. There was a hidden cave, smashed to pieces with a father’s grief. Surely this one, finally, would be the last.
It would be.
Because then there was a phone call, the broken voice of a dead boy. “Can I please come home?”
There was a confrontation, assurances that this mission was critical, that Master Dick would be safe, that it must be kept secret from the family. Alfred kept his peace, but not for long.
There was security footage of a father, not grieving, but fighting his son. Blaming his son for dying, for being tortured.
Likely the ensuing media frenzy would attract Master Dick’s attention, but Alfred sent the extraction code anyway. Then he retrieved his shotgun.
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Mister Gordon was surprisingly unsurprised when he arrived at the scene. Perhaps he had seen this coming, perhaps he had simply known from the tone of the call.
There were questions, of course, but Alfred played the doddering fool to perfection. His best and final performance
He called in some favors, and his favors called favors, and eventually Alfred Pennyworth was quietly repatriated to England. The official story was that he was placed in secure senior living, with no access to weapons and minimal independence. Dementia, they said. So sad, they said. The poor man completely forgot that Mr. Wayne had already returned from his business trip.
To the world, Alfred Pennyworth was a confused old man, alone in a mansion that would surely attract thieves. Of course he would think the hulking figure was an intruder, rather than the master of the house, returned a week early from his travels.
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“Alfred, what are you doing? You know I don’t like guns in the house.”
“I’m afraid, Mister Wayne, that there are many topics on which our opinions differ.”
A pause, the man mouthing ‘Mister Wayne’ to himself. “Is this about Dick? I know you miss him, I do as well, but this mission is too important.”
Always the mission. Alfred would spend the rest of his days wondering if he would have stopped in this moment, had his boy only been less callous.
Only a monster could hurt his own children. If Alfred was a monster, perhaps there had never been any hope for his own son.
The shotgun blast sent him stumbling backwards through the doorway. Bruce Wayne bled out onto an antique rug that had always been Martha’s favorite.
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