Ding-dong~
The sound, sharp and clear, sliced through the evening quiet of Wayne Manor. It echoed down the grand entrance hall, a sudden intrusion into the estate's self-imposed solitude. In the kitchen, Alfred Pennyworth paused, a silver serving spoon held mid-polish, his head tilting at the unexpected chime.
"A guest?" he murmured to the empty room, the scent of roasting chicken hanging warmly in the air.
It was a genuine surprise. In the years since the tragic passing of Thomas and Martha Wayne, visitors had become a rarity. The sprawling manor, once a beacon of Gotham society, had transformed into a fortress of grief and isolation, its gates rarely opening for anyone besides staff and deliveries.
Setting the spoon down on a velvet cloth, Alfred straightened his crisp butler's uniform and began the long walk toward the front of the house. His footsteps were silent on the polished marble floors, but his mind was anything but quiet. As he moved through the echoing corridors, his right hand drifted instinctively beneath the lapel of his jacket, his fingers brushing against the cool, reassuring grip of a pistol holstered there.
"One can only hope they're of the friendly persuasion this time," he muttered, his thumb deftly checking the safety.
His caution was not paranoia; it was a lesson learned through blood and fire. The peace of Wayne Manor was a fragile thing. Since the death of his employers, a constant shadow of danger had loomed over the young master, Bruce. Assassins, hired by faceless enemies who saw the boy as an obstacle or an opportunity, had come calling more than once.
One attempt, in particular, remained seared in his memory. A former brother-in-arms from his own military past, a man he'd once trusted, had been sent to kill Bruce. The ensuing fight had been brutal, a clash of old loyalties and new duties. If not for the advanced battle suit Marcus had designed for household security, Alfred knew he would have died that day at the hands of a man he once called a friend.
He reached the security console near the entrance, the grip of the specially modified pistol a familiar weight in his hand. It was another of Marcus's gifts—a weapon far beyond anything issued to the GCPD. With a practiced calm, he activated the monitor, peering at the grainy image of the figure standing patiently at the main gate.
His breath hitched. The rigid posture, the years of ingrained vigilance, all melted away in an instant. A wave of shock, quickly followed by profound relief, washed over him.
It was Marcus.
"Mr. Marcus?" Alfred's voice, amplified by the intercom, cracked with a mixture of disbelief and unadulterated joy.
A familiar, easygoing voice crackled back. "The one and only, Alfie. I'm back."
That old nickname, a term of affection no one else dared to use, was all the confirmation he needed. Alfred holstered his weapon, smoothed the front of his vest, and undid the heavy bolts on the oak doors. He pulled them open, a wide, genuine smile spreading across his weathered face.
"It has been far too long, Mr. Marcus," he greeted, his usual formal reserve giving way to the warmth he held for the young man who had become family.
"It really has, Alfred," Marcus replied, his own grin just as warm as he stepped across the threshold, the familiar grandeur of the manor enveloping him like an old coat.
As they walked together toward the dining room, the two fell into an easy rhythm of conversation. Marcus had been gone for what felt like an eternity, and he was eager for an update. There was no one on Earth who knew Bruce's situation better than the man walking beside him.
"So, how are my star pupils?" Marcus asked, his tone that of a teacher checking in after a long holiday. "How have Bruce and Selina been?"
"Remarkably well, all things considered," Alfred replied, a flicker of pride mixed with mild exasperation in his eyes. "In fact, they've become quite the local celebrities. Gotham's mysterious vigilantes. The papers have even taken to calling them heroes."
While Marcus's absence had been keenly felt, it hadn't slowed Bruce and Selina down. If anything, it had strengthened their resolve. They had thrown themselves into their training and their self-appointed mission: to protect Gotham, one dark alley and one foiled crime at a time.
Marcus nodded, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "I had a feeling they might get up to something like that. Though, from what I saw on the way in, the city doesn't look much different."
The Gotham he'd driven through was the same beast he remembered. Grimy, perpetually overcast, and humming with a low-grade menace. Only the area immediately surrounding the church felt truly different—a pocket of genuine safety in a city drowning in corruption. Everywhere else was business as usual.
"Master Bruce and Miss Selina are only two people, sir," Alfred explained patiently. "They cannot be everywhere at once. Their efforts have been focused on immediate intervention—stopping assaults, preventing robberies. Much like their first outing together."
Alfred had made a conscious decision not to interfere. He knew the risks, but he also knew the alternative was a life of fear and inaction for Bruce. With the protection of Marcus's advanced battle suits, he was confident they could handle the common thugs and criminals of Gotham. So, he'd adopted a new routine: brewing pot after pot of tea for their late-night returns and buying every newspaper to keep a scrapbook of their exploits.
"Sounds like you've all been busy," Marcus observed, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Indeed," Alfred confirmed. "And thanks to the technology you provided, our personal security has never been better. Very few of this city's threats are capable of endangering us anymore." That, above all else, was what allowed him to sleep at night while the children he cared for patrolled the most dangerous streets in the country.
"Speaking of which," Alfred continued, his expression shifting to one of wry amusement. "Their public profile has led to a bit of a naming contest among the citizenry. The Gotham Gazette has been flooded with letters. I thought, perhaps, you might enjoy weighing in on their official codenames."
He retrieved a folder from a nearby mahogany table, filled with newspaper clippings and handwritten letters.
"Master Bruce's suggestions are… varied," Alfred said, his tone dry. "His direct, almost ferocious fighting style has led many to propose 'Black Panther,' to reflect his blend of agility and power." He paused, scanning a letter. "Others have suggested 'Puma,' or, for the more dramatically inclined, 'Black Mamba,' to emphasize his unrelenting nature in a fight."
"And Selina?" Marcus asked, genuinely curious.
Alfred's cheeks colored slightly. "Ah. Miss Selina's case is… different. Her graceful, fluid movements have been noted by many. That, combined with what some have described as a hypnotic quality to her combat style, has inspired certain… elaborate fantasies."
He cleared his throat delicately. "The prevailing suggestion is quite fitting, however. 'Catwoman.' One admirer even sent in a rather detailed artistic rendering."
From the folder, Alfred produced a piece of fan art. It was skillfully drawn but could only be described as mature content. The image depicted a voluptuous, masked woman in a skin-tight costume, posed in a way that left little to the imagination. The artist had clearly projected their own ideas onto the mysterious figure they'd only glimpsed in the shadows.
Marcus stared at the drawing, a slow grin spreading across his face. It was hard to reconcile the sensual, commanding figure on the page with the fierce but still-youthful Selina he knew.
"Hmm, Catwoman is good," he said, tapping the picture. "Her nickname was already 'Kitten,' wasn't it? It's a natural fit. Though," he added with a chuckle, "she's got a ways to go before she fills out that particular suit."
Alfred couldn't help but agree. He had no doubt that Selina would one day grow into a woman more stunning than any drawing, but right now, she possessed perhaps a tenth of the mature allure depicted by the anonymous artist.
"And for Master Bruce?" Alfred prompted, steering the conversation back. "I must confess, I find the current options lacking." Black Panther, Puma, Black Mamba—they all sounded like characters from a Saturday morning cartoon, not a guardian for a city like Gotham.
"Bruce, huh?" Marcus leaned back, stroking his chin in mock seriousness. A mischievous glint appeared in his eyes. "I've got it. How about… Flying Mouse?"
Alfred stared at him, utterly nonplussed. After a moment of stunned silence, he recognized the joke for what it was. He let out a long, weary sigh. "Perhaps, Mr. Marcus, we could endeavor to be serious for a moment."
"You're no fun, Alfie," Marcus said with a dramatic wave of his hand, but his expression softened into one of genuine thought. "Alright, for real this time. Think about it. They operate at night. They thrive in the darkness. Since Selina is the Catwoman… Bruce should be the Batman. Bats and cats. A perfect pair of nocturnal predators."
"Batman?" Alfred repeated, tasting the name. He frowned, not in disapproval, but in contemplation.
It wasn't immediately heroic or grand. It was strange, almost primal. But it was certainly leagues better than 'Black Mamba.' Still, he couldn't help but recall his young master's deep-seated fear of the creatures, a trauma from a childhood fall into a cavern teeming with them. Would Bruce ever accept a name that embodied his greatest phobia?
Then again, perhaps that was the point.
Alfred decided not to press the matter. If he asked for another suggestion, he couldn't begin to guess what Marcus might come up with. The leap from 'Flying Mouse' to 'Batman' was already a strange one, and he suspected Marcus hadn't agonized over the choice, but had simply polished his joke into something more presentable.
"I will take it under advisement," Alfred said, the epitome of diplomatic neutrality. Privately, however, the name was already starting to grow on him. Batman. It had a certain, ominous power to it. Yes, it might just work.