Just before Catwoman saved Harley,
Bruce moved through the wreckage of the once before batcave like a man refusing to accept reality.
The portal behind him sealed with a faint shimmer, leaving him alone in what remained of the Batcave. Or what used to be the Batcave. Now it was a graveyard of broken concrete, twisted metal, and shattered memories buried under layers of collapse.
"Where are you, Alfred?"
The question repeated in his mind, steady at first, then faster, then louder.
"Where are you?" His voice hushed but croaked.
He pushed aside a slab of concrete, careful despite the urgency, his movements precise even as desperation crept in. Every piece he moved was handled with care, as if the rubble itself might still be alive, as if one wrong motion could make things worse.
He forced himself to think. To steady himself. An unstable Batman was problem to himself and others.
The layout. The structure. The last moments before everything went wrong.
But wait… he remembered… The pantry.
He remembered it clearly. He had told Alfred to take cover there. The upper sections had reinforced plating, designed to withstand aerial assaults.
He should be safe. He had to be safe. After all Artemis confirmed no soul was picked up by her brother he assumed to Hermes. Alfred is probably just trapped on the verge of death, he could just get him and portal him away to Star Labs. It was a lab primarily but there were healing bays. Even though Flash was off world, he still had pull in Star Labs and could give Alfred the best of the best treatment.
Another explosion above ground shattered the thought.
BOOM!!! BOOM!!! CRACKLE!!!
The impact rippled downward, shaking the cave, undoing the careful work Bruce had already done. Debris shifted, sliding back into place, burying sections he had just cleared. Steadying his breathing that he may not exact his super strength to destroy more debris and risk Alfred harm.
BOOM!!! CRACKLE!!!!
Lightning followed, its energy bleeding through stone and steel, turning the air heavy.
Bruce froze for a moment, his head tilting upward, eyes hidden behind the cowl but filled with something raw and breaking. Tears began to flow like a river, even his breathing techniques weren't helping here. But no, he had to stay calm, he had to be steadfast. Everything was just testing him now, pushing him to the edge, he even cut back on his micro sleeps as of late, although his enhanced physiology needed less sleep, his mind was another.
"Just stop already…" he whispered, his voice breaking. He can't allow himself to break, not now, not ever. The words were soft, swallowed almost instantly by the chaos above.
But he didn't stop. He couldn't. Without another practised breath, an idea came to his mind.
The trident in his hand shifted, responding to his will. A portal opened beside him, dark and silent, and the weapon morphed, expanding, reshaping into a massive excavator construct. It roared to life, mechanical and precise, scooping debris and casting it into the portal with efficiency Bruce alone couldn't match.
Now the work moved faster. But not fast enough. The man and the bat were reaching breaking point.
"ALFRED!" His voice cracked, the control slipping for the first time. "ALFREDDDD! WHERE ARE YOU?!"
Tears kept blurring his vision, slipping past the edges of his cowl, tracing lines down his face he couldn't feel any more. He dug faster. Deeper. Now that was what kept him together, at least this action had some meaning to it. Just dig and pour in the portal, dig and pour, dig and pour. The surrounding sounds were not becoming less existent. The rational part of his mind tried to piece together what had happened, tried to make sense of the timing, the strategy.
He'd already thought about outcomes, planned possibilities and clauses for victories. He had expected a stalemate in this war. Both sides had lost key players, Raven missing, as far as he knows, Blackfire was off world fighting one of Raven's women, Kyla-el. There should have been caution, calculation, a pause before the next move.
But he had made one mistake. He had assumed his enemies thought like him, no, that at least they had some common sense not to start anything now.
It was easy to understand intelligent people.
His hands tightened as he pulled away another slab.
Not people like Harley attuned to chaos. She had gotten more chaotic and less predictable than ever, she wasn't supposed to act now according to the plan he had drawn out, and even the second plan that featured that since you can't predict stupidity, didn't involve this.
CRACKLE!
Lightning struck again, illuminating the cave in a harsh, fleeting flash.
And in that instant, Bruce saw it.
A hand.
Partially buried, blackened by ash and dust, but unmistakably human.
Then, everything inside him dropped.
The excavator construct faltered, then stilled. The portal closed. The trident returned to its original form, floating uselessly at his side.
Bruce stepped forward slowly, as if approaching something fragile, something that might vanish if he moved too quickly. He removed his cowl, a small torrent of tears poured out.
"I am here, Alfred." His voice was quieter now. Steadier, but only just. The hand was clutching something, even now, even after everything.
Bruce knelt, his movements careful, reverent. He began clearing the debris by hand, slower than before, each piece removed with a kind of painful precision. Sometimes he paused, his breath hitching, his vision blurring again. His body trembled, this couldn't be. The world above faded.
The explosions, the lightning, the screams—they became distant, muffled, irrelevant.
There was only this and himself, in this small dark world.
"No, no, no, no…" The words slipped out, one after another, each one heavier than the last. His chest tightened, heat building behind his ribs, a pressure centered on his heart that felt too familiar, too old. His breathing quickened, then steadied—years of discipline forcing his body to obey even as everything else threatened to fall apart.
He uncovered more. The damage was… severe. Most of Alfred's body had been reduced to ash, the surface coated in fine black and white particles where concrete and metal had fused and burned. Only part of him remained intact—the right side of his torso, part of his face, his arm.
And his hand, still holding on, Bruce reached for it, then stopped. His fingers trembled. He pulled off his gauntlets slowly, setting them aside. Bare skin felt necessary, he hadn't hugged Alfred in a long, long time. This could be the last time.
A cry from the fight on the ground got his attention, he found an armless Catwoman attacked by the heroes but went back to his work as she mattered little now.
He tried once, gently, with the strength of a baby if you will, pulled back, tried again. Failed again. On the third attempt, he forced himself through it, his fingers closing gently around Alfred's hand.
It was still, cold, carefully, he pried the fingers open.
Inside was a pocket watch.
Untouched, untarnished by the destruction around it, as if it had been protected by something beyond physical force. His will wavered, a low soulful cry left his lips and stopped almost immediately.
Bruce opened it.
On one side, the watch face ticked on, steady and indifferent. On the other—a photograph.
Martha Wayne stood behind Thomas, her smile soft, warm, alive in a way that felt almost foreign now. Her pearls rested neatly against her neck, her coat draped elegantly, her gloved hands resting on Thomas's shoulders.
Thomas sat composed, strong, one hand resting over hers, the other placed firmly on the shoulder of a young boy beside him.
Bruce. Unsullied by the corruption and curse of Gotham, a growing talent with a bright future ahead of him, the cruel dark universe of DC couldn't be anymore ironic.
Smiling, bright, unbroken. One could only imagine if the midnight vigilante was capable of smiling once in his life. Bruce stared at it, his vision blurring completely now as tears finally overwhelmed whatever control he had left.
CRACKLE!!! BOOM!!! CRACKLE!!!
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