POV Alfred
Wayne Manor,Friday 9:00 a.m.
Bruce had finally fallen asleep. It had taken some convincing and a promise from Alfred that everything would be ready to resume the hunt for Scarecrow and the investigation into the Penguin's illicit trades. Only when Bruce took a break and maintained his cover as a playboy multimillionaire would Alfred allow him to return to the Batcave.
"(A bit more play wouldn’t hurt the boy.) " Alfred thought. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of worry. He’d seen Bruce push himself to the brink far too often, and while he admired his dedication, it was Alfred’s duty to ensure the man beneath the mask endured.
Despite his musings, Alfred didn’t let his current mood show on his face. He busied himself with the last of the daily—or, depending on how one measured time, the previous day’s—chores. As he went about his tasks, Alfred began dusting the manor and systematically checking all the estate's security systems.
A peculiar sound caught his attention, muffled yet distinct. While inspecting the modified ventilation ducts, he heard a rumbling noise coming from the one place in Wayne Manor that Alfred could call entirely his own: the kitchen. His brows furrowed as he set aside the feather duster, his mind already cataloging potential causes.
Arriving at the kitchen, Alfred found Tim heating up a cup of milk in the microwave. The young man’s hands fidgeted nervously, his eyes darting to Alfred like a child caught sneaking into the cookie jar.
"Master Tim, if you needed something, you only had to tell me. Your sleep schedule is already stretched thin enough as it is."
Tim glanced away, clutching the mug as though it might shield him from Alfred’s gaze.
"Sorry, Alfred. I just couldn’t sleep. Thought some warm milk might help me calm down."
Alfred’s expression softened.
"No matter. I have a special tea for sleepless nights—far more effective. Take a seat; I’ll prepare some for you.
Tim hesitated before shuffling to the kitchen table. He sat, tracing the rim of the mug with his thumb, then took small sips as Alfred lit the stove and placed a kettle on the fire. Moving with practiced precision, Alfred began setting up the next steps for a proper English tea.
"Alfred? " Tim’s voice broke the quiet.
"Yes, Master Tim?"
Tim stared into his mug, as if the words he sought were hidden in the swirls of milk.
"You’ve been to war, haven’t you?"
The question hung in the air for a moment before Alfred responded, his voice steady but reflective:
"Good detective skills, young master. Yes, I served near the end of the Second World War. And, as you’ve likely noticed, I still carry some habits from those days. Why do you ask?"
Tim shifted in his seat, gripping his mug tightly. His shoulders hunched, and his usually sharp eyes were clouded with doubt.
"Did it ever get easier… seeing people die?"
Alfred froze for a fraction of a second but quickly recovered, unfazed. He turned, placed the tea leaves into the kettle, and brought two cups to the table. Taking a seat across from Tim, he sipped his tea before answering:
"This is about last night, isn’t it? About the woman? I read the debriefing, but I want to know what you actually think."
Tim set his mug down, his fingers trembling slightly.
"I think… I was too slow. If I had acted faster, I could’ve stopped those cultists before they killed her. And the worst part is—I froze. I’ve been solving crimes since I was a kid, even before Robin, and yet I…"
His voice cracked, and he fell silent. Alfred studied him, noting the slight tremor in his hands and the way his gaze remained fixed on the table.
"You froze because you’re human, Master Tim," Alfred said gently. "But let’s unpack this. If only you had instantly seen the woman being cornered. If only you could’ve taken down the cultists from 100 meters away without missing. If only you had defeated adversaries you’d never faced before in seconds. If only…"
Tim looked up, startled by Alfred’s blunt tone.
"In war, Alfred continued, there were countless “if onlys.” If only we hadn’t been ambushed. If only we’d crossed the minefield without losing anyone. If only reinforcements had arrived on time. But here’s the truth: no soldier survives on “what ifs.” You act with what you have in the moment, Master Tim. Face the actual problem, not its shadow.
He paused, setting his cup down and leaning forward slightly.
"That's something I learned in the trenches: save who you can, and only afterward, mourn those you couldn’t."
Tim nodded slowly, but his hands still gripped the edge of the table.
"I get what you’re saying, but... I’ve never been paralyzed like that before. Why now? And what if it happens again?"
Alfred’s gaze turned distant for a moment, his mind retreating to darker times.
"It will happen again," he said finally. "Last night, you encountered a darkness beyond humanity’s usual sins. Every other crime you’ve faced—murder, theft, corruption—was motivated by something you could understand: greed, passion, madness, even simple cruelty. But that woman didn’t die for any of those reasons. She was murdered because those cultists needed a corpse—a sacrifice to their twisted beliefs."
His voice dropped, taking on a weight that silenced the room.
"During the war, I once encountered a village…" He hesitated, then continued. "It had been abandoned, save for a few survivors. The enemy left no valuables to steal, no strategic advantage. Their only purpose was cruelty—to send a message. And yet, the survivors... they found a way to keep going. They rebuilt. They didn’t let the shadow of what had happened stop them from facing the next day."
Tim’s fingers relaxed slightly as he listened, his eyes fixed on Alfred.
" There will always be someone worse out there," Alfred said firmly. "Someone more twisted than what you’ve seen. What truly matters is not what went wrong this time, but what you will do next time. That, Master Tim, is how you rise above the shadows."
The inspiring speech left Tim visibly more at ease, his shoulders relaxing as the tension from last night’s events faded slightly. Alfred, keenly observing the young man, decided it was time to raise a question that had been weighing on his mind for some time.
“Haven’t you talked to Master Bruce about your concerns?”
Tim’s brow furrowed slightly, his guarded expression signaling he understood the subtext. He hesitated before replying with a mix of honesty and deflection.
“I’ve thought about it. But if I bring it up, he’ll probably ban me from the Batcave until I learn to stop bullets with my bare hands. Bruce... He’s still carrying too much baggage from, you know, the last Robin.”
Alfred’s gaze softened, but his tone carried a quiet gravity.
“I had hoped your presence would help him make peace with that tragedy. Perhaps even mend things with Master Dick—or at least stop him from embarking on those reckless solo chases across Gotham.”
Tim gave a small, sardonic smile. “Or maybe stop complaining that Robin always needs more training.”
They chuckled together at the grim humor, though the laughter quickly dissolved into the kitchen’s stillness. The shared moment carried an unspoken acknowledgment: the weight of their lives didn’t allow much room for levity.
Drinking tea in silence, they shared a short time in the kitchen.
The silence drew Alfred’s mind back to the events that had shaped the man they both looked up to, but who, at times, seemed irreparably broken.
In recent years, Bruce’s scars—physical, emotional, and psychological—had only deepened. Selina’s departure still haunted him. Their last fight had been a vicious exchange of accusations: Bruce condemning her inability to control her kleptomania, and Selina, in turn, lashing out at his obsessive need to “save Gotham” at the expense of his own humanity. She’d stormed off after protecting his secret identity one final time, leaving him an emotional wreck.
Then came the Joker’s cruel attack on Barbara, a tragedy that brought Master Dick back to Wayne Manor—not to reconcile, but to confront Bruce about his failings as both a mentor and a partner. As if those wounds weren’t raw enough, the city delivered its most devastating blow with Jason’s death. That loss broke something in Bruce. The once-methodical Dark Knight became a relentless, unyielding force, patrolling Gotham every night in a futile attempt to drown his grief in vengeance.
Amidst the chaos, Tim had appeared, offering a glimmer of hope with his prodigious detective skills and boundless determination. Alfred had watched as the boy chipped away at Bruce’s walls, earning his place as Robin not by submission but through sheer willpower. But even as Alfred marveled at Tim’s strength, he couldn’t ignore a nagging fear.
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Tim set down his empty mug, mumbling a quiet thank you before retreating to his room. Alone now, Alfred leaned against the kitchen counter, his thoughts swirling.
Tim was remarkable. His brilliance, resourcefulness, and composed demeanor often made Alfred forget he was still a child. A child thrust into a world of shadows, sacrifices, and nightmares. Alfred had no doubt that Tim was capable of the role he had taken on, but was it fair?
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Had Tim chosen this path out of his own will, or was he simply a lifeline for a man drowning in despair? Alfred found himself wondering if Bruce had truly accepted Tim as a partner—or if, deep down, he saw him as a replacement.
The kettle whistled softly, its steam curling into the air. Alfred let out a quiet sigh as he poured himself a second cup of tea. He stared into its amber depths, his own reflection faint but present, like a ghost.
" I just hope,” he murmured to himself, “that you don’t come to regret this life, young master. You deserve more than being another casualty of Gotham’s darkness.”
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POV Nameless one
Secret Scarecrow lab Friday 10:00 a.m.
The Nameless One was sleeping, his mind adrift in a sea of memories left by his creator at the moment of his birth. He saw knights and their squires battling bravely against shadows in dense fog, their oaths guiding their swords. He saw a wise wizard conjuring fire to bring light and warmth to a city gripped by darkness. He wandered through the bustling chaos of a lively market where craftsmen and thinkers displayed their ingenious creations. These were not his memories, yet they comforted him like old stories told by a trusted guide.
Why was he thinking about this sleep?
Why was he thinking about these while asleep?
"Yes, this is called dreaming," came a deep, resonant voice from somewhere within his mind.
The Nameless One stirred, puzzled. Dreaming? As an undead, fatigue was not something he thought possible.
"In your undead form, you gain substantial advantages," the voice explained, "but even those come with limitations. You are immune to soul damage and can function without traditional sleep. Usually, a few hours of light activity or meditation is enough to sustain you. However, if you sustain sufficient punishment, even your enhanced constitution will demand rest."
Turning toward the voice within his mind, he found himself standing before a grand and radiant library. The shelves seemed infinite, stretching high into a soft, golden glow. Each book radiated a subtle light, as if holding not words but living memories.
"The memories," said the voice.
A voice deep and guttural seemed to respond to the nameless one's doubts; turning his attention to it, he saw a mighty and brilliant library that seemingly was shining a bright light.
"Pleased to meet you. I remember having a good time while I was sleeping while looking for a world in need of rescue."
"We were looking for a place in need of help," the library corrected. "You were resting while your consciousness was growing."
"Nonetheless, thank you for guiding me to this world and for teaching me all those histories."
The library changed its grumpy tone against the courtesy of the undead.
"Well, do not forget to come to me when you need some advice."
"I will tough... , I don't know how I will do it, sir library."
"Call me... Lib or L. Yes, it's a good enough reference anyway."A small chuckle left the library."And about seeing me, you only need to take a rest and think of me. Once you are ready to turn into your human form, you will be able to sleep in a normal way after spending a few DP."
"Thanks, Mister Lib; then I have some questions."
"Of course get it out, little boy."
"What is this DP that I hear all the time about?"
“Ah, good question. Destiny Points, or DP, are a manifestation of your potential—your ability to shape your path. Whenever you achieve something significant, be it for yourself, others, or the will of the world, you earn DP. They allow you to improve yourself in numerous ways, including regaining your human form."
Seeing the interest and focus in the nameless one for learning, the library tried to tell him a few more truths. Taking advantage of the erratic attention of the nameless one, the library spoke:
"And originally, before your creator discovered that he messed up in cosmic proportions, he created this power with the concept of a powerful life flame in mind, but there were several heavy problems with it. Using his divine senses to explore for an answer, he found a certain "Gamer" that inspired him in combining his power with this flame, to make your power. Lucky for him, the flame and the other concept ended up destroying each other and making your [*#$%&/@]
The nameless one began hearing an annoyingly high scratching sound instead of the words of the library; the library, seeing its mistake, quickly shut up.
"UPS! Too much alright. Sorry.I will tell you about that other day."
"Anyway back to the DP, they are destiny points; each time you do something noteworthy for yourself, the will of the world, or others, you will get those. Which means that you can improve yourself in various ways and transform into a fully human."
Hearing that his frail state wasn’t permanent, the Nameless One felt a surge of relief.
“That’s excellent,” he said, a faint smile on his undead features. “I’ve grown tired of being unable to deal with those damn rats.”
Lib chuckled. “Yes, the rats were persistent, weren’t they? They won’t be a problem much longer. However, those alligators you encountered? They’ll remain a challenge for some time, even with your enhanced resilience.”
A vivid memory flashed in the dark space between them—a brutal encounter in the sewers. The Nameless One had fought ferociously against a massive white alligator, his blade slashing with reckless abandon. Yet, no matter how deep he cut, the creature’s thick hide barely gave way. Every few strikes, the beast retaliated, slamming him into submerged walls with terrifying force.
Frustration seeped into the Nameless One’s voice as he retorted, “It’s not fair, Lib. Even though I stabbed it multiple times, I barely left a scratch. My blade felt like it was slicing rock, not flesh.”
“Of course it did,” Lib replied, exasperated. “You’re running on fumes. All your characteristics—physical and mental—are at a base level of 1. You’re practically a newborn, and to make matters worse, you decided to jump two stories into a basement the moment you woke up! Your undead form is the only reason you’re standing. Without it, your vitality would have left you bedridden, and a single rat could’ve snapped your spine like a twig.”
The library’s tone grew harsher, a deep rumble resonating through the space.
"And let’s not even get started on your mental state. Your mind is barely mature, with the knowledge of a teenager and the emotional resilience of a child. Then there’s the fact that your creator, in his infinite wisdom, allowed the universe to manipulate you into being dropped straight into Gotham. Gotham, of all places! How dare he—how dare that idiot—"
The library’s voice faltered, cutting off abruptly as if realizing it had said too much.
"Apologies," Lib said, his tone now calm but heavy with unspoken frustration. "I’ve said enough for now. There are some truths you’re not ready to hear."
A tense silence followed, broken only by the flicker of golden light from the library’s shelves.
“So,” the Nameless One ventured cautiously, “what should I focus on now?”
“Survival,” Lib replied firmly. “Gain DP. Strengthen yourself. And remember, no matter how dire things seem, you."
The presence of the Nameless One began to fade, his form gradually becoming faint and translucent. The Library, sensing that time was running out, spoke urgently, its tone heavy with dread.
"Listen carefully," it said, its voice sharp and commanding. "I know you're not in the right state of mind, but this is critical. You are imprisoned. When you wake, that imbecile will continue his experiments. At first, they’ll fail. But eventually, the Law of Gotham will find you—and then you’ll learn the true meaning of pain. And why everyone fears it."
The Nameless One, now nearly a ghostly silhouette, felt himself slipping further from awareness.
"Do what you need, but kill yourself. Once the undead form discovers that you are getting hurt; it will assist you in killing yourself. You hear me! KILL YOURSELF, No Matter What!"
As the Nameless One's form disappeared completely, the Library remained behind, alone within the void of his mind. Its light dimmed, as though weighed down by sorrow. Powerless to intervene directly, it could only pray that the young soul it had nurtured would survive the horrors to come. Yet even as it hoped, a dark certainty crept in: the Scarecrow’s twisted hands were poised to tear at the fragile innocence of the Nameless One, and there was little it could do to stop him.
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The mechanical rumbling of a chemical analyzer stirred the Nameless One into consciousness. A man was muttering complex chemical formulas while staring intently at the screen of the machine in front of him.
"If we combine both types, we'd only end up with a downgraded version of each. But... maybe if we apply heat to synergize them."
The first thing the Nameless One noticed was the binding—his hands and feet were restrained. He was strapped to a medical table, unable to move. Nearby, an unmasked Scarecrow worked intently on a strange contraption, muttering to himself while scribbling down archaic-looking formulas.
{Chemical formulas.}
A faint, fragmented voice echoed in his mind.
{It’s me, Lib... can’t talk much... helping you...} The voice was choppy, almost as though it were breaking apart.
(The dream...)
Before he could process more, Scarecrow let out a small triumphant exclamation.
"Yes, just a little more, and... voilà!" With a satisfied grin, he pressed a key on the machine. Moments later, a small flask was ejected from the device, containing a yellowish liquid that shimmered faintly.
Scarecrow lifted the flask and examined it with twisted delight before his gaze fell on the Nameless One. Noticing he was awake, the villain's mood shifted, a sinister grin spreading across his face.
"Oh, splendid! You woke up naturally. Normally, I wouldn't give one of my test subjects more than a passing glance, but you, my little anomaly, deserve my full attention."
The Scarecrow grabbed a syringe and filled it with the strange yellow liquid, his movements calculated and deliberate.
Even in his restrained state, the Nameless One began piecing together the situation. The man before him was clearly no ordinary scientist. He was dangerous—
{Murderer....Torture...Danger.}
Lib's broken voice interrupted his thoughts, adding weight to his growing realization.
Despite his confusion and the sluggishness, the Nameless One couldn’t resist speaking up.
"I’ve just met you, and I already think I hate you."
Scarecrow paused, his head tilting as a thin, menacing smile crept across his face.
"Now that’s a new one," he mused. His voice lowered, dripping with malice. "Most people, when they speak before me, do so not out of bravery, but because they feel it. The fear. The pain. The inevitability of what’s to come."
He approached slowly, pulling the grotesque mask from its resting place and positioning it over his head. His movements were deliberate, a predator savoring the anticipation.
"In the hands of the good Dr. Crane," he continued, his voice now muffled and distorted by the mask, "they truly come to understand."
Without warning, he plunged the syringe into the Nameless One’s arm, pumping the yellowish compound into his veins.
"Who is the Master of Fear! " Scarecrow hissed before erupting into a maniacal laugh. "THE SCARECROW—HA, HA, HA!"
A cold, creeping sensation began to spread from the injection site.
The cold sensation spread through his body like a creeping frost, invading every blood vessel and nerve. At first, nothing seemed to happen, leaving the doctor visibly frustrated. But within seconds, a new sensation began to manifest.
It started as a tingle in the arm where the needle had pierced his skin, quickly spreading through his entire body. At first, it was just an odd, subtle prickling. But as it traveled, the sensation grew sharper, transforming into a maddening itch. It burned and clawed at his nerves, a torment that made him instinctively thrash against the restraints. His body demanded relief, screaming for him to scratch it out, no matter the cost.
He fought to keep control, but the itching intensified with every heartbeat. Each movement only accelerated his blood flow, spreading the toxin faster through his frail body. The itch became unbearable, twisting him in agony on the operating table.
(Scratch. Scratch. Why won’t it stop? Scratch...)
{Calm down... The toxin... it moves through the blood...} the Library interjected, trying to reason with him.
But reason was fleeting. The instinct to survive drowned out all else, and the nameless one was lost to the primal need for relief. Desperation overtook him as he strained against the bindings, his body writhing in torment. Unable to reach the source of the itch, he began gnawing at his arm, seeking any form of release.
From the corner of the room, Scarecrow observed with cold fascination. His frustration gave way to intrigue as his subject finally began to react.
"Interesting," the doctor muttered, his voice tinged with cruel satisfaction. "Ten hours of work, twenty different toxic mixes... and now, results."
A sickening crack echoed through the room. Scarecrow’s eyes narrowed in surprise as he saw the nameless one twist his wrist, shattering the bones in a horrifying display of brute force. Blood seeped from the crushed hand as the undead figure bent it past the restraints, using the mangled limb to furiously scratch at his itching skin.
For a moment, the doctor froze, captivated by the scene. A mixture of excitement and trepidation swirled within him.
"Fascinating," he murmured. "Such ruthlessness. He’s perfect—a specimen unlike any other. With a constitution like this, he’ll withstand trials no ordinary subject could endure. Yes... the perfect candidate for my next phase."
Satisfied with the progress, Scarecrow snapped his fingers, summoning his lackeys. They entered the room, their faces stoic, as they began packing up the machinery and gathering the scattered remnants of his experiments. The doctor watched as the equipment was secured, ensuring that nothing of value would be left behind. Before leaving, he activated the safety lock, sealing the room and trapping the nameless one within.
Walking down the dimly lit hallway, Scarecrow’s mind raced with possibilities. He made his way to the furthest room in the subterranean complex—a reinforced chamber lined with metal walls and interwoven with pipes that hissed and groaned as they pumped volatile chemicals.
Reaching a heavy lever, the doctor pulled it with a mechanical screech, shutting off the chemical flow to the main room. From a nearby counter, he picked up a pair of surgical scissors, their blades gleaming ominously under the dim light.
"This is only the beginning," Scarecrow whispered to himself, his voice dripping with malevolent glee. "Now to procure the final ingredients for my masterpiece."
With a wicked grin, he stepped into the chamber, ready to prepare his next sinister creation.