"Master Bruce. The time is upon us."
Bruce opened his eyes just as the burgundy drapes rattled open, and the glare of sunlight, reflected off sheets of snow, flooded his vision. Wincing, he heaved himself up and out of bed. Every bone in his body ached, every muscle burned. It seemed like he'd only just retired to his chambers. Still, he felt the chill draft of a morning about his ankles; although quite what made it different to the usual icy currents of air whispering around Wayne Manor, he couldn't say. It was somehow fresher, sharper. It clawed at him, like a cat demanding attention.
Fine, he thought solemnly. You have my attention. I will do my duty.
A dreamless sleep had engulfed him from the moment his head had hit the pillow, as it always did, and once again he felt the pang of sorrow and regret for having life pass him by. It was difficult to remember the last time he'd read a newspaper, listened to current events on the radio, or even glances at a televised news report. The world could have changed a thousand ways since last he'd seen it.
Why then, did he doubt it had changed for the better.
His nighttime excursions found him confronted, more and more, by men and and women of disturbed mind and peculiar character. He had hoped, in the beginning, that his presence, his work, would motivate people to change their ways. To be better, to make their world a better place. But all those tomorrows had come to pass, and if anything had changed for the better, Bruce had not yet witnessed it for himself.
Bruce stood at the window and gazed out into the frozen wasteland. Ice and snow for miles around, in every direction, an endless white space, with an avalanche sky threatening every moment to crash down on top of him and bury him under the weight of his own futility. At least then he could sleep.
"You haven't brought me breakfast," Bruce observed.
"I took the liberty of conveying your meal directly to the refuse. I thought it might expedite the process of your continued self-imposed starvation. After all, I see no reason the mice should go hungry too."
"We have mice?" Bruce jibed.
Alfred's raised eyebrow seemed to take on a sharper edge.
It was fascinating to Bruce how much the older man could convey with that one single expression. The butler turned on his heel, and left silently. Ever stalwart, Alfred Pennyworth was always there waiting, with food, or medicine, or a steadying hand. Whatever the situation required. Were the days long and painful for him, Bruce pondered, anxiously anticipating his nocturnal escapades? Or were they welcome respites?
Grimly, Bruce descended from the second floor, down the winding staircase, through endless labyrinthine corridors, through the study and the trophy room, to the secret passage in the East Wing of the manor house. The clock chimed at the appointed time, and the mahogany panel slid open, reaving yet another staircase leading down, far beneath, to the depths of the cavern.