March 2029-Wayne Manor
At precisely 05:30 am, Alfred Pennyworth awoke.
The Englishman might be in his seventies, yes; but he was determined to continue his role as Bruce's manservant as long as possible. Wayne Manor would have made a comfortable retirement, and someone much younger could facilitate all the estate's and the foundation's needs...but not Bruce's. And certainly not the Batman's. Besides, retirement was for the elderly and feeble, those who could not work anymore, three things hardly applicable to himself. He'd considered it, yes; a nice, peaceful place in the idyllic English countryside, within a day's driving distance to London. But those were dreams of a bygone age, much like his boyhood. He'd wanted to be a surgeon, but working for Dr. Thomas Wayne had been the closest he'd come. A bit of trouble in his youth, a lenient judge willing to drop charges in exchange for military service, and the discovery that he was, in fact, one of the fiercest fighters in Her Majesty's Service when it came to it had altered the trajectory of his life considerably.
He owed it to Thomas to stay. He owed it to the children, the Legacy's children—children so much like himself, like Bruce—to stay. So stay he did. A quick cup of morning tea, with full fat real dairy cream (not creamer—as some might say) and exactly one cube of refined white sugar, then he was off to the garden to walk. His daily exercise, ninety paces per minute, for thirty minutes, per the doctor's orders. They'd wanted him to stop the cream and sugar, but Alfred Pennyworth was English, and these uncouth American hoodlums—medical training or no—couldn't possibly appreciate the aesthetic of a proper cup of tea.
You had to let it properly seep. And you had to use real ingredients. Change his morning routine? he'd scoffed. Death first! No, exercise first. A compromise with his family physician. Death could wait.
…death could wait a very long time. Young Master Wayne had already lost two parents. Knowing where that had taken him, Alfred Pennyworth dreaded what might become of his charge were he to lose a third.
Ninety paces. Thirty minutes. In the cold, the dark, the sleet and rain. He braved the elements as he'd once done for Queen and Country, but this time he did it for Bruce.
Next Chapter: Bruce bears the guilt of Rachel's death over breakfast and the Batman's failures.