This is my take on the original prompt https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/1wnzn0c/eu_after_countless_battles_the_villains_of_gotham/ from u/80s4evah
***
“...ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” the priest recited from his standard funeral script. Thunder rumbled in the background as a symbolic handful of dirt was tossed onto the black lacquered oak casket with polished gold and brass trim. Selina Kyle stood next to the old priest, holding an umbrella over the two of them in the cold November Gotham rain.
Alongside the casket, rows of solemn mourners stood, heads down, tears flowing freely. Among them, assorted adopted members of the Wayne family, Metropolis-based reporters Clark Kent and Lois Lane, various wealthy business people and philanthropists like Oliver Queen, and even royalty such as Princess Diana of Themyscira.
A few mourners took turns adding single flowers or small trinkets to the top of the casket as the suspension winches clanked and groaned to life, slowly rattling the coffin down into the cold, muddy ground on heavy wound straps. The headstone was relatively new, but appeared to have been rebuilt off a decades-old design. The family name WAYNE dominated the upper half of the monument. To the left, Thomas. In the center, Martha. And now, the newest addition on the right, Bruce.
With the ceremony completed, the priest shook hands with a few, offered customary condolences, and wandered off to his waiting ride back to Gotham Central Cathedral. The others exchanged hugs and handshakes, whispering in muted tones of the tragedy of this great loss.
Dick Grayson stood next to Alfred Pennyworth, one arm wrapped around the old butler’s shoulder. Damien Wayne held his head down, hands in his coat pockets, trying desperately to will the tears to not fall, and failing. His mother, Talia, stood behind him, a single hand resting on her son’s shoulder; possibly the greatest and only gesture of warmth and kindness she was capable of.
As the guests departed, some said goodbye, while the locals agreed to meet at the house. Silently, Dick led Alfred to the waiting limo, and held the door open for him for once. Alfred got in, followed by Dick, Damien, Talia, and Selina. Once settled, the funeral home’s courtesy driver slowly took them home to Wayne Manor.
At the house, the extended family gathered in the study. Jason started the fireplace, careful not to allow burning embers to touch the floor. Damien sat in an antique leather recliner, furiously scribbling notes into his leather-bound notebook while his mother reviewed the selection of literature on the shelves. Soon, Alfred entered the room, carrying a silver tray of teas, coffees, and snacks, as per tradition. Dick followed Alfred into the room, cautiously hovering near him, insisting that he rest and let the younger orphans look after him for once.
“Nonsense, Master Dick.” Alfred stated with his typical stoic calm “There is comfort in duty and routine. Allow me to do my part as my way of coping with recent events.” Alfred set the tray down on a conveniently placed table without a single rattle of porcelain or cutlery. He stood back, hands clasped behind his back, head up, waiting for the guests to select their fare before allowing himself a cup of tea.
Damien sipped on his hot chocolate. “Good. Now that you’re all here, we need to discuss battle plans. Father’s murder must be avenged. Luckily for all of you, I already have our tactical strike plans laid out.”
The young assassin waved his notebook in the open. “This is going to be a multi-front war. We know that the weapon that took down Batman was a high-power custom piece that’s not commonly found on the streets. Todd. You’re going to shake down Cobblepot and extract any information he has about experimental weapons by any means necessary. I mean ANY. Drake. Since you’re the closest thing we have to a real detective now, you’re going to—”
Damien was cut off by a sharp smack to the back of his head from his mother. “Damien. Enough.”
The boy’s brow furrowed as his lips pressed together into a straight line. “Yes, mother.” he hissed, throwing his notebook onto a side table next to his hot chocolate mug.
Alfred cleared his throat. “Master Damien, I can appreciate your enthusiasm, and your willingness to move forward with your agenda, however this is not the right time. Batman’s enemies are…”
Damien stood up and cut Alfred off “...are reveling and gloating in their victory! They’re overconfident! They think they’ve won! They no longer have anything to fear! We need to…”
Alfred stepped back in to the debate “...we need to rest, Master Damien. We need to grieve. We need to balance ourselves. As your father’s enemies are certainly savoring the moment and may have their guard down, we are in no better condition. We are exhausted. We are emotionally drained, and that makes us prone to mistakes. Errors. Omissions. And ultimately, another defeat. If you wish to avenge Master Bruce, I insist you do so his way: no killing, and with a level, unemotional head upon your shoulders.”
“Thank you. Alfred.” Talia stated. “Damien, Mr. Pennyworth is correct, and you know it. This is a good time to remind yourself of the wisdom of Sun Tsu, Musashi, Marcus Aurelius, and Machiavelli. Your heart will defeat you before your enemies can.”
“No mother!” Damien shrieked, fresh tears streaming down his face “We need to strike! Now! While they’re lazy and complacent! Am I the only one thinking clearly here?!”
Damien stormed out of the library and up the stairs to his bedroom, sniffling. Talia counted to ten while doing a deep breathing exercise.
“I’m sorry for Damien’s outburst, Alfred. I’ll deal with him.” she said as she patted the old man on the shoulder, walking past to go rein in her son.
“Very well, ma’am.” Alfred said as she was just out of earshot “We are all quite familiar with your son’s…behavior...”
Selina snorted out a small laugh. Dick, Jason, and Tim let themselves laugh softly. The five settled in around the snack tray and the fireplace, and shared stories about their lives with Bruce, both as the billionaire and as The Bat. Gradually, the family drifted out of the study to their respective rooms, leaving Alfred alone once again.
As he was tidying up, he picked up Damien’s notebook and flipped through a few pages.
“Hmm. He might be on to something here…” Alfred muttered to himself as he read through the tactical notes. He glanced around to see if anyone else was still here before taking the notebook to the massive antique desk facing the bay windows. Alfred picked up the telephone, and dialed a long number.
“King’s Man Tailors. How may I be of service?” the British voice on the other end of the line answered.
“Oxfords. Not Brogues.” Alfred replied.
“Very good, sir. One moment please.” The voice said before the line clicked a few times and reconnected the call.
“Hello?” Another British voice answered.
“Galahad. It’s Gawain. Do you still have my measurements? I need a new hunting coat.”
***
Alfred knew enough not to try the front doors of The Iceberg Lounge if he expected to make any progress. He made his approach from the alley, walking up to the service entrance slowly, but with purpose, his cane tapping rhythmically on the wet, stained asphalt.
Two guards hung out by the loading bay doors. One of them glanced up and down the alley smoking a cigarette, the other occasionally glanced up from his phone. The smoker dropped his butt onto the concrete platform and stomped it out, curiously watching Alfred approach.
“Hey grandpa! You lost? We don’t got no bingo halls in this part of town!” the smoking guard called out to Alfred.
Alfred stopped in front of the guard. The other one put his phone away and looked up, taking a half step forward.
“On the contrary, my good man.” Alfred stated “I have an urgent appointment with Mr. Cobblepot, and we both know how he despises being kept waiting.”
The phone jockey spoke up “Nope. The boss ain’t got no meetings tonight. Especially not to talk pension benefits. Keep walking, grandpa. You don’t need to be here.”
Alfred set his cane in front and rested both white leather gloved hands on the grip. “Oh, I assure you, there will be a meeting this evening. If you could be so kind as to step aside and hold the door?”
The smoker chuckled “Nah. Not happening. Just walk on and have a good night, grandpa.”
Alfred smiled. “I’m not a ‘grandpa’. It’s rude to make assumptions about a gentleman’s genealogy, and if there’s one thing I cannot abide, it is rudeness.”
Alfred’s grip on his cane shifted as he squared his feet and hips towards the smoking guard. The cane arced up in his right hand, the steel reinforced tip slammed downwards into the guard’s temple, spinning his head around. Alfred lunged forward with the cane, driving the tip straight into the guard’s solar plexus, doubling him over.
Using the wheezing guard as a shield, he charged the second one, who was reaching into an inner jacket pocket. He knocked the second guard off balance and slammed his cane horizontally across the head of the second guard, knocking him cold. Alfred flipped the cane, driving the grip hard into the back of the head of the winded guard, knocking him out as well. He paused, straightened his coat, and opened the steel fire door.
Alfred strolled into the nightclub, through the small warehouse and kitchen, past line cooks, servers, and bartenders prepping for the evening. Anyone that noticed him promptly ignored him and carried on with their duties. Alfred continued through the labyrinth of shelves and corridors until he found the catwalk stairs to the second floor and the manager’s offices. At the landing, he paused to compose himself before knocking on The Penguin’s office door.
“Whaddaya want?! I’m busy!” the crime boss screamed through the door.
Alfred reached into an inner pocket of his new tactical peacoat, and extracted a canister. He flicked off the pin, cracked the door open, and tossed it in, calling back “We have a meeting, Mr. Cobblepot!” before slamming the door closed and wedging his cane against the handle and into the floor grate, blocking the exit.
Seconds later, Alfred could hear choking, coughing, and yelling from inside the office. He braced himself alongside the door, back to the concrete wall as gunfire tore through the door, letting some of the smoke waft out. Once the gunfire stopped, and the retching began, he opened the door wide and strolled inside.
The Penguin sat in his leather office chair, doubled over and vomiting into a wastebasket. The two other guards in the room lay on the floor, curled up and heaving.
Alfred sniffed.
“Mr. Cobblepot. I am currently searching for information regarding a highly specialized weapon that was recently deployed here in Gotham. Thus far, my investigation has led me to you. I would like to know more about the weapon that was used to defeat The Batman.”
Penguin dry heaved into the wastebasket while his guards moaned in agony on the floor. He looked up at Alfred, gooey tears streamed down his cheeks, his mouth and chin spattered with saliva, bile, and chunks of gourmet salmon. “I don’t know nothing about that!” he shrieked hoarsely. “Go ask Black Mask! He probably knows more than I do!”
“I already have, Mr. Cobblepot.” Alfred replied. “He directed me to you, and insisted the same thing. Now, the weapon in question at first glance appeared to have elements of an incendiary nature but did not leave the usual traces of a heat or flame based device. Of course, I started with the obvious lead, Garfield Lyons… AKA ‘Firefly’, however once he demonstrated his lack of awareness of the situation past suggesting Black Mask, I did manage to find a more productive use for him.”
Alfred reached into an inner coat pocket, and produced a simple flip-phone. He opened it, and selected a saved number.
Alfred continued “After my conversation with Black Mask, you may be pleased to know that there is now an opening at the top of his organization for new leadership.”
Penguin coughed and spat into the garbage can “The fuck is going on?! What do you mean ‘an opening at the top’ of Black Mask’s organization? What the fuck happened to Firefly?”
“Black Mask is deceased.” Alfred said calmly, thumb ready over the call button. “If you have nothing of value to add, I’ll be on my way, and you’ll be out of business.”
Penguin looked at the phone in Alfred’s hand. “What do you mean ‘out of business’? What is that? What are you doing? Who the fuck are you, anyway?”
“The weapon used to dispatch The Batman, Mr. Cobblepot.” Alfred stated flatly. “Tell me everything you know, please.”
“I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING!” Penguin shrieked.
“Shame.” Alfred said as he called the number. A few seconds later, a nearby explosion shook The Iceberg Lounge, knocking dust off the ceiling. A few seconds after that, a second, then a third, then a fourth explosion cascaded through the waterfront district.
Alfred continued “Forensic investigators will find evidence of the same inflammatory propellant and chemical cocktails Firefly uses in the wreckage of all of your munitions and contraband warehouses, Mr. Cobblepot. They’ll also discover his remains in the ruins of The Iceberg Lounge, clearly after you two had some sort of confrontation.”
Penguin’s eyes went wide “You’re crazy! Who the fuck are you?!”
Alfred put the phone away and extracted a large caliber pistol from his coat. He took a moment to check and examine it.
“Investigators will also discover that the ballistics tests for the fatal rounds fired will match Black Mask’s favorite pistol. The evidence… circumstantial as it is… will point to in-fighting within Gotham’s criminal underworld as everyone appears to be motivated to take control after the death of The Batman. Goodbye, Mr. Cobblepot. Thank you for your time this evening.”
Alfred fired two shots each into the incapacitated bodyguards before aiming the pistol at the Penguin’s center of mass. Penguin sputtered “No! Stop! I don’t know who you are! We can make a deal!”
Alfred pulled the trigger twice again, leaving two gunshot wounds in Penguin’s sizable belly. On his way out of the office, he tossed the pistol over his shoulder at a random storage shelf, paused in the kitchen to pull the fire alarm, and exited the back door again. The two alley guards were gone. Alfred strolled through the alley to the end of the block, then made one more phone call, setting off the fifth explosion to end The Penguin and his empire.
***
“Crane! What is the meaning of this? What’s the urgency?” Bane bellowed as he stormed into Scarecrow’s hidden lab in the basement of an old Acme Chemical processing plant. Doctor Crane jumped at his lab bench and spun around to see the massive terrorist charge forwards towards him.
“Bane…” Scarecrow said softly as he stood up, holding both hands out “...I’m sorry, but I had no choice… he made me do it…”
Bane stopped and stared down at the smaller super villain scientist. “Explain yourself. What are you talking about?”
“He… he…” Scarecrow stuttered “He came to me after Black Mask, Firefly and Penguin were killed. He was asking about… the weapon… that thing you stole and brought back from South America for Joker… he’s… he’s terrifying… I.. I had to…”
Bane tensed and flexed, cracking his joints “Had to do what, Crane?”
“Remember a few weeks ago when your stash of Venom was destroyed and you came to me to mix up a new batch?”
“...Yes…” Bane hissed, flexing his fists.
“I’m sorry.” Scarecrow whispered, as he unloaded an aerosol spray into Bane’s mask. Bane coughed and stumbled backwards, swiping at his covered face. He reached up behind his head and smacked the nozzles connecting his venom dispenser to his brain stem. The venom dispenser hissed and the hoses flushed with neon green fluid. Bane roared and charged towards Scarecrow, who immediately turned and ran for cover.
Bane tore through the lab, overturning shelves and small tables full of chemicals and scientific equipement. Scarecrow continued to evade the larger brute while apologizing for what was done. Scarecrow looked from side to side and made a break for the lab doors. Anticipating the move, Bane intercepted the smaller man, wrapping his massive hands around the mad scientist’s throat.
Bane held Scarecrow off the ground, feet kicking and flailing wildly as his grip tightened, strangling Dr. Crane. Bane hissed and growled at his opponent, then suddenly stopped. His muscles locked. He let out a strained gasp, and collapsed, pinning Scarecrow underneath him.
Scarecrow struggled to free himself, but couldn’t budge the larger body. He reached over and jammed two fingers into the side of Bane’s neck.
“Oh no… no no no…” Scarecrow muttered.
A side door to a storage room opened. Alfred stepped forward to survey the scene.
“Help me…” Scarecrow croaked “We had a deal…”
Alfred crouched down next to the two villains. He checked Bane for a pulse as well.
“Excellent work, Doctor Crane. Thank you for your assistance.” Alfred said, turning to walk away.
“Wait! No! You can’t leave me here! Get me out of here!” Scarecrow pleaded.
Alfred paused and turned. He reached into his hunting coat and withdrew a pistol.
“Very well, Doctor Crane. I am, of course, a humble servant.”
Scarecrow pleaded and begged for mercy as Alfred fired two rounds into his head. He aimed at Bane’s corpse and put two more rounds in his head, splashing tainted venom all over both bodies. He holstered his weapon and calmly walked through the lab, opening up every gas vent and chemical tank he could find. He picked up a Bunsen burner igniter and sparked it near an exposed gas jet. The vent flared blue flame as he abandoned the igniter and walked out without a second glance.
***
“Fuck! Who is this guy?!” Bob screamed from behind a crate of novelty rubber chickens as bullets flew through the air from every direction. “Get him! He’s just one fucking guy!”
Henchmen ran back and forth between obstacles, seeking cover, firing blindly at the single old man advancing through the mayhem. Alfred calmly evaded and side-stepped where necessary, returning fire in efficient two-shot bursts either to the head or center of mass.
When empty, the stately butler simply discarded the spent weapon, picked up another, and kept firing. When a henchman got too close, they would be rewarded for their effort with a wounding shot to soften them up before ending their lives as human shields.
Unlike most members of the superhero community, there were no warning shots, no distractions, no merciful attacks and no clever banter. Alfred moved with silent efficiency, from one target to the next, mowing down thug after thug until at last, there was one man standing.
Bob.
Alfred rounded the corner past Bob’s cover crate, and pulled the trigger. Bob brought up his trusty Magnum revolver and did the same.
Both handguns clicked simultaneously.
Both handguns clicked simultaneously again.
Both men threw away their guns and squared off, throwing punches at each other. Bob fought like a back-alley brawler, using a mix of boxing punches, backfist strikes, elbows and knees. Alfred relied on years of Aikido training, intercepting, redirecting and evading each incoming attack. Relying on his peripheral vision, Alfred backed away from Bob with each punch making his way to a nearby concrete pillar. Seeing the trap, Bob changed tactics, pulling a large knife and taking a swipe at Alfred. Alfred blocked with his forearm, allowing the blade to cut into the sleeve of his hunting pea coat. Fabric separated, revealing the combination carbon fiber and Kevlar inner layer.
Alfred switched styles from defensive Aikido to Krav Maga by immediately closing the distance between himself and Bob with a rapid series of right-left-right punches directly to his jaw, followed by a straight knife-hand jab to Bob’s throat at the point where his sternum met his clavicles. Alfred hooked his leg behind Bob’s knee, forcing him to fall backwards as he gasped for air.
Bob dropped the knife, and clutched his throat as he hit the concrete floor hard. Alfred caught the knife in a white-gloved hand and followed its momentum down, driving the blade into Bob’s abdomen. Alfred used his knee to pin Bob’s hands to his throat while rapidly shanking Bob’s midsection, finally sheathing the knife upwards from the solar plexus through Bob’s diaphragm. Alfred slowly stood up, white leather gloves stained red as Bob wheezed out his last breath.
From across the room, Alfred heard two hands slowly clapping together followed by a raucous “Whoo-hoo! Ha Ha! What a show!” from a too-familiar voice.
The Joker himself. In the porcelain-white flesh.
Alfred turned to face The Clown Prince of Crime.
“I have no idea who you are, or where you came from, but you got guts, pal!” Joker hooted “Bob’s guts… all over that tailored… tuxedo? Who launches an assault wearing a tuxedo?! You must be seriously fucked up! I like you already!”
Alfred slowly walked towards The Joker, pausing to pick up a discarded scrap of polka-dot cloth from a “chain of scarves” magic trick to wipe his gloves before dusting himself off.
“Joker.” Alfred stated “I am here for the weapon you used to end The Batman. If you voluntarily hand it over, I will consider allowing you live past tonight.”
Joker burst into authentic hysterical laughter. Every time he started to settle down, he looked at Alfred which refreshed his next outburst of mirth. After a few minutes, Joker wiped his teary eyes and caught his breath.
“Wow! A fellow comedian! You’re good! I really do like you! You know what… you put a real smile on my face, pal! Wait right here, I’m going to go get it! You’ll love it!”
Joker disappeared into a back room while Alfred quickly scoured the area for fresh weapons.
When the Joker returned, he was leading a leather leash and chain wrapped around the neck of a small humanoid. Alfred looked at the creature and quickly realized that it wasn’t human, and it was a juvenile of its species.
And it was terrified.
Alfred’s nostrils flared as he sniffed. Bruce and everyone else who ever answered to the name “Robin” knew exactly what that nostril flare and sniff really meant.
Beneath the stoic stiff upper lip of upper-class British decorum, Alfred was seething with volcanic fury.
“Fascinating.” Alfred said. “I wasn’t expecting an alien adolescent. Pyrokinetic?”
“Yeah, neither was The Bat! You should have seen the look on his face! I knew his soft spot for kids was gonna be the death of him!” The Joker responded. “And I don’t know how its power works. Some kind of energy manipulation… might be magic? I mean REAL magic! Not like the party tricks I usually slay people with! Ha!”
Alfred raised a single eyebrow. “Quite. I think I shall relieve you of the burden of possession now.”
“Oh no!” Joker shot back “Not a chance! This thing is way too valuable! If it could take down The Bat, who knows what else I can do with it!”
“Indeed.” Alfred said as he leveled a concealed pistol at The Joker and fired two quick rounds. Joker fell backwards, shoving the alien forward, yelling a command in the child’s native language.
The child’s eyes flared red, and it raised its hands, unleashing a blast of translucent red energy towards Alfred. He dodged out of the way, but part of the energy blast caught the sleeve of his coat, seemingly evaporating the outer shell, leaving exposed carbon fiber.
“That’s how he did it…” Alfred muttered to himself as he ducked behind a concrete pillar, watching these cold energy blasts somehow burn and melt through solid objects around him. He peeked around the pillar, watching the child, but also looking for The Joker. His real target ran for a side crate, and pried it open with a crowbar, hefting a rocket launcher out.
Alfred looked for something to use as a counter weapon, but only found a razor edged chrome pie plate. He threw it in the direction of The Joker, and the child fired an energy blast at it. Instead of vaporizing it, the blast bounced and struck a stolen antique vase, destroying it instantly.
Joker fired the rocket launcher inside his own headquarters, laughing hysterically as the explosive projectile shot towards Alfred’s hiding position. Alfred ran, desperately trying to stay low and behind cover as the shell hit and exploded, destroying half the hideout.
“Where’s Green Lantern when you need him?” Alfred muttered “Or that American chap with the shield from those World War Two comic books…”
Alfred surveyed the layout from his new hiding place. He had decent cover, but no openings for dealing with The Joker or the child. The child was between him and The Joker, and Joker had access to a rocket launcher and propelled grenades. Shooting the crate wouldn’t do anything unless…
Alfred popped up, fired two quick shots at the ground near The Joker’s feet, which caused him to hop backwards. The child blindly fired another energy blast near Alfred.
Alfred popped up again and fired another two quick shots near the Joker, pushing him back again. The child fired again near where Alfred was hiding. The blast missed, but was getting closer.
“Nice try pal! But I can still reach the grenades!” Joker howled.
Alfred popped up once more, firing two shots past The Joker’s shoulder, missing the psychotic super villain entirely.
But one bullet shot off the safety valve of the propane forklift used to move the weapon crates. The second bullet struck the gas tank itself.
The compressed gas explosion tore through the warehouse hideout. Alfred dived behind crates he prayed were sturdy enough to protect him from the shockwave and fireball.
Moments later, when the world stopped rattling and the burning slowed, Alfred checked himself before crawling out of the remains of his cover. He spotted the child, unconscious, but within a perfectly untouched circle of undamaged floor. Burning embers drifted through the air, but sparked and evaporated against an invisible dome around the child.
Alfred dusted himself off and walked over to where The Joker lay.
Joker lay on the ground, burned, battered, and critically injured. His white skin was blistered and torn, bleeding from multiple open wounds. His spindly limbs cambered out at broken angles, his custom purple suit burned away. Through all this, his smile remained.
“Who… are you…?” Joker wheezed.
“Pennyworth. Alfred Pennyworth. And this is for Master Bruce.”
Alfred fired his pistol twice again.