Alfred Pennyworth was a man of good.

Every minute of his life he had attempted to be a man of honor, a man of justice, a man of good.

He started out young and naïve, playing on the theatre, so many decades ago he barely remembered the stage. But, sometimes, if he closed his eyes just right and caught a whiff of petrichor, he felt the thick velvet of the curtain, the nervous actors whispering right before getting out and playing their part. He could feel his heart pounding in anticipation, the feeling of the tights covering his thighs, the dread of going blank midsentence and starting to improvise. For a golden instant, he could feel it all. And just as soon, it would all be slipping through the cracks of his mind, back to that specific corner in his memories.

He always differentiated every part of his life, so many years gave him time to process it. To treasure the best parts and bury the ugly ones.

Sometimes, he would be working in the kitchen, thinking about nothing in particular and feel a change in the air, a creak on the ceiling, and instinctively reach to where he would have carried his gun, a lifetime ago. It was funny, indeed, how the tiniest of stimulus could trigger the memories, the pain, a completely different Alfred Pennyworth.

Some nights, usually when galas took place in the manor, he would look up the staircase and be sure Martha and Thomas Wayne would be descending, hand in hand. On more than one occasion, Alfred would stare at Master Wayne and feel almost horrified by the lack of that characteristic moustache, moments before realizing it was his boy at whom he was looking. Those memories stung.

But some memories would tear the old man to shreds. They would carve and burn and claw their way through him. They would make his knees buckle and his skin prickle. They would make the tears feel like acid on his cheeks, blind him with pain for a few seconds. Sometimes he would serve coffee to the man he had raised and discover himself already preparing hot cocoa for a scrawny, very tiny boy. He would dust the abandoned bedroom (intact, like a macabre museum of the past) and see him stomping his way into the room, telling Alfred all about his classes because Alfred, we're reading Hamlet and I think I like it, but everyone's just crazy, amiright?. And then he would stop and bend over and try to get past the urge to vomit on a dead child's duvet.

His dead grandson's duvet.

And he would run to bathroom that hadn't been used in years and throw up and let the pain run him over once again.

He would walk into a room where Master Bruce and Miss Barbara would be talking and feel the reflexive there's no need to stand up, Miss Gordon almost leave his mouth. He would swallow and not meet Master Bruce's eyes, because he would feel it. He would see it. And god knows the poor man had suffered enough.

He watches, every night, as a man who's his son (by definition, by fate, by right) stands in front of a glass case (a reminder, a torture, a trap) and then walks away to dress up as a flying rodent to save a city that doesn't deserve the sacrifice. He sees a father and a son, too hurt to talk, too afraid of losing each other once again (but that's what they do, the chasm between them turns a little rockier, a little bigger, each night.)

He sees an exceptional young woman that has been pushed to change her life, to work harder to keep up with the others. Someone, who has a gifted mind that makes her the biggest threat in the family. A fighter, a warrior, a woman who can no longer stand, but stands up for herself.

So, when Alfred Pennyworth prepares to leave the manor on an unremarkable Tuesday eve, there isn't really much to think about.

He checks his holsters, palming the guns, and tucks away the silencer in his coat pocket. The walk is uneventful, peaceful, he feels comforted by his decision of avoiding vehicles. There's something cathartic in having to do everything himself.

He almost feels foolish for having wasted all this time pondering the possibility, trying to hire people to do what he knows he would do better. Not that he's going to take pleasure in it.

But he's sure he's going to enjoy the light coming back to his grandson's eyes, the lightness in Miss Barbara's. He'll enjoy letting them know they don't have to worry about their next patrol, anymore. They won't have to wake up sweaty and in tears, wondering for some agonizing minutes if everything had been real. If it had happened again.

He would do that for them. He would provide that comfort. It was the least he could do.

The warehouse is filthy and dark. Neon lights in shapes of smiles and guns are the only thing illuminating the space in red and green tones. The clown is cackling. Alfred's waiting.

The henchmen are retreating to the nearby warehouse, where they, no doubt, have their accommodations. The only one left around is the unfortunate Miss Quinn, who leans over the madman.

Alfred's patient, that's something the British intelligence appreciated about him on his missions. He makes himself comfortable in his hideout. He prepares his gun and screws in the silencer. He checks the magazine and the chamber. He checks twice for the safety mechanism.

The sun is rising when the clown shoves the woman to the floor and kicks her without holding back. Alfred's blood freezes in his veins and watches as that excuse of a man kicks her again and shouts at her to get out of his face.

The list of people benefitting from this impending assassination grows by the minute.

The clown sits back on his desk, taking notes frantically and pulling at his hair every few seconds. He's murmuring and crossing out scribbles, a collection of knives carefully ordered on the table. The only thing ordered in the table.

Some of the knives are still bloodied.

Alfred Pennyworth is a man of good, but he's been also a man of war, a man of life. He's no stranger to taking lives, to placing the safety of thousands before the survival of one killer. He has been awarded with the highest honors for serving his country.

But when he shoots the gun, twice at the head, twice at the heart, he realizes there's no biggest reward than protecting his own family. Than protecting his adoptive city.

He lets the body bleed out. The blood will be good proof of what has happened in this unimportant Tuesday night, where an unimportant deranged killer has been put down. History will not remember this. Will not remember an authorless kill.

He takes the Polaroid from his pocked in his gloved hands (nothing personal, a mere camera that nobody would miss from a lost property section in a Central City library). He takes the picture and leaves it near the knives, and then takes one of them and starts to cut off the right hand.

It's when he has completely cut it off and laid it on the table when he sees it. The scribbles, the photographs, the scheme that would have involved each and every one of his family members. Plans of torture and murder.

Alfred doesn't let it get to him. Maybe in a few days, he'll let himself feel the fear, he'll let his mind wonder what would have been of his son, of the children, had he not decided to continue with his plan.

He's careful not to step too much on the blood with the boots he got in a shelter for old homeless people in Star City. He cuts two strands of hair and puts them in two separate plastic bags. Then, he drags the body by the armpits and takes him to the back door.

It takes him more time than he would like to admit, but he's not a lad anymore.

The months he's been planning the deed have let him study his target. He was fairly acquainted with him, that's true, but meticulousness was always required. Alfred shoves the body in the truck of one of those hideous purple 4x4's and starts it by cutting some cables. He drives very slowly and avoids any other vehicle. His own warehouse is not very far.

He introduces the body extremely carefully into the hydrofluoric acid inside the plastic container. Alfred picks up a duffle bag from a corner and starts changing into one of his regular suits. The madman is still disintegrating when he gets closer again and throws the clothes inside.

When he leaves the warehouse, far enough from the crime scene that they won't discover it in a few hours, he's still wearing the shelter's boots.

He walks at a normal pace, covering his face with his favorite trench-coat until he nears a populated zone. Then, he takes off the boots and throws them in a dumpster (the garbage truck won't take long to do the route in this neighborhood). He takes off the plastic bags covering his feet, too, and puts them in his pocked after putting on his dress shoes.

It's 4 AM when he finally gets off the bus in Old Gotham and then takes a taxi to the fields surrounding Wayne Manor. He tips the driver generously and proceeds to take the Batcave entrance.

Master Bruce finds him at 5:33 AM, dusting off the T-Rex suspended by the ceiling.

"Oh, Master Bruce, I see you're finally awake," the butler hums.

"How are you functioning at this unholy hour?" Master Bruce groans, the moment reminding Alfred of every time he begs for just five more minutes, Alfred. No, no! Don't pull the curtain-

"I can assure you, Master Bruce," the old man huffs, descending from the ceiling and unclasping the harnesses, "that this is a perfectly holy hour to be awake for us, normal human beings." He places a hand briefly on his son's cheek, smirking. "Breakfast will be served at six o'clock."

He hears the defeated sigh behind him and lets himself enjoy the moment. He feels a tangible weigh being lifted from his shoulders. He has some writing to do.

ᴥ

Dear Master Jason and Miss Barbara,

By the time you read this, you will, most likely, have already heard the news. I assume you may have also noticed the strand of green hair attached to this letter.

I will not apologize for what I have done. I could not simply ignore all the pain and trauma that man has caused to this family, to my family. I do not seek your forgiveness or approval.

I wanted you to know who did it and why, to know you can stop looking over your shoulders, wondering what he might do next. I wanted you to know this old man did it not only for the both of you, but for the people who were going to be next on his list. The mothers and fathers, and children that were going to suffer and those who were going to die.

I am no stranger to murder, I was, after all, in the army. So this was not a sacrifice for me. Do not think for a moment that this will bring me despair.

I only hope I can see a smile again on you faces when you see me. I only hope you do not look differently at this old man when he hugs you.

Having said that, I am not asking from you anything you are not willing to give. I will understand if you do not immediately burn this letter and the biological proof. I will understand if any of you tells Master Bruce.

After all, what I did was illegal, but someone had to finally do it. Someone with the skills, someone too old to care for what happens to him.

I have lived a long and happy life. Whatever you decide to do after this letter, I only wish two have a long and happy life, too.

Yours truly,

Alfred T. Pennyworth