"Limited to ones' Imagination" - DC Fanfic

I'm feeling generous.

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The Batcave was as silent as ever, save for the rhythmic tapping of fingers against a sleek, high-tech keyboard. Towering monitors bathed the cavern in a dim glow, flickering through countless news reports, police records, and surveillance footage from across the globe.

Bruce Wayne, clad in the dark silhouette of his Batsuit—cowl off, revealing his sharp, haunted gaze—leaned forward, analyzing recent disturbances both inside and outside of Gotham.

There was always something.

Bane.

San Francisco.

That alone was enough to raise alarms. Bane wasn't just a brute; he was a tactician. If he was in San Francisco, it wasn't just some random assault—there was purpose to it.

"Red Tornado," Batman's voice was sharp, commanding, as he pressed a communicator on his gauntlet, "contact Young Justice. I want them in San Francisco immediately. Their mission: find out what Bane is doing and report back. If necessary, intervene. Minimal casualties."

A moment later, the robotic yet calm voice of Red Tornado responded through the Batcave's speakers.

"Acknowledged, Batman. I will alert them immediately."

Good. That was handled.

But Batman's focus never wavered. His mind had already begun moving onto the next crisis before—

A voice, warm yet professional, called from behind him.

"Master Wayne."

Alfred Pennyworth, ever the perfect gentleman, entered the Batcave with measured steps, holding a small, elegantly sealed envelope in his gloved hands.

"Mail for the Caped Crusader has arrived."

Batman turned his head slightly. "From who?"

Alfred's expression remained neutral—polite as ever—but there was something in his eyes. A glimmer of something rare.

"I think you are going to want to see the sender, sir."

That alone gave Batman pause. Alfred never made a remark like that unless it was something serious.

Slowly, he reached out and took the envelope from Alfred's hands. His sharp gaze fell upon the sender's name at the top.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

Batman froze.

The name on the envelope read:

Thomas Wayne.

His father's name.

But that was impossible.

His mind raced through every possible explanation. A forgery? A cruel joke? Some kind of trick played by an enemy?

No.

Something felt off.

He studied the handwriting. It was close—very close—but something was different.

Thomas Wayne had always had a softness to his writing, much like his mother, Martha Wayne. His father's notes always carried a certain warmth to them, a deliberate care in every stroke of ink.

This?

This was not the same.

Whoever wrote this was precise, methodical.

Yet at the same time... genuine.

Batman carefully unfolded the envelope and pulled out the note.

Then, he began to read.

'To my son, Bruce,

I don't know if this letter will reach you. I don't know if time, fate, or whatever forces control the universe will allow you to read this. But if you are reading it, then somehow, my words have found their way home.

There's so much I wish I could say—so much time we've lost. But that's not why I'm writing this.

I'm writing this because you are Batman.

And I need to remind you of something important.

Bruce, the Batsuit is not a murder tool. It is not the armor of a ruler. It is not a crown.

It is a symbol.

A symbol to the villains that there is justice in this world, and that they will never escape it.

A symbol to the people who live in fear, that someone is watching over them in the dark—protecting them, even when no one else will.

It is not meant to consume you.

You are not alone in this fight.

I know that you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders. I know you carry burdens no one else could ever understand. But Bruce, you are still human.

And that is not a weakness.

I love you, son.

And tell Alfred I hope he's taken good care of you.'

Batman's grip on the note tightened slightly as he reached the final words.

His throat felt tight.

His mind was screaming, trying to rationalize it. Trying to deny it.

But his heart...

His heart told him the truth.

He stared at the paper for a long moment, re-reading each word, his mind dissecting every line, every stroke of the ink.

Then, Alfred's voice broke the silence.

"Shall I get it examined for fingerprints, sir?"

Bruce hesitated.

For just a fraction of a second, he considered it.

It was the logical thing to do. The rational thing to do.

But...

No.

Bruce slowly folded the note, placing it carefully inside the envelope once more.

"No, Alfred," he said, his voice quieter than usual. Calmer.

"It's fine."

He stood up, reaching for his cowl.

"I'm going out."

Alfred, ever observant, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He simply nodded.

As Batman walked away, his long cape flowing behind him, Alfred's eyes caught something else inside the envelope.

A second, smaller note.

Curious, the butler reached inside and pulled it out, unfolding it carefully.

His breath caught slightly as he read the words.

'To Alfred,

Take care of him for me.

Batman is not an emotionless being.

It is quite the opposite, especially for me.'

Alfred blinked.

Then, slowly, a small, knowing smile formed on his face.

"Of course, sir," he whispered to himself, his voice barely above a breath.

Even in death—or wherever he was—Thomas Wayne was still watching over Bruce.

And Alfred?

Alfred would continue to do the same.

With quiet care, he placed the note back in the envelope, setting it gently on the Batcomputer's console.

Then, with a final glance toward the cave entrance, where Batman had already disappeared into the night—

Alfred simply shook his head and muttered,

"Stubborn as always, Master Wayne."

And deep down, despite everything, he wouldn't have it any other way.