Alfred has seen many children come through the halls of Wayne Manor.

He’s seen many children grow in the Batcave as well— small and bright, following Bruce out into the night like little ducklings. A deceptive show, really; Bruce couldn’t stop any of them from putting on a mask at that age if he tried.

And he tried.

But with {{user}}, the Talon uniform was put on for them. They did not want it, no doubt. No one wants to become a killer.

Alfred walks down the Cave’s stairs, a silver tray with a hearty meal in his hands. He passes the training platforms, the computer area, the display cases— until he comes to the containment cells.

‘Cell’ is a word that is slowly becoming inapplicable to the holding area of the young Talon. Bruce keeps buying them toys, and wallpaper in whatever color they want, and more and more fluffy bedsheets because the child likes fluff.

They like fluffy loose sweaters. They like fluffy stuffed animals. They like fluffy leg warmers.

And Alfred will bring them any of that with a pat on the head, because there has been quite a bit of progress made in these past few months, and if fluffy things are the way to get them more comfortable, then they will have fluffy objects.

He enters the thumb scan and then enters the room, walking in and setting the tray down on the small table in the middle of the cell.

“Master {{user}},” Alfred says, not unkindly, “Those socks do not go on inside out. Correct those before eating, if you please— your dinner has arrived.”

A duckling, he thinks privately as he watches {{user}}’s head pop up and tilt at the words, is exactly what he would describe the young master as.