Going back a little in time...
Midnight. The day before Mother's Day.
Jude stood at his apartment window doing what had become a nightly ritual: watching Batman perched on the clock tower across the city, a dark silhouette against darker sky, surveying his domain like some gothic gargoyle come to life.
The system screen lit up without warning.
[NEW MISSION AVAILABLE]
"How did this get triggered?" Jude muttered, raising his eyebrows. "Just looking at Batman activates missions now?"
He pulled up the task panel, still slightly bemused. The system's logic for triggering missions remained a mystery—sometimes it responded to holidays, sometimes to conversations, sometimes apparently to nothing more than being in the right place at the right time staring at the right vigilante.
The mission details loaded:
MISSION: Dreamless Nocturnal Creatures
Introduction: Work at sunrise and rest at sunset. This common sense does not seem very useful for nocturnal creatures, but it does not mean nocturnal creatures do not desire a good dream.
Note: Who are the creatures of the night? Just look up at the clock tower and you'll know.
Task: Deliver gift to target
Reward: Deep Sleep (Skill)
Status: Incomplete (0/1)
Jude read it twice, parsing the meaning.
Nocturnal creatures who don't sleep. Who are creatures of the night. Look at the clock tower.
Batman.
The mission wanted him to help Batman sleep. To give him peaceful dreams instead of the nightmares that probably plagued every moment of rest.
"Huh." Jude leaned against the window frame, thinking. "That's... actually kind of sad."
He pulled up the mission requirements, checking what "gift" the system expected him to deliver.
The answer appeared immediately: the Snowman Crystal Ball Music Box he'd received as a reward from the Christmas Eve mission months ago. The one that played lullabies and supposedly helped people sleep peacefully.
Jude had used it himself a few times—the nights after particularly bad days, when Gotham's violence felt too heavy to carry into dreams. It worked beautifully, though inconsistently. Sometimes it played for hours. Sometimes it stayed silent no matter how much he turned it over in his hands.
Magic items were temperamental that way.
"Okay," Jude said to his empty apartment. "Deliver a music box to Bruce Wayne. Simple enough."
Except it wasn't simple at all, because Bruce Wayne was a billionaire philanthropist who lived in a mansion with security systems that probably cost more than most people's houses, and Jude was a nobody who'd only met the man once at a charity event where he'd been disguised as Santa Claus.
If this mission had appeared a few months ago, it would have been nearly impossible.
But things were different now.
Jude pulled out his desk drawer, rifled through accumulated papers and receipts and system printouts, found what he was looking for: a cream-colored envelope with the Wayne family crest embossed on the flap.
The invitation had arrived shortly after Christmas. Alfred Pennyworth had sent it on behalf of Bruce Wayne, thanking Jude for his "kindness during the holiday season" and extending an open invitation to visit Wayne Manor whenever convenient.
Jude hadn't gone at the time. The soup kitchen had consumed every spare moment—cooking for hundreds of people daily, managing the children who helped serve, coordinating with Jason to keep everything running smoothly. Plus he'd been working for Falcone, which meant unpredictable hours and the constant low-level stress of being embedded in organized crime.
But now?
Now he had time. And a mission. And an actual legitimate excuse to show up at Wayne Manor without looking suspicious.
Jude watched Batman's silhouette disappear from the clock tower—cape spreading, figure dropping into darkness, vanishing like smoke.
He tucked the invitation into his pocket and went to bed.
Tomorrow, he'd pay a visit to Gotham's most famous resident.
The next day, during daylight hours when normal people conducted normal business, the doorbell of Wayne Manor rang.
Alfred Pennyworth set down the silver he'd been polishing, checked the security monitor, and saw an unfamiliar young man standing at the gate.
The visitor wore gold-rimmed glasses that caught the morning light. A suit—clearly inexpensive by Wayne Manor standards, though neat and well-pressed. His posture was uncertain but hopeful, like someone who wasn't quite sure they belonged at the front door of a mansion but was determined to try anyway.
Alfred studied the image for a moment longer, then activated the intercom.
"Good morning. How may I help you?"
The young man looked directly at the camera, offered a slightly nervous smile.
"Hello! You must be Mr. Alfred Pennyworth. I'm—well, you might not recognize me without the costume, but do you remember sending an invitation to 'Santa Claus'?"
Understanding dawned immediately.
"Oh!" Alfred's expression warmed. "It's you who's visiting."
He'd been impressed by the mysterious Santa Claus who'd organized the soup kitchen—the one who'd somehow healed Bruce with a bowl of porridge, the one who'd brought genuine joy to Gotham's most vulnerable during the darkest time of year.
Alfred had expected someone older. More established. Not this young man who couldn't be much past his mid-twenties.
He opened the gate.
The visitor walked up the long drive with the slightly overwhelmed gait of someone unused to estates that required actual walking between the gate and the front door. Alfred met him at the entrance, extending a hand.
"Welcome to Wayne Manor. I'm Alfred Pennyworth, as you've guessed."
"Jude." The young man shook hands firmly. "Jude Sharp. Thank you for the invitation—I'm sorry it took so long to visit. Work kept me busy."
"Think nothing of it. The invitation was open-ended for precisely that reason." Alfred gestured toward the interior. "Please, come in. May I ask what brings you by today?"
Jude reached into his jacket, pulled out a small object wrapped in simple cloth.
"I wanted to thank Mr. Wayne for his generosity during the holidays. He donated so much to help the soup kitchen, and I never got to thank him properly." He unwrapped the cloth carefully, revealing the snowman music box—crystal construction catching light, delicate craftsmanship evident in every detail.
"I brought him a gift. It's a music box." Jude held it gently, as if afraid it might break. "I bought it from an astrologer I met last year—a strange old woman who claimed it had... special properties."
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Special properties?"
"It's supposed to help with sleep." Jude's expression was earnest, slightly embarrassed. "I know it sounds superstitious, but after I got it, I almost never have nightmares anymore. It plays lullabies sometimes, though it can be temperamental. Some nights it won't make any sound at all."
He offered the music box to Alfred with both hands.
"I thought Mr. Wayne might appreciate it. I've read that he keeps very irregular hours—lots of charity work, board meetings, social obligations. This might help him rest better."
Alfred accepted the music box, turning it over in his hands. The craftsmanship was exquisite. Too exquisite for something purchased from a random astrologer. But the young man's sincerity was evident, and the gift clearly meant something to him.
"Sir, I believe Master Bruce will be delighted with your gift." Alfred smiled warmly. "If you don't mind, would you please come in and chat for a while? I'd like to make you a cup of tea. The wind is quite cold this morning."
Jude hesitated. "I don't want to impose—"
"Nonsense. It's no imposition at all."
Alfred led him inside, through halls lined with portraits of Wayne ancestors, into a sitting room that managed to be both grand and comfortable.
The next hour passed in pleasant conversation. Alfred served tea—a perfect Earl Grey with just the right temperature and steeping time—along with small pastries that Jude suspected were homemade and definitely delicious.
They talked about the soup kitchen, about Gotham's ongoing challenges, about the children Jude had been teaching. Alfred was an excellent conversationalist—drawing Jude out with gentle questions, never making him feel inadequate despite the massive wealth disparity represented by their surroundings.
Jude tried his best to maintain proper etiquette. He'd picked up bits and pieces of formal behavior from watching Falcone's organization, from system knowledge downloads, from simply observing how wealthy people moved through the world.
But he was still fundamentally a transmigrator who'd grown up middle-class in another life, and he suspected he made a dozen small mistakes Alfred was too polite to correct.
Still, the butler's tea was extraordinary. The snacks were even better. Jude made mental notes about flavor combinations and presentation techniques, his Advanced Cooking Mastery unconsciously analyzing every bite.
"Mr. Pennyworth," Jude said eventually, "your cooking skills are incredible."
Alfred's eyes crinkled with amusement. "You have quite the palate, Mr. Sharp."
"I cook professionally. Well—I used to, before things got complicated." Jude set down his teacup. "But I recognize excellence when I taste it."
They talked a while longer, but eventually Jude recognized he'd stayed long enough. He stood, thanked Alfred profusely for the hospitality, and made his way back through Wayne Manor's halls toward the exit.
He didn't see Bruce Wayne during the entire visit.
Part of him was relieved about that. Meeting Batman's civilian identity while fully aware of the connection felt like it would be awkward at best, catastrophically revealing at worst. Better to simply deliver the gift through Alfred and disappear.
Mission accomplished. No complications.
[MISSION COMPLETE]
Dreamless Nocturnal Creatures: 1/1
Reward Earned: Deep Sleep (Skill)
That evening, after patrol preparations were complete, Bruce Wayne examined the gift that had arrived during his absence.
"Alfred, where did this music box come from?"
"It was delivered by Santa Claus during the day, sir."
Bruce paused, parsing that statement. "You mean—"
"The young man who organized the Christmas soup kitchen, yes." Alfred poured tea with practiced precision. "His actual name is Jude Sharp. Quite sincere. Very polite. He brought that as a thank-you gift."
Bruce picked up the music box carefully, turning it over in his hands. The crystal construction was beautiful. The snowman design was charming in a way that suggested genuine thought rather than expensive taste.
He is a very mysterious person, Bruce thought. Santa Claus who cooks healing porridge. Organizer of the soup kitchen that somehow made Christmas in Gotham feel less bleak. And now gift-giver of music boxes purchased from astrologers.
That last detail triggered every paranoid instinct Bruce had cultivated over years of vigilantism.
Astrologers. Special properties. Sleep aids.
All potential covers for surveillance equipment, chemical agents, mind-control devices, or any number of threats that had been delivered to Wayne Manor disguised as innocent gifts over the years.
Bruce turned the music box carefully, examining it for seams or hidden compartments or anything suspicious.
It turned in his hands, perfectly balanced, completely silent.
No music. No sound at all.
"Master, I'm sorry," Alfred said gently. "The music box doesn't seem to make any sound. Mr. Sharp mentioned it could be temperamental—some nights it plays, some nights it doesn't."
"I see." Bruce set it down on the desk. "Thank you for the tea, Alfred."
He picked up the music box again, studied it one more time, then slipped it into the pocket of his civilian coat.
He'd take it to the Batcave later. Run a full analysis—spectroscopy, X-ray imaging, chemical sampling, the complete security protocol. Check for bugs, trackers, toxins, anything that might pose a threat.
This wasn't personal. Every gift sent to Wayne Manor went through the same process. Paranoia wasn't a character flaw when you were Batman—it was a survival skill.
The music box settled into his pocket, weightless and innocent.
Bruce had no idea it would save his life in a few hours.
Much later that night, after the Scarecrow's trap had sprung and fear gas had flooded Bruce's system, after he'd fled the Batcave in a panic—
"Master? Master, are you still listening?" Alfred's voice carried worry and confusion in equal measure. "Why did you suddenly return to the Batcave?"
Bruce was already stripping off the bat suit with trembling hands, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. The fear gas was eroding his control by the second, turning his thoughts foggy and strange.
"I have to change my clothes," he managed. "Can't be exposed. Can't let them know."
Alfred helped him out of the suit with practiced efficiency, though his expression was deeply concerned. The young master's pupils were dilated. His breathing was rapid. Classic symptoms of Scarecrow exposure.
Alfred wanted to restrain him. To keep him in the Batcave where it was safe, where the fear gas could be treated properly.
But Bruce wasn't completely gone yet. Wasn't thrashing or screaming or lost to hallucination. Just... frightened. Confused. Moving with purpose even if that purpose made no sense.
Alfred hesitated.
That hesitation was all Bruce needed.
"I'll be back soon, Alfred. I'll be back soon—"
Bruce grabbed his coat from the hook—the one with the music box still in the pocket—and ran.
Out of the Batcave. Up the stairs. Through Wayne Manor's halls and out into Gotham's streets.
Alfred called after him, but he was already gone.
By the time Gordon's police found Bruce wandering Crime Alley half an hour later, the fear gas had fully taken hold. The music box in his pocket remained silent through it all, waiting.
And then the lullaby had played.
The clouds had parted.
Bruce had found peace.
Now, in the aftermath, Alfred stood in Bruce's bedroom holding the music box.
He turned it over in his hands, examining it closely.
Could Master Bruce's sweet dream be related to it?
The timing was suspicious. The effect was undeniable. But the music box itself remained frustratingly inert.
Alfred shook his head. Magic or technology or simple coincidence—it didn't matter. What mattered was that Bruce was sleeping peacefully for the first time in weeks.
He tucked the music box carefully back into the coat pocket and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Outside Wayne Manor, police cars waited with their lights off. Alfred descended the front steps to find Commissioner Gordon standing at the gate, face drawn with exhaustion and concern.
"Thank you for your sensible command tonight, Commissioner Gordon." Alfred bowed slightly. "However, Master Bruce has been greatly traumatized. I'm afraid he won't be able to discuss matters with you in the near future."
Gordon sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. "I know, Alfred. I do. But you have to understand—if we don't talk to Wayne, if we can't clear up these questions about his relationship with Falcone—"
He gestured helplessly.
"That's why I'm here tonight. Harvey Dent has files. Evidence. Connections between Wayne Enterprises and Falcone shell companies. It looks bad."
"They have nothing to do with each other," Alfred said firmly.
"Then we should at least sit down together and have a frank conversation. Clear up this misunderstanding before it becomes something worse."
Alfred was silent for a long moment, weighing options.
Bruce couldn't afford another investigation. Couldn't handle the scrutiny that would come from Harvey Dent—brilliant, relentless, increasingly ruthless Harvey—digging into Wayne Enterprises finances.
But refusing to cooperate would only make things worse.
"I will convey your words to Master Bruce," Alfred said finally. "I believe we will have a chance to talk after he recovers."
Gordon nodded, accepting the compromise. "Thank you, Alfred. And... I'm glad he's safe."
"As am I, Commissioner. As am I."
The police cars departed, leaving Wayne Manor in darkness.
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