Alfred's expression shifts at your request, professional composure settling back into place like armor. "The Batcave. Yes, of course. Though I should prepare something for you to eat first—your metabolism in that body will require more frequent meals."
"I can eat while I work," you say, pushing yourself off the oversized chair. Your feet dangle for a moment before touching the floor. "I need to access the files immediately. Cross-reference any reports of mystical kidnappings, objects with transformative properties, Victorian-era occult practices. And send a secure message to Oracle—Barbara will believe the security protocols even if she doubts the content."
Alfred nods slowly. "Very well. Follow me."
The walk to the grandfather clock is longer than it's ever been. Your legs pump to keep pace with Alfred's measured stride, and you hate every childish step. He triggers the mechanism, and the passage opens with its familiar grinding of stone.
The stairs down prove their own humiliation. Each step requires careful placement, your shortened legs turning the descent into a deliberate exercise. Alfred hovers behind you, one hand near your shoulder, and you want to snap at him but know he's right to be cautious. One fall could mean a broken bone, unconsciousness, worse.
The Batcave opens before you, its vast darkness pierced by the glow of computer monitors. The sight of your suit in its display case sends a spike of loss through your chest so sharp it's almost physical.
"I'll bring down some food," Alfred says, moving toward the kitchen access. "What would you like?"
"Bear paws," you say without thinking. The words surprise you even as they leave your mouth—a food you haven't thought about in decades, suddenly vivid in your mind. The chocolate-covered cookies with the distinctive paw print shape.
Alfred pauses, turning back. "I'm afraid we don't have any of those, Miss Rebecca."
The name hits like cold water. Miss Rebecca. The false identity the Nanny's magic created. You feel your face crumple before you can stop it, a childish disappointment welling up that has nothing to do with cookies and everything to do with the wrongness of your own skin.
"I see," you manage, forcing the expression away. But your voice wavers. "Something else, then. Whatever's quick."
Alfred's eyes are too knowing, too sad. "I'll return shortly," he says quietly, and disappears up the stairs.
You turn to the computer array, and face your next problem: the chair is too tall, and you're too short to reach the keyboard properly.