You grip the armrests of the chair and haul yourself up, legs scrabbling against the leather. It takes three attempts, undignified and exhausting, before you manage to wedge yourself into the seat. Your feet dangle uselessly above the footrest.
The keyboard stretches before you like a landscape. You pull yourself to the edge of the seat and begin typing, hunting for the files on mystical artifacts and recent occult activity in Gotham.
Your fingers feel clumsy on the keys. Wrong. The letters don't appear where you expect them.
SERCH: NANY TRANSFORMASHUN MAJIK
You stare at the screen. That's not—you backspace, try again.
KIDNAPINGS VIKTORIAN OKKULT GOTHAM
Frustration spikes through you. You know how to spell these words. You've written thousands of case files, consulted with experts in a dozen languages. But your fingers won't cooperate, and worse, looking at the screen, part of you can't quite see what's wrong with the spelling.
FILES ON ZATANNA KONSTANTINE MAJIK USERS
The computer begins pulling up data anyway—Wayne Enterprises' systems are sophisticated enough to parse even badly misspelled queries. Files scroll across the screen. You lean forward, scanning.
The chair spins slightly. You push with your foot—it spins more. Once around. The cave blurs past. You push again, harder, and suddenly you're rotating, faster, the momentum carrying you in circles. The sensation is oddly pleasant, makes something in your chest feel lighter. You spin again. And again.
"Master Bruce?"
Alfred's voice cuts through the rotation. You drag your feet, stopping the chair. He's standing by the stairs with a tray—a bowl of oatmeal, sliced fruit, orange juice in a plastic cup.
"I've initiated searches on mystical transformations and recent occult activity," you report, trying to sound professional. The chair rotates slightly. You still it.
Alfred sets the tray on the desk beside you, glancing at the screen. His expression flickers—something between concern and sadness.
"I see," he says quietly. He lifts the bowl and spoon. "You should eat."
"I can feed myself," you start, but when you reach for the bowl, Alfred doesn't hand it over.
"The bowl is quite hot," he says. "Allow me."
He dips the spoon, brings it to your lips. The indignity of it burns worse than any physical wound, but you're hungry—genuinely hungry in a way you haven't been in years. You open your mouth.
The oatmeal is warm, sweet with brown sugar. Alfred feeds you another spoonful, then another, while you scan the data streaming across the monitors.
"Can you pull up the thermal satellite footage from Crime Alley between eleven PM and two AM?" you ask around a mouthful of oatmeal. "I need to track the Nanny's exit vector."
"Certainly," Alfred says, setting down the bowl and moving to the secondary terminal.
"Thanks, Daddy," you say absently, eyes fixed on a report about a music box stolen from a private collection in 1952.
The cave goes very quiet.
You look up. Alfred has frozen, hands above the keyboard, staring at you with an expression you've never seen on his face before.