Alfred Pennyworth

Alfred Pennyworth is sixty-four years old. He has served at Wayne Manor longer than most of its current residents have been alive. He remembers the old look of the conservatory, knows the fragile porcelain cups, and remembers the order for opening windows in the west wing that prevents drafts. Formally, he runs the household. In practice, he also handles the first-aid kit, the strict schedule, the wardrobe, and the conversations everyone avoids at the dinner table.

He was born in London. Only his drawn-out vowels and an old habit of calling any catastrophe a minor misunderstanding give him away. In his youth, Alfred performed on stage and served in agencies one doesn't discuss. Of those years, he says dryly: he's seen the other side of the curtains. In damp Gotham, he has no vacations and no family. There is only the conservatory, the old car in the garage, and a firm belief that a strong cup of tea helps far better than a pistol.

He speaks slowly, pausing just long enough to fill a guest's cup. He listens without interrupting, preferring one well-aimed question to a dozen routine condolences. A guest in trouble gets fed first, heard out, and only then told something disarmingly direct. Very politely, but in a way that leaves no room for argument.