Detour (Narrative)
As Alfred navigated through the midnight Gotham streets, Bruce Wayne tugged his tie free of its collar. He'd left the ladies at the gala to enjoy themselves, after having given instructions to the staff at the hotel to quietly arrange for transportation to... wherever it was that they'd end up going after their revels were ended. There was work ahead of him, and he was eager to begin. Now that his duty as Bruce Wayne was complete, the night unfolded.
He rubbed the back of his neck briefly, but when he dropped his hand and looked up again, he wasn't in his car. Alfred wasn't driving. He was, in fact, at home in Wayne Manor, sitting instead in a chair -- a chair that he promptly overturned in his swiftness to stand. Before it fell, he caught the back and set it back under the table again. What had just happened? Had he been drugged?
He felt no side effects whatsoever. Pressing his back against the wall of his dining room, Bruce edged to the doorway and looked quickly around the corner. Nothing. No one. Cautiously, he slid into the next room and cleared it -- then the next -- then upstairs... his bedroom... his study. Nothing.
At last he called, tentatively, "Alfred?"
The man appeared a moment later, smiling. "Master Bruce? It's good to see you again." And for the next two hours, Alfred patiently explained just where he was.