The Alfred Alliance-Halloween 2025 Part 1
A quiet Halloween night at Wayne Manor turns into a full-scale identity crisis when you casually mention you might dress up as Robin.
What follows: arguments, instigating, and an alarming amount of competitive energy.
Word Count: 4,058
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The residents of Wayne Manor didn’t just celebrate Halloween — they commanded it.
From the moment anyone stepped into the front hall, it was clear everyone had thrown subtlety straight out the window and replaced it with theatrical perfection. Enchanted orange lanterns floated along the ceiling beams, casting soft, warm light that danced over the polished marble floors. Every window glowed with flickering candles shaped in different shapes and sizes. Deep purple and green banners hung down the grand staircase, embroidered with silhouettes of the Gotham skyline, and a full orchestra of skeletal animatronics played faint waltz music from the corner.
Outside, the lawn had been transformed into a haunted wonderland. Life-sized gravestones lined the walkway, each with cheeky inscriptions (“Here Lies [Name's] Last Nerve”), and machine made fog rolled across the steps in perfect waves. An army of cloaked figures sat on the roof looking down at anything that entered through the gates, while spotlights traced their shadow across the front drive.
Even the gargoyles wore costumes. One had a tiny witch hat; another had a monocle and fake mustache. Alfred had approved them with the solemn dignity of a man resigned to family tradition.
The family had gathered in the living room. Alfred had made cookies and hot apple cider in pumpkin shaped mugs, Bruce kindly volunteered to pass it around so Alfred could relax with everyone else. Dick and Damian were dressing a very grumpy Alfred the Cat in a dragon costume. Steph was nose deep in a book, occasionally bursting in a fit of giggles at the words on the pages. Duke and Jason were locked in a tense game of Jenga. Tim was on his laptop, already thoroughly planning on the next years Halloween décor.
You and Cass were roasting marshmallows over the fireplace, when you said it.
“I was thinking of dressing up as Robin this year.”
The room went silent — even Alfred the Cat froze mid-tail flick. Then, like a switch had flipped, chaos erupted.
Dick looked up from his spot on the rug, grinning instantly. “Oh, that’s adorable! You’d make the perfect original Robin — bright colors, circus charm, the whole deal. I still have my old cape!”
Jason scoffed. “No offense, but no one in their right mind would wear bright green undies. If she’s going as Robin, she should be my kind — tougher, cooler, you know.”
Tim didn’t look up from his laptop. “Technically, my suit was the most optimized. It offered the highest balance of flexibility and armor density. If you want accuracy, she should use my version.”
Damian’s head snapped up. “Tt. Incorrect. She would clearly model after me. I am the superior Robin — a jack-of-all trades.”
That earned him a flick of Jason’s Jenga piece. “Your ego is already huge Demon Spawn. You don't need to further inflate it.”
Steph lowered her book, smirking. “Oh this is gonna be good.”
Cass blew the fire off of her marshmallow, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “So,” she said, “if she were going as Robin, which era would be the best version?”
It was all the invitation they needed.
“Uh, mine! Obviously,” Dick said immediately. “No question. I was the first. The blueprint. Right Bruce?”
"This is good hot cider," Bruce mumbled before taking a long sip from his mug. Obviously trying to not get involved.
Jason let out a low laugh. “Yeah, a blueprint for target practice. Sorry, but the only Robin who made Gotham scared was me.”
Tim rolled his eyes, typing something rapid-fire on his laptop. “You mean the only Robin who made Batman lose sleep. Statistically speaking, my version had the highest mission success rate. Right Alfred?”
Alfred was chewing a cookie while checking the weather on his phone. Clearly uninterested in the argument.
Damian’s scoff practically echoed. “Numbers mean nothing without legacy. I restored the mantle’s honor after you all failed it.”
That did it.
Jason stood, knocking over the Jenga tower. “You wanna repeat that, gremlin?”
“I do not repeat myself for those with poor hearing,” Damian said coolly, arms crossed.
Cass bit into her marshmallow, eyes sparkling. Steph slid off her chair and whispered to Duke, “I give it three minutes before someone threatens murder.”
Duke smirked. “Two. Jason’s eye is already twitching.”
The argument started small and childish. But after one too many insults and finger pointing, the living room devolved into full-on Robin chaos.
Dick was passionately explaining the “symbolism of the bright colors” while trying to demonstrate a triple somersault in limited space. Jason was countering by demonstrating his best question mark kick. Tim had brought up charts surrounding the ‘Robin: A Data-Driven Legacy’. Damian, in a move of pure pettiness, had begun correcting their arguments on a whiteboard he’d stolen from the kitchen.
You and Cass watched from the couch, skewers still in hand.
“This feels illegal to interrupt,” you whispered.
Duke grinned. “Then don't. I surely won't.”
Steph, however, was on a mission. “Hey, [Name]!” she called. “If you had to pick a Robin, who would you be?”
Every head turned toward you at once. Four pairs of eyes, four different versions of pride waiting for validation.
You froze. "Um… I don't know. They're all great in their own ways, it's so hard to pick."
Damian sat next to you and hugged your arm, making a big show of nuzzling his face into your shoulder. "You don't have to say it. We all know you love my uniform the most."
Tim glared at the display. "Hey hey hey! No cute little brother act outta you!"
Dick stood up, allowing Alfred the Cat to retreat from the situation. "Yeah! You can't cuddle and puppy-dog-eye your way into victory. We all know she thinks mine is the best."
Jason chucked a Jenga piece at Damian's forehead, but the boy easily deflect it with this hand. "All of you are delusional. But don't worry, you'll see soon enough. I'm a patient man."
You expected the argument to be forgotten by tomorrow. But unfortunately by the next afternoon, the “Robin situation” had only gotten worse.
What started as an innocent remark, sparked a debate, and it had evolved into a full-blown campaign.
Dick had printed out sketches of his old uniform and strategically left them throughout the house. Tim had sent you a list of materials and seamstress contacts, and even sent you times to reserve a private fitting. Jason personally took your measurements while you were trying to eat your lunch. And Damian had taken it upon himself to invite you to his morning sparring session, going into extensive detail on how the fabric of the suit would blah blah blah blah blah…
You wanted to end this whole thing once and for all. Silencing your phone did nothing but invite your brothers to find you personally, except for Damian, he had Titus sniff you out and bring you notes. So you resorted to hiding in your room. But you soon had papers sliding under your bedroom door and accumulate in a messy pile in front of it. It was only a matter of time before they sent messenger pigeons to your window, you were sure of it,
Steph, Cass, and Duke, of course, had decided to help…themselves. All sense of peace and maturity had been abandoned long ago. Each attempt and escalation was side-gripping and tear-jerkingly funny to them. Enjoying your brothers shenanigans and your throbbing headache and irritation. True sibling behavior.
“Okay,” Duke said, sprawled across the couch as you sat cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by a haul of seasonal treats. “Here’s the deal. You tell each of them they’re winning. Keeps the peace.”
“That’s—” you started.
“Deceptive, brilliant, and morally flexible,” Steph finished, grinning. “I support it.”
Cass nodded "Tell Tim you like his cape, he might stop hovering."
You groaned. “And the others?”
Steph grinned. “Tell Damian his version has the best boots. He’ll talk about himself for twenty minutes, easy. It'll give you time to escape while he's monologuing.”
Duke bounced in his seat. "Oh! Tell Jason you liked that his version had pants. Bonus points if Dick is in the room."
Cass burst out laughing. "That'll have those two will arguing for hours!"
You foolishly took their "advice". It all worked too well.
By evening, the Manor had turned into a costume war zone.
Dick dragged you to the home the gym to demonstrate the “classic Robin agility,” flipping over mats with theatrical precision. "My suit allowed me to move around the best! When you can do a Produnova vault do you really need to listen to anyone else?"
Jason was spray-painting gloves on the back patio. “You want the matte finish, trust me."
Tim had somehow convinced Lucius Fox to weigh in on his design’s structural integrity, but Damian kept showing up behind him with unsolicited tailoring advice. “Your stitching alignment is off by three millimeters,” he said, arms folded, examining a perfectly folded green cloth.
This continued on for another week. The "Agents of Chaos" further instigating things even when you weren't around. Bruce and Alfred being silent spectators the best they could. Knowing that anything they said would further the chaos. But after a while they just stopped caring. And right now was no different…
“Alright, folks,” Duke said, climbing onto the arm of the couch. He held one of the prop microphones from the decorations box — a plastic one that still had a tag reading ‘Karaoke Queen’ — and held it like he was covering a championship game.
“Welcome to the first annual Battle of the Robins!” he announced, his voice booming over the chatter. “I’m your host, Duke Thomas, joined by our field correspondents Cassandra Cain and Stephanie Brown. Tonight, tensions are high, stakes are nonexistent, and egos are absolutely out of control.”
Steph cupped her hands around her mouth and cheered, “Let’s get ready to fumble!”
Cass stood beside her, mock-serious, holding up her phone like a camera. “We’re live.”
Duke held up his microphone. “On the ceiling, we have Dick Grayson — acrobat, optimist, and self-proclaimed legacy!”
Dick saluted from the chandelier.
“In the right corner, Jason Todd — rebel, gunslinger, and man who somehow thinks candy corn is an acceptable breakfast!”
Jason pointed at Duke with mock offense. “It’s a seasonal breakfast.”
“In the right corner— Tim Drake, who just installed a spreadsheet to track how often she compliments each of them.”
Steph almost fell over laughing. “Oh my god, you’re measuring it?!”
“Science demands consistency,” Tim stated proudly.
Damian appeared out of nowhere. “And what about me?”
Duke smirked. “Wildcard. Could bite someone. Probably wins.”
He blinked. “…Acceptable.”
Duke nodded. “With all four Robins having entered the ring, and not a single one has shut up since. Let’s check in with the experts.”
Steph cleared her throat dramatically as Cass turned her camera her direction. “Good evening. This is Stephanie Brown, reporting live from Wayne Manor, where chaos has broken out between the four Robins over who has the superior costume. Joining us tonight are two Gotham legends — Bruce Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth.”
Steph turned first to Alfred, who was calmly stirring a cup of tea on the sofa. “Mr. Pennyworth, you’ve seen every Robin come and go. Tell us — who’s the frontrunner?”
Alfred didn’t miss a beat. “Miss Brown, while each young master brings… unique qualities to the mantle, I must admit I’ve always been partial to the one who didn’t attempt to sew explosives into their boots.”
Tim shouted from across the room, “Hey, that was experimental!”
“Indeed,” Alfred replied dryly. “As was the subsequent trip to the emergency room.”
“Very interesting Mr. Pennyworth,” Steph said, in her low reporter voice, “Now, who's suit has been a personal favorite?”
Alfred looked over his teacup without a hint of hesitation. “If we’re speaking on style, the original suit was timeless. The short pants, perhaps less so.”
Dick gasped in mock offense. “You said they were iconic!”
“They were,” Alfred said politely. “In the same way that bell-bottoms were.”
Cass snorted hard behind her camera.
Steph nodded solemnly. “So your vote…?”
Alfred took a sip of tea. “Whichever one doesn’t burn down the kitchen tonight.”
"Thank you so much Mr. Pennyworth." Steph turned to Bruce. “Now Mr. Wayne?”
Every head turned. Bruce looked up from his seat in the corner, where he’d been reading over WE spreadsheets on a tablet with his usual “I’m pretending this is normal” expression.
Cass held the mic toward him. “As the man behind the cowl, The Batman, who is your favorite Robin?”
Bruce blinked, deadpan. “That’s classified.”
Duke booed. “C’mon, you know you have one!”
Bruce sighed, a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth giving him away. “They’re all good.”
Tim pointed at him. “That’s such a Dad answer!”
Steph pressed again, straight-faced. “If forced to choose, who would it be? The people have a right to know!”
Bruce put his tablet in sleep mode and set it face down on his lap. "[Name]."
Dick threw his hands up. "What!? She's not a Robin!"
Bruce closed his eyes, a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth. "In another universe she is. And just knowing that is good enough for me."
Duke leaned in. “Come on, you gotta give us something. You designed each Robin costume. So I know you have firm opinions on the matter. If Gotham’s fate depended on one Robin handing out Halloween candy without scaring the children — who are you picking?”
Bruce paused, deadpan. “Not Jason.”
“Wow,” Jason said flatly. “No hesitation?”
Bruce shrugged. “You tried to trade Reese’s for police intel last year.”
“Alfred said the officer liked peanut butter!”
“He was allergic,” Alfred said without missing a beat.
Cass panned her “camera” to Alfred and whispered to Steph, “Breaking news: local butler exposes criminal candy operation.”
Steph whispered back, “Sources confirm Jason’s been banned from trick-or-treat diplomacy.”
Duke nodded gravely. “Powerful words. Now, Mr. Pennyworth, as the cornerstone of the household, how does it feel watching your children argue over fictional titles of supremacy?”
Alfred’s lips twitched. “It feels remarkably similar to a normal Tuesday.”
That sent everyone into another round of laughter.
Duke spun toward the “camera. “You heard it here first, folks! The butler has spoken, the father has abstained, and the Robins are still in denial.”
Cass panned her pretend camera dramatically toward the couch where you’d been sitting. “Now,” Duke continued, lowering his voice into his best reporter tone, “let’s hear from the woman at the center of it all — the mystery of the hour — the alleged Robin herself!”
He turned to where you’d been sitting, but the spot was empty.
Your mug of hot chocolate sat abandoned on the table, steam curling up in the faint glow of the fireplace. The blanket you’d had draped over your lap was folded neatly on the cushion.
Steph gasped. “Wait—where’d she go?”
Tim raised a brow. “She was literally here thirty seconds ago.”
Jason stood, scanning the room like he was on a mission. “Don’t tell me she Batman’d us.”
Dick looked toward the hallway, half amused, half worried. “She did just vanish mid-argument.”
Damian frowned, crossing his arms. “She couldn’t choose between us, so she ran away.”
Steph grabbed the mic from Duke. “We’re live outside Wayne Manors' living room where tragedy has struck! The elusive [Name] has disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a warm cup of hot chocolate and shattered dreams and egos.”
Cass leaned into the mic. “Tragic.”
Steph added, “Historic.”
Duke grinned. “Hilarious.”
Duke grabbed the mic once more and ended the “broadcast” with a flourish. “Stay tuned for the grand finale, when we find out if [Name] actually chooses a side… or if this all ends in emotional devastation and decorative property damage.”
“Property damage is likely,” Alfred muttered.
Jason raised his mug. “That’s the spirit, Alfie.”
Damian groaned. “You two are loving this way too much.”
“Journalistic integrity,” Duke said solemnly. “We report the chaos, not cause it.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
“…Okay, maybe we cause a little of it,” Duke admitted.
Tim pulled out his phone. “If she’s in the manor, I can track her movement on the security feed.”
Dick held out a hand. “No. Let her have her moment. Maybe she’s setting up her costume. Halloween is tomorrow.”
Jason smirked. “Or she’s hiding from you because she realized she doesn’t want to be associated with that outfit.”
“Tt.” Damian glared. “Jealousy is unbecoming.”
And somewhere upstairs, as laughter and mock arguments filled the Manor again, you hid a grin while putting the finishing touches on your costume.
When the sun began to set on Halloween night, trick-or-treaters were already gathering along the gates of Wayne Manor, their costumes glowing in the soft orange light that spilled across the lawn. Alfred had outdone himself — again. The entire walkway was lined with pumpkin lanterns carved into perfect bats, the air rich with cinnamon, sugar, and the faintest trace of fog from hidden machines.
You waited at the top of the grand staircase, straightening your top one last time. Cass gave you a thumbs-up from the foyer. Duke wiped a speck of dirt from his shoes. Steph was barely holding back laughter. Bruce stood beside you, adjusting his own matching costume with a grim expression that somehow made the whole thing funnier.
“Ready?” he asked.
You grinned. “Absolutely.”
The entrance echoed from yet another argument you entered the room. Dick, Tim, Jason, and Damian all looked up. Their eyes widened and jaws dropped at the scene.
There stood six Alfreds — identical suits, polished shoes, crisp vests, white gloves, shiny bald caps with horseshoe haircuts, press on mustaches, each holding a silver tray of full sized candy.
You. Bruce. Steph. Cass. Duke. And, of course, the real Alfred.
Then Jason broke first. “Oh. My. God.”
Dick clutched his stomach, laughing. “You didn’t— you actually went as Alfred?!”
Tim’s eyes darted between all of you like his brain was buffering. “I didn’t see this coming.”
Damian blinked, utterly betrayed. “You lied to me!”
You straightened your posture and stood with perfect poise. “We prefer the term, well-orchestrated misdirection.”
Duke, now fully in character, cleared his throat and announced in his best Alfred impression, “Might I offer you some candy, Masters Grayson, Todd, Drake, and Wayne?”
Steph couldn't get into character. “That was so good! We really fooled you guys!"
Cass smiled, which caused her mustache to move slightly out of place. "It seems you boys have forgotten, that Halloween is also about mischief and trickery."
And just like that, the realization hit all four of them at once.
Jason groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me—this was a setup!?”
You grinned behind your crooked mustache. “A very successful one.”
Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “You coordinated with three people, a strict butler, and an actual billionaire to prank us.”
You shrugged, straightening your vest. “It's called strategic collaboration Timothy.”
Damian glared between all of you. “I should have suspected this was a trick from the start. But I could never have predicted that you would be in on this juvenile stunt Father.”
Bruce shrugged his shoulders, completely unbothered. “[Name] said that this would count as making up for all of the quality father-daughter time I've missed.”
Dick shouted "That is complete horse shit! You spoil the hell out of her. You've rescheduled meetings just because she asked you to."
"The meetings were held another day so it was fine."
You gasped in mock offense. "You're just jealous Bruce never did a fun matching costume with you for Halloween.” you fired back. “You’re mad that your days as the first-born golden boy are over and people like to spoil me more!”
Tim nearly fell over laughing. “She’s not wrong!”
Jason wheezed. “The golden boy dethroned by the golden girl!”
Bruce just sighed, though you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth “Let's start passing out the candy before it gets too late.”
As the grand front doors opened, and the Alfred look-alikes walked out with treats on their trays, the real Alfred surveyed the scene, utterly composed except for the faint sparkle of amusement in his eyes. “Well,” he said finally, “I must say I’ve never seen a finer ensemble of myself.”
Jason was crying from laughter. “Please tell me you have a team name!”
You nodded proudly, opening the front door to greet the line of trick-or-treaters. “The Alfred Alliance. Trademark pending.”
Cass added softly, “We hand out candy with grace and judgment.”
“Indeed,” Duke said, slipping a chocolate bar into a kid at the door. “This tray has standards.”
Even Bruce cracked a small smile as he dropped candy bars into waiting buckets with terrifying seriousness. “We represent excellence.”
The rest of the night played out like the most absurd dream imaginable.
Kids arrived in waves, shouting “Trick or treat!” as the six Alfreds handed out candy in perfect synchronization. Steph offered compliments in her best posh accent. Cass bowed solemnly to every princess and pirate. Duke narrated the candy exchange like a documentary. Bruce distributed treats with military precision, and you kept the trays stocked, every motion measured and dignified.
From the yard, the four Robins watched in resigned disbelief.
Jason shook his head. “This is art.”
Tim groaned. “This is psychological warfare.”
Dick leaned back, smiling. “This is family.”
Damian muttered, “This is absurd.”
Steph turned, holding out a tray of candy with a smirk. “Candy, Master Damian?”
He glared, but took two.
Later, when the porch lights dimmed and the last of the kids had gone home, Alfred collected the trays with his usual grace. He looked at each of you in turn — his little army of imitators — and gave a single approving nod.
“Well done, all of you,” he said softly. “A truly distinguished performance.”
Bruce adjusted his crooked mustache and sighed. “I’m never living this down.”
You stood on your toes and gave your Bruce a peck on his cheek. “Nope. But at least we finally have a cute father-daughter matching costume you've always wanted.”
Bruce gave you a warm smile. "This isn't what I had in mind. But I'm happy that you're happy."
You felt a wave of exhaustion and warmth settling in your chest as you caught Alfred’s eye. “Told you we could pull it off.”
He gave that small, knowing smile. “Indeed, Miss. Though I must admit, seeing five versions of myself handing out candy was not on my list of holiday expectations.”
Duke leaned in, grinning. “Next year, lets add matching aprons.”
Alfred paused. “Let’s not be too ambitious, Master Thomas.”
Jason unwrapped a candy bar he swiped earlier. “I don’t know. I think the Alfred Alliance was a masterpiece. We’ve peaked.”
Steph tugged off her mustache, grinning. “Speak for yourself — I’m already planning next year.”
Cass removed her bald cap. “Let's pick a new target though.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow, instantly suspicious. “Target?”
That’s when you smiled — that slow, dangerous, Gotham-kind-of-smile that every Wayne inherited one way or another.
“I got it,” you said. “Let’s all go as Oliver next year. Just to mess with him.”
Dick choked on his cider. Jason and Tim nearly fell to their knees laughing. There was a slow and devious smile worming its way onto Bruce's face.
“Oh, please,” Tim wheezed. “Can you imagine his face if all of us showed up in green leather, plastic bows, and bad blonde facial hair?”
Damian rubbed is hands together like a super villain. “The wigs alone would destroy him.”
You choked through your laughter. "The mustaches would annihilate him!"
Bruce was frantically typing notes into his phone. “We could call it The Arrow Alliance.”
Cass leaned in to look at Bruce's notes. "Let's show up to a JL meeting! Everyone would love it!"
Damian's grin grew. “Finally, a plan with merit.”
Even Alfred’s composure cracked — just a fraction, just enough for his voice to soften around the edges. “I suppose if we must repeat such madness, Master Queen is as suitable a target as any."
And somewhere across the city, Oliver Queen felt a chill rolling down his spine— sensing something terrible and headed his way.
