[Danny Fenton's Pov]
"Ooof—Ughhh! You really don't hold back, do you, Mom?" I grunted, rolling across the mat and clutching my stomach. The thin cotton of my gi did nothing to soften the sting of her strike.
Mom stood in front of me, perfectly balanced, her stance sharp and her fist frozen in the exact spot where my body had just been. She wore that same confident smirk that always told me she wasn't even close to using her full strength. She rested one hand on her hip, casual, almost playful.
"Well, Danny, how else are you supposed to learn if I go easy on you? Now come on!" she said, gesturing firmly. "From the top—just like we practiced."
I let out a long, exhausted sigh, dragging myself upright. It had been a week of this nonstop—bruises, aching muscles, endless drills, spar after spar. At first, I thought training with her would be easier compared to Bruce's brutal regimen or Dick's fast-paced sparring. I was wrong. Mom was just as strict as Bruce, maybe stricter, because she was relentless.
Still, there was a rhythm to this. Painful, yes, but familiar. And compared to losing her, compared to all the empty nights I spent wishing she was still alive? I'd take every bruise in the world.
I sprang back up, setting my stance with a sharp inhale. My expression hardened into something determined. No matter how many times she threw me to the ground, I was going to give her everything I had.
Mom's eyes narrowed, her focus deadly serious, but beneath it I caught that flicker of pride. She raised her fists again, inviting me in.
I knew I should be worrying about Gotham, about the villains running wild out there—about Penguin manipulating his way into becoming mayor with Desiree at his side. It was my responsibility, after all. I had taken up the mantle. The city needed me.
But right now? None of that mattered. Not Penguin, not Desiree, not the chaos outside.
All I wanted was this—time with my family. With Mom. With Dad. With Jazz. To fill in the missing days, the stolen months, the endless grieving. To make up for everything I thought I'd never get back.
"Remember, Danny," Mom called as I lunged forward, "a major part of karate is countering. Use your opponent's move to your advantage. Make them dance for you. Make them your puppet! Become the puppeteer. And when the opportunity comes—cut the strings!"
She intercepted my punch effortlessly, redirecting my momentum like I was a clumsy beginner. A sharp kick drove into my chest, the force blasting the air from my lungs as I flew backward, tumbling across the mat until I landed sprawled out like a ragdoll.
"Uggghhhhhh… Puppet down… puppet down…" I croaked, my face mashed into the floor, my voice muffled.
"Sorry, darling," Mom said with a sheepish grin. "I got a little too into it." Her grin faded into seriousness again as she stepped toward me. "But remember—if you don't want to be turned into the puppet, you have to become the puppeteer."
I pushed myself up slowly, groaning. "Where is all this puppet talk even coming from? You're a ghost enthusiast! Shouldn't your analogies be about, I don't know… hauntings or possessions?"
She tilted her head, considering it. "Hmm… true. But I find the puppet analogy works better for this." Suddenly her eyes lit up. She slammed a fist into her palm like she'd just discovered the meaning of life. "A Ghost Puppeteer!!"
"Seriously?" I asked flatly, though I couldn't stop myself from snorting with laughter at how ridiculously excited she looked.
"Come on, the lesson isn't over," she said, beckoning me forward.
We reset our stance, standing close, our wrists touching. Her voice softened as she broke it down, slower, more measured.
"If you want to narrow it down further, karate comes down to two things—defend and strike. That's it. Defend. Strike. Defend. Strike." She moved in rhythm with her words, guiding me step by step.
Our motions were almost like a dance, deliberate and synchronized. She demonstrated each kata with graceful precision, her body flowing with years of discipline.
"You see, Danny," she explained, "you use your katas to move. To guide your opponent into the exact position you want them in. Every step, every block, every strike—it's all part of the dance. People overcomplicate karate, but at its core? It's simple. Defend. Strike. Defend. Strike. Over and over."
And watching her, hearing her, I couldn't help but agree. Maybe karate was simple. Or maybe she just made it seem that way because to her, it was second nature.
"Every strike you block, you shift to counter and strike. Which, again, is just defend and strike," Mom instructed, her tone firm yet energized. An excited glint shone in her eyes, and I realized she was having just as much fun as I was. "Let's go again—but this time, we'll be picking up the speed."
"Defend… strike… defend.. strike.. defend—strike—defend-strike-defend-strike!"
We started slowly, almost like a choreographed dance. My fist cut through the air, but her palm intercepted it with calm precision, redirecting it effortlessly. She countered with her own strike, and I caught it with my other hand, deflecting just as she'd taught me.
Then we began to move faster. Each block and strike flowed seamlessly into the next, our bodies shifting through different katas, our forms evolving with every exchange. The sharp slap of flesh against flesh echoed rhythmically across the room.
Our eyes locked, narrowed in concentration, reading and predicting each other's movements based on the last kata performed. The more we picked up speed, the less it felt like a lesson and more like a battle of wills—mother and son testing one another, neither willing to back down.
I launched a roundhouse kick, only for Mom to block with her forearm and shove me off balance. Instead of faltering, I used the momentum of her push, spinning into a second roundhouse strike that came at her faster, sharper. Her eyes widened—caught off guard—but she ducked just in time, letting it slice harmlessly overhead.
Before I could reset, she swept my supporting leg clean from under me. My body tilted, but instinct kicked in. I caught myself in a handstand, pushed off with my palms, and slid back into a low fighting stance, chest heaving with exhilaration.
Mom laughed. Out of all the responses I expected, that one hadn't been on the list. I tilted my head at her in confusion, silently asking what was so funny. She just shook her head, a soft smile curling her lips.
"Seriously, Danny… you're incredible," she said, her voice brimming with sincerity. "I didn't expect you to be this good. Honestly, if I had known you'd be so talented, I would've forced you to keep training when you were a little boy." Her gaze softened with pride, and it made my stomach flip.
I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling heat creep into my cheeks. "I'm glad you didn't. If you had forced me, I probably would've ended up hating karate."
"Touché," she chuckled, stepping forward. Her hand came to rest on my shoulder before ruffling my hair like I was still a kid. "But I can't help it—I'm just so proud of my little boy."
"Mom!" I groaned, cringing as my face went red. I tried to bat her hand away, but she leaned down and planted a quick kiss on the top of my head, laughing the whole time.
"Sorry, sorry," she said between chuckles. "I just… I'm incredibly happy right now… You see, when you quit karate as a kid, I was… disappointed to say the least. It was the one thing we shared, the one thing that was… You know… Ours. After that, connecting with you got harder. And when you grew older, you wanted more independence… and I thought I'd lost the chance to relate to you."
Her words hit me like a strike to the chest. I froze, my throat tightening as her voice softened.
Hearing her admit that—hearing just how much this simple sparring meant to her—made the knot in my throat tightened. All those times I thought she was just being overbearing, annoying, trying to control me… was she really just trying to hold on? To find a way to connect with me?
The guilt clawed at my insides. Have… Have I really been such an awful son to her?
Before she could continue, I moved. My arms wrapped around her, pulling her into a tight hug. It was sudden, but I couldn't help it.
"I—" My voice cracked. I swallowed hard, fighting down the knot in my throat. "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve—"
"Oh no, Danny," she interrupted gently, hugging me back just as tightly. Her voice was warm, soothing. "I didn't tell you this so you'd apologize. I just wanted to share with you how happy this is making me right now. I know what it's like, growing up. Wanting space, wanting independence. I was the same. I suppose I was just sad to see you grow up so fast, not needing me anymore. But that's natural, sweetheart. That's life. You don't ever need to feel guilty about that."
I nodded against her shoulder, but the guilt still lingered in my chest. She must have felt it too, because she pulled back just enough to pinch my cheek playfully, trying to lighten the mood.
"Now come on," she said with a smile, her tone shifting back to its usual warmth. "I think we trained hard enough to earn ourselves a little reward, don't you?"
This time, I smiled too, faint but genuine. "Yeah… I think so."
And so together, we left the training room side by side.
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