{AN: This is a PSA for those who haven't noticed it yet, but this story takes place in an AU. I'm just having fun writing in my free time and want to include fun and interesting characters.
Also, this chapter is literally three thousand words. Enjoy!}
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The Batcave was cold. Not the chilly kind of cold, but the kind that seeped into your bones and made you feel like the shadows themselves were watching. Jaime stood in the middle of a sleek, empty sparring ring, his breath misting in the air. The stone walls of the cave echoed every small movement, the faint drip of water somewhere in the distance marking time like a metronome. Bats rustled overhead, wings shifting against the ancient ceiling.
Bruce stood across from him, arms crossed, clad in his usual black training gear. No cape, no cowl—just Bruce Wayne in full 'Mentor Mode.' His expression was as unreadable as ever, though his posture radiated an intense, quiet focus.
"No suit. No Scarab," Bruce said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Jaime hesitated, shifting his stance uncertainly. "What's even the point of this? It's not like anyone can force me to take it off."
"I believe in preparing for every possibility," Bruce replied, stepping forward. "And I need to see what you can do. Not the Scarab. Not the enhancements. Just you."
Khaji Da's voice buzzed in his mind, sharper than usual. [Are you certain this is a prudent course of action? The statistical likelihood of injury is—]
"Mute yourself for five minutes, Khaji," Jaime muttered under his breath, rolling his shoulders and jumping in place to shake off the nerves.
Bruce's stance shifted, subtle but powerful. His movements were minimal, yet every inch radiated control. "First rule—if you're relying on the suit to keep you alive, you're already dead. Let's see if you've been paying attention."
Jaime nodded, sliding into a basic stance. He'd been given muscle memory by Khaji, sure, but Bruce wanted Jaime to move, to fight, to think without the Scarab's guiding hand.
Bruce attacked.
It wasn't a dramatic charge. No flashy moves. Just a single, precise strike aimed at Jaime's shoulder. Simple—but fast. Jaime barely managed to pivot away, his breath catching in surprise.
"Good," Bruce said, already moving again, stepping in with mechanical precision.
The next few minutes blurred into a storm of dodges, footwork corrections, and the occasional tap to his ribs whenever his guard dropped. Bruce's hits weren't meant to hurt—but they stung, a constant reminder that mistakes had consequences.
"You're over-relying on instinct. Anticipate. Watch my center-- my eyes, not my hands."
Jaime gritted his teeth, wiping sweat from his brow. "Easier said than done when you move like a horror movie villain."
Bruce's lip twitched. That might have been a smile. Or as close as Bruce Wayne allowed himself.
They continued, Bruce pushing him faster, harder. Not brutalizing him, but forcing him to think, to adapt. Every block Jaime landed felt like a small victory. Every hit he took was a lesson carved into muscle memory.
"You're thinking too loud," Bruce said as Jaime flinched back from a low sweep. "Every thought is half a second you don't have. You need to trust yourself. Commit."
Jaime lunged, throwing a jab that Bruce deflected with minimal effort. Still, it earned a nod.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Bruce stepped back and raised a hand. "Good enough for today."
Jaime collapsed onto the mat, gasping. "That was 'good enough'? Man, I'm not gonna survive 'impressive.'"
Bruce offered him a hand up. "You will. You're stubborn. That helps."
Jaime took it, hauled to his feet, his muscles protesting. "So... what's next?"
Bruce led him toward a large workstation, its surface lit by holographic projections of Gotham's streets and layered schematics of the city's underbelly. Files, incident reports, and surveillance feeds rotated in mid-air, forming a digital web of Gotham's criminal ecosystem.
"You learn how to think like your enemies," Bruce said, motioning to a series of red-marked zones on the map. "You learn how to vanish without a Scarab's cloak. And you learn how to win without throwing a punch."
Jaime smirked, rubbing his aching arms. "Sounds exhausting."
"It is at times," Bruce admitted, fingers flying across the holographic interface as he pulled up case files. "But exhaustion is temporary. The consequences of a single mistake are permanent."
Jaime's smirk faded as he took in the sheer scope of what Bruce was showing him. Names, connections, patterns—this was more than just being a hero. This was war planning.
Bruce's eyes softened, barely. "But I wouldn't waste my time if it wasn't worth it. You have potential, Jaime. But potential doesn't protect people. Skills do. Discipline does."
For a moment, the cave didn't feel so cold. The air still bit, the shadows still clung, but Jaime stood a little straighter.
"Alright, Batman. Let's do this."
Bruce gave him a curt nod. "Tomorrow, we start at 5 AM. Be ready."
Jaime groaned, but the grin tugging at his lips betrayed his excitement. "Sure, why not? Sleep is overrated anyway."
As they walked back toward the manor's elevator, Jaime couldn't help but glance around the Batcave's cavernous expanse. Somewhere between the training mats, the computer terminals, and the silent trophies lining the walls, he realized this was no longer just Bruce Wayne's domain.
This was where he'd forge himself into something better.
The Scarab was a tool. His powers were an advantage.
But the real weapon?
That would be Jaime Reyes.
---
Chapter 24: The Mind is the First Weapon
The Batcave was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that soothed, but the kind that pressed against your ears, amplifying your heartbeat, making you hyper-aware of every breath you took. Jaime stood at the threshold of a chamber he hadn't seen before, tucked deep in the far recesses of the cave. It was a stark, high-tech space that looked like a cross between a VR combat arena and a forensic crime lab, wires and holo-projectors hanging from the ceiling like the tendrils of some mechanical beast. Every surface gleamed with polished metal, and the air thrummed with a low hum of latent energy, as though the walls themselves were waiting for orders.
"Welcome to the Simulation Room," Bruce said, stepping in beside him. His voice, calm and clipped as ever, echoed slightly against the polished metal and cold stone. His presence filled the space, commanding it, as if the cave itself responded to his will. "Today, you learn how to fight without ever throwing a punch."
Jaime arched a brow, folding his arms. "So what's the plan here, Batman? Do I finally get to play with the Bat-CSI kit, or are we going full-on Jedi mind tricks?"
Bruce didn't smile. "Both."
With a simple gesture, the room came to life. Holographic projectors whirred, and in an instant, a living, breathing Gotham sprang into existence around them. They stood at a bustling street corner, neon signs flickering, the sounds of traffic and distant sirens filling the air. A jewelry store up ahead was cordoned off by digital police tape, the scene crawling with simulated cops, bystanders, and a few shifty-looking individuals. The air even smelled different—faint hints of exhaust and street food, as if the simulation wasn't content with just visuals.
"A robbery. Gone wrong," Bruce said. "One of these people orchestrated the entire event. Everyone else is either a pawn or a victim. Your task is to figure out who before the trail goes cold."
Jaime exhaled slowly, cracking his knuckles. "So... no pressure."
Bruce stepped back, merging with the shadows as if they welcomed him. "Time starts now."
Jaime weaved through the crowd, eyes darting from face to face, scanning the scene. A smashed display case glinted under the flashing lights. A security guard sat against a wall, wincing as he clutched his leg. A getaway van idled just around the corner, engine humming like a predator waiting to pounce. Every detail screamed at him, begging to be noticed.
[Shall I engage forensic overlays to expedite analysis?] Khaji Da offered, his tone bordering on smug efficiency.
"No, Khaji. This is a brain exercise. Let me handle it."
He started with the guard. The limp looked convincing, but his uniform was immaculate—not a speck of dust, not a thread out of place. Too clean. Too composed for someone who supposedly just got into a scuffle.
"Hey, man," Jaime crouched beside him, pretending casual. "Rough day at work?"
"Saw the whole thing," the guard said, his voice too even. "They came in fast, smashed the cases, ran before we could react."
But that didn't add up. The police response time was record-fast. Almost like they'd been tipped off. Jaime made a mental note and moved on.
Next up, the getaway driver. Leaning casually against the van, flipping a coin like this was a scene straight out of a gangster movie.
"So, you're the wheelman?" Jaime asked, hands in pockets.
"What of it?" the man shot back, indifferent.
Jaime's eyes narrowed. His boots—polished. Not a speck of dust or grime. No scuff marks from the alley. He hadn't even been near the action.
"You got here early, didn't you?"
The man's hand hesitated mid-flip. Gotcha.
Moving on, Jaime approached a woman standing near the crosswalk, claiming she saw nothing. Convenient. Too convenient. She had a direct line of sight to the storefront.
"Miss, you must have the best view in the house. Didn't see anything?"
She shook her head a little too quickly.
"Thought so," Jaime muttered.
[You are converging on a probable false narrative, Jaime.]
"Thanks, Khaji, but I think I'm getting the hang of this detective gig."
He gathered the projections—the guard, the driver, the witness—piecing together their rehearsed alibis. The cracks in their stories were glaring now. Their overlapping testimonies were too neat, too coordinated.
Jaime turned, pointing at the guard. "You staged this. An inside job to cover up an internal theft. You wanted it to look messy to hide how precise it really was."
The simulation paused. Bruce's voice cut through the digital silence. "Explain your deductions."
Jaime paced, adrenaline fueling his words. "The guard's injuries are staged. His uniform's too perfect. The driver got here early, pre-positioned for a quick getaway. The 'witness' deliberately avoided eye contact and contradicted other accounts. They choreographed this like a bad theater production."
The simulation dissolved, leaving Jaime standing in the sterile chamber, catching his breath.
Bruce emerged from the shadows, arms crossed. "Took you too long for such a simple case."
Jaime groaned, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Gee, thanks for the confidence boost, coach."
Bruce's gaze softened—barely. "But you got there. You started by trusting the physical evidence. That was your mistake. In Gotham, evidence is only as good as the person presenting it. You need to read people first—their motives, their patterns. Subtlety wins fights."
Jaime folded his arms, leaning back on his heel. "So basically, I need to think like a professional liar."
Bruce nodded. "Exactly. And then be better."
He tapped a few commands into the console. Another scenario loaded—a murder case, this one far more intricate. "Again. Faster."
Jaime sighed, stepping back into the center of the chamber. "You know, I really didn't sign up for the Gotham Detective Olympics."
Bruce shot him a glance. "You signed up the moment you chose to wear that Scarab. Now prove you deserve it."
Hours passed. Scenario after scenario. Jaime's mind sharpened with every iteration, his observations quicker, his conclusions tighter. The holograms became more complex, the lies more tangled. Bruce upped the difficulty relentlessly, forcing Jaime to think ten steps ahead, to anticipate moves before they even formed. Bruce's sharp critiques pushed him to refine his instincts, to hone his deductive reasoning until it became as sharp as any blade.
His body was sore, muscles aching from the strain of maintaining focus, but his mind was alight, running through patterns, seeing connections that had eluded him before. Khaji Da offered assistance several times, but each time Jaime refused, determined to push his own limits, to prove that he could stand on his own in this arena of shadows and deception.
By the end, his shirt clung to him with sweat, but his eyes were alive with focus, sharp and unyielding.
Bruce finally called a halt, powering down the simulators. "Not bad, Reyes. You're starting to see the strings behind the facade."
Jaime flopped onto a nearby bench, grinning through the exhaustion. "Next thing you know, I'll be brooding on gargoyles."
Bruce actually smirked. "One step at a time."
As they ascended back toward the Manor's main floor, the cave seemed less oppressive. The shadows, once daunting, now felt familiar. Jaime had a long way to go—but each step was forging him into something sharper, more precise, someone who could navigate the intricate dance of Gotham's underworld.
"Khaji," Jaime muttered under his breath, "remind me to ask Bruce tomorrow how he handles caffeine withdrawal."
[Noted, though I suspect his methods involve little more than willpower and grim determination.]
Jaime chuckled. He had miles to go, but for the first time, the path ahead seemed clear. He wasn't just becoming stronger. He was becoming smarter. And in Gotham, that was a far deadlier weapon.
Tomorrow would bring more training. More challenges. But tonight? Tonight, Jaime Reyes felt like a detective. A rookie still, but one now walking the same path as the greatest detective in the world.
---
The Batcave's training chamber echoed with the rhythmic thuds of sparring. The air was thick with tension, anticipation crackling in every movement. Jaime Reyes wiped the sweat from his brow, rolling his shoulders as he faced off against Damian Wayne. The younger Robin stood across from him, wooden training sword balanced lazily over his shoulder, the smirk on his face as sharp as the blade he wasn't allowed to use today.
Bruce Wayne stood silently on the observation platform above, arms crossed, his calculating gaze missing nothing.
"Again," Bruce commanded, his voice carrying the weight of expectation.
Damian lowered into a stance with fluid precision, cocky but alert. "Try to last longer this time, Beetle."
Jaime grinned, flexing his fingers as he circled. "That mouth of yours is going to write a check you can't cash, Demon Spawn."
Damian's eyes gleamed. "Come and collect then."
They clashed.
Jaime had come far. His footwork, once rough and instinctual, now had purpose and rhythm. He moved with a groundedness born from weeks of relentless drills, of Bruce's cutting critiques and Damian's merciless assaults. His blocks no longer collapsed under pressure. His counters struck with intent, not hopeful guesses.
But Damian was still Damian.
Jaime's arm stung as the wooden blade clipped his bicep, a feint turned real. He pivoted, twisting under Damian's follow-up, using the younger boy's momentum to shove him back a step. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
"Improved," Damian acknowledged, flicking his blade into a ready guard. "You might actually be passable one day."
Jaime chuckled, stepping in with a low sweep that Damian barely leapt over. "Careful, that almost sounded like praise."
Their spar became a dance of momentum, Jaime's more fluid, adaptive style clashing against Damian's brutal precision. Where Damian struck with surgical aggression, Jaime adapted, redirecting force, slipping through narrow gaps. For every blow Jaime blocked or dodged, two more awaited him, but he was reading Damian better now, surviving longer.
Bruce watched it all, his expression unreadable but his eyes betraying a flicker of approval.
Damian feinted a high strike, spinning low, but Jaime was ready this time. He met the blade with his forearm, absorbing the blow, and used his other hand to catch Damian's wrist, locking the younger boy for a split second.
Damian's grin widened. "Not bad."
A knee struck Jaime's ribs before he could respond, but this time he didn't stumble.
They broke apart, both panting, circling once more.
"Enough," Bruce said finally, voice cutting through their focus.
Both fighters stepped back, lowering their stances.
"Damian, debrief."
Damian exhaled sharply, wiping sweat from his brow. "He's still sloppy. Overextends on counters. But..." he glanced at Jaime, a grudging nod following, "he's starting to understand the rhythm."
Bruce shifted his gaze to Jaime. "You're learning to fight without relying on power. Good. But Damian's right. Your reactions need sharpening. We'll focus on close-quarters counters next session."
Jaime gave a tired grin. "Can't wait."
Damian snorted. "You'll be lucky if you last two rounds next time."
"We'll see, short stack."
Bruce allowed a rare smirk to ghost across his face as he turned. "Clean up. Dinner in an hour."
As Bruce's cape disappeared into the depths of the Batcave, Jaime slumped onto a bench, rubbing his aching arms. Damian flopped down beside him, casually tossing the wooden sword aside.
"You're not terrible," Damian said, which in Damian-speak might as well have been a heartfelt compliment.
Jaime bumped his shoulder. "You're not half-bad yourself, Dami."
The quiet that settled wasn't hostile. It was the silence of warriors catching their breath, knowing they'd be back at it soon.
Progress was slow. Painful. But it was real.
And Jaime was getting better.
One spar at a time.