With my shifting weight, the worn leather chair creaked. "He'll say yes. He has to." On the armrest, I drew my fingernail up the embossed Wayne crest, until it caught on a raised edge. Outside, the rain from Gotham blurred the opaque glass windows of the manor into streams of gray and black water.
"Foolish child." Darkseid's voice vibrated in my skull like hammered metal. "Your fate has been sealed in the Anti-Life Equation. The mantle is already yours."
The library door opened silently. There Bruce stood filling the doorway, his silhouette being visible through the dark. He was dressed simply in a dress shirt and slacks, but I could feel the weight of Batman in the room. My throat tightened.
"Alfred explained to me your skill," Bruce said, walking into the library. His voice was very calm and measured. He stopped a few paces away with arms clasped loosely behind his back. "Disarming Dent with powerful blows. That wasn't beginner's luck." His eyes met mine sharply. "Where did you learn?"
My heart hammered against my ribs until Darkseid's calm tookover. "Your old case files," I admitted, keeping my voice steadily calm. "Public access archives. News reels from the first year you took Robin in." I gestured toward the manor's security terminal tucked behind a bust of Caesar. "I studied Dick Grayson's movements. Frame by frame. Hundreds of times." The admission was palpable. I had essentially gave an obsessive lie. "It became... instinct."
Bruce just kept staring, not once blinking through that. Him being calm was more unnerving then his former anger. "Your parents," he at last said, shifting the conversation masterfully. "Who are they?"
"Archeologists," I answered, crisp. "They travel the world, digging up history." It was true, completely. But it left dust in my mouth. "Nannies. Babysitters. Boarding schools." The words slipped out truly real and clipped. "They sent money. Not enough letters."
Bruce took it in. He kept his eyes on me, assessing the person before him, weighing the validity of my story against how I took down Dent with moves that said training. He didn't look deeper into the story. Not yet. Instead, he nodded simple and slow. "Training starts tomorrow. Dawn." His said gravelly, low and final. "We do it slow. My way." A shadow seemed to have crossed his face, haunted in it's look. "I won't lose another Robin to recklessness."
The dismissal was absolute. I rose, my legs trembling beneath me. "Yes, sir." The words felt dense. Going past him, the atmosphere hummed with things unsaid – Jason's ghost, the weight of the cowl, the naked impossibility of what I'd demanded. Darkseid hovered at the back of my mind like an icy, anchoring rock. *See? The path is set.*
Cavernous felt the upstairs guest room that Alfred had prepared. Moonlight filtered through the heavy drapes, staining stripes on the expensive rug. I moved on autopilot, hush closing in around me. Training. Early morning. The Batman way. The concept should have energized me, but a knot of tension sat in my belly. Bruce's haunted expression flashed through my mind – the specter of Jason Todd, the Robin who hadn't been careful enough. Would I be good enough? Or just another reminder of failure? Darkseid's growl was derisive. *Flesh is weak. But purpose is eternal. You will be forged.* I clung to that faith, shrouding the tiny shadow of doubt. Sleep took a long time in coming, filled with ghost strikes and the echo of Bruce's gravelly voice.
Alfred roused me before sunrise broke over the horizon. Downstairs, a rich aroma of coffee and some decadent treat – bacon, eggs, perhaps fresh pastry – wafted through the large dining room. "Breakfast, Master Tim," Alfred recited, setting a plate in front of me. "Master Bruce thinks it's a good idea to begin the day well fortified." It was delicious, cooked to a perfect doneness, a far cry better than cereal, which I normally settled for. I hastily consumed it, anxiety returning. Alfred observed, face impassive but not unfriendly. "He's waiting for you in the cave, sir." The decisiveness of his statement sent a chill down my spine.
The ride down the ancient clock-elevator was longer this time. The chilly, damp air of the Batcave greeted me as the doors opened, supplemented by the faint smell of ozone and motor oil. Bruce was standing close to the training mats, not in the Batsuit, but in a plain white martial arts gi. He was there with another gi, rumpled in a fold, grasped in his hand. "Change," he said, his voice a little resonant in the vast, empty space. No hello. No introduction. Business. I lingered on the new stuff a little, but changed soon enough, the rough-textured cotton unfamiliar on my skin. Bruce stood, loose-limbed but exuding wired tension.
He stepped out onto the mat, bare feet, and waved at me to come after. "Demonstrate your stance." My feet shifted into position – a copy from Darkseid's combat style but designed as if I'd learned it from Dick based on the news reels I'd seen. Bruce's eyes slightly narrowed. "Good. Now defend." He didn't give me a warning. A second before, he had been motionless; the next, his leg was a blur, a low arc at my ankles. Instinct shouted *dodge! * My body obeyed, leaping back just in time. I didn't have a chance to reset, his fist already coming for my ribs. I rotated, using my forearm to block it clumsily. It stung. He flowed like water, never hesitating. A feint high, and then a sweep that hit solidly against my thigh. My leg buckled. I was backing up, panting, the mat hard and cold beneath my feet. He didn't even sweat.
"Predictable," Bruce said, his voice flat. He didn't advance. Simply stood there, a monument of calm. "You learned patterns. Fights are not patterns, Tim. They're chaos." My face burned. Darkseid's power surged, an anger of fury at the perceived vulnerability, but I repelled it. *Watch. Learn.* The words were my own, sharp and clear. Bruce shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, a subtle change. I braced myself, expecting another strike. But rather than swing at me, he spoke. "You have potential. Raw speed. Good spatial awareness." He let the compliment land before landing the blow. "But potential is nothing if you don't have discipline. Without control. Without knowing *why* you move."
He gestured for me to move forward again. This time, the attack was slower, deliberate. A straight fist punch. I could see it coming, dodged, and instinctively kicked out with a kick at his knee – something I'd seen Dick do perfectly on one of those dockside brawls and one Darkseid would approve of. Bruce didn't block. He poured into it, one arm pinning my ankle to his hip, his free hand shooting out, fingers dancing just a hair's breadth above my throat. I stuttered, off-center, my heart pounding against my ribs. The proximity was shocking. I could see the creases around his eyes, the intensity of his concentration. "Why'd you kick?" he growled, his voice low, demanding. "Because it looked effective? Or because it was the best counter you had?"
I struggled to get the words out, the fictional constriction around my windpipe making it hard to speak. "It... worked in the video." My answer was flaccid even to myself but at least better than saying I had Darkseid's help. Bruce released my ankle, stepping back with that unnatural fluid motion. "Shots are still. Reality's in motion." He did not pursue the attack. Rather, he circled once, slowly, a predator assessing. "Your foundation is mimicry. Perfect mimicry, but hollow. We build from ground up. Equilibrium first. Always equilibrium." He demonstrated an uncomplicated, balanced stance—one far different from the flying stances to which I was accustomed. "Mimic this. Exactly."
For one hour, it wasn't battling. It was adjustment. Millimeters mattered. The angle of my foot, the weight on my hips, the alignment of my pelvis. Bruce's hands were precise but ungentle, pushing on a shoulder blade here, applying pressure on a hip bone there. "Muscle memory over mimicry," he growled after realigning my stance for the tenth time. Sweat streamed down my temple despite the chill of the cave. Darkseid's anger was a low vibration, a contempt for such barbaric labor, but I clung to Bruce's rage. This was the way.
"Now move," Bruce commanded, stepping back. "Forward. Back. Left. Right. Maintain the structure." Each shuffle felt clumsy, deliberate, like learning to walk again. My muscles burned from the unnatural rigidity. Bruce watched, hawk-like, calling out minor deviations. "Heel down, Tim." "Don't lean." "Eyes up." It was exhausting, humbling work. The effortless grace I'd learn from Darkseid felt insignificant.
Finally, he signaled a halt. "Enough for now." He tossed a towel in my direction. "You learn quickly. But speed is not the goal. Accuracy is." He pointed to the cave's central console. "Training won't all be with me. You need perspectives I cannot offer." My heart was pounding. "Dick will assess your acrobatics in a week. Barbara will handle tech and strategy. Down the road, others." He paused, his eyes weighed down. "The Titans. Maybe the League."
The titles registered with me like blows to the body. Nightwing. Oracle. Titans. The Justice League. Darkseid's arrival swept in, a wave of hunting contempt for having to stand alongside Earth's protectors. *Observe them. Know their weaknesses*. I shelved the consideration, focusing on Bruce's next words.
"Jason," Bruce said, the name hanging heavy and raw in the damp cave air. He didn't look at me; his gaze fixed on the mat where I'd stumbled minutes before. "He was gifted. Aggressive. Confident." A muscle twitched in his jaw. "He learned fast. Too fast. Skipped steps. Saw only the fight, not the foundation." He finally met my eyes, the intensity almost painful. "That's the mistake. We will not repeat it. You will be taught the *why* behind every block, every strike. Not just how to look."
Darkseid's scorn was a cold ember in my mind. *Foolish human. Power does not need explanation.* But what Bruce said pricked deeper. Jason's presence was there, in the very vectors Bruce demanded, in the calculated slowness. This was not training; this was an exorcism. My knuckles ached around the towel. "I understand, sir." The words were inadequate.
Bruce nodded, a flicker of something uninterpretable in his eyes. "Good. Shower. Report to the library afterwards. We begin with theory." He turned, gi hugging the sharp planes of his back as he strode toward the Batcomputer. Theory. After that? The names echoed—Dick, Barbara, Titans. A thrill of raw, untainted thrill battled with the aching in my thighs. Meeting Nightwing? As Robin? Darkseid's humor blazed into a knife. *Their hubris will be their downfall. Play the eager pupil. See everything.*