Time Skip: 8 Years Later
To a demon, eight years is less than a blink. To a human, it is a lifetime.
I stood by the window of the Master Bedroom, watching the sun rise over Gotham. The city looked the same as it always did—gray, smoggy, and smelling of corruption. But inside Wayne Manor, everything had changed.
Or rather, I had changed everything.
The Manor was no longer just a house. It was a fortress wrapped in velvet. The grounds were patrolled by security drones I had designed myself (and patented, adding another billion to the Wayne portfolio). The gardens were impeccable. And, most importantly, the East Wing had been converted into a sanctuary for twenty-three stray cats.
I checked my pocket watch. 4:59:55 AM.
"Time to wake up, Young Master," I said softly, turning away from the window.
I didn't need to shout.
At 5:00:00 AM exactly, the figure in the bed moved.
Bruce Wayne was no longer the scrawny, crying boy I had met in the hallway. He was seventeen years old now, standing six-foot-two and built like a Greek statue carved from granite.
He threw the covers off and rolled out of bed, landing silently in a crouch. He was shirtless, his torso a roadmap of scars from our training sessions.
"Good morning, Sebastian," Bruce said. His voice had dropped deeper, rougher. It had that commanding timber I had worked so hard to cultivate.
"Good morning, sir," I replied, holding out a silver tray. "Your pre-workout blend. Protein, electrolytes, and a trace amount of diluted snake venom to build immunity."
Bruce took the glass and downed it in one gulp without flinching.
"Tastes like mint today," he noted.
"I felt festive," I said, taking the glass back. "Your schedule for the day: 6:00 AM sparring. 8:00 AM breakfast. 9:00 AM, you have a meeting with the scholarship board at Gotham Academy. At noon, you are skipping school to infiltrate the docks."
Bruce paused, looking at me while pulling on a t-shirt. "You know about the docks?"
"Young Master, I know what you ate for a snack three weeks ago on a Tuesday. Of course I know you have been tracking the Maroni shipment."
I walked to the closet and selected a suit.
"However," I continued, brushing lint off a charcoal blazer. "If you intend to go out at night, you must prove you are ready. The simulation scores last week were... adequate. But reality is not a simulation."
Bruce's eyes narrowed. "I'm ready."
"We shall see. To the Dojo. You have three minutes."
The Dojo (Former Ballroom)
The ballroom had been stripped of its chandeliers and carpets. The floor was now reinforced mats.
Bruce stood in the center, wrapping his hands. He looked focused. Deadly.
I stood opposite him, adjusting my gloves. I kept my tailcoat on. A butler is never underdressed, even for combat.
" The rules are the same as always," I said pleasantly. "If you can land a single clean hit on me, or survive for five minutes without being incapacitated, you may go to the docks tonight."
"And if I lose?"
"Then you stay home and groom the cats. Mr. Fluffles has a hairball issue."
Bruce grimaced. The threat of cat-grooming was more effective than the threat of pain.
"Begin."
BOOM.
Bruce exploded forward.
He was fast. Terrifyingly fast for a human. He had mastered 127 styles of martial arts, fused into a brutally efficient style we called "The Wayne Method."
He threw a feint with his left, then a crushing roundhouse kick with his right.
I leaned back. The wind from his kick ruffled my bangs.
Impressive, I thought. He is exerting 800 pounds of force.
I didn't strike back. I danced. I wove through his punches like smoke.
Jab. Cross. Elbow. Knee.
Bruce was a machine. He didn't waste breath. He cut off my angles, trying to corner me.
"Your footwork is sloppy on the transition," I critiqued, dodging a fist that would have shattered a brick wall. "You are favoring your right side."
"I'm baiting you," Bruce grunted.
Suddenly, he dropped. He swept my legs.
It shouldn't have worked. I was too fast. But as I hopped over the sweep, he didn't try to stand up. He fired a grappling hook from a device on his wrist.
The wire wrapped around my ankle.
He yanked.
For the first time in eight years, I actually lost my balance for a microsecond.
Bruce didn't hesitate. He launched himself off the floor, tackling me mid-air. He tried to lock me in a chokehold.
Clever, I admitted internally. Using gadgets to compensate for the speed gap.
But I was still a demon.
I spun in the air, defying gravity, and threw him off. He landed in a roll, coming up instantly.
I landed softly on my feet, smoothing my coat.
"Three minutes and forty seconds," I announced. "And you made me use 5% of my speed to escape that grapple. Not bad."
Bruce was panting slightly, sweat dripping down his nose. "Did I pass?"
I looked at my ankle where the wire had wrapped. There was a tiny smudge of dirt on my sock.
I sighed dramatically. "You soiled my hosiery, Young Master. Unforgivable."
Bruce tensed, ready for me to attack.
Then, I smiled.
"But... effective. You may go to the docks."
Bruce let out a breath he had been holding. "Thank you."
"Do not thank me yet," I said, walking to the wall and pressing a hidden panel. "If you are going out, you cannot wear gym clothes. I have prepared something suitable for your debut."
The wall panel slid open.
Inside was a glass case.
It wasn't the Bat-suit yet. Not the armored cowl and cape. It was a prototype. A tactical "Year One" suit.
Black cargo pants reinforced with Kevlar weave. A tight, armored tactical shirt. heavy combat boots. And a simple mask—not a cowl, but a half-mask that covered the eyes and nose, painted matte black.
"It is light, bullet-resistant up to 9mm, and fireproof," I explained. "I also took the liberty of adding claws to the gloves. For climbing... and aesthetic consistency with the household pets."
Bruce walked up to the suit. He ran his hand over the chest plate.
"No cape?" he asked.
"Capes are dramatic, but impractical for sneaking through shipping containers," I sniffed. "Besides, I haven't found the right fabric yet. I want something that screams 'Creature of the Night,' not 'Magician's Assistant.'"
Bruce took the mask. He held it up to his face.
The transformation was instant. The boy disappeared. The predator arrived.
"Tonight," Bruce said. "Gotham finds out it's not alone."
"Indeed," I bowed. "I shall have a late supper prepared for your return. Do try not to get stabbed, Young Master. It is exceedingly difficult to get blood out of Kevlar."
That Night - The Gotham Docks
I sat on a gargoyle overlooking the warehouse district. I wasn't interfering. This was Bruce's test. I was merely... observing.
Below, the Maroni crime family was moving crates of illegal firearms.
Suddenly, the lights in the warehouse went out.
I heard screams.
"What was that?!""I can't see anything!"CRACK."My arm! AHHH!"
It was beautiful. Bruce wasn't fighting them; he was dismantling them from the shadows. He used fear, darkness, and silence—everything I had taught him.
A thug ran out of the side door, terrified, clutching a machine gun.
"It's a monster!" he screamed. "There's something in there!"
He ran right past the gargoyle I was perched on.
I sipped my thermos of tea.
"Technically," I whispered to myself, "the monster is up here. That down there? That is just a very motivated human."
The thug tripped and fell. Before he could get up, a black rope zipped down from the darkness, wrapped around his ankle, and yanked him screaming back into the warehouse.
The door slammed shut.
Silence returned to the docks.
I finished my tea.
"Well done, Young Master," I murmured, my eyes glowing pink in the night. "You cleaned your plate."
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