Unknown location.
In a dark spacious cave, the air was cool and filtered, humming with the rig comic pulse of a supercomputer that processed more data per second than the rest of the city combined. The only light came from array of monitors that cast a cold, blue glow over the dark silhouette seated before them. This was the Batcave.
Through his white lenses of his cowl, Batman looked at the high-resolution screen that displayed the Gotham Bank incident with a clinical eye.
The main screen displayed the footage of a lava-based humanoid with pyrokinetic abilities engaging Mr. Freeze. He hit a key on the keyboard and replayed the scene of the humanoid using Its own body as a shield to protect a family from freeze's Cryo-cannon.
"Computer." Batman's Voice was a low, gravelly rasp that barely disturbed The Cave. "Run a thermal analysis on the subjects core temperature doing these sublimation phase and the sample from the fragment that fell off from the bullet."
The computer began running complex analysis that wouldn't have been possible for most advanced computers on earth. The computer beeped at the results came back.
Thermal signature: 2640°F. (Estimated)
Composition: Silicon-base lave/Magma anomaly.
Status: Unidentified non-human phenomenon.
Based on the results Batman found, this entity wasn't a meta-human; the scans showed no signs of human DNA. It wasn't magic based which meant it wasn't a demon. For now, this only left the categorization for unknown alien species.
Batman replayed the footage and analyzed it carefully. He watched how the unknown used its pyrokinetic abilities. His opinion? He wasn't impressed. He had seen better Pyrokinetic control from metahumans. This one fought like it was its first time in combat.
Batman started creating an encrypted file. A contingency because that's what he always did when it came to unknown, dangerous or powerful individuals.
File: Ignition point.
---
Two days had passed, and Devin's back felt less like a jagged ruin and more like a collection of tight, angry knots. The sutures Jade had put in were holding, but every deep breath reminded him of his own fragility. He was done being a glass cannon.
He stood in the heart of a neighborhood, the tour guides called "historic" and the locals called "the gutter." The air here didn't smell like the harbor or the smog of Midtown; it smelled of wet concrete and stale cigars.
Before him sat a rusted, nondescript door with a fading sign: Wildcat's Gym.
Devin checked the folded piece of paper in his hand. According to the deep-web archives he'd scrubbed as Grey Matter, this was it. This was the place where the world's greatest fighters—including the Batman himself—came to find their grit.
The Old Lion's Den
The moment Devin stepped inside, the atmosphere hit him like a physical weight. The air was thick with the scent of leather, peppermint rub, and the rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of speed bags.
At the center of the room was a single, elevated ring where two men were sparring. But Devin's eyes weren't on the fighters; they were on the man standing in the corner, leaning against the ropes with a towel draped over a shoulder that looked like it was carved from granite.
Ted Grant. The man was a relic of a harder era. His face was a map of old scars, and his knuckles were thick with the memory of a thousand broken noses. Even in his sixties, the guy looked like he could punch a hole through a brick wall.
Devin approached slowly, feeling every bit the 120-pound weakling he currently was. "Mr. Grant?"
The old man didn't turn. His eyes remained locked on the sparring session. "If you're looking for the youth center, it's three blocks over, kid. Here, we bleed."
"I'm not looking for a youth center." Devin said, keeping his voice steady despite the shiver crawling up his spine. "I'm looking for the man who taught many great fighters how to throw a punch."
That got a reaction. Ted turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as he scanned Devin. He didn't see a hero; he saw a skinny kid with a slight limp and eyes that looked like they had seen too much.
"Those were private students." Ted grunted. "And they didn't start out looking like a stiff breeze could knock them over. Why do you want to fight, kid? Bullies? A girl? Or are you just looking for a way to get killed faster?"
Devin knew this was a test. He knew Ted wanted to hear the true reason as to why Devin wanted to learn how to fight. Devin had no intention of mentioning his powers. At least not yet. He didn't mention Mr. Freeze. He just looked at his own thin, pale hands.
"I'm tired of being the one who gets hit." Devin said. "I want to be able to defend myself and those around me without being overly reliant on… resources. I want to have the strength and discipline to stand when things get ugly."
Ted stepped closer, his presence looming over Devin. He reached out and poked Devin's injured shoulder—hard. Devin hissed, but he didn't move. He didn't flinch. He just stared back into the old boxer's eyes.
"You're hurt." Ted noted. "Fresh stitches. Knife?"
"a bullet actually." Devin corrected with a small chuckle.
Ted paused. A slow, predatory grin spread across his weathered face. "A bullet? At your age? You're either the unluckiest kid in Gotham or the most troublesome. Either way, Wildcat's doesn't do 'lessons.' We do 'work.'"
Ted pointed to a heavy sandbag in the corner. It looked like it weighed more than Devin did.
"Hit that. For three minutes. No gloves. If you're still standing when the bell rings, we'll talk about your 'discipline.'"
---
The first minute was a lesson in physics. Every time Devin's fist hit the canvas bag, the shock traveled up his arm and straight into his healing back. It felt like someone was driving a needle into his spine.
By the second minute, his knuckles were raw and bleeding. His lungs felt like they were filled with hot coal. He wanted to give up. He wanted to turn into Four Arms and rip the bag from the ceiling.
"No." he told himself mentally, his vision blurring. "If I can't do this as Devin, I don't deserve these powers.
He leaned into a hook, using his hips the way he'd seen Jade move. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't even good. But it was his.
When the bell finally dinged, Devin slumped against the bag, his chest heaving, his hands trembling and stained red. He looked up, expecting Ted to laugh him out of the gym.
Instead, Ted was standing right in front of him, holding a roll of hand-wraps.
"Your form is garbage." Ted said, his voice dropping the mock-hostility. "You punch like a wet noodle, and you've got the reach of a toddler."
He grabbed Devin's hand and began to wrap it with professional speed. "But you've got a grit. And in this city, grit is the only thing that keeps you from ending up in a body bag."
Ted finished the wrap and patted Devin's chest. "Five a.m. Monday. If you're a minute late, don't bother coming back. And bring a gallon of water. You're going to lose most of your body weight in sweat."
As Devin walked out of Wildcat's, his hands thumping with pain, he felt a strange sense of victory. For the first time since he'd arrived in this universe, he wasn't relying on an alien.
He was building a hero from the ground up.
---
The weekend passed and it was now Monday. The 5:00 AM air in Gotham wasn't just cold; it was a damp, clinging fog that tasted of salt and exhaust. Devin stood outside the rusted door of Wildcat's Gym, his breath hitching in small, white clouds. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to go back to his warm bed, but the memory of Jade's effortless grace and Mr. Freeze's mocking laugh acted like a cold slap to his face.
He pushed the door open. The gym was dim, lit only by a few flickering fluorescent hums. The smell was the same—stale sweat and old leather—but it felt heavier in the silence of the early morning.
"You're four seconds early." a gravelly voice echoed from the back.
Ted Grant emerged from the shadows of the ring, wearing a grey sweatshirt that had seen better decades. He wasn't even winded, despite the jump rope draped over his neck. He looked at Devin, noting the kid's pale face and the slight tremor in his hands.
"Drop your bag," Ted commanded. "We don't start with the gloves. We start with the engine."
For the next forty-five minutes, what was designated as a 'warm-up', was hell in Devin's mind. Devin learned why Ted Grant was called Wildcat. The "warm-up" consisted of exercises that seemed designed to find every lingering bruise from the Mr. Freeze fight and set them on fire.
The burpees were 50 reps. By the 20th, Devin's lungs were burning. By the 40th, the sutures in his back felt like they were tugging at his spine.
Next came the Medicine Ball Smalls. Ted threw a 15-pound ball at Devin's chest. "Catch and slam! Don't let it breathe!"
After that was the "Bear Crawl". Devin had to crawl across the rough gym floor, keeping his hips low. It was a movement that felt eerily like something Wildmutt would do, but without the alien musculature to make it easy.
"I... I can't." Devin gasped, collapsing onto the mat, his vision swimming.
"Can't is a word for people who want to die in a Gotham alley." Ted barked, standing over him. "You think the guy who shot you is taking a break? You think the world stops because you're tired?"
Ted grabbed the back of Devin's shirt and hauled him up. "Again. Bear crawls. End to end."
---
When the "conditioning" finally ended, Devin was draped over a water bucket, his shirt soaked through with sweat. His heart was hammering a rhythm he could feel in his teeth.
"Drink." Ted said, tossing him a bottle. "But don't chug. You'll puke, and I'm not cleaning it up."
Ted led him over to the heavy bag. He didn't tell Devin to hit it. Instead, he stood behind him and adjusted his stance. He kicked Devin's lead foot outward and shoved his shoulder down.
"Watch my feet." Ted instructed. He threw a simple jab. It wasn't fast, but Devin saw the way the energy traveled from Ted's heel, through his hip, and snapped into his fist. "If you don't have a foundation, you're just a guy swinging in the dark."
For the rest of the session, Devin didn't throw a single "real" punch. He practiced the jab. over and over and over.
"Step, snap, reset." Ted chanted.
Devin's knuckles, already raw from Saturday, began to weep blood through the fresh wraps. But something was changing. By the hundredth rep, he stopped thinking about the pain in his back. He stopped thinking about his powers or transformations. He focused entirely on the Kinetic Link.
Step. Snap. Reset.
The bag finally gave a satisfying thwack instead of a dull thud.
"Better." Ted grunted, checking the clock. It was 7:00 AM. "You're still a mess, Levin. Your balance is off, and you breathe like a broken bellows. But you didn't quit."
Ted walked over to a small locker and pulled out a pair of old, beat-up leather hand-wraps. He tossed them to Devin.
"Keep those. Wash 'em. If I smell 'em on Wednesday, you're doing double burpees."
Devin caught the wraps, his fingers barely able to close around the fabric. He was exhausted, he was bleeding, and he was pretty sure he was going to fall asleep on the walk home. But as he looked at Ted Grant, he realized he had found exactly what he needed.
He didn't just need to be a hero. He needed to be a fighter.
"See you Wednesday, Ted," Devin rasped.
"Get out of here, kid," Ted replied, already turning back to the heavy bag. "And eat some protein. You look like a skeleton."