Six Weeks Later
Training a child to be a vigilante is, objectively speaking, a terrible idea. However, since my Master is stubborn, and the boy is made of rubber and stubbornness himself, I have resigned myself to ensuring he at least does it with some style.
The difference in their pedagogical methods became apparent immediately.
5:00 AM - The Batcave (Bruce's Shift)
The cave smelled of sweat and ozone. Bruce believed in breaking the body down to build it back up harder.
"Again," Batman growled.
Dick Grayson, wearing oversized sweats and a weighted vest, was hitting a heavy bag that weighed twice as much as he did.
THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.
"Your wrist is bending on impact," Bruce critiqued, circling him like a drill sergeant. "You'll break it on a jawbone. Lock it. Drive through the target."
Dick gritted his teeth, sweat flying as he threw another cross. "Like... this?"
"Harder. You're small. You don't have the luxury of glancing blows. If you hit someone, they need to stay down."
I watched from the upper platform, holding a tray of water bottles and towels.
Bruce was training the boy to be a tank. He was teaching him how to absorb pain, how to strike with maximum kinetic force, how to be a blunt instrument of terror. It was effective. It was brutal.
It was also terribly boring to watch.
"He is not you, Young Master," I murmured to myself, observing Dick's footwork. Even when exhausted, the boy naturally wanted to bounce on his toes, to spin, to move laterally. Bruce was trying to bolt him to the floor.
"Enough," Bruce checked his stopwatch. "Five-mile run. Full incline. Go."
Dick didn't complain. He just ran to the treadmill. He was desperate to prove himself. Desperate to burn away the image of his parents falling.
I sighed. So much potential, being wasted on cardio.
1:00 PM - The Ballroom (My Shift)
"Sebastian! Check it out!"
Dick was currently walking on his hands across the bannister of the second-floor balcony of the main hall, fifty feet above the marble floor.
"Very impressive, Master Dick," I said, walking below him carrying a stack of freshly ironed linens. "Though if you fall and stain the foyer, I shall be very cross."
He flipped off the bannister, doing a triple somersault before landing silently next to me.
"Bruce's training is... intense," Dick panted, wiping his forehead. "He wants me to bench press a Buick."
"Master Bruce believes in overwhelming force," I said, handing him a cucumber sandwich cut into a perfect triangle. "He fights like a landslide. Effective, but messy."
I ate a sandwich myself.
"However, you are not a landslide, Master Dick. You are a trapeze artist. You are wind. You are gravity's plaything."
Dick chewed the sandwich thoughtfully. "So? How does that help me fight a mugger?"
I smiled.
"Put down the sandwich. Let us go to the ballroom. It is time for 'Home Economics.'"
The Ballroom
The ballroom was empty, save for the sunlight streaming through the high windows.
"Bruce teaches you how to hit," I said, taking off my white gloves and folding them neatly. "I am going to teach you how not to be hit. And how to kill a man with a teaspoon."
Dick's eyes widened. "A teaspoon?"
"Etiquette is a weapon, Master Dick. A proper gentleman can dismantle an opponent without ever wrinkling his suit."
I pulled a silver butter knife from my inner pocket.
"Catch."
I didn't throw it hard. I threw it with demon speed. It was a silver blur.
Dick didn't try to catch it with his hands. Instinct took over. He dropped into a split, letting the knife sail over his head, and then sprang up, catching the handle before it hit the floor behind him.
"Excellent reflexes," I applauded. "Now, throw it back. Aim for my heart."
Dick hesitated. "I don't want to hurt you."
"Oh, my sweet summer child," I chuckled, my eyes flashing pink. "You couldn't hurt me if you hit me with a train. Throw it."
Dick threw it. It was a good throw—fast, straight, just like his father had taught him in the circus act.
I didn't move. I simply raised my right hand and caught the blade between my index and middle fingers, an inch from my chest.
"Too linear," I critiqued, tossing the knife back. "You throw like an honest man. Criminals are not honest. You must misdirect. Feint with your eyes. Throw with your wrist, not your shoulder."
We spent the next three hours playing the deadliest game of catch in Gotham.
I pushed him. I moved faster and faster, forcing him to use the environment. He began to run up the walls, swing from the chandeliers, and use the momentum of his flips to add power to his throws.
He wasn't a soldier anymore. He was a performer. He was laughing as he dodged.
"Higher!" I called out, teleporting to the top of a marble column. "If you are on the ground, you are dead! The air is your territory!"
Dick launched himself off a windowsill, soaring toward me. He threw three playing cards (I had replaced the knives, as he was ruining the plaster).
I caught two. The third grazed the sleeve of my tailcoat.
I stopped.
Dick landed on the column opposite me, breathing hard, a wide grin on his face.
I looked at the tiny cut in the fabric of my sleeve.
"Well done," I murmured. "You managed to touch me. That is more than most armed men in this city have achieved."
Dick beamed. "It's like the trapeze. It's all about timing."
"Precisely. Bruce wants you to be the hammer. I want you to be the scalpel. Fast. Precise. Elegant."
I hopped down to the floor.
"Lesson over for today. Master Bruce will be expecting you for 'Detective Theory' in twenty minutes. You need a shower. You smell like a gymnasium."
As Dick ran off toward the showers, energized and happy for the first time in weeks, I watched him go.
Bruce was forging a weapon of vengeance.
I was crafting a work of art.
The Boy Wonder was going to be magnificent.
Meow.
Sir Pounce wrapped himself around my ankle.
"Yes, yes," I scooped up the cat. "You are also magnificent. But his somersaults are slightly better than yours. Do not tell him I said that."
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