The Batcave - Training Sector
CRACK.
The sound of the training dummy's neck snapping echoed through the cavern.
"Stop," Batman commanded.
Jason Todd stood in the center of the ring. He was sweating, his chest heaving. He wore the Robin tunic, but he wore it differently than Dick. He had added combat boots and taped his knuckles.
"I stopped him," Jason panted, wiping blood from his lip. "He's down."
"You broke the cervical vertebrae," Batman said, stepping into the light. "If that were a person, he would be paralyzed. Or dead."
"If that were a person," Jason shot back, "he would have been holding a knife. I saw the glint. I didn't take chances."
"We use precision," Batman scolded. "We disarm. We incapacitate. We do not maim."
"Precision takes too long!" Jason threw his training staff on the floor. "While you're doing geometry in your head, the bad guy is pulling a trigger! On the street, you hit first, you hit hard, and you make sure they don't get up. That's how you survive!"
Bruce looked at the boy. He was trying to mold Jason into Dick. But Jason wasn't clay; he was broken glass. Sharp, dangerous, and hard to hold.
"Sebastian," Bruce called out. "Analysis."
I was standing by the console, reviewing the replay footage.
"Technically," I said, "Master Jason's reaction time was 0.4 seconds faster than Master Dick's at this stage of training."
Jason smirked. "See?"
"However," I continued, "his technique is... barbaric. He fights like a badger in a sack."
"But is he effective?" Jason challenged me.
I looked at the shattered dummy.
"Undeniably," I admitted. "Dead men pull no triggers."
Bruce glared at me. "You're encouraging him."
"I am stating facts, Sir. Master Dick fought for applause. Master Jason fights for survival. It is a different engine. You cannot tune a diesel truck like a Formula One car."
Bruce rubbed his temples. "Run the simulation again. Non-lethal takedowns only. If you break a bone, we start over."
Jason groaned. "Fine. But if I get stabbed, I'm bleeding on your upholstery."
The Gotham Docks - Three Nights Later
The rain was heavy, masking the sound of the arms deal happening in Warehouse 4.
"Black Mask's crew," Batman whispered from the catwalk. "Moving military-grade plastic explosives."
"Let's light 'em up," Jason whispered, cracking his knuckles. He was vibrating with energy. He hated sneaking. He wanted the noise.
"Wait for my signal," Batman ordered. "Target the crates. Disable the transport."
They dropped.
It started well. Batman used smoke and fear to scatter the thugs. Jason moved in to secure the perimeter.
But then, a thug—a massive brute with a crowbar—cornered Jason behind a stack of crates.
"Little bird!" the thug laughed, swinging the crowbar. "Time to clip your wings!"
Jason didn't dodge like Dick would have. He didn't flip over the man's head.
Jason ducked under the swing and drove his elbow into the man's solar plexus. As the man doubled over, Jason grabbed the crowbar from his hand.
"My turn," Jason snarled.
CRACK.
He smashed the crowbar into the man's knee. The joint shattered backward. The thug screamed.
Jason didn't stop. He swung the crowbar again, aiming for the head.
THWIP.
A bat-line wrapped around Jason's wrist, jerking his arm back inches before impact.
"Enough!" Batman shouted, landing beside him. He knocked the screaming thug out with a single punch.
Jason struggled against the line. "He was going to kill me!"
"He was unarmed and on the ground!" Batman yelled, getting in Jason's face. "We are not executioners!"
"He's vermin!" Jason screamed back, his eyes wild. "You lock them up, they get out, they kill again! Why do we play this game, Bruce? Why don't we just end it?!"
The warehouse went silent. The other thugs were tied up. The police sirens were approaching.
Batman looked at Jason. He looked at the crowbar in the boy's hand.
"Get in the car," Batman said coldly. "We're done for tonight."
Wayne Manor - The Kitchen - 2:00 AM
The ride home had been silent. Bruce had gone straight to the study to brood. Jason was in the kitchen, aggressively eating a bowl of cereal.
He looked furious. He looked like a kid who had finally found a father, only to realize the father wanted a soldier he couldn't be.
I walked in, placing a glass of warm milk on the table.
"I hate milk," Jason muttered.
"It helps with the bone density," I said, leaning against the counter. "Considering your penchant for brawling, you will need it."
Jason slammed his spoon down.
"He thinks I'm a monster," Jason said. "Because I don't want to play by his stupid rules."
"He fears you are a monster," I corrected. "Because he sees himself in you. Master Bruce wants to kill them, Jason. Every single night. He holds back because he is afraid that if he starts, he will never stop."
"So what?" Jason challenged. "If he killed the Joker, how many people would be alive today? Hundreds? Thousands? I did the math, Sebastian. His 'code' has a body count."
I looked at the boy.
He was right. Logically, brutally right. It was the same logic I operated on as a demon. Why toy with the food? Why not simply consume it?
"You are a pragmatist," I said softly. "I appreciate that. I, too, find the 'No Kill' rule... inefficient."
Jason looked up, surprised. "You do?"
"I am a demon, Master Jason. To me, a human life is a fleeting spark. Extinguishing a bad one to save a good one is simply... tidying up."
I walked over to him. My eyes glowed faintly in the dark kitchen.
"But," I raised a finger. "You must understand the Master. He is building a symbol. A symbol cannot be stained with blood. If you kill, you become just another thug with a mask. You lose the moral high ground."
"I don't care about the high ground," Jason grumbled. "I care about the ground not being covered in innocent blood."
I smiled. A sharp, shark-like smile.
"Then perhaps we can reach a compromise."
I picked up a steak knife from the counter. I twirled it between my fingers.
"Master Bruce forbids killing. He forbids maiming. But..."
I drove the knife into the cutting board.
"He never said anything about pain. Terrible, lasting, psychological pain."
Jason looked at the knife. Then he looked at me. A slow grin spread across his face.
"Teach me," Jason said.
"Bruce wants you to be a surgeon," I said. "I will teach you to be a butcher... with style. We shall focus on nerve clusters. Pressure points. Ways to make a man wish he were dead, without actually voiding his warranty."
Jason finished his milk in one gulp.
"You're alright, Sebastian. For a creepy butler."
"High praise, coming from a delinquent."
I took his bowl.
"Go to bed, Master Jason. Tomorrow, we shall work on the 'Solar Plexus Strike.' It is particularly effective against large men with crowbars."
As Jason ran upstairs, lighter than he had been in weeks, I stayed in the kitchen.
I knew this was dangerous. I was feeding his darkness, not tempering it.
But Dick Grayson had been the light. Jason Todd was the fire. And you cannot tell a fire not to burn. You can only aim for it.
I just hoped I wasn't aiming at him with a bomb.
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