INTERLUDE: STRENGTHENING FOUNDATIONS

The next sessions were grueling.

They were meant to be.

Taylor didn’t complain—at least, not out loud. Every morning she woke with sore shoulders and deep bruises hidden beneath the collar of her borrowed Gotham U hoodie. Every night she returned to Wayne Manor exhausted, a thin sheen of sweat drying on her skin, her limbs aching in that satisfying, punishing way that meant she'd pushed herself past her limits

That part she didn’t mind. Pain meant progress.

But there was one thing she found herself whining audibly about. 

Dick was the worst kind of teacher in the best kind of way.

He joked through everything—through drills, through mistakes, through every correction that made her grit her teeth in annoyance. “Feet apart, Hebert,” he called out once during sparring. “I thought you were trained at a dojo.”

Then he swept her legs out from under her before she could even blink.

His footwork made her dizzy. His rhythm unpredictable. His easy grin never left his face, even as he moved like he was dancing, always a half-beat ahead of her, always slipping just out of reach. He never lorded his skill over her, never mocked or talked down to her, but there was a teasing kind of ease to how he moved that made her want to punch him on principle.

To match him. Made her want to defeat him in a spar.

Barbara was the opposite.

Quiet. 

Never overbearing. 

Never coddling.

Just there. Present. 

Always watching.

And that, somehow, made it harder to ignore her.

She rarely raised her voice, rarely interrupted. When Taylor fumbled a sequence, she didn’t scold, didn’t criticize. Just waited until the drill ended, then rolled forward in her wheelchair with a soft “May I?” Then, she adjusted Taylor’s posture with a gentle hand at the elbow or a subtle nudge to her shoulder blade with the training staff.

At first, Taylor resented it. She didn’t need to be guided. She’d survived worse than poor form.

But then she found herself making those corrections before Barbara could speak. Not out of obedience. But because it made her hits land cleaner. Because it made her balance steadier.

Because it worked.

“You fight like someone who expects to lose,” Barbara said quietly one afternoon, after another tense sparring match with Damian had ended in bruises and silence.

It wouldn't be their last. 

After Taylor had bested him in their first bout, Damian had taken it as a challenge. Since then, every session between them had become a proving ground. For him, it was about correcting the assumption she was better than him. For her, it was just another fight.

Her brow furrowed. “I fight to win.”

“No,” Barbara said, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “You fight to survive.”

Taylor didn’t reply. Just reset her stance. Threw the next punch harder than she should have. Her knuckles screamed in protest.

But the words stayed with her.

. . . . .

Sometimes, Bruce watched.

He never spoke much—just stood at the edge of the mat, arms folded, eyes narrowed and expression unreadable. He didn’t interrupt either. Didn’t correct with words. Just a tilt of his head. A flick of his fingers. Gestures so small she almost missed it, but all landed like gunshots.

When he did speak, it was with a single word. “Again.” 

And she obeyed without thinking.

But it was infuriating how quickly she started learning. How her breath began syncing with her strikes. How she started anticipating Dick’s feints. How her muscles remembered things before her mind could catch up.

She hated it.

Hated that she was becoming one of them. Hated that her body was adapting. Hated that some part of her liked it.

Because it felt like she was losing herself all over again—layer by layer, scraped down and rebuilt into something new.

Something not quite hers.

. . . . .

Taylor was drilled until the mats were damp with sweat and the air thick with exertion. Until her shirt stuck to her back, her breathing came out shallow. Until her bruises had bruises.

During breaks, Dick tossed her a bottle of water and flopped down beside her like they were just two friends catching up after a long workout—which wasn't exactly wrong. He spoke casually, like he hadn’t just knocked her on her ass five minutes ago.

Like this was normal.

She still didn’t know how to be normal.

“You’re getting better,” he said once, stretching out beside her.

Taylor shrugged. “Or you’re slowing down.”

Dick shot her a look. “Not a chance.”

She looked away.

She hated that it almost made her smile.