Author's Note: Hectic schedule, conflict of interest, other typical excuses for not meeting aforementioned deadlines etc. Here is Bloodlust. Graduate to follow soon. Enjoy.
Bloodlust
The boy has been in combat training for almost four months. The extended duration is not a reflection on Jason; he is not a poor student. Thus far, he has mastered eight diverse fighting styles from boxing to Kung-Fu and passed all grading assessments required to meet with the highest standards. Jason's problem is more elementary. Although extremely capable of employing painless techniques to incapacitate adversaries, the boy only ever strikes with brute force. Where a nerve strike would suffice, Jason uses a head-butt. Where a simply restraining arm-bar would ensure control, the boy opts for trying to break the collarbone or dislocate the shoulder. His level of violence and aggression is totally disproportionate to the situation; every scenario, every battle is like a war to this youth, one he must win at all costs. His improved conditioning and strength mean he is very effective at fighting like a common thug, while his added acrobatic abilities and knowledge of human anatomy elevate him above common errors and further enhance the effect of his hits. If he were any older, the impact of his blows could cripple even me, perhaps permanently. It is worrying to say the least.
In his other studies, those pertaining to criminology and forensic science, I find his efforts less than enthusiastic. Although his test scores are consistently above ninety per cent, he is not motivated to obtain the ninety-five per cent needed for a clear pass; he seems to want to coast. As his training enters its eighth month, Jason has grown listless. He bores of his studies and the routine easily, sometimes spending days at a time merely going through the motions instead of attempting an improvement. His behaviour is frustrating. But I must remember this is not an ordinary boy I am training; this is a once homeless youth who suffered abuse and difficulties when living on Gotham's streets. His father was killed by a psychopath, perhaps maybe right in front of his eyes. He is no doubt traumatised by his experiences in surviving this city's cruelty. I still struggle with what happened to my own parents. I understand why he acts as he does. I must be sensitive to it or risk alienating the only prospect I have seen to match Dick in terms of raw potential.
"Do not bite." I tell Jason sharply once the first round of sparring expires. In trying to counter my choke-hold, the boy resorted to biting my forearm with sufficient force to tear away some flesh and induce moderate bleeding. He then head-butted me in the chest before aiming a fist at my groin. I barely managed to block his strike. The boy bares his teeth at me, like some kind of wild dog, in reply to this command. I can still see flakes of my skin in his mouth. His eyes hold a feral look, a primal darkness that belongs only in animals. Bloodlust and the heat of combat have a very bad effect on Jason's ability to think. His movements become instinctive instead of as taught and he becomes uncontrollable.
"If you do not calm down, I will never take you into the field. You will never become Robin. This that what you want? "
"I should be out there already."
"No, you should not. You have failed your final theory exams, both in combat and criminology three times already."
"Only because ninety-four- point- nine per cent is not good enough for you."
"It's more than that, Jason. Your fixation on violence and causing pain is unhealthy especially since we operate outside of normal laws; if you were to kill someone due to excessive force, we would possess no recourse."
"I'm half your fucking size, Bruce! Any kid in that situation knows they'll never overpower their attacker so they need an alternative. I bit you because it was the smart play. And the results speak for themselves."
Our cohesion as a team is fraying with every argument and wrong action taken by both parties. At this rate, I will not have a ward at the end of the month, much less a partner. Jason's dedication is now giving way frequently to anger, something that serves little purpose in our work. Because communications are failing so badly, I resort to a different line of questioning and tone. Maybe if I am not so sharp and curt with the boy, it may help ease him back over. I want this to work. I gesture for him to come over to where I am currently standing. He does not move, preferring to remain still and eye me suspiciously.
"Jay-Jay, I just want to talk. Come over here and talk to me please." Jason finally relents and approaches me from the far side of the matted area. When he has closed to a few feet, he stops and waits for me to speak again. I place my hand on his shoulder, making sure the contact is light, not heavy; Jason detests heavy contact of any kind outside of combat. "I'm sorry if I have upset you in some way. I wish you to know it was never my intention to hurt you. I would really like this to work, Jason, our partnership. So what's the problem? Is it that you're bored of training? Do you feel you've trained enough? I need you to tell me what's up so I can fix it. I don't want to lose you over a fight that could've been easily resolved if we'd just talked. You're too good a student to lose."
What I have just told him, about his being a good student, is entirely true. I have not presented him with a single challenge I believe him incapable of passing. His levels are near equal to Dick in almost every way. Jason's only fallacy is his allowance of negative emotion to cloud his better judgement, the onset of 'red mist' as Alfred has come to refer to it as. As soon as the youth realizes this flaw and learns to suppress it, he will be ready for the mantle. Until then, I cannot give him such responsibilities. Jason smiles at me.
"I'm good huh?"
"Yes."
"And, coming from you that must mean I'm really good. Like one of the best in the world, right?"
"There is no standard above mine. My standard is the pinnacle of knowledge and application. You have nearly attained it…three times." Jason's eyes seem to widen.
"You mean…I'm that close?" He sounds surprised by the revelation. He should know how close he is to being Robin; if he passes his exams, he WILL wear the costume. It is difficult for me to admit I am willing to do something so hasty, especially when considering his troubled past, but the alternative does not bear thinking about. We are eight months into a training program so intense and so rigorous in its standards that the only possible individuals to survive it are candidates who are beyond the most elite individuals in the world. Jason is elite in every sense of the word, regardless of background or problems, he is elite. My hand is suddenly heavy on his shoulder, something he notices immediately. Before he or I am aware of what is happening, my arms have pulled him flush against my body and I am embracing him for the first time in our relationship. Jason's body is stiff for only a moment before softening with surprising ease. Maybe this kind of intimate contact is what he has needed all along and certainly in recent weeks. My sympathies for this child have finally overwhelmed my discipline as his mentor and manifested themselves in a way that feels strangely organic, when it should be the furthest thing from it. My hand strokes his hair and he makes no objection. I regret I did not do this with him earlier; it could have assisted in diffusing many previous conflicts. I forget his age and the frailties that can only come with youth; he is so tough for a boy of fourteen, so very hard inside. We stay as we are for minutes, my hand still rhythmically running through his hair.
"I never wanted to control you, Jay-Jay." I tell him without relinquishing my hold, "My only wish was for you to control yourself, the anger you keep inside you. Mastering that rage is the key to progressing to your final goal. You understand?" Jason's response is to wrap his arms around me, as tightly as possible. Then he speaks, honestly and without false bravado for the first time in a long while.
"It's hard. It protects me. When I'm scared or feel like everything's gonna crush me flat, being angry protects me. When I let it come out, I feel safe, like everything's gonna be okay. When I'm mad…nothing can hurt me."
"Don't you feel safe now?" My question prompts the youth to raise his head up from my chest and meet my gaze. He is frowning.
"You're not gonna hold me forever, Bruce; I'm gonna need something else to lean on."
"You understand that you're not alone Jason; I'm not asking you to charge into a battlefield on your own or would ever want you to think you were."
"One day I might have to."
"One day, maybe. But right now, you have me to protect you until you can fight on your own."
"I'm not gonna be your son, Bruce."
"You don't need a father, Jason; you just need a friend. We are friends, right?" Jason regards our positions. We are still locked in each other's grip. He looks at me and smiles.
"You're the best friend I've ever had. And," The boy pauses to push himself free of my body, "That's all I want to say about that. As for…all this other stuff, the acting like a stroppy three-year-old girl and the biting, I'm sorry. I only want to tell you from now on, I'll try harder and everything before this point is no longer important. Cool?" I regard him sternly.
"You promise?" I ask extending my hand out to seal the agreement. Jason gives up a lop-sided grin and a nod before shaking my hand firmly.
"When you say jump, I say: with a spinning kick or backflip?"