Tuesday, December 23rd, 2008, 06:30
New Jersey
Gotham City
Fashion District
Malik woke to the smell of pancakes and the sound of Selina moving around the kitchen with deliberate quiet, like she was trying not to wake him while simultaneously hoping he'd get up. The apartment felt different this morning, charged with the kind of tension that followed unfinished conversations and sleepless nights.
He found her at the stove, flipping pancakes with more focus than the task required. She looked up when he entered, and her expression carried something that might have been regret.
"Morning," she said, her voice carefully neutral.
"Morning."
They stood there for a moment, the weight of last night's argument hanging between them like smoke. Malik could see the effort it cost her to maintain the domestic routine when everything else felt fractured.
"I shouldn't have yelled at you," Selina said finally, sliding pancakes onto a plate. "What happened to Margaret Torrino isn't your fault, and taking my frustrations out on you was unfair."
"You were trying to teach me something."
"I was trying to prepare you for a world that doesn't care about fairness or good intentions." She handed him the plate, their fingers brushing briefly. "But there are better ways to do that than shouting."
Malik sat down and cut into the pancakes, which were perfectly golden and probably would have tasted amazing if he could focus on anything other than the conversation they weren't quite having.
"After breakfast," Selina continued, settling into her own chair with coffee, "I want to take you somewhere. Introduce you to someone who can teach you things I can't."
"What kind of things?"
"How to fight. Really fight, not just the street brawling you picked up on your own." Selina studied his face over her coffee mug. "Last night made me realize that if you're going to be part of this world, you need to be able to protect yourself in it."
An hour later, they were walking through a part of the East End that Malik had avoided during his time on the streets. Not because it was more dangerous than other areas, but because it was the kind of place where people minded their own business so aggressively that asking for help was pointless.
The gym occupied the ground floor of a building that looked like it had been abandoned sometime during the Carter administration. Faded paint advertised businesses that hadn't existed in decades, and the windows were either boarded up or covered with grime thick enough to stop bullets.
But the sound coming from inside suggested life of a very specific kind. The rhythmic impact of fists on heavy bags, the shuffle of feet on canvas, the kind of controlled violence that turned rage into discipline.
"Ted's been running this place for thirty years," Selina said as they approached a door marked only with a number that had been painted over so many times it was illegible. "He's trained cops, criminals, and everything in between. If you're serious about learning to survive, he's the one to teach you."
The man who answered Selina's knock looked like he'd stepped out of a 1940s boxing poster. Gray hair cropped military short, shoulders that suggested a lifetime of serious physical work, and hands that were scarred in the particular way that came from hitting things harder than they hit back.
"Selina..." His voice carried the rasp of someone who'd taken too many shots to the throat. "Been a while."
"Hey, Ted. This is Malik, the kid I told you about."
Ted Grant looked Malik up and down with the kind of assessment that catalogued strengths, weaknesses, and potential in the space of a heartbeat. It was the same look Selina gave to locks she was planning to pick.
"Kid's got good posture," Ted said finally. "Moves like he's aware of his space. That's a start."
"Can he fight?"
"Can anyone fight before they've been taught how?" Ted stepped aside to let them enter. "Come on, let's see what we're working with."
The gym was exactly what Malik had expected and nothing like it at the same time. The equipment was old but well-maintained, heavy bags that had absorbed decades of frustration hanging from chains that looked strong enough to support small aircraft. But there was also an attention to detail that suggested this wasn't just a place where people came to hit things.
Boxing photographs covered one wall, images of fighters from different eras who all shared the particular confidence that came from knowing exactly how dangerous they were. Some of the photos were signed, messages of respect and gratitude written in fading ink.
"Strip down to a t-shirt," Ted said, tossing Malik a pair of worn boxing gloves. "Let's see how you move."
For the next twenty minutes, Ted put Malik through a series of exercises that revealed exactly how much he didn't know about fighting. The street brawling he'd learned during his time on his own had taught him to survive, but it hadn't taught him technique.
"You're thinking too much," Ted said as Malik struggled with a combination that should have been simple. "Fighting isn't chess. You don't have time to plan three moves ahead when someone's trying to take your head off."
"I'm trying to do what you showed me."
"You're trying to think your way through it. Stop thinking and start feeling." Ted demonstrated the combination again, his movements fluid and natural despite his age. "Your body knows how to balance, how to generate power. Trust it."
Malik tried again, and this time something clicked. Not the full combination, but a piece of it. The way his weight shifted from back foot to front, the way his shoulder drove the punch instead of just his arm.
"See? Better." Ted nodded approvingly. "You've got natural timing. That's something you can't teach."
They worked through basic combinations for another hour, Malik's frustration growing as he struggled with techniques that looked simple but felt impossible. His muscles ached in ways he hadn't experienced since his first weeks on the streets, and sweat stung his eyes despite the gym's winter chill.
"That's enough for today," Ted said finally, watching Malik struggle with a jab-cross combination that kept falling apart at the transition. "Your body needs time to absorb what it's learned."
"I can keep going."
"No, you can't. You're tired, frustrated, and starting to develop bad habits to compensate for fatigue." Ted helped Malik out of the gloves, studying his hands for damage. "Good fighters know when to push and when to rest. Great fighters know the difference before it matters."
Selina had been watching from a bench near the wall, occasionally offering encouragement but mostly letting Ted work. Now she stood up, and Malik could see approval in her expression.
"What do you think?" she asked Ted.
"Kid's tough. Tougher than he looks, anyway. Got good instincts and doesn't quit when things get difficult." Ted looked at Malik with something that might have been respect. "More importantly, he listens. You'd be surprised how many people come in here thinking they already know how to fight."
"Will you train him?"
"Depends. How serious is he about learning?"
Malik looked between the two adults, understanding that this was a test of some kind. Not just of his physical abilities, but of his commitment to whatever path Selina was steering him toward.
"I'm serious," he said.
"Serious enough to be here every day after school? Serious enough to get hit in the face repeatedly while you learn how to hit back better?" Ted's expression was stern but not unkind. "Because that's what real training looks like, kid. It's not a movie montage. It's months of getting your ass kicked by people who know more than you do."
"Yeah, I can handle it."
"Maybe you can. We'll find out." Ted moved toward his office, a cluttered space behind the main gym area. "Monday through Friday, four-thirty to six-thirty. You miss three sessions without a damn good reason, we're done. You show up drunk or high, we're done. You start any shit with the other fighters, we're done."
"I understand."
"Good. And kid?" Ted paused in his office doorway. "Selina's vouching for you, which carries weight around here. Don't make her regret it."
The walk back to the apartment was quiet, both of them processing what had just happened. Malik's body ached in places he hadn't known could ache, and his hands felt strange without the weight of boxing gloves.
"Ted's a good teacher," Selina said as they waited for a crosswalk signal. "Hard, but fair. If you stick with it, he'll teach you things that could save your life."
"Why now? Why not when you first took me in?"
"Because you weren't ready then. You needed time to heal, to understand that you had something worth protecting." Selina glanced at him, and her expression was softer than it had been since their argument. "And because after last night, I realized that preparing you for this world means more than just teaching you to observe and follow orders."
"What does it mean?"
"It means teaching you to make your own choices about when to fight and when to walk away. But if you're going to make those choices, you need to know that you can handle the consequences either way."
They spent the rest of the walk in comfortable silence, and Malik found himself thinking about rhythm and routine. School during the day, training in the evening, homework and dinner and the careful work of maintaining the cover story that made his presence in Selina's life seem normal.