#mentorship

"First rule of the job kid, when someone asks your name and you are presenting yourself in your vigilante identity you give them a vigilante name. You do not want overlap, keep the identities separate."

Even if Wes was the only one to figure it out, Danny Fenton and Danny Phantom had a lot of similarities he had to weed out as he realized how dangerous they were to his livelihood. The only reason he wasn't immediately found out by everyone including his parents was that Danny Phantom was dead and Danny Fenton was not.

Bruce would not have that same luxury and would need to thoroughly separate himself from his vigilante persona.

"Now again, what is your name?"

"..."

"Don't got all day kid."

"I am... Batman."

This was clearly an important moment for the kid, but it took everything Danny had to not laugh at him in that moment. The way he tried to growl out his codename would have been intimidating, if not for the voice crack accompanying it.

"Alright then Batsy, rule number two is no vigilante-ing 'til you're 20. Teenage vigilantes get killed and make dumb mistakes, I should know."

"Wha- No! I need to protect Gotham, I can't wait 4 more years to do that!"

It's the first time he had heard any lilt to his voice and it was clear that he felt strongly about this matter, but Danny wouldn't budge.

"Nope, you wait 'til the teen gets out of your age or I don't train you. And rule number three, which is kind of an extension of rule number one, don't give out any personal information in your vigilante identity. I know you're 16 now, and I wasn't even attempting to extract info from you."

The kid made a growling sound again, but it felt more like a puppy dog yip to Danny, actually reminded him of Cujo a bit.

"Fine..." He forced out, realizing that Danny was not going to move an inch and that Bruce did have a lot to learn from him. He'd already been taught three things he hadn't considered in the past five minutes.

"Good, training starts tomorrow Baby Bat, meet at Nasty Burger, come in civies."

Then came you—small, compact, utterly unassuming.

Barely over five feet, you stood on your toes to peek over a loom twice your height, smiling as though the sacred tools of the Dressmaster were trinkets in a toy shop. The air itself shimmered with her Coreflame’s grace, yet you only blinked at the golden motes floating past you.

“Morning,” Aglaea greeted, voice smooth as woven silk. “You’re early.”

“Yeah,” you said casually, flexing your hands, “had to make sure I didn’t accidentally punch through another door.”

Her composure fractured. “Another—?”

You gestured sheepishly toward the entryway. The marble arch was now half-pulverized, dust curling like smoke around your knuckles. “It was stuck.”

Aglaea blinked, then inhaled deeply through her nose, regaining composure with divine precision. “I see. Stuck.”

For a being who could thread the fate of nations, it wasn’t often she was baffled. You were a contradiction made flesh: small, soft-faced, eternally cheerful—and capable of casually ripping stone from the foundation.

But the day truly became mythic when she took you to the training grounds.

The courtyard shimmered with Okhema’s banners. Golden light reflected from polished armor, sparring blades ringing in rhythm. Aglaea stood tall beside you, her gold-threaded toga swaying gently. Her expression was serene, instructional.

“You needn’t fight like the others,” she said, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Grace is more powerful than brute—”

You nodded earnestly, then immediately punched the nearest practice dummy.

The sound was catastrophic.

The dummy didn’t merely break—it ceased to exist as an object, disintegrating into a thousand glittering splinters that whirled through the courtyard like an explosion of sawdust and despair.

Every soldier stopped. A silence deep enough to swallow prayers followed.

You blinked. “Oops.”

Aglaea’s hand remained midair, her serene expression frozen between horror and reluctant awe. A piece of the dummy’s head rolled to her feet and clinked once before dissolving into dust.

“...You said grace, right?” you asked innocently.

Aglaea closed her eyes. “I did,” she said softly. “Though I now see… grace may manifest in unorthodox forms.”

Later, while repairing the damage (with a very patient expression and an increasingly twitching smile), she found herself watching you from afar—how you crouched to help gather shards, apologizing to every piece of debris like they had souls.

Something inside her softened.

You were absurd. Unbalanced. Impossible. Yet... radiant.

That night, after the sun dipped below the gold-threaded towers, she called for you again. You arrived carrying a chunk of rock that had offended you (“It stubbed my toe”), which she found oddly endearing.

“Dear,” she said, walking toward you, the sound of her sandals like quiet bells. “Do you know why I weave?”

You shrugged. “To make pretty things?”

Her laughter was soft, distant, and achingly sad. “Once. But now I weave to keep the world from unraveling. To hold together all that might fall apart.”

You stared up at her, small but sturdy. “Then I’ll be your hammer,” you said. “If the world breaks, I’ll punch it back into shape.”

She stilled. Then—smiled. Not her public, perfect smile, but something deeper. Tender.

“You might very well do just that.”

And when she reached out, her fingers brushed your forehead, golden threads forming a faint halo around your silhouette. You didn’t see it, but she did—your strength was not chaos. It was her answer: the unrefined form of a Coreflame yet unnamed.

From that day onward, whenever Aglaea fought beside you, she didn’t try to restrain you anymore. She adapted—her golden threads forming shifting barriers to direct your strength instead of contain it.

To onlookers, it was the most beautiful absurdity: a divine weaver and a tiny juggernaut, moving in synchrony—threads and thunder, grace and devastation.

And Aglaea, poised as always, would sometimes hide a faint smile behind her hand whenever you broke another wall.

After all, what was beauty, if not the dance between fragility and power?

Cipher had seen some strange things.

She’d seen Titans lie, thieves ascend, and entire cities vanish overnight.

But she’d never seen a five-foot-tall Nameless yeet a fifteen-foot beast through a temple wall like a piece of discarded fruit.

The monster hit the marble with a thunderous boom, shaking dust from the rafters. You shook out your hand and muttered, “Guess I don’t know my own strength.”

Cipher, perched casually on a toppled statue, stared, tail flicking in disbelief. “Oh no, no, you definitely know your strength. You just lack… restraint.”

You grinned at her, sunlight catching your teeth. “Hey, the thing was ugly. And loud.”

Cipher hopped down, landing beside you with the silent poise of a cat. “So’s Bartholos when he eats, but you don’t go launching him into the next province.”

She was teasing—but her voice trembled slightly from laughing too hard. Her eyes darted over your small frame, trying to reconcile the impossibility of what she’d just witnessed. You were barely up to her chest, with soft arms and an innocent face, yet your punch had collapsed a cathedral.

“What’s your secret?” she finally asked. “Ancient blessing? Demonic contract? Weird gym membership?”

You shrugged. “I drink milk.”

She stared. Then burst out laughing. The kind of wild, genuine laugh that echoed across the ruins, a melody of disbelief and delight. “Milk. Fantastic. I’ve been chasing Coreflames, divine tricks, and all I needed was dairy.”

The next few days became a running joke between you two. Cipher started calling you Tiny Titan, Pocket Hercules, Pint-Sized Calamity.

You retaliated by calling her String Bean (which earned you a mock death threat).

But under the laughter, something else brewed—a spark of awe. Cipher wasn’t used to being impressed by power. Trickery, yes. Wit, always. But you fought without malice, without ego. When she asked why you didn’t boast, you just shrugged again.

“It’s just what I can do. Doesn’t make me better.”

That answer haunted her more than any punch could.

Days later, the two of you stood on a cliff at dawn, overlooking a shattered battlefield. The air smelled like ozone and ash. You were perched on a boulder, swinging your legs idly. Cipher stood nearby, cloak fluttering, golden boots catching the light.

“You ever… get tired of it?” you asked suddenly.

She tilted her head. “Of what? Running?”

“Fighting. Running. Pretending everything’s a joke.”

That question cut deeper than you realized. Her smirk faltered, for just a second. The wind filled the silence.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “Sometimes. But it’s better than standing still.”

You looked at her, tiny fists resting on your knees. “Then I’ll run with you.”

Cipher blinked. “You’re joking.”

“Nope. If you’re gonna keep running, I’ll punch the road clear.”

She stared at you for a long moment, tail twitching. Then—softly—she smiled. “You’re ridiculous. And reckless. And way too small to be saying things that heavy.”

But she took your hand anyway.

Later that night, while you slept under the stars, she sat beside you and whispered into the dark, “You remind me what it felt like to believe we could still change the world.”

Then she grinned to herself. “Still gonna call you Tiny Titan, though.”

Mydei had fought giants, Titans, and ghosts of war.

None of them startled him as much as the sight of you lifting an entire siege engine over your head like a sack of grain.

The Kremnoan warriors nearby froze, half in awe, half in horror, as you hurled the contraption straight into the enemy line.

The explosion that followed was—well—loud.

Mydei, regal as ever, lowered his sword slowly. “[Name],” he said after a long pause. “Was that… necessary?”

You brushed dust from your shoulders, the ground trembling faintly beneath your boots. “They had better aim than me.”

He exhaled. Deeply. “You are aware that siege engines are not… handheld weapons?”

“They are now.”

A distant explosion punctuated your words.

Despite his attempts at stoicism, Mydei found himself biting back a smile. You were chaos incarnate, yet somehow in perfect control. For all your childish stature, there was a strange majesty to you—like a storm pretending to be a cloud.

Later, as the two of you stood on the edge of the battlefield, the ichor dusk washing the horizon, Mydei studied you in silence.

“You don’t look at battle with hunger,” he said at last. “Only certainty.”

You turned to him, blinking. “Why would I? I know I’ll win.”

He couldn’t help it—a low chuckle escaped him. A sound so rare even his closest comrades would’ve doubted their ears.

“You remind me of the sea,” he murmured. “Small from afar. Endless up close.”

You tilted your head. “That’s kinda poetic.”

“I am a prince,” he said dryly. “It comes with the curse.”

The nights that followed blurred into rhythm: you breaking rocks like they were glass, Mydei offering increasingly exasperated commentary, the soldiers whispering legends about the “Pebble That Could Crush Mountains.”

In the quiet between wars, however, there was peace.

You would sit beside him by the fire, feet barely reaching the ground, and listen to him speak of the sea, of Kremnos, of things long lost. He rarely shared these memories—but with you, he did.

Once, during a rare moment of levity, you tried lifting his armors (which is just his gauntlets) at once. He watched, amused, as you hoisted the gauntlet like it weighed nothing. “You’ll hurt yourself,” he warned.

You grinned. “You mean your pride.”

That made him laugh—truly laugh—until tears shimmered in his golden eyes.

When the final battle came, the black tide surged across the horizon like a living nightmare. Mydei drew his blade, ready to lead. You stood beside him, smaller than his shoulder but crackling with raw power.

“Stay behind me,” he commanded out of habit.

You smirked. “Sure thing, big guy.”

You then immediately punched the ground, creating a shockwave that blasted the front line of the enemy straight into oblivion.

Mydei didn’t even flinch this time. He only sighed, smiled faintly, and said, “Of course.”

After the battle, as the dawn broke over a scarred world, he approached you while you cleaned his gauntlets by a puddle. “[Name],” he said softly, “if I fall, promise you’ll carry our flame onward.”

You looked up, frowning. “Don’t talk like that. You’re not falling anywhere.”

He nodded once. “Still—promise me.”

You clenched your tiny fist, then tapped it against his chest. “Fine. But you’re gonna have to catch up, Lion.”

He chuckled again, turning to face the rising sun. “Then I shall run faster.”

And somewhere amid the wreckage and light, the warriors of Amphoreus whispered tales of an impossible pair—

the Last Prince, tall as the mountains, and the tiny Trailblazer who could break them.

Danny blinked at him. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, dressed in black from head to toe with a hood shadowing most of his face. But it wasn’t just his age that gave Danny pause. It was the look in his eyes—sharp, cold, and determined. This kid was on a mission.

“No,” Danny replied flatly, taking another bite of his burger. He’d seen this kind of determination before—he’d been this kind of determination before—and he wasn’t about to let this kid follow in his footsteps. The vigilante life wasn’t just dangerous; it was a one-way ticket to pain, loss, and an early grave. Danny had survived by the skin of his teeth, but he wasn’t about to play Russian roulette with someone else’s life.

The kid didn’t flinch. “Train me.”

Danny sighed. “No.”

He turned and began walking away, hoping the kid would get the hint, but of course, he didn’t. The boy followed him like a shadow, his footsteps silent but deliberate.

“Train me.”

Danny stopped and turned to face him. “You’re really not gonna let this go, are you?”

The kid shook his head. Danny could respect that kind of persistence, even if it was annoying. Still, there was no way he was getting roped into this.

“Look, kid, I don’t know who you are or what you think you’re doing, but trust me, you don’t want this life.”

“Yes, I do,” the boy said firmly. “I’ve trained for years. I know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah?” Danny raised an eyebrow. “And what’s your plan when things go sideways? When you’re outnumbered, outgunned, and one mistake away from getting yourself killed? You think martial arts and stubbornness are gonna save you?”

The boy didn’t answer, but his jaw tightened, and Danny could see the frustration simmering beneath the surface. He sighed again, running a hand through his hair.

“Fine,” he said, crossing his arms. “But we’re doing it my way, got it? First rule: what’s your name?”

The boy straightened, his back rigid with pride. “I am Bruce Wayne.”

Danny froze. Wayne. As in the Wayne family. The rich, fancy folks who owned half the buildings in Gotham. He stared at the kid, suddenly understanding why he was so serious—and why he’d probably been trained in martial arts since he could walk.

“Alright, rule number one,” Danny said, recovering quickly. “When you’re in your vigilante identity, you don’t give people your real name. You need to keep your identities separate. Got it?”

Bruce frowned, clearly not understanding the importance of this, but he nodded.

“Good. Now again—what’s your name?”

The boy hesitated, his brows furrowing as he considered the question. Finally, he squared his shoulders and said, “Batman.”

Danny blinked. Then he blinked again. The kid’s tone was serious—so serious that Danny might have actually been intimidated if not for the fact that his voice cracked halfway through the word.

Danny bit his lip, struggling to hold back a laugh. “Alright, Batsy,” he said, the nickname slipping out before he could stop himself. “Rule number two: no vigilante-ing until you’re twenty. Teenage vigilantes get killed. They make dumb mistakes, and trust me, I know. I was a teenage vigilante, and let me tell you, it’s not worth the risk.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “What? No! I need to protect Gotham. I can’t wait four more years to do that!”

It was the first time Danny had heard any real emotion in his voice. The boy’s face softened, just for a moment, and Danny could see the weight of the world pressing down on his narrow shoulders. He wanted to argue, to convince Danny that he was ready, but Danny shook his head.

“Nope,” he said firmly. “You wait until you’re out of the ‘teen’ range, or I don’t train you. End of discussion. And rule number three, which is kind of an extension of rule number one: don’t give out personal information in your vigilante identity. I know you’re sixteen now, and I wasn’t even trying to get that info out of you.”

Bruce’s lips pressed into a thin line, and a low growl escaped his throat. Danny couldn’t help but think he sounded like a cranky puppy.

“Fine,” Bruce muttered, clearly realizing he wasn’t going to win this argument. But Danny could tell he was already filing everything away, committing the rules to memory. The kid was smart, no doubt about that.

“Good,” Danny said with a grin. “Training starts tomorrow, Baby Bat. Meet me at Nasty Burger. Civvies only.”

Years later, Bruce Wayne stood in the Batcave, his head pounding as he argued with a pint-sized acrobat perched on the Batcomputer.

Bruce opened his mouth to argue, but Danny was already walking away, his laughter echoing down the alley.

“Dick,” Bruce said, his voice low and measured, “you’re not going out there. You’re nine. You wait until you’re twenty, and that’s final.”

Dick Grayson crossed his arms, his small face twisted into a defiant scowl. “But you didn’t wait until you were twenty!”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s different.”

“No, it’s not!”

Bruce groaned. He was starting to understand how Danny must have felt all those years ago.

Meanwhile, in Amity Park, Danny Fenton paused mid-bite of his burger. A strange sensation washed over him—a tingling at the back of his mind that he hadn’t felt in years.

“I don’t know where or why,” Danny muttered, narrowing his eyes at the distance, “but I just know Baby Bat is doing something dumb again. And I don’t like it.”

It had been years since Danny Fenton had reluctantly taken on a certain sixteen-year-old Bruce Wayne as a trainee. The so-called Baby Bat had been stubborn, determined, and relentless in his pursuit of justice—even if Danny had been equally stubborn in making sure the kid didn’t get himself killed before he turned twenty.

Now, years later, Bruce Wayne had turned into Batman—the Batman. The name was spoken in hushed tones across the criminal underworld and was plastered on the news every other week. Danny couldn’t help but feel proud… and maybe a little exasperated.

He’d done his job. Bruce was alive, competent, and running Gotham like a pro. Danny had thought his days of worrying about Baby Bat were long behind him.

But that thought was obliterated the moment Bruce reached out through a very specific secure channel.

Danny leaned back on the couch in his apartment, half-listening to an old horror movie playing in the background while munching on chips. His ghostly senses were quiet, and for once, life was calm.

That’s when the Bat-symbol flashed on his computer screen.

He groaned loudly, almost spilling his chips. “I knew it. I freaking knew it. I should’ve ignored this brat the first time he said ‘Train me.’”

Reluctantly, Danny got up and opened the line. The face staring back at him was unmistakable—Bruce Wayne, older now, with sharper angles and a jawline that could probably cut glass. Despite the years, Danny immediately recognized the faint glint of determination (and maybe stubbornness) in his eyes. Some things never changed.

“Bruce,” Danny drawled, leaning against his desk. “What do you want now? Did you break something? Or someone? Or are you just here to tell me about how Gotham still sucks?”

“Danny,” Bruce said, his voice as grave as ever. “I need your help.”

Danny squinted at him, skeptical. “Help? With what? You’re literally Batman now. What could you possibly need from me?”

Bruce hesitated for a moment, and Danny almost laughed. He’s nervous. What the hell is going on?

Finally, Bruce spoke. “It’s my family.”

Danny blinked. “Your… family?”

“They’re... difficult,” Bruce admitted begrudgingly, and Danny couldn’t stop himself from laughing. He laughed so hard he had to clutch his sides, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“You? You, the most difficult person I’ve ever met, are complaining about difficult family members?” Danny wheezed. “Oh, this is rich.”

Bruce didn’t look amused. “Danny.”

“Alright, alright,” Danny said, wiping his eyes. “What’s the deal? You’ve got Alfred, right? Let him handle it.”

“This is different,” Bruce said, and Danny could hear the faintest edge of discomfort in his voice. “You’ll see when you get here.”

And with that, the line cut out.

Danny stared at the blank screen for a moment before sighing. “I swear, if he’s gotten himself in over his head again…”

Danny arrived at Wayne Manor via ghost portal the next evening, stepping out of the swirling green vortex in his Phantom form. The grandeur of the place hit him immediately—it was just as ridiculous as he remembered.

He floated down into the Batcave, landing silently behind Bruce, who was reviewing a crime map on the massive Batcomputer.

“Alright, Batsy,” Danny said, his voice echoing in the cave. “What’s the big deal?”

Bruce didn’t even turn. “They’re here.”

Danny was about to ask who when he heard a series of rapid footsteps and loud voices approaching from the tunnels.

“—I told you to stop touching my stuff, Todd!”

“Like I care, Drake!”

“You’re both insufferable,” another voice cut in, colder and sharper.

“Guys, please!” someone else chimed in, clearly exasperated.

And then they were there—a collection of teenagers and young adults, each looking like they belonged in their own action movie.

Danny blinked. “Bruce,” he said slowly, turning to face him. “Why do you have an army of kids?”

Bruce sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose as his children assembled in front of Danny.

“Danny, meet my… family.”

The first to step forward was the oldest—a grinning man in his twenties with an acrobat’s grace and bright, mischievous blue eyes. “Dick Grayson,” he said, holding out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Danny shook it, eyeing him warily. “The original Robin, huh? Bruce talks about you sometimes. Says you’re the ‘good one.’”

Dick smirked. “Good to know I’m still the favorite.”

“Only because you don’t give me headaches,” Bruce muttered.

The next kid to step forward was a young man with a white streak in his dark hair, a leather jacket, and an air of barely-restrained chaos. He didn’t offer a handshake.

“Jason Todd,” he said, his voice rough. “And you’re the guy who taught Bruce how to nag, huh?”

Danny snorted. “And you’re the one who probably causes most of his headaches.”

Jason smirked. “Damn right.”

The third was a lanky teen with sharp eyes and a smartphone glued to his hand. “Tim Drake,” he said, not looking up from the screen.

“You’re the tech guy, I’m guessing?” Danny said.

Tim nodded distractedly. “You could say that.”

Next was a young boy, no older than ten, with a scowl that could probably scare grown men. He crossed his arms and glared at Danny.

“Damian Wayne,” he said. “Biological son.”

Danny raised an eyebrow. “Ah, the little terror Bruce never shut up about.”

Damian bristled. “I am no terror—”

“Yes, you are,” everyone said in unison.

Danny turned to Bruce, his arms crossed. “So… what do you need my help with? Because it looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

Bruce sighed heavily. “They don’t listen to me. Half the time, they’re arguing. The other half, they’re trying to outsmart each other—or me.”

“And?” Danny prompted.

“And,” Bruce said reluctantly, “I thought you could help… mediate.”

Danny blinked. Then he started laughing again. “You want me to babysit your army of vigilantes?”

“It’s not babysitting,” Bruce growled.

But it absolutely was.

Over the next few days, Danny found himself in the middle of Bat-family antics. Whether it was Jason and Tim bickering over whose tech was better, Dick trying to wrangle everyone for a “team-building exercise,” or Damian threatening to fight literally everyone, Danny was beginning to realize why Bruce looked so perpetually exhausted.

But for all the chaos, there was a sense of family here that Danny couldn’t help but admire. It reminded him of his own ragtag group back in Amity—Sam, Tucker, Jazz, even Vlad in a weird way.

Eventually, Danny pulled Bruce aside. “You know,” he said, “for all your complaining, you’ve built something pretty amazing here. They’re not just your team—they’re your family.”

Bruce looked at his kids, a rare flicker of softness crossing his face. “I know,” he said quietly.

Danny grinned. “Well, you’re still a pain in the ass, but I think you’ve done alright, Batsy.”

And so, Danny’s unexpected reunion with Bruce turned into a week-long crash course in dealing with the next generation of vigilantes. By the time he left, he was exhausted—but also a little proud.

As he stepped back through his portal, he shook his head with a smile.

“Baby Bat really did grow up, huh?”