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Passing a military assessment test would be a breeze for the Bats, but passing Bruce’s psychotic version of a physical assessment is different. It is absolute hell. It is holding their breath underwater for at least three minutes. The average person can hold it for maybe at most a minute and half. He tests their endurance and speed and strength and flexibility and balance. Bruce expects them to be living personifications of gods.
It’s a full day event when they see that PST on the schedule. Hell on Earth, Dick had dubbed it, but Dick is also psychotic and enjoys torturing himself so he happily breezes through. He flaunts off on the pull up bar, flourishes as he laps around the cave and miracously doesn’t fall on his face, and he aces all the knowledge based quizzes. Then he drops to the cave ground in a sweaty bliss. Alfred mutters something toeing the young man in the ribs until he gets up and showers and eats something. Jason didn’t have to participate last time. He just had to observe. Not today.
After Jason watched Bruce breeze through while simultaneously demonstrating each obstacle to him. Then it is his turn. The obstacle course –a temporary addition to the Wayne Manor lawn-- is definitely not fun when it is bright and early in the morning with the morning dew soaking into his shoes. Jason gets through none the worse for wear. Then it is time for the endurance run. They have to run as long as possible. Bruce ensures that he pushes himself as much as he possibly can. His body is shaking with exertion. His legs are burning. He has always been a runner, he has had to be and he is fast he always consider himself the fastest street kid --it kept him out of trouble. Except with Bruce always close at his heels he feels like his legs are in molasses. Dick is running with him, and is much more encouraging than Bruce is. Dick is running with him because he has already lapped him.
Jason drops at some point. He can’t do this anymore so he stops running and drops to the ground, and boom he’s dead. That’s the point of this all, right? To make sure he doesn’t die while fighting crime. Bruce offers him a bottle of water, and he greedily slurps up the water. He should be more polite, but damn everything hurts and it has just started. Bruce allows him to rest. Dick is still running. It is confirmed, Dick is a weird alien that Bruce adopted. He has a weird alien brother.
Thirty minutes later and Dick finds a spot next to Jason in the grass, and he is huffing, “Alright I’m done.” So he does tire. Sweat is slick on his forehead and the thin tank top he is wearing is soaked through. Dick is a lot bigger than him, he is not as big as Bruce but muscles ripple under his skin. His legs are taut, and even deadfaced from running some insane distance he smiles and is composed. Unlike Jason who gave up on life and lays deceased in the grass. Dick is perfect. How long was he running for, man none of the goons would have the stamina to catch him. He is the perfect robin, the first robin. Sequels are always shit.
It’s nice seeing Dick. He is always fun to be around except when he is yelling at Bruce. Today hopefully they can all just get along. Dick pushes himself off the grass all too early for his liking and reached out a hand to help him up. Bruce had been standing the whole time because he is no fun, his whole drill sergeant shtick never falling.
They refuel with loads of water and food. Then Bruce is quizzing them on guns, and their belts, and their tools. He is asking them riddles and chemistry questions. Questions about law, procedures, crime scene data analysis’. He asks questions about different drugs and the signs. He asks them about first aid. He asks them about known criminals in Gotham. He asks them about ongoing cases. He asks them about everything under the sun. He also has them demonstrate knowledge. Dick only screws up a few inconsequential things. He is perfect.
Then it is timed sit ups and push ups. He has to pump out as many as possible in five minutes. For reference most military evaluations go for two minutes. Jason doesn’t reach the full five minutes either, instead he goes to failure. Dick doesn’t fail during those five minutes, but he does grit his teeth a little. Bruce is neatly jotting down this information. Bet he is going to make a pie chart or something.
Then it is the mile run, which almost seems like a reprieve. Bruce keeps his pace. The time is abysmal. Kids on his track team run that fast. A 10:43 minute mile. That’s bad. Is it just him or are the breaks getting shorter? Next is the mats. Bruce tests them on their skills regarding several different types of fighting styles. He has them putting him in holds and getting out of holds themselves. He doesn’t imagine the nonexistent break between that and the pool.
Dick is absolutely thriving. He can be insufferable sometimes. How is he so chipper?! He hates the pool. He couldn’t swim for so long, and he was rightfully terrified. He had once been thrown into the Gotham River as a child. Long story. They practice dives, rescues, they hold their breaths, and do another timed distance test. Jesus his lungs are going to quit on him and not because he use to smoke. On one of the rescues he pretty much kills Dick. Dick taps him twice in the water which means he needs to let him up because he is going to run out of air. Boom dead. Because that is what being a vigilante is. Constant life and death. Bruce doesn’t show much regarding disappointment, but still Jason drags himself out of the pool.
Bruce is sprinkling questions in the breaks now. How exactly is his mind supposed to run when the rest of him is mush. He can’t process this, and yet he still finds himself answering questions. He gets too many wrong. He is going to fail. One final round and then they should be done, and then he is going to bed. Is this child abuse. No, because Bruce made it clear that at any time he could… no he must ask to stop. Like that is going to stop him from running himself to shreds. Alfred is at least there to keep them fueled. There is food galore. Literal non-stop food train during the breaks.
Last one. Pull ups. The bar is a bit far up, and so he has to give it a few couple hops before he manages to snap on to the bar. That’s embarrassing. Dick looked about ready to offer him a boost. His arms are trembling. And he pulls and he pulls and he just barely makes it over the bar. It’s better than before. He use to not be able to do a single pull up, but still only one? He can do more than that. Dick just did like twenty or something stupid. He isn’t sure though he wasn’t paying attention he was just trying to put himself back together. He can do more. So he does, except that sounds a lot simpler than it is. He grunts and strains as he does his best to bring his chin over the bar. Two. Okay, one more. His body is trying to quit. Abort. Give out on him. No. That is three. His arms are shaky noodles on the bar. He can’t do anymore, maybe one more but that is all he has, “Bruce, Bruce,” Jason panted, “I only have one thing to say.”
“Yes Jason?” his voice is even tempered.
“Fuck you,” he pulled up one final time on the bar and then dropped down.
“You passed.”
“What?!”
“Jason these benchmarks are merely goals to work up to. Besides you meet basic physical requirements, and your in-field experience is infinitely more valuable. Being able to apply skills in real life situations is very different than knowing them,” Bruce’s hand laid on his shoulder, and a comforting warmth spread from Bruce’s palm. “Plus you are still young, your body is still developing and will be into yours early twenties. You will have plenty of time to become stronger. You did much better than Dick did his first time.” Is it bad that strokes his ego in just the right way? It makes sense Dick was a teeny tiny little tot and he was from the streets. Dick may have been the whole clown fiasco but he got into fights as a kid. Dickiebird had a protected child hood filled with love and hugs. Until you know… everything went into the crapper. Jason was a little excited for the next PST. He would train and get stronger. He did, and he was getting better and the next PST was going to be the one he got 10 pull ups that is until everything went into the crapper.
Being dead and unaffiliated with the bats minus the bat on his chest has some perks. Including but not limited to he doesn’t have to do those damn PSTs. Except he had been in the cave doing something that is no one else’s business, and he noticed that dreaded thing marked on the calendar. He was about to nope his ass out of there when Bruce popped up. No wonder Harley has a mallet to whack the Bat with, he likes to pop up like the little pain in the ass mole he is.
“Jason the quarterly PSTs are soon, I assume I will be seeing you then?” He doesn’t mean that, he means that Jason will be here or he will put on his big bad dad cape and pull Jason over to the cave no matter how much he kicks, screams, and wails.
Jason came. Bright and early for the first run. That’s right there is more than one run. This one in is through the woods for rough terrain and endurance. Then there is one in the cave that is flatter, and is for speed.
Jason arrived to find Dick in all of his glory in short shorts and no shirt doing the fucking salmon ladder like he was Oliver Queen. The salmon ladder is Oliver Queen’s only claim to fame, he sucks at everything else. Roy is a better shot then Ollie, but Oliver just won’t admit it. Roy has the better color scheme, Jason isn’t biased or anything. Plus Roy has the cutest kid in the world, not that the Red Hood finds anything remotely adorable. Well Dick just put Ollie to shame. He came to the top of the salmon ladder flipped over to the other side. To flip over he somehow managed to rotate himself as well so he would be facing the opposite direction and then he came down the other side. It’s just witchery. Dick barely breaks a sweat. Fucking golden boy.
Even as an adult the stupid evaluation is killer. Jason nearly wiped out on one of the laps around the cave, his arm were burning with the amount of pushups he did. Finally he has come to the last part. Bruce designed this to be the absolute worse; they are already wasted from the previous stages. Jason looked at the dreaded bar.
Bruce’s arms cross across his chest and his eyebrows twist as he waits for Jason to pop up on to the bar. Jason glared at the bar, sighed and jumped and attached to the bar above him. He started to pump up. Bruce was watching over like a dictator waiting for one screw up ready to correct any minute mistakes. What is the use of being able to do a pull up anyway? How many times do they actually do pull ups?
Jason is starting to fail, “You have to get your chin above the bar.” Jason huffed, and did his best and barely made it. Bruce was still watching him. Damn it he is not going to fail. He will squander away that look.
“Bruce,” Jason panted, “I only have one thing to say.”
“Yes Jason?”
“Fuck you.” He pulled up one final time on the bar and then dropped down. His body dropped heavy on to the ground. He straightened up, and pushed towards the showers, water, and Alfred’s cucumber sandwiches.
Bruce affirms to his retreating form, “Good job.” Fuck that shouldn’t do things to him, but it does. He feels warm, warm from the good burn and those words. Those words are going to haunt his dreams tonight. Good job.