Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Life's the furthest thing from easy when you're living in Gotham, and that goes for everyone, rich or poor, good or evil.

But you know what's even worse than living in Gotham?

Living in Gotham as a street urchin. Between the goons, the serial killers, the rapists, and—let's not forget—the Supervillains, honestly? I was just about ready to roll the dice a second time. And then I stumbled upon the Batman.

Mr. 'Peak-human-condition'…

Bruce-motherfucking-Wayne.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: The guy has to be high on Venom. An altered, diluted version maybe, but he has to be on something to be capable of the things he did, and still do on a daily basis.

Up until that point, I had never seen a man move that fast or hit that hard anywhere outside the news. Every punch cracked like thunder in my ears as I snuck behind the Batmobile, wondering which Deity I upset to stumble straight into someone's ongoing boss fight.

Predictably, I was taken hostage—by a skinhead, no less.

It was him who came to my rescue, and the best part? I didn’t even see what happened.

One moment I had a gun to my temple, the next, the criminal was already unconscious on the pavement, and in his place stood a 6’2ft mountain of muscle cloaked in black. And yes, he was wearing the V8.04. Shit was badass, I'll admit… And even scarier up-close, especially when he finally turned toward me.

I'd love to say I held my ground like a champ, but that'd be lying.

I was 100% shitting bricks.“

— [HELLBRED] —

“…”

“…”

“So… Uhm… Thanks?“

The Batman grunted in response, cape billowing behind him like it had a mind of its own, and knowing the self-proclaimed 'rich kid with issues,' it probably did.

How?

Prep-time, obviously.

“Look, dude, on my mama's grave I had, well, have nothing to do with this… I was just minding my own business, trying to keep out of harm's way when this fucking asshole—”

Whatever words were trying to claw their way out died in Rowan’s throat the moment the Dark Knight reached for him. As irrational as it was to think the Bat would bench-press a child through concrete, Rowan could not help but brace for impact—fully expecting to wake up in an ambulance next to the guy who just held him at gunpoint.

But the pain never came.

“You’re bleeding.” The Dark Knight mumbled gloomily.

“That's what happened when a car flew at you.“

His close-brush with Death had given Rowan such appreciation for life, and a mouth to match it too. 'Maybe Gotham's not so terrible, after all.' He thought, right before the burning car erupted in a fireball, spewing both smoke and car shrapnel at them—80's action movie style.

“Oh, shi—!”

Without hesitation, the figure in black jumped into action—his hand closing tightly around Rowan’s, cowl covering the boy from the licking flame as he pointed the grappling gun toward one of Gotham’s ever-watchful, if weatherworn gargoyles.

The next moment, Rowan found himself yanked into the air, blinking rapidly as the rush of wind worsened the sting in his eyes and stole the breath from his lungs. Within mere seconds, the chaos below shrank into a distant blur of sirens and fire, the burning car reduced to a flickering patch of light beneath them as they landed on the rooftop. Well, Batman did. Rowan was just along for the ride.

"Thanks." Rowan said while brushing the soot off his pants.

The Bat glanced down at him, voice like gravel dragged across iron.

"This part of town isn't safe… Where do you live?“

Rowan huffed, flicking a shard of glass off his collar. "This is Gotham. Every part of town is unsafe."

"Your address."

Rowan blinked. "What, no disappearing act?"

Batman didn't humor him with an answer, he just waited.

"As much as I'd love a trip in that fancy car of yours, that was my house.“ Rowan never thought there'd come a day he call such a dump his house, but it was abandoned, warm and cozy enough, the blackened bloodstains on the wall asides. Sadly, it's a bit too warm now that the fire had spread to it as well, which also meant he better hurry or all the benches in Wayne Park would be occupied.

Alternatively, he could ask Bruce to take him in.

God knew the man was in desperate need of spare Robins, but his pride would not let him. He'd not beg.

“And your parents?“

“One dead, the other absent.“ He still remembered the silhouette of the woman who had birthed him in this life, but his pop? The guy had been playing hide-n'-seek for 11 years now, and he doubted that'd change any time soon.

“You have nowhere else to go?“

“I'll figure something out.“

Rowan had made it this far, he wasn’t about to fold over a little hiccup.

Quiet as a whisper, he crept toward the emergency exit while the Dark Knight stood still, gaze fixed on the bat-shaped light burning through Gotham night sky. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest when a hand landed on his shoulder. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“This won’t take long.” Bruce wasn’t lying.

Soaring across the city, they covered miles in a matter of minutes, before stopping in front of a modest building.

“Wayne Foundation Youth Home“ The plaque read in bright, bold letters.

Rowan had heard about this place in passing.

It's far from the only orphanage in Gotham, but it's apparently the cleanest and best-funded.

No surprise there given the vast, unimaginable wealth Wayne Enterprises commanded.

The reasons Rowan had steered clear of the place until now were the sheer difficulty of navigating Gotham and tracking down an orphanage that had been rebuilt three times due to supervillain attacks; and the fact that, like every other orphanage in this hellhole of a city, it was almost always packed to the brim, but mainly and ironically, the admittedly irrational fear of giving the Bat a reason to suspect him.

“Go inside and ask for shelter. Someone will come get you in the morning.“

“Wha—I can't just—” Rowan turned on his heel, only to find the space behind him already empty.

“Dick.” He muttered, more impressed than annoyed, as he paced outside the establishment, steeling himself to do the unthinkable for any self-respecting street urchin: Admit himself to an orphanage. “Here goes nothing.“ Peering through the window, Rowan took a long, steadying breath, then raised his hand and rapped on the solid piece of oakwood.

An old woman with kind eyes and a smile that had likely comforted generations before him opened the door. “Well, hello there, dear. Did you get lost?”

Rowan shook his head, pointing his thumb where he'd been a minute ago. “Sorry for troubling you this late. My name's Rowan Locke. I was brought here by the Batman, ma’am. He said someone would come for me in the morning.”

“Oh, dear, let me get a good look at you.”

Her smile immediately softened, gaze now touched with pity and sympathy as she took in his appearance, before stepping aside and ushering him in.

A hot meal that didn’t taste like cardboard, a warm shower that didn’t require him to dunk himself in the toxic waste separating Old Gotham and Mid-Town, clean clothes that didn’t itch like crazy, and bandages that weren’t just strips of torn shirts—God, had it really been so long that he's this grateful to receive the most basic of human needs?

And then he remembered where he was.

In Gotham, there were no rights, only hard-earned privileges and how far one's willing to go to retain them.

By the time he made it to the main room, Rowan looked almost unrecognizable. “Come, dear.“

Mrs. Murriel called, stopping just short of the stairs. “Let's get you to bed.“

A bed sounded nice, but, “Can I just take the armchair?“

There were plenty of adjectives one could throw at Gotham: Rich. Corrupt. Menacing, even. But no one in their right mind would call it big. That meant the first floor only had one bedroom, and it belonged to Mrs. Murriel.

The kids all bunked on the floors above, and Rowan wasn't comfortable with that.

If he’d learned anything in the past eleven years, it's if something could go wrong in Gotham, it in all likelihood would, and hence why he wanted the chair, which had its back to the front door, a clear line to the window in case shit hit the fan and it's just large enough to give him cover.

It was objectively the safest spot.

Better that than getting funneled down a narrow staircase with no exits or jumping out a second-story window hoping not to snap his ankle. Besides, like the Bat said: Someone was coming for him in the morning. Fortunately, Mrs. Murriel didn’t question his choice. Rowan wasn’t the first kid to sleep with one eye on the door, and he wouldn't be the last.

"Are you sure, dear? That old thing's a bit bumpy."

"Positive, ma'am. I've slept on worse."

"That's not something to be proud of." Murriel chided, placing a warm glass of milk in his hand and giving his head a gentle pat before heading to her room. "If you need anything, don't be shy."

“I know. Thank you, ma'am.“

Under the dim light of the orphanage, Rowan sat in silence, quietly contemplating his situation. Sleep would’ve been nice, but he'd always been restless at night. Odd, considering he also liked mornings, despite how dead he usually felt during—a remnant of his previous life, no doubt. Kicking his legs back and forth, he stared aimlessly at the ceiling, waiting.

It wasn’t until the first ray cut through the gloom that he finally blinked—hollow-eyed, awake, but utterly exhausted—as the light hit his skin and burned his retinas. With a groan, Rowan rolled over the armrest in search of darkness, sighing in relief as the discomfort faded into the shadows.

He's still there, slumped over and drifting in and out of sleep, long after the kids had filed down the stairs and disappeared in the school bus.

He’d never seen kids that excited to go to school, but for them, it's not so much an obligation and more a privilege. Most street urchins in Gotham never got the chance to rise up.

They just ended up working for shady black-companies—usually fronts run by Supervillains—and feeding the same cycle of crime they're born into. “You look exhausted, dear… Rough night?“

“I have a condition. It's nothing to worry about,” Rowan hurried to clarify. “It just makes me a bit lethargic during the day. I'm used to it.“

“Do you want to lie down while you wait? You can use my bed if you want.”

“That…”

The automatic 'Won't be necessary' died on his tongue as he thought about how nice a nap would be. “That sounds nice. Can you—”

“I’ll call you if anyone comes asking, don’t worry. Is there anything I should look out for?”

Rubbing his eyes, Rowan yawned and answered. “I don't know. Batman didn't tell me.“ Chances were Alfred would come get him himself, but Rowan couldn't exactly tell her that. Mrs. Murriel's still working for Wayne Enterprises. However kind she seemed, she was still legally obligated to report anything unusual to her employer, and Rowan couldn't risk that.

“Alright. You go on then.“ He didn’t even remember lying down, only the pleasant sensation of the bedsheet against his skin while the world around him dulled. After a whole year of concrete, crates, damp floors and unwashed sleeping bags, 'Finally. A real bed.'

Snoring softly, Rowan felt the last bit of his consciousness slip away.

“Rowan?”

He awoke to the harsh afternoon glare, eyes adjusting just in time to catch Murriel’s warm smile beside the bed.

“Someone’s looking for you.“ That someone turned out to be exactly who he expected—Alfred Pennyworth, dressed as sharply as ever, with the kind of posture that made everyone else feel inferior just by existing.

The butler's hair had gone mostly white, but there were still streaks of black and brown scattered throughout—enough to suggest this was still early in the timeline.

Rowan had suspected as much ever since he found out the Justice League wasn’t a thing yet. Still, having it confirmed felt different—real.

“Master Rowan, I have come on behalf of Mr. Wayne.” Alfred lowered himself to one knee, gloved hand extending with practiced grace. “The next decision will shape the rest of your life… You can come with me and be adopted into the Wayne family… Or remain here until a foster home becomes available.”

Translation: Be Robin, or stay an expendable orphan doomed to be vaporized the second Darkseid, or whichever cosmic nightmare-of-the-week decided to visit Earth.

“Hell yeah!“ Rowan responded, slipping his hand into Alfred’s without a second thought.

And that's that.

The drive to the Wayne Estate was as long and winding as expected, but it wasn’t the distance that unsettled Rowan—it was the wait.

It couldn’t be helped.

He was, for all intents and purposes, completely at the mercy of the Batman and no matter how polite Alfred had been, that was a fact that sat heavy in his gut. “Don’t look so worried, Master Rowan. Master Bruce doesn’t bite, I promise.”

'Yeah,' Rowan thought. 'He only beats you to near death and hoist you with a 75K medical bill.'

“If I may ask, Mr. Pennyworth…”

“Please, just call me Alfred,” The butler said with a faint note of disapproval as he glanced at the rearview mirror.

“Well then, Alfred—what exactly is Mr. Wayne’s connection to the Batman?”

Risky, Rowan knew.

Maybe even reckless.

But if he was going to be adopted by Bruce Wayne, he sure as hell wasn’t passing up the chance to learn the Tibetan technique that let the 'peak human' survive being tackled by a Joker-toxined Wonder Woman through several walls and buildings. 'Human my ass.'

Grip tightening on the leather-cladded steering wheel, Alfred Pennyworth was rendered speechless by his forthrightness. To the man's credit, he managed to collect himself rather quickly. “That is not my secret to tell, Master Rowan.“

“Fair enough.” The so-called Master said with a nod. “I’ll ask him myself.”

Just then, the car rounded a corner, and the Wayne Estate came into view, less a mansion and more a private fortress dressed in gothic architecture.

The old stone walls crawled with ivy, the windows stretched tall and narrow like watchful eyes, and the iron gate at the front looked like it hadn’t opened for anyone who didn’t in decades. The entire building screamed money—old, cold money. “Here we are; your new home.“

“Home, sweet home, am I right?”

“That’s the spirit, Master Rowan!” Alfred replied, a trace of warmth slipping into his tone as they entered the Estate's premise.

“Hmmm… Place looks a lot nicer up close.“

“It is nice, but so very cold.” Nostalgia clung to Alfred’s voice as his eyes drifted for but a moment. “With you here, let’s hope it gets a bit cozier.”

“… Just out of curiosity, what’s the upkeep on this place?”

Rowan asked as the wrought-iron gates creaked open.

“You know—cleaners, taxes, all that jazz?”

“Aren’t you a bit young to be asking about that?”

“Mr. Pennyworth—”

“Alfred.“ The butler corrected sternly.

“Alfred, you’re never too young to learn how to keep the IRS off your ass. God knows school doesn't teach us how to do our taxes enough… Personally, I blame the 'No Child Left Behind Act.'”

Chuckling at the boy’s deadpan delivery, arms crossed like he already owned the place, the butler snorted. “I think you’ll fit right in, Master Rowan.”

Climbing out of the Rolls-Royce, the boy trailed behind Alfred like a baby duckling, keeping close as they made their way to the front door. He half-expected Batman to be waiting on the other side, arms crossed and looming.

Instead, he's greeted by a spacious, empty living room—polished, classy, and yet eerily still. “I'll show you around first. Then you can see Master Bruce and ask whatever you wish. Deal?“

“Deal.“

And thus, after a quick tour of the Wayne Estate, the two finally stopped in front of the master bedroom where the butler quickly excused himself. “Forgive me, Master Rowan, but I still have a few more matters to attend to—the adoption procedures, for example. Will you be alright on your own?“

“We’ll see…” Rowan muttered under his breath before knocking. “Thanks for the tour, Alfred. If I don’t make it out—avenge me.”

“And how do you suggest I do that?” The butler asked with a laugh.

“I don’t know, make him eat more broccoli?”

“Come on in!”

'Here goes nothing.' Bracing himself, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it quietly behind him. “Mr. Wayne?“

The man sitting before him looked nothing like the caped terror who’d dropped from the sky just the night before.

Bruce Wayne was clean-cut, composed, dressed in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit that probably cost more than everything Rowan had ever owned, combined. His hair was slicked back, his face clean-shaven, his expression disarmingly calm.

And yet, beneath all that charm and luxuries, there was clearly something to him.

His posture was a bit too perfect, his movements too controlled—small things really, barely noticeable on their own, but together they added up.

“Please,” The Dark Knight said, gesturing to the seat beside him with a smile that felt a bit too forced to Rowan, but maybe it's just him… He did always have a knack for discerning people's intentions and emotions. “Call me Bruce. I take it Alfred’s filled you in?”

Rowan didn’t respond right away.

If he wanted answers, he'd have to play the Dark Knight’s game.

“Rowan, is something wrong?”

Walking toward the billionaire playboy, Rowan raised a hand to cover the upper half of his face and narrowed his eyes. It's all part of the act, of course, but whether it'd be enough to throw off the Batman remained to be seen.

“Mr. Wayne, can you repeat after me?”

“I beg your pardon?” Bruce asked, brow arching.

“Humor me.“ Rowan deadpanned.

Bruce chuckled—too forced to be sincere, but played along with a theatrical bow of his head.

“I am vengeance. I am the night. I AM BATMAN!” The Dark Knight, understandably, did not look amused one bit as he denied. “That is ridiculous.“

Fortunately, Rowan had predicted this reaction.

Bruce wasn’t just going to hand him the answer, but if he stayed on the offensive, the mask was bound to crack eventually.

“Not from where I'm standing.”

Rowan shot back. “Might I suggest a voice modulator, an inch or two in the boots, and maybe, just maybe a full mask that covers your mouth too?“

“…”

“…”

“You know.” And just like that, the facade slipped—gone was the charming billionaire, and in his place stood the man who prowled rooftops to beat the brakes off criminals… A man who, for all accounts, was no man at all.

“I suspected,” Rowan said, lying through his teeth. “Now I know.”

“Why are you here then?“

“Because there’s a man flying unaided in Metropolis, a woman in D.C. who shrugs off tank shells, and a guy here in Gotham who takes out entire gangs before breakfast. And then there’s me—helpless against kids from my own block. You can change that. You are the only human who can… And will.”

Bruce sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

His eyes sharpened, gaze heavy, though thankfully not hostile.

He wasn’t looking at Rowan so much as reading the boy.

The silence stretched just long enough to sting before he finally asked. “What is your purpose?“

“Power,” Rowan answered without missing a beat. “And the right to have a say in my own life.”

Reclining in his chair, the Dark Knight demanded. “Tell me about yourself.”

— [HELLBRED] —

“And so I spoke. I spoke a lot, mainly about my life experiences up to that point; about the other street urchins and how they—we fought for scraps in the back alleys. I talked about the scamming and human trafficking ring I briefly got tangled up in when I was five. You wouldn't believe the money to be made in those, trust me.

I talked and talked… Probably more than I should have.

What can I say?

There were a lot in my mind at the time, and I really, really wanted to tutor under Batman. Yeah, yeah, there are other amazing Supes around too, but, like, it's Batman. Need I say more?

I think he saw a bit of himself in me—a scruffier, mouthier version with the colors flipped. And yeah, turns out having naturally white hair is still weird in Gotham. You’d think this city had seen enough freaks to be used to it by now.

I figured Bruce would get tired of my rambling eventually, but he listened—really listened—right up until nightfall. Then, without missing a beat, he just said, “Be up at three,” and walked out…

And just like that, I was in.

There's no grand ceremony, no secret handshake, just a quiet command and a door closing behind him. I was excited, as anybody would be in my shoes, and made absolutely no attempt to hide it.

Which, in hindsight, made it all the more embarrassing when training finally rolled around, and I was already ready to tap out before the first day was even over. And to make it worse, all I had to eat the months after were steamed broccoli and skinless chicken breasts. Apparently, Bruce had overheard my little jab with Alfred and decided to make it personal. The petty bastard.

All jokes aside, I really couldn’t complain.

I had a roof over my head, a bed that felt like a damn cloud, warmth in the Winter and air conditioner in the Summer.

Even my meals were brought by Alfred—good, old, trusty Alfred, who felt so human, so real.

The man loves pudding, watches UK dramas at exactly 14:00 every day, has a soft spot for dogs and somehow this fucking dude was keeping the whole Estate both functional and clean!

Hell, even Bruce had his likes and dislikes, and that, that changed something in me.

As a filthy casual comic fan, I only really knew the Batman, but Bruce? Bruce was far more layered and complicated than any show, movie, or comic ever let on.

They both had their flaws, sure, but in a way, that only endeared them to me all the more.

There’s little as heartwarming—or mildly horrifying—as watching Alfred 'regurgitate' food because Bruce 'just couldn’t find the time to eat,' or so he claimed. It was nice, though. It's oddly… Homey.“

— [HELLBRED] —

“Master Bruce, need I spoon-feed you like I did in the past?” Grunting in response, the Dark Knight grabbed the chicken sandwich, shoved it into his mouth before resuming his research. “Killer Croc broke out of the Asylum yesterday and has left a trail of bodies since… I need to find him quickly.”

“Be that as it may, you'll be of no help to anyone exhausted and hungry. Please, Master Bruce. For this old man's peace of mind.“

Guilted into submission successfully, the Dark Knight sighed and finally stepped away from his $50K-worth of hardwares to dig into a bowl of mashed potatoes and shredded chicken with cheese—the healthy kind.

“How's he?“

“Master Rowan’s absolutely ecstatic that you agreed to train him. It’s been the only thing out of his mouth all day. He also mentioned he would not wear tights or anything made out of spandex. If my memory hasn’t failed me in my old age,” Alfred continued dryly, “I believe his exact words were: ‘'Cause mah balls needs to breath.’”

The silence lingered as Batman finished the last of the soup, reluctantly conceding, if only inwardly, that Alfred had a point.

He did feel stronger now that his stomach wasn’t running on fumes.

“You disapprove?” He asked quietly.

“Not quite,” Alfred replied, folding the tray back into his hands. “I’m just wondering why.”

“Because he's smart, observant, and determined. He’s already survived longer than most in this city with nothing but his wits. That kind of resilience matters.“

“But?“ The butler prompted, and the Dark Knight obliged. “But more than that… I sense something familiar in him. The anger, the need for control, the hunger to never be powerless again. If I don’t guide that, someone else will; someone who might not have his best interests in mind. Does that answer your question?“

The man who had been his father longer than his real one simply nodded, quietly gathering the empty bowls before heading for the door. But, just before stepping out, he glanced back.

“Then let’s make sure we’re the ones who get to him first.”

And then the door clicked shut behind him.

Left alone to brood, Bruce leaned back in his chair, the cowl half-pulled off, steam still rising from the mug in his hands as he rubbed his temples.

He hadn’t signed up for a kid.

Hadn’t meant to make room in the cave or involve anyone in his nightly routine,

Or memorize someone else’s schedule,

Or have to adjust his patrol hours around tutoring an eleven-year-old with a chip on his shoulder and a sharp tongue to boot, but here he was, just hoping he'd do a better job being a father than he had culling the Evils of Gotham.

The good news?

At least he had a catchy slogan now.

“I am vengeance. I am the night. I am BATMAN!’”

Chapter Text

"You ever seen one of those movie training montages? My life after getting adopted by Batman was basically that—except it didn’t wrap up in a few minutes with a triumphant fist-pump.

It was months of train, eat, shit, piss, drink, repeat. I'd be lying if I said the thought of giving up—of settling for being able to fight off crooks and goons did not cross my mind a thousand times during that first month.

Didn’t help that I was absolute garbage at anything physical, thanks to the whole ‘starving orphan’ thing which, while no fault of my own, didn’t make it any less soul-crushing to realize it took me nearly a half a day just to cover a single lap around the Estate.

Even with Alfred’s extensive care, there was scarcely a day I didn’t crawl into bed beaten, bruised, and barely conscious, but eventually, my Constitution started to improve.

Sure, I wasn’t taking down full-grown adults or getting the upper hand on Batman, but I was getting better.

I could feel it in my bones—literally—as the micro-fractures from punching tree bark healed and hardened. I could even see the muscle growth in real time, thanks to Bruce’s ridiculously advanced training facility. And there was no better motivation than being able to actually quantify your gains.

It took over a year—closer to two—but eventually, I was acing every course the Dark Knight threw my way.

That’s when he raised the stakes.

How, you ask? By throwing himself into the ring.

I gotta hand it to Gotham’s Supervillains—those lunatics really had balls of steel to come crawling back for more even after taking the full brunt of the 'Batman Special.' But even steel can be folded, as Bruce had, would, and is still proving as we speak… Our first spar was fucking brutal.

Mind you, I wasn’t even aiming to land a hit, just survive a full minute, and I still failed…

Shit, with the way he was throwing those punches and kicks, I’m pretty sure I’d have a solid case if I ever decided to report him to CPS…

Then again, it’s not all bad.

Hell, if it weren’t for that hellish regimen, I probably would've died a thousand times over… In all honesty, I’m thankful to Bruce. No, really, I am.

But don’t go mentioning that to him or I’m gonna be under your bed tonight, got it?“

— [HELLBRED] —

“So, what’s on the menu today? Kicking more trees? Lifting heavier crap? Running laps until I throw up?”

The Dark Knight practically glided across the polished floor, taking position at the far end of the ring before motioning his adoptive son forward.

“You’ve learned the basics. Conditioned your body. Now it’s time I test your combat effectiveness.” Rowan blinked—once, twice, then a third time—his tongue darting out to wet his suddenly dry lips as his face lost some color. He was prideful, sure, even vain at times, but there was a fine line between confidence and outright stupidity. It's not like he hadn't seen this coming, but he thought Bruce would give him a three years grace-period at least.

“You’re gonna take it easy on me, right?”

“…”

“Right?!”

“If you want to walk this path, you need more than strength. You need clarity under pressure, discipline amidst chaos, and the tolerance to take a hit and keep going… Pain is part of the lesson. Learn to endure it.” Bruce responded calmly, voice flat as a board as he tossed a pair of boxing gloves near Rowan's feet. “I will pull my punches, but don’t expect mercy.“

“Well, that's reassuring.” Rowan had seen Batman pull his punches before, and the pavement hadn’t been kind to the criminal on the receiving end.

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Sarcasm, old man. Sarcasm.“

"I know." Batman's tone stayed flat throughout as he shifted into a boxing stance. "You will need that mouth sharp when the rest of you gives."

"... Dude, that was so fucking unnecessary."

"Consider it a lesson in psychological warfare."

Rowan barely had time to slip the gloves on before Bruce came in low and fast, a blur of motion more machine than man.

1…

The first jab caught him square in the gut—not hard enough to rupture an organ, but just enough to make him double over and wheeze, before diving under the following kick.

2…

Before he could recover, a leg sweep knocked his feet clean off the mat.

3…

Rowan hit the ground with a grunt, already regretting every smart-ass comment he'd made that morning.

4…

He rolled just in time to dodge a follow-up elbow, sweat already stinging his eyes as he scrambled to his feet.

5…

His vision tunneled, instincts finally kicking in. He threw out a wild haymaker that, by some miracles, actually slipped past Bruce's defense, only to be deflected with a flick of his wrist as he countered with a hook that cracked against Rowan’s guard like a baseball bat.

6…

Pain flared through his arm, but Rowan managed to stay upright, skidding across the ring.

7…

Bruce didn’t follow up—just watched, silent and still, all while mentally calculating how much force to dial back on the next strike. “You blocked that. Congrats.”

8…

Even through the pain, Rowan still caught the insincerity bleeding through the words, his eye twitching in annoyance. “Ar-Are you trying that positive reinforcement shit on me?”

9…

Bruce adjusted his stance and walked forth, menacingly. “Would you prefer I list every mistake you made instead?”

10… 11… 12…

Wincing as he raised his guard, Rowan muttered, “Ask me again when my ribs stop fucking vibrating.“

13…

How the hell did the other Robins do this on the regular? Daily sparring with Gotham’s personal 'Boogeyman' wasn’t training—it was slow-burn masochism with a bat motif. Maybe they all just had a screw loose. Or maybe he did, for even agreeing to this in the first place.

14…

Rowan feinted surrender, then surged in with a right hook aimed square at Bruce’s jaw, only for the man to tilt out of the way. Fist brushing against the cowl, Rowan couldn't help but click his tongue. So close. He was so damn close…

15…

The thrill of almost landing a strike jolted through his battered frame. Pivoting sharply, Rowan used Bruce’s forearm as leverage to drive his knee upward toward the man's chin—only to click his tongue in frustration when it slammed into an open palm instead.

16… 17… 18…

“You’re improving.” The Bat grunted, the compliment more a formality than anything.

19… 20… 21…

“Thanks. I learned from the best!” Rowan twisted in with a follow-up elbow, pouring every ounce of momentum into the strike. It should have landed—would have—if Bruce hadn’t shifted his weight at the last second, sidestepping the blow and catching Rowan’s arm mid-swing in one fluid motion.

22… 23…

In the same breath, Bruce’s leg hooked behind Rowan’s, and with a subtle shift of balance, the boy found himself airborne—then very much not as the mat rushed to meet him. “Oh, shi—!”

24… 25… 26…

The floor met him with all the tenderness of a cinder block.

27… 28…

Groaning, Rowan blinked past the static clouding his vision—just in time to spot the shadow of the Bat already circling like a shark smelling blood. "Fuck… Where's the damn bell when you need it?! Okay, okay—time-out!“

“There are no time-outs on the street, Rowan.” Bruce reminded, but didn’t press the attack, opting instead to sit cross-legged beside the wheezing boy, composed as ever, like he hadn’t just judo-slammed the kid into the floorboards. Rolling on his stomach and clutching his back, Rowan crawled to his knees. “Well, good thing this ain't street, then.“

Waiting for the boy to catch his breath, Bruce finally asked—voice infuriatingly serene. “Ready for Round Two?”

“What?! Fuck no!“

All the mid-fight buffs in the world couldn’t convince him to step back into the ring with the Dark Knight a second time—or so Rowan thought.

Regrettably, his body; his stupid, traitorous body hadn't seemed to get the memo, rising anyway, shaky yet defiant as it settled into a stance like it had something to prove.

“You stupid asshole, Rowan,” The boy muttered under his breath, shaking away the pain as if it’d make a difference. Then, reaching behind his back, he retrieved the collapsible staff with a soft click. “You don’t mind if I even the odds a bit, do you?“

“If you think that'll help.“

The staff felt heavier than usual.

Or maybe it's his arms that were slower, palms sweatier.

Either way, Rowan moved like he was underwater, lagging a beat behind whatever instinct tried to fire off as he spun wide and missed.

The staff hissed again, carving at empty space as he snapped into a low sweep, hoping to catch something, anything.

Instead, it was nudged off-course by a precise, yet deceptively slow nudge that instantly disrupted his tempo.

His weapon skipped against the floor with a clack that echoed louder than it should have, as a rapid sequence of actions followed while the Bat danced around his attacks.

Surging forward for a heavy backhand, Rowan frowned as he was intercepted mid-motion and redirected 'toward' his fallen staff.

He recovered and lunged forth, weapon drawing a half-arc that was stopped dead between Bruce's palms.

Rowan knew he's never going to win in a contest of strength, so he didn't even try, his grip loosening as he lashed out with a kick aimed at the Dark Knight's ribs, missing yet again as he's tossed to the other side of the ring where he crashed against the wall with enough force to knock the air out of his lungs.

36…

“Again…”

He aimed high; it was swatted low.

He ducked under what he thought might be a counter, but nothing came, which lost him his rhythm and weapon both. The staff hit the mat and rolled once, twice before coming to a halt just like its wielder.

13…

“Again!” Rowan yelled, with much less enthusiasm this time and, as expected, was put on his backside once more.

26…

“I-I didn't hear a bell!”

4...

Grunting and groaning like a cornered beast, he rolled on all fours to gather the strength and steady himself while the world around him blurred.

He made it three whole steps before his knees buckled from under him.

Rowan blinked as the staff clattered beside him.

He hadn’t even raised it that round. Still, he reached for it, nails scraping against the cool metal as though the act of holding it would trick his body into cooperating. No such luck.

The ceiling swam somewhere above him.

Hard to tell if it was actually moving or if it's just his brain sloshing around in his skull. Frankly, Rowan couldn’t find it in himself to care as he heaved, shirt clinging to him like a second skin. And was that regret he tasted? Oh, wait, it's just blood. “I think that’s enough for today.”

“Funny.“ He coughed. “I thi–I think so too.”

The words barely made it out—slurred, muffled, detached—as he got sent straight to the Shadow Realm with a lone, half-conscious thought rattling in his head: 'Screw it… I'm taking a day off.' And then the world went completely silent for Rowan.

Not for the Dark Knight though, and certainly not for the horrified Alfred watching the two of them from the shadows.

“Master Bruce, that was far too much!”

Alfred’s voice echoed through the cavernous training hall, sharper than any reprimand he’d issued in years.

Bruce didn’t turn. He simply stared down at Rowan’s unconscious form, the boy sprawled on the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, chest rising and falling in rapid shallow bursts while fresh bruises bloomed across his almost pale grey skin.

“But a necessity, Alfred,” Bruce answered, feeling like a child all over again upon spotting the butler's glare. “Criminals won’t pull their punches just because he is a child; I can’t afford to either.”

“A child,” Alfred repeated, walking closer, his tone biting now. “Yes, Master Bruce. A child, one whom you just beat senseless!“

Bruce’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing as he knelt beside Rowan to check his pulse.

It was strong and steady, despite everything—likely the result of a minor healing factor linked to his heritage.

Bruce hadn’t left that to guesswork, of course.

It had taken him hours to collect and send the blood samples when the boy first arrived, weeks to identify the nonhuman markers in the boy’s DNA, and nearly three months to track down someone who might actually understand what he was dealing with. But his instincts had been right.

Taking the boy in wasn’t just a mercy—it's a necessity.

Had he been left to fester in the bowel of Gotham, that kind of power would've eaten him alive from the inside out. Still, all the enhanced recovery in the world didn’t make Rowan look any less frighteningly still as he lay there.

“Then convince him it’s best he keeps out of your extracurricular activities!“ Alfred snapped. “He will pout, yes, but he will understand your decision in due time!”

“You saw him; saw how he kept getting back up.” Bruce’s voice hardened. “He wouldn’t accept being benched, Alfred. And even if he did…!”

The Dark Knight trailed, the hesitation in his voice catching Alfred off guard.

For once, the butler didn’t have a sharp retort waiting as he studied Bruce’s expression.

“What did you find out about Rowan?” Asked Alfred, far quieter this time.

Picking up his unconscious protégé, Bruce strode toward the elevator, gesturing with a tilt of his head for Alfred to follow.

“What do you know about Demons?”

— [HELLBRED] —

“You wouldn’t guess how relieved I was when I got let off the hook the next morning.

Sparring with Batman is one thing…

Getting your Soul punted into orbit, and then being told to suck it up and go to school where I would be stuck sharing a desk with that one gremlin who treated his boogers like goddamn wallpaper paste is practically a war crime.

Sadly, all good things come to an end.

Before long, I was back to juggling school and training. Whoever I used to be clearly wasn’t much of a student, because I barely recalled half the crap they were teaching, but I wanted a fallback plan in case the Superhero thing fell through, so I did the unthinkable…

I applied myself.

Even managed to pull off some pretty decent grades and as my reward, Bruce and Alfred allowed me the freedom to design my very own costume.

Pretty cool, right? I mean, sure—it eventually got trashed, but it was my first-ever supersuit. It had a lot of sentimental value…

Real shame what happened to it, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Now! Where was I?

Oh, right—my Robin costume.

If there’s one thing I’m actually thankful for, it’s that this version of Bruce believes in armor, because if he’d handed me that green fucking speedo Silver Age Grayson got, I think I would have defected to the Joker.“

— [HELLBRED] —

“Ooh, what does this do?” Rowan asked. Curious as he was, he didn’t touch it, but he did point at the matte black pack.

It wasn’t some clunky rucksack or standard-issue utility belt extension. This piece of equipment looked custom—sleek and sharp-edged, with angular plates stacked like folded wings forming a stylized V-shape.

One thing's for certain though, it's definitely not decorative. "You said you didn’t want a cape, so I readjusted the design. The backplate contains compressed memory cloth. When charged, it'll unfold into wing gliders. Same principle as my suit. It also doubles as a second utility belt complete with comms, grapple line, smoke pellets, a miniaturized nuclear reactor, and two collapsible drones.“

“…You put a nuclear power source in my suit?” Rowan gawked, eyes wide.

“I didn't, Lucius did. And it’s not as dramatic as it sounds.” The Dark Knight calmly replied. “The core simply ensures every function can run at full capacity without interruption. It should last you a three to five years, but don't take that as cue to skip regular checks or maintenance.“

“… Bruce.“ Rowan tearfully blinked. “No homo, but there's no known word that can properly convey the depth of my love for you right now.“

The Dark Knight snorted—snorted!

“Wait. Your suit will be ready soon.”

“Can I help?”

Rowan didn’t think there was much he could do to improve the suit, but it couldn't hurt to know how all the parts fit together just in case.

The detachable backplate was just the start of what made his Robin Suit worth salivating over.

“There’s the Batclaw,” Bruce gestured. “It has three functions, switchable on the fly. One pulls you toward a target, one pulls it toward you, and the third does both. It’s built to boost your mobility and make up for your physical limitations. There’s also a cartridge inside that electrifies the line, which should be useful for takedowns. You can charge it with your belt.”

“I don’t get it… How’s that different from the grappling hooks in my backplate?”

“The Batclaw’s built with a weaker engine and a shorter range. It’s not meant for distance, as opposed to your backplate which was designed to punch through concrete and reach up to a thousand feet for gliding, and faster, smoother acceleration.“

If he hadn’t been impressed before, he damn well was now. “How the Hell did you cram all that in?”

“Money.“

“No, seriously—how?“

“About $50 million sunk into miniaturizing military tech. Another $75 million covered development. Most of it’s been incorporated into Wayne Enterprises—products, services, R&D.”

“… Must be nice to have infinite money.“

“Not quite. Wayne Enterprises is currently only valued at $318 billion.”

“Only? Only?!“ Fighting the urge to rip his hair out of his scalp, Rowan yelled in exasperation.

Inwardly amused by Rowan's reaction, but outwardly cold, the Dark Knight quickly glossed over a few more tools before heading toward a darkened glass display. “There are more tools, but let's get to the star of today's show.“

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, forcing Rowan to squint before he fully took in the sight of his Robin suit—a streamlined, battle-ready outfit that combined function with subtle edge.

The suit's base was a dark, matte-black material with just a hint of metallic sheen, wrapping his body in a second skin designed for maximum mobility.

Reinforced padding lines the chest, shoulders, forearms, and shins, offering enhanced protection without sacrificing agility.

His shins are protected by sleek, angular knee guards connected to a pair of sturdy combat boots to complete the look.

Standing in front of the suit display, arms crossed, the faint hum of the Batcave's generators buzzing in the background, Rowan silently ran his arm down the 'R' stitched to the left side of its chest. “You know, if this whole heroism and billionaire playboy thing doesn't work out, I think you could make a killing designing and making supersuits.”

“And get paid in ‘thank-yous?’”

The Dark Knight didn’t look up as he replied fingers sliding over the touchscreen before he turned, grabbed the final piece of the suit, and dropped it on the desk. Then he pulled a small, matte-black bag from the drawer and loosened the drawstring.

“Urgh… What ridiculous Bat-gadget is that?”

As cool as they were, Rowan was already getting a headache trying to remember them all; adding another to the pile was just going to make it that much worse.

“Bolts.“ Without a word, Bruce then pulled out a small, heavy-duty bag and loosened the drawstring, revealing a set of compact bolts. “This is to secure the backplate, it will lock in through reinforced anchors along the spine so it won’t shift under momentum.”

“…”

“…”

“What are you waiting for? You said you wanted to install it yourself, right?” Bruce asked, stepping back and placing the bag on the table in front of Rowan.

There was something about piecing the suit together that made his heart skip a beat—an odd thrill that settled perfectly between joy and satisfaction.

Rowan could only assume this was how it felt to work on your own car, to tighten bolts, check the fit, customize every part to one's whims.

Only, instead of a car, it was a million-dollar supersuit designed for urban warfare. And instead of a garage, he was in the Batcave—surrounded by crime-fighting relics, cutting-edge tech, and a man who treated silence like punctuation. Tomato, tomahto. Fitting all the bolts into place, Rowan watched in awe as the suit hissed like a living thing, the motors in the sockets along its spine tightening the carbon-fiber bolts even further.

"There's a room over there. Go get changed, we'll head out in 5."

Rowan turned, snapping back to reality. “Head out? What do you mean?”

Back to the boy, Bruce explained curtly. “We’re going on patrol.”

“Patrol? Now?!”

“Yes… Your job is recon—stay sharp, field-test the equipment, and report anything that underperforms.”

“Bruce… You're not using me as a guinea pig, are you?“

“You'll be fine. I built them to work.“

“That's not as reassuring as you think!“

But the Dark Knight had already disappeared into the elevator with a smirk.

“Bruce!!!“

Left to his lonesome; caught between excitement and anxiety, Rowan stared for a beat, as if waiting for the punchline. When none came, he sighed and practically skipped toward the changing room. The thrill dulled slightly when he stepped inside. The space was bare—no benches, no niceties, nothing but cold metal walls and a lone mirror hanging in the corner.

It was functional, but not very welcoming.

Clearly, Bruce had never intended for anyone else to use the place.

But Gotham didn’t care about a person's intentions or plans, even if said person was the Batman himself.

Eagerly prying the Robin suit open, Rowan hummed at the sight of the plastic-like clasps and ridges lining the interior… There was still one more thing the Batman had forgotten to mention.

Not a weapon or gadget, just the small detail that the new/FIRST Robin suit came with an exoskeleton. Nothing too flashy, no strength amplification or bullet-resistant tech, but it did give Rowan effortless movement and kept him from having to fight against the weight of the suit.

The whole thing hugged his body like it had been grown around him. Not a wrinkle, not a gap. Smooth, layered, protective. But flexible enough that he could backflip without pulling a muscle. It felt… Expensive, and looked the part, too.

Rowan adjusted the gauntlet, pausing as he caught sight of himself in the tall mirror propped against the wall.

The boy staring back didn’t look like a kid trying on his older brother’s costume, no.

The suit fit him too well for that.

White hair fell in soft, disheveled strands that framed his face. Not silver. Not platinum. White. The kind of white that didn’t look dyed, but altered—like something had scoured the pigment from his scalp and left it permanently damaged after the fact.

Rowan hadn’t even noticed how long it had grown in the past few weeks, now brushing just past his ears.

He would have to ask Alfred for a haircut tomorrow. Maybe a short quiff? Anything that'd keep these damn strands from stabbing into his eyes was fine by him.

"Utility belt, checked. Suit, checked. Now, last but not least…"

The helmet.

He’d expected an eye-mask—something sleek and minimal like most Robins sported.

Instead, he got a full helmet—one that looked more like Red Hood’s than Robin's.

Only from the nose down, a translucent material crackled faintly with static, doubling as a voice modulator. Seemed like Bruce had actually taken his suggestion to heart. Why the full-face coverage? Because according to both Alfred and Bruce, his white hair was just too damn eye-catching.

One glance at Robin’s mop of unnatural white, and it wouldn’t take a criminal long to connect the dots—Robin, Rowan, adopted son of Bruce Wayne.

And if they figured that out? Batman’s identity wouldn’t be far behind.

Tucking his hair in, Rowan slid the helmet over his head and watched as it sealed around his face with a quiet hiss.

This was it… This was the highlight of his life.

It was only going to get worse from here, probably.

Returning to the Batcave, Rowan retrieved his Batclaw and aimed it at the ledge above the Batmobile exit. “Aim for the star, Robin. Aim for the star.”

And just like that, he's yanked by the cable, screaming all the while. “WHEEEEE!!!”

Rowan was almost certain he'd regret asking to be Robin, but right now?

Right now his brain was too busy soaking in the dopamine to care.

Chapter Text

“You’d think the streets of Gotham were bad enough, but it’s the rooftops that really show you how deep the rot runs. Every other alley, someone’s getting robbed, raped, murdered, or just beat senseless for existing, and that’s just the slums where the bottom-feeders hang out.

The syndicates—Black Mask, the Penguin, Joker—they're scattered up.

Live or work near a bank in Midtown? Congrats! You’re statistically guaranteed at least thirteen armed robberies per year.

Uptown’s supposed to be the safe zone, but even it hadn't been spared Gotham's corruption and was still under the thumb of the Court of Owls last I checked.

Such is the city Bruce and I were born into—the modern-day Sodom.

You wipe out a gang, two more will crawl out the sewer. Three if you’re unlucky…

Oh, you throw one guy in jail? Five more will be released by the morning anyway.

At this point, I wouldn’t even blame the Presence if He decided to glass the place from orbit. I'd be upset, don't get me wrong, but I totally get it.

Still, despite the futility of it all, we tried to clean up what we could.

And by 'We,' I mean Bruce.

Me? I mostly stuck to the rooftops back then, taking potshots at thugs for my first month. Ever used a Batclaw to rip a brick out of a wall and smash it over some guy’s head? No? Well, it's hilarious.

If you ever get the chance, you really should give it a try.

But, as fun as it was, it could only keep me entertained for so long.

Eventually, the boredom got louder than the screams below, and by the start of my second month, the rooftops were starting to feel more like hiding spots than hunting grounds.

It did take a while, but eventually I worked up the courage to ask Bruce if I could join him down in the streets.

I half-expected a hard ‘No' to the request, so imagine my surprise when he just said—

— [HELLBRED] —

“If you think you're ready.“

“I'm bored—Wait, what? That's it?“

That's… Not like him at all.

The Batman Rowan knew always had an excuse ready; some vague reasoning to keep his protégés busy with important tasks—chores in other word—that just happened to keep them out of the worst of the action.

He’d pulled the same move on Grayson in Young Justice more than once, and even locked Tim Drake in a cellar in Arkham Knight. The only Robin Bruce never sidestepped like that was Damian Wayne, which tracked. The kid was raised by the League of Assassins.

Different upbringing, different rules.

But Rowan? He was, by all accounts, just a random street rat the Dark Knight took under his wings.

Shouldn’t Bruce be launching into a lecture right about now?

Some monologue about responsibility and how the streets would chew him up and spit him out like a used gum?

Rowan narrowed his eyes, suspicion simmering as he shoveled a scoop of purée potatoes in his mouth.

“You have already survived Gotham for a decade. You have been trained in martial arts most of the world doesn’t even know exist,” Bruce said, wiping his lips with a handkerchief, “I trust that you know when to be serious, when to stand your ground, and when to flee… You are as ready as I can make you.“

He finally looked up, catching Rowan mid-glare across the table.

“Why? Did you want me to talk you out of it?”

The boy's jaw tensed.

He had a whole script lined up in his head—logical counters, emotional appeals, maybe even a guilt trip or two, and the Dark Knight had just skipped directly to approval. 'That's illegal!'

“I believe he wants to use the arguments he rehearsed against you, Master Bruce.”

Alfred offered, far too amused to keep quiet as he dropped a spoonful of beans onto Rowan’s plate without missing a beat.

“Arguments?“

“Yes sir. Practiced in front of a mirror and all.“

“Traitor!“ Rowan dramatically accused, staring daggers at the butler.

"You're in a combative mood. Good. We'll head out at eight.“

And that was that.

The rest of dinner passed mostly in silence. Alfred talked about something—probably art, maybe global unrest—but Rowan barely heard a word, his brain too busy replaying every spar and takedown Bruce had walked him through.

'Am I ready?' He shook the thought away as quickly as it came. 'No point doubting now.'

Spending the next thirty minutes bouncing between excitement, dread, and triple-checking whether he'd remembered to pack the smoke pellets and emergency medkit, Rowan took a glance at the old clock, then grappling-hooked himself out of the Batcave, dropping into one of Gotham's repurposed tunnels to find the Dark Knight tapping away on a screen, and Gotham screeching again.

“We taking the car or the jet?” He asked casually, though the slight hitch in his breath gave away how fast he’d sprinted to get there.

“The car,” Bruce replied, not even glancing his protégé's way as he leaped into the driver seat. “It’s more discreet.”

Sure. If 'discreet' meant a 6-ton, self-driving stealth tank with afterburners, EMP and enough firepower to declare independence from the States, then certainly. “Can I drive the—”

“No, you cannot drive the Batmobile.“

“I was talking about the Batwing.“

“Not that either.“

Shrugging, Rowan climbed into the seat beside the Dark Knight and fastened his seatbelt as the Batmobile roared to life. “Eh, worth a shot.“ The engine revved again as the high-tech tank shot through the tunnel, before bursting onto the street with such force that it sent sparks off the asphalt.

“There's a bank robbery happening in Midtown. Looks like a ragtag group of small-time first-offenders, and Killer Croc's been spotted near the Canal.“

“The most time-efficient option would be to split up.“ Rowan casually suggested, half-hoping to hear another 'If you think you're ready.' No such luck, unfortunately.

“We'll deal with the bigger threat first.“

“Killer Croc?“

“The bank robbery.“ The Dark Knight corrected. “Killer Croc was sighted, but he hasn't attacked anyone—”

“Yet.“ Rowan cut in with a smile.

“Regardless, the bank’s the priority. New players tend to screw up and rack up the body count.”

“What's the plan?“

“Take them out quickly and quietly. There are still hostages inside.“

The city bled past in a blur of neon, boarded-up windows and colorful billboards which screamed luxury right above alleyways reeking of piss and desperation as the Batmobile skidded around the corner.

“Y’know, if you squint and ignore the crime rate, Gotham's kinda pretty at night.”

Bruce said nothing, but his fingers did clench a little tighter around the wheel in tacit agreement.

Perking up at the flashing reds and blues surrounding the barricaded structure ahead, Rowan asked. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess that’s our destination?”

The bank was a three-story squatting in the heart of the Business District, and while well-fortified at a glance, it also had many entry-points—read: Windows—waiting to be burst down…

Windows guarded by armed silhouettes. “Doesn't feel like their first rodeo.“

The robbers looked too well-coordinated for that.

At first Rowan chalked it up to paranoia, but judging by the slight creasing of his nose, the Dark Knight definitely shared his opinions.

“I'll take a look, see you inside, Bruce.“

“Be careful.“

Ejected from the Batmobile, Rowan’s back-piece fired its hooks and reeled him skyward, slinging him onto the rooftop where his cape burst open like wings mid-flight, fluttering to cushion his landing beside a rusted vent.

Crouched low, he peered over the edge at two robbers milling about near the stairwell.

“You think the Bat’s gonna take the bait?” His accomplice shifted, casually scratching his ass, then brought the offending fingers to his nose.

‘Dirty bastard.’ Tuning into the separate channel their comms were running on, Rowan crept a little closer to the robbers. ‘No… These aren't robbers. Mercenaries, more like.’

And from the sound of it, their target wasn’t the vault—it was the Batman himself.

“He will. Trap or not, he always shows.”

He was right.

Batman would come.

In fact, he already had, they just didn't know it yet.

“That's what you get for being a vigilante. Don’t get why anyone signs up for that thankless gig, way too much work… At least Supervillains get paid.”

“Please. You seen that damn tank he rolls around in?“ Scratchy-Bum sniffled. “Bat doesn’t need money.“

“Makes you wonder where he gets the money for all of it.“

“Shit, maybe he's a billionaire?“

“But which one? There are several handfuls around.“

“I dunno, Bruce Wayne, maybe?“

“That fucking dandy? Riiight.“

Unable to hold it in, Rowan snorted—loud enough to draw both mercenaries' attention.

The first didn’t even get a full turn before Rowan’s staff cracked against the back of his head, sending him crashing into the wall with a grunt.

Scratchy-Bum didn't get the same mercy.

“Fuck!” The mercenary yelped, doubling over as Rowan’s boot found his crotch. He hit the ground wheezing, only to eat a knee to the chin for good measure.

Staggering, bloodied and pissed, the merc growled, “Why, you little—”

That’s when the Batclaw snapped tight around his throat, yanking both him and Rowan into the air.

Meeting in the middle, the First Robin of this Earth drove a punch into the side of the merc’s jaw. His fists might look comically small against the older man, but they had been hardened against bark, brick, and steel beams for over a year; dipped in ice baths and boiling water, stitched and split more times than even Rowan himself could count, and when they landed clean, they hurt.

Doubly so with the Batclaw accelerating him forward; adding just the right amount of velocity to turn a solid hit into a jaw-shattering one.

And yet, somehow, Scratchy-Bum still managed to cling to wakefulness.

He sure wished he wasn't, though.

“Wh–Who the fuck are you?”

The mercenary coughed, blood mixing with the dirt in his mouth as he tried to focus through the ringing in his skull.

“Robin,” The boy grinned, crouching to eye level. “And I’m robbin’ you of information! Get it, like, Robin–robbin'.”

“...”

“C’mon, that was gold,” Rowan huffed while manually securing the cable around the crook. “You’re just mad I kick you in the balls.”

The mercenary groaned, slumping against the wall as his legs buckled under him at the mention. Perched on the ledge, Rowan gave his shoulder a friendly pat before leaning out. “Ooh... That’s one nasty drop. Now, here’s the deal—you answer my questions, and I don’t introduce your face to the pavement. Sound fair?”

Intimidation didn’t come easy when you were barely four feet tall and sounded like your voice might crack mid-threat.

Thankfully, he didn't need size, only the right mask to wear.

There was no way he could pull off the brooding cape routine Bruce was so fond of, looking like he did.

What Rowan could pull off was a feral, unhinged, inexperienced child vigilante with zero regard for collaterals.

And the best part of it? Rowan didn’t even have to fake it; there was no one who better fit the description than him.

The merc's eyes widened in fear.

'Good.' Fear made people talk.

“Fuck you! You ain’t got the balls!”

But then it vanished just as fast, snuffed out the moment Scratchy-Bum realized how tiny the vigilante really was.

Sighing, Rowan shrugged. “Shoulda' folded.“

Dragging the man onto the ledge with exaggerated strain, Rowan made a show of swiping imaginary sweat from his mask and flashed a grin. “You ready?”

“You’ll just pull me up halfway. This ain’t my first rodeo, you prepubescent bastard!”

“Oh, so you know the routine? Good. Saves me time—I’ll just drop you a few times and see what shakes loose.”

The merc kept up the tough guy act, right up until he noticed where the line tethering him led, eyes locking onto the tiny gloved hand holding it, just as Rowan began to put up a leg.

“No. NONONONO. Wait! Wait! Hey…! WAITWAITWAITWAIT!”

Rowan grinned behind the mask and yanked the merc in a little closer. “Why?”

“Shouldn’t you tie that down first?! You know how physics work, right?!”

“But Batman does it barehanded all the time?“ Rowan mused, wide-eyed innocence and all.

“The Bat’s six feet tall! With biceps the size of my thighs! You haven’t even hit puberty, you stupid bastard!” The merc roared, thrashing in a manic rage. In fact, if his hands weren’t tied, Rowan was pretty sure he’d be tearing his own hair out. “You literally struggled to pull me up the fucking ledge a second ago; how in the Hell are you going to stop me from plummeting to my death?!!“

“Oh, don't be such a drama-queen, Scratchy!You're gonna be fine! I learnt from Batman himself.“ Rowan teased, resting his foot against the merc's chest.

“This isn’t a matter of skill! It’s a matter of strength, you retarded motherfu—” Whatever insult the disguised merc had locked and loaded jammed up instantly as he tipped backward and had to wiggle like a worm for balance.

“Batman might abhor killing, but I think you will find I do not. If he asks, I’ll just say it was an accident… That you tripped; took a dive and 'wittle old me' failed to get to you in time.”

Rowan said, voice low; thoughtful, as though genuinely fascinated by the idea.

“Shit, I might drop you for funsies.“

“Wait! If-If you kill me, how will you get the info you need?”

Rowan glanced down at the building below, letting Detective Mode do the math, then smirked. “There are still eleven mercs left. You? You’re really not that important.“

“I’LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING! I’LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING!”

Giving the merc another friendly pat, Rowan then slung an arm over the man’s shoulder like they were old pals and urged. “Atta boy… Start talking.”

And talk, the merc did.

“I don't know all the details; nobody does, but the mobs have recently got together to take down the Batman—Scarecrow, Penguin, Black Mask and Joker—all them freaks have put up a bounty on him.“

“So they slapped a price tag on Batman’s head… And you lot thought you were up for the job?” Rowan disdainfully scoffed. “Jesus. Did someone knock you all out and whisper that plan into your skulls mid-fever dream?”

Talk about being delusional.

“We’re not that stupid,” The merc muttered. “We’re only meant to tire the Bat out. Soften him up before the real hitters move in.”

Rowan’s smirk faded.

“I'm not hearing a name?”

“I don’t know specifics, alright?!” The merc snapped, voice cracking under the pressure. “It’s not like assassins and Supervillains are advertising themselves on billboards! That’s all I’ve got!”

Rowan hummed a tune—something childish and off-key—as he circled behind the trembling merc.

“Next time you decide to take up gigs like this…” He said, tone deceptively soft. Then Rowan moved, beginning with a sharp kick to the man’s chest, but before he could even yell, a flick of the Batclaw pulled the merc right into his elbow.

The merc's body arched back instinctively, only for Rowan to spin low and swept his legs out from under him.

The merc dropped hard, caught mid-fall by a knockout punch that bounced his skull off the concrete.

Adjusting his gloves like he’d just closed a file, Rowan tapped his comm. “Batman, you got all that?”

Static hissed through the comm for a long moment—too long, prompting Rowan to whisper, “Bruce?”

Then the Dark Knight’s voice finally cut in—filtered through the new modular system, but slower… Heavier. “—I did.“

Something in the way he said it set off alarms in Rowan’s head.

Bruce Wayne didn’t tire.

Not when it came to his nightly duties.

“What happened?”

“—This was a distraction… Arkham’s been hit, and most of the inmates are on the loose.“

“Oh... Oh shit.”

The words hit the air before Rowan could reel them back as his eyes flicked to the skyline.

If Arkham had been hit, things were going to get real biblical, real quick.

“My offer still stands, Batman. We can split up.“

He'd even argue they should.

The Dark Knight's wasted on babysitting duty anyway.

“—Be extremely careful. Head to the Asylum when you’re done.”

“Got it. You too.“

Rowan turned, skipping to the stairwell, only to pause when Bruce’s voice returned.

“—And good job, Robin.“

“Oh, stop it! You're gonna make me blush.“

— [HELLBRED] —

"Can you imagine it? My first real night out as a vigilante, and everything was already going to shit.

Not that I was worried at the time.

I thought I had it handled.

It was fun, even.

If you've played the Arkham games, picture that, just cranked up a thousand times.

I wasn’t as sharp as adult Tim Drake or anywhere near the level of Bruce, but I was holding my own. Getting the job done. Kicking asses and taking names, until I met Him…

The one the mobs and Supervillains brought in to kill the Batman, hiding in plain sight amongst the mercs.

Needless to say, my first run-in with a bona fide Supervillain didn’t end particularly well for me. But you know what? It was all worth it in the end, because thanks to him, I finally got my hands on an actual Super Soldier Serum.“

— [HELLBRED] —

Dropping from the vent, Rowan perched on a gargoyle to survey the bank floor below. Why there were gargoyle statues inside a bank of all places, he had no idea.

But this was Gotham, so there was probably a reason for it.

A piss-poor one most likely, but a reason nonetheless.

“Twelve… Thirteen… Fourteen.”

Looked like Rowan had missed one during the earlier count, but it's no big deal; this was still well-within his paygrade.

Hanging off the snarl of the gargoyle, Rowan scanned the bank below—eyes sweeping past marble counters and bullet-scattered tile—until they landed on his first lucky contestant: One dumb bastard who thought taking a piss break during an armed robbery was a good idea.

Perfect.

He re-anchored the Batclaw, coiled like a spring, then swung down low, boots skimming a foot above the floor.

The merc looked up a second too late, greeted by Rowan's titanium-plated boot in the face.

Head snapping back like a ragdoll, blood sprayed from his nose as he found himself welcomed by the floor tile with a meaty crunch, only to then catch a second kick square in the ribs, “For good measure.” Immediately after zip-tying his wrists together, Rowan Batclawed to the ceiling just a whistling merc rounded the corner, freezing at the sight of his downed bud.

“Man down! Man—”

Unfortunately, his voice found no listener as a glide-kick to the nape silenced the newcomer, dropping him like a bag of cement.

For a moment, Rowan feared he might have killed the man. It's only when he saw the merc's chest rise and fall, that Rowan dared breath a sigh of relief.

There were still four more on this level.

The rest were either tearing into the vault downstairs or keeping watch over the hostages.

‘I need to lure them up here. Keep the fight away from the civilians.’

Luckily, Rowan had just the tools to put his plan in motion, courtesy of the Dark Knight.

Tapping the voice modulator, he grabbed the discarded walkie-talkie and slipped into character, allowing panic to bleed into his tone.

“Man down! I repeat: Man down! It’s the Bat! I need urgent reinforcement—” Killing the transmission, Rowan tossed the device aside and slid into the floor grate with a smirk. Fish, meet bait. No more than seconds later, another group filed up the stairs, armed to the teeth.

“Shit, he's down—”

Pausing at the sight of the smoke pellets rolling near his feet, the merc threw an arm over his face as thick, grey smoke swallowed the room. Panic clawing at his chest, he spun just in time to see a blur crash into his friend.

“One.“ A voice rasped—low, amused, and far, far too close for comfort.

“DON'T OPEN FIRE! YOU MIGHT HIT US!!!“

Someone shouted through the haze, voice cracking with panic, but the words barely registered as the merc backed up blindly, pulse thundering in his ears. Then, the writhing shadows shifted yet again—too fast, too fluid, and too quiet to be human.

They didn’t walk, no, they glided.

Vanishing, and reappearing like they're playing with the fabrics of Space-Time.

Footsteps suddenly rang out behind him, so he spun, hoping to catch a glimpse, only for a grunt—wet, guttural, to sound and get cut short right where he was standing a moment ago, followed by the sharp clatter of a rifle hitting the floor.

His mouth went dry.

He’d heard plenty about the Batman—hell, even watched the bastard fight from a distance once. But being in the middle of it, caught in the mayhem while his team was picked apart one by one?

“Two.“

“Get out in the open, Bat!”

The guy who shouted it barely got the words out before he was ripped off his feet; hauled sideways and then slammed into the wall like a cheap, discarded doll.

“Three.“

By then, the smoke had begun to lift, but the original eight had also become five. Someone muttered a curse, too quiet for him to catch, but the merc imagined it went something like this: “I ain’t getting paid enough for this shit.”

He'd know…

One would think crime paid, and it did, but they might as well have been making minimum wage with how often they ended up at the hospital for a bent limb, a concussion, a broken bone; sometimes all three.

Another dropped his rifle with a metallic clatter, backing up like simply holding the weapon would make him a target.

One of them had started praying, but it was a practice of futility, really.

There's no one on the other end of the line.

Beside him, his partner inched toward the staircase.

He was still holding the rifle, but his hands were trembling so violently the merc found himself questioning if the man could even hold it straight, let alone take aim at all.

No one spoke.

No one dared move.

No one wanted to be next, after all.

“Here’s how this is gonna go,” The voice echoed from all sides as zip ties hit the ground. “You drop your guns, tie your friends up, and spare yourselves a trip to the hospital... Or I'll break every bone in your body and hand you to the police anyway. Your choice.“

“You–You’re not Batman?”

“Nice observation! What gave it away?”

The voice sneered, bouncing off the walls. “Is it my charming good looks? My irresistible personality?”

They jerked toward the source a second too late… The voice was already behind them again.

“Great… Another freak. Like Gotham doesn’t have enough of those already.”

His accomplice hissed through clenched teeth, but the merc wasn’t listening.

All he could think—over and over—was: “How the hell’s he doing that?“

How was he so fast?

How was he slipping from corner to corner so quickly?

And how were they supposed to fight something like this?

“Lower your weapons!”

“But—” One of the mercs started to protest.

“But my ass!” The captain snapped, jabbing a finger toward the unconscious body oddly angled behind him. “I’m not getting done in like that!”

Exchanging uneasy glances, they tossed their guns into the corner and began tying each other up—one by one—until only a single man was left standing. With most of the threats now neutralized, Rowan recalled his drones and dropped down behind the last merc.

In one motion, he swept the legs out from under the criminal, then slammed him to the floor for an instant lights-out.

“A–A kid? We lost to a fucking kid?!”

“Don’t sound so upset,”

Rowan muttered, his voice echoing through the floor as the four drones smoothly slid back into his backpack.

“You lot lasted longer than I expected.”

Two more loose ends, then he could head to Arkham Asylum.

“Who are you?”

“Robin. Batman’s—”

“Sidekick.”

The interruption didn’t come loud, but it landed like a gunshot as Rowan pivoted and backflipped over the tied-up criminals to put some distance between him and the criminal he'd apparently missed…

The guy was built like a brawler trying to pass for a civilian.

Hell, he might even be taller, buffer than the Dark Knight himself!

“You really gotta do a better job with the disguise.” The sleeves barely held together, seams stretched thin over a frame that had no business outside a battlefield.

The merc didn’t say a word as he slowly, methodically peeled off the jacket like he had all the time in the world, all while blocking and deflecting and countering Rowan’s twirling staff. Beneath the disguise was armor built for war, with matte black plating reinforcing the chest and shoulders, marred by burn marks and faint slashes that had been purposefully left unpolished.

Staring at the black and orange mask, Rowan's heart skipped a beat as he fired the Batclaw.

But before he could escape, the mercenary had already sliced his cable with a well-aimed knife, which sent Rowan crashing into a booth beside a floor grate.

The First Robin clutched his side, gasping as he dragged himself in, and prayed he was fast enough; good enough to escape the pursuit of Slade Wilson,

Also known as Mr. Super Soldier or Deathstroke the Terminator.

Of course it was him—why wouldn't it be?

“Fuck my life.“

Chapter Text

"I don't know how it is on Prime Earth, but in DC? Fate’s real. Annoyingly real.

Certain things just happen, no matter what you do.

The deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne. Krypton blowing itself to hell.

The birth of Themyscira and Wonder Woman along with it.

Same goes for the rivalry between the First Robin and Deathstroke… Some feuds just write themselves.

I think the hip term for it now is ‘Canon Event’?

By taking up the Mantle, I also inherited Dick Grayson’s destined enemy.

Needless to say, I wasn’t exactly thrilled about the whole ordeal.

Slade Wilson wasn’t more skilled than Batman, and he damn sure wasn’t better equipped.

But you know what he did have?

A Super Soldier Serum coursing through his veins.

Strength, speed, durability, regeneration—the Terminator had the full freak show package, and decades to sharpen himself into one big, 6'4ft walking death sentence… And there I was, still operating on pure 'third time’s the charm' until Deathstroke smacked me upside the head for the fourth time that night.

The punch must have knocked some rust off my brain, because the moment I scrambled back into that floor grate, I had to stop, take a breather and ask myself the burning question: 'Why the hell am I trying to square up with a Super Soldier when I've got the wingspan of a preteen?'

So, like every poor bastard in history who ran into something faster, stronger, and larger—I adapted.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but that was the night Deathstroke decided I was worth hurting.

Not because I was Robin.

Not because of Batman either.

But because, for the first time since he took Uncle Sam’s deal, someone made the Terminator feel fear.

Someone embarrassed the Deathstroke.

I mean, I get it.

Life’s rough when you’re a hired gun who was nearly done in and publicly humiliated by a kid.

But really?

You’re gonna be mad at a literal teenager for surviving you?

Let it go, you petty bastard.“

— [HELLBRED] —

“I came for the Bat, and found an American Robin instead… How very disappointing.“ Deathstroke paced the second floor like a predator on a leash, his one good eye flicking between ceiling and floor grates as he spun his katana with slow, surgical menace.

Five cubicles down, Rowan sat crouched in a vent, dried blood on his gloves as he licked his wounds, clenched his jaw to swallow a groan, and prayed the Mercenary’s hearing wasn’t as sharp as his sword.

For a second, he considered calling Bruce.

He knew if he did, the Dark Knight would show up in under five minutes, cape and all.

But then he decided to drop the thought.

He wasn’t a selfless saint, but he wasn’t sure he could still look Alfred or Bruce in the eye, knowing Batman’s entire roster of freak-show managed to break out of Arkham Asylum because he needed babying. Never mind those two, he’d probably hang up the cape and live the rest of his life with a paper bag over his head.

With the Dark Knight out of the picture, Nightwing and Batgirl years away from the scene, Rowan had no choice but to rely on himself. After a minute of contemplation, he finally admitted he’d have to play dirty if he were to have any shot at survival.

Digging into his belt, Rowan retrieved a dozen Batarangs and smoke pellets, smearing each with a swipe of the Explosive Gel.

The extra weight would fuck with the balance, but what good was a clean throw when it'd probably bounce off Deathstroke? So to hell with precision… To hell with finesse too. What Rowan needed was firepower—the kind that would put even the Terminator on his ass and keep the Merc there long enough for him and the civilians to make a break for the door.

Plan decided, Robin erupted from the grate like a shot, boots skimming the tile before he grappled up to the overhead gargoyle as smoke pellets sailed from his hand, hissing for no more than a second before bursting into a dense, throat-stinging cloud.

Even then, Deathstroke didn’t break stride.

The Merc ran straight into the smoke like it owed him money, blade dragging behind him with a whisper that promised a quick and painful death.

“Neat trick,” He muttered, tone flat, eye cautiously scanning the fog for movements. “But you’re no Batman.”

Lashing out, his katana drew an arc through the murk.

But instead of flesh, the blade bit into steel.

Sparks spat from the impact, the weapon screeching as it dragged across the matte-black shell of a drone, splitting the drone in two twitching halves.

“BOOM!”

Robin's voice cracked from three angles, bouncing between walls like shrapnel.

Deathstroke froze mid-step.

His eye flicked left, then right, then back to the destroyed drone just in time to catch the blink of a pulsing blue on its edge.

“Why, you little—”

Batman probably wouldn’t approve of such tactics—too reckless, too wasteful.

Furthermore, that kind of blast could turn flesh to pulp, and reduce bone to gravel.

It should have.

Instead, it only launched Deathstroke off his feet and through a wall.

That moment of impact was all Rowan needed.

While the Terminator reeled, more drones zipped in from above, each carrying satchels of smoke pellets, every one tagged with a smear of that same blue gel. “Remember this as the day you almost caught Captain Jack Sparrow!“

Descending from the second floor, Rowan's muscles suddenly cramped up, a sensation he tried his best to ignore to no avail.

Jaw clenched, Rowan wrenched the rifle from the last merc’s grip with a sharp pull of his Batclaw, swinging and cracking it across the guy’s chest like a flail.

The man dropped like a sack of bricks as Rowan stood over him, chest heaving, blood crusting along his jawline, only to realize half a dozen wide-eyed hostages were staring back at him inside the vault.

One guy, shirt thoroughly soaked, opened his mouth, but whatever sound he meant to make died somewhere between his lungs and throat.

Rowan looked between them, the ceiling where stone and steel collectively groaned, then waved them off with a sharp jerk of his arm.

“What, you waiting for me roll you a red carpet? Move, people! Run like your goddamn lives depend on it!” Rowan barked, his voice like a physical blow that instantly broke the spell—fear—holding them in place.

Lurching into motion, the hostages limped, crawled, and sprinted toward the nearest exit—some choking on smoke, others half-sobbing, but all of them desperate to outrun whatever came next.

Then the ceiling groaned, before collapsing in a storm of splinters, stone, and drywall—an angry avalanche of debris that swallowed the exit in seconds, just as a grappling hook shot out of the haze.

Rowan could've dodged; would have if not for the one receptionist whose high heels had caused her to lag behind the main group for a beat too long.

Throwing the blonde out of the way, Rowan barely managed a hoarse, “Shit!” Before getting snatched back by the ankle just as the debris sealed the entrance for good.

“Batman had taught you well…” Deathstroke’s voice slithered through the smoke—slow, smug, and sharp-edged, like a snake savoring the sound of its own rattle, while the cable mopped the floor with the young vigilante. “What a shame he forgot to teach you how not to die.”

“You know what else he taught me?”

Rowan panted, dangling from the cable which Deathstroke had looped around his wrist.

“Don’t monologue, idiot!”

The three pellets in his palm shot forward, bursting in a blinding flash that forced both to flinch. With a grunt, Rowan drove the Batarang into Wilson’s wrist and twisted.

Deathstroke let out a low, strangled growl—anger on a thin, worn leash—but that brief hitch in control was all Rowan needed as he slashed the cable and bolted, sliding into one of the countless floor grates he still didn’t know the purpose of.

“Whatever.“ As long as they continued to provide him cover, he couldn't give a shit.

Crouched in the dark, Rowan finally allowed himself a breather.

That’s when the sudden lightheadedness hit.

Touching his stomach, Rowan grimaced at the sticky warmth seeping through his suit.

He’d thought it sweat, but the bitter, metallic tang told him otherwise.

Slade had gotten a clean hit after all.

’Tis a flesh wound…

But one that’d still bleed him dry if left unchecked. Fortunately, his belt came stocked with three adrenaline shots, a gel spray that numbed and clotted on contact, and a paper-thin bandage that sealed wounds even better than the commercial products. Ripping a plate off his suit, Rowan quickly patched himself up, and exhaled.

The hostages were safe, the mercs handled—time to finally bump his own wellbeing to the top of the list.

But first…

Drawing a sealed glass tube from his belt, Rowan strained a smear of Deathstroke’s blood into it with steady hands.

Only once it was secure did he dare peek out of the grate.

The Terminator was nowhere to be found, no doubt hiding to lure hi—

* BANG!!!

A bullet tore through the grate, forcing Rowan to duck back behind the brickwork which was just solid enough to tank several shots, but not much more.

Not with the kind of firepower Deathstroke was packing anyway.

“YOU CANNOT HIDE FROM ME! I'VE KILLED BIGGER MEN THAN YOURSELVES… I HAVE SLAIN GODS!“ Slade Wilson roared, his voice a contradictory mix of menace, rage and calm. “I’LL BREAK YOUR SPIRIT, SHATTER YOUR BODY AND THEN TAKE YOUR LIFE! Perhaps then, the Bat will show himself.“

“—Slade Wilson…” One of the drones whispered, just loud enough to draw Deathstroke’s eye, and long enough for Rowan to slip behind a nearby column where he then leaned into the interface and forced out a laugh. “—Look at the big man who sold his Soul to Uncle Sam for roids! How noble…!“

Spitting with contempt, Rowan mockingly taunted. “—How pathetic.“

“Come out of your little hidey-hole, and I’ll show you pathetic.”

“—Says the Super Soldier hiding behind a sniper scope… You’re nothing, Slade. Batman chews up freaks like you on a nightly basis. That’s why he sent me—”

From below, a volley of Batarangs suddenly flew toward Deathstroke, only to curve midair and dug into the ceiling above the Terminator instead.

The Merc hit the ground hard, buried under a rain of rubble as the explosion knocked loose parts of the building, but not before the Merc got a shot off, a shot that instantly blew a hole in Rowan’s suit.

The armor absorbed most of the impact, but Rowan still felt his wound tear open again.

Pain bloomed across his side, knocking the breath from his lungs as he lost his grip and slammed into the column before crumpling in a groaning heap. Sadly, he had no time for self-pity for Slade had already broken free and was on him like a bat out of hell.

Diving for the Batclaw, Rowan swatted the oncoming sword aside with his staff and lunged forward with a thrust, only for the strike to be knocked away just as fast. Luckily, that split-second distraction was all he needed to grapple to the third floor, crashing through the window while glass shards dragged against his suit.

Just as he unfurled his cape, Deathstroke elbowed his back, sending them both piling onto the roof of a car.

Normally, Rowan would’ve cracked a joke about car insurance, but considering his spine may have just snapped in three places, he was not exactly in a joking mood. “I saw 'em! I saw 'em!!!“

Spotlights suddenly snapped onto them, cast from a circling police chopper overhead.

“—Drop your weapons! You're surrounded!“

Like that was going to stop Slade.

Without hesitation, the Terminator raised his gun and put a round clean through the pilot’s head.

The helicopter pitched sideways, spiraling down before erupting in a fireball of smoke and shrapnel.

“Damn you!”

Rowan wrapped his legs around Deathstroke’s neck, nearly dragging him to the ground. Keyword: Nearly, because real life wasn’t a superhero movie, and grappling ain't shit when your opponent could just stand up and shrug you off like a scarf.

“Cute…”

Deathstroke mocked, then lifted and bodyslammed him into the concrete hard enough to rattle his fillings.

Stars exploded behind his eyes.

Bones screamed.

Dignity left the chat as the cold, unforgiving ground 'welcomed' his spine.

If nothing was broken before, something definitely was now.

* BANG!!!

* BANG!!!

* BANG!!!

Rowan had never been so happy to hear gunfire—especially from cops.

If not for them, he'd probably be dead.

'Commissioner Gordon!' Rowan would recognize that trench coat and mustache anywhere.

“Shoot 'im!“ He blurted through a mouthful of blood. “I'm with the Batm—!!!“

Silenced mid-speech by a kick to the face, the back of Rowan's head collided with the ground once again.

Thankfully, that was all the clarification the Commissioner needed.

The fact he was a head and a half shorter than Slade, and seconds away from getting his throat carved open probably helped sell the story too.

Three more shots were what it took for Deathstroke to get off him.

Seizing the opening, Rowan rolled away, stumbling to his feet with an elbow against the wall. Great. Now there was blood and saliva all over his visor… Shit was fucking nasty.

Another groan slipped through his clenched teeth as a wave of dizziness washed over him, blurring his vision and muffling his ears. 'How did Dick Grayson beat this guy?'

How the hell did anyone?

Rowan had thrown everything he had at the Terminator—everything, and somehow, some-fucking-how, the bastard kept getting back up!

Fists trembling with equal parts frustration and pain, he cautiously traced his finger over the wound in his stomach, recoiling at the wet squelch—a motion which only worsened his condition.

'Am I dying?' It sure felt like he was.

Lifting his helmet, Rowan spat out a bloody tooth, and suddenly, he wasn’t disappointed anymore.

He wasn’t even impressed by the Merc’s skills as he sliced bullets in halves.

Nor was he on the verge of breaking out a girlish scream at an actual Supervillain.

He was just pissed.

Rowan shot a murderous glare at the merc, tossed a second one at his fallen Batclaw, then snatched an adrenaline syringe from his utility belt. Yanking back his collar, he rammed the needle into a throbbing vein. If he was going to die, then damn it, he was taking Deathstroke with him.

Why?

Because—"Man, fuck this guy."

Unfortunately, as ironic as it might sound, rage-power was the stuff of fiction.

Even with the adrenaline shot, Rowan wasn't stupid enough to charge headfirst into the fray without a plan.

Luckily, he already had one—two, actually. A last-ditch effort... And then a last-last-ditch effort.

Sneaking toward the Batclaw, Rowan sprayed the Gel on himself and silently checked the device.

'Fuck…' The exterior was a bit mangled, the motor messed up, but it still was functional. Thank God it was functional.

Blood dripping down his forehead, Rowan faced the mercenary who had blocked, deflected, and avoided every shot, slaughtered half the officers, and now looked quite eager to skewer him with his katanas. “There it is… There's the despair.“

Gaze fixed on the bright Moon above, Rowan whistled the tune of 'Feeling Good,' if only to drown out the incessant ringing in his ears.

He didn't know why Deathstroke allowed him the moment, but he was grateful nevertheless.

“Your disrespect aside, I will make sure he knows you fought well… Even as outclassed as you are.“

“Outclassed? Outclassed, you say?“ Rowan snorted. “Hardly.“

Rowan’s back-piece roared as twin hooks screamed from his harness—not toward Slade, but the brickwork behind him, reeling Rowan forward like a bullet.

“Foolish!” Deathstroke sneered, raising his blade in anticipation.

Then Rowan released the hooks.

Slade’s eye went wide as the kid fired the Batclaw at the ground, momentum twisting him sideways—not to evade, but to orbit the Merc as the cable lashed around Slade’s throat and the streetlamp next to him, once, twice, then thrice; each loop tighter than the last.

Boots finding the asphalt, Rowan finally came to a stop a good three meters away—breathless, bloodied and bruised, but standing.

“I won.“ Rowan snarled.

His foe, on the other hand, couldn’t boast much due to the cable tightly wrapped around his neck.

Had he not clutched and slipped a few fingers under the line, Deathstroke probably would have been history—done in by a boy a quarter his age. A boy who, strangely enough, seemed to be… Leaning back?

“Batman doesn’t kill!“

“I do!“ Hissed Rowan, wrenching the cable taut.

Physics dictated it was impossible, yet somehow, Deathstroke managed to loosen the line through sheer strength, up until the vigilante activated the fourth function of the Batclaw and electrified the line.

In a rage, Slade’s neck twisted a full 180°—a grotesque pivot only his augmented body could survive, but the snark died in his throat the instant he saw 'Robin.'

The boy wasn’t running. He wasn’t begging either.

Instead, he stood haloed in police spotlights, cable garroting Slade’s throat and looking all too eager to be blooded.

For the first time in decades, Deathstroke felt his own pulse hammer; not from pain, but recognition.

Whoever the kid was, he was more Deathstroke than he was Batman.

He was feral, and clearly waiting for Slade to resist so he could prove how easily the Terminator's neck would snap. If he'd trained the kid, Slade would have been proud, but as it stood…

Just when the Terminator began to fear the end, a hand clamped onto the boy's shoulder and dragged him back from the edge.

“That's enough… He's had enough.“

“Enough?“ Rowan sputtered in disbelief, glancing down at his battered suit, the heap of corpses scattered outside the bank, then the burning helicopter now lodged inside a high-rise. “Enough?! He needs to die!“

“That's not up for you to decide.“

"If not me, then who?" Rowan snapped, spewing fire out of his eyes. "The corrupt judge who will do everything he can to delay his execution? The mob bosses who will break him out again? Do tell, Commissioner!“

This had to be done, and if Bruce was going to beat him up over this, so be it.

“Stand down, Robin.“ Speak of the Devil…

“Batman! About time.”

“Commissioner.” The Dark Knight greeted, cape falling around him like a shadow as he landed.

“That's it? That's all we get?“

“Joker broke Harley out an hour ago. A few of the inmates took advantage of the chaos. I managed to get the others back in their cells, but Clayface, Mr. Freeze and Poison Ivy got away.”

“Oh, God.” Wiping the sweat from his brow, Gordon sighed wearily.

As expected of Gotham… You fix one problem, and three more would crop up. 'What else is new?'

“Robin.“

Rage coiled in his gut, hot and restless, as his fingers tightened around the Batclaw.

Then he pressed the electrify button.

The current surged with a sharp hiss, jolting Deathstroke away and eliciting a strained noise from him.

Yet, Rowan refused to let go.

One second.

Two.

Three.

The shaking in his hand definitely wasn’t from the voltage.

Four.

Five.

Only when the smell of burnt armor hit his nose did he release the trigger.

Even then, he didn’t move—his unblinking stare loaded with something murderous and ugly. “I beat you. Not Batman, not Superman, not one of the Demigods roaming this Earth… I did. Remember that.”

Tripping back to the Batmobile, Rowan climbed his way inside and collapsed on the passenger seat.

“I trust you have it under control, Commissioner?“

“I’ve got it,” Gordon said. “I’ll have my guys keep an eye out for the escapees too. How do I reach you?”

“You won’t have to. I’ll know.”

The Dark Knight turned on his heel, cape sweeping behind him as he dropped into the Batmobile. The bulletproof canopy sealed shut with a sharp hiss as the engine growled to life, and they disappeared into the Sunrise.

“Robin?” Bruce called out, but the boy didn’t respond. Rowan always responded.

Turning fully, he saw Rowan slumped on his side and reached over, pressing two fingers to his neck.

There was a pulse, but it's weak. Too weak.

“Rowan.” He said again, quieter, as he removed the boy’s helmet and slammed his foot on the pedal.

Some part of him wanted to scold the boy for his recklessness, but that part shut up the moment he saw the blood dyeing his hair red. “Alfred.”

The butler's worried face flickered on the screen. “—Master Bruce, thank God! Are you two alright?”

“I’m okay, but Rowan’s not. He’s in bad shape. Get the surgical kit ready now.”

.

.

.

Everything was moving either too fast or too slow.

One second, Rowan was in the Batmobile, the engine roaring beneath him, and the next there was cold stone overhead and Bruce’s voice barking something urgent—something he couldn’t quite make out.

His head kept knocking sideways, his jaw aching, and was that metal he tasted?

Wasn’t he outside a moment ago?

When had it gotten so bright in here? Voices drifted to him—Alfred’s, steady but anxious, and Bruce’s, fumbling at the buckles of his suit.

Suddenly, a bright, sharp light cut through the haze, then darkness swallowed it whole.

Something pressed into his side; he wanted to tell them to stop, but his tongue wouldn’t cooperate.

All he caught was the slap of boots on stone, the blur of that oddly-placed T-Rex statue somewhere above, Bruce repeating his name over and over like if he said it enough, Rowan would snap out of it.

He felt awful, but he was in safe hands.

'Thank God for small miracles.'

— [HELLBRED] —

“Okay, maybe I downplayed it a bit.

I did a hell of a lot more than just embarrass him.

But! In my defense, I had a bullet in my side and a shard of Slade’s katana wedged between my ribs.

Honestly, I was shocked I even made it out alive. Ever had your life flash before your eyes? I did that night. Several times.

Shit, I was fully prepared to kamikaze the bastard if my fallback plan had failed—something Bruce would later figure out, once he had time to check and noticed the smear of Explosive Gel on the chestplate that had been stained red with my own blood.

I didn’t wake up the next night. Or the one after that.

By the third day, consciousness was still a distant thing—blurred at the edges, dulled by the steady drip of painkillers and sedatives.

When the fourth day arrived, the drugs had finally worn off and clarity was beginning to hit like a bucket of ice water, accompanied by a white-hot pain which flared with every shift of my ribs. It did not help that I kept jolting at the T-Rex Statue either… Seriously, why on earth do we even have that thing and where the hell did Bruce get it from?

By the fifth day, I was moving—not gracefully, not without wincing, but moving, so I did what any 'self-respecting hero' would in my situation and limped straight to the Batlab.

The place is tucked away in a quiet corner of the Batcave and has just about everything you could imagine, including what you would need to analyze and recreate a Serum from scratch.

Yeah, it was dangerous.

Yeah, Slade and Rose Wilson were the only ones known to have taken it and lived, but I had almost died the week before, and was still suffering from the injuries Deathstroke gave me.

I needed a way to up my game, and this was the fastest.

Some might call it cheating.

I’d call it evolution.

There’s a hard cap to what the human body can do without the Metagene—a cap Batman tends to stretch, I'll admit, but I’m not Batman…

I told Bruce, Alfred—even myself, to a lesser extent—that it was about survival.

I lied.

Truth was, I wanted the strength, the speed, the stamina.

I wanted what Slade had.

I craved the certainty, and I was going to get it, no matter the cost."

— [HELLBRED] —

“Master Rowan, I do wish you'd stay in bed as advised.“

“It’s life, Alfred, we don’t always get what we wish—tragic, I know.”

The butler sighed, easing into the seat beside Rowan. “What exactly are we doing?”

“Analysis and Recreation.”

“Of?”

“A Super Soldier Serum.“ Rowan had considered hiding his interest, but he was living with Batman.

Sooner or later, the Dark Knight would find out what he was digging into.

Hell, Bruce probably already knew.

Why the Dark Knight hadn't made a fuss about it, Rowan genuinely had no clue.

“You don’t need enhancements. You’re already operating well beyond most. Strength, speed, endurance—not even Master Bruce could match you at your age. Isn’t that enough?”

“Firstly, I’m not fighting kids. I’m fighting hardened criminals and Metahumans.” Rowan scoffed, then crinkled his nose and shot Alfred a look like he had just stepped on something foul. “And secondly… Did you really just hit me with a ‘you’re perfect the way you are’ speech? What am I, an anorexic teenage girl?”

Never one to miss a chance to quip, Alfred smiled. “Only in temperament.”

Then, Alfred's smile faded slightly.

"Sir, while I appreciate your wit, this is a serious matter. The pursuit of such power always carries risks, both physical and mental. You've seen what it has done to others, I dread to think what it might do to you.“

“Geez, thanks for the vote of confidence.” Rowan mumbled sarcastically, fingers flying across the keys of the Batcomputer 2.0. It's as expected, he couldn't understand a thing… Half of what was on the screen looked like complete gibberish to him. 'What even is hemoglobin? Something to do with blood?'

“Rowan, please. These are permanent alterations to yourself… It's not a suit you can take off, or a piece of equipment you can swap out with spares.“

Pausing at the hesitant hand on his shoulder, Rowan glanced over his shoulder to find the butler hovering behind him, a look of concern on his face.

He knew he’d feel shitty about this later, but as long as he could guilt-trip Alfred, Bruce would probably cave soon enough.

“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve almost died?” Rowan started, surprised at the ease with which the mask had slipped on. “Forget the nights I starved, the winters that froze the breath in my lungs, or the infections that nearly killed me—I’ve had guns pressed to my head, knives held at my throat, and bones broken. Thirty times, Alfred. Thirty. And that’s before I put on this damn cape. I. Need. This.

Hell, Bruce needs this.

The man might border Superhuman territory, but every punch he’s ever taken, every bone he’s broken—it’s all compounding interest on a debt his body’s gonna call due sooner or later… This could change that. If nothing else, it might buy 'Batman and Robin' a few more decades down the line.”

Pennyworth's gaze faltered, then softened. “When Master Bruce first adopted you, he said there was something dark in you… Something he recognized all too well—”

“Alfred, I’m not trying to fight with you about this.” Rowan cut in, only to be met with a stoic stare.

Not quite grandfatherly, but not accusing either—just steady. “Please… Let me finish.”

Lips pressed into a thin line, Rowan gestured for him to continue.

“He’s right. You’re a troubled young man in way over your head. You and Master Bruce are a lot alike in that sense.

And because of that, I must advise you again: Please don’t go down this path… I know you are frustrated, but there has to be another way which doesn’t risk maiming your body, fracturing your mind or worse.“

"I appreciate the concern. Really. But this isn't up for debate—it's a heads-up. You can either help me do it right, or I will brew this shit in the sewer with a stolen lab kit."

Rowan shifted slightly to the right, before attempting to break the tension with a joke. "Teenage rebellion, am I right?"

“Sometimes I wonder why God saw fit to put me in charge of such infuriating young men.”

“Oh, I'm sure you'll get used to it eventually.” Rowan returned to the Batcomputer as Alfred leaned in beside him. “So, uhm, any clue what any of this actually means?”

A/N: I kept writing Wade instead of Slade. That's annoying.

Chapter Text

“You know, I wish I could say Alfred and I finished the recreation of the Serum in a day, but we didn't… Partly because I got kind of sidetracked experimenting with Scarecrow's Fear Toxin, but mainly because Alfred, being Alfred and all, decided to make it his mission to turn our sessions into 'learning experiences.'

Thank God for whatever comic-buffs that allowed me to bary match Bruce's intensity, despite being a torso shorter than him with far less muscle mass and reach.

It must have affected my intelligence too, because I was flying through those biology books faster than Usain Bolt on a school track.

Hell, I was picking things up so fast I was starting to get existential crisis. But Deathstroke’s Super Soldier Serum wasn’t something you could just whip up overnight. It took decades of development, thousands of man-hours, and billions of taxpayer dollars for the U.S. military to get it even remotely right; and even then, it was so damn unstable that only Wilson and his brats ever survived the changes.

Certain elements—no, not those four—weren't even on the periodic table.

They were clearly synthesized in a lab, and unless we got our hands on the research papers, it would take us at least half a decade to figure out its components at the rate we were going. I, unfortunately, didn't have that kind of patience or time.

Gotham was a powder keg ready to blow any second, and sitting on my ass, waiting for the fallout just didn’t sit right with me.

So I turned to other solutions;

I turned to the mad scientists.

The kind who’d sell their Soul and their spouse’s for a research grant.

The next step was finding someone I could actually entrust the last scraps of blood and data the Batcomputer had scraped together. Fortunately, Gotham alone had about twenty or thirty so-called 'once-in-a-lifetime' geniuses rotting away in private and college labs. If you think that's a lot, wait until you find out about Central City and Metropolis…

Sometimes I wondered why this Earth wasn’t already a goddamn utopia.

Some would blame greed.

Me? I figured it was fear—fear of losing your job to an AI, fear that the same nanomachines building your fancy skyrise might malfunction and flatten half a city block come the morning.

Fear of tomorrow, basically.

But I'm getting sidetracked.

With a new plan in mind, I rushed to work, expecting—hoping I’d be done in a few days at most.

I was so fucking wrong.

Sure, there were plenty of mad scientists to pick and choose from, but I needed someone... Not good per se, but mentally stable at least. Someone with a clean record, a decent family life and no fondness for murder, because we wouldn't want a potential criminal getting their hands on the Serum, now, would we? On top of that, they had to be halfway competent.

Sounded simple enough when I first started digging through the Dark Knight’s List of Interest—a lovely pile of classified intel, psychiatric evaluations, and half-redacted files on Supes, tech-heads, and scientists alike. You’d think, with all that tech, it’d be easy to find a scientist who fit all the criteria, but it wasn’t.

It wasn’t that the Batcomputer couldn’t find anyone, or that the candidates were idiots.

The problem was half of them were one HR complaint away from leveling Gotham, and the other half already had résumés stained by Gotham’s worst criminals, so for a month and a half, I was practically married to the Batcomputer.

By the end of it, I was almost homicidal myself... You know, staring into the Abyss and all that jazz.

But then, finally, I found someone; one Dr. Robert Kirkland—better known as Man-Bat—who, at this point, had not spliced himself with Bat-DNA… Yet.

Dude should’ve heeded my warning.

But no, I’m just a dumb brute—what the hell do I know about splicing Bat-DNA into humans? Now he’s stalking Gotham and getting his face rearranged every night by Bruce. Dumbass. And speaking of whom, while I was busy with the Serum and my injuries, the Dark Knight was out in the streets, busting skulls and making sure there’d still be a city left to defend by the time I got my shit together.

Apparently, he was extra-violent, too.

I like to think it’s because I almost died, but maybe I’m just overestimating my worth.“

— [HELLBRED] —

Shadowing the van, the Dark Knight moved silently across the rooftops, his boots barely making a sound on the damp tiles.

He stopped just as the car rolled to a halt in front of an unassuming warehouse at the edge of the docks.

At a glance, the place seemed deserted, but the Dark Knight knew better.

They were behind containers or lurking in the shadows of the other warehouses—unseen but definitely present… A swift sweep revealed over a hundred disguised thugs at the minimum.

'Good.' Fists tightening, muscles tensing with a deep need for violence, Batman descended and immediately dispatched a thug in no more than a second.

Then, keeping to the shadows, he silently approached the group of four in the corner and eavesdropped. “Shit, ten mil for what? Bastard couldn’t even take out the sidekick.”

“Deathstroke... More like Dickstroke if you ask me.“

Howling over the botched assassination attempt, the thugs finally slapped their cards down, and just like that, whatever scraps of goodwill they shared immediately went up in smoke.

“You’re cheating, aren't you? Man, fuck you!”

The other thug leaned back and smirked smugly. “Prove it.”

“I’ll prove it with my boot up your ass if you don’t cut it out!”

“That doesn’t even make sen—”

The words died in his throat as he cheerfully tilted his head back, only to lock eyes with the Dark Knight himself.

“…”

"Oh, crap... It’s the Bat!"

Across from the cheater, one thug scrambled to his feet, knocking over his chair with a loud clatter.

"No shit, Captain Obvious!"

The thug hadn't the time to lift his gun before the Batclaw hauled him off his feet and giving him an… Intimate introduction to Batman’s fist.

The criminal couldn’t tell if anything had cracked, but it sure felt like it as he slammed through the flimsy plastic table.

Choking on the air in his lungs, he wheezed, helpless to intervene as his companions were taken down one by one. “Ay, ay, dude! Please, man, I want no smoke. I’ll even knock myself out!”

'Coward!' The thug's ringing brain cursed, watching in impotent fury as the cheater slammed his own face against the wall, face twisting in terror as he felt an arm on his shoulder. Staring the man down as if to say, 'Here, let me give you a hand,' Gotham's own boogeyman swept the legs out from under the poor fool, clasped fists hastening his fall with a thunderous thud.

'Maybe there are perks to cowardice...'

He thought, squeezing his eyes shut and praying the Bat wouldn’t notice, but the vigilante already did.

“Wait, wait, wait! I can give you info—” He hadn't a chance to finish when the plated boot struck his chin, knocking both his teeth and him out cold.

The Dark Knight surveyed the neutralized thugs before grappling to the top of a stack of containers. He then located the Captains to disrupt their coordination, systematically taking down every hired gun in his path until all that remained of the original 138 were the handful standing guard next to the mob bosses.

Penguin, Falcone, Maroni, and Black Mask.

Half the crime families of Gotham were present, all tense as their bosses clashed.

“I told you! I told you not to involve that damn Clown!”

Cobblepot shouted, sweat dripping down his fat as he pointed the cane at Black Mask.

“So a few freaks managed to escape Arkham. It happens.”

“Happens? Happens?!” Cobblepot fumed. “Do you have any idea how bad this is for business, you incompetent fool?! And don’t even get me started on the assassin you hired! He fell to the sidekick!”

“Deathstroke was supposed to be the best of the best.”

“Is that why he’s in prison?!”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Black Mask growled. “Who did you hire? Deadshot? The Bat looks very much alive, last I checked.”

“At least he was taken out by the Bat!” Cobblepot shot back, and so began the blame-game, until an unconscious thug suddenly dropped on top of their table. “What the hell?!“

“I saw the Bat! He’s on the roof!”

“Where, where?!”

“There, you moron!”

But the Dark Knight was already gone.

Smoke pellets slipped from his fingers as he dropped behind a stacked shelf just in time to dodge a hail of gunfire.

“You shot me, you brainless morons!” Cobblepot bellowed within the smoke, clutching his wounded shoulder. The thugs hacked and broke into coughing fit inside the thick smoke, stumbling blind while silhouettes danced around them, each bigger and meaner than the last.

Somewhere in the mayhem, something heavy cracked—a wet, ugly noise—followed by a scream that cut off fast. Unnaturally fast, in fact.

Then came another shriek.

And another.

And another, even more guttural than last.

If Black Mask didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought it was that disgusting freak Pyg at work.

But it wasn’t.

It was one of his own—some wide-eyed, twenty-year-old boytoy his Lieutenant had taken under her wing. “Dammit, where is h—?!” One of the henchmen barked, only to take an elbow to the ribs hard enough to make him gag up his dinner.

His friend barely managed to raise his gun before the Bat was on him, violently ripping the firearm out of his hands.

“Oh, no—” Dropping the magazine, he whipped the gunstock across the other henchmen's faces, KO'ing five thugs within a fraction of a second.

* BANG!!!

A shot rang out—wild and useless, as the bullet ricocheted off the ceiling.

The sparks fluttered like candles in the wind, lighting up the space just long enough for the shooter to catch a glimpse of the 'animal' his boss had provoked, before being snuffed out along with the his consciousness.

By the time he hit the ground, groaning, two-thirds of the room was already down, while the rest were tripping over each other to get away from the living, breathing Myth.

“Ba-Batman! What did I do? What did I do?“

"You know what you did." The Dark Knight whispered, dragging the edge of his boot across the deformed man's second chin, slow enough to make the Penguin feel every ounce of it; even the gradual increase in pressure and the terror that followed.

Seeing the Dark Knight distracted with Cobblepot, Black Mask drew his gun, but he didn’t even get a shot off before a Batarang knocked it from his hand.

Bending down to retrieve the weapon turned out to be his biggest mistake, as a knee slammed into his chin, the force behind it expertly controlled to keep the mob boss conscious and in pain.

"This, it's about your sidekick, isn't it? Did he die?"

Roman Sionis grinned, right before the wood of his mask splintered into his skin, dragging his ego down with it as Bruce’s armored boot smashed into his face thrice.

“If he were,” Batman growled, hauling Black Mask up by his collar. “You'd be too."

Whatever 'bark' Black Mask had thought up died on the tip of his tongue the moment he saw the violence burning behind that cowl. The Bat was always serious, but there was usually restraint to him—something which appeared entirely absent tonight.

“Rescind the bounty on Robin, spit out the names of the other assassins, and I'll make this quick.“

The crime lord spat out a blob of blood, and smirked. "Aw, the Bat's got a soft spot for some brat. How sweet. But Gotham's built on dead kids… What's one more?"

Batman drove his knee into Roman without hesitation, lifting him off the ground a good meter.

The mob boss collapsed in a wheezing heap, but Bruce wasn’t done.

He dragged the the Supervillain back up, gauntlets creaking around his throat. "Ten million… You put a ten million bounty on a child.“

Black Mask choked. "Brat should’ve picked a safer hobby, then."

“Wrong answer.“

A fist crashed into the mask, snapping pieces off and exposing brown strands underneath. Roman fought back. Everyone saw that he did, but it didn't matter. Certainly not to the Dark Knight.

It hadn’t been much to look at to begin with, but what hid beneath was even worse: A bloodied, and battered thing stricken with fear.

“You signed his death warrant. Now I’m going to make you beg for yours."

Barely able to stay upright, Roman stumbled back, grasping for air while the room spun around him and blood poured from the cracks in his mask. Fumbling with his belt, he drew a switchblade with trembling fingers, lunging at the Dark Knight with a broken snarl. The blade kissed armor and snapped in two, yet the Bat didn't even flinch.

Instead, he turned his head—slow, mechanical—and something just shifted.

Roman blinked, and for a second, that familiar cowl seemed to sprout jagged horns.

The cape writhed at the edges, licking the floor like smoke while those white eyes burned with the intensity and visions of Hell itself.

Roman staggered back, slapping at his face in a desperate and, sadly, futile effort to resist the terror sinking into his bones.

Smoke curled thick around them, whispering at the corners of his vision as the Bat moved.

A gauntleted fist rammed into his gut, folding him like wet paper.

Another cracked across his jaw, snapping his head sideways with a wet pop.

The third brought him to his knees, drooling blood, coughing, snot streaming down his broken nose.

The fourth broke something deeper—something Black Mask couldn’t quite name. Was it his pride?

The fifth, sixth, and seventh came so fast they all seemed to blur into one.

“Ho-How are you doing this?

Y-YOU'RE JUST A MAN!

YOU'RE JUST A MAN!!!“

The Black Mask roared as his body jerked right like a ragdoll, ribs caving inward under seven more blows.

He barely even realized he was on his back until the blood began to pool in his throat. Roman tried to crawl away, God knew he did, but his limbs had gone completely limp, joints locking up at the more sounds of the Demon and his bootfalls.

Helpless, he cried—bawled, really. “I’ll retract the bounty! Please, please! I swear!”

The plea caused his pride to shriek something fierce, clawing and thrashing, but Roman could not find it in himself to care anymore… Survival vs. Dignity—the choice was obvious.

“Please…”

“The names and locations of the other assassins.“

Taking pity upon his fellow mob boss, Oswald Cobblepot hissed.

“You already took down two of 'em! Only Bane, Zsasz, and Firefly are still in the race.“

“Locations.“

“What, you think those freaks told me where they ran off to? I got nothing, Batman. So unless you sockin' me in the mouth somehow makes me magically know, you’re wasting your time. Now leave us be. You’ve done enough harms for one night.”

Batman shifted, boots grinding against the concrete as he stared down Penguin—a waddling, bloated excuse for a man barely scraping his chest.

“The bounty.”

Penguin sneered, wiping blood from the corner of his lip. “It’s off. You have my word. Now scram.”

Closing the distance, a growl rolled from Bruce’s throat as grabbed Penguin by the coat, and slammed him into the ground. "You better mean it.“ More smoke pooled beneath their feet, and by the time it cleared, the Dark Knight was already gone, swift as the wind.

“Bane, Firefly, and Zsasz…” Those were names Bruce hadn’t wanted to hear.

Gotham was no stranger to lunatics, but even among its rogues, there were a handful even the crime families knew to steer clear of.

Two of them were in that category—irredeemable monsters the Dark Knight wrestled with the urge to kill every night.

But at least there was some good news.

Rowan's idea to lace their smoke pellets with Scarecrow’s Fear Toxin had yielded astonishing results.

Batman understood fear—not just how it worked, but how to weaponize it.

Still, the fear he dealt in had always been simple: The quiet kind you felt when you screwed up and knew your parents were about to hand your ass to you. But now, with the Fear Toxin in play, the rules had changed.

He could be anything the mind could conjure—a symbol, an idea made real.

It wasn’t suited for hostage situations, but when the objective was simple force and swift incapacitation, especially against large groups of armed henchmen, it could be one of the most efficient tools in his arsenal.

'Rowan’s done well.' The kid had adapted faster than even he could expect.

It was time he got something for the effort. “Alfred?“

“—Yes, sir?“

“What do children want these days?”

A DS?

A PSP?

“—If you truly wish to get him something, sir, might I suggest the radical notion of asking?“

“You're peppy tonight.“

“—Pardon me, sir. In my old age, staying up for your midnight dithering and keeping up appearances has become quite… Taxing.“

“Where's Rowan? He’s still digging into the Serum?”

Bruce figured the kid would’ve dropped it by now.

“—He’s obsessed. I expect he’ll try to track down a scientist in the coming days… If you’re set on rewarding his effort, that might be a good place to start. Or better yet—help him yourself.“

“I’ll give it some thought.”

Biology wasn’t exactly Bruce’s strong suit, but even then, there were very few who could claim to outmatch him in the sciences… Even in fields most still wrote off as pseudoscientific, hippie-jeebie nonsense, take for instance alien technologies.

“—Are you coming home soon, Master Bruce?“

The Dark Knight paused, eyes fixed on the horizon as the first light of dawn broke over Gotham’s jagged skyline… “I’ll be in the Cave in ten.”

“—Very good, sir. I’ll reheat 'dinner'…”

“Thank you, Alfred.”

Heading straight into the Batcave, Bruce drifted the Batmobile into its usual spot, the non-pneumatic tires screeching beneath as the 'tank' came to a stop.

The Dark Knight climbed out, peeled off his cowl, and let out a slow, ragged sigh, his fists trembling from strain he hadn’t noticed until now.

He blinked, then froze.

The floor of the Batcave was covered in bodies… Rowan. Gordon. Alfred… Even his parents.

Elevated heart rate, hallucinations, sweating, and irrational fear…

It didn’t take a genius-level intellect for Bruce to realize he’d been hit with the Fear Toxin. Reaching into his utility belt, Bruce wordlessly injected himself with the antidote, breathing a sigh of relief when he felt his pulses slow.

“I'll have to lower the dosage.“ That, or upgrade the cowl with a better filtration system, since as effective as the Toxin was, it wouldn’t do if he started clawing at shadows like the thugs he used it on. Reopening his eyes, Bruce blinked once more, relieved that the bodies were gone.

“Master Bruce, welcome home.”

Bruce instantly jerked around, fist stopping just short of Alfred’s face.

“Sir?”

“Alfred... Sorry.”

“It seems you’ve had a tense night,” The butler replied calmly. “Shall I prepare your bath, sir? Or will you have dinner first?”

“Dinner.” Bruce answered curtly.

He was starving, after all. The calories he burned in a single night and the intake needed to make up for it would make most Mr. Olympias balk in disgust. Besides, it gave Alfred time to prep the bath. “Very well, sir.“

“Where's Rowan?“

“Where you expect him.“

A short trip to the lab later, Bruce stepped into the room and found his protégé fast asleep atop the Batcomputer.

He approached quietly, ready to pick the boy up, only to stop dead in his track upon hearing the faint grunts.

Robin’s fingers clenched, groping for a staff that wasn't there as he groaned and jolted, like he’d just taken a blow to the face.

“Rowan?“ The call sent the boy somersaulting off the table, before collapsing on one knee as he winced; sleepy, unfocused eyes sharpening. “Oh, goddamnit, Bruce! Somebody oughta' put a fucking bell on you.”

“You shouldn’t exert force or—”

“I might tear the stitches, yeah, I got it.” Running a hand through his oily white hair, the boy grabbed his clutch and limped back to the seat. “So… How was your night?”

“If you’re asking about the Toxin—it was a good idea. I estimate a 42% increase in efficiency.”

“A-ha! Told you it'd be a great idea!“

Sweeping through the images on the second Batcomputer, Bruce lightly asked, “Still looking into the Serum?”

Rowan immediately averted his eyes, dragging out an awkward, “Yeaaah…”

“Had any luck?”

His face blanched as he smacked his lips. “I know what hemoglobin is now?”

“So not much at all…”

The boy looked like he wanted to say something, but sighed instead.

“Why didn’t you ask me for help?”

“You’re busy. You’re the Batman. If you help me, who’s helping Gotham? She’s already a raging bitch with you around—imagine how much worse she’d be without you. Beside…” He hesitated, puffing out a breath as he spun the chair. “I thought you wouldn’t approve, and—”

“And since I haven’t said anything, you figured that made it okay? A lie of omission is still a lie, Rowan.”

“See? This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“…”

With a groan, the boy hauled himself up and gestured at the screen. “That’s everything I’ve dug up. If you want to wipe it, go ahead.”

“You’re not going to argue?” Bruce narrowed his eyes. Obsessions didn’t just vanish like that—he'd know.

“When in Rome, right? Plus I eat your food, drink your water, sleep under your roof. Least I can do is play by your rules.”

Smirking, Bruce caught his wrist before he could make for the exit. “And that USB?“

“Tch…” Rowan clicked his tongue but didn’t resist, dropping the device into Bruce’s open palm. After a glance, the Dark Knight handed it back, much to his protégé's astonishment.

“I thought you objected?“

“I still do…” He thought about pressing the issue, only to drop the thought when he remembered the state he found the child earlier. If a Serum could help Rowan manage his PTSD, then Bruce would rather assist than watch him mutilate himself chasing power. Besides, the kid wasn’t wrong.

The world was changing, and there might come a time when a Super Soldier Serum would prove beneficial… Bruce still wasn’t convinced he’d ever need it, but it was better to have the option than to not. “Alfred mentioned you were looking to outsource the Serum. Got someone in mind?”

“You’re fishing for intel me, aren't you?”

“I gave your USB back, didn’t I?”

“… Kirkland. Robert—”

“Kirkland Langstrom,” The Dark Knight interrupted. “A brilliant biologist and geneticist who was ostracized after the scientific community caught wind of his obsession with bats, which started not long after his hearing started deteriorating. He's in desperate need for funding, last I checked.“

“You’re keeping tabs on him?”

“I keep tabs on anyone worth noticing.” Bruce answered with a shrug.

“Pretty sure that’s illegal.”

“So?“ One brow raised, Bruce crossed his arms. “You're going to tell on me?“

Lips twitching with mild irritation, Rowan rolled his eyes. “Okay, it’s official—my cockiness is rubbing off on you, and it is honestly kind of disturbing.”

Ruffling the boy’s hair on his way out, the Dark Knight chuckled and casually tossed over his shoulder.

“After school, Alfred will drive you to Kirkland. Your name is Jacques—heir to some obscenely old and disgustingly wealthy European family on a student exchange program.

Use the opportunity to learn from and keep an eye on him.

He strikes me as the type who’d inject untested science experiments up his veins and Gotham’s got enough freaks already.”

Stunned into silence, Rowan watched the Dark Knight vanish down the corridor, then let out a triumphant roar. “Hell yeah!”

Just like that, the biggest obstacle to his plans had willingly stepped aside. And hell, judging from his phrasing, Bruce was probably footing the bill too! Now, if only the night terrors would ease up, then life might actually be perfect for lil' Rowan.

Chapter Text

"You look miserable, sir."

Slamming his head back against the cool leather, Rowan let out a long, guttural groan. "You don't say..."

"Surely you're exaggerating? I remember school being quite tolerable."

"Alfred," Rowan smacked his lips and sat up, voice drier than sandpaper on one's bare ass. "The gremlin next to me offered me his booger today… And when I politely declined his 'good grace,' you know what that Gollum-looking ass did?"

Alfred’s mustache twitched. "I dread to ask."

“He smeared it on my shoulder!” Rowan chucked it aside like it was covered in acid and unbuttoned his collar. "Twice, Alfred, twice! I can't even beat him up 'cause he's a kid!“

Rounding the corner, the Batler chuckled. “Perhaps private tutors would be preferable after all?"

"Please ask Bruce… I don't need tutors, I can homeschool myself just fine, just please! Please get me out of that hellhole!!!"

Dragging a hand down his face, Rowan slumped deeper into the seat.

Tired and beaten—not by Gotham’s criminal masterminds, but by a day full of shrieking, mucus, and academic torture—he shoved a USB into Alfred’s pocket with the demeanor of someone passing off state secrets.

"In it is a three-minute PowerPoint presentation. Charts, graphs, bullet points—the whole pitch on why I shouldn't have to suffer such injustice anymore. Sell it to the 'Boss.' I'm begging you."

Giving the USB a quick pat through his coat, Alfred winked. “I’ll be sure to deliver it Master Bruce.“

“Tell him it’s a matter of my mental health.”

Alfred arched a brow in the rearview mirror, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“You fought a professional assassin last month… A booger from a hyperactive child’s hardly torture, is it?”

Leaning sideways, Rowan deadpanned, “He wiped it on my shoulder, Alfred. That’s practically biological warfare… The Geneva Convention states he should be tried by the ICC! (International Criminal Court)”

The car turned off the main road, and the urban sprawl gave way to the structured calm of Gotham’s medical district where Gotham Institute of Genetics and Genomes—one of, if not the most reputable local Institute—quickly came into view. Then, the Rolls Royce eased to a halt in front of the Institute. “Do you require my company, Master Rowan?”

“Mmm... No. I’ll handle this myself.“

Scuffed dress shoes tapping against the pavement, Rowan silently adjusted his button-up using the reflection in the tinted windows. Staring back at him was a boy with short white hair; a lean, wiry frame; grey-tinged olive skin and dark violet eyes which radiated judgment and exhaustion in equal measure.

“How do I look?”

Alfred stepped beside him, brushed an imaginary speck off his shoulder with a smooth flick, then straightened the boy’s crooked tie. “Dashing, sir.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. You look pretty awesome yourself, Pennyworth.“ Shooting the Batler a sly wink, grin flashing briefly, before dulling as he fixed his posture.

Since his alter ego was an unhinged child vigilante who spent his nights beating the hell out of criminals with a metal stick, Rowan figured the public version of himself ought to look like he’d never even been introduced to the concept of fun, hence the dead stare and scowl Bruce seemed so fond of. “Appreciate the lift, Alfred. Please pick me up in an hour.“

“Enjoy yourself, sir. And remember, if anything seems amiss—anything at all—do not hesitate to call.”

“I know!“

The doors to the Institute slid open with a sterile hiss, blasting Rowan with a wave of hospital-grade air conditioning and the faint, lingering scent of antiseptic.

He stepped in, posture crisp, expression flat—looking every bit like a miniature CEO scoping out a hostile acquisition.

A few heads turned in his direction as he made a beeline for the front desk, where he was greeted by a middle-aged receptionist with chunky glasses and too-peppy a smile. “… Did you get lost, kid?”

“On the contrary. I have an appointment with Dr. Robert Kirkland Langstrom. Could you check if he’s in?”

“You have an appointment? You? Get outta here, brat.” With a casual flick of his wrist, Rowan revealed the blazer draped over his arm, specifically the Gotham Academy emblem sewn on its chest, a symbol everyone in the city—be them crooks or kingpins—knew to be the breeding ground for Gotham’s future 'elites.'

Actions may speak louder than words, but everyone knew money was more compelling than both.

Tilting his head, Rowan sprawled across the couch arrogantly and ordered, “Give Dr. Kirkland a call for me, will you, Mrs. Ellie?“

“E-Excuse me, could you repeat that?”

“Doctor Robert Kirkland Langstrom—genius geneticist and, if the rumors are true, bat expert. Tell him Jacques Renard would like a word.”

The receptionist blinked, squinted, then leaned and repeated.

“Jacques… Renard?”

“Yes,” Rowan replied, enunciating like she was dense. “First name Jacques. Last name Renard. Do you need me to spell it out?“

Mrs. Ellie's jaw clicked shut as she turned to her keyboard and tapped away with the kind of passive-aggressive fervor only underpaid desk workers could summon. Somewhere between keystrokes, Rowan caught a mumbled, “Stupid rich kid.“

“You said something?“

“No, sir. Kindly take a seat in the waiting area. I’ll notify you as soon as Dr. Langstrom gets back to me.”

Settling into one of the stiff, over-sanitized chairs in the waiting room, Rowan crossed one leg over the other and began drumming his fingers against the armrest—a steady, irritable rhythm only slightly more polite than if he'd been tapping a knife on glass.

Rowan had just begun to seriously contemplate 'accidentally' toppling the coffee machine as a distraction to sneak past the front desk when the double doors at the far end of the lobby swung open and entered a man in a lab coat, tall and angular, with light brown hair already giving way to premature grey and a pair of wire-framed glasses sitting neatly on the bridge of his nose.

Dr. Langstrom leaned across the reception desk, speaking in hushed tones with Mrs. Ellie.

A few feet away in the waiting area, Rowan put on his best disinterested act and flicked imaginary dirt from his nails, his gaze fixed on anywhere but the desk.

He only looked up when the scientist finally came near. “Jacques Renard?”

Flashing a curious, yet empty smile, Rowan rose and extended a hand. “In the flesh… You must be Kirkland.”

“… You’re a kid.“

“I'm aware. Will that be a problem?“

“I—uhm, no. No, of course not,” Langstrom fumbled, clearing his throat as he motioned stiffly toward the door. “Why don’t we, uh… Talk in my office?”

He was that desperate.

'Good.' As a filthy capitalist pig, Rowan considered it his moral obligation to exploit this tragically vulnerable, middle-aged man. “Lead the way.“

The fluorescent lights of the hallway buzzed like dying insects as Langstrom disappeared further into the Institute, shadowed closely by Rowan who wisely kept his mouth shut while silently cataloging every security guard, cam and exit with casual glances.

"So," Langstrom began, voice strained with forced professionalism, "What exactly brings you to little ol' me, Mr. Renard? Whatever it is you want, surely there are better candidates than me?"

“Don’t sell yourself short, Dr. Langstrom.”

This was the same guy who invented Cross-Species Genome Compound in his basement.

Sure, the Serum had its… Quirks, but let’s be honest, the fact that he even managed to cook up a half functional prototype with barely any funding already put him leagues above the rest of Gotham’s scientific community and maybe even ahead of Bruce himself, at least when it came to his own field.

“I’m not—just repeating what’s already said behind my back. If you’ve done your homework, then you probably already know all about my… Less-than-stellar reputation, Mr. Renard.”

“In my experience,” Rowan started, handing over the vial of blood along with the USB containing all that he and Alfred had managed to learn about the Deathstroke's Serum, “A bad reputation doesn’t equal incompetence.“

Didn't people doubt Einstein and Isaac Newton too?

“What are these?“

“A passion project of mine. I thought you might be interested.“

“And you want me to work on it? Me?”

“I don’t want you to—I need you to. You’re the only one who can… And the only one who should.”

Man-Bat might have ended up as one of Gotham’s A-list rogues, but he hadn’t started out that way. Hell, depending on the iteration, Rowan would argue the guy could’ve been a real hero—maybe even a close ally to Batman—if the Serum he cooked up hadn’t turned him into a rabid animal.

“That’s… A lot of expectations, Mr. Renard.”

“Please, call me Jacques.“ Rowan smirked, strolling into Kirkland's office like he owned the place. “And like I said—don’t sell yourself short, Doc. Now… Rumor has it you are in desperate need of funding?“

The scientist coughed awkwardly, hand half-covering his mouth in a weak attempt to salvage his dignity. “I… I’ve had some trouble securing financial backing, yes. I assume you’re offering a solution?”

“I’ll make my pitch after you’ve had a look at the files on that USB.”

“Alright…” Sliding into his desk chair, Dr. Kirkland plugged the device into his laptop and opened the folder with a click. Minutes passed in tense silence, broken only by the occasional scroll and thoughtful hum as he sifted through the bloodwork and decrypted formulas. “The blood cells are still alive and thriving even after a month outside the body… How is this possible?“

After another ten minutes, the scientist finally leaned back, looking like he'd aged fifty years in just thirty.

“Mr. Renard, this is a weapon.”

There was no other way to put it.

"And so is the Hybridization of Man and Beast, Dr. Kirkland." Rowan shot back, flipping the switch of the 'Useless Machine' next to a framed photo of the Doctor's old research team and watched with idle amusement as the mechanical arm popped out to turn itself right back off.

Kirkland sure knew how to entertain himself.

"My research was never meant to go public. At least not... in its current state." Kirkland's brow furrowed. "How could you possibly know about it? Only—"

"Only Francine is supposed to know?" Rowan cut in slyly, half-lidded gaze meeting Kirkland's widening, astonished eyes as he tilted his head slightly. "She's a wonderful woman, your wife. Truly. I'm jealous."

Kirkland instantly recoiled as if struck, then grabbed the boy by his collar. "Don't you dare bring her into this!“

Thrown off by the sudden reaction, Rowan ran his tongue over his teeth, then quickly adopted the classic Bat-Glare.

“Unhand me, Doctor. Or else.“

Realizing the irrationality of his actions, Kirkland quickly released the boy and gently pressed on his temples. "My apologies…”

“It’s not entirely your fault.” Rowan admitted as he fixed his collar.

In hindsight, while he had only meant to display resourcefulness, he could have definitely phrased it better. “I did come off a little… Threatening. But rest assured, whether you agree or not, no harm will befall you or your spouse—you have my word.”

“Words don't mean much.“

“Mine do.“

“I have to ask: Is this going to be mass-produced for war, or used for any immoral purposes? I don’t want to aid criminals or shady governments.”

The question didn’t surprise Rowan.

Kirkland’s fixation on bats had already tarnished his standing in certain circles, but his reputation was equally shaped by a history of defiance against larger entities, specifically by the many crime families in Gotham and even governmental institutions.

“Not at all. With the way the world is changing, my family and I just want to be able to protect ourselves… I’m sure you can get on board with that?”

“And how many people are in your family?” Kirkland scoffed.

‘Bruce, Alfred, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd… Helena Wayne…’ Mentally tallying up the Bat-Family, Rowan stroked his chin and hesitantly answered. “About twenty people? Give or take.”

“That’s quite a large family.”

“What can I say? I’m French. We multiply like rabbits.”

The part-time vigilante paused, then leveled a look at the good Doctor.

“Now, do you want the money or not?”

— [HELLBRED] —

"Six months… Six months was the span of time Kirkland claimed it would take for him to recreate the Serum, although I suppose 'recreate' is rather incorrect.

A drop of blood, even if it's alive, still wasn't much for the Doctor to work with, so he instead proposed to add his own 'tweaks.'

For example: The Bonding Agents which allowed the DNA of the vampire bat to be seamlessly integrated into a human body and, as I now understand, temporarily alter the Gene-Expression—Kirkland's magnum opus.

The reason Kirkland turned into a giant bat was because he specifically designed the Agents to work optimally with the species. However, with a few minor tweaks, it would work for any human, animal, and even Serum, drastically reducing the fatality rate compared to the Original 'Uncle Sam' shot up Wilson's veins.

But of course, compatibility was just one aspect to the Serum. There are many more, take for instance the now-proven accelerated growth which the good Doctor had predicted and warned me about.

Why does this happen?

How does it work?

Wasn't Deathstroke's aging slowed in the comics?

Excellent questions, everyone!

Allow me to clarify: See, the human body operates on a meticulously structured developmental timeline. Childhood, puberty, adolescence, and adulthood all represent sequential phases within a system designed for gradual, stable maturation.

Kirkland’s Serum disrupts this natural progression.

It accelerates cellular division, saturates the subject’s physiology with growth hormones, and compresses two decades of development into a fraction of the time.

Conventional logic would suggest such rapid advancement precipitates premature aging, however! Aging is not an inherent biological inevitability. In fact, if you inspect your genome this instant, I guarantee you will find no gene that encodes aging, because aging is not a programmed biological process, but is rather the inevitable consequence of Cellular Entropy.

DNA degrades.

Proteins misfold.

Metabolic waste accumulates and slowly, but surely begins to outpace even the body's capacity for repair.

And so, with each successive division, your cellular integrity deteriorates, causing you to get uglier, wrinklier and ever closer to death.

The Serum counteracts this decline by enhancing DNA repair mechanisms, stabilizing telomeres, optimizing cellular maintenance processes, and thus enabling the body to mitigate damage faster than it accrues. Pretty fascinating, right?

It’s not without its issues, obviously.

The risk of cancer’s the big one.

Pretty sure that’s why nearly every test subject before Slade Wilson ended up dead.

Their bodies likely just gave out, hemorrhaging while tumors bloomed like weeds on their corpses.

And then there’s the insane metabolic hunger during the early phases, not to mention the emotional and cognitive underdevelopment that, in itself, is a whole ethical minefield!

Luckily, none of those was really a problem for yours truly as a meta-aware Reincarnator. I mean, getting cancer would've been a hell of a buzzkill, but I’m still breathing, aren’t I?

Once we'd hammered out all the requirements—expectations, work ethic, nonnegotiables for the final product—it was finally Kirkland's turn to turn the table.

He requested a million up front to outfit his 'private lab' (Read: Glorified basement), then another $50K per month as an emergency fund, plus a $10K salary.

Honestly?

That was a damn steal if you’ve ever seen how much the Department of Defense throws around for inferior products.

Hell, Bruce and I were both expecting far higher numbers, but it seemed with the recent boom in alien tech and borderline sci-fi gadgets flooding the market, cutting-edge materials had gotten surprisingly cheap. And since we were just reverse-engineering and tweaking an existing Serum instead of making one from scratch, the costs were a lot more manageable.

It probably helped that I was only footing the bill for Kirkland and not an entire research team.

The negotiation ended as all good Gotham deals do: With a handshake that meant nothing and everything.

No contracts, no witnesses, just two men and the unspoken promise of mutual destruction if either betrayed the other.

My kind of arrangement.

Now, I wish I could say I wrapped up the day happy and hopeful, but this was Gotham.

The second you feel even a flicker of happiness, you can bet your ass something’s lurking around the corner to wreck it. In my case, that 'something' turned out to be an old acquaintance—someone I hadn’t crossed paths with since my days as a street rat.

Someone whom I was all too happy to put six feet under.“

— [HELLBRED] —

“—Apology, sir, but I'll be 30 minutes late.“

Rowan rolled his eyes skyward where the smog had already swallowed the last traces of sunset and asked. "Traffic?"

A weary sigh traveled through the receiver.

"—Traffic…"

That one word seemed to carry the weight of all the overturned trucks and flipped cars in Gotham.

Kicking a pebble across the sidewalk, Rowan watched it skitter into a storm drain and offered. "Eh, why don't you head home first, Alfred? I think I'll walk today—"

"—Absolutely not." The refusal was instant and as crisp as freshly starched linen.

"Alfred, need I remind you you're pushing 70? Making an old man wait in traffic reflects badly on me."

Dry as ever, the Batler fired back, "—Need I remind you, Master Rowan, that this ‘old man’ is more than capable of making your dinners taste like dishwater for the foreseeable future? Letting a child roam Gotham unsupervised reflects terribly on me."

“How dare you use my Spells against me, Pottah!” Rowan joked, laughed and added. “I'm being serious, Alfred. Go home, take a nap. You put up with my shit daily—you have earned it. Besides, I'm—”

Lowering his voice, the part-time vigilante whispered. “Robin, remember? If someone wants to try, I say let 'em.“

“—You're without your armor and gadgets, sir.“

“You really think I’m gonna lose to a couple of street thugs?” Rowan sighed.

Was he that terrible of a Robin?

He couldn’t remember Alfred ever being this... Opposed to Bruce's other sidekicks.

“—No, I think you’re going to get shot at without a scrap of kevlar on you, Master Rowan! And maybe I am old-fashioned, but I'm quite certain that's still detrimental to one’s health.“

“Alfred, I was a street urchin for half a decade, I'll be fine.“

“—You can't play the sympathy card on me again, sir.“

“I’m not trying to. I—” The wind shifted, guiding the stench of cheap cigars and cloying, rancid cologne up the part-time vigilante's nose. The words died on the tip of Rowan’s tongue as he then caught sight of a familiar silhouette in the crowd… Familiar in a way that made his stomach twist with rage.

Rowan had hoped he was mistaken, but that was him, alright.

No doubt about it. “I’ll have to call you back, Alfred.”

It really was a small world.

“—Sir? Is something the mat—”

Ending the call without another word and shoving his phone back in his pocket, Rowan silently slipped into the crowd like a shadow, but as calm as his expression and as sharp as his movements, the vigilante's clenched fists and set jaw betrayed his inner-turmoil. Every step that silhouette took sent a spike of heat and hate through Rowan’s veins in a way no Supervillain ever had.

Of course it did…

The cape-n'-cowl stuff was business.

This was personal. “Reuben…!“

There were countless types of sins committed in Gotham, from petty thefts under the neon glow of the East End to grand heists in the marbled halls of the financial district, and the horrors whispered about in the asylums where the worst of humanity festered.

Some crimes were small, barely making a ripple in the city’s dark waters.

Others were tidal waves, leaving scars that never truly healed.

And then there were the monsters.

Some wore masks, others wore smiles.

There were killers who carved their names into history with blades and bullets; madmen who turned the night into their personal carnival of terror.

And then there was Reuben Hatch, or Uncle Grin as he was once known prior to his 'death,' which—clearly—had been greatly exaggerated.

He looked the same as he did five years ago—like the kind of man you’d pass on the street without a second glance—a middle-aged, salt-and-pepper everyman with the weary slump of someone who’d worked too many years for too little thanks.

His face was broad and lined, the kind of wrinkles that came from squinting under bad lighting or frowning at unpaid bills.

The only thing that might’ve made a stranger pause was his smile—not because it was cruel, but because it was easy, practiced.

The kind of smile that made you think, 'Oh, he’s friendly,' right up until you realized it never reached his eyes.

Rowan had half-a-mind to drop the bastard from the tallest skyscraper in Gotham and listen for the crunch when he hit pavement. But knowing him, the criminal probably had a couple of kids rotting away in his rented dump, and therein lay the problem.

Rowan might be angry; he might even wish the most violent demise upon the common criminal, but as Bruce had drilled into his head over and over again: Their first priority should always be the safety of civilians.

Rowan wasn’t about to spit on his mentor’s teaching.

Beside, vengeance could wait…

Revenge was a dish best served cold after all.

Following at a distance, Rowan watched as the monster ducked into La Morte Rossa, a pretentious Italian joint with red velvet curtains and fifty-cents worth of gold flakes on every dish. Through the window, he saw Reuben lean across the counter, and flash a grin that made Rowan’s knuckles ache.

Ten minutes passed,

Then twenty,

And just when Rowan’s patience was starting to wear well and truly thin, Reuben finally emerged, swinging a takeout bag like he hadn’t a care in the world… Like he hadn’t adopted Gotham’s orphans just to force them to beg on the streets, and then maim or kill them when their cut came up short…

Like he wasn’t the mastermind behind his admittedly small-time human trafficking ring…

Like he hadn’t left Rowan for dead after beating the brakes off him when he was just five…

The vigilante was still one of the lucky ones.

The others were probably rotting in a ditch somewhere; or had been deliberately disfigured to increase the sympathy and, subsequently, donations from Gotham’s bleeding hearts; or worse: Corrupted by the man…

The only line Reuben never crossed was touching the kids inappropriately, but let’s be honest, that wasn’t exactly a high bar to begin with.

Gnashing his teeth, Rowan had to count his fortune when the criminal finally came to a halt at the mouth of an alley lined by weedy chain link. Pushing into a fence gate, Reuben cast a glance up and down the street, before entering and closing the gate behind him, still unaware of his new 'stalker' who was already preparing for his takedown.

Alfred was usually right, but he was wrong about one thing, that being assuming 'Robin' had gone out unequipped.

True, Rowan didn’t have his suit or utility belt, but he did have a year’s worth of training, several fear-pellets stashed in his pocket, and three collapsible Batarangs. More than enough to handle a lowly criminal.

Somersaulting over the fence, Rowan climbed up a rusty pipe and peered inside. At the end of the hall, behind a door marked STAFF ONLY, Reuben dropped his keys on a plastic folding table, then rested his feet on the battered safe beneath as he counted the bills and whistled a broken tune that still featured in Rowan’s nightmares at times.

He'd seen enough.

It was time to act.

Chapter Text

“Let’s talk charity.

Or at least, what Gothamites tell themselves is charity, each time they drop a handful of change into a shaking cup on 5th and Grundy. They smile, feel a little warmer inside, maybe even a bit proud of their good deed, like they have taken one step closer to Sainthood.

Too bad they didn’t help the kid.

They just paid a 'pimp,' because in Gotham, misery isn’t an accident, it’s a business, and nothing rakes in profit quite like the kind that’s small, fragile, and so, so incredibly easy to mold.

Orphans.

Runaways.

Kids with twisted limbs or incurable diseases.

The more broken they look, the better.

A limp earns more than two good legs.

A broken bone sweetens the deal.

A missing arm? That’s premium stock.

Disfigurement gets sympathy, and sympathetic people tend to open their wallets a lot faster.

And yet, for all their 'hard work' and toiling, most of these children barely see a cent.

Hell, they'd be lucky to get a meal if they hit quota.

Poking ribs and hollow eyes do sell the scam better than full bellies and healthy pink skin, after all.

The rest lines the boss’s pockets.

And the worst part? Most don’t even try to run.

Why would they? The streets are colder than a handler’s backhand.

Shelters are full or fairytales, and after a while, you start to forget there was ever another way.

So what happens when they’re too old to beg?

They move up.

Some become enforcers—breaking the same bones that got theirs broken once.

Others recruit, scouring alleys and group homes for fresh faces to keep the scam going.

The truly misfortunate vanish, either gutted for parts or silenced for good.

It all depends on the handler, really.

If you’re lucky, you might get one who will toss you scraps and leave your ribs intact—someone who, while undoubtedly heinous, still appeared to possess a shred of humanity;

If you’re unlucky, you might get the gambling drunk with a side of beating weekly;

And if you’re well and truly cursed, you get Reuben…

I don't know what he saw in me, but after three months of forced involvement, Reuben started calling me his lieutenant.

Said I’d take over the operation one day, since Uncle Grin's limp pistol only shot blanks.

He even said I was the future of his little empire,

It all ended the night I watched him pour boiling water over a kid even younger than I was biologically to 'increase his revenue' and finally scraped up the courage to come to the GCPD for help.

Not my proudest moment, I'll admit.

For my trouble, I was beaten within an inch of my life and left for dead.

I think he felt betrayed… That’s the only plausible reason I can come up with for why he didn’t finish the job when his moles warned him about the GCPD raid sparked by my little stunt. Why he left me bleeding under a bridge in the dead of winter instead of putting a bullet in my head…

Joke’s on him, ’cause I fucking lived and I was pissed.

Pissed enough to come back for seconds and attempt to torch everything he’d ever built.

But by then, 'Uncle Grin' was already dead—swallowed by a blaze that took both him and everything he owned, or so the GCPD reported.

I figured vengeance died with him—buried under ash and bullshit.

Then the Presence threw me a bone: One last shot at payback… And who was I to reject God's Grace?

Can’t say I regret what I did to ol' Reuben.

In fact, I remember feeling pretty damn proud of my 'handiwork,' although I doubt Bruce shares the sentiment.“

— [HELLBRED] —

Eyeing the cluster of street-toughs gathered just outside Reuben's office—a patchwork of hard-eyed teens and already-jaded adults, he swallowed the itch to step in, to crash through the window and mete out the kind of violence they’d remember for the rest of their lives. It'd be so easy, too.

Rowan could drop half the crew with a flashbang and a gloved fist before they even registered his presence. Instead, he only watched in silence, hands tearing his crumpled Gotham Academy uniform and fashioning it into a crude headwear which he then promptly wrapped around his tangled white hair and face.

He saw his old self in that huddle of cast-offs: Hungry, desperate, and one missed meal from joining the nearest crime syndicate himself.

At the moment, some of them still had a shot at turning back—a window he would be slamming shut if he were to beat them bloody and bury them under thousands in medical debt.

Furthermore, taking out crooks—even half-starved ones—would slow him down, giving Bruce time to retrace his steps and catch up, and if the Batman showed up, odds were he wouldn't let him lay into his old tormentor.

He'd force Rowan pull his punches; make him stop.

Under normal circumstances, Rowan would never allow himself to act like a disagreeable brat, but he truly couldn't bear the thought of sharing the same sky as Reuben Hatch… He'd never know peace. Glaring daggers at the monster hunched over a battered oak desk to count straps of dirty bills, Rowan tightened the knot of his makeshift mask and pried the planks off the window as quietly as possible.

The wood shrieked in response which the criminal quickly dismissed, chalking it up to the building’s age instead.

Finally, the bolts popped free, scattering across the overgrown weeds below.

With the last obstacle gone, Rowan wasted no time reintroducing himself feet-first.

Reuben never saw it coming, though he certainly felt it.

Face slammed into splintered wood, he tumbled to the ground, a gory snarl torn sideways across his mouth while blood leaked from his split lips. To his credit, good old Uncle Grin didn’t let out so much as a sound as he rose. “A kid? Who are you supposed to be?“

“…”

Wiping blood from his lips and smearing it across what was once a clean white shirt, Uncle Grin popped his fingers, cracked his neck, and released a sound somewhere between a laugh and a hoarse grunt.

“Nothing? Let me guess—I killed your dad, dismembered your mom, and took a shit on your bed? You wouldn’t be the first, and sure as shit won’t be the last. But hey, no complaints here. I have been running dangerously low on 'livestock' lately…”

Strolling forward, Reuben grinned. “Shoulda' brought a gun, dumba—”, only to get socked instantly.

The punch should have shattered his nose, but to live this long being this shitty, Reuben had been in his fair share of fights.

The bridge of his nose had been replaced with a silicone implant ages ago. “Surprise—!“ Unfortunately for him, Rowan had no intention of stopping, not until he lay broken and robbed of life at least.

“Fuck! Who the fuck kicked someone in the nuts while he's monologuing?!“

“Me!“

A hard left hook nearly knocked Reuben's head off, followed immediately by a crushing uppercut that rattled his skull, then a liver shot that forced Uncle Grin to reluctantly admit to himself might sting worse than an actual bullet. “You're not grinning anymore… What's wrong, Uncle?“

Fingers brushing the grip of the gun tucked at his waistband, Reuben spun, raising the firearm just a second too slow.

“You… Why, you little—”

He barely managed to level the barrel at the kid before his world exploded in pain as the tip of Rowan’s boot gave his Adam’s apple a gentle tap.

Tough as he was, Reuben’s body reacted like anyone else’s would: By coughing and gagging and grabbing at his throat.

“Y-You… Who arE you?! I ha-haven't used that name in years!“

“An orphan you murdered in cold-blood.“

Rowan's midfoot connected with Reuben's slight underbite, snapping all four of his front teeth from the root canals.

“Ha… Hahaha~!” Uncle Grin giggled, spitting out a bloody blob. “Yo-You know how fucking little that narrows it down? I have got a whole harbor full of you motherfuckers!“

He felt pain; that, Rowan was sure of.

He just didn't care, and that upset Rowan something fierce.

Pulling a Batarang out of his pocket, Rowan pressed the sharp edge on the monster's cheekbone and threatened. “I'm going to make meat cubes out of you, Uncle.“

It was the most profane thing Rowan had ever uttered, yet all it earned him was another uncontrollable fit of giggles. "If I had a penny for every time someone said that, I'd have four. Not one ever followed through. And somehow—"

The Batarang carved a bloody line from his cheek to his ear, but it wasn’t Rowan who moved.

It was Reuben who had pushed into it. "Somehow I don’t think you’ve got the balls to."

Startled, Rowan backflipped away, still deciding whether to be disgusted or impressed as he landed on the soles of his feet with a soft thud. "See? Yer ain’t got the balls, ye' little cunt. But I fucking do!“

Taking aim at the vigilante, Grin barely got a shot off before the Glock was knocked from his hand.

And then Rowan was on him again, knuckles splitting and bloodied as he slammed his former handler into the floor. None of it stuck. Not emotionally, anyway and it wouldn’t be any fun if Reuben wasn’t scared shitless, so he did the first thing that came to mind: Retrieved a fear pellet and whispered, “You will be afraid.“

“Of yo—?!“

Without a second thought, Rowan shoved the pellet into Reuben’s mouth just as it started to hiss.

Like most of Batman’s gear, the smoke pellets had two modes: The slow-burn for show, and the instant release for exits. Rowan chose the former without hesitation, but not for his exit. It was for a show—Reuben's, in fact.

Just then, someone joined the audience.

A limping teenager who burst into the room wielding a rusty pipe, “Uncle?! I heard noises!“

Rowan’s violet eyes met his—sharp and almost… Luminous—as he glowered through the mist, then rammed his fist into Reuben’s mouth to seal the smoke. “Get. Out.“

The kid froze, wide-eyes slowly taking in the scene.

Coming to, the boy reached down, grabbed a handful of the scattered 'Benjamins', and silently exited the room while closing the door behind him. “'Scuse me.“

“Smart.“

Finally, the first scream tore out of him, because no matter how ironclad someone thought their mind or body was, the Fear Toxin would melt through their 'defenses,' as it was designed to do.

The chemical hit his brain like a flash flood, short-circuiting logic and memory in one fell swoop.

Within seconds, the amygdala went into overdrive, pumping raw panic through his system while the prefrontal cortex—the voice of reason itself—sputtered like a blown fuse.

His dopamine crashed. His cortisol surged, followed by scrambled thalamus', turning sight, sound, and touch into a tangle of visual distortions, parasitic delusions, even time dilation, all tailored by his own subconscious fears, courtesy of Scarecrow's prized synthetic drug.

With its primary exit sealed, the Toxin began to leak from his other orifices in sluggish wisps of brown and yellow.

The chemicals scorched the lining of his throat as he convulsed, rebelling against his own failing mortal shell…

Their eyes met just long enough to trigger a jolt of memory in the monster’s fractured mind.

Hands gripping Rowan’s shoulders, Reuben steadied himself against the tremor ripping through his nerves.

Then, true to his name, he bared his teeth in a feral, cracked, and stained grin.

“Rowan Locke…” He mouthed through the fingers shoved in his mouth and the palm clamped around his jaws, tongue dragging against his tearing lips. “My son. I'm proud of you… I knew you'd retu—”

“Just fucking die already!” Rowan roared, yanking his hand free to launch a flurry of blows.

The first cracked against Grin’s temple with a sharp thud, snapping his head sideways.

The second slammed into his cheekbone, splitting flesh and spraying blood.

The third hit landed dead center on his nose, but instead of breaking, it rebounded off the silicone beneath the skin.

The resistance jolted Rowan’s knuckles, throwing off his rhythm for only half a second before he resumed the beating.

The fourth snapped into Reuben's jaw, rattling loose the remainder of his teeth.

The fifth was barely a punch, just motion—wild and fast.

He couldn’t explain it, but something in him whispered that the next punch would be the last… The one to end the man, his empire, and set loose all the ghosts clinging to both.

Allowing himself a rare moment of introspection—if only to mourn what he was about to lose, and grieve what he was about to become—Rowan raised his fist once more. “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance.“

He felt it long before he even saw it as the air shifted behind him, quiet as breath yet heavier than the room could hold. “Robin, stand down, now!“

Rowan refused to look back, for he knew if he did; if he were to see the Dark Knight now, all the momentum he had mustered to… 'Commit' might vanish. Winding his arm back, he took a nanosecond to admire his 'glorious handiwork' and jabbed, but by then, Batman's gloved hand had already closed around his wrist.

He didn’t drop his fist, but he couldn't move either.

“Let go of me, Batman. You of all people should understand why I need to do this.“

"You won't find solace going down this path."

Rowan's expression contorted as both sides of his brain began a war for domination.

One urged him to listen, to stop and spare his hands the blood; while the other beckoned him to give in to the fire pounding beneath his skin.

“He knows my identity… If he doesn't die…” The sidekick muttered, though even he knew how weak the excuse was.

Now, of course the fear pellets weren't lethal.

Bruce would never have used it otherwise, but after getting that much Fear Toxin dumped into his system, Rowan would be impressed if Reuben managed anything more than drooling for the rest of his miserable life.

"He's had enough… He'll spend his days suffering."

"That's the point! He shouldn't get any more days!"

Rowan snapped, the words tearing from his throat far louder than he meant to.

“None of THEM should! In any sane world, people like him—like the Joker—would be branded as terrorists and put to the chair.“

“Be that as it may, we're not judge, jury and executioner, Robin… If you kill a killer, the number of killers in the world stays the same.“

“It won't, if I kill the rest too.“

The grip on his wrist suddenly tightened.

“Paul Tennet…”

“What?“ Asked Rowan, narrowing his eyes at the Dark Knight. “Before he became Reuben Hatch; before he got the moniker 'Uncle Grin', he used to be Paul Tennet; a boy who never knew his parents. The orphanage was the last place that tried to hold him.

One night, he slipped out without a sound and never came back.

By nine, he was running drugs for a small-time gang.

Sound familiar?"

Lowering his head, Bruce asked, his white, soulless lenses clashing with Rowan’s intense violet eyes.

"Those kids out there? They’re not far off from him. Most already made choices they can’t walk back from. Did unto others what was done to them. Even you..."

Shaking his head, Bruce released the boy's wrist and approached the unconscious lowlife to check for a pulse.

“Shall we kill them too?“

"What? No! They're not beyond saving."

"Aren't they?“ The Dark Knight asked again, fishing out the empty pellet from Reuben's cracked jaw. “Because their body count hasn't reached double digits? Because they felt bad pouring boiling water on another child…? Tell me, Robin, who gets to live, and who doesn't?“

Listening to Bruce's calm, analytical voice, Rowan's fists clenched, then unclenched.

Before he could come up with a response, Reuben jolted violently, foam bubbling from his mouth as his body convulsed.

The Dark Knight sprang into motion immediately, forcing the vial of antidote between the criminal’s clattering teeth while Rowan stood over them. "He's flat-lining…"

The corners of his lips lifted in delight.

“Good riddance.“

Crouching beside to the floorboard near Reuben’s desk, where Rowan just knew the man was keeping his 'safety net,' he fumbled with the crevices.

Prying it loose, he smirked. “There it is.“

Wrapped in a grocery bag inside were stacks of curled, yellowed papers: Transaction logs, a ledger of names and birthdays, to the neatly stacked columns of dollar figures and initials.

Evidence enough to buy the GCPD a year’s worth of raids… Trust a criminal to sleep beside his ghosts.

“There you are…” After a few minutes of skimming, Rowan finally found the papers which could be traced back to him, crumpled them into a ball and lit the match. Pocketing what he could, Rowan turned to find a syringe lodged in Reuben’s neck.

He briefly considered telling the Dark Knight to let him die, then decided against it.

“He alive?”

“Barely.“

“Fuck…”

“I’ve already alerted the GCPD and Child Protective Services. ETA is eleven minutes.”

“I should get a head start then…”

“No. The Batmobile’s waiting outside. Get in, stay put and don’t say a word.”

Handing the record books to Bruce, Rowan fixed his makeshift headwrap and exited the office.

The hall outside, predictably, was full of Reuben’s 'elves,' all hard at work with no presents in sight, unless you counted boosted wallets.

“’Sup…” The vigilante greeted with a casual wave, kicked the door open, and vaulted into the heavily armored seven-seater.

The foldable, bulletproof-glass doors with a solid steel frame creaked, sliding shut.

Wrenching the headwrap off, Rowan wiped sweat from his brow, and quietly observed as police cruisers, an ambulance and a stampede of suits swarmed the block.

Exchanging a few quick words with Commissioner Gordon, Bruce then smoothly slid into the driver’s seat. “Let’s go.” Neither said a word as they sped off into the moonlit horizon.

“C’mon, Bruce, give it to me straight.”

“You were reckless…

You went in without your gear.

You jumped headfirst into a situation you knew nothing about, and nearly killed someone.

What were you thinking, Rowan? I thought you knew better?!“

Watching the raindrops streak across the tinted windshield, Rowan released a slow, weary sigh.

“I apologize for running off like that; for worrying you and Alfred, and for going in blind. I'll own up to it. But I won’t apologize for the violence I dealt that 'animal'.” In fact, even if the bastard were to die in transit, it wouldn't cost him a minute of sleep.

The Dark Knight grunted in response, cowl tilting; lenses narrowing as if burn a hole through his skull.

“Maybe Alfred’s right,” He muttered. “Maybe you’re still too immature and reckless to carry this kind of burden.”

“Don't, Bruce. Don't pull the 'disappointed ward' on me. I did what I did, and I don't regret it. Not now, not ever.“

The ride back to Wayne Manor was soaked in a painful silence, tense enough to cut with a butter knife, disrupted only by the low growl of the engine and the steady pulse of streetlights.

Then, mercifully, the Batler made his entrance.

“Master Bruce. Master Rowan. May I interest you in a cup of tea?”

“Alfred!“ Rowan exhaled, shoulders loosening just a little.

'Thank God for Alfred…' Knocking back the first cup, he then poured himself a second, and a third, before scampering upstairs like a goblin.

He went through the motions as per usual, then dropped onto the bed like a sack of cement, wrestling with the urge to break into the hospital where Reuben was brought to and finish the job.

Meanwhile, under the Batcave…

“He nearly killed someone, Alfred.“

“He nearly killed a monster.“ The butler reiterated. “One who's ruined countless lives. I won’t excuse what he did, but is there a chance you’re blowing this out of proportion?”

“He nearly killed someone.“ Repeated the Dark Knight, as if that proved anything.

“Forgive me for being frank, but is this about his heritage again, Master Bruce?“

Peeling the cowl off, the Dark Knight ran a hand through his sweat-matted hair.

“The magical consultant I spoke with said Rowan’s blood is saturated with Demonic Magic to such a degree that it’s a wonder he hasn’t lost his mind and attempted mass destruction.

He added that, judging by the sheer potency, Rowan’s sire must be a Lord of Hell at minimum, and the only thing restraining this power is the Containment Spell actively suppressing his heritage… He advised that Rowan be eliminated before that containment fails.“

Giovanni Zatara had made one thing clear: If the Seal ever failed, whoever Rowan was likely wouldn’t survive the Demonic Awakening.

“The Seal’s only point of failure is the act of murder… If Reuben Hatch were to die…” The Dark Knight trailed off, as though horrified by the idea. The two stewed in the implications for a good minute, and then Alfred suggested.

“Maybe you could ask the consultant to… Reinforce the Seal? Upgrade its protections somehow?”

“Most sources confirm the Spell is the most stable and advanced containment construct currently on Earth.“ Exhaling, Bruce pulled up his cowl. “Keep an eye on him.“

“You're heading out again, sir?“

“The night’s still young.“

The helmet locked in place with a smooth snap.

“Gotham’s filth won’t take the night off just because our ward’s got problems.“

.

.

.

Tossing in bed, Rowan stirred with strained breaths.

The night terrors usually dragged him under, but this time felt… Off.

He was awake somehow, and painfully aware of every movement, every breath.

This wasn’t Gotham.

Gone was the damp stink of concrete and diesel.

In its place stood a world cloaked in smog and rust.

The thing hunting him wasn’t Slade Wilson either.

It was a Stag.

Massive and regal, it appeared to have been sculpted from raw ruby rather than born.

Its antlers didn’t grow so much as they'd been forced through the creature’s skull, hammered in, then stitched down by Frankenstein himself.

The skin around the base was torn and raw, held together by thick, angry sutures that'd probably split and fall off with a touch.

Usually, even with the fear and pure instincts taking the wheel, he still had control.

He could fight back.

He could survive.

Slade was a nightmare, yes, but he was familiar. Killable.

This was something else—It was a Demon.

From the moment he saw it, Rowan understood in a way that bypassed logic and screamed directly to his bones that if he ran, it would catch him, and if he fought, he’d die.

The only solace he had was that it hadn’t made a move yet, almost like it was waiting for something. “The Hell's that fucking thumping?“ Rowan snapped, eyes locked on the vessels pulsing overhead.

“—Clamp it—he's bleeding out from the gastric wall. I don't think that's blood, it's necrotic tissues. Get suction in there… I can't see past the esophageal rupture.“

“—Goddamit, vitals are spiking—check cerebral pressure, now.”

Staring at the sky trying to keep up with the booming voices, the vigilante paled as the vessels quickened rapidly, followed by raspy breaths that formed the storms and winds. It took him a second too long to realize he wasn’t staring at the sky—he was inside the lining of a heart.

“—Heart rate’s erratic again. He’s not stabilizing. Push another 20ccs of sedative—no, make it 30. We need to shut his system down before it implodes.”

Eyes jerking back to the Stag, Rowan recoiled in equal parts disgust and horror as its shape distorted, and broke apart like an animation being… Unmade. And then it grinned, revealing not the blunt teeth of a grazer, but a maw full of jagged, uneven fangs. “Oh, what the fuck?!!“

“—He's flat-lining, get the paddles! Charging to two hundred, clear!“

The world around them shook as bolts of lightnings struck the ground near Rowan, hurling him a meter back while clutching his deafened ears. Yet, even through all that, he dared not look away from the Stag, for its grin was growing ever-wider, proportional to the shortening distance between them.

“—Again!“

Thunders rumbled as the thumpings grew louder, more erratic and rapid, before coming to an abrupt stop.

“—We lost him… Patient's name: Ben Hatch Rue, Time of Death: Nine-fourteen.“

The chains that had bound the Demon snapped.

Now unshackled, it was free… Free to lunge at the boy who still hadn't quite gotten his footing, bleeding maws aiming straight for his face.

But then, a faint wheeze echoed, followed by a weak thump that snapped Rowan to full alertness. Shooting up from his bed, he frantically spun from side to side, but there was no voices; no Demon… Only the quiet of his room and the disheveled reflection in the mirror facing his bed.

Then a sharp pain pulled his focus to his cradled arm, where giant teeth-marks now lined.

Bloody, disgusting, infected teeth-marks.

“I just can't catch a fucking break, can I?“

Chapter Text

“You remember that one time you were joking around and accidentally pissed off your ex? Oh—wait, who am I kidding, you don’t have an ex. Well, pretend you did, and she decided to wage a full-blown cold war for a day straight.

That—that’s how Bruce acted after the whole Reuben thing.

Only it wasn’t just a day.

The Caped Crusader had decided to drag it out for three full days.

Jesus, talk about petty.

I still don’t get what his problem was.

It’s not like I was yanking random thugs off the street and putting bullets in their skulls.

He wouldn't hear any of it, though.

The way our favorite Crusader was dodging me, you’d think I was walking around with the Black Plague… It got to the point where even the resident Batler admitted he was brooding more than usual.

In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have stomped my feet when he told me Reuben made it through the night, but mama didn't raise no liar.

The first good news that week was that Reuben wouldn’t wake up again, ever.

Maybe there’s some truth to Bruce’s philosophy, after all, because I still visit my former 'handler' to this very day. Hell, I’m covering the medical bills for the son of a whore. A trivial cost, really, for the privilege of watching him wither away—forever tethered to machines that are standing between him and the grave.

But enough about Grin.

The second piece of good news was that, according to Langstrom himself, he was making remarkable progress in reverse-engineering Wilson’s blood—cutting the projected six-month timeline down to just four.

For his effort and sincerity, I promised the good Doctor I’d stick to our original deal, and I even pulled a few strings to get him a spot at, you guessed it, WayneTech! Seriously, where else would I have had any pull?

Thinking back, I suppose it wasn’t as bad as I recalled…

What can I say?

It was hard to find a silver lining when you’re running a fever and leaking yellow pus from a wound only you can see the whole time.“

— [HELLBRED] —

“Master Rowan, are you awake? You’re going to be late for school.”

Groaning, the part-time vigilante crawled out of bed—pale, shaking, and already regretting waking up as he weakly staggered toward the bathroom. “Just a minute, Alfred!”

Wheezing like a summer-struck mutt, Rowan winced, peeling away the crusted bandage he had wrapped around his arm to reveal large, blighted teeth-marks.

He couldn't be sure, but the 'sometimes-Rowan; sometimes-Robin, alltimes-orphan' could swear the injury hadn't looked this bad yesterday. What had started as a series of deep, crescent-shaped bite marks from the Stag now looked as if they might slough off at the slightest touch...

The skin around the wounds had turned a sickly mix of gray, black, and red, as though the tissues were rotting from within.

Each bite mark oozed a thick, yellowish pus, pooling along the edges of the torn flesh, and with every movement, the infection… Spread, carrying with it the putrid scent of sulfur. “What the fuck?”

Grabbing a bottle of disinfectant, Rowan poured it over his arm, then drew in a sharp breath as the wounds lit up with the fire of all the Circles of Hell combined. He'd never admit it to anyone, but I think we all know he teared up a little, don't we? “Oh, God…”

“Sir, you're going to be late.“ Came Alfred's calm, beckoning voice outside the door. “Need I come in and dress you myself?“

“No! Just stay there.” Gritting his teeth, Rowan rubbed the disinfectant in with a frustrated scowl, then hurled the bottle at the wall while biting back a roar as the sting set every nerve from his hand to shoulder alight.

“Sir, if this is protest over Master Bruce’s decision, I can assure you he's only doing what he believes is best for you.“

Rowan snorted at the absurdity of it all.

If only he knew…

If only he could see it too.

“Wow… So this is what being emo feels like?“ Except it wasn't a phase, and he really was dying.

Rewrapping the raw, pus-slicked skin so that putting on a shirt wouldn’t feel like dragging his arm across broken glass, he hastily threw his uniform on, then paused, chest hitching as an inexplicable urge to laugh clawed its way up his throat.

“'Cut my life into pieces, this is my last resort~' Hahaha!”

His laughter slipped into giggles as he shook his head and stumbled his way out of the bathroom, still slick with sweat and reeking of disinfectant.

“That might have been too dark… Keep it PG, Rowan. Keep it PG.”

Pulling the door inward, he offered Alfred a weary smile. “Alfred.”

“Master Rowan, you appear scarcely fit to leave your bed, let alone attend school.”

The butler swept in at once, deft fingers dancing as he loosened the tie cinched far too tightly around his ward’s neck and looked more like a noose than neckwear. He reached to straighten the boy’s creased sleeves next, but Rowan had already shied away. “And good gracious, what is that smell?”

People often took him for just another pompous man in a pressed waistcoat, but once upon a time, Alfred had been a valuable asset to MI5.

He'd recognize the scent of saline and antiseptics anywhere, and judging by how strong it was, his ward might as well have bathed in the stuff. “Sir, I’ll need you to be quite honest with me—are you injured?”

“I… Yes? No? I don't know.“

Narrowing his eyes at the confusing answer, Alfred ordered. “That's it, shirt off, now.“

His ward hesitated, features distorting in what appeared to be annoyance.

Still, he obeyed, fingers fumbling with the buttons before he peeled the shirt away. His left arm was wrapped in neat, white bandages—fresh, by the look of them. Alfred frowned. “You’ve done this recently.”

“Seeing as Bruce has barred me from wearing the Robin suit, I thought I’d rebrand… Bandage-Man—it’s got a certain charm, don't you think?”

“This is no joking matter, sir.“ The Batler gently chided, peeling the stiff bandage away in one smooth motion.

Rowan grunted sharply as the bandage tore away from his 'inflamed' skin. But to Alfred’s eyes, there was nothing wrong with it. The skin looked perfectly healthy—unmarked, clean and as smooth as a baby’s arse. “Sir, if this is some misguided attempt to get attention, I must say it's in rather poor taste.“

'… Emos worldwide, I owe you all an apology.'

The urge to explain had withered before it even reached his lips.

Quietly, Rowan rewrapped the injury and straightened his back.

“I'm—” He almost lied that he was fine out of habit, but caught himself just in time.

Just because he was biologically an angsty teenager didn’t mean he had to act like one. “Alfred, I believe I've been cursed… Can you ask Bruce for Giovanni Zatara's number?“

He would have asked for Constantine’s, who was far less judgmental and controlling than the famous Magician.

This sounded right up his alley, too.

Unfortunately, Rowan wouldn't trust that fucking swindler as far as he could throw him.

“The stage magician, sir?”

“Yep.“ The boy pivoted on his heels. “Now… School?“

“You're going still going, sir? If you're in pain, I can call the school.“

“You heard the boss, Alfred.” Rowan shrugged and quoted. “I've gotta socialize with my ‘peers.' Besides, if I’m going to be stuck in a 'madhouse' with Gotham’s most pretentious, most disgusting young elites, I might as well get a decent degree out of it.”

“Your form tutor’s had quite a bit to say about your attendant lately.“ The butler remarked.

“Form tutor? What's that?“

“I believe the American term is homeroom teacher, sir.“

After dropping his ward off at school, the butler drove home in silence, then tapped in the number of his other ward.

“—Alfred.“

“Master Bruce, I see you still haven't changed out of your…” Swallowing the urge to say 'costume', the ever loyal Batler instead went with, “Uniform, as you promised you would.”

“—I’m tracking Killer Croc.” The Caped Crusader replied curtly, as if that explained everything.

“Sir, we’ve had this discussion. You’re of no use to anyone starving and exhausted. Kindly get something to eat, and a bit of shut-eye, if you please.” If only he'd listen.

God, sometimes Alfred truly wondered what he’d done to end up responsible for two such difficult young men.

“—I will.“

“When, precisely?”

“—In a minute.”

Alfred narrowed his eyes and took a slow turn at the light, finally steering toward the meat of the matter.

“I believe I’ve identified the source of all those bandages turning up in our rubbish, sir.”

“—What’s wrong with Rowan?”

“Nothing, by all appearances. Though Master Rowan insisted he was being… Cursed, if you can believe it… I fear for his sanity.“

The last Wayne hummed thoughtfully, then mused aloud, “—Perhaps recent events have activated some of his more... Extraordinary abilities.“

“I’d hardly call being Half-Demon ‘extraordinary,’ sir. And didn’t Reuben survive? The Seal keeping his heritage in check should be intact.”

“—I have several working theories, but I’ll need to consult Zatara to verify them. In the meantime, monitor his condition and report any changes to me.”

Alfred paused, glancing at the rearview mirror with the weariness of a man who’d endured enough nonsense to last him several lifetimes. “I’m uncertain this qualifies, sir, but there has been a distinct increase in his dark humour… That, or Master Rowan's suddenly developed an inexplicable fondness for 'Papa Roach' and his dreadful… Music.“

Alfred cringed, dryly adding a moment after. “If one could call it that.“

Over in one of his many hideouts scattered across Gotham, Bruce paused, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips as he teased, “I didn’t know you listened to that 'genre,' Alfred.”

“—I do not.” The man who was all but his biological father sniffed arrogantly.

“And how do you know the artist’s name? People don’t look up artists they dislike, Alfred.“ Bruce pressed.

“—The same way most do, sir: Through the internet.“

After that brief exchange, the call ended, leaving Bruce to refocus on more immediate concerns, like the anthropomorphic crocodile Metahuman currently still loose in sewers of Gotham.

Spread across the desk were over a dozen case files and hundreds of surveillance photographs, all linked to a single subject: The Metahuman formerly known as Waylon Jones—one of the more sympathetic rogues the Dark Knight had encountered.

Ironically, it was the giant, humanoid crocodile who proved most difficult to track.

Unlike others in Gotham’s underworld, Waylon had no known associates, safehouses, or patterns.

Few were willing to offer refuge to a cannibalistic Meta, and as a result, Killer Croc had effectively claimed the whole of Gotham’s vast, labyrinthine sewer system as his territory.

After tending to the previous night’s injuries, Bruce dropped the cowl and sank into the empty chair. Truth be told, he could’ve made it home, he just didn’t want to. Not yet. He was avoiding the inevitable.

The Caped Crusader hadn’t expected that much… Rage in Rowan.

A bit was a given, considering the boy’s background, but the depths he was willing to sink to; the line he was going to happily cross…

Bruce had no doubt that if he hadn’t arrived when he did, it wouldn’t have ended with a bullet. Rowan would’ve tortured his old handler for hours and bragged about it the next day without a hint of shame…

How much of that came from his otherworldly heritage?

How much was simply Rowan Locke?

And last, but not least: Was he raising a future enemy?

Briefly, his mind drifted back to Zatara’s warning—the visions of a ravaged Earth and the untold atrocities a Greater Demon could unleash upon the world…

The Mage had trusted him to know what to do with that knowledge, but for the first time since donning the cowl three years ago, Bruce was at a loss.

Wearily, he dialed the Mage, hoping he’d returned from yet another off-world excursion.

The Dark Knight sighed when the call went to voicemail. Again.

He wasn't exhausted of options, of course.

There were other… Magicals he could contact, but few were trustworthy, and even fewer could claim Zatara’s depth of knowledge in the occult.

Pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose, Bruce exhaled sharply, then made a call to the magical world’s most notorious Hedge-Mage.

“—Well, well. Thought you'd never call, Bats.”

“Constantine.“

— [HELLBRED] —

Dreadful. Absolutely dreadful—that was all Rowan could think to describe how he was feeling.

He wasn’t tired.

He wasn’t sick.

He was just in excruciating agony.

The marks had started off harmless enough. Red, a little bloody, slightly inflamed, but still bearable.

In mere days, the infection had spread, crawling its way across most of his arm and to his left shoulder-blade. It wasn’t like Rowan hadn’t tried to reach out to the Magicals about his little problem, but the Caped Crusader had locked him out of the Batcomputer, and Mages weren’t exactly handing out business cards or running ads on Google.

Granted, part of that was on him for thinking he could just 'figure something out' and letting it fester. But nothing had worked.

If anything, every attempt to fix this had just made things worse.

Eyes heavy and brain running on static, Rowan rubbed at his lids as their homeroom teacher entered, unfamiliar faces trailing in behind her. “Let’s give a warm welcome to our guests from Hilltop Intermediate. As part of the Academy's new exchange program, they'll be with us until the end of the week.“

'Oh, great. More headaches.'

Like the 'goblin' next to him and the young lords and ladies weren’t already enough of a daily delight. 'Goddamn you, Bruce.'

He could be doing something important—reviewing Advanced Bio, tracking down criminals, training, or, hell, figuring out what the fuck was happening to him. Instead, he was stuck in a classroom surrounded by snot-nosed brats he could barely tolerate.

It didn’t help that he felt charged with power, in spite of the pain.

Power, and a vast, aimless rage that was causing his hands to itch. “Alright, take your seats and open to page—”

Feet tapping impatiently, Rowan glanced at the clock, then looked away. '08:05.'

Just forty more minutes before recess.

He could survive that. Probably.

“Psst. Hey, Rowan.”

The part-time vigilante didn’t so much as spare the kid a glance. “What is it, Alex?“

“You want a booger?”

His left hand flexed, and the edge of the table splintered like wet clay under his grip, startling Rowan out of his seat.

“Mr. Locke, if you have something to say, please raise your hand first.”

Was it just his imagination, or did his own shadow just wave at him?

“Sir, I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Class just started. You won’t die holding it in… Thirty-seven minutes.”

Their homeroom had barely blinked, and Rowan was already at the door, clutching his arm as his nails warped—blackened and curled into something no longer human…

And then there was his heart; God, his heart was racing like he’d shot up on a dozen syringes of adrenaline and was seconds away from a stroke. Rowan imagined this was what pissing fire felt like… Except it wasn’t his junk; it was his entire arm.

He burst into the bathroom, grateful to find it empty, and hurriedly ripped the 'soaked' bandage off.

What stared back at him was a horrifically mutilated limb. His arm was raw, slick, and glistening like freshly butchered meat, with all of its muscles laid completely bare; twitching beneath black, translucent veins.

He was turning into a Deadite, and probably not a good-looking one, either. “Oh, God…”

The moment the word slipped out, Rowan crumpled to one knee, gripping the sink as a high-pitched ringing split his skull.

“Oh, God—!“ Cried a feminine voice, and this time it wasn’t just his head that suffered but his nose too, as blood poured from his nostrils in thick, steady streams. “You’re bleeding!”

'Oh, you think?!' Rowan thought, then swallowed the sass when he saw a ginger girl half a head shorter than him. Wasn't she one of the temporary transfers? Why was she here? “What are you doing in the men's bathroom? Get out!”

“Never mind that!“ The girl flushed at his accusatory tone but pushed past it and rushed to his side. “We gotta get you to the infirmary! You’re bleeding all over the place!“

The girl slipped her arm beneath his, meaning to help him up, but as she did, the cross dangling from her pocket brushed his skin by accident. Instantly, a searing fire erupted from his flesh, engulfing his entire arm. He jolted back with a cry, barreling into a nearby booth and ripping the door clean off its hinges.

“Fuck! Fuck, you bitc—” Rowan’s right hand clamped over his mouth, muffling the curse smashing against his teeth. Then he hissed, dropping and rolling in a frantic attempt to smother the flame crawling up his shoulder, until the girl dumped a bucket of water on him.

He hadn't thought it possible for his arm to look worse… He was mistaken.

“Oh, Jesus—”

Rowan winced.

“Look at your arm!“

“If this is how you usually help people—stop!” Snarling, Rowan shakily rose to his feet, glaring daggers at the shell-shocked girl, only to pause in realization. “Wait. You-You can see this? You can see my arm?!”

“How could I NOT see it?! What the hell happened to you?!” She yelled back, visibly shaken. But before either of them could get another word out, an explosion rocked the building sideways. Rowan spun, heart leaping to his throat, half-expecting the floor beneath their feet to give and unleash hell, but nothing of the sort happened. “What was that?“

She turned to him, cold blue eyes locked with his.

“The hell are you looking at me for?! I don’t know! How the hell would I blow something up when I have been here with you the entire time?! And while we’re at it—why are you even here, Little Miss Pervert?! This is the men’s bathroom! MEN'S!”

“Perv?!” She angrily shouted back. “I saw you running out clutching your arm and got worried, you jerk! And stop changing the subject! Kinda funny how the second you leave—boom! Explosion!”

“If I were evil,” Spitting through gnashing teeth, Rowan inhaled sharply. “Would we be arguing right now?!“

Why was he even wasting time with her?

He needed to check out that explosion. “Out of my way.”

“I don’t think so, mister. Not until you've explained yourself.”

In one motion, she pulled a cross from her pocket.

It might as well have been a flashbang she'd pulled out with how fast it scorched his retinas.

Vision blazing white, he raised his arm to block the light while entertaining thoughts of murder.

Thankfully, a gunshot suddenly echoed down the hall, snapping both their focus toward the sound.

The second her eyes left him, Rowan immediately took inititive.

He slapped the cross to the floor and yanked her into one of the stalls.

Eyes teary and filled with panic, the girl tried to speak, just to find his palm—the human one—against her lips.

“Shut! Up! Shut up now, or we’re both dead!”

Sure enough, voices started echoing—screams.

“What’s… What’s happening?”

“A school shooting? Terrorists trying to nab a few kids for ransom? Take your pick.”

Pretty fucking ballsy of them...

There was a reason Gotham Academy had been left alone, and it wasn’t just the laws.

A sixth of these kids were probably future members of the Court of Owls.

It'd take a special kind of stupid, reckless, insane—or all three—to come after them… “Joker?“

“You think the Joker—”

“Shh!“ He hushed, pulling himself up to confirm his suspicion.

Peeking at the entrance, his eyes locked with the P.E. teacher’s right as the man got gunned down.

'Help!' He mouthed, then dropped dead on a pool of his own blood.

“… You listen, and listen carefully. Stay calm, get on the toilet, and no matter what you hear or see, do not make a fucking sound. Got it?“

Too stunned to speak, she blankly nodded, hurrying on top of the toilet lid.

“Don’t worry,” Rowan reassured, before hurling himself in the next stall. “It’ll be over soon.”

Pressed flat against the door, the part-time vigilante listened intently to the approaching footsteps and the terrible singing. “‘Another one bites the dust!!! And another gone; and another gone~!’”

He heard mechanical parts click into place, followed by a gunshot. Leaning down for another peek, Rowan swallowed a curse as the P.E. teacher’s warm corpse had its head blown wide-open. The good news? The shooter didn't seem to be a Meta.

The bad news?

He looked completely unhinged.

“Man, that's so COOOOOOL~!“ The criminal swooned, whistling happily as he stepped into the bathroom, bloody boots smacking against the marble floor. “Anyone here? Come on out, I won't bite.“

Neither Rowan nor the girl spoke, but the shooter didn’t sound like he was going to give up. “Come out, children… I gotta get you to the sport court. That’s where all the other children are going… Come out, or I’ll have to use force.”

A minute quietly passed.

“Fine. You asked for it, brats.”

A bullet tore through the solid plastic, somehow missing both Rowan and the girl. Their eyes met briefly through the hole, then without warning, the red-headed girl stupidly crawled out of the stall.

“W-Wait! I’m here! Please, stop!”

“Now, see, why'd you make me waste a bullet?“

Out of habit, Rowan reached for a smoke pellet, then stopped short.

Bruce had barred him from everything: The Suit, the belt, the Bat-gadgets.

He was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way, while suffering from fourth-degree burns… Rowan really wished he could say he had been through worse, but was there anything worse than this, save one of Batman's rogues attending the raid?

'Get your shit together, Rowan. Get your shit together.'

Taking a deep, quiet breath, Rowan tiptoed onto the toilet lid and kicked the stall door open just as the shooter loosened his grip on the gun.

Thrown into the sink, the psycho’s head snapped toward Rowan, only to immediately catch a jacket to the face. Then a left. Followed by a right, and a solid kick to the crotch.

It wasn’t honorable, but at this point? Honor could eat shit for all he cared.

Halfway through the beating, the shooter finally got a hold of his arm—the left one—and dug his nails into the burnt flesh.

Rowan had been stabbed, shot, beaten to a pulp, left to freeze and burn but none of those pains compared to a fraction of what he was feeling now.

A cry tore from his lips as he was lifted, slammed into the mirror, and then choked.

“You little piece of shit! I'm not supposed to kill any kid, but for you, I think I'm going to make an exception—!“

Fortunately, before he could deliver on his threat, a bucket suddenly slammed into the side of his head. Freeing one arm to clutch the fresh injury, the shooter kicked the girl in the chest, tossing her in front of the last stall.

Coughing and wheezing, she curled in a fetal position and sobbed.

Seizing the moment, Rowan went in for a punch, but cramped and off-balance, he couldn’t put enough power for it to turn the tides, and in seconds, the shooter had him by the throat again.

“I'm going to make an exception for both of you.“

He thrashed in the chokehold, clawed at the shooter’s eyes ans caught a punch to his burnt bicep for his effort.

“Look at you… I’d be doing you a favor.”

Refusing to give, he continued to struggle—hands scrambling at the shooter’s arms, legs kicking uselessly against the tiles.

But Rowan was only human (Debatable), and despite his training, even he had his limits.

'Dying to a scrub…' That'd got to be a new low for a Robin.

Eyes flickering, desperate for something; anything that could save him, Rowan caught sight of it again.

His Shadow was waving at him, slower this time, almost taunting.

It grinned, wide and jagged, red mist leaking from its mouth like steam off a blood-soaked pavement.

Then, it moved. Fast.

The Shadow lunged straight for the shooter’s, fangs bared; crimson mist trailing behind it like embers from a dying campfire.

It yanked the shooter’s shadow into the air, and the man’s body followed, before getting violently slammed into the stall, then the floor, the ceiling—over and over.

He couldn’t even scream as the hard plastic rattled and shattered against his back with each impact.

Rowan had no doubt the Shadow could and would have torn the man apart, but he remembered clear as day what happened the last time he got close to killing someone. Hard to forget when a whole limb of his had been permanently mutilated and transfigured.

As loud as every bone in his body screamed for blood, self-preservation was louder, and thus, “STOP!“

Truth be told, he hadn’t expected it to work, but the gamble had paid off.

Thick, inky chains burst forth from the ground, latching onto his Shadow like a vice.

It snarled, writhed, fought, but was subdued in the end still. With all the threats finally neutralized, Rowan let himself drop flat on his back, panting like a dog.

“It’s every damn day with this dump, isn’t it?”

Why couldn’t he have been left in Metropolis instead?

Chapter Text

When his awareness finally flickered back, it was not to the cold porcelain of the well-lit restroom, but to the stench of old dust and chemical cleaner perfectly blended with a side of stagnant air.

A throbbing ache pulsed behind his eyes, and thrice his eyelids quivered, sticky with the residue of drowsy tears, before opening to a dim slit of light filtering in from beneath the ill-fitting door.

Silently, he hauled himself up, yawning as his joints cracked.

He felt… Bizarrely great.

It was as if the last three days had been an elaborate joke, and he the poor bastard on the receiving end of it.

The sudden lurch of his movement instantly jolted the girl huddled across from him to her senses.

“Where are we?” He rasped dryly, utterly parched.

“The maintenance room,” The girl replied faintly, pulling her knee in a little closer as loose strands of her auburn ponytail stuck to her damp forehead. “I managed to drag you in here after you… Well, fainted.”

“Why are you looking at me like I'm about to eat you alive?“

He just saved her, for crying out loud! And this was the thanks he got?

“B-Because, well,” The girl stammered with none of the earlier tongue-in-cheek. “You do look like something that might… Eat children?”

And judging by the death grip she had on the silver rosary, she was definitely ready to throw hands.

“You are incredibly rude, you know that?”

“… I'm not trying to, it's just… Your face—I don’t know how else to put it. You’ll need to see for yourself.“

“My face?” Rowan repeated quizzically, blackened talons grazing over the raw, exposed muscle where skin should’ve been. “What the hell?“ His fingers pressed harder, dragging down his mangled face in an effort to peel off the 'disguise'.

Were those… Eyes? Plural?

“What the actual fuck?!!“

He ran his fingers over the side of his face again, dread coiling in his gut, then tossed the girl his phone. “Snap me a picture.”

“Of you?“

"No, of you," He shot back, rolling his eyes. "What do you think? And turn on the Flash, please."

Visibly shaken, she took the photo and handed him the phone.

The boy staring at Rowan from the screen looked half-familiar until you noticed the third, reddish-orange eye calmly watching just above his left cheekbone, and the crimson, bone-like growth slowly inching toward the bridge of his nose. He'd complain, if not for the fact it looked hella'—"Cool!"

He recognized the design, too: From the red skin, to the extra eye, to those burning, inhuman irises.

Crinkling her nose, the girl hissed. “Cool? How's that cool?! You look like a monster!“

“That's the idea, sport.“ Rowan eased the door open with a creak to scan the dim hall and whispered. "Got any idea who or what hit the Academy?"

The girl shook her head.

Of course not.

What the hell was he expecting. With a sigh, he pulled out his phone, opened the Gotham News app, and rubbed at the stress building behind his eyebrows. “There it is—'Bank Hit. Children Caught in the Crossfire. Is the GCPD Impotent?'“

Yikes… Trust Gotham News to twist in the knife.

“GOTHAM NEWS: A bank robbery quickly spiraled into chaos after the suspects’ escape vehicle crashed near Gotham Academy. The crew of eight, already responsible for the death of one security guard, stormed the school close by and took hostages in a tense standoff that has yet to end. Commissioner Gordon—”

The girl lunged at the mention, snatching the phone from his hand. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, you little gremlin?!”

“Hey, that’s my dad!”

“Your father?” Rowan muttered, staring at the image of the Commissioner and his unmistakable cop-stache. “… You’re Jim Gordon’s daughter?“

“You know my dad?“

“Know your da—who fucking doesn't?!“

Even if he hadn't meta-knowledge, the Commissioner was practically a regular on the 6:00 P.M. News at this point! But if she was Gordon’s… Didn’t that make her—'Batgirl?'

“The Commissioner said the GCPD is attempting to negotiate with the robbers, but so far, their efforts have yielded little to no results. Meanwhile, public outrage is growing over how quickly the situation slipped out of their hands.“

The girl—Barbara Gordon narrated.

“This wasn’t a planned attack… None of the robbers seem tied to any supervillains. You’re gonna go after them, aren’t you?“

'I've been talking shit to Batgirl this whole time?!!' He was so getting kicked out of the Batfamily…

Barbara suddenly nudged his shoulder.

“Yep.“ Nodded Rowan, features stiffer than a wall. “Of course.“

A few regular dudes with guns?

With no Metas to back them up?

They'd be easy picking for him, usually… If he had access to Bat-gadgets. 'But—'

Flexing his arm, Rowan closed his eyes and let the overflowing strength pulse through him.

'Maybe I won’t need those gadgets after all.'

He used to fear the things in the dark… Now he was that thing, and there was something strangely comforting in knowing that. “Can I come wi—”

“Hell naw. You stay put,” Rowan barked, then grabbed a handful of rags and tossed it at her. “You ever played hide-n'-seek? Wrap these rags around you and pretend you are.“

“But I can help!“

Staring at her, he did an impressive impersonation of J. Jonah Jameson before slamming the door in her face.

The article said there were eight robbers in total—just the perfect amount for Rowan to warm up on, and maybe even see what he was capable of. “Congrats, gents. You just earned front-row seats to your own beatdown.”

Bolting down the hall, he had to bite back a laugh.

He wasn't Flash-Fast, nor Superman-Strong, but he was fast and strong, and that was enough. Furthermore, if his ‘suspicion’ was right, he probably still had a lot more room to grow.

With his future now a little brighter, Rowan raced back to his classroom; to Alex's desk where that little gremlin always stashed his crusty Batman toy mask.

He found it exactly where he expected, grimaced at the booger-crusted inside, and yanked it free with two fingers like it was radioactive. Pinching his nose, he gagged. “Jesus, why does this reek of death and feet?”

Deciding he did have time to be picky, he made a beeline for the acting club’s room, slipping inside just as two of the thugs closed in on his position.

“I told you we shouldn’t have brought that psycho! Now it’s not just robbery—we’ve got multiple counts of murder and kidnapping on our hands!”

“Oh, come on! How was I supposed to know he was that brain-dead?”

They could’ve bailed clean, but no!

Crazy Eight had to overcompensate for his shriveled-up roid nads by waving the gun around like he was auditioning for a Tarantino movie! And now the idiot was babbling about Demon and Amargeddon like a schizo coke fiend!

“I told you! I fuckin’ told you! Who the hell brings a guy called Crazy Eight to a heist?! We had to tie his psycho ass down with the faculty and students, for fuck’s sake!”

“I know, I know, aight?! Just shut the hell up and let me think!”

But thinking wasn’t gonna be on the schedule for much longer, because unbeknownst to either of them, a Demon had crept up right behind them, just waiting to strike. Outside, the last scraps of sunlight bled out over the horizon, like the world was drawing the curtain for Rowan’s performance. 'I won't disappoint.'

Quietly, he slipped into the dark and raised his arm, casting the Shadow which eagerly gave chase. It definitely wasn’t happy being leashed to his will, but whatever grudge the Sentient Shadow held toward Rowan and his methods had long since been drowned out by its craving to mete out violence. A craving he’d promised to satisfy under one simple condition: 'You may not kill.'

Grinning like the Devil, his Shadow dragged the first robber by the ankle with the same ease a lion would have snuffing the life out a newborn gazelle.

The second crimimal barely had time to register what was happening, only coming to when he was thrown face-first into concrete.

“He-Help me!”

Despite having no voice of its own, the Shadow's laughter pounded like war drums beside their ears as it hurled the robber through the glass and out the window, where he then plummeted into a bush.

"It’s the Ba—" The sound withered in Heller’s throat as his eyes locked onto the thing stalking them—a Shade right next with his own.

Its mouth was split in a grin far too wide; its fingers sharp like knives glued to its hands as it leaned in and tapped him on the head. Heller shouldn’t have felt anything at all, yet he did…

From the jagged ridges of its talons scraping across his face and leaving phantom stings, to the scales on its rough and elongated fingers. “What the unholy—”

Before he could complete the sentence, the Shade had already dipped behind his shadow, hands cradling the head of his reflection like something both precious and yet utterly doomed.

Heller felt himself being lifted.

“He-Hel—Uhmm!“

He felt claws clamp around the crown of his skull, followed by a palm lodging itself in his mouth to smother the scream in the back of his throat.

He felt his legs flail uselessly in the air next.

And then he felt the points—cold, sharp, and thrumming with the barely contained giddiness of a child at a playground—poke through his skin and curl deeper into the flesh underneath. If only he could scream… It wouldn’t lessen the pain, but at least it would mean he still had a voice. Still had something to cling to. But all he had was silence.

Crushing. Absolute.

And the knowledge that no one was coming to save him.

In that moment, Heller realized he would’ve gladly taken the Bat.

The Bat would break bones, maybe leave him crawling and sucking food through a straw for weeks, but at least there’d be a chance to crawl away. At least the Bat was human.

This thing wasn’t.

It didn’t care.

And it wasn't stopping.

Heller didn’t know what it was. Maybe in the way it moved, or the sheer hatred radiating from the two-dimensional Shade on the flat surface, but he could tell it wanted to kill him. And it probably would have, if not for the voice.

“That's quite enough.“ Never in his life had he felt such overwhelming relief at hearing another human voice, only for it to curdle into profound disappointment the moment he saw who it belonged to.

'A kid?!' The boy barely reached his chest which, admittedly, was impressive for someone his age, but Heller would rather a savior with some actual fucking hair on their chest! And yet, with just a single utterance from him, the Demon was immediately repelled.

Now free, his first instinct was to flee, but before Heller could make a break for it, the thought was crushed by the brat's annoyingly calm voice. "It would catch you." So he turned to fight instead, lifting his gun, only to find his fingers frozen-stiff on the trigger as the boy intoned. "You'd die."

Now that he was closer, Heller could see the faint glow in those eyes. They weren't like Metropolis' Boy Scout’s, no. This was subtler, more primal—like a cat waiting to pounce on its prey and, unfortunately, he was the prey.

Goddamnit. He should have listened to the rumors!

There was a reason even monsters like Cobblepot, Black Mask, the Falcones, and Maroni gave the Academy a wide berth. And clearly, it wasn’t just the kids’ powerful parents keeping them away. Beside him, the Shade gave a mocking wave before abruptly tugging him sideways and leaving deep gashes in his forearm.

Heller' favorite channel growing up was National Geographic, and if it taught him anything, it was how smaller pack animals took down prey. See, hyenas didn’t have the muscle to wrestle a buffalo to the ground or the speed to catch a gazelle.

Instead, they swarmed.

They circled.

They wore their prey down with small nips and bites until the poor bastard collapsed from exhaustion and fear. That was exactly what this felt like, only the hunt was already over. All that remained was the butchering. "I see you have been introduced to my pet…”

Scooting back on his hands, Heller’s heart slammed to a halt when his spine hit the wall. “What are you, freak?!“

“What I am,” His brown eyes finally met with the orange. “Is none of your concern. You will speak only when spoken to, and you'll answer every question truthfully or I will have my pet tear you apart with his teeth…“

Chomping at the air, the Shade ran its claws along his shadow, drawing a cut that burned with the intensity of the midday Sun.

“Have we an understanding? Now!“ Heller wasn't afraid to admit he flinched at the clap, embarrassing as it might sound to some. “First question: How many of you are there?“

The newspapers mentioned there were supposedly eight in on the botched heist, but Rowan needed to be sure.

How he’d kill for Detective Mode right about now.

“You're not getting anything from me, you fucking fre—”

“Shadow, it seems our friend’s got a problem with his long-term memory… Why don’t you fix that? I think a, say, fifteen-second session will jog his brain?”

On cue, the Shade grabbed him by the waistband and yanked him up with ease, then slammed him spine-first into the wall. “Fuc—!“

“Oh, we're name-calling now? Make it thirty. And make it hurt.“

The Shade obeyed with glee, dragging Heller across the floor like a trash bag, then drove him into the nearest classroom.

The door gave way with a metallic groan and to an awfully silent room save the wheezing gasps Heller managed through his aching ribs.

Bathing the classroom in a bruised orange glow, the dying Sun cast a soft amber smear across the wall, but the serene light did little to soothe his fear.

Instead, it made the Shade look even more solid, more real—like a dark stain corrupting the warmth…

The Entity swept aside the shadows cast by tables and chairs, and the furniture mirrored the motion, flying to the far end of the room. Each step it took, it grew, swelling in size until the man-shaped Shade loomed tall enough to brush the ceiling. “I’LL TALK, I’LL TALK!!! MAKE IT STOP—PLEASE!”

From the shadowed hall, the boy stepped in, his short frame seeming to eclipse the entire doorway. “Then talk.“

— [HELLBRED] —

“Turned out, that really was their first rodeo. After forty-something years of busting their backs at the harbor, getting screamed at by their manager, and then robbed of their hard-earned wages just days after payday, those once-respectable working men finally snapped.

'Screw it,' They said. 'Let’s go out swinging.'

No families. No real ties—they had nothing to lose anyway.

Worst case scenario? They rot in a cell until the Reaper clocks them out.

Best case? They vanish with the money and live like kings.

Phenomenal plan, really, if not for three tiny hiccups.

The first? Crazy Eight. Who the hell green-lit a guy named Crazy Eight for a heist? That should’ve been red flag number one, two, and three. The second? Me. Because of course, the one place they decided to hole up in just had to come with its own brand of 'freak.'

And the third? The long, glorious parade of assassination attempts they’d now be dodging for the rest of their very short lives. Needless to say, breaking into a school packed with the rich and dangerously well-connected was not exactly a winning retirement plan.

Although I don’t condone their actions, I get it.

Nobody wakes up thinking, 'Yeah, I wanna be a criminal today.'

But being a good person isn’t easy.

Being good and poor is even harder.

Being good and poor while living in Gotham? It's damn near impossible.

Ninety-nine percent of Gothamites—and I do mean ninety-nine—have taken a bribe to look the other way at least once.

When you’re struggling to put food on the table, trying to survive in a ten-square-meter concrete coffin that turns into a furnace in summer and the Arctic in winter;

When insurance and social services keep denying your claims because 'getting a car thrown at you by Solomon Grundy' isn't a valid reason for temporary disability, while robbers, thieves, and killers rake in blood money, you’d start to lose it too.

Sure, some might argue it’s the same story in every city and country, that poverty isn’t an excuse. Those people don’t know Gotham. Not really.

Most only know it through a screen—cartoons told from the Caped Crusader’s perspective, blockbuster movies that paint Batman as a lone savior, or sanitized news clips broadcast by networks too scared to show the real rot. They don’t know the despair that eats away at every Gothamite who isn’t wealthy or running on rooftops in a cape.

But I do.

I know it all too well.

Alas…”

— [HELLBRED] —

“Oh, God—”

Rowan held still, carefully burying the twitch beneath a calm mask.

Lucky for him, the rookie was too shaken to catch the flinch. “We’re gonna die, aren’t we? It wasn’t supposed to go like this… We were just tired. But you wouldn’t get it—you rich kids live like kings. You don’t know what it is truly like to despair.”

Stilling as the man clung to his pants, Rowan let out a sigh, quietly wondering if this could’ve been him had Bruce not taken him in.

Even if he’d somehow dodged every trap waiting for a starving orphan, would he have grown up just another bitter, broken man? Another felon chasing his own desires?

“On the contrary,” He said at last. “I do. Alas, you went about it the wrong way. ‘If you can’t beat them, join them’—is not the way.”

“Easy for you to say,” Heller snarled. “Easy when you’re chauffeured around in a damn Rolls Royce. What the hell do you know? You’re just a kid! A kid and a freak!”

The Shade surged forward, claws sharp and ready, but the robber’s fear had soured into a bitter rage. “Go ahead… Kill me… But you know I’m telling the truth.”

“I can't help you.“

They’d already made their choices—crossed too many lines.

All he could offer was a promise.

“But I swear to you: One day, Gotham will be safe to walk at night. One day, good, honest, hard-working men won’t have to bow down to crooks anymore.“

“What does it matter?” Heller snorted, hands braced on his shaky knees. “I won’t be around by then.”

“Promise me you'll do the time. That you'll repent. And when you get out—”

“If I get out,” Heller cut in.

Because odds were, he'd either be shanked by a hired inmate or rot until Death of the Endless came knocking.

“Promise me,” Rowan pressed, “And I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you get to bear witness to that future.“

Extending his hand, the vigilante hesitated for a split second—distracted by flickering runes dancing faintly above his skin… The brief lapse snapped as Heller clasped his hand.

“Don’t be too hard on the others,” Heller muttered. “They never wanted to hurt anyone. We were only supposed to get in, then get out. Crazy Eight though…”

Rowan’s eyes darkened at the mention.

Only one other robber had seen his Shadow prior to Heller and Abraham—the one he’d thrown out the window.

“Don't worry, I’ll give 'im hell.”

.

.

.

“Robin.” The Dark Knight greeted, landing on the rooftop right beside his sidekick.

“Batman.”

Below, the parents tearfully embraced to their terrified kids. 'Is that Barbara?'

Looked like she'd found her way out of the maintenance room after all. 'Good for her.'

“Eight captured, none hurt too badly—you did good.”

“I was trained by the best.” The boy shrugged, flinching as he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re safe.” The instant the words left him, the Caped Crusader’s eyes dropped to the bandaged arm. “Are you hurt?”

“Well, I wouldn't say hurt…” He pried the tragedy mask off to show crimson scales where he expected a bare, clean patch of skin. "How long have you exhibited these symptoms?"

"Since Reuben—so, about three days, I think?"

"Why didn’t you mention it?" Bruce's eyes narrowed.

"It was invisible at first. The concealment only broke when I accidentally touched a rosary."

"That is insufficient." The Dark Knight intoned. "Given the prevalence of… Anomalous phenomena in recent years, I would've arranged for immediate diagnostics. Early intervention could’ve prevented progression."

“I thought I could handle it.“

“This is handling it?“

Throwing his arms in the air, the boy rolled his eyes. “Well, I never said I was handling it well, did I?”

Brows creased, the Dark Knight dropped a suitcase at his feet. “Get dressed. I’ve arranged a meeting with a magical consultant. They’ll know how to help you.”

Bruce turned, silently demanding an explanation for the boy’s defiance, and he got one. “Not yet. I’ve got reason to believe someone’ll try to take these fine chaps out soon.”

Even if the Court thought it beneath them, some pissed-off parent with too much money and too little patience would make a move eventually. And by 'eventually,' Rowan meant now—while the media circus was still in full swing and public attention hadn't drifted to the newest tragedy.

Why would they do it? The better question was: Why wouldn't they?

Sending a message worked way better with a live audience.

“I thought you didn’t care for criminals?”

“I don’t care for irredeemable monsters… And I don’t think these men are there yet.”

Most were carrying blanks—cheap theatrics meant to scare, not maim.

Only Crazy Eight and two others, whose names Rowan hadn’t bothered to remember, carried live rounds.

And of those three, only Crazy Eight had actually used his.

Only he had drawn blood.

Only he deserved death.

After a quick inspection, Batman growled, “Someone rigged the squad cars. We need to move.”

Damn, these bastards didn’t waste time.

But just as he stepped toward the ledge, Rowan tugged his cape. “Hey, Bruce, wanna see something cool?”

“This is no time for jokes.“

“I'm not joking.“

Bringing his arms into the great floodlight illuminating the busy schoolyard, Rowan’s shadow stretched, reaching for the rag the robbers and officers both, it cleared all except one.

Bruce would’ve chalked it up to a trick of light, if not for the fact that everyone the Shadow touched was inexplicably ‘tossed away’ by the blast completely unharmed.

“What was that?“ He demanded.

“My new power. I call it…” He paused, studying his clearly sentient Shadow before adding with a puffed chest, “Ichor.”

Chapter Text

“Man! It's been quite a while. I miss this place!“

“You were down here less than a week ago.“ The Caped Crusader droned, only to be blown off by his little helper's casual, “Details.“

Bruce grunted and pointed at the weights. “Have your Shadow lift those. If you’re going to use it, we need to know what it’s capable of.”

“Know yourself, know your enemy, and you need not fear the outcome of a hundred battles,” The boy mumbled smugly, before heading toward the rack and placing his hands just below the barbell so its shadow and Ichor would meet. “What else is on the schedule?”

“Speed and versatility,” Bruce expressionlessly explained. “We’re testing all four.”

“No, I mean—”

Rowan started, letting out an exaggerated groan as he 'deadlifted' the barbell. He averaged 275 pounds, which didn’t seem nearly as impressive next to Bruce’s usual 600 to 700-pound deadlifts, but considering his biological age, lean frame, and actual muscle mass, those numbers were absurd.

Pound for pound, Rowan was stronger than most men, but even he had to struggle to hit that benchmark, yet here Ichor was, breaking his as easily as breathing.

'Curling' the barbell to his chest, Rowan grinned—more amused than disappointed. “Well, won’t you look at that. It’s got my record beat…”

He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Hell, his fingers never even grazed the bar.

Ichor had done all the heavy lifting—literally.

“So it’s stronger than you.”

The boy shrugged, “Looks like it,” Then eagerly continued to nail the barbell curls.

Scribbling something down, Bruce didn’t even look up before barking again. “Put on more weight.”

“How much are you thinking?” Rowan asked, dusting his hands and wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead.

“Five hundred,” Arrived the Dark Knight's curt reply, his eyes still glued to the notes.

Rowan squinted. “You mean add five hundred, or make it five hundred total?”

“Yes. We need to know its limits.”

“We... Or just you?” The boy-hero shot back.

“What exactly are you implying?”

“That you’re studying me in case you ever need to take me down?“

Bruce froze, jaw clenched tight.

The pen snapped against paper with a sharp click as his shoulders stiffened.

The darkness of the Batcave clung to him, folding into his skin almost on command while his eyes narrowed to cold, white slits…

As suffocating as the tension, the boy acted like he couldn’t have cared less if it slapped him in the face, beaming ear-to-ear as he slid more weight onto the bar. “Oh, relax, Bruce. I know how it is—no hard feelings.“

Rowan couldn’t find it in himself to fault the man.

He’d have done the exact same thing if their roles were reversed.

“You approve?” Bruce Wayne being surprised—now that was something Rowan hadn’t expected to see.

“I wouldn’t say that… I mean no disrespect, but you’re a human in a world full of Aliens and Demigods. I would be more concerned if you weren’t making contingencies for everybody.”

“Most would consider this an act of betrayal.”

Rowan tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Peasants used to think the world was flat. Some even believed it rested on the back of an elephant.” He stepped forward unhurriedly, grabbing another weighted plate with one hand. “The entire medical community basically bullied Ignaz Semmelweis when he suggested they were killing people by not washing their hands before surgery.“

Putting a hand over his chest as if to make a grand declaration, Rowan shouted. “'Men won’t fly for a million years,' They said! And look at us now.“

“A simple ‘Yes’ would have sufficed.” Arms crossed, Bruce rubbed the knot between his brows, grunting as a small fist lightly tapped his side.

“Ah, but that wouldn't have had the same kick.“

They hit the grind some more with bench presses, weighted squats, kettlebell swings, and explosive jump training,…etc. Until Batman finally called it. “Enough. I've got Ichor's specs. Its strength and speed appear to triple yours.”

“Cool!“

Little did he know Rowan had quietly ordered Ichor to ease up.

Was it shitty to take advantage of him right after the moment they shared? Maybe. But since Bruce was using this occasion to build his contingency also, the wonderless-boy figured it was only fair to keep a few things to himself.

It did mean he couldn’t get a true read on Ichor’s real strength, but Rowan could make a rough estimate. 'Sevenfold.' His Shadow was approximately seven times stronger than him, pound for pound.

“Cool? You spent days in agonizing pain and just found out you're half-Demon.”

“I don’t care. I’ve got cool powers.”

“Crosses burn you. Sanctified ground probably will too. Anything holy, really.”

“I’ve got cool powers.“ Rowan repeated, dead serious. In his humble opinion, it was a fair trade-off—like Superman with Kryptonites or Green Lantern and fear.

He wasn’t exactly religious anyway, even if he tended to curse like a pissed-off altar boy.

Faced with the infamous Bat-glare, Rowan just shrugged.

“Look, Bruce, I don’t know what you expect from me… I can’t exactly Un-Demon myself, can I? So wouldn’t it make more sense I enjoy my superpowers?

Or would you rather I start acting like a proper angsty teen? I'm sure~ee Alfred will be absolutely thrilled to have another mopey vigilante 'round the house.“

Bruce's face blanched.

“Yeah, that's what I thought.“

“Get back in the gym.”

“What for? We already got Ichor's specs.”

For a minute, Rowan entertained the thought that Bruce had seen through his trickery, but his worry was for nothing. The Batman wasn't omniscient, after all.

“We haven’t gotten yours.”

“Mine?”

“Your arm has undergone significant morphological changes. It’s highly likely the rest of your physiology has been affected as well.”

“Well…” Pinching his chin, Rowan mused out loud. “Now that you mention it, I did experience a brief surge in strength when I first woke up, but it has diminished since. I feel mostly normal now.”

“You likely acclimated to that level of strength.” His mentor gestured to the dumbbells on the floor. “Try lifting those—without your Shadow’s help.”

Rowan shrugged, heading straight for the sticking point.

His left, cursed hand lifted the 85-pound dumbbell with ease.

His right, though, faltered just on the cusp.

“So, I was wondering…”

“Out with it, Rowan.“

The boy shifted to readjust his grip. “About that magical consultant you mentioned, when are they showing up again? Don’t get me wrong, I love the new powers and all, but…”

Glancing at his admittedly awesome-looking arm, Rowan made a disgusted face as he flicked away a scratchy loose scale. “Wearing a cast everywhere sounds like a drag.”

“He's already here.”

Batman gestured toward the shadows. From the dark, a man in a battered trench coat stepped out like he owned the place. “'Sup, mate?”

The good news? It was just Constantine, and not one of the gazillion trigger-happy mystics who’d nuke a half-demon on sight.

The bad news? It was Constantine.

The human disaster wrapped in cigarette smoke and half-baked spells.

With him around, things were pretty much guaranteed to either go completely sideways or limp along just barely functional.

“I should’ve known that burnt smell was cigarette smoke…” Facepalming, Rowan mumbled under his breath, then turned to the still Dark Knight. “Him? You can't be serious, Batman.“

Constantine scoffed, visibly offended. “Oi, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Dude, I've read your profile, you run on nothing but booze, spite, and blind luck. I’m not handing over my life to you.” One could argue Bruce wasn’t much better—operating purely on trauma, caffeine, and God-Tier Plot Armor—but the Dark Knight was actually good at what he did.

Lighting his cigarette with a smirk, Constantine immediately choked on the first drag, coughing like a man twice his age.

He straightened up a second later, trying to salvage his image with what he probably thought was prize-winning. “And yet, I’m still alive. That’s gotta count for somethin’, yeah?”

“I never said I don’t trust you with your own life,” Rowan deadpanned. “I just don’t trust you with mine.”

“Bit of a difficult one you’re raisin’, ain’t he, Batsy?” Constantine drawled, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. “Bet yer' 50 quid the little gremlin popped out the womb flippin’ the bird and askin’ for a pint.”

“Bet your ass I did. Hell, I still do. Wanna see how I do i—?”

“That’s enough, Robin. He’s here to help.”

Loosening the tension in his middle finger, Rowan sighed. “Urgh… If he pawns my Soul to Nergal, I'm haunting you, Batman.“

“Oh, relax.” The Hedge Mage smirked, reaching for his Demon's Arm. “Even Demons’ve got standards.”

“If they're fighting over yours, how high can those standards be?“ Rowan taunted, sliding onto the leg press machine with a smug grin. The Hellblazer looked ready to fire back, then thought better of it and swallowed the retort at the back of his throat.

It didn’t feel good.

Hell, it felt a lot like choking down bile after a night of chain-smoking and binge drinking, but the kid had a point.

At this point, John had pawned off his own Self and cheated Hell so many times, it was honestly a miracle they still saw any value in his sorry excuse of a Soul. Whatever self-deprecating tirade his brain was about to spew was immediately cut off as he finally felt the resevoir of Demonic Energy within the boy.

“Well, this oughta be fun.“ John muttered, already regretting whatever fresh 'Hell' he'd just stepped into.

“Verum oculis, ostende mihi quod latet.“ The spell slipped from his lips, dragging the half-burnt cigarette with it as hellish visions flooded his mind. “So… What’s the verdict, doc?”

Rowan and Bruce quietly exchanged glances whjle Constantine’s eyes rolled back, leaving only the soulless whites.

“Doc?” Rowan repeated, before being startled out of his comfy seat by the Hellblazer’s neck snapping violently to the right, then to the left. “What the unholy—!“

The words hadn’t even left the tinnier vigilante’s lips properly when the British Hedge Mage suddenly lunged for his throat.

Before he could do any actual harm, however, the Caped Crusader was already on him, driving his boot in the small of John's back and sending him across the room. Now in the clear, Rowan rolled toward his helmet and smoothly completed the look.

He turned just in time to catch Bruce giving their possessed guest an enthusiastic left, then an even more excited right like he was trying to beat the Demon out of the Hellblazer.

To be fair, given his track record, Bruce probably could…

Still, Rowan wasn’t about to take that gamble. “Keep 'im busy, Batman!“

Hooking himself out of the Batcave, he sprinted down the hall, blowing right past a startled Alfred who loudly chided, “No running in the hall, Master Rowan!”

"It's an—" The word emergency stuck as he locked eyes with the very person he'd been trying to find. Bruce might be Jewish, but he definitely wasn’t a believer. Rowan doubted the Caped Crusader gave a damn about anything beside the Mission.

And he himself was a Demon.

The only one in Wayne Estate who might actually have faith was the Batler.

With any luck, he'd have a cross tucked away somewhere, hopefully on his person. “Alfred! Do you have a spare cross?“

"A cross, sir? I wasn’t aware you'd taken up religion."

"I haven’t, but there’s—"

A low tremor suddenly rolled through the Batcave, causing the overhead lights to flicker. "—A possessed Mage throwing a tantrum in the sublevels." Rowan added with a wry smile. "Figure a little holy insurance couldn’t hurt."

"Gimme a moment, sir, I believe I do have a spare somewhere." Adjusting his cuff with one hand, he patted down his coat with the other, calm as ever despite the worsening tremors. "One can never be too prepared, especially in this household… Ah, there it is!"

The Batler folded his handkerchief around the wooden accessory and cautioned. “Do be careful with this, Master Rowan.“

Remembering what happened the last time he touched a cross, Rowan absentmindedly nodded, then shoved the bundle in his pocket. “I'll try. Thanks, Alfred. You're the best!"

"Flattery won’t get you anywhere, sir."

“I beg to differ, Pennyworth!“

Gliding down the hidden entrance into the Batcave, Rowan nearly burst into tears at the sight of the wrecked Batcomputer.

"You'll be missed, soldier," He whispered, before making a mad dash toward the source of the noise.

He found Bruce and the possessed Hedge Mage within minutes, having memorized every tunnel leading to and from the Batcave.

Whatever had taken hold of the guy clearly wasn’t a Speedster, but it had enough raw strength to ricochet off the walls like a kid hopped up on sugar and caffeine. Precision, though? Not its strong suit. It kept missing the slippery Dark Knight, who was keeping it at bay with a steady stream of Explosive Batarangs.

Exchanging a glance with his mentor, Rowan hooked onto one of the hanging spikes above the cavern ceiling, using the shades to silently position directly over Constantine just as seven Bat-boas shot out from Batman’s hands.

To this day, Rowan still had no idea what the hell those things were made of, but they slowed the Demon down, and that was all that mattered.

He dropped right onto the Hedge Mage, squinting as light burst from the accessory, and engulfed both him and the possessed Constantine in ribbons of white fire. Rowan couldn’t tell where his screams ended and Constantine’s began, but he did catch one voice—Bruce’s. "Robin!"

Gritting his teeth, he bore down harder as the sanctified wood seared his and Constantine's tainted flesh.

The blistering pain was too much to bear, forcing Rowan to wrap the wooden beads around his wrist, then twisted the loop tight around the possessed Mage's neck with a loud battle cry.

The Hellblazer let out a guttural roar, convulsing as the Demonic Force inside him flared in protest. He spun wildly, then futilely slammed his back against the nearest wall in hope of ridding himself of the 'pest' clinging on his beat-up trench coat.

All the Hellblazer accomplished was stoking the fire until Rowan and he both collapsed in a blackened and wheezing pile.

That should have been the end for them, but the skin that had flaked off like chunks of beef jerky suddenly began to regrow, woven from the very holy flame that had reduced them to such a state.

“B-Bruce…" Rowan croaked. "Next time, please just wait for Zatara."

— [HELLBRED] —

“It’s a common misconception among new fans that Constantine is this God-like Mage, which I suppose we have his more recent portrayals to thank for.

But the Essence of his character has always been that of a Hedge Mage who fucks up regularly, surviving off a borderline toxic mix of luck, recklessness, and sheer dumbassery. I used to love that about him, even with my admittedly limited knowledge of DC. What can I say?

It gave him character and kept me from questioning why he doesn’t just vaporize his enemies from orbit. I regret to inform I haven’t felt the same about the Hellblazer since, but it is what it is. Besides, i’s not like Johnny picked a fight on purpose. He was also possessed… By me, technically.

Every cloud has a silver lining though, 'cause after getting rawdogged by the Presence, I finally got my skin back. Smooth, smooth skin.

Sure, the scales returned after a day, but both Constantine and I had figured as much.

My… Affliction wasn’t a disease, after all.

It was me. My darker impulses personified, kind of like Raven and her little therapy circle of personalities.

Only mine weren’t as fractured.

It was Pride, Wrath, Greed, Envy, Lust, Gluttony, and Sloth all crammed into one. My Shade, unbound. A Shade that I learned I could keep in check by tying a rosary—or any holy object, really—around my wrist.

A quick look under the microscope showed the same Grace burning off any abnormal growth and causing micro-damage it would then stitch up in nanoseconds.

The good news? I could finally leave Wayne Estate without a cast. Freedom, at last. The bad news was that it locked me out of my demonic powers and came in a bundle with the constant sting of a tattoo needle being dragged across my skin. It was relentless too… I'm talking, like, 24/7.

I could barely eat or drink, was so irritable I made Bruce look chatty, and I was downing enough sleeping pills to knock me dead just to squeeze in a thirty-minute nap before the pain spiked again. It. Was. Hell.

Thankfully, I was allowed to take out my frustrations on Gotham’s criminal scum again, and I didn’t hold back. No, sir. By the end of the second week, word on the street had already branded me 'The Imp' for my brutality.

Didn’t help that Bruce upgraded the Robin suit with a reinforced exoskeleton and a mechanical tail that could rip the roof off a car and fry an elephant.

He never stated it outright, but I’m pretty sure it was his way of steering me away from leaning into my Demon Heritage.

We still referred to me as Robin in private, but the name never really stuck, and honestly? I was kinda glad it didn't.

Sure, I played the part of Batman’s sidekick, but from the very beginning, I’d always seen myself as a… A placeholder for the Title rather than the genuine article. I imagine it’s how Dick felt wearing the Batsuit as well—like a fake.

The Imp wasn’t a glamorous name by any stretch, but it was mine. It fit the whole demon shtick, rolled off the tongue like a threat, and scared the crap out of low-level goons. What more could a growing menace ask for? Quite a bit more, as it turned out.“

— [HELLBRED] —

"Did you see him last night, Rowan?! Dude was like—bam, pow! And launched that thug across the alley!"

Still nursing a stabbing headache and a muffled ear, Rowan just nodded along as Alex loudly reenacted Imp’s stunt from the night before.

He might’ve been flattered, if the kid’s new custom toy helmet, complete with garbled Power Rangers audio and chopped-up voice lines someone had so clearly ripped from his fights, wasn’t already smeared with darkening, crusted boogers.

Beside them, another boy whose name Rowan still couldn’t remember smugly gave his two cents. “Batman soloes.” He wasn’t wrong, but Alex wasn’t having it.

“Nuh-uh! Imp's got skills, tech, and a cool mech tail!”

“Which Batman probably paid for.”

Also not wrong. Damn. Was the kid psychic?

“Guys, who cares? They’re on the same team. Why does it matter who can beat who?”

“Why does it mat—” Alex gasped like Rowan had just kicked his puppy.

He clutched his chest, eyes wide, wounded and betrayed. “Rowan… How could you?”

“What the hell did I do?”

“We were supposed to enjoy pitting heroes and villains against each other! Together!!!” Cried Alex, pointing an accusatory finger like Rowan had broken their sacred childhood oath. "You were the chosen one…! You were supposed to destroy the debunkers and skeptics—not join them! Bring justice to Power-Scaling, not leave it in darkness!"

“…”

Fortunately, he survived another day of school and managed to drag his weary feet outside to wait for Alfred.

He’d asked the butler to pick him up later than usual, claiming it was to spend more time with his friend.

The truth was, ferrying him to and from Gotham Academy every day was chewing into Alfred’s already packed schedule.

Between running the manor, assisting Bruce in the Cave, juggling cover identities, and somehow squeezing in rest like a mortal man, Pennyworth barely had room to breathe.

Rowan figured the least he could do was buy him an extra half hour and spare his old bones the worst of Gotham's rush hour.

It also gave him an hour of freedom to do whatever he wanted—not that there was much to do near the Academy which was nestled in one of Gotham’s nicer, more uptight districts, where entertainment often came in the form of overpriced cafés and silent bookstores.

Bored out of his mind, he wandered outside the Academy, lazily kicking pebbles, when a light hand settled on his shoulder. He flinched and turned, only to find, surprise-surprise, the little ginger-head herself. “Ms. Gordon, should I draw you a diagram explaining why sneaking up on someone who can give you a concussion is a bad idea?“

By the time he transferred to Gotham Academy, the Hilltop kids had already wrapped up their one-week exchange program. Rowan thought he wouldn’t be running into her again until years down the line, when she took up the Batgirl mantle.

But… Here she was.

“Are you Ro—”

He slapped a hand over her mouth with a sharp hiss. “Scream it to the whole city, why don’t you?”

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Barbara glanced down at his now smooth arm before gently prying his hand away and whispering. “You’re the Imp. Don’t even try to deny it. Same height, same build. I even saw you going with Batman. You’re him. You’re Batman’s sidekick… You're the Robin!“

Rowan considered gaslighting her, then shook, deciding against it.

She was Gordon’s kid.

That trick had a snowball’s chance in Hell of working.

“Yes. What do you want?”

Eyes sparkling like she’d just won the lottery, the girl latched onto his arm and dragged him into a nearby café.

Rowan didn’t resist, believing it better to get it over with now than let her admiration sour into a full-blown preteen vendetta.

Barbara was going to become Batgirl anyway.

After ordering a black coffee buried in whipped cream, he chucked his briefcase into the corner and slumped into the seat.

“Before we start, let’s get one thing straight: Don’t expect clear answers. Don’t ask about our public personas. Don’t push when I say no. And if you’re even thinking about threatening me, expect nothing but contempt.”

She blinked once at the threat, then happily clapped. “I can’t believe it, I’m sitting with—”

“Shhh! For God’s sake, do you even comprehend the concept of a secret identity? Zip it!”

If his blood pressure spiked tonight, Rowan was going to let Barbara Gordon take full credit.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! It’s just—I can’t believe it. I’ve been following your whole story; I even saw your fight with Deathstroke live on TV! You were—”

She threw a few awkward punches, ponytail swinging wildly, then smiled and pulled out a folder full of photos of him in his 'uniform.'

“Who the hell is taking all these goddamn pictures?” Setting aside the fact some of those fights had taken place in notorious crime zones where cameras were scarce, and bystanders even scarcer; these weren't flattering photos of him.

The terrible angles, the crappy lighting—they made him look like a fucking midget!

“If you’re gonna stalk me, at least learn how to frame a shot.“

How was he to aura-farm with these floating around?!

Finally reining in her curiosity, Batgirl stuffed the folder back into her bag and cleared her throat. “Sorry 'bout that.”

“Apology accepted.“

Her eyes silently flicked to his side and dropped. “Your arm… Your face—”

Rowan glanced at the appendage, flexed the fingers absently like he was checking it for the first time, then shrugged. “They got better.”

“That’s good,” Barbara exhaled, hands awkwardly gripping the sides of her chocolate chip ice cream. “So… A demon hero. And here I thought Wonder Woman was as weird as it got.”

Blowing out of his lips, the corners of his mouth twitched with a smug, you’ve-got-no-idea laugh, before taking a sip of his coffee. “Ye-eeah… That's as weird as it's gonna get.“

It was still early—very, very early—in the timeline.

The Flying Graysons were still alive, Kirk Langstrom was just a scientist, and the Justice League wasn’t even an idea yet.

Most threats were still relatively small-time: Street-level, maybe national at worst.

Give it a decade or two and Alien, God, Android and Demon would be just another Friday.

“… I don't like the way you're saying it.“

Chuckling some more, Rowan downed half his glass and leaned back in his chair. “You had questions?”

“Right, so—”

The conversation stretched on for another hour, bouncing between questions, theories, and half-serious jabs, until even Barbara who was buzzing with excitement originally began to calm.

“Any more questions?”

“Just one…” Fixing her posture, the Girl-Who'd-Become-Batgirl asked. “Can I join you and Batman?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Rowan answered evenly, slipping on his best Zen-face.

“What? Why?! I’m capable!”

He sipped his coffee, then shot her a half-lidded, pointed look.

“Barbara, vigilantism isn’t a game.

You slip on a rooftop—you die.

Miss your mark in a fight—you die.

Someone sneaks up on you? You die.

Sneeze at an inopportune moment? You die.

I don’t care how capable you think you are.

You’re still a kid.

And for your sake, it’s best you stay one for a while.“

“You’re a kid too! And I’ll have you know I’ve won several championships in different sports!”

“First off, I’m a half-Demon—I’ve got a backup plan if I miss a jump. Second, those championships are kiddie league stuff. It’s not the same as specialized training. Not even close. This isn’t a gap ballet class is gonna bridge, Barbara.“

Her expression soured as she stared down at her empty bowl of ice cream.

“What if I complete your specialized training?”

“It’s still a no.”

“What? Why?!”

“I’m a Demon. I've made peace with the fact that I’ll never know peace. You aren’t like me. You’ve still got a shot at something normal.”

“I don’t want normal. I want to make a difference—I want to do good.” Locking eyes with him, practically begged. “I want to be a hero.”

Rowan sighed, then pulled out a crumpled scrap of paper, scribbled something on it and held it out to Jim’s daughter.

The girl reached for it, only to stop when she felt the paper strain.

“Go to the address,” He said. “Ask to meet the man listed. He’ll train you.”

Her eyes lit up, but before she could speak, his tone sharpened.

“But you have to promise me there'll be no crime-fighting until you’re at least eighteen. And even then, only if he says you’re ready. Not you. Not me. Him.”

Barbara hesitated briefly, eyes flickering between the paper and Rowan’s expression before curling her fingers around the edge. “I promise.”

“Don’t make me regret this. And don’t come looking for me again.” Relinquishing the paper Rowan called out with a wave, “Waiter!”

Watching while one of her biggest idols pay for their drinks and step out of the building, Barbara’s heart thumped inside her chest as she looked at the crumpled sheet and unfolded it shakily. An address, and two names stared back at her: One a human's; the latter that of an establishment's; both equally as important as the other.

”Ted Grant's Wildcat Gym?“

Chapter Text

“When’s the last time we actually did this?”

Because contrary to popular belief, Batman didn’t spend every waking hour beating the hell out of his protégés under the banner of 'training.' Sparring sessions were rare—once-in-blue-moon kind of rare—and usually marked a turning point for the sidekick involved.

It was basically the end-of-term exam for Bruce's unofficial school of vigilantism.

“Months ago,” The Caped Crusader replied, voice dry as sandpaper, tugging the laces of his gloves.

Then he paused, snatching Rowan’s gloves out of the air just before they hit the floor, and shot his wayward protégé a questioning look.

A look Rowan shrugged off. “Muggers don’t come laced up and padded, Bruce. Gimme the full, authentic Bat-Experience.“

“Master Rowan, I don’t believe that'd be wise.” The Batler cautioned, stepping in with a tray of electrolyte bottles balanced perfectly in hand.

It definitely wasn't, but—”I can take it.“

And even if he couldn't, his Minor Regenerative Healing Factor would patch things up in two, maybe three nights tops.

Still, despite Rowan’s assurance, Bruce couldn’t resist asking again, well aware of the damage his bare fists could deal. “You sure about this?”

“No-oope.“ Rowan answered, lazily stretching his legs and cracking his neck. “So let's get to it before I get cold feet.“

Staring at the gloves for a long moment, Bruce silently tossed them out of the ring.

He brought up his guard, bouncing lightly on his toes as he glided forward, weaving left, then right.

If Rowan wanted the stakes raised, then he'd oblige. 'Let’s see how he manages under pressure.'

Where Rowan’s movements were jerky and explosive, Bruce moved fluidly—like a serpent closing in on its prey. And then Rowan moved, bursting forward only to get tossed over the Dark Knight's shoulder.

Recovering mid-fall, Rowan caught Bruce’s wrist and twisted with the momentum for a kick that barely skimmed the Caped Crusader’s nose.

Unfortunately, that was as close as he got to landing a clean hit, for Bruce had already begun the counter. Fortunately, Rowan had been tossed around by the Caped Crusader enough times to see the maneuver coming from a mile away. He relinquished his hold just in time to backflip away as his mentor's fists struck the mat where Rowan's head would've been, had he remained static.

“Jesus, Bruce! Straight for the head? After all we've been through?“

“To be fair, sir—” Alfred called out from the sideline, impeccably calm as he checked the content of the first aid kit. “You did request the full, authentic Bat-Experience… A concussion rather comes with the territory.”

The brief lapse in concentration cost Rowan dearly, for that was all Batman needed to close the distance he'd been trying to maintain.

“Keep your eyes on your enemy!“ Chided Bruce, sweeping his leg toward Rowan’s.

But it was all a feint.

Realizing it was a setup a moment too late, the boy braced himself and grunted as he skidded across the floor, tripped during the roll, and fell backward.

Bruce sighed and rushed forward to catch his protégé, stopping short of catching a foot to the chin.

He backed off, rubbing his jaw while Rowan smirked victoriously. “You’re not the only one who knows how to fake out, Batman.” The boy half-expected Bruce to snap back with a snarky remark, maybe even scold him for getting too cocky, but nothing of the sort happened.

Instead, the Dark Knight gave a single clap. “Sharp,” He quietly said, then added absently, “How many styles have I taught you?”

“I… I don’t recall?” Rowan answered, unsure. Bruce didn’t exactly label anything—he just demonstrated, corrected, repeated until Rowan got the gist.

There were glimpses of different forms and martial traditions, sure, but nothing was ever spelled.

“Right. Time for a refresher then.”

That one sentence hit harder than any punch, and felt even more unnerving than his entire brawl with Deathstroke. So Rowan did the only rational thing a sane person would do in his situation and—“I surrender!”

“…Alfred.” With a press of a button, every exit sealed shut, the hiss of hydraulics sizzling through the air like a death knell in the now airtight, dimly-lit sub-cavern.

Rowan’s smile twitched as he took a step back, eyes darting to the locked doors.

“Wh-What is this? Alfred? Alfred!” He called, voice rising in pitch, because if anyone could save him now, it was the guy with the tea and the override codes.

“You promised you'd be careful with my heirloom, and yet I was left scraping it out of your burnt, crusted skin. Charming.”

“Heirloom?” Rowan repeated, brow furrowed. He didn’t remember ever being handed anything that important… And what the hell would he even do with Alfred’s heirloom?

“My rosary, sir.”

Like a broken dam, the memories came flooding back at the mention—Ichor, the Demon’s Arm, Constantine and the subsequent Possession… But what stood out most was the wooden rosary Alfred had entrusted him with. “That was weeks ago!“

“Don't you know what people always say about revenge, Master Rowan?”

Alfred’s ominous voice exploded through the speakers as the Batler slinked into the adjacent room and behind a one-way mirror.

“—It is a dish best served cold.“

“ALFREEEEEEEEEEED!!!” Rowan roared, eyeballs pulsating with 'rage' at the betrayal.

“—You've brought this on yourself, sir.“

Reaching out, he could only watch helplessly as the door to his last lifeline slammed shut. Despite knowing how pointless it was, Rowan kept hammering away on the steel gate for a solid minute, before finally slumping forward, head pressed against the cold metal. For the first time in this new life, he felt the creeping chill of despair settle in.

“Y-You!” Rowan jabbed a trembling finger at his mentor. “You try anything, and I’m calling CPS!”

Bruce arched a brow, the faintest smirk ghosting his face as he slowly wrapped his fists in bandages. “CPS? You mean the agency partnered with and bankrolled by the Wayne Youth Foundation?”

“What the fuck?!” Rowan barely had time to utter before the Caped Crusader lunged at him from the dark.

His blood-curdling screams would haunt the Wayne Estate for hours—right up until Alfred called them in for dinner through the coms.

Bruised and nursing an even more battered ego, he glared at Alfred, stabbing his food into a sad, unrecognizable mush as he mouthed. “You traitor…”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic, sir. You’re hardly hurt.” The Batler replied, utterly unfazed as he refilled Rowan’s glass.

“Hardly hurt? Motherf—” His tongue froze mid-word as both men fixed him with deadpan stares. Swallowing whatever pride he had left, Rowan licked his lips and gestured wildly. “Did you even see what he did to me?!”

Hiding a smile as the boy collapsed face-first beside his plate.

“You can take two days off, Rowan.“

“And miss the chance to release my pent-up frustrations? I think not.” He replied, seeming mighty offended by Bruce’s suggestion.

In all fairness, he’d have accepted that offer before his Demonic Transformation, but after weeks of dedicated experimentation, Rowan had learned that when he allowed his Demonic Half take over, his Strength, Speed, and even his Healing Factor all boosted by 75%.

It wasn’t nearly as flashy as anything his Shadow could do, and 'shedding' his own skin with a cross or rosary wasn’t exactly pleasant.

Still, Rowan would take the pain any day of the week if it meant staying on his feet and avoiding the humiliation, never mind the helplessness of being bedridden.

“Bruce Wayne is scheduled to meet with a business partner the day after tomorrow. You'll need to be in top shape if I am to entrust you with Gotham for the week.”

The fork slipped from Rowan’s hand at the news, clattering uselessly against the plate. “You’re putting down the Suit for a week? You? It’s the concussion, isn’t it? I’m hearing things… That’s gotta be it.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Bruce, I’ve lived in this Estate for two years. I’ve never seen you put the Mission aside.”

Rowan didn’t even know how the motherfucker managed it.

Rowan couldn’t wrap his head around it. The guy barely slept, barely ate, spent his nights tearing through Gotham’s worst, kept up the billionaire act by day and somehow still found time to train like a pro athlete.

It simply wasn't feasible to maintain such a schedule over an extended period of time. Not even with the vast wealth his parents had left him, and yet, Bruce pulled it off like it was just another Tuesday.

“This client is critical to Wayne Enterprises' future. I can’t afford to neglect him…”

“And you can’t afford to neglect Gotham either,” Rowan interrupted with a smirk. “Don’t worry, brother. I gotchu.”

“Brother?”

“Well, I’m legally Alfred’s ward, aren’t I?”

“Hm…” They looked like they wanted to protest but just shrugged it off as part of his antics.

“And Rowan.“

“Yes?“

“If you encounter someone you can't beat. Run.“

True to his word, Rowan rested exactly 48 hours before bursting onto a rooftop where land meets sea.

For the next five to seven days, Gotham was all his. “How delightful.”

Two blocks from where the vigilante landed, a robbery was underway.

The unlucky victim?

A homeless man just looking for a place to crash.

Instead, he stumbled onto Hale and Dale—a pair of twins who’d recently cleaned house in the Penguin’s underground fighting ring.

Why were these mid-tier thugs suddenly interested in Gotham’s equivalent of single-celled life on the food chain?

Why does lightning strike?

Why does the wind blow?

Why do the stars shine?

“Ple-Please.” The man begged, too tired, too hungry, and too hurt to muster up a proper scream. His plea might as well have fallen on deaf ears, sadly.

“You stink, you worthless piece of shit.“

“Why do you bugs even cling to life?” Dale hummed as he leaned in close to the homeless man's ear. “If I were you, I’d have hung myself.”

“You know, it's funny—” The twins didn’t even have time to turn when Rowan’s collapsible staff suddenly caught them across the side of the head. “I was thinking the same about you two.”

“Imp?! He’s sending the sidekick?” Dale scowled, visibly agitated by what he and his brother both perceived as a slight. “Talk about disappointment.“

“Batman thought it was more efficient this way… His time would've been wasted on you lot anyway.”

“You'll regret that.“ Hale threatened.

“I'm positive I won't.“ Tail coming undone, Rowan dropped in a crouch and heartily waved at the sobbing victim, twirling the staff behind him.

“Oh, you wi—” The Imp picked that exact moment to clock Hale in the jaw, then ducked just in time to dodge Dale’s kick which might’ve actually hurt if the thug hadn't been so slow.

Grinning, Rowan swept in behind, kicked out the backs of Hale’s knees, yanked his underwear so hard it wedged deep into his groin and stretched the waistband clean over his head.

“What the fuck?!”

What he hadn’t expected was the brown smear staring back at him.

“The hell is that, you musty-ass motherfucker?!”

Behind them, the once-cowering victim was now making the same disgusted face as everyone else. Dale would've jumped in to spare his brother the humiliation, but he was too busy fending off Rowan’s mechanical tail.

“If you can't wipe properly, use wet wipes or install a fucking bidet! Fuck!” Cursing, the boy violently wiped whatever was on his fingers back onto the criminal’s jacket, then tapped the hidden button on his Utility Belt to collapse his staff.

Spinning on one foot, Rowan clicked the button again, unfolding it back to full length.

Lucky for Dale, the tip was blunted, otherwise he would have died with quite the lungful. Instead, he only got launched into a trash bin. “What are you waiting for?“ Asked the vigilante, glancing at the stiff victim. “Run along. Shoo! I'll take it from here.“

The man bolted, then stopped dead in his track to grab Rowan’s hands. “Thank you, young man! God blesses you!”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Rowan muttered and instructed. “Closest shelter’s three miles North. You best hurry. It’s gonna be a cold night.”

“Thank you!“

“You’re—” Backhanding Dale mid-sentence, he threw a lazy wave. “Welcome. Now… You two mind telling me where Penguin’s fighting ring is?”

“Like hell we'll tell you!“

Eyes glinting behind the visor, Rowan pulled the pin on a fear pellet and dropped it at their feet.

“Oh, I’m positive you will.”

And they did… They sang like a pair of lovebirds about how the whole thing worked—how the rings made money, how Cobblepot’s lieutenants ran them, and how every fight was rigged top to bottom.

Unfortunately, neither of them knew the actual location.

“We were blindfolded.“ They claimed.

And when Rowan asked how they got in touch with Penguin’s crew if that was the case—”We don’t call them. They call us, set a rendezvous point, and throw us in a van.”

Hale chimed in, seeming to be in an even worse shape than his brother.

“The location changes every time there’s a tournament.”

Glaring at the pair, Rowan leaned against the streetlamp, lazily spinning his staff.

"That's all we know… Please."

"I…"

The criminals sucked in a sharp breath through their teeth.

"I believe you. However, due to your crimes, I cannot allow you to leave, and I don't have time to wait for the cops either. So here's what we're gonna do: You two are going to deliver yourselves to the nearest precinct, you're going to report your crimes, do the time, and become model citizens."

"And why'd we do that?"

Fingers squeezing Dale's mouth like a wrench, Rowan patted his face.

"Because from here on, jail will be the only place where you'll be safe from me… Because if I even spot your silhouettes on the streets, I'm going to hunt you down, beat you to a bloody pulp, and we're going to laugh about it. Every. Single. Time. Are we clear?"

“Bro, how are you a hero?” Dale whimpered.

"Are. We. Clear?"

"C-Crystal." They echoed simultaneously, teeth chattering uncontrollably as the Fear Toxin worked its wonders.

Brushing off his shoulder, Rowan shot them one last look, then rocketed into the sky. “Toodles.“

“He… he was just blowing outta his nose, right?”

Dale could only sob in response.

“Right?!”

— [HELLBRED] —

“I wasn’t just blowing outta my nose. On my second night flying solo, I tracked them down through the local surveillance system and found Hale and Dale halfway across the city from where I caught them the night before. They looked real comfortable too… Probably thought I wasn’t coming.

Oh, the look on their faces when I dropped in from the roof…

After meting out justice in Gotham, I went right back to it—stopping a small crime here, breaking up a robbery there. Day three was more of the same. Rinse and repeat.

It was a slow week which, in hindsight, was probably the only reason Bruce let me take over in the first place.

Most of his usual rogues were locked up in Arkham, and the few who had escaped were keeping a low profile. All except Killer Croc whose file strongly implied that his condition came with an appetite for human flesh.

Did I stumble onto him by accident? No.

But I did stumble onto his victims—a wagon full of their remains… The parts the cannibalistic Meta apparently had no use for. That got me thinking: If Kirk Langstrom could become the Man-Bat, was it possible for Killer Croc to revert back to Waylon Jones using his Serum?“

— [HELLBRED] —

“—That’s not how it works, Jacques.“

“It isn’t?”

“—Of course not! My Serum works by introducing foreign DNA into the human genome. And correct me if I’m wrong, but Killer Croc’s a Metahuman, isn’t he? Emphasis on the human.“

“Huh…” Rowan clicked his tongue, humming to himself as he looked at the cavern ceiling. If only it were that easy. “What if we tweak it to override his Metagene?”

The abrupt pause sparked a flicker of hope in his chest, only for it to die a moment later when the geneticist sighed. “—It’s not that simple. My Serum doesn’t override; it adds to. Chances are he’ll just mutate further.“

'Well, that blows.'

“—Why the sudden interest?“

“Gotham is a cesspit, but perhaps it might stink a little less with one fewer monster in it.”

Gotham had all types of villains.

Some were cartoonishly evil, others deeply tragic and quite a few had filled the role of an anti-hero before.

Killer Croc was one of them.

There were arcs where he'd helped survivors during apocalyptic events, fought on the side of good, however briefly.

If other versions of Waylon Jones could pull themselves out of the gutter, maybe this one could too.

It was a long shot, sure, but if there was even a chance of steering Croc toward something better, it was a risk Rowan felt obligated to take.

Kirkland exhaled loudly.

Rowan could almost picture the scientist removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose as he spoke. “—Secure samples of his organic tissue, and I'll see what I can do…”

“I'll get it to you by tomorrow.”

If he had to track down Croc, he wouldn’t sound nearly as confident, especially considering the Caped Crusader had been on the guy’s trail for months.

Luckily, Bruce already had samples of his biological tissues stored under cryostasis in another wing.

Truth be told, Rowan could deliver them today if he really wanted to.

“—That fast?“

“What can I say? My contact does tight, efficient work. And… Uh, about the other thing?”

“—I’m the bearer of good news today.”

Crossing his legs, Rowan grinned into the phone. “I take it things are moving along?”

“—I can't promise you anything, but I believe I'll have the finished batch ready in about four months. Hope you don’t mind, but I’ve merged your formula with mine… It only made sense to streamline the compound.“

Ears twitching as he saw Alfred smoothly pull into the garage with Bruce in the backseat, Rowan spoke into the phone. “Right. Keep me updated. And Kirkland?”

“—Yes?”

“If you're still going with the Man-Bat Project, implement a genetic-level failsafe—something that preserves higher cognitive function during Transformation.“

“—And why would I do that?“

Rowan crinkled his nose in equal parts confusion and irritation. “Because if you mutate, I expect you to retain enough cognitive function not to become a liability. I understand you're losing your sight, but Gotham has enough monsters. Don’t add your name to the roster, Doctor.”

“—That... Might set me back years. I may even have to start from scratch.“

“You may use mine, Doc. Its regenerative power should stave off your blindness long enough.”

“—I would if it were possible, but it only boosts existing traits, and since the human eye can’t regenerate on its own.”

“It won’t work.” Rowan scowled, cursing under his breath. “Of course it fucking won’t…”

He hadn’t held out much hope, since Slade Wilson couldn’t even regenerate his eye in the mainstream comics, and that was a man who had literally come back from the dead, yet the news was disappointing all the same.

His eyes slowly drifted to the window just in time to catch Bruce helping a young boy out of the car.

He turned away, heading back to bed, then froze and whippes around.

Was that who he thought it was?

Could it really be him?

The boy had long, wavy hair as dark as midnight and cold, hollow blue eyes that all but screamed despair, much like Bruce’s on his worst days. No wonder Damian was jealous of his adoptive brother. Richard Grayson might as well have been cut from the same mold as the Caped Crusader.

“Holy fuck…” Rowan breathed, the phone slipping from his hand and landing with a dull thud on the carpet.

“—Jacques? Is something the matter?“

“Apologies, Doctor. Something's come up. We'll resume this conversation tomorrow.”

Hastily ending the call, he rushed to the door, then stopped, his gaze falling to the rolled-up newspaper he'd thrown on his nightstand next to the previous issues.

No one read newspapers anymore, not even Bruce, but it was one of Alfred’s few indulgences, a habit likely carried over from his days serving Thomas and Martha Wayne—a habit Bruce never felt the need to correct out of respect and love for the man who was his father in all but blood.

“The Imp: Hero or Masked Menace?“ Read the first headline.

“The Imp Terrorized Me and My Brother!—Claimed Prisoners.“ Read the second, smaller caption above a photo of Hale and Dale in prison uniforms. They'd better pray Rowan didn’t have business in or close to Blackgate anytime soon, or they were fucking toasted for this slander.

Although, Rowan supposed it did make for a nice boost to his street cred and mythos.

Maybe he ought to thank them…

With his fists.

It was the third page that caught his eye. “The Flying Graysons: Murdered? Suspect in Custody.”

That was dated two days ago. “How did I miss this?”

Rowan was genuinely floored until he realized just how far down the article of the Flying Graysons' deaths were buried.

“Of course…”

For Richard, it was his world collapsing in a single moment, the symbolic death of a child that would one day give rise to Robin, then Nightwing. A boy torn from the trapeze and thrown into the shadow of a city that chews through innocence like meat-patties.

For Batman, it was the day he gained his first son. Not just a partner or a ward, but his blood-son… The one who reminded him why he was fighting in the first place.

But for Gotham? It was background noise.

Just another tragedy in a city already drowning in them.

Another pair of names added to a growing list of collateral damage.

There was no grand tribute, no city-wide mourning.

It really was just a couple of circus performers killed during a show, and if Rowan hadn’t already known who Dick Grayson would grow up to be, he would have missed the news too. Adjusting his outfit, Rowan briefly considered greeting them at the door, then opted against it.

The boy would come around on his own time, and dusk was swallowing the last rays.

It was time to suit up.

By the time the clock struck 6 P.M., he was out again, hot on the trail of Cobblepot’s fighting ring.

Normally, a low-level operation like that wouldn’t warrant his attention. It was just thugs beating each other bloody for pocket change.

Even Penguin squeezing his debtors for cash wasn’t out of line. You borrow, you pay. Simple and fair… What wasn’t fair was who was getting thrown into those pits and whorehouses.

It wasn’t just criminals or gamblers anymore. Many of the people currently being forced into Penguin’s rings and worse, his brothels had been taken off the street, used as collateral for family debts they never signed up for or didn't even know about…

They were being punished for others' sins, and that Rowan simply couldn’t overlook.

Perched atop a lonely streetlamp, Rowan's lips curled into a thin smile as he watched Penguin’s crew shove a handful of blindfolded civilians into a black van and sped off.

The van looped through several blocks before heading straight toward a construction site where a half-built skyscrapper sat at the edge. From the outside, it appeared abandoned, with boarded windows, rusted panels, and layers of graffiti covering the bare concrete.

"Jackpot."

Given the number of civilians nearby, fear pellets were off the table, which left Rowan with one option: Do it the old-fashioned way.

Alternatively…

His gaze dropped to the rosary wrapped around his forearm. With a quiet sigh, he removed it.

The moment the blocker was gone, his Demonic instantly heritage bled through.

The full mutation would take time to reemerge—hours, if it followed the same pattern as before—but the Ichor was quick to show itself, now equipped with a new tail that agitatedly twitched.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Rowan muttered under his breath, feeling the Shade stir uncomfortably. “It hurts me as much as it hurts you.”

The Shade pumped its fists angrily in response.

“Fine,” Rowan rolled his eyes, reaching for the rosary again. “If you’re not in the mood to beat up criminals, I guess I’ll do it myself.”

Changing its tune at the threat, Ichor pulsed, misshappen form writhing like a petulant animal. Then, its new tail snapped in irritation and acknowledgement… That was as close to obedience as Rowan was going to get.

“Remember: No killing. I don’t need Bruce breathing down our necks over a couple of dead sods."

Chapter Text

“Let’s see what the new vigilante’s left us,” Commissioner Gordon muttered as he ducked underneath the jammed shutter.

Inside, six of Cobblepot’s men lay zip-tied and unconscious, almost blending in with the trash that littered the warehouse floor.

“Move in.“ Jim ordered, and the officers behind him immediately began to fan out.

“What do you see, rookie?”

Detective Samuel Reed crouched beside a blood smear on the stairwell, studied the Batarang embedded in a blown control box before speaking. “He didn’t come through the main entrance. Shutters are reinforced, and the locks are still in place. He most likely came in through the upper floor.”

Gordon nodded, satisfied. “Keep going.”

Reed glanced up the stairs, eyes scanning the blood trail.

“One of the guards saw him on the stairs and went to engage. He was taken down and dragged up.”

“Dragged?” Gordon repeated, peering down at the smear.

Reed crouched beside the stairway, eyes narrowed as he traced the blood trail with a gloved finger. “Indeed. There’s blood on every step. Evenly spaced, but no signs of pooling or big splatter after the first impact…”

“Trail's too even.“ The Commissioner approvingly agreed. “Keep going.“

“Imp used him to lure them up, then circled down through the ventilation system while the others were trying to intercept and picked the weaker links off.” Reed gestured toward the vent near the ceiling where the warped cover lay unassumingly.

“The metal’s bent outward, the bolts popped, yet I see very little evidence of blunt impact, just consistent pressure from within the vent. I don't know what the hell Batman's feeding this kid, but I want it.“ Maybe it'd make leg days a bit more bearable for him.

Surveying the scene again, Gordon remarked, “They tried to run.”

“So he blew the control boxes and trapped them.” Reed helpfully tooted.

"We owe Batman a thank."

Because if the Imp had decided to break bad, Gordon had no doubt he and the GCPD would be sweeping up body parts by now.

“Lucky us.“ Sam cheered, flying up the stairs only to freeze as he saw the massacre. “Holy shit.“

His older colleague rushed up a moment later, chest heaving violently as he wheezed beside Sam.

The GCPD had their reasons for liking Batman.

For all the damage he did to their public image, the man was efficient. He gave them legal leverage to storm criminal fronts without a warrant; treaded grounds where they couldn't, but more importantly: The Dark Knight showed restraint—a trait his sidekick evidently lacked.

Some of the injuries they were seeing were dangerously close to attempted murder.

“My God…”

Sam had just taken a step when a limp body plummeted next to him, bringing down a large chunk of the ceiling.

"Do I need to reconstruct this one too?" Sam asked wearily, glancing at a thug slumped against the fuse box, another still whimpering even in unconsciousness, and the last sprawled beside the bricks he'd brought down earlier.

"No..." Gordon responded.

Anyone with half an eye could piece together what happened: Violence.

Extreme. Unabashed. Violence.

The kind that would have every human rights group in the country sharpening their pitchforks if a badge had been responsible.

To be fair, it was not as if Batman or his sidekick received a free pass.

Plenty of groups had voiced their concerns, but people liked the idea of having a watchful, albeit broody protector around.

As a result, most of the criticism was acknowledged, then promptly tossed in the trash.

The fact that Batman clearly couldn't care less, and had never taken their bait helped.

Without fresh material from the Caped Crusader, the press could only recycle variations of the same headline so many times before it started tanking their view counts.

“He's… Well, he's breathing. That's something, right?“

“He’s… well, he’s breathing. That’s something, right?”

Shaking his head, the Commissioner weaved through the unconscious bodies, slapping cuffs on each one he passed until a faint, muffled cry caught his attention.

He stopped, raised his standard issue G22, and signaled for his partner to close in.

'1… 2… 3!' Gordon mouthed, kicking the door in. “GCPD! Hands where I can see them!”

It wasn't a pocket of criminals like Jim suspected, but a group of scantily clad women huddled together at the back of the room. Sam blushed like a Christmas tree at the sight, while his colleague gruffly repeated the command. “I repeat: Hands where I can see them!“

“J-Jim?“ Sam began, but wisely stayed his tongue as the Commissioner shot him an unkind glare. The distraction lasted only a split second, but it was more than enough time for one of the call-girls to draw her gun—an angry-looking butch with blond hair, a square jaw and an even squarer haircut.

Sam dove toward his partner, narrowly pushing him out of the line of fire and taking a bullet to the thigh for his effort.

Commissioner Gordon responded with several discharges in quick succession, catching her directly between the eyes.

He waited until all movements fully ceased before turning to his partner and keying his radio.

“GCPD Unit 4-3: Suspect down. Officer injured. Requesting immediate medical response.“ Jim reported over the radio, kneeling to check on a hissing Sam.

He'd have helped Samuel down himself, but someone needed to maintain overwatch on the civilians and potential criminals sprinkled amongst them.

“—Request acknowledged. Medics en route. Maintain communication, Unit 4-3.“

“Roger that.“ The Commissioner barked. “You feeling alright?”

“Hell no,” The young detective shakily managed, forcing up an ugly, distorted smile while a thick brownish smear darkened his beat-up jeans. “But I think I’ll live.”

“Well, take this as a lesson. Just because they’re girls—”

“Scantily clad girls.” Sam muttered, wincing again.

“—Doesn’t mean they’re friendlies. I’ve known good men who lost their lives thinking a pretty face isn't dangerous… I don't want you ending up like them.“

“I won't, boss.“

They had barely the time for a breather when an ear-piercing bellow erupted in the first floor.

“On the ground! On the fucking ground, now!“

“Oh God, it's here! I see it! It's in the shadows!“

The call-girls flinched in unison as gunfire boomed beneath them, rattling the floor and fraying already raw nerves.

“—Suspect armed and hysterical, all Units proceed with cautious.“ Jim's radio cackled.

“Damn…”

“Go. I’ve got this,” Reed reassured, palming his holstered sidearm and ushering the Commissioner downstairs with a tilt of his head. Then he added jokingly, “Just make sure whoever's screaming bloody murder down there doesn’t make it up here.”

“Stay safe, Reed.“

Exchanging a nod, Jim bolted for the door.

Left behind, the injured officer repositioned himself where he had a clear view of both the women and the doorway. The moment the Commissioner exited, Samuel hooked a finger at one of the girls—a baby-faced brunette, just like his contact described, dressed in a cheap angel lingerie that barely covered her modesty. “C'mere.“

The 'divine' garb strained against shapely curves sculpted to tempt Saints.

“Y-Yes, sir?”

“Closer.“

She edged forward, ignoring the whispered cautions around her.

With a subtle flick, the girl tore a piece from her skimpy outfit as if to fashion a bandage for the crook, while letting a small pocket journal slip from her bra which Sam smoothly caught, hiding it with a quick sleight of hand.

“Good girl.” He smiled to mask the exchange, then tossed her a bundle of zip ties. “You know what to do.”

“W-Wait! Why are you tying us up?!”

“Last I checked, prostitution’s still illegal.” Sam smirked, the journal slipping through his clothes and vanishing into his skin. “And I’m not too keen on getting shot twice.”

“We were forced!” One of the girls shouted.

Faking a smile in turn, Reed chuckled. “That’s what they all say. In the end, it’s still up to the court to decide if there’s evidence of coercion or wrongdoing. Until then…”

.

.

.

It took them half an hour to secure the building—just enough time for the press to catch wind of the raid and come running, led by none other than the ever-glamorous Vicki Vale, Gotham’s new face of journalism.

The girl was pretty—Gordon would give her that—but it was her single-minded pursuit of the truth that earned his respect. If only she’d stop pestering him every damn chance she got, and he might even find her likeable.

“Commissioner, can you give us anythin—”

“Vale.” Gordon didn’t stop walking. “You know I can’t comment on an active crime scene.”

“You’ve said that every time, and yet, somehow, I keep asking.” The journalist matched his stride, heels clicking against the pavement. “Was it the Batman again? Or the new sidekick everyone’s talking about?”

Gordon paused just long enough to glare over his shoulder, before ducking into his car. "Official statement will be released within the hour. For now, do me a favor and stay behind the tape."

“There's a rumor going around saying this is the Penguin's operation—is there any truth to it?”

Gordon didn’t slow his stride. “You know I’m not at liberty to name names, Vicki.”

“I'm taking that as a 'yes.'”

Thankfully, she didn’t press further, heels clicking some more as she drifted off toward one of the trembling victims, sensing she’d wrung the Commissioner dry and smelling fresher headlines elsewhere. He'd stop Vicki, but better them than him.

They could say whatever they wanted; Jim Gordon—the face of the GCPD—couldn't. Not without consequences, and his position was already shaky as it was.

Sighing again, the Commissioner’s thoughts wandered to the stack of reports and paperwork he’d inevitably have to fill over this mess and slumped on the steering wheel.

Desperate to get ahead of the press and dreading whatever story the likes of Vicki might spin, the GCPD rushed to get statements out, though by then, the young woman already got what she needed.

Fixing her hair, she smiled at the camera.

“—As you can see, I'm standing in front of the old Trenton Freight Depot on 5th and Calder, where GCPD just concluded a major raid earlier this evening.” Miles away, in the still silence of Wayne Manor, a television flickered in a once-forgotten room.

Dick Grayson flipped through the channels, stopping only when he caught the tail's end of Vicki's news report. “—I could stand here and recount to you how Gotham’s newest vigilante took this place apart, but let’s be real: I wasn’t there. So instead of guessing, let’s hear it from the people who were.“

The screen cut to a twitchy man in his twenties. His bruises were recent. “—I think I saw ’em… up in the dark, clinging to the ceiling. I swear he shushed me. Or maybe I imagined it. It was too damn dark to tell. Thank God he showed up when he did though… I don’t think I’d have survived another round in the Pit.“

“—This,” Vicki began, slowly stepping into frame and motioning to the filthy, bloodstained coliseum below, “Is where it happened. Where unlucky debtors are brought, forced into brutal fights for the entertainment of the crowd. Bets were placed. Blood was spilled. But tonight was different. Tonight, their cruelty was interrupted by—”

“—A Demon! He was a Demon, I swear it!” Bleeding from his scalp, the man eagerly jumped into view. “No man could hope to do what he did. I saw grown men scream while being dragged into the dark. Guys who made us suffer and laughed while they did it!”

The footage cut back to Vicki, who offered the camera a half-hearted smile. “—If this is how his sidekick is described, maybe there’s some truth to those rumors about Batman being a creature of the night after all?“

The segment ran for three whole minutes, cutting between frantic accounts of Gotham’s latest addition to her ever-growing freak show.

Some spoke of shifting, sentient shadows. Others swore the vigilante was the darkness—an unholy blur that stirred something ancient in them…

A fear so deep, it was encoded in their DNA.

The kind Humanity must’ve known when it still cowered in caves. And the more they spoke, the more Dick found himself utterly enthralled by the Myth taking shape.

Gotham had seen vigilantes before, even before the Batman.

But this one was different.

Judging by his build, he couldn’t have been more than a few years older than Dick himself. Which made the boy wonder: What was it that drove someone to such extremes? What… Path or event could've created someone like Batman or the Imp?

Others might’ve only wondered, but not Grayson.

Days had passed, yet the sting lingered—the fear, then the crushing despair when he learned of his parents' death.

They said the man who pulled the trigger was awaiting trial, but Dick knew better.

He was just a hired gun.

Behind him was the small-time mob boss, one who’d come to extort the circus and, failing that, harass it. The average Gothamites would have bent, but they were outsiders, unfamiliar with Gotham’s rules, and his parents paid the ultimate price for that ignorance.

Oh, the things Dick would do to Tony Zucco if he had the Imp’s powers or Batman’s gadgets and expertise…

Dick didn't want Justice—none of that handed-down, courtroom bullcrap.

He wanted Retribution, the kind no judge or jury would dare pass.

The last Grayson saw not a wink of sleep the entire night, obsessively going over footage of both vigilantes in hope of learning something; anything that might give him a leg up.

He felt a pang of disappointment as he realized most of the footage was shot on shaky handheld cameras. Still, Dick kept at it, eyes glued to the grainy screens. He didn’t stop until the first ray of morning filtered through the see-through curtains, and by then, Richard was totally beat, yet he forced himself to his feet nevertheless.

Dick couldn’t imagine Bruce Wayne would be too pleased if his ward just holed up in his room. Besides, his parents had taught him better, and honoring their lessons was—in a way—honoring them too. Hurrying to put on a fresh set, he jumped as three knocks rattled the oak door in quick succession. “C-Comin'!“

He swung the door open, half-expecting the tired-looking butler, but instead found an older boy grinning crookedly at him.

“Morning, Sunshine!”

“… Who are you?”

“Your ‘uncle.’” The boy winked.

“Excuse me?”

“Alfred adopted me. Bruce adopted you. And Bruce was adopted by Alfred, which makes me your sort of uncle. Family trees don’t get much messier than this.”

“I-I don’t think that’s how it works…”

Dick’s objection was expertly ignored as he smacked the kid on the shoulder. Hard. “You’ll figure it out. Probably.”

His… Uncle—Rowan Locke was about three years older than Dick, and a head taller.

He had aristocratic features and sharp angles that looked almost sculpted—framed by thick, snow-white hair. Long, pale lashes draped down his large violet eyes, which seemed to flicker restlessly, almost as though he expected something to go terribly wrong at a moment’s notice.

For a moment, Dick feared he’d stepped into a tiger’s den.

There was no shortage of horror stories about the elites and their habits, after all. But whenever Rowan spoke of Alfred or Bruce, there was a quiet fondness beneath the jokes. And yet, the way he'd scan every corner, or stealthily creep through the manor like he belonged and didn’t—those weren’t instincts children were born with.

They were habits honed out of necessity.

And if that kind old butler and his overly perceptive host hadn’t instilled them, then something—someone—must have.

Dick wanted to ask outright, but as curious as he was, he knew it was not his place, especially given how little they knew about each other.

It was also a courtesy, a silent 'thank you' reserved for the older boy who had flipped all his expectations.

If they had met under different circumstances, Dick was sure they would have become fast friends.

“This is the gym. Nobody really uses it, but if you ever need a good pump, use it as you please.”

A mansion the size of half a city block, a courtyard as big as a park, his own personal butler and now a private gym? What was next, a secret lair under the Estate?

“Mr. Locke—”

“Rowan.“ The boy corrected, visibly displeased.

“Rowan…” Richard repeated, tasting the unfamiliar name. “May I ask when Mr. Wayne—”

“Bruce.” The older boy interrupted again. “Don’t be a stranger, Dick. It’s alright. We’re all family here.”

The word made Dick’s eyes sting just a little.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and questioned, “May I ask when will Bruce see me?”

“We'll have breakfast with him in twelve, but I can cut the tour short if it's urgent?“

“It's alright.“ Richard bowed stiffly.

“Lighten up, kid. I'm not gonna bite.“ Ichor might, but Rowan rarely let the Shade loose anyway.

“Understood.“

Dick’s response nearly drew a sigh from Rowan, but he held it in.

The boy's standoffishness couldn’t be helped.

This wasn’t Nightwing.

Hell, he wasn’t even Robin yet.

He was just Dick Grayson at the moment; a child whose entire world had crumbled in a single night. “The people responsible for their deaths will be held accountable… Pinky-swear.”

That one sentence immediately brought Richard to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably. What good would it do? The one who pulled the strings untouchable. And the hired gun? He'd serve his time, then walk free. In another decade, would anyone remember the Flying Graysons? Would anyone care?

The more he thought about it, the harder it was to hold it in.

Dick broke down a second later, sobbing into his hands as Rowan's arm settled on his shoulder, patting his back like his father used to and offering comfort he hadn't asked for, but clearly needed.

After several long minutes, Dick's cries finally began to subside, leaving him sniffling and even more exhausted than before. Eyes red and swollen, Grayson glanced at the snot and tears smeared on the older boy’s sleeve, and quickly lowered his head in embarrassment. “I-I’m sorry.”

Smiling awkwardly at Chibi Nightwing’s meltdown, Rowan quickly nudged him toward the dining room. “C'mon. They're probably waiting for us already.“

Sure enough, they wandered into Alfred calmly spreading butter over toast, his posture as crisp as the white cloth draped over his arm.

“Ah! Master Rowan, Master Dick,” The Batler started with a small, pleased nod. “I’m glad you’ve decided to join us! Beans and toast, or butter, sirs?“

Alfred looked mildly crestfallen when he opted for butter instead.

“… Creepy.“ Rowan muttered under his breath, pulling out a chair while sneaking glances at the unusually welcoming billionaire.

Quick-learner that he was, Dick mimicked his actions and slid into the seat beside him.

Sunlight slanted across the table, glinting off the fine tableware as the group of four dug in.

There was no idle chatter, no clinking of utensils beyond what was strictly necessary. Alfred had prepared a spread fit for a royal summit, but even the fluffy eggs felt burdened. Only once the plates were nearly cleared and cups half-emptied did Dick finally speak.

“Forgive me for being frank, but what is your intention with me?”

Idly chewing on the last of his toast, Rowan grinned. “Isn’t it obvious? We’re opening a sweatshop in the basement, and children are the cheapest labor… We’re going to work you like a horse, Richard. You'll rue the day you—”

Unfortunately, he didn’t get to finish before Alfred smacked him upside the head.

“Pay him no mind, Master Richard… Master Rowan fancies himself the comedian and is rather adamant to flaunt his brand of humor at the most inopportune times.“

“C'mon! I was just trying to lighten the mood!“

“Which is the only reason you're not grounded, sir.“

While the two went back and forth, Bruce offered the other boy a warm smile. If Rowan was a reflection of his rage, then Dick Grayson was the overwhelming sorrow that made the mirror unbearable at one time.

He still remembered what it was like to lose his parents at such a young age.

“My intention is to feed you, clothe you, educate you, and care for you until you're able to care for yourself. Does that answer your question?“

“Y-Yes. But… Why?“

To his knowledge, he and Bruce Wayne had nothing in common. They weren't even related!

“Because I understand.”

Bruce didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

Everyone—even people outside of Gotham—knew the story.

The tragedy of the Waynes was practically a legend across the world. 'Till this very day, people still asked why Thomas Wayne hadn’t brought his security that night; why he’d taken his family down a place literally named Crime Alley at the dead of night.

Some called it recklessness.

Others were adamant it was a setup.

Regardless, if anyone could understand what Richard was going through, it was him.

His mouth went dry all of a sudden, taking his appetite with it.

The last Grayson nudged his half-eaten plate and stood. “I'm full. May I be excused?”

“You're not a prisoner, Richard.“

Taking that as his cue, Dick nodded to the three before beating a hasty retreat from the dining hall, probably to cry some more.

Watching the kid’s rapidly retreating back, Rowan smiled wearily, “You know, all things considered, that went about as well as it could have.“

Neither Bruce nor Alfred responded, not until they were certain the boy had stopped loitering beyond the door, in hope of eavesdropping.

“It's to be expected… He’s hurt and afraid.”

“And apparently obsessed with Batman and the Imp.”

Rowan had passed by the boy’s room the night before and overheard him muttering theories and speculations about their identities. Judging by the dark circles under his eyes at breakfast, the kid hadn’t slept a wink since.

Probably hadn’t for days.

Pressing two fingers to his temple, the Imp squinted. “Wait… Hold on! I’m getting a vision! Yep… Brand-new sidekick. Brooding, possibly circus-trained.”

“The Wayne Estate is not a factory for child soldiers, sir.” Alfred replied frigidly.

Slouched in his chair, Rowan grinned. “Ah, but we’re not training child soldiers; we’re shaping future heroes.“

“You can perfume a turd and give it a title, Master Rowan, but it remains shite all the same.”

“Oh, come on, Alfred. Just look at the kid… He even looks like Bruce—same blue eyes, black hair and everything!”

Motioning vaguely toward the hall Dick had fled, he loudly sipped on his coffee, then remarked.. “I say we give him the chance to catch his parents' killer before his mental state starts circling down the drain.”

The Caped Crusader shot him a flat, half-lidded stare, which Rowan met with an eye roll. “Oh, don’t give me that look, Bruce. You and I both know you’re the furthest thing from sanity.“

Bruce Wayne was many things—Discipline and Drive made Flesh, but mentally stable definitely wasn’t one of them. “What does that make you?“

“Just as crazy, probably. So you better get a move on before my particular brand of crazy rubs off on the kid.” Stroking his chin, Rowan thoughtfully hummed. “On second thought…”

He did need someone to bounce quips off, after all… Under his careful guidance, Dick could become the dickiest Dick to ever Dick-around—he could be truly glorious!

“Upon further reflection, Master Bruce, I believe Master Rowan’s earlier suggestion does have merit. It's best you train him yourself.”

“Oy, what’s with the gears-shift?!”

The look he got from Alfred was worth a thousand carefully chosen words… And none of them were kind.

“Oh, you absolute—”

— [HELLBRED] —

“—Prick.“

Chapter Text

“Ever mess up closing a jar of pickles and then have to muster all the strength in you to get it open again?

That’s how much effort I put into Dick.

The worst part was I wasn’t even the one who screwed up, but since Bruce turned out to be surprisingly socially awkward at home, and I was the only other 'kid' in the house, I ended up as his de facto therapist.

Now I’m not trying to drag my 'nephew' through the mud here, but damn, getting through to that kid was like talking to drywall.

I tried everything. I engineered 'sudden encounters', gave up my own time just to keep an eye on him… I even tried to bribe the kid with toys, junk foods—everything, and yet… Nothing.

He barely talked, barely reacted at all! And on the rare occasions we did talk, he’d drift away mid-conversation, like his mind had returned to the moment of his parents' deaths.

'You want ice cream?' I asked him once, and you know what he said?

'My dad used to buy me ice cream.'

'Cookies?'

'My mom made the best cookies.'

Like, what the fuck was I supposed to do with that information, you depressing little shiii—!

Anyway… Point is, the kid was locked up tighter than Fort Knox. Getting so much as an awkward smile out of him was like trying to get Bruce to dye his Batsuits pink! But, no fortress is truly impregnable. You just have to know where to press, and lucky me, I knew exactly what would get Richard to ease up…”

— [HELLBRED] —

“Oy, Dick!“

Grinning, Rowan waved at the sulking boy lingering at the end of the hall. Richard immediately flinched like he'd been caught stealing, then turned to face him with a scowl halfway formed.

'Geez… What a ray of sunshine.'

“Rowan.” Grayson greeted, swapping out his irritation for niceties in an instant. “You headin' somewhere?“

“Well, school’s off, so I figured I might as well do something productive with all this free time.”

Annoyingly enough, the little brat actually looked surprised he wasn’t there to mess with him. “Like what?”

“Workout. The Estate's got a private gym, a perfectly good sauna just sitting there collecting dust, and I, well, I need to blow off some steam.“ Rowan explained, a smug-ass smile stretching his lips wide like he expected Dick to have figured it out already. “Why? You wanna hop on the pain train?“

“The pain train?“ The boy snorted.

“Yep. High intensity workout.“

“Your regimen?”

Rowan puffed with pride. “Listen and listen well, youngling: 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, 100 squats, and a 10km run. Every! Single! Day!“

“But… I haven’t seen you work out once since I got here?“

The jab wouldn’t have hit nearly as hard if it wasn’t so damn true.

Rowan liked to think he was keeping up just fine, but with Bruce occupied, the crime rate had nearly doubled, and downtime was getting harder and harder to come by… Most days, he was running on fumes.

Even worse, it was starting to tank his field performance.

He was missing jumps more often, botching chases he should’ve wrapped up blindfolded, but most embarrassing of all: Making a habit of getting caught lacking by common thugs…

Tossing such thoughts in the bin, Rowan shrugged.

“Everybody's gotta start somewhere.“

“I suppose…?” Dick replied, a little thrown off.

That was it?

That was Rowan’s idea of a training routine?

He’d done tougher workouts before breakfast back at the circus. “You spot me, I spot you?”

“Say less, holmes. Let your uncle show you what these biceps are for.”

On the way to the gym, they made a quick stop by the kitchen to raid the fridge, and happily continued on their way.

The Estate’s gym wasn’t too ostentatious, but it had clearly been repurposed with care.

The equipment was solid, the layout made sense, and there was this odd charm to the place, like an old-school lounge with warm yellow lights and soft jazz humming through the speakers. Place was spotless too, courtesy of the Batler whom Rowan was fairly sure was lurking nearby.

For someone pushing mid-sixties, Alfred could be freakishly stealthy when he wanted to be.

“Ah, the smell of new equipment and fresh plates—my favorite.“ Rowan commented, grinning like he had just walked into a candy store.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Go for it.”

“Why are we here if your training routine doesn’t involve any of the gym equipment?”

Staring at the machines with crossed arms and a satisfied smile, the part-time vigilante eagerly explaibed.

“It was a figure of speech… We’re doing 100 reps on every single one of these bad boys.”

Dick gave the lineup a once-over, regret already creeping into his face and his voice. “A hundred each?!”

“A hundred each,” Rowan confirmed with a nod. “Then we move on to push-ups and sit-ups.”

“Isn’t that, I don’t know, a little insane?”

“What’s wrong? Chickening out already, circus boy?”

The nickname made Grayson’s eye twitch as he narrowed his eyes and pouted. “Of course not! I’ve worked out before.”

And he had, no question. He’d never stepped into a proper gym, but his training more than qualified as 'high-intensity'—his parents made damn sure of that…

Still, everything crammed into a single session? That couldn't possibly be healthy… Yet, his pride wouldn't allow him to back down, not after his earlier reaction, so Dick got to work.

The first he hit was the leg-press.

“Ooh… I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Dick glanced back, already locking in the weight. “Who's the chicken now?”

Rowan’s smile thinned. “Suit yourself.”

With that, he turned and made a beeline for the unassuming lateral raise machine tucked away in the corner, far from the flashy rows of benches and racks… If the kid wanted to learn the hard way—let him.

Sure enough, by the time Rowan reached seventy, Dick was already pushing through eighty-nine. Proud of his victory, Grayson powered through the final ten reps, pumped his fist and roared. “One hundred!!!”

Wiping the sweat from his brow, the pre-teen hopped off the machine, only for his smug grin to freeze stiff as his legs buckled beneath him. Meanwhile, Rowan was still in the middle of his last ten reps, carefully controlling his breathing and conserving energy.

“Ninety-eight… Nine-nine… A hundred.“

Pushing all the air from his belly like a deflating tire, he slid off the machine that was just a bit too tall for him and smirked. “Come on, you’re not about to tap out now, are you?”

That one sentence appeared to light a fire under Dick’s behind as he shot to his feet—wobbly, but still quite eager to prove himself. “I'm not done yet.“

“Atta-boy.“

“Y-You…” Short of breath, Dick huffed. “You wanna switch machines?”

“Nah, I’m good. Think I’ll hit shoulders and arms first.”

If Bruce had drilled one thing into him during training, it was to never—ever—start with leg-press. Blow out your legs early, and the rest of the workout was going to be a real uphill battle—a fight even the Big, Bad Bat only dared take on rare occasions. “Word of advice, Richard, hit the upper-body first. Leave the legs for last.“

“But I always start with a run... Dad always said it's a good way to warm up.“

“A run warms you up. Leg press wipes you out. Huge difference.”

About to protest, Dick grimaced as his kneecaps screamed like a helpless, NTR'd husband and dropped to one knee.

“Wow! Easy there…” Rowan muttered, thumbing through his playlist like he hadn’t just watched the pre-teen blow out both quads in under ten minutes. “Told you not to lead with legs.”

“I’m fine!“ Dick snapped, despite being very much not fine.

He tried to stand, then immediately regretted trying to stand.

“Sure you are, Sunshine.”

Between the workouts, water breaks, and the occasionally muttered swears, the hours blended together in a montage neither really cared to remember.

Dick was stubborn enough to keep up through the first half, but eventually, even the smallest motion began to drag.

Noticing the sloppiness, Rowan firmly chided as his fists connected with the sandbag. "Keep that core tight. Yer' flopping 'round like a dying fish."

Dick, in response, shot him a scathing glare—exhaustion and depression slowly morphing into directionless rage. “Your commentary is not helpful.”

“It would be, if you'd care to listen. I'm not your enemy, Dick—“

Eighty-two. Eighty-three. Eighty-four.

“I'm just… Tryna' help you out.“

“I don't need your help!“

What could he offer Richard anyway—thought the adrenaline-pumped circus brat.

“I'd beg to differ.”

Eighty-five. Eighty-six. Eighty-seven.

“You have to elaborate when you're begging to differ, Rowan…”

“Well, for starter—”

Eighty-eight. Eighty-nine. Ninet—!

His mental count came to a halt as the chain finally snapped and the sandbag skidded across the floor before coming to a sad, lumpy stop ten steps away.

“I can teach you how to throw a mean-ass punch. And two… Something tells me you’re gonna need to know how to throw a mean-ass punch.“ Tossing a smirk over his shoulder, Rowan slipped on his white shirt and strolled out without another word. “See you around, kid.“

‘Tsk… Who does he think he is?’ Dick inwardly scoffed, yet he couldn’t quite peel his eyes away from the sandbag sprawled across the floor like a murder victim. A peek wouldn’t kill him, would it? Giving in to curiosity, he crept closer, crouching beside its spilled stuffing, and grimaced. “Jesus.”

Dick couldn’t even begin to imagine what a punch like that would do to a person, nor was he inclined to find out.

“Is he even human?“

“Ouch, Dick. That wasn't very nice…”

Startled by the sudden intrusion, the boy jumped, spinning to find Rowan with a black plastic bag in one hand and a vacuum cleaner in the other.

“I thought you were done?“

“I am, now I'm cleaning up my mess.“ The white-haired boy answered, gesturing at the gutted sandbag. “Alfred's got enough shit on his plates. I wouldn't want to bother him.“

Understanding the sentiment, Richard moved to help, only to hear his knees creak like old, rusty hinges.

“Why’d you say ‘See you around’ then?”

The other boy smiled smugly. “To Aura-farm, duh.”

Richard blinked. “That’s not a thing.”

“Oh, but it totally is—Aura. Is. Everything.” Catching the boy’s hand, Rowan stared blankly until discomfort set in and Dick was compelled to look away. “Fear’s a blade, Grayson, but it is only as sharp as the reputation of the person wielding it.“

As asinine as it sounded, Aura-farming was crucial for street-level vigilantes.

A solid street cred meant shakier trigger fingers, weaker knees, tanking morale and more opportunities in a fight… It could mean the difference between life and death, and it was a lesson Rowan felt comic fans’ favorite acrobat had to learn before his innate charm got him shot.

“You know… It’s kinda hard to take you seriously when you’re vacuuming.“

“Lesson two: Even the sharpest blade dulls if drawn too many times, so use it in moderation.“

“Anything else?“ Demanded the real Boy-Wonder.

“No. Now get back to work. Those two-dollar shirts ain't gonna sew themselves.“

— [HELLBRED] —

“See, in Asia, there's this concept called ‘the neighbor's kid.’ Let's call him Little Timmy.

Now, Little Timmy is a genius at everything.

He plays soccer and basketball, sings better than actual singers, his grades are always at the top of the fucking school, and he’s on track to getting fifty college scholarships… As a first grader. The way Ma and Pa described the brat, you'd think he was Jesus, Einstein, Beethoven and Van Gogh all rolled up in the same body.

Sounds like the perfect kid, doesn’t he?

He sounds fucking unreal… Because he is.

The neighbor’s kid is just an Ideal! Or so I thought.

And then I started teaching Dick Grayson.

Never in my fucking lives have I seen a more gifted kid…

You never have to tell him something twice.

He knows exactly when to play ball and when to back off, and he was fucking good at everything physical, no matter how strenuous the activity should’ve been for a kid his age. Dick Grayson's basically the Scrub Daddy of Superheroes, and it was giving me a brain aneurysm.

What took me months to learn, he picked up in fucking weeks; sometimes days—DAYS!

How is that fair? And what the hell do you mean you're already halfway through Advanced Physics and Calculus, motherfucker?!

You calling me stupid, is that it?!!

All jokes aside…

Despite my attitude, I think I was doing a pretty decent job training him.

Though, if we're being real, it’s more like he was doing a way better job absorbing my lessons.

Tomato-tomahto, amirite?

Anyway…

Ego sufficiently bruised, I figured the Universe would finally give me a break.

And, to be fair, it kinda did, because a day later, I got a call from Doctor Kirkland.

He said he’d made a major breakthrough with the Serum…

Said he needed my permission to move forward with animal testing…

I know I sound monotone to you—bored even, but words could not describe how glad I was hearing the news.

It meant progress.

Real, tangible progress.

And after weeks of babysitting Gotham’s golden boy prodigy while quietly drowning in my own inadequacy, I'll admit I needed the win, so the moment those stupid bells rang, I texted Alfred and made a beeline for Kirkland’s personal paradise: An abandoned warehouse not even Gotham's bottom-feeders would hang around.“

— [HELLBRED] —

Kirkland moved between screens and notes, quickly cross-checking protein chains and structural data for the third time that morning. Not because he didn’t trust the results—he just couldn’t believe he’d actually pulled it off.

The formula was far from perfect, but after all the money burned and time flushed down the drain, 'functional' was good enough for Robert. The smaller issues could be dealt with later… A few months of refinement, give or take.

“I did it… I actually did it.“

In the transport case the Serum sat.

Triple-sealed, temp-controlled—it was the kind of containment usually reserved for high-grade infectious agents even the government didn't have an official name for.

Overkill?

Maybe, but Kirkland wasn’t taking chances.

Carefully, he undid the latches one at a time and cracked the lid open just enough to inspect the vial inside, which was still upright in its cradle.

Satisfied, Kirkland resealed the case and scribbled a quick update in the corner of his logbook, only to stop halfway when something rattled his front door.

“Doctor Kirkland? It's me.“

The doctor hurried to fix his tie and slick back his oily hair with a lick, then popped a piece of breath-freshening mint.

Knowing his sponsor, Jacques probably wouldn’t care, but even someone as socially inept as Kirkland knew how poorly it’d reflect on his character if he showed up looking like a hot mess.

“Mr. Re… Nard?“ Greeted Kirkland as he flung the door open and eyed the teenager in a hoodie and sunglasses. Hesitating for but a moment, he joked. “I dig the new look.”

“Spare me the pleasantries, Doc. Where's the thing?“

“Right—”

On cue, he raised his hand, holding up the black box that housed his Magnum Opus.

“—Here.“

“And the test animal you've decided on?“

Scratching his head awkwardly, Kirkland coughed to as if to hide an embarrassed, “R-Rats.“

“… You're joking.“

“It was the only thing I could get my hands on… If you'd just agreed to chimps—”

Kirkland protested, not realizing he'd just lit a fuse.

“No! Absolutely not! No chimps!”

“They're the most biologically similar to us—”

“Which is exactly why we can’t use them,” Jacques replied, calm but firm. “We don’t even know what the side effects are. Even setting aside how sketchy it is to inject an unstable SSS into a carnivorous animal that’s three times stronger than a grown man—what happens if the serum mutates with a preexisting disease? What if it jumps species?“

Kirkland shifted uncomfortably but didn’t dare argue.

“We can't half-ass this, Doc. The risks are far too great.“

“Mr. Renard, you're worrying too much, the probability of dangerous mutation occurring is—”

“Unknown at the moment.“ Jacques interrupted. “We'll test it on the rats. Monitor their biological and behavorial changes for, say, six months, then work up the ladder. Slowly.“

“You were all-in 2 months ago… What changed?”

“Circumstances and hindsight.” The Serum would be a solid addition to his growing arsenal, no doubt, but it wasn’t worth a '28 Days Later' or 'Planet of the Apes' scenario. Not when a little caution could keep things from going straight to hell… “Haste makes waste, Doc. Besides, if today’s results look promising, I may reconsider. Now—”

Stepping into the lift, Jacques slid back the panel and pressed the hidden button for the basement, then held the door with his hand. “You comin', or…”

“Careful, the elevator sensors—!”

Kirkland had just begun when the rusty door creaked and slammed shut with an ear-piercing clank, nearly crushing Jacques' arm in the process.

“—Are broken!”

The machine shook against the rust-covered frame as it slowly descended into the underground bunker which, if the rumors were true, had belonged to a serial killer back in the ’90s. The interior certainly looked the part, because no amount of environmental wear and tear would explain rust like that. Not in that pattern at least.

And when Rowan clicked his tongue, he could almost taste the metallic tang in the air.

It was no wonder criminals refused to loiter—he wouldn’t either.

He pressed the ground floor button, rose and shot Kirkland a look. “Seriously?“

“The ingredients for the Serum are under strict government control. I usually get them off the black market, and it’s not cheap.“

The lift creaked back to life, overhead lights flickering wildly before dying completely.

“Things weren’t this bad a few months ago. But ever since the Imp started targeting the Penguin, his whole operation has tightened up, considerably, and since he supplies nearly sixty percent of the ware…”

Rowan / Jacques Renard / The Imp in question grimaced, then concluded. “Prices shot up.”

“Tripled, more like.” The geneticist replied wryly. He flicked on the dim lights next and gestured toward the bunker he had converted into his very dark, damp, and very, very illegal lab that he seemed entirely too proud of. “Well, here it is… Welcome to my humble abode, Mr. Renard! There's a fridge over there if you are feeling thirsty. Please make yourself at home while I set things up.“

“Don't mind if I do.“

Rowan gave a noncommittal grunt and turned away from the main workstation.

He found a bunch of idle, desktop toys he entertained himself with, grabbed a squishy stress ball and ambled his way over to the tiny, retro-looking refrigerator. “Red Bull?“

“Helps me get through the day,” Kirkland explained, plugging something into the reinforced, bulletproof glass cage—one that was entirely too large for their unfortunate subjects. Or so Rowan assumed, until the geneticist pulled back the cloth to reveal rats so large they looked like they could run fade with bobcats.

“What the fuck?!”

Where were these fatass-fucking rats when he was starving on the street?

“Need a hand?“

“No! No! I got this!” If he didn’t know any better, Rowan might’ve thought Kirkland didn’t trust him, but after months of working with the guy, he knew better… The trusty ol' Doc was simply excited.

If he had to put it into words, it was like watching someone build their own PC or custom bike. Say what you wanted about the man, but when it came to science—even fields that barely concerned him—Kirkland didn't fuck around. Slipping into a hazmat suit, the scientist hooked a finger at his sponsor, before pointing at a much, much smaller replica. “All set! You should suit up too. Wouldn’t want to risk contamination, would we?”

“Where the hell did you get this?”

What kind of lunatic would even make hazmat suit for middle-schoolers?

“What do you mean? These are dirt-cheap. You can grab them at the local Walmart, though I would recommend an actual store. Might cost more, sure, but you can’t really put a price on not dying, right?”

That was when Rowan’s brain, helpful bugger that it was, queued up a mental highlight of last year’s chemical and bio attacks. To be fair, most hadn’t targeted kids specifically, but they hit public spaces the most. Public spaces where weary parents dragged their kids.

He sighed. “What a lovely fact to know.”

“Metropolitan tourists tend to look disturned when they see these in stock, but personally? I consider it a practical measure…” Spoke Doctor Kirk as he released two rats in each cells.

“How terribly bleak…”

“No more than the fear of nuclear war during the Cold War. It’s a dangerous world we live in, Mr. Renard.”

“World? Try Universe.” Rowan replied. “So… The goods?“

With a flick of his wrist, Kirkland undid the seals, like he’d rehearsed the motion a thousand times over. “Here they are. Beauties, aren't they?“

Rowan crossed his arms and hummed.

“You sound disappointed.”

“I expected them to, I don’t know, glow or something.”

Kirkland tilted his head as the Serum dispersed into gas. “There’s no reason it would glow. Bioluminescence isn’t part of the formula.”

Watching the rats claw, slam, and nibble uselessly in their cells while the machine pumped the chamber red, Rowan wondered. “Why gas…? Why not just inject it directly?”

It just looked like needless cruelty to him.

“Pulmonary absorption yields faster systemic distribution ” Kirkland explained, sleep-deprived eyes still glued to the panicking animals. “Furthermore, injection introduces stress variables that might flatline our little friends.“

There were ten 'subjects' selected for the trial. Two exploded the moment the gas made contact in sudden, wet bursts that painted the inside of their enclosures in red mist.

They hadn't had time to properly register what was happening when three more dropped, seizing violently as their lungs filled with blood. “Well, that doesn’t look good.”

In seconds, three more rats mutated into glistening, pulsing heaps of tissue with no clear anatomy left, just mashed-together meat with rolling, blinking, aware eyes still and tufts of grey fur stuck out at odd angles, fused with raw muscle and bone fragments.

One let out a sound that wasn’t a squeak, but something wet, gurgling, and pitiable—a noise that didn’t belong in any living thing. “Oh, that really doesn’t look good.” Thank God Kirkland hadn’t been reckless enough to use himself as the test subject.

'Eight gone; two more to go.'

Like the others, the last two rats thrashed briefly before lunging at their enclosures like rabid animals, slamming themselves again and again until all that remained of them was a red, dripping smear against the bulletproof glass… The cracked bulletproof glass. “You know, gore aside, two did show signs of increased physical capability.“

Rowan's attempt at comfort failed spectacularly as the Doctor wasn’t slammed his fists down on the table hard enough to knock everything off.

“Damn. Damn! Dammit!”

“Jesus, dude, relax…”

The words seemed to snap some sense back into the enraged doctor as his shoulders sagged. “I-I don’t get it… The math should’ve been perfect. Everything should've been—!“ The man sobbed into his palms. For Rowan, it was just money on the line. But for Kirkland, it was his career, his livelihood.

Rowan would survive without the Serum, Kirkland wouldn't.

He couldn't even imagine what it'd be like to live in total darkness, but the geneticist could certainly imagine how maddening it must be.

“Robert, have you thought about LASIK eye surgery? I know there are risks of complications, but—”

“You think I haven’t thought of that?! My cornea’s deteriorated too much. I’m no longer eligible. A year—they said I'vve got a year left before I won't be able to see farther than three feet in front of me. I’m fucked, Mr. Renard. I’m fucked!”

Rowan hovered for a beat, then stepped forward, hand halfway raised, only to be stopped short by Kirkland’s voice. “Don’t. Just leave. I need time alone... I need to figure out what I'm doing wrong.”

“Robert—”

“I said GO!”

“Robert… If you want to focus on your personal project first, I understand.“

With that said, Jacques took the lift up and the facility.

He didn’t understand… To finish his Hybridization Serum, which was even more complex, Kirkland had ripped off key agents from his sponsor’s active Serum. If Jacques’ formula bombed, Kirkland's wouldn't fare much better.

“Fuck.”

The scientist cursed under his breath, then did what everyone in his position eventually had to, and got back up.

Chapter Text

“After that incident, I refrained from reaching out to Kirkland for our annual check-up. I mean, just look at the guy… He had enough pressures in his life without me adding to the pile.

Kirkland, however, hadn't forgotten his responsibility, as manic as he was. He never missed an update either, which allowed me glimpses into his brilliant, yet deteriorating mind.

I... I suspect he longed for companionship.

Sure, he had a wonderfully supportive wife who not only stood by him, but actively participated in aiding his cause. But there were things no man wished to confess to their spouse, and given Kirkland's… Peculiar nature, he probably didn't have many male confidants either—no one close enough to whom he could fully entrust the depth of his despair.

I was watching the man descend into insanity and helpless to do anything to stop it, so I did the only thing I could think of: I consulted THE BATMAAA-N! Sorry. Sorry… That's not gonna be a reccurring thing, promise.

Anyway, Batman, Man-Bat—the irony wasn't beyond me.

With Bruce in the picture, things should have gotten a lot simpler.

After all, my Bat-themed host had access to technology lightyears beyond the cheap, commercialized scraps Kirkland usually had to make do with… The man could snap his fingers and thousands would have scrambled to bring the billionaire whatever he desired.

What the Caped Crusader and I both failed to account for was: Professional. Pride.

Kirkland may accept financial assistance, or allow a few helping hands around the lab, but the mere idea of someone hijacking his entire project and berating him for his mistakes was intolerable to him.

In fact, he was actively sabotaging the sessions by refusing to share and compare data, subsequently driving every partner we found for him to rage-quit… We burned through five lead scientists in three weeks—all recruited anonymously via middlemen, of course—and it was rapidly emptying what little sympathy I had for Kirkland.

But, I persisted.

Never let it be said I was a heartless monster who abandoned a man in hot water… Still, Kirkland was just being so fucking difficult that I had to put my foot down by threatening to withdraw all funding. Though that finally got the dear Doctor Kirkland to be more of a team player, he was not happy and he made it crystal clear with his attitude.

Well, shucks to be him, but he needed the results more than I anyway!

And hell, I'm pretty sure I saved his and his lady's lives by insisting on it, given what would come four months later.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Needless to say, things were got between us.

But you know what they say about the Universe—it always finds a balance. In my case, that balance came in the form of the wonderful results I was getting from little Richard. Not just from workouts, either. The kid was at last opening up, and Alfred and I were all for it!

If only my vigilantism career was working out nearly as well…

Despite giving it my all, 'my all' was apparently only enough to slow the rising crime rate.

Yet, the moment Bruce returned, that fucking chart took a freefall so steep, it would've made Wall Street cry blood had it been a stock ticker. I suspect their fearlessness was height-related, because according to statistics, I was two times more likely to give criminals mental-breakdown compared to Bruce at the time.

… Oops?

'I never expected you to stop all crimes, only slow them, and in that aspect, you exceeded expectations. Good job.' That was it.

That was everything the Dark Knight had to say about my two weeks going-solo. I wasn't expecting much to begin with, and Bruce's take was true to a fault, but dammit, it still fucking stung…

At least I got to breathe a little easier.

Thank God for that, because between the pain radiating from my left arm, the nightly solo runs, schoolwork, not to mention training the real Robin, I’m not gonna lie: I was being run pretty ragged."

— [HELLBRED] —

Drenched from head to toe, the Imp darted through a small gap in a billboard as the midnight downpour battered Gotham and the sky thundered the bellows of the Great Beast that was the city herself.

Seemingly oblivious to this, Rowan hoisted himself up onto the ledge, stopping only to wait for his socially-inept mentor. Sure enough, the Caped Crusader nimbly threw himself onto the vantage point beside him a moment later, touching the side of his cowl to zoom in on the rooftop three blocks down.

Seeing this, Rowan followed suit, silently watching while the Commissioner worriedly paced back-n'-forth in the distance. "He seems anxious."

"For good reason." The Dark Knight replied, cape billowing behind him. "Someone found Killer Croc's lair recently.“

"And they lived?" Given the recent string of gruesome murders attributed to Croc in the last few months, Rowan found that extremely hard to believe. “Was Croc away or something?“

“He wasn't. It was him who sent the girl to get in contact with the GCPD—”

“—Who, in turn, is trying to contact you.“

He really couldn't fault them.

Waylon Jones had been especially vicious in this Timeline.

If he were in their shoes, he'd have handed the case over to Bruce too.

The wind howled again, flinging rain across the ledge, yet Batman was perfectly motionless still.

From the street below, the Caped Crusader probably looked no different than the stone gargoyle crouched beneath him. “He wants a meeting.“

"I'm not surprised. Croc is way beyond Gordon's paygrade."

"Not Gordon." Responded the Dark Knight. Flatly. "Croc."

Rowan’s breath hitched.

“Killer Croc wants to meet us? Are you serious? The seven-foot, scaly, humanoid crocodile that eats people? That Killer Croc?”

He spun around, the question dying on his lips as he found empty space beside him instead of the usually broody vigilante.

There wasn't even the whisper of a displaced raindrop to suggest a man had been standing there a second before.

Lips twitching in annoyance, Rowan spoke into his comms. “Dude, stop pulling the disappearing act on me!”

“—Then you should be more observant.”

'Observant, my ass!' Rowan thought as the Batman dropped down onto the skyscraper where the GCPD had installed the first and only Bat-Signal… It had only been three seconds… Five, tops.

Firing his grappling-hook at the opposing billboard, Rowan swung across, landing stealthily atop the rooftop enclosure, providing him with not only a solid cover to eavesdrop from, but a panoramic view of potential threats as well. The incredible Gotham skyline was just an add-on.

Flicking on Detective Mode, Rowan wordlessly scanned the building below until an anomaly caught his eye—a figure who appeared to have no discernible skeletal structure. Male. Around his mid to late twenties. 'Either that person has no bones, or I'm tripping.'

Before he could analyze it further, a gruff roar came from the flat rooftop below. "Batman! Where have you been?! Word on the street is you're dead!“

"Jim.“ Bruce answered… Mysteriously.

"That's it? That's all I get? Well, if you were trying to prove how much this city needs you, you succeeded. Crime's up by 12%..."

'Only 12%?' Rowan thought. 'That's not too bad.'

It was acceptable.

Hell, considering how criminals—new and old alike—had been crawling out the sewers like rats, he had honestly expected the number to be closer to 30%. More, even.

“I had a stand-in.“ Bruce justified.

That in itself was odd, because Bruce never, ever justified.

The man was that gruff, stern-faced drill sergeant who abided by a very straightforward philosophy: One was either on his side or against him.

Neither necessitated an explanation.

An ally should extend trust without hesitation, while an adversary merited no such courtesy.

'Can't argue with that.' Rowan snorted.

"Don't even get me started on him," The Commissioner fumed. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep human rights activists off our backs with him around? The kid has broken more bones in two weeks than you do in a month!"

"Oh, that is bullshit!"

Rowan couldn't help but protest. "Have you seen what the fuck Batman does to criminals? Have you seen his 50-hits combo?! His gloves are plated with fucking steel, for God's sake! How could I have possibly broken more bones than him?!"

'Minds, though'—whispered the traitorous stray thought.

"You..." Gordon narrowed his eyes, spitting through clenched teeth. "Half the hostages and victims you've rescued require psychological evaluations! And most of the criminals are either developing PTSD or already have it and are on a fast track to Arkham... You've caused US nothing but problems!"

The crux of the problem, of course, was the public outcry and the mountain of paperwork that came with tarnished reputations.

He then pivoted to face Batman, almost as if demanding the man explain why he'd allowed an irresponsible child to accompany him in his endeavor.

“First off, Commissioner, the GCPD racked up over 300 complaints for misconduct, brutality, and profiling just last year. I'm confident that’s where most of the outrage is coming from, so clean your house before trying to clean mine.

Second… And? So what if a few rapists and murderers are waking up screaming now? Pardon my crassness, but cry me a fucking river, Jim!“

“And what about the—”

Seeing the conversation spiraling without resolution, Batman finally intervened. “This isn’t productive—stand down, both of you."

Neither seemed ready to concede, yet both eventually did.

Jim primarily because he recognized how childish he appeared arguing with a teenager, and Rowan because he didn't want Bruce to seize the opportunity for yet another training session. He already had plenty on his plate without getting black, blue and purple.

"You mentioned someone wanted to talk to me.“ Batman said, prompting Gordon to nod and open the door to the enclosure.

A young girl stepped out a moment later.

She looked… Completely unremarkable in every way, like someone had penciled her in just to move things along.

For a moment, Rowan wondered if she was some villain playing dress-up, trying a little too hard to pass as ordinary, but the x-ray hadn’t flagged anything unusual.

His visor showed no irregular shifts in temperature either, although there were plenty signs of stress even his naked eyes could pick up. She was, by every measurable standard, just a regular girl.

'Give her a few more years in Gotham and we’ll see.'

"Batman, this is Ms. Truesdale." Jim introduced, rubbing his mustache as he stepped aside.

“H-Hi, Mr. Batman!” She chirped nervously, giving an enthusiastic wave before turning to Rowan with a bright grin. “Hello, Imp.”

"Hello?" Rowan greeted, before assuming the Spider-Man's signature inverted pose with the latest addition to his Impsuit.

To his astonishment, the girl unexpectedly reached out and ruffled his hair, whispering, "Search your name on Wattpad."

“What do you mean by that?”

“Ms. Truesdale…” Bruce interrupted.

“Sorry, sir. Mr. Waylon—”

“What did you mean by that?!” Rowan cried, borderline shrieking. “What degeneracy have you written?!”

— [HELLBRED] —

“Here's a piece of advice: If you ever become a 'costumed freak,' don't look yourself up—especially not on webnovel sites or Rule34.

Trust me, you do not want to see what's being posted.

I'm only warning you because no one warned me!

I… I went in blind and was forever scarred by the written heresy. Even I, cruel as I am, wouldn’t wish that kind of mental anguish on my worst enemies. I will spare you the nitty-gritty details. But let’s just say there were a lot of 'Dead Dove' tags. Like… Hundreds.

Seriously, who is out there creating all these tags?! Is there a guild? A council of degenerates that votes on this stuff? And if so, can I join? All jokes aside, it was super disturbing, but also weirdly… Flattering? I’m honored these writers thought I was packing thirty inches below the belt, but that’s not a dick. That’s a deformity.

If your lower head ever grows to that size overnight, please consult with the nearest doctor for immediate medical intervention. And hey, if it's caused by an STD, then congrats, Patient #0! You're soon to be immortalized. Anyway, where were we? Right, Killer Croc and his little messenger. Ms. Truesdale sang like a canary.

She told us how she ended up in the sewer and how she found Croc.

But the Waylon she described didn’t match the Killer Croc Batman and I knew.

Truesdale spoke of a massive creature whose growls and rumbles would shake the sewer junctions.

She spoke of something in terrible pain, and was far more monster than man.

She said he was bleeding when she woke from her stupor.

She claimed the muscle tissues underneath had torn through his own scales.

“I fear by the time you two find him, it wouldn't be him you'll find.“ Truesdale told us.

It didn’t take us long to deduce that something had triggered his mutation to spiral completely out of control.

His jaw had morphed into a full crocodilian snout, and even the oversized commercial clothes Waylon typically donned could conceal his modesty no longer as a result of the Meta's abnormal growth spurt. Not that he required it, given how far removed he was from anything human.

Now, you’d think I’d be bothered by the news, but honestly? It was about damn time. I was done with the average thugs and gangsters. I wanted another battle—a proper fight that'd allow me to estimate my effectiveness on the field. And luckily, Croc was more than happy to give us one.“

— [HELLBRED] —

The descent into Gotham’s underbelly was like a plunge into a different century.

The air itself was thick and heavy with the miasma of decay, tasted of wet concrete and rot.

This was not some modern, sterile sanitation system. It was a byzantine relic, an ossified monument to the once great city's ambition eighty years ago.

The original architects had carved a labyrinth from brick and iron, a subterranean network so complex and poorly documented that entire sections had been lost to memory, becoming uncharted territories beneath the citizens' very feet. So uncharted, in fact, that even the Dark Knight himself was beginning to look confused. 'He isn't All-Knowing, after all.'

The two pressed on through the vaulted tunnels, each step sending the rodents scurrying and shrieking as they vanished into the dark.

Soon, they passed a junction where deep, vertical gouges scarred the brickwork, far too high and wide to be made by any normal man.

“Oh, hell naw…” He wasn't about to get cornered in a sewer tunnel with whatever made those. Without a word, he pulled out his explosive gel dispenser and began spraying a bat-shaped pattern along the scarred bricks. Unlike Bruce’s iconic symbol, his featured a tail and horns instead of the classic pointy ears.

If Croc got aggressive and decided to give chase, Rowan planned to turn this whole section of the tunnel into his tomb. Salvation be damned. But then, his dispenser suddenly sputtered, coughing out one last glob of gel and dying. He hadn't a chance to curse when he found a full canister in hand.

“Quick thinking,” The Dark Knight rumbled, the compliment landing even harder than his punches. “But remember to restock your gear next time.”

The marks were ragged, as if whatever made them was not cutting, but tearing through in a blind panic.

The trail of breadcrumbs led them toward a corroded iron archway, set into a wall of older, darker brick.

“G.C. Dept. of Water. Pumping Station Foreman's Office. 1946.“

This was it.

This was where they were supposed to meet Killer Croc. Why it couldn’t have been a landfill like an '80s cop-thriller, Rowan had no idea, but he had a feeling he was about to find out.

“Be on guard. If things get too dangerous—”

“I know," Rowan dismissed, ducking under his mentor's arm to get a clearer view.

He quietly activated his helmet's x-ray function and swept the area. "I don't see anyone… You?"

Batman’s cowl tilted slightly, his own senses scanning far beyond what Rowan’s x-ray could render. "I see biological residue. Collect it.“

“Leaving the gross work to the junior… Typical.”

Complain he might, but Rowan collected the slime anyway, dividing the slime in two bottles: One to be taken to the Batcave; the other to be shipped Kirkland.

It was only when the task was done that he looked up and saw that Batman was frozen mid-step.

Frowning, Rowan moved to his mentor's side, falling silent as well.

There was a lot to take in, and none of it pleasant.

The stench of rot hung heavy in the air—sweet, sour, and potent enough to catch in the throat.

The desk had been mangled, its metal legs curled like paper while moldy and waterlogged papers clung to the floor in mushy clumps.

Yet, despite the mess, it was the chrysalis they noticed first.

A warped pod of green, leathery membrane fused to the brickwork, dripping yellow pus that nearly made Rowan barf. Worse, the same green ooze he'd just bottled was oozing from the jagged edges of the violent, vertical tear running down its center, steadily feeding the puddle below.

“We're too late.“

“No… The shedding’s still warm.“ His mentor spoke as he knelt, armored fingers hovering just above the slime while a thin wisp of steam curled up from the surface. ”This happened recently.“

“Which means we’re stuck in a filthy tomb, nearly a hundred feet underground, with God knows whatever the hell Croc’s turned into.” Fantastic. Just the kind of news to brighten a vigilante's night. Rowan braced himself, half-expecting the reptilian Meta to lunge out of the dark, but no such cliché played out, and thank God for that.

“Phew.“ He wasn’t sure he wanted the smoke anymore.

“H-Humans… I-I smell humAnS—!“ Pig-like snorts suddenly echoed from the far end of the tunnel.

'I spoke too soon.' Mentor and protégé exchanged a wary glance, then scanned the enclosed space for a place to take refuge, only to realize the cannibalistic Meta lurking just beyond the entryway had blocked their exit. To make matters worse, there was nowhere to hide…

No vent they could slip into like the urban warzone they were accustomed to.

'Damn.'

He must have been hiding beneath the sewer water, which even Bruce's sophisticate, built-in x-ray could not fully penetrate.

“C-Come on Out! I'm nOt GOnna HUrt yOU. I-I jUsT wAnT HEeeelp—!”

The closer the voice got, the paler Rowan turned beneath his helmet. He glanced at Bruce expectantly, but to his surprise, the Dark Knight mimicked the look instead. “You got a plan?”

“I do.”

“Then... Aren’t you gonna do something?”

“I can, but I want you to do it.”

Slightly perplexed, Rowan hummed, then suddenly recalled the trail of explosive gel he had left on his way here just as the sound of heavy footsteps reached his ears. Crouching in the corner, he grinned. "If this works, can I take the Batmobile for a spin?"

"Absolutely not." Bruce replied. "But I'll allow you to use explosive Batarangs."

It wasn’t nearly as cool as pulling a wheelie in the Batmobile, but he’d take it.

“Deal.“ Pulling the detonator from his belt, Rowan gave the small device a confident twirl and armed the explosive gel he had sprayed near the tunnel’s junction—the furthest one from their position.

The plan was simple.

Lure the monster into a choke point and bring the ceiling down on him. With a bit of luck, Killer Croc would be out cold. And if he wasn’t, he’d at least be hurt enough to make the rest of the mission a lot less suicidal.

Rowan thumbed the trigger, and smiled as muffled whump of the explosion echoed down the subterranean passage. The pig-like snorts and agonized groans from the main passage both ceased, but neither Rowan nor Bruce was dumb enough to take the bait.

Activating the x-ray again, Rowan sucked a breath through his teeth as a massive skeletal frame—easily nine feet tall and pushing ten—materialized just on the other side of the brick wall they were crouched against.

It—for that was all that remained of Waylon Jones—had been lurking in an adjacent passageway, and though the explosion had piqued its curiosity, it was not enough to lure the beast away. Damn, was the only coherent thought Rowan's mind could muster as a limb half the height of the doorway reached inside.

'Killer Croc, my ass! That's a whole-ass dinosaur!'

They could hear it sniffing outside—deep, wet breaths that made it clear it was more interested in the nearby scent of living flesh than any distant noise.

When a low growl rumbled through the wall, Rowan knew he had to act. Fingers shaking uncontrollably, he armed a second charge further down the main tunnel, then prayed the sound would prove a greater temptations than their scent.

* Chk-chk!

Noticing a rat close to his feet, Rowan mouthed an apology, before kicking the poor creature in the Meta's searching hand.

Then the second boom followed; much sharper, and far more distinct compared to the first. The silhouette paused, closed its fist, and then slowly turned and lumbered away, its heavy footfalls shaking the very foundation of the sewer as it chewed on the rodent. “Pleaeese… I'm SO hUngry.“

After giving it a few more seconds, the pair was finally able to breath easy.

They crept to the corroded archway of the foreman’s office and peered out.

Waylon Jones was long, long gone.

In his place stood a monstrosity that looked less like a Metahuman and more like a failed science experiment that had recently clawed its way out of a petri dish. His jaw had become a full, protruding snout, and his hide was a mess of overlapping scales so thick and dense they looked like organic kevlar, and where twisted spines once jutted, there were now rows of ridges.

“Is he always this intense?”

Because there was no way Bruce took that thing down solo. That… That looked like it could chew through a hundred Banes and ask for seconds.

“No.“

“So what do you think? Something in the water? A second Metagene activation? 'Cause seriously—what the fuck are we even looking at?!”

For the first time since their encounter, the Dark Knight was rendered truly speechless.

“I don't know.“

— [HELLBRED] —

The scent of chamomile and lingering brimstone warred for dominance in the study of Shadowcrest. For Giovanni Zatara who had only returned recently after agonizing months in the infernal realms, the familiar scent of his wife's favorite tea was a comfort the Magician desperately needed.

He sank into the worn leather of his favorite armchair, the ancient springs groaning as if to welcome him.

A small, insistent red light blinked on the antique answering machine on his mahogany desk. An artifact, really, but one he kept for a single, stubborn contact who refused to use more esoteric means of communication.

With a weary sigh, Giovanni waved a hand, and the spool-to-spool tape whirred to life.

“—Zatara. It’s Batman.”

The Bat of Gotham sounded devoid of pleasantries as always. “—I have a situation. The boy I took in—his powers have recently manifested.”

'Did he kill?' Giovanni knew Batman—cold, calculating, but never careless. If the kid had crossed that line, Bruce wouldn’t be calling to talk about it. He’d be cleaning it up. Quietly. Efficiently.

“What happened?“ He asked, unfortunately the voicemail was dated back to three months ago.

“Dad?”

Standing in the doorway, a tray with a fresh pot of tea in her hands, Zatanna greeted.

She had his eyes, though hers still held a youthful fire he was pretty sure had burned out in his own.

Thankfully, she had her mother’s beauty.

“You just got back. Can’t Batman handle one thing by himself?”

Giovanni managed a weak smile, the expression feeling foreign on his face. “It is never just ‘one thing’ with him, my dear. And you know I am the only one he trusts with matters like these.”

He pushed himself to his feet, the aches in his bones much more than physical. “A simple consultation will not take long.”

“Let me go with you.“ The girl insisted.

“No,” And he refused, tone firmer than intended. “You will stay. I will not have you near that accursed city until I know what I am dealing with.”

He straightened his vest, the simple act of trying to look presentable feeling like donning a suit of armor, then closed his eyes, silently drawing on the ambient Magic of the Ancestral Mansion. And it responded in kind.

“Otag ot mahtoG!”

The incantation left his lips, and reality began to warp.

Space and Time prepared to bend for his convenience. Yet, as the magical Gateway began to form, it wasn't the familiar sensation of displaced air and shifting perspectives that met Giovanni. It was instead a shrieking wall of pure, psychic agony.

And was it merely Giovanni's imagination, or had the Curse cast upon the very soil that Gotham rested grown even more potent…?

Chapter Text

Alt-Title: The Art of Jumping

Emilia Davidson cheerfully hefted the last bag of donuts into the passenger-side footwell of her rig.

Company regulations said to toss them, but mama had always taught her waste was a sin, and Emilia figured she committed enough of those just paying the city taxes.

Tonight's 'haul' had been surprisingly good, and not even the alley which reeked of stale coffee and day-old fryer grease could ruin her mood. Nothing short of getting shot would! And that was when she caught it—a flat, ugly crack echoing from two blocks down.

Emilia didn’t even flinch, quickening her pace as the passenger door slammed shut.

'Not my problem.'

Rule number one in Gotham: mind your own damn business.

Getting involved was a surefire way to end up as a chalk outline or another sob story on Vicki Vale’s nightly news report.

She’d just rounded the hood of her truck, keys in hand, when a raw, ragged scream tore through the night—far, far closer this time. 'Not my problem.' Emilia repeated, her hand already hovering above the driver’s side door handle.

Her beat-up Suzuki Carry—or 'Old Betty,' as Davidson had lovingly named the tired beast of burden—roared to life, belching thick, black clouds from the exhaust pipe into the flickering amber glow of the streetlights. Emilia swung up into the cab, the worn leather seat sighing beneath her weight.

She hadn't the chance to drive off when the engine sputtered, then died.

“Come on, Betty,” Emilia whispered, patting the dashboard. “Don’t do this to me tonight.”

She tried again, pumping the gas in a rhythm dear ol' dad had hammered in her head.

The engine coughed again, whined, and then, with a shudder that rattled the entire frame, roared to life.

Relief washed over her as she realized she wouldn’t need a tow, or worse, to spend the night in that filthy Dunkin’ Donuts store that had already been broken into three times this month.

Pulling out of the alley, she was greeted by the familiar strobing of red and blue lights screaming past her windshield. A car chase, by the looks of it.

On the radio, a frantic newscaster babbled about a fresh batch of Fear Toxin making the rounds in the Narrows.

Gunshot, scream, high-speed pursuit, and now a supervillain's latest chemical cocktail.

Emilia shook her head, a weary smile tugging at her lips. “Gotham's hard at work again…”

Briefly, she wondered if she’d ever manage to save up enough to leave—Metropolis, maybe? Not likely. Emilia wasn’t a model, and she sure as hell wasn’t a genius. Moving to a city where everything cost nearly triple what she was used to in Gotham would probably earn her months of destitution, maybe more.

Still, “A girl could dream.“

Ten minutes later, she found herself trapped in gridlock on the bridge out of the industrial district.

Horns blared. Steam hissed. Smog dyed her vision a sickly, greenish yellow, choking her and every other poor soul trapped alongside her. Emilia hated traffic more than anything… And it wasn’t just the delay.

This was Gotham, where staying put too long was like asking to get noticed by the wrong kind of attention. She half-expected a Meta to come barreling through the fog and turn her mini truck into scrap.

Thankfully… “No?”

Nothing of the sort happened.

Emilia checked her mirrors, bracing for headlights or a fireball to come shrieking. But all there was behind her were the wail of horns and more blinking red brake lights stretched to the other end of the bridge. She wouldn't like to be them, that was for sure.

“Of all the godforsaken..." Emilia muttered, drumming her fingers against the wheel. She thought about laying on the horn again, but getting shot over traffic was a little too Gotham even for her taste.

Finally, the traffic broke.

Guiding Old Betty off the bridge and onto the thoroughfare that marked the unofficial border between the industrial rot of Old Gotham and the slightly less decayed residential sprawl of Midtown.

The streetlights here burned a much cleaner, whiter halogen, and the brick-and-rust facades had given way to concrete apartment blocks and bodegas with neon signs that, for once, weren’t flickering.

She was maybe two, three miles from her shoebox apartment now.

Looked like the worst of the night was behind her!

Or so she thought, right up until the road began to shudder beneath her tires.

Emilia’s hands clamped around the wheel as spiderweb cracks split the asphalt just ahead. She slammed the brakes, and Betty’s old tires screeched, fishtailing before grinding to a halt.

For a second, she thought she’d made it.

Then the road groaned and gave out.

A massive chunk of street collapsed into a fresh chasm of dust and darkness. The crater stopped just short of Betty’s bumper until the edge crumbled, and her front wheels dropped, wedging into the asphalt.

'Fuck this.'

Her truck. Her donuts—none of it was worth dying for.

Emilia shoved the door open and threw herself out, hitting pavement hard, but before she could get too far, the ground at the center of the sinkhole burst open.

A geyser of dirt, pipe fragments, and concrete erupted skyward, followed by a monstrous, scaled snout. The creature quickly pulled its immense body free, rising to a terrifying height of nearly ten feet. Its roar was a gut-wrenching fusion of animalistic rage and buckling metal, a sound that blew out the street-facing windows in a shower of glass.

Ignoring her, the monster's hunger-filled eyes locked onto an overturned taxi.

Steel screamed as the door tore free. “MeEEEat! FressssSSh mEat!“

The beast dangled the bleeding, unconscious man over its gaping maw, ready to consume him whole.

Then, the ground shuddered again, giving way below the Meta.

The sewer-dweller slid right back into the chasm with a bellow, dropping the driver in the process.

Watching the man collapse in a limp lump, Emilia briefly considered lending a helping hand before better—wiser instincts took over.

'Not my problem!' She pivoted on her well-worn shoes and broke into a dead sprint, only for the pavement beneath her to go under as well. 'I knew I should have called in sick today.'

For one absurdly long second, Davidson’s ever-practical brain kicked into overdrive, dutifully listing all the ways this could end for her.

There was the quick and merciful exit: A multi-ton chunk of concrete flattening her before her nerves even had time to complain.

Then there was being trapped under rubble, bleeding out or quietly choking on dust in the dark. And finally, the worst possible card in the deck: Being shredded to pieces by falling rebar and concrete shrapnel.

Her brain, morbidly curious to the bitter end, was just starting to wonder which flavor of demise she'd get when her fall grinded to a halt as armored hand locked tight around her waist.

Hesitantly, she cracked her eyes open.

Black cowl. White lenses. And lips curled in permanent disapproval…

'Of course.' Was her first coherent thought. 'Who the hell else could it be?'

Everyone had a theory, a friend-of-a-friend’s story, or an opinion on the latest gadget Vicki Vale swore he’d used.

The Batman was a myth, a boogeyman, a headline and, perhaps most importantly of all, a hero all rolled into one. And he was currently holding her like a sack of stale donuts. 'He’s a lot less intimidating than the rumors would have it.' Emilia thought, her adrenaline-addled brain focusing on all the wrong things.

The stories criminals told were of a monster; a Demon who glided from the shadows, but up close… Her finger moved before she could stop it—an absent, stunned gesture to confirm this wasn’t just some hallucination her addled-mind had cooked up.

Lightly, she traced the line of his exposed jaw.

The white lenses narrowed, equal parts confusion, judgment, and disapproval.… Emilia's face burned with embarrassment as she jerked her hand back and coughed, utterly mortified by her own action.

"I'msosorry, pleasedon'tbeatmeup.“

"Hate to spoil the moment, but if you're quite done rizzing up random civilians, Batman—our reptilian friend's scaling back up!"

Emilia blinked, staring at a teenager a head shorter than her.

'It's the Imp—' Her brain supplied. 'Batman's partner-in-crime!'

"Get off." The Dark Knight gruffly commanded.

Only then did she realize her arms were still wrapped around his neck.

"Sorry." Emilia mumbled, hastily making herself scarce, only to then promptly lose her balance as the soles of her shoes tore. She slipped, but by chance, landed in a shallow crevice in the pavement. It was a bit cramped; a bit uncomfortable, but otherwise secure and, as the cherry on top, provided her a front-row seat to the ongoing confrontation.

She gaped as the Imp vaulted onto a streetlamp, hurling Batarangs that bounced off the monster’s hide like cheap plastic.

'Croc.' She guessed, because who else in Gotham rocked sewer breath and scales? Thank God she wasn’t a vigilante. Emilia had no idea how anyone dealt with 'that' every night and didn’t end up in a straitjacket… After some awkward digging, she finally fished her phone out of the deep of her pocket and hit record, but they were way too fast.

Even the ten-foot sewer lizard was leaving her knockoff Android and its pitiful 20-FPS camera in the dust.

The Imp, undeterred by his failure, flipped backward, landing silently on the buckled asphalt. "Plan B.“ He chirped, voice unnervingly casual.

He swapped the simple Batarangs for something with a blinking blue. The projectiles struck true, sticking to the monster's chest before erupting in a series of percussive blasts that were more bang than flash, and yet Killer Croc didn't so much as flinch.

“TICKLEeeSss!” The Meta bellowed, swiping a clawed hand through the smoke as though batting away a bothersome fly, then barreled toward the hero, uprooting every streetlamp unlucky enough to be in his path.

Sparks rained from the public property, snapping and hissing across the asphalt like live serpents.

Croc lunged for his target and missed. He roared before giving chase, but Batman was already on his tail, cape whipping behind him as he landed on the beast’s back, and planted a series of beeping charges along Croc’s spine.

The creature thrashed, claws tearing into buildings as he spun, but he was too bulky, too slow. For all his brute strength, Croc might as well have been chasing his own tail. Planting one final charge dead-center above the Meta’s bald scalp, Batman then backflipped, vanishing skyward on a grappling line.

“Stand down, Waylon!” Ordered the Dark Knight.

Sadly, the rabid Meta seemed deaf to everything but his own rage, snarling as he pounced. He had barely taken a step when the charges along his spine detonated in rapid succession, blasting him forward. Ere he could hit the ground, the final device atop his head went off, flipping him onto his back as a dense cloud enveloped the Meta whole.

Pumping her fist, Emilia held her breath and cheered, “Get 'im! Get 'im! Go, Batman!” Just then, the Imp swung overhead, only to drop like a rock as a flying car door sliced through his cable. “Crap—!”

With a violent thud, the boy crashed onto a car right beside her.

“I don’t wanna be that guy, but please tell me there’s a plan, 'cause we’re getting our fucking cheeks spread out here.”

“M-Me?“ She shakily asked.

“Wha—?” His head snapped toward her, disbelief practically radiating off the red helmet. “No offense, lady, but why the hell would I ask you?”

Shaking his head, the Imp silently inspected his grappling hook. In the background, Killer Croc erupted from the smoke, charred scales flaking off in chunks. Emilia hadn't thought it possible, but the Meta somehow looked even uglier now that parts of his hide had been blown off.

“Jesus…” The Imp muttered.

Jesus, indeed.

Suddenly, a faint tremor buzzed up Emilia’s legs.

Emilia stiffened as the ground seemed to quiver beneath her. She braced for another collapse, but the tremor wasn’t coming from below.

It sounded… Distant. 'And getting closer.'

Emilia didn’t have time to contemplate further, for despite his initial display, Croc soon let loose a strangled grunt and dropped on both knees. Breath stolen away by the spectacle, she asked. “Is it over?”

The non-answer came in the form of a non-committal hum.

“Waylon Jones. You didn’t bring me out here just to fight… You’re in pain, and whether you’ll admit it or not, you want it to stop—”

Stopping fifteen feet short of the Meta—because a wounded animal wasn’t the same as a harmless one—the Dark Knight coaxed.

'So he doesn't just beat the shit out of criminals…' Emilia wasn’t sure why that surprised her, but it did. And it made her like the guy a hell of a lot more.

“—End this. Let me get you the help you need.”

For a moment, it looked like Batman had secured another win under his belt.

Croc was down, dazed, barely upright.

Then he suddenly lunged.

Emilia gasped. The Imp shouted. Batman hurled something into the gaping maws.

Neither of them was close enough to intervene, and even if they were, Emilia suspected it wouldn't've made much of a difference. Luckily, that’s when a mini tank showed up, slamming into the Meta.

Pushed into a building, Croc roared as the impact shook the paint and limestone loose, coating his raw, exposed skin.

The chemicals must have burned quite a bit, because he looked much angrier than before.

Then again, it could have been the teeth he lost to the Batmobile's front bumper.

Holding on with his remaining teeth, the Meta grunted stubbornly before rolling to the side. It was such an odd gesture that Emilia could not help but chuckle, until the multi-ton, reinforced mini-tank began to turn with him.

“A death roll.”

“A death roll?“ She repeated after the Imp.

“That’s a death roll. Crocodilians use it to tear limbs off or disorient prey.“ Explained the teenage vigilante. Croc tore into the Batmobile like it was made of cardboard, ripping off one of the eight wheels, then part of the hood, the mounted cannon. With a guttural shriek, the Meta hoisted what remained of it and flung it halfway across the street.

The car skidded, flipped twice, and came to a twitching halt against a building wall.

Then Croc coughed violently as a green mist poured from his maw, curling into the air like leaked gas. Emilia had seen something like this before in, well, games. Her boyfriend called it 'Second Phase'—that moment when the Boss got uglier, stronger, and meaner. But when she looked to Batman and the Imp, neither looked worried.

She was worried for nothing, because Killer Croc soon became sluggish. Confused, she mentally retraced the sequence of events, recalling the small, spherical objects Batman had tossed straight down the Meta’s throat earlier. The green mist wasn’t mist at all. It was anesthetic gas.

“You ever heard of the ‘Art of Jumping?’”

“The what?”

The Imp snorted. “Well, you’re about to get a crash course.”

Tossing and catching his baton with a cocky twirl, the sidekick ran forth just as the Dark Knight hit Killer Croc in the face with—“His bare fucking fists?!” Emilia couldn't believe her eyes.

'Is he stupid?' Turns out, she was the stupid one, because that one punch sent the Meta reeling to the right. Before the reptilian brute could brace against the pavement, the Imp's baton cracked him from the left.

Batman followed up with a knee to the chin, timed perfectly with the Imp crashing down from above. The impact knocked loose the rest of Croc's fangs in an instant. If Emilia were him, she'd wave the flag by now, but Croc was made of sterner stuff, it'd appear…

Sterner and stupider.

Batman went in for a left hook, and the Imp a right cross to the kidney.

The Bat landed an uppercut next, allowing the sidekick to use the opening and drive his baton into the back of Croc's knee.

The joint buckled with a wet crunch.

As Croc staggered to his feet, Batman delivered two—no, five more blows to the Meta's ribs and downed him once again. Scrambling onto the behemoth’s shoulders, the Imp brought his baton down on the thickest part of Croc’s skull, then hurried to join his mentor, who drove his fist into the side of the Meta’s jaw.

After that, Emilia lost the ability to track the specifics.

It was less a fight, and more percussive demolition.

A right hook from the master, a baton strike from the apprentice.

A knee to the gut, a kick to the spine.

An elbow, a fist, a boot, another fist.

Her brain, unable to process the choreography, latched onto the only thing it could make sense of and started counting.

“Thirty-eight…” Emilia muttered as the pair ended the fight with a well-placed punch and a baton which snapped to full length mid-swing. Apparently, smacking it in the nose didn't just work on humans, dogs, cats and sharks. It was just as effective on crocodiles.

“It's over.“ Emilia was positive it had.

If it hadn't, Killer Croc must be a special kind of fool…

That, or he was suicidal.

Of course, that was when sirens started wailing in the distance.

The GCPD was fashionably late as always. Not that they’d have done much anyway besides racking up the death toll.

She knew it.

The villains knew it.

Hell, even the cops knew their standard-issue G22s might as well have been Nerf guns against Croc, which was probably why the cruisers only rolled in now that the real fight was already over.

Sometimes Emilia genuinely wondered what the hell the GCPD was doing with taxpayer money to be this hilariously outgunned when common crooks had been running around with sci-fi plasma rifles since fucking forever, then she remembered: 'Oh, right… I'm in Gotham—voted the most corrupt city in the world since the '30s.'

She watched, speechless, as officers swarmed the scene and tape went up.

Before long, she quickly found herself ushered toward an ambulance.

Even then, Emilia’s eyes never strayed from the Dynamic Duo.

“Miss, please look here—”

She squinted as the flashlight’s glare stole her focus for just a second.

By the time her eyes readjusted, they were long gone.

“Damn…” She really wanted a picture.

“Ms. Davidson, if I may have a moment of your time.“

She turned, and there stood a woman who made her seethe just by existing. Red hair shaped in a sharp bob, piercing green eyes that glowed with excitement, and a figure that made her own feel downright blocky—it was high school all over again. “You're…”

“Vicki Vale, pleased to meet you. Now, if you don't mind, may I ask you a few questions?”

Emilia minded. A lot.

Yet she answered nevertheless, the words tumbling out faster than she could think, draining her of the adrenaline and pent-up emotions that had been propping her up like glue and tape.

'Screw this, I'm taking tomorrow off.'

And if her manager had a problem with it, well, Emilia missed the part where that was her problem.

.

.

.

Back at the Wayne Estate, Richard Grayson wiped the sweat from his brow and went in for another set. His old, beat-up phone sat nearby, spitting out grainy audio from the news—something about a Meta-related catastrophe near the Midtown border.

Mid-rep, he paused, reracked the weight, and reached for the device, expression sharpening as he watched intently.

This was perhaps the closest anyone had gotten to capturing Batman's fight up close—a shame the footage looked like it had been shot with a potato. With a final, dissatisfied grunt, Richard cut his workout short.

The grainy footage was more annoying than informative, and besides, his stomach was starting to rumble. Slinging a towel over his shoulder, Dick left the gym, the lingering image of the fight still on repeat in his mind as he headed to the dinning hall.

That was when the quiet hit him.

Not the usual late-night quiet—but a hollow, unnatural stillness that made the hair on his nape stand. The Wayne Estate was never truly silent.

There was always the distant hum of a television, the soft tread of footsteps on carpet, or the faint clatter of Alfred making something in the kitchen.

Tonight, there was nothing.

The cavernous halls seemed to have swallowed all sound.

“Rowan…? Mr. Wayne?!"

He checked Bruce's study first, but the chair behind the grand mahogany desk was pushed in, and the fireplace looked cold. Knocking on Rowan's door next, he twisted the knob only to find it locked tight.

With nowhere else to check, Dick headed for the kitchen.

If anyone was going to be up, it was Alfred, but even the butler had seemingly made himself scarce tonight.

Puzzled and unsettled, Dick rewound the footage, thumb skipping to the part featuring the Imp.

Wordlessly, he turned the volume up, ears straining to hear over the distortions.

Dick played it again. And again.

It wasn’t even the voice itself, which had clearly been altered by a voice modulator.

It was the tone… From the sharp, almost arrogant dismissal wrapped in a flimsy layer of faux politeness to the immediate switch from exasperation to business—Dick knew it all too well. The familiarity was so jarring it caused his heart to race.

The endless late nights.

The unexplained absences.

The grueling, punishing workouts.

The neurons in his brain started to fire away, connecting clues Dick didn’t even know he’d been subsconciously picking up. Come to think of it, he rarely—if ever—saw his hosts at night. And Richard was dead certain they were never around when Batman and the Imp were.

“If Rowan’s the Imp… Then that means Mr. Wayne’s…”

Dick didn’t dare finish the thought.

Even the timeline matched. The Dark Knight had conveniently vanished for two weeks; the exact same weeks Mr. Wayne had been spotted entertaining guests-from-afar. Feeling weak in the knees, Dick braced a hand against the wall and slowly sank.

But Richard Grayson wasn't the only one listening to the news.

Across Gotham, criminals from every corner found their eyes glued to the screen—one of which happened to be a very, very skilled thief, who also happened to be very, very unhappy at the moment. Why, you ask? Well…

“—Ms. Davidson, if you had to describe our 'protectors' in a few words, what would you say?“ Vicki Vale beamed at the camera.

“—The Imp’s fast. Mouthy. And honestly? A little terrifying. But I doubt there’s much truth to the Demon rumor. As for the Batman—he’s got a really strong jawline.”

Tossing the remote aside, the femme fatale slipped out of her nightgown and into the tub with a huff.

“That womanizer.“

She definitely wasn’t jealous, and anyone idiotic enough to suggest otherwise could get a taste of her whip plus a lesson in minding their business.

Chapter Text

“That wasn’t the first time Bruce and I fought side by side, but it was the first time we actually brought down a Rogue together, and it felt damn good.

As satisfying as a Dual-Takedown in Arkham Knight is—props to the devs—it doesn't even come close to the real thing.

Sure, Killer Croc doesn’t rank high on DC’s threat list, even with his mutation, but he was strong enough, brutal enough, and dangerous enough to make the win feel earned. Not that we had time to celebrate. Not that Bruce would have, even if we did.

It was just another night for the Caped Crusader.

For me, though, it was a whole milestone.

I might not have taken him down on my own, but it sure felt good knowing I could put a dent in a bulletproof Meta with nothing but my staff.

I remember blacking out the moment I hit the bed, adrenaline drained and body sore all over. But after a beatdown like that? I was riding the fuckin' wind, bruh…

It was like dominating Ranked for fifteen games straight—same high, only with a ton more bruises. When morning came, I was practically skipping until I got to the dining hall, where everyone was just sitting around, eyeing each other weirdly.“

— [HELLBRED] —

“Jesus, did somebody die?“ Rowan asked, making a beeline for the coffeepot.

“Hi, Rowan. Where were you last night?“

His hand froze stiff at Dick's question. 'He knows.'

Or, at the very least, he suspected.

“I was… I was in my room.”

“Strange.” The kid responded, glancing around the room with narrowed eyes. “Because I checked. You weren’t there. None of you were.”

Bruce sat with his teacup, taking quiet sips while Alfred hurried around the dining room, arranging silverware and plates. Catching himself after a brief misstep, Rowan took a deep breath, eyes glued to the ceiling like he was summoning the nerve to speak and said. "What I’m about to tell you cannot go beyond these walls. Understood?"

Richard’s grip tightened around his fork as sweat began to bead on his forehead.

'This is it.' He thought. 'He’s going to confirm it…!'

“The truth is: We go out every night to perform devil worship for more riches. It’s a family tradition… That’s the real secret behind Wayne Enterprises’ success.”

A quiet cough drew their attention to Bruce, who raised the newspaper to hide his expression, tacitly washing his hands of the matter. He couldn’t quite hide the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, though.

“Oh, come on! That’s a load of bull and you know it!”

“”“Language, young man!””” Bruce, Alfred, and Rowan echoed in unison.

“My, someone ought to wash your mouth out with soap!“

Sensing searing heat on his back, Rowan snapped. "What?"

“As scripture wisely warns: let he who is without sin cast the first stone, Master Rowan.” The Batler lectured, tone bone-dry.

“I’m a Demon. I don’t give a fuck.”

“”Language.””

"Enough with the games! Are you two Batman and the Imp?!"

Bruce and Rowan share a look, then shrug.

"Look, if you don’t believe me, come see for yourself. We dance naked around a bonfire and sacrifice animals in the woods every night. The Devil gives us luck and wealth in return."

Dick muttered something under his breath, huffed, and stormed out of the room. The moment the door swung close, Rowan turned to the Dark Knight with a half-lidded look and a smug smile. “Dude… I think he bought it."

“That will be quite enough, Master Rowan," Alfred chided, exasperated.

“Fine, fine..." Rowan sighed, then reached out and tugged down the edge of the Dark Knight's newspaper.

"So, Bruce… What are we gonna do about this? The kid’s already poking around. He’s not stupid. Sooner or later, he’s gonna find the entrance..."

Bruce took a good half a minute to respond, staring at the paper as if the newsprint was somehow easier to deal with.

To be fair, it probably was.

Then, with a slow, heavy exhale, the Dark Knight folded the newspaper and set it aside. “I can't train him. Not yet.“

“But you are open to the idea?“

“… I'll consider it, but now isn't a good time.“

Staring at his mentor’s creased brow, Rowan pressed. “What happened?”

“I was reviewing recent files on the inmates in Arkham. Almost all Metas have shown increased aggression and antisocial behavior.”

“You mean even more than usual?”

Rowan asked, tossing a grape into his mouth and smacking his lips.

“Yes… At first, I assumed it was a management issue. But the symptoms go beyond that. They’re showing signs of mutation as well.”

Rubbing his eyes, the Dark Knight slumped slightly in his seat as he added, “Whatever happened to Croc might be spreading to the others.”

“Shit.”

“Shit, indeed, Master Rowan.“ Alfred quipped from behind, before laying down a tray. “Tea?“

“Thank you, Alfred.” Bruce said with a nod—a sentiment echoed by the smaller vigilante, albeit worded differently. “What would we do without you?”

After a long pause, Rowan finally found the nerve to ask, “Is it happening worldwide?”

He wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer, just that he needed to know.

“No… It’s only happening in Gotham, curiously enough.”

“Something in the water? The air?” Rowan suggested. Was this even caused by someone, or was it just a stroke of misfortune? A random cosmic occurrence, per chance?

“I’ve requested DNA samples. If it's caused by a chemical or biological agent, a pattern should surface. Until then, I want you to handle Dick’s training… Teach him what I taught you. Even if he doesn’t choose the life, the skills may serve him one day.”

“Cool… But that's not what I'm asking.“

"You want to tell him." The Dark Knight accused, fists bunching under his chin.

“Well, yeah. I mean, what’s the harm? He’s a good kid—he’s not gonna rat us out. Keeping him in the dark’ll only push him away. It’ll make him resent us.“ Slipping out of his seat, Rowan straightened his crooked tie and grabbed the leather briefcase, because a regular school bag just wasn’t good enough for Gotham Academy apparently.

“I know I sound like a broken cassette, but please consider it. That boy has the potential to be great… Maybe even greater than you.”

Sliding into the car beside Richard, Rowan kicked back his seat and slumped.

He hadn’t expected the kid to start a conversation, so imagine his surprise when the future Nightwing set his annoyance aside. “Rowan…”

“Yeah?”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Richard finally gathered the courage to ask, “At least tell me: Why… Why haven’t Batman and the Imp brought justice for my parents?”

“They-They just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“But they will, right?”

Rowan looked at the sniffling boy, then reached out with a warm smile and ruffled the boy’s hair. “They will.”

School passed without a hitch, but instead of heading home like he said he would, Rowan hurried into the bathroom and retrieved the spare costume he had stashed behind a false wall. Rowan knew it'd come in handy someday; He simply didn’t expect someday would be this soon.

According to the original timeline, Tony Zucco should’ve been rotting in a cell by now. But between Croc’s rampage, the mutating Metas, and Gotham being, well, Gotham, Bruce hadn’t found the time, for contrary to popular beliefs, the Dark Knight wasn’t all-seeing, all-knowing, or all-powerful.

He was simply hyper-competent and resourceful… However, even the sharpest blade could only point in one direction at a time. That was where Rowan came in.

Only unlike Bruce, he wasn’t a sword.

He was a knife—smaller; rougher, and yet capable of drawing blood all the same.

Dick wanted his parents' killer caught, and Rowan was all too happy to deliver… Maybe even gift-wrapped Tony Zucco in a bow and a beating. The hideout was only a minute away by air, but Rowan's nerves stretched every second into a taut wire as he zipped through Gotham's skyline.

He landed without a sound, peering into the dirty skylight.

Below, four of Zucco's goons were drowning in cheap whiskey. “Heard the circus freaks finally paid up… I call.”

“'Bout damn time. Stuck-up bastards thought they were better than us. I call too.“

Rowan's eyes scanned the room for the 275-pound mob boss, but Zucco wasn't among them. A flick of a switch, and his visor’s x-ray function painted the floors below in skeletal blue, revealing fourty armed men. "There you are.“ Rowan hissed, hideous gaze locking onto Tony Zucco's hulking silhouette like a hawk.

To the uninitiated, a fortress like this might scream 'major player,' but he knew better. Zucco was small-time—a big fish in a piss poor puddle that barely covered two districts.

This? This was probably the majority of his crew… Cattle gathered for slaughter.

"Good." Rowan muttered.

By morning, Gotham would have one less problem.

Swinging down to the first floor, Rowan landed in a crouch, his boots making barely a whisper on the concrete as he snuck toward the sliding door, yanking it shut before driving the locking pin home from the outside.

“Hey! What the hell was that?!” A voice barked from within.

The frantic scrape of boots and overturned chairs answered him. Heading straight for the electric box on the far wall, Rowan wrenched the casing open, and plunged a Batarang into the nest of wiring.

A violent shower of sparks later, and the lights died.

Confused shouts immediately turned to curses.

“Shit—lights’re out!”

“The hell? Go check the breaker!”

“I knew somethin’ felt off tonight…”

By the time one of them managed to fumble his way to the door and tore at the handle, it was already too late.

Zipping back up through the roof access, Rowan grinned beneath the helmet. He tapped his wrist, activating the drones that stealthily slipped in through a busted panel. 'Now the real fun begins.'

“—Wassup, wassup, wassup?! It’s yer boy, the Imp!“

The voice blasted from the drones, bouncing off concrete and steel, distorted just enough to sound unhinged.

The thugs flinched, scrambling for weapons.

“What the hell—?”

“Where’s that coming from?!”

Rowan watched from above, eyes tracking their movements through the feed.

“—Guess who’s getting a one-way trip to the hospital tonight?“ Rowan’s voice echoed gleefully through the darkness.

“Come on out! We ain't scared of you, frea—”

* CRASH!!!

Glass shattered as Rowan dropped into the skylight, metal-padded boot slamming into the back of the speaker’s head mid-sentence. The thug’s body skidded across the floor, dragged a full meter by the momentum before coming to a halt. “There he is! Shoot ’im! Shoot ’im!”

Gunfire erupted, muzzle flashes lit the room in bursts, yet every shot magically missed, ricocheting into crates, walls, even their own feet.

In the far corner, barely touched by the pale moonlight bleeding through the clumsily boarded windows, a distorted Shade clung to the wall, geedily working his Magic; nudging their barrels. Rowan straightened, rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck and shrugged with a grin. “Rude.”

“Get him!“

.

.

.

Meanwhile, on the first floor, Zucco and his most trusted were still struggling with the jammed door when a scream echoed from upstairs. A second shriek followed, this one muffled and distant… Then came a meaty thud against the outside wall.

If they didn’t know any better, they’d swear that freak had just thrown someone out a window, but that couldn’t be.

Batman and the Imp might terrify.

They might hunt, stalk, and brutalize.

But they didn’t kill.

And yet, dread wrapped around their throats like a noose.

Each breath felt like it might be their last, as if the great beast was already behind them, fangs inching ever closer to their napes. One of them blurted. “That was Thompson… I would recognize that girly shriek anywhere!” Zucco growled, the dying ember of his cigar and the flickering light from a cracked phone screen barely casting enough glow to hold back the all-encompassing dark.

“Then he’s as good as dead. Now hurry up and get this damn door open, unless you wanna be next!”

“Where’s the fucking crowbar?!” Hissed a mousey crack dealer as the commotion grew closer.

There were five floors total—each one packed with members of their small-time crew, and from the sounds of it or rather lack thereof, the caped freak must have cleared the fifth floor already. “Fuck… Fuck! Why’s he suddenly after us?! Aren’t there bigger fish to fry?!”

Truth was, most of Gotham’s bottom-feeders hated the costumed freaks just as much as they secretly appreciated them.

Not for the money.

Not for the chaos.

But because as long as the caped psychos were busy beefing with each other, they wouldn't have the time to come knocking on their doors.

Tonight, that changed.

Silence settled over the building once again. The kind that made grown men sweat.

The fourth floor too had just gone quiet.

“Found it!” Orlando called as he yanked the crowbar from an old pile of junk they never got around to cleaing and scrambled toward the door. But before he could celerate the find, the third floor erupted in a chorus of noises which finally stopped dead with a loud, ear-piercing—* BANG!

Dust shook loose from the ceiling in slow, drifting curtains as the old structure groaned.

There went the third and second floors, probably along with the poor bastards unlucky enough to be in the freak’s way.

Fortunately, these were hardened, blooded men… Many of whom had been deployed and seen real combat once upon a time.

Orlando hastily jammed the crowbar under the rolling door and pushed down with all his weight.

"That's it! C'mon! C'mon!!!"

His friend cheered as a tiny, teeny crack appeared, unaware that they had just allowed a Shade among their midst. Creeping through the opening, Ichor reached for Orlando's ankle.

"Be careful!" Irlene warned, but it was too little, too late.

Orlando fell with a meaty smack, his terrified eyes locking with theirs as the Shade yanked him away. "Don't leave me! Please don't leave mEEE—!"

And into the darkness he went, kicking and screaming all the way up the stairwell while the others fumbled frantically with the lock.

Finally, the door rattled free, sliding open just enough for the cool night air to hit them in the face.

They barely had a second to breathe, before a Batclaw zipprd through the dark and clamped around Irlene’s nape.

Like Orlando before her, she looked up for help.

But none of them dared intervene.

Unlike Orlando, her trip was agonizingly slow as her freshly painted nails scraped the concrete, peeling and snapping as she was dragged inch by inch into the dark where the Demon dwelled. “HeeeeEeEEELP!”

Even the Italian mob boss could only watch in stunned horror as his lieutenant vanished screaming into the dark. Then, without a word, the remaining three members of Zucco's crew spun on their heels and bolted for the van they had parked in front of the hideout.

By some miracle, they made it to the van; scrambling and heaving as they slammed the doors shut.

Like the flimsy door van would stop him…

Zucco spun in the passenger seat, and there!

Right there!

Just beyond the border where the pale streetlight met the dark, he saw him.

The vigilante…

The Demon…

The Imp who stood perfectly still—a Shade darker than even the blackness swallowing up the space aroubd him.

Then, slowly, the figure raised a hand.

At first, Zucco thought it was another mockery, until he noticed the fingers.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight—

"DRIVE!" Zucco roared, and his lackey immediately slammed the gas. The engine snarled to life, sputtering out black smoke from the exhaust, but the van didn’t budge. It strained, the wheels spinning and screeching uselessly against the asphalt.

"What the hell's wrong?!"

Mickey glanced frantically into the side mirror, paling several shades. "We're caught on something!"

Zucco leaned over, following the man's gaze and found a thick, high-tensile cable stretched taut from their rear axle, snaking back into the darkness and anchored to God-knows-what.

Meanwhile, the figure at the edge of the light began to move.

Zucco’s eyes darted from the approaching Imp to the last of his men, Sal, cowering in the back. He grabbed the man by his jacket. "You! Get out there and cut that line, or I will put a bullet in your fucking skull!"

Then, he shoved a wad of cash from his pocket into Sal's chest. "Do it and there's another hundred grand in it for you! GO!"

Torn between terror and greed, Sal scrambled out of the side door, switchblade in hand.

He sawed at the cable, but the blade skittered off the braided cord without leaving a scratch while the tapping grew ever closer. Panicked, Sal abandoned the cable and started hacking at the bumper where it was anchored.

The plastic housing shattered at last, and the van lurched forward, now free.

"It's loose! Wait for me!" Sal screamed, turning back to the van.

"Fuck him! Go, Mickey, GO!" Zucco bellowed.

The van peeled out, tires screeching as it left Sal alone in the street. Zucco risked a look in the side mirror, a sneer on his face until he saw Sal beaten and bloodied, held by the collar.

The Imp hoisted him into the air like a bag of cement and bounced him against the asphalt.

Zucco’s blood ran cold at the sight. “Go! Go! Faster, you idiot!”

Mickey drove like a madman, weaving through the empty streets, but no matter how fast they went, the Imp was always there… Always shy of catching them somehow.

One moment, they saw him gliding down the street in the rearview mirror.

The next, he was sprinting across rooftops.

Then, there he was—perched atop a streetlamp, just silently observing with the same mocking stillness. 'Bastard's playing us!' Zucco thought, sweat stinging his eyes.

Then a deafening THUD hit the roof, making the entire van groan and dip on its suspension. The endgame was here at last.

Anthony 'Tony' Zucco was almost thankful the chase was over. Zucco didn’t even hesitate, twisting in his seat and firing blindly at the roof. The revolver in his hand roared in the cramped cab, brass shells clattering on the cheap and fake tiger-print carpet.

“Did I get him?! Did I get 'im?!” Zucco shouted over the ringing in his ears.

For a brief, blissful moment, everything appeared peaceful. The engine roared, the tires ate up the road, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Zucco dared breathe a sigh of relief… Then, a fist caved in a section of the roof.

“Fuck!“ Zucco fumbled to reload, hands trembling as he cursed his past self and his stupid choice to carry a revolver for that 80's aesthetic while what felt like a fucking hammer dented the vehicle and warped the frame. The roof buckled with each hit as sound of tortured metal worsened by the second.

"Do something!" Zucco yelled, and Mickey wrenched the wheel to the right, trying to shake their attacker loose. It seemed to work as something tumbled off the van, but they'd learned their lesson from the previous fakeouts.

Sure enough, the driver's side window exploded inward a second later.

Mickey barely had time to react before an armored hand shot through the opening, grabbed him by the collar, and ripped him out of the moving van. Blood splattered all over Zucco's face as shards cut into Mickey's leg on his way out. For the first time years, the mob boss felt frightened.

Anthony had feared for his life before… He’d felt the cold muzzle of a gun pressed to his temple more than once, but nothing came as close as the terror coursing through his veins, for he understood this wasn't just the cat-n'-mouse the caped freaks usually indulged in.

Whatever he did, or whatever the vigilante thought he did had brought upon Zucco the Wrath of the Unholy—a force hellbent on not just killing him, but on breaking his mind; his pride, and utterly pulling apart the life he had built, brick by brick.

He lunged for the steering wheel, wrestling the driverless van away from an oncoming streetlamp. He succeeded, albeit only partially as the van clipped the steel pole with a shriek, tilted onto two wheels, and rolled to a halt.

The world spun in a blur as a high-pitched ringing smothered every sound around ol' Tony. Zucco tried to take stock of himself: Of his useless left arm that had been bent at an angle nature never intended; of the warm and stickiness matting his hair; and of the 'shards' scraping his lung with every breath he drew.

Then, his nose caught the smell of gasoline. “N-No…”

Primal fear overrode the pain as he crawled forward, only to find the doors hopelessly jammed. His only exit was the broken driver’s side window.

He dragged himself over the cheap, blood-slicked carpet, gritting his teeth as every movement sent fresh waves of agony through his nervous system.

Zucco shoved his head and shoulders through the opening.

He was halfway there, halfway to freedom, only to realize he was stuck.

His gut had caught on the frame, and no matter how he struggled, the crooked frame didn't seem to give at all. Sobbing as armored boots entered his vision, Zucco looked at the Demon. Zucco’s balls jumped to his throat as the vigilante mocked. “You see what happens when you skip cardio?”

“H-Help me! Please! I’ll give you anything! Money, cars, women—whatever you want!”

Seizing a fistful of Zucco’s hair, the Imp lifted his head just enough, and smashed it into the road. “I want you dead. Can you manage that?”

“Y-You don’t kill… That’s your whole thing!” Zucco stammered, eyes wide, spit clinging to his lip. “You’re the Bat’s pet, right? You’ve got rules—codes!“

“Well, I'm not killing you, am I?“ Zucco could have sworn the face behind that red helmet was grinning as a spark lit the trail of gasoline behind him.

"I'm letting you die… There's a difference."

Zucco’s eyes widened in horror at the small, hungry flame licking its way down the trail.

“Wait! Wait! I’ll talk! I’ll admit to it all! The extortion at the circus, the money laundering, everythin—!”

“A full confession?” The Imp mused. “Funny… You didn’t mention your dealings with the Maroni family. Or those weapon shipments for the Falcones.”

Zucco froze, the heat of the approaching fire searing his arm. “They’ll… They’ll kill me.”

The Imp’s hand shot out, armored fingers clenching Zucco's jaw and forcing his head up. “Burn to death here, or die in a prison cell—it's up to you.”

The flames were only feet away now, and Zucco broke, sobbing uncontrollably. “Okay! Okay! Everything! I’ll tell them everything, I swear!”

The grip on his face finally eased.

“If I find out you’ve lied to me… If I come out on patrol tomorrow night to find you walking free, I will find you. And I will break a bone. Just one… Then I will come back the night after for another. Then another… And another.”

The Imp leaned in closer, his helmet so close the Italian mob boss could see his own terrified reflection.

“I have a-aaaall the time in the world. Do you?”

Only after the mob boss gave a shaky, reluctant nod did Rowan toss a cryo-pellet at the leaking gas tank, instantly flash-freezing the compartment solid. “The cops’ll be here soon… Sing.”

Zucco sighed shakily, collapsing face-first onto the road.

When he finally lifted his head, the street was already empty.

Five blocks away, Rowan quickly zipped through Gotham, and answered an ongoing call from Bruce. The sixth call, in fact. “Hey…”

“—You went after Zucco.“

"I did, and I'm not apologizing."

"—You were reckless. You could have put innocent lives at risk!'

Rolling his eyes, Rowan banked hard around a gargoyle. "Which is why I herded them to an empty part of town. I have this under control, Bru—"

His boast was cut short by a fireball that engulfed the space where his head had been a split-second before, the searing heat forcing him to veer sharply. Overcorrecting, Rowan took a nosedive onto a nearby rooftop and grunted.

"—Report! What's happening?!"

"I just got attacked by—"

He scrambled back to his feet, batting a fireball away with his staff, freezing in place when he realized it wasn't just some random street thug with a rocket launcher.

His attacker wore a immaculately tailored tuxedo, the kind seen only in old black-and-white films, complete with a top hat and white gloves.

“Zatara?“ He blurted.

“—Zatara?!“

“I have finally found you, Hellspawn.”

He raised a gloved hand, the Wind of Magic sparking between his fingers.

“For days, I have felt the sickness spreading from this accursed city. A psychic cancer twisting everything it touches. I followed the trail of corruption, the sulfurous stench of brimestone, and it led me straight to you… You are the source of this plague, and I'm here to put an end to it!“