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Season 0: Year One C19: Flippin' the Page (3) (Public)
🕑 Added 2025-07-05 15:53:10 +0000 UTC“Despite Bruce’s insistence that we ‘take it easy’ for the month—which apparently meant leaving the trendiest board games out on the coffee table like a trap—our days went on as normal.
Well, mostly.
School was officially on hold, a blessing I still thank the heavens for, and in its place was, you guess it, even more training! We played hard, too. Or, technically Dick did anyway.
I’d see him treating the grand staircase like his personal jungle gym or doing backflips off the diving board into the pool.
Me? In my newfound free time, I was busy with a different kind of exercise, usually in the library trying to master the art of speaking backwards.
What?! It was Magic, man. Actual, bonafide Reality-Bending just by twisting a few words around. You can’t just dangle that in front of someone and expect them not to try, although I am embarrassed it took me that long.
I’d catch Dick peeking around a doorway, hand clamped over his mouth to stifle a laugh as I tried to say ‘pass the salt’ backwards and nearly bit my damn tongue off in the process.
Kid found it hilarious, but in my defense, everyone looks like an idiot when they first try practicing Zatara's Family Magic.
Sadly, all that diligent practice was for nothing, since Zatara never did offer to teach me Backwards-Chanting, but that’s a story for another day… Time to revisit Gotham's other madhouse.“
— [HELLBRED] —
Setting aside the dumbbells, Rowan sat upright on the bench, hands on his knees as the small of his back creaked like an old revolving door. Then, his gaze drifted to the right, where Dick was deadlifting over two hundred pounds with a zealous and focus that was almost unnerving. Rowan would be proud… If he wasn't so damn envious.
He remembered what it was like to be skin and bones on the streets; how long it'd taken him just to build a baseline.
Dick, meanwhile, was a born acrobat—a natural who soaked up everything like a sponge.
He had no powers to speak of, yet the gap between them was closing at an alarming rate. It shouldn't have been possible… No fucking nine-year-old should be able to deadlift that much weight; not without tearing a muscle at least, and yet the living proof was right there in front of him.
“Rowan, you’re staring.”
Snapped out of his thoughts, Rowan clicked his tongue and slung the towel over his shoulder as a competitive glint replaced the distant look in his eyes.
"All that raw strength is useless if you don't know how to use it," Nodding toward the sparring mat, he popped his knuckles. "Let's spar. You and me."
Caught off guard by the sudden demand, Richard's lashes rapidly fluttered. "Now?“
Grabbing a pair of boxing gloves from a nearby rack, Rowan tossed them to the bewildered boy, then vaulted over the ropes and onto the sparring mat. “I’m leaving in three days, Dick. Who knows when I will be back? This might be our last chance for a spar.”
Dick caught the gloves, confusion fading into something quieter. “You talk like you’re about to die…”
“I’m not planning on it,” Replied the white-haired teen as he cracked his neck. “But the first thing you learn in our line of work is that nothing’s guaranteed—not for me, not for you, not even for Bruce, so let’s make the most of the opportunity, and pray it’s not the last.”
He didn't press the boy any further, instead retreating to the far corner of the ring patiently. That was the thing about this superhero gig. Anyone—your friend, your family, your spouse, your kid—could be taken away in a heartbeat. And if Dick couldn't get his head around that reality; if the mere mention of grief was going to compromise him in a fight, then he had no business being in the Batcave… Yet.
"Has anyone ever told you you're kind of depressing?" Dick asked, the corner of his mouth twitching into a wry smile.
"Oh, plenty." Rowan snorted, nodding in approval as the hesitation on Dick’s face was replaced by a look of pure, childish wonder.
Fumbling with his gloves like the excited kid that he was, Grayson ducked under the ropes and raised his fists. “Ready when you are!”
The spar began not with a bang, but a smirk.
The boy was a performer at heart, and it showed.
He led with a spinning kick, gracefully transitioning into a sweeping handstand, then ended the combo with a jab. Instead of matching the flair, Rowan met the aggression with bored apathy—sidestepping the kick, deflecting the upside-down roundhouse and killing the boy's momentum, before parrying the jab with a simple block.
For every elegant move Dick pulled outta' his ass, Rowan answered with a practical, effortless counter until frustration started to bleed into the boy’s features.
Watching Dick struggle to his feet, Rowan felt a jolt of déjà vu… It was like seeing a ghost of himself getting his ass handed to him on this very mat his first day in the Estate. A dark grin bloomed on his lips as satisfaction stirred in his chest.
People were right.
Misery really did love company.
Dick pressed the offense, but Rowan dodged again, then flung a cloud of chalk dust from a nearby bowl into the boy’s eyes.
Momentarily blinded, Richard sputtered; his wild haymaker sailing wide and leaving him completely open to the leg sweep that finally put him on his back. The Acrobat groaned and grunted, earning little more than an apathetic, if slightly amused—“Sure hrts, doesn’t it?”
Too winded to speak, the boy barely managed a weak nod.
“Well, get used to it… My first real fight was against Deathstroke—an Enhanced mercenary. He put a knife in my side and a bullet through my suit.”
Rowan flicked a hand at Dick, who was still rubbing at his eyes, then turned his back on him.
“This is nothing. Get up—” Rowan beckoned, sneering a second after. “Or give up.“
“Wh-Why are you doing this?” Rolling onto his stomach, the Acrobat tearfully groaned. “What did I even do?”
“The hell do you mean 'Why?'” Crouching beside Richard, Rowan eyed him as if he were a pest, then rose and began to circle the boy. “You said you wanted to be a hero, right? Well, there you have it… This is how it is most of the time.“
Voice pitched slightly higher than usual, he scratched his chin and mused aloud, “You'll get punched, kicked, shot at.
Shit, you might even get your brain blown out the side of your head.
Though, to be fair, that's not exclusive to heroes. Your job isn’t just keeping yourself alive; it’s protecting civilians too. And while that's happening, someone—somewhere—is already plotting your demise.
They won’t be obvious about it,
They won’t play fair,
And you can bet your ass they won't hold back like I am.“
Pushing himself up on his elbows, Dick’s eyes went wide concern, most likely for his own wellbeing going forward. “Hold back? You call that holding back?!”
“Bruce was a lot harsher on me.“ Rowan admitted with a half-hearted shrug.
'Harsher than this?!' Dick nearly blurted, but held his tongue and raised his arms instead. His guard was sloppy, his stance weak, but his eyes burned with defiance still. “R-Round two!”
“Excellent!“ Rowan clapped, howling maniacally. “That's the spirit! That's our little hero!“
He didn’t even look like he was trying as he met Dick’s desperate, telegraphed lunge with a jab that broke nothing, but would definitely bruise in the morning.
“I'm not giving up, you hear me?!“ Growled Richard, scrambling to his hands and knees heroically… His defiance was met with a single, insulting kick that sent him skidding across the mat.
“You fought, and you lost… What now, hero?“
“Urgh—” Eyes still stinging from the chalk, Dick squinted at the figure approaching.
It was the same white hair;
The same angular features;
The same hollow amethyst eyes.
And yet, through the tears, Rowan looked less like Rowan, and more a thing out of a nightmare…
An oddly mishappen thing that walked like it was suffering from rigor mortis…
A corpse that shambled forth…
Was this how criminals saw him?
Dick's rational mind told him to surrender and spare himself the pain.
His heart heartily agreed… His self-preservation, meanwhile, was cheering both up in the corner like a Manchester United fan who had just watched his Club win its first Cup in decades.
He listened to neither, instead desperately hunting for any kind of advantage, until he finally spotted a block of white chalk.
'If Rowan could play dirty, why can't I?' With that thought in mind, Dick stealthily grabbed a handful of chalk. Unfortunately, if he could see it—how could Rowan not? But fortunately—'It'd be detrimental if I push him further...'
“G-Guess what…”
Pretending not to notice the boy’s oh-so-discreet move, Rowan fearlessly approached, faking a gasp as chalk dust hit his face.
“I can play dirty too!” Believing he had the upper hand, Dick poured every ounce of his remaining strength into the offense, desperate for a solid hit, but it was like attacking a statue made of sharp angles.
“What kind of trick is this?! How're you doing this?!!” Cried the Acrobat.
The question flung Rowan back in time to his first night stumbling through a pitch-black Batcave and the pretty one-sided beatdown that followed. 'Your sight can fail, which is why you must learn to rely on all your senses. Look. Listen. Feel. Then analyze the information and draw the most logical conclusion. That’s how I seem to 'have eyes in the back of my head,’ as you put it.'
'Till this day, he still wasn't entirely convinced Bruce didn't just want to jump him for mouthing off… The Dark Knight had pleaded innocence, but God knew what was going on behind that (s)cowl of his.
Calmly brushing a patch of chalk from his shoulder, he finally opened his amethyst eyes—oozing neither malice nor smugness, just a cool, detached amusement. "Good idea, but if you think Bruce and I rely solely on sight, you are sorely mistaken.“
Sure, X-ray vision and fore planning had rendered this kind of training mostly obsolete, but it was still a pretty handy skill to have in case his Suit ever got torched.
“ArgggGH—!!!“ Dick's last, desperate attempt ended like all the others—with the mat rushing up to meet him. He squeezed his eyes shut in resignation, but the explosion of stars behind his eyelids never came for a hand had stopped his fall.
Richard exhaled shakily and threw a scathing glare over his shoulder—first at the offending hand, then at the 'uncle' it was attached to.
“I’ve seen enough.”
“W-What? What're you talking about?!“
“You’re ready.” Hopping out of the octagon, Rowan motioned for Dick to follow. “What are you waiting for—a red carpet? Come on, dude! I'll give a tour of the Batcave.”
“Th-The what?!”
“The Batcave! You know, Bruce’s spooky underground sweatshop? The one you kept whining to us about?”
A smile crept onto his lips as the pain, the frustration, and the forming bruises faded into the background. Giddily, Dick gave chase. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it sure wasn’t the ancient grandfather clock built into the Estate’s foundation.
“How does the mechanism operate?” Perking up, Dick scrambled beside the white-haired boy, who looked unblinkingly at the clock and chanted, “Open, sesame!”
The Acrobat blinked. “You’re kidding… You’ve got to be kidding.”
Sure enough, “I was, but imagine if I weren’t.”
With a grin that was far too manic for the quiet hallway, Rowan hoisted up to the towering grandfather clock and reached out to manually spin its large, ornate hands. Instead of a subtle click, the mechanism inside protested with a loud, grinding shriek that caused Dick to flinch.
“Is it supposed to make that sound?” He whispered, aghast.
“It is,” Rowan nodded absentmindedly. “It’s cheap security. Anyone looking for a secret passage usually expects something smooth; something… Sleek. Nobody ever suspects the noisy piece of junk that sounds like it's about to fall apart.“
By the time he dropped down, the gears were already turning, revealing a—”A safe?“
Inside were stacks of land deeds, money, and jewelry that looked like it cost more than what the average middle-class family spent in a year.
“It’s double security,” Rowan explained, pulling on a thin string Richard would have missed. “In case 'anyone' is too persistent.”
Finally, a stairway came into view.
It was a dark, horrifying thing that greedily swallowed up all light.
“Not what you're expecting?“
“Actually…” As sad as it was to admit, this was exactly what Dick had in mind.
“When did he even have time to build this?” Dick muttered, his voice echoing in the narrow passage.
Though, maybe the better question was: “How?”
Bruce had money, sure, but if there was one thing Dick had learned, it was that people sucked at keeping secrets. Especially massive, cave-sized ones. Logically, Batman's identity should be all over the news by now.
“You think he has time for construction projects between his nightly beatdowns and running a billion-dollar company? He didn't. His great-great-something-grandfather did. An ancestor named Anthony Wayne.“
“Great-great grandfather?! How long have—”
“The Waynes have been in Gotham since the mid-to-late 1700s… Everyone who built this place and dug the tunnels connecting it to the sewers probably doesn’t even have a marked grave anymore.”
Then again, Rowan doubted they ever got more than a pair of sticks for a cross.
After nearly three minutes of walking, they came to a heavy vault door which the Half-Fiend effortlessly turned.
“We’re here.” With a groan, the door swung inward, opening not into a room, but an abyss, where the salty wind of the Atlantic Ocean still whipped and whooshed… “Ooh! I feel like a cult leader giving the new initiate a tour!“
Where the air felt cold and ancient, and smelled like damp rocks mixed with welding fumes. Petrified at the entry, Richard's heart, which'd just calmed, began to hammer at his ribs again.
He couldn't see the walls, the ceiling, or much of anything at all, but he could sense the scale of the space before him.
“Welcome to the Bat-Family, 'Robin.'"
“Robin?“
“Your alias. It suits you far better than it ever did me anyway.“ With a flick of a switch, a series of cold, white floodlights hummed to life, chasing the ancient darkness away in an instant.
The sight instantly stole the breath from Richard’s lungs.
It was less a basement and more a cathedral of stone and steel. The ceiling was lost in shadows so high above that the stalactites looked like tiny, jagged teeth poised to crush anyone who dared enter. Spanning the vast space was a network of platforms, walkways, and cables all leading to a central, massive supercomputer—THE Batcomputer.
Off to the side stood the stiff form of a robotic T-Rex, right next to a penny the size of a small car.
Opposite them sat the Batmobile—repaired, upgraded with new functions, and recently reinforced with a newly-invented metal alloy Wayne Enterprises hadn’t made public yet… But what truly drew Dick’s eye was the row of illuminated glass displays lining the far wall—each holding a different Suit.
Variations of the Bat and Impset both!
Many of which Rowan himself hadn't had an opportunity to take out for a test drive.
And at the very end of the line stood an unlit display…
“God.“ Dick gasped.
What more could he say?
“Don’t worry, the awe wears off. Give it a couple weeks and you’ll feel right at home.” Skipping down the stairs like it was homeroom, Rowan stopped short in front of the displays and gestured broadly. “As you can see, Bruce and I each had our own... Let’s call it… Theme. Mine's horror—dread. The kind that sticks with the criminals even while they're cuffed in the back a cop car.
Bruce’s is simpler: Pure, in-your-face terror—usually delivered by his fists.
Criminals fear me because they don’t know what I’ll do to them. With Bruce, they’re terrified because they know exactly what he’ll do.
Yours, though—” With a soft whir, the lights within the glass flickered to life, bathing the contents in a vibrant glow. The suit inside was a clear departure from the blacks and grays of the Batsuit, and the dark, bloody crimson of the Impset, yet it wasn’t the blinding spectacle Dick had imagined, either.
Instead, it was a carefully balanced blend of muted colors.
Deep forest green formed the base of the suit, made from WayneTech's most durable synthetic fabric.
Over it, panels of subdued scarlet were layered across the chest, shoulders, forearms, and shins, offering protection without sacrificing agility.
The most striking feature, though, was the cape dyed in a vibrant, electric yellow that cascaded down the mannequin’s back like a streak of light. The second most eye-catching element was the small, stylized 'R' in black was emblazoned on the left side of the chestplate. “Yours will be rainbows and sunshine… Yours will be Hope. You like it?”
“Like it?“ Dick grinned. “I LOVE it!“
Backing away from the hug like he'd been burned, Rowan chuckled. “Thanks, Bruce. It’s his money—I just threw in a few words during the design.”
And thank God he did, because Bruce had seriously considered that awful neon green that would have painted a giant target on the kid’s back… Rowan honestly couldn't tell what went on in the man's head sometimes.
He was a brilliant detective, strategist, and crime-fighter, but when it came to fashion, the Caped Crusader sucked even harder than your average OnlyFans 'model'. Believe it or not, this version of Bruce actually wore his underwear on the outside back in the day.
'Well, at least he wasn't considering the speedo. That's something, I guess.' Rowan watched in amusement as Dick reached for the glass display, fingers just barely brushing the scarlet before getting a smack on the hand.
The boy yelped, yanking his stinging hand to his chest.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Dick blinked. “… Putting on my suit?”
“Hah! You wish it was that easy, kid.” The Half-Fiend barked.
“But you said I was ready!”
“Yeah… for the Batcave,” He corrected. “Trust me, if it were up to me, you’d already be flying all over the place, but when, and whether you will get to wear the Suit at all isn't my decision to make. It's his.“
A slow, toothy smirk spread across Rowan’s face, sending a sudden chill up his spine.
Then, he saw at the very edge of his vision a brief, impossible flutter of black curling around him.
'A cape?' Dick wondered, turning his head slowly, almost afraid of what he would find.
That was when he saw him.
“I see you’ve deemed it time to give Master Dick the grand tour…” Alfred said as he emerged from another room, carrying a tray of freshly baked biscuits. “Biscuit, sir?”
“Thank you.” Grabbing one, he asked through a mouthful, “You gonna stay and watch?”
“I’d love to. Unfortunately, the Estate requires tending to.“
“Need a hand?“
“It's unnecessary, but it'd be appreciated, Master Rowan.“
Their conversation did nothing to ease the knot in Dick’s gut as he locked eyes with Bruce's blank white lenses.
“H-Hi?“
“Have fun you two! Try to survive, little man!”
By the time Dick turned around, Rowan and the Batler were already halfway up the stairs.
“Where are you going?!”
“Upstairs!” Rowan called over his shoulder. “Show ’im your moves, circus boy!”
The moment the door closed, Rowan couldn’t help but giggle.
“I find your enthusiasm deeply troubling, sir. Shall I arrange for a psychological evaluation?“
“Pennyworth, I’ve taken more beatings in the last three years than I can count… It’s about time someone else took the heat off my back.”
A harrowing cry echoed up the passage, brightening his expression even more.
"There's not a day I don't thank the Lord Master Bruce took you in..."
"Me too, Pennyworth. Me too."
“RoOWAAAN—!“
— [HELLBRED] —
“I was grinning from ear to ear after I knew it was a petty thing to be happy about, but I couldn't help it. At last, someone else was on the receiving end of Bruce’s ‘training.’ Someone finally understood!
For a split second, I almost felt bad for laughing at Night—Oh, who am I kidding? That shit was hilarious. Double it and pass it to the next generation, Dick! Anyway… The morning after his 'Initiation,' Dick looked absolutely miserable. Every muscle in his body must have been screaming, but you wouldn’t have known it.
The kid didn’t just show up for training; he fucking doubled down, cranking the intensity up past anything we’d done before.
I've gotta give it to him; Dick Grayson had one hell of a work ethic.
Then again, the promise of a custom-made Supersuit waiting at the finish line is a pretty damn good motivator. Sadly, I only got to enjoy the show for two meager days.
The third I mainly spent packing my luggage, and by the time I got back, things had already gone to shit...
Fuck, let’s not go there right now.
What did I do after? I waited. Restlessly.
Compared to Bruce, I wasn't as familiar with Zatara and had no idea what to expect.
I later learned he’s always fashionably late. Even when collecting a Hellspawn from his Bat-themed buddy, apparently.“
— [HELLBRED] —
The final day arrived sooner than any of them wanted. The Batcave, usually humming with focus and purpose, was drowned in a somber silence that even made Rowan a little nervous as he sat on his packed duffel bag
Alfred was the first to approach.
Fussing over Rowan’s collar, he whispered. “While I doubt Mr. Zatara's pantry is as well-stocked as ours, do try to eat three proper meals a day, sir.“
Rowan managed a weak smile, the usual witty retort dying in his throat. “I’ll try, Alfred. Thanks… For everything.”
Bruce was next.
He offered no critique, no encouragement, none of that nitty-gritty sentimental bullshit. Just a curt, “Be safe. You're in good hands.“
Finally, Dick couldn’t hold it back anymore, throwing his arms around Rowan in a tight hug and burying his face in the older boy’s jacket. “You’re really gonna come back, right?”
Stiff and unused to the gesture, Rowan awkwardly patted his back. “‘Course I am, kid. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t scuff up my old suit.”
Before the discomfort could sink in any deeper, the air near the Batcomputer suddenly shimmered.
The scent of old parchment and distant thunderstorms filled the cave as Giovanni Zatara stepped through a Tear in Reality, still dressed in the same tuxedo and top hat. He took one look around the cavern, and furrowed his brows in disapproval. "I meant to bring this up last time, Bruce, but this place has no ward protecting it. I could walk in like it was a public library. Any half-competent Hedge Mage could do the same."
“We’ll fix that upon your return,” Bruce replied. “A consultation for another time.”
Zatara noddedly curtly and gestured to Rowan. “It is time, boy.”
With a snap of his fingers, a more stable portal formed behind him, its swirling, golden energies casting strange, dancing lights across the Batcave.
Rowan took a deep breath and grabbed his bag, only to pause at the threshold.
“What's the matter?“
“Just a sec, please.“ He turned back, gaze meeting Richard's as he pulled a crinkled piece of paper from his pocket. “I almost forgot!”
“What’s this?”
“A list of jokes I thought of but never got around to making. Put it to good use… For me.”
Rowan looked back one last time, giving the three of them a final, confident grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "See you later, guys!"
And then he vanished into the swirling gold.
The portal snapped shut behind him, plunging the Batcave back into its usual silence.
But the silence felt different now.
It felt heavier… Deeper. Only once he was truly gone did the three of them realize just how vast, and truly lifeless the Estate felt without Rowan's constant energy, his sharp wit, and his seemingly endless stream of dumbassery.
Dick looked down at the crumpled, yellowing piece of paper, carefully opened it and read the neatly written list aloud, voice full of questions.
"...'Grumpenstein'... 'Sir Broods-a-Lot'... 'Sugar-Batty'?!“
Alfred let out a quiet sigh, the corner of his mouth twitching while he valiantly fought back a smile.
“Of course. It wouldn’t be Rowan if he didn’t leave us with one last laugh.”
The Dark Knight refused to comment… In fact, the only tell of his fury was the sharp protest of armored synthetic fiber as his fists clenched at his sides.
"I'm going to kill him when he gets back."
Comments
Ano Nymous
He cool tho.
Derek Palm
He's the Sugar Batty
