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Season 0: Year One C17: Flippin' the Page (1) (Public) (Edited)
🕑 Added 2025-06-26 16:29:00 +0000 UTC“Any last words, Hellspawn?“
Rowan stared at the man in the top hat for a moment, rain soaking his cape.
“Look, I get it… I do look pretty evil, but you have got the wrong guy. I’m more a local nuisance than ‘Avatar of Pestilence.’ You want plague? Try the chili cart on 5th and Miller. That’s the real biohazard.”
Zatara’s jaw clenched in fury. “Silence, Fiend! Your silver tongue won’t save you!“
“—Robin, fall back.“ Bruce’s voice echoed through the coms. “—Do not engage. Giovanni Zatara is an ally.”
“A little late for that!” Rowan roared, sidestepping as golden light bloomed in the Magician's palms. “And for the record, he started this!”
“Your flippancy ends now! [stloB rekeeS ,esaeleR]!“ Shrieking Bolts exploded from the Magician's palm, homing in on Rowan’s Demonic Aura. He dove behind a rooftop AC unit, biting back a curse as they arced mid-air and circled him like sharks.
He braced, staff up and ready, only to get ragdolled sideways… By Ichor, of all things. 'Since when could you do that?'
The Shade even dared shrug, as if to tell him to be understanding.
He’d love to argue, really, but he was too distracted by the unit's scream as the Bolts tore through it, turning the machine ti molten scrap. “So we’re skipping the pleasantries… Good to know.“
Rowan clicked his tongue, breaking into a dead sprint and firing the Batclaw at an adjacent building.
Mid-swing, he scowled, finding Zatara already ahead of him, floating unaided like gravity was less a law and more a suggestion to him.
'Teleportation…'
What couldn't Magic do?
“There's no escape, Abomination! [dleihS fo htrofyaM ,esirA]!”
A wall of semi-translucent Arcane Sigils interlocked in front of the Magician, just in time to eat up the volley of explosive Batarangs Rowan had launched. The Bat-themed devices detonated against Zatara's Barrier, concussive force rippling across like pebbles skimming a pond.
He landed with a thud on the next rooftop, skidded to a halt, and leveled the Bat-glare at Zatara. “Fuck running.“
If it was a fight the Magician wanted, then a fight he’d get.
“My turn.” Rowan hissed, jabbing a command into his Ultility Belt. The drones on his back-piece detached with a hiss, zipping through the dark at sharp angles toward Zatara, speakers blasting distorted loops of meaningless noises meant to disorientate, while black smoke bled from the pellets.
Zatara scoffed, a bit annoyed, but mostly insulted. “Your mortal trinkets are no match for my Spells! Give up, Fiend, and be exorcised.“
“—Has that line ever worked out for you, Mage?“
The Master of Shadowcrest whirled toward the noise, and caught a smack upside the head from the Demon, who was already taking cover.
Zatara growled as a brick flew at his face next, followed by an uppercut from Rowan.
The brick exploded against his Spell, swallowing the Magician in a thick cloud that scraped his throat and triggered a violent coughing fit. Unable to speak, much less chant, Zatara could only endure the onslaught while Rowan swung his staff against the Arcane Shield until it finally imploded in a shower of sparks.
That was all the opening the Shade needed. With a soundless snarl, Ichor lunged across the rooftop, curled talons sinking into the shadow of the machinery.
Ripping the AC unit free from its bolts, he hurled it at the Mage.
That should’ve been the finishing blow, but with a flick of his wrist, Zatara stopped the wreckage cold, then sent it cartwheeling off the roof. It crashed onto the street below with a thunderous boom.
Jaw tightening, Rowan clicked his tongue.
'Non-Verbal Casting… Of course.' Rowan doubted Zatara was as well-versed in it as he was in his family's signature Reverse-Casting, but a Mage of his caliber would obviously know another method.
“Stupid. Stupid…” And he'd been so sure victory was at hand.
With a sweep of Zatara’s hand, Rowan was thrown through a solid brick wall, gasping as white-hot agony shot up his spine.
He coughed, dust filling his lungs.
For Rowan, pain had always been a familiar acquaintance, but such delibitating pain was new.
Ichor pulsed weakly in front of him protectively.
"—Robin, status!"
“No—”
He clenched his teeth, swallowing the bile clawing up his throat as tears squeezed from his eyes. “Not good. I, uhm, I think I just got new compression fractures (spinal)…”
"—I'm twelve minutes away from your location… Can you move?“ Rowan tried. God knew he did, but that throw must've knocked some good ol' logic into his body, 'cause never in his lives had attempting half a sit-up felt so torturous—not even during the early days of his training.
“I-I can't.“ Rowan wheezed just as Zatara made his presence known, feet-first. “He's here…”
Gliding through the hole in the wall, the Magician hovered over the rubble-strewn floor of what looked like an office space; his tuxedo miraculously clean, his eyes burning with a cold fire Rowan couldn’t quite comprehend.
'The fuck did I even do?' He thought resentfully. Was it Zucco? Did the magician see him beating the local gangster senseless and just decide he was the villain?
That didn’t add up. Zatara might be a controlling hard-ass, but he wasn't the type to go around beating the hell out of teenagers—Fiend-Touched or not.
“He mentioned a plague…”
“Nowhere to run, Hellspawn.“ Zatara's voice boomed outside the building. Sounding quite a bit enraged, the big, bad Bat finally spoke up. “—Put me on speaker.“
“You'r-You're on.“ Gasping for air, Rowan weakly steadied himself against a table. To think he, of all people, would end up with a spinal injury even before Batgirl… 'I think I'll pass on being Oracle.'
With a crackle, the Dark Knight thundered through Rowan's drones. “—Giovanni.“
Zatara, who had been delivering a tirade above the street, halted mid-stride. “Parlor trick, demon! Mimicking the voice of a good man won’t save you, nor shall wearing his Symbol!”
“God—” Rowan bit back a flinch at the word. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”
Knowing what awaited Zatara down the line, Rowan used to pity the Magician…
Well, not anymore!
In fact, Rowan couldn't wait for the Lord of Order to lay his claim on the man.
“—It really is me… The boy is under my protection. You'll stand down, or you will be treated as a hostile. This is your only warning.“
“This has to be a trick.“ Zatara mumbled, uncertainty warring with the desire to destroy this Stain upon the Immaterium.
“—It is not. Ask me something only you and I will know.“
Brows furrowed, the Magician demanded. “How long ago did you come to me seeking the Mystic Arts?“
“—Seven years, two months, eleven hours and counting.“
“What alias did you use?“
“—John Smith.“
“J-John Smith? Are you serious?!” Cackling at the absurdly lazy alias, Rowan nearly doubled over as the laughter shot another jolt of white-hot agony through his spine. Ignoring him, the heroes went back-n'-forth questions for several more rounds before the Magician dared lower his hands… Slightly. “Do make haste, Batman… This matter demands immediate attention.“
“—I'm inbound in five.“
Two minutes later, Zatara sensed a presence behind him.
He turned, coming face-to-face with the visibly irritated Dark Knight.
“Batman—” Zatara began, only to be brushed aside by the Bat himself.
“Robin?“ He called, cape scraping the floor as he knelt beside his sprawled protégé. “Rowan?“
Heart pounding in his chest, Bruce unfastened the teenager's helmet, freeing matted, clumped white strands. He checked the teenager's pulse, exhaling the lungful he didn't even realize he was holding when he felt movements.
“I don't know how, but you will fix this.“
“Batman,” Zatara’s voice strained, caught between respect and outrage. “You have no understanding of what you’ve brought under your roof, do you?”
Fists clenched at his sides, the Dark Knight barked. “Fix this. Now!“
“The boy is—”
“An orphan. My ward. My protégé, whom you just attacked and CRIPPLED unprovoked!“
“I attacked what I perceive to be a threat to this city.” Zatara countered.
“Yes! You perceived. You didn't bother to confirm.”
Bruce argued, carefully adjusting Rowan’s head, his movements gentle in a way that felt jarringly at odds with his fury. “Mark my words: If any harm befalls him, I'll deploy every asset at my disposal against you, Giovanni.“
Translation: Fix this, or else.
Deciding it wasn’t worth the fight, and that his actions did warrant an explanation, plus confident he could sway the Bat’s judgment, Giovanni stepped in front of the boy and extended his palm. “[Dnuow dnem]… [Nekowa litnu peelS].”
A soft white light pulsed from Zatara’s palm and sank into the boy’s suit. Beneath the rain-soaked fabric, muscles spasmed as the Spell supercharged his unnatural healing. Faint, wet clicks followed the grating sound of fractured vertebrae knitting back together.
Sweat beaded his pale forehead despite the cold as a low groan escaped his lips.
Even in a magic-induced coma, his mind still recoiled from the pain.
He looked small. Broken… Quite the miserable sight under Gotham’s unforgiving sky.
Zatara observed the process with an unreadable expression, a cold sliver of doubt coiling in his stomach. The Magic flowing through the boy was undoubtedly Demonic, but it was mending, fortifying, not corrupting. Could he have been wrong?
'No.' His jaw tightened as the corrupting Wind stirred where the boy lay. “It’s him.”
The boy was feeding Gotham’s Curse.
Zatara just wasn’t as convinced it was a conscious choice anymore.
'Regardless…'
.
.
.
“If this isn't dealt with appropriately, he'll be a danger to everyone…”
Rowan stirred at the harsh bark, adrenaline spiking the moment he recognized the voice. 'Zatara!'
The good news was: He was alive.
The bad news? His would-be-murderer was close by.
Thankfully, the fear was instantly checked by a second, calmer voice.
'Bruce's.' Rowan sighed in relief.
“You're positive he's causing these Mutations?”
“I am. The Demonic Signature in Waylon Jones’ scales matches his by up to 70%. Even you haven’t come out unscathed… In fact, because of your proximity to the Source, you are the most affected, Batman.”
The revelation caused Rowan to stiffen.
Eyelids fluttering, he forced himself to focus on his mentor’s voice.
“I feel normal.”
“I don’t doubt it. The Energy seems to be building toward something. I'd recommend a thorough Spiritual Cleansing and adding a cross to your arsenal.”
“What are our options?”
“We either extract the Demonic Bloodline, which is riskier, but it'd sever his cursed heritage completely… Or we repair the leaked Seal.”
Soon, the only sounds left were the faint drip of water from the cave ceiling and the rythmic hum of the machinery as both went quiet, and then—”What are your thoughts, Rowan?"
Rowan pushed himself up to a sitting position, bracing for a protest of pain from his spine and, thankfully, finding none. He swung his legs over the side of the cot, bare feet grazing the bare but smoothened rock and looked at his mentor. "When did you notice?"
"The moment you woke.“
Rowan could’ve sworn the lines on his face hadn’t been this prominent in the morning.
“Can you guys run the situation over for me?”
And they did.
Well, Zatara did.
“So every time I release the cross—”
“A massive spike of Demonic Energy is unleashed, which Gotham's been feeding on for months. She absorbs your loose Magic, filters it, and assigns it to specific Avatars to create widespread fear and mass suffering… We're fortunate to have discovered it in time.“
“You speak of Gotham like it's alive.”
Zatara frowned. “She’s as alive as any mushroom or mold… Her reproduction and hunting patterns all line up with cordyceps.”
“Only instead of ants, the city infects people, and instead of spores, she spreads misery. Got it… What if I leave Gotham?“
Zatara didn't even consider the proposal.
“It won't matter. Wherever you go, if your power isn’t stabilized, it might even create new Hexzones.”
Flopping onto the operating table, brain cluttered with half-formed thoughts, the boy rolled back down with a sigh.
“Can you teach me how to control it? Harness it to my benefits?“
The magician hesitated, staring at the boy strangely. “Forgive me for being nosy, but wouldn’t it be better to reinforce the Seal, or better yet, remove it entirely? Demonic magic isn’t a joking matter. I’ve never seen a Fiend-Touched with anything close to a decent life, unless they’re either A: Irredeemably Evil; B: Completely broken by their circumstances; or C: Utterly corrupted by their power.“
“You left out option D.”
“Which is?” Zatara asked, brows raised.
“The ones who make it work.”
Rubbing his temples, the Magician replied, visibly troubled by the thought. “That’s the point… No one has. Even when they manage to endure the Corruption, they will be hunted by other Demons. It's probably why your parents left you in Gotham in the first place. The Curse on this city is so overwhelming, any Demonic fluctuations just get lost in the noise.”
“You know what I have that they don't?“
“If it's determination you're talking about, it's Pride speaking.“ The Magician sighed. “Demons, even Halfings tend to succumb to the Cardinal Sins.“
Rolling his eyes, Rowan shook his head. “Not that. The difference between them and me is… Guidance. I’ve had a mentor who already beat some discipline into me—”
Bruce’s rigid face didn’t so much as twitch, but Rowan could've sworn there was half a smile hiding somewhere in there as the turned to the Magician. “And I will soon have the best damn teacher in the Mystic Arts.”
“You mean—” Zatara began, but the Imp was faster… Quite a bit louder, too.
“You're the best fit for the job, Mr. Zatara… You owe me that much at least.“
[Rowan used OFF-HANDED PRAISE & GUILT-TRIP!]
“I-I'm not sure about this…“ Trying to hide the embarrassed yet unmistakably proud smile tugging at his face, the Magician distractedly twirled his mustache.
[It's SUPER EFFECTIVE!]
“C’mon!”
Rowan grinned, circling the indecisive Mage like a fox in a henhouse. “Think about it. If you train me right, Earth gets another powerful, Good-aligned Mage, plus an Immortal Halfling who can handle Infernal threats. And if I ever go off the rails… Well, it's never too late to beat the Demon out of me, right?“
“Technically, Halflings aren’t immortal. They’re just long-lived.”
'Gotcha, bitch!' Rowan almost trilled, barely smothering the laughter into a few triumphant chuckles. “See? You haven’t even agreed to it and already you’re teaching! I would say that's a mark of a great teacher… Wouldn't you, John Smith?“
“It was one time.“ Bruce growled.
“Hey, don't get upset at me for your crappy naming sense!“ Waving cheerfully at the two of them, Rowan stripped down to the bodysuit under his armor and made a beeline for the exit, as if hanging around for too long might just give Zatara more time to poke holes in his otherwise ironclad rationalization.
“I'll see you in a month, teach!“
“A month?!”
“Well, yeah! You didn’t think I was just gonna pack a bag and head out tonight, did ya’? Don’t worry… I’ll keep the cross on in the meantime.”
With one last wave, Rowan darted up the stairs.
Watching him disappear, Zatara smacked his lips. “How do you deal with him? The boy’s a handful.”
“It’s easier than you’d think,” Bruce shrugged. “Rowan’s cocky, reckless, foul-mouthed, and violent… But he’s also determined, surprisingly resilient, loyal to a fault and he has got a good heart. Even if he doesn’t believe it himself.”
Tapping his foot, Zatara glared at the cave ceiling. “I just got played like a fiddle, didn’t I?”
The Dark Knight smirked. “You’ll get used to it.”
— [HELLBRED] —
“As you can see, my run-in with my second mentor wasn’t exactly peaceful. But hey, you've got to learn how to swallow a grudge when literal Magic's on the line. Besides, Zatara’s not that big of an asshole.
He’s controlling, sure.
Prideful too, and rightfully so given his mastery of the Mystic Arts.
But underneath all that is a bona fide hero—one I’ll begrudgingly admit I respect, despite our less-than-stellar first meeting…
Ah, fuck, I'm getting ahead of myself again.
You're probably wondering why I asked for an extra month! And the answer is—drumroll, please: RELATIONSHIPS!!! Or networking, if you’re feeling particularly edgy. What can I say?
As much as I loathe her to the core, I’ve got a lot of unfinished business in Gotham.
And, as a former Gamer, I felt obligated to clear all the Side Quests before moving on to the Main Storyline…
Life isn’t like a dating sim.
Apparently, you can’t just drop the controller, disappear for months or years, and expect the relationships you have built to stay strong or survive for that matter. Surprising, amirite?!
Furthermore, if I had just upped and left with Zatara, how'd Bruce feel?
How'd Alfred? Or Richard?
Hell, even that gremlin who sat next to me at school deserved a proper goodbye. Didn't he?
So yeah… I needed that extra month, if only to say goodbye the right way.
I know, I know…
It made me look soft, buuu-ut, well, even setting aside Dick, I owe Bruce and Alfred a hell of a lot. Didn't want them thinking they’re disposable…
Neither Bruce nor I thought it’d be the last time we saw each other.
Although, I suppose it’s more accurate to say none of them realized it’d be the last time they got to talk to Rowan Locke under normal circumstances…“
— [HELLBRED] —
Cross dangling from his wrist, Rowan cracked his neck, popped the knots in his back, and got back to packing.
His temporary relocation to Shadowcrest was still a month away, but if Bruce had taught him anything, it was that a little preparation could do wonders for his life.
Halfway through packing, a wave of sadness and nostalgia struck him square in the stomach. Pausing, Rowan glanced out the window as he breathed in the cold, damp air of Gotham; then his own scent mingling with that of old furniture and the soft, familiar trace of Alfred’s favorite detergent: Tide Purclean. (A/N: Hit me up, Tide.)
Before he realized it, Rowan already found himself outside his room, his feet carrying him through the halls as though retracing a map of memories he was afraid of losing.
He passed through the grand foyer, the polished marble floor reflecting the dim sunrise from the high arched windows. He remembered standing here on his first day, a scrawny, defiant street rat swallowed by the sheer scale of it all, feeling the eyes of Bruce’s ancestors silently judging him from their gilded frames.
Now, their gazes felt less like an accusation and more… Sorrowful, almost.
If he didn’t know any better, he might’ve thought they were bidding him farewell.
His path took him past the library and the heavy oak doors that were slightly ajar.
The scent of old paper and leather polish drifted out, and for a second, he could almost picture Bruce inside, hunched over a desk while buried in case files with the only light in the cavernous chamber coming from the blue glow of the Bat-computer.
He found himself in the dining hall next, eyes falling upon the long, treated oakwood table, so immaculately shiny Rowan could see the distorted reflection of the chandelier above.
The sight alone immediately brought back the rich taste of Alfred's signature beef wellington on the tip of his tongue.
Hell, he could even hear Alfred’s insistence that he eat more vegetables.
It was where they’d first started to feel less like a billionaire, his butler, and his mouthy ward, and more like a strange, dysfunctional family.
Even the gym sparked memories… New and old alike.
His wandering finally ended in the courtyard where the crisp morning air jolted his system.
He stepped to the edge of the manicured lawn, damp grass rustling beneath the soles of his shoes.
Before him, Gotham sprawled across the horizon—a beautiful, malevolent beast glittering with a million lights, each one telling a story of hope or despair. It was the city that had almost killed him. The city that had saved him. And the city he had fought and bled to protect.
Silently, Rowan sank on his backside, watching as the Sun chased away the dark.
The soft footfall behind him drew a glance, but little more than.
“A bit chilly out here, sir… I was about to put on a pot of tea. I thought you might join me.”
Rowan let out a short, humorless puff of air. “You heard, didn’t you?”
“I won’t pretend to understand Magic, but I do know this: Whatever changes, whoever you end up becoming, the door to the Estate will remain open to you. And that for as long as I draw breath, I will be around to welcome you home.”
The usual witty retort died on Rowan's tongue at the old man's sincerity. All he could manage was a quiet, “Thanks, Alfred.”
Sensing his sinking mood, the Batler added some much-needed levity. “I only ask that you refrain from getting into any more altercations with master Magicians. My nerves aren’t what they used to be.”
“I’ll try, but no promises.”
Their peaceful moment was interrupted by a frantic shout from the Estate. “Rowan!”
Both of them turned as Dick burst out the side door, skidding to a halt on the stone patio before throwing himself at his confused ‘uncle.’
“Thank you…” The boy choked. “Really. Thank you.”
Patting his back clumsily, Rowan asked, “For what?“
“For making sure he paid. For not letting him get away with it.”
Smoothly feigning innocence, Rowan asked. “Who?“
“Don't play dumb… You know who.“
“But I didn't do anything, though? That was the Imp.“
Laughter muffled against his shoulder, the boy pulled back with a grin. “Well then… You tell him I said thanks.”
The unguarded gratitude caught Rowan off guard.
This was it.
This was the breakthrough he’d been pushing for…
The first real crack in the wall of grief Dick had built around himself.
In that moment of clarity, his own looming departure suddenly hit harder than ever, and the thought slipped out before he could stop it. “Glad we got that sorted. I'd hate to leave in a month with things still up in the air.”
Dick’s grin instantly vanished, replaced by confusion as he took half a step back, expression clouded over with fear. “Leave? What are you talking about…? Why?! Is it because of me? Did I do something wrong?”
“What? No, kid, of course not.”
“Then it’s because of last night, isn’t it?” The Boy-Wonder pressed. “I heard what the reporters were all saying, that The Imp was too violent with that scum. If Bruce is angry, I can talk to him! I’ll tell him you were doing it for me, he’ll understand!”
Taken aback by the attitude, Rowan could only blink at the boy.
The idea of Dick Grayson trying to lecture Batman on his behalf was equal parts absurd and… Kind of touching. “Whoa, whoa, slow the fuck down, geez! It’s not because of you, and it’s definitely not because of Zucco. Bat—Bruce isn’t kicking me out.”
Trying to find the right words, he deflated, gaze drifting past Dick and settling on his mentor. “This is… Personal. It's something I have to do, for myself and for Gotham. Think of it like… Finishing one chapter and having to start the next.”
Dick opened his mouth to protest, to argue that families were supposed to stay together, but the words caught dead in his throat… He was just ready to compose himself when Bruce called out from the back.
“Did someone mention me?”
Freezing, Richard turned to see the Batman behind him, holding a tray of steaming mugs with a smile.
“God, you're creeping me the fuck out, Bruce.“
Neither Rowan, nor Richard went to school that day.
In fact, the two could've dodged school the whole month, if Rowan hadn't insisted on bidding the booger-gremlin goodbye as well.
