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Season 0: Year One C16: Tony Zucco (Public)
🕑 Added 2025-06-22 16:30:46 +0000 UTC“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.
They barely had a second to breathe before a Batclaw zipped 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!“
