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Season 0: Year One C13: An Addition to the Family (3) (Public)
🕑 Added 2025-06-08 14:09:12 +0000 UTC“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 little—?!
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 Dick 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, then did what anyone in his shoes had to and picked himself up.
