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Season 0: Year One C12: An Addition to the Family (2) (Public)
🕑 Added 2025-06-03 04:05:16 +0000 UTC“Let’s see what the new vigilante’s left us,” Commissioner Gordon muttered as he ducked underneath the jammed shutter.
Inside, six of Cobblepot’s men lay zip-tied and unconscious, almost blending in with the trash that littered the warehouse floor.
“Move in.“ Jim ordered, and the officers behind him immediately began to fan out.
“What do you see, rookie?”
Detective Samuel Reed crouched beside a blood smear on the stairwell, studied the Batarang embedded in a blown control box before speaking. “He didn’t come through the main entrance. Shutters are reinforced, and the locks are still in place. He most likely came in through the upper floor.”
Gordon nodded, satisfied. “Keep going.”
Reed glanced up the stairs, eyes scanning the blood trail.
“One of the guards saw him on the stairs and went to engage. He was taken down and dragged up.”
“Dragged?” Gordon repeated, peering down at the smear.
Reed crouched beside the stairway, eyes narrowed as he traced the blood trail with a gloved finger. “Indeed. There’s blood on every step. Evenly spaced, but no signs of pooling or big splatter after the first impact…”
“Trail's too even.“ The Commissioner approvingly agreed. “Keep going.“
“Imp used him to lure them up, then circled down through the ventilation system while the others were trying to intercept and picked the weaker links off.” Reed gestured toward the vent near the ceiling where the warped cover lay unassumingly.
“The metal’s bent outward, the bolts popped, yet I see very little evidence of blunt impact, just consistent pressure from within the vent. I don't know what the hell Batman's feeding this kid, but I want it.“ Maybe it'd make leg days a bit more bearable for him.
Surveying the scene again, Gordon remarked, “They tried to run.”
“So he blew the control boxes and trapped them.” Reed helpfully tooted.
"We owe Batman a thank."
Because if the Imp had decided to break bad, Gordon had no doubt he and the GCPD would be sweeping up body parts by now.
“Lucky us.“ Sam cheered, flying up the stairs only to freeze as he saw the massacre. “Holy shit.“
His older colleague rushed up a moment later, chest heaving violently as he wheezed beside Sam.
The GCPD had their reasons for liking Batman.
For all the damage he did to their public image, the man was efficient. He gave them legal leverage to storm criminal fronts without a warrant; treaded grounds where they couldn't, but more importantly: The Dark Knight showed restraint—a trait his sidekick evidently lacked.
Some of the injuries they were seeing were dangerously close to attempted murder.
“My God…”
Sam had just taken a step when a limp body plummeted next to him, bringing down a large chunk of the ceiling.
"Do I need to reconstruct this one too?" Sam asked wearily, glancing at a thug slumped against the fuse box, another still whimpering even in unconsciousness, and the last sprawled beside the bricks he'd brought down earlier.
"No..." Gordon responded.
Anyone with half an eye could piece together what happened: Violence.
Extreme. Unabashed. Violence.
The kind that would have every human rights group in the country sharpening their pitchforks if a badge had been responsible.
To be fair, it was not as if Batman or his sidekick received a free pass.
Plenty of groups had voiced their concerns, but people liked the idea of having a watchful, albeit broody protector around.
As a result, most of the criticism was acknowledged, then promptly tossed in the trash.
The fact that Batman clearly couldn't care less, and had never taken their bait helped.
Without fresh material from the Caped Crusader, the press could only recycle variations of the same headline so many times before it started tanking their view counts.
“He's… Well, he's breathing. That's something, right?“
“He’s… well, he’s breathing. That’s something, right?”
Shaking his head, the Commissioner weaved through the unconscious bodies, slapping cuffs on each one he passed until a faint, muffled cry caught his attention.
He stopped, raised his standard issue G22, and signaled for his partner to close in.
'1… 2… 3!' Gordon mouthed, kicking the door in. “GCPD! Hands where I can see them!”
It wasn't a pocket of criminals like Jim suspected, but a group of scantily clad women huddled together at the back of the room. Sam blushed like a Christmas tree at the sight, while his colleague gruffly repeated the command. “I repeat: Hands where I can see them!“
“J-Jim?“ Sam began, but wisely stayed his tongue as the Commissioner shot him an unkind glare. The distraction lasted only a split second, but it was more than enough time for one of the call-girls to draw her gun—an angry-looking butch with blond hair, a square jaw and an even squarer haircut.
Sam dove toward his partner, narrowly pushing him out of the line of fire and taking a bullet to the thigh for his effort.
Commissioner Gordon responded with several discharges in quick succession, catching her directly between the eyes.
He waited until all movements fully ceased before turning to his partner and keying his radio.
“GCPD Unit 4-3: Suspect down. Officer injured. Requesting immediate medical response.“ Jim reported over the radio, kneeling to check on a hissing Sam.
He'd have helped Samuel down himself, but someone needed to maintain overwatch on the civilians and potential criminals sprinkled amongst them.
“—Request acknowledged. Medics en route. Maintain communication, Unit 4-3.“
“Roger that.“ The Commissioner barked. “You feeling alright?”
“Hell no,” The young detective shakily managed, forcing up an ugly, distorted smile while a thick brownish smear darkened his beat-up jeans. “But I think I’ll live.”
“Well, take this as a lesson. Just because they’re girls—”
“Scantily clad girls.” Sam muttered, wincing again.
“—Doesn’t mean they’re friendlies. I’ve known good men who lost their lives thinking a pretty face isn't dangerous… I don't want you ending up like them.“
“I won't, boss.“
They had barely the time for a breather when an ear-piercing bellow erupted in the first floor.
“On the ground! On the fucking ground, now!“
“Oh God, it's here! I see it! It's in the shadows!“
The call-girls flinched in unison as gunfire boomed beneath them, rattling the floor and fraying already raw nerves.
“—Suspect armed and hysterical, all Units proceed with cautious.“ Jim's radio cackled.
“Damn…”
“Go. I’ve got this,” Reed reassured, palming his holstered sidearm and ushering the Commissioner downstairs with a tilt of his head. Then he added jokingly, “Just make sure whoever's screaming bloody murder down there doesn’t make it up here.”
“Stay safe, Reed.“
Exchanging a nod, Jim bolted for the door.
Left behind, the injured officer repositioned himself where he had a clear view of both the women and the doorway. The moment the Commissioner exited, Samuel hooked a finger at one of the girls—a baby-faced brunette, just like his contact described, dressed in a cheap angel lingerie that barely covered her modesty. “C'mere.“
The 'divine' garb strained against shapely curves sculpted to tempt Saints.
“Y-Yes, sir?”
“Closer.“
She edged forward, ignoring the whispered cautions around her.
With a subtle flick, the girl tore a piece from her skimpy outfit as if to fashion a bandage for the crook, while letting a small pocket journal slip from her bra which Sam smoothly caught, hiding it with a quick sleight of hand.
“Good girl.” He smiled to mask the exchange, then tossed her a bundle of zip ties. “You know what to do.”
“W-Wait! Why are you tying us up?!”
“Last I checked, prostitution’s still illegal.” Sam smirked, the journal slipping through his clothes and vanishing into his skin. “And I’m not too keen on getting shot twice.”
“We were forced!” One of the girls shouted.
Faking a smile in turn, Reed chuckled. “That’s what they all say. In the end, it’s still up to the court to decide if there’s evidence of coercion or wrongdoing. Until then…”
.
.
.
It took them half an hour to secure the building—just enough time for the press to catch wind of the raid and come running, led by none other than the ever-glamorous Vicki Vale, Gotham’s new face of journalism.
The girl was pretty—Gordon would give her that—but it was her single-minded pursuit of the truth that earned his respect. If only she’d stop pestering him every damn chance she got, and he might even find her likeable.
“Commissioner, can you give us anythin—”
“Vale.” Gordon didn’t stop walking. “You know I can’t comment on an active crime scene.”
“You’ve said that every time, and yet, somehow, I keep asking.” The journalist matched his stride, heels clicking against the pavement. “Was it the Batman again? Or the new sidekick everyone’s talking about?”
Gordon paused just long enough to glare over his shoulder, before ducking into his car. "Official statement will be released within the hour. For now, do me a favor and stay behind the tape."
“There's a rumor going around saying this is the Penguin's operation—is there any truth to it?”
Gordon didn’t slow his stride. “You know I’m not at liberty to name names, Vicki.”
“I'm taking that as a 'yes.'”
Thankfully, she didn’t press further, heels clicking some more as she drifted off toward one of the trembling victims, sensing she’d wrung the Commissioner dry and smelling fresher headlines elsewhere. He'd stop Vicki, but better them than him.
They could say whatever they wanted; Jim Gordon—the face of the GCPD—couldn't. Not without consequences, and his position was already shaky as it was.
Sighing again, the Commissioner’s thoughts wandered to the stack of reports and paperwork he’d inevitably have to fill over this mess and slumped on the steering wheel.
Desperate to get ahead of the press and dreading whatever story the likes of Vicki might spin, the GCPD rushed to get statements out, though by then, the young woman already got what she needed.
Fixing her hair, she smiled at the camera.
“—As you can see, I'm standing in front of the old Trenton Freight Depot on 5th and Calder, where GCPD just concluded a major raid earlier this evening.” Miles away, in the still silence of Wayne Manor, a television flickered in a once-forgotten room.
Dick Grayson flipped through the channels, stopping only when he caught the tail's end of Vicki's news report. “—I could stand here and recount to you how Gotham’s newest vigilante took this place apart, but let’s be real: I wasn’t there. So instead of guessing, let’s hear it from the people who were.“
The screen cut to a twitchy man in his twenties. His bruises were recent. “—I think I saw ’em… up in the dark, clinging to the ceiling. I swear he shushed me. Or maybe I imagined it. It was too damn dark to tell. Thank God he showed up when he did though… I don’t think I’d have survived another round in the Pit.“
“—This,” Vicki began, slowly stepping into frame and motioning to the filthy, bloodstained coliseum below, “Is where it happened. Where unlucky debtors are brought, forced into brutal fights for the entertainment of the crowd. Bets were placed. Blood was spilled. But tonight was different. Tonight, their cruelty was interrupted by—”
“—A Demon! He was a Demon, I swear it!” Bleeding from his scalp, the man eagerly jumped into view. “No man could hope to do what he did. I saw grown men scream while being dragged into the dark. Guys who made us suffer and laughed while they did it!”
The footage cut back to Vicki, who offered the camera a half-hearted smile. “—If this is how his sidekick is described, maybe there’s some truth to those rumors about Batman being a creature of the night after all?“
The segment ran for three whole minutes, cutting between frantic accounts of Gotham’s latest addition to her ever-growing freak show.
Some spoke of shifting, sentient shadows. Others swore the vigilante was the darkness—an unholy blur that stirred something ancient in them…
A fear so deep, it was encoded in their DNA.
The kind Humanity must’ve known when it still cowered in caves. And the more they spoke, the more Dick found himself utterly enthralled by the Myth taking shape.
Gotham had seen vigilantes before, even before the Batman.
But this one was different.
Judging by his build, he couldn’t have been more than a few years older than Dick himself. Which made the boy wonder: What was it that drove someone to such extremes? What… Path or event could've created someone like Batman or the Imp?
Others might’ve only wondered, but not Grayson.
Days had passed, yet the sting lingered—the fear, then the crushing despair when he learned of his parents' death.
They said the man who pulled the trigger was awaiting trial, but Dick knew better.
He was just a hired gun.
Behind him was the small-time mob boss, one who’d come to extort the circus and, failing that, harass it. The average Gothamites would have bent, but they were outsiders, unfamiliar with Gotham’s rules, and his parents paid the ultimate price for that ignorance.
Oh, the things Dick would do to Tony Zucco if he had the Imp’s powers or Batman’s gadgets and expertise…
Dick didn't want Justice—none of that handed-down, courtroom bullcrap.
He wanted Retribution, the kind no judge or jury would dare pass.
The last Grayson saw not a wink of sleep the entire night, obsessively going over footage of both vigilantes in hope of learning something; anything that might give him a leg up.
He felt a pang of disappointment as he realized most of the footage was shot on shaky handheld cameras. Still, Dick kept at it, eyes glued to the grainy screens. He didn’t stop until the first ray of morning filtered through the see-through curtains, and by then, Richard was totally beat, yet he forced himself to his feet nevertheless.
Dick couldn’t imagine Bruce Wayne would be too pleased if his ward just holed up in his room. Besides, his parents had taught him better, and honoring their lessons was—in a way—honoring them too. Hurrying to put on a fresh set, he jumped as three knocks rattled the oak door in quick succession. “C-Comin'!“
He swung the door open, half-expecting the tired-looking butler, but instead found an older boy grinning crookedly at him.
“Morning, Sunshine!”
“… Who are you?”
“Your ‘uncle.’” The boy winked.
“Excuse me?”
“Alfred adopted me. Bruce adopted you. And Bruce was adopted by Alfred, which makes me your sort of uncle. Family trees don’t get much messier than this.” He gave Dick a hard smack on the shoulder. “But don't worry. I'm sure you will figure it out.”
His… Uncle—Rowan Locke was about three years older than Dick, and a head taller.
He had aristocratic features and sharp angles that looked almost sculpted—framed by thick, snow-white hair. Long, pale lashes draped down his large violet eyes, which seemed to flicker restlessly, almost as though he expected something to go terribly wrong at a moment’s notice.
For a moment, Dick feared he’d stepped into a tiger’s den.
There was no shortage of horror stories about the elites and their habits, after all. But whenever Rowan spoke of Alfred or Bruce, there was a quiet fondness beneath the jokes. The way he scanned every corner, the way he slipped through the manor like he belonged and didn’t—those weren’t instincts children were born with.
They were habits honed out of necessity, and if Bruce and Alfred didn’t instill them, then something… Someone must have.
Dick wanted to ask outright, but as curious as he was, he knew it was not his place, especially given how little they knew about each other.
It was also a courtesy, a silent 'thank you' reserved for the older boy who had flipped all his expectations.
If they had met under different circumstances, Dick was sure they would have become fast friends.
“This is the gym. Nobody really uses it, but if you ever need a good pump, use it as you please.”
A mansion the size of half a city block, a courtyard as big as a park, his own personal butler and now a private gym? What was next, a secret lair under the Estate?
“Mr. Locke—”
“Rowan.“ The boy corrected, visibly displeased.
“Rowan…” Richard repeated, tasting the unfamiliar name. “May I ask when Mr. Wayne—”
“Bruce.” The older boy interrupted again. “Don’t be a stranger, Dick. It’s alright. We’re all family here.”
The word made Dick’s eyes sting just a little.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and questioned, “May I ask when will Bruce see me?”
“We'll have breakfast with him in twelve, but I can cut the tour short if it's urgent?“
“It's alright.“ Richard bowed stiffly.
“Lighten up, kid. I'm not gonna bite.“ Ichor might, but Rowan rarely let the Shade loose anyway.
“Understood.“
Dick’s response nearly drew a sigh from Rowan, but he held it in.
The boy's standoffishness couldn’t be helped.
This wasn’t Nightwing.
Hell, he wasn’t even Robin yet.
He was just Dick Grayson at the moment; a child whose entire world had crumbled in a single night. “The people responsible for their deaths will be held accountable, that I promise you.”
That one sentence immediately brought Richard to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably. What good would it do? The one who pulled the strings untouchable. And the hired gun? He'd serve his time, then walk free. In another decade, would anyone remember the Flying Graysons? Would anyone care?
The more he thought about it, the harder it was to hold it in.
Dick broke down a second later, sobbing into his hands as Rowan's arm settled on his shoulder, patting his back like his father used to and offering comfort he hadn't asked for, but clearly needed.
After several long minutes, Dick's cries finally began to subside, leaving him sniffling and even more exhausted than before. Eyes red and swollen, Grayson glanced at the snot and tears smeared on the older boy’s sleeve, and quickly lowered his head in embarrassment. “I-I’m sorry.”
Smiling awkwardly at Chibi Nightwing’s meltdown, Rowan quickly nudged him toward the dining room. “C'mon. They're probably waiting for us already.“
Sure enough, they wandered into Alfred calmly spreading butter over toast, his posture as crisp as the white cloth draped over his arm.
“Ah! Master Rowan, Master Dick,” The Batler started with a small, pleased nod. “I’m glad you’ve decided to join us! Beans and toast, or butter, sirs?“
Alfred looked mildly crestfallen when he opted for butter instead.
“… Creepy.“ Rowan muttered under his breath, pulling out a chair while sneaking glances at the unusually welcoming billionaire.
Quick-learner that he was, Dick mimicked his actions and slid into the seat beside him.
Sunlight slanted across the table, glinting off the fine tableware as the group of four dug in.
There was no idle chatter, no clinking of utensils beyond what was strictly necessary. Alfred had prepared a spread fit for a royal summit, but even the fluffy eggs felt burdened. Only once the plates were nearly cleared and cups half-emptied did Dick finally speak.
“Forgive me for being frank, but what is your intention with me?”
Idly chewing on the last of his toast, Rowan grinned. “Isn’t it obvious? We’re opening a sweatshop, and children are the cheapest labor… We’re going to work you like a horse, Richard. You'll rue the day—”
Unfortunately, he didn’t get to finish before Alfred smacked him upside the head.
“Pay him no mind, Master Richard… Master Rowan fancies himself the comedian and is rather adamant to flaunt his brand of humor at the most inopportune times.“
“C'mon! I was just trying to lighten the mood!“
“Which is the only reason you're not grounded, sir.“
While the two went back and forth, Bruce offered the other boy a warm smile. If Rowan was a reflection of his rage, then Dick Grayson was the overwhelming sorrow that made the mirror unbearable at one time.
He still remembered what it was like to lose his parents at such a young age.
“My intention is to feed you, clothe you, educate you, and care for you until you're able to care for yourself. Does that answer your question?“
“Y-Yes. But… Why?“
To his knowledge, he and Bruce Wayne had nothing in common. They weren't even related!
“Because I understand.”
Bruce didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
Everyone—even people outside of Gotham—knew the story.
The tragedy of the Waynes was practically legend across the world. 'Till this very day, people still asked why Thomas Wayne hadn’t brought his security that night; why he’d taken his family down a place literally named Crime Alley at the dead of night.
Some called it recklessness.
Others said it was a setup.
Regardless, if anyone could understand what Richard was going through, it was him.
His mouth went dry all of a sudden, taking his appetite with it.
The last Grayson nudged his half-eaten plate and stood. “I'm full. May I be excused?”
“You're not a prisoner, Richard.“
Taking that as his cue, Dick nodded to the three before beating a hasty retreat from the dining hall, probably to cry some more.
Watching the kid’s rapidly retreating back, Rowan smiled wearily, “You know, all things considered, that went about as well as it could have.“
Neither Bruce nor Alfred responded, not until they were certain the boy had stopped loitering beyond the door, in hope of eavesdropping.
“It's to be expected… He’s hurt and afraid.”
“And apparently obsessed with Batman and the Imp.”
Rowan had passed by the boy’s room the night before and overheard him muttering theories and speculations about their identities. Judging by the dark circles under his eyes at breakfast, the kid hadn’t slept a wink since.
Probably hadn’t for days.
Pressing two fingers to his temple, the Imp squinted. “Wait… Hold on! I’m getting a vision! Yep… Brand-new sidekick. Brooding, possibly circus-trained.”
“The Wayne Estate is not a factory for child soldiers, sir.” Alfred replied frigidly.
Slouched in his chair, Rowan grinned. “Ah, but we’re not training child soldiers; we’re shaping future heroes.“
“You can perfume a turd and give it a title, Master Rowan, but it remains shite all the same.”
“Oh, come on, Alfred. Just look at the kid… He even looks like Bruce—same blue eyes, black hair and everything…”
Motioning vaguely toward the hall Dick had fled, he loudly sipped on his coffee, then remarked.. “I say we give him the chance to catch his parents' killer before his mental state starts circling down the drain.”
The Caped Crusader shot him a flat, half-lidded stare, which Rowan met with an eye roll. “Oh, don’t give me that look, Bruce. You and I both know you’re the furthest thing from sanity.“
Bruce Wayne was many things—Discipline and Drive made Flesh, but mentally stable wasn’t one of them.
“What does that make you?“
“Just as crazy, probably. So you better get moving before my particular brand of crazy rubs off on him.” Stroking his chin, Rowan thoughtfully hummed. “On second thought…”
He did need someone to bounce quips off, after all… And under his careful guidance, Dick was bound to become the dickiest Dick to ever Dick-around.
“Upon further reflection, Master Bruce, I believe Master Rowan’s earlier suggestion does have merit. It's best you train him yourself.”
“Oy, what’s with the gears-shift?!”
The look he got from Alfred was worth a thousand carefully chosen words… And none of them were kind.
“Oh, you—”
— [HELLBRED] —
“—Prick.“
