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Season 0: Year One C11: An Addition to the Family (1) (Public)
🕑 Added 2025-05-29 04:11:43 +0000 UTC“When’s the last time we actually did this?”
Because contrary to popular belief, Batman didn’t spend every waking hour beating the hell out of his protégés under the banner of 'training.' Sparring sessions were rare—once-in-blue-moon kind of rare—and usually marked a turning point for the sidekick involved.
It was basically the end-of-term exam for Bruce's unofficial school of vigilantism.
“Months ago,” The Caped Crusader replied, voice dry as sandpaper, tugging the laces of his gloves.
Then he paused, snatching Rowan’s gloves out of the air just before they hit the floor, and shot his wayward protégé a questioning look.
A look Rowan shrugged off. “Muggers don’t come laced up and padded, Bruce. Gimme the full, authentic Bat-Experience.“
“Master Rowan, I don’t believe that'd be wise.” The Batler cautioned, stepping in with a tray of electrolyte bottles balanced perfectly in hand.
It definitely wasn't, but—”I can take it.“
And even if he couldn't, his Minor Regenerative Healing Factor would patch things up in two, maybe three nights tops.
Still, despite Rowan’s assurance, Bruce couldn’t resist asking again, well aware of the damage his bare fists could deal. “You sure about this?”
“No-oope.“ Rowan answered, lazily stretching his legs and cracking his neck. “So let's get to it before I get cold feet.“
Staring at the gloves for a long moment, Bruce silently tossed them out of the ring.
He brought up his guard, bouncing lightly on his toes as he glided forward, weaving left, then right.
If Rowan wanted the stakes raised, then he'd oblige. 'Let’s see how he manages under pressure.'
Where Rowan’s movements were jerky and explosive, Bruce moved fluidly—like a serpent closing in on its prey. And then Rowan moved, bursting forward only to get tossed over the Dark Knight's shoulder.
Recovering mid-fall, Rowan caught Bruce’s wrist and twisted with the momentum for a kick that barely skimmed the Caped Crusader’s nose.
Unfortunately, that was as close as he got to landing a clean hit, for Bruce had already begun the counter. Fortunately, Rowan had been tossed around by the Caped Crusader enough times to see the maneuver coming from a mile away. He relinquished his hold just in time to backflip away as his mentor's fists struck the mat where Rowan's head would've been, had he remained static.
“Jesus, Bruce! Straight for the head? After all we've been through?“
“To be fair, sir—” Alfred called out from the sideline, impeccably calm as he checked the content of the first aid kit. “You did request the full, authentic Bat-Experience… A concussion rather comes with the territory.”
The brief lapse in concentration cost Rowan dearly, for that was all Batman needed to close the distance he'd been trying to maintain.
“Keep your eyes on your enemy!“ Chided Bruce, sweeping his leg toward Rowan’s.
But it was all a feint.
Realizing it was a setup a moment too late, the boy braced himself and grunted as he skidded across the floor, tripped during the roll, and fell backward.
Bruce sighed and rushed forward to catch his protégé, stopping short of catching a foot to the chin.
He backed off, rubbing his jaw while Rowan smirked victoriously. “You’re not the only one who knows how to fake out, Batman.” The boy half-expected Bruce to snap back with a snarky remark, maybe even scold him for getting too cocky, but nothing of the sort happened.
Instead, the Dark Knight gave a single clap. “Sharp,” He quietly said, then added absently, “How many styles have I taught you?”
“I… I don’t recall?” Rowan answered, unsure. Bruce didn’t exactly label anything—he just demonstrated, corrected, repeated until Rowan got the gist.
There were glimpses of different forms and martial traditions, sure, but nothing was ever spelled.
“Right. Time for a refresher then.”
That one sentence hit harder than any punch, and felt even more unnerving than his entire brawl with Deathstroke. So Rowan did the only rational thing a sane person would do in his situation and—“I surrender!”
“…Alfred.” With a press of a button, every exit sealed shut, the hiss of hydraulics sizzling through the air like a death knell in the now airtight, dimly-lit sub-cavern.
Rowan’s smile twitched as he took a step back, eyes darting to the locked doors.
“Wh-What is this? Alfred? Alfred!” He called, voice rising in pitch, because if anyone could save him now, it was the guy with the tea and the override codes.
“You promised you'd be careful with my heirloom, and yet I was left scraping it out of your burnt, crusted skin. Charming.”
“Heirloom?” Rowan repeated, brow furrowed. He didn’t remember ever being handed anything that important… And what the hell would he even do with Alfred’s heirloom?
“My rosary, sir.”
Like a broken dam, the memories came flooding back at the mention—Ichor, the Demon’s Arm, Constantine and the subsequent Possession… But what stood out most was the wooden rosary Alfred had entrusted him with. “That was weeks ago!“
“Don't you know what people always say about revenge, Master Rowan?”
Alfred’s ominous voice exploded through the speakers as the Batler slinked into the adjacent room and behind a one-way mirror.
“—It is a dish best served cold.“
“ALFREEEEEEEEEEED!!!” Rowan roared, eyeballs pulsating with 'rage' at the betrayal.
“—You've brought this on yourself, sir.“
Reaching out, he could only watch helplessly as the door to his last lifeline slammed shut. Despite knowing how pointless it was, Rowan kept hammering away on the steel gate for a solid minute, before finally slumping forward, head pressed against the cold metal. For the first time in this new life, he felt the creeping chill of despair settle in.
“Y-You!” Rowan jabbed a trembling finger at his mentor. “You try anything, and I’m calling CPS!”
Bruce arched a brow, the faintest smirk ghosting his face as he slowly wrapped his fists in bandages. “CPS? You mean the agency partnered with and bankrolled by the Wayne Youth Foundation?”
“What the fuck?!” Rowan barely had time to utter before the Caped Crusader lunged at him from the dark.
His blood-curdling screams would haunt the Wayne Estate for hours—right up until Alfred called them in for dinner through the coms.
Bruised and nursing an even more battered ego, he glared at Alfred, stabbing his food into a sad, unrecognizable mush as he mouthed. “You traitor…”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic, sir. You’re hardly hurt.” The Batler replied, utterly unfazed as he refilled Rowan’s glass.
“Hardly hurt? Motherf—” His tongue froze mid-word as both men fixed him with deadpan stares. Swallowing whatever pride he had left, Rowan licked his lips and gestured wildly. “Did you even see what he did to me?!”
Hiding a smile as the boy collapsed face-first beside his plate.
“You can take two days off, Rowan.“
“And miss the chance to release my pent-up frustrations? I think not.” He replied, seeming mighty offended by Bruce’s suggestion.
In all fairness, he’d have accepted that offer before his Demonic Transformation, but after weeks of dedicated experimentation, Rowan had learned that when he allowed his Demonic Half take over, his Strength, Speed, and even his Healing Factor all boosted by 75%.
It wasn’t nearly as flashy as anything his Shadow could do, and 'shedding' his own skin with a cross or rosary wasn’t exactly pleasant.
Still, Rowan would take the pain any day of the week if it meant staying on his feet and avoiding the humiliation, never mind the helplessness of being bedridden.
“Bruce Wayne is scheduled to meet with a business partner the day after tomorrow. You'll need to be in top shape if I am to entrust you with Gotham for the week.”
The fork slipped from Rowan’s hand at the news, clattering uselessly against the plate. “You’re putting down the Suit for a week? You? It’s the concussion, isn’t it? I’m hearing things… That’s gotta be it.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Bruce, I’ve lived in this Estate for two years. I’ve never seen you put the Mission aside.”
Rowan didn’t even know how the motherfucker managed it.
Rowan couldn’t wrap his head around it. The guy barely slept, barely ate, spent his nights tearing through Gotham’s worst, kept up the billionaire act by day and somehow still found time to train like a pro athlete.
It simply wasn't feasible to maintain such a schedule over an extended period of time. Not even with the vast wealth his parents had left him, and yet, Bruce pulled it off like it was just another Tuesday.
“This client is critical to Wayne Enterprises' future. I can’t afford to neglect him…”
“And you can’t afford to neglect Gotham either,” Rowan interrupted with a smirk. “Don’t worry, brother. I gotchu.”
“Brother?”
“Well, I’m legally Alfred’s ward, aren’t I?”
“Hm…” They looked like they wanted to protest but just shrugged it off as part of his antics.
“And Rowan.“
“Yes?“
“If you encounter someone you can't beat. Run.“
True to his word, Rowan rested exactly 48 hours before bursting onto a rooftop where land meets sea.
For the next five to seven days, Gotham was all his. “How delightful.”
Two blocks from where the vigilante landed, a robbery was underway.
The unlucky victim?
A homeless man just looking for a place to crash.
Instead, he stumbled onto Hale and Dale—a pair of twins who’d recently cleaned house in the Penguin’s underground fighting ring.
Why were these mid-tier thugs suddenly interested in Gotham’s equivalent of single-celled life on the food chain?
Why does lightning strike?
Why does the wind blow?
Why do the stars shine?
“Ple-Please.” The man begged, too tired, too hungry, and too hurt to muster up a proper scream. His plea might as well have fallen on deaf ears, sadly.
“You stink, you worthless piece of shit.“
“Why do you bugs even cling to life?” Dale hummed as he leaned in close to the homeless man's ear. “If I were you, I’d have hung myself.”
“You know, it's funny—” The twins didn’t even have time to turn when Rowan’s collapsible staff suddenly caught them across the side of the head. “I was thinking the same about you two.”
“Imp?! He’s sending the sidekick?” Dale scowled, visibly agitated by what he and his brother both perceived as a slight. “Talk about disappointment.“
“Batman thought it was more efficient this way… His time would've been wasted on you lot anyway.”
“You'll regret that.“ Hale threatened.
“I'm positive I won't.“ Tail coming undone, Rowan dropped in a crouch and heartily waved at the sobbing victim, twirling the staff behind him.
“Oh, you wi—” The Imp picked that exact moment to clock Hale in the jaw, then ducked just in time to dodge Dale’s kick which might’ve actually hurt if the thug hadn't been so slow.
Grinning, Rowan swept in behind, kicked out the backs of Hale’s knees, yanked his underwear so hard it wedged deep into his groin and stretched the waistband clean over his head.
“What the fuck?!”
What he hadn’t expected was the brown smear staring back at him.
“The hell is that, you musty-ass motherfucker?!”
Behind them, the once-cowering victim was now making the same disgusted face as everyone else. Dale would've jumped in to spare his brother the humiliation, but he was too busy fending off Rowan’s mechanical tail.
“If you can't wipe properly, use wet wipes or install a fucking bidet! Fuck!” Cursing, the boy violently wiped whatever was on his fingers back onto the criminal’s jacket, then tapped the hidden button on his Utility Belt to collapse his staff.
Spinning on one foot, Rowan clicked the button again, unfolding it back to full length.
Lucky for Dale, the tip was blunted, otherwise he would have died with quite the lungful. Instead, he only got launched into a trash bin. “What are you waiting for?“ Asked the vigilante, glancing at the stiff victim. “Run along. Shoo! I'll take it from here.“
The man bolted, then stopped dead in his track to grab Rowan’s hands. “Thank you, young man! God blesses you!”
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Rowan muttered and instructed. “Closest shelter’s three miles North. You best hurry. It’s gonna be a cold night.”
“Thank you!“
“You’re—” Backhanding Dale mid-sentence, he threw a lazy wave. “Welcome. Now… You two mind telling me where Penguin’s fighting ring is?”
“Like hell we'll tell you!“
Eyes glinting behind the visor, Rowan pulled the pin on a fear pellet and dropped it at their feet.
“Oh, I’m positive you will.”
And they did… They sang like a pair of lovebirds about how the whole thing worked—how the rings made money, how Cobblepot’s lieutenants ran them, and how every fight was rigged top to bottom.
Unfortunately, neither of them knew the actual location.
“We were blindfolded.“ They claimed.
And when Rowan asked how they got in touch with Penguin’s crew if that was the case—”We don’t call them. They call us, set a rendezvous point, and throw us in a van.”
Hale chimed in, seeming to be in an even worse shape than his brother.
“The location changes every time there’s a tournament.”
Glaring at the pair, Rowan leaned against the streetlamp, lazily spinning his staff.
"That's all we know… Please."
"I…"
The criminals sucked in a sharp breath through their teeth.
"I believe you. However, due to your crimes, I cannot allow you to leave, and I don't have time to wait for the cops either. So here's what we're gonna do: You two are going to deliver yourselves to the nearest precinct, you're going to report your crimes, do the time, and become model citizens."
"And why'd we do that?"
Fingers squeezing Dale's mouth like a wrench, Rowan patted his face.
"Because from here on, jail will be the only place where you'll be safe from me… Because if I even spot your silhouettes on the streets, I'm going to hunt you down, beat you to a bloody pulp, and we're going to laugh about it. Every. Single. Time. Are we clear?"
“Bro, how are you a hero?” Dale whimpered.
"Are. We. Clear?"
"C-Crystal." They echoed simultaneously, teeth chattering uncontrollably as the Fear Toxin worked its wonders.
Brushing off his shoulder, Rowan shot them one last look, then rocketed into the sky. “Toodles.“
“He… he was just blowing outta his nose, right?”
Dale could only sob in response.
“Right?!”
— [HELLBRED] —
“I wasn’t just blowing outta my nose. On my second night flying solo, I tracked them down through the local surveillance system and found Hale and Dale halfway across the city from where I caught them the night before. They looked real comfortable too… Probably thought I wasn’t coming.
Oh, the look on their faces when I dropped in from the roof…
After meting out justice in Gotham, I went right back to it—stopping a small crime here, breaking up a robbery there. Day three was more of the same. Rinse and repeat.
It was a slow week which, in hindsight, was probably the only reason Bruce let me take over in the first place.
Most of his usual rogues were locked up in Arkham, and the few who had escaped were keeping a low profile. All except Killer Croc whose file strongly implied that his condition came with an appetite for human flesh.
Did I stumble onto him by accident? No.
But I did stumble onto his victims—a wagon full of their remains… The parts the cannibalistic Meta apparently had no use for. That got me thinking: If Kirk Langstrom could become the Man-Bat, was it possible for Killer Croc to revert back to Waylon Jones using his Serum?“
— [HELLBRED] —
“—That’s not how it works, Jacques.“
“It isn’t?”
“—Of course not! My Serum works by introducing foreign DNA into the human genome. And correct me if I’m wrong, but Killer Croc’s a Metahuman, isn’t he? Emphasis on the human.“
“Huh…” Rowan clicked his tongue, humming to himself as he looked at the cavern ceiling. If only it were that easy. “What if we tweak it to override his Metagene?”
The abrupt pause sparked a flicker of hope in his chest, only for it to die a moment later when the geneticist sighed. “—It’s not that simple. My Serum doesn’t override; it adds to. Chances are he’ll just mutate further.“
'Well, that blows.'
“—Why the sudden interest?“
“Gotham is a cesspit, but perhaps it might stink a little less with one fewer monster in it.”
Gotham had all types of villains.
Some were cartoonishly evil, others deeply tragic and quite a few had filled the role of an anti-hero before.
Killer Croc was one of them.
There were arcs where he'd helped survivors during apocalyptic events, fought on the side of good, however briefly.
If other versions of Waylon Jones could pull themselves out of the gutter, maybe this one could too.
It was a long shot, sure, but if there was even a chance of steering Croc toward something better, it was a risk Rowan felt obligated to take.
Kirkland exhaled loudly.
Rowan could almost picture the scientist removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose as he spoke. “—Secure samples of his organic tissue, and I'll see what I can do…”
“I'll get it to you by tomorrow.”
If he had to track down Croc, he wouldn’t sound nearly as confident, especially considering the Caped Crusader had been on the guy’s trail for months.
Luckily, Bruce already had samples of his biological tissues stored under cryostasis in another wing.
Truth be told, Rowan could deliver them today if he really wanted to.
“—That fast?“
“What can I say? My contact does tight, efficient work. And… Uh, about the other thing?”
“—I’m the bearer of good news today.”
Crossing his legs, Rowan grinned into the phone. “I take it things are moving along?”
“—I can't promise you anything, but I believe I'll have the finished batch ready in about four months. Hope you don’t mind, but I’ve merged your formula with mine… It only made sense to streamline the compound.“
Ears twitching as he saw Alfred smoothly pull into the garage with Bruce in the backseat, Rowan spoke into the phone. “Right. Keep me updated. And Kirkland?”
“—Yes?”
“If you're still going with the Man-Bat Project, implement a genetic-level failsafe—something that preserves higher cognitive function during Transformation.“
“—And why would I do that?“
Rowan crinkled his nose in equal parts confusion and irritation. “Because if you mutate, I expect you to retain enough cognitive function not to become a liability. I understand you're losing your sight, but Gotham has enough monsters. Don’t add your name to the roster, Doctor.”
“—That... Might set me back years. I may even have to start from scratch.“
“You may use mine, Doc. Its regenerative power should stave off your blindness long enough.”
“—I would if it were possible, but it only boosts existing traits, and since the human eye can’t regenerate on its own.”
“It won’t work.” Rowan scowled, cursing under his breath. “Of course it fucking won’t…”
He hadn’t held out much hope, since Slade Wilson couldn’t even regenerate his eye in the mainstream comics, and that was a man who had literally come back from the dead, yet the news was disappointing all the same.
His eyes slowly drifted to the window just in time to catch Bruce helping a young boy out of the car.
He turned away, heading back to bed, then froze and whippes around.
Was that who he thought it was?
Could it really be him?
The boy had long, wavy hair as dark as midnight and cold, hollow blue eyes that all but screamed despair, much like Bruce’s on his worst days. No wonder Damian was jealous of his adoptive brother. Richard Grayson might as well have been cut from the same mold as the Caped Crusader.
“Holy fuck…” Rowan breathed, the phone slipping from his hand and landing with a dull thud on the carpet.
“—Jacques? Is something the matter?“
“Apologies, Doctor. Something's come up. We'll resume this conversation tomorrow.”
Hastily ending the call, he rushed to the door, then stopped, his gaze falling to the rolled-up newspaper he'd thrown on his nightstand next to the previous issues.
No one read newspapers anymore, not even Bruce, but it was one of Alfred’s few indulgences, a habit likely carried over from his days serving Thomas and Martha Wayne—a habit Bruce never felt the need to correct out of respect and love for the man who was his father in all but blood.
“The Imp: Hero or Masked Menace?“ Read the first headline.
“The Imp Terrorized Me and My Brother!—Claimed Prisoners.“ Read the second, smaller caption above a photo of Hale and Dale in prison uniforms. They'd better pray Rowan didn’t have business in or close to Blackgate anytime soon, or they were fucking toasted for this slander.
Although, Rowan supposed it did make for a nice boost to his street cred and mythos.
Maybe he ought to thank them…
With his fists.
It was the third page that caught his eye. “The Flying Graysons: Murdered? Suspect in Custody.”
That was dated two days ago. “How did I miss this?”
Rowan was genuinely floored until he realized just how far down the article of the Flying Graysons' deaths were buried.
“Of course…”
For Richard, it was his world collapsing in a single moment, the symbolic death of a child that would one day give rise to Robin, then Nightwing. A boy torn from the trapeze and thrown into the shadow of a city that chews through innocence like meat-patties.
For Batman, it was the day he gained his first son. Not just a partner or a ward, but his blood-son… The one who reminded him why he was fighting in the first place.
But for Gotham? It was background noise.
Just another tragedy in a city already drowning in them.
Another pair of names added to a growing list of collateral damage.
There was no grand tribute, no city-wide mourning.
It really was just a couple of circus performers killed during a show, and if Rowan hadn’t already known who Dick Grayson would grow up to be, he would have missed the news too. Adjusting his outfit, Rowan briefly considered greeting them at the door, then opted against it.
The boy would come around on his own time, and dusk was swallowing the last rays.
It was time to suit up.
By the time the clock struck 6 P.M., he was out again, hot on the trail of Cobblepot’s fighting ring.
Normally, a low-level operation like that wouldn’t warrant his attention. It was just thugs beating each other bloody for pocket change.
Even Penguin squeezing his debtors for cash wasn’t out of line. You borrow, you pay. Simple and fair… What wasn’t fair was who was getting thrown into those pits and whorehouses.
It wasn’t just criminals or gamblers anymore. Many of the people currently being forced into Penguin’s rings and worse, his brothels had been taken off the street, used as collateral for family debts they never signed up for or didn't even know about…
They were being punished for others' sins, and that Rowan simply couldn’t overlook.
Perched atop a lonely streetlamp, Rowan's lips curled into a thin smile as he watched Penguin’s crew shove a handful of blindfolded civilians into a black van and sped off.
The van looped through several blocks before heading straight toward a construction site where a half-built skyscrapper sat at the edge. From the outside, it appeared abandoned, with boarded windows, rusted panels, and layers of graffiti covering the bare concrete.
"Jackpot."
Given the number of civilians nearby, fear pellets were off the table, which left Rowan with one option: Do it the old-fashioned way.
Alternatively…
His gaze dropped to the rosary wrapped around his forearm. With a quiet sigh, he removed it.
The moment the blocker was gone, his Demonic instantly heritage bled through.
The full mutation would take time to reemerge—hours, if it followed the same pattern as before—but the Ichor was quick to show itself, now equipped with a new tail that agitatedly twitched.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Rowan muttered under his breath, feeling the Shade stir uncomfortably. “It hurts me as much as it hurts you.”
The Shade pumped its fists angrily in response.
“Fine,” Rowan rolled his eyes, reaching for the rosary again. “If you’re not in the mood to beat up criminals, I guess I’ll do it myself.”
Changing its tune at the threat, Ichor pulsed, misshappen form writhing like a petulant animal. Then, its new tail snapped in irritation and acknowledgement… That was as close to obedience as Rowan was going to get.
“Remember: No killing. I don’t need Bruce breathing down our necks over a couple of dead sods."
