Regularr
patreon
Season 0: Year One C8: Peter Pan (Public)
🕑 Added 2025-05-14 16:00:21 +0000 UTC“You remember that one time you were joking around and accidentally pissed off your ex? Oh—wait, who am I kidding, you don’t have an ex. Well, pretend you did, and she decided to wage a full-blown cold war for a day straight.
That—that’s how Bruce acted after the whole Reuben thing.
Only it wasn’t just a day.
The Caped Crusader had decided to drag it out for three full days.
Jesus, talk about petty.
I still don’t get what his problem was.
It’s not like I was yanking random thugs off the street and putting bullets in their skulls.
He wouldn't hear any of it, though.
The way our favorite Crusader was dodging me, you’d think I was walking around with the Black Plague… It got to the point where even the resident Batler admitted he was brooding more than usual.
In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have stomped my feet when he told me Reuben made it through the night, but mama didn't raise no liar.
The first good news that week was that Reuben wouldn’t wake up again, ever.
Maybe there’s some truth to Bruce’s philosophy, after all, because I still visit my former 'handler' to this very day. Hell, I’m covering the medical bills for the son of a whore. A trivial cost, really, for the privilege of watching him wither away—forever tethered to machines that are standing between him and the grave.
But enough about Grin.
The second piece of good news was that, according to Langstrom himself, he was making remarkable progress in reverse-engineering Wilson’s blood—cutting the projected six-month timeline down to just four.
For his effort and sincerity, I promised the good Doctor I’d stick to our original deal, and I even pulled a few strings to get him a spot at, you guessed it, WayneTech! Seriously, where else would I have had any pull?
Thinking back, I suppose it wasn’t as bad as I recalled…
What can I say?
It was hard to find a silver lining when you’re running a fever and leaking yellow pus from a wound only you can see the whole time.“
— [HELLBRED] —
“Master Rowan, are you awake? You’re going to be late for school.”
Groaning, the part-time vigilante crawled out of bed—pale, shaking, and already regretting waking up as he weakly staggered toward the bathroom. “Just a minute, Alfred!”
Wheezing like a summer-struck mutt, Rowan winced, peeling away the crusted bandage he had wrapped around his arm to reveal large, blighted teeth-marks.
He couldn't be sure, but the 'sometimes-Rowan; sometimes-Robin, alltimes-orphan' could swear the injury hadn't looked this bad yesterday. What had started as a series of deep, crescent-shaped bite marks from the Stag now looked as if they might slough off at the slightest touch...
The skin around the wounds had turned a sickly mix of gray, black, and red, as though the tissues were rotting from within.
Each bite mark oozed a thick, yellowish pus, pooling along the edges of the torn flesh, and with every movement, the infection… Spread, carrying with it the putrid scent of sulfur. “What the fuck?”
Grabbing a bottle of disinfectant, Rowan poured it over his arm, then drew in a sharp breath as the wounds lit up with the fire of all the Circles of Hell combined. He'd never admit it to anyone, but I think we all know he teared up a little, don't we? “Oh, God…”
“Sir, you're going to be late.“ Came Alfred's calm, beckoning voice outside the door. “Need I come in and dress you myself?“
“No! Just stay there.” Gritting his teeth, Rowan rubbed the disinfectant in with a frustrated scowl, then hurled the bottle at the wall while biting back a roar as the sting set every nerve from his hand to shoulder alight.
“Sir, if this is protest over Master Bruce’s decision, I can assure you he's only doing what he believes is best for you.“
Rowan snorted at the absurdity of it all.
If only he knew…
If only he could see it too.
“Wow… So this is what being emo feels like?“ Except it wasn't a phase, and he really was dying.
Rewrapping the raw, pus-slicked skin so that putting on a shirt wouldn’t feel like dragging his arm across broken glass, he hastily threw his uniform on, then paused, chest hitching as an inexplicable urge to laugh clawed its way up his throat.
“'Cut my life into pieces, this is my last resort~' Hahaha!”
His laughter slipped into giggles as he shook his head and stumbled his way out of the bathroom, still slick with sweat and reeking of disinfectant.
“That might have been too dark… Keep it PG, Rowan. Keep it PG.”
Pulling the door inward, he offered Alfred a weary smile. “Alfred.”
“Master Rowan, you appear scarcely fit to leave your bed, let alone attend school.”
The butler swept in at once, deft fingers dancing as he loosened the tie cinched far too tightly around his ward’s neck and looked more like a noose than neckwear. He reached to straighten the boy’s creased sleeves next, but Rowan had already shied away. “And good gracious, what is that smell?”
People often took him for just another pompous man in a pressed waistcoat, but once upon a time, Alfred had been a valuable asset to MI5.
He'd recognize the scent of saline and antiseptics anywhere, and judging by how strong it was, his ward might as well have bathed in the stuff. “Sir, I’ll need you to be quite honest with me—are you injured?”
“I… Yes? No? I don't know.“
Narrowing his eyes at the confusing answer, Alfred ordered. “That's it, shirt off, now.“
His ward hesitated, features distorting in what appeared to be annoyance.
Still, he obeyed, fingers fumbling with the buttons before he peeled the shirt away. His left arm was wrapped in neat, white bandages—fresh, by the look of them. Alfred frowned. “You’ve done this recently.”
“Seeing as Bruce has barred me from wearing the Robin suit, I thought I’d rebrand… Bandage-Man—it’s got a certain charm, don't you think?”
“This is no joking matter, sir.“ The Batler gently chided, peeling the stiff bandage away in one smooth motion.
Rowan grunted sharply as the bandage tore away from his 'inflamed' skin. But to Alfred’s eyes, there was nothing wrong with it. The skin looked perfectly healthy—unmarked, clean and as smooth as a baby’s arse. “Sir, if this is some misguided attempt to get attention, I must say it's in rather poor taste.“
'… Emos worldwide, I owe you all an apology.'
The urge to explain had withered before it even reached his lips.
Quietly, Rowan rewrapped the injury and straightened his back.
“I'm—” He almost lied that he was fine out of habit, but caught himself just in time.
Just because he was biologically an angsty teenager didn’t mean he had to act like one. “Alfred, I believe I've been cursed… Can you ask Bruce for Giovanni Zatara's number?“
He would have asked for Constantine’s, who was far less judgmental and controlling than the famous Magician.
This sounded right up his alley, too.
Unfortunately, Rowan wouldn't trust that fucking swindler as far as he could throw him.
“The stage magician, sir?”
“Yep.“ The boy pivoted on his heels. “Now… School?“
“You're going still going, sir? If you're in pain, I can call the school.“
“You heard the boss, Alfred.” Rowan shrugged and quoted. “I've gotta socialize with my ‘peers.' Besides, if I’m going to be stuck in a 'madhouse' with Gotham’s most pretentious, most disgusting young elites, I might as well get a decent degree out of it.”
“Your form tutor’s had quite a bit to say about your attendant lately.“ The butler remarked.
“Form tutor? What's that?“
“I believe the American term is homeroom teacher, sir.“
After dropping his ward off at school, the butler drove home in silence, then tapped in the number of his other ward.
“—Alfred.“
“Master Bruce, I see you still haven't changed out of your…” Swallowing the urge to say 'costume', the ever loyal Batler instead went with, “Uniform, as you promised you would.”
“—I’m tracking Killer Croc.” The Caped Crusader replied curtly, as if that explained everything.
“Sir, we’ve had this discussion. You’re of no use to anyone starving and exhausted. Kindly get something to eat, and a bit of shut-eye, if you please.” If only he'd listen.
God, sometimes Alfred truly wondered what he’d done to end up responsible for two such difficult young men.
“—I will.“
“When, precisely?”
“—In a minute.”
Alfred narrowed his eyes and took a slow turn at the light, finally steering toward the meat of the matter.
“I believe I’ve identified the source of all those bandages turning up in our rubbish, sir.”
“—What’s wrong with Rowan?”
“Nothing, by all appearances. Though Master Rowan insisted he was being… Cursed, if you can believe it… I fear for his sanity.“
The last Wayne hummed thoughtfully, then mused aloud, “—Perhaps recent events have activated some of his more... Extraordinary abilities.“
“I’d hardly call being Half-Demon ‘extraordinary,’ sir. And didn’t Reuben survive? The Seal keeping his heritage in check should be intact.”
“—I have several working theories, but I’ll need to consult Zatara to verify them. In the meantime, monitor his condition and report any changes to me.”
Alfred paused, glancing at the rearview mirror with the weariness of a man who’d endured enough nonsense to last him several lifetimes. “I’m uncertain this qualifies, sir, but there has been a distinct increase in his dark humour… That, or Master Rowan's suddenly developed an inexplicable fondness for 'Papa Roach' and his dreadful… Music.“
Alfred cringed, dryly adding a moment after. “If one could call it that.“
Over in one of his many hideouts scattered across Gotham, Bruce paused, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips as he teased, “I didn’t know you listened to that 'genre,' Alfred.”
“—I do not.” The man who was all but his biological father sniffed arrogantly.
“And how do you know the artist’s name? People don’t look up artists they dislike, Alfred.“ Bruce pressed.
“—The same way most do, sir: Through the internet.“
After that brief exchange, the call ended, leaving Bruce to refocus on more immediate concerns, like the anthropomorphic crocodile Metahuman currently still loose in sewers of Gotham.
Spread across the desk were over a dozen case files and hundreds of surveillance photographs, all linked to a single subject: The Metahuman formerly known as Waylon Jones—one of the more sympathetic rogues the Dark Knight had encountered.
Ironically, it was the giant, humanoid crocodile who proved most difficult to track.
Unlike others in Gotham’s underworld, Waylon had no known associates, safehouses, or patterns.
Few were willing to offer refuge to a cannibalistic Meta, and as a result, Killer Croc had effectively claimed the whole of Gotham’s vast, labyrinthine sewer system as his territory.
After tending to the previous night’s injuries, Bruce dropped the cowl and sank into the empty chair. Truth be told, he could’ve made it home, he just didn’t want to. Not yet. He was avoiding the inevitable.
The Caped Crusader hadn’t expected that much… Rage in Rowan.
A bit was a given, considering the boy’s background, but the depths he was willing to sink to; the line he was going to happily cross…
Bruce had no doubt that if he hadn’t arrived when he did, it wouldn’t have ended with a bullet. Rowan would’ve tortured his old handler for hours and bragged about it the next day without a hint of shame…
How much of that came from his otherworldly heritage?
How much was simply Rowan Locke?
And last, but not least: Was he raising a future enemy?
Briefly, his mind drifted back to Zatara’s warning—the visions of a ravaged Earth and the untold atrocities a Greater Demon could unleash upon the world…
The Mage had trusted him to know what to do with that knowledge, but for the first time since donning the cowl three years ago, Bruce was at a loss.
Wearily, he dialed the Mage, hoping he’d returned from yet another off-world excursion.
The Dark Knight sighed when the call went to voicemail. Again.
He wasn't exhausted of options, of course.
There were other… Magicals he could contact, but few were trustworthy, and even fewer could claim Zatara’s depth of knowledge in the occult.
Pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose, Bruce exhaled sharply, then made a call to the magical world’s most notorious Hedge-Mage.
“—Well, well. Thought you'd never call, Bats.”
“Constantine.“
— [HELLBRED] —
Dreadful. Absolutely dreadful—that was all Rowan could think to describe how he was feeling.
He wasn’t tired.
He wasn’t sick.
He was just in excruciating agony.
The marks had started off harmless enough. Red, a little bloody, slightly inflamed, but still bearable.
In mere days, the infection had spread, crawling its way across most of his arm and to his left shoulder-blade. It wasn’t like Rowan hadn’t tried to reach out to the Magicals about his little problem, but the Caped Crusader had locked him out of the Batcomputer, and Mages weren’t exactly handing out business cards or running ads on Google.
Granted, part of that was on him for thinking he could just 'figure something out' and letting it fester. But nothing had worked.
If anything, every attempt to fix this had just made things worse.
Eyes heavy and brain running on static, Rowan rubbed at his lids as their homeroom teacher entered, unfamiliar faces trailing in behind her. “Let’s give a warm welcome to our guests from Hilltop Intermediate. As part of the Academy's new exchange program, they'll be with us until the end of the week.“
'Oh, great. More headaches.'
Like the 'goblin' next to him and the young lords and ladies weren’t already enough of a daily delight. 'Goddamn you, Bruce.'
He could be doing something important—reviewing Advanced Bio, tracking down criminals, training, or, hell, figuring out what the fuck was happening to him. Instead, he was stuck in a classroom surrounded by snot-nosed brats he could barely tolerate.
It didn’t help that he felt charged with power, in spite of the pain.
Power, and a vast, aimless rage that was causing his hands to itch. “Alright, take your seats and open to page—”
Feet tapping impatiently, Rowan glanced at the clock, then looked away. '08:05.'
Just forty more minutes before recess.
He could survive that. Probably.
“Psst. Hey, Rowan.”
The part-time vigilante didn’t so much as spare the kid a glance. “What is it, Alex?“
“You want a booger?”
His left hand flexed, and the edge of the table splintered like wet clay under his grip, startling Rowan out of his seat.
“Mr. Locke, if you have something to say, please raise your hand first.”
Was it just his imagination, or did his own shadow just wave at him?
“Sir, I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Class just started. You won’t die holding it in… Thirty-seven minutes.”
Their homeroom had barely blinked, and Rowan was already at the door, clutching his arm as his nails warped—blackened and curled into something no longer human…
And then there was his heart; God, his heart was racing like he’d shot up on a dozen syringes of adrenaline and was seconds away from a stroke. Rowan imagined this was what pissing fire felt like… Except it wasn’t his junk; it was his entire arm.
He burst into the bathroom, grateful to find it empty, and hurriedly ripped the 'soaked' bandage off.
What stared back at him was a horrifically mutilated limb. His arm was raw, slick, and glistening like freshly butchered meat, with all of its muscles laid completely bare; twitching beneath black, translucent veins.
He was turning into a Deadite, and probably not a good-looking one, either. “Oh, God…”
The moment the word slipped out, Rowan crumpled to one knee, gripping the sink as a high-pitched ringing split his skull.
“Oh, God—!“ Cried a feminine voice, and this time it wasn’t just his head that suffered but his nose too, as blood poured from his nostrils in thick, steady streams. “You’re bleeding!”
'Oh, you think?!' Rowan thought, then swallowed the sass when he saw a ginger girl half a head shorter than him. Wasn't she one of the temporary transfers? Why was she here? “What are you doing in the men's bathroom? Get out!”
“Never mind that!“ The girl flushed at his accusatory tone but pushed past it and rushed to his side. “We gotta get you to the infirmary! You’re bleeding all over the place!“
The girl slipped her arm beneath his, meaning to help him up, but as she did, the cross dangling from her pocket brushed his skin by accident. Instantly, a searing fire erupted from his flesh, engulfing his entire arm. He jolted back with a cry, barreling into a nearby booth and ripping the door clean off its hinges.
“Fuck! Fuck, you bitc—” Rowan’s right hand clamped over his mouth, muffling the curse smashing against his teeth. Then he hissed, dropping and rolling in a frantic attempt to smother the flame crawling up his shoulder, until the girl dumped a bucket of water on him.
He hadn't thought it possible for his arm to look worse… He was mistaken.
“Oh, Jesus—”
Rowan winced.
“Look at your arm!“
“If this is how you usually help people—stop!” Snarling, Rowan shakily rose to his feet, glaring daggers at the shell-shocked girl, only to pause in realization. “Wait. You-You can see this? You can see my arm?!”
“How could I NOT see it?! What the hell happened to you?!” She yelled back, visibly shaken. But before either of them could get another word out, an explosion rocked the building sideways. Rowan spun, heart leaping to his throat, half-expecting the floor beneath their feet to give and unleash hell, but nothing of the sort happened. “What was that?“
She turned to him, cold blue eyes locked with his.
“The hell are you looking at me for?! I don’t know! How the hell would I blow something up when I have been here with you the entire time?! And while we’re at it—why are you even here, Little Miss Pervert?! This is the men’s bathroom! MEN'S!”
“Perv?!” She angrily shouted back. “I saw you running out clutching your arm and got worried, you jerk! And stop changing the subject! Kinda funny how the second you leave—boom! Explosion!”
“If I were evil,” Spitting through gnashing teeth, Rowan inhaled sharply. “Would we be arguing right now?!“
Why was he even wasting time with her?
He needed to check out that explosion. “Out of my way.”
“I don’t think so, mister. Not until you've explained yourself.”
In one motion, she pulled a cross from her pocket.
It might as well have been a flashbang she'd pulled out with how fast it scorched his retinas.
Vision blazing white, he raised his arm to block the light while entertaining thoughts of murder.
Thankfully, a gunshot suddenly echoed down the hall, snapping both their focus toward the sound.
The second her eyes left him, Rowan immediately took inititive.
He slapped the cross to the floor and yanked her into one of the stalls.
Eyes teary and filled with panic, the girl tried to speak, just to find his palm—the human one—against her lips.
“Shut! Up! Shut up now, or we’re both dead!”
Sure enough, voices started echoing—screams.
“What’s… What’s happening?”
“A school shooting? Terrorists trying to nab a few kids for ransom? Take your pick.”
Pretty fucking ballsy of them...
There was a reason Gotham Academy had been left alone, and it wasn’t just the laws.
A sixth of these kids were probably future members of the Court of Owls.
It'd take a special kind of stupid, reckless, insane—or all three—to come after them… “Joker?“
“You think the Joker—”
“Shh!“ He hushed, pulling himself up to confirm his suspicion.
Peeking at the entrance, his eyes locked with the P.E. teacher’s right as the man got gunned down.
'Help!' He mouthed, then dropped dead on a pool of his own blood.
“… You listen, and listen carefully. Stay calm, get on the toilet, and no matter what you hear or see, do not make a fucking sound. Got it?“
Too stunned to speak, she blankly nodded, hurrying on top of the toilet lid.
“Don’t worry,” Rowan reassured, before hurling himself in the next stall. “It’ll be over soon.”
Pressed flat against the door, the part-time vigilante listened intently to the approaching footsteps and the terrible singing. “‘Another one bites the dust!!! And another gone; and another gone~!’”
He heard mechanical parts click into place, followed by a gunshot. Leaning down for another peek, Rowan swallowed a curse as the P.E. teacher’s warm corpse had its head blown wide-open. The good news? The shooter didn't seem to be a Meta.
The bad news?
He looked completely unhinged.
“Man, that's so COOOOOOL~!“ The criminal swooned, whistling happily as he stepped into the bathroom, bloody boots smacking against the marble floor. “Anyone here? Come on out, I won't bite.“
Neither Rowan nor the girl spoke, but the shooter didn’t sound like he was going to give up. “Come out, children… I gotta get you to the sport court. That’s where all the other children are going… Come out, or I’ll have to use force.”
A minute quietly passed.
“Fine. You asked for it, brats.”
A bullet tore through the solid plastic, somehow missing both Rowan and the girl. Their eyes met briefly through the hole, then without warning, the red-headed girl stupidly crawled out of the stall.
“W-Wait! I’m here! Please, stop!”
“Now, see, why'd you make me waste a bullet?“
Out of habit, Rowan reached for a smoke pellet, then stopped short.
Bruce had barred him from everything: The Suit, the belt, the Bat-gadgets.
He was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way, while suffering from fourth-degree burns… Rowan really wished he could say he had been through worse, but was there anything worse than this, save one of Batman's rogues attending the raid?
'Get your shit together, Rowan. Get your shit together.'
Taking a deep, quiet breath, Rowan tiptoed onto the toilet lid and kicked the stall door open just as the shooter loosened his grip on the gun.
Thrown into the sink, the psycho’s head snapped toward Rowan, only to immediately catch a jacket to the face. Then a left. Followed by a right, and a solid kick to the crotch.
It wasn’t honorable, but at this point? Honor could eat shit for all he cared.
Halfway through the beating, the shooter finally got a hold of his arm—the left one—and dug his nails into the burnt flesh.
Rowan had been stabbed, shot, beaten to a pulp, left to freeze and burn but none of those pains compared to a fraction of what he was feeling now.
A cry tore from his lips as he was lifted, slammed into the mirror, and then choked.
“You little piece of shit! I'm not supposed to kill any kid, but for you, I think I'm going to make an exception—!“
Fortunately, before he could deliver on his threat, a bucket suddenly slammed into the side of his head. Freeing one arm to clutch the fresh injury, the shooter kicked the girl in the chest, tossing her in front of the last stall.
Coughing and wheezing, she curled in a fetal position and sobbed.
Seizing the moment, Rowan went in for a punch, but cramped and off-balance, he couldn’t put enough power for it to turn the tides, and in seconds, the shooter had him by the throat again.
“I'm going to make an exception for both of you.“
He thrashed in the chokehold, clawed at the shooter’s eyes ans caught a punch to his burnt bicep for his effort.
“Look at you… I’d be doing you a favor.”
Refusing to give, he continued to struggle—hands scrambling at the shooter’s arms, legs kicking uselessly against the tiles.
But Rowan was only human (Debatable), and despite his training, even he had his limits.
'Dying to a scrub…' That'd got to be a new low for a Robin.
Eyes flickering, desperate for something; anything that could save him, Rowan caught sight of it again.
His Shadow was waving at him, slower this time, almost taunting.
It grinned, wide and jagged, red mist leaking from its mouth like steam off a blood-soaked pavement.
Then, it moved. Fast.
The Shadow lunged straight for the shooter’s, fangs bared; crimson mist trailing behind it like embers from a dying campfire.
It yanked the shooter’s shadow into the air, and the man’s body followed, before getting violently slammed into the stall, then the floor, the ceiling—over and over.
He couldn’t even scream as the hard plastic rattled and shattered against his back with each impact.
Rowan had no doubt the Shadow could and would have torn the man apart, but he remembered clear as day what happened the last time he got close to killing someone. Hard to forget when a whole limb of his had been permanently mutilated and transfigured.
As loud as every bone in his body screamed for blood, self-preservation was louder, and thus, “STOP!“
Truth be told, he hadn’t expected it to work, but the gamble had paid off.
Thick, inky chains burst forth from the ground, latching onto his Shadow like a vice.
It snarled, writhed, fought, but was still subdued in the end.
With all the threats finally neutralized, Rowan let himself drop flat on his back, panting like a dog.
“It’s every damn day with this dump, isn’t it?”
Why couldn’t he have been left in Metropolis instead?
