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Season 0: Year One C7: A Blast From The Past (2) (Public)
🕑 Added 2025-05-10 14:57:12 +0000 UTC“Let’s talk charity.
Or at least, what Gothamites tell themselves is charity, each time they drop a handful of change into a shaking cup on 5th and Grundy. They smile, feel a little warmer inside, maybe even a bit proud of their good deed, like they have taken one step closer to Sainthood.
Too bad they didn’t help the kid.
They just paid a 'pimp,' because in Gotham, misery isn’t an accident, it’s a business, and nothing rakes in profit quite like the kind that’s small, fragile, and so, so incredibly easy to mold.
Orphans.
Runaways.
Kids with twisted limbs or incurable diseases.
The more broken they look, the better.
A limp earns more than two good legs.
A broken bone sweetens the deal.
A missing arm? That’s premium stock.
Disfigurement gets sympathy, and sympathetic people tend to open their wallets a lot faster.
And yet, for all their 'hard work' and toiling, most of these children barely see a cent.
Hell, they'd be lucky to get a meal if they hit quota.
Poking ribs and hollow eyes do sell the scam better than full bellies and healthy pink skin, after all.
The rest lines the boss’s pockets.
And the worst part? Most don’t even try to run.
Why would they? The streets are colder than a handler’s backhand.
Shelters are full or fairytales, and after a while, you start to forget there was ever another way.
So what happens when they’re too old to beg?
They move up.
Some become enforcers—breaking the same bones that got theirs broken once.
Others recruit, scouring alleys and group homes for fresh faces to keep the scam going.
The truly misfortunate vanish, either gutted for parts or silenced for good.
It all depends on the handler, really.
If you’re lucky, you might get one who will toss you scraps and leave your ribs intact—someone who, while undoubtedly heinous, still appeared to possess a shred of humanity;
If you’re unlucky, you might get the gambling drunk with a side of beating weekly;
And if you’re well and truly cursed, you get Reuben…
I don't know what he saw in me, but after three months of forced involvement, Reuben started calling me his lieutenant.
Said I’d take over the operation one day, since Uncle Grin's limp pistol only shot blanks.
He even said I was the future of his little empire,
It all ended the night I watched him pour boiling water over a kid even younger than I was biologically to 'increase his revenue' and finally scraped up the courage to come to the GCPD for help.
Not my proudest moment, I'll admit.
For my trouble, I was beaten within an inch of my life and left for dead.
I think he felt betrayed… That’s the only plausible reason I can come up with for why he didn’t finish the job when his moles warned him about the GCPD raid sparked by my little stunt. Why he left me bleeding under a bridge in the dead of winter instead of putting a bullet in my head…
Joke’s on him, ’cause I fucking lived and I was pissed.
Pissed enough to come back for seconds and attempt to torch everything he’d ever built.
But by then, 'Uncle Grin' was already dead—swallowed by a blaze that took both him and everything he owned, or so the GCPD reported.
I figured vengeance died with him—buried under ash and bullshit.
Then the Presence threw me a bone: One last shot at payback… And who was I to reject God's Grace?
Can’t say I regret what I did to ol' Reuben.
In fact, I remember feeling pretty damn proud of my 'handiwork,' although I doubt Bruce shares the sentiment.“
— [HELLBRED] —
Eyeing the cluster of street-toughs gathered just outside Reuben's office—a patchwork of hard-eyed teens and already-jaded adults, he swallowed the itch to step in, to crash through the window and mete out the kind of violence they’d remember for the rest of their lives. It'd be so easy, too.
Rowan could drop half the crew with a flashbang and a gloved fist before they even registered his presence. Instead, he only watched in silence, hands tearing his crumpled Gotham Academy uniform and fashioning it into a crude headwear which he then promptly wrapped around his tangled white hair and face.
He saw his old self in that huddle of cast-offs: Hungry, desperate, and one missed meal from joining the nearest crime syndicate himself.
At the moment, some of them still had a shot at turning back—a window he would be slamming shut if he were to beat them bloody and bury them under thousands in medical debt.
Furthermore, taking out crooks—even half-starved ones—would slow him down, giving Bruce time to retrace his steps and catch up, and if the Batman showed up, odds were he wouldn't let him lay into his old tormentor.
He'd force Rowan pull his punches; make him stop.
Under normal circumstances, Rowan would never allow himself to act like a disagreeable brat, but he truly couldn't bear the thought of sharing the same sky as Reuben Hatch… He'd never know peace. Glaring daggers at the monster hunched over a battered oak desk to count straps of dirty bills, Rowan tightened the knot of his makeshift mask and pried the planks off the window as quietly as possible.
The wood shrieked in response which the criminal quickly dismissed, chalking it up to the building’s age instead.
Finally, the bolts popped free, scattering across the overgrown weeds below.
With the last obstacle gone, Rowan wasted no time reintroducing himself feet-first.
Reuben never saw it coming, though he certainly felt it.
Face slammed into splintered wood, he tumbled to the ground, a gory snarl torn sideways across his mouth while blood leaked from his split lips. To his credit, good old Uncle Grin didn’t let out so much as a sound as he rose. “A kid? Who are you supposed to be?“
“…”
Wiping blood from his lips and smearing it across what was once a clean white shirt, Uncle Grin popped his fingers, cracked his neck, and released a sound somewhere between a laugh and a hoarse grunt.
“Nothing? Let me guess—I killed your dad, dismembered your mom, and took a shit on your bed? You wouldn’t be the first, and sure as shit won’t be the last. But hey, no complaints here. I have been running dangerously low on 'livestock' lately…”
Strolling forward, Reuben grinned. “Shoulda' brought a gun, dumba—”, only to get socked instantly.
The punch should have shattered his nose, but to live this long being this shitty, Reuben had been in his fair share of fights.
The bridge of his nose had been replaced with a silicone implant ages ago. “Surprise—!“ Unfortunately for him, Rowan had no intention of stopping, not until he lay broken and robbed of life at least.
“Fuck! Who the fuck kicked someone in the nuts while he's monologuing?!“
“Me!“
A hard left hook nearly knocked Reuben's head off, followed immediately by a crushing uppercut that rattled his skull, then a liver shot that forced Uncle Grin to reluctantly admit to himself might sting worse than an actual bullet. “You're not grinning anymore… What's wrong, Uncle?“
Fingers brushing the grip of the gun tucked at his waistband, Reuben spun, raising the firearm just a second too slow.
“You… Why, you little—”
He barely managed to level the barrel at the kid before his world exploded in pain as the tip of Rowan’s boot gave his Adam’s apple a gentle tap.
Tough as he was, Reuben’s body reacted like anyone else’s would: By coughing and gagging and grabbing at his throat.
“Y-You… Who arE you?! I ha-haven't used that name in years!“
“An orphan you murdered in cold-blood.“
Rowan's midfoot connected with Reuben's slight underbite, snapping all four of his front teeth from the root canals.
“Ha… Hahaha~!” Uncle Grin giggled, spitting out a bloody blob. “Yo-You know how fucking little that narrows it down? I have got a whole harbor full of you motherfuckers!“
He felt pain; that, Rowan was sure of.
He just didn't care, and that upset Rowan something fierce.
Pulling a Batarang out of his pocket, Rowan pressed the sharp edge on the monster's cheekbone and threatened. “I'm going to make meat cubes out of you, Uncle.“
It was the most profane thing Rowan had ever uttered, yet all it earned him was another uncontrollable fit of giggles. "If I had a penny for every time someone said that, I'd have four. Not one ever followed through. And somehow—"
The Batarang carved a bloody line from his cheek to his ear, but it wasn’t Rowan who moved.
It was Reuben who had pushed into it. "Somehow I don’t think you’ve got the balls to."
Startled, Rowan backflipped away, still deciding whether to be disgusted or impressed as he landed on the soles of his feet with a soft thud. "See? Yer ain’t got the balls, ye' little cunt. But I fucking do!“
Taking aim at the vigilante, Grin barely got a shot off before the Glock was knocked from his hand.
And then Rowan was on him again, knuckles splitting and bloodied as he slammed his former handler into the floor. None of it stuck. Not emotionally, anyway and it wouldn’t be any fun if Reuben wasn’t scared shitless, so he did the first thing that came to mind: Retrieved a fear pellet and whispered, “You will be afraid.“
“Of yo—?!“
Without a second thought, Rowan shoved the pellet into Reuben’s mouth just as it started to hiss.
Like most of Batman’s gear, the smoke pellets had two modes: The slow-burn for show, and the instant release for exits. Rowan chose the former without hesitation, but not for his exit. It was for a show—Reuben's, in fact.
Just then, someone joined the audience.
A limping teenager who burst into the room wielding a rusty pipe, “Uncle?! I heard noises!“
Rowan’s violet eyes met his—sharp and almost… Luminous—as he glowered through the mist, then rammed his fist into Reuben’s mouth to seal the smoke. “Get. Out.“
The kid froze, wide-eyes slowly taking in the scene.
Coming to, the boy reached down, grabbed a handful of the scattered 'Benjamins', and silently exited the room while closing the door behind him. “'Scuse me.“
“Smart.“
Finally, the first scream tore out of him, because no matter how ironclad someone thought their mind or body was, the Fear Toxin would melt through their 'defenses,' as it was designed to do.
The chemical hit his brain like a flash flood, short-circuiting logic and memory in one fell swoop.
Within seconds, the amygdala went into overdrive, pumping raw panic through his system while the prefrontal cortex—the voice of reason itself—sputtered like a blown fuse.
His dopamine crashed. His cortisol surged, followed by scrambled thalamus', turning sight, sound, and touch into a tangle of visual distortions, parasitic delusions, even time dilation, all tailored by his own subconscious fears, courtesy of Scarecrow's prized synthetic drug.
With its primary exit sealed, the Toxin began to leak from his other orifices in sluggish wisps of brown and yellow.
The chemicals scorched the lining of his throat as he convulsed, rebelling against his own failing mortal shell…
Their eyes met just long enough to trigger a jolt of memory in the monster’s fractured mind.
Hands gripping Rowan’s shoulders, Reuben steadied himself against the tremor ripping through his nerves.
Then, true to his name, he bared his teeth in a feral, cracked, and stained grin.
“Rowan Locke…” He mouthed through the fingers shoved in his mouth and the palm clamped around his jaws, tongue dragging against his tearing lips. “My son. I'm proud of you… I knew you'd retu—”
“Just fucking die already!” Rowan roared, yanking his hand free to launch a flurry of blows.
The first cracked against Grin’s temple with a sharp thud, snapping his head sideways.
The second slammed into his cheekbone, splitting flesh and spraying blood.
The third hit landed dead center on his nose, but instead of breaking, it rebounded off the silicone beneath the skin.
The resistance jolted Rowan’s knuckles, throwing off his rhythm for only half a second before he resumed the beating.
The fourth snapped into Reuben's jaw, rattling loose the remainder of his teeth.
The fifth was barely a punch, just motion—wild and fast.
He couldn’t explain it, but something in him whispered that the next punch would be the last… The one to end the man, his empire, and set loose all the ghosts clinging to both.
Allowing himself a rare moment of introspection—if only to mourn what he was about to lose, and grieve what he was about to become—Rowan raised his fist once more. “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance.“
He felt it long before he even saw it as the air shifted behind him, quiet as breath yet heavier than the room could hold. “Robin, stand down, now!“
Rowan refused to look back, for he knew if he did; if he were to see the Dark Knight now, all the momentum he had mustered to… 'Commit' might vanish. Winding his arm back, he took a nanosecond to admire his 'glorious handiwork' and jabbed, but by then, Batman's gloved hand had already closed around his wrist.
He didn’t drop his fist, but he couldn't move either.
“Let go of me, Batman. You of all people should understand why I need to do this.“
"You won't find solace going down this path."
Rowan's expression contorted as both sides of his brain began a war for domination.
One urged him to listen, to stop and spare his hands the blood; while the other beckoned him to give in to the fire pounding beneath his skin.
“He knows my identity… If he doesn't die…” The sidekick muttered, though even he knew how weak the excuse was.
Now, of course the fear pellets weren't lethal.
Bruce would never have used it otherwise, but after getting that much Fear Toxin dumped into his system, Rowan would be impressed if Reuben managed anything more than drooling for the rest of his miserable life.
"He's had enough… He'll spend his days suffering."
"That's the point! He shouldn't get any more days!"
Rowan snapped, the words tearing from his throat far louder than he meant to.
“None of THEM should! In any sane world, people like him—like the Joker—would be branded as terrorists and put to the chair.“
“Be that as it may, we're not judge, jury and executioner, Robin… If you kill a killer, the number of killers in the world stays the same.“
“It won't, if I kill the rest too.“
The grip on his wrist suddenly tightened.
“Paul Tennet…”
“What?“ Asked Rowan, narrowing his eyes at the Dark Knight. “Before he became Reuben Hatch; before he got the moniker 'Uncle Grin', he used to be Paul Tennet; a boy who never knew his parents. The orphanage was the last place that tried to hold him.
One night, he slipped out without a sound and never came back.
By nine, he was running drugs for a small-time gang.
Sound familiar?"
Lowering his head, Bruce asked, his white, soulless lenses clashing with Rowan’s intense violet eyes.
"Those kids out there? They’re not far off from him. Most already made choices they can’t walk back from. Did unto others what was done to them. Even you..."
Shaking his head, Bruce released the boy's wrist and approached the unconscious lowlife to check for a pulse.
“Shall we kill them too?“
"What? No! They're not beyond saving."
"Aren't they?“ The Dark Knight asked again, fishing out the empty pellet from Reuben's cracked jaw. “Because their body count hasn't reached double digits? Because they felt bad pouring boiling water on another child…? Tell me, Robin, who gets to live, and who doesn't?“
Listening to Bruce's calm, analytical voice, Rowan's fists clenched, then unclenched.
Before he could come up with a response, Reuben jolted violently, foam bubbling from his mouth as his body convulsed.
The Dark Knight sprang into motion immediately, forcing the vial of antidote between the criminal’s clattering teeth while Rowan stood over them. "He's flat-lining…"
The corners of his lips lifted in delight.
“Good riddance.“
Crouching beside to the floorboard near Reuben’s desk, where Rowan just knew the man was keeping his 'safety net,' he fumbled with the crevices.
Prying it loose, he smirked. “There it is.“
Wrapped in a grocery bag inside were stacks of curled, yellowed papers: Transaction logs, a ledger of names and birthdays, to the neatly stacked columns of dollar figures and initials.
Evidence enough to buy the GCPD a year’s worth of raids… Trust a criminal to sleep beside his ghosts.
“There you are…” After a few minutes of skimming, Rowan finally found the papers which could be traced back to him, crumpled them into a ball and lit the match. Pocketing what he could, Rowan turned to find a syringe lodged in Reuben’s neck.
He briefly considered telling the Dark Knight to let him die, then decided against it.
“He alive?”
“Barely.“
“Fuck…”
“I’ve already alerted the GCPD and Child Protective Services. ETA is eleven minutes.”
“I should get a head start then…”
“No. The Batmobile’s waiting outside. Get in, stay put and don’t say a word.”
Handing the record books to Bruce, Rowan fixed his makeshift headwrap and exited the office.
The hall outside, predictably, was full of Reuben’s 'elves,' all hard at work with no presents in sight, unless you counted boosted wallets.
“’Sup…” The vigilante greeted with a casual wave, kicked the door open, and vaulted into the heavily armored seven-seater.
The foldable, bulletproof-glass doors with a solid steel frame creaked, sliding shut.
Wrenching the headwrap off, Rowan wiped sweat from his brow, and quietly observed as police cruisers, an ambulance and a stampede of suits swarmed the block.
Exchanging a few quick words with Commissioner Gordon, Bruce then smoothly slid into the driver’s seat. “Let’s go.” Neither said a word as they sped off into the moonlit horizon.
“C’mon, Bruce, give it to me straight.”
“You were reckless…
You went in without your gear.
You jumped headfirst into a situation you knew nothing about, and nearly killed someone.
What were you thinking, Rowan? I thought you knew better?!“
Watching the raindrops streak across the tinted windshield, Rowan released a slow, weary sigh.
“I apologize for running off like that; for worrying you and Alfred, and for going in blind. I'll own up to it. But I won’t apologize for the violence I dealt that 'animal'.” In fact, even if the bastard were to die in transit, it wouldn't cost him a minute of sleep.
The Dark Knight grunted in response, cowl tilting; lenses narrowing as if burn a hole through his skull.
“Maybe Alfred’s right,” He muttered. “Maybe you’re still too immature and reckless to carry this kind of burden.”
“Don't, Bruce. Don't pull the 'disappointed ward' on me. I did what I did, and I don't regret it. Not now, not ever.“
The ride back to Wayne Manor was soaked in a painful silence, tense enough to cut with a butter knife, disrupted only by the low growl of the engine and the steady pulse of streetlights.
Then, mercifully, the Batler made his entrance.
“Master Bruce. Master Rowan. May I interest you in a cup of tea?”
“Alfred!“ Rowan exhaled, shoulders loosening just a little.
'Thank God for Alfred…' Knocking back the first cup, he then poured himself a second, and a third, before scampering upstairs like a goblin.
He went through the motions as per usual, then dropped onto the bed like a sack of cement, wrestling with the urge to break into the hospital where Reuben was brought to and finish the job.
Meanwhile, under the Batcave…
“He nearly killed someone, Alfred.“
“He nearly killed a monster.“ The butler reiterated. “One who's ruined countless lives. I won’t excuse what he did, but is there a chance you’re blowing this out of proportion?”
“He nearly killed someone.“ Repeated the Dark Knight, as if that proved anything.
“Forgive me for being frank, but is this about his heritage again, Master Bruce?“
Peeling the cowl off, the Dark Knight ran a hand through his sweat-matted hair.
“The magical consultant I spoke with said Rowan’s blood is saturated with Demonic Magic to such a degree that it’s a wonder he hasn’t lost his mind and attempted mass destruction.
He added that, judging by the sheer potency, Rowan’s sire must be a Lord of Hell at minimum, and the only thing restraining this power is the Containment Spell actively suppressing his heritage… He advised that Rowan be eliminated before that containment fails.“
Giovanni Zatara had made one thing clear: If the Seal ever failed, whoever Rowan was likely wouldn’t survive the Demonic Awakening.
“The Seal’s only point of failure is the act of murder… If Reuben Hatch were to die…” The Dark Knight trailed off, as though horrified by the idea. The two stewed in the implications for a good minute, and then Alfred suggested.
“Maybe you could ask the consultant to… Reinforce the Seal? Upgrade its protections somehow?”
“Most sources confirm the Spell is the most stable and advanced containment construct currently on Earth.“ Exhaling, Bruce pulled up his cowl. “Keep an eye on him.“
“You're heading out again, sir?“
“The night’s still young.“
The helmet locked in place with a smooth snap.
“Gotham’s filth won’t take the night off just because our ward’s got problems.“
.
.
.
Tossing in bed, Rowan stirred with strained breaths.
The night terrors usually dragged him under, but this time felt… Off.
He was awake somehow, and painfully aware of every movement, every breath.
This wasn’t Gotham.
Gone was the damp stink of concrete and diesel.
In its place stood a world cloaked in smog and rust.
The thing hunting him wasn’t Slade Wilson either.
It was a Stag.
Massive and regal, it appeared to have been sculpted from raw ruby rather than born.
Its antlers didn’t grow so much as they'd been forced through the creature’s skull, hammered in, then stitched down by Frankenstein himself.
The skin around the base was torn and raw, held together by thick, angry sutures that'd probably split and fall off with a touch.
Usually, even with the fear and pure instincts taking the wheel, he still had control.
He could fight back.
He could survive.
Slade was a nightmare, yes, but he was familiar. Killable.
This was something else—It was a Demon.
From the moment he saw it, Rowan understood in a way that bypassed logic and screamed directly to his bones that if he ran, it would catch him, and if he fought, he’d die.
The only solace he had was that it hadn’t made a move yet, almost like it was waiting for something. “The Hell's that fucking thumping?“ Rowan snapped, eyes locked on the vessels pulsing overhead.
“—Clamp it—he's bleeding out from the gastric wall. I don't think that's blood, it's necrotic tissues. Get suction in there… I can't see past the esophageal rupture.“
“—Goddamit, vitals are spiking—check cerebral pressure, now.”
Staring at the sky trying to keep up with the booming voices, the vigilante paled as the vessels quickened rapidly, followed by raspy breaths that formed the storms and winds. It took him a second too long to realize he wasn’t staring at the sky—he was inside the lining of a heart.
“—Heart rate’s erratic again. He’s not stabilizing. Push another 20ccs of sedative—no, make it 30. We need to shut his system down before it implodes.”
Eyes jerking back to the Stag, Rowan recoiled in equal parts disgust and horror as its shape distorted, and broke apart like an animation being… Unmade. And then it grinned, revealing not the blunt teeth of a grazer, but a maw full of jagged, uneven fangs. “Oh, what the fuck?!!“
“—He's flat-lining, get the paddles! Charging to two hundred, clear!“
The world around them shook as bolts of lightnings struck the ground near Rowan, hurling him a meter back while clutching his deafened ears. Yet, even through all that, he dared not look away from the Stag, for its grin was growing ever-wider, proportional to the shortening distance between them.
“—Again!“
Thunders rumbled as the thumpings grew louder, more erratic and rapid, before coming to an abrupt stop.
“—We lost him… Patient's name: Ben Hatch Rue, Time of Death: Nine-fourteen.“
The chains that had bound the Demon snapped.
Now unshackled, it was free… Free to lunge at the boy who still hadn't quite gotten his footing, bleeding maws aiming straight for his face.
But then, a faint wheeze echoed, followed by a weak thump that snapped Rowan to full alertness. Shooting up from his bed, he frantically spun from side to side, but there was no voices; no Demon… Only the quiet of his room and the disheveled reflection in the mirror facing his bed.
Then a sharp pain pulled his focus to his cradled arm, where giant teeth-marks now lined.
Bloody, disgusting, infected teeth-marks.
“I just can't catch a fucking break, can I?“
