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Season 0: Year One C5: Fear & Formula (Public)
🕑 Added 2025-04-29 16:32:13 +0000 UTC“You know, I wish I could say Alfred and I finished the recreation of the Serum in a day, but we didn't… Partly because I got kind of sidetracked experimenting with Scarecrow's Fear Toxin, but mainly because Alfred, being Alfred and all, decided to make it his mission to turn our sessions into 'learning experiences.'
Thank God for whatever comic-buffs that allowed me to match Bruce blow-for-blow, despite being a torso shorter than him, with far less muscle mass and reach.
It must have affected my intelligence too, because I was flying through those biology books faster than Usain Bolt on a school track.
Hell, I was picking things up so fast I was starting to get existential crisis. But Deathstroke’s Super Soldier Serum wasn’t something you could just whip up overnight. It took decades of development, thousands of man-hours, and billions of taxpayer dollars for the U.S. military to get it even remotely right; and even then, it was so damn unstable that only Wilson and his brats ever survived the changes.
Certain elements—no, not those four—weren't even on the periodic table.
They were clearly synthesized in a lab, and unless we got our hands on the research papers, it would take us at least half a decade to figure out its components at the rate we were going. I, unfortunately, didn't have that kind of patience or time.
Gotham was a powder keg ready to blow any second, and sitting on my ass, waiting for the fallout just didn’t sit right with me.
So I turned to other solutions;
I turned to the mad scientists.
The kind who’d sell their Soul and their spouse’s for a research grant.
The next step was finding someone I could actually entrust the last scraps of blood and data the Batcomputer had scraped together. Fortunately, Gotham alone had about twenty or thirty so-called 'once-in-a-lifetime' geniuses rotting away in private and college labs. If you think that's a lot, wait until you find out about Central City and Metropolis…
Sometimes I wondered why this Earth wasn’t already a goddamn utopia.
Some would blame greed.
Me? I figured it was fear—fear of losing your job to an AI, fear that the same nanomachines building your fancy skyrise might malfunction and flatten half a city block come the morning.
Fear of tomorrow, basically.
But I'm getting sidetracked.
With a new plan in mind, I rushed to work, expecting—hoping I’d be done in a few days at most.
I was so fucking wrong.
Sure, there were plenty of mad scientists to pick and choose from, but I needed someone... Not good per se, but mentally stable at least. Someone with a clean record, a decent family life and no fondness for murder, because we wouldn't want a potential criminal getting their hands on the Serum, now, would we? On top of that, they had to be halfway competent.
Sounded simple enough when I first started digging through the Dark Knight’s List of Interest—a lovely pile of classified intel, psychiatric evaluations, and half-redacted files on Supes, tech-heads, and scientists alike. You’d think, with all that tech, it’d be easy to find a scientist who fit all the criterias, but it wasn’t.
It wasn’t that the Batcomputer couldn’t find anyone, or that the candidates were idiots.
The problem was half of them were one HR complaint away from leveling Gotham, and the other half already had résumés stained by Gotham’s worst criminals, so for a month and a half, I was practically married to the Batcomputer.
By the end of it, I was almost homicidal myself... You know, staring into the Abyss and all that jazz.
But then, finally, I found someone; one Dr. Robert Kirkland—better known as Man-Bat—who, at this point, had not spliced himself with Bat-DNA… Yet.
Dude should’ve heeded my warning.
But no, I’m just a dumb brute—what the hell do I know about splicing Bat-DNA into humans? Now he’s stalking Gotham and getting his face rearranged every night by Bruce. Dumbass. And speaking of whom, while I was busy with the Serum and my injuries, the Dark Knight was out in the streets, busting skulls and making sure there’d still be a city left to defend by the time I got my shit together.
Apparently, he was extra-violent, too.
I like to think it’s because I almost died, but maybe I’m just overestimating my worth.“
— [HELLBRED] —
Shadowing the van, the Dark Knight moved silently across the rooftops, his boots barely making a sound on the damp tiles.
He stopped just as the car rolled to a halt in front of an unassuming warehouse at the edge of the docks.
At a glance, the place seemed deserted, but the Dark Knight knew better.
They were behind containers or lurking in the shadows of the other warehouses—unseen but definitely present… A swift sweep revealed over a hundred disguised thugs at the minimum.
'Good.' Fists tightening, muscles tensing with a deep need for violence, Batman descended and immediately dispatched a thug in no more than a second.
Then, keeping to the shadows, he silently approached the group of four in the corner and eavesdropped. “Shit, ten mil for what? Bastard couldn’t even take out the sidekick.”
“Deathstroke... More like Dickstroke if you ask me.“
Howling over the botched assassination attempt, the thugs finally slapped their cards down, and just like that, whatever scraps of goodwill they shared immediately went up in smoke.
“You’re cheating, aren't you? Man, fuck you!”
The other thug leaned back and smirked smugly. “Prove it.”
“I’ll prove it with my boot up your ass if you don’t cut it out!”
“That doesn’t even make sen—”
The words died in his throat as he cheerfully tilted his head back, only to lock eyes with the Dark Knight himself.
“…”
"Oh, crap... It’s the Bat!"
Across from the cheater, one thug scrambled to his feet, knocking over his chair with a loud clatter.
"No shit, Captain Obvious!"
The thug hadn't the time to lift his gun before the Batclaw hauled him off his feet and giving him an… Intimate introduction to Batman’s fist.
The criminal couldn’t tell if anything had cracked, but it sure felt like it as he slammed through the flimsy plastic table.
Choking on the air in his lungs, he wheezed, helpless to intervene as his companions were taken down one by one. “Ay, ay, dude! Please, man, I want no smoke. I’ll even knock myself out!”
'Coward!' The thug's ringing brain cursed, watching in impotent fury as the cheater slammed his own face against the wall, face twisting in terror as he felt an arm on his shoulder. Staring the man down as if to say, 'Here, let me give you a hand,' Gotham's own boogeyman swept the legs out from under the poor fool, clasped fists hastening his fall with a thunderous thud.
'Maybe there are perks to cowardice...'
He thought, squeezing his eyes shut and praying the Bat wouldn’t notice, but the vigilante already did.
“Wait, wait, wait! I can give you info—” He hadn't a chance to finish when the plated boot struck his chin, knocking both his teeth and him out cold.
The Dark Knight surveyed the neutralized thugs before grappling to the top of a stack of containers. He then located the Captains to disrupt their coordination, systematically taking down every hired gun in his path until all that remained of the original 138 were the handful standing guard next to the mob bosses.
Penguin, Falcone, Maroni, and Black Mask.
Half the crime families of Gotham were present, all tense as their bosses clashed.
“I told you! I told you not to involve that damn Clown!”
Cobblepot shouted, sweat dripping down his fat as he pointed the cane at Black Mask.
“So a few freaks managed to escape Arkham. It happens.”
“Happens? Happens?!” Cobblepot fumed. “Do you have any idea how bad this is for business, you incompetent fool?! And don’t even get me started on the assassin you hired! He fell to the sidekick!”
“Deathstroke was supposed to be the best of the best.”
“Is that why he’s in prison?!”
“Like you’re one to talk,” Black Mask growled. “Who did you hire? Deadshot? The Bat looks very much alive, last I checked.”
“At least he was taken out by the Bat!” Cobblepot shot back, and so began the blame-game, until an unconscious thug suddenly dropped on top of their table. “What the hell?!“
“I saw the Bat! He’s on the roof!”
“Where, where?!”
“There, you moron!”
But the Dark Knight was already gone.
Smoke pellets slipped from his fingers as he dropped behind a stacked shelf just in time to dodge a hail of gunfire.
“You shot me, you brainless morons!” Cobblepot bellowed within the smoke, clutching his wounded shoulder. The thugs hacked and broke into coughing fit inside the thick smoke, stumbling blind while silhouettes danced around them, each bigger and meaner than the last.
Somewhere in the mayhem, something heavy cracked—a wet, ugly noise—followed by a scream that cut off fast. Unnaturally fast, in fact.
Then came another shriek.
And another.
And another, even more guttural than last.
If Black Mask didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought it was that disgusting freak Pyg at work.
But it wasn’t.
It was one of his own—some wide-eyed, twenty-year-old boytoy his Lieutenant had taken under her wing. “Dammit, where is h—?!” One of the henchmen barked, only to take an elbow to the ribs hard enough to make him gag up his dinner.
His friend barely managed to raise his gun before the Bat was on him, violently ripping the firearm out of his hands.
“Oh, no—” Dropping the magazine, he whipped the gunstock across the other henchmen's faces, KO'ing five thugs within a fraction of a second.
* BANG!!!
A shot rang out—wild and useless, as the bullet ricocheted off the ceiling.
The sparks fluttered like candles in the wind, lighting up the space just long enough for the shooter to catch a glimpse of the 'animal' his boss had provoked, before being snuffed out along with the his consciousness.
By the time he hit the ground, groaning, two-thirds of the room was already down, while the rest were tripping over each other to get away from the living, breathing Myth.
“Ba-Batman! What did I do? What did I do?“
"You know what you did." The Dark Knight whispered, dragging the edge of his boot across the deformed man's second chin, slow enough to make the Penguin feel every ounce of it; even the gradual increase in pressure and the terror that followed.
Seeing the Dark Knight distracted with Cobblepot, Black Mask drew his gun, but he didn’t even get a shot off before a Batarang knocked it from his hand.
Bending down to retrieve the weapon turned out to be his biggest mistake, as a knee slammed into his chin, the force behind it expertly controlled to keep the mob boss conscious and in pain.
"This, it's about your sidekick, isn't it? Did he die?"
Roman Sionis grinned, right before the wood of his mask splintered into his skin, dragging his ego down with it as Bruce’s armored boot smashed into his face thrice.
“If he were,” Batman growled, hauling Black Mask up by his collar. “You'd be too."
Whatever 'bark' Black Mask had thought up died on the tip of his tongue the moment he saw the violence burning behind that cowl. The Bat was always serious, but there was usually restraint to him—something which appeared entirely absent tonight.
“Rescind the bounty on Robin, spit out the names of the other assassins, and I'll make this quick.“
The crime lord spat out a blob of blood, and smirked. "Aw, the Bat's got a soft spot for some brat. How sweet. But Gotham's built on dead kids… What's one more?"
Batman drove his knee into Roman without hesitation, lifting him off the ground a good meter.
The mob boss collapsed in a wheezing heap, but Bruce wasn’t done.
He dragged the the Supervillain back up, gauntlets creaking around his throat. "Ten million… You put a ten million bounty on a child.“
Black Mask choked. "Brat should’ve picked a safer hobby, then."
“Wrong answer.“
A fist crashed into the mask, snapping pieces off and exposing brown strands underneath. Roman fought back. Everyone saw that he did, but it didn't matter. Certainly not to the Dark Knight.
It hadn’t been much to look at to begin with, but what hid beneath was even worse: A bloodied, and battered thing stricken with fear.
“You signed his death warrant. Now I’m going to make you beg for yours."
Barely able to stay upright, Roman stumbled back, grasping for air while the room spun around him and blood poured from the cracks in his mask. Fumbling with his belt, he drew a switchblade with trembling fingers, lunging at the Dark Knight with a broken snarl. The blade kissed armor and snapped in two, yet the Bat didn't even flinch.
Instead, he turned his head—slow, mechanical—and something just shifted.
Roman blinked, and for a second, that familiar cowl seemed to sprout jagged horns.
The cape writhed at the edges, licking the floor like smoke while those white eyes burned with the intensity and visions of Hell itself.
Roman staggered back, slapping at his face in a desperate and, sadly, futile effort to resist the terror sinking into his bones.
Smoke curled thick around them, whispering at the corners of his vision as the Bat moved.
A gauntleted fist rammed into his gut, folding him like wet paper.
Another cracked across his jaw, snapping his head sideways with a wet pop.
The third brought him to his knees, drooling blood, coughing, snot streaming down his broken nose.
The fourth broke something deeper—something Black Mask couldn’t quite name. Was it his pride?
The fifth, sixth, and seventh came so fast they all seemed to blur into one.
“Ho-How are you doing this?
Y-YOU'RE JUST A MAN!
YOU'RE JUST A MAN!!!“
The Black Mask roared as his body jerked right like a ragdoll, ribs caving inward under seven more blows.
He barely even realized he was on his back until the blood began to pool in his throat. Roman tried to crawl away, God knew he did, but his limbs had gone completely limp, joints locking up at the more sounds of the Demon and his bootfalls.
Helpless, he cried—bawled, really. “I’ll retract the bounty! Please, please! I swear!”
The plea caused his pride to shriek something fierce, clawing and thrashing, but Roman could not find it in himself to care anymore… Survival vs. Dignity—the choice was obvious.
“Please…”
“The names and locations of the other assassins.“
Taking pity upon his fellow mob boss, Oswald Cobblepot hissed.
“You already took down two of 'em! Only Bane, Zsasz, and Firefly are still in the race.“
“Locations.“
“What, you think those freaks told me where they ran off to? I got nothing, Batman. So unless you sockin' me in the mouth somehow makes me magically know, you’re wasting your time. Now leave us be. You’ve done enough harms for one night.”
Batman shifted, boots grinding against the concrete as he stared down Penguin—a waddling, bloated excuse for a man barely scraping his chest.
“The bounty.”
Penguin sneered, wiping blood from the corner of his lip. “It’s off. You have my word. Now scram.”
Closing the distance, a growl rolled from Bruce’s throat as grabbed Penguin by the coat, and slammed him into the ground. "You better mean it.“ More smoke pooled beneath their feet, and by the time it cleared, the Dark Knight was already gone, swift as the wind.
“Bane, Firefly, and Zsasz…” Those were names Bruce hadn’t wanted to hear.
Gotham was no stranger to lunatics, but even among its rogues, there were a handful even the crime families knew to steer clear of.
Two of them were in that category—irredeemable monsters the Dark Knight wrestled with the urge to kill every night.
But at least there was some good news.
Rowan's idea to lace their smoke pellets with Scarecrow’s Fear Toxin had yielded astonishing results.
Batman understood fear—not just how it worked, but how to weaponize it.
Still, the fear he dealt in had always been simple: The quiet kind you felt when you screwed up and knew your parents were about to hand your ass to you. But now, with the Fear Toxin in play, the rules had changed.
He could be anything the mind could conjure—a symbol, an idea made real.
It wasn’t suited for hostage situations, but when the objective was simple force and swift incapacitation, especially against large groups of armed henchmen, it could be one of the most efficient tools in his arsenal.
'Rowan’s done well.' The kid had adapted faster than even he could expect.
It was time he got something for the effort. “Alfred?“
“—Yes, sir?“
“What do children want these days?”
A DS?
A PSP?
“—If you truly wish to get him something, sir, might I suggest the radical notion of asking?“
“You're peppy tonight.“
“—Pardon me, sir. In my old age, staying up for your midnight dithering and keeping up appearances has become quite… Taxing.“
“Where's Rowan? He’s still digging into the Serum?”
Bruce figured the kid would’ve dropped it by now.
“—He’s obsessed. I expect he’ll try to track down a scientist in the coming days… If you’re set on rewarding his effort, that might be a good place to start. Or better yet—help him yourself.“
“I’ll give it some thought.”
Biology wasn’t exactly Bruce’s strong suit, but even then, there were very few who could claim to outmatch him in the sciences… Even in fields most still wrote off as pseudoscientific, hippie-jeebie nonsense, take for instance alien technologies.
“—Are you coming home soon, Master Bruce?“
The Dark Knight paused, eyes fixed on the horizon as the first light of dawn broke over Gotham’s jagged skyline… “I’ll be in the Cave in ten.”
“—Very good, sir. I’ll reheat 'dinner'…”
“Thank you, Alfred.”
Heading straight into the Batcave, Bruce drifted the Batmobile into its usual spot, the non-pneumatic tires screeching beneath as the 'tank' came to a stop.
The Dark Knight climbed out, peeled off his cowl, and let out a slow, ragged sigh, his fists trembling from strain he hadn’t noticed until now.
He blinked, then froze.
The floor of the Batcave was covered in bodies… Rowan. Gordon. Alfred… Even his parents.
Elevated heart rate, hallucinations, sweating, and irrational fear…
It didn’t take a genius-level intellect for Bruce to realize he’d been hit with the Fear Toxin. Reaching into his utility belt, Bruce wordlessly injected himself with the antidote, breathing a sigh of relief when he felt his pulses slow.
“I'll have to lower the dosage.“ That, or upgrade the cowl with a better filtration system, since as effective as the Toxin was, it wouldn’t do if he started clawing at shadows like the thugs he used it on. Reopening his eyes, Bruce blinked once more, relieved that the bodies were gone.
“Master Bruce, welcome home.”
Bruce instantly jerked around, fist stopping just short of Alfred’s face.
“Sir?”
“Alfred... Sorry.”
“It seems you’ve had a tense night,” The butler replied calmly. “Shall I prepare your bath, sir? Or will you have dinner first?”
“Dinner.” Bruce answered curtly.
He was starving, after all. The calories he burned in a single night and the intake needed to make up for it would make most Mr. Olympias balk in disgust. Besides, it gave Alfred time to prep the bath. “Very well, sir.“
“Where's Rowan?“
“Where you expect him.“
A short trip to the lab later, Bruce stepped into the room and found his protégé fast asleep atop the Batcomputer.
He approached quietly, ready to pick the boy up, only to stop dead in his track upon hearing the faint grunts.
Robin’s fingers clenched, groping for a staff that wasn't there as he groaned and jolted, like he’d just taken a blow to the face.
“Rowan?“ The call sent the boy somersaulting off the table, before collapsing on one knee as he winced; sleepy, unfocused eyes sharpening. “Oh, goddamnit, Bruce! Somebody oughta' put a fucking bell on you.”
“You shouldn’t exert force or—”
“I might tear the stitches, yeah, I got it.” Running a hand through his oily white hair, the boy grabbed his clutch and limped back to the seat. “So… How was your night?”
“If you’re asking about the Toxin—it was a good idea. I estimate a 42% increase in efficiency.”
“A-ha! Told you it'd be a great idea!“
Sweeping through the images on the second Batcomputer, Bruce lightly asked, “Still looking into the Serum?”
Rowan immediately averted his eyes, dragging out an awkward, “Yeaaah…”
“Had any luck?”
His face blanched as he smacked his lips. “I know what hemoglobin is now?”
“So not much at all…”
The boy looked like he wanted to say something, but sighed instead.
“Why didn’t you ask me for help?”
“You’re busy. You’re the Batman. If you help me, who’s helping Gotham? She’s already a raging bitch with you around—imagine how much worse she’d be without you. Beside…” He hesitated, puffing out a breath as he spun the chair. “I thought you wouldn’t approve, and—”
“And since I haven’t said anything, you figured that made it okay? A lie of omission is still a lie, Rowan.”
“See? This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you.”
“…”
With a groan, the boy hauled himself up and gestured at the screen. “That’s everything I’ve dug up. If you want to wipe it, go ahead.”
“You’re not going to argue?” Bruce narrowed his eyes. Obsessions didn’t just vanish like that—he'd know.
“When in Rome, right? Plus I eat your food, drink your water, sleep under your roof. Least I can do is play by your rules.”
Smirking, Bruce caught his wrist before he could make for the exit. “And that USB?“
“Tch…” Rowan clicked his tongue but didn’t resist, dropping the device into Bruce’s open palm. After a glance, the Dark Knight handed it back, much to his protégé's astonishment.
“I thought you objected?“
“I still do…” He thought about pressing the issue, only to drop the thought when he remembered the state he found the child earlier. If a Serum could help Rowan manage his PTSD, then Bruce would rather assist than watch him mutilate himself chasing power. Besides, the kid wasn’t wrong.
The world was changing, and there might come a time when a Super Soldier Serum would prove beneficial… Bruce still wasn’t convinced he’d ever need it, but it was better to have the option than to not. “Alfred mentioned you were looking to outsource the Serum. Got someone in mind?”
“You’re fishing for intel me, aren't you?”
“I gave your USB back, didn’t I?”
“… Kirkland. Robert—”
“Kirkland Langstrom,” The Dark Knight interrupted. “A brilliant biologist and geneticist who was ostracized after the scientific community caught wind of his obsession with bats, which started not long after his hearing started deteriorating. He's in desperate need for funding, last I checked.“
“You’re keeping tabs on him?”
“I keep tabs on anyone worth noticing.” Bruce answered with a shrug.
“Pretty sure that’s illegal.”
“So?“ One brow raised, Bruce crossed his arms. “You're going to tell on me?“
Lips twitching with mild irritation, Rowan rolled his eyes. “Okay, it’s official—my cockiness is rubbing off on you, and it is honestly kind of disturbing.”
Ruffling the boy’s hair on his way out, the Dark Knight chuckled and casually tossed over his shoulder.
“After school, Alfred will drive you to Kirkland. Your name is Jacques—heir to some obscenely old and disgustingly wealthy European family on a student exchange program.
Use the opportunity to learn from and keep an eye on him.
He strikes me as the type who’d inject untested science experiments up his veins and Gotham’s got enough freaks already.”
Stunned into silence, Rowan watched the Dark Knight vanish down the corridor—then let out a triumphant roar. “Hell yeah!”
Just like that, the biggest obstacle to his plans had willingly stepped aside.
And judging by his phrasing, Bruce was probably footing the bill too!
Now, if only the night terrors would ease up, then life might actually be perfect.
