Regularr
patreon
Season 0: Year One C4: "Mission Failed. We'll Get Him Next Time." (Public)
🕑 Added 2025-04-23 09:41:53 +0000 UTC"I don't know how it is on Prime Earth, but in DC? Fate’s real. Annoyingly real.
Certain things just happen, no matter what you do.
The deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne. Krypton blowing itself to hell.
The birth of Themyscira and Wonder Woman along with it.
Same goes for the rivalry between the First Robin and Deathstroke… Some feuds just write themselves.
I think the hip term for it now is ‘Canon Event’?
By taking up the Mantle, I also inherited Dick Grayson’s destined enemy.
Needless to say, I wasn’t exactly thrilled about the whole ordeal.
Slade Wilson wasn’t more skilled than Batman, and he damn sure wasn’t better equipped.
But you know what he did have?
A Super Soldier Serum coursing through his veins.
Strength, speed, durability, regeneration—the Terminator had the full freak show package, and decades to sharpen himself into one big, 6'4ft walking death sentence… And there I was, still operating on pure 'third time’s the charm' until Deathstroke smacked me upside the head for the fourth time that night.
The punch must have knocked some rust off my brain, because the moment I scrambled back into that floor grate, I had to stop, take a breather and ask myself the burning question: 'Why the hell am I trying to square up with a Super Soldier when I've got the wingspan of a preteen?'
So, like every poor bastard in history who ran into something faster, stronger, and larger—I adapted.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but that was the night Deathstroke decided I was worth hurting.
Not because I was Robin.
Not because of Batman either.
But because, for the first time since he took Uncle Sam’s deal, someone made the Terminator feel fear.
Someone embarrassed the Deathstroke.
I mean, I get it.
Life’s rough when you’re a hired gun who was nearly done in and publicly humiliated by a kid.
But really?
You’re gonna be mad at a literal teenager for surviving you?
Let it go, you petty bastard.“
— [HELLBRED] —
“I came for the Bat, and found an American Robin instead… How very disappointing.“ Deathstroke paced the second floor like a predator on a leash, his one good eye flicking between ceiling and floor grates as he spun his katana with slow, surgical menace.
Five cubicles down, Rowan sat crouched in a vent, dried blood on his gloves as he licked his wounds, clenched his jaw to swallow a groan, and prayed the Mercenary’s hearing wasn’t as sharp as his sword.
For a second, he considered calling Bruce.
He knew if he did, the Dark Knight would show up in under five minutes, cape and all.
But then he decided to drop the thought.
He wasn’t a selfless saint, but he wasn’t sure he could still look Alfred or Bruce in the eye, knowing Batman’s entire roster of freak-show managed to break out of Arkham Asylum because he needed babying. Never mind those two, he’d probably hang up the cape and live the rest of his life with a paper bag over his head.
With the Dark Knight out of the picture, Nightwing and Batgirl years away from the scene, Rowan had no choice but to rely on himself. After a minute of contemplation, he finally admitted he’d have to play dirty if he were to have any shot at survival.
Digging into his belt, Rowan retrieved a dozen Batarangs and smoke pellets, smearing each with a swipe of the Explosive Gel.
The extra weight would fuck with the balance, but what good was a clean throw when it'd probably bounce off Deathstroke? So to hell with precision… To hell with finesse too. What Rowan needed was firepower—the kind that would put even the Terminator on his ass and keep the Merc there long enough for him and the civilians to make a break for the door.
Plan decided, Robin erupted from the grate like a shot, boots skimming the tile before he grappled up to the overhead gargoyle as smoke pellets sailed from his hand, hissing for no more than a second before bursting into a dense, throat-stinging cloud.
Even then, Deathstroke didn’t break stride.
The Merc ran straight into the smoke like it owed him money, blade dragging behind him with a whisper that promised a quick and painful death.
“Neat trick,” He muttered, tone flat, eye cautiously scanning the fog for movements. “But you’re no Batman.”
Lashing out, his katana drew an arc through the murk.
But instead of flesh, the blade bit into steel.
Sparks spat from the impact, the weapon screeching as it dragged across the matte-black shell of a drone, splitting the drone in two twitching halves.
“BOOM!”
Robin's voice cracked from three angles, bouncing between walls like shrapnel.
Deathstroke froze mid-step.
His eye flicked left, then right, then back to the destroyed drone just in time to catch the blink of a pulsing blue on its edge.
“Why, you little—”
Batman probably wouldn’t approve of such tactics—too reckless, too wasteful.
Furthermore, that kind of blast could turn flesh to pulp, and reduce bone to gravel.
It should have.
Instead, it only launched Deathstroke off his feet and through a wall.
That moment of impact was all Rowan needed.
While the Terminator reeled, more drones zipped in from above, each carrying satchels of smoke pellets, every one tagged with a smear of that same blue gel. “Remember this as the day you almost caught Captain Jack Sparrow!“
Descending from the second floor, Rowan's muscles suddenly cramped up, a sensation he tried his best to ignore to no avail.
Jaw clenched, Rowan wrenched the rifle from the last merc’s grip with a sharp pull of his Batclaw, swinging and cracking it across the guy’s chest like a flail.
The man dropped like a sack of bricks as Rowan stood over him, chest heaving, blood crusting along his jawline, only to realize half a dozen wide-eyed hostages were staring back at him inside the vault.
One guy, shirt thoroughly soaked, opened his mouth, but whatever sound he meant to make died somewhere between his lungs and throat.
Rowan looked between them, the ceiling where stone and steel collectively groaned, then waved them off with a sharp jerk of his arm.
“What, you waiting for me roll you a red carpet? Move, people! Run like your goddamn lives depend on it!” Rowan barked, his voice like a physical blow that instantly broke the spell—fear—holding them in place.
Lurching into motion, the hostages limped, crawled, and sprinted toward the nearest exit—some choking on smoke, others half-sobbing, but all of them desperate to outrun whatever came next.
Then the ceiling groaned, before collapsing in a storm of splinters, stone, and drywall—an angry avalanche of debris that swallowed the exit in seconds, just as a grappling hook shot out of the haze.
Rowan could've dodged; would have if not for the one receptionist whose high heels had caused her to lag behind the main group for a beat too long.
Throwing the blonde out of the way, Rowan barely managed a hoarse, “Shit!” Before getting snatched back by the ankle just as the debris sealed the entrance for good.
“Batman had taught you well…” Deathstroke’s voice slithered through the smoke—slow, smug, and sharp-edged, like a snake savoring the sound of its own rattle, while the cable mopped the floor with the young vigilante. “What a shame he forgot to teach you how not to die.”
“You know what else he taught me?”
Rowan panted, dangling from the cable which Deathstroke had looped around his wrist.
“Don’t monologue, idiot!”
The three pellets in his palm shot forward, bursting in a blinding flash that forced both to flinch. With a grunt, Rowan drove the Batarang into Wilson’s wrist and twisted.
Deathstroke let out a low, strangled growl—anger on a thin, worn leash—but that brief hitch in control was all Rowan needed as he slashed the cable and bolted, sliding into one of the countless floor grates he still didn’t know the purpose of.
“Whatever.“ As long as they continued to provide him cover, he couldn't give a shit.
Crouched in the dark, Rowan finally allowed himself a breather.
That’s when the sudden lightheadedness hit.
Touching his stomach, Rowan grimaced at the sticky warmth seeping through his suit.
He’d thought it sweat, but the bitter, metallic tang told him otherwise.
Slade had gotten a clean hit after all.
’Tis a flesh wound…
But one that’d still bleed him dry if left unchecked. Fortunately, his belt came stocked with three adrenaline shots, a gel spray that numbed and clotted on contact, and a paper-thin bandage that sealed wounds even better than the commercial products. Ripping a plate off his suit, Rowan quickly patched himself up, and exhaled.
The hostages were safe, the mercs handled—time to finally bump his own wellbeing to the top of the list.
But first…
Drawing a sealed glass tube from his belt, Rowan strained a smear of Deathstroke’s blood into it with steady hands.
Only once it was secure did he dare peek out of the grate.
The Terminator was nowhere to be found, no doubt hiding to lure hi—
* BANG!!!
A bullet tore through the grate, forcing Rowan to duck back behind the brickwork which was just solid enough to tank several shots, but not much more.
Not with the kind of firepower Deathstroke was packing anyway.
“YOU CANNOT HIDE FROM ME! I'VE KILLED BIGGER MEN THAN YOURSELVES… I HAVE SLAIN GODS!“ Slade Wilson roared, his voice a contradictory mix of menace, rage and calm. “I’LL BREAK YOUR SPIRIT, SHATTER YOUR BODY AND THEN TAKE YOUR LIFE! Perhaps then, the Bat will show himself.“
“—Slade Wilson…” One of the drones whispered, just loud enough to draw Deathstroke’s eye, and long enough for Rowan to slip behind a nearby column where he then leaned into the interface and forced out a laugh. “—Look at the big man who sold his Soul to Uncle Sam for roids! How noble…!“
Spitting with contempt, Rowan mockingly taunted. “—How pathetic.“
“Come out of your little hidey-hole, and I’ll show you pathetic.”
“—Says the Super Soldier hiding behind a sniper scope… You’re nothing, Slade. Batman chews up freaks like you on a nightly basis. That’s why he sent me—”
From below, a volley of Batarangs suddenly flew toward Deathstroke, only to curve midair and dug into the ceiling above the Terminator instead.
The Merc hit the ground hard, buried under a rain of rubble as the explosion knocked loose parts of the building, but not before the Merc got a shot off, a shot that instantly blew a hole in Rowan’s suit.
The armor absorbed most of the impact, but Rowan still felt his wound tear open again.
Pain bloomed across his side, knocking the breath from his lungs as he lost his grip and slammed into the column before crumpling in a groaning heap. Sadly, he had no time for self-pity for Slade had already broken free and was on him like a bat out of hell.
Diving for the Batclaw, Rowan swatted the oncoming sword aside with his staff and lunged forward with a thrust, only for the strike to be knocked away just as fast. Luckily, that split-second distraction was all he needed to grapple to the third floor, crashing through the window while glass shards dragged against his suit.
Just as he unfurled his cape, Deathstroke elbowed his back, sending them both piling onto the roof of a car.
Normally, Rowan would’ve cracked a joke about car insurance, but considering his spine may have just snapped in three places, he was not exactly in a joking mood. “I saw 'em! I saw 'em!!!“
Spotlights suddenly snapped onto them, cast from a circling police chopper overhead.
“—Drop your weapons! You're surrounded!“
Like that was going to stop Slade.
Without hesitation, the Terminator raised his gun and put a round clean through the pilot’s head.
The helicopter pitched sideways, spiraling down before erupting in a fireball of smoke and shrapnel.
“Damn you!”
Rowan wrapped his legs around Deathstroke’s neck, nearly dragging him to the ground. Keyword: Nearly, because real life wasn’t a superhero movie, and grappling ain't shit when your opponent could just stand up and shrug you off like a scarf.
“Cute…”
Deathstroke mocked, then lifted and bodyslammed him into the concrete hard enough to rattle his fillings.
Stars exploded behind his eyes.
Bones screamed.
Dignity left the chat as the cold, unforgiving ground 'welcomed' his spine.
If nothing was broken before, something definitely was now.
* BANG!!!
* BANG!!!
* BANG!!!
Rowan had never been so happy to hear gunfire—especially from cops.
If not for them, he'd probably be dead.
'Commissioner Gordon!' Rowan would recognize that trench coat and mustache anywhere.
“Shoot 'im!“ He blurted through a mouthful of blood. “I'm with the Batm—!!!“
Silenced mid-speech by a kick to the face, the back of Rowan's head collided with the ground once again.
Thankfully, that was all the clarification the Commissioner needed.
The fact he was a head and a half shorter than Slade, and seconds away from getting his throat carved open probably helped sell the story too.
Three more shots were what it took for Deathstroke to get off him.
Seizing the opening, Rowan rolled away, stumbling to his feet with an elbow against the wall. Great. Now there was blood and saliva all over his visor… Shit was fucking nasty.
Another groan slipped through his clenched teeth as a wave of dizziness washed over him, blurring his vision and muffling his ears. 'How did Dick Grayson beat this guy?'
How the hell did anyone?
Rowan had thrown everything he had at the Terminator—everything, and somehow, some-fucking-how, the bastard kept getting back up!
Fists trembling with equal parts frustration and pain, he cautiously traced his finger over the wound in his stomach, recoiling at the wet squelch—a motion which only worsened his condition.
'Am I dying?' It sure felt like he was.
Lifting his helmet, Rowan spat out a bloody tooth, and suddenly, he wasn’t disappointed anymore.
He wasn’t even impressed by the Merc’s skills as he sliced bullets in halves.
Nor was he on the verge of breaking out a girlish scream at an actual Supervillain.
He was just pissed.
Rowan shot a murderous glare at the merc, tossed a second one at his fallen Batclaw, then snatched an adrenaline syringe from his utility belt. Yanking back his collar, he rammed the needle into a throbbing vein. If he was going to die, then damn it, he was taking Deathstroke with him.
Why?
Because—"Man, fuck this guy."
Unfortunately, as ironic as it might sound, rage-power was the stuff of fiction.
Even with the adrenaline shot, Rowan wasn't stupid enough to charge headfirst into the fray without a plan.
Luckily, he already had one—two, actually. A last-ditch effort... And then a last-last-ditch effort.
Sneaking toward the Batclaw, Rowan sprayed the Gel on himself and silently checked the device.
'Fuck…' The exterior was a bit mangled, the motor messed up, but it still was functional. Thank God it was functional.
Blood dripping down his forehead, Rowan faced the mercenary who had blocked, deflected, and avoided every shot, slaughtered half the officers, and now looked quite eager to skewer him with his katanas. “There it is… There's the despair.“
Gaze fixed on the bright Moon above, Rowan whistled the tune of 'Feeling Good,' if only to drown out the incessant ringing in his ears.
He didn't know why Deathstroke allowed him the moment, but he was grateful nevertheless.
“Your disrespect aside, I will make sure he knows you fought well… Even as outclassed as you are.“
“Outclassed? Outclassed, you say?“ Rowan snorted. “Hardly.“
Rowan’s back-piece roared as twin hooks screamed from his harness—not toward Slade, but the brickwork behind him, reeling Rowan forward like a bullet.
“Foolish!” Deathstroke sneered, raising his blade in anticipation.
Then Rowan released the hooks.
Slade’s eye went wide as the kid fired the Batclaw at the ground, momentum twisting him sideways—not to evade, but to orbit the Merc as the cable lashed around Slade’s throat and the streetlamp next to him, once, twice, then thrice; each loop tighter than the last.
Boots finding the asphalt, Rowan finally came to a stop a good three meters away—breathless, bloodied and bruised, but standing.
“I won.“ Rowan snarled.
His foe, on the other hand, couldn’t boast much due to the cable tightly wrapped around his neck.
Had he not clutched and slipped a few fingers under the line, Deathstroke probably would have been history—done in by a boy a quarter his age. A boy who, strangely enough, seemed to be… Leaning back?
“Batman doesn’t kill!“
“I do!“ Hissed Rowan, wrenching the cable taut.
Physics dictated it was impossible, yet somehow, Deathstroke managed to loosen the line through sheer strength, up until the vigilante activated the fourth function of the Batclaw and electrified the line.
In a rage, Slade’s neck twisted a full 180°—a grotesque pivot only his augmented body could survive, but the snark died in his throat the instant he saw 'Robin.'
The boy wasn’t running. He wasn’t begging either.
Instead, he stood haloed in police spotlights, cable garroting Slade’s throat and looking all too eager to be blooded.
For the first time in decades, Deathstroke felt his own pulse hammer; not from pain, but recognition.
Whoever the kid was, he was more Deathstroke than he was Batman.
He was feral, and clearly waiting for Slade to resist so he could prove how easily the Terminator's neck would snap. If he'd trained the kid, Slade would have been proud, but as it stood…
Just when the Terminator began to fear the end, a hand clamped onto the boy's shoulder and dragged him back from the edge.
“That's enough… He's had enough.“
“Enough?“ Rowan sputtered in disbelief, glancing down at his battered suit, the heap of corpses scattered outside the bank, then the burning helicopter now lodged inside a high-rise. “Enough?! He needs to die!“
“That's not up for you to decide.“
"If not me, then who?" Rowan snapped, spewing fire out of his eyes. "The corrupt judge who will do everything he can to delay his execution? The mob bosses who will break him out again? Do tell, Commissioner!“
This had to be done, and if Bruce was going to beat him up over this, so be it.
“Stand down, Robin.“ Speak of the Devil…
“Batman! About time.”
“Commissioner.” The Dark Knight greeted, cape falling around him like a shadow as he landed.
“That's it? That's all we get?“
“Joker broke Harley out an hour ago. A few of the inmates took advantage of the chaos. I managed to get the others back in their cells, but Clayface, Mr. Freeze and Poison Ivy got away.”
“Oh, God.” Wiping the sweat from his brow, Gordon sighed wearily.
As expected of Gotham… You fix one problem, and three more would crop up. 'What else is new?'
“Robin.“
Rage coiled in his gut, hot and restless, as his fingers tightened around the Batclaw.
Then he pressed the electrify button.
The current surged with a sharp hiss, jolting Deathstroke away and eliciting a strained noise from him.
Yet, Rowan refused to let go.
One second.
Two.
Three.
The shaking in his hand definitely wasn’t from the voltage.
Four.
Five.
Only when the smell of burnt armor hit his nose did he release the trigger.
Even then, he didn’t move—his unblinking stare loaded with something murderous and ugly. “I beat you. Not Batman, not Superman, not one of the Demigods roaming this Earth… I did. Remember that.”
Tripping back to the Batmobile, Rowan climbed his way inside and collapsed on the passenger seat.
“I trust you have it under control, Commissioner?“
“I’ve got it,” Gordon said. “I’ll have my guys keep an eye out for the escapees too. How do I reach you?”
“You won’t have to. I’ll know.”
The Dark Knight turned on his heel, cape sweeping behind him as he dropped into the Batmobile. The bulletproof canopy sealed shut with a sharp hiss as the engine growled to life, and they disappeared into the Sunrise.
“Robin?” Bruce called out, but the boy didn’t respond. Rowan always responded.
Turning fully, he saw Rowan slumped on his side and reached over, pressing two fingers to his neck.
There was a pulse, but it's weak. Too weak.
“Rowan.” He said again, quieter, as he removed the boy’s helmet and slammed his foot on the pedal.
Some part of him wanted to scold the boy for his recklessness, but that part shut up the moment he saw the blood dyeing his hair red. “Alfred.”
The butler's worried face flickered on the screen. “—Master Bruce, thank God! Are you two alright?”
“I’m okay, but Rowan’s not. He’s in bad shape. Get the surgical kit ready now.”
.
.
.
Everything was moving either too fast or too slow.
One second, Rowan was in the Batmobile, the engine roaring beneath him, and the next there was cold stone overhead and Bruce’s voice barking something urgent—something he couldn’t quite make out.
His head kept knocking sideways, his jaw aching, and was that metal he tasted?
Wasn’t he outside a moment ago?
When had it gotten so bright in here? Voices drifted to him—Alfred’s, steady but anxious, and Bruce’s, fumbling at the buckles of his suit.
Suddenly, a bright, sharp light cut through the haze, then darkness swallowed it whole.
Something pressed into his side; he wanted to tell them to stop, but his tongue wouldn’t cooperate.
All he caught was the slap of boots on stone, the blur of that oddly-placed T-Rex statue somewhere above, Bruce repeating his name over and over like if he said it enough, Rowan would snap out of it.
He felt awful, but he was in safe hands.
'Thank God for small miracles.'
— [HELLBRED] —
“Okay, maybe I downplayed it a bit.
I did a hell of a lot more than just embarrass him.
But! In my defense, I had a bullet in my side and a shard of Slade’s katana wedged between my ribs.
Honestly, I was shocked I even made it out alive. Ever had your life flash before your eyes? I did that night. Several times.
Shit, I was fully prepared to kamikaze the bastard if my fallback plan had failed—something Bruce would later figure out, once he had time to check and noticed the smear of Explosive Gel on the chestplate that had been stained red with my own blood.
I didn’t wake up the next night. Or the one after that.
By the third day, consciousness was still a distant thing—blurred at the edges, dulled by the steady drip of painkillers and sedatives.
When the fourth day arrived, the drugs had finally worn off and clarity was beginning to hit like a bucket of ice water, accompanied by a white-hot pain which flared with every shift of my ribs. It did not help that I kept jolting at the T-Rex Statue either… Seriously, why on earth do we even have that thing and where the hell did Bruce get it from?
By the fifth day, I was moving—not gracefully, not without wincing, but moving, so I did what any 'self-respecting hero' would in my situation and limped straight to the Batlab.
The place is tucked away in a quiet corner of the Batcave and has just about everything you could imagine, including what you would need to analyze and recreate a Serum from scratch.
Yeah, it was dangerous.
Yeah, Slade and Rose Wilson were the only ones known to have taken it and lived, but I had almost died the week before, and was still suffering from the injuries Deathstroke gave me.
I needed a way to up my game, and this was the fastest.
Some might call it cheating.
I’d call it evolution.
There’s a hard cap to what the human body can do without the Metagene—a cap Batman tends to stretch, I'll admit, but I’m not Batman…
I told Bruce, Alfred—even myself, to a lesser extent—that it was about survival.
I lied.
Truth was, I wanted the strength, the speed, the stamina.
I wanted what Slade had.
I craved the certainty, and I was going to get it, no matter the cost."
— [HELLBRED] —
“Master Rowan, I do wish you'd stay in bed as advised.“
“It’s life, Alfred, we don’t always get what we wish—tragic, I know.”
The butler sighed, easing into the seat beside Rowan. “What exactly are we doing?”
“Analysis and Recreation.”
“Of?”
“A Super Soldier Serum.“ Rowan had considered hiding his interest, but he was living with Batman.
Sooner or later, the Dark Knight would find out what he was digging into.
Hell, Bruce probably already knew.
Why the Dark Knight hadn't made a fuss about it, Rowan genuinely had no clue.
“You don’t need enhancements. You’re already operating well beyond most. Strength, speed, endurance—not even Master Bruce could match you at your age. Isn’t that enough?”
“Firstly, I’m not fighting kids. I’m fighting hardened criminals and Metahumans.” Rowan scoffed, then crinkled his nose and shot Alfred a look like he had just stepped on something foul. “And secondly… Did you really just hit me with a ‘you’re perfect the way you are’ speech? What am I, an anorexic teenage girl?”
Never one to miss a chance to quip, Alfred smiled. “Only in temperament.”
Then, Alfred's smile faded slightly.
"Sir, while I appreciate your wit, this is a serious matter. The pursuit of such power always carries risks, both physical and mental. You've seen what it has done to others, I dread to think what it might do to you.“
“Geez, thanks for the vote of confidence.” Rowan mumbled sarcastically, fingers flying across the keys of the Batcomputer 2.0. It's as expected, he couldn't understand a thing… Half of what was on the screen looked like complete gibberish to him. 'What even is hemoglobin? Something to do with blood?'
“Rowan, please. These are permanent alterations to yourself… It's not a suit you can take off, or a piece of equipment you can swap out with spares.“
Pausing at the hesitant hand on his shoulder, Rowan glanced over his shoulder to find the butler hovering behind him, a look of concern on his face.
He knew he’d feel shitty about this later, but as long as he could guilt-trip Alfred, Bruce would probably cave soon enough.
“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve almost died?” Rowan started, surprised at the ease with which the mask had slipped on. “Forget the nights I starved, the winters that froze the breath in my lungs, or the infections that nearly killed me—I’ve had guns pressed to my head, knives held at my throat, and bones broken. Thirty times, Alfred. Thirty. And that’s before I put on this damn cape. I. Need. This.
Hell, Bruce needs this.
The man might border Superhuman territory, but every punch he’s ever taken, every bone he’s broken—it’s all compounding interest on a debt his body’s gonna call due sooner or later… This could change that. If nothing else, it might buy 'Batman and Robin' a few more decades down the line.”
Pennyworth's gaze faltered, then softened. “When Master Bruce first adopted you, he said there was something dark in you… Something he recognized all too well—”
“Alfred, I’m not trying to fight with you about this.” Rowan cut in, only to be met with a stoic stare.
Not quite grandfatherly, but not accusing either—just steady. “Please… Let me finish.”
Lips pressed into a thin line, Rowan gestured for him to continue.
“He’s right. You’re a troubled young man in way over your head. You and Master Bruce are a lot alike in that sense.
And because of that, I must advise you again: Please don’t go down this path… I know you are frustrated, but there has to be another way which doesn’t risk maiming your body, fracturing your mind or worse.“
"I appreciate the concern. Really. But this isn't up for debate—it's a heads-up. You can either help me do it right, or I will brew this shit in the sewer with a stolen lab kit."
Rowan shifted slightly to the right, before attempting to break the tension with a joke. "Teenage rebellion, am I right?"
“Sometimes I wonder why God saw fit to put me in charge of such infuriating young men.”
“Oh, I'm sure you'll get used to it eventually.” Rowan returned to the Batcomputer as Alfred leaned in beside him. “So, uhm, any clue what any of this actually means?”
A/N: I kept writing Wade instead of Slade. That's annoying.
