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Season 0: Year One C3: Robin (END)
🕑 Added 2025-04-17 04:25:38 +0000 UTC“You’d think the streets of Gotham were bad enough, but it’s the rooftops that really show you how deep the rot runs. Every other alley, someone’s getting robbed, raped, murdered, or just beat senseless for existing, and that’s just the slums where the bottom-feeders hang out.
The syndicates—Black Mask, the Penguin, Joker—they're scattered up.
Live or work near a bank in Midtown? Congrats! You’re statistically guaranteed at least thirteen armed robberies per year.
Uptown’s supposed to be the safe zone, but even it hadn't been spared Gotham's corruption and was still under the thumb of the Court of Owls last I checked.
Such is the city Bruce and I were born into—the modern-day Sodom.
You wipe out a gang, two more will crawl out the sewer. Three if you’re unlucky…
Oh, you throw one guy in jail? Five more will be released by the morning anyway.
At this point, I wouldn’t even blame the Presence if He decided to glass the place from orbit. I'd be upset, don't get me wrong, but I totally get it.
Still, despite the futility of it all, we tried to clean up what we could.
And by 'We,' I mean Bruce.
Me? I mostly stuck to the rooftops back then, taking potshots at thugs for my first month. Ever used a Batclaw to rip a brick out of a wall and smash it over some guy’s head? No? Well, it's hilarious.
If you ever get the chance, you really should give it a try.
But, as fun as it was, it could only keep me entertained for so long.
Eventually, the boredom got louder than the screams below, and by the start of my second month, the rooftops were starting to feel more like hiding spots than hunting grounds.
It did take a while, but eventually I worked up the courage to ask Bruce if I could join him down in the streets.
I half-expected a hard ‘No' to the request, so imagine my surprise when he just said—
— [HELLBRED] —
“If you think you're ready.“
“I'm bored—Wait, what? That's it?“
That's… Not like him at all.
The Batman Rowan knew always had an excuse ready; some vague reasoning to keep his protégés busy with important tasks—chores in other word—that just happened to keep them out of the worst of the action.
He’d pulled the same move on Grayson in Young Justice more than once, and even locked Tim Drake in a cellar in Arkham Knight. The only Robin Bruce never sidestepped like that was Damian Wayne, which tracked. The kid was raised by the League of Assassins.
Different upbringing, different rules.
But Rowan? He was, by all accounts, just a random street rat the Dark Knight took under his wings.
Shouldn’t Bruce be launching into a lecture right about now?
Some monologue about responsibility and how the streets would chew him up and spit him out like a used gum?
Rowan narrowed his eyes, suspicion simmering as he shoveled a scoop of purée potatoes in his mouth.
“You have already survived Gotham for a decade. You have been trained in martial arts most of the world doesn’t even know exist,” Bruce said, wiping his lips with a handkerchief, “I trust that you know when to be serious, when to stand your ground, and when to flee… You are as ready as I can make you.“
He finally looked up, catching Rowan mid-glare across the table.
“Why? Did you want me to talk you out of it?”
The boy's jaw tensed.
He had a whole script lined up in his head—logical counters, emotional appeals, maybe even a guilt trip or two, and the Dark Knight had just skipped directly to approval. 'That's illegal!'
“I believe he wants to use the arguments he rehearsed against you, Master Bruce.”
Alfred offered, far too amused to keep quiet as he dropped a spoonful of beans onto Rowan’s plate without missing a beat.
“Arguments?“
“Yes sir. Practiced in front of a mirror and all.“
“Traitor!“ Rowan dramatically accused, staring daggers at the butler.
"You're in a combative mood. Good. We'll head out at eight.“
And that was that.
The rest of dinner passed mostly in silence. Alfred talked about something—probably art, maybe global unrest—but Rowan barely heard a word, his brain too busy replaying every spar and takedown Bruce had walked him through.
'Am I ready?' He shook the thought away as quickly as it came. 'No point doubting now.'
Spending the next thirty minutes bouncing between excitement, dread, and triple-checking whether he'd remembered to pack the smoke pellets and emergency medkit, Rowan took a glance at the old clock, then grappling-hooked himself out of the Batcave, dropping into one of Gotham's repurposed tunnels to find the Dark Knight tapping away on a screen, and Gotham screeching again.
“We taking the car or the jet?” He asked casually, though the slight hitch in his breath gave away how fast he’d sprinted to get there.
“The car,” Bruce replied, not even glancing his protégé's way as he leaped into the driver seat. “It’s more discreet.”
Sure. If 'discreet' meant a 6-ton, self-driving stealth tank with afterburners, EMP and enough firepower to declare independence from the States, then certainly. “Can I drive the—”
“No, you cannot drive the Batmobile.“
“I was talking about the Batwing.“
“Not that either.“
Shrugging, Rowan climbed into the seat beside the Dark Knight and fastened his seatbelt as the Batmobile roared to life. “Eh, worth a shot.“ The engine revved again as the high-tech tank shot through the tunnel, before bursting onto the street with such force that it sent sparks off the asphalt.
“There's a bank robbery happening in Midtown. Looks like a ragtag group of small-time first-offenders, and Killer Croc's been spotted near the Canal.“
“The most time-efficient option would be to split up.“ Rowan casually suggested, half-hoping to hear another 'If you think you're ready.' No such luck, unfortunately.
“We'll deal with the bigger threat first.“
“Killer Croc?“
“The bank robbery.“ The Dark Knight corrected. “Killer Croc was sighted, but he hasn't attacked anyone—”
“Yet.“ Rowan cut in with a smile.
“Regardless, the bank’s the priority. New players tend to screw up and rack up the body count.”
“What's the plan?“
“Take them out quickly and quietly. There are still hostages inside.“
The city bled past in a blur of neon, boarded-up windows and colorful billboards which screamed luxury right above alleyways reeking of piss and desperation as the Batmobile skidded around the corner.
“Y’know, if you squint and ignore the crime rate, Gotham's kinda pretty at night.”
Bruce said nothing, but his fingers did clench a little tighter around the wheel in tacit agreement.
Perking up at the flashing reds and blues surrounding the barricaded structure ahead, Rowan asked. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess that’s our destination?”
The bank was a three-story squatting in the heart of the Business District, and while well-fortified at a glance, it also had many entry-points—read: Windows—waiting to be burst down…
Windows guarded by armed silhouettes. “Doesn't feel like their first rodeo.“
The robbers looked too well-coordinated for that.
At first Rowan chalked it up to paranoia, but judging by the slight creasing of his nose, the Dark Knight definitely shared his opinions.
“I'll take a look, see you inside, Bruce.“
“Be careful.“
Ejected from the Batmobile, Rowan’s back-piece fired its hooks and reeled him skyward, slinging him onto the rooftop where his cape burst open like wings mid-flight, fluttering to cushion his landing beside a rusted vent.
Crouched low, he peered over the edge at two robbers milling about near the stairwell.
“You think the Bat’s gonna take the bait?” His accomplice shifted, casually scratching his ass, then brought the offending fingers to his nose.
‘Dirty bastard.’ Tuning into the separate channel their comms were running on, Rowan crept a little closer to the robbers. ‘No… These aren't robbers. Mercenaries, more like.’
And from the sound of it, their target wasn’t the vault—it was the Batman himself.
“He will. Trap or not, he always shows.”
He was right.
Batman would come.
In fact, he already had, they just didn't know it yet.
“That's what you get for being a vigilante. Don’t get why anyone signs up for that thankless gig, way too much work… At least Supervillains get paid.”
“Please. You seen that damn tank he rolls around in?“ Scratchy-Bum sniffled. “Bat doesn’t need money.“
“Makes you wonder where he gets the money for all of it.“
“Shit, maybe he's a billionaire?“
“But which one? There are several handfuls around.“
“I dunno, Bruce Wayne, maybe?“
“That fucking dandy? Riiight.“
Unable to hold it in, Rowan snorted—loud enough to draw both mercenaries' attention.
The first didn’t even get a full turn before Rowan’s staff cracked against the back of his head, sending him crashing into the wall with a grunt.
Scratchy-Bum didn't get the same mercy.
“Fuck!” The mercenary yelped, doubling over as Rowan’s boot found his crotch. He hit the ground wheezing, only to eat a knee to the chin for good measure.
Staggering, bloodied and pissed, the merc growled, “Why, you little—”
That’s when the Batclaw snapped tight around his throat, yanking both him and Rowan into the air.
Meeting in the middle, the First Robin of this Earth drovd a punch into the side of the merc’s jaw. His fists might look comically small against the older man, but they had been hardened against bark, brick, and steel beams for over a year; dipped in ice baths and boiling water, stitched and split more times than even Rowan himself could count, and when they landed clean, they hurt.
Doubly so with the Batclaw accelerating him forward; adding just the right amount of velocity to turn a solid hit into a jaw-shattering one.
And yet, somehow, Scratchy-Bum still managed to cling to wakefulness.
He sure wished he wasn't, though.
“Wh–Who the fuck are you?”
The mercenary coughed, blood mixing with the dirt in his mouth as he tried to focus through the ringing in his skull.
“Robin,” The boy grinned, crouching to eye level. “And I’m robbin’ you of information! Get it, like, Robin–robbin'.”
“...”
“C’mon, that was gold,” Rowan huffed while manually securing the cable around the crook. “You’re just mad I kick you in the balls.”
The mercenary groaned, slumping against the wall as his legs buckled under him at the mention. Perched on the ledge, Rowan gave his shoulder a friendly pat before leaning out. “Ooh... That’s one nasty drop. Now, here’s the deal—you answer my questions, and I don’t introduce your face to the pavement. Sound fair?”
Intimidation didn’t come easy when you were barely four feet tall and sounded like your voice might crack mid-threat.
Thankfully, he didn't need size, only the right mask to wear.
There was no way he could pull off the brooding cape routine Bruce was so fond of, looking like he did.
What Rowan could pull off was a feral, unhinged, inexperienced child vigilante with zero regard for collaterals.
And the best part of it? Rowan didn’t even have to fake it; there was no one who better fit the description than him.
The merc's eyes widened in fear.
'Good.' Fear made people talk.
“Fuck you! You ain’t got the balls!”
But then it vanished just as fast, snuffed out the moment Scratchy-Bum realized how tiny the vigilante really was.
Sighing, Rowan shrugged. “Shoulda' folded.“
Dragging the man onto the ledge with exaggerated strain, Rowan made a show of swiping imaginary sweat from his mask and flashed a grin. “You ready?”
“You’ll just pull me up halfway. This ain’t my first rodeo, you prepubescent bastard!”
“Oh, so you know the routine? Good. Saves me time—I’ll just drop you a few times and see what shakes loose.”
The merc kept up the tough guy act, right up until he noticed where the line tethering him led, eyes locking onto the tiny gloved hand holding it, just as Rowan began to put up a leg.
“No. NONONONO. Wait! Wait! Hey…! WAITWAITWAITWAIT!”
Rowan grinned behind the mask and yanked the merc in a little closer. “Why?”
“Shouldn’t you tie that down first?! You know how physics work, right?!”
“But Batman does it barehanded all the time?“ Rowan mused, wide-eyed innocence and all.
“The Bat’s six feet tall! With biceps the size of my thighs! You haven’t even hit puberty, you stupid bastard!” The merc roared, thrashing in a manic rage. In fact, if his hands weren’t tied, Rowan was pretty sure he’d be tearing his own hair out. “You literally struggled to pull me up the fucking ledge a second ago; how in the Hell are you going to stop me from plummeting to my death?!!“
“Oh, don't be such a drama-queen, Scratchy!You're gonna be fine! I learnt from Batman himself.“ Rowan teased, resting his foot against the merc's chest.
“This isn’t a matter of skill! It’s a matter of strength, you retarded motherfu—”
Whatever insult the disguised merc had locked and loaded jammed up instantly as he tipped backward and had to wiggle for balance.
“Batman might abhor killing, but I think you'll find I do not. if he asks, I’ll just say it was an accident… That you tripped; took a dive and 'wittle old me' failed to get to you in time.”
Rowan said, voice low; thoughtful, as though genuinely fascinated by the idea.
“Shit, I might drop you for funsies.“
“Wait! If-If you kill me, how will you get the info you need?”
Rowan glanced down at the building below, letting Detective Mode do the math, then smirked. “There are still eleven mercs left. You? You’re really not that important.“
“I’LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING! I’LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING!”
Giving the merc another friendly pat, Rowan then slung an arm over the man’s shoulder like they were old pals and urged. “Atta boy… Start talking.”
And talk, the merc did.
“I don't know all the details; nobody does, but the mobs have recently got together to take down the Batman—Scarecrow, Penguin, Black Mask and Joker—all them freaks have put up a bounty on him.“
“So they slapped a price tag on Batman’s head… And you lot thought you were up for the job?” Rowan disdainfully scoffed. “Jesus. Did someone knock you all out and whisper that plan into your skulls mid-fever dream?”
Talk about being delusional.
“We’re not that stupid,” The merc muttered. “We’re only meant to tire the Bat out. Soften him up before the real hitters move in.”
Rowan’s smirk faded.
“I'm not hearing a name…”
“I don’t know specifics, alright?!” The merc snapped, voice cracking under the pressure. “It’s not like assassins and Supervillains are advertising themselves on billboards! That’s all I’ve got!”
Rowan hummed a tune—something childish and off-key—as he circled behind the trembling merc.
“Next time you decide to take up gigs like this…” He said, tone deceptively soft. Then Rowan moved, beginning with a sharp kick to the man’s chest, but before he could even yell, a flick of the Batclaw pulled the merc right into his elbow.
The merc's body arched back instinctively, only for Rowan to spin low and swept his legs out from under him.
The merc dropped hard, caught mid-fall by a knockout punch that bounced his skull off the concrete.
Adjusting his gloves like he’d just closed a file, Rowan tapped his comm. “Batman, you got all that?”
Static hissed through the comm for a long moment—too long, prompting Rowan to whisper, “Bruce?”
Then the Dark Knight’s voice finally cut in—filtered through the new modular system, but slower… Heavier. “—I did.“
Something in the way he said it set off alarms in Rowan’s head.
Bruce Wayne didn’t tire.
Not when it came to his nightly duties.
“What happened?”
“—This was a distraction… Arkham’s been hit, and most of the inmates are on the loose.“
“Oh... Oh shit.”
The words hit the air before Rowan could reel them back as his eyes flicked to the skyline.
If Arkham had been hit, things were going to get real biblical, real quick.
“My offer still stands, Batman. We can split up.“
He'd even argue they should.
The Dark Knight's wasted on babysitting duty anyway.
“—Be extremely careful. Head to the Asylum when you’re done.”
“Got it. You too.“
Rowan turned, skipping to the stairwell, only to pause when Bruce’s voice returned.
“—And good job, Robin.“
“Oh, stop it! You're gonna make me blush.“
— [HELLBRED] —
"Can you imagine it? My first real night out as a vigilante, and everything was already going to shit.
Not that I was worried at the time.
I thought I had it handled.
It was fun, even.
If you've played the Arkham games, picture that, just cranked up a thousand times.
I wasn’t as sharp as adult Tim Drake or anywhere near the level of Bruce, but I was holding my own. Getting the job done. Kicking asses and taking names, until I met Him…
The one the mobs and Supervillains brought in to kill the Batman, hiding in plain sight amongst the mercs.
Needless to say, my first run-in with a bona fide Supervillain didn’t end particularly well for me. But you know what? It was all worth it in the end, because thanks to him, I finally got my hands on an actual, albeit diluted Super Soldier Serum.“
— [HELLBRED] —
Dropping from the vent, Rowan perched on a gargoyle to survey the bank floor below. Why there were gargoyle statues inside a bank of all places, he had no idea.
But this was Gotham, so there was probably a reason for it.
A piss-poor one most likely, but a reason nonetheless.
“Twelve… Thirteen… Fourteen.”
Looked like Rowan had missed one during the earlier count, but it's no big deal; this was still well-within his paygrade.
Hanging off the snarl of the gargoyle, Rowan scanned the bank below—eyes sweeping past marble counters and bullet-scattered tile—until they landed on his first lucky contestant: One dumb bastard who thought taking a piss break during an armed robbery was a good idea.
Perfect.
He re-anchored the Batclaw, coiled like a spring, then swung down low, boots skimming a foot above the floor.
The merc looked up a second too late, greeted by Rowan's titanium-plated boot in the face.
Head snapping back like a ragdoll, blood sprayed from his nose as he found himself welcomed by the floor tile with a meaty crunch, only to then catch a second kick square in the ribs, “For good measure.” Immediately after zip-tying his wrists together, Rowan Batclawed to the ceiling just a whistling merc rounded the corner, freezing at the sight of his downed bud.
“Man down! Man—”
Unfortunately, his voice found no listener as a glide-kick to the nape silenced the newcomer, dropping him like a bag of cement.
For a moment, Rowan feared he might have killed the man. It's only when he saw the merc's chest rise and fall, that Rowan dared breath a sigh of relief.
There were still four more on this level.
The rest were either tearing into the vault downstairs or keeping watch over the hostages.
‘I need to lure them up here. Keep the fight away from the civilians.’
Luckily, Rowan had just the tools to put his plan in motion, courtesy of the Dark Knight.
Tapping the voice modulator, he grabbed the discarded walkie-talkie and slipped into character, allowing panic to bleed into his tone.
“Man down! I repeat: Man down! It’s the Bat! I need urgent reinforcement—” Killing the transmission, Rowan tossed the device aside and slid into the floor grate with a smirk. Fish, meet bait. No more than seconds later, another group filed up the stairs, armed to the teeth.
“Shit, he's down—”
Pausing at the sight of the smoke pellets rolling near his feet, the merc threw an arm over his face as thick, grey smoke swallowed the room. Panic clawing at his chest, he spun just in time to see a blur crash into his friend.
“One.“ A voice rasped—low, amused, and far, far too close for comfort.
“DON'T OPEN FIRE! YOU MIGHT HIT US!!!“
Someone shouted through the haze, voice cracking with panic, but the words barely registered as the merc backed up blindly, pulse thundering in his ears. Then, the writhing shadows shifted yet again—too fast, too fluid, and too quiet to be human.
They didn’t walk, no, they glided.
Vanishing, and reappearing like they're playing with the fabrics of Space-Time.
Footsteps suddenly rang out behind him, so he spun, hoping to catch a glimpse, only for a grunt—wet, guttural, to sound and get cut short right where he was standing a moment ago, followed by the sharp clatter of a rifle hitting the floor.
His mouth went dry.
He’d heard plenty about the Batman—hell, even watched the bastard fight from a distance once. But being in the middle of it, caught in the mayhen while his team was picked apart one by one?
“Two.“
“Get out in the open, Bat!”
The guy who shouted it barely got the words out before he was ripped off his feet; hauled sideways and then slammed into the wall like a cheap, discarded doll.
“Three.“
By then, the smoke had begun to lift, but the original eight had also become five. Someone muttered a curse, too quiet for him to catch, but the merc imagined it went something like this: “I ain’t getting paid enough for this shit.”
He'd know…
One would think crime paid, and it did, but they might as well have been making minimum wage with how often they ended up at the hospital for a bent limb, a concussion, a broken bone; sometimes all three.
Another dropped his rifle with a metallic clatter, backing up like simply holding the weapon would make him a target.
One of them had started praying, but it was a practice of futility, really.
There's no one on the other end of the line.
Beside him, his partner inched toward the staircase.
He was still holding the rifle, but his hands were trembling so violently the merc found himself questioning if the man could even hold it straight, let alone take aim at all.
No one spoke.
No one dared move.
No one wanted to be next, after all.
“Here’s how this is gonna go,” The voice echoed from all sidesddzxdzxdzdzdz as zip ties hit the ground. “You drop your guns, tie your friends up, and spare yourselves a trip to the hospital... Or I'll break every bone in your body and hand you to the police anyway. Your choice.“
“You–You’re not Batman?”
“Nice observation! What gave it away?”
The voice sneered, bouncing off the walls. “Is it my charming good looks? My irresistible personality?”
They jerked toward the source a second too late… The voice was already behind them again.
“Great… Another freak. Like Gotham doesn’t have enough of those already.”
His accomplice hissed through clenched teeth, but the merc wasn’t listening.
All he could think—over and over—was: “How the hell’s he doing that?“
How was he so fast?
How was he slipping from corner to corner so quickly?
And how were they supposed to fight something like this?
“Lower your weapons!”
“But—” One of the mercs started to protest.
“But my ass!” The captain snapped, jabbing a finger toward the unconscious body oddly angled behind him. “I’m not getting done in like that!”
Exchanging uneasy glances, they tossed their guns into the corner and began tying each other up—one by one—until only a single man was left standing. With most of the threats now neutralized, Rowan recalled his drones and dropped down behind the last merc.
In one motion, he swept the legs out from under the criminal, then slammed him to the floor for an instant lights-out.
“A–A kid? We lost to a fucking kid?!”
“Don’t sound so upset,”
Rowan muttered, his voice echoing through the floor as the four drones smoothly slid back into his backpack.
“You lot lasted longer than I expected.”
Two more loose ends, then he could head to Arkham Asylum.
“Who are you?”
“Robin. Batman’s—”
“Sidekick.”
The interruption didn’t come loud, but it landed like a gunshot as Rowan pivoted and backflipped over the tied-up criminals to create distance.
The guy was built like a brawler trying to pass for a civilian.
Hell, he might even be taller, buffer than the Dark Knight.
“You really gotta do a better job with the disguise.” The sleeves barely held together, seams stretched thin over a frame that had no business outside a battlefield.
The merc didn’t say a word as he slowly, methodically peeled off the jacket like he had all the time in the world, all while blocking and deflecting and countering Rowan’s twirling staff. Beneath the disguise was armor built for war, with matte black plating reinforcing the chest and shoulders, marred by burn marks and faint slashes that had been purposefully left unpolished.
Staring at the black and orange mask, Rowan's heart skipped a beat as he fired the Batclaw.
But before he could escape, the mercenary had already sliced his cable with a well-aimed knife, which sent Rowan crashing into a booth beside a floor grate.
The First Robin clutched his side, gasping as he dragged himself in, and prayed he was fast enough; good enough to escape the pursuit of Slade Wilson,
Also known as Mr. Super Soldier or Deathstroke the Terminator.
Of course it was him—why wouldn't it be?
“Fuck my life.“
