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Season 0: Year One C2: Robin (2) (Public)
🕑 Added 2025-04-12 13:43:32 +0000 UTC"You ever seen one of those movie training montages? My life after getting adopted by Batman was basically that—except it didn’t wrap up in a few minutes with a triumphant fist-pump.
It was months of train, eat, shit, piss, drink, repeat. I'd be lying if I said the thought of giving up—of settling for being able to fight off crooks and goons did not cross my mind a thousand times during that first month.
Didn’t help that I was absolute garbage at anything physical, thanks to the whole ‘starving orphan’ thing which, while no fault of my own, didn’t make it any less soul-crushing to realize it took me nearly a half a day just to cover a single lap around the Estate.
Even with Alfred’s extensive care, there was scarcely a day I didn’t crawl into bed beaten, bruised, and barely conscious, but eventually, my Constitution started to improve.
Sure, I wasn’t taking down full-grown adults or getting the upper hand on Batman, but I was getting better.
I could feel it in my bones—literally—as the micro-fractures from punching tree bark healed and hardened. I could even see the muscle growth in real time, thanks to Bruce’s ridiculously advanced training facility. And there was no better motivation than being able to actually quantify your gains.
It took over a year—closer to two—but eventually, I was acing every course the Dark Knight threw my way.
That’s when he raised the stakes.
How, you ask? By throwing himself into the ring.
I gotta hand it to Gotham’s Supervillains—those lunatics really had balls of steel to come crawling back for more even after taking the full brunt of the 'Batman Special.' But even steel can be folded, as Bruce had, would, and is still proving as we speak… Our first spar was fucking brutal.
Mind you, I wasn’t even aiming to land a hit, just survive a full minute, and I still failed…
Shit, with the way he was throwing those punches and kicks, I’m pretty sure I’d have a solid case if I ever decided to report him to CPS…
Then again, it’s not all bad.
Hell, if it weren’t for that hellish regimen, I probably would've died a thousand times over… In all honesty, I’m thankful to Bruce. No, really, I am.
But don’t go mentioning that to him or I’m gonna be under your bed tonight, got it?“
— [HELLBRED] —
“So, what’s on the menu today? Kicking more trees? Lifting heavier crap? Running laps until I throw up?”
The Dark Knight practically glided across the polished floor, taking position at the far end of the ring before motioning his adoptive son forward.
“You’ve learned the basics. Conditioned your body. Now it’s time I test your combat effectiveness.” Rowan blinked—once, twice, then a third time—his tongue darting out to wet his suddenly dry lips as his face lost some color. He was prideful, sure, even vain at times, but there was a fine line between confidence and outright stupidity. It's not like he hadn't seen this coming, but he thought Bruce would give him a three years grace-period at least.
“You’re gonna take it easy on me, right?”
“…”
“Right?!”
“If you want to walk this path, you need more than strength. You need clarity under pressure, discipline amidst chaos, and the tolerance to take a hit and keep going… Pain is part of the lesson. Learn to endure it.” Bruce responded calmly, voice flat as a board as he tossed a pair of boxing gloves near Rowan's feet. “I will pull my punches, but don’t expect mercy.“
“Well, that's reassuring.” Rowan had seen Batman pull his punches before, and the pavement hadn’t been kind to the criminal on the receiving end.
“I’m glad you think so.”
“Sarcasm, old man. Sarcasm.“
"I know." Batman's tone stayed flat throughout as he shifted into a boxing stance. "You will need that mouth sharp when the rest of you gives."
"... Dude, that was so fucking unnecessary."
"Consider it a lesson in psychological warfare."
Rowan barely had time to slip the gloves on before Bruce came in low and fast, a blur of motion more machine than man.
1…
The first jab caught him square in the gut—not hard enough to rupture an organ, but just enough to make him double over and wheeze, before diving under the following kick.
2…
Before he could recover, a leg sweep knocked his feet clean off the mat.
3…
Rowan hit the ground with a grunt, already regretting every smart-ass comment he'd made that morning.
4…
He rolled just in time to dodge a follow-up elbow, sweat already stinging his eyes as he scrambled to his feet.
5…
His vision tunneled, instincts finally kicking in. He threw out a wild haymaker that, by some miracles, actually slipped past Bruce's defense, only to be deflected with a flick of his wrist as he countered with a hook that cracked against Rowan’s guard like a baseball bat.
6…
Pain flared through his arm, but Rowan managed to stay upright, skidding across the ring.
7…
Bruce didn’t follow up—just watched, silent and still, all while mentally calculating how much force to dial back on the next strike. “You blocked that. Congrats.”
8…
Even through the pain, Rowan still caught the insincerity bleeding through the words, his eye twitching in annoyance. “Ar-Are you trying that positive reinforcement shit on me?”
9…
Bruce adjusted his stance and walked forth, menacingly. “Would you prefer I list every mistake you made instead?”
10… 11… 12…
Wincing as he raised his guard, Rowan muttered, “Ask me again when my ribs stop fucking vibrating.“
13…
How the hell did the other Robins do this on the regular? Daily sparring with Gotham’s personal 'Boogeyman' wasn’t training—it was slow-burn masochism with a bat motif. Maybe they all just had a screw loose. Or maybe he did, for even agreeing to this in the first place.
14…
Rowan feinted surrender, then surged in with a right hook aimed square at Bruce’s jaw, only for the man to tilt out of the way. Fist brushing against the cowl, Rowan couldn't help but click his tongue. So close. He was so damn close…
15…
The thrill of almost landing a strike jolted through his battered frame. Pivoting sharply, Rowan used Bruce’s forearm as leverage to drive his knee upward toward the man's chin—only to click his tongue in frustration when it slammed into an open palm instead.
16… 17… 18…
“You’re improving.” The Bat grunted, the compliment more a formality than anything.
19… 20… 21…
“Thanks. I learned from the best!” Rowan twisted in with a follow-up elbow, pouring every ounce of momentum into the strike. It should have landed—would have—if Bruce hadn’t shifted his weight at the last second, sidestepping the blow and catching Rowan’s arm mid-swing in one fluid motion.
22… 23…
In the same breath, Bruce’s leg hooked behind Rowan’s, and with a subtle shift of balance, the boy found himself airborne—then very much not as the mat rushed to meet him. “Oh, shi—!”
24… 25… 26…
The floor met him with all the tenderness of a cinder block.
27… 28…
Groaning, Rowan blinked past the static clouding his vision—just in time to spot the shadow of the Bat already circling like a shark smelling blood. "Fuck… Where's the damn bell when you need it?! Okay, okay—time-out!“
“There are no time-outs on the street, Rowan.” Bruce reminded, but didn’t press the attack, opting instead to sit cross-legged beside the wheezing boy, composed as ever, like he hadn’t just judo-slammed the kid into the floorboards. Rolling on his stomach and clutching his back, Rowan crawled to his knees. “Well, good thing this ain't street, then.“
Waiting for the boy to catch his breath, Bruce finally asked—voice infuriatingly serene. “Ready for Round Two?”
“What?! Fuck no!“
All the mid-fight buffs in the world couldn’t convince him to step back into the ring with the Dark Knight a second time—or so Rowan thought.
Regrettably, his body; his stupid, traitorous body hadn't seemed to get the memo, rising anyway, shaky yet defiant as it settled into a stance like it had something to prove.
“You stupid asshole, Rowan,” The boy muttered under his breath, shaking away the pain as if it’d make a difference. Then, reaching behind his back, he retrieved the collapsible staff with a soft click. “You don’t mind if I even the odds a bit, do you?“
“If you think that'll help.“
The staff felt heavier than usual.
Or maybe it's his arms that were slower, palms sweatier.
Either way, Rowan moved like he was underwater, lagging a beat behind whatever instinct tried to fire off as he spun wide and missed.
The staff hissed again, carving at empty space as he snapped into a low sweep, hoping to catch something, anything.
Instead, it was nudged off-course by a precise, yet deceptively slow nudge that instantly disrupted his tempo.
His weapon skipped against the floor with a clack that echoed louder than it should have, as a rapid sequence of actions followed while the Bat danced around his attacks.
Surging forward for a heavy backhand, Rowan frowned as he was intercepted mid-motion and redirected 'toward' his fallen staff.
He recovered and lunged forth, weapon drawing a half-arc that was stopped dead between Bruce's palms.
Rowan knew he's never going to win in a contest of strength, so he didn't even try, his grip loosening as he lashed out with a kick aimed at the Dark Knight's ribs, missing yet again as he's tossed to the other side of the ring where he crashed against the wall with enough force to knock the air out of his lungs.
36…
“Again…”
He aimed high; it was swatted low.
He ducked under what he thought might be a counter, but nothing came, which lost him his rhythm and weapon both. The staff hit the mat and rolled once, twice before coming to a halt just like its wielder.
13…
“Again!” Rowan yelled, with much less enthusiasm this time and, as expected, was put on his backside once more.
26…
“I-I didn't hear a bell!”
4...
Grunting and groaning like a cornered beast, he rolled on all fours to gather the strength and steady himself while the world around him blurred.
He made it three whole steps before his knees buckled from under him.
Rowan blinked as the staff clattered beside him.
He hadn’t even raised it that round. Still, he reached for it, nails scraping against the cool metal as though the act of holding it would trick his body into cooperating. No such luck.
The ceiling swam somewhere above him.
Hard to tell if it was actually moving or if it's just his brain sloshing around in his skull. Frankly, Rowan couldn’t find it in himself to care as he heaved, shirt clinging to him like a second skin. And was that regret he tasted? Oh, wait, it's just blood. “I think that’s enough for today.”
“Funny.“ He coughed. “I thi–I think so too.”
The words barely made it out—slurred, muffled, detached—as he got sent straight to the Shadow Realm with a lone, half-conscious thought rattling in his head: 'Screw it… I'm taking a day off.' And then the world went completely silent for Rowan.
Not for the Dark Knight though, and certainly not for the horrified Alfred watching the two of them from the shadows.
“Master Bruce, that was far too much!”
Alfred’s voice echoed through the cavernous training hall, sharper than any reprimand he’d issued in years.
Bruce didn’t turn. He simply stared down at Rowan’s unconscious form, the boy sprawled on the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, chest rising and falling in rapid shallow bursts while fresh bruises bloomed across his almost pale grey skin.
“But a necessity, Alfred,” Bruce answered, feeling like a child all over again upon spotting the butler's glare. “Criminals won’t pull their punches just because he is a child; I can’t afford to either.”
“A child,” Alfred repeated, walking closer, his tone biting now. “Yes, Master Bruce. A child, one whom you just beat senseless!“
Bruce’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing as he knelt beside Rowan to check his pulse.
It was strong and steady, despite everything—likely the result of a minor healing factor linked to his heritage.
Bruce hadn’t left that to guesswork, of course.
It had taken him hours to collect and send the blood samples when the boy first arrived, weeks to identify the nonhuman markers in the boy’s DNA, and nearly three months to track down someone who might actually understand what he was dealing with. But his instincts had been right.
Taking the boy in wasn’t just a mercy—it's a necessity.
Had he been left to fester in the bowel of Gotham, that kind of power would've eaten him alive from the inside out. Still, all the enhanced recovery in the world didn’t make Rowan look any less frighteningly still as he lay there.
“Then convince him it’s best he keeps out of your extracurricular activities!“ Alfred snapped. “He will pout, yes, but he will understand your decision in due time!”
“You saw him; saw how he kept getting back up.” Bruce’s voice hardened. “He wouldn’t accept being benched, Alfred. And even if he did…!”
The Dark Knight trailed, the hesitation in his voice catching Alfred off guard.
For once, the butler didn’t have a sharp retort waiting as he studied Bruce’s expression.
“What did you find out about Rowan?” Asked Alfred, far quieter this time.
Picking up his unconscious protégé, Bruce strode toward the elevator, gesturing with a tilt of his head for Alfred to follow.
“What do you know about Demons?”
— [HELLBRED] —
“You wouldn’t guess how relieved I was when I got let off the hook the next morning.
Sparring with Batman is one thing…
Getting your Soul punted into orbit, and then being told to suck it up and go to school where I would be stuck sharing a desk with that one gremlin who treated his boogers like goddamn wallpaper paste is practically a war crime.
Sadly, all good things come to an end.
Before long, I was back to juggling school and training. Whoever I used to be clearly wasn’t much of a student, because I barely recalled half the crap they were teaching, but I wanted a fallback plan in case the Superhero thing fell through, so I did the unthinkable…
I applied myself.
Even managed to pull off some pretty decent grades and as my reward, Bruce and Alfred allowed me the freedom to design my very own costume.
Pretty cool, right? I mean, sure—it eventually got trashed, but it was my first-ever supersuit. It had a lot of sentimental value…
Real shame what happened to it, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Now! Where was I?
Oh, right—my Robin costume.
If there’s one thing I’m actually thankful for, it’s that this version of Bruce believes in armor, because if he’d handed me that green fucking speedo Silver Age Grayson got, I think I would have defected to the Joker.“
— [HELLBRED] —
“Ooh, what does this do?” Rowan asked. Curious as he was, he didn’t touch it, but he did point at the matte black pack.
It wasn’t some clunky rucksack or standard-issue utility belt extension. This piece of equipment looked custom—sleek and sharp-edged, with angular plates stacked like folded wings forming a stylized V-shape.
One thing's for certain though, it's definitely not decorative. "You said you didn’t want a cape, so I readjusted the design. The backplate contains compressed memory cloth. When charged, it'll unfold into wing gliders. Same principle as my suit. It also doubles as a second utility belt complete with comms, grapple line, smoke pellets, a miniaturized nuclear reactor, and two collapsible drones.“
“…You put a nuclear power source in my suit?” Rowan gawked, eyes wide.
“I didn't, Lucius did. And it’s not as dramatic as it sounds.” The Dark Knight calmly replied. “The core simply ensures every function can run at full capacity without interruption. It should last you a three to five years, but don't take that as cue to skip regular checks or maintenance.“
“… Bruce.“ Rowan tearfully blinked. “No homo, but there's no known word that can properly convey the depth of my love for you right now.“
The Dark Knight snorted—snorted!
“Wait. Your suit will be ready soon.”
“Can I help?”
Rowan didn’t think there was much he could do to improve the suit, but it couldn't hurt to know how all the parts fit together just in case.
The detachable backplate was just the start of what made his Robin Suit worth salivating over.
“There’s the Batclaw,” Bruce gestured. “It has three functions, switchable on the fly. One pulls you toward a target, one pulls it toward you, and the third does both. It’s built to boost your mobility and make up for your physical limitations. There’s also a cartridge inside that electrifies the line, which should be useful for takedowns. You can charge it with your belt.”
“I don’t get it… How’s that different from the grappling hooks in my backplate?”
“The Batclaw’s built with a weaker engine and a shorter range. It’s not meant for distance, as opposed to your backplate which was designed to punch through concrete and reach up to a thousand feet for gliding, and faster, smoother acceleration.“
If he hadn’t been impressed before, he damn well was now. “How the Hell did you cram all that in?”
“Money.“
“No, seriously—how?“
“About $50 million sunk into miniaturizing military tech. Another $75 million covered development. Most of it’s been incorporated into Wayne Enterprises—products, services, R&D.”
“… Must be nice to have infinite money.“
“Not quite. Wayne Enterprises is currently only valued at $318 billion.”
“Only? Only?!“ Fighting the urge to rip his hair out of his scalp, Rowan yelled in exasperation.
Inwardly amused by Rowan's reaction, but outwardly cold, the Dark Knight quickly glossed over a few more tools before heading toward a darkened glass display. “There are more tools, but let's get to the star of today's show.“
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, forcing Rowan to squint before he fully took in the sight of his Robin suit—a streamlined, battle-ready outfit that combined function with subtle edge.
The suit's base was a dark, matte-black material with just a hint of metallic sheen, wrapping his body in a second skin designed for maximum mobility.
Reinforced padding lines the chest, shoulders, forearms, and shins, offering enhanced protection without sacrificing agility.
His shins are protected by sleek, angular knee guards connected to a pair of sturdy combat boots to complete the look.
Standing in front of the suit display, arms crossed, the faint hum of the Batcave's generators buzzing in the background, Rowan silently ran his arm down the 'R' stitched to the left side of its chest. “You know, if this whole heroism and billionaire playboy thing doesn't work out, I think you could make a killing designing and making supersuits.”
“And get paid in ‘thank-yous?’”
The Dark Knight didn’t look up as he replied fingers sliding over the touchscreen before he turned, grabbed the final piece of the suit, and dropped it on the desk. Then he pulled a small, matte-black bag from the drawer and loosened the drawstring.
“Urgh… What ridiculous Bat-gadget is that?”
As cool as they were, Rowan was already getting a headache trying to remember them all; adding another to the pile was just going to make it that much worse.
“Bolts.“ Without a word, Bruce then pulled out a small, heavy-duty bag and loosened the drawstring, revealing a set of compact bolts. “This is to secure the backplate, it will lock in through reinforced anchors along the spine so it won’t shift under momentum.”
“…”
“…”
“What are you waiting for? You said you wanted to install it yourself, right?” Bruce asked, stepping back and placing the bag on the table in front of Rowan.
There was something about piecing the suit together that made his heart skip a beat—an odd thrill that settled perfectly between joy and satisfaction.
Rowan could only assume this was how it felt to work on your own car, to tighten bolts, check the fit, customize every part to one's whims.
Only, instead of a car, it was a million-dollar supersuit designed for urban warfare. And instead of a garage, he was in the Batcave—surrounded by crime-fighting relics, cutting-edge tech, and a man who treated silence like punctuation. Tomato, tomahto. Fitting all the bolts into place, Rowan watched in awe as the suit hissed like a living thing, the motors in the sockets along its spine tightening the carbon-fiber bolts even further.
"There's a room over there. Go get changed, we'll head out in 5."
Rowan turned, snapping back to reality. “Head out? What do you mean?”
Back to the boy, Bruce explained curtly. “We’re going on patrol.”
“Patrol? Now?!”
“Yes… Your job is recon—stay sharp, field-test the equipment, and report anything that underperforms.”
“Bruce… You're not using me as a guinea pig, are you?“
“You'll be fine. I built them to work.“
“That's not as reassuring as you think!“
But the Dark Knight had already disappeared into the elevator with a smirk.
“Bruce!!!“
Left to his lonesome; caught between excitement and anxiety, Rowan stared for a beat, as if waiting for the punchline. When none came, he sighed and practically skipped toward the changing room. The thrill dulled slightly when he stepped inside. The space was bare—no benches, no niceties, nothing but cold metal walls and a lone mirror hanging in the corner.
It was functional, but not very welcoming.
Clearly, Bruce had never intended for anyone else to use the place.
But Gotham didn’t care about a person's intentions or plans, even if said person was the Batman himself.
Eagerly prying the Robin suit open, Rowan hummed at the sight of the plastic-like clasps and ridges lining the interior… There was still one more thing the Batman had forgotten to mention.
Not a weapon or gadget, just the small detail that the new/FIRST Robin suit came with an exoskeleton. Nothing too flashy, no strength amplification or bullet-resistant tech, but it did give Rowan effortless movement and kept him from having to fight against the weight of the suit.
The whole thing hugged his body like it had been grown around him. There was not a wrinkle, nor a gap. It was smooth, layered with intersecting armor plates, but still flexible enough that he could backflip without pulling a muscle. It felt… Expensive, and looked the part, too.
Rowan adjusted the gauntlet, pausing as he caught sight of himself in the tall mirror propped against the wall.
The boy staring back didn’t look like a kid trying on his older brother’s costume, no.
The suit fit him too well for that.
White hair fell in soft, disheveled strands that framed his face. Not silver. Not platinum. White. The kind of white that didn’t look dyed, but altered—like something had scoured the pigment from his scalp and left it permanently damaged after the fact.
Rowan hadn’t even noticed how long it had grown in the past few weeks, now brushing just past his ears.
He would have to ask Alfred for a haircut tomorrow. Maybe a short quiff? Anything that'd keep these damn strands from stabbing into his eyes was fine by him.
"Utility belt, checked. Suit, checked. Now, last but not least…"
The helmet.
He’d expected an eye-mask... Something sleek and minimal similar to what most Robins sported.
Instead, he got a full helmet; one that looked more like it was Red Hood’s than Robin's.
Only from the nose down, a translucent material crackled faintly with static, doubling as a voice modulator. Seemed like Bruce had actually taken his suggestion to heart. Why the full-face coverage? Because according to both Alfred and Bruce, his white hair was just too damn eye-catching.
One glance at Robin’s mop of unnatural white, and it wouldn’t take a criminal long to connect the dots—Robin, Rowan, adopted son of Bruce Wayne.
And if they figured that out? Batman’s identity wouldn’t be far behind.
Tucking his hair in, Rowan slid the helmet over his head and watched as it sealed around his face with a quiet hiss.
This was it… This was the highlight of his life.
It was only going to get worse from here, probably.
Returning to the Batcave, Rowan retrieved his Batclaw and aimed it at the ledge above the Batmobile exit. “Aim for the star, Robin. Aim for the star.”
And just like that, he's yanked by the cable, screaming all the while. “WHEEEEE!!!”
Rowan was almost certain he'd regret asking to be Robin, but right now?
Right now his brain was too busy soaking in the dopamine to care.
