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Season 0: Year One C1: Robin (1) (Edited) (Public)
🕑 Added 2025-04-10 14:59:23 +0000 UTC“Life's the furthest thing from easy when you're living in Gotham, and that goes for everyone, rich or poor, good or evil.
But you know what's even worse than living in Gotham?
Living in Gotham as a street urchin. Between the goons, the serial killers, the rapists, and—let's not forget—the Supervillains, honestly? I was just about ready to roll the dice a second time. And then I stumbled upon the Batman.
Mr. 'Peak-human-condition'…
Bruce-motherfucking-Wayne.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: The guy has to be high on Venom. An altered, diluted version maybe, but he has to be on something to be capable of the things he did, and still do on a daily basis.
Up until that point, I had never seen a man move that fast or hit that hard anywhere outside the news. Every punch cracked like thunder in my ears as I snuck behind the Batmobile, wondering which Deity I upset to stumble straight into someone's ongoing boss fight.
Predictably, I was taken hostage—by a skinhead, no less.
It was him who came to my rescue, and the best part? I didn’t even see what happened.
One moment I had a gun to my temple, the next, the criminal was already unconscious on the pavement, and in his place stood a 6’2ft mountain of muscle cloaked in black. And yes, he was wearing the V8.04. Shit was badass, I'll admit… And even scarier up-close, especially when he finally turned toward me.
I'd love to say I held my ground like a champ, but that'd be lying.
I was 100% shitting bricks.“
— [HELLBRED] —
“…”
“…”
“So… Uhm… Thanks?“
The Batman grunted in response, cape billowing behind him like it had a mind of its own, and knowing the self-proclaimed 'rich kid with issues,' it probably did.
How?
Prep-time, obviously.
“Look, dude, on my mama's grave I had, well, have nothing to do with this… I was just minding my own business, trying to keep out of harm's way when this fucking asshole—”
Whatever words were trying to claw their way out died in Rowan’s throat the moment the Dark Knight reached for him. As irrational as it was to think the Bat would bench-press a child through concrete, Rowan could not help but brace for impact—fully expecting to wake up in an ambulance next to the guy who just held him at gunpoint.
But the pain never came.
“You’re bleeding.” The Dark Knight mumbled gloomily.
“That's what happened when a car flew at you.“
His close-brush with Death had given Rowan such appreciation for life, and a mouth to match it too. 'Maybe Gotham's not so terrible, after all.' He thought, right before the burning car erupted in a fireball, spewing both smoke and car shrapnel at them—80's action movie style.
“Oh, shi—!”
Without hesitation, the figure in black jumped into action—his hand closing tightly around Rowan’s, cowl covering the boy from the licking flame as he pointed the grappling gun toward one of Gotham’s ever-watchful, if weatherworn gargoyles.
The next moment, Rowan found himself yanked into the air, blinking rapidly as the rush of wind worsened the sting in his eyes and stole the breath from his lungs. Within mere seconds, the chaos below shrank into a distant blur of sirens and fire, the burning car reduced to a flickering patch of light beneath them as they landed on the rooftop. Well, Batman did. Rowan was just along for the ride.
"Thanks." Rowan said while brushing the soot off his pants.
The Bat glanced down at him, voice like gravel dragged across iron.
"This part of town isn't safe… Where do you live?“
Rowan huffed, flicking a shard of glass off his collar. "This is Gotham. Every part of town is unsafe."
"Your address."
Rowan blinked. "What, no disappearing act?"
Batman didn't humor him with an answer, he just waited.
"As much as I'd love a trip in that fancy car of yours, that was my house.“ Rowan never thought there'd come a day he call such a dump his house, but it was abandoned, warm and cozy enough, the blackened bloodstains on the wall asides. Sadly, it's a bit too warm now that the fire had spread to it as well, which also meant he better hurry or all the benches in Wayne Park would be occupied.
Alternatively, he could ask Bruce to take him in.
God knew the man was in desperate need of spare Robins, but his pride would not let him. He'd not beg.
“And your parents?“
“One dead, the other absent.“ He still remembered the silhouette of the woman who had birthed him in this life, but his pop? The guy had been playing hide-n'-seek for 11 years now, and he doubted that'd change any time soon.
“You have nowhere else to go?“
“I'll figure something out.“
Rowan had made it this far, he wasn’t about to fold over a little hiccup.
Quiet as a whisper, he crept toward the emergency exit while the Dark Knight stood still, gaze fixed on the bat-shaped light burning through Gotham night sky. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest when a hand landed on his shoulder. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
“This won’t take long.” Bruce wasn’t lying.
Soaring across the city, they covered miles in a matter of minutes, before stopping in front of a modest building.
“Wayne Foundation Youth Home“ The plaque read in bright, bold letters.
Rowan had heard about this place in passing.
It's far from the only orphanage in Gotham, but it's apparently the cleanest and best-funded.
No surprise there given the vast, unimaginable wealth Wayne Enterprises commanded.
The reasons Rowan had steered clear of the place until now were the sheer difficulty of navigating Gotham and tracking down an orphanage that had been rebuilt three times due to supervillain attacks; and the fact that, like every other orphanage in this hellhole of a city, it was almost always packed to the brim, but mainly and ironically, the admittedly irrational fear of giving the Bat a reason to suspect him.
“Go inside and ask for shelter. Someone will come get you in the morning.“
“Wha—I can't just—” Rowan turned on his heel, only to find the space behind him already empty.
“Dick.” He muttered, more impressed than annoyed, as he paced outside the establishment, steeling himself to do the unthinkable for any self-respecting street urchin: Admit himself to an orphanage. “Here goes nothing.“ Peering through the window, Rowan took a long, steadying breath, then raised his hand and rapped on the solid piece of oakwood.
An old woman with kind eyes and a smile that had likely comforted generations before him opened the door. “Well, hello there, dear. Did you get lost?”
Rowan shook his head, pointing his thumb where he'd been a minute ago. “Sorry for troubling you this late. My name's Rowan Locke. I was brought here by the Batman, ma’am. He said someone would come for me in the morning.”
“Oh, dear, let me get a good look at you.”
Her smile immediately softened, gaze now touched with pity and sympathy as she took in his appearance, before stepping aside and ushering him in.
A hot meal that didn’t taste like cardboard, a warm shower that didn’t require him to dunk himself in the toxic waste separating Old Gotham and Mid-Town, clean clothes that didn’t itch like crazy, and bandages that weren’t just strips of torn shirts—God, had it really been so long that he's this grateful to receive the most basic of human needs?
And then he remembered where he was.
In Gotham, there were no rights, only hard-earned privileges and how far one's willing to go to retain them.
By the time he made it to the main room, Rowan looked almost unrecognizable. “Come, dear.“
Mrs. Murriel called, stopping just short of the stairs. “Let's get you to bed.“
A bed sounded nice, but, “Can I just take the armchair?“
There were plenty of adjectives one could throw at Gotham: Rich. Corrupt. Menacing, even. But no one in their right mind would call it big. That meant the first floor only had one bedroom, and it belonged to Mrs. Murriel.
The kids all bunked on the floors above, and Rowan wasn't comfortable with that.
If he’d learned anything in the past eleven years, it's if something could go wrong in Gotham, it in all likelihood would, and hence why he wanted the chair, which had its back to the front door, a clear line to the window in case shit hit the fan and it's just large enough to give him cover.
It was objectively the safest spot.
Better that than getting funneled down a narrow staircase with no exits or jumping out a second-story window hoping not to snap his ankle. Besides, like the Bat said: Someone was coming for him in the morning. Fortunately, Mrs. Murriel didn’t question his choice. Rowan wasn’t the first kid to sleep with one eye on the door, and he wouldn't be the last.
"Are you sure, dear? That old thing's a bit bumpy."
"Positive, ma'am. I've slept on worse."
"That's not something to be proud of." Murriel chided, placing a warm glass of milk in his hand and giving his head a gentle pat before heading to her room. "If you need anything, don't be shy."
“I know. Thank you, ma'am.“
Under the dim light of the orphanage, Rowan sat in silence, quietly contemplating his situation. Sleep would’ve been nice, but he'd always been restless at night. Odd, considering he also liked mornings, despite how dead he usually felt during—a remnant of his previous life, no doubt. Kicking his legs back and forth, he stared aimlessly at the ceiling, waiting.
It wasn’t until the first ray cut through the gloom that he finally blinked—hollow-eyed, awake, but utterly exhausted—as the light hit his skin and burned his retinas. With a groan, Rowan rolled over the armrest in search of darkness, sighing in relief as the discomfort faded into the shadows.
He's still there, slumped over and drifting in and out of sleep, long after the kids had filed down the stairs and disappeared in the school bus.
He’d never seen kids that excited to go to school, but for them, it's not so much an obligation and more a privilege. Most street urchins in Gotham never got the chance to rise up.
They just ended up working for shady black-companies—usually fronts run by Supervillains—and feeding the same cycle of crime they're born into. “You look exhausted, dear… Rough night?“
“I have a condition. It's nothing to worry about,” Rowan hurried to clarify. “It just makes me a bit lethargic during the day. I'm used to it.“
“Do you want to lie down while you wait? You can use my bed if you want.”
“That…”
The automatic 'Won't be necessary' died on his tongue as he thought about how nice a nap would be. “That sounds nice. Can you—”
“I’ll call you if anyone comes asking, don’t worry. Is there anything I should look out for?”
Rubbing his eyes, Rowan yawned and answered. “I don't know. Batman didn't tell me.“ Chances were Alfred would come get him himself, but Rowan couldn't exactly tell her that. Mrs. Murriel's still working for Wayne Enterprises. However kind she seemed, she was still legally obligated to report anything unusual to her employer, and Rowan couldn't risk that.
“Alright. You go on then.“ He didn’t even remember lying down, only the pleasant sensation of the bedsheet against his skin while the world around him dulled. After a whole year of concrete, crates, damp floors and unwashed sleeping bags, 'Finally. A real bed.'
Snoring softly, Rowan felt the last bit of his consciousness slip away.
“Rowan?”
He awoke to the harsh afternoon glare, eyes adjusting just in time to catch Murriel’s warm smile beside the bed.
“Someone’s looking for you.“ That someone turned out to be exactly who he expected—Alfred Pennyworth, dressed as sharply as ever, with the kind of posture that made everyone else feel inferior just by existing.
The butler's hair had gone mostly white, but there were still streaks of black and brown scattered throughout—enough to suggest this was still early in the timeline.
Rowan had suspected as much ever since he found out the Justice League wasn’t a thing yet. Still, having it confirmed felt different—real.
“Master Rowan, I have come on behalf of Mr. Wayne.” Alfred lowered himself to one knee, gloved hand extending with practiced grace. “The next decision will shape the rest of your life… You can come with me and be adopted into the Wayne family… Or remain here until a foster home becomes available.”
Translation: Be Robin, or stay an expendable orphan doomed to be vaporized the second Darkseid, or whichever cosmic nightmare-of-the-week decided to visit Earth.
“Hell yeah!“ Rowan responded, slipping his hand into Alfred’s without a second thought.
And that's that.
The drive to the Wayne Estate was as long and winding as expected, but it wasn’t the distance that unsettled Rowan—it was the wait.
It couldn’t be helped.
He was, for all intents and purposes, completely at the mercy of the Batman and no matter how polite Alfred had been, that was a fact that sat heavy in his gut. “Don’t look so worried, Master Rowan. Master Bruce doesn’t bite, I promise.”
'Yeah,' Rowan thought. 'He only beats you to near death and hoist you with a 75K medical bill.'
“If I may ask, Mr. Pennyworth…”
“Please, just call me Alfred,” The butler said with a faint note of disapproval as he glanced at the rearview mirror.
“Well then, Alfred—what exactly is Mr. Wayne’s connection to the Batman?”
Risky, Rowan knew.
Maybe even reckless.
But if he was going to be adopted by Bruce Wayne, he sure as hell wasn’t passing up the chance to learn the Tibetan technique that let the 'peak human' survive being tackled by a Joker-toxined Wonder Woman through several walls and buildings. 'Human my ass.'
Grip tightening on the leather-cladded steering wheel, Alfred Pennyworth was rendered speechless by his forthrightness. To the man's credit, he managed to collect himself rather quickly. “That is not my secret to tell, Master Rowan.“
“Fair enough.” The so-called Master said with a nod. “I’ll ask him myself.”
Just then, the car rounded a corner, and the Wayne Estate came into view, less a mansion and more a private fortress dressed in gothic architecture.
The old stone walls crawled with ivy, the windows stretched tall and narrow like watchful eyes, and the iron gate at the front looked like it hadn’t opened for anyone who didn’t in decades. The entire building screamed money—old, cold money. “Here we are; your new home.“
“Home, sweet home, am I right?”
“That’s the spirit, Master Rowan!” Alfred replied, a trace of warmth slipping into his tone as they entered the Estate's premise.
“Hmmm… Place looks a lot nicer up close.“
“It is nice, but so very cold.” Nostalgia clung to Alfred’s voice as his eyes drifted for but a moment. “With you here, let’s hope it gets a bit cozier.”
“… Just out of curiosity, what’s the upkeep on this place?”
Rowan asked as the wrought-iron gates creaked open.
“You know—cleaners, taxes, all that jazz?”
“Aren’t you a bit young to be asking about that?”
“Mr. Pennyworth—”
“Alfred.“ The butler corrected sternly.
“Alfred, you’re never too young to learn how to keep the IRS off your ass. God knows school doesn't teach us how to do our taxes enough… Personally, I blame the 'No Child Left Behind Act.'”
Chuckling at the boy’s deadpan delivery, arms crossed like he already owned the place, the butler snorted. “I think you’ll fit right in, Master Rowan.”
Climbing out of the Rolls-Royce, the boy trailed behind Alfred like a baby duckling, keeping close as they made their way to the front door. He half-expected Batman to be waiting on the other side, arms crossed and looming.
Instead, he's greeted by a spacious, empty living room—polished, classy, and yet eerily still. “I'll show you around first. Then you can see Master Bruce and ask whatever you wish. Deal?“
“Deal.“
And thus, after a quick tour of the Wayne Estate, the two finally stopped in front of the master bedroom where the butler quickly excused himself. “Forgive me, Master Rowan, but I still have a few more matters to attend to—the adoption procedures, for example. Will you be alright on your own?“
“We’ll see…” Rowan muttered under his breath before knocking. “Thanks for the tour, Alfred. If I don’t make it out—avenge me.”
“And how do you suggest I do that?” The butler asked with a laugh.
“I don’t know, make him eat more broccoli?”
“Come on in!”
'Here goes nothing.' Bracing himself, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it quietly behind him. “Mr. Wayne?“
The man sitting before him looked nothing like the caped terror who’d dropped from the sky just the night before.
Bruce Wayne was clean-cut, composed, dressed in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit that probably cost more than everything Rowan had ever owned, combined. His hair was slicked back, his face clean-shaven, his expression disarmingly calm.
And yet, beneath all that charm and luxuries, there was clearly something to him.
His posture was a bit too perfect, his movements too controlled—small things really, barely noticeable on their own, but together they added up.
“Please,” The Dark Knight said, gesturing to the seat beside him with a smile that felt a bit too forced to Rowan, but maybe it's just him… He did always have a knack for discerning people's intentions and emotions. “Call me Bruce. I take it Alfred’s filled you in?”
Rowan didn’t respond right away.
If he wanted answers, he'd have to play the Dark Knight’s game.
“Rowan, is something wrong?”
Walking toward the billionaire playboy, Rowan raised a hand to cover the upper half of his face and narrowed his eyes. It's all part of the act, of course, but whether it'd be enough to throw off the Batman remained to be seen.
“Mr. Wayne, can you repeat after me?”
“I beg your pardon?” Bruce asked, brow arching.
“Humor me.“ Rowan deadpanned.
Bruce chuckled—too forced to be sincere, but played along with a theatrical bow of his head.
“I am vengeance. I am the night. I AM BATMAN!” The Dark Knight, understandably, did not look amused one bit as he denied. “That is ridiculous.“
Fortunately, Rowan had predicted this reaction.
Bruce wasn’t just going to hand him the answer, but if he stayed on the offensive, the mask was bound to crack eventually.
“Not from where I'm standing.”
Rowan shot back. “Might I suggest a voice modulator, an inch or two in the boots, and maybe, just maybe a full mask that covers your mouth too?“
“…”
“…”
“You know.” And just like that, the facade slipped—gone was the charming billionaire, and in his place stood the man who prowled rooftops to beat the brakes off criminals… A man who, for all accounts, was no man at all.
“I suspected,” Rowan said, lying through his teeth. “Now I know.”
“Why are you here then?“
“Because there’s a man flying unaided in Metropolis, a woman in D.C. who shrugs off tank shells, and a guy here in Gotham who takes out entire gangs before breakfast. And then there’s me—helpless against kids from my own block. You can change that. You are the only human who can… And will.”
Bruce sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.
His eyes sharpened, gaze heavy, though thankfully not hostile.
He wasn’t looking at Rowan so much as reading the boy.
The silence stretched just long enough to sting before he finally asked. “What is your purpose?“
“Power,” Rowan answered without missing a beat. “And the right to have a say in my own life.”
Reclining in his chair, the Dark Knight demanded. “Tell me about yourself.”
— [HELLBRED] —
“And so I spoke. I spoke a lot, mainly about my life experiences up to that point; about the other street urchins and how they—we fought for scraps in the back alleys. I talked about the scamming and human trafficking ring I briefly got tangled up in when I was five. You wouldn't believe the money to be made in those, trust me.
I talked and talked… Probably more than I should have.
What can I say?
There were a lot in my mind at the time, and I really, really wanted to tutor under Batman. Yeah, yeah, there are other amazing Supes around too, but, like, it's Batman. Need I say more?
I think he saw a bit of himself in me—a scruffier, mouthier version with the colors flipped. And yeah, turns out having naturally white hair is still weird in Gotham. You’d think this city had seen enough freaks to be used to it by now.
I figured Bruce would get tired of my rambling eventually, but he listened—really listened—right up until nightfall. Then, without missing a beat, he just said, “Be up at three,” and walked out…
And just like that, I was in.
There's no grand ceremony, no secret handshake, just a quiet command and a door closing behind him. I was excited, as anybody would be in my shoes, and made absolutely no attempt to hide it.
Which, in hindsight, made it all the more embarrassing when training finally rolled around, and I was already ready to tap out before the first day was even over. And to make it worse, all I had to eat the months after were steamed broccoli and skinless chicken breasts. Apparently, Bruce had overheard my little jab with Alfred and decided to make it personal. The petty bastard.
All jokes aside, I really couldn’t complain.
I had a roof over my head, a bed that felt like a damn cloud, warmth in the Winter and air conditioner in the Summer.
Even my meals were brought by Alfred—good, old, trusty Alfred, who felt so human, so real.
The man loves pudding, watches UK dramas at exactly 14:00 every day, has a soft spot for dogs and somehow this fucking dude was keeping the whole Estate both functional and clean!
Hell, even Bruce had his likes and dislikes, and that, that changed something in me.
As a filthy casual comic fan, I only really knew the Batman, but Bruce? Bruce was far more layered and complicated than any show, movie, or comic ever let on.
They both had their flaws, sure, but in a way, that only endeared them to me all the more.
There’s little as heartwarming—or mildly horrifying—as watching Alfred 'regurgitate' food because Bruce 'just couldn’t find the time to eat,' or so he claimed. It was nice, though. It's oddly… Homey.“
— [HELLBRED] —
“Master Bruce, need I spoon-feed you like I did in the past?” Grunting in response, the Dark Knight grabbed the chicken sandwich, shoved it into his mouth before resuming his research. “Killer Croc broke out of the Asylum yesterday and has left a trail of bodies since… I need to find him quickly.”
“Be that as it may, you'll be of no help to anyone exhausted and hungry. Please, Master Bruce. For this old man's peace of mind.“
Guilted into submission successfully, the Dark Knight sighed and finally stepped away from his $50K-worth of hardwares to dig into a bowl of mashed potatoes and shredded chicken with cheese—the healthy kind.
“How's he?“
“Master Rowan’s absolutely ecstatic that you agreed to train him. It’s been the only thing out of his mouth all day. He also mentioned he would not wear tights or anything made out of spandex. If my memory hasn’t failed me in my old age,” Alfred continued dryly, “I believe his exact words were: ‘'Cause mah balls needs to breath.’”
The silence lingered as Batman finished the last of the soup, reluctantly conceding, if only inwardly, that Alfred had a point.
He did feel stronger now that his stomach wasn’t running on fumes.
“You disapprove?” He asked quietly.
“Not quite,” Alfred replied, folding the tray back into his hands. “I’m just wondering why.”
“Because he's smart, observant, and determined. He’s already survived longer than most in this city with nothing but his wits. That kind of resilience matters.“
“But?“ The butler prompted, and the Dark Knight obliged. “But more than that… I sense something familiar in him. The anger, the need for control, the hunger to never be powerless again. If I don’t guide that, someone else will; someone who might not have his best interests in mind. Does that answer your question?“
The man who had been his father longer than his real one simply nodded, quietly gathering the empty bowls before heading for the door. But, just before stepping out, he glanced back.
“Then let’s make sure we’re the ones who get to him first.”
And then the door clicked shut behind him.
Left alone to brood, Bruce leaned back in his chair, the cowl half-pulled off, steam still rising from the mug in his hands as he rubbed his temples.
He hadn’t signed up for a kid.
Hadn’t meant to make room in the cave or involve anyone in his nightly routine,
Or memorize someone else’s schedule,
Or have to adjust his patrol hours around tutoring an eleven-year-old with a chip on his shoulder and a sharp tongue to boot, but here he was, just hoping he'd do a better job being a father than he had culling the Evils of Gotham.
The good news?
At least he had a catchy slogan now.
“I am vengeance. I am the night. I am BATMAN!’”
