"Man! It's been quite a while. I miss this place!"
"You were down here less than a week ago." The Caped Crusader droned, only to be blown off by his little helper's casual, "Details."
Bruce grunted and pointed at the weights. "Have your Shadow lift those. If you're going to use it, we need to know what it's capable of."
"Know yourself, know your enemy, and you need not fear the outcome of a hundred battles," The boy mumbled smugly, before heading toward the rack and placing his hands just below the barbell so its shadow and Ichor would meet. "What else is on the schedule?"
"Speed and versatility," Bruce expressionlessly explained. "We're testing all four."
"No, I mean—"
Rowan started, letting out an exaggerated groan as he 'deadlifted' the barbell. He averaged 275 pounds, which didn't seem nearly as impressive next to Bruce's usual 600 to 700-pound deadlifts, but considering his biological age, lean frame, and actual muscle mass, those numbers were absurd.
Pound for pound, Rowan was stronger than most men, but even he had to struggle to hit that benchmark, yet here Ichor was, breaking his as easily as breathing.
'Curling' the barbell to his chest, Rowan grinned—more amused than disappointed. "Well, won't you look at that. It's got my record beat…"
He hadn't even broken a sweat.
Hell, his fingers never even grazed the bar.
Ichor had done all the heavy lifting—literally.
"So it's stronger than you."
The boy shrugged, "Looks like it," Then eagerly continued to nail the barbell curls.
Scribbling something down, Bruce didn't even look up before barking again. "Put on more weight."
"How much are you thinking?" Rowan asked, dusting his hands and wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead.
"Five hundred," Arrived the Dark Knight's curt reply, his eyes still glued to the notes.
Rowan squinted. "You mean add five hundred, or make it five hundred total?"
"Yes. We need to know its limits."
"We... Or just you?" The boy-hero shot back.
"What exactly are you implying?"
"That you're studying me in case you ever need to take me down?"
Bruce froze, jaw clenched tight.
The pen snapped against paper with a sharp click as his shoulders stiffened.
The darkness of the Batcave clung to him, folding into his skin almost on command while his eyes narrowed to cold, white slits…
As suffocating as the tension, the boy acted like he couldn't have cared less if it slapped him in the face, beaming ear-to-ear as he slid more weight onto the bar. "Oh, relax, Bruce. I know how it is—no hard feelings."
Rowan couldn't find it in himself to fault the man.
He'd have done the exact same thing if their roles were reversed.
"You approve?" Bruce Wayne being surprised—now that was something Rowan hadn't expected to see.
"I wouldn't say that… I mean no disrespect, but you're a human in a world full of Aliens and Demigods. I would be more concerned if you weren't making contingencies for everybody."
"Most would consider this an act of betrayal."
Rowan tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Peasants used to think the world was flat. Some even believed it rested on the back of an elephant." He stepped forward unhurriedly, grabbing another weighted plate with one hand. "The entire medical community basically bulliedIgnazSemmelweis when he suggested they were killing people by not washing their hands before surgery."
Putting a hand over his chest as if to make a grand declaration, Rowan shouted. "'Men won't fly for a million years,' They said! And look at us now."
"A simple 'Yes' would have sufficed." Arms crossed, Bruce rubbed the knot between his brows, grunting as a small fist lightly tapped his side.
"Ah, but that wouldn't have had the same kick."
They hit the grind some more with bench presses, weighted squats, kettlebell swings, and explosive jump training,…etc. Until Batman finally called it. "Enough. I've got Ichor's specs. Its strength and speed appear to triple yours."
"Cool!"
Little did he know Rowan had quietly ordered Ichor to ease up.
Was it shitty to take advantage of him right after the moment they shared? Maybe. But since Bruce was using this occasion to build his contingency also, the wonderless-boy figured it was only fair to keep a few things to himself.
It did mean he couldn't get a true read on Ichor's real strength, but Rowan could make a rough estimate. 'Sevenfold.' His Shadow was approximately seven times stronger than him, pound for pound.
"Cool? You spent days in agonizing pain and just found out you're half-Demon."
"I don't care. I've got cool powers."
"Crosses burn you. Sanctified ground probably will too. Anything holy, really."
"I've got cool powers." Rowan repeated, dead serious. In his humble opinion, it was a fair trade-off—like Superman with Kryptonites or Green Lantern and fear.
He wasn't exactly religious anyway, even if he tended to curse like a pissed-off altar boy.
Faced with the infamous Bat-glare, Rowan just shrugged.
"Look, Bruce, I don't know what you expect from me… I can't exactly Un-Demon myself, can I? So wouldn't it make more sense I enjoy my superpowers?
Or would you rather I start acting like a proper angsty teen? I'm sure~ee Alfred will be absolutely thrilled to have another mopey vigilante 'round the house."
Bruce's face blanched.
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
"Get back in the gym."
"What for? We already got Ichor's specs."
For a minute, Rowan entertained the thought that Bruce had seen through his trickery, but his worry was for nothing. The Batman wasn't omniscient, after all.
"We haven't gotten yours."
"Mine?"
"Your arm has undergone significant morphological changes. It's highly likely the rest of your physiology has been affected as well."
"Well…" Pinching his chin, Rowan mused out loud. "Now that you mention it, I did experience a brief surge in strength when I first woke up, but it has diminished since. I feel mostly normal now."
"You likely acclimated to that level of strength." His mentor gestured to the dumbbells on the floor. "Try lifting those—without your Shadow's help."
Rowan shrugged, heading straight for the sticking point.
His left, cursed hand lifted the 85-pound dumbbell with ease.
His right, though, faltered just on the cusp.
"So, I was wondering…"
"Out with it, Rowan."
The boy shifted to readjust his grip. "About that magical consultant you mentioned, when are they showing up again? Don't get me wrong, I love the new powers and all, but…"
Glancing at his admittedly awesome-looking arm, Rowan made a disgusted face as he flicked away a scratchy loose scale. "Wearing a cast everywhere sounds like a drag."
"He's already here."
Batman gestured toward the shadows. From the dark, a man in a battered trench coat stepped out like he owned the place. "'Sup, mate?"
The good news? It was just Constantine, and not one of the gazillion trigger-happy mystics who'd nuke a half-demon on sight.
The bad news? It was Constantine.
The human disaster wrapped in cigarette smoke and half-baked spells.
With him around, things were pretty much guaranteed to either go completely sideways or limp along just barely functional.
"I should've known that burnt smell was cigarette smoke…" Facepalming, Rowan mumbled under his breath, then turned to the still Dark Knight. "Him? You can't be serious, Batman."
Constantine scoffed, visibly offended. "Oi, what's that supposed to mean?"
"Dude, I've read your profile, you run on nothing but booze, spite, and blind luck. I'm not handing over my life to you." One could argue Bruce wasn't much better—operating purely on trauma, caffeine, and God-Tier Plot Armor—but the Dark Knight was actually good at what he did.
Lighting his cigarette with a smirk, Constantine immediately choked on the first drag, coughing like a man twice his age.
He straightened up a second later, trying to salvage his image with what he probably thought was prize-winning. "And yet, I'm still alive. That's gotta count for somethin', yeah?"
"I never said I don't trust you with your own life," Rowan deadpanned. "I just don't trust you with mine."
"Bit of a difficult one you're raisin', ain't he, Batsy?" Constantine drawled, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. "Bet yer' 50 quid the little gremlin popped out the womb flippin' the bird and askin' for a pint."
"Bet your ass I did. Hell, I still do. Wanna see how I do i—?"
"That's enough, Robin. He's here to help."
Loosening the tension in his middle finger, Rowan sighed. "Urgh… If he pawns my Soul to Nergal, I'm haunting you, Batman."
"Oh, relax." The Hedge Mage smirked, reaching for his Demon's Arm. "Even Demons've got standards."
"If they're fighting over yours, how high can those standards be?" Rowan taunted, sliding onto the leg press machine with a smug grin. The Hellblazer looked ready to fire back, then thought better of it and swallowed the retort at the back of his throat.
It didn't feel good.
Hell, it felt a lot like choking down bile after a night of chain-smoking and binge drinking, but the kid had a point.
At this point, John had pawned off his own Self and cheated Hell so many times, it was honestly a miracle they still saw any value in his sorry excuse of a Soul. Whatever self-deprecating tirade his brain was about to spew was immediately cut off as he finally felt the resevoir of Demonic Energy within the boy.
"Well, this oughta be fun." John muttered, already regretting whatever fresh 'Hell' he'd just stepped into.
"Verum oculis, ostende mihi quod latet." The spell slipped from his lips, dragging the half-burnt cigarette with it as hellish visions flooded his mind. "So… What's the verdict, doc?"
Rowan and Bruce quietly exchanged glances whjle Constantine's eyes rolled back, leaving only the soulless whites.
"Doc?" Rowan repeated, before being startled out of his comfy seat by the Hellblazer's neck snapping violently to the right, then to the left. "What the unholy—!"
The words hadn't even left the tinnier vigilante's lips properly when the British Hedge Mage suddenly lunged for his throat.
Before he could do any actual harm, however, the Caped Crusader was already on him, driving his boot in the small of John's back and sending him across the room. Now in the clear, Rowan rolled toward his helmet and smoothly completed the look.
He turned just in time to catch Bruce giving their possessed guest an enthusiastic left, then an even more excited right like he was trying to beat the Demon out of the Hellblazer.
To be fair, given his track record, Bruce probably could…
Still, Rowan wasn't about to take that gamble. "Keep 'im busy, Batman!"
Hooking himself out of the Batcave, he sprinted down the hall, blowing right past a startled Alfred who loudly chided, "No running in the hall, Master Rowan!"
"It's an—" The word emergency stuck as he locked eyes with the very person he'd been trying to find. Bruce might be Jewish, but he definitely wasn't a believer. Rowan doubted the Caped Crusader gave a damn about anything beside the Mission.
And he himself was a Demon.
The only one in Wayne Estate who might actually have faith was the Batler.
With any luck, he'd have a cross tucked away somewhere, hopefully on his person. "Alfred! Do you have a spare cross?"
"A cross, sir? I wasn't aware you'd taken up religion."
"I haven't, but there's—"
A low tremor suddenly rolled through the Batcave, causing the overhead lights to flicker. "—A possessed Mage throwing a tantrum in the sublevels." Rowan added with a wry smile. "Figure a little holy insurance couldn't hurt."
"Gimme a moment, sir, I believe I do have a spare somewhere." Adjusting his cuff with one hand, he patted down his coat with the other, calm as ever despite the worsening tremors. "One can never be too prepared, especially in this household… Ah, there it is!"
The Batler folded his handkerchief around the wooden accessory and cautioned. "Do be careful with this, Master Rowan."
Remembering what happened the last time he touched a cross, Rowan absentmindedly nodded, then shoved the bundle in his pocket. "I'll try. Thanks, Alfred. You're the best!"
"Flattery won't get you anywhere, sir."
"I beg to differ, Pennyworth!"
Gliding down the hidden entrance into the Batcave, Rowan nearly burst into tears at the sight of the wrecked Batcomputer.
"You'll be missed, soldier," He whispered, before making a mad dash toward the source of the noise.
He found Bruce and the possessed Hedge Mage within minutes, having memorized every tunnel leading to and from the Batcave.
Whatever had taken hold of the guy clearly wasn't a Speedster, but it had enough raw strength to ricochet off the walls like a kid hopped up on sugar and caffeine. Precision, though? Not its strong suit. It kept missing the slippery Dark Knight, who was keeping it at bay with a steady stream of Explosive Batarangs.
Exchanging a glance with his mentor, Rowan hooked onto one of the hanging spikes above the cavern ceiling, using the shades to silently position directly over Constantine just as seven Bat-boas shot out from Batman's hands.
To this day, Rowan still had no idea what the hell those things were made of, but they slowed the Demon down, and that was all that mattered.
He dropped right onto the Hedge Mage, squinting as light burst from the accessory, and engulfed both him and the possessed Constantine in ribbons of white fire. Rowan couldn't tell where his screams ended and Constantine's began, but he did catch one voice—Bruce's. "Robin!"
Gritting his teeth, he bore down harder as the sanctified wood seared his and Constantine's tainted flesh.
The blistering pain was too much to bear, forcing Rowan to wrap the wooden beads around his wrist, then twisted the loop tight around the possessed Mage's neck with a loud battle cry.
The Hellblazer let out a guttural roar, convulsing as the Demonic Force inside him flared in protest. He spun wildly, then futilely slammed his back against the nearest wall in hope of ridding himself of the 'pest' clinging on his beat-up trench coat.
All the Hellblazer accomplished was stoking the fire until Rowan and he both collapsed in a blackened and wheezing pile.
That should have been the end for them, but the skin that had flaked off like chunks of beef jerky suddenly began to regrow, woven from the very holy flame that had reduced them to such a state.
"B-Bruce…" Rowan croaked. "Next time, please just wait for Zatara."
— [HELLBRED] —
"It's a common misconception among new fans that Constantine is this God-like Mage, which I suppose we have his more recent portrayals to thank for.
But the Essence of his character has always been that of a Hedge Mage who fucks up regularly, surviving off a borderline toxic mix of luck, recklessness, and sheer dumbassery. I used to love that about him, even with my admittedly limited knowledge of DC. What can I say?
It gave him character and kept me from questioning why he doesn't just vaporize his enemies from orbit. I regret to inform I haven't felt the same about the Hellblazer since, but it is what it is. Besides, i's not like Johnny picked a fight on purpose. He was also possessed… By me, technically.
Every cloud has a silver lining though, 'cause after getting rawdogged by the Presence, I finally got my skin back. Smooth, smooth skin.
Sure, the scales returned after a day, but both Constantine and I had figured as much.
My… Affliction wasn't a disease, after all.
It was me. My darker impulses personified, kind of like Raven and her little therapy circle of personalities.
Only mine weren't as fractured.
It was Pride, Wrath, Greed, Envy, Lust, Gluttony, and Sloth all crammed into one. My Shade, unbound. A Shade that I learned I could keep in check by tying a rosary—or any holy object, really—around my wrist.
A quick look under the microscope showed the same Grace burning off any abnormal growth and causing micro-damage it would then stitch up in nanoseconds.
The good news? I could finally leave Wayne Estate without a cast. Freedom, at last. The bad news was that it locked me out of my demonic powers and came in a bundle with the constant sting of a tattoo needle being dragged across my skin. It was relentless too… I'm talking, like, 24/7.
I could barely eat or drink, was so irritable I made Bruce look chatty, and I was downing enough sleeping pills to knock me dead just to squeeze in a thirty-minute nap before the pain spiked again. It. Was. Hell.
Thankfully, I was allowed to take out my frustrations on Gotham's criminal scum again, and I didn't hold back. No, sir. By the end of the second week, word on the street had already branded me 'The Imp' for my brutality.
Didn't help that Bruce upgraded the Robin suit with a reinforced exoskeleton and a mechanical tail that could rip the roof off a car and fry an elephant.
He never stated it outright, but I'm pretty sure it was his way of steering me away from leaning into my Demon Heritage.
We still referred to me as Robin in private, but the name never really stuck, and honestly? I was kinda glad it didn't.
Sure, I played the part of Batman's sidekick, but from the very beginning, I'd always seen myself as a… A placeholder for the Title rather than the genuine article. I imagine it's how Dick felt wearing the Batsuit as well—like a fake.
The Imp wasn't a glamorous name by any stretch, but it was mine. It fit the whole demon shtick, rolled off the tongue like a threat, and scared the crap out of low-level goons. What more could a growing menace ask for? Quite a bit more, as it turned out."
— [HELLBRED] —
"Did you see him last night, Rowan?! Dude was like—bam, pow! And launched that thug across the alley!"
Still nursing a stabbing headache and a muffled ear, Rowan just nodded along as Alex loudly reenacted Imp's stunt from the night before.
He might've been flattered, if the kid's new custom toy helmet, complete with garbled Power Rangers audio and chopped-up voice lines someone had so clearly ripped from his fights, wasn't already smeared with darkening, crusted boogers.
Beside them, another boy whose name Rowan still couldn't remember smugly gave his two cents. "Batman soloes." He wasn't wrong, but Alex wasn't having it.
"Nuh-uh! Imp's got skills, tech, and a cool mech tail!"
"Which Batman probably paid for."
Also not wrong. Damn. Was the kid psychic?
"Guys, who cares? They're on the same team. Why does it matter who can beat who?"
"Why does it mat—" Alex gasped like Rowan had just kicked his puppy.
He clutched his chest, eyes wide, wounded and betrayed. "Rowan… How could you?"
"What the hell did I do?"
"We were supposed to enjoy pitting heroes and villains against each other! Together!!!" Cried Alex, pointing an accusatory finger like Rowan had broken their sacred childhood oath. "You were the chosen one…! You were supposed to destroy the debunkers and skeptics—not join them! Bring justice to Power-Scaling, not leave it in darkness!"
"…"
Fortunately, he survived another day of school and managed to drag his weary feet outside to wait for Alfred.
He'd asked the butler to pick him up later than usual, claiming it was to spend more time with his friend.
The truth was, ferrying him to and from Gotham Academy every day was chewing into Alfred's already packed schedule.
Between running the manor, assisting Bruce in the Cave, juggling cover identities, and somehow squeezing in rest like a mortal man, Pennyworth barely had room to breathe.
Rowan figured the least he could do was buy him an extra half hour and spare his old bones the worst of Gotham's rush hour.
It also gave him an hour of freedom to do whatever he wanted—not that there was much to do near the Academy which was nestled in one of Gotham's nicer, more uptight districts, where entertainment often came in the form of overpriced cafés and silent bookstores.
Bored out of his mind, he wandered outside the Academy, lazily kicking pebbles, when a light hand settled on his shoulder. He flinched and turned, only to find, surprise-surprise, the little ginger-head herself. "Ms. Gordon, should I draw you a diagram explaining why sneaking up on someone who can give you a concussion is a bad idea?"
By the time he transferred to Gotham Academy, the Hilltop kids had already wrapped up their one-week exchange program. Rowan thought he wouldn't be running into her again until years down the line, when she took up the Batgirl mantle.
But… Here she was.
"Are you Ro—"
He slapped a hand over her mouth with a sharp hiss. "Scream it to the whole city, why don't you?"
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Barbara glanced down at his now smooth arm before gently prying his hand away and whispering. "You're the Imp. Don't even try to deny it. Same height, same build. I even saw you going with Batman. You're him. You're Batman's sidekick… You're the Robin!"
Rowan considered gaslighting her, then shook, deciding against it.
She was Gordon's kid.
That trick had a snowball's chance in Hell of working.
"Yes. What do you want?"
Eyes sparkling like she'd just won the lottery, the girl latched onto his arm and dragged him into a nearby café.
Rowan didn't resist, believing it better to get it over with now than let her admiration sour into a full-blown preteen vendetta.
Barbara was going to become Batgirl anyway.
After ordering a black coffee buried in whipped cream, he chucked his briefcase into the corner and slumped into the seat.
"Before we start, let'sget one thing straight: Don't expect clear answers. Don't ask about our public personas. Don't push when I say no. And if you're even thinking about threatening me, expect nothing but contempt."
She blinked once at the threat, then happily clapped. "I can't believe it, I'm sitting with—"
"Shhh! For God's sake, do you even comprehend the concept of a secret identity? Zip it!"
If his blood pressure spiked tonight, Rowan was going to let Barbara Gordon take full credit.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! It's just—I can't believe it. I've been following your whole story; I even saw your fight with Deathstroke live on TV! You were—"
She threw a few awkward punches, ponytail swinging wildly, then smiled and pulled out a folder full of photos of him in his 'uniform.'
"Who the hell is taking all these goddamn pictures?" Setting aside the fact some of those fights had taken place in notorious crime zones where cameras were scarce, and bystanders even scarcer; these weren't flattering photos of him.
The terrible angles, the crappy lighting—they made him look like a fucking midget!
"If you're gonna stalk me, at least learn how to frame a shot."
How was he to aura-farm with these floating around?!
Finally reining in her curiosity, Batgirl stuffed the folder back into her bag and cleared her throat. "Sorry 'bout that."
"Apology accepted."
Her eyes silently flicked to his side and dropped. "Your arm… Your face—"
Rowan glanced at the appendage, flexed the fingers absently like he was checking it for the first time, then shrugged. "They got better."
"That's good," Barbara exhaled, hands awkwardly gripping the sides of her chocolate chip ice cream. "So… A demon hero. And here I thought Wonder Woman was as weird as it got."
Blowing out of his lips, the corners of his mouth twitched with a smug, you've-got-no-idea laugh, before taking a sip of his coffee. "Ye-eeah… That's as weird as it's gonna get."
It was still early—very, very early—in the timeline.
The Flying Graysons were still alive, Kirk Langstrom was just a scientist, and the Justice League wasn't even an idea yet.
Most threats were still relatively small-time: Street-level, maybe national at worst.
Give it a decade or two and Alien, God, Android and Demon would be just another Friday.
"… I don't like the way you're saying it."
Chuckling some more, Rowan downed half his glass and leaned back in his chair. "You had questions?"
"Right, so—"
The conversation stretched on for another hour, bouncing between questions, theories, and half-serious jabs, until even Barbara who was buzzing with excitement originally began to calm.
"Any more questions?"
"Just one…" Fixing her posture, the Girl-Who'd-Become-Batgirl asked. "Can I join you and Batman?"
"Absolutely fucking not," Rowan answered evenly, slipping on his best Zen-face.
"What? Why?! I'm capable!"
He sipped his coffee, then shot her a half-lidded, pointed look.
"Barbara, vigilantism isn't a game.
You slip on a rooftop—you die.
Miss your mark in a fight—you die.
Someone sneaks up on you? You die.
Sneeze at an inopportune moment? You die.
I don't care how capable you think you are.
You're still a kid.
And for your sake, it's best you stay one for a while."
"You're a kid too! And I'll have you know I've won several championships in different sports!"
"First off, I'm a half-Demon—I've got a backup plan if I miss a jump. Second, those championships are kiddie league stuff. It's not the same as specialized training. Not even close. This isn't a gap ballet class is gonna bridge, Barbara."
Her expression soured as she stared down at her empty bowl of ice cream.
"What if I complete your specialized training?"
"It's still a no."
"What? Why?!"
"I'm a Demon. I've made peace with the fact that I'll never know peace. You aren't like me. You've still got a shot at something normal."
"I don'twant normal. I want to make a difference—I want to do good." Locking eyes with him, practically begged. "I want to be a hero."
Rowan sighed, then pulled out a crumpled scrap of paper, scribbled something on it and held it out to Jim's daughter.
The girl reached for it, only to stop when she felt the paper strain.
"Go to the address," He said. "Ask to meet the man listed. He'll train you."
Her eyes lit up, but before she could speak, his tone sharpened.
"But you have to promise me there'll be no crime-fighting until you're at least eighteen. And even then, only if he says you're ready. Not you. Not me. Him."
Barbara hesitated briefly, eyes flickering between the paper and Rowan's expression before curling her fingers around the edge. "I promise."
"Don't make me regret this. And don't come looking for me again." Relinquishing the paper Rowan called out with a wave, "Waiter!"
Watching while one of her biggest idols pay for their drinks and step out of the building, Barbara's heart thumped inside her chest as she looked at the crumpled sheet and unfolded it shakily. An address, and two names stared back at her: One a human's; the latter that of an establishment's; both equally as important as the other.
"Ted Grant's Wildcat Gym?"