"Wa-Wait-No—!"
The plea was cut short as Bruce's steel-plated boot collided with the henchman's face, collapsing his nose against his skull. Behind him, Selina whipped the legs out from under another, tearing through flesh and sending the man crashing down into unconsciousness. Around them, twenty thugs lay groaning in puddles of their own blood or waste, some in both.
Only one remained on his feet, apparently too stupid to play dead. "Ba-Back away! Back away or I'll—"
He raised his gun, desperate to deter the approaching figure, but the cape didn't flow naturally; it writhed across the floor like a mass of entangled centipedes.
He hadn't even taken aim when the black substance lashed out, seizing the barrel and forcing him to spray wild rounds into the bridge's underside. The firearm was ripped from his grasp a second later, leaving him stunned and empty-handed, so he scrambled backward in a panic, only to freeze when the back of his head bumped against leather-clad knees.
He looked up, meeting the amused gaze of the cat-themed thief who nudged him back toward the darkness.
"All yours, Batman."
"B-Batman? How... How is that possible! You're supposed to be dead!"
"Rumors of his death have been... Greatly exaggerated." The thug froze while sharp nails dragged against his shoulder, trailing slowly up the skin of his neck. His teeth chattered until his jaw ached, yet he forced himself to speak, desperate to offer whatever compliance which might spare him a beatdown. "Wha-Whaddya' want?"
"Is your radio functional?"
The thug poked the radio on his vest, and a harsh hiss of static cut through the sound of the waves.
"Tell them... Tell them that I'm back, and that Vengeance is coming for them."
The command stunned the thug, but it shocked Selina even more. She stared at the back of his cowl, waiting for the real questions, but they never came, and that wasn't even the real surprise!
And that wasn't even the strangest part.
What truly baffled her was that the man she knew to be a paranoid tactician who hoarded advantages like gold was willingly slaughtering their element of surprise without extracting a single scrap of intel in return.
"Batman, are you sure?"
"Yes." He answered, his tone utterly devoid of doubt.
"They'll have time to prepare. They'll fortify, group up—"
"Good." He interrupted. "If they clump together, I can end this in a night."
Eyes wide and vacant, the thug stared at Batman, certain the vigilante had utterly lost his mind. Only when the featureless cowl tilted his head did the man snap out of his daze and lift the walkie-talkie to his still quivering lips. "Code Red. The Bat's back. I repeat, the Bat's back."
The walkie-talkie instantly screamed with a squall of overlapping voices.
"Is… Is that enough?"
With an almost bored squeeze, Batman bent the gun like tinfoil, then tossed it into the overgrown weeds like he did the others. "You did well." Next, he reached down toward the thug, the gesture almost gentle, before his boot caught the back of the man's ankles and sent him face-first into the dirt.
"Harsh…" Selina remarked.
"But deserved."
"Fair enough..." She nudged an unconscious thug's arm aside with the tip of her boot, then turned to him with a questioning look. "All that, for a declaration of war?"
"If they're focused entirely on me, they won't touch the civilians. The more they group up, the faster I can end this."
"Aren't you being a little too overconfident?"
Two weeks ago, Bruce would have chosen silence, but the old caution felt entirely unnecessary now as he watched the black matter of his cowl shift, its surface splitting and flowing like oil before fusing back together. "No."
Selina watched the material settle, shelving the philosophical questions about his newfound arrogance for a later time. "Where to next?"
"The Batcave's too far away," The Bat replied, turning toward the city. "I need equipment if I'm to track down Two-Face, Black Mask, and Maroni."
"We'll head to a safehouse then?"
Leaning down to search the men for keys, Bruce casually mentioned. "There's one a few miles away."
"How many safehouses do you have, anyway?"
"It's in the double-digits."
Selina snorted.
"It sure is nice… Got any toy you can lend a girl?'
"I have spare ultility belts if you require equipment."
"Spare utility belts? My, you sure know how to woo a girl, Batsie." Selina feigned a dramatic swoon, the sharp jingle of brass cutting through the salt air just as Bruce reached down to search the thug's pockets. Dangling the stolen ignition ring from a clawed finger, she playfully smirked. "Looking for these?"
Bruce glanced, then extended a gauntleted hand, snapping the keys out of the air before pivoting toward the beat-up van idling near the treeline. She quickly fell into step beside him while eyeing the rusted civilian vehicle with clear disdain.
She stopped just ahort of the sliding door, glaring daggers at the interior. Synthetic leopard print lined the floor, marred by a stiff, suspiciously crusty white stain in the center framed by limp purple curtains and yellow pillows the thief was certain must've been a washed pink or white once upon a time.
"Whatever happened to your tank? I thought you preferred heavy artillery."
"The suit's internal comms are compromised. This will have to do."
"It reeks." Selina scrunched her nose.
"It's temporary."
Bruce slid behind the wheel.
The cabin was wildly undersized for himself and his suit, but as always, he adapted, refusing to acknowledge the lack of legroom. "Get in."
"Urgh, fine!" She pinched the bridge of her nose, stepping gingerly over the leopard print. "But only because you're charming."
"Don't worry. We'll be there in no time."
He gunned the engine, and the van convulsed. A thick plume of black exhaust enveloped them, bypassing the rusted chassis to fill the cabin with the taste of burnt oil as the engine sputtered to life. The entire frame proceeded to shake until their teeth rattled, and only then did the wheels finally start to turn with a rocky lurch. "Christ."
She scoured the lot for an alternative, but every parking spot was occupied by the exact same rusted, windowless hulk. She groaned. What was with criminals and suspicious vans? It was like they wanted to get pulled over!
She pulled the seat back, grimacing as her glove came away with a wet squelch, for wedged between the cushions was a moldy burger that had long since forgotten what animal it used to be. "Please tell me you have a shower there..."
"I work in sewers, Selina. What do you think?"
"Thank God."
With a final, agonizing backfire, the van lurched forward and disappeared into the night. Neither of them looked back, and neither realized the scale of what they'd just started.
The Bat was back, and for the city's underworld, the nightmare had just begun.
.
.
.
"I want to sue."
"I... I mean, at least you're back to normal," Barbara offered weakly, gesturing vaguely to his face, which was thankfully devoid of the weeping black mud and extra eyes. "That's got to count for something, right?"
"Look at this! I look like I went twelve rounds with a meat tenderizer AND LOST!"
"It's mostly just swelling, I'm sure it..."
"Don't you even! He explicitly said," Rowan spun around, pointing an accusing finger at Jean-Paul, who was watching the meltdown with an infuriatingly nonchalant look. "He said I'd be 'whole'! Does this look whole to you?! My face! Fuck! My handsome fucking face!"
"Jacques, true beauty... It's on the inside—"
"In my fucking arse it is!"
Grabbing the hand mirror, he stared at the ruin of his face. The left side had rotted from temple to jawline, flesh blackened and sunken until bone showed through in places, while his eye had been sealed shut beneath necrotic tissue that spread across his cheek like gnarled roots.
"That's just something ugly people make up to feel better about themselves!"
He burst into loud, theatrical sobs as huge crocodile tears streamed down the one good cheek he had left.
"Vanity is a sin in the Lord's eyes, Jacques."
"He sits on a Golden Throne while a choir of multi-eyed abominations scream 'Lord! Lord! Lord!' at him for all of eternity! I don't wanna hear shit about vanity!"
"It is not vanity if He deserves i—"
"I'm gonna kill him!" Rowan lunged, fingers hooked into claws aimed straight for Jean-Paul's throat.
It took the combined weight of both Ted and Barbara to intercept the pounce and haul him back onto the cot.
"Hey! Hey! Kid, cool it!"
Ted grunted, pinning Rowan's arms, while Barbara tried for a weak smile.
"I... I think it looks cool?"
"Yeah, actually. I think so too."
The screaming stopped instantly, as did the thrashing and the fake tears.
Ted and Barbara froze, the sudden loss of momentum nearly sending them into each other. Ted stared at the boy in his arms, his face twisting between confusion and the urge to strangle him for real.
"Then why the hell were you throwing a tantrum?!"
"Because it's funny, duh." Rowan shrugged, wiggling free from their loosened grip to admire his new profile in the mirror, turning his head this way and that. "And expected. Tragedy demands a monologue, Teddie."
"… Don't call me that."
"I'd promise not to, but lying's a sin." Rowan winked with his good eye. "Ain't that right, Zaz?"
"The boy is correct, Teddie."
"You two are insufferable." Ted grumbled, rubbing a hand over his tired face.
"Thanks for noticing! I do my best." Rowan beamed in return, the scar twisting along with his grin. He flexed his arm, testing the tension. No new strength, no sudden burst of speed, but there was a sharp, cold clarity he hadn't felt since the Shade gorged itself on the Rage Entity. The wholeness Jean-Paul kept preaching about felt a lot like achieving permanent post-nut clarity without the actual effort of busting a nut.
And the best part? Ichor was still with him.
It was weak, a sluggish pulse buried deep in his marrow, barely responsive to his will. But it was there, and it would recover.
The only casualty was his face, but scars could be hidden.
Besides, Barbara was right, it did look cool.
The mere thought of criminals breaking into cold sweat at the sight of his ruined visage sent a shiver of pure, giddy anticipation down his spine.
"Thanks for the tune-up, Doc." Rowan spun on his heel, offering a lazy wave over his shoulder. "Send me the bill."
"You intend to march into battle in rags?" Jean-Paul stopped him at the door. "A Knight is naked without his steel, and yours is in ruin."
"I have spares."
"I have vestments of my own, from crusades long past." Azrael gestured toward the shadows. "If you do not disdain them."
Ted snorted, crossing his arms. "Zaz, look at the kid. He's a twig compared to you. Your old gear won't fit."
Jean-Paul didn't even glance his way. "God will make it fit true."
The retired boxer shot the kids a look that clearly asked, 'Are you hearing this lunatic?' Under normal circumstances, Rowan would have laughed, but considering the man had just reconstructed his face with prayer and a soldering iron, he was inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Barbara, meanwhile, just looked like she wanted to go home, lock the door, and sleep for a week.
"Only this."
Jean-Paul hauled a heavy, battered iron case onto the gurney. The latches cracked open to reveal a gleam of blood-red metal, the plates stacked carefully on top of each other.
"That's..." Rowan's breath hitched.
The segmented plating, the angles, the crimson that would blend in perfectly with blood. It was the Saint's armor. And not just any Saint.
Tt was Saint Batman's armor, resized to fit him, fitted with adjustable sliders to expand the Suit.
"The Suit of Sorrows. Forged from the blades and breastplates of fallen Crusaders, melted down and remade. I have… Adapted it for you."
Rowan reached out, his finger grazing the cold, menacing curve of the helmet. "Why?"
"It was His will. He commanded me to prepare the Suit... just as He prophesied you would come to claim it. An Angel brought me His Word."
"Is..." Rowan hesitated, glancing around the empty basement. "Is he talking right now?"
Azrael's expression tightened, pain crossing his features as he stared into nothing. "No. But He is watching."
"What's the damage?"
"Salvation is free of charge, one needs only seek it. All I ask is that you will not knock on Hell's door again... For your sake."
Rowan didn't make the promise. He couldn't. Instead, he held the helmet up, admiring the lethal geometry of the faceplate with a small, crooked, helpless grin.
"Lying's a sin, Doc."
He moved to return the helmet when Jean-Paul's hand closed around his wrist. "Take it."
"I can't make that promise."
"I know," Azrael murmured, eyes settling on the Suit with something that looked almost like grief at having to part with an old friend.
"Like I said, it is a gift. If you seek to repay me, then be a shield for those who cannot fight, and a sword for those who deserve the blade."
He barely remembered putting it on.
He only recalled the terrifying perfection of the fit, as if the armor had been waiting for him. He stopped at the exit, his gauntleted fingers grazing the door's rust, focus narrowing to the heavy brass studs fused to his knuckles.
"Showtime… Wait a minute."
New, cooler gear that fit him perfectly.
A 'healing fountain' that had literally reconstructed his face.
A safezone run by a religious fanatic who spoke exclusively in prophecy.
Rowan's good eye narrowed as the pieces clicked together. "Are ww walking into a fucking boss fight?"