"Over there, right?" Ted asked over his shoulder while the car crept toward the nondescript brick shell Bruce had introduced to Rowan in the early days.
While the building was the target, the white van tucked behind the overgrown brush demanded Rowan's immediate attention. The vehicle itself was innocuous, but its placement felt surgical, angled perfectly to sever the line of sight between the street and the safehouse door.
It might have been chance, but this safehouse sat in a district so blighted even the bottom-feeders avoided it on the regular, to the point the entire was barren of cars and people alike. Why'd they put it there and not anywhere else?
"Stop here. I'll check it out."
"Yell if you need help." Ted said, tossing his boots onto the dashboard while blatantly ignoring the silent, judgmental gaze radiating from the girl in the backseat.
"I'll go with—" Barbara began, her hand already hovering over the latch, but Rowan killed the notion in its cradle.
"No. Wait here. If it's a trap, I'm going to need you two to pull me out of it." He didn't, naturally, but stroking an ego was far more efficient than bruising one, even if Rowan usually preferred the latter simply for the satisfaction of being a top-tier ass. A Demon, heroic or otherwise, still had to feed his vices.
Crawling out of the sedan, Rowan slithered his way toward the van and found the plate completely unfamiliar, so he searched the surrounding, and discovered two sets of footprints. He narrowed his eyes, locating the hidden level next. It was a small, loose brick that looked no more remarkable than its kind, but behind it was a mechanism that'd open into the lower floor where safehouse actually was.
To this day, he still didn't know how Bruce managed to bribe the builders into silence… Then again, billionaires had hidden bunkers built around the world every day.
One might even argue it was a necessity in such a world as dangerous as theirs, so maybe there was a specialized team for it? He did know the project probably had enough NDAs over it to match every deal made in the States in a week.
Pushing the button, Rowan held his breath and backed into the bush.
He would have had Ichor sweep the place, but the Suit of Sorrow seemed to affect the Shade just as potently as a cross, if not better. That, or the thing was simply sulking.
No matter.
Rowan could flush out a rat on his own.
He slightly cracked the seal on his helmet, spitting out the glob of mucus dangling at the back of his throat that gave for his voice its growly quality, then shouted in a high, scared pitch. "He-Hello? Anybody down there?"
If the squeak didn't draw them out, it would at least soften them up. No one braced themselves for a right hook from a child, after all. He didn't strictly need the advantage, but he preferred not to navigate a fatal funnel with a weapon already trained on his forehead.
After straining his ears for a solid minute, Rowan descended, ignoring the light switch to follow the footprints in the darkness.
Being a Demon had its perks, chief among them being the knowledge that he could punch a ghost in the face if the occasion arose, but the Night Vision was a close second, even if the Suit had suppressed and dulled it to a grainy haze.
It also helped that the room at the end of the corridor was bleeding a blinding, sterile white light through the crack under the doorframe. Rowan stopped at the threshold, holding his breath as he pressed his ear against the wood, but there was neither shuffling footsteps nor hushed whispers. There was only a silence that pricked at the hairs on his nape.
He glared at the barrier through his helmet, lashing out with a back-kick that instantly broke the latch. Then he pivoted away in the same motion just as a black shape dropped from the ceiling, accompanied by the crack of a whip that would have easily claimed a pound of flesh had he been a second slower.
"Wait, Bruce! I think it's—" Catwoman screamed, choking back her strike and wrapping the lash tight against her arm.
The Batman had reached the same conclusion, because the boiling, amorphous shape extending from his limb verred mid-air away from Rowan, crashing instead into the display case on his left with enough force to powder the glass. The three traded wary looks over the pulverized armor stand before Rowan decided to bridge the gap. "I take it you're still holding a grudge over the Vampire?"
The redesign didn't escape Rowan, but he doubted Selina would be caught dead with a knock-off Batman.
"That's not your uniform," Bruce noted, his voice dropping as he dissected the unfamiliar mesh and the jagged gauntlets. He recognized the design, and judging by the tension in his jaw, he didn't like it.
"Well, a really nice old man lent me this." Rowan said, patting the chest piece with feigned fondness.
"How did you get Azrael to lend you the Suit of Sorrow?"
"I prefer to think it was my prize-winning personality, but he insisted it was literal divine intervention, and who am I to argue with that?" He shrugged, masking the awkwardness with a thin veneer of wit.
Things hadn't exactly ended on a high note last time, and while he did indeed feel lighter knowing he didn't have to carry the city alone, he wasn't sure where they stood.
"Okay, so I left Wildcat and his protégé outside. You mind if I buzz them in?"
"Bring them in."
He dug the phone out of his armor and rang the others down. Within minutes, the Proto Bat-family was assembled. "It's good to meet you, Ted."
"Glad to see you alive and well. Rumors had it you were dead."
"I was indisposed after Arkham."
"All that matters is you're here now."
Perhaps sensing the tension in the air, Wildcat retreated to the back of the room, leaning against the wall to watch. "I've been informed that the city has been split between three main factions—"
"Four now." Rowan corrected, pulling up a video of people wearing cloaks and wielding crosses.
"Father Blackfire decided the chaos was the perfect stage to gaslight the sheep, and these motherfuckers are buying it wholesale."
Rowan had seen the effects on the drive there, spotting thugs looting religious icons or fashioning makeshift crosses out of refuse. He rather doubted the efficacy of the garbage, but let's just say he wasn't keen on being the test subject.
"Black Mask crashed his helicopter trying to kill the three of us, too, but it hasn't been confirmed whether he's dead. I'm willing to bet he isn't." Gotham Stadium wasn't just occupied by the False Facers, after all. Even if the gang wanted to be hush-hush, with that many other eyes present, Black Mask's death would have blown up by now.
"… Anything else you'd like to report?"
"Well, I was the one who grounded his bird. I flung a door at it like a Frisbee and it just went DOOOOWN. In my defense, he was shooting at us."
Even behind the enclosed cowl, Bruce's displeasure was obvious, though like always, he chose efficiency over anger. "Anything else?"
"That covers it, I think?"
"Someone told me you brutalized three robbers. They are still comatose."
"You wouldn't take issue with that if you knew what they were actually doing." Rowan rolled his eyes.
"That is not the point. The issue is this is becoming a pattern. We'll have this conversation again when the city is safe."
"Urgh."
He couldn't suppress another eye-roll. "I'm taking Black Mask. He has taken a friend of mine captive, plus the motherfucker put a hit on my head—" That, Rowan certainly hadn't forgotten. "And I intend to return the favor. Blackfire too."
He unconsciously reached for the blackened, necrotic side of his face and growled.
Bruce remained fixed on the projection, yet Rowan knew the man was watching him through the reflection. After an agonizing silence, he finally pointed. "I will handle Dent. Given your history, I trust you can manage Falcone?"
Wildcat let out a sharp, derisive snort while keeping his heavy shoulder propped against the wall. "Don't insult me, kid. The Falcones weren't even a smudge on the map back when I was cracking skulls nightly."
Barbara groaned at the sheer amount of dust clinging to that statement. "God, you sound ancient."
"We'll take that as a 'yes.'"
"That leaves only Poison Ivy," Bruce noted, singling out the one rogue who thus far had preferred her greenhouse to the city's power struggles. The silence in the room stretched until four pairs of eyes slowly turned to look at the woman in black leather who, according to the Supe-Forum, was allegedly in a lesbian love triangle with said eco-terrorist and Joker's No.1 henchwoman.
Selina raised her hands in a gesture of surrender and let out a long, suffering sigh. "I'll talk to Pam, but no promises… The woman changes her mood more than she does her clothes."
"Then it's settled."
Bruce shoved off the edge of the desk and walked past them, expecting the group to follow as he headed toward the armory to gather their gear. "Take what you need." The moment the heavy door slid open, Barbara, Ted and Selina all filed inside only to find that Rowan was already ahead of them, frantically ransacking the shelves to get his utility belt refilled.
"Kid, about the..." Ted began while his gaze flicked toward Barbara, but Bruce cut him off before he could finish.
"Wait, Catgirl."
Barbara turned like a deer in headlights while she did her best to ignore Rowan's immature giggles echoing off the metal walls. "Yes?"
"Your new suit is ready. Don't bother with the belt."
"M-My what?"
"Your suit," Ted clarified with a cheeky grin. "I asked him to make you one a few months ago… Now, I can teach you how to throw a punch, but I don't have the cash to build you a real suit. That's where the big, bad Bat comes in."
Barbara stared at him while her eyes sparked with a sudden, childish wonder that made her forget exactly where she was. "Really?!" Ted reached out to pat her head, offering the kind of rough comfort usually reserved for family. "Of course."
Barbara tossed Rowan a smug smile before beaming at her mentor, excitement overriding even her attempt at professionalism. "So where is it?"
"It's not here. It's on its w—"
* BRRRR!!!
A heavy shudder ran through the ground, vibrating through the metal shelving in the armory.
"Was that the Batmobile? Did you send the Batmobile for my suit?"
Bruce barely even reacted. "No. That was the Batwing."
Barbara let out a sharp, victorious cry and darted toward the exit, hauling a clearly resisting Rowan by the wrist while she called back over her shoulder, "Hah! Try calling this trick-or-treating now!"
The two finally reached the heavy steel case, which was partially driven into the pavement where the Batwing had dropped it.
Barbara rushed over, releasing Rowan's wrist, then stepped back while the pressurized seals hissed open, evealing the interior bathed in soft blue light.
Inside sat a suit of matte-black articulated plating over a ballistic mesh undersuit.
Itt was sleek; it waa lightweight, and very clearly expensive, far removed from the stitched-together onesies she'd been wearing.
Rowan noted the reinforced joints and the cowl, which likely housed the same optical sensors he'd lost access to. Barbara stood frozen, her hands hovering over the chest piece. The smugness from earlier evaporated, replaced by a quiet, almost paralyzed shock. She looked from the gear to her own reflection in the Batwing's dark canopy, realizing just how much of a kid she looked in comparison.
"Holy..." The word died in her throat.
She reached out, tracing the edge of the cowl with a trembling finger.
"Welcome to the family, Batgirl."
Barbara barely registered the light pat on her shoulder, utterly mesmerized by the suit. By the time she turned around, there were only Bruce, Ted, and a visibly amused Selina left on the sidewalk.
"Where's...?"
The older woman pointed toward the departing Batwing, specifically at the smaller, winged shape gliding effortlessly beneath its belly. "Asshat." She cursed playfully, hugging the armor tight against her as she turned and sprinted for the stairs to suit up.
High above, Rowan leeched momentum from the cruising jet to slingshot himself back toward the Stadium.
In seconds, he covered half the distance, scanning the streets where stragglers still lingered—some settling bets, others just… Loitering? On the roof, the twisted, burning carcass of Roman's helicopter sat unattended save for a handful of False Facers.
Quickly, he descended behind the wreckage, catching the fraying edge of their composure. "Fuck, where are we supposed to find a ride?" One hissed into his mobile, while his partners paced, clutching their rifles tight as they eyed the other gangs with open paranoia. If Rowan had to guess, their getaway vehicles were the cars he had blown-up earlier.
"—I don't know, do I?! That freak torched our rides, and the Boss grabbed the last transport for himself!"
Grinning, Rowan stepped out of the smoke behind them. "Since you missed your ride," He drawled, "Why don't you catch these hands instead?" His grin stretched wider behind the visor as he watched them pale.
"… B-But you just got shot."
"And they still ache." Even with the narcotic high of the Suit of Sorrow, he could map exactly where Black Mask's bullets had caught him, and he was determined—nay, itching to return the favor. "So, either you tell me where your boss is, or I beat the info out of you. I'm betting on the first, but just between us guys? I'm hoping for the second."
"Who the fuck do y—" The question ended in a wet crunch as Rowan's fist connected with his jaw, spinning the man around before he hit the floor, and just before he did, the Knight pulled him over with the Batclaw.
He didn't even realize his fists had caught fire as he fired hit after hit.
Nor did he notice that his blows were far more devastating than usual, unaware that the flames were searing past the flesh to dredge up every ounce of buried guilt in the thug, magnifying it into crippling agony.
Beneath the helmet, his lips curled into a cold smile while his elbow caved in the bridge of the thug's nose, driving his skull back against the seat.
He knew he should have stopped by the third hit, but he could hear them rushing him.
He could hear the bodies that sank to the oceanbed of the harbor, kicking and gasping while he watched from the cabin.
Then came the voice of that boy...
The kid he tried to save, the one he nearly joined in the deep when Reuben decided to make an example out of him.
He could almost taste the copper, remembering how he nearly bit Reuben's hand off when the man hauled him up for air. Why should filth like this get a second chance when the innocent rotted? By what right?
* Thud!
"By what right?!"
* THUD!
"Jesus fucking Christ… Stop! Stop, you're gonna kill him!"
* THUD!!!
"Atone."
The others lunged, grabbing his pauldrons to haul him back, only to be slammed to the pavement and given the same treatment as their friend. "S-Stop! We'll tell you! We'll tell you!" But it was as if he had been possessed, an irony that would have been laughable given Rowan's nature, had he been in any state to appreciate the joke.
"S-Stop—"
Blood slick against his red helmet, Rowan stared down at them with murder in his eyes, "Ready to talk?" The words seemed to fill his lungs with water, or maybe it was him stopping the hits? Not even Rowan himself knew. "Give me Black Mask."
"W-We were going t—"
The punch connected, scattering teeth and instantly blackening the man's right cheek. It might have been blunt force trauma, or it might have been char, but in all likelihood, it was a little bit of both. "Do I look like I'm in a joking mood, lowlifes? Which way?" The thug's head lolled, but a trembling hand managed to point toward a distant street.
For his assistance, he was rewarded with a casual toss that sent him tumbling down the concrete stairs. Terrified, he scrambled back up, bracing for the killing blow, only to collapse in a heap when he realized the vigilante had vanished… God bless the boss for being the bigger target.
He'd need it.