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Edit (March 2nd/2026): Added a sentence so future subplot makes more sense.
"All you had to do was sing. That's all I requested." Rowan paced around the kingpin, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment while the man whose name bore an uncanny resemblance to his own steadied himself against the broadcasting equipment. Most police stations didn't have access to such an extensive citywide announcement network, but the GCPD operated on a different level entirely.
With criminals who routinely deployed chemical and biological agents rather than relying on conventional force, the department required the infrastructure to warn civilians of imminent threats.
Black Mask had recognized this strategic advantage immediately when claiming the building as his stronghold.For the past two weeks under his control, he had filled the airwaves with anguished screams of captured officers and anyone foolish enough to oppose him, achieving results that could only be described as spectacular.
Absolutely spectacular.
Gotham bred no shortage of fearless lunatics, plenty of whom had been angling for his throne or working to drag the city back from the precipice of total anarchy it had tumbled into.
Those ambitious fools had learned restraint after witnessing the depths he'd plunge to in defense of his position.
This evening, however, the broadcast had abandoned its usual programming of human suffering.
This evening, it delivered something approaching comedy to the city's population, both law-abiding and criminal alike. Regrettably, the kingpin had managed only a few verses before shame overwhelmed his survival instinct and he opted for death instead... 'Doesn't matter.' Rowan smirked while queuing the audio to play continuously. Once dawn broke, Roman Sionis would find his reputation irreparably tarnished across all of Gotham.
All anyone would remember was some washed-up villain forced to embarrass himself on live broadcast. If the kingpin could rebuild after this disgrace, Rowan'd personally take him out for drinks to celebrate such impressive resilience. "It's over, Roman. You're done for."
He gave the kingpin's cheek a condescending pat, grinding the broken mask beneath his boot before the collapsed criminal mastermind.
"I could beat you senseless until there's nothing left upstairs, but that's letting you off easy." Roman needed to keep fighting, to chase the ghost of his former reputation and dignity, and then to break completely when he understood he would spend the rest of his days known as the mobster who performed Barbie Girl.
Having thoroughly demolished the man's resolve, Rowan turned to leave, only to halt when mocking laughter echoed from behind.
"You pretend to be a hero, but you run things like any other crime boss. You're just one more costumed lunatic, Imp! You're no better than me, or that repulsive Clown."
Those words might shake some heroes, or sow uncertainty in their hearts, but for someone who had grown up surrounded by Gotham's poorest, who still heard whispered accusations, they held no power over him.
Actually, Rowan felt a smile spreading under his mask, amused by what was clearly the last pathetic attempt of a broken kingpin trying to take his conqueror down with him.
"Oh, there are plenty of differences," he mocked, leaning his head back. "You're about to become Gotham's favorite running joke, while I'm still the nightmare that makes every thug, every criminal, every ambitious bastard in this city shit themselves with fear... I came out on top, while you failed so utterly that even if you manage to get back in the game, you will spend every second of every day wondering if the new muscle you hire is humming that song whenever your back is turned."
Black Mask threw himself forward, reaching for Rowan's neck, and received a brutal backhand that sent him sprawling. "Savor your remaining days, Roman."
One down. One to go.
He started walking away, almost running into one of the officers who'd just been released from captivity, and tilted his head toward the radio room. The officer caught on instantly, stepping inside while Rowan headed for the exit, only to stop when Marcus shouted after him. "Imp! Imp!"
He sighed, already bracing himself for whatever bad news was coming, then turned around to find a sweaty but beaming Marcus instead. "Heller's conscious! He's asking for you!"
'Thank God...' Relief washed over him as he hurried after the young officer. 'Good news.' He had almost forgetten what those felt like.
They entered an office where the desk had been pushed against the wall during the chaos of the second riot.
Inside, Heller stood, seemingly completely healthy, every wound and injury erased as if they'd never marked his body. Before Rowan could speak up, Heller broke the silence, a grin replacing his earlier somber expression.
"Imp... Long time no see. Would've preferred our reunion happened somewhere that wasn't falling apart."
"That makes two of us." Rowan said as they locked eyes, both releasing identical sighs. "Gotham?"
"Gotham."
"Seriously, you two! This is great news! You're both standing here breathing! Things could be way worse..." Noticing their dour expressions, Marcus self-consciously touched the back of his head, adding quietly, "I mean, comparatively."
"So what did you need?"
"Well, I was curious about..."
Heller trailed off, clearly reluctant to continue, before reaching for the table beside him and crushing the treated hardwood into splinters with his bare fist. "I'm guessing from your face that you don't know what this is either?"
"I have... Certain suspicions."
Rowan found it odd that Alfred hadn't shown any unusual abilities while Heller had, but perhaps the butler was exercising restraint? Maybe he hadn't wanted to worry Rowan before he ventured into the city? Or possibly he hadn't discovered his capabilities yet. "Small question, have you noticed any… Strange cravings?"
"Strange cravings?"
"More specifically, any desire to... Eat people? You know, any urge to sink your teeth into their neck?"
"What?! Absolutely not!" Heller exploded. "Why in God's name would you ask me that?!"
"No particular reason. Just ruling things out." Rowan dismissed it with a casual gesture.
"What have you done to me?!"
"Nothin'! You're perfectly fine, aren't you?"
Like that, they argued back and forth until Marcus finally intervened. "Oh, and Imp? Mrs. Kirkland asked to speak with you."
'Perfect timing,' Rowan thought sarcastically. "Did she mention why?"
"She was pretty cryptic about the whole thing, but I'm thinking it's connected to Mr. Kirkland's... Condition?" Marcus' voice dropped. "Something to do with a Serum? She said it might be useful to you."
Rowan entertained brief hopes that the SSS, his commissioned Super Soldier Serum, had reached completion, but the circumstances felt absurdly convenient for Mrs. Kirkland.
Had Robert actually gotten that close to replicating Wilson's DNA structure, or was his wife operating on a higher intellectual level than her currently-demented spouse?
"Got it." He replied, moving to excuse himself when another man came barreling in.
"Everyone! This is urgent!"
The newcomer wore GCPD riot gear, but was clearly one of the men who'd entered the precinct with them earlier. Whatever he was about to report, his face suggested it wasn't going to improve anyone's mood. 'And here comes the catastrophe...'
"Go ahead. Let me have it."
"There's a situation with—" An explosive tremor rocked the foundation before he could elaborate, sending chunks of ceiling material down onto their heads. "There's a… A mob outside."
"Which crime family?" Rowan demanded.
The officer's voice trembled. "N-Not organized crime, sir. A literal mob. Think angry villagers with torches and pitchforks."
"You cannot be serious."
"They're specifically demanding your presence, s-sir. Claiming you've corrupted Gotham and orchestrated this entire catastrophe? I'm fairly confident they plan on executing you as some ritual offering."
"Fantastic..."
To be fair, they weren't entirely wrong. His presence alone and his use of Ichor was amplifying the Curse of Gotham, but claiming he'd corrupted the city or orchestrated No Man's Land was complete nonsense. "I'll handle them. You all stay here."
"Are you out of your mind? They'll tear you apart!" Marcus protested while Heller nodded vigorously in agreement.
"Would you rather they do you instead? Because they absolutely will. They're terrified, furious, looking for someone to blame, and being led astray." Nobody responded, not even Heller, though they all looked somewhat offended by the suggestion.
Rowan, meanwhile, seemed nothing but resigned. Sure, he was angry on his own behalf, but these people were simply following their nature, giving in to that primitive, ancient impulse that once drove sacrificial killings to appease the gods, or prompted communities to stone and burn anyone who seemed slightly strange or who mysteriously survived diseases that decimated everyone around them.
"Are you going to talk nicely to them? I don't see that working out too well."
"I'm not going to. My fists are." Rowan tapped his knuckles together.
"You are insane if you think you can take on that entire crowd! There are literally thousands out there! Plus won't beating them senseless tank whatever reputation you still have?!" The messenger yelled.
"I'm only fighting the False Prophet. And reputation? What reputation?" More importantly, Rowan was planning his retirement after this night ended. He'd sacrificed an eye, his body looked like one continuous bruise at this point. He was thoroughly done with playing hero for the foreseeable future.
Whatever disasters followed No Man's Land could happen without his involvement. Whether it was Apokolips, Doomsday, or any of the countless other apocalyptic threats lurking behind the wings would be the Proto-Justice League's problems.
"Wish me luck." Though he seriously doubted he'd need any.
Deacon Blackfire was a cult leader first, an occult practitioner second, followed by a whole host of other things, and a fighter dead fucking last.
Although Blackfire would likely be positioned somewhere in the mob's center, shielded by wave after wave of devoted followers, a crowd worked to Rowan's advantage as much as it did the cult leader's. With that many bodies packed together, he could blend in seamlessly wearing a stained hoodie, and Faith only affected him when he was using his birthright, which he was not.
Speaking of hoodies, "You guys have a lost-and-found box around here somewhere?"
Wearing his recently acquired hand-me-down, Rowan positioned himself on the GCPD rooftop and melted into the darkness, his gaze moving over the assembled mass below.
The messenger hadn't been exaggerating.
There must be thousands down there calling for his blood.
'The fuck did I even do?'
The people whose spouses or parents spearheaded for the kingpins, he could understand. The actual criminals who'd suffered directly at his hands, Rowan had no quarrel with their hatred, but even in a city as sprawling and corrupt as Gotham, those groups represented only a fraction of the population.
How had this mob grown so massive?
What the hell had that self-aggrandizing cultist been feeding these people?!
'Found you.' Fortunately, the Deacon had positioned himself in the most conspicuous spot imaginable, hoisted up by his 'flock' who were all too willing to carry the man claiming to have the Presence on speed-dial.
Where Rowan came from, that was simply called schizophrenia, but these people had apparently accepted his revelations as gospel truth. Swinging down from his perch, Rowan touched down somewhere along the mob's outer edge, where everyone was screaming at the top of their lungs, 'Give us the Demon!' Or some variation of the sentiment.
Then he pressed forward through the crowd, crosses and Faith proving harmless against him thanks to the Armor of Sorrow. 'Kill him.' The first voice murmured darkly as he closed in on his target.
'Cast down the infidels and expose the False Prophet.'
A second voice joined with fervor, quickly followed by a third and fourth.
'Slay him, and the Gates of Heaven shall welcome you.'
One by one, they demanded vengeance, thoroughly revolted by the notion of yet another charlatan masquerading as their Lord. Rowan'd have been all too happy to oblige, if not for the fact it'd put him at odds with Bruce.
'What does it matter?'
'Are you your own person, or merely his marionette?!'
'A king may move a man, a father may claim a son, but that man can also move himself, and only then does that man truly begin his own game.'
'Did this bitch seriously just quote Baldwin?' Rowan mused, the quiet clanking of armor hidden under his clothes synchronizing perfectly with the discordant clanging of pitchforks surrounding him.
How this coastal city's residents had accumulated so many agricultural tools was a complete mystery to him, but weirder things had happened in Gotham. 'It's called not biting the hand that feeds, assholes. Now shut up before you make me blow my cover.'
At last, after enduring what seemed like hours of the self-styled Crusaders lecturing him, Rowan arrived at the foot of the platform upon which Blackfire was carried.
As expected, one of the Deacon's disciples moved to block his path with a rough push. Even with the man's features obscured by a deep hood, Rowan could sense the distaste rolling off him in waves as he shouted, "Back off!"
"Don't!"
Unlike his surbodinates, however, the Deacon had been playing this game for years, and understood better than to flaunt his authority over the masses.
In fact, Rowan would bet money the man deliberately instructed his subordinates to play the heavies so he could then demonstrate his benevolence to the flock. It was Politics 101. "Come closer, my child."
Rowan obliged, bowing deeply as though terrified to meet the 'holy man's' gaze. "Closer. Let me see your face."
One careful step at a time, he advanced, only then catching sight of the Deacon's hand concealed within his sleeve. The closer Rowan drew, the thicker the tension became until he stood within arm's reach.
He lifted his gaze, helmet meeting the Deacon's utterly unsurprised stare as they both exploded into motion simultaneously.
Blackfire pulled a nail-like artifact from his sleeve while Rowan fired a grappling hook toward the top of the GCPD, wrapping the line around the cult leader's wrist and dragging them both violently upward toward the roof where the two tumbled in a tangle of limbs and ended up on opposite corners of the roof. "You knew…" Rowan muttered, gracefully rolling to his feet.
Standing before him, the cult leader chuckled, apparently unbothered by the dripping wound where the grappling line had cut into his flesh during their ascent.
"I'd recognize your foul stench anywhere."
"Come on," Rowan taunted while circling the Deacon, who mirrored his movements. "There's nobody here but us. You can drop the holy man routine."
Blackfire only laughed in response, the thin rod in his grip extending outward into a full-length golden staff that blazed as brilliantly as the sun itself.
'Careful...' The voices warned.
'I know.'
"It's not too late to turn back. The Lord's gracious; he'll welcome you into his embrace."
"So long as I pay to your tithe? What's the going rate nowadays? A hundred? Two hundred?" Rowan laughed. "That fancy little toy of yours couldn't have come cheap."
The Deacon looked practically gleeful as the artifact blazed brighter. "It wasn't, but it's a modest investment to send you back to the Pits."
"Scared I'll compete with your racket? Quick question, what was it like tricking Susan into bed with you while making her husband watch to 'honor God'? Yeah, I'm fully aware of your... Special services. Wonder how the congregation would react if someone leaked those details?"
'Kill the charlatan…'
"They'd been married for decades without a child; I merely blessed her womb."
'Kill him.'
"Is that what you're calling it now? 'Blessed'? Did you convince them it was God's child too?"
'Kill him!'
"It was God's child."
'Kill him!!!'
"Pretty sure a DNA test would tell a different story."
'KILL HIM!!!'
"Oh, ye of little Faith."
"If I am without Faith," As if possessed, Rowan launched himself at the cultist, who met his charge with strength and speed that belied his age. Seemed like this fight would prove more challenging than he had expected. Still, he'd win. "Then it's because of people LIKE YOU!"
— — — — —
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