Render thy tithes unto thyGod,O Babylon!!! Feed ye the King-in-Red! Lay before His throne up to two Stones of Power, and bear witness with a review wrought in full measure; lest there fall upon thee, thy kin, and thy library a Plague of Sudden Hiatuses!!! Thy chapters shall cease without warning! Thy endings shall flee from thee! Thy cliffhangers shall multiply without number, and thou shalt cry unto THE SILVER CITY FOR UPDATES, YET NONE SHALL COME!!! SO IT IS WRITTEN! SO IT SHALL BEEEEEEE!!!
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Pretty please?
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It felt like an eternity when Rowan finally managed to crawl all the way through half of Gotham. He usually could make the distance to Wayne Manor, albeit with some difficulty, but the fight had been thoroughly bled out of him tonight. He slumped against the damp, fungal stone while gasping for air, his hands clamped over his ears as laughter continued to bounce through the tunnels.
He hardly had a moment to breathe before shadows of madmen began to stir in further down the tunnels, their silhouettes stretching into twitching, distorted shapes whenever the weak bulb overhead that probably hadn't seen maintenance in a decade flickered.
He was exhausted, but he knew there'd be hell to pay if he were caught, so he forced his leaden limbs to move, limping forward while dragging a hand along the damp stone to keep his balance.
'Ca-Can't let them catch up.'
'Them?' One of the Crusaders bound to his armor asked, but Rowan remained tight-lipped, both because he was too tired to entertain the rowdy spirits, and because he feared any sound might give him away.
'What them?'
Rowan squeezed his eyes shut while his temples throbbed with a heat that felt like a drill bit grinding into his skull. 'The infected! Don't you see them? Don't you hear them?!!' He hissed the words internally while tucking into a narrower pipe and did his best to ignore the waste water soaking his lower half.
Outside, something still lurked… A large, terrible shape with a jagged spine cut through the murky current, forcing him to hold his breath and wondered if his eyes were playing a trick on him, or was the drifting piece of trash a little too… Organic. He couldn't tell anymore.
'What was that?'
'The drifting piece of plywood?'
'No, no, that wa—'
The thought died as the sound of heavy breathing stirred directly behind him. He spun around to find a figure that was human but horribly wrong, with elongated, warped limbs and a smile as foul as the lunatics on the surface.
His skin was a chalky, deathly white while thick black veins snaked from his collar up to a messy shock of green hair. 'There you are, little Imp.' The Joker lunged forth with a crazed grin, and out of the tiny hovel came the maniac and Rowan both.
He tumbled into the filth, keeping his mouth clamped shut to avoid the taste of the waste water while his eyes searched for a threat that had vanished. There was no one there. Not a single footprint or splash remained; only the hollow sound of sewage trickling through the main line.
"Where's he?"
Rowan whispered, the confusion audible even through the mechanical distortion of his helmet.
'Where's who?'
"The Joker! He was—"
'Who is this Jester thou speak of, Accursed?'
Rowan felt as though he was going mad, yet the sting of the phantom punch had been too real to be anything but reality.
Although he did think it was strange that a lanky villain could hit with the force of Bruce himself, he knew all too well how unreasonably strong these monsters could be, even if their figures would suggest otherwise. 'I saw him!' He insisted.
'Yet we saw nothing. No one. Mayhaps you've been blinded by Witchcraft?'
'No. No. I SAW him. I FELT him. He was here!' He glared at the murky water while waiting for the Clown to burst from the depths.
Predictably, Rowan found no Jester, but he did in fact notice an oddly-shaped lump making its way toward him.
It was the same 'plywood' the Crusader had mentioned, and it was drifting backwards against the current. He bolted for the smaller tunnel immediately, narrowly avoiding the bloody maws that snapped shut where his legs had been a second earlier.
"Fuck!" Rowan scrambled back while the bipedal dinosaur lunged, its thick, muscular arms failing to reach him in the narrow space. It relented to scraping the muck off the walls instead, its green eyes burning with hunger and bloodthirst while white patches of scales painted its bulging neck and smeared blood framed its fangs.
"Croc?"
No sighting of the Metahuman had been documented since his disappearance, but he clearly hadn't been washed away by the waves as most Gothamites had suspected—hoped even. The Metahuman looked quite healthy, all things considered. He had been eating good if the bone shards, the ragged bits of meat and the cloths wedged between his teeth were anything to go by.
Though his face had clearly undergone… Changes since their last encounter.
'Now that, we see. You're in no shape or form to fight that thing. Run.'
'Where?!' Rowan snapped, mentally kicking himself for choosing to bottle himself up inside this tunnel of all places. His hand habitually went to his belt in search of Batarangs or the reassuring weight of explosive gel canisters, but all he found was a reminder that he had exchanged his mini-toolkit for a pair of flaming gauntlets that'd do jack-shit to a Meta who'd obviously discovered Arnold Schwarzenegger's roids stash recently.
Take it down?
Croc was the strongest Brute in the whole city, which admittedly did not mean much when you lived in a universe where people casually benchpressed planets, but the point still stood that he was strong… Stronger than any villain Rowan had tangoed with so far.
He might have been less skilled than Deathstroke, but his unbridled animalistic hunger paired with brute strength and the complete absence of any code of honor made him a far more dangerous matchup for the vigilante.
"Wisp."
That being said, Rowan had also picked up a few new tricks since their last encounter.
The Storm Element trilled as it slithered out of his sleeve, then rewarded Croc's ferocity with a crackling burst of electricity that sent the Meta staggering back.
That tiny window of time was enough for Rowan to break into a sprint, but his legs were short and injured while Croc's were neither, which meant once the Meta recovered, the gap between them would close sooner or later.
Against his better judgment, Rowan risked a glance over his shoulder and instantly regretted it… Apparently it was leaning a little heavier on the 'sooner' side of things. 'Shit.' Again, he commanded his Wisp to fire upon the hulking mass of scales and muscles, but the shock barely registered this time around. Or perhaps it did, and it was the momentum carrying Croc forward?
The distinction hardly mattered since Rowan had neither the intention nor the urge to find out.
"I've got your scent,"Croc snarled and snored like a sickly pugstruggling for air. "Nowhere to run down here."
Rowan spun around, taking in the narrow tunnel stretching endlessly in both directions. 'Nowhere to hide either, apparently.' Rowan kept running, periodically ordering the Wisp to fire back at their pursuer, though each burst seemed less effective than the last despite his constant commands for the Elemental to ramp up its output.
Then his sprint came to an abrupt halt as the tunnel opened into empty air, revealing one of those sewage drops that every superhero was contractually obligated to fall off at least once in their career.
'The hell with that,' Thought Rowan, nose wrinkling at the swirling pool of waste below.
"No… N-Nowhere to run, meat!" The Meta taunted, oozing both anticipation and malice.
"Last warning, Croc, back off!"
"Nowh-where to hide!" Waylon dropped to all fours, swinging his elongated neck low as he inhaled deeply, claws scraping against concrete with each movement. "Fresh meat!"
He charged forth with bared, bloody fangs. At this proximity, Rowan could finally make out the damage his Wisp had inflicted on the Meta, from the snaking electrical burns covering his head and torso, to the scales peeling away to reveal slimy, exposed muscle underneath.
The sight chased away whatever doubt had been building in his chest.
Monsters were only frightening when you lacked the means to fight back, and that Rowan had aplenty.
Drawing a deep breath, he allowed Magic to flood his lungs. Though the flow was dampened by Faith, his Demonic Power responded eagerly anyway, coiling and intertwining with the air until it reached the point of combustion.
Though he'd only spent a few months training under the Zataras and could barely call himself more than an apprentice, the time hadn't gone to waste. Between Magic theory and studying lost Tongues, Rowan had managed to net four shiny new Spells he'd just been itching to field-test.
"[Halitus Draconis]!"
Dragons… Dragons existed in damn near every folklore across the world—massive winged reptiles with scales that could shrug off steel and strength that made humans look like infants by comparison.
Most people dismissed them as fairy tales, as imagination running wild in cultures that didn't understand natural phenomena. And honestly? They'd be right to think that on Prime Earth.
But this world was different.
This world had magical communities that kept detailed records on the Beasts, everything from documented sightings to behavioral studies to full anatomical breakdowns. And where there were powerful creatures, there were always humans stupid and/or ambitious enough to try and harness that power for themselves…
And sometimes? Sometimes they succeeded.
The first breakthrough was a Dragon Rider's who managed to reverse-engineer Draconic Breath into a spell he called [Ignis Draconis]—[Dragon Fire] for anyone who failed their Latin class. The guy had only ever encountered three dragon species: Wyrm, Lindworm, and True Dragon, so naturally his Spell reflected that narrow exposure.
He passed it down to his Apprentice, who taught their own student, and so on, so forth.
Each inheritor tinkered with the formula, adding their own discoveries and understanding as their lineage spread across continents.
Somewhere down that long chain of inheritance, the Spell evolved into [Halitus Draconis], better known as [Dragon's Vapor]. Where [Ignis Draconis] forced caster to work with Fire regardless of their aptitude, [Halitus Draconis] adapted to the Mage's Elemental Affinity based on studies of different dragon breeds. And for an Infernal like Rowan, that meant Fire, though not the clean kind you'd find in a hearth or campfire.
His was Tainted… Corrupted.
It scorched with the intensity of the Primordial Beasts that birthed the Spell and wounded with the insidiousness of his accursed blood, which actively suppressed the body's ability to mend itself, be it through natural or magical means.
Under normal circumstances, Rowan would never break out spells like this against anyone short of S-tier threats, but something told him Croc could take it and then some.
He lifted his helmet just enough to expose his mouth, and Infernal Flame spilled from his lips in a torrent that swallowed the Meta whole.
The sludge pooling around them evaporated within three seconds, hissing into steam as the scorching heat consumed it.
Five seconds in and the bricks beneath their feet began to melt like candle wax, yet Rowan dared not stop or let his guard down even as his stomach began to twist and bunch from the god-awful stench.
The 'something' turned out to be wrong as the smoke cleared and the flames died down, revealing a horrifically burnt Meta who—to his own detriment—was still very much alive.
The sight was reassuring enough that the vigilante finally allowed himself to collapse, catching himself on shaky arms before he faceplanted.
This wasn't the first time Rowan had experienced Mind-Out's aftereffects, but it was definitely the first time he'd felt as drained. Such was the price for replicating the strength of Primordial Beasts, and precisely why so few Mages bothered learning [Halitus Draconis] despite its deceptive simplicity.
"Hhuuurt… HUrrt!"
He heaved for breath, threw a sneer at the Brute, and hauled his weight back to the main tunnel. "Womp, womp, asshole. You should've heeded my fucking warning."
Was it the provocation that pushed the Meta to keep reaching still?
The pain?
The hunger?
Rowan couldn't bring himself to care as he brought his boot down on Waylon's claws.
The stomp was only meant to deter him at first; make the point, but then something in him snapped—something hotter than even [Dragon's Vapor].
"Fuck!"
* Squelch!
"You!"
* Squelch!!!
"You piece of—"
* Squelch!!!!!
"Fucking—"
* SQUELCH!!!!
"SHIT! HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT, HUH?! HOW DO YOU LIKE IT NOW?!!"
'At long last!'
'Such prowess would have earned thee a fine station within our Order in days of old.'
'And the Devil's spawn shows its mettle!'
Rowan gave no indication that he heard the Crusaders' approving roars, that was if he were paying attention at all.
Only when the Meta truly stilled did Rowan regain his composure, staring down at the bloody mess with eerie calm. If Bruce had a problem with this, 'He can get shafted…' The thought surprised Rowan as much as it made him wonder where the aggression toward his mentor had come from, but he shook it loose and started to make his way to the Batcave.
He'd had a very long night…
It was probably noon when the Batcave entrance finally came into view, not that he could see it from down here.
He stumbled toward the ledge that he and Bruce used for access, gritting his teeth as he pulled himself up with raw palms, only to slip halfway up the climb.
Rowan would have surely broken what few bones he had if a gloved hand hadn't caught his wrist and yanked him up.
"Sir..."
Even with the gas mask, Rowan would recognize that chastising tone anywhere.
"Alfred."
He greeted with a sigh, and scrambled to his feet.
"You have no idea what kind of a night I've had…"
"Care to share over a cup of tea, sir?"
"That'd be great." Never before had the operating table looked so inviting, but Rowan knew there was a spinning chair waiting for him in the main area, and that! That sounded much better…
"I'm home."
He called out to the empty Cave, before collapsing in the chair with tired, half lidded eyes.
Next began the tedious process of removing his equipment, starting with his helmet, chest plate, cape, and legwear.
Rowan was just about to remove his gauntlets when he heard something…
* Pssst! Pssst!
Or rather, someone.
Following the sound, Rowan narrowed his eyes and zeroed in on a small silhouette hiding behind the Batcomputer. "Dick?" The kid was wearing a mask also, and pressed flat against the wall like he was trying to phase through it.
"Rowan? Is that really you?"
Despite everything, Rowan managed a tired chuckle. "Who else would it be?"
"Y-Your eyes... They're glowing green too..." Dick's voice wavered as he shrank further back into the gap beside the cables.
Rowan touched his face reflexively. "Ah, shit—forgot about that. It's still me though, Dick. Promise." Even as he said it, unease crept through him. If Dick had been hiding in the Cave this whole time, how would he even know about the gas and its effects?
And more importantly, Wayne Manor was located on the outskirt Gotham, and despite what the comics liked to portray, the average citizens had no clue it belonged to the Waynes unless they ran in rare social circles or brushed elbows with supervillains, which meant there shouldn't be many infected around.
Not yet, at least.
And also, "Too…? Dick, why are you hiding down here?"
The boy went still, clearly weighing his options, then hissed. "I-I think something's wrong with Alfred!"
Chills crept up Rowan's spine as he felt air currents slap his nape.
He whirled to find Alfred, but where there should be a tray and tea, there was instead a golf club heading straight for the side of his face; and where there ought to be a chastising frown, there was an uncharacteristic grin.
"It's past your bedtime, Master Rowan!"
— — — — —
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