"After that incident, I refrained from reaching out to Kirkland for our annual check-up. I mean, just look at the guy… He had enough pressures in his life without me adding to the pile.
Kirkland, however, hadn't forgotten his responsibility, as manic as he was. He never missed an update either, which allowed me glimpses into his brilliant, yet deteriorating mind.
I... I suspect he longed for companionship.
Sure, he had a wonderfully supportive wife who not only stood by him, but actively participated in aiding his cause. But there were things no man wished to confess to their spouse, and given Kirkland's… Peculiar nature, he probably didn't have many male confidants either—no one close enough to whom he could fully entrust the depth of his despair.
I was watching the man descend into insanity and helpless to do anything to stop it, so I did the only thing I could think of: I consulted THEBATMAAA-N! Sorry. Sorry… That's not gonna be a reccurring thing, promise.
Anyway, Batman, Man-Bat—the irony wasn't beyond me.
With Bruce in the picture, things should have gotten a lot simpler.
After all, my Bat-themed host had access to technology lightyears beyond the cheap, commercialized scraps Kirkland usually had to make do with… The man could snap his fingers and thousands would have scrambled to bring the billionaire whatever he desired.
What the Caped Crusader and I both failed to account for was: Professional. Pride.
Kirkland may accept financial assistance, or allow a few helping hands around the lab, but the mere idea of someone hijacking his entire project and berating him for his mistakes was intolerable to him.
In fact, he was actively sabotaging the sessions by refusing to share and compare data, subsequently driving every partner we found for him to rage-quit… We burned through five lead scientists in three weeks—all recruited anonymously via middlemen, of course—and it was rapidly emptying what little sympathy I had for Kirkland.
But, I persisted.
Never let it be said I was a heartless monster who abandoned a man in hot water… Still, Kirkland was just being so fucking difficult that I had to put my foot down by threatening to withdraw all funding. Though that finally got the dear Doctor Kirkland to be more of a team player, he was not happy and he made it crystal clear with his attitude.
Well, shucks to be him, but he needed the results more than I anyway!
And hell, I'm pretty sure I saved his and his lady's lives by insisting on it, given what would come four months later.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Needless to say, things were got between us.
But you know what they say about the Universe—it always finds a balance. In my case, that balance came in the form of the wonderful results I was getting from little Richard. Not just from workouts, either. The kid was at last opening up, and Alfred and I were all for it!
If only my vigilantism career was working out nearly as well…
Despite giving it my all, 'my all' was apparently only enough to slow the rising crime rate.
Yet, the moment Bruce returned, that fucking chart took a freefall so steep, it would've made Wall Street cry blood had it been a stock ticker. I suspect their fearlessness was height-related, because according to statistics, I was two times more likely to give criminals mental-breakdown compared to Bruce at the time.
… Oops?
'I never expected you to stop all crimes, only slow them, and in that aspect, you exceeded expectations. Good job.' That was it.
That was everything the Dark Knight had to say about my two weeks going-solo. I wasn't expecting much to begin with, and Bruce's take was true to a fault, but dammit, it still fucking stung…
At least I got to breathe a little easier.
Thank God for that, because between the pain radiating from my left arm, the nightly solo runs, schoolwork, not to mention training the real Robin, I'm not gonna lie: I was being run pretty ragged."
— [HELLBRED] —
Drenched from head to toe, the Imp darted through a small gap in a billboard as the midnight downpour battered Gotham and the sky thundered the bellows of the Great Beast that was the city herself.
Seemingly oblivious to this, Rowan hoisted himself up onto the ledge, stopping only to wait for his socially-inept mentor. Sure enough, the Caped Crusader nimbly threw himself onto the vantage point beside him a moment later, touching the side of his cowl to zoom in on the rooftop three blocks down.
Seeing this, Rowan followed suit, silently watching while the Commissioner worriedly paced back-n'-forth in the distance. "He seems anxious."
"For good reason." The Dark Knight replied, cape billowing behind him. "Someone found Killer Croc's lair recently."
"And they lived?" Given the recent string of gruesome murders attributed to Croc in the last few months, Rowan found that extremely hard to believe. "Was Croc away or something?"
"He wasn't. It was him who sent the girl to get in contact with the GCPD—"
"—Who, in turn, is trying to contact you."
He really couldn't fault them.
Waylon Jones had been especially vicious in this Timeline.
If he were in their shoes, he'd have handed the case over to Bruce too.
The wind howled again, flinging rain across the ledge, yet Batman was perfectly motionless still.
From the street below, the Caped Crusader probably looked no different than the stone gargoyle crouched beneath him. "He wants a meeting."
"I'm not surprised. Croc is way beyond Gordon's paygrade."
"Not Gordon." Responded the Dark Knight. Flatly. "Croc."
Rowan's breath hitched.
"Killer Croc wants to meet us? Are you serious? The seven-foot, scaly, humanoid crocodile that eats people? That Killer Croc?"
He spun around, the question dying on his lips as he found empty space beside him instead of the usually broody vigilante.
There wasn't even the whisper of a displaced raindrop to suggest a man had been standing there a second before.
Lips twitching in annoyance, Rowan spoke into his comms. "Dude, stop pulling the disappearing act on me!"
"—Then you should be more observant."
'Observant, my ass!' Rowan thought as the Batman dropped down onto the skyscraper where the GCPD had installed the first and only Bat-Signal… It had only been three seconds… Five, tops.
Firing his grappling-hook at the opposing billboard, Rowan swung across, landing stealthily atop the rooftop enclosure, providing him with not only a solid cover to eavesdrop from, but a panoramic view of potential threats as well. The incredible Gotham skyline was just an add-on.
Flicking on Detective Mode, Rowan wordlessly scanned the building below until an anomaly caught his eye—a figure who appeared to have no discernible skeletal structure. Male. Around his mid to late twenties. 'Either that person has no bones, or I'm tripping.'
Before he could analyze it further, a gruff roar came from the flat rooftop below. "Batman! Where have you been?! Word on the street is you're dead!"
"Jim." Bruce answered… Mysteriously.
"That's it? That's all I get? Well, if you were trying to prove how much this city needs you, you succeeded. Crime's up by 12%..."
'Only 12%?' Rowan thought. 'That's not too bad.'
It was acceptable.
Hell, considering how criminals—new and old alike—had been crawling out the sewers like rats, he had honestly expected the number to be closer to 30%. More, even.
"I had a stand-in." Bruce justified.
That in itself was odd, because Bruce never, ever justified.
The man was that gruff, stern-faced drill sergeant who abided by a very straightforward philosophy: One was either on his side or against him.
Neither necessitated an explanation.
An ally should extend trust without hesitation, while an adversary merited no such courtesy.
'Can't argue with that.' Rowan snorted.
"Don't even get me started on him," The Commissioner fumed. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep human rights activists off our backs with him around? The kid has broken more bones in two weeks than you do in a month!"
"Oh, that is bullshit!"
Rowan couldn't help but protest. "Have you seen what the fuck Batman does to criminals? Have you seen his 50-hits combo?! His gloves are plated with fucking steel, for God's sake! How could I have possibly broken more bones than him?!"
'Minds, though'—whispered the traitorous stray thought.
"You..." Gordon narrowed his eyes, spitting through clenched teeth. "Half the hostages and victims you've rescued require psychological evaluations! And most of the criminals are either developing PTSD or already have it and are on a fast track to Arkham... You've caused US nothing but problems!"
The crux of the problem, of course, was the public outcry and the mountain of paperwork that came with tarnished reputations.
He then pivoted to face Batman, almost as if demanding the man explain why he'd allowed an irresponsible child to accompany him in his endeavor.
"First off, Commissioner, the GCPD racked up over 300 complaints for misconduct, brutality, and profiling just last year. I'm confident that's where most of the outrage is coming from, so clean your house before trying to clean mine.
Second… And? So what if a few rapists and murderers are waking up screaming now? Pardon my crassness, but cry me a fucking river, Jim!"
"And what about the—"
Seeing the conversation spiraling without resolution, Batman finally intervened. "This isn't productive—stand down, both of you."
Neither seemed ready to concede, yet both eventually did.
Jim primarily because he recognized how childish he appeared arguing with a teenager, and Rowan because he didn't want Bruce to seize the opportunity for yet another training session. He already had plenty on his plate without getting black, blue and purple.
"You mentioned someone wanted to talk to me." Batman said, prompting Gordon to nod and open the door to the enclosure.
A young girl stepped out a moment later.
She looked… Completely unremarkable in every way, like someone had penciled her in just to move things along.
For a moment, Rowan wondered if she was some villain playing dress-up, trying a little too hard to pass as ordinary, but the x-ray hadn't flagged anything unusual.
His visor showed no irregular shifts in temperature either, although there were plenty signs of stress even his naked eyes could pick up. She was, by every measurable standard, just a regular girl.
'Give her a few more years in Gotham and we'll see.'
"Batman, this is Ms. Truesdale." Jim introduced, rubbing his mustache as he stepped aside.
"H-Hi, Mr. Batman!" She chirped nervously, giving an enthusiastic wave before turning to Rowan with a bright grin. "Hello, Imp."
"Hello?" Rowan greeted, before assuming the Spider-Man's signature inverted pose with the latest addition to his Impsuit.
To his astonishment, the girl unexpectedly reached out and ruffled his hair, whispering, "Search your name on Wattpad."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Ms. Truesdale…" Bruce interrupted.
"Sorry, sir. Mr. Waylon—"
"What did you mean by that?!" Rowan cried, borderline shrieking. "What degeneracy have you written?!"
— [HELLBRED] —
"Here's a piece of advice: If you ever become a 'costumed freak,' don't look yourself up—especially not on webnovel sites or Rule34.
Trust me, you do not want to see what's being posted.
I'm only warning you because no one warned me!
I… I went in blind and was forever scarred by the written heresy. Even I, cruel as I am, wouldn't wish that kind of mental anguish on my worst enemies. I will spare you the nitty-gritty details. But let's just say there were a lot of 'Dead Dove' tags. Like… Hundreds.
Seriously, who is out there creating all these tags?! Is there a guild? A council of degenerates that votes on this stuff? And if so, can I join? All jokes aside, it was super disturbing, but also weirdly… Flattering? I'm honored these writers thought I was packing thirty inches below the belt, but that's not a dick. That's a deformity.
If your lower head ever grows to that size overnight, please consult with the nearest doctor for immediate medical intervention. And hey, if it's caused by an STD, then congrats, Patient #0! You're soon to be immortalized. Anyway, where were we? Right, Killer Croc and his little messenger. Ms. Truesdale sang like a canary.
She told us how she ended up in the sewer and how she found Croc.
But the Waylon she described didn't match the Killer Croc Batman and I knew.
Truesdale spoke of a massive creature whose growls and rumbles would shake the sewer junctions.
She spoke of something in terrible pain, and was far more monster than man.
She said he was bleeding when she woke from her stupor.
She claimed the muscle tissues underneath had torn through his own scales.
"I fear by the time you two find him, it wouldn't be him you'll find." Truesdale told us.
It didn't take us long to deduce that something had triggered his mutation to spiral completely out of control.
His jaw had morphed into a full crocodilian snout, and even the oversized commercial clothes Waylon typically donned could conceal his modesty no longer as a result of the Meta's abnormal growth spurt. Not that he required it, given how far removed he was from anything human.
Now, you'd think I'd be bothered by the news, but honestly? It was about damn time. I was done with the average thugs and gangsters. I wanted another battle—a proper fight that'd allow me to estimate my effectiveness on the field. And luckily, Croc was more than happy to give us one."
— [HELLBRED] —
The descent into Gotham's underbelly was like a plunge into a different century.
The air itself was thick and heavy with the miasma of decay, tasted of wet concrete and rot.
This was not some modern, sterile sanitation system. It was a byzantine relic, an ossified monument to the once great city's ambition eighty years ago.
The original architects had carved a labyrinth from brick and iron, a subterranean network so complex and poorly documented that entire sections had been lost to memory, becoming uncharted territories beneath the citizens' very feet. So uncharted, in fact, that even the Dark Knight himself was beginning to look confused. 'He isn't All-Knowing, after all.'
The two pressed on through the vaulted tunnels, each step sending the rodents scurrying and shrieking as they vanished into the dark.
Soon, they passed a junction where deep, vertical gouges scarred the brickwork, far too high and wide to be made by any normal man.
"Oh, hell naw…" He wasn't about to get cornered in a sewer tunnel with whatever made those. Without a word, he pulled out his explosive gel dispenser and began spraying a bat-shaped pattern along the scarred bricks. Unlike Bruce's iconic symbol, his featured a tail and horns instead of the classic pointy ears.
If Croc got aggressive and decided to give chase, Rowan planned to turn this whole section of the tunnel into his tomb. Salvation be damned. But then, his dispenser suddenly sputtered, coughing out one last glob of gel and dying. He hadn't a chance to curse when he found a full canister in hand.
"Quick thinking," The Dark Knight rumbled, the compliment landing even harder than his punches. "But remember to restock your gear next time."
The marks were ragged, as if whatever made them was not cutting, but tearing through in a blind panic.
The trail of breadcrumbs led them toward a corroded iron archway, set into a wall of older, darker brick.
"G.C. Dept. of Water. Pumping Station Foreman's Office. 1946."
This was it.
This was where they were supposed to meet Killer Croc. Why it couldn't have been a landfill like an '80s cop-thriller, Rowan had no idea, but he had a feeling he was about to find out.
"Be on guard. If things get too dangerous—"
"I know," Rowan dismissed, ducking under his mentor's arm to get a clearer view.
He quietly activated his helmet's x-ray function and swept the area. "I don't see anyone… You?"
Batman's cowl tilted slightly, his own senses scanning far beyond what Rowan's x-ray could render. "I see biological residue. Collect it."
"Leaving the gross work to the junior… Typical."
Complain he might, but Rowan collected the slime anyway, dividing the slime in two bottles: One to be taken to the Batcave; the other to be shipped Kirkland.
It was only when the task was done that he looked up and saw that Batman was frozen mid-step.
Frowning, Rowan moved to his mentor's side, falling silent as well.
There was a lot to take in, and none of it pleasant.
The stench of rot hung heavy in the air—sweet, sour, and potent enough to catch in the throat.
The desk had been mangled, its metal legs curled like paper while moldy and waterlogged papers clung to the floor in mushy clumps.
Yet, despite the mess, it was the chrysalis they noticed first.
A warped pod of green, leathery membrane fused to the brickwork, dripping yellow pus that nearly made Rowan barf. Worse, the same green ooze he'd just bottled was oozing from the jagged edges of the violent, vertical tear running down its center, steadily feeding the puddle below.
"We're too late."
"No… The shedding's still warm." His mentor spoke as he knelt, armored fingers hovering just above the slime while a thin wisp of steam curled up from the surface. "This happened recently."
"Which means we're stuck in a filthy tomb, nearly a hundred feet underground, with God knows whatever the hell Croc's turned into." Fantastic. Just the kind of news to brighten a vigilante's night. Rowan braced himself, half-expecting the reptilian Meta to lunge out of the dark, but no such cliché played out, and thank God for that.
"Phew." He wasn't sure he wanted the smoke anymore.
"H-Humans… I-I smell humAnS—!" Pig-like snorts suddenly echoed from the far end of the tunnel.
'I spoke too soon.' Mentor and protégé exchanged a wary glance, then scanned the enclosed space for a place to take refuge, only to realize the cannibalistic Meta lurking just beyond the entryway had blocked their exit. To make matters worse, there was nowhere to hide…
No vent they could slip into like the urban warzone they were accustomed to.
'Damn.'
He must have been hiding beneath the sewer water, which even Bruce's sophisticate, built-in x-ray could not fully penetrate.
"C-Come on Out! I'm nOt GOnna HUrt yOU. I-I jUsT wAnT HEeeelp—!"
The closer the voice got, the paler Rowan turned beneath his helmet. He glanced at Bruce expectantly, but to his surprise, the Dark Knight mimicked the look instead. "You got a plan?"
"I do."
"Then... Aren't you gonna do something?"
"I can, but I want you to do it."
Slightly perplexed, Rowan hummed, then suddenly recalled the trail of explosive gel he had left on his way here just as the sound of heavy footsteps reached his ears. Crouching in the corner, he grinned. "If this works, can I take the Batmobile for a spin?"
"Absolutely not." Bruce replied. "But I'll allow you to use explosive Batarangs."
It wasn't nearly as cool as pulling a wheelie in the Batmobile, but he'd take it.
"Deal." Pulling the detonator from his belt, Rowan gave the small device a confident twirl and armed the explosive gel he had sprayed near the tunnel's junction—the furthest one from their position.
The plan was simple.
Lure the monster into a choke point and bring the ceiling down on him. With a bit of luck, Killer Croc would be out cold. And if he wasn't, he'd at least be hurt enough to make the rest of the mission a lot less suicidal.
Rowan thumbed the trigger, and smiled as muffled whump of the explosion echoed down the subterranean passage. The pig-like snorts and agonized groans from the main passage both ceased, but neither Rowan nor Bruce was dumb enough to take the bait.
Activating the x-ray again, Rowan sucked a breath through his teeth as a massive skeletal frame—easily nine feet tall and pushing ten—materialized just on the other side of the brick wall they were crouched against.
It—for that was all that remained of Waylon Jones—had been lurking in an adjacent passageway, and though the explosion had piqued its curiosity, it was not enough to lure the beast away. Damn, was the only coherent thought Rowan's mind could muster as a limb half the height of the doorway reached inside.
'Killer Croc, my ass! That's a whole-ass dinosaur!'
They could hear it sniffing outside—deep, wet breaths that made it clear it was more interested in the nearby scent of living flesh than any distant noise.
When a low growl rumbled through the wall, Rowan knew he had to act. Fingers shaking uncontrollably, he armed a second charge further down the main tunnel, then prayed the sound would prove a greater temptations than their scent.
* Chk-chk!
Noticing a rat close to his feet, Rowan mouthed an apology, before kicking the poor creature in the Meta's searching hand.
Then the second boom followed; much sharper, and far more distinct compared to the first. The silhouette paused, closed its fist, and then slowly turned and lumbered away, its heavy footfalls shaking the very foundation of the sewer as it chewed on the rodent. "Pleaeese… I'm SO hUngry."
After giving it a few more seconds, the pair was finally able to breath easy.
They crept to the corroded archway of the foreman's office and peered out.
Waylon Jones was long, long gone.
In his place stood a monstrosity that looked less like a Metahuman and more like a failed science experiment that had recently clawed its way out of a petri dish. His jaw had become a full, protruding snout, and his hide was a mess of overlapping scales so thick and dense they looked like organic kevlar, and where twisted spines once jutted, there were now rows of ridges.
"Is he always this intense?"
Because there was no way Bruce took that thing down solo. That… That looked like it could chew through a hundred Banes and ask for seconds.
"No."
"So what do you think? Something in the water? A second Metagene activation? 'Cause seriously—what the fuck are we even looking at?!"
For the first time since their encounter, the Dark Knight was rendered truly speechless.
"I don't know."
— [HELLBRED] —
The scent of chamomile and lingering brimstone warred for dominance in the study of Shadowcrest. For Giovanni Zatara who had only returned recently after agonizing months in the infernal realms, the familiar scent of his wife's favorite tea was a comfort the Magician desperately needed.
He sank into the worn leather of his favorite armchair, the ancient springs groaning as if to welcome him.
A small, insistent red light blinked on the antique answering machine on his mahogany desk. An artifact, really, but one he kept for a single, stubborn contact who refused to use more esoteric means of communication.
With a weary sigh, Giovanni waved a hand, and the spool-to-spool tape whirred to life.
"—Zatara. It's Batman."
The Bat of Gotham sounded devoid of pleasantries as always. "—I have a situation. The boy I took in—his powers have recently manifested."
'Did he kill?' Giovanni knew Batman—cold, calculating, but never careless. If the kid had crossed that line, Bruce wouldn't be calling to talk about it. He'd be cleaning it up. Quietly. Efficiently.
"What happened?" He asked, unfortunately the voicemail was dated back to three months ago.
"Dad?"
Standing in the doorway, a tray with a fresh pot of tea in her hands, Zatanna greeted.
She had his eyes, though hers still held a youthful fire he was pretty sure had burned out in his own.
Thankfully, she had her mother's beauty.
"You just got back. Can't Batman handle one thing by himself?"
Giovanni managed a weak smile, the expression feeling foreign on his face. "It is never just 'one thing' with him, my dear. And you know I am the only one he trusts with matters like these."
He pushed himself to his feet, the aches in his bones much more than physical. "A simple consultation will not take long."
"Let me go with you." The girl insisted.
"No," And he refused, tone firmer than intended. "You will stay. I will not have you near that accursed city until I know what I am dealing with."
He straightened his vest, the simple act of trying to look presentable feeling like donning a suit of armor, then closed his eyes, silently drawing on the ambient Magic of the Ancestral Mansion. And it responded in kind.
"Otag ot mahtoG!"
The incantation left his lips, and reality began to warp.
Space and Time prepared to bend for his convenience. Yet, as the magical Gateway began to form, it wasn't the familiar sensation of displaced air and shifting perspectives that met Giovanni. It was instead a shrieking wall of pure, psychic agony.
And was it merely Giovanni's imagination, or had the Curse cast upon the very soil that Gotham rested grown even more potent…?