"Honestly, do you two share a brain cell, or just take turns being self-destructive idiots?!" Neither Rowan nor 'John Smith' dared to make a peep while the mouthy fourteen-year-old threw a fit. Silently, they exchanged a glance, then automatically tuned her out. "Hello? Is all the blood loss affecting your hearing?!"
Zatanna pouted at the two stone-faced vigilantes, pressing on one's wound, but the only reaction she got from Rowan was an imploring stare.
'Nope, just your nagging,' Rowan thought, recalling the calm, sultry Zatanna from the DCA-Verse; the one with sleek, straight hair, a smoky voice, and legs for days.
Then his gaze drifted back to the bratty gremlin jabbing her nail at his ribs. 'Yeah, I don't see it.'
"Who even trains like that?!"
""Us?"" Their faster metabolism and healing factor made their sparring matches brutal by default, usually ending with either, sometimes both of them black, bruised, and bloody. That was nothing, in comparison. "Hey, don't knock it until you've tried it."
Zatanna disdainfully eyed his healing black eye, swollen cheekbone, shaky hands, and wrinkled her nose. "Not in this lifetime."
"Your loss." Snatching an apple from the basket, Rowan tossed it to the Dark Knight while keeping a pear for himself.
"You know what people say: An apple a day keeps the doctor away." He quipped, then 'Conjured' a Batarang with a casual flick of his wrist.
"Pfft… Cheap tricks. Anyone can do basic sleight of hand."
"Oh? But can 'anyone' do this, though?"
With a grin far too smug for her liking, he reached behind her ear, fingers brushing against her hair, and returned holding a small, neatly wrapped gift box topped with a simple silver bow.
"For you…"
Caught off guard by the gesture, her hand hovered uncertainly over the gift, a dozen questions running through her mind. "Is this a trick?"
"I assure you, it is no trick," He replied, voice softening with each word. "Think of it as… A peace offering."
A strange warmth spread through Zatanna's chest as she accepted the gift… If he insisted on showering her with presents, who was she to stop him?
Hands on her hips, the Mistress of Magic giddily received the gift, barely noticing the fleeing boy out of the corner of her eye until the pretty silver bow sprang free and covered her in baking powder.
"ROWAN!" Hair whipping behind her, the girl sneezed out a noseful of the suspicious-looking white powder and rose on the Wind of Magic. "GET BACK HERE, YOU COWARD! I'M NOT DONE WITH YOU!"
"You'll never catch me alive!"
"I'M NOT PLANNING TO!"
Drawn by the commotion, Zatara hurried to the room to find his daughter visibly upset, disheveled, and probably OD'ing on Magic; Rowan trying to mount a defense with a chair; and 'John Smith' calmly biting into an apple like the room wasn't burning down around him. "What's the meaning of this?"
"He started it, Daddy!"
Chuckling to himself, Rowan dropped his 'shield' and sheepishly scratched the back of his head, before raising a hand as if addressing a courtroom.
"Objection, Your Honor!
The prosecution's statement, while technically accurate, omits crucial context.
Let the record show that the plaintiff, Ms. Zatara, initiated hostilities in the Library, setting precedent for this 'Prank War' with blatant psychological trickery, and therefore, my pastry‑based, non‑lethal deterrent should be considered proportional retaliation under established precedent!"
Despite his polished legalese, the only verdict rendered for both was three hours of cleaning duty with no opportunity for appeal or parole. "Your 'proportional retaliation' just got us both detention. I hope you're proud of yourself!"
The only response Rowan had to her irritated rambling was an unapologetic and headstrong—"Worth."
While the two were at each other's throats, their guardians were discussing more pressing matters: Namely, the failing Wards caused by Rowan's constantly leaking Fel Magic.
"It is that dire?"
"The Wards I put up were meant to last your lifetime, Bruce. The central Wardstone meant to purify his Demonic Energy is nearly gone."
Humming to himself, the Dark Knight impatiently rapped his fingers on the tabletop. "You gave me your word, Zatara. You said you could help him. That is the only reason he is here."
It wasn't an outright accusation, but from Bruce's tone and body language, it might as well have been.
"And I will."
Sighing at the assurance, Bruce narrowed his eyes. "Then why haven't you—"
He hadn't finished when Zatara's voice suddenly boomed across the room. "Do not use your Magic, young lady!" On the floor, a mop that had been vigorously scrubbing the same spot all by itself suddenly clattered to the ground. Caught red-handed, Zatanna shot her father a betrayed look, and clicked her tongue while mumbling something under her breath.
"You too, Rowan." Bruce added shortly after, side-eyeing a shadowy tendril that was sneakily sweeping broken glass shards into his ward's dustpan. And, as expected, a second, equally disgruntled click of the tongue followed.
Zatara waited for the chastised teenagers to quiet down before resuming. "Magic is not a Metagene to be mastered and abused, Bruce. It is a Fire, and before I teach him how to stoke it, the boy must first learn to respect the heat and understand everything he stands to risk if he loses control."
"He understands more than you think." Bruce immediately defended, prompting the Magician to bob along. Rowan Locke was… Rough around the edges, certainly, but the boy had been prepared to give up his chance at life for another's, and that kind of selflessness meant something.
"I know, which is why I'll test his knowledge of the Arcane. Provided he passes, his formal instruction shall commence the coming Monday."
Zatara didn't know what gave him away, but something must have, judging from the nigh malicious glint in the World's Greatest Detective's eyes. "I know what you tried to do, John, but I also know your heart was in the right place. That's why I don't hold it against you. So make amends: See to the boy's needs, and see to it that you teach him to the best of your ability."
"How did you know?" The Magician gasped, color draining from his face, voice hoarse in equal parts shame, guilt, and of fear. "Did he tel—"
"No. He didn't need to," Bruce cooly denied. "It might not seem like it, but this is my turf, Giovanni… Nothing happens within these walls without my knowledge."
Swallowing his initial shock, Zatara narrowed his eyes and accused. "You bugged his room."
Gently, Bruce lifted the teapot, refilled his cup and corrected, as though it excused his behavior somehow. "Not his room, John, everyroom."
And Zatanna thought he was overbearing…
She hadn't a clue.
Meanwhile, "Stinky Rowan. Stupid Rowan. Ugly, edgy—"
"You know I can hear you, right?"
"I know! I was counting on it!" She shot back, viciously wiping down a countertop with an alcohol-soaked cloth. The nerve of him! After she had gone to the trouble of bringing him a whole basket of hand-picked fruit too!
Swallowing the knot of spite in her throat, Zatanna bumped his shoulder and froze as something crunched in half under her foot. Her eyes dropped, and there it was: The stupid gift box she had stupidly accepted.
She irritably kicked it aside, not expecting the solid thud that followed. Only then did the details register in Zatanna's mind: This one was wider, flatter, and the seal clearly hadn't been broken. Warily, she glanced over her shoulder and at Rowan, who was conveniently absorbed in his sweeping.
'He's definitely up to something!' Thought the girl as she carefully lifted the box, shaking it with outstretched arms to avoid another face full of baking powder.
'Like I'd fall for it twice!' The self-congratulatory thought, sadly, lasted for about a second before a barely suppressed snort wiped the smile off her face. Her eyes darted back to him and, in spite of herself, she noticed his broad back. 'It's not fair! Why are all the biggest pains in the ass so well put-together?!'
Snarling with renewed frustration, Zatanna ripped into the package and discovered a now-crushed chocolate bar and a crumpled note.
'Well, that rules out Runic Magic for him.'
With his chicken-scratch handwriting, Rowan Locke would never manage the precision that particular Branch of Magic demanded.
Feeling smugly vindicated by the fact, she unfolded the note to read the simple scrawl: 'Now we're even.' Below the words was a crude drawing of an Imp with a winking emoji sticker slapped on top.
Rolling her eyes at the low-effort note, Zatanna unwrapped the chocolate with a Spell on the tip of her tongue. She inspected the largest piece with care, only popping it into her mouth once she was absolutely certain it hadn't been spiked with laxatives.
'It's Villars with the almond nougat?!' She gasped. 'How did he know?!'
"You left the wrapper in the living room bin." Whispered Rowan right next to her ear. "So… Truce?"
Zatanna's mind screamed 'No!', her mouth meawhile was already working through the third piece like an addict.
"A‑As if! It takes more than chocolate to bribe me…" She claimed, refusing to look at him as she forced down the half‑chewed confection, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.
Confident that the danger of magical retaliation had passed, Rowan allowed himself a grin and turned to leave. He'd barely taken a step when Zatanna called out. "Zee!"
"What?"
"My friends call me Zee."
"That's…" Rowan prepared, garnished and tasted the word, then chuckled. "Rather uninspired."
"It's a pet name!" She protested, keeping the 'And it's better than Zatanna anyway' to herself. God knew the amount of bullying she'd suffered through because of her father's awful naming convention.
"It's a lame pet name." He corrected and added. "It's literally just your Initial spelled out."
With an indignant huff, she crossed her arms defensively. "That's why it's smart, genius! It's efficient!"
"No, it isn't. It's a lame name. Zatanna has a ring to it." Wagging his finger, Rowan said with an infuriatingly charming grin. "It adds a touch of… Mystique, don't you think?"
Seemingly no longer interested in banter, Rowan made quick work of the remaining trash, boxed it up, and exited the room.
Rendered speechless by his haste, Zatanna could only stare at the empty doorway, a frown crossing her face as she realized that while she had been throwing a fit, he'd already finished his share of the work.
Resuming her punishment, she continued to mutter a litany of curses under her breath despite their 'truce.' So lost in her frustration Zatanna was that she didn't even hear the door swing open again, "Stupid meanie…" Right up until her tirade was cut short by a tap on her shoulder.
Zatanna spun around, startled to find said 'meanie' behind her with a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other. "You look like you could use a hand."
Warmth flooded Zatanna's cheeks as she turned away, sneaking in a squeaky, "Thank you," While clearing her throat.
"You're welcome."
— [HELLBRED] —
"For the record, I do not 'stink.' My hygiene regimen consists of showering a minimum of once per day, twice during Summer, and up to three times if there's a heatwave! Stop with the slander, Zee!
Now… Where was I?
Right, the recovery.
To be honest, there wasn't much to say. I got a new heart, had my finger reattached, and was essentially tireless. What more could a growing boy ask for?
Of course, Bruce, being Bruce, insisted on staying the whole week to keep an eye on me. Could have just sent Alfred, but looking back, I'm pretty sure his supervision was less about my health and more about making sure I didn't suddenly sprout horns and go full Trigon.
Such needless worry on his part…
Don't get me wrong, I am 'incomprehensibly evil' to mortals now, but unlike my cunty 'father' who raped, killed and conquered all for the Hell of it, I'm not without reason or ethics.
I am, after all, Divinely Ordained!
Ain't that right, Presence…?
Ain't we tight?
So anyway, a week passed, and I was finally released from my 'confinement.' Free at last, the first thing I did was collapse onto the grass—surprising, I know—and breathe in actual fresh air.
A week of getting ambushed with pop quizzes by Zatara, stalked by Bruce, bugged by Zatanna, and cooped up with that God-awful disinfectant stench was enough to drive an Archangel insane! So, that same night, after fielding questions about the Godsphere for the fifth fucking time and at last wrenching a Rune out of Giovanni, I made a quick escape from the Zataras' Ancestral Home.
Sometimes, I still ask myself what possessed me to go out again, especially after that complete disaster of a supply-run. The answer? The call to 'HEROISM!'
Unfortunately, in my haste, I had completely missed my little tagalong.
Teach chewed us out pretty badly for it later, but in my honest defense: The mystical misfit was flying… And Magically Concealed."
— [HELLBRED] —
Perched on a rooftop, Rowan couldn't help but glare at the streets below.
Who'd have thought there'd come the day when he'd miss Gotham? Not for its gothic charm, but for its crime-ridden streets no less!
'This is ridiculous. How can a city this big be this fucking functional? Where's a motherfucker supposed to find a good old-fashioned mugging?!' The fact he didn't have access to the local surveillance system and was still struggling to sync his helmet with the CCPD radio wasn't helping either!
Rubbing his helmet like he would his hair, Rowan tapped his feet and out crawled Ichor. Sighing out loud, Rowan closed his eyes as the sigils of the Maiden, Mother, Crone, and the asymmetrical Mark of Chaos prickled across his back.
He cracked his neck and nodded at the Projection, which instantly scattered into a flock of ravens befitting his estranged half-sister's name. Normally, he'd have been more careful Summoning the Shade, but the Runes carved into the base of his nape had rendered his and Bruce's worry a non-issue.
Faintly, Zatara's voice echoed in his ear.
'Every time you use your Shade, you're technically casting a Spell. That kind of constant corrosion isn't something most Artifacts can withstand.'
'There has to be another way, right?' Rowan remembered asking.
'You are correct... Three, in fact. The first requires a decade of dangerous training. The second involves a Wardstone or an Artifact to siphon the excess Energy. The third is—'
The only other Power with the sheer destructive force and the adaptability to match his own.
It was not of the Green, as a novice might assume upon hearing the name bestowed upon it, nor did it have any relation with the Lords of Chaos and their Agents on the Mortal Plane. It was the Chaotic Energy that bled from the collision of different Magical Laws… It was a Path that had claimed countless Souls; fools who sought to impose Order on its Opposition…
It was WildMagic.
And it was uniquely suitable for him, according to the Magician, mainly because of how well the Energies clashed.
Sure, there'd be backlash if he forcibly canceled a Wild Magic Surge with his Demonic Energy, but compared to getting yeeted into Space, or turned into a frog, or accidentally Summoning a localized earthquake where he stood, a little internal bleeding was a steal!
Chuckling at the thought, Rowan raised his head as Ichor(s) squawked, circling above an alley.
"Finally, some action!" He roared, hand already reaching for the grappling hook when it occurred to him. 'Wait. What if…' He knew for a fact the Shade could reposition him in combat. Why couldn't it be used for simple traversal, too? Hell, didn't Raven travel on hers all the time? "Buddy?"
As if waiting for the command, his stretched shadow snapped taut beneath him, slinging Rowan through the air faster and higher than his backplate ever could. Halfway through, he began to plummet, just in time for one of the Nyxlings to swoop in and cushion his landing.
Still, Rowan wasn't satisfied.
Surely, there were far more tactical applications for a Shapeshifting Shade than this! And thus, he relayed his idea to Ichor, who gladly obeyed, assuming the familiar shape of a six-eyed Stag…
Hugging its neck, he gently tapped the crown of its head. "Stop fucking around."
Baring its fangs, the Stag balanced mid-air and leapt.
It couldn't fly, not in this Form.
Thankfully, it didn't need to…
Not while a teeming mass of Ichor-Bats swarmed beneath them, forming footholds as it bounded across Coast City's night sky and crushed the Constructs into blots, only for a new flock to rise once more. "Now that's what I'm talking about!" Not for the first time, the Shade and its Master shared a manic grin as they landed in an alleyway that reeked of fresh blood.
"Who goes there?!" A growl greeted them from the dark, punctuated by the wet, meaty crunches. The creature that crept into the dim light was no glittery Meta from a certain estrogen-bait franchise that had forever ruined the concept of Soulmates for Rowan, nor was it some misunderstood heartthrob from a 12-Season-long teen drama. Nay!
It was pale, scrawny, vile and horrifically misshapen thing with a flat nose and a mouth puckered tight around chipped, yellow fangs. Rowan would've called it ugly, but 'ugly' didn't even begin to cover its disfigurement.
"Goodness gracious, whatever the fuck happened to you? What am I even looking at, Ichor?!"
The Nosferatu cocked its head, nostrils flaring as it sampled the air, then hissed, lips curling in disgust as it hunched over its prey protectively. "You reek. Begone!"
"Excuse the shit outta me?" The sheer, unmitigated nerve of this thing!
"She's mine! Mine! Mine! MINE! Find your own preys!"
Insulted that the thing saw him as mere competition, Rowan growled and tilted his head, eyeing the corpse sprawled behind it. For a moment, he couldn't help hut wonder about the life that had been extinguished; about her dreams, her ambitions, and the 'someone' still waiting for her to come home.
The least he could do, he resolved, was return her remains and get to the bottom of this.
"Who do you answer to?"
The creature stammered back, saliva dripping from its slack jaw. "A-Answer to...?"
"A stray, then?" Rowan hesitantly concluded, reaching for a pair of rusty pipes leaning against a bin, helpfully fetched over to him by the world's most sinister yes-man.
Twirling the pipes like batons, he strode forward without a care in the world, while his Shade writhed and twitched on the lamp-lit wall like a lunatic caught mid-Blood Ritual. "You know how this goes, don't you? You're hereby under arrest—"
"You dare?!" The Nosferatu shrieked, but even to its own ears, that sounded more like the cry of a cornered animal.
"—Everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."
The creature wretched, spewing a foul stream of black bile and half-digested filth onto the alley floor as it lunged, cracking the pavement with its takeoff. Yet, despite its inhuman speed, the Nosferatu had just barely covered five feet when it found itself nailed down just shy of the sewer grate.
It snarled, glaring over its shoulder in a last-ditch effort to scare off the other Beast of Prey… A legion of eyes stared back, triggering a fear so earnest, the creature actually began to sweat in spite of the fact Vampires don't sweat.
"Toot, toot. That wasn't very polite," Taunted the 'hero,' while his Shade circled the Vampire like vultures. "Where'd you think you're going, Fledgling?"
Only a Newborn could be this clueless, which meant their Sire was: A) A sloppy idiot, B) One of those 'Vampires should rule over mortals' nutjobs, or C)—"Since they clearly didn't bother teaching you any manners, I'm guessing they ditched your ass…"
"Fuck you!" The Nosferatu howled, lunging in for a quick bite.
"You're stronger than me, I'll give you that," Rowan complimented, arm blurring in a backhand that littered the ground with its fangs… The moment the blow landed, the Bloodsucker caught, out of the corner of its eye, threads of All-Black wrapped around the vigilante's arm, squirming like they had a mind of their own. "But you're not fighting me. You, my bloodsucking friend, are fighting Us."
"Wh-What do you want?!" It cried tearfully. "I don't know anything, I swear!"
Tilting his head, Rowan crouched right in front of the Nosferatu, like he was daring it to take another shot. "We will see about that… Name?"
"I don't kno—!"
Another tooth clattered to the pavement as its head snapped sideways.
"Try again."
"I really don't—"
A third, already loose, bounced off its tongue.
"I DON'T—!"
He cocked his arm back, stretching the Threads to their absolute limit, only to veer off mid-swing as a feminine voice bounced between the walls.
"STOP! Stop this right now! I can't watch this anymore!"
"Zatanna?" The first rule of the hunt was: 'Never take your eyes off the prey,' and he'd broken it. Wasting no time, the Nosferatu tore itself free from the wall, ignoring the mangled ruin of its shoulder and ribs as it raked claws across his face, then dived into the open sewer.
"Rowan!"
Free-falling into the bin, he climbed out a second later, scanned their surroundings for threats, then glared at the cause of his indignity. "Damnit, look what you did!" He roared, and instantly regretted it as Zatanna flinched with wide, horrified eyes. "You-Your face!"
Instinctively, he reached up, fingers brushing over the three new eyes now dotting the left side of his face; from his forehead all the way to his cheekbone. "What the hell are you doing here? And why are you bugging me when I'm working?!"
"I-I saw you sneak out and I just..." She hurried to explain herself, then turned up her voice. "Wait, don't you dare turn this on me! You were torturing h-him!"
"That 'thing' was hardly a 'Him!' It was a monster with three bodies to its name already and God knows how many more! I was INTERROGATING it, you donkey!"
She murmured softly, "B-But he said he didn't know anything?"
"And you believe him?" Exasperated, Rowan squeezed the bridge of his nose, disappointment plain on his features. "Even if he speaks the truth, all Vampires have an instinctive telepathic Bond to their Sires! I was trying to see if the Stray could tap into it!"
"Wh-Why didn't you wait for him to go back to the Nest?!"
Gawking at Zatanna as if she had just suggested 2+2 = 5, Rowan started, "Yeah, sure, next time I'll remember to hang back while the bad guys redecorate the crime scene with body parts. Knowledge—" And jabbed at his temples with a stiff smile before adding. "Accepted!"
Cowed, Zatanna shrank. "Sorry…"
"Forget it."
Of course, the end goal was always to let the Bloodsucker slip and follow its trail. But it wasn't supposed to happen on the Stray's terms; it was supposed to happen on his, and it most definitely wasn't supposed to cost him fifty grand in equipment either.
'She's young, don't hold it against her. She's young, don't hold it against her. She's young—' Repeating the mantra over and over, Rowan reluctantly forced the ball of heat in his throat back down and instructed while rummaging through the victim's purse. "Go home, Zatanna. You've caused enough problems for a night."
The first item he fished out was a tiny, corked bottle.
The second, a pack of cigarettes.
The last, and most important of the bunch was her license. "Lindsy Lee. Twenty-three years old…"
Wiping the blood on his pants, he whispered a prayer and tapped the side of his damaged helmet which, luckily, seemed operational still.
"—911, what's your emergency?"
"Good evening, ma'am. I'd like to report a murder."