A/N: I actually planned to start Rowan's official magical training this Chapter, but it'd have been too bloated, hence… Hope you guys like it though.
"And just like that, I was better than new. I'm talking a full system overhaul, the kind of upgrade you feel deep in your bones. The most immediate change was my endurance.
According to Bruce's deep scans, my muscles were clearing metabolic byproducts at a massively accelerated rate, meaning I could recover in minutes from what used to take hours! And that wasn't all. My new heart had other… Synergistic effects as well.
A standard adrenal dump, which usually takes seconds to kick in, was now shotgunned through my body in a single, powerful beat that could immediately push my reflexes to peak performance and shut down my pain receptors in microseconds.
As minuscule as those differences seemed on paper, they could mean the line between life and death when you're staring down the barrel of a gun.
But there's a catch...
There's always a catch.
For one, my system was dangerously 'overclocked,' placing my entire vascular system under immense stress and leading to recurring spikes in intracranial pressure which usually caused heavy pounding near the crown of my head.
The real problem, though, was that the 'fight-or-flight' response which refused to fully disengage, a systemic overdrive brought upon by the smallest jolt of excitement.
To put it all into perspective: While my peak operational window had quadrupled from 24 hours to nearly four days straight, the crash was also guaranteed to be much more painful the longer I was in action.
You gain some, you lose some, I guess…
The real changes, though, had less to do with me and more with my Shade, or my Soul-Self—a term I'm officially vetoing on the grounds that it makes me sound like a fourteen-year-old girl who's absolutely convinced that lumps of overpriced synthetic rocks from Etsy can fix her misaligned Chakras and her deep-seated insecurity.
News flash: It won't! You know it won't; I know it won't!
Save-up for them mined rocks and gems and you'll be way happier, on God!
What, you can't afford it? Maybe we can, uh, figure something out?
Oh, don't give me that look! You think money grows on trees? Plus relax, Souls aren't really my go-to…
I'll settle for your passion.
Or your ambition.
Or your crippling obsession with scalding shower—anything that'd make the human experience a little less… Fulfilling, I guess?
I'm not picky.
Now, where was I?
Right, so I could tell you all about Ichor 2.0!
Or I could simply show you, and let's be honest: Something this badass deserves its own live demo."
— [HELLBRED] —
Racking the weight with a triumphant clang, Rowan wiped a bead of sweat from his nose. He'd lost count of the reps, but he was sure it was in the triple digits. Although it might not seem all that impressive to the 'peak human' who deadlifted over a thousand pounds on a daily basis, it was a hell of an achievement for Rowan himself, and he wasn't afraid to show it.
A smug, toothy grin stretched his lips as he basked in a chorus of imaginary cheers, then turned to his actual one-man audience. "How was that? Pretty fuckin' cool, wasn't it?"
Bruce didn't look up from a tablet displaying his vitals. "Your output increased by 12.7%. Your recovery time decreased by 62%. Your form, however, began to degrade after two hundred and thirty-four reps, putting strain on your lumbar spine… It's sloppy, but acceptable given the circumstances."
Little did he know, the boy's supposed 'limits' had been purely theatrical.
"Summon the Symbiote."
"Ichor—" The Demon corrected, feigning offense for the patch of darkness clinging to his feet. "Shades have feelings too, you know…"
The console groaned under Bruce's hands as a muscle jumped along his jawline. "I'll not watch you joke your way into a grave, Rowan."
Visibly baffled, Rowan furrowed his brows and replied. "I'm not? I feel fine."
"There's a vast difference between feeling fine and being fine," The Dark Knight lectured. "When the body is put under extreme trauma, the brain will release endorphins to mask the pain. It's a biological coping mechanism that creates a false sense of wellness right before the end."
"You're starting to sound like a WebMD article, Bruce." Mumbling a protest, Rowan Summoned Ichor with a sharp snap. "Fine, fine… Ya' heard the boss—up and at it, Sleeping Beauty."
The Shade at his feet immediately began to bubble, peeling itself free from 2D Plane, not as solid limbs but as countless strands of thick, black smoke. Taking on a slick, oily sheen, they breached the 3rd Dimension, while the lights above sputtered and died, as if the room itself was recoiling from the Malevolence that'd just been permitted Shape.
The monstrous Stag tilted its head, four crimson eyes locking onto Bruce, whose grip on the tablet abruptly tightened.
The standoff between a man who had mastered Fear and a Demon born from it lasted a good minute, right up until Ichor turned, its lanky limbs bending at odd angles as it leaped onto the platform.
Rowan, meanwhile, had plopped down cross-legged on the floor to watch the display.
He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual as he picked at a loose thread on his pants. The act, sadly, fooled no one. "I saw the news from home. Looked pretty wild… Something about a 'Man-Bat'?"
Bruce's eyes flicked from the creature to the tablet, then briefly in Rowan's direction. "Subject identified as Dr. Robert Kirkland. His Serum was more successful than anticipated. He's fast, strong, and highly aggressive."
On the platform, the weights rose without so much as a grunt, the movement so smooth it looked near effortless.
Again and again, Ichor repeated the motion like tireless machine. "I'll head back to Gotham tomorrow—"
"You're better off here… Gotham's in safe hands."
"Kicking me out already? Ouch!"
Ignoring the jib, Bruce continued. "My long-range analysis indicates the scale of future conflicts will increase exponentially. A street-level brawler is less valuable to me right now than a mystical consultant on standby."
"But it's my mess to clean up…"
"A single Metahuman is a temporary problem. The potential fallout from the Son of Trigon losing control is not." The Dark Knight replied, tone brooking no argument.
Disappointed, Rowan's shoulders sagged. "So… You mentioned 'safe hands?'"
"An acquaintance has agreed to come out of retirement to manage Gotham. He'll be more than sufficient."
"Who?"
"His name is Ted Grant, though most know him as Wildcat… There are a select few people I would entrust the city to; he is one of them."
"Wildcat," Rowan repeated, tasting the name on the surface of his tongue, before his brain helpfully supplied. "Right, the old-timer! I read his files. He's still flying solo?"
"Not anymore. He has a new protégé, a girl named Barbara Gordon," Bruce answered, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Sound familiar to you?"
"The girl's a fucking menace…" The Demon snorted, elaborating only when Bruce swivelled in his direction. "But a well-intentioned one, so I… Nudged her in the right direction."
"Is that all there was to it?"
"Dude, stop looking at me like that. We're kids."
"That didn't stop me at your age." The billionaire playboy commented, tone as dry as the sand in the Sahara. Rowan stared for a second, blinked, then broke into a lopsided grin. Leaning forward, he offered a fist which, after a moment of hesitation, Bruce bumped with his own.
"Mah man!" The boy clapped with a crooked grin. "But get your mind outta' the gutter. I, for one, prefer blondes, and if I had to go out with a redhead, I'd take Poison Ivy."
Her, or Hawkgirl… Both might be for the streets, but who wasn't in DC? The disgusted look the Dark Knight shot him was demeaning enough for the Demon to jump out of his seat. "Like you're one to judge, Furry."
"For your information, Selina waxes everything."
"…"
"…"
"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, Bruce, but that's definitely cause for celebration. C'mere…" The Imp leaned in, knuckles meeting the Bat's. One fistbump later, their attention swung back to Ichor.
"You said your Shade was stronger, yet these readings look identical to the first diagnostic." The Dark Knight noted with a hum.
"I never said stronger. I said he learned some new tricks. You're looking at the first one."
Observing Ichor, the Dark Knight thoughtfully stroked his chin.
"I see… A Corporeal Form certainly expands its capabilities, but consuming a fragment of a Cosmic Entity should've resulted in more than just the ability to manifest physically. What else can it do?"
"Thought you'd never ask."
Grinning, Rowan brought his hands together, and on cue, the Shade broke apart at once, undoing into a swarm of frenzied, hand-sized bats.
"Impressive, I know? But for my next trick… How about something scarier?" He clapped again, and the cloud of bats collapsed inward, churning and swelling as they solidified into a reptilian form that dwarfed even the real Killer Croc. Snorting, Ichor dragged its claws across the floor, carving deep gorges as it rose onto its hind legs.
"Fascinating," Eyes glued to the Shade, the Caped Crusader murmured. "Does it adhere to Conservation of Mass? Is the total strength of the Original Symbiote split among the smaller Constructs?"
"Nope," Rowan answered with a pop. "Apparently Magic doesn't give a shit about physics. There's a Cost, though: The bigger the Transformation, the greater the drain. Zatara called it a Toll, but I think I'm just gonna stick with Mana."
"Is there any other function?"
Rubbing the back of his neck in awkwardly, Rowan cleared his throat and beckoned the Shade closer. "There's one more trick… It's… A kind of override. It can puppet living things."
"Living things, you said. Show me." The Dark Knight repeated, his voice devoid of judgement as he unlatched a small cage.
The lab rat inside scurried to the edge of the table in a desperate bid for freedom that ended when a wall of darkness rose before it.
Looming over the creature, Ichor's grin widened as it seeped into the rat's shadow. For a bare second, the rat's fur crawled with inky veins as its eyes flared crimson, and then it went still.
"I can sort of tap into its senses if I concentrate," Rowan explained with knitted brows, wiping the blood trickling down his upper lip. "But the feed is… Strange… Like my brain's trying to translate sensory data it wasn't built for. And it doesn't last long either."
"So it takes its Toll."
Was that a joke? "Bruce, I'm warning you…"
"Is it fixed?"
"No, it depends on the host's complexity, I think?" Rowan explained as the Possessed lab rat scampered up his arm to nuzzle his cheek. "Man, get off me, you freak!"
Brushing Ichor off his shoulder, Rowan continued like nothing ever happened. The Caped Crusader, thankfully, played along. "He held a fly for almost an hour. The rat? Fourty minutes, tops."
"What about a human host?" And there it was… The million dollar question.
"I, uhm, I haven't attempted one yet."
"… Really?" The surprise in his voice baffled even the Batman.
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?!"
"It wasn't a judgment," Bruce clarified, raising a placating hand. "I just assumed, from a practical standpoint, you would have tested the limits."
"Well, I fucking didn't!" The Demon spat, agitated. He couldn't quite articulate the reason, not even in the privacy of his own mind, but Rowan'd always had a gut-level revulsion for Mind Control; a loathing that, frankly, deserved a category of its own, shared only by his equally inexplicable contempt for the deterministic notion of Soulmates.
"It could be an invaluable tool if used for the right purposes…"
"I know," Rowan conceded, for rationally, he knew Possession could be immensely useful in the field. "But unless you've got a thug stashed around somewhere, it's a moot point."
Squaring his shoulders, the Bat removed his cowl and invited. "Try it on me."
"No." Rowan still remembered the lab rats and how their small bodies had convulsed violently as they coughed up a black, viscous fluid until the Shade was fully expelled. He remembered the mosquitoes and how they dropped dead as well, but when had Death ever deterred Bruce Wayne?
"We need data on the ability, and I want to benchmark my own resistance to metaphysical intrusion. It'll be a controlled experiment."
Searching his mentor's face, the Demon tousled his hair in exasperation. "You're fucking unbelievable, you know that?"
"So I've been told… Now go for it. Consider this payback for every bruise and beating I've ever given you in the last three years."
Perplexed, Rowan ran his tongue over his molars, brows climbing as he studied the Bat. "Fine, have it your way, then."
The Shade slithered free of the rat in a wet, hacking cough, oozed across the table before disappearing into Bruce's shadow.
Contrary to all expectations, nothing happened… And then everything did all at once as the Dark Knight staggered forward with a hand over his eyes. Rowan might have rushed to his side, if not for the violent battering at the top of his skull.
"ArG-ARGH!" The Fiend cried just as a stray neuron fired off in his brain, feeding him an old piece of lore while he lay bleeding.
'So spoke the King of Olympus:
There are Men;
There are Gods;
And there's the Batman.'
Excruciating agony pummeled the inside of Rowan's skull as white spots dotted his vision. Flopping onto his stomach, he barked hoarsely, "ICHOR! GET OUT!" A moment later Bruce's own choking gags followed as the Shade spilled out of his mouth and scampered across the floor… Even the Shade itself looked shaken, shivering on the tiles as its claws dragged weakly across the floor.
Breathless, Rowan rolled onto his back and wheezed. "N‑Next time you wanna test your resistance against mental intrusions, do us all a favor and kindly ask someone else."
— [HELLBRED] —
"That first disaster gave us the most important piece of data yet: Possession isn't a one‑way street.
It is a two‑line call, and if the specimen on the other end has the training and the Willpower to back it up, he can scream right back. We also learned that duration isn't fixed, even among specimens of the same species.
Take the first rat Ichor Possessed for example.
The Possession lasted nearly forty minutes.
The second exceeded that by three, while the third broke free after only a little over half an hour.
Emboldened by our findings, we dug even deeper! A shame that knowledge came at the expense of those poor, poor critters. Bruce and I went through nearly a dozen rats before we could confirm that complexity wasn't the issue; Willpower and Sentience were… The last, and frankly grisliest, discovery came on the second day of my quarantine.
Bruce, being Bruce, had been obsessively tracking his vitals alongside the lab rats', and found that Ichor doesn't just puppet its Host; it corrupts and feeds on them too, and it wasn't subtle either. In fact, most specimens displayed sluggishness, heightened aggression, lowered inhibitions, and the slightest tilt toward their worst impulses…
Although, perhaps most surprising of all, was the fact not even the Batman had been exempt from the after‑effects."
— [HELLBRED] —
Adjusting his tie and collar, the Magician recited a Chant, then beckoned his daughter. "Are you ready?"
"Almost!" Zatanna shouted back, tossed on the blazer she'd ironed the night before, and rushed to his side. Hand on his arm, the girl chided. "Daddy, you can't just materialize over his hospital bed!
"This is not a social call, Zatanna."
"He nearly died, Daddy." She retorted. "We're bringing a gift. It's what you do for people who are recovering."
Zatara's Spell dissipated with all the grace of a wet fart as he sighed. "What do you suggest, then?"
Smiling proudly, she said. "A trip to the market, duh!"
A short, begrudgingly permitted trip later, the girl ducked into a market stall, grabbed a wicker basket, and filled it with fruit, chocolate, and, because she just couldn't resist, a gossip magazine that was clearly too pink for Rowan.
"Get well soon, but also, here's a laugh." Zatanna giggled to herself, clutching the gift basket as she hurried to catch up with her father. Led away from the bustling market and into a series of quiet, intersecting alleyways that didn't seem to follow any sense or logic, she blinked as a brick wall that clearly wasn't there a moment ago faded into view.
Rubbing her temples, she whined. "Daddy, you know I hate it when you warp Space like this… We could've just walked."
"It's not safe out here, sweetie." Responded Zatara, pressing his palm against the newly-materialized wall. With a low hum, the masonry folded inward and revealed the beckoning maw of a steel elevator.
Sounding disappointed, he continued to chide… Like he'd expected her to know better. "Rowan left for one evening, and you saw what became of it."
And in a sense, Zatanna did.
She knew very well the people behind her mother's disappearance could be coming after her next, them or any out of the hundreds of Cosmic threats around, but she'd talked to one of the Golems the other day, and she truly was afraid her 'condition' would grow if she were deprived of the outside world any longer.
Yet despite herself, Zatanna couldn't find it in her to fight her grieving father, so she nodded instead.
Dejected, she kept her eyes on the floor as the elevator descended further.
Finally, the doors opened to a sterile white corridor.
It was a world away from the vibrant, lonely halls of Shadowcrest where every object hummed with a story, a history, and not in a good way…
Everything Zatanna saw, from the composite floor to the seamless walls and the bulbs overhead was a soul-crushingly bland white which, if she had to be honest, hurt her eyes a little. They were halfway down the corridor when her father stopped abruptly, his hand rising to touch the smooth, featureless wall as though sensing something she couldn't.
"Daddy, what is it?"
"The Wards are failing already," The Magician mumbled. "John Smith' commissioned this protective matrix from me not three days ago. It was designed to be impenetrable, to last for decades. For it to undo like this…"
Removing his tophat, Zatara tapped his brow, then motioned at his daughter. "I must reinforce the Seals before they're breached. Go on ahead. Find Smith and inform him of our arrival."
Her heart fluttered nervously as she asked. "Alone?"
"You will be fine," He intoned, closing his eyes to tap into his Third Eye. "Follow the corridor to its end."
Alone now, she hurried down the hall.
Apart of Zatanna was terrified, but another, evem larger part felt thrilled, if not to say enchanted by the 'adventure.' Soon enough, her hesitant jog quickened into a stride while she oh'd and ah'd at every little thing. Zatanna was just starting to feel the tinniest smidgen of confidence when an explosion reached her ears.
She dropped the gift basket and flattened herself against the corridor wall, eyes darting around to locate the source of the mayhem. "What is going on?" Ears perked, she hissed, focusing on a door to the left.
Her father would never have brought her here if it were truly dangerous, but the noises carried none of the rhythm or reason she'd expect from a machine. They sounded more like the boys in her class having a brawl in the yard. Carefully, she crept up, nudged the solid eight‑inch door open just enough for a glimpse and peeked inside.
The first thing Zatanna caught was a pair of shadows flitting across the bare, spartan room.
The next was the tentacles lashing out of Rowan's shadow to keep the other combatant at bay. Readying a spell, she was just about to intervene when she realized the older man was none other than 'John Smith' himself, whom her father had devoted an entire Summer to five years ago.
He had come to them seeking Magic, and left instead with a mastery of something that was arguably far more mundane, yet no less useful: Escapism.
Zatanna sighed dreamily, the thought bringing with it the ghost of an old, childish crush… A crush she clearly had not outgrown, judging by the way her heart was leaping out of her chest at the sight of his soaked shirt.
Then her attention quickly shifted from Smith to Rowan.
His white hair, usually an artful mess, was now plastered to his forehead as sweat traced the sharp lines of his face. For the very first time, Zatanna saw the power coiled in his arms, the swell of his biceps as he braced for impact, and the dense, perfectly conditioned muscle in his forearms.
Although the most eye-catching of all had to be his face…
Stripped of the usual shit-eating grin, 'He's actually quite attractive…' Zatanna reluctantly admitted to herself.
Then the fight exploded into motion while Zatanna watched, utterly mesmerized as two completely opposed philosophies of combat clashed in a series of blows.
The stalemate came when Rowan, chest heaving still, unleashed a combination that Bruce slipped between with ease.
Closing the distance, he shoved Rowan's sternum with an open palm, sending him stumbling back. Frustration crossed Rowan's face as he rose and dusted his chest. "Mind if I even the odds a little more, Bruce?"
"Be my guest." A wave of malevolence pressed against Zatanna as Rowan's shadow rose, coalescing into a taller, older Doppelgänger. Bumping fists, the Spiritual Projection and its Conjurer split around Smith, taking their sweet time to approach before jumping the man.
Rowan initiated with a jab that forced Smith's guard up, stealing his attention just long enough for the Doppelgänger to drive a hook into his ribs. Hurt, though undeterred, Smith rolled away with the impact, but Rowan was already on him… His legs, specifically.
The master of Escapism vaulted clear of the sweep, only to meet the Doppelgänger's upper-cut upon landing.
Caught between the two-pronged assault, Smith quickly found himself losing more and more grounds.
He could handle a Metahuman.
He could take dozens of trained assassins.
But a Metahuman assassin he'd trained himself while he was completely unarmed and equipped with only a sweaty shirt? That, it turned out, was the secret recipe for finally putting the BBB (Big, Bad Bat) on his back.
Shooting low, the Doppelgänger tackled Smith's midsection and caused the soles of his boots to shriek against floor.
That, however, was only ever meant to be a diversion.
While 'Smith' braced, grinding the Doppelgänger's momentum to a halt, the real Rowan had snuck behind him and launched a spinning kick at the older man's head which could have; would have ended the fight right then and there, had it landed.
Unfortunately, Smith was able to duck as if he had eyes in the back of his head, but the instant he straightened, the Doppelgänger threw a hook at his kidney. That one grunt was the first and, unbeknownst to Zatanna, the last sound of pain she'd ever hear from him.
Snarling, Smith lashed out with a vicious backhand that caught the Doppelgänger across the jaw, but an opening had been made, and Rowan was all too happy to tag in with a haymaker.
"Take that!"
Thrown across the room, Smith crashed through a row of training dummies before coming to a stop.
""Bruce?/John!""