For a city that's synonymous with crime, grime, and gargoyles, Gotham sure cleans up nice when it wants to. The port district, for instance, could almost pass for a legitimate place of business if you squinted hard enough and, you know, ignored the perpetual saltiness in the back of one's throat.
The Sun had long since dipped, yet the drone of crashing waves was still ocassionally broken by screams of a foreman yelling at his crew, a worker probably catching his hand in some machinery… The usual blue-collar misery.
Lining the entrance to Warehouse 12 stood a welcoming committee that wouldn't have looked out of place in a casting call for 'The Godfather,' except… Uglier. A collection of hired thugs, henchmen, and career criminals who probably thought 'diversifying their portfolio' meant learning how to use a different caliber of guns.
While a few leaned against crates, taking casual drags from cheap cigarettes; others stood nearby, palming the handguns tucked into their waistbands.
Slouched backs immediately straightened as a Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of the warehouse. From the driver's side emerged a man built like a brick shithouse squeezed into a chauffeur's uniform. His cold glance swept over the henchmen, and one by one, their eyes dropped to the ground. He waited until he was certain they dared not meet his gaze, and only then did he open the rear door.
And out shuffled a man with an elongated, curved nose; a toothless smile; pale skin and short, stubby legs that made him shuffle like a penguin, hence the moniker…
Who else could it be but one of Gotham's kingpins: Oswald Cobblepot?
Escorted by two enforcers whose chief function seemed to be glowering and donning somewhat inferior clothing to his custom-tailored three-piece, Cobblepot crossed the sidewalk, umbrella raised like a staff as he vanished into the mouth of the warehouse to join the other kingpins. He hadn't taken more than five steps when he caught the howls of men and women violently trying to murder one another.
With a weary, exasperated sigh, Cobblepot jerked the entrance open and was welcomed by total pandemonium as expected.
You couldn't pack this many brutal lunatics, veteran syndicate bosses, and upstart Metas into one space and expect harmony, especially when two-thirds of them couldn't stand their own reflection on a decent day.
A notion that, perhaps, hit a little too close to home for a man who shunned mirrors for that exact reason.
"Are we quite done?" Oswald finally announced his arrival, tone oozing with patronizing composure. "Or do you require a few more moments to resolve your petty quarrel?" His voice brought the mayhem to a halt, but the desire to murder still remained in the gleam of blades that weren't concealed and the focused sights of guns that weren't stowed.
Cobblepot waddled over to a reinforced crate and booted the groaning False-Facer aside. Claiming the makeshift throne, he leaned his umbrella against it and surveyed the group. He knew most of these people.
The usual suspects—brutes, has-beens, and Metas were all there, but some fresh meat had shown up too.
'New masks, new problems.'
After a casual glance, a brunette near the back caught his attention.
She had sharp, defined cheekbones and an oval face marked by the straight, aristocratic line of her nose.
With a single, motion, she brushed a cascade of mahogany hair over her shoulder.
The red silk of her high-necked dress rippled with the movement, hugging her curves tight; a detail that didn't escape a single man in the room. But as… Arresting as her assets were, it was that look of indifference; of pure contempt for every other Soul in the room that caught his interest.
Oswald Cobblepot had paid for, bedded, and discarded his share of beautiful women—models and starlets mostly… Not one of them had this kind of composure.
Not one could stand still in the same room with Gotham's worst, and yet she was.
The kingpin had been studying her for three seconds when her head tilted, and her cool emerald eyes met his from across the crowded room. "I was under the impression this was a war council against the Bat, not a competition to see who can do his job for him first."
"The Sionis family demands an explanation for this, Cobblepot!"
The demand earned the False Facer a kick to the face from the chauffeur.
"Your boss addresses me with respect," Penguin sneered, tilting his head down; monocle flashing under the shifting light as he revealed two full rows of pointed fangs. "A courtesy, I see, you have failed to extend."
Looming over the downed man, the chauffeur hauled him up by the throat. The False Facer fired in a panic, the rounds thudding dully against the big man's chest, but the chauffeur didn't even flinch despite the bullets sinking in his unblemished uniform.
"Black Mask hasn't crawled out of whatever hole he's been hiding in since the Bat turned his face into hamburger meat... Who exactly do you think you are?"
"Our boss is—"
"Not here." Oswald interrupted with a snap of his fingers, and his chauffeur immediately lunged forward, forcing his fist into the False-Facer's mouth, transforming it into mud that poured down his throat. A few of the villains and kingpins who recognized the iconic Meta scrambled backward and shouted the name in alarm.
"""Clayface!"""
Clayface relented only when clay began to pour from every orifice of the henchman's mask.
"Oops?" The Shapeshifter laughed, waving to the villains he knew as he resumed his station behind Oswald.
With the point made, the once-unruly assembly also began to quiet down.
"Now then," Cobblepot announced, steepling his gloved fingers as he surveyed the room. "Let us address the reason we have convened: The Bat."
The room seethed with a shared animosity, and why wouldn't it?
Every soul there had tasted the Bat's fists.
Most had seen their profits crippled by his crusade.
Quite a few had even been left with a terror of anything vaguely bat-shaped or dark.
Every villain and kingpin in the room wanted a piece of the Bat, but that fire quickly sputtered out at the recollection of their last 'gathering.'
"Your fear is as pathetic as your ambition," Falcone snorted coldly. "Let us see if the great Harvey Dent has a plan, or if he simply brought us here to watch children squabble."
Two-Face slapped the spinning coin onto the back of his wrist, hiding the result. "The coin agrees. The plan is Arkham. I propose we take the asylum, lure the Bat into our territory, and release every monster he ever put away."
"A plan that failed spectacularly once already." Falcone pointed out, while the other villains eyed the psychotic man who let chance dictate justice, waiting for a response.
The answer came not from Two-Face, but from the woman in red. She didn't move, but her gaze swept over them with all the patience of a weary adult forced to correct kindergarteners.
"You didn't have a plan last time… And you didn't have us."
"Big words for a five-dollar whore!" One of Falcone's goons spat.
"Someone ought to teach this bitch some manners."
"Who do you think you are?!"
"Why don't you sit on daddy's lap?" Another whistled.
With a simple roll of her eyes, the shadow behind Talia detached from the wall.
His head was encased in a tight leather mask, his features reduced to the demonic scowl stitched into the material.
Unnaturally thick muscle rippled across his bare, scar-crossed torso, threaded with green veins connected to the pump fused to his spine and the base of his skull.
Before the first heckler could so much as smirk, a hand the size of a dinner plate engulfed his entire head; the fourth man shrieked as a scythe dropped from the rafters and severed his arm from the elbow, while the other two received mercy in the form of a quick death. As the bosses of the fallen men jumped to their feet, more shadows got off from the walls and put blades to their throats.
"Dent! Have you lost your mind?!"
"Who the hell's she?!"
"She," Harvey grunted, "Is the person who's going to help us win back Gotham… Show some damn respect."
.
.
.
"Absolutely not."
"Oh, come on! It'll be fun!"
"I'm—" Rowan grunted, knuckles turning white as he hauled his chin over the bar. "—Having plenty of fun right here."
"Doesn't look like it from where I'm standing." Zatanna pursed her lips, wrinkling her nose at his sweat-soaked tank top.
"Then you need glasses."
He was halfway through another pull-up when she grabbed at his pants. "Oi, hands off!"
There'd be no embarrassing, fan-servicey anime moments today. Not on his watch.
"C'mon! Please!"
He dropped from the bar with a long, weary sigh and turned to a sullen Zatanna. "Lemme' guess: Your dad said you couldn't go unless I tagged along?"
Her refusal to meet his eyes was answer enough.
"Don't you, I don't know, want friends?"
"I've got me, myself, and I. Besides, I've got you, don't I? I've got a cranky old butler, two cranky-but-not-so-old mentors, and a nephew. That's enough socializing for anyone." Rowan said with a shrug, followed immediately by another sigh.
He knew he couldn't really say no.
As bothersome as it was, he didn't want to rob her of a social life, not while he was still a freeloader at Shadowcrest, and receiving one-on-one Magic lessons from Zatara no less. "Fine... Once a week, I'm your guy. But I need at least forty-eight hours' notice. No exceptions."
"Really?!" Her face lit up.
"Yeah… Just lemme grab a shower real quick."
"No need for that!" Zatanna chirped, and with a flick of her wrist, Chanted, "[Naelc mih pu]!"
A cool, tingling energy swept over him, lifting away the sweat, dust, and even the stubborn stain on his shirt… Impressed, he joked. "You have to teach me that one.
"It's just a basic quality-of-life Spell. Handy, and easy to learn."
"Easy for you maybe." Rowan muttered, rolling his eyes as he headed for his room.
"Hey, where are you going?!"
"To put on actual clothes?" Even clean, he figured he'd probably fit in better at a mechanic shop than wherever she was planning to go. "Unless this is the look you were going for?"
"Let's aim for 'effortlessly cool' and not 'aggressively unemployed.'"
Eyes glinting with mischief, Zatanna cast another spell, replacing his workout clothes with a slim-fit brown chinos, a soft, white linen button-up and darker suede desert boots. "Well…? A significant improvement, don't you think?"
"Did these just clip through the floor or something?" Rowan asked, tugging at the collar of his new shirt and scrunching his nose.
Zatanna let out a short laugh. "C'mon! Let's go."
"Seriously, where did you get these? You didn't swipe them, did you?"
She only giggled in response.
"ZEEEEE! Who did you rob these from?!!"
Their short bus trip ended in front of what looked to the Reincarnator like a relic from a bygone era. Zatanna stopped, spreading her arms wide. "Behold!"
"Who even goes to mall anymore?"
"What's wrong with malls? They have everything you could ever need, all in one place."
"So does Amazon. And they deliver."
"This isn't just about buying things, Row-Row!" The 'Row-Row' in question twitched as a dark vein pulsed from his temple all the way down his cheek. "It's about the experience! The smell of the food court, the terrible pop music, even the awful B-movies! It's a whole ecosystem to explore!"
For someone so interested in the mall's 'whole ecosystem,' she was rather quick to find the Dior store. Before she could drag him into the store, a shrill, girly voice called out to them. "Zee!"
'Saved by the bell!' Rowan thought, sighing in relief, only to pale once he saw the entourage of three boys and four girls approaching them. 'God help us all.'
He trailed a step behind the visibly excited Zatanna, watching her greet her friends before slowing his pace to maintain some distance from the group.
Retrieving a pair of sunglasses from his chest pocket, Rowan slid them on and began to daydream. Meanwhile, at the front of the group, a girl named Zoe slid up to Zatanna with a conspiratorial whisper. "Your boyfriend's the strong, silent type, huh?"
"He's not my boyfriend," Zatanna denied, though she couldn't stop the heat rising in her cheeks. "He's more like my... Court-appointed guardian."
"Ooh, the forbidden bodyguard romance? I love that trope! Is it an enemies-to-lovers situation?"
Zatanna found herself helpless as the other girls piled on with questions and teasing.
Sadly, Rowan was lost in the combat scenarios playing out in his mind and remained completely oblivious to the conversation right up until a very real hand clamped down on his shoulder.
The touch triggered an immediate defensive reflex that brought his fist out of his pocket.
Thankfully, his training kicked in a half-second later, overriding the impulse. He took a moment to actually look at the kid's flushed face, defiant posture, and the situation just clicked.
With a sigh, Rowan let his hand drop to his side. "Let's just get this over with. No, I'm not dating her. Yes, you can try your luck. And no, I won't 'disappear' so you can have a clear shot, because we live under the same roof. It's not an option."
At the news, the boy's face went through a range of expressions before settling into an ugly smile that nearly squeezed tears from his eyes.
"Hey, it's okay. You still have a chance! I'm cheering you on!"
Rowan's version of 'comforting words' had the opposite of their intended effect, because the boy promptly burst into tears. It really wasn't hard to see why, given Rowan's villainous face and the smirk that could easily be mistaken for taunting, whether up-close or at a distance.
Hearing the commotion, the group turned toward them in confusion."Row-Row! What did you do?!"
"I-I didn't do anything!" Rowan protested, scratching the back of his head in confusion. Hearing the affectionate nickname, the other boy seemed to deflate, a look of utter despair on his face before he crumpled to his knees.
"Well, you must have done something, or he wouldn't be crying!"
"I literally cheered him on!" Rowan shot back, exasperated.
Zoe, bless her kind soul, finally stepped in with a wry smile. "Sorry about my brother. He's a bit of a crybaby." While Zatanna helped the now-sniffling boy up, he glanced over his shoulder at Rowan, a ghost of a triumphant smirk on his tear-streaked face.
'Well, I'll be damned. Shitty move, but well-played, you little bastard…' Rowan hadn't realized the 'white lotus' archetype could come with balls attached, 'Live and learn, I guess.'
He raised his sunglasses, looking down his nose at the group with a slight tilt of his head, then proceeded to outpace them all to the front, his posture arrogantly straight. After that debacle, the group decided to head to the food court first, where Zatanna's clique swarmed a pizza place, fighting over toppings while Neo—the crybaby—tried selling everyone on ranch and pineapple-topped pepperoni.
Rowan sidestepped the whole mess by securing a clean table close enough to look involved while he retreated into his thoughts, completely ignoring Zatanna's efforts to make him engage.
After stuffing themselves full, the group migrated to the arcade where the boys swarmed the 'House of the Dead,' and the girls launched a futile campaign against a clearly rigged claw machine. His luck ran out, however, when Zatanna grabbed him by the arm, pulling him away from his safe corner. "C'mon, Row-Row! Engage with the common folk!"
Pushed in front of 'House of the Dead,' Rowan rolled his eyes, grabbed the gun, and began to headshot every single thing on the screen.
Rowan pressed the orange toy gun into the awestruck Neo's hands and winked. "Good luck, brat. Hope your aim's as good as your acting." His aim, it turned out, wasn't nearly as good as his acting… Not even close, since the kid didn't even make it to the scoreboard.
'And here come the waterworks.'
The movie gave Rowan ninety blessed minutes of darkness, even if he had to listen to Zoe, Zatanna and the other girls whispered wildly inaccurate theories about a plot he personally found painfully obvious.
After sugar-loading on oversized sodas, the group wandered aimlessly through the mall corridors, until something caught Zatanna's attention. Drifting away from her friends as if hypnotized, she stopped in front of the temple to overpriced fashion: Dior.
Apparently, she'd been window-shopping a little too long, because an employee soon emerged from the store to shoo her away like a pest. Witnessing this, Rowan glanced at the handbag Zatanna had been studying and pulled out his platinum card.
His weekly allowances had been slashed to a tenth, but since he wasn't using the funds for anything anyway—'Might as well flaunt it.'
"I already told you brats—" The saleswoman growled.
"Let me stop you right there. Customer Service 101: The person with the money gets to do the talking. You speak when spoken to."
Flashing his card, Rowan beckoned to the saleswoman in the back.
"Row-Row, wait! It's fine, really." Zatanna whispered, pulling at his sleeve while giving the staff an apologetic smile.
"You think it's fine. I don't."
He couldn't fathom why she'd want these overpriced rags when she could create masterpieces with a few words. Unlike gold or jewels, they had no intrinsic worth. Still, he'd seen her lingering over that handbag long enough, and knew expensive gifts carried a weight regardless of logic.
It was the difference between a ten-dollar gift card and a PS5.
No one actually wanted the gift card; anyone who claimed to was just being polite or already owned a PS5 and wasn't a greedy cunt.
Furthermore, Rowan thought it a sound investment in DC's Scarlet Witch, even if she had been nerfed to the ground or left wholly underutilized.
Once the handbags were neatly packed by the same saleswoman who had tried to chase them out and who, he'd made sure, received no commission for her troubles, Rowan casually tossed the gift to Zatanna.
"You-You're really giving this to me?" Zatanna stammered, clutching the box.
"Duh? What else am I going to do with a woman's handbag?"
"But it's Dior! It must've been insanely expensive!" Zoe exclaimed, eyes wide as saucers.
It wasn't a big deal, not with the ridiculously generous allowance he got from the Sugar-Batty himself. 'We don't always see eye-to-eye, but God bless you, Bruce.' It sure felt nice to be filthy fucking rich and flaunt it every once in a while.
"Seriously, where does a teenager even get that kind of money?"
Rowan shrugged. "Wise investments."
The walk to the cafe was a… Strange affair. Zatanna kept shooting him complicated, unreadable looks, while her friends chattered in hushed, excited whispers, occasionally glancing at the Dior bag she was holding to her chest. Rowan ignored it all, content to retreat back behind his sunglasses and the wall of silence he'd built around himself.
Settling into a table directly behind theirs, Rowan nursed a coffee and minded his own business, only picking up broken fragments of their conversation. "—It's said that whoever goes in that house comes out with a sickness—"
Overwhelmed with boredom, Rowan pulled out his phone and, after a moment of aimless scrolling, navigated to the Cape-n'-Cowl Forum.
~ § ~
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~ § ~
His thumb flicked dismissively over threads about hero fashion and alien conspiracies. He was about to close the app when a title from the Coast City subforum, written in frantic all-caps, caught his attention. 'HOLY SHIT GUYS! HOLY SHIT DEATHSTROKE'S DECLARING WAR!'
He clicked the link, and was instantly brought to a live feed showing the mercenary prancing around a terrified, gagged man in a chair who was screaming his lungs into rags.
"—Thought you were done with me, Imp? I'm back, and I have got seven new contracts in Coast City... You remember how good I am at collecting, don't you? But let's make this interesting.
You have seven days to find me… Seven days to put a stop to this before I claim these lives."
The Terminator finally paused, just as Rowan felt his fingers curl into fists.
He then pressed a wire to the screaming man's throat and stared straight into the camera, tightening the wire as if to remind Rowan of his deed.
The entire time, his gaze never once strayed from the lens.
Not until the shrieking stopped.
Not until the violent spasms stilled.
Not until Rowan tasted copper and realized he'd bitten through his lip…
"—Well, you have six days now.Better start running."
Bruce's code and Rowan's own weakness had killed this man as surely as if they'd strangled the man.
He knew what must be done, and yet… He found himself trembling at the thought. "So much for a day out."