A/N: Jesus, writing this chapter was like passing a kidney stone.
Arkham Asylum was a lot of things… It was dark, it was eerie, and so very often accompanied by the screaming and howling of the raving mad. As if the bloody shrieks of Arkham's regulars, or crunches that echoed from sector 331's corridor where the beasties of the bunch were locked weren't enough, another was set to join them on this fine night.
One Werner Zytle—a Meta called Count Vertigo whose power, as one might've guessed from the dumb alias, could unbalance, disorient and confuse the senses.
"Great… More reasons to vomit in this shithole." Mercer's co-worker growled through a yawn, the half-empty coffee in his hand doing little for the prominent dark circles under his eyes.
"You ever think about why they don't just give these guys the chair?"
"Now ain't that the billion-dollar question," Billy replied with a humorless chuckle. "More than once… Why?"
Ransacking a bag of chips, Mercer crunched on a handful and tossed the older man a bone. "My theory? They need the villains to keep the capes busy… Gives 'em something to punch as a pastime."
"That's some serious tinfoil-hat shit right there."
"Is it, though?" Mercer countered, leaning forward. "I mean, play it out. Say we win. Say all the villains are gone. What happens when the heroes decide they don't like how the world is being run? Who can stop them? The army? The guys at the Pentagon? Good luck with that."
Mercer had seen enough news clips to know in a real confrontation, a handful of capes could decimate the world's combined military might. And if a nobody like him could figure that out, then the governments across the world surely knew it too.
"There will always be more villains."
"And what if there aren't any?" Mercer countered, pulling up the live feed from the gate. "This way, the government gets to keep a stable of monsters on hand, just in case their pet heroes decide to go off-leash. It's a messy system, but it works."
"Jesus, kid. You think too much."
"Hope for the best, anticipate the worst," Mercer responded with a nonchalant shrug. "Anyway, I heard they already got the new freak on a leash."
"Good. Less work for us." Taking a long sip straight from the second pot of coffee he'd brewed that night, Billy leaned his chair back, kicked his legs up onto the monitor console, and pulled the hat over his eyes. "I'mma take a nap… Call me when they arrive."
He hadn't even closed his eyes when Mercer spotted the armored truck rounding the corner. "Rise and shine, sleeping beauty. Our VIP has arrived."
"Goddammit," Billy hissed, dragging a hand over his exhausted face before keying the radio. "Alright, Vertigo's on site! Chins up, and heads down, boys."
Mercer's eyes scanned the other monitors arrayed below the main feed as three squads, armed to the teeth, descend on the ground floor to receive the new inmate and his escort.
"Hawk, take position," Mercer mumbled into the comms. "If the bastard tries anything, take 'im out."
Quentin 'Hawk' was a no-nonsense ex-Marine who, in Mercer's months on the job, had proven disciplined to a fault and never once failed to confirm an order in under a second, so when the expected, clipped confirmation was met with nothing but static, his stomach immediately began to churn.
Mercer couldn't put a finger on it… The screens in front of him showed nothing out of place.
There was not a single shred of evidence to justify the unease, nothing except his gut telling him something had gone terribly wrong. Panicked thoughts narrowing to a single point, Mercer leaned into the mic and repeated. "Hawk?"
And that was when the sole female officer acted, sneaking behind Bob and pressing the barrel of her gun to his skull. Before anyone could even process the threat, a single, muffled pop bounced between the walls.
Just like that, Bob—good ol' Bob who always carried an extra donut for his hypoglycemic co-worker, simply ceased to be, his blood painting red patterns across the restrained Count's face and shirt.
"—Shi–!" Mercer choked back a scream as his co-workers brought their guns up, their defiance lasting only a second before the 'GCPD officers' disarmed them… Literally, in some cases. It all happened so fast, faster than his brain could process.
In no time the entire security detail was on their knees, heads bowed.
"—You in the control room! I know you're watching… Open the door to the subterranean floor, or—"
A single gunshot, and one of the kneeling guards slumped forward as Billy scrambled for the speaker button. "Stop it!" The 'officer' tilted her head, then shot another sobbing, kneeling guard right between the eyebrows.
"—The responsibility of informing their next of kin will fall to you, I imagine… Their wives, their children."
Another shot sounded, and Kaine collapsed.
Kaine who had a baby girl on the way.
Kaine, who had dragged Mercer's own ass out of a riot once.
Kaine, who was loud, boisterous and yet kind despite the stereotype.
Kaine, who'd been reduced to a splash of red on the concrete.
"I said STOP! Stop, goddamn you! I'm opening the door!"
He didn't know what possessed him, only that he couldn't let Billy open that gate and lunged, tavkling his co-worker against the console.
"The hell are you doing?! Get off me!"
"We can't!"
"The hell do you mean we can't?! Our boys are dying out there!"
Mercer grunted, holding on for dear life. "We have to start the lockdown protocol, Bill!"
The two men grappled awkwardly, a mess of limbs and grunts and shouts on the floor.
"They'll kill them anyway, don't you get it?!" Mercer pleaded. "We can't give them what they want, Bill!"
"Screw that!" Billy roared, driving an elbow into Mercer's face to loosen the grip on himself.
Then, he shoved the young man aside, scrambling to the console, and slamming his palm down on the cartoonishly huge red button. "W-What have you done, Bill?"
Crestfallen, Billy sighed, hat tumbling from his head to the ground. "I saved our men."
.
.
.
The hand on her shoulder caused Zatanna to turn around, finding Rowan leaning over the red sofa. "Zee, Teach just called. Time to go…"
"But—" She started to protest, then froze as she caught the cold glint behind his sunglasses. She'd only seen that look once before: When he'd Possessed those Vampires and made them bath under the Sun.
'Something serious must have happened.' She thought.
Forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, Zatanna turned to her friends to apologize.
Unwilling to part so soon, Neo stuttered a protest. "B-But we're having fun!"
"I'm so sorry, guys, but my dad is really strict."
Ignoring the groans from the group, she looked for Rowan and found him halfway to the exit already.
Zatanna had to practically jog to keep up with him as they left the cafe.
The easygoing, sarcastic boy from moments ago was gone, replaced by someone else entirely; someone whose shoulders were rigid, and head looked to be on a constant, subtle swivel as his eyes scanned the bustling mall crowds.
From behind, Zatanna saw his jaw clench tight, the muscle twitching just under his skin.
She opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, to maybe tease him with a 'Row-Row,' but thought better of it. Staying quiet, she walked trailed behind him as they moved through the establishment and finally pushed out into the cool night air.
"Okay, what is it? What's wrong?" Zatanna demanded as soon as they hit the street.
"See for yourself."
And saw it she did, expression souring with every second. "It's a trap, Rowan."
"I know." He said with a sigh, the frustrated eye-roll hidden by his dark lenses.
"And you're still going?"
"He's not giving me much of a choice."
"But didn't you return all your gear to John—suit included?"
Grinning with anticipation, Rowan pulled Zatanna into the nearest alley and removed the cross that had been dangling from his wrist. Without the protection of the holy object, Ichor was free to move again, enveloping him whole. "Go home first, Zee."
"Wai—"
"You're not coming along." She'd only survived the encounter with Yvonne because the Vampire had a specific use for her. Slade had no such scruples, and all it would take to kill a fragile glass cannon like Zatana was a single, well-placed bullet.
"Okay, but let me lend you a hand at least!"
Rowan almost asked how, a relic of his non-magical thinking, but caught himself realizing Magic was the how. "You can find him?"
"Find him, outfit you, and provide support," Zatanna replied with a smug smile. "But first, we have to go back to Shadowcrest."
They stared at each other, locked in a standoff of inaction until Rowan broke the silence. "Can't you just, I don't know, [Gate] us back?"
"…Do you have any idea how difficult Spatial Magic is?" Zatanna said defensively, crossing her arms with a haughty huff.
"Can't you just, I don't know, Reverse-Chant it like everything else?"
"That's not how it works,"
"If we're doing this, and we ARE doing this; then I need to know the limits of your Magic."
"We have to know how to cast a spell normally before we can reverse-chant it," She explained with a weary sigh.
"So no shortcuts?"
"I wish…"
Rowan sighed. "Of course."
A power as potent as Reality-Warping via oddly-spoken speech must have a catch, otherwise every other Magic User would have wiped the Zataras out centuries ago. The logic did not make the prospect of a bus any less irritating, especially when lives were at stake.
"Right. Taxi it is."
Flagging down a cab, the two filed into the backseat through opposite doors, each lost in different thoughts; Zatanna about the dangers a cold-blooded mercenary represented, while Rowan focused inward on his Shade.
The last time his Shade had fed on a sliver of the Entity of Rage, it had gained Tangibility and a far more advanced form of Shapeshifting. A powerful Vampire was no Emotional Entity, but it was still a significant meal.
Sinking into his mindscape, Rowan glared at Ichor, whose belly looked bloated again.
Face dark as the bottom of a used pot, he nudged the Stag with his foot, causing the creature to roll over and let out a satisfied burp. "Have you lazed around enough? What new trick did you pick up?"
The Stag put on an innocent expression and whimpered, earning itself another kick. "What are you whimpering for? Show me some new skills or put them hooves up, you lazy bastard!"
The Stag met his second kick with another pathetic whimper, trying to nuzzle its head against Rowan's leg like an oversized puppy.
"Don't even start with the cute act," Rowan snarled, shoving the creature's head away. "I still haven't punished you for abandoning me in that fucking sewer. Gimme' me something useful, before I make venison jerky out of you!"
The whimpering ceased, and the innocent, pleading look in its eyes vanished as the Stag rose, standing at its full, majestic height, and fixed Rowan with a gaze that felt as cold as the void between stars.
'This is it! Look at that pressure! That raw, intimidating aura!' His inner voice hyped loudly. 'It must have absorbed the vampire's essence and unlocked an S-Class combat ability! Is it Unholy Regeneration?! Sanguis Manipulation?!!'
But he hadn't gotten to feel smug for too long when the majestic creature squatted.
Its back legs bent awkwardly as its whole body began to tremble, grunting loudly.
The imposing posture collapsed into a deep, guttural strain, its shadowy muscles clenching with a profound effort that looked horribly familiar.
It was, for all intents and purposes, taking a dump.
After a final, shuddering heave, a small, dark object dropped from its rear with a sharp clink, clattering onto the floor of his Mindscape.
Then the Stag straightened up, looking quite pleased with itself and the object it just left behind: A jagged piece of unnaturally smooth obsidian.
Equal parts shocked and revolted all at once, Rowan's eyebrows began to spasm, his expression darkening even further. "Wha-What the hell is this? What the hell did you just produce? WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS?!"
He stared. The Stag stared back, its expression still maddeningly innocent.
Then Ichor lifted its foreleg, bent the hoof inward, aimed the tip at its own mouth, and tapped twice. 'Eat it!' It seemed to say, causing a vein in Rowan's temple pulsed so hard it was visible from space. Rowan whacked the Demon across the side of the head, then grabbed it by the neck.
"No, you eat it!" Rowan's voice broke with manic rage as he seized the Stag's antlers, grunted, and dragged its muzzle closer to the obsidian while prying its jaws apart. "You made this magic shit-stone, so you can damn well eat it yourself!"
Even ignoring where it came from, in what Universe was a human supposed to swallow a jagged piece of obsidian and survive? After a beating Ichor finally conceded.
The Stag dutifully picked up the rock and swallowed it, only for the obsidian to tumble right back out of its mouth and hit the floor with a dull clank… Apparently, even ancient entities of darkness drew the line at eating their own mystical excrement.
Rowan shot the Beast a venomous glare, to which Ichor responded with the metaphysical equivalent of a shrug.
"I don't give a damn if it grants me godhood, I'm not putting that thing in my mouth."
With a resigned sigh, Ichor picked up the Shard, shifted into humanoid form and shoved the obsidian piece though his chest. "You!!!"
"—Rowan?"
As dark spots began to fill his vision, Rowan couldn't help but hiss at the Shade, "This isn't over!" Then jolted awake at last.
"Rowan!"
Zatanna's eyes went wide as dark, pulsing veins spread across Rowan's skin before vanishing beneath his sleeves and the glow emanating behind his sunglasses. Reacting instantly, she scrambled between the seats just in time to block the cabbie's line of sight.
"Whatever's happening, you need to snap out of it!"
A shuddering breath escaped him, carrying a putrid, sulfuric stench while the veins slowly receded.
Rowan flexed his arm and felt... Nothing.
No surge of strength, no new abilities unlocking in his mind, no whisper of power from the Shade.
There was nothing at all. "Huh?"
.
.
.
High above the island asylum, on the steel skeleton of a new wing that had been left bare and surrendered to the salty, corrosive sea air for more than a decade, a caped figure landed silently to observe every nook and cranny.
Stalking along the rusted girder that overlooked the entire institution, he then swooped down, catching an armsman off-guard before lunging to suplex another straight through the floor. Meeting the wide eyes of a third attacker, the Dark Knight let a pellet fall, filling the makeshift room with smoke.
Pushing off the moment he landed, he flew forward, his fist catching one of Penguin's panicking men in the chin while his other leg simultaneously snapped up in a high kick to an adjacent face.
Four men, five seconds… He must be getting sloppy.
He silenced a downed thug with a kick since grunts were worthless for intel, then seized the squad leader by his tactical vest.
"You hit Arkham for a reason. Who are you breaking out?"
A strained, wheezing laugh sputtered past the thug's lips as blood flecked his teeth. "We g-got a real special welcome party planned for you, Bat!" He coughed, spraying a fine mist onto the floor. "Go on! Come and see!"
With a grunt, the Dark Knight slammed the thug's head against the wall, killing his defiant laughter as his eyes rolled back into his skull. "Talk a little less next time." Stepping over the bodies and into the open, he came face-to-face with gunmen.
Around twenty of them, in fact, all carrying more than enough firepower to turn him into Swiss cheese.
He ducked back into the makeshift room without thinking, but those thin wooden walls wouldn't stop a BB gun. He knew it, and the criminals knew it too, yet knowing wasn't quite enough for the henchmen, it seemed. "Open fire!" Only when the guns fell silent, the panels destroyed, and the dust cleared did they dare move forward, but there was no body under the debris except their beaten comrades.
No blood anywhere either.
"Watch out!"
They turned to find the full moon eclipsed by a massive, bat shape silhouette descending upon them.
Carving a path through the criminals, the Dark Knight stopped in front of the staircase and noted, switching off the x-ray. 'Five behind the door.' He had the strength to break the door down, but it would take time; valuable seconds they could use to blow the cowl off his head. 'I need to find another entry.'
His gaze drifted to the vent above, and with a grunt, tore the bolts from their hinges.
The Batman slid down the vent, his descent ending in a kick that sent the exit grate clattering across the floor of a narrow corridor illuminated by the occasional flickers of the damaged headlights. He was halfway down the corridor when his ears picked up the scurrying of rats and distant, manic sobbing.
Feigning ignorance, he followed the sounds of distress and found a thin figure curled up in the corner, lanky arms wrapped around drawn-up knees.
As Batman approached, the figure shot up with a burlap sack tied over his head, lunging clumsily while a faint, acrid mist seeped from the fibers of his mask.
Without a second look, Bruce drove a steel-toed boot into the man's jaw, silencing his shrieking and in the same motion caught the cold tang just inches from his neck between the fins on his gauntlet. Then, he glanced over his shoulder at the black-clad figure. "You're a long way from NandaParbat."
"The Demon Head demands an audience, Bat of Gotham."
"Then he should have come himself."