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Season 0: Year One - C39: Day #15 (Paid Patrons)
🕑 Added 2025-10-02 17:28:39 +0000 UTCAlt-Title: Sanguine
A/N: Sorry for the delay, the first draft actually had Rowan meeting Jesus, but I thought it was pretty deus ex machina, so I had to scrap like 2000 words.
Day #15:
Crimson blotches painted Rowan's path as he staggered out of the alley, blood seeping through the bandages and between his fingers in hot, sticky pulses quickly cleansed by the heavy downpour. Shadowcrest. He needed to get to Shadowcrest… He needed backup, but above all else, he needed answers.
Starting with: How could Deathstroke's holy objects affect him to such an extent? He had built up a tolerance to holy energy—hell, he wielded the cross every single day to shift back to human!
So what made this different?
Was it the intent behind Deathstroke's attack?
Had his own powers evolved in some way that made him more vulnerable to holy objects?
Or was there something fundamentally distinct between purifying himself and being purified by someone else, something that changed the very nature of the effect?
Giovanni, he could understand.
The Magician was perpetually chasing down mystical catastrophes to Earth.
But Zatanna? It was only a matter of a locating Spell for her! Which was at best a minor inconvenience, and that… That's precisely what worried him.
That could mean a variety of things, ranging from the Shadowcrest being beseiged to them dying from a random ritual, to the gates of Hell itself being opened! The possibilities made his chest tighten.
Third: where was Bruce? Batman left Gotham before, sure, but he always came back. He should've returned by day three when things first started collapsing!
Either the rumors were true and Bruce was dead, or he was somewhere licking his wounds. Regardless, Gotham had fallen to unprepared young heroes and the aging ones. And finally... 'Dick. Alfred. Please be safe.'
They better be, or there'd be hell to pay, consequences be damned.
But first... "Fuck." He had to fix this, had to patch himself up somehow, had to—
Rowan crushed down the howl of rage threatening to escape and stifled it to a far simpler, "Presence, you fucking asshole,” As he patted his back and front in search of his wallet, rosary and phone, only to realize he'd forgotten all three at the girls' apartment.
Rowan resisted the urge to break his fist against a brick wall, then eased the creases on his forehead. Unequipped, wounded and alone in a city that wasn't even his, thousands of miles from the people who needed him, the Hellspawn could only call upon the last and only ace up his sleeve, “Ichor?“
Relief flooded through him when the Shade responded, trilling as it bubbled up the wall. But something was wrong. Where before it had been pitch black, an Abyss given form daring all to gaze into; it now looked washed. Diluted. Less. Like a smudged drawing forgotten in the rain by a careless child.
It did not look directly at him, but instead stared absentmindedly at the streetlamps a block down the alleyway.
“Ichor?“ Rowan called again, and the Shade finally turned, its melted jaws working to form three very simple, yet rather damning words: 'Hurt. Can't. Walk.'
"Do I look like I'm in any state to walk?"
'Do I look like I'm in any state to help?' Ichor countered.
“Fuck…”
Retracing his steps, following the trail of his own blood like breadcrumbs back to the girls' apartment, Rowan finally stumbled upon the building just as the first pale rays of sunlight parted the clouds.
The fire escape, if it could even be called that, was little more than a rusted iron skeleton bolted haphazardly to the brick. Each rung groaned under his weight as he climbed, and threw himself through the window, hitting the floor in a graceless heap.
Conversation filtered through the ringing in his ears, muffled and distant as Rowan forced himself upright, legs buckling worse than the fire escape had as he staggered toward the closet. He'd barely gotten the door open when footsteps approached, and in came a brunette.
Dark hair fell past her shoulders in slightly disheveled waves, framing a face with sharp, expressive features.
She had curves, the kind that clearly weren't from a gym routine, filling out her casual clothes in all the right places, while her arms were crossed tight over her chest, shoulders squared and weight shifted back on one hip in a posture that screamed defensiveness. "Oh, look who's back! Most guys at least wait until morning to sneak out the window, dick."
"And they usually don't sneak back in." The blonde next to her added.
She was taller than the brunette, with long golden hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and bright blue eyes that held more curiosity than caution.
Where the dark-haired woman was all sharp edges and defensive, this one had softer features and a willowy frame that suggested she'd grown up… Somewhat comfortable.
Gaze flicking between the two, Rowan offered a weak smile.
"Unless the guy in question forgot some pretty critical personal belongings on your couch."
"Is 'personal belongings' code for my tits? 'Cause you're staring."
“Wha—I'm not looking at your—”
She pointed at her forehead, then below her cheeks, causing Rowan to unconsciously reach for his extra eyes, which were indeed staring. "In my defense, they are… Distractingly large, and I have lost quite a bit of blood.“
“Urgh, teenagers… Your 'hero,' Caroline!“
The brunette threw her hands up in exasperation, while Rowan fought the urge to look some more, his extra eyelids twitching traitorously.
“Says the one who stayed up all night making sure he was still breathing!"
"I was making sure you didn't screw up my work, that's all!" The brunette shot back.
"Ladies, ladies! I'd love to stay for the drama, but the sooner I get my stuff back, the sooner I'm out of your hair."
Max snorted and pushed off from where she'd been leaning.
"Finally, something we can all agree on."
She turned on her heel and disappeared into another room.
Caroline, meanwhile, shifted uneasily, uncrossing her arms. "You know, most people say 'thank you' when someone patches them up."
"My apologies. It's been a hell of a week. I'll come back with flowers and a sum for your trouble.“ Assuming he even made it through the next few days, that is.
"Is someone coming to get you, or…" Caroline trailed off, guiding him toward Max's nice, clean bed. She knew she'd catch hell for it later, but the guy was barely standing, and hers had always been somewhat of a bleeding heart.
Before he could answer, the brunette returned with his belongings bundled in her arms, his dark armor draped over one forearm, wallet and cracked phone carefully balanced on top.
"If you're done getting to know each other," The brunette announced, crossing the room and dumping the whole collection onto the bed beside him.
Rowan reached for his wallet first, flipping it open to check its contents.
Cash, cards, and the fake IDs Bruce had forged.
His phone, on the other hand, had fared considerably worse.
He pressed the power button anyway and, as expected, nothing happened. Tossing the device aside, Rowan let loose a string of curses that would have made an 1800's sailor blush.
"Yeah, that's not coming back." The brunette sassed from her spot against the doorframe.
"I noticed," Rowan growled, rubbing his forehead.
And the blonde—Caroline, if he'd heard correctly, piped helpfully, "Here, use mine."
Rowan accepted the phone with a quiet, “Thanks,” his bloody fingers leaving viscous smears on the glass as he tapped the numbers, or tried to.
Unfortunately, the screen only registered the wet smudges, refusing to recognize any of the inputs.
A growl of pure frustration rumbled in his chest as his arm tensed to hurl the useless thing into the nearest wall when the brunette snatched it from his hand, wiped the screen clean on the hem of her shirt, then snarked. "Are you done throwing a tantrum?“
He bit back a retort and asked—nay, begged. “Can you…”
The sarcasm died on Max's lips as she actually looked at him; at the worry etched across his face, the tension in his jaw, small things she'd overlooked before, or purposefully chosen to ignore. "What's the number?"
He rattled off the first string of numbers, watching her punch them in and hit the speaker button. The tones echoed for a good while, each toot stretching longer than it should, up until the call finally disconnected.
"Fuck.“
"Very charming," Max deadpanned. "Next?"
He gave her another string of digits, which she dialed without a word, only to receive the same apathetic silence.
At his nod, she hit call twice, then thrice, each call causing his shoulders to sag until he looked less like a fearsome Demon, and more a lost teenager.
"Maybe they're just busy?" Caroline suggested, trying to sound reassuring, but Rowan knew better. The Batler had an uncanny ability to answer on the second ring, no matter what, which was probably due to the fact the Wayne Manor didn't get many callers to begin with.
“What now?“
"I appreciate the hospitality. I'll show myself out. You'll be compensated properly for everything, I promise." He dipped his head in gratitude and made for the exit.
Behind him, Max and Caroline shared a look.
"Hold on! Where are you headed? We can give you a lift.“
Next to her, Caroline blinked questioningly. "But Max, we take the bus everywhere?"
"Shh! I'll figure it out!“
"Thank you, but—"
"But nothing." Max interrupted, brushing a strand of brown hair from her face. "Were you planning to go out in broad daylight looking like that? You're still bleeding."
"I'll manage."
Those two words lodged a lump in her throat. She'd met people like him before—seen the same stubborn self-destruction in the mirror every morning, in fact, despite the differences in their, well, everything.
“No, you won't. Wait here, I'll get us a car. And don't even think about limping off while I'm gone. I'll find you."
Glancing between the two of them, Rowan couldn't help but blurt. "You guys are good people…"
Despite herself, Max felt heat creeping up her neck, made all the more visible by her fair skin. "Yeah, well, don't spread it around… I've got a reputation to maintain."
She'd heard plenty of compliments before… About her looks, her attitude, even the occasional crude comments about her tits. But praise for her character? That was unexplored territory, and it pained her to admit how hard it hit. "Caroline, keep an eye on him. I'll be back in five."
And then she ran, whether from actual necessity or from the compliment, only her, God and Caroline knew for certain.
.
.
.
Making an active effort to be quiet, Rowan watched as the streets that felt almost surreal in their normalcy flew by.
Coast City was as untouched, unbothered, and utterly oblivious to the hell that was Gotham thousands of miles away on the opposite coast.
It was almost insulting.
The streetlights worked here! All of them, in fact! Glowing steadily in the rain, while casting pools of golden light across clean sidewalks.
Cars drove past; actual functioning cars with drivers who had places to be, lives to live.
A couple hurried by under a shared umbrella, laughing about something.
A corner store blazed with fluorescent light, its OPEN sign flickering cheerfully.
This was what Coast City had always been. Clean. Orderly. And most importantly: Safe! Well, as safe as any city could be in the DC Universe anyway.
The kind of place where superheroes were more celebrities than necessities, where people worried about traffic and taxes more than whether a supervillain would level their neighborhood or unleash some batshit crazy chemical that'd melt the skin off their faces, even if Green Lantern did occasionally bring extraterrestrial 'guests' with him.
And it had stayed that way, while Gotham burned and bled and tore itself apart on the other side of the country. His fingers dug into the seat's leather as they passed a café where people sat at outdoor tables despite the rain, protected by a generous awning.
Warm light spilled from the large windows… Windows that never would have survived in Gotham, where robbers and thieves were a dime a dozen…
Windows that were open, allowing the sweet scent of coffee and fresh pastries to drift untainted by the smell of sewage and cat urine from a meth lab set up two blocks down the street. Inside, someone was laughing, while his city still burned.
"I... I don't understand."
Didn't they know what was going on in Gotham?
Didn't they care?
Or had living in perpetual fear of alien invasions completely fried their senses? Back on the old Earth, on his Earth, a city falling into the hands of violent criminals and terrorists would have had the entire nation up in arms!
Eventually, they turned down a quieter street, away from the main thoroughfare. The buildings here were older, worn, with faded brick and peeling paint. It was the kind of neighborhood that had clearly seen better days, but still held on with a semblance of dignity, until even those began to get rarer, dwindling to rows of greenery.
His hands closed around the rosary as he prayed. 'Presence, if you can hear me… If you care at all…' The irony wasn't above him, but as the saying goes: Archaic problems required archaic solutions.
"Are you sure this is the right way? I only got the morning off. And Christ, will you stop sizzling back there? I don't know what circle of hell you crawled out of, but burnt flesh and fabric seats don't mix!" Max wasn't looking forward to explaining to Sophie why her car smelled like a barbecue.
Next to him, Caroline was hanging her head out the window, retching violently.
“Sorry. That… That usually reverts me to my human form.“ Explained Rowan, absentmindedly prying Alfred's rosary from the blackened crust and pocketing it without thinking. It was useless now, sure, but with Alfred's life-or-death in the dark, it might be the last thing he had to remember the Batler by.
"So… Jacques Renard, if that's even your real name, are you a hero or a villain?"
Spotting his bafflement, Max defended. "What?! I got bored, and your wallet was just sitting there on MY couch!“
"What do you think?" Rowan smiled weakly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
Truth be told, he'd rather sit in silence and nurse his wounds, but he owed them more than sullen brooding after everything they'd done. Still hanging halfway out the window, Caroline coughed, gagged, wiped the vomit from her mouth, then guessed, "I'm thinking... Tortured hero? You have got that whole dark, brooding, 'carrying the weight of the world' thing going on."
Against his better judgment, the Hellspawn joked, "If you think I'm broody, wait until you meet my mentor. Guy's a real piece of work."
Only to feel guilty immediately afterward.
“Sounds like you respect him quite a lot.“
“Well, he did teach me everything I know… Take a left there.“
The second Max cranked the wheel, Caroline lunged for the window to empty her stomach again.
Rowan watched her shoulders heave, and grimaced at the miserable sound.
The blonde really didn't need to be here, but Caroline had insisted on coming.
'Safety in numbers.' She probably thought.
The loyalty behind it was admirable, but that didn't make the decision itself any less stupid.
If Rowan were a psycho-killer; if he'd wanted to hurt them, all Caroline's presence would accomplish is giving him two victims instead of one.
Rowan kept the assessment to himself since, well, nothing said 'psycho-killer' quite like explaining to the girls how easily he could murder them both. He needed to remind her, though, that not every Meta she met would be a hero; that un a world like theirs, blind trust could get one killed.
Then again, maybe that was just the Gotham in him talking…
People born in that city learned early on that one should not follow or drive strangers anywhere, much less the outskirt when said stranger was a bloody Meta decked out in full-body armor.
"So... how long have you been doing this hero thing? I saw a video of you fighting some mercenary guy a while back, but that's all I know."
"A few years." Rowan shrugged, then winced as the movement pulled at his wounds.
"Really? Then why have videos of you only surfaced recently?"
"Rebranding. The old look wasn't working out."
“Hm… I don't remember a young hero in Coast City.“
While he was physically more imposing than his peers due to his training and heritage, Rowan was still a month shy of fourteen, and it showed. Beneath the armor, he was lanky; tall but lean, with less muscle mass than his frame suggested. It was rather noticeable, if anyone looked close enough, which they both probably had while changing his bandages.
"Coast City's not your usual stomping ground, is it? You've got that whole 'trust no one, everyone's out to get me' vibe going on, so... One of New York's finest? Bludhaven's? Or—"
Silently running through all the characteristics he'd shown and comparing them to the rare few young heroes publicly known, Max tapped the steering wheel thoughtfully, then gasped.
"Gotham? Are you from Gotham?!“
There were hardly any vigilantes in that shithole, let alone young ones, although rumor had it that was changing lately, which all started with Batman's sidekick, “Are you the Imp?!“
He did fit all the description.
She still remembered the articles about public outrage when he first debuted, followed by all the fear-mongering about him being a Demon from the deepest depth of Hell.
At the time, she had thought it was just religious nutjobs being, well, religious nutjobs. Except it wasn't… And they'd been right. Max glanced up, catching his gaze in the rearview mirror. The interrogee, meanwhile, was cursing up a storm inside his head.
It had taken a fucking waitress one car ride to piece his alter-persona together!
Granted, there weren't many heroes publicly described as dDemonic operating in the States, even fewer his age, and literally none beside him in DC's infamous City of Sins, but still! The thunderous expression on his face must have been quite visible, because Caroline hurriedly intervened. “Max!“
“What?!“
“Secret identity!“
The silence stretched on, broken only by the thump of windshield wipers and Caroline's occasional dry heave. "You're not headed back, are you? You know what's going on over there, right? They're calling it a war zone. There are talks about federal intervention, quarantine protocols, the whole nine yards. It's suicide!“
Rowan's jaw tightened, plausible deniability and all, but that only deepened her suspicion.
“It's—”
Max hadn't the chance to say 'suicide' when a large and unnaturally empty clearing came into view.
"Stop the car!“
Max hit the brakes harder than she meant to, sending Caroline lurching forward against her seatbelt. "… There's nothing here!“
“There is.“
There should be to him…
He'd been keyed to the Wards, after all, and yet, the clearing before them was empty of everything but grass and rain. “It's not here.“ But there were signs of battle, starting with the scorched grass, and the statics in the air which reminded Rowan of the Storm Wisp.
His Storm Wisp!
Closing his eyes, he reached out, feeling for the Elemental's presence, and was pulled toward what looked like an ordinary rock or rather, the thing underneath it.
Rowan lifted it, revealing a tarot card depicting a Tower of a gray stone exploding under a bolt of lightning, while two human figures tumbled through the air toward the jagged rocks below.
The moment hus fingers brushed the card's surface, electricity sparked across his skin, and the lightning depicted on The Tower began to move.
It peeled away from the illustration and condenses into a small, luminous form above his palm, barely the size of his fist, flickering weakly like a dying candle where it should have blazed with an electric blue.
"There you are." Rowan sighed in relief.
Behind him, Caroline gasped. "What… Is that?“
"An Elemental… Mine.“ The Wisp trilled weakly and pressed against his palm like a frightened child seeking comfort from its father. "Easy. I've got you."
Rowan took a breath to organize his thoughts, then asked, "Flash once for 'yes,' twice for 'no,' three times for 'you don't know.' Got it?"
The Wisp flashed once.
"Was Shadowcrest attacked?"
'Yes.'
"Are Zatanna and Giovanni alive?"
It flickered three times, uncertain.
"Were they after Zatanna?"
Contrary to his expectations, it flashed twice.
Rowan frowned. "Giovanni, then?"
'No.'
His mind raced through possibilities. "Arcane knowledge? Power? Ancient rituals only the Zataras have access to?"
No. No. And... No.
"What the fuck were they after then?!"
The Wisp's form contracted, its tail coiling inward until it was pointing directly at itself.
"You? They were after you? Why?!"
Giovanni had mentioned Elementals were rare, especially Storm types, but they weren't rare enough to justify this.
One didn't simply attack one of the most heavily warded locations in North America, risking the wrath of a man who had fought Demons, Elder Gods, and things that didn't even have names just to capture a creature that would take decades, if not centuries to reach its full potential.
“Are you royalty or something?“
The Wisp shook yet again, nearly driving Rowan mad in the process. "Then why the fuck—"
He stopped himself, forcing his breathing to slow.
Getting angry at a traumatized juvenile Elemental wouldn't help anyone.
The Wisp didn't understand why it was valuable, just that someone had wanted it badly enough to tear through Shadowcrest's defenses.
He could feel Caroline and Max behind him, neither daring to approach. And they were right not to… He wouldn't want to either. God knew what he would do in his fit of rage. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! God-FUCKING-damnit, man! FUCK!!!“
The world tilted as Rowan swayed, dropping into a crouch and wrapping his arms around his head.
He could search for Zatanna. Track down Shadowcrest. But how? He had no leads, no contacts and no resources beyond what was in his wallet.
It would take weeks, possibly months of investigation he didn't have time for. Or… He could take a flight and get back to his city, to Dick and Alfred and the people who actually needed him right now.
Except he couldn't board a plane looking like this.
The TSA would have him in custody before he made it through security.
Even if he somehow got on a flight, Gotham's airports were probably shut down anyway.
The whole city was in lockdown! And supposing he made it through… Then what?
Stumble into a gang war when he could barely walk straight? Waddle through potential thousands of violent criminals and psychosl? Rowan had pride in spades, but there was a difference, however slight, between believing in oneself and being suicidally delusional.
He was knee-deep in the mud when Max asked, "What now?"
“I… I don't know…”
“I-If we can help with anything…” Caroline trailed.
“Help?“ Rowan howled. "Can you locate a missing magical fortress?
Take on an army of supervillains?
Fly me to Gotham?
Heal wounds that holy weapons left?"
Pressing his palm against his eyes, he growled. "Pray tell, what the fuck can you do to help me?“ Rowan whirled around, vision pulsing red as his canines involuntarily lengthened. He had thought all he'd gained from the Draculina was the Game, but now, that no longer seemed to be the case.
“Ja-Jacques?“
“You wanted to help, right?“
“W-Well, yes?“
“There might be a way, after all.“
Positioning herself in front of her roommate, Max swallowed, staring at his emotionless eyes. Only they weren't emotionless… Not really. There was a desire in them much darker than what she'd spotted earlier in the morning. “A way?“
And it was as she feared...
“Your blood… Or blood in general.“
A/N#2: Don't worry, while I'll admit it is a plot device to remove the Zataras from the equation, the attack on Shadowcrest will have actual relevance in Hell Mode and Warring Saints.
I'm also planning to explain why the other heroes haven't made a move to help Gotham in the next chapter. Some will be off-world, others will be busy with other threats in their city,...etc. Basically they'll have valid reasons for not intervening in the events.
Even if they respect Bruce, I don't think people like Superman or GL, Wonder Woman—all these heroes would just let events on the scale of Arkham Knight happen if they could stop it. In fact, one of the Justice Leaguers will try to help out, guess who!
