Season 0: Year One - C43: Sow and Reap (Paid-Patrons)

'Violent.'

The word surfaced in Marcus' mind unbidden.

'What violence…'

Speechlessness followed, the kind born from sheer, disbelieving astonishment.

'Why?'

Then came the anger.

Two weeks.

It'd been two weeks since Batman vanished, and in that time Marcus had lost everything. He'd lost friends. He'd lost family. He had lost the tiny apartment he slaved away for a decade to pay off, plus Max, his golden retriever who he adored with all his soul…

He'd discarded even his reputation! Been spat on in the streets, laughed at in the markets, cursed in every corner where people still dared to gather. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say every person who still had a shred of a soul in this god-forsaken place had turned on him!

He'd endured it all.

Waited.

Hoped!

Heller was missing. His friends were dead. The weapons caches Marcus had sacrificed everything to locate sat just a floor below his feet in the cellar, and only now! Only now the vigilante decide to appear.

"Why the hell did it take you this long?!"

Marcus knew, intellectually, that the vigilante's return was actually a good thing. Anyone with a semblance of sense would know that!

Even if the Imp couldn't salvage the situation, he could at least draw some of the heat away.

Hell, what the resistance had failed to accomplish, the vigilante might actually manage.

But Marcus couldn't bear it…

He felt as if he was being forced to chew on gravel and compliment the chef at the same time… To smile while everything he'd bled for was suddenly rendered meaningless.

His hands clenched into fists as he watched the palm-sized creature giggle giddily, weaving and dodging through shots and crowbars like it was all just a joke to it.

But it wasn't a joke.

Not for Marcus at least.

Certainly not for the people these criminals forced into slavery, or the women they tossed into their brothels, or for those who'd tried to hold their heads high only to end up executed and have said heads buried in the fucking dirt!

He reached for the crowbar that had conveniently rolled near his feet and lunged into the midst of mayhem.

"Get that bitch, Marcus! Get—"

Vince had barely started speaking when the crowbar caught him across the temple, splitting his skin and cracking his skull. The False Facer opened his mouth trying to say something, but neither his jaw nor his tongue wanted to cooperate. Collapsing to the ground, he glared up at Marcus, only for dread to replace rage when he saw the redness in the other man's eyes. "Y-You—"

"Die."

Then down the crowbar came, freezing everyone in place, the Shade included as fragmented skull and brain matter splashed across the floor.

"Die!"

Down it came a second time.

"DIE!"

By the third swing, there wasn't enough head left to recognize, but Marcus just… Kept going as though possessed.

"Marcus, what the fuck are y—?"

Whatever insult the False Facer had prepared died in his throat when the palm-sized Imp slammed into his knee with all the grace of a sledgehammer, its manic giggling drowning out both the sound of shattering bone and the loud, blood-curdling shriek that followed.

Alfred didn't want him to kill.

Bruce didn't want him to kill.

Dick didn't want him to kill, so Rowan naturally wouldn't kill, but these pests needed to be put on an extended time-out, or they would simply regroup and start the cycle all over again.

The Shade blurred, its wings beating frenziedly like a hummingbird as it darted between the remaining False Facers.

One of whom, Marsh if Marcus recalled correctly, wildly swung his pistol, trying to track the creature's erratic movements, only to discover the Imp already under his guard already!

It smashed into his elbow joint with a crunch, folding his arm backward at an angle that made Marcus's stomach turn even through the red haze. Marsh's scream hadn't finished echoing before Marcus was on him, crowbar rising and falling repeatedly on the side of his skull.

Mikey scrambled for the door as the Imp whizzed up the ceiling, then plummeted from above like a stone, its tiny clawed hands latching onto his shoulder before it scrambled inside his, biting and clawing until blood was spilt.

Finally, it scurried onto the back of his knee, tiny claws digging in before wrenching sideways, and predictably, the ligament tore, before the joint caved completely. And then down Mikey went, his chin bouncing off the floor. He tried crawling, but Marcus's boot caught him in the ribs and flipped him over.

"Please, man! I didn't—"

The crowbar immediately silenced whatever excuse he might've thought of. The Shade giggled again, manic sound causing Marcus's teeth to ache, before launching itself at the last conscious False Facer.

It hit the man's hip joint from the side, dropping him instantly as he clawing for purchase on the overturned table. "Marcus, please, don't! Don't! We're Roman's cre—"

"You're nothing."

Marcus brought the crowbar down on his reaching hand, shattering fingers and wrist in one swing.

The False Facer tried to curl into himself, protective instincts overriding everything else, but the Imp was already moving. It zipped around to his other side, wings thrumming, and hammered into his shoulder socket with enough force that the arm went limp instantly.

The man was still trying to beg when Marcus caved in his skull…

Silence blanketed both, lifted only ever so often by Marcus's ragged breathing and the Imp's continued, somewhat baffled giggling.

Wordlessly, the creature hovered at eye level, its misaligned eyes blinking in sequence as it studied him with something that might have been curiosity or amusement or both?

Marcus looked down at the crowbar in his hands, at the blood and worse things coating the metal, then at the bodies littered across the floor like the trash they had cumulated throughout their lives and heaved, fury still burning bright but now with nowhere left to direct it.

Well, there was one place to direct it.

Marcus glared at the Imp Shade, expecting judgement given how vehemently against killing these vigilantes often were, yet found neither scorn nor disappointment in its eyes, only satisfaction, and even a thinly veiled hint of… Was that approval? "You-Are you really the Imp?"

The palm-sized creature nodded, then immediately followed with a contradictory shake.

'Just what the hell happened to him while he was gone?' Thought Marcus as he silently, carefully studied the diminutive figure before him.

The Imp in Gotham's collective memories stood much taller than this… Thing.

Likely in his mid to late teens at minimum, with more muscle than the average kid his age would know what to do with, although the Imp clearly knew exactly what to do with it, given his nocturnal activities.

He wore advanced armor and seemed designed to inspire maximum terror in his enemies. This creature, by contrast... Well… 'There's some resemblance at least.' Marcus mused, but diplomatically kept the charitable assessment to himself.

"Yes but no? What's that supposed to mean?"

The beast from Hell whizzed toward him, crimson eyes boring into his as it worked its jaws. Unfortunately, instead of words, the only thing that emerged between its fangs was a high-pitched, ear-splitting shriek. Yet somehow Marcus was still able to understand what the Demon meant, as if it was speaking directly to his Soul rather than his ears.

"Why?" The creature gestured toward the corpses with its claws.

"Because I despise them... Because they're Black Mask's dogs..."

And because some part of him needed confirmation that he hadn't abandoned the resistance entirely.

"Imp, shadow, or whatever the hell you are… I don't care. Just tell me if the name Heller means anything to you." And it looked, and looked some more, and just when Marcus felt hope slipping away, an eerie orange tint blazed in its eyes, overtaking the insidious crimson.

"Heller?"

.

.

.

After unleashing a thousand Imps upon Gotham to wreak havoc, Rowan's next move was slipping into his old suit, within which the satisfying clicks of its mechanisms immediately brought a pleased sigh to his lips.

Yes… This felt right.

This was how it should feel!

Zatanna's medieval armor had served its purpose, but it was too heavy, too clunky which rendered stealth all but impossible. Then he said his goodbyes to Alfred before launching himself up through the Batcave's exit, though his destination wasn't the battlefield raging in the distance.

He was heading for Gotham's tallest building—Wayne Tower.

* Beep!

* Beep!

* Beep!

Three prolonged tones dragged on before someone finally picked up, someone older whose voice had the same warmth, kindness, and bone-deep weariness as Alfred's.

"—Bruce? Is that you?!"

"Bruce's still MIA. I'm the Imp." He replied, sounding awfully calm all while reminding himself Bruce Wayne was Batman, and Batman had Plot-Armor thicker than the tank plating on the Batmobile.

"—Imp? You're the boy Pennyworth adopted?"

"Corrext." Rowan answered. "I'm en route to Wayne Tower now. Do you have control of the building?"

"—The upper floors are safe, but the ground levels have been ransacked. If you're headed this way, I could really use your help restoring the power grid. Backup generators are keeping us alive, but we're looking at hours, not days."

Of course… Nothing was ever straightforward in this godforsaken city, was it?

"Walk me through what needs to be do—"

Midway through the sentence, wind suddenly rushed against his back.

On instinct, Rowan rolled midair, twisting to find himself face-to-face with the grotesque, scarred visage of an anthromorphic bat. "Oh, shit!"

"—Imp?! What's wrong?" Lucius's voice sharpened with alarm at Rowan's yelp, who dipped lower and was barely able to avoid the Man-Bat's claws.

It screeched and lunged, and pain exploded where its palm caught his side, forcing a hiss through clenched teeth.

"The consequences of my actions," He muttered wearily, accelerating by firing a grappling hook at the opposite skyscraper with what used to be Dr. Kirkland still hot on his heel. He was about to get away when a Sonic Scream turned his enhanced hearing from an asset to a liability, disorienting him while the taut line pulled him away.

Lashing out with a desperate backhand that knocked the mutant slightly off-course, Rowan crashed through the roof of a five-story, and immediately rolled to his feet.

Rowan had barely had time to register the impact when Kirkland followed, landing where he'd been moments earlier.

"Guess it all comes down to this, Doctor."

For a fleeting moment, a hint of recognition and humanity flickered in Man-Bat's eyes, but that fragile spark drowned beneath a beastly, rabid rage in the next as the creature snarled. Dusting imaginary dust off the Impsuit, Rowan squared his shoulders and raised his guard.

Accepting the challenge, Man-Bat dropped to all fours and charged at Rowan, only for the Storm Wisp to materialize.

Coiled around his wrist, the Elemental fired directly at the creature's torso, electricity arcing through its body.

Man-Bat's muscles twitched and spasmed violently, mouth gaping open in what should have been a Sonic Scream, which the Demon already braced himself for… Yet the anticipated blast never came!

'Right!' Electrical current paralyzed the vocal muscles.

Man-Bat couldn't scream even if it wanted to.

"Cartoons lied to me."

What else was new?

Anger, disapproval, and unwillingness all churned in Man-Bat's eyes like refuse in a gutter, but what did it matter if he was angry? If he disapproved of Rowan's tactics? If he was unwilling to accept defeat?

The world had never given a damn about methods, only results. And Rowan had already delivered. Of course, he could have attempted the whole Talk-no-Jutsu routine, but he wasn't Naruto…

His CHA had all been dumped into Intimidation.

Moreover, from childhood, Rowan had always found his fists far more persuasive than his words.

Man-Bat continued snarling even as its muscles seized, the rage in its eyes burning bright until the electricity finally overwhelmed its consciousness. The creature's legs gave out first, folding beneath its weight, then its torso crashed forward with enough force to crack the floorboards.

Within seconds, the snarling devolved into labored breathing, then the occasional involuntary twitch and grunts as it slumbered. "Sorry, Doc."

Rowan approached cautiously, Storm Wisp still crackling around his wrist.

Only when he was certain Kirkland was truly unconscious did he dismiss the Elemental and crouch beside the fallen Mutant.

From one of his suit's compartments, he produced a syringe, which was pretty standard Bat-family equipment, because Bruce was paranoid that everyone was out to get him and always prepared for everything, including impromptu blood draws from hostile Mutants. But was it paranoia if everyone really was out to get him?

The needle slid into Man-Bat's leathery arm with ease, filling the vial with dark blood.

"Mrs. Kirkland's going to love this." He muttered, carefully capping the syringe and tucking it in his ultility belt.

Francine had the expertise to potentially synthesize a cure, assuming she hadn't already been working on one before everything went to hell.

What left the more pressing question: What to do with the unconscious mutation currently drooling on the floor?

Rowan straightened, studying Kirkland.

On one hand, Gotham was literally burning, the kingpins' forces were consolidating power by the hour, and he had literally zero time to babysit an unconscious Mutant.

On the other hand, leaving Man-Bat here meant the creature would wake up eventually, probably angry, definitely hungry, and with a fresh grudge against anything Imp-shaped.

He could drag Kirkland back to the Batcave, but what if it woke and attacked Alfred or Dick?

His gaze then drifted to the syringe in his pouch.

He'd have to deliver it to Francine personally anyway.

Maybe he could leave the blonde to handle her husband's... Situation?

Appeal to whatever remained of Kirk Langstrom's humanity through the woman he supposedly loved. Maybe she'd tearfully inject him with a cure, he'd transform back, they'd embrace, and everyone would learn a valuable lesson about how the power of love conquers all!

"Pfft. What a load of bulls." Rowan snorted. "Because that worked out so well in 'The Fly (1986) and 'American Werewolf in London.'" Love conquering all made for good fairytales, mainly because only in fairytales could anyone swallow that kind of bullshit without gagging.

More likely, Francine would hesitate.

Kirkland would wake up mid-injection, panic, and someone would end up dead.

Probably Francine… It'd make for one hell of a Greek tragedy, and there was nothing, and Rowan did mean nothing Gotham loved more than a good tragedy.

And then he'd gain yet another grief-stricken enemy who'd spend eternity blaming him for his wife's death, never mind how absurd that blame was objectively.

If years of observation had taught him any truth, it was grief-stricken people always abandoned logic first and foremost, even the ones who had built their entire careers on rationality. All he would have gained was an even bigger problem with a personal vendetta against him, plus the added bonus of guilt for orchestrating that particular tragedy.

"Yeah. I think I'll pass." Halfway through brainstorming his options for Kirkland, Rowan suddenly felt a Shade ping him, but not with the usual ambient awareness of the thousand Imps scattered across Gotham, but a specific pulse from a split strand of consciousness.

And then images flooded his mind… Images of blood-soaked floor, of a desperate man clutching his crowbar, of corpses beaten beyond recognition, and lastly a name that felt important, though couldn't remember why for the life of him.

Heller.

"Heller?" Rowan frowned, running the name through his brain. "Who the fuck is that?"

He closed his eyes and let his consciousness supersede the Shade's, and his perspective shifted, shrinking down until he saw the world from above, giving him a rather strange, but still functional view of what used to be Black Mask's arsenal…

The corpses looked worse from this angle.

They had been beaten to meat pies that caused even Rowan to gag, but though somewhat disturbed by the sight, he did not feel any need to admonish the man before him.

Bruce loved preaching about how nobody understood why he spared these people, but he didn't understand why they couldn't spare them either.

He couldn't.

The night his parents died, the night that forged the Batman myth, the night that stole his innocence—that was every single night for the average Gothamite.

Rowan would know.

He used to be one of them.

And they didn't have billions in the bank, cutting-edge gadgets, or the luxury of globe-trotting to train with Tibetan masters.

When something like that happened, when their loved ones were butchered in the streets, they just swallowed the rage and went about their days.

Whether that poison was killing them slowly or not mattered to nobody, since everyone existed in that same hell, except for those very rare few who were born at, or rose to the top of the foodchain.

And so, while Rowan might not fully endorse what Marcus did, but he understood it completely! He himself battled the same urges every night he went out, after all.

Nevertheless—'Jesus H. Christ... Where's the mosaic filter when you need it?'

Rowan's thoughts echoed through the connection.

'Somebody needs to blur this shit out before we get demonetized…'

The Shade giggled involuntarily at the observation, which earned a sharp look from Marcus.

The man still clutched his crowbar, knuckles white, chest heaving like he'd just run a marathon, while blood speckled his face and clothes.

Rowan directed the Shade's attention away from the carnage and toward Marcus, studying the familiar rage carved into every line of the man's posture, then wondered what had driven him to this level of violence? "Imp, shadow, or whatever the hell you are… I don't care. Just tell me if the name Heller means anything to you."

Black tendrils coiled and compressed, trying to shape something resembling vocal cords but falling short, resulting in an ear-grating sound that felt like nails on a chalkboard.

"Heller?"

His confusion only seemed to make Marcus angrier.

"Yes, Heller! James Heller! The man you swore you'd save! The one you promised a better Gotham! The man who—"

Then Marcus collapsed, clutching his face before scrubbing frantically at the blood on his cheeks and hands with his shirt, as if cleaning it could undo what he'd done.

"I-I… Ah!"

A strange, choked sound escaped his lips as he scrubbed, but he didn't break down completely. He just quietly sobbed, muffling the noises with his sleeve.

Thank God for that.

Rowan wasn't equipped for grief…

He barely knew how to process his own half the time, let alone help someone else through theirs, so he did the only thing that came to mind and floated beside Marcus, awkwardly patting his shoulder.

"There, there... Hey, they deserved it, right? They deserved it."

He really hoped this wasn't going to be a recurring thing.