With Dick around to tend to Alfred, Rowan was finally free to tackle the real problems.
If this were a videogame, it wouldn't matter where he started. He could clear out the harbor first, then move to the next territory, checking off objectives until the map was clean. But this wasn't a game with convenient mission structures and isolated encounters.
Hitting the port under Two-Face made the most tactical sense on paper, but the moment he moved on that strategic chokepoint, every other kingpin would see the same prize and converge like sharks to a rotting carcass.
The docks would then become a bloodbath, and unlike the NPCs, civilians working there wouldn't get a respawn if they got caught in the crossfire… He had to make the right choice, not just any choice, and the difference would be measured in body bags.
Rowan pulled up the map of Gotham on the Batcomputer, impatiently tapping the side of the keyboard as if the repetitive motion could somehow shake loose the solution he needed.
Should he still hit the port?
With the only way in freed up, the navy might be able to establish control and turn those docks into a fortified position before the other kingpins could make their play. As for soloing every villain and their small army of henchmen like some Arkham Knight playthrough? That was a fantasy he couldn't afford to indulge. He wasn't Bruce, after all!
He didn't have that pathological need to shoulder Gotham's weight alone.
The city had institutions, had resources, and it was about time the government actually justified those tax dollars instead of letting vigilantes do all the heavy lifting.
After thinking it over, Rowan used the Batcomputer to tap into the radio frequency of the military camp stationed just on the other side of the shores. "I want to speak with whoever's in command."
The line crackled with surprised voices before someone with actual authority stepped in to quiet the chatter. "—General Quentin, United States Army. Who am I speaking to?"
Rowan muted the channel and quickly pulled up Quentin's file on the Batcomputer, from service records, commendations, psychological evaluations, and most importantly, Batman's personal notes that would have detailed any compromises or questionable loyalties.
"—Hello? Do you copy?"
Fortunately, Quentin's profile came back without any obvious red flags or indicators, which was about as much as the Demon could hope for.
"—Are you still there?"
With a sigh, Rowan finally unmuted the line. "This is the Imp."
Conversation erupted on the other end before Quentin's voice sounded again.
"—The Imp. Batman's sidekick, I take it? Is he available?"
Rowan made a face at the phrasing, finally understanding why Young Justice Dick had gotten so prickly whenever someone dropped the S-word. Still, he swallowed the irritation because getting defensive about terminology wouldn't help anyone right now, and because he was above such petty grievances!
Yes, he was.
"Batman's indisposed. You're stuck with me for now, so let's skip the formalities. I need to know if I clear out the port and secure the docks, can I trust you to hold the position, or am I just wasting my time?"
There came a pause, long enough that Rowan thought the connection might've dropped before Quentin returned with an audible hint of frustration. "—It's not that we don't want to. Believe me, we've been itching to get boots on the ground since day one. But Wonder Woman said there are bombs rigged to explode if we try to interfere, and Congress has also ordered us to stay put."
Rowan's teeth clenched as he processed the information.
"What if I deal with the bombs?"
"—We'd still have to wait for Congress." Judging by his tone, the General didn't seem to be joking.
"Congress is actually blocking this? You're telling me there are red tapes stopping you from securing a strategic port in a city that's been turned into a war zone?"
"—I fear so…"
Had he lost his mind, or had everyone else? Because no matter which angle Rowan examined the situation from, retaking Gotham was the obvious play. Beyond the immediate humanitarian crisis, it would reinforce federal authority and restore public confidence in the government's ability to protect its citizens.
More strategically, it would finally give Washington legitimate access to a city that had operated as an autonomous region under the Court of Owls' shadow for decades.
So what was with the holdup?
Was the president incompetent?
Or was the Parliament pulling strings behind the scenes to maintain their stranglehold on Gotham?
The Court as an institution and the Parliament both profited enormously from Gotham's controlled chaos. They had spent DECADES cultivating that balance, so why would they suddenly hand the keys to the asylum over to a bunch of theatrical supervillains…? The pieces weren't fitting true, and it was setting off every alarm bell in his head.
This went beyond mere incompetence or bureaucratic sluggishness!
This—'Stinks of a conspiracy.'
But just what the hell was the endgoal?
The longer Rowan chased that line of thinking, the worse the pain behind his eyes grew, spreading through his brain until his hands came up instinctively to clutch against his skull. "—Imp? Do you copy?!"
If holding one goddamn port was beyond the military's capabilities, then what was the point of continuing this conversation at all? "Did they say why?"
The brief pause that followed nearly had the Demon tearing his own hair out in frustration.
"—They're citing humanitarian concerns. Apparently they need more time to determine the 'appropriate response.'"
"You useless bastards!" Rowan venomously spat as he killed the call, refusing to wait for whatever excuse Quentin might've prepared. His claws scraped through the oily, tangled mess on his head, the foul texture making his skin crawl as he repeated the phrase like an incantation meant to damn them all. "Useless bastards..."
So caught up in his fury, Rowan didn't register the approaching footsteps until silverware clinked near his elbow. He whipped around expecting to find young Grayson hovering with concern, only to see the thin-haired butler standing there instead, wearing the exact same smile he'd given the Demon all those months ago.
"Welcome home, Master Rowan. I see you've grown taller in your absence."
In Alfred's gaze, Rowan caught glimpses of emotions that took him a moment to make sense of. Pride sat at the forefront, followed closely by nostalgia, with concern thrown in the pig feed as the old man sighed and set down the tray he had been balancing on one palm, placing it beside the keyboard.
He filled two cups, sliding one toward Rowan before claiming the second for himself.
"You look a lot like him, you know. Same posture, same surliness when things don't go your way."
Rowan laughed dryly. "I doubt that."
He couldn't picture Bruce ever feeling this cornered, nor could he imagine the Crusader cursing from pressure the way he just did.
"Believe it or not, Master Bruce wasn't always Batman. He was a boy once too. He cried. Grieved. Made mistakes, and fell apart more times than I can count. It took him years to become the legend he was."
"I don't feel like him."
Sure, there were some similarities if you squinted, but Rowan had never aspired to become Batman and never could, not when their methods occupied opposite shores. If he could just stop worrying about disappointing Alfred, about what Dick would think, about failing Bruce's ideals…
If he just had his way, Gotham's streets would be running red!
So what if the city ended up barren and abandoned afterward?
So what if people looked at him with terror instead of hope?!
Was that any worse than the current state of things, where innocents went to bed wondering if they would wake up at all?
"I can't be him. I'm..." He stood, six eyes opening and closing in sequence. "I'm not Bruce!"
The Shade materialized behind him, pulling itself upright until it towered beside him while Alfred remained steady despite the discomfort in his eyes. "I don't have to play by his rules."
Bruce Wayne was flesh and blood, bound by human limitations.
Rowan wasn't.
Bruce had his gadgets, his vehicles, the entire arsenal of the Batcave at his fingertips.
Rowan only had acess to a fraction.
What he had instead was a living shadow that could replicate itself within certain parameters, and maybe that was enough.
'No. It is enough.'
"Is something wrong, Master Rowan?"
"Gotham wants Batman… I can't give them that, but I can give them an Imp, and then some."
"I-I'm afraid I don't follow?"
The Shade rippled behind him, its form destabilizing before fracturing into distinct pieces that reformed themselves into tiny humanoid shapes, each resembling the ugly, horned Demons from medieval manuscripts, complete with barbed tails, horns and tridents.
He looked over with a grin to find the butler's composure had finally cracked, his eyes wide as they tracked from one duplicate to another trying to process what he was witnessing.
"Master Rowan..." Alfred began with the same British restraint he often employed when confronted with something that defied his considerable experience. "What, pray tell, are these?"
Rowan couldn't help the proud, somewhat manic grin that split across his face, gesturing broadly at his assembled army of darkness.
This was it. This was how he'd solve the numbers problem, how he'd cover ground Bruce never could alone, how he'd make every kingpin in Gotham second-guess not just their territorial claims, but their existence in general.
"Alfie, I present to you: The Imps."
And then he cackled, and cackled some more, howling to the Shades.
"Now go forth! Go forth and put the fear of Hell in these godless heathens!!!"
The Imps scattered, ascending in a chaotic swarm that startled the actual bats roosting in the cave's upper reaches, sending them fleeing into the night.
"I worry for them."
Rowan glanced over his shoulder. "For who, the Shades? They'll be fine!"
"No." The butler's expression remained carefully neutral. "The criminals."
.
.
.
The safe house reeked of stale cigarette smoke and nervous sweat, mixed with the scent of trash that should have been taken out by now.
Next to them was a card table that hadn't seen an actual game in weeks, and the bottom feeders whose masks laid discarded in a pile by the door like shedded skin.
"Three days sitting on our asses while the rest of the crew's out there putting the screws to Somerset." Vince muttered, tossing a handful of chips. "You know what Tommy's boys pulled in yesterday? Eight grand from protection runs. Eight. And what are we doing? Playing security guard for crates fucking nobody's touching."
Danny lit another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the resentment carved into his features.
"Could be worse. Could be standing in line for ration bowls like those poor bastards."
Marsh shot back, shifting his weight against the door frame.
"Could be better too. We're False Facers. Black Mask's crew. We're supposed to be out there reminding Somerset why they pay tribute, not rotting in a condemned building counting rust spots."
"Boss must have his reasons." Mikey offered weakly, though even he didn't sound all that convinced.
"Reasons. Yeah, I'm sure he does."
The back-n'-forth continued for a while, until their attention finally moved to the man in the corner.
He'd been quiet the whole time, hadn't said a word since Roman assigned him to their detail three days ago.
None of them except Vince knew the guy's name, just that he'd shown up with orders directly from Black Mask himself and claimed the darkest corner of the room like he owned it.
"What's with this asshole?" Danny muttered, jerking his chin toward the corner where a brown-haired man sat, silently sharpening his knife.
"That? That's Marcus. One of those wannabe freedom fighters. Used to belong to Two-Face." The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
"Wait, what?" Mikey's voice came out strangled. "He's one of the rebels? The ones they—"
"The ones they strung up on every screen in the city, yeah. Well, not him. Our boy Marcus here was smart enough to run when shit got hot."
Vince leaned back, eyes gleaming with something between contempt and grudging respect. The former resistance fighter, meanwhile, didn't stop sharpening his knife, as though the conversation had no relation to him.
"Got caught playing hero in Dent's territory… Tried to help some poor lass who couldn't pay for protection… The enforcers came down on the bastard hard, but Marcus managed to slip across the border into Somerset before they could string him up."
"And Roman just took him in?"
Vince's smile turned vicious. "Not exactly. Traitorous bastard showed up at Roman's door with an offer. Names, locations, meeting times. Gave boss everything he needs to roll up the resistance leadership in one night… Handed over Heller plus a couple other nobodies, and in exchange, wittle Marcus got asylum and a spot with the crew."
Hissing, Danny shook loose the cigarette which'd burned down to his fingers. "He sold out his own people to save himself?"
"Sold out his leader. The man who'd been organizing the whole resistance. Heller trusted the kid, probably right up until our boys kicked down his fucking door… Now he's in a dungeon somewhere, and Marcus? Well, he gets to play soldier."
"That's fucked up." Mikey whispered, staring at the corner like something diseased was lurking there.
"That's survival. You do what you gotta do to keep breathing in Gotham."
The room fell into silence, broken only by the steady scrape of whetstone against steel.
Finally, Marsh couldn't take it anymore. "Why'd you do it?"
Yet, the scraping just kept going.
One stroke.
Two…
Three!
Four!!!
It was like he hadn't heard the question at all or, more likely, choosing to ignore it altogether, allowing the silence to stretch, thickening until even Danny had to stop pretending to shuffle his cards.
After a while, the man in the corner set down his whetstone, testing the blade's edge before looking up at them. "Because I didn't want to hide like rats anymore. 'Cause I wanted a clean sheet, warm food and water that wasn't taken from the sewer."
The reasoning, while sound, was somehow worse than any excuse he could have made.
Vince barked. "Ay, another one's caught on! Well, I can't promise clean, but the food's warm at least. Come. Join us."
No one said a word as Marcus rose from his corner and settled in, plunging his knife in the stained table. Patiently, he waited for his hand while Vince dealt the cards like he had done it a million times before, which he probably had.
Men in his position didn't have many pleasures.
Gambling and whoring pretty much covered the list.
Grin still plastered across his scarred face, Vince cracked jokes while dealing, his attention lingeribg on Marcus just a fraction of a second too long between cards.
As expected.
Sionis hadn't completely bought the story.
"You know what the funniest part was? How fucking amateur the whole operation turned out to be.
All that talk about overthrowing us, about restoring order, being the city's salvation, and motherfuckers were using walkie-talkies from Radio Shack! Dumbasses."
"Heller kept saying they had connections." Marcus said quietly, arranging his cards.
"Connections." Vince snorted. "The idiot couldn't organize a proper supply chain or rotate his safe houses. He had guys using their real fucking names over unsecured channels. Shit, I've seen high school drug dealers with better operational security. No wonder Roman rolled them up in one night."
"Thanks to me."
Marcus cut in, irritation finally bleeding through.
"Yes. Thanks to you." Vince's grin widened.
On the side, Danny flicked ash into an empty beer can. "Bet Heller's regretting those Tuesday meetings now."
"If he's still got enough teeth left to regret anything."
They went around the table, each making their bets until it came to Marcus, who pushed his chips forward. "I raise."
"You sure?"
"Positive."
"I'll raise too."
"Fuck." Marsh tossed his cards as Vince laid down his cards first. Two pair.
Danny had three of a kind.
And then Marcus spread his hand across the stained felt.
Royal flush.
"Oh, you've gotta be fucking kidding me." Danny groaned.
"That's bullshit. There's no way."
"House rules, pay up." Cockily snapping his fingers, Marcus reached for the pot.
Vince was about to say something when the overhead bulb suddenly flickered, its buzzing like a thousand flies taking flight all at once.
Everyone froze.
"Power's been stable for days."
Of course it'd been!
This was one of the few warehouses where Roman kept his weapons, and while it wasn't the biggest cache, the guns here could topple his entire empire in the wrong hands.
The light flickered again, longer this time, plunging them into darkness for a full three seconds before snapping back on.
"Something's wrong…" Vince muttered, then barked, his earlier amusement gone to the wind. "Check the brea—"
He didn't get the chance to finish before something black and vicious smashed through the window, grabbing Danny by the skull and hurling him across the room like a terribly misshapen bowling ball.
And then lights gave out entirely then, submerging the room in complete darkness.
But even blind, there was no mistaking the presence of the thing that had just crashed their party… Something small and definitely not human, whose six, somewhat misaligned gleamed delight at the sight of them. No one was sure whose voice it was, just that someone had confirmed their worst nightmare.
"Imp?"