Alt-Title: 'We fill men's Souls with darkest dread.'
"Intent and Willpower… Intent and Willpower—fucking Fanfictions lied to me! I mean, don't get me wrong, those absolutely factor in the equation, but it's 20%, tops. You can't just glare at something real hard and expect it to burst in flame on its own.
There are Practices!
There are Disciplines!
All of which, while related, has to be learned individually and each usually take the average Mage decades of their meager life expectancy to master. And you know what else?
There are countless Disciplines, for Magic in its Essence is just pure, dumb Chaos.
Think of it like a Cosmic Ocean that touches every Reality in the Multiverse.
It doesn't have rules or laws until people—usually the dominant species on a planet—look at it and give it a job.
Take… Fire, for example.
Since Fire spreads and destroys, Magic assigns it the Concept of Destruction.
Yet, since most see Fire as the Beginning of Civilization… Of Passion… Of Intensity, it also represents Rebirth and a whole host of other things.
It's a whole, convoluted mess that barely makes sense to itself, yet Mages are expected to factor in every microscopic detail, for even a single misaligned Rune can turn a Purification Ritual into the 'Father of All Bombs.'
On Earth, Humanity is the dominant species, so our collective baggage—our science, our Myths, our experiences—is what gives Magic its primary Operating Model. This, of course, also means alien world or Dimensions can have vastly different Systems that render our Mages harmless on their soils… And yes, there's a way to get around the Restriction, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
After the disastrous failure of what Zatara swore was the 'best Diagnosis Ritual' he could whip up on short notice, I was left to my own devices—namely, a stack of 'Magical Theory for Dummies' and, you guessed it: Zatanna!
Doesn't sound too bad, does it?
Ever had a friend who backseat-drives and micromanages everything you do? That was Zatanna. I'm pretty sure whatever Innate Magic she inherited from her dad's side of the family also came bundled with a side of bitchiness…
Look, don't get me wrong; I'm all for being an attentive student, but can you imagine if I had pulled that on her during acrobatics training?
If I had harshly yanked the staff out of her hands mid-motion, then condescended to her like some smug prick? DC simps would've had me crucified, then burnt at the stake! Not that young Zatanna had a clue how discouraging she came off to a newbie Practitioner. Thank God she's mellowed out over the years, else I don't think we would have stayed in contact…
Kudos to her for growing as a person.
Too bad my past self had to deal with Patch 1.0."
— [HELLBRED] —
"No. Nonono! You're doing it wrong!"
Zatanna reprimanded, stomping her feet as she snatched the Spellbook out of Rowan's hands. A lifetime spent sheltered in a Magic Mansion didn't teach much about manners, it appeared… It, apparently, also didn't teach a person how to spot the look on someone's face right before they decided murder was officially on the table. "Is annoying me your full-time job now?"
"Annoying?" Zatanna repeated defensively. "You're lucky, I'll have you know! Boys at my old school used to shower me with gifts in hope I'd spare them some of my time!"
The Fiend snorted, not bothering to look up from his notes. "Yeah, well, that's because they don't know you… Seriously though, don't you have school or something?"
Rowan braced for a sharp retort or an indignant gasp, but the expected protest never came. In its place was a silence stretching just long enough to feel out of place. Curious, the Hellspawn finally decided to steal a glance, half anticipating a tearful pout or an angry glare.
He was disappointed to find neither.
"You doin' good?" He asked as she rubbed her eyes, but caught up in her own thoughts, Zatanna didn't seem to notice… He doubted she'd care if she did. "Hello? Earth to Zatanna!"
Her head snapped up with irritation in her eyes as she came to. "What? Don't shout."
"You zoned out," Rowan stated, leaning in his chair. "I was starting to think you finally short-circuited."
Zatanna's glare returned, but it lacked much of the earlier heat.
Crossing her arms, she turned away from him and gazed upon the empty lawn outside.
"We had to relocate Shadowcrest recently… And It's not like I can just text my old friends to hang when the Manor's teleported to a new continent."
She glanced back at him, forcing up a smile that was too brittle to be genuine. "It's fine, though. This happens sometimes. What can you do? I think having Magic more than makes up for it." He had to give it to her—she was one hell of a liar.
When Zatanna lied, she sounded confident; looked the part as well, sadly all the bravado in the world couldn't hide the clear tells: Mainly the anxious movements of her nails drumming against her forearm.
"So you're homeschooling yourself with a bunch of dusty Spellbooks?" Rowan pressed, nearly toeing the line of interrogation.
"Teach seems like the type to have your entire life planned out. An overly controlling, overprotective Magic Dad like him taking so long with your education? That doesn't add up."
The jab hit its mark, and Zatanna's carefully constructed composure finally began to falter. "He's been… Busy."
"Too busy for you?"
"My mother disappeared over a year ago." Utterly devoid of emotion, Zatanna delivered the line like a fact she saw in a textbook, "There was a car accident. They found a body, but it wasn't her. Daddy checked… He said it was a misdirection—a fake, meant to deter us from looking. Ever since then, he has been different. Volatile. Terrified. He thinks one of his enemies took her, and he's afraid they will come for me, too. So, no school for now."
Rowan just stared, the puzzle becoming clear to him at last. Then he felt a flash of irritation, mostly at himself for having forgotten a fact so crucial to such a major player in the Mystical scene.
His knowledge of the Zataras was, admittedly, spotty and limited to what was shown on 'Young Justice.'
Bruce's own hesitance toward the Mystic Arts and, as a direct result of, lack of intels on Magicals hadn't helped either, but he must not allow this kind of oversight to happen again.
"Of course." He muttered calmly.
This was the DC Universe, after all…
If a Cape didn't have a requisite amount of tragedy under their belt, were they a Cape at all?
Rowan opened his mouth, then closed it, for once coming up blank on the usual smartassery. He picked up his Spellbook, not to read, but to have something to look at that wasn't the girl quietly falling apart in front of him. "Oh… Now it adds up."
Faced with two choices: To let their conversation die uncomfortably for both, or to salvage what was salvageable. Deciding anything was better than letting this fester, Rowan seized on the first topic he could think of to break the ice. "So, the Book mentioned there are countless Magic Systems—"
All too eager to pivot from the heavy topics, Zatanna immediately launched into the textbook definition. "The strength of which depends on the Dominant Species of the local Weave… In the case of extinction, a System will linger, but without a Source to define itself, it'll dissipate over the millennia."
"No, no, I get that part," He interrupted dismissively. "I'm talking about your family's Magic—the Backwards-Casting. Is that its own System, or just an Innate Trait?"
The earlier would suggest a Subspecies or a hidden Civilization capable of the same as the Zataras.
For once, the know-it-all looked genuinely stumped. "Huh. I… I don't know. Honestly, it never really crossed my mind."
"You can bend reality over by speaking backwards like a Looney Tunes character, and you never thought to ask why? Are you fucking serious?"
Sadness forgotten, or more precisely shoved aside by sheer force of will, Zatanna cleared her throat to hide her awkwardness. She failed.
"Look, I promise I won't get angry; just give it to me straight: Do you really not know, or is it a family's secret?"
"I really don't know!" She blurted, horrified at the prospect of driving away a friend after losing so much already. "But I can tell you how it works, if you'd like to know…?"
"Won't that get you in trouble with Teach?"
"Well, you're here to learn, right? If he gets upset, I'll just bat my eyelashes and tear up." Hands on her hips, chin lifted, nose pointed at the ceiling, Zatanna said… Smugly.
"You're a terrible person."
"No, no—it's called being resourceful. Look it up." She shot back, tossing her hair over her shoulder.
"The two aren't mutually exclusive." Rowan rolled his eyes, then shrugged his protest away. With his track record, he was starting to feel a little hypocritical.
"You wanna know how it works or not?"
He held his breath, gaze boring holes in her head. "Tell me."
"Wel—" Zatanna hadn't begun when his hand closed around her mouth.
"Wait, no, never mind."
He wished he knew what stopped him, but even Rowan himself couldn't quite articulate it beyond: 'Am I shitty enough to take advantage of her?' The answer hadn't come to him when Rowan felt something slimy roll over his palm. "What the fuck's wrong with you?! What's with you kids and being fucking gross?!!"
Smearing the thin coat on the desk, he cursed.
First boogers, then shit-stained underwear, now spit—when would his torment end?
"You won't be able to use it anyway, silly… It's tied to our Bloodline."
"So… It's not a System anyone can access? Because if sounding like a stroke victim gives Mages reality-warping powers, I think I and the rest of the world deserves a PSA."
"Of course not." She giggled. "And it's not without its limitations. Shocking, I know. Now…"
Staring at her hooked finger, Rowan narrowed his eyes. "What?"
"Come closer! I can't just give you the secrets to the Universe out loud, can I?"
Losing the battle against his curiosity, Rowan swallowed the snark already loaded down the barrel and leaned closer.
"We…"
"We?"
"Have…"
"Have?!" He repeated again, grinding his teeth in his frustration.
"To…"
"Oh, will you just spit it out already?!"
"Kaeps sdrawkcab."
It took him a second, but Rowan eventually figured out what she said. And he. Was. Pissed. But, being the master baiter he was—hardened by countless battles in the cesspit of Gotham where only the scums of the Earth crawled, he managed to hold back his irritation.
Scribbling something in his note, he got up and walked straight toward the shelf.
"C'mon, that was funny!" Zatanna called gleefully, laughter in her voice as she chased him 'round the corner. By the time she got to, the Fiend was already gone, leaving behind only a note pinned to an old bookshelf by a Batarang. It wrote: 'Prepare for WAR!'
The Mistress of Magic smirked.
"Bring it on."
.
.
.
Tugging the collar of his jacket, Rowan scowled at the Sun.
He'd spent his whole life in Gotham—wet, cold, and miserable 24/7, 365. Here, it was hot. It was humid. And worst of all, it was bright. So bright his eyes were starting to fucking ache.
What really set him on edge, though, were the people.
They were smiling, just… Walking down the street, grinning like they without a single a care in the world, like a villain attack or alien invasion wasn't a Tuesday night away.
Nobody watched their back.
Nobody scanned the alleys.
He finally caught sight of a street sign, then a newspaper stand that read: 'Coast City Chronicle.'
'Of course.' It was a whole city of functioning, well-adjusted people… 'Disgustang!'
The buzz in his pocket stopped him mid-step into the local Walmart. Rowan fished out the phone; a device he'd been forced to keep off for days due to Zatara's strict 'No Tech' policy, and not for the reasons you'd expect.
There was no incompatibility issue, just good, old-fashioned paranoia.
'Any device, even your mentor's—', The Magician had reasoned, 'Could be traced by a sufficiently motivated and resourceful enemy.'
'And they say Bruce's paranoid.'
He glanced at the caller ID: 'Dick,' a knot of guilt already balling in the pit of his stomach, and hit 'Accept.'
"—Rowan! Finally! Did you forget how to use a phone?!"
"Something like that. Teach's about as paranoid toward technology as Bruce is Magic…"
The guy still used the radio, for fuck's sake. 'How has Zatanna survived this long?'
Rowan couldn't imagine staying cooped up in Shadowcrest for more than a month… His brain would probably melt and seep out of his ears.
"—Magic school's not going well, I take it?"
"It's not bad; it's just been a whole lot of reading."
"—So, no Fireball yet?"
"Oh, I wish!" Letting out an exaggerated sigh, Rowan complained. "My head's stuffed with so much magical theory I think it's gonna burst…"
"—That bad, huh?"
"It's Magic. I knew it'd be complicated, but all this dry-text diving is giving me an aneurysm."
Dick chuckled but did not respond.
After the short rant, Rowan started afresh.
What he meant to ask was: How're Alfred, Bruce, and my favorite nephew? But all his brain's automatic bitch-filter would approve was: "How are things back at the asylum?"
"—They're… Okay." Dick said, but the hesitation was just a little too long for comfort.
"What is it?" Or better yet: Who?
"—It's Alfred. He's been… Off. Forgetting appointments, misplacing things. He burned the toast this morning and now the whole kitchen smells like charcoal. It's not a big deal, sure, but, like, it's Alfred. And Bruce's been in the Batcave for days straight. He won't come out. Not even for meals. Alfred just leaves a tray by the Batcomputer."
"Gimme a sec."
Pulling out the Messaging App, he typed up a text to Bruce and the Batler.
[To: Bruce, Pennyworth]
'Stop moping jesus
you're makjng dick uncomfortable n me worreid
im learning magic not dying of stage 4 cancer
Be back in 3 months tops.'
"How's—" Sidestepping a rogue stroller and what had to be five kids under ten accompanied by their parents, he veered into the hygiene aisle. "How's my fav 'nephew?'"
"—You're gonna have to let go of that joke eventually."
"Not on your life!" Rowan snorted, eyes scanning the shelves. He grabbed a bottle of generic 13-in-1 shampoo—body wash, conditioner, face scrub, engine degreaser, probably—and tossed it into his shopping basket, before adding two tubes of mint-flavored toothpaste.
"—So, uh,"
Dick started on the other end, his own tone shifting from worried to cautiously excited. "—Bruce let me take the Robin Suit out for a spin in the Cave yesterday. He even let me try some of the gadgets!"
A smile touched Rowan's lips at the news.
He expected no less… The kid was a natural, after all.
"—He said my form was good! I might even get to patrol the city next week!"
"Don't get cocky and break a leg."
"—I won't!"
"And don't expect anything but rooftop duty for the next six months. But above all, whatever you do—Don't. Die."
"—Geez… you're starting to sound like my mom."
"It's called 'passing the torch responsib—'"
Rowan's never got to finish his lecture, since no more than a second later, the ceiling came apart. There was screaming. There was debris. There were helpless civillians running for cover. Rowan was right in his element, and he was loving every second of it.
'Huh… Did-Did I just accidentally make a commentary about abusive relationships?'
The fluorescent lights overhead flickered violently, then died, plunging the aisle into an emergency-lit twilight. The ceiling groaned, buckled, and then gave way in a cascade of dust and debris, and a helicopter. Can't forget about the damn helicopter. "... Sorry, gotta go."
"—Rowan?! What was that?!" Dick's frantic voice buzzed from the phone.
"No idea. Probably a meta attack. What else could it be?"
"—A gas leak?"
"Unless gas leaks happen on the fucking roof now, I don't think so."
"—You're gonna be fine, right?"
Hanging up the phone, he ducked under a falling piece of rebar and, in one fluid motion, unbuttoned his pants, then shirt.
No, Rowan hadn't suddenly become an exhibitionist.
Beneath his clothes was the matte-black gleam of his suit.
It was a sleeker variant—a stripped-down variant the Dark Knight had commissioned for them both. It felt clunky, and most of the good tech was missing, but it was better than being caught with his pants down in a new city.
Retrieving a domino mask and colored wax that would turn his hair black, Rowan darted out of his cover just in time to see a red-figure streak by. "A human Red-Lantern?"
Through the intel, both what was publicly available and what he'd pulled from Bruce's files, Abin Sur had only crash-landed two years ago, and Hal Jordan was still the new rookie on the block.
Shit, Sinestro hadn't even had his fall from grace yet. One of Bruce's spy satellites had even picked up on him and Hal having a private chat just last week. 'Maybe this was what they were discussing?' A Red Lantern—a human one no less—turning up in Hal's Sector would be a cause for concern, after all.
The grappling hook on his shoulder bit into rebar overhead, hauling him above the shadows of the ruined ceiling. From his new perch, he glared at the crimson figure hovering above. Feeling his gaze, the Red Lantern slowly rotated toward him.
"I sense Loathing. I sense… Rage."
With a flick, Rowan tossed a cryo-capsule at the burning news chopper.
"Sounds about right, but 'Rage' ain't the only thing I've got. Check these out!"
He unleashed a fan of Batarangs, each carrying a payload of asingle amnestic capsule.
Rowan was prideful, wrathful—he was a whole host of things, really, but the one thing he wasn't was delusional, especially about his chances against a Red Lantern.
If reality-warping Power Rings weren't busted enough, they also came with super speed, brute strength, skin tough enough to eat a missile for break…
Oh, and let's not forget the part where they projectile-vomit Corrosive Rage-Blood like that one deranged, perpetually-drunk Irish uncle blacklisted from every family reunion. Based on raw specs alone, this Unnamed Lantern could absolutely body him.
But as Bruce liked to preach: 'If you can't overpower them—' The Lantern spewed a wall of burning blood, vaporizing the Batarangs and capsule on contact, only to gag as green smoke leaked from the scattered fragments. 'Outthink them.'
"Cheap tricks! A bit young…" He growled. "But admirable Rage. You'll do!"
The Lantern's hand opened, a Red Lantern Ring blazing to life in his palm before launching itself at Rowan.
Reacting on pure instinct, he ripped the rosary from his wrist.
He could almost hear Zatara's lecture already, but the situation demanded more than he could give while shackled. 'Goddamnit, Hal, where are you?!'
Speak of the Devil, and he shall appear… A streak of emerald light tore through the clouds, slamming into the Rage-powered Supe.
The impact sent a concussive shockwave across the lot, blowing out windows across the strip as the Green Lantern threw a 'Fist' at his target. Hal Jordan might have had Willpower in spades, but damn did the man need an urgent crash-course in creativity.
"Grrr… You annoying pest!" Rowan would've taken a second to admire the battle between Lanterns, if his Shade wasn't busy wrestling the Rage-fueled Power Ring.
Ichor's claws closed around the Ring's dark reflection, buying Rowan just enough time to rocket away and put some distance between them. He was mid-swing when phantom agony tore through his shoulders, nearly KO'ing him in the process. Instead of the graceful landing he'd aimed for, Rowan slammed into the side of a commercial skyscraper, barely stifling a cry as glass shards dragged across his face.
Stumbling to, he clutched at his own perfectly intact arms. "What the hell was that?!" He looked back just in time to see the Red Ring, now free, rocketing toward its new designated Wieldet. "Persistent bastard…"
It hadn't just escaped.
The Ring's acceleration had been so violent it'd ripped the Shade's arms off to free itself.
A moment later, his Shade churned at his feet.
It looked ragged… Diminished somehow.
A fresh Rage pulsed through him, but he shoved it down. There was no time to worry about his battered partner. Not while a Green Lantern and a very pissed-off Red Lantern were still occupying the same airspace, and certainly not while a Red Lantern Ring was hounding his ass. "Fuck—"
He turned, but the Red Ring was already there, pulsing inches from his mask.
A name echoed from within the crimson Artifact—a furious, grating sound that seemed to have come from the depths of Hell itself. "—ROWAN LOCKE!"
"I HEAR YOU FUCKING FINE!" Rowan snarled, both irises flashing blood-red.
He immediately backhanded the Ring.
The gesture was as pointless as his struggle, but it did add a bonus to the Pro-Pimp Class for the Demon.
"STOP SCREAMING, MOTHERFUCKER!"
Rowan's hand hadn't even completed the motion when the Ring responded to his defiance by throwing him against the wall.
He crashed through the plaster, the impact rattling every bone in his body—bones that only remained intact thanks to the Fel Magic flowing through his veins.
He lay in a heap of rubble, then glared at the crimson Ring drifting calmly through the hole it had just made.
"—We have weighed your soul, Hellspawn! We saw the injustice you turned a blind-eye to under another's service! You may've changed, but you're not ABSOLVED!"
The ring pulsed, detonating blackish blood all over him; blood which instantly set him in murderous rage.
Roaring, the Demon clawed at his own eyes, thrashing wildly as he tried to scrape away the infectious gore while a Construct of Atrocitus loomed over. "For your part, your eyes ought to be gouged; your tongue torn out and be fed to you. But your indignation... It is pure! Perhaps there is hope for you still… This is your higher calling, Hellspawn. Join us! Join us to lay waste to Thieves, Murderers, and Deceivers!"
Despite Ichor's best efforts, it could only helplessly watch while the Construct raised its fists and rammed the Ring into Rowan's chest; ripping apart skin, tearing loose tissues, and melting down bone like wax under a blowtorch.
It stopped just shy of his heart, and for one desperate moment, Rowan dared think his Plot-Armor had finally decided to show up! It hadn't. The Construct had only paused to spite him, plunging its fist deeper and forcing upon him the Title of a Red Lantern.
The sound of his own screams was quickly lost in the roars of Pain and Rage as the Ring's Corrosive Aura began to scour his entrails to ash. "There's no use resisting… It is done. You are one of us no—!" It and the Emotional Entity powering it had, sadly, made one fatal error: They had invaded a territory that was already claimed.
From the gaping, bloody hole in his chest, his own Demonic Power erupted.
Thick, pressurized torrents of Ichor gushed out, meeting the invading red mist head-on. His Inner-Demon did not like intruders and, apparently, wasn't afraid to make it displeasure known either.