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Season 0: Year One C23: Sins of the Father, Sins of the Son (Public)
🕑 Added 2025-07-23 09:02:30 +0000 UTC“Tell me, Master Magician,” Madame Xanadu whispered behind the blinds, her voice devoid of its earlier warmth. “What do you know of the name Trigon?”
“I have heard it only in passing…” Zatara admitted with a rare note of humility.
In all his years, in all his travels through Grimoires and Realms unknown and forgotten to all Mankind, he had only heard the name whispered thrice—a footnote in tales of Cosmic Destruction too vast to be believed.
“Then a lesson is required,” The Soothsayer pronounced. “We shall begin at the Genesis.”
From beneath her table, Madame Xanadu retrieved an old, dusty tome. It was bound in what looked like tanned human skin, scarred with ancient symbols, and held shut by chains of pitted, blackened iron.
The first page flew open to reveal a pop-up diorama from which Three Divine figures rose, their Majesty so potent that Zatara instantly found himself Spellbound.
“In a creation long since passed, there were Three Divines,” Xanadu began, effortlessly slipping into the role of a storyteller—a role she clearly had a lot of fun playing. “Who grew to resent the Dusk within their own Souls. In their folly, these Gods sought to cast out their own Iniquity,
To become Entities of Unblemished Light.”
She turned the page with a groan, revealing new, terrible geometries. Darkness bled from the Divines' paper forms as the black ink they expelled was granted hateful Life, converging together into an Entity which gleefully howled its Malice to a hopelessly ill-equipped Universe.
The Shade then leaped from the two-dimensional page, traversing countless Galaxies and Star Systems, before plunging into the belly of an alien queen whose placid expression was reshaped by into a visage of unceasing agony.
“But they found their Creation bereft of Balance,” Another page turned, and the Divines, now rendered in a cold, unforgiving light, looked on in horror as the Evil fled into the Vast Expanse. “Too late, they understood their error, and so to atone, they forged the ‘Heart of Darkness,’ a Vessel to contain the Sins they and all in their Universe could no longer bear.”
Page after page turned, each showing a world being cleansed as the Divines moved through different Star Systems, their Crystalline Heart drinking in the Malevolence of weeping Planets and Despair of dying Stars.
“For countless ages, they drew the Lesser Evils unto the Heart of Darkness, yet all roads in their Universe converged upon a world not merely touched by Evil, but enthroned and entombed by it… It was there that the Trinity soon discovered a young King whose cruelty suffocated his people just like the very air they breathed. There, they found Trigon.”
Zatara had been to Hell aplenty.
Most Magicians of any standing had made the journey at least once in their pursuit, for the Infernal Realms were a necessary, if perilous, source for the rarest of reagents. But what the Book showed was worse than.
Hell, in its own terrible way, had a semblance of Order. There were Laws etched in its brimstone, Boundaries that even the most depraved of the Damned dared not cross—all enforced by Lords and Ladies who understood true, untethered Mayhem would consume their Kingdoms as readily as it would the Sphere of Gods and the Silver City.
There was no such Order here, and the only Laws in effect appeared to be the whims and musings of their Ruler, if the 'King' could even be called that.
The page turned again, and a million atrocities immediately came into being. The Psychic onslaught was so intense that the Magician had to squeeze his eyes shut, but it offered no respite, for the visions were not just on the page, but was instead branded directly onto his Psyche.
He saw skyscrapers razed to dust with the screams of the families still echoing inside, simply because they obstructed the Tyrant’s view.
He watched while men were splayed and flayed, their paper bodies becoming tributes for a Demon who didn't even hunger, but merely wished to know the flavor of a mortal's final terror.
Then, he bore witness as women from countless worlds were harvested like cattle, their bodies made incubators for monstrous offsprings before they were cast back to their homes to perish in childbirth or by their own hand.
And then, every soul in that maelstrom of paper and pain—the burning, the flayed, the broken—turned their simple ink-dot eyes upon him at once. Their collective plea was not for Salvation, but for the simple mercy of an End.
“It was to this world the Divines came, believing they could contain such a being—” Madame Xanadu intoned, and the final page rose into view as the Divines presented the 'Heart of Darkness' to Trigon, who howled with glee at the Artifact.
“And they could only watch in horror as the warlord devoured the Artifact, and the collected Malice of a hundred galaxies… He did not choke on the Poison like they'd hoped he would; he savored it like the most delectable feast.“
The cutout of Trigon immediately convulsed.
The sound was not of crinkling paper, but of bones snapping into new configurations.
The Demon swelled, now sporting wicked horns as its formerly light skin peeled back to reveal the crimson musculature beneath. Then, in the book's final, blasphemous act, the pop-up reached forth. With but a gesture, 'Trigon' deprived the Three Divines of their flesh and draped their empty, glittering hides over his shoulders.
The book snapped shut, cutting off the psychic screams and smothering the heat and sulfur in an instant… All that remained was Zatara with one hand clamped over his mouth as he fought back the bile in his throat.
“By the Lords… Rowan Locke is the Son of the Devil?”
Madame Xanadu slowly pulled away her blindfold, her clouded, All-Seeing gaze boring into him like she could read the shape of his Soul.
“You speak of Devils you understand, Giovanni. The Morningstar sought Freedom from the Grand Plan, while the First of the Fallen saw God's machinations as madness. Their Evils have a design, a philosophy… Trigon has no such grand ambition. He is a baser thing. He kills, he defiles, he conquers, and he destroys for no greater purpose than the all-consuming, nihilistic pleasure he found in utter ruin.“
“Wh-Why did you spare him?” Asked the Magician.
The question sounded feeble on his tongue.
A pale imitation of the real, but terrible thought looping in his mind. 'Why didn’t you kill the babe?'
“The Sins of the Father should not be the Sins of the Son.“
.
.
.
“But be warned: If you fail, he may well be the Bridge that draws his Sire onto our Plane. And if that should happen, the Earth will know only agony…
Do with this information what you will.“
Madame Xanadu had told him, and by the Almighty, Zatara wished the Soothsayer hadn’t. This was too great a burden for him to bear. Hands shaking violently, the Magician raised the Artifact overhead and glared through tear-blurred eyes at the motionless boy whom he'd so foolishly agreed to mentor.
No one would know.
In the next room, the Green Lantern was running on little more than caffeine and the dregs of his (in)famous Willpower, blissfully unaware of the Magical threat nearby.
'It'd be so simple.' Zatara thought.
He could end it here and now—snuff out the Spark before it could grow into a world-ending Flame.
All he needed was the courage to do what must be done; resolve Giovanni quickly found to be entirely absent. Before a decision could be made, the Magician saw, from the corner of his eye, the tiniest flicker of movements and hurried into a corner as 'John Smith' exited the darkness.
While he might've denied the man Magic due to his frightening aptitude for darker disciplines, not a day passed that Zatara didn't marvel at the skills of his once 'student.' The Magician hadn't even realized the Bat was there, and Zatara always—ALWAYS—swept a room with Magic prior to entering.
Bruce looked at his ward, then suddenly kicked at the Magician's head, foot passing clean through his skull and coming out the other side.
The kick which should've given Giovanni permanent brain damage instead left Zatara completely unperturbed, as his Spell did not merely Conceal; it also rendered the Magician intangible until he willed otherwise… Yet, in spite of it, Bruce appeared certain something was there, eyes refusing to stray from Zatara until a call connected to his cowl.
“Lucius.” He greeted.
“—Bruce, I've found a viable match for the boy, but there's a complication.”
“What is it?” The Dark Knight growled, wearily rubbing his temples.
“—It's been allocated to a priority patient. A ten-year-old boy with congenital heart defects… He won't survive the month without the transplant."
“Rowan won't survive the week.“ Bruce muttered, sounding almost bitter as he paced back-n'-forth. Zatara recognized the tone all too well, for it was a language older than any Spell; it was the sound a man made when his child's life was on the line. “The schematics I sent… Can you build it?"
“—Not quickly. Some of the alloys are proprietary. We can reverse-engineer them or find safe substitutes, but it'd still take months, Bruce.“
To condemn his own son, or to condemn another's. It was a choice no man should ever have to make, and yet, Fate had seen fit to lay that impossible decision at the feet of the Bat.
“—I'm truly sorry.“ The CEO's attempt at consolation had the opposite effect as his shoulders slumped. “—Take the time you need, but… The other boy’s surgery is in a week. You must give me your decision before then. The longer you drag this out, the harder it'll be for everyone.“
“I know. Have a TAH (Total Artificial Heart) custom-made for him in the meantime.“ Arms falling slack at his sides, the Dark Knight tried to sit down, only to misjudge the distance and, rather than sitting, collapsed onto the mattress instead.
“You're not gonna do it.“
Bruce whirled around, coming face-to-face with his now wide-awake ward. "Rowan…"
“You’re not gonna do it,” The boy repeated, almost as if he found the very idea detestable. “You’re not going to. It’d be killing, and Batman doesn’t kill.”
“It's not—”
“Oh, don't fucking lie to yourself! It's unbecoming. You might not be pulling the trigger, but you would be signing his death warrant!“
“Don't you want to live?“
"What kind of question is that? Of course, I want to live! I'm a Demon, Bruce, I am literally DAMNED if I die!"
The Demon scowled, animatedly waving his hands.
"But that boy wants to live too, Bruce… His parents are probably hoping he does, and so is everyone who loves him and is waiting for him to come home."
The 'And a part of yourself, too' needed not be said.
Batman would never contemplate such an act, but Bruce Wayne was, and to do it, he'd have to 'kill' his Alter-Ego first.
“Rowan, I—”
“Don't blame yourself. That Lantern Ring chased me down, pretty much. This isn't on you, and it’s not on Zatara either. It's a cosmic happenstance so I guess we have the Most-High to blame. Now… If you're quite done with the pity party, I am currently in a committed relationship with this lovely mattress, and I’d like to enjoy her. Alone."
Hand clamping onto the doorframe, Bruce caused the metal to creak out in protest, bending under pressure the Dark Knight wasn't even aware he was putting on it.
He gave the boy one last glance, before deciding to remove himself as he was asked to. Although technology had failed them, there was still one other, arguably less clear-cut solution: Magic.
Shame rising in his chest, the Magician gathered his composure and headed for the door as well, only to be stopped dead in his track by the Half-Fiend. “Not you. You stay.“
'What?' The Magician looked around, senses sweeping the room for any other presence. When he found none, his focus returned to the boy on the cot. His Spell still held—that, Zatara was sure of, but if so, "How did you sense me?"
“Ever heard about ‘Killing Intent’? Yours wavered.”
God only knew where Bruce had picked up this kind of next-level bullshit, probably Japan or China or Tibet if he had to guess. Fucking Tibet. Still, since it worked in his favor, Rowan wasn’t going to complain.
“It’s rude to eavesdrop, y’know? Even ruder to stab someone in their sleep, Teach.”
“…”
The Magician stared, mind already racing for a logical explanation. Either the boy’s Innate Demonic Senses had sharpened from recent ordeals, or he possessed a form of Telepathy.
“No, I don’t have Telepathy. I wish I did, though.”
Zatara’s eye twitched as he revealed himself. “You must understand how difficult that is to believe, yes?”
"It’s not Telepathy. Your timing was just… predictable," Rowan shrugged, his gaze wandering to the Artifact in Zatara's hand. "Cool dagger, by the way. Very Goth."
“It is no mere dagger… It was forged from the thirty pieces of silver paid to Judas."
“A holy weapon to put down an unholy monster.“ Rowan snorted.
“I apologize. I was made privy to certain information concerning your Lineage, and I—”
At a loss for words, the Magician sighed, letting his 'apprectice' finish in his place.
“And you did not like what you learned.”
“Your sire’s the Devil… No, he’s worse than.”
“Lemme guess, the guy's name starts with a ‘T’?”
There was no shortage of cosmic horrors or Luciferian figures in the DC Universe. Practically any of them could’ve jerked him into Existence, but extra eyes, horns, red skin, and a reputation nasty enough to make a future Lord of Order contemplate murder? That narrowed the list quick.
“You knew?!”
“I suspected.” Tilting his head, Rowan weighed the odds in his mind, then came to a decision. “I possess a form of Clairvoyance. Power hasn’t been useful in ages, sadly...”
How could it? It’s not like he could read the comics or brush up on DC lore through a Fandom Wiki and some hour-long YouTube deep dive. “But it showed me enough.”
“I see." Zatara murmured, a newfound understanding in his eyes. It was no wonder the boy never looked fazed by anything. If his Clairvoyance had shown him even a fraction of such horrors, then the boy's cynicism was well-earned.
“It’s not you, it’s me.”
Slapping the mattress like a hot ex he hadn’t seen in ages, Rowan dropped into the seat beside his magical tutor, then poured himself and the man a cup of tea each. Real tea, not the flavored milkshake or those… Disgusting, flowery crap everybody seemed to love. “What now, Teach? If you want to kill me, you need not dirty your hands. I’m actively dying as is.”
"No, that’s not what I-I didn’t—"
"It’s cool.“ Rowan chuckled, effortlessly waving off the Magician’s flustered denial.
Obviously, he wouldn’t have laid down and accepted death, but he understood where Zatara was coming from.
Hell, if their roles were reversed, he’d probably have stabbed the man fifty times for good measure. "Now that we’ve established you’re not going to shank me, would you care to lend a hand? Maybe provide me a Ritual to replace my missing Heart? Or, hell, I don’t know, help me figure out what the hell's going on with my Shade?“
“Your Shade?“
To demonstrate, Rowan leaned over the table, flipped the switch on the tableside lamp and gestured to the empty wall behind him. "As you can see, I cast no Shadow… It fought the Rage Entity of the Emotional Spectrum, and it's been MIA ever since. I want it back.“
Although he trusted Bruce to try his best, he also knew a man's best could end in failure all the same, even if said 'man' was the Bat, and with Hal's consciousness ever closer to fading, he calculated he had two days at most before the Construct in his chest collapsed.
There was little to no time for complex Rituals, and Rowan had no desire to barter with any Demon save his own, which left him with one choice: To place his bet on the monster in his Soul. 'Better the Devil I know than the ones I don't.'
“You think 'It' can save you? You think 'It' even wants to?“
“It has to… It is me, after all.“
— [HELLBRED] —
“Did it work? Well, duh! Why else would I be sitting in the dark, recording myself like a creep? What, you thought I died to a villain-of-the-week? C'mon, give yer boy some credit! That fucking Ring didn't even make it past one Issue!
Anyway… So, Zatara agreed to help, but he needed time to gather 'rare materials,' which was just a fancy way of saying I had to wait, so I did.
The downtime allowed me a chance to piece things together. Turns out, my big, city-trashing rampage wasn't so big after all, and the reason for that was Wonder Woman. That immovable door I remembered beating my head against was, in fact, Diana herself, who was apparently in town for some political nonsense.
I even managed to leave a bruise which, let's be honest, was mostly the Ring's doing.
Public perception, of course, was shit.
It didn’t matter that I hadn't wrecked anything; I was wearing the same color jersey as the other team, and that was apparently enough for the good people of Coast City. I'm sure the News had a field day with the story, but I didn't care enough to follow. However desperate they were to pin the blame on me, I knew it wasn't my fault.
And no, this isn't me just shirking responsibility… All I did was knock down a streetlamp in my Rage. I think I did less damage in that entire fight than Hal who, in his naivety, did the one thing you're not supposed to: He reasoned with them; got them to listen and let go of all that sweet, sweet Hate their Rings functioned on.
A real heroic moment, right up until the Power Rings that, unbeknownst to him, were doubling as their hearts decided to shut off.
Thankfully, every cloud has a silver lining.
The poor bastard was too traumatized to close his eyes which, conveniently for me, was the only thing keeping the Construct in my chest from fizzling out. Thinking back, it was rather shitty of me to leave Hal hanging, but I didn't want to die. Who fucking does?
With so much on my plate already, I figured I’d more than earned myself a little peace and quiet.. I should’ve known better, because this is the DC Universe, and nobody gets breaks! Ever!
See, while I was busy fighting for my life and tryin' to get a little sumthin'-sumthin' for my troubles, the City of Sins was busy digging up old monsters and making a new one whose research my Past-Self, in his infinite wisdom, had funded… Gotham, amirite?“
— [HELLBRED] —
He remembered his first foray into the world beneath Gotham’s streets, where every shadow could be a lurking threat, and every whisper a potential trap. Back then, he had come armed with nothing but borrowed courage, a vague sense of purpose, and very nearly didn’t make it out.
Even now, months later, Penguin's 'Little Corner' and its crass inhabitants continued to make his skin crawl with unease, but necessity, as always, proved a harsh master.
Quickly, Rabbit found the stall he needed; an alcove where various illicit chemicals glinted under a lone bulb. The transaction happened quickly, and quietly—just the way everyone in this dump liked it. After paying the exorbitant price for the vials, the Rabbit tucked them into his satchel and made for the exit.
He’d barely taken five steps before the storeowner called out from behind him.
“You forgot somethin’!” The Rabbit knew he hadn’t forgotten a thing, but curiosity got the better of him. People didn’t usually call out to others… Not in Gotham at least, and definitely not down here.
If someone did, they were either luring you into a trap, or they really, really had something to say. Neither boded well for Rabbit, but ignoring the man might be objectively worse given the wide variety of wares this particular stall had in stock. It'd mean Rabbit would have to find another supplier, possibly multiple, and new faces in the Black Market, more often than not, equaled trouble. “Yes?“
The vendor leaned in, pressing another powdery satchel into his palm. “You didn't hear this from me, but I heard some big boss has his eyes on ya'… Best lay low for a few days. I would hate to see my most generous customer disappear.” Eyes wide at the warning, Rabbit grabbed the satchel and bolted from the Black Market, his fading eyesight doing very little to dull his acute-awareness.
He then ducked into a narrow alley, stripped naked, tossed his outfit in the trash, and merged with the sidewalk crowd. Kirkland walked several blocks, taking extra turns as Jacques had suggested, before flagging down a cab. The Doctor wished he could breath a sigh of relief, but his pounding heart refused to allow him respite even as the vehicle neared his lab.
"Stop here."
"That'll be—"
The driver hadn't a chance to finish when a crumpled wad of cash was thrust into his weathered palm. Kirkland didn't wait for the protest about exact change or the mumbled gratitude.
Instead, he shouldered the door open with more force than necessary and stumbled onto the wet pavement, his breath visible in the October air.
The taxi's engine revved behind him as the driver counting bills in the rearview mirror, before pulling away with a screech of tires that echoed off the brownstone.
The sound soon faded, leaving only the amber wash of streetlights and the steady drip of water from a broken gutter somewhere above. Kirkland stood there for a moment, taking in what he could.
Mrs. Chen's television was murmuring through thin walls, and John's dog was barking three blocks over yet again, but none of it mattered to Kirkland as he fumbled with the keys.
When the gate finally opened into the narrow hallway that smelled of old radiators, the Doctor nearly deluded himself into believing he was safe. Nearly. “Robert, you're back!“ The pressure on his shoulder immediately died as he looked upon his wife.
Francine Lee was a small woman with honey-blonde hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, with wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, and kind, intelligent eyes which had seen him at his lowest and chose to love him in spite of.
Not a day went by that Kirkland didn’t thank God for having found her, and he felt that gratitude swell again as she guided him deeper into their home. “I think we need to disappear for a while,” He mumbled quietly. “Someone’s taken notice of my activities. I fear…“
The words were already at the cusp of his tongue, but Kirkland held them back, afraid that speaking them might make them real. It was admittedly a rather superstitious thought for a man of science, but even men of science knew better than to tempt Fate.
In their tiny corner in the world, Robert Kirkland and Francine Lee quickly rediscovered a strange kind of peace.
Days bled into nights as the geniuses worked to refine the formulas, cross-reference the genetic markers, and stabilize the bonding agents. After weeks of effort, they succeeded at last! Producing a single, stable vial of the Serum which sat quietly in a refrigerated case. They needed only test it, yet the memory of the last trial; of tumors blooming like weeds and bodies bursting in wet ruin gave him pause.
Aware of his hesitation, Francine came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
She gently drew his head back against her chest, her voice a soft hum as she began to sing a lullaby her mother had once sung to her. "It's going to be okay. If this doesn't work, we'll find another way."
"What if that fails, too?" He whispered.
"Then we’ll try again.“ He looked up at her, and in a gesture of pure, desperate need, turned and buried his face in the crook of her neck, his arms wrapping tightly around her waist. It was a rough, almost frantic embrace, so unlike his usual gentle disposition.
She would never admit it aloud, but Francine savored the way his hands roamed her back, gripping her waist and feeling her up. With a moan, she tilted her head sideways as he left a trail of wet kisses along her neck… Kisses that left her hot and needy for more.
Soon, their garments lay forgotten on the floor as the blonde spread her legs invitingly.
Kirkland, nerdy appearance and all, didn’t hesitate. He couldn't see her beauty as clearly as he once had, but he could feel her soft curves, taste the salt on her skin and hear the heavenly sounds she made every time he felt her up. Feverish from the warmth of Francine's body, Kirkland leaned forth, surrendering fully to the heat… To the hunger… And, at last, to her moistness.
That night, for the first time in weeks, Robert Kirkland felt… Sated.
Glancing at his wife, who was sound-asleep beside him, Kirkland sighed in contentment and allowed himself the luxury of sleep. He’d hoped to awake to sunlight pouring through the windows, and to his wife’s loving grey eyes. Instead, he was jolted alert by a tearful scream.
Moving on instinct, his hand shot beneath the pillow, closing around the sanded grip of the handgun every sane Gothamite kept for nights like this.
He took the stairs two at a time, landing in the dark living room and crashing straight into a wall of muscle.
The impact sent the gun skittering out of his grasp, and before he could recover, two men were on him…
Only they clearly weren't mere 'men,' for despite the darkness and Kirkland's deteriorating eyesight, he could still see the thick, green veins pulsing along their arms.
Then he spotted Francine—disheveled, seemingly unconscious and bleeding from a gash on her forehead. A gash that wasn't there before. “No! Get your hands off her!“
His desperate cry, unfortunately, only seemed to amuse the thugs.
A large hand clamped onto his collar, hoisting him upright while another of the thugs began to grope Francine's prone form. “Damn…! How did a nerd like you get a bitch this hot?”
"What do you want?!" The scientist snarled, gritting his teeth as the largest of the brutes knelt down.
“Bane's taken interest in your little project, and what Bane wants, Bane gets."
The man himself wasn’t here, but his thugs were, and they were arguably worse.
Bane had a Purpose at least.
His men, meanwhile, were attack dogs foaming at the mouth.
"You want my research? Let her go!" Kirkland blurted out, leaning into that sliver of courage. "Keep your hands off of her, or I swear I’ll—"
Before he could finish the empty threat, a backhand slap sent his head snapping to the side, filling his mouth with the coppery taste of blood and the looseness of a tooth.
“You will what?“
Holding back a pained cry, Kirkland’s eyes found his wife who had just come to and was curled in a ball while one of the thugs roughly groped her tits through her near translucent nightgown. “Yo-Your master wants my Serum, doesn’t he?! It’s not finished! He needs me to perfect the formula! Let her go! Just let her go, and I'll give him whatever he needs!“
Kirkland’s promise made the lieutenant pause.
He turned, his glare falling on the smaller thug who was still pawing at Francine.
"Stop.“
"Aw, c’mon, boss! Let me have a little fun with her. I promise I’ll be gent—" He never finished the sentence as the Big Guy introduced his face to their kitchen toaster, bringing it down on his subordinate’s head in a violent fit.
He didn’t stop there, bludgeoning the corpse over and over again, until brain matter was smeared across the very table where Kirkland and his wife had shared dinner earlier.
The Big Guy gestured with his chin at his awfully-silent subordinates, made himself comfortable on the blood-splattered table and glared at Kirkland. "Grab what you need… And don’t dawdle, or she’ll be next."
Still reeling from the blow, Francine pushed herself up on shuddering arms to the horrific sight on their table, and then to her husband being shoved into their lab.
She looked at her captor next, rubbing her arms against the cold as her eyes darted around for a way out, before locking onto the .22 Robert had dropped. She doubted it'd do anything, but wasn't it worth trying at least?
“Don't.“ The Big Guy warned, his voice deceptively soft. “I'll skin you alive.“
Any hope Francine had died in its crib as she retreated to the far corner of the room, pulling her knees to her chest. She knew it was a worthless gesture, for the walls would only corner her, but the sense of safety, regardless of how irrational it might be, was better than nothing.
“Wh-Why? We did nothing to you.“
The Big Guy had just begun to eye her when a gurgle echoed up from the basement.
Narrowing his eyes at the escalating commotion, the Enhanced rose to his full 6'7, scrunched his nose in annoyance and threw the door open.
He ducked just in time to avoid the decapitated head of his subordinate whizzing by his shoulder.
The Enhanced's lips peeled further back in a snarl when a gaunt, sickly, and mutated thing followed, leaping out from the dark confines.
Muscles strained, Bane's Lieutenant grabbed the Mutant and threw it to the ground. The impact should've shattered every bone in its body, and it probably would have if he were up against your average, nerdy Joe, but he wasn't. He was fighting a borderline rabid beast with a bone, or rather several to pick.
Circling the wretched, half-formed and blood-soaked monstrosity still twitching on the floor, the henchman sneered.
“C'mon, then… I'm not afraid of you.“
But he should've been.
He really, really should have.
