Killer Croc crushed the rat in his mouth, the shattered bones mixed with blood dripping from his fangs and rippling red across the water's surface.
He opened his jaws and exhaled a foul, blood-reeking breath.
Waylon Jones, the Killer Croc, stood over two meters tall, his dark green scales tough enough to withstand direct rifle fire. The gleaming claws and fangs made him look more like an upright crocodile than a man — savage and not particularly intelligent.
But even if his mind had long since given way to primal instincts and animal urges, he still clearly remembered the name of the man who had hurt him.
"Bane—!"
That name echoed endlessly in his head like a scream that wouldn't fade.
He trudged through the dark sewers of Gotham, a universe of stench, filth, and decay, searching for the scent of his enemy.
His arm still throbbed faintly; the last time they fought, Bane had broken it with a single blow.
Killer Croc knew perfectly well — he had been used by Bane as a tool to prove his strength to Batman.
That was not only a humiliation, but also a powerful motivation.
The beast's heart burned with fury. In nature, crocodiles were known for their strong sense of vengeance.
But… before revenge, he needed to find something to eat.
At that thought, the ferocious beast suddenly seemed less imposing.
He snorted in frustration.
Ugh, he was hungry. And rats weren't filling at all...
The huge crocodile squatted down among the piles of trash. Though a warm-blooded creature, he still retained reptilian habits — such as sitting motionless for hours on end.
Just then, his keen sense of smell caught a scent in the air.
It was so enticing that his body, which had been curled up like a hedgehog, immediately straightened.
So good! So good! What was that smell? Roasted whole pig?
No, that couldn't be right. Above these sewers should be the slums — why would there be… but it smelled so good!
Killer Croc's sluggish brain turned lazily for a few seconds, then gave up entirely.
As the last string in his mind snapped, his cold reptilian pupils changed shape.
"Delicious—food—!"
With a clang, drooling, Killer Croc pushed open the manhole cover and climbed out from the underground.
He emerged into an abandoned open-air parking lot littered with the wrecks of cars and heaps of construction debris. No one was around.
It was deep into Gotham's night. The mist had lifted, stars faintly scattered beneath the bright moonlight. The cool night breeze intertwined with the aroma, leaving kisses in every corner of the air.
Under the clear moonlight, Killer Croc saw, right in the middle of the empty lot —
a whole golden roasted pig.
"...?"
His nictitating membrane flickered; reason briefly returned, and a trace of human-like thought glimmered in his beastly eyes.
A trap. The intention to lure him in was far too obvious. There must be poison in that roast pig.
But there was no strange scent in the air. Oh... maybe they used deodorizer?
Who would go through so much trouble… uh…
...Right, who would?
I don't know.
At that point, Killer Croc's thought process stalled again.
Ugh, his head itched.
What was he supposed to think of next again?
Forget it. Whatever. Still…
Whoever set this up, Killer Croc had no intention of backing down.
Inside, he was clear as day, though his face looked piggish and stupid — drooling, wobbling, step by step, he staggered toward the roasted pig.
He already had a plan.
Whoever set this trap would want to confirm he'd eaten the poisoned bait before proceeding.
So he would do the unexpected — take the bait down into the sewer tunnels instead.
If they came down to check whether he was poisoned, then the roles of hunter and prey would instantly reverse.
If they didn't, he could watch from the shadows, then strike first.
Either way, the initiative would remain entirely in his hands.
Killer Croc couldn't help but mentally give himself a thumbs-up.
To come up with such a brilliant plan in such a short time — he was so smart!
Then he grabbed the roast pig.
The next second—
ZZZZZZZ!
Hundreds of thousands of volts surged through his body, frying him inside and out. His muscles twitched uncontrollably, his dark green scales blackened and smoking.
CLANG!
Four searchlights hidden in the junk piles suddenly blazed to life, flooding the whole parking lot with light as bright as day.
"Seriously? That's it?"
Killer Croc heard voices from the shadows:
"No way, no way — did someone actually fall for such a simple trap?!"
In an instant, all the blood in Killer Croc's body rushed to his head.
Rationality: -100%!
His brain clocked out on the spot. He let out a distorted roar and, jerking and twitching from the electric shock, began thrashing like a man possessed.
Given the residual current still coursing through him, his movements looked less like an attack — and more like an electronic dance.
Still, considering his 1,500-pound bulk, even that "dance" was lethally dangerous.
The Ventriloquist practically crawled away from where he had just been standing. In his hand, the little Bat Baby doll's built-in wireless module kept broadcasting taunts:
"Is that it? Is that it? Is that it?"
At that moment, Chen Tao felt a kind of joy he hadn't experienced since his previous life — the joy of online trolling.
Especially seeing the Ventriloquist scrambling away like a bug, while he himself sat safely in a van parked several kilometers away, sipping coffee, watching through satellite and the toy's embedded camera — safe and comfortable.
Knock, knock, knock!
A street thug was tapping on his window.
"Yo, man, you know whose turf this is? You gotta pay—"
Chen Tao rolled down the window, revealing the sharp bat ears and half-covered mask of Batman.
"You serious?"
The thug froze, staring at him as if he'd just seen the real Batman.
He let out a shrill, girly scream and bolted.
Damn it — seeing Batman alive at night? Scared him half to death.
Meanwhile, Killer Croc had gone completely berserk.
"RAAAAAGHHHH!"
He hadn't even taken two steps before his foot tightened — caught.
Ropes burst up from the dirt, dozens of them, whipping around him in a blur and binding his whole body into a cocoon.
Once again, he'd fallen straight into a trap.
Now he was furious — but he was also hungry, numb, and miserable, unable to break free, just crawling pitifully on the ground.
"That worked? That actually worked that easily?"
Deadshot stepped out of hiding, glancing disdainfully at the man in yellow and blue who looked more like a superhero than a mercenary.
"Enough chatter, Javelin," Deadshot said coldly. "You should be thankful our employer volunteered to draw the target's attention. Otherwise, you'd have been dead already."
He added sarcastically:
"Honestly, that last part suited you better."
"I just made two million dollars off this job! Two million! So easy!"
Javelin didn't even seem to hear him, too caught up in excitement.
"Heh, I'm rich! Two million dollars, baby! Heh!"
He was nearly incoherent with joy.
"After this job, I'm done. Retiring. Going home to get married."
He said it with near-reverence:
"This is the best day of my life!"
"..."
Deadshot was speechless. Ignoring the idiot, he turned to Cheshire Cat beside him.
"Send a message to Black Spider and Tattoo Man — tell them to come over."
Cheshire nodded; getting paid without having to fight suited her just fine.
"Ahem, even though that went unusually smoothly," Deadshot said, turning toward the panting Ventriloquist, "since the target's been captured…"
He continued, "Dear employer, I'm curious. You insisted we not kill Killer Croc — said you wanted him to work for you—"
He gestured at the raging, snarling beast:
"Now, do you still plan to do that?"
"Of course,"
Arnold, trembling and speechless, couldn't answer. The Bat Baby doll in his hand replied instead:
"I have a pla—"
"Un–for–giv–able!"
Before it could finish, Killer Croc roared, face pressed to the ground, shaking with fury.
Deadshot calmly lowered the hand covering his ear.
"Well, honestly," he said dryly, "I think you've just made an enemy of that beast — getting him to work for you now seems… impossible."