Knock, knock, knock!
Someone was rapping on the window of Chen Tao's van.
Chen Tao rolled the window down and saw that the same punk who had tried to extort him earlier had come back—this time with a whole gang behind him, all armed with machetes and crowbars.
"You really think that just because you dress like Batman, you are Batman? You actually had me scared for a second, you—"
Chen Tao couldn't be bothered to listen to the rest. He simply raised one hand, which instantly morphed into a spinning off-road tire. Before the thug could even react, Chen Tao swung and smacked him squarely on the forehead.
"Scram."
Seriously, robbing people in Gotham with machetes instead of, say, the anti-Robin Holy Sword of Physics? How low-tier could you get.
Watching the thugs flee in sheer panic, Chen Tao changed his face, picked up a microphone, and spoke into it.
"Hello? Can you hear me? Good."
He pinched his throat and spoke in Cheshire Cat's cool, crisp voice:
"Good day, my dear mercenaries."
Then, he quickly switched to Deadshot's voice.
"I'm glad to see there's been no conflict among you. Believe me—that's exactly how I like it. Now, untie Killer Croc."
Deadshot kept a straight face. He didn't bother asking a dumb question like "Who are you really?"
He could already smell a conspiracy. Of course—it always began like this: a mysterious puppet master hiding in the shadows, luring a naïve mercenary into a dangerous job.
Mercenaries didn't just take any offer that came their way—except for guys like Deathstroke, who was not only superhuman but skilled enough to kill any employer who tried to double-cross him.
But for the rest of them—mere mortals—a betrayal by an employer often meant instant death.
So, professionals like Deadshot usually preferred to deal with reliable intermediaries.
And The Ventriloquist had already proven himself to be an unusually decent, honest, and rule-abiding mob boss.
That was why Deadshot had agreed to work with him in the first place.
But this new, unseen mastermind…
The Ventriloquist undid Croc's bindings.
The beast jumped up, baring his fangs, claws ready to tear. Deadshot's gun barrel tilted downward—but Croc didn't attack.
Instead, his eyes lit up as he rushed toward the mountain of cash, lovingly scooping every bill from the dirt and carefully stuffing it back into the van.
"Heheheh! I've got two hundred million dollars! Hehehe!"
Captain Boomerang—er, Captain Javelin—looked like his soul had left his body from pure jealousy.
"Damn it! Why's my pay only—"
Chen Tao instantly switched to Javelin's voice.
"Don't envy Killer Croc. He's just getting a four-year advance on his basic salary—"
Then, switching back to the voice of the mysterious employer:
"As for the rest of you—I'm a generous boss. Complete my mission, and I guarantee that in a few months, every one of you will go home with hundreds of millions of dollars.
This is the biggest job of your lives—if you've got the guts to take it."
"..."
Deadshot made up his mind right there. He was in.
Not for the money—he just enjoyed the thrill of danger.
Chen Tao went on and on for a while—nonsense, mostly—but the gist of it was clear:
"I, the Rich Brother!"
"Your Wealthy Employer."
"Let There Be Cash."
"How to Properly Use the Power of Money."
"This Pie—So Big, So Round."
Chen Tao wasn't exactly good at giving speeches, but when your audience was surrounded by literal mountains of dollar bills, it didn't matter.
On one side—cold, hard cash and the living proof of generosity, Killer Croc.
On the other—three people realizing that maybe opposing him wasn't worth it.
Livewire forced a stiff smile; the Tattooed Man started slapping his belly in excitement, and before long, the tension in the air turned to wild enthusiasm.
Captain Javelin shouted,
"Oh, great employer! You are so generous!"
His theatrical, Shakespearean-level bootlicking left Deadshot utterly speechless.
"…Didn't you say you weren't taking any more jobs?"
"I changed my mind."
Tch. Money-blind fool, Deadshot thought with disgust.
Chen Tao continued:
"Then the temporary team is formed. I've already decided on a name for you: The Suicide Squad."
"What a terrible name."
"I'll add another hundred thousand dollars."
"What an amazing name."
Who cared—it's not like complimenting him cost anything.
Either way, Deadshot was relieved. The current mission was done.
As for the next one—as long as he stayed cautious, he'd live to go home.
With two hundred million dollars, maybe he could finally retire… and be with his daughter.
Behind the screen, Chen Tao also let out a sigh of relief.
Once Bane was dealt with, maybe he could retire too… and be with—well, the air.
"When I earn two hundred million dollars," he muttered, "I'll buy a mansion back home and live there with my wif—"
SPLAT!
Like a melon crushed in one hand.
Captain Javelin's blond, masked head exploded in a red mist, the spear dropping helplessly from his grip.
SPLAT!
Miles away, Chen Tao spat his coffee all over the monitor and jumped up, hitting his head against the van's ceiling.
Time seemed to slow down.
Deadshot's eyes widened.
Cheshire Cat's voice broke into a shrill, trembling scream:
"AMBUSH!!!"
He saw it—
that colossal figure emerging from the shadows.
Half-naked, muscles coiled like steel cables, veins bulging like serpents across his skin.
The most striking thing was the bright green tubing running from his skull to his arms—and that mask…
"BANE!"
Bane often felt like he was falling endlessly through a vast, empty void—
a dark ocean of silence and shadow.
It was both his cradle and his tomb.
But it could never cage his mind.
His soul shattered the coffin and wandered through the eternal twilight, where death and life intertwined.
He would find that bat-shaped demon.
He would stand before it—
defy it—
and at last, kill it!
And with its death, his fear would die too.
When that day came, all of Gotham would sing:
"Hail, the great hero Bane, who has conquered the dark lord—Batman!"
"Hail, Bane, ruler of Gotham, mightier than all!"
But of course, a hero's journey is never without hardship.
The dark lord had already sent his minions.
That blue-faced, fang-toothed beast—his defeated foe—now groveling before the dark lord for money.
It bared its fangs and tried to scare the mighty Bane.
But the hero would not be cowed.
He swung his mighty uppercut like a pendulum.
Killer Croc's head snapped back, his body crashing to the ground.
"I thought I'd already broken you, beast… and now I'll have to kill you."
The monster lunged up again, its foul breath thick in the air.
It roared and slammed its heavy fists down on the hero's head, tearing at his flesh with sharp claws.
"You think you can rule Gotham, huh? If not for your little juice, you wouldn't even be in my league!"
Bane smashed a fist into its face, sending it sprawling again.
Another punch—stones cracked beneath Croc's skull.
Another—and half his head was already buried in the concrete.
Bane grabbed the wreck of a nearby car, hoisting it high.
"I don't need Venom to kill a worm like you…"
BANG!
"Because I am BANE!"
BANG!
"The nightmare of all who stand in my way!"
BANG!
"The calamity of all living things!"
BANG!!!
Killer Croc screamed in agony as the car frame bent, twisted, and finally shattered into pieces.
A gunshot rang out—Bane dodged the bullet and turned his head.
He moved with the grace of a dolphin breaking through the waves, eyes burning like stars amid the mingling of dream and reality.
Ah yes… the dark lord had more servants yet.