Killer Croc bit down, snapping the rat in his jaws to pieces. Bones shattered, blood oozed between his fangs, rippling through the murky sewer water in crimson waves.
He exhaled. The breath that escaped his mouth was thick, foul, metallic.
Waylon Jones—known across Gotham as Killer Croc—stood over 2.2 meters tall. His dark green scales were bulletproof against most firearms. Claws gleamed like knives. His massive frame and snout made him resemble a crocodile walking upright rather than anything human. Brutish. Monstrous. Mindless.
Or so people thought.
Even when his thoughts drifted into primal instinct, one name burned like fire in his skull:
"Bane."
The name rang in his mind like a war drum.
He stalked through the sewage of Gotham's underworld—through filth, gas leaks, rot, and rats—tracking the scent of his enemy.
His right arm still ached from the last encounter. Bane had broken it in a single move.
Croc knew he'd been used. Humiliated. He had been nothing more than a prop for Bane to flex in front of Batman. It burned. But it also gave him something to live for.
Revenge.
Croc's rage simmered, deep and ancient. In the wild, crocodiles are infamous for their memory and vengeful nature.
But… before revenge… he needed food.
His stomach grumbled.
He sniffed.
'Mice don't count. Too small…'
He slumped near a pile of trash. Even though he was warm-blooded, Croc still shared some reptilian habits—like sitting still for hours.
Suddenly, a scent caught his attention.
Delicious. Smoky. Sweet. His nostrils flared. His body tensed.
"Roasted pork?"
But he was in the sewers beneath Gotham's slums. Why did it smell like a banquet?
His brain made a sluggish attempt to reason it out.
'Too good. Too obvious. Trap?'
He sniffed again. No poison. No strange gas. 'Deodorized?'
'Still a trap.'
But the scent was too much. His animal instincts overrode logic. Drool spilled from his jaws.
With a thud, he pushed open a manhole cover and crawled into an abandoned parking lot.
Empty. Moonlit. Silent.
In the center, under silver light, stood a perfectly roasted whole pig.
Killer Croc blinked.
'...What the hell?
His nictitating membrane flicked shut and open again. His intelligence—briefly—returned.
This *had* to be a trap. It was way too obvious. Maybe the meat was laced. Maybe the bait was rigged to explode.
His thoughts drifted off mid-analysis.
'My head's itchy.'
He scratched it absently.
Still, his instincts hatched a plan.
Whoever set this trap would have to confirm he took the bait before acting. That gave him control. He could drag the meat back into the sewers and ambush whoever followed.
'If no one came? He could lie in wait. Hunt them later.'
Smart. Genius, Amazing.
He smiled proudly to himself.
'I'm really clever for thinking that up on an empty stomach!'
He reached out and grabbed the pig.
ZZZAAAP!
Electricity surged through his massive body—hundreds of thousands of volts frying him from the inside out. He convulsed, smoke rising from his scales, his body twitching violently as he collapsed.
BOOM! Four searchlights hidden in garbage piles suddenly flared on, flooding the parking lot with blinding white light.
Voices rang out.
"No way. That's it?"
"You've gotta be kidding. Who falls for that obvious of a trap?"
The blood in Croc's body surged to his head in an instant.
His rage boiled over. His sanity dropped to zero.
He thrashed, roaring in fury, body still crackling with leftover voltage. He leapt and spasmed like a beast caught in a techno-rave.
At 1,500 pounds, even his twitching could kill.
The Ventriloquist barely rolled out of the way as Croc's claw swiped through where he'd just been. The bat baby doll in his hand—currently broadcasting Bruce's voice through a wireless mic—kept repeating:
"That's it? That's it? That's it?"
Bruce, far away in a van parked safely in a nearby alley, sipped coffee and watched through a satellite feed.
He smiled smugly.
'Feels just like trolling people on the internet back in my old life.'
Suddenly— Knock knock knock!...
Someone tapped on his window.
A street gangster, sneering: "Yo, bro. Do you even know whose turf this is? You gotta pay a toll to park—"
Bruce rolled down the window, revealing his half-covered face, pointed bat ears catching the moonlight.
"…You serious?"
The gangster screamed like a child and ran off.
'Damn, bumping into Batman at midnight really IS terrifying.'
Bruce sighed.
'I wish I could've hired Slade for this. Too bad he's on another job.'
---
Back in the lot, Croc was completely feral.
"AAARRGHHHHHH!"
He charged—then stumbled. His feet caught in something.
Snap! Dozens of hidden cables shot up from the muddy ground, latching around him like snakes. Within seconds, they'd wrapped his limbs, torso, and snout—binding him like a giant, flailing dumpling.
He slammed into the ground, struggling, enraged, starving, and completely immobilized.
"We got him? That was it?" Deadshot emerged from his hiding place, raising an eyebrow.
He glanced at the man in a yellow-blue costume across the lot, who was jumping around in excitement.
"…Captain Javelin," Deadshot muttered with disdain. "Seriously?"
"Hey, hey! I just made two million dollars on this job!" Javelin cheered. "TWO MILLION!"
"I'm gonna retire! Go back to my hometown! Get married! This is the best day of my life!"
"…" Deadshot stared blankly, then turned to the Cheshire Cat beside him.
"Message Slipknot and Tattooed Man. Tell them to regroup."
The Cheshire Cat nodded, humming cheerfully. Easy job, easy payday.
Deadshot then turned to the ventriloquist—still wheezing on the ground.
"Alright, employer. You've always insisted Croc must live. That you want to use him somehow—"
He pointed at the twitching Croc, foaming at the mouth.
"Still feel that way?"
The ventriloquist whimpered. But the doll in his hand responded confidently:
"I have a way…"
"UNFORGIVABLE!!!"
Killer Croc howled again, pressing his face to the ground, snarling and frothing.
Deadshot lowered the hands covering his ears and said flatly:
"…Yeah. I'm pretty sure you just became this thing's enemy for life.
Forget working with him.
You're lucky if you survive him."