[ Artificial Lake, Abandoned Amusement Park, Gotham city ]
Even though Batgirl's strength was far from impressive—barely above that of an average civilian—her timing was flawless. Under normal circumstances, her effort wouldn't even budge Killer Croc, let alone restrain him. But she struck at the perfect moment, right as his old momentum had drained and his next burst of power hadn't yet surged.
"Huh?! What the—?" Killer Croc grunted in surprise. He was mid-charge, pursuing Robin with unwavering rage when the sudden tension around his right leg pulled his step short, halting his momentum like a glitch in a machine.
Barbara let out a breathless laugh in the comm. "Gotcha, you overgrown lizard."
"Nice work, Barbara," Catwoman murmured, who had been watching silently from the shadows, didn't hesitate. The second she saw the opening, she pounced. Twin blades flicked from her fingers and flew toward the only vulnerable area on Killer Croc's body—his eyes, unshielded by any hardened scales.
Thunk.
Thunk.
The blades stuck, one grazing his cheek, the other embedding in his brow ridge.
Killer Croc howled. "GAAH! You sneaky little—!"
But Catwoman was already midair, her whip snapping forward almost simultaneously, coiling tight around his other leg.
"Keep your compliments to yourself, Croccy," she said with a wink.
The whip was a gift from Batman, one of his rare attempts at being romantic. As unfeeling as the gesture may have seemed, Catwoman had to admit—it was damn effective.
Robin had taken his share of hits earlier. Even with his vital organs protected and his guard tight, Killer Croc's brute strength had left him aching. His ribs throbbed, and dull pain radiated through his limbs. That suit could only absorb so much punishment. But when he saw the coordination between Batgirl and Catwoman finally holding the beast still, he knew he couldn't falter.
This wasn't about pride or glory—not entirely. But as the only man in the squad, and one who carried Batman's legacy on his shoulders, he couldn't afford to be the weak link. Gritting his teeth, he sidestepped, dashed behind the restrained behemoth, and drove his fist hard into the back of Killer Croc's neck.
"Nighty-night, Scales."
He wasn't aiming to kill. That wasn't their mission. Batman had always set the line, and Robin wasn't about to cross it—not even with someone like Croc. As useless as this mutated brute might be to society, the objective remained the same: neutralize, not eliminate.
In theory, a precise strike to the back of the neck could knock out a person instantly—textbook takedown. It worked in spy movies, street fights, even SWAT training videos. Robin knew the anatomy well, and his technique was flawless.
What he didn't anticipate… was that this so-called "perfect knockout" would lead to a result no one expected.
...
Was Killer Croc a normal person? Emotionally, he liked to believe so. Rolling in the mud at dawn, catching a few fish or shrimp for breakfast—wasn't that a simple, normal life?
He'd seen women deliberately smearing mud on their faces, something called "seaweed clay." Apparently, it cost a fortune. To him, it looked no different from the sewer sludge he bathed in every day. Just with better branding.
Another time, from a safe distance, he'd watched a group of short, small eyed tourists from what locals called the East Asian Country's people eat raw fish. Afterward, they erupted into celebration, singing and dancing with joy. Croc had tilted his head in confusion. Didn't they always eat raw fish? Why the fanfare? Out of pity, he'd tossed them a few extra fish from his stash. He still wondered if they ever ate them.
After so many odd encounters with humanity, Killer Croc genuinely saw no issue with his lifestyle. Aside from looking a little different, he believed he was no different from the average man. This conviction had only grown over time.
But was that really true? After all, Arkham was full of people who swore they weren't sick, weren't crazy—louder than anyone else. And yet, those same people were the ones farthest gone. The ones who didn't shout, who quietly studied guard rotations and planned their exit routes—those were the ones who might still be sane.
Killer Croc belonged to the first category. In his own mind, he remained fully human. But biologically? He had already drifted far beyond that line. The gap between his DNA and a normal human's could span city blocks. At the current pace of his regression, he might lose what was left of his mind in two decades—nothing more than a crocodilian predator with memories of walking upright.
...
But those were distant nightmares. Right now, the more urgent concern was escaping today's mess. His legs were bound by two whip-wielding women, and Robin had slipped behind him, gathering his strength for a decisive blow to the back of the neck.
"AAAH!" Killer Croc let out a cry—but the dramatic takedown, the image of the monster crumpling under the hero's punch, and the admiring cheers of onlooking women? That... remained very much in Robin's imagination.
The future he'd once imagined—marrying Barbara, reaching the peak of his life—none of it was happening now.
"Argh! My skull! What did you—put in that punch?!"
Robin stood frozen, bewildered, watching Killer Croc growled from the ground, both clawed hands clamped to the sides of his head. He rolled, teeth bared, drool flinging. The two women, uncertain whether this was a trap or genuine pain, instinctively retracted their whips and kept their distance.
Robin rubbed his hand, wincing. "That was supposed to knock him out, not make him throw a fit." Had his martial arts deteriorated to the point of failing such a simple finishing move? A shadow of frustration crossed Robin's face as he tried to process what went wrong.
Killer Croc's expression was far worse. His hulking body, slow to react, hadn't turned in time. By the time he sensed Robin moving behind him, it was too late to avoid the blow.
Any normal person would've been out cold from a punch like that—infused with every ounce of Robin's precision and strength. They wouldn't have woken up for three days, and when they finally did, it would've been hunger that dragged them back to the world of the living.
But Killer Croc was no longer normal. His physiology had shifted so drastically over the years that he was now closer to a crocodile than a man. Deep within his neck, nestled near the spine, crocodiles possessed a dense node of nerves that governed balance and coordination—nearly impossible to spot with the naked eye, hidden beneath muscle and armor-like hide.
To an ordinary person, finding that spot would be a fool's errand. But expert hunters knew the truth. If you weren't the type to bury a trap and let the beast stumble into death, if you wanted a fair fight, you'd strike that cluster with a blade and bring the monster down fast. Immobilize it, then kill or capture as you pleased.
Unfortunately for Robin, he had no blade. Just his fists. And while his blow struck true, crocodile hide was infamous for being impenetrable. The punch didn't knock Croc unconscious—it simply hurt. A lot. Too much for the mutant reptile's dulled pain tolerance. Howling and thrashing, Killer Croc collapsed and began rolling on the ground in agony, oblivious to the heroes around him.
Too perfect. They're all staring. No one's finishing the job. Guess it's my turn. Thea saw the chance. This was her moment. She launched herself into the air, balancing on her skateboard with effortless precision, soaring ten meters upward before diving toward the battlefield.
She stopped about thirty meters out, inhaling lightly. No foul stench reached her. Thirty meters is good. Not too close. Not too far. No need to show off with some sniper-level shot from a hundred meters. We're teammates. Temporary, maybe. But still…
Drawing a freezing arrow from her quiver, she adjusted her angle and lead.
"Time to chill, Big Guy," she whispered.
Her aim settled on Croc's calf—not fatal, but enough to disable him.
Then she calculated the motion, the roll pattern, the arc—and released.
Whoosh.
The arrow cut through the air, a silent streak of blue.
This was a team effort, and Thea had no intention of stirring conflict by going lethal when a shot to subdue would do just fine.
To Be Continued...
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[POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS]