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Chapter 6Ba
🕑 Added 2025-10-30 22:30:43 +0000 UTCChapter 6Ba
The Killer Croc crushed the rat in his jaws, splintered bones mixed with fresh blood dripping from his fangs, sending red ripples across the water.
He opened his mouth and exhaled a foul, blood-tinged breath.
Killer Croc, Waylon Jones, stood over 2.2 meters tall, his dark green scales tough enough to withstand direct rifle fire. His cold, gleaming claws and razor-sharp teeth made him resemble a bipedal crocodile more than any human—fierce, and not exactly bright.
But even if his mind had succumbed to primal instinct and animal drive, he still remembered the name of the one who’d hurt him.
“Baaaaane!”
The name echoed in his skull like an unending scream.
He trudged through the shadows of Gotham’s sewers, navigating the burst stink, filth, and chemical fumes of that subterranean universe, tracking the scent of his enemy.
His arm still throbbed faintly. Last time, he had lasted only one exchange before Bane broke it.
Croc knew well: Bane had used him as a tool to prove his strength to Batman. It was a humiliation—and a powerful motivator.
The fury in the beast’s chest burned hot. In the wild, crocodiles were notoriously vengeful animals.
But... before revenge, he needed something to eat.
At that thought, the vicious predator lost his edge.
He let out a limp snort.
Ugh, so hungry. And rats barely filled him up...
No big deal. A quick rest, and he wouldn’t feel so hungry anymore.
The massive crocodile squatted miserably among the trash. Though warm-blooded, he still retained some reptilian traits—like sitting motionless for hours.
But just then, his sharp nose caught a scent.
It was so delicious that his curled-up body unfolded like a hedgehog stretching out.
So good! So fragrant! What was that smell? Roast pork?
No, wait—he was under the slums. Why would anyone in the slums...
But it really did smell amazing!
Killer Croc’s sluggish brain turned over a few times before giving up entirely.
With a snap, a string in his head seemed to snap, and his vertical pupils twisted into a strange shape.
“Deeeelicious!”
Clang!
Drooling, he flung open a manhole and crawled out from underground. He emerged into an abandoned open-air parking lot, strewn with wrecked car husks and building debris. Not a soul in sight.
It was the dead of night in Gotham. The mist had lifted; the moon hung bright and the stars sparse. Cool night air mingled with the smell, leaving invisible traces of temptation in every corner.
Under the silver moonlight, Killer Croc saw it—right in the middle of the lot sat a glistening, golden roasted pig.
“…?”
His nictitating membrane flicked over his eyes. A glint of human thought flickered within his beastly gaze.
It was a trap. The bait was far too obvious. Probably poisoned, too.
There was no unusual scent in the air. Oh… maybe deodorizer?
Who would go to such elaborate trouble…
Wait.
Yeah, who?
I don’t know.
At that point, Killer Croc’s mind hit a wall.
Ugh, head feels itchy.
What was I thinking again?
Forget it, whatever. But…
Whoever set this up—he, Killer Croc, had no intention of backing down.
His mind was crystal clear, but he wore a dumb, piggish grin. Swaying, drooling, he slowly made his way toward the roasted pig.
A plan had already formed in his head.
Whoever was behind this would need to see him take the poisoned bait before moving forward.
But he would play it his way—he’d drag that bait back into the sewers.
If they dared come down to check whether the poison had taken effect, then the roles of hunter and prey would instantly flip. If they didn’t come, he’d wait and ambush them himself.
Either way, the initiative would be entirely in his hands.
Killer Croc couldn’t help but mentally give himself a thumbs-up.
To come up with such a clever plan on the spot—I really am a genius!
Then he reached out and grabbed the roast pig.
The next second—
BZZZZZZZZZT!
Hundreds of thousands of volts shot through his body. He convulsed violently, dark green scales charred black as the current roasted him inside and out.
CLANG!
Four searchlights hidden in the junk piles snapped on all at once, flooding the abandoned lot with blinding white light.
“No way, that’s it?”
Killer Croc heard voices from the shadows—those behind the trap gasping in disbelief.
“You’ve got to be kidding. He really fell for something that basic?”
In an instant, all the blood in Killer Croc’s body seemed to rush from his feet straight to the top of his head.
Rationality dropped by 100%.
Killer Croc’s brain shut down on the spot as he let out a distorted howl and began twitching and jerking like a Parkinson’s patient.
But due to the lingering effects of the electricity still running through his body, his movements looked less like an attack and more like someone dancing to electronic music.
Yet, given his weight of over 700 kilograms, even those movements carried lethal force.
The Ventriloquist was practically crawling to escape from where he had just been standing. From the Bat Doll in his hand, Lucen Kelith’s built-in wireless comms module was still broadcasting an endless stream of taunts.
“This? This? This is it?”
At that moment, Lucen genuinely felt the same satisfaction he used to get when rage-baiting people online in his past life.
Especially since the Ventriloquist was rolling and scrambling on-site while he sat kilometers away in a plain-looking van pulled over by the roadside, calmly sipping coffee, observing the scene through satellite feed and the camera mounted on the toy—safe and comfortable.
Tap tap tap!
A street thug was knocking on the window outside.
“Hey, man, do you even know whose turf this is? If you’re here, you gotta pay—”
Lucen rolled down the window, revealing his pointed ears and the half-mask of the Bat-themed helmet.
“You serious?”
The thug, who was trying to extort some money, froze like he’d just seen the actual Divil. He let out a shrill, panicked scream and bolted.
Shit—seeing a real-life Batman in the middle of the night really would scare someone to death.
Elsewhere, Killer Croc had completely snapped.
“Raaaahhhhhh!”
He hadn’t taken more than two steps before something tightened around his legs—he’d stepped right into a pre-set trap.
Dozens of snares shot out from the dirt, wrapping around him with dizzying speed and binding him up like a stuffed dumpling.
Once again, he toppled headfirst into a trap, and it only made him angrier.
But he was also hungry, numb, and miserable. There was no way he could break free, so all he could do was crawl pitifully on the ground.
“That was it? That’s all it took?”
Deadshot emerged from hiding and gave a disdainful glance toward the man dressed in yellow and blue, looking every bit like a knockoff superhero.
“Enough with the squawking, Javelin. You really ought to thank our employer for volunteering to act as bait, otherwise you wouldn’t have even made it this far.”
He said it with cutting sarcasm.
“Honestly, I think you were better suited for that job.”
“I just made two million dollars on this gig! Just like that!”
Clearly, Javelin, riding high on adrenaline, wasn’t listening to a word Deadshot said.
“Eheheh! I’ve got two million bucks now! Eheheh!”
He was so excited he couldn’t even speak coherently.
“I’m done with this line of work. After this job, I’m retiring, heading home, getting married.”
He spoke almost reverently.
“This is the happiest day of my life!”
“…”
Deadshot was speechless. He ignored the idiot babbling next to him and turned to Cheshire.
“Send a message to Slipknot and Tattooed Man. Tell them to get over here.”
Cheshire nodded. Getting paid without lifting a finger—she was in a good mood too.
“Ahem. This all went… unusually smoothly. But since the target’s been secured—” Deadshot turned toward the Ventriloquist, who was lying nearby, gasping for breath.
“Dear employer, I’m curious. You insisted we not kill Killer Croc, said you wanted him to work for you—”
He pointed toward the enraged monster.
“Are you still planning on that?”
“Of course,”
Arnold shrank back, unable to get a word out, and the BatDoll toy in his hand answered for him, “I have a pla—”
“Un—for—giv—able!”
But before he could finish, he was interrupted by Killer Croc, who twisted and screamed, his face pressed into the dirt, unleashing a deafening roar.
Deadshot calmly lowered the hand that had been covering his ear.
“Well, honestly, I think you’ve made yourself an enemy of the beast now—calming him down is pretty much off the table, let alone getting him to work for you.”
