In DC universe as Batman

Bruce stared at the live feed through his visor as the special armor-piercing round slammed straight into Bane's chest.

A puff of smoke. A dent in the skin.

And that was it.

Bane just stood there, flexing like it was leg day and someone had touched his protein shake.

Bruce blinked.

Then muttered,

"Fucking hell... Is that Bane or Solomon Grundy on gorilla juice?"

He squinted. "What even is that venom? Synthol? Gorilla cum? Christ."

He tapped the comm.

"Alfred. Prepare the Aegis missile."

A pause. Then Alfred's voice:

"Understood, Master Bruce. Target coordinates?"

Bruce sighed. "Wherever the bastard's standing."

---

On the other side of town:

Whether from the front or side, the Tattooed Man's whole posture screamed confidence.

Sexy tattoos. Cocky eyes. Swaggering like he was God's gift to chaos.

Deadshot narrowed his eyes. Was he actually useful?

Because honestly, the guy's walk looked sloppy. Big muscles, sure. But no threat. Slipknot had better form. Hell, even Captain Javelin had Olympic credentials. This guy looked like someone you'd find drinking expired beer behind a tattoo parlor. Or sell some white substances in dark alleys or below bridges.

But then the shirt came off—revealing a forest of bizarre tattoos crawling across his skin.

And one of them… moved.

A writhing dragon inked on his chest shimmered like it wanted out.

Even Bane paused.

He casually tossed Killer Croc aside like a rotting carpet and tensed, eyeing the tattoos.

Cheshire Cat, caked in dust, crouched nearby. She wasn't fatally injured—thanks to her catlike flexibility—but she was struggling to get her breath back.

First came the tiger.

A literal tiger tattoo burst from the man's back and charged Bane, roaring.

Bane waited.

SLAM.

He tackled it like it was a teacup poodle. The tiger hit the wall, bones shattering.

"Fuck," muttered Deadshot.

The mammoth was next. Same fate. One, two, three punches and the tusks snapped like twigs. Head busted.

Wolves. Burst like balloons.

Chimpanzee. Same end as Slipknot.

The Tattooed Man clenched his fists.

"Time to use the ultimate move."

He turned to Deadshot, panting.

"Buy me twenty seconds."

Deadshot nodded.

Cheshire Cat's voice came over comms, invisible and exhausted. "I can keep him distracted for maybe 30 seconds—if I don't get hit."

"I'll back you," Deadshot muttered. "We might be able to stretch that to a full minute."

The tattooed man groaned as the dragon began to twist under his skin, trying to break free.

Bruce's voice crackled in Deadshot's ear:

"Can the Cheshire Cat's jellyfish toxin work on Bane?"

"...I don't have jellyfish toxin," she replied, irritated. "I'm a cat , not a jellyfish. That'd be dumb."

Bruce blinked. "Wait, what? I thought—never mind."

He cut the line.

Because Bane had just started sprinting straight at the Tattooed Man.

"FIRE!" Deadshot shouted, rolling to avoid rubble.

"Damn it!" he barked. "Where the hell's the ventriloquist now?! Come on, old man! Show up and help!"

Bane's eyes locked onto Deadshot.

A car wreck flew like a frisbee. Deadshot dodged by sheer instinct.

Finally, the Tattooed Man roared.

A dragon burst out of his chest—black-scaled, fire-breathing, magnificent.

Deadshot teared up.

"Yes! Finally! A real super—"

"...Wait. Why is it the size of a fucking Chihuahua?"

The dragon snorted.

"Woof."

It wagged its tail.

"…Are you fucking kidding me?!"

"I-I don't know why!" the Tattooed Man stammered, sweating. "It's my first time tattooing a fantasy creature!"

The dragon barked happily—and was immediately crushed under Bane's boot.

Dead silence.

Deadshot blinked once.

"Yep. That's it."

He turned and ran.

The Tattooed Man screamed as Bane pulverized him. Bones snapped. Limbs flopped.

Killer Croc? Still twitching like roadkill.

Cheshire Cat? Still dodging, but only barely.

Bruce's voice came back.

"Deadshot. You have to save them. Cheshire Cat and Croc are—"

Deadshot said nothing. He tossed away his guns, rocket launcher, and gear to lighten his load.

He knew the moment he ran, they'd all die. Suicide Squad wiped before it even started. His rep would take a hit. The employer might come after him.

But all of that was still better than dying now.

"Hold on!" Bruce shouted again, wind howling in the mic. "Just 60 more seconds! Reinforcements are almost there!"

Deadshot laughed. A bitter, angry laugh.

"Bullshit!" he spat. "Sixty seconds? You think anyone can take this monster down in sixty seconds?!"

He turned back for a second. Looked at Bane.

"Who the fuck in Gotham could stop that freak?"

A pause.

Then, in a whisper.

"...Batman?"