In DC universe as Batman

Tick-tock.

The sewers of Gotham City are dark and suffocating, crawling with forgotten things and creatures better left undiscovered.

Killer Croc used to be one of them.

Not anymore.

Now, he's a man with 200 million dollars—not clean money, of course. Untaxed, illegal, and completely unusable in polite society. But it's money nonetheless. And with money... comes hope.

Croc opened his eyes.

His nictitating membrane slid back with a soft click. In the lantern's dim glow, ripples spread out across the sewer's stagnant waters.

"The big guy's coming again," he muttered to the Ventriloquist beside him. "And I mean big. Never thought I'd call someone that. I always thought I was Gotham's most famous big dumb brute."

Waylon wasn't joking, he didn't believe it anymore.

He had accepted long ago that his mind wasn't what it once was. But it hadn't always been like this. As a teenager, his IQ had been perfectly average. But the more his body mutated—twisting fully into reptilian form—the more he drifted from humanity. The farther he was from people, the more beastly he became... and the more beastly he became, the more his mind slipped away.

Lately, though—he'd been around humans again. And something inside had shifted. His thoughts were clearer. Sharper.

"Focus on the job, Waylon," the Ventriloquist said, seated on the stone walkway running beside the water. Gotham's ancient sewer systems still had these corridors for workers... a relic of the past, back when anyone dared work down here.

The dummy on his lap—Bat-Baby—added in a crackling voice,

"You might not be the most famous big fool, but you're definitely the the richest one now."

He grinned.

"You saw those two vans stuffed with cash in the Swiss vault, right? Your boss is gonna clean that money so you can actually spend it, you better pick up the pace. And anyway—this isn't your first run today."

"I know that even if you don't say it," Croc growled.

He rose from the water, his massive tail sliding behind him, and grabbed a cart from the Ventriloquist.

Inside the cart sat a rotting, maggot-infested yak—its flesh sloughing off, its stench unbearable.

Croc looked at it with pure disgust.

If The Boss hadn't asked me to do this, I wouldn't even touch the damn thing.

A rotting carcass as bait ? It was disgusting. But familiar, too. The tactics hadn't changed—just the players. And now, somehow, he was the one baiting the monster. The irony wasn't lost on him.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

A thunderous pounding echoed through the tunnels—deep, deliberate, and heavy, like a chain-dragged iron wrecking ball smashing into concrete.

Then came the voice—hoarse, hollow, and thick with ancient grief:

"Solomon Grundy... born on a Monday..."

(Note: Solomon Grundy is chosen by [The Rot] so it's attracted to dead rotting objects)

---

Meanwhile...

On a nearby rooftop, Tim Drake—Robin, the third—sat with a telescope, watching a grimy apartment window.

Batman and Harley Quinn were inside.

If this were the old Batman, Tim wouldn't bo so worried. But now? Now he wasn't sure.

Could Bruce Wayne really handle someone like Harley Quinn?

Tim fired his grapple hook across the street, landed silently on the rooftop, and slipped in through a corridor window. The hallway was pitch black—the voice-activated lights had long since failed.

A thin strip of light leaked from a half-open door ahead, casting a jagged mouth-shaped glow.

Tim crouched silently in the shadows.

Then he heard Harley's yell:

"Fuck, Bat, you ******—"

"*******!"

BANG!

Tim kicked the door open.

"Batman! What the hell are you—"

He stopped.

Bruce stood in the middle of the room, holding a skeleton in one hand, a skull in the other, trying to jam the scattered bones back into the gaping maw of a giant carnivorous plant.

"Waaah! Are you trying to make me eat my own vomit?!"

The plant—Frank—screamed in protest.

Bruce silently lit a lighter.

Frank immediately froze, obedient and silent.

"Aha!"

Harley leapt down from the window sill, striking a mock military pose.

"Private Robin! Stand at attention!"

Tim gave Bruce a hard look.

What the hell is going on here?

Bruce shrugged and explained,

"These people weren't killed by Harley."

Harley leaned into the madness with dramatic flair.

"Woooo Mr. Skeleton! You died so tragically!"

"You turned from a person into a corpse. It's not your fault. Rest in peace, An—"

"That's... her version of a Requiem," Bruce muttered.

"Hehehe"

---

Minutes later, Harley Quinn lounged against the front of the Batmobile, then slipped into the passenger seat like a boneless Cat.

"So what now, Dynamic Duo?"

Tim, still annoyed, stood nearby. That seat should've been his.

"Nobody knows Ivy like I do," Harley offered. "I'll help you find her. But I get to talk to her first. And when it's all over, you help me out with the parole board, okay? Tell them how kind and reformed I am, blah blah blah."

A small ask. Harmless. Easy for Batman.

But Bruce said nothing.

Because this wasn't about the request.

It was a test.

If he agreed, he would be the one asking Harley Quinn for help. The power dynamic would shift. She might not be a psychologist anymore, but she still knew exactly how to manipulate relationships—subtle wording, shifting control, testing the lines.

So Bruce looked her dead in the eyes and said:

"No."

Harley blinked.

"Wait... what? You don't want to...? Why don't you want to...?"

She pushed again, trying to keep control.

But Bruce just stared.

The details didn't matter. What mattered was Ivy.

And Batman never lost sight of the mission.

He said finally:

"I don't make deals with psycopaths--"