In DC universe as Batman

"No! Why is this happening!?"

Plant Master couldn't believe what he was seeing. He grabbed a pool of green mucus and hurled it at the wall in rage—it splattered like an jelly on the wall.

"Project result: failure," Professor Goldblum muttered, scribbling on the draft paper. "Target deceased."

"Why is this happening?" Plant Master turned on him, his carved wooden face twisted with fury. "He's a liar! He didn't give it his all!"

Professor Goldblum, his green eyes flashing faintly, stared at him with blank indifference.

The Plant Master quickly shifted his anger toward Poison Ivy.

"Your hypnotic kiss doesn't work at all!"

Ivy sighed. "Calm down, Jason. He's still under my control."

She turned to the professor. "Harold, just tell us—what went wrong?"

Professor Goldblum's green eyes flickered as he replied, "It's a very complex azeotropic mixture. The virus conversion formula looks good on paper, but there are millions of variables in real application that can cause failure."

"Then try to guess the problem, meat bun!"

"Well… guessing isn't very scientific," the professor replied, adjusting his glasses. "But I suspect the issue lies with one of our materials. The swamp water we've been using—from Massacre Swamp—is highly contaminated. It contains unknown chemicals. What we need are standardized biological nutrients and chemicals. The water should come from a reliable location. A place known for producing swamp monsters—"

"Like Wainwright Swamp in Louisiana," Ivy interrupted.

"Oh god, my butt already hurts just thinking about it," she groaned.

"No, Pamela, don't you see?" Plant Master's eyes gleamed with fanatical excitement.

"This is perfect."

He pointed at the map. "That river feeds directly into the Gulf of Mexico. If we release the virus there, the Gulf will carry it into the Atlantic Ocean, and then across the entire world."

He turned around, full of zeal.

"Those corrupt, death-soaked creatures will never destroy [The Green] , The decaying, impure [Red] will finally be crushed beneath us."

"Even without the help of swamp monsters, we can drive those filthy vermin back to the corners they belong in. This planet will be protected by the sacred [Green]."

He circled a location on the map with trembling fingers.

"The rescue of Mother Earth will begin right here."

---

Meanwhile...

As for who would lead the mission, Deadshot didn't really care.

Ever since he was promised his daughter's admission letter, he'd stopped questioning anything.

Whatever the employer said, he'd just respond with a simple "Yes."

He has money. That's all that mattered.

So he said, "Alright, then…"

"Employer, I don't think we need a so-called team leader—"

Count Vertigo's objection was cut short as the employer's voice blared from the recorder.

"You can decide that after meeting your leader. He'll be arriving in the room shortly."

The voice from the device had grown hoarse, mixed with harsh metallic feedback—warped as though it was under some electromagnetic interference. A grinding, inhuman groan layered over the static.

"And I think," the voice continued, "once you see who this leader is, none of you will object. He's someone you all know… an old friend."

A strange chill crept down Deadshot's spine. He didn't know why, but something felt wrong—like he was being watched by something that wasn't quite human.

Lady Vick glanced at the Cheshire Cat, opened her mouth to ask something, then thought better of it. She closed her lips and stayed quiet.

The Cheshire Cat didn't appear to care about the conversation at all. Her eyes were locked on the dead dog in Dog Welder's hand.

Dog Welder gestured to her: "Wanna touch it?"

She nodded happily and began petting the corpse.

Knock-knock-knock!

A sudden knock echoed through the room.

Deadshot stood, heart tightening.

There was something on the other side of the door.

"Come in!" Count Vertigo called out.

An ominous sensation prickled over him—every hair on his body stood on end.

Lady Vick also rose, instantly alert.

"I'm coming in."

Click.

A single boot stepped through the door.

A special one—made for tights.

Then came gray fabric.

A black cape.

Pointed ears.

A mask.

"Batman!"

Deadshot jumped up, instantly reaching for his gun—but before he could pull the trigger, Batman handles already jumped close tp him, holding the gun, stopping the shot before it could be fired.

He held a walkie-talkie in one hand.

"I already told you," Batman said, his voice deep and steady. "I've assigned a leader with enough strength and influence. Someone you'll follow."

Deadshot stared at Batman's silhouette—those pointed ears, the dark cloak.

At the same time, Batman's voice echoed from the recorder on the table, perfectly in sync, like a ghostly whisper reverberating through a deep, black well.

"Because that leader… is me."

---

Bruce had debated whether he should reveal himself as the employer behind the operation.

He could've stayed hidden, manipulating things from the shadows as always.

But then what?

The team would fall apart.

No cooperation. No strategy.

No fighting spirit.

Just chaos and betrayal.

No one would listen.

No one would fight with purpose.

Only desiring to escape safe.

It was clear—the current Suicide Squad lacked a soul, a central force to hold them together.

In the original timeline, the Squad had Rick Flag. A man of honor and grit who tamed that pack of lunatics and led them through countless missions. He was the backbone of the team.

But Bruce's group had no Rick.

Sure, Deadshot had potential. He was the only one besides Rick with multiple stints as team captain in Suicide Squad history. But right now? He was nothing more than a loner with a gun. Not the hardened leader he once was.

Nightwing could've worked too. As the first generation Robin, he had team experience—he'd even led the Titans.

But Alfred's intel confirmed that Dick and the Titans were currently in a confrontation with Deathstroke, trying to stop an assassination. Which is why he could not recall any one of then.

He couldn't send someone to deliver a message in the middle of a battle:

"Batman's looking for you. He wants you to join his Suicide Squad."

It would've been absurd. And he didn't have the face to ask for that.

So...

Batman would do it himself.

Sometimes monsters need a bigger monster to follow.

Besides, with his current enhancements, he could turn into a full bat monster when needed. He had solid combat capabilities—enough to lead, enough to survive. And if things went south, he could escape faster than anyone else.

That was enough.

If he still didn't have the courage to show up in person—then it wasn't secrecy.

It was cowardice.

---

Batman stepped into the room, scanning each member:

Deadshot.

Count Vertigo.

Cheshire Cat.

Everyone's here.

Wait.

?

Bruce's eyes stopped on the strange man in the corner.

Dog Welder.

He stared at him.

"Who are you? The person I hired was supposed to be Mad Dog."