Knock, knock, knock!
Someone tapped the window of Bruce's van.
Bruce rolled it down lazily. The same gangster who had tried to shake him down earlier was back—with reinforcements. Machetes. Crowbars. Dumbass confidence.
"You think you're Batman just 'cause you wear a mask? You really fooled me before—"
"Seriously? I was busy, but fine."
Bruce got out of the van.
A minute later, he was the only one still standing.
He dusted himself off, changed his voice, and picked up the mic.
"Hey. Can you hear me? Good."
He pinched his throat and spoke in the cold, lazy tone of the Cheshire Cat.
"Good evening, dear mercenaries."
Then he quickly switched to Deadshot's voice:
"I'm glad you didn't blow each other's heads off. That's what I like to see. Now, untie Killer Croc."
Deadshot didn't ask dumb questions like "Who the hell are you?"
He was already thinking: should I stay in this mess or get the hell out?
This smelled like a classic setup. A hidden puppet master lures some half-broke mercenaries into a "simple job." It always starts like this.
Mercenaries don't take jobs from ghosts. Not unless you're Deathstroke—he's the type who can kill any employer dumb enough to betray him.
But the rest? They need trusted middlemen.
Like the Ventriloquist, who seemed like a harmless weirdo and had proven himself a "kind, pure, law-abiding" criminal. So Deadshot showed up.
But this faceless employer behind him?
Still, the Ventriloquist followed orders and untied Killer Croc.
The beast leapt up, baring his claws and teeth.
Deadshot's finger twitched on the trigger—too close.
But Croc didn't attack.
He dove straight into the pile of money with gleaming eyes, picking up dusty bills like they were his lost children.
"Hey hey! I've got 200 million dollars, hey hey!"
Captain Javelin, green with jealousy, muttered, "Damn... why is my salary only—"
Bruce switched to Javelin's voice:
"Don't be jealous of Killer Croc. He just got a four-year advance."
"And I," Bruce added in a smooth tone, "am a generous employer. Complete the missions I give you—and in a few months, you'll all go home with hundreds of millions."
"This is the biggest payday of your lives. The only question is—do you have the balls to take it?"
"..."
Deadshot decided right then:
He was in.
Not for the money, of course. He just liked adventure. 🙃
Bruce rambled a bit, but it all boiled down to:
●I'm rich
●Your rich boss
●Making you rich
●Money
●Money
●More money
Bruce wasn't a great speaker.
But when there's a mountain of hundred-dollar bills behind you and Killer Croc is literally moaning into it like a pillow, your words kinda stick.
Slipknot smiled stiffly.
Tattooed Man laughed like he'd just inherited a casino.
The mood was good.
"Ah, noble employer!" Javelin cheered like a drunk actor in a Shakespeare play. "You're so generous!"
His bootlicking was so dramatic it made Deadshot consider switching teams.
"…Weren't you quitting?"
"I changed my mind."
Deadshot spat sideways. Greedy bastard.
Bruce continued smoothly:
"Then the squad's formed. I've already picked a name for you all:
Suicide Squad."
"What a cursed-ass name."
"I'll pay each of you an extra \$100,000."
"That name is *awesome."
Who cares? Compliments don't cost anything.
Deadshot let out a long breath. The current job was done. As long as the next one didn't go sideways, he'd survive—and maybe retire with his daughter.
And Bruce, watching from the van miles away, felt a similar release.
If he could just deal with Bane, maybe he could finally retire… maybe.
"When I get my \$200 million, I'll buy a huge house back home," Javelin said dreamily, "and live with my wife—"
Pfft!
A wet crunch cut him off. His head was squashed like a melon, blood spraying like a popped balloon.
His javelin hit the concrete.
Pfft!
Bruce spat coffee all over the screen, slammed into the van ceiling, and cursed.
Time slowed.
Deadshot's pupils shrank. He heard the trembling voice of Cheshire Cat:
"Enemy… enemy attack!"
A massive figure emerged from the smoke.
Shirtless.
Muscles like boulders.
Veins glowing green.
A headgear like a snake's mouth—pumping venom directly into his body.
Bane.
---
Bane fell.
He floated in void.
Darkness all around.
It felt like his cradle—and his grave.
But he wasn't dead.
His soul clawed its way through death and light.
He needed to find the Bat.
Stand in its shadow.
Fight it.
End it.
And then, Gotham would sing:
|"Holy Bane, who destroyed the demon Batman!"
"Hail Bane, ruler of Gotham, greater than all!"|
But heroes never have it easy.
The demon had pawns.
A green-faced beast with fangs. A fallen opponent. A sellout.
It dared stand in Bane's way.
The beast lunged—
But the hero didn't flinch.
Bane's fist snapped Croc's jaw.
The beast crashed to the ground.
"I already broke you once, monster. Now I'll bury you."
Croc roared back, claws raking, fists pounding—
"You wanna rule Gotham, freak? Without your juice, you're nothing!"
Bane's punch smashed him back down.
One. Two. Three—
Each strike turned the ground to dust.
Bane grabbed a wrecked car.
"I don't need venom to crush bugs like you."
Bang!
"Because I'm Bane."
Bang!
"The nightmare of every stumbling fool!"
Bang!
"The end of every living threat!"
Bang!!!
Croc howled. The wreck twisted, crushed, then shattered.
A gunshot rang out—
Bane dodged, pivoted.
Muscles tensed, head lifted.
Eyes blazing.
> Of course.
> The demon had more pawns.