Knock, knock, knock.
A heavy tapping rattled the driver-side window of the van.
Bruce rolled the glass down lazily, keeping his face hidden in the deep shadows of the front seat. It was the exact same street punk who had tried to shake him down a few minutes ago—only this time, the idiot had brought five of his friends. They stood in the freezing drizzle brandishing rusted machetes, heavy iron crowbars, and a whole lot of unearned confidence.
"You think you're clever, pal?" the leader sneered, tapping his blade against the door frame. "You think a cheap plastic mask makes you the real Batman? You had me running earlier, but we tracked your plates—"
"Seriously?" Bruce interrupted, his voice completely flat. "I am remarkably busy right now. But fine."
Bruce stepped out of the vehicle, slamming the door shut behind him.
Exactly one minute later, the dark alley fell completely silent. The five gangsters lay scattered across the wet asphalt, groaning and clutching shattered wrists and broken jaws. Bruce didn't even bother to look back at them. He climbed back into the warm driver's seat, wiped a smear of grease off his knuckles, and picked up the high-tech radio mic to coordinate his mercenary team.
"Hey. Can everyone hear me? Good."
He pinched his throat muscles, seamlessly shifting his voice into the cold, lazy, and seductive tone of the Cheshire Cat:
"Good evening, my dear mercenaries."
Without taking a breath, he flipped a switch on his dashboard, instantly changing his voice to match Deadshot's precise, raspy growl:
"I'm glad you guys didn't blow each other's heads off. That's exactly what I like to see. Now, cut the killer croc loose."
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.
The Ventriloquist was a known weirdo in Gotham, but he always paid his debts, so Deadshot showed up.
But this faceless employer behind him?
-
Still, the Ventriloquist followed orders and untied Killer Croc.
The moment the wires snapped free, Killer Croc leapt to his feet, baring rows of jagged, terrifying teeth.
Deadshot's fingers twitched on his wrist-guns—ready for a bloody fight.
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! Two hundred million dollars! All of it mine! Haha!"
Captain Javelin, turning green with absolute jealousy, muttered, "Damn it... why is my starting salary only a tiny fraction of—"
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
Batman 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 wiped the drool off his face and laughed like he'd just inherited a casino.
The immediate threat of a shootout between the contractors had completely evaporated.
"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 glance at him out of the corner of his eye.
"…Weren't you quitting?"
"I changed my mind."Javelin replied coldly.
Deadshot spat sideways. Greedy bastard.
Bruce continued in deadshot's voice smoothly:
"Then the squad is officially formed. I have already picked an operational name for you all: The Suicide Squad."
"What a cursed-ass name."
"I am transferring an immediate one-hundred-thousand-dollar bonus to each of your routing numbers right now," Bruce added calmly.
Deadshot didn't miss a beat."That name is awesome."
Hey, compliments don't cost anything, and money buys professional loyalty. Lawton checked his watch. The initial job was done. As long as the next phase didn't go completely sideways, he would survive the week and permanently retire with his daughter.
Miles away in his hidden surveillance van, Bruce watched the live satellite feed, feeling a similar sense of relief. If this frontline of paid villains could just deal with Bane, he could survive this hellish timeline, keep the Wayne fortune, and escape into a life of luxury and fine wine.
"When I get my $200 million, I'll buy a huge house back home," Javelin said dreamily, "and live with my wife—"
CRUNCH!
A sickening, wet impact shattered the night air.
Javelin's dream was permanently cut short as a colossal, armored fist descended out of the darkness, crushing his skull like an overripe watermelon. Blood and bone sprayed across the concrete as his lifeless body collapsed instantly into the mud, his golden javelin clattering uselessly onto the stone.
Pfft!
Miles away, Bruce sprayed a mouthful of hot coffee all over his primary monitor, throwing himself backward so violently his head slammed into the steel ceiling of the van. "What the hell—?!"
Time slowed.
Deadshot's pupils shrank. He heard the trembling voice of Cheshire Cat:
"Enemy… enemy attack!"
Out of the thick, rolling smoke at the edge of the lot, a titanic figure stepped into the blinding glare of the searchlights.
He wore no shirt despite the freezing rain.
His muscles looked like solid boulders, and thick plastic tubes pulsed with a glowing green chemical directly into the back of his neck.
Bane had arrived.
---
Bane knew the reality of the underworld.
He had spent his childhood in the dark, hellish cells of Peña Duro prison, where survival itself was both suffering and a daily battle
But he wasn't dead.
His soul clawed its way through death and light.
He was here to destroy the myth of the Bat once and for all.
He was here to end this demon.
He was here to Fight it.
And End it.
And then, Gotham would sing:
"Hail Bane, who shattered the legend of the demon Bat!"
"Hail Bane, sovereign of the broken city, greater than any god!"
But heroes never have it easy.
The demon had pawns.
Before Bane stood a green-scaled, slavering beast—a broken opponent he had already humiliated once before.
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 through the blood filling his throat, his claws raking wildly across Bane's chest, his fists pounding into engineered muscle.
"You think you rule this city, you steroid-fed freak?! Without that, you are nothing!"
Bane's punch smashed him back down.
One. Two. Three—
Each strike turned the ground to dust.
Bane grabbed a wrecked car.
"I haven't evenuse this stuff yet".
"And 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 in this city!"
Bang!!!
"IN MY CITY"
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.