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 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.