Under the harsh glare of four massive searchlights set up by the mercenary team, two box trucks rolled into the abandoned Gotham parking lot. Slipknot and Tattooed Man stepped out and approached with stern expressions. Like Deadshot, Cheshire Cat, and Captain Javelin, they were mercenaries hired by the "ventriloquist" — though they all believed he was just another eccentric Gotham criminal, not knowing they were actually working for Bruce Wayne.
Slipknot, a burly Mexican skilled with lassos, had designed the trap that currently had Killer Croc tied like a dumpling. Seeing Croc writhing on the ground, a smirk crept across his face. Tattooed Man — covered head to toe in ink like a defaced sailor — sneered with mockery.
"Haha! This is our target? What a joke!"
A puff of white smoke escaped from Croc's nostrils in rage.
The group worked together to drag the giant reptilian brute toward the trucks. During the chaos, Tattooed Man tossed out another crude comment — and narrowly avoided having his arm bitten off by a snapping Croc.
Humiliation.
Fury.
Pure, unrelenting rage.
Killer Croc's blood boiled. He was beyond angry — incandescent, even. His wrath surged like an exploding supernova, dwarfing any natural law of reason. No insult, no injury, no cosmic injustice could match this moment.
He let out a thunderous roar.
"UNFORGIVABLE!"
The sound rumbled like a god being tortured — like Prometheus chained or Christ crucified.
And then—
**Bang!**
The ventriloquist casually opened the back of one van and, without a word, unleashed a mountain of cash. A literal ton of U.S. dollars slammed into Killer Croc's face.
The green mountain of bills collapsed around him like a clumsy landslide of toilet paper, cascading to the ground.
Croc froze.
"These are your advance wages," said the puppet. "All of it is yours — if you say yes."
"…Un… unforgivable…"
**Bang!**
Another van door swung open. Another avalanche of money crashed down, pelting Croc's face like freezing rain.
He wanted to rage. He wanted to snarl and demand dignity.
He was a monster, yes — a beast — but not some greedy, petty animal.
Right?
…Right?
A hundred-dollar bill flopped down across his eyes, blinding him.
"Unforgivable… forgive… forgive… forgiven…"
Dizzy from the overwhelming rain of wealth, Killer Croc staggered, his mind short-circuiting.
He hugged a pile of money like it was his childhood teddy bear and croaked:
"...Dad?"
Deadshot blinked. "The hell?"
Killer Croc suddenly remembered something important. "Wait—I'm black. I don't have a dad."
He cleared his throat, straightened up, and announced with deep sincerity:
"I have wandered alone for years, but I regret not meeting a wise leader sooner. If you'll have me… I'll serve."
Javelin dove into the pile of cash, laughing like a man possessed. "Oh my God, this has to be at least tens of millions! I could die happy!"
"Get off!" Croc snapped. "This is my money!"
"She may be yours, but I'm the one holding her close and fucking her!" Javelin cackled.
With his hands still tied, Killer Croc still managed to *launch* himself with sheer abdominal strength and *rolled* into the money pile like a deranged treasure hoarder.
"Mine! MINE!"
Deadshot could only stare in silent disbelief.
Unlike Javelin, he had seen serious money before. Which made it worse — because this wasn't tens of millions.
This was at least **\$200 million**.
He hadn't known the vans were loaded with actual, honest-to-God stacks of cash. Probably neither did Slipknot or Tattooed Man. For a second, a thought crept into his mind — kill them all and run with the cash.
But reason prevailed.
Whoever could casually toss \$200 million to bribe Killer Croc could easily offer another \$200 million for Deadshot's head. And he had a daughter. He wasn't suicidal.
Even if he took the money, where could he go? Two tons of paper currency wasn't exactly portable.
He turned, only to meet the same red-glinting eyes of Slipknot and Tattooed Man. Instinctively, he drew his gun.
"Whoa. Easy, fellas."
Inside, he was preparing for one of them to snap. He kept his weapon up but nodded to the ventriloquist.
"Alright, enough games. Ventriloquist — where's the real boss?"
Tattooed Man and Slipknot looked genuinely confused. Javelin stopped rolling in money and stood by Deadshot's side.
Only Killer Croc remained lying in the cash, giggling like a cat high on catnip.
Deadshot didn't want a fight — not here, not now. But something was off. The whole setup smelled like manipulation.
Someone knew he wouldn't act out of line. Someone calculated that he'd serve as a stabilizing force. And if that failed — they'd probably be fine sacrificing him to eliminate risk.
A chill crept down Deadshot's spine.
Even his hesitation had been predicted.
If Croc took the money and fled, a bounty would immediately be placed on him — and all these mercs would hunt him for the payout.
But if he accepted the job, he'd fight to protect his new paycheck. Most likely, he and Deadshot would team up, wiping out any threat to the investment.
It was brilliant. Too brilliant.
The mastermind behind the curtain wasn't just throwing money — they were pulling puppet strings and setting psychological traps with surgical precision.
Then Cheshire Cat subtly stepped to Deadshot's flank, forming a triangle formation against Tattooed Man and Slipknot.
Of course. She had been bought ahead of time.
Deadshot sighed, biting down his fury.
"Damn," he muttered. "Why didn't they bribe me?"
(Thats the resultof haggling.)
The tension eased slightly. Deadshot lowered his gun and stared at the ventriloquist, who silently pulled out a set of five earpieces from behind his back.
Deadshot's teeth clenched.
Even *that* had been prepared.
*Contract signed.*
*Game on.*