"Well, well—look who finally showed up." Catwoman's sharp eyes caught the approaching figure first. "That was fast, Barbara."
Sure enough, a streak of black and yellow came tearing down the road—cape billowing, boots pounding pavement. Batgirl had arrived.
"Robin! Are you okay?" Barbara barely spared the two women a glance as she rushed toward the figure standing by the lakeshore, hands on his hips, chest heaving. Her mind immediately jumped to the worst-case scenario.
In reality, he was fine. Just winded. Five straight minutes of shouting across the water had left his chest cramping. He wasn't Killer Croc—seven feet tall, five hundred pounds, voice like rolling thunder. Robin was lean. Practically lightweight by superhero standards. Playing human megaphone had nearly killed him.
But Barbara saw him standing there, silent and panting, and assumed serious injury. Her eyes snapped accusingly toward the two women lounging nearby, perfectly unharmed. "You two are unbelievable!" She kicked her motorcycle to the side and sprinted forward.
Thea blinked. How is this our fault? Classic Gotham logic—if it didn't fit their worldview, it had to be wrong. She exchanged an amused glance with Catwoman. Both wore identical this-should-be-good expressions.
"Ah—gah!" Barbara skidded to a halt two meters out. Her concern evaporated instantly. Robin's suit—once sleek black and red—was now splattered white and green, streaked with sticky muck, reeking like a toxic waste dump. The smell hit her like a physical wall.
A lifetime of middle-class comfort had not prepared her for this. She threw up a hand. "Stop. Don't come any closer!"
Robin didn't need telling twice. He wasn't stupid. After ten minutes of yelling at Killer Croc, he knew exactly what he looked like—and smelled like. If he hugged his girlfriend right now, one of two things would happen: Barbara would lose her mind and turn villain, or she'd beat him into charcoal. There'd be no breakup. Just homicide.
Seeing him frozen in place, Barbara relaxed slightly. Then she took a better look at his condition—and gagged. The more she stared, the worse it got. By the time she could breathe freely again, she'd backed all the way up to Thea and Catwoman.
"You knew, didn't you?" she snapped. "Go ahead. Laugh."
"If you insist." Thea burst out laughing—bright, cheerful, pure Star City energy. You said I could, so I did. The scene really was comedy gold. If they'd recited Romeo and Juliet, it would've been perfect.
Catwoman kept a straight face. Barely. She still had to work with these people. Forcing her lips into a neutral line, she changed the subject. "So… what now?"
Good question.
Now that all five of them were assembled, the "team" finally looked complete. Overhead, Thea spotted one of Felicity's drones circling like an electronic seagull—clearly streaming everything back to HQ. Felicity herself had settled comfortably into her mascot role, cheering from afar.
But the lineup was terrible. Four agility-type heroes, all glass cannons, facing a tank-class monster with natural armor and super strength. Worse, two of them didn't even have their gear. This wasn't a boss fight. It was a suicide mission. Retreat sounded lovely right about now.
Barbara, oblivious to the tactical nightmare, asked politely, "Thea, do you have any suggestions?"
"Nope." Thea's answer was blunt. She'd only been in Gotham a few days. Half the time, Catwoman had to fill her in on who the villains even were. Speaking of which…
She turned to Selina. "You guys caught this thing before, right? How'd you do it?"
Maybe back then he hadn't developed this stench aura. Or maybe it was new—some evolutionary defense mechanism. If so, Killer Croc might be dumb, but he was adaptive. That was bad news.
Barbara froze. She hadn't even been in the field back then. "Uh, I… wasn't around for that," she admitted quickly, pulling her classic I-may-look-mature-but-I'm-actually-just-a-kid face. "Ask the older generation."
The "older generation" glanced sideways, unimpressed. Catwoman frowned, trying to recall, but came up blank. "I don't remember catching him myself. Maybe I was… busy." (Stealing from the rich to feed the poor, she didn't add.) "Anyway, I'd remember someone that ugly."
Thea sighed. Perfect. A whole team of veterans and nobody remembered the walkthrough. She turned back to Barbara. "Call Robin over. Maybe he knows something."
Technically, they could just shout across the distance, but Thea preferred caution. If they yelled, Croc would hear too. Announcing your boss-fight strategy within earshot of the boss was… awkward. Better to whisper.
Barbara waved him over.
Robin trudged back reluctantly, stopping a few meters away. Before he could take another step, all three women simultaneously raised a hand—stop right there.
He froze. "What's going on?"
Barbara repeated the question. "Do you remember how we caught him last time?"
"How would I know?!" Robin's exasperation was palpable. If I did, would I look like this right now? He glanced down at his ruined suit. "You think I did this for fun? You think I wanted to smell like a sewer?!"
Silence.
The group collectively realized that no one—no one—knew the answer. Maybe only Batman himself did. He'd probably taken Croc down quietly, written the whole thing in his little black contingency notebook, and never told anyone.
Brilliant, Thea thought. Batman keeps files on everyone—enemies, allies, even Superman—and you guys can't even remember how you beat a reptile. What a bunch of freeloaders clinging to the boss's cape.
Finally, the three Bat-family members turned toward her in unison—eyes practically screaming, Star City girl, got any bright ideas?
Of course she did.
She'd already been thinking it through. For a walking biohazard like this, freezing was the obvious solution. Keep your distance, shoot an ice arrow, turn him into a popsicle. Problem solved. One arrow should do it. Two if necessary.
The catch? She only had five.
They weren't cheap, either—custom-built, liquid-nitrogen core, high-density shafts. She'd been saving them for Bane. That giant muscle-head with a neck like a bull and fists the size of dinner plates. His only real weakness was speed, and an ice arrow could exploit that nicely.
Still, priorities were priorities. Deal with the present monster first. Future problems could wait.
"I have a plan," Thea said at last. "But I need my gear. You three hold him off—I'll be back soon."
And before anyone could protest, she swung a leg over Barbara's discarded motorcycle, gunned the throttle, and roared off into the Gotham night—engine howling, taillights fading into darkness.