Class Action

by Marcus Gaudry

Killer Croc has escaped Arkham Asylum, and has a score to settle. Meanwhile, the Penguin is hatching a plan of his own.

Premise: With the clandestine help of the Penguin, Killer Croc escapes from Arkham Asylum. and has a score to settle with Harvey Dent. He will stop at nothing to settle that score, and Batman is the only one who can stop him. Meanwhile, the Penguin is hatching a master plan of his own to gain total control of Gotham's criminal community.

Class Action

This is Gotham City. It could be a beautiful city; with its museums, libraries, institutes for higher learning, fine dining, theater, dancing, amusement parks, and breathtaking skyline, it could very possibly be the finest city in the Country, if not the world. There is really only one problem; the crime lords have this otherwise magnificent city pinned firmly under their thumbs. Street gangs run roughshod over the downtown core. Mob bosses have their fat, greasy fingers in almost every pie the city has to offer. Crooked politicians and dirty cops make a mockery of the Municipal infrastructure. Yes, Gotham could be great, if the bad element didn't have the stranglehold that it does.

Of course, it used to be much worse than it is now; before the Bat showed up. Since his arrival, ever since he started hitting the criminals where it hurts, their grip has loosened a little on the city. At least now some of the honest citizens of Gotham have started to take a stand. They have elected one of the honest police lieutenants to the become Commissioner, who is making considerable headway into cleaning up the police force; as daunting a task that might be. Slowly but surely, the City Council is being rousted and reformed. There's still a long way to go, but many in Gotham have hope for their City yet. All of this is because of the Bat.

Tonight, a crescent moon hangs over a clear sky as the Dark Knight looms like a gargoyle on the rooftop of a building across the street from a club called the Iceberg Lounge; the only place showing any signs of life on an otherwise eerily silent night. Patrol cars drive by silently, scanning alleyways with their searchlights, but do not find what they are looking for-they find nothing at all, in fact. Even the vagrants seem to have found somewhere indoors to be tonight. Even from his vantage point high above the streets, the Dark Knight can sense the tension, the fear, the utter terror that fills the hearts of every man, woman, and child throughout the city. His escape was on the front page in this mornings' edition of the paper, and the tabloids all had gruesome sensationalist accounts of the sheer brutality of the two men and one woman he had killed during his escape. No, he didn't just kill them; he ate them. He ate them alive.

Below, the rhythmic thump...thump...thump thump thump of a drum machine piped and pumped dub step from the Iceberg Lounge like a spastic heartbeat on MDMA into the night while an array of thugs, scumbags, and lowlifes writhed and bopped around in a desperate attempt to pretend all was well and good. The Batman had no interest in any of them; his interest was in the one man who sat in his office upstairs, alone, watching the revelry going on in his lounge on monitor screens, rubbing his hands together and grinning as he mentally counted the money he was making both legitimately and otherwise. If anyone could point Batman precisely towards that monster which disappeared into the night twenty-four hours ago, it was him.

His name is Oswald Cobblepot, though many -most in fact- know him more commonly as the Penguin. He used to take a great deal of offense to this nickname. But that was then. They used to call him that with derision in their voices, but not anymore. This is now. Now, when they use that name, or even when they hear it used, there is a gentle trembling of apprehension in their tone; maybe even fear. They used to associate the name with a rotund, round-faced, short man with a beak-like nose which was almost always stuck in some book or another; usually one about birds. Now, they associate the name Penguin with the Gentleman of Crime. Even more important, they all knew that none of them could ever really make any sort of a case against him in the court of law. However misshapen his hands may be they were clean; he made sure of that. Not even the Batman had any hard evidence against him. That fact alone made him one of, if not the most feared figure in the criminal world of Gotham City; second only to the Bat himself, of course. What those fools didn't realize was that Batman, the Dark Knight, the World's Greatest Detective, was just another unwitting puppet to which Oswald Cobblepot held the strings. Just like each and every one of them.

The Penguin put out his cigarette and adjusted his monocle as he set the newspaper he was reading down on the desk in front of him. The headline on the front page, with star reporter Alexander Knox on the byline, read:

KILLER CROC ON THE LOOSE!
Former Pro-Wrestler gone mad brutally kills three, escapes Arkham

Cobblepot chuckled lightly with a quacking noise as the last of the smoke in his lungs escaped from his nostrils. He turned his attention to north wall of his office, which was covered with monitors that showed in explicitly high definition detail all that his security cameras saw in and around his Club. The flickering lights of the screens were, at present, the only illumination in the room. As he scanned them one by one, he wordlessly reached beside his desk and grasped one of his trademark umbrellas; this one a dart gun, the darts within tipped with a mild sedative.

Everything seemed normal on the screens. Even the camera pointed at the rooftop across the street showed nothing out of the ordinary. Experience had taught the Penguin that when it comes to the Bat, that did not mean much of anything, except perhaps that he had already made his move. That was when he caught, out of the corner of his eye, the shadow with those pointy ears on his cowl extend across the room from the eastern window.

The Penguin did not bother to hide his smirk as he deftly whirled eastward in his chair, umbrella gun at the ready, and fired at the window. As he expected, the dart passed the curtains which were swaying as if recently tossed aside and hit the bullet proof glass behind them with a tinkle before it fell harmlessly to the floor. The dance had begun, and if Oswald Cobblepot played his part right, the Bat would have no idea.

The Penguins' monocle dropped from his eye and swayed from the lapel of his tuxedo jacket on its chain as his smirk quickly changed to a gasp of worry and dread. They never learn. With surprising grace he frantically got to his feet and pivoted to the south, attempting to aim his dart shooting umbrella a second time. Before he could get a shot off, the Dark Knight tossed a small bat shaped blade to knock the umbrella out of his hand. The Penguin yelped in shock, and in that moment of distraction Batman leaped forward and grabbed his quarry by the collar of his jacket. Again, much quicker than most would think possible, the Penguin grabbed hold of Batman's wrist and flipped him Judo style over his back towards the window. Batman easily landed on his feet and lunged forward again, this time clutching the Penguin by the neck and lifting him off his feet before he could do anything else. The Penguin made a quacking, chocking noise of shock as the Dark Knight moved him to pin him up against western wall. Overhead and in the corner, a parakeet squawked his objection to the racket. If anything impressed the Batman in this struggle, it was that somehow the Penguin's top hat remained neatly atop his head. He must have somehow found time to replace it after that Judo flip. With most opponents, that particular trick might have served well as a means of distraction, but not him. Batman leaned into the Penguin and loosened his grip enough to hold him in place, but allow him to breathe enough to talk.

"The last time I checked," Oswald Cobblepot said between gasps, "trespassing was against the law. Never mind breaking and entering."

"You know why I'm here," the Bat replied with a grumble that fell just short of a growl. The tone, the scowl of unspoken disapproval bordering on disgust, it was all precisely what so many have come to expect from the Dark Knight of Gotham. For a moment, the Penguin wondered if the man behind the cape and cowl practiced in front of a mirror when he wasn't on patrol.

"I'm certain that I do not," the Gentleman of Crime insisted. "Is this an investigation? Then show me a warrant. Am I suspect, or even a person interest in some case you are working on? If so, then I ask you on what do you base your suspicions?"

The Bat leaned in closer and offered his infamous grin of grim contempt. "I want information." He said, barely audible through clenched teeth.

"So you come to push the little fat man around in his office," Cobblepot continued with his taunt, taking care to add just enough fright to his tone. "You know, you could have just knocked."

"No more games, Penguin!" Batman warned, coming as close to yelling as the Penguin had heard in quite some time. "Where is Croc?"

"Oh, yes!" the Penguin confirmed, "That beast broke out last night, didn't he? It's a terrible thing, really. Such a shame those three people got killed during the escape. By any chance do you know their names? They weren't released by the papers yet. I'd like to send their families my condolences..."

The Dark Knight had had enough of this song and dance; he did not have time for it. He tightened his grip on the Penguin's neck until he began to gag. "Where is he hiding?" Batman asked.

"How should I know?" Cobblepot retorted between panicked breaths. "You're the great detective, you tell me!"

The Penguin's expression took on a distinct worried look as Batman shifted his grip and hoisted him off the wall to plant him on his back atop his desk. His hat finally fell off his head and tumbled to the floor.

"No, really, Dark Knight!" he pleaded. "I don't know where he is! Have you tried the sewers?"

"You'll have to do better than that." Batman said plainly. Talking to Oswald Cobblepot was almost as bad as trying to get a straight answer from the Riddler. The one major difference was that unlike Edward Nygma, Oswald Cobblepot was completely sane, and there was reason behind his choice of words other than an attempt to confuse whomever to whom he spoke; the Penguin had what he called a reputation to keep, and had to maintain the illusion he was a law abiding citizen. To his credit, the Batman had to admit he had succeeded so far.

"Okay," the Penguin said, composing himself. "Let me think." He hesitated a moment, trying to recall whatever he might have heard or might know about Killer Croc. "Well, if I remember correctly, it was Dent who locked him away after you apprehended him. If there is enough humanity left in that reptilian brain of his, he might decide he has an old score to settle."

"We already thought of that," Batman said. "Dent is under police protection."

"Do you think Commissioner Gordon has enough officers that he can trust to keep the District Attorney safe from that monster?" The Penguin asked, almost teasing, but with just enough genuine concern in his voice to grant him the benefit of the doubt.

The Bat glared at him, but said nothing. This told Cobblepot that he struck a nerve; that even Batman had his doubts on that one. This was perfect. He had the Bat right where he wanted him, and now it was time to bait the hook.

"Alright, then," he prompted. "Since you were the one who actually caught him and put a stop to his last rampage, he might come after you," now to cast the line. "But even he might realize that would be foolish." Now it was time to start to reel it all in. "Of course..." he began.

"Of course, what?" the Bat demanded. He was moving in on the bait.

"Think about it, Batman," Oswald replied with an air of patient arrogance, like a professor attempting to eke out an answer from a college freshman. "Who else in Gotham might the Croc harbor a grudge against? Who might he feel he has a score to settle with? Who do you think Killer Croc might believe has, what is the term the criminals like to use, ratted him out?"

As silently as he entered, the Bat was gone. He had taken the bait; hook, line and sinker. Oswald swung himself off his desk and onto his feet before picking up his hat and placing it on his head. He put his monocle back in place, and then retrieved his dart umbrella to put it back in the bin beside his desk in exchange for another one. This new one had a special sensor in its tip, designed to pick out any radio frequencies from any devices the Bat may have left behind. He scanned the room, and sure enough, he found a small bug carefully placed amid the folds of the curtains. Oswald Cobblepot plucked the bug off his curtain and held it between his thumb and first digit of his left hand. He easily crushed it; his hands were really quite powerful. Satisfied that it was obliterated, the Penguin sat back down, propping his feet up on his desk. He fished out his cigarettes and lit one, blowing little smoke rings as he contemplated just how well his plan was working out.

Five years ago, that weasel of a lawyer locked him up. Five years ago, the weasel sent him to the monkey house. They didn't count on just how strong the Crocodile's jaws really were. Not even the Bat counted on that. That was their first mistake. Their second mistake was they underestimated his patience. He waited five years after the Bat captured him. They almost forgot about him. That was their third mistake. They made so many mistakes; those stupid monkeys. They never checked the jacket. They didn't see that he had chomped through it like it was made of hamburger or the chain like it was bubble gum. Then the blonde monkey gave him a map of the monkey house. He didn't know why and he didn't care. He only saw her once, and then she disappeared. The usual monkeys came to spoon feed him, like they always did. Two boys and a girl came, and when he had them close enough, he broke his bonds and gorged on their soft, tender, flesh. They were so warm and juicy and fresh; much better than the slop they were offering him. Now he was free, and he was hungry. The weasel in that big house above him was skinny, but healthy. He would taste very good with all the fine cuisine he dines on.

A furry little rat scampered onto his foot as he watched the house with the weasel inside. He let it sit there while he watched. The weasel had done well for himself in five years; he was obviously somebody very important in Gotham now. That weasel Harvey Dent was surrounded by pigs; tasty, juicy pigs like bacon. The pigs knew he was out. The Bat must have warned them. Killer Croc wondered why the Bat wasn't here. He couldn't see or hear or even smell the Bat. Then he remembered. The Bat was clever; he had gadgets and toys of all kinds. That was how the Bat beat him last time. This had to be a trap. The Bat had to be here.

"Not that easy, Bat," Killer Croc mumbled to himself from the sewer grate just below the pigs' feet. He kicked up the little rat on his foot and caught it mid air in his mouth, swallowing it whole. That made for a good appetizer. The weasel and the pigs would have to wait. The Bat would have to wait. Croc knew he should get the Bat out of his way as soon as possible, but also knew patience was better when dealing with the Bat. The Bat would come to him soon enough; better to trap the Bat than to walk into one of his traps. Besides, the little rat made him hungry for a bigger rat, and Killer Croc knew just where to find one.

Killer Croc turned away from the grate he was watching the Dent house from and made his way down the sewer tunnel. It was time to head for the fair grounds, to the old stadium where he was once Champion. That was where the big rat was.

Detective Brian Dustman paced over to the place where the uniform officer was shining a flashlight into a sewer grate just off the corner of the Dent property.

"What's the problem, officer?" he asked.

"I thought I heard something down there, sir," the officer replied without looking up. "I thought it might be..."

"Crocodiles in the sewer," Dustman interrupted, "right. Well, I guess anything is possible. Find anything?"

"Nothing obvious, sir; the water is rippling around, though. Something was moving down there."

"It's most likely rats."

"You're probably, right, sir."

"What's going on out there, Commissioner?" Harvey Dent asked.

Commissioner Gordon turned away from the window in the District Attorney's den and faced his old friend. The term 'old' was more a reflection of how long the two had known each other than it had anything to do with age. The Dents and the Gordon's had been friends for a long time, and both families were close friends with Wayne family. At least, they became friends with them after Mr. And Mrs. Wayne were shot dead all those years ago, leaving young Bruce all alone except for their butler Alfred Pennyworth. Gordon was a uniform cop back then, one of the first on the scene. He was the one who escorted Bruce back to Wayne Manor. Because of his family ties to the Dents, Officer Gordon knew that Harvey was about the same as Bruce, and had managed to arrange them to meet as playmates. Now Gordon was Commissioner, Harvey Dent was District Attorney, and Bruce Wayne was head of Wayne Enterprises. The three of them were quite possibly the core of honesty in this city.

"Dustman is talking to one of the Officers outside," Gordon replied, "Price, if I am not mistaken."

Harvey nodded slightly as if in contemplation. "Do you trust him?" he asked the Commissioner.

"Price is a good kid, and a good cop. He's clean; I'd stake my badge on it."

"I meant Dustman."

Gordon scoffed. "He's the brother of Harold Dustman, the defense attorney on Cobblepot's payroll. What do you think?"

"Point well taken, Commissioner," Dent allowed. He made his way to the small bar and poured himself a Gin and Tonic. "Still, I wonder if the apparent distaste you have for the man is based on how close he can be tied to someone like Oswald Cobblepot, or for his criticism of your lack of action against the Batman."

"Harvey," Gordon replied in an almost fatherly tone as he sat down on the couch, "Are you asking me this as a friend, as an attorney?"

"I'm not sure, to be honest," Dent said. He held his glass up towards the Commissioner. "Can I offer you a drink?"

Commissioner Gordon waved off the offer. "I'm on duty, but you go ahead."

There was a light tapping on the door.

"Come in," the District Attorney called. Detective Dustman entered.

"Detective," Gordon acknowledged him. "Is there any news?"

Dustman shook his head. "We have lots of false sightings, but not a trace of the Croc." He answered. "The closest we have to anything is a bunch of goofballs with hunting rifles thinking they can hunt him down."

The Commissioner lowered his head and began rubbing his eyelids with his thumb and index finger.

"Well what did you expect, sir?" Dustman asked. "When you let one citizen start with police business, others will get the idea they can do it, too."

Gordon knew where this was going. "Don't start with me on the Batman, Brian," he warned. "Not now, please."

"Where is he, anyway?" the Detective asked.

"I'm sure he's following some lead of his own, Dustman," Gordon said. "I know you think he should bring those leads to us, but clearly he has resources that we don't."

"Alright," Dustman conceded. "I hope you're right. Well, that's all I had to report, sir."

Once the door clicked shut after the Detective left, Harvey Dent took a sip from his drink and studied his old friend. Part of him still only saw the street cop who introduced him to Bruce Wayne, who would become one of his best friends. Another part of him saw a man who, under the strains of his newly appointed position as Police Commissioner, was aging much faster than any man should. The first part wanted to speak up and be forthright with in regards to the situation. The latter part wanted to spare his friend any additional strain. It really wasn't much of a dilemma; honesty had to win out. The real question was how to do it gently.

"You know, Commissioner," he said as kindly as he could. "As little as we might like it, Brian does have a point."

Gordon drew a deep breath. "What he doesn't understand, Harvey, is that the Batman is more than just a vigilante or a citizen taking law into his own hands. He's a symbol, an icon of hope and justice in this city. It's because of him either you or I have our jobs now; where we can make a real difference. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he vanished into the night shadows as quickly as he came once our infrastructure is fully repaired."

He's right about the jobs, Harvey Dent admitted to himself. Because of the Dark Knight, the people of Gotham are less afraid and more willing to vote their conscience rather than out of fear. If not for him, people like Cobblepot would likely get their way and the likes of the Dustman brothers would have our positions. What's worse, we can't build a case against any of them.

"Don't you think I know that?" he countered. "The thing is, how long until that happens? Meanwhile, there will be people who don't understand what the Batman is really doing and will try to follow suit. That means we have an even bigger mess to clean up."

"Yes, I know," the Commissioner said, the agitation in his voice becoming evident. It wounded Harvey to have to go there with him, but it was necessary.

"I think I'll have that drink now," Gordon announced.

Ben Ratsbauer snuffed out his Cuban cigar and then poured Bourbon for himself under the pale yellow light in his office at the old stadium, his hands shaking so badly that he spilled some on the morning's newspaper which blared out Killer Croc's latest exploits on the front page. Sure, the police left his name out of the records, but he was certain that Croc knew that he reported him. He had no choice. Croc was going nuts in the ring; the other wrestlers were getting hurt. The fact that Croc was also running a street gang on the side came up after the fact, but Croc wouldn't know that. If there was one thing Ben knew without doubt, it was that Killer Croc was coming for him. Maybe not tonight, but he was coming soon. He gulped down his drink, and that steadied his hands a little. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a .38. It would most likely be about as effective as a pea shooter against that monster's hide, but it was all he had. The cops were too busy protecting that fancy new D.A. to be bothered with a small time business man like Ben Ratsbauer; who cared if he paid all his taxes, treated all his employees fairly, and dealt with the courts whenever he was called upon to do so? That was the way it was in Gotham; either you're a crook, or a fancy politician, or you're nobody. Ben was even willing to bet that the Bat could care less about guys like him. He was on his own.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Ben nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the ring bell from inside of the arena. Killer Croc was here. That had to be him. He took a deep breath and, gun in hand, slowly made his way to his office door. There was a chance that Croc didn't know where in the building he was. He might be able to slip out without him knowing, and then cut his losses in property damage. Better that than losing his life. Slowly he turned the doorknob and quietly pushed the door open to poke his head out so he could look both ways into the dark hallway to make sure the coast was clear. Then something that felt like an oak branch covered in leather hit him in the base of the skull, and he promptly dropped face down onto the cold tiles of the hallway at his feet.

He came to in complete darkness, his head aching. He groaned as he sat up slowly, uncertain where he was. It took him a second to recognize the telltale echo of an empty arena, and the relatively soft yet firm feel of the ring beneath him. In a panic, he shot up to his feet and nearly fell back down again. With a dull thud, the lights came on; all of them focused on the ring, all of them lime green. No, not lime green. They were Alligator green. The music of some obscure local punk-rock band blared from the speakers, and Video-tron flickered into life, showing a montage of alligators and crocodiles thrashing their prey into lifeless, bloody pulps. Ben looked around to see where Croc might come from, but he already knew it was a futile effort. This was all part of his gig.

Satisfied that Rat burger was scared enough, Killer Croc turned the music down, but let the montage keep running as he crawled around the outside of the ring and waited for the Rat to make his move. He heard him make a break for it towards the ramp, and slid himself into the ring behind him. Then Croc whipped his tail to trip the Rat before he could get out of the ring. The tail was new. It had grown over the last five years. The Rat would not expect that. The Rat rolled over and scampered to his feet, petrified at the site of his opponent. The Rat had gotten fat. That was good; more flavor.

"Hey, Rat burger," Killer Croc greeted with mock kindness, his voice full of even more gravel than Ben remembered. "Do you remember me?" Croc was eight feet tall, now; he had grown since the last time Ben saw him. The tail was new, too.

Ben backed himself into a corner, and stopped with a startle as he bumped into the turnbuckle. "Now, Croc," Ratsbauer stammered, holding his hands up. "Let me explain before you do anything crazy."

Killer Croc lunged forward and snapped his jaws at him. Ben jumped back into the turnbuckle before his knees gave out. He sobbed loudly and folded his hands before him as if in prayer.

"Please Croc!" he whimpered. "I'm begging you!"

Croc lunged forward again, this time clutching his former promoter by the collar of his jacket to lift him up so they were eye to eye. "You sold me out, Rat Burger!" Croc snarled. "Did you think I wouldn't know? Did you think I would forget? I spent five years in that Monkey House because of you! I waited five years to pay you back!"

"I had no choice!" Ben blurted. "You were hurting the rest of the talent, the fans were scared to come to shows, and..."

"And WHAT?" Croc shouted, shaking Ben.

"I was really only trying to help you!" Ben said.

"So why'd you tell them about the Gators?"

"I didn't!" Ben insisted. "I swear Croc, I didn't even know about them until after the Bat... until after they caught you."

"LIAR!" Croc shouted as he tossed Ratsbauer into a corner of the ring, his shoulder connecting with the steel post.

Killer Croc could smell the sweat of fear all over the Rat Burger, who was now blubbering something incomprehensible; probably begging for his life. Croc smiled grimly as he closed in on his petrified prey. Then he heard it; a sort of flapping noise coming from the rafters. It was like the wings of a Weasels' house wasn't the trap after all. This place was the real trap. The Bat was really clever. Croc turned slightly and looked up at the source of the noise, and barely caught a glimpse of the Bat swinging on one his little cables from the rafters above before the Bat's boots planted themselves firmly into his torso; knocking him off his feet and winding him.

Ben Ratsbauer, promoter of the Gotham City Professional Wrestling, had rolled out of the ring and was scrambling up the ramp towards the arena exit. Batman presumed he would next try to call the Police. After swinging in to kick Croc, the Dark Knight followed through and landed on his feet, turning himself to face his quarry, which had already recovered from the blow and pounced towards him; catching him in a tackle which carried him into a corner. Killer Croc then proceeded to use his shoulder as a battering ram repeatedly, and during this onslaught had managed to remove his belt from his waist. He backed out of the corner, held the belt up momentarily, and then tossed it out of the ring.

"Let's see how you do without your toys, Bat!" Croc taunted. Then, with a throaty growl he leaped back into the corner, arms and legs splayed to collide into the Dark Knight with a Stinger Splash. Batman ducked under the attack and made a dive-roll forward as Croc crashed into the turnbuckles. He grunted'oomph' as his chest connected. The ring ropes shook with the force of the blow. Batman gracefully got to his feet and whirled around to see Croc was already shaking the collision off. I have to keep moving, he noted to himself. Keep him disoriented, hit him with high impact blows. I can't let him turn this into a grappling contest. As Croc rushed towards him, the Dark Knight also rushed forward, leaping into Croc with his knee raised, connecting squarely beneath the chin. In the follow-through, Batman clutched Croc's head, using his own weight to force Croc down, planting his skull into the mat. Croc attempted to grab Batman's cape as the Dark Knight regained his feet; but missed by less than an inch, allowing Batman to bounce himself off the ring ropes to gain momentum for a drop kick. Unfortunately, Killer Croc had already gained his feet as well, and caught the Dark Knight with his tail, wrapping it tightly around his torso. Batman found himself straining for breath as Croc held him suspended in the air, tightening his grip until he felt at least two of his ribs crack underneath his armor.

The Bat forgot about his tail. That was a mistake. In his mind, Killer Croc could hear the crowds cheering him on; chanting his name and jeering the Bat. For moment he thought about tossing the Bat into the crowd, but thought better of it. That would give the Bat what he wanted; distance. Instead, he whipped the Bat into the ropes and caught him with a clothesline as he came back. Best not let the Bat recover now, Croc noted, he's tough, and quick. Better to keep on him. Croc followed up by stomping on the prone Bat's chest, exploiting the freshly injured ribs. He went for another stomp, but the Bat was ready this time; he grabbed his ankle with one hand and tried to sweep his other leg out from under him with the other. Croc did stumble a few steps away, but regained his equilibrium in time to deliver a punt kick to the side of the Bats' head as he tried to get up. That should be good for a concussion, Croc thought. The crowd was going nuts; they could smell victory just as Croc did now. They were calling for the Croc-Drop, his signature finisher. No, the crowd wasn't chanting anything. There was no crowd. That was his imagination; his memories of better days. He was just remembering the days before the Bat, before the Rat, before the Weasel. Still, the crowd was right; this was a good time for the Drop. That would finish it off nicely.

Batman staggered to his feet, having difficulty keeping his balance. The room was spinning, his ribs ached. That punt caused a concussion, it must have. In his daze, Batman could only barely discern that Croc seemed distracted; like he was playing to a crowd for a moment. Barely conscious, the Dark Knight seized the opportunity and swung wildly with a straight fist, connecting with nothing but air. Suddenly, Killer Croc had him in a reverse headlock, and was bending him backwards. Batman flayed his arms wildly, striking wherever he could find some piece of Croc's alligator-like hide, but to no effect. With Croc's arm around his throat, Batman was losing air, fast. Croc then raised his free arm, fist clenched, into the air and shouted something that sounded like "Croc Drop!" to his imaginary crowd. With that, Killer Croc slammed his raised forearm into Batman's' already injured rib cage and abruptly jumped up as he spun Batman to slam him face down into the mat, landing on top of him with all his weight.
The lights went out.

Killer Croc did not waste any time. The Bat was out. The ref could count to a hundred if he wanted to. Besides, there was no ref. There was no crowd. There wasn't even the Rat Burger anymore; it was just him and the Bat. Croc quickly crawled under the bottom rope and onto the floor off the apron towards the Bat's belt. He would need that later; the Bat would want it back, and that made it useful as Bat bait. He clutched it and broke first into a trot, then a run, and then an outright sprint up the ramp and out of the arena. The Rat burger was long gone, but that was okay. Killer Croc had his scent. The Rat burger wouldn't get far.

After straightening out his office, calming down Chester, his beloved parakeet, and checking the monitor to the Iceberg Lounge downstairs, Oswald Cobblepot fished his Mobile Phone from his inner jacket pocket. He normally preferred to use the land line, but this particular phone was much more secure, and the person he was about to talk to was sometimes careless in conversation. Still, he was good at his job, and followed instructions well, so the Penguin kept him aboard. He hit the speed dial for his assistants' phone, where he was waiting for this call at the Cobblepot Estate. The phone rang twice before his assistant picked up. Just like he was instructed; Oswald liked that.

"Yeah?" the voice on other end greeted, with just a hint of southern twang in his cadence.

"Cecil!" Oswald greeted back cheerfully. "How are things over there? Quiet, I should hope."

"Yes, sir," Cecil said back. "Not one critter is stirring. I got to say it, sir; from up here on this here hill the stars sure are pretty."

The Penguin chuckled lightly. "I'm glad you can appreciate that, Cecil. Listen, I called to let you know I will be coming home soon. My affairs here for the night are finished, and everything is running smoothly." He hesitated a moment, to allow Cecil to grasp what he was really talking about. I trust everything is on record?"

Silence from Cecil; sometimes the dear boy was a little bit slow with these things. Finally he belted out an "Oh!" and confirmed that yes indeed everything was on record. Before the dear boy could get his thought about getting the scene with the Batman all on video, the Penguin thanked him. Yes, dear boy, it certainly was quite serendipitous...lucky... that the Croc busted out. That was probably what prompted the Batman to leave me alone for once. That's right, dear boy, we must be careful. Good night Cecil, I'll see you soon.

"Oh, Cecil, I need one more thing before I forget."

"Sure thing, sir, what can I do?"

"Find me the names of those poor people the Croc murdered last night, will you? They must have families which are absolutely devastated. I want to send them my deepest condolences, and offer to cover the cost of any funeral arrangements they will no doubt require."

"Yes, sir," Cecil replied. "That's very thoughtful, Mr. Cobblepot. Good night, sir."

The Penguin hung up. He took note that Cecil was actually improving somewhat. Not once in that entire conversation did he call him by his nickname; always 'sir' or 'Mr. Cobblepot'. That was a definite improvement. There was, of course, the necessity to cover why it was fortunate that Killer Croc escaped. It wasn't even terribly difficult to cover, either. Cecil had no idea that his employer actually arranged for the new practicum student, Harleen Quinzel, to acquire the map which she provided to Croc. Cecil also had no clue that this was made possible by promising Quinzel that she would be granted access to Arkham's star patient if she did this. The Penguin cackled as he gathered his essentials before calling his driver to come pick him up and take him home for the night. All his puppets were dancing exactly to the right tune.

Richard Gavin knew three things for certain: First, he knew that he should have called in sick for this shift last night. But that would've been a lie, and his sponsor told him to be honest about everything. Second, he knew did the right thing by not calling the fly-by-night booze delivery place last night. He wanted to; a couple of beers would have put him right out, but insomnia was better than getting loaded. He did not want to blow five years of sobriety just because some psycho monster broke out of the Loony bin. So what if that psycho monster was once almost his boss? So what if that psycho monster might think he was a snitch, even though he wasn't? So what if that psycho monster might want to make a meal out him? The third thing Richard Gavin knew for certain was that he desperately needed to see a man about a mule.

He looked around and saw he was alone at the bus shelter; no surprise there. Who would be up at this hour unless they had to be? For a second he thought about ducking behind some nearby bushes to relieve himself, but then he saw the bus coming around the bend about three blocks up from his stop. So he had a choice; duck behind the bushes and miss this bus, which would make him late for work, or hop on the bus and hold it until he got to work, which was at the other end of town. He managed to hold this job for three years, now; a new record. Richard Gavin did not want to blow this one, so he hopped on the bus. Once on the bus, he did his best to tune out the two morons at the back of the bus chatting about Killer Croc like they had any idea what they were talking about. He tried to let go of the fact that they probably never even met that freak, let alone knew anything about him. He focused instead about how lucky he was that Bat came along and busted Croc and his gang of Gators before he could be officially initiated. Richard Gavin was barely fifteen, then, and the Bat opted to give him the benefit of the doubt that he would go straight. That was five years ago. So far, Richard Gavin had not disappointed the Bat.

Finally, about twenty minutes later, the bus arrived at Edge-gate Shopping Center; his destination. Richard jumped off the bus and made a break for the nearest garbage bin enclosure. I'm not going to make it, he thought to himself. He got to the enclosure, which was behind the Pharmacy, and pulled the gate at the front open to discover one the hobos had gotten in there and made a mess again. A mess he would have to clean up. On top of that, the smell told Richard the hobo used the enclosure as an emergency latrine, just as he was about to.

"Damn it!" Richard cursed. Oh well, now I really have to get in here once my shift starts. No real harm in adding to the mess now. Stepping into the enclosure to do his business, he stepped in something tacky, and his boot stuck lightly to the Gavin was right; he didn't make it. Once he noticed that the body in the enclosure, there wasn't a chance. He wet his pants.

By the time the sun raised, the scene at Edge-gate Shopping Center was hopping. The police had the place sequestered, and all the mall employees already there were being kept there, even though the mall itself was shut down. Also, none of the employees about to start their shift were being permitted to come in, and all guests were either kept on the site or turned away from entering.

Detective Brian Dustman gazed at the kid who called the new stiff in. There was something about him that seemed familiar; though Dustman couldn't quite place where. Other than saying he found the body and called 911 right away, all this kid was doing was begging for a chance to change his soiled pants, and insisting he wanted nothing to do with the press. When asked why, the kid got a little bit of a smart mouth.

"Look at that mess!" the kid said, pointing his chin towards the enclosure which was cordoned off. "That's got to be the Croc! You think I want my face on TV or the papers where he might see me and think to make me his next meal?"

"I don't know what else I can tell you, Mr. Knox," the rookie officer said. By the name on his badge, Alexander Knox was speaking to Officer Price. "Mr. Gavin has made it perfectly clear he does not want to talk to the press, and until we're done questioning him, his wish will be honored."

"Oh, come on, Officer," Knox argued, trying to peer over Price's shoulder. The idea here was to convince the rookie he was trying to get a closer look at the scene, but really he was checking to see if his photographer had gotten past the cops guarding the scene. Yup, that was an affirmative. "Are you really going to muzzle the press on this? The public has a right to know what's going on here." Knox took a jump in the air to signal the photographer had an all clear.

"I'm sorry, sir," Price replied, nudging Knox back a step. "I'm going to have to ask you to back up."

"Fine," Knox said, feigning resignation. "Can you at least tell me if it's true that this is another Killer Croc incident?"

"All I can tell you is that this is a crime scene, possibly a homicide." Price said. "Look, if you go over there," he directed Knox over to where Vickie Vale was standing with Commissioner Gordon, "I believe the Commissioner is about to make a statement."

Alexander Knox thanked the rookie and made his way towards Vale and Gordon.

Bruce Wayne winced. On one of the monitors, Commissioner Gordon was giving a statement to the press in regards to the brutal murder at the Edge-gate Shopping Center just as Alfred was finishing up with dressing his wounds from last night's brawl with Killer Croc. While the Commissioner was fielding questions from Vickie Vale and Alexander Knox, Bruce Wayne, alias the Batman, was nursing a concussion courtesy of one of the most brutal figures in his rouge's gallery.

"If it hurts so badly, sir," Alfred commented in his almost fatherly tone which was only amplified with his English accent, "might I be so bold as to suggest that you put the Bat on the shelf?"

Good old Alfred, always speaking as the concerned objector to the Batman's adventures.

"It's not ribs or the concussion that bothers me, Alfred," Bruce replied. "It's that I let Killer Croc get away. What happened at Edge-gate is my fault."

"With all due respect, Master Bruce, they have not yet confirmed this was the work of that beast." Alfred pointed out, though they both knew the police were keeping quiet so as to not create even more panic. "Besides which, not even the Batman can be expected to be perfect. Not only that, but I seriously doubt the police could have done any better."

On the monitor, Gordon was defending the identity of the one witness the police had on the scene; refusing to deny or confirm the accuracy of the name that Knox dropped. Bruce noted the name 'Gavin' as a possible lead. There was something about the name that he was sure it had come up before.

"Thank you, Alfred." He said, both for his assistance with his injuries and for the attempt at reassurance; not that that helped much. The effort was appreciated. He turned his attention to another monitor; one that was logged in to detected the tracking device in the belt that Killer Croc liberated from him the night before. Bruce Wayne winced again when he saw there was no signal. Did it get damaged? That was unlikely. What was more likely was that Croc went deep enough underground in the sewers that the connection was lost. Without even knowing it, Croc had evaded him. A small beeping tone emitted from a third monitor to indicate a breaking update on the Gotham Times website. Bruce clicked to read the update:

CONE OF SILENCE!
Police shut press out after Killer Croc takes fourth victim
By Alexander Knox

The Gotham City Police Department has shut down the Edge-gate Shopping Center after the ghastly discovery of a fourth body in a garbage enclosure on the site. Reports indicate that the body was found by a maintenance worker this morning as he was about start his shift. The worker, Police say, has requested anonymity and is declining to comment to the press 'for his own protection'. In his statement, Commissioner James Gordon has only acknowledged that the scene at Edge-gate is indeed a homicide, but will neither confirm nor deny that this case has anything to do with Killer Croc, former street gang leader and professional wrestler who escaped from Arkham Asylum the night before last.

READ FULL STORY IN TONIGHT'S EDITION.

Beneath the blurb was a photograph, near the enclosure Knox mentioned, of Detective Brian Dustman interrogating a younger man. The caption with the photo read:

Maintenance worker Richard Gavin, 20, is being held by Police after discovering body.

Why did that name seem relevant? Perhaps it was the concussion, but for some reason Bruce couldn't quite place it. After putting the name through his search engine, all he could find was a few misdemeanors as a minor and a stint in a rehabilitation program nearly five years ago. Beyond that, it would appear that Richard Gavin had straightened out. He also found a mailing address to an apartment building on the opposite end of the city from Edge-gate; in a low rent district not far from where the swamp lands started. So why was Dustman so interested in him? Odds were good that he his claim to have found the body after the fact would hold up. There was no connection to Ratsbauer or, apparently, to Croc. It was possible his misdemeanors involved the Gators, the timeline barely fits; maybe this Richard Gavin got out of the scene as a kid right after he put Croc away the last time. By now, that would be next to impossible to confirm, but it might be worth checking out. The Penguin might know for sure if there was a connection, and if there is, Gavin might know where Croc is hiding out. As little as Alfred would like it, it looked like the Batman would on the move again. At least he would take some comfort in knowing Bruce Wayne will be taking his advice and getting at least a few hours rest first.

While he was feeding his birds, Oswald Cobblepot was pleased. Cecil had indeed acquired the names of the victims at Arkham, and reported that his condolences had been offered; though Bruce Wayne had already seen to the funeral costs being covered. Cecil had also identified the latest victim at Edge-gate, not that that meant much to the Penguin. What he did find interesting, though, was that according to Alexander Knox, it was Richie Gavin that found Ratsbauers' body. Cobblepot could not help but to chuckle lightly at the irony of that; the last of Croc's little recruits walking into the aftermath of his former bosses' exploits once again. Looking out a window and seeing the clouds begin to gather in the sky, Penguin wondered if the Bat had made the connection yet. It was possible, even likely, that he had. He might be paying me another visit tonight for confirmation. He concluded.

Umbrella neatly folded up and under his arm, Oswald called for his driver.

"Heading out to the club again tonight, Mr. Cobblepot?" Cecil inquired as reached the front door, opening it for him.

"Yes, dear boy," Penguin confirmed. "I'll need you to hold things to order here again."

"Of course, sir," Cecil agreed. He watched as Oswald made his way to the car waiting outside, made sure he was safely inside the car, and closed the door. As the car began to pull away from the Estate, the first few drops of rain began to fall.

Before it started raining, Killer Croc watched from beneath what was going on in the shopping center where he caught up with Rat burger. The pigs were everywhere up there; and a bunch of news monkeys, too. One of the pigs was trying to sweat some young monkey that looked and smelled like the old times. Then it hit him. It was little Richie, who was almost a Gator. He would have been, too, if the Bat didn't come and ruin everything. One thing he knew; Little Richie wasn't a rat. He knew that just based on what he could hear at the mall. Little Richie wasn't saying a thing. He was too scared. He was a scared little monkey. The pig didn't scare him; Little Richie was scared of him. That was good. He wouldn't tell the pigs a thing. That was even better.

Now, deep underground in his old hideout; one that Little Richie would know about, wondered if it was a mistake not to finish the Bat off back there in the ring. No, it didn't matter. The Bat was hurt, but he would want his toys back. The Bat would come looking for them, Croc knew. Would the Bat figure out who Little Richie was? Probably he would, Croc figured. The Bat wasn't dumb. Could the Bat get Little Richie to talk? Probably he could, Croc figured. The Bat was good at squeezing monkeys and pigs and rats alike. All Killer Croc had to do now was wait. The Bat would come, and he would be waiting. Killer Croc draped the belt over a segment of pipe that stuck out from the wall. The bait set, he then crept to where he would wait to ambush the bat when he got here. That might be hours, it might be days, or it could be minutes for all Croc knew. It didn't matter. He beat the Bat before, he beat him last night, and he would beat the Bat again, once and for all. Then with the Bat out of the way, the pigs would be easy, and then that Weasel Dent was done like dinner.

Still light-headed from the concussion, the Dark Knight punched in coordinates onto the car's on-board computer and let it do most of the driving. The Batman was on the move; much to Alfred's objection. Given how sore his ribs still were, he entertained the possibility-even the probability- that Alfred was right to object. Realistically, he was in no shape to patrol, much less go toe to toe with someone like Croc. That didn't change the reality of the situation. The reality was that Croc was out there, most likely setting his sights on Dent next, and there was no way the police could handle him alone. Reality was that Gotham still needed their Dark Knight. The car came to an easy halt. His destination was met. Batman hopped out of the car, remembering to set his homing beacon, and stealthily crept through the alleyways towards the Iceberg Lounge.

Looking up, he considered the window entrance again, but then thought better of it. He had no doubt the Penguin had his club well monitored with motion sensors, microphones, and camera surveillance; not that that mattered much. He could easily escape detection and surprise the Penguin, but tonight it might serve better to bluff bravado and enter a little more directly. Batman entered through the main entrance, plain for all to see. The foyer beyond was blocked by a small box office – likely bullet proof glass – which had a sign indicating cover was $5.00. Inside the box was a young woman, her jet black hair in dreadlocks. Batman side stepped the box and started in.

"Hey!" dreadlocks shouted over the din of music. "Cover is five bucks! I don't care who you..."

Batman stopped and glared at her over his shoulder before she could finish her sentence. Dreadlocks quickly relented and muttered something that might have been to tell him to enjoy his night at the Iceberg. As the Dark Knight entered the club, the revelers within all paused what they were doing as he passed them by. One thug seated at the bar started to get out of his seat only to be stopped by his buddy seated next to him. Batman could hear the buddy whispering to the thug in baggy jeans, asking him if was crazy. Nobody else in the club dared to so much as moved a muscle to confront him. Exactly the reaction he was aiming for.

The moment Oswald Cobblepot saw the Bat approach the front entrance, he activated the comm unit in his ear that would connect him to the units that all of his on shift staff members were wearing. He was genuinely surprised that the Bat would be bold enough to enter so directly; with no effort to evade detection.

"Let him pass," he told them. "Bruno, when he gets to the stairs, make it look good, but let him pass."

Cindy did her part well. Bruno, the bouncer at the stairs which led to his office, did not say a word. He didn't need to; he knew what he was doing. Lighting a cigarette, Oswald watched as the Bat made his way towards the staircase.

Bruno lifted his arm to block the entrance. "I'm sorry, sir, this area is off limits," he said, "unless you have an appointment."

The Bat deftly grabbed Bruno's wrist, twisted his arm behind his back and smashed his head into a nearby wall, dazing him. With Bruno dazed, the Bat proceeded to climb the stairs. Having little doubt that the Dark Knight would be aware of the video surveillance, Cobblepot opted to leave the monitors on as he turned his attention to the door to his office. As his attention shifted, he glimpsed, or imagined he glimpsed, the Bat falter in his steps almost imperceptibly. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps the Croc did a better number on the Bat than the Penguin initially anticipated. Wouldn't that be grand?

Predictably enough, the Bat demonstrated that his idea of knocking before entering was to kick the door open, knocking it askew; the upper hinge breaking. Chester squawked his outrage at the commotion. With his trademark scowl beneath his cowl and draped in his cape like a living chess piece, he entered the office silently and swiftly. The Penguin sat calmly at his desk as the Bat approached.

"Do come in!" he greeted with an all too sincere grace. "May I offer you a chair?"

Batman shoved the chair aside, prompting another objection from Chester.

"Very well, then," Cobblepot said amicably. "How can I help you tonight, dear boy?"

The Bat said nothing and only glanced at the cigarette with contempt.

Taking a drag before contemplating the smoke himself, Oswald said, "Oh, this? It's a rather distasteful habit, I know. I tried to quit, but..." he shrugged. "I seriously doubt that is why you've come to me two nights in a row, though, dear boy. Unless this about smoking in a public venue; even though I own the place and this is my private office. If that's the case, then you must really be cracking down on illegal activity in this city, right down the tiniest transgression." He let out a tiny squawk of a giggle.

With a certain alacrity that shocked the Penguin a little, Batman leaned forward over the desk, slamming his palms on the surface as he curled his mouth into a grimace. The two men's noses were less than an inch apart.

"Does the name Richard Gavin mean anything to you?" he asked flatly.

The Penguin exhaled smoke into his face as he feigned thinking the name over. Stubbing out the cigarette, he glanced at a copy of the evening paper, which had Alexander Knox's promised story on the front page, complete with the photo taken earlier that day.

"Oh, you mean this young fellow?" Cobblepot asked, as if he wasn't sure while he tapped one of his fused together fingers on the picture. "What makes you think I would know him?"

"You know all of the lowlifes in Gotham, and their activities, Penguin. Most of them come to this dive all the time."

"That may be true, dear boy," Penguin admitted, "but that doesn't mean I have anything to do with any of them. Besides, it says right here that this Mr. Gavin is a minor. Even if he had set foot in my establishment, I would have to have one of my staff ask him to leave. Laws are laws, after all."

Seething, Batman grabbed penguin by the shirt collar and pulled him even closer. Shock and momentary fright fell on Cobblepot's face, but he composed himself before losing the monocle or the top hat.

"I don't have time for this dance, Penguin," Batman warned him with a lowered voice. "Does Gavin run with any of the street punks or not?"
Penguin grinned, almost maliciously. Not exactly slow either, Penguin knocked Batman's hands off of his collar.

"First thing, Batman," Penguin countered, "I ask you never to put your hands on me again while in my establishment. Second, please refrain from calling me that. I am not, contrary to what you seem to want to believe, some scumbag criminal. My name is Oswald Cobblepot. Any variant of my name will do fine."

Batman said nothing.

"Now," Oswald continued, "to answer your question. To be honest I seriously doubt that young Gavin is in any way involved in any criminal activity. If I am not mistaken, he was years ago, but has since done some drug rehab and gone completely straight."

"How long ago, and who was he involved with?"

Now was the time to play the next, new piece.

"He was just a kid. Petty stuff was all he was into, if I remember right; picked a few pockets, maybe a couple of break and enters, I think he might have stolen a car or two. As far as I know he's been a good boy for at least five years, give or take a month or so."

"Who was he involved with?" the Bat asked again through clenched teeth, clearly losing his patience.

"Well, nobody, really, I would guess," Cobblepot replied as if ignorant. "I suppose the Croc's fan club might have been scouting him for their street team..." He was about to add that he wasn't sure, but that detail wasn't necessary. With barely a rustle, the Bat was gone. Oswald had no doubt that little Richie Gavin would be getting a visitor very soon.

Once he was sure that Knox had given up on waiting outside his apartment building, Richard Gavin turned on the television to watch the Channel 6 news before taking a shower and going to bed. While the news was on, he learned that the cops had nothing to work with when it came to finding Croc. One of them, the one that leaned on him this morning, indicated they suspected he was hiding in the sewers, and were working out likely spots on maps of the system. If they really planned on going down there after him, they were already dead meat. Their maps wouldn't show anywhere near enough of the maze below Gotham; not even close. Nobody, and that meant nobody, knew those sewers half as well as Croc; even after five years of being in the Loony bin. They didn't stand a chance down there. They didn't know it, but he was doing them a favor by not telling them about Sunken City; if he did, then he might as well kill them himself. The only dude who stood a chance against Croc down there was maybe the Bat and even he would probably die.

The next segment was a previously recorded interview with Harvey Dent by Vickie Vale. What a cheap ratings grab that was. An attractive woman talking about the Bat was bound to make the ratings go through the roof. During the interview, Gavin called in to work to take some sick leave due to stress and trauma. He felt okay with doing this; it was more or less true. Finding that body had literally scared the piss out of him, and odds were good now thanks to Knox that the Croc knew about it. Gavin also knew that Croc was probably keeping an eye on him, just to make sure he wasn't blabbing. After the call, he jumped in the shower. The streams of hot water on his skin calmed his nerves a little bit and helped him put things in perspective. Croc probably did peek in on him. That meant he knew that he didn't say a thing, and that he wouldn't. For all he knew, Croc grabbed Knox for nosing around, and that is why that scumbag reporter isn't around anymore. He knew that was a nasty, terrible thought, but he allowed himself a morbid grin all the same. He'd have to call his sponsor about that; tomorrow. The point was that Croc would probably leave him alone, as long as he stayed out of the way. No problem, Croc; I'm as far away from your business as the moon. I'd be even farther than that if you didn't leave that half eaten body in public. With his shower done, Richard toweled off and headed for bed, not bothering with any clothes. Either from exhaustion or by sheer luck, he fell asleep almost instantly.

"Gavin" a cold, flat, dark voice grumbled at him from a cold, flat, dark void.

At first Richard thought he was dreaming. Just a nightmare brought on by the events of the day. He was home, safe and sound, in his bed. The rain was drumming against the window, he could hear it. Nobody was calling his name. There was no pointy eared figure darkening his already dark doorway, and that figure that wasn't there wasn't casting a shadow across the room. It was a dream. That figure was not moving closer. This was a dream. He shut his eyes tightly and let out a small moan, more a whimper, when he realized that he was in fact awake, and this was no dream.

"Gavin" the cold, flat, dark voice said again.

Shivering, Richard replied "What?"

"You don't have to move, Gavin," the voice of the Bat said, sounding just a little more gentle. "I'm not here for you. I know you have been clean for some time now. I need your help."

"How can I help you?" Richard asked, stammering.

"Five years ago you were scouted by the Gators. The Gators were led by Killer Croc. Of all the people in Gotham, you are the last one left who might know the exact location of his old hideout. Tell me, and I am gone from here and you can forget you ever met me."

Never mind that one does not simply forget meeting the Bat, especially when he comes into your home in the middle of the night for information. That seemed like a sweet deal. It was the kind of deal that that seemed too good to be true. Experience had taught Gavin that that meant it probably was. Still, he reasoned, what choice did he have? Was he going to tell the Bat to get lost? What would happen then? Richard Gavin did not want to find out.

"Sunken City," Gavin told him, "there's a huge chamber beneath the Chapel and the Memorial Well. But don't go down there; he'll own you if you do." Richard opened his eyes, and Batman was gone like vapors in a high wind.

Sunken City was the name given to an area beneath the Narrows; recognized by many of the locals but never charted on any official maps. Or, at least it wasn't charted on any current maps. For any sort of reference to what Gavin was talking about, one would have to go into archives that date back at least 100 years; maybe even more. Around 1895, an ambitious, passionate Reverend named David Elton came to Gotham, and built his Chapel in what is now known as the Narrows. Around his Chapel he developed a small village, intended to be a place where the displaced and unfortunate could reside and begin to build new, honest lives with the Lord as their guide, and the Church at the center of their livelihood. Within a decade, the village of Elton was a certified neighborhood in the Municipality of Gotham. It was not glamorous, but it was functional. It had its charm due to its humility. Elton was chosen because part of the river flowed through caverns beneath it, which made for a good location to place a well, so as to not be much of a burden on the reservoir. All was going well, until the earthquake of 1914.

In August of 1914, an earthquake shook Gotham with a violence never before experienced in the City's history. While the entire municipality suffered, the hardest hit was the narrows, and the hardest hit part of the Narrows was the village of Elton. The ground beneath the village gave in and collapsed into the caverns below. Hundreds of lives were lost, buried in the rubble. The entire village was swallowed by the earth. Over the past century, it has been built over, though there is a vestige of Elton, or Sunken City, below. Today, all that remains on the surface is a remnant of the well; sealed up and memorialized as the Elton Memorial Well. If one were to find a way beneath, as some vagrants, kids, and apparently Killer Croc had, one would find a span of a little more than 3 blocks that they could effectively tour. In those three blocks one would find the ruins of several houses, shops, the well, and of course the Chapel.

Along the riverbanks, running astride the Narrows, there is a single lane, long neglected and forgotten by most. At the end of this lane, equally neglected and nearly as all but forgotten, is a storm drain pipe which dumps into the river. This pipe, large enough to drive a small truck into, was once blockaded by a wrought-iron gate, which has since rusted to the point where most of the bars have crumbled away.

The Car glides to a silent stop at the end of the lane, about five yards before the point where the lane ends and the sharp turnoff into the pipe begins its route from the caverns beneath the Narrows, where the remains of Sunken City wait. Inside the Car, the Dark Knight quickly types something into his on board computer. Once finished, the hatch opens without a sound and Batman exits the Car. As he strides towards the entrance of the pipe, the hatch closes and the Car sets itself into its secured mode.

James Gordon stood at his floor to ceiling window, watching the rain pelt the city streets below. It wasn't quite cold enough to snow. Not yet; but it would be soon enough. The Hill might get a light dusted if it got much colder. If he were to be honest with himself, he actually took some comfort in the rain. He read something once that suggested that rain has a cleansing effect; both literally and spiritually. This City could use a good cleansing. One thing he knew; crime usually went down on rainy nights. Right about now, the District Attorney would be making his way home, with a police escort. Dustman would be leading, as little as Gordon liked it. The Commissioner would rather be leading it himself, but since Dent was a close family friend, that was exactly why he shouldn't. He was too close, and therefore a conflict of interest. If he was to do his job and do it right, he had to start by leading by example.

On his desk, his computer signaled for an incoming message. The last thing he needed now was more bad news. With resignation, James Gordon returned to his desk and checked the message:

Found Killer Croc hideout. In Sunken City, there is a chamber beneath Chapel and Elton Memorial Well.
Regards, D. Knight.

Splash!

The Bat was down here now. It was time. He came from the river, probably through the tunnel and then now down the well. Just like I figured, Killer Croc thought. The wait is almost over; just give him time to adjust his goggles or his eyes if he ain't using his toys yet. He'll see the chamber pool soon enough. He'll notice his little belt on that pipe, and he'll come for it. Just let him get a little bit closer before jumping on him and rolling him. There he goes, with his little flashlight, exploring the scenery. He sees the chamber. Now he's checking for any land bridges, found one, sees the pipe, his light is following it. Now he sees his belt hanging on the pipe. He passed right by head without as much as a hesitation. He has no idea I'm here. He probably thinks I've gone for the Weasel already. That's good. Maybe he'll rush in without thinking. He's heading for the land bridge. Wait, he stopped. He's scanning the pool again. Now he's putting the flashlight away.

What is that he's pulling out now? Is that a signal flare? What's he going to do with that? He can't be stupid enough to light it; he's got to know that could blow the chamber into the sky. It must be a bluff; he's trying to trick me into making my move too soon. What if I'm wrong? What if he can't smell it? Maybe we won't get blown to the moon, but we are just as likely to get burnt to a cinder if he really does light that thing. Well, he would, I would get boiled alive. Can I really take that chance?

He saw the top of Croc's head, or more precisely the light glinting off his eyes, in the pool. The belt was bait, and to get to it he would have to pass within three feet of where Croc was waiting; easy striking distance if he went for a tackle style ambush. Batman started towards the belt, stopped and put his penlight away. If was going to spring Croc's trap, it was going to be on his terms, not Croc's. The air down here had a faint, yet distinct rotten egg smell. There was a gas leak. The Dark Knight was willing to surmise this was a temporary setting for Croc until he could regain his bearings after five years in Arkham. It was safe to suppose that there was no leak back then. If Killer Croc had one virtue, it was patience. He could wait for hours or even days to complete an ambush. There was no chance of waiting him out on this. The Dark Knight would have to exploit Croc's reptilian instinct for self preservation to bluff him out. Once he was thigh deep in the water, Batman produced a signal flare in the hopes that Croc would assume he was about to light it. Sure enough, Croc made his move; though not the move Batman predicted. The Dark Knight was predicting Croc would leap out of the water and tackle him. Instead, Killer Croc submerged himself completely and advanced to where he was standing from underwater. Obviously, he's going to try to pull me under with him, where he believes he'll have a kind of home field advantage. In a way, he does. I will have to draw on all of my training for this plan to work.

Even as murky as the water was, Killer Croc could see the Bat's feet, just a couple of inches from the drop. It was almost too easy. Not only did the Bat not see him, but he also missed the sound of he made cutting through the water towards him. That shot to the head followed by the Croc Drop last night must have thrown his game right off. That was the only way Croc could make sense of his insane idea to light a flare down here. There was no time to waste. He had to grab the Bat's ankle and pull him under now, before he blew the whole place up. Reaching out with his right hand, Killer Croc clutched the Bat's right ankle and pulled.

Despite expecting it, the sheer force of Croc's grip and the strength of his pull caught the Dark Knight by surprise. He barely caught his breath in time as he went below the surface into the muddy water, past the drop off point to who knows how deep. Once beneath the surface, Croc began to climb hand over hand, but Batman pushed him off with his free leg, and swam for the land bridge. He had only barely climbed out of the water, gasping and sputtering, when Croc leaped out of the water with a roar and tackled him; forcing back into the depths on the other side of the bridge. Wasting no motion, Croc positioned himself to wrap himself all but completely around him. Arms locked in a sleeper hold, legs around his waist, and the new feature his tail holding his legs together, Killer Croc began to rock and roll under the water. Now was the time...

The roll was working like it always did. The Bat was struggling, and making a better effort than most, but it was still only a matter of seconds before those efforts began to fade. That was thing with the roll; the more you struggle, the quicker it takes effect. With air cut off and motion limited, fighting it just meant more air lost. Plus the rocking and rolling under water, especially dark water like this, meant loss of direction which creates panic, which makes the urge to fight harder to resist. As tough as the Bat was, as long as he might be able to hold his breath, Killer Croc was willing to bet he could hold his longer. Soon enough he would win that bet, as the Bat was already starting to fade and go limp. Shortly after that it was over; the Bat stopped moving altogether. Honestly, Killer Croc was a little disappointed; he was hoping for a better fight than from the Bat. A couple more shakes, rocks, and rolls for good measure, and Croc let go; and grabbed the Bat by the back of his cape to pull him up to the surface. Once there, Killer Croc checked for a pulse and for breathing – he wasn't stupid like everyone figured – and found nothing. The Bat was dead.

As soon as Gordon's bulletin about Croc's location went out, Lieutenant Brian Dustman placed Sergeant Janine Toussaint in charge of playing babysitter for the D.A. and ran to his cruiser to rendezvous at the staging area before the SWAT team began their raid into Sunken City. Toussaint was by the book, and that meant she would never get with the Program, so there was no point in trying for that with her, but she was also very loyal to the chain of command, so she wouldn't challenge him leaving either. She didn't like it, but she didn't question it, either. That left Toussaint, that rookie Price who dropped the ball with Knox this morning, and three other knuckleheads to guard Dent in case SWAT screwed up. Which they would, of course; Dustman grinned. Price may have botched by letting Knox distract him while his photographer slipped by, but the kid was sharp enough to figure on Croc using the sewer system. Too bad he was one of Commissioner Gordon's handpicked boys. If it weren't for that, Brian Dustman might have considered him as a candidate to bring into the Program. As it was, he had a life expectancy about as long as Toussaint's by Dustman's estimation; an hour, maybe two at the most. That was really a damn shame.

The Bat's wrist in one hand, Killer Croc dragged his corpse into one of the caverns that surrounded the chamber. He contemplated removing the cowl to see who this guy was in real life, but decided it didn't really matter. He was just as dead whoever he was under the mask. Somebody would turn up missing before long, and then everyone will figure it out; the guy who goes missing at the same as the Bat has got to be the Bat. It was as simple as that. As much as he wanted to feast on the Bat's guts right then and there, there was a shred of something like humanity in him that demanded that an enemy of his caliber earned the respect of some semblance of a burial. In the cavern he selected, Killer Croc knew of a mud bank that would have to suffice, given the time limitations he was working with. He slung the Bat onto the bank and shoved him part way into it, counting on the dead weight to do the rest of the work for him in no time. In mid shove, Croc heard shouting all over the place overhead; things like 'Clear!" and 'All clear here!' and 'Found a cable in the Well!' and 'Sir! You have to see this!' That last one came from what would be behind the altar in the Chapel; a Pig found the Chapel access. It didn't matter to Croc that the Bat called in the Pigs for back up. The Bat was still just as dead as he would be if he didn't. In some ways, this was better. Pigs here meant no Pigs or fewer Pigs anyway, at the Weasel's house. This also gave Croc a chance to make sure it stayed that way, and maybe have a few lost Pigs in his caverns for snacks later on.

Behind the altar of the run-down Chapel was a spot where the floorboards had rotted away, leaving a hole that dropped into what appeared to be some kind of cave below. As SWAT dropped into the cave, Alvarez on point, Brian Dustman marveled at just how endless the secret little places of Gotham seemed to be. Just how deep did these caves go, anyway? Reluctantly, Dustman descended after them, once the team verified that the immediate area was clear. At first, he was shocked at how completely dark it was down there. That freak could be anywhere. Why Cobblepot chose him for this phase of his so-called master plan to take the Bat out of play was beyond comprehension. Why not go with someone like Nygma, or better yet that Deadshot guy? Deadshot would have made sense; for one thing he wasn't a Loony, and for another he was a pro at this kind of thing. Getting him out of Gotham Penn would have been a snap; just pay off his bail, and let Harry sort all the stupid legal stuff out. That's the way Brian would have done it; bail out a pro like Deadshot, and hire him to but a bullet in the Bat: Boom. It's done. When it came to talking payment, take the cost of the bail off the price tag, pay up what remains, and everybody wins: Boom. It's done, just like that. It would be quick and clean; none of this messy psycho alligator cannibal nonsense paralyzing the City and putting the whole holding up the whole Program.

Above, as one of the SWAT guys handed Dustman a pair of night vision goggles which he put on now, the team noted that the Bat's Car was parked. Previous experience taught them all it was an exercise in futility to try to attempt anything with it. One thing; it meant that it was a good bet that Gordon was right. The Bat was down there, too. That meant it was a fair bet the Croc got him already, and this was all about taking the Croc down. Dustman thought about letting Croc slip by to get to Dent, then pushing for Harry to take the D.A. spot, but then cancelled the idea; Penguin didn't want that, or not yet, anyway. He said he had other plans for Harvey Dent. Still, plans sometimes go sideways, right? So what if things got out of hand down here and the Program got bumped ahead a little? No, that was a bad idea. Brian had heard things about Penguin. Then again, Dustman grinned inwardly, there's another reason to post bail on Deadshot.

Alvarez led the team deeper into the cave. Dustman liked Alvarez; he was definitely with the Program, so that meant his team was too – whether they knew it or not. As Alvarez waved them in, he followed the team; approaching a large chamber which was mostly a pond with a land bridge crossing it, Brian was sure he could smell gas, and wished to God he would have thought to bring a mask or something. At one point along the land bridge, a belt sat looped around a pipe jutting across the chamber. The pipe was probably where the gas was coming from, and the belt was clearly the Bat's. Or one of them, anyway, Dustman figured. It was a safe bet that the Dark Knight had several. Using hand signals, Alvarez silently indicated several caverns that exited the chamber to God knows where; well God and Killer Croc, probably. It was another safe bet that that Alligator-man freak show could get just about anywhere he wanted from down here. Alvarez's next set of signals was a command to fan out into teams of two to investigate the caverns. The final signal was for Dustman to hold back and stay with him. If any other team leader would have pulled that, Dustman may well have pulled rank and tore a strip off him; but he thought of Alvarez as a friend. Besides, he didn't really want to go any deeper if he didn't have to. That Crocodile freak was down here.

"You remember how this is supposed to go down, right?" Dustman said to Alvarez, his lips barely moving. The rest of the team well and away and on task, he was quite sure they wouldn't hear a thing, but he wasn't taking any chances.

"Yeah," Alvarez replied. "You sure this is the way to go? Oswald finds out you're tweaking his plan, and we're all bird food."

"Trust me," Dustman countered, "he won't. Besides, when Harry is D.A. instead of Dent, he'll get over it. The worst that's going to happen is we might get is chewed out for missing Croc. After that, the only thing left is taking out Gordon, so I get appointed Commissioner."

"What about the Bat?"

"What about the Bat?" Dustman echoed. "My bet is that Croc took care of him for us. Even if he is still alive, when I'm Commissioner, I declare him a vigilante public enemy, and Cobblepot gets what he wants. My way everybody wins. Stay with me on this, Alvarez."

Alvarez opened his mouth to say something when there was a shout from one of the caverns. They both turned their heads to see Smith go down and get dragged into the darkness feet first. Doyle, his partner, got a single shot off before an enormous shape jumped out and tackled him. It was apparent they found Croc.

Alvarez sprang into action; leading his team towards the cavern where Smith and Doyle went down. Dustman brought up the rear, to find Alvarez barking at his men to follow that scaly skinned circus side show while he made ready to call the action in to headquarters. Smith's neck was obviously broken; his head nearly turned backwards. Doyle was gurgling up blood by the liter from his mouth and nose, his entire chest cavity crushed inside his armor under the weight of Croc landing on him at such high impact. He was probably going to die in the next thirty to forty seconds.

"...one officer down, one in really bad shape! We need backup and a medic here now!" Alvarez shouted into his radio, along with their present location and the pursuit of their suspect. "Oh, my God," he added as well, a little too dramatically; he pointed his flashlight at a muddy bank so Dustman could see what he was talking about. "The Batman is down here, too, sir. He looks bad!"

He sure did; there he was, half buried and completely still. Lieutenant Brian Dustman had been to enough murder scenes to know what a corpse looked like, and the Bat looked like one now; a fresh corpse, but a corpse all the same. Alvarez, finished with his call, attended to Doyle while Dustman stared at the Bat. It was really quite the sight. Dustman was all but mesmerized, lost in his own thoughts, barely aware of the sound of Doyle gurgling his last.

"Damn it!" Alvarez shouted, breaking the spell. Briefly lamenting not putting money on his bet with Alvarez just before the Croc made its move, Dustman turned away from the Bat and towards Alvarez.

"It's terrible. I know," he said. "But right now I need you more than ever, Alvarez. I need you down there with the rest of your team to make sure this turns out right. I'll deal with this mess." Alvarez looked up at him, gazed down into the darkness where his men could still be heard, looked back at him. "Go," Dustman insisted with a sympathetic reassurance that the details would be dealt with. Finally Alvarez nodded and ran down the cavern.

That left Dustman alone with three dead bodies; Smith with a broken neck, Doyle drowned in his own blood, and the Bat. From the look of him, he was most likely drowned the old fashioned way. Maybe the Penguin chose Croc for the brutality factor. In reflection, Dustman figured he should be relieved that he didn't choose the Clown. There was no controlling him; not even the Bat could guess the Clown's next move. With that Son of a bitch, all you could do was wait and see what he did, and try to mitigate the damage. To his credit, Penguin has predicted the Croc's moves pretty damn close so far. Losing Smith and Doyle was bad; they were good soldiers for the Program, but considering the payoff, it was acceptable collateral damage to lose two soldiers for what they all gain; one dead Bat. Just to be sure, Dustman checked his pulse and breathing; nothing. Then it occurred to him; backup and medical support weren't here yet, the Bat was dead, and he was alone. What was there to stop him from removing that stupid cowl from his stupid face?

Less than an inch from his cowl, Lieutenant Dustman's hand froze as stiffly as his face did in shock bordering on horror when Batman opened his eyes. His paralysis bought the Dark Knight just enough time to muscle his way out of the muck that Croc had half-buried him in; forcing the probably corrupt detective off his own feet and sending him crab walking away a few steps. Caked in mud, Batman got to his feet, gave Dustman a quick glance, and abruptly started into the caverns. SWAT had Croc on the run, or so it would appear. Chasing him down here was nearly pointless; Croc would just lead them on a crazy path, get them turned around and lost, and then make his way towards Dent's house. The best course to take was to get to Dent first; use SWAT to buy time so he could head Croc off. He didn't like it; not one bit, but that was really the only way to end this.

Switching his glances from his office window to the monitors on the north wall, Oswald Cobblepot noted that since the Bat made his appearance in the Lounge, most of his clientele had apparently decided to call it a night. As he had this fact recorded, the Penguin was delighted; this proved that the Dark Knight's intimidation of his employees and personal harassment was having a negative impact on his perfectly legitimate, completely legal business. This was working out even better than he had planned. The World's Greatest Detective was playing right into his hands; making himself out to be the bully vigilante, causing more harm than good for the City. Killer Croc was playing his unwitting role perfectly; a savage distraction that the Bat will fail to stop. The police will succeed without his help, thus make the Bat and all his strong-arm tactics unnecessary. Commissioner Gordon will then have no choice but put a manhunt out for the Bat, just as he would for any other criminal.

His office phone rang. Penguin picked it up on the second ring. "Yes?"

"It's me," Brian Dustman said on the other end. "Your freak couldn't get job done. The Bat is still alive."

Of course he is, Cobblepot thought. He's supposed to be. Seeing no reason to tell the cop this, Penguin feigned disappointment. Since Dustman was speaking freely, Oswald surmised that the line must be secure.

"What about Croc himself?" He asked, "I trust that he is taken care of."

"Alvarez is on him now," Dustman replied.

That was not quite the news Penguin wanted to hear. Now he didn't need to feign anything. "I hope you have some kind of good news for me, Brian."

"Maybe I do," Dustman offered. "I have one of the Bat's belts. It's complete with a full set of his gadgets."

That was good news; with that, he could gain an understanding of the Bat's arsenal and come up with ways to counter it.
"Very good!" he said. "Get that to my estate. Hand it to Cecil, he will take care of it."

"Okay, but now I have to go; back-up and medical support is almost here."

"Good night, Brian."

"We just got an update from Commissioner Gordon, sir." Sergeant Toussaint announced. "SWAT has Killer Croc on the run. This is just about over, it seems. Just to be sure, though, I would request that you take cover in the Room until his capture or death is confirmed."

The Room she spoke of, Harvey Dent knew was the Panic room hidden in the closet of his den. Having had his wife already moved to a safe location in Metropolis, he had decided to stand his ground here in Gotham. It made sense enough to make use of the Panic room; just as a precaution.

"Who's on point for SWAT?" Dent asked. He remembered Dustman took off for the Narrows. Since he was almost certain that Dustman was dirty, he hoped not him.

"Alvarez, sir," Toussaint answered. "He's really very good at this; you don't need to worry."

"I'm sure," Harvey said. "Just as I am sure moving me to the Room is purely an added measure." What he didn't say was that he questioned not whether Alvarez was competent, but if he could be trusted; it was no secret that he and Dustman were pretty close-knit. He also wanted to ask about Batman, but decided not to. Instead, he allowed Toussaint to lead him to the den. On the way, Officer Price escorted them as well.

Outside, Killer Croc watched from his vantage point below; the same one he watched the Weasel's house last night. There were nowhere near as many pigs tonight; they were probably counting on the SWAT pigs to get him. They were harder to shake than he thought they would be. He figured they would have given up way sooner than they did. The upshot was that by the time he ditched them, they would be hopelessly lost. The Bat was dead, so now the Weasel was wide open. There were just a few Pigs in the way, all done up in rain slickers; Pigs in blankets. Opening the manhole cover, Killer Croc made his move.

District Attorney Harvey Dent punched the combination to the Panic Room, which unlocked the door. Just as Dent pulled the door open enough to begin to crawl inside, the power in the house went out.

"Dent!" a haggard voice called out from the darkness. Both Price and Toussaint drew their weapons and pointed them in the direction the voice appeared to originate from.

The first Pig went down easy. After taking care of him, Croc crept around to the back of the house where he saw a swimming pool, and a little pool house adjacent to it. The lights in the pool house were on, and Croc stepped back into the shadows as two more Pigs in blankets stepped off the back stoop of the main house and trotted towards the pool house; which was probably serving as some kind of staging area for them. Alternating his gaze from the main house to the pool house, Croc weighed out his options; take out the two pigs in the staging area, or go straight for the Weasel. Taking out two or more Pigs outside the main house would lessen the opposition, but it would take time, and could get noisy, giving the ones inside the main house a chance to mount a defense before he could get back across the yard. Going straight for the Weasel would mean that even if the pigs inside the main house did get a warning out, the ones in the pool house would still have to cross, and he could have what he wants by then. Then, he saw the power meter, right beside the stoop stairs. Knock out the power, he reasoned, and I have an even bigger advantage. Odds are the Weasel's got a Panic room, with an electrical lock. What if I disable that by killing the current? His mind made up, Killer Croc quietly made his way towards the stoop, ripping out the power meter on his way into the house.

The fact that the power was out didn't matter. The Closed Circuit Television monitoring the den outside the Panic Room was on an independent source for exactly this type of situation. From inside, he watched as Toussaint kept her vigil. He wasn't sure how many other police were in the house, but for all intents and purposes, it looked as if Janine Toussaint was the last line of defense for the District Attorney. In the dark, Killer Croc had a decisive advantage; that the Sergeant stood her ground despite this was commendable. Gordon chose her well when he promoted her.

Right after he took the room, Toussaint switched weapons; holstering her sidearm in favor of the 12-gauge she had already removed from her cruiser. A sidearm would be about as effective as a pea shooter against the hide of Croc; he didn't know if the shotgun would fare much better, but it might. From somewhere downstairs there was a shout, a shot, and a crash. This was followed by the sounds of several other shouts and an apparent struggle. He could see Toussaint fighting the urge to run into the fray to help her comrades; holding back only because she knew her greatest value was right where she was. Crouched on one knee, she trained the shotgun down the darkened hallway towards the stairs. From inside the Panic room, he watched and waited as she fired once, twice, three times. From down the hall there was a grunt of mixed pain and anger. The shotgun hurt Croc. This fact did not change his stance on firearms.

Taking out the Pigs in the house was too easy. Killer Croc almost regretted killing off the Bat. He could smell another Pig upstairs, and from the right angle he could see her, too; all crouched down and frightened. He got all the way up the stairs when he heard her cock a shotgun and fire. The surprise of the booming noise it made startled him enough to jump aside as the blast took out a piece of the banister right behind him. Her second shot nailed one of his shoulders, and a third shot hit his opposite hip as he reeled. That third shot actually took him off his feet. Blinking and examining his wounds, Killer Croc slowly stood back up. Much to his surprise, he was actually bleeding! Not too seriously, but those blasts hurt! Now he was angry. Now the Girl-Pig was standing, preparing to take another shot. Growling in frustration, he whipped his tail to bat the gun out of her grasp, and then lashed his tail in a return swing to swat her aside like a fly. The Girl-Pig flew backwards into the Den-type room behind her. Then it made sense to Killer Croc; she wasn't hiding. She was guarding that room. That meant Dent was in there. It had to.

"Dent!" he shouted as he strode, limping slightly for the ache in his hip towards the den. He felt he should resent the Girl-Pig for shooting him, but he didn't. If anything, he sort of respected her; nobody, not even the Bat, was able to hurt him since he busted out of the Monkey House. That said something about her. She would be very tasty indeed. First, he had to settle up with the Weasel. Entering the room, Killer Croc first regarded the Girl-Pig. She was out, but still breathing. That was good. They almost always taste better living.

"Dent!" he shouted again. "I know you're in here somewhere! I'll find your little hiding-hole, and when I do, you're done!"

Thinking it might be a trap door under the desk, he overturned the desk, sending the contents on top flying in a mad scramble to all corners of the room. One item in particular, a paperweight of the scales of justice, flew high and clinked against something mounted in the wall just above the closet. Croc looked up and saw it; the tell-tale glints of a camera lens, and the little green light indicating that everything in the room was being recorded. Killer Croc grinned. It could be a security cam; or it could be always recording. Or, it could be a camera monitoring from the Weasels' hiding-hole. It wasn't a sure bet that the hiding hole would be behind the camera in the closet, but it couldn't hurt to look.

Ripping the closet door off its hinges strained his shoulder a little; Croc reckoned that the blast from the shotgun hurt him better than he first thought. Dropping the door to one side, he next thrashed the Weasels' coats aside to discover he was suddenly staring at himself; wounded, enraged, hungry, full of hate. The sight stunned him until he realized it was just a mirror. The Weasel was a vain little thing, wasn't he? So proud of his boyish good looks, was he?

"When I find you, Dent, the first thing I'll eat is that pretty face of yours," he muttered as he scanned the closet. "I'll make you watch as I munch away on your ears and your nose."

From inside the Panic Room, he switched the monitor to view from the camera behind the closet mirror; located just above the concealed entrance into the room. From this angle, he was staring directly into Killer Croc's reptilian eyes. He watched as this monstrosity smiled – how he managed that effect through the maw of teeth was a wonder that might never be fully solved – and took two steps back from the mirror to swing at it with his tail. The shatter resistant glass exploded into tiny cubes and flew out in all directions away from the wall behind it and Croc immediately began to advance back into the closet to investigate what was behind the mirror.

The entrance was small; a little less than half the size of a normal entrance. It was well concealed, even without the glass in front of it. Now that he saw it, Killer Croc would have to keep his eyes on it, or he would risk losing sight of it and he might never find it again.

"I've got you now, Weasel!" Croc taunted, not looking up at the camera as he hunkered down in front of the entrance. He could tell that it wouldn't do any good to try to pull the tiny door loose; not yet, anyway. It was too securely bolted. The wall in which it was placed would be reinforced for security, so bashing up against it would only result in knocking himself out; literally. He thought about the ceiling and the floor, but odds were that the floor was a block of concrete and the ceiling in some way water tight.

Then an idea came to him; he might not have to force his way in. He might not need to get to the Weasel. Maybe he could draw the Weasel out. Keeping his eyes fixed on the entrance; he stepped back into the den, and sat cross-legged on the floor.

"Ratsbauer is dead." Croc stated, as if to remind everyone. "The Bat is dead, too, Dent. I already showed you that the Pigs can't help you, and you know you can't stay in there forever. Open the door, Dent, and we can end this. You say you care about this City? Prove it. End this, Dent. I swear to you, you are the last one I got a grudge against. Come on out, and this all ends. Once I'm done with you, I'll leave this crappy town for good."

No response from beyond the entrance.

"I'm not playing with you Dent," Croc said. "I'm not bluffing. The longer you stay in there, the more people are going to die. I will slaughter every single Pig, every single Weasel, and every single Rat and Monkey in this city, and it will all be on you. I'll save your wife and your kids for last, Dent. I'll bring them back here and eat them right in front of you, and that will be your own fault. You are the only one who can stop me now, Dent. Stop me. End this."

He heard a faint beep, followed by a click. Killer Croc smiled grimly as he stood up, eyes still focused on the entrance. Once the Weasel came out, he would keep his promise. He would leave the city, all his scores here settled. He knew a place in the swamps that would suit him just as well; better actually. The air would be clean, the food would be less contaminated with City crap, and he would be away from all the stupidity that comes with city life. No more getting screwed over by people, no more getting used and manipulated and then thrown away by jerks like Rat-Burger.

"Come on out, Dent," Croc urged as gently as he could, "And I'll make it quick."

The little door began to open; slowly at first, then it flew open on its sliders as a piece of the wall seemed to vanish. This was followed by a whispering noise right before something poked him in the hip where the Girl-Pig shot him. Before he could look down to see what it was, he howled in pain as lightning filled his entire body.

Killer Croc howled in what sounded like a combination of shock, anger and pain when he was hit with the tazer the Batman fired at him from inside the darkened Panic room. The moment Croc reeled away from the source of the pain, Batman sprang into action; his hope was that he could maintain an element of surprise to keep his adversary off balance. He leaped forward into a diving roll out the narrow door and followed up his initial strike with a hard uppercut just as Croc was beginning to recover from the tazer. Not wasting any time, the Dark Knight then quickly spun, still crouched, to leg-sweep the still reeling Croc. He would have to end this tussle quickly, as he was still feeling the effects of the concussion from the night before. Croc lost his footing and crashed to the floor on his back with a thud, but managed to toss Batman aside when he attempted to administer a tranquilizer manually. Batman landed on his feet and hit Croc with a spinning heel kick as he got to his. Croc responded by spinning round to absorb the blow and return with a fist to the gut, followed by another across the jaw. The Dark Knight ducked a third blow, which was a swipe with Croc's tail, and responded with a low blow. This was no time to fuss over 'clean' or 'dirty' tactics. Breathless, Killer Croc doubled over. Seizing the opportunity, Batman boxed Croc's ears and raked his eyes. Now shrieking in frustration, Croc swung wildly with his tail, connecting with Batman's side. The dark Knight felt his heart stop for a split second as he coughed and spat. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth as Croc's tail wrapped itself around him. The sound of police sirens wailing in the distance, getting closer could be heard as Croc made a noise resembling laughter while drawing the Batman closer to him; his massive jaws opening to bite his head clean off.

Despite what most people thought, Killer Croc was not stupid. As soon as he realized it was the Bat, not the Weasel behind the door, he figured out his mistake; yes he checked the Bat's pulse back in Sunken City, but he didn't account that the Bat has all that kung-fu ninja training, not to mention probably some kind of Zen trickery. The Bat must have slowed his heartbeat down or something like that, figuring that he wouldn't have a lot of time to really make sure. It didn't matter now. Now he was just going to chomp his stinking throat out. It was a pity he wouldn't be able to make more of a meal out of the Bat, but the Pigs were getting close. As for the Weasel, he'd have to wait for another time. Maybe he would vanish for awhile, let everyone forget he's even out there, and then right when nobody's expecting it, snap! Chomp! Dent will become dinner!
Then he heard that whisper noise, and a crackle, and his body got filled with lightning once again.

Croc abruptly dropped him and started shaking violently, as if suffering an electric shock. He growled and jabbered, spittle flying from his mouth before he finally fell to the floor, still jitterbugging. Behind him, Sgt. Janine Toussaint stood, propped up against the wall behind her for support, tazer in hand. Not wanting to waste the moment, Batman produced another tranquilizer from his belt and jammed it into Croc's neck, in a matter of seconds, Croc was out. The Dark Knight looked up to see Toussaint had dropped the tazer and picked up her shotgun, and had it trained on Croc while he used cables to restrain him. By now, the police sirens had stopped, and their lights could be seen flashing from outside.

"You look terrible." Batman grumbled.

Toussaint laughed weakly. "You should talk," she retorted. "The boys are here, Batman, I got him. Go on; get out of here, wherever it is you go. Get whatever medical aid you need. You look like you're just about out on your feet."

The Dark Knight allowed a faint, Mona-Lisa smile to touch his lips as he nodded at her and made his way out the nearest window and onto the roof of the house. He watched on as the cops ensured the house was clear, that Croc was fully restrained and on his way back to Arkham, and that Harvey Dent, who was now exiting the pool house accompanied by Price was safe. It was still raining, though it had died down significantly. The cool air and the rain was actually helpful; it cleared his head a little as he entered a rendezvous program to the car on his remote. Satisfied that Gordon's men had the situation under control, Batman departed the scene.

Alfred Pennyworth let out a sigh of resignation as the Car pulled into the Cave, clearly on autopilot. That could only mean that once again Master Bruce was in no condition to drive, which of course meant he was in one way or another incapacitated again. The hatch to the Car opened, and of course Alfred was right; this time the Batman was not even able to get out under his own power. Alfred made his way to the car to find Master Bruce battered, bruised, and unconscious. He was also bleeding from the mouth, which indicated he likely suffered internal injuries as well. It would be awhile before Gotham City saw the Dark Knight again.

The Penguin hung up his phone, only mildly disappointed that Killer Croc managed to escape SWAT, and make it all the way to Dent's house. According to the brief statement made by Sgt. Toussaint on the breaking news, the Bat did indeed play a role in stopping that reptilian abomination; which was the primary source of his disappointment. If there was any saving grace in this one wrinkle in his plan, it was that it sounded to Oswald Cobblepot like it was Toussaint who deserved the real credit here. Surely the Bat would have been killed if not for her courage and persistence to see the citizens of Gotham City kept safe. Too bad that according to Dustman she can't be bought; but then an unwitting pawn to play hero tonight is ultimately cheaper.

His phone call was to Harold, Brian's lawyer of a brother. Cobblepot had him begin making the arrangements to create a class action suit to compel Commissioner Gordon to place a full warrant out for the arrest of Batman. With the plethora of evidence he had against the Bat, Oswald could see no way either Gordon or Dent could deny that that their Dark Knight was a menace, and in many ways an even greater threat the criminals he brings down. He had no doubt that the likes of Black Mask and the Falcones would gladly join this campaign, which would give him, the Gentleman of Crime, a distinct foothold in consolidating the entire criminal syndicate under his direction. Lighting a cigarette, Oswald Cobblepot put his feet up on his desk and began to cackle as he blew smoke rings. Even Chester began to mimic his laughter.