Note: Once again, sorry for the long wait, ladies and gentlemen, college has kept me busy these past few weeks and it's been tough trying to keep a chapter or two ahead of what I'm posting, but hopefully I can get some more work done and get you guys another chapter by Halloween. Read, Review, and Enjoy.

Gotham City, Charlie's Coffee Corner, 0645

Killer Croc slipped into the coffee shop without any stares for once, the coat and hat concealing his identity quite well. However, the only occupants were someone at the counter and a certain figure in a corner booth gesturing for him to come over.

Walking over he noted that Barbara Gordon was wearing a somewhat dry black trench coat, though she decided not to wear a hat judging from her now drenched hair.

Pushing one of two cups of coffee across the table to him, he accepted it, though he was still confused.

"Why are ya doing all this?" he asked, finally letting the question on his chest get released. "Seriously, I'm not used to the Commissioner of the GCPD, much less his daughter actually bein' nice to someone known for committing crimes worthy of the Batman comin' in to stop me."

Taking a sip of her own coffee, she told him "Well, first you haven't committed any sort of felony in the past two and a half months, which in itself is a miracle worthy of our attention. For the past two years you've committed some sort of crime, be it out on the street's or in a cell, at least twice a week, if not more, so ten weeks without seeing you on the Gotham Gazette was definitely worth the polite attitude towards you."

Pausing, she added, "Second, dad told me that you apparently aren't as cold-hearted as people make you out to believe."

Raising an eyebrow, Croc had a bad feeling he knew where this was going. Leaning forward, he asked "And where did he obtain that conclusion, mademoiselle?"

Leaning back, she took another sip of coffee and replied "He had a chat with Batman while they were dealing with a case. Apparently it had something to do with Poison Ivy on the loose and Penguin coming up for parole soon due to good behavior. Somehow or another your name got brought up,"

Giving a small smile, she then answered his question "And from what he was told, you decided to help Batgirl in a street fight."

Feeling a mixture of surprise, irritation, and relief, Croc responded with a huff. "They've got no evidence to back it up. If I ended up smashin' a few heads together and Batgirl had been dealing with 'em already, I either didn't know or it must've been the two of us dealing with the same people at different times."

"True," she answered, looking down at her coffee mug. "It's just not often you hear of an enemy of the Bat Family helping them out, directly or indirectly."

Nodding slightly, he smirked before sipping his coffee. "Well, considerin' most of their enemies try to kill them, I'm not surprised."

"I suppose." Barbara sighed, her mind wandering elsewhere for a moment before snapping her attention back to the present. "Anyway, I didn't come here to talk about the present."

His gaze starting to shift over her shoulder and at the wall, Croc asked quietly "So you really want to know, don't you?"

Silently she nodded her head in the affirmative.

The large reptilian man leaned back against the seat, using his tail to stabilize himself as the front two legs came a few inches off the ground.

Releasing a large sigh, he first said "I hope you realize I'm not exactly the kind of man that lets out my innermost secrets to people."

But before she could respond, he added, "So pardon me miss if I end up looking like I'm unused to this, 'cause I am."

Taking a large gulp of coffee, he began his story.

"As I said, I used to be a United States Marine. Enlisted the day I graduated high school, got thrown into basic training not even a week later.

I started off as just another recruit, thrown into the masses like a crab in the crab pot, just another bald devil pup working his way to earning the title of Marine. Found out my days hunting in the bayou's proved fruitful, and made expert on an M…"

He paused, realizing he was in a different time, an older time, where he doubted they had M-16's. Then again, he didn't really know, but he decided to play it on the safe side.

"…On an M1 Garand the first time around. Drill Sergeant loved that, and made me a fire team leader in boot after I proved my proficiency in rifle drill, even decided to call me Swamp Kid the rest of the training because of my upbringing.

Left basic training as a brand-spanking new Private and got pushed into infantry training, where I was pretty much taught everything a man needed to know to kill an enemy soldier, whether it be by rifle, pistol, grenade, or by KA-BAR.

Then I got sent to the Middle East on embassy duty, working with twenty other Marines to cover an ambassador from getting nailed by some extremists in the country. It was fairly quiet, and the worst we had to deal with was level a rifle at some guy trying to rob a secretary of her purse.

Made some friends there, including a Private First Class named Miguel Rodriguez. Best friend I ever knew in the Corps. Battle-buddy's, drinking buddies, rifle cleaning buddies, you named it, we were most likely partners on it. Hell, we were the only guys in the platoon to clean our rifles like it was a daily ritual, twice a day, every day, for all ten months in that embassy. Ah, those were the days…"

By then, Croc's voice started to lower, but he was still loud enough to be clearly heard across the table.

"Didn't see him during my year on leave back in the states, when I got promoted to Private First Class, but as luck would have it, I got redeployed to some barren rock in the middle of nowhere called Afghanistan. If you thought North Africa during the Second World War was bad, now try dealing with a place like that but where the entire population is holding armed extremists whose only job is to kill as many of us as they could before dying. It was…unsettling, how they were willing to throw themselves to their deaths by charging us, their mind only focused on killing us before they themselves were killed.

Anyways, I met him right after I got promoted to Lance Corporal for being smart enough to chuck a grenade into a room instead of charging in guns a blazing. Apparently took out a squad full of enemies, including two guys with bazooka's, so I was lucky rather than skillful.

Rodriguez was my fireteam leader, and a damn good one at that. He cared for all four of us under him, treating us like he was our brother, father, and friend all wrapped in one. After spending a few weeks with him, we were inseparable. Took out quite a few of the bad guys between us, piling up bodies high enough they actually put out a reward for putting a bullet in our heads. Complete with the whole Wild West style 'Wanted' posters stuck to walls and all that jazz.

Then came a time when we were told to clear a building halfway through the tour. It looked like most of the others; four floors, mostly barren rooms, nothing we hadn't handled before. But we didn't know it was a hideout for the bad guys. Second we walked through the front door we put down three guys and had Grigg's take a bullet to the shoulder. He got out of there all right and was calling for back-up while the rest of us went in.

Found nothing on the first floor, so up we went. Got to the second floor and we found two guys firing back at us with automatic weapons, so Paulson chucked a frag down the hall and killed one and wounded the other. He took two rounds to the gut and got dragged out of there by Harrison before I put a bullet in the bastard's head. That just left Rodriguez and me to cover the rest of the building.

We swept the rooms on the second floor, worst we found was a cache of grenades and ammunition that we tagged for removal, "liberated" some grenades while we were at it too.

We were starting up the stairs to the third floor before someone dropped a grenade on us. We dove into the hallway and other than some scratches from a piece of shrapnel or two we were alright. Our adrenaline was pumping by then, and so we didn't feel the pain right then and there.

Coming up the stairs, Rodriguez put a round through one guy's head while I kept my aim on the doorway above.

That's when he hit the tripwire. A grenade exploded not even three feet next to him, and he went down. A couple guys came out of rooms and started shooting, but I was rushing up and returning fire while Rodriguez was drawing his pistol and firing from the ground.

After we took out about five or six guys, I looked down and realized that my friend had lost his legs from the ankles down. He hadn't even noticed until he tried to get up and realized he had stumps for feet."

Croc paused, taking a deep breath before continuing.

"That's when he started laughing. I couldn't believe he was laughing at losing his legs. It made my brain go dead for a second before the anger kicked in. I was pissed off, knowing he had just lost his ability to walk, and that it would be for the rest of his life, all because some Middle Eastern bastard rigged an explosive right next to the door.

I slapped in a fresh clip, put my bayonet on the end and charged down the hall, clearing rooms with a glance and putting some rounds downrange into each before I reached the last set of stairs, not really bothering to check them. I shoved in another clip before I went up the stairs at a sprint, primed a grenade and chucked it through the door when I was halfway up.

It went off right before I got to the top, so when I charged through I was running through smoke…and then I couldn't remember much….just blood flying, brass falling, bodies on the ground...I must've been so enraged that I blocked the memory from my mind….

Next thing I know I'm standing amongst ten if not more bodies, and I run down the stairs to get back and help Rodriguez.

But when I get down there, I see more bodies in the hall, about four or five more, and one man standing over Rodriguez, pistol in his hand, and I stood there as I watched him pull the trigger.

The bastard went down not even a second later, courtesy of me putting three rounds through his chest. But Rodriguez…he was staring up at me, his eyes forever open, a bullet…through his head…"

He set the coffee mug down, his hand starting to shake.

"I…I could've stopped him…I could've shot the guy first…I should've known to be more thorough in clearing the rooms…. I could've… I could've saved him…and it's all…all my fault…"

That's when he cast his gaze down into the coffee mug, and a tear fell, mixing into the last dregs of coffee as Waylon Jones fell silent, unable to speak any more.