Robin, ever the gentlemanly protégé of Batman—with all the obsessive discipline and moral code that entailed—immediately noticed the two women's arrival.
"Stay back! I can handle him myself!" he shouted, voice loud and resolute.
That was all Thea needed to hear. She had no intention of helping anyway. Killer Croc—whatever swamp he'd crawled out of—was dripping with some vile, glistening slime. Just looking at him made her skin crawl.
Catwoman, who'd grown up in Gotham's slums, was used to grime. But then the wind shifted, carrying a wave of rot from the brawl right toward her. She gagged, turned pale, and immediately darted sideways to get out of the stink cloud.
Good lord, she thought, this is too much—even for me.
Both women exchanged a look—wordless understanding passing between them. Neither made a move to join the fight. They each silently congratulated themselves: We're not avoiding the fight out of fear or disgust. We're just… respecting Robin's dignity as a man. Yes. That's it.
It was déjà vu all over again—just like the day they'd watched Batman duel Lady Shiva. The two stood side by side, arms folded, occasionally offering running commentary like a pair of sports analysts.
Robin, of course, had no idea what they were thinking. His "I've got this!" was meant to sound confident—but what he really meant was Please, for the love of God, help me!
He didn't have sinus issues; he could smell every foul note of Croc's stench, and after ten minutes of combat, his nose was half-numb. He'd assumed that his shout would spur the two heroines to charge in bravely. Instead, they'd taken up front-row seats to watch.
What the hell? he thought. Catwoman's supposed to be warmhearted—she'd never let a teammate fight alone. So the problem's that girl from Star City? Are all Star City people this… literal? They really mean it when they say no?
He'd always thought Gothamites were two-faced—one thing to your face, another behind your back. But today, faced with Star City's painfully sincere brand of honesty, Robin suddenly found himself missing Gotham's cunning ways.
Yeah, he decided bitterly, golden lair, silver lair—nothing beats your own sewer.
Unaware that she'd just been branded "too genuine," Thea was meanwhile analyzing the situation, trying to figure out how one was supposed to fight a walking disease hazard. She came up blank.
There's no winning this elegantly, she realized. He's basically a natural enemy of all female heroes. Even Supergirl or Wonder Woman wouldn't want to get within ten feet of that mess. With all that slime flying around, one swing of Croc's claws could ruin an entire wardrobe. Would Wonder Woman dare throw her lasso at him? Swing her sword? Only if she was ready to toss it out afterward.
No—distance weapons were the way to go. Freeze him into an ice cube, bury him underground, done. Eco-friendly, safe, and he'd even double as fertilizer afterward.
She was in the middle of this mental tangent when the fight reached its climax. Robin executed a clean Sambo joint lock, snapping Croc's left arm—well, claw—with a loud crack. Then he holstered his staff, grabbed the monster by the shoulder, and tried to throw him over his hip.
It almost worked. Almost. Robin hadn't accounted for Croc's massive weight—half a ton of reptilian deadweight—and the throw barely budged him. Still, the impact spooked the beast. Maybe it was fear, maybe instinct, but Killer Croc suddenly turned tail and dove into the lake with a huge splash.
A moment later, his scaled head broke the surface, and he let out a guttural, animalistic roar that was only vaguely human.
The women exchanged another look. The fight was technically over, but approaching Robin wasn't exactly appealing either. He now reeked almost as badly as Croc. The final throw had splattered him with gods-know-what—his once sleek black-and-red suit now splotched white and green with sticky residue. He looked like a half-eaten popsicle.
Thea gestured politely toward Catwoman. He's your teammate. You talk to him.
Meanwhile, she couldn't help smirking inwardly. Poor guy. Barbara's not letting you inside the apartment like that. You'll be showering eight times minimum.
Catwoman sighed. She couldn't even blame Thea. This was her teammate, after all, and she couldn't very well hide behind the newcomer. Pinching her nose discreetly, she stepped forward.
Robin stood there, chest heaving, completely oblivious to his current state. Outwardly calm, inwardly embarrassed, he was every bit his mentor's student—brave, stoic, and absolutely clueless when it came to women.
"Are you hurt?" Catwoman asked, forcing herself to breathe through her mouth and think about grilled fish instead. (Fish. Delicious. Fresh. Not reptile.)
"No, no—I'm fine," Robin replied, still pumped with adrenaline. He didn't realize he was dripping slime; all he knew was that the stench was stuck in his nose. Maybe it had burned his nasal lining. I should get that checked, he thought. Superheroes don't get health insurance.
Killer Croc, meanwhile, hadn't gone far. He resurfaced, glaring at them from the middle of the lake. His voice—if it could be called that—came out in raspy, almost unintelligible growls, but the meaning was clear enough: Come and get me.
Robin bristled. He wasn't about to be taunted by a glorified lizard. But Gotham's heroes were famously bad at aquatic combat. Truth be told, aside from Aquaman, no one in the hero community liked fighting underwater.
"Come up here if you dare!" Robin shouted. "I'll beat you with one hand!"
Croc snarled back, "Come down here if you dare! I'll let you keep your legs!"
Thus began the grand debate of the day:
"You come up!"
"No, you come down!"
"Come up if you're a man!"
"Come down if you're not a coward!"
The verbal duel dragged on for five whole minutes. Neither side budged. Croc, perfectly comfortable in his element, floated smugly in the water, thinking, Go ahead, yell all you want. I'm not leaving this lake. Let's see who gets bored first.
Just as the standoff threatened to become permanent, a sharp vroom-vroom cut through the air.
From the distance, the sound of a motorcycle roared closer—fast, loud, and closing in hard.