"Oh, look who it is—Barbara. That was fast," Catwoman said, her sharp eyes spotting the newcomer first.
Sure enough, a streak of black and yellow—cape fluttering, boots pounding—was tearing toward them like a gust of wind. Batgirl had arrived.
"Robin! Are you all right?" Barbara ignored the two women casually watching from the sidelines and rushed toward Robin, who stood by the lakeshore, hands on his hips, catching his breath. She immediately assumed the worst.
In truth, he wasn't hurt—just winded. After yelling across the lake for five straight minutes, his chest had cramped up. He wasn't built like Killer Croc, who, at seven feet tall and five hundred pounds, sounded like thunder every time he spoke. Robin was lean—by superhero standards, practically lightweight. Acting as a human loudspeaker had nearly done him in.
When Barbara saw him silent and panting, she assumed serious injury. Her gaze swept accusingly toward the two women standing perfectly upright nearby. "You two are unbelievable!" she snapped, tossing her motorcycle aside and sprinting toward him.
Thea blinked. Wait, how is this our fault? This girl really had the Gotham disease—judging the whole world by her own logic. If it didn't fit her view, it had to be wrong.
She exchanged an amused glance with Catwoman; both wore identical "this should be fun" expressions.
"Ah—ugh!" Barbara skidded to a stop. Her concern evaporated the moment she got within two meters. Robin's suit—formerly sleek black and red—was now blotched white and green, streaked with sticky muck and reeking like a chemical swamp. The odor hit her like a wall.
A lifetime of middle-class comfort had not prepared her for this. She threw up a hand. "Stop. Don't come any closer!"
Robin didn't need telling twice. He wasn't an idiot. After shouting at Killer Croc for ten minutes, he was well aware that he looked—and smelled—like roadkill. If he tried to hug his girlfriend right now, the consequences would be tragic. Either Barbara would lose her mind and turn villain, or she'd beat him into charcoal. There'd be no "breakup"—just homicide.
Seeing that he wasn't moving closer, Barbara relaxed slightly. Then she took a better look at his condition—and gagged. The more she looked, the worse it got. When she finally retreated far enough to breathe freely again, she realized she'd backed up all the way to Thea and Catwoman.
"You knew already, didn't you? Enjoying yourselves?" she snapped. "Go ahead, laugh!"
"Gladly," Thea said, and actually burst out laughing—cheerful, unrestrained, pure Star City energy. You said I could, so I did. The scene really was comedy gold. If only they'd recited some lines from Romeo and Juliet, it would've been perfect.
Catwoman managed to keep a straight face—barely. She still had to work with these people. Forcing her lips into a neutral line, she changed the subject. "So… what now?"
Good question.
Now that all five of them were together, the "team" finally looked complete. Overhead, Thea spotted one of Felicity's drones circling like an electronic seagull—clearly broadcasting everything to headquarters. Felicity herself, back at the console, had settled comfortably into her mascot role, cheering them on from afar.
But the lineup was terrible. Four agility-type heroes, all glass cannons, facing a tank-class monster with natural armor and super strength. To make things worse, two of them didn't even have their gear. This wasn't a boss fight—it was suicide. Retreat sounded lovely right about now.
Barbara, oblivious to the tactical imbalance, asked politely, "Miss Quinn, do you have any suggestions?"
"Nope," Thea said bluntly. She'd only been in Gotham a few days. She didn't even know all the villains by name—Catwoman had to fill her in half the time. Speaking of which…
She turned to Selina. "You guys caught this thing before, right? How'd you do it last time?"
Maybe back then he hadn't had this stench aura. Or maybe it was a new ability he'd developed, some evolutionary defense mechanism. If that was the case, then Killer Croc might be dumber than average—but he was adaptive. That was bad news.
Barbara froze. She wasn't even in the field when that happened. "Uh, I… wasn't around then," she admitted quickly, pulling her classic I may look mature, but I'm actually just a kid face. "Ask the older generation."
The "older generation" glanced sideways, unimpressed. Catwoman frowned, trying to recall, but came up blank. "I don't remember catching him myself. Maybe I was… busy at the time." (Stealing from the rich to feed the poor, she didn't add.) "Anyway, I'd remember someone that ugly."
Thea sighed. Perfect. A whole team of veterans and nobody remembers the walkthrough. She turned to Barbara again. "Call Robin over. Maybe he knows something."
In theory, they could just shout across the distance, but Thea preferred caution. If they yelled, Croc would hear too, and announcing your boss-fight strategy within earshot of the boss was… awkward. Better to whisper.
Barbara waved him over.
Robin trudged back reluctantly, stopping a few meters away. Before he could take another step, all three women simultaneously raised a hand—stop right there.
He froze. "What's going on?"
Barbara repeated the question for him. "Do you remember how we caught him last time?"
"How would I know?!" Robin said, exasperated. If I did, would I look like this right now? He glanced down at his ruined suit. "You think I did this for fun? You think I wanted to smell like a sewer?!"
The group fell silent, collectively realizing that no one—no one—knew the answer. Maybe only Batman himself did. He'd probably taken Croc down quietly, written the whole thing in his little black "contingency" notebook, and never told anyone.
Brilliant, Thea thought. Batman keeps files on everyone—enemies, allies, even how to defeat Superman—and you guys can't even remember how you beat a reptile last time. What a bunch of freeloaders clinging to the boss's cape.
Finally, the three members of the Bat-family turned toward her in unison—their eyes practically saying, Star City girl, got any bright ideas?
Of course she did.
She'd already been thinking it through: for a walking slime hazard like this, freezing was the best bet. Stay far away, shoot an ice arrow, turn him into a popsicle, and problem solved. One arrow should do it. Two if needed.
The catch? She only had five of them.
They weren't cheap, either—custom-built, liquid-nitrogen-core, high-density shafts. She'd meant to save them for Bane, that giant musclehead with the neck of a bull and fists the size of dinner plates. His only real weakness was speed, and an ice arrow could fix that nicely.
Still, priorities were priorities. Deal with the present monster first. Future problems could wait.
"I have a plan," Thea said at last. "But I need my gear. You three hold him off—I'll be back soon."
And before anyone could protest, she swung a leg over Barbara's discarded motorcycle, gunned the throttle, and sped off down the road—engine roaring into the Gotham night.