""Take me with you."
Before Thea could even respond, Catwoman had already leapt onto the back seat of the motorcycle. She wasn't about to sit this one out—not when she herself had come unequipped. The single dagger she carried might be fine for intimidating thugs, but against that prehistoric crocodile-man, it was about as useful as a toothpick.
"We'll be back soon! Hold him off for now!" Thea shouted, twisting the throttle. The bike roared and shot forward like a bolt of lightning, disappearing down the cracked road.
Hold him off? Barbara and Robin exchanged a look. She gestured toward the lake. "Keep shouting at him. Don't stop."
Robin stared at her. Really? Maybe they could switch shifts? He'd already been yelling for almost ten minutes. Sure, it was technically "mutual verbal aggression," but the other guy had water to sip between insults. Robin's throat felt like sandpaper.
But one look at Barbara's unyielding eyes and his resolve crumbled. Fine. When your girlfriend gives you an order, you obey. Be a man about it.
He loosened his collar. The suit was tight and not exactly designed for extended "shouting duels." Every breath pulled sweat down his neck, but he clenched his jaw and started again—loud, proud, and utterly foul-mouthed.
Barbara crossed her arms, watching with smug satisfaction. He might not have much experience with women, but at least he knew how to listen. Maybe I'm better at this relationship thing than I thought, she mused, quite pleased with herself.
That satisfaction lasted all of two minutes. Then her expression shifted from smugness to confusion, then suspicion.
The words coming out of Robin's mouth… were vicious. Not just rough or rude—viciously creative. Every phrase was unique, every insult more imaginative than the last.
Where the hell did he learn this stuff? she wondered, her eyes narrowing dangerously. Her quiet, well-mannered boyfriend, who used to say things like "Batman's right" or "Barbara's right," had suddenly turned into a linguistic chainsaw.
There was only one possible explanation.
Her glare sharpened. He's been seeing someone.
Barbara stormed forward, grabbed him by the collar—ignoring the stench—and hissed, "Who taught you those words? Who is she?!"
If he so much as muttered a name, she'd track the woman down today. Gotham could burn for all she cared; if she wasn't happy, no one was.
Robin blinked, completely lost. "Who taught me? Uh… Miss Smoak."
He pointed to his earpiece.
"Felicity?" Barbara yanked out her own communicator. She'd been given one earlier but hadn't bothered to wear it—too annoyed by the Star City duo's smug competence. Now, she jammed it into her ear.
The line clicked.
"Welcome, Barbara, to our chatroom!" Felicity's voice rang bright and cheery. "Can't talk now—we're busy. Robin, keep going!"
From the earpiece came the sound of clattering keys, a burst of muffled laughter, and then—"All right, next batch loaded. Fire away!"
Barbara froze. Next batch?
Robin obediently shouted the next line. And the next. And the next.
The words hit harder than before—colorful, vicious, perfectly timed. Barbara stood there, half in awe, half horrified. This wasn't just swearing. This was art.
"I'll be right back, need to grab a new set!" Felicity said between keystrokes. In the background, someone yelled, "Hey, baldy—pass me that water bottle!"
Barbara blinked. "New set? What are you even talking about?"
Felicity cheerfully explained, "Classic Combat Trash Talk: 100 Phrases, 2007 Edition. Ever read it? Total collector's item. Never thought I'd get to use it though! Anyway—Robin, continue!"
Barbara could only stare. Star City people are insane.
At first she'd tried memorizing some of the lines—thinking a few might come in handy someday—but within minutes she realized every single one was a masterpiece. She finally sighed, flipped on her suit's recorder, and decided to capture the whole thing for "future training purposes."
Out on the lake, Killer Croc wasn't laughing anymore.
When Robin had started yelling, Croc hadn't cared. He just wanted them to leave so he could climb ashore later and escape. The lake was terrible—shallow, muddy, and poorly built, a construction scandal waiting to happen. He'd tried swimming the perimeter, but there was no outlet, just sludge. So he'd settled for waiting.
Fine, he thought. You stay up there, I'll stay down here. I've got food, I've got water. Let's see who tires first.
He'd even snatched a small fish swimming by, crunched it in three bites, and looked smugly toward the shore.
When Thea and Catwoman left, he'd been thrilled. Finally, they're retreating.
Then Robin started up again.
Idiots, Croc thought, smirking. You think this childish taunting will lure me out? My body may have mutated, but my mind is sharp. I am— he hesitated, trying to recall a phrase—I am… a detective! No, wait. I am… unique! Yes, that's it! A unique flame in the darkness!
He grabbed another fish, crunching happily. Let them yell.
But soon, his grin faded.
Because Robin's words—those endless, brutal, shockingly creative words—were hitting harder and harder.
At first, it was just crude. Then it got personal. Somehow this kid knew the names of every relative he'd ever had. His parents, grandparents, great-grandparents—every generation was getting dragged through the mud.
By the time Robin was recounting what his great-great-grandfather had supposedly done with a swamp eel, even Killer Croc was trembling—not with fear, but with pure, murderous rage.
This… was war.