Killer Croc's twisted face contorted as he lunged out of the water, heading straight for Robin.
He didn't even glance at Barbara, who at that moment was "unbuckling her belt"—which, of course, actually meant drawing her whip.
That reaction wasn't hard to understand.
When a single, frustrated male sees a couple showing off in front of him, his first instinct is always to attack the male.
He doesn't think, Wow, they look so mismatched, I'll take out the woman and live happily ever after with the man!
No, nature doesn't work that way. Statistically speaking, single males dominate the "lonely hearts" population—though admittedly, there's always a rare handful that bend that rule… rare, precious anomalies that deserve only love and tolerance. After all, love comes in all forms.
It's like watching a creep on the street smack a beautiful woman, drag her boyfriend by the hand, and sprint away into the night.
You don't call the cops. You simply whisper, May they be happy.
Robin saw Croc charging right at him and felt… relieved.
Not because he was secretly into giant reptiles, but because at least the monster wasn't going after Barbara.
Win or lose, he didn't want that foul stench anywhere near his girlfriend. Sure, Croc had taken a dip in the lake—but that didn't help. The smell still hit like acid.
Fine, Robin thought grimly. Come at me. Just me. Leave her out of this.
His throat was raw from shouting, but after all that effort to lure the beast ashore, he wasn't letting him slip back into the water.
Signaling to Barbara to block Croc's retreat, he stepped back a few paces to draw him further inland.
"Felicity, are they here yet?" Barbara asked anxiously. Robin was tiring fast; his earlier stamina was gone. Between the long hours of combat and the half-hour "screaming match" under the sun, his energy reserves were running on fumes. Croc, on the other hand, had rested, hydrated, and eaten—two fish, no less.
Now, the gap was widening. Robin dodged and countered where he could, but his attacks lacked power.
"We're here," Thea's calm voice replied in the comms. "But if we rush in now, we might scare him off. We'll strike when it counts."
Truth was, Thea and Catwoman had been watching for some time.
The "couple's duet battle" had been far too entertaining to interrupt.
But Thea's bow was drawn, her hoverboard hovering low, and an icy arrow nocked.
One clean shot—that was all she needed. Let this primitive brute learn what modern refrigeration technology could really do.
Catwoman, on the other hand, wasn't worried at all. She'd always been the kind to enjoy a good show. Once a thief, always a thrill-seeker—reformed or not.
To her, Croc's fate was already sealed. So she crouched in the tall grass, amused, tail—well, metaphorical tail—flicking in satisfaction.
Barbara, however, couldn't stay idle. Seeing her boyfriend being pushed back, she snapped her whip and joined the fray.
Thea watched closely. She'd wanted to assess Barbara's combat skills anyway, and now she had the perfect chance.
The result? Not bad—but underwhelming.
Barbara clearly loved her whip. She'd trained hard with it, using nimble footwork and mid-range strikes to stay fluid and precise. Against common thugs, it'd look downright cinematic—efficient and graceful.
But against a powerhouse like Croc, her technique was riddled with openings.
If this was her peak, Thea estimated she could beat Barbara barehanded—and with ease.
Among this so-called "Bat Family," only Catwoman truly stood out.
Years of fighting in Gotham's streets, dancing on the edge of law and chaos, had honed her instincts beyond any formal training. Her strength came from survival, not discipline—and that made her dangerous.
Robin came second. Batman had taught him everything he knew—but the boy's slim frame limited his use of brute-force techniques. To compensate, he'd tried developing a lighter, faster style. The result was a hybrid—part martial artist, part acrobat, neither fish nor fowl.
Barbara, sadly, ranked last.
A loyal sidekick, sure. A leader? Not even close. Unless she reinvented herself, this was her ceiling.
While Thea pondered their future prospects, Felicity's cheerful voice suddenly chimed in again:
"Hey! Don't just fight—keep talking! If he runs, we'll lose him again. I'm starting the next batch—ready?"
The couple exchanged glances. Their eyes said the same thing. Fine. Let's do it.
At this point, their brains were in auto-mode. Felicity read the insults; they repeated them like well-trained parrots. Fighting and swearing simultaneously—it was almost meditative.
"You stink so bad you're causing environmental pollution!" Robin shouted.
"Well," Barbara added sweetly, cracking her whip, "then let's counter with some verbal pollution!"
The battle had officially evolved into an ecosystem of mutual contamination.
And yet, Croc's instincts screamed danger. He didn't have Spider-Sense, but his mutated biology made him more attuned to threats. Something felt off.
There were only two enemies visible—but his gut said otherwise.
He hesitated, half-turned toward the lake—then froze.
The lovebirds had started again.
Their duet resumed—sharp, melodic, unbearably smug.
His temper spiked.
Again?! Can't you two just—STOP?!
Any thought of retreat vanished. He opened his mouth wide and roared back.
If they wanted a shouting contest, fine. He'd give them one.
Meanwhile, Felicity was in her element—scrolling through files, voice bright and focused.
"All right, let's up the pressure. Switching to reptile-themed insults… okay, here's how to make luxury crocodile-skin handbags—oh! And here's a recipe for crispy fried tail meat, loaded with protein!"
Barbara and Robin, half-exhausted, didn't even process the meaning anymore—they just repeated every line. Their battle rhythm stayed steady, but Croc… Croc was losing it.
Every word hit home. Deep down, he still wanted to think of himself as human. But years of rejection and self-loathing had made that fragile identity crack.
Hearing them describe peeling his skin, boiling his flesh, sautéing his meat—it shattered what little calm he had left.
He swung wildly, ignoring Barbara's darting movements. She was fast—too fast to hit—but that only made him angrier.
Fine, he thought. If I can't catch her, I'll crush the boy instead.
He charged Robin again, fists pounding like hammers.
Robin, drained and desperate, barely kept his footing.
Barbara's heart clenched. She couldn't let him take another hit.
Snapping her wrist, she cracked her whip forward. The line coiled around Croc's thick leg with a sharp snap!
"Got you!" she cried, planting her heels and pulling with all her strength—hoping, praying—to buy Robin just a few seconds to recover.