"Oh my God."
Three simple words. A universal expression of shock, horror, or disbelief.
But in this particular moment, in this particular bar in East Gotham, the question became: who exactly was saying it?
May I ask who made this sentiment?
Option 1: The Joker He'd originally come here to recruit an aerodynamicist named Chuck Brown. A simple, straightforward operation.
Instead, he found the bar invaded by a roster of heavyweight super-criminals—Killer Croc, Solomon Grundy, the Scarecrow, and the goddamn Riddler leading them like Moses with the world's worst chosen people. These uninvited guests had knocked out the Joker's dozen-plus professional gunmen in under thirty seconds.
And as if the universe had a personal vendetta against him, Batman had suddenly dropped through the skylight. Of course he had.
The Joker stood behind an overturned table, a gun in each hand, watching the catastrophe unfold. "Oh my God," he muttered, firing three rounds at Killer Croc's face just to feel like he was contributing.
Option 2: The Riddler He'd planned to use this meeting to eliminate Jude Sharp. Simple plan: the Joker brings thugs, Riddler's people shoot the cop in the crossfire, everyone blames the Joker. Elegant.
Except the Joker had brought a truckload of disposable gunmen, forcing the Riddler to waste precious time and ammunition. Chuck Brown had somehow called in Batman. And—most insulting of all—Jude Sharp was wearing body armor. Who wears a bulletproof vest to a bar?!
Now, Batman had targeted the Riddler specifically, pinning him to the ground and thrashing him furiously. His green suit was ruined. His hat was gone.
"Oh my God," the Riddler wheezed between punches, genuinely shocked that his intricate plan had devolved into a barroom brawl.
Option 3: Batman He'd expected the Joker and the Riddler. Manageable.
Instead, he found a war zone featuring half a dozen veteran super-criminals and their respective small armies. To prevent the Joker from being literally beaten into meat paste by Killer Croc and Solomon Grundy, Batman was forced to fight them all simultaneously.
Croc's strength was superhuman. Grundy was functionally unkillable. Scarecrow kept trying to dose him with fear toxin. Clayface could attack from any angle. And somewhere in this chaos, Batman discovered a bomb had been planted in the bar. Of course there was a bomb.
Batman crashed through a table—thrown by Grundy—and had exactly three seconds to process his cracked ribs before Croc charged again.
"Oh my God," Batman thought grimly, calculating which injuries required immediate medical attention.
Option 4: Lyle Twenty years running this bar honestly. Then the Joker had requisitioned it, telling Lyle to pour drinks and try not to die.
Lyle thought "a fight" meant broken chairs. He'd been catastrophically wrong. Solomon Grundy swung a load-bearing wall like a baseball bat. Killer Croc used a ceiling support column as a javelin.
Lyle was crawling through broken glass to escape the crossfire when he heard the rapid, electronic beeping.
He sprinted faster than he had in fifteen years. Behind him, the bomb detonated, blowing the remaining half of the bar directly into the sky. Lyle hit the pavement hard, covering his head as flaming debris rained down.
When the ringing faded, he pushed himself up and looked back at what had been his livelihood. Just rubble, smoke, and flames.
"Oh my God," Lyle whispered. Twenty years. Gone in twenty minutes.
Option 5: Chuck Brown Chuck was just trying to survive. The battle was beyond his comprehension—super-criminals, gangsters, Batman, bombs.
He lost consciousness somewhere around the time Grundy threw a pool table through the front wall. When he woke up—dazed and covered in dust—the Joker was dragging him through the rubble by his collar.
"Come on, Chuck Brown," the Joker said cheerfully, hauling him toward a waiting car. "We're leaving before Batman catches his breath."
Chuck's mind was blank. "Oh my God," he mumbled, letting himself be pulled along like a rag doll.
Option 6: Jude Sharp He'd started the evening hiding in a corner, eating fresh popcorn.
When the fight started, Jude had calmly activated his newly upgraded "I Didn't Kill Anyone" skill which give him the AOE no dead zone, setting a twenty-meter radius where death was temporarily off the table.
When the Joker dragged Chuck away, Jude applied one of the skill slot directly to the Joker, ensuring Chuck's safety for the next six hours. No matter what happened, Chuck wouldn't die.
Now, Jude was lying in the ruins of Lyle's bar, pretending to be a corpse. Batman was fighting. Sirens were approaching.
This was fine. Mission accomplished.
"Oh my God," Jude thought, realizing he was going to have to explain to Commissioner Gordon why he was in a supervillain war zone while technically off-duty.
Option 7: All of the above Every single person involved had exclaimed "Oh my God" from the bottom of their hearts. Because sometimes in Gotham, things go so catastrophically wrong that genuine religious invocation is the only appropriate response.
Two hours later, Chuck stood on the edge of a sixty-story building.
Batman stood a few paces away, his voice rough from smoke inhalation. "Your son has been moved to a safe place. Alfred is looking after him. He's safe. Now, tell me—where did the Joker take you?"
Chuck looked at the Dark Knight with a tired, empty smile.
He could hide his son, but he couldn't hide his ex-wife. She had bills. Responsibilities. She couldn't vanish into a safe house. The Joker had found her location in half an hour.
"If I can't see fireworks from this location by 12:30 AM," the Joker had told him cheerfully, "then your son will never see his mother again."
Chuck had thirty minutes to jump.
He pulled his collar apart, revealing a vest wired with plastic explosives and a dead-man's switch. Enough C4 to turn a human body into pink mist.
"I'm sorry, Batman," Chuck's voice was steadier than it had been in months. "The Joker made me do this. He said if he doesn't see fireworks, he kills my ex-wife."
Chuck took a step toward the edge. "Stay away, Batman. Don't let me blow you up."
Another step.
"Give the hundred thousand dollars to my ex-wife. It's in the false bottom of my sock drawer." Batman moved, but Chuck was faster, more desperate. "Tell my son I loved him."
Chuck reached the edge. He looked at the vast, glittering expanse of Gotham—a terrible, beautiful jungle of lights. He felt as if he had turned into his favorite kite, ready to be caught in an updraft and carried somewhere better.
It was peaceful.
He stepped off the edge.
Falling into the sky, his thumb pressed the detonation button. He braced for the pain. The end.
But the bomb didn't explode.
Instead, a pre-recorded, electronic voice crackled cheerfully from the vest.
"What does the 'ha, ha, bang' sound represent? A man who laughs his head off! What does the 'ha, ha, bang' sound represent? A man who laughs his head off!"
A fake bomb. A joke. Theater.
But Chuck had still jumped.
He opened his eyes in horror, watching the ground rush up to meet him at terminal velocity. Above him, a black figure swooped down from the tower. Batman had dived two seconds late, his cape wrapped tight to shield himself from the expected blast.
Batman fired a grappling hook with his left hand, the line catching the building's edge to slow his fall. He stretched his right hand down, desperately reaching for Chuck's outstretched fingers.
The ground enlarged rapidly in their vision. Unforgiving concrete.
The distance between their hands remained constant. Three feet. Too far.
Batman's tactical mind ran the math instantly. Velocity. Distance. Time. They would both hit the ground. Chuck would die on impact. Batman would break half his bones on the deceleration.
But Batman refused the math. He strained his fingers, choosing hope over calculation.
Just as Chuck was about to impact the street—three seconds, maybe two—a strong, impossible wind suddenly blew up from the concrete below