The deeper they ventured into the sewers, the more the walls changed—brick turned to reinforced concrete, the faint drip of water echoing off metal instead of stone.
The air was colder here, still, carrying the faint stench of rot and chemicals. Robin's flashlight beam sore through the dark, catching a faint gleam of something metallic up ahead.
They stopped.
Red Hood's hand came up instinctively, signaling Robin to stay quiet. Ahead, the tunnel widened into a larger chamber, and there it was—an old maintenance section of the sewer, crudely converted into what looked like a bunker. The walls were layered with rusted pipes, patched wiring, and makeshift vents that hissed out faint wisps of steam.
Two guards stood watch at the entrance, dressed in all black tactical gear with gas masks hanging loose around their necks. They looked half-alert, probably thinking no one would ever find this place.
"I guess you were right," Red Hood muttered, his voice low and edged with reluctant approval. "Looks like the good doctor decided to set up shop down here."
"You led us through the sewer even though you had your doubts?" Robin asked, raising a brow under his mask.
"No doubt, little demon," Red Hood replied casually, checking the ammo in his pistol before sliding it back into place. "I just gave you the benefit of the doubt. Now we confirm the birthday boy's home and give him his present."
Robin frowned under his mask, not even wanting to process the phrasing. His father would want Scarecrow brought in alive, but Jason's methods rarely involved mercy.
Both of them moved in silence, shadows blending into the damp walls as they crept closer. With quick and precise attacks, Robin swept one guard's legs from beneath him, while Red Hood struck the other across the neck with the hilt of his pistol. Both men hit the ground before they could make a sound.
Red Hood pressed a gloved hand to the cold steel door, leaning in slightly to listen. A familiar voice came from the other side, hollow and deliberate, with that eerie calm that would make anyone skin crawl.
"I see I have guests," Scarecrow's voice echoed through the bunker. "Batman couldn't come to visit himself? I'm disappointed." Jason exchanged a look with Robin, though his expression was hidden behind the helmet. "Cute," he muttered. He reached for a compact laser cutter from his belt and began tracing over the heavy locks. Sparks hissed softly against the metal.
"Keep your head on a swivel, kid." The last lock snapped loose. Red Hood reached for the handle—
And the door exploded inward.
A massive steel slab slammed into his chest like a truck, launching him across the tunnel. He crashed into the opposite wall with a dull thud, bits of concrete scattering as he dropped to one knee, catching his breath through the ringing in his ears.
A low, guttural growl rumbled through the chamber.
ROAR!
A towering figure stepped through the doorway, its massive shoulders scraping the frame. The creature's thick, scaled skin was riddled with scars and patches of rough hide. Water dripped from its claws as it leaned forward, nostrils flaring, yellow reptilian eyes locking onto the intruders.
"Killer Croc," Red Hood grunted, rising to his feet and rolling his shoulders. "You see, kid? This is why you don't flush your pets down the drain."
Behind Croc, Scarecrow was already moving—his long coat trailing behind him as he gathered up a crate filled with toxin canisters. His movements were hurried, frantic, like a man who knew his time was running out.
Jason caught a glimpse of him disappearing deeper into the bunker.
"Don't go in there, kid," he warned with a sharp voice. He knew that tone of defiance Robin got before doing something stupid—he'd worn it himself once upon a time.
ROAR!!
Killer Croc charged, the ground trembling under his massive weight. Jason fired two rounds center mass—metallic clinks rang out as the bullets flattened uselessly against the reptilian hide. "Of course," Jason muttered, rolling to the side as a thick tail whooshed through the air, slamming into a rusted pipe and showering sparks everywhere.
Croc came at him again, faster this time. Jason didn't retreat. Instead, he leapt upward, boots hitting a rusted pipe for leverage before launching himself forward with packed momentum. His crowbar came down hard across Croc's jaw, a sharp crack echoing through the damp tunnel.
The impact was enough to stagger the beast, though not stop him. Croc reeled back with a guttural growl, his jagged teeth bared, saliva and blood mixing at the corner of his mouth.
Jason hit the ground and rolled, his knees screaming from the impact. He forced himself upright, chest heaving, his injured leg burning from the constant strain—but adrenaline refused to let him stop. Croc's shadow loomed again, still standing, still hungry.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jason caught movement—Robin darting toward the open bunker like a stubborn flash of yellow and black. "Dammit," Jason hissed. He hurled a throwing star that zipped past Robin's cheek, embedding itself deep into the concrete wall beside him. "I said don't go in there!" he barked.
He barely got the words out before Croc's clawed hand came crashing toward him. Jason raised his sword just in time, metal clashing against scale with a jarring screech. Sparks burst from the contact, scattering into the tunnel's humid air.
Robin hesitated for only a heartbeat before ignoring the warning completely. He spun on his heel and sprinted into the bunker, eyes locked on the silhouette of Scarecrow slipping deeper into the corridor.
"Stop right there, Crow!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the narrow space.
Scarecrow turned, that crooked smile twisting beneath his mask. "Such enthusiasm," he mocked, his voice like dry paper tearing. With a sinister chuckle, he dropped a small canister at his feet.
The metal cylinder hissed, releasing a dense greenish fog that spread fast—rolling and curling through the air like a living thing. The chemical stench hit hard even from a distance.
Robin reacted fast, snapping his rebreather into place and sealing it tight before plunging straight into the thickening haze after him. His boots echoed down the tunnel until they faded completely beneath the sound of Scarecrow's laughter, distorted by the gas and the walls.
Behind them, chaos still ruled. The sounds of snarls, gunfire, and twisting metal filled the sewer as Red Hood fought for his life against the monster in the dark.
Jason's leg was still bad—he could feel the sharp pull every time he moved or kicked. His movements were sluggish by League standards, and every dodge ached. He blocked and parried as best as he could, barely avoiding Croc's sweeping tail and raking claws.
"Babysitting really isn't my strongest suit," he muttered under his breath, shoving his crowbar between Croc's jaws just as the beast lunged for a bite. His arms trembled under the pressure, metal grinding against jagged teeth.
Then, from inside the bunker, came the reverberating clang of metal on metal. The sound froze Jason for a split second. It wasn't just the noise—it was what it triggered. The echo tore through his head like a flashbang, dragging him back to that warehouse, to Joker's laughter, to the crowbar smashing down again and again until everything went black.
His chest tightened. His fault. His recklessness had landed him in that nightmare, and now Robin was charging down the same path—charging headfirst into danger after another psychotic freak.
He needed to stop it. Which meant ending this. Either get Croc off his back or put him down for good.
But that one heartbeat of distraction was all it took. Croc's tail lashed upward from below, coiling around Jason's waist before he could react.
The thick, scaled appendage lifted him into the air and squeezed, the pressure crushing the breath from his lungs. Jason struggled, his leg flaring with pain. Croc's roar hit him like a wall of sound, hot and wet with rage.
The monster's claws tensed, ready to tear through his torso with bear-like strength—but Jason's arms were still free.
Despite Croc's natural armor—thick scales tough enough to stop knives and low-caliber rounds—Jason drew his blade once more in a blur of motion. With a vicious swing, he slashed across Croc's forearm, the edge biting through the hide deep enough to draw blood.
The beast howled, staggering back in fury. In the same motion, he hurled Jason as hard as he could. The world blurred as Jason flew backward, twisting midair to regain control.
He slammed boots-first into the wall, using it to break his fall. The impact rattled his bones, but he bent his knees, absorbed the shock, and preped to push off again it looked like he was transmuting the momentum to carry him forward like a coiled spring released.
And that was when Nightwing arrived.
He froze at the sight before him—Jason, alive and now the Red Hood whom he had been hoping to meet since he found out and at least talk.
The brother he had buried. The kid he thought was gone forever. The one he'd mourned alone, blaming himself for not being there.
Now he was here, real and now very dangerous, the Red Hood standing where Robin once had. The helmet, the body armor, the fluid brutality—it all felt foreign. Nothing of the boy remained in that posture.
'What the hell is he doing here?' was the only thought that pressed through the others in Nightwing's head as he watched Jason twist back into the fight, relentless, efficient, and utterly unrecognizable.
As Nightwing tried to process what he was seeing, Red Hood didn't waste a second. He reached into his belt and pulled out a pair of reinforced brass knuckles, sliding them smoothly over his gloved hand.
His leg still throbbed from the earlier hit, a sharp pulse of pain that made him wince beneath the helmet, but he ignored it. Using the wall behind him for leverage, he pushed off hard—every muscle in his body straining as he lunged forward, carrying the same momentum from being thrown seconds ago.
He clenched his fist tight, channeling the force into his arm, and swung with bone-breaking brute force.
The hit landed clean across Killer Croc's jaw, the metallic knuckles cracking against scale and bone with a deafening impact. The shockwave from the punch echoed through the tunnel, followed by a wet snarl as Croc was lifted off both feet.
The creature's massive frame crashed to the ground, sliding across the damp concrete until he stopped right at Nightwing's feet. Bits of rusted debris clattered to the floor beside him, the stench of rot and sewer water hanging thick in the air.
"I'm leaving him to you," Red Hood said, voice steady but strained through his modulator. It wasn't directed at anyone in particular—more of a passing statement as he broke into a sprint toward the bunker's entrance. His boots splashed through shallow puddles, echoing against the tight walls as he disappeared into the shadows after Robin.
"Wait—!" Nightwing started, but he didn't even finish the word. Croc roared, sweeping his claws in a wide, furious arc that forced him to dive back. The air whistled as the claws sliced through it, missing his head by inches and shredding part of his sleeve instead.
Nightwing barely rolled to his feet in time. His mind was full of questions—Scarecrow, Robin, Red Hood, and that insane strength. All of it was hitting him at once, pressing on him like a weight he couldn't shake off. But none of that mattered right now.
If he didn't focus, he was dead. Croc was already pushing himself back up, his massive chest heaving, blood dripping from the fresh gash Jason had carved into his arm and looking like his regenerative factor had kicked in.
The sewer around them trembled with each step the creature took. Broken pipes hissed out steam, casting faint white clouds into the greenish gloom. The flicker of dying lights above them painted the walls in uneven strokes, bouncing shadows around the corridor like a scene from a monster nightmare.
Meanwhile, Red Hood sprinted deeper into the makeshift bunker, the echo of his boots overlapping with the distant sounds of combat. The tunnels ahead were narrow, lit only by the flickering red emergency bulbs fixed into the concrete walls. The air smelled of chemicals and rust, thick and suffocating, each breath would have tastied like dust and decay if not for his head piece.
Somewhere deeper inside, he could already hear the fight—metal clashing, the sharp pop of gunfire, and the dull thuds of impact. Robin was definitely in the middle of it, probably facing off against Scarecrow's cult.
Jason tightened his grip on his gun and pushed forward, disappearing into the dark.
The sound of Croc's growls and Nightwing's grunts faded behind him, replaced by the rising noise of a different battle—the one he knew he couldn't let Robin fight alone.