Money

Under the glare of the four floodlights, two box trucks rolled into the abandoned parking lot. 

Slipknot and Tattooed Man hopped out, their expressions grim. 

They, like Deadshot, Catwoman, and CaptainJavelin, were mercenaries hired by Paul Chen. 

Of course, they believed they were working for the Ventriloquist, not the renowned Batman. Slipknot, a burly Mexican man, specialized in lasso work. The intricate web of ropes that ensnared Killer Croc was his handiwork. As he surveyed the bound crocodile, a smug grin spread across his face. 

Tattooed Man, living up to his moniker, resembled a walking inkblot looks like an ink painting covered with bird shit. Compared to a killer, he is more like a sailor who makes a living by the sea. As soon as he came, he made a ruthless mockery "Haha! Our target is a moron!" 

Just then, with a loud POP, a cloud of white smoke erupted from Killer Croc's head. 

With a combined effort, the mercenaries dragged Killer Croc to the back of the two box trucks. During this time, the tattooed man said a few more nasty words, nearly losing an arm when Killer Croc lunged at him in a fit of rage. 

Humiliation. 

Fury. 

Killer Croc was consumed by a primal anger. 

This anger was greater than the gamma radiation of an exploding star; this insult to his very being could not be washed away by all the oceans of Europa. 

The mysteries of the universe, the vastness of space and time, the shifting tides, and the scorching sun couldn't quell his fury. 

"Unforgivable!" he roared, his voice a guttural symphony of rage. 

Unforgivable! It was a cry akin to Prometheus's wail as he stole fire from the gods. 

Unforgivable! The sound was like the roar of Jesus on the cross!

Unforgivable... 

Without a word, the Ventriloquist yanked open the back door of the van, unleashing a torrent of cash directly onto Killer Croc's face. 

There was no trickery, no deception. Just a mountain of money. 

The sheer force of the deluge caused the green wave of bills to collapse, cascading from the van onto the ground like an overturned box of tissues. 

Killer Croc's voice cut off abruptly, like a duck with its throat suddenly constricted. 

"This is just an advance. Nod your head, and it's all yours." 

"No... unforgivable..." 

The Ventriloquist opened the other van, and another avalanche of cash poured forth, the cold rain of money pelting Killer Croc's face. 

Killer Croc, his reptilian features flushed with rage, roared, "Don't you dare insult me with this paltry cash!" He, Killer Croc, was a monstrous aberration, a cold-blooded predator, but he had his principles!

"Do you think money is everything?" he bellowed, "That you can just buy my loyalty and obedience?" 

A stray bill clung to his eye, obscuring his vision. 

"Unforgivable... forgivable... forgive..." 

The sheer volume of cash being hurled at him overwhelmed his senses. He staggered, clutching the bills, his mind reeling. 

"Daddy!" he blurted out. 

Deadshot stared at him incredulously. 

Croc blinked, then realized that, as an African American, the concept of "daddy" was somewhat culturally insensitive. 

"Ahem," he cleared his throat, "What I meant to say was..." 

"I've wandered this earth alone for too long," he continued, "but I yearn for a leader worthy of my allegiance. If you'll have me, I offer you my services..." 

"Holy mother of God, there's got to be millions in here!" Javelin dove headfirst into the pile of money. "I'm rich!" 

"Get out of there!" Croc thundered. "That's my money!" 

"Technically, it's yours," Javelin retorted, "But I'm the one currently embracing it in a rather intimate manner."

Killer Croc's rage reached a boiling point. Bound like a trussed pig, he used his raw power to launch himself into the air, bouncing and rolling until he landed amidst the mountain of cash. 

"Mine! Mine!" he roared. 

A stunned silence fell over the scene. Even Deadshot, a man of few words, was left speechless. 

The money shimmered under the harsh lights, dazzling his eyes. Unlike Javelin, Deadshot wasn't easily impressed by wealth, and his estimation of the amount was far more accurate. 

Tens of millions? Try at least two hundred million! 

Damn it! He'd had no idea the van driven by Slipknot and Tattooed Man was carrying such a fortune. He doubted they even knew themselves. 

For a fleeting moment, the urge to gun down everyone present and abscond with the cash consumed him. 

But reason prevailed. He knew that whoever was willing to pay Croc this much could easily offer the same amount for his head. 

He had a daughter to think about. While the money was tempting, he might not live long enough to enjoy it. 

Besides, there were over two tons of cash here. Even if he managed to escape, getting it out of Gotham would be impossible.

He forced himself to look away, only to meet the enraged stares of Slipknot and Tattooed Man. The sight sent chills down his spine, and he instinctively reached for his weapon. 

"Whoa there! Easy, fellas," he said, his voice trembling slightly. 

While keeping a wary eye on the two volatile criminals, Deadshot raised his voice. "Ventriloquist, where are you?" 

He noted with a hint of amusement that the man wasn't addressing him as "employer" this time. 

What? The Ventriloquist is the employer? He didn't buy it. 

If a middle-aged, balding white guy could casually throw around $200 million, why would he bother messing with Gotham's low-level thugs? 

The image of the Batman doll clutched in the Ventriloquist's hand flashed through his mind, sending a shiver down his spine.

The memory of his last encounter with Batman in Gotham resurfaced, along with the lingering pain in his ribs from the three broken bones he'd suffered.

No, it couldn't be him. Deadshot shook his head. 

Batman was out of the question; he would never stoop to such tactics. 

So... who had the money and the influence to manipulate criminals like the Ventriloquist? 

Penguin? Two-Face? The Riddler? It couldn't be Roman Sionis; he'd fled to Hong Kong. Perhaps he should broaden his suspects.

Bruce Wayne? No, he had no motive. Strike him off the list.

"Ventriloquist, Ventriloquist? Damn it – let the real employer speak to me." 

"What are you talking about?" came the reply. 

"Don't play dumb." 

Tattooed Man and Slipknot exchanged bewildered glances. 

Deadshot, sensing the shift in atmosphere, cautiously backed away, his eyes fixed on them. 

Even Javelin, despite his usual nonchalance, recognized the growing tension. He crawled out of the money pile and joined Deadshot, leaving only Killer Croc writhing in ecstasy on the floor. 

Deadshot had no desire to engage in a fight here. It wasn't that he doubted his ability to take out everyone except Croc, but the feeling of being manipulated from the shadows irked him. 

The mastermind behind this scheme seemed confident that Deadshot's family ties and career ambitions would prevent him from acting rashly. They intended to use him to control these unruly mercenaries... and if that failed, they'd likely sacrifice him to eliminate any loose cannons in the team. 

A chilling realization struck Deadshot: the mastermind had even anticipated his reluctance to fight. They had factored in the possibility of him "failing to suppress, killing everyone, and causing the loss of combat power controlled by the mastermind." The level of insight into his thought process was unnerving. 

As for Killer Croc, if he tried to take the money and run, the $200 million would become a bounty on his head, and the others would turn on him in a frenzy. 

But if Croc accepted the job, he'd be forced to side with Deadshot to protect his newfound wealth. Together, they could easily eliminate the other three. 

Then, the mastermind would likely send in the Ventriloquist to sweet-talk them, offering promises and threats to quell their greed. It was a well-calculated play, but had they overplayed their hand? 

At that moment, Deadshot noticed Cheshire Cat silently moving to their side, positioning herself alongside him to face off against Slipknot and Tattooed Man. 

Oh! So there's a backup plan. 

Did they bribe Cheshire Cat beforehand? Damn, why didn't they try to bribe him instead? Deadshot gritted his teeth in frustration, not stopping to consider his own tendency to always demand a higher price. 

The tension dissipated as Deadshot lowered his weapon, glaring at the Ventriloquist. "So, who's the real boss? Care to show yourself?"

The Ventriloquist simply nodded and produced five headsets from behind his back. 

Damn it, the mastermind had even planned for this. Deadshot seethed with anger. 

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. Looks like they've just been promoted from disposable pawns to contracted assets.