Monster in the sewer

Tick-tock! 

The sewers of Gotham City are dark and sinister, home to all manner of unknown terrors. Killer Croc was once one of those terrors. But not anymore. Now, he's a man with a hefty fortune, though it's all dirty money—untaxed, illegal, so he can't spend a penny openly. 

But he has money, and with money... there's hope. Killer Croc opened his eyes, the nictitating membrane sliding across them. In the dim lantern light, ripples spread across the water's surface. 

"The big guy's comin' again," he said to the Ventriloquist beside him. "And I mean [big] guy. Never thought I'd be callin' anyone that. Thought I was the biggest brute in Gotham." 

Despite his words, Waylon felt a flicker of something like cleverness. He'd accepted his dimwitted nature, but it hadn't always been this way. When he was a teenager, his IQ was no different from that of ordinary people. But as he grew, as he became more reptilian, he'd noticed that the further he drifted from humanity, the more bestial his mind became. 

Yet, spending time with other humans these past few days had dampened his animalistic urges, 

clearing his mind. "Focus, Waylon," the Ventriloquist snapped, sitting on the ledge of the sewer tunnel. Gotham's drainage system was riddled with these walkways, remnants of a time when men worked down here. 

"Don't worry." The bat doll squawked from the Ventriloquist's hand. "You might not be the most famous goon, but you're definitely the richest goon." He continued, "You saw those two vans stuffed with cash in that Swiss bank vault, right? If you want your boss man to help you clean it all so you can actually spend it, you better get a move on. It ain't like this is the first time today, anyhow." 

"I know it even if you don't tell me", Killer Croc grumbled. 

The humanoid crocodile swung his tail, he stood up from the underground river, and then took the cart from the Ventriloquist. Resting inside was a roasted golden and crispy whole beef. 

Killer Croc sighed. 

A whole roasted pig, a whole roasted cow, the tantalizing aroma filling the sewer. it was all so familiar, a repeat of an old trick, only this time he was the one playing it, which was inexplicably ironic. 

Boom! Boom! Boom! 

Roar-woo- 

The sound echoed through the empty pipes, like a massive iron ball striking the ground. The deep, guttural voice that accompanied it created a chilling duet. Straining to listen, one could make out the words:

"Solomon Grundy - born on a Monday!" 

... 

The third generation Robin, Tim Drake, sat on a rooftop, observing the apartment in the distance with a telescope. Batman and Harley Quinn were inside. If it was the Batman from before, Tim would never have worried at all, beacuse he knew how capable Batman was—but things were different now. 

'Could Bruce Wayne really handle a dangerous criminal like Harley Quinn'? Tim expertly swung his grappling hook across the street, landing silently on the rooftop before slipping through a corridor window. The sky had darkened, plunging the motion-sensor lit corridor into blackness. A sliver of light peeked out from under the half-open door, like the maw of a hungry beast. 

Tim silently pressed himself against the wall behind the door, just in time to hear Harley Quinn's voice: 

"F*ck, Bats, you son of a—" 

"*******!" 

The door flew open with a kick from Tim.

"Batman, what are you doing—?" 

He stopped short, taking in the scene before him. Batman held a skeleton in one hand, a skull in the other, seemingly attempting to shove the scattered bones back into the gaping maw of a giant carnivorous plant. 

"Eww, eww, eww! You want me to eat my own puke??" 

Frank the carnivorous plant thrashed wildly, but Batman held him firm. Adam took out a lighter and showed it in front of him, and he immediately went still. 

"Aha!" 

Seeing Robin enter, Harley jumped down from the window sill, striking a pose like a police officer with a haughty air. "Private Robin, stand at attention!" 

Tim glanced at Batman with a "what the hell is this?" expression. 

Adam explained, "These people weren't killed by Harley." 

Harley, playing along with surprising enthusiasm, started to went crazy at the same time. "Blah, blah, blah... As long as he agreed to Harley Quinn's conditions, he could get help from her right away, find Poison Ivy, defeat the Plant Master, and solve all the problems." But Batman wouldn't do it. This was Harley's test, to see if he was the real Batman. If Adam agreed, it would mean Batman was asking Harley for help, giving her the upper hand. 

Even though she hadn't been a psychologist in years, Harley Quinn instinctively used techniques to manipulate their dynamic through language. So, Adam said, "No." 

"What's the situation? You mean... you don't wanna... you don't need to...?" Harley feigned disbelief, but Adam calmly observed her act. These conditions weren't important, Ivy was. Adam always cut to the chase. Now he had to shatter Harley's illusion of control. 

"I don't make deals with psychopaths." 

"Aaah..."