Puffffff! đ¨đ¨
Bruce spat all his coffee onto the screen and banged his head on the van's ceiling.
He realized something truly terrible: this was real lifeâand Bane wasn't going to sit around in a cave like a game boss, waiting for the brave hero to grind levels, collect gear, and form a party before knocking on his door.
If Bruce's transmigration had changed Batman's behavior, then naturally, Bane had adapted too.
Originally, the "Bat Exhaustion Plan" was simple: let Arkham's psychos wear Batman down, and once he's gasping for air, break him. But Bruce didn't play that game. He either ignored the lunatics or wiped them off the board cleanly.
So Bane decided: screw it. Kill the new wildcards first. Kill the mercs. Then kill Batman.
Meanwhile...
Ding-ling-ling!
A bank alarm blared in downtown Gotham. Screams. Panic. And through the chaos waltzed Joker and his goons, arms loaded with bags of cash.
"HAHAHA! Come on, Bats! Time to party!"
...
Silence.
"Bats?"
Nothing. Not even a cop car.
A gust of wind rolled a flyer into Joker's face. He peeled it off.
"Cast your sacred vote for Mayor Carlo!"
The Joker stroked his chin.
"âŚHey. I just had an idea."
Cue maniacal laughter.
------
Back in the van, Bruce watched the chaos unfold, jaw tight. Bane wasn't an idiot. He'd definitely noticed the mercs, the shift in Batman's style, the weird puppet theatrics.
Maybe Bane wasn't sure if the mercenaries were allies or enemies, but in his mind, violence solved all questions. Cut off the loose ends before they tie themselves into a noose.
So yeahâhe wasn't "waiting for Batman to collapse."
He was already moving in to kill them all.
Bang!
Killer Croc's head smashed into the pavement like a water balloon.
Bruce watched this and decided
Okay. They're useless.
Bruce grabbed the mic.
"Hold on! Just stay alive!"
"FUCK!"
Deadshot was sweating bullets. Four gunsâtwo arms, two shoulder mountsâformed a death grid in front of him.
Even a mosquito would've been atomized.
But not Bane.
That son of a bitch danced through the bullet storm like a ballerina in a war zone.
Boom!
Deadshot whipped out his backup: a shoulder-fired RPG.
Too slow. Bane was already in his face.
"Shit! If I had my Ol' Painless (hia sniper)!"
No time.
Clang!
A blur slashed across Bane's chest. The Cheshire Catâflexible, deadly, blade in hand.
The blade broke.
Bane's Titan-injected body didn't even flinch.
His fist swung. She flew. Through a wall. Possibly into orbit.
Deadshot scanned the field:
âCheshire Cat: buried.
âKiller Croc: twitching on the pavement.
âTattooed Man: chilling like it's open mic night.
"Alas, this is not how you fight," Tattooed Man sighed like an old uncle watching kids mess up poker.
"RETREAT!" Deadshot yelled.
But then:
"I don't believe it!"
Slipknot.
Flying in with ropes and ego.
He weaved lassoes like Spider-Man on crack, tying Bane in a messy web.
"I didn't die in the before, and I won't die here!" he shouted proudly.
"Don't be a dumbass!" Deadshot screamed.
Too late.
Bane flexed. The lassoes snapped like wet noodles. He yanked Slipknot toward him and bounced him off the pavement like a ragdoll.
Deadshot kept shooting, but somehow Bane was dodging bullets and juggling grown men at the same time.
Tattooed Man commented like a sports analyst:
"If there were spikes under him, he'd be dead!"
"Shut your rotten mouth!"
Slipknot got serious. Dropped the ropes. Locked Bane's arms in a blur of motion.
"I don't care if you're juiced upâwe're all human. You bleed tooâ"
Deadshot was still screaming: "DON'T!"
Too late, again.
Bane grabbed Slipknot's wrists and... peeled him apart.
Screams. Then no more screams. Just blood. Lots of blood.
Tattooed Man clapped.
"Woo! Hot damn!"
Deadshot was done. He wanted to run.
But Killer Croc?
He had other ideas.
"BAAAAAANE!!!"
He charged, eyes bloodshot, all logic gone.
Bane twisted his arm like breaking celery.
"RAAAAGH!"
But Croc didn't back off this time. His pupils flared redâno, his whole eye turned red.
His muscles swelled. His spine arched. He looked less like a man and more like a crocodile on roids.
Croc charged like a freight train.
And flew back faster.
"Impossible!" Croc gasped.
BAM!
Bane shut him up with a fist to the face.
"Enough."
He grabbed Croc by the ankle and whacked him into the pavement again and again like a squeaky toy.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Croc finally flopped over, tongue out, legs twitching.
"Bug," Bane growled, as if Croc weren't even worth stepping on.
And then, venom pumped into Bane's veins.
He grew.
Muscles. Veins. Height.
He looked three meters tall, like a monster had just entered his second phase.
Deadshot clenched his teeth and loaded a special round.
"Take Croc and retreat!" Bruce's voice yelled in his earpiece.
"I KNOW, SHUT UP!"
Deadshot pulled the trigger.
Bane saw the bullet and took it as a challenge. He didn't dodge.
Bang!
Direct hit.
The bullet hit Bane's chest. There was a puff of smoke... and a red dent.
And a trickle of blood.
"FUUUCK!"
"Is this guy even human!?" Deadshot screamed. That bullet can rip a goddammit mountain.
Thenâ
"Step aside, losers! I got this!"
It was Tattooed Man.
Deadshot blinked.
"...Really?"