Devil's Night (Croc)

[Scarecrow]

Gotham at night was a thing to behold, a thing to fear, really, awe, reverence, disgust, all in equal measures, but fear above all else. It was dark and damp and dank and utilitarian, a monster in and of itself, a city of horrors, as if nightmares had been made of stone and steel. It was the perfect home for a man like Jonathan Crane, otherwise called the Scarecrow, he couldn't think of any other place he'd rather be. As he looked to twisted, ebony looming giants that were the Gotham shipyards he'd been lost in his thoughts so much so that a smirk had played on his face while one of his underlings prattled most ardently, it might've been especially unerring to have him smile under that burlap mask of itchy earth tone.

"But sir." finally he'd raised a hand to his acolyte and the glow from his gauntlet, each finger so adorned with the eerie glow from his fear formula, a syringe per finger, like some kind of gauntlet, gotham's Fred Krueger. The tendril tubes that leashed from them to the holding tank so had that same coloration, if he were to jab anyone who was foolish enough to get within his grasp they'd be so injected with far more of his toxin than they could handle.

And as he brought it to bare it's power, the near mythical ability such a talon had within was known to these men, for there was a collective shudder that came through them, though they may well have enjoyed his employ, the lucrative nature of his association, they may well have respected his intellect, the brilliance of his mind, more than anything: they surely feared him, and the capability of the liquid contained within.

The Scarecrow, lord of fear would have it no other way, it was chiefly important to be feared, rail thin and tall always it was where his power lie, not in body or muscle or otherworldly magick save that of the power he held over the mind and psyche of those who he turned glowing red eye upon.

"Aside from the fact that it was against our arrangement, we agreed to come alone. You'd do nothing more than die in my stead. He is a creature of fear. Like me." and with that he took up the darkened overcoat, it made a slight man, spindlely, seem all the larger, but not nearly as large or imposing as what he might see within as he walked to their predetermined destination. He slipped up his hood now absent his trademark buckled brimmed hat, but he himself even more intimidating in his own way, for he was the lord of fear, and though he wasn't born with the ability to be a brute, to assert himself physically on those who would do him harm, certainly he concocted a method even more devious, cunning and depraived than any other of the supposed rogues gallery.

They feared him, he knew it, and he relished in it. Those who didn't were the biggest fools or the most malignant crazies, Joker, too crazy to know what to fear, too far gone to be considered anymore human than the wind or a pile of excrement. But with his new batch even the most formidable of his foes would know their fears, it would drive them to the the depths of insanity, plumbed with his fear toxin and drowning in the newest and most potent of variants. Strength of will would mean nothing, fear ever lasting, an eternal darkness that would blanket gotham, consuming it in horrors; every night would be Halloween.

But as Scarecrow pushed through the doors of the warehouse and ventured deeper into it's innards he knew he was at the first step of an exceedingly lengthy exodus, and as he saw the hulking figure and the hissing snaps of another he knew that there was one what would be with him along the way.

"Croc. You're looking well. I've an offer I think you'll find..delectable." he brought a hand to the mouth hole of his mask, sewn together with hapless harsh stitches and he cleared his throat, as he looked to the "man" -although the term was decidedly much more liberally applied since their last meeting- he spoke with a measure of evenness and magnimity that implied as his body language that he wasn't frightened nor disgusted by the figure. It wouldn't do for the god of fear to be frightened, not at all, not even by the likes of a hulking creature such as that before him. As he stepped from shadow into the light of the sparcely illuminated warehouse he awaited some visual or verbal cue from the most hideous of all gotham's grotesques as to what he thought of a possible job he had for the man.

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[Killer Croc]

An unsually large hand arched through the air, grime specked, thick, grayish green scales smeared with a metallic smelling crimson that flew from the swiftly decending limb in glinting droplets that reflected the bleached, stabbing sunlight that cascaded through the sewer grate with every liquid movement. From the powerful extension potruded a set of gleaming razors set upon the tips of gnarled fingers, perfectly and wickedly curved, each point sharpened into a flesh tearing, sinister point that had a malavolent, almost sadistically eager look about them. In fact, the reptillian talons were so perfectly shaped, in their evil magnificence, that once could almost say they had been molded by conjured shadows and hardened solid into an obsidian steel upon whatever cruel anvil the skythe of Death had been hammered upon.

Their sinister brilliance only intensified with the action of bloody perfection quickly perfomed upon burying themselves ever so satisfyingly into the deep reaches of scarlet splattered, tender flesh and stringy muscle, drawing out the warm life force of whatever fool that dared to combat the mutated devil that held reign over the dark depths of a towering, gothic hell.

A screech rang out in fluid response, though it was of no normal human. It rang with a petrifying sense of pain, yet mingled strongly with an overwhelming tone of raw amusment and joy, even as agony spread like molten flames through the severed veins of the other man. While the limb faded off into the not so distant, dust upturned and blood plagued air, a trickle quickly widened the rip in what might have been reality, the down poor of a sudden, staining red ink slipping down untouched skin to nourish the dry, rough concrete at their feet with life sustaining nutrients, pooling there like a puddle of red rain. What insanity that flooded the wide brown pupils of the much smaller human standing at his clawed feet, but then, Gotham was infamous for that.

The whole gang of crazed thugs had struck at random, giggling and prancing around his muscled form like homicidle pixies, dressed in purple and gold, their faces smeared in makeup. Killer Croc believed them to be some of Joker's more...insane of fiends, sent to terrorize him for their master's amusment, but strangly, they showed no sign of a higher influence, and in time, Croc slowly began to believe they worked on their own accord, as a group of phychopathic maniacs with no care for personal safety. Killer Croc had first smelled them several minutes before they had struck, seeking out the intruders by scent and, eventually, the shrill cackles that rose from the large throng of little demons. Most were dead now, but they had managed to strike a mighty blow nonetheless to Croc's mind with their malicious, melodic poems and tunes. If Killer Croc speant any more time dealing with them, he worried that he as well might grow into a babbling lunatic.

Following the events that took place in just over the span of a few seconds, a malicious snarl rose in chorus with the wraith's tortured scream, possessing the voice of a horrible nightmare come true. From the deepest reaches of the inner chest that might have harboured a hidden, smoking furnace of rage and hatred, the sound burst forth like magma from a volcano, barely making it through the twisted jaws of the eight foot tall, crocodile creature unscathed by the rows of pointed, jagged teeth that so clearly could tear out muscle and crunch through bone. The spray of spit and foul smelling breath that followed was laced with a crimson glint, from the blood that lined the pink, ripped gums of the wide, feral creature's dark maw.

The man he had just struck dropped like a sack of potatoes to the floor, his stomach ripped open, his entrails spilling out from the horribly deep furrowa that had been carved into the human with brutish ease. But there was no time to marvel at the terribly mangled corpse. There wa sstill two, very annoying trespassers to deal with. It only took one sweep of his tail to break the neck of one, sending him crashing into the concrete wall. The backlash struck the other, throwing him to the ground and giving him no time to escape as Killer Croc whirled his monstrous body around with suprising speed, snatching up his opponent to crush him in a powerful, unescapable grip.

Killer Croc's satanic gaze flickered with conjured hellfire as the body fell to the sewer floor with a muffled thump. Pathetic, irritating, but still pathetic. He didn't know the time, Croc didn't keep watches, but he did know that he wanted to get to the warehouse before Scarecrow, to make himself look more dominant, of course. Since his first contact with the self proclaimed master of fear, a slight spark of excitment had flickered within Croc's powerful frame. Finally, he would have a chance at revenge at the man who had broken him years ago. But now, Killer Croc was far more powerful, and with this infamous terrorist's help, in exchange for a little dirty work, Bane wouldn't stand a chance.

With a low, feral growl, he moved towards his more personal part of the sewers, taking in the dirty air as the tunnels opened up to him and underground world adopted a much larger apperance. The concrete walkway that ran through the center of sewage filled chamber was the path he took, splashes greeting him from both sides as faithful reptillian friends dragged themselves up to lumber at his side. Croc reached down to stroke the thick skinned head of his crocodile pet with a single, gentle claw before continuing on towards the exit he would be using up ahead, gesturing for two of the beasts to follow him, and so they did.

It had always been strange to Killer Croc that the long since abandoned warehouse have an entrance to the sewers hidden within, but it had become a reliable meeting place for him and a few...friends. So as he entered the dusty warehouse, Croc felt a strange sense of safety. He turned to reach down and haul two of his crocodiles into the building with him, crooning at them with a reassuring voice and demanding their obediance in the time to come. He had only waited about ten minutes, shifting through random boxes with a miniscule feeling of curiousity, when Scarecrow entered the large structure. Killer Croc turned a frightening eye upon the man with an inward chuckle at his punyness, though he wasn't one for humor.

"It's about time you got here, I've waited long enough. Let's get to the point, shall we? You know what I want, now what do you want?" It seemed everyone these days had to have something for something. You do this, I'll do this, and the latter. Killer Croc had become accustomed to this over the long years past in the God forsaken city he made his home in, and now it was little more then protocal to most of the higher thugs in the city that the Joker seemed to think he owned.

[Scarecrow]

The figure that spoke was like a spindly, spidery shadow on the wall, in the corner, the archaic vestige, the personification of human fear given form in a gaunt abstraction.

A Scarecrow.

Each time the rocking light had shifted between the two, momentarily bathing bestial croc and ghastly Scarecrow, the light would wane from one side to the next, leaving the other obscured in darkness for the smallest of increments, in that time his eyes, glowing red through what machination one might wonder, straw and leather straps and needles obscuring his figure.

And yet his voice was pointed, darkened and muffled by threadbare mask yet having a measure of familiarity, having known of this "man" in the loosest of terms. "I'm a doctor, if I'm not making you wait I'm not doing my job." though this might have come off as a mollifying response, the tone of voice spoken in made it more divisive than respectful or ameliorating. It was ironic that by arriving early the Croc had thought to see himself the dominant figure, and by making him wait the Scarecrow reckoned he'd asserted himself. The Scarecrow did not approach, not out of fear of the reptile man nor the company he was keeping, the stench of sewer and human flesh about him, fresh from the kill as the man clearly was. Ah to see such a bloodied sight, such a horrifying site, it was like candyland to the Master of Fear.

And yet he drew closer a bit, there was no quaver in his voice, no break or deliberation on his part, it must've been a somewhat novel experience for the killer croc to hear an even tone, a benign sentiment and manner in his stead, come across a man not horrified, disgusted or terrified of him, treating more like the everyman than he'd likely ever been, the bat didn't fear him, not Bane, but within both there was a disgust. Perhaps only due to his appearance on one of the men's parts, the other because he engaged in the criminal activities he did. His continuation with a tone clearly exuberant, the idea of what he most dreamed of at the fruition of this plan brought a near tear to his eye and gusto in voice and gesture "I want a night eternal! A devil's night every night and an endless Halloween nightmare Gotham will never hope to wake from!" clearly he had given it quite a bit of thought, his movements were as ghostly and unerring as the man himself, as if he were Jacob Marley rattling about the chains of eternal damnation, the karmic punishment of a life of avarice and folly.

And yet as he outstretched cadaverous arms and his tone emerged languorous and a good bit more subdued than previously, reverent and penitent as if he were caught recounting a dream he languished in "Imagine a world where you're but one horror among a city full. A city with fear ripe for the picking. A terrifying Eden." his face could be seen contorting to a devilish smirk, as uncouth and perverse as the good doctor himself, normally a somewhat vanilla individual in practice and way before his transformation to fear god, speaking on the topic had this transformative ability, when he spoke of fear it was as if a preacher stricken by the spirit and spouting the most impassioned gospel.

Thos eyes looked upon Croc with a more pointed response, clearing his throat and seemingly returning to more pragmatic vistas such as that he stood within now. "I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I? What I need from you Mr Croc, there's a high grade, high density vault in wayne enterprises labs that contains within a single vial of a single formula that..in more..motivated hands could be put to good use. Such a safe would be of little consequence to one of your..unique ability." his tone was somewhat demonstrative. But all that could be forgiven as a taloned hand, sharpened and deadly drew forth an ambrosia of evil, mad science and ambition at it's worst given liquid form.

The Scarecrow knew how to play the game as he did, and didn't make an obvious move to show the reptile his payment just yet. He'd sweeten the pot in a few moments, as he looked to the man he came to the realization at how frail humanity was, how easily their fear mongering could be enacted. They pet chomping at it's scraps and meat hunks reminded him ever so of the more primal nature of man's fear, why so many people had Ophidiophobia, Arachnophobia, he was a talented amateur, gifted with a mishapen visage to frighten those around him with the most base of fears, of instincts, he squandered his gifts being a toadie, a lickspittle. Oh the things Jonathan could've, would've done to be given such a gift. And his understanding of fear. Men feared nature because of it's unpredictability and the helplessness that entailed therein. A Crocodile as a beast, there was nothing truly frightening about a beast, but the action it could, would do to a person given half the chance. The lowest and most primal form of fear. And yet here he stood, a spindly man who even the batman feared, who had turned him even more a cowering, sweating nervous child crying for his parents in the darkness.

No, humanity was to be feared the most, the darkness in the hearts and minds of men. The cold hatred of fellow man, the calculating decision to enact vengeance or victimize knowing the moral implications and just not caring. Animals didn't torture, they didn't hate, they didn't KNOW the pain they were causing another of their kind and just not care. Humans could be sociopaths, killers, rapists, they could commit genocide or just walk into a McBurger's and unload a few shots just because they were having a bad day, they could go postal and find justification in the most cold blooded of acts, it was almost ironic how inhumane humanity could be. And yet this creature before him could only become an avatar of fear by disregarding that which was most frightening about him.

And as he came to the realization that this man, this creature was the epitome of bestial fear and human indifference he realized that these two perfect coevals within one disgusting form might well make a more interesting subject than most of the Arkham and Blackgate criminals, rapists and reprobates he'd studied in his graduate years in college. "Working" beside this man was undoubtedly the chance to see a new level of fear and a new form of terror, something Scarecrow almost looked gleefully about under his mask. But no, he'd remained as cold as he could in their negotiations, he'd dealt with Croc's type before and knew what to expect, and what it could mean if he faltered in their most tenuous of negotiations, showing weakness to such a monster could well be fatal.

[Killer Croc]

It was a moment or two before the constumed man spoke up in answer to Killer Croc's question, and he was not very please with the answer he recieved. Croc wasn't a man that enjoyed games, he didn't like snappy remarks and didn't like foolish attempts at humor. When he asked a question, he expected a straight reply, and when he didn't get that, he got angry.

His own red eyes glowed with a light of hatred and murderous intent as his powerful, muscled tail lashed back and forth behind him, tipping one of the many stacks of rotted boxes and sending them smashing to the floor. That was a warning, and for Scarecrow's sake, Killer Croc hoped the much smaller man would be quick to get the message. Funny business wasn't welcomed in his feral presence. Croc didn't care what tone Scarecrow kept his voice at, he just wanted this deal to be sealed, and he wanted his sealed as soon as possible.

"Get on with it." Croc let out an animal-like rumble and thrust his muzzle forward with pupils narrowed into sharp slits, flashing a jagged line of sharp teeth before snapping his jaws back together again, his powerful hands groping the air as he prepared a charge at the slightest sign of betrayal. Killer Croc didn't trust this man, and he would make that clear. It didn't take much to piss off the severly overgrown mutant these days, and most everyone knew that his rage was not a very good thing to play with.

He recoiled his head ever ever so slightly as Scarecrow slid forward a few inches, preparing for an attack, an ambush, or some type of contraction to rush out and engluf him in that green colored toxin, not that it would have done much other then infuriate the fearless Killer Croc anyway. When nothing came, he let sadistic thoughts escape from his head, though Croc didn't dare to relax. While he ws sure Crane and whatever goons he may drag around with him, which didn't seem to be currently present, would pose no threat, it was always smart to expect the unexpected. He had learned that upon his first interaction with the Batman, and would remember it until death.

It was true, Killer Croc didn't often hear a voice so brazenly equal to his own. This man spoke out as if he thought they were one in the same, that he could match up with the superior might and skill of the vicious Killer Croc. Most people spoke to him as if he were a horrible, nasty figure, terrified for their lives, and Croc liked it that way. It was why he hated Joker so much, and the Bat Pack as well. Scarecrow was lucky they were here doing business that Croc very well supported, or else he'd be running for his life from Croc's own litte minions.

He reached down now to stare at the larger of the two crocodiles with a thought of kinship, dropping a hand to the beast's broad head and rubbing it along it's snout. Scarecrow was going all dramatic on him again, totally missing the direct point of the meeting to ramble off in a maliciously melodic list of ambitions. He snarled in disgust, rising from the kneeling position he had adopted to pet the crocodile beside him to shoot an angry red glare in Crane's direction. This man was luny. If anyone would ever conquer this city, it wouldn't be such a puny, fleshy human.

"Imagine a world where you're but one horror among a city full. A city with fear ripe for the picking. A terrifying Eden." Intresting, but Killer Croc certainly didn't think of it in that way. He just wanted to show everyone how dominant he was, to prove his strength and superiority to the rest of his race, if he was of the same. He didn't want any equals, he didn't want any higher power. Only him, the great whale, and a world full of shrimp that scattered and screamed upon his appearance. Scarecrow would either be dead by this time, or he, too, would join the personal buffet of Killer Croc, and there would be no stopping him.

Finally, it seemed Crane had dropped the act and realized Killer Croc was not enjoying the performance. He got to the point, much to Croc's relief, and informed him of his own wishes so that Killer Croc might achieve his own. It seemed he was looking for a way to enhance his toxin, and that was only natural for one of his type. "Alright, I'll get that vial for you, no problem. But I'll be taking some of your men with me, to act as...distractions, if any particular annoyances turn up. Not that I can't handle them myself, I just don't want to waste time on any idiot that gets in my way." Killer Croc agreed.

The actual reason for demanding some of Crane's men was to make him seem superior, with the knowledge that he had ordered and Crane had obeyed. In fact, it was most likey to be Crane's own men that got in his way rather then any of the fools at the labs, but atleast they would provide a few snacks along the way. Scarecrow was no idiot, and it was possible he saw through Croc's plan, but surely he wouldn't risk his own to point it so obviously out?

[Scarecrow]

Shadows shifted as the lights of itinerant truck poured by the docks, bathing the warehouse in the occasional artificial effulgence. And when they shifted back, returning like they were living, breathing entities in and of themselves; all that remained were the ruby eyes of the tall man, thin and ghastly. A Scarecrow, the man who walks behind the rows, The Master of terror spoke without quaver, an unerring placidity and calm despite the presence of what would best be described as a malformed, malignant monstrosity. “It's obvious this is some maladroit attempt at asserting yourself as the apex predator in this situation. Either because of your atavistic infirmity or uncouth upbringing, likely both..” he realized he was getting entirely too clinical with the croc, who wasn't entirely bright enough to understand such a diagnosis, and raised a hand and clasped it to clear his throat and did so, his thin arms crossed somewhat tightly over his chest before he continued.

Again the manner in which he spoke was absent any real emotion, cold and clinical as a drug trial or a census taker. Where firm glasses and a notepad might be there was a brown threadbare mask -hardly, crudely cut and shorn from a rough burlap sack or utilitarian satchel- and fear toxin, glowing and deadly to any, even a kryptonian couldn’t count himself immune to the most deadly and potent of the toxins Scarecrow utilized.

The tall man could weave them as if magic, as if some archaic power at the tips of his fingers that only he understood. The deep magics, greatest secrets of the universe his to manipulate as he would in ways other men could scarcely understand. The Bat likened himself a detective; no, the greatest of the recent age, a prognosticator in the vein of Holmes, Poirot and Queen. And yet he was ever behind a sizable curve when he faced the Master of Fear, as if a thief in the night, a shrouded man groping in the darkness against his fear toxin, inoculations that were constantly out of date. He’d seen the supposed Dark Knight for what he was, curled in the corner, sweating and spitting, crying out names likely long dead and woes that lived on within his black breast. And yet there were ever those who looked upon Scarecrow and saw only Crane, spindly, spiny, wiry and gaunt, they thought themselves his betters. He continued with what seemed to be one such proclaimer, his tone almost akin to doctor and reticent patient or unruly- slow- child.

Yet his voice betrayed no hint of smug or an heir of superiority, as salient and sanitized as an clinic “I’m also well aware you aren’t intimidated by me. But if you aren’t able to do the job I’m hiring you for without me micromanaging every detail, there is other muscle in this town. I’m not about to waste time or breathe on a few thugs. This isn’t animal planet. Take what you need, don’t bother me with trivialities.” It was a cold splash of water, a dark and sickening revelation to come to that Jonathan Crane cared so little for his men that he thought them beneath him to even mention in the conversation. It actually seemed insulting to him that such a subject had been deigned to be worthy of his attention. It was then his hands retreated to the folds of his long, billowing coat, and from it he drew the evergreen emerald liquid, not his usual, not fear made liquid, not power personified as far as Scarecrow was concerned.

Something much more sinister, a weapon of pure abject terror when put in the wrong hands, where his toxin was a laser guided scalpel this was a sledge hammer.

He held it akimbo in the sharpened talons that were his gloves, between his index and thumb, so small; insignificant. And yet, so powerful, a maelstrom in a vial, it could make a Scarecrow into a Scarebeast, a man into a monster, a Jekyll into a Hyde, and a croc into…”This, Croc; is the greatest payment a man of your…proclivities..tastes…could hope to receive. It turns a Scarecrow into an archaic nightmare. It would turn a Croc into..a tyrant lizard king of gotham's underworld..Breathing nightmares as if dragon’s fire.”

The Scarecrow outstretched the vial to the crocodile and then continued with perhaps a measure of irreverence “With such power no man could stand against you, Bat or or otherwise. No matter what venoms they utilize.” It was a tacit tongue in cheek play on words from the God of Fear. Obviously referring in a more poetic and flowery sense to the dark knight and the man, The Bane; who’d beaten him before breaking the batman. He found himself wondering if the Croc could handle such prose without losing the intrinsic meaning, but he had faith that such slights were not forgotten so even if he hadn’t a clue the beast would put the scarebeast formula to deadly purpose. Unlike the animals he took the likeness of and now inculcated this man was quite capable of holding onto a grudge, cold blooded as his pets at his feet, the Scarecrow knew.

As he retreated with the vial into the shadows when even his glowing eyes could not be distinguishable from sepulcher darkness, all-encompassing as fear itself “Half now and half upon completion, this is the bargain. We’ll meet at Wayne Labs midnight tomorrow to ensure everything goes as planned and you retrieve the correct accoutrement.” Before giving it, With that he seemed but a ghost in the shadows, a reverberation in the ether, disappearing like a shadow in the night and even more terrifying.

[Killer Croc]

If Killer Croc had been a cat, his fur would have bristled in fury at how easilly this man had read him, like some kind of damn picture book! Killer Croc refused to acknowledge the self proclaimed Master of Terror as the dominant creature here, in his warehouse, hell, in his very presence! He showed no regard for personal safety now, and surely with the knowledge that he was so obviously outmatched? With Killer Croc's superior strength, reflex, and speed, and surprisingly similar intellect, throwing yourself onto the pedestal like that was a death sentence.

Might as well be a guillotine up there with you, sharpened blade hoisted to the top and ready to cut off the head of such a brazen fool. Perhaps you were feared in Gotham, but you would be stupid to think that someone else was not equally frightening. At the sight of the mutated, grosteque Killer Croc, people screamed and fled to no avail, their speed and agility no match for his own. They threw themselves upon the ground in terror, hands pressed together and extended in a begging gesture for mercy they would never receive. Did similar circumstances not lie with the demented Scarecrow? Or did he really view himself the only one capable of such feats?

But no, despite the thoughts of the people, they were not the same. Killer Croc was a far more dangerous, unstable creature, with sadistic intentions not quite a cruel and malavolent, but far more savage and beastly, possessing an air, not of ghastly feature, but of raw might and ferocity that any man would envy, even if he often despised it. But what you get is what you get, and you have to make the best of it. With a single swipe of his clawed, massive hand, Killer Croc could dismantle several people. With a flood of fear toxin, Scarecrow could destroy an entire army. But it would only take one lucky shot to send him crashing, whereas Croc possessed far more durability. Ultimately, in a battle of dominance and survival, he would rise as the victor, feral and ruthless. Killer Croc gave a low growl, his grisly features twisting.

The voice behind Scarecrow's next words were more passive, but still served to further anger Croc. The fact that he was so calm in his own nightmarish shadow was irritating. Master of Fear or not, any somewhat intelligent life form would atleast be somewhat weary in his sight. Yet this man insisted on big words and a monotoned casualness that rekindled a hungry inferno within the broad chest of the scaled beast. He was on the edge of a cliff now, and if he jumped, all hell would break loose, and there would be a rage displayed like no other, with Scarecrow as the intended victim. Lucky for him, then, that his show of reward hit Croc like cooling ice, and his interest sparked within his devillish gaze, tail tip twitching as the thought of slaughtering Scarecrow faded momentarily, replaced with a sudden eagerness for the bargain at hand.

He had wanted power, and now the Scarecrow was offering it to him in the form of...some kind of new toxin, perhaps? It didn't matter, not to Croc, and though he was slightly weary of the contents, as untrusting as he was, Croc didn't show it. He took an eager step forward and shook his large head, one of the crocodiles snapping at his leg with strong jaws, but it's teeth never reached flesh, as the intention of the beast hadn't been to attack. It simply wanted attention, but Killer Croc ignored it, speaking now to the man that had caused him so much annoyance and anger in the last few minutes the meeting had taken place. "You have a deal, I'll meet you there tomorrow as the moon reaches it's peak, and if any pesks turn up, I'll crush 'em." He assured with an impatiant huff, not enthusiastic to be off in preperation.