Without A System Cheat. (Oneshot)

Title: Without A System Cheat.
(A Gotham Tale)

The night was colder than usual. The city breathed steam from its gutters, a toxic rhythm of sirens, gunshots, and muffled screams echoing between concrete tombstones. Gotham was alive. And it was bleeding.

A blur of scales and fury crashed through a row of parked cars, sending metal screeching into the air like tin foil. Killer Croc—six hundred pounds of muscle, scales, and hate—was on a rampage. His roar shredded the calm of Crime Alley as he tore through the streets like an unstoppable tank.

Batman pursued on foot.

The Batmobile lay crippled a dozen blocks behind, one tire blown apart by a piece of jagged rebar. The Batwing was grounded for maintenance. Robin was at school—by Bruce’s insistence. Which meant tonight, the Dark Knight was truly alone.

His cape snapped like a whip in the wind as he vaulted over a burning sedan, landing in a crouch. His gloved fingers brushed the cracked pavement, his lungs drawing in the burnt air.

“Croc!” Batman’s voice cut through the chaos. “You’re done running.”

“RAAAAHHHH!” Killer Croc didn’t even slow down. He smashed through a storefront window, sending shards scattering like glitter. Inside, panicked civilians screamed and scattered.

Croc didn’t chase them—he destroyed them. A swiping claw, a crunch of bone. Batman’s jaw clenched as he flung a series of foam Batarangs—each one detonating into a viscous medical gel on impact, sealing wounds, stopping bleeding. It bought the victims time, but every second he spent saving lives pulled him further from the beast he needed to stop.

Croc burst through the opposite side of the store, his tail taking out a lamppost as he barreled toward the sewer entrance at the next intersection.

“Of course,” Batman hissed, sprinting after him. “Back to the tunnels.”

Croc looked over his shoulder, jagged teeth glinting in the streetlight. His reptilian grin stretched wide. “Not fast enough, Bat!” he mocked, his voice gravel wrapped in venom. “Guess you losin’ your touch!”

Then his yellow eyes caught movement—small, human, careless.

A boy. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Standing in the middle of the street, hoodie up, backpack slung over one shoulder. Eyes on his phone. Unaware.

Croc grinned wider, saliva dripping. “Dinner.”

Batman’s heart jumped. “NO!”

Croc raised a clawed arm the size of a steel beam—

—and then the world broke.

The kid didn’t look up. Didn’t even seem to register the monster lunging at him. He just… moved his hand. Casually.

A lazy backhand.

It was almost comical how effortless it looked.

The air detonated.

Killer Croc’s entire body disintegrated against the impact—his bones liquefied, his scales vaporized. A red mist exploded across the nearest wall, painting it in what could only be described as modern art made of horror.

The street fell silent.

Batman froze mid-step, one hand still extended toward his utility belt. The sound of the foam cartridges hissing behind him was the only thing moving in the world.

A couple of bystanders who hadn’t fled stood rooted in disbelief, their phones recording trembling footage that would never make sense.

And in the middle of that silence, the kid frowned down at his phone.

“Man… where is this Ashen Motel?” he muttered, squinting at a cracked GPS screen. “Stupid map keeps resetting.”

He looked around—at the bloodstained walls, the shattered streetlights, the Dark Knight himself glaring from across the block—and sighed.

“Guess this is Gotham,” he said. “Figures.”

He adjusted his backpack, yawned, and walked off down the street—footsteps quiet, measured, and completely unconcerned that he had just turned one of Gotham’s most notorious monsters into red dust.

Batman finally moved, stepping into the carnage, his eyes narrowing beneath the cowl. He crouched, scanning the impact zone. No weapon signature. No tech. No explosion residue. Just raw, incomprehensible power.

His mind raced.
No aura. No metahuman trace. No enhancement readings from his cowl’s sensors. Nothing.

“Not Kryptonian,” he muttered. “Not Martian.”

He replayed the moment in his mind—Croc’s body folding in half mid-air. The faint sonic crack. The sheer blunt force behind a single human motion.

The boy had hit him like a cannon.

Batman’s comm crackled in his ear—Oracle’s voice cut through. “Bruce? I’m picking up a weird seismic anomaly from your location. You okay?”

Batman’s jaw tightened. “Send me everything you have on an individual… male, mid-teens. No identity on file. Possibly new metahuman arrival.”

“Got it. Any codename?”

Batman’s gaze followed the disappearing figure as he vanished around the corner, the street returning to its chaotic heartbeat.

“No,” Batman said, standing to his full height. “But he just erased Killer Croc with one hand.”

Oracle hesitated. “…That’s not possible.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed behind the white lenses of his mask.

“Exactly.”

He turned away, cape flaring behind him, the red-stained wall lingering in the distance like a question Gotham itself couldn’t answer.

And down the block, the boy—Jules—walked on, still scrolling his phone, still lost.

He had no idea what this world was.
No idea who he’d just killed.
No system. No cheat.
Just power.

Unfathomable, absolute power.

And Gotham had just met him.