Part 1 The water opens
The water tasted like rot and iron.
It pressed against his teeth and rushed down his throat, cold and foul and full of decay. He thrashed in it, not yet knowing who or what he was. Panic clawed through his chest. His heart thundered. His eyes snapped open to black water and shadows, to pressure and instinct and something deep inside that screamed: UP. BREATHE. MOVE.
He kicked against the muck-covered stone, rising, claws scraping for purchase, and exploded from the canal with a roar.
The night above greeted him with storm and fury. Thunder cracked across the sky in jagged streaks. Cold rain battered his shoulders, clung to his scales like wet armor. The stars above were wrong—patterns he didn't recognize, constellations twisted, distant and alien. The wind screamed through warped alleyways and rotted wooden walkways.
Waylon Jones—Killer Croc—crawled from the canal like something ancient and hungry. He stumbled onto the dock, slick wood groaning beneath his weight. His chest heaved. His vision blurred.
Something was off.
Everything was off.
Where the hell… where the hell is this?
His hands—no, claws—gripped the dock, the nails ridged and black and curved like daggers. His breathing came ragged. A tremor danced through his limbs. Water ran down his back in torrents.
He looked up. Timber buildings leaned over narrow canals. Green slime clung to brick. The scent of piss and mildew and blood mixed in the air. Torches flickered in iron brackets above shuttered windows. Distant voices echoed. A bell clanged once, somewhere upriver.
Waylon squinted. A sign—wooden, creaking, carved with letters he barely recognized. The language was close to something he knew… but not quite right. Everything was translated by instinct. His brain, shaken loose from logic, filled in gaps it didn't understand.
Something had been done to him.
Something—
FLASHBACK – SLICE OF MEMORY
Steel table. Cold against his spine.
Bright lights overhead. Wires trailing into his veins.
"Subject 117 is stabilized."
"That's not stabilization. That's sedation. He's not gonna like what comes next."
A voice. Female. Not cruel. Just tired.
Another voice, colder: "Then hope he doesn't wake up."
He flinched. The memory vanished like smoke.
A creak ahead. Footsteps.
"Oi! What in Shor's name is that?!"
Two men stepped into the lamplight at the far edge of the dock. Metal armor gleamed. One carried a short spear; the other a lantern that hissed in the rain. They stopped at once, eyes wide, faces pale.
"By the Nine…" the lantern-bearer muttered. "It's not an Argonian. Look at the bloody size of it."
Waylon blinked at them.
They were human. Mostly. Their armor was rough-forged steel, mismatched. Soldiers? Guards? Their words were strange, but understandable. Magic? Translation effect?
The spear lowered.
"Step away from the canal!" the guard barked. "Hands where I can see 'em!"
Waylon rose to his full height.
They weren't prepared for that.
Nine feet of scaled muscle unfolded in the lamplight. He loomed like a tower of black moss and swamp iron, back broad enough to carry a wagon. Water dripped from every curve of his armor-plated flesh. His claws clicked against the wood.
The guards stiffened.
"You heard me, beast! I said—!"
Waylon's lip curled. He bared jagged teeth. "Where… is this?" His voice was rough as rust, thick with confusion and hunger.
The guards looked at each other.
"Doesn't matter what it is," the sword-drawer said. "Take it down!"
He lunged.
Croc met him halfway.
The dock cracked beneath the force of impact. The guard's armor folded inward like tin. Waylon's claws drove into the man's ribs, lifted him off his feet—and his jaws closed around the shoulder.
The scream never finished. Flesh tore. Bone snapped.
Blood fountained.
Waylon twisted. The body flailed once, then went limp. He ripped loose a mouthful of flesh and chewed instinctively. Rain smeared the red across his face. His breathing slowed. Warmth bloomed in his chest.
He felt it—cells knitting, nerves repairing. The meat healed him.
His head lifted slowly. His eyes locked on the other guard.
The man had dropped the lantern. It shattered at his feet, the oil flaring briefly before dying in the rain. He stumbled back, mouth open.
"No… no, that's not—" His voice cracked. "It's not real—"
Waylon's gaze didn't waver.
"Run." The word slipped out with a low, guttural purr.
The guard didn't need to be told twice.
He turned and sprinted back toward the alley, slipping on the wet boards, nearly falling into the canal himself. His boots thudded against the walkway. His sword lay forgotten behind him.
Waylon watched him vanish into shadow.
FLASHBACK – SHARPER NOW
Lab in chaos. Lights flickering red.
"His vitals are spiking—he's rejecting the stabilizer!"
"Shut it down!"
"It's too late, it's—"
A pulse. Like gravity collapsing in his chest.
He remembers screaming. Or maybe the room did.
Then: white, blinding—followed by green.
He knelt beside the corpse.
His claws slid through flesh like butter. He opened the body with casual, practiced strength. Arteries severed. Organs shifted. He bit down again. Another surge of warmth. More strength. The numbness in his spine faded. His breathing steadied.
A shadow passed over his memory.
He'd done this before. Back home.
Gotham sewers. Police flashlights. Screaming men in riot armor.
"He's a monster," they'd said.
No one had ever asked what he wanted.
Waylon licked the blood from his claws. It tasted bitter. Not right. But good enough. He turned toward the alley, hunched low, muscles twitching under the skin.
He was stronger. And still getting stronger.
The wind howled. From above, a shutter slammed open, then shut. Farther off, a bell rang—frantic, alert.
They would be coming.
And Waylon Jones didn't know where he was.
But now the city knew he was here.
Part ll Wrong world
The dock creaked under him as he stood, fully upright again. The body at his feet twitched once in some involuntary death-spasm, but he didn't look down.
He looked up.
And what he saw didn't fit.
The sky—if that's what it could be called—was wrong. Wrong in ways that made his stomach twist and his instincts crawl. Too many stars, scattered in constellations that meant nothing. Cold, bright points watching him from a blacker black than Gotham had ever known. No smog. No air traffic. No blinking red aircraft lights.
The moon—moons—there were two of them. One full, silver, watchful. The other a pale, crescent shard.
He turned slowly, surveying the buildings around him. Everything smelled of wet wood and rot. The air was sharp with smoke, brine, and the acrid stench of fish gone long to mold. Buildings leaned against one another like drunks on a cold night, made of timber and stone, patched with moss. Iron hinges. Shuttered windows. No electric hum. No neon lights.
The torch above a nearby door flickered with real fire.
He narrowed his eyes.
"Not Earth…" he muttered. His voice echoed down the canal like a threat. "Not even close."
Something dripped from his chin—blood or rainwater, he wasn't sure. His tongue flicked over his teeth, slow, deliberate. He could still taste steel and meat.
A scream pierced the distance—female, high, fleeting. Windows slammed shut. Boots clattered on cobblestone.
The word was spreading.
He stepped forward, claws tapping on the dock. His muscles flexed as he moved—like steel cables beneath stone. His skin, already knitting from bruises and scrapes, tugged smooth across his back. He sniffed the air.
Six distinct smells. Three coming fast. Leather, sweat, iron. Metal on hips. He crouched instinctively behind a rain barrel just before another pair of guards charged into the scene, lanterns up, blades drawn.
"What happened here—by the gods!" one choked out.
The corpse lay crumpled near the edge of the water, ribcage torn open like a butchered ox.
"Is that—?"
"Jonric," the second said, voice hollow. "That's Jonric."
They moved cautiously, not yet noticing the hulking shadow in the alley gap.
Croc watched them.
They were armored, yes, but they weren't soldiers. He could see it in the way they held their blades—tension in the elbows, uncertain footing. Not trained killers. Guards. Civilians with steel and paychecks.
He could take them. Easily.
But something in him told him not to.
He was too exposed here. Too visible.
He backed away into the narrow pass behind the crates, slipping into the shadows. They'd see the blood trail eventually, maybe even track him. But not tonight. Not yet.
He needed to disappear.
FLASHBACK – SLOWER NOW
His fists pounding against steel restraints.
Pain behind his eyes.
"Why's he rejecting the field anchor? The simulation should have stabilized him."
"Maybe he doesn't belong in it."
Another hum—high, almost musical, followed by a searing light.
Reality tilted sideways.
Time tore like wet fabric.
Then—nothing.
He blinked.
Ahead, a stone archway led downward into deeper shadow. A grate hung loose in its hinges, wet footprints visible in the grime. Faint torchlight flickered below.
A sign above, in that strange, almost-English script: THE RATWAY.
It pulled at him.
Something about the word rat felt familiar. Like home. Filth. Warmth. Hideaways beneath a cruel city. Gotham's guts had looked like this.
He ducked inside.
The tunnel was slick and tight, forcing him to hunch. Water dripped from unseen cracks in the stone. The air was colder here—stale, soaked in mildew and old breath.
He moved quietly, despite his size. His feet knew how to avoid puddles. His claws curled inward to mute their tap. His eyes adjusted to the dark within seconds.
Torches lined the walls at uneven intervals. Rotted crates and broken carts littered the space. Graffiti in strange runes curled along the stone—names, curses, directions maybe. His fingers brushed the wall. It felt real. Too real.
A rat scurried by. He watched it.
Then he sat. Just for a moment.
He leaned back against the wall, claw resting on his knee, chest still rising and falling.
There were no sirens. No helicopters. No Joker. No Batman.
No voices over the comms. No cells. No screaming Arkham lunatics in the next hallway.
Just him.
Alone.
"Where the hell am I?" he muttered again.
The water in the canal rippled behind him, faint but constant. The firelight ahead wavered. And somewhere far above, the city called Riften began to whisper about the monster that came from the water and left a guard in pieces.
Part lll Blood in the canal
He moved like a shadow—though too heavy to be silent, he was quiet enough.
The Ratway was narrow and old, the stones slick with generations of foot traffic, sweat, and spilled wine. Torchlight flickered ahead, low and orange, painting the walls with twitching flame shapes. A heavy stench hung in the air—damp clothes, urine, spoiled meat. Someone had lived here for a long time. Or many someones.
Waylon's claws flexed at his sides. The bleeding in his shoulder had stopped entirely. He could feel new skin toughening beneath his scales.
The tunnel opened into a wider chamber—stone floor, wood-beamed ceiling, half-collapsed in the corner. A low fire pit burned in a metal dish. Crates were stacked high to form a kind of barricade. Someone lived here. Recently.
He heard the voice before he saw the man.
"—should've burned the whole nest. Black-Scaled bastards ain't fit to breathe the same air."
Croc's eyes narrowed. He stopped just inside the shadows.
A squat Nord with a greasy beard sat at the fire, roasting something on a spit. A half-bottle of mead in one hand, an old iron sword resting at his side. He wasn't armored—ragged furs, patched boots, one eye half-closed from drink.
"And what do they do? Creep up from the docks, take our coin, beg like swamp rats. 'Hist this' and 'Hist that'—pah. Shove the Hist up their tail-holes."
He spit into the fire.
Waylon stepped forward, slow and deliberate, letting his claw drag across the stone floor with a sharp ksskkkk.
The Nord jerked.
"Who's there?"
He rose slowly, grabbing the sword by its handle. His eyes flicked toward the shadow—then froze.
"Damn," he muttered, voice low, like he didn't believe what he saw. "You're a big one…"
Croc said nothing. He stepped closer into the light.
The Nord's eyes darted up and down—taking in the scale patterns, the fangs, the claws, the slitted pupils.
"I knew it. One of you lizard freaks. You people are gettin' braver these days, huh? Comin' down here like you own the damn tunnels."
Waylon tilted his head. "You keep sayin' that word."
"What, lizard?" The man smirked. "I could call you worse."
"No. Argonian."
The smirk faltered.
"You don't know what you are?" The Nord gave a short laugh. "That's rich."
Croc stepped closer. The torchlight hit him full now—massive frame, jagged teeth glistening with old blood. His shadow loomed across the fire.
"I said," Croc growled, voice like thunder through wet gravel, "What's an Argonian?"
The Nord tried to step back—tripped on a cracked board.
"Swamp filth," he spat. "Slaves. Knife-ears in scales. Come up from the marshes to take our coin and stink up our streets. Look like you. Only smaller. Uglier. Speak some freak lizard tongue."
Waylon blinked.
Others like me.
The thought struck hard. It twisted in his gut like hunger.
Then the man raised his sword.
He didn't even swing it. Just raised it.
Waylon was on him before he finished the motion.
Claws slammed into the man's chest, pinning him to the wall. The old sword clattered to the floor.
"Tell me where they are."
The man choked, struggling, boots scraping against the wall behind him. "Wh-what—?"
"The others," Croc snarled. "Argonians."
"There's—ghhkk—some… in the city…" The man's words thinned with panic. "Docks—gheh—they got a shack. Please—"
Waylon's hand tightened.
"You talked a lot," he said, low.
The claws tore through ribs, and the Nord gave one final scream before collapsing in a heap. Croc stood over the body, breathing hard, blood steaming off his hands.
He reached down, wiped his fingers on the man's shirt. His thoughts spun.
So this place had others like him. Sort of.
He didn't know what that meant yet. Didn't know if he should care. But it was the first thing in this gods-damned world that made even a sliver of sense.
He turned away from the fire, back into the darkness of the Ratway.
Part lV Into the ratway
The stones sloped downward in uneven steps, slick with moss and dripping slime. Croc moved carefully, claws brushing the wall, tail dragging behind him in long, heavy arcs.
The Ratway wasn't just a tunnel—it was a world beneath the world. Twisting paths, crumbling stairwells, half-flooded rooms filled with crates, bones, refuse. And rats. So many rats. Some scattered as he passed. Others froze, watching with rodent intelligence as the giant lizard-thing stalked past like a moving avalanche of muscle.
Up above, he heard shouting. Then bell tolls.
Someone was talking about him.
🏰 Aboveground – Riften Guard Barracks, an Hour Earlier
The second guard—Joran—was still shaking as he sat on the bench near the hearth. His armor was dented, soaked, and stained near the collar.
"I'm not lyin'," he insisted for the third time. "It wasn't no Argonian. It was like a troll with scales. Tall as two men. Hands like meat-hooks. It ripped Jonric apart like a roast chicken—ate him, gods damn it! Took a bite out of his side like it was breakfast."
The captain leaned forward. "You're saying it spoke?"
"It asked where it was. Had this… voice, like rock bein' chewed. And those eyes—pale green, slitted like a snake's. They glowed. I saw 'em."
A scribe scratched notes on a scroll. Another guard leaned over his shoulder.
"This thing got a name?"
Joran shook his head. "He didn't say. Just… looked at me like he was bored. Then he told me to run."
"You ran from it?"
"Anyone would've." He wiped his mouth. "You didn't see what I saw."
📰 That Afternoon – Riften Market Square
A small sheet of parchment was posted to the notice board by the Black-Briar mead stall.
WANTED FOR MURDER AND TERRORISM
Description: Nine-foot Argonian male, possibly Daedric-mutated.
Green-black scales. Razor fangs. Immune to steel.
Last seen in Riften canals. May be hiding in the Ratway.
Approach with extreme caution. Flee on sight.
Reward offered by order of the Riften Guard and Lady Maven Black-Briar.
People gathered to read it, muttering, laughing, spitting.
A thin man in a miner's cloak scoffed. "Nine feet? Right. Must've been high on skooma."
His friend smirked. "Argonians don't get that big. Hell, they barely reach my chin."
"Maybe it's a Khajiit in disguise," someone else offered. "Or one o' them Reachmen wearin' a lizard suit."
They chuckled. Walked off. The wind flapped the parchment gently on the board.
Below the surface, the thing they joked about listened to footsteps echo above.
🕳️ Back Below – The Ratway
Croc knelt beside a trickling stream of water flowing down the center of a tunnel. He dipped a claw in the current and sniffed the air. It reeked of wet earth, mold, and rust.
But underneath that—yes. Spice. Oil. Salted fish. Cooked onion.
A food scent. Cooked, not raw. Something lived nearby.
He moved toward it, climbing over a half-collapsed stairwell into a chamber where candlelight flickered beneath a crooked doorway.
Footsteps above again. Faint. Nervous.
They don't believe, he thought.
That's good.
They'd scream louder when they finally saw him.
Part V: "The Smell of Thieves"
The stone corridor narrowed into a rounded arch, covered in soot and scratched with graffiti. Faint candlelight bled from beyond. The smell of ale, sweat, oil, and piss thickened with every step.
Waylon pressed a hand to the stone wall and breathed deep.
This was a den.
His kind of place.
He stepped into the next chamber—a large, low-ceilinged tavern built into the sewer's belly. Wood planks made uneven walkways over stagnant water. A central bar stood ringed with cracked stools and old crates. Dirty lanterns swung from chains. A faded banner bearing the Thieves Guild symbol hung crooked behind the counter.
There were maybe ten people in the room.
Until the moment he walked in.
Then—there were ten statues.
Silence dropped like a hammer.
A Nord woman halfway through a mug of ale froze with her cup to her lips. A Khajiit at the end of the bar hissed audibly and backed into the wall. A Dunmer dropped his dice mid-roll and whispered, "No…"
Croc walked in slowly, casually, his claws clicking on the wood. Blood still crusted around his left forearm. His tail swung low behind him, heavy as a ship anchor.
No one moved.
One of the guild pickpockets—a skinny Redguard boy—dropped to his knees and began to pray under his breath. Another thief actually ran for the back exit, splashing through water, muttering "No no no no no—"
Croc didn't look at them.
He just walked to the bar.
Behind it, the barkeep—an older Breton with a scar across one eye—stared, frozen. His hands didn't move. His lips parted as if he wanted to scream, or cry, or confess his sins.
Waylon sat.
The wood groaned. The stool nearly split in two under his weight. One of its legs cracked with a faint snap, but it held.
Then he spoke.
"Whiskey. Or closest thing you got."
The barkeep blinked. "Wh… whiskey?"
Waylon looked at him. One eye twitching with amusement. "Did I stutter?"
The man stumbled back, grabbed a bottle off the shelf with shaking hands. He poured a splash of amber liquid into a thick wooden mug and slid it across the bar. Croc caught it in one clawed hand.
He drank. All at once.
Then he reached into a pouch at his side.
The bar went silent again as he placed three coins on the wood.
They hit the surface with a soft clink.
Gold septims.
But they weren't clean.
They were covered in dried blood—one of them still had a bit of torn fabric stuck to its rim.
The bar reeked of iron for a moment. The barkeep didn't touch them.
Waylon pushed the coins forward. "Keep the change."
He stood.
And just walked out.
Nobody followed. Nobody said a word.
As his heavy footsteps faded back down the corridor, someone whispered, voice trembling:
"Was that… was that Nocturnal's punishment?"
"No," someone else muttered. "Worse."
Part VI: "The First Whisper"
The whisper didn't start in the tavern. It started in the space after he left—when the breathless silence finally broke.
A young thief—a Breton boy named Sellan—pressed his back against the wall, eyes wide, hand trembling as he reached for his charcoal stub. He didn't speak. He just stared at the stool Croc had sat on, still warm, still dripping with blood from one of the coins left behind.
Then he turned to a patch of unused parchment, his hands moving on instinct.
He sketched what he remembered.
The hulking frame. The claws wrapped around a wooden mug. The massive head tilted just slightly, that inhuman snout half-shadowed by flickering lantern light. The steam rising from his scales. The stool bending beneath his weight.
And the eyes. Those cold green eyes, focused only on the drink.
🗞️ Three Days Later – Riften, The Bee and Barb Tavern
A half-dozen copies of the sketch passed from hand to hand, pinned to notice boards and slipped under tankards. Most were smeared from wet hands or torn by careless fingers.
At one of the central tables, a fat Imperial merchant squinted at the drawing through ale-blurred eyes.
"What's this?" he grunted, waving it at the barmaid. "New monster story?"
She glanced at it. "Some sewer rat said he saw a nine-foot lizard drinking whiskey in the Flagon."
The merchant snorted. "Looks like a troll in armor. What's this s'posed to be, a joke?"
The Dunmer beside him grinned. "He paid in blood. That's the story."
A few patrons chuckled.
One woman rolled her eyes. "Argonians don't grow that big. My uncle's married to one. They're barely shoulder height."
"Maybe it's a werewolf in disguise," someone muttered.
"No. Look at those claws," said a younger man. "Could be Daedric."
They argued. Laughed. Passed the sketch along.
Above them, nailed to a wooden support beam, one of the original copies fluttered slightly in the breeze. The ink had smudged along the jawline, making the mouth appear wider than it was. The eyes had been shaded deep green.
Someone—maybe the artist, maybe not—had scrawled a nickname underneath in bold, uneven lettering:
"The Marsh Demon"
🕳️ Meanwhile – The Deepest Tunnels of the Ratway
Waylon crouched in the dark, tail curled beneath him, half-hidden behind crates slick with slime and straw.
The chamber was dead quiet. One torch guttered near the exit.
His back rested against the stone wall, his arms crossed loosely. His breathing was slow, measured. His eyes were closed—but he wasn't asleep.
He was listening.
To the city above. To the heartbeat of Riften's underbelly.
They didn't believe in him yet.
But they would.