A/N: On one of the tumblrs I run, Twinings and I offered ourselves up for one full week of filling fic prompts for our readers, varying in length from a hundred to a thousand-plus words. The project has been dubbed the Free For All Fic For All—or FFAFFA for short. This is one of those stories—and this is the boilerplate author's note you'll see on all of 'em.

Prompt: Killer Croc in something with no people eating or gore.

Notes: The Killer Croc I tend to write is an extrapolation based on various aspects of comics canon, not based on any one single depiction. Onward!

It isn't the hand on her shoulder roughly shoving her aside that yanks her out of her Gotham tourist daydream, or the rush of wind as the mugger passes, but the crisp, sharp snap! of her purse strap as it's ripped away from her body. Even as she loses her balance, stumbling and scraping her knee, tearing a hole in her cotton sundress, her first fleeting thought is I just bought that!

It lasts but a moment; logic takes over.

"Stop!" she cries, pulling herself off the ground, ignoring the slow trickle of blood running down her shin. "Somebody stop him!"

When she hears her own words, she realizes how futile the action was. Gotham City at dusk is not a place where good Samaritans make a point to linger.

The mugger throws a glance over his shoulder at the fresh faced, fresh-off-the-farm girl limping after him and gives her a smug I'm going to get away with this, babe, grin.

He doesn't see the large, muscular arm shoot out of the shadows of an alleyway until it's snatched him by the collar.

She does. Some of her instincts tell her to run in the opposite direction; the others urge her forward.

The mugger screams.

The sound of a body hitting a dumpster rings clear in the early evening air.

Panting, she comes to a stop at the mouth of the alley, only to stagger back and trip over her own feet. She lands on her backside in a puddle of motor oil.

Her eyes sweep upwards, from the dangling broken purse strap to the purse itself, to the large, scaly, green hands that hold it.

"I'm ain't in the business of good deeds, cher," the seven foot tall behemoth says smoothly, flipping the purse open and removing the wallet inside. He glances at her driver's license and graces her with a serpentine smile. "But you havin' a pretty bad day today, no?"

The scream that was bubbling up dies a quick death in her throat and she nods slowly.

He looks from left to right, checking to see if the coast is clear and leans toward her. She feels compelled to recoil but mysteriously doesn't. Distantly, she wonders if she's stupid or just petrified. Possibly a bit of both.

"I tell you what, ange," he says, "you and me, we share."

The large lizard man reaches for the mugger's unconscious body, ripping all his pockets open in short order with one large claw. Dozens of loose bills spill forth and flutter to the pavement. Fast he may have been, but smart her mugger was not.

He scoops up a handful of bills and offers them to her, palm up. "Buy yourself something pretty."

Killer Croc moves his hand towards her, urging her to take it. "To replace what he wrecked, n'est–ce pas?"