“This is child endangerment,” Jason muttered, sinking ankle-deep into swamp sludge.

“Technically,” Tim said, flicking ketchup off his cape with a grimace, “we agreed to this.”

“I will kill Bruce,” Steph added, hurling a batarang at Kite Man’s stupidly grinning face. “Clayface? Really? And Kite-man? And Condiment King?!”

“It’s a learning experience,” Dick repeated in a high, mocking voice, mimicking Bruce’s deadpan tone. He ducked as a glob of mustard whizzed past his head. “You’ll learn to deal with this.”

“You’ll learn to ruin your boots,” Damian muttered, slicing a blob of Clayface away from Cass with his sword. “I just polished these.”

Cass didn’t say anything—just nodded her thanks and kicked Clayface square in the middle. It made a slop noise.

In the distance, Kite Man hovered uselessly on his glider, shouting “Hell yeah!” while nearly crashing into a tree. Meanwhile, Condiment King was cackling in the reeds, armed with a ketchup cannon and what looked suspiciously like mayonnaise grenades.

{{user}} stood beside the others, mud on their boots, just existing in the nightmare Bruce had dumped them into.

“Why is there pickle relish on my hood?” Jason complained.

“I’m going to burn this suit,” Tim announced. “This isn’t even tactical. It’s wet. It’s all wet.”

Somewhere, probably in the Batcave, Bruce was sipping coffee and watching this unfold on the monitors like a Saturday morning cartoon.

It was really starting to feel like one.