Once everyone had what they needed, they suited up inside the bathroom before heading to the conference room.
The metallic echoes of buckles, clasps, and zippers filled the small space, each man adjusting his gear in silence — the calm before whatever storm Amanda Waller had prepared for them.
When the door finally opened, four figures stepped out almost at the same time, like the strangest parade of soldiers ever assembled.
Bloodsport led the way.
He was wrapped in a sophisticated piece of black and bronze-gold tactical armor, sleek and lethal-looking. The plating hugged his frame perfectly, built to withstand hell itself. Tiny seams and ports hinted at the complex weapon system integrated within — collapsible nanotech tools of destruction, hidden under the armor like venom under skin. His full-face helmet, with its skull-like shape and opaque visor, gave him an aura of controlled menace — a man whose every breath seemed calculated.
Right behind him was Peacemaker, practically the visual opposite.
His suit was loud — a padded jumpsuit in blazing red, white, and blue, with a cartoonish eagle emblem across his chest. But the centerpiece was his oversized, silver-chrome helmet, perfectly polished, reflecting the fluorescent light like a trophy. It was absurdly shiny, absurdly patriotic, and absurdly Peacemaker. He stood proud, chest puffed like an action figure come to life.
Next came Polka-Dot Man, and the tone shifted.
His uniform looked like something out of a twisted carnival — a white bodysuit completely covered in large, colorful polka dots that seemed to shimmer faintly under the lights. To the untrained eye, it was ridiculous. To those who knew better, it was tragic. The man beneath it, Abner Krill, wore an expression that oscillated between embarrassment and quiet pain, his shoulders hunched as if the very suit mocked him.
And finally, there was Spider-Man — or rather, Peter Parker, the notorious thief now pressed into service.
His suit was dark — black and crimson spandex lined with subtle armored panels and web-like etchings. Sleek, intimidating, and built for stealth. It clung to him like a second skin, the red spider symbol stretching across his chest like a threat rather than a warning. He rolled his shoulders, getting used to the feel of it again after months in orange fabric.
Peacemaker looked around — then saw Polka-Dot Man.
And immediately burst out laughing.
"What the fuck are you laughing about?" growled Bloodsport, his voice distorted through his helmet's speakers.
Peacemaker doubled over, slapping his thigh. "His suit, man! Hahaha! It's like somebody threw bowls of paint at him and called it 'art!'"
Abner lowered his head, visibly shrinking under the mockery, his hands tightening into fists as the laughter echoed down the hallway.
Big mistake.
Peter tilted his head, his masked face turning toward Peacemaker. "Big words from the guy wearing a toilet seat for a helmet."
Peacemaker stopped laughing immediately. The silence that followed was loud enough to make Bloodsport smirk under his mask.
"Don't you dare insult my suit," Peacemaker said coldly. "It represents freedom and liberty."
Peter crossed his arms. "Really? Because right now, I'm exercising my freedom of speech to make fun of the salad bowl you've got on your head."
Bloodsport tried, and failed, to hold back a snort. Peacemaker glared daggers at him, then turned back to Peter.
For a moment, the two men just stared at each other — until Peacemaker unexpectedly started to chuckle.
"Heh… salad bowl, that was a good one," he said, and then his smile vanished. In a single motion, he drew his pistol and aimed it straight at Peter's head. "You still think it's funny? Huh?"
KACHACK!
"Drop the weapon, Peacemaker!" barked Bloodsport, raising his own rifle.
"Not until he apologizes for saying my helmet looks like a fucking trash can!" shouted Peacemaker, finger tightening on the trigger.
"I didn't say that," Peter replied calmly.
"SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" both Peacemaker and Bloodsport yelled at once.
Peter slowly raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, relax, Captain America and his evil twin."
"Believe me," warned Bloodsport, "you don't wanna do this."
Peacemaker sneered. "Why? You gonna shoot me if I don't?"
Bloodsport's visor glinted as he tilted his head toward Peter. "No. He will."
"What do you mea—"
"Bloodsport, shut your fucking mouth!" Peter interrupted, stepping forward. In one swift, unnerving motion, he grabbed the barrel of Peacemaker's gun and pressed it against his own forehead. The tone of his voice changed — darker, venomous.
"Come on, cowboy. Shoot me. Go ahead, and see what happens."
For the first time, Peacemaker's hand trembled. His bravado cracked. He stared into Peter's masked lenses — two unblinking eyes reflecting his own fear. A single drop of sweat slid down his temple before he finally backed off, holstering the weapon.
"Forget it," Peacemaker muttered. "I don't kill unless it's to preserve peace."
"Good talk," Peter said, patting his shoulder once before turning toward the exit. "Okay, let's go, Sport and Dot!"
Bloodsport released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding as he lowered his weapon. He and Polka-Dot Man quickly followed, the echo of Peter's footsteps leading them toward the conference room.
As they walked, Bloodsport came closer, removing his helmet and whispering, "Were you actually gonna kill him?"
Peter didn't look at him. "What do you think, Sport?" he replied cryptically, which only made Bloodsport's stomach tighten.
Moments later, Polka-Dot Man moved up beside Peter, keeping his gaze on the ground. "Thanks," he murmured softly.
Peter turned his head. "For what?"
"For… defending me."
Peter chuckled. "Hey, what are teammates for?" He patted Abner's shoulder lightly as they entered the corridor, the tension still lingering behind them like smoke.
---
Once they arrived at the conference room, Waller instantly started with the information debrief:
"Corto Maltese is a small island nation off the coast of South America. Over the past hundred years, the country has been ruled with an iron fist by the Herrera family. But, a week ago, General Silvio Luna and his right-hand man, Major General Mateo Suárez, staged a violent military coup. The entire Herrera family was hanged in a public execution. While the United States did not condone the Herrera regime's abuses, they maintained a working relationship. Luna, however, is virulently anti-American."
Peacemaker's hand rose before anyone else could respond. "So… you want us to kill Luna?"
Waller's fingertip slid over the console and the screen flared to life. The image that filled the wall was less a map than a promise: a jagged black rock, half natural formation and half man-made fortress, clinging to the ocean like a wound. Ramps, antennae, and a lattice of scaffolding carved into it; a satellite dish the size of a barn jutted from one side.
"No." She let the word hang for a moment. "This is Jotunheim. A scientific experimentation facility containing something known only as Project Starfish. Our intelligence indicates Starfish is extraterrestrial in origin. In Luna's hands, it would be a cataclysm. Your mission is infiltration: enter Jotunheim, find every trace of Project Starfish, and destroy it. No political hits, no regime change—destroy the program."
"How are we supposed to get in?" Peter asked from the second row. He had pulled his mask halfway off—face bare from nose down, the orange collar of his jumpsuit still showing beneath the neck of his stealth suit. The half-exposed look made him look like a man trying on a façade he hadn't worn in years.
"Gaius Grieves—'the Thinker'—is the chief geneticist on the project," Waller said. "He's arrogant, brilliant, and predictably corrupt. After hours he drinks at a gentlemen's club called La Gatita Amable. Get Grieves to help you—by negotiation, persuasion, or coercion—and he'll provide you access. Understood?"
"And remember," she added, hardening her tone, "this is black ops. Nothing you see here happened. Understood?"
A chorus of grumbles and muttered "understoods" answered her.
Cleo raised her hand timidly—cute, naive, hair still mussed from the cell bunk—and pointed at an old projector sitting on a rolling cart in the corner. "What is that?" she asked, voice small and earnest.
Waller's eyes flicked to the relic and then back to Cleo. "That is an overhead projector."
Cleo blinked. "Do you ever use it anymore?"
"No," Waller said.
Cleo looked puzzled for half a beat and then, in the way of someone who truly believed in the small comforts of the world, followed up with, "So, why don't you just throw it away?" She asked innocently.
Waller ignored the suggestion and turned to find Peacemaker already scribbling something into a small notebook. He lifted his hand.
"Peacemaker?"
"Starfish is slang for a butthole, think there's any connection?"
Peter, unmasked and lounging in the row below, turned his head and arched an eyebrow. "Is it too late to regret coming?" he called, half-serious.
A beat passed. Waller didn't seem to react to his words. "No." She answered ignoring Peter.
Peacemaker wrote it down. "No… connection," he murmured to himself, nodding as if closure had been achieved.
Nanaue's massive hand shot up. "Nanaue," Waller prompted.
"Hand," he answered as he pointed at his own hand matter-of-factly.
"Yes, that is your hand, Nanaue. Very good," Waller said, letting the absurdity of the moment pass like a breeze.
Bloodsport sat forward, eyes like flint. "We going to have an insertion plan? Extraction?"
Waller flattened a palm to the console and a schematic of Jotunheim rotated into view, annotations blooming like scars. "There are three access points. A supply shaft that feeds the lower labs, minimally guarded but with environmental seals. A maintenance corridor that can be accessed from the eastern pier, heavily patrolled but with a choke point you can exploit. And—the only one I recommend if you want a soft entry—the guest elevator under the guise of a subcontractor inspection, courtesy of Dr. Grieves."
Polka-Dot Man—Abner—kept his chin tucked, eyes haunted but attentive. "We… destroy all of the Starfish?" His voice was small, almost hopeful, as if the assignment might be a simple, logical fix.
"You destroy anything that smacks of extraterrestrial bioweaponry," Waller said bluntly. "You complete that order, and ten years come out of your sentence."
Bloodsport drummed his fingers on the table. "And if we fail?"
Waller's gaze was a flat blade. "If you fail, you will die. And if you betray us in any fashion, I will personally ensure whatever's left of you disappears. Any questions?"
A silence hummed in the conference room.
"We're all gonna die," Bloodsport said, half in jest, half fatalism.
"Second that," Peter replied, smirking despite the tension. He glanced at Cleo—she was listening as if to a bedtime story, wide-eyed and safe in her own obliviousness.
"I hope so," Abner muttered, an odd little smile ghosting across his face.
"You really are a bowl of sunshine and rainbows, aren't you?" Peter said, voice thick with sarcasm.
Cleo's reply came soft and earnest. "It's okay to be scared," she said, as if sharing a secret. "But sometimes—if you're lucky—you find people who hold your hand."
The room had a beat. Even Bloodsport's face softened imperceptibly. Peter's smirk flickered, then returned—less cocky, more human. Waller's jaw didn't move. She clicked the console and a cold, businesslike tone returned to the room.
"Two hours," she said. "Briefing ends. Gear up, get mentally ready. La Gatita Amable is open at midnight. Be there. And remember: this never happened."
They rose like a bunch of mismatched pieces pushed into motion. As they left, Cleo lingered and looked back over her shoulder with that easy, trusting smile that made Peter feel unaccountably like a fraud. He caught her eye, and for a beat he considered telling her the truth—about who he'd been, what he'd done, how little redemption cost these days.
Then he shrugged on the practiced mask of a thief about to play at being a soldier and followed the others out into the corridor, the orange of Belle Reve still showing beneath slick tactical armor—the prison imprint that no mission could fully scrub aw