They finished the last of Waller's brusque orders, strapped into the transport, and filed into the cargo hold-turned-passenger-cabin of the military plane that would drop them on Corto Maltese. The interior smelled of oil and old leather; fluorescent strips hummed overhead and reflected off helmets and the faint shine of dampers and armor plates. The men and women in orange showed like rude patches beneath their gear—their jumpsuits peeking from collars and sleeves as if the prison itself hadn't let them go.
Three of them sat on one side, three on the other, the benches facing each other like opposing teams on a dirty stage. Heavy harnesses bit into their chests, the security belts designed to keep them stuck to canvas seats during the drop. Beyond the tiny portholes, the ocean rolled to the horizon. The plane would take hours to reach Corto Maltese; there was nothing to do but talk, sleep, argue, or invent ways to kill time.
Peter and Cleo ended up side by side, an accidental arrangement that suited him. Bloodsport sat with them as well; across from the trio were Peacemaker, King Shark, and Polka-Dot Man. Cleo's orange sleeve was visible beneath the cuff of her jacket; she moved with a soft, sleepy grace that contrasted violently with the harsh lines of everyone else.
The engine's steady drone was a blanket and a metronome. Outside, the world slid by in grey patches of cloud.
Squeak!
A small, confident rat popped his head out of Cleo's pocket and stretched, whiskers twitching. He gave a polite, curious squeak as if greeting the cabin.
"Oh! There you are, Sebastian!" Cleo chirped, voice bright and oddly musical for someone in a prison transport. She didn't scold him—she greeted him like a lost friend returned. Her hand dove into the pocket and the rat hopped onto her palm with practised familiarity.
Bloodsport's posture stiffened; his knuckles paled against the metal seam of the bench. Peter's eyes, visible through the lenses of his mask, lit up.
"How cute! Is that a rat? How adorable! It can even greet me!" he exclaimed, genuine excitement cracking through his usual sarcasm. He leaned forward like a kid on a field trip.
Bloodsport's stare was a locked hinge of disgust. He took a small involuntary step away, as if the rodent carried contagion.
Peter's grin went mischievous. He reached out with exaggerated care, scooped Sebastian from Cleo's hands, and held the little creature up between himself and Bloodsport. "Wanna see it, Sport?" he asked, drama dripping from the word.
"No. Take that thing away from me before I shoot it," Bloodsport snapped, voice low and shaken.
"Don't shoot Sebastian!" Cleo replied in a small panic, snatching the rat back and immediately smoothing its fur with delicate, reverent motions. Her fingers were careful, gentle—hands that clearly knew how to calm a frightened creature.
Peacemaker snorted. Laughter bubbled out of him sharp and loud. "Hahaha, no way! You're afraid of rats?" he crowed, leaning forward so his chrome helmet caught the light and made him look more ridiculous.
Bloodsport's jaw clicked. "I'm not afraid. I despise them," he said, as if making a moral correction rather than admitting a fear.
Abner—Polka-Dot Man—glanced up with a faint, protective curiosity. "He seems… nice," he said quietly, voice small as a mouse. He fiddled with one of the polka dots on his sleeve as if trying to charm it into coherence.
King Shark let out a low, puzzled rumble. He held his book upside down, squinting at the words as if they might rearrange themselves. "Smalls… friend?" he rumbled, then shrugged in that way King Shark had of being simultaneously simple and bad at manners.
Peter took advantage of Cleo's distraction with Sebastian to test his own softer lines. He leaned over, voice warmed into a flatter, flirtier register that didn't quite match his face behind the mask. "You know, Clem? —sorry—Cleo, you take care of that little guy really well. Ever thought of… learning to defend yourself? I could teach a few tricks. Keep you safe in the field." He grinned like the bored casanova of a hundred jokes.
Cleo's eyes widened with unalloyed wonder. She didn't register flirtation; she registered generosity. "Really? You'd teach me? That would be amazing. I always wanted to learn how to climb—" she blinked, the idea of climbing for her more innocent than tactical, "—like someone who can go up and down walls and not get hurt."
Peter's smiles faltered a hair. She didn't catch it, he thought. He tried again, softer: "Yeah. And, uh, there are tricks that help with balance, too. And—" he trailed off, suddenly aware of how dumb his offer sounded when measured against bombs and nanoweapons.
Cleo beamed as if she'd been handed candy. "Thank you! I'd love that." She tucked Sebastian back into her pocket like a treasure and nudged Peter with an elbow. "You're funny, Pete."
He blinked. Pete? The attempt at charm deflated into something more like fond exasperation. He felt warm at the chest in a way that had nothing to do with the harness. He slid back into his seat, playing at indifference.
Across from them, Peacemaker continued to laugh sporadically, shaking his helmet as if the sound would peel the polka dots off Abner's suit. Bloodsport's tension eased a fraction as he watched Cleo fuss with Sebastian—there was a sliver of something almost like pity, or maybe respect, in his hard face.
Polka-Dot Man watched Peter with something between awe and gratitude when Peter had held Sebastian up. "Thanks," he muttered later, the word small but sincere.
Peter shrugged. "Hey, what are teammates for?" he said, clapping Abner's shoulder with a careful hand. The contact was brief but not without intent — to signal alliance, to stake a claim that they were no longer just inmates but a temporary, brittle unit.
The plane hit a pocket of turbulence; a staccato shudder ran through the floor and the lights flickered. King Shark grunted in annoyance. Peacemaker tightened a strap around his chest with a mechanical precision, more from habit than fear. Bloodsport's hands went white on his knees. Cleo's smile trembled a little, but she reached out and squeezed Peter's arm as if reassurance could be physical and simple.
They settled again into a small silence—the kind that felt hollow because everyone knew what was coming. The plane's engines droned a steady, mechanical lullaby; the cabin lights hummed overhead and cast everything in a washed-out grey. Outside, the ocean stretched flat and indifferent. Inside, harnesses bit into ribs and shoulders, cinching them down to a future no one wanted but which all had agreed to try anyway.
Peacemaker broke the quiet without warning. "So… why Spider-Man?" he asked, turning his helmet slightly as if angling for a better listen. His tone was casual curiosity wrapped in that peculiarly earnest arrogance he wore like armor.
Peter blinked, mid-yawn. He had the mask pulled up to his nose; the lower half of his face showed—jaw tense, a week of stubble bristling at the chin. "Excuse me?" he said.
"I said, why Spider-Man? I mean, the name's pretty explicit but I want to know—what can you do?" Peacemaker asked again.
Peter let out a short, sardonic laugh. "Oh, you know. Spider-Man does whatever a spider can." Said Peter on a nonchalant tone.
Peacemaker's brow (the chrome of the helmet made the gesture ridiculous) furrowed. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Peter said, leaning back against the canvas and wincing as the strap dug into his shoulder, "for starters I can stick to walls, dumbass." He stuck his hand against the metal panel beside him and flexed for show—his fingers flat as if testing the adhesion.
"Ooooh… that makes sense." Peacemaker's laugh had the quality of someone pleased. "So what, do you shoot cobwebs out of your ass or some shit like that?"
"WHAT? No!!" Peter's voice popped; he straightened, half-panic and half-indignation flaring across his face. "Why would you think that?"
Peacemaker shrugged. "I don't know. You said you can do whatever a spider can, don't you? And spiders shoot webs from their asses, man. It's—like—biology."
Bloodsport, who'd been keeping to himself with a rifle across his knees, snorted dryly. "I mean, he has a point." The admission was less about science and more about how absurd the whole conversation had become.
Cleo's hand rose a fraction; she peered at Peter with curious, innocent eyes. "Yeah," she said softly, bright as if offering a kind observation from a children's book. "He has." Her voice was small and genuine; she believed in the logic of things until proven otherwise.
Peter glared at both of them. "What? No—he doesn't have a point." He rubbed his face, trying to tamp down the grin he couldn't quite hide. Being ridiculous was one thing; being misunderstood about bodily webbing was another.
King Shark's head tilted, the book he'd been holding sliding into his huge lap. "Friend shoots web from ass?" he asked, voice slow and literal.
"Nanaue? You too?" Peter addressed him in a half-pleading, half-amused whisper, eyes wide. "Okay, listen—no. I will say it once and I won't repeat myself: I don't shoot webs from my ass, OK? I shoot them from my hands."
A beat passed. The cabin was filled with small, shocked noises—Peacemaker whistled; Bloodsport's shoulders loosened fractionally; Polka-Dot Man made a little involuntary sound that might have been a laugh.
"Oh…" Peacemaker's tone went from mocking to impressed in a second. "That's actually pretty practical."
"Thanks, I guess," Peter mumbled, shrugging like a man who'd just revealed the location of his greatest shame and instead received praise for craftsmanship.
Silence settled again, more comfortable this time. The aircraft hummed on. They all stared into the small oval windows—cloud, water, horizon—until Cleo's delicate curiosity nudged the conversation back into awkward territory.
"So… do you eat bugs?" she asked, voice soft like someone asking if clouds taste like cotton candy.
Peter stared at her, incredulous. For a half-second everything inside his chest went light with the absurdity of it—then his face morphed into the weary smirk of a man who'd run out of patience.
"Okay, that does it," he said, letting his hand fall to his knee. "That was enough for today. I won't answer more questions about my powers unless it's absolutely necessary."
They all went quiet for a few seconds after Peter's outburst, though a few stifled chuckles broke through the cabin hum of the aircraft. The engines roared steadily in the background, vibrating through the metallic floor under their boots. The air smelled faintly of oil, gunmetal, and salt — the prelude to whatever hell was waiting for them in Corto Maltese.
Peacemaker leaned back in his seat, a smug grin plastered on his face behind the chrome of his helmet. "Relax, web-boy. We're just trying to get to know each other. You know, team bonding and all that crap."
"I'm fine with bonding," Peter muttered, arms crossed, "just not when it involves questions about bug diets and butt webs."
Ratcatcher giggled softly beside him. "You have to admit, it's a fair question."
"It really isn't," Peter replied flatly. "I'm human. I don't eat flies, and I definitely don't sleep hanging upside down in a corner."
King Shark tilted his head, confused. "You don't?"
Peter blinked, then sighed. "...Okay, I did once. But that was different."
Bloodsport let out a short snort, shaking his head. "Jesus. We're supposed to save the world, and we're stuck with a guy who crawls on walls and a talking shark."
"Hey!" said Nanaue indignantly. "I eat bad guys."
"Yeah, that's exactly my point," replied Bloodsport.
Peacemaker chuckled, leaning forward. "Don't worry, Bloodsport. If things go south, Shark-boy here will just chew through the problem. And Spider-killer will—what, throw nets at them?"
Peter glared. "You know, for someone wearing a toilet seat on his head, you sure talk a lot."
Cleo snorted, covering her smile with her hand. Even Bloodsport cracked the ghost of a grin.
Peacemaker's grin didn't fade. "Careful, bug-man. Keep talking like that and I'll add you to my list of threats to peace."
"Oh yeah?" Peter shot back, half-amused, half-serious. "You'll have to catch me first."
"Don't tempt him," muttered Bloodsport, rubbing his temples.
The tension dissolved into a low rumble of laughter. Even Waller's voice crackling through the intercom couldn't fully kill the strange sense of camaraderie building in the air.
"Task Force X, ETA to drop zone: thirty minutes," her voice announced. "Check your gear and prepare for deployment."
"Thirty minutes, huh?" Peter said quietly, tightening the strap on his harness.
Cleo looked at him, her tone soft. "Scared?"
Peter gave her a faint smirk. "Nah. I've been in worse situations."
"Like robbing a bank guarded by forty men?"
He chuckled. "Exactly like that."
Outside, the clouds began to thin, revealing the faint shimmer of the ocean below. For a moment, the team sat in silence again — a rare, fleeting calm before chaos.
Then Peacemaker broke it. "Hey, Peter."
Peter sighed. "What now?"
Peacemaker grinned. "If you really can stick to walls... does that mean you can also climb the outside of this plane?"
Peter gave him a look that said everything. "You first."
Bloodsport laughed quietly under his breath. "God help us all."
And with that, the engines thundered louder — the signal that hell was waiting just beneath the clouds.