(Belle Reve Correctional Center, Louisiana)
A gray dawn hung over the swamps, the air smelled of rust, salt, and sweat. The razor wire that crowned the outer walls shimmered faintly in the humidity, coiling like serpents above towers armed with automated guns and tired guards. Floodlights buzzed against the fog, slicing through the morning haze to illuminate the concrete monolith that had become home to the most dangerous people on the planet.
Belle Reve wasn't just a prison—it was a fortress designed to keep the impossible contained. Its foundations ran deep into the marshland, built to withstand riots, meta-human rampages, and every government scandal that dared to touch it. Each section had its own pulse:
● Block A, where non-powered killers and mob bosses rotted away, the air thick with cigarette smoke and hopeless laughter.
● Block B, sealed tighter, housing metahumans whose abilities could level cities if left unchecked. Power-dampening collars and electrified floors made sure no one forgot where they stood.
● Block C, the psychiatric wing, where screams came at regular intervals—less human, more beast.
Every hallway carried a history of failure. Bullet holes patched over with steel plates. Scorch marks from failed escape attempts. Cameras that never blinked. Guards that never smiled.
Down in Sub-Level 4, where the lights flickered a shade too often and the air felt too heavy to breathe, lay Cell 47, isolated from the rest. The metal door bore scratches that even steel couldn't explain—half from inside, half from those who tried to get in.
Inside sat a man who, once upon a time, had been a headline, a ghost story for security guards, a nightmare for armored trucks and vaults. His name: Peter Parker.
To the world, he'd been Spider-Man—not the hero people once whispered about in another lifetime, but the robber who tore through the country's largest bank with surgical precision, leaving behind millions in stolen cash, chaos in the streets, and two dead guards whose blood still stained the legend.
Now, his mask was gone. His hands were cuffed. His reputation—myth and monster—was all that remained.
And as the first light of morning bled through the slit of his cell window, Peter Parker opened his eyes, wondering which would come first: redemption… or another chance to escape.
The light cut across his face and laid bare the map of the last year: a thin crescent scar along his jaw where a shard of glass had kissed him during the bank job, a faint network of old abrasions across his knuckles, and a bruise the color of old iron blooming beneath his left eye. He was lean—too lean for anyone who once swung between skyscrapers—muscles hard and practiced from necessity rather than habit, shoulders narrow but coiled like spring steel. His hair, once kept with careless youth, hung in dark, greasy strands; his cheekbones were sharp now, the soft boyishness gone. There was a tautness to him, the kind that came from having to move fast, think faster, and live with the knowledge that the world had turned him into something else. When he breathed, the ribs beneath his t-shirt drew and fell like someone still getting used to wearing a new body.
Until…
Creak!
The metallic sigh of the corridor door made its way to Peter through the thick walls. Only one thing explained that sound coming at this hour: company. He cracked one eye, listening. He didn't have family anymore — not in any sense that mattered — so his mind supplied the visitor before the face appeared.
Waller.
He heard heels on concrete, then military boots grinding into step. The cadence was heavy and purposeful. The steps stopped just outside his cell door. The grating clicked, and a face filled the narrow square of light: an afro-American woman whose presence seemed to command the air around her. Her gaze skimmed him with the same clinical indifference as a scalpel.
Peter couldn't help a crooked smirk.
"So, you finally went down to visit little old me, Waller? So I gotta ask, what do you want?" His voice was a dry laugh wrapped in sarcasm.
"You know why I'm here, so why don't we skip the formalities and go right to the point. I have a job for you." Her voice was flat, every syllable weighted.
"Not interested, Waller. I know all about your little Suicide Squad missions—ten years cut out of my two-hundred-year sentence while I bet my neck? No thanks. I mean, I have a price, but mine is a little higher than that." Peter let the dark pull him back; the cell's shadows were a comfort he could count on.
Waller's mouth thinned. "I wasn't finished, Parker. This time is different. This job is pretty important to me and my superiors, so if you collaborate and do as I say, I'm gonna cut one hundred years straight. Under normal circumstances this offer wouldn't ever pass my mind, but this mission is more important than you could possibly imagine."
Something in the cell shifted like a held note loosening. Peter's jaw ticked. He had heard impossible promises before; he'd lived off them and used them as rope when he needed it. He pulled a laugh into his chest that tasted of iron.
"You are lying." He kept his voice low, distrustful as always of government mouths.
"I lie about a lot of stuff, Parker, but not with these types of jobs." Waller's eyes pinched as if testing the truth against some invisible scale. "You can check me for lies if you want. I know you can sense heartbeats even through adamantium cell walls."
Peter's pulse hammered in his throat. He wasn't some simple burglar anymore—his senses had come at a cost—but he'd never been a fool. A few seconds stretched. The offer sat between them like a loaded gun.
"What the hell. Sure, I'll do it." The words slipped out before his pride could fence them away. Waller's mouth gave the smallest of satisfied curls.
—
They walked the length of Belle Reve together, Waller flanked by two guards whose faces could have been carved from the same block of granite. Peter's hands were sheathed in adamantium cuffs at first, cold and unyielding against his skin, until they brought him to a laboratory that smelled of antiseptic and ozone. The lab's fluorescent lights hummed; instruments gleamed like teeth. Guards shoved him into a chair with the blunt efficiency of people who had done this choreography before. Behind him, a doctor snapped on a latex glove.
"You know the deal. Successfully complete the mission, you get one hundred years off your sentence." Waller's voice was businesslike as she watched the doctor produce a syringe. Peter felt the needle's chill through the thin collar of his shirt even before the tip touched the hollow at the back of his skull.
With the deftness of a practiced technician, the syringe slid home and something the size of a grain of rice nested beneath his skin. A tiny foreign weight settled at the base of his brain like a promise you could not unmake.
"You fail to follow my orders in any way and I detonate the explosive device in the base of your skull." Waller's words were soft, absolute. The doctor sealed the puncture and stepped back. Two guards released the cuffs from his wrists; metal clattered to the floor.
Peter rose like a man waking from a half-remembered nightmare. He rubbed the nape of his neck where the scar of the injection pinched his skin, adrenaline and rage and a thin, crushing dread braided together inside him. He forced his voice even.
"So, who are the unfortunate souls that I'll be supporting?" Peter asked, rolling his wrists to test his freedom. The steel cuffs had left deep red marks, half scars and half proof of how long he'd been caged. His gaze flicked to Waller, sharp and curious, already calculating.
—
"You'll be part of a team led by Bloodsport," said Waller curtly as the elevator doors slid shut.
Peter leaned against the wall, eyebrows raised. "Bloodsport? That old-timer's gonna command?"
"Yes. And you will follow his orders or—"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. My head goes boom." Peter mimed an explosion with both hands, as he grinned like a madman.
"Good." Waller didn't even blink.
The elevator opened into one of Belle Reve's interior cell blocks, a space reeking of disinfectant and metal. A handful of guards stood by, tense. At the far end of the room sat a man in an orange jumpsuit, his arms resting on a steel table — calm, until he saw who was walking in beside Waller.
"Oh no," said Bloodsport, standing so abruptly that his chair screeched against the floor. "You didn't tell me this little fucker would come too."
Peter's grin widened. "Hey, Sport. Long time. Still sore about that job in Gotham?" His tone dripped with mock sympathy, while his eyes gleamed.
Bloodsport's jaw tightened. "I'm not working with that asshole."
"Yes, you are," Waller replied flatly. Her tone didn't rise; it didn't need to. "Because if you don't, your daughter will end up here—with you."
Peter's smirk faltered. Daughter? His expression softened for just a second before he hid it behind indifference. Bloodsport's fists clenched until the veins in his forearms stood out.
"…Okay, ma'am," he said through gritted teeth.
Peter tilted his head, frowning slightly as Waller turned to leave. He stepped close to Bloodsport, lowering his voice to a whisper. "What was that about?"
Bloodsport's reply came low and venomous. "Don't pretend to care, Parker. I know who you really are."
He followed Waller out, leaving Peter behind in silence. For a rare moment, Peter didn't smile. His eyes followed Bloodsport until he disappeared down the hall, and only then did he move to catch up.
—
"Continuing what I said, Dubois," Waller began as they approached another corridor, "each member of the team has been chosen for their own unique abilities." She stopped in front of a door where a massive, square-jawed man dressed in the standard orange prison uniform stood waiting, his posture was rigid as a statue. "This is Christopher Smith, known as Peacemaker. In his hands, anything is a deadly weapon. His father was a soldier who trained him to kill from birth."
Peter bit his tongue, but the sound of a suppressed laugh still slipped out. Bloodsport turned his head sharply.
"Are you having a laugh?" he demanded.
Peter blinked innocently. "What?"
"You just said everyone's got unique abilities," Bloodsport said to Waller, motioning toward Peacemaker. "He does exactly what I do."
Peter couldn't hold it anymore; his laughter echoed off the concrete walls.
"Sorry, sorry," he said, waving his hands. "So, Peacemaker, you do exactly what this old geezer does?"
"But better," Peacemaker said immediately, puffing out his chest.
"Oh, I like him already," Peter said with a grin as they followed Waller down the hall.
"I always hit my targets dead center," Bloodsport said darkly.
"I hit them more in the center," Peacemaker shot back.
Bloodsport turned to glare at him. "You can't hit something more in the center."
"I use smaller bullets."
"What?"
"They go inside your bullet holes without even touching the sides."
Peter whistled. "I bet your girl must be so happy."
Bloodsport snorted a laugh before he could stop himself, while Peacemaker's face reddened.
"That wasn't funny," Peacemaker said.
"You're right," Bloodsport said between small chuckles. "It wasn't funny—it was hilarious."
Peter winked. "Glad we agree."
Waller ignored them and pressed a button on the next reinforced door. "Next up is King Shark."
The heavy lock hissed, and the door slid open to reveal an enormous humanoid shark sitting cross-legged on a bench, a book held upside down in his massive hands.
"Holy shit," Peacemaker muttered, eyes wide.
"What the fuck?" said Bloodsport, taking a cautious step back.
Peter, meanwhile, broke into a delighted grin. "What's the matter with you two? He's just a shark reading a book—" he paused, squinting, "—a book that's upside down. Oh, come on, he's adorable."
"Nanaue," Waller began, ignoring Peter entirely, "some claim he's the descendant of an ancient shark god. Whatever the truth, he's strong, durable, and extremely dangerous."
"Does it talk?" Bloodsport asked skeptically.
The creature looked up from his book. "Book… read," he said, voice deep and slow.
Peter clasped his hands dramatically. "Ooooh, his first words! Forget what I said, you're officially my favorite."
Before anyone could stop him, Peter walked up and threw his arms around the shark-man's massive torso.
"Be careful," Waller warned dryly. "He's developed a taste for human flesh."
Peter looked up at Nanaue, who was sniffing him curiously. "Relax, Waller. This big loveball couldn't hurt me even if he wanted to."
"Hugging is good," the shark rumbled, returning the embrace gently.
Peacemaker blinked. "Did he just tame him?"
"It seems so," said Bloodsport, shaking his head in disbelief.
A small, almost imperceptible grin crept across Waller's face. "If you two are done, follow me. There are still two members I have to present."
Peter patted Nanaue's arm before stepping back. "See you later, jaws."
As they walked away, the shark waved clumsily. "Bye… friend."
Peter smirked over his shoulder. "You hear that, Waller? I make friends. You should try it sometime."
Waller didn't answer—she just kept walking, heels clicking against the polished concrete like the ticking of a metronome. Her focus was locked on the next reinforced door ahead of them.
—
"Next, we have Cleo Cazo, also known as Ratcatcher 2," Waller announced as they stepped into the women's cell block.
Immediately, a wave of whistles, laughter, and catcalls filled the corridor. Dozens of orange-clad female inmates leaned against their bars, smirking, some tossing kisses toward Peter like confetti.
Peter tilted his head, smirking back with zero shame. "Hmm, I could get used to this. I haven't gotten laid since I got here."
"Settle down!" barked Waller, her voice sharp as a whip. Female guards rushed in, shoving inmates back into their cells and restoring order with practiced efficiency.
"What? We couldn't afford Ratcatcher One?" Bloodsport muttered.
"He's dead. This is his daughter," Waller answered coldly.
They reached an open cell at the far end of the block. It wasn't particularly different from the others—bare walls, a steel bed frame, and a single narrow window—but what was inside made Peter pause.
Cleo Cazo lay sprawled on her bed, wrapped in a worn blanket, hair a messy halo around her face. She was slim, maybe mid-to-late twenties, with soft, delicate features that gave her an almost gentle glow even in the harsh fluorescent light. She looked far too innocent for a place like Belle Reve.
She's beautiful. I definitely need to bang her, Peter thought shamelessly, leaning against the doorframe.
Waller knocked against the cell door. "Cazo, will you be joining us?"
A soft groan came from the bed. Cleo sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand like a sleepy child. "I just woke up… I don't function well early in the morning," she mumbled, her voice small and warm.
"My deepest apologies for disturbing you," Waller replied, voice completely void of apology.
"Hmm… it's all right," Cleo yawned, stretching her arms lazily.
"Get your ass out here!" Waller snapped suddenly.
"Ah!" Cleo squeaked as she fell face-first out of bed.
"Tsk. Millennials," muttered Peacemaker.
Peter crouched down immediately, offering his hand with a crooked grin. "Hey, are you alright?"
Cleo blinked at him, still half-asleep, and took his hand delicately. "Yeah, I'm—" she paused as she met his eyes for the first time. Hers widened like a child seeing their favorite cartoon hero in real life. "...fine. And you are…?"
"Peter Parker. Spider-Man," he replied casually.
Her whole face lit up. "The Spider-Man? No way! I was a huge admirer of your work!"
Peter's brows arched, his ego clearly enjoying this. "Really? That's awesome. Maybe if we have time later, I could teach you some secret techniques… in private."
Cleo's face brightened even more. "Seriously? That's awesome, it would totally help me—thank you!" she said with pure sincerity, not an ounce of flirtation.
Peter stared at her, dumbfounded. She didn't catch it, did she? he thought, disappointed.
"Come on," Waller said sharply. Cleo fell into line behind the group, walking with a light bounce in her step, like she didn't quite belong in a place like this. Peter glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She was smiling faintly to herself, waving at a small rat perched on a nearby pipe as if it were a friend.
Oh, great, he thought. She's adorable.
—
"And finally," Waller said as they returned to Block B, "we have Abner Krill."
"What's that around his neck?" asked Peacemaker as they approached another cell.
"A power dampener. They call him the Polka Dot Man," Waller explained.
Peacemaker snorted loudly. "Polka Dot Man. What's he do—throw polka dots at people?"
Waller's face didn't move an inch.
Peter leaned closer with a raised brow. "He really just throws polka dots at people, doesn't he?"
"We're going to die," Bloodsport muttered dryly.
Inside the cell, Abner Krill stood slouched against the wall, a miserable figure in his orange jumpsuit. His eyes were fixed on nothing, shoulders hunched forward, as if the weight of existence itself had already crushed him. He hadn't even reacted to their presence or the mocking.
Cleo tilted her head, watching him with gentle curiosity. "He looks sad," she whispered softly, almost like she was talking to herself.
Peter crossed his arms. "Sad? More like the last person you want to stand next to when things blow up."
Waller gave him a cutting look. "And yet, Parker, he's on your team."
Peter just sighed, already imagining how chaotic this "Suicide Squad" was going to be.
An old mercenary, a trigger-happy patriot, a sweet girl with rats, a depressed polka dot guy, and a humanoid shark.
Fantastic, he thought. This is either going to be the worst job of my life… or the most fun I've had in years.