"Who are you?" A guttural, animalistic voice growled behind Hong Fei. Deadshot, standing nearby, eyed Killer Croc's injuries.
"You're bleeding pretty bad. You good?"
Killer Croc turned his massive head.
"And you are?"
"Floyd. Call me Deadshot. You?"
"Waylon Jones. Killer Croc."
"Fitting."
Deadshot smirked.
Killer Croc snorted in response. Hong Fei cut in, "Save the introductions for when we're outside."
Silence fell between them. A skill card materialized at Killer Croc's feet.
Passive Skill Card: Rapid Regeneration (Green) - Killer Croc. Effect: Grants regenerative abilities six times faster than baseline human.
Hong Fei already possessed a white-tier "Rapid Regeneration" card from Luke Cage—only three times normal healing speed. The difference showed. Killer Croc's wounds had already begun sealing, fresh scabs forming across his scaled hide.
"Sir," Arthur's voice chimed in, "El Diablo—Chato Santana—is being held topside. He's stashed himself in an empty oil tanker. Heavy guard presence makes infiltration difficult. There's a helicopter parked two hundred meters from—"
"Can you fly a helicopter?" Hong Fei interrupted.
Killer Croc shook his head. Deadshot gave a half-shrug.
"Rusty, but yeah. Been a minute since I've been at the controls."
"Good enough. We split up."
Hong Fei tossed Killer Croc an assault rifle.
"You two head right for the chopper, but hold position until you hear gunfire. That's your cue."
The exchanged confused glances. Hong Fei silenced their unspoken questions with a sharp gesture.
"Move."
As they disappeared down the corridor, Hong Fei turned toward his own objective.
"Sir, you're clear to engage."
"Let's set the mood first."
"Understood."
A lone whistle pierced the prison's midnight silence—the haunting theme from Kill Bill. The eerie melody transformed the empty halls into something straight from a nightmare.
Hong Fei drew twin revolvers, spinning them on his trigger fingers with practiced ease. The clicking cylinders echoed off concrete walls. Dim lighting stretched his armored silhouette into monstrous proportions across the corridor. Silver flashes danced along the spinning barrels with each step.
"Thirty meters ahead left. Contact in seven... six... five..."
Boots pounded in time with Arthur's countdown. Three guards rounded the corner just as the whistling revolvers snapped to a halt.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Gunfire momentarily drowned the soundtrack. Three heads snapped back, crimson blossoms erupting.
Hong Fei would claim seventy percent credit—Arthur's armor control deserved the remaining thirty. While Hong Fei could make impossible shots through raw skill, rapid target acquisition remained outside his repertoire. The armor's targeting systems bridged that gap.
The revolvers resumed their deadly spin as he advanced. Distant echoes of gunfire finally alerted the prison. Warning lights bathed everything in blood-red strobes. Sirens wailed like banshees.
"Six hostiles approaching fast," Arthur reported.
"Thirty meters."
More gunshots. More bodies hitting the floor.
In a few seconds, the gunfire echoing far through the corridors finally triggered full lockdown. Emergency lights flooded the complex with pulsing crimson, while alarms shrieked their mechanical warning. Arthur's calm voice cut through the chaos, "Six targets closing fast at thirty meters."
The subsequent gunfire left no survivors.
The prison sprawled vast, its labyrinthine corridors designed to confound escaping inmates. Now those same twisting passageways worked against the guards scrambling to locate the gunfire's origin. Surveillance systems offered no help. Outside, more guards heard the commotion and poured inside—just as Deadshot dragged Killer Croc into a shadowed alcove.
When the shooting started, Killer Croc had charged out first. His brute strength and armored hide made him unstoppable—he plowed through the advancing guards like bowling pins before seizing a rifle in his massive hands. The weapon chattered on full auto, muzzle flashing in the dark.
Deadshot moved with lethal grace, his shooting a brutal ballet. Target acquired, trigger squeezed, shift aim—repeat. Each shot landed with surgical precision, making a mockery of the guards' frantic cover.
"They're closing in. We need—" A bullet cut off his words. Deadshot's expression sharpened.
"Move. Now."
Elsewhere, the gunfire's echo faded. Hong Fei stood motionless in the corridor, a dozen bodies heaped at the far end.
"Sir," a voice crackled over comms, "reinforcements incoming. Cut the lights?"
"Let them come."
No sooner had he spoken than an arm appeared around the corner. Hong Fei's wrist flicked up—one shot, eyes never leaving the corridor ahead. The bullet punched through the grenade in the guard's hand.
BOOM.
The explosion painted the walls yellow for one blinding instant. Two seconds later, blood seeped from around the corner. Screams followed.
"Fall back! Fall back!"
"It's Deadshot—that's his work!"
"Get heavy weapons from the armory!"
Boots pounded in retreat. Hong Fei keyed his radio.
"Unlock all cells. Track Deadshot's position."
"Copy."
A klaxon shrieked. Every cell door in the prison slid open simultaneously.
Among the inmates were meta-humans like Deadshot and Killer Croc, but most were ordinary felons serving century-long sentences. The first alarm had jerked them upright in their bunks. Now, hearing cell doors whir open, they stared in naked disbelief.
"Lights on for inmates," Hong Fei ordered. "Off when guards engage."
"Affirmative."
Overhead bulbs flared to life. Prisoners threw up hands against the glare, blinking furiously. As their vision adjusted, heads swiveled toward the open doors.
No instructions were needed. Ninety percent didn't bother with shoes—just bolted from their cots and sprinted into the corridor. They crashed into each other, a human stampede with one shared understanding: freedom. A glance between cellmates said everything.
Above Hong Fei, footsteps and howls multiplied. Only the most dangerous inmates were kept in the sublevels. Let the tigers hunt the wolves—even unarmed, prisoners would strip weapons from the guards Hong Fei had already cleared. Once armed, they'd fight like cornered animals.
His armored boots clanked as he ascended. Gunfire erupted sporadically now, punctuated by shouts and screams. The prisoners had become a flood, a single organism crashing toward any exit. Nothing would stop them—not gates, not bullets, certainly not mercy.
The prisoners in front recoiled from the guards' firearms, but those in the back shoved them forward mercilessly. Bodies of the fallen were trampled underfoot as the chaos escalated. The air grew thick with desperation and violence.
Many prisoners had armed themselves—guns, stun batons, police batons—and their confidence swelled. Hong Fei trailed behind the mob, emerging onto the surface level. Outside the prison building, rows of guards stood in formation, riot shields and weapons at the ready. Their snipers and RPGs perched above gave them an edge.
A tense standoff followed.
"Drop your weapons! Raise your hands and surrender! You have no chance! Resistance means death!"
The guards' amplified voices rang out, clear and commanding.
Behind the shelter of the wall, the prisoners erupted into a storm of curses, but fewer dared to fire. Their only advantage—numbers—meant little against heavy artillery.
"Drop your weapons! Raise your hands!"
The looping command grated on their nerves.
Hong Fei slipped silently from the stairs to the rear of the crowd. He scanned their faces, a mix of fear, rage, and panic, and shook his head. Amateurs. If this were Arkham Asylum, the guards would've been dead long ago. The difference between criminals was stark.
"Turn off the lights," he ordered.
The prison plunged into darkness. Silence hung for a breath before chaos erupted. No orders were needed—prisoners surged forward, guards opened fire blindly. Muzzle flashes lit up the scene, revealing faces twisted with fury.
Deadshot seized the moment, his keen eyes locking onto the RPG high above. A split second before its wielder fired, Deadshot's shot tore through the man's palm, followed by a bullet to the head. Killer Croc lunged, catching the falling RPG with a wild leap. He spun sharply, aiming at the guards. Whoosh! Boom! The explosion tore through bodies, flames illuminating the frenzied crowd.
The prisoners, emboldened, raised their weapons and fired wildly. Killer Croc discarded the launcher and followed Deadshot toward the waiting helicopter. Hong Fei turned, his focus shifting to the final target. Near the transport oil tank, four guards stood watch, weapons ready.
Hong Fei strode forward, revolvers spinning in his hands. The front guard opened fire, bullets ricocheting off Hong Fei's iron armor in showers of sparks. Hong Fei paused, his right wrist snapping up. The guard panicked, diving to the side. Bang! A bullet pierced his forehead.
The other three guards circled, but Hong Fei fired in rapid succession, dropping them all within a second. He stepped up to the horizontal transport oil tank, lowering his gaze to the circular glass window. Inside, cross-legged and calm, sat his target.
Chato Santana was a wiry white guy, his skin a canvas of ink. Gang tats crawled up his arms, over his neck, across his face—a skeletal demon mask that likely earned him the street name "El Diablo."
His eyes rolled upward, catching the reflection of iron-clad armor looming outside the glass.
"Guess you're here for me," he said, lips twisting into a smirk. "But I hate to disappoint you."
The circular cell door clanged open with a metallic screech. A dark barrel leveled at Chato's skull.
"I didn't catch that," came the cold voice behind the gun.
"Care to repeat yourself?"