HOO!
The moment El Diablo opened his mouth, a searing ball of fire erupted toward Hong Fei. The gun barrel aimed at him glowed red-hot, softening instantly as the blistering heat raced toward the weapon's grip.
Hong Fei tossed his pistols aside and charged straight through the flames. His fist plowed through the fire and cracked into El Diablo's face. The unnatural flames snuffed out midair. El Diablo's head snapped back with a metallic clang against the tank behind him.
Unlike the others, El Diablo belonged to the magic side—physically unremarkable, but his control over fire bordered on artistry. He could shape flames into letters, hold them suspended, or snuff them out with a thought.
And unlike Deadshot or Killer Croc, he hadn't been caught. He'd turned himself in, guilt-ridden after accidentally burning women and children alive. That alone made him a better man than Hong Fei would ever be.
Hong Fei knew he wasn't a good person. That's why he respected the ones who were. He grabbed El Diablo by the ankle and dragged him toward the helicopter.
Chaos still rippled through the prison. In the pitch-black corridors, gunfire flashed like strobe lights. Prisoners and guards shot blindly—sometimes at each other, sometimes at their own. Screams, pleas, and explosions tangled into a cacophony that shattered the swamp's decades-long silence.
Hong Fei used the bedlam as cover, slipping toward the chopper. No prisoners had reached it yet. Inside the cockpit, Deadshot leaned toward Killer Croc.
"You know that guy? The one who sprung us?"
"No."
"Ever seen anyone dressed like that before?"
"No."
Deadshot nodded.
"Then he's new. New to the chaos game, I mean. Public identity's probably something big—billionaire, politician, scientist?"
Killer Croc glanced up.
"Why?"
"Skills like that? Master-level combat, total control over the prison systems. I figured he just hacked the cameras, but no—he popped every cell door and killed the lights. That kind of tech doesn't come cheap. Either he's loaded, connected, or he built it himself. What's your guess?"
Killer Croc grunted.
"Doesn't look like a scientist."
"Exactly. Terrifying in a fight. Disarmed me in one move—almost put a knife through my skull. What about you?"
Deadshot eyed the lattice of half-healed gashes on Killer Croc's hide. The crocodile man touched a claw to his eyelid.
"Almost took my eye."
Deadshot exhaled, watching muzzle flashes light up the far end of the prison. The gunfire rose and fell like a storm.
"Welp. No going back now. Hope he wasn't lying."
"What did he tell you?"
"Besides threats, there was an extremely tempting offer. You know, I didn't want to leave, especially not by escaping from prison, but compared to that, I didn't want to die at the hands of a mysterious person on such an unremarkable night."
Killer Croc nodded, brow furrowed.
"I want out. But I don't like taking orders."
"Same here, but we're out of options. At least for now."
The cabin door whooshed open. With a dull thud, Hong Fei hurled El Diablo—Chato Santana—inside before stepping up himself.
"North. Full speed."
Deadshot and Killer Croc exchanged glances at the unconscious figure sprawled across the floor.
The helicopter's rotors roared to life, the deafening noise instantly drawing every prisoner's attention. Inmates snapped awake like predators scenting blood, surging toward the helipad in a frenzied mob. Guards scrambled to intercept them while screaming for backup, their rifles swinging up to target the ascending aircraft.
Hong Fei snatched Deadshot's abandoned assault rifle. He kicked the cabin door wide open, braced himself against the frame, and—guided by his armor's targeting systems—picked off both charging prisoners and RPG-wielding guards with surgical precision. As the helicopter climbed sharply, he yanked the door shut and dropped back into his seat.
Planting one armored boot on El Diablo's throat, Hong Fei closed his eyes and waited for the final reckoning. The glowing optics in his helmet flickered out. Killer Croc crouched mid-cabin, blinking at the darkened Black-Gold Armor while Deadshot piloted northward, stealing frequent glances over his shoulder.
Mid-flight, El Diablo stirred. Hong Fei increased pressure until the man went limp again. Deadshot's grip tightened on the controls; Killer Croc's claws flexed. Then energy crackled through Hong Fei's veins—another surge of power materializing from nowhere. He tracked its growth with clinical focus as Odin's seal strained against its bonds.
The sensation lasted mere seconds before subsiding. Almost there. One more boost like that might tear the seal wide open. His helmet's optics flared white as his eyes snapped open. Killer Croc immediately averted his gaze; Deadshot jerked his attention back to the controls.
Hong Fei studied his HUD.
"Land in that clearing five hundred meters ahead."
Deadshot nodded, guiding the helicopter down. When they touched ground, all three disembarked—Hong Fei dragging El Diablo by the ankle, the man's bare back scraping through grass.
"Uh... Boss?"
Deadshot ventured after a few minutes.
"Where exactly—"
Hong Fei halted. The others froze behind him. Three heartbeats later, headlights flared in the distance. An engine's growl crescendoed as a license-plateless sedan burst from the undergrowth, its high beams pinning them in place. The car executed a showy drift before skidding to a stop inches from their boots.
"Get in."
Deadshot popped the door, then recoiled.
"The hell—?"
He whirled toward Hong Fei.
"There's no driver!"
"Self-driving, hick."
Minutes later, Hong Fei occupied the driver's seat while Arthur relinquished control. Deadshot rode shotgun; the unconscious El Diablo and Killer Croc's bulk strained the rear seats to their limits. Hong Fei suddenly missed his tank with visceral intensity.
The car rocketed onto the highway before veering into wilderness, vanishing into dense forest. The night passed without incident.
It wasn't until the next morning that a supply vehicle arrived at Belle Reve Prison to find the gates unmanned. After endless unanswered horn blasts, the driver scaled the wall—and nearly fell backward at the carnage below. Corpses littered the compound like broken dolls, rivers of blood glistening in the dawn light.
The news traveled up the chain of command like wildfire, landing on Amanda Waller's desk in Washington. The moment she heard it, her face darkened with fury. A fleet of special ops vehicles raced toward Belle Reve Prison. By morning, Amanda's private jet touched down at the small airstrip just outside the facility. She strode off the plane, her heels clicking sharply against the tarmac, as a lead investigator approached to brief her.
"Ma'am," he began, his tone clipped and professional, "the preliminary findings are clear. Around 2:00 AM last night, gunfire erupted inside the prison. The anomaly triggered an immediate response, and the guards raised the highest alert. However, all cell doors were opened simultaneously—against protocol—and roughly ten minutes later, the entire facility went dark."
He paused, glancing at her reaction before continuing.
"A violent confrontation broke out between the prisoners and the guards. With no lighting and prisoners armed with seized firearms, the situation devolved into a prolonged firefight. During the chaos, a helicopter was stolen."
The investigator hesitated, his gaze flickering downward.
"At dawn, while the remaining prisoners were attempting to locate an exit, they were gunned down by hidden guards. But..."
Amanda's eyes narrowed, her patience fraying.
"Spit it out!" she snapped.
"Yes, ma'am. Only thirteen guards survived. Four are critically injured, and the other nine sustained minor wounds. They're all showing signs of severe psychological trauma—acute stress responses."
Amanda's lips tightened.
"And the prisoners?" she asked coldly.
"Three escaped."
Her eyebrow twitched, her heart skipping a beat.
"Who?"
The investigator swallowed hard.
"Floyd Lawton, Waylon Jones, and Chato Santana."
Amanda froze mid-step, her expression hardening into something lethal. The investigator stumbled to a halt behind her, his head bowed low, though he knew the blame wasn't his to bear.
Amanda stood motionless for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the looming silhouette of the prison. Slowly, she turned her head, her eyes blazing with unspoken rage. Two hundred kilometers away, nestled in the mountains, a hidden lake glistened under the sun. A two-story wooden house stood by the water's edge, its sprawling structure flanked by rolling pastures.
Deadshot lounged on the wooden fence by the warehouse entrance, clad in casual attire. Nearby, Killer Croc sat on a square mound of silage, his hood pulled low over his face. The two listened in silence to the muffled cries and crackling sounds emanating from inside the warehouse.
Within the dimly lit space, the floor was strewn with hay. Hong Fei stood over El Diablo, his foot pressing down on the man's tattooed back.
"Where is your fire?" he demanded. El Diablo gripped fistfuls of hay, his fingers trembling as he tried to ignite the dry stalks. Before he could summon the flames, Hong Fei's foot came down hard, crushing the air from his lungs.
El Diablo let out a strangled cry, the spark in his hands fizzling out as it hit the hay. He'd endured this humiliation countless times, his spirit battered to the point of exhaustion. With a groan, he buried his face in the hay, his breathing ragged and shallow.
Hong Fei shook his head, disappointment etched across his features. El Diablo was stubborn, the kind of man who'd sooner die than submit. Turning away, Hong Fei grabbed a pitchfork leaning against the wall. Raising the fork high and aiming it at El Diablo's back, Hong Fei said again: "If you want to cleanse yourself of your past sins, rotting in prison isn't the answer. Use your abilities. Do something meaningful."
"I only know how to destroy," El Diablo muttered, his voice muffled by the hay.
"Then destroy what deserves to be destroyed," Hong Fei countered, his tone sharp and unyielding.
"Even burning trash gives off some warmth."
El Diablo's voice cut through the silence like a dull knife.
Hong Fei stepped closer, his words measured.
"Last chance. You want redemption through impossible deeds, or the clean mercy of a bullet?"
The pause stretched thin between them before El Diablo finally ground out, "I don't do bad things."
"That's what I'm ensuring," Hong Fei countered. El Diablo's laugh came out jagged.
"Heh. All those guards you slaughtered—you telling me every one deserved it?"
Hong Fei studied the man's hunched shoulders before speaking again, quieter now.
"Fine. May your next life grant you a cleaner slate."
The clang of the warehouse door swinging open sent Deadshot and Killer Croc snapping to attention.
He locked eyes with Deadshot first.
"No calls home. Not yet."
Turning to Killer Croc, Hong Fei's voice turned glacial.
"Bite one civilian, and I'll carve you into chum for strays."
A beat, then colder still: "Burn the body. Stay put—the cabin's stocked. Step one foot outside..."
He let the threat hang like a blade.
"The bill comes due."