That night, Hong Fei drove the arms dealer's van straight into an apartment parking lot before disappearing into the shadows. Shortly after, Deadshot and the other two arrived in New York, checked into the apartment building Hong Fei had arranged, and found the van waiting for them. Inside, they retrieved their new gear.
The van was stocked with a wide array of military-grade weapons and equipment. Alongside the arsenal were three custom-made combat suits, pitch black and tailored to fit each of them perfectly. As they familiarized themselves with the gear, Captain Boomerang couldn't keep his mouth shut.
"So," he finally blurted out, "what do you guys think about this whole 'mission'? Crazy, right?"
Deadshot adjusted the sights on his rifle without looking up.
"Shut up."
Boomerang rolled his eyes, glancing over his shoulder nervously.
"What's the big deal? This could be our last mission. If we don't talk now, we might not get another chance."
Deadshot didn't react.
Boomerang pressed on.
"Don't you think there's something off about this? That vault's over twenty meters underground. It's one of the most secure places in the world."
"I know," Deadshot replied coolly. "I looked it up."
"Then doesn't it strike you as strange? Two hundred tons of gold—enough to crush us into paste. How's he planning to move it?"
Deadshot pulled the bolt of his rifle with a sharp click, raised it, and aimed at the far wall.
"I don't care. I don't think he gathered us just to rob a Federal Reserve Bank. So, I'm not worried about dying."
Boomerang smirked.
"And if you're wrong?"
"There's no 'if.'"
Boomerang squinted at him, let out a silent scoff, then turned to Killer Croc.
"Hey, big guy. What about you? What's your take?"
Killer Croc pulled on his form-fitting suit, flexed his muscles, and hoisted a heavy machine gun onto his shoulder.
"Keep talking, and I'll turn you into Swiss cheese."
Boomerang chuckled nervously.
"Come on, you wouldn't dare shoot—"
Killer Croc's cold glare cut him off.
"If I don't shoot, it's not because of you."
Nearby, Deadshot paused mid-check, shoved his weapons into a duffel bag, and headed to his room without a word. Killer Croc and Boomerang exchanged puzzled looks as they watched him leave.
Alone in his room, Deadshot sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the notification that had suddenly appeared in his vision. He whispered, "Boss, what's this supposed to mean?"
In a nearby hotel, Hong Fei lounged on a sofa, wearing a bathrobe. Three high-definition images floated in front of him.
"It's simple," he said casually. "Can't you figure it out?"
Deadshot's voice echoed in his ear.
"You never mentioned these contact lenses could communicate."
"Did I mention they couldn't explode, either?"
Deadshot's hands clenched instantly, his knuckles turning white. Hong Fei chuckled as he watched through the lenses.
"Relax, it's a joke. Nanomaterials are impressive, but something that small exploding? Impossible."
Deadshot gripped his knees tightly, the veins on his hands bulging. After a moment of silence, he said, "Boss, I've followed every order."
"Exactly why you're talking to me now."
"What do you need from me?"
"Hmm, we have another target the day after tomorrow."
"What?"
Deadshot's voice cracked, his composure slipping for the first time.
"Relax. It's just one more target. What's there to be afraid of? A hitman with nerves like yours—what good are you?"
Deadshot's mind reeled with a torrent of incomprehensible thoughts, but through the chaos, one clear sentence crystallized: What is the other target?
"Art," he murmured to himself. "I want to play with art, too."
---
The next day, Hong Fei strode down the street, thumbs hooked casually into his duty belt. Cora had taught him this stance, and he had to admit, it felt comfortable. More importantly, it kept his right hand poised to draw his gun in an instant. Experience had taught him that much.
Of course, the posture only worked if you weren't overweight. Otherwise, the pressure of the belt and shifting abdominal muscles would numb your thumbs, making it harder to draw and shoot effectively.
Hong Fei glanced around the police station. Most officers hit middle age and packed on the pounds, rendering the tactic useless for them. Practicality, it seemed, diminished with age until it vanished entirely.
"So boring, so boring, so boring..." Cora muttered beside him, her voice a low, repetitive drone.
Pedestrians passing by shot her puzzled looks. When police officers weren't bored, they were usually in trouble. Hong Fei rubbed his temples, her incessant muttering giving him a headache.
"Why don't you go rest in the car for a while?" he suggested. "I'll walk around alone."
Cora shot him a sharp glare.
"Of course you want me to go rest. That way, when something happens, you can swoop in and take all the credit again. But your internship's already been cut by three months. Even if you pull off another stunt, you've still got at least a month left."
Hong Fei sighed. The reward for his last operation—driving and taking down three robbers—had arrived. His internship period had been halved from one year to three months, and he'd pocketed a six-hundred-dollar bonus. Not bad. But Cora, bored out of her mind, wasn't in the mood to be reasonable.
He fell silent, letting her mutter on as he walked, his mind drifting to his own concerns.
Playing the black-on-black game had been fruitful. He'd gotten free gear and forged connections with an arms smuggling group. He needed their resources. While the big-ticket items he wanted weren't available yet, his weapon usage habits would soon make him a major client.
When the time was right, he could dismantle the entire operation in one swoop—a move that would further his career in the police force.
Dr. June, also known as the Witch, had already established contact with both sides. She'd conveyed Hong Fei's intentions to the Witch and relayed the Witch's response back to him.
This meant moving 230 tons of gold was no longer an issue, and there was no rush to sell it. Once news of the heist broke, international gold prices would fluctuate. Laying low or waiting for prices to rise—either way, patience would pay off.
It also meant Dr. June had listened to him. She'd begun communicating with the Witch, a development Hong Fei had been anticipating. The Witch needed a host to maintain her existence and wield her full strength, and for now, Dr. June was the ideal candidate.
Better to keep things as they were than to risk a change. The Witch's ability to teleport instantly over long distances was enviable. Hong Fei could have her empty the vault directly, but this wasn't just about the gold.
To put it another way: the significance of gathering Deadshot and the others was, importantly, to create a wider and more extensive influence.
The Federal Reserve Bank of New York wasn't chosen because it held the most gold, but because most of its vaults stored other nations' reserves—the U.S. government merely charged a custodial fee, with barely 5% belonging to Washington. That made things interesting. And Hong Fei? He'd always fancied himself an artist.
By now, he'd grown accustomed to a New York skyline missing its copper torchbearer. These operations weren't mere destruction, nor just about expanding the event's influence for energy upgrades. Everyone knew catching big fish required long lines.
Cast enough lines simultaneously, let probability and unseen currents work—eventually they'd weave themselves into a net.
---
Night fell over Louisiana. Forty-eight hours since Amanda Waller's order. At precisely 2100 hours, the final prisoner transport rolled through the gates.
The subordinate who'd received Waller's command wiped imaginary sweat from his brow, lips twisting into a smile. He barked orders to assemble the new arrivals as he hurried toward Waller's office, rapping knuckles against reinforced steel.
"Enter."
The door hissed open. Facing Waller's glacial stare—the kind that could flay skin—he dipped his head in submission.
"All present and accounted for, ma'am."
Waller didn't react. She finished typing an email with deliberate keystrokes, snapped the laptop shut three minutes later, and strode past him without acknowledgment. The subordinate scurried after her like a whipped dog.
They reached the assembly yard minutes later. A perimeter of rifle-toting commandos in tactical gear formed an iron cordon. At their center stood a ring of... creatures.
"Monsters" and "freaks" were the only words that fit.
Orange jumpsuits couldn't disguise their grotesqueries. A gallery of walking nightmares. Waller marched through them with the enthusiasm of a funeral director, her dead-fish eyes and corpse-like expression broadcasting utter disdain.
Every unnatural gaze locked onto her.
Her adjutant began reeling off dossiers:
"Savant."
An elderly specimen with too-long white hair clinging to his liver-spotted scalp.
"Blackguard."
A white-haired youth with the twitchy demeanor of an unmedicated schizophrenic.
"Mongal."
Yellowish hide mottled with lesions—more alien than terrestrial.
"Javelin."
His entire personality apparently consisting of clutching a javelin.
"TDK."
Two disembodied arms flopping like landed fish beneath the boots of guards, the stumps glistening wetly.
"Weasel."
Not a codename. An actual fucking weasel stretched into bipedal horror—bulbous eyes threatening to plop onto the concrete, jagged teeth jutting at random angles, knuckle-dragging arms matted with coarse fur.
Suddenly Waller's lifeless expression made perfect sense.
After the roll call, Waller scanned the assembled atrocities.
"Lock them down."
She turned on her heel.
The second holding area contained... well, more monsters. But these specimens dialed the grotesquerie to eleven. Bloodsport. Peacemaker. Polka-Dot Man. Ratcatcher. King Shark.
The first four were technically human.
The last was a shark that decided walking upright sounded fun.
The ones surrounded here... were also pretty much monsters and freaks, but the external characteristics of these people and creatures were clearly more intense.
Totally different from the Weasel just now, King Shark cut an unexpected figure. His bulky frame and stubby limbs should have made him intimidating—after all, he was a shark with a shark's head and a prominent triangular dorsal fin. Yet there was something oddly endearing about him, an almost cartoonish charm that softened his otherwise fearsome appearance.