"Everyone, let me introduce myself."
Amanda Waller's voice cut through the room like a blade.
"I am Amanda Waller, the planner and manager for all your future missions."
Her gaze swept across the assembled faces, noting the varying reactions.
King Shark sat to the side, engrossed in a book—though he held it upside down. The others exchanged wary glances, their expressions a mix of skepticism and outright hostility.
"I didn't intend to assemble you all so quickly," Waller continued, her tone clipped, "but the situation is dire. A few days ago, the prison you were in was breached. By a person—or rather, a team. They opened every cell door, inciting a violent clash between prisoners and guards. The casualties were severe."
She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in.
"They also took several individuals with them. People like you—those with powerful or special abilities."
"Wait," a voice interrupted, sharp and impatient. "Cut the crap. I admit I committed crimes, but I'm serving my time. I could be out in a few months. I'm not interested in listening to some mission pitch the moment we meet."
The speaker was a middle-aged Black man, his presence commanding despite the prison uniform. Bloodsport. Robert DuBois. A British mercenary and world-class marksman, capable of turning anything into a lethal weapon. Trained by his father—another mercenary—from childhood, he was a force to be reckoned with. Now, stripped of his high-tech armor and weapons, he stood defiantly in front of Waller.
Her cold, dead-fish eyes locked onto him, but Bloodsport didn't flinch. He stared back, unimpressed.
Peacemaker, a muscular man with thick arms crossed over his chest, watched silently. Polka-Dot Man lingered in the back, his expression dull, his gaze unfocused. Ratcatcher, a young girl with a rat perched on her shoulder, observed Bloodsport with quiet curiosity. King Shark remained absorbed in his upside-down book.
Waller extended a hand toward her subordinate, who promptly handed her a file. She flipped it open, her voice icy.
"I'm aware your sentence is nearly up. So, we've gathered some evidence. I'm notifying you that your sentence has been extended by twenty years."
With that, she hurled the file at him.
Bloodsport's brow twitched. He caught it, flipping through the pages. The crimes listed were a mix of things he'd actually done—though he knew no evidence existed—and others he'd never touched. It was a fabrication. A setup.
His head snapped up, his glare blazing. "You damn bitch," he spat, his voice low and dangerous. "You're framing me."
Waller remained unruffled.
"You know exactly what kind of person you are," she said coolly. "Twenty years is nothing compared to what you've done. Even a hundred-year sentence wouldn't cover the evil you've committed in a single year."
"Fuck you!" Bloodsport roared, hurling the file back at her face.
Waller flinched, closing her eyes and turning her head. But before the file could strike her, a large hand snatched it from the air.
Peacemaker stepped forward, his presence calm but imposing. Christopher Smith. Like Bloodsport, he could turn anything into a weapon. The two men locked eyes, their similarities undeniable.
"Peace," Peacemaker said softly, almost gently.
"Fuck you," Bloodsport growled in reply.
Peacemaker smiled faintly, tossed the file aside, and stepped back.
Waller's expression didn't change.
"You have a daughter in her teens," she said, her voice steady.
His background, abilities, and positioning were like a mold of Bloodsport. The only difference? He was White. The tension between them crackled, unspoken but palpable.
"Now she's alone, without a guardian for the next twenty years. Do you understand what that means?"
Bloodsport's fists clenched instantly.
"She'll steal, use drugs, get kicked out of school, fall in with the wrong crowd, end up in a hospital for an abortion, and then, just to survive, she'll..."
Before Amanda Waller could finish, Bloodsport lunged at her, swinging his fist.
The room erupted into chaos. Heavily armed operatives surged forward, forming a protective barrier around Waller. Dozens of gun barrels snapped toward Bloodsport, freezing him in place. Someone stepped in immediately, pinning him down.
Amanda Waller peered over the wall of bodies, her expression cold.
"I don't enjoy telling a father his daughter will end up like that. But that's the reality. If you're willing to accept it, I'll have you sent back to finish your sentence. In twenty years, maybe you'll still get to see her."
"Are you threatening me with my daughter?" Bloodsport growled.
"It's not a threat. Just a reminder. Now, DuBois, let's talk about something else. I see leadership potential in you. Accept, and you'll lead this team. I'll arrange regular visits with your daughter. We'll support her, make sure she doesn't become another statistic."
Bloodsport spat on the ground.
"You're the biggest trash in this country! No—your entire country is trash!"
Waller remained unflinching.
"Is that your answer?"
Their eyes locked, the air thick with tension. Bloodsport's rage simmered like a storm, but after a moment, he forced himself to nod, swallowing his pride.
Waller gestured, and the operatives released him. It didn't matter to her if he resisted now. She had ways to ensure his compliance.
As for the rest of the team, Peacemaker was her mole. Polka-Dot Man was unstable. Ratcatcher was just a girl with a knack for rats. And King Shark? He was practically a child. This was Task Force X, her contingency plan after Belle Reve's breach.
The larger group of monsters and freaks next door? Cannon fodder. After a quick briefing, Waller turned to leave. Her subordinate hesitated.
"Officer, Colonel Rick Flag was our original leader. Handing it to Bloodsport—won't that cause issues?"
"It won't. Flag and DuBois grew up together. They'll figure it out. Prep the plane. I bypassed everyone to assemble Task Force X. I need to get back to Washington fast—take the Witch and convince them to approve the plan."
"Understood. I'll handle it immediately."
---
Over ten kilometers away, Constantine rubbed his temples, listening in through his unique methods.
"Why can't you just stay put?" he muttered. Ten minutes later, chaos erupted at Belle Reve. Demonic apparitions and hauntings left guards and flight crew unconscious. The plane malfunctioned repeatedly.
Amanda Waller was forced to stay behind, her face dark with frustration.
---
That afternoon, Hong Fei wrapped up work on time. After pocketing a thousand-dollar bonus, he invited Sergeant Neil, Cora, and the others out for a meal. At the bar, he let them drink themselves into oblivion. Hong Fei, as always, refused to touch a drop, no matter how much they pressured him.
Hong Fei watched the six depart before returning to the hotel. Arthur's voice broke the silence.
"Sir, Bruce Wayne has a group meeting in Gotham tomorrow. Barry Allen has no upcoming business trips at the Central City Police Department. Clark Kent's reporter interview in New York didn't pan out; he moved to Metropolis a week ago and is currently interning at the Daily Planet. All relevant event arrangements are prepared."
"Good work," Hong Fei replied. "Start scouting suitable factory buildings and servers. In future operations, I'll gradually reduce your visibility, disguising you as a standard artificial intelligence. Ensure you erase all traces of yourself."
"Understood, sir."
"Report immediately if you detect anything resembling artificial intelligence."
"Confirmed. No mature AI has been discovered yet, but I've identified two relevant projects."
Hong Fei's eyes sharpened.
"Go on."
"The first is in Bruce Wayne's estate. He's been intermittently developing an AI, though progress is only around twenty percent. The second belongs to Silas Stone, a scientist at S.T.A.R. Labs. His AI appears to have been successfully designed but hasn't been officially activated."
Batman dabbling in AI wasn't surprising, but Silas Stone's project piqued Hong Fei's interest. Could it be Cyborg? After a moment's thought, he said, "Add the first to the memo and alert me when Bruce Wayne resurfaces. As for the second, attempt infiltration—but be cautious. You mustn't be detected."
"Noted. The memo's updated. I'll isolate a variant to probe the second AI. If discovered, it will appear as a virus."
"That works. Keep studying and evolving. Once we capture Cyborg, you'll replace it."
"Understood."
---
The next afternoon, Hong Fei returned to the hotel after wrapping up work. In a nearby apartment, Deadshot, Killer Croc, and Captain Boomerang stared at their silent screens until a bold scarlet message flashed: "Operation Begins."
Three seconds later, the text vanished, replaced by mission prompts on the left side of their vision. A virtual green path with arrows materialized on the ground.
"Gear up and arm yourselves," Hong Fei's voice echoed in their minds. "Within three minutes, head to the garage and locate the black SUV with license plate ***."
Without a word, the three donned identical black combat suits and helmets, grabbed their equipment, and stepped out of their apartments in quick succession. They moved in unison toward the underground garage.
Deadshot spotted the vehicle first. He opened the door and glanced back, only to see his teammates veering toward separate cars. From this point, they were operating independently.
On the hotel rooftop, Hong Fei slipped into his iron armor, observing the trio through multiple perspectives.
"Arthur," he mused, "you've really made the interface feel like a game."
"Sir, it's the most efficient method."
"If I upgraded to Vibranium armor, could anyone join this 'game' without fear of death?"
"Yes, sir."
"It would be a bit of a waste to equip everyone with Vibranium iron armor. It's more cost-effective to select special individuals. Keep this design; we'll use it more in the future."
"Understood, sir."