Ten minutes later, Jason's beat-up car roared into the kill zone, tires crunching over the blood-slick asphalt of the South LA outskirts. The air was thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder and scorched metal, the morning sun casting a sickly yellow glow over the carnage. He killed the engine, and the three of them—Jason, Harley, and Christine—stepped out, their boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. The scene before them was a fucking nightmare: bodies strewn across the road like discarded dolls, the pavement stained crimson, wisps of smoke curling from the wreckage of armored vans. The distant wail of sirens had faded, leaving only an eerie silence, broken by the occasional creak of settling debris.
Jason nudged a SWAT officer's corpse with the toe of his boot, flipping it over. The man's face was frozen in a rictus of shock, a neat bullet hole punched through his forehead, a trickle of blood carving a path down his cheek to pool on the ground. The precision was unnatural, almost surgical, as if death itself had taken a scalpel to the man's skull. Jason's stomach churned, not from the gore—he'd seen worse—but from the sheer impossibility of what lay before him.
Harley's eyes darted across the battlefield, her lips parted in a mix of awe and excitement. Christine, usually cool and composed, stood frozen, her sharp features taut with disbelief. "Who the fuck is this guy?" She whispered, her voice barely audible as she scanned the sea of corpses. "This kind of shooting… it's beyond…. Every single one of these bastards took a bullet right between the eyes."
Her words hung heavy in the air. Christine's Black Organization had trained its share of sharpshooters, some ex-military badasses who could hit a dime at a hundred yards. But even their best, all tied together, couldn't dream of wiping out a fifty-man elite special forces team—let alone with every shot a fucking headshot. The math didn't add up; it was like staring into the abyss of human impossibility.
Jason exhaled, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he shook his head. "Gun god," He said, his voice tinged with something between pride and disbelief. "I can't think of a better word for him."
Harley's eyes lit up, her grin wide and manic, like a kid who'd just been handed a new toy. "No shit, honey! This guy's really on our team?" She asked, practically bouncing on her heels, her voice dripping with excitement. The idea of having an invincible killing machine as an ally sent a thrill through her, washing away the lingering fear of their precarious situation. With a guy like that, who the hell could touch them?
Jason nodded, his smile softening as memories flickered behind his eyes. "Yeah, David was my right-hand man back in the day. Even as a kid, he had a freakish gift for shooting—could nail a bottle cap from across a field without breaking a sweat. Then he spent three years crawling through the shit of war-torn hellholes, honing that talent into something else entirely. Guess he came out the other side a fucking monster."
Harley's grin widened, her heart pounding with a mix of admiration and relief. Knowing they had a one-man army watching their backs made the world feel a little less like it was closing in. Christine, still processing, gave a slow nod, her mind clearly racing to reconcile the man with the myth standing in the wreckage.
The trio climbed back into the car, the doors slamming with a hollow clang. Jason gunned the engine, the car lurching forward through the desolate streets, weaving past the shattered remains of the SWAT convoy. A few minutes later, they spotted the twisted wreckage of a helicopter, its mangled frame half-buried in the dirt, rotor blades snapped like brittle twigs. Standing nearby, silhouetted against the rising sun, was David, his posture relaxed, a rifle slung casually over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.
Jason leaned out the window, waving. "Yo, David!"
David turned, his sharp eyes locking onto the approaching car. His brow furrowed as he took in Jason's unfamiliar face, confusion flashing across his features. He jogged over, his boots kicking up dust, and stopped short, staring. "Boss? What the fuck—disguise or something?"
Jason tugged at the edges of his uncomfortable prosthetic mask, the latex pulling tight against his skin. "Yeah, had to. Cops are breathing down my neck, so I went full Mission Impossible."
Harley and Christine stepped out, their gazes fixed on David, sizing him up with a mix of curiosity and wariness. Harley's eyes sparkled with mischief, while Christine's were colder, analytical, like she was trying to dissect the man who'd just turned a SWAT team into a butcher's shop display. David met their stares, his expression unreadable, a predator sizing up potential threats or allies.
Jason clapped David on the shoulder, breaking the tension. "These are my new crew," He said, gesturing to the women. "Harley Quinn, and this is Vermouth—though you might know her as Christine Vineyard."
David's eyes widened, a rare crack in his stoic facade. "Christine? As in the Christine Vineyard?" He glanced at Jason, disbelief etched into every line of his face. "Boss, you're telling me Hollywood's golden girl is—"
Jason's grin turned smug. "Yup. Surprise, surprise. The big-shot actress is moonlighting with a crime syndicate."
David let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Fuck me, that's wild. So the kidnapping shit on the news—was that just a show for the cameras?"
Jason's smile faded, replaced by a sly glint. "Nah, the kidnapping was real. And the one-hundred-million-dollar ransom? Already in the bank."
David blinked, speechless. Harley stifled a laugh, while Christine's lips twitched, her cool exterior barely hiding her amusement at David's shock.
After a quick round of introductions, David jerked his thumb toward a figure sprawled in the dirt a few yards away. "Left one alive," He said, his tone flat. "Guy's a colonel, judging by the stripes."
Jason's grin vanished, his demeanor shifting to something colder, more calculating. He strode over to the man, his boots crunching against the gravel. The guy was a mess—bloodied, battered, his dark skin glistening with sweat and grime. Something about him tugged at Jason's memory. 'Where the hell have I seen this face?'
He crouched down, his voice deceptively calm. "Colonel, let's have your name."
The man glared up, his eyes defiant despite the pain etched into his features. "James Rhodes," He rasped. "United States Air Force, Weapons Development Division."
Jason's mind clicked. 'Holy shit. Rhodes? Tony Stark's fucking sidekick?' The guy who'd later swipe one of Stark's suits and become War Machine? This was no small fry. His lips curled into a predatory smile as he leaned closer. "You led a crack team straight to my hideout in that abandoned factory. That's not just a lucky guess. You had solid intel. I'm careful—damn careful—so there's no way the LAPD sniffed me out in under twenty-four hours. Spill it, Rhodes. Where'd your tip come from?"
Rhodes tilted his head back, staring at the sky, his jaw set in a stubborn line. 'Kill me if you want, asshole. I ain't talking.'
Jason chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. "Got some balls, huh? I like that." Without warning, he drew his pistol and fired, the bang echoing across the empty lot. The bullet tore through the meat of Rhodes' inner thigh, blood spraying like a burst pipe as the man roared in pain.
"FUCK!" Rhodes clutched the wound, his fingers slick with crimson, his face contorted in agony.
Ding!
The system chimed, a translucent panel flickering in Jason's vision. [Injured 'James Rupert Rhodes' (War Machine/Significant Character). +1000 Villain Points. Current Progress: 9070/10000!]
Jason's eyes widened, his pulse quickening. 'A thousand points for a fucking flesh wound?' He glanced at the system's label: 'Significant Character'. When David had taken out Kingpin and Vladimir, the system marked them as "Plot Characters," worth five times the points of a regular kill. But Rhodes, a "Significant Character," was worth fifty times the points for a single injury. He wasn't even a top-tier player in the Marvel universe—not like Captain America or Stark himself. Jason's mind raced. 'What if I hit someone like Steve Rogers or Tony? Five hundred times the points?' Could he farm injuries on big names to rack up points indefinitely? A twisted grin spread across his face at the thought of gaming the system for a fortune in Villain Points.
To test his theory, he raised the gun again and fired three more shots—bang, bang, bang!—hitting Rhodes' arm and both legs. Blood sprayed, and Rhodes' screams filled the air, raw and guttural.
Ding!
[Injured 'James Rupert Rhodes' (War Machine/Significant Character). +0 Villain Points. Current Progress: 9070/10000!] [Friendly Reminder: Injuries of the same severity are counted only once per day!]
"Motherfucker," Jason spat, glaring at the system's smug notification. 'Fucking dogshit system, cockblocking my payday.' He turned back to Rhodes, pressing the gun's muzzle against the man's thigh, an inch from his groin. "Same question, dipshit. I'm not asking twice. You've got three seconds, or I shift this barrel one centimeter to the left."
Rhodes' face twitched, sweat beading on his forehead as pain and fear warred in his eyes. A bullet to the dick wasn't just pain—it was a one-way ticket to losing his manhood. 'This psycho doesn't bluff,' He thought, his stomach twisting. He was torn between loyalty to his friend and the primal urge to survive.
"Three. Two. One."
"Stark!" Rhodes blurted, his voice cracking. "Tony Stark gave me the intel. You called his house with that ransom demand, and he traced your location."
Jason's eyes narrowed, a cold smirk playing on his lips. "You're shitting me. Even the FBI needs a full minute to trace an encrypted call. I was on that line for thirty seconds, tops."
Rhodes shook his head, wincing as blood seeped through his fingers. "You don't know Tony. He's not just an arms dealer—he's a fucking genius. His tech's years ahead of anything the feds have. With Stark Industries' private satellites, he can pinpoint an encrypted call in under ten seconds."
'Ten seconds?' Jason's jaw tightened, his mind racing. That was leagues beyond the FBI's capabilities. He studied Rhodes, searching for a lie, but the man's earnestness—coupled with the sheer terror in his eyes—felt genuine. After a long moment, Jason nodded, his expression grim. He believed him. Tony Stark was Marvel's golden boy, a cheat code in human form. The rules didn't apply to him. The FBI, the military—they were playing checkers while Stark was rewriting the board. 'Can't underestimate these fuckers,' Jason thought. 'Not the big players.'
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