Inside the hut, the candlelight flickered low. Sol adjusted her jacket, tying her hair back as she smirked at Peter, who was fastening the upper half of his suit again. The air between them was thick — not from what had just happened, but from the unspoken understanding that they'd crossed a line neither of them had expected.
"Well," Sol said with a grin, "that was… a productive strategy meeting."
Peter gave a faint chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Definitely covered some tactical ground."
She moved closer, her tone playful but her eyes sharp. "You know, Spider-Man, I think I like having you on my side."
"Let's just hope your people don't feel the same way when they find out what we—uh, discussed," he said, tugging on his gloves and pulling the mask halfway up his face.
Sol smirked again. "Don't worry. I'm very persuasive." She reached out and straightened his mask . "You should smile more. It makes you look less… guilty."
Peter raised an eyebrow behind the mask. "Pretty sure it's too late for that."
With one last amused glance, Sol pushed open the curtain. The sudden daylight made them both blink — and then freeze.
Outside, the rest of the team was still there. All of them, waiting.
Bloodsport's arms were crossed, his expression unreadable. Peacemaker was grinning like he'd been waiting hours for this. Ratcatcher looked away the instant she saw Peter, pretending to be very interested in her rats. Polka-Dot Man sighed quietly. Nanaue waved, simple and proud. "Hi, friends!"
Rick Flag pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please tell me you two were just talking about the mission."
Sol smiled sweetly, stepping past Peter. "Of course, Colonel. Strictly business."
Peacemaker snorted. "Yeah, I bet."
Peter tugged his mask down fully, trying to ignore everyone's looks. "So… what did I miss?"
Bloodsport's voice was flat. "Oh, nothing important. Just everything."
Ratcatcher muttered under her breath, "You missed the part where we all regretted coming here."
Peter didn't say anything — just sighed, glanced at Sol (who was clearly enjoying every second of this), and walked toward the treeline. "Alright. Let's move. We've got a job to do."
As the group followed, Peacemaker whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, "You know, if he ever gives up crime-fighting, I think we just found Corto Maltese's new national hero."
Bloodsport shook his head. "Shut up, Peacemaker."
And with that, Task Force X moved on through the jungle — half a squad of guerrilla, half a traveling disaster, all trying not to think too hard about what they'd just overheard.
---
The march toward Valle del Mar began under a blazing sun that filtered through the dense jungle canopy. The group moved in a long, uneven line — boots sinking into the soft earth, branches snapping underfoot. The air was thick with humidity and tension, the kind that came from too many killers forced to work together.
Rick Flag led the group, machete in hand, cutting through vines and tall grass. Bloodsport followed close behind, rifle slung over his shoulder, scanning the treeline for movement. Behind them, Peter walked beside Sol Soria, their silence noticeable after what had happened back at the camp. Ratcatcher occasionally glanced at the two of them, her jaw tightening ever so slightly before turning her gaze back to her rats perched on her shoulders.
Peacemaker trudged along loudly, complaining every few minutes about mosquitoes, humidity, and how "real patriots don't hike this much." Nanaue walked behind everyone, humming softly and occasionally looking down at Cleo's rats with visible curiosity.
After almost two hours of this slow, humid trek, Polka Dot Man suddenly stumbled forward and collapsed face-first into the muddy road.
"What the hell are you doin'?" Flag barked, turning around.
Abner groaned into the mud before rolling onto his back. "I'm done. Just… leave me here."
"We're tired, Colonel. We need a rest," said Ratcatcher as she sat on a nearby rock and took off her mask, wiping sweat from her brow.
"Goddamn hobbyists," muttered Peacemaker, shaking his head.
"We cannot stop," Sol interjected, stepping forward with her hands on her hips. Her tone was sharp, commanding. "We need to hurry if you're going to help my people."
"Hey, we're not here to help your people," Bloodsport shot back, his tone flat and professional. "But she's right — we gotta keep moving."
Nanaue looked at Abner's limp body, blinking slowly. "I carry friend?" he offered.
Cleo sighed softly. "It's okay, Nanaue," she said kindly before glancing over her shoulder — and froze when she saw Abner's face. "Oh no… it's happening again."
Abner groaned, turning away. "It's nothing. I slipped," he muttered.
Peacemaker stepped forward, blocking him. "Hey, Norman Bates, if that shit's contagious, we need to know."
"It's not," Abner grunted, trying to push past him.
"What is it then?" Peacemaker insisted.
Abner sighed, shoulders slumping. "It's a… an interdimensional virus."
Peacemaker frowned. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
Peter crossed his arms, stepping closer. "Let him finish, tin can."
Abner nodded, grateful for the small defense. "My mother was a scientist at S.T.A.R. Labs. She was obsessed with turning me and my brothers and sisters into superheroes. She infected me. Now, if I don't— you know— expel the dots twice a day…"
"Then what?" asked Bloodsport, his tone less mocking now.
"They'll eat me alive," Abner said, his voice trembling slightly before giving a dry, humorless chuckle.
Everyone fell silent for a moment. Even Peacemaker stopped smirking.
Flag finally broke the quiet. "What happened to your brothers and sisters?"
Abner looked down. "Some lived. Some… died."
Cleo's voice softened. "And your mom? Where is she now?"
Abner slowly lifted his head, his eyes were unfocused. "Everywhere," he said, with his tone eerily calm.
Everyone stared at him for a beat — the words hanging heavily in the humid air.
Peter sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay… enough backstory for now. We gotta keep moving."
Flag nodded, sheathing his machete. "Yeah, what he said. Let's move out."
They resumed walking — slower this time, the mood heavier. Ratcatcher gave Abner a sympathetic glance before helping him up. Nanaue cheerfully followed, humming again.
Peacemaker leaned toward Bloodsport as they marched. "You know, for a bunch of maniacs, we sure do have a lot of trauma in this team."
Bloodsport didn't even look at him. "Welcome to Task Force X."
Peter just kept walking, his eyes fixed ahead — toward Valle del Mar, toward Gaius Grieves, and toward whatever mess Amanda Waller wanted them to dispose off.
(Another hours of hiking later…)
After hours of slogging through mangrove and scrub, the trees finally thinned and Valle del Mar revealed itself in a low, dusty sweep of roofs and distant radio towers. The outskirts smelled of salt and oil and diesel—signs they were close to human roads again. The group slowed automatically, tightening formation as the jungle turned to scrub and the sound of insects gave way to far engines and distant voices.
Sol moved ahead a few paces, scanning the horizon until she relaxed. "Milton's pickup point is a quarter-mile down the road," she whispered. "He said he'd be driving a battered bus that looks like garbage but holds a wardrobe. He'll pull up under the guise of a deliverer—then we pile in and roll to La Gatita Amable."
They hunkered down in the shade of a dry hedgerow and let their eyes adjust. The plan was simple: wait for Milton, let him pass the checkpoint pretending to be a clothes delivery, then make the road safe. Waller's directive—terminate the captors if necessary—still hung in their ears, but now this operation wore Sol's pragmatic shape: a quick, brutal clearing to avoid a firefight in the open.
Time stretched. The sun dipped, throwing long shadows. Cleo sat with Sebastian on her knee, fingers idly stroking him; Abner tried to hide the twitch of his dots beneath his sleeve. Nanaue sat worrying a length of rope, humming quietly to himself. Peacemaker fussed with his helmet. Bloodsport chewed a strip of fabric, eyes scanning the scrub like a man who measured every blade of grass for ambush.
They crawled into a shallow ditch off the road and waited, bodies pressed into the scrub as the sun burned down. Valle del Mar's outskirts spread out ahead—a dusty strip of shops and low houses, the military checkpoint a pale knot of sandbags and uniforms where the road narrowed. Sol slipped back into the trees with half her fighters and melted into the green; she did not come with them. She would wait where she could see the road and the hut, ready to move once the real operation began.
Time dragged. Birds moved. Wind teased leaves. They stayed low until a rumble on the road announced the thing they were all waiting for.
At first it was a shape—a shape with a faded laundry logo on the side—then the rattling cough of an engine. The bus rolled up to the checkpoint and Milton, a round, bald man, leaned out and fumbled at a clipboard. The soldiers waved him in for papers, suspicious and bored.
"That's him," Flag breathed through the comms. "That's the bus. Wait for my mark."
They watched Milton's mouth move, the soldier's clipboard check slow and petty. The bus inched forward. A patrolling drone dipped, looking for anything interesting.
When the soldier began to flag Milton for more inspection, Sol's hand tightened on a branch in the treeline. Peter's eyes narrowed on the bus. He gave the signal: a single, quick knock on the metal rail by his shoulder.
Then everything happened like a blade being drawn. Bloodsport and Peacemaker slipped from the hedgerow; Nanaue moved like a shadow of flesh; Polka-Dot Man flung a constellation of dots at the Humvee engines; Cleo tapped the rat-caller and a tide of small bodies threaded through the sandbags. Peter dropped from his perch and hit the ground in a roll, webbing a sentry's ankle. The checkpoint dissolved into a choreographed silence: web garrotes, quiet takedowns, a humming of dots that killed radios and stalled vehicles, Nanaue removing threats with brutal efficiency.
Milton didn't stop—he drove through the wreckage with a face that changed from panic to relief and down the road as Bloodsport and the others cleared the last guard. They dragged the fallen away, threw boots over bodies so they wouldn't snag, and flagged the bus to a halt.
"Now!" Bloodsport hissed. They piled aboard in practiced chaos. Peter vaulted up last, securing Flag and sliding into the rear. The bus coughed, then pulled away like an old animal that had been pushed too far.
They looked back into the trees where Sol had been waiting. The green parted as she stepped out into the light, flanked by two of her lieutenants, both armed and alert. Her gaze lingered on the departing bus — not on the others inside, but on the figure leaning at the back door. Peter stood there, one hand gripping the frame, the wind tugging at his suit as the jungle blurred behind them.
He raised a hand slightly, touching the small comm at his throat. "So this is it, huh?" he said, his voice carrying through the shared frequency.
"Yes," Sol replied, her tone steady, though her eyes betrayed something softer. "I think it is."
For a moment, neither spoke. The hum of the bus engine, the distant sounds of birds, the rustle of leaves — it all filled the silence between them. Peter's gaze stayed fixed on her, taking in the way the sunlight glinted off her rifle, the dirt smudged on her cheek, the faint curve of her lips that seemed caught between pride and melancholy.
"Hey," Peter finally said, with a small, half-hopeful grin, "I was thinking that maybe you could come with us."
Sol blinked, then let out a quiet, amused breath. "I would like to," she admitted, "but your mission and mine are very different, Spider-Man."
Peter chuckled softly, lowering his head a little. "Yeah… I knew you were gonna say that. Still, I had to try."
That earned him a smile — not the sharp, guarded one of a fighter, but something lighter, more human. "You always have to try, don't you?" she said.
"Kind of my thing," Peter replied with a shrug. "Gotta stick to the brand."
The bus hit a bump, jolting slightly, but he kept his footing. His tone grew a bit more serious. "Listen, though. When we go into Jotunheim, it's probably gonna set off every alarm in the country. The whole Corto Maltese Army will come running after us. If that happens, the palace — Luna, the generals — they'll be exposed."
Sol tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering behind her dark eyes. "And you're telling me this because…?"
"Because you might wanna know when to make your move," Peter said simply, his voice calm but honest. "You've got people counting on you. Figured you could use the heads-up."
A faint laugh left her lips, but it carried a trace of warmth this time. "Always thinking of others," she said softly. "You really are different."
He smiled faintly. "You mean weird."
"I mean good."
That quieted him. For a moment, she studied his face — the way he tried to hide behind that easy smile, the exhaustion behind his eyes, the strange gentleness that didn't belong in a man sent to kill.
Sol's eyes softened for a heartbeat, the hardened soldier's mask slipping. "You're a good man, Spider-Man," she said at last.
Peter's grin faltered slightly. "Yeahh, I'm not sure if that's true."
"Maybe it is," she said, stepping closer. Her hand brushed his chest briefly, a fleeting touch through the fabric of his suit. Then, before he could speak, she leaned up and kissed him — quick, sure, and filled with Gratitude. Respect. And maybe even a spark of something more.
When she pulled back, she looked steadier again, shoulders squared, command presence restored. "Go. Do what you came to do. I'll do mine."
Peter hesitated for a second, his lips curling into a faint, bittersweet smile. "You know, I've been told I have bad timing."
"You do," she said, smirking slightly. "But you make it work."
With that, she turned to her lieutenants, gave a silent hand signal, and vanished back into the jungle — swallowed by the green, the sound of leaves closing behind her.
Peter stayed leaning against the back of the bus for a few seconds longer, staring into the trees where she'd disappeared. Then, finally, he pulled the door closed and turned back inside.
Bloodsport glanced at him. "Everything good, Spider?"
Peter nodded once, quietly. "Yeah. Just saying goodbye."
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