Once they changed their costumes with the clothes from the boxes, every single one of Strike Force X found a seat on the old, sun-faded bus. The engine coughed, wheezed, and finally came alive under Milton's nervous hands. With a push on the gas, the vehicle rolled forward, bumping down the dirt road and toward Valle del Mar.
The humidity clung to everything like a second skin, and the smell of saltwater drifted through the broken windows as the jungle thinned into view of the coast. Palm trees lined the uneven road ahead, and the cracked windshield gave the world a greenish tint.
Peter had traded his Spidey suit for a flowery shirt splashed with bright pink hibiscus, baggy shorts, and cheap flip-flops. His mask now hung loosely around his neck like a scarf, and the tropical disguise made him look more like a tourist than an Avenger.
"Perfect for the Caribbean weather," he muttered, tugging on the collar as a bead of sweat slid down his neck.
Cleo, sitting near the back, was watching Sebastian climb down from her shoulder. The little rat scurried up Bloodsport's leg and perched itself comfortably on his shoulder.
Sebastian let out a few squeaky chirps that made Bloodsport twitch.
"Aw," Cleo said with a soft smile. "He always wants to be near you. I think he senses good in you."
"Yeah, there's no good in me," Bloodsport muttered flatly, staring out the window.
Peter chuckled under his breath.
Bloodsport turned his head slowly, narrowing his eyes. "Did I say something funny, Itsy Bitsy moron?"
Peacemaker grinned in the seat ahead of them, whispering "itsy bitsy" to himself with a snort.
Peter held up his hands, still smiling. "No, no, it's just that this mask of yours, the tough-guy thing—I've seen it before, and yeah, I even fell for it once. But now I know it's all just a big, sketchy lie. Because inside you, there's good."
"Get the fuck outta here."
"Hey, everyone, I'm telling the truth!" Peter said, leaning on the back of his seat with a mischievous grin. "Did you know that the legendary Bloodsport and your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man actually worked together on a few jobs a couple years ago? That was just before he tried to kill Superman, right, Sport?"
Bloodsport groaned. "Fuck you, Parker."
That only made Peacemaker sit up straighter. "Wait, hold up. I wanna hear that story."
"Me too," said Cleo. Sebastian squeaked twice as if agreeing.
Bloodsport stared in disbelief. "You're kidding me. Even the rat wants to know this shit?"
Peter made a dramatic gesture, as if presenting a story to an eager crowd. "Gather around, my children, and let me tell you the tragic, violent, slightly hilarious tale of Bloodsport and Spider-Man."
Polka-Dot Man groaned quietly, muttering, "Oh god, not storytime…" but Peter ignored him completely.
"Back in the day," Peter continued, leaning forward like a storyteller at a campfire, "we did a few jobs together for Black Mask. Real charming guy—mask, suit, anger issues. Anyway, during those two weeks, I learned more about guns than in my entire life. Bloodsport here—believe it or not—taught me how to shoot and even how to design my own custom gun. I mean, sure, it exploded on the first try, but still, teacher of the year."
Bloodsport gave him the finger without even looking up.
Peter chuckled. "See? He remembers. Those were good times, huh, Sport?"
Peacemaker barked a laugh. "Okay, I'm loving this. Father and son vibes right here. But what happened? Why does he hate your guts now?"
Peter's grin widened. "Oh, that's simple. I robbed him. Well, technically I robbed him and his boss."
Cleo's eyes went wide. "Wait—you robbed Bloodsport and Black Mask?"
Peter raised a finger dramatically. "Yes, ma'am. You see, mercenaries like Sport here live by a strict honor code with their employers. But thieves—like yours truly—we don't follow that code. So, on my last day working for Black Mask, I politely requested my fair share of the loot after a long, dangerous week. And… let's just say he didn't take it well."
"'Politely requested'?" Polka-Dot Man said with a scoff.
Peter shrugged. "Okay, maybe there was a little shouting. And I may have threatened to web his face to a moving car. But that's just negotiations."
Cleo leaned forward, curious. "So, what did you do? Did you kill him?"
Peter looked offended. "What kind of animal do you think I am? No! I didn't kill him. But…" he grinned slyly, "…I did blow up Black Mask's vault. If I couldn't have the loot, then nobody would."
The bus went quiet for a second before Peacemaker burst into laughter. "You blew up his vault? That's so unhinged I actually respect it."
"Damn," said Cleo, shaking her head. "Okay, I get why Black Mask wants you dead, but how does that—"
"I'm almost at that part, take it easy, "…so," Peter continued, leaning back casually in his seat, a smirk tugging at his lips, "after the vault blew up, Black Mask went nuclear. He blamed everyone—me, Bloodsport, his own men—hell, even his accountant. The guy was paranoid like that."
The team chuckled lightly, except for Bloodsport, who sat with his arms crossed, glaring out the window as the tropical city slowly came into view. The buildings of Valle del Mar were old and colorful, paint peeling under the heat, palm trees swaying lazily along the coast. Milton kept the bus steady, humming an old salsa tune under his breath.
Peter kept going. "So, what does good ol' Roman Sionis do? He puts a hit out on both of us. Bloodsport here spends the next two weeks trying to track me down so he could, quote, 'settle professional business.'"
"I almost did," muttered Bloodsport.
"Yeah, almost," Peter teased. "But here's the thing, people never see it coming—I'm faster, smarter, and my aim is impeccable."
Peacemaker laughed. "Faster, smarter, and now he's wearing flip-flops. What a downgrade, huh?"
"Hey, don't diss the outfit," said Peter, gesturing to his shirt covered in bright pink hibiscus flowers. "It's called blending in. Tourists don't get arrested for carrying suspicious bags."
"That's because tourists don't usually blow up vaults," Peacemaker shot back.
Cleo giggled softly, petting Sebastian as the little rat crawled back to her shoulder. "I don't know, I kinda like this version of him. Looks… chill."
"Yeah, 'chill' until he webs your wallet off your pocket," said Bloodsport, dryly.
Peter pointed a finger gun at him. "Still bitter, I see. I told you, man, I needed that money."
"You stole five million in bearer bonds."
"Details, details." Peter waved his hand. "You can't put a price on a good friendship, Sport."
Bloodsport groaned and turned away, muttering, "I should've killed you when I had the chance."
Ratcatcher leaned forward slightly. "So you really were a criminal before all this?"
The laughter died down as the bus rumbled forward. The dirt road gave way to cracked pavement, and the sleepy town of Valle del Mar began to rise around them like a sunbaked mirage. Colorful houses climbed the hillsides in chaotic stacks, laundry lines swayed between rooftops, and the smell of saltwater mingled with gasoline. Street vendors pushed carts piled high with fruit, kids chased stray dogs through the plaza, and for a moment, the war outside these borders felt a world away.
Bloodsport leaned back in his seat, his eyes fixed on Peter's reflection in the cracked rearview mirror. He waited until the others were distracted—Cleo feeding Sebastian a small chip, Peacemaker adjusting his massive helmet, Polka-Dot Man staring blankly out the window—before he spoke in a low growl only Peter could hear.
"You forgot some details, Parker."
Peter glanced at him from the corner of his eye but didn't answer.
Bloodsport continued, his voice just above a whisper. "That 'big job' you like to brag about? The one with the vault? You forgot to mention who was inside when you blew it up."
Peter's grin faltered for half a second, then returned, smaller this time, almost forced.
"Yeah," Bloodsport said, eyes narrowing. "You remember now. One of Black Mask's guys was still pulling cash when you rigged that detonator. The guy was sixteen and trying to support his family. But you bolted, and I had to drag him out before the whole place went up. However, you remember as well as I do, that I took him out of the vault already dead. You fucked up, and nearly got me killed with that poor kid too."
Peter's eyes stayed on the window, watching the city pass by in streaks of sunlight and shadow. He didn't say a thing. Not a joke. Nor he tried to defend himself. Just silence.
Bloodsport leaned back again, folding his arms. "Yeah. That's what I thought."
Milton's voice cut through the tension. "We're close. 'La Gatita Amable' is just past that plaza."
The bus jolted over a pothole as they turned a corner. Ahead, the modest bar came into view—its pink paint hided a little by the moon, as a flickering neon cat sign hanged above the doorway. Music drifted faintly from inside, laughter and chatter spilling into the humid air.
Rick Flag rose from his seat, adjusting his rifle strap. "All right, people. Remember, we keep it low. It's an in and out mission. Don't draw attention to yourselves."
Peter finally blinked, his face smoothing back into its usual casual charm. He tugged at his shirt collar and muttered under his breath, "Right. Low profile. Got it."
Bloodsport didn't look at him again—but the silence between them said everything.
The moment they stepped off the bus, the humid night air of Valle del Mar hit them like a wall. Neon lights buzzed weakly above the cracked sign of La Gatita Amable, the pink paint half peeled off, and a flickering cartoon cat winked lazily between bursts of static.
Music thundered from inside—heavy bass, laughter, and the clatter of bottles against tables. The air smelled of sweat, rum, and cheap perfume.
"Alright, remember," Flag said, tightening his jaw as he looked over the team. "We're ghosts until the contact gets here. No incidents. No attention."
"Yeah, yeah," Peacemaker muttered, adjusting his ridiculous polo shirt. "Just a couple of regular tourists out for a drink. Totally normal. Nothing screams 'incognito' like a guy in a chrome helmet."
Flag gave him a look that could kill, but before he could say anything, Peter cut in. "Yeah, you will leave that helmet here, unless you want me to tell eveyone who asks that you are just a junkie street performer."
Peacemaker smirked. "Cute." He said as he took out his helmet.
Behind them, Nanaue ducked his head out of the bus, his wide eyes glancing at the flashing lights and the crowd spilling from the entrance. "Too many people," he rumbled.
"Yeah, buddy, I'm afraid you're not gonna blend in," said Peter, giving the giant shark a friendly pat on the arm. "You stay here, keep an eye on the bus. Maybe Milton's got some snacks stashed in the glove compartment."
Nanaue's lower lip quivered for a moment, then he nodded solemnly. "Snacks," he said with a small grin, retreating inside the bus.
Inside, La Gatita Amable was a chaotic symphony of color and noise. A dozen ceiling fans fought the heat, barely moving the air. A DJ stood behind a makeshift booth in the corner, playing a reggaeton remix loud enough to shake the bottles behind the bar. On a small stage, two dancers moved lazily under neon lights, their glitter catching the glow as men in sweat-stained shirts shouted and clapped.
"Classy joint," muttered Bloodsport, scanning the room as if expecting someone to pull a gun any second.
"Don't lie," said Peter, grinning. "You love it."
Flag gestured toward a booth in the back corner, slightly in shadow. "There. Away from the door, clear view of the exits."
They moved through the crowd like a mismatched parade—Flag leading with military focus, Cleo holding Sebastian close in her hands, Peacemaker swaggering like he owned the place, Bloodsport scanning every corner, and Peter, the only one who looked like he actually belonged, hands in his pockets, easy smile on his face.
They slid into the booth, the cracked leather groaning under the weight. A waitress in a bright red dress came over, barely glancing at them as she wiped sweat from her brow.
"What'll it be, chicos?"
"Beers. Six," said Flag. Then he corrected himself, "Five." He glanced toward the window, where the bus sat under a flickering streetlight.
The waitress nodded and disappeared into the haze.
Cleo leaned back, stroking Sebastian absently. "So we just… wait?"
"That's the plan," said Flag. "Tinkerer's not due for another few hours. We keep a low profile till then."
"Define 'low profile,'" said Peacemaker, raising an eyebrow.
"It means you don't start a fight, don't hit on anyone, and for god's sake, don't show anyone your weapon."
Peacemaker smirked. "You mean this weapon or—"
"Finish that sentence and I'll knock you out myself," snapped Flag.
Peter chuckled under his breath, leaning back against the wall, letting the pounding music vibrate through the seat. "You guys really know how to make a night out feel romantic."
The beers arrived a minute later, sweating in the heat. They each grabbed one—except Cleo, who took a sip and grimaced—and for a brief moment, they looked almost normal.
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