That Would Be Suicide

[Boomerang]

"Please state your identity for the record."

Military uniform wrapped tight around him, the soldier leaned forward in his seat, drawing himself a little closer to the microphone. "Captain Owen Mercer, United States Air Force."

"And your codename?"

There was a brief moment of hesitation before he replied.

"Boomerang," he said eventually.

Discomfort formed a knot in his stomach. Boomerang. The legacy of of a man he'd never met; of a nationality he'd never known. George Harkness. Captain Boomerang. Australian. Father.

"Thank you, Captain."

The interrogator, the bureaucrat, the paper pusher from Washington, leafed through the freshly printed copy of the Captain's mission report. They had laptops, they had technology; they must have already seen a copy of the file before arriving. Even so, the reproduction in front of them was pristine: unread, and unused. A damned waste, frankly.

Eyes climbed from the document, and fixed on Mercer. "Please summarise, in your own words, the reason that this tribunal was called."

Owen's gaze moved between the three ranking individuals assembled to preside over this display bureaucratic redundancy and meddling scrutiny. Two of them understood: he could see it in their eyes. Colonel Werner Vertigo, a decorated Army officer and his direct superior, knew all too well that casualties and collateral damage were to be expected on a mission such as this. Agent Valentina Vostok meanwhile knew that there were times when such things were necessary during an operation like this.

The bureaucrat knew neither of those things; and frankly, he didn't seem like the person who would want to. All his type cared about was making sure that if there was any blame to be had, it was as far away from anyone important as it could possibly be.

"Two days ago," he explained slowly, carefully, "Squad Six was deployed under my command to disrupt a smuggling operation in Belle Reve, Louisiana. Intel suggested that the operation was supplying a terrorist cell known as Kobra. When we arrived however we discovered that the cell was far more heavily armed than intelligence suggested. The shipment, as well as the building containing it, was destroyed in a large explosion. At last count, I believe there were seventeen casualties, all of them confirmed hostiles."

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "In addition, a member of my team was captured. I presume that, in addition to ensuring that the government remains blameless in all this, you are here to tell me that I will not be permitted to mount a rescue."

[Sylvester Pemberton]

If the bureaucrat perceived the hostility rolling off the young Captain, he certainly didn't react to it. Senator Sylvester Pemberton was a man with many years of worldly experience under his belt. He had faced off against Titans - political, corporate, and figurative - and he was still here; still on top. He didn't need confrontations to reaffirm that for him.

Glare all you want, Captain. I'm too old for these kind of games.

At an intentionally slow pace his gaze returned to the mission report, pondering over information that he had already committed to memory. "Ah yes," he said with a frown, a hint of mild disinterest in his voice. "An operative named Scandal."

An eyebrow quirked. "I've read your file, Captain. Exceptional as you are, flight and mystical foresight are not abilities that you possess. Fourty-eight hours is a sizeable head-start: even if your operative is still alive, how do you expect to find them?"

[Boomerang]

"We don't need to find them, sir. We know exactly where they are."

His expression was made of stone: utterly unchanging. The Senator didn't seem perturbed in the least, but Mercer didn't care. He wasn't glaring to unsettle the man. His jaw would have been just as tightly clamped had he still been on Capitol Hill. His anger was entirely self-directed. You left her behind.

"We've known for some time that Kobra has been operating out of Santa Prisca - it's a small island in the Caribbean, mostly used for drug production and trafficking, which is Kobra's main source of income. The island is too well fortified to be attacked and neutralised covertly, and as yet there hasn't been a sufficiently public cause to justify a military strike."

He shrugged. "I don't need to destroy it. I just need to get in, grab Scandal, and get out. Potentially, we could gather a wealth of valuable intel: more than worth risking a handful of entirely unsanctioned rogue American citizens. There is no downside, for Checkmate or for you."

Silence dragged out for a moment. "And for the record, sir? I am doing this. And if you've read my file like you say, you'll know that you simply aren't fast enough to stop me."

[Sylvester Pemberton]

Headstrong. Arrogant. Overly confrontational. It was like looking into a mirror of his youth. The Senator had to fight back a smile.

"Do you love her?"

The question came out of nowhere, and from the sudden shift in the Captain's expression, it had the desired effect. Pemberton didn't back down: he pressed his advantage, pushing on the pressure point he'd uncovered, hoping he'd cause cracks big enough to see a little truth through.

"You seem hell-bent on rescuing her. She's an attractive young lady; about your age; and you've been through a lot together. She probably knows you better than anyone else ever has, and visa versa. It's not a stretch, and it wouldn't be the first time."

His eyes pierced into Mercer's, watching every twitch, flinch, reaction as he spoke the question again.

"Do you love her?"

[Boomerang]

It was like being hit by a clown car: unexpected, out of nowhere, and completely absurd. What he'd said was right, they had been through hell together: but the same could be said of anyone else on the squad. Hell, he'd arguably been through more with Lawton, and that was equally unlikely to go anywhere: Scandal and Mercer's romantic preferences had far too much in common for Owen to even entertain the notion.

Their bond was different. They weren't friends. They weren't family. Their bond was more. Mercer and his squad placed their lives in each other's hands day after day, and every time they earned each other's unquestionable trust all over again.

Except for this time. This time, Scandal had trusted Mercer to have her back and he'd let her down. This wasn't about love. This wasn't about responsibility. It was a matter of honour.

"She's on my team," he fired back, his glare growing more intense.

He slumped back a little in his chair. "It's not something I'd expect a bureaucrat in a suit to understand."

[Sylvester Pemberton]

Team.

Well, if that wasn't exactly the right damn word to start tying his stomach in knots. A bureaucrat in a suit he might be, but this suit hadn't always been the one he wore. There was a time when he'd lived an entirely different life: when things like loyalty had been more important than anything else, and when he'd favoured right and wrong over law and order. It had been an age ago, and those years were long past him; but a small glimmer of the man he'd once been still remained.

"I understand better than you think," he offered back; something had softened the edge of his words.

He fell silent for what seemed like an eternity, his focus intently on nothing. At last he glanced to the operatives who flanked him; a silent nod was offered to the Russian.

"Three men: you plus two," Vostok instructed, rattling off a plan that she had clearly formed before she'd even entered the room. "We'll air drop you in by Stealth, but the four of you will have to find your own way off. Make it quick; make it quiet; and make it count. We'll brief you in transit."

The Captain didn't wait; didn't stand on ceremony. He was on his feet the instant approval had been given, barely lingering long enough to exchange a quick snapped salute with the Colonel.

"God speed," the Senator added, managing to catch a quick and veiled nod of thanks in reply.

[Boomerang]

It took all the self control that Owen had to walk out of that room at a normal pace. It could have taken less than a second, but instead it took seventeen; he counted. The scowl hadn't shifted from his features, but the look in his eyes had transformed into determination.

He rounded a corridor, passing two security guards without sparing them a second thought. His attention was focused beyond them, at the slender blonde waiting casually propped up against the wall.

"Grab Lawton," he interrupted, before she even had a chance to speak, "And grab your gear. We're going to Santa Prisca."

[Eve Eden]

She hated the bureaucracy. The red tape. The endless meetings and councils and bullshit they had to go through just to be able to do what they did.

And did damn well at that.

Eve would have snorted in utter disgust if she weren't being watched by a pair of security guards that could have doubled as extras on the set of Spartacus. As if she were going to metamorphose into something so horrible...

...well, she sort of did, didn't she?

Her disgust turned to a bemused expression by the time Mercer clocked around the corner, fingers pulling his uniform into precise, neat order. Eve pushed off of the wall as he spoke, and simply nodded, her question answered before she even got it out. Oh Santa Prisca...

...you miserable little island. You have no idea what you're in for.

Eve's eyes flickered briefly to a glittering white as she spun quickly on a tall boot heel, leaving Mercer to his own preparations. There was a vicious determination in her gaze - gods help anyone who tried to prevent them from bringing Scandal home. Losing a member of their tight-knit team had been hard enough. Coming back without her was simply not an option.

It wasn't long before she'd grabbed her ever-ready go bag and buckled, snapped, and zipped herself into her usual black leather gear. Lawton's door loomed in front of her a few minutes after that, on which she knocked heavily.

"Ya ready yet, darlin'?" she called out, tilting her head as she took a step back and checked the watch on her wrist.

[Deadshot]

"Why, were we going somewhere?"

The door clicked open, and Floyd Lawton leaned into the gap. From the state of his hair and the crop of stubble on his face, he might have just rolled out of bed. He wore a set of BDU trousers and a vest of body armor, which still didn't rule out the bed thing.

He glanced up and down the leather-clad blonde in his doorway and hooked a thumb over his broad shoulder.

"Cause I just looked in my closet this morning and I've still got some stuff packed from Belle Reve. M40. M16. M249 SAW. A couple cases of grenades. Frag, flashbangs, and smoke. You still like smoke, right?"

[Eve Eden]

"Pack your speedo and some suntan lotion, sugar. We're off to the tropics."

The blonde stood there and posed, a delicate brow lofted as he glanced up and down. And then, just because she could, Eve leaned forward and slid a hand through Floyd's hair, a wicked smile curling her lips.

"Smoke? Oh, you know what I like. Bring it all."

Stepping slightly into the doorway as he vacated it, her eyes glittered a pale silvery-white. They trailed after him as he moved, glancing briefly down at her watch before she looked back up.

"Want to walk to the hangar or go my way?" Eve asked, a faint purr at the back of her throat. Some days, she mused, keeping the succubus at bay was more trouble than it was worth.

[Deadshot]

"Don't mess with the hair unless you mean, it babe."

Lawton stepped over to the closet and leafed through a selection of fatigue jackets sorted by camouflage - desert, woodland, urban, jungle. Each one stirred memories of past engagements: Iraq, Somalia, Kaznia, Gamorra Island. Ha, Gamorra, he was probably the only member of his squad who had any fond memories of that hellhole. Little island beauty. Eyes the color of honey. Absolutely deadly with a khuhri.

The mercenary's hand lingered over the warm greens and browns of the jungle kit and then settled on the sleeker, paneled jacket that was molded almost like a body glove, charcoal gray with no sheen at all even in direct light. Something new from Q-Core, equipped with light-adaptive carbon fiber weave or some such technical voodoo. Lawton liked it because it had more hidden clips and pockets than should be physically possible, and it even had custom-fitted sleeves to accommodate his own unique choice of holdout weapon.

He pulled on the jacket and shouldered a large duffel bag that clanked when it moved and swaggered back toward Eve as if it weighed nothing at all. "Honestly? Your way still gives me the willies. No offense, but I like to see where I'm going."

[Nightshade]

"You know I do..."

Her form rippled slightly as she purred, the shadows around Floyd's doorway thickening in response. Blonde curls melted into a mass of shadow tendrils that seemed to move of their own accord, while her eyes went silver with a single pinpoint of black in the middle.

The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her lips as he approached, her gaze sliding up and down briefly. A fingertip reached out trail across his stubbled chin even as a swirling ebony portal opened behind her. "Suit yourself...I'll meet you down there."

Nightshade pulled back and slipped through the portal, letting it collapse in her wake. She paused briefly, glancing around at the familiar surroundings before creating another portal to the hangar and stepping through.

[Deadshot]

Reality rippled back into one piece, and Lawton fished a half-spent cigar out of one of the ammo pouches on his vest. "Damn."

He made his way to the hangar with his jacket hanging open, a squad's worth of weapons swinging at his hip, and his cigar stub trailing oily, aromatic smoke through various NO SMOKING areas, but he had the sense to snuff it out before actually entering an environment rich in jet fuel and heavy ordnance. He left the ashen remains of the cigar in a trash can before shouldering his way through the double doors that joined the personnel tunnel to the cavernous hangar.

The Squad's dedicated transport loomed in the middle of the hangar like a streak of midnight, surrounded by fuel umbilicals and ammo trucks. Eve had beaten him here, obviously, and there was Owen champing at the bit, as if he could make the fuel tanks fill faster by glaring at the deck crew. The kid needed to learn how to relax.

"Reporting for duty as ordered, sir."

[Boomerang]

Sir?

Mercer fought the urge to retort against that. Whenever Floyd Lawton was polite, respectful, or obedient, it made him intensely nervous. He tried to think nothing of it; Deadshot was probably just in a real good mood because of the imminent prospect of shooting things again.

The Captain couldn't help noticing the veritable arsenal of weapons that Lawton had elected to bring. When he'd first joined the squad, Mercer might have wondered why Deadshot always seemed to be planning on waging war every time they prepped for a mission. Experience had taught him however that Lawton was never planning for war per se; he was just consistently prepared for it. Given the habit that their missions had for turning unexpectedly sour, that made him a pretty useful guy to have around.

"I hope you packed your quiet guns, Floyd," Owen muttered, arms folded so tightly across his chest that he was in real danger of straining something. "We need to be Killing Me Softly on this for as long as possible." His nose wrinkled. "Assuming we aren't Bang Bang, I Shot You Down before we even get there."

[Nightshade]

She stifled a groan and instead rolled her eyes from just over Mercer's shoulder, smiling from behind her hand. The living shadows that framed her face rippled and moved as if to a song only they could hear. She'd learned long ago that pulling them back was impossible - what could hold shadows, after all?

It was, however, the least of her problems. Eve sauntered around Owen, hands resting lightly on the pair of guns that sat in holsters strapped around each thigh. Not that she needed them, given her abilities, but she always had a contingency plan. Getting caught without them had proven disastrous once, she wouldn't be making the same mistake twice.

[Deadshot]

Lawton glanced down at the M249 SAW hanging by its shoulder strap from his overstuffed duffel, then back up at the Cap.

"Oops, I Did It Again."

He shifted past Captain Mercer and ambled up the gangway into the belly of the Spirit. "Don't worry, kid, I'm dressed for all occasions. Long-range, tactical, and close-quarters. So, we got any kind of plan for this pigeon shoot?"