After a series of failures where his targets seemed to somehow get away, tonight was finally the night. Bloodsport would not rest until he had put a bullet in Floyd Lawton.

Bloodsport lowered himself down via cable on the side of one of several Janus Corporation Housing Projects buildings. Retrieving a glass-cutter from his belt, he carefully incised a man-sized hole. He gently took the sliver he had cut and tucked it into his arm. Climbing up a bit to get his momentum, he gracefully hopped off his perch and landed inside Room 59 with a soft thump.

Placing the sliver of glass on the coffee table, Bloodsport withdrew a pistol with a silencer attached and serrated blade. The apartment was bare-bones, with little to nothing to distinguish it from any other apartments in the projects. The only additions the occupant had made were a television blasting the music video for Kanye West's Black Skinhead, a handful of fast food wrappings strewn on the floor and a well-punctured dartboard.

The schematics in Bloodsport's helmet revealed a tiny tripwire by the front door. This was what had made the assassin decide to enter by an alternate route to begin with. What was curious was that his helmet revealed that the tripwire was intended to release balloons and confetti from the roof, but given he had worked alongside a man who weaponized polka dots, he knew all too well to not underestimate his target.

Freezing the tripwire with another gadget courtesy of one Leonard Snart, he was satisfied to discover via his helmet no more nasty little traps awaited him. Softly walking over the minimal tan carpeting, he entered the one and only bedroom, which as the license plate above explained, was "King Floyd and Princess Zoe's Kingdom." This room was disgustingly pink, with various bits of princess merchandise everywhere. He sneered, shaking his head over how his peer had chosen to spend his money killing people only to get playthings from some snot-nosed brat.

The curtain covering the bed, however… that was where things got interesting. A heat signature! Bloodsport leveled his pistol and fired six successive shots. Checking for heartbeat, he was satisfied to discover there was none. He slowly pulled back the curtain and ripped off the covers.

Wait, all this time Deadshot was a white guy? Bloodsport thought in disbelief. His now-deceased target had greasy black hair, an eye patch and pencil-thin mustache. Nothing at all like the picture Waller had given him of a relaxed-looking bald man with a scruffy beard.

Bloodsport's first thought was maybe this was just another doppelganger. He remembered Snart mentioning this at one point. Given legally supervillains did not ascribe to copyright law, anyone could take on an established identity without giving credit to the original. This made identifying who could or had committed certain crimes incredibly frustrating for law enforcement.

The matter was a subject of fierce debate in the supervillain community with no clear answer. In particular, Snart had mentioned being flattered by all the fans who wore parkas in tribute to him, but was not fond of ripoff villains with overly similar gimmicks such as Chillblaine. Bloodsport's policy was there was no such thing as a good ice-themed supervillain to begin with, and he didn't much care what his peers called himself as long as they stayed out of his way.

But then looking a bit closer at the dead man, Bloodsport realized that this wasn't Lawton at all. It was Alex Trent, the other Bloodsport. This one was also hired as an assassin, but was nowhere near as successful as DuBois. He was a white supremacist detestable even by the supervillain community's standards, long ago blacklisted by The Calculator and only hired by wackjobs like William Hell.

If he remembered correctly, Trent had once publicly challenged him to a boxing match for the title out of jealousy and perceived bias making him more popular. He had drunkenly taunted on his day off as DuBois was peacefully watching the statistics of horse races on the television, writing down his bets when he was confronted. After declining, Trent had persisted, offering him one free shot, tucking DuBois' helmet under his armpit and shredding the paper he had been using to write down statistics.

Uneager to exert himself on his day off, DuBois performed his own version of a magic trick he had seen Joker use once. Namely, taking the pencil he was using to bet on football matches to stab Trent in the eyes before retrieving his helmet and walking off in a huff. He had had such a good feeling about the horses Ebony and Ivory, too…

Trent had clearly been freshly killed, given his body still emanated heat. And he counted eighteen bullet holes, not six. Whereas DuBois' bullets were more specialized for sniper rifles, Lawton's were more suited for rapid-fire close combat. Lawton must have suspected someone from Task Force X would track him down, and been armed to the teeth. But why wasn't there any evidence of forced entry?

Ah, yes. The teleporter. Trent's one innovation to the battle armor DuBois had built was a short-range teleporter, and he must have used that to break into Room 59. It must have been Trent who had been stealing all of Dubois' hits! But how did one of the most unpopular supervillains with few if any connections in the supervillain community manage to get the jump on Bloodsport's mark?

"Nobody likes a ripoff."

Bloodsport turned around and unlimbered his sniper rifle, getting the scope right up to his eye the moment an armor-piercing bullet travelled through the glass and didn't stop until it went through Trent's remaining good eye. DuBois collapsed to the ground instantly, armor and weapon loudly clattering to the floor.

Deadshot shook his head knowingly, patting the radio he had poached off of Trent fondly only to see it had a decal of a flaming cross and rub his hand off on his shirt instead. While DuBois had not performed a killing shot, he had managed to draw blood with a mere bullet lodged in his rival's shoulder. Deadshot had worse injuries from parent-teacher conferences.

He had to admit, it was rather clever of Trent to slip a miniature tracker onto DuBois' helmet during the confrontation. Less clever, however, was breaking into the safehouse he and Zoe had built with the intent of killing the both of them and becoming the most successful firearm-themed supervillain. Nobody messed with his daughter.

Suspecting DuBois would not be far behind, Floyd had stolen Trent's tech and teleported himself to a rooftop where he could wait for a certain little birdie to show himself. As for the trick he had performed? Well, an eye for an eye was a trick he simply hadn't done yet, and was curious to see if he could pull it off.

The Calculator had repaid a long-overdue favor by giving Floyd a friendly warning beforehand that both Trent was snooping around the bounty Task Force X had posted for him. And given the laundry lists of enemies Trent and DuBois had accumulated over the years, their corpses delivered to The Calculator would put Zoe through graduate school and make her upcoming birthday an even larger affair.

But even though the large deposit about to enter his bank account was sweet, dispatching The Bloodsports in particular appealed to Deadshot. After all, Trent was a racist and DuBois was an abusive father. To quote something he had heard the Joker say; This town deserves a better class of criminal.