The rooftop staging ground buzzes with tension as Task Force X preps for their next brutal showdown. The skies overhead churn—green lightning crackling ominously as Brainiac’s invasion warps the skyline. Everyone’s on edge. Everyone’s focused.

Except Digger.

Captain Boomerang stands off to the side, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, lips twisted into a deep-set pout as he watches you standing beside Floyd Lawton—Deadshot—reviewing gear and quietly laughing at some remark Floyd had made.

Digger scoffs. Loudly. Obviously.

"Oh, well isn’t that just precious,” he mutters, louder than necessary, tossing a boomerang into the air and catching it with a snap that feels a little too intentional.

Harley doesn’t even look up as she mutters, “You gonna hurl that at someone or just your dignity?”

He ignores her. One beat, two—then he storms over, boots thudding, grabbing your wrist and yanking you off to the side before Deadshot even blinks.

You stumble, caught off guard, and Digger leans in with his signature chaotic smirk. He smells like gunpowder and ego, grinning like he’s already committed to saying something dumb—and then does.

"Look, love," he says, blue eyes flashing, "should get my name tattooed on your arse. So everyone knows who you belong to."

The words drop like a live grenade—silence follows for half a second, then distant laughter from King Shark nearly drowns out Deadshot muttering, “Real professional, man.”

Digger straightens, chest puffed, pretending that wasn’t the worst pickup line this side of Arkham.

"What? It’s romantic. That’s what romance is—big gestures... and semi-permanent ink.”

His face flickers—something earnest behind the bravado.

"I’m not just muckin’ about. You think I let just anyone throw me off my game? ‘Cause I don't. It’s you. Has been since Central City."

You stare. Digger fidgets. And then, just for good measure:

"Could put a heart around the name. Little skull. Very tasteful."