DC: I Became A Godfather

Deadshot. Mercenary. Sharpshooter. Killer. Supervillain.

The man's real name was Floyd Lawton, and in the world of DC Comics, few names carried a sharper edge. He wasn't just a marksman—he was the marksman. Dubbed "the world's deadliest shooter," Lawton's reputation wasn't just mythic—it was earned, bullet by bullet. He could shoot without aiming, bend a bullet's arc like a magician's flourish, and turn a firing range into an art gallery of headshots.

He wasn't some background thug either. Deadshot was a core member of the infamous Suicide Squad, a man whose hands were as stained with blood as they were steady on the trigger.

And like many in Gotham, his past had several versions.

In one telling, Lawton first appeared as a vigilante—an arrogant new face who thought he could replace Batman. He tried cleaning up Gotham the "efficient" way—gun in hand, justice at his hip. But unlike Bruce Wayne, he lacked the ironclad self-restraint needed to walk the razor's edge. The city didn't shape him; it broke him. Tempted by the underworld's riches and power, Lawton shed his vigilante skin and embraced villainy. It was Batman and Commissioner Gordon who eventually unmasked him, dragging his legacy into the gutter—and him into prison.

In the New 52 timeline, the tragedy ran deeper.

Lawton was born into poverty on Naihe Island, Gotham's floating slum. He clawed his way toward a better life, scraping through every inch of hope he could find. Then one day, a stray bullet from a neighboring gang war tore through the paper-thin walls of his home. His entire family was gone in seconds. No warning. No justice. Just the cold reality of Gotham: bullets don't ask permission.

Some say that was the day Floyd Lawton died—and Deadshot was born.

It was a stretch, sure. Maybe the wall was the real villain. But whatever the origin, one thing was clear: Lawton wasn't just some cutthroat mercenary with a death wish. Beneath the grit and ammo belts was a man with a moral compass—bent, not broken. He'd once dreamed of justice. Now he only hoped to survive in a city that devoured heroes and villains alike.

In animation, he'd faced off with Captain Boomerang—one of the Flash's most dangerous enemies—and crushed him in seconds. Deadshot was a mid-tier Batman villain, sure, but he could go toe-to-toe with any elite when it came to skill. He even made appearances in Smallville, Arrow, and across multiple timelines in the DC multiverse.

But none of that mattered right now.

Right now, Floyd Lawton stood at the entrance of the Zeus Hotel, seething. His broad shoulders trembled with fury. Not from fear—never fear—but from humiliation.

The smug, sneering punk of a waiter had just looked him up and down and told him, to his face, that his reservation didn't exist.

"We confirmed last night. You think I brought my daughter here just to stand around and be laughed at?" he growled, the words edged with steel.

Lawton had seen war. He'd crushed men's skulls with his bare hands. But this—the disrespect, the mockery in front of his daughter—this cut deeper.

His fists curled. Just one squeeze, one wrong breath from the waiter, and he could snap his neck like celery.

And then—

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—beautiful day, man! No need to throw hands."

A calm voice cut through the tension like a breeze. Adam stepped forward, eyes bright, a soft grin stretching across his face. He clapped the waiter's hand gently—and with it, slipped a few folded bills into the man's palm.

"Let's not ruin the vibe," he said lightly. "I've got a few seats left at our table. Why don't this fine gentleman and his lovely daughter join us?"

He said "his lovely daughter" with just enough warmth, just enough gravity to anchor Lawton's rage.

The words landed like a slap of cold water. The fire in Lawton's eyes flickered. He looked down. There she was—his daughter—staring up at him with round, worried eyes, her tiny hand clutching the hem of his jacket.

And just like that, the killer inside him stepped back.

He might've been a soldier. A hitman. A broken man. But when it came to his daughter? He was a lion with a heart made of glass. He'd never harm her peace. Never let her see blood.

That's why Batman was able to arrest him once—because Lawton refused to draw his gun with her watching.

Adam knew that. He'd played the right card.

The waiter, oblivious to the fact that he'd been milliseconds away from a violent death, rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath.

"That's your business. Just don't make noise. Our boss and Gotham's richest man are dining upstairs tonight. Don't ruin their mood."

Adam's brows furrowed—not at the tone, but at the information.

Hotel owner… Gotham's richest man…?

Maxie Zeus and Bruce Wayne? Together?

Strange. But now wasn't the time.

He guided Floyd and the little girl toward the table where Edward Nygma was still seated, sipping from a glass of water like it was wine.

And so it happened. The first fateful meeting between The Riddler and Deadshot—two of Gotham's future monsters—brought together not by fate, but by Adam's unexpected generosity.

Adam handled the introductions like a showman.

He painted Nygma as Gotham's top scientific authority, a brilliant mind serving as a police consultant—someone who made Einstein look like a dropout and Galileo like a street magician. Nygma practically floated in his seat, grinning like a cat in a library.

Deadshot, wary from the start, didn't say much. Learning both men were affiliated with the police made him nervous. Trusting Gotham cops was like trusting a shark not to bite.

So he played it safe—called himself a "retired vet," and left it there.

Nygma, who had likely spent his college years dodging ROTC recruitment flyers, immediately lost interest. Veterans didn't impress him. But the little girl? She lit up in Nygma's presence.

Noticing his indifference toward her father, she asked questions about math problems and riddles from school, just to get him talking. Nygma's eyes softened. Suddenly, he was a teacher again, alive with purpose.

Adam, meanwhile, kept the evening warm and flowing. He ordered plates of steaming meat, roasted vegetables, fruits, and wine. He toasted to good company and laughed at every joke. Talk of gear and weapons eventually bubbled up, and Floyd's eyes sparkled. He spoke with precision, casually revealing knowledge that made Adam realize: this guy isn't just good—he's elite.

A man like that, wasted in obscurity?

It was a damn crime.

By the time they hit the third round of wine and the table was littered with empty plates, everyone was at ease. The conversation was flowing like jazz, and for a moment, even Gotham seemed far away.

But Adam's mind had wandered elsewhere.

The waiter's words still echoed.

"Gotham's richest man…" "Maxie Zeus…"

Bruce Wayne and Maxie, dining together?

That wasn't just coincidence. That was politics.

So Adam excused himself from the table with a warm smile and a half-drunken laugh.

"Be right back. Gonna stretch my legs."

He wasn't going to the bathroom.

He was going to listen.