Digger's feelings about being a part of the Thunderbolts hadn't changed. There were too many reminders of the Suicide Squad, and all of the bullshit that had gone along with it. However, he was not working for The Wall this time, which was a vast improvement. But really any change to the usual Rogue Lifestyle was met with resistance.
And although Pete was proving to be at least tolerable (what with the drinking and smoking allowances), he was still a keeper. And Digger objected to that on principle. He wasn't a goddamn animal, he was a person clever enough to not need to be kept in a cage. Which that house was, nice as it might be.
Now he found himself on a flying cage, which was even worse. Tons of more military yobs about everywhere, and all of them armed. His hands hadn't touched a boomerang in weeks, and it was more than starting to irk him. Unfair that this lot, just because they worked for the right side, got to carry and not even need to conceal. Snart was chatting up the woman in charge, and Digger was immediately bored, slouched against a nearby wall. They'd been yanked out of bed without warning and stuffed into one transport vehicle and shipped off to another.
"Jus' arm us proper and we'll get th'fuckin' job done, sheila. Might even bring ya back someone t'interrogate if we remember." Digger's eyes fell on a nearby wall console and he carelessly swiped a hand over the buttons, again out of boredom. "And mind, we're kinda particular when it comes t'weaponry. Specialists, n'all that."