I know the movie hasn't even come out yet, but I've been sitting at home with nothing to do. Ended up watching Jai Courtney movies for a week and wrote some fic, because why not? There are no spoilers, because, obviously, I haven't seen the film - only the previews. Anything that happens here is just from my mind and what is shown in the trailers. I'd like to apologize in advance to anyone from Australia for butchering your slang. Also, some of the characterizations and circumstances of the people and events in this story are probably inaccurate, but it's all for fun, so eh. *shrug* Hope you enjoy it, though.

There is plenty of violence - most of it directed at the female OC, so if women getting hurt hurts you, don't read on. There's also strong language, a lot of swearing, vulgarity, lewdness, what could be considered sexual harassment, and a very graphic sexual interlude. You've been warned.

And, of course, I don't own any of the DC characters. Derp.

Squad Goals

Walking into Belle Reve Penitentiary, Detective Tamry Sheer couldn't help but think to herself how ironic her situation was. There, but for the grace of God, go I. With very little shifting of circumstances and outcomes, she'd be on the other side of these bars and locks. Working for the Gotham PD was like wading through a sea of vipers and she'd always fit right in. Maybe her methods were slightly less than wholesome, but she was always smart about it. Her disciplinary file was two inches thick and there were plenty of complaints about brutality and suspects missing under suspicious circumstances, but nothing with enough coating to stick. She liked Gordon, she really did, but the old man didn't understand that sometimes it's better if the bad guys don't get arrested at all.

She was about the same age as Gordon's own daughter and had the same red hair (though, hers was a mass of unruly curls), so the old man never pushed to bring the hammer down on her. He thought she could be redeemed, probably. That she was good, but misguided. Sentimental old fool. She really did like him. It was a good dynamic they had going. He kept his hands clean, tried to keep her and the rest of the department on the straight and narrow and she kept her hands coated in dirt, shit, and blood. Normally, that was a metaphor. Normally. Ultimately, she was trying to keep the streets of Gotham a little safer for decent people and a lot safer for the ones who were less than decent, but still worth protecting. There were far more of them out there.

All the people working on Amanda Waller's kite team, the so-called Suicide Squad, were volunteers - from the guards on up. The moment she'd heard whispers about it, Tamry knew she wanted in. She needed in. It would be her chance to really let loose and not have to worry about oversight and Internal Affairs breathing down her neck. She wasn't worried about spending her days side by side with the dregs of the Gotham prison system. After ten years with the GPD, it would be just like home.

She showed yet another guard her ID, with top clearance, and was buzzed through. This made four checkpoints. Given who they were keeping in here, she thought maybe they were being a little sparse. Must be hard to get funding for a clandestine emergency response crew made up of murderers and thieves and whatever the fuck that guy Croc was. She knew she wasn't getting any extra pay. Maybe hazard pay. She'd read the dossiers on all the team members. Yeah, she'd better get hazard pay.

Tamry would be working more or less under Rick Flag. More in that he answered only to Waller and was the ranking officer in command, therefore, she was to follow his orders. Less because… well, she was never great at following orders. Aside from Gordon and his endless stores of patience and understanding, her "fuck you, very much" attitude had earned her very few friends. Also, it garnered her the nickname Temerity. She kinda liked it.

One of the prison yards had been commandeered for use by the squad only and when she arrived, they were out in the sun for their exercise period. The Croc looked even more horrifying than his mug shots, huge and scaly. She wondered if he moisturized. He certainly cut an impressive figure, lifting weights with no shirt. Tamry wondered to herself if he had a normal/semi-normal human penis or a cloaca. Or a turtle dick; that would be impressive. All flared at the end like a fan cactus. She bet if he hadn't been a violent cannibal, he could have made a fortune doing Japanese porn. Too bad.

Nearby, Deadshot Lawton was also lifting, though not the weight of a VW Bug like Croc. He seemed to have a permanent look of disgust etched into his features. He'd probably be a barrel of laughs. Dr. Quinn, maniac medicine woman, was off in a grassy area and it appeared she was doing yoga. Croc might be the scariest, but Tamry knew that this woman was the most dangerous member of the team. She rather liked that fact. All these big, scary dudes and the little blonde in pigtails was the real heavy among them. Weiss and Harkness were playing one-on-one basketball - badly. She wrinkled her nose as the copper-skinned Slipknot's long braids flew through the air when he took a fast turn. She just knew they were spraying sweat everywhere. Ugh. Still, not a bad lookin' cat, really. She'd always liked the look of Native men. But that hair, though - oh, no thank you.

Sitting alone on the risers beside the basketball court was the most intriguing member of the team, so far as Tamry was concerned. Chato Santana, El Diablo. The man could fucking make fire. As a child, she'd gone through a fire-bug stage - she was pretty sure most people did - and oh, how she'd wished she could be pyrokinetic, like Charlie in Stephen King's Firestarter. It was very easy to feel envious of Santana. Though, of course, there had to be a down side to the whole thing. Maybe he set his sheets on fire every time he got off or something. That would suck. Never being able to masturbate again? No, thank you. His tattoos were something else. Normally, Tamry wasn't one for anything above the shoulders on a man, but the skull accents worked on him. They worked really well.

Katana Yamashiro was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she was off meditating or making out with her sword-husband. Sheer hadn't expected to see Harvest Moon, the witch vessel, around the prison at all, so didn't bother wondering what she was up to. Making potions and cackling at children, probably.

Her boss, Rick Flag, was sitting at a table under a camouflage canopy. Camouflage in the middle of a fucking prison. He was apparently using it as some kind of makeshift base of operations, scowling intently down at a laptop with a little satellite dish hooked into it. Let's go introduce us.

It was only the second day and Sheer was missing the Gotham PD already. She'd agreed to be housed on prison grounds during her turn with the squad and was regretting it. The point was for her to be near the team when the team was needed, so they could all be ready to go at a moment's notice. It made sense, she'd agreed, done and done. It was boring her to tears. She spent her days on the streets of the city or in the police department where something was always happening. There was always someone to talk to or maybe interact with a little more forcefully. There were leads to track down, evidence to sift through, reports to read, paperwork to be done. Here, she had nothing. There was television, but she wasn't some fucking housewife folding laundry. She didn't want to watch soap operas and talk shows.

The guards and handlers assigned to the squad wanted nothing to do with her. Her reputation made her persona non grata apparently. They seemed to think she was no better than the cons they were there to watch. Which would have been fine, normally. Fuck them and the horse that rode them. But, with no one but Flag to talk to, she was hurting for a distraction. Maybe she could take up a hobby. Crochet? Make some nice sweaters for when winter rolled around.

Ugh, she couldn't wait for winter. The nights were cool enough, but the days were still sunny and hot and it gnawed at her like a giant sewer rat. Even her room was hot. She'd asked several times about the air conditioning, but nothing had been done. It was a prison, after all. Maybe she'd go out and get a window unit. Her window didn't technically open, but that could be fixed. There appeared to be a breeze today, at least. Maybe going outside would be better than sitting in her little oven of a room.

Tamry sat against the wall that surrounded the squad's private yard, enjoying the coolness of the shade it provided this time of day. It had been erected the week before, just another obstacle keeping the team in place. Made of sandbags, it was about five feet high, so it really wouldn't keep most of the men in, but it might slow them down for a second. Quinn could probably pirouette over it or something. She was as graceful as a cat. Sheer watched her doing some kind of calisthenics that involved stretching and twisting, arching back and slowly bringing her legs over. It was mesmerizing. She wondered if the Joker and Quinn actually had sex. What was that like? Straight up missionary? Strictly anal? Weird devices?

The Joker was so far outside of Tamry's league. She dealt with street walking scum, regular murderers and rapists and kiddie pushers. She wouldn't even know where to begin with someone like that. The obvious place to end it would be with a bullet between the man's eyes, but she wasn't the goddamn Batman. Let him deal with the big dogs. She'd stick to the rats.

The Batman. Now there was someone intriguing. Vigilante justice; she could get behind it. Really, with all his gadgetry and purported martial arts skills, he was probably less of an actual vigilante than she was. More than likely, he was working for some shady government agency. There was probably a whole team of Batmen, trained up in some secret bunker and outfitted like fucking James Bond. Still, the idea that it was just one super strong, super smart guy in a spooky costume was damn appealing. She wasn't the only one who thought so, judging by the specialty section of any adult shop you might enter in Gotham. Capes, cowls, and Bat-a-wangs aplenty.

It was as Sheer was contemplating the sexual accoutrement of Gotham's denizens that George Harkness stepped into her peripheral vision and sat himself down right beside her. He was huge up close, thick and muscular, which was well displayed by the tight tank top he wore with his jeans. Not as big as Croc, nor as tall as Lawton, he still dwarfed her own five foot, four and a quarter inch, thank you very much, frame. She looked over at him, brows furrowed incredulously. What the fuck did he want? He sat with his head back against the wall, eyes closed. If he hadn't plopped himself down six inches away from her, Tamry would have thought he was simply enjoying the shade as she was.

The wind shifted, sliding its way along the wall like a wave breaking against a jetty, which was part of the reason it was so comfortable there. It washed the scent of him across her senses and she blinked, then found herself laughing. He cracked one eye, glaring at her out of it, mouth turned down in a mighty frown. Probably people found him intimidating, with his steely gray-blue stare and go-fuck-yourself facial grooming choices and Mohawk made up of wild curls. Not to mention his size. He was just another Gotham low-life to Tamry. She'd been slogging an often bloody path through them for the better part of her adult life.

"Something funny?" he asked. His voice wasn't nearly the growl she assumed it would be. With his accent, it was actually kind of pleasant. She shrugged in some semblance of apology and grinned at the man.

"You smell better than I thought you would," Sheer admitted, bluntly. Saying it out loud caused her to start laughing again. It was true, though. Whatever he had on, it was a sweet, spicy musk that she quite enjoyed.

He snorted, his eye rolling shut again. Her laughter quickly calmed, leaving her smiling to herself in amusement. She sat back against the wall once more. It was obvious Harkness was sizing her up, trying to work out how much of a threat she was, how useful she might be if he could manipulate her. It didn't offend or worry her. He probably assumed her small size made her an easy target physically and that, as a woman, she could be bullied or cajoled. She certainly couldn't take him in a hand-to-hand street brawl, that was certain, but she wouldn't have to. There was no way he'd be able to scare or entice her into anything, either. For her part, Tamry was pondering whether she should let him in on that fact or if it would be more beneficial that he remain in the dark and think her weak and malleable.

"Who's leg did you piss on to get set up here, then?" he asked, peering at her from under his lashes.

She chuckled at his wording. Colorful. "Everyone I could," she smirked insolently. "I asked for the assignment."

He turned his gaze on her fully now, brows up in what could be genuine surprise or feigned; she couldn't yet tell. "Yeah?"

Sheer nodded with a shrug. "Hoping to rub elbows with a new class of dirt bag," she declared.

"Well, ya' come to the right place," he told her, approvingly. He lifted his hand, offering it to her to shake. "Y'can call me Captain Boomerang."

Tamry rolled her head towards him, looking up at the man with an expression of derisive doubt. "Yeah, I'm not gonna shake your hand. And I'm not gonna call you Captain."

He dropped his hand back to the cement. "Just bein' friendly, darl'."

"Of course. And I'm just being not stupid," she gave him a saccharin smile. Harkness shrugged, unoffended, and went back to resting his head on the sandbag behind it. Good, at least he wasn't the sensitive sort of scumbag who didn't like being recognized for what he was. "What are you even a captain of? Are you a ship captain? Are you gonna sing me a jaunty sea shanty and dance a jiggity jig?"

Both of his eyes were open now, under furrowed brows, and he was looking at her like he couldn't decide whether she was crazy or just a bitch. Little did he know, it was a bit of both.

Tamry snorted impishly and winked at the hood beside her. "I'm just fuckin' with ya."

Now, it was the Captain's turn to smirk. Just because someone was a dirt bag, didn't mean you couldn't be on good terms with them, after all. Sheer had a list of confidential informants as long as her arm and they weren't choir boys and girl scouts; she wasn't a saint, herself, either. She saved her ire for the worst of the dregs. As far as she knew, Harkness was a thief and, while fairly violent, he'd never touched a kid or raped anybody. He wasn't a serial killer. He didn't turn out runaways so strung out they didn't know their own names. He'd never even made it onto her personal radar at GPD. Sheer couldn't care less about stolen jewelry or bar fights.

"But, I'm really not going to call you Captain," she restated her position. "It sounds like a cartoon character."

"How about Digger, then?" he offered. Then lifted a mocking eyebrow and asked, "Or is that too bodgy for you, too?"

"Digger works," she shrugged. "I would have even gone with Boomerang. But not Captain."

"Am I gonna get ya' name or do I have to go askin' the guards?" he prodded.

"Tamry," she told him. One side of her mouth curved upwards sardonically. "But you knew that before you came over here."

His lips slowly peeled back into a grin. "Good on ya', darl'," he praised, pleased she'd seen through him. Digger's eyes narrowed speculatively, "Course, I also got the name Temerity off 'em."

Sheer shrugged. "It works, too. I'm kinda salty."

"Oh, I just bet y'are." His tone had dropped to a sultry purr out of nowhere.

Rolling her eyes with a soft groan of disgust, she turned her head away. "Good lord."

He laughed heartily. Yeah, she might have figured the Aussie to be the type of guy who found disdain to be just as charming as cheekiness. He was gonna be a flirt. A heavy, heavy flirt. Not that she minded trading innuendos, even with sleezeballs like Boomerang, so long as they didn't get too pushy, didn't think something might actually ever happen. He seemed like a realistic enough guy to understand that, so she wasn't overly concerned about letting him get too fresh, so long as it was just talk.

He picked up the bottle of water she had been nursing and tipped it back, draining the contents in one go. Great, he also had boundary issues. That might be a problem. She'd have to nip it in the bud if that were the case. But the water bottle, she didn't care about. Why make an issue when she could just get another? It was touching her that she was concerned with. Idly, Tamry noticed the way his mutton chops, badly in need of some trimming, seemed to curl forward around the lip of the bottle, like a cat's whiskers when they're sniffing something for inspection.

A thought hit her and she couldn't help giggling. He gave her a disgruntled look, still drinking; one eyebrow up, the other pulled down in a partial scowl, which only served to exacerbate her amusement. The giggle turned into a full laugh and he lowered the now empty bottle with a huff.

"What's got you goin' this time?"

Tamry shook her head, cupping a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry," she apologized, but her eyes danced with humor. "It's not you, I swear. It's just a thought I had."

"Oh? Not used to them, eh?" he sneered at her, too petulant to be taken seriously. "Did it tickle, then?"

She laughed again at his little barb. "Funny you should say that," she chuckled, scratching her head for effect. He chuckled in turn, setting the bottle back down.

"What's ya' bloke think about you working with us bogans, then?" Digger asked conversationally. He bent one knee, resting one beefy arm upon it.

"No bloke," she told him. She had to assume bogan was a derogatory term, the way he used it.

"Not a lemon, surely!" He seemed to be asking for her confirmation of something, but Tamry had no idea what. The detective might need some kind of Australian slang dictionary if she was going to have more than one conversation with the man.

"No idea what you're saying to me right now," she told him, flat out. He chuckled at her confusion.

"Y'take fanny over donger?" She was familiar enough with British slang to know that fanny didn't mean butt. Donger was pretty self explanatory.

"Okay, that one I understood," she gave him a disapproving look. He was trying to confuse her with slang on purpose. He just chuckled again, so amused by himself. "And no, I'm not a lemon. I just don't have a bloke."

"Fancy a root? Don't normally crack a fat for a Bluey, but you go alright."

"Now, you're just making shit up," Tamry declared incredulously. Digger's head went back with a great, booming laugh. It drew the attention of every guard nearby, Santana, and Quinn. The blonde woman looked over at the pair hunkered in the shade and smiled. Sheer wasn't sure how to feel about that, but seeing the other woman's lips curve upwards made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. The effect was worsened by the way El Diablo was staring at them, his dark eyes intense. It was like he could see into her and that was unsettling, bordering on terrifying.

Tamry quickly pushed to her feet, suffocating under the fierce scrutiny. She had to get away. Digger misunderstood her sudden need to leave and caught her ankle in one large hand, instantly halting her.

"I was only havin' a go at you, darl'," he insisted. She reacted instantly, kicking him in the ribs he'd left exposed and vulnerable. He released her with an outraged bellow, though it would be mostly more from shock and anger than pain; she hadn't done it hard enough to cause real damage. Hopping back out of his immediate reach, she stood ready on the balls of her feet, but he only cupped a hand to his injured side and glared up at her. "Y'crazy bitch!"

"Keep your hands to yourself or I'll show you just how much of a bitch I really am," she warned, her voice practically spilling ice crystals from her lips. Using the wall for leverage, Digger stood with a grunt of discomfort. He glowered down at her for a moment, broad shoulders tight with agitation, clearly debating with himself whether he wanted to attack her or not.

In the end, he just huffed in disgust and walked away, muttering to himself in a low, furious growl about crazy Sheilas. One of the guards he passed made the mistake of snickering loud enough for the pissed off Aussie to hear and the Captain took out his wrath on the foolish man. The other officers swarmed Harkness, but he still had more than enough time to punch the idiot into the ground. In the struggle, he dropped two more, but was eventually subdued enough to be hauled back into the building, struggling and hollering obscenities the whole way.

Temerity Sheer, always making friends.