Disclaimer: I don't own DC/Ayer characters, and any similarity between my OC(s) and any existing person is completely coincidental.
7:39 a.m.
Warm sunlight filters through broken curtains, casting a glow upon her tan skin. You left the window open. Again. Soft clinks disrupt the silence – simply a loose chain under the dusty ceiling fan. She watches as the chain swings around, once, twice, thrice, then – clink! It's small, really, a soft sound, like a pebble hitting the window. Clink! The twirling of a young ballet dancer. Clink! The hammer being pulled back. Clink! The fan helicopter blades, too late for the little girl in her arms. Clink!
By the time the sun chases the shadows back under her bed, she is drenched in a cold sweat.
Turning away from the fan, she catches sight of her only true possession. Cheap ivory keys peeling, the ebony lackluster, wood already curling from the humidity. She could sit there for hours, letting song after song flow from her fingers, shaking with emotion but never missing a note. Letting every sorrow, pain, and pleasure find release in her musical prayers. Soon enough, though, she would break.
Without even realizing it, she finds herself placing foot to pedal, positioning her hands, her filthy, bloodstained hands. A moment. Just one hesitance – she knows the blood is nothing more than one of IT's tricks, but still there remains a dull coating over the matching rose tattoos. Closing her eyes, she struggles to take a breath through the heat, before finally, finally, she knows what she wants to say. Her hands move, begging for forgiveness, an accident, but no, there is no salvation for her, and now anger coats the sorrow, rising, a crescendo, about to plummet off the edge -
"What's that one?" Jerking her head up from its reverent position, she frowns, hands skipping to a stop.
"Nothing – just a… feeling." She can tell the woman by the door is confused, but instead of probing further, she simply sets down a black bag near the door. The woman pulls back, eyebrows raised. Swaying, she nods toward the small t.v. by the bed and it springs to life as though by its own will.
"Was it you." Less of a question, more of a statement. The tragedy plays on repeat over and over. Within moments, the images of fire and blood sour the air. With a flick of her wrist, the t.v. shuts off just as suddenly, and now the woman's face is twisted, hovering somewhere between disappointment and anger. "How could you? What were you thinking?" Quietly, she stands and walks over to the closet, where she dresses as she is berated. "Don't you turn away from me! What did those people do to deserv-?"
"Nothing," she snaps lowly, but the woman wasn't waiting for an answer.
"This is the third time this month! I don't get it – I have tried everything to understand, have gone to such lengths to help you… But you know what? I don't think you want to be helped," she whips around to a finger stuck stubbornly in her chest.
"Oh, is that what you think? That I can't be helped? That I don't want to be better? You think I enjoy that?" she spits, gesturing roughly towards the t.v. "Oh, yes, their screams drive me insane with pleasure, Jacqueline!" Edging forward, she takes quick steps back until she has the woman pushed up against the wall. "How I love to shear them beg me for mercy, and then take their lives without care! Yes, yes, you have me all figured out, don't you woman!?" A sting, sharp against her cheek. She doesn't realize how heavy her own breathing has gotten until she steps away.
"Get. Out." There's tears, but she knows better than to reach for her. She turns and walks away as the lights begin to flicker. "GET OUT!" But the scream is caught in the swaying of the screen door.
11:58 a.m.
The timbre of the wind through the leaves calms her. Standing there along the river, watching as the boy bobs and weaves among the boulders, her mind is no longer a hornet's nest of emotions and thoughts. Her hands remain in her pockets, one of them clenched around a silver necklace that she continuously runs through her fingers. How could I let her get to me like that? She has no right, no RIGHT – breathe, breathe. The metal of the necklace digs into her hand as the boy stops to catch his breath, unaware.
Righteousness is such bullshit. Who decides right and wrong? Who's not to say that they could have – I mean, later in life, become – fuck fuck fuck. She's right. How could I? Did I really mean what I said back there? After a moment, the boy senses something wrong, off, about his playful world. He twists around but the water is clear, only slightly heavy against his chest, as it was the day before, and the day before that. The king of his world and yet an imperceptible threat just out of sight.
It just happens. I can't tell it when not to do what it does. It hurts, it hurts so fucking bad, it's just… easier, it's easier to say yes, to let it run the course it always does. I know all the steps to the dance, I've been playing it for years – why can't she understand that? The pain rips and tears and consumes until all that's left –
Popping back up for air, the boy stills once more, lightly treading the water, listening, not quite sure what caught his attention this time.
God help me, Devil save me, I just can't deny the darkness inside. How can I, when it's my own soul I should turn away?
The wind, so prevalent before, has stopped. There is no hum of the bee, chirp of the bird, howl of the monkey. Only soft rushing water fills the boy's ears. Like prey catching wind of a predator, he dives toward shore, arms and legs frantically pushing aside the water. He grasps the loose sand, one kick away from safety. His arm lands next, beginning to haul his body from the water.
Nobody understands. The way it crawls around inside me, laughing, screaming, pulling at my insides until I can't breathe. Even the sun cannot cast this shadow away. It fills me, it holds me up and pulls me down, it is always there for me. Hell, it is me-
The scream rips the air like a knife, leaving jagged edges. The woman throws her hands over her ears, wincing, groaning. "Stop stop stop-" Cutting out, the world is once again silent, and she returns to her original position. Across the bank, she sees an arm, jerking forlornly for the rest of its body. She watches the river run red, can hear in the deep rushing of the water rumbles from another place, like the laughter of a demon. She watches until the lone arm stops dancing, waits until the wind has returned, the monkey howl driving her away.
It is me, it is me, it is me, it is me…
2:45 a.m.
She hasn't been home in almost eighteen hours. Her shoes are filthy from her treks through the surrounding jungle, her body scratched and dirty, but under the dark lighting, she fits in with the pulsing crowd. Instead of the rumble of wild cats, it's the bass of a catchy beat rattling her bones. No less threatening in the way it drives those around her mad, spasming and throwing themselves around. After a few mixers (alcohol level gladly unknown), she's on the floor with them, welcoming any touch not laced with fear or trepidation. Countless hands run over her muscular backside, down her arms, over her arched throat. She feels wild, free.
Song after song, beat after beat, drink after drink, she loses herself. Every woman and man itching to get behind her, in front of her, to be with this untamed, dangerous foreigner.
Then it hits her, the tendrils once again wrapping themselves around her mind. Like a switch being flipped, she becomes tense, uncoordinated, knocking into multiple bodies as her intoxicated mind tries to find the threat. But the darkness slips through her grasp, and she begins to panic. Without it, she's defenseless, prey herself, and she can't have that. The loss of power is stunning and she throws a hand to her chest, as if trying to keep it from leaking out. A stray glance to the left reveals a steady gaze, and her mind tries to comprehend even as her feet trip through the crowd, away from the unwavering stare of the stranger.
Breathing heavily, she stumbles from the club, desperate for space, air, quiet. Even as she runs across the street, she's watching her back, mind still stuck in a drunk stupor. She takes six wrong turns before making it down the right road towards her house. Every couple of seconds daring a glance backwards, seeing those eyes behind every tree, every house she passes, waiting behind windows and curtains. Accusing, hostile, deadly curious. Vaguely, she is aware that this is an episode, a panic attack, from the way her chest is curling in on itself, collapsing under each breath, her mind racing from one thought to the next, like oil dripping through her fingers.
The lights are off when she finally bursts through the door, leaning against it heavily as she gasps for air. Before she can fully get under control, the lights flick on. Expecting it to just be Jacqueline, she reaches out, only to stop in astonishment. Facing her is the man she had been running from. Sharp eyes taking everything in as he stands there, arms folded across a large chest, face grim.
"So this is the infamous Antonia Espinoza?" It's a woman's voice – languid, rumbly. Sitting at the table she built when they first moved in is a stern faced, well dressed- Waller, comes the gravely hiss, and she can't stop the tremble that runs through her. "Why don't you take a seat." It comes across as a command, and she's half tempted to obey, but she hesitates, sensing a trap. Impatiently, she taps her fingers against the table. "You look like a very strong woman, Ms. Espinoza I would hate to have Colonel Flagg," she sweeps a hand towards the quiet man, "Have to break you before we agree to anything." Sullenly, she tightens her lips, unmoving, her mind still trying to slough through the alcohol induced haze.
"Antonia, please-" Unsteadily, she whips her head towards the voice. A voice she would know anywhere, belonging to the woman she would have done anything for. Until just now.
"Jacqueline," she slurs, vision beginning to darken around the edges, "Jacky, what have you done?" Oh the irony.
"They said they could help you, help us-" She gestures desperately between them, taking a step forward. She shakes her head, holding up a palm, eyes closing. "Please, you had to have known, I-"
"Known? Known what? That my own woman would sell me out to-" Her palm jerks back, clutching at her head as the voices get louder.
"Babe, this cannot go on! Something happened to you, and now you're – you're just… Unstable." The silence is deafening.
"Unstable…" she nods her head up and down, eyes still closed, hand still to her forehead. "Yeah, what did she promise you, Jacky?" When she doesn't answer, the other woman, Waller, responds.
"Immunity." She barks out a laugh.
"Immunity, immunity, from what? She's useless," she spits, "She can hardly turn the goddamn lights on around here!" Suddenly, she's cackling, hunched over, shaking from everything except mirth.
"Ms. Espinoza," comes the sharp reprimand, "I think it's time you have a seat so we can discuss your next options." Snapping her head up, she grins devilishly.
"Ohhhh, no, Miss Waller, see, they told me exactly what choices you've got planned for me." There's so very little of her left now. Jacqueline begins to scream as she advances, angry and unhurried, head cocked to the side. "And to tell you the truth – I don't like them one bit." Lunging, she almost makes it across the table before something sharp pinches her neck, the momentum of it throwing her to the ground. As she begins to lose consciousness, she can shear Waller's huff of indignation.
"Deadshot, goddamit, I told you to wait- Flagg, get her out of here. I'm sick of this mosquito infested shit hole. And get her prepped for transp-"
Hello! Thank you for taking the time to read this. After watching Suicide Squad I was completely enamored by the story and characters, and I just had to make my own contribution. Probably going to be a FlaggxOC or DiabloxOC. Reviews are always welcome - please let me know what you think!