A/N: Oh boy. I really had to use my imagination with this one. We know just about zero when it comes to Killer Croc's backstory in Suicide Squad. For this reason, this story is a lot longer than my other ones, because I felt like I needed to get more descriptive and cover more time for you guys to really understand his character. All we really know is that he's a possible cannibal, likes being in water, and is beautiful. Throughout the movie, he didn't speak much and really just seemed to be following the rest of the group around. So I thought that I'd go into some of his history and why he's the way he is.
All characters belong to DC Comics and David Ayer.
CHAPTER 3 - INTRODUCING KILLER CROC
Waylon Jones only came out at night. At sixteen, he was already hitting seven feet and showed no sign of slowing. Muscles rippled along his arms and chest despite the fact that he only ate food scavenged off the streets. But the most alarming thing about Waylon Jones was his skin. Thick green and grey flecks dotted every inch of him, giving him the odd scaly look of a reptile.
But the true reason he only went out at night was that he hated the screams of everyone who saw him. He hated the way their eyes would follow him, shock and disgust mingling on their faces. It made anger blossom and writhe in his chest, festering into a deep hatred.
The sun was setting over the city when Waylon crawled out of the sewers he had made his home. A tattered sweater disguised his arms and face despite the hot Florida weather. His brown eyes flickered left and right, his sensitive hearing picking up the quiet thrum of traffic several streets down.
Waylon maneuvered through the alleyways, ducking into the shadows whenever anyone ventured near. He followed the smell of rotting food, his senses leading him to a large dump behind a fast food restaurant. A young man dressed in the bright colours of the restaurant's logo was pouring some sort of sticky grease out over the dump. Waylon knew better than to interrupt the boy. Last time the boy had screamed and thrown the pot of grease on him. It'd taken a swim in the ocean to get that stink out of his scales.
The boy finished and scurried back into the restaurant. Waylon was about to step out from the shadows, but quiet scuffling along the alleyway made him pause. Whispered voices reached his ears and Waylon crouched down, receding back into the shadows.
A group of street kids wandered down the alleyway, kicking debris as they went. They walked with the wary step ingrained into those who had to fight for food and shelter. They were all painfully thin. One of them, a boy with a shock of black hair, stood in the center of the group. Waylon recognized the leader – they'd encountered one another before. A quiet growl escaped Waylon's lips, but it was enough for the group to notice him. They span, disgust instantly appearing on their faces.
A girl dressed as a boy spat on the ground. "Ew, it's the crocodile."
Waylon inched farther back. He could smell the hunger on them. The leader pushed his way forward and looked down at Waylon with narrowed eyes.
"You want some food, crocodile?"
Waylon nodded warily, baring his teeth in what one could assume was a smile.
The boy smiled back, then kicked Waylon full in the face. He fell back, more from surprise than anything else. The boy stood over him and Waylon cringed at the hatred that burned in the boy's eyes.
"These streets belong to us, you freak. You belong in a cage. I don't want to see you around here ever again!"
The boy stamped down on Waylon's chest. The others joined him and Waylon closed his eyes. He barely felt the kicks, but with each yell of "freak" and "monster", the heat built behind his eyes.
In one surging movement, Waylon jumped to his feet, sending the kids sprawling along the ground. As he towered over them, they whimpered and began backing away. Several tried to grab some food as they ran.
It was those ones that Waylon got to first. He ripped them limb from limb, bones snapping under his monstrous strength. Screams filled the alleyway. Waylon's mind went blank. He barely felt the kids fighting back, his teeth and hands wrecking destruction on anyone who stood in his way. The screams were replaced by pained whimpers.
Waylon didn't stop until he was the only one left standing. His ragged breath resounded eerily through the now quiet alleyway. He quickly scavenged through the dumpster, grabbing a half-eaten burger as sirens echoed down a nearby street. Someone must have heard the screams and called the police.
Tires screeched and doors slammed. The police were getting closer. Waylon ran down the street, the burger still clutched in her hand. His long stride carried him through the maze of alleyways and the cop's shouts got further and further away. He scooted around a corner and banged into a couple, knocking them to the ground. The sirens came from every direction, confusing his senses.
Waylon ran down the main street, but the police were closing in. A car suddenly pulled in front of him, its siren blaring. He swivelled around, running back the way he came. The couple he'd pushed over were getting to their feet, eyes wide.
"You can hide out here." The boy gestured through a doorway.
Waylon paused but there wasn't any other option. He ducked through the doorway, tugging his hood lower. The boy leaned against its side, pulling the girl up next to him so that they concealed Waylon's considerable bulk. The police jogged past, but one paused, staring down the boy who had hidden Waylon.
"We heard a disruption a few streets down. We're looking for someone…well, you wouldn't believe what he looks like. The kids call him 'crocodile'. You know anything about that?" The cop tried to peer around the boy, but he casually drew the cop's attention with a wave of his hand.
"I wouldn't know a thing. But," he leaned in conspiratorially, "I could give you some inside information about the goings on at the Inn tonight."
The cop chuckled, "You know I'm not into that sort of thing, Jack."
They shook hands and something slipped from the cops hand into the boys. The cop left with a wink. The boy – Jack – moved so that Waylon could venture out of the doorway. He was young, perhaps a few years older than Waylon himself. He had a strong jaw and dark sharp eyes that didn't quite smile when his mouth did. The girl at his side was petite, her face hidden behind long bangs.
Jack gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then released her. "Go home, Mary. I'll talk to you later."
The girl gave a little nod and scampered off, giving Waylon a quick glance over her shoulder.
With the girl gone, the boy's eyes raked over Waylon's body, taking in his bulk and muscles. "I have an offer for you. If you're willing to work, I can give you a place to sleep. And food too. Come with me and I can show you around, get some more of those burgers." He eyed the one in Waylon's hand. "Ones that don't come from a dumpster."
Waylon agreed, desperate to be taken away from the police who would be scouring the area looking for him.
Jack led him to a small bar. A flickering sign proclaimed it The Inn. A closed sign hung in the door, but Jack opened it anyway, waving Waylon through. The inside was dingy, the few chairs covered with dark stains. Dusty bottles were behind the bar, catching the light from the single window so that the liquid within glittered oddly. It didn't look like anyone had set foot inside the bar in years.
Waylon watched cautiously as Jack stepped behind the bar. He ignored the bottles of liquor and the dirt-streaked glasses. He reached down and heaved open a giant trap door that was hidden behind the bar. Stairs led down into the darkness. The scent of human sweat wafted up from the hole.
Jack started descending the stairs, motioning for Waylon to follow. Waylon looked around at the dark cheerless bar, then he followed the boy down into the darkness.
Waylon's eyes quickly adjusted to the lack of light as they walked down a damp tunnel. At the end of the tunnel was a heavy metal door. Jack pushed it open with a grunt and the sounds of excited yells bombarded their ears. They stepped through the door and found themselves in a large circular room beneath the city. Electrical lights hung from the ceiling, sending shafts of bright colour through the smoke-filled room. Sweaty men sat in descending rows that went up to the walls of the room. Many stood and yelled, their voices encouraging the two men who were fighting in the center of the room. The fight took place on a raised platform, thin metal fencing separating them from the screaming audience.
The fight ended with a loud crack as one man fell, his leg bent oddly. Thunderous yells exploded through the cavernous room as men booed or clapped loudly, money changing hands. Eventually the noise died down as the injured man was carried away. The men returned to their seats, drinks appearing in their hands. Some tossed their arms around painted women, who were sitting primly next to them.
"Come on. Up here." Jack led Waylon between several rows of men, who grunted at the disturbance, but mostly ignored them.
A row at the top was empty, save for a single man who sat in the middle, a thick cigar dangling from his lips. Unlike everyone else, he wasn't watching the fighters. Sharp eyes took in the audience, a thin smile running along his lips as he watched barmaids serve drinks to the betting men.
Jack stopped at the edge of the row, Waylon standing hesitantly behind him. The man waved and they approached.
"Father, Captain Montague wants to place a bet tonight. Also, I think I just found our next big winner." Jack stood to the side so that he could see Waylon clearly.
The man tore his gaze away from the audience and inspected Waylon with shrewd eyes. "We have many large men – larger than him," he said dismissively.
"Pull back your hood," Jack ordered Waylon.
"What?" Waylon's deep voice was horse, the thick smoke choking his lungs.
"Just do it."
Waylon glanced around, but none of the audience was looking up at them. Their eyes were fixed on the next fight that was already taking place in the cage. Slowly, Waylon removed his hood, revealing his features to the dim light. The older man's eyes widened as he took in the thick scales and pointed teeth. Greed flickered in his eyes, and for the first time, Waylon had the man's full attention.
"What's your name?"
Jack answered, "He's called the crocodile."
Waylon stiffened at his words, but Jack took no notice. The man, however, blatantly ignored his son, eyes focused solely on Waylon.
"Uh…Waylon Jones."
"Can you fight, Waylon Jones?"
Waylon glanced down at the cage where two large men wrestled, their skin glistening with sweat. "Yes, I can."
The man tapped his nose musingly with the cigar. "Waylon Jones – The Killer Crocodile. Yes, I think that will work." He waved the cigar at his son. "Take him to an empty room. Feed him. I want him ready for tomorrow night's fight."
Jack nodded and led Waylon away.
Several weeks later, Waylon was sitting on the first bed he had ever considered his own. His breathing was harsh, his muscles screaming with exhaustion. This last fight had done him in. Carefully, he unwrapped the cloth he had tied around his knuckles and forearms. Spots of his scales were discoloured, in what he had come to recognize as bruising. Despite his thick scales, the bruises felt tender. He would need to ask Jack or his father for a break. For the past week, they'd been having him fight every night. New men kept appearing, hearing the rumours of the Killer Crocodile, and wanting to prove their strength. Not a single one of them had bested him.
Waylon pulled a bucket of chilled water from underneath his bed. Rocks sat at the bottom. Waylon didn't sweat, and the only way to cool himself down was to put cold rocks on his skin.
After placing the rocks, Waylon pulled a file from underneath his pillow and began sharpening his nails. He had taken up the practice at the suggestion of Jack's father. His bruises twinged with each movement.
"Hello, bright eyes."
Waylon jumped, startled. It was a testament to his exhaustion that he hadn't sensed the small girl standing in his doorway, since she exuded a faint scent of strawberries. The girl had full lips and dark blue eyes that were partially hidden behind brown bangs. With an ease that surprised Waylon, the girl entered the room and crouched down in front of him. In a whirl of movement, she took the file from Waylon's fingers and began sharpening his nails for him. He froze, astonished into inaction. The girl tenderly held his hand, using the file with cultivated skill. Waylon wasn't used to being touched in such a careful manner, as though he were breakable.
"My name's Marybelle. You actually ran into me a few weeks ago. I was with Jack."
Waylon grunted. He remembered that first encounter and had noticed her around the Inn recently. The girl continued her chore, the quiet scraping the only sound in the room.
After a while, she spoke again. "Do you know why you look the way you do?"
Waylon stiffened, but the girl didn't look up, focused on her task. She was biting her lower lip in concentration.
"No," he finally answered.
"I did some research." The girl blew gently on his nails. "I think you have some combination of regressive atavism and epidermolytic hyperkeratosis." She caught Waylon's confused look and chuckled quietly. "I don't really know what it means either. The best I could understand is that these," she gently squeezed his hand, "are caused by your genes. It's just a genetic mutation you were born with. We barely use most of our genes, they're full of junk DNA. But some prehistoric part of your genes got turned on."
Waylon didn't respond. He only partially understood what the girl had said.
Marybelle had finished sharpening his nails and was now inspecting the scales on his hands. "I like how every scale has a little black dot right in the center."
Waylon's brain finally got a grasp on what the girl had been talking about. "You don't think I'm human."
It wasn't a question, but Marybelle answered anyway. "Of course I do."
"Why?"
She gave him an odd look, as though he were a little slow. "Your eyes, of course. You have such beautiful bright eyes."
Waylon grunted again. He didn't know what his eyes looked like. He couldn't remember the last time he had looked in a mirror.
"What are you fighting for?"
Waylon shifted, uncomfortable at the concern that shone in the girl's eyes. She was simply holding his hand now, but Waylon didn't feel the need to pull away.
"Nothing. I'm not fighting for anything."
The girl looked confused. "But, then what motivates you to fight? What motivates you to live?"
Waylon refused to catch her eye. He looked down at their interlocked hands. His scaly and monstrous, hers smooth and pale. A thin silver band was around her index finger.
"Nothing," he repeated.
Marybelle pulled her hand from his, her face suddenly white with anger. "You don't want to live?"
"I…" Waylon stuttered. "What good is living when I look like this?"
The girl abruptly stood, her eyes unusually bright. Her lips were tight, holding back tears. She threw the file onto the bed next to Waylon and stomped out. Waylon didn't move for a few minutes, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
The scent of her tears still lingered in the room.
Waylon kept an eye out for Marybelle over the next few days. He didn't know why, but he'd find himself whipping around at the sight of dark hair. Every time it wasn't Marybelle. And every time, Waylon felt an odd pain in his chest that had nothing to do with his bruises.
Waylon even considered asking Jack about why Marybelle wasn't hanging around the Inn anymore, but decided against it. Jack had been given the responsibility of arranging the fights and Waylon didn't want to piss him off.
More time passed and Waylon began giving up hope of ever seeing Marybelle again. So he was completely astonished when her head popped into his room one late evening. He was preparing for bed when the smell of strawberries filled his room and he looked over to see her in his doorway, an apologetic smile on her lips.
"Hello, bright eyes. Can you swim?"
Waylon nodded, unsure if he ought to apologize for upsetting her last time they had talked.
"Oh good. I need your help."
She started walking away from Waylon's room and he had to run to catch up to her. They walked side by side through the underground tunnels beneath the Inn in silence. Marybelle led Waylon through a tunnel he didn't recognize which came up a few streets away from the Inn. Waylon paused at the exit. He hadn't left the Inn since joining the roster as a fighter.
Marybelle stepped out in front of him. "Come on."
With a sigh, Waylon followed her out onto the street.
Dusk was settling over the city. Marybelle walked quickly through the winding alleyways until they came out at the edge of a river. A long bridge crossed over the water, several couples strolling along it. The river bisected the city, separating the more affluent areas from the alleyways that Waylon knew. The last rays of sun sent speckles of light flickering off the rushing water, giving the air an odd glistening quality.
The shadows grew longer and the moon appeared out on the edge of the horizon. The people returned to the other side of the river, leaving the bridge empty. Waylon expected Marybelle to lead him out onto the bridge, but instead, she scooted down to the river's edge.
Marybelle pulled off her shoes and dangled her feet in the river, letting the cool water run over her toes. Waylon sat cross-legged next to her. The cool breeze felt good against his face, his lungs enjoying the fresh air.
Marybelle flicked her feet, sending water droplets flying through the air. "I thought you'd enjoy getting out."
Waylon nodded. "You need my help?"
"Nothing gets past you, huh? I lost my ring." She lifted a bare hand.
Waylon looked out over the water. "It's in the river?"
"Yes."
"How did it end up there?"
Marybelle blushed, a slight pink tinging her cheeks. "I threw it in. I was angry."
"At who?"
She shrugged. "The world, I guess."
Waylon nodded. He knew what that felt like.
Marybelle jumped, startled, when Waylon pulled off his shirt and slipped silently into the water. He immediately disappeared under the waves and Marybelle found herself wondering at how comfortable Waylon seemed submerged in the water.
She felt a tickling on the bottoms of her feet and pulled them up with a shriek. Waylon popped out of the water where her feet had been, an impish grin spread across his face. Marybelle laughed and kicked water at him, sticking her tongue out.
Waylon pulled himself out of the water, droplets running down his scales. He took a hold of Marybelle's wrist and lifted her hand, palm up. He dropped the ring into it.
"Oh," Marybelle sighed with relief. "Thank you."
She slipped the ring on, twisting it so that a small design Waylon hadn't noticed before caught his eye. There was a pale yellow ribbon in the center of the silver band.
"It was my mother's. The hospital gave it to her when she became a survivor of bone cancer. It came back a few months later, though." She paused. "Did you know cancer runs in families? It's all about a person's genes. Whether they have the cancer gene or not."
Waylon grunted, uncertain of why she was telling him this.
"I'm sorry I snapped at you last time." She peeked up at him from behind her bangs. "It's just...Not everybody has the chance to live their life, but you do. Use that. Do something with it. It doesn't even matter what you do, just live."
"You have the chance to live too," Waylon said.
For a moment, he thought Marybelle was going to cry. But she didn't. Instead, she smiled sadly up at the moon.
"No, I don't." With a hesitant hand, Marybelle gave one tug at her hair, and the wig fell off her head. "I have cancer. It's malignant. The doctors say I only have a few weeks left, if that."
Waylon looked down at the thin girl at his side. Without her hair in the way, he could see clearly into her eyes.
She is so beautiful, he thought. And it was breaking his heart.
Waylon carefully took her hand in his, giving it a little squeeze. Marybelle leaned against him, shivering against his wet scales.
"Thanks for helping me, bright eyes."
