A/N

Is it just me, or is Suicide Squad trying to emulate Guardians of the Galaxy? As in, take a pre-existing music track, apply it to a group of people who are all missing a few marbles, apply it to a trailer, and boom. And these both being part of superhero shared universes. Anyone?

Well, Guardians is one of the few MCU films I like, and the trailer did pique my interest in Suicide Squad, so drabbled this up.

Is This Just Fantasy?

Floyd Lawton, a.k.a. "Deadshot," a.k.a. "the Man who Never Missed," watched the rain fall outside his window. Rain, like any other kind of rain. Water droplets weren't like snowflakes – there was nothing unique about them. They'd come down, hit the ground, and be forgotten. And yet, the powers that be had given him an opening in his cell to see the outside world. With a soft pitter-patter, the rain came down. And in silence, Floyd stood there. Watching each droplet. Trying to find any kind of difference between the concentrated molecules of dihydrogen monoxide.

Is this the real life?

Was this what awaited him, the former assassin wondered? Assassins tended to end up either retired or dead. There was a thrill that came with taking a life. The power of life and death at your hands, or in his case, his fingers. Pull of a trigger, a projectile would be sent into whatever poor smuck that was at the end of his gun. It wasn't what most would call a noble calling, but whatever, he was good at it. He was a bloody good shot, and wore his moniker for a reason. And many of the smucks he eliminated would be unmourned by the wider world, so why should he care? Why should he stop, quit while he was ahead? He'd retire when he had to, thank you very much. Or die. Either one.

Nowhere in his life plan had he counted on being faced with life imprisonment. Forced to watch raindrops as his sole source for entertainment. To find himself flexing his fists in a vain attempt to stimulate the feeling of holding a gun in his hands.

Is this just fantasy?

And still, there was no difference in the rain to be found. Not even when he closed one eye and squinted into the storm.

"Pew," he whispered.

He opened that eye, and then blinked. 'Pew.' Pathetic. Less than a decade in, and he was already talking to himself. Turning away from the rain, he began pacing around the eight by eight that now constituted his entire world. Why even keep him alive, he wondered? No-one would offer moral outrage for executing an assassin. There wasn't a lawyer in the world who'd argue on his behalf. And scuttlebutt was that something had happened in Metropolis that had resulted in thousands of casualties and a large chunk of the city being levelled, so what did one more death mean?

A klaxon sounded, which meant only one thing. Prison guards were on his way to his cell.

Bout fucking time.

Floyd got himself into a fighting posture, knowing it was futile. He was a good fighter, sure, but he preferred to operate at range. If he had a gun, he could knock out these smucks before the door to his cell was even open. But the US prison system, in its infinite wisdom, had decided to not give its inmates guns. Even when every member of its citizenry could purchase one anyway.

Caught in a landslide.

The guards poured in, wearing riot gear, shields and batons included. And Floyd knew as soon as his first punch was blocked that he had no chance. He was Deadshot, not Deathstroke. Yeah, their names began with a "D," they were both mercenaries, and both had tangled with the Batman back in the day, but that was where the similarities ended. And sure enough, his punch rebounded off a guard's shield, and he was forced to the ground. And hit. A lot.

Ow.

He barely cared. Let it end, he reflected. He'd been dead for years. Today was just a formality.

"Enough."

Life, it seemed, had other ideas. Looking up, blinking through a bleeding lip and a swollen eye, Floyd saw the warden approach.

"Jesus Christ Floyd, you look like shit."

He didn't know the cunt's name. But he did know that if he had the chance, he'd blow his brains out with a high-powered rifle. Without having to be paid for it.

"Though I guess that's fitting for you isn't it?"

Floyd spat at him, blood mixed with his saliva. Gloating. At least when the Batman had humiliated him he hadn't waxed lyrical. He'd only strung him up and left him to the GCPD, only to be delivered to the Belle Reeve.

"Well, whatever." The warden gestured to the guards and they helped the assassin to his feet. "Someone special wants you for a job."

"A job?" Floyd asked.

"Yeah, a job. As in, you get to be Deadshot again in a mission that may...possibly…hopefully…will get you killed."

"You're such a charmer."

The warden gestured again. And Floyd felt a baton hit him in the stomach.

"Move out."

No escape from reality

Floyd smirked, despite the pain as the guards pulled him along. A job. Right. Uncle Sam needed him to do his dirty work. No wonder he'd been kept alive all these years.

"Haul him out."

Well, he could live with that. If he was looking down some sights, he could live with pretty much anything. And looking back at his cell, he smiled.

It had stopped raining.