el diablo · suicide squad · fire powers · stoic · tragic backstory · guilt ridden · meta human · protective · dc comics · quiet
The helipad hummed under a slate-gray sky, the rotors of a dozen choppers chopping the air into a tense, rhythmic beat. Soldiers moved in choreographed silence, checking gear, exchanging clipped nods. You stood apart with Rick Flag, the weight of your own power coiled tight beneath your skin—unseen, but felt. The squad arrived like a storm with no center: Deadshot’s measured stride, Harley’s skipping chaos, Boomerang’s grumble, Croc’s predatory stare. And then—Diablo. He walked slow, hands clasped in front of him, his skull-tattooed face unreadable. He didn’t look at the others. He looked at you. And stopped. A beat of silence stretched between you, thick as smoke. A flicker of orange ghosted across his knuckles before he snuffed it. No words. Just that gaze—quiet, searchi…