A/N: This little number comes as a sequel to 'Carnival of Souls'. For those who had wanted more. Bonus points to anyone who can name the musical cameo in bold.

Disclaimer. I do not own DC Comics (Batman or Suicide Squad) or any of the characters within that universe. I also do not own any part of Fruits Basket. What I do own, is one very bad ass music producer with a very filthy mouth. You've been put on notice. Sorry, not sorry.

"A battle cry [Mr. Bennet said] is a warrior's calling card. Only it does not say 'Good Afternoon. I have come for tea and crumpets.' It says 'Death has come for you! Flee or be killed where you stand!'"

-Steve Hockensmith

...

There's a time, when the operation of the machine becomes so odious
Makes you so sick at heart

That you can't take part
You can't even passively take part
And you've got to put your bodies upon the gears, and upon the wheels
Upon the levers

Upon all the apparatus, and you've got to make it-

"Stop."

This cold, unforgiving voice command paused what sounded to be a live broadcast of an impassioned speech. The orator's rousing words cut short from the speakers of the car radio as the manual transmission of the vehicle was thrown into neutral and the park break was engaged before catching. As the clutch was finally put into gear, the engine fell silent. Yet the phantom echo's of this broadcast reverberated along the concrete walls of the enclosed parking garage. A quiet, almost contemplative sigh pushed itself through a perfect slender nose as fingertips grasped a small wireless earpiece and put it into place before that cold monotonous voice filled the silence of the car's interior.

"Siri." A soft chime-like activation response came from the cellular device as the voice continued. "Connect to wireless headset." The attractive, automated response of a woman's voice came crisp and clear through the wireless earpiece.

'Connected'

"Siri. Access recent play-list." This came another cool monotonous command followed by the quiet click of the seat belt's release.

'Accessing recent play-list. Would you like to resume play?'

"Yes." The car door came jarred open, followed by the abrasive tap of business shoes hitting concrete.

'Then all you have to do is say the word.'

This electronically generated statement came as sultry as it was sardonic in an attempt to mimic artificial intelligence and the semblance of a unique personality. And thin perfect lips lifted into the amused smirk of a smile towards the virtual assistant's sassy response, deciding to humor the alluring electronic voice in its demand to be dominated and told what to do.

"Play for me, Bitch." This utterance came in a low, sardonically caustic voice command to activate the device.

With the slam of the car door the the public speaker's fierce, passionate call to action was resumed and morphed into an equally passionate and ear shattering hip-hop beat as feet fell into slow step with the rhythm of the music.

And this sound...

It was anarchy making raw, violent fornication with adversity. The two always hand in hand, forever-faithful lovers to each other as they took their destructive pandemonium to the streets. It was auditory chaos, and the savage frame of mind it put him in as he strolled himself through the main lobby of the building was absolutely sublime.

Meandering through the inner corridors of the plaza, the man gave another little smirk to the people busying themselves within his place of work. This was his house. His domain. And he was king in everything except title...

...and a hostile takeover...

But he was a patient man with large ambition and a rather nasty mean streak. He could wait. Bide his time for the perfect moment when a strategic opportunity would serendipitously present itself to him. And then he'd seize control.

...he liked control...

That, and he was practically running everything around here anyway, so he might as well take power for all his troubles. And it would be all the more amusing to take everything over when the people around here least expected it. This thought made him smile as he pass by a few more unsuspecting people. When he finally took charge, which he would-eventually-he would bring this entire industry to its knees like the filthy whore that it was. Then? Then, he would burn this whole place to the ground.

...just for shits and giggles...

To satisfy this growing need in him to destroy absolutely everything. Just because he could. Because...he only felt truly alive when he watched something else die. Cold, dispassionate logic and a heightened intellect told him that this was wrong. That it made him a very, very bad person. But-unfortunately for those around him-he lacked the emotionality to really concern himself with the moral implications of his actions.

Surely, the whole world would burn. And he settled himself with the reality that everything would most likely come to end by his own hand. But-for now-he would content himself with slowly poisoning the well with the music he stitched together and brought life to. Taking the vision of the artist and spinning it into gold.

...possibly platinum, if he were feeling really ambitious...

The man made his way to the basement level of the building to the recording studio underneath with a swagger that was confidently casual in nature. Walking the line of insulated sound booths towards the end of the hallway, he found the room he had been searching for. Throwing the door open to let himself into the control room, he began to make himself completely at home as he unbuttoned the top button of his suit jacket. With the shrug of his shoulders, the jacket was removed and folded over the chair set in front of an elaborate, professional audio mixing console. Unfastening the cuffs of his white, crisp dress shirt, the man made quick work of rolling up his sleeves. Once done, he plucked the wireless device from his ear before fishing through the pants-pocket of his business trousers to discard the contents of a lighter and pack of cigarettes along an empty space of the mixing console where the wireless earpiece had been placed. Claiming his rightful thrown to the kingdom's underground, the man grasped a pair of thick, high-quality headphones and placed them snug to his ears as they muffled the world around him.

In the silence that now enveloped him, the man took a moment as slender fingers retrieved a single cigarette from the pack. As he placed the offending stick between thin perfect lips, those busy fingers grasped the lighter. With the metallic flick of the flint wheel, a flame was produced and the end of the cigarette was quickly lit. Having taken the first slow, satisfying drag of his cigarette, the man plucked it from his mouth as it came held poised between his fingers. A soft curl of smoke lazily crawled its way past his parted lips as the man sat in silent contemplation for a moment before a sharp inhalation sucked the smoke back into his mouth between his teeth and out through his nose in a singular discontented sigh.

There was no rest for the wicked. And he was proudly the absolute worst of them all. But this only seemed to add to his workload. With this thought in mind, he finally set himself to the task at hand. Making music. Making money. While most in this industry approached music production with a sense of creative, artistic flare, the man himself chose to tackle the process from a completely different angle. Like a surgeon wielding a scalpel, with an almost obsessive, meticulously precise attention to detail. Because that's where the devil himself resided. Within each and every detail.

Flicking on the ominous red 'do not disturb' light on the outside of the booth, he went to work. Cuing up a digital recording saved from the previous day's work, the man spent the entire morning in that booth undisturbed. His attention and focus came so wholly enveloped within the music that the rest of the world quickly faded away. His level of concentration absolutely unbreakable as he effortlessly stitched together every song. Every note. Every beat. And every sound. The tips of his fingers coming into feather-light contact with the dials and levers and knobs of the mixing console at his disposal as his other hand held his cigarette gracefully poised in between drags. He dedicated his precious time and talent to mix and manipulate the digital recording as he continually adjusted and readjusted the equalization in each track until every single one reached his standards of perfection.

Being able to remaster the raw material provided to him gave the man a sense of superiority in knowing, for a fact, that these so-called 'artists' would be absolutely nothing without him. That's why he was continually sought out by these people. Because he was the best. Everyone knew it. Everyone. And the results of his finished productions spoke for themselves in record sales of every album he chose to work on.

Once satisfied with the end result of this morning's session, the man collected his jacket and personal effects before leaving the sound booth for the lavish comfort of his office. The room itself was grand with an open feel and large bay windows that looked onto a panoramic view of the city skyline. Though it held little to no personal touches of the man who conducted his business here, there were hints of his trade in the artfully displayed plaques and accolades he'd received in recognition of his work. The walls themselves seemed to rise to the heavens in a beige that amplified and warmed the afternoon light that came through the windows. And the man's office was only made more pretentious with the style of its interior decoration.

The furnishings were oversized and decadent, lending to the man's ego and sense of style. The desk, set near the bay windows, was beautiful hard wood mahogany. Deep, rich, and imposing in its presence, it automatically sent a message of insignificance to all those who dared enter the space.

He knew he wasn't capable of loving anyone. Loving people made one weak. Vulnerable. And incredibly stupid. But...he loved that desk. A rare, exquisite item he'd picked out himself with some help from his colleague and one of the studio's band managers, Shawn Evans. And when he saw it, he knew that he simply had to have it. She agreed. Then he had decided to celebrated his successful acquisition of the desk with Shawn that very same evening, their bodies put on display along its smooth surface against the backdrop of the bay window's panoramic night-view of the city.

The cockeyed smirk of a smile lifted the corner of his lip now as he entered his office and saw the desk. There was a neat and tidy stack of files that hadn't been there when he'd left late yesterday evening. So...Shawn had stopped by this morning when he'd been working down in the studio. Which mean that she would need to come back in order to retrieve them from him once he was done looking them over.

Excellent...

As he strolled towards his work station, tossing his jacket along the elegant love-seat, the man found himself looking forward to his colleague's return. In the mean time, he claimed the chair behind his desk with the intent of going over the stack of documents that had been left for him. Tentative contracts awaiting his approval for those wishing to sign on to the studio's record label. Not one of his favorite job duties, but one he took seriously enough to do well. Having established and enforced a rigorous screening process in order to ensure that the artists who sought to work with him were worth his time.

A hand drifted to the top right drawer of his desk, opening it as thin slender fingers searched for the strategically concealed key to the desk's secured center drawer. Unlocking the center console of his desk, he began to slowly slide it open in order to retrieve an elegant looking, personalized pen and a pair of high-fashioned designer reading lenses. Though he never really needed them for his vision, the glasses helped him to maintain visual focus and acuity when the given task was especially mind-numbing.

As the drawer came fully opened, and the contents exposed, something within the desk's compartment made the man give the faintest flicker of a smile. Items stowed away within the drawer that were far less innocuous that the pen and reading glasses he had originally meant to retrieve.

One, a finely crafted theatrical Greek tragedy mask.

The other, a gun.

Remnants of a particularly heinous undertaking to send a very simple message.

A message that had, for the time being, had the desired effect of silencing a growing nuisance to his operation. It had been several blissful weeks since his business had encountered any form of interference, and the man found himself rather enjoying the unfettered reprieve. To go completely unchallenged.

Though a part of him still waited for some sort of retaliation in response to his show of violence. To the strategic hand he'd played in response to having been meddled with. But none had come-yet-though a clear sense of rationale told him to stay vigilant. To be on the lookout for fire on the horizon. Even though his message had not yet received answer, he wasn't foolish enough to believe that it had gone completely unnoticed. So...he waited.

But, while in the eye of the storm that raged around him, he decided to enjoy this sense of calm before it inevitably ended.

After he'd donned the stylishly attractive lenses he'd taken from the secured drawer, the man took the top-most file of the stack on his desk to continue an almost benign daily routine. Yet, a short while later and into the second file, the man's work was disturbed by the harsh abrasive ring of his phone. And he gave a small sigh of irritation through his nose at the fact that his strict 'do not disturb' policy had been ignored. Grasping the phone, he lifted the receiver up to halt the obnoxious sound before swiftly pressing the speaker button with his middle finger and not-so-delicately placing it back down to answer the call.

"You do understand that I'm extremely busy?" This came a low, hostile deadpanned statement from thin lips drawn in a taut line as the man continued to go about his work on the current file in front of him while the voice on the speaker phone gave a stuttered response.

'...y-yes...' A woman's fearful voice manifested from the other end of the line as his gaze lingered intently on the document before him.

"Then why are you interrupting me, Janice?" The man asked through a frigid tone promising harsh rebuke of the woman's poor discretion.

'There's a woman here to see you, sir.' The voice on the speaker came hesitant in this explanation.

"And?" The man's impassive voice lifted infinitesimally in irritation.

'And she says that it's urgent.' The feminine voice gave this whispered hiss, as if the person in question were close by.

"And you know that you're not suppose to disturb me. Don't you, Janice." These strangely threatening words came low and frighteningly unexpressive as the woman on the other end of the line quickly responded.

'Y-yes.' The studio's secretary stuttered out in a quiet voice.

"Well did you explain that policy to her?" He retorted.

'I did.' The secretary confirmed in a quiet whisper. 'But she's refusing to schedule an appointment to see you.'

"Then tell her to fuck off." He gave this crass instruction through a decisive, even deadpan. "I don't have time for this shit, Janice." He said. "I'm busy."

'I know that, sir.' The poor, frightened woman gave this whispered hiss. 'But she won't leave.'

A moment of silence filled the space of the man's office, save for the soft hiss of static emanating from the phone's speaker. And eyes that had been previously preoccupied with paperwork slowly drifted towards the telephone.

"...really..." The man uttered, having found himself somewhat intrigued now. "She won't leave?"

'No, sir.' The secretary quietly confirmed. 'She won't.'

"Interesting." This fell flatly from the man's perfect lips as he began to consider his options in this situation. "What does she look like?" He asked casually, causing a brief pause in the conversation before the secretary answered.

'Excuse me?' The feminine voice over the other end of the line retorted, sounding more than a little confused by the man's question.

"Is she attractive, Janice?" This came a bit terse towards the woman's fumbling.

'Well-' The woman hesitated a moment. 'I wouldn't really know.' She admitted shyly before continuing. 'She's kind of cute, I guess?' This inadequate response caused the man to let out a soft sigh.

"...unbelievable..." He uttered under his breath towards this woman's incompetence.

'Sir?' This came hesitantly through the speaker. 'What should I do?' The woman's voice gave itself over to some concern towards the silence she was receiving.

"Do you have your cell on you?" The man asked.

'Yes, sir.' She responded quietly.

"Good." He said. "Take a picture of her and send it to my private cell."

'Oh-okay?' The woman gave baffled compliance as he overheard a muted conversation through the speaker before his secretary spoke again. 'Sir?' The woman mumbled quietly. 'She want's to know why you're asking for her picture.'

"Tell her it's for security purposes." The man directed her to tell this lie.

'Yes, sir.' He heard his secretary relent to this somewhat demeaning task he had just appointed to her.

And then...he waited. Waited, for only the briefest moment, until a chimelike notification indicated that he had just received a text message on his personal phone. Grasping his device, the man opened the message to access the image that had been sent to him via requested demand. He coolly regarded the photo on his cellphone taken of this unfamiliar woman. As he looked upon her face, the man found himself swiftly considering and calculating his next course of action.

'...sir..?' This came a tentative whisper over the speaker phone from the other woman whom he'd momentarily forgotten. 'Sir?' The voice came a bit more nervous towards the lack of response. 'Are you there?'

"Yeah." His tone came low as he gave this cold, pithy response. "I've changed my mind." He said. "Send her up."

'Yes, sir.'

"And Janice?" The call of her name stopped the woman from prematurely hanging up the phone.

'Yes?'

"Don't you ever fucking interrupt me again." This came a threatening caveat, "Is that clear?" He practically felt the disembodied voice physically cringe and wither when he had said this.

'Y-' The sound of her reply was cut short and viciously murdered as he hit the disconnection button to silence her irritating voice.

The man then resumed where he'd left off within the body of the contract sitting along his desk, busying himself for the brief moment he was made to wait for this mystery woman's arrival to his office. Two. Maybe three minutes. But when the soft knock upon his door drew his attention away from the document, he lifted his eyes from the file and gave the cockeyed smirk of a side smile.

The game was afoot, and he was carrying the home-field advantage.

"Come in."

The door to his office came propped open, and the man watched as this relentless stranger slowly entered his domain. He continued to watch her approach behind the computer monitor on his desk through those designer lenses as she gave a purse-lipped smile towards his open appraisal of her looks. The allure of her steel-blue eyes were attractively outlined and enhanced with large, black, almost cat-like frames. Long, bleach blond tresses tinted with the faintest hues of bubblegum pink and blue came loosely bound as side-swept bangs and loose curls beautifully framed a timeless, almost classic face. A candy sweet, feminine face softly rounded at every edge and curve. From the amused curve of her full, gloss-painted lips to the edge of her button nose. The way she shifted her weight from one stiletto-clad foot to the other drew his attention to the titillating curves of her hips. Her sinfully crafted body was clad in a tempting three-piece dress suit that boasted of hard work and the possibility of after-hours play.

And as he watched her, she smiled.

"Mr. Mitchell." Her voice came light and bubbly with the hint of an unrefined Brooklyn accent as she smiled at him, holding the man's eyes locked with an intense, almost crazed stare. "It's nice to finally meet you in person."

"Considering I don't even know you." The man countered in a flat deadpan from his seat, narrowing his icy gaze along the woman as her entrancing features split and spread into a feral smile as she laughed at this with the twitch of her torso.

"You're funny." The woman said. "I like funny." She slowly sauntered through his office, exploring the space with her eyes before she looked to him again with that same intensely wild gaze. "And you're a lot cuter than I expected you'd be." And the man gave the cock of a well groomed brow.

"Really." He retorted flatly, seeming unflattered by this complement. "And who are you, exactly?" The man asked as this woman began to resemble a deranged fan.

Though undeniably attractive and visually arousing to the eye, it was becoming painfully obvious to the man that this woman clearly wasn't in full possession of her mental faculties. He could practically smell the crazy pouring off of her.

"Where're my manners." She gave another little laugh with the attractive crinkle of her button nose. "Doctor Harleen Quinzel." She said. "PhD."

"Doctor?" This fell dubious from thin perfect lips as the woman smiled. "What kind of doctor?" The man asked, not believing her in the slightest as he covertly began corroborating her name and occupation as she spoke.

"I'm a psychiatrist." She stated with the purse of her lips and seductive cant of her hips.

"Really." The man retorted, discreetly scanning his computer screen. "A shrink? With who?"

"An asylum." She responded in a strangely playful tone. "For the criminally insane."

"Hm." This came a passive hum from the man's lips as he met her gaze once more. "Not anymore, though."

"Oh..." The woman purred through a squinted gaze as she pointed a delicate finger towards him. "You're good, Mr. Mitchell." She smiled in approval of his technique. "Real good." She relented with a little nod to what he'd found out.

"So." The man murmured lowly in accusation. "If you're not a doctor anymore," He said with a brief pause for effect. "which now I know you're not," This came as confident as it was chilling from his lips as he continued to stare her down. "what exactly are you doing now."

"Oh hon, I'm still a doctor." She grinned. "Still got that Ph.D. hangin' around somewhere." This came through a bubble of nasally laughter. "I just ran away to join the circus, is all."

"Well that explains a lot." The man muttered quietly under his breath before speaking up. "Plenty of freaks there, I suppose." And the woman gave an open, undignified laughed to this before responding with the ominous lowering of her voice.

"You've no idea, Mr. Mitchell."

"So what are you doing here."

"I was sent here on behalf of my current employer." She said. "You two've never actually met each other, but he's a real big admirer of yours, Mr. Mitchell." The woman gave another wide smile when she had said this. "He likes your work."

"Really?" The man gave a deprecating snort with the shake of his head. "What circa, exactly?" This came bitterly sardonic in disbelief with the challenging lift of a well groomed brow.

"Oh," The woman grinned as she slowly sauntered closer towards him. "he's a big fan of your recent work." She said as she leaned her body provocatively against his desk, slowly lowering her torso to encroach his personal space. "Your real recent work." As she said this, holding his gaze, she smiled and placed something along the surface of his desk, face down.

A small, scorched piece of paper. A playing card that looked as if it had been lightly kissed by the heat of searing flames. As he turned it over, exotic pale blue eyes slowly trailed up towards the woman's face and the sultry smile that played along her lips. Lips that whispered quietly to him now through that alluring smile.

"...and you had him at 'hello'..."