I do not own Suicide Squad.

Trailer's freakin' me out tho.

50 Shades of Mr. J.

Flashbacks on the Flashburner

"You see, he's rather insane and very dangerous," her mentor doctor informed her calmly. "No one can even figure out his name or origins or anything regarding his past. Very frustrating case."

She was intrigued, to say the least.

Pored over the nearly nonexistent case file.

Robbery. Explosives. Murder. Dismemberment.

Repeatedly pursued and finally caught by the Batman.

Shuttled off to Arkham Asylum after a hasty and prefunctionary trial.

Shipped off and shut away.

To be gawked at, peered into.

Only by the bravest (or darkest of amused) of specialists.

And none of the so-called top expert psychiatrists in Arkham could crack his enigma.

Riddler. Hatter. Penguin.

Easily profiled and picked apart by comparison.

But not this one. Not a flinch. Not a nudge. Not a blink.

Nothing.

Sometimes he raged against them, spouted nonsensical threats and cackled in that deranged, wild way of his.

Other times he sat sullen and petulant, almost child-like in his disgust and irritation of them and their persistant clipboards and questions.

But no matter what, no one could touch him. The real him.

Not even truth serum could get him to divulge his secrets.

It only served to release a torrent of impressively loud and shrilly crowed Cher sing-a-longs and lists upon lists of pizza delivery hotlines.

Intrigued, so professionally intrigued.

She hounded her mentor doctor relentlessly until he gave in.

Cautioned her.

And moved on to more treatable patients.

And left Harleen Frances Quinzel to make her own acquintance of The Joker.

She was still strapped to the table.

Clothing damp underneath her.

With sweat.

Tears.

And other, in the throes of nerve-rending torture, other, less speakable, bodily fluids.

He didn't seem offended by it.

On the contrary, he seemed rather joyful and upbeat.

Grinned at her, even. Waved from across the dim room.

"Oh, there you are! Wonderful! I was starting to get bored, Dr. Quinzel. Enjoy your nap?"

She trembled as he rose from a stout, wooden chair, heavy and studded with rusted metal screws.

"Please, please, let me go. I . . . didn't mean to upset you. I only wanted to help."

She hadn't begged in a long time, so broken and weak.

Not since her childhood and those more disturbed boyfriends of her mother.

The chillingly mad, chillingly beautiful man before her shook his head.

"Oh, no, dear doctor. I'm not ready to let you go. I like you too much."

He likes me. He really likes me.

It was sick but it filled her with surreshes of hope and possibility.

Then he picked up a knife.

"I like your pain too much. I like your screams."

Her lower lip trembled.

"But . . . but . . . why?"

He grinned again and she felt warm and cold at the same time.

Then he cut loose with a rolling, wickedly wild cackle that made her strain away from her restraints, shudder in terror.

Then he stopped. Leaned down close to her pale face.

Breath sickly sweet, barbeque and blood and death, into her face.

And spoke quietly. Which was somehow worse than his previous mad laughter.

"You, my dear, my prancing, capering harlequin. There's something special about you. Your screams are symphony. And your cries and pleas are opera."

And then he went to work.

And oh how she screamed.

Hey, everybody! Yep, dropped off the face of the planet again. I would apologize but you know life. Sometimes it's butterflies and sunbeams. And sometimes it's a deathdrop into an airless mineshaft.

Okay, that was a bit excessive. Or astutely accurate.

Anyway, thanks to brigid1318 and DinahRay for reviewing the first chapters. You always seem to give me a chance. Thanks :)

Thanks also to BlackButlerFan13, DocQuinn, and doggy bye for adding your support to this tale.