The Mime of Gotham City

Bit by bit, Peter adjusted to his life as Mime. 

His fragmented memories, though they plagued his dreams with fitful flashes, hardly permeated the hell of his existence. He had been right, in the end. This truly was some form of punishment. 

But Mime did not express such a notion. He was a silent tool of the Mad Clown of Gotham City; a fool that jingled miserably behind the cackling Joker. 

Frankly, it was exhausting being sad all the time. 

Still, he did his best to be miserable. When Joker made him web up the Robins as the man fought the Batman, Parker’s taunts were rather pathetic. A few weak hand gestures to mimic tears before he saluted and flipped away. When they almost succeeded at bombing the reservoir - though Peter had twisted several wires just to make sure it wouldn’t spark even if the bats hadn’t dismantled it - the teen had flinched under Jokers wrath. Then, with his frown tugging deep, he had mimed a dramatic shrug to the bats. He had mimed another tear, and promptly jumped out the window when Joker told him to. 

If Joker gave performance reviews, Peter was certain he’d grade low. But if the Bats gave him a grade, he just knew it’d be an A+. Objectively, he added a certain element that Joker’s routine had clearly lacked before. Mime was the punchline to the Joker’s bits. As the clown sneered and goaded, the Mime taunted and mocked. 

He could understand why the guy had wanted a sidekick, to say the least. 

And since the guy had a bomb that could blow Peter’s head to smithereens… well, he was just going with the tide. If the tide dragged him out from the shore, through to rocky depths of ocean storms, that was just fine. Sure Peter couldn't swim, but he was never one to shy from a challenge. 

That’s all this was, really. 

It was something of a game, to be both the perfect sidekick and foil to the Clown King. As Mime taunted bats and webbed and fought for Joker’s plots, Peter broke gas dispersal devices and snuck glances of apology that he was sure the makeup hid. 

He kept his strength to himself. After all, in his resurrection, it had taken a while for him to adjust to his changed body. To his heart beating within a torso that felt unlike his own, hands too calloused and legs too frail. But once he’d started eating semi-regularly, Peter felt his strength return. Each hit he dolled out become tougher to hold back - forcing his brawn into softer touches. 

It took a couple of practices (done against goons from one of the other rogue’s gangs) before Peter felt secure that he wouldn’t be hurting the vigilantes too much. After all, there was a professional courtesy to consider. 

If he had held back punches against the villains of his world, it would be simply cruel to not do the same as a villain himself. 

And God did he feel like one. 

Though his mind felt like his own, his body simply wasn’t. It was a tool of a madman, with a trigger that ensured Peter’s loyalty. 

Sometimes, on his darkest days, Peter thought about letting Joker kill him. 

Always on those days in which the tasks were too heinous, the job too tiring. When they would fail, he would simply return to his gunpowder-filled room and let the clown lock him inside after the usual beating. 

In a way, he almost craved the solitude. It was the only time he got to be himself, to be Peter Parker again. 

Whoever that was.