Matching Mutilations
Dodge. Weave, point gun, shoot, duck, roll. Point gun again - aim slightly off - and shoot past the helmeted man’s head. Let the bats get a few good hits in, a punch to his liver, a slice against his billowing sleeves (never quite close enough to mar his flesh as truly intended).
God, it was relentless. Every failed plot brought the Joker new vigour as he schemed what he called his ‘greatest triumph’, only to label his next attempt the very same thing. Every plot was ‘the one’, every morning he’d wake to the telltale thrum of his neck hairs standing on end as the Joker loomed over his bed. The clown would watch him, face void of expression, before his twisted lips curled into a too-large grin and he’d ramble through the latest attempt at decimating Gotham City. Peter would curl to sit, nodding mutely as he waited for the inevitable hit as Joker turned his manic scheming into yet another ‘lesson’.
And every time he faced the bats, every time he let them serve into him for the sake of retribution, Peter tried to ignore the consequences that would follow. If he thought of the pain of each failure - the days locked in the armoury, starved and lonely - he worried he might begin to truly fight back.
But it wasn’t their fault, not really. He couldn’t blame the heroes for stopping ploys at poisoning water supplies and blowing up clocktowers. The only person to blame was the Joker.
He blamed himself, too.
If he were braver, if he weren’t a wimp, he would let the clown blow his head and relish the silence that followed his brain exploding across the wallpaper. How silly it was, to be so afraid to die yet so willing to live in this way. More a slave than a sidekick, more a coward than a captive.
It was the greatest similarity he held to the clown that dug him from a cold grave. Both took their beatings and kept fighting, even as their eyes filled with blood. Joker did so with a chuckle, while Peter did so in silence. Batman went for the green-haired clown while his sidekicks all rounded up goons and took turns fighting against Peter. There was a hierarchy in place in their battles, one that (if he was honest) was growing tiring.
Tonight was different, though. The helmeted man was not present. Joker called him ‘Red’, though Peter suspected there was more to the name. More to their story, if the fury of the vigilante suggested anything.
In his stead, there were three teenagers. Heroes his own age, all donned in tight costumes of blacks and reds and greens. They were still new to him, though not to the Joker. Judging by his taunts that preempted their fights, there was a deep and tumultuous history between these people and the clown. Something steeped in blood and rotted by loathing.
Currently, he was mainly fighting the girl in purple. It was less of a challenge, truth be told, though he suspected she too was pulling her punches. Still, he was enjoying himself despite it all. The purple clad vigilante seemed keen on quips and puns he didn’t quite understand, all related to ‘spoiling’ their fun.
Could he contort his lips to speech, he might have told her that this wasn’t his idea of a good time. He could have joked back with her about her clashing colour scheme compared to her colleagues, offered to help her find a tailor that specialised in matching reds and plums. Were he more than the mute sidekick of the biggest villain in her city… Peter thought they might get along.
It was a shame, then, that their only communication was swinging fists and failed gunshots. Her leg kicked upwards and his body leapt backwards - instinct pulling him into a perfect flip.
“Hey, that was pretty good.” She laughed at him. “But this is better.”
He saw it coming before she had even leant a foot forwards, flinging her body into a sideways somersault. When she knocked his pistol from his palm with pointed toes, Peter merely yanked a switchblade from his sleeve and snapped the blade into place as he ducked a truly impressive spinning kick.
Wordless as he always was, he extended a nod her way and mimed a round of applause. Her frustrated huff at the gesture brought a frown to his lips, as did her hand pressing on the comms in her ear as she spoke:
“He’s definitely letting us get hits in. I swear, it’s like he can see my next move coming.”
In response, Peter merely shrugged comedically and motioned the usual feigned tears.
At least they were fighting in somewhere interesting. Usually their battles were set within dingy warehouses and abandoned apartment blocks. Today, however, Joker had picked a bridge for their fight. Wide and long, dark and empty, it stood over a thick sludge of river.
And it was a challenge, to say the least. Only support beams for him to use to swing, no real high ground to be found. He was forced into primarily hand-to-hand combat considering the space, lucky for that extra sense of his which warned of approaching danger.
Really, most of Peter’s fighting was borne of instinct. He did not have the time to think before he ducked, too short a span to process as he went to strike back.
“Looks like the circus is still in town.” Hummed an oddly delightful voice - sharp and precise, yet filled with mirth. It was joined by the swoosh of a cape, as the boy in the black cowl came to join the fun. His costume blended far better with the others. It was red and black, with the same shades as the Little Bird and the same mask style of the Batman. A perfect mid ground between the two main vigilantes that Peter so often faced.
The boy in the black cowl worked well beside the blonde girl. They were clearly practiced, precise with each matched swing and parry. When one dove forwards, the other prepared the next assault. And were it not for Peter’s impeccable stamina, they might have actually posed a challenge.
It was a shame for the pair, then, that he was more than them. Less human than he looked, though far more humane that his actions.
Fists knocked flesh, booted feet colliding with shin bones and ribcages as the three danced a deadly tango - adrenaline thrumming through their blood as they dodged and struck and dodged and struck. Purple girl dove low while black cowl reared high and Peter merely ducked between their strikes.
His eyes darted to the Joker, spying as the clown was held upright by his goons and cackled at he held a bright remote up high. Placed on the orange-spotted metal, was a large red button. It was with a raucous chuckle that he pressed the button, letting his goons offer cover fire as they dragged him across the bridge, past the large present that had been delivered at the start of the fight.
It had been an impressive few days of crafting before all the theatrics were set up. Hours had been spent leant over sheets of metal as goons glues paper and spray painted designed. Even Peter had been given his own little job - assigned to hang himself over the box and tie the perfect bow.
Said perfect bow was now on fire, burning in a crisp line until the embers scattered across damp concrete. Beneath where the ribbon had laid, were the seams of the box - forcing themselves undone as the metal frame fell into slats on the floor. Inside, stood on a pedestal of steel, was a device made more of spiralling wires than anything else. They sprung from the silly mechanism like spools of party streamers, a dizzying array of neon coloured strings.
But it was the ticking that drew most important. A loud, unbearably shrill sound that pierced the back of Peter’s brain. He looked again to the Joker, dodging briefly to miss a punch from the boy vigilante. Joker jumped into the clown car they’d arrived in, shooting Peter a wide grin as he pulled the doors shut with a chuckle.
It was one of those days, then. The kind in which he was expected to make his own way home over the rooftops of the dour city - webbing a path that wove through smog and gunfire.
Peter supposed it was another of Joker’s tests. If he was able to evade all the bats (which he always was), he’d be rewarded with a painful clap on the back and a day of solitude following. And if he were honest, which he always tried to be, it was the best gift he could get. At least then, he’d be left alone.
The blonde stopped her assault as the voice in her ear bid her to follow the Joker’s trail. Though she seemed hesitant to leave him, that sharp female voice promised that ‘Robin’ would be keeping an eye on Peter.
As the girl leapt to the window, off to chase the goons in the van, another vigilante slotted into her place. This one was more familiar and the youngest of their pack. Peter thought he was called Robin, though Joker always called him ‘Little Bird’. Not that the teenager seemed thrilled about the nickname - if anything, it prompted harsher hits.
Peter quite liked fighting him, truth be told. Sure, the guy was desperately keen to maim him, but he was also quite funny. All his grumbling and tutting made for an entertaining display. Plus he had a great collection of knives and swords.
Seriously, it was a truly impressive array. From long silvery blades to small and curved knives, the kid had them all.
The only downside was his increasing attempts to brutally maim Peter. After the first dagger to the chest, the Littlest Bird was desperate to score a second. Then a third, then a sword straight through his thigh and a knife clean across his forearm. Each time he let the kid get a hit in, it only seemed to incense him further.
Because, as the blonde vigilante had commented, Peter was letting them get hits in.
He had to. If he could fight these bats without gaining a single mark, Joker would expect more from him. Harsher hits and far more brutal battles were set if he ever let the clown see how skilled he truly was. So he took the hits he took, especially towards the end of the fight, to keep the vigilantes safe. Whether it was from Joker’s goons or his own bloodlust, Peter had to keep them safe.
Though, as the black cowl boy and the Little Bird worked in perfect tandem to keep shining and punching his way, Peter wished that he weren’t so kindhearted. Or filled with cowardice, as Joker so loved to tell him.
Knowing the clown, he’d be watching in on this fight. Whether through street cameras or hidden bugs, Joker always saw everything. There was not a single place for Peter to be himself, not a single way for him to breathe a full breath.
So he kept on for a little longer. Just long enough to give the clown a good show, with a few good hits taken for the goons to clean up the next morning. A knife embedded in his shoulder, hair yanked from his scalp, a dagger clean across his side (the bats now practiced at aiming past the folds of fabric). Enough of a fight made to look like he was trying, but enough wounds and bruises to show that he wasn’t as good as the vigilantes. Really, he was better. At least in theory. Peter hadn’t gotten much practice in at properly fighting without holding back, but he was sure he’d be alright.
He was good enough to keep letting himself get hit, after all.
As he lunged a pulled punch into the little vigilante’s side, his ears twitched at Batman’s drawl ruffling over the coms.
“Red Robin, can you disable the EMP?”
“Sure thing, B.” The boy in the black cowl and red costume chirped.
Ah. That was his name, then. That would make the little one Robin, if blondie’s comment rung true.
There was more to do, he knew that. Joker would want him to stick around until the last possible second, just to make sure the EMP went off and brought half of Gotham into darkness. He’d expect him to throw a few more punches and offer up a couple of taunts and flips.
But Peter was tired. He was bored, overwhelmed and frankly a little done with having to let these people hit him just to keep up appearances. Especially considering that they all knew he was letting them do it.
This time, he didn’t even say goodbye. He didn’t offer his usual salute or mocking, he simply secured a web to the supports and used it to pull himself to the beam nearest to the edge of the bridge. The blonde was long gone, the Batman now twirling wires to deconstruct the latest of Joker’s lazy plots. Robin was indignantly squeaking at his retreat, darting over to the Batman with a glare shot his way.
Yet Red Robin, still on the ground despite the grapple on his belt, was watching Peter with parted lips.
There was an interesting thing about Red Robin. A curious detail upon his skin that left Peter tilting his head in question. His hand raised to his face, fingers fluttering as he spread two fingers before his lips - pressing into his cheeks in a decisive arch.
The vigilante flinched as he caught onto the action. His lips contorted and the scars that so bothered Peter on the other teen’s face… contorted into a frown like his own. Thick but faded scarring like the teen’s lips had been split apart - like he too had faced Joker’s aesthetic intervention.
A Cheshire grin, faded by time.
Peter would not be fighting this boy, he decided. Even as Red Robin swung a kick his direction, he merely ducked beneath and spun away. Joker was already in the van, banging on the door and calling out for ‘his Spades’.
So Peter sprung a few complicated flips until he landed on the railings. He extended onto his toes, ears pricking at the sound of the vigilantes decimating Joker’s remaining goons.
And he turned to glance one final time at the curious Red Robin. There was… there was just something about this vigilante that drew Peter’s attention. Some flicker that pulled his punches more so than usual, some quirk that brought a flush beneath his painted skin.
It surprised himself as much as it so clearly did the vigilante, as Peter raised his arm.
And he waved goodbye.