The Mime of Gotham City

“He what?” A squawk sounded over the coms. 

“I know!” Tim exclaimed in reply, still blinking at the spot Mime had been. 

“Like actually waved?” Steph asked, yet again, with the same stain of utter disbelief. 

“That’s what I said!” Tim snapped in reply - a little frustrated at the lack of trust. 

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” He chewed his lip. “He just… waved.” 

“Why you?” She blurted. “Not to sound rude, but like… why wave at you?”

“I don’t know.” He whispered, frowning still at that spot Mime once occupied. 

Batman had sorted out the EMP in the end without Tim’s help. Though he was trying not to feel too put out by it, he was a little vexed that Bruce hadn’t bothered to wait for him. They’d had a while left on the timer (around 237 seconds, truth be told) and EMPs were something of Tim’s expertise as the tech guy of their family. 

Then again, it wasn’t like Tim had gone over to help. No, he’d been stuck in that spot on the bridge. His eyes had remained watching, even after Mime used that odd rope to swing himself away. 

The guy looked maybe sixteen under the paint. Just a year younger than him, a few years older than Tim had been when… it was best not to dwell on that. 

And Mime wore new scars. They were almost hidden by the thick paint, deep enough to pull crackles in the crimson and white. 

Joker had maimed him like he’d done to Tim. An inverse, almost. Twin sliced to his cheeks, tugging down like the split of a puppet’s mouth. It made the boy look more inhuman. With the caked on paint and scarring, he looked like some magician’s toy brought to life. Dressed in a truly hideous jester costume and smeared in white across his face, Mime was a mockery of a boy. He was a Pinocchio before the strings were cut, still wooden and aimless. 

It stayed with him, all the way home. That thought, the horror of Mime’s life, it lingered. He could hardly remember getting on his bike, nor of driving back to the cave and through the hidden opening. 

Only when he took off the costume did his mind reset. Because there, clutched between his fingers, were strands of the rogue’s black stained hair. They were still curled around his gloves as he pulled them off, woven like thread. 

Against the white lighting, held upwards with great care, Tim inspected the strands. 

Jason had been right. The unnatural darkness, the way the colour seemed so stark against his pale skin… it was hair dye. There was barely an inch of the true colour by the follicle. On some, it held an almost reddish - not quite ginger but not quite black either. On others, the hair was an unnatural white. It was the kind of shade he knew from Jason’s own skunk patch. 

And it meant that Mime was exactly what they feared. He was both a rogue’s sidekick and a part of the League of Assassins. This teenager that never spoke a word, never uttered a sound, was so very good at dodging hits and letting others hit him… and it was all thanks to training from assassins. 

There was no other explanation. Truly, Tim struggled to try and rationalise other alternatives. But no stranger could find their way to a Lazarus Pit. No random boy could fight as Mime did, not without the kind of training that only those already familiar could know. And who was more familiar with the League than the grandson of its founder and the man that had been brought back to somewhat sanity by them? 

Frankly, he felt like pulling his own hair out. After all, Tim was not the kind of person that was often stumped by a case. He was ridiculously smart and observant (even to his own detriment). But most of all, he was relentless. It was a trait he shared with the man he’d practically forced to take him in as sidekick, a brutal condition to his living that he often had to force down lest he make another clone of a dead friend or encourage another butler into giving him a dead boy’s costume. 

Tim was… he was well aware that he wasn’t a good guy. But he was noble, and he was fighting for good, and it had to be enough. 

It had to be. 

Because he could see the other side every night he went on patrol. He would fight those that shared his intellect and passion, send them to Arkham time after time. And all the while he would think… well, he would think of how similar he was to the rogues of Gotham. Were it not for his brothers, for the man they called a father, he did not want to imagine where or who he would be.

Shaking his head, Tim turned off his computer monitor. It was with great effort that he pulled himself away, forced his feet to travel through the Batcave and up to the elevator. With a short journey up and a brief walk through the silent halls of the manor, he dragged his body to the TV room as his ears perked at sound rippling through the door. 

The television was blaring some ridiculous cartoon that Duke called an ‘animation’. Tim wasn’t exactly a fan, but he’d never complain aloud. To do so would invite another of Duke’s long lectures on the detail, the recurring themes, or any other nitpick of a detail that only an obsessed fan would know. 

Still, he enjoyed hanging out with Duke. Mainly due to the guy being his age and not an ex (or dating his ex), if he were honest. They got along well despite their dissimilarities. 

This evening, as Duke often did, he was lounged on the couch and watching one of his shows. It was his detox after his daytime patrol - a way to free his mind of all the stress of the day as he watched some mind-numbing program. His hair was recently shaved shorter with neat lines cut at his temples, his body coated by a thick yellow hoodie and dark creased sweatpants. 

He couldn’t have been more different to Tim, who wore his hair longer and floppy and his hoodies unzipped and trousers pressed. 

“Someone owes me a Zesty.” Tim demanded, flopping onto the sofa beside Duke. 

“You got a good sample?”

“I got a good sample.” He confirmed with a tired grin. “Just need to run the DNA for a few hours and we should know who’s behind the clown paint.” Tim shuddered absentmindedly. 

A Zesty was placed into his open hand - the cool can like ice against his worn fingers. 

“So, do you think we’ll get anything from his DNA, or is this another one of those ‘it’s a dead end, try again’ kinda nights?“ Duke asked, leaning his head against the plush couch  - eyes closed as helmet out a slow exhale. 

“It’s not a dead end if we keep on digging.” Tim retorted, taking a sip of his Zesty. “It’s got to give us something. It’s been a long enough time without answers.”

“Really? Time?” Duke cracked an eye open, lips pulling into a smirk. “Thought you were the ‘speedy results’ guy. This Mime dude is really ruining your brand as resident genius.” 

“Genius is overrated.” Tim rolled his eyes, though a faint smile tugged at his lips - quickly concealed as he chugged another mouthful of drink. “I’m just persistent.”

“That’s a nice way to phrase it. Other people would say you’re obsessive about mysteries.” Duke laughed as Tim raised a brow. “Hey, I said other people!” He raised his hands in mock surrender. 

“Whatever you say.”

The two teens exchanged amused glances, letting the hum of the television fill the air. It was a comfortable quiet, the kind only held between two boys that deemed themselves brothers. Duke’s head rested on the sofa as Tim leant an arm on the side to prop his chin on his hand. 

It was a silly show on the television. Some recalcitrant old man was flying in a ridiculous round ship with his docile grandson. The plot was heinous, the jokes were absurd, and the animation itself was rather flat. But Duke was snickering at every other line - soft and familiar - so Tim couldn’t find it in himself to complain. 

Yet as they watched the end credit scene, it was Duke that spoke first in criticism. 

“How long should this take, anyways?” Duke pulled his phone from his trouser pocket, frowning as he spied the late hour. “Waiting for this DNA thing is like watching paint dry.”

“Are you bored of my company? Oh, how you wound me.” Tim mocked outrage. 

“Nah, you’re not too bad.” Duke grinned. “A little slower than I was promised, but I’m not complaining.”

“You literally just did.”

“Psh!” He waved a hand dismissively. “You take shit too literal, dude.” 

“Too literally.” Tim corrected, prompting a roll of Duke’s eyes. 

“Just shut up and watch the show.” He huffed a laugh, knocking Tim’s arm in jest. 

It took the ping of Tim’s phone to rouse the pair from the comfort of the couch. With haste, they rushed through Bruce’s office and down to the Batcave. Their footfalls thundered against the cold flooring, their feet only clad by socks - as the duo slid into place at the computer. Duke’s idle chatter was paused as Tim turned on the monitor and clicked through to the right section of information - scrolling through pages and pages of complex information. 

“So?” Duke asked, his eyes a little bleary as he blinked against the glare of the computer screen. 

“It’s… the DNA is just broken.” Tim growled, fist clenching as he slammed his hand against the desk - his can of Zesty rattling against the keyboard. 

With a careful glance, Duke shifted the drink further from the computer. 

“How can DNA be broken?”

“It just is! The sample is so radioactive that it burned through the machinery. I’ll need new parts, stronger components, if I even want to figure out how dangerous the substance is.” 

“You’ve tested Joker’s blood before, right? Wasn’t that all radioactive?”

“Not like this.” Tim scoffed. “This is… it’s on a whole other level. I can’t tell if it’s a mix of Joker venom and something else, or Lazarus pit residue to an extreme, or even if the kid is just some kind of Chernobyl-level metahuman.” 

“Well, don’t tell Bruce that.” Duke huffed, lips twitching in dark amusement. “You know, he and Jason still aren’t speaking?”

“They’re still fighting about this?” Tim lamented. 

“Yup.” Duke shook his head. “If they keep on like this, I think Dick’ll ditch his Titans Academy to come slap some sense into them.” 

“Woe for them.” Tim replied flatly. 

“We could use the backup,” Duke admitted in a sigh, “though I wouldn’t be a fan of the gloating he’d give us if him showing up ended up being what stopped this whole pile of shit.” 

“He’d take it easier on you, being new and all.”

“Oh, bite me.” Duke knocked his shoulder in jest. “Look, I’m just saying, we aren’t getting anywhere on our own. This is like the longest that Joker’s been out of Arkham in years.”

“I know.” Tim groaned, shooting Duke a quick glare. “But it’s like Mime has some kind of special sense for when we’re about to capture them. He always knows when to web them away.” 

“You sure we can’t just ask the guy to give it a rest?” Duke offered with a slight grin. “I mean, I’m kinda getting tired of the whole punching each other in silence thing.” 

Tim huffed a laugh, shaking his head with fond amusement. 

“That’d probably require him replying with more than a gesture.”

“At least it’s interesting.” Duke shrugged. “I never did like mimes as a kid, thought they were spooky. But this kid… I gotta hand it to him, he’s kinda hilarious.”

“Definitely funnier than Joker.” Tim agreed. 

“And he’s got a thing for you.”

“What? No he doesn’t!” Tim’s eyes widened, his grip on his can slipping slightly (though he was quick to catch it before he could accidentally bleed citrus drink into his nice new keyboard). 

“Haven’t you noticed?” Duke raised his brows in disbelief. “He’s always tracking where you are in the fight. And Steph told me about how he waved you goodbye last night.”

“Damn snitch.” Tim grumbled. 

“Yeah, I was barely awake before she was calling to dump it on me. She seemed more excited about the gossip than to even consider what it meant.”

“He doesn’t know.” Tim blurted. “I mean, he can’t know. Joker wouldn’t share about his failed first sidekick with his newest one.”

And Duke, kind as he could muster, pinned Tim with a pitying look. 

“You sure about that?”