Accord in the Iceberg Lounge
Gotham’s nighttime scene was a shit-show.
Through the bullet and glass littered streets, drunken goons and civilians alike all roamed their way from bar to club to shitty diner. Their chatter was raucous and untamed, their laughter free and steps stumbling. The dark streets glowed neon - pink and green and red - in streaks that washed over pale faces.
Peter had only ever seen it in passing. From the passenger seat of a van, he’d inspect the wild scenes with great fascination. How the girls would stumble in their too-high heels, how the boys would preen like peacocks - flashing cash and yellowed teeth at whoever caught their eye. It was something he found truly alien, this notion of unrelenting joy in the smog of Gotham. All these people, drunken and rowdy, finding pleasure through chugs of liquor and puffs of shared blunts.
And it had always felt like something untouchable. As though that glee was for the ordinary folks, not for boys like him - chained and tamed. But Joker had dealings tonight with a man called ‘Penguin’, and thus Peter found himself thrown from a van into the flashes of neon and the shudder of electronic music. It shuddered through his sternum, so loud that his ears ached.
At least he got a different outfit for this outing. It was a little… skimpy, if he were honest. Those same shades of toxic greens and yellows - a ruffle of pink around his throat. The shirt was pretty much see-through; a mesh like chainmail, long sleeves and high neckline over a pair of flared trousers and thick combat boots.
Too aged for his body, he thought. It was the kind of thing a GoGo dancer or stripper wore, not a teenage boy. But he could hardly vocalise that to Joker, nor could he try and put something else on. What else did he have to wear? A bloodied jester suit?
Joker’s hand found itself placed on Peter’s shoulder, fingers tight as they clutched at his skin - nails digging into flesh. They were flocked by painted goons, those patrons of the clubs giving a wide birth as they shuffled inside the dark building.
“You ever been dancing, Spades?” Joker grinned - the shift of neon lighting painting his ghostly skin in sickening hues.
Peter shook his head.
“Oh, you’ll love it!” The clown cackled, placing his hands on Peter’s shoulders. “Go on, give it a whirl.”
The club was both shadowed and bright - painted dark shades of purples and blues but lit by the sharp glow of a dozen neon lights. It was modern and hideous, built with thick slabs of blueish metal in shudders like an iceberg found on dry land.
Inside was much the same. Filled with those too-bright lights and too-dark walls, stinking of sweat and liquor. Art Deco arches drew them inwards as Joker’s goons followed behind the pair - Joker’s fingers still digging into Peter’s shoulder. But, despite the sensory overload of it all, there was something beautiful to be found. A freedom of the patrons, of the hundreds of dancing and laughing and drinking civilians. There was poetry to it, like a song he almost remembered. An ear worm he couldn’t quite recall the lyrics to.
Joker’s finger’s pulled free of his flesh as the clown went to straighten his green tie. His hand ran through his toxic hair, slicking back the dead strands, as his eyes roamed the scene. Then, with great calculation, his eyes locked on a table near the back.
“Get Spades a bottle, won’t ya?” He turned to a goon, lips twisting into a familiar grin. “We’ve some business to attend.”
Peter let himself be led through the chaos. He did not flinch as a bottle smashed behind him, nor as a drunken woman almost stumbled into his side - quickly pulled away by a man with wide eyes that stuttered apologies.
Joker, naturally, was in his element. As they reached the table, the clown sprawled across the cracked leather booth and yanked Peter to sit by his side - a hand now clutching at his knee. Opposite sat a stout man with an absurd ensemble of his own. He wore a top hat taller than his face upon slicked black hair. A thick-gloved hand moved to adjust his gold monocle as he glanced towards the pair with poorly-concealed disgust. Two goons stood behind him, hands leant on pistols, as Joker’s clowns moved to stand at their backs.
Considering just how disdainful this ‘Penguin’ looked, Peter suspected that this lounge wasn’t a traditional place for meetings. It was an unfortunate fact that Joker had a way of making himself welcome anywhere - whether people liked it or not.
“Ah, I had wondered when you’d flock to my establishment,” the Penguin spoke with a nasally voice, snapping his fingers in the air. “Care for a drink?”
“Oh, Ozzie.” Joker’s lips stretched wide. “How could you tell?”
A silver tray was placed on the glass table by shaking hands - a nervous waitress dressed in a tight black ensemble offering a tight smile. Her trembling fingers cracked the seal on a bottle of whiskey, pouring a dash into squarish glasses. As she reached for the third glass, Joker placed his free hand upon it, shaking his head with a smile.
“None for your… sidekick?” Penguin asked, speaking the final word with great contempt. He reached for his own glass, swirling the amber liquid with a raised brow.
“Don’t worry, Oz,” Joker cackled. “He’ll be having his own.”
As though waiting for that declaration, a goon slammed a bottle in front of Peter, glass hitting glass with an almighty screech. The label read in a language that he had not seen in Gotham, yet somehow knew the scrawl of. It held a clear liquid by the name of ‘Vodka’, with a logo of two red birds upon the rounded shape.
Peter blinked owlishly at the bottle, tilting his head towards the Joker in question.
“Go on, Spades.” The clown cackled, clasping the bottle to pop the seal undone. “Don’t say I never treat ya.”
Under the watch of the assembled goons and the two odd men, Peter took the bottle and held it in his hands. It was cold as though chilled in a freezer. When Joker nodded, he pressed it to his lips.
The first sip was horrendous. It was like fire across his throat as he swallowed, a cough bubbling up as he winced at the sensation. Almost panicked, he looked to the Joker with a shake of his head.
“Now, now, Spades.” The clown tutted. “We don’t want to disappoint our lovely host, do we?”
The boy shook his head, dread pooling in his gut as the alcohol blazed a path to his empty stomach.
“Joker-” Penguin began with a frown, though whatever he planned to utter was quickly silenced by the clown raising a hand.
“Finish the bottle.” Joker demanded, eyes wide and burning with anticipation. “Then you can go.”
Peter’s eyes darted to the side, just in time to spy how the Penguin forced his face free of a frown. He glanced to the Joker’s goons, spying that same sadistic expectancy as they nodded along with Joker’s demand. And so, though his tongue burned and his eyes watered, Peter continued to drink.
Satisfied, Joker turned back to the Penguin.
“So, Oswald,” he drawled, swirling the whiskey as though he had no intention to drink it. “Let’s talk business. You’ve got a little something I want, and I’ve got… well, let’s just say that I’ve got something delightful planned for this city. A little chaos, a little carnage, a little-” he clapped his hands together suddenly, the two goons behind Penguin flinching at the sound. “-art.”
“You’re a lotta things, Joker, but an artist ain’t one of ‘em.” Penguin grumbled. “Get to the point.”
Peter placed the bottle on the table, wincing as he spied there was still half of the clear liquid left. He let out a pained breath, fingers flexing uncomfortably. A goon behind him placed his hands on his shoulders and the boy glanced up to spy a raised brow of expectation. With a silent sigh, he picked up the bottle anew as he watched the Joker lean forward.
“I need access to your side of the docks. One night. No questions, no interference.” The sickly glow of the club reflected in his wide, unblinking eyes.
The Penguin let out a wheeze of laughter.
“You serious?” He scoffed. “That’s my turf, you oversized Jack-in-the-box. You expect me to roll over for what? What could you possibly offer that would make that worth my while?”
“Oh, Oz, I’ve got incentives tumbling out of my ears.” Joker grinned, leaning back to wrap an arm around Peter’s shoulders. His hand drummed idly against the boy’s arm, then, with a flourish, he plucked the bottle from Peter’s grasp. Joker took an exaggerated swig, grimacing theatrically as he swallowed. “Wowza! That burns!” He cackled, setting the bottle down with a clink.
“You really think a little showboating with that boy of yours is gonna get you what you want?” Penguin scoffed, though his beady eyes flickered with unease.
“Oh, fine.” Joker sighed dramatically. “How ‘bout a good ol’ fashioned incentive?”
From the folds of his large purple jacket, the clown plucked a small, worn box. It was unlike Joker’s usual theatrics, no crude wrappings or bright colours, just ruddy wood that he slid across the table. Penguin’s goons stepped closer as the man glanced down with wariness. Then, as though it pained him to do so, he flicked the lid undone.
His expression twisted, fury coating his ugly features as shocked eyes met his before sliding to Joker’s.
“You slimy son of a bitch.” Penguin glared.
Though the alcohol was coating his mind, bleeding his senses into a blur as fog rose to coat his thoughts and scalded tongue, Peter could see it. There was a shift at their table, a calculation behind Penguin’s glare.
A deal was about to be struck, just not a fair one. And Peter had a sickening feeling that he was about to be caught in the middle of it all.
*-*-*
Tim Drake had never much been a fan of Gotham’s nighttime antics. Whether having to wrangle drunken idiots while on patrol, or trying to weave his car through stumbling streets, he had always loathed it. Average Gothamites and goons alike all pooled into the clubs of the Diamond District, wearing clothes not fit for the weather and carrying weapons not fit for dancing.
He’d pulled the short straw, tonight.
Jason’s gang had heard whispers of a deal being made between Joker and Penguin. Murmurs through Gotham’s criminal underbelly spoke of the pair uniting for some type of trade - yet another plot to be unravelled by the bats. That kind of information didn’t just fall into their laps. No, it was a warning. Something big was brewing, something that they needed to see firsthand.
And, unfortunately for him, none of the others had wanted to be the one to go undercover while the Red Hood gang infiltrated the Iceberg Lounge. Steph had opted out, not wanting to feign being an oblivious blonde in a place filled with disgusting men. Duke was somehow too obvious, not used to espionage and known by his face in quite a few places as Bruce’s newest adoption.
But Tim, though he was well known, was perhaps the best as masking his celebrity. Well, the best if they didn’t include Dick (who was still busy with his Titans and declining their calls). So he’d donned a thick black hoodie and painted feigned scars upon his face - a slit across his brow and eye to alter his smooth skin. He’d filled the scars on his cheeks and painted over them with feigned freckles to match the brown wig that rested over his dark locks.
He’d slipped into the club through a side entrance, blending into the crowd as just another drunken Gothamite. His attention was sharp despite the pounding bass and shifting lights.
There were women in tight dresses cheering as they danced with each other on the floor, men cloaked by cigar smoke as they swayed and watched the scene. By the ornate bar, there stood a tall platform of mirrored tiles with paid dancers grinding and twisting under the glow of the flickering lights.
All in all, it was a hellish ordeal of sensory overload and alcohol-infused debauchery.
“How’s it going, Timmy?” Jason’s voice crackled over the coms.
“Oh, shut up.” Tim grumbled, looking across the club.
It was the kind of place where anonymity thrived. When surrounded by hundred of others, no one noticed a single person. Not unless they made a scene of themself, like the drunk women loudly celebrating their friend’s engagement, or the men all rowdy over who would win the Football game between Gotham University and whoever they went up again next. He didn’t care to listen too deeply, merely filtering the information through his mind as he moved onto the next stream of chatter.
“Word is that Joker and Penguin are in the back.” Jason’s voice rung in his ear, flicking his gaze upwards. It swept over the booths, past clusters of armed men feigning relaxation, past the swaying bodies under flickering strobe.
Then, he spotted it. Joker and Penguin were sat at a table in the back, clearly caught in heated debate. They were flocked by their goons - painted clowns and suit-donning muscle. But caught in the middle of this game, sluggishly slumped into Joker’s side, was the Mime.
Tim’s stomach tightened painfully. The kid looked pale, even past the white face paint. His movements were slowed, body held with that familiar unease in his posture. Joker’s arm was around him, fingers drumming an erratic beat upon his skin.
Then, so quick that a lesser man - a boy that wasn’t one of the best detectives in the world - would have missed it, there was a flicker to Joker’s eyes as mischief overwhelmed his displeasure with Penguin. The clown leaned close to Mime’s ear, whispering something that was lost to the thump of music. Whatever it was, it made the boy stiffen.
Tim inched closer, weaving through the crowds, gaze still fixed on the table. Mime shook his head slowly, the movement halted as Joker placed a hand to grip his chin. The clown rested his forehead against Mime’s, tilting their heads as he pointed towards the dance floor.
As their faces pulled apart, Mime finally nodded. He slipped from Joker’s grasp, shoved by the goons away from the table as Joker jerked a thumb his way and let out a cackle. In his stumbling, something overtook Mime. One moment he was staggering, the next - rolling his shoulders as though shaking off invisible shackles - he moved with fluid grace.
His hesitation - drunkenly blinking and head lolling - was lost as he moved through the crowds. Those surrounding seemed to sense something that Tim did not as they parted to let the Mime through. Their voices raised in cheers, hands reaching to thump him forwards. They pulled him towards the bar, pushing him up to the platform. The dancers moved to give him space as, with movements both deliberate yet effortless, he stood in the centre.
Tim barely had time to process this transformation before the music switched track, swallowing the room with a heavy, thrumming beat. And then… Mime was dancing.
He was… well, he was breathtaking.
His gymnastic talent was evident in each thrust and swivel of his hips as the guy gyrated with the GoGo dancer. Her hands gripped his shoulders - long nails pressing the yellow mesh, dug into the skin below. His trousers were flared below the knee but tight around his thighs, cropped low enough to reveal his bellybutton and the thin trail of hair leading down.
Tim flushed as he watched the guy spin and twist, the effortless control in every moment. The crowd around them was eating it up, Joker laughing wildly from the sidelines as though he’d orchestrated the entire thing. Maybe he had. Perhaps in this sidekick’s training there had been this aspect, this tutorial in how to dance like the women around him. Their hands all clutched at him as more of the dancers joined the shuffle - long fingernails pressing into the mesh of his shirt as the women swayed him.
“Tim? You spotted them yet?” Jason’s voice broke his revery. Almost embarrassed, Tim’s eyes flickered back to the table at the back - spotting Joker and Penguin both watching Mime as the clown seemed to be loudly preening at the display.
“Yeah, yeah.” He replied. “Mime’s here too.”
“He is?” Jason breathed.
“Joker’s got him dancing on the platform.”
“Bastard.”
Tim swallowed, his throat dry.
“They’re watching him like they want to show him off.” he hesitated, watching the way that Joker leaned forwards slightly, a grin splitting his painted lips. Penguin, on the other hand, looked far more calculating. There was something to his beady eyes as they flickered between Joker and the dancing sidekick, clearly weighing something.
“Stay on them.” Jason’s voice was sharp. “If Joker’s trying to make a bigger wave, we need to know what it is before Gotham pays the price.”
Tim nodded to himself, even though Jason could not see the gesture. His gaze flickered back to Mime - his body moving as though weightless. Yet… his eyes told a different story. They were glassy, clearly drunken, and so terribly haunted.
Whatever this was, the kid was in deeper than even Batman had suspected. And Tim wasn’t sure if he could pull him back out.
Out the corner of his eye, Tim spotted a shift at the table. Joker’s goons were stepping away as the clown rose from the leather booth. Though accord had been struck, the clown’s face was marred by a hideous scowl. His steps were firm and unyielding, eyes dark and wicked, as he marched towards the dance floor. The crowd parted as he marched through, terrified patrons all giving a wide birth to the Clown Prince of their city.
Tim barely had the time to step away from the bustle as the clown reached the platform. His finger’s curled around Mime’s trouser, tugging the fabric. The movement was so abrupt, so very forceful, that it forced the boy onto his bottom. Joker moved to yank his shirt collar, wrenching his sidekick onto the dance floor. He reached for the boy’s cheek, not noticing - or, more likely not caring - of how those surrounded took a step away and ceased their dancing.
“Idiot!” Joker snapped, the hand pressed against Mime’s cheek pushing his head backwards sharply. Were he not more than ordinary human, the act might have snapped his neck. As it was, only his ability to lean into the hit left the kid unscathed - save for the way his face scrunched in ache as his muscles pulled.
Though the music still thrummed, the chatter had ceased. Mime tilted his head, blinking blearily, before motioning with a spin of his hand. Whatever it meant, it only brought the clown deeper into his fury.
“You think you were my first go?” Joker laughed in his face, spittle smearing his white paint. “What are you, mark five? I’ve made pranksters out of bats and jesters out of girls much smarter than you. No, Spades, you’re just the easy bet! You’re the kid that won’t talk back, the jokester that doesn’t realise that the joke’s on him!”
The thump of electronic music could not hide the tirade. Those around them had stilled, their dancing halted and conversation frozen as dozens of wide eyes narrowed on them.
But there was one pair of eyes that Mime saw truest. A pair of brilliant blue, wide and unblinking but so very beautiful. They were bright as the uncoated sky, clear as crystal seas.
And they were so very haunted as they looked to him. Trapped in watching, attached to a body that hardly breathed as it watched Joker grab his arms and shake him violently.
“You’re nothing without me! You’d still be in the ground if I hadn’t dug you out!”
Tim watched as Mime hung his head in shame. The marred cheek - paint wiped clean by a gruesome slap - was flushed almost scarlet. He wasn’t sure how much was imprint from the hit and how much was in embarrassment.
Joker and Penguin had shaken hands before this outburst. Their deal was already sealed and whatever they had planned for Gotham was surely already in motion.
But Tim’s attention wasn’t on them anymore. It was on Mime.
It was fixed on the way his shoulders curled inwards, shrinking under Joker’s grasp.
“Tim?” Jason’s voice was sharp in his ear. “What’s happening?”
Tim swallowed hard. He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears.
“I think we have a much bigger problem than we thought.”