The Mime of Gotham City

In the dreary hours of evening - the smog thick over the Gotham sky, coating the sunset in streaks of washed out greys - a boy lay staring at a cracked ceiling. It was how he spent most evenings, truth be told. Until someone came to rouse him, always shouldering a gun and clutching his shoulder with tight fingers, he would lay there. Sometimes, he’d lift his hand to trace the patterns in the cracks. Other days, he’d merely stare until his eyes grew unfocused. 

Peter didn’t remember leaving the club. 

Logically, he knew he’d been thrust into a van and shoved back in his room in the early hours of morning. The details were murky, though. Hazy beneath that fog of vodka, hidden behind the music that pounded in his ears - his limbs moving as though not his own. Joker’s laughter had chased him into his slumber, tainting his dreams with blood and that familiar shade of toxic green. It was like the irises that looked back at him in the cracked bathroom mirror.

His fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white. Though his face was blank, his ears were turning pink. With a slow exhale, he forced his fingers to flex against the rough mattress beneath him. His head turned, tilting to the wall beside him, as he moved a trembling finger to trace the tallies carved into the mouldy paint. Beneath the lines, scratched into the paint, lay a word he did not truly know. Was it a name or a place, he began to wonder. What exactly was Wayne?

The marks weren’t his. And though he had always wondered who had made those faint etchings, he’d never truly dwelled upon it. Why would he bother? 

Only now, as Joker’s tirade still played in his mind - again and again and again - he thought of it anew. Peter forced his head to turn, eyes drifting to the corner of the ceiling to spy a jagged crack that ran like a filthy river through the plaster. He traced its path, searching across the peeling paint until he found its ending. Like a lifeline on a palm, like a string of Fate. 

His body was heavy - weighed by both exhaustion and a deeper, uglier feeling. Something truly insidious lingered in his gut, mixed with the remnants of alcohol that churned in his stomach. His skin smelled of sweat and cigar smoke, his cheeks tight beneath the cracked face paint. 

Joker… had done this before. 

Once upon another time, a different boy slept in Peter’s bed. A different kid with a different costume, different name, but still… still just a villain’s stolen sidekick. 

Peter wasn’t special. He wasn’t the first, nor would he be the last. 

He was just… another in a long line. When he was gone, there would be another boy in his room. There would be another silly costume, another ridiculously painted child forced to do Joker’s sadistic bidding. 

And God, what a place for a boy to be. The room was barely more than a cell - filled more with spare weaponry and bomb parts than space for a person. A dim lightbulb flickered dizzyingly above him, barely lighting the greyed space. There was a dresser missing half of its drawers pressed against the creaky bed frame - air stale and metallic, walls stained with years of neglect. 

He’d been there so long that he’d stopped noticing. 

But now, it was hard not to see it. Difficult to pretend that he was anything more than a neglected pet, just a boy with a bomb in his neck. 

He wasn’t sure when the horror and self-pity shifted, only that there was a moment in which his mind flipped from guilt to blame. From feeling pathetic to blind rage. Only, he knew one singular truth. A burning revelation that would see him through. 

Either he killed the Joker, or Peter killed himself. Whichever direction, he’d end this story on his own terms. 

It was time for the curtains to close on the worst double act in history.

He would die today. 

Peter knew that when he woke, head splitting from his first ever hangover. He knew that he was finished with this path, this life in this crueler dimension. Whether by his own death or by the Joker’s, he was finished being this mute accomplice to one of the most vile people to ever breathe. 

No more. 

A knock shuddered the metal door - a wince caught in Peter’s throat as his head split at the intrusion. 

“Up and at ‘em, Spades,” a gruff voice spoke. “Boss wants you moving.” 

Peter’s eyes shuddered shut, his breath coming out in a short huff. 

No more. 

Unsteady and unrelenting, Peter forced his limbs to move past their stiffness. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into the flesh of his palms. There was no plan, no strategy. Just the awful, unshakeable certainty that this would be his final act. There would be no encore to this performance. 

No, this was his final bow. 

He was not sure what the goon behind the door spied upon his expression as he opened it. Only that the man did not utter the usual insult. Instead, with a face as grave as Peter felt, he merely pressed a hand onto his shoulder to weave him away. They walked through the corridors, down past the rooms of slumbering goons and past the raucous laughter of those eating breakfast as they polished their pistols. 

The club had been one thing. It was a performance. A stage on which he played the part of Mime, the Joker’s silent sidekick. But today… today, there was no act. No costume to hide behind, no paint to mask his terror or guilt. 

It was just him and the Joker. And the clown was waiting. 

He was lounging in his usual seat, legs draped over the armrest as he waved an idle hand - recounting some detail of the night before to a chorus of chuckling gangsters. He was without the usual purple jacket, donning the shirt from the night before. It was unbuttoned to his belly, flashing a white stomach behind the bloodstained cotton. 

No more. 

Peter forced his feet forwards, forced his body to walk across the cold granite - his bare feet silent and careful. Still, Joker sensed his approach, tilting his head. The look he gave was one of amusement. 

“Everyone out.” Joker decided, barely sparing a wave towards his goons as he watched Peter. “I think Spades may need some… reminding of his loyalties.”

It was immediate, how all the gangsters and painted idiots sprung to attention. They shuffled out with haste, casting wary glances at Peter kept up his approach. But soon enough did they leave the pair - their footsteps twitching at Peter’s sensitive ears as they filtered through the corridors. 

He waited until he heard the clicks of doors closing, until the movement turned to whispered chatter, before he let his mouth open. Then, for the first time he could ever remember, Peter spoke. 

“Why?” He asked. It was difficult - his voice so unused and forgotten - but the word came out clear as anything. Rough, certainly, but powerful despite the crackle. 

“You can talk?” Joker blinked in surprise, before one of those awful cackles erupted from his pleased lips. 

“Why me?”

“Why not?” Joker cackled. “You’re perfect, my Spades. Already dead and already broken.”

His finger’s twitched. His jaw tightened. 

It was without a thought that he threw the first hit. His body simply moved on instinct, years of practice buried deep in his muscles overruling any hesitation he could have held. His knuckles collided with Joker’s cheek, snapping his neck to the side with a sickening crunch. A breathless wheeze ripped free of the clown’s throat, but his laughter never truly ceased. Instead, it merely stuttered, hitching with amusement as his head hung back. 

But the boy, worn and unrelenting, did not give him a chance to recover. His other hand forced forwards, grabbing Joker by the collar of his garish yellow shirt and dragged him closer - forcing the clown to look him in the eye. Joker’s grin merely widened, even as blood speckled his pale lips - free of their usual reddish paint. 

“Oh, there he is.” He rasped, breath thick with the stench of whiskey and something far more sour. A toxicity that lingered inside his flesh, that roamed through his tainted blood. “There’s my Spades. Feels good, doesn’t it?” 

“I could have been more!” Peter howled, fist diving into the clown’s side as he cackled and cackled - blood painting his yellowed teeth. “But you took that from me! You took any chance I had of being a person!” 

“I gave you a name!” Joker cackled through a bloodied tongue, licking at his lips. His eyes alight with something manic. “You’re nothing without me!”

Peter’s mind was clear, filled with a ringing from his ears still left after the cacophony of the music from last night. 

No more, he thought. 

Then, with every ounce of strength left in his body, he swung again. 

Joker staggered but he never stopped cackling. Never stopped reeling in the chaos, even though it was born of his pain. Even as Peter reared back for another blow, never one to be outdone, Joker’s fractured arm reared upwards - shaking fingers clenched around his pistol. 

Peter couldn’t quite feel the danger. Not when he’d had months of abuse from the clown, weeks of constant warning shots until he’d forced his warning sense to simply not register the threat. 

He felt it in his side, first. Twin shots right below his lung - curled around something that felt important. Useful enough of an organ to have sent his warning sense screaming as it felt the bullets rip through his flesh. His vision blurred but his body still moved forward, still reached for the man that had stolen everything from him. 

No more. 

If he was going down, he was taking the fucking clown with him. 

The world around him dulled into nothingness. No sound, no light, just that unbearable heat that seared through his body and the single thought that kept him standing. He lunged, hands catching Joker’s shirt as he forced the clown to the ground. 

“What a performance!” Joker cackled between blows, arms never quite able to hit Peter back. Not when the boy was persistent, unyielding even with the blood that dripped from his body onto Joker’s own. “Give him a round of applause!” The clown spoke through wheezes and knocks. 

Peter’s hands clutched at Joker’s face - toxic eyes meeting toxic eyes - as he drove his skull against the floor. Again, and again, and again. He could hardly breathe as he kept up his tirade. The clown’s face was a bloodied pulp, his skull cracked and eyes hazy. 

And he did not speak again. Far more blessedly, the laughter had been lost to the brutality. It caught in the clown’s throat in a cough of crimson. As Peter paused his assault, as he let himself inhale a shudder of breath, he did not spy any movement from the clown. There was no twitch to his fingers, no rise of his torso. 

There was simply… silence. 

Peter let himself fall onto his bottom, legs twisted as he simply breathed. It was… hard to believe it was over. That this figure that had dug him from a grave and forced him into a jester suit could be truly gone. But there was no thunder of his heart, no cackle to force a flinch. There was nothing. 

He let out a wheeze of a laugh. 

Could it really be that easy? Could Joker truly be so foolish as to send his goons away and let Peter take his life?

Oh… he’d killed him. There was truly blood on his hands, sour and sticky and staining the flares he’d worn the night before. In one burst of fury, he’d become a murderer. Though justified - though Joker had more than earned such a defeat - it was Peter’s hands that would forever be tainted by the act. 

Though they would not be tainted for long. Not when his body screamed with agony, sides splitting as they dripped scarlet down to soak his trousers. 

He… he didn’t want to die there. He didn’t want to be found beside the man he’d murdered. 

No more.

So he forced himself to stand. To turn his back on the clown and to scan the room, hunting for anything that might propel him forwards. He found it behind the Joker’s throne. There were wooden crates lining the wall, lids ajar and pulled half-open. He stumbled forwards, briefly gripping the plush chair before tugging himself to clutch the nearest crate as he let out a pained exhale. Then, almost laughing, he saw the contents. 

It was filled with clothing. It smelled of mothballs and mould and yet… surrounded by guns and artillery, there was still the remnants of those that used this space before Joker’s gang had conquered it. Their clothes still sat in his ruined castle. 

Peter rummaged through the fabric - yanking dark clothing free from between hideously bright shades. Surrounded by circus costumes and flounces of ruffles, there lay the dark of a funereal suit. 

It was perfect to die in, he decided. 

Still listening to the chatter of the goons down the corridor, he forced his limbs into the new clothes, ignoring how coarse the fabric felt against his unclean skin. As they laughed and jested, so blissfully unaware of the carnage Peter had wrought, the boy tugged up black trousers and forced shaking fingers to do up shirt buttons. Once the jacket - too big but decent enough - was pulled over his shoulders, he looked to the window. The glass had been shattered before he’d ever joined the Joker. 

One final try, one final swing. 

Peter slid through the frame as his sides screamed at the movement. His arms ached as he swung through the amusement park, past decaying bumper cars and a crumbling ghost train. 

And he thought of how he’d like to die. Where he’d go to breathe his last. Whether he bled out from the bullets or had his brain exploded by a goon, Peter knew he would not survive the night. But he would die on his own terms. 

He wretched himself through to the streets of Gotham, swinging from lampposts and scaffolding until he reached the budding skyscrapers that rested near the docks. As his shoulders clicked, as the joints nearly popped from their sockets, he planted his feet on the ground. 

When he stepped in a puddle, he was quick to hunch over it. Trembling hands reached into the murky water, scrubbing at the cracked paint on his cheeks until his hands came away stained white. Once the water settled, he scanned his reflection. It had been so long since he’d seen his face. Since he’d truly spied his visage, now tainted by the scars that tugged down at his cheeks. 

But he looked human. Not a puppet, not a pet. As he ran a damp hand through his messed hair to slick it back, his ears caught up with him. 

There was noise coming from the other side of the nearest buildings. This city never truly felt quiet, though he’d never had the time to enjoy it. The restless thrum of traffic, the maze of voices - occasional yelps against the air - they never really stopped. The tumult of it all seemed to belong to another world, to a different strain of person. He had enough chaos of his own to reckon with, after all. 

Yet as his legs trembled with every step, as he drew closer to the noise he’d always vaguely heard from his uncomfortable bed, nothing could have stopped Peter from drawing closer. 

There were so many people. Though they wore shades of blacks and greys, though they jeered at each other and spat upon the littered sidewalks, they were all so alive. Their hearts beat in a deafening chorus, their chatter building like the crash of a wave. Storefronts were lit by flashing lights, food carts with calling vendors tucked beside the rumbling cars.  

As he stumbled, knocked sideways by a group of young men all whooping into the night, his gaze landed on a crumpled newspaper. It was half-hidden beneath a discarded pack of cigarettes, buried beside a torn packet of pretzels. There, printed on the abandoned newspaper in black ink, was the word. The one he’d only ever spied carved into the wall of his room, as though done in a frenzy of memory. 

Wayne. 

He knelt down, fingers tracing the letters with reverence. The scream of the city kept up its unrelenting thunder, but the word - Wayne - forced his eyes to focus.  

It was both a place and a person. It was a family and a Manor, one hosting an event that very night. Some gala to celebrate what was apparently yet another charitable endeavour. 

For a moment, Peter thought to cast it aside. He was so close to the skies, only a short climb away from dying where he’d planned. But… if he did that, he’d never get to know why. Never know just what had made that other boy carve that name into the wall, just why they’d held it so close even as they were controlled by the Joker. 

It felt like a blink that separated him from his next movement. Somehow, likely in a blurred state of near-collapse, Peter managed to crawl his way across the city. His forearms ached and his feet thrummed, but he was there. He was swaying but stood firm, right outside the Wayne Manor. 

It was the epitome of old money. Shielded by wrought iron gates, it loomed bright against the shadows of night. The windows were dark as vacant eyes, watching him with a calculating stillness, as though the house itself knew of his arrival. Each pane of glass reflected nothing but the endless Gotham sky - starless and thick with smog. 

He did not want to be a coward anymore. Though his mind screamed to flee, to find himself that tall ledge to rest upon as the last of his blood left him, Peter would not relent. Stumbling upon the steps of Wayne Manor, forcing his feet forwards, Peter’s hand gripped his side. 

Just a little longer, he thought. There was only one more thing he had to do. One final apology before he could let himself rest. 

He snuck past the security, clinging to the shadows as he slipped through a side door and past a row of bookcases. The rumble of chatter, of string instruments echoing against large walls, grew louder as he grew nearer. But it was not what he was searching for. 

Wayne… it had meant something to the boy before him. Whoever had slept in the bunk that Peter had occupied, they’d held the name so dearly that they’d carved it into the wall. And as he wove through wandering socialites, as he ducked to hide his face from a security guard, he began to realise why. 

Inside the large hall of the Wayne Manor, he found them by their heartbeats. 

People, much like with their finger prints, all had different tunes to their hearts. They never quite beat in time with each other, always edited by the differing shapes of their chambers and vessels. 

Red Hood had a heartbeat like a steady drum. Like the thump of the beat behind an old rock tune. In that moment, as he dragged his feet past gossiping socialites and whispering staff, it was oddly soothing. A melody he’d thought he wouldn’t hear again, like a song played on an old road trip from a CD forgotten in an old car. 

Robin, alternatively, had a heartbeat like the slice of a knife. It was precise and controlled - breath even and sharp. 

The pair were stood by a tall table, half-empty glasses of champagne rested beside a discarded napkin. It was crumpled as though some hors d’oeuvre had been pressed inside, half-finished. The splendour of the gala swirled around them - ornate chandeliers painting the room with a warm light. It brought colour to people’s cheeks, almost filtering the Gotham hue of grey to something far more extraordinary. 

But despite this beauty, despite how Red Hood and Robin both seemed flush and alive, they still held such familiar traits. 

Robin held a recognisably rigid pose, sharp eyes fluttering the room every few seconds - as though cataloguing each guest and scanning their threat level. His suit, while perfectly tailored, did not fit him. He wore it like an unfamiliar costume, something new and loathed despite its necessity. Peter supposed he understood the feeling - he took was uncomfortable in the suit he’d donned to sneak into the gala. 

Though Peter’s suit did look significantly more drab, truth be told. 

The rigidity of Robin’s post was wonderfully juxtaposed by how comfortably Red Hood leaned against the table beside them. It was almost lazy, how he waved his hand in conversation. But his eyes were equally as sharp, even half-hooded by the feigning of drunkenness. His heartbeat still sped with each person that came too close - always watching, always ready. 

Despite how his body ached, how he knew he was surely getting his blood on the lovely wooden floors, Peter couldn’t help but to take a moment and simply witness it. He watched and relished in how these people that fought him, night after night, could be so very free. In the back of his mind, Peter had always wondered what the Bats did when they didn’t have to fight him. 

Now he knew. 

His legs burned as he stepped forwards, dragging his feet just enough to seem normal - yet not enough to betray how his body screamed in protest. Peter knew he shouldn’t have been there. His plan had been to die with the sky - to breathe his last as he tried to imagine what lay beyond the smog. Yet here he stood, forcing each step forwards, because there was one final thing to do. 

If he was going to die that night, he’d die surrounded by enemies. At least he wouldn’t die alone. 

“Red is the ideal pop of colour.” Red Hood declared as Peter drew closer, sipping from his glass with idle amusement. “It’s not too bright, and looks good on everybody.”

“I can’t believe this is a conversation you want to have.” Robin glared, folding his arms over his chest as he offered the man a rather flat look. 

“I’m not discussing how to poison an entire gala.” Red Hood spoke immediately. “So tell me your thoughts on red.” 

It almost made Peter laugh, just how ridiculous it all was. He stepped forwards, forcing his body to move past the sharp ache to his torso. 

“I think red makes an excellent accent colour.” Peter chimed in - forcing his wince at his frail voice to remain hidden behind his grin as the pair startled at his sudden presence. Their reaction was immediate and carefully calculating. Robin tensed, his lethal turquoise gaze locking onto Peter with great suspicion, as Red Hood’s idle demeanour shifted to something more dangerous. 

“Who are you?” Robin glared. 

“Just a guy that loves fashion.” Peter’s smile was unshakeable. “In fact, I’m kinda wearing red right now.” 

Red Hood raised a brow, looking over Peter’s black outfit. He scanned upwards, only to freeze suddenly - eyes darting back to the ground with a twitch. 

“There’s blood dripping down your shoes.” He remarked. 

“Ta da!” Peter did jazz hands as he shot a wink the Red Hood’s way. 

“The fuck?” Red Hood swore; eyes wide as the man seemed to pinpoint each injury beneath the black fabric. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Someone with three bullets still inside his body.” Peter grit out. “Someone that…” he gestured widely to cup his ear - a motion both before him knew too well. “Well, I’m in need of a little assistance.”

“Is that so?” Robin glared as his eyes darted between Peter and the Red Hood. The man wore a deep frown, his expression unreadable as he stared intently at the blood pooling by Peter’s feet. 

“Yup.” Peter nodded, blinking away yet another wave of darkness. This one seemed a little too overwhelming to truly prevent. As he spoke again, his voice wavered. “Can you guys make sure he doesn’t get my body? I don’t really feel like coming back to life again.” 

With that, the strings holding Peter Parker upright seemed to all shake free. Snapping at each limb as the boy crumpled to the ground - strong arms sweeping and throwing his limp form into its grasp. Cradling the boy as footfalls rushed away, as the noise of the gala faded to an echo and Peter’s eyes remained shut. 

For a moment, though he could only spy the patterns that hid behind shut eyelids, Peter felt each agonising jut and step as he was rushed through the cool manor halls. The blood roiled in his ears - too loud to quite comprehend all the yelling, only that there was too much of it. 

This wouldn’t be the worst way for his story to end. It felt right for another one of Joker’s sidekicks to die by his hand. Just another kid that caught the wrong clown’s interest, laid to ruin by his touch. 

At least the touch now was kinder. Firm as the hands held him close to a chest, but almost careful as they kept him from jostling despite the fervency of movement. Close to his ear was a steady (if hastened) heartbeat, almost a lullaby. 

If he’d had a father - whether in this life or his one before - Peter was sure that the man would have held him like this. It was a strange thought, yet it clung to him so abruptly. He wasn’t quite sure why it was he thought of such a thing, only that as a person carried him to what screeched like an elevator… Peter felt something like peace. For a second, however bittersweet, he could just pretend to be a normal child instead of the fucked-up teenager he was. 

Peter let out a little groan as he shifted, mutter of apology on bloodied lips. 

“You don’t get to die again, kid.” A voice - deep and clear above all the hum - spoke wit firm authority. “Don’t let that fucker be the way you die.” 

Wasn’t that a novel idea? 

He supposed he hadn’t really considered it that way. 

Whoever had said that, well they had a point. Didn’t they? As much as the notion of death by Joker’s hand felt like kismet, it was a little silly to let such an asshole claim his end. Peter had already died once before. It was… it felt right to choose his end this time. To know himself and choose who would force his final breath. 

With all the will the teen could muster, Peter’s eyes flew open - darting hastily across his surroundings. They were underground - the teen lain on a flat bed in what appeared to be some little medical section of the bats’ hideaway. The lights were horrific - bright and unyielding as they seared his irises. There was a counter, some cabinets and drawers, and a tray of assembled surgical gear on a small table beside his head. 

Well, there was only one thing to do. Peter’s hand lunged to grasp a scalpel. With a decisive motion, the teen swiped across the scar at the base of his neck. His eyes met the Red Hood’s with utter desperation as the man reached to snatch the scalpel - too slow to catch his hand. 

“Get it out of me.” He pleaded, fingers bloodied as the teen tried to yank the bomb free, himself. “Get it out of me.” He repeated. 

“Get what out of you?” The man growled in confusion, though the teen merely continued the demand. 

“There’s a bomb in my neck,” he spoke those gritted teeth, “and I would hate to get my brains all over this lovely white room.” 

There were voices from the doorway, making Peter wince as the scalpel slipped through his spasming fingers. They were arguing - sharp, bloodied tones that crashed over him. Someone (a voice low and aged) demanded to sedate him, another snapping that they couldn’t risk it. There was a deeper voice, crackled like those goons that smoked in the van, almost pleading for someone to move. Though they were no longer modulated, he could recognise which vigilante each voice belonged to. Under the ruffled sounds, he could hear those same heartbeats he’d memories, all fighting over how to save him. 

A panic bloomed in his chest, brought forth by this odd new notion of choosing a demise. He couldn’t let himself be exploded. Not when it was Peter’s right to pick his ending. Not when these people were so desperate to stop this particular ending. 

In a decisive arc, Red Robin swept through the room - straight towards the lab bench that Peter was bracing himself against. His fingers curled around some large gun-like device and he turned to face him with a set jaw. 

“It’ll hurt.” He whispered. 

“Better pain than death by his hand. That’s my choice to make, right?” Peter replied - the ghost of a grin upon his sweaty face as his darted to meet Red Hood’s. Red Robin merely frowned in reply - the scars upon his cheeks twisting down as he nodded and stepped towards the other teen. 

But Peter… he was too entranced by the eyes that matched his own. So caught on the green that made his ears ring, that he hardly felt it as Red Robin pressed the devise to the base of his skull and drilled into his neck. 

What he did feel, as it shifted beneath his flesh, was the devise connect with the bomb - a steady thunk vibrating his skull as the needle slid back through his skin. 

With a shudder, Peter ripped his eyes free to spy the bloodied bomb in Red Robin's bloodied hand, fingers shaking as he blinked down at the device. Beyond the rushing of blood in his ears and thunder of heartbeats, there was blissful silence. 

“Thank you.” Peter nodded, fingers curling around the scalpel. His eyes met blue, met the burning gaze of Red Robin, and Peter forced himself not to wince at those knowing eyes as his voice cracked on his final words. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could be a hero, too.” 

With such speed that none surrounding could react until the act was done, Peter raised the scalpel and stabbed it through the side of his throat. 

The act was met by gasps of horror, hands clutching at him. 

It was easy enough to ignore. Peter was done, after all. He had finished his final task. Now, he could let himself do one final selfish thing. One last act that his Aunt May and everyone that had ever loved him could be disappointed by. 

At least he had apologised. That was all he’d wanted to do. 

He did not need to see the skies again, not when he’d solved the mystery. Not when he’d finally, blessedly, done something more than be a coward. 

Now… as frantic hands pulled at his stained suit and his sputtering throat, Peter let his eyes flicker shut. A smile ghosted across his pale lips and finally… he let himself rest. 

No more, he thought. 

No more.