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His first day back in Gotham, he goes to the circus.
It’s silly. Worse than that, it’s stupid. He hears his mother’s voice scolding him for it as he wanders: a fresh coat of face-paint wet on his face, the rich smell of roasted peanuts and cotton candy in his nose.
She accuses him of sentimentality. She’s wrong.
He’s there for the clowns.
They’re few and far between, of course. Whether it’s improvised or by design, they’ve been relegated to their own little corner. Even then, there’s only augustes and mimes and character work, nothing too close for comfort.
It’s still a risky move. And yet, the caution works. The crowd is thin and wary, but it’s there, and that’s not nothing. In a place as paranoid and starved as Gotham, that’s downright significant.
So he studies them silently, the patterns. Notes what exactly makes audience members turn and leave.
More importantly, what doesn’t.
Because that’s where his interest lies, really—the gray area. The moments where people flinch, falter, but don’t break. What shades of green? What pitches of laughter?
Where’s the line?
“Are you having a good time?”
It’s a little boy, all dark hair and bright eyes, hopping bird-like on the balls of his feet.
He’s brightly clothed, well-kempt, unaccompanied and unafraid. Not a Gotham local, that’s for sure: probably one of the performers’ kids.
There’s only one answer to give. “Of course,” he demurs, easy as breathing, and smiles. It’s a gala-worthy thing, all muscle memory, with just the right number of teeth.
And yet the boy cocks his head, observing him with bright, beady eyes. “Really?”
“No,” Tim admits. “Not really.”
One of the mimes moves a little too quickly. Abruptly, a woman peels away from the small audience, dragging her child by the hand.
(Her lips are trembling.)
“Did something happen?”
Tim tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
“No one’s having fun,” bemoans the boy. “I said hi to a little kid earlier and she started crying for no reason, and when I tried to cheer her up she and her whole family ended up leaving.”
Huh. “What’d you say?” he asks, morbidly curious.
The boy blinks. “That I had a big surprise ready for the main act, and it was just for her?”
“Ah,” Tim says. “Yeah, that’d do it.”
“I don’t get it.”
They thought it was a bomb, he considers saying. “Don’t worry about it.”
Purple should really be the problem, but it’s green that gets people the most. Jewel-tones, neons, anything too vibrant. Purples and yellows sometimes get a glance, but it’s not as intense.
Facepaint is surprisingly fine, but anything full-face that’s too pale gets a wide berth. Suits in general are a problem, as is any kind of lipstick that’s too pronounced. Laughter, of course: especially anything high-pitched, or loud, or uncanny.
Convenient. Tim can manage all three easily.
(He tries not to find that funny.)
“I think something’s wrong.”
Tim considers him. “I don’t see why,” he admits candidly.
“But—everyone’s acting weird,” the boy points out, brow furrowing. “They’re nervous.”
“Yeah, but they’re still here.”
The Joker is dead. Just not in any way that matters.
If you set aside the ethical debate and get down to brass tacks, the math is simple. Killing is easy; it’s also completely pointless. Because superheroes, villains, Bats and Rogues and Ra’s al Ghul and the goddamn Joker—they’re not just people, they’re symbols.
They’re ideas.
It’s not a matter of martyrdom. It’s a power vacuum. Because the fact is, if Ra’s al Ghul died tomorrow, the League would just find a substitute body to crack open and pour him into. Batman won’t be allowed to die when Bruce Wayne does. The bullet in Joker’s blackened heart doesn’t mean a goddamn thing, because people still remember him: they’re still just as scared.
Any day now, a dozen fanatics could throw themselves into chemical vats and come out calling themselves the Joker.
How do you kill a legacy?
Tim has some thoughts.
“Sometimes it’s not about liking things,” Tim says. “It’s just about being around them long enough to get used to them.” He glances towards the boy. “Especially when you’re scared.”
His eyes are startlingly sharp. “Is that why you’re here?”
“Something like that.”
The boy studies him for a moment.
Then, decisively, he nods. “Well, I’ll tell you a secret, okay? My surprise isn’t anything to be scared of: I’m performing tonight in the main act, and when I do, I’m gonna do a quadruple flip.”
Oh, damn.
Tim’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s… really? Does, uh—do they know you’re going to try to do that?” Not like he’s in a position to judge whether or not children can perform infeasible feats of athleticism, he’s had his own moments, just. You know.
No doubt on his face, the boy bobs his head. “Yep! And if you make it there, I’ll do it just for you. I’ll wave at you first and everything so you know it’s yours. So you have to stay that long, okay?”
Ah. Well, Tim was kinda planning on leaving early, since he’s seen all he needed to see, but…
Charmed despite himself, he crouches down a little. “Pinky promise.”
No clowns in the main act: nothing anywhere near close. And yet—
The Flying Graysons fall.
(Tim has to clap a hand over his mouth when the screaming starts.)
I think something’s wrong.
“I should have listened,” he murmurs past his mask, whisper-soft, into the Gray Son’s ear. It’s the closest he can get to an apology right now.
The boy stares with glassy, gold-flecked eyes. He says nothing.