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The air inside the Stacked Deck is thick with the smell of cheap hops, stale tobacco, and the briny, industrial rot of the Gotham Harbor. It's a night where the damp cold of the Jersey shore clings to the skin like a second layer of clothing. Bruce Wayne, dressed in a tactical turtleneck and a dark jacket that hides the expensive frame of a billionaire, pushes through the heavy wooden door. He isn't the Prince of Gotham tonight; he is a man looking for a way in, and his way in is currently perched on a cracked leather barstool.
John Doe sits there, a splash of chaotic green and purple against the grime of the bar. He’s hunched over a drink, his pale face illuminated by the flickering neon of a beer sign. He isn't alone. Next to him is Willy Deever, a man whose bitterness is as palpable as the grease on his forehead.
"Look at ‘em," Willy spatters, his voice cracking with a high-pitched, neurotic energy. He’s gesturing vaguely toward the city skyline visible through a salt-crusted window, but his venom is directed at Bruce’s world. "The Waynes. Thomas, Martha... they built this city on a foundation of lies and high-society horseshit. And then there's the kid. Bruce. Probably spends more on his cufflinks than I make in a decade. Legacy? It’s a tarnished silver spoon in a mouth full of rot."
Bruce stands just a few feet away, listening with a stoic expression that masks a growing sense of irony. Next to Willy, John is nodding along with a theatrical intensity that feels both mocking and earnest. John’s eyes find Bruce’s for a split second, a spark of pure, unadulterated joy lighting up his features before he looks back to Willy.
"You’re so right, Willy! Truly, a visionary," John chirps, his voice a melodic rasp. "The rich are just... so boring, aren't they? All those galas and salad forks."
Willy grunts, clearly distracted by his own internal tremors. "I need... I need my medication. I'll be back. Don't touch my drink."
He stumbles off toward the back of the bar, the bathroom door swinging shut behind him with a damp thud. The moment the door latches, John’s posture shifts. The faux-seriousness vanishes. He leans over the bar, picking up a napkin and folding it into a crude, pointed shape—a makeshift version of the Riddler’s signature cane. He begins to bob it up and down in a mocking dance.
"Oh, look at me! I'm Edward Nygma! I'm very smart and I have very many riddles!" John squeaks, his impression of the recently deceased criminal cruelly accurate. He collapses into a fit of giggles, the napkin falling into a puddle of spilled gin. "He was such a drag, Bruce. Always 'riddle me this' and never 'how are you, John?' It’s a real tragedy. Truly."
Bruce steps closer, the wood of the bar creaking under his weight. He lowers his voice, his eyes narrowing. "Did you have anything to do with it, John? Riddler’s death?"
John’s laughter dies instantly. He looks up at Bruce with wide, wounded eyes, the neon light catching the unnatural green of his hair. "Me? Bruce, you hurt me. I’m a lover, not a fighter. Mostly. I didn't pull any triggers." He leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But between us? He was the leader. The big brain. The guy who kept the 'Pact' together. My friends... well, they weren't exactly fond of his management style."
Bruce feels the weight of the moment. He’s here to stop them, to dismantle the Pact from the inside. But as he looks at John—this strange, lonely man who seems to worship the very ground Bruce walks on—the mission feels distant. The thrill of the infiltration, the adrenaline of being someone other than the "Prince of Gotham," is intoxicating. He wants in. Not just for the mission, but to see where this rabbit hole goes.
"I want in, John," Bruce says firmly. "I want to join the group."
John’s face transforms. It’s as if Bruce just offered him the sun. He fumbles with his phone, his fingers flying across the screen as he sends a message to the other members of the Pact, his excitement almost vibrating off his skin. Then, he turns back to Bruce, his expression suddenly, startlingly grave.
"No secrets between us, ever again," John says, his voice devoid of its usual theatrics. It’s a plea disguised as a promise. "You have my word, Bruce. We’re in this together now."
Bruce doesn't answer immediately. He stares balefully at John, his gaze heavy with the moral weight of what he’s doing. He thinks of Alfred, of the Batcave, of the code he’s spent years honing. Then he looks at John, who is currently grinning like a madman and holding out his hand. Not for a handshake, but with his pinky finger extended.
"I pinky swear," John says, his head tilting to the side.
Bruce takes a long, agonizingly slow look into John’s eyes. He studies the flecks of gold in the green, the nervous twitch of John’s eyelid, the way the man’s breath hitches as the silence stretches. He sees the vulnerability there—the desperate need for a connection that isn't built on fear. John begins to fidget, his smile faltering as the scrutiny becomes too much, his gaze darting toward the bottles of rye behind the bar. Bruce knows he was always going to say yes. The "mission" is the excuse, but the connection is the truth. Bruce exhales a soft, tired smile. He reaches out and hooks his pinky around John’s.
"Pinky swear," Bruce repeats.
"Friends for life!" John grins, his voice cracking with an ecstatic, jagged edge. He looks like he might leap over the bar and hug Bruce.
The bartender, a woman with sharp eyeliner and a fashionable undercut, pauses in the middle of wiping down a glass. She looks down at the two grown men—one a towering pillar of Gotham society, the other a green-haired enigma—linking pinkies over a sticky bar top. She looks at Bruce’s serious face, then at John’s manic joy. Without a single word, she sets the glass down, turns on her heel, and walks to the far end of the bar.
She's utterly speechless, her silence echoing louder than the jukebox. Bruce rolls his eyes, a genuine huff of amusement escaping him. John sees it and bursts into a bright, genuine peal of laughter that cuts through the grim atmosphere of the Stacked Deck. For a moment, the harbor, the legacy, and the masks don't matter. There is only the link between them.