FYI, I own nothing
Prologue:
"Come on, come on! We are going to be late!"
"Calm yourself, Master Jason, you shall be perfectly on time"
"So I'm excited, sue me! It is perfectly normal for a kid to be impatient going to the circus of all places!"
"I believe Pennyworth told you to stop, Todd, before you besmirch the name of the house of Wayne."
"He never went that far, Big D! Where is Tim?"
"I believe he is at his Father's side, looking for coffee. I shall excuse myself in order to inform them the thermoses are in the entranceway."
"Do that…"
"Change of plans, all of you, in costume. There has been a mass breakout from Arkham."
"Seriously?! All I asked was for one night, ONE single night!"
"Todd, your incessant complaining is less than pleasant."
"Deal with it!"
"Zip it, the both of you!"
"Dick!" She reached out her hand to her son's outstretched limb. Their fingers touched, their fingertips kissed, and they were once again separated by gravity.
Time stopped, her eyes focused on her child, her hand wrapped in her husband's palm, her body pushed by gravity's cruel powers.
Fear. Worry. Terror. Crunch. Pain. Sigh.
Black.
"MOMDAD!"
The Grayson Tragedy. Such was the name of the article depicting the deaths of Mary and John Grayson, two of the best trapeze artists in the world. It was a tiny article, barely fifteen lines long, left in a corner of the paper, a few paged in. After all, there had been a mass breakout from Arkham that very night. Death is as shocking as electricity: knowing of it is natural, seeing it is scary and surprising, and feeling it, deep inside…there are no words. And gothamites have insulated skin.
No one cared about the Graysons' death. The detective in charge of the investigation was corrupt. No one cared about their son. The social worker was racist.
No one cared. No one remembered. No one knew.
Memento mori.