Disclaimer: I lay no claim to any licensed characters or intellectual properties that were used in the making of this work.
on a tightrope, flying backwards
Dick Grayson awakens to bright lights and cheering crowds, and his eyes snap open in surprise and confusion. It's only sheer muscle memory that stops him from plunging headfirst to the ground, — for which he's quite grateful, really, but —
He smoothly finishes his trapeze routine, catching his mother's hands, performing as he is wont to do, — because he's a flyer, isn't he? — and all as the voices in his head clamor for attention, clamor for recognition, clamor for their own gain.
(The only thing they can seem to agree on is the fact that his mother should be dead, and that something, somewhere, is horribly, horribly wrong.)
The forward momentum of his jump pushes him into the fluid swings, and he moves with the sway, — back and forth and back and forth — before he lets go, and —
He's flying, spinning himself over and over and over, completing the quadruple flip that he's so well-known for.
(He is, right?)
He lets his body go through the motions, — eyes glittering, yet blank, seeing something beyond the body — his smile turned up past the normal hundred watts. He seems calm, collected, and carefree; however — inside, he is panicking.
The thoughts are racing through his head, rushing, rushing, far too quickly for him to sort them out. Some images are mixing with the blurring colors, jumping from place to place, randomly enough that he can't keep track of anyone or anything.
There are flashes of armored girls with pointy-eared masks — bats, he thinks, and he doesn't know why — and a woman with cowl-covered eyes and dark red hair, falling, falling, falling —
There's the sound of a gunshot, the snap of bones, and the rasp of a gruff voice, deep and dark and, somehow, comforting, letting the word 'Batgirl' float in the air, and he has to consciously force himself not to turn around, not to look back.
'Barbara Gordon,' another voice supplies, and — it's familiar, the voice of a spunky girl and a computer genius and an aged, bitter police-officer-turned-commissioner, — the voice, much younger, of a lifetime of promises.
A deeper echo, confusing and old, but young, filled with seriousness and laughter and freedom, supplies the name of 'Oracle,' and he can't help but agree — though to what, he knows not.
The sounds and sights are enough to open the floodgates, and — he sees fire, passion, — Kori', of Tamaran — darkness and shadow, — Raven, of Trigon — magical, Mediterranean sparks and top hats, — Zatanna, the Magician.
He sees a ginger with freckles, — Wally, Kid Flash — and a girl with blue eyes and heavy, square-rimmed glasses — the new Robin, the Replacement (but shouldn't she have white bangs, a squarer face, male parts?). He sees red arrows, — Roy, Cheshire, Lian — crossbows and Italy, — the Huntress, the princess of Gotham, Catwoman's daughter — and street-smart girls — Artemis, Steph, Carrie — and aquatic men, — Kaldur'ahm (the first?), Garth (the second?) — a giant "S" on a shield of red — Superboy, Superman, KonKonKon — and it all just makes him happier than anything else, even if he can't remember why.
He sees black shadows and netted magic, lassoes and flames and men made out of metal. He sees green shapeshifters and haunting beauty, something alien and exotic and far more attractive than it should be, and doesn't know why his heart yearns for their presence once more. It's at the tip of his tongue, at the edge of his lips, at the surface of his skin and at the lids of his eyes, and —
He sees orange-and-black masks, one-eyed and mocking — Wilson, Deathstroke, Master. He sees green hair and Glasgow smiles and the whites of the clowns — nothing at all like the ones from the circus, but like trickster, Jokers, monsters. He sees demons and death and mob bosses, the cutting of rope and the ultimate plunge, death and vengeance and the untimely fall-out over a man named "Zucco."
He sees birds and street rats, blood on his hands and acid on his skin and the broken smiles that mean 'they're alright, they'll live,' even when the world should know different.
He sees silver hair and blue eyes and darkness, the stars in the sky of space, a lake of lava slowly shifting, turning, becoming a haunting pool of ghostly green, and he shivers mid-jump, nearly ruining the entire act.
(He sees blonde hair, blue eyes — red hair, black hair, golden threads and fiery strands — dark, slanted eyes? The features are all blurring together, little pouts and great, wide smiles and angry, broken eyes, hunger and connection leaking from each of their pores.)
His eyes are glassy, and his mind is racing as his body works on auto-pilot, and it's —
He sees wind and arrows, cards and fire and numbers, — pinpricks of light and black-feathered birds and batsbatsbats — and he thinks each of these things is a little something like love, a little something like friendship and happiness and family.
He sees subservience reflected in a mercenary's eyes, and he thinks, 'This is respect, this is what it means to be powerful, great, to rule the world. (But it's lonely at the top, isn't it? With nothing and no one to keep him grounded.)
He sees freedom, becoming something greater than he's ever known, and he thinks, 'This is how people fall, this is how people rise, and —'
"I'm a bat," he whispers, "Flying far, far away," just as he lands, in time with his parents' leaps. His arms fold into a perfected, distracted, performer's bow, and he smiles for the crowd, smiles for his family, smiles — for the joy and pain and sadness filling the pockets of his eyelids.
The carnie, circus kid is undoubtedly confused, and he can't seem to get the clashing memories to settle. Nothing makes sense, and the siren's song of 'what-could've-been' leaves him feeling as if he's made the greatest mistake of his life.
Guilt settles in his stomach, raw and burning. Salt pricks the corner of his eyes, reddening his cheeks, and his mask begins to crack at the edges.
"Robin," a dead woman calls, and he can't help but feel as if there was something more.
(People either live or die, after all, and yet — the images contradict, and he can't tell what's real or not.)
The ceramic of his face crumbles to dust, and it's not until he's behind the curtains, changing out of the reds, yellows and greens of his family colors, that the tears and shock and fear start — drip-drip-dripping to the floor.
(Richard Grayson is but five years old, and it is the last time he will ever see his family.)