"What's it like living in a circus?"
"Hm?"
Dick turned and looked at Barbara, shrugging nonchalantly. They, plus Bruce, were currently swamped in the mires of a thousand Gothamites all seeking their seats in a mad fervor. They had only barely made it through the ticket booth and line moments beforehand. Luckily, it seemed whoever that bearded woman was behind the glass knew Dick well; a nod was exchanged between them. That was all they needed. It seemed he'd been injured often enough that he sat out of shows often. Barbara, amused, wondered to herself how many times were due to troublemaking, and how many due to his own slip-ups.
Dick took his time to let the question marinate in his head, ducking between a fat man with a clutch of hot dogs in his hands and some woman with hair taller than the acrobat's torso as he did. This really seemed like a stumper to him. "I dunno," he said, unhelpfully. "it's… life?"
Barbara twisted her eyebrow into a judgmental arch, and he cringed away from it a bit. "Look, you're asking me to compare my lifestyle to one I've never even known; I don't have much to work with here. I mean, I guess it's pretty normal. As normal as living in a circus can be. We're pretty much caught up with modern times. I've got TV, a laptop, I've got internet, it's not like I'm some shut-in or something."
They reached the inside of the tent, and for the first time Barbara was fully able to appreciate its astounding size. All around the perimeter, dozens of rows of seats stacked up high accommodated the vast crowds streaming in from all across town. The grandstands formed an oval around the ring, where a dirt area had been pounded out and set up. The trapeze was set, and she could see an array of catwalks and platforms up near the high ceilings, for workers to move about unseen. She didn't claim to know much about architecture—though a trip to the library would be changing that soon—but it seemed odd that they managed to be able to suspend all that from a tent. Maybe there was a wire frame hidden in the fabric?
"So why did you want to know?"
Oh right, Dick.
"Um…" she pressed a finger against her bottom lip, choosing an answer. "I guess it's just interesting, you know? Never staying in one place for more than a week, it seems like something different. Exciting."
Grayson smirked, chuckling at her childlike view of the whole experience. They began filing up and around the staircases, looking for the easiest way to get to their row of seats. Barbara glanced back at Bruce, who barely seemed to notice her. His eyes were jittering like little flies as they twitched back and forth, scanning the upper reaches of the place. He was probably identifying all the hiding spots he could use, all the best escape routes. Crazy, hero-OCD stuff. Barbara resisted the urge to smack herself or, better yet, smack Bruce. Was this his natural response every time he went to a new place?
"Well," Dick continued unabated. "the excitement wears off after a while, trust me. I mean like I said, I don't know what it's like to live outside a circus. This is normal to me."
"But, what do you do for school?"
"Eh, homeschooled, pretty much." Dick explained. "My parents are pretty smart; most of the performers chip in, too. Plus, you know, internet."
"Internet." She parroted back in understanding.
They finally reached their row on the far side of the colossal tent, slipping into the front row and getting down a trio of chairs before anyone could get in their way. Barbara wound up in the middle, setting her suit case down between her feet, leaning back into her chair and enjoying the chance to get off her feet. Dick seemed to relish the same opportunity, but Bruce hadn't changed a bit. She sighed and put a hand on his shoulder.
"Bruce, this was supposed to be fun. Could you just try to relax, for one night?"
His icy eyes glanced over her way and, although he didn't look entirely pleased, he took a deep breath and sank into his chair a bit. That was what Barbara wanted to see.
"All right, I'll try." He said in a teasing voice. "But I'm not sure I really know how to do this 'relax' thing you keep talking about."
She suppressed a fit of giggles and patted his arm, leaning back into her seat. "Just follow my lead; you'll get the hang of it."
Barbara turned back to her left, continuing to chat with Dick. But Bruce didn't bother to listen in. His eyes were fixated on the rafters and walkways in the highest reaches of the tent, and on the shadow he saw moving about them. His vision narrowed, certain Barbara wasn't paying him any mind at the moment.
Prep is done, and the show hasn't started. Nobody should be up there yet. Who IS that?
In the darkest, highest corners of Haly's Circus, Floyd Lawton was preparing himself for a grisly task. It had been simple to sneak in; simpler than he'd even dared to hope. The suits the workers wore were nothing special, not even a patch to distinguish themselves. He bought some overalls and an undershirt from the store and he fit right in. It had taken two trips, but he'd managed to smuggle two duffel bags of equipment up to the walkways. Both were set before him, where he was kneeling. He opened the first, his proper clothing.
No one could see him up here; he had the fortune to discover that these places were abandoned during the show proper. He couldn't have asked for a better perch to snipe from. First came the bodysuit, a lightly armored, highly-flexible little number he'd managed to… "acquire" from a "reputable" dealer. A gray-blue color, with yellow trim down the arms and a few similar lines across the cowl he pulled over his head. His right eye was covered in a heavily modified scope, hooked up directly to the real marvels of the bodysuit: two wrist-mounted cannons. The firing rate and the weight of a handgun, with all the stopping power of an elephant gun. In the hands of a shot like him, it was like holding Death itself in his grip.
He put on a brown jacket over this, more heavily padded and capable of shielding him from return fire. The real treat, though, was its payload. More ammo than he could ever hope to use was strapped to it; he was practically a one-man arsenal. Two pistols strapped to the inside just upped the ante further. He couldn't truthfully recall the last time he'd needed backup weapons. But this was Gotham. It had been his haunt, once. But it had been months since he killed within the city limits, and he had a new obstacle to consider: this "Batman" the underbelly was whispering about in hushed tones. He'd heard every story imaginable. Some punk in a mask, or maybe a bat-devil from Hell itself, here to devour the soul of every ne'er-do-well. He'd suggested, jokingly, that maybe he was a vampire.
It unsettled him just how seriously his fellows had taken the suggestion. Missing or not, there was always the threat of a Bat crashing his little party, and he intended to be prepared. Imagine the looks on their faces at the bar, if I come back with the Bat's head after our first run-in. That'd shut 'em up.
The second duffel bag held his extra equipment: a large belt chock-full of various toys in their pouches. He slung it over his shoulder, patting each bag to ensure its cargo was still there. Grenades, check. Smoke grenades, check. Fake blood capsules, check—and always useful in faking a death for an escape.
After a moment he determined that, yes, he was ready. He zipped the bags up and stuffed them in a corner out of sight, crouching as he slowly eased his way out towards the center of the tent. The buzzing was starting to annoy him, though.
Floyd huffed and attempted to ignore the heaters. There were at least a dozen up here, maybe more, all churning vaguely warm air out to the people below. It was barely enough to be noticed, but those who did appreciated it on this cold Gotham night. When he reached the center, he could see someone below him. A dumpy little man in an oversized hat and a red coat, gesturing with an air of regality to the people below.
Hurry up and bring out the Graysons. I have a check to collect.
Barbara and Dick broke off their small talk as the Ringmaster at last stepped out to the center, spotlights centering on him as he prepared to speak. He was a tubby, roly-poly of a man, with an infectiously kind smile and curly brown hair stuck out from his stovepipe hat.
Dick grinned watching the little man work. "That's Ringmaster Haly." He explained. "Great guy, better speaker."
A hush fell over the arena as he held his arms out to silence them. Then, with a single finger raised, his booming voice roared over the arena.
"LLLLLLLLLADIES AND GENTLEMEN! I BID YOU… WELCOME! TO THE GREATEST! SHOW! ON! EARTH!"
The crowd hollered in response, their hyped-up voices screaming in a unison that drowned out every thought for miles around. The din hushed again as Haly gestured for silence.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN MAY I ASK YOU, ARE YOU READY! FOR! ACTION?!"
The bellows and whistles told him yes, they were.
"ARE YOU READY FOR DEATH DEFYING STUNTS?!"
The mad cheers and shouts told him yes, they were.
"ARE YOU READY FOR EXOTIC CREATURES GATHERED FROM EVERY! CORNER! OF THE GLOBE?!"
The hoots, the stomps and the claps told him yes, they were.
"BUT MOST OF ALL! MOST OF ALL, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN ARE YOU READY FOR A GOOD TIME?!"
Their voices broke out in a booming, earth-trembling chorus that told him yes, they absolutely were. The Ringmaster laughed a booming, chortling laugh that matched his jovial appearance.
"IN THAT CASE LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I'LL BE YOUR GUIDE TONIGHT! I AM CORNELIUS! CORNWALLIS! HALY, AND I HAVE GATHERED ALL OF THESE THINGS AND MORE FROM ALL ACROSS THE EARTH FOR YOU! YES, YOU, GOTHAM! NOW, ALLOW ME TO SHOW THEM TO YOU! PLEEEEASE HELP ME IN WELCOMING OUR FIRST WONDERFUL PERFORMER! SAY HELLO TO OUR BEASTMASTER, THE FEARLESS! RAYMOND APOLLO!"
The spotlights dispersed, and C.C. Haly whipped a cane from his sleeve, departing the arena as the lights re-converged on a man emerging from a tunnel just beneath where those in the front row were sitting, waving madly to the audience as dozens of assistants brought out horses, ostriches, lions and more. Barbara was entranced by it all, before a shoulder bumped into her side.
She looked at Dick, who was staring to her right with a confused expression.
"Hey, Barb… is Bruce always like this?"
She checked to see what he was meant, and was smacked in the face with something between anger and pity. He was staring up at the walkways, face stoic. She saw the glimmer in his eyes. This was his work face.
"He's… yeah, he's like this a lot."
Barbara waved a hand in front of Bruce's eyes, and caught his attention long enough to lock gazes with him. They couldn't talk out loud, not with Dick listening in. But the look on Barbara's face spoke for her.
Bruce. Please. Patrol can wait.
Bruce turned away, his expression cold.
No, it can't.
"I have to go to the bathroom." He announced. He stood and took a step away before turning back. "You guys want anything while I'm up?"
"Grab me some popcorn!" Dick chimed in. Barbara just shook her head. "I'm good, thanks."
Wayne's face faltered for a moment. Did he look… regretful? Gordon couldn't put a word to it before he turned away again, rather frantically making his way past the others seats, jogging out towards the exit of the tent. Barbara leaned forward resting her arms on her legs and sighing.
"Uh… I don't mean to cut in where I'm not wanted, but, is everything ok?"
"Huh… yeah, I guess." She moaned to Dick. "Bruce is just, uh, really stubborn sometimes."
"Well… I'm sure he has a good reason for it."
"Maybe." She sulked. "It's just so frustrating, he shuts himself off from everyone else. It's like he thinks he's the only one who can do anything about anything."
Dick rubbed his chin, thinking on that. "Well, I think all you can do for now is try to enjoy yourself, and hope he joins in."
Barbara trained her eyes on the performers, guiding the animals around in elaborate routines. "I guess so…"
It was dark now. Dark, cold, and wet. The wharves always had a mist ready to soak a man to the bone, and Gordon was feeling the chills tonight. He looked at his men, and saw they were feeling the same. John was standing beside his cruiser, shivering and standing close to Bullock, who had sparked up his lighter in and attempt to warm his face up a bit. Victor seemed the least affected, but his scowl was even more recessed and lined than it usually was. They were all feeling the pain that Wilson was putting them through in his mad chase. But this was it. No more running; they'd found him.
There were a number of warehouses by the sea's edge, and his team had searched them all in the hours since leaving Montoya in Crime Alley. All but one. Jim rubbed his hands around his pockets, hoping for a little warmth from the friction. His face was numb, be it from superstitious shock or from the cold as he read the white number painted on the door. Unlucky number 13. Wilson had a sense of humor, then.
He begrudgingly removed one hand from the warmth of his pockets, and signaled Bullock and Sage to move up. They went for the large, steel sliding door, readying themselves to pry it open. As Jim prepared to follow, John stopped him by grabbing the sleeve of his coat.
"Sir, a moment?"
"Granted, Detective."
"You're worried, sir. Scared. It's in your eyes, hanging on every motion you make. The others are noticing it, too."
It was the best way Blake could communicate it. Presenting Gordon's fear as a detriment to the force, and providing a need to get it off of his chest. Jim was caught a bit off-guard, but not unhappily so. John had known he'd never say it if he'd just asked as a friend. Gordon took a long, heavy breath through his nostrils, letting it out with the same force. He took out another cigar, rolling it once between his teeth before spitting it out to the ground.
"We're a goddamned mess out here, Detective." Jim grumbled, massaging his brow with a jittering hand. "Two months I've been in charge of this department, and I've got nothing to show for it. Rampant crime, new organizations moving in by the month, a dwindling arrest record. Hell, I had four loyal officers in the entire GPD, and one of 'em just went turncoat on me!"
He leaned against his cruiser, shifting the frame with nearly his whole weight slumped against it. "I'm so tired, Detective. I just want to see my family, but every day I'm out here wondering if I stop doing my job for just a second—just one second—who's gonna pick up the slack? It feels like I'm a wall—an effigy Gotham threw up like some kinda scarecrow to chase off the pests. But they're not gone, Detective! They're right out of sight, just waiting for one second where I'm not standing there. And then they swoop in, and just…"
He couldn't say any more, and bowed his head, shaking it as his chin rubbed against his chest. John stared at his CO, debating whether to speak his mind. He decided that yes, he needed to.
"You miss him, don't you sir?"
Jim stared lazily at him. "Batman?"
Blake nodded. Jim rubbed a temple in frustration, pushing himself away from the car.
"Batman was a vigilante, breaking the same laws the criminals he fought did. Every moment he stalked the streets was a mockery to my department…"
Jim straightened his posture. "But he got results. He brought in more men nightly than the entire GPD. Took down crime lords, smuggling rings, drug dealers, there weren't any politics with him. A crook was a crook, whatever kind of mask he wore. He scared them. Nothing we can ever do will scare these monsters, but the Bat did it."
John watched the Commissioner shift his face, looking back at him. His tired, aging face was crinkled with borderline despair.
"He needs to come back, John."
John resisted the urge to cry, clamping a hand down on Jim's shoulder and throwing the other arm around him. An unorthodox interaction between an officer and his superior. But the GPD was an unorthodox group.
"And I believe that he will, sir. But until he does, we have to pick up the slack."
He stepped away from Jim, nodding at the older man and smiling. "Let's end this chase, Commissioner."
Gordon flexed his facial muscles, determined to remain stoic as he nodded back. They turned back to the warehouse when the voice of a frantic Harvey called back to them. "Commish, get up here! Ya need to see this!"
"WHOO!"
Dick hollered in excitement as he watched the clowns duck and dive around the bull, escaping by the skin of their teeth every time the beast came charging for them. Barbara joined in, losing herself in the excitement of the night. The acts had been as astounding as Haly had promised them, from strongmen pulling buses to hard-bitten lion tamers, each act managed to trounce the last in sheer stupefying wonderment.
She wasn't sure how long this went on; the time slipped away from her, until at last it was time for the grand finale. Haly took to the center of the ring once more, being met by the raucous cheers of his audience, his thralls that were but putty in his hands.
"LLLLLADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I PROMISED YOU THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH! HAVE! I! DELIVERED?!"
A louder commotion than any told him yes, he had.
"THEN IN THAT CASE LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THIS VERY HAPPY RINGMASTER HAS GOOD NEWS! THE FUN IS NOT OVER JUST YET! I HAVE ONE MORE ASTOUNDING ACT TO GIVE YOU, BEFORE WE BID YOU ADIEU! YOU SEE THIS TRAPEZE BEHIND ME, TO MY SIDES, ALL AROUND! HAVE YOU YET NOTICED THE DEVILISH HANDSOME MAN ABOVE ME, AND TO MY LEFT?!"
A spotlight shone on the platform high above the earth, where John Grayson stood and bowed; it was as if he hadn't even been there until that moment, but the crowd ate him up.
"AND HAVE YOU NOTICED THE ENTRANCING DIVA ABOVE ME, AND TO MY RIGHT?!"
Mary Grayson was opposite him, beaming and waving to the throngs of onlookers. Dick seemed overly pleased with just how beloved his folks were, before they'd even started the act.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I HUMBLY PRESENT TO YOU JOHN AND MARY, THE FLYIIIIIIIING GRAYSOOOOOOOONS!"
The couple took their places, gripping the ropes as they prepared to swing, all the while cheered on by the thousands there to see them that night.
"ALLOW ME TO REMIND YOU, MY DEAR AUDIENCE, THAT THE FLYING GRAYSONS USE NO NETS, NO SAFETY MEASURES IN THEIR ROUTINE! SO PLEASE, REFRAIN FROM ANY FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY, AND ALLOW THEM TO GIVE A SMOOTH FINISH AS THEY CAP OFF OUR WONDERFUL HALLOWEEN NIGHT TOGHETHER! AT THE GREATEST! SHOW! ON! EARTH!"
Rather than cheer, the crowd fell into silence as Haly retreated once more from the ring. Their eyes were fixed on the Graysons, ready to begin their act. A nod between them, and the music began. They swung, and all at once Barbara saw magic.
The couple swam through the air, their grace coming only from decades of practice and raw talent, blended together into a moving performance with fluidity like water. They spun around one another, tossing each other like bullets through the sky as they moved from swing to swing, rope to rope, all as planned in their mad, beautiful dance. With every flourish of the strings, the crash of the drums, they soared ever higher in some new manner that drew gasps, screams, and cries of elation from all those with the stomach to watch.
The redhead felt curious, and looked at Dick as he watched on. His jaw was hanging open in amazement, following their every move with shining, childlike eyes. This wasn't just his life, she realized. It was his passion. She felt that she couldn't help but smile, seeing the boy so enthusiastic. The night was going better than she expected. Bruce or no Bruce.
But high above them, a figure in the shadows was lining up his shot. Floyd was nearly read, his wrist held out as he waited for the perfect moment. One shot, two targets. It would be quick, efficient, and allow him ample time to fly the coop. His moment came a minute later.
John and Mary leaped from their swings, meeting in mid-air in a planned collision, spinning around one another and stealing a quick kiss. The audience was so entranced, no one would notice.
But Barbara did. Barbara and Dick both saw the conspicuous red dot on the back of John Grayson's head, jittering as it lined up the perfect shot. Their elation turned to numb horror as they screamed, trying to get the acrobats' attention. But it was far, far too late for that.
A shadow was falling from above. A muzzle flash came from the darkness.
BANG.
Jim led the way into the warehouse. It was warmer inside, a relief. But that didn't stop the chills running down his spine. His men followed him in, eyes immediately drawn to the walls, and the shelves holding strange cargo.
Humanoid figures surrounded them, hunched over and lifeless. Spray-painted black as the night, with orange hands, and featureless fleshy heads. By the time they'd reached the center, Jim had lowered his weapon, too shocked to do anything but gawk.
"My god… The WorkerBeez. All the tech, the machinery. He hasn't just been stealing it, he's been building. Building a… a…"
His eyes snapped back to focus, and he glared at Victor just as the man was about to make a snide remark.
"Not a word, Sage."
"But what's with the faces?" Bullock muttered, aiming his weapon in disgust at one. "They look almost like… human skin, but without mouths or eyes."
"Oh that? That's Pseudoderm."
The hairs on the back of the chunky man's neck stood straight up. That voice didn't belong to any of the officers.
Jim and the others lifted their sidearms, taking aim at the far wall of the warehouse. Cloaked in shadow, a single white eye stared them down, its focused black pupil boring right into their souls. His smooth voice spoke again.
"Another Star Labs miracle. Looks, feels, and acts just like human skin; could be used to patch up injuries in seconds… or to give that right 'human' touch to an army of droids. Wouldn't you say it works, Jim? I'd say it does."
This was it. This was him. Gordon stepped forward, his weapon dead on his target. He snarled, and growled "We've got you cornered, Wilson! You're a slippery bastard, but you've got nowhere else to run!"
"Run? Oh, Jim, I've never been running."
A loud snap of Wilson's fingers was answered by the humming of machinery. On every side, the WorkerBeez jerked to life, jumping to the floor and cracking their joints, straightening their spines and stepping into line. Five, ten, twenty, forty. Gordon lost count as they surrounded the officers. Gordon's hands trembled, but he clenched them until the sensation was gone. He hadn't come this far to fail. He formed a circle with the others, each officer pointing a pistol in a different direction. Four against dozens. He almost felt bad for the bots.
"This doesn't change a damned thing, Wilson! You just get your beating after these tin cans!"
The voice in the shadows tutted. "Oh, Jim, always so formal. So business-like. Wilson? That's my father's name; there's no need to be so cold. We're friends, right, Jim?"
The man stepped forward, and out of the shadows, his whole body visible. From neck to foot, he was covered in jet black armor, so dark it reflected no light. Gray accoutrements hung across his waist, his biceps, his chest; little weapons and gadgets of every sort. But that didn't catch Jim's eye. The mask did that.
It was split straight down the middle. The right side was as black as the armor, and hid his features entirely. But the right, made of the same material, was a bronzed-orange color, with a single opening for a fierce eye to peer through. He could see no other parts of his face, but Gordon could feel the smile as he cooed.
"Please… call me Slade."