Showtime

There was something exhilarating about waiting up in the support beams of the tent. High above everyone else, but not being afraid. Dick had been up there far too often to be even remotely afraid of heights.

It was especially exciting when the crowd was so enthralled that it was nearly silent, except for the periodical ooh and aah at the aerial acrobatics being performed in front of their eyes. Dick scanned the crowd, hoping for Raya. Maybe her mom let her out early. He was going to be able to do a couple new tricks for this show, and wanted her to see. He couldn't find her, but did see a few interesting characters. A retired lion tamer—one of the Grayson's old friends. A pair of teenagers—a boy and a girl, they looked like twins—who were asleep in their seats. Dick was offended, but moved on. A vagrant girl, sitting in the back. And way up front, was that—Bruce Wayne?

It was one of his favorite parts of being with the circus. You got to meet people. You got to experience things that no other kid could. Life may be frugal, but it was full of adventure. Dick had been in the circus his whole life, employed since birth at Haly's to work with his parents. Some of the "normal" children he'd met thought that was funny. They asked him if he didn't get tired of being around the same people his whole life. Having to deal with his parents all the time. Dick would laugh right back at them, because he knew that while they probably longed to get away from adults, he had grown into exactly the person he wanted to be because they were there. Even the little things, like his father telling him ghost stories during thunderstorms, or his mother applauding his trapeze work, affectionately calling him her "little spring robin" despite protests. Something about how his parents raised him. Somehow it had all added up.

He noticed a sudden burst of applause and realized that his parents were reaching the climax of their act, meaning that he was up next. He started to cross over to the edge of the platform, where his mother would swing in to grab him. That's when a paper airplane came soaring out of nowhere to hit him in the side of the face.

"Ow," he muttered. "What is…" picking it up, he noticed writing. Looking up and seeing that he still had a few minutes until go-time, he quickly flattened it out. It was a poem.

The scene is set, the spotlights lit,

the actors running center stage

but since they wouldn't play their parts

they'll have to face the playwrights' rage.

The jesters choose a tragedy

to earn the encore from the town

but for the birds who defied our court

it's certainly a long way down.

Dick looked down at the message, disbelieving, then back up at his parents flying on their wires. He recognized the music playing. The formation. It was nearly his cue. He looked at his mother, who was wearing a beaming smile and looking over in his direction. But as he looked at his father, he noticed the usually calm, confident face flicker a moment into the rafters where the wires were secured. In that moment—that eternal moment—time seemed to freeze. Dick couldn't tear his eyes away from the dark space in the rafters where the wire disappeared. But he also couldn't rid his mind of the image of his father's face. His expression when he realized—when they both realized—

Dick snapped back to the present and ran to the railing, screaming, "MOM! DAD!" Two snaps, followed by a trailing cord of whipping wire. "NO!" As he watched his mother's smile turn to panic and his father's unease transition to horror, Dick was gripping the railing, leaning as far out as he could, as though he could somehow catch them. But there was nothing he could do other than look on as they plummeted. "NOOO!"

Just before they hit the ground, Dick saw his father reach out and take his mother's hand.

People in the crowd were hushed, whispering, standing up to get a better look at the two broken bodies in the center of the ring. Even the two kids who'd been sleeping in front of Tana had the respect to wake up. Tana herself stayed where she was.

She didn't know the performers. None of these people did. That's why they were able to look so—interested. But she had noticed something. The Flying Graysons. It was a family act. As the performers fell, she'd heard screaming from up in the tent supports. The yells of an anguished little boy.

What was it like? she wondered. To have a parent. To lose a parent. Surely he didn't need his parents to survive… she never had. And she'd run away at seven.

She decided to hang back. After everything had blown over, she could try and get a job. At least they had openings now.

Tana was sinking farther into her seat when a paper flower hit the back of her head. She looked around, not overly angry (since she'd had things thrown at her before) but wanting to know who she could count as an enemy. Finding no one, she reached down and picked up the crinkled blossom, which seemed like it'd been folded out of some type of used stationary. Painstakingly picking it open, she read a seemingly nonsensical message:

Unless you wish to get the same

you'll leave here now and play the game.

What was it? An old discarded letter? Tana then noticed how stiff the paper was, how fresh. The message had just been written—written after two deaths. And "the same"… it couldn't be anything other than a death threat. But it couldn't be for her—

At the bottom of the page was a sketch of a spider frozen in amber.

Tana leapt out of her seat, trying to ignore the fact that the blood was draining from her face. Crunching the letter into a ball and stuffing it into her pocket, she scanned the crowd one last time for someone, anyone who stood out. Whoever had orchestrated these deaths—and they had to have been by design—they were in here. And for some reason they were blackmailing her to get her to leave.

Even though she had never been more confused in her life… even though she had no idea what was happening… even though the thing that she hated most about herself was her tendency to run… she ducked under the tent flap behind her and into the snowy night.

And she ran.

Present

The flashing lights of the ambulance are blinding. They remind me of the night that my parents died. The vehicle parked, but not active. The attendants standing around, talking, because they know that they are far too late to save their marks.

I pull my head back inside the tent. Even though the police had been trying to herd everyone out, a small crowd still remained near the center of the tent. They should have lost interest long ago, except that now the bodies were joined by a little boy. He looked to be about twelve. He was kneeling between then, each of his hands on one of theirs, and crying openly with no move to hide it. He could only be their son.

I walk over to Police Lieutenant Gordon. He's the one who contacts me as Batman; my link to the GCPD. He doesn't know Batman's true identity, of course. But he can recognize Bruce Wayne on sight.

"What a night, Wayne," he said. He's holding his radio and leaning against a tent support.

"Did your people look into the cause of the breakage?"

He makes a helpless hand gesture. "Did. Nothing but wear and tear."

We both look over at the boy being led away from his parents by the police. Gordon lowers his voice. "Poor kid."

"Who is he?"

"Richard Grayson, son of John and Mary Grayson. Goes by Dick. They perform together as aerial acrobats, or at least they did. He—" he cuts off abruptly, and I turn around to see an apologetic looking policeman and the young Grayson's hollow face.

"Sorry, Lieutentant," says the officer. "But the boy wanted to talk to you. He thinks that his parents were killed on purpose. I told him that we've checked the wires and that they –"

"He checked the wire!" the boy interjects angrily. "My dad checked them, just before the show, and he said they were brand new!" He swung around to face Gordon. "My dad would never make a mistake like that!"

"Son," says Gordon heavily, "Check them. They weren't new—they were at least two months old. We found the date stamped on the fastener."

The wires have been coiled up on the floor, and Gordon bends down to pick up the end of one, handing the kid the twisted piece of metal. He looks at it in disbelief before throwing it to the ground. "Please, sir, you have to believe me," he says. "Something here is out of place." He shoves a piece of paper into Gordon's hands. "Look!"

Gordon scans the paper before handing it to me. It's a poem; an artistic death threat. But it looks handwritten. The writing is even childish. Dick could have written it himself. He keeps on talking.

"Someone threw that at me minutes before the wires snapped. It can't be a coincidence. Someone killed my parents on purpose!"

I tuck the paper into my pocket, but no one notices. "Son…" says Gordon, laying a hand on Dick's shoulder.

"I'm not lying!" Dick pushes Gordon's hand away. "I'm not—I'm not—" there's a moment in which he's trying to hold back tears and loses his voice, and the detective who brought him to us leads him away.

Gordon sighs through his nose.

I look after Dick's shaking figure. "What's going to happen to him?"

"Foster home," Gordon says, looking pained. "I talked to the circus guys—they won't take him without his parents. Apparently he's not worth enough without the complete set. I wish there were an alternative, but what else?"

And all of a sudden I'm eight years old, watching the police taking away my parents' bodies, and Alfred's there, putting a blanket over my shoulders.

"Poor kid," Gordon says again.

"I'll take him," I say. You could call it a whim, but it's something a lot more personal.

"What?"

"I'm going to take him back to the manor. I'll take care of him."

"You're adopting him?" Gordon nearly drops the cigarette he's been fumbling to light.

"I guess so. It's not like I don't have the space or the money."

"Well yeah, but… still, I…" Gordon sticks his smoke back in his pocket. "I'd never peg you as that kinda person, Wayne."

"I'm usually a lot more than people would peg me as," I say in dark humor as I walk away.

As I go to find the Grayson kid, I see the same detective standing by his shoulder as one of the circus managers talks to him. I can see him gesturing wildly, face getting darker and darker at the manager's head-shaking and finger-fidgeting until he jumps up and tries to have a go at the man. The detective is able to grab him before he does any damage, and the manager walks away unscathed.

"You can go on, Detective," I say as I approach them. "I'll look after him."

The detective nods and hurries away, but Dick doesn't even look up. Without the hundreds of people inside the tent providing their body heat, he's starting to shiver underneath his spandex costume. I sit myself down next to him.

"I'm Bruce Wayne," I say.

"I know."

"That guy just give you the news?" I ask, gesturing to the manager's disappearing coattails.

"Yes. Jerk."

"You don't have to worry, you're not going to a foster home. I'm taking you back to my place."

"I don't want to go to your place," he said, turning away. "I want to stay here."

I don't know how to talk to him. I was never that good with kids. So I drop the pretenses and go straight to the reason why I wanted to help him.

"Kid… I know what you're going through."

I can tell by his angry face that he doesn't understand. "You have no idea what—"

"No. I do. Do you know what happened to my parents?"

He finally looks up at me, and I continue. "We were leaving the theater one night, the three of us walking together through an alleyway. We'd left early, so no one else was there with us. This man came out of the shadows; I later found out that his name was Joe Chill. He was just a robber, and was trying to get my dad's wallet and my mother's necklace. He ended up shooting both of them. They died in that alley while the man took their things and ran for it. I was eight."

He's silent for a few seconds. Then he speaks up with a "Did they catch him? The man who killed them?"

"Yes."

I can see his fists tighten. "I need to catch them. Whoever did this, they are going to pay."

He sees me looking at him and stands up. "Look, I know what the cops have told you and what it looks like. But I know that this was murder. I know that I will be able to prove—"

"Kid, I believe you."

His eyes go wide. "You… do?"

"I believe that you really do think that this was a homicide. And while I personally can't say one way or another—yet—I also believe that this needs a full investigation. Though maybe…" I look over at the lingering cops. "…without police interference."

The tears have long since gone from his eyes, instead replaced by cold steel. "You'd help me do that?"

"I'm not sure how much I can do, but I will do as much as I can. Plus, I've got some friends that could probably help out. Just come back to my place. Please. I think that you've been through enough tonight."

He looks back towards the center of the ring, where the police have finally started to take down their tape, and I say more softly, "I'm not going to try to replace them, kid. Trust me. I know that I never could anyway."

He finally looks like he's calmed down. He looks from side to side, then says, "I'll go and… get my stuff."

I watch him shove his way out of the tent, and put in a quick call to Alfred. When I ask him to prepare a room, I have to explain to make it one of the residential ones. He handles the situation and the news the way that he's handled everything over the years—smoothly and calmly. "Very good, sir. You may rest assured that our new young Master Grayson will be very comfortable."

As I go out to wait, I can see Dick a little ways down, talking to a girl. Bright red hair, looks about his age. By the way that she's crying, I'm guessing that she's a family friend. He talks to her for a few seconds, then points backwards. When she looks up and sees me, I can see anger in her face. At me. She yells something at him and storms off.

He's completely silent by the time that he arrives back at the tent entrance, carrying a full bag and wearing a change of street clothes. I'm thinking of asking him about it, but I can tell by his face that it's a bad time.

So all I say is, "Chin up, kid. It gets better."

He follows me wordlessly down the street.

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(Batman/related characters are owned by DC)