It's nearly ten by the time I finally wake up. After getting the evidence from Dick, I'd seen the Bat signal and taken down a crime boss for Gordon. He'd been associated with Killer Croc. I hadn't meant to stay out any later, since I wanted to avoid suspicion, but I also try my best to do my only job—protect Gotham. Once I'm dressed and I've eaten the toast that Alfred left for me, I pad onto the landing above the main atrium to see Alfred showing Dick around.

"And here, Master Grayson, is a portrait of Master Bruce with his parents. It was the last one ever painted, done when Master Bruce was about seven years of age. If you'll come with me, I can show you around the grounds… the thermometer reads fifty-two this morning, so if you want your coat I have it here…"

As Alfred hands Dick his coat, I can see the boy look up around the hall. He sees me watching from the railing, and waves. In the morning light, it's astounding how different he looks. The t-shirt and jeans of a normal child make him appear younger, more like the boy that he is. And he seems happier.

"Good morning, Mr. Wayne. Batman came to see me last night." His eyes are fairly glowing. "He's going to look into my parents' deaths. Thank you."

"The least I could do, Dick."

He turns around and follows Alfred out the door.

I need to get to work on that case. I decide to work on the poem until noon rolls around.

Using the nearest passage, the grandfather clock at the entrance of the west wing, I descend into the Batcave. It started out as a cave under the manor, where I stowed my batsuit and other gear. With Alfred's help, I'd managed to make it my nerve center. Databases containing information on all of the super-villains I'd ever faced, and everything else there was to know about Gotham. State-of-the-art security. Medical station, machine shop, pads for storing different bat-vehicles. Stepping inside, I can see that my current Batmobile has a new left front tire.

Striding over to the computers that I use to contact the GCPD and to access the databases, I pick the poem and note-page off of the desk. Dick had already managed to figure out most of what I could glean from the poem. After I read it for the second time, I knew that no matter what I told myself about being open to anything, I agreed with Dick. I trusted that he hadn't written the death threat himself as a cover up… and if he hadn't…

Scene set/spotlights lit - plan to kill mom/dad in action

actors-mom/dad playwrights' rage/tragedy- murders

Playing parts?

Jesters- perpetrators. Unknown. Jester=Joker? Jesters plural= Joker/Harley? Last known, still in Arkham

court- Court Jesters? Jesters working for a higher power; court of their masters (Court of Owls?)

I'll have to talk to Dick about the Court of Owls before he becomes too excited. As much as it seems like it should be real-it just isn't.

But what's bothering me is the part about "jesters" and "court". Dick is right—Joker and Harley are still in Arkham. So if they had any part in this, they would have to be the higher power, not the actual henchmen. And even that seems unlikely, since they don't have any kind of history with Haly's. I have such frustratingly little to go off of. If I want to find the larger power behind all this, I'll have to find the jesters first.

But I'm not sure who they are either, and I always hate meeting a new foe for the first time.

Come two o'clock, I haven't gotten any farther. But I let it pass, and get up. It's time to go the last place that anyone wants to be.

It's not raining, but the sky is blanketed by steely clouds as we stand on top of the hill for the funeral services. Even as the preacher closes his Bible and the few people who came start to disperse the somber cloud, Dick hasn't shed a single tear. I remember this part. After the initial shock comes the numbness. The time when everyone's watching you, and you're still having a hard time believing that the graves going into the ground belong to your parents. It will start to get to him later.

I follow him, but at a distance, as he goes and kneels next to the tombstones, placing a hand on each. They're beautiful, white marble, not yet chipped and worn by time. Clusters of roses sit in front of them, but each also sports a crocus. Those are the ones that Dick put down. "These people don't know my parents," he'd explained. "My parents aren't really into roses."

I notice that he still refers to his parents in the present tense.

He sits there, rubbing the headstones, as time drags on. I finally decide to approach. "Are you all right?"

"I miss them," he mumbles. "Everyone keeps saying they're sorry. I don't want 'sorry', I want them back." He looks up at me. "How do you do it?"

I think for a moment before I squat down next to him. "I think about what I have now. I think about how my parents wouldn't want me to spend the rest of my life miserable because I couldn't let go of them. I don't forget them—" I look down the row of gravestones, to where I can see the giant marble monument dedicated to Thomas and Martha Wayne. "—but I accept things the way they are."

"I'll be able to do that. For them. They would have wanted it." His fists tighten on the stone. "But I can't yet. I hope that the Batman is getting somewhere." And then I can tell that he's stopped talking to me. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't do anything…"

I get up and walk back to where Alfred is waiting with the car. "Alfred?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you think that you could take Dick down into the city tonight, to eat with Jim, Barbara, and Jackson?"

"Planning a little excursion, are we, sir?"

"Yes."

"Then you have nothing to worry about. It's nearly dark already. I'll take him straight from here."

"Thanks, Alfred. It should probably also help cheer him up."

Come five, Dick and Alfred are out of the way and I'm dressed, in the Batmobile, humming into town.

The circus hasn't left yet, but they've stopped their performances. The booths, while not disassembled, are empty and forlorn. Tickets, wrappers, and other soggy bits of debris litter the ground. The grounds are completely deserted.

I enter the main tent to see that the police have done what I asked and left the evidence in place. The broken wires are still coiled on the ground where Gordon left them. Crossing over to them, I can see what the police examiners meant when they said that the breakage was only due to wear. The break happened towards the top of the wire, where it connected to the fastener that would attach it to the overhead beam. There aren't any patches of shiny metal or rough spots that would indicate it had been sawed through, or melted areas meaning that it was heated. It was purely natural.

But Dick insisted that his father had checked the wires, and that they were new. So, if this was a murder, then it meant that the wires had been replaced before showtime. This is a bad lead. The perpetrators could have taken the wires with them, and then where would I be? I re-check the wire to see if there's anything else about it… something I can track.

I'd gotten a good look at a normal wire last night, when circus attendants had come in to put new ones in. This wire looks identical to the kind Haly's uses.

Inspecting the middle of the cord, I notice a difference in feel. It's almost as if the wire is…thinner. I realize that it means it's been stretched. This wire was taken and distressed in a short amount of time by attaching a heavy object to it.

I finally make my way to the end, and I inspect the bar on which the performers were supposed to swing. I test it with the supplies I brought, but I can only find two sets of fingerprints, which I know belong to the Graysons. I still swipe it, so I can analyze any other residue that I find at the Batcave.

Dropping the wire back to the ground, I test the other one, getting the same results, before starting the climb up into the rafters.

In the old days, the tent was simple—cloth, a couple of poles. Now, with all the more modern additions, it's a mess of framing and supports. It takes a long time for me to wind my way through the supports to find the larger cords that the wires were attached to. The new wires shine faintly in the light from my belt. I reach to touch the main supporting cord when an oily smear comes off on my glove. On closer inspection, I find that it's a grease that must be used to allow the wires to pivot. It's a little darker than the wire, and has rubbed off in many places around the wire fastener. Too much, in fact. Anyone who knew how to change a trapeze wire wouldn't have done such a terrible job. I pull out my UV light to confirm it and see that the glowing grease is liberally smeared and smudged.

I'm making my way back down when I pause at the platform where Dick had been standing. A true "birds-eye" view. And again, I feel myself slipping into a well of sentimentality. It must have been so shocking—so sudden. To be, at one moment, preparing to fly high, and the next watching the people you love most plunging to their deaths.

On a whim, I redraw my UV light and shine it down over the audience chairs. And I see what I'm looking for. A bright blue smudge glowing like a beacon in the stands.

Looks like someone forgot to wash their hands.

Now that I know where they were sitting, I'm willing to bet that I'll be able to find out who they are. Someone in that crowd will be able to tell me. Hell, even Dick might be able to—

The structure rocks, and by instinct I leap off and glide to the ground. Whipping around, I scan the structure's base for any signs of life. I really didn't have to, because at that moment the spotlights blare on.

"Congratulations, Batman!" I'm shielding my eyes against the light, but I can tell it's a male voice, albeit a rather young and high one. However, it's followed immediately by a female voice.

"You have succeeded in deducing the Graysons' killers!"

The boy chimes back in, his sarcasm contrasting with the sound of the girl's excitement. "Bravo."

"We hate to put a damper on things, but…"

Both together. "We've been here the whole time!"

Eyes finally adjusted, I look up to see two people, each dangling from their knees from the trapezes. They hadn't been there a moment before, so whoever they are, they're fast. I'd peg them as circus performers, but they're not wearing the circus colors. Their uniforms are checkered black, the boy's fluorescent green and the girl's too pink to look at. And unlike the circus acrobats, they're both wearing masks—they girl sporting a pink face of comedy, the boy with a green face of tragedy. They're both oddly skinny, and don't look much larger than thirteen- or fourteen-year-olds, not exactly the types of people you'd find threatening, but I still start assessing the options that I have available. Since the tent is made of fabric, an escape, if necessary, shouldn't be too big of a problem. I don't know what their capable of yet, but I'd be able to handle them in a fight, providing I could catch them. The one thing that puts me on edge is the confidence they project.

"Birds," smirks the boy.

"Broken birds," giggles the girl.

"Pointless."

"Love."

"Hearts."

"Blood."

"Knives."

I have no idea what they're talking about, but can see that they're more than just young murderers—they're not the most sound of mind. They are eerily like Joker, but younger.

I decide that I don't have time for their word games. Or rather, I do, but I don't have the patience to sit through them.

"Who do you work for?" I thunder at them.

They stop twittering for a moment and look at each other. "Work for?"

Flipping up off their trapezes, they somersault through the air before landing in the middle of the reinstated net. After one bounce, they fly back out of the net and land on the hard-packed dirt in front of me. The girl bends backwards, then straightens up, walking on her hands towards me. "Why would we be working for anyone?"

The boy sits down, twisting himself into a pretzel. "Confining, really."

They're both similar enough in size and stature that I decide they must be twins. And their voices tell me that I'm right in thinking they're teenagers. I pull the poem out of my belt satchel. "Apparently you have 'masters' for whom you want to earn your 'crowns'." I hold the paper up. "Or doesn't this look familiar?"

"Oh dear," sighs the boy. "You dropped the grocery list, Becky."

"It appears so. Should I write a new one? What would you like?"

"Egg nog."

"Holidays."

"Do-what-you-please."

"Mischief."

"A nice fun murder?"

"I don't have time for games," I cut back in, taking out my Batarang and aiming it at Becky. "Tell me who you're working for."

"No time for games?" The girl looks offended. "Nicky, he doesn't have time for games!"

"No time to play?" asks Nicky. "But you really must play."

"Because who are we?"

"We are—"

"The fabulous—"

"Witty—"

"Dazzling—"

"Moving—"

"Gotham Players!"

They both laugh, in a way that seems genuinely happy, but almost too happy, the way that a group of exhausted friends might go into hysterics on a late night.

"Yes! So shall we put on a play—"

"—or shall we play a game?"

I look from one to the other. "And how do a couple of kids fit this into their schedule?"

"Oh, you wouldn't believe," says Becky. "And after what we had to pull last night—"

"What with killing the Graysons and all—"

"Ghastly—"

"Exhausting—"

"—barely got to bed on time!"

Homicide detectives like confessions. In the superhero world, a confession means that the enemy is about to kill you, and this is the second one I've gotten. Seeing as they're both small and unarmed, I can only guess that something else inside the tent is rigged. But until that thing blows, I have the most crucial time to spend. I'm still alive, and I have two people who have confessed to murder. So I will do what I'm supposed to do.

Bring in the suspects.

I fling my Batarang at Becky, and lunge over to Nicky, as he's still on the ground with his arms and legs twisted into intricate shapes. However, in a moment of slithering limbs he's on his feet and running across the dirt, vaulting into the bleachers. I immediately pursue, since I know that I can't let him get away, but I also look back towards Becky just in time to catch the Batarang that she's thrown back at me—apparently with her toes.

This is not something that I'm used to. My archenemies always stand and fight. The ones that run are the street criminals, who are slow enough to catch anyway. But these two people—children—are faster than me. They have the speed of youth and the circus. And one of them is about to get away.

I hurl a shock-bomb into his path and it explodes before he can divert, unleashing an electric current that brings out a scream and leaves him twitching on the ground, temporarily paralyzed. I turn back to search out Becky, who I expect to give up after the defeat of her twin, but I find an empty arena floor. She's climbed her way back into the circus equipment, and is swinging on the trapeze, giggling and looking down at me and her brother.

"Nicky's slow, Nicky bird," she titters. "Can the bat catch the Beck?" She brings her legs up and starts to swing by her knees. "Wheeeeee!"

I'm starting to wonder if these people are actually working for higher "masters" or if they're just insane.

I take out my other batarang, the one with the edge, and send it slicing through the trapeze wires. She doesn't even break her stride as she falls, continuing the same "Wheeeeeee!" The Batarang returns to me, and I decide that once she lands, I can cut the ropes supporting the net. It would be an easy way to catch and deliver the children to the Gotham PD.

That's when I see Becky toss the trapeze bar out towards me. I spring out of the way—whether or not she was trying to hit me or it was an explosive of some type, I don't want to find out. And it's a good thing I do. The bar explodes with extreme magnitude the moment it strikes the ground, throwing me into the bleachers towards which I'd already been running. Charred bits of dirt begin to rain down around me, but as I try to get up, more explosions begin to fire, and with each new blast, another portion of the central ring erupts into the air. I have no way to see what happened to Nicky, what happened to Becky, as the stands catch fire and I'm left to fight my way out of the growing inferno. My suit protects against most of the flames; my cowl could protect my ears from explosions. But I'm choking on smoke, eyes watering against the heat, stumbling up the collapsing structure to try and find a way out.

I can finally see the wall of the tent—I draw my knife to slash it open and get out. My fist is already in motion when some force strikes my hand from the side and sends the knife skittering across the wood. A grinding in my hand tells me that if I haven't broken it, I've at least dislocated something. Turning, I see both of them standing there, apparently immune to smoke and flames. Both of them are holding paintball guns.

I expect them to start a monologue—I hope that they do—but instead they begin to shoot the already weakening wooden structure, in a circle around my feet. I'm not sure what their guns are loaded with, but it's large, round, and blunt, easily punching holes that open into the darkness below. I know that I won't be able to get out in time, and that there is nothing left for my grappling hook to hook onto to save me, so I do the best that anyone can do in this situation. I fire my two hooks at both jesters, and as the stands collapse and I fall, I drag them down with me.

While they have clear sight and have been breathing clean oxygen, I am disoriented in the flame-lit space under the stands. When I land, I'm trying to roll, but I only end up crushing my shoulder. On the ground, trying to get up, I feel something hard and round smash into the back of my ribcage. I stagger around only to receive two more, in the chest and stomach. In that moment, where I'm burned, broken, and choking, I decide to end it. I don't care that they're children. They're psychopaths. And it's not like a little more fire is going to make much of a difference.

I rip the two emergency capsules off of my utility belt, click them on, and fling them away. The players are both half-risen a little distance away, tangled in a pile of cords, with guns aimed at me. They can't move fast enough.

Two deafening explosions later, I see them slump, motionless, but I realize that I'm on my knees too.

And it's about then that I register the fact that I'm splitting with pain, and I fade into blackness.

(Batman/related characters are property of DC comics)