Bruce Wayne, just like everybody else, stared up at the aerialists with baited breath. Batman didn't mind being up high, or jumping from rooftop to rooftop while depending on one of his own gadgets. However, he couldn't imagine putting his life into the hands of another person. Having to hope that person's grip was as sure as it was in practice, and hoping that the net wouldn't suddenly tear apart if that person did drop you.
The Flying Rossellis were famous the world over. They had become the preeminent trapeze act since the tragic deaths of The Flying Graysons just over three years ago. Bruce had never had the pleasure of seeing the latter act – they had died two nights before he had planned to go to the circus – but other Gothamites had raved about them. And the paper had described them as "…the most breathtaking, elegant act to ever grace the air over Gotham."
The paper had also mentioned the only survivor, a young son. Bruce had seen himself in the words "…nine-year-old Dick Grayson." He remembered watching his parents fall to the ground, the light leaving their eyes as their chests stopped moving. The boy had seen the same thing, although the circumstances were much different.
Haly's Circus had immediately closed up and pulled out the next day, so the man had no idea what had happened to the boy. He had thought of him from time to time, but the then-nine-year-old was now just a small memory in the back of the millionaire's mind.
Bruce pulled himself back to the present when he saw a man jump off one platform and a small boy jump off the other. So began a graceful series of flips and twirls and twists that Batman wouldn't even think about trying. The act lasted nearly ten minutes, the four members of the family taking turns throwing and catching and swinging seemingly without effort. When it was over, the crowd almost didn't know how to react, silence reigning throughout the large circus tent for fifteen seconds. Then the applause began, a lengthy and deafening sound that could probably be heard across the grounds and into the city itself.
The Rossellis stood tall on their platforms, arms raised in victorious acceptance of what was now a standing ovation. Except for the youngest one, Bruce noticed. That one was almost hidden in the shadow of his older brother, head down and arms by his sides. Curiosity pricked Batman's mind, but Bruce shook it off. Perhaps the boy wasn't feeling well.
The ringmaster came out and ended the show as the aerialists waved. The crowd headed for the exit, where most of the performers were shaking hands, and thanking the people for coming, and answering questions about their respective acts.
Bruce wanted to talk to The Flying Rossellis. They had been his favorite act, and Batman had a few questions about their abilities. He waited outside the tent, and it didn't take them long to appear. Three minutes after he had seen them on their platforms, they were coming around the corner by the back of the tent to greet people.
The millionaire waited his turn, albeit slightly impatiently. It seemed like everyone wanted to meet them, which was not a great surprise. Bruce observed the family as they circulated, his curiosity rekindled as he watched the youngest.
Mother, father, and teenage son were all smiling and brimming with confidence, but the younger boy was attempting to remain invisible by walking less than a yard behind his parents. He shook hands when necessary, but didn't go out of his way to greet people. Bruce decided to start with the boy, so he quietly strode around the group surrounding the other three.
"I enjoyed your performance," he said as he approached from the side.
The boy was startled, and he automatically took a step away from the man. Bruce held his hand out, and the young aerialist had no choice but to reciprocate. His grip was firm, which was both surprising and unsurprising to the millionaire. Surprising because he had assumed the boy was shy and wouldn't want to strongly clasp a stranger's hand. Unsurprising because he was a trapeze artist – a firm grip was a requirement.
As they shook hands, Bruce studied the boy's eyes. The night was dark, but the bright circus lights illuminated the sky-blue circles. To the millionaire's surprise, they were not lit up with excitement. They were full of sorrow, outlined with a tinge of what Batman could only describe as anger.
Bruce released the hand and found chalk on his own hand when he glanced down. He swiped his hands across each other, and the white powder floated into the air. The sound caused the head of The Flying Rossellis to look behind himself, and he immediately knew what had happened.
"Dominic, what do you say? And what have I told you about cleaning off your hands before coming out?"
The man's voice was firm but not angry. Bruce, however, saw his eyes flash with anger, and he filed the look away inside the cloud of curiosity in his mind.
"Sorry," the boy said softly with a quick glance at Bruce.
Turning his gaze to his father, Dominic stated, "People don't want chalk on their hands, always wash before greeting."
He sounded like was reciting a command. And he didn't sound apologetic, he sounded defiant, although Batman knew he was probably the only one who could hear the tone. Bruce's curiosity grew.
"I'm deeply sorry about the mess Mr.?"
"Wayne," Bruce replied. "Bruce Wayne, and I have no problem with a little chalk on my hands."
He grinned, attempting to lighten the mood between the father and his young son.
"I enjoyed your performance," he repeated. "It seemed effortless and it was mesmerizing. Congratulations."
"Thank you," the father replied graciously. "We do our best to make it seem that way."
The man glanced at his son with a slight frown when he said the last word, but immediately returned his gaze to the millionaire.
"How long have you been performing as a family?" Bruce asked.
"Roberto, our oldest, began six years ago. This is Dominic," the man tipped his head toward the boy, "and he joined us three years ago."
"They were both very impressive, considering how young they are. You all were, and I'm glad I decided to attend."
"We are as well, Mr. Wayne. Thank you for coming."
It was a dismissal. Bruce took the hint, gave Dominic a quick nod, then turned and walked away.
"Cheer up, son," the millionaire heard the father whisper. "Nobody wants to see a depressed performer.
The emphasis on the single word slid into the cloud of curiosity that was still growing. Glancing back, he saw Dominic force a smile onto his face and step out of his family's shadow.
"Sir?"
Without realizing it, Bruce had walked all the way off the grounds and into the parking lot, where Alfred was waiting with the back door of the limo wide open. His thoughts had been consumed by the reactions of both the father and the son.
"Thank you, Alfred," the millionaire murmured absently as he began to climb in.
Then he stood up again, and the butler saw the thoughtful look on his charge's face. Bruce stared back at the big tent, where the crowd had thinned and some of the performers were walking away. The Flying Rossellis were visible, still shaking hands and thanking people.
Squinting his eyes, Bruce saw Dominic fully in view of everyone, shaking hands just like the rest of his family. But the boy only looked up briefly when he shook hands, his eyes dropping back to the ground as soon as his hand was released. Most people were skipping him and beginning the congratulations with the older boy before moving on to the parents.
"Master Bruce?" Alfred inquired quietly.
"Sorry, just thinking," the younger man replied.
"Obviously, sir," the butler stated with a hint of amusement in his voice. "About what, if I may be so bold as to inquire?"
"I'll tell you in the car. Let's go home."
"Very well, Master Bruce."
Three minutes later they were on the road toward Wayne Manor, and the entire story was spilling out of Bruce's mouth. The performance, the ending, greeting the boy, the interaction between the boy and his father, and the last part he had observed from afar.
"That is a rather interesting story, sir," Alfred stated when Bruce was finished.
"A curious one, Alfred. The boy, Dominic, seems like he doesn't want to be there at all."
"Perhaps he doesn't, Master Bruce," the butler replied sensibly. "Perhaps he does not enjoy the family business."
"He was good," Bruce responded.
Alfred heard an unusual tone in the three words. He wondered whether or not he should ask, but then forged ahead.
"Better, sir?"
"Better than what?"
"The rest of his family, Master Bruce. You sounded slightly intrigued."
"I don't know, maybe? But why would the youngest be better than the ones who have much more experience?"
"Perhaps he is more naturally talented, sir. Perhaps he learns faster, or retains things more easily."
"Perhaps," Bruce said softly, his mind drifting back to the expression in the boy's eyes.
So much sorrow, Dominic's eyes had been filled with the emotion. But why?
"Do you suspect something, Master Bruce?"
Alfred's voice was quiet, but it burst into the younger man's brain as if it had been shouted.
"The way he reacted to his father, it was similar to the case I helped the commissioner with last year. Remember, the boy with the broken arm who had 'fallen down the stairs'?"
"Of course I remember, sir. How could I forget such a sad story? Are you concerned about this boy?"
"I don't think it's like that. An abused child usually has fear in his eyes when talking to his abuser. That was not the emotion I saw."
Bruce went quiet, and the butler waited patiently.
"He looked so sad, Alfred," the millionaire finally commented. "If it's because he doesn't want to be in the family business, wouldn't he look annoyed or irritated?"
"People deal with things in different ways, sir," the butler replied wisely. "Emotions are different for everyone. Something that makes him sad, Master Bruce, might annoy you. We are all unique, especially when emotions are involved."
"I suppose you're right," the younger man mumbled.
He went quiet again, and remained that way until they were in the Batcave.
"What if," Batman began, "he's thinking about running away and is sad because he'll miss his mom or his brother?"
"Sir, you need to put the boy on the back burner for now. There has been a riot in the State Pen."
Sighing, Batman nodded and headed for the Batmobile.
The circus grounds:
"Dominic, you know better than that," Marco Rosselli said, his tone harsh.
"Dick," the twelve-year-old mumbled.
"Repeat," Marco commanded.
"My name is Dick," the boy stated through clenched teeth.
The remark earned him a hard slap. Dick stood his ground, although the hit left his ears ringing and his cheek stinging.
"What'd Dom do this time?" sixteen-year-old Roberto asked.
"He got chalk on an audience member's hand. An obviously rich audience member," Marco snapped.
"Dominic, why didn't you wash your hands?" Maria Rosselli inquired gently.
"Don't coddle him, Maria, you'll only make him soft."
"Marco, you must choose your battles with children. Especially with Dominic."
"Yeah, 'cause Dom's a little baby," Roberto snickered.
"Shut up," Dick muttered.
"Bed, now," Marco demanded.
With a defiant glare, the twelve-year-old stomped across the small trailer and sat on one of the two mattresses on the floor. Marco followed and crouched down beside him.
"Arms."
Dick leaned his back against the wall and lifted his arms in the air. Marco slapped a pair of soft handcuffs around the boy's wrists and attached them to a chain hanging from the ceiling.
"Down."
Obediently, Dick laid on his back and straightened out his legs. Marco used the same style of cuffs on his ankles, and attached them to a ring on the floor at the end of the mattress.
"I wouldn't have to do this if you would stop trying to run away, Dominic. You need to stay with your family."
"My family died three years ago," Dick snapped, "and I will never stop trying to run away."
"We are your family," Marco snarled, "and you would do well to remember that. And don't think I didn't notice the triple instead of the double with a half twist. The Flying Rossellis don't make mistakes, Dom. You're lucky nobody knew anything about it."
"You guys make a lot of mistakes," Dick retorted. "The Flying Graysons don't make mistakes."
"Except the one that got them killed," Marco growled. "And if you ever say that name again, you will regret it."
"Grayson," Dick said with a shrug.
"That was very stupid. We'll talk about that tomorrow."
"Dom," a chuckling Roberto called from the other side of the trailer, "we're having steak. Do you want me to save you some?"
Dick ignored the older boy, already knowing that not having dinner was part of his punishment. Instead, he turned his mind to the same subject it turned to every night: how to get out of the cuffs and escape.