Marco was both furious and terrified. He had returned to the Rosselli trailer to check on his youngest son, but the boy was gone. So the man had gone to the training tent, hoping that Dominic was doing a light workout like he had said he was going to do. But he wasn't there, either. Nor was he walking around the perimeter like he had been yesterday. The twelve-year-old was lost.
"DOMINIC!"
That was Rob's voice, and it was coming from the practice tent. There was only one reason why his eldest son's voice would sound slightly panicked when yelling the younger boy's name.
Marco raced to the practice tent, arriving just in time to see Dom step off the platform. Rob began moving back and forth, trying to stay underneath the twelve-year-old. There was no net; Marco and Maria had planned to set it up after lunch.
The man's entrance startled both of his sons. Rob's attention shifted from the boy above him to his father. Dom looked down to see what was going on. His grip on the bar was altered, and the week-old bullet wound sent a quick flame from his shoulder to his wrist.
The unexpected burning sensation caused his hand to slip off the bar. At first, the twelve-year-old panicked, certain that he had never flown on one arm before. Then, he heard a voice in his head – a voice that didn't belong to anyone in his family.
"You're strong enough, my little Robin. Your dad will catch you, no matter what. When you're ready, fly!"
It was a female voice, soft but beautiful with a slight trace of a familiar accent. Dom's family didn't have any type of accent, so the sound left him confused as it faded away.
"Dominic, I'm coming up there!" Marco yelled. "Whatever you do, whatever happens, DO NOT let go! Grab the bar, son!"
Marco was climbing the opposite ladder as quickly as he could while shouting at his son. He could not afford to lose Dick Grayson. Circus Fazioli had been bringing in more money since Dick had joined them. Marco knew it was because of their act, and he had to grudgingly admit that a portion of their success was due to the twelve-year-old's impressive abilities. And the deaths of John and Mary Grayson certainly hadn't hurt. So, Marco – Circus Fazioli – could not afford to lose Dick Grayson.
His father's voice shoved itself through what Dom thought could be a memory. The twelve-year-old immediately recognized the danger, and forced his arm up. But his hand refused to close around the bar, and Dom began to panic again.
"It's okay to be scared, son."
This time the voice was male, and much lighter than Marco's rough tone. The man was swinging on a bar, but his face was swathed in shadows.
"A single is fine, but I know you can do the double. I will catch you, no matter what."
The man's features became clearer as he swung toward the boy. There was a smile, vastly different from that of Dom's father, and a twinkle in his blue eyes. Eyes that looked exactly like Dominic's own, from the light-blue all the way to the soft gray that outlined the bright circles.
"Dominic, grab the bar!"
Marcos's harsh voice again burst through what Dom, this time, knew was a memory.
Why? I can fly off one arm. You just have to be ready.
Dom was confused. The man in the memory had been completely confidant in the twelve-year-old's ability. But Dom's dad sounded frantic, as if he didn't believe the boy could do it.
Marco had finally made it to the platform. The look on Dom's face worried him – there was confusion with a tinge of panic. Did the boy not remember how to fly?!
Dominic was barely moving now. He had slowed the gentle gliding motion, and Marco was grateful for that. It would be much easier to wrap his arms around a stationary body.
Unhooking the bar, Marco jumped off, intending to immediately grab the boy. But, to both his surprise and fear, Dom lifted his legs and kicked out, causing Marco to swing right underneath him.
"Dom!" the man yelled in frustration as he went into his backswing.
They crossed again as the twelve-year-old kicked into a backswing of his own. It was Marco who was panicking now. His timing was way off; there was no chance of catching the boy if he decided to fly. And Dominic wasn't strong enough to fly from one arm anyway!
The man, in this unusual moment of panic, had completely forgotten about the boy's last performance. He also had no idea that Dick Grayson had learned to fly one-armed when he was six. Marco realized that both he and Rob were about to watch Dick Grayson fall from thirty feet in the air. The last of The Flying Graysons was about to die just like the rest of The Flying Graysons. A swear word flew out of his mouth when the twelve-year-old let go of the bar.
Dick Grayson had not allowed the Rosselli family to 'train the Grayson out of him', although he didn't remember that right now. He recognized the fact that his father would not be able to catch him, because their timing was way off. Choreography was not his specialty. He had been too young to learn as a Flying Grayson, and hadn't been given the chance as a Flying Rosselli. But, right now, Dom knew his life depended on choreography.
Sequences began flashing through his mind as he swung forward again. Each one was discarded because of the incorrect timing. A tuck double back – too fast, his dad wouldn't be there yet. Front tuck with a half twist – better on timing, but still a little too fast. Both sequences would end with his outstretched arms reaching fruitlessly upward with no stronger arms near enough to catch him.
It came to him as he went into his second backswing. A back layout would slow down his rotation because of his straight body. His dad would be in the middle of his front swing when Dom let go. If he slowed himself down enough, the twelve-year-old would be in the air, his body as straight as a board, when the man went into his own backswing. The second half of the sequence was going to hurt, but it was better than dying.
Marco couldn't change his timing quickly enough. Dom let go, and the man watched him begin to rotate above him. He had no idea what the boy was doing, and he also knew that there was no way to save him. Before Marco was halfway through his backswing, the boy would have already crashed to the ground.
He was going too fast. Dom realized that he should have held onto the bar for a half-second longer. But, it was too late to dwell on that thought, so he shoved it away in favor of re-choreographing.
Stretching his arms out to the side, Dom added a half twist. The addition slowed his rotation even more. His dad reached the apex of his forward swing just as the twelve-year-old began his descent. Dom wanted to close his eyes, he didn't want to see the action that would guarantee pain, but he still had to position himself correctly.
He watched the man swing back, and tried to prepare his mind for the hit. But Dom's mind was focused on body positioning and didn't have room for any other thought. The twelve-year-old held his breath as he turned himself completely vertical.
It hurt more than he had anticipated. Dom felt like his ribs were exploding out of his back when Marco's legs slammed into his torso. His body folded into itself as he was shoved through the air. But, it worked. The boy was thrown back far enough that he landed roughly on the platform.
Dom landed on his back, and the momentum tossed him into a backward roll. The twelve-year-old's head crashed into the safety railing, and his world went dark.
Marco heard the 'whoosh' that indicated breath being knocked out of a body. At the same time, he heard the distinctive 'crack' of at least one rib as his legs smashed into the body of his son. He couldn't do anything except execute another swing, because he had also heard a 'thud' on the platform behind him. If he let go, he would probably land on Dominic.
The swing took what felt like an hour but was, in reality, only six seconds. Marco flipped his grip so he was facing his platform. As soon as he was close enough, the man let go of the bar and easily landed near the limp form of the boy.
Dom's small body was crumpled against the safety rail. His eyes were closed, his breathing was ragged, and there was blood sliding down the left side of his neck.
"Dominic, wake up!" Marco commanded as he knelt beside the twelve-year-old. "Rob," he yelled with a glance at the ground, "get the medic!"
The sixteen-year-old was frozen in both shock and fear. His brother – well, his sort of brother – had almost died, right in front of him! Rob rarely showed it, but he had grown to kind of like the younger kid, who was not afraid to challenge their dad. Before the accident in Gotham City, anyway.
"Roberto Marco Rosselli!"
Hearing his full name yelled in anger shook the teen out of his shock. Turning around, he raced out of the practice tent to find the medic.
"Fly, my little Robin."
"I'm so proud of you, son."
"You are ready to perform the quadruple, Dick!"
"He is joining his parents for the first time. Tonight, you will receive a special treat as you watch the debut of Richard John Grayson – youngest of The Flying Graysons!"
"John, watch this, he has his standing backflip!"
"He can do the double, Mary, he is strong enough to fly from one arm."
"You're a Flying Rosselli now."
"Stop that! I'm going to train the 'Grayson' out of you if it's the last thing I do!"
Words were flying through the darkness in the twelve-year-old's mind. Pictures danced around them, images of himself with a vaguely familiar pair of adults. Snippets of memories lost because of a Bat-a-rang, but being rediscovered because of a safety rail.
The faces became clear as the memories began re-cementing themselves in his brain. Faces full of pride and love. Twinkling, light-blue eyes. A lullaby sung in a language different from the one he spoke, but one still very familiar and understandable.
Dominic Rosselli suddenly realized something: those happy faces belonged to John and Mary Grayson – his parents. Dom was not a Flying Rosselli, Dick was a Flying Grayson.
"My name is Richard John Grayson."
Dick had said that to a man dressed all in black. The name escaped him, but the image of angry eyes did not. Angry eyes that were – for some odd reason that he also didn't remember – outlined with concern.
"And how long have these past three years been for you?"
The boy's eyes were darting around behind the closed lids. Marco was positive that the twelve-year-old had a concussion. He fervently hoped it was a mild one, but he doubted it. Dom's head must have violently crashed against the railing thanks to all the backward momentum.
"Marco, bring him down. I'm not a spry spring chicken that can climb a thirty-foot ladder!"
The voice of Mizo the medic reached the man's ears.
"His entire body slammed onto the platform!" Marco yelled back. "Should I really be moving him?!"
Silence reigned as both men tried to think of a solution.
"What about the tent lift?" Rob, who had tried to stay away from the scene but hadn't succeeded, finally asked softly.
"That could work," Mizo said. "Go get the manager and tell him what happened."
As Rob raced away for the second time, Mizo yelled the idea up to Marco, who nodded in both agreement and acknowledgement.
Five minutes later, the circus manager was slowly driving the lift into the practice tent. The machine could take groups of people fifty feet in the air, and was used for fixing portions of a tent that couldn't be fixed from the ground. For years, it had also been used as a window washer so the performers could make extra money for the circus.
Then The Flying Graysons had died, and The Flying Rossellis had taken their place as the most famous trapeze artists in the world. And then Dick Grayson had become Dominic Rosselli, increasing the popularity of the act. Circus Fazioli hadn't needed to send out window washers to earn extra money since then.
The medic stepped on the lift and it slowly took him up to the platform. Marco was still kneeling by Dom's body. Mizo saw the blood, and hoped it was not originating from the same place that it had only one short week ago. Setting his medical bag on the floor, Mizo knelt down and began a slow and thorough examination of the boy's entire body.
"Broken ribs," he murmured to himself as he probed the small torso. "Possible separated shoulder, most certainly needs stitches on the back of the head, neck feels okay, back feels okay except for the ribs, breathing too glitchy for my liking…."
The man paused his quiet murmurs and looked up at Marco.
"We can move him," he said simply.
Standing up, Mizo gathered his bag and returned to the lift. Marco carefully slid his arms under the limp body of the twelve-year-old and gently picked him up. Slowly, the lift descended. The men stepped off and headed for the medical trailer.
"He hit his head on the rail," Marco commented.
"So I assumed," Mizo replied. "Concussion is already on my list."
Marco nodded as they walked into the trailer.
"Let me see the back of his head before you lay him down."
Gently, Marco lifted the small torso until the boy's head slid onto the man's shoulder. The medic stared at it for a moment, then grabbed a latex glove off a counter. Putting it on, Mizo carefully probed the wound.
"We're lucky," he finally said. "It's shallow and just to the left of the last injury. I want to stitch that up before I start on his torso. Lay him on his stomach and go get some warm water."
Marco did as he was told, and Mizo began his ministrations.
Rob had told his best friend about the accident, who had told his parents. The parents had told their friends, and the story soon spread throughout the entire circus. Dominic was either on his death bed or already dead. A reporter had just finished interviewing Mr. Fazioli. When he left the owner's trailer, he overheard some performers discussing the incident.
The accident was unfortunate, that was the reporter's first thought. But it was immediately chased away when he saw the headline in his mind:
Tragedy at the Circus!
The sub-headline was being written in his mind as he sprinted to his car.
Twelve-year-old falls to his death during rehearsal
Climbing into his vehicle, the reporter snatched his notebook out of his satchel and began scribbling every detail he had heard. This was much more interesting than his interview with the boring owner of an even more boring circus.