A/N: Grazie per aver commentato, Antola! :)
Three years and two months ago:
Nine-year-old Dick Grayson stared at the scene below him, refusing to accept what he had just seen. His mind was numb and his muscles felt like jelly. Dick couldn't think or move or do anything except stare.
Everyone on the floor was now gazing up at him, including his parents. His dead parents, his mind amended harshly. Suddenly, without realizing it, he was scrambling down the rope ladder. Madame Esmeralda – the fortune teller who had not predicted this twist of fate – grabbed him before he could run to the pile of limbs on the ground. Pulling him close to her body, she began whispering words of comfort that the young boy's whirling mind couldn't comprehend.
The rest of the performers closed him off from the view, creating a tight circle around the bodies that he wouldn't be able to penetrate. But it didn't stop him from trying. He shoved himself away from the woman and ran full-speed at the circle. Dick bounced off the large waist of the strongman and fell to the ground. Undaunted, he tried crawling through legs, but even his tiny body couldn't navigate through the maze of limbs without getting tangled up.
Madame Esmeralda was by his side again, wrapping her arms around his waist and pulling him away from the circle. Rolling out of her grasp, Dick did the only other thing his mind could think of: he ran. Out through the opening of the tent, where audience members were milling around in disbelief, and straight into the arms of a strange man.
"Whoa, be careful," the white-haired man said as he caught the falling boy.
Commissioner Gordon took one look and instantly knew who the child was – the sole survivor of The Flying Graysons. The sparkling outfit and chalked up hands were all the evidence he needed.
"Come on, son," he said gently, "let's go inside."
The commissioner took Dick's hand and led him back into the tent. Several performers immediately appeared beside them. One of them lifted Dick into his arms and strode away from the still-horrifying scene, the others trailing behind him.
Haly's Circus packed up that night and pulled out in the early afternoon of the next day. Dick Grayson was riding in the trailer of Madame Esmeralda and her husband, the strongman. The circus took a week off for mourning, then moved on to their next destination – Europe.
Lisbon, Portugal was their first stop, after three weeks of traveling. And Lisbon, Portugal was where Dick's new troubles began. On the night of their last performance, a rival circus rolled into town. Several performers from that circus snuck into the big tent to watch the show, and were both surprised and disappointed by the absence of The Flying Graysons.
Marco Rosselli was one of those sneaky performers. As an aerialist, he immediately noticed the lack of platforms and trapeze bars. Briefly, he wondered why Haly's wasn't showing their finest act. In fact, he realized he hadn't even seen any posters depicting The Flying Graysons. It was as if they had just disappeared. Maybe they had retired. But that didn't make sense to Marco, because The Flying Graysons were in the prime of their lives, and they had a young son who was becoming a star in his own right.
And then he saw the boy, all alone in the shadows along the sidelines. Dick Grayson was almost a mirror image of his father, John, and Marco saw an opportunity. He didn't know why the parents were out of the picture, but their son was on his way to becoming as good as they were. Dick Grayson would be a fine catch.
So, Marco patiently waited outside the tent, watching the performers thanking the audience members and hoping the crowd would disperse quickly. Curiously, the boy was nowhere in sight. After almost half an hour, the grounds were cleared of guests and the performers were cleaning up.
The man decided to search the circus grounds, starting with the big tent. He immediately saw Dick picking up trash in the bleachers, and there was nobody near him. In fact, nobody else was in the tent. Without a second thought, Marco raced in and grabbed the boy around the waist. Dick started to scream, but Marco slapped his hand over the open mouth and ran as fast as he could out the back opening of the tent.
The nine-year-old was light, but Marco had a long way to go. When he thought he was far enough away to be somewhat safe, the man stood the boy up and stared angrily into the blue eyes.
"If you make a sound, I will kill you."
Dick had no doubt that the man was telling the truth. He slammed his mouth shut, the scream that was about to erupt dying before it even began.
"You are going to do exactly what I tell you to do."
The nine-year-old nodded slowly, deciding that not dying was better than trying to escape. If he didn't die, he could escape later. Marco grabbed his hand, and they began to run.
Dick was fast, but he was a sprinter. After three hundred yards, he was out of breath and slowing down. Marco allowed him to walk, practically dragging the boy along with his much longer strides. After a brief spell of walking, Marco forced him to begin running again.
It took them a little over two hours to get to where the rival circus was set up. Circus Fazioli was almost as impressive as Haly's Circus. They had similar acts, and their world-renowned trapeze artists were only overshadowed by The Flying Graysons.
Marco presented Dick to Mr. Fazioli, who also immediately recognized the boy.
"Where are your parents?" he asked, gazing down at the nine-year-old condescendingly.
Dick stayed silent, Marco's threat of death still echoing in his mind.
"Answer him," Marco commanded.
"Dead," Dick whispered.
Two pairs of eyes widened at the revelation. If The Flying Graysons were dead, that meant The Flying Rossellis were about to become the most famous act in the world. Both men grinned at the thought.
"What happened?" Fazioli asked.
"They fell."
"The finale," Marco breathed quietly.
Everybody knew that The Flying Graysons performed the finale without a net. And everybody also knew that Dick – who was nodding in response to Marco's comment – was not yet experienced enough to be part of the finale.
The sole survivor of the greatest group of aerialists the world had ever known was standing in front of the men, completely vulnerable. A light bulb burst into Fazioli's mind.
"What are your responsibilities at Haly's, since you can't perform?" he inquired.
"Anything they need me to do."
"Is it hard, not being able to perform?"
That question came from Marco, who couldn't imagine not being able to fly.
"Yes," Dick replied stoically, forcing the tears to recede.
The knowledge that he would never fly again was extremely painful, although not as agonizing as the fact that his parents were dead.
"Would you like to perform again?" Fazioli asked.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"There's no such thing as a solo aerialist," Dick replied, wondering why the owner of a circus didn't know something so obvious.
"What if we can give you the ability to perform again?"
"What?"
Disbelief filled the single word.
Marco jumped in with, "You're part of Circus Fazioli now. You're a member of The Flying Rossellis. You can start learning tomorrow, and performing in a week or two."
"I'm part of Haly's Circus," Dick replied, confusion in his voice.
"No, you're not," Fazioli responded. "You are useless there, they won't even miss you."
A warning bell sounded in Dick's brain. He turned away from Fazioli, fully prepared to sprint away as fast as he could, but Marco's arms were already sweeping him into a rough hug.
"No, let me go!" Dick yelled, pounding his small fists on the man's back. "I'm in Haly's Circus, I'm not…"
"Shut up, kid," Marco grumbled, pushing a pressure point that immediately knocked him unconscious.
"Give him a name and change his appearance however you can. Try to train the Grayson out of him, we don't need people noticing certain traits when he starts performing."
"I'll do my best, but he's obviously been training his entire life. I doubt I'll be able to take any signs of The Flying Graysons out of him. They are – were – too good, and he was with them for nine or ten years. He'll always be a Grayson, but eventually people will forget what they looked like."
Fazioli nodded and waved the man away. Marco took Dick to his own trailer and explained the situation to his wife. She came up with the name Dominic, gave him a haircut, and dyed the raven strands a much lighter brown. Maria saw it not as stealing the boy away, but as saving him from not being able to fly. They were rescuing him from a life of boredom.
At the same time, in Haly's Circus, everyone was frantically searching for the nine-year-old orphan. Every member of the cast and crew was fanning out, searching the neighboring towns and the small forest. A few of them even went to the main part of Lisbon.
They searched for two full days, but there was no sign of Dick. Haly's Circus had no idea that Circus Fazioli was on the other side of the big city, so nobody knew that the last of The Flying Graysons was only a forty-five minute drive away.
Present time:
Batman had helped quell the riot at the State Pen and was back in the Batcave. The look in the eyes of Dominic Rosselli wouldn't leave his mind.
"I'm going to the circus tomorrow," Batman declared as Alfred walked into the room.
"Again, sir?"
"I want to see the youngest Flying Rosselli. Your thought won't leave my mind."
"My thought, Master Batman?"
"That he's better than the others. It doesn't make sense, so I want to be able to compare them while knowing I'm comparing them."
"As opposed to just watching," Alfred observed. "Why does this matter to you, sir?"
"I don't know. Actually, I do. The look in his eyes when he stared at his dad. There was anger, not fear."
"Master Batman, there is no need to interfere in a family spat."
"What if that's not all that it is? What if there are layers that need unraveling?"
"Layers, sir?"
Alfred sounded somewhat skeptical, and Batman nodded his head.
"Something more, something hidden just beneath the surface. It's bothering me like an itch I can't reach. My gut says something is off."
"I shall arrange for your ticket, sir. Tomorrow is the last night, however, so there may not be any left."
"Then Batman will go," the younger man stated with a shrug. "A circus can always use extra security. Especially after what happened three years ago."
The hero picked up the red Batphone and pressed the button. Commissioner Gordon picked up on the second ring.
"Batman, I'm surprised to hear from you."
"Has Circus Fazioli requested any security help from GCPD?"
"No, although I did offer when they first rolled into town."
"I'm going to take a look around tomorrow."
"Do you suspect something?"
Commissioner Gordon's voice was full of concern. Just three short years ago there had been a major incident helped along by a lack of security.
"No, but this is the first time a circus has been in town since The Flying Graysons were killed. Inform them of my intentions, Commissioner, so I can have full access."
Alfred cleared his throat, so Batman added, "Please."
"Of course, Batman, I'll let them know first thing in the morning. Speaking of the circus, have you ever seen The Flying Rossellis?"
"I have heard of them," Batman replied, avoiding the direct question by supplying a different but still truthful answer.
"They are very impressive, Batman. You should try to catch their act at the end of the show when you go tomorrow."
'Catch their act'.
Batman would always regret the fact that he had not been able to save The Flying Graysons. Because he hadn't been there, a young boy had become an orphan.
"Batman?"
The Caped Crusader was so deep in thought that the commissioner's tiny voice just barely pulled him back to the present.
"Thank you, Commissioner," he responded before hanging up the Batphone.
"For what I hope is the last time, sir, it was not your fault."
Alfred recognized the look on Batman's face. It was the same devastation he had seen three years ago, the moment Bruce had found out that a nine-year-old had just watched his parents fall to their deaths.
"I wish I knew what became of the boy, Alfred. A trapeze artist can't perform as a solo act. Did they train him to do something else, or is he reduced to nothing but an extra? The lone survivor of the most famous and talented trio of aerialists the world has ever known. He lost everything, Alfred."
"He did not lose his circus family, Master Batman. He might not ever perform as an aerialist again, but at least he is with people he knows and loves."
Batman nodded, then suddenly strode quickly to the Bat-computer. He pushed some buttons, turned some dials, and waited. When the card slid out of the machine, he immediately snatched it.
As he stared at the words on the card, Batman removed his cowl. Bruce Wayne sat down on the nearest chair, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"The Flying Rossellis only have one documented son," he stated. "There is no 'Dominic' listed. Why isn't he on the register? He can't come into the country without a passport."
"Sir, did you just hack the customs registry again?"
"This brings up two questions."
"Only two, Master Bruce?"
"First, how did Dominic get in? Second, why doesn't he have a passport when he's with a traveling circus?!"
"Master Bruce…"
"It's a good thing Batman is going to the circus tomorrow, Alfred. I knew there was something going on. Dominic is here illegally."
"I'm hoping that you're not going to try to have him deported, sir."
"No, I just want to know why. Why do you bring one son in legally but not the other?"
"May I suggest that you wait until after the performance to ask questions, Master Bruce?"
"Of course. I want to see their act again, anyway. Tomorrow night will be interesting."
"As are most of your nights, sir," Alfred said with a sigh.
The next evening:
"Dominic, I better see a double with a half twist instead of a triple tonight. Your mother could have dropped you last night when you came in the wrong way."
"She's not my mother, so it doesn't matter."
Marco glared at the twelve-year-old. The boy had on an extra layer of makeup to cover the bruises on both cheeks – one from last night and the other from this morning. Dick was proud of the Grayson name, and wasn't going to stop saying it just because the man had threatened him.
"If you do not do the routine exactly as it is choreographed, this will be your last night of flying. Tomorrow you'll find yourself cleaning up after the elephants."
"At least I won't have to deal with you anymore," Dick muttered.
"And I'll make sure you sleep with the elephants, too," Marco snapped. "In a cage, like a little bird who lost his wings. Because if you screw anything up tonight, your wings are clipped for good."
At that moment, Maria walked into the set-up tent. People were in various stages of getting ready – putting on costumes, applying makeup, and warming up their muscles or voices. She shook her head as her eyes landed on her husband and the boy she considered her adopted son. They were at odds with each other again.
"Marco, don't threaten the boy. Don't you remember why he joined us in the first place? He wanted to fly, he loves to fly."
"He made a dangerous mistake last night, Maria. You could have dropped him, and that would have been the only thing people would remember. A Flying Rosselli falling to the ground just like a Flying Gray…"
"Shut up!" Dick yelled as he balled up a fist. "Don't ever say their name, you don't deserve to, you're a liar and a jerk and a…"
Marco grabbed the boy's wrist in order to stop the punch that Dick suddenly threw at his face. He twisted the twelve-year-old's arm, bringing the boy to his knees.
"You will fly tonight, and then you will spend the rest of our time here locked away in the customs box," the man stated, his tone low and dangerous. "And if you're lucky, we'll remember you're in there when we come to our next stop."
Marco let go of the small wrist, turned around, and angrily stomped away. Dick sat on his knees, his right arm cradled against his chest and dark anger burning in his light-blue eyes.
"Dominic," Maria began as she knelt down beside him, "why do…"
"I am not Dominic," Dick spat, "so leave me alone."
His features twisted in pain when she touched his right arm. There was already a large bruise forming, and Maria fervently hoped that nothing was broken.
"You still have a performance tonight, Dominic. Get some ice and pull yourself together. And for heaven's sake, just do the double with the half twist."
Maria stood up and went to her dressing table. She began applying her makeup, glancing over at Dick every few seconds.
"Dom, you know where the ice is," she stated. "Go get some and get ready to perform."
"No," Dick responded. "I'm staying here, you can't make me perform. I am a Flying Grayson, and from now on I will only fly if I'm performing with The Flying Graysons."
"Dom, they're dead. You are a Flying Rosselli, you know that, everybody knows that. It's been three years, and you've been playing this part for all that time. The Flying Graysons don't exist. Now, go get the ice!" she commanded.
Dick glared at her for another moment, but the throbbing in his arm convinced him to obey the command. He stood up and walked away, heading for the medical tent. As he stepped into the gray mist of twilight, a memory hit him. He stopped and watched as the world around him shifted.
The big tent was in the wrong spot. It had been on the east side three years ago. The medical tent was on top of where the ticket booth had been. Dick's eyes were watching the general public entering the big tent, but his mind was showing him people rushing out of it. Screams, and the frantic chattering of individuals who had just witnessed something horrific.
He saw his nine-year-old self run out of the entrance, and the white-haired man who had caught him. Dick blinked, then shook his head. The world returned to the present, but the white-haired man was still there.
Dick wanted to run to the man and tell him everything. But he didn't even know who the guy was, or why he had led Dick back into the tent that fateful night. Why would a stranger believe someone he probably didn't even remember meeting?
"You alright, Dom?"
Rob waved his hand in front of Dick's face, then snapped his fingers.
Dick glanced at him, then returned his gaze to the white-haired man. But the guy was gone, probably already finding his seat in the audience.
"Mom told me to give you this," Rob said as he plopped a pack of ice on top of Dick's right arm, which was still cradled against his chest.
"What happened?" the sixteen-year-old asked when Dick flinched.
"Nothing," the twelve-year-old muttered.
"Doesn't look like 'nothing' to me. Dad get mad at you? What'd you do?"
"I said nothing," Dick snapped.
"Okay," the older boy said with a shrug. "Mom also said to tell you to keep that on for fifteen minutes, then start stretching your arm out. She said it's going to hurt to fly, but that she believes in you or some crap like that."
Rob grinned, and wasn't surprised when Dick didn't respond.
"Well, see you in twenty," the teen threw over his shoulder as he walked away.
Dick turned his back to the main tent and stared into the darkness that was slowly creeping in. He wanted to walk away into that darkness, but he had nowhere to go and no resources to be able to do it.
Gotham City. The boy involuntarily shuddered. This was where his life had ended. Pretending to be a Flying Rosselli was not a life, it was a soul-shattering lie that betrayed the memory of his parents.
Dick wondered if anybody had buried his parents. There was nobody in this place who had known them, so where had their bodies gone? A tear slipped down his cheek, but he ignored it.
A chorus of cheers swelled out of the big tent as Dick took a tentative step into the encroaching darkness. Then another, and another.
"Shouldn't you be getting ready?" a deep voice said from the blackest part of the darkness.
A man dressed all in black stepped into view, and Dick stared at him. Fear, and a little bit of amusement, filled his eyes. The man was dressed like a…maybe it was a bat? He was tall, and very muscular, and somewhat intimidating to the twelve-year-old boy.
Dick backed away, then turned and raced back to the set-up tent. Batman watched him go, wondering why the boy was awkwardly holding his arm while he ran. Dominic had been a silhouette, the bright lights preventing Batman from seeing details, so the usually-observant hero hadn't noticed the ice pack.
The Caped Crusader silently followed the boy. He circled to the back of the set-up tent, listening carefully. There were many voices, some of them nervous and others excited. Batman continued circling until he heard a snippet that interested him.
"…extra flip he did last night. I can catch him either way."
It was a woman's voice – one he had briefly heard last night – and Batman assumed she was talking about one of her sons. Someone had made a mistake, but she was good enough to get them through it. A memory popped into Batman's head – the look Rosselli had given his youngest son when talking about making their performance look easy.
So, it was Dominic who had messed up, which explained the tension between the father and son last night. Alfred was right, it was a family spat. And rightfully so, because the boy could have died if his mother hadn't been able to catch him.
"…his dominant arm. You're too easily angered, Marco."
Batman had missed something, but the meaning of the casual comment was not hard to decipher. The image of Dominic awkwardly holding his right arm flashed through the man's mind. Alfred was both right and wrong, which meant Batman was also right. He decided to watch the performance and then greet the Rossellis in person, after they were done with the crowd. The Caped Crusader had some questions for all of them.
Fifty-eight minutes later:
Dick followed Rob up the rope ladder. His right arm was slightly swollen, and the bruise was so dark that Maria had used three layers of foundation to try to cover it up. It hurt just to grab the rungs of the rope ladder, and Dick was not looking forward to what was going to be a painful performance. And it had all started because he had replaced a half twist with an extra flip.
He had done it on purpose. Marco had integrated a Flying Grayson sequence into their choreography, because it was something Dick knew how to do easily. The man had added a half twist out of a double back; it had been a quadruple with no twist when Dick was with his parents.
But Dick Grayson had been the only aerialist to ever complete a quadruple back, which meant Dominic Rosselli couldn't do it. Hence the change. So, just for last night, Dick had added a rotation and taken out the twist. His own way of paying tribute to his family, whose bodies were somewhere in the vicinity of Gotham City. Dick assumed that, anyway.
The bright spotlights turned on the four aerialists, and Dick hid behind Rob as he usually did. Rob unhooked the bar and gave it to Dick, who grabbed it with his left hand. He placed his right hand on the bar and gave a squeeze, testing the pain level. Surprisingly, it wasn't too bad. Dick squeezed a little tighter, closer to the firm grip he needed while swinging. Painful, but something he decided he could handle.
Marco jumped off the other platform. Dick counted two and a half swings then jumped off his platform. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision as the weight of his entire body was placed onto the muscles in his arms and the grips of his hands. He was so startled by them that he forgot to let go.
"Dom!" Roberto half-yelled half-whispered as Dick went into the backswing. "What are you doing?!"
Dick refocused, hoping Marco would be prepared to catch him a swing after he was supposed to. His right hand slipped off the bar as he swung forward, and he heard the loud gasp of the crowd.
A Flying Rosselli had never done any trick one-handed. But Dick was a Flying Grayson, and had learned how to do a double back from one arm when he was six. So, he let go and curled himself into a small ball, rotated twice, then kicked out and stretched both arms over his head.
The hands that caught him out of a one-armed trick were not the ones he had expected. Instead of the calloused but gentle hands of John Grayson, they were the rough hands of Marco Rosselli. Marco tossed him up to the platform and swung back to catch the other bar.
"Dominic Rosselli, what were you thinking?" Maria whispered harshly.
Dick was finding it hard to breathe. The black spots were silver now, and were stationary instead of dancing. His right arm felt like it had been split open to the bone, which was now being poked with needles.
Maria disappeared when the bar came swinging back, and Dick dropped to his knees. It was almost his turn again, but the pain was intense. Did it really matter if he finished? He was going in the "keep Dominic away from the prying eyes of customs agents" box after this anyway.
My little Robin is a natural flyer.
That was one of his earliest memories of his parents. His mom had proudly said that to his dad on the day Dick had successfully executed a backflip from a bar on the lowest setting.
A Flying Grayson never gives up, son.
That had been his dad, after three frustrating dress rehearsals in a row. In each rehearsal he had missed the quadruple, which meant another chance to debut it in a performance had been wasted. Dick had wanted to stop, convinced that he would never be able to do it.
"A Flying Grayson always finishes a performance," Dick whispered to himself.
The bar was coming back, so Dick stood up, took a deep breath and jumped. He grabbed the bar, causing a sharp pain to sprint from his wrist to his shoulder. Ignoring the feeling of knives in his muscles, Dick performed the double with the half twist.
He couldn't get his right arm to move after he let go of the bar, so Dick stretched his left as far as he could and hoped Maria could handle catching just one. She did, easily. It wasn't as smooth as it would have been with his mom, but Maria's grasp on his left wrist and forearm was solid.
"You're done," she whispered. "You're hurt, and I won't have you dying on me."
She let him go at the apex of her backswing, and he landed lightly on the platform. Marco glared at him, then pointed to the ground. Dick widened his eyes, then began the long, slow climb down the rope ladder. Alone. The crowd fell silent, and Dick felt his face heat up. They were all watching him take a shameful, solitary journey. It was the most humiliating moment of his young life. A moment he would not soon forget.