Dynamic

April 6, 1940

The cave was never completely silent. The flutter of membranous wings drew attention to the vast chasms that loomed above, the thin trickle of water that slunk through the far reaches of the network into tunnels too distant to ever fully be mapped. As a child, Bruce would have found this place nightmarish, but now it was a temple, a place of respite.

Bruce lay on his back, on top of a wheeled platform, a wrench in hand. He was wedged below the undercarriage of the car and he performed his work slowly, painstakingly, with only one good arm afforded to the task. The other was bound tightly in a sling. It, paired with the bruises and cuts on his face and neck that had only just faded enough to be out in public again, were the price of his latest duel with Doctor Death. The arm prevented extensive time in costume. Preserving his cover meant long hours out of the public eye, which meant more time to work in the cave.

The current project was the car that the public had begun to call the Batmobile. Bruce appreciated the name enough that he found himself referring to it the same way. It was a monstrous vehicle, a jet black menace adorned with the crest of the bat, a single fin running the length of the hood. All the best technology of Wayne Enterprises had found its way into the design. Bruce was never fully satisfied, perpetually tinkering with it in his spare time, a ritual that characterized his interaction with the majority of his gear. There was always room for improvement.

"Master Bruce. A phone call for you," said Alfred, his voice rolling down into the cave depths.

"Can it wait?"

"I know how much you enjoy your solitude, but I believe Ms. Madison would appreciate a direct response."

Julie. Bruce grimaced, sliding out from under the Batmobile. He had been putting off talking to her.

"On my way."

Bruce ascended back to the manor proper, taking the phone from Alfred.

"Hello," he said.

"The great Bruce Wayne has finally deigned to speak to me," said Julie. Bruce flinched. This would be as unpleasant as he feared.

"Julie, I'm sorry for being out of touch, it's just…"

"Listen Bruce, it was bad enough you stood me up again last week, but then you have the gall to ignore me. I thought I ranked enough for at least a call," she said. Their date had been interrupted by the incident with Doctor Death. And the time before that with a jewelry theft.

"At risk of being repetitive, I am sorry Julie. Something came up, with the company. It couldn't wait."

"You make such a show out of flaunting your responsibilities when it suits you, but as soon as you need an excuse its the company this, Wayne Enterprises that. You can't have it both ways Bruce."

"I don't think anything I say right now will make it better…"

"You're right about that."

"...but I want to make it up to you. The last thing I want is for you to think that I don't care Julie. I do."

There was a silence on the line, the kind that sucked all the air out of the conversation. Bruce was genuinely surprised at how much he had come to care for her. It wasn't a possibility the mission had afforded him in its conception.

"I called to tell you I'm leaving Gotham for a few weeks. Around a month."

"What?"

"I've a friend in California. She's invited me to spend time out there. I decided it would be a good change for a while."

"Okay."

"Don't sound too busted up about it, Bruce."

She sighed wearily.

"I want this to work too Bruce. But I'm too tired to play at silly games these days. If you can't be more committed to this, then I can't do it. Think on that."

She hung up before he could respond. Alfred watched him impassively from the doorway.

"The affairs of the heart are seldom easily comprehended even in mundane circumstances, to say nothing of your own particular situation, sir. I hope that for your sake and Ms. Madison's something can work out."

"I have my doubts Alfred."

"I appreciate the effect that Ms. Madison has on your mood after your excursions."

Bruce had done his best to appear nonchalant with his feelings toward her, a mere extension of his cover, but it was nearly impossible to hide things from the man who raised him.

"There was one other thing," said Alfred. "A signal from Alan Scott."

"When?"

"A few minutes ago, during Ms. Madison's call. He wishes to meet."

"Then I better not keep him waiting."

Batman met Alan Scott at the abandoned construction site near the old rail lines. They gathered beneath the skeletal frames of steel plaster, decaying slowly, like the neighborhood around it. He did a quick survey to make sure that Alan came alone, without ill intent. Nothing in his research indicated that his visitor was prone to underhanded tactics, but he possessed too much raw power to be taken lightly.

The cape concealed much of Batman's form, including his stiff and injured arm, held still by layers of wraps. The less he had to move the better. Alan was in his civilian clothing, though the ring glowed with promise.

"I've been in Gotham much more on account of my work. Though I'm sure you know that. Still getting used to its… charms," said Alan.

"What do you have for me?" said Batman.

Alan opened a satchel he wore over his shoulder, retrieving a bundle of documents in a leather binder.

"I did a bit of digging on my own. And some with the JSA, though the others don't know yet."

"Your findings?"

"You were right about the scale of the operation. These shipments have hit New York, Metropolis, Miami, Boston, even Opal. I've stopped at least two on my own."

"The cargo?"

"More of the same. Weapons, chemicals and equipment."

It confirmed what Batman already knew. That the operation was far larger than the players in Gotham. Maroni and the Penguin were just middle-men, useful for their local connections, nothing more.

"Have you made any progress in finding where they end up?" asked Batman.

"None. If it makes it off the docks, its gone."

A similar outcome to his own investigations.

"Not all a dead end though. One of the men moving the last shipment wasn't thorough enough," said Alan. He flicked Batman a golden coin. Engraved in its length was a jagged claw, marked diagonally by black slashes.

"A lead."

He recalled Falcone's words, that the man behind the operation was another masked figure. Other threats had pulled his attention away from the case. That needed to change. He would need to uproot Maroni even if he had to look under every rock in Gotham.

"Good work. We'll have to become more proactive in finding these caches. Whatever it is they've got planned it can't be good," said Batman. He began to fade into the shadows.

"Wait," said Alan.

He stopped.

"You know I'm with the Justice Society. Hell, I'm their chairman for what it's worth. I know it's not your style, but we're doing good work together. We could use you with us."

To be a part of a group. To work with others, beyond this cloak and dagger business. It was tempting.

"Perhaps one day. But, not today," said Batman as he let the darkness swallow him.

April 11, 1940

The lights of Haly's Circus were bright enough to make Bruce squint whenever they spun over his section of the crowd and the air was thick and musty, the smell of dozens upon dozens of bodies packed into canvas. The edges of the tent flapped with the wind from outside, the walls wavering but holding firm.

At the center of the tent, upon a hastily assembled stage was a man in a bright blue and red suit, adorned with a tall top hat of garish proportions. He barked out to the crowd in hyperbolic fashion, promising all manner of wild, lurid spectacle, which the crowd fed back to him with their raucous cheers, whistles and applause.

They clapped for the strongman, who hefted colossal works of steel, who sauntered around with the platform that the ringleader stood on, his brow pinched, his muscles strained, but unbowing. They gasped at the lion tamer, who led the fearsome beast through rings wreathed in flame, mounted horsemen performing acrobatic maneuvers around the rim of the arena. They held their breath as the knife thrower filled in a perfect outline of their assistant, strapped tight to a spinning board with a hypnotic pattern. Marvel after marvel was brought out, all with the same overblown enthusiasm from the ring leader, one C. C. Haly himself.

For all the potent theatricality of the acts, Bruce found it hard to focus. His mind continued to drift away, to the tasks that awaited him in his other half. Even being here at all was a compromise, a concession to Alfred.

"I've no time for the circus," Bruce had told Alfred, waving off the tickets. They were meant for Julie, a wasted effort now that she was away to warmer climes.

"Bruce Wayne has been gone from public long enough. It would serve you nicely to be in such a prominent place. Besides, I believe that too much more time alone in that cave and I shall find you sleeping on the ceiling beside your namesake."

Alfred was correct and Bruce took his place in the packed stands beneath the red and white striped walls of Haly's circus tent. They were one of the more famous troupes in the country, having traveled even Europe and North Africa in years passed. It had been ages since Bruce attended such a show. His parents were fond of such displays, particularly his mother, who loved theater and opera and dances and performers.

Still, he could not remain in the here and now, even as he tried. His mind returned to the matter of untangling the strands that made up this phantom network of smugglers. It was hard to accept that an operation of this size was taking place in his city, one that had the potential to do serious damage. Finding the caches or destinations of the goods was a start, but the battle was only truly won if he could bring down the leadership. The freak at the top as Falcone had said.

This was on top of his ongoing look into Ace Chemicals and their many leaks, literal or otherwise. And the slow burning gang war between Falcone, Maroni and Cobblepot. And the gradual cleaning up of the GCPD, a task he shared with Captain Gordon, freshly promoted and in a power struggle with his less scrupulous comrades. And the rash of jewelry thefts by the burglar going by the name Catwoman. And the standard tide of crime and depravity that rose to the surface each day in Gotham.

Bruce had few illusions about the difficulty of the mission, but there were moments that threatened to submerge him in their magnitude, to drown him through the sheer scale of the problem. The past few weeks felt like a dead sprint, barely keeping ahead of the competition. It was enough to keep his thoughts orbiting close to the JSA. They had done well since their inception earlier this year. But, was it worth a potential compromise to his independence?

The crowd boomed in volume, brought about by an announcement that slipped past Bruce's attention. Many of them stood to get a better view and at last he joined them.

"You've been a wonderful audience, the best a man could hope for. You've given your best for all the performers so far, but we all know what you're waiting for. You're here to see the impossible. The death-defying. The stupendous. The one and only Flying Graysons!" shouted Haly.

The lights blinked off, swiftly enough to elicit a few squeals of excitement from the masses. They remained in dark long enough to crest the swell of anticipation. A lone searchlight cut through the tent, crawling up one of the towering poles that ran the full height of the space.

It stopped at the peak, illuminating an outcropping on which stood a lone man, dressed in a red and green leotard. A thin bar with ropes running up into the darkness above was affixed near him. A second beam lit up, finding the opposite platform on which a woman was perched. With simultaneous flicks of their wrist, the twin acrobats ran to the edge of their respective platforms, seizing the bars they took flight. The crowd held its breath.

The woman met the man at the apex of her swing, linking her arms around his shoulders in a fluid motion, as they rocked their bodies in tandem to build momentum for the return. As they swung back, a third light came on.

A few more seconds of darkness.

Breath in, breath out, as natural as that.

Unveiled by light. The ripple of cries. Goosebumps every time.

A three count, no more, no less.

One.

Two.

Three.

Step, step, step. The open air beckons.

Soaring down. Let the fall do the work.

Mom's legs rushing up to meet you. Just extend your arms.

Caught them. Roll with the impact, let it flick through.

Ride that wave, three moving as one.

The lights stream into one, the crowd blurs.

The moment arrives, let go, let the ground lose its grasp.

Use the momentum to roll, once, twice, thrice, four times.

Another solid landing.

Bruce's attention was no longer anywhere but in this tent. The entire audience was rapt with awe at the show. The trio of acrobats didn't just swing through the air, they ruled it, moving every which way a body can in the vaunted space above the crowd.

A certain professional jealousy emerged. Bruce was skilled at acrobatics, a necessary skill for his nightly activities, but these three were on another playing field. They lived it, breathed it, with the ease of those who have been soaring the heavens their whole lives. The boy in particular weaved through the tangle of bodies with grace that scarcely seemed human.

Haly announced them as John, Mary and Dick Grayson.

The crowd's voice rose and fell in time with their performance, each trick drawing more applause than the last. The boy was deposited onto one of the platforms, as the man and the woman swung separate arcs preparing to meet in the middle once more, a climax in the making.

Almost time for the finale.

Dad's ready to jump, mom's about to meet him.

Something at the corner of your eye?

No. No time for distractions.

Dad's aloft. Mom reaches him.

The rope goes taut.

A short gasp. Arms reach for one another.

Someone below screams. Others join in.

"John." A last cry.

Silent as they fall.

A thud that will never leave you.

Falling, but you never left the platform.

The crowd filled with screams and shouts, a frantic terror. Few averted their eyes. The bodies were splayed on the ground, the woman slumped and broken over the man, their arms outstretched like a bird's broken wings. The bare threads of the broken rope lay nearby, close enough for the man's fingers to touch it.

Bruce wasn't looking at them. His gaze went upward, to the tower above, where the spotlight had forgotten to cease its attention.

The boy leaned over the edge, his body tense. He was far enough away that Bruce can't see his expression, but he knew it all the same.

After most of the crowd fled, urged on by the shell shocked circus performers, by Haly, whose voice strained with grief, Bruce remained in the stands.

He watched as the boy descended, without haste, with the knowledge that he would never reach the bottom in time. As the boy crouched over the broken forms of his parents. He watched the slight tremble as the boy touched his mother's shoulder, as he confirmed what he already knew and Bruce Wayne felt the scream that he pushed down all his life come out of the emptiest reaches of his heart.

It happened once more.

The boy was alone.