Chapter Text
Whistling in the ring is a well-known superstition amongst circus folk. It’s said to bring bad luck to the entire tent. No circus child quite knows where the superstition aspect started. But typically, it indicates something is very wrong.
In the olden days, the circus riggers communicated through whistling. If anyone entered the tent whistling, it could ruin an entire set, ruining a performer’s timing or worse. A stray whistler could destroy an entire safety net.
The children of the circus don’t need to know the grim details–oftentimes they’re simply told a tall-tale. Their minds fill in the blanks. Maybe whistling ruins a knife thrower’s timing. Or maybe it came from a monster lurking in the shadows.
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Lights flash, the crowd cheers, and thunderous applause fills the tent as the son of the world-renowned acrobatic trio leaps into the light of the center ring.
In the air, his muscle memory takes over. After thousands of hours of practicing and conditioning, acrobatics were second nature to him. As he flies, his parents' words echo in his head: your partner is your safety net—there to catch you if you fall.
His confidence never wavers. In himself nor in his partner. The crowd roars as young Dick Grayson’s arms latch onto his mother’s. The force of Dick’s landing nearly takes them to the starting pole but an expert acrobat like Dick knows how to swing his body the correct way to use his momentum however he pleases. The trapeze bar takes the mother-son duo back towards the center ring, where Dick flips and twists in the spotlight. He revels in the shine, absorbing the cheers from a crowd of smiling faces. On the come down, the boy is caught by his father swinging from the opposite pole. From there, Dick flips towards the starting platform. And his mother, Mary, follows. Finally his father, John, lands beside them. The trio of Graysons pose on the platform, basking in the spotlight where Mary’s golden bracelet sparkles. Two golden robins perch on the bracelet’s band, gifted to her by a little robin of her own as an early Mother’s Day gift.
Little robins from her little robin, she thought. A nickname she bestowed upon Dick for the way his red-breasted tunic flew through the air during his performances. The crowd erupts once.
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“The Flying Graysons, everybody!" A raspy, surly voice echoes through the microphone. "Thank you, Gotham, for a wonderful show tonight! We can’t wait to have you back again tomorrow for another performance-filled evening with death-defying stunts! Witness The Flying Grayson’s signature performance: The Quadruple Somersault! A trick that's stupefied artists around the world. In the 143-year history of trapeze flying, the Graysons are the ONLY accomplished flyers to achieve this trick! Join us tomorrow and witness, not one, not two, not even three, but FOUR aerial spins, topping 80! Miles! Perrrrrr hour! ...all… WITHOUT. A. NET!"
Ringmaster Haly closes the show to joyous applause from the crowd, "Thank you folks, and we'll see you tomorrow!" The stage lights dim. The curtain closes. One by one the Graysons climb down their ladder to exit backstage. Haly, however, exits another way.
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As Dick walks toward the tent, he's curious about where Haly's heading. Something’s off, he thought. Haly’s never nervous in front of a crowd, but now here he is tugging at his shirt collar like it’s choking him, glancing over his shoulder, peeking through the curtain as the crowd exits their seats, fumbling to find the off-switch on his mic. Curious, Dick thought. But the thoughts leave his mind as he and his parents pass the tent flaps into the staging area.
❝Geez, you guys were right! Haly really goes no-holds-barred in Gotham! Did you see me up there?!❞ The boy's practically leaping out of his red and green leotard.
“You did great, son," Mary lovingly states.
"It’s a hungry city, kiddo. Some places just never stop wanting more. Plus, they could use some entertainment.” John replied. “Now, go get some water, then we’ll see if Mr. Haly needs help taking things down for the night. We leave right after tomorrow’s show.”
A short weekend stop anywhere can be hectic, and almost every performer carries their weight. Especially with the Gotham shows. The circus can afford the venue only every so often, but it is vital for the company. In years past, they were able to play Gotham multiple times a year. This year? Just stopping in town once. Show business has changed.
As soon as Dick spots a case of water atop a stack of supply boxes, he overhears something he knows he shouldn’t be listening to. The curious boy hides beside the boxes, just out of sight.
“Mr. Zucco, for the last time. I said no. This is an honest business.” A whispered gruff and raspy voice says to a short, portly man.
“The circus is a dying industry, old man… Would be a shame if it went tits up. S’all I’m sayin.” The portly man replied before walking off into the shadows of the tent.
“Dick! We’re needed outside. Where’d you–“ His father unknowingly interrupts his eavesdropping, “there you are!” He says as he drags his son out from the supply box tower. Dick turns to catch the two men as he's dragged off, not more than 10 feet away. He noticed Haly walking away after the commotion, and who he presumed to be Mr. Zucco, a portly Italian fellow with slicked-back hair. Dick couldn’t see much, but he knows what he heard: Mr. Zucco walking out of the tent and whistling along to the carnival music.