Maximum: Batman #5

“Damn everything but the circus.”
Corita Kent

“Time is a circus, always packing up and moving away.”
Ben Hecht




Dick Grayson did a double flip in the air as he let go of the trapeze, and caught his mother's left hand, but not her right.

The resulting wrench on both their bodies was somewhat awkward, but eventually he lunged up with his other hand.

Staring up into her face as they swung to safety, he saw understanding, but also disapproval

As she helped him up, he hung his head in shame. There was no lecture; there was no need. He was a Grayson, not one of those foolish marks who came to the circus and was fleeced of their money. He was smarter, and more physically fit. He was supposed to be better. He needed to be better.

So his mother, seeing his head hung and shoulders bowed, understanding that he knew the lesson without it having to be spoken, simply said, “Again, with your father this time.”

He looked up at her and nodded. They turned, pivoted, and launched anew.



The Consortium was still reeling from their utter failure to kill Batman, and Bane's rebellion and escape. Their profits were down, and several low-ranking thugs were actually challenging their authority!

The offenders would be killed, of course, but that didn't solve the essential problem of falling profits. In fact, it might exacerbate it.

Four of them sat unhappily in their main meeting chamber. Thorne and Commissioner Breyfogle were amongst them.

“Call whomever you need,” one of the other two was saying. “Bane failed, and then betrayed us, but clearly he hurt the Bat.”

“He'll have had time to heal since then,” Thorne said morosely

“Yes, but the idea is sound,” Breyfogle insisted. “Try again. Recruit more. Recruit as many as needed, until the Bat falls.”

Thorne nodded. “I'll take him out, you can count on that.” He knew what they weren't saying; that if he didn't kill Batman soon, they'd kill him and replace him with Breyfogle or Winick. He wondered how much time he had. No Consortium boss in Gotham had ever faced a challenge quite like this one. Uneasy lay the head that wore the metaphorical bloody crown. “Any other business?”

“The Haly Circus is coming to town,” one of them said. “This might be a good opportunity to diversify and properly expand beyond the city, thus offsetting our losses.”

“Strong arm them?” Thorne said thoughtfully. “Sounds good. Right, one of you take care of that while I focus on whacking the Bat.”



Batman was still aching in almost every muscle, especially his ankles, but he was on the mend.

He had actually not gone out tonight. Instead he was working on the car.

It had been “finished” for four days now....by the standards of, say, a police department other than Gotham that had wanted a SWAT vehicle. But that was not, of course, nearly enough for Batman.

Naturally it had many special enhancements that no SWAT unit could even dream of....but that did not mean it was ready for what Batman wanted it to do.

With some help from Alfred, he had been working on it for the last three days. Last night he had actually stayed in to further work on the car. It would not be ready tonight, but it would be soon.

“The main concern,” Alfred said, looking up from a diagnostic readout,” is that the nitrous boost engine still isn't stable. You could launch forward so fast you'd go smashing through a building before you could even turn.”

“Like the old Darwin Award urban myth story,” Batman agreed absently. “The mix will take several more days. And I'm not entirely happy with the pinpoint steering yet either....” He sighed and slid out from under the car. “And aside from the battering ram front bumper, we've not even begun to install the weapons yet.”

“There's no help for it, sir.” Alfred sighed. “I project that it won't be complete for at least a week.”

“If not two,” Batman agreed. “More swinging from the rooftops.”

“Can I persuade you to take another night off, sir?”

“Doubt it, old friend. But there's this; I think it will be a shorter and more circumspect patrol tonight,”

“Small mercies,” muttered Alfred.



Gordon had taken a sick day; rare for him. But then, he wasn't really sick. This was more.....fieldwork. Research.

He slipped into a modestly prosperous street shortly before the sun went down. He entered and office complex, took a flight of stairs instead of an elevator, and knocked on a glass-paned door with the words “Nashton Investigations” stenciled on it.

“Come in,” a light, somewhat nasal voice answered.

Gordon opened the door and saw a small, thin man sitting behind a desk. He stood, looking perhaps half a size too small for the dark green business suit he wore. Beneath this was an unremarkable blue shirt and black tie, and similar dark green pants.

“Mister Nashton,” Gordon said in roughly equal measures of relief and annoyance, “Your reputation precedes you.”

“As does yours, Lieutenant Gordon,” Nashton returned easily. “The most honest attack dog in this cesspool of a city. I take it this visit is official?”

“Just the opposite. You never saw me, I was never here, you have no idea where the money I'll be paying you is coming from.”

Nashton frowned. “You have a plan of some sort?”

“More like the need of one,” Gordon ruefully admitted. “An idea. Can I sit down?”

“Please, of course. Nothing but iced tea while I'm on duty, I'm afraid.”

“Iced tea would be fine,” Gordon replied honestly. “Sugar?”

“Pre-sweetened.”

“Ah.”

They sipped their drinks for a moment. “Now, to business. What idea is it exactly, that you have?”

“By now you've heard about the costumed vigilante.”

“Ah yes, the Bat-man in our midst!” Nashton grinned. “You want me to track him down?”

“Not exactly. He's....already contacted me and offered some unofficial help.”

Nashton blinked three times. Then he drew a breath and said, “I see....so what do you need me for, then?”

Gordon grimaced. “I can't turn him in...they'd kill him in seconds. In fact that's our standing orders, though you didn't hear me say that either. But he's a loose cannon, dangerous, and out of control. I want to be able to reign him in somehow.”

Nashton frowned thoughtfully. “How do you plan on doing that?”

“That's where you come in. With your investigative skills, and your ability to work outside even my rather lenient remit, you can get me some leverage on him.”

The private investigator's frown deepened. “What, some incriminating dirt? How am I supposed to find that out if I don't even know who he is?”

“Exactly. The only 'dirt' I need is that one incriminating piece of information. Uncover his secret identity, and that will give me leverage enough. Then he'll have to toe the line and work for me, not his own agenda.”

Nashton sat back and whistled. “Wow. What makes you think I wouldn't sell that information once I got it, assuming I can get it?”

“Like I said, your reputation precedes you. It's no accident I picked you for this.”

“Well.....” Nashton rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “I'll give you this much; it should be a very interesting riddle to solve...”



The next day, Consortium representatives visited the newly-arrived Circus.

“This isn't how it's supposed to work,” Haly explained patiently to the two strong, grim men who visited him in the trailer that served as both his office and his home.

“Oh really?” one of them cracked his knuckles.

“Yes, really.” Haly sighed. “I give you a cut of the profits for the privilege of performing in Gotham, and you leave me alone. The end. That's the way it's worked for four generations.”

“Times change, old man. The price has gone up. We need to you to give a bigger cut, and help us with our business outside of town.”

“Because of this bat-man, I presume,” Haly smiled thinly. “Cutting into your profits eh? Too bad for you. Go tell your bosses I will pay the regular fee and no more. Or maybe I'll just cut Gotham out of my tour from now on. I hear Star City is lovely this time of year.”

One of the thugs made a move, but the other held him back. “Oh, we'll tell the bosses, all right. After that your life won't be worth spit.”

Haly shrugged.

As the two moved away from the trailer, the younger thug was fuming. “We can't let old fools push us around like that!”

“I know, man. You're right. But we're gonna handle this our way. We're gonna make Haly pay, all right. But not by hurting him personally.”

The younger thug frowned. “Whaddaya mean?”

The older, more experienced criminal grinned unpleasantly, showing several silver teeth. “Like you said, he's an old fool. He's so old, he knows he ain't got too many years left. His own achin body ain't a big concern anymore. Guys like that, all they have left is their legacy. So we hurt his business. Then he'll see reason.”

“So what do we do, whack some of his carnies?”

“Yeah, but not the way you mean. We get inside help.....”



“A circus?” Bruce asked incredulously.

“The Haly Circus,” Alfred said softly. “I believe your father was fond of it.”

Bruce looked at Alfred with honest puzzlement. No irritation, but simple confusion. “Alfred, I have to fix the Batmobile. I have to go out on patrol. We've made a good start, but we can't ever let up.”

“I agree sir,” Alfred said. “And I also agree with something your father once said; 'A man should never lose himself in his work, or he forgets what that work was for.' And you can always go on patrol or work on the Batmobile afterwards. I wouldn't ever ask you to let up. I also wouldn't ask you to burn yourself out to the point where you cannot continue your fight.”

A light began to dawn for Bruce. “This is your way of making sure I don't go out on patrol every night, isn't it?”

“I said you could go after sir, and I'm sure you will. Your father....didn't he take you to the circus? This particular one?”

“Once or twice,” Bruce admitted. “Of course, things were different then.”

“Gotham wasn't,” Alfred reminded him gently.

“No, you're right. If it were, we would not be here now, and my parents would still be alive.” Bruce blew out a sigh. “All right, I'll go.”



The two thugs had to be careful. You couldn't approach just anybody. If they went up to random carnies, they would get ratted out. The cops wouldn't do anything, not in this town, but they would leave empty handed, and Haly would pack up his tents and never come back. And that just wasn't an option. You had to know who to look for, someone who was both tough and desperate. Fortunately in their business, they knew that look well.

They found what they were looking for in the Chief Clown, a man who was tired and haggard under his make up. He was slowly going fat, and his smile had lost some of it's lustre.

“Yeah, I'll help you,” he said, and breathed out a sigh. “I owe some people money. Not here in Gotham, thankfully.”
The two thugs chuckled. “Yeah, or we'd know about it, and we wouldn't be asking, either,” the older one said. “We'd be telling. But it's one thing to say you'll help us, another to actually do it. Cuz if you don't.....” he left the threat hanging.

The Chief Clown nodded. “Tell me what it is.”

They told him what they had come up with. The Clown blinked once....then nodded slowly. “It's them or me. I need the money.”

“So you'll do it?”

The Clown nodded. “Tonight.” His expression hardened. “I was never that fond of them, anyway.”



Dick swung back and forth on the trapeze, wider and wider swings each time. He was determined not to fail his parents again, and make them look bad in front of all the foolish marks down there. His parents were pleased with his renewed energy and angry enthusiasm.

None of them saw the Chief Clown quietly sneaking around below.

He had to work quickly, and more importantly he had to sabotage their ropes without suspicion, and in a way they wouldn't notice until it was too late. But that was hard to do with them still up there practicing. So he waited. They would have to leave the ropes up for the actual marks tonight. In the meantime, he could sabotage the safety net.....



For the circus, Bruce had brought with him a rather smarter “high society” date than usual. Doctor Chase Meridian certainly looked the part; a stunning redhead. But she was also a criminal psychologist.

Bruce was...uneasy in her presence. He kept up the sad rich orphan act that had served him his entire life; that he was a lonely, tired man who had never recovered his nerve since the death of his parents. She was sympathetic, but her eyes were probing, as if wondering if he was hiding something. It made him uncomfortable.

They sat in seats close to the floor, about three rows up. It had been a long time....a long time since he had been here. Since he had done anything like this. Pretending to be some kind of normal....yes, that he could do....but to do one of the things he had done as a child with his parents before he had died....that bordered on the intolerable.

Relax, Alfred's voice said inside his head. And Bruce forced himself to. He could enjoy this, and he would.

“I'm told the acrobats are particularly good,” Chase Meridian said.

Bruce nodded, looking upwards. “The Flying Graysons. They go back four generations.”

“You know?” Chase raised an eyebrow at him.

He offered a sad smile that was partly genuine. “My parents took me to this same circus as a child. Before...”

“Oh, Bruce, I'm sorry.” She put a hand on his shoulder.

“No, it's all right. It's an old pain, and many have suffered more than I.”

She looked closely at him. “No pain should be discounted.”

“Of course not.”

Chase looked like she wanted to say more, but she sighed and settled into her chair. Bruce was relieved It wouldn't do for her to get too curious about him.

The Circus began.



Dick felt much better about his performance tonight, and his parents did too. His spirits were up. Everything was looking much better now. His young heart soared in his chest.

This was how it was supposed to be! Life burning like lightning bolts in his veins as he jumped and leapt from one side of the big top to the other, with only his parents and the trapeze and the sound of his heart pounding in his own ears.

The crowd? The marks? They were important only that they give him a stage to do what he did. Of course they are impressed, that's what they're there for. Like the gypsies he was distantly descended from, they exist to serve people like him, however much they might view it otherwise. People like him, and his parents; people who really lived.

This time he grabbed both of his mother's hands, solidly and firmly. They came to the platform, stood proud for a long moment, and then they were off again. Now it was Dick's turn to carry his mother, instead of the reverse.

He heard an odd creak, and frowned, but was determined not to make another mistake like that morning in practice, so he kept going. His flung his mother into his father's waiting arms.

Another, louder creak.

As he landed on the platform, he looked over at his dad, who frowned and shrugged. The routine wasn't that long; and they couldn't stop in the middle of a show. And if something did go wrong, well, that was what the safety net was for.

Which is not to say they weren't worried. But like all professionals, they went on with the show.

There are moments that stand out in every person's life for Dick Grayson, this was such a moment.

As his father tossed him his mother for what must have been the ten thousandth time, there was a terrible noise behind him.

SNAP!

It was a horrible sound, and what it meant was distressing. But even so Dick was sure his father would survive. He stared into his mother's worried face as they swung back towards the platform. As they did, there was another terrible noise below them.

THUD!

His mother screamed. The entire circus screamed. The marks in their seats stood up and screamed.

Dick stared down.

At his father lying in a pool of blood and the collapsed safety net.

Dick could not scream.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

They had almost reached the platform, but Dick was barely aware of the fact; all he knew was his father was dead.

Then the SNAP repeated himself.

Now he and his mother were falling, and there was no net to save them.

Even though his brain had shut down from shock, Dick's body still knew what to do. His feet kicked out desperately for the ledge, his hands tried to grab his mother again.

But while his feet successfuly anchored him to the ledge, all his hands grabbed was a single glove.

A single glove.

His mother fell.

And still Dick could not scream.

The THUD repeated itself also.

For the last time.



Two other people did not scream.

One of them was the Chief Clown. He cringed back and did his best to feign a look of horror; an angry grimace was the best he could muster. Nobody else noticed.

The other person who wasn't screaming was Bruce Wayne.

He stood, frozen, rooted to the spot, already knowing it was too late.

Two words chased eachother through his brain, over and over.

Not again.

But it had happened again.

He turned and stared upwards at a boy, the child of the Grayson family.

Looking at him, Bruce saw himself.