[week 28, day 5] Flying and Falling... it's all the same until you land...
(warnings for implied violence and death and vaguely disturbing images. Dick isn't AT any specific village yet mainly because RL stinks and I haven't gotten beyond my intro dream, so he found a reason to wander longer than the 30 minutes it would normally take him to get somewhere. Maybe he needed it, or he's done something in the meantime which will be written and backlogged. Who knows? He's near Mizusato, I think, since he was trying to find Jason...)
The air is almost stiflingly warm this high up in the tent, but you don’t care. You can feel the electricity running through your veins already, the thrill of anticipation, the adrenaline rush that always comes from flying, the excitement of being in the center ring. You live for it. You’re high up in the big top with your mother and father. You’re Dick Grayson, of Haly’s Circus’ Flying Graysons.
You flash your mother a blinding grin and grasp the bar of the trapeze, kicking off and swinging through the air, going higher and higher until you have enough momentum to throw yourself free, defying gravity for a long (never long enough) moment, tucking and spinning and reaching blindly for the waiting arms, grasping your father’s strong, calloused hands after a perfectly-executed quad. You spin and flip, a laughing daredevil child, leaping and flying and finally landing back at your mother’s side on the small platform. Your cheeks are as red as the crimson of your costume, and your eyes sparkle to rival the sequins and rhinestones and the camera flashes in the audience.
They’re far below, a multi-colored blur of color and sound, but you don’t really look at them. You know they’re there and the performance is for them, but you ignore them even as you work the crowd, focusing on your act, on making it flawless, making them laugh and clap and gasp in terror and delight.
Your mother is all business as she steps up to grasp the bar, though a bright, beautiful smile is on her face as well. She works higher and higher and a grin splits your face as you watch her, knowing what’s coming up, the new move your parents have perfected, deciding to debut it tonight in Gotham. She swings once more, higher than before, and then she’s arcing through the air, time slowing.
You’re watching her and then look to your father and then you’re frowning, jumping, pointing, waving frantically, screaming out. You see the frayed lines, know it is wrong. The crowd is too loud, though, and your parents too focused on the routine. No one can hear you.
Your father must feel it first... you see him grasp tightly onto her arms as the balance shifts and lurches with her added weight. You see him, see the way he deviates from routine, trying to swing her up to the platform behind him. It’s too late, though, the line is raveling, stretching with the extra weight, and then finally snapping free, throwing them both through the air.
There is no net beneath you, not for this show, this act. This is the showstopper in the big city, the act that will make the three of you and Haly’s Circus famous, draw larger and larger crowds to you all. Definitely no one who watches tonight will ever forget.
Your eyes are glued to the hurtling figures as time seems to slow, despite the ground rushing towards them. Your father is calm and graceful, even though he knows what is happening, making a show of it all and grinning even in the face of certain death. Your mother is off balance as she falls headfirst, but she looks up at you, blows me a kiss, doesn’t bother twisting or controlling her fall.
It can’t be happening, and you remember the man from before, can see his face before you now, the way he argued with Pop Haly, the cruel, sneering words. You remember seeing a man near the walls of the tent before the show. A stranger. He shouldn’t have been there. No one should have except the other members of the circus. No one had had time to listen to you, though, not before such a big show, and you’d let it pass as just another lost circus-goer.
I love you...
You’d do anything to save them, to go back and make it all right again.
It doesn’t matter. Your father lands first, with a dull thud in the now silent tent. And then the screams begin. She lands but a fraction of a second after, on top of him. You know that part isn’t accident. He changed his trajectory, planned it all out as he fell, breaking her fall. A dull puddle of red seeps beneath him into the sawdust, drawing your eye. It is the same color as your costume.
You are already jumping for a rope, almost falling yourself when you misjudge the distance. You can’t wait to climb down the ladder. You know she’s still alive. You have to get there, You have to help, you have to tell them you love them, tell them you’re sorry, you have to...
You jump, and swing through the air. The bodies disappear, the roar of the crowd fades, but you’re still dressed in crimson, splashes of emerald and canary yellow a gaudy counterpoint lighting up the dark night. Most of the crowd has faded away. Your gaze locks with another’s for a moment, and you see sympathy, pain, understanding before the shutters fall down into place and the big form moves back into the shadows.
Surprisingly, you also see the young boy you posed with, earlier than evening. He’d been with his parents, smiling and looking up at you adoringly even as the picture was taken. You’d felt uncomfortable but touched, as well, and ruffled his hair with a grin and a promise that you’d throw a quad, just for him. He walks into the shadows, as well, and you frown, realizing you’re all alone. You drop to the ground, searching for anyone, hearing the distant sound of traffic, smelling the stench of garbage in the alleyways, seeing the gray-orange hazy murk that is Gotham’s nightsky.
You look down, still momentarily surprised to see shades of black and grey, now, the bat on your chest, the full cowl covering your head, though you’ve worn it before. You still expect to feel the domino on your face, and shades of blue on the uniform. It’s been your identity for so long, now, once you stepped out from Bruce’s shadow.
You step forward, unafraid of the dark, for this is where you dwell, for all that at heart, you are still Robin, still a laughing, smiling child of the light. Robin has always been you, and you, Robin.
You remember your mother holding you, singing to you, calling you her little Robin, her giggling, spring-born child. You remember your father allowing you onto a real trapeze for the first time, watching the net below you as he called out, giving you permission to fly...
You step confidently, fearlessly into the shadows
Bruce?
Tim?
And you see a double gallows ahead, know what’s going to happen even as the batarang flies from your hand, and you rush forwards, trying to catch the judge, to keep him from falling to what you now know will be his death.
No!
A candle flickers, and you hold up your hand, swearing to fight the good fight, to uphold honor and save the weak. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he smiles, and once more your heart swells, and you’re Robin again.
You’re walking down endless mirrored corridors, following a flash or movement up ahead. Anger floods you as you see the purple fabric, the green hair. You pass endless numbers of closed doors, and as you finally see light up ahead and rush forward, you see three open doors. To the left, you see a pool of blood, and Babs lying there, crashed into the coffee table, pictures of her scattered over the floor, over her body. You start to run to her when you hear a beeping from behind.
You turn, see the dark warehouse, the stacks of crates, a bloody crowbar on the ground. A timer is ticking down, showing ten seconds. You can see a green pixie boot sticking out from behind the crate, and you run, leaping through the doorway.
Jason!!!
And then you’re swinging your landlord around, grinning like a lunatic as you graduate from the police academy, smiling, kissing her on the cheek. This is something you’ve done for yourself, and though it hurts that you don’t see him there, sharing your happiness, you don’t let it be more than a minor disappointment.
And then months later, everything has crashed down around you, and your heart is leaden. Blockbuster is dead, the building you lived blown up, with all your neighbors inside. Your career as an actual licensed enforcer of the law is in ruins, and you are numb... the rain falls down, plastering your hair to your face as Catalina pushes you down, whispering softly.
No...
You remember laughing and joking and teasing. A group of teens just as talented in their own ways as you. Roy and Donna and Wally and Garth and...
You remember your first kiss, and the warm, funny way it made you feel.
You remember watching in horror as Raven lets loose a blast of pure energy, killing the priest as you’re preparing to marry your alien princess, and everything falls apart. You look down at the ring and it shifts, morphs.
Babs. You’re holding the ring, looking at it as you offer it to her, barely able to meet her eyes. You remember flying through the air with her at the circus, just months before.
And then you remember the fire. The circus tent going up in flames, and nothing more until your childhood friend, Ziska, carries you out, cradled to her, held in her trunk.
Clark comes to you, gives you the news. You don’t want to believe it, but they have a body. Bruce is dead... He berates you for running around in a dead man’s skin. It stings, especially because Superman means so much to you, has for years. He misses his friend, too, you remind yourself.
But he isn’t gone... only lost, and he’s back, and then going public, sharing with the world that Bruce Wayne has funded Batman for years. And you are still wearing the cowl, your role confirmed, sanctioned, though he’d asked you not to have to do it again, not to have to take his darkness on yourself after the last time. But the world needs a Batman.
And Batman needs a Robin, even when Batman is the one smiling, and Robin is a scowling, cranky menace. Damian takes some getting used to, but he’s yours to teach, to take under your wing, to mold, though in a slightly different way than Bruce did with you.
You remember a recurring dream, and then it is real, yet again... the boy is falling, and you lean forward, grabbing him by the ankle, then fall forward, yourself, beginning to follow him through the air.
[Dick wakes, heart pounding, gasping, tears streaming down his cheeks, and he looks around, lost for a moment until he remembers where he is. He looks down into his hands and sees the device clutched tightly, flecked with a few bright drops of blood where his nails dug into his palms during the nightmare.]
I miss you... Still.
[He throws the thing away from him, and it hits a tree. He is disappointed when there is no satisfying crunch of electronics, and he curls up and shakes, watching the stars above, waiting for dawn.]
The air is almost stiflingly warm this high up in the tent, but you don’t care. You can feel the electricity running through your veins already, the thrill of anticipation, the adrenaline rush that always comes from flying, the excitement of being in the center ring. You live for it. You’re high up in the big top with your mother and father. You’re Dick Grayson, of Haly’s Circus’ Flying Graysons.
You flash your mother a blinding grin and grasp the bar of the trapeze, kicking off and swinging through the air, going higher and higher until you have enough momentum to throw yourself free, defying gravity for a long (never long enough) moment, tucking and spinning and reaching blindly for the waiting arms, grasping your father’s strong, calloused hands after a perfectly-executed quad. You spin and flip, a laughing daredevil child, leaping and flying and finally landing back at your mother’s side on the small platform. Your cheeks are as red as the crimson of your costume, and your eyes sparkle to rival the sequins and rhinestones and the camera flashes in the audience.
They’re far below, a multi-colored blur of color and sound, but you don’t really look at them. You know they’re there and the performance is for them, but you ignore them even as you work the crowd, focusing on your act, on making it flawless, making them laugh and clap and gasp in terror and delight.
Your mother is all business as she steps up to grasp the bar, though a bright, beautiful smile is on her face as well. She works higher and higher and a grin splits your face as you watch her, knowing what’s coming up, the new move your parents have perfected, deciding to debut it tonight in Gotham. She swings once more, higher than before, and then she’s arcing through the air, time slowing.
You’re watching her and then look to your father and then you’re frowning, jumping, pointing, waving frantically, screaming out. You see the frayed lines, know it is wrong. The crowd is too loud, though, and your parents too focused on the routine. No one can hear you.
Your father must feel it first... you see him grasp tightly onto her arms as the balance shifts and lurches with her added weight. You see him, see the way he deviates from routine, trying to swing her up to the platform behind him. It’s too late, though, the line is raveling, stretching with the extra weight, and then finally snapping free, throwing them both through the air.
There is no net beneath you, not for this show, this act. This is the showstopper in the big city, the act that will make the three of you and Haly’s Circus famous, draw larger and larger crowds to you all. Definitely no one who watches tonight will ever forget.
Your eyes are glued to the hurtling figures as time seems to slow, despite the ground rushing towards them. Your father is calm and graceful, even though he knows what is happening, making a show of it all and grinning even in the face of certain death. Your mother is off balance as she falls headfirst, but she looks up at you, blows me a kiss, doesn’t bother twisting or controlling her fall.
It can’t be happening, and you remember the man from before, can see his face before you now, the way he argued with Pop Haly, the cruel, sneering words. You remember seeing a man near the walls of the tent before the show. A stranger. He shouldn’t have been there. No one should have except the other members of the circus. No one had had time to listen to you, though, not before such a big show, and you’d let it pass as just another lost circus-goer.
I love you...
You’d do anything to save them, to go back and make it all right again.
It doesn’t matter. Your father lands first, with a dull thud in the now silent tent. And then the screams begin. She lands but a fraction of a second after, on top of him. You know that part isn’t accident. He changed his trajectory, planned it all out as he fell, breaking her fall. A dull puddle of red seeps beneath him into the sawdust, drawing your eye. It is the same color as your costume.
You are already jumping for a rope, almost falling yourself when you misjudge the distance. You can’t wait to climb down the ladder. You know she’s still alive. You have to get there, You have to help, you have to tell them you love them, tell them you’re sorry, you have to...
You jump, and swing through the air. The bodies disappear, the roar of the crowd fades, but you’re still dressed in crimson, splashes of emerald and canary yellow a gaudy counterpoint lighting up the dark night. Most of the crowd has faded away. Your gaze locks with another’s for a moment, and you see sympathy, pain, understanding before the shutters fall down into place and the big form moves back into the shadows.
Surprisingly, you also see the young boy you posed with, earlier than evening. He’d been with his parents, smiling and looking up at you adoringly even as the picture was taken. You’d felt uncomfortable but touched, as well, and ruffled his hair with a grin and a promise that you’d throw a quad, just for him. He walks into the shadows, as well, and you frown, realizing you’re all alone. You drop to the ground, searching for anyone, hearing the distant sound of traffic, smelling the stench of garbage in the alleyways, seeing the gray-orange hazy murk that is Gotham’s nightsky.
You look down, still momentarily surprised to see shades of black and grey, now, the bat on your chest, the full cowl covering your head, though you’ve worn it before. You still expect to feel the domino on your face, and shades of blue on the uniform. It’s been your identity for so long, now, once you stepped out from Bruce’s shadow.
You step forward, unafraid of the dark, for this is where you dwell, for all that at heart, you are still Robin, still a laughing, smiling child of the light. Robin has always been you, and you, Robin.
You remember your mother holding you, singing to you, calling you her little Robin, her giggling, spring-born child. You remember your father allowing you onto a real trapeze for the first time, watching the net below you as he called out, giving you permission to fly...
You step confidently, fearlessly into the shadows
Bruce?
Tim?
And you see a double gallows ahead, know what’s going to happen even as the batarang flies from your hand, and you rush forwards, trying to catch the judge, to keep him from falling to what you now know will be his death.
No!
A candle flickers, and you hold up your hand, swearing to fight the good fight, to uphold honor and save the weak. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he smiles, and once more your heart swells, and you’re Robin again.
You’re walking down endless mirrored corridors, following a flash or movement up ahead. Anger floods you as you see the purple fabric, the green hair. You pass endless numbers of closed doors, and as you finally see light up ahead and rush forward, you see three open doors. To the left, you see a pool of blood, and Babs lying there, crashed into the coffee table, pictures of her scattered over the floor, over her body. You start to run to her when you hear a beeping from behind.
You turn, see the dark warehouse, the stacks of crates, a bloody crowbar on the ground. A timer is ticking down, showing ten seconds. You can see a green pixie boot sticking out from behind the crate, and you run, leaping through the doorway.
Jason!!!
And then you’re swinging your landlord around, grinning like a lunatic as you graduate from the police academy, smiling, kissing her on the cheek. This is something you’ve done for yourself, and though it hurts that you don’t see him there, sharing your happiness, you don’t let it be more than a minor disappointment.
And then months later, everything has crashed down around you, and your heart is leaden. Blockbuster is dead, the building you lived blown up, with all your neighbors inside. Your career as an actual licensed enforcer of the law is in ruins, and you are numb... the rain falls down, plastering your hair to your face as Catalina pushes you down, whispering softly.
No...
You remember laughing and joking and teasing. A group of teens just as talented in their own ways as you. Roy and Donna and Wally and Garth and...
You remember your first kiss, and the warm, funny way it made you feel.
You remember watching in horror as Raven lets loose a blast of pure energy, killing the priest as you’re preparing to marry your alien princess, and everything falls apart. You look down at the ring and it shifts, morphs.
Babs. You’re holding the ring, looking at it as you offer it to her, barely able to meet her eyes. You remember flying through the air with her at the circus, just months before.
And then you remember the fire. The circus tent going up in flames, and nothing more until your childhood friend, Ziska, carries you out, cradled to her, held in her trunk.
Clark comes to you, gives you the news. You don’t want to believe it, but they have a body. Bruce is dead... He berates you for running around in a dead man’s skin. It stings, especially because Superman means so much to you, has for years. He misses his friend, too, you remind yourself.
But he isn’t gone... only lost, and he’s back, and then going public, sharing with the world that Bruce Wayne has funded Batman for years. And you are still wearing the cowl, your role confirmed, sanctioned, though he’d asked you not to have to do it again, not to have to take his darkness on yourself after the last time. But the world needs a Batman.
And Batman needs a Robin, even when Batman is the one smiling, and Robin is a scowling, cranky menace. Damian takes some getting used to, but he’s yours to teach, to take under your wing, to mold, though in a slightly different way than Bruce did with you.
You remember a recurring dream, and then it is real, yet again... the boy is falling, and you lean forward, grabbing him by the ankle, then fall forward, yourself, beginning to follow him through the air.
[Dick wakes, heart pounding, gasping, tears streaming down his cheeks, and he looks around, lost for a moment until he remembers where he is. He looks down into his hands and sees the device clutched tightly, flecked with a few bright drops of blood where his nails dug into his palms during the nightmare.]
I miss you... Still.
[He throws the thing away from him, and it hits a tree. He is disappointed when there is no satisfying crunch of electronics, and he curls up and shakes, watching the stars above, waiting for dawn.]