❝ We're all going to die, all of us. What a circus!❞
― Charles Bukowski
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WHEN DICK GRAYSON was nine years old, his parents were murdered - inexplicitly, tactically, chosen as targets to hurt the Circus and force the owner into paying off their debts. The boy had knelt beside their fragile, broken bodies in the sand, blood staining his leotard and hand clenched in his mother's cold palm as the police attempted to court the chaos. That was the first time Dick Grayson bore witness to the cruel reality of life.
He had seen many things since, in his time as Robin after being taken in by the (not-so)reclusive billionaire Bruce Wayne. Leaping from roof to roof at the side of the Batman, he'd taken more hits and returned them blow for blow than he could ever hope to recall. And every time, it was him and Bruce against the world. Gotham feared them - revered them as dark heroes, hidden enigmas that all too easily went unnoticed in the cryptic streets of a town plagued with unjust violence.
But sometimes - sometimes - the two of them got something wrong. The world's greatest detective(s) couldn't be right all the time. Take that guy Spider-man, New York's budding young hero, in all his spider-y glory: Bruce was wrong about him. Dick could feel it. Peter Parker wasn't a threat... right?
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