Slade Wilson arrived at Haly's Circus three hours before the doors opened to the public. He blended in perfectly with the workers setting up for the evening show—just another hired hand in nondescript clothes, a baseball cap pulled low over his white hair. The eye patch drew occasional glances, but circus folk were accustomed to oddities. They assumed it was a war injury. They weren't entirely wrong.
He had studied the layout meticulously over the previous forty-eight hours, memorizing every entrance, exit, support beam, and security camera. Not that the security was anything impressive—a few outdated cameras at the ticket booths and main entrance, easily avoided. The circus's true security came from its transient nature and the protective family atmosphere that made outsiders immediately recognizable.
But Slade Wilson was a ghost when he needed to be. A phantom that could move undetected in environments far more secure than a traveling circus on the outskirts of Gotham.
He observed C.C. Haly from a distance first, noting the ringmaster's patterns, his interactions with staff, the way his shoulders hunched slightly when he was worried—which was often, today. Haly kept checking his watch, his eyes scanning the grounds as if expecting someone. The police protection Gordon had promised, no doubt.
Two GCPD officers had been stationed on the grounds earlier. Slade had taken care of them with clinical efficiency—not dead, just incapacitated and secured in an equipment storage trailer on the far side of the grounds. The Gotham Police Department wasn't his target tonight, and unnecessary casualties complicated operations. The officers would wake with headaches and damaged pride, nothing more.
When he finally approached Haly, it was with the confident stride of someone who belonged.
"Mr. Haly," Slade said pleasantly, his voice pitched to be unthreatening despite his imposing physique. "A word in private."
The circus owner startled, looking up from his ledger. His face immediately tensed with recognition—not of Slade personally, but of what he represented. Trouble. Haly had been in the business long enough to recognize dangerous men when he saw them.
"I—I don't believe we've met," Haly stammered, glancing nervously around the grounds.
"Let's keep it that way," Slade replied, gently guiding the older man toward the relative privacy beside his trailer. "I represent certain interests in Gotham who are concerned about tonight's performance."
Haly's face paled visibly. "Look, I don't want any trouble. The circus is just passing through—"
"Spare me," Slade cut him off, his single eye fixed on Haly's face. "We both know John Grayson isn't just an acrobat. His military background, his connection to certain classified operations—these things have attracted attention."
Sweat beaded on Haly's forehead despite the cool afternoon air. "John's family. Whatever he did before joining us—"
"Isn't your concern," Slade finished for him. "Nor is it mine. I simply have a job to do."
From inside his jacket, Slade produced a thick envelope. "Inside is fifty thousand dollars. Consider it compensation for any... inconvenience tonight might cause."
Haly stared at the envelope, conflict evident in his expression. "What exactly are you asking me to do?"
"Nothing," Slade answered, his voice chillingly calm. "Absolutely nothing. Continue your show as normal. Just ensure I have twenty minutes of access to the main tent before the rigging is prepared. And perhaps find reasons to be looking elsewhere during that time."
"You're going to sabotage their equipment," Haly whispered, horror dawning in his eyes. "I can't be part of that. The Graysons are—"
"The choice isn't whether this happens," Slade interrupted, his tone hardening slightly. "The choice is whether you and your circus have a future afterward." He nodded toward the bustling grounds. "Many livelihoods depend on you making the practical decision, Mr. Haly."
The threat hung in the air between them, unspoken but unmistakable. Haly's shoulders sagged as the weight of his impossible position settled upon them.
"John checks the equipment personally before every performance," he said weakly, a last attempt at resistance.
"I'm counting on it," Slade replied. "But his inspection will find nothing amiss. That's my professional guarantee."
Slowly, reluctantly, Haly took the envelope, tucking it inside his jacket with trembling hands. The movement carried the defeat of a man who had just sold a piece of his soul.
"The boy," Haly said suddenly, looking up with unexpected defiance. "Richard. He performs with them. He's just a child."
"The boy will survive," Slade assured him dispassionately. "That's a non-negotiable element of the contract."
Relief flashed briefly across Haly's features, quickly replaced by renewed shame at finding comfort in such a small mercy.
"Twenty minutes," Slade reminded him. "Starting now."
The main tent was relatively empty, just a few workers testing lighting systems and adjusting seating. Slade moved with purpose toward the center ring, looking up at the trapeze equipment suspended high above. The apparatus was elegant in its simplicity—platforms positioned at opposite ends of the tent, with aluminum bars suspended by steel cables that allowed the performers to swing between them.
Slade assessed the setup with professional appreciation. The equipment was well-maintained, the cables new and properly tensioned. John Grayson clearly took no chances with his family's safety. That would make his task more challenging. And more interesting.
He climbed the access ladder to the left platform, his movements fluid and silent despite his size. Enhanced strength and agility—gifts from the military experiment that had nearly killed him before remaking him into something beyond human—made the climb effortless. At the top, he surveyed the rigging more closely, identifying the primary support cables that would bear the most weight during critical moments of the performance.
From an inside pocket, he withdrew a small case containing his specialized equipment. The compound he'd developed was the product of years of research—a transparent gel that penetrated metal at the molecular level, creating a controlled degradation point that would activate only under specific stress conditions. It would leave no visible trace, no residue that could be detected by anything less than advanced forensic technology. When it failed, the metal would appear to have suffered ordinary fatigue—a tragic accident, not sabotage.
Slade applied the compound with precise movements, his enhanced senses allowing him to measure the exact amount needed. Too much would cause premature failure; too little might result in an incomplete break. The Graysons' lives—and the success of his contract—hinged on this calibration.
He knew from studying their routine exactly when the cable would face maximum stress—during the family's signature sequence, when all three performers were in motion. But Alberto Falcone's instructions had been explicit: the boy must survive. The contract hinged on this condition.
Slade made the necessary adjustments, modifying his calculation to ensure the cable would fail after Mary had caught John in mid-air, but before Richard joined them for the finale. The timing had to be perfect—the parents falling while the boy remained safely on the platform, witnessing everything but unable to prevent it. A masterpiece of precision engineering and calculated cruelty.
As he worked, Slade reflected on the contract. Seven million for Batman was the headline, but this side job—targeting a former special forces operator who'd seen something he shouldn't—that was personal for the Falcones. Alberto's instructions regarding the boy had been specific: "He must survive. Traumatized, but unharmed."
Interesting stipulation. Most clients didn't care about collateral damage, especially children. Why this one? Slade filed the question away with all the other intelligence he gathered during contracts. Information was currency in his profession, often more valuable than the actual payment.
He completed his work with methodical precision, ensuring not a trace of evidence remained. As he descended the ladder, he noticed movement near the tent entrance. A small figure had appeared—the Grayson boy, curious eyes scanning the tent interior. Slade melted into the shadows beside some equipment cases, observing.
Richard Grayson, age ten according to his file. Homeschooled by his mother, trained by his father, already performing maneuvers that most adult acrobats couldn't manage. A prodigy. A child who would be an orphan before the night was over.
The thought registered as data, not emotion. Slade Wilson had left sentiment behind in the laboratory where they'd remade him, where they'd promised to save his life but instead had turned him into a weapon. The doctors had called the process a success. After all, the experimental serum had unlocked his brain's full potential, given him enhanced strength, speed, healing, and cognitive abilities.
They'd conveniently overlooked the cost—his humanity, stripped away bit by bit with each cellular transformation. By the time he'd recovered enough to take his revenge on those responsible, emotion was just another variable to be calculated, not experienced.
The boy was making his way toward Haly's trailer, likely looking for the ringmaster. Slade decided this presented an opportunity—a chance to observe his target's son up close, to complete his assessment. He moved silently through the tent, emerging on a path that would intercept the boy's route.
Slade positioned himself near Haly's trailer just as the ringmaster was emerging, shoulders hunched with the weight of his complicity. Perfect timing. He approached Haly openly, aware that the boy was now close enough to observe them.
"Everything's arranged," Slade said, just loud enough to be heard. "The maintenance inspection is complete."
Haly's face contorted with barely disguised distress as he accepted the clipboard Slade offered—blank pages with an official-looking cover sheet, a prop for their performance. Money changed hands—the remainder of Haly's payment, which the circus owner quickly tucked inside his jacket. Slade leaned in, whispering words that made the old man pale further.
"Remember our arrangement. Not a word to Grayson."
As he turned to leave, Slade allowed his gaze to sweep across the grounds, deliberately settling on the boy who was watching from what he thought was a hidden position. The child's instincts were good—he'd chosen his observation point well, utilizing available cover. But against enhanced senses, such precautions were inadequate.
Slade smiled, a cold expression that never reached his eye, and winked at the boy. A calculated gesture—intimidating but not overtly threatening. Enough to unsettle, to plant a seed of doubt or fear. The seed that would grow into a memory after tonight's tragedy: a stranger who had winked, who had known something was going to happen.
"You can come out, kid," he called, his voice casual but carrying an undercurrent that made the boy visibly tense. "I don't bite. Not children, anyway."
Reluctantly, the boy stepped from his hiding place, trying to project courage despite his obvious unease. Slade was impressed despite himself—most children would have run.
"You must be the youngest Flying Grayson," Slade said. "Richard, isn't it?"
"Most people call me Dick," the boy replied automatically, his eyes wary but direct.
"Dick, then." Slade nodded, studying the child more closely. Strong for his age, excellent muscle development, balanced posture even under stress. The physical manifestation of natural talent shaped by rigorous training. "Looking forward to your performance tonight. I've heard great things about your family's act."
"Thanks," the boy managed. "Are you... new with the circus?"
"Just passing through. Helping with some... maintenance." Slade glanced up toward the big top, where the trapeze would be set up for the evening's performance. "Making sure everything runs smoothly tonight."
He observed the boy's reaction with clinical interest—the slight widening of the eyes, the imperceptible tension in his shoulders. Children often had instinctive responses to danger that adults had learned to suppress. This one sensed something was wrong. Intelligent. Perceptive. Qualities that might serve him well after tonight.
Before the conversation could continue, a man's voice called out: "Dick! There you are. Your mother's looking for you—dinner before the show."
John Grayson approached, his movements carrying the same athletic grace as his son's but with the added edge of someone trained for combat. He placed a protective hand on the boy's shoulder, eyes assessing Slade with the immediate wariness of a soldier recognizing a threat.
"Maintenance crew?" John asked, his voice carefully neutral but unable to fully mask his suspicion.
"That's right," Slade replied, extending his hand. "Wilson. Just making sure everything's up to code for tonight's performance."
John didn't take the offered hand, his body language screaming distrust. "The Flying Graysons inspect their own equipment, Mr. Wilson. It's a family tradition."
"Of course," Slade withdrew his hand smoothly. "No offense intended. Just being thorough—on management's orders."
Their eyes locked in silent recognition—predator acknowledging predator. John Grayson might have left special forces years ago, but the training never fully disappeared. He recognized Slade for what he was, though likely not specifically who he was. A dangerous man. A professional. A killer.
"I'm sure," John said, his grip on his son's shoulder tightening slightly. "If you'll excuse us, it's our pre-show routine to have dinner as a family."
As they walked away, Slade observed the protective posture, the way John positioned himself between his son and perceived danger. The actions of a good father. A man who would certainly check the equipment thoroughly before tonight's performance—and find nothing amiss. The compound was Slade's own creation, undetectable by conventional inspection methods.
Slade returned to his temporary quarters near the circus grounds, changing into civilian clothes suitable for blending into the evening audience. He would return later to witness the fruits of his labor—standard procedure on all his contracts. Verification before reporting completion.
As he prepared, he considered the conversation with the boy. There had been something in those eyes—a fierce intelligence, an uncommon resilience. The kind of qualities that, properly harnessed, could forge something formidable. Or break completely under sufficient trauma.
Not his concern, of course. The contract specified the boy's survival, not his psychological well-being. The rest was collateral damage—including whatever that bright spark in the child's eyes might have become under different circumstances.
Slade Wilson tucked his sidearm into a concealed holster. Around his wrist, he secured a specialized watch that contained communication equipment and emergency extraction tools. Standard preparations for any operation, though he anticipated no complications. The sabotage was complete, undetectable, guaranteed to activate at precisely the right moment during the performance.
Two contracts in motion—the Graysons tonight, Batman in the following days. Seven million dollars and professional satisfaction as the only successful hunter among the assembled assassins. Just another job for Deathstroke the Terminator.
By this time tomorrow, Richard Grayson would be an orphan, and Slade Wilson would be a million dollars richer. The world would keep turning, indifferent to individual tragedies. That was the natural order.
And if, as he made his final preparations, Slade experienced a fleeting and unfamiliar hesitation—a ghost of what might once have been conscience—he dismissed it as efficiently as he had dismissed the boy's future.
Professional detachment was essential. Emotional complications were inefficient.
The contract was what mattered.
Nothing more.
—
The Gotham Royal Hotel's Grand Ballroom emptied rapidly following the chaos of Councilman Grogan's assassination. Security personnel ushered guests toward exits, their practiced calm belied by the urgency in their movements. Bruce Wayne had vanished during the initial confusion—a disappearance that would later be attributed to his security detail whisking him to safety.
In reality, Bruce was already speeding through Gotham's rain-slicked streets, having changed into the Batsuit in a secure room several floors below the ballroom. The Batmobile's engine roared as he pushed it beyond normal safety parameters, the vehicle's specialized tires gripping wet pavement with unnatural tenacity.
"Alfred, what's the situation at Haly's Circus?" Batman demanded, swerving around slower traffic.
"The Flying Graysons are scheduled to perform in approximately fifteen minutes," Alfred's voice came through clearly despite the engine noise. "Commissioner Gordon's protective detail hasn't reported in for over two hours."
"They won't be reporting in," Batman replied grimly. "Deadshot mentioned eliminating potential complications. Deathstroke is thorough."
The circus grounds appeared ahead, colorful lights creating an incongruously cheerful glow against the stormy night sky. Batman's jaw tightened beneath the cowl. The contrast was painfully familiar—brightness and celebration masking imminent tragedy, just as the movie theater had been on that night so many years ago.
"I'm approaching from the southeast," Batman reported. "Any update on the GCPD response?"
"Gordon has dispatched units, but traffic from the charity gala situation is causing significant delays. Estimated arrival time still twelve minutes."
Too long. Whatever Deathstroke had planned would be over by then.
Batman abandoned the Batmobile in a darkened area beyond the perimeter, engaging stealth protocols to mask its presence. The circus bustled with activity—families hurrying toward the main tent to escape the increasing rainfall, vendors calling out final sales before the headline performance, the distant calliope music creating a haunting soundtrack that stirred uncomfortable memories.
Using his grapnel, Batman ascended to the shadowed roof of a peripheral tent, eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of Deathstroke. The assassin was a master of disguise when necessary, capable of blending into any environment despite his imposing physical presence.
"No visual on the target," Batman muttered, activating the cowl's enhanced vision modes. "Switching to thermal scanning."
The specialized lenses in his mask cycled through various spectrums, revealing heat signatures throughout the grounds. Nothing matched Deathstroke's profile—either he was masking his presence, or he was already inside the main tent.
Batman moved silently across the canvas surfaces, his weight distributed to prevent the material from registering his passage. The rain intensified, drumming against the tents and driving the last stragglers inside. He reached the big top just as the interior lights dimmed for the main event.
"Alfred, I need the tent layout. Where are the main rigging points for the trapeze equipment?"
"Sending schematics to your HUD now, sir. The primary support structure is centered above the main ring, with secondary anchor points at the four compass positions of the tent's upper framework."
The display in Batman's cowl updated, highlighting the critical structural elements. He moved across the tent's peak, the material barely registering his weight. As he reached the apex, he could hear the ringmaster's voice announcing the Flying Graysons.
Batman cut a small opening in the tent material, just large enough to observe the interior. Inside, the atmosphere crackled with anticipation. The crowd had fallen silent as spotlights converged on the center ring, where C.C. Haly stood in his ringmaster finery. The man's face carried the practiced smile of thousands of performances, but Batman's trained eye detected the tension beneath—tight eyes, rigid posture, a subtle tremor in his gesturing hand.
"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls," Haly's voice boomed through the tent, "Haly's Circus proudly presents our crown jewel, the world-famous, death-defying FLYING GRAYSONS!"
The spotlights swept upward, illuminating three figures on opposite platforms high above the center ring. John and Mary Grayson stood on one platform, their royal blue costumes with golden accents catching the light as they waved to the crowd. On the opposite platform, young Richard Grayson mirrored his parents' movements, his smile visible even from Batman's distant position.
The audience erupted in applause, unaware of the tragedy about to unfold.
Batman's vision modes swept across the rigging, searching for any sign of sabotage. For several seconds, everything appeared normal—until a subtle anomaly registered in one of the main support cables.
"Found it," Batman whispered. "Chemical compound applied to the northeast support cable, near the main connection point. It's designed to trigger under specific stress conditions."
"Sir, if the sabotage was designed by Deathstroke, it will be precisely calibrated," Alfred warned. "Any attempt to warn the performers could trigger premature failure."
Batman analyzed the situation with cold precision, calculating angles, distances, and timing. "No time to evacuate. I need to secure the cable without alerting the audience or performers."
He withdrew a specialized cable launcher from his utility belt—a device designed for rapid deployment of reinforced support lines. But as he prepared to fire it toward the compromised section, movement caught his eye—a shadow detaching itself from the darkness of the tent's upper structure.
Deathstroke hadn't left. He was watching to ensure the job was completed.
The assassin stood partly concealed behind a support beam, his distinctive armor exchanged for civilian clothes, but his posture unmistakable. Through the small opening in the tent, their eyes met briefly across the distance—professional respect mingled with lethal intent.
Below, the performance had begun. John Grayson had taken position on one trapeze, his powerful frame swinging back and forth to build momentum. Mary stood ready on the opposite platform, preparing to join him in their aerial dance. Young Richard remained temporarily on his platform, waiting for his cue to join later in the routine.
Batman made his decision in an instant. He fired the grapnel directly at Deathstroke rather than the cable, the specialized tip designed to penetrate even the assassin's tactical clothing. Simultaneously, he launched himself toward the compromised cable, calculating that he could reach it before the Graysons attempted their fatal maneuver.
—
Dick Grayson stood on the platform, his heart racing with the familiar pre-performance excitement. The spotlight felt warm on his skin, the applause of the crowd a welcome reassurance. This was his element—this moment when the world fell away and there was nothing but the trapeze, the air, and his family.
His father had launched into the opening sequence, his powerful form cutting through the air with practiced precision. Each swing built momentum for what would come next—the family's signature move, the quadruple somersault that only the Flying Graysons could perform.
Dick watched his mother prepare to join, her movements graceful and confident as she gripped the second trapeze. This was the routine they'd performed hundreds of times, the dance they'd perfected over years of training together. Nothing could go wrong. His father had checked everything, as he always did.
And yet, something felt off. Dick couldn't shake the memory of the white-haired man—Wilson—and his cryptic words about "maintenance" and "making sure everything runs smoothly." The man's single eye, cold and calculating, had seemed to look right through him.
Dick scanned the audience, a habit his father had taught him—"Always know your crowd, Robin." The sea of faces below blurred together, until—there. Near one of the support poles. Wilson stood perfectly still amid the excited crowd, his eye fixed not on the performance but on the trapeze equipment.
A chill ran through Dick. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
"Mom!" he called out, but the music and the crowd's cheers drowned his voice. His mother was already swinging out, perfectly synchronized with his father's movements.
High above, Dick caught a glimpse of movement—a dark shape against the tent's ceiling. For a moment, he thought it was another performer, perhaps one of the aerial silk artists preparing for the next act. But the shape moved with purpose toward the main rigging, and Dick realized with a start that it was a man—a man in what looked like a dark costume with pointed ears.
Batman. The vigilante he'd heard about from other circus kids. The Dark Knight of Gotham.
Dick's attention snapped back to his parents as they began the build-up to their signature move. His father was in full swing now, building height with each pass. His mother hung by her knees from her trapeze, arms extended, ready to catch John when he released.
"Dad, wait!" Dick cried, his voice lost in the swell of the orchestra.
Deathstroke reacted with inhuman speed, deflecting the grapnel with a swift movement and rolling away from Batman's trajectory. But the distraction had served its purpose—giving Batman precious seconds to reach the sabotaged section of equipment.
As he closed the distance, Batman could see the compound more clearly now—a transparent gel applied with surgical precision to create a controlled failure point. He fired his backup grapnel toward the nearest support beam, preparing to intercept the cable when it broke.
Below, the audience gasped as the Flying Graysons began their most famous stunt—Mary hanging by her knees from one trapeze, John preparing to release from his swing at the apex, perform a quadruple somersault, and be caught by his wife's outstretched hands.
Batman's fingers had just touched the compromised cable when John Grayson released, his body spinning through the air with perfect form. The cable began to fray instantly, the sabotage triggered by the sudden change in tension as Mary prepared to catch her husband.
Time seemed to slow as Batman deployed emergency reinforcement fibers from his gauntlet, attempting to bind the failing cable. But Deathstroke had calculated too well—the compound was already eating through the metal strands faster than Batman could reinforce them.
Dick watched in disbelief as his father launched into the quadruple somersault. One rotation, two, three, four—perfect form, just as they'd practiced countless times. His mother reached out, her arms extended to catch him.
Then came the sound—a sharp crack that somehow cut through the music and applause. A sound Dick would remember for the rest of his life.
One of the main cables snapped, the severed end whipping upward like a striking snake. His mother's trapeze suddenly lurched, throwing her off balance. Her outstretched hands flailed, trying to correct her position, but it was too late.
John Grayson, already committed to his flight, couldn't alter his trajectory. He reached desperately for hands that were no longer in position to catch him.
"NO!" Dick screamed, lunging forward instinctively, only to be caught by his safety line—the one his father insisted he wear during this part of the act, the one that now prevented him from following his parents into the abyss.
The audience's collective gasp turned to screams as John and Mary Grayson plummeted toward the circus floor, their bodies twisting in a futile attempt to control their fall. Dick saw his mother's eyes find his in that eternal moment—saw love and terror and a desperate apology all at once.
Then came the impact.
The sound was worse than the visual—a terrible, final thud that Dick felt in his bones. The crowd erupted in chaos—screams, shouts, people rushing toward exits while others pushed forward for a better view of the horror.
Dick stood frozen on the platform, unable to process what he'd just witnessed. This wasn't real. Couldn't be real. His parents were the Flying Graysons. They never fell. His father checked the equipment. Always.
Through the shock and disbelief, Dick's eyes found Wilson again. The man hadn't moved, hadn't reacted with surprise or horror like everyone else. Instead, he was looking directly up at Dick, and even from this distance, the boy could see the cold satisfaction in his single eye.
Then Wilson turned and began moving calmly toward an exit, just another spectator leaving the scene of tragedy.
"It was him," Dick whispered, rage and grief crystallizing into sudden certainty. "He did this."