Origin

Before he was Robin, before he was Nightwing, before he was anyone the world would ever recognize in a mask, Dick Grayson was a circus boy.

He lived on a long, rattly train. The train belonged to Haly's Circus, and every few weeks the train would pull into a new town, and the giant red-and-white striped tent would go up in a meadow or a parking lot or a city park, and the smell of popcorn and sawdust and elephants and lemonade would fill the air.

Dick's family was the star act. They were called the Flying Graysons.

His father, John Grayson, was tall and quiet, with strong calm hands and a quiet laugh that came from deep in his chest. His mother, Mary Grayson, was bright as a candle. She used to braid Dick's hair before a show and whisper into his ear, "Listen for me. Listen for my voice. I'll catch you, mio piccolo robin." Mio piccolo robin. My little robin. Because she said Dick reminded her of the bright robin redbreast birds back home, the ones that always came out first in springtime, no matter how cold it was.

Dick was eight years old. He could already do a triple somersault in the air, hands free, eyes shut. He was the smallest Flying Grayson, but the bravest. The crowd would gasp every time he let go of the trapeze, and his father would catch him — wrist to wrist, every time.

The circus came to Gotham City one autumn night.

In the front row of the big top sat a quiet man in a dark wool coat. His name was Bruce Wayne. Bruce always bought tickets to Haly's Circus when it came through Gotham. He had lost his own parents when he was about Dick's age, in a place called Crime Alley, and ever since then he had quietly supported things in Gotham that made children laugh. The circus made children laugh.

Bruce was watching the Flying Graysons climb the long rope ladder up to the platform. He was watching Mary Grayson blow a kiss to Dick. He was watching Dick's father reach for the trapeze.

And then.

The ropes failed.

There had been a mobster, you see. A man named Tony Zucco who had been trying to bully Haly, the circus owner, into paying him money for "protection." Haly had said no. Zucco had snuck in earlier that day and damaged the trapeze ropes. He thought it would scare Haly into paying up.

It did not scare Haly. It broke Haly's heart.

The big top went very, very quiet. The kind of quiet a circus tent should never, ever go.

Dick was on the upper platform, all alone in his bright red and yellow Flying Graysons costume, the gold sequins catching the spotlight. He sat down very slowly. He did not cry loudly. He just stared down at the sawdust ring far, far below, and the world he had known eight years for — the train, the trapeze, his mother's hand braiding his hair, his father's wrist catching his wrist — that whole world had ended in one terrible silent moment.

Bruce Wayne stood up from his seat in the front row.

He did not push past people. He did not rush. He walked, calmly, slowly, the way a person walks toward a wounded bird. He climbed the long rope ladder up to the platform. The ushers tried to stop him. He kept climbing. When he got to the top, he sat down beside the small bright shape that was Dick Grayson, and for a long time he did not say anything at all.

Finally, he said, "I know."

That was all he said. "I know." But Dick looked up at him, and he could tell. He could tell that this stranger really, truly knew. That somewhere a long time ago, this man had sat in a quiet place feeling exactly this empty.

Within a week, Bruce had become Dick's legal guardian.

Wayne Manor was the biggest house Dick had ever seen. It had towers. It had stone gargoyles. It had a driveway as long as the circus train. And it had Alfred Pennyworth, the British butler with the soft eyes and the perfect bow tie, who took one look at Dick standing in the foyer with a single small suitcase and said, "I shall make us hot cocoa, Master Dick. With the marshmallows, I think."

Alfred made the cocoa exactly right. He let Dick have three marshmallows. He showed him a bedroom bigger than the whole Flying Graysons train compartment. He hung the small red-and-yellow circus costume in the closet, very carefully, on a wooden hanger, and he said, "We shall keep this safe, sir."

Dick was very quiet for a long time after that. He ate. He went to school. He did his homework. But he did not laugh, and he did not flip, and he did not climb anything. The trapeze part of him had folded itself up small and tucked itself away.

Bruce noticed.

One night, after Alfred had gone to bed, Bruce came to Dick's room. He was wearing slippers and a robe. He said, "Dick. I want to show you something. It's a secret. The biggest one in this house."

Dick followed him down the hallway in his pajamas, his bare feet padding on the cold marble floor. They came to a tall, dark grandfather clock. Bruce reached up, moved the hands of the clock to a particular time — ten forty-seven, the exact moment his parents had died — and CLICK. The whole grandfather clock swung outward like a heavy door.

Behind the clock was a stone staircase, spiraling down into darkness. Cold air came up from below. Somewhere far down, water was dripping.

"Come on," Bruce said, and started down.

Down they went. And down. And down. And the staircase opened up into the most extraordinary room Dick had ever seen in his life.

It was a cave. A real cave, vast and high, with stalactites pointing down from the ceiling and bats sleeping in clusters in the dark folds of the rock. But the floor of the cave had been turned into something else — a place of computers and gleaming vehicles and glass cases full of strange dark costumes. There was a sleek black car as long as a boat. There was a black motorcycle. There were trophies in the cases — a huge playing card, a giant penny, a silver coin, a green question mark.

And on a wide platform in the middle of it all stood a long mannequin in a black cape and pointed cowl.

The Batsuit.

Dick stared.

Bruce knelt down beside him. He said, very gently, "I lost my parents too. Right here in Gotham. In an alley not so far from where your circus set up tonight. After that, I traveled the world. I learned everything I could about justice and fear. And when I came home, I built this place. So no other child in Gotham would ever have to feel what we felt."

The bats fluttered softly overhead.

Dick's eyes went up to the great Batsuit on the platform, and then over to the computers, and then back to Bruce. He thought about his mother, who had called him mio piccolo robin. He thought about his father, who had taught him to flip and catch and never miss.

He thought about the trapeze part of him, the part that had folded itself away.

And inside his chest, very quietly, he felt something unfold. Stretch open. Lift its bright wings.

Dick Grayson — the boy who used to fly — had just found his new home. And he had found, for the very first time since the lights went down on the big top, something to do with all that flying.