Maximum: Batman #6

“To me, clowns aren't funny. In fact, they're kind of scary. I've wondered where this started and I think it goes back to the time I went to the circus, and a clown killed my dad.”
Jack Handy

“Dare to wear the foolish clown face.”
Frank Sinatra

-1-

Two days had passed.

It had taken all of Bruce's efforts, that night, not to lunge into the middle of the circus arena. It had taken all his efforts not to go home, put on the cape and cowl, and come back and spirit the boy away.

But he had not come this far to make such an obvious mistake. What he was going to do, he had to do quietly.

The boy had been taken to Gotham's orphanage system, the pitiful, corrupt excuse this city had for child services. The Circus had protested, but the city lawyers had insisted that they could not care for him. And unlike when Bruce had been in the same situation so many years ago, the boy did not have any money or connections to protect him.

Bruce knew all too well what would happen to Dick Grayson if he wound up in the orphanage system. That alone would have been enough to motivate him to act; from the beginning of his training, he had known the Wayne fortune would prove useful in more than just the obvious ways.

But he wasn't just trying to save Dick from the orphanages. He had known there would be more to it than that as soon as he had seen the boys eyes.

It had never been his intention to have an active field ally, to train another in his vigilante craft. But he knew he was mortal, and vulnerable, and would not live forever. How long would it have been before someone like him would just happen to come along to protect the city?

Alfred, surprisingly, was against it, saying the boy was too young. But Bruce had pointed out that was the best time to start his training. After all, were not they themselves too young?

--2--

The Chief Clown was eagerly awaiting his money from the Consortium. He had pretended to grieve with the others. Pretended to be sad when the Gotham cops took Dick away, while privately rejoicing that the only potential problem for him had been removed.

But he was worried now, because the Circus was planning to move on as soon as the cops would let them, because it was clear they were losing Dick, too. He was worried that he might not get the money to pay off his debts.

But when the two Consortium toughs showed up, they didn't offer him any money, and they weren't smiling.

“What is it?” the Chief Clown frowned.

“Haly isn't gonna pay up,” one of them said by explanation.

The Chief Clown stared at them uncomprehendingly. “But....but I killed the Graysons!”

“Yeah. Now he's pissed about losing them and the kids. He'll whine to the cops, which means nothing. But we aren't getting our money, and he says the circus will never come back to Gotham.”

“But....but...that's not my fault!”

The younger thug drew his gun and shot him in the face.

--3--

The boy had looked around the Manor, impressed but unhappy. He had eaten the food Alfred had put in front of him, enjoying the chicken and stuffing, mashed potatoes drowning in gravy. But clearly he hadn't enjoyed it as much as he should have.

“Is there anything else you require, young master?” Alfred asked. To anyone else he would seem to be his usual polite self. But Bruce could tell he was strained.

“I want to go home,” Dick Grayson said sourly.

“You can't,” Bruce said. “If I hadn't have taken you in, you'd have gone to the Gotham Orphanage.”

“Well...” the boy bowed his head. “Thanks. But now that you've bought me out from under them, you can send me back to the Circus.”

“If I did that, you'd just face the same situation again, in Chicago where the circus was going. Granted, the child welfare system there is better than in Gotham, but it's still not good.”

“Look, Wayne,” Dick looked up at him, and his eyes were full of anger and pain. “I appreciate you bailing me out. Really, I do. But the circus is the only life I know. I won't fit in here, and I won't fit in in some orphanage or foster home. The circus is my life.”

“And if the circus could keep you, they would,” Bruce said. “But without your parents, they can't even have a trapeze act, you can't do it all by yourself--”

“I could hide around, do other jobs under the tent,” Dick cut him off. “I could be a roadie, a clown, an MC, a lion tamer, I could learn anything, I could do anything. The circus is outside the system, you don't understand. We live our own lives, we're outside the rules--”

“Not the rules of economics or state law concerning children,” Bruce corrected him, sadly.

Dick flew at him. “IT'S MY LIFE YOU STUPID MARK! IT'S MY LIFE! YOU CAN'T TAKE IT FROM ME!”

He had sprung at Bruce from a sitting position, doing a handstand over the table, his feet arcing in towards Bruce's face.

It was a superb attack, and would have taken out anyone else quite nicely. Bruce was in no way bothered, in fact he was pleased.

He caught Dick's feet and spun him, and the lad landed heavily on the table, which creaked dangerously.

“I didn't take your life from you,” Bruce said, remaining calm. “But it was taken, nevertheless. You can't go back to it. But that doesn't mean you can't do anything about it.”

“What....how did you...” Dick was staring at him. “What do you mean?”

“Dick....I'm afraid....your parents' death was no accident.”

Dick was staring at him. “What?” he croaked in a voice just barely above a whisper.

“The trapeze robe was sabotaged. Weakened with acid.” He gave an unhappy smile. “Being rich is a way to get outside the system too. Or at least make it work for you. I was able to get hold of the evidence.”

“Yeah, dad said.....dad always said Gotham cops were corrupt.” He bowed his head. Then looked up at Bruce again. “Sorry I attacked you but--”

“Not at all,” Bruce said. “Your technique needs some refining, but the kick was very graceful, all the same. Anyway, the point is, your parents...”

“Were murdered.” Dick sat up slowly. “Yeah....okay, I get you. You're gonna help me find who did it?”

“Oh yes,” Bruce nodded.

“But...why? Why do you care, rich mark?”

“It is my business to care, Dick. And to me, the criminals are the marks. Come with me. I have something to show you.”

“Sir,” Alfred protested.

“Trust me, old friend.”

“It's not a question of trust,” Alfred bit out, showing unusual venom of his own. “It's a question of whether or not you're making the right decision.”

“It is the best and only decision, you'll see.”

Alfred hung his head. “I hope you're right.”

“What....what is he on about?” Dick frowned.

“It's better to show, than tell.”

--4--

Dick stared.

And stared.

And stared.

“Oh. My God.”

He sat down, hard. Alfred was with him instantly, for all his misgivings.

The cave was rough, and raw, and nowhere near finished. But it had the computers, and the car. And, since the events of the Bane fight, the beginnings of a crime lab.

“Y....you...you're that vigilante in the papers!” He stared up at Bruce. “I thought you were just like...an urban legend!”

“Or a carnival freakshow member?” Dick bristled until he realized Bruce meant no harm by it.

Bruce reached down and offered him a hand. Dick took it. “What I do is outside the normal rules of society, Dick. But it has it's own rules. Like the circus does; only harder and harsher. Think you can take it?”

Dick grinned and planted his feet in Bruce midriff. Air whooshed out of Bruce as Dick flipped him, but Bruce managed to land on his feet. “The murder of my parents already showed me how much harder it can be.”

“Yes...but it's one thing to know how bad it is. Another thing to be able to fight it. I've been learning that one the hard way myself. Still.”

“I'm willing to learn, I promise you that,” Dick stood proud, but the fire in his eyes faded and was replaced by tears. “I want my old life back...but I can't have it, can I?”

“Not now,” Bruce agreed. “And probably not ever. Eventually you might find another circus, but....”

“But it wouldn't be the same, would it.” It was not a question.

It was Alfred who answered. “No, young sir, it would not.”

“You've come around?” Bruce raised an eyebrow at him.

“Not entirely, no. But...what's done is done.”

“So....um...what's first?” Dick asked.

“A little more sparring. Then....we look at the evidence.”

Alfred rolled his eyes as they flew at each other.

--5--

Eddie Nashton had programmed all the known information about Batman into his computers. Admittedly, it wasn't much. But by the same token, even old-school gumshoes like him couldn't just pound the pavement looking for clues. Not on a case like this.

He had noted with passing interest, perusing the society section of the various newspapers, that millionaire Bruce Wayne had adopted circus orphan Dick Grayson, but if anything, that made Bruce an even less likely suspect in Eddie's mind. It was just possible, but terribly unlikely, that Wayne was someone who secretly financed Batman, but the adoption of Grayson made the odds on that even more remote. Nor did he think the adoption of Grayson was a cover.

Nashton's pet theory, at this point, was that Batman's financial backing was actually the military, or perhaps the FBI or CIA. As for the man himself, he was looking for an ex-special forces type. Slade Wilson, perhaps; he had gone underground some time ago. He hadn't even ruled out the possibility that it might be a team of men operating in rotation.

But from what Gordon had told him, Batman was almost certainly a Gotham native, or someone who had lived here most of his life. That narrowed it down....

--6--

For Dick, the combat training wasn't as hard as it had been for Bruce. For one thing, he started younger; for another, his acrobatics background leant itself to combat more readily. Bruce told him it was both his weapon and his weakness; his agility gave him natural inclinations towards aikido; but too many fancy aerial flips could make him a target.

He came off the uneven bars, did a handstand, and started practicing his kicks. It wasn't enough to be agile and acrobatic anymore; he had to be able to punch, kick and block while in midair, and time and aim his leaps effectively.

He had sparred with Bruce many times over these past few weeks, but at this particular moment Bruce was at the computer, checking something. He didn't look pleased. Alfred, standing off to one side, looked even less so. But that seemed to be nothing new for Alfred. The butler fed him and clothed him and saw to his room, but always Dick sensed disappointment and distance from him.

“Ask you a question, Alfred?” Dick asked.

“Of course,” the butler said.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

“Dick,” Bruce said distantly from the computer, not turning to look at them.

“I don't hate you, young Richard. Indeed, if anyone can understand the life we lead, it is someone in...your situation,” Alfred said softly. “The problem is not you particularly. The problem is letting anyone else into our circle. Anyone at all. No matter how well they might grasp what we're trying to do. It increases the risks.”

Dick shrugged. “Sorry man, but you know I can't go back to the circus. They've left now, anyway.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Man?” he echoed, though he sounded more amused than annoyed.

“I've invested a little money in Haly's Circus myself, Dick,” Bruce said, still not looking around. “Partly to insure it will still be going without...your family's contribution. But mostly so one day you'll be able to visit them again.”

“They said they're never coming back here,” Dick pointed out.

“They're not. But that doesn't mean you can't visit them the next time they're in Philadelphia, or New York, or--” Bruce broke off as some new information came up on the screen.

“What is it?” Dick and Alfred both came over.

“We already knew that the Chief Clown, Bob Finger, had been shot the day after your parents were killed....he's been comatose in hospital ever since....” Bruce abruptly stopped again.

“Yeah, and?” Dick had never liked the Chief Clown. Had barely remembered his real name. Guy always struck him as a creepy old man.

“And Captain Gordon, the only honest cop left in this rotten city, just filed his final report on the matter.”

“You can read his files?” Dick raised an eyebrow.

“He doesn't like Batman much, but we have an.....understanding. Anyway, his conclusion was that the Consortium shot him as a form of revenge.”

“Revenge? For what?”

“Gordon believes they used him to kill your parents.....and when the killing didn't have the desired result, they tried to kill him too.”

“Probably would have killed him anyway,” Alfred mused. “You're fortunate they couldn't go after you, Master Richard.”

“So this cop thinks the crime bosses of Gotham used the Chief Clown to kill my parents.” It was not a question. He was staring at the screen with an intense look that Bruce knew only too well.

“They probably wanted a bigger cut of the profits than they were currently getting,” Bruce said.

“And also explains why old man Haly didn't wanna come back?” Dick's eyes never left the screen.

“I would say so, yes. I would theorize that the Clown probably had some gambling debts, and hoped to pay them off by doing the dirty work.”

“Oh, his debts were no secret,” Dick agreed. He chuckled, but there was no humor in it.

Even as Dick tensed up and Bruce looked sadly on, Alfred began to relax. “It seems,” he said softly, “That your cause and ours are one and the same, Master Richard.”

“I woulda stood by you guys anyway,” Dick assured him.

“Even so,” Alfred said.

“Even so, yeah. And if this creep ever wakes up....” Dick trailed off.

Bruce and Alfred shared a glance. They were a little worried about Dick's notion of revenge. But mostly, it was a look of approval.

“I think your costume is ready,” Alfred said. “It looks not so different from your acrobat costume, but changed enough that no one will make the connection. Also, of course, it has all our improvements built in, including Kevlar.”

Bruce gestured to the white box on a table. Dick had seen it, but hadn't asked.

“Do you really think I'm ready?” Dick asked.

“For full time crimefighting? Not remotely,” Bruce answered. “But I think one night of field experience would be no bad thing. And...at last...the car is ready.”

Dick went to the box and opened it. Taking out the vest and cape portions of the costume, his eyes glowed with pride and amazement.

--6--

Bolland Hospital

Theoretically, the Consortium could have had Finger whacked while in the hospital. But so long as he was comatose, what was the worry? They could kill him if he woke up, or better yet, actually let the Gotham cops have a collar. They always had to keep arrest figures up, after all, and the way the Consortium looked at it, the cops would probably drop him into the general population, where he probably wouldn't survive anyway. Those who actually did manage to get convicted in this corrupt city, and couldn't get their sentences quashed, were the baddest of the bad indeed.

Or so it had been, until the man who had been the Chief Clown woke up.

The bullet had gone into his brain, and they had removed it. He had survived the procedure, but there had been damage to the frontal and temporal lobes.

Just as Dick Grayson was admiring his new costume, the man who had been the Chief Clown opened his eyes and sat up in bed. It was deep into the night shift, so the on-duty nurse was at her desk, and not on one of her rounds to check him in his room.

He looked around, eyes blank yet thoughtful. For a moment he almost looked like a living, breathing mannequin.

Then he disconnected himself from the monitoring equipment and got out of bed, uncertain at first on his legs, which hadn't supported him for weeks, and the muscles had begun to atrophy.

But quickly he mastered himself, and pushed open his unlocked door.

The duty nurse saw him coming. After a moment of startlement, she recovered herself. “Ah, Mister Finger, you're awake. The police will want to talk to you....” she went to pick up the phone.

“Finger?” he said, still expressionless. “Finger isn't here anymore.....” He kept coming, with that terrible blank expression.

This was Gotham, and the night nurse was no flyweight; from under the desk she pulled both a (highly illegal) tazer, and can of pepper spray.

The man who had been the Chief Clown kept coming.

She fired both the tazer and the spray when he got close enough. The spray missed, but the tazer hit it's target, and he went down, twitching.

The nurse turned away and dialed 911.

But before the police operator could even pick up, he was back on his feet, impossibly; still trembling from muscle shock, he reached out and broke her neck with one swift movement.

Expression still blank, he hung up the phone. He looked down at the corpse.

“Too quick, to easy, no style,” he said to himself, in a voice very unlike that of the man he had once been. “But still, it's a beginning. Yes....a beginning......” he began to chuckle.

The chuckle became a laugh, which grew louder and louder, until he threw back his head and screamed an insane cackle.

Then, still laughing, he turned and bolted for the elevators.

Continued...