-This part is kind of no capes!AU... but they still kind have their powers... Also this part is set vaguely in the 1870s-1880s-

-Warning: part contains some historically accurate racism and ableism, this includes use of the G-slur (not used in bad faith but still), referring to a character as "Oriental" and cruel mistreatment of Freak Show performers.-

Wallace was always on after the clowns. He never did like that much.

"Test your speed against the unbeatable boy!" Ringmaster Haley announced with flourish. Wally galloped on stage, wringing his hands, and took a bow. Some cheered, but some seemed apprehensive, as though trying to determine if they'd been cheated out of their money for an average-speed adolescent. "He may look like a normal boy, but Wallace ca run over one-hundred miles-per-hour, should he choose!" Well, that part hadn't actually been tested, but it brought crowds to the circus, so they said it anyways. "Guaranteed to beat any willing man at a foot race."

"What about an unwilling man?!" He heard shouted from the wings, and some of the crowd murmured in amusement.

Wally thumbed his nose at his friend in the wings, who did the same back. The crowd, having just been warmed up by the clowns, laughed again.

"Guaranteed to beat any willing man at a foot race, costs only 5p to compete, and make it worth the while..." Haley fished in his pocket, removing a single coin. "One pound to anyone who can beat him!"

This greatly incentivized the crowd: one New England pound was nothing to sneeze at, and many would rather beat a boy in a race at a carnival than show up to their occupations tomorrow, so soon the line of volunteers grew long.

Wally watched with a sly grin, sauntering over to the first man. He'd doffed his hat and jacket, but was still far from the athleticwear Wally was dressed in. Still, it wasn't the clothing that gave him his advantage. He sat down lazily in the saw-dusted ring of the tent and yawned, only to taunt the man and rile up the crowd. Haley announced that they'd run one lap around the ring, Wally running on the outside and giving the man a head start.

The man looked confident in his chances.

Overconfident, perhaps, as Wally surpassed him immediately, skidding over the finish line before the man had made it halfway.

One by one, the crowd stepped forwards, certain that at some point he would certainly reach exhaustion and slow down. Wally didn't slow down, even dancing, eating, and drinking a glass of milk as he ran, just to show off and amuse his competitor's friends and wives, who would surely mock the competitors afterwards for loosing to a boy who hopped on one foot the entire way.

"Come one, come all, to see the ingenue markswoman! At only 15  years of age, this southern-Oriental beauty will shoot a bullseye with any weapon presented! Put your hands together for the crack-shot, the next Annie Oakley: the Never-Miss, Miss Artemis"

Artemis tightened the ribbon holding her hair back and took a breath, stepping out into the ring with her arms spread in mock theatrics. 

A few people booed, though whether this was because of her race, sex, or simply  because they didn't believe it, she couldn't tell anymore. Dick-- and his parents when they were around-- had done much to advocate for her as a performer, but they still got harassment for their skin and for their heritage, neither being of white skin or American in origin.

She walked up to the first weapon at the end of the table, the Enfield pattern rifle 1853, and picked it up, pretending to weigh it in her hands as though she hadn't done this a hundred times prior for a hundred different audiences.

A couple more boos came, but Artemis simply raised the gun, closed one eye for aim, and awaited the signal.

Bullseye.

She moved to the next target and the next weapon: a Colt model 1855 (the circus utilized many weapons from the war, though Artemis was luckily just too young to remember it). She leaned back to brace against recoil, planting one hand on her hip, partially to brace herself and partially to show off. They had her dressed in a short bustled shirt: it was a little raggedy, being made in-house, but it had the fashionable silhouette. At least she didn't have to wear anything as restrictive or decadent as the women in the crowd.

She inhaled and held it, cocking the gun.

Bullseye.

Then came her favorite part. The Bow and Arrow.

None of the men liked it when she pulled the 14 kg draw weight back without struggle-- they hated when she showed how easy it would be for her, a girl of only 15, to beat any normal man at hunting. The seems in the shoulders of her dress had been torn and resewn many times because of this stunt, as it built her shoulders to what many might call 'unladylike' degrees.

Bullseye.

"The last remaining member of the Flying Graysons..." Dick hated that part, it always hurt, but he understood why they used it as promotion; his family had been the star attraction for a time. "...acrobatic Gypsy extraordinaire..." He wasn't too big on that part either, but they'd rather had to lean into his race as a marketing gimmick. Crowds usually loved exotic and oriental performers, viewing them as mysterious and different, but embracing that had at least made them lots of money, so they kept doing it. "...Only boy on earth who can do what he can do... The final Grayson!"

He stepped out onto the platform, waving to the audience. I

Haley's had been one of the first circuses to ingrain Jules Leotard's Flying Trapeze, and Dick had been one of the first children ever trained on one. He'd grown up on the flying trapeze, and even after the loss of his parents to a horrible accident on one, he continued on. He had to. The circus was all he had and flying was all he knew; he couldn't go to school like a regular boy, and he had no other family to take him.

Dick unhooked the trapeze and readied himself, listening to Haley continue on far beneath him.

He just needed to move from memory and try not to think about what he was doing.

The mount was fine, not his best but he doubted the crowd could tell as they gasped in terror at the young boy flying above overheard.

He was glad the circus had kept him. At best he'd end up in a orphanage, but that was unlikely due to his heritage, he'd probably have either starved on the streets or ended up earning his keep under a grave robber. Yes, he was glad, not only for his family, but the friends he'd made. Granted the majority of his friends weren't exactly part of the circus of their own volition, and Wallace and Artemis were only there because they were runaways, but he was grateful for them.

He almost missed a transition he was so distracted, but finished the routine without issue and dismounted to uproarious applause. He took a bow, slid down the ladder again, and ran off to prepare for the evening show.

Across the fairground stood the second most popular attraction: Dr. Desmond's Freak Show. It had actually been founded as a side-interest of Alexander "Lex" Luthor, but being a man of business, he'd passed the hobby off onto one of his inferiors. Dr. Desmond's Freak Show had been touring alongside the circus about a quarter of a year now, and had quickly become a star attraction. Haley may have trained animals and trained performers, but he lacked things that were fundamentally different; things to be gawked at and horrified by.

That's where the Freak Show came in.

Most of the freaks were normal enough people, they'd come out on stage, show off their deformities and handicaps, and then retire to their caravans for the rest of the afternoon. There were three notable exceptions to this, three freaks who could not leave their posts, and who weren't just normal people with deformities. 

Ms. Megan Morse: the Marvelous Mind-Reader was not by any means strange to look at, at least she tried not to be, she wore a clean enough dress, and tried to keep her grooming fashionable and precise. When most walked in they wondered what an attractive young girl was doing on one of the platforms, bound in place by a heavy chain that latched in a cuff around her wrist, biding it to the wall (she hadn't attempted to run away in months, but Desmond didn't want her slipping away in the crowd again).

Megan performed two tricks; she did impersonations and she guessed people's names. The impersonations were her favorite, she'd shift around her hair and change her posture and voice... many claimed she was so good it was as if she'd transformed into a different body altogether. 

The name-guessing was less of a gimmick. She used to read minds as her talent, but after a couple incidents she was relegated to guessing names, ages and maiden names. She couldn't exactly explain how she read minds, but she could just tell. If she shut her eyes tight and then stared into the eyes of her target, she could just tell what they were thinking-- and after being told she would guess their names, most people would be thinking about their names. It was an easy trick for her.

Many accused her of being a heathen or a witch, she'd even had blessed water thrown on her by Christian extremists, and crosses and bibles shoved in her face. Many in older generations seemed convinced she must have defied god to gain her power, but she couldn't remember a time when she didn't have them. At least some of the younger folk were kind to her sometimes. Although she always dreaded whenever a group of young men walked in to harass her. 

Desmond didn't take any real precautions to protect his freaks from the paying guests, as far as he was concerned so long as they didn't break his toys, they could play with them all they wanted.

She braced herself as a group of usual suspects approached her stage, their minds boiling with lust and cynicism. The young men wanted her, but they also knew she was less than them, so they did what they could to insult and degrade her.

The Super Boy wasn't chained to the wall by a cuff on his wrist like Megan, rather by a thick iron collar around his throat, binding him in place on his little plateau.

His costume was by far the most revealing of any performers, a tight striped leotard-style suit which silhouetted his broad shape.

He only had a couple tricks; lifting heavy things, throwing heavy things, and breaking things. They used to advertise him as an unbeatable fighting partner, but that lead to too many major injuries on the guests' behalf, so now they were advised not to step too close, as the strongman was rabid when antagonized, and had sent several past visitors away on splints.

Still, this didn't stop the harassment.

Something cracked off his skull.

Instantly he glared up to see several young boys aiming rocks at him.

He didn't want to hurt children, he didn't want to scare children, but the wave of fury stuck hard and fast.

With a snarl, he leapt towards them, arms swinging, only for the collar to tear him back, refusing to let him move any further as he swiped at the onlookers in distraught fury. Several shrieked, even more muttered in shock and awe. Some even laughed as he tugged in vein to the cuff around his throat. 

The Super Boy had only ever known the operating theatre and the freak show, if he'd ever been a normal child he couldn't remember, all he remembered was the years in the Luthor sanitorium, being injected with things he didn't recognize and being made to do strange exercises. Then, when the study was done, Luthor had him moved to the touring freak show, it was a convenient way to rid himself of a lab rat. 

The Fishman was kept in an unfairly small tank, lit only by the warped glass window that peaked in on him It was so small that the water quickly became congested and cloudy from cycling in and out of his gills, and since he wasn't let out for hours, his barrel got disgusting very quickly.

He could feel several people tapping on the window of his tank, cupping their hands around their faces-- pressed to the glass-- dozens clamoring around him. He could tell it was loud out there, thankful that the water dampened the noise enough that he couldn't tell what they said. He doubted he wanted to know.

At least he wasn't quite alone, the freaks had a way to communicate when they needed to; there was a winding pipe that snuck around the displays and was used to fill the Fishman's tank, and they would tap out codes with their chains to communicate. Sinking to the back of his tank, Kaldur-- for that was the name he'd had before being caught in a fisherman's net a few years back-- rested his palm on the pipe's release, he closed  his eyes as he felt his friends tapping back and forth.

He had a shackle on his ankle which was used to keep him from opening the tank and escaping. So raising his foot, be tapped out a simple message: 'BAD MEN'

Almost instantly he felt the other two tapping back the same message, confirming that they two were having a difficult day.

Once the afternoon exhibition had finished, the circus had two hours to prepare for the evening shows. 

It was Megan, Kaldur and The Super Boy's favorite time of day, when they were allowed to eat and rest.

Kaldur opened his eyes as the lid of his tank opened. Something dropped into the water above him, and he fumbled to catch the key, then ducked to unlock his ankle from the wall.

He resurfaced, hie ears popping and eyes blinking from the light.

"Tank got much too cloudy toward' to end, it's disgusting." One stage hand said to another, helping Kaldur crawl out of the cramped barrel. "We'll have to empty an' refill it before six."

"Shoul'n't beya problem." The other responded through a thick accent, turning to Kaldur where he shood, shaking and drying himself. "What'ya doing boy? Go eat yer dinner."

The Fishman only understood a couple words of English, but knew what he needed to,. He tore off as fast as he could on his half-asleep legs, back through the exhibit, staggering around the Human freaks and right to where The Super Boy was being unlatched from the wall. 

Relieved to have made it through another day, the two boys smiled at each other, then took off to find Megan.

The youth all ate their dinner out on the grass, soaking up the little sun they could before nightfall. They always sat a fair distance from the adults so they could talk in private, but even they could hear Haley and Desmond arguing. They argued not infrequently; sometimes it was pay dispute, but usually it was treatment of performers. Haley's circus needed the freakshow for its income, but it was an independent business that toured with them, and thus Haley had no control over how the freaks were treated. That didn't stop him from fighting tooth-and-nail every few weeks however.

The young performers tried to ignore it.

"Please eat for me, you look much too pale." Dick insisted, breaking off some bread and cheese into Kaldur's hands. "All of you look worse off with every passing day."

"I don't mean to be rude," Wally laughed, "but I could have told you that with my eyes closed!"

"He is right," Artemis agreed. "You can hardly be surprised when they're treated the way they are."

"Fair enough," Dick agreed, breaking up more of his dinner to feed the freaks. He needed his food, but he couldn't stand to gorge himself while his cruelly treated friends went without. "Dinner," He said, gesturing for Kaldur to eat.

"Dinner." Kaldur replied, and hesitantly began to gnaw at his rations. He only understood a handful of words: Breakfast, dinner, sleep, fishman, and friend-- dinner and breakfast were the two most exciting, but his favorite was friends.

Because if anyone was going to get them out of here, it would be their friends.