Demeter
Modern Mythology #4
by maven
STANDARD DISCLAIMER: The characters of Birds of Prey are the property of Warner Bros. and DC Comics, all other characters are the property of DC Comics.
RATING: PG/PG13. Just two people talking. A few bad words.
CONTINUITY and SPOILERS: This is an Alternative Universe as it’s a blend of the Birds of Prey television show and a variety of DC comic books, particularity The Killing Joke and the Batman titles between 1983 and 1991. There will be spoilers for all 13 episodes of the series now that I’ve seen them all.
CREDIT WHERE CREDIT IS DUE: We'll boil it down to BG, Warped and Nik as being the chief prods to this particular muse.
SERIES NOTES:
1) Imagine my surprise when it turns out that Gabby appeared in two episodes and was mentioned in (so far as I can remember) one other. So this Gabby is pretty much made up from whole cloth. Plaid, I think. Greens and browns and dull yellowy-gold. Nothing too garish, a hunting tartan rather than a piper's.
2) Timing. Right. Darned if I know. I'm going with the events of the final episode happened near the end of Dinah and Gabby's junior year (grade 11 for us Canucks) and that Policy and Procedure happened at least six months after that. Modern Mythology, therefore, starts in the middle of their final (senior, grade 12, 12th grade, year 12, whatever) year. I think. Kind of hazy.
STORY SPECIFIC NOTES: Because it amuses me to do these things there's a reference to two British TV shows, Hex (Sky One) and Doctor Who (BBC). The Doctor Who one is really oblique so don't knock your brain out. The glass coffins are ala the episode Lady Shiva although I'm sure I saw something similar in the comics. Also, this one is sort of exposition-rama. Sorry but, hey, talking heads is supposed to be my forte.
FEEDBACK, COMMENTS AND FLAMES: Email at maven369@sympatico.ca
The best part of school lately is the ten minutes between classes. Or rather, what's left of the ten minutes after we both arrive at the lockers and before the warning bell sends us running to class.
"This is nice," I murmur, drawing away with a doubtless befuddled look on my face. I don't get any answer other than Dinah tightening her arms so that she pulls my head back down. I slip my own hands under the back of her T-shirt, running one up along her spine while the other caresses the small of her back.
The bell rings and reality reasserts itself and I look down at the top of Dinah's head. I turn our linked fingers into a real hand hold and help Dinah to stand from her seat on the corridor floor. Brave talk of shocking Mrs. MacMillian aside I've discovered that I'm not comfortable with public displays of affection at school. Private groping sessions in Our Place are fine though.
"Give me a memory?" she asks, squeezing my hand.
It's this thing we do. My memories are buried in her brain, hers in mine but mostly they're inaccessible. A broken link, Ms Gordon says, like a page on the Internet or the damage done to her spine. But if we concentrate on one we can reconnect it, find a new path to a cached file, so to say. I'm much better with Internet analogies than either paraplegic or hardcore computer ones.
I nod, closing my eyes, and thinking back to when I was ten and the school went to a nearby botanical reserve to see a corpse plant in full bloom. I let it build, the memory of the heat of the day and the sounds of the jungle and the colour of the plants and the god-awful stench of the actual plant.
"Gabby!"
I grin. "You gotta take the stinky with the sweet."
She shakes her head but she's smiling. "In that case, you owe me a sweet memory next time."
"Deal."
"Wanna come over after school?"
"Oh yeah," I answer. "Wait, can't. Alfred invited me to Wayne Manor for tea and and a tour. I can't pass that up."
"I'll make you tea," she says, voice low and teasing and I smile back.
"No. You dunk a tea bag into hot water; that's not tea."
"Well, that's how it's usually done."
"Says the epitome of normal," I tease. And obviously the sarcastic tone of voice far outweighed the tease tone of voice because I see something burn and then die in her face.
"Yeah. That's me," she says, turning to shut her locker and then brushing past without looking at me.
"Dinah," I say, not sure what I'm going to say after that but it doesn't matter because she doesn't turn around.
+++++
The house is big. And old. And totally out of place in the States with crenulated windows, slate roof, gargoyles and turrets. The doorbell is a bell that you can hear tolling throughout the building. Appropriately, an English butler opens the door.
"Miss Gabrielle."
"Alfred."
He stands politely to the side and I enter. Marble tiles create a geometric pattern broken by muted carpeting, oak wainscoting to lathe and plaster walls covered with large oils and a ceiling so high it disappears.
"So this is Wayne Manor?"
"It is. Built by James Thomas Wayne in 1879 upon the foundations of the earlier family domicile that was destroyed by fire in 1877. The house is patterned after Englefield House in Berkshire where Mr. Wayne stayed in while visiting Richard Fellowes Benyon, the owner at the time."
"You sound like a tour guide."
"Indeed. I am quoting from the back of the invitation used at last year's charity ball. To continue; tragically Englefield House was damaged by fire in 1886 and extensively refurbished. Therefore, ironically, this house in the new world is a more faithful example of the modified E-Plan Tudor house."
We wander slowly, pausing often to admire a piece of statuary or an oil painting. It feels like I'm in the Tate rather than a home where people lived and children laughed and ran. White dustsheets are neatly folded on chesterfields and settees in the library and billiard room.
"A service comes weekly to clean and dust," Alfred explains. "It's too big for me to handle any more, even with no one living here to clutter up and make a mess."
He sounds sad that there's no one around to clutter and make a mess.
We've cut through the ballroom, a massive structure that balances the library and billiards room in the other wing. Unlike those two rooms this one is nearly empty, devoid of any furniture save a grand piano. This is where the cream of New Gotham society meet three times a year charity balls, a tradition that stretches back to when Bruce Wayne took formal control of his family's holdings. I know this thanks to Alfred's tour guide lecture.
We climb the central stairwell, a huge monstrosity designed for flowing gowns and stately descent. He lets me peek in several of the bedrooms with their too small beds and too large dressers and missing closets. Ornate brass frames are on many of the doors; designed to hold cards so servants and guests would know who slept where when the thirty guest rooms were full and the grounds were noisy with horses and hounds.
"Really? Fox hunts?"
"Indeed. Master James, or so I was told, was very much the Anglophile. The local population of foxes is traced back to his passion, and lack of success, in the hunt." He smiles, adjusts an oil painting that's about a quarter inch off centre before continuing. "The parties and weekends, they lasted until the beginning of the war and decreased under Master Thomas. When he was killed Master Bruce was neither of the age or temperament to continue them other than as a social obligation to the charities his parents supported."
He pulls a key from somewhere, unlocking a door and motioning to me. I open it and gasp.
Unlike the rest of the house, decorated in a mixture of Regency and Art Deco, this room is modern. A little girl perfect room of pink and lace and white lacquered wood mirrored furnishings including a four-poster bed. And above the fire place an oil painting of a mother and child.
"That's Helena. And her mother," I say, stating the obvious.
"Yes."
"But… Helena said… Helena remembers… this is…" The whole room has that echoy feeling of one of my borrowed memories.
"An exact copy of the room Helena had while living in Paris. That's when the portrait was made."
"Helena thinks her father didn't know about her," I say. This entire room is conflicting with Helena's reality. That Selena kept it from him."
"Master Bruce knew and respected Selena's desire that he remain apart," Alfred says. "This was part of their negotiation."
"He could do that? Stay away?"
Alfred stares at the portrait. "No, of course not. Every six months he'd journey to where they were. He never stayed long, merely long enough to catch a glimpse. Once…"
"Once," I prompt when he falls silent.
He turns and there is infinite sadness on his face. "When Helena was three Selena… became very ill. Master Bruce stayed then, until the surgery and treatments were completed. I doubt Helena remembers and it wouldn't surprise me in the least to find that Selena kept her illness from her both then and when she was older. Selena was very protective of Helena. Perhaps too protective."
I think that over. I wonder what I'd be like if my folks had been able to protect me and shelter me from all the bad things that had happened. Would I be me?
"She should know this."
"Indeed she should. And if she were willing to see it I'd be the first to usher her through the door. But she's not yet ready to make peace with her father."
I look around again. "Helena really had a room like this?"
Alfred smiles and nods. "Hard to picture the Huntress surround by pink?"
"No," I say, closing my eyes and letting my mind drift. "She used to have a stuffed black teddy bear, a gift from some relative that she never met. She'd tell him her day at kindergarten. About how angry she was when the other kids teased her about being American or having no father. How confused she was because she could see and react so much faster than regular people. I can remember her in here."
+++++
The kitchen is ultra modern, restaurant quality stoves, ovens and grills with room and prep space for maybe a dozen chefs and cooks. Except for this one corner with a battered table and matching chairs. There's a dusting of flour on one end of the table and a porcelain mixing bowl decorated with embossed wheat shafts. We're eating scones with Devon cream and tea while Alfred shows me old photos.
An incredibly young Ms Gordon and a boy about her age he calls Master Richard. A couple of snaps of teenage boys, about my age, one terribly serious and one with a near maniacal grin who are Tim and Jason. Helena's dad alone as an adult and as a child posing with his parents, Thomas and Mary. Baby pictures including one or two of Helena. Pictures of Thomas Wayne in uniform in London, a bombed out church behind him.
"Do you have any family, Alfred?"
He taps the book. "Other than these?" He opens the book to the very beginning. Three photos, all singed by fire. A couple holding a toddler at the beach. The same family, the child now in his preteens holding onto a small child by the hand, in front of a London row house. A young captain in a RAF uniform posing in front of a plane.
"My parents were killed during the Blitz. Jack was shot down in '43."
"I'm sorry."
"There, there," he says, patting my hand. "It was long ago. And Master Bruce and then his, well, his children. They are very much my family."
I turn through the pages, enjoying the smell of the kitchen. "Its funny. They seem familiar. Like people I met once long ago."
"How are you… adapting?"
"Better. I mean, I think most of the big scary memories are over with. The ones about that night…" I look around nervously. After Ms Gordon's first trigger at the university I'd accessed it several times. It was the fourth or fifth time before I'd stopped being reduced to a sobbing idiot, lost in the memory and scrambling for the phone and punching out some number.
Apparently Ms Gordon's old telephone number now belongs to a pizza place.
"Anyway. Better. We figured out that I only access the memories of people Dinah deep scanned. Like Ms Gordon and Helena when she first came to Gotham. Couple of bad guys, too."
"That aspect of Ms Dinah's powers is well suited for interrogation. Unfortunately one usually only interrogates miscreants."
I stare at him.
"Words such as 'miscreant' amuse Ms Helena. I tend to exaggerate the habit for her enjoyment," he explains. "And have they determined why you seem to possess memories that Ms Dinah doesn't?"
"Ms Gordon says Dinah has them, she just can't access them. She used some computer metaphor about virus and firewalls and stuff."
"Ah," Alfred says, nodding wisely.
"Yeah, that's what Helena and I said. She lost us about thirty seconds in. Basically, Dinah's learned not to let this stuff overwhelm her and I haven't, I guess."
"Anything else?"
"Apparently -when Dinah did the deep thing- she resonated memories. This sounds so new-age. Anyway, because she was scared and alone and learning about her power, she brought out those memories from Ms Gordon and Helena. So, except for a few scattered ones, they all pretty much..."
"Suck?" Alfred supplied when I failed to come up with a suitable adjective.
"Well, yeah," I say. "Not all, but lots."
He smiles and offers the plate of scones. "No, thanks. They were very good."
"Thank you," he says, standing. "Now, shall we continue?"
"There's more?" I ask doubtfully, following him out of the kitchen and back to the study.
"There are some things you should know. Some history," he says as he carefully twists a bust of Mozart. "Some assets," he continues as the panel behind the heavy grandfather clock slides open to reveal a small elevator. "Some gossip," he continues as he motions me to enter and then follows. There are no controls; the door automatically closes and the elevator descends. "Things that will make your position easier."
"Position? Like, sidekick?" I ask hopefully. So far no one has used the "S" word.
"I believe the current term is hero support," he says as the elevator door opens. Dim lights begin to illuminate a vast room. "Some adversaries had less pleasant names. One referred to Master Richard as the Boy Hostage a number of times. But now they are simply a memory," he adds softly as bright spotlights snap on, making a corridor of light. I take an involuntary step back as figures appear in the lights.
"Who are they?" I ask but I know them from Ms Gordon's memories and I tie them to the photos I've just seen.
Bruce. Jason. Dick. Tim. Barbara.
"Those that went before."
Batman. The trio of men known as Robin. Batgirl.
Dark blues, greys and black warring with bright reds, greens and yellows. Each costume suspended with Plexiglas manikins and monofilament wire. An engraved plague with their code name.
Alfred continues, "The few…"
A memory all my own surfaces. "We happy few."
"Ah, yes. 'We band of brothers. For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother, be he never so vile.' An entirely applicable quote, I must say." He smiles and chuckles softly, "I do so enjoy spending time with someone actually educated in the classics."
"It's applicable?" I smile back. "Even the vile?"
"Perhaps not vile but each had their faults, their Achilles Heel. Temper and arrogance being the most common."
"Really?" I ask and he smiles at the sarcasm in my tone. I've only had real life experience with three of them but -on the whole- temper and arrogance seems to be part of the job description. Or drive and confidence if I'm forced to answer aloud.
"Miss Helena reminds me of Master Jason. Such a chip on his shoulder. I'd like to think that, had he the chance to mature, it would have eased as Miss Helena's did. I did worry about her, when her mother first died, that it would scar her as it did him."
"And it didn't?" Memories, first, second and third hand, disagree about Helena being unscarred by her mother's murder.
"Death always changes us," Alfred says slowly, "no matter the age, no matter the circumstances, no matter the relationship."
"Yeah," I manage, voice tight suddenly. Alfred glances at me but doesn't comment or acknowledge.
"Much, I think, to her shock Miss Helena's self destructive need for vengeance matured into a desire for justice."
"I'm much more of an old testament type," I say. "Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth."
"Indeed. Such motivation often attracts to the profession but it leads to self-destruction if left untempered." He smiles at the glass cylinders. "You raise them, tend them. Watch them grow. Look after them when they live in the light and when they work in the underground."
He shakes his head and runs away, moving further into the darkness. Some more lights turn on automatically and a huge cavern is exposed. Not as big as what I've seen in Kentucky but still large with a main cavern and passages that lead off into darkness. There are a couple of cars and motorcycles on the main floor, all covered with sheets that give a hint of mysterious fins and curves. Metal stairs and ramps lead upwards to large catwalks containing lockers, shelves and cabinets.
"What's this?"
"Memorabilia. Master Richard's performing days. Miss Barbara's competition. Some of Master Bruce's charitable events. I thought this reminder was important but I'm not sure it was successful."
"What do you mean?"
"I've always thought," he said, after a few moments, "that one of my duties as hero support was to remind them that they had a life outside of the darkness."
"Dinah too?"
"Perhaps she the most. I am so glad she has your friendship."
"You do know she and I are... umm..." I try to figure out an accurate description of our relationship without being vague like 'girl friend' is.
"Shagging?"
"No! Alfred!" I protest as he merely looks over the top of his glasses. "Not exactly," honesty forces me to add but his eyebrows merely arch higher. "We umm... well, and then it was all confused and now we're taking it slow and I thought the British didn't talk about sex!" I look around desperately for something to change the subject. "Oh, look! A baby Delphi!"
"Not precisely. Master Richard called it the Bat-computer," Alfred says, allowing the subject change. "He had a penchant for adding the prefix 'bat' to most of the equipment. It was a habit that I'd always hoped was a personal quirk rather than lack of imagination. Miss Barbara's computer system is based on this one. Therefore if hers is Delphi then this would be Dodona."
I smile and cock my head to listen as a draft of wind whispers through the stalactites. "Appropriate although maybe we could add some wind chimes," I say.
"I have mentioned that I enjoy the company of those educated in the classics?" Alfred says with a slight smile.
"Yeah. My mom's fault more than education. She teaches Classics at Goth-U now. I was teethed on stories of Olympus and Troy. Spent a lot of hours in the Fitzwilliam Museum."
"Miss Barbara mentioned that you might be supporting the wrong side during the Boat Race."
"You betchya. And we're going to clean your Etonian clock next year."
"Yes, I'm sure Cambridge will do admirably. Assuming they clear the course of any barges."
"Very funny, Alfred," I say.
"Football?" he asks. "I suspect, like most young people, you support Manchester United."
"Manchester? Too easy," I say. "One-nil to the Arsenal," I half sing to the Village People's 'Go West".
"Indeed. I believe I can overlook your Cambridge delusion in light of that," Alfred says, his fond smile firmly in place. "It will be nice to have someone to enjoy the Ashes with."
"Go Australia."
"Or not."
+++++
"Hello, Gabby," Ms Gordon says from her spot in front of the Franken-puter. "Helena is, ahh, out and Dinah's on the balcony."
I nod. "Out out or Huntress out?" Ms Gordon looks younger in real clothes. A sleeveless T-shirt and track pants so very different from the suits and blouses she wears when she's teaching.
"Huntress out," she says and then looks at me. "I'm thirsty, could you…"
"Sure. Anything. Soda? Water?"
"No, could you take over here? I've been reminded of the need to move every three hours or so. The mic is voice activated and she's just watching an alley where we suspect a gun sale in about half an hour."
I nod and pull over a steno chair as Ms Gordon makes room, heading toward the kitchen area. I clear my throat nervously.
"Hey, what's the capital of South Dakota?"
"Um, this isn't Oracle. She's getting a drink and stretch."
"I know. Voice activated mic, remember? Do you know?"
"Pierre."
"I knew it was some European guy but thought maybe Bismark."
"No, uh, Pierre," I say, completely bewildered. A low whistling hum that sort of sounds like the song 'Steve McQueen" comes from the speakers. "Why?" I ask after a few seconds.
"Because my Gameboy batteries died and I'm bored," Helena answers. "You want me to fake an emergency to see how you handle it?"
"No! Thanks, but no," I say, hoping I don't sound as panicky over the radio as I do to my own ears. "Can you talk? Do you need to be quiet?"
"I can chat. I'm about eighteen feet up and they haven't arrived yet."
"Can I ask your advice? About something personal?"
"About Canary? Who's been moping for hours. And sighing and pouting. Probably about you."
"Maybe she's just pining for the fjords?"
"What?"
"Never mind. Yeah. Any suggestions?"
"Grovel," she says firmly. "Flowers, grovel, chocolate and then grovel. Is it your fault? Not that it usually matters."
"I think so."
"Double the grovelling. You might try tears. Oracle never falls for it but Canary might."
"Thanks, Tiger."
"Stop calling me that."
"Oh, I don't think so," I say as Ms Gordon returns. I push away with my steno chair and she wheels up to the keyboard.
"Any problems?" she asks. I shake my head and she smiles before pulling a box of Trivial Pursuit cards from between her leg and the arm of her chair.
"Okay, Huntress. Enough stalling. Capital of South Dakota for the pie."
"Ze answer eez Pierre."
Ms Gordon glances sideways at me suspiciously.
"Dinah. Balcony. Call if you need me," I mumble before fleeing.
Dinah's perched on the edge of a deck chair with the SAT study guide taking advantage of the spring sunset. I approach, loose my nerve, and walk past her, brushing her shoulder with my hand. I figure I'll count to thirty, and if she hasn't said something, I'll make the first move. Or, maybe, count to a thousand instead.
I get to twenty when I feel hands on my waist. "Give me a memory," she whispers.
I let it build. The press of the crowded mall, the terror when my three-year-old self realized my mom was nowhere to be seen. And then my brother Michael's voice and his hand grabbing mine, the wave of relief as I hugged him tight and the love and protection that only a nine-year-old brother can give. I turn and she reaches up, brushing my cheek and I feel the chill as the breeze dries the remains of my tears.
"I never felt that safe again. Except maybe here with you." She's not smiling, looking at me with a serious expression as she continues to stroke the tear tracks on my cheeks. "About what I said at school..."
"It's okay. I'm not normal. It's stupid, someone calls me normal and I get mad and someone says I'm not normal and I get mad."
"It's not stupid. Everyone wants to be special and everyone wants to fit in."
"Even you?"
"Christmas time?" I ask. "Usually I get to wishing I was normal," little air quotes around normal, "or that my folks would at least pay some lip service to it so I could really join in. And every time I use one of those chained down pens or go to turn on a light switch without thinking about it? I wish I was right handed like the rest of the world."
"And, ah, what about..."
"What? Oh, the gay thing?"
"Yeah."
"Well, gotta admit, a lot of parental crying and the whole family was all haken a tsheinik, umm, rehashing for the sake of rehashing," I translate, making a talk-talk hand motion before turning into a caress, stroking my thumb along her jaw. She smiles so I figure I'm not in the doghouse. "And some of the kids have been real jackasses but," I continue, rubbing a small circle below ear, "I'm pretty happy about it right now."
"You are?"
"I hate the thought that you might be mad at me. That I'd done something or said something and hurt you," I say. "Give me a memory?"
She nods and as her eyes close we slip into Our Place. Although she can take my memories direct we need to be in Our Place. I turn in her arms so that I'm nestled in her embrace, her chin on my shoulder, arms over my stomach and I cross my arms over hers.
There's a hazy image of a young girl, walking through rows of green corn, silky tassels just a few inches above her head. The sun is warm and I can hear the distant sound of machinery and birds. The girl gives a small hop-jump, high enough to see the farm buildings over the top of the corn. There's a feeling of safety and being sheltered. Alone but not lonely.
"No one could see me but I wasn't lost," my Dinah says and, in the physical and mental worlds, I hug her arms, which in turn hugs me closer to her.
"You don't have to hide yourself from me," I tell her, turning again to face her. "I see you."
And I hold her as night falls.
END
Footnote: Haken a tsheinik - Boring, long-winded and annoying conversation; talking for the sake of talking (Literally, To bang on the tea-kettle)
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