Ares
Modern Mythology #5
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. We're up to the last few months of high school now.
STORY SPECIFIC NOTES: Great liberties are taken with the accepted "fan-canon". More will be taken as this series progresses. I'm trying hard not to muss too badly with the "show-canon" but no guarantees. Just to warn ya.
FEEDBACK, COMMENTS AND FLAMES: Email at maven369@sympatico.ca
"So," Mr. Singh says slowly. "So, so, so. You've set an ambitious goal, Gabrielle. Accelerated masters degree at the University of New Gotham in biochemistry. You've not applied to any other universities?"
"No."
He glares at me over the computer screen. "Your SAT scores are pretty good. Why not?"
I shrug. In truth, my SATs rock. Not in the brainiac levels but close enough. "I want to go there. I'll get accepted. Why bother?"
"You seem pretty sure of your admittance."
"My mom's holds the Classics Chair," I say. "It comes with certain perks."
"Many students choose out of state universities. A chance to see the world and get out of the thumbs of their parents," he says, eyebrows lifting and waggling. Mr. Singh has an uphill job, trying to fill Mr. Brixton's shoes and dealing with seniors who, like me, put this off until the last three months of school.
I shrug, "Seen the world. And my parents are okay. I like New Gotham and the university has a great biochem program." I pause. Flippant gets you so far but he at least tries and deserves the fact that I'm not just air-braining through life. "I've given this a lot of thought, Mr. Singh."
He looks at me, obviously running over his script of encouraging and wise sayings, but just nods. "Then we're done. See you at graduation."
Dinah's waiting outside the office for her turn. "He's going to suggest applying to a few more colleges, just in case. See the world and break free of the bounds of parental slavery."
She rolls her eyes before grinning. "Emancipation proclamation was over a year ago."
"That all? Seems like you've been around forever."
"And you mean that in a good way, right?"
The tone is teasing but my reply isn't. "The best way," I answer sincerely and she smiles. "Now, get in there. See you tonight?"
"You don't mind?"
"Dinner with the, uh, foster-grandparent? Sounds like a blast."
+++++
The house is easy to find from Dinah's directions. An older house with a neatly cut lawn, weeded flowerbeds and pruned hedge that looks like it would be more at home on a hundred acres of farm than in the middle of a modern city. I pull up in front of a sign that assures me it's safe to park here until 10pm and look around. There's a picket fence with a gate and 'Gordon' engraved onto a brass plaque.
I'm not nervous. Nope. Not at all. Family dinner at James Gordon's and then staying overnight at the Clock Tower. In the guest room, I'd assured my parents. Who had, in unison, rolled their eyes and chorused "of course". I love my family. Really.
The porch light is on, as Dinah had assured me it would, and in one corner I can see the glowing ember of a cigar.
"Sir," I say to the figure standing in the shadows. He looks like the descriptions, grey and tall and thick and solid. A career military man is how I'd peg him if I'd seen him in Jakarta when my only friends were the embassy kids.
"So you're Gabrielle, Dinah's friend?" he asks, leaning casually against the porch railing and wearing a warm coat for the autumn weather. "I understand you work with Barbara and Helena."
"In the muffin top business," I say firmly. Dinah and Helena are convinced that Mr. Gordon knows everything about the "muffin tops". I think Ms Gordon is just figuring out her dad is a lot smarter than she thought. I figure I'll play it safe and stick with the cover story. Heck, it'll be good practice when I have to use it on my parents.
"Yes," he says with a slight smile. "The muffin top business."
"Yes, sir."
"What do you do with the bottoms?"
I wonder which of the Einsteins came up with this excuse and figure Helena.
"There aren't actual bottoms," I say. "The secret was to modify the pan so that it cooked the top as if there were a bottom."
"I see," he says, motioning with his cigar a question about continuing smoking and I shrug. He takes that as acceptance and turns his attention to the night sky.
The faint memories I have for Dad/Jim/Uncle Jim is one of comfort and safety. The feel of warm wool and the scent of pipe smoke and the itchy dust of the books in the study. I hug myself, warming myself with the stolen memory and my fleece jacket.
"You're fairly new to Gotham," he says softly.
"Just moved here for my freshman year at Gotham High," I answer. "But I was born here." This sounds suspiciously like the overprotective father interrogation I've never actually received having never actually dated anyone seriously before for Dinah. I hadn't realized he was taking the Uncle Jim thing so seriously.
"Plans for college?"
Yeap. Totally serious into the Uncle Jim. "Biochemistry here at Goth-U," I answer.
"Is that what you want to do?" he asks. "Want for you and not what you feel you should do?"
The question takes me aback because he's the first person, myself included, to ask. "My dad's a chemist. I'm good at it."
He nods. "It'll likely be very useful in the muffin top business. But if you could do anything, what would it be?"
"Cure leukemia," pops out.
He doesn't say anything and I wonder why I admitted something that's been lurking in the back of my mind since I was old enough to know what leukemia was.
"It's a stupid idea," I finally say.
"Not really," he says. He turns his attention to the cigar and the tip glows with fiery red. "What if you were offered the chance? Forget the muffin tops and I'll ensure you go to the best universities anywhere in the world. Help you make connections with the best researchers and arrange to give you the funding and assets you need. Biochemistry, medicine, whatever field you choose."
I stare at him. I glance around the modest house in the modest neighbourhood. Either he's posing a hypothetical question…
"You're not Mr. Gordon," I accuse. He's still familiar but the memories of Jim Gordon aren't jibing with the man I'm talking too.
He smiles again and shakes his head, holding out his hand. "Michael Baldwin."
"Michael Baldwin, Bruce. Michael Baldwin, Bruce. Michael Baldwin, Bruce. Is your name not Bruce, then?" I quote, using the humour of the Monty Python skit to overpower the anguish hearing that particular first name still causes. I freeze, my hand halfway to his as my own faded memory overpowers the stolen ones. "Holy shit."
He pauses and his expression shifts, a predatory smile that he obviously passed onto his daughter. A smile that would scare the crap out of you if you weren't on his side. "A Monty Python fan, I see," he says softly.
"Yeah. Long story that I expect you already know."
He shrugs. "Well? Muffin tops or university?"
"Why do I have to choose?"
"Say you had to."
"No," I say firmly. "I don't. You made Ms Gordon choose and she was miserable. Maybe I won't cure leukemia. That's just a stupid kid dream. But I can do good things with biochemistry and still help out with the… the muffin tops."
"I made Barbara…?"
"She could have gone to the Olympics," I say fiercely and I don't know who's pissed off at him: me, Ms. Gordon, Helena or all three of us.
"I didn't make…" he begins. I glare at him. He just sighs. "She chose to devote herself to the fight, to try to make a difference. You don't have to make the same choice, fight the same fight."
"Yeah, I do."
The cigar tip spends a couple of seconds turning to ash. "Typical. Obstinate. Blinded. You don't know what you're getting into, you know."
"Ms Gordon told me it isn't a game."
"But, in a way" he said, flicking the ash away, "it is. A competition, between us and them, with rules. Sometimes their rules and ours don't agree, mind you."
"And you don't play anymore?"
He smiles. "Maybe. Maybe I just play on a different field, in a different league. Doesn't mean I don't pay attention to what Helena and Barbara are doing."
"She misses you."
"Helena hates me," he says.
"I meant Ms Gordon."
"I miss her," he says. "But contacting Barbara would put her in an untenable position. I won't hurt either of them by coming between them, especially now."
I figure this is true so don't bother to comment. Instead I wait. I wonder why he's willing to put me in basically the same untenable position. I wonder if he's had this conversation with Dinah.
I wonder why he's having it with me.
"Alfred speaks very highly of you," he says, apropos to nothing but my thoughts.
"I think highly of Alfred," I say.
"If I'm needed, he can contact me."
"Right," I say, somewhat confused.
"He'll tell you how. In case..."
"In case what?" I ask.
"In case something happens."
There are all sorts of ramifications, which, frankly, scare me to the point where I don't want to even consider them.
He looks up, past the eaves of the porch and into the night sky. "Do you know who you are?"
I think a moment, considering all the answers. Child of. Sister of. Girlfriend of. But that's not what he's asking. "Yes, sir," I reply. And then add one more word.
He nods and smiles. "Atta, girl," he says and for some reason I don't feel the urge to kick him in the shins for the patronizing words. "Take care of them?"
"Yes, sir."
+++++
The door opens mere seconds after I ring the bell, so quickly that I figure he was waiting right there.
"Mr. Gordon?" I ask. Not going to make the same mistake twice.
"Miss Miller," he says, offering his hand. It's warm and just a bit rough.
"Gabby. Please." I say.
"Then I'm Jim."
"Uncle Jim," I amend and he smiles and I see why I made the mistake in the first place. There are the superficial physical similarities of moustache and greying hair but it's the sense of authority and command that outweigh any differences.
He glances at the corner of the porch where a slight haze of smoke remains. "Did you…"
"We talked. It's cool, Mr. Gordon."
"They don't know."
"Yeah. I got that," I say. "Does Dinah know him? This Michael?"
"Very casually," he says. "Michael doesn't visit much but she's run into him before. He was leaving when she arrived."
I sigh. "He's put me in a spot."
"He's very good at that. Usually for a good reason," Mr. Gordon says wryly before taking a deep breath and obviously changing tracks. "Now. Dinah is in the study. Barbara and Helena aren't here yet. Dinner in about half an hour?"
I nod, following him through the front hall and into the first door. A wood and book lined room with old bulky furniture. Dinah's at the desk, her bright pink binder at odds with the oak and brown leather.
"Hey, you're late…" she says as I enter the room.
I ignore her words, bending to kiss her thoroughly. There's a muffled protest and a mumbled "Uncle Jim".
"Let him get his own girl," I mutter, returning to the kiss. It takes a few seconds for her to get over the performance anxiety and, when I finally break for air and sanity Mr. Gordon is reading his book.
"Kids," he mutters softly.
+++++
There's a soft knock on my door. Technically, not my door. I'm in Helena's old room, converted to guest room now that she never sleeps here. Here here. Helena practically lives in the Clock Tower again although there's been no official "moving in".
"Come in."
Dinah slips through the door, shutting it quietly behind her before leaning on it. She's in these terribly cute blue flannel pjs with white snowflakes. "You okay?"
I draw my knees up to my chin. "Why?"
"The public display of affection at Uncle Jim's. You didn't talk at all during dinner. You barely paid any attention to Helena's stories…"
"Yeah, I get it" I say. She left out that I've been avoiding touching her after the kiss in the study. "I met someone on my way over. An old colleague of my dad's," I answer. This is the truth. Just not the whole truth and I owe her more if not all. "It was Helena's dad."
"Oh," she says.
"He… he tried to buy me off. Have me go to some school far, far away. Where I'd be, I dunno, safe or something."
She comes closer, sitting on the foot of the bed. "Did it work? Did you…"
"What? No, of course not."
I can see her working things through, asking questions in her head, deciding what to ask first. "What's hurt you?" she asks after a few seconds. "What's wrong?"
"Last time I saw him I was five. It was after the funeral and he came to my house and next day we were packing to go to Jakarta. I didn't recognize him today at first. I just kinda remembered that after I came in. And then," I laugh and shake my head, "then I had to make sure it was my memory and not one of Ms Gordon or Helena's. "
"Gabby?"
"Plus, he's using the name Michael," I add angrily. She nods and I figure she'd already figured it out. One person shouldn't have so many names. I wondered if he knew who he was anymore.
"When I was five my entire world was my big brother, Michael. He was my… everything. And then he was gone and…"
"Gabby?"
No wonder she's confused. Michael's not someone I feel comfortable talking about out loud, only in the privacy of a shrink's office. I pull my hand away from hers, motioning her to stop. "You don't want to be feeling like I'm feeling," I explain.
She shakes her head. "Of course I do," she says, moving forwards until she's cuddled in my arms.
I watch her face, moving through fear, anger, sorrow and then calm acceptance. "Thank you."
She shrugs. "You're welcome," she says with a slight smile.
"Stay with me tonight?" I ask. "You don't… we don't… nothing has to happen."
"Nothing," she asks, lower lip trembling in a dramatic and exaggerated pout. "After two months of just holding hands and not necking at the lockers…"
"Yeah?" I prompt.
"It's not like we haven't already."
"True. You wanna work out why me on Helena's bed gets you all hot and bothered?"
"Okay," she said, grinning. "That was a mood killer."
I grin back, dark mood lifting. "Stay?"
+++++
"Morning!"
She hurmphs something at me, staring fixedly at the toaster. I'm not too surprised to find out Helena's not a morning person.
There's a slight ping as the toaster ejects two poptarts.
"Got any more of those?" I ask.
"Sure, make yourself at home."
"Ummmm," I say, taking a step back from her tone of voice but then relaxing when she winks at me. "Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?"
"That would assume I slept," Helena says, handing me one of the poptarts in a paper napkin and keeping one for herself.
"Ahhh," I start. And then stop. "It sounds like you're blaming me."
"Oh no," she says as she puts a full coffee mug and a large glass of orange juice onto a tray. "I share the blame equally between you and the Kid." She looks in the freezer. "Out of poptarts. Frozen waffles okay?"
"Sure. Why?"
"Do you know why I picked that room when I moved in?" she asks, filling all four slots of the toaster with frozen waffles. "Originally I had the one Dinah uses but I moved to that one after a couple of days. Do you know why?"
"Ah, no."
"Because the air vent is directly connected to Barbara's room. So I could hear if she needed me."
"So if she called out…" I begin.
"No, if she breathed funny," Helena said, tapping her ear before putting a bowl, spoon and plate onto the tray. "God, can't you just have sex and fall asleep like normal people?"
"What?"
"Chat chat chat. Angst angst angst. I barely survived adolescence once and now I'm doomed to repeat it. In stereo."
"You could hear what we said!" I ask, trying desperately to remember what we talked about.
"No. Well, some," she says, after a slight pause. "And I think you're right about Mrs. MacMillan being a direct descendant of the Marquis de Sade. But most of was just noise. Annoying. Continuous. Noise. But I'll get my revenge."
A chill shivers up my spine. "How?"
There's a pop and she snatches the four waffles midair, setting them onto the plate. "You have Barbara first class Monday, right? I did too, back in the day. I figured it out later, much later. Pop quizzes on Monday morning because she was too wasted being Batgirl the night before to do a good job lecturing. You are so getting a pop quiz tomorrow," she tosses over her shoulder as she carries the tray out of the kitchen.
"But. But." My brain tries to kick in. Helena's nefarious plan requires... "Criminals? How can you be sure there'll be criminals and crime and stuff?"
She turns, balancing the tray easily. "Who says I need criminals to get Barbara exhausted?"
END
Next: Hermes
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