Official Disclaimer: This is and only will be fan fiction. It was written for the sole purpose of bringing pleasure to people who were fans of the TV show, Birds of Prey. I have absolutely no intention of publishing it or profiting by it. I don't even have any intention of taking credit for it, which is why I choose to write under a pseudonym. I was merely intrigued by the possibilities of this rich story line and wanted to play around with some of them, in the company of other like-minded individuals. I write this only for the sheer joy of making—or attempting to make--the characters come alive on the page. I share it only because, finding so much pleasure in reading others' Birds of Prey stories, I wished to give something back.
This is my very first attempt at fan fiction. It is my understanding that as long as I write the disclaimer and don't profit from it, this is legal. If this is not the case, please, by all means, let me know, and I will remove this document immediately. It is most definitely not my intention to plagiarize or infringe copyright laws.
All of the characters and story lines and everything else I can think of are the property of DC comics and the WB network. The only bits that're mine are the words and the voice.
Additional disclaimer: I realize that some of this may deviate from both the DC comics and the TV show, though I tried to be as true to both as I could, given that I really haven't read Batman comics until now. (I've been surfing around on the internet trying to glean as much info as possible so I didn't make too many mistakes—but mistakes are going to be inevitable) Mostly, I'm just having fun. I wanted to explore the characters' separate lives previous to the series and their coming together to form a team. I also wanted to explore some of the difficulties the various characters would have had with learning to trust each other and work together as well as with coming to grips with their respective situations. Specifically, this story will deviate from the plot of the WB pilot as well as possibly rearrange some of the episodes—that is, if it gets that far. If it bothers you, don't look!
One more thing: There's a bit of mild swearing for emphasis, and the f-word shows up once, because it fit there. If this offends you, I just wanted you to be forewarned.
And also: It's going to be way long. Not unlike this disclaimer. More of a serial than a story, really: Lots of entwined threads. Patience is a virtue.
Additionally: This story was not intended to be eaten or inhaled. In case of accidental ingestion, please contact your nearest poison control center immediately.
And a note to reviewers: If you don't like something, don't chew my butt. I'm sensitive—artistic temperament and all…you know. Point it out in a nice way. Oh, and I already know the first chapter is too long and too passive. I needed to set the stage. I got tired of trying to fix it, so I'm just posting it this way. Subsequent chapters will be much shorter and more active.
That said, here's the story. Enjoy!
Chapter 1: Freaky Foster Kid
The little dormer window in the attic was Dinah's favorite place to sit and read. Here, she could snuggle cozily in a nest made of two mattresses, a blanket, and several pillows, behind a pile of attic storage consisting of two large, uncomfortable, overstuffed chairs, a tall chest of drawers, two blanket chests, and an old, folding crib. As long as she remained quiet, she was almost completely hidden from anyone who might happen to come up to the attic. With any luck, she might be left in peace to read for several hours before someone thought to look for her.
Reading was one of the great loves of Dinah's life. She read stories the way some people used drugs. It was her escape, her place to go when life seemed too difficult or painful. Immersed in a book character's cares and worries and adventures, she could, for awhile, escape her own world, living the life of another for several brief, happy moments. Fantasy and science fiction were her genres of choice. The epic clashes between the forces of good and the forces of evil stirred something fundamental in the depths of her soul, and she fiercely longed to forge a sword or step through a warp in the fabric of time and space and join the battle.
:: Go get Dinah and tell her it's her turn to set the table. ::
The sound of her name intruded. Funny, how you could tune out absolutely everything else and still hear your own name. The cheap transistor radio crackled, and once again, in the background, she could hear her name being called.
:: Dinah! ::
:: Where is she?::
:: Probably off with her nose in a book somewhere. Did you check the barn?::
:: Dinah! Mom wants you to set the table! ::
So far, no one had figured out that this was where Dinah hid to read or think. Young as she was, she already understood the wisdom of not over-using a good thing. She did not frequent her secret lair often enough to raise the question, "where does she disappear to all the time," and she never, no matter how tempting it might be, hid there to get out of chores or when she was in trouble. Trouble, she had learned through sorry experience, was better faced straight on—if trouble had to hunt you down, it usually left you in a world of hurt, and the anticipation of it made it ten times worse than it was already.
Besides, any unfortunate things that might be in store for her would pale by comparison to having her secret lair discovered and taken away. Dinah took care never to allow for the possibility of that to happen. With the help of a how-to book smuggled from the library, she had managed to rig several radio-controlled "bugs" in different locations throughout the house, and she always kept one ear out for the sound of someone calling her. At the slightest hint that she was wanted, Dinah was quick to slip unnoticed through the trap-door in the ceiling of one of the third floor closets and through one of the adjoining rooms and passages to emerge in a different location in the large old house.
Gracefully swinging down through the trap door, Dinah made sure to grab one of the books she had stashed there—books appropriate for someone who could read on a fifth or sixth grade level. She loved these books, but she could also read most of them cover to cover within half an hour. Although only eleven, Dinah already possessed the ability and comprehension to read on at least a twelfth grade level, understanding not only the words, but the meanings as well. It was an ability she had learned to downplay whenever possible. No one, she had found, had much appreciation for someone who was, as Teresa, one of her many foster parents, had put it, "too big for her britches."
Just now, in her attic hideaway, she had been happily immersed in Madeleine L'Engle's A Wind In The Door, the sequel to A Wrinkle in Time, which she had found in the library and devoured a couple of days before. She had never met a book character with whom she could identify as much as she did with Charles Wallace Murray. She understood his struggle to adapt himself to the ordinary world while at the same time trying to remain true to who he was. It was her struggle, too, and, like Charles Wallace, she didn't seem to be having too much luck in finding a balance.
She opened the closet door a crack and peered out. This crawl-hole had at one time been the only way to get into the attic, until someone had added a staircase at the end of the hallway. Now, it had been completely forgotten. Dinah never used the staircase—if someone were to see her, the attic would be the first place they'd look the next time someone wanted her.
The coast was clear. She stepped quickly out of the closet and headed downstairs, book in hand.
"There you are, Freak. Mom wants you to set the table."
"I know. I heard you calling."
"You could have answered."
"Sorry." Not
"Where were you, anyway?"
"Reading." She held up the book as she spoke. It was true as far as it went.
"What a little misfit. Don't you ever do anything normal?"
Dinah ignored that. Responding to it would just give Samantha the satisfaction of knowing she'd hit a nerve. She hated that Samantha always made fun of her because she liked to read and play chess, did ballet and gymnastics, and knew her way around a computer. And, God, did she ever hate being called a freak. She hated Samantha. That girl had a mean streak the size of Texas. Too bad they were in the same grade at school.
She had only fairly recently come here to live with Wayne and Beth Redmond and their three children in Opal, Missouri, a small town nearby to Kansas City. Before that, she had been shuttled from foster home to foster home in Kansas City and its neighboring small towns. Some of the families she'd stayed with had been pretty nice, and there had always been the hope that it might become a more permanent arrangement…but inevitably, after a few months, no matter how hard she tried to hide it, her secret would surface, and they'd freak out and request to have Dinah removed from their household. Once again, Dinah would be wrenched away from the life that she was beginning to settle into and would be forced to begin again the process of learning to adjust to a new family, new school, new friends, new rules…
She figured that it would be no different, here. She tried not to let on that she cared. At eleven, Dinah already possessed an ability to mask her insecurity and intense fears of rejection under an exterior aura of calm, cheerful acceptance of events and circumstances. Only someone who knew her well enough to know what to look for and who had an eye for the looking could detect the depths of loneliness and fear within her soul. Nobody knew her that well. No one.
Dinah sighed. In all fairness, she couldn't blame people for being freaked out. She freaked herself out. Obviously she wasn't normal. If she were a foster parent, she wouldn't want a freak like herself around her own children, either. Even her own mother hadn't wanted her around. Could you blame her? She was one weird kid.
The problem was…sometimes, Dinah dreamed things that came true.
The dreams had started when she'd still been living in Sedalia with Teresa and Bill, with that series of dreams about the strange man dressed as a bat, and the young masked man and woman who fought at his side saving helpless people from criminals in a big city. Dinah hadn't thought for a moment they'd been true—just stirring, in a strange sort of way. She'd been about nine at the time they'd started. They'd been different than normal dreams in several ways: They'd always been vivid and straightforward, with none of that vague, mixed-up dream sense where you're in, for instance, your living room, only it's really a church, and Frank is playing golf, only it's Joel, and he's a wolf. She'd also had the sense of being present only as an observer—not in any way a participant.
She had additionally felt a strange sense of connection, particularly with the young woman, almost as though she, Dinah, were also a part of that team. It had made her want to be a part of it, to learn to fight, and to help the helpless. She hadn't told anyone about the dreams—they'd been just dreams, after all—but around the schoolyard, she had begun to stand up for smaller kids who were being picked on. After about five or six fights, all of which Dinah had won, there'd been a parent conference with Teresa and Bill, her foster parents at the time, followed by a lot of meetings with the school counselor. The counselor had concluded that Dinah's "aggressive behavior" was due to "abandonment issues", and that Dinah would benefit from more structure and discipline in her life. After that, Dinah's after-school time had been taken up completely by sports: gymnastics, swimming, and ballet. Dinah's career as a hero had been shortlived.
Dinah had then begun to have other intense dreams with the same characteristics—vivid imagery, straightforward story line, and a sense of being an observer. These dreams, as unbelievable as it seemed, had then begun to come true. It had really freaked her out.
Most often, it had seemed that she was dreaming things that were happening in the present—only in situations which she should have had no idea about. Once in awhile, she also dreamed things that had happened in the past, seeing things which had happened to people in days, years, or even centuries previously. A couple of times—and this had been really freaky—she had even dreamed about things before they had actually happened. Most of those dreams—the future ones—had seemed to be warnings, and usually involved animals…For the life of her, Dinah hadn't a clue as to why that would be.
The first dream had been one of the freaky future ones: One night, Dinah had dreamed that the family dog was run over. Two days later, it had happened, in the same place, in the same way. Shaken, Dinah had informed Teresa, her foster mother. Worn out from the labors of raising two foster kids plus three of her own, Teresa had ignored her. The second time, Dinah'd had a dream about the past that turned out to have happened. Teresa had scolded her for making things up.
The third time, Dinah had been home sick with the flu and during a nap had dreamed that Bill had lost his job. She had told Teresa, who had rolled her eyes and laughed, "Nonsense—that job is incredibly secure." When Bill had arrived home that evening to break the bad news of his layoff, Teresa had fainted. Teresa and Bill had become anxious after that, and had told Dinah that her stories had better stop. The fourth time, when Dinah had dreamed an accident which had taken place fourteen years in the past, and had insisted she knew true story, which differed significantly from the one everyone had been told, Bill had taken a belt to her. Teresa and Bill had threatened to send her away if it kept up.
And then…she'd had the nightmares.
A black car waits by the side of the road, as a woman and a young, fifteen year old girl step from a bus at the corner. The dark-haired girl is chattering, her vivid blue eyes sparkling mischievously as she details a prank which she had pulled on a friend earlier. The laughing woman drapes her arm affectionately around the girl's shoulders as she leans in to hear the particulars. Looking on, Dinah feels a twinge of envy.
As the two stroll along through the softly falling snow, the car door opens and a figure steps out. The woman glances up, stiffens… "Run!" she hisses, giving the girl a shove. The young girl hesitates. "Go—I mean it! Now!" The girl runs into a nearby alley. The woman follows. The girl makes a leap—three stories up to the landing of a fire-escape. She glances back, uncertain. "Keep going!" the woman hisses, "So help me, if you dare follow me, you will get it when this is over! Understand?" The girl nods, reluctant, yet obedient, then makes another leap, and lands on the roof of the six-story apartment building. The woman continues to run down the alley, drawing their pursuer away from the girl, who watches from the rooftop. In and out of alleys, the woman leads him, finally scaling a wall and running across a low roof, dropping down into the alley on the other side to catch her breath.
Suddenly, the girl's voice rings out: "MAMA!" The woman snaps to attention too late. A shot rings out. The woman falls. Her killer walks toward her with agonizing slowness and nudges her with a toe. She groans. The masked figure points the gun at her head and pulls the trigger as the girl screams. The figure straightens and hurries away, as the girl leaps from the building and rushes, sobbing, to her mother's side.
Dinah's screams had woken her up. When Teresa had finally gotten her calm again and Dinah had dropped off to sleep, she'd had the second of the nightmares.
A young, red haired woman of about twenty-six relaxes by the fire with a glass of wine and a book. Soft piano music plays, and the woman stretches her feet toward the fire and sighs as a soft knock sounds at the door. Reluctantly, the woman places a bookmark between the pages and walks to the door, peering through the peephole.
Suddenly, a bullet bursts through the door, entering the woman's abdomen. As she slumps to the floor, a second shot breaks the lock, and the door bursts open, revealing an evil, grinning face. The man laughs evilly, as he softly closes the door, and his malevolent, chilling laughter continues as he grasps her wrists and drags her, struggling feebly, toward the fireplace. He picks up the glass of wine and sips it, leering. "A romantic evening by the fire," he jeers, "What a perfect end to your life!"
Teresa's voice had penetrated, releasing her from the nightmare, "Dinah…wake up, for God's sake…you're dreaming again." She'd seemed irritated, "It's the second time, tonight. I don't know how much more of this I can put up with."
Dinah had sat up, gulping greedily from the glass of water Teresa offered her. "The smiling man…he shot her. He's going to hurt her."
Teresa had rolled her eyes and taken the empty glass, "It's a nightmare. It's not real. Go back to sleep."
"It is real," Dinah had insisted, "It happened—it's happening."
The hard slap across her mouth had taken Dinah completely by surprise. "I told you to stop that nonsense. It's a dream—nothing more." Rising abruptly, Teresa had strode across the room, and snapped off the light. "I don't want to hear another peep out of you. Next time, I'm sending Bill in here with the belt."
Dinah had lay back down and quietly cried herself to sleep.
The following day, she had glimpsed the front page of the New Gotham Gazette: POLICE COMMISSIONER'S DAUGHTER VICTIM OF HOME INVASION. Underneath the headline had been a picture of the red-haired woman. Before she'd had a chance to read any of the story, Bill had taken the paper from her. When Dinah had begged to see it, had tried to explain that this was the woman from her dream, he'd whipped her with his belt harder than she'd ever been whipped before and sent her to her room. Dinah had sobbed for hours—not because of the whipping, though it left welts on her legs that stung for a long time afterward, but because she so desperately wanted to know if the woman was all right. She couldn't shake her sense of connection with either her or the girl. From then on, every night when she said her prayers, she asked God to watch over not only her mother, but also the red-haired woman and the jumping girl.
After that, the people from the Department of Children and Family Services had come to take her away, and she'd gone to live with various foster families for a few months at a time for the next couple of years, before she'd finally come to live with Wayne and Beth Redmond. She had been removed from one of the homes after four months, because her foster father, Darrell, had turned out to be a heavy drinker who turned mean and abusive when he was drunk. A teacher had noticed the bruises and the raw burns on her arm where he'd held a lit cigarette to her. She probably owed her life—or at least her sanity—to that teacher. The bastard was in jail, now.
All of the other families she'd been placed with had been terrific—warm, caring people who had wanted to take in foster children out of kindness. Each time, she had desperately wanted to stay with them, to be loved by them. All of those situations had fallen through because of Dinah and her freaky, stupid dreams. She couldn't help dreaming things that ended up coming true, and a lot of times, it had been suspected that she had caused the events which had happened. The families had been kind, but they'd feared for their own children. She'd been removed from the Ellsworths' after she'd known too much about a fire which had been started at the school. She'd been removed from the Ames family after she'd warned them that their two cats were going to be poisoned, and they were. She'd been removed from the Thompson family when she had kept knowing things which had been family secrets for years. The list went on. She'd lived with nine different families during that two-year period.
DCFS had finally placed her with the Redmonds because Wayne and Beth were no-nonsense types with a firm hand, the sort of people who wouldn't put up with Dinah's lies and acting out behavior. Before Dinah's arrival, Wayne and Beth had been warned by her caseworker that Dinah was aggressive and belligerent and sorely in need of discipline and structure. Since Wayne and Beth ran a strict household and had three seemingly well-behaved children, one of whom was Dinah's exact age, they seemed as though they would be the perfect foster parents for such a troubled child.
It had become clear to Dinah that she would not find affection and acceptance in this household. Right off, Wayne and Beth had laid down the law: She, like the other kids, was expected to do one-half hour of chores each day and two on Saturdays and Sundays. Any extra spending money, she was expected to earn, herself. She was expected to participate in organized sports or activities every day after school, as the DCFS counselor had suggested. They would not put up with lies, laziness, academic slacking, or trouble of any kind. Dinah had been shown a cruel-looking quirt which hung on the back of the door separating the kitchen from the dining room, and it had been emphasized that they would not hesitate to use it if she stepped out of line.
Yearning desperately to be loved and understood, Dinah's sensitive spirit had been dreadfully wounded by the tone they had taken with her. She hadn't even had a chance to make an impression or allow them to learn to know and love her. They'd made up their minds about her before they'd even seen her. She'd retreated within herself, immersing herself more and more in her books and her daydreams. She spent countless happy hours imagining for herself a loving family filled with laughter and joy. In her dream world, she had a mother who listened to her and understood her and who tucked her in at night and hugged her when she was sad. Her dream father played games with her and protected her and made jokes to make her feel better. She also dreamed for herself several brothers and sisters who were also smart and liked reading and chess and music and ballet, and who didn't mind that her dreams came true, and who stuck up for her when people picked on her. In her own little world, peace and happiness reigned.
Real life was nothing like her daydreams—that was for certain. She'd gotten off to a rocky start with this family, and it didn't look like things were going to improve anytime soon. About a month after Dinah had arrived, the dreams had made a problem once again.
This time, she'd dreamed that she was cleaning out one of the horse stalls, when an unfamiliar, white cat with black ears had come into the stall. In the dream, she had coaxed the cat to her and was stroking it, when a fire started in the barn. Dinah loved animals, especially horses, and the thought of anything happening to them made her ill. She thought she was doing the Redmonds a favor by warning them. She really shouldn't have been so unprepared for their reaction, she'd thought, later. Wayne had leaned threateningly across the breakfast table, his face inches from hers. "You had better not even think of setting fire to that barn."
Three days later, while Dinah was cleaning out one of the stalls, she'd looked up to see the black-eared cat. She'd known better than to run to the house for help. Who would have believed her? She could just see herself trying to explain: "There's a cat with black ears! Quick! Get the hose!" Instead, she had quickly released all of the animals from their stalls and chased them out of the barn.
She'd then gone looking for the fire, which was only just then starting to catch. Someone (Dirk and Kenneth, her foster brothers, she suspected) had tossed a live cigarette butt on the ground just behind the barn, and it had caught some straw bales, which were piled against the back of the barn, on fire. Screaming for help, Dinah had taken a pitchfork and started to try to pull the now flaming bales away from the barn. Fortunately, several people had heard her and come running, and between them, they had managed to get the straw pulled away from the barn and put out the flames licking up the back wall before it had time to do any damage to the rest of the barn. Only the corner stall had sustained any damage.
There was never any doubt in anyone's mind that the cigarette butts found in the vicinity had been Dinah's. Wayne and Beth, however, sustained quite a bit of doubt that the fire had caught accidentally. The girl had, after all, practically announced her intentions at the breakfast table just the other day—and hadn't she made sure to get the animals out of the barn, first? Without another word, Wayne had marched her to the house and taught her a lesson.
Actually, she'd learned several lessons. She'd learned that a whipping with a quirt hurts a whole lot worse than a whipping with a belt. She'd also learned that trying to explain about her dreams would only get her locked in a dark, musty basement closet until she "was ready to tell the truth." What's more, she'd learned the hardest lesson of all: she was alone; completely, utterly alone. She was a freak, a misfit, and no normal person would ever be able to understand her, or even want to make the effort to try.
After that, Dinah had made up her mind to keep her dreams to herself. She wasn't stupid, after all. She might be a freak, but she didn't have to go around advertising it to everyone.