Weekends were paradise.
Truly, paradise on Earth.
No school, no work, no people. No trips, no slips, no pokes, no names, no threats, no stares, no human interaction of any kind.
Paradise.
Dahlia's father was a Gotham city policeman by the name of Lou Rhodes. He wasn't home very often, but this particular Saturday, he was around when his daughter woke up. As she emerged from her bedroom with all the grace of a booze-addled zombie, he greeted her warmly. "Hey Darlin'!" She lit up, even through tired eyes, and the corners of her mouth stretched into a smile.
"Morning!" Rubbing the crust from one eye as she trudged to greet him in the kitchen, she noticed he was already in uniform and halfway finished with a mug of coffee. He'd be off to work again soon. Somewhat saddened by this, she slumped into him and wrapped her arms around his waist, and he returned the embrace.
Giving her back a firm rub, Lou asked, "What you been up to?"
Still smiling, and still holding onto him, Dahlia replied through her rusty morning voice, "Well, school aside, I fixed my camera, and got a few good shots the other day and am going to add those to my wall. Also was thinking about taking this Aikido class I saw advertised off Oak and Birch Street, just as a refresher."
"That's a great idea," Lou replied. "Never hurts to brush up on a practical skill."
Dahlia's brows furrowed momentarily as she straightened her posture, continuing to rub her eyes. "Hey, have you seen Cat lately? I haven't seen him in a few days."
"Nah, sorry, haven't seen him. I'm sure he'll show up, probably just got distracted with something. You going to be heading out today?"
"Mm hm. Oh, so ... I was thinking of going to Killinger's to browse some hats or something, but I ran short on cash. Could I borrow a little?"
"Of course!" Lou wouldn't count himself as comfortable, but managed to support the three of them and send Dahlia to a prestigious school. Really, his handling of his second wife's alcohol problem aside, she didn't have a single complaint. As he retrieved a small fold of cash up, Lou remarked, "No porn, no booze, no strip clubs."
Her nose crinkling as she shrugged, Dahlia took the cash gently and quipped, "Can't make promises on the last two, but I'll make sure to bring you back a souvenir if so." Lou cackled at the comment. Once the humor subsided, Dahlia could tell he was ready to head out, so added, "Hope you have a good day at work."
Lou kissed his daughter on the top of her unkempt head of hair. "Thanks, Babygirl. Be safe."
People watching, while the world's cheapest pastime, wasn't always as simple as ... well, watching people. Merely looking at them. Dahlia really took sport in it, as part of her passive interest in learning how those around her operated. School hooligans aside, she wanted to see what she could figure out about the humanity of Gotham. It was the type of deep intrigue that virtually no one knew about her, and that probably no one - besides her father - would ever know about her.
Not only was it a fun means of analyzing people, but it was a great way to learn how to anticipate the behaviors of your rivals and enemies.
A young woman tugging her son along the sidewalk, rushing to get across the street before the light turned. A portly old man walking his portly old dog down the opposite street. A businessman in a poorly tailored suit with long hair neatly tied back, briskly walking towards the office on a perfectly good Saturday. Dahlia could tell a dozen stories about them all, some true, some perhaps not.
She spent the rest of her morning people watching downtown until she felt the heaviness of her boots set into her sore feet. Nearby, she spotted a coffee shop and decided to take a quick rest before continuing her wandering over to the department store in Central Heights.
But as she neared the coffee shop, she spotted a familiar figure at the window and came to an ungraceful halt: Professor Crane. He was sitting quietly by himself in a corner table, reading over a newspaper. It suddenly made her uncomfortable, and without thinking further she rushed out of sight and turned a corner behind the adjacent building.
...
... Why am I hiding? ... Why was she? Really, she had no idea what she was thinking. Of all her instructors, Professor Crane was really the kinder one, even as stoic and robotic as he often seemed. But he was kind (observant?) enough to ask about the bruises on her face and neck, which by now were only barely beginning to fade (and mostly masked under a heavy application of makeup). Even with that small act aside, she had seen him break from a lecture on more than one occasion to make a clever joke, and even smile.
But her feet didn't budge. The grips of some perplexing social anxiety were too tight. Instead, her feet turned her right around and back down the street she came from. Not understanding her own behavior, and not willing to sort through her thoughts, Dahlia merely headed off to Killinger's Department Store.
By the time Dahlia got home with a new wide-brimmed hat in tow, night had fallen. Once she walked inside though, she immediately contemplated leaving again: Lou was obviously not yet home, and Linda was there, drinking herself silly. Again.
The only greeting Dahlia had the patience to muster was: "Linda, have you seen my cat lately?"
The hag slurred back, "Nope. S'yer cat. You take care of it."
"Him." Dahlia corrected with a firm tone, rolling her eyes as she snatched an umbrella from the coat closet before heading right back out the front door to look for Cat. As it slammed shut, Linda called out with an uncoordinated arm wafting above her head,
"Hey, hey! Where's yer father?! He's been gone all night'n you don't give a shit, do you? I dun' believe fer a minute he's savin' Gothum. Whatta waste, ha! Save this dump city ..."
Bringing an umbrella turned out to be a fruitless endeavor.
The rain that fell was fat, heavy, and plentiful. And the poor, cheap umbrella clutched in Dahlia's hands had begun to crumple more and more every second, until finally several of the ribs snapped and the canopy buckled around her. With surprised grunt, Dahlia gave up and tossed it into the next trash can she passed. Maybe a new umbrella would have been a better purchase than a hat.
Well, she hoped dearly that Cat had found shelter somewhere, and that he was alright.
About an hour went by with no progress made. At this point, she began to become seriously concerned. Maybe someone did something to him, or maybe he had been hit by a car and the street sweepers picked up his body. The last thought made her eyes tear up: God, she hoped that was not the case at all. But in her growing desperation, Dahlia resorted to door-knocking. Her neighborhood wasn't the most ... hospitable. But desperate times called for socially awkward and potentially inconvenient measures.
The first person was probably the most rude, leaving a good impression with his dismissive expletive before slamming the door almost literally into Dahlia's face. The rest were quite reasonable by comparison: Either simply saying "no," slamming the door back shut, or just pretending that they weren't home.
After walking quite a distance, Dahlia reached a neighborhood just on the opposite side of one of the island's short bridges. There was a lot less garbage in the streets here, and the trees were actually trimmed. She didn't presume Cat would wander so far, but she wanted to be sure before turning in for the night. She picked her next move carefully: There was little chance of Cat working up the courage to scale an unknown apartment building or set of condominiums, so Dahlia sufficed to merely examine the perimeter of each property. No sign of the furkid yet.
Past the rentals, Dahlia came across several rows of relatively small houses: She recognized this as one of the many historical districts around Gotham. These particular houses were notoriously very expensive and very old - some almost 100 years old - but they were very well maintained and tastefully decorated.
A few houses down and Dahlia so far had no luck in getting anyone to answer their door. The next one she approached caught her off guard when the owner peeked out of the window and gave her a steaming glare: She took the hint and skipped their door. The next door she came to looked as if it were recently replaced, compared to the other houses with more rustic wooden doors. This particular door looked heavy, was polished and finished in a near black shade of umber, with a peep hole and no house number on the front. Odd.
Dahlia knocked on the door. Wow, it felt heavy too. She wondered if the occupants even heard her knock.
As the door opened, and the golden light from the living room lamps stretched over her, she began, "Please don't turn me away. I'm looking- ..."
Her throat seized, completely dumbfounded as every process in her brain moved to immediate denial of her strange luck.
Crane spoke, unable to mask the entirety of his mirrored surprise. "Miss Rhodes ... ?"