Dinah Laurel Lance (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
raptorcanaria) wrote2008-07-28 07:45 am
raptorcanaria) wrote2008-07-28 07:45 am
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It's an election year in Gotham City. Dinah can't vote, and none of her peers seem to care much about the election at all. Dinah is not like other fifteen year olds.
Her mother's made a few dark remarks about how Gotham's not what it used to be, and Ted mentioned something about the Roman when someone at the gym queried him about his voting choice. All of Dinah's current opinion came from her Dad.
Her late father.
She tries to ignore the posters around her as she waits for her bus home from Ted's. Seeing Garcia's smarmy face smiling at her from all directions makes her twitch in annoyance. If he gets in, her Dad had said, then Falcone would have not only Commissioner Loeb in his pocket, but the Mayor too, and Gotham really would become a mob town. Things had been bad enough to make her Dad quit the force before she was born, and they're only getting worse.
So she focuses away from the posters, and bides her time listening to the conversations around her.
"...find bodies for. Luckily, only three of them are female."
Immediately, her attention is fully caught.
"Awww nuts. Three dames? Where we gonna find three more dames to vote in tomorrow's primary? We already paid ten bucks a head for every workin' girl between Diversey and 42nd street."
"Now, boys, you know the routine. Each team delivers seventy-five votes or you'll be dropped from the pay roll. This city can't afford any dead weight. 'Cause if our guy loses, we're all out of jobs."
Poll fixing, she realises suddenly. These guys are involved in poll fixing, and presumably for Garcia. As they move past the unassuming teenager on the bench, none of them look around to notice her slipping off and trailing them, right to one of the localised hubs of his campaign. Still playing on her invisibility as a nobody teenager, Dinah finds a table inside and pretends to work, all the time listening to one of the men she trailed talking to a larger black bearded man.
"You got the voter registrations?"
"Yeah."
"All right. You get us a room in a flop and plenty of booze. And I'll hit the missions. And Mo - don't spend any more of my money than you have to. This stupid thing is bustin' me."
She doesn't see how much money trades hands, but when Beardy leaves, she can hear her guy mutter,
"Yeah, yeah. Ya cheapskate."
He leaves, she follows, amazed at how easy it is, to a deserted bar. There, she can't pretend she's meant to be there, and listens at the door.
"It's Monday," the barman mutters, no even looking up. "We're closed on Mondays."
"Your back room isn't," Dinah's target replies. "I need a favour, Sanders."
"You're outa favours, Mo. Come around when you've paid a few back. "
"M-m-hmm." He doesn't appear to be in anyway hampered by this. "And you probably wouldn't consider it so much a favour that you can have your Monday crapshoots without interference."
"You can't trade on that forever, Mo."
"Yeah, but I won't be trading at all if we lose the election. A friend's eye is a blind eye, if you know what I mean."
The barman says nothing more until he's retrieved a large crate and heaved it onto the bar.
"This stuff's been in the cellar since my brother was born, maybe before. Take it, mix it with the other and they'll never know the difference."
Whatever 'that stuff' is, Dinah doesn't think she's going to like it. At a sound behind her, she escapes into a dead end alley and watches as various homeless people start to turn up. 'Mo' directs them down to a cellar.
Dinah doesn't need to see more. She can guess what'll happen; they'll keep the crowd happily drunk then march them down to the polling stations tomorrow.
Unless somebody stops them.
There is no Black Canary operating in Gotham City any more: Dinah's Mom has started returning to work in the florist's, but she's kept off her street and the wig has been put away with a permanent air. She certainly isn't going to be around to stop the poll-fixing.
She's working in the store when Dinah gets home, so there's no one stopping the daughter from sneaking into the master bedroom and pulling out a cardboard box from the false back in the closet - the unmarked one containing fishnets and synthetic hair.
She ponders the bar for a second, but for this, she needs her privacy. So in the middle of the unholy mess of school books that is her bedroom, she tries on the outfit.
It's a terrible fit. Terrible.
A thin line of duct tape acts as a makeshift stocking seam, and a well placed safety pin makes up for other... assets that her mother has in more abundance. She need two pairs of socks to stop the boots rubbing. Even when it fits, it looks kind of bad, actually, Dinah has to admit. Nothing more pathetic than a little girl dressing up in Mommy's clothes.
But then there's the wig. She gathers up her own black hair and scoops it into the wig, in a way she's watched her Mom do a thousand times. She lifts her head, shaking long blonde curls over her shoulder and looks at herself in the mirror. Then she stands up even straighter, and smiles confidently at her reflection.
The Black Canary smiles back.
Her mother's made a few dark remarks about how Gotham's not what it used to be, and Ted mentioned something about the Roman when someone at the gym queried him about his voting choice. All of Dinah's current opinion came from her Dad.
Her late father.
She tries to ignore the posters around her as she waits for her bus home from Ted's. Seeing Garcia's smarmy face smiling at her from all directions makes her twitch in annoyance. If he gets in, her Dad had said, then Falcone would have not only Commissioner Loeb in his pocket, but the Mayor too, and Gotham really would become a mob town. Things had been bad enough to make her Dad quit the force before she was born, and they're only getting worse.
So she focuses away from the posters, and bides her time listening to the conversations around her.
"...find bodies for. Luckily, only three of them are female."
Immediately, her attention is fully caught.
"Awww nuts. Three dames? Where we gonna find three more dames to vote in tomorrow's primary? We already paid ten bucks a head for every workin' girl between Diversey and 42nd street."
"Now, boys, you know the routine. Each team delivers seventy-five votes or you'll be dropped from the pay roll. This city can't afford any dead weight. 'Cause if our guy loses, we're all out of jobs."
Poll fixing, she realises suddenly. These guys are involved in poll fixing, and presumably for Garcia. As they move past the unassuming teenager on the bench, none of them look around to notice her slipping off and trailing them, right to one of the localised hubs of his campaign. Still playing on her invisibility as a nobody teenager, Dinah finds a table inside and pretends to work, all the time listening to one of the men she trailed talking to a larger black bearded man.
"You got the voter registrations?"
"Yeah."
"All right. You get us a room in a flop and plenty of booze. And I'll hit the missions. And Mo - don't spend any more of my money than you have to. This stupid thing is bustin' me."
She doesn't see how much money trades hands, but when Beardy leaves, she can hear her guy mutter,
"Yeah, yeah. Ya cheapskate."
He leaves, she follows, amazed at how easy it is, to a deserted bar. There, she can't pretend she's meant to be there, and listens at the door.
"It's Monday," the barman mutters, no even looking up. "We're closed on Mondays."
"Your back room isn't," Dinah's target replies. "I need a favour, Sanders."
"You're outa favours, Mo. Come around when you've paid a few back. "
"M-m-hmm." He doesn't appear to be in anyway hampered by this. "And you probably wouldn't consider it so much a favour that you can have your Monday crapshoots without interference."
"You can't trade on that forever, Mo."
"Yeah, but I won't be trading at all if we lose the election. A friend's eye is a blind eye, if you know what I mean."
The barman says nothing more until he's retrieved a large crate and heaved it onto the bar.
"This stuff's been in the cellar since my brother was born, maybe before. Take it, mix it with the other and they'll never know the difference."
Whatever 'that stuff' is, Dinah doesn't think she's going to like it. At a sound behind her, she escapes into a dead end alley and watches as various homeless people start to turn up. 'Mo' directs them down to a cellar.
Dinah doesn't need to see more. She can guess what'll happen; they'll keep the crowd happily drunk then march them down to the polling stations tomorrow.
Unless somebody stops them.
There is no Black Canary operating in Gotham City any more: Dinah's Mom has started returning to work in the florist's, but she's kept off her street and the wig has been put away with a permanent air. She certainly isn't going to be around to stop the poll-fixing.
She's working in the store when Dinah gets home, so there's no one stopping the daughter from sneaking into the master bedroom and pulling out a cardboard box from the false back in the closet - the unmarked one containing fishnets and synthetic hair.
She ponders the bar for a second, but for this, she needs her privacy. So in the middle of the unholy mess of school books that is her bedroom, she tries on the outfit.
It's a terrible fit. Terrible.
A thin line of duct tape acts as a makeshift stocking seam, and a well placed safety pin makes up for other... assets that her mother has in more abundance. She need two pairs of socks to stop the boots rubbing. Even when it fits, it looks kind of bad, actually, Dinah has to admit. Nothing more pathetic than a little girl dressing up in Mommy's clothes.
But then there's the wig. She gathers up her own black hair and scoops it into the wig, in a way she's watched her Mom do a thousand times. She lifts her head, shaking long blonde curls over her shoulder and looks at herself in the mirror. Then she stands up even straighter, and smiles confidently at her reflection.
The Black Canary smiles back.