Why Is A Raven Like A Writing Desk?

[Victor Sage]

A library, of all places.

Victor felt his stomach squirm unfortunately. He hated libraries. It wasn't that he had anything against the free and open distribution of knowledge. On the contrary: knowledge was something to be shared, and were the youth of today not so obsessed with their eye-phones and their internets, it would no doubt be a valuable educational tool. The fact that there was a steady stream - well, steady trickle - of people moving to and from the building in spite of it's technological backwardness was heartening. From the backpacks and the cradled armfuls of books, Victor guessed that the university was responsible: text books seemed to be one of the few things where the familiarity of a tangible print copy was still favoured.

No, Victor's objection to libraries wasn't political or philosophical. He just couldn't stand how damned public they were.

Victor had tried to use a library once, but had found it utterly impossible. For a building that was supposed to be a sanctuary of silence, it was near impossible to concentrate. And no matter where you went, someone was always watching you. How was one supposed to unlock the mysteries of the world - unveil the dark secrets that people strove so hard to bury - if some ill-tempered old woman was constantly glaring at you, daring you to make even the slightest sound so that her life would somehow have a shred of meaning?

He shuddered at the thought, and tugged his jacket a little closer around him. "It's for the greater good, Victor," he assured himself, though he didn't find himself particularly convincing. With a breath to give him strength, he strode up the stairs as casually as he could and, with a moment spared to glare distrustfully at the automatic doors, stepped inside.

[Barbara Nolan]

Barbara was still riding the high from her late night shenanigans with the Batman, of all people, as she pushed her cart of books between the stacks. Shenanigans wasn't quite the right word though. More like... Mutually beneficial caper. She started when her cart bumped into a bookshelf, and she shook her head, mentally chiding herself.

Pay attention Barbara, or I'll have to start calling you Babs even though you hate it. She adjusted her sweater over the button-up shirt she was wearing, and tugged at her ponytail before reshelving the first book.

[Victor Sage]

The woman at the desk was decidedly unhelpful. In hindsight, Victor could perhaps have been a little more civil, but quite frankly the woman was an obnoxious and ineffective old bat, and deserved to be informed as such. She'd huffed, and mentioned something about security; Victor had waved a dismissive hand and muttered something about looking for the meaning of 'competence' in a dictionary, because her understanding of it was clearly faulty.

So. Could have gone better.

Still, the security guard had seemed more amused by the exchange than anything else, and even if the old coot did manage to sway him into having Victor forcibly removed, the labyrinthine array of bookshelves would hopefully buy the intrepid reporter a little time.

Bearing right at a junction between the text books on neuroplasticity and pseudo-science, Victor stumbled across hope. Not a girl named Hope - though admittedly she could have been; it was far too early to be making those kind of judgements - but certainly one who didn't have steel grey hair tied back into a painfully tight bun, and didn't seem to have begun to pickle in the juices of her own sour personality.

"You." The words were short and clipped; but in a place where anything but silence was considered a sin, it seemed appropriate to use as few words as possible. "I need your help. I'm looking for a woman."

[Barbara Nolan]

Barbara straightened up and looked around. No, he was talking to her, all right. "A woman, or a book about women... sir," she added belatedly. "The computers are set up for searching the library index..." but she trailed off after the look he gave her.

"Uh, the front desk could help you if you've lost someone in the library." She turned back to the shelf and placed the book in her hand just so in it's spot before turning back to the odd man.

[Victor Sage]

"I don't like computers."

Victor paused to chew that understatement over for a moment. "And I don't much like the front desk, either." He leant forward, his tone dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper. "I don't know if you're aware of this, but that miserable woman at the front desk recently stopped wearing her wedding ring. I can't be sure if her husband died or if they merely divorced, but based on her perfume and the fact that she's wearing a push-up bra - which is a heinous case of false advertising, if you ask me - I would wager that she has put herself 'back on the scene', I think is how you young things say it."

He hesitated again, this time glancing over his shoulder to be sure that they wouldn't be overheard. "Between you and me, I don't think she's having much success."

[Barbara Nolan]

Her eyebrows rose to into her forehead with each successive word, and then at the end Barbara tried to hold back the laugh that bubbled up. She on,y succeeded in causing it to all come out at once, in an explosive snort-giggle that threw her into a sudden coughing fit.

Once she'd gotten herself together into a semblance of propriety, Barbara said, "Well, Agnes certainly has a way with people. It's why she's at the front desk." She winked. The woman ran the library with an iron fist, and didn't at all like Barbara and her "too tight clothes", and a horde of other things, most of which boiled down to youth and not being exactly like Agnes herself.

[Victor Sage]

Victor found that whole premise confusing. While this Agnes woman may have had a way with people, it was unmistakably a bad way; and in his experience, such people with poor social skills were usually confined to back room roles or working at fast food restaurants. Either the manager of this library was an extremely illogical human being, of there was something not quite right with this young woman.

A frown creased his brow for a moment, as he shuffled his thoughts into some semblance of order. "About my woman." He hesitated briefly, more appropriate words suggesting themselves. "The woman I'm looking for."

He shuffled uncomfortably. This entire line of investigation was absurd to him: it relied far too heavily on technology, and he didn't trust it in the slightest. "I'm not sure who she is, exactly. I just know that I can find her here."

[Barbara Nolan]

"Uh huh." Barbara needed to head to another section to continue reshelving, but couldn't quite figure out how to extricate herself from the awkward conversation. "Blind date... at the library?"

[Victor Sage]

"Not exactly."

Once again, a paranoid compulsion had Victor checking over his shoulders; but this time there was less nervous energy in his mannerisms. There was a knowing glint in his eye as his attention returned to Barbara.

"I am an investigator. A journalist. But unlike many of my peers, I am not content with simply parroting back the same overinflated swathe of distractions and deceptions. No matter what people may tell you, the truth is not absolute: the truth can be bent; answers can be subjective. The Question however: that is incorruptible. With the right question, you can unravel any secrets."

Something in his posture changed. The slump in his shoulders disappeared; he stood taller, more confident, less crushed down by the nervousness he'd earlier displayed.

"There is a woman here, somewhere, who is asking the right questions. I know she's a woman because of the language she uses. Her articles led me to this city; a man far better with computers than I led me here. She's interested in crime, connected to it, even." Something flickered behind his eyes. "Connected like you, Miss Gordon. Barbara Gordon. The Commissioner's niece."

Barbara's gaze was avoiding his; he refused to let it, a surprisingly strong hand taking hold of her upper arm. "I have one question for you, Miss Gordon: just one question. And believe me, I will know if you are lying."

He stared deep into her eyes. "Do you know who the Oracle is?"

[Barbara Nolan]

Freak out or remain calm? Either could reveal things about herself she had tried hard to keep secret. His grip was tight, and the eye contact was making her feel squirmy. "The... Oracle?" Barbara didn't have to work too hard to sound confused and a bit frightened, as both emotions were swirling inside her.

Her eyes flicked toward the front of the library, but they were sufficiently hidden here among the stacks. Screaming was a last resort if this creep got more handsy. "Do journalists usually assault the people they're interviewing?" She tugged her arm out of his grasp. "I'll tell my father about this, you can be sure."

[Victor Sage]

A smile appeared on Victor's lips: an expression that looked decidedly out of place on his otherwise dour features. "And there we demonstrate my point perfectly, Miss Gordon. Ask the right question, and I don't even need you to answer: I can see what I needed to know."

Hands no longer engaged in ensuring Barbara's captive attention, Victor's arms fell idly to his sides. "What you tell your father doesn't concern me. However, what I might tell him may well be concerning to you."

His eyes narrowed: not in suspicion, more of an ocular shrug. "I have no desire to expose you." He waved a hand vaguely. "Call it professional courtesy, if you like. In fact, I'd much rather help you: you and I are kindred spirits in a way, guided by our curiosity more than anything else."

His hand delved into his jacket pocket, and plucked out a single business card. It was unmarked, blank on both sides save for a stylised, cloud-like question mark printed in pale purple ink.

"I won't contact you again," he announced, handing the card to her, "But if you have questions - if you want to take your quest for secrets to the next level - you can use this to find me."

[Barbara Nolan]

She stared at the card in her hand, and looked up to find him turning away. "Wait."

Barbara licked her dry lips and tapped the business card against her other hand. "The Oracle is just a blogger. She's... only trying to shine a bit of light between the cracks. I just..." She paused, mind racing. She hadn't done anything very illegal, and Batman had made her promise to sit on the smuggling story she'd uncovered the other night. If Uncle Jim found out about her blog he'd be disappointed or worried and would probably make some of his uniforms babysit her, but she wouldn't be going to jail or anything.

This man's promise of secrets was making her salivate. Figuratively speaking. "Just... Just hold on a minute." She realized she was jabbing a finger in his direction, and tucked the offending digit back with the others. "I am closing up tonight, if you come back..."

[Victor Sage]

Victor fought another smile. He knew a piqued curiosity when he saw it. Indulging it would be a mistake, however: there could be no short cuts when it came to exposing secrets.

"If I came back later," he countered, taking a few slow steps backwards, "Where would be the challenge? There can be no short cuts to secrets, Miss Gordon."

Gone was the social awkwardness; in it's place remained only a teasing sense of enigma. He didn't linger though; one hand reaching to tip the brim of a hat that wasn't there, a swift turn on his heel aimed him towards the exit, and freedom from this wretched place. "The card is the clue," he added over his shoulder. "Solve it, and you'll find what you're looking for."

[Barbara Nolan]

She clenched her fingers into a fist and shook it at his retreating back. "What sort of bullshit was that." Barbara flipped the card over, and then back again, examining it. Invisible ink was her first suspicion, but there was no way to check while she was still -

"Eep!" She jerked upright as Agnes appeared between the bookshelves. The old woman just eyed her suspiciously and then stared meaningfully at the cart of books. Barbara swallowed, smiled bravely, and then fled, pushing the cart in front of her.

The clue would have to wait until after the other librarians had left.

[Carter Hall]

The Gotham Clocktower was a relic, or a monument, depending on your perspective. On one hand, the clock itself hadn't functioned for decades, and countless enterprising corporations had proposed all manner of improvements, which generally involved tearing the tower down and erecting something modern and useful in it's place. On the other, it was one of the few truly original buildings that still survived at the heart of downtown Gotham: it was a sentinel of historic design that stopped the corporate heart of the city from overwriting it's soul.

Carter wasn't entirely sure how the clocktower had come into his possession - some mixture of inheritance and investments that had long since blurred into obscurity in his age-addled mind - but the Gotham Museum of Antiquities that surrounded the tower's base was a much newer development, and far fresher set of memories. A few years ago, the City Council planned to close the museum in the interests of progress: but the combined efforts of Carter Hall and the Wayne Foundation had bought it a reprieve.

People didn't exactly flock to the museum, but revenue was enough to keep the lights on. A few of Gotham's wealthy had bequeathed collections of rare objects in their will; Gotham University had invested in a computer lab on the museum grounds, and Carter - a tenured Professor of History - encouraged his students to visit at every opportunity, even going so far as to hold lectures in the midsts of appropriate exhibits as and when he could.

Still, even with twenty-four hour access provided for students and their inevitable last-minute assignments, anyone wandering this far into the museum at night was unusual. That was why his office here had become his sanctuary: somewhere to think and reflect without causing Dinah to trip over him, surrounded by relics almost as ancient as he was. The sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor was very unexpected indeed.

Carter frowned, flicking the strip of paper back into place between the pages before closing the book - the journal of an old Pinkerton Detective that he'd acquired on his travels - and setting it quietly down on the desk beside him. He eased himself from his chair, joints creaking much more than he would have liked: whoever was approaching, he was damned if he'd let them catch him sitting down.

His eyes swept the office for weapons; a heavy flashlight, there in case of a power cut, was the best he could find. Gripping it, he stepped closer to the door, waiting as the footsteps drew nearer, until -

He grabbed the door handle, wrenching it open; a scowl on his features as he growled out a simple warning: "The museum is closed."

[Barbara Nolan]

She took a few steps backward, hands up at the sight of an old man with a Maglite gripped menacingly in his fist. "Woah, I'm only looking for -" Barbara narrowed her eyes. "Professor Hall?"

He grunted as if to say what of it, and only lowered the flashlight a fraction of an inch. She hurried on, before he could decide to try bashing her skull in. "I'm a librarian at the public library. I helped you with some records a couple weeks ago? Barbara Gordon. But I was - well maybe you can help me with this." She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and slowly withdrew the mostly blank business card.

She held it out toward the professor, the faint purple question mark out toward him. "An acquaintance gave it to me, it's a trick card and I'm supposed to decode it for his phone number or something, and I figured invisible ink but it's not heat based and... Well I'm not even quite sure why I'm here, but do you have any ideas?"

Barbara felt a bit breathless as she rushed through her words, finishing up while keeping an eye on the Maglite lest it begin a swing toward her.

[Carter Hall]

A pair of greyed and whispy eyebrows climbed up Carter's face. A slow and tired sigh escaped, and he shuffled back a few paces, silently inviting the young woman into his office. "I remember you, Miss Gordon," he conceded, setting the flashlight down on the nearest available surface, fully aware that he'd probably never remember where it was when he actually needed it.

Carter gestured towards a chair, slowly drifting across the office towards his own, easing his creaking bones back into a moderately comfortable pose. "Only a handful of invisible inks are developed by heat," he explained, paying more attention into adjusting the way that his tweed slacks hung over his knees than he did to his visitor. Satisfied, he glanced up, only to deliver a stern look that conveyed a message along the lines of close the damn door behind you, you insolent whelp; he waited in silence until Barbara complied.

"Though in truth," he continued, "Very few invisible inks are actually ink. Things like vinegar, lemon juice, and various bodily fluids will seem invisible, but will either react to heat, of fluoresce under ultraviolet light. For the invisible inks that actually are inks, you usually need some kind of chemical reagent. It all depends on what ink you use, of course; use the wrong reagent, and there's a chance you'll damage the message."

His brow furrowed into a frown; despite his best efforts to remain grumpy and disinterested - something that Dinah so often reminded him that he did so well - the archaeologist and adventurer that lurked in the back of his mind couldn't help stirring a little. "You're assuming that your acquaintance -" The word was uttered with heavy scepticism. "- made his message visible. In my experience, it's often easier to hide things in plain sight."

[Barbara Nolan]

She was lingering by the door, and as he talked she turned the card over in her fingers. "Well, the only thing visible is this question mark. And it's just..." Her voice trailed off a bit as she lifted the rectangle of paper close to her nose. The purple punctuation drifted in and out of focus, it's soft edges bleeding into the white space around it.

Nope, it wasn't composed of numbers or tiny writing. Or if it was, she couldn't see them. Barbara found a chair and flung herself down into it. It had been a long day. "Various body fluids, huh. That's... gross. Do you have a black light?"

[Carter Hall]

"Do I have a black light?" Carter echoed with a grunt. It was disguised as a rhetorical question, but in truth it was a stall tactic: buying him precious time to remember where the damn thing was stashed so that he wouldn't seem like a senile old fossil.

A draw was opened, and closed shortly after with a clunk. The self-contained hand lamp was a little too large to fit comfortably into Carter's hand, the plastic casing had begun to crack and discolour in places, and he wasn't sure that the batteries it used were still being manufactured any more; but like just about everything that had collected itself in Carter's office, including the professor himself, valued longevity over modernism. Everything was put to work for as long as possible, until it didn't function any longer. Only when something died would it be replaced with something new.

He passed the lamp to the young librarian, his mind bringing a question of curiosity to his lips that he knew would probably cause a conversation that he'd regret striking up.

"Perhaps it's not my place to ask," he said, carefully, "But why exactly is a young woman like yourself receiving mysterious notes from acquaintances? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

[Barbara Nolan]

"No, no, nothing like that," she murmured, passing the light over the card. It was, fortunately or unfortunately, clean with no marks. She flipped it over a few times just to be sure. "It's just an ARG for an online game. Sort of a real life make believe spy adventure."

She looked up at the professor and realized he had no idea what she was talking about. So much for a well thought out excuse. "ARG stands for augmented reality game. It's just... Harmless. Nothing to worry about."

[Carter Hall]

Augmented reality game? Carter reacted to the information with a sceptical frown. He'd never heard of such a thing; but then new technology had been successfully eluding him for decades. He'd barely even got the hang of converting from vinyl records to compact discs, and the world had already hopped and skipped it's way to a few new mediums since; and Dinah was still struggling to get him to embrace DVDs over VHS tapes, let alone accept those blue ray things that people in stores kept trying to sell him.

"So, this game," he said carefully, trying to keep his interest from becoming too piqued. "What is this clue meant to lead you too, exactly? Understanding what you're hoping to divine from it may make it easier to decipher."

[Barbara Nolan]

"Well," she said carefully, "I'm not quite sure. A meeting place or perhaps a phone number? It's supposed to put me in touch with the next step of the game. Like a scavenger hunt?"

Barbara stared at the card, and then handed it to the professor. "Any ideas? It only has that question mark on it."

[Carter Hall]

While old age mostly wore away a person's skills and abilities - particularly anything to do with moving, seeing, or bladder control - it did provide a few new ones to try and compensate for the loss. One of Carter's favourites was the fact that all the new furrows and creases that addled his features allowed him to frown with his entire face, not just his eyebrows.

"One of the things you learn as an archaeologist," he explained slowly, trying not to sound too much like his opening presentation from Egyptology 101, "Is that when it comes to writing and symbols, things rarely mean what they mean." His face crinkled a little, a slight hint of a grimace somehow manifesting alongside the full facial frown. "Take hieroglyphics, for example. We look at them and see reeds, birds, and snakes, but to the Ancient Egyptians they were sounds, just like our letters. There's presumably a reason that each pictograph was chosen to connect to that sound; just like there's a reason that every letter, numeral, and symbol that we use is the shape that it is."

He scrubbed a hand at his jaw, squinting at the clue that Barbara had handed to him. "This isn't the only question mark in history. We have records that describe the question mark of the 8th Century as looking more like a lightning bolt. Syriac uses a series of dots. The Armenians placed a little spiral over the last vowel in the question. No one is really sure where this particular symbol comes from, but one of the theories is that it's based on the Latin word quaestio: that it's a lower case q above a lower case o."

He tried to gesture appropriately, but it proved to be a more difficult concept to convey with his hands than he'd expected. His fingers twitched reflexively, lecturer instincts craving chalk and a blackboard.

"The way it's written means something, too. If the question mark were for a language written from right to left, it would be the other way around. The Spanish use two question marks: one like we do, and another inverted one to show when the question starts. In brackets, it can be used in closed captions to identify irony or a rhetorical question. In chess, the symbol is used to represent a bad move; it probably means something else entirely in mathematics, computing -"

He waved a vague hand in the air, his words trailing off. "I know I'm not giving you answers, and that probably isn't helping. But maybe this person, this game, this whatever - maybe they want you to look with your brain, not just with your eyes."

[Barbara Nolan]

"Maybe I need to go to Question Avenue or something." Barbara sunk back into the chair, finding it surprisingly comfortable. "Or... maybe the hex code for the color can be turned into an address?"

[Carter Hall]

Carter Hall's eyebrows climbed; he had absolutely no comprehension of what a hex code was supposed to be, and frankly he didn't like the sound of it. "I'm not sure what magic has to do with anything," he countered, leaning forward enough to hand the calling card back to Barbara.

The frown that reformed on his features soon after was more apologetic this time. "I'm not sure what else to tell you, Miss Gordon. Either there's some clue here that is managing to elude the both, of us, or -"

He trailed off. "Or perhaps this friend of yours is just toying with you, and there is no answer at all."

[Barbara Nolan]

"Not an answer," Barbara said, half to herself. "A question."

She flipped the card over in her hands, realizing that Professor Hall's musings about orientation meant nothing when the card had nothing else on it to indicate which was you were supposed to view it. "Q over O... Q above o... oh below queue... The streets downtown are letters and numbers, but q and o don't intersect.

"There's no zero street. Tenth... And Q Street... has a bridge and tenth runs under Q." She opened her eyes. "Maybe?"

[Carter Hall]

Carter let out a sound that was part grunt, part humph, and possibly part unexpected cough: one of the many old man noises he'd been perfecting over the years.

"I'll be honest with you, Miss Gordon: I have no patience for mysteries. I never have. I'm not the kind of archaeologist who will sit around translating old tablets and scrolls in a stuffy office: in my youth, I was the sort of archaeologist who hacked his way through jungles, or attacked deserts with a shovel. I don't so much solve mysteries as smash them with a hammer until their secrets drop out."

He frowned, wondering how to delicately word his next sentiment. "Perhaps what you need is less an archaeologist, Miss Gordon, and perhaps more a detective."

"Unless, of course -" There was a knowing look in his old eyes. "- this isn't something you want the good Commissioner finding out about."

[Barbara Nolan]

"Ahaha, no, not exactly. Commissioner Gordon has a lot on his mind." Barbara brushed a strand of stray hair from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. "I don't want to distract him with any of this silly nonsense."

There was an awkward pause while they both considered that she had felt it was just fine to bother Professor Hall with silly nonsense. Barbara cleared her throat. "I'm so sorry, it's getting late and I should be getting home before I can't find a cab. Thank you so much for the ideas!"

[Carter Hall]

Carter Hall knew an evasive answer when he saw one: he'd witnessed a variation of that look on Dinah's face far too many times.

He also knew how foolish it was to push, so allowed it to slip by. He was sure Miss Gordon was old enough to make her own stupid mistakes; and in his experience, the more you told a young woman that something was a bad idea, the more inclined they were to pursue it.

Just look at Dinah and that damned Queen boy.

He fought back a sigh. "Any time, Miss Gordon. My door is always open. Do an old man a favour, though?" He offered a small, grizzled smile. "Be careful."

[Barbara Nolan]

"Always, Professor Hall." She flashed him a brilliant smile and a little wave as she slipped out the door. Barbara ran through the empty building and out to the street, checking her watch. She'd lingered too long and she needed to call home to let Aunt Barbara know she was going to be later than expected.

[Carter Hall]

Carter waited until the sound of the footsteps had died away; even then, he couldn't help a brief glance through the door's window to check that his visitor had truly disappeared.

The Professor's attention returned to his desk, and an age-addled hand pulled open a draw, tugging out the far too sophisticated cell phone that Dinah had insisted he buy. His old eyes sought out the seven on the much-too-small keypad; pressed and held it until the contraption rumbled into life. He held it to his ear; waited for the line to connect. A voice answered.

"Barbara Gordon was just here." There was no point standing on ceremony. "Care to explain why she had one of your calling cards?"

[Barbara Nolan]

"Yeah, I'm going to catch a movie. Sorry about not calling sooner, but you don't have to worry about me." Barbara smiled into the phone. "I love you too. I'll see you in a few hours."

She hung up, infinitely grateful she'd reached Aunt Barbara and not Uncle Jim. He might have sent a black and white after her. He'd done it before. Granted, not since she'd been away to college, but she wouldn't put it past him.

Barbara slipped her phone into the pocket of her coat and flagged down a cab. "Take me to ninth and Q street." Couldn't hurt to check it out, even it it was in Old Gotham.

Fifteen minutes later it had started raining and she hurried the last few steps from where the cab had dropped her off to the relative shelter of the Q Street overpass. Quickly she realized she wasn't alone. A shopping cart was pushed against the concrete structure that held the road overhead, overflowing with aluminum soda cans and empty beer bottles. The street lighting was blown out, so the underpass was especially dim, but she could make out shapes moving along the sidewalk.

"Next thing you know there will be a trash can fire somewhere," she muttered to herself, trying to remain inconspicuous. With her purse hung over her shoulder she felt like there was a big blinking sign yelling ROB ME over her head.

But not all homeless people were bad. Right? And that weasely looking guy might be hiding here amongst the hobos... and drug dealers. Barbara had started walking down 10th Street, but she hadn't gotten more than five steps before she severely questioned her decision making skills.

"Lookin' for sumfin, darlin'?" The leering man approaching her had bad teeth, and he looked past her as if to make sure she was alone. "I got Ash, oxy... you buyin'?"

"Ah... No, sorry. Thanks though." She shook her head and tried to keep walking. He stepped in her way.

[Barbara Nolan]

Barbara moved to go around him, her eyes downcast. She felt like prey as he stepped in front of her again, her heart fluttering a little as adrenaline started to flood her body.

"Don't leave so soon, honey," he said, reaching for her arm. As he did so she intercepted his hand, twisting it to the side and back on itself until his wrist creaked. He dropped to his knees, mouth agape in a silent cry of pain.

Barbara pushed a bit more on his hand, and he moved with her, pliable to her whims. "I said I wasn't interested." She fished in her purse with her other hand, digging for her phone while more people moved in from the deep shadows. Someone reached in and snatched the purse away from her, leaving her with a pencil in her hand. The white card with the question mark on it fluttered free to the ground as she turned slightly, the captive drug dealer yelping as she continued to torque on his wrist while trying to see all around her.

[Huntress]

As a lone car rumbled across the overpass above Barbara, its headlights flashed over a dark shape with all too familiar high, pointed ears. Rain spilled over the silhouettes shoulders and back, like one of the many gargoyles that haunted Gotham City's skyline. When another car sped down Q Street, the dark shape was gone. Seconds later, there was a fluttering like wings as someone – or something – landed in the shadows at the edge of the underpass.

[Barbara Nolan]

The people around her were muttering, and Barbara couldn't keep them all in view as the circle closed around her. She looked around, trying to pick out the people who were the biggest threats while the dealer groaned angrily on the dank concrete beside her. How ridiculous this must look - she was even wearing a plaid skirt, button up shirt, and black tights today. If she hadn't been in the middle of it, Barbara would have rolled her eyes for everything being way too cliche.

"You don't come here an' treat a businessman like that, sweetheart." The speaker was a heavyset man in a red plaid flannel jacket that had seen better days. He was easily twice her weight and about six feet tall. "Not even the cops come here often, an' those that do know better than to cause trouble." He cracked his knuckles, and then nodded at his fellows. Two of them moved forward, arms out to grab her while she was anchored to the dealer.

They were dirty, skinny street people, but they were probably all stringy muscles under their unwashed clothes. Barbara gritted her teeth and changed her grip on the dealer, twisting his hand and arm until he was hopping up off the ground in a string of curses, and maneuvering him between herself and one of the men.

The other man got the pencil stabbed into his forearm, which sent him reeling backward at least momentarily. Barbara threw her weight into the dealer's arm, and was rewarded by a sickening crack as one bone or another gave up under the torque. He screamed, and she snatched an unopened butterfly knife out of his other hand that he'd been trying to bring into play.

The space around her momentarily cleared, Barbara flipped the knife open and stared at the fat man, who simply stepped back and let the denizens of the 10th and Q Street underpass swarm in on her.

[Huntress]

The drifters and outcasts under the Q Street overpass were like a pack of scavenging hyenas; leering as they circled their prey, cagey as they wondered just how dangerous the girl - their prey - might be. She'd handled herself well enough so far, but the odds were not in her favour. Not on this particular night in Gotham City. Not on any night in Gotham, for that matter.

Fortunately for Barbara Gordon, the hunter could so easily become the hunted. Crossing her hands beneath her cape, Huntress drew two miniature crossbows - one from from either hip - and aimed at the backs of the crowd advancing on Barbara.

thwip!-thwip!

Two bolts shot into the half-light, razor-sharp points meeting their marks. A yelp and a bark of pain echoed against the concrete above. Both shots pierced flesh: one buried into a mans shoulder, the other in a second mans thigh.

Striding towards the now broken circle, Helena thumbed the re-load mechanisms, readying two more bolts.

[Barbara Nolan]

The encroaching circle faltered, and Barbara used the momentary confusion to her advantage as several of the men turned away from her. She darted to the right, punching a crazy looking woman in the face and ducking under the enveloping arms of another attacker. She surged up as he went over her back, and dumped him to the ground.

Barbara slashed at the woman with her knife as she lurched back toward her, nose bleeding, then narrowly evaded being smacked in the head with a pipe as another of the homeless mafia took a swing at her.

[Huntress]

The circle was gone now, descended into disarray. Some saw the situation for what it was: lost. They had superior numbers, but the girl who'd looked like such easy pickings wasn't about to be their punching bag.

Helena spared a glance for the two men she'd shot already; both were beating hasty getaway. Good. The sooner the rest of the group joined them, the better. These weren't the people that she had come to Gotham for, not by a long shot. The city made people this way, forced them into a life of almost feral savagery – but that was no excuse.

A groaning body on the floor tried to get up. Helena fired off another two shots, expertly skewering the cuffs of the man's jacket, pinning his wrists to the crowd. He struggled, trying to pull himself free.

“Try it and my aim won't be so sure,” she cautioned, her words loud enough to attract the attention of others in the melee.

“What the fuck are you supposed to be?!”

“It's a fucking cape!”

[Barbara Nolan]

The obese man was shouting something, pointing to the left, but Barbara still couldn't quite spare a moment to see what else was going on. The pipe swung at her again, and she threw herself back, landing on her palms in a puddle. Her feet came up, and she kicked at the attacker as she executed a backspring. Her foot connected solidly with his chest, and he went sprawling backward as she landed on her feet.

Lopsidedly on her feet, damn her shoes. Barbara stumbled and ended up taking a knee on the asphalt, ripping her tights and scraping her skin. Her purse was on the ground a few feet away. As she lurched for it she caught sight of the fat ringleader with a gun in his hand, and her heart leapt into her throat.

He was not pointing it at her, however. Barbara saw the caped figure, finally, and yelled, "Look out!" before she had a chance to think about it.

[Huntress]

A moment of hesitation. That was the fine line between life and death, between damnation and salvation.

Helena Bertinelli did not hesitate. Within a split second of seeing the gun, both her crossbows were aimed at the gunman. She fired them in quick succession, the first bolt piercing the gunman's wrist and the second striking his shoulder. He dropped the weapon on reflex and Helena surged forward, knocking the gun behind herself with a deft kick before jamming the same heel into the gunman's instep. She followed the stamp with an elbow to the throat, stepping into the blow with enough force to send the man coughing and spluttering to the ground.

[Barbara Nolan]

Barbara scooped up her purse as the vigilante dealt with the flannel wearing fat man, turning quickly with the knife in hand to deal with any remaining troublemakers. The underpass was nearly empty, just the groaning victims of the caped woman (woman?!) remained.

She flipped the knife closed and shoved it deep into her bag. There were a few items scattered on the street, and she gathered them as quickly as she could. The white business card was lying in a puddle, nearly falling apart as Barbara rescued it. She squished it in her hand, the paper pulping easily, and found that there was something still solid in the middle. Questions would have to wait, however, as the vigilante was turning her attention to Barbara.

"Uh, thanks for the help..." Barbara flicked some hair out of her eyes, noticing how dirty her hand was. Maybe this woman wasn't helping her. Maybe she was considering making her the next target for those guns or whatever the things were. Barbara swallowed nervously, her fingers working the strip of flexible plastic out of what remained of the business card in her fist.

[Huntress]

As quick as they'd come, the predators dispersed, forced to acknowledge that an apex predator had arrived. Helena watched and waited until there was nothing in the shadows except shadows. Once she was satisfied that she and the girl were alone, Helena returned both crossbows to the holsters on her thighs. As she secured the weapons into place, she lifted a sharp glance at Barbara.

"You shouldn't be out here in your own. Gotham isn't safe at night."

[Barbara Nolan]

"No shit." Barbara said. She looked around, and then back at the costumed woman. "Sorry if I distracted you from something important."

Something about being told off rubbed her the wrong way. Like she was a helpless child or something. Barbara hitched her purse on her shoulder and turned to stalk back into the rain from under the bridge. How was she going to hide the state of her clothes from Aunt Barbara?