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."