Why Is A Raven Like A Writing Desk?

[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.