2013.04.30 - Welcome to the Clocktower

The Clocktower - Oracle's Operation Center

The entire top floor of the Clocktower has been engineered to be Oracle's lair, her operations center. The ceiling is a good thirty feet up, thanks to the giant clock window that makes up the wall opposite the elevator. Cantilevered beams create a maze of rafters and catwalks overhead -- accessible by ramps and winch lifts.

In the center of the room stands a semi-circular technology console that faces the window. A number of displays hang on moveable arms, the biggest one in the center of them all. There is no chair because Oracle always brings her own. Keyboards and peripherals cover the surface of the workstation, all within easy reach.

Other workstations stand at the ends of the room -- a crime lab, a forensics analysis center, and a de facto clean room for the creation and storage of delicate technical systems. Additionally, a simply furnished lounge sits in a corner, is a large flatscreen tv and a mess of video game consoles within its confines.

Standing not so far from the shrouded lift leading down to Barbara's apartment is a dark mannequin garbed in the dark cowl and formfitting uniform of the first superheroine to claim the name Batgirl, protected by a glass dome -- a little piece of sentimental nostalgia in what is otherwise a monument to the future.

Late Sunday night... or would it be considered Monday morning by this point? Eh, whatever. Huntress is rooftop-hopping her way back to her Ducati after stopping a group of particularly stubborn thugs who thought they were good enough to get away with selling drugs in Gotham without being noticed by either the Bat or HAL. Yes, she bitched and complained the whole way about HAL dumping crap jobs on her, then took her annoyance out on the drug dealers. They at least deserved it. And no, none of them will need to spend more than overnight in a hospital room so get out of her brain, damnit.

Dropping down from the last fire escape to reach her motorcycle, she winces and rolls her left shoulder to gauge how bad the bruises are going to be from the fair handful of lucky hits those jerks got in. The situation had not be conducive to sniping at them from afar, so she'd had to just wade in and took a two by four to her left shoulderblade for her efforts. Of course, that's the jerk that ended up with the worst concussion of the bunch.

Yeah. Such a surprise, that. (Not.)

Monitoring the situation both through Huntress' earpiece and every cam in the vicinity she could hack into, Oracle gives the woman about a block and a half distance from the fight before she lights up that little com with the digital tones of her cyberpersona. "Nice work, Huntress," the mystery voice intones in that inevitably even-toned, Dragon-speech-recognition way. "I see your sabbatical hasn't dulled your edge any."

Huntress can't keep the sneer from her face, though she workds to make her expression neutral again quickly enough. "I'm surprised you even noticed I was gone. /Awfully/ nice of you to mention it now, though, since it's been since /Christmas/." Fucking HAL. She removes the 'camoflauge' tarp from her motorcycle with a little (a lot) more force than is actually necessary, then stows the fabric and uses the key she keeps on her person to start the Ducati's engine.

"Yeah. Four months ago. I know. Hasn't done anything for your disposition, I notice. I'm thinking we need to talk about that." The casual tone Babs uses sitting in her chair behind her console somehow doesn't quite translate through the voice software -- not that she expects it to. The point of the software is to keep her anonymous, after all. It's a risk, she's in mind to take, tonight. But, a calculated one. She actually figures it's riskier NOT to do it. So...

"I got one more thing for you to do tonight, if you think you can handle it."

Huntress huffs in annoyance. 'Talk about that' is frequently Bat-euphemism for stand there and let him be a jackass just so she can then say 'thank you, sir' for his /allowing/ her to mop up the messes beneath his notice. And now HAL wants in on this? Seriously? "Why the fuck not. I still have one shoulder that hasn't been dislocated yet this year."

Sitting at her computer, mic muted, Babs snirks at the not-unexpected response. She thumbs the mic back on. "Do you know where the old Clocktower is? I'll send you coordinates. Top floor, behind the clock face. Your choice: You can take the elevator, or find your own way up to the terrace and come in through the roof." A beat. "I'll be waiting."

Huntress pauses at that. HAL will be waiting? So it isn't just a pain in the ass computer after all? Well THAT'S news. "Fine. On my way." It's probably not a polite request, after all, and if she chooses to ignore it she's all but positive the Bat will know and will show up to be all glowery at her. Again. Some more. Then she's off, the Ducati quite happily doing what it was designed to do -- go very fast.

Babs figured the idea that 'HAL' would be waiting, would get the Huntress' attention. She tracks the woman's progress through the streets and is thus perfectly aware when she finally reaches the building -- able to shut off security protocols as necessary to let her pass, and start the back up again once she's safely in. She remains behind her console right up until the other woman enters her inner sanctum.

Huntress enters the Clocktower cautiously, even going so far as to have her crossbow in hand, because as much as she's been listening to HAL for more than six months now, she still doesn't trust any place she's never been to before. She's completely aware of cameras and other sneaky but visible devices set up along the way to the top of the clocktower -- but not at all aware of the less visible ones -- and enters the inner sanctum expecting the worst. Nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs? Maybe.

Well, there aren't any rocking chairs in this room, that's for certain. Of course, there's not a cat in the world that'd thank Babs for rolling over its tail in her chair, either. So, it's all relative.

As it is, when the elevator door opens, Babs reverses her chair and turns it around, wheeling it down the small ramp off her console platform and slowly toward the armed vigilante that steps skitishly from the cab.

"Hi," she says, extending her hand simply. "My name is Barbara Gordon. I'm Oracle." She gestures lightly with her other hand to the technological wonderland that surrounds them. "Welcome to my home."

Okay... this is TOTALLY not what Huntress was expecting, and her shocked expression even despite her mask makes that that /very/ clear. It actually takes her several seconds to recover enough to work up a response. The crossbow hasn't been put away yet, but the way she's holding it loosely at her side is more than enough indication that she's all but forgotten that it's in her hand. "Wait... like police commissioner Gordon?" Holy SHIT, H.

Babs lets her hand float back down to her lap, fairly unsurprised by the Huntress' reaction. "Mm-hmm," she agrees, nodding lightly. "The very same. Though, we don't really talk about it -- as I'm sure you can imagine." Her hands move to her wheels and she pushes down on them to reverse, beginning to coast slowly toward where the gaming lounge -- the only non-crime-tracking-related area of the space -- sits. "Can I offer you a drink?" There's a low bar fridge there, alongside a counter with a sink and a few clean dishes. "I don't keep much on hand, but I'm sure I can dig up something..." Glancing back over her shoulder, she smiles -- though it's a little tight. "I just figured it might help if we got to know each other a little better. So, please. C'mon in. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable."

Huntress continues to stare after Barbara for a few more seconds before finally snapping out of it (get with it, H) and holstering her crossbow as she follows. All of a sudden, all of her snippy (be honest, BITCHY) comments at HAL feel like she's been the worst kind of spoiled brat, the kind that does everything asked, but with a stomp and a pout and an attitude. This doesn't excuse the Bat, oh HELL no, but still. She looks around the lounge area briefly, then gingerly sits on the edge of one overstuffed chair as if afraid to relax too much. "Oh, um, no. Thanks." Awkward.

"You don't mind if I do?" Barbara asks, popping the fridge open and reaching for a bottle. It's only water, but it's cold, so she's happy. Setting the bottle in her lap, she pushes her chair back and swings the fridge closed. Then, she picks up the bottle and unscrews the cap before finally taking a swallow. "I want to thank you for your help over the last few months," she notes. "I don't think I've thanked you properly, yet. And I'm sorry about that. I just kinda get... focussed on the job, you know? I sometimes forget I'm not the one out there taking the two-by-fours to the torso, any more." Yes. She said 'any more'. As in she used to be that person. The police commissioner's daughter, out taking hits. That must've gone over well at home.

Huntress is still sufficiently gobsmacked by HA... no, Oracle's having invited her in to this clearly very secret place that she's slow replying again. "Uh, it's okay." Her earlier grousing sure told a different story. And then her mental DVR rewinds a bit. Any more? "Any more?" Yeah, that's tactful. She'll totally blame it on the growing ache in her left shoulder later.

Babs catches the rewind and smiles. With one finger, she points to the cape and cowl hanging in her own personal shrine in a shadowy corner. "Any more," she echoes with a nod, then patting her useless legs. "Kinda hard to swing from rooftops, now." The casual shrug she gives suggests she's come to terms with it -- and God knows she's not inclined to reveal otherwise. "Speaking of two-by-fours... Are you okay? Do you want some ice or something?" She turns her body back toward the fridge. "I do keep ice packs and other medical supplies on hand." For the current Batgirl more than anyone else, but that hardly matters.

Huntress looks over at the cape and cowl, stares for a moment, then her eyes flick back and forth between the garment and Barbara a few times. Well holy shit. No wonder the Bat always sides with HA... Oracle. "Uh, no. It's fine." Another complete lie, but she's off-balance enough to feel weird admitting to being in pain even though it wouldn't be the first time she's relied on someone else. It's just that this time she's still okay enough to be able to get home and lick her wounds in private. Hefting flower arrangements tomorrow is gonna suck, though, that's for sure.

Yeah, it will. And, Babs can empathize. Stacking books isn't fun under such circumstances, either. Least of her worries, these days, though. She inhales a deep breath and lets it out. "Okay," she says, accepting the refusal at face value. She takes another swig of her bottle and sets it down on a nearby table. "So, here's the deal," she says now, shifting gears. "I can't go out there and do what you do, any more. I want to... God knows, I want to. But, I can't." She leans forward a little. "What I can do, though, is feed people like you -- people that know what they're doing, can handle themselves against crazy odds, and make a real difference to the life and safety of this city -- intel. Information you can use to clean up the streets. Get the scum and the garbage off of it, thrown in the trash."

She gestures to the cavernous room, her own version of the Batcave, really. "Take a look at this place. There's not a whole lot of what goes on in this city, in this country, in the world that I miss. As good as I was on the streets? I am just as good behind my consoles. Just like you kick ass on the street. I need you, Huntress. The city needs you. So, I wanna make sure we're cool. That I can count on you."

Huntress leans back a bit with a faint frown. "Isn't that what I've /been/ doing?" Oh, so now that she's started to her guard down, NOW the shit begins? Figures. Every last bit of tension that had started to bleed off returns, just like that.

Babs raises her hands to forestall a tirade. You'd think she'd have learned how touchy H can be by now. "Yeah, it is," she concedes. "But it occurred to me that when you disappeared some serious shit might have hit the fan for you. And there was no way I could help. So, I wanna fix that. This place? I own it. The company name on the main directory? Mine. It's a front for what I do here. What we do here. It can also be a safehouse for you, not to mention a legitmate source of extra income, if you need it." A determined look flashes through her green eyes. "And don't think for a damned second it's charity. It's not. You're good at what you do. I need your skills and I figure we'll both be better off, if you've got something solid to back you up."

Huntress had started to think exactly that. Charity. And her expression had started to show how she felt about charity. But when Barbara says flat out that that's not what it is, she's only partly mollified. "I'll bet it still doesn't come with medical insurance." Who the hell would WANT to foot the bill for a vigilante's medical insurance, anyway? "I'm fine on the money front." She is, honestly. The Florist job is mostly to kill time so she's sitting in her apartment all day wallowing. "But if you really wanna bankroll something... what I could use is more of that Inspector Gadget stuff that the Bat gave me a few months back. I used up the last of it a few nights ago. Flashbangs, smokers, little wads of C4, that kind of stuff." Things she can't get at a sporting goods supply or from a reenactment weaponsmith.

Babs smiles at that. It's a predatory little smile, really -- the kind shared between people in the know. "That I can do," she nods. "And, I'm pretty sure we can work out something in terms of medical benefits," because, yes. If she's going to be calling on the Huntress more, it behooves her to step up to the plate. Besides, let's face it: With Babs' history? She's got great medical benefits. (It helps when you know the system inside and out... as she's learned to do.)

Huntress raises an eyebrow at Barbara at the mention of medical benefits -- it's probably easy to tell despite her mask for anyone used to being around masks -- because that was something she wasn't expecting at all. "Wait, are you serious? How the hell're you gonna explain THOSE claims to the insurance company?" Finally, her sarcasm is aimed elsewhere.

Babs chuckles softly. "Huntress," she says, the barest hint of reproach in her tone as she gestures toward the cape and cowl once more. "I've had a little experience in hiding that sort of thing. Don't worry. I know a trick or two to work the system." Truthfully? She's insured by WayneCorp. The place might be hers, now, yeah, but Bruce was totally responsible for helping her get it. And he gets it, what they do. Because, let's face it: He started it.

Well, that, and... she's Oracle. No database is safe from her.

But Bruce's secret isn't hers to tell.

Huntress glances over at the indicated cape and cowl again and ohs faintly. DUH, H. Get your shit together. "I guess, then," she offers with a shrug. "I mean, at this point, what've I got to lose? The Bat's already got a leash on me, it can't get any worse."

Oh, it can always get worse. Babs doesn't say that, of course. But, on the day she awoke in the hospital, finally far enough clear of the mind-numbing pain meds after the Joker's visit to her father's house... she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt how much worse it could truly get.

That particular thought, however, isn't good for group sharing -- no matter what the self-affirmation groups would have you believe. Thus, the woman formerly known as Batgirl just smiles and nods her head in simple acceptance of that.

"There's going to be some paperwork," she tells her. "Buried, misdirected paperwork that will likely attribute you with skills and duties that have absolutely nothing to do with what you really do, but I've got to make you -- and Clocktower Systems -- look legit on paper. Are you good with that?"

Huntress shrugs and nods just her right shoulder. It's not like her own civilian identity paperwork isn't faked. "I don't care." She's very agreeably grey area like that. "Not like anything else I do is completely on the up and up."

Babs nods. "Good. Then I'll get it set up in the morning and make it 'official'." She actually adds air-quotes around that last word -- a rare gesture for her. She sits up a little in her chair, now, and gives H as open a smile as she gives anyone that doesn't get to call her 'Babs'. "Thanks for dropping by, Huntress. If you need anything... you now have my number. Don't hesitate to call."

She's not so much dismissing the vigilante as she is giving her the opportunity to make a graceful out. She'll not object if Huntress stays a little longer, but she imagines the other woman will want to get home to a hot shower and an ice pack before too much longer.

Huntress spends a moment trying to decide if that was a dismissal or not, and honestly isn't sure either way. But, she takes it as a way out regardless. She stands and does her best to keep from looking like her shoulder's stiffened up while she was sitting still, and she hesitates. "So, um, thanks." She might still call Oracle HAL out of a kneejerk reaction from time to time, but at least now she knows what's behind that voice.

Babs would rise, if she could. But, since she can't, she settles for another smile. She'd extend her hand again, but that doesn't seem like a useful gesture. "Feel free to pop in periodically." A soft chuckle. "Just let me know when you're coming so I can disable the defenses." That, and make sure Cassandra has her cowl on, if she's lurking about -- as she sometimes does.

As Huntress takes her leave, however, Babs lets out a satisfied little sigh. That went better than she hoped. Awesome.

She glances back to her console. Right. Back to work.

Huntress nods. "Okay." She makes her way back out of the Clocktower using the same path she employed on the way in. And, out of curiosity, she's going to ask Q what scuttlebutt he knows about Oracle. Because an outside observer -- however much a conspiracy crackpot he might be -- is always worth listening to.