| Oracles and Dreams | |||||
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| What: Prompted by a dream, The Sandman contacts Oracle and a tentative alliance is formed. | |||||
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Wesley Dodds tips the cabbie as he's dropped off in Gotham, pulling the collar of his trencoat up to shield his features, his fedora pulled down as well. He hasn't worn the gasmask, however, not wanting to stand out too much, although he has it tucked away for safekeeping should costumes become appropriate. He hardly knows what to expect. He had the cabbie circling Gotham's neighborhoods for nearly two hours, until a particularly grotesque piece of graffiti, a leering, bulbous clown face with fangs, struck a dream memory. This was the place. The numbers were carved into his mind and, as he sees the public phone, scratched, neglected, abandoned on this shadowed city street, he realizes just what they are. Wiping the receiver with a handkerchief, he brings it up to his ear, depositing the required change as he dials the number, unsure of just who or what he'll find at the other end.
Sitting at her consoles, monitoring... well, pretty much everything, Barbara Gordon, The All-Seeing Oracle, sips lukewarm coffee from a World's-Best-Daughter mug and frowns at the readouts on one of her displays. Just as she's reaching out swipe the screen to another window, an onscreen alert appears, the familiar dootle of the audio program she uses as Oracle. A brow arches, since the caller ID brings up a surveillance map of a payphone in a rough neighbourhood... and the lone, grainy camera image she can get on the caller suggests it's not one of her usual operatives.
She grabs her headset and jams it on her head, adjusting the mic as she clicks 'Answer' and her voice changer software kicks in. "Identify," is her singular greeting, the voice sounding in the receiver like an androgynous messaging service.
Wesley Dodds isn't particularly aware that he might be watched, but he's nonetheless hard to make out, tall and broad-shouldered and hunched a bit over the phone. While he disguises his voice in his Sandman guise, he feels no need to do so in a simple phone conversation (anyone who would take the time to compare his voiceprint with that of Wesley Dodds, gentleman scholar, are probably close enough to the truth that it's not worth the attempt at deception). "What a peculiar greeting. This will sound odd, but the universe has compelled me to contact you, probably in connection with some form of upcoming wrongdoing or, just as potentially, a cosmic disaster. Do you have any knowledge of such that you would like to share with me?" he says simply. His voice is a smooth and even baritone, his words clipped with the precise enunciation of the well-educated or the very particular. In his case, both.
Barbara isn't entirely surprised she can't make out the fellow. It's a crappy camera with a crappy angle. She keys over satellite imagery to review surveillance of the area and watches the cab drop him off. Grabbing its number, she then works backward to find out who its last passenger was... or at least where he was picked up.
"I could say the same to you," Oracle replies, as Barbara arches her brow quizzically. "I am not accustomed to receiving unsolicited calls at this number. Particularly from the Universe." And, let's face it, even in her line of work, his request is odd. "I may have information. But, I do not share it with people I do not know."
A simple enough search with a simple enough result. The cab picked him up at the train station, the train that sourced him leading back to New York City proper. Customer paid in cash, so no record of a transaction, and the cab itself was simply flagged down. "The Universe, I have found, is rarely solicitous and, all too often, more than a little obtuse. If I could ask more specific questions, I certainly would. I appreciate that the query is an odd and potentially frustrating one. Such is my life. In what way could I, perhaps, engender a level of trust?" he asks, hoping that he doesn't have to perform some sort of scavenger hunt or strange quest.
"A name would help," Oracle notes. "Preferably your own. Or, at least, a handle you commonly recognize as your own." Anything to tell her more than the limited amount she's found out. The guy obviously doesn't like a lot of technology. Either that, or he's as good as she is at covering his tracks. She's willing to give him either. "Who are you? Why are you asking for such... esoteric information?"
She could give him quite a lot, just based on what's on her screen in front of her. She's just not inclined to give anything out for free...
Wesley Dodds ponders the potential pros and cons of playing coy. On the one hand, until now, he's been utterly anybody. Identifying himself, even by his nom de noir, brings with it the Sandman's reputation, which can be for good or for ill, depending on just who he's talking to. What if the woman on the other end is some underworld maven, a criminal he's meant to expose? But his intuition, finely tuned as it is, doesn't seem to respond to that particular suspicion, and so he decides that a little indiscretion will be acceptable. If she is a criminal, at least she's a civilized one. She used the word 'esoteric', after all. "You may call me Sandman." he says.
The Sandman. For the last few years, a rumor and a scourge in certain circles of New York's criminal class. Some describe him as a man, others as a monster. Some who've crossed his path have described seeing horrors that darken the soul. Others just describe blissful peace and sleep. The few glimpses of him on camera have been of a man, trenchcoated and gloves, his face hidden behind the eerie, alien visage of a WWI era gasmask...
Sandman... Barbara starts running a search on that alias, seeing what it brings up in her various databases -- public, private, governmental, clandestine, and covert. Enough hits link that name with taking out the trash in NYC, and enough grainy photos match the image she sees before her now. So, trusting her own gut, the woman inhales a slow breath, nods, and reciprocates. "I am called Oracle," she responds. "My network monitors the streets for criminal activity and works to prevent it. If what I what I see here is true, it appears we may be on the same side. So, to answer your query: I have knowledge of quite a bit. You'll either need to be more specific, or I can give you something small to start."
Wesley Dodds isn't particularly well-connected to the vigilante community. A loner in his civilian life, he's proven to be equally so in his masked efforts, un-allied and off-the-grid. The name does, indeed, spark something in him, but not that sort of knowledge. "Oracle, you say? A very pleasing sobriquet. Wisdom from on high, something with which I am very familiar," he says. "Yes, prevention is preferable to vengeance, in my opinion, and information is the currency with which it can be purchased. As for specificity...I admit that I am...unsure. I will share with you that I am guided in my efforts by forces that can be...frustrating. But the intersection of our interests is a key to something. Now that we have that key, it's a matter of finding the proper lock."
"There are a lot of locks," Oracle notes. "But, finding patterns is something of my specialty." Her lips purse again and she leans back in her chair, tapping the end of her armrest speculatively. Finally, she says. "Let's start here, shall we? Two weeks ago the daughter of a prominent Gotham CEO was kidnapped in broad daylight from the Wayne Foundation Recreation Center. The abductors used an advanced piece of technology to stun everyone within a 30' radius and effectively disappeared after. I've traced many of their activities, but I've yet to find the girl herself. And, if you're considering cosmic threats, I'll say this: The device they used to effect the neutralization was based on both dark energy and zero-point energy. Does that give you something to look into?"
Wesley Dodds ponders, trying to keep his metaphysical feelers out as he takes in the information, "Advanced technology isn't particularly my cup of tea. I'm rather old-fashioned, in more ways than one. But a kidnapping is a kidnapping, and especially if a young lady was taken, that's a very serious matter indeed. You said many of their activities. I take it the ruffians responsible have been up to malfeasance beyond this simple kidnapping? Have they made any demands?"
Oracle shakes her head, her frustration showing -- though, of course, the man can't see it. "I know that they used a street gang known as the District Kings as their personal foot soldiers, that the Kings recruit out of youth drop-in centers throughout Gotham and New York City, and that they engage in floating, illegal fight clubs. I have not yet ascertained where their next bout will be, but that is my current goal. I believe, if I can track them down that way I may be able to find out where Miss Knox is being held. I suspect, you see, that the fight rings are effectively 'auditions' for something bigger."
Wesley Dodds nods into the phone, a useless gesture but instincts are instincts. "Ah, Kings. So telling, the names chosen by petty men to build themselves up. Like the kings of old, of course, they surely build their empires on the backs of others. I am particularly...adept at questioning and finding the truth from those who may be reluctant to speak. If I can find such a den of iniquity, that is, and identify the person or persons to question. Technology such as you speak does seem rather out of the league of a street gang. What of their masters?"
Oracle considers that. "I have no solid proof of just whom it is that is pulling their strings. I have my suspicions, however. I am particularly looking into DynamTech, a communications technology maker. I suspect they were the source of the King's technology." A beat. "They are certainly the manufacturers of it, at the very least. Beyond that? I have many resources looking into it." But she's always willing to direct more.
Wesley Dodds nods, "Suspicions and circumstances. Familiar territory, indeed. Why, in this war of shadows, are there so very few certainties? I suppose it is life's nature, fleeting and insubstantial, dreams upon dreams upon..." he realize he's gone off on a philosophical tangent, momentarily silent before he adds, "I apologize. I am...unused to working with others. I should stick to the relevant matters at hand. I suspect I would be of more use tracking the Kings than looking into the murky world of the corporate, but I am willing to apply leverage where needed, for the girl's safety."
Again, Oracle nods, all unseen. "I would be grateful if you would pass on what information you discover about the King to me, certainly. I do have operatives looking into them, several of whom can move in on them once I have a firm location for their next set of 'auditions'. Thus, should you hear anything, I'd love to hear from you. This number will suffice." It's a pity she doesn't have an easier way to contact him. "Is there a way I may contact you?"
Wesley Dodds purses his lips. Normally, he hands out a calling card, all dramatic and mysterious, but that hardly serves in the present circumstances. Instead, he recites a simple number, with a Manhattan area code. "No one will answer, but you may leave a message and I check it often. I will contact you if I find anything...and would appreciate it if you would do the same." The number, if traced, leads to a simple landline phone, attached to the New York public library. No physical phone seems to be related to it. IN truth, the phone is actually hidden in the wall behind a secret panel, with a simple, old-fashioned answering machine attached. Anyone who overhears a message left will hear something muffled, and likely blame it on the rumored haunting of those deep, deep stacks (which are largely Wesley's personal domain anyway).
Of course, Oracle runs that trace. And that it leads back to her old stomping grounds? The hell? I'm gonna have to check that out. Truthfully, though, she wouldn't put it past another librarian to pick up her line of work. Though the Sandman is a little off-the-beaten path. She'll have to put the recording through voice rec, later. Not that she's entirely confident it'll lead to anything. But the speech patterns might be traceable for her, at least. Who knows, right?
"I will," she confirms aloud for him. "Thank you... for contacting me," she finally concedes, though it feels odd to say. Usually she's the one doing the contacting. But, hey. Maybe the Universe is looking out for her. At least a little. Or looking out for Shelby. Same difference. Who knows?
Wesley Dodds knows Barbara, certainly, but no more noticed her than he noticed most other people. When at his civilian job, he loses himself utterly in the texts themselves, in the work. He's known for his anachronistic style (he always wears a suit, usually one fifty years out of date, albeit newly made), precision, finicky nature and standoffishness. He's not so much hostile as just untouched, as if he were a part of the library itself come to life rather than someone who was hired there. "No thanks are required, at least to me. I am doing my duty. I hope that our association will bear fruit...and perhaps save that young girl's life." he says, "I will be in touch." he says and, with that, he hangs up the phone...and slips on his mask. As long as he's in the city, he should begin the work of finding out just where these so-called Kings are lurking...