2013.07.18 - Psychological Warfare

The Sandman stands on top of a warehouse, shaking off a few bruises and blows he took from groggy criminals. He's got his coat off and his legs folded beneath him, although meditating in a gas-mask sounds rather wretched. His spiritually measured breaths still come out as harsh, alien exhalations, an eerie rhythm coming from him as he finds his inner peace in the wake of violence. The snowstorm he envisioned was, indeed, a mountain of cocaine, a criminal under the name of Snowjob making a nuisance of himself and trying to swim in the damn thing like Scrooge McDuck. The EMTs weren't sure he'd survive the overdose. His minions lay sleeping and zip-tied for the cops, all wrapped up in a neat little bow for them. The cops usually like the Sandman, he leaves things neat and tidy. When he feels another presence on the rooftop, he doesn't turn around, his voice distortion still on as he says, "HeLlO, HunTReSs. I aM aFrAiD yOu mIsSeD tHe FeStIviTies."
Huntress mentally curses, but knows that she wouldn't have been able to sneak up on Dodds either way. So instead of trying to be quiet, she concentrates on eliminating any trace of a limp from her movements. It's not as easy as it sounds. "Yeah, well, I think I'll live."
The Sandman grasps his coat as he rises back to his feet, his legs simply extending, against giving something of the insect in his eerie grace. He's a slender man, after all, not as obviously musclebound as some of his vigilante brethren, making up for his lack of bulk with precision and excellence. Shrugging on the trench, he turns to face Helena, the mask hiding the expression on his face, but not the soft sigh that the mask enhanced, "PfFfFf...yOu aRe iNjUReD aGaIn, I sEe. I aM beGinNinG tO ThiNk yOu hAvE a SupeRhuMAn iMmuniTy tO gOOd aDviCe." he says. His gloved hand goes to his throat, switching off the distorter, replacing those chitinous tones with his own smooth, cultured voice, "It's going to get you killed if you're not careful, my dear."
Huntress breathes a heavy sigh and stops herself from saying what she's thinking. Instead she says, "Kind of comes with the territory. You should know that. Besides, I already have one person doing the mother hen thing." She glances toward the edge of the rooftop. "So, anything in particular goiing on?"
The Sandman thrusts his hands in his pockets, for dearth of anything better to do with them, and ponders, "Oracle, I would presume. She should remember that a mother hen sits on her eggs, then. You seem rather distinctly un-sat-upon, from my perspective," he says, but, beyond that, leaves it alone. Helena is stubborn beyond belief and there's no reason to think he can change her. "Isn't there always something? The dreams have been small lately, though...petty crimes like the one below. It worries me. Something will come, of that I have no doubt. In the meantime, I wait, I meditate, I enjoy my tea and my books. And, on occasion, I remove some unsightly scum such as those the police just carted off from the warehouse below. Snowjob, indeed," he says, shaking his head at the crude and pointless pun.
Huntress quirks her eyebrows at that. "Snowjob? Seriously? Damn, less and less imagination these days. And, yeah. Oracle. And she's BEEN sitting on me -- almost literally -- for a few days now. I needed some fresh air before I went postal." At least she had the presence of mind to somehow camoflauge the hole in the leg of her costume from most casual observers.
The Sandman hasn't actually seen Oracle in the flesh, but is amused by the idea of her sitting on top of Huntress. More lurid minds than his might go into an area more appropriate for the smuttier periodicals, even. Luckily, Wesley's mind is a pure fortress of rectitude. He nods, "I can quite imagine. You are not one prone to sitting still. What of you? Any investigations of note? Villains to thwart?" he asks. "I admit, I have been...out of contact of late. I'm afraid I have a tendency to drift from matters material and temporal, at times. Exercises like this help keep me...grounded. I should get out more."
Huntress nods. "Well, I'm supposed to be helping Oracle by getting in good with the District Kings, but I'm kind of sidelined temporarily. I'd say you should try, but I'm guessing street thug isn't really your gig or she'd have asked you instead of me." With a seemingly careless shrugs she crosses her arms. "Other than that, whole lotta not much going on." She doesn't bother mentioning Damian because there's really no need.
The Sandman shakes his head, "Infiltration, especially of those with a more 'street' demeanor, is not my specialty." he says, the quotations around the word street, along with the hint of condescension associated with it, practically audible. Wes can't help but be a little patrician, it rather runs in the blood, as far as he's managed to come from his blueblood upbringing. "I do better with interrogation and intelligence of a more direct nature. If someone in the know could be captured, I could extract the knowledge with a simple application of gas and a pocket watch." he says.
Huntress shakes her head no. "That's just it. These District Kings have more layers of lackeys than an ogre has onion layers. It's really frigging annoying. The ONLY way to get in far enough to learn anything is to get IN with them. And by then, there's no way to get at them with gas and a pocket watch unless you're asking to get your ass kicked." Shrugging again, she adds, "Oracle's just lucky that they seem a bit less mysogynistic than most gangs, and are happily willing to let females into their ranks."
The Sandman considers, "Troubling. An organization that layered and populous would seem to require both great funding and administrative energy, which would indicate something perhaps more sinister at play. Which would tie into Oracle's feeling that there's something deeper going on. Perhaps, instead of trying to get deeper, we need to get the great fish to rise to the surface. The question, then, becomes a matter of bait. What could be done that would cause sufficient trouble to make the puppet masters rise show themselves, if only for the purpose of eliminating a few of the puppets."
Huntress looks at Dodds for a moment. "I'm pretty sure that that's something Oracle's been working on for a while now." aka, above her pay grade. "You oughta toss out the suggestion that you want to help with that. It might give Oracle more to work with." She shifts her weight carefully so as to not pull on her still-healing leg. "You know, a thought just occurred to me. Sometimes the only way to get a dog out of his den is by making him think there's a bigger and meaner dog on the block. If you can't play the thug, think you can play the overlord?"
The Sandman considers for a moment, "That's...an intriguing notion. I could certainly provide the bankroll as well. It might be interesting to try out playing a different role. I did Macbeth during for a few summers in college, y'know, Shakespeare in the Park and all that..." he says. He wasn't very good, of course, and he was really only the understudy, but still. "Perhaps even creating a sort or...persona, since I don't necessarily seem like the conventionaly criminal type. Luckily, Gotham has no shortage of colorful criminal personalities...hmmmmmmmmmmm, I'm intrigued..." he says.
Huntress watches Dodds quietly for a moment, then chuckles. "Okay, I think you're liking this idea a little too much. You probably ought to talk to Oracle before going all Dr. Evil." She pulls a small timepiece from a pocket on her belt and checks the time. "I should probably get back before Oracle sends out the hounds. Do you want to follow along and talk with her?"
The Sandman heads towards the fire escape, because not all vigilantes are equally adept at leaping off the top of buildings all willy-nilly. Some of them have concerns about potentially straining tendons or damaging the delicate meniscus tissues in their knees, which might lead to arthritis later in life. He removes his mask, tucking it away in his jacket, his dark blonde hair blowing a bit with a hint of wind, "That would seem most prudent. I suggest we take the Sleeping Car, both to save wear and tear on your injured leg and because I can make us a lovely cocktail along the way. Having done my prescribed amount of physical crimefighting for the day, I, for one, would like to, as the children say, 'get my buzz on'," he says, the air quotes again audible just from his tone of voice.
Huntress moves to follow Dodds, no longer bothering to try and hide the limp. "Only if that jalopy can also carry my bike. I'm NOT leaving it out here overnight." She doesn't take the fire escape, though, as all of those steps would likely be worse than a single zipline-assisted touch down at street level. There are ways to mitigate tendon and knee damage, or rock climbers and military types would have stopped rapelling decades ago.
Wesley Dodds reaches the ground after Huntress, not minding that he makes her way. She's the one who jumped ahead, after all. Taking a moment to wipe his gloves off on a handkerchief, he gestures towards the classic Rolls Royce that is his favored mode of transportation, "I suspect I might be able to fit it into the trunk, if necessary, although it would be a bit crowded, but I expanded it for when I need to take someone in for...further questioning," he says. "If not, I'm certain Oracle could probably have some operative fetch it for you."
Huntress tosses a brief glare that makes her thoughts on that LAST suggestion very clear. "No one rides my bike but me." Well, there was that one time that Robin took care of the Ducati for her, but she had a rather severe concussion that time. Mitigating circumstances. "We can try to see if she'll fit." She sounds doubtful.
Wesley Dodds shakes his head, bemused at how possessive of things humans can be. "All possessions are impermanent, Helena," he says, imparting his little bit of Zen wisdom even as he steps behind the driver's seat, "I really should find a butler. Are there superheroic butler services? It would be most helpful indeed to have someone to make me a toddy or keep a fresh suit on hand in case of emergencies." he sighs. Poor aristocrat.
Huntress frowns at that, crossing her arms indignantly. "My bike isn't just a THING. I have to rely on her to get me to places and then away from places again. Would you leave your car out here overnight to get stolen and stripped out and sold for parts?" As he goes on about a butler she stops next to the car. "What? You're fussing about a BUTLER? What the hell is the matter with you?"
Wesley Dodds looks mildly at Helena, "Well, for one, the creases on my trousers are completely ruined. I also have scuffs on my shoes, nothing even resembling a warm meal and I have to drive myself around when, to be perfectly frank, I'd be much more comfortable in the back seat. I'm not suggesting that these are life-threatening or grandiose issues, Helena, but nonetheless, the creases in my trousers aren't going to fix themselves. They need a good steam ironing. And anyone who managed to get past the locks on the Sleeping Car is far more ingenious than a mere street thug, and I do have one of those global positioning gadgets for tracking it down, if, somehow, the worst were to happen."
Huntress shakes her head as she reaches for the passenger's side door. "You have GOT to be fucking kidding me."
Wesley Dodds shakes his head, "I see no reason why your disbelief should have anything to do with the state of my suit, Helena. NOw, you'll have to give me directions to whatever computerized lair Oracle holes up in, I haven't had the pleasure of making a personal visit in the past. Do buckle your seat belt, by the way," he says. He presses a button, the low sounds of Billie Holliday crooning rumbling beneath the sound of the engine as he starts up the car.
Huntress rolls her eyes but does buckle up promptly. "Bike first." She doesn't give a rat's ass about the crease on Dodds' trousers. She gives him directions to where her Ducati is concealed whether he likes it or not.
Wesley Dodds rolls the Rolls around, the clouded windows making the interior murky and impenetrable from the outside, while enabling them to see perfectly clear within. He idly hums along with the blues music, perfectly at ease, finally pulling in down the alley next to Helena's motorcycle, 'Oh dear, it is rather large, isn't it? Hmmmm. Perhaps it is best if we use our own vehicles. I will follow you, but, please, for my sake, try not to tear around like a lunatic." he says, a twinkle in his eyes indicating that he's needling Helena just a teensy bit deliberately.
Huntress moves to get out of the Rolls but stops and looks at Dodds. "What did you think she was? A bicycle?" She climbs out carefully but at the lunatic comment she tosses him a brief glare. Tear around like a lunatic, huh? FINE. She starts the bike's engine, revs the engine to get a feline snarl, then she's off. Lunatic or not, you'd damn well better keep up.
Wesley Dodds grins as he watches Helena drive off. Finally, a little privacy in the car. He cranks up Billie and puts on his driving gloves. He looks forward to her trying to ditch him. Finally, some fun...
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