June 4
Mood: Drained
Music: "It's all coming back to me now" – Celine Dion
"And that," Barbara says to me with a shaky grin, "is why superheroes don't go on dates!" She reaches over and strokes my forehead, dislodging some of the rubble stuck in my hair-
Wait – I guess I should likely start at the beginning, shouldn't I? I really hope humanity's devised some sort of non-linear communication by the time you're reading this, so that a babbler like me can tell a story from three different points at once and have it all make sense. But in the meantime, I'll be a slave to linearity and start, as they say, at the top.*
*I don't know anyone who actually says this.
So, work was very dull. But I did hitch a ride with Patricia at lunch and picked up a dress. A lovely emerald green, low cut in the front and in the back – just the thing! Then I ducked out an hour early to come home and get myself ready. Going on dates isn't a new experience for me or anything, but there was something...different about this one. I really, really wanted it to go right.
Precisely on time, as expected, Barbara pulls up in a modified van. I'm gratified to see her jaw drop a little when I get in, even as I feel my own do the same. She's dressed in a simple white top and black slacks, but it looks...well, there aren't words. She's astounding. We blush and look away at just about the same time, and she clears her throat nervously.
"I, um...got us reservations at a little place on the west side – it doesn't look like much, but they make the world's best Italian..."
"That sounds wonderful," I say reassuringly, patting her arm. "I love Italian. So," I ask as she manipulates the hand controls of the van, accelerating into a hole in the evening traffic with practiced ease, "how was your day?"
"Oh," she says with an air of forced casualness, "the usual. Stopped some guy who called himself WarGamer from launching a nuclear missile out of a submarine in Gotham Harbor, tracked the GPS of an armoured car for Batman, and invented a laptop bug that'll work better than the one I planted in yours."
"So fairly dull, then?"
"Quite, yes," she giggles. "If there's no imminent apocalypse, then what's the point of it all? And you, Intrepid Reporter? What big stories did you break today?"
"Well, let's see – I don't know which one has more far-reaching implications, the waterskiing Shithzu or the wedding of Lord TinyBritches the Seventh to his trophy wife..."
"They've got you doing all the society page stuff, huh?"
"Yeah...I was excited when they said I'd get out in the field a lot due to the staff shortage, but I anticipated writing about things that...well, mattered. You know?"
"I do," she gives me a sympathetic smile. "But you've got all summer – maybe they'll move you as it goes on. I don't see how they couldn't, given that your first article's already won a dozen awards."
"I...what? What awards?"
"Nobody told you? It's been all over the web...I'm sorry, I thought you knew."
"No, it's okay – it's just a surprise, is all."
"Are you okay with winning awards for that article?" She looks at me, concerned.
"I am, I think – talking to you the other night really helped. It meant a lot, coming from you."
"Any time. I'm glad you feel a little bit better. Oh," she announces, "here we are!" She wrangles the van into a parking spot and turns off the engine. There's a whirring sound, and her seat rotates so she can slide into her wheelchair, secured behind her. With the flick of a switch on the arm of the chair, the side door of the van opens and a ramp descends to the parking lot.
"Pretty slick," I complement her.
"Isn't it? Took me forever to get the thing working just right. Go ahead out; I'll see you in a second."
Ignoring the impulse to watch and make sure she gets out okay, I undo my seat belt and climb out of the van, coming around the front of it at the same time she is. She smiles as I time my steps to walk beside her. "It's been a long time," she murmurs.
"Since you went on a date? Well, if you'll pardon me for saying, that's just a crime. As a crimefighter, you should really have done something about that."
"Cute," she says dryly. "Get the door, smartass." I open it for her and bow deeply as she passes. She rolls her eyes and ignores me. We get ourselves a table and order our drinks, and a moment later a diminutive man in a cheap suit emerges from the kitchen.
"Barbara!" he cries excitedly. "It's so good to see you again – it's been far too long!" He hugs her briskly. "And who is this lovely young lady?"
"Mario, this is my date for the evening – Jessie Montoya."
"Why do I know...the article! You wrote that fantastic article on the attack at the pier, yes?"
I nod, feeling a little on the spot – his voice hasn't gotten any quieter, and there are a few stares coming from the tables around us.
"It was such a good piece – I have it framed over my bar!"
"Mario..." Barbara begins warningly. "Don't embarrass her, okay? We're just here for dinner." He looks at me, and I'm not sure exactly what he sees – probably the blush that's climbed from my neck up to my cheeks – but suddenly he's subdued.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I didn't mean to...I'll tell you what, bottle of Chianti on the house."
"Oh, no – you don't have to-"
"I do! I upset a lady – and not just any lady, but a date of my favourite customer! I need to make amends. I'll be right back with that bottle, and I'll get Frank over to take your order!"
He's gone in a flash, and I try valiantly to force the blood from my cheeks as I sneak a look at Barbara across the table. "Thank you."
"Oh, you're welcome – he doesn't mean any harm, he's just...exuberant."
"I know he didn't, don't worry. So...what do you recommend?"
She looks startled for a second before turning her gaze to her menu. "Oh...um, I like the linguini or the lasagne, but that's just me. I don't know what you might like..."
Before she can stammer any more, I reach across the table and pull her hand from her menu into my own. She looks up at me, startled. "Okay...what's wrong? You look like a long...shit, what's the saying? Something about a room full of chairs? Mom used to say it all the time..."
"A long-tailed cat in a room of full of rocking chairs," she corrects gently. "I guess that's because that's how I feel. Nervous, and more than a little self-conscious."
"You? Why would you be nervous?"
"It's...been a very long time, Jessie. I haven't had anyone look at me the way you keep looking at me for...well, longer than I can remember." She looks down. "And I keep thinking sooner or later the other shoe's going to drop."
"What other shoe?" I'm honestly baffled.
"I just keep thinking...the age difference, or the fact that I'm in this chair, is going to preclude there being anything serious between us, and I don't know that I want to even consider a relationship with you if it's bound to end up badly."
I can't help but laugh a little, and she stiffens. I stroke her fingers with my thumb, trying to silently communicate that I'm not laughing at her. "I'm sorry, Barbara – it's just...this is why I wanted us to get to know each other better. I'm not exactly a conventional girl, and if there is even a possibility of something between us, I'll grab it with both hands. I don't care about age differences, and I certainly don't care about that chair. My first girlfriend was in a car accident at fourteen and paralysed, and I dated her until her family moved away when we were sixteen. I don't see any of these things when I look at you – I just see you. And I think you're gorgeous."
She looks up at me, her eyes shining. She opens her mouth – and suddenly the restaurant's front door is blown off its hinges, flying into the hostess waiting to seat people. I silently curse the injustice of the universe as two armed men storm in, waving large guns. "Okay," the first one announces, his voice muffled by the balaclava over his face. "All we want is The Oracle. We know she's here somewhere, and once she hands herself over to us the rest of you can finish your dinners in peace." He waits as the scattered diners glance at each other, and I'm gratified to see that he has no idea who he's looking for – if he did, Barbara's chair would be a dead giveaway. "No? Okay, let's make this a little easier." His silent partner grabs a young woman by the hair and puts his gun to her temple. "How about now? I'll give you to the count of three. After that, she dies and we grab another one."
I jump to my feet. "It's me – I'm The Oracle." The talkative one looks over at me. "You don't say." He levels his weapon at me and fires, and the impact as the bullet hits my chest drives the air from my lungs. I feel my legs give out and I collapse to the ground, gasping for breath. After a moment, it registers that it doesn't hurt nearly as much as it should (or more than it should, I'm not sure which), and I see the bullet lying beside me – a rubber round. Some sort of riot-control gun, then. Talkative stalks over and bends down next to me. "It's a lucky thing for you that he wants you alive, or that bullet would have been real." I'm starting to get light-headed, still unable to draw a breath. "Let's get her out-AAHHHHHHH!" he shouts as Barbara zaps him with the taser from my purse. His partner points his weapon at her but, faster than I've ever seen anyone move, she taps a button on the arm of her chair and a metallic Frisbee-shaped projectile jumps into her hand. She flings it across the room and it strikes him in the head, knocking him cold just as his finger squeezes the trigger. His shot goes wildly into the air above us and takes out a goodly-sized piece of the ceiling, dropping stucco and drywall all over us.
I can hear her calling my name, but I still can't breathe. The world's going black around the edges when suddenly the pressure in my chest eases a bit. My lungs fill with sweet-tasting air, and I wheeze in and out a few times before I can answer her. "I'm okay," I gasp. "I'm okay." I drag myself up, ignoring the pain, and flop bonelessly into a chair beside her. "And that," Barbara says to me with a shaky grin, "is why superheroes don't go on dates!" She reaches over and strokes my forehead, dislodging some of the rubble stuck in my hair, before her grin dissolves into tears. "God, what were you thinking? If that bullet had been real, you'd be dead now! Why would you..."
"Because," I whisper as a bolt of pain shoots down my side. "What else could I do? Let them shoot you?"
She doesn't reply, just pulls me close to her and holds me there until the EMTs arrive. I go in for some tests, which reveal a bruised sternum and a cracked rib, and when I get out she's waiting to drive me home.
And that was our first date. It could have gone better, I guess, but we got a chance to talk a little. I'll call her tomorrow and see how she is...for now, I'm going to try and find a comfortable position to sleep in – this rib hurts like a bastard.
June 5
Mood: Excited
Music: "Evil Angel" – Breaking Benjamin
I'm on the crime beat! Thank all the powers for that – I couldn't do another society piece. I gave Davies a piece on the restaurant incident that I wrote up this morning, and after one look he decided that between the Pier article and that one, I belong where the action is. I could not be any more excited – this is where I'll get a chance to see the real heart of Gotham, to see Barbara and Batman and Robin in action...and mom, of course. And to spend some time talking to the Police, which should be a great insight into Renee's old life.
I think Patricia's a little bit jealous, but she gave me what sounded like a very sincere congratulations. I've got an actual desk instead of a cubicle now, and I'm down a floor from where I was. I haven't met any of the other people in my new department yet, but they should be there tomorrow.
The rib still hurts, but I guess that's going to be the case for a while yet, so I'll stop giving you daily updates. Just take it as a given, okay?
More worryingly, I think Barbara's ducking my calls. I haven't been able to reach her any of the times I've tried today, and I haven't heard anything about a big operation that would have taken up her time. I've left a half-dozen messages, with no response. I have a bad feeling that she's doing some sort of stupid nobility thing because seeing me hurt yesterday shook her up, but I'm not going to put up with that. I'm going to call her one more time, and then I'm going down to the clock tower and banging on her door until she lets me in...
June 13
Mood: Disillusioned
Music: None
Well, this isn't going like I thought it would. Sorry for the lapse in writing – it's been a busy week. Still no contact with Barbara, for one thing. It makes me rather grouchy – I'm not sure if she thinks she's protecting me or what, but I'm not happy about it. I deserve better than to be ignored.
But the point of this little ramble isn't my personal life – it's my professional one. I'm starting to understand the rumours about some of the staff on this paper, and I'm seeing things that are...well, things that I'd rather not. My first day on the crime beat, I found out about two cops taking protection money from some little old man who runs a grocery on fifth. I got their names, Danny got pictures, everything...but when I turned the story in it was rejected. "Not the kind of story we want to see in our paper," explained my new department head. It was disconcerting, but I decided to keep quiet. Then, as the day went on, I was approached by two different writers who explained to me the sorts of stories we are and aren't supposed to report.
Basically, the criteria seems to be that if it's a story involving a well-known villain and a high-profile target, then have at 'er. But if it's something that just affects the little people (not my words, okay? Let's be clear on that), or something that shines a light on police corruption of any sort, then we're to leave it alone unless we get word that another paper is going to report it. And then, if we get it cleared, we can print it. I don't like this at all – I don't like thinking that stories about innocent people being victimised aren't being printed. Isn't that supposed to be the whole point?
Since I've moved into this department, I’ve had the opportunity to meet with a lot of the people affected by the sorts of things we can't report on. To see what's happening to them. To learn all sorts of things that people really do need to know.
This isn't going at all how I thought it would.
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