[DC] pieces of the life I had before
Title: pieces of the life I had before
Characters: Tim, Steph (Tim/Steph)
Rating: PG
Summary: War demands sacrifices, and oracles that don't sleep.
Notes: For au_bingo, theme 'Future: Post-Apocalyptic'. Title from Muse's 'Unintended'. Crit welcome.
If Oracle could, he'd suppress all the bad news that don't directly interfere with Gotham's situation, and he'd only release those bad news that do if there was some way for the public to contribute. He can't, of course: simply monitoring the news is hard enough as it is.
Complete censorship is unattainable as things stand now; Gotham would have to close its doors to refugees. Floods of refugees dragging in with them pieces of charcoal-and-mud news.
“We don't want to create a panic,” politicians used to argue. Oracle remembers he used to hate that phrase, for the most part. Now his existence is spent surfing on this very principle.
If he could, he would cut Gotham entirely off from the rest of the planet.
Focus on Gotham first, because this is where the infrastructure is under their control, this is were the plagues can no longer break out. Take their time, build the city up, prepare a long-term strategy, then counter-attack. He's convinced Gotham could take it. Complete disassociation from the rest of the world would not be very different from what they're doing already, and it might even prove easier.
The others, outside, would understand. They're all fighting for the same thing. By building Gotham into the real HQ they might be able to stop this disheartening trend of losing.
He and Robin and the Bat often get into arguments about it. That is, Oracle lets them know he'd be more efficient in a closed circuit, the Bat presses her lips and has none of it, and Robin is left arguing back against him.
This is what they're doing tonight.
“We cannot release the news so soon,” Oracle says. His voice speaks in Robin's ear, and he's grateful for the quality of the reception; it sounds exactly like it was, not scratchy or robotic in any way. “We don't want people to break curfew.”
Tonight Robin's only making rounds in the city. Catching bad guys.
It's almost like they can pretend nothing has changed.
He's only a virtual presence in Robin's ear, fancying that he can feel the wind fluttering through her hair as she leaps over an open street; at the same time he's also in the satellites watching over Gotham from above, in the high-voltage lines surrounding the city, in military e-mail sent from one out-post to another, in every alarm that would be triggered if the city came under attack.
He often used to mourn that he never had enough time in a day to do everything; since he's become Oracle this problem at least evaporated.
The Oracle doesn't need to sleep.
He's not sure how it ranks as an exchange against the possibility to ever run his hand through her hair again, but that's how it is.
“Come on, Tim.” She only calls him Tim when they're alone; it's intimate enough to compensate for the wind breaking over her voice, making her sound farther away. “It's not every day we've got good news to give.”
And it is good news, the best in over a year. Superman's not dead after all.
“It doesn't matter when we let it out, people are gonna break curfew anyway,” she remarks. “We might even see fireworks, if someone's still stashing some. Woo-hoo!”
Her shout is sudden, and loud - if he still had human organs he'd have complained. In the beginning, his mind was still working with the restrictions of what human bodies can accept, and he would be blinded by light too strong or be unable to hear after a loud explosion. When the memories of human limits started to fade, he was able to take in sensory input much more efficiently.
The surveillance cameras and the one satellite he's trained on her pick up her somersault. “We need to prepare for that eventuality,” he says.
“You can't prepare for happiness, O!”
She laughs breathlessly. This is a night, Tim observes, for longing.
“Plus we couldn't cover up that big a news anyways,” she adds later, standing on the edge of a gargoyle, looking down on the muted streets of the city. “It's gonna spread like syrup over pancakes. And that's if it's not out already.”
They could shut off the mainline communications between Gotham and the outside, and not let anyone new in. Most likely she's right and it's already too late, though. And it's not their policy to turn people away, even when it puts the rest of Gotham at risk. Oracle's spoken time and again against that particular recklessness, but he's been consistently over-ruled. He has things under control. That's his job. That's the important thing.
“Pancakes?” he asks instead. The incongruity of the simile is almost a distraction, for the layers of programs that are devoted to interacting with her.
“Yeah, I'm kind of hungry.”
“I'll let you take care of it,” Oracle says, too fast, and disengages.
Characters: Tim, Steph (Tim/Steph)
Rating: PG
Summary: War demands sacrifices, and oracles that don't sleep.
Notes: For au_bingo, theme 'Future: Post-Apocalyptic'. Title from Muse's 'Unintended'. Crit welcome.
If Oracle could, he'd suppress all the bad news that don't directly interfere with Gotham's situation, and he'd only release those bad news that do if there was some way for the public to contribute. He can't, of course: simply monitoring the news is hard enough as it is.
Complete censorship is unattainable as things stand now; Gotham would have to close its doors to refugees. Floods of refugees dragging in with them pieces of charcoal-and-mud news.
“We don't want to create a panic,” politicians used to argue. Oracle remembers he used to hate that phrase, for the most part. Now his existence is spent surfing on this very principle.
If he could, he would cut Gotham entirely off from the rest of the planet.
Focus on Gotham first, because this is where the infrastructure is under their control, this is were the plagues can no longer break out. Take their time, build the city up, prepare a long-term strategy, then counter-attack. He's convinced Gotham could take it. Complete disassociation from the rest of the world would not be very different from what they're doing already, and it might even prove easier.
The others, outside, would understand. They're all fighting for the same thing. By building Gotham into the real HQ they might be able to stop this disheartening trend of losing.
He and Robin and the Bat often get into arguments about it. That is, Oracle lets them know he'd be more efficient in a closed circuit, the Bat presses her lips and has none of it, and Robin is left arguing back against him.
This is what they're doing tonight.
“We cannot release the news so soon,” Oracle says. His voice speaks in Robin's ear, and he's grateful for the quality of the reception; it sounds exactly like it was, not scratchy or robotic in any way. “We don't want people to break curfew.”
Tonight Robin's only making rounds in the city. Catching bad guys.
It's almost like they can pretend nothing has changed.
He's only a virtual presence in Robin's ear, fancying that he can feel the wind fluttering through her hair as she leaps over an open street; at the same time he's also in the satellites watching over Gotham from above, in the high-voltage lines surrounding the city, in military e-mail sent from one out-post to another, in every alarm that would be triggered if the city came under attack.
He often used to mourn that he never had enough time in a day to do everything; since he's become Oracle this problem at least evaporated.
The Oracle doesn't need to sleep.
He's not sure how it ranks as an exchange against the possibility to ever run his hand through her hair again, but that's how it is.
“Come on, Tim.” She only calls him Tim when they're alone; it's intimate enough to compensate for the wind breaking over her voice, making her sound farther away. “It's not every day we've got good news to give.”
And it is good news, the best in over a year. Superman's not dead after all.
“It doesn't matter when we let it out, people are gonna break curfew anyway,” she remarks. “We might even see fireworks, if someone's still stashing some. Woo-hoo!”
Her shout is sudden, and loud - if he still had human organs he'd have complained. In the beginning, his mind was still working with the restrictions of what human bodies can accept, and he would be blinded by light too strong or be unable to hear after a loud explosion. When the memories of human limits started to fade, he was able to take in sensory input much more efficiently.
The surveillance cameras and the one satellite he's trained on her pick up her somersault. “We need to prepare for that eventuality,” he says.
“You can't prepare for happiness, O!”
She laughs breathlessly. This is a night, Tim observes, for longing.
“Plus we couldn't cover up that big a news anyways,” she adds later, standing on the edge of a gargoyle, looking down on the muted streets of the city. “It's gonna spread like syrup over pancakes. And that's if it's not out already.”
They could shut off the mainline communications between Gotham and the outside, and not let anyone new in. Most likely she's right and it's already too late, though. And it's not their policy to turn people away, even when it puts the rest of Gotham at risk. Oracle's spoken time and again against that particular recklessness, but he's been consistently over-ruled. He has things under control. That's his job. That's the important thing.
“Pancakes?” he asks instead. The incongruity of the simile is almost a distraction, for the layers of programs that are devoted to interacting with her.
“Yeah, I'm kind of hungry.”
“I'll let you take care of it,” Oracle says, too fast, and disengages.