batlanguage (batlanguage) wrote in newalliance, @ 2013-03-10 21:35:00 |
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Entry tags: | [event] retro, batgirl ii |
Who's That Girl?
Who: Cassandra Cain, Open to Gotham Costumed Peeps who were around during...
When: Summer 2010
Where: Gotham City, NJ
What: A certain homeless can of whoopass makes herself known to the Batfamily when she helps save Commissioner Gordon from an assassination attempted by her father.
NPCs: Commissioner James Gordon (giving a speech on the good Batman's done for the city, perhaps, or disavowing all connection to him -- whichever works for this time frame), David Cain
Rating: PG
The Bat had become something of a fascination to her. Not just any bat, but the Bat. The black shape she'd seen projected into the sky. The shape she'd seen on t-shirts and keychains. The shape she'd even seen on the chest of the Bat Man himself. The man who swooped in from the sky and beat up a gang of hoodlums who'd surrounded her within minutes of her arrival in Gotham City.
He hadn't really saved her; she could take care of herself. If he hadn't dropped in when he did, she would have left them with broken bones and empty wallets. And yet, every time she replayed the memory of watching the caped man in action, she felt like he had saved her.
Finally, there was someone like her. Someone who entered and left without a sound. Someone who weaved in and out of thugs like a needle through thread, leaving injury in his wake but not death. Someone who was clearly taught a multitude of deadly fighting arts but prevented himself from killing. Someone whose body didn't just speak the language of combat, he lived it. This was his life, his purpose, his calling.
That was where they differed, she supposed, because she had none of those three. Her life was that of a street rat, scurrying on the fringes. Her purpose was to fight and kill, but she rarely fought these days unless necessary (a glare was usually enough to change the minds of predators), and she refused to kill. She definitely had no calling to speak of; she lived day-to-day, and moved from city to city.
And yet, the Bat called to her. That black shape, with its curved lines against jagged points, kept calling to her. Almost the way the strong smell of hot food called to her, but at least food she understood. She ate it, and her body would be fueled. What was it about that Bat shape that was supposed to fuel her? The promise of purpose?
She'd spent her nights scampering across rooftops, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Bat Man. Maybe if she saw him again, he would explain these things to her, and she would understand. He didn't seem like the type of person to use endless words, so she hoped he could make things clear for her. Words just swarmed her and confused her; in her years of travel, she'd only learned to say a few of them.
And yet, somehow she found herself awake in the middle of the day, wearing a threadbare black hoodie and sweatpants in the middle of a chattering crowd of people who were listening to the words of some important person with a mustache. He kept saying "Bat Man", which was enough to attract her attention. Her ratty motel was within earshot of this particular public gathering, so she was curious to see if he had anything useful to tell her about the man with the very-important black shape.
She looked around the plaza, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Bat Man. Maybe if the Mustache Man said his name enough, he would appear. But as much as she disliked her childhood training, it kept taking over and pointing out all the spots an assassin could be lurking. Most of them were occupied or watched over by the police, but there were a few spots they'd missed. Maybe she'd find the Bat Man there if she was lucky; maybe she'd find the League of Shadows if she wasn't.
There. A hotel window with a line of sight to the Mustache Man. She could feel a sniper lining up his shot. She covered her mouth with her scarf and pulled her hood up to cover her head, leaving only her eyes visible. Leaping onto the stage where the speech was being given, she dropped the nearest bodyguards with three efficient moves each, all the while spoiling the sniper's shot.
She turned to face the hotel, and trained a stare right where she knew where the sniper was. Maybe it was her father. Maybe it was someone else from the League who would recognize her. Maybe she would get shot between the eyes for her trouble. Regardless, she was committing to spoiling the assassination attempt. It would be her calling, her purpose, and her life.