{{Characterbox|
Title=Maxima
|Image=[[Image:Maxima_standing.jpg|200px]]
|Name=Maxima
|Alias=Lady Maxima
|Species=Alien
|Age=25! (SHUT UP SAZU)
|Affiliation=Team Maxima
|Quote=''"As you can see, nothing may harm me ever."''
|Powers= 
* Superhuman Physicality
* Psychokinesis
* Telekinesis
* Space Flight
* Mind Control
* Teleportation
|}}'''The Lady Maxima, Warrior Queen and Ruler of all Almerac''' is the alien Queen-in-Exile of the distant planet Almerac.

==Background/Timeline==

* The most recent evolution of a centuries-old breeding program designed to produce genetically-superior stock, Maxima was born into a glorious birthright as heiress to the great Almeracian Empire. Inheriting a dizzying array of superhuman powers, she was considered a masterpiece.

* With the people of Almerac bearing lengthy lifespans, Maxima spent many years being trained in the ways of war, as well as learning the proper mannerisms and ethics of a good ruler. Never a particularly good student, she was heir nonetheless, and received the proper treatment from those to become her subjects. For whatever reason, the belligerent girl bonded closely with a servant's daughter called Sazu. Over time, she would take advisements from nobody else, and so Sazu was appointed handmaiden to the princess.

* When Maxima's mother was killed in battle, she was elevated to the throne immediately, with Sazu her Royal Advisor. A living goddess to her people, she was hailed as the present and future of their race; the paragon of Almeracian strength and virtue. This had always been the way - and though they are a warlike race, former rulers have always done so with a measure of wisdom and compassion.

* Unfortunately, no amount of careful tutoring or foetal eugenics can account for a horrible personality. Maxima became a selfish tyrant, putting aside the immediate needs of her subjects as she became ever more completely fixated on a single purpose: mating. Almeracian tradition demands that a suitable breeding partner can only be decided through trial by combat, and so tournament after unending tournament was held, males from all worlds flocking to the royal palace to try their hand. Maxima defeated them all.

* Growing ever more frustrated, Maxima continued to punish her subjects, sending them deeper into the far reaches of the universe to seek more potential mates. Meanwhile, the challengers kept coming from closer to home; until one in particular, by the name of De'Cine, decided to try a new angle.

* Easily defeated by the Warrior Queen, De'Cine instead turned his attention to her advisor. Unbeknownst to the self-absorbed Lady Maxima, he was able to seduce her confidante and plant the seed of a plan to liberate the unrestful populace of Almerac. He passed along information of another candidate.

* On seeing footage of this 'Superman', Maxima was excited. She had never seen one so fast, so strong, or so pec-poppingly handsome. Refusing the aid of her armies or her elite Royal Guard, she decided to set out alone for the distant backwater known as Planet Earth. She had found her mate!

==Personality==

Born to a life of luxury, pampered by smiling hordes of royal lickspittles from the moment she could gurgle her smallest desires, Maxima was always destined to grow up with a certain sense of entitlement. As the successor to an illustrious royal line, some might argue that she deserved what she was given. Governmental systems exist for a reason, after all. What few could possibly stomach is the idea that somehow the full-grown Empress Maxima of Almerac is an acceptable person.

Obnoxiously arrogant, she holds her head high in the belief that not only is she a rightful Queen, but the most powerful and beautiful creature in the known universe; and probably the unknown parts, as well. Accustomed to getting precisely what she wants, when she wants it, Maxima is stubborn in her unwillingness to bear the whims of lesser beings. Impatient and easily bored, she will rarely allow others to have more than a cursory say in her life, and makes not the slightest effort to remember names, faces or even the vague details of the encounters that inevitably occur during her travels.

In some ways it's probably fortunate that such a strong and selfish person only wants a fairly simple thing: a husband. Convinced of the importance in continuing her succession with a worthy mate, she'll happily put aside anything that doesn't concern this very single-minded goal. But therein lies a hint of complexity, because Lady Maxima - for all her horrible qualities - truthfully only wants to bear children and settle down to a life of simple, albeit highly luxurious, womanly pleasure. The route there may /happen/ to contain a fair number of conquered planets and defeated foes, but if she could find an easier way she'd probably take it. She's not evil; just so hugely misguided she might as well be.

Up to this point, Maxima has trusted only one person with any sense of camaraderie. With others considered obstacles at best, it's her Royal Advisor whom gets at least borderline decent treatment. Sazu is the only individual privy to the woman behind the queenly mask, understanding better than anyone that beneath it all Lady Maxima isn't quite the demoniac presence that most are led to believe.

==Logs==
{{#dpl: |category = logs
|linksto = {{PAGENAME}}
|ordermethod = title
|notcategory = cutscenes
|suppresserrors = yes
}}
[[Category:Features]]
[[Category:Villain]]
[[Category:Tier 2]]
[[Category:Taken]]

2012-02-18T09:41:36Z

Poison Dancer: Created page with "{{Logsummary| Title=The Mark |Summary=Attempting to find her feet as a vigilante-in-potentia, Cassandra is out on the streets of Gotham. She's chosen a place she believes will..."

{{Logsummary|
Title=The Mark
|Summary=Attempting to find her feet as a vigilante-in-potentia, Cassandra is out on the streets of Gotham. She's chosen a place she believes will be quiet - the perfect location to practice quick and stealthy movement through the rooftops, and so it is, until a nearby distress call attracts the attention of a familiar blue-haired superheroine. Things only get messier from there.
|Who=[[Batman]], [[Cassandra Cain]], [[Ember]]
|Date=2012-17-02
|Where=Financial District - Gotham City
|}}

Very few important things occur in Gotham's financial distract at this hour. The office lights are predominantly dead, only the repetitive blink-blink of security systems hinting at the high-pressure hustle and bustle that will consume the towering blocks throughout the day. Even the streets are relatively silent, a few cars passing through; pedestrians all but non-existent, except for people like Cassandra Cain...

Or rather, people like she /was/. No longer a vagrant, she's transitioned from the sodden sidewalks to the rain-slick rooftops. Gone are her unflattering, dirty garments - and even that oversized coat. In their place she wears a sort of hotch-potch ninja garb, a short-sleeved catsuit augmented with straps, shinguards, lightweight pauldrons and... a utility belt, pouches carefully filled with an unseen variety of devices.

Her feet, clad in oiled leather, make a soft pitter-patter scarcely heavier than the sheeting raindrops as she makes her agile way across the tops of this area's lofty skyscrapers. Her breathing is held deep and level, causing the scarf wrapping the lower half of her face to inflate and deflate in rhythm. Her dark eyes are intent on the roof's end as she travels, veering around and hopping over venting hatches and aerials.

When she reaches the other side, a hand flies to her waist and comes up bearing a pistol. The trigger is pulled, emitting a snapping hiss as a metal-capped cord unwinds in coiling loops, bearing with blinding speed for the next mighty 'scraper. She leaps before the connection is made, left arm thrust behind her to balance the still-raised right, legs wide and immobile for an instant-- and then she's soaring like an eagle.

She hits the edge of the next building, already starting to climb, suppressing a grimace as the impact sends a tremor through her body; trying to ignore the pain in her chest, upon her ribcage where a bullet wound lies covered and bandaged. This isn't what she should be worrying about. Within the very building she's climbing, a trio of men stalk around a room lit only by dim lamps. Two bear guns, the other remains conspicuously between them as he chatters inanely, nervous, twisting one hand around the opposing wrist. In the other he holds an emergency transmitter, currently sending out an alarm that - under normal circumstance - would be putting out an all-points bulletin on the police network. Sadly for Mr. Gibraldi, it isn't. Because it's been rewired.

A scrambled, nonsensical signal fires off into the atmosphere as Cassandra climbs, unawares.

She's also unaware that, from a window on the next building along, the barrel of a high-calibre sniper rifle emerges to take a slow bearing on Mr. Gibraldi. It's entirely invisible from street-level. Anyone higher might get a glimpse... of course, those with sufficient technology could also pick up that signal, and trace it. It leads right back to this very building, and even to the man himself.

He's on the roster of protected individuals, because Mr. Gibraldi is worth millions. Billions, even.

What a shame he's about to die.

Ember has been slowly adapting to this strange new world she's in. She was alive, well and not so alone anymore. Still thoughts went back to her own world, there were fewer and fewer left the longer time went on, to protect it. No that there was much left they could do. Still every person the few heroes left could save was still a small victory against those who terrorized the world. The lost magus only thinks on that once and a while these days, she's kept busy helping with smaller things. Letting more powerful sorts be freed up for bigger things, it's not a problem to her however. A certain Martian had sent her to patrol Gotham, prehaps Bats was busy, or there was just too much in one night for even Bats to handle either way she's now in the city, airborn and having already left a group of would be muggers in the hands of some rather jerkish cop named Bullock she's headed on her way. When she gets a call over the comm about the signal.

<I'm on it.>

The Magus is airbone and now is heading for the source of the signal, the sniper would likely see the airborn super hero. She doesn't spot the sniper just yet, she does spot the ninja however. Given how this world is? Someone sulking about the source of a singal like that, looking like that? Totally an assassin right? So Cass might pick up something dropping towards her from above. Still she is checking around that ninja might not be alone. Either as she swoops in on the ninja.

"Hey you!" Prehaps she might get the sniper's attention however as she's not doing much to hide her self.

"I don't need your /opinion/, Tony!" Mr. Gibraldi finally slips over the edge he's been inching toward for hours now, having received an anonymous tip regarding his imminent assassination. An e-mail arrived, encrypted via protocols used only by his offshore trading company, bearing a simple warning; and an image. A fearsome wolf's head enclosed within a circle. It doesn't mean much to him, but that only makes it scarier.

"I need a goddamn hero, okay! That's what I need. And what do I have? Meatheaded idiots like you two." The large, dark-suited target of his rage takes a half-step back, shaking his head and looking back toward the nearest window, scanning it with rattled caution. A hand fumbles for the safety on his handgun, checking for the twentieth or thirtieth time that it remains off. He might need to open fire in a hurry.

Meanwhile, the businessman receives his desire, albeit not in the form he might expect. Ember's dive carries her just out of Cassandra's visual range, at least for a moment - Cassie's eyes slip alternately left and right as she climbs, taking in her peripherals. She doesn't expect to encounter anyone, having chosen this spot for precisely that reason. But it's Gotham. You don't sleep on the city streets for several years without learning how unpredictable and dangerous it can be. Which is why she doesn't jump when the cry rings out, doesn't start climbing faster even. No. She swings out to her left, tilting as she makes a deft hop.

Beneath the mask, she releases a relieved breath, fingertips sliding out of a pouch at her waist.

And then the mysterious ninja reaches up to pull her mask down, feet set on the wall and motionless as she reaches for one of her so-rare smiles, directing it up through the drizzle toward the other girl. She's hoping she's at least somewhat recognizable; but she knows not everyone's so quick-sighted as she, so she leaves her hands as visible as she can - considering she needs to maintain a grasp on the rope. She's harmless, a friend.

Although, like Ember assumes, she's totally an assassin. One of the world's deadliest.

Ember just knows that something's up right now, and she's uncertain of the details but there clearly is a ninja here and likelyc ould be the assassin. Her radar is not totally off at least. She does however, she pauses for a moment. Wait was that the girl she was with when she ran into the Jester's nightmarish twin? It clearly is what is Pusher Girl doing here. She's got to wonder that. That can't be the problem is it if it is that strange girl. Why would she help her then go try to kill someone else. At least that's how she sees it. She now looks at the ninja ya it is her and she makes a gesture of what's up now? She then starts looking if her friend isn't causing problems then where's the source of the alarm...

Cassandra's jovial expression doesn't last long, fading to one of puzzlement and then concern as she observes the young homo-magi's reactions. They draw the same conclusion, in utterly different ways; something is indeed wrong. Ember's questioning gesture is returned with a single-shouldered shrug as the former drifter looks around, peering around the frame she's lodged against, into the plate glass of the skyscraper. It's not clearly visible from more than a few feet away, but she makes out Gibraldi and his bodyguards--

Right before a shot rings out. In the still of the night, a round fired from a gun that powerful can't be missed. A yell echoes from inside the building, where the bullet has missed its mark, instead finding a bank of servers against the far wall. Mr. Gibraldi is huddled beneath a desk, sweating and cursing as his guards take position on the other side. It's in that moment that fires break out, spreading quick and fierce.

Fire alarms are due a beat later. The sprinkler system goes off. It all happens in moments.

Wide hazel eyes find Ember's through the downpour - and even if Cassandra were the talkative type, there's be no time for anything more than a barked command - because they need to move. Her mouth draws to a line, her hand motions toward the window behind her, and then she's off in a flash, scaling up the building. Twelve feet are covered rapidly before she /leaps/, both legs propelling her powerfully, her grapnel-rope unwinding until it snaps and drags her back in toward the skyscraper. Glass shatters instantly.

Cass lands in a roll, separated from the quarry and his men by an open door, leaving the rope trailing behind her as she darts her gaze around rapidly. Another shout echoes from within, the second man, black and very muscular, finding her and quickly drawing a bead with his semi-automatic. That happens in another moment.

In the next building along, invisible to all concerned, the sniper is reloading.

Now wasn't the time for talking No it wasn't at all the time for talking as the rain comes down, her own green eyes lock with Cass' for a moment before she now starts to seek out the sound of a gun fireing. AS Cass heads on she knows one shot came from the outside. She's got to find the gunman, prehaps she wll she now seeks out looking she heard the shot and is trying to track it back to it's point of origin.

Ember's efforts will be swiftly rewarded as the gunman returns to the window, ready to draw aim again. He's not that quick in doing so - and given his near-miss upon Gibraldi, this might indicate a general lack of competence on the assassin's behalf. It may take her a moment or three to locate him though, clad in black and situated in a building about a hundred yards from the outer edge of the target skyscraper. As she draws near, she'll probably notice not so much the man himself, as an apparent ally one floor up. NOT clad in black.

And not carrying a sniper rifle either. The thick, heavy muzzle of a knockoff pray n' spray is thrust from the one lit window in the building, a savage grin showing on the balaclava-clad face behind it. A half-second later, the thumping rat-a-tat of submachine-gun fire lights up the night. Bullets light the air around Ember.

Cassandra has her own, rather similar problem as the handgun trained upon her expels three bullets in fast succession. The blaze of her eyes is the last thing her own assailant sees, before with a swish of ebon scarf she's simply gone; streaming away from the field of fire and blurring through the room as she strafes from wall-to-wall, ending up before the open door. One more bullet finds the air before she launches herself upward, legs spread against the frame below, back planted against the plasterboard.

"Sonuva..." The black man's hands are shaking as he stalks forward, either too focused or too rattled to notice the slowly spreading fire in the corner of the room. The sprinklers aren't able to stop it; the flame is of electrical origin, water simply sizzling and popping where it strikes, providing the oxygen required to further fan the blaze. It's likely to consume the room within a few minutes.

Ember has spotted the figure in the window as he's attempting to line up another shot. Ember is not intending to give the man a chance to fire, she focuses her powers, and seems to shimmer with shadows as she lets lose her own powers upon herself. She then makes for building, while moving in a zig zag pattern to prevent her being so easily shot. She is not sure how many of them are in there, but she keeps moving in. The back up however is armed with some sort of weapon and she's comming under fire, she dodges some odf the shots, another it defelcted by her armor but she's also hit and grazed at least on that burst. She tries to ignore the pain and fire a bolt of flames at the guy, not intending to kill him but certainly enough force from the dark flames to ruin his day.

"Come out where I can see you! Put your hands up and we'll end this. Nobody has to die."

Mr. Gibraldi's man keeps advancing as he speaks, finger shuddering on the trigger, his gun the slightest squeeze from firing. From her perch atop the doorframe, Cassandra draws a slow, shallow inbreath, holding it once it's in. The resulting silence lets her hear each footfall perfectly even over the spitting spread of flame inside, even over the businessman's sobs from beneath his desk. Across the room, the other bodyguard is leaning out of the window near the sniper's side-- near Ember's side...

"Shit," he suddenly hisses, the dispassion in his tone resulting through utter astonishment as he watches the metahuman's burst of return fire (pun intended) explode against the next building along. The hail of gunfire stops immediately, a high shriek taking over, his dark clothing ignited and skin rapidly scalding beneath. Hitting the floor, he drops his gun, which lets off an erratic burst, serving as additional warning for his murderous comrades on the level below.

The sniper himself has withdrawn, ducking back into the shadows, where the other two men await with their own weapons drawn - one, the 'muscle' by his size, unsheathing a heavy combat knife and swinging open the rear door. The building is otherwise abandoned, an office for rent full of corridors lit dimly only by the occasional economy lightbulb; part of the backup system restored by the assassins to aid in their night's work. "Let's get the hell out of here. Gibraldia's gonna die in that blaze - there's no way, we saw to that. What's he gonna do? Jump out the frackin' window?"

His companion, armed with a shorn-off shotgun - a thug's weapon if ever there was - nods grimly and steps to the door. Serving as a pointman, armed with the perfect brutal weapon to see them through any resistance in the narrow corridors. But who would possibly offer any? What does anybody plan for in Gotham?

The naked face of Gotham's night holds more stories than most cities could even make up. The crooked, marked man. The armed, quietly terrified men around him. The markers of other corruption that burn in the spreading heat. The Batman watches it light up the night. From across the street, above the sniper; above his cover. Ember won't even glimpse him, if the Dark Knight has his way. He slips like a spectre to the reverse side of the structure and drops, at some point affixing a batline to the apex of his drop. He lands silent against the outer window of an abandoned office, and swifly manipulates the lock open, slipping in just as soundlessly. The loudest part of the Detective's arrival is the window *clck*ing back shut behind him, before Batman is out and into the halls between officespace, rapidly moving to intersect the predictable retreat of the pressed thugs.

They move into the shadows; they seek solace in the dark. They actually almost walk right past the Dark Knight, in their haste and attention on the wrong details. The still, black-clad ninja against the wall doesn't even draw notice, until the pointman's shotgun goes off; into the ceiling. The heavy stock and barrel is parallel against - and sort of /into/ the killer's face, his hand twisted nastily, possibly broken, in the grip where it drags down the trigger uselessly, spending the weapon entirely until the unlikely event it's reloaded. The cape flutters, the Batman ascends, gone in a flourish of motion as he presses himself ceilingward, lost in the dark before any of the assassins even get a good /look/. Yes, they have numbers. Not nearly enough numbers. A batarang blinking with a single, blue LED whips through the air with the quietest whoosh at the back of the large, knife-wielding man's head.

"What the /FUCK/?" one thug helpfully inquires. The point man just screams, and clutches at his hand and face. He's probably having trouble seeing due to pain and shock. Most people aren't used to this shit.

Ember isn't out to kill, that's the hardest thing to worry about with her powers. She tends to use less than perhaps she should due to it, but none the less she's got one handled, however the sniper is hiding into the shadows. Fine she's going to try to get in and the dark works for her it works very well she'll try to make her way in and just fade into the shadows as she'll stalk the two thugs.

Whelp there goes that plan as it seems someone else has showen up, Batman may indeed be the night, but she does make use of her own abilities to ambush the one asking what's going on. Who'd get an armored fist to the fast.

"Game over."

"I /told/ you to come out!"

The bodyguard's tone is becoming less stable as he approaches the doorway, shaken by the events of the evening and by the strange, disappearing ninja he's trying to reach. Cassie remains motionless and inaudible, not shifting one tiny inch until the barrel of his pistol begins to peek through the portal below. In that instant, her dark eyes narrow to slits, and then she moves, a decade and a half of relentless conditioning propelling her away from the wall; seeing her twist like an acrobat, then thrust her legs out simultaneously, taking the massive man in the chin with both bootheels.

*crack*

Across the street, the more experienced vigilante's batarang collides with oxlike cranium. A startled, enraged grunt becomes a roar as the handy-dandy gadget releases an electric current directly into the knifeman's skull. With his brain partway scrambled, his first reaction is to run facefirst into the wall, stumbling and staggering to right himself in the correct direction before he charges again - this time at the Batman.

It's the first time he's had his lumpen, scarred visage facing the Dark Knight; who should have ample time to notice, during the approach, that the hired muscle wears a set of infrared goggles over his beady eyes. He's snarling as he leaps, making a wild but potentially eviscerating slash up into the darkness. Whoever these amateurs are, they've clearly been armed by someone with resources to spare. That also explains the sniper rifle, aimed down the corridor toward the resulting melee. The scope's useless at such range, of course...

But these men are reckless, hardly afraid to shoot from the hip. He pulls the trigger.

*crack*

Cassandra hits the floor in a crouch as her poor victim is thrown backward, gun flying from his hands as all two hundred pounds of his honed physique impacts the carpet. Gibraldi lets out an unstifled yell of, "Oh god!" The desk he's hiding beneath suddenly topples as he kicks back against it, both arms wrapping around his balding head, body lost to the quivering terror of a man who knows he's seconds from dying.

But the raven-haired girl is already moving past him, a black blur as she swoops through the dimly-lit office, upon the businessman's second line of defense in the instant before he can level his own shaking gun-arm. The sad vibration of his semi-automatic becomes a sharp clatter as she raises a leg, toe catching the barrel just as the trigger is pulled. A shot rings out, leaving an ugly hole in the ceiling; and then there's a second sharp impact as she swiftly swaps legs, planting that foot to sweep high with the other.

He's down with a bloody nose immediately, struggling not to vomit as Cass kicks his weapon away.

"No," she says; in somebody else's voice.

*crack*

That one's all Ember's, as her gauntlet finds the face of Batman's second assailant, coming hot on the tail of his desperate high-calibre round. He releases a stream of saliva as his head snaps to one side, the rifle tumbling from his grip as he goes down to his knees, barely catching himself on one arm to avoid collapsing completely. But it seems he can take a punch, at least, and he's in motion immediately.

"Didn't they tell you," he grates out past clenched teeth, whipping himself around, a heavy boot snapping out to try and take the homo-magus in the shin. "It's no game, kid! This is /life and death/." Grinning savagely, he goes scrabbling for his gun - it may be expended, but it makes a damn fine club. "This is the League of Assassins, you dumb bitch!!" Well, at least that part was easy.

The sniper's return fire was one reason why Batman hauled himself up into the shadows of the ceiling. It's still a good reason to fend off that angry, disoriented slashing with his cape. The blade's impact still stings, may bruise, but it doesn't cut the fabric of the Dark Knight's own portable shadow. It also allows the assailaint to press the attack, to rush in nice and close, as the Batman crouches back against the doorjam, supporting himself above with one hand... the round fires off, and so does the Bat. In the seconds between shots, less if he has the right rifle; Batman makes it count. He springs off the wall nearly parallel with the ceiling, snapping the large man's hair in his previously defending gauntlet. At his velocity, the towering thug's head is sent lurching painfully back, before a wad of his hair comes ripping out rather audibly.

The things he says. "Would have been easier on you if you'd just stayed down." Most men don't keep coming after a taser to the neck. This guy's special, but not in the right ways for the situation he's in. The Dark Knight can already see Ember's got his last friend in the world taken care of, and besides that... size isn't everything. In his moment of doubt and pain the Batman strikes, lunging in almost singular motion to drive a forearm and elbow into the again-charging man's midsection, all his weight and momentum betraying him as his ribcage visibly shifts and reseats, utterly jarred. The staggered mountain of a malcontent mauls the drywall as he rebounds off it with a resounding crash, and falls groaning in the hallway.

There's only a brief nod to Ember, now. He restrains the three men quicky, then the Dark Knight moves past her to the sniper's perch, batgrapple already in his hand, sounding out the hiss off a compressed line an instant later. They're not done here, as far as he knows.

Ember says, "You know I'm kinda of hungry." She gets a rather not nice grin on the guy's face now, however they seem to be handled at this point. Bats can get the gunman as she stares down the last one, dark energy shimmers bout her hand. He comes in at her with it like a club she'll attempt to weave out of the way then black tendrils will come out of her hand trying to latch onto the man and start to drain him. It won't kill him but he'll get weaker and weaker should she be able to get ahold of him. To the point he'd not be able to stand.

"An Assassin should be well informed about their target, you are not."

"Me too, precious," replies Ember's sneering assailant as she ducks aside from his clumsy blow. Shifting grip on the rifle butt, he steps in closer, lasciviously rolling a fat tongue over his lips. "How about you n' me get-- hngh!" His ill-judged threat dies at conception, black tendrils coursing over his body as he attempts to stumble forward in weak-willed desperation. Equipped these men may be, but they're not trained for this.

They're barely trained at all. He's on his knees in seconds, clawing at the ground as though he means to drag himself toward Ember, as though he might do any good if he can reach her. His grip on the rifle is already failing, quivering fingers trailing it across the floor beside him, and then with one last snarl he stills. Batman is free to restrain him and his partners; though he might note as he does that the larger has some seriously bulging veins on him. Not healthy, that. Probably not /natural/.

Meanwhile, the Bat's odd little protege doesn't hang around, leaving the cowed men to their own devices; unarmed, she's sure they can be no threat. If they've got sense, they should realize by now she's not here to murder. If she'd had any such design she could have taken out all three of them. It seems to have sunk in.

Our would-be victim is a slightly different matter. He's deep in confusion, irrational and scared.

Naturally, Cassandra's the last person he wants to interact with right now; but he's malleable in his fear. Breathing a sigh behind her ebon scarf, she reaches down to haul him by shoulder and wrist, directing a pair of quick, cautious glares to his downed men before she pulls Gibraldi through the room. The smell in the office is acrid now; the flames coating a third of the floor and still sizzling away under the patter of the sprinklers. It's not the kind of blaze that's going to be extinguished, and that's why they have to move.

Once she reaches the next room, the raven-haired girl directs her 'captive' to one side. Moving fast though keeping her motions exact, not rushing the process - keeping her head - she steps to the rope already trailing from the roof. The street below is too far to take the man with her; she's got a lot in that utility belt, just not the two hundred plus feet she'd require to safely lower him. But the alarms are going off.

That means fire service, it means /police/. And the building has a helipad.

By the time Batman and Ember should arrive, she's removed the belts around her waist and thighs, adjusting them appropriately to fashion a makeshift harness. Being of the Dark Knight's own design, they're naturally strong enough to bear the average adult male. The trick is going to be getting Mr. Gibraldi into it...

"D-Don't kill me," he stammers, throwing up his hands as she reaches to pull him toward her. Frowning, Cassandra steps back, puts up her own arms and repeats what she told his bodyguards, "No." Although it's kinder this time, only as much as she can make it with her painfully limited vocal chords. An adamant shake of her head makes it clearer, coupled with a gesture toward the harness. He doesn't look very reassured.

The bulging, suped up shithead does give the Batman pause. He takes a few moments to stoop by the thug and take a blood sample from the man's neck, with a little black self-contained unit that looks made for just that purpose. A theory that would be confirmed by its insertion into a compartment in the Dark Knight's belt that's half of a very miniaturized biology lab.

The Dark Knight arrives at the burning building through Mr. Gibraldi's office window, crashing inward and landing in a roll amid a shower of glass and splintering wood. It's not the quietest entry of the night, but it's certainly efficient. From Ember's vantage point the view is less abrupt, Batman all but sailing on spread cape across the distance between buildings, accelerating rapidly on a powerful retracting grapple line towards that window. Microgrenades are already in his hands as he comes up, cape raised to shield his face from the worst of the smoke. They're tossed with alarming precision into central hotspots of the encroaching blaze, flame-retardant foam erupting voluminously in all directions.

To all appearances, it practically eats the fried servers like some kind of grotesque sci-fi b-horror monster. There's always the chance there's data to preserve, for one thing. "Who hired them to kill you? Be more useful to me than /barbecue/." Never mind that he'd never let the fire consume the building, much less any of them, if he can stop it. At least slow it down for the fire department. The Dark Knight isn't immediately violently hostile. He's actually pretty calm, at a glance. Come at him brah.

Ember looks at him as she drains him she looks down at him as she stops short of harming him long term. "As I was saying. Your in over your head and I'm not much to write home about really." The wound on her leg however visbaly is mending itself, as she puts to use the drained energy. She letsout a breath and makes sure they are out of business. He looks at him for a moment as he keeps a look at the guy. She keeps draining and she says, "I'd not get up if I were you, be smart stay down. Do you want to really see what else I can do? Even if you stop me, Batman's here and do you really think you could /escape/ him in that condtion." She wonders about those Viens and that worries her something ain't right here.

It's not a subtle entrance, and one doesn't need cunning ninja senses to detect it.

Doesn't matter; what matters is that Cassandra Cain is no longer the last one standing.

The helpless CEO isn't cooperating - and Cassie knows there's no time for this. It's a moment in which many would be cursing, at least inwardly, but she allows the pressure only to further focus her. Moving like brutal silk she darts forward, easily twisting Gibraldi around and slipping him in a half-nelson. The other arm reaches for the harness and slips it around his neck, a little grappling trickery getting both his upper limbs esconced firmly before she turns him back around and shoves him through the already-shattered window.

His scream is blood-curdling, but it doesn't last long.

*click*

At a touch of the small device upon her belt, the bat-grapnel's release mechanism is triggered. The businessman is suddenly hauled breathlessly up the sheer, sleek outside of his company's vast skyscraper. He'll hit the top in a moment, though he'll be left hanging and caught in that harness until help arrives. Fortunately, his non-vocal saviour just happened to slap a beacon flare onto the back of his jacket before sending him up - it's going to be uncomfortably warm for a couple of minutes, but it should tell the arriving police helicopter precisely where he is. She just hopes the assassins were already dealt with...

And that's what she finds out a second later, darting against the doorframe and then plunging into the office beyond as Batman's capsules begin to do their work. Her guard is raised, and she's ready to leap into an evasive dive when she stops /dead/. A blink of her eyes expresses her mute astonishment as her gaze settles on the Dark Knight himself, hovering over her 'collateral damage'.

Yeah; she can probably assume the threat has been handled.

"Nngh," says Mr. Damage, trying to avert his eyes from the Bat without success, "Goddamn Batman, huh? And two minutes ago I figured I was a dead man. I can't tell you jack-shit, tall, dark and ugly. Boss got an e-mail this afternoon; /anonymous tip/, y'get me? Implied he should pick himself a suitable headstone. No name, no information, just an image attachment. Some weird animal head in a circle or somethin'. All I know, I s-" suddenly he's coughing, talking too fast and inhaling a lungful of residual smoke, "S-Swear, m-man."

"Better hope the police get a sketch, one more specific on the animal, and the /exact/ shape." If he gets the time to tell the story. By the Dark Knight's sudden motions, he means to throw him to his death. In a flurry of leveraged force, the Bat bounces the bodyguard off the wall and flips him out the window, earning a scream before bound legs support him dangling there waiting for the arriving police, as well.

Batman blasts aside the foam into more lingering flames with a small cannister of compressed air. Clearing some off the equipment, he stoops to pry open a server, "Source of the fire? All probably fried." Alas. He doesn't share Cassandra's shock at seeing him here, obviously. "Building this size'll have at least server room or two. I'm going to find where the network traffic comes in." A palmtop computer much like the one given to Ms. Cain is flipped open, the Dark Knight following the power drain, eyes on the walls, floors, ceilings. He works quickly, before the authorities finish closing off the scene and moving in.

Ember sees the guys are handled at this point. She makes sure they are secured but well? She looks at the guy for a moment "What the heck was that?" She's not sure she wants to know but she really wonders at some point once making it secure she needs to go find Pusher, and wonders just what she's doing here. She knows Bats is here to do his thing but Cass is a odd questionf for her. Either way she's going to go find her and see what she can do. She makes sure the hitmen are still secure and then she's on her way.

When the Dark Knight turns his eye to his ward, he'll see a girl much more concerned than she should be at the action he just took; she looks as close to mortified as somebody with dulled emotions could, her mouth faintly open, brow furrowed and eyes rather unnaturally widened. She's frozen for several moments before he turns toward his work, when she draws a quick breath and straightens up, reaching with one hand to push back her messy black bangs. There's little more for her to do, now; so she busies herself with the other man, hauling him from his consciousless pose on the floor to prop him against the interior wall.

Before Ember arrives, Cassandra is up and moving about the room, checking over the fallen desk. A quick rifling turns up a stack of papers - which she's about to bypass, unable to make any sense of what's on them, when a single page is dislodged from what was the output tray on Gibraldi's printer. It flutters to the floor, revealing a stylized wolf's head set against a solid black moon. Her eyes glaze, and she bites on her lip.

Which is when the homo-magus suddenly appears. Cass takes a sudden step back, uttering an uncharacteristic gasp, hands lifting with martial intent before her senses run a double-take. Seeing Ember, she settles, lowering her arms and sparing a fleeting smile for the girl as she steps forward and retrieves the page. She doesn't look further at it, pressing it against her chest as though to keep it hidden. Then she bows her head, slowly, conveying thanks as she keeps her hazel eyes firmly fixed on Ember's green.

Then she does the most surprising thing, for someone who's not heard her speak.

"Cassandra," she offers with halting care. So much for 'Pusher Girl'.

He'll be pliant, glad to help the police. Glad to turn on his corrupt boss. Glad to give all the leverage they need. Perhaps, if he's helpful an frank enough? The Batman will even help him out, down the line. Here, now? The revelations necessary to crack who's equipping assassins with military-grade hardware to hit the white collars in his town need to be unearthed. Fast.

The Dark Knight is gone for several long minutes, locating the servers, breaking into the room without leaving evidence he's done it, and dumping the system's logs and data to a series of small black thumbdrives. There's only so fast these things go. The perimeter around the building is set up, men are already moving into place to retrieve the fellow up near the roof, trying very hard not to wriggle by the time the Batman moves back into the room, scanning from Cassandra to Ember. "We should move. There'll be more answers soon." Gordon's men will do their pass on the evidence while Batman looks for more... then does his own.

Ember looks at Cass grins a little bit and oddly while her gear shows the breach from where she got tagged with the bullet? There's not damage there save some red flesh the sort you see on wound that's almost healed. She grins says, "Good to meet you Cassander and better than the nick name I had for you." She looks a little amused before she takes a glance about. "Hopefully that's everything..."

How does Bats show up like that so far as she knows he's got no 'unatural powers' the level of his skill clearly more than makes up for it. "Understood we shouldn't get in the cops way, also do you know a Officer named Bullock? I dropped some hoods off to him eariler and he seemed to be in an foul mood about my delivery." She notes before she moves to follow.

Giving one's name... it's a risk at any point, but it seemed appropriate here. They've each made a save for one another-- and the other girl seems lost, like she was, and still partly is. Forced to run from something, she thinks, or trying to run /to/ something. It's hard to be entirely sure. There's a well-meaning air to the metahuman that she hopes now won't translate into freely sharing a name given in confidence. Perhaps she can afford one last extension of trust; twice in one week probably won't kill her.

Brushing her thoughts aside, Cassandra offers one last nod to Ember before she slips in beside the Batman, making toward the broken window. A hand slips to her waist, unhooking a grapnel-gun much like the one she's left up on the roof. She purloined a matched pair from the Batcave; because you never know when you'll need to make a second getaway. She's taking aim when Ember addresses her second question, and holds fire for a moment, glancing up toward the Dark Knight. They have to disappear - and go their separate ways, naturally - but she'll wait for his cue before she disappears into the rain-slick night.

The Batman considers Ember for a moment. He still hasn't managed to track down her evil counterpart, and she seems prone to seeking out trouble of other sorts regardless. It's hard to read the stoic chiseled face behind and beneath the cowl, and the Batman offers only a deadpanned, "Ask Detective Bullock about the incident with the school bus." It's probably not a good idea.

There's a nod to Cassandra, and then the Dark Knight is out the window, in freefall; air rushes past his cape, spread in shadowy bat-themed parachute, the dangling men getting an impromptu encore as the Detective descends. His own grapnel doesn't even appear until halfway to the street, used to arc his landing over the police cordon, tumbling back to his feet as the batmobile rolls up purring, the sleek black armored hybrid of a supercar and APC already making way for the Batman via sliding canopy as he tucks away his grapple gun.

2012-02-15 - Ghosts

2012-02-17T07:31:59Z

Poison Dancer: Created page with "{{Logsummary| Title=Ghosts |Summary=Identity shouldn't be a revelation; trust, and friendship, should not be rare commodities in a life. But to a precious few, to the ghosts t..."

{{Logsummary|
Title=Ghosts
|Summary=Identity shouldn't be a revelation; trust, and friendship, should not be rare commodities in a life. But to a precious few, to the ghosts that walk among us, these things can neither be taken for granted nor offered freely. To share these things is to construct a bond of fire-forged steel. And so it begins...
|Who=[[Batman]], [[Cassandra Cain]]
|Date=2012-15-02
|Where=The Batcave
|}}

The heart of the Batcave, arguably, is the array and supercomputer heart of the network. What some call the batcomputer. Near that, however, is a triple-reinforced portal to the hardened command center. It's not a panic room in the traditional sense; if Batman locks himself in here, chances are anyone outside should work on panicking. The three levels have a basic interface with the house's advanced security and a simple set of displays, an escape hatch into the space beneath the main chamber, and of course... three levels of every tool, workstation, gadget, gizmo, and prototype armor component known (and some unknown) to man. Sometimes, the models go missing. Sometimes, Wayne R&D sells them to Batman through another channel. See, for instance, the cabinets full enough throwing weapons and microgrenades to take out three ninja armies. Contingency plan #374, if one must know. They cycle open as the Dark Knight walks down the hardened corridor ahead of Cassandra. His cape and cowl are left behind, the perfect example of the Law of Conservation of Ninjutsu now revealed as not idea, but mere man. Maybe.

"I won't be able to mass produce the cloaking ninja power armor for a decade at best, even if our 'I'm Batman'..." Terry does a great Bruce voice. It seems Bruce already does a great Terry voice. It's just dry enough to be neutral on whether it's mocking or simply illustrating. "friend did muck up the timeline and doom us all to Terminators far too advanced for our day..." He says it with 100%, deadpan seriousness; but Bruce is smirking. It gives it away. "but I get by. Take this." It's a small, palm-sized device. Computer, commlink, media center. "Each device has a nanite RFID code that communicator can read. Codes change regularly, and I'll update your comm personally. We'll start by assessing what you.. think .. you're already proficient in." The Batman smiles slightly at that, turning to toss the commlink to Cassandra.

"One more thing." Before the girl gets to go christmas shopping. Batman's deadly serious, this time, eyes intent on Cassandra as he stoops down to the not-urchin's level once more, "Tonight you were reckless. You've been trained to be reckless, you've been trained to forego a lot of things I believe are indispensible, I suspect. The first is compassion. It's what seperates us from them, it's why we protect. We both understand the horrible violence that snuffing out a life does onto others, often in ways we can never expect. You've seen it in Gotham's streets." The Dark Knight's seen enough to be sure of that. "We have to be uncompromising in making the world... better; but you understand that."

He's rambling. Going on about the crusade. Dick says he does it all the time, all intense and stern - just like he's being now. That he can't shut up about his damn convictions, and how everyone has to yadda yadda. Bruce furrows his brow, "Other people's intentions for you only decide your course if you want them to." He offers simply, instead. A different topic entirely, at a glance. "You don't get to throw your life away if you're going to work with me, though. My training's /too valuable/." It's gruff. Overly warm, too. The point should be clear enough. "The first person you have to get behind 150% here is your own damn self."

The words 'formal education' are bizarre and foreign to Cassandra Cain, much like the array of technological treats she's confronted with in this sanctum-cum-treasure-trove. Anybody else would be staring around wide-eyed, attempting to at least understand the vastness of what they face - and likely failing as a result. She's seen and heard enough already to know that this display, this sprawling collection of wondrous mechanical and electronic artefacts, is an extension of the man who calls himself Batman. It's him she watches, deeply thoughtful since the moment of the reveal, and still lodged partway into her uncertainty.

It was hard not to simply leave; or try to. She'd been lied to. Led into an existence on false terms. From a child's perspective - and emotionally, that's precisely what she is - it was both hurtful and confusing. That it doesn't begin to measure up to the first brutal revelation in her life has been a saving grace, and a guiding light. The oversized garment she's still wearing, clinging to it more than it's clearing to her - like Bruce may have preferred to cling to his cape and cowl - was the gesture that began all this, and ultimately provided the clearing point. The cold, killer's logic she's applied to this whole mess shows her clearly...

The coat is an anomaly. He didn't have to do that. It was an unnecessary kindness.

Which, in fact, makes it a genuine one. An island of truth in the sea of confusion.

She's still watching Bruce's face when he tosses her that unfamiliar device. Without so much as blinking, she lifts a hand to catch it deftly, the natural skill of his throw answered by her own steady arm. It slides naturally and easily into her palm, and only then does she turn her gaze downward. Her brow creases at his explanation, detailing therein things she's never had to understand-- she has an amount of technical aptitude through watching others work, but the term 'nanite RFD code' in particular eludes her. 'Communicator' is a bit clearer, and it's what she focuses on. Ingest now, digest later. True understanding takes time.

It's slipped to her side as she meets his eye, taking in at her periphery the rest of the chamber. She does it without breaking contact or focus. Everything her vision encompasses is taken in and processed; not just the obvious, not the narrow-eyed attention that a normal person might pay. At the word 'reckless' she nods, mouth pulling into a grim line. He's right. She took a big risk, especially in front of somebody like Catwoman. There's no guilt in her expression, but neither is their stubborn pride or headstrong insistence that she was correct in her summation of the situation. After all, if she flawless she wouldn't have taken that bullet.

To illustrate that thought, a hand drifts toward her chest, pressing lightly over her ribcage.

She understands.

Compassion is covered by the same gesture, though her eyes also tell a tale there. She's got the look of one who's seen beyond the veil, that haunted but stony-eyed flicker of one who's watched death come and take a toll; who's been face-to-face and eye-to-eye with the Reaper. Her breathing deepens subtly, too. It still bothers her, that moment, as does the instant in which she saw Red Hood's victim fall...

His final point cuts deepest, however, and she comes within a microsecond of taking a step back. Believing in herself? She believes in what she can do. She knows how dangerous she is. But that's not what he means; there's too much kindness in his voice, in his eyes and even in the body language he hides so well. She's seen people on the street laughing and loving, seen the trust they have in each other - the respect and... the belief. That sort of belief. The reason that people continue to strive, beyond survival.

The thing that makes them people.

Swallowing tight, she suppresses a shiver and nods, drawing a deep, chest-heaving breath. As it releases, she lets the thought settle in her mind, and glances slowly away - to either side, both getting a closer look at and acknowleding the rooms around them. When her gaze comes back to Batman, it's with her head tilted to the side in mute question; though the silence doesn't last long. She has to pause for a moment to frame the words, a tiny croak coming out before she can manage to do for the second time what she's not done in far too long. Because for all the trial that believing in herself is going to be, she wonders...

"And you?" She wonders if /he's/ behind himself. She wonders if it gets any easier.

Sometimes, Batman sees eight moves ahead and every player in the game. More times than he lets on? The Dark Knight only sees one thing: what needs to be done, and where that path diverges ahead of him. It's practically his ingrained instinct, at this point. Of course, many disagree on his definitions, and sometimes the methods. Like tracking an urchin with a gift. Some scream ulterior motives, that this was all part of his plan. In this case there's an element of the ludicrous to it.

Who could have expected the master assassin to be in Gotham on a mission of peace and charity? Certainly not Bruce Wayne; though she did need a coat. Batman... Batman needed to be sure. To keep the girl alive, one way or another, for one thing. It's the whole point of what he says now. "The day I can't rely on myself to give more, is the day I never wear this suit again." He notes with dead certainty and frankness, looking Cassandra evenly in the eye. He doesn't work to conceal, now. That doesn't bring him -much- closer to Bruce Wayne, though. It adds facial expressions, nuances, more than restores them. Bruce Wayne is a laid back playboy philosopher. The Batman is very much not. Not really. For one thing he, too, understands death more intimately than most, despite his abject refusal to deal it.

"You're frustrated enough to take it to the street. You have enough sense to do it well more than half the time, too." High praise, considering the source. "Have courage and hope enough to believe you can actually /win/?" Bruce looks downright wolfish, here. Sure, the war is neverending. Doesn't stop a man from trying to stop it, now does it?

Living on the street, a person understands not who Batman is; but what he means. As a symbol, that suit and the man within hold a potency that Cassandra's unable to communicate through the simple means at her disposal. She'd have to play a strange and elaborate game of charades to describe the terror he inspires. She's seen grown men reduced to sobs by the promise of a visit by the cowled vigilante, heard his name whispered in mixed awe and venemous hatred - the kind that /only/ fear can ignite. She's seen the intoxication of infamy in those she was trained by, and most of all in her father and his closest compatriot.

That Bruce Wayne would gladly give up the cowl if he believed he fell short is testament to his nature. Few men could. Fewer still could carry that weight in the first place, of course, but having tasted it... having been that person. Without preamble she suddenly reaches out, making no apology as she gently runs her fingers across his chest, or rather; over the chest of the suit, over the embossed symbol of his dark office.

She has enough sense to...? Suddenly she draws her hand back as though stung. His wild stare is returned with raised brows and an askance glance of utmost caution, not one of weakness in truth - but one hunter staring at another who has suddenly elevated themselves above that rank. He's brought her in here, spoken of training her, and she's not questioned for what. Rehabilitation? The safety of others? No. Something else.

"Don't even know..." She speaks faster this time, but then loses herself with a frown, as though the effort were tiring her more than any bullet wound could. More than not eating for days, sleeping for hastily grabbed hours between the chaos of the street. There are many kinds of resilience; most take what they have for granted, but what she has is well-earned. What she doesn't, she has never had the opportunity to learn. Abandoning the sentence, she draws herself up, certain now that she owes something. Because they can't continue like this, not if what he's insinuating is true.

So she speaks a word she's not heard for nine long years. It's an important word.

"Cassandra."

Each syllable comes halting, but with a hard determination that carries through to her eyes and to her stance. She can't lead for herself, she can't /be/ herself, if she's not herself. It's important that they both know who they are, and time she admitted it to herself. She's not a thing.

Things have neither courage nor hope. Things don't have names.

He can probably take this as a 'yes'.

Batman inspires fear into the hearts of those who have reason to be afraid. At least, that's what the Dark Knight likes to tell himself. Usually, it's fairly true. "Cassandra." He echoes it, "Bruce." It's simple, frank. He gestures to himself, mimicing the motions her introduction held, the determined set to eye and jaw. He agrees fully. "If I'm not mistaken, they told you you could use fear to mete out judgement, to find mastery over your fellow men. That by mastering your fear and understanding it in others, there would be no prey that could elude you, no trap you could not foresee, no death you could not escape. The only price of this supposed immortality was obedience to a merciless overlord that believed not in salvation but damning the whole of humanity to the pit."

The voice is dark, deep. Ominous. The Bat's own spine likely chills as he intones, "Ra's al Ghul."

"No saviour, but a madman. We both learned it. It takes people -better- than the ones /he/ wants to stop him, Cassandra. Alienated by unwelcome foresight, indeed." The reference is likely lost on the honed blade, but Bruce's sentiment is clear enough where the League is concerned. Where the entire /Society/ is concerned.

"They're not immune to fear."

It's actually liberating, to hear her summation was correct. One thing to live as a calculating weapon, making judgements you are programmed to make, but quite another to have your prepossessing wit and careful analyses verified by another. If nothing else, to actually communicate beyond the simplest of gestures; and beyond fist and foot, is perhaps the greatest gift she has been given this past week and a half. Even including the oversized and very expensive coat.

A smile is almost on her lips, a faint quirk at one edge expressing genuine pleasure for one of the first and only times she can remember feeling it. A purpose, a name, and the right to choose. What more could a budding human being ask for? That the blissful moment is short-lived brings her back to a reality she's yet to fully leave, and it does so in fair dramatic fashion. She can see Bruce's misgivings before he voices that unique moniker, feel what he feels before he'd expect her to echo anything. It builds to a quick crescendo.

Breath leaves her nose in a hard, fierce snort. Her brow furrows deep.

"Fear," she echoes after a moment, with absolute certainty in her tone, "Weapon." She's studying Batman with a closeness mirroring earlier analysis of his form now - it's almost as though they've first met all over again, though there's a further gleam of understanding in her eyes. One that becomes apparent as to its source when she suddenly sinks her posture, dropping halfway into a horse-stance, solid and unyielding in her root. Her hands hover close around her torso, palms out to form about the rip of a rounded pyramid.

It's a drill from teachings they've both had; one of the first, most basic and most fundamental.

The goal - to penetrate the guard around the torso, to get between the guarding palms from a fixed stance.

But she's not so much inviting him to 'play' as confirming what she's suspected for some time.

She completes the trifecta, the formula that frames her question. Fear... weapon... "Bruce."

She doesn't do anything halfway. Or 3/4 of the way. That Rule is likely to be rather easy for Cassandra Cain. Bruce sees that right away. The ease and urgency of motion, the discipline already drilled into her skull. Getting her to find and address the parts of that conditioning that lessen her.. that may be the real challenge. There's a vague sort of smile on his face as he considers her stance easily, too easily, thoughtful. Isn't that challenge the same for all of us? Bruce rises, too gracefully. The larger man doesn't approach, not at first, he considers his quarry. His stance is almost relaxed, but not. Weight back slightly. Body ready to move everywhere at once. It's easy to imagine the analytical ready posture cloaked by a cape, even more unreadable and unnerving.

"They drill so hard, so uniformly, to condition thought and obedience." Batman observes quietly, all but unmoving, shifting and breathing and studying Cassandra's own stance a moment. "The kind of people Ra's seeks excel under stress, and in creating the ideas and actions that can shape the future.. for good or ill. To bend them to his own sick vision is perverse, all but unforgiveable." Yes, that would include Ms. Cain. Perhaps Bruce himself, at one time. "Did you know al Ghul is centuries old?"

It's stunning news, in most circles. The implications of the Lazarus Pits, of the state of Ra's al Ghul's demented will and ego... and the level of skill and experience the Demon's Head wields. Cassandra should know. "/Too/ much time." Bruce is in motion in the moment of surprise, layering surprise atop it. He takes his position, though not so much in the normal, drill-instructed place, so much as /right in Cassandra's grill/, stepping up to the girl's guard with a nigh-instant aplomb that borders on a strike itself, the Detective all but appearing on her flank.

Bruce's ice blue eyes look down to the waiflike master. His dark brows arch. His right fist lurches in, with pinpoint, perfect precision for the 'target'. There's alarming force applied in that half-inch of sheer acceleration, incredible force in the powering limb. For that scant space. It deccelerates just as quickly into - if not utterly through - Cassandra's guard, as Bruce shifts his own weight into that space. That kind of speed, that kind of precision and conservation of movement, there are scarce few humans on the planet who can begin to compare to it.

One of them is the one who taught Bruce Wayne how to do it. The solo killer perhaps more frightening than the League's entire roster. The master of assassins known as Lady Shiva. It's only fair that the Detective pass it on to her unknowing heir. "We will encircle our enemies by knowing them better than they know themselves, by turning their fear back on the terrorists that spread it. We will be invincible by being imperceptible in our means and motivations from moment to moment." It's not really a new mantra. As old as war itself; but war? War never changes.

As her unknown mother's former pupil approaches, Cassandra's expression is frank in its illegibility. She cannot be read facially; because she IS the stance, she is the drill. Even reunited with her name, the simple facts of her training do not change - when thus focused she's a weapon, as she was in the museum, and when having her wound cleaned and tended. With the fires of her martial will lit, she's a living flame. A thing that burns until utterly, forcibly snuffed. It's dangerous; it's self-consuming.

And she's lived with it for the full sum of her life, never knowing anything more until now.

So intent is she, that the revelation of her intended master's lifespan barely forces a blink from those hardened hazel eyes. Her brows flutter briefly against the messy overhang of her dark fringe, but that's it. At least to those of ordinary sight - Bruce, Batman, will see that she needs to retighten her stance, the tiny motions of stablising muscles twitching within her otherwise flawless frame. No, she didn't know. There's a lot of things she doesn't seem to know; it's a sign of how young she must have been, when she ran.

'Yes', her lips phrase without sound. It is too much time. Too much pain. Too many lives.

And then he /moves/. Her response is precisely as quick, her upper body twisting in a smooth movement from the centre; qua opening and closing alternately to shift the guard, to keep her torso covered. Her palms caress the imagined pyramid, tilting subtly to the incoming fist, reading it flawlessly it seems-- until the last, when she draws a sharp breath. Yes; she merely thinks it that time, as he penetrates, as his forthright blow scrapes through the small pace between her hands. She almost stops him, a struggle ensuing over the space of a quarter-second, but the pressure is perfect; she could only resist by breaking stance. There's no time.

The strike may not land, but she can imagine the pain. More: she can see it, and feel it through the seeing. She shows it with a faint narrowing of her eyes, confidence shining within. Pain is something a person submits to; and she would not have let herself be ruled, by it or by anyone. Gently she relaxes, slipping her fingertips to Bruce's wrist and guiding it away with an undemanding shove. A beat later her right fist meets the open left, calloused knuckle meeting calloused palm with level grace. She inclines her head. It's not submissive - it's respectful, no bend of back or knee to profess anything more than that. He's been named, and she has given hers in turn; by origin they're the same. In this circle at least, they are peers.

She straightens before responding to his words, tasting them first, rolling them about in her brain. He can see the gears grinding as she carefully assimilates, neither rushing nor presuming at any point. Her own words are too precious to be thrown away citing understanding she does not have. And then, finally...

"Yes," this time she does say it, a smile quirking her lips, two raised fingertips pointing between she and the Batman, "Ghosts." It echoes on so many levels; what they are, what they intend to be. And it comes, too, from the past. Her father's first lesson was thus: 'trust is a ghost'. Here and now, she has found trust.

And trust - like death, and like fear - flies on black wings.

It's a strike that simultaneously is more and less deadly than the majority of its contemporaries. Almost a paradox, really. Something that works because of its eccentricities. "Ghosts." The Dark Knight agrees, offering out a clasping hand to Cassandra's, that of comrades. There's no pretense of it being a game, no illusions between warriors. It's deadly serious, they have to be better than unstoppable to survive. "But first, soup." He starts back up out of the vault, where Cassandra will spend some time in the next hours and days assembling and familiarizing herself with a utility belt and suit's worth of accessories. For now, Alfred made gazpacho.

2012-02-08T06:15:31Z

Poison Dancer: moved 2012-02-06 - No Joke to 2012-02-07 - No Joke: i r stupid

#REDIRECT [[2012-02-07 - No Joke]]

2012-02-07 - No Joke

2012-02-08T05:57:27Z

Poison Dancer:

2012-02-07 - No Joke

2012-02-08T05:52:55Z

Poison Dancer: Created page with "{{Logsummary| Title=No Joke |Summary=An Irishman, an American and a Tibetan walk into an alleyway... No, that's not it. What did the mute vagrant say to the flying pyromancer?..."

{{Logsummary|
Title=No Joke
|Summary=An Irishman, an American and a Tibetan walk into an alleyway... No, that's not it. What did the mute vagrant say to the flying pyromancer? Nope. What do you get when you cross a clown with a bat? Oh, never mind. Nobody's sure of the punchline anyway. This just keeps getting more complicated!
|Who=[[Batman]], [[Cassandra Cain]], [[Ember]], [[The Joker]]
|Date=2012-07-02
|Where=Gotham City - Upper West Side
|}}

The air is crisp in Gotham tonight, darkened clouds nestling low against the skyline, a slow, cool wind gently buffeting the streets. All but the most resilient are decked out in heavy coats against the chill, though it's not so frozen that mittens and bobble-hats are on prominent display. In this part of town it's unlikely most people even own such things; this is not a wealthy area, but one packed with those simply trying to survive within whatever small niche they've managed to carve...

From the air, Cassandra Cain is just another of these unfortunate dots, moving about the cold in a large coat of her own. Suspiciously new, and expensive, it's rather too long for the dimunitive girl, dragging slightly on the paving-stones behind. As she wanders down an alley between two busy streets, a couple of youths perched atop a nearby set of cellar steps glance at her with some envy. Her dark eyes slide sidewards to match their gaze, a certain tension slipping momentarily into her frame as she pauses to meet them levelly across the filthy street.

The teenage runaway certainly doesn't seem scared, standing mute and solid within the warm confines of her garment as the two boys grin to one another and rise to their feet. Her impassive eyes watch both of them at once, partly shaded beneath the tangled ebon mess of her hair. Her stance spreads faintly, the motion, hidden beneath the coat's hem, as the rough youths begin to circle her.

It's just the sort of time a hero normally turns up, isn't it?

Ember was in a strange world but had lucked out who'd she run into. Ember had been given help by the league and protection. There had been one thing she wanted to do, go for a flight for the first time in her life, and not worry about trouble too much. She'd taken a league tracking device with her so they know where she is. She's not that foolish but she's just been flying along, goggles down and going for a heck of a joy ride. Not putting anyone at trisk however she's distracted at the city. There's a seagull she doesn't see and WHAM. She slams right into the bird, she loses her focus and is going down and going down somewhat hard. She's going down trying to regain focus and she's heading for an alley way. It seems her father's saying about Seagulls being evil is still true in this universe. This is somewhat oddly comforting but she's going down hard and well one of the two teenager is going to find her just slamming into him like a bullet, at least he broke her fall, She bounces once or twice and skids to a halt on the ground leaving the teenager knocked the hell out.

It may be Ember's first week in a brave new world, but if you ask Cass, it doesn't get a great deal easier with time. Whether the problem is an evil seagull or an ill-omened albatross, life is a struggle when it's not outright painful... though today, of all days, she'd be most likely to add that it's not all bad. Once in a very great while - every decade or so - something can come along that makes it a little better.

Unfortunately, this thought is far from her mind in the instant before the homo-magus comes crashing to earth. Cassandra isn't frightened, stressed, or even resolved; she's simply resigned, preparing to defend herself as best she can, causing as little pain as possible for these two boys whose lives have likely been no better than hers. If she hadn't been doing this so long, she'd feel a touch of sadness as she half-turns in preparation for the impending acceleration of the smaller, rangier of the pair. Her mouth opens a little as she draws in a breath, body relaxing, attention focusing until the entire world seems to slow.

And then it happens.
The crash. The thump.

A cry of pain assaulting the crisp, quiet air.

Cassie reacts swiftly to the falling blur, hopping backward about a foot, her sneakers creaking against the floor as she flips into a cat stance beneath her encompassing garb. Her assailant is rather less graceful and alert, his impending charge becoming a stumble, and then he's falling, throwing out a hand...

The raven-haired runaway is there before he can tear open the tender flesh of his palm, catching him upon her surprisingly solid shoulder, one arm around him as the other clasps his wrist. He's startled, believing Ember to be some kind of terrible airborne superhuman assault; the kind he's read about in the news, heard about on televisions mounted in shop windows. As the girl he was moments from attacking sets him down, he is already set on making a getaway, only stopping when she catches his eye and gives a single shake of her head.

'No'. She doesn't say it, not out loud. Her eyes say it for her.

Giving no further reassurance - she's compassionate, but not a saint. He WAS about to attack her. - the dimunitive girl rises and moves across to the tangled heap of Ember and her unwitting prey. For his part, he's throwing his arms about and trying to get free, struggling to escape whatever imagined fate he thinks he's met. Cassandra sweeps him over, seems to immediately realize he's not any more hurt than his cowardly partner-in-crime, and then... she smiles. It's furtive, but it's the closest equivalent she has to a jovial grin, an actual hint of friendly humour sparking her dark eyes as they settle on Ember. A hand is stretched out, her calloused grip easily strong enough to help the other girl up.

Ember isn't quite sure what happened, she crashed slamemd into someone and isn't fully aware of just what happened yet. Still she's alive whatever she hit is alive. Also she's on top of the tangled. She's dazed and trying to get up, she's kinda strange blue hair, a blue jagged line of a tattoo on one side of her face. She does get up however, with the hand offered by Cass. "Thanks, I need to watch where I was flying." She's looking embrassed but well the girl's offered her a hand up.

"So just what happened here?" She looks down at the teenager who was her landing pad.

Cassandra watches from beneath her messy bangs, considering Ember as the other girl considers her. It's an odd stare, at once distant and piercing, intelligent yet curiously empty. If not for the faint twinkle added by the rare smile she's giving the fallen homo-magus, the coat-covered drifter would seem almost inhuman. It doesn't help that she says absolutely nothing, her mouth not even opening as though she means to.

Instead, she nods. Once at Ember, that tiny smile intact, and then twice again; this time her mouth pulling to a taut line, all solemn and serious as she mutely acknowledges both boys in turn. The one struggling upon the ground kicks himself backward through the dirt of the alley until he has his back to the wall, the other scrabbling across to join him before they begin hurriedly conversing.

"What's that girl's problem, man?"
"Are you kidding? It's not the little girl I'm worried about! It's Supergirl, there!"
"That ain't Supergirl, man... I think she's blonde..."
"So what is she? Bluegirl? Opposite Girl?"
"That's not funny! Let's get out of here!"

They continue bickering as Cass turns back to Ember, shrugging her shoulders and lifting a sleeve-wrapped arm. The coat's far too big for her, falling away from her hand as she shakes it out in order to jerk a thumb back at herself - indicating some relationship between the boys and she. It's not that obvious what she means. She shrugs again, though, and then tilts her hand upward, pointing at the sky. An eyebrow raises in query.

This meaning's a bit clearer: 'How about you?'

A lot of people will tell you that the stealthiest place to be is always the darkest, the most concealed. A lot of people are morons. At night, one of the finest hiding places is directly -behind- or -beyond- the brightest sources of light in the vicinity. In this case, that's the lights on either end of the alley, directed out onto the street, and the sconces half-illuminating the alleyway itself. For one thing, not too many people look up and into the light for long; for another, once their eyes adjust to the dark, it's one step shy of impossible to make out anything meaningful if one -does-.

Along the ledges of the buildings, Cassandra is shadowed. Professionally. Perfectly. Without a rustle, almost without disrupting the /wind/. There is no air of hostility to trip instinct and empathy, his mind is clear, alert. His step perfect, patient, unbelievably agile for a man his size.

The Dark Knight is ninja; his kung-fu is strong.

Bluegirl? Bluegirl, tis a silly name. She does push her goggles up out of her eyes. She's thankful and realises hte other one isn't talkng but that's fine. Some people don't have much to say. She looks at the pair for a moment, they seem all right. She then gets somewhat of an idea Cass isn't with them. She's giving them a look and she says, "Just what /were/ you two doing? If you were troubleing this young lady. Well i might have to do something about that. I'm certain your getting on your way to other business." She'll give them a chance to clear out. She looks to her "I'll live, I should have watched where I was flying, I hit a seagull." She's unaware of Bat's being about but she is certain he might be about. This is his city after all.

A faint whistle starts to fill the alleyway as the /other/ most notorious being in all of Gotham starts to walk down it, taking casual notice of the girl on mugger on girl action. If ol' Batsy were anywhere around, the caped crusader just might find a way to make this The Joker's fault! (Even though somehow it generally is.) In his hands is a seemingly harmless bag that is apparently filled with groceries. (Good luck trying to bust him for that Batsy).

Of course, in all pretenses of innocence, the bag is dropped as the Clown Prince of Crime suddenly prances towards the girls and the would-be mugger. "Oh goody! Just what I love to see! The people of this city taking the law into their own hands! Then again.. there does seem to be a LOT of that lately..." A casual stroke of the chin leaves the casual observer wondering just what might be running through the most insane individual Gotham has ever seen's head.

"You know.. You girls look like you could use some help.."

It would almost seem like the right thing to do, if it weren't for that damned grin that grows across The Joker's face.

One might start to get worried at this point.

"Besides, blue isn't even the opposite of blonde, you moron."
"My fist'll be the opposite of your face in a minute!"

It might be worth noting at this point that the thicker and slightly older of the belligerent youths has a heavy Irish brogue. It's not uncommon in this part of town, but it does go some way to explaining why he's so willing to get in a fight at the tiniest provocation. He's probably drunk, too, but who's counting? That part will probably get censored when this episode is shown on Saturday morning.

As they're spoken to sternly by the fallen super-mage, the pair stop their squabbling and turn to her as one, the immigrant with his fist still raised and open mouth pulling to a sneer. Cassandra takes a sudden step forward, drawing level with Ember and turning with smooth, slick grace. It's a simple motion, but forceful in a particularly polite way, her arm lifting to bisect the other girl and her two assailants. It does nothing to calm the latter, but Cassie seems to really not want any help, her gaze meeting the blue-haired young woman's with a hardness somewhere between warning and commanding.

Her mouth DOES open then, in tandem with the next sequence of events; the sudden standing of both boys, and the arrival of the Joker, swinging his shopping bag all bold as brass. That facepaint, that hair, that /suit/ - it's all so horrifically recognizable to anyone who's spent time in Gotham. Let alone grown up here. Scampering feet are all Cassie needs to hear to take her attention away from her would-be molesters.

Now she has a new concern. After taking a quick glance upward to check for falling feathered corpses - stranger things have happened, and all in all she feels a bit bad for the poor seagull - she's all business, using her outstretched arm to keep Ember back as she seeks to take up space between she and the Joker. But she doesn't take a stance, or otherwise appear threatening...

Quite the opposite. Cassie's arms fall to her sides, her body language actually making her seem intimidated as she glances shyly at the Prince of Crime, shaking her head back and forth. Help? She seems to think she doesn't even deserve it. And she can't possibly be hoping he doesn't notice her newfound acquaintance is a fish out of water who might be easy victim for something cruel and unusual. She's just a poor little vagrant.

/Joker/. The Dark Knight's teeth grit, his muscles tense, and every instinct says to drop out of the sky and just snap the Clown Prince of Crime's neck right then and there; ... but that's always the initial rush of sensation. This isn't about emotion, it can't be about that. The Dark Knight waits. To stop the Joker before he even begins to act would give away his interest in one or both of the girls, potentially. Leaving a far greater threat for the future.

Instead, the Caped Crusader lurks directly above, instants away, his hand lingering in his utility belt as he observes, and waits, and improvs a bit of brooding time. /Not good/. Of more positive interest is the way Cassandra insightfully positions herself between the Joker and Ember, and.. /fakes/ being afraid? The eyeslits of Batman's cowl narrow, as he focuses in. Is he reading her right? He has to be. She reminds him of one of his own teachers, so disarming and so natural in every motion, deceptively deadly at every instant.

Ember pauses for a moment as the clown prince of crime arrives she pauses looks like she knows him. she's not caught up on the whose who list. At least not yet and she's about to. She looks peering at him. "Jester?? What's up with the new outfit?" She's got no idea to panic yet. Then she sees Cass freaking out, about this man's arrival. She's confused why is she so worried about Jester? She seems to be quite confused. Still unaware of Batman.

"Well don't worry about us we're all right." She tilts head heaed but she's becomming a little concerned...

The lack of a Bat so far leaves The Joker a bit interested, especially since one of the girls decided to try and act as a meatshield, albeit covertly. Then the other girl has to go and call him a Jester?! This causes the Joker to frown. Immensely. Which he does not like.

"Jester... Why I aughta... No, I promised myself today I'd not kill someone for calling me something like that.. Then again promises are so easy to break..."

There seems to be a moment where he seriously considers this fact, only to start grinning once more, as if this never even occured.

"You know girls, these alleys are pretty dangerous, especially to kids. But your dear ol' Uncle Jay might have something to make it a bit better! They say giving is always better then receiving, and no one can't say I'm not a real giver." A loud laugh suddenly escapes the clown's mouth, especially as he spins in the tip of his feet back towards his fallen grocery bag.

"Now let's see what I have in this bag.." The Joker's right hand plunges into the unsuspecting bag of 'groceries', pulling out extremely mundane things like apples, bananas, tomatos, a loaf of bread, a crowbar with a red and green bow on it, with a very heartwarming card attached, some eggs, and two cans of soda that for some reason rumble violently every so often.

A slight frown appears on his face as he doesn't seem to find what exactly he's looking for.

"Oh poo. I must have grabbed the wrong bag by mistake. I could have sworn I had a few grenades or something in here..."

A look of mild surprise suddenly appears on the clown's face, only for him to frown. "Oh. Right. I gave them to this nice old lady... I hope she doesn't try to pull the stem.."

Jester? It's not a name that Cassandra recognises, but she's a seventeen-year old drifter who spent eight years in complete seclusion from the world. There are a lot of things she doesn't know. A frown appears on her own brow, however, before she can stop it; though under the circumstance it just makes her look confused and petulant rather than cautiously concerned. She's a good actor. She's had to be.

With the Joker's attention diverted by his own breed of dangerous tomfoolery, she is a little more free to watch him with a discerning gaze, head tipping a bit lower to cover her eyes with raven tangles as she sizes him up. There's nothing about him that says she should relax, no sign that everything's going to be okay. And that crowbar, those cans-- she silently draws in a breath, sharp night air searing her nostrils.

Much more visibly, she shivers, huddling more deeply into her suspiciously expensive coat. Playing at nerves, she tosses out a scared, wet smile to the Joker as she reaches backward, groping for Ember's hand. Or at least, she looks like she's groping - so long as the other girl doesn't outright avoid her grip, she'll get it easily enough. And then she tugs gently, with the insistence of a younger sister, bobbing her head to the Crown Prince of Crime as she seeks to steer Ember away to the cellar steps recently abandoned by the two fled youths.

Just the kind of place two runaways would be looking for, to spend a night on the cold streets.

There are several hundred appealing ways in which to snap this or that important part of the Joker, the little voice in the back of Batman's mind reminds him. He's almost within reach. A discerning eye takes in every object that the Clown Prince of Crime draws out. An alert eye... and then some. His cowl cycles through every detection spectrum available to him, examining the cans, examining the Joker, looking for what's hidden, and what may be an imminent threat.

... the Dark Knight doesn't immediately find one, it's almost worse that way. Again, the glass is half full thanks to Cassandra thinking quickly... moving to shut up her new friend and get them both out of the line of fire, let the Joker move on to more interesting prey. At least, if that's the way the clown's psychosis sways tonight. The Caped Crusader remains poised, ready. Hidden just above the ledge, stealthily mirroring the Joker's position.

The raction the clown prince of crime has to her words. She now seems to be getting concerned. She realises okay this man has only the look in common with the Jester she knows of. Also less fashion sense. She looks at the stuff in the bag, she now frowns a little bit. She looks horrifed at what Joker's said she may be about to do something very dumb. She doesn't know how the Joker's wired but is he feeding her a line or did he really give an old woman a grenade disgused as food. She shoot a look to Cass and she starts to take focus, there's a faint black arua about her fists now as she's tugged. She realises Cass is someone caught up in this and gets the idea it's time to pull out. She doesn't know what the this guy could do. If she was on her own she's be far more likely to confront them. Right now Cass needs to get out of harms way. She doesn't need to be pulled along too hard she's moving along following the other getting the message. Cass wants to get out of here, and she's not going to slow that down.

A slight frown once more appears on Joker's face as the girl in the very big coat goes to pull the girl with blue hair away. This doesn't bode well. I mean, girls with that color of hair or wearing that kind of clothing is generally up to no good themselves, and yet here they are, trying to run away from the king of mischief. It's almost heart breaking in a way. Of course, he doesn't notice any of this because there are more important things at hand. Like finding out where the heck he put that shotgun. That is a bit important if one truly thinks about that.

"Now its around here somewhere..." One of the cans of soda is idly tossed over The Joker's shoulder, slamming into the ground...

A violent spray of carbonated beverage and aluminum shrapnel suddenly flies forward, leaving some poor guy's car just outside the alley with two flat tires and a broken window.

"...Whoops! I hope he has good insurance.. I'd hate to leave him in another sticky situation.."

Once more a loud laugh escapes the Clown's mouth, only for him to reach into his overcoat. "Normally, I don't believe in arming minors.. but these streets are just so dangerous. You never know what sort of madman is going to pop up.." An extremely long barreled revolver is retrieved, as the madman's grin grows to epic proportions.

Cassie fights the urge to quicken her step as she feels that energy manifest around Ember's hand, and by extension her own. Almost eerily calm, she glances sidelong - and just a bit upwards - at the other girl, the side of her mouth not facing the Joker quirking upward as if to say, 'Trust me.'

When that can goes off, the hairs at the nape of her neck stand on high, her shoulders rolling beneath the coat as they tense and relax in rapid succession. The Joker is a maniac; she knows that much, she's heard the whispers and even glimpsed what seemed to be some of his thugs at work. Few ever pay much attention to the ragged brat lurking in the shadows, or even notice her enough to make the choice... she's seen things. She's seen enough.

She reaches the steps in time for the Joker's terrifying laugh, and as the revolver emerges she's forced to move more quickly. There's a point where 'calm' just doesn't cut it, and suddenly she's /yanking/ on Ember's arm with enough force to move a small mountain, her hips rolling and shoulder tucking inward as she seeks - with a mentally uttered apology - to plow the metahuman down the steps and into the door at the bottom. It's unlocked, she thinks; at least the padlock is hanging limply. A collision of a hundred and twenty pounds, plus, should serve to blow the sub-basement wide open, and get the fallen superheroine inside.

Of course, she doesn't know what Ember's capable of; but she's damn quick, and ridiculously strong for her size. If the other girl breaks free before she can complete the throw, Cassie will be as surprised as anyone. And a good deal more worried. If all goes to plan, she sinks down herself at the top of the steps, watching Joker with wary dark eyes and controlling her breathing. She might have to move-- fast!

Okay a gun? This has got more serious, far more serious. The energy is more of a reflex, it's not hurting anything doesn't seem to be some sort of an attack. However she's not going to fight this stranger seems intent to help her and she's not going to argue. She's not even going to sass, you don't sass the crazy man who surives Batman. She's not that good hand to hand, she's plowed quite easily with a suoprised cry. The energy field did fade out and reformed part way down. She boucnes through the door and inside.

Oh, what a predicament. To intercede plays his hand, potentially invites more Joker attention to the young women, and prevents him from figuring out what the Clown Prince of Crime is up to. That, and he could easily escalate the situation quickly, just because it's always more fun to cause mayhem when the Dark Knight is around, according to the Joker.

Cassandra makes the decision easier, taking ready cover for the both of them. Enough risk is enough, though; tracking the Joker back to his hideout, and taking the whole crew into custody is a nice hat trick, but keeping the clown off the streets is nice on its own. He drops from the building above almost silently, coming to rest with a flourish behind the Joker, away from the girls, looming with his arms hidden in his cape, which along with cowl is about all one can readily discern of the shadowy figure. That, and his frown. "/Joker/." That's all there is, that, and about four strikes.

Chest, kidney, knee, and ankle. The first is a lunging elbow, the second a swift, low uppercut; the third comes from the rise and -abrupt- fall of his booted foot, looking to reverse the bend of the clown's leg, a strike that seems to come in tandem with the two from his upper limbs; then he drops low, looking to take the white-faced maniac right off his feet, harshly. It all happens as one continuous motion, with Batman's momentum and center in perfect step to flow from one to the next in the blink of an eye, all while his own stance is compact, mutable. Cassandra would recognize it as highly defensive, and adaptable, to say the least. A mingling of a myriad of styles into one nigh-perfect whole, western and eastern meeting in devastating tandem.

Batman would call it the best way to get the Joker's attention.

"HEY! WAI--" The words are cut short as his name is called out in that ever familiar growling banter. "Oh Batsy! I was wondering when you would sh--"

Four solid blows bring the Clown down to the ground, leaving him dazed and confused for the briefest of moments. Of course, if there is one being on the face of this planet that is use to Bat-Beatings (TM), it is The Joker. Of course, it truly only was a matter of time before the Dark Nugget showed up to plant a boot in his face.

"Aww.. Batsy.. That wasn't very nice! All I was doing was helping those poor girls..." He sits up slightly, glancing around only to frown slightly, hand grasping for that beautiful crowbar.. (Is that bloodstains on it..?)

"WELL, while you're here.. I got your young friend a present, I mean, you are all about passing the torch.. so to speak, right?"

A faint laugh eminates from The Joker's mouth, only to be cut off as he starts wincing. "I think you bruised a rib or five this time!"

"I mean.. I was just here minding my own business.. Doing my grocery shopping, and you just drop in and assault me. I'm going to press charges. Tell me your address so I can send you the papers."

As if Cassie's combat maneuver wasn't warning enough to the wild Clown Prince, the splintering protest of the somewhat flimsy door is preceded by the heavy metallic ring of a steel padlock striking hard concrete. Virtually any girl her age would at least flinch, but the raven-haired runaway seemed utterly prepared for it. The way she crouches, enveloped in that coat, brooding but alert... well. If the Joker weren't immediately distracted by something a good deal more threatening than she, it would form a bizarrely familiar vision.

Which is precisely what Batman provides for her. His initial apparition actually brooks a reaction, her forehead creasing and eyes narrowing as she coils taut against the unyielding step. Ready or not, trained or not, the Batman is a predator-- the natural reaction to such is fear, and a desire for safety. Nature is a difficult thing to overcome entirely. Cassandra has made great strides, there, her gaze settling quickly to track the man's movements rather than the man himself. She looks past the cloak and the darkness.

What she sees, tips her head to one side, the angle giving her the air of a wary predator herself.

Her stare slips to the side, seeking Ember in the basement. Hopefully she's still visible.

A hand lifts, staying her with an open palm, and a nod that Cass hopes will be reassuring. It's as close as she can come right now to offering an apology, and telling her that everything will be alright. Even if she's not fully sure it WILL. But this dark interloper, he's helping her. He's helping them. And there's something she has to find out.

As quickly as she turned her attention away, it's back-- and faster still, is the way the girl /moves/. One instant she's perched upon the step, the next a hand brushes the floor and she's sliding across the alley in quick, low steps, twisting at the hip as she speedily nears the fighting men. From beneath the hem of her oversized coat, a sneaker slides out, clamping down with deceptive weight over a length of dull iron. The Joker's crowbar, caught beneath her full body-weight as she sinks into something approximately a horse stance, tense but springy; powerful without being entirely divorced from the possibility of motion.

Hazel eyes, averted from the blinding light at the alley's head, seek that cowled face now scant feet away.

Wait? No, that doesn't seem to be on the agenda. "You killed three guards escaping." He'd go into their families, but that would just please his quarry. No, the Dark Knight instead is down on Joker in a flash, even as the clown reaches for the crowbar. Even as Cassandra interjects herself to keep him from being able to pick it up. Even as she subtly spurs a change in the Bat's stance, no longer preparing to disarm the Joker and restrain him as he swings the crowbar in. Yes, even in this hectic situation, he's living in a moment that spans about eight moves at a time, apparently on muscle memory and reflex alone.

The new course aims to haul the Clown Prince of Crime up by his fine threads, wrap a gauntlet around his neck, and slam him back into the nearest wall. Batman would then step in, using his elbows and side to pin the Joker's own arms. He has little time for blank, white cowlslits to meet Cassandra's gaze, as they are locked on the Joker's. The Dark Knight's jaw clenched, tight, angry. Press charges? "Add them to the /list/." He growls. Lawful Good, the Batman is -not-. He doesn't even engage the clown on the implied murder weapon, doesn't even flinch. He -does- sound extra pissed, though, doesn't he? "Get /clear/." He doesn't look back to Cassandra, but he's probably not talking to the Joker. It's just that he has to let loose a minute if he's going to further unbalance his quarry by dropping him to the street /again/, ideally buying a moment to recover restraints from his belt, which the unattentive eye would note just kind of appear in his gloved hand like a stage magician's wand.

Loud coughing escapes the Joker's mouth as The Batman slams him into the wall, only to drop him. Three guards? Thats it this time? He could have swore there were more of them. Then again, the number of bodies one is responsible for ending up in Gotham Morgue does get blurred after a while.

Of course what is shocking is that the fact that The Joker isn't even resisting. He holds his hands out, lowering his head as if he's been beaten. "This is the LAST time I ever go grocery shopping. I mean, you come across two kids being attacked and try to do the right thing.. and out comes The Bat, to rough you up.."

Ember has been thrown down the stairs bounced through the door and come to a halt finally. Wait what did that girl throw her down there. She was suposed to protect her. She starts to get up, She's a little off balanced and the energy fields gone again. She dosn't call out however as she starts to stalk back up. She can't leave the other girl out there and she doesn't know Bats has dropped in just yet.

The League's errant prodigy wasn't looking for absolution or acknowledgement; and what her upturned gaze observes is enough for what she was. Her posture relaxes from the urgency of impending immediacy as the formidable Bat seizes control of his eternal quarry. She bends forward, deft fingers darting from coat-sleeves to pluck up the crowbar, and with her subsequent rise to full, unimpressive height she flicks it toward the shadowy gutter to one side of the alley. It bounces and rolls noisily before coming to a stop.

A contrast to the mute girl, who responds to the vigilante's brusque command with a solemn nod. Not taking her eyes from he or the pinned Joker for so much as an instant, she slips back toward Ember, meeting the other girl as she reaches the head of the stair. Cassie doesn't smile any more - though neither is there a hint of hostility in her gaze, as she silently greets the homo-magus with a twitch of her head toward Batman.

'He's got this,' she'd say if she could - would - speak. Inhaling then, she releases a breath before lifting a hand in what appears to be a wave. Any suspicion is confirmed as she takes a step toward the alley's mouth, placing herself with a view of both Ember AND the entangled pair of man-monsters. Quizzically she turns her hand up, pointing at the sky for the second time in this unorthodox meeting. There's nothing commanding about it. She's asking. 'Are you okay to fly?'

The Dark Knight accepts Joker's outstretched hands in surrender. At least, for as long as it takes to grip one wrist, twist the clown around the other way, and bind it to its partner /behind/ his back instead. Sirens fill the street at both ends of the alleyway at about this time, as if /someone/ tipped them off before the encounter ever took place. They come in force for the Joker, easily six or seven cars that waited for /ample/ backup before closing in. Gotham PD isn't stupid or inept, now that they aren't completely laced with the corrupt and stupid.

The Batman guides the Joker, rather roughly, towards the mouth of the alleyway, shoving him clear with enough force to potentially take him off his feet /AGAIN/, for easy pickup. Then he turns towards the two women, nodding once and extending a hand that extends smoothly skyward, holding a grapple gun. He doesn't seem to be planning to give a statement for the police, just their fugitive. ... not that he's likely to leave the convoy behind on its way back to Arkham, either. His free hand, less obviously, lurks within the borders of his cape, punching out an intricate code on a series of buttons revealed near the buckle of his belt.

The Dark Knight simply nods to Ember, showing no recognition despite the fact that he -must- recognize her. He doesn't greet, or engage in any sort of conversation beyond a similar, acknowledging glance to Cassandra, accompanied by a simple, deeply intoned utterance. "Nice coat." It sounds as the grapple line fires skyward with a hiss and a rush of reinforced fiber, sounding a distant clank as the ultramodern hook sinks into Gotham stone. Then the Dark Knight does fly, smoothly up into the sky, using the momentum of the ascent to leap to the rooftop like it was second nature. The attentive ear would hear, disguised in the intermittent gusts of wind, a quiet but intense hum of... turbines? There's /nothing/ visible against the gathering clouds, however.

Including, as of now, the Batman.

Ember has got back up the staris by the time Batman is swinging away with the joker. Sheshakes her head a litle but and looks at the mute girl over for a moment she's rubbing her head. "Thanks I think. I'm sorry... I knew of someone like him. He was crazy but protected people. That wasn't him at all..." She's still getting over the fact Batman's protecting people but he's been honest to her, firm but honest.

"Does that sort of thing happen often around here... oh...ya? Name's Ember. Thanks, just point next time all right I'll get the message.

The steps are near the alleyway's edge, where comparatively bright light filters through the chill air. It's not far from the corner that Cassie pauses to meet Ember, lowering her hand once the unspoken question is asked. Not quite leaning against the dirty brick, she nudges near enough to the wall that she might as well be, meeting Batman's shrouded gaze as he addresses her. Beneath the dark tousling of her fringe, solemn eyes slowly blink, then flicker downward. She snuggles a little deeper into the garment, not defensively or with pride - it's warmer than that, as though it's not the physical comfort of the coat she appreciates.

As though it... weren't a nice coat just because it's a nice coat.

She comes dangerously close to smiling as she looks up, and finds the Bat gone. Abruptly. More than. Cassandra's fast; a tight little bundle of grace and speed, more than most could handle were she really trying, and for the second time in a few short minutes the vigilante has shown himself her peer. The surprising part isn't that this is the case at all - it's /how/ it's the case. The manner of his motions, that particular fluidity, body moving in crescents and circles even when it seems otherwise... hm.

The raven-haired runaway's head tilts as Ember explains her earlier exchange with the Joker; or 'the Jester'. It's not really a birdlike, insinctive tip - but she's found people often don't believe she's listening unless she makes some external gesture, and it comes easier than a lot of the other options. Mentally, she's filing away facts about the friendly young magus. What occurs most is the way she holds herself, as though she doesn't belong. It's something they seem to share. But-- well, it's hard to be sure of anything, yet.

It's been a couple of days since her last meal, but she'll be able to feast on her thoughts tonight.

In response to the question, Cassie thinks for a moment, and then her lips gently part in what looks almost like a laugh, though no sound comes out beside the faint whisper of a soft outbreath. Then, she nods, lips pursing in consideration of the fact that yes, in Gotham this isn't exactly the rarest way to spend a night. She has no reasonable way to communicate that she normally doesn't put herself in the middle of it, which leaves Ember to wonder - what with the way she reacted, the way she /moved/.

Harder yet is how she goes about introducing herself. A sort of panic crosses those dark eyes.

"..." Her mouth opens again, soundless, but a small struggle takes place on her expression, mouth twisting into a grimace and a frown passing her brow. Glancing aside, she shakes her head as though to scold herself, then looks back to Ember with a sigh. Flustered now, she quickly offers up a hand; friendly enough in spite of her apparent confusion, offering a handshake and a firm, desperate sort of nod.

Once it's taken, she'll try to leave, slipping quickly around the corner and gone -- gone, like the Bat.

Ember realises what she might have done a moment too late, she can't even bring up the idea of trying to find a late night place to get something to eat. As the other girl just takes off. She realises wait could the girl even talk? Well it's too late she should be fine and she's got no idea how to track the girl. She'll keep an eye out for her later, for now she takes back to the air and heads off.

2012-02-04 - Blank Page

2012-02-05T19:55:04Z

Poison Dancer: Created page with "{{Logsummary| Title=Blank Page |Summary=For some, life can never be straightforward. There should be nothing simpler than an act of civil kindness, but few mercies so small we..."

{{Logsummary|
Title=Blank Page
|Summary=For some, life can never be straightforward. There should be nothing simpler than an act of civil kindness, but few mercies so small were ever like to prove so signficant as this; when Gotham's favourite playboy finds a humble charitable function interrupted by an accusation of petty thievery.
|Who=Bruce Wayne, Cassandra Cain
|Date=2012-04-02
|Where=Gotham City - Upper West Side
|}}

You'd be hard put to hurl anything very far in this particular area of Gotham; but for what it's worth, a modestly-sized crowd has gathered about a stone's throw from the river, where a typically ramshackle tenement stands upon a corner, festooned by rather less typical banners and balloons. In front of the building squats what might be generously called a courtyard, in which a wooden podium has been set up.

A pleasantly dressed young woman, of humble means but a gentle grace that would be angelic were she not so mousey, leans forward to tap upon an old-fashioned microphone. The flanking speakers emit an ear-searing hum as she clears her throat to start making an introduction.

"Thank you for coming, everybody. My grandfather owned this building, and until a few weeks ago it was in a terrible state. As you can all see, extensive renovations have been carried out and I can now say that the O'Flaherty Youth Outreach Shelter is primed and ready for business. There's so much more I could say, but instead of listening to me prattle on... I'd like to introduce you all to the man who made this possible..."

As she trails off, a murmur runs through the crowd. At the back of the group, stood next to a group of shady-looking youths in flat caps and leather jackets, a sombre, raven-haired girl dressed in rough hand-me-downs folds her arms and tips her head to one side. Keen, dark eyes track to the right of the small stage, curious and unblinking.

"Mr. Bruce Wayne!" The woman stammers slightly as she says it, a flush touching her cheeks as she steps aside.

Cassandra's eyes narrow faintly, her gaze slipping from the stage to the crowd.

Wayne moves in a suit like it were the most comfortable thing in the world, and yet like he's just a wee bit uncomfortable to be in front of this many people. He gives a half-uneasy, half-warm smile that could win an Oscar, and waves a little wave as he takes the woman's place at the podium, and clears his own throat - to the side, away from the microphone. "I, ah. I'm afraid I didn't prepare much of a speech, and I know all of you came out here to hear me talk; as I've been assured at no less than six political fundraisers this week that the poor can't actually read or write...." The glib, possibly campaign-derailing crack comes out laced with the clear derision Bruce feels for the idea; even if he is a spoiled trust fund kid, right?

"People with all the advantages in the world like to talk about belt-tightening..." it's probably around here that a good chunk of the audience, the wealthier hangers-on not actually attached to the project, shift a little uncomfortably almost in unison, ".. but I like to think that any kind of fiscal responsibility starts with /having/ a belt. With laying the foundations to a brighter future, where each of us can bring our strengths, our potential, into a reality that forges a brighter tomorrow, today. It's in this spirit that the Thomas and Martha Wayne foundations have stepped forward to fully fund the city's civil outreach programs, along with a half-dozen private ventures that my capable associates assure me are on-track to provide that foundation: food, shelter, training and employment assistance to those many who still need it throughout Gotham... and beyond. This isn't heroism, and I don't want thanks; it's through the tireless pursuit of people like Marian O'Flaherty..." a gesture to the woman who introduced him, ".. and the many employees involved in these projects that the heroic stories are made possible. All I've done is had far too much money, and thought a bit about where it can do the most good. Thank all of you who've pitched in, and will continue to pitch in. Best wishes to all of you who have needed this outreach for too long, and apologies that in times of fear, so many rally around what is /theirs/. ... rather than ours, what relies on all of us."

Gotham's favored son waves again, and prepares to vacate the podium, wetting his lips and surveying his surroundings. Almost no one would know it, though. His pupils barely move, his head barely turns, only the scarcest hints indicate the shift of perspective all along the periphery of his vision, even as he turns to shake hands along the dais.

Faint awkwardness or no, Gotham's golden playboy knows how to captivate an audience. To the few not convinced by his sheer presence, to the downtrodden who judge the elite and the confident with a critical eye, he scores points precisely because of it - but likely, he knows that. However, there's still a precious few not hanging upon his words. It's these that the girl at the back is watching as Bruce begins to speak, tracing the roving motions of an extended hand as naturally and easily as though the digits were her own.

This ease means that her attention does not truly waver from Wayne, and his opening quip unsettles her in the moment that she's beginning to shift her posture, to make a movement toward the suspected delinquent. Nobody's paying her heed, but an astute observer would be able to note the flicker of pain deep in Cassandra's eyes. It's hurtful enough to distract her from the task at hand, watching Bruce once more from beneath her heavy brow. She drinks in his body language, and a knot of tension relieves itself in her shoulders.

The rest of the speech washes over her as she keeps her attention split, interested both in the millionaire and her quarry in the crowd. Hands sunk into her pockets, she remains unassuming until the moment that he steps from the podium; the crowd's subsequent applause covering for a swift series of movements that go unnoticed by all but Cass herself. And then she's moving, too...

Marian is smiling, moving to take the microphone when the first cry rings out.

"Hey!"
"What are you doing?"
"E-Excuse me?"
"Thief!"
"Pickpocket!"

The raven-haired girl darts between the throng, unable to avoid jostling a few bystanders as she zones in on the hastily departing youths. They've reached a point perhaps three feet from the stage when she catches them, spinning one around and divesting him so swiftly of his burdens that he has scant time to blink - let alone frame words of his own. This might prove her undoing, as she balances a handful of bank notes and a pocket watch (seriously, people still have those?) in her hands when another clamps down upon her shoulder.

"And what," booms a well-to-do businessman, voice thundering from between his groomed whiskers, flinty stare furious as it settles upon the dark-toned girl. "Do you think you're doing with my property?"

On the stage, the mousey woman has taken notice, but isn't sure what to say - looking to Bruce questioningly as the crowd is frozen in the mass realisation of disapproval. Tension hangs thick in the air, as Cass completely fails to respond; merely thrusting her handful of restored possessions toward the man who has her collared, meeting his stare with brown eyes wide, lips faintly parted and brow furrowed as she tries mutely to communicate her good intent. It's... not a situation she's really prepared for.

Bruce's attention, conversely, isn't so much on those around him, as it is on the crowd. It starts even before the shouts ring out, the boy billionaire's eyes on the small team of pickpockets near the start of their work... and then on the way that waif of a girl darts through the crowd and conducts a very different kind of sleight of hand of her own. By -that- point, he's not even hiding it, he's looking right out that way - as are a number of people. Wayne's brow knits a bit, and an arm that almost invisibly tensed relaxes slightly... thumb and forefinger hooked in his jacket pocket.

That's.. he doesn't know her, he's sure of it; but, the motions, the poise, the clarity of each choice. He /knows/ it. Wayne is /sure/ of it. Like he's seen it a million times. Now, just to place it; this, this is not the perfect time.

"Your eyes are failing you Abernathy." Bruce hops down into the crowd, which parts not unlike the Red Sea for him, in juxtoposed relief against the barely-noticed teenage girl. A hand is held up to forestall two GCPD officers that approach, and Bruce just points to the youths, the ones -not- accosted by Cassandra now splitting from the scene as fast as their legs can carry them, the latter forcing through the crowd as subtly and quickly as he can. Perhaps notably, Bruce points towards the ones already fleeing. Perhaps he doesn't see the other. "There go your pickpockets. This one's just guilty of looking out for you." Intent blue eyes shift to Cassandra from her wealthy not_friend, studying the girl carefully without studying her -too- carefully.. and obviously. Professional. Potentially deadly. Trained to appear anything but. The way she holds herself... something else there. It all processes in a moment, and a clench and unclench of that stern jaw.

"You alright?" Wayne asks, stooping down a little, closer to eye level with the smaller teenager.

Cassandra's eyes do not leave those of the barrel-chested businessman, even when he looks from her to Bruce with a huffing outbreath, reddened cheeks inflating. He's still made no move to take the proferred articles, preferring to apprehend rather than accept what's quite obviously a peace offering of some kind; but then, it's evidence of her crime. He's about to point this out when his attention is matter-of-factly seized and diverted. The fleeing boys are noted by his collared victim, too, but she doesn't move... yet.

The runaway feels a wave of gratitude toward the undercover playboy, though it shows outwardly only in the uptilt of her chin, fierce pride seeping into her posture as she again pushes forth the cash and the watch. Stumbling over his words, he finally takes them from her, trying to save face as he does so. "But look at the way she's dressed; and she hasn't a word to say for herself! I know the type, Bruce. They're working in tan-"

He pauses briefly as with a sudden swipe and a roll of her shoulder, Cass dislodges his grasp upon her. "-dem," finishes Abernathy, a stunned weight entering his tone. The girl's motion is so smooth, and for all the strength it carries, she is free so seamlessly she might never have been controlled at all. Wayne's query is answered as she takes a gliding step forward, nudging between the pair of older, larger men.

Or rather, it's not answered. She simply catches his eye, and gives a single shake of her head.

She's not alright; not yet, because this isn't done.

She almost /swoops/ through the stilled crowd, this time succeeding in jostling not a single ill-managed elbow as she tracks and apprehends the escaping boy - having been tracking him all the while over Abernathy's rounded shoulder. He squeaks a protest as she sternly seizes an arm, right foot sliding behind him to prevent him stepping back or to the side, the grasped limb twisted until he's bent over her knee. The other hand frisks him, removing several more articles - a wallet and a couple of loose credit cards. And then she twists around to face Bruce, trust etched in her solemn features as she extends her prize toward him.

Perhaps, she thinks, if they won't accept help from her, they'll take it from this man.

"Enthusiastic turncoat." Bruce murmurs towards Cassandra's accuser, amusement conjured clearly on his features as he simply lets the girl work. These aren't his usual quarry. and even with mere moments since it began, Wayne already had a plan to let the Batman deal with it; but he's a fan of improv. The way she moves confirms all his first impressions, and adds some new questions. Particularly when she leverages the physically larger male with no effort at all.. something Bruce himself is well versed in doing. "Have you considered, Wilfred..." Bruce postulates, trying - and half-failing - not to smirk at the other man.

"That she might be Batman?" There's any number of hearty chuckles at Abernathy's expense, at that point, and Wayne then moves off a few steps to intersect the returning Cassandra, taking the offered items and turning them over in his hands, "Well. I thought this was a charity event, but it looks like I'm getting wealthier anyway. Officer, if you would see these back to their rightful owners? I don't think anyone's really..." Idiotic. Arrogant. ".. tunnel visioned enough to press the charges at -this- one." A more sincere, warmer smile accompanies a smooth, nigh-forceless motion towards tousling Cassandra's hair, after handing the stolen goods towards the nearest of the GCPD patrolmen, the other - actually a patrolwoman - on the radio calling in the circumstances... and outstanding suspects.

When the remaining articles are taken, Cassandra releases her cap-bedecked prey, giving him a shove that sends him stumbling two steps away. Shamed and aggravated, he spins around, the leather of his jacket uttering a creak as he raises his fists and starts to swagger back in, anger creasing his features. The people clustered around seem loathe to involve themselves, a few even stepping away as the threat of violence grows. Enough remain to block his escape route, at least; and it's been proven that trying would be futile.

Fighting though... well, he's taller than she is, and looks a good deal larger.

Frowning deeply, the raven-haired runaway sinks her posture. A few of the outliers are still laughing at Bruce's quip when her left hand shifts forward, an open palm defensively hovering as the right clenches tight. In spite of her apparent size - looking even smaller than she is, in baggy sweater and messy hair - there's an air of confidence as she relaxes into the stance. The boy seems to rethink his position... you don't survive long as a child on the streets if you're totally stupid.

Perhaps Bruce's gesture helps in breaking the spell of tension, and as he reaches to further muss Cassie's dark locks, the youth laughs nervously and backs up, head hung as he's subsequently apprehended by the nearby officer. The resourceful girl for her part is unflinching, but quietly perplexed, brow knitted as she tips her head toward Wayne, meeting him with that same, unblinking stare. A hand lifts to brush the spot where his own hand was a moment before. There's a sense of wonderment there. She's... odd; not quite shy, but like someone who doesn't understand social niceties, who has no idea why he'd do such a thing.

Her mouth opens, and closes wordlessly, lips pursing as she glances from side to side - without ever /quite/ taking her attention from the millionaire. For all her apparent awareness, it's as if she's noticing the crowd for the first time. When her attention settles fully back upon him, she inclines her chin in what seems half respectful nod, half all-too humble bow, eyes remaining upon his.

She seems like she's waiting for something. An acknowledgement? A dismissal?

Subtleties that only Cassandra is likely to notice are things like the position of Bruce's finely shoed foot, near her own, forward from his body... in a place where he, too, could have intercepted an attack from her quarry, if necessary. It's a motion that looks like a shuffling sidestep to most of the crowd, as it relaxes instants before the boy more visibly stands down, likely the moment that Cassandra, too, was sure that he would. Wayne's stance corrects as if it were a singular, planned motion unrelated to any kind of preparation, and he nods thanks to the officer, even as he watches the young pickpocket with a degree of concern.

The first time he stole so he wouldn't starve... Bruce lost many assumptions about the simple nature of right.. and wrong. There's a soft sigh, almost regretful, though his expression is a small smile again by the time he looks back to the bowing girl, and he chuckles a bit, "We got rid of the /titles/ awhile back, I know it's not much of a difference, but. No need for that." The words that follow are murmurs, as much to himself as anyone else, most having move backed too much to catch them before the whispers are lost to the wind, "Can't speak?" the last even softer, "Or just don't want to waste your breath?" He muses.

Less rhetorically, the billionaire nods to the side, "Are you hungry? Have some place to go for the night? Least you deserve." Whatever Bruce's less forgiving apparent peer might think of the whole thing, obviously.

Morality is tricky business, even trickier when one has no sense of it. But Cassandra has been able to glimpse the occasional act of kindness in her years spent surviving alone - and her actions today were solely in reaction to the nature of Ms O'Flaherty's gathering. To steal from those disregarding the plight of the downtrodden is one thing, but here and now - from those purporting to help - she could not ignore it.

Bruce's response to the formal gesture is something on which she is completely uncertain, not rising as she continues to peer up at him. Dark eyebrows raise questioningly, and a glance goes sidelong, taking in the expressions of those nearest. They're smiling; so after a moment's consideration she does too, slowly straightening up. The soft words that follow are not considered so much as the millionaire's body language.

He's wondering about her. She needs no real gift to spot that. But it's something more. People always wonder, for a moment or two, before shrugging their shoulders and moving on, content to leave her behind. Everybody is. She doesn't blame them for it; she deserves to be left behind, disregarded. Doesn't she? But this man...

Her brow once more knits, the smile drifting away. If she could she'd ask him, 'why do you want to help me?'

But then he offers more, and a momentary panic seems to flit across her dark eyes. Rapidly she shakes her head, almost taking a step back before she controls an instinct to flee. She keeps shaking her head until the last is spoken, then brings a hand to her breast, palm pressing down to indicate herself. The hand lifts and points down, toward the street underfoot, her head tipping forward to punctuate the unspoken point.

'This is my home. This is where I belong.'

She smiles again, though cannot hide the sadness as much as she'd like. She's not happy about it...

It's just the way it is.

One cannot allow such things to pass unnoticed, or unattended. In that, they can certainly agree. There's enough else in Gotham to allow the criminal element to thrive, without further indulgences. Doesn't ever make it particularly /easy/ though. Wayne's eyes shift from Cassandra to those around them as her own do, and then back, his own half-smile more a response to seeing her decide that's what she -should- be showing, than anything else. "Heh." Bruce monotones, shaking his head slightly.

In the end, he's devoted his life as a champion to those most everyone else would prefer to forget. "On the street, hmm? Running from something? Someone?" Again, the words are quiet, Bruce bends down to speak them, as if simply casually conversing with Cassandra, to all appearances. "Well, it's a free country, but here. Alfred!" The butler is already there, in fact, near the pair, towards the edge of the dissipating crowd, dressed for the weather and holding Bruce's heavy overcoat at the ready. The elder's lips and moustache twitch, ever so briefly, at his ward's volume.

"Right here, Master Bruce, goodness." Alfred good-naturedly, if drily, retorts. Bruce just smiles a wry sort of smile and turns to take his coat from Alfred, "Here, then, it's too cold for a worn out coat and nothing else." The oversized garment is pretty much ideal for sleeping on the streets, though. It's a safe bet Bruce knows that, but few would believe it. It doesn't seem to be a debate, given that Wayne half dumps the winter coat on the lithe urchin of a vigilante, before taking a step back. "Your cooking scares her." He explains to Alfred, who huffs lightly and turns back to the classic, black Rolls that he drove them here in. ... partially to hide his own amusement.

Running...? Her lips part at that, hanging open a second or two as she tries to parse his understanding of her situation. She can't read Bruce quite so well as she can others, can't entirely tell if he's truly making small talk and playing guessing games or if he's noticed something. About her. About who she is. As there's no way of knowing, she decides to make no indication, her expression taking on a slightly defiant air as she angles her stare upward, her prominent jawline firm and unyielding.

From the corner of her eye, Cass has already seen Alfred, but she blinks in surprise nonetheless - though tellingly, not as the coat is offered. A moment before. She sees it coming; astonished by the gesture and not the action itself. That she allows to happen, feeling the weight settling upon her shoulders. She doesn't recoil, or play into the game and shiver in relief. She reacts practically, reaching up with both calloused hands to pull the garment into a comfortable position about her wiry frame.

And it is comfortable. It's warm, and it's about the kindest gesture that's ever been made toward her-- at least by anybody outside of a shelter like the one they stand before now. By a stranger with no obligation. It's appreciated in itself; but even more than that, she appreciates that he expects nothing back. Doesn't wait for thanks she cannot offer verbally, for a promise she would not have the means to make if she could.

As Bruce turns away, she takes a quick step forward all the same, and lays a deft hand upon his arm.

It's so fast, so assured, lacking the timid air she has assumed. Because this she understands.

Her eyes say what she can't, another smile darting across her lips before her gaze lowers and she steps away, not waiting to watch the man leave or allow others to accost her when he does. She came here seeking some solace in the company of the kind, she came because sometimes her life is too much to bear...

And it just got a little easier. She'd feel warmer tonight even without the coat.

The defiance speaks volumes. It really does. Particularly when it contrasts so starkly with the rest of the girl's surprisingly frank demeanor. Yes, frank, not difficult to read or understand. This may speak to Wayne's own 'issues' in perceiving and understanding the world; but hey, it works. The coat's hemmed for a man nearly a foot taller than she is, so it's a bit long... but that can be a boon, too, under the circumstances.

Bruce pauses as she moves to stop him, and he turns halfway around to face Cassandra again, blue eyes studying hers curiously, attentive to what is being 'said', shown. Wayne just nods, and smiles, then reaches out to ruffle her hair once more, the same gesture as before. "Stay safe." That, he's pretty sure she understands. Then, he's in the car behind Alfred, shutting the door and looking back out, studying Cassandra's reactions... the urchin's motions as they leave.

"There must have been a dozen other strays, sir, why that one?" Alfred inquires curiously.
"She's had training." The voice is deeper, more intense, as the car pulls down the road, the occupants secured by several devious layers of security.
"I should say, bu.."
"/League/ training. I didn't even notice her until she was ready to move."
"But.. she's just a g.."
"I /know/."

This, it seems, does bother the Bat. Why is she here? Who's /after/ her? The more questions the Detective answers, the more he finds. A tablet computer is slipped out from under the seat in front of him, tapped to life, and quickly oriented to track the nanotransmitters concealed in the fabric of his garment... ostensibly a kidnapping safeguard. Now used to consider Cassandra's movement patterns.

Alfred just sighs, and turns the radio on to NPR.