View source for 2012-02-04 - Blank Page

{{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=[[Batman|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.