View source for 2012-02-15 - Ghosts

{{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.