View source for 2012-02-21 - Where Nobody Knows Your Name

{{Logsummary|
Title=Where Nobody Knows Your Name
|Summary=Spurred by the apparent involvement of her father in the recent assassination attempt, Cassandra embarks on her first vigilante mission; a solo raid on a back-alley bar. She escapes with the information she needs, but receives assistance from a surprising quarter...
|Who=[[Cassandra Cain]], [[Red Hood|Jason Todd]]
|Date=2012-21-02
|Where=Crime Alley - Gotham City
|}}


Gotham's backstreets are filled with dingy dives, where the lowest of criminal Batbait flock in search of easy money-- or hard money, depending on how picky a disposition they maintain. Or how over-confident they are. For such a mecca of crime, it's a difficult place to stay relevant and keep earning; without running afoul of a cowled vigilante of some stripe or another, and yet through sheer numbers the odds are weighted enough that desperate men and women continue to flock. Continue to be imprisoned or die, too, but for every ten or twenty failures there are one or two relative success stories.

It helps when contracts are flying around like they have been, several anonymous fixers working under bizarre pseudonyms turning up in drinking holes like the one a shadow-shrouded figure is watching from a rooftop right now. Red light spills out into the dirty alleyway, a slew of leather and chain-clad thugs variously stomping, slinking, or drunkenly writhing their way through the smoke pouring from a dank stairwell. Pounding bass assaults the eardrums of anyone within twenty yards of the alley, and this serves it purpose well...

Few but those who enter have the slightest clue what goes on inside.

And who would be stupid enough to wander into such a place, save those who seek the promise of seedy, but astonishingly well-paid employment - and the allure of being outfitted with high-specification technology that's reputed to rival what the Bat himself can lay his taloned clutches on. In another city, in a saner world, men would realize such an offer is too good to be true. But here, they do not. Here, it just spells disaster upon disaster for the innocent and defenceless. For Cassandra Cain, that's the important part.

People are dying.

Her father is involved.

She's lived with that all her life, but now she has a doorstep, and this is happening upon it. She doesn't know where the brutal assassin who trained her is, or what his plans are, but she'll get to the bottom of it if Batman doesn't manage to first. It's /her/ responsibility. It's the least she must do, to atone for who and what she is. Steeling herself from within the elevated shade of a crumbling gargoyle, Cassie draws breath, and then drops to the ground below, missing a pile of rotting garbage by inches to land in a tense crouch. Her garb is not his; not the Bat's, composed of dark short-sleeved catsuit and plain armoured accessories, but she almost wears his shadow as she rises and walks out into the sickening carmine.

Hazel eyes seem almost black as they focus upon the stairwell. Her mouth is hidden beneath the concealing fold of an ebon scarf, its ends trailing behind her as she passes through the thuggish morass - a ghost in plain sight - but the knitting of her brows is some hint at least to how purposeful she is. It's the first time she's been out alone, the first time she's tried to do what he does every single night. Every single day.

As if further motivation were needed:
If she fails here, she fails Batman.


When trying to carve out a new piece of territory from land that is already tightly held, it's natural to be wary of newcomers that arrive on scene. When these newcomers bring with them a heavier breed of hardware with them and they don't seem to mind passing it around, it's understandable to get a little paranoid. Now, The Red Hood could go around knocking off every single hood, thug, and goon that was walking around with a weapon that he didn't like but that would take too long and increased the odds of him finding just the right guy that would have the bullets strong enough to punch through his body armor. So instead of dealing with all of the shit that's being left in his yard, Jason Todd has decided to go after the dog that's leaving it everywhere.

This is what finds him here, swaddled up in some makeshift disguise. He wears a hooded sweatshirt of the local college team and a ball cap to match. He's unassuming enough, more than once he's been approached by somone that thought he had something to sell... It's fortunate that he does. Nobody says he can't make a little extra cash while he's handling the place.

He recognizes more than a few faces, one or two belong to men that are supposed to be on his payroll. Beyond that, it's nothing special. That is until someone slips in that is well past their curfew and far below the age limit.

Blue eyes narrow in the shadow of the cap's brim, they study the black clad figure. Anywhere else it might be conspicuous, here she just fits in, leaving him feeling under dressed. The way she moves through the crowd, her features hidden by a scarf is telling enough... She's here for something. For anyone else here, he might just let them find the bad time they're looking for. Scum deserves scum... But someone as young as her? There's a soft-spot.

Tipping the brim of his cap lower, Jason wades into the crowd, intent on following the girl. His hands slip into his pockets as he muscles through.


It's been the best part of a decade since Cassandra Cain 'belonged' anywhere, though the Red Hood's eyes do justice to the reputation he is fast accruing on the street; yes, she has a place here. Despite her dimunitive stature, she walks with a natural confidence that renders her utterly removed from the raggedy street urchin of ten days prior, lean muscles contracting and tensing precisely as needed to propel her swift and unbothered through the hot, sweaty crowd surrounding the doors, and through into the bar proper.

If the girl is aware she's being followed, she shows no sign. Her first reaction comes with a simple twist of the body and a raised eyebrow as a dark chuckle rings out in the gloom, and a hand backed by coarse hair slaps down upon her shoulder. Eyes hard and piercing between the twin black border of scarf and messy bangs track along a heavily tatooed arm, finding the face that addresses her a beat later.

"This ain't the place for little kids. Might wanna get out before we--"

Prepared from the moment she saw him, Cassandra slips from his grasp with a motion as smooth as silk. Effortless, she steps forward and around his arm, her left hand smacking against his wrist - what seems a gentle touch - to render his extended limb absolutely motionless. Twisting around, she follows the motion of her hips with that of her opposing arm, the right thrusting forth a straight punch that clips the brute's jaw, sending him staggering back with a violent crack of knuckle against fragmenting bone.

There's no wasted movement whatsoever; at the moment she strikes, she's lifting her heels to allow the opposite force to thrust her into a short slide across the floor. Covering three feet, she ends up conveniently in the very spot she'd scouted to make her pronouncement; a circular open space on the garbage-strewn floor, with a direct avenue to a dark booth set upon the west wall. Where at that very moment, a man is clipping open a suitcase to display wads of freshly printed cash to a gaggle of hungry-looking mercs.

The outburst that follows her entrance draws their attention immediately, six sets of fierce eyes finding her - along with most of those arrayed about the rest of the smoky room. Cassie calmly lowers her fist, and draws a deep, relaxing breath. The music is still pounding, and she's forced to raise her voice when scarcely over a week ago she hadn't spoken a word in her life. It comes out slightly odd, but she at least gets the volume; the single, strongly-enunciated syllable booming from behind her concealing scarf.

"Work," she says.

And the whole room starts laughing, the sound of mockery only broken by the *ker-snikt* of a dozen switchblades and the more resonant, even more threatening sound of primed handguns. Contracts may be coming fast and lucrative, but there's a lot of competition around here; and not the type that lets itself be upstaged by a teenage girl. At the front of the room, the man she struck just a few moments before drops to his knees, making a bizarre choking noise as he realises he can neither move nor feel his face.

There's a fair to middling chance this could get messy.


Oh nice, very, very nice, what had she done there, snapped his neck, tweaked a nerve? Whatever it was, the man wasn't going to be getting up too soon.

Jason was glad he had decided against doing much the same thing. Grabbiong strange girls by the shoulder rarely pans out for the best in these kinds of places.

The knives come out and bullets are chambered. Jason turned his attention away from the queen of the circle and regarded the gurgling man. Could she do that while three other people tried to drive a knife into her ribs, what about while dodging bullets? A faint smile maneuvered itself along his lips, hooking up higher in one corner than it did the other. She 'looked' like she could hold her own... but what would be the fun of letting her do all the work?

Should he make a move now, try and kill the contractor in the fray, make it look like a accident or should he wait? A glint of chromed steel gleamed out of the corner of his eye. A pistol. Someone past his right shoulder had lifted the gun out at the end of their arm and found Cassandra in his sights. Could she dodge bullets...? Now wasn't a time to find out.

The man's finger squeezed around the trigger. In the same time that it took for the hammer to rock back, Jason's arm had come rocketing up from his side. The hooded-figure fouled the man's aim, the barrel was too high by the time the round sounded off, lead flying off into a speaker mounted on a pillar, silencing it with the shot.

The man's features colored unpleasantly, his lips curled, ready to spit a curse. He should have used the time more wisely. Jason's other hand found the man's gun-wrist and twisted it, his palm turned towards the ceiling and his elbow bent at a odd angle. His other arm locked into position beneath the gunman's arm. He pulled the wrist down and pushed the arm up. The gunman's anatomy went wrong, the arm bending incorrectly with a snap of bone. There was a scream, shrill and painful as the gun clattered to the floor, freed from spasming fingers.

Jason had greedily stole a bit of Cassandra's limelight. A few more sadistic laughs, jealous glares and harmful intents swept over him. The hooded, capped man simply shrugged, empty hands held out at his sides as his shoulders bobbed. "Work?" he echoed the girl, his voice colored with more idle mirth than conviction.


To people like these, like Jason and Cassandra, gunshots aren't warnings.

They're opportunities.

The raven-haired girl had already found her starting line, and as the speaker explodes behind her - sending a shriek of eardrum-popping static careening off the filthy walls - she's moving to eliminate her nearest threats. A stepping pirouette sends an elbow snapping forth to dislocate a shoulder, pitching one would-be kingpin against the bar, glasses and ashtrays scattering along with his fallen blade. She doesn't even look behind her when she immediately follows up with a vicious mule kick, hurling one big man against three smaller ones; a cheap submachine gun and another couple of knives skidding into the murky darkness of the floor.

Simultaneously, a hand claps to the splintered edge of the bar, giving her the fulcrum she needs to leap atop it, landing on the previously grounded leg as she swings the other out in a second kick-- this one wide and high, clocking a brash Hispanic man clean in the temple as he charges to try and take her out. His own blade is caught in her upraised hand, her brow furrowing in concentration as she glances off toward that booth. Jason's distraction has served its purpose; now she has to complete the mission.

Rechambering her striking limb, she enters a quick spin that sends her careening across the bartop and down onto a stall at its edge, landing upon both hands to spring down beside the booth's occupants - now on their feet and sneering as they reach for their own weapons. A poorly-aimed gunshot goes wide, and Cassandra drives forward, /slamming/ herself off the tabletop to enter an evasive roll, getting her instantly away from a trio of melee attacks. As she rises, it's clear that she's achieved a lot more than that...

That cash-laden briefcase is clutched under one arm.

She's a second from being surrounded again, but somehow through the gloom a pair of hardened hazel eyes seek out Jason's gaze. Beneath the black scarf, her lips quirk briefly into a smile that doesn't quite reach her stare - but he might just catch the faint dimpling of her left cheek as she replies, "Work." Something hits the floor beside her feet with a faint *tink-tink*. Several somethings. "Run."

Red lights begin to flash out of sequence, a soft electronic trill heralding something familiar...

Gas bombs. Batman's.

Might be a good time to notice the rather striking utility belt she's modelling this evening.

Probably a /better/ time to listen to the stoic ninja girl.


Jason was not exactly left alone. The man had not come into the club by himself. While their compatriot agonized over his damaged limb one of the quartet drew out a automatic weapon that had probably seen use in some third-world war before finding it's new owner. Ignorant of the functions of the bits ontop of the gun, the man held the weapon at hip level, cradeling the body with his free hand before opening fire. Bystanders caught their share of wild spray when Jason bounded up and over the errant fire, his body snapped around in midair, a booted heel driving squarely into the man's face and bringing him down, blood streaming from his nose. The third came with a knife and seemed to catch the hooded man off guard. The long, narrow blade of his knife drove in towards Jasons middle, it's tip punched through the cotton top and then... stopped. Halted by a suit of body armor. Number three had a stungun thrust into his throat before he could question it. A choked cry left him before he collapsed to the ground. Number four of the gathering... decided that he didn't really like these guys that well and made himself scarce.

He whips around to find the ninja-hobo looking back at him. The air's too hazy, the lighting too poor for him to catch her cheeky-smile but somehow he recognizes the spheres.

He remembered standing beneath the lights that hung from the craggy cieling of the batcave, clad in what he thought of at the time as pajamas, and looking up at Bruce as he went over the functions of those spheres. The fuses, the contents, the average time it took for the smoke to disperse in a poorly ventilated room. It's a taste of nostalgia that brings a spark of recognition. The museum. She was dirtier, her clothes ill-fitting... and bleeding.

He'd taken another one, hadn't he? The belt was a dead give away. Who was she, Robina? Bat Girl II?

No time to speculate, any second now gas would stream out of those spheres. Jason plowed through a pair of men that wanted to try their hand at him. He'd brought armor and weapons but not a gas mask. He'd be hard pressed to jaw at her if he had to try and hack the bat-gas out of his lungs.


It's rare, for someone to recognize Cassandra faster than she does them; but she scarcely got a long look at Red Hood during the failed museum heist, her attention already split between his pistol-slinging flunkies and the enigmatic Catwoman. Having a bullet lodged in her ribs didn't really help her attentiveness, though she takes in everything one way or another... and when Jason moves, she can see the nuances of his movements clear enough, because she's pressing behind. A series of devastatingly quick palmstrikes form her pathway, grown men and women flung every which way as the girl speeds toward the exit.

Behind her, the smoke is spreading fast, billowing at least as quickly as she can move as it disperses. Those left in her wake without bloodied noses and broken jaws are destined to succumb quickly - the raven-haired girl faring better thanks to her earlier preparations. That scarf isn't JUST covering her mouth. If Todd needed any more confirmation that she's somehow attached to Batman, that's as good a sign as anything.

Seventeen years old, walking into a den of mass-murdering scum, and she planned for THAT?

She draws level with him around the time he should make the steps, face reddening as she holds her breath in spite of her face covering; it's a filter of sorts, but far from perfect, and there's added haste in her step as she spins to ward off the crowd, whipping off a screaming roundhouse to send the seething mass tumbling like smoke-wreathed dominoes. Once they're outside, the smoke still tracking them, she shows no signs of stopping for a breather. They can't STAY here, and she's still got that briefcase tucked under one arm.

Stealing from a thief is still stealing. They need to keep retreating. But...

She glances at Jason with the first sign of wariness, drawing a breath before she angles her head questioningly, a dark eyebrow quirking up into the messy fringe of her hair. There's no time wasted as she mutely asks if she can trust him, free hand going to her waist to slide another familiar device from her belt, aiming it up toward the rooftop from whence she came. The grapnel-gun is held ready, until she knows--

Has she escaped one enemy to find another?


It had been a little bit since Jason had even worked on 'friendly' terms with anyone. Longer since he had done so along side with anyone that had been to Wayne manor and the dark, dank caves beneath it... Had Bruce poached Catwoman's sidekick. Maybe she was never Catwoman's in the first place... She didn't seem the type to collect human strays.

He's scarcely even breathing hard by the time they make it into the open air. His hood had fallen back during their flight from the hive of scum and villainy. Left only his bakll cap.. which he doffed carelessly. Why should he wory, all she would likely have seen of him would be some picture of a dumb kid if even that. His hair's short, parted at the center, black but showing coppery roots and a shock of white hair. He strikes the cap against his thigh, trying to clear it of the smokey smell before fixing it back on the top of his head, paying very little attention to her inqusitive gaze. Friend or foe? He wasn't in his dress-up clothes, he'd save the theatrics for later. "That wasn't bad. Your stunt back there." he appraised, fixing her with a look of his own. She hadn't had time for the formal training... this meant someone had handled her before Bruce. "Careful though, you keep sneaking out and causing trouble, Alfred might send you to bed without supper." A name drop, that's all he'll deal right now. Turning his back on her, the man takes up stride, a hand waved over his shoulder in parting before they both dive into his pockets, "Later."


Intelligent as those questioning hazel eyes are, there's no gleam of recognition at the errant vigilante's face; it's new to Cassandra, even if his movements were saved within her rather inhuman brain. What there is, however, is sudden and absolute cognizance that she can relax. Her posture doesn't seem to shift particuarly, but tiny internal muscles unbunch, and slowly she bows her head, that hidden smile once more turning up her lips. His approval seems to go down well, at least.

Her gaze never once leaves him, though, watching with keen alertness as he starts to wander away. He can't see, but her mouth opens and closes as though she means full well to say goodbye - but the words don't come. She exhales as a surge of frustration briefly assaults her senses, and then turns away, pulling the trigger of her raised grapnel-gun. With that familiar *snap-hiss* it unwinds and catches upon the base of the same gargoyle she's used once already, this night; and if Jason cared to look around again, he'd find her gone within a second. He probably doesn't need to. He knows. She knows that he knows.

As she lands invisible amongst the shadows, she does glance one last time after the departed young man...

People keep surprising her, just as she thinks she's figured things out.

When did life become this complicated?