[Batgirl III] In Her Nature In Her Nature as told by Greg Rucka for Cassandra Cain, translated by 'rith Summary: Cassandra was never a scorpion, no matter how hard Cain tried to make her one. The girl who had killed didn't understand language. Not really. She couldn't speak, and most of the words that came out of other people's mouths resolved as incomprehensible noises in her ears. Here in No Man's Land, it was less of a handicap than might be expected. There was very little conversation to be had beyond the basic language of *survival,* and that she knew well. She was accustomed to living on the edges of society; here, the edges had become the whole, and she could move about more freely than she ever had elsewhere. Here among the stunned, the insane, or the merely insanely determined, she found she could "speak" as eloquently as any. A can of food for shelter, a found bit of clothing for a space by a fire; these transactions could be accomplished without a word in the new shorthand language of demolished Gotham. She had witnessed the devastation of the earthquake firsthand and the city's slow, doomed attempt to recover. She had watched, carefully unseen, as the army men herded people out of Gotham in big ugly trucks. Some others had refused to go, hiding like she did or merely standing their ground, refusing to be moved. The men from the trucks had frowned and argued and radiated frustration and anger and finally resignation, leaving the hidden and the immovable to their own fates. The big trucks, filled with weeping people, had rumbled their way out of Gotham. And then the bridges had blown up. After that things had been...bad for a little while. Those who belatedly regretted their decision to stay attempted to escape. Most were unable to find any egress. Some died in an attempt to climb the barricades or swim through mine-seeded channels. The rest looked around, realized precisely *how* cut off they were from the rest of the world, and turned all their energy to the only thing that mattered: survival. By any means necessary. For the girl, to whom the process of survival was already second nature, the barbarism that followed wasn't any surprise at all. She managed to find food and water and shelter as she always had, evading the desperate, wild- eyed scavengers with ease. Occasionally she dropped extra found supplies where the neediest would find them, particularly the children. Before long the disorganized survivors had begun to arrange themselves into new structures. She watched the patterns swirl and settle, removed from them as always. Newly formed gangs and would-be dictators ruled No Man's Land, taking tithes from those they "protected" in return for some nominal safety from the gangs and tyrants the next block over. Most of the leaders were no more than the strongest of the angry men who'd stayed behind. Some...were different. Wrong. She knew that even without being able to put a definable thought-concept to it. The big man in the black mask, the little man who spoke through a piece of carved wood, the creature that looked vaguely human but more like a walking reptile, the fat one who hoarded food and weapons and everything else his followers brought. The green woman who had made the park into a deathtrap for anyone but the children she chose to protect. The laughing ghost, elusive and reeking of blood and madness, who had no set territory but whose shadow made even the strongest leaders retreat from his latest haunt. Then there were the blue men. Their sector of the city represented a relative zone of safety, though it was besieged on all sides. Still, the shields they bore spoke of "order" and "law," and at the very least within their protected zone she could usually find a safer haven than anywhere else. The only other place that came close was the tent of the healer, who even the mad ones left alone because she was willing to bind their wounds as well. The healer was *useful* to them, and therefore sacrosanct. But the healer's tent rarely had room for an unwounded body to sleep, and there was no reason to take a cot there when there were so many empty buildings in the blue sector. Because she spent so much time in that region of the city, eventually she noticed another pattern. Occasionally, people broke away from the expected ritual of survival to do...things. They spoke into black boxes, or went outside of their protected areas. They had little contact with each other, but everything in their body language said they all obeyed the same directives. They took orders from someone unseen, followed a hidden leader. Someone powerful, the girl thought without words, someone who commanded respect without gangs or overt shows of force. The next she spotted one of them, she followed. And found the red-haired woman who would change everything. Somehow, from her own high place and without even the ability to leave it, the woman had become another leader. She had no definable area under her protection, and all of Gotham; she had no subjects, but operatives who brought her food and information. In return she gave them *purpose.* The girl had wandered for years without objective, afraid in her speechless way to adopt any goal beyond merely living. She had been made for one reason and one reason only: to kill. It was her nature, and so any other intent would be tainted by that innate disposition. But here in Gotham all the rules had changed, and perhaps she could find another purpose. Later, she might wonder if fate had brought her to the one person who sat at the center of a particular critical series of events. Then, she simply pursued an instinct, or maybe a hope. In the manner of the others the girl scavenged among the deeper ruins and found a cache of precious batteries to offer as a gift. She climbed the stairs of the Clocktower, carefully avoiding the trapped steps and tripwires. She knocked, and was warily greeted; she made her offering, and the woman--looking slightly bemused--rolled her chair back to let the girl in. She observed the shotgun fastened under the seat and the escrima sticks positioned for easy access on the back. Not helpless, then, despite the woman's inability to walk. Slowly, over the days that followed, the girl learned just how *not* helpless her new acquaintance was. "Barbara", the woman called herself, patiently pointing to herself and forming the sounds until the girl understood. She had no name to offer in return, so Barbara, tilting her head thoughtfully, gave her one. "Cassandra." She would be Cassandra, who was one of Barbara's runners. For the first time in years she would have more purpose than simply existing. She would have a name and a reason and no more contemplation of the death in her hands. It was never, ever going to be that simple, and she knew it. For a little while it was enough to pretend her new role might be enough. She became Barbara's most trusted operative, moving around the shattered city on missions she only vaguely understood but recognized as vital for the survival and safety of Gotham and its inhabitants. She tried to comprehend the words Barbara attempted to teach her, her tongue making clumsy slurred sounds that would never pass for speech. She learned that the healer was called "Leslie," and that she knew Barbara, and that the two of them shared a common bond. They were connected with another presence, one that Cassandra had sensed only fleetingly but never seen. It eluded her, but she knew it would find her when the time was right. She became increasingly more aware of that sense of destiny as the weeks passed, and welcomed the inevitability. On the day it happened, all that anticipation turned to horrified shock when she spotted the man who called himself her father in a building opposite the Clocktower. She caught a glimpse of him, entirely by accident, and could only imagine that he'd come tracking her at last, to take her back, to make her kill again. Her panic at that thought was nearly enough to send her fleeing to the impassable barricades, to break through them or die in the attempt. Then she saw the gun in his hands, and realized that he hadn't come for her at all. His gun was trained on the steps, where a visitor to the tower would be exiting again at any moment. He'd come for the blue men's leader, *Barbara's* father. Cassandra had watched the two of them together, wordlessly envious of something she'd never known. Her father had made her a weapon. Barbara's father only sought to protect his daughter, not to use her. She would not let that be destroyed. The door opened an a man stepped out. Moving fast--faster than she usually let herself in view of others, with the uncanny speed where thought and action were synonymous--Cassandra dove in front of Barbara's father, pushing him out of the way of the hail of bullets. Another of the blue men was hit, and she regretted that, but where her father was concerned even she could only accomplish so much. David Cain was one of the world's foremost assassins. She was-- She was better. But her body was her weapon, and his sniper's rifle considerably changed the odds. She pushed Cain's target back into the tower, hauling him into safety despite his protests. Wanting to see to his dying man, she thought, and grimly ignored his exasperation. Cain would not stop until his target was eliminated. Cassandra was equally as determined not to let him complete his mission. Upstairs in Barbara's lair, she laboriously 'explained' using the most expedient means possible: She drew Cain's symbol and gave it to Barbara. Barbara--who seemed to know everything about everything, or nearly so--immediately understood the significance. While Barbara and her father argued, Cassandra waited, knowing Cain would be coming up the stairs, knowing she had to stop him. When Gordon shook his head and headed for the door with a decisive stride, she deftly stepped in front of him, took the keys from his hand, and slipped outside, breaking the key in the lock to delay his leaving. She turned, and her father was there. She made herself a barrier, blocking the door. He raised the gun, shooting holes in the door around her, outlining her body. They'd played this game before; the price of her movement would be another bullet scar, or worse. Cassandra heard the people yelling in the apartment behind her, but no screams of pain. *Now* she moved, launching herself at him, slapping the gun out of his hand and following up with a punch so hard blood arced in a fine spray from his mouth. Blood on his mouth, blood on her hand, just like before. Only Cain was still breathing, unlike the man she had killed when she was ten years old. The parallel hurt too much. She wanted it to end. The only way to do that, maybe, was to use the the one word she had learned. She took a breath, and shouted it into his face. "Stop!" He did, staring at her with wide bewildered eyes. She wasn't *supposed* to speak, he had never taught her that. She was only supposed to fight and die. But now she could choose how and when to speak, in her own way. As the door behind her bulged and began to splinter, Cassandra spoke to her father by using her own body as a shield and then as a battering ram to push him back, shove him away from Barbara's door, and finally propel them both out of a high Clocktower window. "Stop," she said again, almost smiling as they fell. They didn't fall far. With incredible reflexes, Cain caught himself on the ledge, leaning backward to catch her as well. In his eyes she read equal parts determination and regret. The determination, she knew, was born out of his own instinct for survival; the regret, Cassandra didn't understand and didn't want to. She let go. (Later, Batman would say that he saw Cain start to slide with the effort of holding her weight and his, and that he believed Cassandra let go so she would not be responsible for another's death. Later, Oracle would speculate--but not say aloud--that at that moment Cassandra had found a kind of symmetry, a life saved to balance the one she had taken. That she let go as an expression of penance, having perhaps earned the right to die. Later, as then, Cassandra had neither word nor thought to ascribe a motive to her action.) There was the vertigo of the drop, and then the dull shock of impact as she crashed not into the ground, but another body that had intercepted her fall. She went limp, not fighting it, as she was carried down. They landed hard, the impact jarring them both. Neither made a sound. When she opened her eyes again, Cassandra became aware by degrees of a dark form filling her vision, resolving into a man, in a costume, wrapped in a cape. Then she saw the Bat-symbol. She *understood* it. Everything it was, everything it implied. Inexpressible concepts that began with "justice" and might--just might--end with "redemption." The man who wore it embodied them all. Her talents allowed her to see the innate flaws in a person's movement, gaps in their physical and emotional armor. He had very few, and those were buried deep. She read impeccable training, skills honed over years of obsession, and iron control. He was the mirror of everything she wanted to be, the ideal of the warrior-made-flesh that she was supposed to be, and the antithesis of everything she'd been shaped to become. He fought without any intent of killing, it was anathema to him, she could see it in every motion and gesture. She was a killer. She lived with the sound of her own hands piercing flesh, finding vital meat, tearing and shredding life. Once, and never again. But that one murder marked her indelibly. She was-- she had no concept strong enough to express it. Tainted. *Unclean.* And yet. The bat called to her. For all that symbol implied, all that it was, all that SHE was, it still called her. The man, seemingly deaf to its piercing cry, spoke at her in an incomprehensible stream of sounds. She showed him her language, the dialogue of action rather than words, and he understood. He stared at her, body registering shock, and spoke her father's name. She had known he would recognize Cain's mark on her. His own movements spoke of Cain's training, though clearly he had taken those lessons and made them his own. She was Cain's creation, his ultimate triumph and utter failure. She fully expected to be turned away. Reviled. If she could read his methods in his movements, surely he could read the death in hers. The bat stared at her, offering no judgment. The man who bore the symbol told her, in her own language and without words, that she was welcome to stay in his city. He knew, and trusted her anyway. One more thing to do. She wasn't responsible for Cain being here, but she still felt responsible for *him.* He was here to do a job. Batman had drawn pictures in the dirt to show her: the scarred man with two faces had money for Cain. Without it, Cain would leave. So she went to get the money. She already knew about the divided man's location, his followers, his guns. She avoided them all, easily, snatching the heavy bag He offered her the Bat that Barbara had once worn. The mantle lay heavy in her hands, unearned. She put it on regardless, knowing what it meant. If this costuming could change her outer nature, hide the death she carried, wearing it would be worth any price. She was particularly glad for the mask that covered her entire face, so that the image she presented to the world was Bat and nothing else. Not a killer, not nameless any longer. Batgirl had never, would never kill. She protected rather than destroyed. Batgirl was good. Batgirl was *clean.* Underneath, she was still...what she was. Skepticism from the man. "She looks almost as good as you did in the ears." Pride and sadness echoed in Barbara's voice. "You ask me, she looks better." The bat whispered their secret names to her, so that she understood. "Nightwing." "Oracle." "Robin." "Batman." She would be Batgirl, and wear the symbol in place of her own nature. You've heard this one before: A scorpion and a frog meet on the bank of a stream and the scorpion asks the frog to carry him across on its back. The frog asks, "How do I know you won't sting me?" The scorpion says, "Because if I do, I will die too." The frog is satisfied, and they set out, but in midstream, the scorpion stings the frog. The frog feels the onset of paralysis and starts to sink, knowing they both will drown, but has just enough time to gasp "Why?" Replies the scorpion: "It's my nature." Cassandra was never a scorpion, no matter how hard Cain tried to make her one.