she wasn’t brought up to ask for help, nor to expect it. in most things, cassandra trusts oracle’s judgement -- if not the woman, at first, then the cause she serves: the cause of the bat. but she has grown to trust oracle as well, become close enough with her that she trusts fully in the orders she takes. and yet -- and yet. oracle is not around to help her, no, barbara is at the police station once again, with her father the police commissioner (father, a word still strange to cassandra, two small syllables and the multitudes that they contain) trying to piece together scant bits of evidence from gruesome morgue photos and anatomy reports. trying to catch gotham’s newest serial killer. she’d told cass to take the night off, that this didn’t mean they were stopping, but there’s only so much the two of them could do in one night.
but cassandra had gotten into her computer, gotten better at it, copying the way she’d seen barbara work at her keys, hours of trial-and-error before she found the information she needed: the police commissioner was considering a kind of deal with scarecrow, his insight into the case in exchange for less years in arkham. at first, cassandra didn’t see any wisdom to talking to the criminal. he was, after all, a villain, and villains always lied. but as the hours passed, and barbara still hadn’t returned, cassandra supposed it might be worth a try.
so when she creeps past arkham’s meager security, she’s in the batgirl cowl once again, landing light-footed inside crane’s cell. her eyes adjust to the gloom, and when she speaks, her voice is rough. cold. “get up.”
/ @feartoxxin, plotted!
