Just Another Night in Gotham | -[Grant Wilson]-

[Cassandra Cain]

Cassandra had been out on patrol almost immediately after her arrival back from Hong Kong to Gotham. It never changed, always dark, brooding, and filthy. Being out on patrol made her feel alive and gave her a reason to avoid more personal issues that she had left behind while living abroad. There were some ties that she was not ready to reach out to. She shook her head needing her head in the game, but the baggage she carried fueled her to continue to do what she did.

Certain days she forgot to eat, and would not sleep. Sleeping brought on the nightmares which were a lot more difficult to fight off than a thug coming at her with a knife. She would rather take down six man than to sleep until she passes out from exhaustion. At least, she had found her limits and continually pushed them to always improve. Cassandra needed perfection in her life at least in her skills she would be able to help people while atoning for her transgressions. It was not that she was religious or anything, just that the nightmares she had were of the lifeless eyes of the people she had killed.

Having come back to Gotham, her adopted father had given her a condo, but with slight skepticism that a nineteen year old should have a place of her own. There was a need for some privacy even though her father's mansion had many rooms that made it so you would never see someone if you did not want to. It was not the same and she wanted to come and go on her terms. Bruce finally relented and she remembered hugging him telling him that she was so glad to be home.

The feeling had been present since she had helped Damian on an assignment and it was her decision to come back despite the brat's harsh words. It would be so easy to just smack the sassy mouthed boy down, but it was nice to have a little brother even though he tend to be entirely too cheeky at times. He shut up fast enough when she saved his life from that explosion, but he did not gush with graciousness which was good enough for her.

She was still not too confident with talking, but she did not understand why small talk was even necessary. Cassandra had often mimicked her father with a more stoic outlook and demeanor. Even if she could string along full sentences now, it really was not necessary often times to do so. It was probably why she surrounded herself with people who were a lot more garrulous than herself so she could listen and try to decipher what was being said. Of course, often times she always peered a bit deeper into what was not said. If anything she was better at reading people from their facial expressions to their body language.

So many times, she would observe couples that often lie to each other. Her ears hear the words, 'I love you', but everything screamed about each how disingenuous they were to each other. The nineteen year old subtly observed the 'loving' man lecherously ogle every woman with big breasts as his thin as a rail girlfriend was too busy to notice as she constantly checked her cell phone. To make it worse, she was completely oblivious to his meandering eye, as she chattered away inanely switching from a tone that is talking to a petulant child or to a brick wall. Cassandra could not get away fast enough having picked up her sandwich from the local deli that she had missed since leaving Gotham.

It was good to be back. The night seemed quiet, but it never stayed that way and that was what she was hoping for. Keen dark eyes looked around down dark alleys and across rooftops. Several blocks away a man decked out in body armor and a mask caught her attention, or rather the lethal looking sniper rifle that he had pointed into a well lit business building that seemed to have quite a few men congregated for some random meeting that businessmen partook in. Black Bat's job was never done as a wicked smile appeared as Cassandra jumped off of the taller building in a leap to give her some momentum with the height to reach her target, a beeline straight for the assassin almost as if she was about to dive bomb him.

[Grant]

The man previously known as the Ravager, some called him Legacy. He'd taken this contract in good faith, the man paying for it was all about industrial, corporate espionage and Grant had figured this to be a clean and safe way to line his pockets, stealing files was a hell of a lot easier than it was stealing a full grown man. Although ruminating; it wasn't that difficult to do either, chloroform rag or a nice shot to the appropriate nerve or artery and it was good night sweet prince, but less clean up.

No one could argue with less clean up.

And it kept him out of a certain Wilson's radar. All the better for him. So when this man had called and said in no uncertain terms he wanted the CFO of this rival corporation pushing up daisies, Grant had to admit a measure of shock, followed by a steady shoulder shrug, he needed the money, a cool 5 mil for greasing a suit was hardly something he could argue with. didn't even have any stipulations, just dead in the midst of a Halloween party. Grant could do that.

Grant had always taken one thing to heart the old man had taught him. It was all about the message. You can't take credit for something no one knew you did. So when he locked his sight from a customized sniper rifle, with equally customized bullets, in a sweet crow's where he didn't think anyone would be quick enough to get the drop on him, imagine his surprise when he was so tackled by what felt like a hundred and twenty pounds of bricks he used the chamber of his rifle to separate them and utilized the momentum she'd came at him with to kick off, hopefully sending her off him before he got to his feet. "You...I always wondered Batma- oh. Nevermind." at first for a fleeting moment out his periphery he'd thought he'd been jumped by gotham's guardian angel, by the dark knight himself, someone his old man had thrown down against and who he'd have loved to test his mettle against for awhile now.

"Honey, go home before I get in a stabby mood. Too late!" with that he drew a dagger, a curve to it, a serrated edge made it especially difficult because a twist with such a weapon meant a laceration would need to be closed medically rather than healing on it's own. A nasty peice of work, the last vestiges of a life as the ravager as the pommel had a clear R insignia on it, a keepsake, call Grant an old softie.

Of course this wasn't the thought in his mind as he rushed the young girl sending a powerful fist at her, Grant's punch couldn't hope to be matched by a a young Iron Mike on his best day, after all baddest man on the planet or not he wasn't a super soldier crafted for war by the world's greatest assassin. Even from a young age Slade had told Grant of his greatest professional rival in David Cain, and so when he slashed at her in a clear attempt to take her head clean off with a Nth blade dagger as it was. A clean sweep carried by enhanced muscle, It seemed like this might be that vicarious battle through their respective children. From what he read this one was nothing to sneeze at, although she; like all of the others had a prohibition against killing. Which means at the end of the day she couldn't stop him, that would be the only way, and it was the one thing she couldn't possibly do. He attacked brazenly knowing he had a clear and concise advantage.

[/justify]

[Cassandra Cain]

Cassandra managed to distract him away from his target by tackling him, but she knew that she would have to figure out how to stop him from fulfilling his assignment. When she landed on him, he had used that momentum to push her off him and quickly she used the energy from being catapulted backwards into a somersault to land neatly upon her feet then smoothly into a ready stance crouch. It seemed that the assassin expected Batman and assessed the situation as his gears changed noticing that another masked avenger was present to thwart his nefarious plans to end a life.

As the man spoke what he believed to be witty banter, she refrained from talking as he drew a rather sinister looking blade right as he alerted her that it was too late to escape. Black Bat tensed never liking it when someone threatened her. Most cretins tend to believe that all of them followed a strict code of conduct. Yes, it is true that she had made a vow never to kill. It never meant that she would agree not to maim especially if someone deserved it.

She was very aware of the man’s presence, as well as the serrated knife that he now wielded. There was no fear, there never was, only adrenaline rushing through her veins as she readied herself to put the man down. With lightning reflexes she dodged the assassin’s punch knowing that she had to stay ahead of his moves probably one of them would ring her bell and disorient her enough to get her killed.

When he was started an attack with the Nth blade dagger, she was ready to evade delivered a feint before attempting to land a swift blow to his ribs. Her movements were meticulous, but graceful as a dancer. Each move would be mirrored, assessed quickly and countered. She never said a word as she played defensively to find weaknesses and meant to use them against the assassin. Let him think he had an advantage as he had said dagger and his strength. Being small, she was nimble and quick dodging moves while attempting to lay her own blows.

Ultimately, her goal was to wrest the dagger away and out of reach before he hurt someone with it. Determination and fire was in her eyes as she moved offensively, ready to attack him like a shadowy demoness.

[Grant]

Her fist was tiny as she herself was, she couldn't have been more than a hundred thirty, forty pounds at absolute best soaking wet. And yet he could tell by the fist that collided with his gut that every inch of it was strained and strong muscle, she hit like a man 4 times her size, like a mac truck. It was more than power though, poise, concentration, technique, it was all as infallible, impeccable as if he'd seen a master doing it-and he had, most of them could count how many teeth and hairs on their head they had in one hand COMBINED- and he knew that he wasn't dealing with just anyone here.

The Wilsons had a rather unique perspective on the girl before them, they knew how deadly the cains were, how not even Slade crossed Shiva and this little Valkyrie was the product of an unholy union of two of the most deadly assassins on the planet. It had been a point of pride for the old man to claim otherwise, to say that his brood was the greater. Tonight he'd prove once again how much better he was than the old man, after all rumor had it this little girl, petite boyish girl that she was wiped the floor with the old man so bad he had to blow up an entire building to escape. Oh how Grant would've loved to see his face that day.

But as he returned a counter attack not entirely dissimilar of his own, a gut shot his father had cooked up years ago, an elbow at the right angle that would knock a little girl off her feet, to grown soldiers it broke ribs but if she deflected it even partially it probably wouldn't have been all together worse than the hit she'd given him. The catchy name the old man picked in the Nam was "The Vietnam whip" something he'd developed while in close quarters with the Vietcong when he didn't have a whole lot of room- or didn't want to give them the room to spray AK fire- regardless, it'd work like a dream on this little pixie he'd imagine. Again though he'd followed up with a slashing motion from his knife, given the look of the armor he assumed it had a fair protective ability from projectile weapons, not much in the way of blunt force and now to find out how a knife edge so affected it.

The slash wasn't meant to kill or maim but it'd do quite a bit of a cut on her arm, the arm that had so brazenly given him a gut shot. He let out a low "You don't hit like a girl. But I'm betting punching my body armor felt like punching the hull of a battleship." he knew his own special armor was a special weave that not anyone could come across, the more souped up variants gave the user the ability to dead lift a nuclear sub or would take a nuke blast to dent. His had function over form so hoping for that kinda power and protection was a bit of a pipe dream. still, he didn't want to be her knuckles right now. His eyes were blue beyond the mask but none could say as the deep red of lenses glared back, giving all kinds of telemetry and other information from the state-of-the-art systems that he worked with. He had to keep his eyes peeled on this little minx, she was quick, quiet, he could tell that already. She had to be to get the drop on him like that.

It was just another night in Gotham. And Grant Wilson, the former Ravager, the blue eyed devil, the Legacy, well; he wouldn't have it any other way.

[/justify]

[Cassandra Cain]

Even though hitting him was worse than hitting a brick wall bare fisted repeatedly, Cassandra grit her teeth, but did not allow her body to recoil with the pain. It was never about who was better, even though there was a time that she needed to prove herself pitting herself against various opponents secretly hoping for death but not without a fight. So much had happened to cause the pain to wish for death. A death wish that was called out upon by her family and made to choose either life or death. It seemed to be a choice that even her biological mother craved to find that warrior that excelled even beyond her abilities, enough to even kill her.

She had no idea that the man she fought knew so much about her feeling that this was just a random encounter with crime fighter and assassin. Cassandra did not fight to defeat the other only to distract him long enough for his prey to live another day. Her body screamed out in pain and she continued to push it ignoring everything except her opponent. The Black Bat's grim expression remained steady as she recognised a move that was not entirely expected. There was no thought of deflecting it knowing that she had the disadvantage trying to take on the impact even if it might be at half power. Instead, she made to avoid the special move and lowered herself to the ground, well aware of the knife that had started to slash at her, as quickly as she could to violently kicked out in an attempt to connect her combat boot to snap his knee, or fold his leg inward to make him fall forward perhaps vulnerable for another attack while trying to use his own momentum of his own attack against him.

Thinking she avoided most of the knife attack, Cassandra felt something akin to fire being poured onto her arm as the serrated knife ate through the armour and left a cut where the weapon had sliced her. She tried to ignore the pain eating up her arm as she growled when he decided to taunt her about his armor. She knew it was something she would feel in the morning. The Black Bat was never known for her repartee and did not exactly know what to say. What he said was the truth, but she was not going to admit to it. She needed to take that ominous dagger away from the jerk not letting this be an endurance fight or worse a grappling fight both giving him the advantage.

Not used very often, but perfect for this moment, she had produced several concealed clinch pick knives and attempted to ram it into the assassin's gut and chest to slow him down. The tiny knives could be fatal depending on how it was delivered, but with this man's armor, they would pierce through his armor and the tip would dig into his skin enough to irritate and cause him to start bleeding. She needed another opportunity to distract him long enough to break the extension of his hand that was holding the dagger. It also irritated that he had managed the first cut and she was making up for the blood that was starting to spill out of her.

The Black Bat rolled out of the former Ravager's next attacks and her hand connected the sniper rifle as she was crouched and tried to regroup away from him. "Leave and never come back." She said coldly never taking her eyes from her opponent. As he drew close enough in his next attack, she would use the rifle to block the knife's attack, and use the butt of the rifle to smack him in the chin to disorient him long enough to knock the dagger away.

[Grant]

Their battle was quickly becoming a bloody one, he had first blood, something that -although she couldn't tell- made his face contort to a smirk. This smirk was as fragile, frail and fleeting as if it stood on a knife's edge, as such a thing buried into his gut. The pain was illuminating, white hot and burning as the surface of the sun, and yet the way he trampled through seemed as if a soldier of old, a gladiator holding on to the last of his life's blood as it poured out of him.

Thankfully Legacy, Grant Wilson was no such solider, no such gladiator holding onto his intestines and shoving them back into his gut with one hand while fighting off his death with the other, be it in the form of man or beast. But it was surely a cold splash of water in the face, or rather, a stab to the gut. There was a part of him that so looked down on her, scoffed at the thought that this small thing could hope to do the damage she'd already done, could fight with him on even ground, despite what he'd been told she was a tiny asian girl.

Well, the hit certainly made up for it. He knew now before the utterance of her command, monotone as it was that she wasn't playing, she wasn't one of the rogue gallery psychos more deranged than dangerous, nor was she some boy in red tights on batman's heels. She wanted to play. He was game.

When she let fly the butt of the rifle he responded by falling back, well, jumping back landing heartily on his back. Before he'd even done that he'd drew a pistol with his free hands and let fly a few rounds at her, chest, abdomen, legs, none of them kill shots but those that would have to be attended to if she wanted to live to see the year of the rat.

"Leave? we just got to the foreplay. I'm having too much fun." there was an insidious nature to his tone as he let out the guttaral bellow. He fired from an exposed position at the same time making good distance between the two, he knew her hand to hand couldn't be beat unless he wanted to risk the idiot he had to kill leaving his halloween party, but he also knew she didn't carry a gun, it was common knowledge the prohibition the bat folk had against automatic weapons. That too, gave him a perceived edge.

And as he fired he knew too she'd attempt to close the gap between the two of them and re-engage close quarters combat, with any luck a few more tertiary injuries would dissuade her, obviously he didn't know the woman as well as he thought. As he thought on this he couldn't help but think of his old man, he'd nearly killed him and still there was that voice in his head. Chiding, not quite divisive but certainly not complimentary How do you think you're doing Grant?

It rose both the ire, disgust and angst in his manner and his body language to one such as her would pick up on such a thing. After all the movements of the body, muscle ticks and twitches, gasps, breath, eye movement were all as much of a language to her to be understood as the dozens that Deathstroke had pounded into his head daily as a child. He could still remember the hours of pushups, having to count them in greek, italian, french, Madarin, Cantonese among others.

He cast aside the gun as he emptied the clip at her and his hand momentarily went to the area wherein the pincers stuck out of him like nails sticking out of a 2x4.

Just another night in Gotham.

[Cassandra Cain]

Being hurt, Cass wanted to make sure that she made him hurt just as bad if not worse. As long as he did not die, she was okay with that. It also did not help that villains were running about thinking that they could kill just about anyone without any qualms while heroes had to sit tight with their code of conduct. Maim, not kill. Cass could never carry another death on her conscious. As a child, when her biological father had set her upon her first target, she had thought it was very much a game. All she wished to do was please her father. When she killed the old man, saw the light disappear from his eyes, it horrified her and she had been running ever since. Doing what she did felt right. An opportunity to atone for her sins.

The assassin was trained well. He was also stronger than an average street thug. She had no intention of underestimating him and figured that he was probably underestimating her. Nothing wrong with that, but she would exploit every opportunity she would get until he was apprehended and given over to the authorities.

His reactions were fast, but she still caught and processed each movement. As his hand moved for the pistol, she had already had several options of evasion as she avoided all the rounds that were shot at her. A soft growl escaped as he continued to tease her. His tone like acid. Each shot was counted and she maneuvered out of their trajectory. Small and nimble, and in doing so, she hoped that he would empty his clip.

She caught the changes in his body language frustration, anger, all that would perhaps cloud his better judgement as she maintained a cold facade. Once the gun was spent, and he threw it aside, it was that split second that she used to charge him, making sure to take into account the lethal knife that he still wielded. Cassandra smacked the clinch picks in deeper like barbs against his skin to increase his discomfort and limit his movement before smacking his wrist to loosen his grip on the knife and send it flying. Her main objective now was to get the knife away and to lean heavily on the offensive digging deep to exploit weaknesses.

"I will not say it again." She said in a soft growl as two more clinch picks were hidden in her hands, using them as extensions of herself. If he attempted to punch her, she would take the next step to evade, and stab his arm pulling him off balanced and kicking him in the ribs.

[Grant]

When all of his shots missed all of their respective marks Grant had to admit a measure of awe and surprise he hadn't felt in his entire life since that fateful day with the old man wherein he'd nearly died. Actually said feeling was shock and awe that he was in fact, alive at all. the beating he sustained at the hands of the midnighter and surviving the explosion of an entire building by his wits and quick thinking alone shocked even himself. He knew he had a killer's instinct, that was born and bred within, but to realize he had such a clear and viable survival instinct was good to know as well. He'd survived all of his missions before that both with the rough hand of guidance of father and natural skill tempered by said hand of the elder wilson.

So to be in a situation so alone and to survive had ever been the crowning jewel of his achievements, even the great Slade Wilson, the Deathstroke terminator hadn't thought such a thing possible of his "mediocre" son. So when he'd missed, something that hadn't happened with a couple shots let alone a whole clip he was shocked, but he hadn't time to ruminate at she came at him with what was probably some measure of concealed weapon. When she had managed to dig in his pins he'd felt the fire again, beat back and matched only by the anger he felt and that gave him the single purpose to making her feel pain.

He felt her disarm him and he had figured such would be the way, he knew how these types worked, the modus operandi of the capes and cowls group. They disarm, maybe even maim but usually try to knock out and leave you leashed to a street light if they could. Grant had never been a victim of such humiliation, but he knew well how things worked in Gotham, most of the underworld was wise to the dark knight's act. So when she did he'd already had another present ready for her with a flick of the wrist he'd drawn a collapsible baton and swung it with enough force to damn near break the sound barrier.

Even if it hadn't hit he'd pull her into his roll so that he could attempt a more advantageous positioning, knowing she didn't expect a weapon so quick and powerful out of nowhere, at best probably expecting a punch, kick or take down, form there he'd use his superior strength to bulldog her into the wall nearby, use the baton against her throat to hoist her off her feat and strangle her, choking her with the hard, solid shaft of the blunt weapon he now wielded.

"You won't say anything without air in your lungs sweetie!" He pulled a few from his gut and they fell onto the floor with a wet metallic clank as the scent of blood emanated from a wound that was now quite profuse. His voice a low lull, a growl, almost like a feline purr perhaps somewhat subdued due to the blood loss or the rush of endorphins and platelet production his body had doubled since such a would was so inflicted.

Of the two even if she managed to maim or injure him grievously he had a healing factor, an incredible will and an iron clad constitution, if she were hoping to walk away from this scott free without a few marks of her own that would take a hell of a lot longer for her to get patched up; she was sorely, sadly mistaken, and Legacy was very much about to show her such.

[Cassandra Cain]

Anticipating each shot made it a lot easier to know where she should not be to ensure that she did not get hit. Her moves were meticulous and graceful, not wasting an ounce of energy on some stylised effect that was often times only seen in the movies. If she was not so busy trying not to get injured again, there would perhaps be a second of satisfaction and even a smirk at the masked assassin's shock. With the armor it might have been the equivalent of a kitty's claws getting stuck in the mesh and cutting through to the skin like falling into a briar patch. It also did not help to get those little knives to dig in deeper causing it to cut in past the skin with movement.

With his knife gone, she thought it would be wise to take him down quick without running the risk of getting cut up again and stepped in sooner before she could have caught the subtle movement of the collapsible baton that was produced and swung outward. She tensed in defense taking on some of the force having tried to avoid it feeling a shuddering pain shoot down her body from the point of impact. The shock of the impact had disoriented her just long enough for him to push her up against the wall with the baton hugging tight against her throat. Most people panicked and struggled as he tried to cut off her oxygen. Cass forced her body to fight human nature not being one to run away from a fight as the adrenaline rushed through her granting her strength to survive and fight for her life.

She heard the metal knives falling to the ground as she tried to keep the baton from smashing into her wind pipes. Her hands had the baton away from her in a sort of pull up to ensure that she could still breath, but felt her legs dangling off of the ground not able to get any substantial traction to push him off of her. With teeth clenched, Cass wrapped her powerful legs about his waist and squeezed intent on crushing his sore ribs letting the skin and body armor cause some pain to distract him further from the pressure and the cuts that she had delivered to his gut.

Any inch that he gave her to work with, she would push the baton back under his own chin and with the attempt to use her hard forehead to smack into his soft nose knowing that if it broke the burst of pain would distract, and the blood would make it a bit difficult to see under the mask. However this turned out, she would make damned sure that he would think twice before coming back to Gotham. The Black Bat did not try to speak not trusting the words would even come out, her throat sore from where the baton had first pressed into her skin before she pulled it away.

[Grant]

The strength of the tiny little lady was both admirable and awesome, inspiring awe within him even though he'd been told about the freak shows of the Cains he'd always assumed by virtue of being older and male that the Mad Dog was the more deadly. This theory was summarily put to bed when she wrapped those legs, though tiny seemingly powerful enough to make Usain Bolt envious.

Grant's pain threshold was such that he could easily take quite a bit of punishment with a smile, hell the man had been near beaten to death a blown up by the time he was in his early twenties. It came with the territory. He imagined this woman's legs around him made a boa constrictor or a vice seem like preferable options. When she reared her head back to give him a shot in the nose with her forehead he surprised her by so launching himself with his legs at her head first in an attempt to slam the hard, thickness of his Nth metal helm into her own face, protected only by the flimsiest of masks.

And as he changed his momentum going into a backward roll and carrying her along with him and as she flopped onto her back and he ontop of her he grabbed for the dagger he'd dropped, or rather, that she'd seemingly disarmed him of. She'd put up quite the fight but with superior strength and agility he could've won out this day if he'd played smarter, in the end he could've collapsed her windpipe, busting it like a rusted corroded framework.

But where was the fun in that?

And finally he thumbed for the dagger, reaching for it with powerful grasp as he let out a groan and she added all measure of pressure on his now quite tender and profusely bleeding middle section, which was starting to heal around the stakes hin him as he pulled them from, extricating the final bits and letting them hit the ground. The metallic clank of them hitting the ground was wet as they were so slathered in blood and the moan he let out sounded like one of relief as he suddenly brought his hard helmeted head down in an attempt to head butt her, given that his own was covered in a super helmet, and hers in a domino mask.

His free hand groping for the knife and the other with the baton pushing against her chest, pushing her down into the hard floor and their bodies pressed against one another. If he'd been given time to think more compound thoughts he might realize how hard the girl's body felt against his own decked out in her costume as she was, it was like she didn't have a single cell of fat in her body, his own chest once heaving and clearly deliberate seemed to be getting better, not worse as the removal of the knives allowed his body processes to heal in a more speedy succession and he could already feel flesh, tissue and bone healing over as this continued. A drawn out fight would not suit him though as his target was apt to leave when the party he was attending reached it's natural conclusion.

Finally he felt the cold hard shaft of his dagger and sent it at the small asian woman with a killer intent and a relentless speed. And as he did his gaze down at her was one darkly and yet with a hint of something, as if he were enjoying this scrap or getting some measure of amusement, though is mind was set on a killer instinct there was a glint and glimmer in his eyes beyond the red lenses that said this was what he was meant for. What he was trained for since birth.