A/N: For those of you who have read my other stories and are waiting for the next update of that, I apologise, life has been crazy and finals are approaching. The only reason this was written is because I found an excuse to do it AS my final for a certain class. (Like i'm not even joking, this is the story version of a script I wrote and am turning in for a grade that I will also post on here because while they are in many ways similar both lose and gain things that the other simply does not have, and so they are actually quite different, and for the reason, I may be posting the script soon as well.)

Now for those of you who don't know me and are just curious about the creation of this story, this story, and this universe, came out of this huge back and forth conversation and collaboration between a friend and myself. There's a LOT more going on in the background and SO many more stories to tell in this universe, so this really is just the first of a series. We've carved out the majority of the Bat Family's backstories in the Star Wars universe, and somewhat how they would interact with the Star Wars characters, but there's a lot more work to go. Now I don't think the friend I worked on this has an account on here yet or else I would credit her as well (as she's freaking amazing and has some of the most awesome ideas!) but till she has an account I'll just say, this wasn't just me, and I love my co-conspirator to death for her brilliance.


Night on Coruscant was never truly dark. The world was a city that never slept and neon lights illuminated the streets at all times. In the slums in the lower levels of the planet, the lights of passing speeders zipped by, and the lights of street signs, restaurant names, and club logos lit up the crowded streets. Litter collected in outcast corners, but was visible from anywhere you stood. Crowds filled the streets, pushing and shoving each other. Species from every planet, talking in hundreds of different languages, and ignoring everyone around them, only pausing to yell their annoyance when someone shoved past them, or to occasionally glare up at the stormy sky. Today was the day that this section of Coruscant was selected to be cleaned. Today was the day it rained. And this was were Cassandra Cain found herself, six years old, and alone, sitting at a street corner hugging her knees with stained hands to a stained dress, and crying.

She was not scared of the city. Nothing in it held anything that could even affect her in the slightest, none of it, except her father. The man who even now would be searching for her. The man who had taught her everything she knew. How to read bodies instead of how to speak or even understand any language. How to take apart a target in a thousand different ways. How to never be hit. How to take a blaster wound and not even flinch. How to kill. But she didn't want that anymore. She hadn't understood before, she hadn't known what death meant. She hadn't known how it turned out the lights in someone's eyes, how it extinguished their spark, their soul.

She hadn't understood till he had dressed her up in the first dress she'd ever owned, a red one with great big flowers all over it, (she'd loved it), gave her her lightsaber, it's dark blade unignited, and told her to take out her very first target. She hadn't understood till she had walked up the the man her father had signaled her to take out, waited for him to crouch down next to her, his body reading curious and worried, no sign of threat or suspicion. He'd thought she was lost, his flickering eyes said, searching for her parent. Her father was four roofs away.

She hadn't understood till she'd already slashed his neck, quick and painless; till she had already put out his spark. Hadn't understood till the light left the man's eyes, till his body had fallen to the ground reading fear, confusion, and then it was empty, he was an empty shell. No more light, no more spark, no more soul, and his body was reading wrongness. It shouldn't have looked like that, it shouldn't have been frozen in those emotions. Bodies read fluidly, they were moving, changing; she had to read fast when she was first learning, before it became her everything, the only language she knew, could use. She had to read fast or she would miss something. But then, watching his body for his next words, the praise that would surely read from it that she had done well, it wasn't there. There was nothing but those same emotions. It wasn't changing. He wasn't moving. His body wasn't talking. It was frozen in it's last thoughts, and it was so wrong. And she had done that. She had broken him. She had turned out his light, his spark, his soul, and it horrified her. She had made him empty, she had made him an empty shell, and she hated it. Hated it, hated it, hated it! Everything read wrong, and she had to leave, had to escape. And so she ran away.

It'd been two days. She wasn't going back.