Disclaimer: Batgirl, Robin, Oracle and any other characters portrayed or 
mentioned in this fic are the property of DC comics, Warner Bros and whoever 
else. Not me. No profit is being made from this work of fiction, now or ever. 
As I'm only writing this coz I'm sick and hence miserable, suing me would not 
only be pointless, it'd be downright unkind. 

***

Past and Presents
By Nikoru Nikoru (nikoru@cephiro.com)

***

The object in my hand is, simply put, a hairclip. Well, technically, I 
suppose it's a hairclip with a few shreds of colourful paper left around it. 
Not a cheap, plastic-y thing of indifferent workmanship but rather a 
beautiful pearl-and-wood confection. Its lines are clean and smooth, an 
abstract piece reminiscent of both art nouveau and, oddly, Chinese sculpture. 

I am sure it is quite unique. 

It was thrust into my hand not a minute ago by a blushing Boy Wonder, one who 
promptly took off after explaining the reasons behind it, but before I'd 
unwrapped it. 

It's not evidence from a crime scene. 

It's not stolen property that needs to be returned. 

It's not a cleverly disguised weapon. 

It is, in fact, a thing called a 'birthday present'. 

This is strange to me. I've never gotten a birthday present before. Cain 
wasn't really into that sort of thing. Come to think of it, I've never had a 
birthday. 

I suppose I must've, since I'm about sixteen or seventeen, but I what I mean 
is I've never had a day marked out as mine, as special. 

I don't know what day, or what month I was born in. I'm not even completely 
sure of the year. 

But Robin said that was okay. "I figured the story would be something like 
that," he'd said. "That's why Oracle and I decided to pick a date and make 
that your birthday. Because, well, everyone should have a special day where 
they're really appreciated, where they're number one. I mean, you're always 
special and appreciated, but . . . but . . man, I'm not saying this right!" 
With that he'd thrust the package into my hands, muttered "happy birthday" 
and fled. 

At least, that was what he'd said verbally. Physically, his conversation was 
a lot less confused. Embarrassment, hope, genuine goodwill, all had been 
present. As had been one other. Fear. Fear of rejection, fear that I wouldn't 
understand the friendship - going beyond the simply 'professional' to include 
social, beyond Batgirl to Cassandra - that he was trying to offer. 
Frustration at his perceived inadequacy of explanation. 

The explanation, the physical explanation, wasn't inadequate at all. I 
understood exactly what he meant; 'actions speak louder than words', Oracle 
says, and to no one is that more true than me. 

I should go after him. Thank him properly. I should. 

Instead I am paralysed, wondering what malicious fate played such a cruel 
jest upon me, for surely it wasn't Robin. I take it he has not seen the 
keyhole film, or he never would have been so unsubtle. The Boy Wonder may 
have been uncomfortable around me, but he is never deliberately vicious. 

The last time I wore hairclips there were two of them. They were shiny, 
cheap, plastic-y things. Their workmanship was substantially poorer than 
merely 'indifferent'. Children's wear, not the beautiful, elegantly 
understated adornment in my hand. 

They were bright red. As red as the blood I spilled while wearing them. 
Gushing, brilliant arterial blood spattering around my fist and onto my 
dress. 

My first, and only, kill. 

The first, and only, time I ever wore a dress. 

Or hairclips. 

Since I fled, fled the murder, fled Cain, I have worn nothing of 
embellishment. Nothing except the simplest of ties in my hair. Nine years of 
drifting, nine years without adornment. 

To be honest, I never really gave my appearance much of a thought. As if by 
avoiding taking special note of it, of wearing dresses and pretty things to 
enhance it like Cain had had me do that time, I could avoid what I'd done. 
But I've finished avoiding. I've finished being passive. Now I wear the 
costume. Now I actively fight. No, that isn't right. I protect. 

I protect weaker people from violence, so they have the opportunity to grow 
stronger through living their lives, and help others in turn. 

I stop thefts, not for material reasons but so that people can feel safe. 
I prevent murders, in some ways because no one has the right to end the life 
of another. But mainly because no one should have to be like me. To have to 
live with the knowledge that they killed a fellow human. 

The black gloved hand clutching the hairclip trembles, and I barely recognise 
it as my own. 

Ever so carefully, I tuck the beautiful gift, the offer of friendship on so 
many levels, into a pouch of my utility belt. Then I take to the skies, with 
a very special mission in mind for what is left of the wee hours of the 
morning. 

I have very important prey, and birds such as these are notoriously difficult 
to catch. 

*** 

It is not until midmorning of the next day that I finally hunt down my 
quarry. Midmorning means neither of us are in costume, which makes it both 
harder and easier. The site is Gotham Central Park, a picnic birthday party. 
In attendance are Oracle - Barbara - a wraparound sunglass-wearing man who 
cannot be any other than Nightwing 'incognito', the tall butler, Alfred, and 
the doctor, Leslie, both of whom cared for me when I was shot. And a denim 
jean-clad, very subdued, Boy Wonder, whose face lifts upon my arrival, but 
falls despondent when he sees my hair flying free in the slight breeze. Of 
the hairclip there is no sign. 

It is a happy affair, Robin - Tim - does his best to mask his disappointment 
at what his body language says he sees as his failure to give me a suitable 
gift. Indeed, all the other presents I receive are extremely practical - A 
CD-ROM of basic vocabulary and reading skills from Oracle, a specially 
stocked mini-medical kit from Leslie and Alfred, a Swiss Army pocket knife 
from Nightwing. I am touched and delighted by the thought that went into the 
gifts. 

Best of all, though, is the temporary lifting of Bab's moratorium on junk 
food. We eat Alfred's special cookies, and chips and salsa, sandwiches and 
sausages, and even my very own, very first, birthday cake! (Also courtesy of 
Alfred.) 

But the moment I've been looking for comes only later, in the mid afternoon 
when we are all pleasantly stuffed, but Babs, Nightwing and Alfred have 
indulgently given Robin and I leave to go buy ice creams "to fill the special 
ice cream spot" that both our stomachs possess. 

Alone together, we both draw breath. 

"I'm sorry." The words are the same, come out in perfect synchrony. The 
surprised looks are also identical. Better than I with words by far, Robin 
seizes the initiative to continue. 

"I'm sorry the present wasn't really what you wanted. I should have given you 
your own version of that new tracking system that Babs and I developed. I 
should have figured you'd want useful stuff, that you don't like hairclips 
and stuff. I'm sorry. I just thought. . . I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to 
offend you." 

Now it's my turn, though with his shoulders slumped in defeat, it seems as 
though he doesn't really expect a reply. I'll have to be really good with 
words here. But words are my weakness. This is too important to stuff up, 
though. 

"No . . . Don't be. I really love your present. It . . . makes past . . . 
past. New present, new future." I snarl under my breath, frustrated, the 
words aren't coming like I need them to. But at least I have Robin's full 
attention. "It. . . Something for me, not Batgirl. Want to have a 'me'. 
Cassandra. Special, like today." 

"Really?" by the shining happiness in his eyes, I can tell I've made him 
understand, that I'm glad he cares, glad he offers his friendship as well as 
his partnership. All I need now is to show I want to take him up on the 
offer. Reaching into my pocket, I gently remove the hairclip, disentangling 
it from the handkerchief I'd wrapped it up in to avoid scratching the 
lustrous wooden surface. 

"Really. Put it in for me?" 

His face splits into a huge grin, and he gently pulls my hair back into a 
half-tail, the clip sliding into place. Experimentally, I shake my head. The 
clip is firm, but it doesn't feel tight, unlike the pigtails of that terrible 
time so many years ago. Instead of a disguise, it feels like a release. 
"Thankyou," I tell him, and I mean it on so many levels. He simply smiles and 
hands me an ice cream. 

It really is a birthday. No matter what day I was born from my mother, 
whoever she was, today is my birthday. The day I decided to start being me. 

I am Batgirl. 

I am Cassandra. 

I am me, and finally a little girl with red hairclips and a bloodstained 
dress stops crying, and starts living again. 

Happy birthday to me. 

End. 

Notes: 
1.The dress and hairclips referred to are from "Batgirl: Silent Running" 
which contains issues 1-6. I am aware that in the pictures her pigtails are 
held by elastics, but converting them to clips made story-telling sense. 
2. The reference to Batgirl being shot occurs at the end of Batgirl #6. She 
is taken to the caver and Leslie is in attendance. I assume that Alfred also 
is, as this occurs before the big fall-out between Alfred and Batman. 
3. I assume that Batgirl already knows that Robin is Tim Drake (or vice 
versa) given that she was crucial in getting him out of Gotham at the end of 
No Man's Land, thus resulting in the re-opening of the city. 
4. The germ of the idea of this story come from the fact that I've never seen 
Batgirl wearing anything ornamental, with the exception of the bracelet that 
the ambulance people accidentally put on her wrist after her fight with Shiva 
("Batgirl: A Knight Alone") 
5. Bruce Wayne wasn't at the picnic because (a) I don't know if Batgirl knows 
Batman's secret identity yet, (b) if she doesn't, and he tried to go 
incognito, with his luck he'd have been recognised by the press as Bruce 
Wayne and that would have threatened "the secret", and most tellingly (c) I 
was out of nifty ideas for practical gifts that could be given in the middle 
of a public park that wouldn't raise suspicion/incite problems if the people 
around the picnic saw them. Sorry. I'm sick. Hence, I have an excuse.