Chapter Text
The blow came from nowhere, too fast even for Cassandra Cain. It was as a simple enough mugging, but one of them had used flashbang powder, followed by the shattering impact of glass, and the burning of chemical. The last thing she saw was a flash of crimson, then the jarring impact that threw her against the grimy alley wall.
Barbara Gordon was at her side in minutes, her voice a muffled, distant sound, her words just… noise. When Cassandra’s racing mind finally processed the terrifying truth – that she couldn’t see. A wave of raw fear washed over her, and her body began to tremble uncontrollably, her throat tight with a silent, primal terror.
/|\ ^._.^ /|\
She lay beneath the sterile lights of the Batcave’s infirmary. The familiar hum of computers pressed low and constant against her ears. The scent of ozone and metal once comforting now tethered her to a world she could no longer fully perceive.
Fingers worked gently at the gauze wrapped around her head. Soft, slow, careful. The bandages peeled away, layer by layer, cool air brushing her skin. She waited for light and colours to return, anything. Nothing came.
“Cass?” someone asked. “Can you see me?”
She said nothing, the dread realisation of what that meant grew, that was her answer.
“Cass,” the voice said. “Your retinas are damaged. The doctors say it could take days. Maybe weeks. But… they think you’ll recover.”
Cassandra didn’t need to see to know who was speaking, she recognised Barbara by the weight beside her, the distinct rhythm of her touch.
But her words? They were a confusing jumble. Prior to the fight that took her vision, Cassandra was still struggling with vocal and written language Barbara was teaching her, it was a constant effort, a translation process her brain performed with painstaking slowness. Now, without the visual cues of body language, of lip movements, the struggle was amplified to an unbearable degree.
Barbara’s tone was calm, an attempt to soothe, but her trembling hands betrayed her measured voice.
Bruce was there as well, the heavy presence on the bed beside her, he spoke in hushed tones, his words like a distant rumble that she couldn’t interpret.
Movement, tension, subtle shifts in posture were the only words she knew, body language was language. Now, that language was gone. The true struggle was not just with the physical limitations, but with the loss of her primary mode of understanding. Without the ability to read the subtle shifts in posture and muscles, the fleeting expressions that spoke volumes, the world became a cacophony of disembodied noise.
Cassandra just nodded slowly to everything they said, she couldn’t understand anything they were saying.
“They are telling me that I’m blind. I am blind. I am blind. I am blind. I am blind … ”
/|\ ^._.^ /|\
Days blurred, indistinguishable from one another. The soft thrum of the Batcave became oppressive. Familiar voices floated past her like detached leaves on wind. Words like ‘temporary’, ‘healing’, ‘recover’ carried no weight when she couldn’t understand them. Her mind, already labouring to translate, now buckled under fear.
She felt the emptiness like a physical thing. Her world once alive with nuance, breath, intention was blank.
“Forever? Forever.”
Certain words echoed in her skull, louder than any voice.
If she couldn’t see, she couldn’t understand. If she couldn’t understand, she couldn’t fight. If she couldn’t fight…
She was now neither a Batgirl, nor a weapon. She was broken. Useless.
“Useless.”
Sometimes she cried, she couldn’t stop it. The tears came when she reached for a cup and missed. When she heard others training and couldn’t join. When Alfred said something kind and she couldn’t find the words and meaning behind his gentle voice.
She stopped speaking. Not that she’d ever spoken much since the incident, but now, she said nothing at all even when spoken to.
Sometimes she sat for hours, unmoving, wrapped in Alfred’s thick wool blanket, staring at nothing. Because there was nothing. Her eyes were open, but the world gave her no response. No light. No movement. Just a crushing, indifferent void.
She started to avoid the others. When she heard footsteps in the hall, she’d slip away. She didn’t want to be touched, or helped, or pitied. Barbara’s voice, usually a comfort, began to feel like pressure. Words asking things of her. Encouragement felt like a burden she couldn’t carry. Hope, like a knife twisting in her ribs.
Sometimes, when she heard soft voices talking about her behind closed doors, she imagined they were saying what she already feared:
“She’s not getting better.”
“She’s not who she was.”
“She may never be.”
“She is useless.”
“Useless.”
She began to withdraw, retreating deeper into herself. She curled into herself, away from the world.
Paranoia began to fester in the dark. Every creak of the cave, every distant clang of metal, sounded amplified, menacing. She imagined shapes lurking just beyond the edge of her awareness, enemies she couldn’t perceive, couldn’t counter. Her breathing became shallow, her muscles perpetually tensed.
She barely ate, barely slept, convinced that any moment of weakness would leave her vulnerable. Her silent world became a prison built of fear and misinterpretation.
At night, she would wake gasping from dreams she couldn’t see. She’d fight phantom enemies in her sleep, only to wake up with fists clenched, body slick with sweat, heart hammering like a war drum. Her mind craved the clean logic of battle and motion, but now there was no enemy to fight, no one would want to fight a blind weapon.
She imagined herself vanishing, atom by atom. A ghost haunting the Batcave. No eyes. No voice. No use. Useless.
“Useless.”
Once, she reached up and touched her face, pressing her fingertips to her own eyes.
“What am I without these ?”
The answer was not in a word or a lesson, but in the memory of her own strength. She had to know if the person she was still existed.
Weak from malnutrition, Cassandra forced herself to the mansion’s gym. Her steps were slow, her breath shallow, but she made it because she had to.
She tried to train alone, but every punch felt wrong. She couldn’t read the weight of her imaginary opponent, couldn’t see when the dummy shifted on its hook. Her body still remembered how to fight, muscle memory etched deep, but now her perception was incomplete. She moved in mechanical echoes, her instincts were gone. When the training dummies swung toward her, she flinched because the timing and angles were wrong. Without sight, her body no longer felt certain. Her punches lost their conviction, her kicks landed with hesitation.
She repeated the movements, until her muscles and joints screamed for rest. She welcomed the pain, it was something real, something she could feel.
She crouched in the corner afterward, hugging her knees. Wondering if the girl who once moved like shadow and fire was gone forever.