Cassandra hopes there's a soul inside of her. Without it, she'd be nothing but a malfunctioning android, all her thoughts mere lines of code.

What scares her is the uncertainty. Before, she never feared not knowing, probably because she wasn't even aware of her ignorance under Cain's manipulation.

It's silly, the things you notice growing up. Like believing her creators' abuse was simply training, or believing she was an android until adolescence.

At the age of 4, they took her vocal cords and voice box. For a long time, she brushed these memories off as glitches in her program. She couldn't voice these doubts, even if she wanted to—not that Cain would have listened. Maybe she tried. Memories from that time are fuzzy, just beyond her grasp. Perhaps that's what cost her her tongue too.

Bruce wouldn't have called himself her father if she were a machine. You can't adopt an android. Bruce and Barbara treat her like a human, with hugs, food, care—all reserved for humans, not for machines.

But there's still the dread of not knowing. It's hard to articulate, even in her mind. Bruce could treat an android with the same care; he's kind like that. Cassandra can't be sure because Bruce doesn't keep androids.

No, Bruce employs humans. Like you. The Doctor. You're the one repairing her body during her checkups, like now, as she waits for you.

"Ra, re, ri, ro, ru," Cassandra repeats in front of the small mirror, her speech a bit slurred. You said it would improve with time. A new artificial tongue and voice box won't magically make her speak again.

Cassandra swallows, going through tongue exercises. It's like being a newborn, except that it feels uncomfortable and embarrassing to be so broken. Cassandra really hates not knowing.