All you lurkers, review and tell me what you think...I'm holding the next chapter ransom for, let's say, five reviews. Yes, I'm evil. I know. Enjoy.
Arwen
Catwoman crouched in the shadows of the rooftop, narrowing her green eyes as she surveyed the Institute of Fine Art. She took out her binoculars and clicked up the magnification, examining the goliath columns that held up the front of the structure, probing the shadows for any sign of him. "Last week was just a warmup," she murmured, recalling the alarm system in detail in her head, pulling up the format of the lasers, the different ways the system could be tripped—pressure sensors on the floor, and most of the time, a weight sensor on the artwork's pedestal, so that if the object was removed an alert was triggered. But she had already taken care of that—she'd scouted the dumpsters on the other side of the building and come up with a compacted hunk of aluminum that she was almost sure was the right weight to replace the Sekhmet carving.
From the camera shot she'd seen on the news, the Sekhmet carving took pride of place in the main exhibit gallery, which was conveniently located right next to the atrium—hello, skylights. You'd think that Gotham architects would start to catch on, she thought in amusement. Any building with windows on the top was just too tempting, and any building that had already felt the sting of her claws once should learn fast.
"Once fooled, shame on me," she murmured, still scanning with her binoculars. "Twice fooled…" She paused and smiled, scarlet lips stretching to reveal shining white teeth. Crouching down, she swung the black pack down from her back and opened it, hefting the chunk of aluminum, imagining the weight of the beautiful, gleaming carving in her hand instead.
"You know, you should really recycle that."
Catwoman jumped a little and hissed, "You know, you shouldn't sneak up on a girl like that, Red."
Poison Ivy, once known as Dr. Pamela Isley, made her leisurely way across the rooftop. "Sorry, Kitty-cat," she said silkily, twirling a long strand of red hair about her pale fingers. "But I just had to point out that every aluminum can you recycle, you save ninety-five percent of the energy it would take to create a new can out of raw materials."
"How interesting," said Catwoman flatly, scanning again with her binoculars. She switched to infrared. Still nothing, beside the glow of the atrium with its fogged windows.
"Do you know where they get the energy they use to make those horrid cold cans?" Poison Ivy asked, putting her hands on her hips.
"Let me guess. Plants?" Catwoman raised one eyebrow, expression clearly bored.
"Close, Kitty. Dead plants." Poison Ivy's red lips pressed into a ferocious scowl. "Just like that idiot who chops down my precious trees to carve them up into statues."
"Question?" Catwoman held up a hand. "If you're referring to coal as a fuel source, those plants have been dead for hundreds of years, Red. I mean, if I'm remembering my eighth grade science."
"Do you think I care?" snapped Poison Ivy. "The fact remains that humans, who happen to think they're so much better than every other organism on this planet, have always plundered the botanical world to suit their whims."
"So why are you here again?" Catwoman asked, shoving the aluminum back into her sack. "If you don't mind my asking."
"Of course not, Kitty-cat," replied Poison Ivy silkily. "But I thought you would have been smart enough to figure that out for yourself."
"Oh, the whole deal with using woods from endangered trees?" purred Catwoman. She prided herself on knowing how to get under anyone's skin…even a super-villainess, and she was rewarded by Ivy flushing in anger. "Well, sure, Red, but you gotta admit, the man's got taste."
"Taste?" hissed Ivy. "He's butchering living things that have just as much a right to life as him! He's wasting lives needlessly, all in the name of art! And stop calling me Red," she added. "It reminds me of Harley."
"Oh, she's still in the slammer, isn't she," cooed Catwoman. "How unfortunate." She stood and unhooked her whip from her belt. "How about I stop calling you Red when you stop calling me Kitty-cat."
"Fine," spat Poison Ivy. As Catwoman uncoiled her whip, clearly readying to leave, she took a step forward, features softening. "Look…Catwoman. Remember the last time we teamed up?"
"Who could forget," said Catwoman devilishly. "That was a wild night…we had the Bat tearing at his pointy little ears." Then she checked herself.
"Batman?" Poison Ivy's look turned to one of pure hatred. "He still fancies himself the master of the night in Gotham?"
Catwoman shrugged eloquently. "I don't really like bats, but let's just say I'd like to see what's under that cape."
"Whether he dresses like a bat or a monkey, I don't care," snarled Ivy, her face contorted in real rage. Catwoman edged away from her—she'd forgotten that the bad-girl botanist was a certified man-hater. Any size, shape or form, no matter if they were hot or not, the luscious Dr. Isley was cold as ice. Catwoman considered it…it would be a pity, she decided, to hate men, when they were such fun toys. Ivy visibly calmed herself.
"It's all right, though," she continued in an oddly smooth voice. "It doesn't matter if the Batman comes tonight."
"Why?" Catwoman asked suspiciously, crouching down at the edge of the rooftop. "It's two against one, sure, but honestly, there's a strength issue involved. I was thinking bang and burn. After I get my Sekhmet, of course."
"Burn?" Ivy eyed the Gotham Institute of Fine Art. "Let's say we burn the main exhibition, but we're not going to hurt the atrium, Pussy."
Catwoman gave a little growl at the pet-name. "You keep calling me ridiculous names, Red, and you're on your own."
"No need to get hissy, darling," Isley replied smoothly. "I want to set the poor plants in the atrium free."
Catwoman rolled her eyes. "Whatever you say. But like I said, I get Sekhmet. That's rule number one."
"Fine." Ivy walked to the edge of the roof. Her eyes glittered. "Can I make up rule number two?"
"Knock yourself out," said the feline thief extraordinaire, binoculars up at her eyes again. Still no Bats. She fought down a wave of disappointment. It almost wouldn't be exciting enough without him. Plus she wanted to try out some new moves on those rock-hard pecs of his. She glanced up at Ivy. "Thought you said you were making up rule number two."
"Rule number two," said Ivy promptly, staring across the gap between the rooftops to a heavy patch of shadow. "I get to kill the Batman."
xXxXxX
Bruce throttled down the Tumbler in the alley behind the Gotham Institute of Fine Art. He scanned the area with his infrared night-goggles, just to be sure a certain feline wasn't going to jump him when he exited the vehicle. Finding the area clean of heat trails, he climbed out and promptly shot his grapple-gun to the top of the roof. There was an observation post he'd used before, where the ducts for the museum's climate control systems let out their cold exhaust. It effectively negated his heat print, at least from a range farther away than a few hundred yards, making it an ideal position to watch the other rooftops, as well as the stairs leading up to the entrance of the Institute. With a swirl of his cape, he settled down for what he hoped would be a fruitless vigil. Little did he know that a rooftop away, the two women he hoped not to meet tonight were discussing his fate.
"Repeat rule number two, please?" Catwoman stood slowly, turning to gaze at Poison Ivy.
"I get to kill the Batman," Ivy repeated obligingly, relishing the words.
Catwoman considered the pale redhead; obviously the woman was insane—hello, Arkham inmate…if you weren't crazy when you went in, just getting stuck with the wrong neighbor would make sure you were a few whiskers short when you came out. But she hadn't thought that Poison Ivy's psychopathic activist tendencies would make her want to kill in cold blood. Sure, she'd turned a few people into plants before her commitment to Arkham, but hey, the people were probably very happy as hedges; she was sure it was a very peaceful existence. Selina took a deep breath, wincing at the words that were about to come out of her mouth. "Are you sure you want to do that?"
Poison Ivy gave her an incredulous look. "You're defending him?"
Catwoman shrugged. "He's a nice piece of work, if you go for the slightly insane. Which, incidentally, I do." She gave a feral grin that made Ivy back up half a step. "And anyway, don't you think that's a little hasty?"
"In what sense? Everyone wants the Bat dead."
Catwoman bristled. She didn't quite understand why her hackles were rising at first, but after a moment she realized it was like when one of her cats had a favorite toy and one of the others dropped it out the window. Except it would be intentional. And no-one would be able to retrieve her toy and rinse it off, good as catnip again. "I just mean that I could understand it if, say, he foiled us tonight…and we wanted a second crack at it, sure, coming up with a scheme to take him out would be understandable. But killing him right off the bat? Pardon my pun, but that's no fun at all."
"Oh," said Poison Ivy, "but it will be fun." She unhooked a small pouch from her belt, smiling when Catwoman tensed, ready to spring away. "Unfortunately, my dear feline, there isn't enough for two. But let me assure you, this will certainly be more fun than you've had in all your nine lives."
"Lame catch-line," muttered Catwoman under her breath. Louder, she said, "So what's that?"
"It's a special plant," said Ivy lovingly, rubbing the pouch against her cheek. "A neurotoxin that paralyzes the muscles…but leaves all sensory feeling intact…and then, eventually, it stops the heart. But after some delicious playtime."
Catwoman felt—besides revulsion—an overwhelming urge to knock the pouch from Isley's hand and watch it go sailing down and away…harmless. But Ivy was looking at her in a way that didn't brook argument. She sighed inwardly. So much for being the good guy for once, she thought somewhat ruefully. "All right," she purred, pushing down her conscience with a spark of irritation. Since when had she had a conscience this loud and clamorous? "Fill me in on this brilliant plan."
A few moments later, she had to admit, the plan wasn't brilliant. It was actually very simple, and there were many steps that could go wrong, or backfire…but if it didn't work, she wouldn't be complaining. "All right," she growled.
"I'm so glad you see my viewpoint," Poison Ivy said coolly. She gave a little smile. "It would have been such a pity to kill you."
"I'm sure," replied Catwoman drily. She uncoiled her whip. "Are we going to stand here bantering all night or are we going to do this?"
"By all means," said Isley, securing the pouch at her hip again.
Catwoman took several large steps back from the edge of the building, eyeing the fire escape set into the Institute's side. She took a running start and leapt off the edge, whip cracking as it snaked around one of the support bars. The bar groaned as it took her swinging weight. She added a nice front somersault at the apex of her arc, propelling her onto the roof. The glass triangles that were the rooftop of the atrium glinted to her left and she prowled toward them. She was almost through carving out a large circle of glass with her diamond-tipped claws when he made his grand entrance, cape flying—as usual. She ignored him and continued working.
"No witty quip tonight?" Batman rasped as he approached the slender black-clad woman.
"Hmm," she shrugged, still scratching at the glass. "Work as usual."
"You're after the Sekhmet carving."
She looked up at him and narrowed her eyes coyly. "Well, aren't you chatty tonight, Batsy Boy."
One dark shoulder came up in a shrug that echoed hers. "Work as usual is boring sometimes."
"You've got that right, handsome," replied Catwoman flirtatiously, hoping that he would banter for just a few more seconds—almost there—
"Where's Ivy?" he asked.
"Oh, so I'm the lesser of two evils now? Stooping to asking me where little Miss Scientist has run off to?" Catwoman pouted. "I thought we had a better relationship than that, Batsy." Was that a flicker of annoyance, that twitch of his mouth when she said his pet name? Or…was it amusement?
"So you have no idea where she is." It was a question, but it sounded more like a statement.
Catwoman found herself biting her lip as she sawed at the glass. Come on, Selina, she chided herself mentally. Lie! It's not that big of a deal, you've lied hundreds, hell, probably thousands of times before, and a lot of them to the Bat! But somehow, knowing that he would die… "No," she said finally. The glass circle bobbled and she caught it on the edges of her claws neatly, setting it to one side. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a cat statue to steal." She slipped down through the opening, coiled her whip about the sturdy branch of a tree and landed on the silver railing that bordered the wandering atrium path. As expected, the Batman landed with a cape-swirl. She lazily performed a few back walkovers on the narrow railing, pausing in the middle of her third and holding the handstand, long legs bending forward and back in a mid-air split. Finally she righted herself and settled into a comfortable crouch, gloved fingers touching the cool railing. "Isn't this the part where you throw the punches and I try to race you to the statue?" she inquired with heavy sarcasm.
The Batman merely watched her with those gimlet eyes. She shrugged. "Suit yourself." With that she ran lightly down the length of the railing and vaulted off the end, into the main exhibition room, clicking into auto-pilot as she executed the complicated set of handsprings and somersaults choreographed precisely for this security system. Something whizzed past her and hit the security box and the lasers deactivated.
She stopped, balancing on one leg delicately, and saw with amazement that the Batarang had completely obliterated the security system, neatly cutting through all the proper wires. Turning, she placed her hands on her hips. "Honestly, Bats, you take the fun out of everything." Something was off—the Batman was acting strangely out of character. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, but she ignored them and took full advantage of the Bat's magnanimous moment, sprinting toward the carving of Sekhmet. Her feline heart warmed at the sight of it, all gleaming wood and smooth lines, a slim female figure topped with a glorious lioness head, two perfectly matched emeralds glittering beneath the glass—as if the goddess was begging her to release her from this stuffy museum, this humiliating display.
"I know, darling, cats aren't made for cages," Catwoman breathed, unshouldering her pack and bringing out her chunk of aluminum, just to be safe. The replacement went without a hitch, and she was holding the beautiful figure in her arms, cradling it like a child. She knew he was watching her, from the shadows, so she held up the lioness's head to her own and said sweetly, "Look, our eyes even match. How puuuuurrrrrfect." She wrapped Sekhmet—her Sekhmet—in a cloth and slid her into the pack. A rumbling came from the direction of the atrium—she ran past the Bat and he didn't try to stop her, merely following silently.
The air in the atrium was terrifically hot and humid, a drastic change from just moments before, and as Catwoman glanced upward she saw Poison Ivy ensconced in the branches of the huge ginkgo tree that dominated the atrium. "Right on time, Red," she murmured, leaping up onto the railing again despite the fact that the alarm system was down and she knew very well the path was clear of trips. A vine touched her leg and she shooed it away, shuddering at the feel of the writhing plant—she much preferred warm fur rubbing against her skin.
"Don't do this, Ivy," she heard Batman call out. The ginkgo tree was growing, branches pushing out and expanding, like one of those scenes in National Geographic when the frames are sped up to demonstrate the growth rate of a particular plant. Catwoman suppressed another shudder. She looked for a ground exit, not savoring the thought of jumping from branch to branch as the damn trees grew.
"Now, why would I listen to you?" Ivy replied, her voice silken and dangerous. She slid sinuously down a branch, the ginkgo bending with a symphony of creaks to deposit her gently on her feet. "After all, you are the one who put me in Arkham, Batman."
"You need help, Pamela," came the gravelly voice again.
Ivy laughed. She threw back her head and laughed until tears—or sap—or whatever she cried ran down her face.
Just go, Selina, just get out of here before the milk goes sour, Catwoman urged herself, still casting about for a ground exit. Yet for some reason she turned and watched, oddly transfixed by the standoff, Sekhmet pressing gently against her back. The Bat took a step closer to Ivy, and she fought the urge to yell a warning at him. Then, unexpectedly, Ivy's face changed from hard and angry to…almost sad. Her clenched fists softened, and her shoulders slumped.
"Maybe…Maybe you're right," Pamela Isley said softly, almost too quietly even for Catwoman's acute hearing. "Maybe…I should let you take me back to Arkham." The plants slowed their growth. A tendril of drooping blue flowers wound itself up Ivy's leg, as if trying to console her. Batman watched her warily for a moment, then took another step forward. From her vantage point, Catwoman glimpsed the small movement of Ivy's hand as she unhooked the pouch from her belt, and, her hackles raised at such underhanded treachery, she made her decision. She dropped Sekhmet—sorry, darling—and sprinted back toward the unmoving pair. Ivy, too, took a step forward, shoulders heaving with fake sobs.
"She's playing dead, you idiot!" she yelled at Batman, who had time for one look at her before Ivy raised her closed fist, ready to dose him with the neurotoxin. With a great leap, Catwoman closed the distance between them and tackled her brutally, slamming Ivy's pale shoulders against the cold marble tiles of the atrium path.
"Traitor to your own kind," hissed Ivy, teeth bared—but her eyes were glazed with pain. Catwoman dug her claws into the botanist's shoulders, drawing green blood that oozed stickily, like sap.
"Anyone who kills without cause is worse than a traitor," snarled Catwoman in reply, surprising even herself with her moral-sounding refute. "I won't let you kill him, because he's what keeps freaks like you contained."
Ivy laughed, still pinned beneath the black-clad woman's iron grip. "Freaks like me, Kitty? That's rich. What do you think you are, if not a freak? A girl with exhibitionist tendencies who pretends she's a cat? It doesn't get any kinkier than that, darling."
"Call me names all you want, Red," said Catwoman. Her heart was pounding with relief—for once, she'd saved the day. "Your little plan failed." For once, she'd been the hero. And then she heard a cough from behind her, a swoosh, like something heavy was falling—
She released Ivy and whirled just in time to catch the Bat as he fell heavily, grunting at his weight. He coughed again, and she felt his muscles jerking against her arms; she settled him on the floor and turned back to Ivy, a growl humming low in her throat. Poison Ivy regarded her with hooded eyes, standing with one hip cocked.
"So what's it going to be, sugar?" the deranged doctor asked sweetly. "Are you going to make sure I get back safe to my cell in Arkham, or are you going to save your precious Batman?"
"You said there was time," gritted Catwoman, recalling Ivy's words on the rooftop.
The pale redhead produced a vial filled with a viscous green liquid. "Only if the right amounts of inhibitor solution are injected at the right times. That's what extends the life of the infected organism." She gave a disdainful look at the prone black-clad figure, struggling to rise to his feet behind Catwoman, and tossed the vial up into the air.