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Chapter 2 - Selina

She stood 5�4 in her stocking feet, 135 lbs soaking wet, with large green eyes and close-cropped black hair. She smelled like exotic spices and could bring a man to his knees with a single glance. He�d seen her do it. She could handle herself in a fight with men three times her size and she liked her coffee black and sweet. He watched her as she played with the radio or shuffled through the old case notes he kept in the glove box, fingers moving deftly over each object with innate precision and grace. She hummed softly, badly off-key. Selina Kyle couldn�t carry a tune in a bucket, but Slam Bradley wasn�t about to complain.

They were sitting in his rusted old Plymouth just outside the Kane Projects. Slam had been chain-smoking for four hours and when he broke the silence between them his voice was rough. Her voice was breathy, low and quiet, a raspy utterance perfect for a darkened bedroom but at home in a trash-lined alley at midnight.

�It�s quiet,� Selina remarked, stretching long, shapely legs, wiggling some feeling back into her toes. A stylish, expensive-looking brown trenchcoat was wrapped around her curvaceous frame, concealing a black leather jumpsuit. He knew the aviator mask and goggles were folded tightly within her pocket, the lock-picking tools hidden in the fingertips of her gloves. Slam knew what she was planning, what she�d spent the day preparing to do. He swallowed past the hard knot of worry in his throat, trying not to notice the way she smelled or the motion of her breasts as she breathed in and out, trying not to think of the past.

�Want to give it another hour, then call it a night?� she asked him, arching her back in a long stretch.

�Sure,� he replied, knocking the ash off the tip of his cigarette, not feeling the cold after four hours of it. �Of course, if the place goes up, we can always say it exploded because your butt was sore.�

Selina shot him a grin masked in a glare. She took the cigarette from him, took a long pull and then handed the butt back. �Any coffee left?�

�Nope,� Slam told her, passing her a flask. �Just whiskey in the bottle.� Selina winced and rolled her eyes, took a swig and replaced the cap.

�Why do I get the feeling that you�re trying to relive your Prom night? I haven�t had to drink out of a flask since I was in grade school.�

Slam smiled, the small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes adding new creases to his already shopworn features. �Yeah, you�re a tough girl,� he smiled. �Want to play another round?�

�Fine,� Selina sighed with bone-deep reluctance. �Is it an animal?�

�Nope.�

�Mineral?�

Slam shot her a look from beneath the brim of his battered old fedora. �Who the hell picks �mineral� in this game?�

�Iron ore is making a comeback,� Selina grinned. �Vegetable, then. Is it orange?�

�Yep.�

�Slam! It�s not a carrot, is it? That�s the third time you�ve picked carrot.�

Slam Bradley shook his head, grinning. �I told you I was bad at this game.�

There was comfortable silence for a moment until Slam remembered that dangerous things could happen during chummy pauses in conversations. Things like stolen kisses and scratches on his back.

�So,� he said to fill the silence, �when are these guys gonna show?�

�They�ll be here,� she assured him, watching the tenements across the street. �Lou said they�d try it tonight.�

�As far as I�m concerned,� Slam said, tossing the cigarette butt into the gutter next to the car, �they can have the Kane Projects. It�s just a hobo hotel.�

Selina shook her head, despairing of ever educating Slam about the intricacies of Gotham real estate. �If Delmassi chases out the homeless and demolishes this building, what do you think he�ll replace it with? A day-care center? Low-rent housing? He�s building a mob casino, Slam. And that�s the last thing the East End needs.�

�Yeah, we wouldn�t want the gambling crowd in this neighborhood. They�re liable to get mugged.�

�You�re in a good mood tonight,� she pointed out, shifting the litter on the floor of the car around to find a more comfortable position for her feet.

Pushing the brim of the fedora off his forehead, Slam frowned and closed his eyes. �I�m sorry. I know it�s important, and I think I know why. But something feels a little funny about this whole thing.�

�Don�t be such a killjoy,� Selina advised, taking another sip from the flask. �I�ll bet you haven�t had this much fun in ages.�

Slam had to admit, she was right. Not since he�d broken things off with her had life been this much�not fun, exactly, but bearable.

Selina rubbed the back of her neck, stretching again. �Look, I�m not expecting Gotham�s corporate elite to swoop down and put up decent, affordable, rent-controlled housing if we stop these bastards from torching the tenements. It�s just-� she caught herself, lowering her voice, forcing neutrality into her expression. �We have to stand up to these wiseguys. Someone has to.�

�Okay,� Slam surrendered quietly, looking out the window, trying not to admire her passion and commitment to this hellhole of a city. Instead, he focused on three shadowy figures as they rushed down an alleyway behind the Kane Projects. �We�re on,� he announced, talking to himself. Selina had already vanished and Slam caught sight of Catwoman darting down the alleyway across the street.

Catwoman slipped across the street, her inky black costume melting into the shadows. She found a rusting fire escape and clambered lightly up the ladder, going in the first unlocked window she could find. Delmassi�s boys had already cleared out the transients who had made their homes in the old Kane Projects, handing out eviction notices in the form of severe beatings. She and Slam had only clued in this afternoon to the final stage in the �rehabilitation� of the old apartment complex: they were working slowly, now that Holly was gone.

Catwoman paused, listening for heavy footsteps or high-pitched laughter as Delmassi�s arsonists rigged the building to explode. It took only a few seconds for her to locate them in the old building and she surprised them, leaping out of the shadows, whip coiled at her waist, ready to strike. Her dark goggles and pointed aviator cap cut a strange silhouette in the darkened room, and she pretended not to notice as one of the three hoods gasped �Batgirl!� before shooting at her with an automatic pistol.

Catwoman dove out of the bath of bullets, skidding on her shoulder across the room until she stopped her own momentum by slamming into the knees of the other two arsonists. The men collapsed with a cry, squeezing the triggers of their weapons as they pitched forward. Mad gunfire erupted towards the ceiling, scoring the rooftop and sending bits of plaster raining down into the room. Catwoman grunted as one of the men landed on top of her, knocking the wind from her lungs. She leapt up, using the chaos to disarm the first shooter.

The other man had recovered, standing and taking aim at her with his pistol. �You can�t possibly be that stupid,� Catwoman marvelled, flicking her wrist and sending six feet of bullwhip towards him. The whip cracked loudly and the man dropped his gun, codling his hand in pain. She did a handspring to close the distance between the last gunman, kicking his rifle out of reach. Within thirty seconds, both of the gun-happy arsonists were unconscious and unarmed.

�I wasn�t the class Mathalete,� Catwoman said, �but wasn�t there three of you?� She went to the window and flashed the �all clear� signal to Slam, who was waiting on the street below. His job was to make it look as if he�d taken down the arsonists as part of a licensed private-eye gig. As far as the authorities in Gotham were concerned (the legal authorities, anyway), Catwoman had died in an explosion sixteen months ago. Selina wanted to keep it that way as long as possible.

Heart pounding, adrenaline pumping, Catwoman chased the last thug up two flights of stairs, pausing at the landing between floors, listening intently. She slowed her heart rate to a crawl, ears perked for the slightest noise. She heard a strangled yelp! and snapped her head to the left, then upwards towards the roof. Frantic, panicked footsteps echoed down through the ceiling. Catwoman charged up the stairs, bursting onto the roof of the Kane Projects.

The sun was just rising in Gotham as she erupted out of the stairwell, and it took an instant for her starlight lenses to compensate for the additional light. Catwoman extended her remaining senses to their limits, scanning the rooftop for her prey. She knew almost immediately that any further action on her part was unnecessary. He was here.

�Nice of you to drop in,� she said, pulling her starlight goggles up and off her face, blinking in the rosy light of early dawn. Batman was crouched at the north end of the roof, the last arsonist unconscious and trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey at his feet. �You didn�t have to gift-wrap,� Selina smiled, glad to see him and letting him know it.

Batman rose from his crouch, not sparing the bound and gagged thug a second glance. Selina came forward into his space, not quite touching him but close enough to feel the heat from his body. �Thanks for the assist, even if it came a little late in the game.�

He didn�t smile. He never did.

�Rough night?� she tried again, thinking he was being rather uncommunicative, even for him. If she had to venture a guess, she would say he looked tired, worn-out. It had taken her more than ten years to be able to guess when he was near the point of exhaustion.

�No, only unproductive,� was his response. Downstairs, they heard Slam burst into the building and shout �Freeze�! at the stirring arsonists as the dim blare of police sirens echoed through the streets.

�Want to go somewhere?� she asked him. �Talk, without the urban soundtrack?�

Batman considered her for a moment, Leslie�s warning prominent in his mind. She was tired; he noted the dark circles under her eyes and how pale she looked now that the faint blush of adrenaline was receding. �Let�s talk,� he said, turning without a word and leaping from the roof.

�I get the feeling it�s going to be a one-sided conversation,� Selina muttered, replacing her goggles over her eyes and swan-diving after him.

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They ended up on the top of the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge, Gotham spread out before them under the rising winter sun. He liked this view of the city. Gotham looked orderly, structured, at peace. At night the blood-red craze of sex, violence and crime threatened to overwhelm the city�s horizon, but at early dawn, the view was worthy of a postcard. The early-morning sun bounced off the rebuilt skyline of the city and the modern glass buildings of the downtown core sparkled like bright, false jewels. Wayne Towers soared above the skyline, a testament to his daylight achievements in Gotham. In those few moments, when the sun was rising and the city was bathed in golden light, he could see the Gotham which existed only in his mind�s eye, the Gotham he had been fighting for the majority of his life.

Selina dropped into a sitting positing and watched the sun rise slowly, the bright glare on her goggles concealing her eyes. �Why were you in the East End?�

Batman watched the river running 6,000 feet below them. A garbage scow was just pulling out into the main river channel. Gulls were already covering the barge; their screeching cries floated up towards the two masked vigilantes on the cold air, faint and dim. �Leslie said you needed help.�

�What, those firebugs back at the Kane projects? I handled them,� Selina told him, feeling her nose begin

to run in the freezing air. �If you thought so little of my abilities, why did you give me the East End?�

Batman opened and closed his fist, stretching his fingers, noting how sore his fingers were. The Kevlar-lined gloves protected his hands from fractures and knife wounds, but the extra padding put so much pressure on his digits that his fingers were often totally numb by the end of the night. The chill winter air didn�t help either. �I gave you the East End because I trust you to protect it, to make a difference. And you�ve done your best, Selina,� he told her, watching her in the sunlight. She was relaxed, her feline nature asserting itself, making her comfortable and at ease no matter the situation. The fight in the projects had been nothing more to her than a warm-up exercise.

�I hope you�re not trying to fire me,� she warned, standing, ready to unsheathe her claws.

�No,� he told her. �You can do things in the East End that I can�t. It isn�t my neighborhood. It never was.�

�Good,� she said, standing. A light, breezy tone had filtered back into her voice. She closed the distance between them, telegraphing her next move as she pulled her goggles off her face. He stiffened his posture and watched impassively as she took his hand, tugging off the glove and slowly massaging his fingers until some feeling returned to the tips. He was patient throughout her administrations, trying to ignore the sparks of heat generated by her touch. Throughout the years, she had alternately annoyed, angered and aroused him. Selina remained the one person who was able to touch him.

She watched his face, fascinated by the slight twitch in his lips which signaled either amusement or irritation. Selina kept rubbing his knuckles, noting the tiny white scars which marred the back of his large, masculine hands. His fingers were long and agile-looking, the hands of a surgeon, maybe, had he chosen that life. The knuckles of his fingers were blue and separated, marking him for eternity as a karate master. His palms were cold.

�You need to redesign those things,� she gestured at his glove. �Give yourself some breathing room.�

�No good,� he told her. �The gloves have to lie as close to the skin as possible to maximize sensitivity to touch. I couldn�t pick a simple lock if they were any looser.�

Selina smiled, turning his palm over and drawing his fingers across her own gloved-encased hand. �I can still feel things through mine.�

Something in his face or posture shifted slightly; Selina couldn�t guess what, but the moment was over. She dropped his hand, letting him replace his glove. �It isn�t like you to let me stall for so long.�

His lips twitched upward, the closest thing he did to smiling.

�I�m not here to fight with you, or lecture you. I�m worried. So is Leslie. These last few months have been hell. You�ve lost friends, loved ones. You�ve been betrayed. And while I can�t fault your performance on the street-� Batman halted his speech, marveling at her effect on him. He rarely spoke this much to Robin or Batgirl when he was wearing the cowl. �I don�t want you to feel as though you bear the weight of the entire East End.�

Something angry and liquid flashed in her eyes, and Selina stepped back, pulling her goggles down, shutting him out. �It doesn�t matter how I feel. It�s been twelve years and you haven�t been able to do anything in Crime Alley despite all of your little gadgets and resources. I bear the weight because I know I�m the only one who can help the people down there.�

Batman didn�t reply at first, thinking that she was at least partly right. He sighed heavily. The four-hour meeting with the financial board of Wayne Enterprises he had to attend this morning wouldn�t be half as difficult. He tried a different tactic. �I came to you to talk about a case.�

Selina nodded, suddenly all business. �I�ll help if I can.�

�I�m not sure how closely you follow local news-�

�I�m more of an international events sort of girl,� Selina replied, urging him to get to the point.

Batman�s slitted eyes narrowed. �Jessica Bradshaw, heir to the Bradshaw real estate fortune, disappeared six years ago. The police found nothing to suggest she was abducted, but I expected a ransom demand. Time passed, the case was put aside despite her father�s political pull, and Jessica was presumed dead. Yesterday, a girl died on the Bristol train. She was wearing a necklace that belonged to Jessica Bradshaw.�

Catwoman nodded, readjusting her goggles. �And why would any of that interest me?�

�Because the girl who died on that train, our connection to Jessica, was from the Bowery. Leslie says she lived in your old neighborhood.�

�How did she die?� Selina asked. He didn�t meet her eyes, looking at Gotham shining in the distance.

�Back-alley abortion. She was too far along to get a legal one.�

Selina bowed her head for a moment, lips pursed in anger. �I find it ironic that you�re more interested in Ms. Bradshaw than the East End runaway who bled to death because of an ass-backward policy the clinics in the East End follow. A policy implemented, I might add, by people who have never lived in this part of Gotham. People like Jessica Bradshaw�s father and his real estate millions.�

Batman grabbed her upper arm, iron fingers biting into her flesh. �I�m trying to save a life, Selina. Make all the political statements you�d like, but help me.�

�And to think it used to get me hot when you played the tough guy,� she whispered, danger threading through her soft voice. He released her quickly and Selina resisted the urge to rub her arm.

�I thought we were friends,� she said quietly.

�We are.�

�You have a funny way of showing it.� He still didn�t look at her. �Touched a nerve, I guess,� Catwoman muttered. �Do you have a picture of the girl? I�ll see what I can find out.�

He handed her the morgue photo which he�d been circulating all night in the East End. Selina�s eyes flicked over the picture and she pressed a small button on the side of her starlight goggles, flipping a different lens into place. �I think Holly might have known her. Unfortunately,� she sighed, �Holly is unavailable at the moment.�

�Where?� he growled.

�Bludhaven.�