Post by Selina Kyle on Jul 5, 2010 20:33:54 GMT -5
It was exhilarating speeding through tiny streets normally congested by downtown traffic. Skyscrapers whizzed by dangerously but the raven-haired woman simply leaned into the turns and ignored them. She felt ten foot tall and bullet prof after her close call earlier than evening. Though it ought to have inspired caution and restraint, remembering the fall and the subsequent catch had the opposite effect. She smirked, and opened the throttle on her bike.
She only slowed when she neared her destination, letting the engine idle into a low purr. She rolled up to Wildcat's Gym with caution, preferring not to alert all and sundry to her nighttime habits. The bay door was left open for her purposes, and she put her heels down on the ground as she came to a stop. She pulled off her helmet, swung her leg over easily, and turned her attention to her backpack. She would store it in a locker until she could hit the Police Department again some other night, hopefully when it was less guarded. But her eyebrows knitted together as she swung the pack off; it felt far too light in her hands. Spotting the unzipped opening at the top, she tore into it viciously.
The fucking Bat. The victorious high she had been riding was replaced by a towering rage, and she turned angrily to strike out at a nearby wall. She remembered to flatten her palm at the last moment and spared herself a broken fist, but the wounded ego was not to be escaped. She was painfully aware that she had been played at her own game, and she had no intention of letting it go unanswered. He wanted to get in her way? Well two could play that game.
As her rage cooled into something more like revenge, her ideas became less formless, and more dangerous. All she needed was opportunity, and not long after she got it.
Vauxhall Opera Shell was eerily quiet that evening. It was the opening of a new play and the party had been moved to another venue where people could kiss the asses of the cast more readily. The operahouse had been vacated, cleaned, and squared away in record time thanks to the absence of both audience and players, and that left the place closed up before the after party was even half over. Onto this strangely abandoned scene walked one costume that definitely didn't belong. Her saunter was much too arrogant to be entirely on the up and up.
She studied the cameras before making her way up to the building. The first part of her mission was the trickiest, requiring ingenuity, timing, patience, and a little black paint. Next she turned her sights to what she did best, slinking up the blind spots in the Hall's security system and jimmying her way through a window so high up and so slim couldn't possibly be wired. She slipped inside, and smirked as she neared the rooms where the costumes were stored. One costume in particular was right up her alley: pointy ears, silky whiskers, and heavily bejeweled. One might say it was the cat's meow.
Some ten minutes later, she emerged. She coasted easily up to the electric panel at the front of the building, which controlled the giant spotlights out front meant to advertise the presence of the famous playhouse. Checking first that no cameras were turned her way, she flipped the switch, turned on the famous spotlights, and then immediately walked over to the large glass windows that decorated the front of the building. She kicked straight through one of them, shattering the glass. Escape route, check! As the overhead alarms began to blare their warning to the police, citizens, and criminals alike, the spotlights issued their own kind of warning to Gotham's caped crusader: each one was painted with an imperfect but nonetheless recognizable bat signal.
She would have to thank him later for giving her such a well-made cover. That is, if he found a way to avoid being jailed when he arrived and found the place already crawling with cops. Really, though, she almost hoped he did escape, because then he could read in the paper the next day that of all the priceless things held within the Opera Hall only one object had been stolen: a cat mask. You see, it really is bad luck to cross a cat in black.
She only slowed when she neared her destination, letting the engine idle into a low purr. She rolled up to Wildcat's Gym with caution, preferring not to alert all and sundry to her nighttime habits. The bay door was left open for her purposes, and she put her heels down on the ground as she came to a stop. She pulled off her helmet, swung her leg over easily, and turned her attention to her backpack. She would store it in a locker until she could hit the Police Department again some other night, hopefully when it was less guarded. But her eyebrows knitted together as she swung the pack off; it felt far too light in her hands. Spotting the unzipped opening at the top, she tore into it viciously.
The fucking Bat. The victorious high she had been riding was replaced by a towering rage, and she turned angrily to strike out at a nearby wall. She remembered to flatten her palm at the last moment and spared herself a broken fist, but the wounded ego was not to be escaped. She was painfully aware that she had been played at her own game, and she had no intention of letting it go unanswered. He wanted to get in her way? Well two could play that game.
As her rage cooled into something more like revenge, her ideas became less formless, and more dangerous. All she needed was opportunity, and not long after she got it.
Vauxhall Opera Shell was eerily quiet that evening. It was the opening of a new play and the party had been moved to another venue where people could kiss the asses of the cast more readily. The operahouse had been vacated, cleaned, and squared away in record time thanks to the absence of both audience and players, and that left the place closed up before the after party was even half over. Onto this strangely abandoned scene walked one costume that definitely didn't belong. Her saunter was much too arrogant to be entirely on the up and up.
She studied the cameras before making her way up to the building. The first part of her mission was the trickiest, requiring ingenuity, timing, patience, and a little black paint. Next she turned her sights to what she did best, slinking up the blind spots in the Hall's security system and jimmying her way through a window so high up and so slim couldn't possibly be wired. She slipped inside, and smirked as she neared the rooms where the costumes were stored. One costume in particular was right up her alley: pointy ears, silky whiskers, and heavily bejeweled. One might say it was the cat's meow.
Some ten minutes later, she emerged. She coasted easily up to the electric panel at the front of the building, which controlled the giant spotlights out front meant to advertise the presence of the famous playhouse. Checking first that no cameras were turned her way, she flipped the switch, turned on the famous spotlights, and then immediately walked over to the large glass windows that decorated the front of the building. She kicked straight through one of them, shattering the glass. Escape route, check! As the overhead alarms began to blare their warning to the police, citizens, and criminals alike, the spotlights issued their own kind of warning to Gotham's caped crusader: each one was painted with an imperfect but nonetheless recognizable bat signal.
She would have to thank him later for giving her such a well-made cover. That is, if he found a way to avoid being jailed when he arrived and found the place already crawling with cops. Really, though, she almost hoped he did escape, because then he could read in the paper the next day that of all the priceless things held within the Opera Hall only one object had been stolen: a cat mask. You see, it really is bad luck to cross a cat in black.
