Wren and Selina have claws (laminette) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-02-27 12:21:00 |
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Entry tags: | catwoman, door: dc comics |
Who: Selina/Catwoman
What: Narrative: Stealing things is fun
Where: Gotham
When: Todayish
Warnings/Rating: None
The motel room was compromised. That was Selina’s first concern.
Moving wasn’t a big deal. She wasn’t attached to the place or anything. She wasn’t attached to the last place either, the one that got firebombed. She wasn’t attached to the luxury condo in the heart of Gotham that Lola had stashed her in before she died. She wasn’t attached to the dozen places that came before. Moving, it wasn’t a big deal. She packed light - cat carrier, a bag slung over her shoulder with her clothes, and a duffel with what was left of the dirty cop money that had gotten her best friend killed - and she wound her way around Gotham’s Narrows, glaring knives at anyone who looked at her for too long.
The new motel room was just like the other one, with the added perk of an easy drop onto the dumpster below. Same decor, same Gotham. She ran a bath, climbed into the hot water with a purr, and closed her eyes as she thought about this mess she was in. The blonde, the one she normally was stuck inside, was quiet, which Selina was grateful for. The last thing she needed was the Ice Queen babbling while she figured things out.
She knew this wasn’t actually her Gotham. Oh, it was home alright, but it was different. She’d noticed it when she was walking. It was a feeling more than anything, combined with the knowledge that she hadn’t been real before, a knowledge that came from the blonde. She and the blonde, they didn’t share information. Selina didn’t show, and the blonde didn’t tell, so that wasn’t very helpful. She only knew what the blonde saw and heard, not what was in her head, but that was alright. Selina could figure it out on her own. She’d always been able to figure things out on her own.
At twenty two, Selina was an old soul. Gotham’s streets hadn’t been kind to her as a child, and they’d been even worse when she was a teenager. The way she saw it, Gotham’s elite deserved everything they got. Everything she gave them. The fact that this wasn’t her Gotham didn’t change that. It was still Gotham, and Gotham was still filled with privileged, entitled pricks that needed to be taken down a peg or two.
Conveniently, she had a score to settle with one of those bastions of society.
Bruce Wayne bored her, as a rule. His money was the only interesting thing about him, really, and his parties, which she liked to cause trouble at. But this time she had a personal score to settle. It was his fault she had to make this inconvenient motel shuffle in the middle of the night. He’d refused to open his door in that hotel in Las Vegas, but he’d done plenty of looking into her private residence. That was so like the wealthy. Oh, the blonde wasn’t sure the self-destructive boy in the baseball cap was Bruce, but Selina was. She’d know the gates to Wayne Manor anywhere. The doors? Not so much. Selina didn’t have a lot of use for doors. She didn’t associate Bruce with Batman, and she didn’t let herself worry about whether or not this new version of Gotham even had a Batman. It was better for her if it didn’t; she was very good at lying to herself.
The pipes complained as the water went down the drain, and it only took her a few minutes to get suited up. Black catsuit, black boots to mid-calf, black cowl and goggles. The whip at her hip was the only weapon she carried, chosen because even if someone stole it, they wouldn’t be able to wield it with any success.
She didn’t use the door; that dumpster was going to come in handy.
Wayne Manor was right where she expected it to be, which made her feel better about Gotham in general. Gotham wasn’t Gotham without the Wayne family ruling over everyone from their throne. They were, in her opinion, a symbol of everything that was wrong with Gotham, and she was in a cranky, cranky mood. What better way to blow off steam than to steal a family heirloom?
She’d been inside Wayne Manor before, undercover, at a very memorable party which the Russian Mafia conveniently crashed. She knew where the safe was, and she knew where the pricey art was, but it wasn’t either of those things she was after. No, up in the corner of a tower was a sitting room, one that Selina assumed had belonged to Mother Wayne, and she’d spied a jewelry box on the dressing table there during her "visit." Whatever was inside hadn’t been touched in years, she was guessing. It could be empty, but she didn’t think so. The whole room was a memory, and no one took things out of a memory.
The window was high, and scaling it with the claws that extended from her gloves was a piece of cake. Her boots found (and held) the footholds on the side of the building with ease and the black of her suit was lost in the inky Gotham night. The cutter, tucked away in her utility belt made quick work of a circle on the glass to the corner room, and she reached an arm through and cut the alarm wire before opening the window and climbing in. The house was quiet, tomb quiet, and the Cat that sat down at the dressing table didn’t disturb the silence (or the lasers the can of aerosol she carried with her revealed).
The mirror on the dressing table was perfectly clean, ornate while being simple in its elegance. She pushed the goggles off her face, and she ran her fingers over the cool, marble inlay of the jewelry box. No dust. Inside, a necklace rested lovingly against the velvet lining the box. She smiled a cat’s smile; she loved being right. It probably wasn’t the most expensive jewelry in the house, but she wasn’t looking for the most expensive jewelry in the house; she was making a point.
She didn’t tuck the necklace away. Instead, she looked at herself in the mirror as she closed the tiny clasp behind her neck. Still, no company. He must not be home, she decided. She moved the jewelry box just a bit to the left, tipped the mirror just a little to the right, and then she climbed out the way she’d come. No chase tonight, which was disappointing. She didn’t expected Bruce Wayne to get his hands dirty, but she expected his security, at least. Next time she’d be less careful, she decided, as her boots landed on the perfectly manicured grass.
She was feeling bored and disheartened as she scaled the huge fence that she’d seen for just a moment at that hotel in Las Vegas, and then a smile spread across her lips as she tugged her goggles down. Maybe she’d be able to torment the billionaire after all.