Eve Kelly (fearlessfelix) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2010-09-01 07:11:00 |
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Entry tags: | catwoman, lois lane |
Who: Eve Kelly and Max Main
What: Eve goes out for a quick steal. Max interrupts, Max gets a broken nose. Eve is okay with this.
When: After the three-way Johnny/Max/Bats log, in the early, early hours of a morning.
Where: Outside Bathos.
Rating: Mild violence
Three hours past the witching hour, and the only real light was the dull haze far below and what little light filtered through curtains: the blue glow of television sets that flickered silently behind thin drapes with the would-be watchers slumped low on couches and half asleep, the occasional bedside lamp as the occupants of the room twisted and twined together and a passing glance couldn't tell the difference between th two. The Bathos sat in almost-silence and the torpor of late night wound itself about it, a blanket around the shoulders of someone not quite awake but not yet asleep. The fire-escape was quite empty; she'd watched it long enough, silent on the opposite roof-top, planning. It was a particular apartment she was gunning for right around now; a gal might not shit in her own front yard but there were times that called for desperate measures and the little old article crunched into a ball in a gloved hand spoke of something quite, quite worth doing exactly that. A statue; not much of a looker in her own estimable opinion, worn around the edges and not much to begin with -- if the women looked like that back then, then well. Human race, propagation and all that, but worth several million there in black and white type and a little photo, to be helpful. Worth a stake-out when the air was sticky-stale and didn't move, and crouching for so long meant cramped muscles even for her -- thieving superpowers had a finite end to their helpfulness, it seemed. But the last light near the particular apartment selected winked out, and Eve ran a finger beneath the tight leather collar of the tight leather jacket, adjusted the mask to settle itself more closely around her eyes. After the last nightly encounter, she was taking more care -- an old skull cap to bundle up all that hair, but the wool was hot and heavy and it was a working-title moment at best. With feet soft as silver, she leaped-dropped from one building to the other, padding up wrought iron fire-escape without a sound to the window of her target. The knife, sharp as a smile, palmed and steady -- in and out, done and done -- everything just dandy. Right? Right. It was late, and Max was on her way home from a night of too many beers and an exhilarating ride on the back of a decked out Harley Davidson. It was one of those nights that reminded her of life in Musings, of the Army, of trying to prove she could drink the boys under the table, only to end up waking up sweaty in one of their beds. Army life had suited Max, with its crass boy's school mentality. She preferred beer to wine, and she preferred country to alternative, and she preferred men to boys. She could throw a punch, and she could ride a bucking bronco, and she loved the purr of the engine block between her thighs on a hot night. She slid off the man's bike (Cory, a local dock worker), and she gave him a kiss goodbye, even as she straightened his collar in a move that indicated he'd done more than night than just offer her a ride back. He lit a cigarette, and she took it from between his lips and took a long, long drag. He chuckled, lamented the fate of her bra earlier in the evening, and he pulled out into traffic and away. She turned, and she looked at Bathos, and she sighed dreamily. Alone again. The problem with military men is that they never stuck around. You could get them for a night, for two, for three - but long term? Hell no. A deploy and you'd never see them again. If you did? There was no chance in hell of them being faithful. She thought of Thomas, of Johnny - hell, she even thought of the mysterious Bat - and she snorted indelicately. Those men were entirely different stories. She looked up at the building, and she would have lost herself in thoughts of unattainable things worth attaining, but something caught her attention. There, on the fire escape. She would have dialed 911, wouldn't have even considered the alternative, almost did do just that; and then she realized it was a woman. She pulled the Palm from her pocket, and she started writing. Just a tiny change, a little teeny thing - she removed the window on the escape. Just like that, the air crackled with the shift from the entirely real plane to the one she'd just created, but everything was otherwise silent, and the only way left was down. No ladder up, no way to the roof. No, just down. She looked up at the woman in black, and she waited. There was no fear, no worry. Max was unarmed, but she wasn't helpless. Yes, a bullet was a bullet, but women didn't generally shoot. She waited. Well that was something. The tip of the knife had rested against the window pane, shimmered against glass like a sharp kiss. The gloves were slick against the knife-handle, Eve glanced down to tighten them; the window was gone. The knife was pressed up nice and tight against red brick, a place it shouldn't be -- like waking up beneath the slung arm of a man whose face you wouldn't look twice at on the street. Eve let it drop; keeping the fine-honed point against shabby brick would just blunt the thing, make it useless, mean what the hell just happened? Her breathing quickened, that knife in her palm like a friend hand in hand; she pressed her black gloved hand against the wall to check -- an illusion? Security companies came up with the most amusing little devices these days -- but no. Solid brick, gritty beneath the glove and grainy when she took her hand away; examined it, little red flakes of brick-dust on the fingertips. The next look was up, to find a curlicue of too-fancy iron to wrap a hand around and get good leverage, to spring -- but there was no up. Eve's eyes slitted, a prickle of annoyance in a too-dark night. Without a window, without an up -- she'd heard the purr of a too-loud bike, the kind of mods men made when they had too much time and too few women and dismissed it. That knife had made its hullos and how-dyou-dos, was about to get real intimate with that glass and the light that was there slid right around her like an obedient thing. Except now it was silent, sung its loud, proud buzz round to the road and was gone -- Eve glanced down and nearly spat. A woman in the street below, looking up and a curl of smoke above her head like a question mark, like she belonged there below in a street when Eve was working. She looked like satisfaction and sex, buttons all wrong in cat's-gaze sight, head tipped up to see. Didn't take a marvel to put two and two together and make -- she turned her head; the fire-escape ladder downwas still curled around like a gentleman politely offering escort, laughing into his fist all the while. Eve didn't like that. That knife tip-tapped against her leather-clad thigh, her temper uncoiled itself from slumber and raised itself joyfully into being. A moment or so's consideration and the knife was tucked away into the sheath on her hip, the hands dusted against her jacket and she uncurved herself out of the darkness of where the window's shadow ought to be and still was -- a defiant figure against the wall. And sprang. Muscles that shouldn't move like that coiled and stretched with gleeful use, impossibly graceful her body curled against the night-sky, and Eve was on the other side of the street, crouched down and huddled over. Watching. See what little Miss Stop Out made of that. Didn't run, not yet; pride demanded and temper hot and red and bright agreed, and Eve perched with apparent nonchalance, just the pound-pound-pound of a heartbeat waiting to pounce. Max hadn't been in the human world long enough to see everything the Creations could do, not by a long shot, but she didn't need to have intimate knowledge of their abilities to know that was no human woman. Still, the woman hadn't shot, hadn't attacked; no, she'd jumped. Max didn't bother with another swipe of the stylus on the screen of the Palm; she didn't need to. Max's ability had been a pain in the ass for her to figure out. It wasn't precisely reality bending, though it seemed it at first pass. But no, as soon as Max wrote something, the world mirrored itself and you were hers. The side of the street the woman had jumped onto? It was like a false front, a reality imposed upon the true reality. Max could alter anything, could change anything she saw fit, but she could not create. And if the surface the writing was on disappeared? The alterations changed as well. It was a very intentional ability. Anyone walking by would see the world as it truly existed; no Max, no woman crouching on the balcony. Just windows in the right places and fire escapes to the roof. It was a much safer place to be than Max's alteration, especially given that Max's alterations were unpredictable in the long term, unsustainable. They developed nuances of their own and those nuances grew into dangerous things. Still, this was Max's world, and it gave her a sense of power in the space, and she walked toward the other side of the street slowly, looking up at the balcony the woman was on. "Looking for something?" she asked crisply, clearly. It didn't come down to anything so complicated as abilities and powers and constructs; if you had height, if you were up, you had power. It was a very simple thing but it was a simple thing that had Eve leaning against the flat of an architectural front with apparent nonchalance -- apparent because the thrumming inside was coaxing speed and running, or jumping down and stopping this with the swipe and slide of a blow -- and Eve herself was a curl of the lip away from utter displeasure. No one spoke with the authenticity of that tone unless they meant it -- a conversation had begun and there was only answering and not-answering. Not-answering would mean fear, running away. Eve bristled beneath the jacket, and her hands curled within her gloves, the creak of well-worn leather audible in the quiet. "Has work just ended for you, pumpkin?" When she landed, it might have been a fit of temper that sent her down, all soft padding grace and flicker-elegant movements; Eve was not your average thief -- but the cock of the head, the lilting laughter that wasn't laughter really at all, the mocking, sly way of speaking. Eve's head was high, arrogantly so and the smile that curved below the mask wasn't a nice one at all. Corner a cat and she spat. "Word of advice, do run along." Max's question was looked at, stepped over delicately, looked back at, and stepped on. No, Eve didn't like interruptions. The implication was clear to Max, who discarded it just as quickly as she acknowledged it. "Do people usually rise to the bait?" she asked, walking forward again. She stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, and she crossed her arms as she looked at where the woman had landed. The voice, the mask, the blackness, it reminded her of the Bat at the docks, while managing to be entirely different. Where he was reserved, she was showy. Where he was blunt, she was coy. A woman playing a man's game, she decided, and she took another step forward. "What did you want to steal?" she asked, looking over her shoulder at the balcony that she'd altered. Bathos wasn't prime real estate, and it was a strange place for someone who could jump across buildings. She memorized height, build, coloring beneath the mask - she'd be checking records in the morning, and a story would follow. She needed a name, this woman. "Who are you?" A flash-quick second of rationality, of cold hard reasoning warring with the yearning to crow and boast -- but Eve's eyes behind the mask were watchful; they rested on a face that was composed of interest, written hard into it the way a man's might look, with judgment that snapped whip-like and tried to coil itself around her, trip her. Reasoning won; with difficulty, Eve reined back the demands of temper. She took a step to the side, melted into shadows that softened themselves around her the way a mother might gather a child up in arms and love it. Eve and shadows knew one another, especially here. Prime real estate the Bathos might not be -- but it was a stop on the map, a place that was passed over each night on the run back, no matter what she went for. The irritation at interruption rose up again, slid itself inside her voice with the silky slipperiness of someone holding a curtain against what she really thought, whilst permitting what was felt to be shown. Sleight of hand -- what I hold in one hand whilst I show you the other. "Is that how they play it, here?" Arch, incredulity from one who was rarely incredulous. For all her female laughter and the way she wore her clothes as if she knew her body well enough not to mind people looking -- there was a sharpness to the eyes of this one -- Eve kept herself curved away from the light, sharp eyes stole secrets. "You ask and we just...?" a gesture of the hand, sliding out of the gloom, delicate as it turned in the air like a bird. "That doesn't sound like a fun game at all." The laughter was back. "It isn't a game," Max said, all seriousness. She kept her gaze firmly on the woman, trying not lose her when she slipped into the shadows. The woman moved with a skill and grace that spoke of familiarity with her surroundings, and Max understood that she didn't have the upper hand in this encounter. "Stealing isn't a game," she reiterated. The woman's laugh climbed along her spine like something unpleasant, and Max took a step toward the shadows. "You don't like to boast?" she asked, moving slowly. "I thought thieves loved to boast, to leave signatures, calling cards." She chuckled, her own brand of infuriating laughter. "To wear recognizable costumes. At least the vigilantes think they have a cause; what do you have?" It was entirely intended to poke, to earn a reaction, to get something back from this woman in the shadows, this cat burglar in the night. "A cash flow." The response was quick, amused, as if it were a game, one with moves to look ahead and see -- and that woman skulking in shadows because she couldn't run, had no way out -- but even so close that she could see the buttons on the other's coat glisten like pennies in the dim lamplight, she didn't appear scared. Rather bored. "Making yourself identifiable gets you caught." It was almost-patient, explaining something to a very dull, very stupid child, except it was provoking and deliberately so -- and you could hear that catch in the voice, the one holding back not quite enough to hide that Eve knew precisely what she was doing. "Oh, it's a game, doll-face," and Eve slid further back, away from eyes that seemed to slice through darkness in a way that was ... problematic. Getting caught wasn't intended and especially not by hard-tongued women who didn't stay out of the damn way. That had been a prospect and nightly entertainment swept away along with a window -- "But you're playing along, even if you're cheating." The condescending tone made Max's blood boil. It reminded her of the early years in the Army, where no one took her seriously (not even herself), the years when it had been oh, so evident that she didn't belong there. It reminded her of The General's displeasure, and it reminded her of her own disappointment in herself. The military was blunt, and it had always been blunt, and this woman (with her games and her taunts) was precisely the opposite. "I don't cheat," she finally said, and she was painfully aware that as a comeback it sucked. That last bit, the feeling of inadequacy this woman and her little game had wrought, was the straw that broke the camel's proverbial back. She pulled the Palm back out, and she put the stylus to the screen, and everything around them went daytime bright. No hiding in shadows now, huh? Unfortunately, as often happened when Max went too big with her ability, the heat began climbing and climbing and climbing - slowly, steadily, painfully. There was a noise -- something close to a hiss, but not quite, but it quite aptly expressed Eve's displeasure -- and followed as it was by a stream of invective and 'son of a bitch', there was no doubting that. A hand thrown up to her eyes to shadow them, except there was no light source to shadow them from and she couldn't see; pupils sparking away into slits as her night-vision blurred away everything and all Eve could see were spots. That wasn't fair. Fair wasn't something Eve stuck to as a hard and fast rule -- fair was boring, fair was limiting, but fair did not mean turning the damn sunshine back on when it wasn't supposed to be there for a good few hours more. Cautious movement -- testing; sunshine meant aches and muscles that felt like weights, like irons and prison manacles, but this wasn't sunshine, and even while light was mercilessly picking out everything -- the battered leather jacket fastened tight, the knife sitting snugly like a child against her hip, the mask close-fitting and tight without embellishment -- a criminal's, not a Halloween gone too long -- Eve began to see. And that damn stylus was the first thing snatched, the palm pilot twitched away from fingers that seemed not to be moving -- and Eve darted further away for examination's sakes. Didn't want the lights permanently on, after all -- which was the only reason it hadn't been crushed immediately. Oh, Max didn't like that. It wasn't that she hadn't been expecting the grab, because she knew to be vigilant (it came with the job), but she'd had her own trouble adjusting to the sudden brightness, and she'd noticed the climbing heat almost immediately, and she'd concentrated on that for entirely too long. Her distraction didn't last, however, and she ran straight at the woman across from her. Her manual combat skills were exceptional, and she threw her shoulder into the woman's trunk, her leg catching the woman's ankle with her own as she pushed with the weight of her upper body, going for her balance center. The goal was getting her down, stylus be damned. With a howl of rage and disbelief -- the glance back had been quick, peripheral vision catching at movement the way a cat might catch the skitter of a mouse when it had waited so patiently and finally become distracted; not enough -- eyes wide, Eve felt her feet slide out from under her in a too-neat movement that was controlled and quick and -- free hand wound into the coat and tugged, if she was damn well going down, so was her assailant too. The stylus snapped beneath her, arm flung free -- but whilst balance centers and the way weight and counter weight might work was the concern of her would-be observer, Eve had no such complications. A fight was a brawl in a bar, or a disagreement turned nasty, when everything was used and 'fair' was lost as humanity drained itself away to leave behind the snarling, scratching nastiness that was desperation. Eve fought like it was the last fight, with the quick reflexes and as her back almost-hit the ground, she twisted -- that last gift of ability and her free hand snarled itself against the woman's cheek, dulled by leather but with the startled-fierce of anger and temper and the need to run, not to fight but to run -- her foot was trapped beneath Max's weight and she struggled, pushing, a nasty kick against whatever she could make contact with. When Max went down, the Palm slipped out of her grasp and the screen shattered on the sidewalk; at that moment, the sun stopped shining and the world crackled, and everything around them went dark and heavy again. She cursed, even as she pinned the woman to the ground with her weight, and she tried for her phone. The well placed kick, however, connected with her upper thigh, and while it wouldn't do more than leave an impressive bruise come morning, it was enough (combined with the gloved fingers on her skin) to make her grab for her phone and begin to dial. She shifted her weight, pressing her knee to the softness of Eve's stomach, using the sharp pain to hold her there. This night, this easy amble of a night to scratch an itch that needed scratching and acquire a something that needed selling, had become anything but easy. Dark resettled itself and Eve blinked and the roiling anger that had blurred her movements cooled, iced, became something quite sharp and easy to wield as instinct became reaction - which was not at all the same. There was something in the woman's hand -- blueish light, the dull sounds of a numberpad -- that was the first thing and Eve's back arched and her feet found scrabbling purchase and she kicked again, one hand clamping around the other woman's wrist, finding the soft and fleshy part above the hand and biting in, her fingers coiling into dark, mussed hair that had swayed across her arm, found purchase, yanked. Max finished the dialing, stated the apartment name, and then she let the phone fall, because it was no longer necessary. She shifted her weight down, in order to immobilize the woman's legs, to still the kicking. But then the woman grabbed her wrist and yanked on her hair, and Max realized this was schoolyard fighting. No skill, no tactics, just grab and hurt. The fingers at her wrist sneaked under veins and muscle, and Max grunted through the pain as she brought the heel of her palm up hard under the woman's chin. There was an entire body weight of strength in the movement, and the goal was to get the woman to release her, to cause blackness from the hit against an unprotected spot. Her other hand was numb from the pressure to her wrist, and her hair was viciously trapped. She wasn't going to get the upper hand on the floor, not anymore, and escape became the goal. Eve's head snapped back, teeth rattling in her jaw and pain, hot and white and bright blooming behind her eyes until it blotted out the street and the apartment block and the assailant, until anything other than the desire to escape was washed beneath the need to run. She heard the voice as the other stated facts -- no emotion, no excess and that would almost have been worthy of sneaking admiration if she hadn't been on her ass in an empty street because some girl with either linebacker or martial arts training at her back had decided to put her there. As pain receded, as she pulled again on that twined fistful of hair and her legs darted out from beneath a weight shifting to cope with multiple attacks -- but still, despite being trapped, despite Eve's efforts, the woman sat solidly, her balance better than most -- better than humans-- and there was a way out to take and Eve took it. Her hands freed themselves, a quick and efficient (and rather satisfying) slam of her palm against the woman's nose -- that face had been so close to hers, Eve would recognize it anywhere now, doing a little remodeling couldn't hurt. But there was a wail of sound too-quickly approaching and Eve thrust her shoulder up against the heavy weight and pushed, felt a give, sprang to her feet and shook off the itinerary-taking, the list of things to ice and heat until they didn't scream the following morning until she was far, far away. Except, just one thing -- leaning down, one gloved finger beneath Max's chin to tilt it upward, and with the other hand, a blown little kiss of pure, mean-spirited revenge, a gloat. "Bye-bye," her voice was lower now, throaty with her own ills, but then Eve was off and running, diving into shadows that swallowed her gratefully up. |