Lilly Pride; Black Cat (ninelives) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2011-06-22 18:03:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | black cat, spider-man |
WHO: Lilly Black Cat and Aaron Spider-Man
WHAT: He's stopping a robbery in action. She's yanking his chain. Spidey's having the worst month ever.
WHERE: Art Gallery!
WHEN: Before Monday's Meet the Re-Animated!Parents (see notes below)
WARNINGS: None!
NOTES: Technically this takes place pre-Black Pearl party (as referenced here) but moving it to slight vague~ timeline because Des was late on posting her news article :C
Lilly didn’t usually double back, but the first time had been so boring.
Despite their upcoming auction, Pacific Galleries really hadn’t been up to par with its security. Okay, maybe it had, if she were normal, but the locks, lasers, and sensors really had been no match for her. In just a few minutes she had gone in and walked away with the painting she had been hired to steal. Why this surreal mess of blobs was worth twenty grand, she still had no idea but she was being paid well enough to get it. In it’s place she left an equally odd painting to make sure no other sensors would go off when she left. She thought the smiling cat made with black and blue watercolors was some stunning work, if she did say so herself.
But still, it had been too easy and after she secured her victory, she went back for more. She couldn’t help it. Sometimes she got greedy.
And, she guessed, a little reckless. Now that she had already taken what she needed, she felt she could be more daring. She went through the same hole in the skylight she had made earlier, and as she carefully lowered herself down to the ground she didn’t try to hide from the cameras. She had cut the alarm lines during her first turn and she knew the guards were dozing instead of checking the monitors. The footage wouldn’t be seen until she was long gone and that was just how she wanted it.
She was dressed head to toe in her skintight black suit, her tools and weapons - not counting her handy claws - strapped to her legs or hidden in her cleavage. Her black mask wasn’t in any danger of falling off, even as she went down head first, pale hair barely brushing the pressure sensitive floors. She spun around, humming a soft tune, as she tried to remember what else had been in the gallery. The catalogue she reviewed that week said there was bronzed panther sculpture worth only a few thousand – chump change, really – but would be a nice little trophy to keep for herself.
With it gone and her kitten masterpiece of a painting left behind, Black Cat figured it was enough for the local papers to finally call her by the name she went by back in Musings.