I do not own Batman or DC Comics.
All characters are 18+.
- - -
Out at the docks, in the middle of this cold, cloudy night, there were men who were up to no good.
They moved like ants, worker drones moving back and forth, carrying crates from the moored boats to the innards of a shabby warehouse - if it could be called that. Years of disrepair had left it a rusted, grimy husk. Abandoned, forgotten... the perfect place for deals and transactions of the shady sort.
To man, the workers were tall, rough-faced, and thick with strength. Some were bald, some were bearded, some were tattooed, and some were all three. Each of them answered to Oswald Cobblepot.
They were the Penguin's boys. Hired thugs to replace his lost manpower. And the Bat had been watching them for over an hour.
The Batman stood high on a tower ledge, upon a concrete skyscraper that overlooked the riverside docks. His only companions were stone gargoyles - stalwart guardians. His brethren. Tonight, they would bear witness to yet another battle in the Bat's righteous crusade.
Bruce remained still - as still as the stone statues flanking him - peering through his binoculars. The evening breeze had caught his cape, making it flutter and flap. He didn't bother to hide. He didn't need to. The men down below continued their illicit work, not suspecting a thing.
They wouldn't see him until it was too late.
In that dockside warehouse, those crates began to stack and stack. Dozens of them by now, all carrying contraband - in this case, guns. Assault rifles, submachine guns, all military grade.
Cobblepot was looking to expand.
That ambitious dream would be halted tonight. The GCPD would arrive in force - though not for another twenty or so minutes, when the Bat's anonymous, automated tip would go out.
Before that, those men would receive a warning. One they wouldn't soon forget.
Gotham belonged to the Bat. And bringing unmarked weapons into his city was a very bad move.
Bruce clicked his binoculars shut and put them away. Then...
he leaped.
His cape caught the wind again, snapping wide into dark, gliding wings. And the Batman swept down, down, down...
- - -
Cobblepot's hired muscle didn't last very long. Bruce almost felt disappointed.
In his years of donning the cape and cowl, the quality of henchmen had dropped considerably. On the other hand, it was the supervillains themselves that had grown more dangerous - and gaudier, to boot.
The Penguin would no doubt be furious. He would lash out in some way, equal parts petulant and vicious, just as he always did. But that would be a fight for another night. For now... the Batman was unleashing his aggression.
Two broken jaws. A dislocated shoulder. Some bruised ribs. Many black eyes and bloodied noses. One concussion. They would all live. But none would forget.
By now, he'd whittled the dozen or so meatheads down to but two. One wielded a crowbar. The other, a pistol - and he was out of ammo.
The first swung his metal rod at the Bat's head and missed. Bruce caught him by the flap of his leather jacket and drove his knee into the man's gut. The thug wheezed, gagged, and dropped into a heap on the ground.
The second man stared, clutching his empty pistol. He looked from the Bat to his buddy curled up on the floor then back to the Bat again. A second passed. Then he threw his gun at Bruce - missing by some five feet - and bolted.
Under his cowl, Bruce almost rolled his eyes. He advanced after the fleeing criminal, drawing a batarang from his belt. He cocked his arm back, ready to throw... but he needn't have bothered.
The henchman had barely made it to the warehouse's large open doors before the soles of two booted feet collided with his face. He reeled, barely clinging to consciousness, before he too fell to the ground.
Lights out.
Above him, Bruce observed a much more appealing sight. A familiar figure, dark and lithe and graceful, swung upwards into the air and flipped before landing before him with effortless style.
The figure stood, elegant, appealing, and lovely.
It was she who the Batman would never tire of chasing.
The Catwoman. Selina Kyle.
The woman garbed in sensual, skintight black stepped over the man she had felled, sparring him but a fleeting, half-hearted glance.
"You missed one." She said to Bruce, striding towards him.
Bruce gave a faint snort. He snapped his batarang shut and set it back onto his belt.
"I had him in my sights." He replied coolly, approaching the new arrival. Together they closed the distance. Soon she was right before him, her green eyes and her smile both shining with allure and familiar mischief.
"You should have been faster then." Selina shot back. She lifted one hand and began drawing a single metal claw across Bruce's broad, armored chest.
Bruce let her. He always let her.
For a moment, that was all she did, humming softly as she traced the black bat emblazoned upon his suit. She drew even closer as she did, just about pressing her slender form up against him. Even through the pads and plating, her curves teased at him, begging for attention, for touch. But Bruce didn't draw his hands up. Not yet.
"Quite a mess you've made here. And I'm sure the police are on their way." Selina continued. The dim light of the warehouse caught on the material of her suit, making it seem like her whole body was glistening.
"Your point?"
"My point is, your business is done here. Which leaves the rest of this evening enticingly free."
Bruce allowed the faintest of smiles. None of the thugs he'd dispatched were in any position to witness it, so he saw no harm.
"What did you have in mind?" He asked.
Selina pursed her lips, plump and painted a deep, inviting red. She began to circle him, moving slowly around his flank, like a panther. She continued to drag her claws over him, gently grazing over his chest, his shoulder, his back.
"You've done the city a great service, taking these meatheads off the streets. Gotham's big, brave hero deserves to celebrate, I think."
