Tits And Bast

Selina hated New York.

It hadn't been so bad once. No worse than Coast City or Keystone, last time she'd been there. But that had been back when she was still a teenager. It'd changed since then. Most people blamed Giuliana, but Selina personally held Disney accountable. Them and six other megacorporations. Couldn't make money on a city with personality. They had to turn it into an oversized playground - a McDonald's on every corner, an Apple billboard on every roof.

Give her Gotham any day.

Sure, Gotham was a hellhole, but it was a hellhole with

class

. The soaring cathedrals, the intricately carved gargoyles, the good old-fashioned brick and masonry—no wonder people still lived there after all the shit that got dumped on it. Living there, you felt like you were in the last bastion of individuality in a world of conformity. Like every Gothamite was in it together, holding out against everyone who wanted things to be safe and rounded. Hell, they threw all their bad guys into a Victorian-era insane asylum. If that wasn't commitment to a gimmick, Selina didn't know what was.

But needs must. Selina had been tracking the Statuette of Bast for ten years; the jewel-encrusted ditty was worth millions and it hadn't been stateside in a decade. And whoever owned it was smart enough not to send a cat-themed museum piece to Gotham. So, road trip. She went to New York, rented an apartment at a cost that used up her entire cut from the Monte Carlo job, and prepared. Soon, that cute little baby would be all hers. She'd hang onto it for a few years, until the heat had died down or she got bored of it (whichever came first), and then sell it. Take a little cut for herself, give some money to the homeless shelter in the East End, and give the rest to her favorite wildlife refuge in Kenya. A big win all around.

Well, except for the good people of New York that wanted to see a sculpture of an Egyptian goddess. But since she'd come to the Big Apple, two dozen of them had called her a dyke, just because she had her hair cut short.

Fuck 'em.

***

Felicia loved New York. Had the T-shirt to prove it. It was just

fun.

Something like thirty superheroes in residence, and God knew how many supervillains—there was always something happening. Some plot to destroy the world, some Avengers going out for schwarma... who knew? And with all those heroes around, a girl felt safe walking the streets at night. Of course, Felicia always felt safe, considering that she'd once cracked a man's skull with a pen, but getting 'rescued' by a caped do-gooder was a great way to meet men. Or whatever.

She couldn't see herself living anywhere else, even Gotham. Sure, with only seven superheroes around—and them only people who dressed up as bats and had seen too many kung-fu movies—it was easy to pull a job there. But at the price of living in

Gotham

! Even the playgrounds had little friezes of demons and shit. Talk about trying too hard. It was like the whole city was going through a goth phase.

Thankfully, there was no need for Felicia to set foot in that craphole. She'd read the paper that morning and seen that the Statuette of Bast was being exhibited at the Jonheim Marcus Museum of History, a new museum that was just getting itself sorted out. This probably wouldn't help them out much. But cat-god, Black Cat, how could Felicia resist?

Besides, she might run into Peter. Or Matt. Or both.

You had to love the nightlife in New York City.

***

The museum had good security, Selina would give it that. If she'd been ten years younger, it probably would've kept her out. But she was edging up on her forties by now, and if her only consolation was that she'd gotten really good at breaking into places... well, she couldn't go around wasting that, now could she?

It'd been as simple as buying a ticket. She'd taken the tour, and then wandered at leisure for a couple hours—getting a very nice comment that she looked like Audrey Hepburn in her sun hat and Persol sunglasses. She'd thanked the commenter profusely; obviously not a native, too polite. One of the Midwestern tourists that New York so despised. Of course: couldn't have someone displaying common courtesy in the City That Never Slept. The rest of the country might have to stop calling them 'the mean streets of New York.'

Museum security, clever boys, had given out tickets with micro-dot RFID transponders in them. They could track everyone inside the museum, and see if anyone wasn't who they claimed to be. Still, they could be fooled. After striking up a conversation with her fellow Hepburn fan, Selina had given him a friendly hug—and "accidentally" slipped her ticket into his back pocket. When he left, the system would register that she'd left with him... in his wildest dreams, perhaps. Meanwhile, Selina would be behind a duct in the bathroom, waiting for the museum to close.

The only downside was having to listen to dozens of conversations between New York women. But then, that was why iPods had been invented.

And it wasn't like Selina had another option.

***

With her mask off, a coat over her costume, and a nice bonnet, Felicia attracted no attention as she walked around the museum four times, scoping it out. She knew that she would've been even less conspicuous if she'd been walking a dog, but—theme.

After four passes, she'd seen all she needed to see. Ducking into an alleyway (one free of perverts, thanks to a massacre by the Punisher last month. Felicia loved New York), Felicia fully changed into her costume. As she did so, she gauged the odds of running into Peter—and remembered that she'd heard something about him being off with the Avengers, fighting Graviton.

With a sigh, Felicia zipped her costume up to the neck. No point in having a big target (two of them, even) flashing about in the dark when there'd be no one to appreciate her. With her luck, she'd probably run into Northstar.

Stupid Graviton.

A little parkour later and she'd made it to the roof. From there, one jump with her enhanced leg muscles left her atop the museum. Nice and clean—Gotham probably had scads of pigeon droppings for 'atmosphere'.

Felicia made her way to the skylight. It was glowing with alarms. But if it weren't, there'd be no fun. Flipping her wrist-computer out from where it was stealthily, and fashionably, hidden in her fur trim, Felicia set to hacking the museum's systems. She may not have known a lot about computers, but she did know a lot about computer programmers, and the smaller the T-shirts she wore around them, the better the worms they made for her tended to work.

In a matter of seconds, skylight security was offline.

Felicia smiled. God, imagine how long this would've taken in the old days.

***

Back in her leather, Selina felt more like she'd taken off a second skin, instead of putting one on. Outside the suit, she was a whore, a criminal, a dozen other names she didn't dispute but didn't particularly

like.

Inside, she was

Catwoman

—something Jungian and iconic and oh, Bats probably had five words for it. She just knew that she liked it. Liked the way she walked, slinking through the museum's darkened corridors.

A week ago, she'd bribed an official to schedule some server downtime for now. So the cameras were recording, but not to the security room. When they reviewed the tapes later, they'd see her sashaying around like she owned the place. And tonight, she did.

She'd also spent the past few weeks befriending a security guard in a cancer survivors support group. His wife had it, and he needed a friend. Selina felt like shit playing on his trust, but she'd get over it. A girl did what she needed to do to survive, even in Disney New York. And he'd probably gotten more out of having a shoulder to cry on than she had.

After all, all she'd taken was one little security code.

Boop-beep-boop, and the metal shutters that cut off the 'Native American beads' portion of the museum from the 'my, how expensive' part were open for her. And then

there

... there was the Statuette. Lovely little thing. Her favorite black kitty sitting tall and proud, slender and regal and fluid, the size of a scepter, polished to a black onyx sheen and encrusted with jewels. Even if the ears

had

been broken off by some unappreciative, unprofessional grave robbers in the past, it was still a thing of beauty.

Of course, the only reason Selina could see it right now was because of her goggles' magnification. In the real world, there was thirty feet between her and her prize. As well as laser tripwires, tamper-proof glass, a weight sensor, and a security guard whose rounds would bring him here in another thirty minutes.

In the old days, back when she had more purple spandex than sense, Selina might've tried doing a gymnastics routine through the lasers. But she was getting old, so why bother?

Carefully, she slipped a few of her lovely little mirrors out of her belt. It would be a few minutes' work to neutralize all the lasers, but still, the guard wouldn't come around for half an hour.

All the time in the world.

***

With her lovely derriere through the skylight, it was a simple matter for Felicia to crawl along the ceiling. Retractable claws on her gloves and boots. An idea she'd gotten from Peter. If he would only give up the Great Responsibility spiel, what a second-story man he'd make...

Not to mention a backdoor man. God, she was getting worked up. Stealing always

had

excited her. She checked her phone, and her Supergroupie app showed that Iron Man was flying around in the area. Might he stop by? She'd always wondered if that old dog Tony had built a fly into his suit.

Felicia pulled her zipper down to her clavicle, just in case. And then down a little further, just to be sure.

She made her way to the Egyptian room. Lots of guards, lots of lasers. But the guards didn't look up, and the lasers were no match for the honey diet Felicia had been on.

What was she forgetting? Oh yeah, escape route.

Felicia figured that she'd just go back the way she came in—maybe a little faster, if a do-gooder decided to do good in her direction. So she flicked a few of her cat's claws onto the security cameras, reprogramming them to loop footage. A nice clean getaway, just in case.

Who said that she didn't plan ahead? She had condoms in her belt and everything.

She made it into the Egyptian room. A bunch of dusty old coffins and sepia-toned pictures of guys in pith hats, mostly. What a horrible place for her Bastille to spend the rest of its days. It would look much better in her game room.

But oh, what was this?

Leather catsuit like they were holding auditions for

The Matrix

, a whip just in case anyone wasn't getting the all-points bulletin that 'I'm sexy!', goggles and a big D-ring on the zipper for that

Elsa, She-Wolf of the SS

vibe... she'd fit right in on a Gotham tourism poster.

Oh.

Oh, no way.

It was Catwoman, that old bitch who every wag thought

she

was ripping off. Like the idea of a cat burglar with a

cat theme

was so original. She was just in it for the puns. Christ! Dressing up a little kid in red and green and sending him to fight serial killers—

that

was original.

And

she even had some pathetic obsession with Batman—definitely hadn't gone anywhere, seeing as the guy had some Brokeback Mountain thing with his clown. While

Felicia

had gotten rimmed by

her

superhero. Did no one realize this?

Well, no way Felicia was letting some dominatrix get her loot. She scurried along the ceiling to hold herself over the exhibit, quickly pulling ziplines out of her costume to rig on the lights. Then, it was just a matter of descending...

***

The classics never die,

Selina thought as she cut a neat little hole in the statuette's glass case with her claws. Nice security, but it didn't work once she'd bypassed the circuit built into the base of the exhibit's pedestal.

During her last run-in with that nosy reporter from the Daily Planet, she'd lifted a press pass and used it to, what else, pass herself off as a DP reporter (

careful,

Selina thought; she was getting a little old to be making double entendres every thirty seconds. That had worn thin two Robins ago). One little interview with the museum's curator, and she'd found out the exact weight of her sweet little baby. One lead weight later, and it was in her hands.

Finally, at last,

her precious baby...

And then it was out of her hands, grabbed by a slender fur-trimmed arm and hauled through the net of lasers above the exhibit. Selina looked up, and immediately found herself looking down the cleavage of an amazing pair of breasts. Large but firm, even when they obviously lacked the support of a bra, with proud tips visible through the thin layer of black Lycra that covered it. Some kind of catsuit—the kind that was more body paint than Selina's body armor.

Selina looked up further. A face—beautiful, yeah, but also trying way too hard. Garish make-up, with blue eyeshadow evident even through the domino mask. High cheekbones. Red lips that put the

suck

in succulent. Rhinoplasty nose. She might've been pretty back when she was in high school, but now she came off like Megan Fox—and with about as much plastic as a Megan Fox toy.

And more importantly, she had Selina's loot.

"I'll just take that off your hands," Black Cat said in an

aww-geez

'sultry' tone as her de-cel line reeled her up. Hey, lady, you don't need to run a phone sex hotline if you can steal ancient artifacts. "You look like you have someone to spank."

"Yeah, you," Selina replied, drawing her whip.

***

Up close, the witch didn't look any better to Felicia. No wonder she kept her face covered with that bondage mask. Sure, the chin, the nose, the cheeks: all

acceptable.

If Felicia were writing a fashion magazine, she'd call her classically beautiful. But as everyone knew, that just meant boring. At the end of the day, men might drop Jackie Kennedy's name to score points with their wives, but they all wanted to fuck Kate Upton. And Felicia would know; she'd fucked Kate Upton once before.

Her costume, unlike

Catwoman's

creepy Slipknot mess, was designed to show off her body. She'd even calculated her exercise regimen to keep some of her nicer body fat. And, obviously, she wasn't too worried about some cowl worrying her hairdo.

Poor dear. And now she wouldn't even be able to buy some new riding crops with her loot. Felicia would try to remember to leave a nice message on her Facebook wall. Something with lots of puppies.

She was nearly to the roof. How sweet victory was.

Then, with the kind of

crack

that should have stayed in Indiana Jones, the black tip of Catwoman's whip wrapped around one of her pitons. Felicia looked down to see Catwoman winding her whip around her forearm and giving it an almighty tug—

Clang.

The piton clattered to the ground, taking out half of Felicia's climbing rig. Unbalanced, she swung off the other piton, barely getting her feet up to absorb the shock of the blow in time before she arced into the wall.

Felicia kicked off against that wall, unclipping her de-cel line so that she would land on all fours unencumbered. If it was a fight the cat-bitch wanted...

***

Selina came at Black Cat, swishing her whip around her chest for safekeeping before colliding with her opponent in a fury of martial arts blows. Whoever this bitch thought she was, Selina doubted that she had trained with Wildcat, much less the Armless Master. With stiffened fingers, she jabbed into her opponent's solar plexus with enough force to make a man vomit up everything up to last Thanksgiving's leftovers.

Black Cat definitely felt it, backing up and doubling over, but she recovered fast, knocking aside a follow-through blow from Selina and

bitch-slapping

her like an errant hooker before delivering a roundhouse kick that injured far more than Selina's pride. Selina recoiled, smarting,

thinking.

The Cat's form was good, but untried—none of the brutal street fighting that Gotham had to offer. She could handle herself, but she wasn't a brawler like Selina. And the way that she'd shrugged off those blows... a metahuman, for sure.

Still, she'd definitely felt the blows that Selina had just landed. So, unless she had some kind of healing factor, Selina would just pound her until she fell.

And if she did have a healing factor, then Selina would

really

have some fun.

***

Catwoman attacked again, with a flurry of blows

almost

good enough to floor someone who used to go toe-to-toe with a man that possessed the proportionate speed and agility of a spider. Felicia let the old gal have her fun, slipping in and out of Catwoman's swings... until the bitch got

very

lucky and tagged her with a right hook.

Felicia felt pain shooting up her cheekbones, reminding her of her last cracked rib, and decided to play it safe and somersault backward, landing atop an exhibit of a golden coffinette. She crouched down and wiped at her face, relieved to find the pain wasn't lingering too badly.

"You spoiled little brat," Catwoman cursed, flexing her claws so that they caught the dim light. "This is

my

job. I've been planning this for months."

"Really? I've been planning it since this morning." Felicia took the Statuette out of her knapsack and gave it a little spin around her knuckles. "Well, seeing as I'm the superior thief, how about we agree I should have it and you walk away with all your teeth? I'm sure your

clients

will appreciate it."

Like a gunslinger slapping leather, Catwoman drew her whip and cracked it. Felicia barely ducked under it, the supersonic

knang

of the tip mussing her silver hair. "You steal for fun, little girl. I steal to survive."

Felicia stuffed Bast back in her pack. "At least I have fun,

big girl.

You won't catch me crying over Spider-Man like you do over Count fucking Dracula."

Catwoman hissed and cracked the whip again. This time, Felicia was ready for it.

She dove, landing underneath the cruel arc of the cat o' nine tails, and charged on all fours into Catwoman, spinning in mid-air to bring her heel down on her foe's head in a crescent kick.

Catwoman swayed in the wake of the blow, her goggles cracked on one side, but her reflexes were good. She lashed out with her claws, every bit as quick as the whip, and this time Felicia wasn't fast enough to avoid it. Her pale throat was grazed, left with the pale red claw marks of Catwoman's three longest fingers.

***

"What's the money for anyway?" Selina asked, observing the blood glinting on her claws. She considered licking it, but Christ, what a cliché. And besides, who knew where Black Cat had been. "Pills and porno?"

"I don't have to pay for my porn," Black Cat said haughtily. "I live it."

"You look it. Give me the damn statue, bitch. The money's not for me, it's for a goddamn orphanage."

A bit of a lie, but it

would

trickle down. Eventually. Bats might've bought it, or at least thought it over enough to be thrown off his game, making him vulnerable to other means of persuasions. But Black Cat was a thief, and true to the old saying, honor was hard to come by in their calling. She answered with a lunge, dropping to all fours one last time before propelling herself at Selina. Who dodged—quite well, she thought—but then, Black Cat lashed out with her foot in passing.

Selina caught the boot glancing off of her head. It left her ears ringing and her vision fuzzy as she skidded along the floor to roll to her feet.