Have no idea where this is going. I was completely inspired by this picture. .com/core/662/1_o350_
I felt the need to get this idea out of my head. So here it is.
The quiet night hummed a distance familiarity that greeted those who bothered to listen. It sang a elegant song of torment and anguish from a city that had felt the violent reverberations of anarchy and still had yet to recover. It was chaotic. It was monstrous.
But above all, it was bliss.
He could hear it ringing like a bell, playing a siren song that was unbearable to resist. Inspired, he grabbed his scattered notes and haphazardly tapped paper clipping above his desk and set to work at a diligent pace.
He could feel his mind turning with the possibilities, breathing life into his dust-accumulating projects that lay in disarray. The adrenaline pumped through his veins and filled his senses to the point of uncomfortable pleasure, possessing him in a way as nothing ever had.
Fully engrossed in his drawings and numbers, he disregarded the wind that blew through his open window and the mess he made by tossing irrelevant newspapers and articles aside. And as he began to finish his crucial detailing of his drawings, a strong, gusting wind blew straight through the window and knocked his pen out of his hand to the paper laden floor below.
Frustrated, he uttered a few obscenities and searched for his pen in the dim apartment lighting. He found the small, metal utensil lying on a single stack of newspapers; the pointer end aiming at the large, handsome picture gracing the front page. The man in the picture looked pristine albeit tense and cocky to boot. By all appearances, he looked every bit the hard-nosed, audacious lawyer the media had made him to be.
But Harvey Dent had been a fool.
So now, on the one year anniversary of the death of Gotham's most revered public servant, the media decided to commemorate the good deeds of an ambitious self serving, power driven man.
Gotham's white knight, indeed.
Pity, Dent had all the makings of greatness. He was just misguided by both his conventional and perverse sense of justice. He had been adamant in making examples of the villains of Gotham by making them pay for the corruption they had ravaged upon the city. However, he failed to realize it was people like him, tainted lawyers, cops, and judges alike, who were the true cause of Gotham's demise. And his error had cost him dearly.
Staring at the paper with more intent, curious green eyes hidden behind thick rimmed glasses glanced at the headlines. There, scrolled in big, bold letters read the name of the villain all of Gotham had come to despise and fear.
The Batman.
The name and everything the man attached to it represented left a bad taste in Edward Nygma's mouth. Batman had attempted to catapult Gotham back into the old days where Falconi's mob didn't rule the streets and cops were actually good guys. Yet all had stood in vain as Batman had been blamed for cavorting with the Joker and killing several people, including Dent. Still, this Batman character was a mystery.
Or was it misery?
Edward wasn't sure anymore. But one thing was clear, the Batman intrigued him.
With a sudden wicked and euphoric idea, Edward snatched the paper up and began to create crude drawings around the front page as a plan materialized. Rummaging through an old folder, he found old clippings of different words from numerous articles, each strip of the word expressed by a various color or font. And as he cut and glued single letters in an uneven pattern above the headline with eery glee, he created a masterpiece of deranged musings. His new headline reading
"Where is the Batman?".
Ah, he had disappeared all right, gone into hiding after that incident with the Joker and Commissioner. But Edward didn't just want to know where he was. He wanted to know who the Batman was.
Edward didn't crave just a name, mind you. Names were meager things that were simply a source of identification that was a fruitless example of failed uniqueness and monotonous conformity into a world of sycophantic exception. No, a name was of little consequence.
Who is the real Batman and what is his true motivation?
Edward wanted to know the limitations of the bat, his pains, his pleasures, his intellect, his physicality. Does the batman think as a normal man does? Can he truly will himself to disappear and reappear as the papers claimed he did? Could the batman be killed like a man or was he an indestructible symbol incapable of death?
Edward wanted to know all of these things and more. The Batman was a wonderful puzzle of complexities and Edward intended to solve him.
The unmistakable sound of breaking glass filtered its way into the tiny apartment and broke his concentration. Under normal circumstances, Edward would continue his work and pay no heed. However, the raucous ruffians who caused the incident insisted upon disturbing anyone within close proximity by yelling at one another.
"Quiet, will ya? Somebody's gonna hear." A young, jittery male voice chastised. The voices sounded close, probably a few doors down from where Edward lived.
"And whatta they gonna do? Call the cops? Cops don't come near the narrows no more." The words dripped with sarcasm and glee, spoken by a booming baritone with a distinct Brooklyn accent.
It was true; Edward thought to himself. But there were also far worse things to fear in the narrows than cops.
Beyond the racket, he could barely hear a rustle of movement, quick, coordinated, and perfectly planned, quiet as a mouse with defiant purpose. He doubted it was the method of those crude, novice thieves. They were far too engaged with the spoils of their reward then the glory of their actual conquest.
Then again, it could have been another thief acquaintance of theirs, tagging along for the ride.
It mattered little to Edward. Brushing off the idea and ignoring the robbery taking place, he buried himself deep within the menace of his sketches and numbers.
Until, the distinct rustle disturbed his peace once more, pronounced and undeniable. Whom ever did so, wanted it be known, and this time, it was followed by a series of whistles and cracks, like a quick crash of thunder.
"What the...?" The phrase barely left the Brooklyn man's mouth before another crack sliced the air. Then, a painful groan took its place, complete with the shaking of a heavy weight falling.
"You boys don't deserve to call yourselves thieves. You're loud, obvious, and arrogant. Amateurs, I'm sure. I'm surprised you haven't been caught yet." A smooth, feminine voice flowed with silken ease through the window, its manner both seductive and agitated.
"Get her, Charlie!" Simultaneously, a shot fired with a fraction of hesitation just as another sickening crack resounded out behind the back alley where the apartments faced; it was accompanied by a conspicuous shrill of a split. The man named Charlie screamed with deafening vibrato.
The female must have broken some sort of bone of poor Charlie's. Edward smirked.
"You little bitch!" The Brooklyn man screeched, hard pressed to cover the frantic and terrified tone of his voice.
"Now is that any way to talk to a lady?" The retort was sweet and sultry, blended together in a perfect harmony of menace and sensuality. The female was proving to be a tease.
With a ardent wail, the Brooklyn man set to pounding across the floor with all his might, probably running after his attacker. Meanwhile, Charlie's screams had sobered into pitiful drenched sobs.
A scuffle ensued. There was little Edward could decipher between the Brooklyn man's grunts, the continuous swishing of cracks, and the weight of the opponents being tossed around. Without warning, a sudden outburst broke the concentration of the fight. Another gun shot rang out as the clinking of fast treading feet ran across the grates of the fire escape and the Brooklyn man cursed incoherently.
It would seem the excitement had come to an end.
Until something dense landed on Edward's balcony.
"Did ya get her?" Exhausted, the Brooklyn man huffed in anger with undoubtedly far more wound to his pride than anything.
"Yea, I think so." Charlie voice trembled with disbelief and shock, most likely his first kill. And with the way those crooks were working, it wouldn't be his last.
"Well for your sake, I hope so." A boorish snort from Mr. Brooklyn then a stinking slap delivered to dear old Charlie.
Driven by the questionable item that landed outside his window, Edward left the sanctuary of his desk and crawled out to his balcony. There, in all its shiny, sleek leather glory, lied a fine crafted bullwhip. It was exquisite, to say the least, with a slender handle and a thick, elongated tail that slithered outwards to a fine tip.
Edward couldn't help himself but to horde the potent weapon in his grasp. With an item that appeared so delicate, one could wield such power and pain with a simple flick of the wrist.
Magnificent.
Glancing around for the source from which the whip had fallen, he spotted a small, black cat, crouched near the end of the balcony. Upon further inspection, Edward noticed the kitty was in attack stance, ready to take action. But as he motioned to use the whip to scare the little mongol away, the feline lifted its head and cried out in a pitching howl.
As soon as the feline started howling, it immediately stopped, pouncing from the balcony into the alleys in the dead of night. Funny, the howl sounded more like a call for something than a cry.
"I think I'll be taking that back now." The female with the smoky voice, the one that had a disagreement with the crooks earlier, melted from the shadows of the side building and perched comfortable on the side of Nygma's balcony.
Such a peculiar creature was she.
She wore a costume of sorts, a deep purple, form-fitting catsuit that was fashioned from leather, with a matching mask. Perhaps the most peculiar thing of all was the shape of her mask. For it was no ordinary mask, the details of the mask were styled to resemble that of a cat. Large, arching eye holes, with matching goggles that rested on top of her head, and wide, triangular ears completed her look. Irrefutably, it was designed to conjure the most illicit thoughts from nearly any man.
Thankfully, Nygma was not just any man.
So, he deemed it only appropriate that the whip's owner was just as exquisite and rare as the item itself. With that thought, Edward just couldn't allow her to leave without playing a game first. She was far too interesting.
"My lady, you shall have your whip back if you will just answer me a question." Tickled, he emitted a cheeky tone. Maintaining his eagerness was harder to manage with a live participant than that of his usual game of puzzles and mind tricks. He held tight to the whip as to state that he meant business.
The tilt of her head reciprocated her doubt and incredulous of situation. But there was something else. She seemed almost...intrigued. "And why would I answer your question when I could just as easily make you give me what I want?" The cat was not amused.
"Because by nature, cats are curious. And I know you're curious about my question." He took a risk by pinpointing the natural tendencies of the animal she personified. If she truly honored the embodiment of a cat then she also displayed their characteristics.
Her eyes flashed a brilliant amber color and her eyebrows drew back as an inquisitive and defensive instinct. "Suppose, I am interested in your question. What kind of question would it be?" She remained alert but unafraid of any challenge he posed.
"How about a riddle of sorts?" His mind was afire with all sorts of rhymes and little mind benders they could play but he resorted to using a clever riddle to encompass the whole of his satisfaction.
"You want me to answer a riddle." It was a statement, not a question. Her doubts were resurfacing. He needed to recapture her attention or stake a chance of gaining her ire.
"Indeed, I do. I just wish to satisfy my own question in knowing if you are as worthy of an advisory in intellect as you are in agility." His flattery felt contrived and forced but contained a silver lining of honesty. As sincere as he might have been, he was awkward in bestowing compliments as it was a rare occasion.
The cat woman seemed perturbed. Edward assumed it was attributed to his keen sense of deduction, seeing as he could gauge her nature. However, the slight slant of her eyes as she sized him up preserved her curiosity as strong as ever and there was only one way to sate the nerve. He knew she would eventually give in; it was simply a matter of time. "If I answer your riddle, I get my whip back."
"That's the deal." The fun was just about to begin.
"Then tell me this riddle of yours." It was her informal initiation of agreement.
"Ah, I knew you couldn't resist." He punctuated his savored moment with a halted breath and pressed both hands together, his forefingers resting against his lips. "Please, tell me if you can, what is as shady as the black cat, surrounding you and me? And the more you have of it, the less you see?"
The feline of a woman stood there unmoving, shoulders back, eyes half closed, and her claws gently rapping against the iron edges of the balcony. He could practically visualize the wheels in her head spinning at a rapid rate, contemplating every facet of his riddle to figure out the answer.
"Tick-tock, tick-tock. Do keep in mind that we may not have all evening." He jested with false consideration, impatient to learn her answer. In hindsight, he should have set a time limit to make the riddle more challenging but there was always next time.
"Believe me, you do not want this to take all evening or else, I'll show you my agile skills first hand." She chewed her bottom lip in concentration. "Hmm, black as a cat. The more you have, the less you see." Her mind was completely wrought with theories of what the answer could be. But as she continued to develop her musings, Edward swore he heard her purring. "Darkness. The answer is darkness." She responded in triumph and pride.
With as slight quirk of his lips in the beginnings of a smile, he handed the whip to her with an open palm, sated of his own need for a game. "Ah, very good. As for your prize, your whip returned back to you. You are an intellectual opponent, Ms...? " It would be a shame if Edward never knew her name. She was a decadent, little creature.
"Call me Catwoman." With lightning fast reflexes, she snatched the whip from his hand, uncertain if this was all some ploy to trap her.
"Catwoman." The name rolled off his tongue with ease and familiarity. He decided he liked it. "Well, I'm Edward Nygma. I do hope to see you around, sooner rather than later." With a small, vague laugh, he bowed his head politely and dismissed himself as he crawled back into the window of the apartment.
For her part, Catwoman didn't feel the need to comment, almost as if something like this transpired everyday. She simply flexed her hands, readjusted her whip on a belt she had around her waist, and jump from the balcony into the awaiting night.
