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Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold

Chapter 2: Cold Feet


The King Leopold Academy of Arts was the city's smallest college. With just over three hundred undergraduates, King Leo's students found it funny that their beloved alma mater had more famous alumni than any three schools in the city combined. Sure, old Gotham University claimed plenty of fancy lawyers and scientists, but it couldn't offer the one group that King Leo churned out by the dozen: movie stars!

By some cosmic bolt of foresight, in 1905 the Academy's tiny School of Theater bought one of Edison's new motion picture cameras. Actors at the time thought films had the artistic merit of carnival sideshows, which is what they often were, but King Leopold's theater students were not the most ambitious thespians. Most were lucky if they found work on an out-of-town vaudeville stage. Since the students had little to look forward to, quite a few were happy to skip lessons to play with the the new camera device.

Meanwhile, crowds began to flood nickelodeons in every town, and the studios needed skilled directors to sell tickets. To their surprise, they found a pool of artists at King Leopold's third-rate acting school who not only knew how to use a camera and edit celluloid but were at the forefront of the medium's experimental techniques (or, as the students called it, goofing off with class equipment). The entire motion picture club was hired on the spot. Naturally, these budding cinematographers were happy to cast their friends from acting class in their films. It was for this reason above all that, by the late 1920s, Gotham City was the undisputed center of East Coast filmmaking.

This was all fine for King Leo's School of Theater, but the Academy's once-preeminent School of Painting wasn't happy about it. Prestige was important among the academic departments, and now the dumb actors had all the attention. The Dean of Painting was determined to rectify this indignity. In the summer of 1939, he bet his entire budget and whatever he could beg or borrow on a complete remodeling of his school, hoping to win painting some publicity with the gilded sons of the new idle rich who tended to be suckers for shiny things. For months, the Painting building was surrounded by workers and moving vans. There were crystal chandeliers hung and marble bathrooms installed. Gallons of the finest paints and inks lined the storage closets. But the grandest luxury of them all was the new Rotation of the Classics program: twice a month the school rented a different painting from an array of museums and private collections to hang in a classroom for study. The professors were trained curators and ensured that each masterpiece was protected from the environment.

However, the professors were not trained security and did not ensure that each masterpiece was protected from Catwoman. When she heard in late September that famous paintings were being shown at some school that didn't even have the typical museum safeguards, she knew it was her solemn duty to teach them a lesson in hubris.

Or maybe just a fun way to spend a Thursday. Catwoman wasn't the crusading type.

So she pulled on the chic violet bodysuit, black gloves, and black boots. After a yawn-inducingly easy surveillance and infiltration, she made it into the classroom where the treasure, one of the less popular Brugghens, was kept, stretched out some acid-free paper, and proceeded to work her magic. The art was off the wall and nearly packed when he showed up.

They had met once before, back in June that year. And what a rush it was! Tactically, that evening had been a draw, but Catwoman called it a win for the novelty alone. No one had heard of him then, this hulking figure of the dark with his frown and his cape. She was fascinated. And her interest only grew the more she heard. It took time for the babbled individual sightings to bake into a coherent myth. But by September he had earned quite a lurid reputation amongst night types like herself. Given their respective habits, she was sure they would see each other again sooner or later. She might even call their dynamic a game of cat-and-mouse except that she still had her dignity.

But their second confrontation in the painting classroom was a big disappointment: brief, nonviolent, and frankly kind of boring (by her fell-off-the-end-of-the-bell-curve standards). It was over before it began. She blamed the picture. Padding and covering that frame was a slow process; she refused to be one of those amateur hacks who just roll the canvas into a cardboard tube. Maybe she would have gotten away in time if she had cut a few corners.

Regardless, when she glanced up and saw that trademark silhouette on the wall, Catwoman knew an easy escape was out of the question. Even if she had the painting packed, the real challenge was carrying it. Going up a rope, through a window, and down an ivy trellis while carrying the art was challenging alone, but it was a fantasy when the Bat could ruin it just by standing in her way.

Her first instinct was to pick a fight, but the room was small and cluttered. Her biggest weapon on Batman was agility, and there was simply no space for a good brawl. Besides, if things got hot and heavy someone might step on the painting, and she refused to be the first klutz in three centuries to ruin the Brugghen. The only safe ending would be to knock Batman out with one hit. Kapow!

But you didn't just knock out the Batman.

She wasn't being modest. Some people wrote poetry, some people built birdhouses, and the Batman won fights. Period. He had been on the scene long enough that everybody knew this, and the ones that refused to get the message would learn it in person very soon. Maybe she'd get lucky, she certainly had moves of her own, but a lady didn't get far in the felony business by taking dumb risks.

So that was it. She cared too much about the art to escalate the confrontation. As for His Majesty, King Frownington, his view on art - like everything else about him - was a mystery. He did seem to care about fragile property and didn't interrupt as she hung the frame again. With a final adjustment, she let go of the painting and turned around. Deep down, she felt wary like an old gunslinger, but Catwoman was Catwoman. She put on a smile and broke the ice.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He stared impassively at her for a long moment. His eyes were hidden like usual, but there was a very strange tilt to his face, an awkward tenseness about him. This was only their second meeting, but she suspected that hesitation wasn't normally an issue for him.

It certainly wasn't for her. She planted a jaunty hand on her hip and stepped forward. "Batman, right? I don't think we were properly introduced last time."

Silence. All six foot, two inches of granite willpower focused on her. More staring. His shoulder twitched. She took another step, arched an eyebrow, "Cat got your tongue?"

No smile. He gave her a final appraisal then, to her stunned bafflement, stepped aside.

"Don't come back."

Catwoman could only blink.

... What?

She knew the rumors - Batman wasn't in the habit of letting criminals walk, no more than water was in the habit of flowing uphill or pigs were in the habit of flying. And she was undoubtedly a criminal. So what did this mean? Was he only in it for the challenge? Was this a reward for cooperating? Was he hallucinating? Was she?

Half in shock, she quietly picked up her gear, strode past him, and left. She had no idea what her reprieve meant, and he never let her go so easily again (nor would she have taken it). For weeks afterward, Catwoman mulled over the memory. She decided a few things:

1. No paintings for awhile. Too awkward. Catwoman is the human embodiment of nimbleness, not a Laurel & Hardy skit.

2. Batman didn't swoop down on people to hurt them; he swooped down on people to make sure they followed the rules. His rules. Then he usually hurt them.

3. She wouldn't rest until she retraced every stinking step she made in the past month and figured out HOW THE HELL he tracked her there!

4. Batman was human. Almost no one else thought so yet, but she was certain. Betting odds, at least. He was just a loon in a mask, no matter what the rumors said. He put his Bat-pants on one leg at a time like anyone else (or for all she knew, he somehow judo-flipped into both simultaneously, but again, loon).


Fifteen months later, breaking into the Academy of Arts was still a piece of cake. Catwoman walked through the dark and quiet of the painting classroom, her calf-high boots the only muffled sound in the stillness. Shafts of weak moonlight painted stripes on the floor. Snowflakes gently collected along the bottoms of the windows.

The room hadn't changed much, except that there was no masterpiece on the wall this time. Her near-theft had gone undiscovered, but the program was shut down a few months later when some other punk nabbed a Copley.

That strange second meeting had been nearly a year ago. Throughout all her future encounters with the uncompromising Dark Knight, it had always stuck out, never making sense. She looked again at her tiny note.

Truce?

(Tentative

Meet Midnight, Site of 2nd Encounter

Why ask her to come here? Admittedly, this was a pretty good place for a meeting. Batman obviously didn't want to reveal to much in case someone else saw the note; he was limited to obliquely referencing a rendezvous only they would recognize. Yet out of that short list, he choose the closest, warmest, and most likely to stay empty. It was savvy trade-craft and a nice gesture.

Or maybe he just picked a low number in case she hadn't kept count. Catwoman liked to think she had a gift for reading people, and usually that was true, but he was a tough nut to crack. What could he possibly want to talk about?

She sat on the professor's desk and idly swung her legs. The hour hand on the old wall clock made a heavy click. It was midnight. She had been waiting for nine minutes. This little college was relatively safe, sure, but the thief in her was getting itchy. The trick to trespassing was speed and stealth, not sitting on one's dainty hiney out in the open. That was trouble served up on a platter.

Yeah, and being caught in this room would be a lot of trouble.

...

Wait.

...

What if this was a trap?

She realized with growing unease that the room would be a good choice for that too. It was small; agility wouldn't help much. It was empty; there were no cavities to hide in and no platforms to climb. She didn't see anything that would make a good weapon. Collateral damage wouldn't be a concern, it was just some mediocre paintings from spoiled rich kids. And worst of all, the escape routes were uncomfortably limited: just a single door and some hard-to-reach windows. This was why she was trapped so easily the first time.

Of course! That night here had been his only real win against her. What if he was reusing an old success story from the Bat-playbook?

And why hadn't she realized that ten minutes ago?

That slimeball!

She inhaled and exhaled, trying to calm down. Only rookies let their nerves control them in the field. The nation's jails were filled with rookies. No, this was a time to think.

Would Batman set a trap?

Sure, Batman loved traps. At least he loved setting them. He set them all the time. But his traps were always temporary and straightforward: tying a cord between two lampposts so some fat bank robbers tripped. His traps were more like a game warden, less like a serial killer. He wouldn't lure someone to an ambush hours ahead of time. And she wasn't being a menace to society, she was having coffee! Would he set a trap like that with no provocation? And was he brazen enough to INVITE her to it?

That didn't sound like his style at all. If he wanted to arrest someone when their guard was down, he didn't deceive them with a disguise and a note, he dived through a skylight and kicked them in the face. And even if he wanted to trick her, why now? He had a year of opportunities. Catwoman couldn't remember doing anything particularly unwholesome recently. They hadn't even seen each other in weeks.

Still, there were certain rules of thumb you had to use with the Dark Knight. The Gotham underworld's favorite pastime was sharing their Bat-myths, and in those hundreds of stories there were two reoccurring lessons:

First, the Bat could hold a grudge like nobody's business.

Second, one way or another he always had a surprise.

Well, Catwoman was no illiterate leg-breaker. Batman didn't surprise her.

... At least, he didn't "always" surprise her.

Great.

She had the feeling in her gut that coming here might have been a bad idea. The other trick to trespassing was that you follow your gut. It had served her well. Catwoman pushed onto her feet and headed for the fractionally-open window where her rope hung.

Before she could cross the room, the door creaked open.