Trigger warning: more misogynist language, slut shaming, things said in anger by people who should know better.
"She's…hot," Techie said thoughtfully.
"Very."
"And she knows it."
"Obviously," the Captain sighed. "Very obviously."
Techie laughed. It wasn't a particularly mirthful sound, more a concentrated effort to dissolve her own lingering irritation.
"Did you ever think we'd be sitting on some anonymous rooftop, calling Catwoman a bitch-ass skank behind her back?"
Techie snickered.
"Maybe you should say it to my face," came a thoroughly unamused voice from just behind her. Techie felt some part of her insides make a sudden, desperate bid for freedom as the Captain squeaked in alarm and fell off her seat. Techie turned to face the newcomer, scrambling to find a good defensive stance.
"Hi—" The Captain cleared her throat. "Hiya, Catwoman. We were just talking about you." H-how's the missus?"
Catwoman folded her arms and glared.
"Why have you been following me?"
"Why?" the Captain repeated dopily. "Why? Because we like you!"
"Uh…huh. Why, again?"
"Good question," Techie muttered.
"No, really. What is it? Is it the leather that makes you think I'd like a couple of bondservants? Do you have a thing for whips, is that it?"
"We admired your skill, you nitwit," growled Techie. At that, Catwoman's whip unfurled.
"Go home, little girls. Gotham is no place for amateurs, and the last thing I need is a couple of kids who think they're the Harley Twins." She flicked her wrist, not quite cracking the whip, but drawing attention to the fact that it was there.
Techie exhaled slowly and turned to the Captain.
"Just to set things straight…is she comparing us to Harley?"
"She's saying we'd fail at being Harley."
"That's what I thought." She turned back to Catwoman. "I am nothing like that psychotic, peroxide-enhanced, scatterbrained, dippy little blonde gimmick of a henchgirl. And if you don't stop flicking that whip at us, I'm going to shove it down your throat. Do you really think you can scare us? We work for the Scarecrow. We live with him. We sleep under the same roof."
"Oh? And how did you get that job?" Her gaze swept down to chest level, and back up. "He's never shown any interest in that before." Techie felt her jaw clench and her muscles tense. "The way Ivy tells it, he couldn't even get it up with a double dose of pheromones. Why would he pay for a toy he can't play with? Or does he just like to watch?"
The Captain snarled something highly uncomplimentary. Techie was too busy throwing herself at Catwoman to pay attention to her partner's words.
The feeling of fist on flesh had never been more satisfying. So she did it again, vaguely elated by how fast Catwoman went down, head slamming into the concrete. Techie planted a knee on her chest to hold her still and punched her once more for good measure.
"Maybe he's just not impressed with twits like you!"
"It takes more than tits to make a woman, miss sex appeal," the Captain added from the sidelines.
Catwoman smiled at that. Techie could only stare in shock. Did she have a sense of humor after all? (And how had she taken two body blows and a punch to the jaw without being incapacitated? Techie was going to have to work out more.)
"What traditionally defines a woman falls between two things," Catwoman purred, and did something brain-hurting with her legs that knocked Techie on her back. Catwoman pinned her, a knee on each arm, hands hovering at her throat.
"Her legs," the Captain finished helpfully. Then she frowned. "But not always, though."
"Speaking of which," said Techie, "great technique. Can I get up now?"
Catwoman hissed and pressed a claw to Techie's jugular.
Techie couldn't bring herself to do anything but roll her eyes and swat the hand away.
"Ops," the Captain said with a wince, as if she were about to see her friend's head go rolling off the edge of the roof. (Would it bounce, or just smash open like a watermelon?)
"Grow up, Catwoman," Techie said sternly. "Meow, hiss, what the fuck ever. I'm not afraid of you."
"Ops, she still has claws…"
"I am not impressed with posturing bitches who think they can use their 'feminine wiles' to get out of a fight. Sorry, Cats. You're not doing it for me right now, so will you please get your crotch off my chest and your claws out of my face?"
"Bitch?" Catwoman repeated. "Bitch? This again? Do I look like a dog to you?" Her voice dripped fury in that particular lingering yowl that only a riled kitty could achieve.
"Fushta!" Techie announced. With a twist and a shove, she got herself out from under the felonious feline and to her feet, dancing back out of grabbing range. "And, yes, you do look like a posturing bitch in black vinyl with no more sense than to go into heat at the first sign of action."
Hissing, Catwoman launched herself at Techie, who dropped into an appropriately-named cat stance and (barely) warded off the face-scratch she had known was coming. The Captain could only stand and watch, giggling.
"Nice claws, you twit!" Techie taunted. "Come on and fight me like a girl!" Catwoman made a graceful spin that slammed the heel of her boot into the younger woman's chest. Techie fell flat on her back. "Much…better," she wheezed.
"How's that for fighting like a girl?" Catwoman glowered.
"I said 'much better.'"
The Captain sat down, clearly wishing she had popcorn.
Techie made a try for a sweeping kick, hooking Catwoman's knee with her foot. The cat burglar evaded nimbly.
"That's enough, kid. You're beat. Do yourself a favor and stay down."
"I've never been good at that," Techie confessed. "But since I don't have any backup…"
"Nope, too busy watching this show to break it up," the Captain put in. "Although I'm sure I could be persuaded to change my mind. Want to keep talking about the Scarecrow? Go on, make a few more implications about his manhood. Jump to some more conclusions about our sex lives. It's been a while since I've had to defend someone's honor. Oh, please can I defend my honor? Can I, please? Can I, can I?"
Catwoman picked up the whip she had dropped and started coiling it up.
"Well, you're loyal, anyway. You've got the enthusiasm, you fight reasonably well—at least, I assume you both do—and you're not too bad at breaking and entering. Lay off the sugar, and you might last longer than a week. But don't go crossing the A-list. Just because you've got that scrawny sack of straw on your side doesn't mean you can rub everyone's fur the wrong way."
"He's not on our side," the Captain protested. "He doesn't even like us." Techie frowned.
"Don't tell her that!"
Catwoman chuckled.
"So, you're more realistic than Harley, too. That's good. You'll last longer if you can keep a grip on reality."
Techie and the Captain exchanged a startled glance.
"Are you…"
"Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying I approve of you in any way, and I'm not saying I think you'll last, and I'm certainly not going to pretend the man you work for doesn't make me want to take the risk of murdering him more often than not. But as long as you stick to your own territory, I don't see any reason why I should take it upon myself to throw you out of Gotham."
"Um…cool," the Captain said hesitantly. "So, would this be a good time to ask for an autograph?"
Catwoman glared at her.
"Okay. I'll take that as a no."
"Go home and get some rest." She stepped up to the edge of the roof and made as if to step off. Then she looked over her shoulder at the girls. "Oh, kids? Knock it off with the slut shaming or I'll take you on for real." Then she was gone.