What Dread Hand?

Terry

Max, Terry decided, was spending far too much time with Sean Kim's cats, and, by association, with Sean Kim. True, her bright smile did lessen the loneliness that had settled over his heart, the number of injuries Gyrados inflicted on him daily had dwindled dramatically after she came back into his life, and his inner big brother was soothed by the fact that she was occasionally making eyes at a man he knew would never take advantage of her, but…

Oh, crap, his best friend was flirting with him! This was the last thing he had wanted when he invited her into his apartment. And what was worse, Sean Kim was someone Terry McGinnis would hate from the start, do a full background check on, throw against a wall, and warn that if he took even looked at his best friend again he would kill…himself…

He massaged his temples and fought not to groan.

"Something wrong?"

He glanced at the living room floor where his best friend of fourteen years and female friend of six days sat cross-legged. Despite her hair's attention-demanding shade of pink, his gaze fell on the Isis breed in her lap. The black cat was leveling him a look that would stop Batman in his tracks, a look that clearly said: 'Hello. My name is Gyrados. You made my ear rub stop. Prepare to die.'

He cleared his throat. "I…"—was verbally fumbling for something to say that would keep things platonic between him and Max while simultaneously placating the miniature panther—"…uh…"—and was being about as articulate as a brain damaged Neanderthal. Unfortunately, the first thing that came to mind was worst thing he could say, but nothing better was being forthcoming. Eventually he sighed and gave the girl what he knew she wanted. "I have…work in a bit. Are you up to a bit of kitty sitting?"

Her heart-stopping grin made his ache.

—

It was a relief to see the familiar face of the Batman reflected back at him in the cockpit hull. He was sick of Sean Kim. If Terry couldn't come out and play, then, by God, let them both sit in their respective corners for a bit for his own sanity. And as for who he was, he was Batman.

At least until Terry's cell started to wail.

He looked at the number displayed and swore, patched the call into the suit and gulped, "…Hey Max."

'Hey Terr. How's England treating you?'

"Nightlife? Schway. Six a.m. wakeup calls from pink-haired midgets? Not so much." He faked a yawn. Then he moaned. The sound, born of a rapidly swelling headache that was causing him pure, unadulterated pain, was easily mistaken for one of the characteristic waking noises of a grumpy teenage male. He used the moan and the short silence thereafter to think about what to say to the girl. It seemed just a tad too forward to ask, 'Hey Max; meet any nice guys while I've been gone, particularly ones that moved in next-door to you and look kinda like me?'

Eventually he just knit his brows together. "Uh, Max?" he asked, "Why do I hear purring?"

And that opened the floodgates, and, though she could talk about cats until Doomsday, as he well knew, her babbling turned towards certain cat owners far too quickly.

'…tall, part Asian, sort of a dark, brooding type…'

He tried not to think how disconcerting it was to be described to himself.

'…drives a motorcycle…'

He frowned.

'…into nose rings…'

The detective in him had gone on high alert. There had to be a reason for her to tell him about Sean Kim's choice in body piercing.

'…has a steady job…"

Why did it sound like she was pitching a potential boyfriend to a male family member who shot first and asked questions, well, never?

…Oh.

He dragged a hand across his face. Crap.

—

Ten minutes later found him crouched on a ledge in the Historic District. A gargoyle guarded the recessed alcove he had taken shelter in, and he half-wished the granite creature would come alive, either to provide backup or to maul him to death. Frankly, he didn't care which.

He ground his fore and middle fingers into his throbbing temples and pleaded two words. A name. A stupid, rhyming childhood moniker that he'd sworn—on milk & cookies, and for the love of tigers—that he would never utter in front of absolutely anyone ever again. He told himself that the gargoyle didn't count.

There was silence, blessed silence for a single moment. Then it dragged on, and the Dark Knight found himself getting nervous. And for good reason.

In hindsight, hinting that he still thought of a girl the same way he did when she was five was a very, very bad idea. Of course, he had always known better than to be that stupid with a femme that harbored romantic feelings for him, but this was Moopsie-P…er, Max. His mistake. So he ducked his tail between his legs, mentally amended the '5-year-old femme' rule to apply to any and every creature not in possession of a Y chromosome, and tried to do damage control before the raging, pink-haired, non-Y chromosome possessing creature on the other line hung up on him and did something stupid. Like try to date his alter ego.

Right when he was starting to make headway, a glimmer of movement caught his eye, and he peered around the gargoyle to watch a figure slink through the shadows of a neighboring building's rooftop ledge. A silhouette spread across the wall. He took in the too lithe form and the two telltale points crowning the head and groaned.

A concerned-(well, kinda)-sounding Max Gibson asked, 'Something wrong, Terrywidkins?'

No biggie. He was just doomed to spend his life being stalked by brainless femmes in catsuits. He was almost starting to look forward to his impending date of doom at Hanjii. Even though the article was…vintage, it was at least genuine.

He blinked then, and failed miserably in repressing his shudder. It was rapidly becoming too much to bear. Between killer housecats, nonexistent cat-owning cads, (former) kitty-crazy best friends, a Catwoman turned old biddy with too many (who'd've thought) cats, and the famous Feline Femme Fatale's illegitimate litter of incompetent cat burglars…God. He'd completely forgotten about the Pride, Pantharis, his uncanny resemblance to a gene-splicing kitty cult's poster child, and his new, charismatic, torture-happy buddy Kahn. It was official. There was a kitty god—and She hated him!

He crept forward and got in an all-too-familiar position, one not-so-affectionately called 'ready to catch the graceless kitty-girl before she falls eighty stories to land on her feet only for her momentum to burst her open like a furry, pointy-eared watermelon.'

To Max, he said, "…I'm sorry. I'm being such a slag about this. But my advice as your best friend since preschool…until five minutes ago…dammit. Max. Whatever signals you think this guy sending you, his image, his…cats, forget about them. Just listen to yourself and don't do anything you feel uncomfortable with. Can you promise me that?"

And he prayed and waited for her to dignify him with a response. At about the same time that he got a feminine grumble, his jaw dropped open in shock as his would-be cat burglar miraculously managed to break into a building without setting off a dozen alarms or plummeting into his exasperated, waiting arms. "…Thanks, Max! Hey, I…I'll call you when I hit Milan, 'kay? Gotta fly!"

And fly he did, for all of three seconds, until he landed in a crouch on the near-vertical wall of the building being burgled. Beside him, exposed, was a small entrance to a ventilation shaft. Where the grill had gotten to was anyone's guess, but it was clear where his slippery Catgirl had gone. He eyed the rectangular hole that he would have trouble fitting one of his shoulders through before sighing and scuttling up the building in search of an entryway more substantial than a kitty door.

He found it in the valet parking entrance. A short query with the computer gave him directions to an establishment of fine gems situated six levels below. The pleasant, cultured voice apologized, saying the store was currently closed, and suggested that he come back during regular business hours, which it then proceeded to list, ignorant to the fact that the prospective customer was long gone and almost done breaking through the encryptions on the service elevator.

—

A hand slowly wormed through a deathtrap of lasers and came back with a glittering treasure again and again, all the while exuding the bored efficiency of an assembly line drone. To hear the almost inaudible click with her hand plunged deep into the crimson crisscross was a blessing. She voiced her thanks with an absent chuckle. In no rush, she took her time in removing her trapped limb from the warren of lasers. As the footsteps crept closer, she examined the bulky bracelet circling her fingers from every angle. Nothing special, it was decided. Unremarkable in nearly every regard except for its weight, density, and downright usefulness as a hurled projectile.

She flung it at the unwanted company and ran.

The sound of glass shattering at her back indicated that her pursuer know how duck. The ventilation shaft being situated at her back as well necessitated an exit, stage right, right through a door conveniently marked emergency.

—

An hour's merry chase through Gotham's decidedly non-pedestrian areas had left the Bat really rather less than merry and quite ready to see exactly how many ways he could skin a certain Kitty Cat. By then they had left the Historic District and entered what city councilmen called Progress and mere mortals liked to call Construction Hell. As he leapt onto yet another beam, the Bat likened it to the Upside version of Kahn's little Jungle Gym of Death. And the two were very similar, except that the Upside obstacle course flat-out refused to end.

That, and the competition wasn't nearly so amusing. He'd said it once, he'd screamed it a thousand times; he hated trained gymnasts!

On cue, the Catgirlz prima donna latched onto a metal pole, spun around once and used her momentum to launch herself into the air. In the opposite direction. Too tired to groan or even to process the fact that she was laughing at him, he skidded to a halt before doubling back.

—

"I did think you would be taller, you know."

"Oh really."

Neither of them was so winded that they couldn't talk. Of course, with smart alecks, speech tended to be the last thing to go. Batman, for example, was doing all he could not to fall off the metal beam they shared, but his mouth was barely starting to feel the strain.

"You know, I was expecting a Catgirl with a little more fashion sense. Points for using nylon, but, Kitty, didn't anyone ever tell you that it's supposed to cover your legs?" He cocked his head. There was just something ludicrous about a Catwoman wannabe being so crass as to wear a nylon head stocking, thus ruining the effect of her perfectly shaped cat's ears.

Insulting a femme's outfit. A guy didn't need hindsight or, hell, sight to know what a bad idea that was, but Batman didn't much care, at least not until the femme in question launched forward and showed that Kitty had claws. State of the art, right off the fashion plate, titanium-alloyed claws. Kitty, apparently, had decided her kitty was better spent on things other than pretty masks.

In seconds, his torso was reduced to tatters, circuitry entrails everywhere, and all he had to show for it was a handful of nylon. As she straightened and her face came into view, his eyes widened in shock.

And recognition.

He watched, frozen, as the sleek, gray-furred housecat—born Erin Cross and reborn in the Pride as Bast, but mainly known to him as little Miss One—lashed out with a vicious kick to his exposed gut. The blow knocked him off the narrow beam and sent him plummeting into the dark. As he fell, he would have laughed himself sick at the irony, had he been able to breathe.

—

He stumbled into Sean Kim's apartment to see Max asleep on his fold-out couch with all three of his cats. Exhausted from a night of circuitry repair, loopy from too much morphine, and still half-feeling the pain of having crashed into beam after unforgiving, steel beam for several hundred feet, he wanted nothing more than to join them in oblivion. Unfortunately, three things were preventing him from doing so.

One. Gyrados was one of the three cats and he preferred not to be killed in his sleep.

Two. If he slept in the same bed as Maxine Gibson, he'd have to find a way to stage Terry McGinnis's brutal murder of the hapless Sean Kim.

Three. He had a breakfast date with Kahn and he preferred not to be breakfast.

So he basically had a choice between eating and dying. Ah, but to die, to sleep; to sleep: perchance to dream…but then he'd dream about food for eternity, so breakfast it was.

—

At least there was coffee.

In the guise of Pantharis, he was busy inhaling his third as he tried not to dwell on the fact that the domineering albino tiger across the table was rapidly talking him out of all his clothes. His boots were "a lost cause," stored in a locker back by his assigned entrance. His leather jacket, he was told, had been overheating him; it was currently draped across the back of his chair. The dress shirt lay in the trash. Its buttons were scattered on the floor back in the subway car, casualties of his transformation. His white bio-cotton tank was tucked into his jacket pocket. It had clashed with the restaurant's dress code, which, he had learned, was formalwear or none at all. Kahn, as usual, had opted for the latter.

He, on the other hand, was stubbornly holding onto his pants. He knew that the restaurant, the Pride's pri…er, joy, was annoyed at him because he was only half naked. He also knew that, so long as Kahn was giving him some slack, he could keep his slacks on. What had him concerned was his memory of the painting of Kahn's role model and personal hero. He did not remember the mythic cat-man wearing a single scrap of clothing, and though the Pride's leader hadn't slipped up and called him Tygrus yet, he was all aquiver waiting for the name to rear its ugly head.

Being that uncomfortable to begin with, it did nothing for his nerves (or his assurances that he wouldn't be ordered to strip) when he was met with silence after he nonchalantly asked what ever had happened to Bast and Lynx. He looked away, struck with the notion that, omitting the pants situation, the breakfast felt eerily like one with his father. Same awkwardness. Same hidden resentment. However, he did not appreciate the twinge of fear he felt in the white tiger's presence. He felt many, often contradictory, feelings for Darryl McGinnis, but fear had never been one of them.

"Mr. Lynx prefers his privacy."

He forced himself not to glance up sharply at Kahn's carefully chosen words. Surely Detective Gupta wasn't still alive. The man's partner Daniel Maxwell was certainly dead, an auto wreck according to the obituaries.

"But," Kahn continued, "I believe Miss Bast wouldn't be adverse to a visit, if you are so inclined."

A hand instantly went to his stomach, where the suit had protected him from the worst but still let through some scratches. He grimaced, knowing that, if not for his dark fur fur, he'd look like a walking bruise. Visit Bast? Needless to say, he was not so inclined. "Tell me you're joking," he snarled before he could stop himself. He closed his mouth quickly after, all too aware that he'd bared teeth.

But Kahn only smiled that feral grin at him with a look of approval. There was no more talk of visiting Bast.

He ducked his head and focused on his food for the rest of breakfast. He remained acutely aware, though, that he had just been tested. He didn't know what to make of the fact that he, not Max's Sean Kim, not Kahn's Pantharis, but he himself had passed with flying colors.

—

Max, for a miracle, was still asleep when he slipped into his apartment again. Gyrados, on the other hand, may have woken up. However, she could just as easily have gotten so good at mauling him that she could do it in her sleep. Needless to say, no sooner had the door shut than he found himself thoroughly pounced.

Fortunately, the Isis breed wasn't after his blood. In a graceful movement, she jumped off his abused chest to land before the scattered contents of his dropped doggy bag. Or kitty bag, maybe, considering it came from the Pride.

The two other cats quickly joined their fearless leader in the feast. Butterfree at least had the decency to lick his face appreciatively first, but the kit stepped on his injured (read: more injured) shoulder to do so.

He grunted and gripped the smarting body part as slowly worked his way to his feet. As if Gyrados hadn't been enough. As if Bast hadn't been more than enough. He made sure to skirt Charizard's fluffy white bulk carefully. He already had insult and injury; no need to go back for more. With a wince, he leaned against the wall and carefully rolled out his complaining shoulder. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Max's pink head had finally come out from under the sofa bed's blankets.

"Mornin', sorry work ran so late," he apologized before looking back at the cats and their enthusiastic feast. "I brought—eh, I was plannin' to bring breakfast as a peace offering. The trio had other plans."

"It's all right." She swung out of bed, rumpled, still in the last day's clothes, mascara run down almost to her cheek bones.

He was suddenly able to feel truly contrite, despite his body's aches. "No, really. You shouldn't've had to stay here all night."

Her short ponytail had slipped out during the night. She had let her hair down and was tying it back up when he spoke. She stopped mid-twist to look at him. Her mascara had tear tracks. "It's all right. I mean it. The IBs are fun, and it's better than spending the night in an empty apartment. Get's lonely." She looked away then and went back to tying her hair as she resolutely faced the wall.

He blinked. "Don't you live with your mother?"

"Her packages get shipped to this building," she answered. Her gaze didn't stray an inch. "She does a lot of work for international firms."

"What about your sister; she's in school, right?" he asked. "Shouldn't she be home for the summer?"

"She's on the west coast, interning at a hospital. And before you ask, my dad,"—she pulled out the hair tie and started over—"My best friend's out of the country, too busy clubbing to talk to me. So really, alone in an apartment with just cats for company, it's all right."

The ponytail still wasn't right. "I like to think of it as training," she said nonchalantly as she gripped her short curls. "You know, when I'm old and grey and…dammit!"—she yanked back the locks that had fallen free and started again—"Just another cat lady, that's what I'm going to be. Not that I like cats better than people." She cast a glance at him and half her hair came loose on the right side. She threw the tie to the floor with a frustrated scream and stomped on it before clenching her fists. "Cats are just all I can have, because no one I care…cared about ever—"

And Terry broke. It was the look on her face. In a second, he had crossed the room and pulled her into his arms. He backed onto the sofa bed and let her burrow in his aching shoulder. He had done the same thing when her parents stopped trying to hide their fights from her. Granted, she had been twelve then, but, he realized, six years hadn't changed her at all.

It came as something of a shock for him then, when he felt his best friend's lips on his. He drew back instantly, pushing her away. His eyes, wide, fell on the hands holding her shoulders, and he froze. They didn't belong to him. His hands were somewhere across the Atlantic.

Sean Kim was the one in Gotham, Sean Kim the one who had comforted Max, Sean Kim the one who held the girl at arm's length as she caved in on herself and began to cry.

Sean Kim, not Terry McGinnis. Terry was in London. He was in Gotham. Worse than that, he was under a criminal organization's surveillance. He couldn't be Terry.

So it was from an ocean away that Terry watched Max reveal feelings of loneliness and abandonment to an almost total stranger because she literally had no one else...and he watched her be rejected. His first thought was to kill the slag. His second was that, if she didn't have Sean Kim, she would be completely alone. And, no matter where on earth Terry was, he would never let the little piece of shit do that to her.

So Sean Kim gently wiped away her tears and kissed her back.

Eh, Terry's relationships are getting a wee bit complicated. At least you now know why Max said she was going to kill them…him. Yeah…

Anyway, hi. I'm back and over my father's near-miss. (…and "the Divorce." God, all I need now is an ethnic minority boyfriend that seems to break up with me every damn week…oh, wait. Never mind. Next on list: find old lady billionaire with weak heart.) …Eh, sorry about the jaded sense of humor; my life has become one of those laugh or cry things. Anyway, I'm back with a resolve...which is both good and bad for you guys. Bad News: I'm planning to get the heck out of Dodge and stick to original writing. Good News: I have a guilt complex and am determined to get this stuff done first, come Hell or High Water. So if all goes to plan, we'll get to see the end of this. If not, I'm scrapping down the plot for parts and you'll get a lot of one-shots as a going-away present. Still, I'm going to try my darnedest to get it done, because throwing away all the weeks (literally weeks) I spent planning this s. o. b. would seriously tick me off.

Hope to have the next update in a few weeks (or less…-knocks on wood-),

—B.W. Butterfly