The air stunk of sweat, urine, and fear, yet it was quiet - unreasonably so, as if no one dared to even audibly breathe. The old Newhill Penitentiary had been the center of Gotham's prison system before Blackgate was built. Even decades later, even after urban sprawl pushed the limits of the surrounding land in the name of progress, Newhill was still isolated, surrounded by untouched and uninhabited tracts of forest, as if the city itself were afraid to come anywhere near the desiccated, rotted place. There had been many attempts to raze the decaying structure, many attempts to turn it to different purpose, and even a few tries at bestowing some kind of historical preservation status on it. All had failed, either due to circumstance or lack of interest. So Newhill stood, and crumbled, in silence, forgotten or outright ignored. Until now.

Almost every cell with a sound structure had a prisoner within. Dozens were occupied by men and women in gray jumpsuits; all were either lying on their cots, covered with nothing but a sleeping pad and a single sheet, or leaning listlessly against the bars, staring at Batman as he passed by as though he weren't actually there. One held a notorious gang banger from the Fulson Street Bloods, missing for over two weeks; Detective Tinsley had been investigating the disappearance as turf war related foul play. Batman recognized another prisoner nearby as a ruthless CFO and unrepentant embezzler who'd "jumped bail" five days previous. A third cell contained one of the Penguin's top lieutenants. All these people were hardened criminals in their own way, definitely not the kind to roll over and lay down for anyone. But none showed but the barest spark of life, their eyes glassy and defeated, their limbs hanging numb and limp.

Batman's nerves jangled as he silently made his way through the cell block. At least he didn't have to worry about the prisoners making any noise that might alert their captor. On the other hand, he wouldn't be able to expect any help from them either. So far, though, no sign of their jailer...

The pain exploded in the very center of his back. Despite his cape, despite the insulation woven into his costume, enough electricity surged through him to slam the breath from his lungs. Barely managing to stay on his feet, he lunged forward, putting some distance between him and the agony. Within moments, he was cloaked in the comforting embrace of the shadows.

"Geez, there's something you don't see every day." The mocking voice echoed through the halls, sending the prisoners into paroxysms of terror. "Someone breaking into a prison!"

Noah Puckerman was head guard at Arkham Asylum before he was fired for extreme brutality towards his charges. Embittered by the loss of his job, and seething at a system he thought woefully insufficient at keeping the "loonies" in, he remade himself into a vicious vigilante. Calling himself Lock-Up, he began "doing what Batman doesn't have the balls to do" and imposing his own brand of justice, serving as judge, jury, and warden over anyone he deemed a criminal or who'd slipped through the cracks of the court system. The only reason, it seemed, he didn't become executioner was that he thought death was "too easy" for "Gotham bottom feeders."

He stalked down the hall, dressed in his modified riot gear, tapping his Taser/nightstick in his hand. The visor of his helmet was up, revealing a pair of eyes dancing in anticipation. "See that, boys and girls?" he called out to the cowering prisoners. "You all got yourselves a guest! Sadly, visiting hours are long over, so he's gotta go. I got a nice ditch dug out back for him, so I'll take care of him and be back with you all in just a few minutes." He practically swaggered in the general direction Batman had retreated, although his eyes were alert and his nightstick was at the ready.

"Y'know, Bats, I really gotta wonder why you're bothering me. I mean, we're a lot alike. And I don't mean in the way that stupid fucking clown and all those other nutsos say you're like them; I mean it. We both just want what's best for Gotham. We know the courts and prisons are shitty at their job. We hate the way these worthless douches never learn from their mistakes." He paused, whirling to his right, brandishing the nightstick. Nothing happened. The tension dropped from his body once more as he continued gingerly forward. "Tell ya what: let's talk about this. You just leave me alone to do my job, and I can make yours a whole hell of a lot easier. Hey, maybe we can work together! We'll clean up the likes of the Penguin and Scarecrow in no time! Isn't that what we want? For people to not be afraid?"

"No." The reply seemed to echo from every direction at once; Lock-Up whirled about, trying to find the source of the voice. He only saw light and shadow and the worn figures of the criminals he was holding. "All you want is to inflict pain, cloaking yourself behind a delusion of righteousness. You're scum, Puckerman, worse than the people you're holding against their will."

"Fuck you!" Lock-Up shrieked, the grip on his nightstick turning white-knuckled. "You're just a fucking coward! Come on! Come on out and show yourself! Or are you just gonna knock me out with one of your fancy toys while you're hiding in the dark like the fucking fag you are?"

It wasn't about showing him up. That's what Batman would tell himself later. Such impulse would've been foolish. He was merely shaking Puckerman's belief in himself, his rightness, and his strength. He was showing the prisoners that someone was willing to step forward, into the light, and stand up for their rights. He wasn't striking out of anger or insult. Of course not.

Lock-Up never saw the kick coming. He certainly felt it, though, sharp and swift, and heard his bones shake under the impact. The nightstick flew out of his hand, bouncing, then skittering, across the floor and vanishing into the dark. Batman stood where there had been empty floor only a moment before, his fists clenched. Lock-Up laughed. "Now this is more fucking like it!" He crouched into a ready position, his own fists curling up. Puckerman had his own martial arts training, a skilled Krav Maga practitioner. He made a mocking "bring it" hand gesture. A moment later, Batman sprung.

Strike. Chop. Kick. Both men were wearing heavy outfits, but neither seemed affected by it; their punches flashed out like lightning. Dodge. Counter. Batman's mind was blank, the world narrowed to just him and his opponent. Thoughts of his own physical condition, of his foe's fighting style, of his little physical tells that telegraphed his moves just as loudly as if he'd shouted them at the top of his lungs... These and more scrolled in the back of his mind, never consciously processed. As far as his consciousness could tell, he was operating on instinct alone, nothing in thought to distract from action. Duck. Step. Punch.

Noah Puckerman's mind, on the other hand, was running a mile a minute. Shit! I forgot how good he was... He was starting to sweat, his skills pushed to the limit, his body barely able to keep up with Batman's assaults. A vicious chop caught him on the side of his head. His helmet protected his consciousness, but the force of the impact knocked the helmet off entirely. Puckerman stood, haloed in the overhead light, his bare scalp dripping with sweat as it ran down its shaved sides in rivulets. "That... that the best you can do?" he panted. Batman stared back silently, his chest rising and falling in regular rhythm, as if untouched by strain or exhaustion. "Okay, then... Round two."

Sweep. Punch. Turn. Batman had actually not heard anything Lock-Up had said. His mind was too focused on which arm he was going to launch his next attack from, which way he was going to step, and planning a counter for each scenario. Block. Grab. Twist. Lock-Up screamed in pain as he felt his left arm brush his back. Enraged, he snapped his head backwards, catching Batman in the chin. He stumbled out of the hero's grip, his arm throbbing. For his part, Batman was conscious of the pain, but only barely. Leap. Blind with cape. Snap kick. Kneecap. Throat punch.

As he often did, Batman found himself having to actively pull all of himself back into reality when it was over. Lock-Up lay on the floor, groaning in agony. Not a jot of pity stirred in his chest as he tied Puckerman's wrists together behind his back with a pair of flexi-cuffs. The gathered prisoners were now all at their cell doors. Some were staring in something like disbelief. Others were hooting and hollering at the fallen vigilante, with the nearer ones spitting at his fallen form. They were waking up from the stupor of fear that Lock-Up had placed them in. Some would be put back into prison, a real prison, while others would be let back out into the streets for lack of offense. That group would quickly be back up to their old tricks - of that Batman was certain. But if they were punished, it would be by the state and the people, not the whim of one sadist.

Batman was seen by Gotham, by the world at large, as a grim figure, a living Reaper of the criminal element, a heartless scourge. But a few - among them Quinn, Sam, and Commissioner Fabray - knew the truth. "You work so hard every day not to step over your own line," Quinn had once mused during a deep data dive. "You really think that you... that we can turn this city around, and you put everything you have into making it happen. You're the biggest idealist I know, David."

He often wondered if that was a good thing or not.

With his run-in with Batman still fresh in his mind, and the distinct impression that he was incredibly lucky to have escaped, Kurt decided that a little change in M.O. was in order. First order of business, ratchet down the target profile. A few small-level jobs could be just as profitable as one big score anyway, and the variety would keep him from getting too bored. Next, take greater care to cover up. Fortunately, he already had a variety of very good fake stones at the ready. Unless the marks looked very carefully, they wouldn't know they had lost anything for months, if ever. Finally, slow the pace. This would be the most difficult step; every idle night was a night spent with his blood boiling, yearning to feel the wind against his face as he leaped from rooftop to rooftop, the excitement of dodging surveillance cameras and guards, the thrill of holding the forbidden in his hands, knowing that he got to that point with his own skill and cunning.

The urges were made worse by the prospect of Batman. Kurt knew he should be doing everything possible, praying to every nonexistent god he could think of, to make sure they wouldn't meet again. After all, he'd come within a cat's whisker of being shut down for good the very first time they faced each other. But by God, he was a worthy foe; that was something he hadn't had since... ever.

At the same time, he knew it was more than that. The very thought was disturbing; there were so many reasons it was a bad idea, so many reasons it would never work, not even for a one night stand.

But, of course, logic versus emotion, especially for someone like him, was a lopsided, losing battle to begin with.

So as Kurt extracted himself from the diamond exchange, leaving behind his pretty but worthless baubles as replacement for their oh-so-genuine and precious gems, he already had his voice changer activated, ready just in case. Anticipation shot through him like needles, just like every time he first set foot into a new target. He was three blocks away from the exchange when he saw the silhouette. His adrenaline spiked in both joy and nervousness.

"Hey again," he purred, his voice turned feminine and alluring by the electronic device at his throat. "Congratulations on finding me. Just a lucky break...? But no, you don't seem like the kind of man to depend on those."

"You may have changed your M.O., but you still have a comfort zone, a pattern," Batman growled. "Put them together, and it wasn't difficult to narrow it down. All I had to do was wait."

"Very clever. I'll remember to change things up a bit more next time."

"There's not going to be a next time." Batman stepped forward; Kurt matched the motion with his own step back, his mind still focused on escape routes. There's the roof behind me; the fire escape is ten feet to the left... "I suggest you come quietly."

"Ah, then you just don't know me, do you? The only thing I do quietly is sneak. The only thing." He put on his best saucy grin, and... oh! His lip twitched, just the tiniest bit. Damn, you're good, Hummel. His triumph and satisfaction completely smothered his lingering guilt over his gender deception (guilt he still wasn't quite sure he knew the reason for). "I slipped up a little the last time, but I'm afraid that as much as having your hands on me would be a pleasurable experience... not to mention your handcuffs... the whole jail thing isn't my cup of tea."

"This isn't a request," Batman growled, taking another step towards him. He was hiding it very well, but Kurt could tell he was rattled, just a little. He was almost giddy; he hadn't had this much fun in years.

"Besides, what would you be arresting me for? It's my word against yours that I ever touched the Star of Ceylon, you know. And I've been such a good girl ever since..."

Batman snorted. "Not likely. In fact, I'd wager that your satchel contains gems from... West Diamond Exchange?" His jaw (a very firm, strong jaw, Kurt observed) set. "I'll give you credit for being more subtle. But it's over."

"Oh, au contraire, my dear Batman. It's just begun." A cliche line, but for the sake of drama, acceptable. Kurt flipped backwards over the edge of the building and out of sight. He imagined the reaction in his mind's eye: Batman's eyes going wide, moving quickly but cautiously towards the ledge. He'd pause, unsure whether to look over; it could be a trap, after all. But he couldn't just stand there forever like an idiot. He'd gird his loins and, with great caution and cute tricks at the ready, he'd peek over the edge right about...

Batman's face appeared above him.

Now.

Kurt planted his feet against the wall of the building, launching himself into the air by his whip, solidly wrapped around a leering stone gargoyle. He effortlessly flipped himself over the stricken Batman and landed gracefully behind the broody vigilante. A snap of his wrist brought his whip coiling at his feet. "Startled you, did I?" he smiled. "So you're human after all." No response. "Really, why do we have to be enemies? I'm not like the other meanies you have to face; I don't take joy in making other people suffer. I just want a few more shiny things in my life. Is that so bad? The only people who get hurt are the pompous overstuffed one percenters who like trampling on the little people..."

"That still doesn't give you the right," came the blunt reply.

"Mmm, you're as inflexible as they say." Kurt couldn't help casting a lustful eye up and down Batman's stolid form. "Hopefully not all the time." He wrapped his arms around his chest, careful not to crush the false boobs too much. "Look, handsome, this teasing you is fun and all, but I'm serious; don't you have bigger fish to worry about?"

"Gotham's my city. I'll fight anyone - anything - that despoils it. You are one of them."

Kurt pouted. "That's not very nice." He began pacing in a large, lazy circle around Batman, who turned to face him constantly, but otherwise did not move. "But really, denial is so tiresome. Ask yourself this: why haven't you tried to capture me yet? Why are you just standing back and letting me... us... talk instead of taking me down and carting me off into the gentle hands of the GCPD?" Batman's expression was almost unreadable under the cowl, but Kurt felt confident he'd scored a hit. "Because you felt it. A spark between us."

"You're deluded." The personal insult only confirmed Kurt's suspicions. Yes, a palpable hit indeed.

"Ah, you say no, but your body said, and says, yes. The truth, tall, dark and handsome, is that this world frankly sucks, and we all deal with it in different ways. Some people put on a happy face and ignore that basic truth. Others just shut down in misery and despair. Others, like you, try to fight it, and beat your fists bloody trying. And others, smart others like myself, embrace the fact, use it to make their own lives better."

"So you're just an innocent making your way in the big bad world, and so I shouldn't care who you hurt to get your way. Is that it?"

Kurt smirked. Ah, I really am getting to him... In many ways. "I'm saying that I'm doing what it takes to survive. And for a little petty revenge, I'll admit. But at least I'm honest with myself about the whys." He cocked his head. "What about you? How's the 'big bad world' hurt you?" No answer came, but he didn't expect any. "Must have been pretty bad, for you to be so determined to save it. But it's sweet."

"Enough." There was no real emotion in the voice, but that fact alone sent a shiver down Kurt's spine - a shiver that wasn't all from fear. "You can spin any pretty justifications you want; you're just a common criminal."

Kurt wagged a finger. "Uh uh. Please don't insult me that way. I'm a most uncommon criminal, thank you very much." In less time than it took Kurt to blink, Batman was standing mere inches from him. He had to suppress a rather, well, girly screech. How the fuck did he do that?

"It's over," was all Batman said. One of his gauntlet-clad hands shot out. But by then, Kurt had recovered from his surprise, and lashed out.

The claws glittered like diamonds in the moonlight. Fitted over his gloves by a network of flexible wires, they were lightweight, but oh so sharp - as Batman found, to his astonishment, as they sliced through the chest of his costume. There was no blood drawn - Kurt could barely see body armor underneath the shredded outfit - but a hit nonetheless.

Kurt took advantage of Batman's evident shock to put some distance between them. He had little illusions about who would win an extended battle, and sometimes discretion really was the better part of valor. Besides, this was the perfect dramatic note on which to end the night. "It's been fun, really, but I'm the type who knows when he's beat. We'll have to do this again some other time." Another two flips, and Kurt knew that he was out of the reach of the Dark Knight (and oh, what a lovely nickname that was). As the wind whistled in his ears, the night cold against the small amount of exposed skin that peeked through his outfit, Kurt reveled in the freedom, in the power, and in the fantasies he would have in bed later, just thinking about Mr. Brooding and Mysterious...

Batman's mind was reeling. The picture was becoming clear, finally. World's Greatest Detective, indeed; he was ashamed of himself, the way he was so slow to put things together.

The slight buzz in her voice that he'd noticed in his recording of their first encounter, betraying use of an electronic voice changer. Some of Catwoman's acrobatics, very strongly evoking standard routines in gymnastics pommel horse events. That little slip of the tongue just now.

And his own reaction to their kiss. Batman knew he knew himself better than that.

All of these things were small, meaningless on their own, easily dismissed. But put together, he could come to only one conclusion. He had no real proof, but he knew in his bones he was right.

The so-called "Catwoman" was a man.

AN: Hope this wasn't too repetitious; this one was tough to plot out, but I felt it was necessary, so I decided to just get it down into words and be done with it. Don't worry, the rest of this is going to have quite a bit happening...