Jane C. Arkham Memorial Women's Correctional Facility

The East End hadn't been a good place to grow up.

Hell, Gotham City hadn't been a good place to grow up. And Memorial wasn't the sort of place you wanted to spend your adulthood, either. But as Holly'd gotten older and fatter the pedophiles and sick pricks who wanted her preadolescent body and girlhood or the slick, smooth lines and tight pussy of a teenager didn't want her anymore. And the drugs—goddamn Stan and the drugs!—had done a number on her teeth and skin. Stan had found Selina and her when they were just kids trying to make a living, giving blow jobs and hand jobs in cars and alleyways. Stan had paid to clean them up, hook them up in the Downtown Districts fucking politicians and lawyers, doctors and businessmen. They'd been passed around the party circuit so many times her and Selina had serviced every player, coach, and referee in the NBA and NFL and every presidential wanna-be who'd come to Sin City and got some.

The East End hadn't been a good place to grow up. Sure, there were the occasional helping hands, the pitying, charitable odd person on the street who might throw down the money for a hot meal, and the preaching, hypocritical harpies from Sisters of Mercy who'd drag you kicking and screaming into an unmarked van and lock you up and away until you learned "God's Love", and even the would-be-john who couldn't go through with it in the end and let you keep the change because "you're just a kid, dammit." Or even Selina, who'd take your shift for you when you couldn't handle another second of a stomach full of booze and semen or you'd shoot yourself in the fucking head.

Holly Robinson had known a lot of such saviors. But they'd all been passed by, all temporary, none of them the Jesus or Prince Charming that the nuns or Disney had promised her. Now even her friends had forsaken her. And her last an final savior was gone. Zander Mason was dead.

Zander Mason was dead.

Holly knew it the moment that disgusting Hal Flass had shown up in the cellblock with orders to transfer her. Zander Mason was dead…and Selina Kyle had killed him. She might not've done the dirty work herself, but she'd gotten her hands—and likely other parts too—dirty in order to get it done. Selina knew men. Knew what they wanted. And that knowledge, she always said, was power. She could strut that body and the words coming out of her well-formed mouth and twist their will to her own. Zander Mason was dead, and Selina killed him by proxy. Same with those Latin Kings a few weeks back, choking to death on janitorial duty…

She'd seen the bodies. Wheeled past her cell block on their way to the morgue. They were greyed and scalded looking, eyes wide in terror, blue lips gasping. Ammonia and bleach. Not a good mix. Not a good way to go.

"C'mon, bitch," Flass grunted as she ignored the groping, gorilla-ish hand clutching at her ass. "Don't know what's so damn special 'bout you, but somebody's dying to see you."

The sick prick even had enough gall to hyuk at his own joke. Why Selina had ever fucked him—Selina Kyle, the consummate call-girl of Gotham City, paramour of presidents and CEO's worldwide—was beyond her. But he was brawn, brainless, obedient, happy enough to follow his dick wherever the woman sucking on it might lead.

She could ask—demand—to be placed in protective custody, but this was Memorial. It might not be within the City Limits proper, but the Greater Gotham City Metropolitan Area was like an ugly cancer that encompassed everything in its corruption. She could go to solitary, and maybe Selina would even let her live, tasting the jizz and piss in her every meal for the rest of forever only to be summarily executed when and if she ever came up for parole. She'd spend the rest of her life in that damned hellhole, where the guards could turn off the hot water and lights and air conditioning and "forget" to feed you…where they could come in and come all over you and not a soul would hear…

No. No. Holly's faltering feet were balking, but she never wavered. She was facing death, she knew it, but she'd rather go to her execution and executioner with her head held up high than to cower in some cesspit covered in her own sweat and shit just waiting for the ax to fall.

They'd grown up together. Survived the streets of Gotham together. They'd smoked their first cigarette together, had their first taste of alcohol together, gotten high together while that bastard Stan just sat back and watched the trap close around them…through the years they'd been raped and abused and beaten together, nearly starved out there on the streets but they'd always been together. And we always will be, they'd promised. Whatever else changed, however much the city's skyline erupted into an orgy of growth or the fat wigs in office cycled through, they would be together, Selina and Holly, Selly, Hollina, best friends (and horny, experimental teenagers desperate for money and life and love) forever.

And finally here they were. The door clanged shut behind her, and Flass' plodding footsteps died in the distance.

"Hello, Holly."

She was vaping. Blowing steam like smoke, like some Femm Fatale from one of those old Noir films they'd show for free down at the community theater where they'd sneak in and eat the popcorn off the floor in the dark, so damned hungry and starving. But here she was, after all these years, just as dangerous and deadly as ever. Selina Kyle. Sitting on her cot like a queen with her orange jumpsuit open to the waist, her lovely, pert breasts peeking out with every movement. Those hooded green eyes never blinked. "Any last words?" her low voice split their silence like ripples on a pond—impossible to take back.

And suddenly Holly was that little girl again, dirty and hungry and desperate, eating dick in an alleyway, crying when the man slapped her, crying even more when he only threw the change in his pockets in her direction instead of the twenty he promised. Holly Robinson was a little girl, a victim, and she was a fool to ever think otherwise.

"I didn't do it, Selina I swear!" she pleaded, falling to her knees. "Please—"

But this Goddess was unimpressed. Blew another long stream of steam from her upturned mouth and nose. "You've been avoiding me. I went back to all the old places, looked for your, left word, thought you were dead. I mourned you like a sister…and it turns out you've been alive all this time."

"Selina, please!" Holly sobbed.

And somehow—some miracle—this creature who was once her friend dropped her vaporizer and stood, slinking across the tile to her, that look of vengeance softening, becoming resigned and maternal."It was Sylvia, wasn't it."

Holly blinked. "I—" Sylvia? Their friend, confidante? The girl who took her and Selina's shifts when they were too tired, too stoned, too sick to stand? The one who showed them the streets? Smashed in windows with a baseball bat when the dickwad you were sucking off decided he wanted something rougher from you than the promised blowjob? No! It couldn't have been—

"She was the one who told you to run, am I right?"

She was.

"She, she, Selina—Sylvia—she said you'd think it was one of us—we all ran," Holly stammered as that strong, slender hand snaked its way under her chin.

"And it was," Selina said. "I tracked them down. One by one. You were the last. All this time it's been her."

..Maggie. Maggie Kyle. Selina's little sister. And Sylvia? Their friend? Mentor, even?

Holly shuddered. "What are you going to do?"

"She sold my sister to be raped and slaughtered."

"She was our friend—"

"She was never our friend," green eyes narrowed, and that voice was no more than a whisper, a hiss. "Not mine. Not Maggie's. Not yours. Never forget she set you up, same as my baby sister."

Then—

"Are you going to kill her?"

"I plead the fifth," Selina's words dripped acid. "Never ask a woman about a crime she has or plans to commit, Holly. It makes you sound like a snitch." And a snitch was a dangerous thing to be in Gotham City.

"Mason's dead," Holly broached the subject cautiously. "They—they said his brakes failed."

"They did." No pity. No remorse.

"But you killed him."

"He was protecting you," Selina shrugged. "And I had to know. Had to ask you face-to-face. You didn't think it was an accident you got picked up, did you?"

"I-" here, Holly paused. It had seemed...odd, to say the least.

"So many, many years of servicing the GCPD and Arnold Flass decides to take you into custody?" a smirk that could defy its own creator sent wrinkles up her elfin nose.

...Selina set her up. "Mason knew you wanted me," Holly began, uncertain how to process-that she even wanted to process-this new information. "He did everything he could to keep me away. You didn't have to kill him," she explained. "He wasn't a bad man."

"He wasn't a good one, either."

Holly snorted. "Is there any such thing?"

"One," Selina said cryptically. "Just one."

All this talk of men. Selina Kyle had been her friend and mentor out on the streets. But it'd be a lie to say she didn't dream of them even then and wake up wet at the thought of being something more. "And where is this mystery man now?"

"He's a cop."

"Come on!" Holly objected.

Selina sighed. Went back to her vaporizer. "Don't believe me, then."

"What, and this prince charming hasn't gotten you out yet?"

"I said he was a good man. The only. I never said he was Prince Charming. And good men don't let killers out of prison…and I don't need a man—I just use them. Besides, Holly, you've been here awhile now…how hard do you think it would be, really, to smuggle yourself out of this place."

Steel bars. Security cameras. Patrols. Chain link, barbed wire, and fifty miles to Anywhere, USA along a highway with constant supervision. "Impossible."

"Think," Selina commanded with the tone of a queen."How did I get you here?"

"The guards."

"Exactly," Selina said. "Hal Flass is a good choice. Boorish, but easy to control. Convince him to go on the run, divorce his wife and marry you. I'd suggest either the laundry or the composting as routes."

Sidestep security. Bypass the highway from the comfort of a car. She gaped."You're joking."

"I'm not saying stay with him. Just use him. Use him to get what you want. That's all any of us are, in the end. Just means to an end."

"You—you're serious, aren't you?"

More steam, intriguing smile. Glittering green eyes. "Have I ever been anything but?"

"Hal Flass?"

"He's an easy mark," Selina spat.

"I—" Holly stopped, wondering even as she asked. Did she stay—did she get committed—just for me?. "Come with me."

"I can't," the Goddess sighed. "I have to stay here a while."

"But you know now. You can—Sylvia—" she couldn't quite bring herself to say 'kill', "then we can, can leave here, set up somewhere. You remember, don't you? South America?" God, they'd laughed and talked and joked and planned their escape to Panama, Costa Rica, No-me-importa, Latinamerica for so long as kids. Set up shop, hooking drunk college kids on Spring Break, stealing wallets and breaking hearts…

"You go," Selina said, pacing and vaping like a gorgeous, caged cat. "I'm stealing their secrets and their shit and one day, one day when I can't take it anymore or my sentence is up or I just get bored, I'll ring up my attorney and spill. This is my ticket to the big life, whistleblower, scandal…either the feds put me up someplace nice or they pay me the big bucks not to talk, and my lawyer reveals all the secrets if he ever has need to use my Will. Then I write my memoir, the reformed, repentant killer and get my best-seller and the royalties to the movie—all to charity, of course. Can't profit from a crime."

There had already been a movie. My Sister's Keeper. Holly tried to tell her so (Selina had been inside for years now), but her Goddess only laughed.

"From the police reports," she said scornfully. "When people watch true crime these days, they want to hear it straight from the horse's mouth."

And Selina had such a lovely mouth…

She saw. Those inquisitive green eyes glinted, then shut. Holly's heartbeat quickened as the Goddess leaned in slowly for a kiss that was breathtakingly hard, unrepentant, without remorse, one hand pawing at her breast.

"What do you want?" Holly gasped as firm, slender fingers snaked under her suit, raking welts through her unshorn hair.

"You," Selina purred, prodding harder and faster against her clit until Holly came. "The World. Everything." She would steal it all. No family, no friends, all she had was what she took. The truth is, there wasn't enough in the entire universe to keep her from taking more. Selina Kyle was the consummate addict: her glass was forever half-full, always emptying, and the stolen wine so damned delicious she just kept coming back for more.

And Holly Robinson didn't mind. She didn't mind at all…

AN: In celebration of being a year out of the closet as a gay woman, it was about damn time I wrote some femmslash!