[h1]M A R C H 22ND[/h1] [hr] [center][img]http://img05.deviantart.net/69d5/i/2008/193/5/9/catwoman_cover_56_by_adamhughes.jpg[/img][/center] [hr] "Water." I say, and the bartender's eyebrows raise a fraction of an inch. I wonder what type of person he pegs me for. I've just strode into the Iceberg Casino wearing a skintight latex suit created in the image of a feline, complimented by the bullwhip hanging from my hips. My goggles hang languidly from my neck, leaving my bright green eyes exposed to the tinted world of the lounge around me. My 'secret identity' is...negligible. The reality is, my alternate identity lives the life of a nobody. Selina Kyle is a name that is very barely recorded in any legal documentation. People don't know who I am, and catching a brief glimpse of the face under the goggles won't be memorable enough for them to pin my face to the suit when, if ever, they see me walking on the streets, shopping, or something. Stack that up with the fact that people have weird fetishes, and its a wonder more vigilantes don't walk around with their masks off. Walking down the streets of Gotham, you're bound to see some over enthusiatic wacko flouncing around with a Batman or Robin costume on. But, then again, hereos have enemies to worry about, so maybe its not such a good idea after all. The bartender is ogling at me from the corner of his eyes, but doesn't mention anything when he slowly returns with my ice cold glass of water. I feel like such a loser. All these people, sitting around me, guzzling down their drinks as if they have all the leisure time in the world to get drunk, and party, and have sex. And they probably do. Right now, I really, really wish I had that privilege. Holly says that, maybe, I'm too much of an extrovert. That I can't handle myself when the crowd's having fun, and [i]I'm not[/i]. I always earnestly deny it, but some small voice in the back of my head agrees. I love the scene, I love the party. I love to be where the good things are, and get some of the good things for myself. But, I like to argue, I enjoy my solitude, when solitude is needed. Like a cat, I guess. Or a normal human being. The bartender catches my eye as it grazes over the long line of people, in solos, pairs, and triplets, all amassed at the bar, sipping on their cold beers and margaritas, chatting happily or being relativly drunk burdens to society. He smiles at me, the corners of mustache curling up in unison with his lips. "Water's not a popular drink," he says. I laugh, but a sour feeling settles in my stomach. He's right, and he's also tempting me. "It's not a good idea to get tipsy before an interview," I say, and take a small sip of my water, mostly because I'm nervous and I need something to do, and I'm afraid I'll pick my cuticles far into nonexistence before Penguin shows up with his fat, crooked face. "An interview at the Iceberg," he says, though he doesn't sound surprised, and I wonder if "interviews" are a regular thing here. I'll be honest, the Casino isn't a place I've frequented in my short twenty-four years on earth, so I'm not familiar with its generic crowd. Normally, on a day like this, me and Holly, and even Alice, might be looking for something to do, or some place to hit. You know, what with theft being a [i]huge[/i] part of our income. We can't afford to slack. But this, today, is the pilfered frosting on the thief made cake. To be honest, I'm a little shocked at how easily I've made myself find-able. It's a little surprsing Batman hasn't come knocking at my front door yet, when I've clearly left it so wide open. Either way, Oswald Cobblepot beat him to it. I was only ever approached by one, heavily tattooed, guy, but I'm going to assume Mr. Cobblepot's been posting his mobster lackeys far and wide across my turf. This guy happened to be "lucky" enough that I caught him when I did. Lucky he had something of value to say to me, too, otherwise I would have pummeled the living daylights out of him, seeing as I found him harassing one of the girls. Long story short, I have Oswald Cobblepot's phone number, and somewhere in his grubby, fat hands, he has a smartphone with the name "Catwoman" listed as one of his contacts. Speaking of phones. Mine stares up at me blankly from the palm of my hand. I'm waiting for him to text me, or call, or [i]something[/i]. He knows I'm here, and he knows where. I texted it to him, after all. It would be courteous of him to reply, but I've decided against being pushy. I don't want to mess this up. The bartender is babbling on in the background, and I zone in just long enough to get the jest of what he's saying. I nod blankly, and when he realizes he's lost my interest (never had it, to begin with) he moves on to some other solo soul, sitting at the bar drowning their worries away in booze. Finally at peace, I watch these ladies with [i]the most [b]badass[/b][/i] thigh muscles strutting around the place in tight fitting fishnets, offering up drinks where drinks are needed, humoring half-high, half-horny men at various tables and slot machines. The Penguin certainly has a type. My phone vibrates in my hand and the screen flashes to life. [center][pre]I see you :) Order a drink. It's on me ;)[/pre][/center] Ew. Oh my god. Gross. I actually [i]shudder[/i] out of repulsion. His age is so totally reflected in his text. I pretend to smile at the phone screen, and then compliantly order a beer. My bartender seems satisfied with my change of heart, and bustles along to provide me with what I've asked for. In the meanwhile, my eyes scour around the lounge, look for sign or sound of my round, rippling employer. He appears with the glory that is 'woman,' in a smooth, reflective, black suit, flanked by two of his Hulk thighed lady employees. We make eye contact, and he gives me a crooked, toothy grin. Everything about him screams 'EVIL,' from his bent and pointy nose, to his stooped walk (waddle), to his small beady eyes, set deeply in a bulldog-ish, but sharp and overweight face. He wobbles towards me at a surprisingly fast pace, and before I know it, my hand is outstretched and engulfed in his large, warm, clammy, palms. "Catwoman," His voice is kind of thick, like years of a cardiac negative diet has impacted even the broadness of his vocal cords. "Mr. Cobblepot," I say slowly. "Oswald." He raises his eyebrows expectantly, like he's waiting for me to cough off up a name, a [i]real[/i] name. I smile politely, and in my politeness he sees my declination. He gives me another smile, but this one is colder. "Right down to business, then?" He says, struggling to heft himself up onto a flimsy barstool. I'm almost afraid it'll break under his weight. I wait patiently for him to get comfortable and order a drink of his own. Then, we get down to the knitty gritty. He gestures to one of his super thighed emloyees, and she produces a thick manilla envelop, which Penguin proceeds to ungraciously open. He fishes in the envelop for a few moments before pulling out a single piece of paper. A large image is printed in its upper right corner. It is accompanied by text describing its content, its author, and its location in the Gotham Museum. "[i]This[/i] is the painting," he says, sliding the paper towards me on the bar top. Its got a fancy, presumably French, name and though I don't know French, I figure, from Spanish, that it translates to something like "Liberation of the Peacocks." And I'm pretty sure [i]one[/i] word is off there, but I like that name better, so its the one we're going with. He watches me gazing at it for a little while, and I begin to feel a prickle of discomfort when his stare doesn't falter. We sit in silence for about thirty seconds, but it feels like several tense minutes pass by, at least on my part. Finally, he breaks the silence. "Are you familiar with it." "No." I reply, immediatly, before catching myself, "But snatching it should be a synch." He nods approvingly, before waxing on, on some things I could have cared less to hear about. "It was and is a very coveted painting. Forgeries pass around the black market ritually. It was originally owned by the Waynes, and Bruce Wayne probably still has some claim to it. Its name is French, and translates to Liberation of the Poor. Having come from an under privileged family myself, I think it [i]suits[/i] me." He grins wickedly. He's being sarcastic, and overall dismissive of the poor, and I hate him for it. But I humor him anyway with the most sincere looking fake smile I can muster up. "And you don't think Bruce Wayne will want his parents' painting back?" I ask. "Maybe." He says, with a dismissive shrug, "Bruce Wayne isn't really in the organized crime business. I doubt he'll go after you or I for this, if ever he finds out about it." "And aren't you worried about Batman?" "No," The Penguin says, reclining in his barstool, nearly toppling over since barstools generally don't have backrests, "Don't you worry your pretty head. I'll take care of the Batman if he comes after me. You're main concern is to get that painting"