The adrenaline was fading, replaced by the dull ache of bruised knuckles.
Bruce moved across the rooftops of the East End, his silhouette blending with the gargoyles. He moved well—silent, efficient, heavy. Like a panther stalking through the concrete jungle.
I followed him, floating effortlessly about fifty feet in the air, drifting like a black balloon. My tailcoat didn't even ripple in the wind.
"Young Master," I projected my voice to his earpiece. "Your heart rate is still elevated. 140 beats per minute. You need to calm down before we return to the Manor, or you will not be able to sleep."
"I'm fine, Sebastian," Bruce grunted, vaulting over a parapet. "I'm just... scanning the perimeter."
"You are looking for more trouble," I corrected. "Greedy. You just dismantled a Maroni weapons cache. Leave some crime for the police, or Commissioner Loeb will get bored."
Bruce ignored me. He stopped at the edge of a tenement building, looking down at an alleyway.
Something caught his eye.
A figure was sprinting across the adjacent roof. Slim, clad in tight leather, wearing makeshift goggles and a balaclava with... were those ears?
"Target spotted," Bruce whispered. "Burglar."
"Young Master, it is 2:00 AM," I sighed. "Let the poor thief go. My soufflé is deflating at home."
Bruce didn't listen. He fired his grapple.
ZIIIIP.
He swung across the gap, landing heavily in front of the running figure.
The thief skidded to a halt. It was a woman. She held a burlap sack over one shoulder.
"Going somewhere?" Bruce growled. (He was really working on the growl. I gave it a 7/10).
The thief tilted her head. She didn't look scared. She looked... amused.
"Well, hello there," she purred. Her voice was husky, playful. "I didn't know Gotham had gargoyles that could talk."
"Drop the bag," Bruce commanded, stepping forward.
"I'd rather not. It's heavy."
She dropped it anyway—right onto Bruce's foot—and backflipped away.
Bruce grunted, shaking his foot, and lunged.
The fight was fascinating to watch. Bruce was power and precision—the result of my hellish training. But this woman... she was pure instinct. She moved like liquid. When Bruce threw a punch, she wasn't there. She twisted, turned, and used his own momentum to vault over him.
Agile, I noted, hovering above them invisible to the naked eye. Flexible. High center of gravity. Feline movements.
Bruce finally caught her. He anticipated her backflip, grabbed her wrist, and pinned her against a brick chimney.
"Who are you?" Bruce demanded, holding her arm behind her back.
"Ouch! Watch the claws, big guy!" she hissed. "I'm just a cat looking for some milk. Let me go!"
"You're a criminal."
"I'm a redistributor of wealth!"
Bruce tightened his grip. "I'm taking you to Gordon."
"No!" She panicked for the first time. "Wait! I can't go to jail! I have... responsibilities!"
Bruce hesitated. "What responsibilities?"
"My bag! Check the bag!"
Bruce looked down at the burlap sack she had dropped. It was moving.
Wiggle. Wiggle.
"It's a bomb," Bruce concluded instantly. "Sebastian, scan for explosives."
I descended from the sky, materializing out of the shadows right next to the bag.
"It is not a bomb, Young Master," I said softly, crouching down.
"Sebastian!" Bruce barked. "Stay back!"
I ignored him. I could smell it. That heavenly scent.
I opened the sack.
Inside, sitting on top of a pile of stolen diamond necklaces, was a small, scruffy, calico kitten. It blinked its large green eyes at me and let out a tiny, pathetic mew.
My demon heart stopped.
"Oh," I breathed. My eyes dilated. "Oh, you precious little thing."
I reached in, ignoring the diamonds worth millions, and scooped up the kitten. It fit perfectly in my gloved hand. It began to purr immediately against my palm.
"Sebastian?" Bruce asked, confused. He was still pinning the thief against the wall.
I stood up, cradling the kitten against my chest. I turned to the thief—Selina Kyle, presumably.
"You stole this?" I asked, my voice trembling with emotion.
"I rescued him!" Selina shouted, struggling against Bruce. "The pet store was on fire last week! I took him in! I was stealing the diamonds to buy him premium wet food! Have you seen the price of salmon pâté in this economy?"
I looked at Bruce. My expression was stone cold.
"Release her, Young Master."
"What?" Bruce blinked behind his mask. "She's a thief! She stole diamonds!"
"She is a provider," I corrected, petting the kitten's head with my pinky finger. "She risked her freedom to ensure this noble creature is fed. That is not a crime. That is a holy crusade."
"Sebastian, have you lost your mind?"
"Look at his toe beans, Bruce!" I shoved the kitten in Bruce's face. "Look at them! They are immaculate!"
Bruce recoiled. "I'm not letting a burglar go because she has a cat!"
"Then you leave me no choice."
I snapped my fingers.
Suddenly, Bruce's grapple gun—which was holding his pants up slightly due to the weight of his belt—unlocked. His utility belt sagged.
Bruce stumbled, grabbing his belt. "Hey!"
Selina didn't waste the second. She twisted out of his loosened grip, kicked off the chimney, and landed perfectly on top of the water tower.
"Thanks, tall, dark, and handsome!" she called out, blowing a kiss at... well, mostly at me (or the kitten). "Take care of 'Sir Pounce' for me!"
"Wait!" Bruce fired his grapple, but she was gone. Vanished into the night.
Bruce turned to me, furious.
"You let her get away."
"I secured the hostage," I said, holding the kitten up like Simba from The Lion King. "Sir Pounce is safe. The diamonds, sadly, were left behind in the bag. So technically, no crime was committed, as the goods were recovered."
Bruce picked up the bag of diamonds. He looked at the loot, then at the kitten, then at his demon butler who was currently making cooing noises at a ball of fur.
"You are unbelievable," Bruce groaned. "I am fighting a war on crime, and you are running an animal shelter."
"We are keeping him," I declared, tucking Sir Pounce into my breast pocket. "He matches the drapes in the West Wing."
"Alfred would have never done this," Bruce muttered, walking away.
"Alfred," I said, following him, "did not understand the supreme elegance of the feline form. Now, come along, Young Master. We must stop at a 24-hour convenience store. Sir Pounce requires milk, and you require ice for that bruise on your shin."
"I don't have a bruise."
"You will in five minutes. Demon intuition."
As we walked back to the Batmobile (which was parked three blocks away), I patted the kitten in my pocket.
Selina Kyle, I thought. A woman who steals diamonds to feed stray cats. Finally, a human in this city with some class.
I had a feeling we would be seeing a lot more of her. And I would make sure the Young Master didn't hit her too hard next time.
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