The dance floor's beat reverberated through the pearlescent walls. Four years prior, Oswald "The Penguin" Cobblepot had abandoned a life of crime to open a nightclub, The Iceberg Lounge. From the club, he kept his fingers on the pulse of the Underworld while staying in the good graces of the authorities. Although his accounts were as pristine as his tuxedo shirt, old habits died hard. From inside his office, Cobblepot examined a piece from last night's haul under a microscope. Selina Kyle's black iPhone buzzed on the massive oak desk.

"Get to the Tower."

The line went dead. Catwoman swallowed her disgust and tucked her phone in her catsuit.

"No good," Cobblepot squawked.

"What? They're flawless!"

"Too flawless. They're fakes."

The woman stood with a piercing glare, snatched the necklace from his desk, and banked the worthless gems off the wall to the garbage in a fluid motion.

"Looks like Kitty got tangled in some string," Oswald chuckled, his rotund belly shaking.

Selina Kyle flipped him off as she stormed out the door. She strutted to the exit, the crowd receding like a wave. Time slowed with the strobe light. From the corner of her eyes hands reached out to her.

"Catwoman."

The murmurs drifted to her ear.

"Catwoman."

Most people put on a mask to hide.

"Catwoman."

She put on a mask and became a celebrity.

Selina kept her eyes down. She hated strangers invading her personal space, but the ability to reach out and touch a Rogue was what made The Iceberg Lounge a success. It's what these people had paid a fortune for— a chance to touch a reality beyond their imaginations.

She flinched.

"I touched her! I touched her." A man waved his hand around to the cheering crowd.

Catwoman and GothamsFinest were trending on Twitter by the time Selina Kyle started her BMW motorcycle.

Hammond Clock Tower was one of the oldest structures in Gotham. Located in the historic part of the city, it stood as a sentinel for over two centuries. Selina killed the engine and rolled her motorcycle behind a crumbling brick wall. She crept in the shadows along antique buildings that sat nestled to the tower's base. The smell of damp cobblestones and moss edged up her nose as she drew closer. The flaking paint resembled a monster's scales in the dim light. She butted her shoulder against an ancient door and shoved it open. Inside, a naked light bulb clung to a wire, swaying at the slightest appearance of life. Selina's nose twitched at the change to drier, stale air. She tugged the elevator's rickety gate closed, mumbling about tetanus as she did. The ornate brass leaver, dulled from a 125 years of use, locked into place.

Selina arched her back against the elevator's wall, listening to the gears crank her higher. She drank in the view of the city in between the gate's ornate bars. Moonlight shimmered on the water's surface like a billion scattered diamonds. Across the Gotham Sound, Arkham Asylum sparkled like a cursed jewel. The red and white glow of traffic from downtown areas snaked along streets. Robinson Park stretched along the periphery of her vision. It stood in stark contrast to the glistening city, save for the few street lamps that resembled fireflies at that height. The platform crawled to a stop. A wheelchair ramp stood propped along the wall.

Stepping from the elevator wide, the floor creaked beneath her feet. The gaps between the wide oak boards resembled uneasy smiles. Strong notes of ozone punctuated the warm smell of wood shavings. The walls trembled with the steady tick of the clock's arms and hum of Barbara's super computer. ORACLE—Online Remote Assist Computerized Lifeline Engine—was the main computer system and reason behind Barbara's code name. Custom built by Wayne Enterprise, the machine's sole purpose was to crunch enormous amounts of data. Thousands of wires and cords poured through the wall's two-by-four frame, all surging to the same source.

Selina stalked to the main room and found Barbara slouched in her wheelchair at her desk. On a large screen, mounted from the ceiling, a still frame of security footage glowed. Selina Kyle's face stared back at Catwoman. A shiver slid down her spine.

"You set me up?"

"I had to get your attention somehow." Barbara pivoted in her wheelchair. Deep circles hung below her eyes.

"You could've fucking called." Selina unzipped her ink-colored catsuit, slamming her cowl on the table. She threw herself in a chair, lacing her fingers through her hair.

Barbara glided to the table. She fidgeted like a teenager about to ask her mother for the keys to the car. "Has Ivy ever mentioned a Robert Borland to you?"

Selina looked up. It was an odd question. It was no secret she and Ivy went to lunch once a month, much to Harley's resentment. While not the highlight of Selina's social calendar, it was pleasant enough. From a quiet corner table they'd raise their glasses to life, but drink to schadenfreude. Selina leaned back in the chair and shook her head.

"Dr. Robert Borland, a bio-medical engineer, graduated and worked with Woodrue." Barbara laid down stacks of co-authored papers and grizzly autopsy photos of small bodies overwhelmed with fungus and vines. "These kids are linked to a bioweapon Silk Road's buzzing about, and Borland's behind it."

Barbara setting her up. The question about Ivy. Selina raised her eyes to the skylight as her stomach fell. Cobblepot was right: she was tangled. But in more ways than one. "And you want me to do what?"

Barbara slid a ferry ticket forward. Its destination: Arkham Asylum.

"No chance in hell."

"I know you and Harley have your differences…"

"Differences?! She's tried to kill me. Twice!"

"And I realize that, but she was on to something, Selina."

Barbara slid aside the photos revealing a title page stamped as evidence: Drug Tolerance in Abnormal Immunocompetent Individuals by H.F. Quinzel M.D. Selina leafed through the rough draft, Harley's proofreading marks and notes strewn across each page. While the world knew Harley Quinn was a doctor, few had ever confronted the eloquent and authoritative words of Dr. Quinzel.

Selina rubbed her eyes. There was no doubt this was bad. This was so bad the best option was to get Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn released from Arkham to deal with it. The work would be dangerous, but it wasn't the work that made her stomach twist in apprehension. Her mind surfaced a gruesome memory. It was of the poor soul who mentioned Woodrue's brilliant science near Harley Quinn. While most had enough sense not to breathe that name near Poison Ivy, fewer realized mentioning it to the Mistress of Mischief was just as fatal. By the time the police recovered his body, dental records weren't enough to identify him.

Selina stretched her hands on her thighs. Her involvement was a foregone conclusion, but that didn't mean Barbara couldn't sweeten the situation. "What's in it for me?"

"Double your cut from Hush."

Money. The magic word of Gotham's Underworld. Whoever said please was the magic word didn't know any criminals. Please was a word that leaked from the bloodied lips of soon-to-be dead men. Selina snatched the ticket off the table. "I'll catch the first ferry tomorrow."