Chapter 1

A/N: I haven't researched the story of catwoman much, so my plot is most probably incompatible with the comics. I just thought it would be interesting to write a fic about Catwoman.

She waited for what seemed like an eternity, hanging from the ceiling of his office, hands and feet secured to the ceiling and her back sagging in the middle from gravity forcing her down. The clamps would hold her hands and legs, but boy, was she feeling like her limbs were going to rip off her body! She was starting to get impatient. What's he doing? Why is he taking so long? She could barely stifle a groan when the museum vice-curator checked the safe again and then bent over his desk. She had to twist her neck over her shoulder to look down at him, since from her position she was staring straight at the ceiling. It only added to the irritation. Fumbling with a key from his pocket, he unlocked the bottom left desk drawer.

She watched, mouth slightly open and interested to see what he had in there. The man got back up at looked around the room, but not up, of course. No one ever thought to look up. It was just too easy.

Her neck was hurting so much that she forced herself to face the ceiling once more, hanging upside down and staring into a speckled white panel. Maybe she could amuse herself by counting the number of speckles on each tile…

She heard a crinkling sound and froze. More crinkling. What the hell is he doing? Furious, she whipped her neck back over her shoulder, cringing as her black cat-mask caught on her shoulder.

He was opening a god-damn bag of chips!

She was vexed to no end. Here was this man, only minutes after midnight, sitting at his office and eating a freaking bag of greasy chips! She nearly shouted in aggravation. If he didn't get out of here like Vladimir, she was going to have to go to plan B, which was coming down from her hiding place unexpectedly and descending upon him like the plague. She could take him out, of course, but then she didn't want a load of publicity again. She could nearly see the next day's headline: Museum vice-curator knocked out by Catwoman. Priceless Artifact Missing. She didn't want everyone to know about her, didn't want a slew of policemen on the look-out. Anonymity was the best defense. Ever since the Van Morrenstein burglary, she had to lay low for a while until others took over on the front page. They had seen her that night, but then it was as if she disappeared off the face of the earth.

Tonight she would make it look like someone else was the suspect.

The man's cell phone rang, and he answered it. "Yes?" he said in a gruff voice. "No. Almost done. Had to stay late." Pause. "Oh, you know, just wor—no, I'm not eating again! I swear!"

Catwoman sniggered silently.

"Yes, I'll be home in a while…you don't always have to wait up for me, you know!" He wasn't the only one in the room who was peeved at the moment. "Yes, I'm leaving now!" he said in exasperation. He would have slammed down the phone, she expected, if it had a cord and something to slam down onto; instead he settled for pressing the "end" button really, really hard. He muttered something incomprehensible, then finished off the bag of chips and got up to leave. He checked the safe again and later she heard the sound of the door closing. She looked over her shoulder, waited a minute, then dropped to the floor, quiet and stealthy. She possessed natural grace. I'm not 'Catwoman' for nothing.

She crept to the safe but before she could lay a finger on it she heard the door being unlocked. She leapt back up towards the ceiling on her pulley, but the clamps were off. She clenched her stomach muscles so that she was perfectly flat against the ceiling and started to sweat.

The man's cellphone rang again. "No, I'm almost on my way, I forgot my wallet!" he nearly yelled into it and went out the door, locking it behind him.

Moron.

Her legs immediately fell from their position just as he walked out the door, dangling. Her stomach muscles couldn't have kept her body up for more than a minute. Satisfied that the door was locked and the man padding down the hall, she dropped down once more, this time undoing the line from the clasp on her black catsuit. She flexed her fingers through her black gloves. Now, to work.

She went over to the safe and nearly giggled, but she was too professional for giddy behavior. But she would have. Idiot, she thought. Who hides their important things in a simple three combination-lock safe? Any amateur criminal could crack into it.

She was no amateur criminal. She made a living doing what she did! And she was one of the best. She could crack almost any safe—almost, she reminded herself; she knew her limits. But she was up for anything. Sometimes she stole things, cracked safes for the sheer thrill of it. It was all about the thrill of getting caught. No risk, no excitement. She turned down easy jobs on a regular basis if they were beneath her.

Did that make her a snob? Maybe. But she wasn't about to work just to get paid. Where was the fun in that?

Sometimes she had an employer—like the Riddle, but she really only worked for him once and didn't care to repeat the experience—and other times she was self-employed. Her work provided great flexibility, and challenges. What more could she want?

She inserted a simple hairpin, rolling her eyes as she felt something click (it was just too simple), and then simply by the touch worked the dial to a combination. A little more…no, one more notch…that felt right, now back again…she had some tools, to crack the big daddy safes, but usually didn't bother. Her specialty was working things by feel. It also made her feel independent. Besides, if she ever got into a bind, she could resort to using only her own hands and a pin or straight rod. And it was just more pleasurable.

She didn't know why she derived some sort of sick pleasure from burglarizing people's collections of pricey items. Jewelry was nice, but she couldn't keep the necklaces or earrings or what-have-you-nots herself; she'd have to sell them, because they would surely be recognized on her. When would she ever have the chance to wear them, anyhow? Not unless she changed careers and became a Hollywood starlet.

She almost laughed at this one. She imagined herself on the red carpet, with a dress that cost more than the whole country of Guatemala, and jewelry loaned by some hotshot store that wanted her picture to be all over the papers the next morning. Maybe she would be in the tabloids every now and then, or all the time, if she was a huge star.

And if she kept up her other line of work, she'd be speculated about even more. The Secret Alter Ego of Selina Kyle: Vixen Catburglar it would read. If she was caught it would be a great scandal. It would make all the papers.

But she was never caught.

She took out the keys in the safe, the keys that led to the exhibits on the fifth floor, and then for the fourth. She was being employed to do this gig, by a returning customer, but nothing prevented her from stealing any other items for herself.

She passed the Egyptian exhibit of the Gotham Art Museum and almost swiped a cat chiseled out of some kind of onyx material, but stopped herself. She did, however, break the glass of a display and pulled out three ancient jade and clay necklaces from the China section and was rewarded with the sounds of sirens.

She quickly smashed another display and found the items her customer wanted: three miniature statuettes of what anthropologists supposed to be the original Three Wise Men, or Magi. It was one of the newer displays of the museum.

Into her satchel they went and she agilely leapt past the exhibits to the fire escape. Now she was on the roof. They were guards coming after her, she knew, but they hadn't even caught a glimpse of her costume yet. She calmly walked over to the side, whipping out her cable line, and attached it to a handle. She went over the side of the building, holding onto the rope and lowering herself gradually. She was in a horse-like sitting position. When she was sure the guards were on the roof by then, she pushed back against the building wall and catapulted herself into the air, taking in the cool breeze and rush of the city late-night traffic below, and grabbed blindly for the other cable line that connected to the adjacent building. She slid all the way over.

She admitted she felt a little fear, but the cable was right where she knew it would be, and she was in easy reach of grasping it. Even so, the lingering thought in her mind was always: What if I fell and smashed on the cement and cracked my head open like a coconut? She was a daredevil and reveled in risk-taking behavior, but a little part of her that she didn't like to acknowledge was sometimes scared. But her ego always ruled over that part and her pride wouldn't be satisfied until she'd done it.

Actually, she used to be afraid of heights when she was younger. Once she forced herself to get over it, however, she was fine. She kept testing herself, too, by exposure to greater and greater heights. She felt fear, then a climaxing high, and a refreshing aftermath. Perfect.

She found her way back to her apartment and called her employer from her cellphone. "Selina?" a deep voice answered. He was her only client who knew her name, her identity; to her other employers she was simply Catwoman. Ross Nadren, however, knew her true appearance (a blonde with cat-like green eyes, a slim 5'6" figure) and her name.

"C'est moi."

"You have it?"

"What do you think?"

Nadren was a multimillionaire, a crime boss in his early thirties. He had a gang of thugs and employed many criminals, but Selina Kyle was his best burglar.

She could hear him relax over the phone. "Good. Should I pick it up at your place?"

"You don't know my place. I'll find you."

As much as she trusted Nadren not to reveal her identity (which, by the way, she had been regretting for some time), she never revealed the whereabouts of her hideout. Well, apartment. She lived in a nice but simple apartment on 35th and Cherry Street. She could have afforded much more, with the income she'd made by selling off her prizes to fences and whatnot and to clients, but she didn't want to attract too much attention. Besides, she liked living simply, just she and her two cats, in her apartment.

"I have a proposition for you, Selina. I'll wait to talk to you in person though."

There was silence from her end. "It's not what you think," he said hastily.

She chuckled, remembering. "Oh, I would hang up on you right now if that's what I thought. So what's it this time? Another priceless artifact?"

"This is much more interesting. Time-consuming, too, but well-paying."

"Risky?" she asked playfully.

"It involves limousines, hotels, snooty benefit parties, and Bruce Wayne."

"Whoa—Bruce Wayne? The Prince of Gotham? Where does he come in?"

He smiled to himself. He knew she was intrigued. "I'll explain when you arrive."