Disclaimer: I do not own Selina Kyle, Pamela Isley, Bruce Wayne, Harvey Dent, Jervis Tetch, or Jonathan Crane. Or the Joker, but that goes without saying.

This is a CATverse fic (www. freewebs. com/ catverse) but does not feature CAT, as it takes place a good decade before they get in the game.

As a point of reference, this takes place in August of CATverse year 2001. Catwoman has been around for about a year, Batman for a year and a half, Poison Ivy for five months, Mad Hatter for eight. The Scarecrow won't appear in costume until a month after this, and Harvey has another six months to enjoy his prettiness.

Selina Kyle stretched luxuriously, nearly purring with the pleasure of a cat basking in the morning sun. Was there anything nicer than to lie in bed doing nothing while the busy world started its hustle and bustle down below?

"Meow."

"Me-ow, Sugar," Selina replied sleepily. The colorful little half-breed Devon Rex sprang up onto her mistress's back, kneading the human's shoulder with her front paws. Selina relaxed with a happy sigh. What other cat burglar would be lucky enough to have her own personal four-footed masseuse?

Sugar stretched and curled up on Selina's shoulder, transforming herself from masseuse to heating pad. They had ten minutes.

Sure enough, it wasn't long before Tarzan pounced. The little panther stalked in, king of his own jungle, made a silent leap, and sank his razor-sharp teeth into Selina's ear.

"Okay! I'm up, you little monster." She rolled over, dislodging Sugar. Tarzan crouched, preparing to pounce again.

This was what she got for adopting a born hunter. She never got to sleep in anymore, and her hair was in a constant unmanageable snarl because he found it so fascinating, he just had to stalk it. As if natural curls weren't bad enough already.

"Good morning, babies," Selina purred sleepily. Tarzan wiggled his tail at her. "Who's hungry?"

That was Sheba's cue to meow regally from the foot of the bed.

Nothing happened. Selina sat up.

"Sheba?" Where was the little princess? The Balinese cat, purebred princess of the apartment, should have been there, demanding her sliced liver. No Meow Mix for the nobility. The routine went the same every morning. So where was the little lady?

Selina sat up, stretching. Tarzan pounced on the hem of her purple t-shirt.

"Not now, O Great White Hunter." She scratched behind his ear, just where he liked it, and he nipped her gently to show he forgave her for the crack. He knew what was beneath a little black panther's dignity, but he just couldn't hold a grudge.

She walked into the kitchen, Sugar at her heels, Tarzan twining around her ankles. There was no sign of Sheba, even after she made enough noise with the can opener to call the kitty from any room in the apartment.

Had she gotten out? Sheba wasn't much of an explorer—that was Tarzan's job—but she could have taken it into her head to wander. She might have found the window that opened onto the fire escape. There was no screen, and Selina never kept it locked. Climbing in and out that way was so much more interesting than the boring old door.

There was probably nothing to worry about. Princess though she might be, Sheba could take care of herself. She would be back. Maybe not right away, and maybe not without help, but Sheba was coming home.