<div class="floatleft">(https://i.imgur.com/746DLPB.png)</div><br/><br/><br/><br/><hr/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 7pt;">        <strong>NAME:</strong></span><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;"> Catwoman</span><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 7pt;">        <strong>LOCATION:</strong></span><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;"> Warehouse in the Gotham Industrial District</span><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 7pt;">        <strong>DATE/TIME:</strong></span><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;"> 10/26/17 | 3:00 AM</span><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 7pt;">        <strong>TAGGING:</strong></span><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;"> Closed</span><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 7pt;">        <strong>CONTENT:</strong></span><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;"> Violence, Gore, Language</span><br/><hr/><br/><br/><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: verdana;">In the end, she made the choice and will not be ashamed. Exasperation plaited among toneless articulation, though the significance of words is put into an inward query. Her expression morphs; dark brows furrow beneath the mask, crowning eyne alight beneath the goggles. Jaded ire glares, a wildfire in evergreen irises. <br/><br/><strong>"That's rich. Don't lie to yourself."</strong><br/><br/>Vexed tonality endues digression to his chosen statement in echo; it was one thing to lie to others but lying to himself? No longer is the truth discernable within him, or around him. There's tension swelling, turning leaden and serpentine in her gut. She isn’t one to live life on her knees, but a hero rarely gets to choose their fate; so why should she? Selina retracts her escape, retracing steps prior to their arrival.  A cat descending into the darkness that lies thick within the abandoned warehouse as nothing more than a phantom, the shadows kept her safe but everything eventually comes to light. Hushed like nocturnal creatures in their natural habitat, emeralds stare forth toward the two thugs with their backs toward her. They position themselves near the slumbering fool donning a crude cat mask. She puts herself between them and the door. <em>It's foolish to cage a lion, the stupidity of men knows no bounds</em>, she thinks. Her approach lightsome, spry limbs careful of the littering debris as it could prove fatal to alert them just yet. Grace bestrides every step closer, and closer still, adrenaline pulsating endlessly through curvature. Spine taut but stooped, keeping her form low to avoid a larger strike zone, all is almost ready. It's only when she is nearly to the first armed thug's side, kept behind the umbra curtain when suddenly her boot strikes the side of his leg with a fast, violent stomp. The sudden <strong><em>CRUNCH</em></strong> of bone sounds instantly, sending him to the ground in a long string of curses and pain. <br/><br/><em><strong>"You... YOU BITCH! AGH! MY LEG! FU-UGH!"</strong></em> He roars at her, muttering other things incoherently. <br/><br/>The movement doesn't stop there, she swerves and kicks the dropped gun further away. For every action there's an equal, opposite reaction; his friend already locked and loaded points his own shotgun at her and fires away. <br/><br/><strong><em>Schklikt, klikt-- BOOM! </em></strong><br/><br/>She intends to dodge it, but in the immediate vicinity of 7-feet, two pellets clip her and one pierces into her upper right arm.  Pain sears the hit, laced with a hiss of disdain given the burning stab and lacerations but losing momentum in the moment isn't an option. Long lost air clamors to gritted teeth, she rushes forward.  Her right hand ushering away the gun's barrel barely before it fires again, missing her. Too slow. The reinforced boot heads straight for his groin, an attack that causes the victim to double over -- a good thing too -- as the same leg bounds upward, bent and crunching a fragile nose when met against it. <br/><br/>Keen ears do not forgo the subtle click behind her, upon the ground both thugs maybe but the first draws his handgun and shakingly points it at her. Dropping and spinning her legs, she sends it soaring at such force, she doesn't doubt that one of his fingers may be broken as well. She erects herself into a defensive stance considering the velocity of the spin. Pain pangs at her arm; an itch she can't scratch, she groans. Vocal chords bark: <strong>"Is this what you wanted?"</strong><br/><br/>Stepping back once, twice, she retreats to the shadows to taunt the mastermind, albeit a poor attempt to keep his attention so others could escape. <br/><br/><strong>"You really oughta think of taking up a new hobby! Cooking... Cooking seems more your style. Less death, more pancakes."</strong>  </span></span>