<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;"> Mild Violence</span><br/><hr/><br/><br/><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: verdana;">Tonight, Catwoman mingled. Perched placidly, idly wondering as the hours elapse into one another until peripheral vision roves toward dawdling forms making their silent approach towards the warehouse only to disappear within its decrepit walls. The wait hadn't been so bad, certainly, she had fared worse. Mischief sat on her cheeks, crowned by the goggles filtering scenery in shades of viridescent static; she knew it would only be a matter of time in expectation of the others. Eyne drift downward, peering through one of the many holes perforating the old roof to catch sight of Eddy. Burly bodies shifted into some sort of semblance of order, no doubt fully prepared should the inevitable happen. Perhaps that's why she is here, too? <br/><br/>Felines roam carefree in the surrounding area, clamoring when matriarch prowls the night. One cat dashes across the expanse of crumbling roadway, catching jade hues before it slinks into the umbra veil again. Now she watches the pieces fall into place, the ageless danse russe played out to a different tune. There's nothing explicitly beautiful about Gotham, except the way it had made her feel with its familiarity. Tense was a good word to describe the atmosphere throughout. Yet, beneath the feeble tapestry of rusty alloy, the two crews make their grandstand with a wide berth of space betwixt the twain. Quickly, Selina glances about the immediate locality, keenly inspecting the yawning voids where night crusaders tend to migrate to. The pigment of lenses instantly changes, flickering from one form to the other. Thermal visage paints the scene in colors; however, there's no ruddy slab amidst it that indicates a looming voyeur. As a realist, she saw more than what the world appeared to be and what it had to offer. <br/><br/>Thankfully, she had cased the area prior. Promptly the she-cat shifts, gracefully lithe from years of preparation for moments like these. She avoids the allure of the moonlight but a stray cat takes up a stance at the edge overlooking the meeting below. Wavering a serpentine tail moving to and fro, always curious and aloof of those near, it watched like a poised scorpion. Suddenly so is she, slinking from one safe stronghold to the other with all the dispossession of a shadow to get closer. Closer still, lean curvature dips below the threshold, supporting her weight on a steel beam littered with ashen dust. Silent as the grave, she regards the laggard crawl of movement come to a halt. Men, she bemusedly thinks. Vibrant eyes blighted with unsettling mischief roll, swerving towards the masked crew. Lenses transition to the habitual field of vision, curtained lashes lift allowing pupils to expand upon adjustment. She loiters as a stygian apparition, blending into the backdrop as the show begins; a childish initiation of tag which she so frivolously partakes in. <br/><br/>Tactful footfalls lead her to the beam several feet down, positioned near a cat-masked person. Something about the cheap imitation births goosebumps beneath the sheath of armored thermoplastic. Undebatably there can only be one: her. Momentum gives her every inch, lean physique leaps upward before gloved fingerpads clutch the metal beam so her legs arc forward, squarely to kick the back of her target with nearly all her weight. It's a hard THUD when the body hits the concrete ground. In all her glory, she flips and lands amongst the middle of the unknown crew, kneeling upon the groaning copycat. Resting one hand on the hilt of her whip, the other holds palm flush to the downed victim's back.  <br/><br/><strong>"It ain't a party without me, boys."</strong> Feline Femme Fatale chides, the lyrical lull purring from parted lips.<br/><br/> Her head cants slightly, not only an invitation for trouble but a visual cue that incites movement once more. It would be the only warning they are bestowed before the crack of whip ensnares one neck, sending the staggering body toward another opposite of it with a hard tug. </span></span>