<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;">Most mistook her desire to avoid violence for the inability to deal with it.  Flares of moonlight and encompassing darkness cradled them, filtering the scene to a monochromatic black and white; she takes refuge in the gray. Others scrambled about, scurrying like the cockroaches hurriedly recoiling from foreign movement through the abysmal dark. Admittedly, she festers a slight uneasiness. It wasn't quite dread or panic, but enough to morph features behind the goggles. Brows lift half quizzical at the sight of one crew careening shamelessly for an exit; forgoing all manner of a fight to escape her presence.  Weaponry never procured from holdings, no idle threats resonating. Nothing but frantic sprinting, comparable to rats racing from flash floods in the sewers. She was neither a big Bad nor the Bat, so call her perplexed by the reactions or rather lack of. <br/><br/>Her expression adjusts from blatant amazement to suspicion. The remaining members of masked villainry mimic her defensive stance, though too loose of a guard.  Her glove whines at the white-knuckle grip upon the whip's handle, ready to strike again should they try something. Eyne inspect the men further, catching the slight glances from her to the door and back again. The chance and choice palpably apparent had they wanted to run, even in the moment; however, the howl of engines approaching ripples through all. Instinct propelled her to lower, reducing humanoid posture for the feral nature of an aggravated feline. The impish smirk fades abruptly, seething hiss strained through pearly teeth expresses immediate vexation for the arrival of more.<br/><br/>The sharp cut of tires screeching, followed by people bustling, tear into the quieted industrial white noise. Gunshots POP again and again, spurring movement within the crumbling structure as every psychological alarm for flight steers those without immunity away from the fight. Thunderclaps echo hauntingly from one alloy panel to another, accentuated by the halt of breath and pounding heartbeats between their loud silence. Her whip gathered and holstered without delay. Selina abandons the masked men, opting to avoid lethal injury or apprehension preferably than combating fresh goons.  The Cat didn't have nine lives, and what a waste it would be to die in the present shithole.  <br/><br/>Dexterous maneuvering relies on reflexes and quick-wit to gain the high ground; dashing for the exit was for mice and a sure fire way to be mowed down by gunfire. Feet bound over debris as upon a pivot she goes from defensively kneeling into a clambered run. Boots featuring spring-loaded pistons hit the nearest structural beam, sending her upward given a limber twist of her body mid-air. Gloved hands latch onto a rusted pipe, allowing momentum and weight to flip her up onto it as a perch. A rooftop opening above her head gushes light, baptizing her silhouetted figure in a silvery glow.  </span></span><br/>