Vampire Rule N°33: It is the duty of a vampire to act smug while making use of assets both unwilling and unaware, even those you didn't plan for.
. . .
To live in Gotham is to learn how to silence that little voice in your head that tells you that you should care, lest you end up battered in her streets.
That was one lesson Selina Kyle learned quick, despite not being the best student in the one and half a year she spent in the school system, before things went from bad to worse, and then just stayed horrible.
Before she had to choose between selling her body to earn her next meal, or learn how to pluck her next dollar from someone else's pocket.
Both options would result in frequent beatings, constant spite, and a perpetually uncertain future.
Only one of them would let her look into the mirror.
The choice was quickly made, and never regretted.
In the end, she could live with bruises, deal with the consequences of her craft, and be content with making the most of her present if a better tomorrow was indeed out of reach.
But self-loathing, that stuck to you like the Joker on Batman's booty.
Or Harley on the Joker's booty.
She wasn't sure which image was the most horrifying, and funny.
But she couldn't really appreciate the full extent of her twisted mind, or find some friend she hasn't yet burned who was willing to listen to her humor.
Because somehow, taking a straightforward tracking and breaking-in job, ended with her having to deal with that blight again.
Self-loathing.
So much of it, in fact, that she was having a hard time silencing that little voice in her head.
That was all she could feel once her legs stopped moving on her own and her mind was capable of producing something other than panic and escape plans, when she realized she wasn't in that safehouse anymore, that she was no longer in danger.
That there was no broken, bloodied body in front of her.
Oh, so that's how it is.
She got a bit carried away, and in hindsight, should really have known better than to take a job involving another masked vigilante's secret identity.
Taking said job right in the middle of the streets also didn't help.
However, she wasn't known for her powerful sense of self-control, nor did she have a history of good decision-making, so that was something to be expected.
She got double-crossed, which was again something she completely expected, her line of work and the nature of her employers meant that things like loyalty and integrity meant fuck-all in the face of greater profits.
She got someone killed.
Okay, now that wasn't something she expected, but this was Gotham City and there was that.
Said person got shot taking a bullet for her…this was starting to sting a little bit.
That foolish, stupid, utterly brainless saviour of hers also just happened to be her current target.
….Yeah, that was the part that made her feel like someone seized all her fairly-stolen money, burned it and then scattered the ashes in the ocean, all the while stealing lollipops from babies and shooting kittens.
And that person was her.
Running away without looking back while that completemoron was bleeding to death probably didn't help, that little voice in her head supplied.
Which was utter nonsense, that was the only good decision in that situation, what was she even supposed to do for the man who got his torso nearly blown to smithereens.
She even had bits of his blood in her mouth, it tasted oddly good for some reason, but might've also been ash for all the good it did.
She did the smart thing, made the choices that would let her live another day, the one that didn't involve getting shot because of feelings.
So what if he died alone? This was Gotham, dying alone was literally leagues better than some alternatives.
He was the one who decided to take that bullet, it didn't mean he was entitled to seeing her hold his bloodied hand and cry in gratitude.
It wasn't her fault.
She didn't kill him.
She wasn't even really the one who got him killed, or wanted to know who he truly was, despite him not bothering to put on a mask anyway.
It was Thorne.
It was all his fault.
'Rupert Thorne.'
She grit her teeth, feeling all that hatred stop drowning her now that it had a more convenient target, all those confusing emotions were given structure and direction through the nearly irrational contempt she felt for that traitorous pig.
He was the one who killed him, after all.
It was his fault she felt this way.
He tried to kill her.
She was just the distraction, the plan wasn't to unmask Alucard.
He killed him.
Self-loathing, hatred, sadness. Everything took a backseat as cold fury took over, emotions numb to let her devious mind find the best ways to cause him pain.
He would pay, and then it would all be better.
And then maybe she could forget that resigned smile as a bullet pierced his chest, destroying his body, instead of ending her life.
It wasn't her fault.
She wasn't the strongest woman out there, nor the most martially skilled, or certainly not the most intelligent.
But when it came to stealing, she was the very best.
For people like Thorne, who gave up everything in the pursuit of wealth, she was their worst nightmare.
He just didn't know it yet.
. . .
There was nothing she felt tracking down Rupert Thorne, and she felt nothing more breaking into his private residence in the county, sneaking past armed guards and security measures that were just barely illegal.
One of the issues of being a public figure, and wanting to be more marketable than Falcone, he had less leeway when it came to the power he could leverage at home.
The plan was simple, and the execution flawless, the kind of tomfoolery she often did for fun, break into his safes and take everything she could, destroy what she couldn't, collect proof of his misdeeds to leverage in a court of law for when she inevitably slips-up and gets caught.
The basics, unlike trying to uncover a known superhuman's identity.
It still felt a little lacking compared to Thorne's actions.
Perhaps she could go ahead and burn the whole mansion down? Millions of dollars in damages would be a nice way to start her vengeance.
Alas, she had to leave pyromania for another occasion, hearing the arrival of a veritable convoy of vehicles while carrying such a wonderful haul of someone else's money had pretty much forced her to enact her exit plan.
Only when she caught her ride back to the city, stashed her gains in a secure place before crashing into one of her more comfortable safehouses did she allow herself a satisfied smile, almost purring in wicked satisfaction.
Schadenfreude, some would call it, or maybe the satisfaction of enacting financial vengeance upon one asshole of the highest order.
Or maybe it was her kleptomania acting up.
…Yeah, it was probably kleptomania.
She stretched and laid back upon an italian sofa, one arm lazily reaching out for the remote, eager to put on some comfort show and maybe muster up enough willpower to get some ice cream involved in the evening.
It was a scene capable of inducing pure horny, but before she could have fun picturing people's reactions to her antics, she was interrupted by the sound of the news channel.
'Boring, I want to watch shitty reality shows and laugh at crazy people's lifestyles," she thought, only to be interrupted once more just as she was about to switch channels.
"This just in, multi-millionaire and industry mogul Rupert Donald Thorne was shot tonight during a high class dinner with associates," The journalist, Vicky Vale or something, a pretty blonde thing was bright eyes who had been making some waves lately announced, doing a solid effort of masking her pleasure at the news, but Selina couldn't be fooled, "Witnesses claimed seeing a dozen armed gunmen breaking into rooms and shooting the pleading lobbyist execution style, with some sources talking about organizations linked with the National liberation front of Corsica,"
Selina could only watch in disbelief as the camera showed the blurry images of a very much still body being pulled into an ambulance.
The body of Rupert Thorne.
"The police, however, concluded that it was the act of a single shooter with a sniper rifle," The blonde continued, not being very considerate of Selina's mental breakdown.
The reporter continued speaking, but the words mixed into incoherent sounds as she tried to wrap her head around the news, her new reality.
How could she get her revenge on a dead man?
Who could she blame for what happened?
She really needed that ice cream now.
"Meanwhile, informants have managed to obtain live footage of Gotham's newest vigilante as he dismantled multiple drugs and prostitution rings through the East End, the police refused to comment and reiterated their commitment to stop deranged citizens from taking justice in their own hands." Vicky Vale spoke once more, and this time the words got through despite Catwoman's growing headache.
To that, Selina could only do two things.
First, she decided that she really didn't like Vicky Vale.
And second…
"What the actual f*ck?" She said slowly, looking at the blurry video footage of an inhumanly fast individual, one she saw dying with her own eyes.
She would've called bullshit, but there was no mistaking those red eyes glowing in the dark.
Shutting off the tv before Vicky Vale told her the United States started a war with Canada or whatever bullshit she decided would trouble her the most, Selina got up from her arse in an act of extreme effort, headed toward the freezer and opened it harshly only to be stopped in her tracks.
She had run out of ice cream.
"F*ck"