Batman Legacy: Book One
Copyright© 2025 by Uruks
Chapter 9: The Cat and the Vault
The Gotham Museum of Antiquities slumbered beneath a velvet night sky, its Romanesque silhouette rising silent and proud against the city skyline. Inside, past marble columns and glass-encased artifacts, a private vault waited like a dragon’s lair—guarded by the most advanced security Gotham’s generous donors could afford.
And yet, none of it was enough. A soft click echoed in the shadows above the ceiling panels. A slim hatch opened, revealing a shapely silhouette outlined by moonlight. Then she dropped—a whisper in the dark—landing on the balls of her feet with feline precision. Catwoman.
Clad in a skin-tight black catsuit that shimmered faintly like onyx in the low light, she moved with unhurried confidence. Every curve of her lithe, athletic frame was accentuated by the suit’s slick material. Her midnight-black gloves ended in sharp retractable claws, and her boots were soft-soled for silence. Her short, raven-black hair was slicked back beneath her leather cat-shaped cowl. Her sharp blue eyes glinted in the dim light as she surveyed the vault’s interior, cool and calculating behind the black half-mask that framed her pale face.
Beyond the pressure-triggered tiles and tripwires, nestled inside a carbon-fiber-glass case, gleamed her prize—the Orlov Diamond. A priceless relic from a czar’s forgotten treasury, pulsing with pale blue fire beneath the glass.
Catwoman stretched slowly, languidly, her body bending in impossible ways as she rotated her shoulders and arched her back like a jungle cat waking from a nap. She exhaled, lips parting slightly, then bounded forward in one fluid motion—sliding between laser beams, flipping midair with effortless grace, and twisting her hips to avoid the pressure sensors below.
She paused mid-step, balancing herself on the toes of one boot as a laser pulsed inches from her cheek. Then she grinned.
“Child’s play,” she whispered.
She reached the glass case, carefully unscrewed the access panel beneath, and inserted a compact device she’d stolen from a WayneTech lab two weeks prior. A low hum vibrated as the glass disengaged. No alarms. No countermeasures. Just a smooth release.
With a sultry little hum of satisfaction, Catwoman plucked the diamond from its velvet cradle and rolled it between her gloved fingers, admiring how the gem sparkled like frozen lightning.
“Gotcha.”
As she secured the diamond into a small magnetic pouch on her hip, she slipped back toward the shadows, just as a lone guard wandered down the hallway outside. He paused—his eyes narrowing. Something felt wrong.
He turned, spotting the empty case.
“Hey! We’ve got a breach!”
The alarm blared to life—red lights flashed along the walls like blood pulsing through a dying vein. But Catwoman was already gone.
Security scrambled to respond. Dozens of armed guards stormed the vault, weapons raised, eyes scanning the corridors and rafters. But all they found was a vent cover hanging open ... and a faint trail of claw-marks scratched across the steel.
On the rooftop, moments later...
Catwoman landed in a crouch, barely making a sound as she perched on the corner of the museum’s domed rooftop. Her voluptuous chest rose and fell slowly beneath the black suit as she caught her breath. Behind her, sirens echoed like distant thunder.
She pulled off her mask, letting the cool night breeze brush through her raven black hair. The diamond was warm in her pouch, and the wind brought the scent of city smoke and victory.
Selina Kyle smiled—sharp, proud, and predatory. “Easy money.”
She stood, stretched her arms overhead, and vanished into the night.
The grandfather clock ticked softly behind the bookshelf, a steady metronome in the stately calm of Wayne Manor. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting angled light across the richly furnished study. The fireplace was unlit, but the faint smell of old ash clung to the hearth.
Bruce Wayne sat in a high-backed leather chair, newspaper spread open in his gloved hands. Across the front page of The Gotham Gazette was a grainy, black-and-white photo—just a blur of motion, a silhouette mid-leap between rooftops. The headline read:
“MYSTERIOUS CAT BURGLAR STRIKES AGAIN – Priceless Diamond Vanishes From Gotham Museum”
Only the faintest details could be made out in the image. A sleek black suit. Ears like horns. A tail that might’ve been a whip. The figure was nothing but a shadow streak against moonlight.
Alfred Pennyworth, ever composed, entered the room with a silver tray holding a cup of Earl Grey. He set it down with a gentle clink on the side table.
“I presume that’s this pertains to that ‘Catwoman’ person the press is suddenly so enamored with,” Alfred said, nodding toward the paper.
Bruce’s eyes remained locked on the image. “She’s not connected to the mob. I’ve looked into it. In fact, she’s stolen from them too. Hit one of Maroni’s safe houses last month, left his men tied up like hogs in a butcher shop.”
Alfred raised an eyebrow. “A modern-day Robin Hood, then. Though I doubt Nottingham’s sheriff had as many underworld enemies as Mr. Falcone.”
Bruce gave a small, humorless smirk and folded the paper in half. “She’s not in this for justice. She’s a thrill seeker.”
“Then may I ask why you’re so interested in her? Surely the odd diamond theft is beneath your current priorities.”
Bruce leaned back, gaze narrowing with analytical precision. “It’s the way she does it. Clean entry. Flawless timing. No fingerprints. Security bypassed without tripping a single sensor. The kind of skill that takes a lifetime to master.”
He paused, then added, “Reminds me of someone from a few years back. A thief called Wildcat. Never caught, but every job he pulled was like clockwork. Elegant. Methodical.”
Alfred crossed his arms. “Any relation, do you think?”
Bruce nodded. “Same signature. Same precision. I’m guessing he trained her. Maybe family.” He stood, walking toward the cave entrance concealed behind the bookcase. “She’s not my concern. Not right now.”
“Falcone?”
Bruce tapped the folded paper against his palm. “His vault. I’m going in tonight. Every document, every offshore account, every name in his pocket—I want it all. Once he’s buried, then I’ll circle back to Catwoman.”
With that, he descended into the shadows of the Batcave, the paper tucked under his arm and the image of a feline silhouette still burned behind his eyes.
Gotham’s East Side — Midnight
Selina Kyle stepped into her apartment with a slow, satisfied smile playing at her lips. The door clicked shut behind her, muffling the city’s restless noise.
“Miss me, babies?” she purred.
Three cats padded toward her from the shadows—slender shadows in motion, tails curling high. One brushed against her calf, another leapt lightly onto the counter to meet her eyes. Selina crouched, scratching one behind the ear and giving the others a languid stroke.
“Of course you did.”
She moved to the kitchen, heels clicking on hardwood, and scooped kibble into three porcelain bowls. The sound of crunching filled the room as her little family descended upon their feast.
Selina drifted toward the far wall where a masterful oil portrait hung—a distinguished European gentleman with a subtle, knowing smile. His dark hair was swept back; his gloved hand rested lightly on a cane.
“Hello, Daddy,” she murmured.
With a deft motion, she lifted the frame from its hook. Behind it, set into the wall, was a matte-black safe. She spun the dial in practiced silence, the tumblers clicking in a rhythm she knew by heart.
From her purse, she withdrew a velvet pouch. It opened with a whisper, revealing a scatter of diamonds that caught the dim light in sharp, icy flashes. One by one, she placed them inside alongside gold chains, antique watches, and stacks of crisp bills.
The pouch empty, she closed the safe, turned the dial, and swung the painting back into place, the gentleman’s smile once again concealing her secrets.
Her cats had finished eating and were watching her from across the room. She wandered back to them, trailing her fingers under a chin, whispering nonsense in a voice softer than the city would ever hear.
Selina’s boots and jacket found the floor in a casual trail toward the bedroom. The dim light glinted on the smooth line of her shoulder as she slipped out of her blouse.
Moments later, the hiss of running water filled the apartment.
Steam bloomed from behind the frosted glass as the shower hissed to life, curling in soft tendrils toward the ceiling. Selina stepped inside, her silhouette a lithe sculpture etched in silver against the blurred pane. The water struck her pale skin in warm ribbons, streaming over the curves and planes shaped by years of rooftop sprints, narrow leaps, and midnight escapes.
She tilted her head back, eyes fluttering closed as the heat soaked into her muscles, the city’s chill dissolving down the drain. Her breath slowed, a lazy rhythm matching the steady fall of water.
A buzz from the sink broke the hush. Her phone.
Selina didn’t flinch. She reached one dripping hand beyond the glass, fingers curling around the device before tapping the speaker.
“Nice work tonight, Kitten,” a man’s voice purred through the line, tinny and low. “The museum’s still spinning.”
Her lips curved, a slow, feline smile. “Told you I could handle it.”
“You always do,” he said. “But I’ve got something else for you. Bigger.”
Her eyes opened, sharp now. “How big?”
“Falcone’s vault.”
A soft whistle escaped her. “The mob king’s private stash? That’s high risk.”
“High reward, too,” he countered. “My sources say he’s stockpiling more than evidence these days. Diamonds. Real ones. Off the books.”
Selina’s hand slid through her wet hair, combing it back as water traced the slope of her spine. “Send the specs to my computer.”
“Already done. But listen, kitten...” His tone dipped. “There’s more to keep in mind. Word is, someone else is prowling the city at night.”
She paused mid-motion, the spray drumming on her bare shoulders.
“Big. Strong. Leaves bruises. Real shadows-and-gravel type.”
Her gaze shifted toward the mirror beside the shower. Pinned to its edge was a folded, slightly wrinkled newspaper clipping—a blurry photograph of a figure high on a rooftop. A cape spread wide like black wings. The Batman.
Selina’s smirk returned, tinged with curiosity. “Sounds delicious.”
“Careful,” he warned. “He’s not like most men you’ve known.”
“I hope not,” she said, voice low. “I’m due for something ... exciting.”
“He’s been hassling Falcone’s people for months now. Chances are, you’ll cross paths one of these days. If you do, best to make a quick exit. Remember, we survive by our smarts, not our passions.”
The call ended with a soft click.
Selina lingered under the spray, steam rising thick around her, clinging to her skin like the ghost of a lover’s touch. Her fingers drifted across the glass, tracing invisible shapes, her thoughts far away yet razor sharp.
She stepped out in one fluid motion, water dripping from her naked body in crystalline trails. A towel wrapped around her hips and chest, hugging her voluptuous form like it knew her secrets.
Her eyes found the clipping again. A slow smile curved her lips as she whispered to herself: “Now there’s a mystery I wouldn’t mind unraveling.”
Gotham Financial District – Imperium Tower
The Falcone compound sat like a crouched beast on the far end of Gotham’s financial district—an aging fortress of brick, steel, and paranoia. Floodlights swept the perimeter in rhythmic arcs, crisscrossing the rooftop like giant mechanical eyes. Inside, the halls were narrow and patrolled by heavily armed guards. Corridors bristled with cameras, motion sensors, reinforced doors, and silent alarms rigged to call in more firepower than a SWAT team. It was a vault wrapped in a bunker wrapped in a fortress.
But it wasn’t enough. A shadow moved through the rafters—silent, unseen. Batman was already inside.
Perched upside down like a panther in the girders, he scanned the hallway below. Two guards—one talking on a radio, the other chewing on a toothpick and yawning. The air vent he’d used to slip past the outer security system sealed behind him with a click no louder than a whisper. His cape curled around his frame like wings folding in.
He dropped between the men like a ghost. A nerve pinch for the one on the left. A chokehold for the other. Two seconds. No noise. They never saw him.
Batman dragged the unconscious bodies into a supply closet and slipped back into the shadows. He moved like flowing water—past motion detectors, across beams, hugging blind spots in the cameras’ sweeps. Where Catwoman was sensual, a dance of elegance and showmanship, Batman was brutal poetry. Precision. Minimalism. Perfect control.
At the security hub, a single guard manned the monitors. Batman landed silently behind him, wrapped one arm around his neck, and cut power to the board with a sleek black device. Screens went dark. Lights dimmed. The building took a breath—and missed it.
The final vault door was downstairs. Batman’s intel suggested that Falcone had stashed ledgers, names, bank routes, and—rumors said—evidence tying half the city council to bribes and drug shipments. Bruce didn’t need the entire empire crumbling. Just enough leverage to make the rest collapse under legal scrutiny.
He crouched near a biometric scanner. Fingerprint, retinal, voiceprint. The works. But this wasn’t his first fortress. From a pouch on his belt, he withdrew a polymorphic fingertip—a perfect copy of Falcone’s own index finger, synthesized from latent prints gathered on a scotch glass weeks prior.
Click. The lock gave a soft whine. Access granted.
Batman pushed the door open slowly, slipping into the cold steel room like a wraith. Rows of lockboxes. Filing cabinets. An armored case bolted to the floor with enough security to hold nuclear codes.
The vault’s inner chamber was colder than expected—air-conditioned to preserve the documents, no doubt—but Batman barely noticed. His senses were sharp, attuned. Something was wrong. The vault wasn’t untouched.
Cabinet doors hung ajar, drawers left slightly pulled. Folders lay open in disarray, some already missing. A fine trail of dust had been disturbed recently—and precisely. He wasn’t the first one here.
Then he saw her. A lithe silhouette crouched atop the far filing cabinet, midnight bodysuit clinging to her curvaceous figure, a black, cat-like mask obscuring her head save for her eyes and her pale mouth. Her sharp blue eyes gleamed in the half-light. She held a leather satchel half-stuffed with glittering stones—and a thin, unmarked black ledger in her gloved hand. Catwoman.
She turned her head toward him slowly. Her eyes widened in astonishment at first, then her lips parted into a smile full of velvet and mischief.
“Well, well...” she purred, more to herself than to him. “‘Speak of the devil... ‘“
Their eyes locked across the vault—two predators, equally matched. The room seemed to tighten around them.
“You’re good,” she said, hopping lightly down from the cabinet. “Got all the way in here without so much as a beep. Makes me wonder ... do you moonlight as a burglar in your spare time, Bat-boy?”
He scanned the open vault—half the diamonds already gone, several ledgers missing. She was fast.
Batman didn’t move, but his voice cut through the stillness like a blade. “You’ve already taken the documents I need.”
Her eyes flicked to the ledger in her hand, then back to him. “Just a little something for leverage. You know how it is. Insurance. Falcone’s not exactly a nice man. Besides. Way waste an opportunity to double my profits? Blackmail can fetch just as much as diamonds. Maybe even more.”
“You’re going to give me that bag,” he said, stepping forward. “All of it. The documents, too.”
Catwoman cocked her head, then gave him a once-over that was half teasing, half impressed. She slowly slid the ledger in the bag with the diamonds. “You really are a buzzkill.”
Then she turned on her heel and bolted.
Batman lunged after her—but just as he did, the soft click of a pressure sensor under his boot betrayed them both. Red lights began flashing. Alarms shrieked.
A voice barked through the intercom in Falcone’s office above. “Breach in the vault! All units, move!”
Batman cursed under his breath.
Catwoman winced. “Damn it.”
Her playful demeanor slipped, replaced by something sharper—focus, survival mode. She was already moving, vaulting onto a shelf, pushing off a steel cabinet and scrambling up toward a ventilation shaft like a shadow given form. Her bag bounced at her hip as she climbed.
“This wasn’t part of the plan,” she muttered to herself, glancing down one last time at the man in the cape below. Their eyes met—hers now lit with urgency, not mischief.
Then she vanished up into the shaft. Batman was already moving after her, his cape snapping behind him like a banner of war.
The echo of bootsteps thundered down the narrow corridor behind them, a relentless drumbeat of pursuit. Voices—harsh, armed, and furious—broke through the tension like a storm.
“South vault breached! Lock the exits! Don’t let them get away!”
Batman and Catwoman skidded to a stop inside a tight service hallway. The harsh red glow of emergency lights fractured across cold steel walls, casting jagged shadows that danced like predators. Two heavy security doors slammed shut—one sealing them off from the corridor behind, the other sealing any hope of escape ahead.
They were trapped.
Catwoman spun toward him, chest heaving slightly, a wry smile playing at her lips despite the danger. “Great. Trapped in a box with Gotham’s second-scariest man. Just my luck.”
Batman’s gaze narrowed, dark and unwavering as he stepped forward to meet the danger.
“Get behind me.”
Before she could unleash a sarcastic retort, the far door exploded open. Falcone’s men poured through like a flood—guns raised, fists clenched around clubs and blades gleaming in the red light. No time for banter.
Batman moved first—an unstoppable shadow carved from pure fury. His gauntleted hand shot out, catching a thug’s wild swing mid-air. A sickening crack echoed as he wrenched the attacker’s wrist sideways. Another thug lunged with a shotgun; Batman spun low and swept his legs out in a smooth arc, the man crashing down with a grunt. Batman’s boot crushed the weapon before it could clatter free.
Beside him, Catwoman flowed like liquid shadow—graceful, swift, and lethal. Her whip cracked through the air, lashing around a man’s ankle and yanking him off balance. She sprang off a wall, landing heel-first into another’s chest with bone-jarring force before rolling behind Batman’s cover.
But she wasn’t reckless, keenly aware of her status as a lightweight woman against grown men. Eyes sharp, she tracked the biggest threats, stayed light on her feet, and never squared off unless the odds tilted in her favor.
“I’ll admit,” she breathed between dodges. “It’s nice not having to do all the punching for once.”
Batman parried a crowbar strike with his armored forearm, then slammed an elbow into the attacker’s throat. “Stay close.”
“Oh, I will.”
Batman struck—an unstoppable wall of muscle and armor crashing into their ranks. Gunmen toppled like dominoes under his blows, each strike calculated to drop a man in seconds. At his flank, Catwoman darted with liquid grace, her whip cracking across wrists and eyes, her boots lashing out with punishing kicks.
Their rhythm was flawless: when Batman’s brute force shattered a defense, she slid in to finish it with precision; when she drew fire with her speed, he crushed the opening she created. In minutes, the room was chaos—thugs groaning on the floor, tables overturned, weapons scattered—while the dark pair moved in perfect sync toward the window, already plotting their escape.
A guard swung wide, overcommitting. Catwoman dipped under the blow, pivoting fluidly. She used his momentum to slam him hard against the floor. Her claws flicked out—steel pressed cold against his throat. The man’s eyes fluttered shut, resignation in his last breath.
But she hesitated. Held the moment. Then rolled away, already twisting to deflect another swing. No one noticed the choice she’d made—except Batman. She could have ended him. Should have, logically—one less threat, one more second gained. The others perhaps less sure of themselves because of the death. But she spared an enemy instead. And Batman found himself wondering why.
BANG! A gunshot cracked too close. Catwoman froze, chest tightening as she caught the glint of a barrel aimed straight at her heart. But Batman was faster.
He dove, tackling her sideways just as the bullet whizzed past, missing by inches. They hit the ground hard—his armored bulk absorbing most of the impact. She blinked up at him, disbelief flickering in her eyes. She wasn’t used to being saved. His face was mere inches from hers, expression grim but steady, breath measured despite the chaos.
He rolled off and sprang up, already swinging back at the next attacker. But that brief, fragile moment lingered longer than she expected.
She recovered quickly—flicking her whip, yanking a pipe from the ceiling, and smashing it down onto the last thug blocking her path. The way cleared.
Taking a sharp breath, she glanced toward Batman—still locked in combat, still trapped. Her eyes flicked to an open window above stacked crates—freedom just out of reach.
“Thanks for the assist, handsome,” she murmured, then added apologetically. “I’m sorry it had to turn out like this.”
Without waiting for a response, she launched herself upward, vanishing into the night air.
Batman turned just in time to see her boots disappear through the window. He scowled. Of course she ran. But there was no time to dwell. More thugs regrouped, pouring in from adjoining halls.
Dropping a smoke pellet, Batman vanished into the thick haze of shadow—already planning his next move.
The thugs coughed and shouted as Batman’s smoke bomb swallowed the office in a thick, choking cloud. Muzzles flashed wildly in the dark, shots cracking blind through the haze, some tearing into their own men.
From the fog, Batman surged forward like a battering ram—slamming bodies aside, breaking rifles from hands, driving through with unstoppable force. Before they could regroup, he crashed through the nearest window in an explosion of glass, vanishing into the night while chaos reigned behind him.