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If She Doesn't Scare You...

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Deciphering the message is the difficult part. Tracking her is easy. She hasn't even bothered trying to conceal the lipstick-red Rolls Royce parked outside the warehouse, though she is doing her best to silence the barking within when he arrives.

"Be quiet, brutes!" she commands, brandishing a taser at a particularly bellicose Irish setter.

His batarang knocks it from her hand. She wheels as he descends from the rafters to retrieve it, the fury in her gaze easing slightly as she runs a critical eye over his costume. "Leather. I approve. And black always makes such a statement."

He's not in a bantering mood. "Why, de Vil? You know the museum won't be showing any of your designs, old or new." They hadn't put up much of a fight in canceling the exhibition, either. But how could they resist, when Bruce Wayne's only condition for finally agreeing to sit on their board was a few slight alterations to their upcoming programs?

"Pedestrian twits," Cruella snarls. "Art is art, darling. The muse must be sated."

"Not tonight."

She cackles, and he actually takes a step backward before his training reasserts itself. It's been a long time since a villain's laughter managed to unnerve him. "What do you intend to do? Turn me over to the authorities? I've played that game before. A few years' good behavior, a few generous donations to the right charities, and the world will await my return with bated breath. You merely delay the realization of my vision." Her smile vanishes as sharply as it materialized. "And I am growing very tired of waiting."

What does he intend to do? He doesn't want to fight her, though he's starting to think she might be capable of holding her own. But he doesn't want to risk her landing in Arkham, not with the Joker there. Sooner or later, all of his foes seem to decide they ought to try teaming up, but these two...he can almost hear the the resulting explosions and screams and Harley Quinn's sobs.

Fortunately, he's not the only one in Gotham who takes note when a wave of howls sweeps across the city's canine population. Directing a nod over his shoulder, he recedes into the shadows. "Your turn."

His companion slinks forward to take his place. Cruella's jaw drops. She can't seem to decide whether to admire the sleek costume or remain focused on the unsheathed claws as they and their owner inch closer.

"Meow," Catwoman purrs, and lunges.