Chapter 2 - The Ticket

"The Gotham City Hedonist Society is a members-only private club for the exploration of all carnal physical pleasures life has to offer," the doorman offered in his carefully-rehearsed tone. "We have scheduled, nightly activities..."

His voice trailed off as Barbara considered the complexity of the web she suddenly realized she'd been lured into.

Catwoman had the notebook. She knew the value of what was in it. She knew Barbara — Batgirl — was new, eager to prove herself. So she put out a false lead on its whereabouts, one that she knew Batgirl would pick up... because she knew Batgirl had been watching her. She and Robin had gone out on the rounds for her known safehouses, and in turn, this let Catwoman know which ones to abandon.

In one of them, Barbara found the unknown safehouse through a clue she wished she'd noticed was too obvious: a brochure to the luxury highrise that Catwoman had destroyed. She'd split her from Robin effectively in triggering the bomb. And now, with Batgirl isolated and willing to stay that way, Catwoman had run to the one place that would show them both what Batgirl was really made of.

"...catered menu prepared by our world-class chef Martin Rockford and his... m-mademoiselle?"

Quietly, but deeply, Barbara was laughing. It was the kind of shallow chuckle that came out sounding like both a breath and a whistle.

"Is something funny, mademoi—"

"—A sex club!" Barbara interrupted, speaking both to the doorman and to the idea of Catwoman's utter nerve. "Catwoman wants me to chase her... into a sex club. Really?"

"O-oui," the man replied, confused. "The Society, it is much more than a 'sex club'. We host a vari—"

"—There's no way I'm stripping down to go in there," Barbara replied as her laughter slowly fell away.

"Then there is no way you are going in there," replied the doorman in a friendly tone.

Seriousness settled over the small, private lobby. What would Batman do? Barbara wondered, as she often did. He definitely wouldn't have followed Catwoman through the front door to begin with — but then, he wouldn't have let Catwoman escape the rooftop, either. Batgirl wasn’t as big and intimidating as Batman, but people usually at least reacted with apprehension when she appeared. That wasn’t working here. Now that the mistakes were made, what would he do in her place?

"This is official law enforcement business," Barbara said proudly, striding toward the left side door. "You're harboring a fugitive from the law. She's stolen something. I'm going inside to get her." The guard stepped into place to block her path, and the one on the opposite side of the desk reached inside his suit jacket for the pistol Barbara knew was there.

"Interesting proposition," said the doorman in a more serious tone. "Then mademoiselle will kindly show her badge?"

Barbara froze, and turned to face the unusually brave doorman. He stood patiently at his post, waiting in earnest for Batgirl to produce LEO identification.

"Non?" he continued, pointing up and down at Barbara’s cowl and armor. "Because, this uniform of yours; it is most curious. I am not familiar with your particular Bat-division of Gotham's police force."

She scowled. "You know what I mean."

"Sadly, I do not," he replied with mock disappointment. "But! Perhaps the police can sort this out for both of us, oui?" The man reached for the rotary phone behind his desk, drew the receiver, and began turning the dialer.

Ice poured through Barbara's veins. She definitely did not need police officers hearing about Batgirl in a sex club lobby. The cameras blinked silently overhead.

"No. Wait," Barbara said, trying to sound like she wasn't begging. "Stop."

"This is a respectful place of business," the concierge said as he continued dialing, "and, despite the growing trend of masked vigilantism in our fine city, it is a city of laws."

"That's enough—"

"—As this is a city of laws,” he continued on, “we are licensed and accredited in all ways required by law, as surely the Police Commissioner will testify—"

"—Enough!"

The man's finger paused in the dialing ring as he raised his eyebrows. Barbara stepped back. The guards relaxed their posture and exhaled, both seeming grateful to not have to do the harder part of their jobs. The doorman hung up the phone, flattened his mustache, and folded his hands patiently.

The notebook and its secrets loomed like a phantasm. Batgirl would come to an end if those secrets got out, leaving only Barbara and mountainous failure. Bruce's crusade would end violently if Dad found out that his own daughter was on Batman’s task force. That end would only come faster if the police showed up and found Batgirl there — James Gordon worked secretly with Batman because no officer on the force openly wanted vigilantes on the streets. Every siren wailed for her just as much as Catwoman, and every moment was a chance for Catwoman to escape. Barbara tried not to think of the frightful shame rising in her throat at the thought of walking naked into whatever trap the thief might have laid for her, but the words came out before she could stop them.

"I'll... I'll do it. I'll undress," Barbara said, still secretly convinced there was no way it would actually, truly happen. "The mask stays on!" she added, pointing a finger.

The doorman raised his hands in surrender. "Naturellement, mademoiselle!" he said in his original friendly, respectful tone, ushering her toward one of the doors behind the desk. "All of our guests wear masks."

Barbara squinted. "Why? What, uh... exactly do people do inside?"

The man made another innocent, surrendering gesture. "I do not presume the business of our members. But some prefer the... excitement of anonymity," he explained, opening the door for her. "Surely you can relate."

"Surely," Barbara groaned, walking to the doorway. A mahogany-clad hallway with a dozen dressing room doors on either side unfolded before her.

"Your equipment shall also wait in the locker," he added.

"What?" Barbara barked. She threw tense glances to the guards again.

"As I stated previously, we are a respectful place of business," he said. "No weapons or recording devices are allowed inside. My associate can assist you."

Barbara had already picked the most debilitating pressure point to strike on the guard next to her. It would be so easy. But as she eyed the security cameras above, she reconsidered. Cameras meant alarms; alarms meant police sirens. All of it meant failure.

Her fingers unclipped her belt and Batclaw, and the guard stepped into the hallway, opening the first side door. A series of armored long gun lockers were behind it, and the man took a key from his pocket to open one. A neat series of gun racks and equipment hooks were revealed behind the locker door. Barbara hung the belt from one and the grapple gun from another as she tried to ignore the tactical consequences of entering a building that featured a hardened gun locker. She couldn’t let Catwoman escape now.

The guard closed the door, and handed Barbara the key before stepping aside. He produced a handheld metal detector which he began sweeping over her body. It whistled and chirped, but found nothing notable. Barbara felt some relief that the ferropolymers in the cowl hid all the electronics inside.

"Oh, and mademoiselle? A message for you, from Madame Chat," the doorman said, offering her a bespoke parchment note card, neatly folded and sealed for privacy. The emblem of the club was painted on one side in elegant calligraphy. "Choose any dressing room you like to disrobe. The membership fee is waived. You are her personal invité d'honneur."

"Great," Barbara growled, taking the note. Fear crept up into her chest from the acid pits of her stomach.

"Should you fail to follow our rules, my associates here will politely escort you outside to the police. Please enjoy your evening!" the concierge concluded, disappearing into the lobby and closing the door behind him. 

Barbara sighed as she found herself alone in the quiet hallway. The silence was a haunting finality of the choice she'd made. She was inside — it was done. She couldn't leave now and risk losing the notebook forever, and fighting her way in wouldn't end much differently. The only real choice she had left was which room to undress in.

—

"Batgirl to Robin," Barbara said, keying the mic in her cowl. "Come in."

"Thank God!" Dick's voice replied, garbled by static. "I'm fifteen minutes out, inbound now. You okay?"

Barbara stood alone in the same dark wooden dressing room Catwoman had teased her from. The night sky twinkled through the skylight, mixing cool, moonlit tones with the warmth of the wall sconces. She could still taste Catwoman's strawberry flavor on her tongue, and see echoes of the softness of her naked body. Catwoman's note sat unfolded in her hand:



Kitten:


Thanks for the lovely warmup on the roof.


Play nice or I won't tell you where I hid the notebook.


Can't wait to see more of you...


Meow,


                                   Cat 😼




"I'm fine," Barbara replied, swallowing a knot.

"You don't sound fine," he noticed. His voice crackled and distorted even more over the airwaves, now — something was interfering with the signal.

"It's just the signal loss. I'm good," Barbara lied.

"You sound nervous," Dick said. "Give the codeword if you're compromised."

"I'm fine, Dick," she replied, closing her eyes and focusing on her breathing. She crumpled the note and threw it into a wastebasket.

"Alright, alright," he said over the static. "Where's Catwoman?"

"I've... got her cornered, actually," she explained, wincing at her own half-truth. "She ducked into... some building. I trapped her inside. There's only one way in or out. No windows except for skylights on the roof. Sealed, bulletproof ones."

"Nice," Dick replied. "Alright, I’ve got your location, I think. You run point, flush her out. I'll cover the entrance, and Batman will get the takedown."

Barbara froze. "He's coming?!"

"I know, I know," Dick apologized. "Secret mission for the notebook. But you killed comms and I didn't want to find your body in the morgue later, so..."

"No, you're right," sighed Barbara, resigning. She'd just have to tell him. She owed him at least that much, and the weight of that truth made her heart sink. "You're right. About everything."

A long silence hovered. "Batgirl?"

"The notebook is my... is Police Commissioner Gordon's."

Silence. Then: "Okay."

"You know, Commissioner Gordon with the big, glowing signal? The one of this symbol that we all wear? Who likes to meet with Batman? And share notes about his current investigations?"

"Oh," Dick said, suddenly understanding. "You mean the Batman who makes a lifestyle of being ten steps ahead of everyone? And who would suddenly be ten steps behind everyone if a notebook full of his plans with the police commissioner got out?"

Barbara felt sick, and muted the mic to take a few long, fearful breaths until the salty taste of fear and shame oozed back down into her stomach. "Yeah, that's the guy!" she sang nervously.

"How'd Catwoman get it?"

"Catwoman..." Barbara bit the words back this time, clenching her hands into fists so they'd stop shaking. Then, she began again.

"Catwoman stole it from me."

A silence again. She continued.

"I... took it from his desk, and I was... I was going to read it while I was on patrol. To learn. I was curious. But Catwoman must have been tailing me. I left it on a rooftop. Busted a car thief, then went back for it and then Catwoman was... Robin, if I can't get it back—"

"—then Batman will forgive you," Dick said.

"W-what?"

"You're putting too much on your shoulders," he continued over the static. "How could you have known Catwoman would steal Gordon's notebook? It's on her. We're after her, not you."

He wasn't wrong. That helped set her right for a moment — this was Catwoman's doing. But now, Barbara had still put everyone in danger by trying to take on Catwoman alone. Her friends, her teammates, and her family were all exposed. She was next, and in more ways than one. Barbara, you idiot, she thought.

"You weren't kidding about Catwoman," she admitted. "She's a heavy hitter. She got in my head for a minute with her little routine."

"Yeah, she tried the whole seduction thing with me once, too."

Barbara balked a moment before she opened the mic. Up until now, she'd thought Batman alone had squared off against Catwoman. She realized one of the reasons Batman would probably have kept that secret from Barbara as a new emotion froze her hands still, and squinted her eyes.

She recognized it as jealousy.

"Did... did she?" Barbara asked.

"Did she what?"

"You know. Seduce you." Barbara muted the mic and winced at the sound of her own girlish insecurity. "What the hell am I doing?" she whispered to herself.

"Yeah, you know how she is. Twirls the whip, makes bedroom eyes. Gives you a nickname and everything. Mine's 'Bird Boy'. Sweet, huh?"

"She... she didn't do anything to you, did she?" Barbara licked her lips and tasted Catwoman's tongue.

"Well, her profile does put 'Psychotic Narcissist' right next to... 'Possible Nymphomaniac' I think? But no, she didn't manage to spank me or anything if that's what you mean."

"Oh, shut up!" Barbara laughed.

Dick Grayson was many things to Barbara Gordon: friend, fighter, teammate. But through their trials together with Batman, their long nights on patrol in Gotham City, and the bonds that had grown between them, Dick was even more than just those things to her now.

Barbara had a terrible crush on him.

He was strong. Witty. Kind. An amazing guy with a heart full of joy and passion for all the suffering he'd been through in losing his parents. It was perfectly natural that she'd admire him — that they'd kiss eventually. It didn't hurt that he had the kind of body only a world-class gymnast could have, the kind of smile that girls would kill to wake up next to, and the kind of thick, strong forearms that she often fantasized about biting into for some reason. Barbara had kissed boys before, but his kiss had kept her awake more than a few nights. And while that kiss was their first, it was also their last.

"We can't do this," he'd told her. "Not with this lifestyle. What if one of us got hurt? Or worse?"

He was right of course. And so, it was back to business as usual that same night, and every night since then.

Now, here Barbara was, in the dressing room of a sex club, wondering if Catwoman had managed to get further along with Dick than she had. She wiped her fingers over her face in self-disgust and threw her head back to sigh at the moon.

"She's a psychotic nutjob," Dick's voice added. "Kind of like you, only way more gross."

"Oh, you don't say!" Barbara groaned, laughing. She licked her lips again and wished for a moment that they tasted like his plain, generic brand lip balm instead of whatever Catwoman's mouth tasted like. The thought brought her back down to earth. "What's your status?"

"I'm trying to find your signal but we're in Old Gotham," Dick said, cutting in and out over the static — he was probably moving in the wrong direction. "The building you're... probably has a lot of concrete and lead. You said… skylights, too? Your locator is ghosting out..."

"Maybe the whole place has a wireless signal dampener, for privacy. There are cameras throughout, but they’re probably on an old closed-circuit rig, if that’s the case," added Barbara. "Stay on the roof above the entrance once you get here. And check your vector, I think you’re going the wrong way… Robin?"

Dick's voice slowly faded. "Batman's inbound... aking the Batwing from Metropolis... thirty minutes out, give or ta... on't engage until all three of us are on-site... eaking up, let's go radio silen... try and amp the comms array..."

She thought about the look she'd find on Batman's face when he arrived. It'd probably be the same one he always had — he was scary as hell, even to his friends. He always seemed disappointed somehow, like a sensei dealing with an undeserving student. And now, sensei was coming back to the training grounds because an insubordinate girl had made a mess of things. But even with Batman barreling toward her at the speed of sound, nothing changed. As long as the notebook was in Catwoman's hands, it was a liability to all of them — one that nobody on the team could afford.

And with Barbara being the closest one to it, she really had no choice as to what she should do next.

She looked at herself in the dressing room's tall vanity mirror. The light flattered her: the black carbon fiber and kevlar-laced armor looked sleek around her hips for once. The shock of red hair spilling from the back of her cowl spread rather elegantly over her shoulders. Soon, that'd be all she was wearing.

"Copy radio silence," she said, unhooking the cowl from the suit's hidden fasteners in the neck. "Do not engage. Batgirl out."

Batgirl stared at Barbara in the mirror as they began undressing together.

She was more mysterious than Barbara was, and far more powerful. Smart enough to take down bigger, badder opponents. She had a high-powered stealth motorcycle that she drove whenever she wasn't soaring over Gotham's night sky in a customized wingsuit. She could take a punch that should crush a girl her size, then get right back up and somehow throw that same punch back. Her mentor was, for almost anyone concerned, an actual demon from hell sent to save Gotham from its own sins. She was there to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him and bring the wicked to a swift, sometimes brutal justice.

Barbara didn’t miss the irony of peeling off the Batgirl uniform and revealing nothing but the real, frightened girl hidden beneath.

The suit uncoupled at the center, just like Catwoman's, only by a series of hidden articulated fasteners that could seal just as quickly as they opened. Her suit didn't show off any slutty, unnecessary cleavage, but Barbara couldn't help but look at her body as she split the suit down the middle of her chest, all the way down past her belly button. She made a slow, sensual reveal out of it the same way Catwoman had a few minutes earlier. Barbara wanted to say that she looked just as sexy. She didn't.

"What am I doing?" she wondered aloud as she detached the gauntlets and went to work on the combat boots.

Catwoman had the one thing that Barbara knew she didn't — shameless sex appeal. No matter that she looked like some kind of cat-themed stripper in her "usual" outfit: the jumpsuit hid literally nothing about her body. Catwoman naked was pretty much the same thing as Catwoman in costume. She tried not to remember the way her breasts spilled out of the catsuit. How does she get away with not wearing a bra with a body like that? Barbara wondered. That stupid suit has inlaid padding or something. She looked to the dressing room lockers; one of them inevitably held Catwoman's things. She could try to pick the locks, find the one with the suit and—

"Stop, Barbara," she said to herself. 'Uses Seduction to Disarm Opponents'. Now, under half an hour chasing Catwoman and she already had Barbara lost in self-conscious worries about her own body.

Barbara unhooked her sports bra and folded it over her shoulders, letting her breasts spill free. They were aching and sweaty from the evening's work, and her coral-tinted nipples were already stiff from the insanely cold air conditioning. She slid her panties down her legs as well, and the cool air was refreshing, for a moment. She spotted a basket of toiletries and grabbed a kit marked ‘Shower in a Bag’ to wipe her body down with the perfumed towelette inside. It worked well enough. She folded everything as neatly as she could and locked it all away with the same key from the equipment storage, tucking the key into a hidden compartment in the cowl's ear. Barbara turned to the mirror, and gave herself one last look.

When Barbara wasn't being Batgirl, she was a college freshman. She was laser-focused academically, and had the highest grade in nearly all of her classes. Naturally, she wasn't very popular at all, but that suited her lifestyle just fine. Her dorm roommate often went out to party without her, and when Barbara had the place to herself and wasn't on patrol, she would let loose a little. She'd stream a guilty pleasure Top 40 playlist, sing at the top of her lungs, and dance naked through the apartment on the way out of the shower. Barbara liked the way her body looked then, while she was alone — Batman's physical training regimen gave her killer abs and amazing definition in her thighs to go with her modest chest and hips. Sometimes, she'd snap poses in the mirror, make sexy faces, and do other horribly embarrassing things she'd never, ever tell anyone.

Sometimes, she imagined Dick was there with her. And sometimes, she touched herself to that thought. It took her longer than she liked to stop herself.

The Barbara with Batgirl's face standing in the dressing room of the Gotham City Hedonist Society was not excited or aroused. In the innermost core of her being, she was utterly terrified.

"Oh my God, what am I doing?" Barbara suddenly realized as she stared at her nakedness. What was Catwoman going to do to her? What was she going to make her do? She'd already managed to get Barbara in this deep. Was there someplace deeper?

She reached for her cowl, the words "Batgirl to Robin" climbing up her throat. She stopped before they could jump out.

In the mirror, she imagined Batman's steely scowl beside her own face. Slowly, her hand fell back to her side.

"No," Barbara whispered as she strode from the dressing room. "I can do this."

—


“Oh my God, I can't do this!’ Barbara whimpered as she walked out into the grand reception hall to the sight of dozens of people — if not hundreds — all in the middle of a massive orgy.

She shuffled by a series of elegant couches and booths, all dripping with naked bodies. One group came into focus: two men in bear masks were penetrating a fox-masked woman from behind, who seemed to be enjoying it somehow. One man was lying beneath her and buried deep inside her vagina, pounding it by bouncing her back and forth. The other was behind the woman, and buried deep inside her as well, but definitely not inside her vagina. The woman looked at Barbara as her heavy breasts flopped back and forth from the impacts of the two-man team, and she grunted like an animal, a sound twisted and confused by the mask she wore. She wasn't being made love to, and she wasn't having intercourse, or even sex — she was being fucked. The woman stared directly into Barbara's eyes, and smiled invitingly.

"Ohmygod-ohmygod-ohmygod-eww," Barbara chanted to herself as she hurried by in a waddle, clutching one forearm across her breasts and covering her crotch with the other.

Another woman was surrounded by a dozen men of various levels of fitness and hairiness, all of them masked, and all of them masturbating long, red-tipped penises. Barbara realized the unusual redness was due to the women they were surrounding: two young girls her age, both with jet black hair, both with bright red lipstick smeared in a mess over their mouths. Unlike the others, they weren't masked — they had exquisite face and body paint instead. Much of it was gently melting away from their eyes, and both of them sweated and moaned from their efforts at sucking the forest of flesh around them. One of the girls suddenly had her head yanked back by the hair as the man she was sucking stroked a spray of semen all over her gaping mouth and runny face. The other girl paused in sucking her current man to admire her girlfriend's success and moan in satisfaction. Barbara soured at the man's deep, hungry grunts as he painted the poor girl's eyes shut with waves of seed. The girlfriend stopped watching for a moment and locked eyes with Barbara, making an eager come-hither motion with her finger.

"Ohmygod-ohmygod-eew-ohmygod..."

A small group of naked Gotham businessmen laughed over tumblers of brandy as a naked blonde in a dog mask, bound and gagged on her hands and knees, served quite literally as the table they were gathered at: a small tabletop was strapped to her back. The ropework laced over her body seemed to keep her in a specifically table-like shape: hands and knees down, back flat, head tilted slightly back. One of the men was slowly thrusting into her slick, wet vagina from behind, and long sticky strings of arousal stretched and squashed between them as the man took her. Her eyes were rolled back in utter ecstasy. The slaps of flesh mixed with her ball-gagged moans of pleasure as ropes of drool spilled out from the edges of her mouth. Her bottom was heavy and wide, and red from the punishment. She seemed to be on a disc-shaped platform that could rotate, and as her man decided he was finished for now, he exited her and turned the disc around, offering her to another man who stroked himself to prepare. One of the men tapped his friend on the shoulder and looked at Barbara. She wished she couldn't lip-read with perfect accuracy, but unfortunately in this case, she did: God damn, look at the body on that chick in the Bat mask!

"Eew-ohmygod-eew-ohmygod-no..."

Barbara had hoped the raw volume of people on the main floor would offer her some anonymity. Who notices a shy girl in a room full of people going at it like animals? But it wasn't working. They could sense her, like a hobbled gazelle stumbling across a pride of lions.

"Hey," came a voice from over her shoulder.

A man appeared as she whipped her head to the side and tried to cease from existing. He had a pleasant face concealed beneath an owl mask, and a nicer physique than most, but was nonetheless as naked as everyone else. "Are... you okay?" he asked.

"I'mfine! Justfine!" Barbara said hastily as she turned and walked away, facing sideways so the man wouldn't look at her ass while she did. To her horror, he slowly followed after, his long, floppy member dangling as he reached his hand towards her. Shame surged through her body as heat.

"Uh, wait!" he asked. "If I can, uh—"

"—I'mfineI'mfine!" Barbara mewled pathetically. "Thankyoubye!"

He smiled kindly, and his body wasn't unpleasant to look at, but she didn't want to look. That would mean there was some sort of implicit transaction meaning he was allowed to look at her in return. Barbara didn't want anyone to see her ever again.

"You... look like you're afraid, is all—"

"—Look! I'm sure you're... trying to help, or something," Barbara said, trying not to glance at the man's penis and failing, "but... just don't. And stop looking at me!"

"Okay, I won't look!" he said, averting his gaze. "I'm, uh... I'm Jason. Jason Powers. I'd shake your hand, but..."

"Yeah," Barbara said. The humiliation burned in her chest at the very thought of meeting someone while naked, but she stopped to introduce herself out of some strange, misplaced reflex that made her keep her manners. "I'm, uh..."

She paused, wondering if she should fake a name and a story for him. But what if the mask gave her an edge?

"...I'm Batgirl."

"Nice!" Jason replied, chuckling politely as he flirted. "The mask looks really good on you."

Barbara shot a sidelong glance at him, hiding her curves and modesty as best she could. His eyes studied the flush blooming in her face, and widened with sudden understanding.

"Oh... shit you're... Batgirl. Holy... Like, the Batman Batgi—"

"Yesandpleasekeepyourvoicedown!" Barbara hissed.

"Right, sorry!" Jason whispered, looking around. No more eyes than usual seemed to be gravitating toward Barbara, which was still far, far too many.

"Oh my... I'm so sorry. So you... wow. Sorry, I just... You're real!" Jason whispered in awe.

Barbara wasn't religious, but she made a silent prayer that either she or the man would simply disappear. She covered her crotch more tightly and adjusted her arm before a nipple could spill out. "Anyway I'm, uh, here for someone," she said nervously. Then, even more nervously: "Looking! Looking for someone!"

The man held up his palms. "Sure! Uh, you mean her? She's been staring at you since you walked in."

Barbara whirled in the direction Jason was looking at. There, on the opposite side of the hall, in a tall doorway to a separate room marked "Private", a lean, voluptuous woman in a cat mask stood halfway concealed by the door. Catwoman's eyes smiled as she vanished into the private room. Barbara scowled.

"Yeah. Thanks, Jason," she offered.

"My pleasure!" Jason replied, smiling a bit as the infamous Batgirl apparently warmed up to him. He wasn't a bad flirt, but this was absolutely the one hundred percent wrong time to do so. His eyes narrowed as he came to terms with what he was seeing. "Wait, if you're Batgirl, is that... that cat burglar from the news? 'Alley Cat' or something?"

"Yes," Barbara warned, feeling Batgirl boil to the surface. She took a deep breath and strode off, still covering herself as she did.

"Wait, is... should I get out of here? Is something dangerous happening?"

"Not if I can help it," Barbara said. "Oh, and Jason?" she added over her shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"Pretty sure the Powers family doesn't want word getting out that you're a member of... whatever this place is," she said. "We never saw each other here. You got me?"

Jason nodded nervously and swallowed a lump. "Yeah."

—

Barbara turned the handle, pressed the door with her hip, and entered the private room quickly and quietly as a naked, horrified girl in a sex club possibly could.

Her hands darted over her body to cover her shame as the heavy door nudged her, stumbling her as she crept in. She sidled nervously aside as it closed with a click, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room. A private dining parlor that looked like a gangster movie set waited for her within. It featured the same mahogany paneling and dark leather as the dressing room did, and a long, dark dining table was its centerpiece. It was surrounded by twenty tall, ominous chairs with twenty shadowy figures.

"Tony, this is that girlfriend of mine I told you about."

Catwoman's voice echoed in the small chamber from behind the back of one of the luxurious chairs. It was turned slightly away from the door, but as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, Barbara could see the edges of her smiling face and her cat-eared mask. A delicate hand gestured lazily at the doorway.

She knew I would come, Barbara thought. This really was it. This was her plan all along. Oh God...

"Is that so?" another voice replied before a long pause, and the sound of soft chewing. "She don't look like much."

The voice came from the head of the table. An undeniably handsome man, small and very slight of build, sat there brandishing a forkful of steak ready to chase the mouthful he was currently chewing. He had slick black hair and a cavalier expression of disinterest, one perhaps bolstered by the fact that, unlike everyone else, he was dressed. A neat white tuxedo shirt was unbuttoned at the top two notches, leaving the black bow tie dangling from one fold of the collar. A gold chain with a cross decorated the man's chest hair, and a thick gold ring sparkled on his finger. He sniffed and poured a swig of wine in with his chewed meat. Barbara immediately hated everything about him.

Attending the small man's chair was, quite ironically, the single largest man Barbara had ever seen. He stood nearly seven feet tall and probably weighed close to four hundred pounds. Unlike the smaller man, he was naked, and Barbara could see that he had an off-season fighter's body: big stout legs held up a wide barrel gut, and corded neck muscles and massive biceps burrowed under layers of fat. He looked as sturdy as the building itself; he was at least as still and silent. His massive hands were folded neatly over his groin, covering his manhood. His single gold ring was the only thing he wore, and it sparkled from his massive pinky finger like a candlelight.

"What do you think?" the small man asked the large one.

He was bald, stony, and expressionless, like an ancient statue of a guardian spirit looming over the small man's shoulder. He sniffed, and said nothing.

"Yeah, me too," the small man agreed.

Barbara studied the room and noticed there were no other entrances, exits, windows, or skylights. This isn't good. I need to leave, her mind begged. Her hands covered her body even more tightly at the small man's gaze. He seemed to look at her like she was an unamusing piece of meat, not unlike the steak he was eating. A grand chandelier flickered quietly overhead, and the muffled sounds of the heated orgy in the main area whispered through the closed door. Barbara considered going back out there might be a better idea, but crept deeper into the room anyway.

As she inched towards the table, she found Catwoman's unmistakable physique seated in the chair beside the foot of the table. Her arms were folded casually over her breasts, covering them out of laziness rather than shame.

"Oh, don't you worry, Tony," Catwoman purred, smiling her bawdy smile at Barbara as she crept into view. "There's much more to her than meets the eye.

Barbara studied the rest of the dinner party. In the other chairs, naked women of various shapes and sizes lounged in utter boredom. Some of them were enhanced with a surgeon's equivalent of a sledgehammer: large fake breasts, thick fake lips. A few others were a bit older and more weathered, but still painted with enough makeup to frost a cake. Naked men were seated between each woman, and all of them looked at least as bored as the small man called Tony. Some casually touched their girls, while others sipped at glasses of wine or poked at cold food on messy plates. They formed a tribunal of sorts where anyone entering the room could stand at the empty space at the foot of the table and be judged. Each man had his own large, sparkly gold ring.

They couldn't have been a more stereotypical Gotham crime family.

Tony rolled his eyes and gestured with his fork as he spoke. "Gentlemen, are we amused with Kitty Cat's little sidekick here?" he asked his men, shoving the steak morsel into his mouth. Barbara seethed and hugged her body tightly, protecting it from Tony's greasy gaze.

Barely anyone made a sound besides chewing and drinking. It shouldn't have made a difference to Barbara what a room full of naked gangsters and their whores thought of her, but she shriveled a bit. It felt like she was in a bad dream where she was a nervous secretary entering a board meeting to interrupt, only she'd forgotten all her clothes. How silly she was, this naked, shy secretary.

"That's what I thought," Tony said through his chewing. "Let's talk again about this notebook thing, though, Cat."

Barbara's eyes widened at the word, then frowned with sad shame. She wasn't sure what was worse — being naked and studied by everyone in the room, or being naked and utterly ignored.

"How so, Big Guy?" Catwoman purred.

"Let's settle up," Tony said as he sawed off a bloody chunk of meat. "How'd you say you got a hold of it?"

"I didn't," Catwoman shrugged. "I'm the Gotham Alley Cat, aren't I?" she said, referencing the nickname Gotham News had given her. Everyone chuckled.

"How do I know you haven't read it yet?"'

"Oh, you don't!" Catwoman said glibly. "But I'm not some info broker, honey. The only paper I care about is green and has those handsome pictures of Ben Franklin."

Tony chewed his steak and nodded his understanding. "I get that. But how do I know it's got what you say it's got inside? You said the deal's off if I open it. I'm respecting that."

The word sparked a sudden understanding: the notebook was for sale, and this was the closing room. Catwoman and Tony were just haggling and sweetening the deal. The righteous fire in her gut wanted to burn bright and demand they turn themselves in or suffer her wrath. Suppressing those flames was the fact that Barbara felt naked without her weapons, tools, or backup — and that she was literally naked.

"Let's say it's the GCPD's to-do list, and you're on it," Catwoman said. "Or, let's say it's a list of Old Man Gordon's favorite donut shops. Who cares? Do you wanna know too, or don't you?" Barbara soured at Catwoman's callous remark: that was her dad's notebook. It was like overhearing school bullies talk about lunch money they'd stolen from her little brother.

"Sure I do," conceded Tony, setting aside his fork. "But, you see, here's the thing. I pay you for it, and I read it? Now we both know what's inside — we're even. Only difference is, you've got my money and I don't."

"That's the idea," Catwoman purred. Everyone chuckled again.

"So you see, that's where I can't just take your deal," Tony explained, knocking on the table for quiet. "I don't walk away from a deal I'm not coming out on top of."

"Oh, I don't know, Big Guy," Catwoman mused. Barbara watched her long, creamy arm reach overhead to caress the back of the chair she was lounging in, casually revealing one of her breasts. "You'd like it a lot if I was on top."

The thinly-veiled proposition brought cheers from everyone. "Now that. That’s fair," Tony said with a grin.

"And you see, that's where I can't just take your deal," Catwoman replied, mirroring the man's words. "Not my kind of collateral. A girl's got a reputation to keep, and if I give you the premium treatment, suddenly everyone expects it. I'd be shooting my wad just to get you to shoot yours."

Chuckles fluttered across the dinner table again, the women laughing politely for the men, and the men laughing politely for their boss. Catwoman seemed to own the room like a skilled stand-up comedian, and the man called Tony was just a heckler in the audience. He gestured for calm, though, and they all listened.

"Okay. So to even it out, I get a show, eh? Kitty Cat Show, you called it?" he asked. Barbara's brow furrowed at the number of possibilities behind the word: Show. She didn't like any of them.

"Yup," Catwoman said.

"Final offer?"

Catwoman shrugged her best "oh well" shrug. "Final offer," she replied.

Tony chuckled incredulously to himself.

"You doubt me?" Catwoman asked, shocked. "Tony! I've been a member at your club for months. I can put on a show."

A few heads at the table nodded in agreement. Barbara thought back to her rooftop cat-and-mouse with Catwoman, and suddenly it hit her how foolish she'd been to assume she was the cat in that exchange. This wasn't Catwoman's base of operations. This was her playground.

Batman had a name for this particular part of the hunt: 'The Stage'.

Psychotic criminals with a knack for showmanship desired an audience, and 'The Red Carpet' always led to a final arena where they could play out their delusional fantasies. A place where they could put on a show. Every criminal had their own 'Stage': the Ventriloquist liked to sit on actual stages in abandoned theaters and talk with Batman about the nature of control as he played with his puppet; Victor Zsasz had a horrible, filthy kill room smeared with blood stains — many of them his own — where he'd debated with Batman whether or not human life had any real value.

Naturally, Catwoman had a private dining room in a sex club.

"I'd probably have given you the Kitty Cat Show for fun," Catwoman added. "Either way, we all win, right? Now, do we have a deal or not?"

The room bristled with approval for Catwoman. She crossed a leg and dangled it like a cat flicking its tail as it sat contentedly in a warm sunbeam. Tony, for all his power and station from atop his oversized high chair, seemed inclined to agree with the wishes of his cabinet.

"Alright," he said. "Deal."