[Callista]

Mysteria

Climbing carefully, black boots making barely a sound on the metal ladder atop one of the innumerable fire escapes in my city, I hoisted myself up and over the edge, boots touching gently down to the asphalt of the rooftop. Knowing I had time, I walked softly across the top of the 6-story building. It was better that way. I didn't spend that much time on rooftops, but the few I had ventured onto had taught me that some buildings kept them up to codes and some didn't.

In any event, rooftops might make a dramatic settings, but they were kind of a pain for me. In comic books, costumed heroes and villains spent seemingly most of their time on rooftops, but then from what I could tell, those people all had either superpowers or incredibly expensive gadgets that let you get on and off them in a hurry. Bruce Wayne might be a billionaire, but I worked an office job that paid five figures. Swinging from rooftop to rooftop was not an option. Really, if it weren't for my flat-mate paying the lion's share (heh) of the rent, I wouldn't be able to live in the heart of the city. And no one respected a bridge-and-tunnel crime-fighter.

In this case, though, this rooftop provided the perfect view and allowed me to set the perfect trap. Reaching the east edge of the building, I pulled on the strap of my gear bag up over my shoulder, (utility belts with a billion pouches that can't store anything bigger than a smallish bottle of aspirin also aren't one of those things that survive the comics-to-reality transition,) tucking it near the edge, before taking out my night vision binoculars.

I crouched, easing myself above the short wall. Some lights were on, others off. Most importantly to me right now, the lights in the fourth floor apartment belonging to Jeffrey Willard, attorney at law, were off. I flipped the switch and brought the binoculars up to my face. The green light from the night vision lenses were unavoidable, but once my eyes refocused, I could see as clearly through those windows as if it were daytime.

The bedroom window showed the corner of the bed, with uneven covers, indicating Mr. Willard and Mrs. Willard (or other) were currently occupying it. An empty bathroom, an equally empty kitchen...but the latter showed the window open. Not wide open, but open nonetheless, and that being the window that led to the fire escape....

Possibly Mr. Willard had a cat. Personally, given the city's large population of same, I wouldn't leave my window open like that, but people would do as they will. The other possibility...was also that Mr. Willard had a cat. One that he was not aware of. Possibility turned into reality when I saw her. She carefully eased open the window, climbing up onto the iron-grated fire escape.

She had on night vision goggles as well, attached via straps around her head, but I kept still. The movement from me ducking under the wall would be far more likely to attract her attention than the slight shadow my head over the edge of the roof cast. Besides, I wanted to watch.

She pulled the night vision goggles off of her face and dropped them into her bag, letting her eyes adjust to the ever-present dim glow of the city at night and stretched. No, I mean STRETCHED. Have you ever seen a cat stretch out? Where they change from their normal size to twice as long stretching every part of their body? Watching the cat burglar stretch is as close to that as you will ever see from a human.

I think we both enjoyed the hell out of that stretch. Her because safe-cracking, if you want to do it quietly, takes time, and clever people like Mr. Willard do not leave their safes at a level comfortable for would-be thieves, and me because the cat burglar had a body like mortal sin that she wrapped in black leather so tight I could swear it was painted on.
Freed of the straps of the goggles, her long blond hair cascaded down her back. Arms, well-muscled without being bulky, stretched over her head. Her back arched, lifting her full breasts upward, pulling the leather tight across her toned abs. Even the backward arch of her pose couldn't quite eliminate the round curve of her ass, the gentle moon-shaped arch ending at the top of a perfectly toned calf.

The show ended, sadly, and the cat burglar got back to the business she came for, climbing up the four levels to the rooftop. You see, Mr. Willard's fire escape did not go down to the ground, or even to the second floor. Mr. Willard's biggest fear was not fire. This did not seem to bother our cat burglar, as she quietly climbed to the rooftop. Now I did duck low, tucking my binoculars back into my gear bag before crawling along the asphalt, keeping my body close to the rooftop before I made it behind the small shed covering the rooftop stairwell.

If I were her, I'd give my rooftop a check with night vision before, back up to get a good running start and...I heard a muted thump as two boots landed on my rooftop, followed by the sound of her rolling with the landing. I took a quick peek around the corner of the building, and saw her there, checking her bag. She had her gear stowed in there, of course, but she could check that later. What she was inspecting was the condition of the loot she'd purloined from Mr. Willard's safe. There must have been jewellery, or some sort of objet d'art in there, bearer bonds and cash not being notably fragile.

In any event, I moved back behind my cover, waiting for the gentle clip-clop of her boots on the asphalt to approach me before stepping out into the open, fixing a stare upon the cat burglar's green eyes. The cat burglar gasped, her lips parting as I stood in front of her. “Mysteria!” she said, her surprise lasting only a second before she fell back into a fighting stance. I smiled.

[Callista]

Cat burglar

Goddammit.

How did she DO that? I was CAREFUL. I did my prep work in secret, planned everything in my head, no trail to follow. Not even my roommate woulda known what I was up to, and she knows what I do. I was in and out of the mark's house and his safe in less than 40 minutes and she's RIGHT THERE waiting in the middle of my getaway route to give me a fucking heart attack! And if I read that fucking smile on her face right, she'd been watching for at least some time.

Goddamned comic-book-loving weirdo.

Look, don't call me “Catwoman”, ok? I like cats fine, but I have no illusions that I AM one. I don't wear any fucking ears or fake claws or say “meow”. Cat burglar is a JOB TITLE. A more colorful one than “barista”, sure, but it means “chick who steals things from above ground level.”  Fucking nothing to do with furballs that shit in sandboxes, you got it?

The skintight leather isn't about looking hot, and it sure the fuck isn't a costume. It's black because duh, I work at night and prefer not to be seen. It's skintight because sometimes I've gotta get through tighter squeezes than Willard's kitchen window. Simple and practical. Self-awareness prevents me from declaring perfect sanity, given I just threw myself over an alley, but I do not have some sorta weird comic book fetish, okay?

Which is more than I can say for the woman smiling at me right now. Mysteria. Honest-to-fucking-God that's what she calls herself. She wears a mask. She wears SPANDEX. I am not kidding. She wears a black spandex bodysuit. Though damned if she doesn't rock it. MmmmmeeeNO! Dammit I am NOT saying “meow” just cuz hot chick. Fuck off.

I like my bod, I do. But every time Miss Superhero here shows up when I'm trying to sneak away with my prize, I get a lil jealous. And not just cuz I think of all those times trying to push through a ventilation shaft that's shoving my tits back into my chest, either. Tall and slender, she's got that kinda frame that'd look too skinny in loose clothes, but when you wrap it in something tight, you realize how much she's got going on.

If she had my hair, I guess you'd call it a mane, (and I would then kick your ass for doing so,) but she went the other route, keeping her dark hair cropped boyishly short. Not gonna lie, though, it works for her. Black hair, black mask, smooth, pale skin, and when the light caught her just right, those blue eyes behind her mask sparkled. They were the only colors visible, because when you went past the creamy skin of her neck, it was all black....a black-wrapped Christmas present of a body.

Don't call ME Catwoman. SHE'S the jungle cat. Nothing but lithe, lean muscle rippling up and down her body, and she goes all the way up. At 5'8”, I ain't small, but stick boots on this girl and she's six feet at least, guaranteed.  A “runner's body”, I've heard it called. Ain't that the fuckin' truth! I've run from her before. Girl does NOT get tired. Best to stand and fight. She doesn't get tired of that, either, but at least you've got a chance.

Her blue eyes were twinkling through the holes in her mask. Still smiling that infuriating little smile at me, the masked woman said, “Here kitty kitty...” My jaw clenched. Bitch knows that cat shit pisses me off. Not like I was gonna show it, though.

“Misty, you ever been to a bar called Henrietta Hudson, in the Village?” I asked. Her head tilted, the smile disappearing as she tried to figure out what the hell I was talking about. “Just saying, the places you go to pick up dates kinda suck.”

Now it was her turn to clench her teeth. Oh sure, tight-ass priss can make all the cat jokes she wants, but I poke fun at a woman wearing spandex and a mask calling herself “Mysteria” and it's on now.

“What's in that sack doesn't belong to you, thief!” she said imperiously. There it was. Whenever she went all 'I am the law, criminal scum,' this little bit of a British accent came out. You knew she was annoyed when the accent poked through.

“Ain't nobody gonna be reporting this shit stolen, though,” which was the plain truth. Willard was a mob lawyer. He might get whacked for losing the goods I pinched, but one way or another the police wouldn't be hearing about any burglaries.

Mysteria sighed, “Must you use double negatives?” I'm serious! She said that shit!

“Well fuck.” She looked like she wanted to complain about THAT too, but I kept on. “You caught me abusin' the queen's English. Guess I'll have to give this back,” I said, pulling the bag off my shoulder and then swinging it at her. She dodged back out of the way, of course, but she had to set her feet when she did so, which let me push in after letting go of the bag, wrapping my arms around her slender waist and sending us down to the asphalt rooftop.

I've also learned from experience that you do not wanna box with this girl. I tried once, figuring I'd have a strength advantage. If I did, it was fuckin' useless, cuz I could barely land a blow. Long limbs plus her stamina meant she could pull a rope-a-dope on me, make me punch myself out, then go in for the kill. I hurt for days after that. Instead I got a football-style tackle in, sending her down to her back with me on top. I was rewarded with a briefly pained look on her face as we landed, but she didn't waste any time, kicking her long legs up and wrapping them around me, arms going around my back before I could try to push up past her guard.

Still, I had some experience now with what did and didn't work against her, and I knew a few weak points. Putting my lips near her ear, I said in my huskiest voice, “Heroine in a villainess' clutches? I'm gonna have FUN with you, girl.”

[Catriona Yummy Mummy wrestler]

Awesome start Calista...looking forward to more

Cat x

[RedEnforcer]

This should be shared on GoodReads. Loved it.