Batgirl Reborn

As the 1000s came to an end, she became the Dark Angel of Gotham City. Batgirl was her name. She traveled the back alleys and factory-lined sewer streets on the wings of her newly modified '96 Yamaha Batcycle; preaching messages of destruction to all super-villains via her trademark, jaw-cracking high kicks, and rapid fire low punches. The truly wicked got it routed directly in the gut.

Batgirl tore down Gotham's mid-town Anarchy Road; ripping through oily puddles, toward impending doom. A rusted yellow sign gives yearly wreck totals marked off to 666. A black and white, bullet-ridden Gotham police squad car lays defeated blocks ahead with a smiling face skull and crossbones crudely spray-bombed on it's oxidized door; cautioning all to reduce speed.

The first thing she saw when she rode down that road were the factories. Magnificent monoliths of industrial drab, lit up from within like decadent Las Vegas casinos spewing gray filth from their smokestacks into the same color sky. They line Anarchy Road like a monochrome strange plague, standing defiantly under the shadow of radio transmitter towers and peeling billboards advertising the last generation of North American luxury gas guzzlers. The occasional shabby whore in pale makeup strolls drunkenly by, lit by the grimy glow of street lamps; looking to get rich enough to quell her junk sickness. Batgirl wasn't having any of that action anyway. She was on a mission.

It had been a rough year and a half, a period that stretched from being tied in a Siamese Human Knot with Robin and Thumper through her encounter with The Joker's Tickling Machine. In light of the recent mass escape of arch-criminals and the four times she was captured by Simon the Pieman, she had re-evaluated her role as a crime-fighting super-heroine and decided to try another new look for herself: a stunning metamorphosis from a glitzy, teen boy's wet-fantasy pin-up model to something more suitable to bear the name Dark Angel.

She eliminated every trace of vanity from her previous visage, giving her a more streamlined, sleeker look and a greater confidence in mobility. She was now wrapped neck-to-toe in a one-piece, flexible rubber-steel, black outfit that hugged at every curve of her petite frame even more closely than her other costumes. A larger Batgirl logo was emblazoned in blood-red across her pert chest. Her satin cape, a nuisance that got caught in revolving doors and on rusty nails had been discarded, along with the impractical four-inch heels which inconveniently snapped in long-distance runs or during heated exchanges with super-villains. Those were substituted with a shiny pair of thick-rubber soled, steel-toed military style boots, confiscated from Egghead's lair after his last arrest. She had cut her dyed-red hair much shorter, to prevent anyone from dragging her around by her tresses in a brawl. In her civilian identity, she had gone back to being a brunette. Now Barbara Gordon would wear a wig instead of Batgirl. Her face was concealed beneath a magenta, Green Hornet-like mask. Her new gloves were elbow-length heavy leather with steel caps on the knuckles, and her new utility belt was loaded with an even more elaborate arsenal of exotic weapons, guaranteed to cover all bases in the execution of any covert mission, and ensure her survival. If metropolitan law enforcement or any other local color got in her way, or became too difficult to handle, a 7 hertz electro-static pistol fashioned the proper fire power to slow anyone down in their tracks without causing any permanent damage or without leaving any marks.

She descended into the bowels of a long-forgotten, dead-end alley. Slowing the Batcycle to a growling halt, she shut off the engine and parked the beast securely out of sight behind an overflowing trash dumpster once used by a plastics company. At the far end of the alley, separated only by a flimsy chain link fence and a rotted wooden pier, lay the Gotham industrial canal; curling like a cancerous serpent, gorged on the belched wastes of prosperous factories that line its banks. Beyond that stood the panoramic beauty of Gotham's downtown skyline, with the Bat-signal shimmering in the belly of an overcast sky. Before dismounting the cycle she checked her reflection in the rear-view mirror. Taking a few seconds, she rolled a tube of black lipstick across her sensuous, full lips.

Emerging from the alley and keeping in the shadows, Batgirl trekked a few blocks away to the hallowed steps of a once-grandiose, long abandoned chapel. Curiously nestled among the factories like a pearl among a cramped sea of oysters, the Gothic cathedral, although ravaged by abusive hands and unforgiving time, dated back to the turn of the last century, yet still retained most of its former glory. Parts of its lower portion at street level were blanketed in a multicolored graffiti mural depicting Olympian demons persecuting lowly humans with day-glow lightning bolts and flaming lumps of coal. Pieces of the facade had crumbled away. The only letters left of it's original moniker above the entrance spelled out a rather blasphemous ST. AR HOLE . She had been here in less turbulent times: First as an infant for her christening, later as a child attending the now-defunct parochial school next door.

Using her Batarang cable she perched herself atop a pigeon-dropping slick ledge of a circular stained-glass window, depicting the Temptation of Eve by the Serpent. If her hunch was right, there would be another type of serpent hiding inside. A leather-clad feline in stiletto heels, bearing a whip.

The Catwoman had remained perversely elusive since the mass escape, changing her lair as often as she slipped into something more comfortable after her nocturnal heists. The Dynamic Duo and Batgirl followed dozens of leads to her whereabouts, wrenched out of stool pigeon squealers during witching hour interrogations in dimly lit alleys. Others took a bribe. The end result manifested nothing more than empty warehouses and a multitude of stray cats in heat.

Earlier in the day, in her guise as the soft-spoken, head-librarian of the Gotham City Public Library, Barbara Gordon finally got a bead on The Catwoman's hiding place in the form of a gorgeous, blond, highly-paid escort. This call girl was notorious for being the arm candy of Gotham's most fiendish super-villains, no matter how psychotic they were. She liked them kinky. When she was in the service of The Joker, she was required to wear garish, white, clown makeup with wide painted red lips. When she hobnobbed with Egghead, she religiously kept her head and eyebrows shaved. Now she was in the service of The Catwoman. She was known as Vixen.

Whether by duress or by agreement, Catwoman once again inhabited the lithe little body of Tara Kaat. This Catwoman kept Vixen draped in luxurious furs and imported Oriental silk dresses by day and form-fitting leather body suits with waist-crushing corsets for their evening pleasure. Vixen was Catwoman's pretty little fetish and played a more active role in the Feline Felon's devilish plots than Vixen's paying male "friends" gave her credit. She was Catwoman's personal body guard, replacing the lethargic motley crew of paroled mob foot soldiers with which the super-villainess usually surrounded herself. Vixen was trained in martial arts, lock-picking, computer hacking, and knew more about the strengths and weaknesses of the male super-villains than even their mothers, former cell-mates or psychoanalysts would ever dare guess. Catwoman was grooming her in anticipation of Vixen being a possible "replacement" some day, even going so far as getting the call girl plastic surgery to mold her more closely to the villainess' original likeness.

This morning Vixen was in the Gotham City Public Library, running an errand for her mistress. She was gathering anything and everything related to the subject of cats. It didn't matter whether it was children's picture books, story books, history, or care and feeding. Vixen snatched it up. Barbara Gordon quickly checked them out for her, let her co-worker know that she was taking an extended lunch, and shadowed Vixen at a safe distance on a zig-zag tour of the seediest corner of the city. Starting out on foot, then by bus, subway, then on foot again, they finally ended up at the steps of the decrepit Saint Bartholomew Cathedral.

Peering through the lacerated stained glass on the scene some sixty feet below, Batgirl viewed the ebony figure of the Catwoman reclining comfortably on a plush zebra skin couch. Vixen was curled beside her, diligently filing each of her mistress' stainless-steel fingernail-claws to razor sharpness. Aside from the dancing colors of the large-screen television, tuned, no doubt, to the Gotham Nightly News, the near-empty hall was bathed in the mesmerizing glow of candles, placed in a ragged semi-circle in their holders around the couple. What was left of the wooden pews and the ornate marble altar lay in a splintered pile far behind the pair. The Catwoman and her servant were sharing a quiet evening together, talking and laughing as the Catwoman played with a lock of Vixen's blond hair with her free hand.

Batgirl had seen enough. It was time to make a scene. She grabbed hold of the Batarang cable, propped her feet against the corner of the stained glass windows ledge for leverage, kicked off, and with all of her weight, effortlessly sailed through the glass with a loud crash, sliding to the floor below; landing on her feet.

"You're under arrest, Catwoman!" Batgirl shouted, her voice echoing through the vacant hall.

"Get her, Vixen," Catwoman said calmly. "Tenderize her."

"With pleasure," Vixen purred.

Vixen came to life, leaping out of the couch, running toward Batgirl at top speed. Batgirl was ready for her, positioning herself with her knees slightly bent and her gloved hands clenched into fists and held up toward her chest. Batgirl's first punch landed square into Vixen's belly, temporarily knocking the wind out of the younger girl. Batgirl turned to face Vixen, but as soon as she did she felt the familiar sting of Catwoman's whip across her left shoulder. Time was of the essence. Batgirl had only moments to get to Catwoman and inflict some damage before her bodyguard regained her composure. Running toward the couch she watched as Catwoman cocked her arm back to let the whip crack once again. It was too late. Batgirl's first punch landed square on the African-American's cheek. The second one landed on her chest, just below her neck, knocking her back into the couch. Batgirl positioned herself for the final blow, a nasty high-kick to the chin, but it was never executed. Something hard landed against the back of the super heroine's legs, bringing her down to her knees in pain. Before she could react, she heard something wooden fall to the floor. She then felt an arm tighten around her neck with a vice-like grip, choking her. Her other arm was twisted painfully behind her back.

"Stand her up!" Catwoman shouted, wiping away a trickle of blood from the corner of her crimson, lipstick-covered lips.

Batgirl was shoved upwards, facing this Catwoman who was just her height. The stench of expensive perfume and industrial-strength hair spray invaded the air. Catwoman had altered her looks as well. She was unmasked. She had a wild shock of a curl that almost reached to her shoulder. Her eyes were concealed beneath emerald cats-eye contact lenses, heavily coated in pale-blue eye-shadow. Most frightening of all was the new cosmetic set of fanged incisors, guaranteed to cause trepidation in the hearts of her sworn enemies.

Catwoman put her clawed hand up to Batgirl's lips, covering them. Her razor-claws dug ever so slightly into the crime fighter's cheeks.

"Well, well," Catwoman purred, "Look what the cat dragged in. What will we do with you, my pretty little bat?" Batgirl began to struggle, but Vixen's grip tightened.

"Let's drop her in the canal," Vixen suggested defiantly.

Catwoman ignored the comment. Moving her other hand toward the bottom of Batgirl's mask, she asked rhetorically, "Who do we have hiding under there? Is it someone bankable? A millionaire's daughter perhaps? Or are you Misty, the Gotham News weather girl?"

"Let's take a look!" Vixen proposed.

"Patience, Vixen."

Catwoman dropped her attention and her hand to the bat-logo on Batgirl's chest, gouging a deep X across it with her claw.

"I have a more delicious plan for this one, Vixen . . . and this time, no Batman will save her." She reached into a small pouch on her belt and produced a thin glass capsule about the size of a finger. Batgirl recognized this instantly as Catwoman's brand of knock-out gas. The Princess of Plunder cracked open the capsule under Batgirl's nose with her thumb and patiently waited for the green fog to take effect.

"Good night, my little bat. Unpleasant nightmares."

Batgirl passed out.

"Wake up, Batgirl....."

Batgirl woke up with a start. She was tightly confined in a narrow space. Her arms and legs were bound behind her back, crammed in a kneeling position. The air around her was stifling-hot. There was something warm and sticky on the top of her head, part of her upper back, shoulders, and thighs. It smelled of wax. She couldn't move. Looking up at the source she realized that she was in a tiny pit, and judging from the peeling fresco of Michelangelo's Creation on the cathedral's ceiling, she knew she was just below where the altar stood. She was in the reliquary. Above, an enormous, human-sized candle with three blazing wicks was melting wax into the pit at an alarming rate.

"My goodness, the little bat awakens," Catwoman said cynically, standing at the edge of the pit with Vixen by her side. "You know by now that you are trapped, with no hope of escape, and so on and so forth. You'll be buried alive in wax . . . but you can look on the bright side, Batgirl. Once you've drawn your last breath and the wax fills this pit, you'll forever keep your youthful appearance."

"You'll never get away with this, Catwoman!"

"Oh, but I already have." With that, she and Vixen did an about face and disappeared.

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