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The rooftops belong to Cat; they’re not her sole domain yet, but people have caught on fast enough and they’re pretty much her territory.
If the streets of Gotham don’t kill you then they rebuild you into someone else.
The girl doesn’t know about Cat’s rule, though.
The first couple of times Cat lets her off, because the girl is new and her mouth is set firm and Cat’s not immune to the power of those thighs in those impractical shorts, like it’s always summer or the girl doesn’t feel the bite of fall in Gotham, a prelude to those winters that kill kids.
The third time, the girl finally catches her eye, and something in her expression is a challenge. And, well. Well. Cat’s not dumb enough to be caught up in the gangs of Gotham but that doesn’t mean she won’t lace her boots and get out her knives for a turf war.
“I was wondering when you’d get your claws out,” the girl says the fourth time. “Show me why they call you ‘Cat’.”
“What do they call you?” Cat asks.
The girl shrugs, her sweater bright and blaring. “America.”
It’s almost funny, a girl that pretty for a country that ugly.
“You trying to get yourself killed?” Cat asks.
America smirks a little. “Not especially,” she replies.
Cat should probably use her to prove a point, not roll her eyes and settle on the rooftop beside her.
“Anyone asks, I cut your face off.”
America laughs.