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Location: Gotham – Crime Alley, March 2012, 4:12 PM
It had started as a routine sweep.
Cat form. Silent patrol. One sleek shadow in a city full of them. Quiet ears to the ground for anything that felt off.
Cory padded across a crumbling brick ledge above the main drag of Crime Alley, tail flicking lazily, ears tuned to the alley’s usual rhythm—hushed deals, coded whistles, the muted shuffle of figures who knew not to run product too close to Red Hood’s unofficial turf.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Until the old woman showed up.
She was small, wiry, wrapped in a floral cardigan three sizes too big, with orthopedic shoes and the determined gait of a woman who once raised six kids and would not be deterred by anything short of an apocalypse.
Cory clocked her immediately.
So did the old woman. She let out a gasp, and crouched down with the kind of speed and purpose that only a Grandma With A Mission could manage. “Oh my goodness! You poor baby.”
Oh no.
Cory froze mid-step, ears twitching. It was the voice. Too soft. Too sweet .
The “cat voice.”
No good ever came from the cat voice.
The woman reached into her tote bag and pulled out a plastic pouch. Meat. Deli slices. Turkey. Premium.
Cory’s instincts warred with her dignity.
“You hungry, sweetie?” the woman cooed, peeling a slice with the calculated precision of someone who’d won many battles against Tupperware. “Come on. That’s right. Come get a little bite.”
Cory flattened her ears. She should’ve run. Slipped into the shadows. Vaulted to the roof.
But no.
She leapt down from the wall, flicked her tail, and humoured her.
Because clearly, this lady meant well. And maybe if Cory took the treat and bolted, the woman would feel satisfied, go home, and not drag this out. So she crept closer. One paw. Two. You know, like an idiot.
Because, technically , she was hungry. Recon in cat form took energy. And the turkey did smell good.
Fine, she thought grimly. Take the snack. Make a clean getaway. End of story.
She crept forward. Slowly. Gracefully. Took the turkey in her teeth, chewed it with the restrained grace of a street queen who was not emotionally compromised by deli meat.
Then turned to leave.
The woman had reflexes like a hawk. Or possibly a lifelong cat owner with five grandkids and nothing to lose. “Gotcha!” she beamed.
Cory was lifted. Lifted .
She let out a startled yowl but didn’t claw—because of course she didn’t. The woman was harmless. Warm hands. Gentle grip. She was already swaddling Cory in a surprisingly soft shawl and cooing at her like she’d just adopted her sixth rescue.
This is not happening, Cory thought as she was tucked under one arm like a misbehaving throw pillow and whisked away down the street.
This is absolutely not happening.
Location: Gotham Animal Rescue – Intake Room, 5:06 PM
It had, in fact, happened.
Cory sat in a shallow plastic bin lined with a fluffy towel that smelled like dryer sheets and misguided optimism. Her fur was ruffled. Her tail lashed once every ten seconds like a metronome of vengeance.
The staff were delighted . They bustled around her with the efficiency of saints. Cheery, professional, oblivious saints.
“She’s a little underweight,” said one tech, a young guy in scrubs with a paw-print badge. “Probably been on the streets a while.”
Another nodded, a woman with a streak of purple in her bun. “No collar, no tag, and she didn’t show up in the lost pet registry.”
“She did let Mrs. Horowitz carry her the whole way here, though. That’s a good sign.”
I was being polite, Cory thought viciously. Polite, you monsters.
“She seems docile,” added another, crouching to examine her. “Look at this fur. So shiny. All black except that little white sock. She’s gorgeous.”
I am death incarnate, Cory thought. I have surveillance drones. I once rigged a gang’s entire weapons cache to explode. I am not a shelter cat.
Someone reached for her.
She allowed it.
Because she had manners .
“Let’s do a basic intake exam. Check for microchips, injuries, anything obvious.”
Cory considered launching herself out of the bin.
But then someone said “spay check,” and she froze.
Okay, she thought. New plan. Escape. Burn the place down on my way out.
Instead, they picked her up, wrapped her in a towel burrito, and cooed gently the entire time.
She tried to jump once—just once—but was intercepted mid-leap by deceptively strong arms and a gentle “Whoops! No escaping today, little lady!”
You’re lucky I don’t have opposable thumbs right now, Cory growled silently.
“You’re okay, sweetheart,” someone murmured. “Just a quick checkup.”
Quick was a lie.
There were thermometers. There were stethoscopes. There was a flea comb. Cory let out a guttural, offended yowl.
“Oh, she’s got some lungs on her.”
“She’s just scared.”
“I bet she’ll feel so much better after a bath. Get all that grime off her.”
Bath?
Location: Gotham Animal Rescue – Grooming Room, 6:22 PM
There was water.
There was soap.
There were bubbles.
And there was betrayal .
Cory had endured many things. Gunfire. Roof collapses. Getting hit by a Batcycle once.
But this —this warm, soothing, lavender-scented bath —was a low point.
She swatted at the faucet with as much menace as she could muster while sudsy.
They thought it was “cute.”
“You’re being so brave,” someone said.
Cory hissed.
They called her “feisty.”
She nearly turned herself inside out trying to escape the hair dryer.
It didn’t work.
They just cooed louder.
It was humiliating.
Jason is never hearing about this.
No one is ever hearing about this.
I am staging a prison break the moment these people turn their backs.
Location: Gotham Animal Rescue – Cat Intake Ward, 8:42 PM
After the bath, she was towel-dried and bundled into a heated crate with a cozy blanket and a bowl of food she was not going to touch out of principle.
To make things worse?
Someone named her.
“There we go,” said the woman with the purple bun, smiling at the chart. “Welcome to the system, little miss Salem. You’re officially in our care now.”
Salem? Cory stared through the bars with the intensity of someone who’d once taken down a Falcone smuggling ring with nothing but a gas bomb and a screwdriver. I am going to hack your payroll and reroute it to a farm in Canada.
Across the room, another cat blinked at her.
She bared her teeth.
It yawned.
I hate it here.
When the coast was clear, she rose—dried fur puffed up with static, tail flicking with purpose.
Alright, she thought grimly. Time to go full Mission: Im-paw-sible.
First, she scanned the latch. Simple. Spring-loaded. Probably meant to keep bored kittens and curious paws from nudging it open. But she wasn’t a bored kitten. She was Stray.
She crouched, gave herself room, and jabbed a paw at the latch. Missed. She tried again. Clink. Almost. Another swipe. And another. Her toe beans fumbled, claws catching the edge but not getting enough leverage. She twisted around, tried to brace against the side of the crate and push. Nothing. She adjusted her angle, reached further. Still nothing.
She hissed in frustration and threw her entire weight at the door. It rattled. Did not open.
I need my damn thumbs.
In a final burst of rebellion, she kicked her water bowl.
It spilled.
No one came.
She collapsed against the wall of the crate in defeat, a dramatic heap of soggy fur and exhausted rage.
Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow I break out. Delete the records. Wipe the footage. Burn the name “Salem” from the servers.
Her stomach growled. She stared at the untouched bowl of high-quality kibble.
No. I have standards .
Five minutes later, she was eating angrily and glaring at the latch between every bite. The door stayed closed. Her dignity? In tatters.
Location: Gotham Animal Rescue – Cat Intake Ward, 10:07 AM
Cory had spent the last two days trying and failing to stage a daring escape from her crate. She had tried everything. Wriggling. Shoving. Twisting. Staring at it with intense psychic rage. She’d headbutted the crate latch four times. Scratched at it with increasing desperation. Tried to hook the tiny lock with her claw and yank it sideways. All that accomplished was getting her paw stuck in the grating for two humiliating minutes.
She sat now, sulking in the corner of her crate, fur still a little too fluffy from the industrial-grade shampoo, glaring out like a prisoner wrongfully convicted of the crime of existing.
Opposable thumbs , she thought bitterly. Taken for granted.
The staff adored her, of course.
A cheerful voice rang out nearby. “Okay, Miss Salem, time to get you prepped for the adoption floor!”
Oh fuck no.
Purple Bun Lady—Lana, according to her nametag—approached with a clipboard and a smile.
Cory tried to scoot deeper into the crate. Maybe if she got small enough, she could pretend to be a particularly angry towel.
“Oh, don’t be shy,” Lana crooned. “You’ve been such a brave girl. Let’s get you spruced up!”
Spruced up. She was already clean. Clean enough to smell like lilacs. She was going to reek of kindness and petco-brand tuna treats for weeks.
The crate opened with a click. Cory didn't move.
Lana reached in and gently picked her up with practiced ease. “There we go. Still a little tense, huh? Poor thing.”
Cory allowed herself to be carried again, utterly stiff. She stared at the far wall like a soldier reliving war flashbacks.
They moved her to a small grooming station, where a volunteer was waiting with a soft brush and a stack of fleece blankets.
No. No, no, no, not again— The brush began its assault. Long strokes. Behind the ears. Down her back.
“She’s really beautiful,” the volunteer said. “Whoever ends up with her is gonna be lucky.”
“She’s special,” Lana agreed. “Some cats just have that soul-deep look, y’know?”
I am holding back a list of Gotham’s 37 most vulnerable server systems in protest, Cory wanted to say.
Mid-brush, she locked eyes with her reflection in the grooming mirror. Her pupils were huge. Her fur was silky. Her whiskers were twitching in offended disbelief.
This was it.
This was rock bottom.
“We’re gonna move her out into the public room today right?” the volunteer continued. “Her intake’s up, no health flags, and she’s fully chipped.”
Cory twitched. Still furious about the chip.
“She’s gonna get scooped up in a heartbeat,” Lana mused. “She’s gorgeous. You think she’ll do okay with other cats?”
“She’s got that ‘mysterious loner’ vibe. But she hasn’t hissed at a single kitten, so I think she’ll be fine.”
“I’m telling you, this one’s got main character energy.”
Cory, still glaring, turned her head deliberately away from the tech’s hand.
“Aw,” the volunteer cooed, undeterred. “She’s pretending not to like the attention.”
I am a vigilante. I have stopped kidnappings. I dismantled a weapons ring six nights ago. Fuck you.
With practiced ease, they lifted her and settled her into a plush carrier—complete with a soft blanket, a plush mouse, and a laminated name tag that still read Salem.
Cory growled. The mouse squeaked.
“I know, honey,” Lana said with a laugh, swinging the carrier gently. “Public room can be overwhelming, but I bet you’ll find a forever home in no time.”
Cory’s glare intensified.
I already have a home.
It has weapons, caffeine, and Jason Todd.
And none of you are invited.
A child screeched somewhere down the hall.
Cory hissed.
Lana smiled. “Feisty. Good boundaries.”
Help, Cory thought. I’m being domesticated.
Location: Redwing Mechanics – Upstairs Apartment, 1:03 AM
Jason stalked across the apartment for the seventh time in the last fifteen minutes, grabbed his phone off the counter, and checked the screen again.
Still no message. Still no call. Still no Cory.
He tossed the phone onto the couch with a frustrated growl and immediately regretted it.
He was not panicking. He was being rational. Methodical. Tracking her habits, checking the patrol logs, following her last known routes. But there was a hitch in his chest that hadn’t let go since yesterday. Cory never went dark for this long. Not without warning. Not without checking in. Not without him knowing.
He rubbed the back of his neck, heart hammering harder than he’d ever admit.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Okay. She’s smart. Tough. She’s not dead in a ditch. Probably just got her phone stolen. Or dropped it in a storm drain. Or she’s mad at me and ignoring me on purpose.”
He didn’t believe any of it. He grabbed his helmet, slid it on, and moved for the fire escape—then paused halfway out the window, teeth gritted.
No. Not just a solo hunt. Not when things felt wrong.
He pulled up a private comm line and tapped into the encrypted signal. “Oracle.” The line buzzed, then connected.
Barbara’s voice came through, crisp and alert. “I was wondering how long you were going to wait.”
“She’s gone,” Jason said, no preamble. “Cory. I haven’t heard from her in two days.”
“I noticed,” Barbara said, typing in the background. “Her phone last pinged at the shop. Since then, radio silence. She didn’t log anything. No contact with anyone else in the network, either.”
Jason’s grip on the frame tightened. “That’s not like her.”
“No,” Babs agreed. “It’s not.”
He swallowed. “You think someone took her?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“I’m going to tear this city apart.”
“You’re going to wait, ” Babs said sharply. “Give me an hour. I’m running surveillance loops, public cams, private feeds, everything she might’ve slipped through.”
Jason didn’t respond.
“Jason,” she added, quieter now. “We’ll find her.”
He ended the call. Didn’t say thanks. Didn’t need to.
Instead, he jumped down into the night, red helmet gleaming in the streetlight, heart thudding in time with the storm in his chest. He didn’t know what had happened. But if anyone hurt her—
He was going to make Gotham bleed.
Location: Gotham Animal Rescue – Photography Room, The Next Day, 11:14 AM
Cory sat on a pastel backdrop, fur fluffed against her will, a tiny pink bow clipped between her ears like some kind of cursed accessory from hell. Her pupils were narrowed to slits of murderous intent.
“Oh my god, she’s so cute,” one of the volunteers squealed, holding up the camera. “Look at her little murder face! She’s gonna be adopted in seconds.”
Adopted?! Cory hissed under her breath. I pay taxes. I built a drone that hacked a GCPD scanner. I am a vigilante, not some Instagram pet of the week!
The flash went off.
She blinked, stunned.
“Okay, now one with the sunflower collar—”
Cory bolted two steps left, only to be scooped up like a misbehaving loaf of bread and plopped back down.
“She's spicy,” someone laughed. “Definitely has opinions.”
I have martial arts training and a weapons permit, Cory screamed internally as someone gently tried to fluff her tail.
“Try the lavender bow,” another suggested. “Matches her eyes.”
An hour later, a new listing was uploaded to the shelter’s website:
"Meet Salem!"
Shy but sweet! This dark beauty was rescued from the streets and is now ready for her forever home. Enjoys high perches, glaring with judgment, and tolerates bath time with only minimal homicide attempts. She’s got a voice on her and a whole lot of personality. Fixed, microchipped, and fully vaccinated!
Adoption fee waived for the right forever home!
The photo featured Cory, wide-eyed, ears back, glaring directly into the camera as if daring the universe to test her again.
She had never known such rage.
Location: Gotham – Redwing Mechanics, 3:16 PM
Jason paced the length of the garage for the twelfth time. She still wasn’t answering. Not her comms. Not her burner. Not even the line she’d set up with a ridiculous chirp-only coded signal that had no right working but did. Nothing.
He hadn’t slept. He barely remembered eating. He was absolutely, positively not freaking out. He kicked a wrench across the floor and muttered, “She’s dead in a ditch.”
Augustine meowed from his perch on the workbench. Judgy. Unsympathetic.
Jason grabbed his helmet and slammed it down on the table, already half-dialed into comms. “Oracle. Tell me you’ve got something.”
Barbara’s voice crackled in calmly through his earpiece. “Relax, Hood.”
“Don’t tell me to relax. She’s been gone three days, Babs. Three . She always checks in. You know that.”
“I do,” she said, typing in the background. “And I also know she’s not the type to get kidnapped easily.”
“You think I don’t know that? But this isn’t like her.”
There was a pause. Then the tone shifted. Typing intensified.
Jason stopped moving. “…Babs?”
“I’m widening the parameters. If someone clocked her in cat form, maybe—” She cut herself off. Then: “ Oh my god.”
Jason’s heart plummeted. “What?”
A few seconds of silence. And then his phone buzzed. One link. Five images.
Barbara’s voice was smugly amused. “You’re gonna wanna sit down for this.”
Jason didn’t sit. He stared.
The webpage opened to Gotham Animal Rescue – Adoptable Cats. And right at the top of the featured profiles… Meet Salem! – Female, Young Adult, Domestic Shorthair.
Jason blinked. Then scrolled.
The first photo showed Cory’s cat form mid-bath, ears plastered back, eyes furious, one paw outstretched like she was cursing the sun itself. The second featured her wrapped in a towel like an angry feline burrito. The third… Jason choked on a laugh. The third had a little crocheted flower clip on her head.
Babs’ text came through a second later: Found her. She’s safe. Also: I’m keeping these. Forever.
Jason stared at the screen. Then leaned against the workbench and slid slowly to the floor. “…I’m going to kill her.”
Augie meowed again.
Jason sighed, laughed once—just once—and then buried his face in his hands.
Location: Gotham Animal Rescue – Front Desk, The Next Day, 10:58 AM
Jason Todd stood at the counter of Gotham Animal Rescue, wearing a black hoodie, worn jeans, and his absolute best attempt at a non-threatening smile. It was not going great.
He had a clipboard in one hand, a pen in the other, and zero chill anywhere on his person.
“So…” He cleared his throat. “This, uh. This is where I adopt cats?”
The young woman behind the counter—early twenties, pink hair, floral scrubs—gave him a bright, professional grin. “You got it! First time?”
Jason blinked. “...Is it obvious?”
“Only a little.” She handed him a pamphlet. “No worries. We make it easy. Just fill this out, then we’ll take you back to the meet-and-greet room. You already have someone in mind?”
Jason nodded way too fast. “Yeah. Salem.”
“Oh!” The girl brightened even more, if that was possible. “She’s amazing. Gorgeous, so smart. Bit of a diva, but she’s got a ton of personality. You’ll love her.”
Jason coughed to cover a snort.
Yeah, he thought. That’s one word for it.
He scrawled a fake-but-kinda-convincing name onto the form—Jay Thomas—and started checking boxes.
Do you rent or own?
→ Own.
Do you have experience with cats?
→ Enough.
Are you prepared for the lifelong commitment of a pet?
→
Oh, you have no idea.
By the time he was done, his smirk was barely restrained. This was, hands down, the best thing that had happened to him all week.
Cory, stuck in cat form, bathed and named and microchipped, waiting to be adopted ?
He was going to dine out on this for years .
The desk girl led him down a bright hallway toward the adoption rooms. “She’s just past the kittens, toward the window pens. She’s been real feisty today—might be nap time, but if she likes you, she’ll perk up.”
Jason nodded solemnly. “I’m very likable.”
The girl laughed, opened the door, and gestured him in.
“Take your time! Just come grab me when you’re ready.”
Location: Gotham Animal Rescue – Adoption Floor, 11:14 AM
Jason stepped into the room.
It smelled like disinfectant and cedar chips. Cats lounged in crates, curled in beds, sprawled across scratching posts like fluffy royalty.
And there, dead center, behind glass and mesh wire, was Cory.
Nap time indeed.
She was loafed in her crate, tail twitching, eyes half-lidded, ears at half-mast.
Her head turned the second the door clicked shut.
Recognition dawned instantly.
Jason watched it happen.
First: neutral cat.
Then: alert cat.
Then: full-on
you absolute bastard
stare.
He grinned and crouched in front of the glass.
“Hey, Salem .”
Cory did not move.
Did not blink.
Just slowly, deliberately, stood up, turned around, and presented him with her back.
Jason laughed under his breath and tapped the glass. “C’mon. Don’t be like that. I’m here to rescue you.”
No response.
He dropped his voice. “You’re gonna miss your ride home.”
She flicked an ear.
Jason leaned in closer, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Do you have any idea how hard I’m gonna roast you for this?”
Thwack.
Her paw hit the glass with a threatening slap.
Jason snorted.
“You’re lucky I’m the one who found you,” he muttered, straightening. “You’d already have three toddlers naming you Whiskers and putting you in doll clothes.”
He turned and flagged down the pink-haired tech, who returned with a chipper smile and a carrier of her own.
“She’s popular today!” she said brightly. “You’re her second visitor. The last family had a toddler who tried to poke her in the eye, though, so—”
Jason raised his brows. “She take a swing at him?”
“She hissed and tried to climb the shelving unit.”
Jason nodded. “Smart girl.”
The tech opened the door. “Go ahead, you can try a little intro. If she warms up to you, we’ll go ahead with the paperwork.”
He crouched again as Cory padded out slowly, eyeing the tech warily and Jason with undisguised disdain.
He reached out a hand.
She ignored it.
He offered a soft “pspsps.”
She sat down and stared at him like she was calculating how fast she could bolt into the air vents.
The tech frowned. “She’s usually more—oh wait, never mind. She’s coming around.”
Because Cory had moved.
Straight onto Jason’s lap.
Where she immediately sat, turned her back to him again, and loafed hard enough to scream I don’t like you, I just know what’s good for me.
Jason smirked and stroked her fur once— so soft, oh my god —before murmuring, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
The tech beamed. “Well! Looks like it’s a match.”
Jason gave her his most polite smile. “Let’s make it official.”
Location: Gotham Animal Rescue – Front Desk, 11:47 AM
Jason signed the final forms, took a tote full of pamphlets, treats, and a tiny bag of transition kibble he would be throwing out immediately, and accepted the sleek, lavender carrier.
Inside, Cory glared at him through the mesh.
“She’s all yours,” the tech said, delighted. “Give her a little time to adjust, but I think you two are gonna be best buds.”
Jason nodded. “I’ve got a good feeling.”
He turned toward the exit.
Cory yowled once in outrage.
He glanced down, completely unapologetic. “Don’t worry, Salem . I’ve already got your new collar picked out. Skull print. Maybe a little bell.”
Cory let out a noise that might have translated to I am going to key your bike with my claws.
Jason chuckled all the way to the car.
Location: Redwing Mechanics – Upstairs Apartment, 12:24 PM
The second the door shut behind them, Cory burst from the carrier in a blur of shifting limbs and furious energy.
Jason stepped back with both hands raised as she reformed, still dripping lavender-scented humiliation, fully human and furious.
She stood in the middle of the apartment, hair frizzy, eyes wild, hoodie-clad and shaking with rage.
Jason opened his mouth—
“ Not one word, ” Cory hissed.
Jason closed his mouth.
Then grinned.
“…So, Salem , how was your weekend?”
She lunged for him with a snarl and a couch pillow, and he dodged it laughing all the way.