The longer Thea and Catwoman talked, the better they got along. Comparing their lives, they found themselves surprisingly in sync.
When the topic turned to Bruce Wayne, Thea offered a decisive piece of advice:
"You've known each other for years. You know his strengths and weaknesses, and he knows your… depths. What's there to be shy about? Go after him. Boldly. Women chasing men—it's just one thin veil between you. Piece of cake."
Honestly, Gotham was a strange place—prosperous in wealth but cursed in love. Maybe it was bad feng shui, but every couple here seemed doomed to fall apart. Batman and Catwoman, Gordon and his wife, the Riddler and whatever-her-name-was—all doomed.
Well, except the Joker and Harley Quinn. Apparently not even the city's feng shui could handle that brand of insanity.
"By the way, have you two ever gone on an actual date?" Thea asked, half-curious, half-doubtful that Bruce "I am the night" Wayne even understood what dating was.
"Once," Catwoman said after a pause. She looked a little embarrassed. "That time in Star City…"
Thea nearly choked. So your idea of a romantic date was storming into my city and starting a riot? Truly, Gotham-style romance. Bold, chaotic, unforgettable.
"And you two never exchanged gifts or anything?"
"Of course we did. My gloves and whip were from him," Catwoman said, her smile so sweet that Thea actually shivered.
Great, Thea thought. And here I was calling him dense. You're not exactly a model of progress yourself…
Just as Thea was about to give her a proper "Dating 101" lecture on the one hundred and eight things women should know about relationships, a sharp male voice interrupted:
"Move it! Quickly!"
A restaurant employee in an apron burst past their table, leading several burly men armed with handguns toward the kitchen.
Thea shot Catwoman a look. What's this? Those guys don't look like customers disputing the bill—unless people in Gotham now negotiate with firearms.
Catwoman didn't even glance up. She calmly speared another piece of fish and said, "Probably a protection racket. Happens all the time. Don't make a fuss."
When in Gotham, do as the Gothamians do.
Gunshots popped from the kitchen—bang, bang—but the diners around them didn't even flinch. They just kept eating, chatting, sipping their drinks. Maybe this was part of the local culture.
With their gossip derailed, the two women shifted topics to Thea's hoverboard. Catwoman asked about its concept design but carefully avoided any technical details. The conversation stayed practical—tactics, maneuverability, field use.
In truth, Thea's hoverboard wasn't exactly cutting-edge tech. She'd never seen the Green Goblin's blueprints; she'd just eyeballed the thing from memory, mixed in her own imagination, and cobbled together a decent copy. Anyone smart enough could reproduce it, really—it wasn't like you could patent a flying skateboard.
And Batman, with his IQ, could definitely make one himself if he spent a few months tinkering. So when Catwoman asked, Thea answered freely—but if she didn't ask, Thea didn't volunteer.
She was sketching a quick diagram and pointing out a few design principles when a new batch of armed men—this time carrying AK rifles—rushed into the kitchen.
Thea looked at Catwoman again. "So… does this restaurant require an interview before washing dishes? Are they taking turns? Or is this some kind of 'bring your own gun' promotion?"
Even Catwoman frowned this time. She craned her neck toward the kitchen—an utterly useless gesture at this distance—and, seeing nothing, lit a slim cigarette with a shrug. "Welcome to Gotham," she said lightly, exhaling smoke. "Apologies if the local customs shock you."
Thea nodded solemnly. "Truly… a city full of vigor and culture."
They dropped the topic of weapons and moved on to something more pressing: the Art of Fighting in High Heels.
The moment she mentioned it, Catwoman almost burst out laughing. Finally—a subject where she was the teacher, not the student! All this time, she'd been the one absorbing lessons about relationships and gadgets. Now she could finally attack instead of receive.
Pleased, she shared her hard-earned experience—most of which matched Lady Shiva's advice—but her version came with vivid anecdotes from real street fights.
Thea listened closely, fascinated, as Catwoman explained how footwear affected balance, agility, and confidence.
And then Thea noticed something peculiar: Catwoman's obsession with heels wasn't just style—it was psychological. Maybe it was trauma, maybe it was Gotham, but the woman's entire sense of self seemed tied to height. The moment she slipped into stilettos, she radiated confidence; in flats, her aura plummeted instantly.
She was already 1.7 meters tall, but with heels she stood close to 1.8—imposing, striking, almost regal. That height alone intimidated half her admirers before they could even approach. And with her beauty—possibly the most stunning woman Thea had met—and her figure sculpted from years of acrobatics and chasing stray cats, it was no wonder even Thea, another woman, had to admit she was breathtaking.
Thea was just starting to take mental notes from Catwoman's "combat-in-heels masterclass" when heavy boots thundered across the floor. Three men with machine guns—and one carrying a rocket launcher—stormed past their table.
This time, Thea didn't even need to ask. Catwoman's eyes narrowed.
Three separate groups had now charged into the kitchen. Whatever was happening back there, it wasn't a simple gang shakedown.
Both women had the same sinking feeling. This meal's definitely not getting paid for.
And sure enough—BOOM!
A deafening explosion tore through the restaurant. For a heartbeat, there was absolute silence. Then came the screams.
"Run! RUN!"
The same men who'd gone in earlier came stumbling out, covered in blood, dropping their weapons as they fled. One bald brute, bleeding and half-blind, wrapped his jacket around his head and charged straight into a wall—smashing through it in a shower of plaster like a battering ram.
Thea gawked. Iron Head Kung Fu?! The modern-day master himself?
But… what on earth had just happened?
She and Catwoman locked eyes. The men's panicked faces said it all—whatever was back there, it wasn't human.
Thea cursed silently. I hate surprises.
She'd come unarmed, assuming this district was under police control. Now it was too late to regret it.
Catwoman wasn't much better off—dressed for dinner, not combat, with only a single knife hidden under her jacket. Looking at the chaos around them, neither woman felt inclined to leap into heroics.
So, they did the only sensible thing.
"Run!" Catwoman grabbed Thea's wrist, and together they bolted for the exit.