Cats Among The Pigeons: Multi-Pup, Multi-Canon, Multi-Versal Bar

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There's a scruffy blonde greasemonkey pilot sat at the piano, smoking cigarettes as she plays. She's not courting an audience, but she probably won't object to company either.

Being Kaidy, of course, she's not strictly speaking scruffy - or if she is, she's scruffy with style.

Oh, and she's playing jazz improv. As you do.




Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's ... BATWOMAN!

Well, it might be.

Possibly.

Someone's trying out her new surveillance goggles in the rafters, anyway.




Dr Harleen Quinzel should be working on her patient logs, she really should. And she has her laptop out and everything, to make notes on!

...It's just that she's using it to play Looney Tunes cartoons instead. Which she is giggling over, enough that she's in danger of losing her notes.

Well, a girl's gotta have some fun, right?



A dark-haired woman is sat very upright at her table for one, reading the paper.

She's immaculately dressed, the picture of self-containment, but the delicate long fingers clutching the Gotham Times are shaking, ever so slightly.

Her hair's just a little ruffled, too.



Gamora is in the bar, with a box.

The box was delivered this morning, by... well, they were probably a courier.

She opened the box about fifteen minutes ago, and now the question of 'who sent me something?' has now been replaced with 'what the hell do I do with... this?'.

She is therefore having a very, very stiff drink, while she thinks about this. (And thinks as little as possible about what's in the box, which is now under the table by her feet.)

Maybe two stiff drinks.

Or possibly four.



The head girl of St Trinian's strides in, throws her Versace handbag (no, not a sodding knock-off, what kind of girl do you think she is?) on the nearest empty table, and continues to the bar without breaking step.

"Double Bloody Mary, straight up. Anna bacon butty, yeah?"

Why yes, it has been that kind of day. And it's only 11am...



A young, shorter redhead in a blue dress storms in, her arms full of office clutter in several disintegrating paper bags. Five strides through the door and the bags give up their struggle in ignominious unison, sending notepads, pens, pencils, rolls of camera film (the 1950s variety), an actual camera, and assorted detritus in a noisy cascade to her feet.

"Shit!"

It's a surprisingly cut-glass accent to be swearing, and Betsy Hilton drops to the floor with no heed paid to her stockings in an attempt to retrieve her things.

She is absolutely, definitely, completely not going to cry.



The door opens on a packed bar: dry ice, cigarette smoke, alcohol and the muffled strains of The Human League, quickly cut off as the woman darts through it. Beer spills from her pint glass as she shuts the door at her back, but it's only as she fumbles for a cigarette that she realises this isn't the back room of Heaven.

"...Well, fuck me."

Steph will most definitely be having that cigarette now. And maybe another drink.