A split second before her first slash attack came into range, you nearly hesitated, indicative of your fatigue. After all, you had just finished sending the Joker and his delusional accomplice/lover, Harley Quinn, back to Arkham Asylum with a bow on top. Still, you merely shook your head, and dug down deep to retrieve some of your resolve.
You just barely shifted back to avoid three slash marks through your iconic bat insignia, leaving Cheetah to snarl in frustration. Trying again, her claws once again slashed through empty air as you kept on the defensive, barely managing to not run into any stray lab equipment.
Gritting her teeth angrily, she tried for a low kick to your knee, an obviously feint. Learning from your past mistake, you shifted back to avoid the relatively low-kick, just when she unveiled the double package.
Just as the kick was about to leave your vicinity, she suddenly snapped in back towards you, in a athletic act that could rival Wonder Woman, and pivoted her knee upwards. She then drove her heel back towards your neck in a savage spinning hook kick.Thankfully, your veteran instinct saved you once again, prompted you to raise a spiked gauntlet to block the kick, and thus your immediate chance of defeat.
As her ankle slid off your gauntlet and retreated back to the floor you noticed a small, barely noticeable chink in her armor. In the half-second before she went on the prowl, you noticed how she neglected to use her right foot, the same foot that you had stabbed the Batarang through. She still maintained her usual fighting stance, both hands raised and her toes touching the floor instead of her heel, but you noticed a slight twitch of pain every time she moved it.
Finally founding your opening, you smiled mentally, having finally discovered her weakness, and just in time. Her attacks were becoming more sloppy, rushed even. She clearly wanted to end this fight, but you had all the time in the world.
This was evidenced when she tried for a massive overhead roundhouse to the kick with her left, only for you to duck, full well knowing the amount of momentum behind it. The kick instead smashed through a whole row of carefully placed test tubes and containers, spraying glass shards everywhere.
Immediately, she grabbed at her wounded ankle, touching it for only the briefest moment. Before you could capitalize, she threw a sloppy crescent kick with her other, only prolonging the inevitable.
“You’re getting slower, Barbara. Maybe you should settle down for a nice cat nap,” you taunted, trying to bait her.
Growling at you with the ferocity of an Amazon, she began attacking with even more intensity, her forearms dancing wildly in the air as you parried with your steel gauntlets in almost perfect unison.
Finally, she made the mistake of reaching too far with her forearm, and you swooped in. Intercepting her mid-slash, you swiftly hooked her wrist underneath your armpit, keeping her anchored to you.
Then, you proceeded to stagger her by leaning in for a cruel headbutt in the nose. Her eyes rolled back as soon as your padded cowl struck her bare temple. Now on wobbly legs, you finished your combo by driving the heel of your boot directly into her wounded right ankle with the corresponding leg.
Instantly, she cried out in pain before crumpling to the floor in a dazed heap. As soon as your heel hit her wounded ankle, she assumed the fetal position, crumpling up into a ball and grabbing her now bleeding ankle.
“You bastard!!” she cursed you, while still simultaneously crying out in pain. Her tail even curled up as she screamed into the floor, now more vulnerable than ever.
You should’ve finished her right then. A straight punch to the jaw, and then a pair of handcuffs on each wrist. That was the usual procedure.
But you couldn’t.
Or...can’t.
As she began sobbing into the floor, still clutching her bloodied ankle, you found yourself unwilling, or just unable to deal the finishing blow. Was it perhaps because of her injury? Perhap. But it was more because of the woman that she used to be.
Dr. Barbara Minerva was a warrior among women, an explorer who was perhaps one of the world’s finest since the pre-colonial times. Under her lead, entire museums were filled with her artifacts, and nonprofit organizations became richer than ever. In the end, she was merely a victim of fate, and is that so much to condemn her to a life of persecution and crime?
After contemplating her fate, your emotional side won over, despite warnings from your more rational side. Dr. Minerva at least deserved medical attention, not another reason to hate superheroes in a cell at Belle Reve.
Your hands briefly traced the leather pouch where your bat-cuffs were stored, before your weakness, compassion, took over.
Kneeling down beside her sobbing form, you placed a gentle hand on her bloodied ankle, the laceration now at least an inch deep. In fact, your touch seemed to incite more cries from the villainess.
“Don’t worry, Barbara. Help is on the way,” you assured her, before reaching into your utility belt for some gauze.
“Th-thank you, Batman.” her reply was tentative, almost uncertain. But once you laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder, she began to face you, rising up on her shoulders.
A tear traced down her cheek as she spoke. “But you should know.”
Just when you were about to wrap her wound in bandaging, she suddenly faced you, devoid of her previous pained lines, with a coy grin on her face.
“The only one here who will need help will be you.”
Before you even process what was just said, she suddenly wrapped her thighs around your neck, executing a surprisingly firm headscissors.
Cursing yourself multiple times over for falling for her guile, you paid for it dearly as her thighs began squeezing against your cheeks, her ankles crossing behind you.
You tried to bring your arms up to break the vice grip, but found yourself unable to after the hold had set in. She was strategically constricting against your neck, forcing you to look at her. Her grin enlarged the more you writhed, trying to pry her thighs off but to no avail.
“You hurt me, Batman. I thought I’d repay the favor,” she grinned eagerly, before suddenly slamming your face against the ground. You winced heavily as your cheek brushed against the blood-tainted ground, and her thighs continued to choke you.
“You seem surprised, darling.” You spat at her angrily as she leered at you.
“I mean, come in, what did you think was going to happen?” she grinned matter-of-factly, before you had had enough.
Summoning what was left of your strength (and pride), you began to push yourself up on one knee, lifting your face off the ground, much to her complete chagrin.
Her smug look soon evaporated as you started to rise up, relying on your resilience to power you through.
“You never le-” she started to exclaim angrily, before you grabbed a handful of her fiery red hair, lifted her off a few inches, and proceeded to slam her head so hard against the floor it probably sent shockwaves.
Groaning in pain, she relinquished her death grip, instead crawling away with her tail literally tucked between her legs. Scurrying away, she began reaching out for any tables to grab onto, so you decided to follow suit.
Falling back on your butt, you proceeded to gulp up necessary mouthfuls of air, and attempted to reassess the situation. Turning on your side, you reached out for something to latch onto, which came in the form of a computer desk to your left. Your hand briefly slipped off the surface before you placed your forearm on it.
You winced slightly as you pulled yourself to your feet, just when Cheetah did. Her right leg was just as wobbly as the rest of her body, so you figured that she had exaggerated her wound.
Cheetah spat out another mouthful of blood before returning her downright murderous glare back to you. Touching the back of her head sorely, she winced as soon as she felt her bruised hair strands.
“I’ll rip out your throat for that,” she snarled, before lunging at you with evil intentions.
Fatigue began to wear away at your muscles, but as soon as you touched the corner of the computer desk, your fingers brushing against the keyboard, you knew what you had to do.
Shifting backwards, you just barely avoided an involuntary shedding of your Kevlar as her claws swiped through the air in front of you. Seething angrily, she tried again, only with similar results.
Finally, when she overshot her next strike, you took your shot. Ducking as her forearm missed you overhead by a mile, you moved in just when she reared back for a third strike. You swiftly rammed your knee right in her stomach, knocking the wind out of her instantly.
Clutching her abdominal region, she started to double over in pain, the surprise attack clearly catching her off guard.
As she lurched forward, you grabbed a handful of her hair, and without sympathy, slammed her skull into the wooden desk. The sound of her skull cracking off the surface stunned her, to say the least.
Howling in pain, she glowered up at you resentfully, before lashing out with a viscous forearm of her own. Predicting the move seconds before the idea even materialized in her head, you responded by clamping her wrist in one lightning-quick motion.
Twisting it upwards, you now held her in a wristlock while subsequently grinding her face against the desk, much to her complete chagrin. The combined vice grip infuriated her immensely, her body writhing and thrashing about defiantly against you.
Forcing her teeth against the table, you know had the upper hand. Despite her struggling, your grip was iron hard. Anticipating her next attack, you pressed against her lower back when you saw her lifting her foot to kick you.
You punished her by twisting her forearm even sharper. She cried out once again in pain as her arm was forcibly wrenched upwards, before glowering at you ruefully.
“It’s over, Barbara.”
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