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Of course, she knew who Batman was. The number of times she’d knocked him out, how could she not take a blood sample, peek under the mask, get the fingerprints. Of course, she recognized Bruce Wayne, and it stood to reason his protégé would be Tim Drake, the little adopted brat. She could make Batman’s identity worldwide news with one phone call.

But the thing was—a rising tide lifted all ships. As much as she detested the Bat for interfering in her schemes, she appreciated someone stopping Mr. Freeze from turning the city into an ice cube, or the Joker from flooding it with laughing gas, or any of a number of other destructions that would be fairly inconvenient for her. So she kept Batman around, in large part to keep the stalemate going between her and the other Rogues, and she bided her time. But now, she knew just what to do.

She already knew where Tim Drake lived, a cozy little bit of on-campus housing—obviously intended by Wayne to keep him clear of any attack on the manor. It was a cinch to break into it, the place was dependent on obscurity, not security, and her old burglaring tricks came in handy, as well as all the time spent around Catwoman—one of the rare freaks who shared her refinement and good taste.