[BOUNTY] Sammy Ninelives, The Cat Burglar

For the fifth time that week, Tracer showed up at the Ripped Bodice covered in mud from head to tail.

“End table!” barked Buxom Belle, tonight star bargirl. “I am NOT cleaning that up again!”

Tracer grumbled a half-growl, but did as she was told and grabbed a seat at the table closest to the entrance. Disappointingly, it was furthest from the kitchens. And the bar.

While she waited for Belle to swing by, Tracer picked at her muss of hair. She hated how the mud dried in runny clumps in random spots- and most irritatingly, it caked inside her ears. That was one of the stupid parts of having those ridiculously-sized, hairy, uncomfortable, traitorous ears on top of her head. They’d spring up when she would try to conceal her interest in something, fold down when she was trying to be brave, and worst of all, they drew stares.

So since Tracer was trying to keep her head down as she picked the mud from her ears, she didn’t notice when Belle passed by. That was fine, though. The bargirl didn’t even have to ask what she wanted at this point. It was always the same thing after an unsuccessful alley-cat chase: a mug of amber ale, a biscuit, and the biggest drumstick in the kitchen. Every time.

One of the bar’s regulars stepped through the door and gave the muddy Tracer a raised eyebrow. “Again?” he said with an air of exasperation. “Damn, Spot.”

Tracer’s head jerked up. “What’d you call me?” she said with another half-growl, staring him in the eyes.

“Whoa! Easy.” He broke eye contact first- a win for Tracer, she might add- and put up his hands as a sign of peace. “Just sayin’ how, uh… persistent you are in catchin’ that car burglar.”

“I’ll get her. Just you wait. I’m getting help from someone else soon,” Tracer sighed. “And don’t call me Spot.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say.”


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((westley, I figured we'd start off with a bit of scene-setting. Shouldn't take too long. Feel free to introduce Yvette and Tracer any way you see fit.))

Yvette didn't know too much about kobolds. She thought she remembered something about an affinity for gold, which didn't sit too well with her, but the real problem was more ... canine in nature. Now, by no means did Yvette hate all kobolds everywhere. It's just that, whenever she saw a dog, she tried to avoid them.

That being said, the archer hated thieves (who stole for personal greed) more than dogs, so she was willing to go through with the team-up. She even repeated this to herself as she made her way to the Ripped Bodice. The wave of sympathy she felt upon seeing the mud-covered bounty hunter, however, was more than enough to ease any nerves she had about the situation.

Yvette reluctantly (she was decidedly not a fan of mud) took the seat across from Tracer. "Yikes," she managed to say. "Does this mess have anything to do with the thief we're going to capture?" she asked hopefully.

When Tracer had gotten word from the bounty office that someone named “Yvette” had agreed to help out, she hadn’t dared to get her hopes up. Ideally, this Yvette would be someone fast. Agile. Have a good sense for traps. Just a general skill-set that would let her keep up with a notoriously slippery cat burglar.

So seeing Yvette step through the door made Tracer’s jaw drop. It was all she could do to keep herself from running up and hugging her. She was absolutely purrfect.

“To catch a cat burglar…” she whispered. For once, things were actually going her way.

Yvette slowly pulled out a seat across from tracer, picking the spot that had the fewest flecks of mud on the table. “Yikes,” she said. “Does this mess have anything to do with the thief we're going to capture?"

“Y-yes.” Tracer said, clearing her throat. She’d have to contain her enthusiasm. It wasn’t every day she got to meet another half-breed like herself. Stay professional, girl. Just get the job done, and THEN you can ask her how she deals with it.

“I’ve been, um, tracking Sammy for the better part of a week. She’s not hard to find. I mean… when she leaves behind a calling card, it’s not like she’s trying to be stealthy with her scent, you know?”

A look of confusion passed over Yvette’s face, but she glanced at Tracer’s black, wet nose and she understood. “Ah. So the problem’s in catching her, then. Not finding her.”

“Yeah,” Tracer nodded. “She’s so… so… ugh! Have you ever had an itch you just can’t scratch, no matter how hard you kick? She’s like that. Every time I think I’ve got her cornered, she jumps through a window and somehow throws me into a bucket of molasses. Or a pigsty. Or the mud tracks right outside the city gates that I swear are deeper than a lake. Ugh… I need a beer.”

Right on time, Belle slid Tracer’s order onto the table. She didn’t even need to look before she grabbed ahold of the stein and took a deep, long pull.

Yvette raised an eyebrow. For someone so tiny, she certainly could drink.

“Ahh! Yeah. That’s better.” Tracer licked her lips. “So I can bring you to Sammy, if you can catch her. She’s fast, she’s smart, and she’s full of herself. That cat’s going to get what’s coming to her one way or another, and I think I know where she’ll be tomorrow. Lady Invidia’s got a new tiara, and it vaguely resembles a pair of cat ears. She can’t resist.”

Tracer took a big bite out of her drumstick, not caring about the mud sprinkling from her bangs over her food. “So… what you think? Good idea? Bait the cat? Spring the trap? Or take a different angle?”

Yvette listened to the plan intently, giving only the slightest of eye-rolls at the mention of a cat-eared tiara. The obsession of some humans with her kind of ears was beyond her.

Regarding the drumstick with some interest (it was, after all, part of a bird,) the faunus reassured the bounty hunter, "I do like the idea of a trap; I could try to find a place to hide, then watch the tiara with my bow at the ready. We'd have the drop on her... I like it. We should do that."

“Great! I’m glad you’re glad. Everyone’s glad.” Tracer wolfed down half her biscuit in one gigantic bite. “’Cept ‘Fammy. Fe gets to be fad.”

The two went over the basics of the plan. Yvette would position herself in a rafter above the tiara, while Tracer would pretend to fall asleep guarding it. The moment Sammy went for the tiara, they’d both spring at her. Hopefully Tracer’s nets and Yvette’s arrows could pin her down long enough to catch her.

“So that’s that,” Tracer said with a yawn. “I think we’re set for tomorrow. I need a bed… and a bath.”

“Oh, no you don’t!” shouted Belle from across the bar. “The last time you used the inn’s bath, it got dirtier than a pigsty! And don’t get me started on all the-“

“THANK YOU, BELLE!” Tracer barked back. She hung her head and tried to hide a blush. “Aheh. Yeah. See you tomorrow, then.”


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In a world of locks, luck was Sammy’s skeleton key.

Guards couldn’t catch her. Arrows couldn’t reach her. Just a few jiggles were all it took her to open the most tightly sealed of shutters. Rain even fell on the opposite side of the street from her.

So when Sammy Ninelives saw that Tracer Trailbones had fallen asleep guarding the most wonderful tiara in the Capital, she didn’t think twice about how suspiciously lucky it was. Suspiciously lucky was her Modus Operandi, after all.

“Best to let sleeping dogs lie,” she whispered to herself, smirking gleefully. She nimbly jumped down the open skylight she’d shimmied in through, landing as quietly as a whisper on the gallery’s plush carpet. The tiara was every bit as beautiful as she’d heard. Solid gold, reinforced with a band of silver to keep its shape. White diamonds lined its crown, and where the edges of the wearer’s forehead would be were two brilliantly woven triangles of gold lace. They extended upwards, glimmering in the gallery’s candles.

Yvette, meanwhile, watched the cat burglar creep across the floor. From her position fifteen feet up, she had a clear shot at her quarry. Sammy was a spry girl, just as lithe and springy as her name implied. Everything she wore was black. Black leather pants, black leather utility belt, skintight black shirt and a black domino mask. This was in stark contrast to her shockingly white hair, which she kept in a tight ponytail. Her hair matched her twin cat ears, which twitched as she listened to Tracer’s steady breathing. If there was any doubt as to whether she was part cat, a long white tail trailed out of the seat of her leather pants, flicking back and forth as she prowled closer to the tiara.

“Finders, keepers,” she purred, working the lock on the tiara’s display case.

What Yvette didn’t know was that Tracer wasn’t faking her nap. The long nights had taken their toll, and she was out like a light.

The logical course of action in this case would be for Yvette to confuse Sammy. Perhaps she could create a smoke screen with a special arrow, to keep the thief from finding Yvette. But this would also hinder Tracer, whom Yvette was sure was about to spring into action.

Therefore, the archer decided on a more direct sort of attack. Still going to slow Sammy down, but more direct. Yvette selected an icy arrow from her quiver and took aim at the other catgirl. Ideally, the arrow would pierce the leather pants and pin them to the floor. Then, the ice would activate, thereby immobilizing her leg further.

Hopefully, Sammy wasn't too great a fighter at a distance.

By all accounts the shot was perfect. Perfect aim, perfect target, perfect timing. What Yvette didn’t account for was the fact that there was also such a thing as being perfectly lucky.

“Gotcha!” Sammy whispered as the display case popped open. She stepped around Tracer’s sleeping form to grab the tiara- and right as she did, Yvette’s arrow slammed into the wooden floor where she had been standing a moment ago.

Sammy’s head snapped up to search for the new threat. Anyone else would have been unable to pierce through the shadows of the rafters, but Yvette’s glimmering cat eyes gave her just enough to see a pair of ears and a tail on her pursuer.

“Aww. Better luck next time, pretty kitty.” Sammy blew her a kiss. She was in no hurry. Her luck had never failed her before, and there was no reason for it to start now.