The Legion of Doom had survived alien invasions, assassination attempts, world domination schemes, and Joker’s cooking.

What it apparently couldn’t survive was two women getting the same haircut.

It began when one of the Legion’s lead snipers walked into headquarters sporting a freshly cut pixie hairstyle. Short, sharp, effortlessly stylish. It suited her perfectly, and she seemed rather pleased with the change.

Unfortunately, Selina noticed.

And Selina had opinions.

Within minutes, Catwoman had decided that the sniper was copying her signature look. Never mind that pixie cuts had existed long before either woman had been born. Never mind that the sniper had her own personal style, her own reasons for cutting her hair, and absolutely no obligation to consult Selina before visiting a salon.

In Selina’s mind, the evidence was damning.

The sniper’s response had apparently been equally infuriating, judging by the way Selina’s expression sharpened and the two began circling each other like territorial cats.

Then came the hissing.

Not actual hissing, thankfully.

Just insults, accusations, and enough venomous body language to make even Cheetah look impressed.

By the time Bane and Captain Cold attempted to separate them, Selina had already snatched a cushion off the nearest couch, and the sniper looked entirely prepared to use her combat training to defend her hairstyling choices.

Lex watched the spectacle with the exhausted expression of a man reconsidering every decision that had led him to join this organization.

Scarecrow was taking notes.

Riddler had begun theorizing about the psychological significance of competitive femininity.

And Joker?

Joker was having the best afternoon of his life.

Because, naturally, he decided the situation required scientific investigation.

By dinner, an anonymous poll had appeared on the Legion’s internal network.

WHO WEARS THE PIXIE CUT BETTER?

Two photographs. Two names conspicuously absent. One innocent little voting button.

Joker insisted it was for morale.

Nobody believed him.

Within twenty-four hours, the poll had spread beyond headquarters. Anonymous votes poured in from henchmen, associates, and apparently people who had absolutely no business knowing about the Legion’s internal drama.

By the end of the week, the results were in.

The sniper had won.

Not by a narrow margin, either.

She had won by a humiliating percentage that Joker displayed on the largest screen in headquarters, complete with celebratory graphics and a little cartoon crown.

Selina was furious.

The sniper, meanwhile, had developed the deeply unfortunate habit of casually brushing her fingers through her short hair whenever Selina entered a room.

Whether it was intentional provocation or simple grooming remained a matter of debate.

Joker didn’t care.

He’d already printed the results and framed them.

One copy hung in the cafeteria.

Another appeared outside Selina’s quarters.

The third was mysteriously attached to the back of Lex’s chair.

Nobody admitted responsibility.

Nobody needed to.

The Legion of Doom had faced many humiliating defeats throughout its history.

But watching Catwoman threaten to skin a clown over a haircut poll?

That was destined to become legendary.