Gotham Arc #5.
Jake sat on the edge of a derelict steel truss of a half-demolished bridge, overlooking Pier 49. The green gift box lay open beside him.
Inside, nestled on shredded paper, was a heavy cardstock rectangle. Scrawled across it in that familiar, taunting Bangers font was one final question:
"I have no knob, yet yield a place. No mouth to speak, but show the space. Rushed past, I simply hold the wall. Sought with care, I answer the call. What am I?"
Jake tore his eyes from it. Hours spent scrutinizing the verse hadn't brought him closer to what it meant.
Throughout the day, he had listed and researched all the potential participants he could think of in preparation.
Now, twenty minutes remained until showtime. 00:16:12 was left in his Time Bank.
The suit was dry, the sweat washed off. He had tested his webs against the salty atmosphere. They worked perfectly fine.
Rusted cranes creaked above where Warehouse 17 sat, at the end of the pier. Jake swung above the low-slung beast of corrugated iron and rot.
He avoided the blackened windows and landed on the collapsing roof, holding tightly to his webs attached to a nearby gantry.
By the entrance, a man in a wornout tuxedo held a clipboard, shivering visibly in the damp sea air.
Something disturbed the fog, cutting through it like a wraith. The fog shifted -- not parted, shifted -- and a figure emerged as if she'd been standing there all along. Black gi, white headband, movements so economical they barely disturbed the air.
The clipboard wobbled in the man's hands as he stumbled, shocked by the sudden appearance.
Jake took in her paced walk. Each step placed with precision, hands loose at her sides, ready.
When she held up her invitation, the tuxedo man flinched and nodded rapidly.
She stepped into an elevator and descended. Jake watched the elevator shaft swallow her. No way to know what was down there. No way to plan. He'd have to improvise.
Next came the splash of heavy boots on wet pavement. A dark shadow trailed before a man covered in a battered and scratched tiger-head mask.
He ignored the doorman entirely, shouldering past him with a low growl. If only he could do the same for the elevator. His fingers twitched toward the call button like he wanted to rip it out of the wall.
"You have to show me your pass first," the doorman said, swallowing the last of his nerves.
The tiger-head's fists clenched, but not strongly enough to break the rules. With a grunt born of bruised pride, he produced his pass and descended in the creaking elevator.
Two more followed after. One, a woman who walked with her chin high, pausing to flick an imaginary speck of dust from her rifle case.
Another, a man with an enormous mountain of muscle and scar tissue. Stiffly clinging to his snake-shaped walking stick, he moved with deliberate caution, each step testing the ground as if he couldn't quite trust what was beneath him.
Both presented their invitation and were welcomed without a fuss.
Aside from him, three more were yet to show up. Could they have gone before him?
He counted those that had passed, discerning their identities from his old-world memory.
Onyx. Bronze Tiger. Lady Vic. King Snake.
Who could the others be? He would find out in the tournament.
Jake took a breath. The salty air stung his lungs.
"My turn."
He dropped from the roof, landing in a crouch three feet from the doorman. The man jumped, dropping his clipboard.
Jake smirked, pleased by the reaction.
Straightening, he held out the green card with the single question mark. The lenses of his mask narrowed as he deepened his voice.
"Name's The Spider."
The man blinked, looking from the card to the strange, sleek suit. "Right. Uh. Okay."
Jake stepped through the heavy steel doors. As the shaft swallowed him, descending into darkness, the riddle gnawed at him: "I have no knob, yet yield a place..."
Still nothing.
Underground, chants from a rowdy crowd -- Gotham's underworld's elite, here for blood sport -- absorbed the groans of the elevator doors
The air hit him -- warm, stuffy, thick with sweat and violence. Jake's jaw tightened behind the mask.
Worse, he found himself in a cage. Chain-link fence, eight feet high, stretching thirty feet in each direction. The crowd pressed against it from the outside, faces hungry for violence.
And across from him, in the opposite corner, someone was waiting.
Spider-sense hummed. The crowd's noise pressed in from all sides.
Overhead, the flickering lights cut out. The crowd's roar died to confused murmurs.
A single spotlight pierced the darkness, illuminating the center of the cage.
Green smoke spiraled upward, coalescing into a projection. Twenty feet tall in a sharp suit, Question mark emblazoned on his chest, the Riddler grinned.
"Ladies and gentlemen of Gotham's finest underworld!" His voice boomed through hidden speakers, every word enunciated. "Welcome to the Riddle Knight Tournament."
The arena answered with a riot of noise. Fists hammered chain link. Boots stomped metal. A thousand throats screamed for violence.
"The rules are elegantly simple," Riddler said. "Win your match, advance to the next round. Lose" He let the pause linger as his grin widened, a perfect crescent of malice.
"Blood! We want blood!" The crowd howled.
"Then blood you shall have," Riddler purred. "Lose, and the meaning is yours to riddle."
A fresh wave of cheers crashed against the walls. The projection behind him flared, his outline warping with green static as he leaned forward.
"But win it all," he said, "and the grand prize awaits."
A bright emerald column surged before him, level with his projection. Within it, a sleek metal briefcase rotated slowly in the air, polished steel catching the green glow. The latch was triple locked. The corners reinforced. Inside, thick bricks of cash gleamed under phantom light.
"Two million dollars in unmarked bills," Riddler announced, savoring every word. "Pure incentive, pure ambition, pure temptation. Place your bets, criminals and connoisseurs. Fortune favors the vicious."
The arena exploded again. Money changed hands with lightning speed. Names were shouted. Odds were screamed. Every face pressed forward, hungry.
Jake's pulse quickened. So much money he almost forgot about the umbrella and the cane. Still, no sign of the real Riddler or Penguin.
His eyes flew to a dark, overhead balcony. He had to keep searching.
Riddler lifted one hand, and the crowd quieted. Not out of respect. Out of anticipation.
"For our first match of the night," he said, voice ringing like a cracked bell, "we begin with a clash of mastery and mystery. In the red corner, Gotham's blind serpent. King Snake."
A roar surged as a spotlight fell on King Snake standing on the opposite corner from Jake. His posture was rigid and ready, breath controlled.
"And in the blue corner," Riddler continued, smile twitching with wicked delight, "The Spider."
A pause. Jake's nerves went numb from the beaming spotlight and the silence.
Then the crowd went feral. Names pounded through the air. Money flew.
The waiting quiet settled like a coiled spring.
"Let the Riddle Knight Tournament begin."
Riddler's projection dispersed as the dim lights snapped back on.
A bell rang.
Jake's focus snapped back into the arena.
King Snake moved first, closing the distance.
Jake's senses sharpened.
Spider-sense buzzed. He threw back his shoulder blade instinctively. A firm palm cut through the air where his ribs had been.
A precision strike. Well aimed and dangerous.
Jake stepped sideways, escaping a follow-up jab.
Relentless.
The shadows moved, warping from sudden movement. One moment, King Snake was in his line of sight. The next, Jake was turning around, trying to locate him.
A master of martial arts and stealth. Blind but highly perceptive.
Jake blocked a surprise kick, hands crossed. The foot twisted around his right elbow towards his neck.
He sank his head and slightly bent a knee. The foot slashed the air above him.
Webs. He tried shooting the other foot. It flew up instead, King Snake's body twisting in the air.
Before he could swing out of the way, the first foot planted into his stomach, pushing him a few steps back.
The crowd cheered.
Air escaped through his clenched teeth. The kick stung.
Combat wasn't his strong suit. Not against this seasoned serpent anyway.
Two webs flew from his hands. King Snake dodged each, one step at a time.
Jake yanked himself. A classic slam with both his feet.
King Snake bent his neck slightly -- like he was listening to an invisible whisperer. He lifted his hands calmly, one before the other. Palms open and ready.
Jake's entire body vibrated in alarm. Was King Snake's counter that dangerous?
Think.
Jake's pulse spiked. He needed a new plan.
He clashed with the cage. Hoped. Spun.
His feet scraped, palms slapping the floor.
Air whipped, noise exploding around him from rapid motion. Fast. Erratic. Overwhelming.
King Snake paused, head and body tilting as he listened.
Step. Step. Step. He tracked his opponent.
Jake swung to the right and flung above. He shot webs below him and to the side.
King Snake's brows dipped. Rattled.
Jake utilized the opportunity. In a sharp breath, his hand shot a web. It wrapped around King Snake's forearm, coiling tight.
King Snake didn't bother untangling himself. He planted his feet, twisted and pulled. Jake caught the cage and held, unmoved.
Another web snapped across his torso. The serpent froze. The Spider's strength was unmatched and he was rapidly ensnaring the snake.
Jake swung around his opponent, webs wrapping from shoulder to ankle. King Snake's fist struck the air. He twisted and kicked, but the sticky threads held.
Defenseless, he fell on the ground defeated.
"The first round goes to The Spider!" The Riddler's voice boomed from somewhere above.
The crowd's held breath erupted into a deafening roar -- a mixture of hoorays and protests from gamblers.
The spotlight fell on Jake.
He stood rigidly, eyes low as they scanned around him. He wasn't taking in the crowd's acknowledgement.
Instead--
"There." He mumbled, locating the source of the Riddler's voice. He was seated in the balcony, now dim with eerie green light. Perceptible to the keen eye.
Next to him, sat the Penguin, eye glinting behind his glass as he observed Jake. But that's not what Jake saw.
His eyes widened, focusing.
The umbrella. It hung from Penguin's hand, unbothered.
His heart raced. Hands rose, pulled towards it by a strange force, like a magnet.
He was right. It was a totem.
One of the two prizes he was truly after.
He smirked.
The game was only beginning.
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Patreon.com/MimicLord -> Today is a mega release of more early access chapters. Enjoy!
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