Gotham Arc #11.
Morning light filtered through the threadbare curtains, pale and anemic.
Jake's eyes opened to the water-stained ceiling. The same cracks as yesterday. The same rust stain shaped like a gun.
He'd been staring at the golden ring interface until 3 AM, cycling through every DC character he could remember, trying to force recognition through sheer will.
Nothing.
He sat up, and his body reported back. Shoulders: bruised but functional. Ribs: tender when he twisted. Overall assessment: alive, which twenty kilovolts said he shouldn't be. His enhanced physiology had metabolized the worst of it overnight, bruises fading from purple-black to that sickly yellow-green of almost-healed.
Progress. He was getting better at taking punishment.
The thought should have bothered him more than it did.
His stomach growled.
Jake counted out forty dollars from the brown envelope and headed downstairs. The motel's lobby had a coffee station and a TV mounted in the corner, volume low. He poured something that technically qualified as coffee and pulled out a cracked smartphone.
One bar of signal. Flickering.
He searched for news about Harley Quinn.
GCPD's official statement, posted three hours ago: "Harleen Quinzel apprehended at Pier 49. Currently in custody pending transfer to Arkham Asylum."
Jake's tension eased. Good. One problem--
He scrolled down.
The second result was a video link, posted forty minutes ago. The thumbnail showed a blur of pink and blue. The title:
HARLEY ESCAPES AGAIN! GCPD HUMILIATED.
His stomach dropped.
The video loaded in agonizing chunks. Shaky phone camera footage. A GCPD transport van, armored, surrounded by patrol cars. Everything by the book.
Then the side of the van exploded outward.
Pink and purple smoke billowed. Figures emerged -- clown masks, coordinated chaos. They were carrying something.
Harley Quinn. Still webbed head to toe in Jake's restraints.
The goons used her cocoon like a battering ram, charging the police line. Officers tried to stop them, but the webs -- enhanced-strength-reinforced -- became weapons. Goons swung Harley's body into riot shields with bone-breaking force.
Jake watched, transfixed, as they peeled away his webbing with heat guns and chemical solvents. Not fast, but fast enough.
By the time backup arrived, Harley was free. She stood in the middle of the chaos, bat in hand, grinning at the cameras.
"I'm coming for you, BUG-BOY. Me and all of Gotham." Her voice crackled through the phone's speaker. "We are SO not over yet!"
She blew a kiss. Smoke grenades. Gone.
Jake stared at his reflection in the phone's black screen.
He was smiling.
The realization hit him like a slap. She'd escaped. She'd be coming for him again, relentless and obsessed, and he was smiling about it. What did she even mean by "all of Gotham?"
"What the hell is wrong with me?" he muttered.
"Talking to yourself, hon?"
Jake's head snapped up. The motel clerk -- forty -- something, tired eyes, nameplate reading MARIE -- stood behind the counter, refilling the coffee station.
"Just... watching the news," Jake said, pocketing the phone.
Marie glanced at the TV. Local news was covering the escape, aerial footage of the purple smoke clearing to reveal an empty intersection.
"Harley Quinn again." Marie shook her head. "Third time this month. GCPD can't hold water, let alone criminals." She looked at Jake, something calculating in her expression. "You're new in town."
Not a question. Jake nodded.
"Word of advice?" Marie lowered her voice. "Whatever brought you to Gotham, finish it fast and leave. This city eats people. Especially the ones who think they can fix it."
"I'm not trying to fix anything."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
Survive. The answer came immediately, but Jake caught himself. That wasn't quite right anymore, was it? Survival was finding another motel in another city, staying low, avoiding attention.
He'd fought Harley Quinn. Raided a tournament. Stolen from the Riddler and the Penguin.
That wasn't survival. That was something else.
The thrill. The rush.
The way his heart hammered when his spider-sense screamed and his body moved before his brain caught up. The electric satisfaction of swinging through Gotham's canyons, of proving he could take what he needed and disappear before consequence caught up.
He was getting addicted to it. And he wasn't sure he wanted to stop.
"I don't know yet," Jake replied.
Marie studied him for a long moment. Then she slid a wrapped breakfast sandwich across the counter. "On the house. You look like you need it more than I need the three dollars."
Jake blinked. "I can pay--"
"I know. That's why I'm giving it to you." She turned back to the coffee station. "Eat. Then get out of Gotham before it decides what you are."
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Back in his room, Jake laid the suit out on the bed.
Three tears. Dulled colors. The smell of industrial smoke and desperation.
He could wash it. Patch it somehow. But the fabric was simple, not reinforced. One more serious fight and it would come apart.
His fingers traced the ripped shoulder seam.
The suit had been a Mystery Reward. Random chance that gave him exactly what he needed.
Or was it random?
Jake pulled up the interface, staring at the reward options. Bundle of Cash. Totem Icon. Mystery Reward.
"Are you reading my mind?" he asked the empty room. "Or am I just lucky?"
The interface didn't answer. It never did.
Jake closed it and looked at the wall across from the bed. The drawing board: paper scraps on the floor, image of the Batmobile still clinging.
Batman hadn't appeared yet. Not during the Harley fight. Not at the tournament. Not when Jake sent up that green flare from Riddler's cane.
Where was he?
And more importantly -- what happened when he finally showed up?
Jake's spider-sense gave no warning. Batman wasn't a danger. Not yet.
But he would be.
Jake washed the suit in cold water and cheap soap, forced himself to be gentle despite his strength. While it dried, he pulled up the Navigator.
The spider-web interface materialized, gold-white strands pulsing. The red thread pointed southwest with absolute certainty, no wavering.
Close. Within Gotham's industrial waterfront area.
Jake studied the direction. Not Pier 49 -- that was northeast. This was... he tried to remember Gotham's geography. The shipping district? The old railway terminus?
He closed the interface and grabbed his phone, pulling up a map despite the agonizing load time.
Southwest from his location... Dixon Dock. The commercial shipping terminal, mostly automated now. Container yards. Freight offices. The kind of place that moved cargo in and out of Gotham without asking too many questions.
Jake's jaw tightened. Why would a totem be there?
His mind turned over possibilities. Stolen goods being smuggled out? A villain's hideout in the container yards? Someone using the shipping routes to move something valuable?
Only one way to find out.
The suit had dried enough. Jake changed quickly, the familiar red and blue settling against his skin. The tears were still there, visible, but functional.
He pulled the hood up, checked the window. Clear. Then climbed out and launched himself.
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Dixon Dock sat at the edge, where the city met black water.
He descended carefully, landing on the roof of a warehouse with faded lettering: FALCONE FREIGHT & LOGISTICS.
Of course. Falcone owned half the docks. Made sense he'd own this too.
Jake crouched and pulled up the Navigator. The red thread pointed down and east. Toward the container yard.
He moved across rooftops, staying high. Below, the dock bustled with quiet activity. Forklifts moved between stacks of containers. Workers in hi-vis vests checked manifests. Everything looked legitimate on the surface.
But legitimacy was Gotham's favorite disguise.
The Navigator's pulse intensified. Close now. Very close.
Jake dropped to ground level, sticking to the shadows between container stacks. The smell here was different from Pier 49 -- less brine, more diesel and rust. The containers formed artificial canyons, twenty feet high, creating a labyrinth of steel.
The red thread pointed toward a gap between two stacks. Jake edged forward, spider-sense humming low.
He rounded the corner and stopped.
The gap opened into a small clearing. Empty except for a single container, set apart from the others. The markings were standard -- serial numbers, shipping codes. Why was it isolated?
Was the ring in it?
Jake's eyes swept the area, cataloging exits, sight lines, potential threats--
Movement.
A woman emerged from a small office building tucked against the container yard's edge. She walked with casual confidence, shoulders relaxed, no mask, no costume. Just a woman in dark jeans and a leather jacket, moving through the dock like she belonged.
But Jake recognized her immediately.
The build. The posture. The way she moved -- fluid, every step precise. And the face, finally visible without goggles or shadows.
Selina Kyle.
Catwoman unmasked.
She was beautiful in a way that didn't photograph well -- sharp cheekbones, full lips, eyes that held secrets. Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, no dramatic styling. Without the costume, she looked almost ordinary.
Almost.
But Jake's meta-knowledge filled in the gaps.
This was her. The real her.
And the Navigator was screaming.
Jake's interface blazed. The red thread didn't just point in her direction -- it locked onto her specifically. The golden web-field pulsed rapidly, urgency bleeding through every strand.
She had it. The ring. On her person, hidden somewhere.
His mind raced. The ring was a totem. But why? Totems were supposed to be iconic items tied to iconic characters. Harley's mallet. Riddler's cane. Penguin's umbrella.
What ring did Catwoman have that mattered?
Unless...
Jake's jaw clenched. She'd stolen it. Had to be.
Or worse -- what if she'd traded it? Two million dollars for the ring.
Heat surged through Jake's chest. She'd taken the two million dollars that could have changed everything.
His hand twitched, wrist aiming on instinct.
The movement was small. Barely a shift.
But Selina's head snapped toward him.
For half a second, their eyes met across thirty feet of container yard. Her expression shifted -- casual to alert in a heartbeat.
She'd made him.
Jake's spider-sense spiked -- recognition.
Selina's eyes narrowed. Then she moved.
Not running. Blending.
She turned smoothly, like she'd just remembered something, and walked toward a cluster of workers loading a container. Her pace was unhurried, natural, just another person on legitimate business.
But Jake saw the calculation. The workers were big -- dock labor, all muscle and hard hands. She was positioning them between herself and him.
Smart.
Jake stepped out from between the containers. Screw stealth. He wasn't about to let her slip on him twice.
Selina's step faltered for a microsecond. Then she pivoted, moving faster now, threading through the worker cluster with practiced ease.
"Excuse me," she said, voice warm and apologetic. "Sorry, coming through--"
One of the workers looked up just as Jake emerged fully into the clearing. Red and blue suit.
The worker's eyes went wide. "What the--"
"Don't mind me," Jake called, firing a web-line over their heads.
Selina broke into a run.
The workers scattered, shouting. Someone yelled about calling security. Jake ignored them, swinging after Selina.
She was fast. Faster than she had any right to be without powers. She ducked under a forklift, vaulted a railing, and disappeared into the container maze.
Jake landed where she'd been two seconds ago. The Navigator pulsed, tracking her through the walls.
He followed.
The chase wound through artificial canyons of steel. Selina moved like she'd memorized the layout -- sharp turns, sudden reversals, using every obstacle to break line of sight.
She grabbed a length of chain hanging from a container, swinging across a gap Jake had to web-line over. She knocked over a stack of pallets, forcing him to vault. She even triggered a forklift's horn, startling workers into blocking his path.
Pure Catwoman. Using the environment, using people, staying three steps ahead.
But Jake had the Navigator. Every time she broke visual contact, the red thread guided him back. And his enhanced speed was closing the gap.
They burst out of the container maze into an open loading area. Selina sprinted for the water's edge, where a series of abandoned railway cars sat rusting on dead tracks.
She glanced back once. Saw Jake gaining. Her expression hardened.
Selina veered toward a group of workers moving cargo. "Help! That man--" She pointed at Jake. "He's the one Harley's looking for! There's a reward--"
The workers hesitated. Looked at Jake. The spider emblem. The mask. His webs gave him away.
They looked at each other.
Money was a powerful motivator in Gotham.
Jake's spider-sense flared as three of them moved to intercept him, hands reaching for whatever they could use as weapons.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," Jake said, still moving forward.
One swung a crowbar. Jake ducked under it, webbed the man's legs, kept running. Another tried to tackle him. Jake vaulted over his back, used him as a springboard.
The third was smarter -- threw a wrench at Jake's head.
Spider-sense saved him. He caught it mid-air without looking, tossed it aside, and fired a web-line over the crowd.
Selina had gained twenty feet.
"You're not going anywhere BUG-BOY." A tall, bulky figure stepped in his path.
Jake stopped.
His jaw set. Fine. Let her run. Let her think she'd lost him.
The Navigator would find her wherever she went.
He had another problem that needed solving. Two, actually.
"Spider," he said through gritted teeth, fist folding. "Name's The Spider."
The big man blinked, confused by the correction.
"Make sure you remember that."
Then he threw.
His fist connected with the big man's jaw. The man's head snapped back and he collapsed like a felled tree, out cold before he hit the ground.
Feet shuffled behind him, his pursuers skidding to a halt.
Jake turned -- neck then body.
He scanned the ten or so staring at him, uncertain. Hesitant.
But useful.
"You might be just what I need to stop Harley," Jake said, smirking. "All you need is a little convincing."
Webs rained.
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