Gotham Arc #16.
Falcone wasn't what Jake expected.
No theatrical costume, no larger-than-life presence. Just a man in an expensive suit, maybe sixty, with iron-gray hair and eyes that had seen every sin Gotham had to offer and committed most of them personally.
"Miss Kyle," he said, voice like gravel wrapped in silk. "I've been expecting you."
Red laser sights painted Selina's chest in triplicate. One on Jake's head.
Selina's hand moved toward her whip. Froze when the sights tracked with her.
Jake's mind raced. Could he dodge bullets? Theory said yes. Seven guns simultaneously? His spider-sense was giving him trajectories but they overlapped, created kill-boxes with no escape vector.
"You're wondering how I knew," Falcone said, stepping forward slowly. Each movement deliberate, making them wait, enjoying their trapped helplessness. "It's simple. You're predictable, Catwoman. Creatures of sentiment always are."
In his hand, something golden caught the light.
A locket. Simple. Worn. The chain slightly tarnished.
Jake felt the pull immediately. Sharp. Urgent. The same magnetic hunger he'd felt for every other totem.
"You know," Falcone continued, "when someone steals from me, I make it a point to understand why. What drives people to such... profound stupidity."
He stopped five feet away, locket swinging gently from his hand like a hypnotist's watch.
"Security found this after your last visit. At first, I thought it was costume jewelry. Worthless." He flicked it open. Inside: two photographs, faces side by side. Faded. Old. Precious.
Jake couldn't see the details from where he stood, but he didn't need to. The way Selina's entire body locked -- like someone had reached into her chest and squeezed -- told him everything. Whoever was in those photos, they were her world. Her reason.
Falcone's smile widened. "Only after having it appraised could I understand why you would come after my ring." His eyes fixed on Selina with predatory intelligence.
"Give it back." Her voice was ice trying to contain fire.
His hand moved to his waist. Drew a pistol -- nickel-plated, custom grip, the kind of weapon that said: I've killed with this personally.
"You see, Miss Kyle, few understand the significance of the Roman Ring," Falcone said, voice gravely. "Among them, one with a habit of cheating death."
Catwoman's breathing changed -- faster, shallower, like she was fighting not to lunge at him. He had struck a nerve.
"You took something that's belonged to the Falcone family for generations." He aimed the gun at Selina's head. "Where is it?"
"Go to hell," Selina spat, teeth grinding.
"Your audacity knows no bounds," Falcone's jaw tightened. "You didn't just take the ring: you also stole the tournament prize."
Falcone's eyes shifted, cold and analytical.
"Admittedly, the tournament was fruitful, however," he said, voice lowering. "It did it's job -- attracting the strongest in Gotham."
Jake's chest tightened. The tournament had been a recruitment.
"Two million is just a fraction of what I can give you, Spider," he said, turning to Jake. "Although, I hear your interests are, particular."
"No matter, there's nothing in Gotham I can't get my hands on," he said, voice dripping with pride. "Take the ring from her, and I'll grant all of your wishes."
Selina watched Jake, her body stiffening.
Jake's jaw tightened. Falcone thought Selina had the ring. He didn't know Jake had already consumed it. The interface shimmered in his vision -- bonus rewards awaiting his decision.
Falcone's offer was pointless, but it told Jake everything: he was desperate to get it back.
The locket pulsed in Jake's awareness.
He could web it. Yank it free. Redeem it right here. Let Selina handle herself while he got what he needed.
The thought came cold and clear.
"Great offer," Jake started. "Too bad I'm not for hire."
He moved.
Not toward the locket. Toward Selina.
His body slammed into hers, driving them both sideways as Falcone fired. The bullet carved through space where her head had been, the gunshot deafening in the enclosed room.
The guards opened fire.
Jake's spider-sense screamed trajectories -- left-duck-roll -- but seven guns created a geometry of death with no clean exits.
Bullets carved through space, shattering antique vases, splintering mahogany. One punched through his web-line mid-swing, sending him crashing into a bookshelf.
Books exploded around him. He rolled, fired webs reflexively -- caught one guard's gun, yanked it away. The weapon clattered across the floor.
Another guard charged, abandoning the gun for a combat knife. Jake barely twisted away from the blade -- it scored across his ribs, tearing suit fabric. Not deep, but Christ it stung.
Beside him, Selina moved like water. Her whip cracked out, wrapped around the knife-wielder's wrist. She yanked him off-balance, straight into Jake's fist. The man crumpled.
"Thanks--"
"MOVE!"
Selina tackled him sideways. Bullets stitched the floor where he'd been standing. Jake webbed the shooter's face blindly, heard the satisfying thud of the man clawing at sticky strands.
Another guard flanked left. Jake's spider-sense caught it -- behind, gun rising -- he spun, fired a web-shot. The guard dodged, finger tightening on the trigger.
Selina's whip snapped around the gun barrel, jerking it upward. The shot went wild, punching into the ceiling. Plaster rained down.
Jake webbed the guard's legs, yanked. He fell hard.
Four down. Three still mobile. And Falcone backing toward the wall, locket clutched in his fist.
"Get the locket!" Selina shouted, engaging another guard hand-to-hand -- her claws raking across his face, drawing blood.
Jake was already moving. He web-lined toward the desk, pulled himself forward in a rapid slingshot.
Falcone moved faster than expected -- grabbed the locket, retreated toward the wall. His hand found a panel. Pressed.
Iron shutters slammed down over the windows. The door locks engaged with heavy clicks.
Trapped.
Jake landed on the desk. Falcone was five feet away, locket clutched in his fist. The totem pulled at Jake's chest, desperate, hungry.
Behind him, Selina grunted. A guard had her pinned against the wall, arm across her throat.
Jake's hand twitched toward Falcone.
Then he heard her gasping. Choking.
His head snapped around. The guard was pressing harder, professional brutality designed to subdue without killing but with plenty of room for accidents.
"Kill her," Carmine ordered, grinning at Jake.
The guard pressed harder. Selina's eyes bulged behind her goggles.
Jake moved.
Web to the guard's face -- yank his head back. The man's grip loosened. Selina twisted free, gasping.
"Go!" Jake shouted. "Window--"
Spider-sense shrieked.
Gunshot.
Jake moved on pure instinct -- not away, toward. He twisted, putting his body between Selina and the bullet's path. His spider-sense gave him the trajectory, the timing, but not enough space to save them both cleanly.
Pain exploded in Jake's shoulder: white-hot, tearing. His vision whited out. His right arm went numb, then screaming, nerves lighting up like exposed wire.
He looked down. Blood spreading across the suit's red fabric, dark and wet. His right arm hung heavy, fingers twitching uselessly.
"Interesting," Falcone said, tilting his head like he was observing a lab specimen. "They said you don't bleed."
Rage surged through Jake: white-hot, primal, overwhelming. The pain didn't matter. The blood didn't matter.
He launched himself at Falcone.
The man tried to dodge. Too slow. Jake's left fist connected with his jaw -- his right arm useless, dangling -- enhanced strength behind it anyway.
Falcone flew backward, hit the wall, crumpled. The locket skittered across the floor.
Jake was on him in a heartbeat. His left hand closed around Falcone's throat. He lifted the crime lord one-handed, slammed him against the wall hard enough to crack plaster.
His shoulder screamed. The wound tore wider. Blood soaked through the suit, warm and slick, running down his chest. He didn't care.
"Filth like you are what keep Gotham rotting," Jake snarled. His grip tightened. Falcone's face went red, then purple. His hands clawed uselessly at Jake's wrist.
So easy. Just squeeze. Just end it. One less monster in the world.
"Stop!"
Selina's hand on his arm. Her voice cutting through the rage.
"That's enough. We have the locket. We can go."
Jake's vision cleared slowly. Falcone's eyes were bulging. His lips were turning blue.
The man was dying. Jake was killing him.
And part of him wanted to finish it.
Tommy's face flashed in his mind. No -- this was different. People like Falcone were monsters. They deserved death.
But that wasn't the problem. Jake was wrestling with something else. Would ending Falcone be the start of a streak he couldn't stop?
What if he became a monster himself?
His grip loosened. Falcone collapsed, gasping, clutching his throat.
He webbed him to the wall. Thorough. Layers upon layers until only his head was visible, purple-faced and wheezing.
Then he grabbed the locket from where it had fallen.
The totem pull was immediate. Satisfying. Right.
"Let's go," he said. She nodded.
Jake tried to raise his right arm. It wouldn't respond.
Shit.
He switched to his left hand, fired a thin layer of web across the wound with shaking fingers. Not covering it -- creating a pressure seal. Barely.
The webbing mixed with blood, turned dark purple-red. He could feel his heartbeat in the wound, each pulse sending fresh pain down his arm.
"Can you swing?" Selina asked, voice tight.
"About to find out."
He fired his left wrist at the iron shutters. Yanked hard.
His shoulder shrieked -- the wound tearing wider, hot blood soaking fresh through the webbing. His vision grayed at the edges.
The metal groaned. Bent.
Not enough.
"Help me," Jake gasped.
Selina was already moving. Her whip cracked out, wrapped around the shutter's edge. Together they pulled -- her with technique, him with raw desperation.
The metal tore free with a screech.
Behind them, Falcone wheezed against the webbing, eyes burning with promises of retribution.
"You're dead. Both of you. I'll hunt you to the ends of the--"
Jake webbed his mouth shut.
They dove through the opening into Gotham's night.
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