Gotham Arc #19.
Jake's lungs burned. His legs screamed. His shoulder wept fresh blood through Thompkins' bandages.
The goons were gaining.
Twenty clowns had become thirty. Thirty became fifty. They poured from manholes like cockroaches fleeing poison, converging on him with the coordination of a hive mind. Baseball bats rattled against crowbars. Chains scraped pavement. Their painted faces grinned with manic hunger.
"FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS!" one screamed, voice cracking with greed. "HARLEY'S PAYING FIVE GRAND FOR THE BUG!"
The number hit Jake like a fist. Five thousand. Was he that cheap?
But that was rent for half of Gotham's East End. That was food for months. Medicine. Escape money.
That was enough to make desperate people do desperate things.
"DEAD OR ALIVE?" another shouted.
"ALIVE, YOU IDIOT! SHE WANTS HIM BREATHING!"
Worse. So much worse. Death would be quick. Whatever Harley had planned--
Jake dove right, sliding across broken pavement as a bat carved through space where his skull had been. Rolled. Came up limping. Kept moving.
His right arm hung useless. Every breath stabbed his ribs. His vision swam at the edges, blood loss and exhaustion compounding. He'd been running for six blocks. Maybe seven. The streets blurred together.
A brick sailed past his head. Too close. His spider-sense was lagging, overwhelmed by too many threats from too many angles. Couldn't track them all. Couldn't--
Gunshot.
Jake threw himself behind a parked van. The rear window exploded, raining glass. His heart hammered against his ribs hard enough to bruise.
"NOBODY SAID NOTHING ABOUT GUNS!"
"YOU WANT THE MONEY OR NOT?"
More voices joined. Not clowns. Rougher. Older. Street goons drawn by the bounty like sharks to blood.
Jake risked a glance around the van's edge. The crowd had doubled. Tripled. They filled the street corner to corner, a mob unified by greed and Harley's promise. Some wore her colors. Others wore gang tags. Didn't matter. They all wanted the same thing.
Him.
"There's too many," Jake breathed, chest heaving. "Too many, and I can't--"
Movement above. His spider-sense tingled weakly.
Rooftop. Figure moving fast, graceful, predatory.
Jake's stomach dropped. He knew that silhouette. The way she moved, fluid and feline despite the distance.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Cheshire.
Her too. His face turned pale, heart desiring to stop. His breath stiffened, lungs giving out.
His best chance of surviving was going up. But she was on every rooftop -- not just hunting -- herding.
Cutting off his aerial escape routes before he could even consider them.
Behind the van, the mob pressed closer. Fifty feet. Forty. They'd figured out where he was hiding, and they were done being cautious.
"RUSH HIM!"
Jake burst from cover, firing a web-line at the building ahead with his left hand. The strand caught. He pulled--
His shoulder tore. The scream locked in his throat, came out as a strangled gasp. The web-line went slack. He fell hard, rolled, came up on his knees.
The mob surged forward like a wave.
Jake fired webs wildly: left, right, center -- catching faces, legs, torsos. Goons went down tangled and cursing. But more kept coming. For every one he webbed, three more filled the gap.
A crowbar swung for his head. Spider-sense guided his duck. The metal whistled overhead. Jake's left fist drove into the goon's solar plexus. The man folded, gasping.
Baseball bat from behind. Jake twisted, caught it one-handed. Yanked. The wielder stumbled forward. Jake's knee found his gut. The bat clattered free.
But there were too many. All sides. No way--
Pain exploded across his back. Someone had gotten through. Boot or bat, didn't matter. Jake stumbled forward, vision whiting out for half a second.
Hands grabbed his injured shoulder. Squeezed.
Jake screamed. Couldn't help it. His left elbow snapped back, caught someone's nose. Crunch. The hands released.
He ran.
Left. Right. Alley. Street. Circle back -- no, clown van. Other way.
The mob followed. Always following. Always closing.
Jake's mind raced. Options. He needed options.
Swing? Right arm useless. Left too weak to pull his full weight repeatedly.
Fight? Fifty-plus opponents. Injured. Exhausted. Math didn't work.
Hide? They had spotters in the sewers. Eyes everywhere.
Run? Where? How far before his body quit?
CRACK.
Gunshot. Close. Too close.
The bullet didn't hit him. Hit the pavement three feet ahead, sparked, ricocheted into a storefront window.
Jake's head snapped toward the shooter.
No.
Lady Vic stood twenty feet away, rifle raised, eye pressed to the scope. British. Composed. Hair still perfectly styled despite the chaos around her. She lowered the rifle slightly, letting him see her face.
"Well, well," she said, accent crisp as cut glass. "This isn't what the man who stole my two million should look like."
Jake's chest tightened. Tournament survivors. Of course. He'd humiliated them, beaten them, taken their prize. Why wouldn't they want revenge?
"Helpless," Lady Vic continued, almost conversational. She took three measured steps forward, rifle tracking his center mass. "Pathetic, really. Where's that lovely spider agility now?"
She fired.
Jake threw himself sideways -- too slow, injured, exhausted--
The bullet grazed his left thigh. Hot wire slicing through muscle. His leg buckled. He caught himself on one hand, came up limping worse than before.
"You can't even dodge my bullets now, can you?" Lady Vic's smile was cold professional satisfaction. "Shall we see how many you can take before you stop moving?"
Jake fired a web-shot. Weak. Desperate. She sidestepped with minimal effort, didn't even break stride.
"Your webs are pathetic," she said, chambering another round. "Rather like you at the moment."
The mob held back, forming a loose circle. They'd recognized opportunity when they saw it. Let the professional soften him up. Collect the pieces after.
Jake's mind raced. Fight her? With one arm and a bullet-grazed leg?
He turned to run.
And froze.
King Snake stood fifteen feet away, blocking the alley's opposite end.
The blind martial artist's posture was perfect. Balanced. Ready. His head tilted slightly, listening to Jake's ragged breathing, his uneven heartbeat, the way his weight favored his left leg.
"Spider," King Snake said quietly. "I've been looking for a rematch."
Behind Jake, Lady Vic's rifle clicked. Ahead, King Snake advanced with patient inevitability.
The mob watched, hungry and patient. Someone would win. Someone would collect. Didn't matter who.
Jake's spider-sense buzzed weakly. Danger front. Danger back. Danger everywhere.
He was trapped.
King Snake moved first. Fast. Silent. A straight thrust aimed at Jake's sternum: precise, professional, designed to collapse a lung.
Jake twisted, barely. The fist grazed his ribs. His counter-punch was clumsy, off-balance. King Snake deflected it with contemptuous ease.
Behind him, Lady Vic fired. The bullet carved past Jake's head, so close he felt the heat.
"Do try to stand still," she called. "Makes this rather easier."
Jake dove left, rolled, came up against a dumpster. His vision swam. Blood ran down his thigh, warm and slick. His right arm hung dead weight.
King Snake advanced. Patient. Methodical. Every step placed with absolute precision.
"You fought well in the tournament," King Snake said. His voice was almost respectful. "But you were fresh then. Uninjured. Now? You're just prey."
He struck, three-hit combination, each blow targeting nerve clusters Jake's spider-sense barely caught in time. Block. Dodge. Backstep. But each defensive movement cost him. His body was failing.
"ENOUGH!"
The new voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
Onyx dropped from the fire escape above, landing in a perfect crouch between Jake and King Snake. She rose slowly, dangerous grace in every movement.
"The Penguin and Riddler are paying handsomely for him," she said, eyes locked on Jake. "Alive. Intact enough to answer questions." Her smile was sharp, predatory. "Didn't specify anything about his bones being unbroken."
Jake's blood went cold. Penguin. Riddler. Another bounty?
He had pissed off the wrong people. Now, the consequences were catching up.
"The money's mine," Lady Vic said, rifle swinging toward Onyx. "I saw him first."
"Irrelevant," King Snake replied, not even looking at her. "Strongest claim wins."
"Then we're agreed," Onyx said. "Strongest claim."
For three seconds, the tournament survivors stared at each other. Professional killers calculating odds, measuring threats, deciding whether cooperation or competition served them best.
The mob behind them stirred, sensing opportunity. If the professionals fought each other--
CRASH.
The wall beside them exploded inward. Brick and mortar erupted like a bomb had gone off. The crowd scattered, screaming.
Through the dust and debris, a massive figure emerged.
Bronze Tiger.
Not the man. Eight feet of muscle and rage wrapped in fur and hunger. His talisman glowed against his chest, feeding the transformation.
Yellow eyes locked on Jake.
The tiger roared. The sound shook windows. Car alarms triggered up and down the street.
"Mine," Bronze Tiger growled, voice barely human. "My hunt. My kill. MINE."
He charged.
Jake's spider-sense exploded. He threw himself sideways as Bronze Tiger's claws carved through the dumpster's steel like paper. Metal shrieked. The dumpster split in half, garbage spilling across the alley.
Lady Vic fired. Three shots. Center mass.
The bullets punched into Bronze Tiger's chest. He stumbled. Roared. Kept coming.
"Bloody hell," Lady Vic breathed.
King Snake moved, fluid and deadly. His palm strike caught Bronze Tiger's extended arm, redirected the momentum. Bronze Tiger's claws hit brick instead of flesh. The wall cracked.
Onyx engaged from the other side, quick strikes targeting nerve clusters, joints, anything vulnerable.
Bronze Tiger's backhand sent her flying. She hit the opposite wall, crumpled.
The three tournament survivors had one thing in common now: Bronze Tiger was a problem.
And Jake was forgotten.
He moved. Crawled. Dragged himself toward the alley's end while they fought behind him. His shoulder wept blood. His thigh burned. Every inch cost him.
The mob ahead stirred. Harley's clowns and Gotham's street goons, reunited by shared purpose. They'd backed off from Bronze Tiger's rampage, but they saw Jake crawling.
Easy target. Easy money.
They surged forward.
Jake's hand found a discarded chain. He grabbed it, swung it weakly. The arc was pathetic. The clowns laughed.
"Five grand," one whispered, eyes gleaming behind his mask. "Split fifty ways, that's still a hundred each."
"Don't have to split if we don't tell," another replied.
Knives came out. Bats raised. They pressed closer, no longer unified. Greed had fractured them into individuals, each wanting the largest share.
They fell on each other like starving dogs.
Jake kept crawling. The fighting behind and ahead created chaos -- a corridor of violence he dragged himself through. Someone's boot caught his ribs. Might have been accident. Might not. Jake gasped, kept moving.
Five feet. Three. Almost there--
A whip cracked overhead.
Jake looked up.
Cheshire crouched above, that porcelain mask grinning down at him. She'd been watching. Waiting. Herding him here like livestock.
"Hello, Spider," she purred. "Remember me? You webbed me up pretty thoroughly last time. Let's see how you handle my toxins when you can barely stand."
Her fan snapped open. Poison gleamed on the edges.
Behind Jake, Bronze Tiger's roar shook the alley. Lady Vic's rifle fired steadily. King Snake's strikes were sharp percussion against flesh. Onyx's breathing was labored, pained.
Ahead, the mob tore itself apart over his bounty.
Above, Cheshire prepared to drop.
Jake's spider-sense screamed from every direction. No escape. No way out. No--
BOOM.
The manhole cover beside him exploded upward. Clowns poured out like ants from a kicked nest. Dozens. More than should fit in the tunnel below.
But these weren't fighting. They were organized. Coordinated.
"THERE!" one screamed. "GET HIM! HARLEY WANTS HIM NOW!"
They fell on him like a wave.
Jake tried to fight. His left fist connected with someone's jaw. Someone else grabbed his injured arm. He screamed. A bat cracked across his back. His legs gave out.
They swarmed him. Hands everywhere. Pulling. Dragging. His webs fired weakly, caught nothing. Someone kicked his head. Stars exploded across his vision.
"GOT HIM! WE GOT HIM!"
Jake's consciousness flickered. He was moving. Being dragged. Toward the manhole. Down into darkness.
Cheshire dropped, fan raised: too late. The clowns had already pulled him underground.
Bronze Tiger charged through the crowd -- too slow. The manhole cover slammed shut.
Lady Vic fired at the steel -- useless. The bullet sparked, ricocheted.
Jake's last glimpse of surface Gotham was distorted light through the manhole's holes. Then even that disappeared.
The tunnels swallowed him whole.
Darkness. Water. Echoing laughter.
Hands dragged him through filth. His head cracked against stone. Once. Twice. He tried to fight. Couldn't. His body had nothing left.
"Harley's gonna be SO happy," someone giggled.
Jake's eyes closed.
The darkness won.
Read ahead to #42 in patreon.com/MimicLord
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