The Spider Assassin #38
The stars were gone.
Jake's eyes tracked where they'd been moments before -- pinpricks of light that had felt like proof he'd escaped something worse than death. Now just Gotham's perpetual cloud cover, returning like a sick joke. Even the sky wouldn't let him have this.
His body reported damage in waves. Right arm: compound fractures, three distinct breaks. Left arm was worse. The blackened flesh pulsed with heat that felt wrong, like fever concentrated into a single limb. Ribs: compromised, each breath a negotiation with agony. Spine: reset by Bane's hands, but the vertebrae ground against each other with sounds only he could hear.
He needed to move.
The thought came distant. His body argued. His body lost.
Jake rolled onto his side, tasted earth and chemicals. His right arm screamed. His left arm -- that carbonized limb that looked like it belonged in a crematorium — barely registered sensation beyond pressure and heat.
Up. He needed up.
His legs found purchase. Pushed. His body rose in stages: knees, then hunched crouch, finally something approximating vertical. The world tilted. His spider-sense caught him before he fell, warning him which direction meant concrete and which meant grass.
The grass meant away from the tunnel. Away from Bane. Away from Harley's broken form and the patient inevitability of being hunted.
Jake stumbled forward. His gait was wrong - legs moving at different speeds, spine curved at an angle that biology claimed was temporary until healing set it permanent. But he was moving. That counted for something.
The synesthesia hit without warning.
Color exploded across his vision in patterns that had nothing to do with light. The path ahead tasted like Wednesday and smelled purple. His spider-sense translated danger into sensory chaos -- each potential threat painting itself across reality in hues that shouldn't exist.
Red. Everywhere red.
Not blood-red. Not warning-light-red. This was the red of arterial spray translated into sound, the red of broken bones rendered as taste, the red of death approaching from angles his corrupted neurons couldn't properly categorize.
Jake turned. Away from red. Toward… green? No. Blue. The blue that tasted like safety, that smelled like distance between him and things that wanted him dead.
His feet found pavement. An empty street.
Buildings rose on either side. Familiar? Maybe. His memory was fractured, competing with toxins for processing power. But his spider-sense knew. It painted paths through the city in colors that hurt to perceive but were impossible to ignore.
Left here. This alley. Not that one -- red red RED.
The second voice spoke up unbidden, layered over his thoughts like static bleeding through a radio station.
'Why run? Running is boring. Running wastes energy. Energy that could be used for LAUGHING.'
Jake's jaw clenched. His broken body kept moving while his mind fought itself.
'She made you perfect. Made you strong. Why are you running from strong?'
"Shut up." His voice came out raw, destroyed. The words scraped his throat like broken glass.
'Make me. Oh wait -- you can't. I'm the part of you that survived. The part that THRIVED. The part that--'
Jake slammed his blackened fist into a brick wall. The impact sent cracks spiderwebbing through mortar. His hand remained intact -- the Kobra-Venom had reinforced the bones past breaking, even if the flesh looked like charcoal.
The second voice laughed. Not manic. Not cruel. Just… there. Permanent as the chemicals that had rewritten his brain.
His spider-sense pulled him right. Down another alley. The motel should be close. Had to be close. He'd covered his tracks during those first days -- varying his routes, never approaching directly, always coming from different angles to prevent pattern recognition.
Had that been two days ago? Three? Time felt slippery, measured in heartbeats and pain spikes rather than hours.
The synesthesia flared. Orange ahead. Not danger-orange. Just… presence. People. Awake. Moving. His spider-sense mapped them through walls -- homeless in a cardboard shelter, probably, or addicts sharing needles in the kind of communion Gotham specialized in.
Jake gave them distance. Circled wide. His path extended by blocks he didn't have strength for, but red was worse than exhaustion. Red meant confrontation. Red meant bounties and recognition and-
The Oasis Motor Inn's broken sign flickered into view. O _ S I S. The second 'A' had died months ago, nobody cared enough to fix it.
His room was third floor. East side. Window left unlocked because the frame was warped enough that only someone with enhanced strength could force it properly closed anyway.
His blackened hand found the lowest rung of the rusted fire escape and pulled. His body followed with reluctance. Each step up was a discrete negotiation between will and physics. Metal groaned. Bolts shifted in crumbling brick. But it held.
Third floor. His window. Still unlocked.
Jake's fingers found the frame, pried it open with effort that sent tremors through his broken body. The window resisted, scraped, finally yielded. He pulled himself through with his functioning arm, the blackened one hanging uselessly, his legs barely clearing the sill before he collapsed.
The floor was hardwood. Cheap. Stained. But horizontal and stable and his.
Jake lay there. Breathing. Existing. The simple act of not moving felt like victory.
Then the pain hit properly.
His right arm -- the broken one he'd been favoring -- suddenly remembered it was broken. The fractures announced themselves in waves of agony that whited out his vision. Bone fragments ground against each other. Nerves fired distress signals his enhanced system couldn't quite override.
Jake bit down. Tasted blood. His teeth had gone through his lip, which was probably already scarred from previous biting, which meant his healing factor would seal it wrong unless he--
Focus. The arm. Fix the arm.
He pushed himself up with his blackened left hand. The limb responded, sort of. The fingers moved through thick molasses, sensation delayed, strength compromised. But functional enough.
His right arm needed realignment. The bones had set wrong during the escape -- adrenaline overriding proper healing, growth factors rebuilding fractures in whatever configuration they happened to be in.
This was going to hurt.
Jake braced his blackened hand against the wall. Gripped his right forearm with what remained of dexterous control. Pulled.
The scream tore from his throat before he could stop it. Bone ground. Separated. The fractures opened as he forced the arm straight. His vision tunneled. His spider-sense shrieked warnings about structural damage to himself. His right arm's radius and ulna scraped against each other, finding proper alignment through trial and agony.
There. Straight. Anatomically correct.
Jake released. The bones held. His healing factor engaged immediately, sealing the realignment before he could second-guess it.
Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Male. Approaching his door.
"Hey!" A voice. The super, probably. Old guy, Vietnam vet, didn't take shit from tenants. "Everything okay in there? Heard screaming."
Jake's jaw worked. Words wouldn't come. The scream had destroyed something in his throat -- temporary, his healing factor would address it, but right now speaking was agony.
"Fine," he managed. The word came out strangled. Wrong.
"Don't sound fine." The doorknob rattled. Locked, thank fuck. "You hurt? Need me to call-"
"Food." Jake forced the word out. "Hungry. Haven't eaten. Got… too hungry. Hurt myself trying to open… cabinet."
The lie was pathetic. Transparent. But this was the Oasis. People came here to hide. To nurse wounds. To die quietly. The super knew better than to push.
"Cabinet, huh?" Skepticism dripped. "You want me to get you something? Place down the block does delivery till four."
"Cash." Jake pulled himself toward the nightstand, where he'd stashed the bundle from the Roman Ring's bonus reward. "Slide it under the door. I'll… I'll slide money back."
Silence. Then: "You look like hell in there, don't you?"
"Worse."
A laugh. Bitter. Understanding. "Been there. What you want?"
"Everything. Burgers. Chinese. Pizza. Anything. Just… a lot."
"Gonna cost you."
"Have money."
More silence. Then footsteps retreating. Jake heard the super muttering about "fucking tenants" and "probably ODing" but the footsteps continued away, which meant cooperation. The Oasis's unofficial policy: don't die loudly, and we don't ask questions.
Jake pulled himself to the door. Found the cash bundle. Counted out three hundred -- way too much, but he couldn't process exact math, and overpaying meant the super would actually follow through.
He slid the bills under the door. Heard them being collected. More muttering. Then silence.
Jake crawled back to his position against the wall. His right arm was… better. The bones had set properly. The healing factor was working overtime, sealing fractures with speed that would've amazed Dr. Thompkins if she could've witnessed it.
But his left arm.
The blackened limb pulsed with heat that felt wrong. The flesh looked worse than before -- not just carbonized, but swollen. The skin stretched tight over what should've been muscle but felt like something else. Something harder. Denser.
Metabolic byproducts. The Kobra-Venom and Joker toxin at war, and his left arm was the battlefield. The toxins weren't destroying tissue -- they were transforming it into something that biology had no name for.
Jake's eyes closed. Rest. He needed rest. Just a few minutes before the food arrived, before he had to function again, before--
Something pressed against his back.
Sharp. Insistent. A point digging into flesh through the tattered remains of his suit.
Jake's hand -- his right, now functional -- reached around. Found his spine. Found the source.
A thorn.
Green. Gleaming. Curved like a fishhook. Remnant from the rose he'd torn away in that tunnel, a final gift from Ivy's pheromone nightmare.
He pulled it free. The extraction hurt less than it should have -- his back was so damaged that one more puncture barely registered.
The thorn caught light as he held it. Still wet with his blood. Still carrying traces of that concentrated pheromone formula that had enslaved him.
Jake threw it. The thorn clattered against the far wall. Fell. Disappeared into the room's accumulated grime.
But the damage remained. The conditioning wasn't fully gone -- couldn't be gone, not when his blood still carried traces of that poison. But weakened. Diminished. Like a radio signal fading.
'She made you perfect,' the second voice insisted. 'She cared. She protected. She--'
"She drowned me." Jake's voice was stronger now. His throat healing. "Made me kill. Made me--"
'You enjoyed it. You were meant for it.'
Knocking at the door.
"Food's here." The super's voice. "I'm leaving it outside. You got five minutes before I take it back and eat it myself."
Footsteps retreating. A door slamming somewhere down the hall.
Jake pulled himself up. His right arm cooperated. His left arm… moved. Sort of. The blackened limb felt heavier than before. Bulkier. Like the flesh was packed with something that shouldn't exist in human anatomy.
He reached the door. Unlocked it. Cracked it open.
Three bags waited. Grease-stained paper. The smell hit him -- cooking oil, processed cheese, MSG, all the chemical comfort Gotham's late-night establishments specialized in.
Jake grabbed the bags with his right hand. Pulled them inside. Locked the door.
The sight of food triggered something primal. His stomach cramped. His mouth flooded with saliva that tasted like chemicals. His body remembered it needed fuel.
He tore into the first container. Burger. Cold. Congealed. Perfect.
The first bite tasted like colors. The synesthesia translated grease into sound, meat into texture that his tongue interpreted as Thursday afternoon. But his body didn't care. His enhanced metabolism demanded calories.
Jake ate. Mechanically. His right hand bringing food to his mouth while his left arm hung useless. Three bites. Four. His stomach cramped again -- not hunger, something else. The food wasn't sitting right.
He stopped. Forced himself to swallow. His stomach immediately threatened rebellion. The chemicals in his system were rejecting processed food, or his digestive tract was too damaged, or--
Jake set the burger down. Tried the Chinese instead. Fried rice. Easier. His stomach accepted it with less complaint. He managed half the container before nausea forced him to stop.
The pizza was hopeless. Just looking at it triggered dry heaves.
He'd barely eaten. Maybe eight hundred calories total from the three hundred dollars of food surrounding him. His enhanced metabolism needed five thousand minimum just to maintain basic function.
Not enough. But it would have to be.
Jake crawled to the bed. His body wanted horizontal more than it wanted sustenance. He pulled himself onto the mattress -- springs protesting, cheap fabric catching on chemical scars -- and collapsed.
Rest. Just rest. Everything else could wait until--
His eyes closed.
Darkness swallowed him.
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