The Spider Assassin #43.
The skylight exploded inward.
Glass rained down in glittering shards that caught orange firelight from Gotham burning beyond the factory walls.
Jake dropped through the opening, his right hand gripping webbing that dissolved the moment his boots hit metal grating. The impact sent shockwaves through corroded infrastructure, bolts shearing from their moorings with sounds like rifle shots.
He landed beside the vat.
The Chemical Pool bubbled with patient malevolence, that nightmare green casting shadows that moved wrong across his face. Steam rose in lazy coils, carrying the stench of dissolution. Of rebirth. Of the place where Joker had been born and where Jake Cross had drowned.
Twice.
His chest heaved. The severed arm hung from its harness, pulsing with internal heat that had nothing to do with body temperature. His right hand clenched, knuckles cracking loud enough to echo through the factory's vast emptiness.
"WHERE IS SHE?"
The words tore from his throat like broken glass. His spider-sense painted the space in shades of blue -- cold, empty, lifeless blue that tasted like absence. No threats. No targets. No red warning of danger approaching.
Just void.
Jake's head snapped left. The catwalk where King Snake had hung -- empty now, the net dissolved or removed, leaving only corroded railing and the memory of vertebrae snapping under webbing's constriction. His eyes tracked to the floor where Lady Vic had landed. The blood was still there, dried to brown-black, but the body was gone.
East. The tunnel entrance where Harley had dragged him, singing lullabies while his broken form leaked chemicals onto concrete. The passage yawned like a wound, darkness absolute beyond the first few feet.
His boots carried him forward. Each step deliberate. Measured. The grating groaned under his weight -- under the weight of the severed arm that pulled at his shoulder, threw off his balance, reminded him with every movement what she'd cost him.
The tunnel mouth revealed nothing. Just absence where Harley Quinn should have been waiting. Should have been cowering. Should have been begging for mercy she wouldn't receive.
Gone.
Bane had taken her. Had to have taken her. To protect his investment in their eventual confrontation.
But to where?
Jake turned back toward the vat. His reflection rippled across its surface, distorted by chemical currents. One-armed figure carrying his own corruption like penance. The face that stared back was masked. But what he saw was chemical-scarred, eyes sunken, expression empty of everything except purpose.
Harley had stood here. Right here. Bat in hand, makeup running, making choices that had seemed reasonable in her fractured mind. She'd believed she was helping. Believed the chemicals would make him perfect. Believed wrapping wounds made them disappear.
The memory surfaced without invitation:
Her hands on his face. Fingers gentle despite the broken ribs, despite everything. 'You came back for me. Twice. Jumped in the soup twice and came back stronger.'
Jake's right hand found the vat's edge. Gripped hard enough that metal groaned. The chemicals had rewritten his neurology, turned laughter into involuntary response, made killing feel like pleasing her. He'd murdered tournament fighters while giggling. Had pulled Lady Vic apart and presented the pieces for approval.
'Good boy! Oh baby, we're gonna paint this city red! No -- green! Like your pretty webs!'
His reflection wavered. For a heartbeat, the face staring back wasn't his. Black eyes. Grin stretched too wide. Good Night looking back at him with devotion that made his stomach turn.
The laughter bubbled up unbidden. Started in his chest, climbed his throat, tried to escape through lips that wouldn't cooperate anymore. The chemicals were fading but not gone. Would never be fully gone. That corruption lived in his cells now.
Jake's hand released the vat. Found his face instead. Pressed against chemical-damaged skin hard enough to hurt. The pain helped. Grounded him. Reminded him that he was still here, still present, still capable of feeling something beyond the conditioning.
He'd lost an arm. Had cut it off himself because the infection was spreading. Because Harley's "help" had poisoned him at a cellular level. Because her love was toxic in the most literal sense.
The severed limb pulsed against his torso. Warm. Heavy. Wrong.
"WHERE ARE YOU?"
The scream echoed off corroded walls, bounced through empty catwalks, died in the chemical haze. No answer. Just his own voice returning hollow and mocking.
His spider-sense rippled. Not danger. Not threat. Just... wrongness. The vat was too close, the chemicals too concentrated, his enhanced perception struggling to separate present from traumatic memory. Every nerve ending remembered drowning. Remembered the green swallowing him. Remembered the moment consciousness had fled and something else had taken the wheel.
Jake stepped back from the vat.
His right hand trembled with the sustained effort of staying vertical, of maintaining forward momentum when his body wanted collapse.
The Kobra-Venom had helped stabilize his system but the cost was mounting. His cardiovascular system ran on borrowed efficiency. His healing factor operated in overdrive just to keep organs functional.
🕷️
Time Bank: 00:10:47
🕸️
Ten hours. Forty-seven minutes. The numbers burned in his peripheral vision, patient and inevitable.
Not enough time to search Gotham. Not enough time to track Bane's movements through a city that was actively burning. Not enough time to--
"Spider."
The voice cut through his spiral like a blade through water.
Jake's head snapped up. His spider-sense shifted -- the blue void suddenly interrupted by presence. Warmth. Life. A figure descended from the shattered skylight with acrobatic grace that made the movement look choreographed.
She landed fifteen feet away. Black tactical suit. No goggles this time. Face visible. Beautiful in ways that photographs never quite captured -- sharp cheekbones, full lips, eyes that held recognition and something that might have been relief.
"Is it really you?" Selina Kyle's voice carried genuine uncertainty. "I've been looking everywhere."
Jake's body went rigid. His spider-sense painted her in... colors that didn't make sense. Not threat-red. Not safety-blue. Something in between, flickering, indecisive. The vat's proximity was corrupting his perception, making everything feel wrong.
Had to be that. Had to be.
Selina took a step forward. Then another. Her movements were careful, measured, like approaching something that might bolt. "I thought you were dead. The news said -- they found bodies in the tunnels, and I thought--"
She was moving faster now. Arms spreading. The universal gesture of embrace, of comfort, of connection between people who'd survived something terrible together.
Jake stepped back.
Instinct. Pure and undeniable. His body rejecting contact before his mind could process why.
Selina stopped. Her arms lowered slowly. Hurt flickered across her features, quickly suppressed. "It's me. Selina. Remember?"
The words should have meant something. Should have triggered warmth. She'd trusted him. He'd returned her most precious possession when he could have consumed it. They'd survived together.
"I thought you left Gotham." His voice came out flat. Chemical-damaged. Empty of inflection.
"I wanted to." Selina's hand went to her chest, fingers finding something beneath her suit. The locket, probably. Still there. Still safe.
She took another step forward. Slower this time. Testing.
"But I couldn't leave you behind. Not after--" Her eyes found his missing arm. The stump where his elbow ended. The severed limb hanging in its harness. "Oh God. What did they do to you?"
Something in her voice made his chest tighten. Genuine concern. Real emotion. The kind that penetrated even through chemical corruption and survival instinct.
Jake's right hand lowered fractionally. His guard dropping. Just slightly.
Selina moved closer. "Let me help. Please. We can get you out of Gotham. I know people in Metropolis. Doctors who don't ask questions. We can--"
She was within arm's reach now. Her hand extended, trembling slightly, reaching for his face with the gentleness of someone handling something precious and broken.
His spider-sense hummed. That wrong note. That off-key frequency that his analytical mind kept dismissing as trauma response, as chemical corruption, as proximity to the vat that had drowned him.
Her fingers touched the fabric above his cheek.
Warm. Real. The contact sent signals his starved nervous system processed as comfort. As safety. As everything his isolation had denied him.
Jake's right arm moved. Not pushing her away. Accepting. Allowing.
Selina stepped into his space. Her other hand found his chest, pressed against the spider emblem. "You're alive. You survived. That's what matters."
She pulled him into an embrace.
His right arm moved automatically, returning the gesture. Her head tucked against his shoulder -- the one that still existed. Her breathing was steady, controlled, the rhythm of someone maintaining composure through effort.
The severed arm pulsed between them. Forty pounds of corrupted flesh pressing against her side. She didn't flinch. Didn't recoil. Just held tighter.
Jake's spider-sense screamed.
Not danger-red. Not void-blue. This was different. This was wrongness concentrated into certainty. Every nerve ending reporting data his conscious mind had been ignoring: her heartbeat was wrong, her body temperature was wrong, her scent was wrong.
His right hand moved to her throat.
Closed.
Lifted.
Selina's feet left the ground. Her hands flew to his wrist, clawing, trying to break the grip that wouldn't break. Enhanced strength channeled through one arm, holding her suspended like she weighed nothing.
Her eyes went wide. Not just surprise. Recognition of threat. Of mistake.
"Spider--" The word choked off as his fingers tightened. "Please-- what's gotten into--"
Jake's face remained empty. His voice came out quiet. Conversational. The tone of someone asking about weather.
"The locket. Where is it?"
Confusion flickered across her features. Genuine confusion that would have been perfect if his spider-sense wasn't shrieking wrongness. Her hand went to her chest, fingers scrabbling at her suit, trying to show him, trying to prove--
Nothing. No chain. No locket. Just tactical fabric and desperation.
"I-- it's at the safe house. I can take you there. Spider, please--"
"Where is it?"
His grip tightened incrementally. Her face was going red. Veins standing out in her neck. Her legs kicked uselessly, finding only air.
🕷️
Time Bank: 00:10:39
🕸️
Ten hours. Thirty-nine minutes.
Jake's head tilted. Studying her. Watching the panic spread across features that looked exactly like Selina Kyle's. Perfect replication. Flawless detail. The kind of mimicry that fooled everyone.
Everyone except spider-sense enhanced by chemical corruption and Kobra-Venom and the desperate awareness that came from measuring life in minutes.
"The locket," he repeated. His voice carried no emotion. No anger. No satisfaction. Just the flat certainty of someone who already knew the answer. "Where is it?"
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