The Spider Assassin #44
Three days before Gotham burned completely:
Harvey Dent's right hand rested on his coin. His left adjusted the perfectly straight tie on his pristine half of the suit. The divide ran down the center with surgical precision -- immaculate cream on the right, burned black leather on the left. Scar tissue caught the dim warehouse light where fabric met flesh.
Behind him, twenty men in split-colored suits stood in formation. Half white, half black. Their faces showed the nervous energy of soldiers waiting for orders they suspected would get them killed.
Across from Harvey, the figure slumped against rusted machinery wore the face of a dock worker. Unremarkable. Forgettable. The kind of face that disappeared in crowds. But the posture was wrong -- too fluid, too comfortable occupying space that should have felt foreign.
"You're sweating." Harvey's unscarred eye studied the figure with clinical precision. "Dock workers sweat when they're nervous or working. You're doing neither."
The figure's hand went to its forehead. Came away glistening. The moisture was there but the biological response felt performed rather than involuntary.
"It's hot in here," the dock worker said. The voice matched the face but carried an actor's quality. Lines delivered with technical accuracy but missing the unconscious rhythms of genuine speech.
Harvey's scarred side smiled. The expression pulled skin in ways that suggested pain but his tone remained conversational. "Basil. We've known each other six years. You don't need to perform for me."
The dock worker's features rippled. Not melting -- flowing. Like water finding its true shape after being forced into the wrong container. The face reformed into something patrician. Distinguished. The kind that belonged in theater programs and old Hollywood photographs.
Clayface straightened, adjusting a collar that didn't exist on his current form. "Force of habit. You know how it is."
"I know you haven't given me an answer." Harvey's hand moved from his coin to his jacket. Not aggressive. Just repositioning. "Falcone's offering three million for the Spider. Split between whoever delivers him. Decent money for decent work."
"It's excellent money," Clayface agreed. His features shifted slightly -- jawline sharper, eyes colder. The face wanted to become someone else but discipline held it stable. "Which is why I'm confused about your pitch."
Harvey's right hand gestured toward the warehouse's broken windows. Through them, Gotham's skyline stood intact. Lights functioning. Systems operating. The city that would burn completely in seventy-two hours looked almost peaceful in the pre-dawn light.
"That three million is a bounty. One-time payment. You collect, you leave, you wait for the next job." His scarred side took over the speech. "But if we remove the pieces controlling Gotham's board? If we take advantage of this chaos Nigma started by spreading word about the Roman Ring?" The scarred mouth pulled into something approximating a smile. "Then we own the game. Not just this round. Every round after."
Clayface's features twitched. The edges blurring slightly before resolving. "You're talking about going against Falcone. Against the families. Against--"
"Against a power structure that's already fracturing." Harvey pulled out his coin. The two-headed silver dollar that decided everything when his mind couldn't. "The Roman Ring is gone. Consumed by some spider freak who steals identities through objects. The foundations are cracking."
He flipped the coin. It spun through dusty air, catching light on both sides. Harvey caught it. Looked. His face remained neutral.
"Heads says we make our move now. While Gotham burns. While the families scramble to fill the power vacuum. While Falcone's distracted hunting the Spider." He pocketed the coin without revealing which side had landed. "Or we wait for the chaos to settle and collect our three million like good little contractors."
The warehouse settled around them. One of Harvey's men shifted weight from foot to foot. The small sound echoed too loudly in the silence.
"You're planning on taking Falcone's money for protection," Clayface said slowly. The pieces arranging themselves in his mind showed on his face as micro-expressions fought for dominance. "Then using that position to eliminate him. Along with Maroni. The Odessas. The Skeevers. Everyone who matters."
"I'm planning on investing in Gotham's future." Harvey's unscarred half delivered the words with the earnestness of someone who genuinely believed them. "This city needs structure. Order. Not the corrupt foundation Falcone built but something cleaner. Something--"
"Something with you at the top."
"With us at the top." Harvey stepped closer. His men tensed but didn't move. "You. Me. Others who understand opportunity when it presents itself. We're not street thugs. We're professionals. We deserve better than scraps from Falcone's table."
Clayface's features shifted again. The jawline softened. The eyes widened fractionally. His face was trying to find the expression that would give the right answer but kept cycling through possibilities.
"Is there a problem with that?" Harvey's scarred side leaned forward. "Going against Falcone? Taking what we're owed?"
"No problem." The response came too quickly. Too smooth. The kind of reassurance that dissolved the moment pressure was applied.
Harvey's hand found his coin again. Turned it over between fingers without looking. His unscarred eye studied Clayface while his scarred eye studied the men behind him.
"I don't like two-faced answers, Basil."
The irony hung in the air like smoke. Several of Harvey's men shifted uncomfortably. Their boss using that particular phrase was either brilliant theater or complete lack of self-awareness. With Harvey Dent, both were possible simultaneously.
Clayface's features solidified. Locked into the patrician face with absolute stillness. "You're asking me to betray a contract. Falcone hired me for protection. Taking his money then eliminating him..." He shook his head. "That's not how I operate. I'm a professional."
"You're an actor." Harvey's voice dropped. "You play roles. Right now you're playing the loyal contractor who honors his commitments. But we both know that's just another face you wear."
"Maybe that face is more honest than you think."
Harvey's hand stopped moving. The coin rested between his thumb and forefinger. "Then we have a problem."
The warehouse's temperature seemed to drop. Harvey's men spread out incrementally. Not threatening. Not yet. Just repositioning with the casual efficiency of people who'd done this before.
Clayface's body language shifted. The patrician bearing dissolved into something looser. More adaptable. Ready to flow in whatever direction survival demanded.
"I'll think about it," he said carefully. Each word measured. "Your pitch has merit. The timing is opportune. But I need to consider--"
"The coin already decided." Harvey opened his palm. Revealed the scarred side facing up. "Fate says you're either with us or you're an obstacle to remove."
"Harvey--"
"Three million bounty split between hunters." The scarred side of Harvey's mouth pulled into something sharp. "Or Gotham's entire underworld controlled by people who saw the opportunity. The choice was always simple."
Clayface's features began rippling. Not changing faces. Just losing cohesion. The molecular bonds holding his form steady were loosening as his concentration fragmented between maintaining appearance and calculating escape vectors.
"I choose the bounty." The words came out firm. Final. "Three million is real. Your revolution is hypothetical. I'll take reality over revolution."
Harvey's unscarred eye held disappointment. His scarred eye held nothing. "Then you're dismissed."
The double meaning was clear. Clayface's form solidified back into the dock worker. Unremarkable. Forgettable. He moved toward the warehouse door with casual speed that suggested calm but his body language screamed relief at reaching the exit intact.
Harvey watched him leave. Didn't move until the door closed and footsteps faded completely.
"He'll warn Falcone," one of his men said quietly.
"He'll try to play both sides." Harvey corrected. "Collect the bounty. Keep Falcone's protection money. Stay neutral enough to survive whoever wins." His hand flipped the coin again. "But neutrality is just another form of two-faced behavior. And Gotham's burning too hot for anyone to stay neutral much longer."
The coin landed. He didn't check which side. Just pocketed it and turned toward the door.
"Make sure the other hunters get the same offer. Appeal to their greed. Their ambition. Whatever motivates them." His voice carried the absolute certainty of someone who'd already decided fate through a coin flip. "By the time Gotham stops burning, the only people left standing will be those smart enough to choose the right side."
His men followed him out. The warehouse settled into silence. Through broken windows, the first hints of dawn light touched Gotham's skyline.
Seventy-two hours until the city burned completely. Until Harvey's revolution either succeeded or dissolved into the chaos that defined every attempt to control Gotham's underworld.
But in that moment, with dawn breaking and fate decided by coin flip, anything felt possible.
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That was three days ago.
Before Gotham went completely under. Before the one-armed figure appeared at the Chemical Factory carrying his own corruption like penance.
And now, holding someone precious by the throat without remorse, Jake Cross learned that trust was just another weapon Gotham used to destroy you.
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"Please--" The word choked off as Jake's fingers tightened incrementally. Selina's face was going from red to purple. Her hands clawed at his wrist with diminishing strength. "Spider-- what's-- can't--"
Her expression shifted. Not gradually. Not the slow dissolution of hope into fear. This was instant transformation. The desperation vanished like someone had flipped a switch. Her lips pulled back in a grin that was all wrong for someone being strangled.
"Oh, you're a smart Spider."
The voice was still Selina's. Still carried her vocal patterns. But the delivery was pure theater -- an actor appreciating another actor's performance. Her body stopped struggling. Hung limp in his grip like she'd accepted fate while simultaneously finding it amusing.
Jake's spider-sense screamed confirmation. The wrongness that had been humming in the background crystallized into certainty. Every nerve ending reported data his conscious mind had tried to ignore. This was occupation. Invasion. Something wearing a face that didn't belong to it.
"Makes sense why you aren't dead yet." The voice continued, conversational despite the constricted airway. "With all the heat on you. All the bounties. All the hunters." A pause. "You're actually paying attention."
Jake's grip didn't loosen. "Show me."
The face rippled. Selina's features flowed like wax exposed to flame. Cheekbones shifted. Eye color changed. The sharp beauty dissolved into something patrician. Distinguished. The face from old theater programs and Hollywood photographs.
Clayface.
The transformation continued. Selina's body mass redistributed. Shoulders broadened. Height increased. Jake's hand adjusted automatically, maintaining the grip as the throat he held expanded and reformed.
The change completed. Clayface hung suspended in Jake's grasp, wearing his true face with the resignation of someone whose cover had been comprehensively blown.
"Impressive," Clayface managed. His voice was smooth despite the constriction. Theatrical training teaching him how to speak through compromised airways. "Most people don't catch on until I'm already gone. But you--" He smiled. "You knew something was wrong before I even touched you."
Jake's face remained empty behind the mask. "Why Selina?"
"Because she matters to you." Clayface's features rippled slightly. The molecular bonds holding him together struggled under the stress of being suspended. "Or mattered. Past tense seems more appropriate given--" He gestured weakly at Jake's hand around his throat.
Jake threw him.
Clayface hit the grating with a wet sound that suggested bones breaking but his body absorbed the impact wrong. Distributed force through molecular flexibility that turned the fall into merely unpleasant.
He rolled. Came up in a crouch. His features shifted rapid-fire through faces -- trying to find one that inspired mercy or hesitation or some emotion that would create an opening.
Jake's right hand shot forward, webbing erupting from his wrist in a thick strand that caught Clayface's torso and yanked him forward.
Clayface's face cycled through expressions too quickly to track. Each one precisely calibrated to trigger specific emotional responses. Fear. Defiance. Confusion. Pain. But Jake's chemical-corrupted neurons processed them all as data rather than empathy triggers.
The webbing constricted. Wrapped around Clayface's arms. His chest. Began coating him in layers that hissed and steamed where they made contact. The white-green strands were more toxic than before -- concentrated by desperation and the Kobra-Venom still coursing through Jake's system.
Clayface screamed. The sound was genuine. His molecular structure was designed for adaptation but the webbing was eating through him at a cellular level. Wherever it touched, his flesh began dissolving. The mimicry failing as his body prioritized survival over maintaining form.
"Stop--" The word barely made it through. "Burning-- I'm--"
Jake's hand found Clayface's throat again. Lifted. The webbing made purchase difficult but his enhanced strength compensated. He slammed Clayface against the nearest support column. Metal groaned. Rivets popped.
"The clowns were Harley's." Jake's voice was flat. Conversational. "The tournament fighters belonged to Riddler and Penguin. Small-time revenge." His grip tightened. "But you. Deadshot. Bane." His head tilted. "Those contracts cost real money. Someone with resources hired you."
Clayface's features were losing cohesion completely now. The patrician face melted into something generic. Unmemorable. His body was trying to dissolve and escape through the webbing but each attempt just exposed more surface area to the corrosive strands.
"Falcone--" The name came out strangled. "Carmine-- he called us-- protection--"
Jake's hand released. Let Clayface drop. The shapeshifter hit the grating and immediately tried flowing away. His body spreading thin, seeking gaps in the metal to escape through.
Jake's boot came down on Clayface's head. Pinned it. The pressure wasn't enough to crush but sufficient to prevent further transformation. Clayface's features froze mid-shift, trapped between faces.
"Bane." Jake's voice carried absolute certainty that disobedience would be answered with escalation. "Where is he?"
Clayface's remaining eye -- the one not pressed into metal grating -- tracked desperately. Looking for rescue that wasn't coming. Looking for escape vectors that didn't exist.
"I-- I know where--" His voice was losing its theatrical quality. Raw panic bleeding through professional composure. "Secret hideout-- Falcone's-- I can take you--"
Jake's boot pressed harder. Clayface's head compressed slightly. The molecular bonds holding his skull together groaned.
"You're lying."
"No-- No--" The words came faster. "We were all called-- extra protection-- since the ring-- since everything--" His features rippled again. Desperate to find a face that would inspire mercy. "I can take you there-- it's the only way--"
"Why?" Jake's boot remained steady. Neither increasing pressure nor releasing it. Just maintaining the pin while his analytical mind processed.
"Why would you take me to Falcone? To Bane? You're trapped. Desperate. You'd say anything." His head tilted.
Clayface's body went completely still. The desperate shifting stopped. What remained of his features arranged themselves into something approaching honesty.
"Because it's the only way I know you'll spare my life."
The words hung in the chemical-tainted air. True or false. Genuine or performance. The kind of statement that could go either way and Jake's spider-sense couldn't distinguish between sincere desperation and expert theater.
Jake's boot remained pressed against Clayface's head. Thirty seconds passed. Forty. His mind cycled through variables.
Falcone was the source. The one who'd hired the expensive hunters. The one who had the resources and motivation to want Jake dead. That made tactical sense.
But trusting Clayface was suicide. The shapeshifter's entire existence was deception. His survival depended on making people believe whatever served his immediate needs.
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Time Bank: 00:10:21
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Jake didn't have time to waste on suspicion and caution.
His boot lifted. Clayface's head remained on the grating before slowly reforming into something approximating human. His features were generic now. Unmemorable. The face of someone who'd given up on manipulation and settled for survival.
"Show me." Jake's voice carried no warmth. No trust. Just the cold arithmetic of someone who'd decided that following a liar to his destination was faster than finding it himself. "And if you're lying--"
He gestured at the severed arm hanging from his harness. The blackened flesh pulsed with internal light. The message was clear.
Clayface pulled himself upright. His body moved wrong -- joints bending at angles that suggested recent trauma, molecular structure still recovering from the webbing's corrosion. But he managed vertical. Managed to face Jake without completely dissolving.
"North," he said quietly. "Restricted district. Building that doesn't officially exist." He started moving toward the factory entrance. Each step careful. "I'll show you. I'll prove I'm--"
"Move faster." Jake's voice cut through. "And if I sense you're leading me wrong, your death won't be merciful."
Clayface's pace increased. Not running. Not quite. But moving with the speed of someone who understood that hesitation would be interpreted as deception.
Jake followed three steps behind. Close enough to web. Far enough to react if Clayface tried anything. His spider-sense painted the shapeshifter in colors that still hummed wrongness but the threat level had shifted to unreliable.
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