###### The Spider Assassin #48.
The third floor stairs yawned before Jake like a throat waiting to swallow him.
His heart beat steady. Strong. Each pulse announced itself with the clarity of something that had forgotten how to function and was now relearning with violent enthusiasm. The fear toxin had burned through his system like fire through dead wood, consuming the corruption and leaving something cleaner behind.
Spider-sense painted the space above in colors that were finally, finally clear. No synesthetic chaos. No tasting colors or smelling sounds. Just clean threat assessment.
Four signatures. Larger than human baseline. Denser. Moving with coordinated purpose that suggested training, discipline, professional violence.
Not random thugs. Not desperate criminals. Something else entirely.
His boot found the first step.
The threat was just another obstacle in his path.
He had work to finish.
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Two Weeks Ago:
Robin had been having a perfectly routine patrol when Deathstroke showed up and ruined it.
Tim watched from his perch above Dixon Docks, thermal imaging painting the warehouse district in shades of heat signature and patient observation. Three nights running. Batman's orders. Watch. Wait. Document.
Suspicious activity. Container movements that didn't match manifests. Shipments arriving at odd hours with security that seemed excessive for legitimate cargo.
Batman suspected smuggling. Wanted evidence before moving in. Wanted to understand the full scope.
So Tim watched longshoremen move containers with practiced efficiency and tried not to fall asleep.
Then Deathstroke appeared.
Not sneaking. Not hiding. Just walking through the docks with the confidence of someone who'd killed more people than Tim had saved and expected no resistance.
Tim's hand found his comm. Thumb hovering over the call button.
Deathstroke in Gotham meant blood. Someone had paid. Someone was about to die.
The mercenary's route was deliberate -- east toward the waterfront, straight toward the warehouse Batman had flagged.
Tim's stomach dropped.
Either the investigation was compromised, or Deathstroke's target was inside that building.
He dropped to street level, closing distance. Escrima sticks ready. If someone was about to die in a facility Batman was actively investigating--
Deathstroke turned a corner.
Tim rounded it three seconds later and found nothing. Empty street. Shadows. The warehouse's loading bay partially open, light spilling from inside.
Movement caught his eye -- orange and black on the warehouse roof. Deathstroke scaling the exterior wall with equipment that screamed infiltration.
Tim fired his grapple. The line caught. He pulled himself up, boots scraping brick, landing on corrugated metal that groaned.
No sign of Deathstroke.
But a skylight was open. Recently. The frame still warm where someone had forced the lock.
His comm crackled -- he'd bumped the call button climbing. "Robin, what's your--"
"Deathstroke's at Dixon Docks," Tim said quietly, moving toward the skylight. "Inside the warehouse we've been watching. He's here for someone. I'm going in before he--"
"Negative. Wait for backup. That's an order."
"If he executes his target, we lose whatever intelligence Batman's been gathering." Tim positioned himself at the skylight's edge. "I can stop him. Just need to--"
He dropped through before Oracle could countermand.
His grapple arrested the fall six feet from concrete. He swung once, released, landed in a crouch between shipping containers.
The warehouse interior was exactly what he'd expected -- containers stacked with precision, forklifts parked in neat rows, everything legitimate on the surface.
But the security was wrong. Cameras positioned with military precision. Reinforced doors where simple roll-ups should be.
No sign of Deathstroke.
Tim moved deeper. His enhanced hearing tracked for combat sounds, for screaming, for any indication the mercenary had reached his target.
Nothing. Just machinery hum and distant worker voices.
Then he noticed the crates.
Standard shipping containers being unloaded with care that seemed excessive. Most went to a staging area -- pallets marked for legitimate distribution.
But three crates didn't follow that pattern. Three crates loaded onto a platform near the eastern wall.
A platform that descended.
Sublevel.
Tim's instinct -- the one Bruce had trained through ten thousand hours of pattern recognition -- screamed that this was where Deathstroke would go. Where the target waited. Where whatever was worth killing for was hidden.
The platform descended. Workers stepped off. Headed back to the main floor.
Tim moved. Fast. Crossed open space and dropped onto the platform as it reached bottom.
The sublevel opened before him.
Not smuggling. Not drugs or weapons.
Laboratory.
Clean. Professional. Equipment that belonged in cutting-edge research facilities. Surgical stations. Monitoring devices.
And the tanks. Large. Cylindrical. Filled with liquid glowing faint green.
Inside the tanks -- figures. Human-shaped but wrong. Enhanced. One had arms that looked more metal than flesh. Another showed bone protrusions that shouldn't exist. A third was massive -- nine feet tall, muscles that belonged on something engineered.
The cages held people. Enhanced people. Eyes that tracked movement with awareness that said they understood their imprisonment.
Meta-human research. Under Falcone's warehouse?
Tim's hand found his comm. "Batman. I need you at Dixon Docks. Now."
"Robin, what's your--"
"Meta-human research facility. Active operations. Multiple subjects." His voice was controlled urgency. "This is bigger than smuggling. I don't know why but Falcone's creating enhanced humans."
"I'm on my way. Do not engage. Observe and extract."
Tim moved to a terminal -- careless, left active with files open.
Names. Subjects. Experiment logs. Financial records showing funding streams that led back to Falcone but went deeper. Someone with serious resources was backing this. Using Gotham as a testing ground for--
"Intruder in Sublevel One." The voice over the intercom was flat. Professional. "Security to Sublevel One. Lethal force authorized."
Tim's hand found a smoke pellet-
The door exploded inward.
Through smoke came something from one of those tanks. Nine feet tall. Arms ending in fists the size of Tim's torso. Human face but restructured, bones twisted into something suggesting enhancement without artistry.
It charged.
Tim fired his grapple. The line caught ceiling infrastructure. He pulled up as the meta's fist cratered concrete where he'd been standing. The floor turned to powder.
Smoke pellets. Flash-bangs. Everything designed to disorient.
The meta stumbled but didn't stop. Its eyes tracked through chaos with focus that said its instructions were simple: eliminate.
More footsteps. Security converging. And worse -- alarms throughout the facility. Other tanks opening. Other cages unlocking.
Someone had decided containment breach was preferable to capture.
"Robin. Status." Batman. Finally.
"I'm compromised." Tim dodged another strike that would have liquefied his organs. "Multiple enhanced hostiles. Facility going into full lockdown. I need--"
"I'm two minutes out. Survive."
The meta caught him mid-swing. One hand closed around Tim's ankle with strength that made bones creak. It yanked, slamming him into a support column hard enough that his vision whited out.
He came to on the floor. Ribs screaming. Tasting blood.
The meta loomed over him, fist raised.
Then Batman arrived.
Smoke grenades created instant cover. Batman dropped from ceiling height, cape spreading like wings, impact calculated to draw attention from injured Robin to the bigger threat.
"Move." Not suggestion. Command.
Tim moved. Or tried to. Ribs were broken. Multiple fractures. Breathing hurt. Moving hurt. Everything hurt.
Batman engaged the meta with precision strikes to joints, nerve clusters, anything that might disable something that size. But the meta was engineered for this. Each hit barely registered.
More metas emerged. Four total. Each different. Each dangerous.
One had metal arms that tore through walls. Another moved with speed that shouldn't exist at that size. A third projected energy bolts that cratered concrete. The fourth screamed -- sonic attack that shattered windows, made Tim's ears bleed, sent everyone staggering.
"Robin!" Batman's hand found Tim's shoulder. "We're leaving."
"But the facility--"
"Now."
Batman's tone allowed no argument. He fired his grapple, pulling them both toward the ceiling as the metas converged. They escaped through exploding glass and chaos, Batman's cape shielding them as the sublevel descended into complete breakdown.
In the Batmobile, speeding away, Tim pressed a hand to his ribs and fought unconsciousness.
"I got data," he managed. "Financial records. Subject files. Names. This isn't just Falcone's operation."
"I know," Batman said quietly. Something in his voice suggested this wasn't news. Just confirmation. "Rest. We'll analyze it at the cave."
Tim wanted answers about what Batman knew and when. But unconsciousness was winning.
His last coherent thought was about Deathstroke.
The mercenary had led him there. Deliberately. Entered the warehouse knowing Tim was watching. Disappeared the moment Tim went deeper.
Why?
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A rooftop away, Deathstroke watched the Batmobile disappear into Gotham's maze.
Behind his mask, satisfaction.
The tremors from the warehouse told him everything. The lab would be discovered. Investigated. Shut down before someone smart made the connection about who was *really* behind it.
Falcone was just the face. Someone more powerful, more connected, was running the show.
But the first real step to crippling Gotham was complete.
The research would be disrupted. The enhanced soldiers scattered or terminated. The infrastructure compromised.
All that remained was finding the Roman Ring.
And once that symbol of power was eliminated, Gotham would be ready for the forge.
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Present day:
Arkham Asylum stood like a malignant tumor on Gotham's northern shore, Gothic architecture catching smoke-filtered light in ways that suggested the building itself was diseased.
Batman crouched on the east wall's battlements, cape spread to catch harbor wind, watching smoke columns rise from the city below.
Gotham was burning. Had been burning for days.
The families were tearing each other apart. Reports varied but the result was identical -- Gotham's criminal infrastructure had collapsed into open warfare.
And Batman stood watch over Arkham because if this building fell, if what was contained here got loose during the chaos--
Some possibilities were too catastrophic to entertain.
His cowl's HUD tracked the facility's systems. Guard rotations maintaining schedule. Perimeter sensors clear. Internal systems reporting normal operations.
Normal was relative when discussing a building housing Gotham's accumulated nightmares, but the data suggested contained stability.
For now.
"Batman." Oracle's voice crackled through the comm, sharp with focused exhaustion. "Something's pinging our sensors in the restricted district."
Batman's jaw tightened. The restricted district. Where Falcone had consolidated his remaining forces.
"Red Hood's got the Narrows. Nightwing's covering the Diamond District. Batgirl's handling evacuation protocols near Robinson Park." Oracle paused. "And Robin--"
"Is recovering." Batman's voice was flat. Final.
Robin was still sidelined -- fractured ribs, internal bruising. The kind of injuries that required rest even for teenagers who thought they were invincible.
Two weeks since Dixon Docks. Two weeks since Batman had returned to find the warehouse professionally cleaned. Every piece of equipment removed. Every surface scrubbed. The sublevel was bare concrete and mounting points where tanks had been bolted down.
The data Robin had retrieved was partial. Corrupted. But enough.
Names. Subjects. Most flagged as TERMINATED or UNSUITABLE. The success rate was catastrophic -- maybe ten percent survived enhancement.
Batman's gloved hand clenched.
Thirty-seven terminated.
Sixteen transferred to secondary facility (location unspecified).
His jaw tightened.
Four flagged as: DEPLOYMENT READY.
"What kind of signatures?" Batman asked.
"Single heat pattern. Enhanced metabolism. Movement speed exceeding baseline human capacity." Oracle's fingers flew across her keyboard -- Batman heard the familiar rapid-fire clicking. "Cross-referencing with the Dixon Docks data... signature does not match the meta-human profiles from Robin's encounter."
A pause.
"The Spider." Batman's voice came out harder than intended.
The one who'd started all this. Who'd stolen Falcone's ring and triggered the cascade that had Gotham burning. Who'd messed with forces he didn't understand -- consumed objects of power like they were currency instead of the symbols holding Gotham's underworld in check.
And now walking straight into Falcone's fortress. Into a trap he couldn't possibly comprehend.
Reckless. As always.
Batman's jaw tightened behind the cowl. "Location?"
"Old Falcone warehouse. Trask and Eleventh. Restricted district." Oracle hesitated. "The building's fortified. Professional security. If he's going in--"
"He's going in." Batman's tactical mind assembled the scenario with cold efficiency. The Spider didn't do reconnaissance. Didn't plan. Just pointed himself at obstacles and relied on enhanced reflexes to survive what should kill him.
It had worked so far. Barely.
Let Falcone's defenses handle it. Let the crime lord's enhanced soldiers -- the deployment-ready subjects from Dixon Docks -- eliminate the threat Batman had failed to contain. Let Gotham's underworld tear itself apart while he maintained containment on Arkham's worse nightmares.
The calculus was simple.
Batman's hand moved to his grapnel gun. Then stopped.
Last time he'd dismissed the Spider as someone else's problem, the meta had survived a combination of toxins and triggered the gang war currently burning the city to ash.
What happened when someone that unpredictable walked into Falcone's trap? When enhanced soldiers met enhanced Spider in a fortified warehouse?
Best case: the Spider died. Problem solved.
Worst case: the Spider survived and escalated. Again. Turned Falcone's stronghold into another disaster zone. Killed more people. Created more chaos in a city already drowning in it.
The meta was a wildcard. Wildcards didn't de-escalate. They exploded.
Batman's finger tightened on the grapnel trigger. The timing wasn't the worst.
Gotham needed to see that order still existed. That someone was still enforcing consequences. That the chaos had limits.
The families were tearing each other apart because they thought the rules had dissolved. Because Falcone's ring was gone and the power structure had fractured and everyone believed the city was up for grabs.
They needed a reminder.
And what better reminder than Gotham's current biggest threat contained in Arkham? Proof that the system still functioned. That enhanced or not, reckless or not, dangerous or not, you still answered for what you'd done.
The Spider had killed guards. Had pulled a helicopter from the sky. Had become exactly the kind of threat Batman existed to eliminate.
Letting Falcone handle it was abdicating responsibility.
And Bruce Wayne didn't abdicate.
Batman fired his grapnel. The line caught a gargoyle on Arkham's western tower. He swung out over the harbor, cape spreading like wings, Gotham's burning skyline ahead.
His comms crackled. "Batman, what's your--"
"On my way to the restricted district." His voice carried finality. "I'm bringing the Spider in."
Batman's cape snapped in the wind. His cowl's tactical display painted the optimal route through smoke and chaos.
Below him, Gotham burned. Families at war. Civilians evacuating. Infrastructure failing.
All of it traced back to one reckless meta who'd stolen the wrong object and triggered collapse.
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The third floor revealed itself.
Larger footprint than the level below. Still open floor plan. Industrial lighting hung from exposed beams, casting harsh shadows. Windows on the eastern wall showed Gotham burning beyond reinforced glass.
And in the center of the space, arranged with military precision: four figures.
Jake's spider-sense painted them before conscious analysis caught up.
The first stood directly ahead -- massive, easily nine feet tall. Not fat. Not bloated. Just *dense*. Muscle built on muscle, the kind of mass that suggested engineering rather than exercise.
His arms were thick, hands the size of dinner plates. The face was human but restructured -- jaw too wide, brow too heavy, eyes set deep in skull that had been reinforced to handle whatever his strength could generate.
To his left, something that moved wrong. Smaller than the giant -- only seven feet -- but the proportions suggested speed. Long limbs, digitigrade legs that ended in reinforced feet designed for explosive acceleration. The torso was lean, stripped of unnecessary mass. A musculature of fast-twitch fibers visible beneath skin that looked thinner than it should be, like someone had removed the safety margins to maximize performance.
The third stood to the right, and Jake's spider-sense screamed warnings about the hands. Normal human proportions, normal build, completely unremarkable except for the arms. The forearms were swollen, veins standing out like cables, and between the fingers -- micro-apertures. Biological focusing lenses that glowed faint blue.
And the fourth hung back, positioned near the windows. The smallest of the group at maybe six feet. The throat was massively overdeveloped, the neck thick as a thigh, and when it breathed Jake heard harmonics -- multiple frequencies simultaneously, vocal cords rebuilt into something that could weaponize sound itself.
Four Metas against a one-armed spider.
Jake fired.
The speedster moved first.
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