The Laughing Spider #32.
The Batcave's lights cast sterile white across Bruce Wayne's exposed torso. Each breath was agonizing -- ribs expanding against chemical burns that had eaten through kevlar, through skin, into muscle tissue beneath.
Alfred Pennyworth's hands hovered above him, cutting away the remains of the armor. The material came apart in brittle chunks, polymer bonds destroyed at a molecular level. Where the green webbing had made contact, Bruce's flesh was mottled, angry red transitioning to necrotic black at the edges.
"The standard neutralizing agent, Master Bruce?"
"No." Bruce's voice was controlled despite the pain radiating through his chest. "The green webbing-- it's multiple compounds interacting. Not just the Joker toxin."
Alfred's fingers paused over the chemical burns, professional concern bleeding through his composure. "You've developed resistance to most toxins through controlled exposure. This shouldn't have--"
"It shouldn't have worked." Bruce's jaw tightened as Alfred applied initial antiseptic. The burn intensified before dulling to a manageable throb. "But the delivery method -- direct injection through compromised tissue -- bypassed my built-up immunity. And the Spider's DNA is altering the compound structure."
Alfred's eyebrow rose fractionally. "His DNA?"
Bruce's hand moved to the computer console beside the medical table, fingers finding keys despite the pain. The main display activated, showing analysis results from samples collected at the confrontation site.
"The webbing dissolves rapidly," Bruce said, each word carefully measured around shallow breathing. "But residue remains. Organic material woven into the polymer structure." His fingers moved across the interface, pulling up microscopic imaging. "Blood. Cellular fragments. All his."
The screen showed a magnified view: spider-silk proteins tangled with cellular structures that shouldn't exist in human tissue.
"Extraordinary," Alfred murmured, leaning closer to the display. "The regenerative capabilities alone--"
"Are the only reason he's lasted this long." Bruce pulled up another analysis window. "His baseline healing factor is operating at approximately three hundred percent of peak capacity. But it's not natural enhancement. It's forced cellular replication driven by--" He zoomed in further. "Look at the mitochondrial activity."
Alfred studied the data, decades of medical experience parsing what most doctors would dismiss as impossible. "The energy production is catastrophic. Those cells are burning themselves out maintaining that regeneration rate."
"Exactly." Bruce's fingers moved across the keyboard despite the tremor in his hands -- the toxins spreading through his system, his own enhanced metabolism fighting a losing battle. "He should have died from the injuries alone. Compound fractures. Internal hemorrhaging. Organ damage. But the healing kept him functional long enough to--"
He stopped. Pulled up a different analysis window.
The pheromone compounds were immediately visible -- complex organic molecules that shouldn't naturally occur in human biochemistry. Poison Ivy's signature work, but altered. Corrupted by prolonged exposure to Joker toxin.
"The rose," Bruce said quietly. "Those thorns were injecting directly into his bloodstream. But analysis from the samples suggest concentrated dosage amounts -- more than can leak from the rose within twenty fours time." His voice hardened. "He was exposed before the rose. Possibly mixed in the chemical bath."
"Then Miss Quinn had intended to chemically enslave him," Alfred observed. "Why?"
"I'm not sure yet. But I have a feeling it has something to do with her mallet." Bruce's hand trembled as he pulled up the final analysis. "Regardless, it's killing him. Look at the Joker toxin levels."
The numbers were staggering. Concentrations that should have stopped a heart in seconds. Bruce had encountered Joker toxin variants dozens of times, had built immunity through careful exposure, through synthesizing antidotes, through understanding its chemical structure.
This was different.
"The Spider's enhanced biology is metabolizing the toxin," Bruce said, highlighting specific compounds. "Breaking it down. Creating byproducts." He isolated a cluster of molecules. "Including these. Mutagenic. Corrosive. They're what turned his webbing green. What made it acidic."
Alfred's expression tightened. "His own body is poisoning him."
"His healing factor is trying to save him from the Joker toxin. But the metabolic byproducts are destroying tissue faster than he can repair it." Bruce's finger traced the analysis. "And the pheromones are accelerating everything. Forcing his system to keep functioning past the point where it should shut down."
Silence filled the cave, broken only by the computer's quiet hum and Bruce's controlled breathing.
"Master Bruce," Alfred said carefully, applying fresh bandages to the chemical burns. "What you're describing suggests that without the pheromone exposure -- if his system hadn't been compromised -- he might have survived the Joker toxin with adequate rest and medical intervention."
"Possibly." Bruce pulled up another screen, this one showing the fear toxin encounter. "He responded to Scarecrow's formula. Briefly. The emotional breakthrough indicated the conditioning isn't absolute."
"You're theorizing a treatment protocol."
It wasn't a question. Alfred knew that tone. Had heard it a thousand times when Bruce's analytical mind locked onto a problem.
"I need Scarecrow's fear toxin." Bruce's voice was flat. Professional. "The concentrated formula. Not the diluted version used in his attacks."
Alfred's hands paused in their work. "That would mean confronting Scarecrow himself and--"
"I have a sample in the vault. Third sublevel. Confiscated from the last encounter." Bruce met Alfred's eyes. "Retrieve it."
Alfred hesitated. Then he nodded once and departed, footsteps echoing through the cave's vast spaces.
Bruce turned back to the analysis, ignoring the pain spreading through his chest. His fingers moved across the keyboard, running simulations. Modeling chemical interactions. Testing theoretical outcomes.
The fear toxin had worked in the field. For seconds, yes. But it had worked. Had cut through the pheromone conditioning enough to trigger genuine emotional response. Terror. Clarity. Recognition of what he'd become.
If the dosage could be calibrated. If the delivery method could be optimized. If--
Too many variables. Too many unknowns.
Bruce pulled up the cellular analysis again. Studied the mitochondrial activity. The forced regeneration. The metabolic byproducts eating through tissue.
There. A reaction cascade he'd missed initially. The fear toxin's norepinephrine response triggering a brief suppression of pheromone receptors. Not permanent. Not even sustained. But present.
He ran the numbers. Modeled the interaction. The math was brutal but clear:
High-dose fear toxin administered in a pheromone-free environment could theoretically suppress the conditioning long enough for the enhanced healing to address the critical neurological damage. The metabolic byproducts would still be present. The Joker toxin would still be corrupting his system. But without the pheromones forcing continued activity, the healing factor might -- might -- stabilize him long enough for medical intervention.
The probability calculations appeared on screen.
Twelve percent chance of survival under optimal conditions.
Optimal conditions requiring: immediate removal from Harley Quinn's presence, immediate removal of the pheromone source (the rose), immediate administration of fear toxin at levels that would kill a normal human, immediate intensive care to address organ failure.
Twelve percent.
If everything went perfectly.
Alfred returned, carrying a reinforced containment case. "The formula, Master Bruce."
Bruce took it with hands that had steadied -- his own enhanced metabolism finally gaining ground against the toxins. He loaded a sample into the analysis chamber, then added a drop of the Spider's blood.
The computer tracked the interaction at molecular resolution. The fear toxin's complex organic compounds colliding with the pheromone structures.
Then: rejection. The pheromones overwhelmed the fear response. Metabolized it. Neutralized it.
"Failure," Alfred observed quietly.
"No." Bruce's eyes were locked on one specific readout. A momentary fluctuation in the pheromone receptor activity. Barely measurable. Easily missed. "Look at timestamp 2.3 seconds. The receptors destabilized."
Alfred leaned closer, studying the data. "For less than a tenth of a second."
"But they destabilized." Bruce pulled up the field data from their confrontation. "In the field, his response lasted three seconds. Environmental factors. Existing stress. The cascade effect of multiple toxins interacting." His fingers moved across the keyboard, highlighting correlations. "The formula works. But only under specific conditions."
He turned to Alfred. "He would need to be removed from Harley's presence. Dosed with a pheromone suppressant to starve the receptors. The rose removed from his back to stop the constant injection. Then -- and only then -- could the fear toxin break through the conditioning long enough for his healing factor to stabilize."
"You're describing a rescue operation," Alfred said carefully.
"I'm describing what would be required to save him." Bruce's voice was level. "If someone were attempting such a thing."
"Which you are."
Bruce didn't answer immediately. His eyes were on the screen, on the twelve percent probability, on the cellular damage spreading through the Spider's enhanced biology.
"There's barely anything left to save," he said finally. "The damage is catastrophic. Even with optimal intervention, the chances are--" He stopped. "But I've never failed to help someone who could be helped. Who wanted to be helped."
"And you believe he wants help."
"I believe part of him is still fighting." Bruce's jaw tightened. "The fear response proved it. He's aware. Trapped. Watching himself commit atrocities while the chemicals override his will."
Alfred's expression softened fractionally. "Then you'll mount a rescue."
"No." The word was final. Absolute. "The probability is too low. Even if I administered gallons of fear toxin, if the environmental conditions aren't perfect, if the pheromone levels have increased--" He pulled up Harley Quinn's psychological profile. "And knowing her tendencies, they already have. She'll keep him close. Keep him dependent. The conditioning will only deepen."
"You're giving up."
"I'm acknowledging reality." Bruce's hand moved to his chest, feeling the chemical burns through the bandages. "He beat me. In our first encounter, he matched me move for move. And in our second, poisoned and dying, he still nearly killed me. If I try to extract him from Harley's control and fail--" His voice hardened. "He's too dangerous to risk a failed rescue."
Alfred studied him for a long moment. "Yet you've analyzed every possible avenue of treatment. Calculated exact protocols. Determined precise requirements for success."
"Because I needed to know if it was possible." Bruce turned away from the screen. "And now I know. It is possible. Just not probable. And in this city, with limited resources and unlimited threats, I can't afford to chase twelve percent chances."
"Even when that twelve percent represents a human life."
"Even then."
The words hung in the cave's vast darkness.
Bruce's hand found the fear toxin case. Held it. The weight was negligible but felt heavier than it should.
Twelve percent.
If everything went perfectly.
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