The Spider Assassin #50
The question hung in the air like smoke that refused to dissipate.
'Where are you taking my souls?'
Jake's mind traced the words backward, trying to find the logic that would make them sensible. Souls. She'd said souls. Like they were objects. Currency. Things that could be taken or misplaced or stolen.
His eyes tracked to her face, now visible with the hood down. Black skin catching the harsh industrial light. Hair that defied physics in ways his brain tried and failed to categorize. She looked human in the way a photograph looked human -- every detail present, nothing technically wrong, but something fundamental missing beneath the surface.
When he looked at her, all he could think was: the Reaper. Just without the scythe. Without the theatrical costume. But the same presence. The same wrongness that existed adjacent to reality rather than within it.
"I don't know what you're talking about." His voice came out steadier than he felt. "But you're standing in my way."
Her expression didn't change. "Good. Then you understand how frustrating that can be." Her form twisted, adjusting position, and Jake's spider-sense painted nothing. "When someone stands in your way. When they waste your time with obstacles you didn't create."
Jake's right hand kept twitching. The motion was automatic, defensive, but he didn't fire.
"Twenty-seven." Her voice carried the weight of someone reciting facts that couldn't be disputed. "And counting. That's how many you've killed so far."
The number hit him like cold water down his spine.
Twenty-seven.
Jake's mind tried to assemble them. Gotham National -- how many guards? Five? Six? He'd lost count in the chaos. The helicopter crew. Three confirmed. The tournament fighters. King Snake. Lady Vic.
His stomach twisted.
The officers outside. How many? Four? Five?
Clayface. That one was clear. Neck snapped.
The guards downstairs. Nine? Ten? The grenade had killed some. His webs had taken others. The exact number was blurring because he'd stopped counting. Stopped caring. Each death just another obstacle removed.
Twenty-seven people.
His right hand trembled. Not from injury. From the recognition settling in his chest like ice.
Twenty-seven lives ended because he'd decided their time was worth less than his.
He could blame the Joker toxin for some. Could point to the pheromones for others. Could rationalize each kill as necessary, as survival, as the cost of reaching Harley before his timer expired.
And now.
The chemicals weren't forcing his hand anymore. Would he stop?
"Yet out of all those," Death continued, watching him with the patience of something that had all the time in existence, "seven souls are missing. Seven deaths I can't account for since Clayface." Her jaw tightened fractionally. "Even demons have more manners when they attempt to steal from me."
Jake's chest felt tight. His enhanced hearing picked up his own heartbeat -- strong, regular, the rhythm of something that worked.
His eyes found the speedster, still pinned in webbing, throat bruised from where Jake's hand had compressed his windpipe. The meta's chest rose and fell with breathing that should have stopped.
But it hadn't.
That snap. That sound like reality itself had been interrupted.
"That snap," Jake said, his analytical mind assembling pieces he didn't want to see. "You--"
"Interfered." Death cut in, her expression serious. "Forced to go against my nature."
The implication crystallized in Jake's mind with horrible clarity.
No.
Not now.
He still had to kill. Needed to kill.
Just one more.
His stomach lurched. He was rationalizing killing. But that 'one more' mattered the most. Harley Quinn had to die.
And nothing would take that away from him. Not even Death.
He had-- would kill her.
Jake's hand moved before conscious thought engaged. He webbed and launched towards the speedster.
Interfering with death went against Death's nature. That meant there was a limit. Something he could exploit.
His fist drove into the speedster's face. The nose collapsed inward with a wet crunch that Jake felt through his knuckles. Blood sprayed, warm and red, spattering across Jake's mask.
The speedster screamed. His enhanced body tried to pull away but the webbing held him pinned. His hands came up defensively, blocking, trying to protect his face from the follow-up strike.
"Wait!" Death's voice cut through with unexpected sharpness. "Stop. I need to understand what you're--"
Jake's paused.
He looked at Death. Really looked. Studied her expression with analytical clarity.
She wasn't trying to save the speedster's life. She was trying to understand where his soul would go.
"I don't think you can stop me from killing him," Jake said slowly. "Not really."
"Not if his body is too destroyed to contain him."
Jake's fist fell on the reinforced skull. He smashed it repeatedly, twice, thrice, until it compressed. Bone fragmented. Brain matter exposed, tissue splashing.
The speedster's hands went slack. His enhanced body convulsed once, twice, then stopped.
Dead. Actually dead. No breathing. No heartbeat. No impossible survival.
Jake looked at Death. She stood motionless, watching with that same infinite patience. If she'd interfered this time, he couldn't detect it. What was certain was that if she did, the Speedster would suffer immeasurable pain. She had to let his soul go.
Her expression didn't change. "I do not condemn killing." Her voice held no judgment. Just statement of fact. "But what you are doing to their souls is unacceptable."
The interface pulsed in Jake's peripheral vision. The bonus rewards still waiting. Three options glowing with patient digital insistence.
Jake's mind traced connections he didn't want to acknowledge. The souls had started disappearing after Clayface. After he'd faced the Reaper. After the Time Bank had run out and he was supposed to die.
The system consumed totems. Turned objects of identity into currency. Into time. That was the fundamental exchange -- identity for survival.
Could it be consuming more than objects?
The thought tried to surface fully. Tried to assemble itself into certainty. But Jake crushed it down with the same determination he'd used to crush the speedster's skull. Not his problem. The system's mechanics weren't his concern. His only goal was reaching one hundred percent. After he'd dealt with Harley.
"Here's what I know," Jake said, meeting Death's gaze with the kind of directness that came from having nothing left to lose, "I kill them. What happens after isn't my problem."
"Trying to fool me is unwise, Spider," she said, her voice lowering from the building frustration.
"So is wasting each others time," Jake said, turning toward the stairs leading up. "And I don't have the time to play detective with Death."
He yanked his severed. Held it in his hand like a club. He'd use it on Harley. Would crush her skull with it.
Yes. It was the only way. A clean kill was out of the picture. He couldn't risk death interfering and saving her life.
He would make sure her death was brutal enough. That no divine intervention could save her from what she'd earned.
Twenty-seven people.
The number echoed in his skull.
Twenty-eight now.
Twenty-nine when he killed Harley.
More if anyone stood in his way.
It was all necessary.
He turned towards the stairs. Started walking away.
"You're not going to stop." Death said, voice non-judgemental. "You will keep condemning those souls."
"They deserve it," Jake said, voice heavy with unspoken pain. "Everything that's coming their way."
"And you?" Death asked quietly. "Don't you see that vengeance is consuming you?"
"All I see is someone trying to heal," he paused. "By doing whatever it takes."
"Still, your actions are interfering with the natural order of things," Death saying, voice phasing out of existence. "And I can tell that you're keeping something from me, Spider. I'll find out what."
Silence stretched with the weight of her promise. Jake pressed on. His feet found the stairs. He started climbing.
🕸️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕸️
In the center of the space of the fourth floor, surrounded by monitors displaying footage from every floor Jake had fought through, Bane waited.
"Spider." The voice carried through speakers positioned around the room. "At last. We meet again."
Jake's eyes found him immediately. That massive frame. The tubes pulsing with Kobra-Venom. The patient stance of someone who'd been watching the entire approach and found it entertaining.
But Jake's attention caught on something else. Tables positioned around the room's perimeter. On them -- vials. Dozens of vials. Each one filled with liquid that glowed the same green as the tubes feeding Bane's mask.
Kobra-Venom.
The pull hit him immediately. Not the totem hunger. Something deeper. More fundamental. His muscles screamed with recognition. With desperate need. The Kobra-Venom in his system had stabilized him, had given him the strength to survive impossible trauma, but it had also created dependency. His enhanced metabolism demanded more. Craved it with the kind of hunger that made rational thought difficult.
"What do you think of all this?" Bane's hand gestured at the monitors. "I designed it for you. Each floor calibrated to test different aspects of your capabilities." His visible eye gleamed with satisfaction. "And you haven't disappointed. You are exactly who I think you are."
The footage on one monitor showed Jake on the third floor. Standing still. Talking to empty space. To something the cameras couldn't perceive. His lips moving. His body language suggesting conversation with presence that wasn't there.
"But now you're injured again." Bane's tone carried something that might have been concern or might have been anticipation. "Hadn't properly healed from our last encounter. One-armed and still a little insane." He tapped the monitor showing Jake's apparent conversation with nothing. "Do you still have what it takes to fight me?"
His hand moved to the tables holding the vials of Kobra-Venom. Gesturing at them like an offering. Like temptation made physical.
"Do you still have what it takes to fight me and take everything you desire?"
Jake's muscles screamed. His enhanced metabolism demanded. The vials glowed with promise -- strength, stability, the ability to function past the point where his body should collapse.
And beyond Bane, through the windows, Gotham burned. Somewhere up there, on the fifth floor or hidden in some room he hadn't found yet, Harley Quinn waited.
One more floor. One more fight. Then justice.
His right hand clenched around the severed arm.
"I hold no grudge against you," Jake said, his voice cold and detached. "That's why I'll give you a chance to survive."
He stepped forward.
"Your safe word is: broken."
Jake launched.
Toward Bane.
Support me in Patreon.com/mimiclord
Thank you for reading.