Mechanical-Arm Spider #70
The ground rushed up to meet Jake. .
His spider-sense was overwhelmed by sonic frequencies from the Canary Cry that had hit him, turning threat detection into white noise feedback. Sleeper convulsed across his torso in waves that felt less like protection and more like the symbiote was trying to crawl off his body and find somewhere quieter to exist. Jake's right hand shot out on instinct and caught pavement that tore skin from his palm even through the black material that was supposed to prevent exactly this kind of damage.
The impact drove air from his lungs and sent the remaining compound containers tumbling from where they'd been webbed against his ribs.
He watched them hit concrete and roll. Glass cracked. Chemical compounds that had cost him hours of methodical looting and several close calls with people who'd been very invested in keeping their inventory intact began leaking across Star City's downtown pavement in spreading stains that caught morning light and turned it sickly yellow.
Three containers had made it through the running battle in downtown. Now one remained intact after the fall -- a cylinder no bigger than his fist that had somehow landed on its base rather than shattering like its companions.
Jake's left hand found the intact container before conscious thought finished processing the mathematics of what he'd just lost. His fingers closed around glass that was still warm from being pressed against Sleeper's surface, and his mind was already working through what remained versus what he needed versus what synthesis was even possible anymore with a single compound source.
The catechol derivatives he'd grabbed from that Glades operation had been meant to bridge the gap between urushiol analogues and the phospholipase components in the Corridor labs. Not exact matches for Kobra-Venom -- nothing street-level ever was -- but close enough that his apparently chemical-literate brain had traced pathways for converting one molecular structure into something that could mimic the enhanced strength and pain tolerance that made Kobra cultists so difficult to put down permanently.
One container wasn't enough. Not even close. He'd need the neurotoxin bases from the second cylinder to catalyze anything useful, and those were currently seeping into Star City's storm drains along with several thousand dollars worth of someone else's revenue stream.
Jake pushed himself upright. His left leg protested -- the bullet wound from earlier still bleeding beneath Sleeper's coverage, the symbiote too depleted to seal damage that kept reopening every time he put weight on it. His spider-sense was clearing but slowly, like someone turning down volume on feedback that had been cranked past tolerable levels.
Footsteps converged from multiple directions.
Not running. Walking with the deliberate pace of people who'd finally cornered something they'd been chasing and wanted to savor the moment before finishing it. Boots on pavement, dress shoes on concrete, sneakers that squeaked slightly against morning dew that hadn't burned off yet. Dozens of them materializing from alleys and doorways and the spaces between buildings where they'd been waiting for exactly this -- for the Spider to finally hit ground and stay there long enough to surround.
Jake straightened. Turned. Counted bodies through vision that was still adjusting after Sleeper's protective darkening had fractured under sonic assault.
Dozens of people formed a loose circle around him. Street enforcers from the Glades mixed with Corridor distributors mixed with downtown operators whose expensive suits suggested they'd come down from management positions to handle this personally. Weapons visible on most of them -- handguns, knives, one baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire that looked more theatrical than practical.
The circle tightened by incremental steps.
"You know how much product you just destroyed?" The question came from a man in his thirties wearing a leather jacket that had seen actual use rather than being purchased for aesthetics. Glades accent, heavy enough that vowels took detours. "You destroyed our warehouses. You got any idea what that represents?"
"Distribution networks we spent years establishing just gone because you decided to swing through and play hero." Different voice, different direction.
"He ain't no hero." Third voice, younger, angrier. "This is that Spider freak from Gotham. The one who hit Falcone's operations hard enough that our shipment got delayed three days. Cost us two million on that delay alone."
Jake's grip tightened on the intact compound container. His spider-sense was still clearing -- not gone, just muted enough that the threats surrounding him registered as ambient pressure rather than specific vectors. Sleeper had stabilized across his torso but the coverage felt thin, depleted, like wearing armor that had been sanded down past effective thickness.
Someone in the back raised a handgun. The distinctive click of a safety being released carried across the circle with clarity that made several people flinch.
"Bullets don't work on him." Someone shouted. "We established that already."
"Worked fine when I shot him earlier--"
"And he's still standing, which means it didn't work fine enough." Leather jacket took a step forward. The circle contracted with him, bodies pressing closer. "Bullets come off that black shit he's wearing. But fists work just fine once you get past the webbing."
"Too risky. He's quick when he dodges." Someone else, skeptical, positioned three bodies deep in the circle.
"Canary scrambled that already. Saw it happen myself -- he went down clean, didn't even try to catch himself properly."
Jake processed the tactical assessment while his fingers worked the compound container into webbing against his ribs. Not enough material left to synthesize anything useful, but losing it now would mean starting completely over, and he'd already committed too much to this particular plan to walk away empty-handed.
The circle closed in.
Close enough that when someone grabbed his collar, Jake didn't immediately react.
The grip was firm but not aggressive, more like someone making a point than initiating violence. The face inches from Jake's, close enough that Jake could smell cigarettes and coffee and the underlying chemical tang that came from handling product without proper ventilation.
"You burned my operations." The words came out measured. Controlled. "Destroyed inventory we spent months acquiring. Brought heat down on territory we've controlled for years." His grip tightened. "And for what? What's Gotham's problem doing in Star City anyway?"
Jake's spider-sense flickered. Not warning -- just background noise clearing as his enhanced perception finally finished processing the sonic assault's aftereffects. The morning light felt sharper. The crowd's positioning registered with tactical clarity that had been absent seconds ago.
And behind all of them, the wailing of sirens as cops established perimeters at intersections while emergency services responded to fires and injured civilians.
Jake had started this fire deliberately. Had concentrated every territorial dispute and grudge and simmering violence in Star City's criminal ecosystem and pointed it directly at himself. The plan had been to create chaos so comprehensive that nobody could coordinate an effective response -- to make himself the target that everyone wanted but nobody could claim without fighting through everyone else who wanted the same thing.
The plan had worked better than expected.
Star City was tearing itself apart over the right to put him down, and Jake was standing in the middle of converted territory with depleted reserves, a leg that wasn't supporting his weight properly, and exactly one compound container that represented hours of work that might not matter if he couldn't survive the next sixty seconds.
The man holding his collar was still talking. Something about respect and territory and lessons that needed teaching. Jake stopped listening somewhere around the third repetition of how much damage he'd caused.
His hand shot out and grabbed the man's throat.
Sleeper surged forward before the man could react. Black material poured from Jake's palm like liquid shadow, spreading across the man's neck and face with hunger that had nothing to do with Jake's conscious intent. The symbiote covered his mouth, his nose, crawled into his eyes while the man's hands clawed uselessly at material that was already hardening.
The man's screams died in his throat as Sleeper consumed him.
The process took seconds. When Jake's hand opened, nothing remained where the head had been except blood, bone and tissue fragments.
The circle froze.
Someone in the back vomited. Someone else was backing away with hands raised like surrender might matter to whatever they were witnessing. The expensive suits and street enforcers and territorial operators who'd thought they had the Spider cornered were suddenly remembering that corners worked both ways.
Jake moved.
His hand found the nearest person -- a woman with a gun she'd forgotten she was holding. Sleeper surged across the contact point and consumed her before she could scream. Her weapon clattered to pavement. Her blood joined the first man's.
"Jesus Christ--"
"RUN--"
The circle shattered.
Bodies scattered in every direction with coordination that had dissolved into pure survival instinct. Jake let most of them go. Grabbed the ones too slow to escape and felt Sleeper surge forward each time, hungry for the biomass that would replenish reserves depleted by hours of combat and sonic assault.
Four more people became food before the rest made it far enough away that pursuing them would require effort Jake didn't want to spend.
He stood in a circle of remains while Sleeper rippled across his torso, flush with energy it had extracted from people who'd thought surrounding the Spider was a tactical decision rather than a death sentence.
His spider-sense shrieked.
Jake's hand shot up reflexively. Webbing erupted in a spreading pattern and caught Black Canary mid-breath, sealing her mouth before the Canary Cry could form.
She landed footsteps away with eyes that tracked him with professional focus that hadn't yet processed what she'd just witnessed. Her hands came up to tear at the webbing covering her mouth, but the material was already hardening against her skin.
Jake closed the distance.
She abandoned the webbing and moved instead. Combat training deeper than conscious thought taking over where the Canary Cry had been neutralized. She drove forward with a kick aimed at his wounded leg.
Jake's hand caught her throat mid-attack.
Sleeper responded before Jake's conscious mind finished the thought. Black material surged from his palm and poured across her neck, spreading toward her face with hunger that had just consumed six people and wanted more. The symbiote crawled across her skin like living shadow, covering her jaw, reaching for her mouth where the webbing was already starting to tear under the pressure of vocal cords that wouldn't stop flexing--
Canary's eyes went wide with recognition of what was about to happen to her.
With fear.
The webbing tore.
Sound erupted from her mouth with force born from panic rather than technique. The Canary Cry burst through Sleeper's coverage in a wave that turned air into a physical weapon, shredding the symbiotic material trying to consume her and hitting Jake at point-blank range.
Jake flew backward through space that suddenly felt too thick to move through properly. His back slammed into a storefront window hard enough to shatter glass, and he kept going, tumbling through displays and merchandise racks before hitting the back wall with impact that drove what little air remained from his lungs.
Sleeper convulsed across his entire body. The suit peeled away from his torso in sections that left the classic suit exposed to air that felt too cold after being covered. Black material writhed like it was trying to crawl away from the frequencies still reverberating through Jake's bones.
His spider-sense was overloaded. White noise feedback that painted every direction as threat and no direction as safe.
Jake struggled to rise. Caught himself on a display rack that collapsed under his weight and sent him down on one knee. His head rang with frequencies that had nothing to do with external sound. His vision swam. The compound container webbed to his ribs felt like it weighed fifty pounds.
Through the broken storefront window, backlit by morning sun, Black Canary stood with one hand at her throat where Sleeper had tried to consume her.
Her mouth opened for another Cry.
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