Mechanical-Arm Spider #62
The road stretched ahead in variations of darkness that Jake's eyes had learned to parse without conscious thought.
Sleeper's vehicle lights hadn't flickered once during the first twenty miles. The symbiote had consumed the military transport completely -- armor plating, engine components, electrical systems -- and rebuilt it into something that operated on principles Jake didn't fully understand. Black material shaped like a vehicle, functioning like a vehicle, but responding to intention more than mechanics.
The lights flickered for the first time when he passed the sign that read "LEAVING GOTHAM CITY."
Jake's foot pressed harder on the accelerator. The symbiot-ed vehicle responded with acceleration that had nothing to do with conventional combustion, eating distance between him and the burning city in his rearview. Each mile felt like permission to breathe, like the weight pressing against his chest was loosening incrementally.
He kept driving.
The lights flickered again. Dimmed. Came back weaker than before.
Jake switched them off entirely and drove through darkness that his enhanced vision could navigate without artificial assistance. Better to rely on spider-sense and symbiote coordination than on systems that were starting to fail.
The tunnel vision helped. Let him focus on the immediate task of moving forward rather than processing what he'd left behind. The bridge. The soldiers. The feeding frenzy that had restored his reserves by consuming men who'd been following orders.
He drove faster.
But eventually the inevitable question surfaced through exhaustion: where was he actually going?
Jake's foot eased off the accelerator. The vehicle slowed. His hands gripped the steering wheel -- one flesh, one Sleeper-covered absence -- while his mind assembled variables that couldn't be ignored indefinitely.
His clock was still ticking. Six days remained. Forty five hours before Sleeper's bond dissolved and left him defenseless. Driving aimlessly burned time he couldn't afford to waste, especially when every minute spent traveling was a minute not spent hunting totems.
The vehicle rolled to a stop on an empty stretch of highway.
Jake sat in darkness that felt absolute despite his enhanced vision. His breathing was the only sound -- shallow, controlled, the rhythm of someone maintaining composure through deliberate effort.
He didn't know where he was. Not specifically. Somewhere outside Gotham's immediate radius, heading in a direction that had felt like "away" when survival required immediate distance. But away from Gotham didn't constitute a plan, and operating without plans was how he'd ended up drowning in chemical vats.
His phone was gone. Left behind at the Oasis Motor Inn along with the remaining cash and anything else that connected Jake Cross to the person he'd been before Harley Quinn had baptized him in madness. He had no maps, no navigation, no way to determine coordinates beyond the general awareness that he was somewhere in New Jersey heading vaguely southeast.
The crystallized arm was gone too. Forty pounds of corrupted tissue that could be retrieved and compiled to engineer counters to his abilities.
Jake's right hand moved to his ribs where Two-Face's coin rested against Sleeper's surface. He pulled it free, held it up to catch ambient moonlight filtering through the windshield.
The coin flickered. Dim glow pulsing with irregular rhythm, like a heartbeat struggling to maintain cadence. Something was happening to the totem -- something Jake didn't understand but could feel through the connection Consumption had forged between him and the objects he claimed.
Was Two-Face dying? Had he damaged Harvey Dent beyond recovery? The coin's instability suggested its original owner's condition was deteriorating, but Jake had no way to verify without returning to Gotham.
Which wasn't happening.
He pocketed the coin and forced his mind toward productive analysis. Destination. He needed to choose one before exhaustion made decisions for him.
Metropolis surfaced first.
The city of tomorrow, bright and hopeful in ways that made Gotham look like a medieval plague pit by comparison. Clean streets, functional infrastructure, citizens who believed their protector would save them because he always had. Superman's domain.
Jake's jaw tightened. Metropolis was inevitable -- Lex Luthor operated there, along with other high-value targets whose totems would be worth the risk. But walking into Superman's city right now, with a target on his back and reserves depleted, was suicide dressed as ambition.
Superman wasn't unbeatable. Jake was confident about that much. The Man of Steel had weaknesses that could be exploited, vulnerabilities that careful planning could leverage into victory. But confidence required preparation, and preparation required time Jake didn't have when his bond with Sleeper was measured in hours.
Central City came next.
The Flash's territory. Speed that made enhanced reflexes look pedestrian, processing power that could analyze situations faster than Jake could react to them. Another heavy hitter, another protector whose power set created complications Jake's current state couldn't handle.
Star City, though. Oliver Queen.
The Green Arrow was dangerous in ways that demanded respect -- tactical genius, unlimited trick arrows, connections throughout the superhero community. But he was still human. Still vulnerable to the kind of violence Jake had refined through Gotham's crucible. And Star City itself harbored less concentrated danger than Metropolis or Central City, fewer complications that could spiral into disasters.
Deathstroke operating with the League of Shadows actually made Star City safer. The mercenary's presence in Gotham meant he wasn't in Star City, wasn't coordinating with, or antagonizing, Queen, wasn't adding his expertise to whatever defenses Jake would need to overcome.
Star City was the logical choice. Recover there. Regroup. Hunt totems from targets who were manageable rather than suicidal. Build his time bank back up while preparing for the inevitable confrontations with DC's real heavy-hitters.
But where the hell was Star City located?
Jake opened the vehicle's door. Climbed out into night air that felt cold against skin accustomed to Sleeper's constant temperature regulation. The symbiote's surface rippled, adjusting to environmental conditions while Jake stood on empty highway and processed his next move.
He couldn't go back toward Gotham. The psychological weight of returning to that burning hellscape was beyond consideration, even if practical concerns about military presence and Bat-family pursuit hadn't made it tactically insane.
Forward, then. Keep walking until he found another stopover -- gas stations and minimarts dotted highways like this, service stations designed for travelers who needed fuel or food or directions. There he could find information.
Jake started walking. Left the military vehicle behind without ceremony, its purpose served and its systems failing as Sleeper's control degraded. The black material would dissolve eventually, leaving behind component parts that would confuse investigators and accomplish nothing except adding another mystery to the Spider's growing legend.
His feet found rhythm on asphalt. Each step carried him farther from Gotham's gravity well, deeper into darkness that felt less oppressive than the city's smoke-choked atmosphere. The walking helped. Gave his mind something mechanical to focus on.
Thirty minutes passed before artificial light appeared ahead.
Jake's enhanced vision resolved details as distance closed -- a gas station, the kind of roadside establishment that catered to late-night travelers and people who'd made questionable decisions about when to refuel. Single structure, fluorescent lights painting the parking area in harsh illumination that made everything look slightly artificial.
A silver 2019 Audi A4 sat at the pumps. Music leaked from open windows, bass-heavy electronic beats that suggested the driver valued volume over quality. Someone was dancing near the fuel nozzle, movements loose and uncoordinated in ways that had nothing to do with rhythm.
Male, mid-twenties, wearing clothes that cost more than most people's rent. He was operating the fuel pump with the careful concentration of someone whose motor control had been chemically compromised, fingers fumbling with the trigger mechanism while his body swayed to music only he could properly hear.
A woman stood twenty feet away, smoking. Her posture suggested boredom more than concern, like watching her companion struggle with basic tasks was routine entertainment. She wore a dress that had probably looked better before whatever party they'd attended, heels dangling from one hand while she leaned against a concrete pillar.
Jake approached the perimeter. His spider-sense tracked the security cameras -- three visible, positioned to cover the pumps and entrance. He moved through blind spots, reached the first camera and crushed its housing with fingers that punctured metal casing like it was cardboard.
The second camera died the same way. Then the third.
The guy at the pump didn't notice. He'd given up on the fuel nozzle entirely and was now examining his phone with the intense focus of someone trying to remember why they'd pulled it out in the first place.
Jake walked toward him. His feet soundless against concrete, approaching like a shadow that hadn't earned acknowledgment yet.
"Cool costume, dude." The guy looked up, grin spreading across features that suggested pharmaceutical enhancement. His eyes were dilated, pupils consuming iris in ways that made focus difficult. "You heading out from a party? Me and my girl just came from one -- heading to another in like, an hour maybe? You should come, man. It's gonna be sick."
Jake stopped three feet away. Close enough that normal conversation didn't require raised voices. "Which way to Star City?"
"Star City?" The guy laughed, gestured vaguely northeast with the hand holding his phone. "That's like... far, man. But they got parties there too. Billionaire parties. That one dude throws them -- what's his name..." He turned, shouted toward the woman still smoking. "Hey! Do you remember that billionaire's name? That one from Star City?"
The woman didn't respond. She was focused on her cigarette, clearly uninterested in participating in conversations that required effort.
The guy turned back to Jake, shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Rich people parties are all the same anyway. Too many rules, not enough--"
"Your phone." Jake extended his right hand. "Give it to me."
"What?" The guy's grin faltered, confusion bleeding through chemical haze. "Nah, man. This is like, a new model. Just got it last week. You want directions, I can maybe--"
"Give me your phone." Jake's voice carried no inflection. Just statement of fact, devoid of negotiation.
"Dude, what the hell--"
Jake's left arm extended. Sleeper's mass formed tendrils that shot forward before the guy could process what he was seeing, wrapping around wrists and torso with strength that lifted him off the ground. The phone dropped. Jake caught it mid-fall, brought it to the guy's dangling hand and pressed his finger against the sensor.
The phone unlocked.
"What the fuck--" The guy was struggling now, chemical enhancement burning away under sudden adrenaline. "Get this shit off me--"
"Your clothes." Jake pocketed the phone, studied the guy's outfit with analytical precision. Button-down shirt, designer jeans, jacket that looked expensive. Close enough to Jake's size that the fit would work better blending in than the classic suit enhanced by Sleeper. "Take them off."
"Are you fucking insane--"
The woman screamed.
She'd finally looked up from her cigarette, seen the black tendrils holding her companion in the air like a puppet on strings. The scream was sharp, genuine terror cutting through whatever chemical buffer she'd been operating under.
Jake's tendrils moved faster. Stripped the jacket off the struggling guy, then the shirt, movements efficient despite resistance. The guy's protests got louder, panic replacing confusion as his jeans came off next, leaving him in boxer shorts and socks while Sleeper's mass held him suspended three feet above concrete.
The woman was running now. Heels forgotten, dress hiked up, moving toward the gas station's interior where she could find help or at least put barriers between herself and whatever was happening.
Jake caught the car keys when Sleeper's tendrils extracted them from the jeans pocket. He bundled the clothes under one arm, pocketed the phone more securely, and walked toward the Audi while the guy's screaming followed him across the parking lot.
The woman had made it to the gas station's door. Was pounding on glass, screaming for someone inside to call police. Jake filled the tank, closed the fuel neck and climbed into the Audi. He adjusted the seat to accommodate his frame, started the engine with movements that felt automatic.
The guy was still suspended in the air, still screaming. Jake released the tendrils. Let him drop to concrete in a heap of limbs and chemical confusion while Sleeper retracted back into Jake's left arm.
Jake pulled up the phone's map application. Typed "Star City" into the search bar. Waited while GPS calculated route, processed destination, painted a line across the screen that stretched northeast for several hundred miles.
Eight hours of driving. Enough time to get him in Star City before the cops tried pieced the story enough to track the phone, or the vehicle.
The Audi's tires squealed against concrete as Jake accelerated out of the gas station. In the rearview mirror, he watched the guy scramble to his feet, watched the woman emerge from the gas station's entrance with an employee in tow.
They got smaller. Disappeared. Became another problem left behind while Jake followed the blue line on the screen toward Star City and targets who didn't know they were being hunted yet.
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