Mechanical-Arm Spider #63
The phone died between Jake's fingers with a crunch that felt satisfying in ways he didn't want to examine.
He'd pulled off Interstate 5 three miles outside Star City's limits, found a shoulder wide enough for the Audi, and spent thirty seconds methodically destroying the device. Screen shattered first under his thumb's pressure. Then the casing split. Internal components followed, circuit boards snapping like brittle bone until what remained was electronic confetti scattered across asphalt.
The vehicle was harder to trace. Luxury cars had tracking systems, but those required active monitoring and someone who cared enough to look. The phone had GPS broadcasting his location to cell towers every minute. Simple math.
Jake climbed back into the Audi and adjusted the rearview mirror.
Red eyes stared back at him.
Not bloodshot. Deeper than that. The kind of exhaustion that lived behind the sclera, turning white to pink through sheer accumulation of sleepless hours. His irises looked darker too, brown bleeding toward black in ways that might have been shadow or might have been something else.
The scars were worse.
Chemical burns had healed into raised tissue that crossed his face in patterns suggesting violence rather than accident. One ran from his left temple to his jaw, puckered and angry. Another bisected his right cheek, the skin there pulled tight enough that smiling would probably hurt.
He wouldn't be getting his original face back. That much was clear.
Jake looked away.
The stolen clothes hung loose in some places, tight in others. Button-down shirt stretched across shoulders that had broadened through enhanced muscle development. Jeans fit his waist but the legs were slightly short, exposing an inch of ankle above stolen shoes. The jacket worked better, designer cut accommodating his frame with expensive tailoring.
The wallet had contained six hundred and forty dollars. Enough for immediate needs. Enough to avoid drawing attention through petty theft when larger problems demanded focus.
He started the engine and merged back onto the interstate.
Star City announced itself gradually.
First came the suburbs, clean residential sprawl that spoke of urban planning and zoning laws people actually followed. Houses with yards. Trees planted in deliberate rows. Sidewalks that looked maintained rather than crumbling under neglect's patient entropy.
Then the skyline rose ahead, glass and steel catching afternoon sun in ways that made Gotham's architecture look gothic by comparison. Modern towers, efficient design, the aesthetic of a city that believed in progress without Gotham's crushing weight of history.
But underneath the polish, Jake recognized familiar patterns. Wealth concentrated in specific districts, visible poverty pushed to specific neighborhoods. The same economic segregation wearing different clothes. Star City just hid its rot better than Gotham did, wrapped dysfunction in nicer packaging.
He needed rest first. The totem hunt could wait until night when enhanced vision provided advantage and civilians were fewer. Smart tactics required energy he didn't have after driving eight hours on reserves barely sufficient for consciousness.
Jake found a shopping center, parked the Audi in a lot busy enough that one more vehicle meant nothing. Walked until he found what he needed.
The phone store clerk barely looked up when Jake entered. Young guy, college age, more interested in his own device than potential customers. Jake paid cash for a prepaid smartphone, declined the protection plan, and left before small talk could become expected.
The phone's GPS led him to a motel six blocks from Star City's commercial center. Two stories, exterior corridors, the kind of establishment that catered to travelers who valued price over amenities. Perfect for someone avoiding questions.
The woman behind the desk looked tired in ways that suggested double shifts were routine. Late forties, reading glasses perched on her nose, fingers moving across a keyboard with practiced efficiency.
"How many nights?" Her tone was professional but disinterested.
"One." Jake placed three hundred dollar bills on the counter. "I lost my ID. Can we work something out?"
Her eyes moved from the money to his face. Lingered on the scars. Jake felt Sleeper adjust its chemistry, releasing pheromones through skin contact when he leaned forward slightly.
"Room 214." She took the cash, handed him a key card without further questions. "Checkout's at eleven."
The room was exactly what he'd expected. Queen bed, bathroom, television mounted to the wall, generic furniture that had seen a thousand temporary occupants. Clean enough. Functional.
Jake locked the door and immediately stripped.
The stolen clothes came off first, followed by the classic suit, red and blue fabric peeling away from skin that felt raw despite Sleeper's protection. He examined the tears, cataloging damage that would need addressing before the next hunt. Nothing catastrophic. Just accumulated wear from Gotham's violence.
He bundled and carried them to the bathroom sink.
Hand washing was meditative. Soap and cold water, working fabric between fingers while his mind processed nothing specific. The rhythm helped. Gave his hands something mechanical to focus on while exhaustion pressed against his consciousness.
He draped everything over the shower rod to dry, then ordered food from three different restaurants using the motel phone.
First call: "Two large pizzas -- pepperoni and supreme. Room 214 at the Star Pines Motel."
Second call: "Six burgers, large fries, extra ketchup. Room 214."
Third call: "Three orders of wings, hot sauce on the side, four Cokes. Room 214."
He tipped each delivery driver in cash through a cracked door, took the bags without conversation, and closed the door before questions could start.
Forty minutes later, Jake sat on the bed wrapped in a towel, food spread across every available surface. He ate methodically, consuming calories faster than normal metabolism could justify. Enhanced biology demanded fuel, and two weeks of operating on minimal nutrition had created deficits that needed addressing.
The television provided background noise. Some sitcom, canned laughter filling silence that felt oppressive without distraction. Jake chewed through his third burger and half-watched people whose problems resolved in twenty-two minutes.
Then the program cut to news.
"--continued fallout from Gotham's escalating gang violence. Military sources confirm at least fifty casualties at the quarantine checkpoint, though official numbers remain--"
Jake changed the channel.
Found another sitcom. Different actors, same laugh track. He kept eating.
Finished the burgers. Moved to pizza. Worked through chicken wings with efficiency that suggested desperation more than hunger. The food helped. Gave his body something to process besides trauma.
But eventually the food was gone, the television's noise had become irritating, and the bed waited with patient inevitability.
Jake turned off the TV. Lay down. Closed his eyes.
Sleep didn't come.
His mind filled the silence with images he'd been suppressing through movement and distraction. Gotham. The bridge. Tendrils wrapping around struggling forms. Soldiers dissolving into biomass while their teammates watched in horror.
Jake's fist clenched involuntarily. His jaw tightened. Behind closed eyelids, the replay continued with perfect clarity, spider-sense memory ensuring every detail remained accessible.
He tried to push it away. Tried to think about nothing, about the room's generic ceiling, about tomorrow's hunt. Anything except Gotham.
But exhaustion made control difficult. His mind circled back, replaying moments in loops that wouldn't stop.
Tears burned behind his eyelids.
Jake's hand clenched tighter. Nails digging into palms hard enough that pain should have registered. He forced his breathing to steady, forced his body to relax, forced everything down into the compartment where feelings went to die quietly.
He needed distraction. Needed something concrete to focus on besides the spiraling thoughts that threatened to drag him under.
The system responded when he focused on it, interface materializing with familiar digital patience:
🕷️
Select one Bonus Reward:
Bundle of Cash Totem Icon Mystery Reward KILL MILESTONE: 47/60
🕸️
Forty-seven. The number sat there with accusatory weight. Jake dismissed it immediately, refused to acknowledge what it represented. Not now. Not when holding himself together required every ounce of concentration he possessed.
Two-Face's coin rested on the nightstand where he'd placed it earlier. Jake picked it up, watched the glow flicker weakly. Dying. Whatever connection existed between totem and owner was degrading.
Mystery rewards were risks he couldn't afford. The cash meant nothing when he already had enough for immediate needs.
Totem icon, then.
Jake selected it. Felt reality bend slightly as the system acknowledged his choice.
The interface shifted, question mark icon flipping through possibilities until it settled on an image that made Jake's stomach tighten.
A bow. Plain design, recurve construction, nothing obviously special about its appearance.
But Jake was in Star City, and his first totem icon was a bow. The math was simple even through exhaustion's fog.
Oliver Queen. The Green Arrow.
Of course the system would point him toward one of DC's heavy hitters immediately. Of course his decision to come here instead of Metropolis or Central City meant nothing when the hunt demanded escalation regardless of his preferences.
The navigation tab updated automatically. White web-threads appeared in his peripheral vision, one strand blinking red to guide him east.
Night hunting made sense anyway. Better conditions for someone whose abilities thrived in darkness.
Jake turned his attention to the coin. Might as well address this now while he was focused on system mechanics instead of trauma.
"T. Finder, register totem."
The interface glitched.
White threads flickered red, then crimson, then something deeper that hurt to look at directly. Static crawled across his vision in patterns suggesting the system was processing information it hadn't expected to encounter.
🕷️
[Totem corrupted!]
Category: ??
Reward: ??
Totem Irredeemable!
🕸️
The coin's glow died completely between Jake's fingers.
He stared at it, turning the metal over while his mind processed implications. Corrupted meant something specific in system terminology. Irredeemable meant the connection between totem and owner had degraded past the point where extraction was viable.
Poison Ivy's rose had been damaged physically but remained redeemable at reduced value. This was different. This was the totem itself breaking down because something had happened to Harvey Dent.
Had Jake broken Two-Face that completely? Shattered his psyche so thoroughly that even his totem couldn't maintain coherence?
The question should have bothered him more.
Instead Jake just filed it away, another data point in the growing collection of consequences he'd process later when survival wasn't demanding his complete attention.
He flipped the coin between his fingers, let the repetitive motion occupy his hands while his mind drifted. Maybe if he focused hard enough on understanding system mechanics, sleep would come naturally through sheer mental exhaustion.
The coin flipped. Caught. Flipped again.
Jake's breathing steadied. His eyes grew heavy.
Maybe--
🕸️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕸️
Jake woke to his own screaming.
His body was already moving before consciousness caught up, rolling off the bed into a defensive crouch that sent the nightstand crashing sideways. The coin skittered across carpet. His heart hammered against ribs that ached from phantom impacts.
Sweat soaked the towel wrapped around his waist. His hands shook. Spider-sense painted the empty room in threat assessment overlays that reported nothing except his own panic.
The nightmare's details were already fading, but the emotional residue remained. Drowning. Chemicals burning through flesh. Violence and killing. All of it compressed into images that felt more real than the motel room surrounding him.
Jake forced his breathing to slow. Counted to four on the inhale, held for four, released for four. The shaking stopped. His heart rate normalized. Within thirty seconds, his expression had settled back into the careful neutrality he'd been maintaining since leaving Gotham.
Cold. Distant. The face of someone who'd learned that showing weakness invited exploitation.
He checked his phone. 9:47 PM. He'd been asleep for maybe four hours, judging by the last time stamp he remembered seeing.
Good enough.
The classic suit had dried completely, material stiff but functional. Jake pulled it on, felt Sleeper activate across his skin as the symbiote recognized conscious intent.
He left through the window rather than the door. Second floor provided enough height that his webbing caught the neighboring building easily, pulling him into Star City's vertical landscape with practiced efficiency.
The navigation thread blinked east. Jake followed it.
His mind was clear now. Focused. Whatever the nightmare had dredged up was pushed back down into the compartment where it belonged. He had a totem to hunt, and complications needed to be minimized.
Green Arrow was human. Dangerous, certainly. But human.
And Jake had gotten very good at taking things from people who thought themselves untouchable.
The thread pulled him deeper into Star City's commercial district, toward whatever waited at its terminus.
Toward the bow that would either extend his timeline or end his hunt permanently.
Jake swung faster.
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