The Undead Spider #95.
The spider silk coiled around the Cheetah with a dull, wet sound as it tightened against her fur, pinning her limbs to her torso before Jake hoisted the mass of webbing toward the vaulted ceiling.
He watched her for a moment as she swayed in the shadows of the upper rafters, a low, guttural groan vibrating from her throat while the supernatural biology beneath her skin began the messy work of repair.
The way he had snapped her spine meant the vertebrae were currently shifting like loose stones in a bag, grinding against one another as they sought a purchase that wasn't there. The silk was wrapped with enough torque to ensure any bone growth would meet resistance, forcing the healing process to stall or knit in a jagged, useless ruin.
She was alive, her eyes tracking him with a glassy, predatory heat through the gaps in the webbing, but for the next few hours, she was merely a weight suspended in the dark.
Jake turned away from the hanging shape and looked toward the floor where the cabinet had been shattered during their struggle. The navigation thread remained anchored to the floorboards, pulling with a steady, invisible tension that felt like a physical hook in the center of his chest.
He flicked a strand of webbing toward the debris, the line sticking to a dark object buried under a splintered mahogany shelf, and pulled it toward his hand with a sharp tug.
The dagger's hilt was wrapped in leather that had turned the color of dried earth over the centuries. He held it up to the dim light filtering through the high windows, watching how the blade swallowed the glow rather than reflecting it.
There were stains along the fuller -- a deep, crusted rust that spoke of rituals performed in places where the air was thin and the dirt was red.
He could feel the history of the thing vibrating against his palm, a residue of old blood and older intent that suggested this was the very instrument used to carve the essence of the cheetah into a human soul.
It was a singular object, unique enough that the system wouldn't find a reason to devalue it through repetition, and he felt a brief flicker of relief as he gripped the iron.
"Register Totem," he whispered into the silence of the room.
The air in front of his mask rippled as the interface bled into existence, the golden light of the icons looking garish against the gloom of the estate.
🕷️
[Totem collected!]
Category: Rare --> Epic
Reward: +72h --> +96h to your Time Bank
Redeem totem to receive reward? (Y/N)
🕸️
He hesitated, his thumb hovering over the mental prompt while he thought back to the last time he had tried to claim a high-level prize. The memory of the corruption, the way the interface had blazed crimson with errors, stayed his hand, but the weight of this dagger felt different.
It was an anchor, solid and tethered to the world in a way the previous totems hadn't been. He pushed the thought of failure aside and selected the affirmative. The system responded:
🕷️
Symbolic Extraction enabled. Disable to redeem totem as Rare.
🕸️
He stared at the text. To get the full Epic reward, he would have to unravel the narrative of the Cheetah, peeling back the layers of her history until he understood the specific misery that bound her to this blade.
It would mean more time, more risk, and the possibility of her staying a problem while he was distracted by the ghosts of her past. Exciting -- but he couldn't afford the delay.
The extra twenty-four hours and the potential for a higher-quality essence were tempting, but he had chosen London for a reason, one that needed him to move while he still had the momentum.
He navigated to the progress tab, his eyes scanning the numbers with a cold, mechanical focus.
🕷️
[Progress Tab]
Completion: 13.5%
Totems redeemed: 9
Time Bank: 03:56:14
Kill Milestone: 00:00:00
System Tools: Symbolic Extraction? Enabled.
🕸️
The zeros in the Kill Milestone row were a reminder of the fire in Star City. He remembered the sensation of the Carnage suit expanding, the red biomass forming a pressurized shell around his body a split second before the world turned into white heat and sound.
Since he had pulled himself out of the black pool and back into the light, the suit had been silent, absent from his skin in a way that left him feeling exposed despite the reinforced fabric of his standard gear.
He didn't want to think about whether the symbiote was dead or simply dormant, buried somewhere in the rubble of another city. He needed a milestone to bridge the gap, but first, he had to clear the path.
He sent the command to disable the Symbolic Extraction and confirmed the redemption of the dagger.
The weapon began to hum in his hand, a low-frequency vibration that traveled up his arm and settled in his teeth. Then the firelight arrived, a swirling mix of deep crimson and electric blue sparks that jumped from the iron to his fingertips.
The dagger dissolved into a fine, metallic dust that spiraled into the pores of his suit, the dark specks tracing the lines of the tears Cheetah had carved into his shoulders. He watched the light settle into his skin, feeling the warmth of the time bank expanding, the clock ticking upward as the system absorbed the history of the blade.
🕷️
[Totem redeemed!]
Select one Bonus Rewards:
1. Bundle of Cash
2. Totem Icon
3. Mystery Reward
4. KILL MILESTONE: 60/120 - on select, the system extends its hand. Time is limited by totem rarity. Valid only if milestone is completed.
🕸️
The requirement for the milestone had doubled, jumping from thirty to sixty. The system was asking for a higher price, a steeper descent into the kind of work he had learned to do in Gotham, and he felt a momentary weight in his stomach as he looked at the numbers.
He wondered if there was a point where the cost would outweigh the return, or if he was already past the point where such questions mattered. He pushed the doubt down.
He chose the Totem Icon.
The object tab flared to life, a card spinning in the center of his vision with a blurred sequence of shapes and colors. It slowed, the edges sharpening, and Jake found himself smiling behind the mask before the image even came to a full stop.
He knew that shape. He knew the significance of the long, tan coat and the way it seemed to hold the scent of tobacco and cheap gin even in a digital rendering.
The red thread at the edge of his vision began to blink with a fresh, aggressive rhythm. He looked up at the ceiling one last time, seeing the Cheetah's chest rising and falling in the cocoon, her breathing heavy and labored as her body tried to repair the damage he had done. He would have to come back for her, but the icon was pulling him toward the city, toward a mark that offered a different kind of danger.
He left the vault and headed to the window, the hinges groaning as he pushed the frame open and stepped out into the rain. The London air was as wet as he had left it, and he cast a line toward a distant spire, swinging away from the estate and letting the momentum carry him over the rooftops toward the heart of the sprawl.
The transition from the quiet of the outskirts to the noise of the city happened in a series of long, soaring arcs. He found himself dropping toward a narrow street lined with pubs, the light from the windows spilling across the wet ground in yellow pools.
He landed on a chimney stack, his eyes fixed on a specific door where the noise of a crowd was beginning to spill out into the night.
Inside the bar, the air was a haze of blue smoke and the sharp tang of spilled ale. There, at a corner table, sat a man, coat draped over the back of his chair like a discarded skin.
He was on his fourth glass of something that looked like amber ink, his eyes unfocused as he watched a woman in a red dress walk toward the billiards table. He looked like a man who was waiting for the world to end or for the next drink to arrive, whichever came first.
Three men moved through the crowd toward him, their movements too synchronized for a pair of casual drinkers. They wore heavy coats that didn't quite hide the bulk of the iron they were carrying, and their eyes were fixed on the back of the man's head with a singular, violent intent.
The man didn't turn around, but his hand tightened around his glass, his thumb tracing the rim in a slow, deliberate circle. He knew they were there. He also knew the exits were blocked by men who looked exactly like the three approaching his table.
The lights in the bar flickered once, then died entirely for a heartbeat.
In the sudden dark, a sound like a whip cracking echoed through the room. One of the men at the front of the group vanished, pulled upward into the shadows of the ceiling with a muffled shout that was cut short by a dull thud. The second man turned, his hand reaching for his waistband, but a white line of silk caught his wrist and yanked him backward into the kitchen, the swinging doors clattering shut behind him.
The third man froze, his eyes darting toward the rafters as the light returned, buzzing and dim. The space where his companions had been standing was empty, and the crowd in the bar was starting to notice the sudden absence, the murmurs of conversation turning into the low hum of confusion.
The man at the corner table didn't wait to see the rest. He grabbed his coat and moved toward the side exit, his boots thudding against the wood as he pushed through a pair of heavy curtains into a narrow hallway. He reached into his pocket for a lighter, his fingers trembling as he prepared to strike a ward onto the doorframe, but he stopped when he saw the figure standing at the end of the hall.
Jake stood there, a dark hoodie pulled over his suit to break up the silhouette of his shoulders, the white lenses of his mask glowing faintly in the shadow of the hood. He didn't move, his arms hanging loose at his sides as the man skidded to a halt a few feet away.
"Nice coat," Jake said, his voice low and steady.
He saw the man blink, eyes tracing the lines of the mask and the way the light caught the texture of the fabric. The man took a half-step back, his hand still hovering near his pocket as he took a breath that smelled of gin and old tobacco.
"You're no--" he muttered, the words coming out as a raspy exhale. "You're just a bloke in a very expensive bit of theater. Piss off, mate. I'm not in the mood for the circus."
"You look like you could use a drink," Jake said, shifting his weight to block the path. "On me?"
"I'd love to, truly," the man said, shifting his weight to step around Jake. "But I've got a pressing engagement with a bottle that doesn't talk back. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got ghosts to outrun and a very short fuse."
"Never thought John Constantine could turn down a free drink," Jake said, stepping forward until his massive form completely blocked the hallway. "But if you don't mind, I insist. We have things to discuss, and none of them involve the circus."
Constantine stopped, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the masked figure. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled pack of Silk Cut, and put a cigarette between his lips without lighting it. His shoulders relaxed just enough to suggest he was calculating his next move, his gaze sharp and dangerously sober.
"Bloody hell," Constantine muttered, his accent thick and jagged. "Word travels, then? Or did the devil finally get tired of sending ravens and hire himself a tailor instead?"
He looked at the exit, then back at Jake, a weary, cynical smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Alright then, Spaceman. What's one more drink between two good men? But you're buying the good stuff. My liver's too old for the cheap shite."
🕸️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕸️
🕷️
[Progress Tab]
Completion: 15.5%
Totems redeemed: 10
Time Bank: 05:08:06
Kill Milestone: 00:00:00
System Tools: Symbolic Extraction? Enabled.
🕸️