The Laughing Spider #28.
Bruce's hand moved to his belt. The solvent. But even as his fingers closed around the vial, he knew -- wrong type. The green webbing was fundamentally different. The solvent might even accelerate the corrosion.
The line snapped.
The Spider rose to his feet, swaying. His broken hands hung at wrong angles. The chemical scarring on his exposed skin glowed faintly in the streetlights. And the laughter -- God, the laughter wouldn't stop.
Bruce's assessment came in microseconds: Severely injured. Bone damage extensive. Blood loss critical. Poisoned by Joker toxin and pheromones simultaneously. Should be dying.
But the chemicals wouldn't let him die. They animated his corpse like a marionette, keeping him upright through sheer biochemical compulsion.
"The Batman," the Spider giggled, the words distorted. "The big bad Bat. The scary-scary shadow-man. You came. Did you miss me? I missed you. Everything misses everything now."
His head tilted, vertebrae popping. "Wanna see a magic trick? I can make things disappear. Made Lady Vic disappear. Most of her. Parts went everywhere. It was hilarious. You should've seen -- should've tasted the colors of her screaming."
Bruce's jaw tightened. Confirming what he'd suspected -- the synesthesia, the sensory cross-wiring. The Joker toxin mixing with Ivy's pheromones in his bloodstream, creating something unprecedented.
"Stand down," Bruce said, voice level. Not a request. "You're injured. Poisoned. Let me--"
"Let you WHAT?" The Spider's laugh cracked into something almost human. Almost Jake Cross. "Fix me? Make it stop? Make the purple stop tasting like sadness?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Please."
The word hung in the air. A moment of clarity breaking through the chemical fog.
Then Harley yanked her feet free from the remaining grapnel line -- the green webbing had weakened it enough -- and scrambled upright.
"Good Night, baby," she cooed, voice honey-sweet and poisonous. "Remember what we talked about? About caging the angry-you? About being my perfect Good Night?"
The Spider's body tensed. The moment of lucidity shattered like glass. His head snapped toward Harley, expression transforming from desperate to devoted.
"Yes," he breathed. "Yes-yes-yes. Cage him. Keep him sleeping. Be good. Be yours."
Bruce's hand moved to his belt. The fear toxin. Concentrated Scarecrow formula. If he could trigger a fear response, break through the conditioning--
The Spider's broken hand shot out. Webbing hit Bruce's chest before he could dodge.
The green webbing didn't just stick -- it invaded. Molecular hooks penetrating his armor's weave, spreading like infection. Where it touched, it burned, breathing down the kevlar composite at a cellular level.
Bruce ripped the strand away, but damage was done. His chest armor hung in melted tatters. The skin beneath was already blistering, second-degree burns spreading in a pattern that matched the webbing's contact points.
He had been infected -- a payload delivering directly into his bloodstream. Joker toxin? Ivy's pheromones? Some horrific combination birthed in the Chemical Factory's depths?
His heart stuttered, vision blurring at the edges.
His hand found the fear toxin. Threw it.
The canister exploded at the Spider's feet. Gray-green mist enveloped him.
For three seconds, nothing happened.
Then the Spider breathed it in deep. Held it. His chest expanded like he was savoring fine wine.
The laughter that followed was different. Darker. More knowing.
"Ohhhhh," he giggled, eyes going unfocused. "The scary gas. The make-you-afraid gas." He swayed, arms spreading. "I can taste it. Tastes like... like old nightmares. Like drowning. Like watching myself kill and kill and not being able to STOP--"
His voice cracked. For a heartbeat, genuine terror flickered across his face. His hands went to his throat, clawing. The laughter died.
"Can't breathe," he gasped. "The green -- it's in my lungs -- burning -- drowning again--"
Bruce's mind raced. The toxin was working. Not normally, but working. The fear response was there, buried under chemical corruption, but present. Targeting the trauma.
"That's it," Bruce said quietly, voice cutting through. "Remember. Remember what she did to you. Remember the fear."
The Spider's knees buckled. He hit the pavement hard, still clawing at his throat. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with chemical sweat.
"I don't-- I can't-- make it STOP--"
Then Harley was there. Moving fast. She grabbed his face, forced eye contact.
"Baby," she said firmly. "Good Night. Listen to me. That's not real. The fear isn't real. You're MY Good Night. MY perfect weapon. Nothing scares you. NOTHING."
The pheromones in his bloodstream surged. Responding to her proximity. Her voice. Her command. The rose on his back pulsed, thorns digging deeper, injecting fresh poison to combat the fear.
The Spider's breathing steadied. The terror in his eyes dimmed. Replaced by that devoted emptiness.
"Not real," he repeated, voice hollow. "Not scared. Can't be scared. Have to be good. Have to be--"
"That's right, baby." Harley's smile was vicious. "The Batman's trying to trick you. Trying to make you weak. But you're not weak, are you?"
"No." The Spider stood, movements jerky but purposeful. "Strong. Perfect. Good."
But something had changed. The laughter when it returned was forced. Mechanical. Like he was performing rather than succumbing.
Bruce filed that information away. The fear toxin hadn't broken the conditioning, but it had cracked it. Had proven that The Spider was still in there, still capable of genuine emotion beyond chemical compulsion.
If Scarecrow's formula could reach him, even for seconds, then theoretically--
Harley swung her bat. Aimed at Bruce's head. He blocked with his reinforced gauntlet, but the impact still rattled his bones. She was strong. Not enhanced, but desperate. Trained by the Joker himself in the art of chaotic violence.
Bruce's fist drove into her abdomen. Controlled. Precise. Enough to disable without permanent damage.
She folded. Gasped. Dropped to one knee.
The Spider shrieked, not words, just sound. Pure rage erupting from chemical corruption.
His webs came at Bruce from every angle. Green strands seeking flesh. Bruce dodged -- cape swirling, body moving through patterns refined by decades -- but there were too many. Too fast.
One caught his leg. Burned through armor. Ate into his calf muscle. Bruce felt the poison spreading. His leg buckled.
Another strand caught his cape. The fabric, designed to be detachable in emergencies, released. But the webbing kept coming. Hit his shoulder. His arm.
The pain was exquisite. Chemical fire eating through nerve endings. Bruce's world narrowed to the immediate: dodge, deflect, survive.
The Spider was laughing through tears now. Real tears. Human tears streaming down chemical-scarred cheeks.
"YOU CAN'T SAVE ME," The Spider said, sing-song. "The big scary bat can't save the broken, Laughing Spider."
Ahahaha...hahaha...haaa...
More webs. Bruce rolled, came up limping. His utility belt -- half the equipment melted by the green webbing. The comm in his cowl was dying, Alfred's voice fading to static.
Harley was back on her feet, bat raised. "That's my Good Night," she said proudly. "My perfect weapon. You can't beat him, Batsy. You can't even survive him."
She was right.
Bruce's analytical mind processed the data: Poison spreading. Leg compromised. Equipment failing. Against an opponent with no fear response, no pain limitation, no sanity to appeal to. Enhanced strength fueled by chemicals that wouldn't let him die even when his body begged for it.
This wasn't a fight he could win.
Not here. Not now. Not like this.
Bruce's hand found a smoke pellet, one of the few items not melted. He threw it at his own feet. The world became gray chaos.
He ran. Or tried to. His leg gave out after three steps. He fell, rolled, came up behind the batmobile. His breathing was labored. Poison making his chest tight.
Laughter chased him through the smoke. Echoing off surrounding buildings. Multiplying. Coming from everywhere and nowhere.
"FOUND YOU!"
The Spider's voice punched through the gray. Five feet away. Three.
Bruce's hand moved to his belt--
A body collapsed onto the Batmobile's hood with a wet thud. The Spider. Sprawled across the vehicle like a broken doll, broken fingers scrambling for purchase on the polished surface.
"The big hungry yummy-yummy," he giggled, face pressed against the hood. "So shiny. So pretty. Want it. Need it. Mine-mine-mine."
He wasn't looking at Bruce. His entire focus had narrowed to the vehicle beneath him. The chemical corruption hijacking his enhanced awareness, turning precognition into obsession.
"Where will I keep it?" The Spider's head lolled, considering. His broken fingers traced the Bat symbol. "Next to the pretty-pretty rose? Under my arm? Oh-- Oh-- I KNOW!" His laugh cracked into something manic. "I'll put it on my head like a HAT! Drive around wearing the Batmobile like a crown!"
The laughter spiraled higher, unhinged.
Bruce's mind cataloged even as his body prepared to move: The Mallet. The Roman Ring. The Pheromone Rose. Now the Batmobile.
Objects of significance. Symbols of power. But what was the connection? What drove this compulsion?
Analysis would have to wait.
His hand found a sonic batarang -- one of three remaining. He threw it blind, relying on muscle memory and spatial awareness.
The projectile whistled through smoke. Detonated inches from the Spider's skull.
The disorienting frequency hit like a hammer. The Spider's laughter cut off mid-cackle. His body seized, hands flying to his head. A keening sound escaped his throat -- pain, confusion, the inner ear's equilibrium shattered.
Bruce didn't waste the opening.
His injured leg screamed as he hauled himself into the Batmobile's cockpit. Hands fumbling across controls, the poison making his fingers clumsy, unresponsive.
He slammed his palm against the emergency override. Semi-automatic controls engaged. The AI compensated for his compromised state, reading his vital signs, adjusting response parameters.
Headlights blazed to life. The engine roared -- not the controlled purr of normal operation, but a throaty snarl of maximum acceleration.
Tires found purchase. The vehicle lurched forward, throwing the Spider from the hood. He tumbled across rubble, limbs flailing.
The Batmobile tore through the debris field, suspension absorbing impacts that would destroy normal vehicles. Smoke parted in its wake like a curtain ripping.
Behind him, the haze cleared. Harley stood frozen where the vehicle had been, bat still raised, expression cycling through shock and rage. The Spider swayed beside her, head tilted at an angle that looked wrong even for him. Searching. Confused.
Then his eyes locked on.
The Batmobile, twenty feet away now. Thirty. The distance growing.
"NO!" The Spider's scream was raw. Anguished. The sound of something precious being torn away. "NOT THE HUNGRY YUMMY-YUMMY! COME BACK! IT'S MINE! YOU CAN'T--"
His wrists snapped up. Green webbing erupted from both simultaneously -- not aimed shots but desperate flailing. Toxic strands seeking, grasping, trying to reclaim what the interface demanded he possess.
The Batmobile's rear sensors tracked the webbing's trajectory. Bruce jerked the wheel. The vehicle responded, sliding through a narrow turn.
The webbing missed by inches. Splattered across rubble, eating into concrete with acidic hisses.
The Batmobile hit the corner. Tires shrieked -- a sound like something dying. The vehicle disappeared around the bend, taillights vanishing into Gotham's maze.
The Spider stood motionless. Staring at the empty space. His broken hands still raised. Webs leaking from his wrists like blood from an open wound.
The Batmobile was gone. The totem. The hungry-thing his entire corrupted system screamed to possess.
"No," he heard himself whisper. The word came from somewhere deep. Somewhere the chemicals hadn't fully drowned. "I need-- have to--"
His wrist rose. Aimed at the direction Batman had fled. Green webbing began forming at the glands,ready to shoot, to chase, to claim what the interface demanded--
"Good Night."
Harley's voice cut through the compulsion like a blade.
The Spider froze mid-motion. Body locked between imperatives: the hunger pulling him forward, her voice anchoring him back. His arm trembled. The webbing leaked down his wrist, unused.
"Let him go, baby."
"But--" His voice cracked. Raw. "The timer. The numbers-- they won't stop and I need--"
Harley moved closer. Slowly. Like approaching a wounded animal that might still bite.
"We won tonight." Her voice was gentle. Patient. "Showed Gotham what Harley Quinn can do with her new Good Night. You made Batman run. The Batman. Nobody does that."
The Spider's hands lowered slightly. Trembling. But his eyes stayed fixed on where the Batmobile had disappeared.
"The big one," he whispered. "The important hungry-thing. It got away and the angry-me says if I don't--"
"The angry-you is speaking."
Her tone shifted. Became quieter. More dangerous.
The Spider flinched. His broken fingers found his temples, pressing hard like he could physically cage something inside his skull.
"I'm keeping him sleeping," he said quickly. "I am. I'm being good--"
"Are you?" She stepped closer. Close enough to touch now. "Because good boys listen when Harley talks. Good boys don't let angry voices make them chase things that are already gone."
Silence stretched. The Spider swayed, lips moving soundlessly. Arguing with himself. With voices. With the chemicals rewriting his neural pathways in real-time.
His arm twitched. Rose slightly. The hunger wouldn't stop. Couldn't stop.
Harley's hand caught his wrist.
She didn't grab hard. Didn't need to. Just touched the broken bones. Applied the gentlest pressure.
Pain exploded up his arm. White-hot. Cutting through even the chemical fog. His vision fractured. The webbing dissolved before it could form.
When his eyes cleared, she was there. Her face filling his world.
"We talked about this," she said softly. Not angry. Disappointed. "About keeping the angry-you caged. About being my perfect Good Night."
"I'm sorry." The words tumbled out. Desperate. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry--"
"I know you are." Her hand moved from his wrist to his face. Palm against his chemical-scarred cheek. "And I know it's hard. The hungry-things want to wake him up. Want to make you chase and never stop chasing."
She leaned closer. Her breath warm against his ear.
"But good boys who keep him sleeping," she purred, each word deliberate, "who choose Harley over hungry-things... they get everything."
His breathing changed. Faster. Shallower. The pheromones surging at her proximity.
The rose on his back pulsed. Thorns dug deeper. Injecting fresh compulsion into his bloodstream.
"Everything?" The hunger for the Batmobile flickered. Dimmed. Replaced by a different desperation.
"Everything-everything." She smiled. "I'll let you touch. See. Do all the things that make the happy-chemicals." Her fingers traced his jawline. "Tonight you earned it. Made me so proud."
The Spider's pupils dilated. The totem-hunger was still there -- would always be there -- but the pheromones were stronger. The conditioning deeper.
"The yummy-thing is far now," he whispered. The lie tasted true even as he spoke it. The chemicals rewrote reality before the words left his mouth. "Too far. Gone. Don't need it."
"That's my good boy." Harley's smile could cut glass. "Let's go home. Celebrate properly."
She took his broken hand. He whimpered -- pain breaking through even the fog -- but didn't pull away.
They turned back to the tunnels, clearing the rubble to get through.
They laughed. His high and fractured. Hers sharp and knowing.
Keep MimicLord going by engaging, and supporting however you can. Thank you!
Early access to #51: Patreon.com/MimicLord