The Laughing Spider #29.
Harley kicked the factory's corroded doors, bat balanced on her shoulder. They groaned, opening a little wider.
Behind her, Jake stumbled, body pulling webbed bundles of cash that should have been effortless for someone with his strength.
Bones grinded with each attempt to secure the weight.
"Shit," he giggled, dropping to his knees. Bills scattered around him like toxic snow. "Sorry-sorry-sorry..."
He had more to say, but his exhausted jaw couldn't keep up with his thoughts.
Blood seeped through his tattered suit. His muscles torn and shrunk, eaten by the chemicals.
His enhanced healing was fighting a losing battle -- the chemicals struggling to keep his body strung together.
He tried gathering the money. His fingers fumbled, pushed bills around uselessly instead of grasping them. The laughter bubbled up his dried throat, coming out as a wheeze.
"I can do it," he whispered. "Just need a second. Just need to--"
Harley watched him struggle. Something flickered across her face -- disappointment mixed with concern. She'd expected her Good Night to be invincible. Instead, he was falling apart.
"Baby," she said quietly, setting down her own bundle. "Let me--"
"NO!" His voice cracked. Tears mixed with the sweat on his face. "I can be useful. I can carry. I can--" His hand closed around bills, pulled them close. Half fell through his broken fingers. "Please. Please don't-- don't stop needing me--"
The desperation in his voice made Harley's jaw tighten. She knelt beside him, not touching, just watching as he tried and failed to perform a simple task his body once would have handled without thought.
"Okay," she said finally. "Okay, Good Night. We'll do it together."
She helped him gather the money, her hands doing most of the work while he made fumbling attempts to assist. Each failed grab made him laugh hard -- then cough dryly -- the sound mixing with sobs until they became indistinguishable.
They managed to drag the bags deeper into the factory. Toward the vat. Toward home.
The Chemical Pool still bubbled and steamed, that nightmare green reflecting off corroded catwalks. The shelf where the rose had sat was empty now -- the pot secured to Jake's back, thorns drinking his blood, worsening his state.
Harley set her bags down, turned to help Jake with his--
Light exploded across the factory floor. Harsh white that cut through the darkness like surgical blades.
Jake's chemical-corrupted spider-sense screamed too late. The warnings were pointless -- his body too compromised to react.
"Well, well, well."
The Riddler emerged from behind a rusted vat, backup walking stick tapping against metal with each step. Behind him, the Penguin waddled forward, flanked by six armed men in expensive suits. Their weapons pointed at Jake.
From the shadows: Cheshire's porcelain mask catching the light. Onyx moving like smoke given form. Bronze Tiger, his talisman glowing against his chest, muscles coiled.
They'd been waiting.
"Harley Quinn," Riddler said, voice dripping with theatrical malice. "And her new... pet. How delightfully domestic."
Jake's body moved on instinct -- tried to. His legs gave out after one step. He collapsed, caught himself on broken hands. The impact sent bone fragments grinding. He laughed through the agony.
"Company!" he giggled, struggling to rise. "The fun kind! The party kind! Should I-- should we--"
His wrists flexed. Green webbing leaked from the glands, but the strands were weak. Thin. His body had nothing left to give.
Harley's grip tightened on her bat. "You really think you can take us? My Good Night here just made Batman RUN--"
"Your Good Night," Onyx interrupted, stepping forward, "can barely stand."
It was true. Jake swayed on his knees, vision fragmenting. The lights tasted like brass. The concrete smelled purple. His mind was fracturing faster than the chemicals could hold it together.
But he tried anyway. For her. To please her. To be useful.
"Pathetic," Penguin's eyes narrowed on Jake, disappointed. He waved his hand. The weapons lowered. "I expected more."
Webs shot toward Bronze Tiger -- the perceived strongest threat. The green strands caught his chest, stuck.
Jake pulled.
Nothing happened.
His enhanced strength, the power that had torn apart Lady Vic and crushed King Snake, couldn't generate enough force. The chemicals were eating his muscles from the inside. The poison spreading through his bloodstream was shutting down major organs one by one.
Bronze Tiger looked down at the webbing hissing on his chest, then back at Jake. Almost pitying.
He flexed. The strands snapped like thread.
"Useless," Bronze Tiger growled.
Jake tried again. Aimed at Onyx this time. The webbing fell short, splattered on the grating between them. Dissolved into toxic puddles that steamed and hissed.
"Good Night," Harley said, voice tight. "Baby, get up. We need-- you need to--"
He couldn't. His legs wouldn't support his weight. His arms trembled with the effort of staying upright. Blood ran from his nose, his ears, the corners of his eyes. Internal hemorrhaging. Organ failure. Death creeping up his spine.
But he laughed. Couldn't stop laughing. The chemicals wouldn't let him die with dignity -- wouldn't let him die at all, just kept him conscious and aware as his body shut down piece by piece.
Penguin stepped forward, umbrella planted like a cane. His face was composed, but his knuckles were white against the handle.
"My umbrella," he said quietly. Each word precise. Controlled. The kind of control that came before violence. "Three generations. Family heirloom. Where. Is. It?"
Jake's head lolled. His grin was chemical-bright, unhinged. "Gone-gone-gone! Gobbled up! Nom-nom-nom!" He mimed eating, broken fingers barely moving. "Not with my mouth though -- that'd be weird -- with my essence-thing. My soul-hungry-thing. It lives in here now." He tapped his chest, giggling. "With all the other yummy-yummies I collected!"
Riddler's walking stick cracked against metal. "He's lying. Playing games. My cane -- it can't just be GONE--"
"Not lying!" Jake's laugh cracked higher. "Did the thing! The poof-thing! Made it time-numbers for the clocky-clock!" His eyes went distant, unfocused. "Just like the mallet. Just like the ring. Just like--"
He stopped. His head tilted, listening to something only he could hear.
Harley grabbed his shoulders. "Good Night. My Good Night. Fight them. You're my mallet -- my perfect weapon -- you have to--"
"Your mallet." Penguin repeated slowly, eyes widened. "You keep calling him your mallet. Is he--"
"Impossible," Riddler interrupted knowingly, like he'd read Penguin's mind. "Objects don't just--" He stopped, staring at Jake's chest like he could see through flesh to the totems within.
"He is the mallet. The cane. The umbrella." Penguin's voice was ice. "Somehow. Some way I don't understand. He consumed them. Made them part of himself." He stepped closer, umbrella rising. "Along with my two million dollars. You and your accomplice -- the Cat. Where is she?"
Jake's giggle turned into full laughter. "Cat-cat-Catwoman! Pretty kitty! Gone-gone-gone like the others! Far away now! Safe-safe-SAFE!" The words tumbled out in a sing-song. "Left Gotham. Left me. Smart kitty knows when to run-run-run!"
Penguin's control cracked. "THAT UMBRELLA MEANT EVERYTHING!" His face went crimson. The umbrella trembled in his hands. "My father carried it. His father before him. It was MINE--"
"Remember what you said?" Riddler's voice cut through, sharp with bitter satisfaction. "That you'd tear him apart piece by piece if that's what it took to get your umbrella back?" His grin was vicious. "Well, Penguin. Here's your chance. He says it's inside him."
Penguin's eyes locked on Jake. The rage there was primal. Pure. The kind that came from loss that couldn't be quantified.
His hand moved to his jacket. Drew a blade -- thin, curved, designed for precision cuts.
"If it's inside you," Penguin said quietly, "then I'll excavate. Starting with your fingers. Working up to organs. I'll hang your skeleton in my office as a reminder--"
"Wait-wait-WAIT!" Jake's laughter cut off mid-cackle. His head snapped around, eyes wide. Pupils blown so large the iris was just a thin ring. "We're not alone. Others-others-others. In the shadows."
Everyone froze.
"Two," Jake whispered. His broken hand raised, pointing at darkness. "Five. Eight." His head tilted the other way. Listening. Sensing.
His spider-sense -- corrupted, twisted, but still functioning -- was screaming warnings his mouth could barely articulate.
"They're hiding," he continued, voice dropping to something almost lucid. "Think I can't see them. Can't sense them. But I can smell their fear." He inhaled deeply. "Tasteless. Like water. Like nothing."
Harley's grip tightened on her bat. "Good Night, what are you--"
"He's delirious," Onyx said. "The toxins--"
But Cheshire had gone still. Her hand moved to her fan. Her body coiled.
She'd spent time in the shadows to recognize something moving in the darkness.
"Maybe," she said slowly, "we should listen to the Spider."
"What?" Bronze Tiger turned to her.
"He's tasting and seeing things that aren't there," Riddler snapped. "The chemicals have destroyed his higher brain functions--"
Cheshire was already moving. The pile of cash was ten feet away -- she wouldn't make it in time. She turned toward the exit, her instincts screaming louder than greed.
Three steps.
The darkness moved.
A figure materialized directly in her path -- not from the sides, not from above, but from shadow that shouldn't have been deep enough to hide anything. Orange and black armor caught the harsh light. One visible eye locked onto her with mechanical precision.
Cheshire's hand went to her fan. Too slow.
His palm strike caught her chest with surgical accuracy. The air exploded from her lungs. Her fan clattered across the grating, spinning.
She tried to gasp. Couldn't. Her diaphragm had seized, paralyzed by the precise application of force.
Before she could recover, his hand closed around her throat -- not choking, just holding. A promise of what could happen.
"Leaving so soon?" His voice was cold. Bored, even. Like he'd done this a thousand times. "And here I thought assassins had better survival instincts."
"Deathstroke." She wheezed, fingers clawing at his wrist. Enhanced strength -- trained by her father, refined by years of killing -- should have been enough to break free.
"Our training was wasted on you." His grip didn't budge.
He held her at arm's length, studying her mask with clinical detachment. Then his eye shifted past her. To the assembled villains frozen in their positions.
"Gentlemen," Deathstroke said, still holding Cheshire like a caught fish. "And lady. I believe we have business to discuss."
Four more figures emerged from the shadows behind him. Ninja suits. League of Shadows design, green sashes around their waists. They moved with silent coordination, weapons drawn but not aimed.
Five total.
Cheshire's fingers found the pressure point on Deathstroke's wrist -- the one that should force any grip to loosen reflexively. She pressed hard.
Nothing.
"Nice try." He sounded almost amused. "You were going for the right nerve cluster. Points for technique." His grip shifted slightly. "Maybe you're not a complete waste."
He tossed her -- not hard, just efficient. She hit the grating and rolled, came up coughing, still unable to draw full breath. Her hand found her fan. Raised it defensively.
One of the ninja trained a crossbow on her.
She lowered the fan slowly.
"Smart girl." Deathstroke stepped fully into the light. His armor was immaculate -- not parade-ground clean, but combat-maintained. Every strap tight. Every weapon positioned for instant access. The sword on his back caught the harsh factory lights, reflecting them like liquid mercury.
His one visible eye swept the room, cataloging threats with mechanical efficiency. Penguin frozen with his blade. Riddler's walking stick. Bronze Tiger's coiled muscles. Onyx calculating. Harley's bat.
The Spider, broken and laughing softly.
The eye lingered on him, assessing.
Then back to Penguin.
"The League of Assassins," Penguin said, voice trembling slightly. "You are not supposed to be here." His blade lowered a fraction -- not surrender, just recognition of reality.
"You're right. I'm not supposed to be here." Deathstroke's tone suggested mild irritation. "Ra's al Ghul has a strong policy about operating in Gotham."
He took one measured step forward. His men moved with him, maintaining perfect formation.
"One that I strongly disagree with." His voice dropped. Final. The kind of tone that preceded violence or ended it.
Cheshire pushed herself upright, still clutching her ribs. Her breathing was returning, shallow and pained. She looked at the exit -- four steps. Might as well be miles.
Deathstroke's men had positioned themselves perfectly. Every angle covered. Every escape route blocked.
Except up.
And Jake, broken and laughing, looked at the catwalk above them. At the rusted bolts holding it together. At the chemical vat beneath.
His wrists twitched.
'Hey,' he giggled, blood bubbling at his lips. 'Wanna see a magic trick?
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