The Laughing Spider #26.
The tunnel smelled like rot wrapped in memories that never happened.
Jake's broken hands traced the brick wall as they descended, fingers bumping over mortar that felt like velvet.
The texture sang opera. The darkness tasted like Wednesday. His brain kept trying to categorize sensations and failing, neurons misfiring, creating connections that shouldn't exist.
"Careful, Good Night," Harley called back, her voice bouncing off curved walls. "Don't want you breaking those pretty fingers worse."
Pretty. He giggled. His fingers were sculptures now. Abstract art. Eight directions at once.
The tunnels beneath Gotham stretched like arteries through a dying body. Old smuggler routes. Maintenance access for the subway that was never completed. Natural caves that predated the city itself. All connected. All mapped in the minds of those who lived in Gotham's shadows.
Harley knew them. Had memorized every turn during her time with him. With Mister J.
The name triggered something in Jake's chest. Jealousy? The emotion felt green. Tasted like copper.
"Stop thinking," Harley said without turning around. How did she know? "Your face does this twitchy thing when the angry-you tries waking up."
Jake's hand went to his face. Touched the chemical burns. The green-stained skin. His reflection in puddles showed a stranger wearing his body like a poorly-fitted costume.
They turned a corner. Light ahead. Firelight. Flickering.
A group of clowns huddled around a barrel fire, faces painted in variations of madness. Some wore the traditional white and red. Others had improvised: birthday party makeup smeared over gang tattoos, Halloween masks modified with kitchen knives.
They looked up as Harley approached. Bodies tensing. Weapons appearing.
Then recognizing.
"Boss!" One scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over his oversized shoes. "Boss, we caught him for you. The Spider. The one with the bounty--"
"Caught is such an ugly word," Harley said, stopping before them. The firelight cast shadows that danced across her face, making her smile look carved. "I upgraded him."
Jake stood behind her. The rose on his back pulsed, thorns digging deeper with each breath. Blood trickled down his spine in warm rivulets. He could taste it in colors. Crimson sounded like violins.
The clowns stared. Taking in his chemical-scarred skin. His mangled hands. The green webbing dripping from his wrists. The way he swayed slightly, like a puppet with cut strings.
"Is that--" One pointed at the rose. "Is that Ivy's--"
"Focus." Harley's voice cracked like a whip. The clowns flinched. "Tonight's special. Tonight we show Gotham that Harley Quinn is back. Better. Deadlier." She reached back, fingers finding Jake's broken hand. Squeezed.
Pain shot up his arm. He giggled.
"My new mallet," Harley continued, "is gonna help me paint Gotham National red. Or green. Whatever color his webs are feeling."
The clowns looked at each other. Uncertain. Hopeful.
"What about the five grand?" one asked quietly. "You promised. For whoever caught the Spider. We got families--"
"And you'll get paid." Harley's voice softened. Maternal. The tone she used when breaking someone gently. "But first, you rest. You've been hunting all day. All week. You're tired. Let me take care of tonight. Let my Good Night handle the heavy lifting."
One of the clowns -- older, graying under the makeup -- stepped forward. "Boss, the cops been everywhere since Old Gotham. GCPD's mobilized. And word is Batman's--"
"Batman's what?" Harley's eyes narrowed. "Scary? He's always scary. Doesn't mean he wins." She pulled Jake forward, displaying him like a prize. "Look at what I made. Look at what survived the same soup that made Mister J perfect."
The clowns studied Jake with new eyes. Seeing not a broken man but a weapon. A tool. Proof that Harley Quinn could create legends.
"Rest," Harley repeated. "Tomorrow, you get paid. Tonight, you watch the show."
She pulled Jake past them. Deeper into the tunnels. Behind them, the clowns whispered. Excited. Terrified. Loyal.
The geography shifted. Stone walls gave way to concrete. Maintenance tunnels intersecting with storm drains. Each turn brought them closer to Gotham's financial district. To the heart.
"The bank's beautiful at night," Harley said, voice dreamy. "All lit up. Marble columns like a temple. Security guards who think they're tough." She giggled. "They're not tough. They're soft. Breakable."
Jake's spider-sense hummed. But the sensation was wrong. Corrupted. Instead of danger, it felt like music. Each warning a note in a symphony only he could hear. The interface flickered in his peripheral vision, trying to tell him something important. But the symbols swam like fish. Impossible to catch.
The rose pulsed. Thorns dug deeper. Poison leaked into his bloodstream with each heartbeat.
His body should have stopped hours ago. The injuries. The blood loss. The chemical damage. He should be dead or catatonic.
But the chemicals wouldn't let him stop. They animated his corpse like a puppet. Kept him moving. Kept him laughing.
They emerged from a service grate three blocks from Gotham National. Evening had settled over the city. Eight PM. The financial district's windows glowed like dying stars.
"Showtime," Harley breathed.
Gotham National Bank occupied the corner of Kane and Finger, a neoclassical monument to old money. Marble columns. Bronze doors. Windows reinforced with security film. Cameras covering every angle.
At 8 PM, the bank was technically closed. But the upper floors still hummed with activity. Accountants working late. Executives burning midnight oil. Janitors cleaning. Security making rounds.
Normal people. Living normal lives. About to have a very bad night.
Harley didn't go through the front door. That would be boring. She circled to the loading dock where armored trucks delivered cash. Found the service entrance. Pressed her face against the security camera.
"Knock knock," she said to the lens. "Harley Quinn here for a withdrawal!"
Inside, alarms screamed.
"That's my cue." She looked at Jake. "Doors, baby. Make me an entrance."
His wrists rose. Green webbing shot toward the reinforced steel door. The strands attached, sank in, bonded at a molecular level.
Jake pulled.
The door shrieked. Metal warping. Bolts shearing. The entire frame tore free from brick and concrete in a shower of dust.
Harley laughed. Pure delight. "THAT'S what I'm talking about!"
They entered. Security guards rushed toward them. Three. Armed but not prepared. Not for this.
"Please," one said, hand on his holster. "Miss Quinn. Don't--"
Jake's webbing caught him mid-sentence. Wrapped his torso. His arms. His face. The man fell, struggling, suffocating.
The other two drew weapons.
Harley's bat was already swinging. Caught the first in the temple. The crack echoed. He dropped. The third fired.
The bullet moved in slow motion through Jake's twisted perception. He could see it rotating. Could taste the gunpowder. Could hear the guard's heartbeat.
His hand moved. Webbing shot out. Caught the bullet mid-flight.
Impossible. But he'd done it. The chemicals had rewired his reflexes past human limits. Past sanity. Into something else entirely.
"Good boy!" Harley clapped.
The guard's face went pale. He tried to run. Jake's webs caught his legs. Yanked. The man fell face-first. His nose broke against marble floor with a wet crunch.
Jake laughed. The sound bounced off cathedral ceilings. Echoed through sacred halls of commerce.
They moved deeper. The vault waited in the basement. But Harley wasn't subtle. She smashed display cases. Shattered windows. Triggered every alarm.
"I want them to know!" she screamed, spinning in circles. "I want Gotham to remember what Harley Quinn can DO!"
More guards came. Six. Ten. They had riot gear now. Shields. Better training.
Jake's body moved before his mind could process. Webs everywhere. Pulling. Yanking. Breaking. He didn't aim to kill. Didn't aim to maim. Just aimed to please her.
But enhanced strength didn't know restraint. One guard's arm bent wrong. Snapped. Compound fracture punching through skin. Another's skull cracked against marble. Blood pooled.
Jake laughed through it all. The pain in his hands was background noise. The poison from the thorns was a lullaby. The chemicals drove him forward like a wind-up toy.
"The vault!" Harley called. "Show me what my mallet can do!"
The vault door was six inches of steel. Combination lock. Time delay. Designed to withstand anything.
Jake's webs wrapped around it. Layer after layer. Creating leverage. Creating tension.
He pulled.
His muscles screamed. His broken bones ground. The chemicals in his blood pushed harder. His veins burned. His heart hammered. Something in his chest tore. Internal bleeding, probably.
He laughed louder.
The vault door groaned. The locks shattered. The hinges bent. Metal shrieked like a dying animal.
It tore free.
Three tons of steel flying across the room. It crashed into the far wall. Embedded three feet deep.
Inside: money. Stacks upon stacks. Millions in cash and bearer bonds.
Harley's eyes went wide. "Baby," she breathed. "You're PERFECT."
The praise flooded Jake's system with dopamine. Better than any drug. He swayed on his feet, grinning so wide his face hurt.
"Get it," Harley commanded. "All of it. We're taking everything."
His webs shot out. Wrapped bundles. Created carrying straps. Attached to his body. He became a spider hauling prey. Grotesque. Efficient.
Above them, sirens wailed. Getting closer.
"Cops," Harley said. Not worried. Excited. "This is where it gets FUN."
She should have run. Any sane person would run. But Harley Quinn had stopped being sane years ago. And now she had a weapon that made running unnecessary.
They emerged from the basement. The bank's main floor had transformed into a war zone. Shattered glass. Broken bodies. Blood on marble that had witnessed a century of transactions.
Outside: flashing lights. Dozens of them. GCPD had mobilized. Cars. SWAT vans. Helicopters overhead.
"Show off time," Harley whispered. "Make them remember why they should fear me."
Jake's body was failing. He could feel it. Organs shutting down. Bones grinding. Blood loss reaching critical levels. The chemicals kept him standing but couldn't stop entropy. Couldn't stop death from creeping up his spine.
The rose pulsed. Thorns dug deeper. Poison leaked into his failing systems.
Deep inside, buried under layers of corruption, Jake Cross screamed. Begged. Pleaded for someone to stop this. To stop him.
But the chemicals were louder.
They were always louder.
He stepped through the shattered doors. Into spotlights. Into chaos.
GCPD opened fire.
His spider-sense sang. Each bullet a note. Each trajectory a color. He moved between them. Dancing. Weaving. Laughing.
His webs returned fire. Catching officers. Yanking shields. Creating chaos that fed chaos.
"YES!" Harley screamed behind him. "THAT'S MY GOOD NIGHT!"
A helicopter swooped low. Searchlight pinning them.
Jake's webs shot up. Caught the landing skid. He pulled.
The helicopter lurched. Pilot fighting controls. The machine tilted. Rotors catching air wrong. Beginning to spin.
"Let go!" someone inside screamed.
Jake pulled harder.
The helicopter crashed. Not a fireball. Just metal crumpling. Rotors snapping. People inside screaming.
He didn't mean to. Didn't want to. But the chemicals needed Harley's approval more than those people needed to live.
"BEAUTIFUL!" Harley was laughing. Actually laughing. Pure joy at the destruction.
More cops. More gunfire. More bodies falling. Some dead. Some wounded. All broken.
Jake's body moved on autopilot. The interface flickered warnings he couldn't read. The Time Bank counted down through a fog he couldn't penetrate.
The rose pulsed.
The poison spread.
The buried Jake screamed.
And somewhere in the chaos, through the synesthesia and chemical corruption, through the spider-sense that tasted colors and heard trajectories: a sound.
Low. Rumbling. Mechanical.
Engine. Not any engine. The Engine.
His head snapped toward it. Every instinct firing at once. Danger. Prey. Hunger. Hope.
The Batmobile.
It hadn't arrived yet. But he could hear it. Blocks away. Getting closer. The interface blazed in his vision. That magnetic pull. That totem hunger.
Need it. Have to have it. The clocky-clock thing.
But beneath that, deeper, in the part of him the chemicals couldn't quite reach: hope.
Batman. Batman was coming. Batman could stop this. Could stop him. Could save him from what he had become.
Please, Jake thought. Please save me. Please make it stop.
His body hesitated. Just for a second. Webs faltering mid-shot.
Harley noticed. Her eyes narrowed. "Good Night? Baby? You okay?"
The engine got louder. Closer.
"We should go," Jake said. His voice came out wrong. Almost Jake Cross. Almost human. "Before-- before he--"
"Before he WHAT?" Harley grabbed his face. Forced eye contact. "Before the big bad Bat ruins our fun? Is that what you're saying?"
"I--" The chemicals fought his tongue. The pheromones screamed submission. But the hope wouldn't die. "I just-- maybe we got enough. Maybe we should--"
Understanding dawned on Harley's face. Horror. Betrayal. Then rage.
"You want him to catch us," she hissed. "You want him to catch YOU. You think he'll FIX you. Make you normal again." Her laugh was broken glass. "Baby, there's no fixing what you are now. You're mine. My Good Night. My perfect weapon. And we're not running from ANYONE."
The engine roared. One block away.
"Down!" Harley commanded. "Into the tunnels! NOW!"
Jake's body obeyed before his mind could protest. The pheromones overriding the buried hope. His webs shot toward the nearest manhole. Yanked the cover free.
They dropped into darkness. Into the tunnels. Into Gotham's arterial system.
Above them, tires shrieked. The Batmobile tore around the corner. Sleek. Deadly. Perfect.
Jake's hand reached up. Toward it. One last desperate grab. The totem calling. The hope screaming.
The manhole cover slammed shut.
Darkness swallowed them.
And Jake laughed. Chemical. Manic. Broken.
But somewhere inside, buried so deep the chemicals couldn't quite reach: Jake Cross wept.
SMiD is in dangerous territory. How does Jake come back from this? Does the author actually know what they are doing? Or is this just for shock value?
Too many concerns. One answer. This arc is already complete in Patreon! Subscribe to quench that thirst 👇
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