The alley fell quiet. The roar of claws against wet steel, the rasp of fur on masonry – it all died with the creature's retreat. My heavy breathing, a ragged rhythm in the cold air, was the only sound for a moment. Rain softened, a gentle patter now, but the echo of that thing's claws, its hungry snarl, still vibrated behind my eye-holes, a dull ache in the skull.
He had escaped. That thing… it had been too fast. A fleeting shadow, a blur of unnatural motion. My vow tasted like ash. Never again. Never a child left unavenged. But this one, this... Spider-Boy, he was gone. Chased into the night, out of my sight.
I checked my grappling gun, the cold steel familiar against my gloved hand. The recoil had been heavier than expected, the claw mechanism groaning under the strain. My weapons arrayed within my coat, the brass knuckles, the meat cleaver, the can of aerosol spray – all in their places. Not enough. Against that, not enough.
"Next time," I muttered, the words a low rumble in my throat, "next time, I break it." Break what? The thing itself. Its bones. Its will. Its existence. My teeth ground, a familiar habit. The world was full of things that needed breaking.
Just as I prepared to melt back into the city's shadows, to track the spoor of the creature and the child alike, a new sound cut through the sodden night. A clean, sharp thwip-thwip. Like a child's toy, a rubber band snapping. Then another. And another. Above me.
My head snapped up. Fire escapes, rusted iron bones against the grimy brick.
A figure swung into view first. Lean. Youthful. A blur of movement, landing lightly on the third-story fire escape a few meters above me. Suit black, but with lines of impossible neon that glowed faintly, reflecting the city's electric bleed. A masked face, visor dark. Another costumed freak. New breed. Same rot.
Then the second. This one, lighter. More agile. She swung in, cloak fluttering, hood up. Her eyes, magnified by the mask, narrowed immediately at the sight of me. My trench coat. My unchanging face. My stance. She saw a threat. Good. She was not wrong.
They exchanged a quick glance, a silent communication I didn't need to hear to understand. The search for the child was over. He was gone. But I was still here. I was the new variable in their equation. And variables, in my experience, were usually eliminated.
She dropped down, a ghost made solid, landing with barely a sound on the wet alley floor. She positioned herself, not directly facing me, but standing between me and the shadows where the child had vanished. A protective gesture. Or a defensive one.
"That thing you were fighting…" Her voice was sharp, young, laced with a wary suspicion that matched her eyes. "You're not one of us. You're not a Totem. So what the hell are you?"
My response was clipped, dismissive. Words wasted. "Not clown. Not prey. Man."
The first one, the glowing one, dropped down beside her. He was taller, but still radiated youth. More diplomatic, it seemed. Less sharp edges. He raised his hands, a gesture of peace I ignored. Peace was an illusion.
"We're not here to fight," he said, his voice calmer, less accusatory than hers. "We saw what you did. You saved the kid. But the Web doesn't pull people in by mistake."
Web. I growled, a low, guttural sound that rattled in my chest. Webs, threads, destiny. Words. Flowery words. Jargon. Sounded like cultists. They were all the same, these masked vermin, hiding their squalor beneath fancy names.
"Web. Threads. Destiny," I repeated, mocking their words. My voice was a gravelly rasp. "Words to hide rot under perfume. City's crawling with masked vermin. Doesn't matter if you swing or crawl. All same underneath."
The girl bristled. I could see the tension in her stance, the stiffening of her shoulders. "You think you're better than us? That thing you fought would've torn you apart without us."
A lie. Or maybe just delusion. I didn't need them. I never needed anyone. They were obstacles. More noise. "Didn't," I snapped back, my voice cutting through the rain. "Means it bleeds. Means it dies." Everything bled. Everything died. That was the only truth.
The boy, Miles, I think he called himself, tried again to calm both sides. Foolish. Calm was weakness. "Look, what you fought back there," he began, his hands still raised in that futile gesture. "It was an Inheritor spawn. They're… predators. They devour Spider-Totems across realities."
Empty words. Noise. I interrupted him, my tone sharp, dismissive. "Don't care what name you give it. Predator. That's all. All predators get the same ending." My mind was already dissecting the creature, cataloging its weaknesses in the brief struggle. Not invincible. Just fast. Just… hungry.
"You were reckless!" the girl, Gwen, accused, stepping forward. Her voice sharp with indignation. "Spider-Boy nearly died because of your interference!"
My gaze intensified, boring into her masked face. Children. Fighting monsters. That was the real crime. Not my methods. Not my interference. The world itself. "Children shouldn't be fighting monsters," I fired back, my voice barely above a whisper, but vibrating with a cold fury. "The real crime is their world forcing them to." It was a disease. A cancer. Their reality was sick.
The tension in the alley crackled like frayed wires. The rain continued its steady rhythm, washing the filth of the streets into the grates, but it couldn't wash away the anger, the distrust.
As I shifted my weight, preparing for an inevitable confrontation, something slipped from the inner pocket of my coat. A small thud on the wet ground. My journal.
Miles, ever the diplomat, was quicker than I. He stooped, picking it up. My hand shot out, but he was already flipping it open, intending to return it.
Then he paused. His head tilted, his gaze fixed on the page. His stance changed, a slight tremor. "Uh… Gwen?" he said, his voice laced with a strange awe, bordering on fear. "This thing's… writing itself."
My blood ran cold. Self-writing. The implications. Exposure. Liability. My hand lashed out, snatching the journal back before he could decipher another word. The leather felt slick, cold.
"Mine. Stay out." My voice was a low snarl, thick with paranoia. The journal was more than notes. It was a witness. A tool. A weapon. If it could be read by others, if it could reveal too much… it would become a burden. A weakness. Anything that could be used against me, by me, or by others, was a weakness.
Gwen, always more aggressive, stepped forward, her voice tight. "That's it. We're taking him in. He's unstable, Miles. That book, whatever it is…"
Miles held up a hand, stopping her. His voice was quieter, but held an unexpected conviction. "No, Gwen. The Web wouldn't have led us here unless he was important."
The Web. They kept talking about this Web. Leading them. Guiding them. Like puppet strings. They were blind. They were deluded.
I pulled my coat tighter, the fabric cold and damp. Important? I was important only to myself. Important only to the dead. "Not Web," I muttered, my words for myself as much as for them. My gaze swept over them, burning with a cold, clear logic. "Hunt. You're tracking same predator I am. Fine." My eyes narrowed, seeing the connection, the shared enemy, but refusing the implication of camaraderie. "But don't mistake me for ally."
I turned, my back to them. The alley ended in a confluence of shadows and the bright, garish bleed of distant neon signs. I walked, my heavy boots squelching on the wet pavement, stepping out of their orbit, out of their Web, and into the unforgiving pulse of the city's unseen heart. The rain became a shroud. The neon-lit night, a cold, empty canvas.
I didn't look back. But I felt their eyes. Two small figures, silhouetted against the dark brick and fire escapes. They watched me go. I felt the prickle of their presence, the low hum of their conflicted thoughts. They were predators, too, in their own way. Different rules. Same game. I knew what they were thinking. Dangerous. Yes. I was dangerous. And I was necessary. The world was dangerous. And the world needed breaking. And I was going to be the one to do it.