Gotham’s nights never closed up shop; crime here came as naturally as breathing.
On a street corner in the East End, two thugs were wrestling with a convenience store’s metal shutter.
One of them held a rusty crowbar, jamming it into the gap with rhythmic grunts while a steady stream of profanity spilled from his mouth.
The other stood lookout nearby, hunched against the biting cold.
Perched atop the lamp post diagonally above them, Cole Vance squatted like a giant red-and-blue spider.
He really did look like one, especially since this giant spider was currently zoning out while shooting web-lines and weaving a web just to pass the time.
Cole paused his weaving, noticing the two misguided youths who had the terrible misfortune of breaking the law directly across from him.
Cole stared at the crowbar for two seconds, deciding their choice of leverage was downright terrible.
He swung down upside down from the lamp post, his face halting directly in front of the lookout thug.
“Hey, fellas.
What’s with the beef with the door in the middle of the night?
This door works an honest shift every day, keeping out the rain and wind, never showing up late or leaving early.
Have you two even considered its feelings?”
The lookout jerked his head up, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull.
He saw an upside-down mask sewn from cheap fabric, fitted with crude goggles over the eyes.
“Spider-Man!”
The thug shrieked, his voice sounding no different from a choked duck echoing down the empty street.
Cole swayed gently in the air.
“Ding-ding-ding!
Correct!
And your prize is—”
He unclasped his feet, landing lightly on the pavement.
Before the two thugs could process what was happening, Cole’s hands were already flicking back and forth like manic pistons.
Thick streams of white webbing shot left and right, sticking dead-center onto their chests.
Cole gave the web-lines a violent yank, pulling the two thugs together like a pair of clashing magnets.
He darted around them three times, binding them back-to-back until they looked like a pair of disgruntled conjoined twins bound together against their will.
Cole dusted off his hands, hoisted the blob of conjoined thugs, and hung them onto the hook of the convenience store’s sign.
“Sit tight for the police, boys.
Don’t squirm—once this webbing dries, it’s harder than an ex-girlfriend’s heart.
Try tearing it off and you’ll lose a layer of skin.
Don’t believe me?
Be my guest.”
The thug holding the crowbar tried to twist free, only for the webbing to bite into his flesh, extracting a bloodcurdling scream from his throat.
Cole let out a sigh.
“See?
Told you.
You rookie villains nowadays just refuse to listen.
If you don’t take advice, you’ll never make it as supervillains.”
Cole fired a web-line, ending his patrol slacking, and swung off toward the next block.
Meanwhile, on the other side of Gotham, things were far less “friendly.”
At the East End docks, five smugglers were busy unloading cargo from a black sedan.
Leading them was a mid-level manager from the Maroni family, dressed in a tailored trench coat, puffing on a cigar.
A shadow plummeted silently from a rooftop gargoyle like a piece of solid darkness.
The smugglers didn’t even hear a thud.
The guard bringing up the rear started to turn his head when a massive Kevlar-armored hand slammed down over his face.
*Thud.*
The dull crack of his head impacting the car door echoed harshly across the quiet dockland.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Batman moved without flourish, every punch delivered with cold, incapacitating efficiency.
The fourth smuggler finally realized what was happening and whipped out a handgun, but Batman’s fist was already sinking into his ribs.
*Snap.*
The sickening crunch of shattering bone echoed through the air.
The fifth smuggler—the boss—dropped his cigar and sprinted for his life.
A spinning Batarang whistled through the night, pinning his pant leg precisely to the ground.
The boss stumbled and took a hard faceplant onto the concrete.
Batman walked over, his black cape snapping in the wind.
He hauled the man up by his collar like a dead dog.
Grimacing in agony, the man caught sight of the cowl, and sheer despair flooded his eyes.
“Fuck…
what shitty luck tonight.
Why the hell is it *you*?” New chapters come out on novelping.com first.
Batman didn’t say a word, his gaze as frigid as a freezer.
“I mean,” the guy stammered, shivering from pain, “why isn’t it the Spider-Kid?
At worst, he just ties us up and hangs us from a lamppost…
Oh, wait, I forgot this block isn’t Spider-Kid’s turf.
Batman, can’t you consider handing this sector over to your fellow vigilante?”
He glanced down at his unnaturally twisted ankle, tears welling up in his eyes.
“You fucking broke my bone!
Honestly, I’d rather face Spider-Man.
Besides, he never leaves me hanging—we actually have great chats!
But you?
All you do is give us the silent treatment!”
Batman tightened his grip.
“Could you work on your customer service?”
Batman hurled him to the ground, pulled heavy-duty zip ties from his utility belt, and expertly bound him up.
From start to finish, he hadn’t uttered a single word.
He didn’t like talking during a fight.
…
Gotham’s Upper East Side, inside a private villa owned by Wayne Enterprises.
This place felt like a completely different planet from the decayed streets of the East End.
Dazzling crystal chandeliers dazzled the eyes, while expensive champagne effervesced in fine glassware.
Anxious to re-establish a high-profile public presence, Bruce Wayne stood swathed in a bespoke suit, holding an untouched glass of champagne, surrounded by a court of high-society ladies.
A blonde woman was telling a joke about yachts and supermodels, drawing polite, superficial chuckles from the crowd.
Bruce was smiling too.
The curve of his lips was picture-perfect, dusted with just the right amount of playboy flippancy.
Yet his eyes were distant.
Beyond the heavy perfume and sparkling gems, he seemed to be staring straight through the French windows into the night sky.
Far in the distance, the faint wail of police sirens drifted over from the direction of the East End.
The booming speakers inside the villa rattled the surface of the pool, ensuring no one else picked up on the distant racket.
A socialite leaned into his chest, her pungent perfume hitting his senses like a chemical weapon.
Bruce chuckled, bowing his head to check his watch as a polite excuse to dodge her advance.
“Apologies, ladies.
I think I need to catch up on some sleep—last night’s party is still catching up to me.”
He swirled his champagne glass and sauntered off, his departing figure the very picture of a hollowed-out rich boy drained by booze and late nights.
…
At three in the morning, having no public persona to maintain, Cole swung back into his attic apartment.
Stripping off his sweat-drenched, battered costume, Cole collapsed onto a dilapidated sofa with exposed springs and fished a few coins from his pocket.
He had “picked” these up from thugs’ pockets tonight.
The System was rather fuzzy about what constituted “ill-gotten gains”—so long as it didn’t amount to a major asset, the resulting system buzzing was manageable.
Cole tossed the coins into a tin can sitting in the corner.
*Clink.*
*Clink.*
The crisp chime echoed through the quiet room.
*When the hell am I getting paid for my manuscripts?*
Two more leaks had sprung in the ceiling.
Cole sighed, got up, and shifted the tin can to catch the fresh drips.
*Plop.*
The rhythmic drip-drop tapping against the metal coins created a surprisingly steady beat.
Flopping back onto the sofa, he stared at the expanding water stains on the ceiling, calculating his finances for tomorrow.
“Hey System, do you think I could get rich selling web-fluid?”
The System ignored him.
“Fair point.
The stuff dissolves into water after three hours anyway.
Buyers would probably chase me down the street with meat cleavers.”
Cole rolled over, the sofa springs squeaking in protest.
*Tomorrow I’ll check out the South Side.
Heard an auto shop there is hiring temps…
Never mind, I think the owner’s tied to Sal Maroni.*
*Gotta stretch every penny.
I’ve got $123.50 left.
If I stick to cheap food, it should hold me over until payday.*
…
In Gotham’s North Side, inside a covert Falcone family safehouse. This story is hosted at g.com.
A middle-aged man in a tailored suit sat in a plush leather armchair.
A trusted lieutenant of Falcone, he ran the family’s underground loan sharking operation.
Standing before him was an informant dripping with sweat.
“Did you dig it up?” the middle-aged man asked, his tone measured and steady.
“All cleared up.
That Spider-guy intercepted our stash a few days ago and didn’t keep a single cent.
He scattered every last dime over the East End slums.”
The informant swallowed hard, his voice trembling slightly.
“He climbed to the top of that abandoned water tower and threw it down by the handful.
Hundreds of thousands of dollars, just tossed away.
Those paupers in the slums went wild.”
The middle-aged man picked up his glass of whiskey, the ice cubes clinking gently inside.
He remained silent, quietly observing the amber liquid in his glass.
“Should we handle him?” the subordinate probed tentatively.
Taking a sip, the middle-aged man spoke with the nonchalance of discussing the weather.
“Gotham has never suffered a shortage of lunatics.”
He set the glass down.
“We’ve got one who dresses like a bat to beat people up on the streets, another who drops riddles whenever he gets bored, and now we have a guy who steals cash to shower the slums.
What’s so strange about that?”
He looked up, a cold, seasoned mobster’s glint in his eyes.
“Did he touch our core operations?
Aside from that intercepted bank cash—which was dirty money that hadn’t hit our books yet anyway—did he come looking for our safehouses after throwing the cash away?”
The informant shook his head frantically.
“Then keep an eye on him.
Nutjobs have their own way of living.
As long as he doesn’t kick down our doors every day like that bat, let him throw money around.”
The man waved his hand dismissively.
“If Maroni is dumb enough to stick his neck out, let him.
Having that Spider-kid wear down Maroni’s enforcers does us no harm.”
The subordinate nodded and backed out.
Turning his chair toward the window, the middle-aged man gazed out into the dismal Gotham night and muttered under his breath:
“Stealing money just to give it all away to the poor, though…
that’s a new breed of crazy.”
Elsewhere, at the Penguin’s Iceberg Lounge.
In a subterranean office, Oswald Cobblepot huddled in an oversized executive chair.
Holding an ivory-handled letter opener, he unhurriedly sliced open an envelope.
His lieutenant stood across the desk, meticulously reporting the reactions from all factions.
The Penguin folded the letter neatly and placed it in a drawer.
“Falcone doesn’t care; he’s waiting.
Maroni lost an enforcer named ‘Scarface’ to the ICU thanks to Spider-Man and can’t swallow the insult, but Batman’s been riding him too tight for him to make a move.”
The Penguin let out a raspy chuckle.
In the dim light, his grin looked bizarrely comical, resembling an actual penguin.
“What’s our move?” the lieutenant asked.
“Nothing at all.”
The Penguin snapped the letter opener shut with a crisp click.
“Let them watch each other.
Falcone sees Spider-Man as a lunatic, Maroni sees him as an enemy, and Batman sees him as a wild card.”
He tapped his stubby fingers on the desktop.
“Three sides, three perspectives.
We sit right here and wait to see who cracks first.
Gotham’s balance is like a stack of bills—pull out one card, and the rest start shifting.”
Cut back to the dilapidated attic.
Cole flipped over again, a stray sofa spring almost jabbing into his waist.
Another leak had sprung overhead.
The shoulder seams on his red-and-blue pajama suit were severely frayed—he needed to find some durable fabric to patch them up.
Or maybe hunt around a thrift store to see if he could find a cheap replacement.
The rain picked up.
Heavy drops battered the corrugated tin roof, sounding like a thousand fingers tapping out the exact same rhythm in unison.
Cole closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep amidst the drumming patter of leaking rain.
Good night, Makka Pakka.