LOOTING DC #14. Mercy is a Myth
By 7:03 a.m., Gotham was awake.
The usual symphony of honking cars, half-hearted yelling, and overworked coffee machines had begun its daily performance. But this morning, something was off-script.
Right in the middle of Kane Street - just above the corner deli and across from a shuttered pawn shop - hung a body.
Or... maybe not a body. A man?
Hard to say. He was upside down, tangled in what looked like a line of webbing, just swaying like a windchime made of spandex and sarcasm. People craned their necks, snapped blurry phone pics, and whispered among themselves with a reverence usually reserved for celebrity arrests or discount day at Monarch Theater.
"Is he dead?"
"Nah, I think I saw him twitch."
"Could be sleeping. Or meditating. Or plotting the end of days."
The crowd had grown thick - too thick for morning. Office workers, street vendors, dog walkers, tourists. Even a bus driver had parked mid-route to gawk, leaving a full load of irritated passengers stranded two blocks back.
Then came the cops. One cruiser at first, then another. The kind of show-of-force presence meant to say "Move along, citizens," except even they were hesitant to poke the dangling figure.
An officer raised a megaphone. "Sir? If you can hear me, please descend from... whatever you're suspended by. You're causing a public disturbance."
Silence.
Then-
Zzzzzz...
A light snore floated down. Several people laughed. A few others began filming again, whispering titles for their inevitable viral uploads.
Meanwhile...
For Vic Reyes, this was the best morning of his life.
Not because of the spider guy - though that sure as hell helped - but because the distraction was perfect. Everyone was looking up. Which meant nobody was looking at the man in the sleek three-piece suit, standing like an idiot with his briefcase loose in his hand and his back turned to Vic.
It was, in Vic's words, a gift from above.
Literally.
If Vic still believed in signs, this would've been one. If he still gambled, he'd have put everything on the briefcase holding either cash, tech, or at least a pair of shoes that could cover his rent.
In three careful steps, he was close enough to smell the man's cologne - something expensive and citrusy. One more step, and-
"Excuse me!" someone yelled.
Vic froze. But it wasn't for him. Someone else was waving at the cops.
He took the chance.
One hand on the case.
One twist. One breath.
Vic's fingers were just curling around the leather handle when-
"HEY!"
The man in the suit jolted, turning fast. Too fast.
Shit!
Their eyes locked.
"Back off!" the man snapped, yanking his briefcase toward his chest.
Heads turned. The spell was broken.
Someone in the crowd gasped. Another pointed. "That guy was trying to steal his stuff!"
"He was gonna rob him!"
And just like that, the hive-mind of Gotham did what it did best - overreact.
People surged forward. Shouts. Phones held high. Someone chucked a half-eaten bagel. Another screamed, "GET HIM!"
"Stop! Back up!" Vic barked, retreating with both hands raised - but the crowd kept coming. He wasn't a hero. Wasn't even a good thief. Just a small-time pickpocket with bad luck and worse timing.
The cops weren't helping. They were stuck behind the press of bodies, waving their arms, barking orders, hands twitching near their holsters.
Panic clawed up Vic's throat.
He fumbled inside his coat. Fingers closed around cold metal.
"DON'T COME ANY CLOSER!" he shouted, pulling the pistol free with both hands, eyes wild, knuckles white. "I- I swear to God-!"
The world froze.
Gasps. Screams. The crowd splintered like dry wood. Tourists ducked. Dog walkers ran. One guy belly-flopped behind a hot dog cart.
Cops drew their weapons, shouting, "Drop it! DROP IT!"
Vic couldn't hear them. His breath came too fast. His heart thudded in his ears like war drums.
Then, like Gotham itself had dared him to breathe-
One man stepped forward.
Middle-aged, blue windbreaker. Probably thought he was being brave. Probably had a family.
"Kid," he said, hands up. "You don't want to do this."
"Stay BACK!"
"It's not too late. Just put it down-"
POW! POW!
Two shots, sharp as cracked bones.
Screams erupted. The crowd became a living thing of chaos - running, shoving, climbing over benches and trash cans to flee.
Above it all, the figure hanging by a thread twitched.
No one noticed...
But the Spider stirred.
🕸️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕸️
Jake didn't dream he was falling.
He snored.
For three glorious hours, he'd had the best nap of his entire existence in DC - perfect rooftop breeze. Peaceful.
Then the morning shattered.
BLANG-BLANG!
His body jolted like it had been struck by lightning.
Spider-Sense: Code Red.
Not a buzz. A full-on internal alarm. Like someone had yanked a fire bell inside his skull and started smashing cymbals against his nervous system.
Two gunshots. Close.
His eyes snapped open just in time to catch the chaos below. People were running in every direction - shoving, screaming, ducking for cover. Sirens. Dogs barking. A woman shrieked something about a shooter. An officer barked for everyone to stay down.
And Jake?
Still dangling like an idiot from a thread.
He twisted upright midair, muscles groaning in protest from the awkward sleeping position. Instinct kicked in - he was about to retreat, vanish from the scene and regroup - when something in the crowd twitched wrong.
Movement. Too fast. Too direct. Too desperate.
A man, late thirties, came barreling through the scattering crowd - jacket flapping, pistol in one hand, briefcase clutched like a life raft in the other. He shoved pedestrians aside, knocked over a food cart, and bolted down the sidewalk like hell had opened behind him.
Jake's gaze sharpened.
He'd spent all night searching for something - anything - that smelled like crime.
And here it was, sprinting right through the morning rush.
Finally, Gotham had decided to play. Maybe he still had a chance to try out that finishing move he was thinking about.
He flicked his wrist.
Thwip.
The web snapped taut, and he slingshotted himself from his hanging perch straight into the chaos.
The startled crowd barely registered the blurring shadow above them before Jake hit the wall of a building feet-first, rebounding into a low arc over the street. He flipped once midair - because style mattered - and locked his eyes on the fleeing gunman.
Below, the crowd parted for the man like a wound splitting open. The briefcase bounced against his side with every panicked stride, his eyes wild, shoulders hunched.
Jake shot a webline to a traffic light, swung low, and skimmed just above the heads of terrified pedestrians. The wind in his ears roared. His senses tuning to the morning after a good sleep. The swinging only made it more delightful.
Behind them, a couple of officers had managed to squeeze through the panicked mob. Guns out. Shouting commands. One slipped on a dropped latte. Another got bowled over by a rogue scooter.
The crowd surged again, this time not just away from the shooter - but also from Jake.
"That's him!" someone shrieked. "The Spider! He's moving!"
An officer - young, maybe a week out of Academy - snapped his head up and saw the shadow swinging overhead.
Instinct took over.
BANG!
The shot cracked through the air, punching a neat hole into the side of an old billboard just inches behind Jake.
Jake yelped mid-swing. "HEY!"
"Officer! You blind, or just stupid?!" the officer's superior snapped, grabbing the rookie's arm before he fired again. "That's not a damn toy, rookie!"
"I-I thought... i saw... he moved!"
"He's supposed to move! He's not a painting!"
The superior glared at the swinging figure, then at the rooftop line, jaw tightening. Something had just landed three buildings over, cloaked in shadow. Barely visible. Silent.
He squinted.
"What is that?... Batman?"
The shape shifted, cape still against the wind before vanishing over the edge.
The officer groaned. "As if the night hadn't been busy enough."
Jake didn't hear any of that.
He was busy.
The man with the briefcase darted through a narrow alley, kicked over a trash can, and jumped a chain-link fence with the desperation of someone who had nothing left to lose.
Jake followed.
He vaulted off a dumpster, backflipped over the fence, and hit the alley wall in a run. The chase narrowed. Less people. Less noise.
Perfect.
"Come on, man," Jake called out, not bothering to mask his voice. "At least make this interesting! You're running like it's leg day and you skipped all your leg days!"
The man fired blindly over his shoulder. A bullet pinged off a fire escape.
Jake ducked. "RUDE!"
Another turn. Then another. The man was panting hard now, legs slowing, lungs giving out. The briefcase was dragging him down.
Jake vaulted off a parked car and landed in front of the runner.
The man skidded to a stop, nearly losing his balance.
Jake tilted his head, casual. "Well, isn't this your unlucky day."
"Back off!" the man barked, hand shaking around the small pistol.
Jake's smirk cut sharp across his face. "Make me."
Pow! Pow!
He dodged effortlessly, weaving through the shots, then-
Thwip.
The gun yanked from the man's grip, clattering uselessly to the street.
Jake stood upright, looming. "I'm afraid you'll have to do better than that."
The man's bravado crumbled. "Please - don't hurt me. I- I didn't know it would go like that, I swear, I was just trying to-"
Jake scowled. His fingers twitched.
"Begging?" he muttered. "Really?"
He took a slow step forward, tone dropping to a frustrated growl. "How am I supposed to-... Never mind. You've ruined it."
"I didn't mean-!" the man stammered. "I was just - trying to-"
Jake rolled his eyes. "Pathetic."
Thwip-thwip.
Webbing struck the man's legs and chest. He collapsed backwards like a broken mannequin, stuck awkwardly to the pavement.
Jake stepped over him and snatched the briefcase.
"You better hope whatever is in here was worth it," he said, voice low and cold. "Or else... I'll come back for you."
The man was already weeping, whispering thank-yous like prayers to himself.
Jake turned to leave. Walked a few paces and-
SHHK-SPLORT!
-his Spider-Sense screamed.
He spun around - just in time to see blood fountain from the webbed man's neck, his head cleaved cleanly down the middle.
A figure crouched atop the corpse, dual blades gleaming red and wet.
They looked up.
"On the contrary," the figure said, rising slowly. "I like them begging and pleading for mercy."
Their eyes glinted with feral glee beneath the mask.
"It's kind of my kink."
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