Leo Briggs' true first name was actually Leo.

People say you can tell quite a lot about someone from his name, and Harbour City's mayor was no exception. His parents were the kind of people who heard a name on the radio or in a movie, decided that it had a nice ring to it, and proceeded to name their first born accordingly without so much as a second thought on the matter. Leo, to use a hackneyed adage, was one apple, which did not fall far from the tree.

His birth certificate did not read Leonard, or Leon, or even Leonardo. It read Leo. Leo Thelonius Briggs. His honor's younger brother's name was Bobby. Not Robert, but Bobby. District Attorney Bobby Briggs, a mere three years out of law school, and his grades would most certainly not have indicated the position he would occupy so soon after graduation. Leo's younger sister changed her name from Sissy to Pamela at a very early age and moved to Lorrington to both pursue a career in architecture and escape a career in politics. She normally sent a card on holidays and visited along with her husband for a few days at Christmas. Leo Briggs always found his sister to be a bit of an odd duck; Sissy was a perfectly good name, and for one reason or another, the young woman always just seemed to want to be by herself. Aside from all that, who chooses architecture over politics? Politics, as the elder Briggs always said, is where the fame is.

"So let's make sure I'm understanding you correctly," his honor said, speaking slowly and gravely, folding his hands upon the large mahogany table he was seated at. "You didn't speak to any media people?"

Detective Ron Middleton squinted at the mayor, cocking his head and pouting his lips just slightly enough to accent his confused feelings. His eyes shifted back and forth quickly from one side of the room to the other, and all the while the dwarfish, balding mayor sat frigid across the table, his first chin tucked down, causing his second, markedly more bulbous chin to protrude further. He waited for a response from the weathered black detective with large, questioning eyes.

"N-Noo..." Middleton said finally, drawing out the last syllable again to express his confusion at the mayor's insistent focus on the particular topic. He shook his head slightly, giving the mayor a sideways stare. "No, sir, like I've said...Haven't talked to anyone from the press."

Briggs closed his eyes and sighed in deep relief, his shoulders slouching as he fell back into his chair. He loosened his collar, but that second chin still persisted. Middleton looked back to Police Commissioner Jeff Ross, who was seated in a chair against the wall, his elbows rested on his knees and his head hung low, shaking back and forth slowly. Middleton's eyes traveled forward to the immaculately well-groomed Aborigine seated next to him, who waited patiently with perfect posture and an indifferent expression for the mayor to continue his questioning. Middleton took particular notice of this man's dark black hair, which was slicked back tightly and neatly against his head. He must have spent some time fixing it following their incident in the pub roughly forty-five minutes earlier.

"Thank God," Briggs said, exasperated. "Well, we dodged a bullet with that one, then."

Middleton's attention turned back to the squat man, who rubbed a pudgy hand over his sweaty face and head, causing his ratty comb over to peel back from his skull. Middleton continued looking at Briggs inquisitively, unable to relate to the mayor's intense feelings over interviews.

"Well, sir, I did manage to find an SI...I've worked with 'im before, and he agre..."

"Linda!" Briggs shouted into his intercom, paying Middleton no attention whatsoever. He released the small button. "Okay, detective, I'm more than happy to hear that you haven't talked to any reporters. We've been lucky. However, our luck could run out soon, and who knows where one'll pop up. I have too many important things to concentrate on here right now to be out there with you, should such an occasion arise, but that's why you have Paul here."

The condescending mayor nodded at Foster, the Aborigine liaison who had been assigned to Middleton's case from Briggs's office.

"More than up to the task, sir." Foster replied with enthusiasm and a firm nod.

"So, Middleton," Briggs resumed, snapping his attention back to the detective. "Should the media approach you about this case, you let Paul here handle it. And trust me, I know how tempting it is to want to talk to those people, what with the microphones and cameras and lights...It's just damn exciting. But, Paul knows what to say and what not to say to make us look our best, and he'll always put a positive spin on it for you, so no worries there."

Briggs chuckled what he thought would be a mutual laugh. It wasn't.

"Right, so, as I was saying, there is always the chance that a reporter MAY demand an interview with you, and of course, we can never deny the press, what sort of ridiculous image does that present?! So, first of all, you'll need to clean yourself up. A sport coat and pressed shirt would be a start. Oh, and a colorful tie. People like colorful ties...It makes you seem fun, more approachable, y'know what I mean."

Middleton licked then smacked his lips, the squint in his eyes remaining. He pressed his top teeth against his lower lip and sucked in a loud breath, then half turned to Ross, who by now had his head buried in his hands and appeared to be choking on his own perturbed emotion. Middleton turned back to the mayor.

"Sir, you do realize that the most ruthless vigilante in the history of possibly the entire country is back loose on our streets, on Devil's Night, the..."

At that moment, Mayor Briggs' personal assistant barged into the room.

"Sir?" she spouted in her squeaky, passive voice.

"Linda, damn it, it's about time! I need you to get Mr. Middleton here one of our 'Meet the Press' pamphlets."

"Yes sir," Linda responded, scurrying out of the room once more.

"Some guidelines," Briggs explained. "It's an excellent sort of 'Reader's Digest' version of our media guidelines here at City Hall. It'll be invaluable if you ever have to give an interview. Real bang up stuff, we had several researchers put quite some time into this."

Linda scurried back into the room, carrying a stack of papers, all but one of which she handed to the mayor, setting down the final one on the table in front of Middleton. 'Meet the Press' the tri-fold pamphlet proclaimed in bright blue block letters. Sure enough, it lived up to its title, complete with full-color illustration. Middleton stared at it in humored disbelief.

"Alright, so," Briggs began, leaning forward to the table once more. "Paul. What's happening with your investigation?"

Middleton snapped his head up towards the Aborigine man, who continued facing forward, completely erect, but took notice nervously out of the corner of his eye. He fidgeted uncertainly for a moment, clearing his throat.

"Motherfucker..." Middleton grumbled softly, shaking his head down until his eyes finally just connected blankly with his own lap.

"Well, sir, things are going quite well. As you know, we were actually present at the seedy bar, which was attacked just shortly ago, and we have made visual confirmation of the Spyder's existence. Also, we've been able to persuade a former Supers Investigator, one Mitchell Rockwell, to join the investigation."

"Mitchell Rockwell, eh?," Briggs repeated thoughtfully, stroking his chin. "I like that name...Look good in the papers...Photogenic?"

"Mmm...No, sir, I'm afraid not."

"Well, just keep him away from the cameras then."

"Yes, sir, of course."

"Alright, gentlemen. I'm sure Jeffrey can take it from here, getting you acquainted with the team he's no doubt already assembled, so if that's all, I suppose this meeting is adjourned. I'll let you men back to your jobs, and I'll head back to mine..."

"Wow, your dick's gotta be gettin' raw by now from all that fuckin' masturbation..." Ross muttered to himself, rising from his chair.

"Take care Jeffrey," Briggs smiled, extending a sweaty palm, oblivious to Ross's inaudible comment.

"You too sir," Ross answered quickly, flashing the mayor a toothless smile so quick a blink could have masked it, and pretending not to see his superior's offer of a hand shake. He adjusted his coat and joined Foster and Middleton as they walked out the door.

"Son of a bitch," Middleton muttered, crumpling the piece of paper with the cartoons into a tight wad and tossing it absently to the tiled floor.

...comeintomyparlor...

THE SPYDER: TANGLED WEB #2
"Wee Hours of the Morning"
By Bill Castonzo

...comeintomyparlor...

Riding with Amie Paige made Perry Parsen nervous. Really nervous.

"So...Have any plans for Halloween, Miss Paige?" Parsen offered meekly.

It wasn't that Paige was a bad driver. In fact, Parsen could not count a single traffic violation, despite their hurry. Her driving didn't make him nervous. He wasn't nervous she would hurt him. She was not at all crazy that he could tell, and he hadn't heard anything that would contradict his opinion. Besides, Perry was fairly certain he could easily handle the lithe reporter in a fight. He was not even nervous about the fact that she was taking him to his first big-time assignment, possibly a very well-paying, page one assignment, should he deliver the goods. None of that really aggravated the butterflies in Parsen's stomach.

"Why do you ask, Perry?" Paige responded cannily, lifting an eyebrow in an all too self-aware act of subtle sensuality. Perry tightened his lower lip. There was the source of that nervousness. "You wanna get together so maybe you can handcuff me to the bed like an old-time witch and show me how naughty I've been? You know, a little role-playing in the spirit of Halloween? Mmmm."

Parsen rubbed hard at his eyes and cleared his throat. He regretted even saying anything. He had just finished a two-year photography program at a local community college that past spring and had turned twenty only at the end of August. He stood a paltry five foot five, barely eye-level with most of the women his age, and his skin and bones tipped the scales at a laughable hundred and twenty-one pounds. Thankfully, the Head and Shoulders shampoo was clearing up some of the dandruff which had thus far given his sandy blonde head a halo any angel would envy, but he had yet to get used to his contacts. They dried out his eyes horribly, causing him to develop an almost twitch-like propensity for successive, hard blinks. Amie Paige was in significantly better shape than he. She stood a curvaceous five foot ten, one hundred seventeen pounds, with two supple d-cups below a face any mother, father, sister, brother, or guy next door could, and would, love. She had no qualms about showing off her well-defined stomach, topping a twenty-three inch waist, but at the same time always conformed to dress codes while on the job. For the most part. She had a preternatural knack for finding the most provocative ways to experiment with the classiest of outfits. She was a vivacious twenty eight years old, having burst onto the newspaper scene in 1996 after delivering the Harbour Tribune an astonishingly in-depth expose on the lives and motivations of Harbour City's dark vigilante the Grim Knight and his lesser known apprentice Raven. This story, reprinted with permission in every paper along Australia's east coast, brought all three parties involved to national prominence. Since that time, Amie Paige had developed quite a confidence about her. She knew she was one of the most effective reporters around, and she also knew, beyond any doubt, that she was scorchingly gorgeous.

"To answer your question, Perry," she continued with much less honey in her voice. "I'll probably just get some sleep if Thorpe doesn't have anything else for me, because I'll be up late, it seems, with this. Hopefully I can make him cream his pants enough tonight to get tomorrow to myself." She paused long enough to smirk. "And I hope he likes my article too."

Parsen squirmed, mustering a weak chuckle from behind his shifty eyes. She smiled deviously, but it only made her look even more incredibly sexy. And she could not resist twisting the insecure young man around her delicately manicured finger. That provocative manipulation was a gift she used all too well. She certainly did not seem particularly tenacious, and nowhere near tough. Yet she got her job done, got at the hard facts, the information no one else could access. Parsen considered this for a moment, finally beginning to realize the secrets to Amie Paige's remarkable knack for investigative journalism. There were ways, no doubt, that she could make it impossible for men to refuse any request of hers. The nervousness persisted.

"Okay, look, I'm gonna go check this out real quick," she said, completely shifting mental gears as she slowed the car to a stop. Outside, a brownstone was almost sparkling under the spotlights shone on it, while a throng of reporters gathered closely on the near side of a police cordon. Several officers patrolled the yellow tape barrier, keeping the media at bay, while officials mingled about the safehouse. The crime scene seemed to be relatively empty of inspectors, which Parsen took to mean that the official search was winding down. "Give me fifteen...Mm, actually, more like twelve minutes. I'll be back, and we'll be able to get inside."

With that, she shut the door and walked briskly off into the darkness. Parsen watched her go, able to check her out uninhibitedly, and found himself mesmerized by her hindquarters. He jumped as the police scanner attached to the dashboard of Paige's Jetta squawked.

"...Several corroborating reports of an explosion on the corner of Burke Avenue and Thirty-Second Street. Please note, corner of Burke and Thirty-Second is location of First Bank of Harbour City..."

* * *

"Midnight. Midnight midnight midnight. Heh. Mi'nigh'. Minighminigh. Heh heh. Open for business."

He took several breaths which would have been called gasps had they been inhaled through his mouth and not his nose. He blinked three succinct blinks and shuddered for a moment, his smile twisting on his face. He made a pleasured gurgling sound after the short fit had passed and reached in the pocket of his heavy army jacket. His fingers danced haphazardly over the pipe which was nestled there, settling on both a small plastic box and a bottle of pills, which he removed simultaneously.

"Take your fuckin' Ridalin, Troy, you fuckin' burned out casper."

"Heh, Friendly G-...Friendly...Friiiiiedly...Casper the Fried-Head-ly Gho..Gho, Ghost. Geh-host. Gay host. Heh heh heh heh," Troy said, snorting at the end, his profusely sweaty fingers fumbling with the medicine bottle.

"Aw, for fuck's sake, just blow the shit, this god damn alarm's giving me a headache and your strung out ass'll never open that shit."

"Gimme that, mothafucker," A black man dressed similarly to Troy said, wrenching the bottle from the shorter pale man's hand. "God damn, and wipe off your hands, slimy sonuvabitch..."

"Boom boom, back up," Troy giggled, hunching over the small plastic box, a remote detonator assembled crudely from an automatic garage door opener. The group of three black men who accompanied the jittery explosives expert, each dressed in a clumsy army jacket and baggy black jeans, walked calmly towards the back of the large bank, muttering to each other as they went.

"God, FUCK this motherfucker."

"Hey, when your ass figures out how to blow up a vault, you let me know and I'll cap his ass fo' you."

"I'm fuckin' trippin' over this alarm, yo."

"Yeah, shit's annoying as fuck, man."

"We clear wit' the cops or what? Somebody tell the fuckin' Penguin over there to hurry the fuck up, I don't CARE if it's Devil's Night."

"Heh heh, boom boom," Troy cackled, his hunched, rotund little form waddling quickly by the taller and darker trio.

There was a sudden, earsplitting squeal and a large pickup truck slammed into the already demolished facade of the bank, shaking the building's structure like Troy had already set off his bomb. Two bodies, both shirtless but wearing tall striped hats reminiscent of a Dr. Seuss book jolted headfirst through the bullet riddled windshield as the front bumper smacked into a large pillar, their bodies hitting the linoleum floor with a wet smack amidst a maelstrom of bloodstained glass. The three black men inside the bank each produced a Beretta and opened fire on the truck and its spilled occupants without a second thought or word between them. Their bullets shook at the vehicle's frame, tearing the thin sheet metal exterior apart like it were paper. Rusted pieces of shrapnel ricocheted of the walls, mingling with blood and small flecks of flesh as the two men who had been thrown from the vehicle were sprayed around the bank's interior in a hail of gunfire.

"Blow that fuckin' safe, man!" One of Troy's companion's shouted over the din of the other two Berettas, as he slapped a fresh magazine into his.

"Boom boom boom boom." Troy spouted in giddy rhythm.

The sound of the blast drowned out the gunfire and the roar of engines alike as several more vehicles raced by; two doctored Civics and an old Audi by the quickest of looks at them. The three black men stared out through the chasm they had blown in the bank's front wall earlier, watching as these cars raced by, relaying gunfire with someone or something behind them. Seconds later, four large souped up pickups squealed by the bank, each detailed with expensive custom paint jobs, and each brimming over with heavily armed and trigger happy bodies. As the last of the four trucks whizzed by, the bank robbers turned to scamper toward the freshly opened bank vault, flanked by rubble and dust. Another deafening explosion from the street outside stopped them momentarily, and the squeals of countless tires indicated the car chase had taken a turn for the worse. They sprinted for the riches in the vault.

Something hard, fast, and incredibly powerful struck the leader of the group in the back of the head before any of them knew what had happened.

* * *

Paige moaned in apparent ecstasy, her mouth opened in a white toothy smile, as she ran her fingers over the cop's head, knocking his hat off and rustling his hair violently.

"Oh God, oh my God!" She panted, tightening her abs in an all too deliberate convulsion. Her words barely seemed forced. The officer walked her closer towards the side of the van, far removed from the action of the crime scene, and she expertly maneuvered so it was his back, not hers, which struck the side of the vehicle. The whole time his mouth was wrapped tightly around her nipple, her perky breasts jiggling beneath his face. He cupped her tits in his sweaty hands, tracing their outline and pushing her white tanktop higher towards her clavicles. Her magenta blouse hung loosely off her arms, now completely unbuttoned, as did her unfastened and tactfully worn front-clasping bra.

"Oh my God, Arthur, Jesus Christ, you are so, so good!"

She winced a bit at that last comment, hearing its corniness in her head. She quickly realized he hadn't noticed as he began licking sloppily at her aureola. She grimaced unnoticeably, disgusted by his poor attempt at pleasure. She went on with the moaning though after a moment to compose her wits.

"Arthur! Oh my God, Arthur!"

Having enough, she grabbed the mussed hair at his temples and pulled his head up to face her eye to eye. She pecked at him eagerly as she began to speak, finally holding his agape features at bay to speak to him. She kept up the panting as she spoke.

"Arthur, you are so hot...My God, I've never done this before, but you...Mmm...I, I just wanted to see if I could get into the safehouse...Just talk to some of the detectives, but you..." She grabbed his wrists and firmly moved his hands from her waist to her breasts, pressing them hard against her womanhood. Arthur shuddered.

"...You just looked so, SO hot, standing there in that uniform..." She accented her words with head bobs and various tactile maneuvers of her eyebrows. "I can't believe we just did this, I mean, I had no intention...Uuuh...I just, just wanted to see that safehouse...Do you think you could let me in? I mean...wow..You've done so much already, but...It's just, y'know, my boss really needs me to...I mean, it'd just be for a few minutes? Please, Arthur?"

She looked like a puppy dog when she asked, those pure blue eyes glowing wide, her lips pouted, her hair falling lightly along her features. A puppy dog with naked D-cups. It was so easy. The most desperate were always the most obvious. She could pick them out a mile away, one glance through a group of people, and she found her side door, her skeleton key, her secret password, whatever.

"Aaahh, gee, Miss Paige..."

"Arthur," she whispered seductively, still grasping his wrists and massaging her breasts with his hands. She shuddered and squealed. "Mmm...You know you can call me Amie." She slowly let go of his wrists, leaving him to continue the slow caress himself, and wrapped her arms around him, pulling herself close. She let loose a hot, slow breath into his ear. "Right, Artie?"

Arthur shuddered, rolling his eyes, and gulped hard.

"Oh God, really...I can't, I just work crowd control, I'll get f..."

She raised herself up on her toes, rubbing her body hard against his, and feeling the unwelcome lump in his pants poke at her thigh. Through her near-nausea, she let her tongue slowly explore his earlobe before taking that small piece of flesh gently between her teeth.

"Okay," he gasped. "You promise for just a few minutes though, right?"

She was in. A substantial effort, to be sure, but less than she had done in the past. Yet probably one of the least enjoyable in a while. Arthur the pudgy, nearsighted, middle-aged idiot cop had no concept of pleasuring a woman. She backed away from him slowly, his fingers lingering on her breasts as his eyes traveled there as well. She forced herself into a broad, flirty smile, flicking the end of his nose playfully with her index finger as she gave him one last look at her perfect body.

"Arthur, you've been so great. Let me give you my number, and maybe we can continue this some place a little more private, and a little more romantic?" Paige cooed, producing a scrap of paper and crudely scribbling a fake telephone number. By the time Arthur had even read the number, she had her bra refastened and was at work buttoning up her shirt.

"Sure thing," Arthur smiled, wiping the sweat from his face and cleaning the steam off his thick glasses. Paige's only response was a smile as she finished buttoning her shirt and turned to leave. Arthur followed eagerly.

Paige returned quickly to the car, her demeanor changing swiftly back to business. She could turn off the horniness just as quickly as she could turn it on. Arthur shuffled along behind her, smiling, and careful to keep his jacket pulled low over his crotch.

"What the hell are you doing?" Paige asked as she approached her Jetta. Parsen was jogging back towards the car from the nearest alleyway, just across from the barricaded safehouse.

"Umm...Well, I had to pee..." Perry stammered off shyly, smiling but refusing eye contact with Paige.

"Whatever," Paige replied impatiently, shaking her head. "Let's go. Artie here is gonna sneak us around back."

Parsen looked from Paige's sly smirk, to Arthur's big smile and vigorous nod, to the awkward way Arthur was standing with his legs askew and hands in his pockets, back to Paige's smirk, and now, a raised eyebrow. He laughed to himself silently, and, camera in hand, filed in alongside the news goddess and the clumsy policeman.

* * *

"This is...is unacceptable, Detective Middleton!"

"Sorry you feel that way," Middleton answered Foster casually, not the least bit concerned for the Aborigine's heated protest. "And really, you can call me Ron any time you feel like pulling that dick out of your ass."

"Det-...RON. I told you before, I am NOT gay. Stop implying that I am!"

"Well then stop acting like it," Middleton replied dryly, not even looking to Foster, who himself was almost walking sideways facing the older detective as he shouted.

Foster paused, realizing that Middleton was avoiding the issue at hand by commenting on the sexual implications of Foster's posture and speech patterns.

"Ron," Foster began, a bit more collected now but feeling decidedly awkward as he addressed the detective by his first name. "Ron, Mayor Briggs delivered Captain Ross specific, direct orders that the commissioner would assemble a task force for the express purpose of the apprehension of the Spyder by tomorrow morning! Your commissioner has ignored a direct order by the mayor! I mean..."

"We have a team," Middleton responded coolly. He continued through the concrete expanse of the police parking garage, his breath wafting into the crisp air in translucent swirls. "You, me, Rock, my informant T. Shit, that's a team right there."

"This is NOT a joke! This lunatic is dangerous! Briggs must have a good reason..."

"Alright, shut the fuck up, Foster, honestly," Middleton sighed, stopping and turning to the taller man. "Let me give you a goddamn reality check, son. Briggs's only reason for wanting to assemble a task force over this issue is so he can have his P.R. people smear his fucking name all over the headlines as the motherfuckin' savior of the city a week before elections. That motherfucker has no idea. There's a helluvalot more going on here than the Spyder suddenly deciding to piss on his deal with the feds so he can bust out and fuckin' kill a shitload of people for no damn reason..."

"It's Devil's Night, Detective!" Foster interrupted, punctuating his word with the flailing of his arms. "He's a vigilante, of course..."

Shut the FUCK up and let me finish you nervous little fuck. You need to calm the fuck down right now, and listen to me. We have to work together on this, that much I've accepted, but we need to get on the same page, which means, we both need to be on MY fuckin' page, you got that?" Middleton spat quickly, yet keeping his tone cool and even. Foster swallowed hard as the older detective advanced to mere inches from Foster's face, his dark eyes boring into Foster's own without a hint of uncertainty. The Aborigine nodded, dropping his emotions readily.

"Good." Middleton growled, turning to walk once more. His footfalls echoed through the resonant structure. His demeanor had turned far more grave, and his eyebrows sunk low on his dark brown forehead. "Now listen to me. There's levels to this thing, to all things involved in police work. You're still on the surface here, not digging. That's my job, though, Paul, to dig...That's what us detectives do. You think the Spyder escaped because suddenly he wanted to take up his old mantle and fight some crime on Devil's Night? Fuck that. If the Spyder was so concerned about Devil's Night, where the fuck was he last year when half of downtown was leveled by Hammerhand? Hell, the Spyder was about the only super who had experience with Hammerhand, but before everything was said and done, we needed a tank to take down that sonuvabitch. The Spyder's not worried about Devil's Night and criminals. He gave up the vigilante game two years ago when he gave up himself and his files to the feds, for all the good it fuckin' did."

"Do we know why he did that to begin with?" Foster questioned, now listening with interest to the older detective. "I mean, I know we have a name, but I don't recall ever hearing any history or..."

"Name he gave was phony. The feds checked it out as soon as they got word he sprung himself. Told us there was an apartment registered to a Dale Steffens in the Paper District in Pacific City. They had a team headin' there within ten minutes. SWATs kicked in the door and found a fat, middle-aged docks worker, who actually was smoking a big fuckin' bowl at the time. No connection to the Spyder, though. Name was just a coincidence. The only other Dale Steffens their search turned up ended up bein' fucking nonexistent, and was also apparently born to two people who never existed themselves, according to federal records.

"False identity."

"He had a whole shitload, most of which we still haven't figured out. Us OR the feds. Smart bastard, smart as hell. Which also tells me there's more to his escape than just wanting to fuck a buncha people up."

"Why didn't they check him out as soon as he came in?"

"They did," Middleton replied, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his inside jacket pocket. Despite Mayor Leo Briggs' insistence to the contrary, Middleton had not changed his clothes. His familiar tan trenchcoat swung lazily at his sides, open and unwashed, and the white collared shirt he wore underneath was horribly wrinkled and unbuttoned well past his clavicle. "Did some basic background checks. He was relatively thorough with his shit, but I think they might've known the ID was a fake. They didn't care. They had him, they had his info, they didn't have to worry about him anymore. At least that's what they thought. Idiots. You'll learn that about government types, they're always lookin' for quick fixes. Deal with shit as it comes along instead of planning ahead. They're lost right now, don't know where to start. They won't find him. They've checked out some of the other fake IDs he gave 'em, lookin' for connections, angles, whatever, but I'm sure there's more he can use that he never told us about, plus his real one. 'Sides that, he knows they're gonna be lookin' for 'im. Didn't try to escape in secret. He fuckin' mutilated two people at the safehouse."

"Not to mention that scene at the bar."

"Right," Middleton agreed, taking a long drag from the cigarette. He blew the smoke out thoughtfully as they approached his unmarked black sedan. "You ask me, he's trying to make a statement. Wants us to know he's back."

"But why...?" Foster trailed off, lost in thought as he waited for Middleton to unlock the old Audi.

"Exactly. Why? There's a purpose to all this. A purpose to his escape, a purpose to the bold killings. Something...Something...But fuck me if I know what."

Foster and Middleton climbed into the car simultaneously.

"Well what do we know?" Foster asked, showing earnest interest in deduction for the first time since he and Middleton met.

"'Bout the Spyder?" Middleton asked rhetorically as he started his car. He flipped the scanner on his dash off, not wanting to deal with the distraction. "Not much. Last case we had involving him was also the disappearance of the Grim Knight. They were working together according to the reports we had, to begin with anyways. On that cocaine ring, the Red Jesters. However, eyewitnesses report that for a while leading up until that final shootout, the Spyder was sighted with only Raven. Grim Knight had disappeared, and nobody's seen or heard from him since. Never did find out the Spyder's take in all that."

"Right..." Foster continued. "That shootout supposedly settled the ordeal with the drug ring. The Jesters were done, killed off by the Spyder and Raven. Then that woman was murdered in her home that same night..."

"The cops that showed up after the shootout were killed, too. Savagely, every one of 'em. It had to have been the Spyder. Then, an hour or so later, Spyder was seen leaving the scene of the woman's murder, just as police showed up. Disappeared after that."

"And that's when he turned himself into the feds."

The Audi rolled out of the parking garage.

"That's what they've told us. Two days after the murder, covered in blood and an emotional wreck. They didn't know what to make of it."

"Huh," Foster said simply. There was a pause for a moment as both men considered the situation. A lot of open ends, ends that the government never bothered tying up after they had him. Mysteries, questions. "So what is Mr. Rockwell's take in all this? He seemed...devastated...about the Spyder's reappearance."

"It was his sister," Middleton answered softly, slowly turning the wheel with the cigarette hanging from his lower lip. The car jerked as he shifted. "His sister was murdered."

"Oh Jesus..."

"He blamed the Spyder. Always has. It was...It was Rock and I...We were working the Spyder case from the beginning. And he knew it, the fuck, the Spyder knew it because we were always on his tail. Fuck, Mitch was a damn good SI, one of the best. We were close so many times, thought we had his ID figured out, when it turned out to be fake. Always on his tail, following his every move. God damn, so many times we almost nabbed that sonuvabitch. That's how I know him. I know this bastard. He's smart, crafty. The fuck."

"He killed Rockwell's sister to take his revenge on you two?"

"That was our best guess. Fuck. We were always on him, almost had him arrested a few times. Rock almost beat the fuck out of him this one time, but the bastard escaped. God damn. This brings back a lot of memories, a lot of bad memories, you know?" Middleton shook his head, biting his lip as he tapped his cigarette into the ashtray.

"That's why Rockwell's wife left him, then?" Foster ventured.

"Yeah. Yeah, Vicki. She was always a saint. I can't imagine being married in our line of work, not in this city at least. And Mitch...Going after the supers. She was always great to him. He loved her. But after...After Beth died. After his sister got killed, what with everything else, and then the Spyder just disappearing, y'know, 'cause they didn't tell us anything. They had to keep him protected, part of his deal. So as far as we knew, he killed her and disappeared. Rock became...obsessed. No other way to put it. He never slept, was barely home. Always out doing something. When he wasn't on duty he was trying to figure out the Spyder case. He exhausted every angle, burned himself out. But he never stopped. No matter what anyone said. He drove himself away from all of us. She left him, as much as it broke her heart. God, she cried. She came to me and she cried. But she just couldn't take it anymore."

"Hm." Foster sighed, shaking his head, depressed.

"Then like two months later, Rock loses his job because of your fuckin' mayor's decision to get rid of the SIs. Stupid bullshit. They had to cut something out of the city budget, so the cunt picks the Supers Investigators. Fuckin' idiot."

They fell silent. Outside the tinted windows, downtown Harbour City rolled by like a great dark ocean, rippling and sparking randomly as the two men navigated through it, stone gargoyles leering down at them from their perches high in the blackness on the corners of Harbour's ancient monoliths. It was an old city, older than even Pacific City, and had for centuries, almost since the first British exiles arrived in what would be called Australia, been a beacon for any and all unwanted and downtrodden souls of the south Pacific.

Harbour City was aptly named. Its waterfront was the city's sole means of survival, its sole purpose for existence in truth, for longer than any could remember. The ships which docked in Harbour City's wharfs hundreds of years ago were crude structures of wood and sails, bearing a multitude of those cast from rapidly over-crowding England. They were but the first in what would be an endless stream of drifters and scoundrels, disillusioned and unscrupulous, that would eventually build a thriving seaport. The city itself, its feel, its taste, harkened back to olden times, times when the seas were dangerous and the law seemed moot. When sailors and pirates needed a place to wash ashore when the nights became too long or the weather too harsh. Dark, seedy, wet. The stone buildings were ancient, their architecture heavily influenced by the Gothic spires of the European mainland and the later Victorian streets of London. The gotham was like a glimmer on the edge of a cloud, a long sliver of poorly lit metropolis stretching as far north and south along the coast as it possibly could, its westward expansion halting at a very shallow distance inward. The old men would say that from any corner on Harbour City's streets, one could open his mouth and taste the salt of the ocean, open his nose and smell the mingling of foam and sweat, open his ears and hear the screams of a thousand dead, their bones ground into the dirt, their blood washed away into the writhing seas. The sense of despair, of darkness, truly, and for as long as any could remember, permeated Harbour City. The neon lights of street level seemed out of place against the bleak backdrop of leering gargoyles, towering spires, and a fog-shrouded moon.

"Lot of bad history, Foster. Lot of bad memories." Middleton whispered sadly, blinking away some tears. He opened the window and flicked out his spent cigarette. The mayoral liaison did not even think to protest the littering, as he normally would have. He stared at the dashboard blankly as the city passed by outside. Most citizens had hidden themselves away many hours ago. They passed hardly any vehicle but police cars as they ventured through the night. Devil's Night. A grand tradition in the City of a Hundred Docks. When Middleton's cell phone rang, it was like an explosion to the two men. Both jumped, the car swerving as Middleton jerked the wheel and struggled for breath. After regaining his composure, he pulled the phone out of his overcoat pocket.

"Middleton," he answered after a deep breath. Foster was still panting. "No shit? No, we're on fourteenth. Yeah, I'll hit the wailers, it'll take us five, six minutes. You're already there? Okay, yeah, hang tight, we'll be right with you."

Middleton slapped the phone closed, applying liberal pressure to the accelerator as he tucked the cell back into his pocket and reached for the sirens switch.

"Who was that?" Foster asked.

"Rock," Middleton answered as he took a hard right onto Burke, screaming through the city. "There's been a vigilante act at the First Bank of Harbour..."

* * *

* * *

"Commissioner Gorman?"

"Hardly any more, Jeffrey. I believe you hold that distinct honor now," The voice on the other end of Jeff Ross's office phone replied, making deliberate his facetious connotation of the word 'honor'.

"How are you, Will?"

"Old," the former commissioner of police of Harbour City, and Ross's predecessor, answered. "Other than that, I'm alright. Doctors sayin' I may have that walking pneumonia or whatever you call it. Don't believe 'em myself."

Ross was about to respond but was cut short by several wet coughs.

"Not as bad as it seems," Gorman muttered. "So what the fuck, Ross? It's damn near three in the morning. Does this have anything to do with the god damn Spyder?"

"Kind of," Ross replied hesitantly. The Spyder's escape had yet to be reported to the general masses, but of course Gorman still kept a police scanner. The gruff old man had little else to occupy himself with, what without ever having been married and practicing only hobbies which involved the discharge of a firearm. His voice sounded rough and scarred, but not the least bit tired. Ross was fairly certain that Will Gorman hadn't yet slept that night.

"You put Ron on the case, right? I woulda done the same. He and that fuckin' psycho have a lot of history. If anyone can catch the fuck this time around, it's Middleton."

"We managed to get Mitch Rockwell back on it, too, sir."

"For fuck's sake, Ross, don't call me 'sir', I'm no longer your superior."

"Sorry, Will. Old habits die hard."

"Don't I know it," Gorman mumbled. In the background, the consistent staticky chatter of the police scanner was barely audible. "But that's great. God damn Briggs...Hopefully he can see what kind of idiot he really is after this debacle. Good thing he could get ANY SI, let alone Rock. Yeah, him and Ron'll take the fucker down. Damn shame it's been so long now though, after all that shit's already happened, and what with me no longer bein' a part of it. Ugh. God damn I miss the Grim Knight."

"Well that's kinda what I wanted to talk about," Ross replied intently. "I mean, it's no secret to the guys on the force that you and the Knight had an agreement or whatever..."

"A friendship, Jeffrey. It was a friendship. Broke my heart when he disappeared. We all know who did it."

"Yeah, okay, friendship," Ross continued, diverting Gorman from his own anger. "Well, sir...Oh, sorry, I mean...Shit. Look, I was just wondering if you could offer any advice on dealing with this. The mayor's breathing down my neck here. I've already ignored a direct order by not assembling a team for apprehending the Spyder..."

"On Devil's Night? That's a damn good order to ignore...You can't spare manpower like that on Devil's Night. Don't worry about that one, Jeff. Give it to Ron and Rock. They'll figure something out."

"That's what I figured. But really, I am just looking for advice on how to deal with these supers cases. I mean, how much attention is too much? How many men do I really need? Hell, in the year and a half I've been commissioner the only super I had to deal with was Hammerhand, and we needed to call the fuckin' Ministry of Defense and their people in to stop that sonuvabitch."

"Yeah...Hell, that was a year ago tonight, wasn't it? Any sign of him lately?"

"No...He's locked up tight at E.C.P.O. Has been for...Hell, almost exactly a year I guess."

"Mmmm...Sorry, Ross, don't think so," Gorman replied with a bit of glee in his voice at his own knowledge of world events. "Parliament very quietly gave Hammerhand a pardon from his incarceration at Enhanced Crim about a week and a half ago. Acknowledged his plea for release on the grounds of inhumane arresting practices as well as good behavior and general signs of rehabilitation."

"No shit. Fuck, inhumane?! How the hell else were we gonna stop him?! His ass better stay away tonight, we've got enough shit to deal with. Hell, Hammerhand...Why the hell would they let him out?"

* * *

"Miss Paige, you gotta get outta there! They're gonna know you messed with this stuff!"

Amie Paige jerked her head to the side, throwing the young photographer a perturbed glance. She paid his protest little heed, pulling a stack of folded jeans off the top shelf of the bedroom closet and throwing them to the floor. She moved quickly and purposefully, not knowing exactly what she was looking for, but well aware of what she wanted to see. She raised herself onto her toes, craning her neck, yet her eyes still did not reach a level above the wooden board of the shelf.

"Shit..." she murmured to herself, feeling around the interior of the dark closet. Her facial features became quizzical as her frantic arm movements slowed, her hand exploring something specific on the surface of that upper shelf.

"Hmph." She sighed, backing away from the closet and searching the unlit bedroom with her eyes. Parsen stood silhouetted in the doorway, looking almost mysterious as a black figure against a dimly lit living room. Paige took brief note of Parsen's presence, the inexplicable mystique he somehow carried in the darkness, but dismissed the feelings just as quickly. She brushed past him quickly, heading purposefully to the kitchen. Parsen found himself at a loss for words, and fidgeted uncomfortably as he struggled with the vocalization of his protests.

"Miss Paige, they're...the police are gonna come back up here, th-they've got to lock everything up and, y'know... Th-they'll have...They'll have a g-g-guard, or something..." Perry stammered, watching Paige barge by him again, this time back into the bedroom, dragging a chair behind her. From the kitchen, Arthur stepped into the short hallway, watching inquisitively as Paige steadied the chair in front of the closet.

"These god damn nine foot ceilings aren't helping matters." Paige muttered to herself as she set a foot on the chair, preparing to hoist herself up.

"Umm...I thought you were just gonna take pictures..." Arthur ventured, approaching the bedroom slowly.

"And we are, aren't we Perry?" Paige answered as she climbed atop the chair, directing a death glare to Parsen, who fumbled for his camera.

"S-sure thing, Miss Paige! Page one stuff, for sure! Uh, uh...Arthur, can you show...show me where the bodies were found, maybe?" Parsen spouted, wrapping an arm around Arthur to turn him in an about-face away from the bedroom. Arthur's eyes remained accusingly on Paige, even as Parsen began to walk him back toward the living room. Arthur switched glances between Perry's smiling face and Amie Paige, who, standing atop the chair, had stuck her head into the closet. The officer finally agreed to Parsen's request, taking him into the living room.

"What do we have here?" Paige whispered to herself, her upper torso and head bent over the shelf, literally inside the upper closet space where the jeans once lay. She couldn't risk turning on the bedroom light, for the windows faced out into the street, and she could not alert the police to her presence. From the pale light of the adjacent rooms, however, she could still make out what looked like small hinges and a rectangular groove on the surface of the shelf. She fumbled excitedly for a bit, before securing her fingers under the small piece of wood on the hinges, which would appear to be nothing more than a part of the shelf at a casual glance. She lifted it up and stuck her hand inside the hidden compartment. She grasped a stack of small, glossy papers. Photographs. Personal photographs.

"Jackpot," She smiled to herself, stepping down from the chair. "Hold page one, Mister Thorpe."

She wandered slowly into the hall, where the light was better. Nearby, Parsen's camera clicked and flashed, and she prayed that the sudden illumination had not been noticed outside.

"Perry, that's enough pictures, I think. Only so much space, y'know?" Paige called into the living room. The photographs ceased. Amie refocused her attention on the pictures. They were undoubtedly personal, taken with a regular handheld camera on Kodak film. Several pictures of all the same woman...Posing playfully on the beach. Smiling broadly in what appeared to be a living room. A close-up shot in which she puckered her lips at the camera. Finally, a picture cut in half, the same woman in a wedding dress, her husband's body having been removed from the shot along with the rest of the photo.

Paige stared at the pictures inquisitively, not quite making sense of it. She did not recognize the woman. Someone the Spyder had once stalked, perhaps? But no, the pictures were all very familiar. Possibly stolen? Or was this woman a possible former lover, or even more, a clue as to the true identity of the man called the Spyder? Excitedly, Amie pocketed the photographs, turning swiftly towards the living room.

"Perry, let's go," She commanded, her voice stern and certain. Parsen abruptly halted his casual conversation with Arthur, looking dumbfounded. "We have what we need. Let's get the hell out of here," She snapped at him. After a moment, Parsen shook off his surprise, and hustled after the reporter. Arthur began to protest, but Paige was already reaching for the door. She pulled it wide open.

"Hold it right there." One of the three officers on the other side demanded coolly.

* * *

The bevy of armed guards prowling both the outside and inside of the barbed wire fence hidden amongst a thick grove of trees in the backyard of the mansion were already dead. The blood on the knives was not yet even dry as they held securely in the ankle holsters of the dark intruder. There had not been enough, and the guards that were there were no where near talented enough, considering who they were protecting and whom they were protecting him from. The intruder smelled the trap, had smelled it since he had escaped federal custody, but didn't care. That's why he took no precautionary measures against motion sensors as he swung open the balcony doors, having picked the lock with ease.

Too easy.

He rolled to his left as he pushed open the doors, letting the wind carry them into the room. He pressed his back against the hard stone of the mansion, holding in his right hand one of his guns, and in his left hand a small mirror. He manipulated the piece of glass until he brought his second mirror into view, a small one fastened at an angle on the opposite side of the doorway. The second mirror allowed him a fuller view of the interior. No armed guards. No one in the bed. No one at all. He glanced around the balcony and the backyard, confirming the escape route he had already perfected in his mind. He replaced the mirror into one of the small compartments on his shoulder harness, then produced his second handgun.

He whirled into the doorway, his eyes moving quicker than any human's should, his coat billowing behind him, catching the breeze of his movement. He extended the firearms in front of him, but continued his high-speed twirl, coming to a halt with his back to the wall on the other side of the doorway. No gunfire. His quick visual scan did not detect anything. He swiftly removed his second mirror from the wall, replacing it in its proper spot on his shoulder harness. He stepped back into the doorway with his guns raised in front of him again, and paused a moment, before walking briskly but silently into the moonlit bedroom. No threat. No movements. No alarms. Where was the trap? Where was Raymundo Zuleta's trap? The Spyder's arms did not lower as he moved about the room. The bed was immaculately kept, the silk sheets unwrinkled and perfectly arranged. It was a trap alright. The closet door was open. No one inside. Just clothes. The door to the hallway was completely closed.

The bathroom door was open. The Spyder peered intently into the master bathroom for a moment, holding himself entirely still. He slowly lowered one gun while keeping the other trained on the bathroom door. After holstering his gun, his free hand moved to his chest, to another compartment of his shoulder harness. He produced a small black ball, maybe only twice the size of a marble, with a red button on it. The Spyder clicked the button and rolled the ball into the bathroom. He waited, statuesque, for a long moment, before a soft hiss permeated the silence and a thick smog filled the bathroom, spilling over into the bathroom. The Spyder clicked a hidden button on the side of the 'spider' portion of his mask, enabling his rebreather. He waited longer, both guns now trained on the doorway once more.

Waited.

Nothing.

Then, a sound from behind, almost inaudible. The Spyder acted on instinct, his 180 degree spin performed with inhuman agility and speed. A shot was fired. It connected.

The would-be victim smiled devilishly, his facial features unrecognizable in the dark, even to the Spyder's trained eye. The rest of him was identification enough. A behemoth by any stretch of the word, a living giant, a breathing colossus. He stood nearly seven feet tall, and his disproportionately small head seemed to grow out of a pair of supremely broad and sculpted shoulders, his neck disappearing into a mass of muscle. He was built like a world-class sprinter whose proportions had been ridiculously enlarged. He was cut as if from marble by an ancient master sculptor, but his very mass indicated a body weight of over four hundred pounds...With a body weight percentage that could not have exceeded twenty by a longshot. He wore a dark charcoal body suit which left very little to the imagination, which seemed to shimmer with some sort of iridescence with every breath he took. His hands were mammoth, and gloved in extremely complex-looking metal gauntlets, of a dark, shiny silver, the same material as that of the bolted collar which protected his clavicles and the bulbous tree trunk which he called a neck. A tight black hood covered his skull and the top half of his face, obscuring his nose and two black lenses hiding his eyes. A frightening sight to behold, almost unbelievable in proportion, and undeniably terrifying in his propensity for destruction. When he breathed, it was like the heaving of a great ocean. His exhale was like the growl of a mythical beast, a recurring death rattle.

The Spyder recognized him, from the smell, the sound, the aura, before he even pulled the trigger, and knew even as the bullet exploded from the chamber that the gesture was futile. Slowly, the Spyder lowered his arms, as the evil smile on the familiar monster's face broadened. He snickered, flexing his humongous fingers, covered in a thick layer of metal. The Spyder regarded him stoically for a moment. He stared right into the obscured eyes of the great beast.

"Hello Hammerhand," The vigilante greeted in his raspy, deep voice. "I suppose you're here to kill me?"