Ron Middleton whistled dryly at the sight, chuckling to himself as his high-pitched breath expired. The low, throaty chuckle gave way to a deep, wet hacking, and Middleton violently chucked his cigarette to the ground. He shook his head as the cough subsided, a smirk remaining on his face.

"Shit," he laughed to himself. He cleared his throat, raising his fist to his mouth in a gesture of politeness.

Middleton stood between Paul Foster and Mitch Rockwell, each taller than the aging black detective, who both shared the direction and intensity of Middleton's gaze. They looked with different tempraments. Middleton found the scene to be ironically comical. Foster was awe-stricken, if not a bit afraid. And Rockwell...Rockwell was angry.

"It's not him," Supers Investigator Mitchell Rockwell growled. "Damn it."

"How do you know...?" Foster questioned softly. His once immaculate posture wavered slightly under both mental and physical fatigue. Fatigue, and the undeniable fact that he was utterly humbled by the sight before him.

The three partners stood statuesque amongst a throng of bustling uniformed police officers who were hurriedly stringing bright yellow tape between wooden horses and struggling to keep the small crowd of curious city-dwellers in their pajamas, the ones brave enough to venture forth into the dangerous night, at bay. Inside the barriers of canary-colored caution tape, photographers and clean-up crews found they had their work cut out for them. A few meters away, the First Bank of Harbour City lay in ruins, its facade decimated, and its interior littered with pieces of its own infrastructure. About thirty-five meters further from the bank, a massive pile of twisted and charred metal protruding from a nearby building marked the site of a massive pile-up, its fires already extinguished. Neither one of these disaster areas, byproducts of the criminal free-for-all known as Devil's Night, so captivated the three investigators' interest. On the contrary, they focused entirely on the bodies.

The massive pile of bodies, well over twenty bloody, beaten, ghastly-looking people.

The massive pile of live bodies.

Every single person layered awkwardly into the mound of flesh still breathed, and in fact, looked relatively whole. Not even any missing extremeties. And they were all bound together by peculiar-looking organic cords.

"This is all wrong," Rockwell muttered, arms crossed. A visit to the police infirmary had taken care of the injuries he had sustained in the bar bombing earlier that night. The psychological scars, unfortunately, were not quite so identifiable, and most certainly not quite so easily healed. The Spyder was back, the constant bane of Rockwell's career, and eventually, the bane of Rockwell's family. The man who had killed his sister, along with countless more over the years, including cops. The homicidal maniac. The homicidal genius. The one supers case that Rockwell could never crack, no matter how hard he tried. His wife had left him for it. The most intense, violent, and soul-sucking case of his career, and the one that hit closest of all to home. He had lost a sister and a wife to the Spyder. As far as Mitchell Rockwell was concerned, he had lost his life to the Spyder.

"Maybe he's toying with us. Trying to tell us something...Or worse, trying to make us think shit we shouldn't. Playing with us," Middleton offered, squinting at the fleshy knoll before him. Foster considered offering his limited insight, but decided against it. He listened intently as the two detectives mused over the possibilities of what the Spyder's apparent mercy for these victims could mean.

"No...Not this. He doesn't do this, let people, murderers and looters, live. That sonuvabitch is a killer, no conscience, no remorse. That's his M.O., always has been. But this...This...I dunno, it doesn't feel right," Mitch responded. Middleton paused, biting his lower lip.

"Rock...Does it not feel right because it don't feel right?...Or does it not feel right because you don't want this guy to have suddenly found his heart?"

Rockwell snapped his head around, glaring at Middleton through squinted eyes. That low-hanging brow gave him a bestial appearance. Foster found the large man to be most intimidating, but Middleton simply returned the SI's leer, his eyes re-asking the question a thousand times over.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Ron? I know this is business, I know I'm a damn professional, and I don't like what you're trying to fuckin' say. I don't let personal feelings get in the goddamn way of doing my fucking job. Jesus Christ, how long did we work together? You of all people should know..."

"Should I?"

"Shut the fuck up, yes you should." Rockwell paused. "And it doesn't feel right because it just doesn't feel right, to answer your question, okay? Look, how many people has he already killed tonight? At the safehouse, the fucking bar, god knows where else. Why just take it easy on these punks as they're tearing downtown to shit?! That's not him, Ron. No reasoning behind a sudden change of heart like this in the middle of a killing spree, and let's not kid ourselves, whichever way you cut it, that's what this fucking is. The mother fucker's on a killing spree. So if he's trying to send a message with this beautiful display of humanity, it's a conflicting one, so we should just ignore it all together. Go with the facts and our instincts, that's it. We can't let him play with us."

"So do you think this is his work at all?" Middleton asked, voicing the underlying question that they were both considering.

"Do you?"

"No."

"Neither do I."

"Well shit," Middleton scoffed sarcastically. "Great, we just wasted damn well over a half hour on this shit. And apparently we've got another vigilante on our hands, too. A new arrival in the middle of Devil's Night. Not to mention we now have no leads as to the Spyder's whereabouts. God damn golden. We are god damn golden, aren't we Rock?"

Rockwell grunted in perturbed laughter, stretching his burly, almost indecipherable neck. He shrugged the black leather jacket he was wearing higher on his massive shoulders as the wind kicked up. He had cleaned himself up since their first introduction at the bar, Foster noticed, beyond scrubbing off the blood and ash. His long brown hair was newly washed, pulled back tightly into a ponytail which hung down underneath his suprisingly nice leather coat. His musculature bulged forth from underneath the gray knit sweater he wore above a pair of fitted blue jeans and clean black leather boots. His bushy horseshoe of a mustache looked trimmed. Nice work for a few hours after narrowly surviving a bombing.

"So, whatta you think, dickass?" Rockwell asked Foster in his grating baritone. He punctuated the sentence with a half-smirk. The suddenly self-aware Foster found his lower back muscles relaxing as Middleton chuckled that world-weary laugh of his, turning on his heel as he rubbed that salt and pepper stubble. Foster watched sternly as Middleton sauntered a bit further away, then glanced at Rockwell, who still stood smirking with folded arms. Foster raised his eyebrows, half-rolling his eyes, and said nothing. Silently, he prayed the defiant gesture would not set the seemingly unbalanced slab of muscle off on him. Thankfully, and rather unexpectedly, Rockwell seemed to soften a bit, and rolled his eyes himself.

"Sorry...Paul. You have any ideas besides just sitting on our asses waiting for somethign to happen? 'Cause other than that little gem of detective work, we're about fresh out options," Rockwell said earnestly.

At that precise moment, timed better than any product of Hollywood could have aspired to, Foster's opportunity to speak was abruptly stolen.

"Detective Middleton!" a voice shouted. Middleton, Rock, and Foster turned simultaneously at the call. An officer was standing halfway out of a cop car, one hand resting on the open door, the other holding the microphone to the radio. Middleton called back to the officer, letting the young man know he had the detective's attention.

"I think you better come hear this for yourself, sir," the cop began, shaking his head in amazement. "The Spyder's been sighted..."

The three investigators exchanged frantic glances.

"...With Hammerhand. At Raymundo Zuleta's estate. Supposedly, the sonuvabitch was on his way to kill the forerunner for next mayor of Harbour City."

...comeintomyparlor...

Artifice Comics Presents
The Spyder: Tangled Web #3
"Daybreak"
By Bill Castonzo

...comeintomyparlor...

"Hm. Well, this is an unexpected turn of events," the Spyder mused calmly as a sledgehammer-like metallic fist clipped the tails of his trenchcoat, his lithe form springing backwards on legs muscled like tightly wound steel cable. His acceleration was astounding, his body darting into motion faster than most could lift their feet from the ground. True, while in federal custody his opportunity to maintain his body's extreme level of performance had been hindered, but he had capitalized on every free moment, every possible method. Years of obsessive study of the limits and functions of the human body were not wasted on the man the world knew as the Spyder. In another life, he could have been a gold-medal Olympian, or a special operative. He could have been the best of either, and more. But his path had been chosen, his story had unfolded, and he had embraced the chaos which so drowned his life. Embraced it, nurtured it, and raised it into an integral aspect of his very being, something uniquely his own. For all intents and purposes, the Spyder was the living embodiment of an oxymoron, the breathing essence of controlled chaos. Harnessed carnage.

His eyes remained steadfast as his body became a blur, focusing on the behemoth Hammerhand's fury, instinctively calculating his next move.

He had thrown his weight into that punch, left him in a lunge. A second punch would be impossible without gathering himself again, and a pivot would be the quickest way to do so. Such a move would most likely dictate a quick jab thrown with the opposite hand in mid-rotation. Sloppy from anyone else, but deadly accurate from Hammerhand, no doubt. His momentum would carry him into a quick spin and a quicker punch if he carried through off of this first punch with the right foot to plant on.

Eyes to the feet.

Weight on the left. The right would follow. He left it short, requiring another step to complete the spin.

The Spyder leapt before the left-handed jab was even thrown, and the short punch whistled through the air with no effect.

Now the right hand, a powerful hook most likely, but not a lunge; he'd re-establish his balance, limiting his reach.

The Spyder touched down with one foot, kicking the other back to gain momentum and pushing off the planted foot, leaping backwards just in time to dodge a sweeping roundhouse kick.

A surprise. But stupid. The bastard was too damn big to perform such a move without exposing himself. The Spyder's hand was behind his back before he even touched down. As he landed his dodging jump, he set his feet to throw and let fly the small spherical charge without a second thought.

There was a minute explosion on the inner thigh of Hammerhand's grounded leg before the kicking leg had even been lowered. He had indeed exposed himself. He was thrown backwards, completely off his feet, but he made no sound, and his face registered only surprise.

He rolled to his hands and knees at the doorway to Zuleta's balcony, jerking his head back into the bedroom. He saw nothing...A black foot connected hard with the bridge of his nose before he could even glimpse the room.

The Spyder let himself drive forward, feeling Hammerhand's body giving way with the force of his bounding kick. Despite his instincts, he let his foot maintain contact with Hammerhand's forehead as the giant fell to his back, smiling to himself as he pinned the villain's head hard between his heel and the concrete balcony. He relished in the moment, stalling for a brief second to apply maximum pressure through his heel, before increasing the distance between him and the fatal gargantuan.

Idiot, he thought to himself as what felt like a five-fingered, spring-loaded vice clamped around his ankle before he could complete his retreat off the balcony. Enjoy it later. Can't let emotions get in the way. Could get you killed.

He felt himself rushing towards the hard floor, whipped hard by muscles a tenfold stronger than his own. He contorted himself, landing firmly on a flat, flexed back. Better than his tailbone or his face. He winced a bit but was able to ignore the pain, a considerable skill often over-looked by most fighters, but one he had never taken lightly. The stinging ache vacated his muscles momentarily, but the grip on his ankle grew firmer. He reached to a pouch on his shoulder holster, but almost suffered whiplash as his body was violently wrenched off ground before his hand could produce another explosive.

His body was hurtling through the air before he even realized Hammerhand had gotten to his feet. Far below him, the darkened and well-landscaped backyard lawn was rushing up to meet him uncomfortably fast. His eyes darted purposefully as his body tumbled through the night. He stretched his arms forward.

He thrust his hands into the leaves of the tree, desparately clawing for a secure purchase. He grabbed at a branch, leaving his arm muscles relaxed. His momentum was slowed, then deftly redirected, and the tree branch snapped delicately. He was in freefall, but for thankfully a much shorter distance. His feet hit grass, and he let his body weight roll backwards, buckling his knees and completing the fall flat on his back, much in the same fashion as he had when Hammerhand had violently yanked him to earth.

No breaks, dislocations, or sprains. Slight soreness in his shoulders. Nagging ache in the back. Nothing serious.

Get up.

He rolled backwards in a somersault, planting his feet on the ground and pushing his body up. He whirled to face the balcony. Hammerhand vaulted the marble railing and landed smoothly on the grass below at the opposite end of the yard. In the distance, police sirens grew steadily louder. He had to finish this fight before it turned into a reprise of last year's Devil's Night. He quickly sized up his opponent as the behemoth marched towards him.

From their blissfully few previous meetings, the Spyder knew that Hammerhand's physiologically altered epidermis was all but impenetrable. His muscles, enhanced both by radiation treatments and cybernetic augmentations were far superior to any human's in both strength and endurance. His coordination and fighting skills were dictated by cybernetic implants as well. And those gaunlets attached to his hands lived up to his name. In the past, the Spyder had exhausted every opportunity trying to locate a weakness in Hammerhand, before finally taking him out with either a felled building or large explosion. There had to be a better way. A soft spot, a shut-off switch. His head? His heart? His throat?

Too obvious, and all protected by that damn skin.

Everybody had a weakness, but it was a matter of finding a way around the strengths.

Around the strengths...

The Spyder smiled to himself. There had to be a powersource for all those cybernetics. An easily accessible powersource for recharging. Nothing surgically implanted. Nothing connected to his vital functions. Organic power for cybernetics on that scale had yet to be perfected. There had to be a cybernetics powersource, easily accessible...

Hammerhand raised his fists, two barrels unfurling from within those massive gauntlets.

"This is new..." the Spyder murmured to himself. "Oh shit."

The Spyder spun himself with every ounce of strength he could muster in a movement as quick as he could manage, just before a maelstrom of hollowpoints exploded from the two chambers perched atop Hammerhand's forearms. They tore harmlessly into the tree all around the Spyder as he stood with his back to it on the opposite side as Hammerhand, but he knew he had precious little time before the bullets either sawed the tree down or Hammerhand reached him. Acting quickly, he leaped, hurdling the large shrubbery on the perimeter of the yard. He landed lightly on the other side next to the body of a guard whose throat he had slit not more than fifteen minutes earlier. The gunfire continued to peck viciously at the tree, and the police sirens seemed entirely too close.

Hammerhand ceased shooting and swung an immense arm into the large willow with incredible gait. Its base splintered and cracked, and the thick trunk toppled under both the force of his blow and the damage sustained from his barrage of bullets. The Spyder was nowhere to be found. Hammerhand paused for a moment, examining the scene before him, before firing off a prolonged round into the shrubbery. He paused, arm still raised and wristgun still smoking.

A long moment passed before something rustled within the leaves.

A dark figure in a fedora and trenchcoat tumbled through the bushes, dead.

Hammerhand smiled deviously as he approached the body.

Then, the sound of a snapping twig behind him.

He hadn't even the time to whirl before a knife plunged at an awkward angle deep into the crevice between the metal of his gauntlet and the flesh of the arm hanging at his side. A spurt of blood illicited a terrible scream from the giant, whom had seldom known true pain, and the Spyder, missing both hat and trenchcoat, barely avoided the frantic jerk of Hammerhand's large body as the vigilante both twisted and removed the knife. The villain clutched his arm, which now poured forth blood like an engine with a leak, and stumbled back over the tree he had just felled, the upper branches of which had provided the Spyder an ideal hiding spot as Hammerhand's bullets tore through the already dead body of the estate security guard. The vigilante wasted not a second as the great beast of a man fell, and was crouched low next to him before Hammerhand's head even hit the ground. The behemoth's right hand remained locked around his left forearm, both sitting suspended above his chest as he lie on his back in pain and shock, giving the Spyder the perfect opportunity. Producing both guns, he straddled Hammerhand's waist, and before his opponent could even react, the muzzles of both firearms were buried into the base of those horribly destructive gauntlets.

Blood exploded from every nook and crack of Hammerhand's huge metal gloves as the Spyder discharged his weapons.

The vigilante reared back, separating himself from the collosus, now wailing like a banshee, as Hammerhand's entire body began to spasm in short, mechanical bursts. The Spyder almost cackled.

"I didn't think your skin could be solid underneath those fucking things if they were connected to your nervous system. The implants would have to reach deep into your arms, and there'd have to be a fucking lot of 'em if your batteries're in there too..."

Further spurts of blood accompanied twisted spasms of Hammerhand's neck and limbs.

"Which I'm gonna assume they are."

Victorious, the Spyder sauntered back to the shrubbery to collect his hat and coat. He pulled them daintily from the guard's body, still tangled in the bushes.

"Freeze! You mother fucker!"

The Spyder's head snapped around as he shrugged his jacket up around his shoulders. He fixed his hat tight upon his head even as he saw the last of the SWAT teams filter into Raymundo Zuleta's backyard.

An emphasis on the plural in teams. There were at least sixty men on the property with firearms trained on him.

"Keep your hands where we can see 'em, you sonuvabitch!"

Fuck, he thought to himself. The police. Fuck. His escape route was still viable, but risky. They no doubt had people on the other side of bushes waiting for him.

"We have units on the other side of the bushes behind you! You can't run!"

Thanks for the confirmation.

He kept his arms to his sides but turned his palms face out to patronize them. Slowly, he began to examine the crowd, while keeping his ears attuned to sounds at his rear, trying to gauge the size of the welcoming committee assembled behind him. Mostly on the street, by the sound of things, which lay a good fifteen meters past the shrubbery. Still very close.

This would be difficult.

"Listen to me," he barked to the police, his eyes still moving purposefully as he let his feet slowly shuffle to his right.

"Don't move!"

"Listen!" He continued his slow glide, and he heard men getting fidgety with their rifles. He slowed. "Raymundo Zuleta is not who he claims he is."

He spoke loudly, and slowly, anunciating, making sure they heard his words. They wouldn't believe him of course, but his revelations would give them pause, make them think, slow their reactions.

"He is a fraud. He's lied to everyone. He-"

He stopped. Stopped moving, stopped talking, stopped listening. His muscles relaxed and his senses went dull. For a brief moment, he no longer felt the rush, the pure power, of being the Spyder. He was floored by what he saw, who he saw, standing amongst the police in a black leather coat, beside a familiar black man in a tan trenchcoat, holding a Glock.

"Mitch?" he whispered to himself in disbelief.

"What was that?" the SWAT team squad leader called out to him.

Rockwell glared with a fire of unmitigated hatred burning in his eyes. The Spyder did not return such a leer, but rather looked upon the familiar figure with a sudden wash of sorrow.

"Mitch..."

"Get your hands up!" the squad leader yelled. The Spyder was suddenly snapped back to attention. He had moved far enough into position during his tirade about Zuleta. Rockwell would have to wait for another time. Without another moment wasted, the Spyder sprung backwards through the bushes, whirling as he came out on the other side, and dropping to all fours. From the yard he had just left, sixty-plus rounds of gunfire suddenly sounded as one, once the officers had shaken their momentary surprise at his rather gutsy retreat.

Just as he had expected. The men on the exterior of Zuleta's property would have had to protect themselves in just such an instance, accounting for their relegation to the street. Judging from their rather inept positioning, they hadn't expected him to flee. They all crouched helplessly behind protective police vehicles as their compatriots fired from a position directly opposite their own. Idiots.

The Spyder scampered forward on all fours with the grace of a jungle cat. He reached a corner, popping to his feet and crossing the street in but three powerful strides, before leaping feet first uninhibitedly into an already opened manhole. A parade of cops stormed through Zuleta's bushes after him.

"Into the sewers!" Rockwell screamed, leading the charge. "Get that son-"

A powerful explosion erupted from the manhole as the throng of officers converged, its force blasting them back, knocking the first wave of the startled SWATs to the street. Bits of asphalt rained down around them as the largest chunks tumbled haphazardly into the sewer below. A sudden realization washed over the congregation of law enforcers.

The Spyder had escaped.

"Fuck," Middleton spat as Rockwell seethed, fallen to the street and his voice lost to him. "Fucking shit. And what the fuck was all that Zuleta business about?"

* * *

Amie Paige was well acquainted with Darrell Fletcher. Darrell Fletcher, attorney at law, from the presitigious firm Fletcher, Cook, and Milnestein, the Harbour City Tribune's contracted legal associates. Paige had always had a knack for getting herself into situations without ever considering how she could get herself out. And many a problem often ensued.

"Excuse me, but you are out of line, Inspector Travis, if you are accusing my client of criminal trespass!" Fletcher stated pointedly.

"Oh, save it for the courts, you putz! This is an interrogation, not a hearing. You're here for counsel only, so let's not overstep your boundaries, because you're damn lucky we even provided Miss Paige the opportunity to contact you given the sensitivity and severity of this case!"

The interrogation room was small, but after this fact concerning its interior reality departed from the movies. The room was well-lit with overhead halogens and the walls were a muted yellow plaster, a far cry from the cinematic hot spotlights and dingy brick cubicles. And the interrogators did not seem nearly as imposing, particularly with a high-priced lawyer sitting directly next to you. The chairs on which Paige and Fletcher sat were comfortable enough, if not a bit stiff in the backrest. Paige waited in complacent silence as her attorney argued with the inquiring detective.

Abruptly, the heated words fell mute as the room's pallid gray door clicked and slowly swung open, revealing three men in various states of disrepair. The first man into the room, a weathered black man with salt and pepper hair and stubble, who wore a beat-up tan trenchcoat, nodded to Travis and the other officer in the room, who begrudgingly slipped past and out the door. The black detective was followed by the roughly drawn figure of a body-builder, a scowl carved menacingly into his face, then a decidedly less imposing man with dark features and a dirty, yet expensive suit. This last man closed the door behind them at the first man's indication, then pulled a chair out of the corner for himself.

"Miss Paige," the black man in the trenchcoat began. "I'm Detective R-"

"Ron Middleton, and Mitch Rockwell, Supers Investigator," Paige finished. "I know you guys."

"Right, I suppose you do," Middleton smiled with an altogether lack of both amusement and happiness.

"Not acquainted with your friend, though."

"He's from the mayor's office, but that's not really important, Miss Paige," Middleton answered, pulling out a chair opposite Paige and her lawyer, and sitting himself down. He hunched over the table wearily, crossing his hands in front of him. Rockwell remained standing alongside Middleton, his massive arms crossed across an equally massive chest, and his eyes slowly burning holes through Amie Paige. "Now Amie, Rock here and I are in charge of this Spyder investigation, and we have just had a really shitty night. I asked Captain Ross for this opportunity to sit down with you to ask you a couple of questions and set some things straight before we release you."

"Ask away, Detective," Paige responded blandly. Middleton nodded, pausing for a moment.

"How did you get into that safehouse, Amie?"

Paige faltered.

"She was let in, Detective," Fletcher answered. "By one of the officers working the perimeter at the scene."

"Is that a fact? Well, Miss Paige," Middleton said, deliberately accenting his address to Paige to indicate rather bluntly the intended recipient of his comments. "How is it that you were the only reporter who the officers allowed onto the scene, despite direct orders that they not let any media past the established perimeter?"

"Miss Paige is not equipped to answer questions pertaining to others' state of mind at the time of their actions. That is an unfair question," Fletcher pointed out. Middleton regarded him with a stifling calm, thinly masking his growing impatience.

"Hmm," he mused succinctly. "Interesting, Mr. Fletcher...Since we have a very frantic officer claiming that he was sexually harassed by your client and was rewarded a sexual favor in return for a 'quick glimpse inside' the safehouse."

"That's absurd," Fletcher scoffed as Paige smirked at Middleton. "That kind of claim would never hold up in court. A 'sexual favor' right there in the street?! And even if it did happen, for all you know, he promised her a look inside in return for a sexual favor. The courts would buy this man sexually harassing her much more readily than vice versa, and you know it."

"Okay..." Middleton smiled that tight-lipped, entirely unhappy smile of his. "So what exactly did you find in there that we've been hearing so much about, anyways?"

"You don't know?" Paige asked in earnest surprise. Middleton cracked his neck.

"Look, we just got back from a very, very long night, and this shit here is the last goddamn thing I'm doing before getting a scant few hours of well-deserved sleep...So no, I have yet to see the evidence, but I know you removed it from a crime scene, and I know it was very well-hidden, so please, just elaborate a bit for me and we can all be on our merry way."

"They were pictures," Paige answered, cooperative now. "Pictures of a woman. I didn't recognize her but they were personal snapshots, not like newspaper clippings or anything. One was a wedding picture, but half of it, the part with the groom I'm assuming, was cut out. Don't know if it's an old lover or what...But they were in a small homemade secret compartment he must've built himself right into his closet shelf. Damn clever of him, but I know what to look for with these super-types..."

"You would," Rockwell growled his first words of the meeting with a contemptuous sneer. He shook his head disapprovingly at Paige, who squirmed under his gaze and accusatory words, but had no defense.

"Detectives, is that about all? Because I will not sit here and let you intimidate my client. You should be thanking her! You never would have stumbled across that evidence if not for her resourcefulness," Fletcher spouted off indignantly. Middleton and Rockwell regarded him with unamused glares.

"Gee," Middleton said flatly. "However can we repay her?"

"I want the exclusive story on this case."

Both detectives jerked their heads simultaneously back to Paige, now sharing dumbfounded looks.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Rockwell stated, his rage overpowered by a sense of complete shock.

"Get the fuck out of here," Middleton sighed, rubbing his chin and letting his eyes wander elsewhere as he leaned away from the table and pointed to the door. Rockwell just shook his head in utter disbelief, that anger working its way past any other emotion that he could possibly be feeling, and pushed himself away from the table, letting his head roll forward before ultimately settling his face parallel to the ground. Fletcher and Paige lingered for a moment, exchanging confused glances, before rising to leave.

"I'll be in touch," Fletcher said, producing a business card.

"Go!" Rockwell shouted, only half looking up. Nervously, Fletcher dropped the business card on the table and scurried to the door, pushing Paige along. Foster nodded to them as they left. The door finally closed.

"What the fuck," Middleton sighed in more of a statement than a question.

"Go take a look at those pictures?" Rockwell responded after a moment, his voice muted by the downward direction of his speech, his head still hanging tiredly.

"Guess so," Middleton answered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before rising. Foster and Rock followed suit.

"Where does that bitch get off anyways?" Rockwell grumbled as the trio strode through police headquarters. "And I think we all know how she got into that fucking safehouse..." The SI moved his fist back and forth in front of his puckered lips, using his tongue to project a bulge in his cheek in time with his hand movements. Middleton chuckled.

"Where do you know that woman from?" Foster asked.

"Ran into her quite a few times trying to score an interview with the god damn Spyder. We had to save her ass on more than one occassion, ungrateful cunt," Middleton explained. "She's the one who got all those awards for that expose on the Grim Knight and Raven a few years back..."

"Oh yeah..."

"Yeah, the deceitful bitch. She fucked Joey Liebowitz for almost four months straight to get all that information."

Foster was taken aback by the bluntness of Mitch's statement, but his eyebrows curled again into confusion.

"Who's Joey Liebowitz?" he asked. "That name sounds really familiar..."

"He was Raven, Paul," Middleton answered.

"Oh, God."

"Yeah. Dumb kid got caught up with that bitch while in costume," Rockwell explained. "Ended up telling her everything. Got her an interview with the Knight, after he had already let her into a lot of their secrets. The Grim Knight was smart enough to protect his own identity, but once everyone knew who Liebowitz was, they drove him out of town after it was reported Raven was working with the Spyder during the Grim Knight's disappearance. That Paige woman's a steady paycheck short of being a hooker, I swear to Christ. Hey Donnie."

"Rock! It's been forever!" the small Asian crime lab technician smiled as the trio walked through the double doors.

"Yeah yeah," Mitch responded, not feeling particularly sentimental at the moment. "You got the pictures from that walking herpe Paige back there?"

"Yeah, should be right through the door to your right, on the table," Donnie answered, chuckling at Rockwell's dry humor and nodding at the door behind him which led to the evidence room.

"Thanks," Rockwell said, strolling through the door with Middleton lagging a bit behind.

"Donnie," Middleton smiled with a nod. Foster nodded a "hello".

"Fellas," Donnie greeted back with a friendly smile before returning to work.

"That Donnie's a good kid. Not more than two years outta college and one of the best forensics guys in the business," Middleton commented softly to Foster as he pushed open the door to the evidence room. They turned right, only to find Rockwell hunched over the table, his eyes wide, glazed, and unblinking, and his lower lip quivering.

"Mother fucker..." Rockwell forced out hoarsely. He bit back the stinging sensation in his eyes, but could not fight the tears which began to roll softly down his rugged cheeks and into his bushy mustache.

"Rock, what-?" Middleton ventured inquisitively, approaching Rockwell. He glanced down at the table, to the snapshots between Rockwell's white-knuckled hands, and froze, his own eyes growing wide and dry, causing him to blink several times before focusing on what he saw.

"It's Beth," Rockwell whispered, biting his lower lip as his voice cracked. "It's my sister."

* * *

The sun was going to be up soon.

I felt like a vampire just then, shunning the day, feeling the fatigue and pain creeping into my body as the first traces of dawn splashed subtle hues of pink and orange over the dark gray clouds of Harbour City. The night had been long and arduous, but much had been accomplished, and the weariness which now pulsed through my veins would subside with a little sleep. I had at least that much time. It was a strange feeling, that; not the tiredness, but the muscle fatigue. I was younger than twenty the last time my muscles ached on me. Damn my weakness.

Damn my heart.

It was that safehouse, so cramped and confined. That safehouse I chose to go to. I had maintained most of my strength, but the endurance, the balance, wasn't quite all there. Not for a night travelled entirely by foot. I realized I would have to steal something to tide me over for at least the next couple days. I may have had the time to sleep off the night, but scant few minutes more to spare. There was much to be done.

Much to be done before election day.

"Zuleta" had amassed himself quite a fortune, and quite a reputation from the looks of things. The fraud. The detestable, diabolical fraud. But he was a serious candidate for mayor; by far the leader in public opinion, according to the Harbour City Tribune's traditionally accurate numbers. Things had become decidedly more complicated. But I was prepared.

First, back to the scrapyard for sleep, and to pick up some "paperwork".

Then a quick visit to some old friends.

* * *

It was the first time Perry Parsen had been inside the police station. He couldn't help but think about how his mother would kill him if he ended up being charged with some sort of crime for going in that safehouse with Paige.

He sat agitated on a surprisingly comfortable bench amidst the cubicles on the first floor of the station as officers and detectives bustled by him doing whatever it is that policemen do at the office. They all looked horribly tired from what had no doubt been a very, very long night, and the activity in the room seemed almost as if everyone walked through water, especially compared to the Tribune offices. Of course, Devil's Night was no doubt the busiest night of the year for these poor souls. Parsen respected them, admired them even. Had he been born taller, stronger, faster, heavier, and more sure of himself, he very well could have become a policemen. He was always the kid who pretended to be a hard-boiled detective instead of Millenium Man or the Champion. Dark alleys, capturing murderers, figures in the night...That was the stuff of his fantasies. He found himself smiling as he looked over all the men and women nearing the end of their shifts, and he found himself yawning right along with them.

"...on file as a Spyder case for the time being, but both Rockwell and Middleton say it's not the Spyder. Tore the bank to shit though."

His ears perked as he picked up the conversation behind him. That same bank as was on Paige's police scanner.

"No shit? Not the Spyder?"

"'S'what they said. I dunno, I trust 'em, they'd know. Dunno who it was, but they left all the guys alive after kickin' the shit out of 'em. In a big pile all tied up like a big Devil's Night present for us, too. Damnedest thing."

"Fucking good samaritan, huh?"

"Yeah, real humanitarian vigilante. Still, better than having to go through all the paperwork bullshit on however many John Doe's."

"Real true, real true. Take a pile o' new inmates any day of the week over one of the Spyder's little acts of vengeance."

Parsen smiled to himself.

"Perry, let's go."

Parsen's eyes focused on the figure before him, who, despite the all too apparent fatigue and horribly frizzy hair, still hadn't lost her incomparable aura of sex appeal. Parsen swallowed hard as he came upon the impatient features of her face.

"Ar-Are we done, Miss Paige?"

"Yeah, we're done. We're not in any trouble, so don't worry. The Trib'll bill our buddy Fletcher, they always do. Let's get the fuck out of here."

Despite the nagging gorgeousness her presence commanded, Paige's voice had lost all vestiges of the sensuality it had so expertly commanded earlier in the night, and she now sounded as though she could wish for nothing more than to fall into bed...By herself. Parsen collected his jacket and camera from off the bench next to him and followed Paige towards the door, shuffling along to catch up with her.

"So what'd they ask you, Perry?"

"Nothing really. They pretty much just wanted to know how you got in there." Perry paused as she raised her eyebrows at him. "I told 'em I was just in the car the whole time until you came up to me with the cop."

"Right. So, I suppose they took the film?" Paige asked wearily as she pushed open the door and squinted into the first few rays of sunlight rolling over the city's dark facade.

"Well...They took A roll of film...." Parsen responded devilishly, trying to contain his proud smirk. Paige stopped dead in her tracks and turned quickly on her heels to face the young photographer. Her eyes darted from his smile, to his camera, back to his face, before she broke into a toothy beam of her own.

"Perry, you didn't..."

"Heh...Yep. I finished a roll at the safehouse and managed to switch it with a blank while they were walking us to the cop cars." Perry reached into his pocket as a look crossed Paige's face reminiscent of a toddler awaiting the first gift of her birthday. She clasped her hands excitedly under her chin and leaned over as Perry fished through the pocket of his coat. He finally removed a small black plastic capsule containing a roll of film and wiggled it in his fingers in front of Paige's face. She let out a high school girl's squeal and threw her arms around Perry's neck, planting a firm, noisy kiss right on his cheek.

"Perry, you are wonderful! We got the scoop on this one for sure!"

She backed away, leaving Parsen frozen, save for the slow curling of the corners of his mouth. Paige whipped out her cell phone, hitting a speed dial button and raising it to her ear.

"Ian!" she screamed at her editor-in-chief. "I'll be at the office in ten minutes. Hold page fucking one!"

* * *

"He was WHERE?!"

Sunlight poured through the huge, multi-panelled ornate window at Mayor Leo Briggs' back. Dawn had long since passed on the twentieth floor of city hall, and the skies were suprisingly clear. Briggs pinned the phone to his ear between his head and shoulder, struggling to maintain positioning of the piece of plastic around the large fold of flesh with protruded from his cocked neck. He held a small mirror in his stubby hands, frantically altering the angle at which he examined his features. It was a few minutes after eight. He hadn't gotten to bed until one o'clock the previous morning, and the short drive to his penthouse's building had unnerved him terribly what with the Spyder having escaped. He had barely been able to squeeze six hours in before having to report back to the office, and he had come in cranky. Add to it a few bad situations waiting for him upon arrival, plus the unsightly bags hanging from his lower eyelids, and his honor was well on the way to a proverbial rampage.

"Oh dear God...Nobody took any pictures, did they? Thank Jesus. Is he at home now? Sleeping? Good good. God damn it, the 'Pearl Club'? I've never even heard of such a place, what-...Oh. OH. But nobody got any pictures, right? Yes yes, I know. Ugh, I'm getting sick of this Richard, I can't deal...Stop interrupting me, damn it! I know Bobby's my younger brother, but these god damn coke binges of his are getting out of hand! I mean Jesus Christ, he's the fucking district attorney, too, I can't have this burden on my approval ratings! I'm...What the hell is that supposed to mean?! Listen to me, if the press gets a hold of this, we're through, do you hear-"

There was a knock on Briggs' large oak door.

"Hold on a second, Richard...What?!" he screamed, setting down his mirror in order to cover the mouthpiece of the phone.

"Sir," Linda squeaked meekly, poking her head into the office. "Commissioner Ross is here to see you."

"Send him in," Briggs snapped, giving Linda a start as she retreated behind the door. "Richard, I'll call you back..."

Briggs slammed the phone down angrily, vigorously trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. The doors opened again and Jeff Ross staggered in, blinking repeatedly to fight off his terrible weariness. He wore a muted _expression, ranging somewhere between annoyance and death.

"Jesus Christ, Jeffrey," Briggs spouted quickly, his face looking concerned. "You look like sh-"

"Don't," Ross slurred, jabbing an open hand towards the mayor and cocking his head away from the old man in a gesture of end-of-the-rope irritation. Briggs got the hint, quickly reigning in the dogs as Ross resumed his slow trudge to the mayor's desk. He dropped in a heap into one of the chairs, squinting into the sun which backlit his superior.

"You look like you got even less sleep than I did," Briggs said with as much sympathy as he could muster. Ross made a facial _expression which could only be described as a scowl disguised as a smile and nodded his head.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Ross said, crossing his arms in front of him to accent the indication his voice carried to hurry the meeting along.

"Mmm...Yes, Jeffrey..." Briggs began, his own voice now registering a hint of impatience, discarding any false sympathy he had just displayed. He threw the stack of newsprint in the corner of his desk at Ross. The morning's edition of the Harbour City Tribune, its front page plastered exotically with a full color picture of the interior of a very private safehouse complete with blood stains and chalk outlines, topped by thick black letters. A huge banner headline, proclaiming the night's events as simply and as eloquently as possible:

He's Baaack.

"It's a newspaper, Leo. You thought they wouldn't catch wind of this somehow? At least we kept it to ourselves until AFTER Devil's Night."

"I know, Jeffrey. That much I can deal with. What I cannot deal with is the way this article displays the ineptitude of your police force!" Briggs said, slamming his hand on the table. "This freak should've been caught by now! I told you last night we needed to catch him by now! Then this whole business at Zuleta's house, of all people, my opponent! And you STILL can't catch him! What kind of message does this send to the voters, damn it?! And apparently you people did something to piss off this Paige woman who wrote this article, because she does not have many good things to say about the operation you're running down at headquarters, and how in the name of God Almighty did they get photographs of the interior of that safehouse?!"

"Sir, there was-"

"No, I don't even want to hear it! There's no excuse for this kind of incompetency!" Briggs bellowed. Ross smiled to himself at the ironic comment. "Consider this an ultimatum, Jeffrey...That freak WILL be caught before election day."

Ross sighed.

"Well, sir, past years have shown that the crime rates subside a bit after Devil's Night, so we should be able to focus more-"

"Furthermore, Jeffrey," Briggs interrupted with conviction, now hopping down from his oversized chair and waddling towards Briggs as he spoke. "A reporter WILL be there every moment along the way, documenting every cunning, calculated move you and your men will no doubt make...Am I clear? Every second of this investigation will be covered, up until our final triumphant victory, to erase this shameful debacle that is no doubt already on the tips of everyone's tongues!"

Ross hated it when Briggs tried to speak with poise and elegance. It just made him sound all the more ridiculous. Between the utter lack of sleep, the crazy night, and now the incompetent dinosaur of a mayor breathing down his neck, Ross simply could not contain his rage anymore.

"Look, Leo!" Ross screamed, bounding up from his chair with renewed life. "I cannot take one more of your bullshit orders, alright?! Not one! There is more happening in this fucking city than what the goddamn voters think of you, and let me be frank, that opinion is shitty as hell. I realize the Spyder's dangerous, okay, and I want to see him captured as much as you do, but for fuck's sake, grow some balls, and start running the fucking city instead of letting the goddamn press run it for you! First you give one of my best detectives a queer chaperone and a booklet of cartoons just so he wouldn't say anything stupid in front of the press, and now you want me to add a reporter to our team of investigators?!"

Briggs was speechless, his eyes wide and his shoulders hunching lower and lower, causing him to visibly shrink under the weight of Ross's words.

"So that's it, Leo, alright? That's it! I agree with you on the fact that we need to re-establish our credibility, but including a reporter on the investigation?! Possibly compromising our search, our leads, our sources?! With all due respect, what the fuck, Leo? What. the. FUCK?!"

Ross stood panting, searching desperately for the logic in Briggs' orders but finding none. Briggs stood silent for a moment.

"Jeffrey," he started quietly. "We'll just pretend this never happened, alright? And all you need to worry about is that we need to have the press on our side, so I'm going to say it again: your people will take a reporter with them on their investigation...Or you're fired. How's that for balls?"

"God damn it, you really are an idiot," Ross sighed in exasperation. He looked with defeated eyes into Briggs's own, which conveyed nothing more than hints of emotion, but most noticeably dejection. Despite the mayor's stern response, Ross's words had sunken in. After a few silent moments, Jeff Ross snapped his head away from the considerably shorter mayor and made a quick break for the door, spitting out the word "fine" in agreement to the mayor's request. He traversed the rest of the mayor's office in silence, jerking the door open viciously.

"Oh, and Leo," Ross said over his shoulder just before exiting the room. "I thought you might like to know. We'll be bringing in Raymundo Zuleta for questioning about last night."

The door slammed, leaving Briggs in stunned silence, standing in the center of his empty office.

* * *

"That's right, Miss Paige. No, you can be damn sure this isn't my idea. No, the order comes directly from the mayor, and I'm gonna be honest with you, I think it sucks. But hell, now you can have that exclusive you were looking for earlier."

Middleton shook his head despairingly as he spoke into the phone, his elbows split so wide on his desk that his chin almost rested upon his datebook. He yawned.

"Yeah, I hope you got some sleep, because we're getting right back at things. Be here at three o'clock this afternoon. Yes ma'am, I know that's in an hour. Well then you better get going."

Middleton hung up the phone without even saying good-bye. He sighed, exhausted and running on barely five hours sleep now. He rubbed his face and stretched, groaning as his shoulders and elbows cracked and popped like the framework of an rickety ship which barely stayed afloat. He yawned once more.

"Aaaah shit, Rock, just like old fuckin' times, huh?" Middleton laughed deliriously as he swivelled on his chair to face the small television sitting atop a nearby file cabinet. He received an obligatory grunt of a response. He looked to his partner, who was sitting at a desk in the windowless corner reading material from several manila folders, so hunched over the paperwork that his head was blocking his own light from the small desklamp. "Rock. Take a fuckin' break, man, did you even get any sleep?"

Not even a grunt this time.

"Rock! What the fuck man, I could load groceries under your fucking eyes. And five o'clock waved bye-bye to that shadow on your chin some time ago. You need some goddamn rest. Shit, weren't you involved in two explosions last night?"

"Weren't you?" the burly investigator snorted back dryly.

"Snap at your wife, not me," Middleton replied. Rockwell's death glare from eyes framed by the darkest of black circles immediately caused the aging detective to regret the comment. They used to say it jokingly to each other all the time, back...before. It was more of instinct than anything else, but it was entirely out of line. Middleton began to apologize, but Rockwell just scoffed and turned back to the files.

"Look, man, I slept a few hours and I'm still tired as shit. My whole body aches. What're you, a machine? How can you even focus your eyes on that shit right now? I can barely see you from where I'm sitting..."

"We were looking for a reason, Mid," Rockwell responded without looking up. "We were looking for a reason for the Spyder's actions. Who he was sending his messages to. We found the guy. This all has something to do with Zuleta, it has to. It fucking has to..." Rockwell trailed off, his voice going hoarse. He cleared his throat. "We're going to kill this fucker this time."

"Whoa whoa whoa, what the fuck?" Middleton said. "We're gonna what?!"

"Catch him," Rockwell said as though he were repeating himself. He looked confused at Middleton's sudden outburst.

"That's not what you said, you said we're gonna kill him."

"No I didn't."

"Yes, you fucking did."

"Why the fuck would I say that, that's not what I said."

"Whatever."

Rockwell shook his head at Middleton and looked back to the files.

"What the fuck are you reading, anyways?" Middleton asked, still in a position facing the TV.

"Zuleta's public records. Looking for something."

"For what?"

"Any inconsistency. There's something here, I can feel it. Remember what the Spyder said, that Zuleta was not what he appeared?" Rockwell rattled off.

"C'mon, Rock, you're fishin'. The guy's gonna be our next mayor, for Chrissakes, you know how many background checks they've had to do on him?"

"Not as many as you'd think," Rockwell responded certainly.

"The Spyder just said all that shit about Zuleta to confuse the boys, get their guard down so he could escape. And it worked beautifully, didn't it? End of story. There's obviously some kind of bad blood between the two, but I don't think it's that Zuleta's something more than he lets on."

"See that's the thing...Bad blood between the two, but according to these reports Zuleta didn't even move into the city until after the Spyder was gone. Lived in Pacific City all his life...Came from a political family. Inherited a bunch of cash from an uncle who lived in Harbour, and he moved here once he got the money. He's only been on the Harbour City political scene for just over a year."

"So what? Maybe his uncle or whatever knew something about the Spyder that he told Raymundo so now the Spyder wants to put the kibosh on the nephew? Rock, honestly, the guy's a philanthropist. He funded the new museum and has donated money to about every charity in the city."

"But a year, Ron? A year? And suddenly he's running for mayor? Doesn't it seem a little quick to you?"

"Rock, stop. No, not when he did as much for this city as he has, and been as supportive of Harbour as he has. Shit, the Spyder's gettin' in your head, man. You're gettin' suspicious just because he says something? What, do you trust him now all of a sudden? Starting to think like him?"

"Don't fucking say that," Rockwell growled. "Don't fucking say that to me. I'm nothing like that bastard. Nothing."

"Yeah, I know I know. Look Rock, we'll clear up this Zuleta business in a little bit. He'll be here for questioning in under an hour, you can ask him whatever the hell you need to then."

"That Paige cunt is gonna be there?"

"Yeah, thanks to hizzonor the fuckface," Middleton snorted.

"Speaking of which, you get in touch with Foster?"

"Yeah, said he slept like a baby. He'll be at the interrogation."

"Hmph," Mitch responded indifferently. "Hey, is it just me or does that guy seem a little--?"

"No, he seems a LOT," Middleton replied with a sly smirk. For the first time in quite some time, Rockwell joined him in a smile.

"Hey look...Turn it up," Rock said suddenly, gesturing at the television. On the screen, a well-groomed man stood in front of a heavily microphoned podium, apparently giving some sort of address. At the bottom of the screen, a red graphic proclaimed the words "Terror at the Zuleta Estate", and underneath, white letters read:

Samuel Swenton - Harbour City District Representative

"Oh, you've got to be shittin' me," Middleton said as he reached for the volume. "They've got fucking Parliament involved in this shit."

"...can only give thanks that Mr. Zuleta survived this terrible atrocity, while mourning the many that didn't. However, it is important that the facts are presented clearly, so as not to cause any confusion to the public. Mr. Zuleta, or any of his associates, have never been in any way connected to the super known as Hammerhand. Hammerhand was released on a technicality from the Enhanced Criminal Prison Organization earlier this week, while legal loopholes left Parliament's hands tied. Our best assumption is that Hammerhand simply tracked the vigilante known as the Spyder to the Zuleta estate, seeking vengeance on his long-time, and newly returned, rival. As luck would have it, he intercepted the Spyder before the Spyder could carry out his own bloody crusade...The unprovoked murder of Mr. Raymundo Zuleta. It can only be assumed that such an action would be precedented by outside orders of some kind, but from whom it cannot be certain. Thankfully, as the two supers' battle raged, Mr. Zuleta's security staff was able to spirit him to safety. Again, we..."

"Holy shit," Middleton mused. "This guy's one smart bastard. He has the resident member of Parliament make a public statement on his behalf, reinforcing his innocence in this entire matter, while making subtle allusions to the fact that Briggs's people may be sending vigilantes after him."

"That sonuvabitch just accused all of City Hall of being dirty," Rockwell muttered.

"And lied through his teeth."

The deep raspy voice from the far corner of the room shocked both men, causing them to jump as they jerked their heads to the source of the statement. They froze.

Standing stoically at the opposite end of the office, a nearby window inexplicably open, was a dark figure whose violent capture was the desire of every man and woman who worked at the building in which he now so calmly stood. And none desired it more than the two men whom he addressed. He was a personification of vengeance, rendered in an ebony form of muscle and shadow. The mysterious violent ghost who once more stalked the darkened recesses of an ancient and dying city, his very presence electrifying the air, dimming even the sunlight, it seemed. The entity so feared, his name was mentioned in hushed whispers by the most despicable of civilization's cancerous outcasts. The Angel of Death, a long ways from Hell.

The Spyder.

"What the fuck?!" Middleton exclaimed, leaping from his chair as Rockwell fumbled clumsily for a gun.

"Don't."

The Spyder's arm jerked with unnatural quickness from his side, and suddenly the detectives found themselves frozen under the aim of an automatic handgun.

"What the fuck do you want?" Rockwell said, an unholy hatred seething from his every pore as the Spyder glided torwards him.

"Vengeance," the Spyder answered simply. "And the first step is to release the hidden truths of our situation. Hmmph...They have you guys working 'round the clock on me, don't they?"

The hand which was not steadily holding a gun reached into his trenchcoat while he kept his dark eyes trained on the two detectives.

"Well I'm flattered," he continued. He produced a manila envelope and tossed it onto Middleton's desk. Both detecives regarded it for a long while, but neither moved to pick it up as the Spyder held his gun still the entire time.

"Raymundo Zuleta is a fraud. His entire existence is a lie."

Middleton and Rockwell looked at him with inquisitive stares. The tension was thick, stifling, yet the Spyder remained cool. His outstretched arm had yet to quiver as he held the firearm.

"What's in the envelope?" Middleton asked slowly.

"You'll see," the Spyder replied with a sinister humor, smiling under his mask. "You'll see..."

"We can't trust you, you freak," Rockwell spat, that pulsating, visceral hatred only growing with every moment in the vigilante's presence.

"You will," the Spyder hissed confidently. "You will. And soon enough, you will see the true colors of the man you would have as your mayor."

He walked, so smoothly it could have been called floating, backwards towards the open window. He paused as he reached it, gun still pointed at the two men.

"How do you know all this about Raymundo Zuleta?" Middleton asked sternly, still standing frozen with his hands consciously exposed.

The devilish grin which grew beneath the Spyder's mask stretched so wide it was clearly discernible even through the black fabric.

"Because..." he stated softly, his raspy voice reverberating into the bones of the two detectives, despite his volume. "I am Raymundo Zuleta."