Chapter 3: Annoying Spider
Spider-Man wears a mask, yet people can always sense his expression. Right now, for instance, Wayne could feel a distinct playfulness radiating from the hero. Perhaps it was the large, expressive lenses on the mask that broadcast the Spider's feelings so clearly.
In stark contrast, Wayne's cowl projected only fear and anger. Even if the man beneath the mask were to smile, it would only strike the observer as a cruel irony. Few people ever saw a smiling Batman. Most only ever saw his disapproving glare.
Wayne said nothing. He simply reached out and calmly took his Batarang back from Spider-Man's hand.
"Hey, no 'thank you'?" Spider-Man asked, clearly unsettled by Wayne's cold demeanor. Even helping an old lady across the street usually netted him some gratitude. He had just returned the man's weapon, and he got nothing?
As he spoke, Wayne, who had already started walking away, stopped and turned around.
"What material is your webbing made of? Given its toughness and tensile strength, I assume it dissolves automatically after a short period."
As Wayne spoke, a bracelet-like device suddenly appeared in his hand.
Wayne himself was slightly surprised. The ability to take things from others without them noticing was a terrifyingly effective skill. With this technique, anyone in Gotham could be trained into a master thief.
"What?" Spider-Man froze, patting his wrist. He had never imagined a day where his web-shooter would be quietly stripped from his body.
"How did you do that?" Spider-Man asked excitedly once the shock wore off. He had never seen such sleight of hand. The web-shooter was secured inside his suit—how had it been removed?
"You were distracted," Wayne said flatly, tossing the web-shooter back to the Spider-Man, who notably sported a small potbelly.
"..."
Regarding this accusation, the current Spider-Man didn't know what to say. Time might have been a cruel butcher, and he certainly hadn't been exercising seriously, but he was fairly certain he had never been that distracted.
Wayne didn't care about Spider-Man's sudden depression. He turned and walked toward his objective. He needed supplies.
"Hey, why can't you have a normal conversation?" Seeing Wayne leave, Spider-Man hurriedly jogged after him.
"The Spider-Man of this world has just died, and yet you—a Spider-Man with a gut—have appeared." Wayne didn't even turn his head, marching forward. "I can judge that you are involved in a rather troublesome matter."
"I'm not looking to get involved."
Wayne's calm, detached tone made Spider-Man look helpless. He had never met a guy whose voice lacked any emotional fluctuation whatsoever.
"But aren't you involved now?" Spider-Man persisted, sticking to Wayne with no intention of leaving.
Wayne remained silent. He stood on the edge of a rooftop, carefully scanning the streets below. He could have completed his plan by now, had he not been interrupted by this uninvited guest. A guest who refused to leave his side.
"Hey, I knew you were a die-hard Batman fan. So, are you looking for the next criminal?" Spider-Man was indeed a talker, harassing Wayne with a constant stream of chatter.
"I hate this guy."
Thomas, the voice inside Wayne's head, naturally heard Spider-Man's rambling and found it intolerable. In his world, no one was this glib. The Spider talked in one long breath, seemingly without the need to even swallow.
Wayne didn't speak, but he agreed with Thomas. Everything about Spider-Man was fine—except for that mouth.
"You keep giving me the silent treatment. It makes me feel awkward, like I'm performing a one-man show. How about a little response?" Spider-Man suddenly swung a line of web and landed directly in front of Wayne.
Wayne reached out, shoved Spider-Man aside, and continued his work.
The biggest difference between a Bat and a Spider is that a Bat needs money. A Batman without funds can't even afford to forge Batarangs.
"You're really breaking my heart, man. And honestly, you'd be better off being a Spider-Man fan, don't you think?" Spider-Man never knew when to give up. He had his own confidence; surely everyone preferred the friendly Spider-Man to a gloomy Bat.
"You are talking about a Spider-Man with a midlife crisis, a stomach, and a suit with no shoes," Wayne said, looking the hero up and down.
Spider-Man looked down at his bare calves and his toes, which dug into the gravel of the roof in embarrassment. "It's all... a minor issue."
When he looked up again, Wayne was gone.
All that remained was a dark figure swinging toward another building with a grapple gun.
"In some ways, we're pretty similar," Spider-Man muttered with a smile.
Wayne had found his target, so he could no longer afford to pay attention to the murmuring Spider-Man.
All he had to do now was make money. And, incidentally, forge an identity for himself. Since he didn't know how long he would stay in this world, having a legal identity was optimal. It would allow him to avoid unnecessary interference from the NYPD.
As for the money, the purpose was simple: some things required cash. Like equipment.
Perhaps because Spider-Man had been confirmed dead, every criminal—big or small—had come out to cause trouble. The entirety of New York had reverted to the state it was in before Spider-Man appeared: demons dancing wildly in the streets.
The chaotic city and the dark corners were familiar to Thomas. A city in this state mirrored the Gotham he once knew. Order meant nothing to these people.
Except, the Bat would frame that chaos.
Just like the previous contraband transaction, Wayne's target was a dealer selling to the locals. These low-level pushers often carried enough cash to support Wayne's immediate activities. Furthermore, Wayne didn't intend to stop at individuals; he planned to hit their strongholds.
"This is yours."
In a dimly lit alley, a dealer held a small packet of powder, smiling down at a man who was obviously an addict.
"Thank you." The addict handed over the cash and reached for the bag.
Just as the man was about to touch the packet, the dealer yanked his hand back, keeping it out of reach.
"Hey! Hey! Hey!" The dealer wagged a finger mockingly. "Sometimes, money isn't enough to buy the goods. You need to put in a little extra effort."
"Sir, I... what can I do?" The addict was incoherent, his eyes fixed desperately on the bag.
Hearing the desperation, the dealer smiled and dangled the bag closer. "Bring your wife here. I'll give you something new that will make you both very happy."
"No... no problem."
The addict didn't care what the dealer said; he just wanted the powder. He reached out again.
The dealer nodded, satisfied. "I recorded your words. Don't forget."
"Forgot what?" A cold voice sounded from directly behind the dealer.
"What—?"
Before the dealer could react, a brutal knee strike slammed him against the brick wall. His stomach churned, and his abdomen knotted in agony; he felt as though he was about to vomit his dinner.
Wayne looked indifferently at the addict, who was now crawling on the ground, searching for the bag of powder the dealer had dropped. Wayne felt no pity for this kind of person—especially one willing to trade his family for a high.
Wayne walked up to the addict.
Just as the man found the bag and prepared to indulge in his chemical bliss, a heavy boot stepped on his head and smashed it into the pavement. Blood slowly pooled from the man's forehead.
"Son of a bitch!!"
While Wayne dealt with the junkie, the dealer, previously immobilized by pain, managed to recover. He pulled his gun without a word and fired at Wayne without hesitation.
But he missed.
A strand of spider silk snagged the hand holding the gun.
"What?" The web wrapped around his wrist confused the dealer. Isn't Spider-Man dead?
Wayne didn't care that Spider-Man had intervened. He slashed the web with a gauntlet blade and punched the dealer squarely in the gut. Already suffering from the knee strike, the dealer couldn't withstand the second blow. He spat bile and blood, his eyes filling with fear.
"Whoa!" Spider-Man landed beside them. Seeing the miserable state of the dealer and the motionless addict, he was clearly unsettled. "This doesn't quite fit the Batman persona."
"Now. I ask, you answer."
Wayne ignored Spider-Man completely. He grabbed the dealer by the collar with both hands, lifting him slightly. Every angle of the pitch-black bat mask seemed to scream a primal fear into the man's face.
Spider-Man lowered his hand helplessly.
The dealer didn't want this to continue. He nodded frantically. The masked freak in front of him was completely indifferent to the damage he was inflicting.
"Pickup address?"
"I only know the goods come from Hell's Kitchen! They notify us of the location shortly before each transaction!"
"Time of pickup?"
"In two days! I mean, tomorrow!" Even with blood in his mouth, the dealer didn't dare lie to Wayne.
"Where do you keep your cash?"
"My safe at home! The code is *****, address is 303, third floor of the apartment building two blocks over!"
Wayne let go, and the dealer slowly slid down the wall. Seeing Wayne turn away, the dealer felt a surge of relief. He had survived.
Just as he was about to exhale, Wayne spun around without warning and drove a vicious elbow into the dealer's face.
CRACK.
Blood splattered against the brick. Teeth flew through the air, catching the dim alley light.
Having done this, Wayne indifferently fished the cash from the unconscious dealer's pocket. He also found a set of car keys, which he accepted as a bonus.
"Are you really a die-hard Batman fan? Why do I think you're more like the Punisher?"
Looking at the carnage, Spider-Man couldn't see any of Batman's style. He checked the addict on the ground—severe concussion. If it was worse, he could be in a vegetative state. As for the dealer who took the elbow to the face? Spider-Man guaranteed that guy was going to the ICU, if he survived at all.
However, Thomas, inside Wayne's mind, had a different complaint.
He wasn't condemning Wayne for being too harsh; he felt Wayne was being too soft.
If Thomas were the one in control, neither of these two men would be breathing. They would both be in hell, reporting to Satan.
"I think you're a little too gentle," Thomas said, his tone dripping with disdain.
"Forgive me. I cannot take a life directly without a psychological burden," Wayne replied flatly to the voice in his head. "This is the maximum harm I can inflict right now."
Thomas said nothing more. He knew it would be difficult to force Wayne to become like him overnight. He retreated into the recesses of the mind.
Wayne walked toward the parking lot, pressed the unlock button on the keys, and the lights of a Ford pickup flashed.
"It's a nice car. I like it," Spider-Man's annoying voice rang out again.
(End of Chapter)
Batman or Spiderman?