The ice cubes rattled in the glass.

Eric Townsend gripped his right wrist firmly, settling the shakes and silencing the ice. In spite of himself, he downed the rest of the whiskey in one full gulp.

He sucked in a quick bit of air through clenched teeth and reached for the support of the marble railing as he finished his nervous climb up the winding staircase. The light switch clicked audibly as he nudged it down. Darkness spread over him like a cancer.

He shuddered, not knowing if it was really the booze which caused him to tremor so. God knew he had had enough whiskey over the course of the evening. It was probably just the booze.

But his goosebumps told him differently. The icy ball congealing in his gut told him differently. He tapped at the keypad of his ten thousand dollar security system and quickly shuffled away before the red light had even blinked on and the three beeps had sounded. His breaths quickened in their succession, in time with his feet.

He found his eyes darting over the white marble railing and toward the expansive foyer which the upstairs hallway overlooked. Several pinpoints of red light suddenly pierced the darkness as the security system hummed to life, but for some reason these motion sensors did not reassure Eric. They did not reassure him that his home was safe.

His pace quickened and his eyes slipped away from the emptiness of the hollow, black foyer. Held firmly in his hand, the whiskey glass felt cold. Lifeless. The ice cubes were rattling again.

He jumped as his bedroom door slammed, a yelp catching in his throat. He hadn't thought he shoved it so damn hard. The thick oak was rigid and spiteful against his spine as he fell back against it, listening intently for a long moment as the door's boom echoed throughout the house's cavernous hallways. The echo dissipated, and soon Eric's ears could find no trace of life within the darkness. Save for his own throaty breaths. He ran his fingers over the slime of sweat which coated his brow, pushing the perspiration back into the curls of the sandy blonde mop atop his head. Despite an earlier resolve to attempt slumber without the assistance of inebriation, he now cursed himself for leaving the bottle of whiskey downstairs. His nerves were frayed. The ice began rattling yet again. He hunched forward wearily, stretching to place the glass down on his bedside bureau. Soft thunder rolled through the bedroom as the glass settled upon the dark oak surface. Eric felt the sound reverberate through his innards.

"Jesus."

The sweat rolled newly down his forehead. He wiped again, but to no avail. The clammy dew simply renewed itself, colder every time. The shadows were alive in Eric's bedroom. Just as they had been for the past three nights.

For some strange reason he stopped himself from reaching for the nearby light switch. Briefly, he faltered, simply standing and inhaling the shadows, wondering what impulse had stayed his hand, before the drop of sweat which pooled then fell from the tip of his nose reminded him of why he could not sleep. The fear assaulted him and he dashed forward, trying to outrun it. His footfalls were muted in the darkness, absorbed by the plush carpeting as Eric hurried toward the mammoth window.

He felt eyes upon him. Something hiding within the darkness, within the cavernous house in which he slept all alone. The huge window shrank then as his senses went frantic, and the curtains, the sole thin barriers between him and salvation from the black abyss, seemed to rush away from him. He lunged for them, swearing something cold and hungry nipped at his heels as he did so.

With a gasp, he threw the drapes wide, spilling icy moonlight over the room like pale translucent ink, staining both his bedsheets and walls in the crisp rectangular shape of the floor-to-ceiling windows. His silhouette cut darkly through the bone-colored luminance as he took shuddering pause in front of the wide pane of glass. Behind him, the Baroque stylings of his bedroom lay naked, exposed by the furtive moonlight. A chill ran through him, bubbling under his dimpled skin.

The uncontrollable tremors threatened to take hold again, and he tried desperately to focus on something other than the nightmares clawing at the boundaries of his subconscious.

Outside, the night looked to be biting.

His lawn stretched out behind the house for over an acre, its boundaries dictated by small burms which teemed with trees and shrubbery, their branches stripped half-bare by the fast-approaching autumn. The foliage swayed in a hypnotic rhythm, fluttering in the icy breeze under the leer of a pregnant moon. So full and bright, the moon. Like a pallid, ghostly celestial oculus. Some sort of omniscient eye.

The image of Nostromo's wide, dead eyes exploded in Eric's head.

He choked upon his gasp, falling away from the window as though his face had just been sledgehammered. Cold, empty, lifeless eyes. Staring from a face divorced of body. The images slashed mercilessly through Doctor Eric Townsend's exhausted mind.

The head. Just lying there. Lying there. The body laid out on an adjacent table.

The gunshot victim, he was able to deal with. True, the young photographer from the Harbour City Tribune could not have been more than twenty-five years old, and his face refused to come unfrozen from that ghastly twist of fear, the skin stretched tight around chiseled bone. His eyes, so wide, were clouded with congealing blood and a hidden sadness, like the hint of a deep-seated realization which had just begun to take hold. And the back of his head was missing.

Eric Townsend could handle that. He was trained to handle that.

But he had never seen a severed head. A severed head that was still warm, still leaking, still staring. A severed head with such bizarre facial anatomy. A severed head with veritable fangs sticking out of its mouth.

Eric's fingers dug harshly into his triceps as he pulled his arms tight around his abdomen. He never told the authorities about what happened. He scarcely believed it himself.

On the other side of the window pane, the sickly moon laughed at him and the chill air taunted him, daring him to remember. He tasted vomit and his mind folded back through time. It happened all over again.

The walls of the hospital lab seemed to fade into a static gray, framing the macabre setting in darkness and isolating him somewhere within a nameless void with the two murdered cadavers and the stringent aroma of antiseptic. Eric remembered glancing at the clock, for the purpose of records. 2:00 am. The detective - 'Middleton,' if Eric remembered correctly - had wanted an immediate autopsy on the two men, despite not actually sticking around for the results. Only Eric, the surgeon on call for the night, was expected to do that. He remembered the knife. The scalpel, gleaming under the invasive overhead spotlight. And the apprehension. The breaths that felt hot and moist inside the surgical mask. He had caught a quick glimpse of his unfamiliar reflection in the blade, adorned with his antibacterial garb. So sterile.

He approached the table, brandishing the knife in front of him in a subconscious attempt at intimidation. Intimidation of the dead.

That damned head was still staring. As though it were watching him. Or perhaps just returning his gaze, as he sure as hell was watching it the whole time. Every step. Even as he searched with his fingers for the appropriate origin of the first incision on the young photographer's body, his eyes were locked on the grimace of the disembodied head. Locked with the dead eyes of Guillermo del Nostromo. A quick glance confirmed the appropriate position for incision, but it was only a glance. He could not look away from the dead eyes. He paused. With another sigh, the shimmering knife slid through supple flesh, beginning the procedure.

And on the next table over, Guillermo del Nostromo just kept staring.

Eric sighed then, somewhat relieved. No blinks or growls, no furious jerks and rolls, no reaction of any sort from the head. It was dead...Just as dead as the young photographer. The tension had been broken.

Relieved, Eric slid the knife the rest of the way through Parsen's gullet in one clean motion, almost laughing to himself as he did so. He paused with a sigh, shook the inappropriate giggles from his body with one last quick glance at the head, and peeled the dissected flesh back daintily.

With the squeal of a rabid banshee, a multitude of what appeared to be black maggots exploded from within the folds of the dead boy's intestines, staining the tables, walls, and Doctor Eric Townsend's face with the gelatinous obsidian remnants of their chaotic, wriggling presence. They were like flecks of hyperactive pulsating shadow, bouncing around the unsuspecting room like ravenous locusts. They darted in haphazard patterns like lost and bewildered animals, before coming to a collective pause and then suddenly bursting out into every darkened corner of the lab, trailing pathways of blackness and a discordant symphony of soft suckling noises.

Doctor Eric Townsend was trained to handle gunshot wounds to the head. But nothing could have prepared him for that.

He was paralyzed. Staring at Parsen's innards, forgetting he had to breathe, and covered in some sort of ungodly slime, he listened as the suckling faded and he was left alone with the dead bodies, frozen in the complete silence of a sickening tableau. Somehow, the creatures had vanished. He did the only thing that felt natural. He vomited all over the waxed hospital floor.

It would be half an hour before a trembling, sobbing Eric would return to the operating room after staggering into the hallway, gasping against a fear-clotted windpipe. And for the next three days, he had barely stopped shaking.

Eric blinked, driving the vision away and feeling a tear turn cold upon his cheek. He reeled and stumbled desperately for the bedside, dropping to his knees and snatching the whiskey glass with both hands. He shoved it to his mouth, drinking down the small bit of melted ice at the bottom. He tapped at the base of the glass, coaxing out every last drop. Not even a hint of whiskey. Frustrated and scared, he threw the glass off into the darkness of the corner of the room and scrambled into his bed, pulling the silk sheets tight around his fetal body. There would be no solace.

So many bodies. Even before the 'Drainers' began, he had seen a steady stream of bodies emerge from Harbour City's shadowed alleys.

But never before had the shadows themselves assaulted him.

"I've gotta get out of that hospital," he whispered to himself. "Out of this fucking city."

Eric was shaking again, but he no longer had the strength of mind to care. Murdered bodies flashed randomly across his psyche as his eyes glazed over. The milk of the moonlight had seeped into the ceiling, and the gangly, twisted limbs of the barren trees directly outside his house threw skipping shadows across the room. Skipping and skidding and moving with a life of their own.

The living shadows. He had seen them dancing upon the lawn the past few nights through the haze of alcohol and memory, thrown across the short grass by the crisp moonlight. Darting between the foamy, lapping waves of the sparkling midnight ocean, around the sparse streetlights of the affluent neighborhood, and through the sprawling landscapes of Harbour City's most expensive properties. The old houses sat upon the rolling green hills like fat geriatrics, content with their view of the Pacific Ocean and too bloated and oblivious to take note of the faint glimpses they were afforded as the shadows invaded. But Eric Townsend had noticed. In his torturous insomnia, he had seen the shadows dance ever closer to his home. So dangerously close.

They were coming for him.

Eric gulped. He shut his eyes tight. Given the choice between the shadows which crawled across his ceiling and the torture of his nightmares, Eric knew his decision. He was content enough to let the nightmares take hold and hope for morning. Content with a restless slumber.

The soft squeal of a diamond across glass snapped him instantly awake.

On his ceiling, the shadows leered down at him in the distinct shape of a man.

"Oh Jesus, oh Christ," Eric gasped, finding himself suddenly unable to move.

With the soft clank of glass tapping glass, the silhouette shifted, apparently moving something circular and transparent out of Eric's field of vision. Its hand then moved forward. Eric heard the click of the window lock.

"Oh shit," he hissed to himself, feeling the clammy sweat turn swelteringly hot under the blanket and sheets as his face flushed red. He rolled over ever so slightly along the silk sheets with a feigned grogginess, utterly stupefied. They were coming for him.

He heard the window slide open at his back.

The word "no" rolled over in his mind.

"No no no no no no."

He bit his lower lip, feeling the sting of his teeth and the slight trickle of blood, reminiscent of the warm mingling of sweat and tears which beaded upon his cheeks.

There was a gun in his bureau drawer. The thought dawned on him with the clarity and force of some divine epiphany. A small revolver which he had forgotten the name of. Loaded if he remembered correctly. He prayed he remembered correctly.

Nearly silent feet touched down upon his carpet.

Time was up.

He closed his eyes, said a silent prayer, and lunged for the dresser drawer.

There was a flurry of movement and something let fly an ear-splitting shriek. Eric Townsend would later realize that the horrible scream had come from him.

A jackhammer pounded the surgeon's head, which reared and carried his body with it. Blood flew from between his lips as his ribs were struck viciously thrice, one rib cracking clean in half in the midst of it all. His face went numb as a violent hack cut the skin open on his cheekbone. Something locked firmly around his wrist...And broke it without pause. He was on the ground without having been given the time to even realize he had fallen out of his bed. His eyes were squeezed shut and the pain consumed him, igniting his every nerve. Paralyzing him. He could honestly move only half his body but for the surges of debilitating pain.

"What the fuck is this?!"

The voice sounded inhuman. Like the bark of a starved dog, lashing out at all that might stumble into the radius of its leash. Passionate yet devoid of any sympathy. Murderous.

"Look at me, god damn it!"

Not a bark this time. A roar.

Eric's eyes peeled back, spilling tears down his bloodied face. He found himself staring down the barrel of a Glock 18 handgun. His scream caught in his throat as the gun was pressured into his eye socket, pushing him firmly against the plush cream carpet, which he stained with his own blood. He whimpered loudly as the room beyond the gun slowly faded into view. Then the man beyond the gun.

The Spyder.

Wearing the face of death. There was no trenchcoat, no hat, no precepts of ghost-like grace. He was seething and growling, his every muscle taught and tense, his eyes crazed, stripped naked to the core of his emotion.

"What the fuck is this?"

The Spyder shot his free hand forward. In it was grasped another gun, much smaller than his Glock. A small 9 mm, pulled from the bedside bureau.

Townsend struggled, but the Spyder leaned forward, his forehead almost touching the young surgeon's.

"Were you going to use this?" the Spyder began in ragged, disjointed breaths, struggling to keep himself in check. He winced then, and jerked with some kind of pain that seemed to emanate from his shoulder. His control vanished. "Did you fucking think you were going to use this on me, you fuck?!"

"No!" Eric gasped. "Jesus, no, no no! Please, God, no..."

The Spyder chucked the gun away angrily, rearing back from Eric's trembling face.

"Poole Gardens. Richest suburb in the metro area," the vigilante wheezed in his grating, haggard voice. "Took three nights of watching and waiting for me to get in here, completely undetected. Now it's just you and me, Doctor, and nobody knows I'm here. Rather sad security for such a place."

The Spyder relaxed the hand which held the gun, leaving a light impression around Eric's left eye in the wake of the barrel.

"Don't kill me, please. I didn't do anything. I don't -"

"Doctor Townsend," the Spyder said, cutting short Eric's pleads. "You will do exactly what I tell you. Understood?"

Eric nodded vigorously, still lying prone upon the floor.

"Do you have the materials necessary in this house to disinfect and stitch lacerations and splint broken bones?" the Spyder rasped. "And don't you dare lie to me."

Eric nodded again, feeling the hot tears on his cheeks.

"Good," the vigilante hissed, holstering his Glock. "Then let's make this quick."

...comeintomyparlor...

Artifice Comics Presents
The Spyder: Manhunt #1
"Reluctant Devils"
By Bill Castonzo

...comeintomyparlor...

The wind was cold and unforgiving, snaking its way through the city with purposeless malice, scraping against brick and flesh alike. The dark night had given way to an unseasonably bitter morning, perhaps an echo of the city's collective temperament as the eventful summer drew to a close. For Harbour City's coastal neighbor to the south, the summer had brought inconceivable changes. And for most of the denizens of Australia's gothic seaport, their resultant proximity to Romanov did well to precipitate an icy, ominous fear.

But Harbour City had its own devil. In the city's own twisted way, it too was lorded over by a kind of dark god. A ghoulish tyrant who fancied himself above the laws and machinations of men. Save for those he might deem sinners.

"What happened then?"

The Spyder had been busy in the early hours of the bitter morning, after lying dormant for several days.

For those hunting the vigilante, the return was bittersweet. They had little hope of tracking down the almost supernaturally resourceful Spyder while he was in hiding. They had nowhere to begin and his knack for vanishing without a trace was frustrating to the police, to say the least. His resurfacing meant he was active and still in the city. It gave them a place to start, however flimsy. But his next move was still dangerously unpredictable.

"After he stopped the car? Well, we were maybe two or three miles west of Poole Gardens, near Forest Ridge. He just told me to get out."

"Did you?"

"Of course. He told me to go home and call the police, and that my car would be found sometime later, unharmed."

Detective Ron Middleton tightened his lips into an odd expression that was equal parts amused smile and angry scowl. His bushy eyebrows settled low over his tired eyes. He recalled the multiple descriptions he had heard upon arriving at work that morning of the BMW coupe parked brazenly across two lanes of traffic directly in front of the police station, surrounded by six flares, found at around 3 a.m.

"Did he say anything else to you?" Middleton sighed.

"'Thank you'."

"I beg your pardon?"

"He looked me right in the eye, said 'thank you', and drove off."

Middleton cocked an incredulous eyebrow, studying the other man's somber face. With a soft shake of his head, he trained his eyes on his notebook, trying to make sense of the story.

"Why didn't you try to defend yourself? Fight back?"

The other man raised his arm, displaying the soft cast which enveloped his wrist and thumb.

"And my broken rib's killing me as well," Eric Townsend replied softly, if not with some indignance. "I told you, he had a gun on me the whole time. I was stitching him up, and he refused anesthetic. He just stared at me, wincing every so often as I pulled the thread through, aiming his gun at my chest. It was unreal."

Middleton rubbed hard at his chin, the leathery brown skin buckling and folding with each pass of his rough hand. The salt and pepper stubble, thick enough to almost be called a beard, tickled his fingers.

"Let me level with you, doctor," Middleton said, his eyes rolling about the room for a moment before locking with Townsend's. The young surgeon shifted uncomfortably under the gaze, sensing a familiar passion behind the detective's world-weary exterior. Something frightening. "I'm really not buying what you're selling me here. This is the second time in four days that you and I have met under less-than-pleasant circumstances. The second time we've had to speak about the Spyder. I just sure as hell hope there's not something that you're not telling me."

Middleton leaned forward, his eyes darkening with accusation.

Somewhere in time, gelatinous shadows exploded over Eric Townsend.

"N-no, sir, detective," Townsend murmured, his whisper falling into dejection. "I've nothing to hide."

His eyes betrayed him.

Ron Middleton harshly cleared his throat, keeping his lips tight as his breaths flowed audibly through his nostrils. He delicately folded his hands upon the desk and his tone grew low, almost feral.

"I want the fucking Spyder, Townsend," Middleton growled. "You hear me? I want him real fucking bad. I want him bloody, beaten, and broken. And I will bring you down just as god damn hard if I find out you're so much as holding your breath at his suggestion. I don't care how fuckin' rich you are or how many fuckin' lives you've saved, if you're working with the Spyder in ANY way, there's two places I will guarantee you right now that I will see you in: Hell and prison. Do you get me, son?"

The young doctor bit his lower lip and nodded.

"Good," Middleton said with a huff, reclining in his seat. "Then the lady at the front desk will help you finish up your paperwork. Get out of here."

Eric rose hesitantly from the desk, not wishing to look Middleton in the eye, but not wanting to turn away either. He desperately wanted to fall to his knees and plead with the detective for police protection, a place to hide, a fucking army battalion outside his house. He wanted to cry out that he had nothing to do with the Spyder, that he had seen a young man's intestines burst open with a horde of demonic insects, that he was a victim of his own unrestrained terror. Instead, he simply extended his good hand forward, looking for a reassuring handshake. Middleton scoffed at it.

"Just get the hell out of here."

Eric turned away quickly, clutching his overcoat close to his body and cringing at the pain in his ribs. His every bone quivered as he contemplated the uncertainty of returning, unprotected, to the palatial home which was so easily penetrated earlier that night. He had sought solace, some sort of reassurance from the police, but instead found only thinly veiled accusations and threats. Nothing had been solved for him, and somewhere beyond the daylight, the hungry blackness still impatiently awaited him. But how was that different than any other day in Harbour City? An all too familiar chill ran through Eric Townsend's body as the elevator doors opened and he shuffled inside.

"So what do you think?"

Middleton looked up from his desk. Commissioner Jeff Ross stood hunched in the doorway, his auburn hair horribly mussed and the dark circles of his eyes rivaling Middleton's own.

"Jesus, man, you look terrible."

"Ha!" Ross retorted with a tired grin. "You obviously don't have room for a mirror in this disaster of an office."

Middleton glanced for what struck him as the first time over the thick stacks of dossiers and haphazard arrays of newspaper clippings and police reports, both in files and otherwise, strewn about his desk and floor. The detective's eyes widened in honest surprise. It seemed Ross's assessment of the office wasn't too far from literal. But Middleton did not exactly have the taste for meticulous neatness lately, in either his professional or personal lives. There were far more important things to occupy his time.

"Hm," Middleton remarked, affording the matter no further discussion. Ross studied his detective inquisitively as he sauntered further into the black man's cluttered office.

"What do you make of this morning's events?"

"The Spyder," Middleton said after a moment, only half-addressing Ross' question. "The god damn Spyder."

"So I've been told," the commissioner replied, dropping into the seat recently occupied by Townsend. He looked to Middleton with narrow, tired eyes. "That seems to be the only thing I hear about around here lately, though God forbid we actually come up with something more solid than stories and speculation. Our doctor friend have anything interesting to say to you, or just the same old bullshit about a ghost in the night?"

"Same old bullshit," Middleton growled into his paperwork, not caring to converse with his apparently chatty superior, and annoyed at Ross's flippant manner.

"The goddamn Spyder." Ross repeated Middleton's words as he craned his neck in an exaggerated stretch. He squeezed his eyes shut, giving them a brief respite from the glaring lights of fluorescent fixtures and the crisp morning sun. "I've been catching heat for this, Ron. Past few days, since Nostromo died, I've been catching all kinds of heat."

"I'm sure," Middleton muttered indifferently as he sifted through a stack of files some three feet high next to his desk. He pulled a thick dossier out of the mess and threw it carelessly on his desk. Middleton was not interested in idle banter. If that was the purpose for Ross's visit, the detective would find a more useful focus for his attentions. It wasn't as though there was time to be wasted.

"The papers, the TV stations...Hell, I've got correspondents from morning radio shows showing up at the front door," Ross continued, rubbing his eyes. Middleton mouthed his "uh-huhs" but stayed within his work. "I hear the Italians have been chewing up the phone lines at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Governor's office. Briggs hasn't been down here to the station yet, but it'll happen soon enough. He just approved a fat budget increase, and effective tonight, we're tripling the number of active officers on the streets after nine...Supplementing them with airships. I don't even wanna know the kind of backlash this is gonna bring. There's a shitstorm in the works, Ron. A big goddamn shitstorm, and we're right in the middle of it."

A moment passed.

"Uh huh."

Ross cocked an eyebrow and deliberately shifted forward. Middleton did not look up.

"Middleton, are you even listening to me?"

The detective drew in a throaty sigh, clenching his teeth for a brief moment.

"Look, Commissioner Ross, with all due respect," Middleton began, peering out from under a furrowed brow. "I'm trying to fucking work here."

"Is that right?" Ross snapped, rising from his chair. His collected demeanor disappeared, revealing feelings which had been stirring below the surface for months. He slammed his hands down upon the desktop, leaning in close to the detective. "Just what the hell are you working on, Ron? You're reading a goddamn file that's probably almost ten years old by now...and that you've probably read about ten times before. Shit, Ron, how long has it been since you've slept? Two or three days? You're a wreck, man, and if you can't see that, you're an idiot too. What good is any of this doing you?"

No reply. Middleton was frozen behind the desk.

"What're you gonna find in there? Some kind of hidden pattern? Are you waiting on a goddamn epiphany to hit you? Maybe if you look hard enough, the letters will rearrange themselves into some kind of hidden message. Fuck, it's about the best you could hope for right now! We're chasing a ghost, Ron!" Ross threw his hands violently across Middleton's desk, scattering the papers to the air and floor. "Listen to me, damn you! Don't you realize that this is pointless!? We're chasing a fucking ghost!"

"You tell that to the fucking people whose lives this motherfucker has ruined!" Middleton exclaimed. His chair clattered to the ground as he sprung to his feet, shoving Ross hard with both hands. A finger jabbed accusingly at the staggering commissioner. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Ross? Don't you dare come in here and tell me this is pointless! You fucking tell that to the families of the people he's killed! Tell all those people whose lives he's ruined how pointless it is to track his ass down! 'The fuck is wrong with you, man?"

"What about your life, Ron?!" Ross shouted, refusing to relent. "I know you're doing this for Mitch, god damn it. I know what he's gone through on account of the Spyder, and I know how close you are to him. I respect that, I know how messed up his life is. But what about your life, Ron?!"

"This IS my life, god damn it!" Middleton screamed. "This isn't about Mitch, you presumptuous fuck! You don't know shit about this whole thing, so just shut up! Let me do my goddamn job. And save your sympathy for someone else, someone like you who doesn't have the stones to deal with this shit. I don't fucking need it right now."

Ross opened his mouth to counter but could summon no voice. Middleton waited impatiently to scream his response, but he too fell mute as Ross faltered. Both men were left seething in an awkward silence that was broken only by their own haggard breaths.

"Ron..." the commissioner began in a low tone, struggling for composure. "We're on the same team, man. I'm only trying to help you."

Middleton's eyes remained hard, darting downward and over the obsessive collection of paperwork which coated his office, then back to Ross.

"I'm just trying to help you, Ron," Ross repeated, settling a hand on Middleton's shoulder. The detective pulled away with a sneer, causing Ross's anger to flare once more. "I don't want to see you killed, man! I don't want to see any cops killed on my watch. This Nostromo business has been bad enough. And I know you're shaken up about what happened with Maggie Pierce but you can't let it make you like this! You're on the edge...Too close to the edge."

"I'm fine," Middleton whispered harshly, more to himself than to Ross.

"You're pushing yourself too hard," Ross snapped back. But Middleton's scowl told Ross how little his words actually meant to the detective. And it scared him. "Christ, Ron, the Spyder's killed cops before. Think about that. He cut off Nostromo's fucking head. Two years ago he killed fifteen of our boys in a single night. You know all this."

For the briefest of instants, Middleton saw the Grim Knight's glove slicing fatally through a pouring rain, trailing warm, thick blood. The black cape whipped crisply in the night winds. Through the tempest, Raymundo Zuleta's bloody face sneered in wild glee as the bodies of police officers fell all around him.

"No, it wasn't-" Middleton caught himself too late.

"What?"

"Nothing," Middleton said quickly yet quietly, shaking his head rather unconvincingly. "Forget it. Just go on. So, the Spyder killed our boys. And it's dangerous for me..."

Ross studied his obviously shaken subordinate for a moment as Middleton waited for the story to continue. Ross's eyes turned quizzical.

"Ron? Do you know something you're not telling me?"

"No," Middleton replied, almost before the question was finished. Mustering his calm, he breathed deeply and looked Ross directly in the eye. "No. It's not important."

Ross was unconvinced. He stepped back a bit, studying the detective with a solemn, inquisitive stare.

"Why do I get the feeling..." Ross said, pausing a bit to ensure he commanded all of Middleton's attention. "That everything concerning the Spyder has moved completely out of my control."

With one last glare, the commissioner of police walked briskly to the office door, opened it, and let it squeak closed behind him as he disappeared down the hall.

Between the numerous towers of paper, Ron Middleton was left completely alone.

* * *

"Hi Daddy."

The night was crisp and cold again, and the swollen moon still poured its muted luminance through any windows which might accept it, the last refuse from the shadows. On Harbour's far south side, its pale rays settled softly upon the smooth, round cheeks of a five-year-old girl, peeking through branches and passing a small painted glass sun ornamentation, obviously a child's craft, to do so.

The room hummed with the verve of mechanical precision, a contrast to the inviting pastels and cute kangaroo paintings which adorned the walls. Alongside the child's small bed, clear tubes traced a path from a two-foot square machine to a transparent clear mask which caught the moonlight just inside the girl's cheeks, around her nose and mouth. Under the mask, her lips and nostrils opened and closed subtly and slowly, drawing in medicated breath from the machine. She smiled as the auburn-haired man crept into her bedroom.

"Hey Honey."

Jeff Ross stooped next to the bedside, setting a tender hand on his daughter's chest.

"How're you feelin', Pook?"

"I'm sleepy, I think."

"You think, huh?" Ross smiled. "How's your chest? Mommy said you had another of your attacks."

"Yeah. I think I'm okay now though. Just sleepy."

"Alright, honey, I just wanted to come in to see how you're doin' and say 'night', okay?"

"Did you catch a lot of bad guys today, Daddy?"

Ross's lips pursed and his eyebrows drooped as he looked lovingly at his daughter.

"A whole bunch, Pook. Caught a whole bunch of bad guys."

"That's what Mommy said," the little girl smiled as her eyes began to slide closed. "I just wanted to make sure."

"Alright. Get some sleep, honey, and you'll be all better tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay, Daddy. I love you."

"I love you too, Pookie," Ross said as he leaned in softly to his daughter's outstretched arms, feeling her small fingers wrap around his shoulders and a sudden sadness wash over him. He let his lips linger atop her head for a moment, nestled in the thin mop of auburn hair identical to his own, before pulling away. "Good night."

Ross backed away a few steps, then paused and watched as his daughter's eyelids fell blissfully over her striking green eyes. He stood statuesque for a long moment, watching as her chest heaved in time with the machinery at her bedside.

"Is Coley gonna be okay?"

Ross turned toward the doorway, where his wife stood against the frame holding the hand of his younger daughter, who in turn gripped the paw of her overstuffed teddy bear. He smiled, scooping the smaller girl with the silken brown hair into his arms and giving her a soft peck on the cheek. She smiled but her eyes remained entranced on her sleeping sister.

"She'll be fine, Cupie," Ross smiled as his wife slipped her hands around his waist from behind. "Her asthma got bad again, but Mommy was able to give her her medicine in time, so she should be okay. But that's why you need to tell us if Nicole ever starts breathing funny, right?"

"Mmhmm," the girl murmured, firmly nodding her head. Her father smiled, again pecking her cheek.

"Angela, why don't you go give your sister a kiss goodnight, okay?"

"'Kay Mommy," the young girl replied as Ross gently set her down on the floor. He felt his wife's grip tighten around his waist, sinking a bit into the paunch he had been slowly nurturing during the past stressful months. If she did mind, she never mentioned it. He craned his neck backward and felt her face nuzzle upon his back, her breaths turning warm against his shirt. He smelled the perfume mingling with the scent of shampoo rising from her dark curls and tried desperately to lose himself in it.

"How bad was it, Rachel?" he asked softly, not really wanting to know. Across the room, Angela held the snout of her bear against Nicole's cheek and made a loud puckering sound.

"Not as bad as last time, but I caught it early," Rachel Ross whispered, her lips caressing her husband's back as she spoke.

"Jesus, we can't keep this up," Jeff sighed.

"I can handle the girls. Nicole's okay. You just worry about what you need to worry about."

"Rachel...The minute a job opens up in another city, we're out of here. Out of Harbour forever."

"To where, though, Jeff?" Rachel replied tenderly. "Pacific City and their new mayor? Lorrington and their gangs? All the morning shows say the weirdness with the science beings is even spilling over into Cottered. The whole country's a little crazy right now."

"I just can't take this anymore. I can't take this city. I...I can't." He trailed off, suddenly very aware of the vulnerability he so blatantly displayed.

"Why would it be any different anywhere else?"

Ross considered this for a long moment, his eyes glazing over as he stared at the ceiling.

"The world's not supposed to be this way," he whispered, almost inaudibly.

He felt Rachel's strong arms hold him tighter, but she could say nothing to his lament. She had heard the hopeless monotone in his voice before. She had been hearing it more and more. It brought silent tears to her eyes.

He took her fingers in his, gently rocking back and forth, feeling her body against his as he moved and hoping her touch could bring him peace. He watched as Angela whispered something to her sleeping sister before setting her bear down gently on the bed.

"Y'know, they've had pictures of the Spyder up all over television," Rachel said, trying to inject some hope into her voice. "All kinds of names or aliases too...Steffens, Stockholm, Peters, Denmon. Some Hispanic names. I mean, the people on Morning View said that with all this publicity and with the money Mayor Briggs just granted to the police department, it's only a matter of time before you catch him." She paused nervously. "Please tell me they're right, Jeff...Won't all this insanity with the Spyder at least be over soon?"

"Honey," Ross said gravely, wishing his wife hadn't even asked. He almost didn't bring himself to answer. "I have a feeling this is just the beginning."

* * *

"Sir, we received a record amount of mail this morning concerning..."

"...Haven't been able to get through to city hall..."

"The police department's lines have been busy since..."

"...reports of unrest in the union."

Ian Thorpe cringed out of pure reflex for the countless time that hour, but further consideration of that last statement gave him an intrigued pause. He glanced up from under furrowed eyebrows and smirked.

"Union troubles, you say?"

The woman stepped further into her editor-in-chief's office, letting the door slip behind her.

"Yes, sir," she replied eagerly, encouraged by Thorpe's relatively positive response. Such a thing seemed to be becoming an increasingly scarce commodity at the Tribune offices. "My source in the officers' union says they're pretty worked up about the commissioner's night hours mandate. But apparently Ross's office is pretty intent on moving along with the whole thing. And now, what with the public getting vocal about the overbearing police presence...There's pressure coming from all sides with the situation. Nobody seems happy with what everyone else is doing. Problems are brewing."

"Interesting," Thorpe smiled lecherously. He reclined in his chair as his seasoned journalist's brain began to churn. He meditated briefly on the matter with a soft stroking of his well-defined jaw. "Well, it's something...But it's really not much. Not yet anyways. Still, sure as hell better for my front page than more Pacific City nonsense. What do you think you can get me, Sue?"

"Not sure," the reporter answered meekly, shying away a bit for fear of provoking Thorpe's recently short temper. "I'll have to talk to my source again...Possibly some interviews, I mean the unions are always pretty open to bitching to the public. But as far as an argument from the brass...I just don't know."

"Yeah, so I've been hearing all day long. Nobody who matters in this bloody city wants to talk about this nice little siege that Ross and his boys have so casually slipped under our noses..." Thorpe snorted. The promise of a story seemed to quickly fade. "Still, as much as the police department likes to shit on us, I won't let the Tribune be a sounding board for the damn unions either. Come back when you've got something more solid for me." Thorpe waved her off with a dismissive huff and turned his attention back to his paperwork. Nervously, Sue Cramden lingered near the doorway.

"Mister Thorpe, you know the media restrictions make it difficult..."

Thorpe's clenched teeth appeared in an annoyed cringe as Sue spoke again.

"Paige could get it done!" Thorpe snapped, catching the reporter off guard. She stood with wide eyes and open mouth, as though she wanted to defend herself but just could not muster an argument. Thorpe pursed his lips, studying the crow's feet at the corners of Sue's eyes and the neatly pressed turquoise skirt suit which hugged her squat, doughy frame. The older man suddenly found himself rather nostalgic for Amie Paige's presence in his office, if not for her stories.

"Of course, sir," Sue finally squeaked before shuffling out of the office. Thorpe felt a pang of guilt as he watched the door close. He certainly had been a bastard lately, but what was even worse, it had come so naturally that he almost failed to realize it. His nerves were simply frayed of late.

He sighed wearily, reclining in his chair. Paige. The stack of paperwork from Darrell Fletcher concerning the recent lawsuit brought against Thorpe's star reporter was thick to say the least. Detailed testimonies of the alleged events behind the charges that she had sexually harassed her way into the Spyder's safehouse. Fletcher had given his assurance that the suit wouldn't hold up in court, which Thorpe believed based on Fletcher's record with the Tribune's extensive list of supposed transgressions. The newspaper had nary paid a dime over the years. Yet Thorpe was no fool, and he knew how valid the lawsuit was. It didn't take an idiot to realize the nature Paige's preternaturally effective methods of persuasion, regardless of whether or not she actually ever discussed them with her peers. The tabloids documented it all rather well anyways...Especially when the superheroes were involved.

"Came back and bit you in the ass, though, didn't it Amie?" Thorpe muttered under his breath, not knowing whether to feel sympathetic or indignant toward her. He had seen the possibility coming for years, but at the same time always hoped it would never arrive. That time when a man would take advantage of Paige's sexual approach to capturing a story. In a way, Thorpe was glad it happened as it did...He wouldn't have been able to forgive himself if Norrington had tried to rape Paige, or worse, after being assigned as her partner. But while Paige had not been physically harmed by John Norrington's deceitful advances, the effects were obviously still devastating. Thorpe had seen the emptiness and confusion in her eyes. He had heard the monotonous distance of her voice as she related to him a sketchy version of the incident. Norrington had quit before Thorpe had the chance to fire him, but even with the depraved young man seemingly out of her life, Paige's wounds showed no sign of healing. There were shattered pieces there that could take a lifetime to pick up.

Thorpe wasn't the least bit surprised when she announced her sabbatical. She said she was taking time off to write her book. During the course of that meeting, her glassy eyes scarcely left the floor. Ian Thorpe hadn't seen or spoken to her since.

In the meantime, half the Tribune's staff had been clamoring for her beat. Thorpe had gotten very sick of it very quickly. They were all eager to carve themselves a slice of fame to rival Paige's, but absolutely no one got results like her. Nobody at the Tribune could replace Amie Paige. Thorpe knew there was nobody like her.

The head of the Harbour City Tribune blinked himself out of the daydream into which he had unknowingly slipped. He shook his head, trying to make sense of the conflicted feelings which made him so detached and irritable. Of course he missed Paige, but it was on a purely professional basis, nothing more. He missed the fact that she always made her deadline, he missed the notoriety she brought to the Tribune. He missed his meetings with her in his office...That confident raise of her eyebrow whenever she knew she was making him squirm.

Thorpe grunted, massaging his head.

It had been a long day. He obviously was not thinking clearly.

"Damn it Amie. This city's about to go to hell in a handbasket and my top reporter leaves me out to dry."

It was purely professional, he reassured himself. Nothing more.

* * *

The elevator doors opened to a wide hallway lined with regal paintings of Harbour City's founding fathers, some dating back to the eighteenth century. Past the portraits, the hall expanded into a large reception area. And beyond the receptionists' cubicles was an absolutely stunning view of the late afternoon Harbour City skyline. One of the perks of working in the higher echelons of the traditionally self-indulgent city government was the view from the top floors of Poole Plaza. Located in the heart of the near south side, the Plaza's panoramic views afforded lines of sight to every corner of the ancient city. From those heights, the gargoyles and weather-beaten stone edifices could almost be called beautiful. Almost.

Leo Briggs marched out of the elevator, his eyes cast sullenly to the floor. He paid the windows as little attention as he paid the man at his side.

"Also, sir, I got a call from the Times-Herald out of the south suburbs. They're trying to put together a special section on the history of vigilantism in Harbour. They'd really like a statement from you."

Paul Foster shuffled closer to Briggs, careful not to trip over his own feet. He struggled to keep hold of the stack of papers and notepads cradled in one arm, as he readied himself to jot down Briggs' response with his free hand. The mayor of Harbour City sighed as he slowed to a stop. He looked to his well-postured advisor with a dreary expression that seemed to fit perfectly between the heavy wrinkles of his face. It appeared as though gravity was being rather unkind to the mayor's dimpled jowls that particular afternoon.

"Paul, how's my hair?"

Foster looked incredulously over the wispy combover which seemed as though it was literally glued to Briggs' shiny scalp. He smiled nervously.

"It's...fine, sir. But really, Mayor Briggs, there's things we need to talk about," Foster spouted quickly as he flipped through the sizable stack of papers nestled into the crook of his arm. "The phones haven't stopped ringing since this morning...I've had inquiries from everyone from the Harbour City Tribune to the Rock Report. We're getting complaints and questions from activist groups, government organizations, concerned citizens...Several schools have called wondering if we have any information they can pass along to students and parents. Everybody wants to know what's going on with the Spyder search, and I don't know what to tell them. You can't stay silent on this issue forever."

Briggs grimaced, an almost cartoon-like expression when performed by his malleable face. He turned away, biting his lip.

"Just tell them 'no comment'," he said softly.

"Sir, I can't do that anymore. There's all kinds of rumors floating around. People know the new police initiative is related to the Spyder, but at the same time, Pacific City is on everyone's minds. They're wondering if we're preparing for some kind of war."

"We're already halfway there," Briggs said knowingly.

Foster jerked his head, confounded by the mayor's drastic change in attitude. For better or for worse, Briggs was notorious for bowing to the pressures of the media. In fact, the mayor's petty drive to garner favor in the court of public opinion was what had led Foster into the heart of the Spyder investigation as a media liaison four months prior. He had since been promoted to the newly created position of Counsel for Media Affairs, following the highly criticized restrictions Briggs had placed on the press following the Raymundo Zuleta disaster. In all his time spent as one of Leo Briggs' advisors, the one thing Paul Foster had never had a problem with was getting the mayor to talk. Yet since Nostromo's death, Briggs had scarcely been seen in public, let alone available for a conversation.

"Sir, is there something wrong?" Foster asked. The mayor opened his mouth as if to speak, but quickly shut it, almost looking pained at his decision to silence himself. Briggs slowly lifted his head.

Their eyes met, and Foster almost jumped. Briggs's eyes, glazed over and framed by countless folds of tired, discolored flesh, were pleading, almost screaming. Something was scaring Leo Briggs...Scaring him bad.

"No," Briggs said softly, mustering an unconvincing smile. The eyes screamed louder. "No, this meeting with the city council just has me a little worked up is all. Look, I'll talk to whoever I need to after I get out of this meeting, alright?"

"I suppose so..."

"Perfect," Briggs said. He quickly turned away, allowing Foster no opportunity for a farewell. The advisor watched as Briggs waddled slowly through the reception area, nodding his hellos to the secretaries as he approached the large oak double doors. The image of Briggs's eyes was burned into Foster's mind. There was more to those eyes, to that fear, than anxiety over a simple meeting. There was a fear there, a personal, passionate fear. Foster wished he knew why.

"Mister Briggs, thank you for joining us."

Briggs forced a toothless smile as he entered the room. It was all glass and curves, an extremely modernized facility, particularly when compared to the motif of antiquated history throughout the rest of the building. The room was dominated by an ovular table of tinted glass, around which sat some ten black leather office chairs, seven of which were occupied. A small computer console complimented each seating, built into the face of the table. The four walls were equally divided between floor to ceiling windows and an off-white paint. The solid walls were adorned at regular intervals with narrow black panels that held upward-facing light fixtures, between which hung photos of some of Harbour City's most notable landmarks, each illuminated softly by overhead track lighting. The two remaining walls of the corner conference room afforded a spectacular panorama of Harbour's truly staggering waterfront.

The councilwoman who had greeted Briggs eyeballed him sharply as he took his seat at what could have been called the head of the table. Curt nods were directed at the mayor in salutation from the assembly of community leaders, the men and women to whom Briggs was directly responsible. The seven individuals may have been his so-called "bosses" but he hardly ever communicated with any of them, really, save for the obligatory phone call or e-mail. Otherwise, the council seemed content to let Briggs run the city as he saw fit. Unless there was something very wrong.

"Let's get right to it, Leo," the councilwoman said.

"By all means," Briggs said softly.

"We have several concerns, some of which you may be aware of, some of which you may not," one of the councilmen said, his nasal tone making him sound rather condescending. "Primarily, the current situation in Pacific City has us a bit worried."

"I don't see how that concerns us at all," Briggs replied nervously.

"It doesn't directly...Not yet anyways," the councilwoman replied. "The fact of the matter, Leo, is that Romanov thing has thrown this country to shit."

"My people in Canberra say that he's had no contact with the Prime Minister or the Congress since procuring the mayorship of Pacific City. The senators and representatives from Pacific City are scared to return home. Official communications with the city government have been token, at best. Romanov's only telling us what it wants us to know, and half the time it's just bloody riddles. There's talk of a civil war, Briggs, and Prime Minister Howard and his people are doing all they can to prevent that from happening."

"Which still may not do any good in the long run," another councilman chimed in.

"Right," the councilwoman confirmed. "There's a lot at stake here, Leo, and there's a lot we don't know. Who exactly Romanov is, what he wants, the extent of his plans. But what we do know is that he has a collection of some of the most powerful science beings on the planet under his thumb right now. I don't think it's a secret as to the fate of Moonbase Churchill...?"

Briggs nodded.

"Well the Americans are bloody pissed, Leo. And it hasn't been a good idea to piss off the Americans lately."

"They're in the middle of a military campaign right now in Afghanistan, relating to the destruction of the World Trade Center in New York City last year."

"I know this," Briggs replied. "Look, I thought you said we were going to get right to it...?"

"Well here it is, then," the councilwoman sneered. "Pacific City, lying just south of us, is in the middle of an international clusterfuck. Our government's pissed at the English, who let Romanov loose to begin with. At the same time, the Americans, the Russians, and the English themselves are pissed at us due to their respective stakes in the recently destroyed space station. They're clamoring for action we can't take, due to the amount of unknowns involved. We certainly don't want a super-powered war in a city some two and a half million strong. At the same time, though, both China and Japan have expressed concern about the so-called 'New Mages situation', and we're all aware of the temperament of certain other neighbors of ours in the Indian Ocean."

"Couple that with the outrage of the Italian government at Guillermo del Nostromo's untimely death here..."

"And we are sitting just north of a potential powder keg, some of which has already spilled over," the councilwoman finished in an ominous tone. "And who knows how long it will be before Romanov sets his eye on Harbour?"

Briggs bowed his head gravely.

"The fact of the matter, Mister Briggs," a councilman said with venom in his voice. "Is that we are not pleased with how you've been running this city. Or perhaps, not pleased with who you've been letting run this city for you...?"

Briggs' eyes peered forth from the shadow of his own brow. Could the council somehow know...?

"We need to resolve some issues, Leo. First of all because we may very well have to start preparing for some kind of war, and we don't need to have this current situation hanging over our heads. But secondly, we need to take care of this in order to take some of the pressure off our back, both from the Italian government and our own. The last thing we need is another 'incident' involving a science being...It would be enough to push the Prime Minister over the edge. And none of us want a civil war. A victory over a science being might very well be enough to calm everybody down a bit, and removal of our vigilante nuisance allows further concentration on the threat of Romanov attacking."

"Of course, then there's the people to consider. They're scared...They've been scared for over four months now."

Briggs sighed, expectant of what was to come. Inside, Briggs' sigh was one of relief, for the council did not know what he feared they did. Still though, the impending words were ones Briggs did not want to hear.

"We want the Spyder caught, Leo," the councilwoman said. "You told the people you were going to bring him to justice for Raymundo Zuleta's murder months ago. And we've still got nothing."

"We just supplemented the police force..." Briggs began, hoping to somehow quell the council's collective temper.

"And that's a start," one of the councilmen interrupted. "But not good enough. This is one man, Briggs. One man who reportedly does not even have any superpowers...? How is it that we can't catch this guy?"

"We want him brought in. Hell, if it's in any way possible, we want him brought in tomorrow. This needs to be resolved. Now."

"By any means necessary, Leo," the councilwoman said slowly. "The city can live with it so long as it's quick and clean. But this has gone on long enough."

"Do we have an understanding, Briggs?" The nasal-voiced councilman leaned over the table, his eyes boring holes into the uncomfortable mayor.

Leo Briggs knew he had no choice. He was backed into a corner. And though he knew the possible fate of the city should he abide the council's words, Leo Briggs had never been known as a pit bull. A corner was not the place where he ever mustered strength.

"I understand," he whispered solemnly.

Outside, the afternoon tumbled into the cold embrace of nightfall.

* * *

"This is not a good thing, Leo."

"Well, it's not a suggestion, Jeffrey. It's an order."

Jeff Ross had spent the night in another restless slumber. Dreams of the darkness of Harbour City haunted his waking hours; when the time came for sleep, his mind was simply unrelenting, torturing him with the unspoken guilts and fears he always tried so desperately to hide away.

But nothing stays hidden from the darkness. Least of all in Harbour City.

Twice already that week the commissioner had spent the night awake on the living room couch, out of courtesy to Rachel, who already put up with so much from him without having to worry about his fitful nightmares. So often he would awake tangled in his bedsheets, in a hot sweat, not more than an hour after finally drifting off. He often wondered what went through his wife's head those times when he would bolt upright after thrashing about in bed at two in the morning; what fears she had that she would never speak to him.

Ross hadn't spoken to Rachel much at all in the past few weeks. He could vaguely remember a time when she would wait up nervously sipping coffee until he trudged in the door. Those times he could cry to her when things seemed bleak. But Jeff Ross hadn't cried in a long time. Inside, he felt blank, distant and numb, like a lost man without the capacity or will to return home. In Rachel's mind, then, was she doomed to forever sip her coffee, waiting for a moment of relief that would never come?

He just couldn't bring himself to tell her how out of control everything was. He wished it was a money problem, or that his car had been stolen, or anything stupid and trivial and finite. But it was life. Everything was wrong. It was the world around them, the world around him, closing in an inch at a time and squeezing any sense of decency and righteousness he might have ever felt out of him in favor of a gnawing, empty blackness. He didn't want to tell his wife what the city, the country, the world was becoming...What he was becoming. He didn't want to tell anyone that the darkness was beginning to consume him.

"You don't want to do this, Leo, you really don't," Ross said solemnly, his eyes cast down and his back turned to the expansive window and the oversized desk which lie in front of it. Briggs remained grave, though Ross did not even give himself the opportunity to see his superior's reaction.

"I have to do this. I have no choice," Briggs said, his tone strained. The words echoed, giving way to an unsettling silence.

The two men would never know how united their thoughts were.

"Leo, I can't in good conscience do this. I can't do this to the people of this city."

"Jeff..." Briggs began, his features almost softening, but he quickly regained a level stoicism. "The Spyder needs to be caught. It's the council's decision."

Ross whirled, his eyes sunken into dark, wrinkled flesh.

"I want the Spyder caught just as much as you do, damn it," Ross snapped. "But this is too much. Don't you find this excessive? Christ, Leo, this can't be the way. You...You don't know these men, these men who're supposed to 'protect and serve'. You can't give them this kind of leeway. You don't want to."

"It's temporary," Briggs said, now sounding so unconvinced that Ross could not help but falter at the words. Something deeper stirred within Briggs' seemingly superficial mind. "I spoke with the council yesterday, and this course of action has their full approval. The unions have conceded cooperation based on promise of double overtime pay and the fact that it's only for a short while. It's all ready to go. It's...It's only for a short while..."

Again, the silence.

"How did it come to this...?" Ross whispered, almost collapsing under the impact of his words. Briggs cringed. "How can this be right?"

"It's just a little while, Jeffrey," Briggs said, his tone and his eyes imploring forgiveness.

"This isn't right, god damn it."

"The world's not right!" Briggs exclaimed emphatically. Ross did not pick up on the deep-seated fear ringing in those words.

"But we've been through so much already in this city, just in the time that I've lived here. Through the 80's, with the Grim Knight, and then Raven. Then when the Spyder first appeared. The drugs and the gun running and the street gangs. Corruption on the damn police force. It never came to this before. Hammerhand's rampage a year ago...And we still didn't have to do anything like this."

"I...Look..." Briggs began, his lower lip quivering as he sought the words. They came in a whisper. "...Can we...Can we keep it quiet? Can we do this quietly?"

"Are you insane?" Ross sneered, his eyes growing wide and wild. "Are you fucking insane, Leo?"

"Jeff, look," Briggs began, his eyes pleading with Ross for an understanding he knew he had nearly no hope of receiving. "If there's any way..."

"You're still worried about your fucking approval ratings?!" Ross growled, his anger bubbling over and eclipsing any sadness he was feeling. "Well lemme clue you in. You might as well not even have any. Because you're about to throw this city to the fucking dogs. I don't know what you hope to accomplish but...Shit. I just...I didn't think...Not even you, Leo, I didn't think even you could be so low...So stupid."

"It's not what you think, damn it!" Briggs rasped, slamming his fist on his desk. The loose flesh of his face twisted, his facade threatening to break. "It's not about me, Ross! Damn it, this is not about my approval ratings."

"Don't lie to me," Ross spat. "I know exactly what you're about. You're a sham, 'your honor'. You're in this for yourself. Just like everyone else in this fucking city. All you've ever cared about was yourself, and look where it's gotten you. And now you want me to clean up your mess so it doesn't look so bad for you. Well, fuck that, Leo. No. There's absolutely no way in hell we can keep this quiet."

"You have to try," Briggs said, almost choking on the words. Ross's tirade had little effect on him. He pressed on. "Jeff, you don't understand why I'm..."

"Fuck you," Ross said simply. "If we're going to do this, so help me Christ...If we're gonna go through with this we have to go all the way. And I won't let it be on my head. You're making the announcement to the press tomorrow."

He paused a beat, clenching his teeth at the pain of his next thought.

"Please, Jeffrey..." Briggs pleaded, almost falling forward with clasped hands toward Ross. "Please just make this as quick as you can."

"You make the announcement..." Ross huffed, oblivious to Briggs's struggle with his private pain. "And then this city goes to hell."

The commissioner slammed the door behind him as he marched out, leaving its crash to echo off the high ceilings of the mayor's office and back down into the stomach of the lone man left inside. Briggs turned slowly in his chair as the echo faded, bringing the city's twilight into view through the window behind him. He stared at it blankly for a moment, struggling with what he knew was to come.

"You can't imagine the half of it, Ross..." he whispered as he finally broke down, burying his face into his hands. "Christ help us all."

Jeff Ross would spend two hours at the bedside of his eldest daughter that night before finally falling into a tortured sleep.

Leo Briggs would not sleep at all.

* * *

Middleton had seen the same footage thirteen times. The same damned press conference. The same damned face.

He took a swig from the bottle of gin, cringing as it burned its way down his throat. Settling in his stomach. Numbing him.

He had been sitting in the darkness of his apartment and staring at the television for six straight hours. He couldn't think straight. He wanted to be outraged or disgusted. He just wanted to feel. But he didn't. For six hours he had been blank. The whole time he kept telling himself that he was going to just finish the whole bottle of gin, fall asleep, and hope he wouldn't wake up.

He glanced at the small table in the corner of his living room, next to the TV set. The files were still there, strewn about haphazardly since before Guillermo del Nostromo was murdered.

Since before he had made love to Maggie Pierce in the next room. Before he tried to arrest her for a series of grotesque slaughters.

Her words kept cutting through his mind in nauseating rhythm, over and over, like the picture of the fat man on the screen.

Fuck you! I never want to see you again!

You must be completely incapable of trusting another human being!

In his gut, Middleton still felt the horrid tug of conscience which always told him to trust the Spyder.

With a roar, he chucked the bottle into the darkness, raining shards of glass and splashes of alcohol over his television and carpet, and leaving a large cracked impression in the opposite wall. He stood seething for a moment, finally having moved from his frozen stupor and feeling it set his muscles on fire. His head pounded with debilitating pain.

"You've ruined my life, you sonuvabitch," he whispered to the night. But he received no answer.

The footage played for the fourteenth time on Middleton's screen.

"...by my order, with full approval of the Harbour City Council and state government of New South Wales, and with full cooperation from this great city's law enforcement community, that Harbour City is about to enter a temporary state...Of martial law."

The chatter of gasps and disbelief.

"Effective tomorrow, we will double the amount of active police officers on duty during the day time, and continue the tripled efforts in the evening. Airships and a greatly augmented fleet of boats will patrol the city and the waterfront around the clock. A 9:00 p.m. curfew will be in effect for all citizens, save for those with special permission from the City Council. Finally, the police force will be authorized to use whatever means they deem necessary in the location and apprehension of the vigilante known as the Spyder.

"We, your elected officials, realize the impact this decree has on the city and its people, and we ask that you be cooperative and understanding, in this time of great crisis. In return, the police will be as courteous as possible during their investigations, but will undoubtedly be a bit more aggressive in their efforts. The full ramifications of this policy are of course impossible to determine, but we trust our efforts will be fruitful.

"Upon apprehension of the Spyder, or at a time when the martial law campaign has been deemed a failure by the city council, the city government will revert to its normal state of operations. Finally, I feel confident in saying that this arrangement should expedite the capture of the Spyder to not more than two, maybe three, days. Thank you for your time, your cooperation, and your understanding...Any further questions can be directed to the Office of Media Affairs."

Middleton watched Briggs shuffle off the stage and into an awaiting entourage of security personnel as the room exploded in a flurry of flashbulbs and shouted questions.

He remembered the Continental. The media frenzy, and then, the dead bodies. Cold hard steel in the Spyder's hand and eight men at his feet. The last time he saw Raymundo Zuleta alive. The last time he saw the Grim Knight alive?

He remembered the Spyder, sitting in his living room the week after. Revealing his version of the truth. So casually taunting the futility of the city's police force. The futility of Middleton's own life.

Was he right?

Ron Middleton grimaced, his chest heavy and mind racing.

No. The bastard wasn't right. The son of a bitch could not be right.

Despite the gin, the shock, the memories, Middleton's thoughts were growing clearer. Doubt was fading, overcome by anger, by pain, by longing. His feeling was returning. His passion.

"You want a war, Spyder," Middleton hissed, casting his eyes out over the ominous silhouette of the city. "Then we'll give you a war."