The pain was not what bothered him, though the pain was great. A warm, dull, throbbing ache reminded him every second that he had a bullet lodged in his arm. Images from medical textbooks and coroner's reports illustrated the story in his head; nicked arteries, a chipped humerus. Soon, he would die.
The journey home was not what infuriated him, though the journey home had been agony. He had fallen off of rooftops, stumbled through alleys, and caused car wrecks, all the way leaving drops of blood with which any competent technician could identify him. Soon, he would be found out.
The betrayal was not what broke him, though the betrayal was heinous. In truth, he should have known that the police could not be trusted. He should have known that the pimp would have them on his payroll. Soon, what little he had been able to do would be forgotten.
That was what bothered him, infuriated him, broke him. The knowledge that he had accomplished nothing ate away at his core even as his hand went numb, fingers grazing against the cold metal of the bell.
If I ring this bell, he thought, Alfred will save me. The old butler had military training, and hearing sharper than what his age would imply. He could save his life, administer care as he had done so many times before. He would become a medic for his charge's war.
If I ring this bell, he thought. If I can fight the war. Years spent honing his body and his mind had been thrown away in a few bursts of light and frenzied, chaotic sounds. What had gone wrong? The pimp had thrown a punch, drawn a knife, slashed at him. The little girl screamed for help. Attacks on all sides. Sirens screaming. Police shouting. The women in black fighting him, holding her own, running as the police came near.
He raised his hands to show he was unarmed. They shot him.
Now he was here, alone. Dying slowly. Dying slowly, because something was wrong with his war.
He had the skills. He had the knowledge. He had the plan; had had it since the day his parents had been taken from him.
My parents. He looked up, saw his father staring down at him sternly; his mother, smiling with gentle grace. And he saw himself, a boy, oblivious to what his life would become.
He had everything he needed to fight his war. Everything, save a way to tie it all together.
Father?
The crooks, the killers, the leeches; they were too powerful to fight alone.
Mother?
They were too powerful to fight as one man. They had too many things in their favor. Too many advantages.
Have I done right?
They had intimidation on their side. They had brutality, they had hatred and deception and manipulation…
Have I put what you have given me to good use?
They had fear on their side.
Father? Guide my hand.
He needed them to fear him.
What shall I do?
He needed to be more than a man.
He saw something glide across the blackness at the edges of his vision. Something on the window. Something massive, terrible.
He stared as it crawled up the glass with alien finesse, its eight legs maneuvering flawlessly. It stopped its climb, its shaped framed perfectly by the Moon. The light cast its silhouette across his entire study, and he knew what to do.
Yes, father.
He rang the bell.
I shall become a spider.