Spiders and Bats: An Arachnid in Gotham
For as long as I can remember, I've always hated silence.
You know, those long, quiet lulls where no one is talking… when even the sound of your breathing was audible enough for your ears to pick up and it drives you crazy. I've always hated those.
I think it all started when my dad got sent to jail, all the way back to when I was a kid. Obviously, you'd think having a criminal in the family was enough for the neighbors to shun you, and it was. People were judgmental and prejudiced like that. But their kids though, they were a little different. They thought it was cool to have a supervillain for a dad, and in some twisted way, it kind of is. I mean, admit it, it's kind of awesome to have someone like, I don't know, Doctor Doom for a dad.
The kids on the playground will be like, "My dad brought me to the zoo and we saw a lion" or "Oh yeah, well, my dad brought me to Disneyland and I got to see Simba" then you'd be all "Well, my dad built a time machine and took me to go time-travelling to the Pleistocene epoch so we can bring home a Smilodon… for science, of course." But obviously, that was only if your dad was a 'cool' villain. Which mine was definitely not, so all the kids shunned me anyway.
Which rendered that previous statement about the neighbor kids being different kind of pointless. Anyway, moving on.
See how terrible my father is? It wasn't enough that he was supervillain, but he had to be some Riddler knock-off D-lister calling himself the 'Cluemaster', instead of someone legitimately cool like Doctor Doom or, I don't know, maybe Two-Face or Mr. Freeze.
Don't get me wrong though. I don't hate my father nearly as much as I let on. Or, at least, I don't hate my father as much as I hate silence. With the story of why I hate silence being the reason… I went on that whole tirade. Okay, so I got sidetracked there a little.
Just a little, right?
Chapter Three: Chase
Right. All right, let's start again:
Hello~! Welcome. My name is Stephanie Brown. Earlier, I said that I've hated quiet and silence for as long as I can remember.
Why do I hate silence, you might ask? And if you're not asking, don't worry, I'm not going to bore you with some long-winded story about my past. You'll probably want to just jump straight back to hearing more about Batgirl and Spider-Man adventuring together.
But for now, just… hear me out, okay? This won't take much of your time. I promise.
So, imagine this cute, little blonde girl with the biggest, bluest eyes you'll ever see, lying on her bed in the middle of the night, looking out at the stars outside her window. While she was doing that, she could hear her mother crying in the next room—her mother who was the sweetest, kindest, and most loving woman you'll ever meet in your life, crying because her husband, the little girl's father, turned out to be a supervillain.
And that bastard of a father got himself caught by the cops and sent to Ryker's, a supervillain prison all the way out in New York, leaving his wife and their little girl to fend for themselves.
Now imagine that little girl hearing her mother blame herself for how the father turned out—as if it was her mother's fault that her father was a bastard and a criminal. And when her mother stops crying and falls asleep, along with the sudden silence, a realization will dawn on that little girl—that she's suddenly all alone, lying on her bed in a quiet house, unaware that this sort of thing will continue to go on for years to come.
A broken mother that'll keep on crying herself to sleep, a terrible father who'll keep on reminding her that their family will never be the same again, and an enduring silence that will continue to rub in her face how alone she was now, without her being capable of doing anything about it—that 'lonely' was all she was now and who she'll ever be.
Yes, melodrama. What did you expect to hear from me?
Daddy issues, mommy issues, self-worth issues—it's the whole package, and Stephie has it all.
But you know what, there's a silver lining to all this. I've always hated silence—
"You know, saying 'We ride' after explicitly saying that neither of us can drive is bound to confuse people."
—and he makes the silence go away. It's why I started to like him, I guess.
"There was no one to confuse," I told him, as we rode The Bike with No Name through the snow covered streets of Old Gotham.
There's another reason why I hate silence, and it has something to do with him, but I'll tell you about that one later.
As we took a right turn at a roadblock near Crime Alley, he then said, "Sure, there wasn't."
It's been snowing for a day or two now. I think I've said this before, but when it snows in Gotham, there is never just a snowstorm—it's always a snow hurricane. Or something. Snorricane? Snowwicane?
Anyway, as Gotham was by the East Coast and near the ocean, it had a number of low-lying areas that were easily buried in snow. It made a number of roads impassable, forcing us to take a lot of detours through whichever streets still looked like streets and not the theme park version of Frozen. I would have considered driving on rooftops, but apparently motorcycles weren't designed to scale walls, so we're stuck here.
I tried to make small talk to pass the time.
"Back at the cave," I began to say, "you said something about responsibility being your, uh…"
"Schtick?"
"Is that European or something?"
"Yiddish."
"Oh," I mumbled. "So you're Jewish?"
"I'm Lutheran, actually."
"Huh," I exclaimed. I looked at him through the rearview mirror and asked, "Then how come you know Yiddish?"
He looked at me like I asked an obvious question. At least, as far as I could tell that's what it looked like he was doing, since, you know, he's wearing a mask and all.
"I'm from New York," he said in a deadpan tone.
"Well," I began to argue, "it's not like everyone from New York knows how to speak—"
"I'm from Queens, New York."
"Oh," I mumbled, defeated. "That makes sense."
The air grew colder then, all of a sudden. As a chill started creeping up my spine, I checked the bike's screens and saw the temperature drop to an all-time low of seven degrees. I quickly opened the compartment to the side of The Bike with No Name, and grabbed a pair of goggles and two breather masks from inside. After strapping the goggles and the breather mask onto my cowl, I handed him the extra mask.
"No, it's alright," he declined, waving his hands dismissively.
"You sure?" I asked him. It was hard to ignore how thinner the air suddenly got.
"Positive," he answered. "This suit's nanotech should adapt to the cold soon enough. Which, if I may add, is a huge improvement over my old threads. I usually just wore a scarf and wool gloves with that one during this season of frostbites."
That got a laugh out of me. It was hilarious to imagine him in that red and blue outfit, wearing a scarf and woolen gloves. Throw in a bonnet and a sweater and the whole images just gets a whole lot funnier, though.
"Actually, I should be the one worried about you," he then told me. "You're shaking."
"Shaking?" I wondered. It was only then that I noticed myself shaking from the cold, if only slightly. Or maybe it was because he had his hands on my waist and it made me sort of ticklish. I couldn't tell. "The suit's temperature control must not be holding up."
"Should I be worried?" he asked again.
"No, I should be okay," I reassured him. "I'll just change into the thermal Batgirl suit at the clock tower."
We passed by Gotham General Hospital as we got out of Park Row, and I then took the next turn towards Sprang Bridge.
"So, like I was saying," I began again, "earlier, at the cave, you said something about responsibility being your… snikt, was it?"
"Schtick," he corrected.
"Whatever," I groaned. "So, I was wondering what you mean by that."
He looked at me through the rearview mirror, and somehow even though his face was concealed beneath his mask, I could tell that he looked… hesitant. Like he didn't know if he should answer or not. I wondered if it had been a mistake to ask that question, though I had absolutely no idea why it would be.
Maybe it was something too personal to talk about? is what I started to think.
Maybe it was something he probably wouldn't want to talk about with a complete stranger. An important event that brought up memories too painful for him to mention. It might even be what led him to this life of, you know, superheroics.
That's how it always was, I figured. Some dark and troubled event in our past that led us to a life where we beat up bad guys and save the innocent—Bruce saw his parents shot in front of him, Dick saw his parents fall to their deaths after their acrobat act was sabotaged, Cass was confronted with death for the first time after being forced by her father to kill a man, and so on.
We don't do what we do on a whim, after all. There's always a reason behind it, whatever that reason may be.
Though come to think of it, the event doesn't always have to be tragic, if there's even an event at all—Tim, Babs, and I started on this path because we wanted to do the right thing. No matter what kind of tragedy stemmed from our living this life after the fact, what has always spurred us on in the beginning was the simple desire to do good.
I admit, I became Spoiler partly because I hated my father—especially after the trauma my mother suffered through the things he did—but also because when he came back to Gotham a more effective criminal, I knew he had to be stopped before his crimes escalated to the point where he would to hurt people to get what he wanted. Even someone as ineffectual as a Riddler knock-off can be dangerous when he lost the compulsion to leave clues—the one thing that limited him in some capacity.
Anyway, I thought that maybe Spider-Man and his… schlick or whatever regarding responsibility was related to what led to him to becoming a superhero, and that it wasn't something he could easily tell a girl he just met, even if that girl was a colleague in the hero business.
"With great power," he then spoke suddenly and solemnly as I was deep in thought, "there must also come great responsibility."
I tried to lighten the mood. "Did you get from a fortune cookie or something?"
He chuckled a little, but his expression—or what I could tell his expression must have been—didn't break from its seriousness.
"No, no," he said, "it's something my… uh, it's something someone used to tell me, some time ago. That's all I feel like saying about that, sorry."
I shook my head. "No, it's perfectly fine. I understand," I reassured him, and bit my lip. "Actually, I'm the one who should be sorry for asking."
"No, you shouldn't be," he told me. "It's not like you—"
He stopped suddenly, and jerked his head.
"Spider-sense tingling," I heard him whisper. He then turned to me and said coolly, "You should ramp the bike up onto the sidewalk."
As I wondered why, I heard the roaring of engines behind us, and instinctively pulled The Bike with No Name onto the sidewalk. As soon as I did, a gray Toyota Prius with its roof ripped off sped past us, followed by four GCPD squad cars.
"Is it just me or was that a giant crocodile man behind the wheel of a stolen Toyota Prius?" he asked.
"Giant crocodile… that was Killer Croc? I didn't notice with how fast the car went by," I exclaimed in surprise. "And how could you tell that it was stolen? I mean, besides from the torn roof and the fact that a giant crocodile man was driving it, who you may or may not know is a prominent member of Batman's rogues gallery."
"Well, in one of the squad cars, a guy was radioing dispatch about finding the stolen Prius that was hijacked as get-away vehicle from a robbery at the First Bank of Gotham," he explained in detail.
"Right," I murmured in wonder, "okay, new question: how did you hear what the officers were saying? They sped by just as fast as…"
"You see, eight years ago I attended a science exhibit where I was bitten by a radioactive spider," he said, sarcastically, "which granted me the proportional strength, speed, and agility of a spider, while also giving me enhanced senses, the ability to stick to any surface, as well as a sixth sense that warns me of incoming—alright, am I going to have to tell my entire origin story or are we gonna catch that guy?"
"You don't have to be so snarky about it," I complained. "And you didn't mention your web shoot-y powers."
"My web shoot-y—my web shooting isn't a superpower," he clarified.
"It's not?" I asked.
He pulled back his left sleeve and showed me a small, steel bracelet kind of thing on his wrist, which was then connected to a pressure pad on his palm while a small nozzle was attached to his left glove.
"Web shooters," he said. "Made 'em from scratch myself."
I thought about it for a moment, as we dodged a trash can that flew out of nowhere from the car chase a few blocks in front of us.
"So they're not, like, biological?"
"No, they aren't," he answered, as he readjusted his sleeve. "I mean, that would be pretty weird, wouldn't it? I'd have to grow new organs in my arms that can produce organic silk webbing, then I'd need to have spinnerets on my wrists to be able to spin the silk. Lovecraft would be so proud."
"Or worse, you could have the webs coming out of your butt," I added helpfully.
"Spiders don't actually have their webs coming out of their butts," he began to explain. "They have specialized organs in their thoraxes that—"
"I was making a joke, professor," I said. I wasn't nearly as bad in Biology as I looked.
"Not a professor yet," he then said. "Still working on my PhD, but I do have my Master's, so there's that."
Meaningless conversations like this between us are going to happen a lot. Trust me, I'm telling this story from the future.
As we had that conversation, the street came to a sharp right turn as a blockade straight ahead prevented entry towards the Industrial District. Killer Croc made the turn without fail, easing the wheel into a right as he neared the corner before slamming on the gas and revving on ahead.
The police cars that were tailing him weren't so lucky. The three behind slowed down significantly as they neared the corner, not even attempting to try that same stunt, and for good reason: the snow had made the road slippery, and a quick turn like that, if executed poorly, could send them careening out of control, which could easily turn out to be a fatal move. Croc was crazy enough to do a stunt like that because he could survive a crash if it so happened—these cops wouldn't wager that they would as long as they're able.
As luck would have it, the cruiser in front attempted the same stunt in its eagerness to follow the runaway car.
Unfortunately for it, it slowed down at the corner too late, and it turned right too early. The car tipped to the left, and slammed hard into the concrete. The force and velocity of the blow caused it to bounce upwards into the air, in the manner reminiscent of how those Fast and Furious movies like to think physics works.
Though that insult probably sounded a little hollow now that I'm seeing one do their version of physics for real.
Before I could react, my passenger leapt into the air and shot a webline onto the building adjacent to us. He tugged at the web, and positioned himself at an angle that launched him towards police car. Time seemed to slow to a stop as I saw his every movement, and I couldn't help but wonder how fast he was going then.
His right hand stuck onto the passenger side of the car, and when he found that he had a good grip of the vehicle, in one, quick swing he tossed the car back onto the ground right-side up. He then shot another webline as he neared the pavement and swung away.
I drove towards the police car as its passengers alighted. The other three vehicles zipped past us, continuing on their pursuit.
"Jesus Christ, Renee," cried a familiar voice. The man that got off from the passenger seat was a little on the hefty side. He looked like he stepped right out of an old noir flick, what with the trenchcoat and the fedora on his head, while underneath his coat was a Kevlar vest emblazoned with the letters 'GCPD' worn over a stack of sweaters. The five o'clock shadow on his face added a layer of gruffness to an already intimidating-looking man "That was a rookie move if I ever saw one. You're supposed to be better than that. You could have gotten us killed."
From the driver's seat alighted a woman with curly hair and a light, tanned complexion, and was decked in a similar noir-ish ensemble of trenchcoat and fedora, along with the not so noir-ish Christmas sweaters.
"Look, Harv. I'm sorry, alright?" she apologized. "Jones caught me by surprise, and I made the turn on instinct. Didn't think the bastard was crazy enough to pull off something like that."
"You're even talking like some rookie," exclaimed the man. "Like you just flew in from small town in Kansas and don't know how things work around here. This is Gotham. Everyone here is crazy enough to do the things you think people aren't supposed to be crazy enough to do. From the mob, to the bad guys, to the lunatic heroes dressed up like ba—"
I cleared my throat. The two of them turned to look in my direction, and apparent it was only then did they realize that I was there.
"Detective Bullock," I choked out a greeting, "and Detective Montoya."
"Batgirl," greeted Bullock, "or, at least, the new Batgirl. You're the new one, right?"
"Y-Yeah, that's me," I stuttered, nervously.
This would be the first time I've interacted with the GCPD since I became Batgirl, so I guess I'm a little nervous about making a good first impression. I wonder if they'll realize I'm the girl that used to be Spoiler and kinda-Robin. I mean, it's a pretty well-known fact that the first Robin changed identities and became Nightwing, even if they don't know his secret identity as Dick Grayson.
Maybe they'll realize that with me, too?
"Batgirl number three," I introduced myself, "or four, depending on how you're counting. Though the two before me did wear the same costume, so I guess that'd be confusing for anyone keeping track."
"You're definitely a different Batgirl," mused Bullock as he reached into the car and pulled out his radio. "The last one was never this chatty."
I guess Cass never talked much. I mean, I knew that already, but hearing it from someone else outside of the Family really hammers it in that she was born and raised as the ultimate assassin—silent, efficient, and professional. It's a miracle how we've managed to get along so well with our almost opposite personalities and considering our respective hang-ups. Though those hang-ups are probably how we bonded in the first place—daddy issues are such a convenient conversation piece, wouldn't you agree?
"Yeah, uh, sorry about that," I apologized. "So, er, I'm just stopping by to check if you're both alright."
"We are, thanks to your friend," said Renee, and she turned towards the direction Spider-Man swung off to. "I don't think I've ever seen him before. Was that Nightwing in a new costume?"
"No, and I don't think Nightwing has ever been able to carry a car with one hand," I told her, and we both glanced at the dent he made on the door on the passenger's side of the car.
I didn't think Peter was strong enough to carry a car, either, but, well, there we have it. Renee and I just stood there for a moment, probably in disbelief. I mean, it's funny—you know Superman exists, and that he's not the only one with powers like that that can do feats like lift a car, so it really shouldn't come off as a surprise anymore. But you don't usually see much in the way of superpowers like that in Gotham, which is why our main superhero is 'just' a rich guy in an armored suit that's armed to the teeth.
Meanwhile, Bullock was on the radio. "Dispatch, this Bullock," he said loudly, "perp is being pursued through the Bowery by a mask and three of my squad. The mask is a friendly, I repeat, the mask is a friendly. One of the Bat's people. Batgirl will be follow shortly in pursuit."
Bullock then turned towards me, and he and Renee nodded their heads, as if to say 'Go on and do your thing. We've got you covered.'
"I should go," I declared briefly, and went on my way, smiling as I did.
End of Chapter 3