LOOTING DC #1. Gotham National
Gotham was much worse than he'd read about. He didn't mind coming across an ongoing crime every few alleys, or how the city looked like it was constantly brooding. His biggest beef with Gotham was the pungent smell that seemed to be right about everywhere.
It was never his choice to be here in the first place. But now that he was, he'd thought of every possible way he might leave and never come back.
Days earlier, he was without anything. Just his clothes - from another world - a t-shirt beneath a black hoodie and his beloved sweatpants. His white sneakers didn't do his fashion sense any justice either.
Now. He planned on having everything. At first, he wanted to just have the essentials - a good place to sleep, a constant supply of food without having to steal from street vendors, a long warm shower... The basic stuff that every human being deserves.
But as he played with the thought, he almost smacked himself for dreaming too low in spite of having the means that could propel him further than he could dare to imagine.
That was when he came up with a strategic plan. He was no native to this world, but he knew almost everything about it from bingeing comics, animations, and spending way too much time in forums.
Having been inserted into it, it was only natural that he put that information to goo-... productive use.
The playing field would have been leveled if knowledge was the only thing he possessed. But alas, the cosmic joke was that he'd gained a power alongside this life altering transition.
From the word go, he'd known what it was. And he was well versed in how it worked. Two days experimenting and getting used to his newfound powers had proven that it was meant for him all along.
Like himself, the power was also not native to this world, which made him feel unique, privileged, and superior.
Jake moved in the night. Every swing was precise, every landing soundless.
The wind bit at his face and he grimaced at the smell. Silently, he gave himself hope. He'd be out of this shit hole in no time.
He latched onto the side of the tallest skyscraper in sight, sticking to the glass like a magnet. From his vantage point he could see the moon. It was full, a striking white with shadowy traces.
Wonders about if anything substantial was happening on the moon at the moment (and whether or not he would go there someday) aside, Jake took in a long, deep and refreshing breath.
His face lightened up a bit. The air up here was more tolerable. But it wasn't nearly clean enough. He wanted to soak it in a bit longer, but he had a mission to complete.
Without hesitation, he pushed off, free-falling for a nerve-racking moment before firing a webline at the last second. The line caught, securing him from crashing with the traffic, swinging him forward at just the right angle.
He twisted mid-air, catching another point, moving faster now. The process was as thrilling as it felt natural. All he needed to do was let go, be free, and trust his Spider Sense.
As he swung and wove, Jake thought about his immediate destination.
Gotham wasn't much, but it was a hub for criminals. The city practically ran on corruption and bad decisions. Banks here were like honey to flies - just a matter of time before some ambitious idiots took a swing at one.
Jake had no intention of being one of those idiots. Why bother with the planning, the recon, the logistics of a full-blown heist when he could just wait? Someone else would do the dirty work. They'd cut through the security, get past the guards, and gather the cash.
And then, just before Batman showed up, Jake would swoop in - fast, clean, unstoppable. His reflexes were sharper, his Spider Sense would warn him of any threats, and his strength made taking down a few armed thugs laughable.
By the time the dust settled, he'd be gone, the loot secured, and Gotham's so-called heroes left chasing ghosts.
It wasn't just a good plan. It was the perfect plan.
He swung toward Gotham National Bank.
Nearly three hours later, Jake had learned that perfection was a fickle thing.
He'd been watching the bank from a quiet vantage point on the edge of a neighboring building. But nothing was happening.
No low-level crooks lurking in the shadows. No cars parked at odd angles, no strange comings and goings. Just the quiet hum of the city, the occasional shout from a passing pedestrian, and the heavy darkness sucking out the street lights like the city was too tired to even try.
Maybe tomorrow, he thought, resting his chin on his knee. A quiet night like this was rare in Gotham from his perspective, and he was starting to feel like the city wasn't even bothering to give him a good reason to stick around.
Maybe it was time he did the heavy lifting himself. Get down to plotting, grabbing blueprints, maybe reaching out to a few easily-duped goons for manpower-
No.
Gotham's goons weren't worth the trouble anymore. Maybe Batman had scared them straight, or maybe they'd all just gotten lazy. The ones Jake had crossed paths with were the kind that hung around alleyways, committing petty crimes like clockwork. Where had Gotham's glory days gone?
The resentment was creeping in now, swelling in his chest. He was getting frustrated - mega-disappointed. This city had promised so much, and all it'd given him was a quiet, empty night.
A strange feeling twisted inside him. His chest felt heavy, like someone had just shoved a knife into his back.
Why am I feeling this?
He didn't have an answer. But it was starting to dawn on him: perhaps this was more than just getting a ticket out of Gotham.
Jake's teeth ground together, the cold air biting through his hoodie. The night's chill was becoming unbearable.
This was a waste of time.
He felt let down. Immensely let down. He didn't want to spend another second waiting for something that clearly wasn't going to happen. His first mistake had been relying on others. If history had taught him anything, it was that people always found a way to disappoint.
He should have known better. This was on him. And it was a mistake he wasn't going to repeat. From now on, he'd do everything himself: from planning the damn heist to making sure he walked away without a single tie to Gotham left behind.
Jake swung lazily through the night, fatigue beginning to set in. The thrill had worn off, leaving only the empty streets below and the darkened skyline of Gotham as his backdrop. He was headed for a quiet spot to crash, a place where he could rest and let the thoughts of the bank heist percolate in peace. He needed sleep. He needed a plan.
But as he passed over Gotham National Bank, something made him pause.
There was a sudden movement in the still night.
He wasn't sure why his eyes drifted down, but they did - locked on three figures rushing from the bank's main entrance, bags clutched in their hands. They were fast, their clothes dark, their faces concealed. Pointy sticks jutted out of their arms, but Jake's instincts immediately kicked in. Those weren't sticks. Guns.
His heart skipped.
It didn't make sense. He'd been watching for hours - no alarms, no commotion, no sounds of struggle. No vehicles idling, no police sirens. This robbery... was too clean.
The shock registered, but Jake couldn't quite process it. He wasn't sure if his mind was playing tricks on him, but those bags - they were black, heavy, full of loot, and those guns were too real to ignore.
And then the alarms blared.
A guard in white stormed out of the bank, firing shots at the fleeing goons. They fired back as they ran, moving with an efficiency Jake didn't expect from Gotham's usual underbelly. This wasn't some amateur job. This was a well-planned operation.
Jake blinked, feeling an unfamiliar sense of guilt gnaw at him. He'd underestimated Gotham's criminals. Big mistake.
Then he watched how the goons dodged the bullets and managed to land a sure one that silenced the guard. These were clearly professionals, and Jake was starting to second guess his intentions.
He hadn't prepared for this.
Jake wasn't sure what happened next. Maybe it was the adrenaline rush. Or perhaps it was the sight of the Bat Signal that made him aware he didn't have much time to act.
Either way, he found himself falling from Gotham's sky, heading in a direction parrarrel to the goons'.
"Shit. Shit. Shit," he fired a supporting webline at instinct. He hadn't thought this through.
Actually, he wasn't thinking at all. If he did, he'd have resolved to sit this one out and prepare meticulously for the next time.
The goons turned a corner, disappearing from view. Jake experienced a mixed reaction torn between relief and disappointment when he thought he'd lost them.
But his mind became less conflicted when he spotted a black AMOLED vehicle tearing down the street, swerving dangerously toward the road.
What he wanted seemed clear enough.
"Follow them it is," Jake took in a deep breath and catapulted into the same street as the vehicle, with a nearly perfect web sling.
He followed, swinging with his webs, hoping he wasn't wrong about the vehicle being their getaway.
Every ounce of caution vanished, but his mind was still a mess.
Should he get in close? Wait for an opening? What was the right thing to do?
The goons hadn't noticed him yet, but he knew it wouldn't be long before they did.
In a rapid free-fall, his mind gathered the necessary calm to find a long-forgotten quote.
"He who strikes first wins."
He wasn't sure where he'd read or heard it, but it helped him arrive at a much-needed decision.
The van jerked, swerving as the driver stomped on the gas. Jake couldn't get a clean shot from where he was, but he needed to make his move.
Without reading too much into it (than he already had), he swung down and tossed a web at the side mirror, yanking it sharply to throw the driver off course. It worked - but not cleanly. The van veered hard, scraping against the sidewalk.
"Shit!" Jake swore, his heart pounding. His first strike had been a massive failure. And worse, he'd attracted some attention.
The goons inside started firing at Jake - recklessly, as if they didn't care whether they hit anything.
The next moments saw Jake relying on his Spider-Sense and agility, swerving in the air and leaping from building to building while the bullets narrowly missed him. Well- most of them.
He was grazed more than a couple of times, and he wasn't sure if one might have penetrated. Jake didn't stop to think, however. His enhanced senses had already registered the gravity of the situation, and in conjunction with something snapping in his brain, he made a quick decision: fight, instead of flight.
Jake's muscles tensed as he swung into action, executing a series of web maneuvers to dodge bullets and navigate around parked cars. In a blur of motion, he found himself inside the van without even registering the fact that he'd torn the doors off.
One goon was in the back, reloading his gun while the other, in the passenger seat, aimed to shoot at Jake.
"Who the fuck is this guy?" The rear goon snapped first.
"You're messing with the wrong crew, pal," the passenger shouted, pulling the trigger.
Jake dodged, his Spider-Sense guiding him as he stuck to the van's roof.
"What the fuck?" Both goons were shocked, but the shots kept coming. Jake switched between the roof and the sides of the van, his focus shifting between dodging bullets and the bags he needed to grab.
He shot webs at the bags, aiming for a quick snatch and go, but the goons made it impossible. Their movements were unpredictable, blocking his every attempt.
In frustration, he shot webs at them instead. A couple of misses later, he finally managed to stick the goon in the passenger seat, making it difficult for him to aim his gun. But the rear goon was already shifting to physical combat.
Jake's Spider-Sense screamed as a punch came at him, followed by a kick. He dodged the punch, countering with a swift blow of his own that sent the goon stumbling back. He followed it up with a web shot, pinning the guy to the van floor.
The goon in the passenger seat struggled to draw a second gun, but Jake's next move turned out to be a mistake. He shot a web into the gunman's face, blinding him just as his finger was still on the trigger. The goon fired recklessly, and the bullet found its mark in the driver, sending the van careening out of control.
Jake was thrown around as the van lurched wildly, his grip slipping. His Spider-Sense screamed, but the chaos was too overwhelming - bullets flying in all directions, the van spinning, and no clear way out. Now he was sure one or two bullets had penetrated into his body.
Survival instincts kicked in, and he knew he had to act fast.
As the van barreled toward Gotham's bridge, Jake's pulse raced. The edge of the bridge was dangerously close, and he realized he had to get out - now.
His eyes locked on the bags. He grabbed one, the vehicle bucking violently beneath him as it spun out of control. Holding the bag tight, he shot a webline toward the bridge, anchoring himself to the side, praying the web would hold.
But the force of the van's momentum dragged him, slamming him against the bridge's guardrail. His legs burned as he fought to keep hold of the bag, the winds whipping through Gotham's night, threatening to tear him from the web.
The van was still heading toward the edge of the bridge. Jake pulled himself higher on the webline, using every ounce of strength to stay attached as the van tilted dangerously.
"Come on, come on..." he muttered through clenched teeth, adrenaline surging as the van's screeching wheels grew louder.
Finally, with a desperate yank, Jake shot a web at the nearest pillar. He swung to safety just as the van plummeted into the dark waters below. He didn't know what caused an explosion, but he watched as a pool of fiery water surrounded the sinking vehicle.
Breathing heavily, Jake clung to the pillar, clutching the bag in his hand. His heart raced, but for now, he was safe. And what's more? He was smiling.
"Well, that went better than expected," he muttered, wiping blood from his cheek. "But I still hate Gotham."
As he said those words, he heard a peculiar engine roaring toward's Gotham's bridge. The image of the Batmobile coming to mind, Jake swung away into the night, a big grin plastered on his face.
Multiple grazes. Several bullet wounds. A very light bag in hand. And all he could think of was the thrill he'd experienced.
'Now I remember,' Jake thought to himself as he disappeared into the night. 'John Constantine said it. Hellblazer #41.'
'He who strikes first wins.' Or in his own words...
"You hit first, you hit hard, and you make damn sure they don't get up."
Something like that.