"Fuck," she thought to herself, watching the pawn shop broker.

The broker eyed the piece cautiously. "What is it?"

The woman pointed to the blood-like vermilion emblem in the shape of a spider, inset into the disk. "It's called a spider seal. It's a perfectly balanced disk, it could be used for ... well, it's solid silver."

The older man picked the object up and examined it closely. "$15."

"What? Please, it's solid silver, it must be worth more than that."

He shook his head. "Times are tough, lady. Take it or leave it."

She sighed. "Ok, ok, I'll take it."

She took the money and walked out quickly. That was her last one. Each seal seemed like it had brought her less money than the one before. I thought the America was in an age of new prosperity, she thought. But all she saw in people's eyes was fear.

At least the money would pay the rent. She needed a drink, she decided, more than anything else. The bar called The Jewel was a welcoming one for her. She knew she could drink there undisturbed.

She stared at her glass of gin and felt bereft. The last one...one of the last relics of her former life. It was the only beautiful thing she had still possessed. She threw the gin back, fighting back sentimental tears, and ordered another one.

Later, she walked to the seedy Metropolis apartment where she made her office. There was a man waiting outside the door for her. He wore a neat black suit and his hair was slicked back. His demeanor was professional. A federal agent, she thought.

"Jessica Hallaway?" the man asked.

"Uh, yes sir."

"My name is Kirkpatrick, I'm with the F.B.I. May we speak privately?" He nodded towards the door of her office, which had 'Hallaway Investigations' stenciled on the door.

She reached inside her purse and rummaged for the key. Don't screw this one up, she thought, don't look a fool. She finally found it and opened the door.

The walls looked as if they were white, once, now they were yellowed with dirt and age. The pale blue carpeting was worn bare in spots. She walked to the small wooden desk which was positioned opposite the door and sat down. "How can I be of service to the F.B.I.?"

He looked around, an amused expression on his face. "Hardly the fashionable Fifth Avenue apartment we all used to read about in the papers, during your fetes in the 40's, is it?"

She sighed, trying not to sound angry. "No, it's not a 15-room penthouse serviced by a private elevator, if that's what you mean. Won't you take a seat?"

Kirkpatrick looked at the wooden chair dubiously. He remained standing. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small photograph. "Do you know this man?"

She examined the photograph carefully. It appeared to be a publicity photo, though she couldn't guess from where, of a colored man wearing dark glasses. She shook her head.

The agent took out a pad of paper and scribbled something down on it. He handed it to her: an address in the middle of Harlem. "We suspect the man is a Communist spy. We need you to trail him and gather evidence to prove it."

She nodded. "I can do that, I guess. Is there some reason the F.B.I. can't investigate the man itself?"

He peered at her, searching her face carefully. "We know you're a good American, Miss Hallaway."

She wanted to sink into her chair. "I...ok. I'll do the job."

He smiled at her. "Mr. Hoover will be glad to hear it. Here's something for her troubles." He laid down four $50 bills on the tabletop.

She reached for it quickly, stuffing the money into her desk. "I'm your woman, Mr. Kirkpatrick."

She changed her clothes and took a cab down to the address on the sheet. She didn't see any lights on in the house but she wanted to play it safe. She knocked on the door. There was movement inside. "Just a moment," a voice called out.

Soon the door opened, and the colored man she recognized from the photo came to the door. He was still wearing the dark glasses. He's blind, she realized. This is the man they think is a spy? She abandoned her original cover story. "Is Richard home?" she asked, disguising her voice.

The man smiled, "No, I'm afraid you have the wrong address."

She grumbled verbally. "Ok, thanks, sorry to bother you." The man went back inside. Ok, Plan B, she thought, and crossed the street, looking for the back alley to the building opposite the house. He didn't look like he was getting dressed to go out, so she had time. She drew a coiled silk cord out of her purse, and tossed it expertly up onto the room. The miniature spider-shaped grapple caught easily, and she climbed upwards to the roof. She positioned herself comfortably to watch the small house, settling down with a pair of binoculars.

She was glad she brought a sandwich and a few bottles, because the house went unvisited for most of the day. She glanced at the file the agent had left with her. There was a story about an International Cultural and Scientific Conference organized by the National Council of the Arts, Sciences, and Professions, and how it was denounced as communist front by HUAC. There was an article from the Gotham Bugle which included a photo: "Red Visitors Cause Rumpus: Dupes, Fellow Travelers Dress Up Communist Fronts."

Her eyes strained into the evening, as the streets were illuminated faintly by streetlights. She was about to call it a night when she saw the movement on the roof of the house. She put down the binoculars and switched to her long-range camera. "Let's see what you're up to," she muttered to herself. Yes, that was him. Maybe he was just taking in the night air?

The camera went click as she saw him don a pair of goggles. What does a blind man need with goggles? He began to change clothes. Oh my god, she thought, I know that uniform.

She ceased taking photos when she saw the familiar figure soar off the rooftop into the night sky. So ... Samuel McNider was the mysteryman known as The Owl. What did the F.B.I. want with Super-Soldier's former sidekick?

Jessica stuffed the camera and binoculars back into her purse and headed down into the roof. She needed advice. She wasn't even in touch with most of her old allies from the Freedom Crusaders...and there wasn't anyone else in the community whom she knew in their civilian identity. No. There was one.

She made another phone call for a taxi. Hours later, she stepped out onto the grounds of Garr Castle. She stood for a moment, admiring the architecture. The owners had it brought over brick by brick from its ancestral home in England, and reconstructed here shortly after the War.

With trepidation, she stepped up to the front door and rang the doorbell. Soon, the door opened to reveal an elderly gentleman dressed in a black butler's uniform. "May I help you, Madame?" he asked, his accent revealing the lineage of centuries of service.

"Uh, yeah. I need to speak to Dinah Barstow."

The butler raised an eyebrow, and looked at her with obvious contempt. "Mrs. Dinah Barstow-Knight will request a name. Whom may I say is calling?"

She wondered whether she should lie. "Jessica Hallaway."

The man nodded, "Please wait here," and closed the door securely.

Minutes passed, and Jessica was finally admitted. She followed the butler into the drawing room. Her eyes drank in the luxury of her surroundings. It had been years since she had been at home in environments like this.

Dinah Barstow-Knight still looked like a woman in her early twenties. She was dressed in a black and silver silk pantsuit which showed off her athletic figure to good advantage. "Thank you, Jackson," she said to the butler. "Madame," he bowed.

The woman turned to her visitor, and they opened with social pleasantries. Then Dinah addressed the issue directly. "So. Jessica. I assume you've come here for money or something?"

Jessica shook her head emphatically. "No! No, I need advice. You were the only person I could think to turn to."

Dinah said, "Then you must be pretty bad off." Her accent shifted from the refined mid-Atlantic accent she displayed when Jessica entered to room, and she started to show her New York roots.

Jessica nodded. "I am. Please Dinah, this is serious. I think I may be in trouble with the government. I need -- "

Dinah interrupted her. "In trouble with the government? You? Oh, that's rich. As far as I'm concerned, you made your bed, now lay in it."

Jessica said, "It doesn't just concern me."

Dinah stared at her. "You named names! You gave those bastards at HUAC just what they wanted! I started my career being thought a criminal and it took me months before the police trusted me, and just because I had once attended a party meeting as a teenager, that was all shot to hell. Johnny Frost tried to speak up for me, poor Johnny, and it ruined his life. Deaddevil committed suicide, damn you!"

"I never meant any of that to happen, Dinah. I just -- "

Dinah said, "I'm losing my temper now, this was a mistake. I should never have agreed to see you." She got up and walked over to Jessica, and whispered in her ear through gritted teeth. "Get out of here now, or I'm going to rip you so many new assholes you won't know which way to shit for a month."

Jessica's eyes widened, and she stood up quickly and ran from the room. Jackson let her out the front door, and returned to address Dinah. "Ought I summon the Glory Battalion, Madame?"

Dinah shook her head. "No. Not over her. She's nothing."

Jessica walked for hours. The disdain in Dinah Barstow's voice echoed through her skull. She needed a drink.

She made her way to a dive called Wentworth's. The interior was so dark it almost seemed black, and it seemed covered in spider webs. Appropriate, she thought. She ordered a gin, then another, and another.

"Hi babe," she heard at her left. She turned, and through bleary eyes examined the man who sat down next to her. He was 6'0" and had a dancer's build, slim but muscular. He had brown hair, though if she looked closely she could see a few grey hairs. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Abel Tarrant. What's your name, gorgeous?"

She stared at her drink. "Jessica," she told him. She didn't care.

Abel smiled at her. "You from around here?"

She shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "Just visiting."

He slammed his hand on the bar top. The sound made her jump. "Hey bartender, get the lady another drink," he called out. He smiled at her again. "I'll take care of you."

She managed to blurt out small talk. She let him talk, figured any voice in her head would be better than the ones she was trying to drown out with gin. "Coming, babe?" he finally said. She took his hand. She didn't care. Anyway, it would be a place to sleep, and she didn't want to go back to her office. And he wasn't bad-looking in an androgynous sort of way.

The hotel room was shoddy but clean. She had been in worse. She leaned into the kiss, and let him remove her blouse. He removed her bra deftly, running his hands over her nipples with a light touch.

She slipped his hat off his head and his jacket off his shoulders. She said, "ohh," as she removed his shirt, eyeing the tattoos which covered his body. Abel grinned at her, "I call them the Black Menagerie."

She kissed his muscular chest and soft belly, "BlackEagle swoops fierce and free," she whispered to him. She moved around behind him. She ran her tongue along his right shoulder blade. "BlackLion is curled there, strong and protective," she whispered. Her mouth trailed to his left shoulder blade, whispering "BlackDog prowls, playful and possessive of his friends."

She kneeled down, reaching her hands around his waist to unbuckle his belt and pull down his trousers around his ankles. She nibbled lightly down his muscular legs and ass, she grinned to herself and kissed his right asscheek, whispering, "Blackitty curls up playfully to match the larger feline."

He moaned, and she took him by the hips, turning him around. She spied the shape there. "Euuurh," she choked out, as BlackSlug crawled along his cock. "Suck the slug, baby," he said, his voice low and seductive.

"Euuuuuurh," she grabbed her bra and blouse off the floor, running to the exit. He followed her, standing naked in the doorway as she ran down the hall away from the room, the gastropod expanding slightly as he stroked it. "Suck the slug!" he shouted after her. "Suck the slug, you bitch!"

She made it for two blocks before the alcohol rebelled against her, and came roiling up. She vomited out all of it, and continued til she dry-heaved, clutching her gut in agony.

She stumbled to her feet, crying, and kept walking. It took her hours, but she made it back to her building. She peered up at the window of her office. She was filthy, but she was afraid of what she'd find up there.

She kept walking, looking around and behind her to make sure she wasn't being followed, and finally reaching the garage space she rented. She unlocked the gate and slid it to the side and slid in, lovingly running her hands along the vehicle therein. The unique bullet-shaped car was called the Black Widow, and it used to be one of the fastest vehicles on land. She hoped the F.B.I. didn't know she still maintained it. "You're the only beautiful thing I still own," she said softly.

She closed the gate, locking it behind her, and curled up in the back seat of the car. It was still light outside. She desperately needed sleep. She also did her best work at night ... and so did The Owl.

Dusk came, and Jessica woke up. Her body was cramped from the unnatural position. She crawled to the driver's seat and opened up the glove compartment and found the flask therein. She tossed back a quick swig, just enough to steady her nerves. She opened up the gate, and drove out to Samuel McNider's house.

She parked across the street, and kept a watch on the roof. As the moon rose, she saw him. There, easy when you know what you're looking for. As the figure headed out on patrol, flying east across the city, she started up her car. She raced through the streets, following The Owl's path. She maneuvered the car expertly through the streets, slipping through traffic and pedestrians with practiced ease. "Come on you bastard, notice me," she muttered to herself.

Finally, he did just that, and soared down to street level, landing on the running board of her car. She screeched to a halt, and he leapt off, landing lightly on the street side. "Ok lady," he said angrily, "You've been following me for blocks. Who are you and what do you want?"

She got out of the car, hands raised, palms out in a sign of surrender. "My name's Jessica Hallaway. We served together in the Judgement Society Invaders ... I was known as Spider back then."

The Owl scowled at her. "Yes. I don't remember you as the Spider, but remember the name Jessica Hallaway. Any of us who follow the HUAC trials do."

She sighed. She tried to formulate how to tell him about the danger he was in. Would he even believe her now? Her train of thought was broken by a flash of blue.

The blond giant strode towards the pair. "What seems to be the situation here?"

She gaped at him. "Super-Soldier?"

The Owl shook his head. "No. He's not Super-Soldier. He -- "

The man in the star-spangled costume interrupted him. "I wasn't speaking to you, boy." A bolt of red fire leapt from Super-Soldier's eyes, and Jessica screamed.