It's ten minutes past midnight. Back at the front desk. Still bored and sleepy. Might as well practice my handwriting—Wikipedia, grant me thou material:
Night Spider (Aranea Nocturna)
Aranea nocturna (commonly known as the Night Spider) is a highly nocturnal, photosensitive arachnid species first formally documented during the global plague event of 1643.
Typically jet black in coloration, adult specimens range from 8 to 12 centimeters in diameter. Due to their large numbers, these spiders exhibit swarm-like movement patterns during nighttime hours, often forming dense, mobile clusters in unlit or poorly illuminated areas. Mass emergence of this species occurs after every sunset.
The species' taxonomy and evolutionary origin remain unknown. Attempts at DNA sequencing have failed, as specimens undergo near-instantaneous cellular degradation upon exposure to light.
Notably, A. nocturna disintegrates into smoke or fine ash when exposed to light. The exact mechanism of this reaction remains unexplained. Theories range from photoreactive biochemistry to quantum-level instability, but no definitive cause has been identified.
Bites from A. nocturna are extremely painful and potentially lethal without medical intervention. However, with immediate treatment, most bites are survivable, though tissue necrosis and long-term nerve damage are common complications.
Welp, there's nothing in there about superhero women who can control the little beasts. What a shameeee. I must be an ultra-rare sort of Pokémon—I bet I only ever spawn under UV lamps or something.
I wonder if I should go to the cops and show them what I can do. Like, I could just walk into the police station at night and be like, "Hi there, I'm the spider whisperer". Use them to draw a nice portrait of the hottest police inspector private general or whatever. It'd be awesome if I could use this to get rich.
But … I think I'm a rebellious little tinfoil hat enthusiast. I don't trust the government—I'm like 99% sure that if I exposed myself (and I don't mean in the hot, sexy, naked way—wink wink), all they would say is, "Sure, ma'am, please step into this cool airtight little glass box and ignore the men with syringes coming up behind you."
And then 'boom'! They would take my clothes off. And they'd stab me with needles or something and study me under fluorescent lightbulbs. Lab-coated nerds would be figuring out if I'm a danger to society.
Well, I happen to know the answer to that question, and I'd rather not tell it to anyone. So, in any case, I think I'll stick with what I know—which at this point is:
The spiders obey me, and I can hear them—sort of. I can use them to draw huge, obscene symbols in my front yard. They're … really dangerous … to everyone except me.
At least I hope I'm right about the 'except me' part. But given points one and three … I think I know how I can monetize this.
Oh. Write you later, dear Diary. I hear a car coming.
***
Well, following up, a car … did indeed arrive. Actually, it screeched to a halt on the pavement like the driver wanted to see if the airbags worked. Black SUV, headlights on high beam, evaporating every spider in its way. The driver's seat door swung open before the thing had even fully stopped.
I was only halfway across the lobby when I heard the shouting. It was frantic yelling from the opposite gender—a guy screaming about first aid and a spider bite.
I picked up the pace and squinted past all the lights outside to see the man princess-carrying a girl out of the passenger seat, all main-character-like.
The girl was clinging to him weakly, arm clutched to her chest, fingers curled in and shaking. Even from several meters away, I could see the swelling—it was insane. The veins from her wrist to her shoulder were black—literally black, like from a curse in a Harry Potter movie or something.
"She—she got bit!" the main character shouted, carrying his girl right past me all in a hurry. "It was one of those—those spiders! We called an ambulance, they told us to get first aid—now, please, now—"
"I've got it!" I said. I shouted without even knowing—I startled even myself a little—but the next instant, I found my legs were already moving. I ran for the front desk like there was a fire licking my asscheeks, I yanked open the bottom drawer—and boom!Surprise! A spider was in there, too.
Now I actually remember this perfectly, because I was full of adrenaline. I swiped my hand sideways on instinct, and the spider bolted out of the drawer like it didn't care. A puff of smoke, and it evaporated in an instant. I pulled out the drawer completely to make sure there weren't any other beasties hiding in there, then I grabbed the first aid kit and ran back to those two.
The guy had his girlfriend lying flat on one of the leather couches just by the front door. She was barely conscious—her eyes were all glassy, and her skin all pale—except for her arm, which looked like it had black lightning pulsing under the skin.
"Here," I said, kneeling beside them and opening the kit. "You hold her hand. I'll take care of this."
The guy looked at me like I'd just told him I was a brain surgeon, but he did what I said, no questions asked. His hands were trembling. I don't know if anything I did actually helped—gauze, pressure, antiseptic, more gauze—then even a tourniquet, just to be sure—but I did it fast, even though I was also shaking like a crazy person. Which is 90% of first aid ... I hope. Cause I think I messed up the gauze.
But anyway:
"She's burning up," the guy said. "God, is she going to—?"
"No," I cut him off without thinking. "She's not."
(Was she, though? Maybe. She certainly looked terrible. But I mean ... I'm not going to say that.)
The ambulance arrived maybe two minutes later, sirens blaring like crazy. Lights flashed and doors flew open, and then paramedics rushed in. One of them shoved me out of the way with a stretcher, and another jabbed the girl with a really big syringe.
Then they got her up and rushed her to the ambulance in just a couple of seconds, and they put her in there and slammed the doors shut. They sped off again with the guy without so much as a "bye." One of them did nod at me and said, "Thanks," though.
Not sure how I heard that—the man was already inside the ambulance.
But you know? That might've been the nicest thing anyone's said to me all week.
…
Well damn, spiders are dangerous.
I'm starting to rethink this whole 'abusing my superpowers' thing.