The first thing you taught new caretakers was that any trip into Arachne’s enclosure was a calculated risk, so they’d best get good at math. There were so many variables to take into account, but gut-feeling reigned supreme. If their own spidey senses were tingling, telling them it was a bad idea, then it wasn’t worth the risk.

Problem was that it took time and experience to build up that sixth sense. Until then, every venture into the driver’s enclosure felt like a signed death warrant. Arachne had killed before, and she would again.

“You’ll be fine,” you told your most recent trainee, a trembling girl by the name of Dawn. “Our girl isn’t about to hurt you on your first day. That would be rude.” Your reassurances did little to pause her vibrations, though.

“What if--” she asked before abruptly cutting herself off. But you had arrived at the entrance to Arachne’s enclosure before Dawn could vent all her insecurities.

You swiped your Smithsonian employee keycard and held open the door while she pushed the tea trolley into the enclosure. It was climate-controlled so it was dark and dry inside all year long, the perfect conditions for a Black Widow drider.

The enclosure was nice as far as zoo enclosures went --this was the National Museum of Natural History, after all-- and perfectly tailored to Arachne’s exact specifications. In the middle was an enormous Victorian-styled stone archway, across which a huge intricately woven web was strung.

“Good morning, Miss Arachne,” you called. “It’s time for afternoon tea. We let you sleep in. You had a long night, after all…”

Yesterday she had been introduced to a fine male drider by the name of Knecax. A quick, almost playful nip was all it took to kill him. The rest of the night, she spent cocooning his corpse to be eaten at a later date. Another failed mating initiative.

Arachne --as big as she was beautiful-- took some time to stretch before delicately climbing down from her web. “You have my thanks, little butterfly. I was starting to get a bit peckish.”