Aw, crap. My whole body turns hot with embarrassment, and I adjust my seat at my desk, resting both hands nervously over my notepad.
“Sorry, if you could repeat it, that’d be great.”
Giggles erupt through the room, but Mr. O’Flanigan looks surprisingly not-angry at me. Just seems like he’s inviting me back into the discussion. Not that I was ever really there.
“Sure,” he says. “I asked if anyone can tell me why most spiders don’t eat their prey whole, and instead choose to inject digestive enzymes into their prey to liquefy it first.”
I sit and think for a minute. I haven’t been following along in the book at all. In fact, I’m still stuck on page fifteen, where everyone else started. I look around. Students to my left and right have their books open to a big ol’ picture of a black widow, instead of “Chapter 1” in big bold letters like my page says.
But I’m Spider-Man, after all. I’m pretty sure I can hash out an educated guess to a question about spiders.
“Uh,” I begin, sitting up straighter in my chair and leaning on my desk, “well, since spiders often catch prey that’s way bigger than them, I’d guess liquefying it first would be way more convenient. It’s also really hard to eat things whole if they’re already wrapped in silk, which is… you know… how most spiders catch their prey.”
There’s a pause before Mr. O’Flanigan turns back to the board without a word.
“An excellent guess,” he says. “And a correct one.”
I breathe a sigh of relief and turn the pages of my book till I reach the one with the Black Widow on the left side.
“Imagine you’re a spider up against an enormous foe—take the bird-eating spider, for instance—imagine how hard it would be to overpower such an enemy without trapping it in your web first, and then taking it down from the inside.”
Mr. O’Flanigan talks for the rest of class, and hundreds more words go up on the board.
The rest of the school day is just as uneventful, although music class isn’t bad. We are all assigned instruments, and my turntables count! So now I get to do my favorite thing in the world for homework—making beats.
After school, though, just as I start walking back to the dorm, that’s when things get interesting. I’m scrolling through my phone, minding my business with my backpack slung over one shoulder, when a faint tingling starts at the back of my neck, so faint it feels like a bug is crawling on me. I swat at it, but my hand comes away clean. The tingling gets stronger and creeps up over my skull and my ears, and even up to my temples.
What is that?
And then I hear, from the other side of the pounding headphones over my ears, shrieks, screams, gasps of confusion.
I slide my headphones off and turn toward the sound—dozens of people have stopped on the sidewalk around me and across the street. All are looking up and diagonally across the block at the towering silver building that is the highly secured S.H.I.E.L.D. Facility of Brooklyn. A few alarmed spectators even point up at the building in horror. I step forward and follow their attention to the sight of what looks like a gigantic pigeon—and I mean a gigantic pigeon, the size of a minivan—scaling vertically up the side of the building.
“Just what New York City needs,” I mutter. “More buzzards.”
Two brilliant red wings are folded down behind it, but I look closer, shielding my eyes from the sun, and realize it’s no bird.
It’s a person in what looks like a metal bird suit.
A whole person is scaling the side of the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility in broad daylight with bright red wings. Looks like no villain I’ve ever seen before—Vulture’s probably the closest, but his getup is green—but whatever they want with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s highly classified materials locked away in maximum security, it can’t be good.
Finally.
I’ve been wanting action—kinda selfishly, I know, since “action” for me usually means “danger” for the city—all day, and now I finally get it. And since this guy looks like somebody new, I should have no problem taking him down, or at least tying him up in my web long enough for Peter to get here. This is perfect! He’s right in my neighborhood. Well, my old neighborhood. And like a block away from where I am right now! I should easily have enough time to nip his funny business in the bud and call the cops to come pick him up before Peter can even get word that there’s a commotion downtown.
I spring into action.
I dart left and sprint down the sidewalk, ducking into the nearest alley. I crouch behind a dumpster once I make sure the coast is clear, and unzip my Visions Academy backpack to reveal that polished red spider logo across the chest, glistening now in the late afternoon sunlight. My heart pounds just like it always does before it’s go-time, and I grin knowingly and confidently. I’ve got this.
Time for Mr. Pigeon to meet Mr. Bird-Eating Spider.
CHAPTER 7
I swing out from the alley so fast I can feel the air ripple through my clothes as I zip across the intersection like a bolt of lightning.
“Spider-Man!” calls the voice of someone below who’s noticed me. More awestruck voices follow, one after another.
“It’s Spider-Man!”
“Spider-Man’s here!”
“Spider-Man will catch them!”
These people think I’m Peter, which probably means they think I know who the “them” they’re referring to is, and the best way to catch them. I know neither of these things. But I know that getting to the bottom of this situation means first getting to the top of this building. If I try to walk in the front door, there’s no telling how many security checkpoints I’ll encounter—eye scanners, trip wires, lasers, net guns… laser net guns… are those a thing? I don’t know, but if they are, S.H.I.E.L.D. definitely has them. I reach up to launch my web and slingshot myself several stories up the S.H.I.E.L.D. building, which is ninety percent windows and ten percent reinforced steel, sticking my hands and feet firmly against the glass, and beginning the climb. I look up at the mess of red wings that I can now see are shiny in the evening sunset light, as if they’re made of metal.
Wait, they are!
I can hear them, tink-tink-tinking away, like the wings are all bristling against each other.
Who is this “Pigeon” person?
“Yo!” I call up to them. This is going too slow, so I reach up and latch my web onto their foot and sail up through the air to meet them. They startle at the feeling of weight on their foot, and again when I arrive next to them, and I hear a shallow gasp before they launch a grappling hook, sending huge red claws flying straight at my face.
“Hey!” I shout as I push up off the nearest window lip and backflip, my left hand bracing against the glass to help launch me. I watch the grappling hook sail past, mere inches from the tip of my nose, as one foot and then the other fly over my head backwards. When I complete the backflip, I have enough momentum to extend both my legs forward and plant them firmly in their ribs.
They let out a heinously loud squawk of a sound and tumble sideways down the side of the building, scraping a claw against the glass as they fall.
A screeeeeeeeeeech rings out, fading as they fall away from me, leaving three distinct claw streaks in their wake.
Then, shing! Another grappling hook flies up and hooks over the top of the building, about six stories above me.
“Race ya!” I challenge them, slinging my web and shooting straight up until I’m perched on the very top of S.H.I.E.L.D. looking down at them, watching them climb up the old-fashioned way. Are those wings just for show, or what?
“We gonna exchange names or what?” I call out. Whoever they are, I’m not sure why they don’t just grapple like I web-sling. Much faster. I’ve got a villain to take care of, before Peter gets here anyway. “Strong silent type, eh?” I ask with a shrug. “Alright.”
They’re close enough for me to see they’re looking up at me. They finally lock in on the grappling idea and a second huge red hook clamps into the edge of the building, w
ay too close to my fingers. I go reeling back just as they launch themselves up to perch exactly where I was two seconds ago.
They kneel at the edge of the building where they’ve just landed, and then, gradually, with the sun behind them and everything, they rise to full height.
I go a little cold inside. Whoever this person is, they’re tall.
I push myself back up onto my feet, but they’re at least a few inches taller. And when they begin to march toward me, one foot after another, with what must be boots made of iron, and extend their red wings, I realize just what I’m up against.
Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk.
They come closer still.
“Now look, man,” I say, taking a healthy couple of steps back. “You can just tell me what your name is and why you’re up here, and you can leave without doing more damage to this place, or we can do this the hard way.”
Suddenly, I feel my foot catch something behind me—just the slightest bit of resistance against my Achilles heel, and instinct, I guess, sends me ducking to the ground just as a huge metal net with prongs comes flying at me, lodging itself in the rooftop door to my right.
That’s one security measure I forgot to anticipate but that I shouldn’t really be surprised by—net guns.
They stop. Their wings flicker, sunlight glinting off each metal feather. They throw their hands out to either side of them, extending a claw from each finger as sharp as steak knives.
“Alright, hard way it is.” I gulp, looking at the array of sharp things I’m going to have to dodge in a minute. I brace my feet against the metal rooftop in the fighting stance Peter showed me—one foot in front of the other for support and both fists up—and prepare to take on this six-foot assemblage of red metal with claws and a bad attitude.
Slice! The razor-sharp claws rip through the air between us as Pigeon lunges at me. I can feel my heart pounding through my chest, but I remind myself: They’re just a pigeon, Miles. They’re just a pigeon! You can do this.
Slice, swish, swoosh! But they’re not fast enough. I dodge left, then right, ducking, then dive for their waist, hurling them backward onto the ground, sending a clanging of metal ringing out around us.
The impact forces a deep grunt from their gut.
“You know,” I say once I’ve backflipped off their chest and shot a web at them, plastering them to the floor, “for a bird, you’re not the most graceful villain I’ve ever met.”
They glare up at me—I can’t see their whole face, only their eyes through a slit in their jet-black mask—and they heave a huge breath in before their growl turns into an angry shriek, and a mess of claws and sharp feathers slices and dices my webbing into tiny floating gossamer bits.
My eyes go wide, and my arms go limp at my sides.
They can cut through my web that easily?
“That wasn’t in the How-to-Spider-Man handbook,” I whisper to myself as they lunge at me again. This time, I catch my web on the wall across the way and hurl myself off the building, keeping level with the top. I feel the air on my face as I spin around mid-air and hook a second web onto the same ledge. Then, the soles of my feet fly forward, and I turn into a 110-pound feet-first cannonball that just entered Mach 1.
WHAM!
They fly backward, head-first off the edge, but their claws catch them just before they can fall all the way off. I hear a shattering of glass below them, and a tinkling of glass pieces tumbling down the side of the building. I can’t imagine iron boots make for a soft impact against windows, and I smirk, grateful my feet are limber inside these sleek shoes of mine. They’re as light as water shoes, but as strong as Kevlar.
“Still not talking, huh?” I ask them.
They pull themselves up over the ledge again and plant their feet on the roof. We stare quietly at each other for a moment, before they glance at the ground and grapple straight through the floor. They yank upward and rip a hole through the roof as wide across as I am tall, splintering plaster and glass debris in all directions, forcing me back to shield my face from it. Then, they jump, with wings sucked in against their body and their arms crossed across their chest like a mummy, and dive straight down the hole, activating a storm of angry red lights and alarm sounds blaring from inside.
Great. They’ve tripped the security system. Maybe the police will get notified and be here soon. But just as quickly as they start, they vanish, as a short-circuiting fizzling sound erupts through the vicinity.
They must have disabled the security system.
Well, that hope was fun while it lasted.
After I scramble over and peer down into the dark abyss they’ve made, I realize that the gaping, sparking hole extends through floor after floor, endlessly, for at least ten stories. And then, I can’t make out details of any lower floors. There’s no way I’m going down there to chase after them. Time to take this guy down from a new angle.
And I’ve got a plan.
I sprint to the far side of the roof and dive straight off. Down, down, down I go, the rush of cool air making my eyes water. I watch the building, looking through the windows, catching glimpses of red as Pigeon tears through floor after floor. Once I’m a few floors ahead of them, I shoot my web up to the roof and slingshot my way through the glass, tackling their massive red body through the windows on the opposite side.
We’re a mess of glass, black spandex, and red metal as we tumble out of the building, and I can barely see anything. Debris hits my face as we tumble, and I hear glass, and a wave of gasps from concerned citizens somewhere below us. Another grappling hook shings out of somewhere, except this one is bright red and latching onto one of the steel beams of the building, and they go flying right back in the direction we came in, but not before I can clamp both my hands around their shiny metal boot and hitch a ride back to the side of the building.
This is not the way this was supposed to go.
A flash of light overtakes my vision, and by the time I blink it away, I realize I’m lying with my body flat against the side of the building, spread-eagled against the glass. Everything’s blurry. The world is spinning. And there’s a shiny mass of red metal feathers slipping inside the gaping hole we just flew out of, a few stories above me.
Ugh, I think to myself, how did I let them get away AGAIN?!
And where in the world are the security guards?! I thought this place was supposed to be ultra-locked down!
And then that voice of uncertainty gets louder in my ears.
Maybe it’s time to call Peter, it suggests.
I growl in frustration. No. There’s no way I’m giving up this easily. Not sure yet what kind of Spider-Man I want to be, but I know it’s not the kind that gives up after being flung off a building a couple of times. Especially since security should be here any minute. Sure, they disabled the alarm system, but not before it went off. Someone should’ve gotten the alert, right?
Right?
But help or no help, I have a job to do. I pull myself up the side of the building again, web up to the hole they just escaped through, and crawl in.
Round two, Pigeon. Looking around, I realize I’m now in what used to be an office. I say, “used to,” because what I’m looking at is almost unrecognizable. Office chairs lie sideways with their wheels spinning in the air. Cubicle walls have fallen over each other like dominoes. Half-eaten lunches sit on the desks that still stand. Debris litters the floor, so much that even my spider boots—which I’m wearing right now—crunch across the room like I’m the one wearing steel boots. I look around for a moment, wondering where they could’ve possibly gone, and then…
WHAM!
I go flying forward with a scream so banshee-ish that it’s embarrassing, and then crash!
Out the window I go.
A different window. Regular-guy reflexes kick in, and I forget I have Spider-Man powers for a second. Then I look up and see Pigeon flying overhead, and I web-sling and catch one of their feet.
Swipe!
A handful of claws sw
oops down and cuts right through my web, but I’m too fast. Thwip! I catch the other foot before I can fall.
Their claws make short work of the webbing, but another thwip from me, and I’m back on this chaotic red-metal-winged train. I’m too high up to catch onto anything else, and there’s no way I’m about to plummet fifty-plus stories to the ground without putting up a fight like Pigeon has never seen. Just when I think I might be able to keep this charade up and ride Pigeon’s feet to victory—wherever that is—or slow them down long enough to let the police get here with their choppers, there’s another white flash.
More stars. Pretty sure this time that I see little red birds circling in my thoughts, and as I ease my eyes open to realize that I’ve been flung into the other side of the building, I groan in pain. My whole chest hurts. My head hurts. I can barely see straight. Now I hear the whip-whip-whip of a chopper approaching, and feel the wind whoosh past me, and I sigh. They’re here at least, and not a moment too soon. But when I look up, I see the name plastered along the side.
Channel 7 News.
What is a news chopper doing here before the cops? JJ has the nerve to complain about Peter and I doing all of this damage control in the meantime, while we wait for the boys in blue to hurry up and get over here. Speaking of damage control, glass shatters somewhere nearby, and this time, I feel a shower of pieces rain down over me. I raise a protective arm up to shield my head, and when the smattering has ended, I see Pigeon has blasted their way back inside a new hole in the building.
I sigh, realizing this is a bigger problem than just me. Soon, there won’t be a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility left to protect. How secure can a building be if each floor has a gaping hole in it? And where are the actual security guards when I need them? Where are the motion-detecting lasers? Where are the sirens? As much as it hurts to have to do this, I know it’s time to call Peter.
I cringe at even the thought. I’m supposed to be a guy who doesn’t give up, and this feels a lot like giving up.
Marvel's Spider-Man: Miles Morales Page 7