* * *
TURNS out Terraheal HQ isn’t far from Spanish Harlem, so it doesn’t take me long to get there, and once I do it takes me even less time to assess the situation.
I could call Peter, I know, but this is a petty crime so far. Just… with possible mutant bird-people. Whatever. I can take ’em. I’ve got a great vantage point from this tree on the other side of the fence, where I can see and hear everything. It smells like hand sanitizer and… a hospital. That distinct hospital smell that everyone knows but can’t really describe.
One of the bird beings flies out of an open window holding a box and screeching like a howler monkey, nearly startling me out of this tree, but I grip the trunk and slink down behind a branch full of leaves, and watch. They rip the box to shreds, sending thousands of small, slender items all over the grass. At first I’m alarmed, because I think they’re syringes, but then I realize they’re just popsicle sticks.
Hope all that box-ripping effort was worth it to waste like… $10 of Terraheal’s money.
Then I hear glass shatter as another box comes careening through the window and lands on the concrete in the parking lot. Now that sounded way more expensive. Liquid begins to seep out from under the box, and I wonder what kind of vaccines or cures or whatever might have been inside. I need to stop these people. Beaks, feathers, and all. I’m not the type to go caping for a corporate entity for free, least of all one with shady-sounding practices and a possible kidnapping accusation on Steven’s part, but this is wrong.
Besides, it might give me more intel on where these bird-people came from. First the guy in the alley from Ganke’s video, and now six more terrorizing Terraheal? This is something bigger than a few teens wreaking revenge havoc on a giant corporation. There’s something more going on here, and I intend to find out what it is.
But I know I can’t just swoop down from this tree like one of them and go after all six at once. They’ll all gang up on me. Or worse, scatter. And as fast as I am on a string of web, I’m no match for their wings. So I crawl. Slowly. Down through the branches until my feet find the soft earth. I crouch down low, slinking through the bushes like a panther before my fingers find the fence in a shadowy part of the yard.
More glass shatters from inside the building. What is with these supposed state-of-the-art facilities not having amped-up security? Unless they disabled the security of this whole place. Not unlike Pigeon did at S.H.I.E.L.D.
“Hey!” comes a voice from nearby, startling me. I gasp and duck down as low as I can, just as one of the first two bird creatures—the ones that climbed the fence and hopped over more like humans than birds—steps out of the back door shaking a can of spray paint. It only takes a second for them to uncap the can and start tagging the wall, right over the Terraheal logo with the blue and green Earth in the middle. I don’t stick around to find out what they write. I spot a dial on a metal stick next to the fence and read it. “Front, back, west parking lot,” it says. Three options with a huge water logo in the middle. I flip the switch for all three and crank the dial to high, just as torrents of water erupt from black sticks in the ground all over the property.
Squawks ring out from all around me, and bird-people start spilling out of doors and windows. The person tagging the building whirls around before covering their face with their hood.
“What the hell did you do?!” they holler before running off into the night with the rest of them.
“I don’t know, nothing!” calls another one.
“Crows!” calls the tagger. “Back to headquarters!”
My ears perk up at that.
…Crows?
That tagger is the last one to leave, their gaze lingering into the night, surveying the property until they settle in my direction. I freeze. Go completely corpse still. I… think I’m camouflaged, but their stare is so… direct. I can’t see their face under their hoodie, but their fists are clenched, and even as the sprinklers soak their black clothes even blacker, I can feel their stare chilling me to my bones.
“Artie! Come on!”
They start moving in the direction of the voice before their eyes do. Their stare lingers until they have to look away from me and climb back over the fence into the night.
I breathe the biggest sigh I think I ever have, and slump down against the fence to soak in everything I just witnessed.
CHAPTER 10
THE next day after school, back at F.E.A.S.T., I drag myself through the afternoon, first mopping up a spill in the bathroom—I don’t want to know what it is—and then washing my hands before starting the coffeemaker. All day I’ve been in a haze, short on sleep after the break-in, and a jolt of coffee is just what I need. I keep finding myself scrolling on my phone, skimming news stories about the Terraheal break-in, trying to find some clue to what they were up to. At school Ganke seemed real concerned about me, but I had to make excuse after excuse on why I’m so beat.
I can’t get Pigeon’s words out of my head. Nobody really knows you but you. Pretty sure Ganke doesn’t know me like I do. He’s cool—he’s like a brother to me, even. But if he doesn’t even know what I go through as Spider-Man, does he really know me enough to be able to look out for me? And what about Peter? Sure, he knows about my struggles as a fellow Spider-Man, but if he doesn’t know what I go through as a Black Spider-Man…
The coffeemaker beeps, dripping the last few drips of coffee, and I catch myself staring at it, lost in my thoughts again. I snap out of it and force myself to continue on, taking the coffee pot into the lobby and pouring the first serving into Dreeny’s cup, once I’ve nodded at her to confirm it’s black coffee in her cup this time, and not tea.
Steven is sitting in the front row of seats, alone this time. Not sure where his dad went off to.
I guess I stare too long, because he looks up at me.
“The hell are you staring at?”
Woah.
A bolt of shock zips through me at his tone. He seemed to have warmed up by the end of our conversation yesterday. Maybe I hadn’t got through to him as much as I thought? Something must be eating away at him.
“Nothing,” I say apprehensively. “Just… good to see you.”
“You don’t even know me,” he mutters.
I guess by Pigeon’s definition, he’s right. By most definitions he’s right. But… is it alright if I want to know him? Maybe even want to be… I don’t know… maybe not friends, but… at least friendly?
“You’re right,” I say, “I don’t.” Desperate for a way to change this conversation to something lighter, I glance over him and my eyes settle on his red shoes. “Nice, uh… nice kicks.”
I say it just to say something, before I even look closer at his shoes, which I realize are a little tattered and worn. He glares up at me like I’ve insulted him.
“I mean it,” I say. “Nice color.”
Which they are. Worn and old as they may be, they’re bright red. The same ones he wore the other night when he broke into that store. The same ones he used to kick me in the face.
“We’re not homeless, you know,” he says, lingering on the word homeless like the word itself disgusts him.
“I-I… didn’t assume—”
“We don’t need charity,” he hisses up at me.
“I don’t—”
“And we don’t need your pity. We’re fine.”
“Steven!” the dad calls from just behind me, where he’s stopped and turned around to listen. “That’s quite enough. We’re guests in this place. They’ve taken us in, shown us kindness, and all this young man has done to you is offered coffee and complimented your shoes. Show some gratitude.”
Steven glares from his dad to me.
“Please pardon him,” urges the man, stepping back over to us and clapping my shoulder affectionately. “He’s… recently lost his mother. It’s been hard for both of us.”
“Everyone saw it coming but you,” hisses the boy, returning his attention to his phone. “Just handed her over to tho
se fascists in pharma coats at Terraheal—”
“Steven,” growls the dad.
“What?” Steven asks. “Since you’re out here telling all our business anyway.”
There’s a gap in the conversation, and I decide I might be able to help after all.
“I lost my dad recently,” I explain to the father. “It’s been hard. Nothing really ever fills that hole anymore. But sometimes, ya just need space. I get it. I’ll leave you alone. Just… let me know if I can help.”
“No one helps us,” Steven fires back at me bitterly. “You should learn that now, before it gets you hurt. No one looks out for you but number one. No one really knows you but you.”
I stare at him for a long moment, holding this coffee pot in my hand, not really caring if people are staring from all sides of the room at this point. Is this kid… Steven, the bitter kid sitting in front of me, with the white wings spread across his chest… is he… one of Pigeon’s “Crows”? Nah, he can’t be! Pigeon worked alone at S.H.I.E.L.D., unless she didn’t need to call for backup because I was that sloppy. She might have known she could handle me on her own. I grip the pot so tightly my fingers start to go tingly, and I blink myself back into reality, trying to shake off the shock of it all.
And then, right on schedule, my phone buzzes in my pocket. “I’m sorry you feel that way, man,” I say, nodding and turning away. “Offer still stands, though, if you change your mind.”
I make it all the way back to the kitchen, set the coffee pot back into its coffeemaker slot, and brace myself against the counter.
Steven is… he must be… working with Pigeon, whoever that is. Oh my god, there are so many pieces on the table, none of which fit together. If Vulture was at the Photojournalism Gallery with Peter last night, and Pigeon was with me, and Steven was in jail only days ago, how did he connect with them so fast? And why did they break into the Terraheal facility right here in Spanish Harlem?
And what the hell was he stealing from that convenience store? Rope? Duct tape? Pepper spray? And then I shake myself out of my thoughts, because that’s ridiculous. If he’s really working with Pigeon, he’d have access to grappling hooks and mechanical wings. He wouldn’t need to steal anything from an East Harlem convenience store.
“Hey,” says Peter, stepping into the room and jolting me out of my thoughts. I guess I seem more flustered than I imagined, because Peter says, “I get the feeling you’re getting tired of being asked if you’re okay. So I’ll just say… you look like you need some good old-fashioned Brooklyn-style pizza for dinner after all.”
I stare at him blankly for a minute before realizing that, yeah, my stomach’s feeling a little empty, and some dinner would actually hit the spot right about now. Maybe it’ll even give me a chance to clear my head a little and sort all of this out. Peter always helps me untangle stuff.
I nod slowly, lost in thought.
“I’ve got a lot to talk to you about this time,” I say.
“Nonna’s?” he asks.
Happens to be Dad’s favorite place to stop on his way home when I was having a bad day. Pepperoni and olives. Always. I could use a slice or two now while I’m sorting out what happened today. And yesterday. And the day before.
I nod and step past Peter out of the kitchen to get my jacket.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yes, please. Nonna’s.”
As I’m getting dressed to go, I steal a glance at my phone and read the message.
PIGEON: Meet me on top of the New York Library in ten minutes.
Ten minutes?!
“Uh, hey, Peter?” I ask.
“Yeah?” he asks, slipping his arms into his jacket. A pang of guilt hits me for leaving him hanging, but maybe he’ll understand once all of this shakes out and I’m able to gather more intel from this Pigeon girl.
“Could we actually get pizza at lunch tomorrow? My mom just texted me and, uh… she needs to… wants to… take me somewhere else for dinner.”
Good going, Miles, you couldn’t think of anything more convincing?
“Oh, sure thing,” says Pete. “You’re making it easier to choose salad instead, anyway. I’ll look forward to pizza with you tomorrow. Have fun with your mom!”
How is he so chill about everything?
He steps out of the room with a smile, and I sigh, feeling guiltier than ever for lying. But I text Pigeon back, and hope the ends will justify these means.
ME: You’re on.
CHAPTER 11
HOW many nights am I going to spend climbing up the side of a building all incognito like a creep? At least this time it’s not because I accidentally switched backpacks with my roommate. No. This time, I’m doing critical reconnaissance work. This time, I’m being Spider-Man.
I pull myself up over the ledge onto the roof of the New York Library and look around, the thought that this might be a trap washing over me. The last time Pigeon and I stood face to face, it was inside the S.H.I.E.L.D. building. What if she just called me here to try to kill me? Finish the job? What if I just walked into a trap, alone, because I rushed into things instead of letting Peter help me?
My heart’s pounding as I look around, having worked myself into paranoia.
“Pigeon?” I ask, spinning around and keeping my eyes moving. “Show yourself!”
“I’m right here,” comes a smooth voice from nearby. I follow the sound to a shadow leaning against a wall in the dark. She pushes off the wall and steps into the evening light, wings tucked down against her back, yellow eye visor halfway covering her face.
“You seem jumpy tonight, Spider-Man,” she says, keeping her distance with her arms folded.
“I’m here,” I say, clearing my throat and speaking in what I hope is the most confident voice I have. “That’s what you asked for.”
“I asked you to join me when you realized you can only look out for yourself,” she says, narrowing her eyes at me. “Is that what’s happened? Or did you come here to fight?”
A set of claws shings out from her fingers in front of her face, and I gulp, remembering all those times I had to dodge them on top of the S.H.I.E.L.D. building. But I steel myself and clench my fists. I’m not going anywhere.
“I didn’t come here to fight,” I say. “Lucky for you.”
Nice one, Miles, I think to myself.
She rolls her eyes and folds her arms again.
“So, why did you come, then? To lecture me?”
“To find out more about you,” I say. “You don’t seem like someone who does things for no reason.”
And it’s true, she doesn’t. Everything she did at S.H.I.E.L.D. seemed premeditated, carefully calculated. She disabled so many security systems and picked the perfect day—when most employees would be at an offsite—it was all too easy for her.
“I don’t,” she says. “And if you came here hoping to find out what I stole, I’m sorry to disappoint you. But that’s me and my grandfather’s business.”
“So Vulture is your—”
Something in her face changes, and her stance stiffens.
“That’s our business,” she hisses. “And as long as you’re still not with us, you’re against us.”
“Are those my only two choices?” I ask. “What if I’m not with you, and not necessarily against you?”
“I was warned you’d speak in riddles, too.”
“No riddles,” I say, stepping forward with my hand on my chest. “Promise. I don’t even know why you’re doing what you’re doing—what you stole, or why, so how can I decide if I’m for or against you?”
I’m close enough to see something change in her eyes. Confusion maybe? I decide to use this opportunity to keep talking. If I can keep talking, I can keep her talking; and if I can keep her talking, maybe I’ll get enough information to make this trip worth it.
“So, since you invited me out here,” I say, “I have questions. First you steal an unlabeled briefcase from S.H.I.E.L.D., then you bust up a Terraheal facility in Spanish Harlem…”
She blinks in surprise for a moment, and I smirk under my mask. A reaction. Very telling.
“That… wasn’t part of the plan,” she says, for the first time since I met her, visibly a bit rattled by how much I know.
“So your Crows just went rogue without you then,” I conclude, folding my arms across my chest. “Can you at least tell me why?” I ask. “Or did you just want to lecture me instead?”
“I don’t ‘lecture,’” she says, “I educate. Just doing my part to keep it real in a sea of misinformation. So, Spider-Man, I’ll do just that—keep it real. As a do-gooder who largely flies—or swings—solo, you must know what it’s like to be judged before people even get to know you. And with that mask, how can they? I said it before. Nobody really knows you but you.”
I think back to that night sitting with Peter on the roof while the rain came down around us, when he told me, just breathe, Miles.
Take time for you, he said.
Easy for him to say.
“You do understand,” she grins. “Don’t you wish you could hang with people you didn’t have to pretend around? People you don’t have to wear a mask around?”
I know Peter means well, but as much as he does, he’ll never understand what it’s like to be mistaken for a villain in plainclothes simply because of his race. Pigeon, with her skin tone that’s around the same as mine is under my mask, has no idea she’s preaching to the choir here. There’s something about what she’s saying that’s… I don’t know if tempting is quite the right word, but… appealing? Relatable at least?
I remember what Peter said.
Be careful about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Which feels impossible.
How much better would it feel, how freeing, to not have to worry about that? To be the one calling the shots on what constitutes the “wrong” place and the “wrong” time? Pigeon and her crew get to fly around freely, over the whole city, without the expectations of everyone else weighing on their shoulders.
“Call me when you’re really ready,” she says, turning and stepping up to the edge of the building. “You have my card.” She lowers her visor and looks over her shoulder at me. “And now my name. Starling.”
Marvel's Spider-Man: Miles Morales Page 11