And she dives, spreads her wings, and sails off into the dimming sky.
CHAPTER 12
NONNA’S is as good as I remember. The thinnest crust I’ve ever seen, the greasiest box, the gooiest cheese, the spiciest pepperoni, the tangiest olives, and the best memories. I bite into the first slice and remember sitting with Dad, baring my feelings to him on our worn leather couch in Brooklyn. Last time that happened was a whole year ago. At least. Yeah, about a year and two months, now that I think about it. It was science fair day, and my experiment demonstrating which types of produce generate the most electricity didn’t generate nearly as much positive feedback from the panel of teachers and administration as I thought it might.
Turns out some kid named Jerome’s experiment about which environments mold grows best in was far more interesting to them. He won and blew everyone else out of the water.
Anyway, I wasn’t happy about it. I’d spent so much time peeling potatoes and zucchini and spaghetti squash that morning so I could have brand-new, not-so-stinky produce on my table, and all of that work ended up being for nothing.
But when Dad brought home a box of Nonna’s and sat down with me on the living room couch, all of my feelings about it came pouring out at a rate that even I didn’t expect. I instantly felt better, like releasing a balloon inside me that had been swelling and swelling and threatening to explode.
Now, I sit across the red-and-white checkered table from Peter, who’s chowing down on a slice of Hawaiian barbecue with bacon instead of Canadian bacon, because Canadian bacon is really just ham, and calling it “bacon” should be against the law.
And I hope the magic of Nonna’s still works like it used to.
“So,” he starts, halfway covering his mouth with his hand so he doesn’t show me a mouthful of pizza, “let’s talk.”
“Okay,” I say, taking another bite. “Where should we start?”
“Well, what’s bothering you most right now?”
Oh boy, everything. The fact that I screwed up at S.H.I.E.L.D. so bad. The fact that Vulture and Pigeon have more contacts working for them, one who might recognize me if I’m not careful at F.E.A.S.T.
Her Crows, she called them.
And the fact that Ganke’s suspicious as hell about my weird behavior lately, and I can’t focus too well in class because of all this Spider-Man stuff, which I’m not even that good at so far, and—
I sigh and lean back against the cushy diner seat, tearing into my slice, trying to figure out where to start in all of that mess in my head. “Well,” I say, “I think it’s kinda coincidental that we both encountered winged villains in Brooklyn at exactly the same time.”
“Too coincidental,” says Peter, reaching for another slice. “Maybe Vulture got his hands on some cloning tech?”
“Nah, an accomplice,” I say. “Pigeon—I mean, Starling is his granddaughter.”
Peter pauses for a second and frowns in confusion.
“She called him grandfather.”
“What? Vulture has a family? No way.”
“You’re surprised?” I say, taking another bite.
“I mean, not saying he shouldn’t, but… I mean, can you imagine having Thanksgiving dinner with that guy?”
“Can’t imagine they’d be serving turkey,” I say. That gets a deep chuckle out of Pete, and I can’t help but grin.
“Anyway, that’s good to know. So, granddaughter, huh?”
“Yeah, she seemed really bitter about him being in Rykers.”
Peter’s face goes a bit flat, and he takes another bite in silence before saying, “Last I heard, he was spending most of his time in solitary. That’s rough for anyone, but especially an older guy.”
Oh.
That is pretty rough, I have to admit.
“Why?” I ask.
Peter shrugs.
“Don’t know,” he says. “MJ did a fascinating piece on some of the baddest guys in there, just to see what they’re up to, updates on their sentences, etc. Did a great job of keeping the public informed with that one, although I think she did it to counter that piece she was asked to write about how Spider-Man is a liability.”
I grin and nod.
What a huge middle finger to JJ with that one. Good ol’ MJ. Peter pops the last piece of his crust into his mouth and brushes the crumbs back onto his plate.
“Some of them have taken up hobbies in there that are… unexpected.”
“Like what?” I ask, resting my chin on my fist, genuinely interested. “What, did Electro take up knitting?”
“Let’s see…” he says, looking up at the ceiling, trying to remember. “Rhino has a robust bottlecap collection going, and Kingpin has a pet goldfish named Flush. Turns out Living Brain is a pretty talented photographer, too. Says he wants to do weddings when he gets out—”
“Hold on,” I say, “back up. Kingpin has a pet goldfish named… Flush?”
“Apparently it’s a bowling term,” he shrugs.
But definitely also a goldfish term. I have to chuckle at that one.
Suddenly, we’re both interrupted by his phone beeping in his pocket. He wipes his greasy fingers on a napkin, picks it up, and looks at the screen.
“Oh look, it’s for us!” he says, holding up the phone so I can see. A picture of a polished-looking Black woman with a twist out and dark brown lipstick is looking back at me with the name “Officer Smallwood” at the bottom.
He presses a button and holds it to his ear.
“Viv? Hold on, I’ll add him.”
Suddenly, my phone rings too, and when I answer, I hear a woman’s voice come through loud and clear on the line.
“2.0, you there?” she asks.
I don’t know how I feel about her calling me 2.0. Like I’m an updated version of Spider-Man or something. Or the newer model? Or an apprentice? I don’t know. But that’s my nickname for now, I guess. I’ll leave it alone since she doesn’t know mine or Peter’s names. Something about Peter rigging his phone to let in a second call and spoof a different number so she doesn’t know either of our names or numbers? I should probably do the same to mine before she starts calling me directly…
“Here, Ms. Smallwood.”
“Wonderful, but I told you, it’s Viv, Vivian, or Captain.”
“Yes, Vivian,” I correct myself.
“Better,” she says. “I have some intel for you that may prove useful. Do you have a minute?”
“Always have a minute for intel. Pretty sure we’ve got some, too,” Peter says, winking in my direction. “You first, Viv. Lay it on us.” “Alright,” she says. “As I’m sure both of you have gathered, Vulture’s broken out of prison.”
“Had our suspicions.” Peter nods.
“We’re still not sure who orchestrated the break-in, or why, but we do know Vulture didn’t just escape with his freedom. Turns out, Vulture was a walking science experiment.”
Peter and I exchange looks, and I feel like we might be thinking the same thing.
“What kind of a ‘science experiment’ are we dealing with here, Viv?” I ask, leaning on the table. I shut my pizza box, having lost all interest in food at this point.
“You’re familiar with Terraheal?” she asks. My ears perk up. Maybe they did something to Vulture too?
“Sorta?” asks Peter, glancing at me. I nod at him enthusiastically.
“How do they relate to all of this?” I have to ask.
“Terraheal has been working on a highly controversial but government-sponsored cancer treatment off the record for years. Vulture’s spinal cancer and prison sentence made him the perfect test subject for the project. He was facing thirty-five years to life. So they made him a deal: the use of his body in exchange for only half his sentence, and lodging in a cushy top-secret medical wing of Rykers with visitation from family as he pleased. There was just one condition: non-disclosure. They didn’t tell him a thing about what they were circulating through his body, or why. Treatment went on pretty successfully for m
onths, making him stronger and stronger. Soon, he was in remission. But once he was strong enough, three of his contacts broke into the wing where he was staying at Rykers hospital and busted him out. But the treatment is still in his bloodstream, and the treatment is where our real problem lies.”
I rest my face on my fist and think.
Sounds like a wild plan on Terraheal’s part, but it doesn’t sound like they’ve done anything illegal yet. Vulture on the other hand? Yeah, breaking out of prison is definitely illegal. And with something in your bloodstream that Terraheal owns?
Pretty sure that’s technically theft.
“His ‘treatment,’” continues Viv, “involved micro technology designed to combat late-stage cancer by entering the bloodstream and attacking cancer cells. These nanobots collected data and reported back to a central AI—”
“Another development of Terraheal’s, I’m guessing?” asks Peter, leaning back and crossing his foot over his knee.
“Correct,” she says. “Unbeknownst to even his caretakers, Vulture was restored to full strength, just before he was broken out of prison. The accomplices were caught on surveillance footage wearing winged suits similar to Vulture’s, which was confiscated for medical research purposes. However, the accomplices arrived with an extra wingsuit for Vulture, and all four were able to escape in the air under the cover of night. They… they got away from them. No ID on the accomplices yet—”
“Pigeon,” Peter and I say in unison.
We exchange smiles before Vivian clears her throat and jumps in with, “Okay? Uh… wanna fill me in here? Who’s ‘Pigeon’?”
“The girl who attacked the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility yesterday.”
“That big red bird guy?” asks Viv, her normally stoic voice and professional tone exchanged for sheer shock.
“Gal,” says Peter.
“Sorry,” she says, “gal. You really think they might be the same person?”
“She definitely has a motive, if she’s Vulture’s granddaughter,” I say. And then, a word Viv said before and that never sank in resurfaces in my mind.
“Wait, Viv,” I say, hoping I heard wrong, “did you say four?”
Vulture, Pigeon, Steven, and… another one?
“Correct again,” she says. “Sounds like we have partial ID on this Pigeon character, and are still waiting on the identity of the other three. Surveillance footage was… spotty at best.”
I glance up at Peter, hoping he doesn’t see in my eyes that I might know who one of them is. I’d hate to be wrong about that Steven guy at F.E.A.S.T. and have falsely accused a kid who just lost his mother.
But wouldn’t that just be evidence that he has a motive to join these buzzards in the first place? Steven’s mother was apparently killed by Terraheal in another rogue experiment. Pigeon believes Terraheal wronged her grandfather, Vulture. They could’ve had an instant connection and set out on an elaborate scheme to bust Vulture out of prison and take down Terraheal with bad publicity.
Sounds like I’m not the only one who learned about taking down one’s enemies from the inside.
“So… he still has the nanobots in his system, then,” says Peter. “They all have access to technology that could affect their bodies, restore their strength? This could be dangerous, to say the least. What if they find a way to use that technology to attack the city somehow?”
“That’s exactly why we’re worried,” says Viv. “We need those nanobots back. In the wrong hands, who knows what could happen.”
“So, what did Vulture want with the stolen exhibit piece then?” I ask. Some of the most critical elements of Vulture and Pigeon’s master plan are still hanging disconnected in space. “Which piece did he actually take?”
“I didn’t get a good look at it,” Peter sighs dejectedly.
“We did,” says Viv.
Peter’s phone buzzes and he and I both lean in to have a closer look. On the screen is a rotating holographic diagram of what looks like a golden statue of two wings folded in on themselves across the chest.
“This is Thoth’s Embrace, a figurine dating from millennia ago, dug up from an ancient burial ground and on loan from Wakanda.”
“What does Vulture want with that?” I ask.
“We don’t yet know, but let’s assume it can’t be good.”
“Assumption made,” says Peter.
“What’s it made of?” I ask, looking up at Peter. “If we know its chemical composition, maybe that’ll give us some clues?”
“Good thinking,” he says.
Warmth floods me, but I try to stay focused.
“Solid gold,” says Viv. “No clues there. Gold is close to worthless now compared to its price decades ago. Besides, the statue of Thoth was fixed on a pedestal exhibit just across the room from the Atlas Diamond. Way more valuable. Something tells me Vulture’s motives for stealing the statue don’t involve money.”
“Maybe,” says Peter, stroking his chin. “Maybe Vulture attacked the Photojournalism Gallery to distract me from what was going on at S.H.I.E.L.D.?” he asks, looking at me for confirmation.
“Or maybe,” I offer, “Pigeon attacked the S.H.I.E.L.D. building to distract you from Vulture’s attack at the Gallery.”
“Hmm… did Pigeon seem surprised to see you when you showed up?” he asks.
“Not really, actually,” I reply, thinking back to how she reacted when I first popped up next to her on the side of the building. “Just annoyed.”
But just when I think Peter might nod and talk about how surprised Vulture was to see him swing down from the museum ceiling and over all the fancily dressed cocktail party guests, he shakes his head and says, “Vulture didn’t seem surprised either. Not even annoyed. He seemed… confident. Very confident.”
“You might too, if your blood was pumping with millions of microscopic supercomputers,” says Viv.
Peter winces and scratches his forearm at the thought, and I have to grin. Doesn’t sound too comfortable to me either, honestly.
“That’s all I’ve got for now,” says Viv. “Let me know if you find out anything else about Vulture, Pigeon, or either of their accomplices.”
“Will do, Viv,” says Pete. “Over and out.” He clicks off the phone and slides it back into his pocket, not taking his eyes off me.
“What?” I ask. Why’s he looking at me knowingly like that?
“Looks like you’ve got more you couldn’t say,” he says. “What’s up?”
“Yeah, actually,” I sigh, wondering if, now that Viv is off the phone, it might be a good time to just let him know what I’m thinking about Steven at F.E.A.S.T. Too many coincidences between all the bird-people and Pigeon, and now nanobots that affect people’s bodies… In case there is a connection, I think Peter can handle this information with a grain of salt, right? He’s Spider-Man, after all. “That guy at F.E.A.S.T. that came in with his dad today?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Heard him giving you a hard time out there in the lobby. Everything okay?”
“He’s uh… His name is Steven, and… he’s the guy who—”
I suddenly feel something crawling on the back of my neck, and I swat at it, but my hand comes away clean. Then that tingling grows, and grows, and creeps up the back of my head, over my ears and scalp, and I look at Peter whose eyes are now wide, staring… no, not at me.
Past me?
His pupils dilate, and in one fell swoop, he grabs my wrist and yanks me out of the booth, throwing me across the restaurant floor just as the window where we once sat is obliterated with a piercing crash! Glass flies everywhere, potted flowers and dirt fly into Nonna’s. The table where we were sitting sails over my head. An unoccupied bicycle tumbles through right after it, just narrowly missing my ear. Several nearby screams ring out, all muffled after the force of the impact as I hit the floor. I see a blurry Peter in front of me, his mouth moving, and a hushed version of his voice squeaks through the faint high-pitched ringing in my brain.
“Pete?” I whisper.
“Miles, we gotta go,” he urges. “Can you stand?”
I look around groggily before rolling over onto my knees. I see glass all over the floor, and… blood? Mine? Everywhere? Panic sets in just as I realize it’s only a shattered jar of pizza sauce from the souvenirs along the wall, and that I’m actually fine. Phew. I feel Peter’s hand grip me around the upper arm and help me to my feet, slowly, gently, but firmly.
“That was Vulture’s van that just blasted the hole in the wall,” says Pete.
“You sure?” I ask him, squinting against all this light.
Tires screech outside, so loud I think a vehicle is about to plow into the side of the building again. But I look out through the gaping hole in the wall just in time to catch a black military-grade armored truck scraping down the road—looks like it might be missing a tire in the front—nope, make that two. Sparks fly in all directions off the front bumper, which is being ground into shrapnel as it peels right past us. Then I hear something else.
Something new.
Something… Jurassic.
Is that the sound of raptors?
“That’s the sound of either oversized birds, or undersized pterodactyls,” says Peter, “and I’m not sure which is worse.”
Something huge with molting black feathers flaps past, jutting a wing into the restaurant window, narrowly missing my face, before squawking its way back out again and down the street.
I look at Pete, and he looks at me.
“Oversized birds,” we both say.
But where the hell did they come from? Is Vulture using this new tech to create them? And what the hell do we do now?!
I summon the courage to climb back into the booth by the window to get a better view, carefully resting my knee on the glass in the bright red seat. I look up into the sunlight to see that this truck has three distinct sets of black wings on top, flapping angrily—each as big across as the booth I’m sitting in. And attached to each set of wings? An angry, hissing beast the size of a human being, in human being clothes, with what looks like—nope, that’s not a human being’s face. Or teeth.
Marvel's Spider-Man: Miles Morales Page 12