“Yeah,” I say, although I’m saying it to myself more than anyone.
She’s probably okay, wherever she is. Maybe Mom got her out of the city entirely before something could happen to her. I can only hope…
“So,” begins Ganke, after setting his backpack on the kitchen table, sliding into a chair, and rubbing his palms together like a mad scientist, “pull up a chair, young student. The master is ready to impart what he knows.”
“Alright, what’d you find out, Poindexter?” I say, pulling out a chair and sitting next to him. It doesn’t take him long to pull up a page on his phone and hand it to me. I look down and see an article from a peer-reviewed scientific journal called ‘The World’s Deadliest Spiders and What’s in their Web.’
“So, since this article is about three years long, allow me to summarize,” says Ganke, adjusting his seat in his chair as if he’s getting settled in for a long-haul conversation. “It’s just like Mr. O’Flanigan said in class the other day. Some species of spiders have venom with antiseptic properties. Enough that in some parts of the world, spider silk is used to pack wounds.”
“Gross,” I shudder. Bad enough to be sent to the hospital with a gaping wound, let alone having them pack it full of spider silk. Yikes. “So what does all this mean for us, then? My webbing did something to the bird-person, but… they just got reinfected by another bird zombie seconds later. The webbing is just a chemical formula…”
“A chemical formula that contains traces of ethanol! When we were attacked earlier you had blood dripping from your hand. I think some must have got on the web-shooter. It wasn’t just the webbing that reversed the transformation, it was your DNA too!”
I watch that knowing smile creep across Ganke’s face as the wheels in his head start turning faster and he takes the phone back and moves on to the next article before handing it back to me. I look down to find a new title that reads ‘Nanobots and Antiseptic: Reactions, Aversions, and Relationships.’
“Another article that goes on for longer than we have before this whole city gets turned into a petting zoo from hell, so again, I’ll summarize,” says Ganke. “Basically, although there are thousands of different kinds of nanobots out there, most of them exhibit some kind of reaction to ethanol-based antiseptics, and even hydrogen peroxide. These nanobots are no different, apparently. Like I mentioned, I took a sample of your web. Here.”
Ganke pulls a small clear plastic canister out of his pocket where I see a few shreds of white webbing.
“You know you didn’t have to risk your life collecting this, right? You could’ve just asked me for some.”
“Listen,” says Ganke with a roll of his eyes. “Why do things the easy way when you can do things the fun way? Besides, this way I had time to look at this stuff under a microscope. Turns out it looks to contain—now vaporized—droplets of antiseptic solution. The problem is that the ethanol in the webbing wasn’t potent enough by itself to disable the nanobots for long enough to undo the bird effects. The nanobots consequentially have enough time to re-infect before any real damage can be done.”
Makes sense to me. I fold my arms across my chest and nod in approval. “Nice, man! Good work. But… where does that leave us? We need to make the antiseptic in the webbing stronger?”
“Well, yes, and no. I’m thinking we have two options here. We can either acquire enough ethanol to spray down all of these bird-people and wipe out the nanobots en masse, but that doesn’t guarantee untouched hosts won’t re-infect the recovered hosts before we can get them to safety.”
“Good point,” I say, tracking with him. “Or…? What’s option two?”
“Um, we could infuse your web fluid with your spit.”
“Gross? You want me to spray all of New York with my spit?”
“I’ve seen people attempt that,” he says. “Just follow the right person a block or two near Yankee Stadium and you’ll see it too.”
“Good point,” I say. “So you're thinking it was a mixture of my DNA with the web fluid itself that made the antiseptic strong enough to fix the bird-person?”
“Well, I was hoping to get my hands on some nanobots to test out the theory, but uh… the hosts weren’t too keen on me getting too close. I tried looking at a couple of their feathers, but none of the bots actually made it into those cells. Just the roots I guess, telling the body to grow them. But what I suspect is that, since you were bitten by a genetically altered spider, something in your DNA has antiseptic properties that Spider Man 1.0 doesn’t have. You said his web doesn’t work on them, right?”
I think back to watching Peter webbing bird creature after bird creature, only to have them fight back just as strong, ripping through web nets as fast as he could throw them.
“Nah, it was just mine after I got cut,” I say.
“So even though the bots are mechanical, there’s some thing in your body’s chemical composition, like the antiseptic spider venom properties that article mentioned, that’s scrambling them. We know ethanol can break the nanobots down and disable them, just like how it works in a sanitizer. When your webbing mixed with your blood, the two antiseptic traits working together were able to reverse the bird effect on that man.”
“Okay,” I say, still not entirely convinced. This whole theory sounds like a stretch to me. “So, what then? I spit in my web-shooter and then I go slinging web against the bird-people like I’ve been doing?”
“Well, yeah,” he says. “You’ll have to take them down with a different strategy, though. You can’t just take them down one by one like you’ve been trying to do. You’ll never be able to keep up with how fast the nanobots learn.”
I gasp as an idea hits me.
“Wait, Ganke! That’s it!”
“What’s it?” he asks, his eyes going wide with excitement at the revelation that I’ve got new information for him.
“Before you called me, I was on a mission to find out where Starling and her crew were hiding, and—”
“Wait, is Starling that huge red guy that was climbing the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters the other day?”
“Gal.”
“Oh. Oh cool!”
“Wasn’t cool when she was trying to throw me off the building, but alright,” I grin. “Anyway, I was on a mission to track down Starling and find out the source of where all of this was coming from, and I have a feeling I was on the brink of infiltrating their headquarters. With something like this—boosting the antiseptic power of my web-shooter—if there’s a source for this whole mess, I could possibly track it and disable all of the nanobots at once!”
“Attaboy!” cries Ganke, pushing to his feet. “Now, where’s your web-shooter? We’ve gotta get your DNA all up in it.”
“Still gross,” I insist, leaning down and unzipping my backpack. Feels so weird doing this in front of anyone else besides Peter. I pull out my gloves with the web-shooters attached. Ganke can’t contain his excitement. I know he’s standing here trying to look all professional and composed, but his eyes are twinkling like Christmas lights seeing all of this unfold. “Here we go,” I say, detaching the web-shooter. I open up the liquid canister and glance at him. “Should I just like… spit in this, or…”
“I should probably collect a clean sample first. It’s why I asked you to come all the way out here to do this. Otherwise, I would’ve called you up and said ‘Yo, Miles, maybe you should spit in your web-shooter from the convenience of whatever building you’re perched on.’”
“Good point,” I say.
Once I’ve gone into my Abuelita’s bathroom, brushed my teeth, and spat in Ganke’s ultra-clean petri dish of a canister that he keeps on him, like any normal person would, he carefully pours the contents into my web fluid canister, and I clasp it closed.
“Alright, Spider-Man,” he says. And then he squeals, “Ooh, I’ll never get tired of saying that! Time to go test this bad boy out.”
And sure enough, once I’m outside, in and out of the alley, back into my suit, and I’ve f
ound a lone bird creature meandering his way through the dark streets of East Harlem, I crawl my way along the side of the building, take aim, and take him down with my web.
He goes down, but not without a fight. He screeches and claws against my webbing, his eyes wild and gray like the rest of them, but he soon grows quiet. His wings begin to shrink. His hair begins to sprout from his head again, black as night and wet, and his gray skin fades back into a healthy chestnut brown. Thankfully for me, he’s curled up on his side, because he’s completely naked and I don’t need to see anything I don’t need to see.
But he’s human again. Whoever he is.
And he’s conscious.
And he’s on his feet.
And he’s walking.
And he’s aware enough to grab a nearby newspaper for some cover, before scurrying off into the night, hopefully to find his home.
With renewed hope soaring in my chest, I leap off the wall and torpedo back toward the building where Starling and her posse think they’re safe.
CHAPTER 16
OKAY, Miles, I think to myself. First infiltration of a secret hideout. You can do this. Just like Peter does it. In. Destroy the source of their power. Out. No funny business.
I fling myself up onto the building in question and latch onto the left of a broken window.
Well, I guess if I’m going to infiltrate this place like Peter, there’s got to be some funny business involved. I look up the side of the building and start my climb. Now, I know if I just waltz up in there like a roommate who forgot my takeout in the fridge on the way out, they’re going to either attack me, which spells certain death or kidnapping—can’t decide which is worse—or they’re going to run, which only extends this chase, and every second longer I take, the more civilians get turned into zombie bird-people.
Kidnapping would mean having my secret identity revealed for the world to see. Pretty sure that’s a fate worse than death, so let’s avoid that outcome. But what’s the point of having a secret identity, or these powers at all for that matter—in fact, what’s the point in living in New York City—if the people aren’t here?
If there’s no one left to protect?
If I’ve already failed them all?
That leaves one option: Get in. Get the job done. Get out.
My heart is pounding, though, and taking a deep breath doesn’t help at all, because as I climb the side of this building, I have no idea what I’m climbing toward. I could find those three huddled around a metal barrel with a flickering fire burning inside, and zero stolen goods from S.H.I.E.L.D., zero high-tech equipment, zero things of value I could destroy to slow them down or stop them completely. Or, I could be climbing toward Vulture’s ultimate secret hideout he’s been hunkering down in since the ’80s, with all his most intricate plans scrawled out on walls.
I have to be prepared for either.
How does Peter just swing into these things, prepared for either?!
Then, I hear something.
A rustling, sounds like a shuffling of papers or shoes or something, and the flicker of a black silhouette appears in the window in front of me just before I can jump out of the way, plaster my back to the wall, and hold my breath.
But I’m pretty sure they saw me.
So I zip around the corner of the building and assume the same routine.
Plaster myself to the wall.
Hold my breath.
I hear someone at the window where I just was, and I shut my eyes and hope they go away. Quick. But I feel like I don’t have time to wait to find out, so I decide… could I try climbing up the wall… backward?
I pull one foot up, then the other, then my hands. Feels almost like a reverse bear crawl, and I make my way up the wall that way until I reach the broken window above me. After peeking inside, I crawl on in and step down onto the floor that I can’t see. It’s so dark in here, with only the light from the moon in squares on the floor from the windows. In those squares of blue light, I can see layers and layers of dust and broken glass, torn newspapers strewn all over the place, and a single jet-black feather with the tendrils flickering slightly in the breeze.
“Great,” I whisper to myself. “Just what I like to see the minute I infiltrate a secret hideout. An ominous feather.”
I creep through the room, staying as close to the floor as I can. My feet are almost completely silent against the floor, despite all the debris, and I listen carefully for anything that might lead me to where they’re hiding out in this place.
A squawk?
A wing flap?
Eggs?
Miles, wake up, I urge myself, they’re humans with bird tech, not actual birds.
Okay, gotta focus, gotta focus. It’s fine. I’m just not thinking clearly because I’m nervous. Just gotta take a minute to just breathe, maybe loosen up a bit. I take this moment to bob in place like a boxer, not letting my feet leave the ground as I bounce back and forth, taking deep breaths and shaking out my hands.
And just as I’m feeling super loose and relaxed and kinda a little bit ready to go track these people down, crash!
Suddenly, I’m falling, plaster and dust and glass pieces landing all around me, clinking their way to the floor. I ease my eyes open and discover I’m lying on my back, dust floating around my face, and an orange glow somewhere nearby. I force myself to a sitting position and rest my hand on my throbbing forehead, and as my eyes shift into focus, I realize what’s happening and shuffle backward against the wall.
Standing right in front of me, cold eyes trained on me, are Shadow, Hollowclaw, and Starling. A quick glance between them and Shadow and Hollowclaw release their claws from their fingers and approach me.
“Hey, guys,” I say, jumping to my feet despite my dizziness and acting like I’m one hundred percent ready to take all of them on. Spoiler alert: I’m not. In fact, my biggest weapon right now is my words, and my biggest fear is that they might already know that. “Starling,” I say, “don’t do this. You don’t have to go along with his plan. You have a choice.”
“And I’ve made it,” she hisses before extending her wings and hopping up onto the window ledge. She turns to her two partners and hisses, “Crows… get him.”
She leaps off the ledge and something in my heart breaks. Escaped again. And nothing in this room looks like anything of value I could break or tear down. I was right with my first guess—just a burning trash barrel in a room full of dust.
“Crows, huh?” I ask. “Not very original, is she?”
“I’ve had enough of your mouth, Spider-Man,” spits Shadow. “Time to silence you for good.” And then Shadow lunges at me. The claws swipe, one hand after the next, and I dodge, dodge, dodge before spotting a load-bearing pole behind me that I can grip and swing my feet around to lodge squarely in their chest. They go flying and land on the cruel cement floor with a deep, guttural oof!
“But have you had enough of my feet yet?” I ask.
Hollowclaw doesn’t even offer time to let that joke settle in before leaping at me. His fists fly. Fast. One lands squarely on my jaw and I go reeling back, my face exploding in pain, my eyes wide.
“Damn, man, you take kickboxing or something?” I ask.
“Muay thai,” he says before launching a right hook at me.
“Ah,” I nod, before blocking him and landing a left hook square in his torso. When he doubles over, I’m ready to grab his head and introduce it to my knee before I feel two arms around my neck and clamping around my windpipe.
I instinctively claw at whoever’s face is above me, before remembering that I know these two, and I know their tactics. They tag-team. They work together. They need each other. So if I take just one out, the other will be right there to attack.
I’ve got to take them both out at once.
I kick my feet up and over my head and land on the ground behind them. I launch a web squarely at each of them, sticking them to the wall on either side of the glowing orange barrel.
And I keep shooting
web at them until they’re nothing more than two huge white cocoons stuck to the concrete wall.
“Now,” I breathe, trying my best to catch my breath. “Now that you’re both in time-out, maybe we can talk like grown-ups.”
“You’ll never get a word outta me,” screams Shadow. I point in their direction and launch the smallest web I can, pasting their mouth shut like an oversized Band-Aid.
“We’ll see,” I say, stepping up to Hollowclaw and looking him dead in his eyes. The rage I see broiling there burns even brighter in the orange glow of the barrel flames, and I take a long, deep breath before asking him my question.
“Where are the nanobots coming from?” I demand, hoping my voice sounds more sure than I am. Even from under Shadow’s Band-Aid mouth, I can tell they’re cackling. With another flick of my web sling, I rip it off, ripping their smile right along with it.
“Ow!” they yell.
“Call it a free lip wax,” I say, stepping over to them. “Now, you wanna tell me why my question was so funny?”
“Because you’ll never find it,” they say with a cunning grin. “The nanobots belong to Terraheal. You think they’re going to just broadcast where they’re keeping them? Think you can just google something like that?”
“Nah,” I say, “but you just told me they’re in a centralized location.”
And not only that, a findable one.
Shadow’s previously sharp, round little face with flashing eyes melts into something soft and lost and a little taken aback.
“No, I didn’t mean—”
Zip!
Another flick of my wrist and there’s another web over their mouth. Someone should tell Peter to use this strategy, if he doesn’t know already. It’s awfully convenient.
“And you, Hollowclaw?” I ask, stepping over to him. Not gonna lie, feels pretty good to be in control right now. This was way easier than I thought it’d be. “Care to make this easier on yourself?”
Marvel's Spider-Man: Miles Morales Page 17