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There’s something wrong with Miles.
Miguel stares at the boy for a second longer, but he can’t put his finger on why he thinks so. Something in his enhanced-sense tells him the kid is different in a way that should be impossible.
He mentions the obvious.
“What’s with the new hairstyle?”
It’s way more stylish than what he’s seen on Miles before. One would think he’d want to show off. And yet, after bringing it up, Miles fidgets with the end of a braid and shrugs. “Mamá wanted to try a hot comb method.”
Miguel winces. Not from personal experience, but knowing that it must have taken quite a long time with Miles’ hair. He’s about to awkwardly say that Miles’ mom did a great job of it, when the video feed playing on his holo desk statics to life with conversation.
Out on anomaly duty is the unaffectionately nicknamed Scooby-Doo gang—Gwen, Pavitr, Hobie, Margo, and Noir—demonstrating hours of practiced teamwork. The feed shows them wordlessly covering each other’s blindspots, and playing into them with muscle-memory-like affinity. Right now, comms is intercut with Pav and Gwen’s arguing on what to call the anomaly based on the aesthetic they’re working with, all while pulling impractical acrobatic kicks. Hobie helpfully suggests Squid-Ock, on account of the unusual six robo-appendages. Scratch that, five robo-appendages, after Hobie whams his guitar on one and Margo hacks its fiber ops. And Noir might as well be a force of nature, performing a soliloquy to the smoke-smell of the city while fighting, not even running out of breath.
Teenage Spiders are a whole different breed of person.
Speaking of, “Not jumping to join your friends on the mission, Miles?”
Miles looks at the many monitors impassively. He teethers on the edge of analytic, which is not like Miles at all—
Then, he cracks a boyish smile.
“Come on, tío, they totally got this. Besides, how often do I get to sit back and see how cool they all are in action?”
Miguel grunts in acknowledgement. Sure, Miles can try and sit this one out. It never lasts long. Any moment now he’s going to psyche himself up to joining in, like he always does. Miguel squares his shoulders, ready for the inevitable argument. There’s never any convincing Miles of anything that he hasn’t already half-talked himself into first.
“If you’re going to watch, you better watch closely.”
“Okay.”
The curtness makes Miguel squint. “Take notes of any weaknesses the villain exposes. That means no distractions.”
“Relax, I don’t got my music player on me.”
“Well...good. It’s about time you start listening.”
“I know I got a lot to learn,” Miles agrees.
Miguel is caught off guard. No argument rears its head. It must be that Miles did the convincing-talk in the mirror before dropping by.
The mission goes off without a hitch. The Scooby-Doo gang portals back in by the Spider-cafeteria for a well-earned meal, so Miles runs off to meet them. That odd feeling raising the hairs on the back of his neck draws Miguel to catch up and follow, as Miles willingly chooses the walking aisles over web-slinging.
“Didn’t bring my web-shooters,” Miles explains, pulling his mask over his face. “Was in a hurry.”
There’s hugs and friendship handshakes being shared down in the cafeteria. Miguel forgets he even thought something was off. Everyone else is obviously acting normal, and Miles is in his element.
Hobie, still in complete Spider-Punk getup, is the only one to not swing an arm onto Miles’ shoulders like he usually would. “Oh, hey. Been a while since I saw you.” He does wave two fingers up in salute, which is met by another one of Miles’ new weird shrugs.
“Didn’t we all meet for slushies two days ago?” Gwen asks, with notable confusion.
Pav whoops and throws a fist in the air. “That’s a great idea, Gwendy. Let’s grab some now!”
The excitement bubbles with the promise of more chilled drinks in Gwen’s world. No one quite addresses Miguel quietly crossing his arms and standing at the back. No one has to—he’s gained the reputation of ‘dad lurking’, as Gwen calls it, after her own dad standing at the door to her room every now and then, not doing or asking or even saying anything, then nodding to himself in silence and leaving. Hence: dad lurking.
Miles is the only one that turns his head around, after a minute of them talking circles around each other. He hasn’t said much himself.
“Sorry,” Miles says, “I’ll join you next time.”
“Really? What’s keeping you?”
“I’m watch and learn-ing.” He points a finger at Miguel. Not accusing, but most of the teens groan all the same.
Gwen is the only one to tilt her head. There’s a curious wrinkle on the forehead section of her mask. “Are you...?”
“Let him have his fun without us,” Hobie interrupts, as he scoots Gwen over to the rest of the gang. “Better hurry ‘fore the slush shop closes for the day.”
It is very weird that Miles is not going with his friends.
Weirder that he follows Miguel like a baby duck through the strolling path, staring up and down and sideways at the many spiraling halls of the HQ building. He’s not the one who has to carefully take paths without wall crawling. That should be Miguel, whose claws aren’t very concrete friendly, unlike most Spider-people’s vertical stickiness.
The walk slows, with the sightseeing pauses through windows that spy over the city. It’s getting on Miguel’s impatient nerves.
“Alright, Miles, that’s enough wasting time.”
Miles frowns. “I’m not tryna—”
The excuse turns into a high-pitch shout when Miguel grabs him by the scruff of his suit and shoots a web way up to the platform that will lead straight to command. It’s a quick swing. Barely five seconds long.
He puts Miles, hanging limp like a cat, back on his stiff feet. The kid gives him an unimpressed look. That’s rich, after that horror-movie grade scream.
“Warn a guy first.”
Miguel retaliates with his own indifferent, “Life doesn’t come with warnings.”
“That’s cold, man.”
“Your mask is crooked.”
“Ay, madre—”
He fixes it mid-jog behind Miguel. Again, Miguel gets the faint mental image of a bewildered chickling. It’s stuck in the back of his mind, slowing his break-neck pace, urging him to check behind him more than usual for Miles. He has a responsibility to his kid, one that haunts him from their ill-met past. Even if they’ve grown past it. Even if it’s all water under the bridge and new foundations have been built over it. The scars are still there. Miguel won’t make himself forget any time soon.
Sometimes he is harshly reminded of it. His own fault. Like when he turns to check that Miles is there, again, for the twelfth time down the dim-lit hall, and there is Miles still, now pocketing something off from the wall. Of course Miguel prowls back to loom over him, ready with a lecture—what’s the kid doing, taking after Hobie’s habits—
Miles flinches.
“Sorry,” Miles says, raising his empty hands.
There’s an apology trapped in Miguel’s throat too, because the scars are still there, and Miguel isn’t good at this talking thing. He needs to do better by Miles—
But the kid’s voice isn’t wobbling, his shoulders aren’t hunched protectively as if expecting a blow.
“You, like, startled me,” Miles keeps explaining. “How are you so quiet when you got all, that?”
The ‘that’ in question is gestured out to. As in, all six-foot-nine of him.
Miguel chooses to ignore whatever it is that Miles just stashed in his pocket, then. Miles isn’t scared of him. He’s just startled. The pounding in Miguel’s chest quiets.
It helps ease a different lecture out.
“Por dios, you need to be more aware of your surroundings, kid, you can’t rely on Spider-sense alone to tell you if you have to turn around. I’ve told you this, it’s your blindspot out in the field.”
“I know, sir,” Miles says, the roll of his eyes its own point.
“Huh,” Miguel huffs. Sir, Miles says. With a pout, but accepting of the advice. Not even complaining for the umpteenth time at being called kid.
Miles wouldn’t let that slide.
Who is this Miles he’s talking to? He’s not acting like the one he knows. And yet, he is Miles. He’s a kid, barely growing into his knobby knees and big head, curious and trusting and joking, and staring at the world with such wide eyes. Like anything is possible, and everything’s going to be okay, if only he gives his hardest.
“Miles, why are you visiting HQ again?”
“Just wanted to see what’s going on today. What, can’t I swing by, be a Spider in the Spider Society?”
“Of course you can.” Miguel doesn’t bring up that Miles didn’t even bring his web-shooters to ‘swing by’ with. “There’s always a place for you here.”
“En serio?”
“Yeah, serious.”
And then, he notices something. The thing that’s off, tickling his enhanced-sense hearing.
“You’ve been practicing your Spanish,” Miguel says.
“Well, yeah. I don’t wanna disappoint mamá with my grades again.”
Miles has been listening to him. Practicing. Watch and learn-ing. Miguel’s blockhead talks and lessons are having an effect on him.
That’s what’s going on. So it is the paranoia talking after all.
An alarm beeps in Miles’ watch. He taps it with jittery energy. “Shoot, I gotta go back, I have to check back with my family. Hasta luego, tío.”
Tío. That still hits him like a truck. Anything is possible.
In portal-parting, Miguel says, “Watch that blindspot.”
Aaron immediately knows what’s up.
It’s really simple to figure out, from the moment he lays eyes on Miles. Kid never wears his Prowler helmet before they clap hands in greeting. He’s not usually so energetic about taking a stroll through the city either, always taking on a solemn and serious expectation to butt heads with either the local gangs or one of the Sinister Six.
No, this is that other-world Miles, playing the switcheroo guessing game with him. Aaron gets it in two minutes’ time, counting from their greeting handclap.
But Aaron ain’t a snitch.
“Hey, kid, remember what we did yesterday?”
Miles looks down from his perch on the water tower. “Yeah, of course.”
“You know... watching the sunset, chilling out with some meat pinchos.”
“Yeah...” Kid turns away, wistful. “That was nice.”
The city’s beautiful from up here. Makes every problem look small, and far away. It also makes his nephew look so small, yet so much stronger for what he’s determined to do for this city. Even though he isn’t his Miles, the print is there—the soul, the heart, the purpose. The hope. He loves with all his heart, and he hugs just as fiercely.
Aarin chuckles to himself. “Oh, wait sorry,” he says. “That wasn’t yesterday. We did arson yesterday.”
“Arson.” The voice modulator makes him sound severe.
“Yeah, you love arson, right Miles?”
Miles very smartly stays frozen and nods.
“Yeah man,” Aaron says as he tosses him a full grapple kit for the night. “I still can’t believe how fast that Sears warehouse burned up. Straight up fireworks show. We should do that again.”
Okay, he’s no snitch, but that doesn’t mean he can’t have a little fun at Miles' expense when he unknowingly makes the most comical digi-expressions with his Prowler mask.
“So, what did you think of the Spider Society?”
“Too fancy for my taste.”
Miles nods, taking a bite out of his empanada. Grease drips down his chin and he squawks at a falling piece of chicken.
“Smells like silk,” M adds, almost as an afterthought. “Didn’t expect that. But again, Spider-people seem to shoot webs for the smallest of inconveniences.”
“Yuh. And?”
“And what?”
“Did anyone notice anything was off?”
He waits, anxious feet kicking the air. Brooklyn looms big and intimidating on the horizon, but it’s no different from his Brooklyn. In need of a hero. Or, a prowling vigilante.
“Jefe could sense something weird going on, but don’t worry. I pulled a heist-level infiltration.”
“Jefe? You mean Miguel?”
“You weren’t lying, guy’s a foot off from being mistaken for a jagged rock mountain. And you said he chased you on all fours? Diache, dude.”
“It wasn’t that bad, honestly.”
M gives him a look that says it all.
“Alright it was, but we’re good now.”
“I could tell.”
“What you mean by that?”
M starts kicking his own legs up, a mirror reflection of Miles’ own rhythm. “I got the feeling that I missed on a few cues, and he could smell something off, maybe. You two have some kind of bond, don’t you?”
Miles wouldn’t call it a bond, exactly. Except, maybe it is, after Miles made it his personal mission to get on Miguel’s nerves every time he visits. Call it poking a sleeping lion, but Miguel deserves it. And Miles trusts that the lion isn’t going to rear its claws at his neck again. For sure Miguel must have a lot more patience than anyone could measure, or else he gives Miles a special Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card from his anger issues on the daily.
“I guess we do,” Miles says, a little happier for it.
M rounds the 20-questions onto him. “What about you? Did you enjoy hanging out with tío?”
“Yeah, I did.”
He stares at the unwrapped meal in his hands, a gift from Uncle Aaron before they said their see-ya-laters after an uncomplicated patrol night. Two empanadas, one of which has been shared with M. Miles didn’t say he was going to meet anyone, and yet he bought him two empanadas.
“It’s funny. After my uncle died, I thought that was it. That all I’d have left of him were pictures, lent sweaters, a missed voicemail or two, and memories. And, that hasn’t changed, not at all. He’s not my Uncle Aaron. He’s different, but he’s also...not. It still feels like spending time with family, just different in the right way.”
“Tío always knows what to say, makes it easier to keep going every day, despite the pain.”
“Yeah.” He blinks, knowing exactly what M is talking about. Just keep going. “Yeah,” Miles breathes again.
M then points a Prowler glove-claw-finger at him. “Let’s not make a habit of this.”
“What, Spider HQ too daunting for you? It is made for Spider-powers, and I know you not showing any will raise your chances of being discovered.”
“Of course not, I’m an amazing liar.”
“Sure.” Miles knows M isn’t, because he isn’t. But mamá always says that he makes himself belong everywhere he goes, so maybe M did the same. He belonged with everyone, whether the lie is believable or not. Still, he suggests, “Maybe, trip to my world next time instead?”
“No,” comes too fast. The silence from M lingers a moment longer, and Miles wonders what he’s thinking. Maybe seeing dad, even if it isn’t his dad, would be too much. He gets it. Then, M bumps Miles’ shoulder and goes, “All Brooklyn’s are the same, I bet. The view of Nueva York was cool. Like, actual cyberpunk-y.”
“Right? Told you it would be.”
They stare at the twinkling city together, two twin figures unseen so high in the sky. One fitted in black and red, the other dressed in purple and green. They aren’t the same, and yet, they share enough of a life between universes that it doesn’t matter. Miles doesn’t have to explain himself here. M speaks his same language.
Eventually, the hour ends. Food’s done. Time to go back to their very different lives.
Miles gets up, slapping his suit hands clean of grease, very ineffectively. “I’ll see you around, Wiles.”
“Nos vemos, arañota.”
Just as he opens a watch portal to go to his homeworld, Miles remembers something.
“Hey, one last thing...you gotta do something about that arson problem.”
M blinks. “What?”
“Uncle Aaron, said you love it, dude? That’s not very cash-money of you.”
“Dude, just go.”
They can have a talk about it later, because, seriously? A Sears? They ain't deserve more burnt down warehouses while going bankrupt.
Of course Tío Aaron played a prank. Miles just knows he’s gonna hear from this later and never hear the end of it. Arson, of all things.
All the same, arañota better practice his Spanish, or Jefe’s going to be so freaked out.