3 INTERLUDE : YEAR 0

Obligatory Disclaimer : I do not own anything (except maybe OC characters) all characters, places, worlds, universes…etc mentioned here belong to their respective owners and/or companies. 

This is purely a work of fiction. Not meant to offend or incite, but to entertain and (maybe) inspire.

INTERLUDE : YEAR 0

The ski mask slides on like a well fitting glove, the familiarity it brings turns it into a face, the most fitting one among the many he wears. He clings to the wall's surface and despite the established laws of nature denying a human the capacity to, he crawls, as a lizard might on tree bark, or a critter across the ceiling, he pulls himself by his fingers and toes, steadily ascending the flat concrete face like an expert climber. There are no handholds wider than the edge of his finger nails, yet he easily scales the vertical surface as though it were horizontal, as though gravity was naught but an inconvenience.

There is barely any fatigue in his muscles from dragging his body against gravity's pull up the intimidating height of the eight-storey apartment complex.

The loose gravel beneath his boot barely rattle as he climbs the ledge. The starless night sky is reflected in his eyes. He catches a distorted reflection of his on the adjacent glass window of a darkened office building. Black hoodie, black jeans, black boots, black gloves, black mask. He gazes down at the vibrant city, at the glimmering neon signs, at the zooming cars that spew exhaust. At the pedestrians, some stumble, some jog, some walk aimlessly. Some laugh, some don't.

At the scantily clad girls and similarly dressed guys hovering the sidewalks, appealing to varied flavors. The pimps taking refuge in the sanctuary of their leather covered car seats. The unlicensed chemists and unvetted distributors that clung to shadowed corners, eyes scanning for fiending customers.

He inhales the city's atmosphere. Shivers run along his back, the flesh on his neck tingles, his fingertips tremble. He can taste the sparks, the static charges dance along his tongue.

He raises his arm and aims at the skyscraper in the distance. Yellow electric arcs race down the length of his hand and into the clunky device situated on the back of his wrist. A mechanical whir comes from the strapped square box, he waits for it to charge fully.

Beep! A small LED blinks green and the masked youth squeezes on the trigger mechanism on his arm.

PaF! A thick line of black is spat out the device and latches onto the surface of the tall building. He gives his malformed shadowy reflection one last look and dashes for the roof's edge before the fear and rationality sets on his mind.

For a moment, he levitates, trailing the New York skyline in freefall for a scenic moment before he pulls hard on the reinforced webline, it holds his weight, snagging him up for swing. Cresting the air once again.

PaF!

A smile is writ on the face beneath the mask, Miles Morales now feels like Spider-man. His webshooter might be bigger and clunkier than what he'd seen other Spider-men build, but it didn't matter. This was the first iteration, this was his own creation and design, and he was damn well proud of it. Keeping himself from shouting in elation is an exercise in willpower. With the ground drawing closer, he tugs the line again and --

Snap!

The wire breaks. Gravity laughs, laying hold on the defiant object that is a swinging teenager. Mile's tilts his head, avoiding the full lash of his broken webline. He feels a slice somewhere, but it's secondary to avoiding falling this high.

He squeezes on the web shooter trigger click—click, the LED blinks red, the device is out of charge.

'Bigger capacitors.' He notes, something to improve on later, he was too close to the ground to try charging it again.

Now to survive this fall. He positions himself for the street light, the wind whips past his ear, something red drips into his left eyes. He stalls the instinct to blink, doing otherwise would temporarily blind him and alter his depth perception.

Screech! The metal pole folds and twists from the velocity of the impact and the mass of the object that is his body, specifically his feet which cling to the pole, dragging it out of its cement foundation from the immense momentum. Mile's rolls with a quiet gasp, shielding his head with both arms in an attempt to bleed off the excess force; it is partially successful. His ring finger is numb and barely responsive, he knows it is out of joint.

He quickly transitions to his feet and attempts to bolt, however the metal sheets from the twisted pole attached to his boot slow that avenue, he disables the electrostatic cling. Headlights fill his vision. There is a screech of tires, the blare of a horn and the groan of metal as the taxi bumper dents, Miles is flung further down the road. He cups his side and dashes past halted, honking cars and surprised pedestrians, into a dark alleyway past a very startled corner boy.

"Oh my God!" "What the fuck!" "Holyshit!" "Fucking mutie!" The expressions left in his wake vary. He focuses on setting his finger back into place and finding refuge.

…

Miles stifles a breath and pours the disinfectant alcohol over on the side of his head, the cut is fortunately hidden beneath his lush hair, his lower back however sports a discolored bruise, it would take some time to fully heal. A dull ache assaults his shoulder and lower back and right ankle with every breath he takes.

His first attempt might be unfortunate, the web shooter might not have functioned as well as he wanted it to, his webbing might not be as strong as he expected it to have been. These setbacks would however not deter him from his mission. They were instead lessons, valuable ones that would take him higher.

Someone needed saving, someone needed protecting, someone needed a hand to pull them out of darkness. He was out here to be a helping hand, he could not be deterred by bruises and or machine malfunction. As long as breath lay in his lungs, he would keep fighting.

So up he rose, stashing the bottle of disinfectant, flattening his hair and pulling his mask back on. The night was young and he had much to learn. 

.8.8.8.8.8

A little something.