two
October 17, 2023
Hey, kid.
If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead. Which, frankly, sucks for me.
I’ve been in a lot of life-threatening situations before, but I’d be lying if I said I felt good about this one. I’m honestly hoping that I write this letter, get the band back together for a fun little trip through time, and make it home in time for dinner and to burn this thing, but I have to admit that I’ve got a sort of sinking feeling that this one is going to end a little different. My mom always told me to trust my gut, and like I said—if you’re reading this—we both know that isn’t how things played out.
By the time this letter finds its way to you, it should come as no surprise that while you all were gone, I finally got around to marrying Ms. Potts.
I know you were always giving me shit about “putting a ring on it” (I can practically hear you singing Beyonce right now—cut it out; I’m rolling in my grave at your inability to hold a note), and, well, losing half the universe’s population kind of put things into perspective. At least it did for me. I realized that all this time I’d been holding myself back. I was so caught up in my image—and it’s admittedly been hard not to be when your every movement is analyzed and picked apart, but that’s beside the point—that somewhere along the way, I lost sight of what was really important.
Your existence, and the things you brought to my life, are a huge part of why I was able to find myself again.
I know we lost a lot over the last five years, but god, kid, losing you was probably the hardest. I don’t think I’ve felt that kind of grief in a long time—not since I first found out my mom died. The only other time was probably when everything went down with Steve in Germany. Even then, that was nothing compared to watching you die on Titan.
Which reminds me: I owe you an apology.
I don’t think I even realized I was doing it at the time, but when I showed up at your apartment the first time, I didn’t really give you a choice. I won’t lie and say I regret it, because recruiting you turned my life around. But I shouldn’t have gone about it the way I did. I had an unfair advantage, and I threatened to out you to your Aunt. That was manipulative of me, which is something I’ve had to wrestle with for a long time. I can’t help but wonder, if I had just let you be, would we even be here now?
I know I can’t change the past (well, I did invent time travel for you, but again, beside the point), but I can damn well apologize for the mistakes I made. Yeah, I know. Pick your jaw up off the floor, kid. It’s been five years for me. I am now perfectly capable of admitting when I’m wrong (which isn’t often).
Anyway, I think I always knew you were going to be something special, ever since you first swung your way onto my radar in that grainy livestream, sporting those stupid longjohns you tried to call a suit. I can admit when I’m wrong, now, but I would just like the record to reflect: I was never wrong about you. You’re the center—the beating heart—of why I’m doing all of this. I never wanted kids, but knowing you, and what you mean to me, changed everything.
I know I sound crazy, but sometimes, I’ve found myself wondering if you actually were mine. If somewhere along the line I’d had a kid and just didn’t know about it until all those years later, but I know that’s statistically improbable. Besides, you came from people much better than me, or at least who I was when you were born. Honestly, I’m grateful for every day for that though, because they helped shape you into who you were when I met you. And having you in my life is why I finally felt capable of being a dad.
All that to say: Ms. Potts and I started a family. I’m pretty sure my hair went gray the minute Pep told me she was pregnant. And for someone of my vanity, it was a bit of an ego blow. But then I decided I looked even better as a silver fox, so I’m getting over it. It’ll suck if the mortician has to dye my hair back for my funeral though.
I’m losing the plot. Sorry, kid. You tend to get a little off track when contemplating the inevitability of your death.
Where was I?
Oh, right, family.
I’m sure you’ve met her already, and if you’re still the same kid I knew all those years ago, I can confidently say that you already think Morgan is just about the coolest thing ever. Personally, I think she might be the greatest thing I ever created, if we’re going to be perfectly honest (please don’t tell Ms. Potts I said that—she’ll probably rip my headstone out for taking all the credit and we both know she’s the one who did all the hard work).
Anyway, I know I sound like a sentimental old man, but…I guess I am. You’ll get it, one day. Trust me. I always laughed when people said that to me, but it’s true. Getting older changes things for you. When I sat down to write this letter, I swore to myself that I wasn’t going to get too sappy, but fuck it, I’m dead. What’s a life if not a little sappy, anyway? The best parts of it, at least.
In any case, I wanted you to know a few things. I feel like you’re my responsibility, and it is therefore my duty to bestow some lasting wisdom on you before I go off to explore the great thereafter.
First things first: You’re enough, kid. Don’t let this superhero/savior bullshit mess with your head. You are enough. You don’t have anything to prove to anybody, least of all me. You’ve far exceeded my expectations, and you can’t carry the weight of the world on your shoulders all by yourself forever. You’re not Atlas. Let everybody else share the burden.
Second: Stay kind. Don’t let life and loss beat that huge, loving heart out of you. You’re going to face a lot of difficult things (hell, we both know you already have), and as much as I wish I could be there to catch you when you fall, or to patch you up, I won’t be able to help, which I’m sorry for. I’m sorry for a lot of things, in fact. But please, don’t lose that kindness and big heart.
Third: You’re never too old to learn and grow. Trust me on this one. Don’t get a big head and shut people out like I did when I was your age. I don’t think you would ever take after me in that; you’re smart, bambino, so learn from my mistakes, and then go out to make your own. Just know that each experience is a lesson, and you’ll only be better for it.
Fourth: You only have a few years being a kid. I know, I know—you’re not a kid, you’re a teenager. But the point stands. Enjoy this time while you still can and try not to grow up too fast. I know all you want is to do right by everybody, but the best way you can do that is by building your relationships and working on yourself. It’ll pay off in the long run. Don’t be like me and shut people out until your circle is so small it’s only you. That’s a lonely place to be. Trust me, I’d know.
Finally: Well, I’ll be honest, this one is a little selfish of me and definitely doesn’t even constitute as advice, but more of a request. Watch out for Ms. Potts and the Mongoose for me, okay? If you’re holding this letter it means I cashed a check that I couldn’t afford (for the first time in my life), so I have to ask this one last thing of you. Pep’ll never admit it, but she’s going to need someone to lean on, and she loves you like her own son, just like I do. You’re going to need her, too. And I know you probably don’t know her well enough yet, but Morgan is going to need a big brother to tell her all about our stupid adventures. Who am I kidding? You’re probably reading this with them now.
I think I’ve rambled on long enough. Everyone’s waiting for me, at the Compound. Still, I wish I had more time to write out everything for you, because there’s so much more that I could say; I think I could fill a novel. I’m sure you don’t want to hear it, anyway. Plus, I know that you’re already burning with that interminable curiosity about what’s on the USB, and why it’s encrypted.
If you already tried to check it out, you presumably noticed you can’t open it. To do that, you’ll need the computer. You remember it—the one we built your sophomore year? I told you if you could build that, then I’d trust you enough to handle the repairs on your suit yourself, without the Training Wheels Protocol. I know you thought it was dumb, but I had to make sure you could handle it. I know now that you can. You can find the computer in our old stomping grounds, right where we left it.
Oh, and you should know the code for the hologram, already. You did write it, after all.
Thanks for everything, Underoos. You got this.
—T.S.
(p.s. I love you,
XXXXX—in case I didn’t say it enough, or if you ever doubted it.)
Morgan finished reading the letter and stared at it in shock, her jaw slightly ajar.
Spider-Man—the same guy who swung through the streets of New York in red and blue spandex—the Spider-Man, had been like a son to her parents? By all accounts, he was the reason she even existed in the first place, at least in part.
But that doesn’t make any sense. She doesn’t know Spider-Man, and she knows her mom doesn’t either. No one does. He operates outside of the scope of the Avengers—what has been rebuilt of them at least—everyone knows that. The Avengers have been trying to track him down for years, though no one had been successful in doing so.
Still, between the letter and her recently resurfaced memory, one thing was becoming increasingly clear: Underoos was Spider-Man. And Spider-Man, was….well, she doesn’t know who he is. His name, his real name, appears to have been redacted from her dad’s letter.
Why?
It didn’t make sense. Her dad’s words made it seem like he’d been so ingrained in their lives at one point—to the point he’d deemed it imperative he receive a handwritten letter, and if the date was to be believed, he’d written it the same day he died.
Morgan’s heart squeezed painfully at the reminder.
Her dad had left her everything, but insofar as she was aware, he hadn’t left her a letter like the one she held in her hands. The last message he’d left for her was on the hologram they’d played at his funeral—the hologram.
Her gaze immediately zeroed in on the small velvet pouch still nestled inconspicuously in DUM-E’s wiring. With careful hands, she removed it, standing to make her way to one of the work benches against the wall. Her hands trembled unsteadily as she pulled the drawstrings apart and turned the contents over into her palm.
Just as the letter had said, a USB and a smaller black device, about the size of a thumbnail, came tumbling out. She knew it was one of her dad’s hologram projectors, like the ones he’d invented before she’d been born; the same type he’d used to give them his final—or what she’d thought was his final—message at his funeral.
She bit her lip again, but quickly released it when she realized how sore it still was. She tossed a glance over her shoulder towards DUM-E, who’s arm was raised, but no longer clicking, as if watching her.
“Sorry, Dum, I promise I’ll get you fixed up good as new, but I’ve got to figure this out first.” She said, twisting to face the awaiting computer. Without hesitation, she plugged the USB in and waited. A screen immediately popped up, flashing in neon-red letters the word “RESTRICTED”.
She blinked, processing.
“Friday?” She called out absentmindedly, after about ten seconds.
“Yes, Morgan?” Came the pleasant-sounding Irish accent, overhead.
“Um.” Morgan hesitated, her mind racing.
Was it a good idea to ask FRIDAY to try and decode the file? Was it an invasion of Spider-Man’s privacy to look at what her dad had left him? She’d already read the letter, but that couldn’t be helped. Once she’d started, there had been no way to stop herself. It had been deeply personal, but she couldn’t stop reading it.
And he’d said something about a special computer. If her dad had personally restricted the file, there was no way FRIDAY would be able to override it, not without her dad’s permission. And that certainly wasn’t a possibility anymore.
She frowned, turning the information over in her mind carefully, trying to decide her best course of action forward.
“Never mind, Friday. Thank you.” She said after a minute or two.
“Certainly,” FRIDAY chirped, “let me know if you change your mind. I’m always happy to help.”
Carefully, Morgan ejected the USB from the computer, before dropping it back into the little velvet pouch. She turned her attention to the hologram chip and pressed the button on its slim side. Immediately, a blue message appeared in the air before her, reading simply: “PASSCODE?” with a holographic, numbered key pad below it. She blew out a sharp breath and pressed the button again, which caused the message to collapse in on itself before disappearing. Then, she placed the chip back in with the USB and drew the drawstrings closed.
She worried her lip again, glancing towards DUM-E and the manila envelope containing the hand-written letter still lying on the floor beside him.
“Okay.” She said, quietly. “Okay. Dum-e, I’m gonna fix you up later, I promise. I’ve just got to take care of something first.”
She collected the envelope from the floor and made her way towards the glass exit doors of the lab. She flipped the lights off, shrouding the room in darkness, and pressed her palm to the hand-reader. The doors swung open, as she took off for the stairs, determination suddenly driving her.
She had to tell her mom.
________________________________________
She makes it back to the penthouse in record time, practically vibrating with anxiety the entire elevator ride up. When the doors slid open, she stepped off quickly, scanning the living room for her mom. When she was nowhere to be seen, she exhaled softly.
“Mom?” She called out into the quiet, waiting in tense anticipation.
“I’m in the kitchen!” Her mother’s voice sounds distantly from further inside the penthouse, and Morgan follows the echo of it, only to find her standing over a sink full of dishes, her arms clad in elbow-length rubber gloves, humming some old song she didn’t recognize. Her mom glances over her shoulder at her entry, a little smile crossing her lips.
“Hey, Mongoose. What’ve you been up to?”
“Do you remember the name of my imaginary friend?” The question spills out of her before she even realizes she is going to ask it, and they both freeze. Her mom’s shoulders tense, just slightly, and Morgan swallows, hard. She might have jumped the gun with her question, but she has a feeling that her imaginary friend was nothing of the sort. If she can remember him, she might be able to get to the bottom of this little mystery she’s inadvertently stumbled upon. She might be able to unmask Spider-Man, to give him the letter her dad left him—even if she has a selfish underlying motive of getting more information out of him, too.
“Your imaginary friend?” Her mom repeats, slowly.
“Yeah. Do you remember his name?”
Her mom finally turns all the way around at that, her expression guarded.
“Morgan,” she says, slowly, “why are you asking about this?”
Morgan felt a frown creep over her face, her own defensiveness flaring sharply in her chest. “No reason,” she said, with a shrug, “I was just wondering.” Her mom tugged her rubber gloves off and set them on the counter to cross her arms across her chest.
“Are you nervous about starting school? Should we postpone your start date? You don’t have to go, Morgan. It’s okay if you changed your mind.”
“What? School? No, I—I found something, in the lab.” Morgan confesses quietly.
“You were in the lab?” Her mom demands, skipping entirely over the information and going straight into annoyance. It creases in the lines of her face, wrinkling her forehead. “I told you, you were grounded from the lab this week, Morgan!”
“Mom—” She starts to say, but before she can get another word in, she is promptly cut off.
“No, Morgan! Why can’t you just listen to me, sometimes? I don’t just make up rules for fun, they’re for your safety.” Her mom shook her head, strands of hair falling loose from her braid to frame her clearly irritated face.
“Mom, I know, I’m sorry, I just—”
“No, Morgan Hope Stark, I don’t want to hear it. No more lab, period. Not until you can learn to listen to basic rules for more than a week.”
“Mom!” Morgan protests, her voice rising sharply in indignation.
“No.” Her mom’s tone is firm, unyielding in the way that means she’s made up her mind and there is no changing it—not right now at least.
“God, you never listen.” Morgan snaps. Her mom’s eyes narrow, her face going otherwise blank.
“I don’t listen?” She asks, her voice suddenly very quiet. “I don’t listen?” She shakes her head, as if in disbelief. “Morgan, I really don’t have the bandwidth for this argument right now.” She rubs a hand tiredly over her face, hiding her eyes and nose from Morgan’s view. “Just—go to your room for right now. We can talk about this later.”
Morgan wants to argue, to pull out the letter and shove it towards her, along with the encrypted USB and locked hologram, but there’s a small voice in the back of her head warning her that if she does that, it’ll be the last time she sees any of them again.
Instead, she turns quietly on her heel and makes her way out of the kitchen without another word.
________________________________________
She makes the decision to keep the letter, the hologram, and the encrypted message to herself.
She can’t exactly explain why, but as she spends the remainder of the summer reading and re-reading the letter and trying to decode the USB and hologram on her own, she finds herself reasoning that there’s no other option. If she gives everything over to her mom, she can’t guarantee what will happen. Especially since just merely bringing up her so-called imaginary friend had made the tension in their house skyrocket for nearly two weeks after. If she gives her a letter claiming whoever is under the mask was like a son to her, she doesn't think it will go over well. She will probably think it's some kind of sick joke, and Morgan won't see any of the items her dad left, ever again.
Besides, she reasons, the letter doesn’t say who Underoos is. They’d be going off an old memory from when she was four to connect Spider-Man to that nickname, and the limited details the letter left. And while she knows it to be true—can feel it in her gut, in fact—that doesn’t mean any of the adults in her life will believe her. It's been almost six years since the letter was written, if the date on the top is to be believed. How none of them had found it yet, and why it was hidden in DUM-E of all places, just doesn't add up.
So, she decides, it’ll be her secret. At least for the time being. Once she gets the concrete evidence she needs to prove her theory, she’ll show them what she’s found.
She got into this mess on her own, she'll find a way out of it on her own.
With a plan still forming, she goes to sleep the night before school starts, dreams of vigilantes and secret messages from the dead filling her head.