Spearhead

15 – 6 – 2148

Gwen trudges despondently through the opulent halls of Palace Staten, her footsteps echoing with shrill clicks against the marble floors. Golden, waning sunshine beams through the large, picture windows, casting the empty corridor in an angelic, yellow glow. Her mind is racing, yet she can’t seem to a get a grip on any coherent thought, guilt and disappointment in herself creating a near impenetrable fog.

Amidst the mental chaos, a familiar, feminine voice emerges—a memory, distant yet vivid, cutting through the fog like a blade.

“We’re going to the battlefield,” the voice resonates, unwavering and resolute, leaving no room for dissent. Gwen freezes mid-step, her breath hitching as she turns to gaze at the breathtaking sunset spilling its fiery hues across the horizon. “To see everything that’s happening with our own eyes.”

In an instant, the present fades. She is no longer the seventeen-year-old Major wandering the illustrious halls of the palace but a ten-year-old girl, strapped into the rumbling belly of a military transport helicopter. Her small hands grip the edges of her seat as the wind howls outside.

“Our country is in the middle of a war, right Mum?” young Gwen asks, her voice tinged with innocence and curiosity, her wide eyes darting to her mother for affirmation.

Colonel Helen Stacy turns to her daughter with a weary yet affectionate gaze, her face marred with the stress of the burdens placed upon her.

“That’s right,” Helen says, gravely. Her jaw tightens as she shifts her attention to the scene unfolding below. Through the helicopter’s window, Helen spies on an internment camp. It’s a sprawling, miserable, hastily constructed complex of concrete and barbed wire, every feature emanating despair.

“Beyond that, though,” Helen continues, her voice heavy. “Our nation is involved in something far worse, Gwennie.”

Gwen tilts her head with youthful curiosity. “Worse than war?” she presses, her eyes expectantly searching Helen’s face for answers.

Helen nods solemnly, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Our responsibility is to bring it to an end.”

Gwen turns to peer out the window, her small hands pressed against the glass as she takes in the haunting sight below. Trucks move methodically in and out of the complex, while heavily armed soldiers patrol the walls and towers, their watchful eyes scanning every movement. To Gwen, it looks like a prison. She doesn’t fully understand its purpose, but she feels its weight settle on her chest. It all looks horribly efficient.

“Pilot.” Helen’s commanding voice cuts through the mechanical hum, sharp and decisive. “Take us a bit past the front line.”

“Right away, ma’am,” the pilot responds with brisk efficiency.

That single order becomes the gravest mistake Helen Stacy ever made.

The radar’s shrill alarm shatters the tense calm an hour later. “Beep-boop, beep-boop, beep-boop, beep-boop, beep-boop, beep-boop!” it chimes urgently.

“Radar lock! Missile ten o’clock low!” the robotic voice of the cockpit warning system states urgently. “BOOP, BOOP, BOOP, BOOP! Chaff, flare, chaff, flare!”

There’s a whooossshhh sound and then…

BANG!

The helicopter jolts violently, spinning into a chaotic descent as flames erupt from its underbelly. The cabin fills with a cacophony of alarms, their piercing cries blending with the automated warning system.

“Altitude, altitude, altitude!” the system screams. “PULL UP, PULL UP! PULL UP, PULL UP!”

Red warning lights pulse relentlessly, casting the cabin in a hellish glow. The helicopter spirals downward, a fiery comet tearing through the night sky.

The impact comes with devastating force. The ground rises to meet them in a bone-rattling collision. Metal screeches. Shouts erupt. Fire roars.

Amidst the wreckage, Gwen lies frozen, her small body trembling with fear. Her vision blurs, but she sees it—her first glimpse of an OCTO-Sparrow, it’s cold, singular blue eye glowing.

Screams.

Shouts.

Gunfire.

And then…

Blood splatters against the cracked window, stark against the flames.

And Gwen gasps, suddenly snapping back to the present. She takes deep, laboured breaths, trying to calm herself down.

“What’s wrong?” A deep, familiar, very real voice asks, laced with concern.

Gwen looks up sharply. She hadn’t even heard him approaching.

“Uncle…” she breathes.

“Come with me,” he says, walking in the direction of his office.

Gwen hesitates, but ultimately decides to follow a few paces behind. He stops at his opulent door and swings it open, gesturing for Gwen to slip inside first. She whispers a thanks and steps into the room. Arthur follows behind her, closing the door with a click and taking a seat at his desk. Sliding his chair in, he looks at Gwen expectantly. After a moment, she relents under his gaze.

“I still can’t forget it,” Gwen whispers. “The last place my mum ever took me… the battlefield in district Eighty-Six.”

Arthur hums, his voice a deep, contemplative grumble.

“I try to forget but…” Gwen trails off. “I guess I’m still haunted by what happened.” She looks down at her feet, some strength ebbing back into her voice. “I’m glad that I got to see it, though.”

“You’re grateful?” Arthur asks, incredulously.  

“Yeah,” Gwen states, raising her head to look into her uncle’s unyielding blue eyes. “Because I saw the district with my own eyes. I learnt the truth and was able to continue upholding the Republic’s values.”

Arthur grunts. He may as well rip the band aid off.

“Listen, Gwen,” he begins. “Helen was… a good, kind mother who wanted to make the Republic a better place. Losing someone as just and righteous as her is possibly the most devastating blow the Legion has ever dealt. And yet, she never really understood.”

“What do you mean?” Gwen inquires, curiously.

“Helen was no different from any other citizen. Despite preaching to the heavens, all she did was watch the war unfold, never fighting, never doing anything. She was a failure. Just like the rest of us.”

Standing suddenly, Arthur’s chair scrapes against the floor, his tone becoming increasingly angry as he towers over her. “The fact that she took you to a fucking warzone, solely for the sake of her hypocritical ideals, proves just how ignorant and stupid she was. Hell, she even thought the battlefield was only reserved for the Eighty-Six! That’s why she took you there!”

Gwen eyes widen in shock.

Arthur turns, face and voice lined with desperation. “Please don’t follow in her footsteps, Gwen. Please!” After a moment, he sighs loudly, trying to collect himself. “Chin up, Gwen,” he says, tiredly. “You’re doing a great job, despite me putting all this weight on your shoulders. I just wanted you to feel the harsh reality of this nation. But if it’s too much…”

“No!” Gwen interjects, sharply. “I’ll continue being Spearhead’s Handler!”

“What do the colours of our flag represent?” Arthur asks, harshly. Once again, he is her superior officer rather than her uncle.

“Freedom, equality, brotherhood, justice and finally, nobility,” Gwen answers, cautiously.

“Do you really think you’re upholding those values?” Arthur demands.

Gwen freezes, racking her brain. She can’t come up with an answer.

“Look at the world, Gwen,” he says. “Those values are gone. You are chasing something unattainable.”

His words are like daggers to her heart. Even worse, she’s fears they may be true. Wordlessly, she stands up and leaves his office, not waiting to be dismissed, then rushes from the building and runs aimlessly through the streets of New York, with no particular destination in mind. 

*****

Panting and breathing heavily, Gwen drops her satchel and officer hat on the ground, gasping for air. After running for more than an hour, she finds herself in the war casualties cemetery, a beautiful, albeit sombre place. The sky is clear and the moon shines brightly. There is even a small dotting of stars against the sky. She activates her Para-RAID, connecting her to a single person, the only one on her mind. A cold, curious voice answers:

"Do you need something, Handler One?"

On nights after a death, everyone in the unit either isolates themselves or hangs around with one other person, grieving in their own way. Miles prefers the former. So that night, and every other night before it, no one came to Miles’ room. Until now.

Leaning against his beaten-up table, illuminated by a pale-blue glow from the moon and stars, Miles furrows his brow. He’d been in the middle of engraving Danika’s name onto the piece of her insignia Spi-do had retrieved, when he found himself the sole recipient of this Resonance.

Miles sighs as the other side remains silent despite having initiated the call. He opens his mouth to speak to the dejected presence on the far end of the collective conscious, when the presence wavers. Almost as if a surprised shiver ran through it.

Miles waits patiently for her to speak, resuming his work, scratching at the scrap of coloured metal. Finally, after a short while, the Handler finally opens her mouth. When he hears her voice, feeble and faint, as if afraid of rejection, his hands stop.

"...Um..." she starts, completely unprepared for hearing Miles’ calm voice respond to her as always, making her lose her already flimsy nerve. "...Um, Undertaker. Is now a good time… to talk?"

"Yeah, sure. Go ahead," Miles replies quietly and serenely, although utterly devoid of emotion.

She knows she should be saying this to everyone, but she can’t muster the courage to contact Trollface, or anyone else for that matter, knowing they wouldn’t be willing to Resonate with her.

"I'm sorry. For what happened this afternoon and every day before it.” She clenches both her hands, face downcast as she continues to walk through the memorial. “I’m… so fucking sorry.”

Then, taking a deep breath, stealing her nerves for rejection, or worse, uncaringness, she raises her head high and stops walking.

"My name is Gwendolyn Stacy, although everyone calls me Gwen,” she says boldly, putting her heart in the Reaper’s hands. “And I know this is probably too late, but… can you please tell me your names?”

“If you’re bothered by what Trollface said to you, don’t be,” Miles says, indifferently, as if he’s stating mere facts. “He doesn’t speak for all of us, especially this afternoon.”

Gwen releases a soft gasp into the chilly night air.

“You didn’t cause the situation we’re in,” Miles continues. “It ain’t your fault. We know that. I know that. So don’t blame yourself.”

“But still…” Gwen argues, pain lacing her voice. “I should’ve at least asked for your names--”

She’d even asked for the cat’s name first, the thought never even crossing her mind to ask for their real names.

“You didn’t have to,” Miles interjects. “Why do ya reckon we’re all meant to use callsigns and our personnel files are locked?”

Gwen already knows the answer, but she responds anyway. “So Handler’s don’t think of you as human,” she mutters, darkly.

“Bingo,” Miles says, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Most Processor’s kick the can, buy the farm, however you wanna say it, within one year, anyway. The mental toll on Handler’s would be massive if they were chummy with us.”

“That’s still… cowardly,” Gwen argues, searching for the right word. Her voice softens with shame. “I was a coward. But I need to move forwards. So please, tell me your names. I wanna know who I’m working with!”

She clutches her notebook, knuckles white and voice pleading.

Miles sighs, fighting with himself mentally. “Bellflower,” he begins, after a brief pause. “The girl who died yesterday was Danika Hart.”

Gwen gives a small gasp of excitement and swiftly opens her notebook, placing it on the ground and grabbing a ballpoint pen from her satchel. She begins frantically writing the first name before she forgets it. Undertaker continues listing off the names of all twenty surviving members of Spearhead.

“Our XO, Anarchist, is Hobie Brown,” he says, rattling off names whilst also trying to be mindful of Gwen as she furiously jots down the names in her swirly handwriting, trying to keep up. “Trollface is Ganke Lee, Shoka is Pavitr Prabhakar, Tinkerer is Phin Mason, Antaka is Gayatri Singh…”

This goes on for a short while, with Miles patiently doubling back to certain names she missed. Before long, Gwen has a list spanning two pages of her notebook.

“That’s all of ‘em,” he says.

“Thanks,” Gwen smiles, standing to stretch her cramped limbs. “Call me Gwen from now on.”

“What’s your rank?” Miles asks, curiously.

“Oh, Major,” Gwen replies, twirling a blonde strand of hair between her fingers. “Although that kinda only just happened.”

“Is it ok if I call you Major Stacy from now on?” Miles questions, his voice almost hopeful. Maybe he doesn’t feel quite comfortable using her first name just yet? “Is that alright with you?”

“Yeah, sure,” Gwen says. Her voice becomes curious. “Y’know, you’re a lot more perceptive than I thought you’d be.”

Miles laughs softly. “I guess some would say I’m beyond my years.” He sounds… almost joking? Gwen giggles softly at his dry, teasing, humour, regardless.

A strange scuffing sound suddenly emanates from the Resonance.

“What was that?” she asks curiously.

“Oh, that?” Miles says. “I’m engraving Danika’s name. Eighty-Six don’t get graves.”

Gwen gasps in shock and spins to look at the grey memorial stones to her left. There are hundreds of them, each with many names engraved into them. Including her mothers. But they’re all Alba.

“In my first unit, we all made a promise that we’d carve the dead’s names into a piece of their SP/DR and the survivors would carry it with them,” Miles explains. “The last of us to survive would be able to take the others to their final destination, wherever that may be. I was always the last. I always have been.”

Gwen smiles, sadly. She thinks she might finally be starting to understand this Reaper, this Undertaker. Regardless, he continues pouring his heart out to her, placing it squarely in her hands.

“I’ve carried the job with me from unit to unit.”

“Five whole years of that,” she whispers, contemplatively, staring at the headstones around here. Then, like she’s stepping on ice, asks: “How many people have you lost?”

“Five hundred and sixty-one,” he answers, plainly. “Including Danika.”

“And those people…” Gwen starts, her voice full of empathy and compassion for this lonely Reaper.

“I’ll carry ‘em all with me, every last one, until I reach my final destination.”

A soft breeze blows across the memorial, rustling the bright green grass as Gwen’s loose hair flaps against her face.

“That’s why you called yourself the Undertaker?” she asks sadly, closing her eyes.

“That’s part of it, yeah,” he chuckles, lightly. “I was actually meant to have a different callsign, but that didn’t really work out in the end…”

“I… you’re so… kind…” Gwen whispers, searching for the right words, simultaneously sad and in awe. “I’ve felt bad about the loss of a Processor, but I can’t imagine grieving and remembering every single one like you do…”

Miles merely sighs, defeated.

“If it’s possible,” Gwen asks, suddenly nervous and jittery. “Can I apologise to everyone in the unit?”

“Yeah, I can connect you now.”

“Huh?!” Gwen splutters in surprise. “Like, right now? No… wait… you don’t have to do that!”

“One sec…” Miles teases, beginning to fiddle with the Para-RAID connection.

“WAIT, WAIT, WAIT, UNDERTAKER!” Gwen pleads, nervous and panicky, then monotone and awkward. “Oh shit…”

Miles, the bastard, merely snickers as the raid device is suddenly connected to everyone in Spearhead Squadron.

“Best of luck, Major Stacy.”

*****

Spearhead Squadron wait expectantly in the rec room. They’d all heard snippets of Miles’ conversation with Handler One, so they were expecting him to come into the room any minute. What they weren’t expecting, however, was him to enter with a shit eating grin on his face as he seemingly jokes around with the Handler. They all stare at him with mixed reactions as the door swings open.

Hobie smirks knowingly, whilst Pav, Heavy, Cameron and Gayatri fail to contain their laughter at Phin’s sour look, like she’d just swallowed a lemon. The others wear expressions of either boredom or disinterest, especially Ganke, who sits on the couch, sketching, trying to ignore the empty spot next to him.

“What?” Miles asks, his face automatically returning to its neutral, apathetic expression, as he leans against the peeling, beige wall of the rec room.

“Didn’t say squat,” Hobie protests, defensively, raising his hands in mock surrender and returning to read a book back to front. He doesn’t believe in consistency, after all.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Phin grumbles.

Seconds later, the Handler’s bell-like voice chimes through the shared resonance.

“Uh, hi, everyone,” she says, awkwardly. “I just wanted to, um, apologise to you all. I’m sorry ‘bout yesterday… and every day before that. I don’t think my behaviour was… exemplary.”

Gwen cringes at that last part. God, it sounded like she was doing one of those forced apologies that the school principal makes you do. Regardless, she continues, pouring every emotion she can through her words and the resonance. She’ll just have to try and sound natural for the next part.

“My name is Gwendolyn Stacy, and for the last year I’ve been a Handler. I got promoted to Major recently and… I’m pretty sure you know the rest,” she trails off, unsure how exactly to proceed. Then, she feels a small hint of encouragement coming from Undertaker on the other side of the connection, and it spurs her forwards, emboldened.

“From the start, I failed to treat you all as humans, as equals, and I didn’t even realise,” she sighs, sadly. “I suppose it only makes sense you’d reject me. But… if any of you wanna still answer, feel free to tell me your names!”

Ganke suddenly stands and huffs, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I thought Reaper already gave you our names. Guys a real pain in the--” he grumbles, glaring at Miles, who stares back, coldly.

Chill, the gaze seems to command.

“Yeah, he did,” Gwen says, undiscouraged. “But it’s hardly the same. I wanna hear ‘em from you guys.”

Ganke groans, at a loss for words. Just who does this Handler think she is? “Why’d you have to go and tell her,” he complains, his face sulky and childish.

“Because you said you regretted it after she disconnected,” Miles says to him, harshly, tilting his head. “Not what you said, but how you said it, right?”

Ganke huffs and turns away from Miles’ cold gaze. He reaches for a box of darts and pulls one out, taking aim at the board on the opposite wall. “My callsign comes from someone else, contrary to popular rumours claiming I spent all my time as an incel, internet troll,” he reluctantly admits.

*Incel – Someone who sucks at getting a girlfriend and hate that fact. --ED.

Heavy cackles from the other side of the room, once again patting the kitten. Ganke shoots him a dirty side eye.

“Who’d you get it from?” Gwen asks curiously.

“My first ever combat commander,” Ganke replies, with his signature bluntness. “He was an Alba, and since he was always in charge of rookie units, he’d get insulted constantly. One of the many popular insults was trollface, mainly cause the dude was so fucking cheerful, so kind and respectful to us, it annoyed everyone. Thought he was only in the military to troll us, I guess.” 

*Troll – Slang term for someone who says or does stuff intentionally to get a negative reaction for laughs. --ED.

“Respectful?” Gwen inquires.

“Yeah, you heard me,” Ganke snarks. Miles glares at him. “Sorry, that was a bit harsh, I guess. But yeah, he didn’t believe in what the Republic was doin’, a former Imperial officer, too. Came back to the battlefield so at least one Eighty-Six wouldn’t have to.”

“What happened to him?”

“Fought till his last breath as our rear-guard, saved us all,” Ganke sighs. “Not saying you should do that, by the way,” he adds, a hint of humour in his tone.

“I don’t think that’s where my skills lay,” Gwen jokes, playing along.

“Anyway, big stupid speech over,” Ganke says. “Names Ganke Lee. Call me Ganke, or Spanky, or whatever the fuck else you feel like.”

“I’m still so sorry for the way I acted,” Gwen apologises.

Ganke rolls his eyes. “Eugh, whatever, we’re good, so please, just get over it already. I don’t want Undertaker giving me the death glare every day.”

Everyone laughs heartily at that, whilst Gwen just feels confused.

Before she can mull it over, another voice, this time deeply lilted with a cockney accent, floats across the Resonance.

“My names Hobie, Hobie Brown. Executive Officer of Spearhead,” he says proudly.

“Go on…” Gwen encourages, sensing he has a little more to say.

Hobie clears his throat. “We ain’t gonna see ya as one of us, as an equal, least not yet, and bein’ real for a sec, we all kinda thought your nightly calls were bloody pretentious, a Pig who was so up her own arse, she couldn’t see how hypocritical she was.” Hobie is blunt, cutting right to the chase. Gwen tries not to react to the sheer honesty. “Anyway, guess I owe ya an apology, you ain’t too bad I suppose, though bit of an idiot,” he sniffs.

“Thanks for being honest,” Gwen says.

“Feel free to keep callin’ though, it gets stale talkin’ to all the same blokes every day,” he adds, sneaking a look at Miles. “Can’t say you’re Handler material though.”

“You’ve got no idea how often I get told that,” Gwen bursts out laughing, causing Hobie to hum in surprise and frown. “And I’m not quitting. Guess I’ve got stubbornness issues. So yeah, I’ll keep calling if it helps kill some time.”

“You really are an idiot,” Hobie smirks, laughing to himself. “Reckon you could send that map over? You were so busy cryin’ I think you forgot.”

“Uh, excuse you? I was not crying. Undertaker can vouch for me,” Gwen snipes back. “And yeah, I’ll see if I can pester transport enough to send it over.”

“I think that’s where one of your skills might lay,” Hobie teases.

“We’ll talk to you later, Major Stacy,” Gayatri interjects, her voice soft and amused. “Oh, that was me, Gayatri Singh, speaking, by the way.”

Suddenly, a chorus of names flows through her ears.

“THIS IS BIG HEAVY TALKING!” Heavy roars, startling the kitten. Cameron whacks him over the head.

“You fat fucking lard!” Cameron yells. “That’s just his nickname. His true name is--“

Heavy quickly spins around and tackles Cameron to the floor with a shout of ‘NO!”.

“Names – Cameron – OW! - McDonald, Major,” Cameron yells, pinned to the ground. “SOMEONE SEND HELP!!”

They all ignore him, continuing to give names, until finally, there’s only person left. Gayatri, sitting next to her, nudges her with an expectant hum.

After a brief, annoyed huff, Phin relents. “Phin Mason,” she says, standoffishly.

“Thanks everyone.” Gwen breathes a deep sigh of relief, feeling her nerves finally float away. “Thank you so much.”

*****

Undertaker walks back to his room in the dead of night, silent as a shadow. Outside, the rhythmic chirping of crickets fills the quiet. Then, breaking the stillness, the Para-RAID flickers to life. The connection pings softly, linking him with just one other person: The Major.

“Sorry, um, Undertaker?” Gwen’s voice is tinged with nervous hesitation.

“Yeah?” Miles replies, confused.

“I hope I’m not intruding or anything, but…” She falters, her words trailing off awkwardly. “I never got… your name…?” She begins to ramble, clearly flustered. “Did you not wanna say? Cause that’s totally fine! I don’t mind...”

“Oh, um, nah,” Miles answers, his voice casual. “Just forgot, I guess.”

“Oh,” Gwen murmurs, her normally bright and cheerful tone dipping into sadness.

The shift in her voice stirs something unfamiliar in Miles. A strange pang wells up in his chest, compelling him to fix it—to bring her voice back to its usual silvery cheer. The feeling surprises him, though his expression remains unreadable. Why do I care?

Realising he hasn’t spoken for a couple seconds and crickets are literally chirping, he clears his throat.  “My name is Miles G Morales,” he says, his voice steady and calm.

“Morales?” Gwen echoes, her tone brightening almost instantly. Her silvery voice returns, like sunlight breaking through a cloud. “That’s Puerto Rican, right?”

“Sure is,” Miles says, cracking a surprised smile, a rarity given his cold, hard personality. “My mom was from there, but my dad was from the Republic. I never took his last name, though.”

Gwen nods slightly, though her tone grows softer at his use of the word ‘was’. “Who was your dad?” she asks gently, curious as to where in the Republic he came from and whether she might recognise his name.

“Oh, Davis. Jefferson Davis,” Miles says with a hint of indifference. To him, names are just identifiers, codes for others to address him by. He considers telling Gwen that, but before he can, her sharp gasp causes him to raise an eyebrow quizzically.

“JEFFERSON DAVIS?” Gwen shouts in shock, presumably jolting up from her chair because on the other end of the Resonance, he hears something large tumble to the floor with a clatter.

“Uhhh, yeah?” Miles responds, now more confused than ever.

“Is he related to—are you related to Aaron Davis?” Gwen asks, her voice tinged with urgency. “He was a Processor called ‘Prowler,’ and his emblem was a headless knight!”

Miles freezes mid-step, his breath catching in his throat. The hallway seems to close in, and the crickets’ steady chirping grows louder, echoing in his eardrums, filling the empty silence. That name… He hasn’t heard it in a long time and hearing it now… it sends a chill down his spine.

Suddenly, a violent torrent of repressed memories streak across his mind like fire:

A tall man lifting a young Miles into the air.

The crickets chirp louder.

Laughing together in an art gallery.

Louder still.

Teaching him how to draw.

Even louder.

Teaching him to read.

The crickets reach a deafening crescendo.

BLACK FACE. SCRATCHED OUT FACE. CENSORED FACE.

The scar on his neck burns.

And then…

Red vision.

Head pounding.

Hands around his neck. Strong hands. Angry hands. Violent hands. HECANTFUCKINGBREATHE.

Miles’ amber eyes widen, his face unreadable at first. Then, slowly, a manic, almost deranged smile spreads across his lips and creeps up his face.

“Of course I know him,” Miles says, his voice distant and dazed. “He’s my uncle.”