Miguel is the worst, Gwen decides as she stumbles through a portal and back to HQ.
It’s been a few weeks since the whole – dad thing. It’s been fine, besides the fact that Miguel is, well, Miguel. He’s been purposely sending her on these missions, ones that are clearly too much for a 15 year old girl, because he wants her to admit they’re too much. It’s obvious.
Every time he gives her a mission, he looks her directly in the eye as he says it. He looks at Jess knowingly when she says ‘Seriously?’. It’s so much routine that Gwen kind of looks forward to it now.
But this one was at least 3 different Dr. Octaviuses, and he had sent only Gwen. It was a suicide mission that didn’t succeed. Not only did she not capture them, but she comes back blood-battered and bruised to the 3rd degree – and, unfortunately, not dead. She knocks twice on the door to Miguel’s office. Lyla glitches in next to her.
“Woah, girl.” Lyla says, sassy as ever. Gwen looks at her. “You good?”
Her head slumps back down in defeat. She sticks a thumb up and turns her head to purse her lips into a strained smile, not trusting her voice. “Mhm. Ok.” Lyla nods, unconvinced. “I’ll get Miguel.”
A minute or two later, the doors open to see Miguel coming down on his platform, staring at the screens. Gwen finally moves after a few seconds, stepping into his office. She usually waits for him to speak, out of respect, but he’s not.
“Um,” Gwen starts, “Do you need my report?” She shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, and-
Fuck.
Her entire body goes stiff at the smallest movements. Blood drips down her leg, from her knee to the floor. Her bones ache for the comfort of a bed as opposed to the dirty old couch she’s been sleeping on in the lobby. She winces, feeling her brain go 100 miles an hour as Miguel looks coldly into her eyes and takes in her state.
“Do you know why I send you on these missions, Gwen?” Miguel starts, unmoving. Gwen nods. “Why?” He asks. He crosses his arms, suit flexing against him.
She contemplates this question for a minute. She knows it’s a trap. She knows she’ll end up more bruised, mentally and physically, when she leaves this office. She can tell he’s already angry, and telling the truth will make it worse. But he’s talking.
And, more importantly, He’s talking to her. Nobody talks to her here. All the Spider-Men avoid her like the plague for reasons she can’t fathom, the Spider-Women – mostly Jessica, the only other one she’s met is Silk. They don’t talk. – don’t like her much either, and the Spider-animals (?) don’t even notice her. She’s practically invisible here.
“Because you want me to fail.”
It’s almost a whisper, like she’s telling a secret. But everyone knows. It’s clear. Gwen looks down, away from Miguel’s gaze as she says it. He steps forward and grabs her face roughly, forcing her to look at him. He lets go, and she doesn’t look away. She deserves this, honestly, because she knows he likes to be looked at and listened to. She can’t follow simple fucking rules.
“It’s not that, Gwen. I’m protecting everyone else. And you.” He says, looking down at her. Her eyes widen, and she presses her nails into her thigh. She feels a little blood drip into the suit.
“Every Spider-Man has a Gwen Stacy.” He steps away from her, turning to his screens. “In every universe, they fall in love. And Gwen Stacy dies. It’s a canon event. There’s nothing you can do to stop this.”
He says it all with no emotion at all. Gwen stands there, staring at him. Her brain doesn’t process the information fully, and he rolls his eyes. “Look.”
And that’s when it happens. So, so many versions of her – all taken by the same fate. Falling from buildings, falling from webs, falling. It’s a montage, clipped together in a way that when she’s finally over the shock of one there’s another. None of them are her, but they’re all her. They all had a dad named George who’s a cop and a best friend named Peter. They all liked science, all of their favorite flavors of ice cream were chocolate chip cookie dough. They all preferred lighter colored clothes over dark and they’ve all fallen. They’ve all succumbed to the same ending, why would she ever be the exception?
They all fall, Miguel replays the video like he’s enjoying this. They all fall and break a neck, or a spine, or a rib. They all fall and fall and fall , on loop. They all fall and it’s too much, she feels like she’s falling, she feels her neck and her spine and her ribs cracking and breaking and falling and she can’t do this anymore.
“Stop,” She pleads, quiet. “Please stop.”
Miguel presses the spacebar to pause it, looking over at her. “Why should I?”
And, she bitterly realizes, this is his goal with all of this. Just another fucked up way of reminding Gwen that she’s not strong enough for this. “Why do you hate me?” She says it with anger seeping into her tone, ignoring his question.
Miguel glares. “Excuse me?” He says, in that tone adults use when they hate a kid, but they can’t say they hate a kid.
“Why do you hate me?” She repeats, louder, looking right back at him. “What did I ever do to you?”
Miguel turns, facing her completely. He steps forward once, twice, until-
She barely registers the hand against her face until it hits her, pushing her down. Her already bruised body hits the floor with a hard thud, her bones ache as she lays weakly. She tries not to think about how much power he has, what he can do to her. He hovers over her, looking down at her. She looks between his face, and his legs, before doing – probably – the dumbest thing she could do in this situation.
She kicks an injured leg forward into his ankle. He stumbles back, gripping onto a desk. She takes whatever strength she has left to get up and run as fast as she can to the big doors that open his office. They shut as she runs, and she lets her body give up. She lets herself fall to the floor, shutting her eyes and throwing an arm over them as she faces the ceiling and catches her breath.
“Are you done fighting?”
His voice interrupts her shallow breathing. She takes her arm off her eyes and looks up at him. He’s glaring down at her like she’s a toddler who’s begging for candy and not a teenager who’s begging to be kept alive. “I’m sorry, Miguel.” She’s literally begging, now. Her voice is breaking and her bottom lip is trembling. She’s acting like a baby and she feels like screaming and crying until someone hears her. “I’m sorry.”
He stares for another minute, just looking at her like an apology means nothing. Her eyes are wide with fear, slight claw marks adorn her cheeks, against a myriad of colors from her previous battle. Blue eyes shine with unshed tears as she shakes against the cold floor. Her hair’s a wreck, dried blood against her scalp coating blonde locks from being shoved against floors and walls and roofs. He then, abruptly, kicks her in the ribs. She curls into herself, gripping the spot as her ribs vibrate against her skin. Miguel steps over her, making his way out the door.
“Be out of here in 5,” He says, not looking back at her. “I expect better from you, Max.”
This is what he does, when she does badly. He, usually, just yells at her for a while. He refuses to call her Gwen, but usually doesn't say her name at all. This is the first time he’s called her that.
The doors close, and she curls tighter into herself for a minute like she could vanish. She wishes that she had died in that mission from today, or in any of the suicide missions he’s set her into these past few weeks. She drags herself off the floor, standing up. Her eyes blur from dizziness – most likely from the blood loss, based on the blood seeping through from her torso onto her suit.
She stumbles to a locker in the Spider-Gym, the one she’s been keeping her bag of clothes in for the past few weeks, and pulls out a change of clothes. She reaches in the front pocket for her first-aid kit, but instead she finds a note. She pulls it out, reading it over once. Then again, because it doesn’t seem real.
You don’t need this. If you’re ever injured this badly, you either deserve it or need the infirmary.
- Miguel
Holy shit.
He actually took away her fucking bandage privileges.
And she can’t help but let out a little, shocked laugh at the note as she feels the tears burn the back of her eyes. Because it’s fucked up, taking away someone’s first aid kit because you abuse them. But what gets her is that the side of her own conscience that’s as fucked up as this note is – is happy.
Because, maybe, he cares. He says he’s doing what’s best. Miguel always says he knows best. He wrote ‘need the infirmary’ like he wouldn’t be the one to send her there, and that’s fucked. But she can’t help but think that maybe he’s just looking out for her. He’s her boss. He knows what’s good for her.
She walks to a bathroom stall, changing out of her suit with her eyes closed. She refuses to look at her wounds, or at her body. She has a black tee on that’s at least 3 sizes too big, to avoid blood seeping through. She throws on a pair of jeans that aren’t ripped so no one sees the open wounds that cover her kneecaps.
When she goes out to the cafeteria, she makes direct eye contact with Miguel. He’s leaving as she enters, and he eyes her his entire way out, as if to say don’t even try to fuck up again.
Gwen wasn’t that hungry, anyway. It’s already been a few days – what’s one more?