Chapter 1
earth-1589
new york, 201x. wednesday.
Miguel stares down at the puddle of blood that colors the alley. In it lies the body of a man taking his last breaths. Pleading eyes drift up the length of Miguel’s form, standing silently before him, mouth open with unspoken cries for help. The instant their gazes meet, the man wheezes, coughs, attempts to speak and Miguel watches the blood drip down his chin.
“Why?” Asks a raspy voice, straining with every inhale on a punctured lung.
Beyond the alley, a woman is still yelling about her purse and the jerk who took it, uncaring about the man who was shot trying to get it back.
The man, who gave his life trying to be a good citizen.
The father, who was walking back from the store because he was out of milk.
The daughter, who taps her spoon impatiently against the table because she won’t eat cereal dry; unaware that her dad will never walk through the door again.
A Wednesday morning, like any other, a man finds himself in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Miguel waits until he’s sure the man has stopped breathing before approaching him, sitting on his heels to close his eyes with a quick prayer.
At 7:43am, Miguel O’Hara of this universe is dead.
At 7:44am, Miguel O’Hara of another universe scales the wall, keeping an eye on his surroundings.
At 7:48am, the late Miguel O’Hara is cocooned behind an AC unit, a temporary hiding place until the living Miguel O’Hara can find an alternative way to store the body.
At 7:55am, Miguel O’Hara, having stolen the belongings of a dead man, enters the apartment with a shaking hand.
“Papa! What took you so long?”
His breath catches.
“Papa?” Poking her head around the doorway, Gabriella frowns. “You forgot the milk!”
“Oh,” his voice cracks. “Sorry, I… I’ll go back.”
“Then we’ll be late. I’ll just get something at school.” With that, she dumps the untouched cereal back into the box, sets the bowl in the sink and rushes back to her room to finish getting ready for the morning.
Walking through the kitchen, Miguel lays his fingertips on the counters, over the top of the chair, the knobs of the cabinets. Grounding himself in his new home.
“Do you want me to take you to school?” He calls out, taking stock of the dishware.
“Dad,” rolling her eyes, she huffs. “I’m already in sixth grade. I don’t need my dad taking me to school,” as if it’s the worst thing she could imagine. As if Miguel didn’t carry her father’s dead body minutes ago. As if she isn’t speaking to a stranger who brazenly walked right into her home, her life.
“Okay, okay,” holding his hands up, he fakes a laugh, trying to let his shoulders relax. “Do you have everything?”
“Bus pass, keys, bookbag, scrunchie,” Gabriella lists off her necessities, touching each item as she does. “But you’re forgetting something.”
“I know, the milk.”
“No,” with her fists on her hips, she leans forward, her face scrunched in mock frustration.
“What?”
“A goodbye kiss!” Pointing to her forehead, as if he needed a reminder, Miguel finds himself smiling something painful.
“How could I forget?” Before he can reach her, she holds her hand up.
“Are you okay, papa? You’re not sick, are you?”
“No, just tired.”
“‘Cause I can’t get sick,” she continues. “I’m going to Sara’s on Friday and you know how her mom is.”
“Yes, yes,” pinching her chin and tilting her head up, Miguel kisses her forehead and pats her back, ushering her out the door. “I’ll be better after school.”
“Good. You still owe me a rematch!” Making a motion with her hand, matched with an intense staredown, Gabriella promptly breaks out in a smile and runs down the hall, bouncing on the balls of her feet while she waits for the elevator. Waving one last time, the sleek doors close behind her and Miguel steps back into the apartment, closing and locking the door.
“What the shock am I doing?” He asks aloud, running his hands down his face. A rematch? Sara? Sixth grade? “Lyla, begin a new entry.” Taking a step forward, Miguel halts. “Lyla.”
Silence.
Looking at his wrist, his device is inactive.
“Lyla.”
“Yes?”
“I’m stepping out.”
“Okay?” Raising an eyebrow, she looks at Miguel. “And?”
“Just letting you know.”
“Alright, well, be back before curfew,” she dismisses, already back to what she was doing.
The Spider Society has been officially running for three weeks, and even then most of it was still working out finer details. Lyla’s current task was trying to keep track of every Peter Parker they’ve interacted with, because calling them ‘Peter 1’, ‘Tall Peter’ or ‘Fake Peter’ stopped being funny and was becoming a struggle with keeping everyone straight. Categorizing the Peters by universe and into a schedule was tedious work; something repetitive enough that Lyla was unaware of Miguel’s plan.
Opening a portal to the opening of a dim alley, Miguel steps through and immediately disables his location and communication widgets.
Right.
Grabbing a pad of paper off the coffee table, Miguel finds a pen and begins jotting notes down on stationary imprinted with Mike O’Hara on each page.
Gabriella. 6th grade. 10 y.o? 11? Goodbye kiss. Bus to school. Rematch??
Starting a new column, he writes in bold letters FRIENDS and writes Sara as the first bullet point, followed by strict mom?
Walking around the apartment, he notes anything he finds important and worth remembering, as well as getting his bearings for the space he’s in. Calendar on the fridge with Gabriella’s appointments (no names, just ‘G - dentist @ 10’) and reminders to make calls (without numbers), as well as cat-shaped magnets holding up newspaper clippings for sales — whoever this Miguel was, he lived a simple, boring life. A physical calendar reminded Miguel that he was not in 2099 and the people here didn’t seem to have artificial intelligence assistants at their disposal. This guy probably has a roll-o-dex.
In the bedroom, the roll-o-dex is full of business cards from restaurants out of state. Knocking it over, Miguel paces around the bedroom for any more information. Running shoes, stained from grass. Too many pullovers. Did this guy not own a collared shirt? Books on the bedside table with a layer of dust.
One pillow.
No photo of a spouse or partner. Nothing of Gabriella’s other parent.
On his way back out, something catches Miguel’s eye. From the roll-o-dex, a card bearing the name “Bijoux.”
“Reservation under O’Hara.”
“Right this way, sir.”
“Wow,” Tempest whispers, leaning in as she trails Miguel.
“Wow what?”
“You know what.” Pulling her chair out for her, Miguel seats Tempest and kisses her cheek when he pushes her in, then takes his spot across from her. “I can’t believe you got us a table here. Don’t you have to reserve it, like, months in advance?”
“You do if you’re a mere mortal, but we P.I. executives - we’re a whole ‘nother race entirely.”
Rolling her eyes, Tempest tells the waiter she’ll just have water and turns down Miguel’s offer for a glass of wine. Glancing out the storefront window, she listens to him brag about his private business jet as traffic buzzes down the street.
Blinking, Miguel turns the card over. The back is blank, the logo on the front faded from what seems to be years of touch. Holding onto it, rubbing his thumb over it for comfort? Boring and pathetic. That’s fine. Since Miguel accidentally discovered this universe, he, too, has been pining over the what-ifs. Now he gets to fulfill that fantasy at the expense of his life. His other life? His first life? At the expense of Miguel’s life. However that works out.
For the time being, he needs to figure out what to do until Gabriella gets back from school and what exactly it is Miguel does when not, apparently, forgetting milk and longing over business cards.