If You See Something
There was a time when Miles’ favorite game was Tag.
He’d gladly be It during recess, hell, he’d even volunteer for the role before the class went through the painstaking process of ‘Ding Dong, You Are Not It’. He loved tag when it was a quick race down the block with Mami hot on his heels. It was fun being snatched up and hoisted into the air when his Dad caught him. And Uncle Aaron always played dirty, whether it came to pretending his ankles had been sprained while chasing after Miles or promising to give him piggyback rides just to get him to stop running all so the man could deliver the quick tap that ended the game.
Tag was fun. It was just a stupid, childish game that Miles happened to enjoy.
It wasn’t fun when a masked man with claws for weapons and rocket boots for transportation was chasing him through the dark tunnels of the MTA subway system. He’d never in his life experienced the tight feeling of his throat closing up from sheer panic as he ran from a murder scene. But there was a first for everything. The clang of boots hitting the tracks behind him sealed his reality and he didn’t care that his new freaky spider powers were giving him a noticeable speed increase because that didn’t matter when a villain had rockets built into their shoes.
His eyes burned and the acrid scent of rat piss and old water was abusing his newly heightened senses. And the damn spider that caused these enhancements still managed to screw him over even in death. If the thing never bit him he wouldn’t have gone looking for answers as to why he was able to walk on walls. Funny enough he couldn’t quite remember how he’d even gotten into the tracks or the events that led up to now.
Just the cracks of a caved-in chest and the damning words that followed.
“Kill that guy.”
He wished he had just waited for Uncle Aaron to come back from whatever he was doing. The man had told him time and time again to never go in the tracks by himself. And if Uncle Aaron of all people was telling you not to do something, then you better not. The blaring headlights of an oncoming train ripped him out of his guilty spiral and immediately planted him back into his life-or-death situation and on instinct he leaped high above the speeding cars of the train and attached himself to the ceiling.
The sound of wheels rattling along the tracks drowned out his panicked gasps and the cold buzz of mechanic claws whining for a kill. The train offered 5 seconds of a break before it was disappearing further into the tunnel towards its next stop leaving behind a 13-year-old and the infamous Prowler to resume their chase.
Miles pulled. And pulled. And pulled.
“Stop sticking,” He begged. The tiles were barely giving and he bit his bottom lip as the sound of rockets zipping towards him became louder. His fingers felt like they were on the verge of snapping as he tried to yank them from the ceiling in horrified, desperate tugs.
If he had just waited for Uncle Aaron.
Nothing good ever came out of him disobeying the older man. He had learned that from moments like a sprained wrist, scraped knees, and almost getting hit by a taxi. Uncle Aaron didn’t care about what he did as long as he was alive and unscathed by the end of whatever it was. “Mistakes are mistakes, man, just make sure it ain’t stupid shit that gets you hurt.”
Now that his life was a moment away from ending, the spider fell under the Stupid Shit Category.
His feet unstuck from the ceiling and left him dangling by the tips of his fingers. A whine escaped him when the tunnel tiles cracked and fell in tiny pieces around him but did nothing to help free him from his precarious position. He was going to die. He was going to be slashed to bits in the dark tunnels of the subways and left on the side of the tracks like trash. Some poor maintenance worker would probably find him and have the whole track shut down for investigation. Another whine built in his throat at the thought of his Dad being called in for a homicide only to see his own son-
Or would the Prowler ‘get rid’ of him like they got rid of Spider-Man?
“Please,” he begged uselessly when the menacing figure slowed right under his feet. The man gave no response as he grabbed Miles’ ankles and tugged. He hit the ground with a scream, trying in vain to kick his legs only to be dragged to the side as another train came hurtling down the tracks. “Please,” he screamed over the noise of the train, twisting his head in the direction of the villain, “I swear I won’t say anything just- please!”
The grip on his ankles tightened and he shut his eyes with enough force to squeeze out the tears that had been gathering since he leaped over the fence. There was no use in begging. The Prowler had no reason to take mercy on him and Miles knew that, but the choked pleas still fell from his lips only to be met by horrible silence. He cracked open his eyes, barely breathing as he trembled in the man’s grip.
And the Prowler was still.
His metal claws dug into the skin of Miles’ ankles with amazing strength and small rivulets of blood stained the teenager’s socks when he tried pulling his feet free. The cat-like agility was nowhere to be seen and instead of slinky movements the Prowler just leaned over him in a stiff, graceless position. Miles stared into dimly glowing white eyes, trying desperately to muster up the courage to face his upcoming death, and sobbed when the claws dug in deeper.
He told his mamá that he’d see her later.
The thought of her alone was enough to start a round of wailing. Through his tears and the sound of blood rushing through his head, he almost missed the baritone voice of the Prowler calling his name.
“Miles?”
He flinched as though the man had struck him, curling up into a ball the best he could with the man still clutching his ankles. He tested the Prowler’s grip again, scrambling back when the villain actually let go of him. “Wait, Miles-”
“How do you know my name?” Miles hissed, wiping off the bottom half of his face and cringing when the back of his hand came back bloody. “Please, I swear I wasn’t tryna see any of that-”
“Miles-”
“Just let me go,” Miles was tripping over his vowels, slamming his Brooklyn drawl in with a fast-paced Nuyorican accent. His chest was heaving, he wasn’t making sense anymore and words were still spilling out but the Prowler wasn’t moving those clawed hands to kill him, no, he was moving them toward his mask and pulling-
Silence reigned.
The scuttle of rats and other various subway tunnel creatures registered to Miles’ sensitive ears but the only thing he cared about was the wide eyes of his Uncle Aaron. Uncle Aaron who was still wearing the claw gauntlets and the incriminating purple Prowler suit. But the man wasn’t racing after him with murderous intent anymore, silent and still, Miles prayed that meant something for his continued survival.
“Uncle Aaron?” He squeaked when the silence became physically painful. The man recoiled away from him, leaping away like Miles would explode if he stayed in his weird hovering position.
“Miles what are you doin’ down here-”
“Why are you the Prowler,” Miles snapped back, scrambling to his feet only to fall back on his butt when his ankles flared with pain. The bloody socks caught his Uncle’s attention and the man reached a clawed hand out in a concerned gesture. Miles pulled his legs away instantly and eyed the claws nervously before trailing his brown eyes up to his Uncle’s horrified ones. He felt the familiar pricks of guilt stabbing his heart but it didn’t stop the nervous question from escaping him:
“Are you really gonna kill me?”
Uncle Aaron snatched his hand away and Miles faintly realized that the man had never done that before. His whole life Uncle Aaron had reached out to him with quick fingers to ruffle his ‘fro or toss a can of spray paint his way. And now those fingers were covered by claws that Miles had just seen flexed and prepared to slice through Spider-Man before Fisk came and did the job himself.
The man quickly removed the gauntlets as if noticing Miles’ anxious spiral in their presence and carefully placed them behind him. Out of sight, out of mind. “Miles, c’mon, I gotta get you out of here.”
“Go where?” Miles asked hollowly. The river? An alley? Further into the tracks?
His uncle knew exactly what he was implying. Of course, he did. Uncle Aaron always knew what he was trying to say even if his nervous rambles or sarcastic jabs were used to cover his whirling thoughts. But unlike the other times when Uncle Aaron had said exactly what he needed to hear or do what he wanted to be done, the confirmation that he wasn’t trying to kill his nephew never came.
It made Miles burst into tears. Not the panicked sobs that had spilled from him when he thought for sure that he was dead but a more intimate reaction. Because if Uncle Aaron was really still his Uncle Aaron then he would react to those tears if nothing else. He would give that little hiss, lose his suave personality, and turn into a fretting mess the moment Miles shed a tear in his presence.
Well, the cool exterior was already gone, and his Uncle was already on the verge of a mental breakdown. He just wanted to hear-
“Miles, baby, I’m not gonna hurt you,” Uncle Aaron was begging, and Miles had never seen him do that either. “Just let me take you home.”
The smell of the subway was nauseating and Uncle Aaron didn’t smell like his usual cologne either. The claw marks on his ankles still burned and the bruises he had acquired from being tossed around like a rag-doll in the fight between Spider-Man and Green Goblin were flaring with every move he made.
Miles did want to go home. The choice between his cluttered bedroom on his parents’ floor or the cozy apartment that belonged to Uncle Aaron wasn’t important. Anywhere but the dirty train tracks would be great.
When Uncle Aaron reached out again, Miles let himself be tucked into the man’s warm embrace and tried to pretend that he had fallen off a fence and scraped his knees like when he was 9 and Uncle Aaron was still just Uncle Aaron and not Uncle Aaron and the Prowler.