News Report
GWEN STACY had crooked teeth, and a large gap between the top two in the front. She would stare in the mirror inspecting them every time she passed one by, lamenting the fact that they would never be straight. Peter used to tease her for it every time she had something to hold over his head. “I may be ugly, but at least my teeth are straight.” He would pose, and despite how much it usually bothered her when it came from Peter it was different. The last time Gwen went to the dentist was when she was about nine years old, and she threw such a large fit about the whole situation to the point George swore he would never have anything to do with them again. It was the last appointment her mother ever made for Gwen. They didn’t have the money to pay for it, anyways.
So Gwen had crooked teeth.
It didn’t mean she didn’t know how to use them. Junior high was a nightmare for her after she moved into the new apartment complex with her dad. Same big school as the year before, but everyone knew what had happened to Gwen Stacy because her father was the biggest cop in Queens. Every news broadcast for nearly a month was just the repeat of a few seconds of footage:
Gwen’s dad racing across a bridge, George reaching his arms out as far as he could to grab at hands and arms as bodies flailed and fell into the river below the Queensboruo bridge. There were other cops here, too, but none were as renowned as the captain of the PDNY was as Stacy. On his belly, reaching with all his might did he try to save as many bodies as he could, but it was fruitless. One man was no match to the five o’clock work traffic and raging, animalistic creature destroying the city. Gwen’s mom just so happened to be coming home that evening from a trip to the grocery store. That trip took her right across the bridge at the same time it was attacked.
The news made a big show of all this, not only due to destruction by a mutant but the wide loss and failure of captain Stacy. He was so consumed with reaching for people himself instead of directing that many more were lost than what could have been. His pay was knocked along with his rank for a little while, and without the double income from Gwen’s mom they had to move. Everything had to change, from morning coffee to ballet classes and weekend trips to the park. Gwen gave up everything she could to help her dad get by, and in return he let her have the only bedroom in their apartment and slept on the couch. This used to tear her up, too, considering how much he worked and deserved a proper bed. She felt guilt for a long time, and still does on the off chance of any free time to acknowledge it.
One evening when her dad was out late on patrol, only a few weeks into the new school year as a bright eleven year old she tapped away a report at the kitchen island. Light flooded into the living space from under the front door of the apartment and street lights from out open living room window, and it was so warm in the house she was hardly wearing anything. Gwen didn’t know how to cook yet so she skipped dinner in favor of a piece of bread with peanut butter, fighting the school rented laptop for all it was worth to get the building’s wifi to connect.
It seemed useless after a while, and her grade was decent enough overall to stand one missing assignment. Second week of school or not, she could make the grade back up later. Slamming the laptop closed she pressed her face to the epoxy resin counter, letting the cool surface overtake her. Standing in front of the fridge did no good, as magic as the light that was only on when the door was open was it did not mean there would magically be anything else to eat, nor something cold to drink. The cold air was nice, for a moment. Until Gwen tragically closed the door and was left with the hot exterior of the fridge smelling remmisiant to burnt plastic.
She trudged back to her room leaving the door wide open, taking in the boxes stacked she hadn’t been able to stomach unpacking yet and unmade bed by the open window. Outside was a loud and bright world waiting for her return, but all she wanted to do was hide from it. The drumset dad had bought her just a month before leaving the old place as a late birthday present sat innocently in the corner, all shiny and new and out of place atop the crusty pale carpet. Gwen’s drum sticks were forever at home on the swivel seat or in her hands, and there was never a time that she had picked them up that they felt out of place. George might have called it ‘mindless noise’ or ‘the devil’s music,’ but Gwen knew he couldn’t have meant it too seriously if he had saved up for her drumkit the way he had.
Everything was quiet, when Gwen picked up her drumsticks and sat to play. No cars, no TV, no faint buzzing noise or upstairs neighbors. Only her and the music that flowed everlasting through her veins. Grunge and rock and metal and all sorts filled them, but most recently her days had been filled with bands like Nirvana and Pearl Jam, Stone Temple Pilots and Foo Fighters. She tried so hard to hide the rage and sorrow, but one day she was sitting at her mother’s funeral and the next was her first day back at school. Her dad didn’t understand her, George always trying to curb her artistic hobbies and abilities. “Maybe take it easy on the neighbors,” he told her about the drums, and so instead she only played when he wasn’t home. (Granted, this was often. He was always working to get back up the ranks, to make that money and earn that title as captain back.) “Gwen, you’re getting paint everywhere and making a mess,” when she took up painting, and so on with the physical art she made. Last but not least was her dire love of ballet.
“Gwen, I don’t have the money.”
He couldn’t take the love of dance or drum out of his own girl, he couldn’t tie down the last bit of mean or spirit his own child held close. He did try so hard, though. As soon as he was gone from work she would push the little living room furniture as close to the wall as she could manage, and slam on the radio. She had broken her last phone, and without internet and a strong aversion to TV Gwen got most of her outside contact from that little beat up radio. Any station, the branding didn’t matter. Gwen would listen to any sort of music, but much preferred something with kick and rock. Hence, the love of drums.
So late that night she busted out her newest lick in correspondence to some tune playing only static in her own mind. Some mix of here and there and no-where, and amidst the chaos was a knock to the door. The first time it happened Gwen wasn’t sure she was hearing right, and kept on playing. It took the fourth knock for her to throw the sticks down and jump up in a rush, sending the hi-hat crashing to the floor. She only huffed and kept about her business to the door.
Two deadbolts.
“Hello?” She answered with snark.
“Hi! I heard you playing from down the hall, I just, uh, wow. You’re super pretty.” Before Gwen stood some little scrawny thing, even smaller than herself. At first she wasn’t quite sure what she was looking at, just a beige sweater littered with moth bites and holes around the collar that swallowed the boy nearly whole. Everything about the boy seemed too big to not be a hand-me down, from the big toed kicks and baggy track pants and round lens glasses. His hair flopped to one side dramatically, and he kept worrying big hands to pat it back down every few seconds. Pretty was the last thing she expected to come out of his mouth, since everything about him screamed like he was pretty not into women. She frowned.
“Thanks.” She didn’t believe him.
“I uhm, just, you’re new here, aren’t you?” The boy kept pulling on the hem of his sweater making it bigger. Gwen realized she herself didn’t look so hot, in one of her dad’s sleep shirts that had long since been stolen by Gwen’s late mother and now herself. Gwen would swear she had shorts on underneath, but there was no way to tell with how low the shirt hung. How, despite it all, had this boy called her pretty?
“No, I’ve lived here all my life,” she told him seriously, and the boy snorted into his hand something of a laugh.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you. My name’s Peter, and I have lived here all my life.”
Gwen hadn’t had a shower in almost a week, hair matted across the back of her neck and the top of her forehead. A few months ago she thought it was a good idea to cut her own bangs, and they hadn’t grown back in all the way. They stuck straight up as often as they didn’t, so she had to pin them back with little Hello Kitty clips. Today was Sunday, so she hadn’t bothered hunting the clips down or taming her hair.
How had this boy called her pretty? So genuinely?
Gwen shook her head and let go of the door to lean against the jam, so tired of her own shenanigans. “Nice to meet you Peter, I’m Gwen.”
“I know! We have English together.”
“We do?”
“I sit right behind you.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry.”
“‘S okay. I get it. I’m pretty forgettable.” Gwen tossed that thought around on her tongue for a moment.
“Don’t look forgettable to me,” she settled on finally. Peter smiled, just a tiny little thing that he didn’t look comfortable doing.
“Yeah?”
Down the hall was a shuffle and footsteps, followed by the vague sound of a door sliding open and closed heavily. Gwen started to retreat back into her apartment just a little when Peter looked to see who it was, only for that tiny smile to brighten.
“Peter? What are you doing out here?” Came the voice of an older woman, and Gwen had to physically stop herself from closing the door on him then.
“Oh, Aunt May. I was talking to the new girl.” Peter gestured to Gwen, knocking his round glasses down his nose in the process and Gwen made a motion to him to nod them back up. He didn’t seem to get the message and she huffed, looking up to meet the face of the older woman Peter called Aunt May. She was pretty in the way that people who cared a lot more about experiences than what they looked like were. Her hair was chopped short like Gwen’s, and she wore it napped in a bird’s nest of a scarf. She smiled down at Gwen.
“Nice to meet you, name’s May Parker, but you can call me May.”
“Gwen.” She settled on, since it was probably obvious what her last name was. It was still taped on the door, right above the apartment number 65. They stood in awkward silence for a moment.
“Is your father home? I met him the other morning, after you kids were off to school.” May asked.
“No, he’s at work.”
“How long ‘till he gets back, sweety?” Gwen didn’t like being called pet names, lest of all by people she didn’t know. She also didn’t like getting questioned about how long she was gonna be alone for.
“Don’t know,” she grit out, which was a complete and total lie. He wouldn’t be back home until she was at school the next day.
“Would you be interested in coming over for dinner? I ordered pizza a few minutes ago and came to tell Peter it would be here soon. There’s plenty enough to go around, if you don’t eat it it’ll just rot in the fridge.” Peter pulled the hem of his sweater after May got done, looking anywhere but at Gwen. She glanced at him up and down, trying to feel out if it would be okay to just, go into this random stranger’s apartment. Eventually she sighed and turned to grab the house keys off the kitchen counter. It didn’t look like May was going to take no for an answer.
May was quite pleased to hold the door open for her own boy and Gwen at the next apartment down, ushering them inside and setting the table with paper plates and a two liter of coke. Peter caught the look Gwen made at the offending soda, trying to cover his laugh with sweater paws.
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“Reports show that there haven’t been any sightings of Spiderman for the last few days, following videos of our local Spider in kahoots with a… Spiderwoman? Our station was unsure of the matter, so we took to the streets to interview witnesses!”
The TV flashed to a male reporter leaning against a hot-dog stand, microphone held up to the bigger man running said stand. Clouds had started to form above Brooklyn, and it was obvious in the reporter’s yellow raincoat. He smiled into the camera as the witness gave the report of Spiderman 2.0 flying down the streets with what seemed to be another spider-person.
“She was slingin’ webs just like he does, and they left me extra change on the hotdogs as they went. Don’t really mind, so long as they ain’t causing too much trouble for all of us out here trying to make a living.”
“Have you noticed either of them around since, sir?” the reporter asked. The man tutted around a rag he ran across the stand.
“No, can’t say that I have. Which is unusual, since the twitter usually keeps up with him.”
“That’s right, folks! Not even Spiderman 2.0 has gotten a hit on his twitter for the last few days! Strange case, indeed, but perhaps we are finally through with the arachnid’s reign of terror.”
—
The luminous glow of the TV was the only light to the apartment until dawn started to come that morning. The light slowly crept its way over the clean couch cushions and each individual board of tacky wood on the floor. It slithered over a small collection of plants and a dining room table covered in papers of varying degrees. An empty manila folder here, unfiled missing persons report there. In the midst of the chaos was a small black book, long since beat to hell and back but clearly still in use. It had been scuffed with paint pens and alcohol markers, a red and white sticker on the front reading MILES in familiar tag font. The M had one too many curves, the last one representing the letter I with a squarish dot above the top. The E was thick around the curve, and razor thin at the point. Out of all of the letters the S stood out the most, though. Large and round, curved with passion and single flick of the wrist that came from writing the same thing over and over. The name itself was a piece of art, but was only a hint to the rest of the work within the book. Jefferson Morales had traced his fingers across this word all morning, waiting for his wife to return from her overnight EMT shift so he could leave to clock in.
They hadn’t seen hide or hair of Miles for nearly two days now. Sometimes he would go missing off the curvature of the Earth, but he would always text them back. Only, his phone went straight to dial tone and repeated the same message, ‘voice mailbox has not been set up.’ Only, Jefferson knew that this wasn’t true. He himself had been the one to set up Miles’ voicebox, and had never received the message before that night. No goodnight text or ‘I have a test tomorrow’ or ‘I’m staying with Ganke,’ absolutely nothing. Then there was the matter of that white chick showing up wearing Miles’ jacket, telling him that she would find him.
Where had he gone? Why would she know, anyways? She was never in town according to Miles, and Jefferson liked to think himself pretty good at telling when his son was lying or not. In fact, how did ‘Gwanda’ even know his son was missing, unless she had been with him when it happened? Jefferson couldn’t make sense of the whole mess, and he’d spent all night trying. He’d always made a mission to give Miles space to be himself, but decided some time last night that he needed clues, about maybe where his son could have gone. Even closer than his phone did Miles keep hold of his sketchbook like a lifeline, so that was the first place Jefferson went to look.
One torn up bedroom later he found the sketchbook under a pile of dirty clothes in Miles’ desk chair. Carefully he went through each page with tenderness, reading every word and studying each sketch for minutes on end. Jefferson could say that he had never once looked at any of his son’s sketchbooks, let alone one like this. It was so different than what Jefferson and Aaron used to draw in the best way artistically. But really looking at it? Jefferson realized he didn’t know his son as well as he thought he did.
Almost each spread featured the little white girl he was fancy on, different tags splaced between the sketches of her and math homework littered on top. Drawings of Gwen dancing, smiling, and worst of all- drawings of Gwen in a spider suit that Jefferson had not been privy to since last year’s fiasco.
Okay. He took a deep breath and went on, not thinking of the implications of that.
The next spread, on the left at least, was full of sketches of Aaron. Jefferson didn’t think it could get any worse until he craned his head and the right side was all drawings of the Prowler. Sharp, dark and purple his brother stood stark against the page in a different way the headshots of him had. A tag, so very much Miles was crossed out in red pen on the page. VILLAIN? FAMILIA? Math equations Jefferson couldn’t even begin to understand were written overtop, but the words were still barley legible. The next page was full of different angles of the Brooklyn bridge, followed by the water tank that seemed to be constantly getting re-vandalised. A pizza place Jefferson had taken his son to a few weeks ago, followed by more sketches of the blond chick and various other spider people. One page was obviously just a blank canvas for testing cans of spray paint, the next layered over with a grocery list he was sure to have gotten from his mother.
But the overarching, terrifying, absolutely gut-wrenching theme of the sketchbook was a little black spider-boy suit. Each different iteration was one Jefferson had seen in person, and each one was just a little more like Miles than the last.
Jefferson was not one to cuss, unnecessarily.
“Fuck.”
His son was Spiderman.
Spiderman, who was missing.
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