Bubbles filled with despair
Miguel was in an abyss of darkness. He heard nothing and saw nothing. He only felt like an unknown force was taking him to the depths.
He felt like he was floating in space or on top of a suffocating cloud that wanted to take him to unconsciousness in a delicate but deadly way.
Miguel, perhaps because of the concussion caused by the villain from another dimension, did not realise what situation he was in, perhaps he did realise, but he let himself be carried away by the murderous bubbles that surrounded him. Maybe that was going to be the end of him.
Miles.
His eyes widened quickly at the memory.
No, he couldn't let go, not yet, even though he might want to be with his daughter again and for him that was the only way, he stopped that thought from spreading. He couldn't. Not yet. Not when that child he strangely began to tolerate for more than 3 hours a day needed him.
In what little light the full moon gave, Miguel, as best he could, searched for the frizzy-haired child.
Even with the concussion present and with the little mobility that his body gave him at the moment, Miguel moved awkwardly through the water looking for the boy, not caring that his body was screaming for him to come to the surface so that his lungs could get some air.
With each leg and each stroke, Miguel began to become more motorised in that blanket of water. As he swam, he frantically searched for any sign of the young Spider-Man.
Nothing.
He continued to search, now swimming with a little more synchronisation across the vast lake. As he searched, he saw pieces of various metals sinking to the bottom, various pieces of tree trunks, but no teenage body beside them.
He couldn't take it any more, he needed to taste the oxygen, and if he kept it up he couldn't help him.
He swam to the surface with great speed and when he broke through the barrier between water and air he was finally able to ravish his lungs with a dose of much-needed air.
He felt his head pounding frantically. It must have been because of the lack of air and the pressure of the water that this excruciating headache appeared.
He had to ignore it, he couldn't let Miles drift.
He gathered a good amount of air into his lungs and re-entered the unfamiliar lake, hoping to see the slightest sign of the boy, his boy.
Miguel dived down to touch the floor of the lake. The moon was still bright and traces of Miles were scarce. Miguel was beginning to despair.
He was going back up for another breath of air if it weren't for a small red light reflecting off to the side of the burly man. He turned and found a large chunk of metal stuck in the sand and a red hand. He swam as fast as he could and out of the relief he felt at confirming it was him, he blew out what little air he had left stored in his lungs.
I couldn't be happier about the exuberant and luminous art on Miles' suit.
He couldn't see how the boy's condition was, as that metal board covered him completely, and he could only see his immobile left hand.
Even though his body and mind were screaming at him that he needed air, Miguel knew he had to hurry and get Miles out of there, because if he delayed one more second, that boy would find himself lying in a coffin.
Miguel was never going to let that happen. Not ever.
He buried his feet in the sand and bent down to grab a length of the large metal plate. Holding it with his hands and with the help of an unknown force, Miguel O'Hara was tearing his muscles with that action to get this annoying child out. Inwardly, he was thanking the water for making his job a little easier.
When that big metal plate was out of the way, Miguel could see Miles.
Miles was in a half shredded suit, there was a rather large cut on his exposed chest and blood was pouring out of it. He also had a few wounds all over his face. Miguel didn't know if he had more, that was all he could see with the help of the natural light emanating from the full moon.
Miguel didn't hesitate a second longer and rushed to grab Miles. Once he had him in his arms, he propelled himself with his feet to reach the surface faster. He swam with great force, his legs and his one free arm burning with the repetitive insistence of the same movement.
But why couldn't he feel himself moving forward?
Miguel despaired, the lack of air was blurring his vision. The firm grip that had Miles right at him was fading.
Miguel became more desperate.
But still he continued.
He tightened his grip and swam on until he could reach the surface.
Miguel was able to reach the surface.
His limbs had already given out, he could no longer see anything, but he kept going and didn't give up. The head of Miles Morales, lying on his chest, was reason enough for Miguel not to give up.
When he was able to reach solid ground, and he was able to position him with terrifying delicacy, Miguel O'Hara vanished.
[...]
The incessant headache woke him up.
He was disoriented and did not understand where he was or with whom. He felt like he was drowning, the water was spreading throughout his airways and he was finding it difficult to consume oxygen. As best he could, he turned his immobile boot upside down so that he could expel all the liquid substance.
With weak and trembling arms, Miguel tried to flex his chest off the ground so that he could push the water out more easily.
The water came out with every raspy cough, sometimes coming out through his nose.
When he felt that there was nothing left to affect his breathing, Miguel lay back down on his back to rest from the tiring work.
When he managed to return some consciousness to his brain, he tried to turn his neck so that his eyes could scan his surroundings, but black spots obscured his vision.
He felt so tired, his body didn't respond, and he wanted to return to the world of unconsciousness, but something forced him to stay awake until his five senses were sharpened.
What was this unfamiliar but familiar feeling?
Miguel didn't understand the signals that this strong and impregnated sensation in his chest was telling him. He didn't understand anything and just wanted to go back to sleep.
But even that wasn't possible, because an abnormal part of him forced him to get up with a bang.
And that's when he remembered.
Miles.
Even with his vision half blocked, Miguel scanned his surroundings until he found those fluorescent red patterns.
He took a step and fell, but that didn't stop him from crawling over to the unconscious body of the boy.
"Miles." With a cracked and dry voice, having expelled large quantities of water, he could barely manage to pronounce those 5 letters together.
He remained on his knees, frantically staring at the unconscious young man. He placed his index and middle finger on the Adam's apple, more specifically on the carotid artery, in order to find out if Miles was still alive.
Miguel panicked when he felt nothing.
Now he grabbed the left wrist and rolled up the sleeve of the suit to measure his pulse, on the radial artery between the wrist bone and the tendon on the side of the wrist where the thumb is, he put the same fingers he used before.
There was nothing. Not a heartbeat, not a breath.
Even with his hyper-advanced hearing, he couldn't hear anything. Not the slightest sound.
But Miguel O'Hara was a stubborn man and he was not going to give up.
Not caring so much about the chest wound that had been bleeding for some time, he put the heel of his left hand on the centre of the boy's chest, applying pressure, and joined his other hand by interlacing his fingers with it.
He straightened his arms; stretched them out, settled himself better and got into a perpendicular position with Miles' body and dropped his body weight to begin the repetitive exercise.
He took about 2 minutes doing CPR and then removed himself.
There were no results.
Even more desperate, Miguel held Miles' nose, lifted his chin slightly and, after taking a big breath of oxygen, pressed his lips to his to pass the air to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw no movement.
His chest must have swelled with that!
Miguel was going into hysterics.
But he still wasn't going to give up. He wasn't going to let his boy die.
Not in his care.
And he repeated it again.
Again and again.
He tried several times, always the same result.
There was no sign that Miles was going to wake up.
And that fact scared the hell out of Miguel.
So he kept trying.
And on and on and on.
He was so lost in his thoughts, thinking that because of him and his child's recklessness, Miguel was going to lose another person he was beginning to care about.
Wait a minute... Care for Miles? Miles Morales? No, Miguel didn't really care for him, he just tolerated him.
Did he?
Those thoughts were dispelled in an instant as a wave of dizziness swept through his being.
He stumbled on the sand and fell tail first to the hard ground.
He was so tired and dizzy that he wanted to give up. All those intense feelings, all the pains in his body were quickly exhausting him, he couldn't take it any more.
But he had to go on.
For him.
For Miles.
After a few moments of concentrating to make the dizziness go away quickly, he settled back down to continue his life-or-death task.
But just as he was about to push oxygen back into his mouth, he could identify some very faint lights in the distance.
But even that was not going to stop him from reviving this child.
He went back to the chest repetitions, about 2 minutes at that, and gave him oxygen through his mouth.
And so on, a few more times when, being already very desperate and tired, he said:
"Morales, please,” kept pressing on the chest repeatedly. “Give me at least a sign.” He gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. “Don't let this be in vain, Morales. I'm not going to let you.”
There was no reaction; Miguel continued.
He continued with the repetitions as the lights came closer to them.
In a broken whisper, he spoke to him one last time: “.... Miles... Don't do this, not to me, please.” He wasn't going to cry, no tears were going to escape from those desolate eyes, but his voice carried all the pain that a few drops of water couldn't say.
And it was just after those words that he saw it.
Miles had begun to cough.
Enormous joy and relief quickly welled up in Miguel's chest.
He helped Miles sit up so that he could get out all that water that had been building up in his lungs for quite a while. He patted him on the back a few times and laid him back down.
Now all that mysterious adrenaline that had helped him save his child had evaporated, as if it had never existed.
Like a sack of potatoes, Miguel O'Hara collapsed beside the teenager with a small smile on his lips.
"D-Dad?" Miles barely managed to utter before he slipped into unconsciousness again.
This time, Miguel didn't worry because he knew the boy was breathing and when he noticed the proximity of those mysterious lights, he pulled the boy's body close to his own and hugged him protectively.
And before falling into the arms of Morpheus once and for all, Miguel muttered:
"Yes, Miles, I'm here."
And as he said those 5 words, Miguel O'Hara fell unconscious next to his child; Miles Morales.