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Glitching was the most painful thing Miles has ever gone through.
More than the times he pulled the skin on the corners of his nails. More than any injury he sustained protecting a city that ate itself alive. Glitching was having his entire body disassemble and reassemble, atoms buzzing like angry bees. During an endless instant, he became everything and nothing, all he ever was and would ever be unsettled into a too small vessel. Then, his organs would settle back into place, lungs and intestines rattling inside his skin like badly thrown dominoes.
Meeting a version of himself consumed by hatred hurt almost as bad as glitching. Bursting him and another version of uncle Aaron (cold, gray, dead uncle Aaron) so hard their backs hit the wall, blue electricity lighting the room in its aggression hurt almost as bad as being betrayed by his best friends. Miles was sure that by the end of it all, no matter whether his father lived or died, pain would be ingrained into the very core of his being.
He couldn’t imagine how scary it must have been to his other self, to see someone with his body and his face, in his home, with his family. Had them been in opposite positions, Miles knew he’d be just as brutal.
Earth 42’s air tasted like smoke, swinging through its buildings was a mixture of alien and familiar at the same time, panic leaving a disgusting sour taste in the back of his throat. Running, running running. At this point all Miles could do was run away and hope it was also towards something.
He glitched again, slower this time, more like an image distorted by a prism than a vibration of his atoms. He settled back quick enough to catch his own fall, spine realigning, skin settling back on top of muscles and tendons.
Was he being chased? It felt like he should be being chased. Maybe all he’d ever be good at was escaping. There was an uncomfortable hum on the back of his skull, set somewhere in between the fear and panic and anger.
Alchemax. He should go to Alchemax. Miles was a smart enough kid, with a good school and the invisibility that granted him access to documents and projects no high school student had any business getting his hands on. A collider, some venom, and he had a chance to go home.
Or blow up to smithereens, whatever came first.
He swung, body flying in a graceful arch through the neon lit sky. Bones rattling, the cuts on his arms from Miguel’s claws (failure, anomaly, Peter Parker died because of you) burning unpleasantly. Alchemax was a beacon of light and power in the center of a rotting city, easy to find, easy to reach.
Miles glitched, and for a split second he was whole, innumerable variables of himself on the faces of a prism. Dead in one universe, a culinary student in other, a girl, younger, older, married. Everything, all of them, all at once, before a too large existence of infinite Miles Moraleses settled back into a too small body.
Alchemax was as scary as it had been when he first got bit.
The Collider was unsurprisingly well guarded. A handful of mercenaries and scientists with guns. At 13, they had terrified Miles. But now, he was desperate. He was angry and tired and he had to go home. The blood on his teeth tasted all too familiar as bodies hit the floor, his spider sense a hum of dodge punch duck repeat that allowed him to reach his goal with nothing more than bruised knuckles.
Miles was above all, painfully alone.
Alone, in an existence where infinite earths with infinite people existed. With a society that was entirely made of people like him, with Gwen and Peter and Peni and a version of himself with claws instead of webs. With parents who he loved fiercely and loved him back but would never be able to understand him.
Miles glitched, and once he stopped, he had to take a second to recalibrate to having a body. To being confined to such a small vessel of flesh. His brain was a mass of electricity. Cells a product of atoms so unstable a strong wind would disassemble them. His guts a disgusting mixture of acids and tissue. His capillaries felt like they were gonna burst.
The first anomaly. Not a human at all. Maybe Miguel wasn’t wrong to want him caged. Maybe Gwen and Peter were justified in training their eyes to the ground as their leader carved into him. Miles wanted to crack his chest open. Let his rib cage swing like a poorly made chest and spill out all the rot he felt bubbling around his heart.
Miles fought, because in the end that was the only thing Peter (his Peter, blonde, kind, exhausted Peter who would have stood by his side as an entire society clashed onto him) truly taught him. He fought and snarled and broke bones until the collider, tall, glorious, ominous was right in front of him.
Home his poor battered heart begged please let this take us home where the loneliness feels at least a little duller.
Here’s the thing:
Miles could not win.
Winning would have been making it home on the go home machine. Winning would have been never being chased in the first place. Winning would have been getting to the place he so desperately wanted to be (with his friends, with the people who understood what he was going through) and have been accepted in the first place. Winning would have been sleeping well that night and waking up to have breakfast with his parents. Both of them. And the going to school and telling his guidance counselor he changed his mind and wanted to pursue art.
But Miles was fighting a losing battle. Alone in unfamiliar territory. Miles could not win.
But one thing was certain as well.
Miles would not lose.
His father would not die.
Miles wouldn’t allow it.
So, as a dutiful, desperate, son, he raised his chin and approached the machine that once upon a time gifted him with friends.
Silence.
And then a screech.
A horrible, loud, ear shattering screech. A thousand wailing voices bleeding together to form a singular sound of pain. Miles’ hands ached to both cover his ears and reach out to soothe.
Then, it was there.
Black skin, glitching like scribbles. Long limbs, teeth made of nebula. It opened its mouth and another horrible pain filled noise came out of it through a blackened tongue. It walked towards him, a clawed hand reaching for his body almost in begging. For a split second, Miles reached back.
Was it even a person anymore? It sure didn’t look like one. It didn’t have a face (not anymore, it had told him Miles was the one to take it away) or even a completely solid form. Miles wanted to run.
“Spiderman”
It called out to him, coming closer, reaching out. Miles tensed. Muscles coiling like a spring, ready to jump out, out and away. He had spent the entire past 24 hours running and he could do it again.
But…
It wouldn’t be of any help, would it?
He thought back to the convenience store, in what felt like months ago. Spot hadn’t been particularly aggressive back then. He had been… sad, worried, desperate in a way.
“I am your nemesis.”
Oh. Oh.
Spot had been lonely.
Miles’ chest ached in familiarity, lonely. Spot had been lonely and in a way, it had been his fault, hadn’t it? Even if he didn’t really mean to cause the Collider explosion, even if he didn’t mean to rob a scientist of his humanity, Miles still had ignored him, hadn’t he? In that initial fight, Spot had reached out, whined and screamed to be seen, acknowledged in any way, and what had Miles done? Nothing.
He reached closer, with both hands this time, arms open as if to embrace, slowly, carefully. The Spot tilted its head in confusion, flinching in its nervousness. Miles couldn’t blame it, not really, but he would not be deterred.
“It’s okay.”
He whispered, as if calming a cornered animal, and took a step closer. This time, Spot didn’t step back.
“It’s okay, I’m sorry.”
The Spot reached, closer its long limbs wrapping awkwardly around Miles’ torso before collapsing in his arms.
It’s skin was strange, barely solid, and holding the creature felt like trying to embrace static. The electricity in Miles’ veins, his venom, sparked up in response, two frequencies, finally resonating.
“….y-you.”
Miles held back a flinch, bracing the thing against him almost tenderly.
“Why did you make me like this?”
Made him?
Miles hadn’t meant to make anything. All he had wanted back then was to take down Fisk and protect his city. Miles wasn’t a creator, not in that way, not in the way that had a living, breathing outcome. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t!
Creating a life was meant to be something beautiful. Something far, far away in the future with a little house and a partner he couldn’t picture yet. It should have been tender, and joyful, not tainted by cruelty and too many deaths.
But still.
The act of creation wasn’t always pretty.
When Miles had been ten years old, his mom had to take him to work with her. Dad had been too busy with an ongoing murder case and uncle Aaron had left town for an art exhibition. Mom had put him in his cleanest, lightest clothes, washed his hair and taken him to the hospital. He was supposed to have stayed in childcare, but in that particular day, the nanny had been sick and the care center had been closed, so little Miles spent the entire day following his mother in quick, excited steps.
He had met a bunch of cool elderly people. A few cancer patients. Held a dozen or so hands and allowed his hair to be petted. His mother had smiled content, before her name had been called, and suddenly, in a flurry of panicked movement, Miles had been dragged along his mother into a private room.
And there she had been.
A mother, laying on her back. Her face flushed red in both pain and exertion. Her curly hair tied haphazardly on top of her head like a crown, hands clawing at the bed. Her legs were spread, heels planted on the mattress for support as she screamed and grunted in her efforts. Her modesty was covered by a blue cloth, but Miles, short as he was, could see the mess of blood and fluid between her legs in gruesome detail.
His own mother had rushed to her, wiping the sweat off her brow and cooing comfort and reassurances. Miles had half a mind to do the same, he had had good practice holding hands throughout the day, but the shock and surprise had kept him rooted firmly on the floor.
“Push!”
His mom had commanded, and the woman screamed, her face going purple. From between her legs, Miles could see the skin around her entrance rip open and bleed.
“Push!”
Another guttural scream, a doctor carefully prodded at the bruised flesh. From between her lips, Miles could see the crown of a pale little head emerge.
“Push!”
A little face, a set of shoulder, more fluid gushing and thorn skin as the body was pushed out.
“Push!”
And then there was a little baby, red and crying on the doctor’s arms. Miles sighed in relief at the same time the mother had, her shoulders sagging in relief.
“Just a little more.”, his mom said encouragingly.
What?
“I can’t, I can’t!”
The woman wailed in distress, and Miles wholeheartedly agreed. His mom, however, had gripped her shoulders, propping her up, her mouth set in a firm, determined line, and said:
“Sweetie, you need to push. If you don’t get the placenta out, we’re going to have to do it for you.”
“Let it stay in me then!”
“It’s going to rot and kill you of sepsis! Come on! Push!”
The woman did, screaming so loud her voice cracked, more blood pooled from between her legs.
“One more, come on!”
She pushed, and out came a dark mass of tissue, flapping open like a butterfly as soon as it flopped down on the nurse’s awaiting arms.
Miles watched wide eyes as they cut the cord tying the baby and the organ together, cleaning the mess from between the woman’s legs and delivering her a perfect little baby.
The new mother had cradled them, pressing her flushed cheek to their tiny little head, spreading tears and snot all over the slime covered baby.
“You’re so perfect. I’m so, so happy I made you.”
“I made you”
“I created you.”
“I created you, you created me.”
Oh.
“I’m so sorry.”
Miles whispered against the crown of Spot’s head, drawing the creature closer to where it had nuzzled his chest for comfort. It crooned back at him, in a thousand distorted hurt voices. Something in Miles’ chest collapsed. He closed his eyes to avoid the tears.
Babies were made from either love or violence. His mother had told him so in his youth, in between schooling him on stranger danger and the buddy system. Miles’ baby had been no exception to the rule.
It had been made from violence. From blood and loss and a madman’s grief. Anvil and Collider. Seed and egg. A miraculous conception hidden away in a battle for life. The birth had been hard, traumatic, so much so, it had taken all this time for Miles to recall it.
“Just a little more.”
But it wasn’t done, was it? Miles looked down at his creation, whimpering on his chest. No, it wasn’t done at all.
“Push.”
The birth was not finished. The placenta was still inside. The rotting organ slowly spreading decay through his bloodstream. He’d die of sepsis if he didn’t get it all out.
“Push.”
He ran a hand through an immaterial head. A skull still unfused due to young age. “It’s okay” he wanted to say, but that would have been a lie, and Miles was sick and tired of lies.
“I’m so, so sorry I didn’t see it before.”
He said, instead of any false platitudes, and the thing let out a pained wail. The sound of a thousand dying breaths. Miles tightened his hold on it.
“Push!”
“Why did this happen? Why did you abandon me? I made you and YOU MADE ME! So why did you leave me all alone?!”
“Push!”
His baby, his little baby, a beast of sharp teeth and cracked voice, a storm barely contained into a physical body. Miles made it, Miles created it. And now that he understood, he would never leave it alone again.
“PUSH!”
“I’m here now.”
He answered its cries. With the same warm tone his father use to use when applying medicine to Miles’ scrapped knees. Afterbirth ran warm, down his legs. A disgusting mixture of blood and mucus pooling on the ground. The placenta was out. A baby was pressed into his arms.
But that wasn’t enough, was it?
Its skull still hadn’t fused. It wailed, in grief, in hunger. Miles had neglected his creation long enough, and right now was making up for lost time. But Miles was anything but diligent in his work. Responsibility had been ingrained in him long before he donned his suit and chose to care for a city that did not want to be cared for.
“Come on. Come on.”
He cooed, gently. Pulling himself and the Spot up so they could approach the collider. Spot cocked his head, curious, trusting, Miles’ chest ached even more.
How lonely had the poor thing been? Perhaps as lonely as himself. Miles thought back to being five, chubby and sticky and balanced on his mother’s knees, “You’re my best friend sweetie! Mommy’s so happy she’ll always have you!”, maybe that’s why they were created together. Two anomalies made to quell each other’s loneliness. Miles didn’t have anyone other than his flesh and blood. Not Peni, not Gwen, certainly not Peter. But now he had Spot, and Spot would always have him.
Carefully, he unwrapped an arm from his child’s unstable form, switching his posture to better support its weight shushing it quietly once it began to whimper, a horrible sound like metal clanging together. A body hitting a lab wall resounding like a church’s bell. He rested his palm on the Collider, cringing at the feel of cold metal.
He closed his eyes.
Energy. Pure and unique, like orange glowing portals, hummed between his fingertips. After so much time having electricity dance between his fingertips, it was easy to harness it. Let it run from the nerves on his skin to his arm to his spine, gently pooling it back onto the awaiting form in his arms.
Like a baby, drinking from a bottle.
Like a parent, feeding their child.
Creation was easy. Miles had already done the hard part. In the end, it was awfully similar to glitching. Atoms stacked together created molecules. Molecules woven in a particular way created tissue. Skin, bones, teeth and tongue, blooming like growing fungi in his mind’s eye. The baby fussed, letting out a series of pained little yelps, but Miles held it tightly in place as he worked.
He was nothing but diligent in his work.
A face, eyes composed of shifting galaxies. Nebula teeth encased in enamel, a blackened tongue dyed pink. Brown hair pulled from blurry memories of a scientist looking in the mirror and seeing a human instead of a creature. Skin, that barely covered the spots that were so characteristic of his creation.
A flesh suit to better hide away the storm he had chained to himself.
Miles blinked his eyes open. They were wet, Spot stared at him, with a human face and inhuman, trusting eyes. It glitched, its true monstrous form apparent for a split second before it was encased back into a disguise that would hopefully give him back a life once it was all said and done. Miles’s chest bloomed in adoration.
It wasn’t over, they still had to go home. Still had to deal with Miguel and his army of yellow jackets pretending to be spiders. Still had to save his dad.
But for now, Miles contended himself into framing the face he wove together with his hands, and smiling in a way that showed all his teeth.
“You’re so perfect.”
He whispered reverently. It was destruction, it was creation. It was everything.
“I’m so, so happy I made you.”