Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He was cold.

Miles grumbled, curling up in a tighter ball. He haphazardly grasped for his blanket, wincing as half-healed aches came to life. He had to stop pushing himself so hard on patrols. He reached down further with a sigh, unable to find his blanket. Had he kicked it off the bed?

Could he be bothered to get up and grab it?

Shifting onto his back, he propped an arm under his head and tried to relax. Yet, no matter how he settled, he couldn’t get comfortable. The thin support offered by the dorm room mattresses left a lot to be desired. Sighing, he gave up. He was awake now. He might as well get ahead of his homework.

Opening his eyes, he froze.

That wasn’t his ceiling. He would know - he had cleaned a lot of footprints off of it.

His chest tightened with panic, and he struggled to take a deep breath. He attempted to sit up in a rush, only to regret it as his vision swayed. Squeezing his eyes shut and propping an arm against the wall - a wall? - he fought down a dry heave.

The last thing he could remember was swinging through New York, somewhere around Midtown. He had swung through a cloud of steam, his spider-sense ringing, trying to find the source. Had he fallen for a trap?

Nausea subsiding, he slowly blinked his eyes open, staring at his legs. He was still in his suit. Whoever had him, they hadn’t taken it off. And it had been on for a while if the uncomfortable chafing of his thighs was any indication.

It was scuffed and small sections had torn away. Some of it was familiar - he hadn’t been patching his suit as often as he should… most of it wasn’t. Had they dragged him along the ground? Had anyone seen it happen?

Gloved fingers shaking, he slowly reached up and touched his face.

It was gone.

His mask was gone. They knew his face. Whoever they were.

Swallowing down the bile in his throat, he leaned against the wall, curling in on himself, biting down on his lip. Tears stung his eyes, a well of hopelessness spilling over.

They knew who he was.

“Please,” Miles mumbled under his breath, barely even spoken words, a rush of air. “Don’t hurt my Mom and Dad. Please, they don’t have my powers. They don’t know.”

Pathetically sniffing, exhaustion overwhelming him, he wanted to go back to sleep and wake up in the morning listening to Ganke play his stupid games, and do homework, and help an old lady cross the road. He wanted this to be a nightmare so bad it ached.

But he couldn’t give up yet. He didn’t know what they knew.

Taking a shuddering breath, he forced himself to sit up and take in his surroundings.

He was in a prison cell. The only furnishings were the bed (it didn’t even have a pillow or blanket, he noted with indignation) and a sad little toilet. The door loomed large in the small room, sporting two extra features - a flap at the bottom and a small window at the top. A blinding streak of light illuminated the room, the only light source. Glancing up, he found no lightbulb. If someone covered the window, he would be left in the dark.

This place wasn’t built for comfort. It was built for isolation.

Tentatively, he tried to get up - only for his legs to collapse out from under him. Latching on to the opposite wall, he barely avoided smacking his head on the unforgiving concrete floor.

Gritting his teeth, he used the wall as support to keep upright, silently pleading for his body to work with him.

Peering out the small window, disappointment swelled at the sight of a nondescript white wall. Nothing to hint at who had put him in this cell. It could be the police… or someone else. Someone scarier. Someone he didn’t know the motives of.

Either option had a weight settling around his throat, every breath labored and strained.

Sitting down, he buried his head in his hands, cursing under his breath. This was bad. This was really, really bad.

Whoever had gotten him at least knew something about him; he knew from bitter experience it took a ridiculous concentration of drugs to put a dent in his metabolism. He didn’t even know he could be knocked out that quickly! He had to get out of here.

But he couldn’t, not yet, his body still hauntingly weak.

Maybe waiting was the best answer, anyway. Maybe someone would come and tell him what was going on. Maybe.

Or maybe he would get an answer to why his spider-sense was constantly, if quietly, ringing.

Tugging his legs up to his chest, he wrapped his arms around them and leaned against them. Reluctantly, he settled in to wait in the agonizing silence.

Miles was startled out of his doze hours later, the flap at the bottom of the door opening with a quiet click. Confused, he watched without comprehending as a bowl of rice slid under.

As suddenly as it happened, it snapped shut and locked.

Jumping to his feet, Miles pounded on the door. “Hey! Who’s out there? Why am I here? Hey!”

Faintly, he heard footsteps recede into the distance, his shouts soundly ignored.

Frowning, he struggled to process what had happened. If he had been arrested, they would have given him the chance to ask for a lawyer by now, right?

Hands curled into fists against the door, he struggled to bring his breathing back under control. He was being dismissed like a child in time out.

A taunting smell wafted up and reminded his stomach of its existence. The rice stared up at him from the floor. He was hungry enough for it to look appetizing despite its plainness.

Picking it up, he settled back onto the bed to eat it. He pulled his gloves off, silently grumbling about the lack of utensils, putting them aside and using his hands to scoop up the food. Mechanically, he chewed and swallowed until it was all gone, his nose wrinkling at the texture. Chalky streaks were scattered throughout.

Against his will, he started to list, exhaustion settling in.

What was the harm in having a nap? He wanted to be at full strength if he was escaping, right?

Curling up again, he closed his eyes and was out like a light.

Miles awoke sore and parched, stretched out on the thin mattress.

He sat up - or tried to, his arms giving out from under him, refusing to work. He yelped, pain lancing up from his elbows.

Lifting them, his eyes darted over his bare skin to the stark white bandages wrapped from his wrists to his elbows on both arms. Blood stained it in splotchy patches, and when he tentatively poked it, nausea threatened to overwhelm him. He could push in way further than he should have been able to - like pieces of him had been cut out.

To make things worse, his suit was gone, replaced with itchy white pajamas. They barely provided any warmth, goosebumps crawling over his skin from the lack of protection from the elements.

What are they doing to me? Miles thought, clenching his eyes shut, pleading for it all to be a nightmare. I have to get out of here.

But his limbs were shaking and refused to work. Deep down, he knew that he couldn’t do it right now. He wouldn't be able to fight any reinforcements that tried to stop him - whatever variety they were, cops or goons.

Blinking away tears, Miles turned towards the wall and curled up tight. He had to wait this out. At least until his body worked again.

It happened again the next day. Food was shoved under the flap, staring at him temptingly. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t had anything to eat since the day before. Reluctantly, he gave in.

Yet again, he found himself waking up worse than before. This time his wrists had been cut into and then put back together again with itchier stitches. Small spots of blood stained the bandages. He couldn’t let this happen again. No matter how weak he was, this was probably the strongest he would be for a while. So long as this trend continued.

Forcing himself to his feet, he examined the door. It was made out of thick metal, probably some sort of steel, but despite that, it was a swinging door attached to the wall with two hinges. Hinges - a weak point.

In other words, it might have been heavy, but it wasn’t indestructible by any stretch of the imagination. If he could break its weak points, it would collapse.

He stepped back, feeling watched. Looking behind himself, he spotted a small red blinking light ever so small in the darkness. Miles frowned, slowly walking towards it. If he was being watched, he would have to be smarter about this.

He leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the room to the door, arms folded. He could wait them out, let them relax and then he would act.

So he waited and waited. Waited some more. Time passed unusually when you had no way to tell what time of day it was - the hallway lights outside never turned off. Miles counted in his head instead to give himself something to do.

When several minutes had passed, Miles shifted to his feet. In a burst of speed, he shouldered the door, putting all of his momentum into it. When he stood back, eyeing his work, he couldn’t help but grin at the heavy dent. The hinges were creaking, giving way under their own weight.

With one last kick the door smashed against the opposite wall. Sirens started blaring all around, the lights cutting out to red, swirling alarms.

Miles hurried out, brushing crumbs of plaster off of himself. He glanced down both ends of the hallway, both leading into further darkness. Coin toss, in other words.

The decision was made for him when, to his left, heavily armored men came around, guns drawn. Quick response, I’ll give them that, he mused to himself.

Miles sprinted down the hallway away from them, narrowly avoiding bullets whizzing past him.

One came close enough for him to see, and Miles realized two things very quickly. First, they were shooting tranquilizer darts. Second, he realized with a sickening stomach lurch, they wanted him alive.

He skidded around a corner, almost hitting the floor with his speed. Feet thudding along, he found himself at the end of a hallway with only a door in front of him. Grabbing the hinge, he snapped the door open and ran in.

It was a mistake.

Instead of an exit, Miles found himself staring at an operating theater. In the center was a surgical table, surrounded by various carts and lights. He could see unwashed scalpels in the sink in the corner, still covered in blood from the last person they had experimented on.

He thought about destroying the room, but before the thought could materialize any further, the room filled with a haze of smoke. Desperately, Miles whirled around to escape, but he hit the floor, legs getting tangled over one another as they refused to listen to him.

It wouldn’t have mattered anyway- the heavily armored guards from before stormed the room, gas masks covering their mouths.

Before he lost consciousness, he realized what the smoke reminded him of - bug spray.

When Miles came to, he found himself on an identical metal slab, in an identical-looking room with the sad toilet still sitting in the corner. The only thing that was different was the door, heavily reinforced, with no hinges visible.

Miles sat up, bitter tears threatening to spill over. He had gone down like a dumbass. He could have fought those guards, probably. He should have-- they were probably there to block the exit. Instead he sprinted straight into a trap like an idiot.

When Miles tried to stand up, his legs caved under him. Looking down at his calves, he found them wrapped in heavy bandages - red spots still leaking through.

He gently probed at it, finding a good chunk of him torn out like it was nothing. They had… had mutilated him. To stop him from trying again.

He would heal, but who knew when he would get another chance to escape? Or even if he could escape - they had brought him down so quickly…

Food was slid under the door hours later. The combination of nauseating pain from his legs, and knowing that the food would be laced with drugs kept him from eating it.

When they tried again, probably hours later, he decided that no matter what, he wouldn’t eat anything else they had to offer him. The agony of losing time, not knowing what they would do to him next, was worse than the cramping pain of his empty stomach or the still throbbing pain in his legs. At least he hoped so.

The food began to pile up, as he lost himself in sleep. When he did look at the food, the fact that many were in various stages of decay helped keep his resolve.

He became feverish as the wrappings around his legs began to yellow. Infected. Lack of food and adequate care was a likely culprit. He refused to investigate his wound further. As the hours dragged on, he began to shiver violently from a creeping cold that nothing could shake.

This was the only time he got to meet his captors, besides the guards. Barely able to focus on them, too weak to do anything but moan in pain, they poked and prodded him with instruments. One of them wrapped him in a heavy blanket, obscuring the white lab coat they wore. Another one forced him to sit up, leaning him against the wall before bringing a cup of something warm to his lips. The liquid burnt his throat, but they refused to stop despite his weak protests until the last of it was gone.

They weren’t there the next time he woke up. All that remained was the blanket, the only sign he hadn’t hallucinated the whole event.

He didn’t know how long it was before the fever broke, but when it did, he slept peacefully for the first time since he had come to this hellhole.

Then the routine continued. Food would be shoved under the door but Miles would refuse it. Instead, he spent his days fiddling with the door, but every time he tried more than a gentle prod he was sent to his knees as crippling waves of his spider-sense flooded his senses.

It didn’t take him long to realize that they were doing it on demand. Somehow they had hijacked the one sense he had always been able to rely on, and now even that was taken away from him.

As much as he didn’t want to give in, his hope began to wane - if he hadn’t already lost it. He was stuck who knows where, in a place constantly monitoring him and wanting to cut him open, and his last escape attempt had ended horribly. It all made him feel… numb.

As his muscles began to lose their size, he became more and more grateful for the infection. The blanket kept him warm so he could sleep through most of the pain in his stomach, even as his body found it harder and harder to keep him warm.

It was obvious the kidnappers were at a loss for what to do. They tried switching up the rice to various other dishes. Curry. Pasta. Burrito. Soup. A vain attempt to lure him into giving in with delicious-smelling food. In an effort to stay true to his resolve, he started flushing the food down the toilet, eyeing the camera every time in defiance, using the last of his strength to do so. A message without words. He wasn’t going to fall for their games: he would rather die.

Things were almost always quiet outside the door. All he ever heard was the sound of shoes clicking against the floor, slowly fading as they moved away. Sometimes a shadow would block his light - even though he knew they could have monitored him through the camera. That was, until one day several voices filtered through the cracks in the door.

Miles didn’t move from his curled-up position, even as the door flew open and a swarm of guards stormed in. They grabbed him and forced him upright despite his legs collapsing out from under him. It proved to not be an issue, as they had no problem resorting to dragging his useless body down the corridor.

The hallway was different, but not by much. It still looked like a creepy abandoned hospital in a horror game. Voices bounced off the endless walls, jumping between too quiet and too loud. There and gone again. It was like being dunked under waves only to rise back up to be assaulted again.

Miles hadn’t had a chance to realize when he was trying to escape, for obvious reasons - the loud siren and low lighting had all served to disorientate him - but it was painfully clear that he wasn’t the only one stuck here. He was just one of the poor souls stuck in this building, all connected through their suffering. Were they going through the same things I was? Or worse?

As he approached a familiar hallway, he realized with frightening clarity where he was going. He dug his feet into the floor, sticking with all his might, trying as hard as he could to delay the inevitable. Though he was stronger, even being as malnourished as he was, they outnumbered him. They ripped him out of the floor, holding him above the ground so he couldn’t try it again. He was forced to lie on the surgical table.

Even then, they struggled to pin his arms and legs down. He could still topple a man, or kick them into a wall. With vicious satisfaction, he knew one of the guards was down and out after being kicked into one of the monitors. He knew it was terrible, but somehow, he hoped the guard was dead. 

One by one, as hard as he fought, they eventually tied him down. Blinding lights hovered over him, drowning out any other sight.

Even as they forced a tube down his throat, all his mind could do was remember the British suffragettes. Who knew he would get to live through sixth-grade history so vividly? Tears streamed down his face, in pain and humiliated - yet so, so angry.

He struggled so hard against the binds that he heard a snap. Agonizing pain ran up and down his left arm before there was a prick of pain and he slumped into unconsciousness.

They would pay for this.

In the end, he began to eat just a bite from every plate. Barely enough to keep himself alive, but not enough that the medicine could do anything more than make him drowsy. He would never experience that again - he wouldn’t allow it.

With his blanket as his only company, sleep became his new friend. It was the only time he could leave this room, even if it was just a dream.

What were his powers good for when all they did was make him suffer?

What felt like days later - maybe a week? Two? He never knew anymore - his kidnappers finally got sick of him ‘eating around’ the fun little drugs they put in his food - if them bursting through the door, grabbing him, and dragging him down the corridors once again was any indication.

Head lolling to the side, he saw eyes watching him through the small window of another cell. He tried to smile - but it came out like a grimace. He knew that the next time he heard a scream, he would wonder. The next time he heard someone sobbing, he would think of them. And he didn’t want to: it was hard enough to sit in a cell for hours not knowing his own fate. It would hurt too much to think of others. Their shadow disappeared from sight.

To his dismay and relief, when they forced him down on the surgical table they put an oxygen mask over his mouth and the familiar smell of bug spray hit him.

When he woke up, blanket haphazardly thrown on top of him, he found another line of stitches along his left arm. Miles turned over on the metal bed, pulling the blanket up around his neck. He didn’t want to figure out what they had done to him. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

There was nothing he could do but wait to waste away, but even then, it was useless. They would just drag him down the corridor again and again until there was nothing left of him. His only protest had amounted to nothing.

There was a distant sound echoing down the hallway. It crept under the door, making Miles sit up straighter from his spot next to the door. They hadn’t bothered to put him back on the metal bed this time and he didn’t care enough to stand up, so the wall was his bed today.

Then, another sound - like a gunshot. Closer.

Around ten people's boots slammed into the ground, their hurried footsteps receding down the corridor towards the sound.

Before he could get up to investigate, the window was slammed shut. For the first time since he had gotten there, he was left in complete and utter darkness.

Confused and a bit annoyed, he leaned his body against the corner of the door, trying to make out any sounds. All he could hear were muffled shouts. Frustrated, he closed his eyes and listened closer.

Wait. Fighting?

Glancing at the camera, he couldn’t help but smile. If they were too busy trying to stop an escapee or defending this little hellhole against someone, surely they wouldn’t notice him trying to escape. It was the first time since getting here that he had felt a spark of hope.

Shifting forward to look at the flap they pushed food through, he peered through the cracks to figure out how it was reinforced. As far as he could tell there was a small bolt - like one you would use on a shed.

Had they not realized how strong he was? How flexible? Even at his weakest, he knew he was stronger than the average man. Just because he couldn’t break down the door didn’t mean he couldn’t get out through this. Especially with all the weight he had lost, slimming him down. It didn’t matter - their mistake was his advantage.

It might take a few minutes to successfully get out this way, the only reason he hadn’t tried it sooner, but this was his opportunity.

Miles squeezed his hands under the flap, grabbing onto them with his adhesiveness. With some quick jerks, he was able to snap it off of its lock and push it open. He waited for his spider-sense to go haywire, but it didn’t. He was right - they had forgotten about him in the mayhem.

Squeezing through the hole, feeling sort of like a snake, he found the hallways unnervingly empty. The sounds of fighting were amplified, bouncing off the walls. With adrenaline racing through him, he rose to his feet shaking like a newborn lamb.

He had to get out of here before he was noticed: he was even weaker than his first attempt. There was no way he could fight off more than one guard at a time.

He hobbled down the corridor, eyes darting around looking for an exit. Before he had made it more than a few feet, he remembered with a jolt the eyes he’d seen. He wasn’t the only one here. Selfishly, he wanted to leave them behind. If it were just him, he would have a better chance. Less chance of being spotted, less chance whoever was behind that door would hold him back.

Miles looked back down the corridor, trying to spot any guards lurking. No one was there. He had time, right? It was the right thing to do.

Miles crouched down next to the flap, opening it. “Uh, is anyone in here?” With his cracked lips and sore throat, even those few words had him grimacing.

“Who are you?” a female voice asked, suspicious. A wave of relief passed over him. He had been right, there were others here.

“My name is Miles, I was next door. We can get each other out. Can you squeeze under the flap?” he pleaded, offering his hand into the darkness.

“Why would you help me?” she demanded.

He glanced anxiously down the corridor. They were getting closer. “We don’t have time for this. Double the strength, the better the chance of escape.”

“I can’t fight!” she exclaimed. “They’ll kill us for trying. Go away!”

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Willing his nerves to steel themselves and his frustration to soothe into empathy. “Wouldn’t it be better to die fighting rather than be their experiments?”

There was silence, filled with the sounds of gunshots down the hall. “I… I can’t crawl under. It’s too small for me.”

Crap. Miles looked over the door, examining it. This one had hinges, unlike his. He could rip it out of the walls, probably. It would be hard, and it would probably drain all his reserves, but he could do it. “I can break the door open.”

She huffed disbelievingly. Taking that as the closest thing to confirmation he would get, he grabbed the door by its hinges. The door creaked, straining in place. He fought against his instincts to stop as pain ran up and down his arms. All of a sudden, there was a loud crack, and the door smashed onto the ground. Miles fell over from the momentum, but that barely grabbed his attention as he saw his fellow inmate.

The girl had wings! Twice her size, she had them wrapped around herself like a shield. They were stained brown, just like her face; she was as grimy as him. When he looked at her closer, he realized she was really young. Maybe eight, at his best guess.

He slowly picked himself off the floor, hip aching from the fall. There was going to be an ugly bruise there tomorrow - if he made it that far. Forcing himself to smile through the pain, he said, “I’m Miles. What’s your name?”

She slowly unfurled, revealing in the light that the stains on her wings weren’t just from dirt. Dried blood littered them. They seemed too thin, with patches of feathers missing. As she moved, they drooped like they couldn’t even hold themselves. A ball of anger threatened to choke him. She was just a kid.

“Amy,” she said softly, moving out of the cell. She nervously looked down the hallway, hearing the sounds of fighting coming closer.

“Let’s get going, and if we come across any other cells with people let’s get them out too,” he whispered, hustling her to move in front of him. With her dragging wings and his legs threatening to give out with every step, it was going to be near-impossible to get out of here quickly.

There was nothing else they could do but keep on moving. They would stand no chance in a fight now.

Checking at each flap, it was another ten doors before there were any signs of life. The fighting was getting closer, despite their best efforts to move away from it, and he had to get Amy out. But maybe this person could help them.

“Hey, are you able to squeeze out of the flap?” He asked, bending down.

“What’s going on? Why am I here?” the person demanded, the voice moving closer as if they were walking towards them. Miles blinked, surprised.

He glanced down the corridor. Getting closer. “Look, they want to experiment on you. Grab my hand so we can get you out.”

There was a bit of shuffling around and then they grabbed his hand. He helped pull them out, dragging them across the tiles until they were out. Amy helped him get her to her feet.

The new girl frowned when she finally got a good look at Miles. “You look… horrible.”

Despite himself, he could feel heat rising to his cheeks. “I know. We need to get out of here. What’s your name and power?”

“Jasmine, and-”

A loud bang made them all jump. Down the hallway there was a guard slumped against the wall. Miles pulled Amy and Jasmine close to the wall, crouching down low in a pitiful attempt to hide.

Several guards rushed around the corner, taking up positions facing away from them. Their guns held high and pointed at whoever or whatever was just around the corner.

He leaned in close to the other two. “The fight’s reached us. They’re distracted, should we run?” he whispered.

“They’ll shoot us,” Amy mumbled, her wings folding up around her.

“They’ll kill us if we stay here,” he said, more to himself than to them. “I can’t fight, and I can’t protect you guys.”

Jasmine’s shoulders squared with a look of fierce determination on her face. “I can stop them.”

“How?” he demanded.

“Have you heard of telekinesis?” she asked. To demonstrate, she lifted her hand up at the handle on her door. The handle slowly turned, though it didn’t open - probably locked like every other door here.

Miles lit up. “How confident are you with it?” he whispered excitedly.

“It’s okay, could be better,” she admitted, a small smile on her face.

“That’s fine.” He peered back around the corner, studying the guards, who either hadn’t noticed or were ignoring them. “I want you to lift the guns out of their hands and get one to me. We’ll go from there.” Jasmine nodded and moved closer to him. He began a countdown, getting ready himself. Before he reached one the room lit up with muzzle flashes.

Jasmine took that as her cue. One by one, Miles watched in amazement as the guns got tugged out of the guards’ hands and whizzed past them. One landed close enough to him that he grabbed it. There were shouts of astonishment, but before they could realize who had taken their guns, a red-suited man came rushing around the corner.

Miles lifted the gun, bracing himself to defend themselves, but paused – waiting to see how the scene unfolded. Despite the situation, he didn’t want to have to use it. The red-suited man was like a blur, moving so fast it was hard to keep track. The distinct sound of bones breaking coupled with their pained screams had Miles’s heart racing.

Amy tried to get a better look, but he gently forced her back and behind him.

With one last, vicious thwack the final man collapsed to the ground. Blood trickled down his face. For a moment, Miles wondered if they were still alive before noticing that their chests were slowly rising and falling. The urge to see their breath stop completely was… unfamiliar.

The man straightened back up, breathing heavily. He rolled his shoulders, tipping his head side to side like an athlete after a good workout.

“Should we move-” Jasmine started, before he shushed her. It didn’t seem to matter - the man’s head swiveled in their direction. Miles slowly stood up, using the wall to hide his weakness, gripping the gun tighter.

“Who are you?” the man shouted, voice gravelly.

“Are you going to hurt us?” Miles demanded.

The man slowly approached them, and he gradually increased the pressure on the trigger. But as he got closer he could make out what he had missed in the chaos. The red-suited man had horns poking out of his helmet.

“Daredevil?” Miles said in disbelief, lowering the gun. He had only heard about him through the criminal rumor mill, but he had seemed more like a myth. He had wondered if someone had seen Peter, before his death, and mistaken him for something more sinister. But here was the proof, standing right in front of them.

He paused, his lips twitching. “Most of the guards are down and the police are on their way. You’ll be taken care of, Spider-Man.”

Miles swallowed, unnerved. Guess everyone knew his identity then. Ignoring the surprised exclamations from Jasmine and Amy, he slowly said, “Thank you. For this.”

“Yeah, thanks, Mr. Daredevil Guy,” Jasmine chimed in from behind him.

“Be careful on your way out. Follow the corridor down to its end, turn left and then walk up the stairs,” Daredevil said, then continued on his way like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t saved Miles, and who knew how many other people, from a miserable existence.

Miles owed him one.

Pouring rain greeted them as they left the building. Outside waiting for them was a crowd of police cars, ambulances and news vans. Miles squinted against the blinding blue and red light, dropping the gun to the ground in favor of shielding his eyes while they adjusted. Even though the cells had had a constant stream of light, the cells had still been mostly dark. He was grateful that it wasn’t daylight.

The police were standing in clumps around the perimeter, talking and gesturing. At his best guess, they were getting ready to raid the building. Especially considering how decked out they were. With helmets, face shields, heavily padded clothing and big guns they looked ready to go to war.

With relief flooding his system, his legs finally gave out from under him, and he dropped to his knees to avoid hitting the ground completely. Amy wasn’t much better, her wings drooping and dragging in the mud. Jasmine, who had failed to stop him from falling, held on to his shoulder to steady him. Paramedics rushed to them, shock blankets being wrapped around each of them.

Jasmine let go of him and he missed that small comfort immediately.

The paramedic attending to him got down to his level, the flashlight being pointed at each of his eyes making him flinch away. “Can you stand?”

He tried to get a leg out to stand up but ended up collapsing into the paramedic instead who quickly grabbed him. Humiliatingly, the paramedic just picked him up into a bridal position like he weighed nothing. Probably because he did.

In the confusion of the moment he had lost track of Amy and Jasmine, the only remaining sign that they had been there with him was a small white feather. He allowed himself to stop worrying about them and his head lolled into the warm chest of the paramedic.

The paramedic stepped into an ambulance, laying him down on the stretcher and adjusting the blanket around him before stepping back and adding another one. From where he had produced it, Miles didn’t know. The bed was adjusted so the back was lifted, giving him a surface to lean on while allowing him to look around. 

The paramedic finally sat down in the chair next to the stretcher. “Hey there, my name’s Josh and the other paramedic for this van is Amanda,” the paramedic said, gesturing between him and the front of the ambulance. “We’re going to give you a check-up before we head to the hospital. Can I ask you some questions?” 

Miles nodded, although even that slight motion made him dizzy.

Josh reached behind him producing a blood pressure cuff. “What's your name?” he asked as he wrapped it around his arm. Josh pulled his arm further out from Miles’s body and he felt at his elbow.

He hesitated. “Miles,” he finally whispered.

“Nice to meet you, Miles,” Josh said, after a brief pause and writing down something on a clipboard he removed the cuff. “Do you know where you are?”

“New York… I think,” he said quietly. He looked past him to the door, finding it slightly ajar. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of it.

He saw Josh nod from the corner of his eye. “Yep, we’re in Brooklyn. Do you have any allergies or conditions we should be aware of?”

“No.” Josh once again gently grabbed his arm and attached something to his middle finger. He heard the machine beside him come to life and lines started to flash across the screen. He glanced at it- it was his heart rate- then back to the door.

“Were you given any medication?”

“Not recently. Just some stuff that knocked me out,” he answered, watching intently as the door swayed in the wind.

“What else did the medicine do? How long since the last time you had some?” he asked, the sound of pen on paper following.

“Couldn’t move my muscles. Fell asleep. Probably a few days,” Miles said. It was hard to keep track of the days when the lights outside your door were on twenty-four-seven.

“Alright. Have you had any operations of any kind recently?”

“Probably. They would stitch me up afterwards. Arms, my chest and legs. Don’t know what they were doing,” he answered robotically, fiddling absently with the clamp on his finger.

“Alright, well-” The light shifted at the entrance of the door, a shadow falling into the space. Miles tensed, hearing something crack by his hands just as there was a knock at the door. Distracted, Josh stopped mid-sentence and got up. “Sorry, one second, Miles.”

He opened the door and leaned out to talk to the shadow. Miles tried to peer past him to see what it was but his view was blocked. 

“Can I ask a few questions before you send the patient off?” the person asked. There was something familiar about that voice, but he couldn’t quite place it.

“No, we need to get him to the hospital right away,” Josh said firmly.

“I’m fine to answer some questions,” he said, loud enough for Josh to look back at him, revealing the outfit of a police officer. They didn’t have riot gear like the ones outside had. Dad had always talked about how important it was as a police officer to get questions answered while the incident was still fresh in the victim's mind.

He was given an assessing look by Josh before he nodded and moved back to his seat, allowing the police officer entry.

Miles froze.

It wasn’t just any police officer: it was Dad. Dad was here to ask him some questions. When he really took him in, he realized just how tired he looked. He had thick, heavy bags under his eyes like he had spent too many nights awake. His shoulders were drooped, no longer held back with ease and confidence like they always had. Dad sighed, bringing out his notebook and stepping into the ambulance.

And that’s when he saw him, too.

“Miles,” he whispered as if he didn’t believe his eyes. Miles felt a twinge in his chest as his Dad’s voice cracked, emotions strangling the singular word. He stepped into the ambulance and before he knew it he had him in a huge hug. He grabbed him just as tight, tears rolling down his face, blurring his vision.

He heard Dad sniffle before pulling back, hands staying on his shoulders. Keeping contact, as if Miles would disappear the moment he let go.

Then it registered, like a lightning strike, that he was crying. It was like witnessing something he shouldn’t; Dad wasn’t supposed to cry. He had never seen him cry, ever. He had come close, but never like this.

His hands shook as he cupped Miles’s face, leaning close enough for their foreheads to touch.

“You’re alive,” Dad said, voice quivering and on the verge of breaking.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. All his fear, all his doubts, everything that had happened finally flooded out. “I’m so sorry.”

He wiped away Miles’s tears with his thumbs, giving him a watery smile. “You’re alive, you’re here, that’s all that matters.” Dad leaned back, getting a better look at him. Miles couldn’t look him in the eyes. He lightly touched Miles’s shirt, taking in its appearance. How he was drenched in sweat, grime, rain and the occasional stain of blood.

He visibly swallowed, seemingly steeling himself before solemnly promising, “You’ll be okay.”

He pulled Miles into a tight hug, before pulling back and standing up. “I’m going to let the chief know where I’m headed, I’ll only be a moment,” Dad announced, to both him and the paramedics who were patiently waiting for the moment to end. He squeezed his hand reassuringly.

When he was halfway out of the ambulance, he hesitated for a long moment, looking back at him like he would disappear at any moment. Miles gave him a reassuring smile, though it couldn’t reach his eyes. Then he squared his shoulders and moved out of sight.

Josh made a small noise and when Miles looked over, Josh was pulling the clamp from his finger. The metal was caved in in the shape of a finger, the screen where the readings came out was dark.

When Josh saw the look on his face he hastened to say, “It’s fine, it’s not a big deal!”

Dad finally hopped back in before Josh could say anything more. He settled into a seat at the end of Miles’s stretcher, reaching over and putting a hand on his ankle, lightly squeezing it. Miles took a deep, shuddering breath as the ambulance rumbled to life. Whatever happened next, he was free. That was all that mattered.

It was a flurry of activity when we got to the hospital. Lots of check-ups, cleaning him up and otherwise making sure Miles wasn’t actively dying before getting a room of his own with a staticy tv playing some drama show in the background.

He had fractured his left wrist at some point, so he had a black cast on. The adrenaline of everything must have masked the pain.

Miles absently fiddled with the soft sheets; it felt strange to be on a comfy mattress with a pillow. It felt like a luxury after the facility. It was something he knew he would rapidly take for granted once again, but in the meantime, it was a change he was grateful for.

Dad had had to go back to work: the police force had been stretched thin by the chaos of the facility being discovered. Lots of evidence to be collected and not enough time to do it. He had left Miles with the promise that he would make sure Mamá would get him some of his own clothes and his devices, so the few days under observation wouldn’t be as hellish.

There was a creak as the door opened. Expecting a nurse, Miles was instead greeted with the sight of Mamá walking in with a bag. Not the nurse he was expecting, but the one he had wanted most of all.

She dropped the heavy bag on a chair beside him before sitting down on his bed, giving him a huge, tender hug, careful not to jostle him too much. He hugged her back tightly, her rose perfume so familiar his eyes stung.

When she finally sat back, a wobbly smile greeted him.

“Hi Mamá,” he said quietly.

“Never, ever do that to me again,” she whispered, her hand in Miles’s. He gently squeezed it, and she squeezed back.

“I just-” She took a shuddering breath. “Why you? You’re such a good kid.”

It took a moment for her statement to process, but when it did, he studied her closer. She hadn’t even mentioned anything about his alter-ego. If she knew… she wouldn’t be questioning why he had been kidnapped.

He pursed his lips. He could tell her right now and there would be no secrets. Nothing to hide, no need to worry about hiding his injuries, none of that.

But maybe he would be forced to hang up the suit. He couldn’t, not when he didn’t know what information his kidnappers had on him. He had to stop what happened to him from happening again, and he couldn’t do that as normal Miles. He needed to do it, even if they wouldn’t understand.

“...I don’t know, bad luck I guess,” he mumbled, unable to meet her eyes.

She squeezed his hand again and he finally lifted his gaze to meet hers. “We’ll be okay, promise,” she declared.

Miles gave her a small smile, the only thing he could do to reassure her. “Okay,” he said, his stomach twisting with guilt over the lie.