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spacemilkies · 10 months

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fractured confections, bittersweet absence (2/?)

pairing: Earth—42!Miles Morales x Spider!Reader wc: 4k+ rating: teen a/n: i plan to make a few changes to part one just to help the flow and clear up some points. but i'm glad everyone has been enjoying it thus far! synopsis: Miguel relies on you to discover a potential anomaly and somehow you become it Or the one where world 42 never had a Spider-Man but then they do

previous part

Driven by curiosity, you find yourself sitting before the glowing screen of your computer, fingers dancing across the keyboard as you run the algorithm in a desperate attempt to locate him once more. The soft hum of the machine fills the room, an orchestral accompaniment to your quest. Yet, despite your efforts, the results remain elusive, leaving you with nothing but a void of anonymity.

Perhaps you are but a novice in the realm of digital sleuthing, struggling to navigate the labyrinthine pathways of cyberspace. LYLA, your ever-present companion and guide, proves to be of little assistance in this particular endeavor. Frustration laces your thoughts as you realize that the nameless void prevents you from unraveling the mystery that haunts your thoughts.

Returning from your heroic escapades, the weight of your recent exploits still fresh upon your shoulders, you find solace in the fact that Miguel was absent during your return. His absence spared you from the confrontation that lingered in the shadows, a confrontation that LYLA had deftly avoided by transporting you through the portal. LYLA, though not entirely willing, had reluctantly complied, mindful of the repercussions that loomed over her artificial consciousness as your accomplice.

In a brief moment of respite, you recall the flurry of questions that bombarded you after your impromptu rescue, LYLA’s relentless assault threatening to unravel the delicate threads of your deed. Faced with LYLA's impatience and the implicit threat of Miguel's simmering anger, you were propelled through the portal, leaving behind the tumultuous inquiries.

Yet, as the truth of the matter settles upon your thoughts, you find a glimmer of relief. Miguel remains blissfully unaware of the short visit.

The room around you seems to hold its breath, the air heavy with unspoken revelations. The flickering glow of the screen casts an ethereal light upon your face, illuminating the myriad thoughts that swirl within your mind. The pulsing rhythm of the computer's hum intertwines with the rhythm of your heartbeat, the synchrony of technology and humanity creating a symphony of anticipation.

The visual feeds of Brooklyn flicker into the spaces of your screen. The search may have yielded no answers, but the hunger for knowledge still burns within you. In the depths of your soul, a yearning to unravel the enigma that shrouds Earth-42, a flickering flame that refuses to be extinguished.

In the midst of chaos, where the clamor of the city merges with the cacophony of everyday life. A masked rescue, while a remarkable feat, remains concealed within the vast sea of unremarkable events. You purposefully keep your abilities subdued, a subtle dance of power restrained. After all, Earth 42, with its multifarious wonders and enigmatic mysteries, remains an disconcerting realm in Miguel's consciousness. For now it is your little secret, a fragment of existence hidden from prying eyes.

But secrets, like Pandora's box, possess a relentless allure that tugs at your resolve. The forbidden knowledge within beckons you, a siren song that echoes in the recesses of your mind. Locked away, safely out of reach, it should have remained untouched—a relic of the past, a fleeting memory of curiosity. Yet, here you stand, time and again, on the precipice of temptation, ready to open the box that holds the answers you seek.

Each time you surrender to the pull, the lid creaks open, revealing glimpses of the cityscape that sprawls before you. It begins with vagueness, fleeting glances that yearn to see beyond the surface. The absence of names and DNA samples renders your search a daunting task, a labyrinthine puzzle without a clear path to follow. The spider venom, a potent trigger for your web of connections, remains absent, leaving you grasping at ethereal threads.

In your quest to track down a twin-braided teen, your efforts yield little but frustration. Minutes turn into hours, slipping through your grasp like sand through an open hand. The lack of results becomes your alibi, the justification for the time spent in this fruitless pursuit. And yet, the yearning persists, an insatiable hunger that gnaws at your soul.

Amidst this stolen respite, Miguel breezes into the office, his presence like a gust of wind that stirs suspicion. With him, any sudden movement is enough to rouse his keen instincts, leaving you treading carefully, maintaining an air of routine as you mutter a greeting. He settles at his desk, a late lunch in hand, but his gaze, like a compass needle, is drawn magnetically to your screens. His voice, laced with a hint of concern, breaks the silence, pulling you back to the present.

"Is there a problem?" he inquires, his eyes scanning the displays, searching for any sign of discord or trouble. From the corner of your vision, LYLA materializes, her digital form assuming the guise of anxiety with uncanny realism. In moments like these, you curse the intricacies of her programming, for her expressions add an air of authenticity to the situation.

"No, just browsing," you reply, your words tinged with dryness, an attempt to dismiss any suspicion. But fate has conspired against you today, for Miguel, granted ample time, succumbs to the tendrils of curiosity. His query pierces the air, shattering the fragile tranquility that enveloped the room.

"Which Earth?" he asks, his attention fixated on the signature code embedded in each Earth feed. It serves as a swift reference point, a means to identify the known spider heroes traversing the multiverse. In this stage of your escapades, LYLA possesses the ability to discern the vast majority of them without direct intervention. Your fingers dance upon the keyboard, a silent symphony of keystrokes, while your voice mumbles an indistinct response.

"42," you finally manage to articulate, your voice infused with uncertainty. Miguel, ever inquisitive, approaches from behind, his hand gently curling around the back of your chair as he leans in, his presence almost palpable. Proximity amplifies the intensity of the moment, as if the secrets hidden within the Earth 42's web of existence are about to unravel.

"The one without a Spider-Man?" he questions, a subtle crease forming upon his brow. You can sense his curiosity, a tempestuous storm brewing within his mind, yearning for answers to questions he has yet to fully articulate. You shift uncomfortably, aware that the truth may soon confront you, testing the delicate balance of trust and the choices you've made.

"Uh, yeah," you mutter, the words escaping like an elusive whisper.

Together, you and Miguel stand side by side, engrossed in the digital dance of indicators that pop up on the map before you. Their appearance lacks any discernible pattern or rhythm, scattered like shards of shattered glass across the screen. Each blip represents a discordant note, a disturbance in the harmonious fabric of the city. The map becomes a tapestry of chaos, a visual testament to the turmoil that seeps through the streets.

In this moment of shared observation, silence stretches between you, pregnant with unspoken thoughts. Miguel's gaze lingers on the map, his expression contemplative, as if he is deciphering the hidden messages embedded within the scattered incidents. Time suspends, creating a brief pause in the symphony of life that surrounds you.

Abruptly, he pulls away, his hands clapping lightly to disperse the crumbs that have collected on his fingertips. The sound reverberates like a fleeting applause, a signal of transition. His own computer springs to life, its mechanical hum blending with the soft hum of algorithms more intricate than your own. His movements are precise, calculated, as he navigates through the sea of data, seeking patterns and connections that elude the untrained eye.

A moment passes, and then he delivers his verdict with an air of finality. "Without a canon event to lead the dialogue, there is no saving how the cards will fall." His words, though enigmatic, resonate with a hint of resignation. The complexity of the situation, the fragmented nature of the incidents, has left you both with an unsettling uncertainty, a realization that the future is veiled in an unpredictable haze.

His final comment hangs in the air, an unspoken assurance that even if he is not able to decipher the enigma that shrouds Earth 42, he will not relent in his pursuit of answers. The weight of the unknown bears down upon your shoulders, intertwining with a lingering sense of responsibility.

As you observe the vibrant chaos of the map before you, a flicker of determination ignites within your being. In this tangled web of uncertainty, you know that your choices and actions will shape the course of events, determining the fate of this realm that remains without its Spider-Man.

“Yeah, we know,” slips past your lips as a whisper, but you know it wasn’t missed.

Miguel's final comment hangs in the air. It resonates with a solemn truth, a truth that reverberates through your very core. The world you once called home, the world that fell victim to Miguel's unintended actions, now lies in ruins, a haunting reminder of the consequences that come with interfering in the fragile tapestry of reality. The warning lingers, an ethereal specter of caution that reminds you of the delicate balance that must be maintained.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

In a way, the conversation came with some advantages. Like a father trying to smooth over a fight with sweets before dinner, Miguel takes it upon himself to assign you more frequent missions. A smooth way to bury the memories that have been unearthed, to seek redemption for the irreversible damage caused. Yet, even as you jump from one world to the next, traversing the vast expanse of the multiverse, your thoughts always return to that fateful event that altered the trajectory of your existence.

For a fleeting moment, you managed to accept the truth—that you were an outsider, detached from the intricate web of connections and destinies that bind the inhabitants of each world. The triggers that once tied you to the web of timelines remained dormant, dormant like the embers of a forgotten flame. It should have been enough to sever the ties that bound you to the remnants of that world, to shield you from the pain of loss and the burden of responsibility.

But a challenging thought takes root within your mind, sprouting like an enigmatic seed in a barren garden. What if, as the foreign spider hero, you are not bound by the chains of a canon event? What if your purpose transcends the usual narratives of heroism, and instead, you become a mere visitor, a wandering soul lending aid without being entangled in the intricate affairs of those you encounter? The idea tugs at the edges of your consciousness, beckoning you towards the open portal that stands before you, a gateway to untold possibilities.

All the facts lineup, logic aligns, but they fail to hold enough weight to anchor you in place. The allure of the unknown, the desire to forge your own path, calls to you with an irresistible melody. It whispers promises of freedom and liberation, of a life unfettered by the burdens that haunt your every step. Uncertainty lingers in the air, mingling with the scent of possibility, as you stand before the open portal, caught between the remnants of a past life and the infinite horizons of the multiverse.

In this pivotal moment, the choice is yours to make. Will you heed the warning, clinging to the cautionary tales of ruination, or will you surrender to the pull of the unknown, venturing forth into uncharted realms where the lines between hero and visitor blur into obscurity? The decision hangs delicately, poised upon the precipice of your soul, as you gaze into the swirling portal, awaiting the path that will shape your destiny.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

As the surprise assignment lands in your lap, whisking you away to Earth-138, a realm where the enigmatic and unpredictable Hobie Brown donned the mantle of the resident spider-man.. The very fabric of this world seems tinged with a touch of chaos, an energy that pulses through the streets and alleys. Here, Hobie rarely seeks assistance, but the occasional nudge can coax him into accepting a hand, though he often reminds you that his aid is not a necessity but rather a choice born from the depths of his own heart.

The dialogue between you and Hobie dances upon the air, their words charged with a playful banter that betrays an underlying camaraderie.

"You know I don't actually need your help, right?" Hobie's voice lingers with a hint of amusement, his words intertwining with the gentle rhythm of the surroundings.

"Yes, Hobie," you reply, your voice infused with a knowing tone, a silent acknowledgement of his independent spirit.

"Meaning that this is a gesture out of the goodness of my heart." Hobie's words cascade forth, painting a vivid picture of his convictions.

"Naturally, Hobie," you affirm, your response adorned with a dry undertone of appreciation for his individuality.

"See, I hear you agreeing, but I don't feel the agreeance," he playfully remarks, attuned to your distracted state.

In a moment of keen perception, Hobie notices the subtle shift in your attention, an indication that your thoughts wander towards other matters. A sly grin tugs at the corners of his lips, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous spark.

It takes you a mere second to crumble, clinging to the one soul who would feast upon the chaos rather than whistleblow it from the highest building. Hobie is unsurprisingly a great listener in the presence of anarchy.

Curling an arm around you shoulder, he drags you in. “See now you’re speaking my language, little spider. I knew you weren’t a goody-two shoes.”

Sensing an opportunity to indulge in some delinquency, he suggests the need for a decoy, an ingenious solution to ensure your escapade remains undetected.

You hesitate momentarily, knowing all too well that removing your watch would only invite Miguel's scrutiny.

But Hobie's mind, sharp as a blade, spins its web of ingenuity. "What if you had two watches?" he proposes, his voice laced with a sense of triumph. "Same signal, new watch transmits without alerting the code."

His intellect shines through, painting him as a mastermind of subterfuge. The corners of his lips curl into a knowing grin as he revels in the art of deception. "You're downright diabolical," you remark, marveling at his cleverness.

"I know," he confesses, reveling in the playful artistry of his scheme.

A spark of delight flickers in Hobie's eyes as he basks in your recognition. His grin widens, a testament to his satisfaction. He’s all to willing to play host spider as he draws you into a local pub, already scheming the intricacies of the proposed plan.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Within the confines of the headquarters, the air hums with anticipation, a symphony of bustling activity. The scent of metallic tang lingers, a reminder of the intricate machinery that powers the operation. As spider heroes from various dimensions flock in and out, their presence a testament to the ever-growing ranks. The demand for dimensional watches, those essential gateways to traverse realms, remains insatiable, fueling the constant flow of activity.

Amidst the whirlwind of preparations, you find solace in the familiarity of your room, a sanctuary within the bustling hive. Here, the walls are adorned with sketches and blueprints, the remnants of countless tinkering sessions. Your nimble fingers dance across the tools, coaxing and adjusting, as you delve into the realm of technology. The soft glow of monitors bathes the room in a mesmerizing light, casting elongated shadows across the cluttered surfaces.

Feeds from Earth-42 flicker and float in mid-air, a hypnotic tableau of visual snippets. The chaos that unfolds across the dimensions, a swirling vortex of battles and adversaries, feels overwhelming. Criminals materialize, wreak havoc, and disappear into the ever-shifting tapestry of realities, making it challenging to pinpoint any one nemesis.

As you tinker, your mind meanders through the labyrinthine corridors of your thoughts. The intricate nature of the technology in your hands mirrors the complexity of the challenges that lie ahead. It's a delicate dance of understanding, a balancing act between harnessing the power within and navigating the treacherous terrain of heroic duties. The weight of responsibility settles upon your shoulders, and you find solace in the familiar touch of the tools, the familiarity of your craft.

In this quiet haven, away from the clamor and chaos, you seek refuge in your ability to navigate the technological realm without the constant presence of LYLA, your ever-watchful guardian. Here, in this private enclave, you are the conductor of your own symphony, weaving webs of innovation and possibility.

As you carefully piece together the final component of the mimicry watch. The metallic fragments interlock, each click resonating with significance. The weight of the watch rests in your hands, a tangible embodiment of the choices that now lie before you. Its presence is a constant reminder of the burden of contemplation that you carry, a weight that settles upon your soul.

In this pivotal moment, you find yourself standing at the precipice of destiny, poised on the edge of a decision that will ripple across the fabric of existence. The immensity of the multiverse stretches out before you, an infinite expanse of possibilities and diverging paths. Every step forward holds the potential to alter your own canon, to weave a narrative thread that will forever change the tapestry of your life.

The weight of responsibility settles upon your shoulders, pressing down upon your being. The burden of choice weighs heavy, for there is no going back once you cross this threshold. You stand on the threshold of a new reality, aware that the consequences of your actions will reverberate far beyond the confines of your own existence.

In this vast sea of infinite universes, where realms intertwine and narratives intertwine, the concept of immersion is malleable, ever-shifting. Spider heroes, in their relentless pursuit of justice, have shattered the boundaries of what is considered canonical time and time again. The rules of engagement blur, and you find solace in the knowledge that you are not alone in the realm of breaking immersion.

Yet, even as you draw strength from the precedent set by those who came before, you cannot ignore the stark reality that this journey is different. It surpasses the confines of mere disruption and event bending. You are a new entity, a force of change that transcends the boundaries of what has come before. The weight of this realization is both exhilarating and daunting, a symphony of conflicting emotions that reverberates within your very core.

The weight of the watch serves as a constant reminder that the time for hesitation has passed. It is now time to step forward, to embrace the unknown, and to redefine the very essence of your existence as a spider hero.

With a resolute determination, you press the sleek, fabricated decoy device against the watch encircling your wrist. The two devices make contact, their surfaces touching in a moment of connection. As the transmission begins, a surge of energy courses through the air, sparking a current of anticipation that electrifies your very being.

The link between the devices is established almost instantly, a symphony of technological marvel unfolding before your eyes. The small blinking light embedded within the watch's mechanism illuminates the darkness, flickering once before radiating a brilliant emerald glow. In that fleeting moment, the weight of your decision lingers, suspended in time and space.

Every fiber of your being quivers with a sense of suspense, each passing second feeling like an eternity. You brace yourself, prepared for the imminent arrival of Miguel, his footsteps echoing through the corridors of your sanctuary. The overlay you meticulously coded pulsates with hidden power, cloaking the presence of the transmitters when activated simultaneously.

However, even with your calculated precautions, a lingering doubt remains. The possibility exists that, with the right kind of investigation, your cleverly constructed concealment could be unveiled.

Yet, as the moments stretch into eternity, a profound silence settles upon your surroundings. No thunderous footsteps break the tranquility, no alarms wail their warning. Not even LYLA, the ever-vigilant guardian of your domain, stirs from her digital slumber. The tension that had coiled within you, constricting your every breath, dissipates like a phantom fog.

A deep, relieved sigh escapes your lips, carrying with it the weight of an ache that had settled within your soul. A wave of accomplishment washes over you, mingling with the lingering sense of vulnerability. In this delicate balance, you find solace, knowing that, for now, you have successfully navigated the treacherous waters of deception and secrecy.

With the watch and its decoy device in perfect harmony, their hidden purpose concealed from prying eyes, you bask in the glow of your accomplishment.

The cloak of pseudo-freedom envelopes you, its tantalizing allure sweeping you up into a whirlwind of exhilaration. In the sanctuary of your normal nighttime respite, the vast expanse of untamed possibility stretches out before you, beckoning with its siren song. With a flicker of anticipation, you activate the portal, its ethereal glow casting a luminescent veil across the room.

Stepping through the threshold of the interdimensional gateway, you emerge into a world transformed, your senses acutely attuned to the vibrant pulse of Earth-138. Brooklyn, a tapestry of urban splendor, unfolds before your eyes.

As you gracefully swing through the labyrinthine streets, a sense of familiarity settles upon you, the symphony of your web-slinging movements blending seamlessly with the rhythm of this alternate reality. The night air embraces you, caressing your skin with a cool, refreshing kiss. The cityscape sprawls beneath you, an intricate mosaic of flickering lights and shadows.

With an instinct honed by countless encounters, your eyes scan the surroundings, seeking out signs of disturbance and discord. It doesn't take long for your keen senses to detect the telltale echoes of trouble. A group of figures materializes in your periphery, their intentions ominous and palpable. Like broken shards of shattered glass, they descend upon the unsuspecting vehicles, a symphony of chaos and destruction.

Your heart quickens its pace, a primal surge of adrenaline flooding your veins. The instincts of the spider hero awaken within you, compelling you to intervene, to restore order amidst the turmoil. The screeching of metal against glass reverberates through the night.

In a seamless motion, you descend upon the scene. Like a shadow materializing from the depths of night, you strike with precision and grace, ensnaring two figures against the side of the car.

By the time the rest are alerted of your presence, you have the third swinging from the street light.

And the fourth—

A dissonant note pierces through the air, and your shoulders sag with a sense of disbelief. The fourth figure, their retreating silhouette etched against the flickering city lights, abandons their compatriots without a second glance.

“There is always the one.”

With a resolute sigh, you raise your watch to your face. Your fingertips tap against the cool glass surface and you send an anonymous tip to the local police department.

Will the police heed the call, or will their absence leave the captured criminals to languish in the bonds of their own misdeeds until the morning light? You would let fate swing that pendulum.

The following encounters come too easily.

A returned purse.

A corner store robbery put to rest before it stops.

A few miscreant activities in between.

And most recently, a pair of individuals trying to blow up a police car.

Twin voices spew complaints as they fight against the bonds plastering them against the hood of the car. There would be no need to send off a top for this own.

Your attention, however, lingers on the webbing. In your escapades, you had left quite a bit of it lingering around the city. People would definitely talk if the evidence remained, and you were ready to give the gig up just yet.

In most universes, the city typically cleans it up but you know you have solvent for it.

You decide to bring some next time.

Yes, next time.

This was totally going to be a thing.

#earth 42 miles morales #earth 42 miles x reader #earth 42 miles morales x reader #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman across the spiderverse #42 miles morales #miles morales x reader #prowler miles

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spacemilkies · 10 months

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Final Fantasy XVI → Eikons of Valisthea

#longest yeah boy ever #ffxvi

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spacemilkies · 10 months

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walks around the dashboard looking bored

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spacemilkies · 10 months

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HALLE BAILEY The Little Mermaid (2023) Performing “Part of Your World” at Disneyland

#a thousand times YES

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spacemilkies · 10 months

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fractured confections, bittersweet absence (1/?)

pairing: Earth—42!Miles Morales x Spider!Reader wc: 3k+ rating: teen a/n: don't look at me. i'm just writing as it comes to me. we'll see there all these different fic ideas take me. for this in particular, i have everything up to the movie start outlined. i took a few liberties with the timeline. i just have to push myself to write it :(

synopsis: Miguel relies on you to discover a potential anomaly and somehow you become it

Or the one where world 42 never had a Spider-Man but then they do

In a world where alternative universes were nothing more than clichés confined to the pages of fantasy novels, your concerns as a teenager barely in your teens extended far beyond such fantastical notions. The recent addition of supernatural abilities, acquired through a fateful encounter with a dubious arachne during a field trip at a lab conglomerate, had consumed your thoughts. However, all of these preoccupations suddenly lost their significance as the very fabric of your existence crumbled before your eyes.

Echoes of terror-laden screams still reverberated in your mind, mingling with the chaotic symphony of pedestrian and automotive traffic desperately attempting to outrun an impending fate. In the midst of the pandemonium, you struggled to harness your newfound abilities, desperately weaving through the fragmented bodies of disrupted individuals, ephemeral apparitions on the brink of annihilation.

Yet, amidst the turmoil, one memory remained etched in your consciousness with unwavering clarity. It was the image of your best friend's father, seizing you mid-swing, his shattered gaze suddenly focused with newfound purpose. Together, you both tumbled headlong into a blinding burst of radiant light, a tumultuous journey to an uncertain destination.

As you gazed down at the device that had never left your wrist since that pivotal day nearly a year ago, your contemplations shifted from the intricacies of alternate realities to a more fundamental question—what would become of your existence without a tangible world to call your own?

Miguel, whom you swiftly discerned to be a distinct entity from the Mr. O'Hara who once chauffeured you and his daughter to softball practice every Thursday evening, had failed to provide a concrete understanding of the complexity surrounding your being. The only undeniable truth was that as long as the watch remained securely fastened to your wrist, you would be spared the agonizing disintegration that awaited Earth-702, the last vestige of a fading existence.

Earth-702.

The only life you had known reduced to a number.

This enigmatic state of being mirrored the ambiguity that plagued your emotions—a blend of forgiveness and gratitude, still unquantified and unresolved. How could you appreciate and resent the man who had saved you, yet inadvertently led to the destruction of everything you once knew?

For now, you exist as an anomaly entrusted with the task of investigating other anomalies, akin to yourself. A spider-being devoid of a world to safeguard was destined to remain just that—a solitary guardian without a realm to protect.

As you attempted to open the door, your progress came to a halt as LYLA materialized before you. In this constant state of existence, where alternate spider beings surrounded you, the presence of an artificial intelligence like LYLA was a welcome divergence from the norm. If you could practically call it that.

"You just missed Miguel," LYLA chimed, breaking the silence.

A tinge of disappointment washed over you. Miguel was supposed to provide you with an assignment today, and you had eagerly anticipated the opportunity.

“How convenient of him.”

The vague shrug from LYLA hinted at the lack of intention behind the promise from the beginning. With a restrained sigh, you pressed forward, traversing the brief hallway that led to Miguel's office—a space that also doubled as your own.

In the spider-verse association, you held the esteemed position of being its first official member. In simpler terms, you possessed the most comprehensive understanding of the intricate web of activities that kept the organization afloat. You were present when the second spider-being entered the headquarters, and you witnessed firsthand as the building teemed with more individuals from myriad Earths than you could have ever imagined.

With the proliferation of these spider-beings, it became increasingly challenging to distribute the workload. Each spider-being had their own set of responsibilities, both in their home realms and in dealing with one another. Amidst this sea of spider-beings, you were supposed to shine—a silent guardian with untapped potential.

Instead, you found yourself assigned to a desk, monitoring the overall progress of the operation. Miguel preferred to dress it up as a trusted role, acknowledging that not everyone possessed the capacity to grapple with the harsh realities at hand. It was amusing how he believed a teenager trapped within their formative years could shoulder the weight of these adult concerns.

Nonetheless, as an anomaly yourself, you held the title of subject expert in identifying and executing operations to resolve other unfortunate anomalies. Recently, you had grown restless and began to pester Miguel for more opportunities to explore other Earths. It wasn't to say that you hadn't ventured into different realms before. In the beginning, Miguel had no choice but to rely on your abilities in every capacity. However, a persistent fear loomed over both of you—the potential consequences if your device were to be disrupted for even a fleeting moment.

Indeed, that fear coursed through your veins, but you refused to allow it to dictate your life. That was precisely why you had all but demanded to be sent on the next assignment—an insistence that Miguel had skillfully evaded, leaving you feeling slightly defeated.

As you slumped into your seat, a heavy sigh escaped your lips. "What Earth is he even on?" you muttered, the weight of annoyance settling upon you. Almost as if in response to your presence, the displays surrounding your desk hummed to life, illuminating the space with a soft glow.

LYLA materialized by your side, her voice offering a prompt update. "Villain captured on Earth-343. They should be wrapping up soon."

The task at hand hardly posed a challenge beyond your capabilities. There were younger spider-beings grappling with far more daunting situations. You ceased dwelling on what your life would have been like as the Spider-Man of your Earth. You had been too young to even envision your future, let alone prepare for the colossal role thrust upon you in the wake of your transformation.

Amidst your operations, you had heard murmurs of other heroes around your age.

Gwen Stacy from Earth-65.

Pavitr Prabhakar from Earth-50101.

And Margo Kess from 22191.

Their presence evoked a feeling in your chest that you wouldn't readily label as jealousy, but rather a simmering ember that burned hotter than mere contentment.

Occasionally, you engaged in conversations with them, often through the watch devices that connected your disparate realities, providing updates and exchanging information. But there were rare instances when you met face to face. Miguel had often categorized you and Gwen as the "troublesome" stage in your teenage years, a time when you grappled with the complexities of your individual realities. And while he wasn't entirely mistaken, the weight of those challenges felt more pressing in your lives.

Gwen, unlike some of her counterparts, preferred the sanctuary of the headquarters over returning to her home Earth. She seemed perpetually ready for missions, always on the edge of her seat. Upon meeting her, she shared the details of her eventful exposure to the multiverse, beginning with the collision event on Earth-1610B. She had crossed paths with that other Spider-Man... what was his name?

Rising from your slouched position, your fingers danced across the keys, retrieving the name from the recesses of your memory. You settled back into your seat, watching as the screen filled with the image of Miles Morales.

He was certainly... something.

Admittedly clumsy at times, yet he possessed a reasonable level of control over his abilities. Enough, at least, to keep him off Miguel's list of reprimands. Out of curiosity, you toggled his biometrics, allowing the spider DNA coursing through his veins to reveal his Earth designation. But it was within the uniqueness of his profile that you discovered a divergence—his DNA did not match the status of his home Earth.

Earth-42.

You have come across reports mentioning it. According to Miguel, without a Spider-Man to inhabit it, there were no canonical events to monitor. From an operational standpoint, he was correct. However, as you pondered the situation now, you couldn't help but wonder what a world without a Spider-Man truly looked like.

With a few keystrokes, you accessed the live feed, ready to uncover the truth of that reality for yourself.

What you saw, ripped away the lingering shred of sense you had in that moment.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

"This is a very bad idea," the voice persisted, echoing through your wrist. However, your dimension device possessed its own isolated network, impervious to interference or removal without Miguel's biometrics. It was a safety measure designed to keep out unwanted disruptions, but it inadvertently granted you a sense of freedom.

Clinging to the shadows, you effortlessly scaled the side of a building, preparing yourself for the leap to the next rooftop. The act of calculating the jump served as a convenient distraction from the persistent voice reverberating from your wrist.

"Like a very bad idea. Miguel is not going to be happy," LYLA warned, its concern palpable.

You let out a snort that held no trace of humor, grunting upon landing and quickly scrambling up the higher section of the architecture. "When is he ever happy?" you muttered. Miguel seemed to perpetually wear a mask of displeasure, never quite content.

Your response sparked yet another stream of concern from LYLA, but at this point, you had effectively tuned her out. The image feed from Earth-42, displayed on your device, paled in comparison to the chaotic reality that enveloped the city. From open flames licking at structures to blaring sirens piercing the air, there was not a single sign of peace to be found.

From your vantage point, you had always recognized the significance of a spider-hero. Yet, in the absence of one, you had simply assumed that matters would resolve themselves. After all, society was an ever-adapting complexity that spanned countless universes. Surely, there were individuals capable of managing the daily operations without the presence of a superbeing.

As you swung through the air, your mind wandered, delving into the intricacies of divergent paths taken by each reality. You contemplated the weight of the missing Spider-Man in Earth-42 and what it meant for the inhabitants of this dimension.

Lost in contemplation, you find yourself perched upon a lofty rooftop, gazing out at the sprawling city below. The bustling metropolis pulsates with life, its energy reverberating through the very fabric of existence. Yet, amidst the towering structures and bustling streets, your attention is drawn to a nearby building adorned with a larger-than-life mural.

The mural, a masterpiece in its own right, pays homage to a fallen police officer—an embodiment of courage, sacrifice, and unwavering dedication. It is a work of art that transcends the limitations of paint and brush, capturing the essence of the hero's spirit. Vibrant hues dance across the surface, blending seamlessly to form intricate details that breathe life into the mural. Each brushstroke tells a story, whispering of the hero's indomitable spirit and the impact he had on those he protected.

As your eyes wander over the mural, a bittersweet mix of emotions washes over you. You are intimately familiar with the displaced canon event depicted within the artwork, having witnessed its replay countless times. However, the absence of the defining factor—the presence of a Spider-Man—leaves a void, an inexplicable emptiness that permeates the scene. It raises profound questions about the nature of fate and the purpose of heroes. Who, or what, would subject people to a twisted reality without the counterbalance of justice and redemption?

But even in the absence of a Spider-Man, you know that humanity possesses an innate resilience. It is a resilience that gives rise to captains of justice, individuals willing to step forward and fill the void, even at the cost of their own lives. The mural becomes a symbol of that resilience, a testament to the indomitable spirit of the human heart.

Lost in your thoughts, a faint sound interrupts the silence, drawing your attention downward. The scuffling of feet resonates against the pavement, and your senses come alive, attuned to the presence nearby. Your head swivels, and your gaze lands upon the source of the sound.

Beneath the grand mural, the atmosphere hangs heavy with a mix of sadness and reverence. The vibrant colors seem to cast a somber aura, amplifying the weight of the fallen hero's sacrifice. It is there, in the fading sunlight, that you spot a solitary figure—a teenager whose face bears a defiant expression, despite the trails of tears glistening in the soft, golden rays. There is an air of vulnerability about him, and his presence captivates your attention.

With nimble and cautious steps, you descend the side of the building, blending seamlessly into the shadows. Your spider-like agility allows you to approach unnoticed, maintaining a respectful distance. The teen remains oblivious to your presence, engrossed in his own world of emotions.

In the pool of fading sunlight, his tear-stained face reflects a myriad of conflicting emotions. It speaks of loss and grief, yet his expression hints at determination and resilience. You are drawn to his vulnerability, unable to resist the urge to understand his connection to the fallen hero immortalized on the mural. It is evident that the departed officer held a special place in the hearts of many, leaving behind an irreplaceable void in the lives of those he protected.

As you observe the teenager's reaction, a sudden crash and the shattering of glass reverberate through the air, snapping your focus away from the impending danger nearby. The symphony of chaos begins to unravel, growing louder with each passing second. Instinctively, your senses heighten, urging you to intervene and prevent the imminent turmoil. Yet, you understand the delicate balance of interfering in the affairs of other realities, knowing that it may have unforeseen consequences.

Choosing to prioritize the safety of the vulnerable individual, you turn your attention toward him, hoping to offer guidance and solace. It is a decision that carries its own weight, for the unknown intricacies of interdimensional travel have taught you that nothing is ever certain or predictable. With a calm yet concerned voice, you address him, your words laced with empathy and caution.

"Hey, it's dangerous for you to be out here," you gently express, aware of the unexpectedness of your presence. However, before you can fully comprehend the impact of your presence, the teen’s demeanor shifts into something decidedly defensive—an oddly quick but reasonable response, given his environment. In that moment, you realize the jarring sight you must present—a being that embodies the traits of both human and spider, suspended in an upside-down stance before him.

As the boy's awe and curiosity leak through his initial defiance, you notice the hard lines of determination softening under the weight of change. There is a sense of similarity there, lost teenage years consumed by destruction.

His bewildered voice breaks the silence. Despite the perplexment, its gruffness cannot mask his genuine curiosity. "What are you?"

A playful smirk dances across your face, defying the gravity of the situation. The opportunity slips from your lips before you can fully understand the weight of your words.

"I am your friendly neighborhood spider," you reply, the words dripping with both sincerity and light-heartedness. Those wide, capable eyes, tinted with distrust, rove over the intricate design of your costume, searching for answers in the fabric that binds you.

His response is swift, his youthful candor cutting through the tension. "That's a dumb superhero name," he remarks, not comprehending the magnitude of the reality he has stumbled upon. You merely shrug, understanding that you are not the Spider-Man he knows, nor are you bound by the conventions of his familiar world. Here, in this fractured reality on the brink of collapse, your mission transcends trivial matters such as superhero aliases.

"Well, stupid or not, I can't leave you hear," you declare with resolute determination. Before he can fully grasp the gravity of your words, you swiftly encase him in a web cocoon, launching him skyward along the building's side. He puts up a surprisingly capable fight, thin braids swinging to and fro within his captivity.

"Aye, loco! Lemme me go!" he protests, his voice carrying a hint of frustration.

Huh, Spanish. Miguel would be proud.

Together, you ascend to the pinnacle, where the world seems both smaller and more expansive all at once.

From this vantage point, a distant commotion clamors through the night, a discordant symphony of chaos that taints the air with unease. You can sense the imminent danger lurking down the dimly lit streets, threatening the fragile remnants of this crumbling reality.

The boy's now angered gaze fixated upon you, “I can take care of myself.”

You resist the strong urge to volley him, if only to jerk the too-adult pinch from his brow with the promise of fear and your strength. Instead, you guide him to to an adjacent block away from the disruption and drop him to his feet carefully, save for a brief stumble.

The pointed glare focused on you is not the impression you would have imagined from a rescued individual, but you were new to this so maybe not all went to script.

You were feeling a little less confident as you approached.

"I'm going to release you now."

The teen only jerked his chin in response.

Hooking a finger under the webbing, you use the trick Miguel taught you to loosen the bindings. The warning came a split second after he worked an arm free, giving you a brief opportunity to pull out of reach as he swung back.

He was definitely a product of his environment, whether for the good or better was not disclosed.

There was a notable fire in his gaze as he challenged you.

“Next time, keep your freaky abilities to yourself. I don’t need no hero.”

Suspending yourself from the light fixture above, you test your impact on the Earth a length more. You think about all the other Earth’s whose spider-beings who press forward despite the backlash, determined to save what they hold dear.

They might say those words, deflect the help offered to say they didn't need a hero because they were one.

But this teen didn’t give you that impression. His presence vaguely tipped the compass in a different direction.

“Maybe not, but you’re only one person.”

Scoffing, the teen ripped away the rest of the webbing. “No hero has a place here. Everyone agrees on that.”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turns his heel at that as he descends down the street away from you.

Earth 42 was indeed a reality without a spider-being.

But what proliferated in its absence, was something you felt, would test the universe in its own way.

#earth 42 miles morales #earth 42 miles x reader #earth 42 miles morales x reader #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman fanfiction #42 miles morales #miles morales x reader #prowler miles

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spacemilkies · 10 months

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Question is did Hobie find the graffiti or did he make it? 🤭

Based off of this classic meme

#i LOVE them

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spacemilkies · 10 months

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Finally got around to drawing Jinx!

#my bby

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spacemilkies · 10 months

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Good Kitty

pairing: Earth—42!Miles Morales x BlackCat!Reader wc: 3k+ rating: teen a/n: another fandom, another trap. I plan for this to be a non-linear series. Feel free to send prompts for this pairing!

synopsis:

Spider-man? Never heard of him. You were Black Cat. And what you did know was that it was never a good idea to leave a world in a man's hands.

A sigh escapes your lips, a sound not born out of exhaustion but rather from the depths of sheer boredom as you shifted your weight and rolled onto your side. The warm rays of the setting sun spilled through the window, enveloping you in a soft, golden embrace. If only you had chosen to cast your gaze outward, you would have been met with a rare spectacle—a breathtaking panoramic view of the magnificent Manhattan skyline.

Less than three years had passed since you had walked the halls of your high school, a graduate filled with shattered aspirations and dry pool of dreams. Back then, the mere notion of such a view, of standing amidst the towering giants that graced the New York City skyline, was nothing short of a fantastical dream. It was a dream that seemed elusive, almost laughable, considering the harsh realities of life that had once deprived you of even the simplest means to put food on the table.

And perhaps, deep down, you still carried a glimmer of disbelief, a lingering doubt that whispered in the recesses of your mind. But as you lay there, basking in the gentle warmth of the sun's caress, you couldn't deny the profound sense of fulfillment that coursed through your veins. It wasn't solely the outcome that brought you satisfaction, but rather the journey itself, the arduous path you had traversed, and the resilience you had shown in embracing your roots.

For it had been surprisingly effortless, slipping back into the embrace of your origins, your identity intertwined with the vibrant tapestry of this city. The laughter that echoed within you was tinged with a certain fondness, an acknowledgement of the simplicity and ease with which you had found your place within this bustling metropolis. The streets, once unfamiliar and daunting, had become your familiar pathways, the very pulse of life flowing through your veins.

Your mother, a beacon of strength in the face of adversity, had tirelessly striven to keep you on the straight and narrow. The echoes of your father's incarceration still resonated within the corridors of your memory, a haunting reminder of the tumultuous path your family had been forced to tread. In those fragile years of your middle school days, the familiar embrace of modest living had been abruptly torn asunder, thrusting you all into the unforgiving shallows of Brooklyn's reality.

It was during those trying times that your mother, fueled by an indomitable spirit, took it upon herself to forge a path of honest labor. Her determination was nothing short of admirable, a testament to her unwavering love for her family. Yet, with every stride she took to ensure your well-being, the sacrifices etched themselves deeply into your collective existence. The simple pleasures that others took for granted, like an abundance of food on the table or shoes that conformed to the suggested lifespan, became luxuries beyond your reach.

Life, you discovered, was a merciless game where the cards were often dealt by the devil himself. It was a relentless battle against the odds, an unyielding struggle to make ends meet and find solace amidst the unrelenting tempest. And yet, your mother stood tall, weathering each storm with a determination that defied the very fabric of fate. She taught you resilience, instilled within you a fire that refused to be extinguished.

But even as you marveled at her strength, you couldn't help but question the cosmic forces that seemed intent on testing your resolve. The burdens that weighed upon your shoulders were never meant to be borne by the innocent. They were the unjust consequences of a world that cared little for the plight of those who fought against the currents of adversity.

For you had come to understand that while life may not always be fair, it is in the face of adversity that true character is forged. It is in the crucible of struggle that you discover the strength within, the power to rise above the hand you've been dealt.

Now, in the lap of luxury, you resided amidst opulence and excess, surrounded by an abundance of trinkets and baubles that stretched beyond the boundaries of imagination. The intricately woven rug beneath your feet held within its fibers the potential to feed your family for a year, and the resplendent chandelier suspended above the table embodied a fortune twice the worth. You lived ensconced in comfort, a world where your wants had transformed into ceaseless indulgences.

Yet, amidst this abundance, a sense of frustration gnawed at your core. The material wealth and extravagance that once held allure had now lost its luster, leaving you restless and longing for something more. The very essence of your existence now seemed devoid of purpose.

"So, I'm assuming you won't be joining," came the voice of your roommate and fellow thief, Tamara Blake, as she cast her shadow over you. For her, the thrill of the heist held a different significance. In her philosophy, as long as the wealthy continued to amass riches, there would always be treasures to claim. But you sensed that she, too, shared the underlying sentiment of disillusionment, the desire to divert her gaze from the chaotic world unfurling beyond their plush surroundings. It was another reason why you chose this apartment—a sanctuary that shielded you from the harsh realities of the world, yet one that you found difficult to leave behind entirely.

Brooklyn held memories you struggled to confront. It was the resting place of your mother, a place that felt simultaneously distant and unwelcoming. Your gaze barely grazed the surface of the deep neckline of the chiffon dress, its shimmering diamond necklace nestled in the hollow, before you turned your attention back to the river's expanse.

"Nah," you replied, dismissing the notion of joining Tamara on another exhilarating score. The thrill that once electrified your every heist had dissipated, leaving behind a hollowness that even your absence failed to disrupt. The vast fortunes amassed over time would sustain you and your descendants for generations to come. It had become nothing more than a game—a sport devoid of meaning.

"Alright, I probably won't be home tonight then," she added.

Your rested your chin against the crook of your elbow as your gaze fixated on the final ferry gliding into the dock. "Oh, you're playing with your prey this time?"

Tamara's laughter cut through the air, sharp as glass. "Hardly. I expect him to succumb before it reaches that point, but alas."

You grumbled halfheartedly as her hand affectionately tousled your tousled hair. "Want me to bring your favorite hors d'oeuvres home?"

The thought of clams and puff pastries, once delectable and enticing, now held little appeal, particularly after a day spent tucked away in an expensive clutch. "Don't bother," you dismissed, the notion hardly worth entertaining.

"Very well, then. Don't get caught up," Tamara admonished, securing a last-minute addition to her wrist—an exquisite pearl bracelet procured from last spring's collection.

"Then I wouldn't be worth my weight in diamonds," you replied, your voice carrying a hint of mischief and the thrill of a life lived on the edge. As Tamara departed, a whirlwind of confidence in her wake, you remained seated, contemplating the choices that led you to this gilded existence. Amidst the emptiness that lingered within, a flicker of longing danced in your eyes, a silent plea for purpose to infuse meaning into the richness that surrounded you.

—ฅ/ᐠ. ̫ .ᐟ\ฅ —

Once again, it is the relentless grip of boredom that finds you perched atop the towering edifices, surveying the disarray that has befallen Brooklyn. The supple leather of your suit clings to your thighs, molding to your form as you shift on the balls of your feet. Since the tragic downfall of Captain Morales, the city you once called home has become a fragmented tapestry of desolation, where memories have been reduced to ashen ruins.

There was a time when you entertained the notion of relinquishing your feline-inspired guise in exchange for a cloak of righteousness, a chance to become the hooded vigilante who championed the downtrodden. The romantic notion of stealing from the wealthy and bestowing upon the destitute held a certain allure, a homage to the age-old tales of justice. But the harsh reality came crashing down upon you with unforgiving force, as your first and only act of benevolence was unceremoniously discarded in the merciless rain. In those moments, the wound inflicted upon your spirit ran deep, an ache that lingered as a phantom pain from a life best left behind.

Now, you stand upon the precipice of a new era—a time where strength and self-reliance have become the pillars upon which you build your existence. No longer shackled by the burdens of altruism, you have embraced a philosophy of self-preservation. You have forged a path that revolves solely around your own well-being, a truth that resonates as the sweetest symphony within your soul.

In this solitude, high above the city that bears the scars of its own unraveling, you revel in the power that courses through your veins. Your senses heightened, you become keenly aware of every movement in the urban symphony below—a cacophony of life that swirls in discordant harmony. The distant sirens wail like mournful ghosts, intermingling with the screech of car tires against asphalt and the rhythmic hum of electricity pulsating through the veins of the metropolis.

Brooklyn, once a tapestry of memories, now lies before you in a state of perpetual flux—a testament to the fragility of existence and the transient nature of human aspirations. As you peer into the depths of the city's heart, you can almost taste the bitterness that permeates the air, mingling with the grit of determination and the acrid residue of lost dreams.

The night holds a different air tonight, as if the very fabric of the city has absorbed the collective unease and transformed it into an eerie calmness. The absence of screams that once reverberated through the alleys and streets transforms your rooftop traversal into a bittersweet journey down memory lane, a respite from the haunting nightmares that plagued your mind. There is no concrete reason why you find yourself here, navigating the labyrinthine paths above the cityscape. It is not mere boredom that fuels your actions tonight; there is something deeper, an indescribable longing that propels you forward.

And then, it happens—a moment that seizes your heart and halts your relentless stride. The city below unfolds before your vigilant gaze, and you notice a stark difference in the illuminated windows. A somber darkness has settled over the once vibrant tapestry of lights. Fear or the cruel whim of fate, it is impossible to discern. Yet, amidst the shadows, two windows stand out, each holding a story of its own.

One window, its fractured pane a testament to the scars of a volatile past, remains enigmatically shrouded. Your pulse quickens as memories of bittersweet delicacies flood your senses. The rich aroma of sweet potato-filled empanadas mingles with the tantalizing scent of sweet strawberry horchata. It is an intoxicating blend that tugs at your heartstrings, evoking a yearning for the familiarity and warmth that resides within. Though you know it to be a trick of the mind, the illusionary fragrance lingers, teasing your senses, rendering your heart heavy with emotions you dare not fully embrace. The mask upon your face serves as a barrier, futilely attempting to shield your eyes from the rawness that seeps through.

Refusing to linger in the grip of nostalgia, you forcefully wipe away the moisture that accumulates upon your face, an act rendered useless by the relentless saturation beneath your mask. Your resolve remains unyielding as you avert your gaze, no longer willing to succumb to the power of longing. Instead, your body surges forward, propelled by the strength that resides within, fingers grazing against the unforgiving asphalt as your form glides through the air with an effortless grace.

In this nocturnal ballet, your movements become an expression of resilience and purpose. The open patch of land, a realm teeming with untold stories and unspoken truths, lies just a few blocks away, yet you refuse to let your gaze wander in that direction.

With every stride, every leap, you embrace the freedom that comes with embracing the unknown. The night is your canvas, and you, the spider-inspired maestro, weave a symphony of vigilance and determination against the backdrop of a city that both loves and fears you.

On this side of Brooklyn, the streets held little intrigue for you, their worn pathways offering no solace in your relentless pursuit. Even within the confines of your own neighborhood, the prospect of an exhilarating hunt seemed dim. Your father's voice, a reverberating echo from the past, cautioned against playing where you slept, reminding you of the chaotic aftermath such endeavors left in their wake. His words were etched into your consciousness, a reminder of the perils that lurked within the realm of familiarity.

There was a time when you entertained the audacious notion of orchestrating your father's liberation. The notion of liberating a person, unlike pilfering a diamond-encrusted necklace, required meticulous planning and a trusted accomplice. But such an endeavor held little appeal for Tamara, whose worth in diamonds was a currency she held dear. Moreover, your correspondence with your father had dwindled to naught since your mother's untimely passing. While a prison break would undoubtedly pave the way for a long-awaited reunion, the stakes were high, and failure would plunge you both into a deeper abyss.

And yet, acceptance became your constant companion.

With a brief transition bridging the divide, your body once again guides you toward a familiar destination. You descend with practiced silence, landing softly on the worn planks of the fire escape. Gazing upon the abandoned building before you, the passage of time seems inconsequential. Its dilapidated facade holds a steadfast resilience, much like the memories you have forged within its decaying walls.

A murmur escapes your lips, barely audible, as you tread the path of reminiscence. Scaling the railing, your eyes fixate on the far corner, where a metal-plated vent rests inconspicuously. To the untrained eye, it would go unnoticed, a hidden entrance designed to challenge only the most intrepid souls. Those with arachnophobia or a discomfort for confined spaces would instinctively shy away, blissfully ignorant of its true purpose.

But you are one of the few who knows its secrets, aware that this unassuming vent conceals a passage into the depths beyond. Though your high school physique was more forgiving, you now possess an agility honed by relentless practice. With calculated finesse, you squeeze through the narrow tunnel of darkness, your body adapting to the constricting confines. The sudden drop-off awaits at the end, but you navigate it with unwavering poise, balancing precariously upon a narrow beam before gracefully leaping to the next, traversing the chasm with the assurance of a seasoned acrobat.

Upon reaching the topmost floor, a sense of coziness envelops you, but the space feels confined compared to the open expanse below. With practiced grace, you lower yourself, hanging from the sturdy beam, preparing for a seamless roll upon landing. Yet, your focus wavers, captivated by a peculiar sight.

"When did someone mend that?"

Your gaze fixates on the highest window, where a marginal break had been repaired. Its elevated position renders it impractical as an entry point, rendering its restoration all the more puzzling. Even the building's original occupants never saw fit to address it. The mended window sparks a cascade of questions, igniting your curiosity like a flame dancing upon the wick.

But as the ancient adage warns, curiosity holds the power to slay the feline.

Fortune smiles upon you, for the highest floor boasts the lowest ceilings, mitigating the impact of your roll as your body gracefully meets the floor. Gasping for air, you summon oxygen to replenish your lungs, knees resting on the ground as you survey your surroundings. Every corner brims with potential danger, and your instincts sharpen, seeking out the source of the disturbance.

A flicker of shadow dances at the edge of your vision, fleeting and elusive. Was it a mere play of light, a figment of your imagination? Uncertainty lingers, but one thing is certain: this place is no longer the sanctuary of your childhood. Its innocence has been usurped by an unseen menace, lurking in the forgotten crevices of this once-abandoned edifice.

The air gradually fills your chest, accompanied by wheezes of exertion, as you rise unsteadily to your feet. Your options unfold before you like a complex tapestry, each exit tainted with newfound doubt. The doors you once presumed accessible may now be sealed shut, the floorboards that once creaked beneath your weight, fortuitously silent. Whoever now occupies this space possesses a heightened awareness, their presence a palpable threat that chills the air.

The distorted sound of soft clicks resonates in the air, an eerie melody designed to unsettle you. It plays with your senses, toying with your perception of reality. The voice, dripping with arrogance and disdain, pierces the silence like a venomous serpent.

"I'm afraid we have no need for strays here. We're more than capable of handling our own rat problem."

With a swift, fluid motion, you drop into a defensive stance, ready to face whatever adversary dares challenge you. Your words, laced with defiance, spill forth from clenched teeth, "Cute that you think you can afford my pedigree."

The source of the voice remains elusive, a phantom lurking in the shadows. The disadvantage of being grounded gnaws at your instincts, urging you to regain the upper hand.

"Pedigree? In Brooklyn? Don't make me laugh."

The calculated movements of the unseen presence further shroud their location, deliberately traversing the beams above to obscure their tracks. In response, you coil closer to the ground, making your body smaller, while your gaze darts around, searching for any sign, any clue.

Your voice adopts a tone you reserve for targets, laced with a hint of intrigue and the promise of a challenge. It dances through the air, light and airy, as you remark, "Maybe you should. Your voice sounds enticing. Hopefully, your wit matches it."

A scoff of disdain echoes in return, prickling your nerves, a telltale sign that your words have struck a nerve.

"Does that work for you?"

The voice has shifted, now above you, the mysterious figure closing in, inching ever closer to your vulnerable position on the ground.

"It depends. Come closer, and I'll be more than happy to provide you with a demonstration."

A heavy silence descends upon the space, laden with tension and uncertainty. You are ill-prepared for this encounter, having ventured into this treacherous corner of Brooklyn without your customary utilities. The realization of your own recklessness washes over you, a bitter reminder of the risks you have taken.

Yet, if they dare attempt to confine a cat in a wet bag, you will unleash all the fury and resilience that resides within you.

"If you insist."

They remained perched above, their position granting them a vantage point to observe your every move. As the impending strike hurtles towards you, a fleeting glimmer of purple catches your eye. Instinctively, you duck beneath the incoming attack, narrowly evading its trajectory. The clash of limbs reverberates through the air as you block their follow-up assault, your own clawed glove extending in a retaliatory gesture. Their speed is astonishing, an awe-inspiring display that leaves you momentarily off balance, seized by the collar and hoisted over their shoulder.

Yet, you are not caught off guard. Prepared for this impact, you roll onto your back with practiced grace, positioning yourself strategically as they hover above you. Both of you conceal your identities behind masks, but their assailant garb does a superior job of obscuring their true self. While your mind races to decipher the symbol adorning their attire, you sense an equal curiosity emanating from beneath their weight, solid and imposing.

Baring your teeth, you hiss defiantly, a mixture of challenge and provocation dripping from your words, "So you enjoy it rough, do you?"

A cocky tilt of their chin betrays their confidence as they respond, "Most men do."

This close the vague familiarity of the voice behind the mask gnaws at you. Though the speculation is faint as you calculate your next move.

A man then.

You could work with that.

Knowing that a headbutt would yield no victor, you tap into your resourcefulness, employing your body with precision. Your foot connects with a swift strike to his solar plexus, jolting them momentarily and creating the necessary space for you to wriggle free. As you roll a few feet away, maintaining a safe distance, the sound of a wheeze escapes his masked lips. With a taunting tone, you tease, "Aw, poor baby. Has the cat got your tongue? Men always finish so soon."

Tension tenses his shoulder as he regains his footing, a charge of determination propelling his advance. His arm grips your shoulder, preparing to toss you once more. Yet, you possess the agility to seize the opportunity, pivoting with agility and daring, aligning your back with his chest, sacrificing a vulnerable position for the advantage it grants. The motion of your next move is intended to disrupt their balance, your leg deftly splitting his thighs as you attempt to shove them backward. However, your calculation of his resilience proves inaccurate, as he fiercely bring you down alongside him.

Effortlessly, he rolls atop you, overpowering your defenses, pinning your arm back with ease. His voice drips with smugness as they taunt, "You're right. You are pedigree. What do they call you? A ragdoll?"

The curl of his self-satisfied smirk ignites a blazing fire within you, fueling your determination as you squirm beneath his weight. "Still not close enough. Allow me to enlighten you," you hiss, your voice laced with an unsettling sweetness.

His hand presses against your head, drawing dangerously close. A slip-up, a momentary vulnerability that becomes your catalyst for escape. Your nails claw into the flesh of his arm, exerting force until the compressed nerve yields, weakening his left side. Taking advantage their loosened grip, you unleash a powerful back kick, squirming free from his grasp.

Now afforded the precious gift of space, you act swiftly, nimbly scaling the wall with a determination born from necessity. The strain on your arm protests the swinging motion, but you persevere, perching yourself just out of their reach on a low-bearing beam. Your chest heaves with exertion, a telltale sign of the intensity of the encounter. There is a captivating allure to the figure before you, an air of knowingness that radiates from his composed demeanor as he casually rolls his shoulders, shaking off the impact of your attack.

Even from their position below, he maintains the advantage, a fact he is acutely aware of. Yet, for reasons unbeknownst to you, he refrains from exploiting it, at least for now. "Crafty entrance," the voice remarks, revealing his knowledge of the vent. This realization dawns upon you, highlighting the indicators you carelessly overlooked. This building is undoubtedly inhabited, but the question remains—why?

"I wasn't aware someone was watching. I would have put on a better show," you retort, a playful hint in your voice.

"It was rewarding enough," he counters, his words dripping with a hint of intrigue. You envision the angle of your contorted body, the spectacle it must have presented to an observer. Indicators often accompany additional security measures, yet they allowed you to stumble into the trap instead of springing it prematurely.

"I tend to prefer finer things, but I can appreciate prime real estate. New owner?" you inquire, a note of curiosity lacing your words.

The figure leisurely crosses his arms, providing you with a slightly clearer glimpse beneath the moon's gentle illumination. Shades of dark purple shroud his form, obscuring detailed features, yet you discern a lithe and agile build. "Something like that," he responds, his tone light but tinged with an underlying sense of boredom. "It's time for you to be a good kitty and run off. I'm not fond of house cats."

His words resonate within you, as if he had plucked the thoughts from your mind. Though you had initially been poised to retreat toward the familiar path from which you came, an uncharacteristic trust in this enigmatic stranger tugs at your instincts. There is an inexplicable feeling that assures you it will be alright, that survival is not merely wishful thinking. Alternatively, you may be sealing your own fate, and Tamara would revel in newfound wealth.

"That's a shame," you remark, as you feel his eyes trailing after you as you cautiously pry open the vent. Even though he is out of sight, his presence lingers, his words carving ripples in the air.

His next statement leaves you with a wry smile, "Funny you say that. I thought you were too expensive for my taste."

As you wriggle back through the vent, ensuring a seamless exit, the metal sheet slams shut, sealing off the passage behind you. The cool breath of Brooklyn's night air embraces your heated skin, invigorating your senses. In an instant, you spring into action, traversing the building with a swiftness born of instinct and experience. Every stride, every leap, carries you closer to the boundary of your neighborhood.

Yet, in the depths of your being, something stirs—a sensation more profound than mere boredom.

Curiosity.

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