Miles Morales: New Spider Chapter 7.

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2010.

I'm 8 years old now, and I've never looked better.

With all the training I've been doing, I'm in peak condition—fit, flexible, and even sporting abs. Yep, abs on an 8-year-old. Combine that with my boyish charm, and I’ve got every maternal instinct in the vicinity on high alert. Women can’t resist pinching my cheeks so much that I’m surprised they haven’t fallen off yet.

Nope, no inappropriate behavior—just the occasional playful pat. But I’m careful. Let’s just say I’m not trusting myself alone with any priests. Better safe than sorry.

Things at home are going smoothly. I visit my uncle regularly. His place is where I get to indulge in the stuff my parents wouldn’t approve of—violent movies, mostly. We talk a lot, though mostly about girls. He never mentions his job, but unlike the old Miles, I know what he’s up to. My parents don’t know I visit him, and if my dad ever found out, I’d be in deep trouble.

I’m not sure when Miles becomes Spider-Man, so I’m taking every opportunity to hang out with my uncle. Who knows when he’ll rob Oscorp?

Speaking of Oscorp, remember the news about that rising corporation in genetics and pharmaceuticals? Yep, it’s them. Oscorp wasn’t always called that. The way it all went down was crazy—business rivals mysteriously disappearing, partners and major shareholders ending up in jail after incriminating evidence magically surfaced, and people signing off their shares to one person. All of this led to Norman Osborn taking over and rebranding the company to Oscorp.

It was too coincidental. Some people tried to pin it on Osborn, claiming he orchestrated everything, but they had no solid proof. And with no one powerful enough to oppose him, those voices were drowned out by the excitement over the affordable meds Oscorp was producing. It was like they were becoming the Stark Industries of medicine instead of tech.

I used to think I could trust my knowledge of the MCU about 70%—that the differences here were minor. But this is huge. This world feels like an ultimate version of the MCU, making my meta-knowledge only useful as a general outline, not a detailed guide.

Since Oscorp exists, there could already be a Spider-Man or mutants, but I haven’t found any trace of them. And there’s no way I’m hacking SHIELD or any government agency—I’m not suicidal.

The Stark Expo is happening in Queens right now, and I’m watching it on TV with my parents. It’s just started, with Tony Stark making his epic hero landing and speech. And just like that, the Armor Wars are set in motion.

This is the point where I’d usually start making plans. But my parents caught the look in my eyes—the same look I had when I snuck out before—and they just said no. I didn’t even get the chance to make an excuse.

They would’ve taken me if they didn’t have jobs, so what now? Sneaking out seems risky, but I can’t miss this. I need the arc reactor—it’ll make everything so much easier.

So, I give them my best innocent smile and say, "Sure, I won’t go." I know I’m betraying their trust, but it’s necessary. I start planning.

When H.A.M.M.E.R. Industries showcases their tech—the drones and the rebranded Iron Patriot—I’m nearby, hiding. I’ve mapped out the best hiding spots closest to the Expo and built a micro EMP device. It’ll act as a signal jammer, which I’ll stick to the drone I plan to steal the arc reactor and repulsors from, ensuring it doesn’t self-destruct when Ivan Vanko triggers his mechanism.

I told my parents I was tired and going to bed early. I rigged a doll head with speakers and a microphone under my sheets, so I can remotely talk to my parents if needed. I also arranged the pillows to mimic my body and locked the door. I wasn’t about to tempt fate.

Back at the Expo, Tony arrives, trying to get people to evacuate as Vanko’s drones activate. The fight begins, and chaos ensues—screams, explosions, drones falling. It’s the perfect time to act. I wait until I spot my target: the kid in the Iron Man mask and repulsors. A drone lands in front of him, raising its arms, but Tony blasts it down.

As the kid is whisked away, I move in. I attach two EMP jammers to the drone—one on its head and one on its chest. I don’t have time to take the whole drone, so I’m here just for the reactor and repulsors. I work quickly, tearing open the chest piece with my exo arm and pulling out the glowing, fully functional arc reactor. The repulsor is harder to get off, so I break the drone’s wrist and take it.

With my loot in my backpack, I remove the jammers and start to leave. Everything went surprisingly smoothly—too smoothly. Maybe not everything has to be as difficult as the Harlem event, I think to myself.

But then I feel my backpack getting warmer. At first, I think it’s just me sweating, but the ease with which I got the reactor nags at me. Things that seem too good to be true usually are. There’s no free lunch.

I toss my backpack away just in time. It explodes, taking a nearby drone with it in a shower of sparks. Vanko must’ve rigged the arc reactor to be unstable outside its chest piece, anticipating theft.

If I’d stuck around any longer, I’d be toast. I head home, disappointed that all my planning and effort went up in smoke—literally. The reactor exploding was the least likely scenario I considered.

Maybe I should’ve taken a full drone, but where would I even hide it? How would I carry it? My exo-suit isn’t that strong. Taking just the chest piece wouldn’t have worked either—it was too hard to open in the first place.

I’m exhausted. I just want to get home.

When I finally make it back, I stash my exo-suit and throw my clothes in the garbage—they reek of sewer, where I had to hide before the fight began. As I climb back into my room through the window, I notice my door is open. My dad is sitting on the other side of my bed.

"Miles," he says, his voice calm.

Of course, he caught me. He’s a SHIELD agent, even if it’s unofficial.

"Miles, I know you wanted to go to the Expo. That’s why your mom and I planned to surprise you tonight."

Damn it, Murphy’s Law.

"I knew something was off when you wanted to go to bed early. No, your mom doesn’t know—you’d break her heart if she found out. Now tell me, Miles, what were you doing out there, and why do you smell like crap?"

I can hear the disappointment in his voice, and it breaks me. I really am sorry, and now I’m regretting it all.

The dam holding back my tears bursts, and I sob, "Dad, I… I’m sorry."

"I know I didn’t do right, and I’m so, so sorry. Please, just—"

"Miles, come here," he says softly, like he hasn’t just caught me sneaking out. I move closer, and he pulls me into a hug. We stay like that for a while, the silence broken only by my occasional sob.

"Son, I know you’re smart. I know you’re a genius. But you’re too young for this, and you’re smart enough to know it. Is this because of Aaron?"

"No, Dad, it’s not."

"I can tell you’ve realized your mistakes, and I forgive you. I did worse when I was your age. But actions have consequences, Miles, and there are rules society lives by. You can’t just break them without facing those consequences. I need you to be better than us."

"Now, go take a bath and get to bed. See you at 5 in the morning."

And that’s how my grueling new training regimen began—one of the many "consequences" of my actions.