Marvel's Spider-Man: Miles Morales Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Novels of The Marvel Universe by Titan Books

  Title Page

  Leave us a review

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Also Available from Titan Books

  NOVELS OF THE MARVEL UNIVERSE BY TITAN BOOKS

  Ant-Man: Natural Enemy by Jason Starr

  Avengers: Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Dan Abnett

  Avengers: Infinity by James A. Moore

  Black Panther: Who is the Black Panther? by Jesse J. Holland

  Captain America: Dark Design by Stefan Petrucha

  Captain Marvel: Liberation Run by Tess Sharpe

  Civil War by Stuart Moore

  Deadpool: Paws by Stefan Petrucha

  Spider-Man: Forever Young by Stefan Petrucha

  Spider-Man: Kraven’s Last Hunt by Neil Kleid

  Spider-Man: The Darkest Hours Omnibus by Jim Butcher, Keith R.A. Decandido, and Christopher L. Bennett (forthcoming)

  Spider-Man: The Venom Factor Omnibus by Diane Duane

  Thanos: Death Sentence by Stuart Moore

  Venom: Lethal Protector by James R. Tuck

  X-Men: Days of Future Past by Alex Irvine

  X-Men: The Dark Phoenix Saga by Stuart Moore

  X-Men: The Mutant Empire Omnibus by Christopher Golden

  X-Men & The Avengers: The Gamma Quest Omnibus by Greg Cox

  ALSO FROM TITAN AND TITAN BOOKS

  Marvel Contest of Champions: The Art of the Battlerealm by Paul Davies

  Marvel’s Spider-Man: The Art of the Game by Paul Davies

  Obsessed with Marvel by Peter Sanderson and Marc Sumerak

  Spider-Man: Hostile Takeover by David Liss

  Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse – The Art of the Movie by Ramin Zahed

  The Art of Iron Man (10th Anniversary Edition) by John Rhett Thomas

  The Marvel Vault by Matthew K. Manning, Peter Sanderson, and Roy Thomas

  Ant-Man and the Wasp: The Official Movie Special

  Avengers: Endgame – The Official Movie Special

  Avengers: Infinity War – The Official Movie Special

  Black Panther: The Official Movie Companion

  Black Panther: The Official Movie Special

  Captain Marvel: The Official Movie Special

  Marvel Studios: The First Ten Years

  Spider-Man: Far From Home – The Official Movie Special

  Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse – The Official Movie Special

  Thor: Ragnarok – The Official Movie Special

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  MARVEL’S SPIDER-MAN: MILES MORALES – WINGS OF FURY

  Print edition ISBN: 9781789094862

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781789097085

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  www.titanbooks.com

  First edition: November 2020

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  FOR MARVEL PUBLISHING

  Caitlin O’Connell, Assistant Editor, Special Projects

  Lauren Bisom, Editor, Juvenile Publishing

  Jeff Youngquist, VP Production and Special Projects

  Sven Larsen, VP Licensed Publishing

  David Gabriel, SVP of Sales & Marketing, Publishing

  C.B. Cebulski, Editor in Chief

  FOR MARVEL GAMES

  Laura Hathaway, Lead Operations Coordinator

  Tim Hernandez, Executive Producer & Vice President

  Dakota Maysonet, Creative Assistant

  Becka McIntosh, Director of Operations

  Haluk Mentes, Vice President, Business Development & Product Strategy

  Eric Monacelli, Director of Production & Project Lead

  Jay Ong, EVP & Head of Marvel Games

  Bill Rosemann, Vice President & Head of Creative

  Tim Tsang, Creative Director

  Cover Art by Insomniac Games

  The Empire State Building image® is a registered trademark of ESRT Empire State Building, L.L.C. and is used with permission.

  Spider-Man created by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko

  Marvel’s Spider-Man: Miles Morales developed by Insomniac Games

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  © 2020 MARVEL

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  For my nieces and nephews, who are all heroes:

  Kayla

  John IV

  Sammy

  David

  Aaliyah

  Taylor Abigail Aaron

  Noah

  Charlie

  I love you!

  CHAPTER 1

  I pretend the box of turntable equipment is heavier than it feels.

  Bending at the knees, I cradle two opposite edges and lift, adding an extra grunt or two for effect as I waddle up the first flight of stairs. Mom buys it. She nods her approval at me as she passes, heading out the front door into the cold for another box off the removal truck.

  “Abuelita!” I call up the stairs after spotting the door marked Apartment 3 has been shut again. “Can you hold the door open, please?”

  My grandmother is sharp as a shuriken, usually, but at some point in today’s moving process, she’s developed a habit of closing her door between each and every box that’s apparently been hard to break.

  “Abuelita!” I holler again. No response. Door’s still closed. My shoes creak up the last of the stairs, and I’m tempted to make this way easier on myself. If I could just web the door to the wall inside…

  Wishing I could be Spider-Man right now, I sigh and take the safe way out instead, setting the box down carefully on the creaky floor, and turning the knob like a regular guy.

  Like Miles.

  I step into the apartment, which smells like furniture that’s probably older than I am, and freshly brewed coffee—the canister of Cafe Bustelo is sitting right there on the counter—and set the box carefully on the counter in the kitchen. I stick my hands in my sweatshirt pockets since it’s freezing in here—most people in New York would jump at the chance to swit
ch on the heat at the first breath of autumn, but my Abuelita? I shake my head. My Abuelita refuses to turn it on until December 1st. “It’s like putting out Christmas decorations in stores before Thanksgiving. Disrespectful,” she says. I look around. Dusty pictures line almost every wall in this place—a picture of Mom in a graduation cap and gown, all smiles. A picture of her holding me as a baby.

  A picture of her and Dad on their wedding day.

  I smile sadly against the pang of hurt in my chest, and I nod and whisper, “She’s here now, Dad. We’re both in great hands.”

  “Miles, is that you?” calls a creaky old voice from down the hall, interrupting my thoughts. I hear her shuffling down the carpeted hallway in her slippers. “Oh good, you’re back up. Is that the last box then?” she asks, coming round the corner into the kitchen and throwing her arms around my shoulders. I lean down and squeeze her back.

  “Just one left. Mom has it.” I smile. “We’re officially moved in.”

  But I’m barely through my sentence before Abuelita is in the kitchen swinging pots and pans out from under the oven.

  “Where did I put that—?”

  “Uh…” I offer. “Need any help?”

  “No, no,” she insists. All I can see from over the counter is her dismissing hand waving up at me. “This back of mine may be old, but I can make my tostones as good as I always could. Your back should be used unpacking boxes. That’s the best way you can help.”

  She pops up from behind the counter with a huge skillet and looks up at me.

  “Thank you,” she smiles warmly, despite how unbearably cold it is in here. She reaches up to cup my cheek. “Sweet, sweet boy.”

  I smile and rest my hand over hers.

  “You look so much like him,” she says, her voice dreamy and distant. “You’ve got his eyes.” She moves her hand down and pokes me gently in the chest. “And his heart.”

  I nod, not really knowing what to say.

  Ever since Dad died, people have been comparing me to him.

  You look just like him.

  Your voice is getting so deep now, you sound like your dad.

  At first glance, I thought you were Jeff.

  I look back at the picture of him and Mom at their wedding, in his uniform with his cap. Even though his expression is serious, he looks proud to be there with Mom.

  They look so happy.

  “Alright!” exclaims my mom as she steps through the front door, struggling under the weight of another box. I scramble to help her.

  “Let go, Mom, I’ve got it,” I insist, cradling my hands under it and taking all of its weight into my arms.

  “Phew!” she sighs, relinquishing the box to me and shutting the door behind her. “That’s the last box. Who wants pizza?”

  “Rio, I’ve got my oil in the skillet for tostones!” Abuelita calls from the other room.

  “We could have tostones too, Mama. I’m sure Miles over here has room for both.”

  I am starving. My stomach is gurgling longingly at the sound of pizza, and I nod eagerly as I slide onto a barstool at the counter.

  “We can always have the tostones as an appetizer, Abuelita. I promise I can eat both.”

  “Well,” says my grandmother, wiping her hands on her apron and sighing, “I know you love pizza, Miles, and I’m sure you miss the stuff in Brooklyn. But Harlem has its own pizza gems, too. If you’re going to call for pizza, Rio, make it Alessandro’s on 3rd.”

  Abuelita picks up three huge plantains from a bowl on the counter by the oven, and a small paring knife from the knife block, and brings them over to the bar where I’m sitting.

  My mom nods. “What do you both want?”

  “Ooh!” I can’t get my order out fast enough, “Pepperoni and olives for me please!” Pizza always makes me feel like a little kid again. Dad used to bring home a box of pepperoni and olives from Nonna’s in Brooklyn whenever I’d had a hard day at school, or if Dad had a hard day at work.

  And since moving is hard work, pizza definitely feels right.

  I look at my mom and wonder if she’s thinking the same thing as she punches in the number and dials.

  Then a thought crosses my mind and I turn back to my Abuelita as she peels open the first plantain, discards the peel to the side, and begins to slide the paring knife through the tender plantain flesh, little discs falling onto the plate below.

  “Abuelita, where’s Ganke?” I ask. “Didn’t he say he’d be here an hour ago?”

  My grandmother wraps the bacon strips gently around each biscuit ball like flower petals.

  “I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” she says, just as there’s a knock at the front door. Since Mom is busy on the phone, I jump down off the barstool and look through the peephole to find Ganke holding a plastic grocery bag and peering back through the hole at me.

  “Password?” I ask.

  “I brought Fizzies!” comes his bubbly voice. No way. My ears perk up and I swing the door open fast.

  “Fizzies?” I ask excitedly. “Where’d you get Fizzies outside of Brooklyn? And… isn’t it a little cold for soda?”

  Ganke shrugs.

  “I know a guy.” He grins as he pulls out a bottle of orange crème for me, and a bottle of cherry for Abuelita. “And it’s never too cold for Fizzies. Fizzies are forever.” He holds the orange one out to me. Both bottles are dripping with condensation, still ice cold to the touch.

  “Thanks, man,” I say. And I mean it. Ganke didn’t have to help us move in today, especially all the way out here in Harlem, even though he didn’t get here until after we’d brought all the boxes in.

  “Don’t mention it.” He shrugs, hopping up onto the other barstool at the counter. “Since I’m here so late, I’ll help you unbox some of this stuff later. Do you have the box you’re taking to our room?”

  He means our dorm back in Brooklyn. Since we’re both still going to Brooklyn Visions Academy, and I live in Harlem now, I’ll finally need to get a dorm. And who’d be a better roommate than Ganke? He keeps to himself, mostly listening to music and reading comics, or playing on his phone—making a new app or something.

  I nod.

  “Yeah, I’ve got two boxes. They’re both in my mom’s room.”

  Box number one has my bedding, including my brand-new gray bed set that Mom insists will “match all of my school-issued uniform pieces and binders and pencils nicely,” toiletries, hair pudding, and some comics. Box number two has my clothes, including those school-issued uniform pieces that Mom wants me to match with my bedding.

  Who matches their clothes to their bedding?

  Nerds, that’s who.

  I look down at box number two. My box of clothes.

  My Miles clothes, that is. My Spider-Man gear—my sportswear, web-shooters and mask—is safely hidden inside my Brooklyn Visions Academy backpack, the only space my mom would never open unless I asked. We’ve both agreed it’s kinda like her purse. I don’t go in there, she doesn’t go in my backpack.

  “Alright, pizza should be here in about twenty minutes,” says Mom. “Ganke, I ordered a Hawaiian for you and me, because we’re the only cultured people here who like pineapple on their pizza.” She glances at me and Abuelita, and we both exchange a sour look at the idea. I’d try bananas on pizza, or maybe even toothpaste, before putting a pineapple on a slice of pizza. “And Miles and Mama, a pepperoni and olive for you to split.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Morales,” says Ganke in his sing-song voice that he only does around my mom. I roll my eyes. “Oh hey, Miles, I brought you something else too,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket. “Look what I scored from Brooklyn Visions’ new uniform line!”

  I unfold the small piece of gray fabric to find the familiar logo.

  “You got two beanies? How?”

  “Again—” Ganke shrugs, slipping his over his head, “—know a guy.”

  I smirk at him. I don’t believe that for a minute.

  “Okay, I used a bot to order them from the s
chool’s website the minute the new line went live,” he says.

  “I knew it.”

  “But, I used my powers for good, did I not? Now we are the proud owners of the highly coveted Brooklyn Visions winter beanie. You’re welcome.”

  “Sounds like a good idea since winter seems to have arrived early,” grunts Abuelita as she slips one, two, three plantain slices into the hot oil. They sizzle and dance in the flaming hot pan, the oil slowly turning their edges a golden brown before my eyes. A pop of the oil spits in my direction, sending a faint tickling sensation up my neck behind my left ear, my spidey-sense still working great, apparently.

  “Just remember,” says Mom, “to write your name on the tag so you don’t lose it or get it mixed up with someone else’s hat.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say, knowing I’m not going to, because if somebody were to accidentally swap hats with me, there’s no way they’d seek me out to return it, and if they accidentally “found” my hat, there’s no way they’d give it back. Plus, again, who actually writes their names on the tags in their clothes? Nerds.

  Most clothes these days don’t even have tags anymore. They come with that screen tee material pasted right on the inside of the collar, so it doesn’t scratch your neck.

  “You’re not gonna do it, are you?” whispers Ganke.

  “Do I look like a 3rd grader?” I chuckle under my breath.

  So, I don’t write my name in my hat. But I do pose for a selfie with Ganke in our new beanies, because what’s the point of owning such coveted apparel if you’re not going to post it somewhere?

  After a while, the doorbell rings, and Mom answers, and soon we’re all sitting on the sofa, or a barstool, or leaning on a counter, chowing down on pizza and my Abuelita’s crispy salty and sweet tostones.

  * * *

  ONCE we’re all too full to move, and the view outside is just a dark building across the street speckled with brilliant yellow apartment lights, and whatever we were watching on TV is now dull and uninteresting, I take a long, deep sigh.

  This new place is great, not gonna lie. It’s spacious, the furniture is well-loved and soft and comfy—I could fall asleep right here—and it now smells spicy with pepperoni pizza and sweet with tostones, and we’re going to be living with Abuelita, which means we’ll never be bored. Mom and I won’t have to feel so alone anymore. And yet, I still do. There’s still this aching gap in my chest whenever I look around at the family I have left. Even with a belly full of Alessandro’s pizza, and even after all these months, I keep waiting for Dad to walk through the front door with a box of Nonna’s and ask me how my day went. Or, at least I would if we were home.