152. Operation: Webstrike. (Patreon)

The rain hadn’t stopped for hours. It drummed across the shattered rooftops of Brooklyn, washing neon into the gutters below.

Inside a derelict roof gym, two boys faced each other. Two same faces that are reflections from opposite lives.

Miles Morales, tied to a punching bag, bruised but unbroken.

And Prowler Miles, his claws humming with violet light, helmet raised, voice low with anger and regret.

“You’re me?”

“Nah,” the Prowler said, pacing slow, claws clicking. “You’re the one who got away. The one who had choices.”

“That’s not fair...”

“Fair?” Prowler Miles snorted. “You don’t get fair when the world forgets your name.”

A flicker of movement by the window went unnoticed.

Then...

CRASH.

Glass shattered. A flashbang tumbled through the window grille.

“What the...”

The world detonated in white.

A thunderclap of light, sound and pressure swallowed the room whole.

BOOM.

Ears rang. Vision bled to static. The scent of ozone filled the air.

Before either Miles could recover, tranquilizer darts hissed through the haze. Undetectable matte black streaks under strobing light.

Thunk. Thunk.

Aaron Davis barely had time to curse before he hit the ground, unconscious.

Prowler Miles staggered, clawed at his neck, tried to ignite his gauntlet... then fell, his claws flickering and dying out with a sharp bzzt.

Spider-Man Miles blinked, dazed, his web-shooters sparking uselessly. His ears screamed from the sonic overload.

“Who’s there...?”

The answer came as the garage doors folded inward like tin foil.

Through the glare stepped a towering figure. Eight feet of obsidian alloy and crimson light.

The War Pattern Helios Armor, Peter Parker’s personal war machine. A fact Miles would learn later.

Each step was measured, silent despite the mass. His visor scanned the room; holographic readouts scrolled across his field of view.

“Targets secured." Peter’s modulated voice said, calm, decisive. “No casualties.”

He knelt beside Prowler Miles, gauntlet unfolding into an injector. A vial of glowing cyan blue fluid pulsed faintly in his hand.

Gwendolyn’s voice came softly over comms.

“Peter, are you sure about this?”

“Positive.”

The injector hissed as he drove it into the base of Prowler Miles’s neck. The boy’s vitals went haywire, his body twitching in unusual angles.

Then, with mechanical precision, Peter snapped open a cerebral interface chip from his wrist compartment, a sliver of silver light.

He pressed it against Prowler Miles’s temple; threads of bioluminescent code crawled across the boy’s skin like veins of light.

“Uploading integrated memories. This will bridge the psychological divide.” Peter murmured.

“He’ll remember… everything he lost and know what he can be.”

The others watched in silence, Spider-Man Miles still bound, eyes wide.

Gwendolyn, the only one who didn’t flinch, she stepped beside Peter. Her Archangel armor whispered softly as she moved.

“He deserves a chance to heal.” She said.

Peter nodded once.

“And to choose who he wants to be.”

A short beep sounded in their ears. Margo’s voice, crisp, professional.

“Digital footprint sweep complete. No network traces, no surveillance residuals.”

Peni chimed in from her SP//dr unit.

“Local surveillance nets disabled. We’re ghosts.”

“Copy.” Peter replied. “Extraction in sixty.”

The garage filled with controlled motion.

Frank Castle’s Spartan squad breached the opposite door, weapons scanning every corner, movements silent as clockwork.

Spider-Man Miles tried to speak, voice hoarse.

“You didn’t have to hurt him…”

Peter looked at him through the blue-lit visor.

“If I wanted to hurt him.” He said softly, “You’d both be gone. I’m here to end the cycle not continue it.”

He gestured, and the Spartans secured Spider-Man Miles in an anti-grav pod.

“Package secure.” Frank confirmed. “No heat signatures inbound.”

Peter turned, gave one last glance to the garage the two versions of Miles Morales, side by side, one asleep in guilt, the other bound in confusion.

“Alright,” He said into comms. “Webstrike, exfil.”

The roof split open as magnetic clamps latched on.

Two AV-49 stealth gunships shimmered into view through their cloaking fields, side hatches opening.

Spartans lifted the pod aboard while Peter and Gwendolyn covered the rear.

No one spoke. The only sound was the thrum of engines and the soft rain hitting armor plating.

When the hatches sealed and the gunships lifted off, the garage was untouched. Only rain, shattered glass and two dart casings as proof anyone had ever been there.

Above the clouds, the formation vanished into a dimensional portal.

Mission time: 2 minutes, 43 seconds.

Zero casualties. Zero witnesses.

A perfect extraction.