Chapter Text
For a moment he stayed where he’d fallen, flat on his back, staring up at the sky that looked colder and farther away than it ever had. The moment didn’t rush; it stretched, thinned, became something heavy. The tingling in his elbows and knees and hands sharpened until it felt like his nerves were being lit one by one. If this was what dying felt like, he’d lied to himself for years. He’d always pictured something quiet, maybe even gentle—like slipping under warm water and letting the world fade. But this wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t gentle. It was heat and pressure and pain building in waves he couldn’t outrun. Dying, as far as he could tell, was ugly and messy and it hurt in a way that made his thoughts stagger.
He dragged in a breath through his nose, pushed it out through his mouth, then did it again until he found a rhythm that didn’t make his vision strobe. He didn’t want to let go—not yet. He needed a minute to think, to get his bearings, to understand what the hell he was supposed to do with a body that felt half-broken. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this. He’d taken hits before, sure, and he’d had nights where pain came in sharp bursts, but this… this was different. The kind of different that made him glance down and wonder, for one nauseating second, if the torn edges of his skin were deep enough to show bone underneath.
For a moment his thoughts flicked toward Norm, toward whatever excuse he’d have to come up with for being late, but the idea slipped away almost as fast as it came. None of it mattered in the immediate mess of pain and noise crowding his head. By the time he reached the fourth second—he counted without meaning to—blood was already trailing down from his knuckles in slow, heavy drops, sliding along the lines of his fingers before pattering onto the pavement. The street wavered in front of him, tilting like it was trying to laugh at him, and the dizziness that followed made his stomach twist. That couldn’t be good. He tested his feet, waited for the worst, and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when they moved on command. Small miracle, but he’d take it.
Everything hurt. Breathing hurt. Bleeding hurt. He tried to frame it rationally, told himself it could have been worse, pictured the version of this where he hadn’t gotten back up at all—his skull cracked on the curb, his body left cooling on the asphalt. The thought came uninvited and left him colder than the night air could. He didn’t know what dying felt like, not really. He just knew he wasn’t ready to find out, not here, not like this. He pushed the thought down and swallowed hard, trying to steady himself against the pulse of pain that kept reminding him he was still alive.
By the fifth second, the driver finally stumbled out of his car, the door left hanging open behind him like he couldn’t decide whether to come help or run away. He jogged over with this panicked, scrunched-up face that might’ve been concern or might’ve just been guilt hitting late.
“Oh shit, kiddo. You okay?” the man shouted, face twisted in over-the-top concern. Was this man completely clueless or just straight-up fucking stupid? Spider almost wanted to answer, to scream, “No, genius, I’m covered in blood and can barely breathe, why don’t you try a little harder?” But no words came out. Only a ragged groan, and he blinked against the black spots dancing across his vision.
The headlights carved two brutal white tunnels through the dark, swallowing everything else. Spider squinted into the glare, vision tearing at the edges, but he still caught the passenger door swinging open. Another man stepped out—older, heavier, the kind of guy who moved like he’d seen enough crap in his life to be unimpressed by most of it. His shadow stretched across the pavement as he walked toward Spider with this slow, measured pace that felt way too intentional.
Spider tried to push himself up, muscles twitching under the adrenaline, but his stomach lurched violently, the kind of deep, twisting spasm that crawled from his gut to his throat with a warning so sharp it stole the breath straight out of his lungs. There was no pretending this time, no hoping it would settle. The nausea was a freight train and he was tied to the tracks.
“Whoa—no, kid, stay down,” the bald guy said, dropping beside him and planting a hand on Spider’s shoulder as if that would help anything. The weight wasn’t comforting; it was just wrong. Anyone with the slightest clue would know pinning someone flat while they were about to puke was a great way to make them choke to death, but apparently common sense had exited the vehicle along with the man.
The vomiting hit him in a single, brutal wave. He curled forward as much as the stranger’s grip allowed, his body convulsing as he emptied the sour, burning mess across the concrete. He tasted acid and something sweeter he didn’t want to think about, felt sweat bead cold along his hairline and drip down his temple. The man recoiled like the splash had personally offended him, muttering something sharp and irritated under his breath, but he didn’t move away either, just hovered there uselessly, like he didn’t know whether to offer help or call someone else to deal with this disaster.
Spider wiped his mouth with the back of a shaking hand, breathing hard, trying to blink the sting out of his eyes. For a moment—just a stupid, pathetic moment—he half-expected a hand on his back, that steady pressure someone gives you when you’re younger and sick and scared, the kind that tells you you’re not alone even when everything hurts. But the man didn’t touch him again, didn’t offer anything even close to comfort. He just watched him struggle, caught somewhere between discomfort and guilt, like he’d stepped in something he couldn’t scrape off. Spider swallowed, the taste awful, the shame worse, and breathed through the lingering burn in his throat. Alcohol would certainly never pass his lips again.
“Get back in the truck, Lyle. I’ll handle him,” a low, rough voice said. Spider barely registered it at first. Something about the tone made his stomach knot, a warning that he couldn’t ignore. Every step the man took toward him made his skin crawl. He could feel the danger pressing in, hear it in his own heartbeat, taste it in the air. Why hadn’t anyone called an ambulance yet?
“Yeah, got it. He’s… pretty beat up, though,” the bald man said, Lyle, Spider realized.
“He’s not dead, so that’s something” the man with the icy blue eyes said as he crouched beside him. “You hear me, or is it just ringing up there?” He waved a hand in front of Spider’s face, slow and deliberate, like he was checking if a lamp would flicker back on. Spider half expected him to glance at Lyle with that smug little shrug—told you, kid’s a dud—and the thought made his jaw clench, the urge to swing on him buzzing hot in his chest.
“Yeah, just… give me a second,” Spider said, voice cracking in spite of himself as he blinked hard. His face burned, sweat slid off his palms, and a pounding headache was already starting to bloom. He wasn’t the brightest kid alive, maybe, but he knew enough to recognize his body was waving red flags all over the place.
“Think you can stand on your own, or is that too much?” Spider didn’t bother answering. Talking felt useless, drowned out by the high-pitched ringing in his ears. He pushed himself upright instead, legs wobbling like they belonged to someone else, every muscle screaming they couldn’t hold him up for long. His body hurt, sure, but he’d had broken bones before and he knew what it felt like. That wasn’t it.
His hands trembled so badly he could barely keep them at his sides, skin split open and smeared with blood, dust, and shards of stone that dug deeper with every movement. His jeans hung in tatters at the knees, streaked with dirt, while his shirt clung heavy with sweat, grime, and dried blood. The coppery taste of iron filled his mouth, thick and suffocating, forcing every swallow like he was choking it down. He dragged his tongue over cracked lips, wincing. Norm would absolutely lose it if he saw him like this—and the thought alone made Spider’s chest knot even tighter.
“Come on, get in.” The man’s tone was short, no room for debate, and he motioned toward the car waiting behind him, doors unlocked, windows dark and reflecting the moonlight in a way that made it feel both kind of safe and kind of… not. “We’re taking you to the hospital.” And yeah, that should’ve been good news, right? Someone to stop the bleeding, someone to keep him from passing out, someone to make the spinning in his head finally ease up. But instead it just felt like the absolute worst idea, every part of him screaming don’t do it, louder than the ringing in his ears, louder than the thump in his chest, louder than the iron still sitting heavy on his tongue, and Spider knew better than to ignore that kind of instinct.
“Oh, thanks. But I’m good. I can handle myself,” Spider said, voice flat, hands twitching from adrenaline and pain. “I don’t… do rides with strangers.” He wasn’t about to get in a car with someone he barely knew, someone he didn’t trust for a second. Getting kidnapped? Yeah, not on any list he’d ever made for himself, not even in his worst paranoid daydreams. And still, just saying no, actually refusing someone who sounded so sure, made his chest tighten like it was a choice he couldn’t afford to make.
The man stopped in front of him and just looked, and he didn’t rush or soften or pretend this was anything other than what it was, his eyes moving slowly over Spider’s body and taking in the blood, the bruises, the way he stood a little off balance, like he was bracing against something only he could feel, and the longer the silence dragged the more obvious it became that this wasn’t concern so much as calculation.
“Have you actually looked at yourself?” he said at last, tipping his chin toward Spider like the answer should have been obvious, like Spider was missing something right in front of him. Spider didn’t answer because he already had, and he had done it in pieces and fragments, checking what still worked and what hurt and what he could ignore for now, telling himself that if nothing felt immediately catastrophic then it probably wasn’t, and if he stayed upright and stayed quiet and didn’t draw attention to the way his head swam or the way his skin felt too tight and too warm in places, then he could convince himself that this was manageable, that the worst of it was behind him and not still catching up, and that belief, thin and fragile as it was, was the only thing keeping him from admitting how bad it actually felt.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Spider muttered through gritted teeth, though the words felt like a lie even as they left his mouth. He wasn’t fine. Not even close. His arms shook when he flexed them, his legs ached like he’d been run over by a truck—and technically, he had been. Somehow, though, he was still breathing. For now. Internal bleeding could very well finish the job later, or maybe he’d get lucky and survive long enough to make it out alive. Either way, the lie rolled off his tongue easier than admitting the truth, and that was something he could still control, for now.
Months from now, when the bruises would have faded but the memory would still sit in his chest like a stone, he’d realize it might’ve been easier if he’d just died on impact. But right now, still buzzing with pain and shock, still amazed he’d managed to keep all his limbs and his head attached, it didn’t feel that bad. Not yet. He should’ve known better. Stupid Spider, always thinking he could take the blow and somehow walk away whole.
“I’m not having any of your bullshit. You’re coming with us. End of story.” The guy grabbed Spider’s elbow like it was welded on and started dragging him toward the car like he owned the place. Spider could’ve tried to twist out, maybe even make a run for it, but his body was toast, every muscle screaming nope, and part of him knew he didn’t actually stand a chance.
The grip was crazy solid, like iron wrapped around his arm, and the guy—gray hair creeping in, probably pushing fifty, but with arms and shoulders that looked like they’d crush him without even trying—moved with this calm, quiet kind of authority that screamed don’t test me. Cop? Firefighter? Military? Maybe all three at once. Spider didn’t care. Whatever he was, arguing was not an option, and deep down, he already knew that.
“Buckle up, kid,” Lyle said, glancing at him through the rearview mirror. The tone was casual, like they were just going for a spin, nothing to worry about, no big deal—but Spider couldn’t shake that gnawing sense that something was very, very off. He couldn’t put his finger on it. They were just strangers trying to help him, right? Right. Totally normal strangers who somehow had a car and a plan and no obvious desire to murder him on the spot. Who was he kidding? These guys probably shouldn’t even have a license. They’d almost flattened him once already, and now here he was, supposed to trust them like he was some idiot extra in a dumb action movie. Yeah. Genius plan, Spider. Genius.
Lyle started the engine, whistling some careless tune like the world hadn’t just exploded for Spider a few minutes ago. The low hum of the radio mingled with the roar of the car, a dull, disorienting wash of sound that made Spider’s head spin just a little more. The tires hummed against the pavement, the suspension bouncing over bumps, and every jolt reminded him that he was still very much alive—whether he wanted to be or not.
“You still with us back there?” Lyle asked over his shoulder like he was checking if someone had fallen asleep on a long drive and not trying to keep track of a kid slumped in his backseat with his chest locked up and his head swimming. Spider took a breath that didn’t feel right but stayed in long enough to count as breathing and decided that was probably good enough. Warmth crept down his arm, slow and sticky and he glanced at it once before looking away because he already knew what it was and didn’t see the point in confirming it. Blood was blood. The why and where didn’t matter right now. Staying awake did. Staying upright did. He focused on the feel of the seat under him and the hum of the engine and even then there was this quiet part of his brain peeling away, already tired of trying. A laugh slipped out of him, short and empty, more reflex than humor, like his body reacting to something his mind hadn’t caught up to.
“He’s losing too much blood. We won’t reach anywhere in time if you don’t drive faster.” He squinted at the dashboard. 00:17. He was late—twenty minutes late. Norm was definitely pacing by now, probably imagining worst-case scenarios, probably blowing up his phone. Spider told himself he’d text him later. He had to. Even if his hands were shaking too much to type, he had to.
“There’s a red light,” Lyle said, flat and tense, eyes flicking up to the intersection like it was the wrong thing at the worst possible time.
“Jesus,” the man beside him cut in immediately. “Just drive!”
Lyle hit the accelerator. The car jumped forward, engine roaring, and Spider’s body jerked hard against the seat. Pain flared everywhere at once—his elbows, his knees, his shoulder—sharp and immediate, forcing a strained breath out of him. The sudden speed made his stomach lurch. Headlights streaked past the windows. A horn blared close by, long and angry. Tires screeched as they pushed through the intersection.
His head pounded, pressure building behind his eyes, each heartbeat making it worse. The inside of the car rattled with vibration, every bump in the road sending another jolt through his body. His arms felt heavy, slow to respond, like they didn’t quite belong to him anymore. He tried to shift, to find a position that didn’t hurt as much, and failed.
Everything hurt. He couldn’t tell how much time was passing. The car kept moving fast, and he could feel himself losing his grip on what was happening, slipping further out of sync with his body with every second.
“You got a name, kid?” The Man asked.
Up front, Lyle swerved again, tires hissing as they cut too close to another car. Horns blared, lights flashed, and the city around them twisted into a blur. Spider’s brain scrambled, unhelpfully filling in the blanks with every horror movie he’d ever half-watched with Lo’ak. This was exactly how it started, wasn’t it? Some unlucky idiot climbs into a stranger’s car, and next thing you know, he’s in a basement missing kidneys. Classic setup.
“Spider,” he rasped, voice barely more than a whisper, raw and hoarse.
“Spider, huh?” The man repeated it slowly, like he was rolling the word around in his mouth, testing the weight of it. “Sounds like a bad joke.” His tone had that half-laugh in it, like he thought he was being clever, like Spider hadn’t already heard every single variation since preschool.
Spider clenched his jaw. He could picture the smirk without even looking, could feel the heat of it, the condescension dripping off the guy’s voice. Always the same damn thing. Always someone thinking they were the first person on earth to make the joke.
“Yeah,” Spider muttered, dry and flat, his voice cracking against the back of his throat. “Good thing I’m not here to make you laugh.”
The sarcasm landed with all the grace of a brick. No one laughed.
Lyle’s laugh broke out sudden and sharp, bouncing off the car windows like it had nowhere else to go, hand slapping the steering wheel like punctuation. “Spider? That’s your real name? Seriously? Did your parents just pick it off some bug chart or were they trying to be funny?”
Spider’s chest tightened, heat crawling up his throat. Always the same. Always the jokes. Like his name was some carnival attraction people lined up to laugh at. Nobody ever stopped to think about how maybe that meant something to him. There were kids named after months, after gods, after trees, and nobody blinked. August, Olive, Ash—normal, pretty, even trendy. But Spider? No, that was weird. That was funny. That was freak material. And it always circled back to him, like he’d asked for it, like he’d chosen to be the punchline.
The edges of his vision darkened, blurring and streaking like wet paint dragged across the streetlights. A high, relentless ringing settled in his ears, hiding under the low hum of the engine, impossible to ignore. His stomach dropped and he pressed a hand to his chest, heart hammering somewhere between fast and nonexistent. Am I passing out? Or…dying? Somehow the thought didn’t terrify him—it was almost soothing, like floating, like letting go. Do people dream when they die? I hope so. I hope it’s something good, something soft, something with water or light or not feeling like this.
“Boss… he’s fading,” Lyle said, glancing up at the rearview mirror, his voice tighter now even if he was trying not to make it sound like it. “Look at him. He’s pale as hell.”
The man in the front didn’t turn around. He didn’t even really react, just lifted a hand and waved it once, slow and dismissive, like Spider was static on a screen or a problem that would sort itself out if ignored long enough. That small motion hit harder than words. Spider’s chest seized, breath catching on nothing, and his mind betrayed him by filling in what the silence refused to say. Kiri’s face if she saw him like this. Lo’ak losing his shit. Jake going still in that way that meant something was very wrong. Neytiri’s voice sharp and shaking. Why didn’t you call. Why didn’t you stay. Why didn’t you listen.
It wasn’t even a real crash. That was the part that felt so unfair it almost made him laugh. Not rolled over. Not crushed. Just wrong place, wrong second. A hit that wasn’t supposed to be lethal, just enough force to throw him across asphalt and into this in-between space where everything felt far away and too close at the same time. He felt small in his own body, folded in on himself, aware of every inch that hurt and every inch that didn’t respond at all.
“Relax,” the man said finally, eyes still on the road, voice calm like he was talking about the weather. “I’m not letting you die back there.”
Spider wanted to answer. Wanted to say something stupid or sarcastic or anything that proved he was still here, still conscious, still worth paying attention to. But his mouth wouldn’t cooperate. Warmth crept slowly down the back of his head, sticky and unfamiliar, and his arms weighed a thousand pounds each. The edges of everything blurred, sound stretching thin and strange, Lyle’s laughter dissolving into something distant and warped, like it was coming from underwater.
The dark closed in without asking. His last clear thought surfaced quietly, stubborn and naive all at once. I’ll wake up. Hospital room. Bright lights. Beeping machines. Someone telling me I’m lucky.
I’ll be fine.
And then the black took him.
He woke up with a start, or maybe it had been a slow return from darkness, he couldn’t really tell, and for a moment the brightness alone made him want to close his eyes forever. The walls, the floor, even the ceiling, were white, blindingly, painfully white, and the neon lights overhead hummed like they were alive, mocking him with their sharpness. Hospital, he guessed, though part of him had braced for something far worse—a basement maybe, damp and dark, with other kids hiding in shadows, whispering or crying, all of them terrified and him trapped in the middle. Realistically, these guys were creepy enough that he wouldn’t have been surprised. Instead, he was here, and that small relief made him breathe a little easier, even if his chest still felt tight.
The air burned when it went in, sharp and sour and too clean, like soap that had forgotten what it was for. He tried to slow his breathing and only made it worse, a dry cough tearing out of him before he could stop it. When he focused past that, really listened, there was nothing else. No footsteps, no machines, no voices bleeding through walls. Just him. Just the sound of air moving in and out of his chest, loud enough to feel fake. The silence sat heavy, like it was waiting for him to do something wrong, and every instinct he had told him not to move at all.
He moved anyway. Or tried to. Lifting his head felt wrong, like his body wasn’t synced up with the idea yet, like the signal got there late. Everything pulled, slow and thick, and when his head dropped back onto the mattress with a dull sound he hadn’t meant to make, a groan slipped out of him, thin and pathetic. The blanket over his legs was a flat blue, too light to matter, not warm, not comforting, just there. He checked the rest of himself in pieces, one limb at a time, and it was all the same. Heavy, numb, distant, like his body belonged to someone else and he’d just been dropped into it mid-sentence. Drugged, probably. Whatever they’d given him was still sitting deep in his system, blurring the edges of everything and making even the simplest thought feel like it had to travel a long way to reach him.
The thought slid in before he could stop it: did anyone even realize he was gone yet, or were they all just living their lives like nothing had happened? His friends probably hadn’t noticed—half of them were terrible at checking their phones anyway. And the guys who’d dragged him here, whoever they were, were either long gone or standing in some hallway waiting for him to slip up. He couldn’t tell. The room didn’t give him anything—no noise, no window, no clue about the hour. Just white walls, a stiff bed, too much light, and that slow, crawling feeling that he’d been stuck here longer than he could track.
He forced himself to think about Norm, because if anyone was gonna pick up on this, it had to be him. Spider could picture the whole morning unfolding almost in real time: Norm waking up groggy, reaching for that same beat-up white mug he used every day, calling Spider’s name once, then again because he thought the first one wasn’t loud enough. He’d assume Spider had stayed up on his phone half the night, knock on his door with those quick, restless steps of his, and try again. Another call of his name, a little more sharp this time, like irritation covering something softer.
He’d push the door open, see the room exactly the way Spider left it, and just stand there for a second with that hand-in-his-hair look he always got whenever life reminded him he wasn’t actually in control of anything. He’d mutter something under his breath, step back out into the hallway, grab his phone, and call Jake because that was the routine: panic, then Jake.
And Jake would pick up around the third ring.
“Jake. Sorry to call early. Is Spider with you?”
There’d be this beat, this almost-silence where nobody knew where the line was going yet.
“No. He left last night,” Jake would say, like it was nothing.
That alone would make Norm sit down—like hearing it spoken out loud turned the floor into something unsteady. He’d stand right back up though, shove the phone between his shoulder and his ear, and wander into the kitchen for more coffee he definitely didn’t need.
“He never made it home,” he’d say, and the silence after that would be heavier.
“Alright. Let me check with the kids. Lo’ak knows the exact time he walked out.”
Norm would mumble a thank-you, pretend to breathe normally, stare out the window while voices murmured in the background. Jake would come back a moment later: “Lo’ak says around twelve.”
Except it’d sound like a question, like even he didn’t fully believe it.
“He’s not here. I’m telling you, he’s not here.” Norm would move again—he always moved when he was anxious—sit at the dining table, shove bills aside, open his laptop for no reason other than needing something to do with his hands. He’d switch the phone to the other ear, type in some password he didn’t really need, and add, “This isn’t normal, Jake. He always texts before going anywhere.”
And then, in the version Spider desperately hoped was real, they’d actually try. They’d ask neighbors if they saw him, retrace his steps, do something. Because that was the version he needed to believe in—the one where people noticed, where people cared enough to look right away.
The other version—the one he tried not to think about—was easier to imagine than he wanted to admit. Norm waking up late, assuming Spider crashed somewhere else, heading to work without checking his room. Or checking, realizing the door was unlocked, shrugging it off because Spider was “just being Spider.” Or maybe Norm had called Jake, and Jake, tired and overworked, had brushed it off with something like, “Norm, he’s probably crashed on someone’s couch. You know he does that.” And Norm pushing back, insisting something felt wrong, while Jake sighed or cleared his throat or did that thing where he tried to sound calm and ended up sounding bored instead.
“He’s sixteen.”
Just that. Nothing else. As if that explained everything.
And maybe Jake would have a point, technically. But that didn’t make it easier to swallow.
In that version, the call would end with a half-hearted “I’ll call you back,” and nobody would actually call back. They’d stop looking before they even started.
And honestly? Spider didn’t know which version scared him more.
He closed his eyes and let out a long, low sigh. What a way to ruin a summer. He didn’t want to be here. No one would. And yet, here he was, with nothing he could do about it. He should have been more careful, sure, but that thought only carried weight if he could go back and change things, which he couldn’t. So he opened his eyes again, letting them drift over the ceiling, tracing the corners of the neon lights, the sharp angles and the buzzing glow, letting himself get lost in them. That became his focus, his only companion, for what felt like hours.
Time was strange here. There was no past or future, only this endless stretch of now, and even that felt slippery, like it could slide away at any moment. What was past, anyway? A collection of nows that had already passed? And the future, a series of nows that hadn’t yet arrived? Time felt like a circle and a line all at once, moving, bending, impossible to hold onto. He drifted with it, staring at the ceiling until his thoughts ran out and boredom settled in. And then, finally, something sharp and real broke through: he needed to piss, and honestly, it felt like the only thing that mattered.
He stood up slowly, not because anything hurt, but because it felt like the room expected him to move that way. The tiles were cold under his feet in a clean, almost unreal way, like the kind of cold that didn’t belong to weather or time. He noticed his breathing only when it slipped out of him, thin and uneven, and for a second it sounded too loud in the silence. The door opened without a sound, no resistance, no creak, just an easy give that made his stomach drop a little.
The hallway beyond was white in a way that didn’t feel bright, more like everything had been evenly erased. It stretched left and right with no clear end, no doors close enough to matter, no signs, no shadows doing anything interesting. The lights hummed softly, steady and indifferent, and the air felt still, like it hadn’t been disturbed in a long time. It was familiar and wrong at the same time, like a place he’d seen in a half-remembered dream and forgotten as soon as he woke up. He stood there, unsure which direction existed more than the other, wondering if he was supposed to walk or if the hallway would keep going forever whether he did or not.
He lingered in the doorway a moment longer, then forced himself forward, taking a hesitant first step as though stepping into the unknown required bravery he wasn’t sure he possessed. The second step came a little easier, the third with slightly more confidence, and soon he was walking, one careful step after another, until he reached an intersection where the hall split in two directions. For a moment, Spider questioned whether this was really a hospital or some elaborate, empty mock-up designed to confuse him.
His head spun, fuzzy and off balance, like everything around him had gone slightly out of focus, the edges of the room blurring in a way that made his stomach roll. He felt like he might throw up or pass out or trip over his own feet, maybe all three, and his body couldn’t seem to pick one. It was the same feeling he’d had that one time on a boat, years ago, when Jake had decided to take Neteyam and Lo’ak fishing because he thought that was what a normal dad did with his sons, and Lo’ak had pushed so hard for Spider to come along that Jake had eventually caved. Nobody had told Neytiri, obviously, because everyone knew she would have shut it down the second she found out Spider was involved, so it became this quiet little secret, a Sully boys day that somehow included him too.
Back then, Spider had thought Jake was being kind, that he genuinely wanted him there, that he was choosing him the same way he chose his own kids. But as he got older, it became harder to miss the pattern, how it was always Kiri and Lo’ak pulling him into the circle, always them asking and insisting and making space for him. Without them, he wouldn’t have been there at all. Now he could see it clearly. Jake didn’t hate him, not really, but he didn’t like him either. He just tolerated him, and unlike Neytiri, he was better at pretending otherwise.
So he was dizzy, the kind that made it feel like the ground wasn’t quite solid anymore, like if he stopped moving he might actually tip over. The floor seemed to shift under his feet and for a second he thought about grabbing the wall just to steady himself, but he didn’t. He kept going, slower now, careful with every step, forcing his body to cooperate even as his head swam. Then he heard it. Voices. Low and distant, barely more than a blur of sound, but definitely there where there hadn’t been anything before. He stopped immediately, muscles locking up, breath held without thinking about it, listening hard as his heart started beating faster for reasons he didn’t fully want to name.
“What do you mean there’s nothing?” The voice cut through the air, low and tight with irritation, sharp enough that Spider stiffened on instinct even without putting a face to it.
“I mean exactly that,” another man said, calmer, distracted, like he was looking at a screen while he spoke, fingers probably scrolling or tapping. “No school records, no medical history, no guardianship files. Nothing at all. The name doesn’t return anything.”
The first man gave a dry, disbelieving laugh. “Empty? How the hell is that possible?”
Spider drifted toward the open door without really deciding to, drawn in by the sound of low voices. He stopped short of the frame and leaned in, careful not to let the floor creak under his weight. The room was cramped and functional, the kind of place meant for decisions, not comfort. A desk crowded with equipment sat under harsh lighting, screens glowing with lines of data that meant nothing to him.
The Man was there, planted near the desk like he belonged to it, broad shoulders blocking part of the light, while Lyle worked the console, talking with his hands as much as his mouth. Spider stayed half-hidden in the hallway, listening to words like scans and records and databases, and the longer he stood there, the more it felt like they weren’t just talking about a process. They were talking about him. Spider clenched his jaw, staring down at his bare feet against the tile. The floor was freezing, almost painful, and he decided maybe that was the only good thing about it—because if he could feel the cold this sharp, then it meant he wasn’t asleep, wasn’t trapped in some gross nightmare he’d eventually snap out of. This was real, and that realization kind of sucked even more, because two days ago his biggest issue had been whining about some teacher piling on extra homework, and now here he was thinking back on that like it was the golden age of his life.
“I’ve gone through every system I can access—and believe me, that covers a lot,” the second man said, voice flat with the kind of fatigue that comes from explaining the same impossible thing too many times. “Vital records, Social Security databases, immigration and naturalization files, census data spanning fifty years. I even pulled enrollment logs and ID registries just to rule out the long shots. And there’s nothing. No records, no partial matches, not even the trace of a file someone might’ve tried to erase.” He exhaled slowly, a faint shake of his head. “It’s like the kid doesn’t exist. Like he walked in from nowhere.”
The leader let the silence sit for a moment, arms still crossed, gaze fixed somewhere past the screen. “People don’t just vanish like this. Not without help. If there’s nothing in the system, it’s because someone made sure of it. So we’ve got two options. Either someone went out of their way to erase him, or he’s been lying about who he is the entire time.”
Spider’s stomach knotted. So, like, as far as he understood, lying wasn’t exactly a crime, right? It wasn’t like they could throw him in a cell over something that small. And besides, it wasn’t even a full-on lie if you thought about it—more like a half-truth, because he really had gone by Spider for years now, and literally everybody knew him that way. Even the old grumpy manager at the grocery store down the street knew him as Spider, and that guy barely remembered the prices on his own shelves. Every single teacher he’d ever had just went with it too—never once called him Miles, never even asked if Spider was some kind of nickname. Which meant either someone, somewhere, had done him the solid of making sure the other name never showed up… or maybe he’d just carried himself in a way that left no room for anything else.
“Think maybe he’s one of those—what’d you call ’em? Mojados?” the guy asked, his voice cautious, like he wasn’t even sure if he was saying it right. Spider blinked at the word, the sound of it tugging something loose in his memory. He’d seen it before, tucked in some beat-up history book at the back of the library, the kind no one touched except maybe to prop up a broken shelf. Mojados—the term people used decades ago for undocumented immigrants, though from what he remembered it wasn’t exactly polite. Probably racist, definitely not ethical. His Spanish was shaky enough that he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure, but the way it landed told him everything he needed.
“Yeah, maybe. Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing.” the other man said after a beat, considering. “Think we might have a lead here, Wainfleet.”
“We’ve got nothing on him though,” Lyle said, glancing down at the empty fields on the screen like they might fill themselves if he stared long enough. He leaned back into the chair, pointing at the screen like it was already a lost case. “I mean, you see what I’m saying, right? No last name, no birth record, no ID, nothing that sticks. I can’t work with that, boss.”
The Man didn’t answer right away. He stayed where he was with his arms crossed, gaze drifting past the screen like he was already pulling threads together in his head. When he finally spoke his voice was calm but firm. “That doesn’t just happen. Not like this. Not unless someone made it happen.”
Lyle nodded immediately, relieved to not be the only one thinking it. “Exactly. Even kids without papers leave traces. School intake, ER visits, juvenile stuff, something. You don’t make it to that age without brushing up against a system somewhere, unless someone went out of their way to keep you out of it. And yeah, sure, maybe if you’re living totally off the grid, but this kid doesn’t exactly scream that. An average good citizen still leaves a mess behind, whether they mean to or not.”
Lyle leaned forward again. “If there’s a file, it won’t be under the name he gave us, but names don’t really matter if the body’s already been logged somewhere. Hospitals are supposed to register births, that data goes into the system whether anyone remembers it or not. We get so much as a hair and we’ve got DNA, and once we have that we can run a broad archive search narrowed down to male, teenage, approximate age range. If he’s ever been registered anywhere at any point, it’ll surface. And if it doesn’t, well,” he shrugged lightly, like the conclusion was obvious, “then that tells us something too. Either way there’s really only one way to find out.”
The boss finally looked at him. “You’re thinking biometrics.”
“Yeah,” Lyle said. “Fingerprints, facial scan, the basics, maybe blood if it comes to that. If he’s ever been processed for anything at all it’ll cone up. Doesn’t matter what name he gave or what name they used. One hit and the original file shows itself.”
The man exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. “And if nothing comes up?”
“Then we know he was never a legal citizen,” Lyle said, like he was stating a weather report. “Which is its own kind of answer. If nothing comes up and I mean nothing at all then we move past the national database and widen the scope. Worldwide this time. It’ll take longer but the system will find him. It always does. We’ve got birth records and identification data from all over the world feeding into it.”
He let out a rough breath that almost passed for a laugh as he turned back to the screen and pulled up another file. A world map filled the display, stripped down to black and white, peppered with red markers scattered across continents. Too many of them. Lyle circled Mexico with the cursor, slow and deliberate. “Even if he came in through somewhere off the books the system will catch it. It covers every country that matters, this one included. We’ve got three RDA facilities operating down there. Normally we’d have to go through Mazatlán and get approval from their head admin, but Selfridge greased the international unit before he left. We won’t need permission.”
He leaned back slightly, eyes still on the screen. “Once we kick off the global search we’ll know exactly where he came from and where he’s been headed. One way or another.”
The boss leaned in, one hand settling on his hip while the other rested on the back of Lyle’s chair, eyes tracking the screen as the map shifted and red markers blinked into place. “Alright,” he said after a moment, slow and measured. “But that search you’re talking about, you said it wouldn’t be quick. How long are we looking at?”
Lyle hesitated, rolling his shoulder and letting out a vague sound that landed somewhere between a sigh and a shrug. “Depends on how clean the biometrics come in,” he said. “If the scans are decent, we’re probably talking a few days. Worst case, maybe a week. It usually doesn’t drag longer than that.”
The other man exhaled slowly through his nose. “Can't you make it faster?” he asked. “Because people are gonna start calling this in as a missing teen. Once that happens, the attention shifts back onto us. And we’re already risking enough as it is.”
Lyle sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “We’ll handle it somehow. I don’t know. Call the parents. Tell them whatever they need to hear. Say the kid’s fine, that he’s safe, that this is all being taken care of.”
The other man’s head snapped up. “And how exactly am I supposed to call the parents when we don’t even know who the hell they are?” His voice had tightened, impatience creeping in despite the effort to keep it under control. “For all we know, he doesn’t have any! We’re spinning our wheels here. You really think people are gonna buy that a kid disappears for a week and then just shows back up like nothing happened?” He shook his head once. “People are scared, Wainfleet. They’re not stupid.”
Lyle rubbed a hand over his bare scalp and exhaled through his nose. “I’m gonna be honest with you,” he said, finally looking up instead of at the screen. “I’ve got a bad feeling about how this shakes out. When that search finishes, we’re not gonna like what we see, and sooner or later Ardmore’s gonna hear about it. And once she does, he’s not leaving this place. Not a chance.” He shifted in the chair, jaw setting like the decision had already been made. “So worrying about parents calling or people asking questions feels kinda pointless now. That window’s already gone.” He paused, then added, quieter but firm, “If we want real answers, we start with biometrics. The sooner, the better.”
A pause. “Fine. Go get him.”