The Eyes of New York

Hurt

He was cold. That was the first thing he realized when he woke up. Miles gingerly felt below him, finding a solid surface of metal. He definitely wasn't at home, and the times he had passed out on patrol certainly hadn't been on such a solid and cold surface. Regardless, his last memory was swinging through New York - not falling asleep.

Despite the growing lump in his throat, he was so tired he was tempted to go back to sleep.

He forced himself upright, arms shaking and weak. His head pounded, pressure building behind his eyes, making it harder to focus on looking at his surroundings. In spite of that, he squinted through the pain to look.

The scene was unfamiliar, yet startlingly obvious. Although he had never seen one before other than on tv, Miles knew he was in some sort of prison cell. From the sad-looking toilet in the corner to the cold slab of metal below him, and the intimidating door with a small flap at the bottom, he knew that whatever this was, it couldn't be good.

At the top of the door, there was a small window, letting in a small amount of light - blinding in the dark room. He glanced up but found no lightbulb. If someone covered the window he would be left in the dark.

This place wasn't built for comfort, it was built for punishment.

Nervously, he looked down at himself. Sure enough, his Spider-Man suit was still on. In fact, it had been on for a while, if the chafing around the thighs was any indication. Checking his suit over, he found a large section torn away on both his arms and a large bandaid over his inner elbow. He winced from the pain of gently poking it. He didn't remember getting this injury, or treating it... maybe he had gotten a concussion on his last patrol?

That could explain the gap in his memory.

Gloved fingers shaking, he reached up to touch his face. His mask was gone. Oh no. No, no, no. That meant they knew who he was and what if they had hurt Mamá and Dad? They would be completely unprotected and they wouldn't even know why they were being attacked...

What if his identity had leaked to the news?

He took in a shuddering breath, clenching his eyes shut. He didn't know yet. He just had to wait until someone told him. Burn that bridge when he gets to it. Panicking wouldn't do him any good. In the meantime, he could try to grab someone's attention.

When he went to stand up, his legs collapsed uselessly out from under him. Miles barely avoided smacking his head on the unforgiving concrete floor. Gritting his teeth, he leaned heavily on the wall and used it as leverage to get to his feet. Body, work with me here.

Peering out the small window, he found himself staring at a nondescript white wall. Nothing to tell who had put him in this cell. It could have been the police, or it could be... someone else. Someone scarier. Either option had a weight settling on his chest, making every breath feel more labored.

Think. What was he doing before he was captured? He sat back down on the cold metal slab, thoughts weighing down so heavily that he felt like he would sink through the floor. He had been patrolling when he had swung through a cloud of something. He had thought it was smoke. Guess it wasn't. He could vaguely remember falling through the air, limbs refusing to listen to him... and now he was here.

Cursing quietly, he buried his head in his hands. This was bad. This was really, really bad. Whoever had gotten him at least knew something about him; he knew from bitter experience it took a ridiculous concentration of drugs to take him down. He didn't even know he could be knocked out that quickly! He had to get out- no. No, not yet. He had to know what he was facing.