Chapter Text
Everything was all wrong. Her family was all smiles the next morning, oblivious to the horror that Mirabel had witnessed the night prior. The horror that she had caused.
The boy she had killed.
It was like the night she had run away—the intense pain, the high emotions—but it was all concentrated within her, all hidden behind a cloud of misery in the shape of her own meek smile.
The TV was on in the corner forever tuned in to the news channel, as it always was. The flow of hurry was still imbued in the mannerisms of each family member, as it always was. The world remained unpaused and unaware that it had lost Peter Parker the night prior.
There were a few different things—a few more glances her way, a few more fond smiles. Mirabel gave slow nods of acknowledgement as her family repeated their congratulations from last night’s dinner, oblivious to her shaky demeanor.
Abuela offered Mirabel another rare instance of praise. “A gift just as special as you,” she had said to the girl when talk of Mirabel’s basketball aspirations swung its way through the conversation excitedly. And oh, Mirabel was still too weak to praise to object that she planned on quitting.
Apparently, M-cubed was well known for their basketball teams, according to Luisa. That was something Mirabel didn’t know—she never cared about the sport enough to research what she had been getting into.
Is that what you want, Mirabel? An easy way to get approval from your family?
Mirabel choked on her food. In celebration of Mirabel’s accomplishment, Julieta had prepared arepa boyacense , a breakfast passed down from abuelo Pedro that happened to be Mirabel’s favorite. But as she bit into the cheesy, sweet delight, the familiar flavor tasted like ash and failure when it should have been delicious success.
She didn’t feel hungry.
Isabela sent her sister a concerned glance. “Sis? Is something wrong?” And why was Isabela of all people the one to notice her turmoil? Isa never went out of her way to talk with her sister if she could avoid it. The rest of the family was wrapped up in conversation about another one of their big days, why wasn’t she involved?
Out of habit, Mirabel looked for a way to disengage. She took a messy, too-large bite of her food and munched on it sloppily. Bits and pieces of cheese and sugar splattered over the pair of sisters, transforming the older’s face of concern into disgust that Mirabel was decidedly more comfortable with.
Her voice was shrill. “ Ugh— Mirabel, what the he—”
“A 15-year-old boy, Peter Parker, was found dead last night in Brooklyn. Though the moment of death was not seen, a pathologist’s examination reports that the trauma experienced by his body was caused by a hit-and-run.”
They were already reporting about it? Mirabel broke her puffy glare with her eldest sister and fought the tears from rising to her face. The rest of the family quieted, turning to look at the television. They had always seemed so concerned with the crimes and tragedies of New York. As Peter’s bespectacled face lit up the screen, Julieta’s half of the family and Camilo gasped in familiarity.
“Mira,” he turned to her. “Isn’t that—”
She lost against her tears, letting them stream freely past her cheeks.
Nothing would ever be okay again.
A week had passed before the funeral was held. No questions were asked of Mirabel in that time, and the word basketball was harshly exiled from the vocabulary of the Madrigals.
Spider-Moth hadn’t made a single appearance: Mirabel wasn’t sure that she would ever again. It wasn’t like anyone knew who she was, anyways. No, Mirabel decided, she never deserved to be a hero, not after what had happened. Her discarded costume would be locked up in the closet, hidden between Luisa’s exercise equipment and Isabela’s personal trophy case, never to be seen.
A murderer could never be like the Encanto.
On the morning of the funeral, everyone had avoided making eye-contact with Mirabel. For once, the TV was turned off. The breakfast table was quiet—even little Antonio and the class pet he was watching could tell that something was wrong . Mirabel couldn’t tell if she appreciated silence or if she was annoyed by it; the least anyone could do would be to offer her an impersonal sorry for your loss , she thought.
But no, whenever she looked anyone in the eyes, they looked lost and fearful, like they were afraid she would break. This was the attention that Mirabel hated. The smoke she associated with the Amazing Madrigals was still in the air, choking her—but this time, she never fought back even once.
Mirabel picked at her plate, cringing at the stares she felt—a feeling intensified by her newly-enhanced abilities.
“Mira? What time should I bring you there?” Her mother, quiet.
Mirabel didn’t move her head to look. “Mrs. Parker said it was at noon, Mamá,”
Nobody in her family was going along with her. Tía Pepa’s side of the family hadn’t even considered it—that Mirabel was okay with; other than Camilo, they hadn’t even been aware of Peter’s existence until the news hit—but she had a harder time excusing her own side of the family. Isabela, of course, was the one exception—Mirabel didn’t really know if she wanted her eldest sister to come with. Her parents and Luisa, though? They had only offered an empty excuse: we have to…go to work, Mirabel, we’re sorry.
Julieta had offered to drive her, which was one small comfort.
The car ride to the church was anything but comforting, though. It was long and slow; typical of city traffic. Mirabel hated the awkward silence that had been choking her since she left the house, but Mamá's white-knuckled grip on the wheel and silent, unmoving stare into the road didn’t yield to conversation of any kind. Every once in a while, she would steal sad, concerned glances in the direction of her daughter—but they were gone before Mirabel could see them.
Mirabel made an equal non-effort to say anything on her end. She was tired of reaching out.
When they pulled up to curb where the church was, Mirabel was unsurprised to see that not that many people had shown up—the Parkers weren’t a well-known family, and May was the only one alive that was attending. Still, there were some familiar faces that Peter and Mirabel knew mutually. In the front of the church, she saw a few of Peter’s teachers: besides her, that was the crowd he tended to hang out with. She saw Mr. Connors—the one who had guided them on the field trip to Oscorp.
The church itself was a small cathedral. Its gothic architecture made it stand out vibrantly against the rest of the New York skyscrapers, making Mirabel feel as if she was stepping into a different part of the world. It was a nice place, she thought, to send off her best friend.
As she slipped out of the car to greet and grieve, she felt a calloused hand grip her own. “Mirabel,” her mother said softly. The fifteen-year-old turned and regarded her mother, trying to keep her face neutral.
Internally, the hope that anyone would be here for her roared to life again. Maybe her mother would find time to attend the service, maybe she would hold her through her grief and guilt and tears.
A moment passed, and Juileta didn’t say anything, only offering a squeeze. She looked like the words were there on the tip of her tongue, but she had no idea how to say them. Mirabel’s hope died down as quickly as it was revitalized. “Bye, Mamá,” she muttered, turning her back on those regretful, sad eyes.
The car drove off, and Mirabel was left alone.
A short “Hey!” interrupted her brief melancholy. Mirabel turned to see a scrawny-looking redhead with a terrible haircut running towards her, dressed in funeral blacks like she was. When he finally reached her, Mirabel recognized him as Harry Osborn, Peter’s other, much older friend.
She offered an uneasy smile. Harry was someone close to Peter from his old hometown in Queens, someone that Peter struggled to stay connected with after Harry’s uncle Ben had died and Peter and May had moved to Brooklyn. When Mirabel and Peter had just met, the boy had tried to introduce his two friends. While they were both cordial to each other, to Peter’s obvious disappointment, they hadn’t formed a connection like the one they both had with him.
As he caught his breath, he gave her an earnest smile, clouded with the same sadness that Mirabel was feeling, and her own sad features grew into something more genuine. “Hi, Harry,” she greeted.
“Hi,” he parroted before his smile fell to a deep, pained frown. “This—this sucks.”
Mirabel nodded, glancing around at how sunny the day was—in stark contrast to the mood around them. “Yeah,” she said simply.
The air permeated with a suffocating mixture of misery and awkwardness, and Harry’s resolve ultimately broke first. “Uh—have you said hi to May, yet?” His knuckles rapped against the side of clothes.
The color drained out of Mirabel’s face. From where they stood, she could see Peter’s aunt greeting everyone before they walked inside. Her face was hidden, but Mirabel could see the agony and cold loneliness in the elderly woman’s stance. She drooped from where she stood.
She couldn’t face May. not now. Maybe not ever. Mirabel’s hands began to tingle, and she looked down in horror as their image began to waver. Not now— Harry was literally right here! Focusing past her drowning, lethargic grief, she thrust her hands behind her back and willed them to stop flickering. “N—not yet,” she told Harry.
When the actual service began, it was everything that Mirabel wanted for her best friend, and it broke her heart all over again. The interior of the church was a small, precious little thing, decorated with statues and painted glass of motherly angels beckoning them inwards. The building itself was peaceful and antique, the storied wood reminding Mirabel of the lab where this all started.
Like Tempest in a bad mood, Mirabel could feel a looming cloud over the church. Faces were wet with tears and grief and the few smiles that were sent around were fleeting. They tried to make it a celebration of life as well as the mourning it was, but that seemed impossible, because everyone knew that the life they were celebrating was one of a 15-year-old whose dreams and aspirations were cut short.
All of the teachers gave short, heartfelt speeches about their connection to Peter. “He was my best student,” Mr. Connors had said, “His work with me in prosthetics had not just changed the lives of millions of amputees, but it also changed my own.”
When it was Mirabel’s time to speak, she wondered if she was allowed this final speech. She had prepared a eulogy, but it wasn’t anything elegant—she was never the linguistic type, but she knew she had to at least try to say something , it was the very, very least of what Peter deserved.
“Peter Parker was my best friend.” She began. “He was always— always there for me, always there to hold and help me on my bad days and make them good, and he would make my good days better. Peter was my hero,” She paused to wipe her eyes, catching her voice before it broke.
She desperately searched the crowd for eye-contact, mentally begging for something, anything to focus in and hide her feelings away.
Despite her best efforts, her eyes eventually connected with May’s, who sent Mirabel an undeserved encouraging look through her own grief. Even through everything, Mirabel tried to return it. I’m fine, I’m totally fine, she yelled internally, willing the pain to stop pounding.
She kept her look on May as she continued. “I used to hate science before I met Peter, but he helped me learn to love it as he did. And now look! Thanks to Peter, science is my best subject—”
And now he’ll never help you again.
The thought was startling. Mirabel froze, the hopeful tone disappearing. For a long, embarrassing moment, Mirabel was stuck in anxious silence. Her sixth sense fuzzed at the corners of her mind and she tried not to visually wince when she saw a few audience members check their watches. May’s encouraging glance melded into a look of concern.
The dark thoughts held her voice hostage for what felt like eons. Peter Parker won’t ever hold you when your family makes you feel small. Peter Parker won’t make your bad days good anymore, and you won’t have good days at all. He won’t help you, and you’re kidding yourself if you deserve any help at all.
Because Peter Parker is dead. You killed him.
Why was the church’s interior getting blurry? Mirabel blinked, feeling the salty tears pour down her face once again. “P-peter Parker w-was…” She tried, voice breaking. She had to do this. She had to be strong, for May, for Harry, and for Peter.
Peter Parker is gone.
She couldn’t do this. Mirabel was not fine. “I-I’m sorry.” She blubbered. “I—May, I’m so sorry. I can’t .” Hot shame seared into her like a brand as the stares of all the adults in the room intensified with pity—she was the only kid besides Harry, of course she couldn’t do it, she only ruined things, she was Peter’s closest friend and she screwed this up, how would Peter forgive her?
You don’t deserve forgiveness.
A final, heartbroken sob wracked through her as she ran from the church’s podium into the restroom.
Everyone was gone when Mirabel returned. She watched, shy and embarrassed, as May stayed in her seat, fiddling with the clasps on a black briefcase in her lap. She looked—tired, then, more weary than Mirabel had ever seen her. It was…a bit like how Abuela looked sometimes. She was even around the same age as Alma Madrigal, maybe a little older, but even so, Mirabel saw a sad, quiet acceptance in her eyes that spoke of the loss she had experienced in her life.
Mirabel knew of Peter’s parents, his uncle Ben, and now, she had—
The guilt seemed to leak out of her like hot, viscous glue, pinning her feet to the ground. She moved to nervously adjust her glasses, before flinching when her fingers met puffy skin. That was right—these cursed powers of her had taken more than her friend. How could she approach May now?
May turned to look at the girl, and her eyes somehow brightened behind the foggy grief that Mirabel put there. For a moment, the teenager contemplated turning around and running away, just like she had on that fateful Friday.
She was a coward.
But still, Mirabel knew that she needed to apologize for her earlier behavior. Mirabel began her approach, and she could only brace, eyes closed, for when Peter’s only living family called her out for being the monster she was. Each step she took was daunting, feeling like a clock counting down to her demise.
When she finally made it in front of May, Mirabel couldn’t help the hot tears from spilling again. “ Lo siento, señora, no quise hacerlo— ”
She was silenced by the warm, wrinkled touch of May’s hand on her face. "Mirabel, dear, thank you so much for attending. You meant so much to him.”
Mirabel remembered Peter’s last words and she only cried harder. She would never be owed thanks. May began moving her thumb in slow, soft circles on Mirabel’s cheek as the girl cried, and she hated how her body betrayed her and leaned into the touch. “I’m so glad Peter had a friend like you throughout his life, you know. What you have done for him, what you have done for the two of us—I can’t ever repay you.”
The girl gave a wet laugh. “Are you kidding me? He did so much for me. I’d be—I dunno, probably held back if it wasn’t for him. P-peter, without him, I’d be failing high school right now, and he…he was my mejor amigo, he was b-better family than anyone I’m related to, sometimes, and I—”
Her voice caught, and May brought her down into a hug. As Mirabel sobbed into the older woman’s shoulder, May guided her to sit down onto the bench. She reached for Mirabel’s shaky hands and clasped them in the space between the pair. “Mirabel,” she soothed. “Do you know what Peter’s life was like before he met you?”
Through her tears, Mirabel could only manage a trembling shake of her head.
“Well,” May began, her grip tightening on Mirabel’s hands. “My Peter had a brilliant mind. And…the children at his school never treated him well for it. We had moved soon after Ben’s death, partly for a change in scenery, but mostly because…” Her eyes went dim as she remembered. “Well, for a moment, it seemed as if it hadn’t worked. Peter had come home many nights crying with scrapes and he wouldn’t tell me…but I always knew.”
eleven-year-old Mirabel Madrigal glared at her science homework. The numbers and letters on the page seemed to dance and shake around…it just didn’t make sense. And everyone at her home was so busy, with…something, so nobody could help her . Abuela always looked angry when Mirabel didn’t understand something, so today, in Brooklyn Middle, she was looking for a tutor.
As she paced in the empty hallways of her school, looking for a teacher to help her out, she heard a cry of pain in the halls. Mirabel, mentally exhausted from staring at her work, was glad for a distraction. As she turned the corner to find the source of the sound, she gasped at what she found.
A boy her age was shoved to the ground, silver-brimmed glasses cracked and discarded on the floor next to him. A larger, more intimidating boy—Flash Thompson, Mirabel remembered, the boy with the build of Luisa and the worst parts of Isabela—leered over him with a textbook raised above the younger boy’s head. “Why wasn’t my homework done yet, Parker?”
His response was a heartbreaking combination of fear and earnestness. “S—sorry, Flash, I tried, but today’s the anniversary of my uncle’s death, and I—”
“Oh, Boo-hoo, Parker, sounds like you had plenty of time.” Flash jeered, raising the book even higher. The boy—Parker?—brought his arms over his face. Mirabel frowned at the tears she saw falling down his cheeks, splashing against the clothes and the floor.
At her age, Mirabel wasn’t what you would call a rational person. Before her family began to pull away, she was often fondly admonished for running into things without thinking. And then after, when she was so often left alone with her own thoughts and feelings, she was just admonished for getting in the way.
Nowadays, she would find herself held hostage by her own emotions, both good and bad, and they would choke her up with anger and sadness and a fear of being left behind. So when Mirabel watched as Flash brought the book down on the boy’s head, she saw red.
“Aghhh!” she roared, running up to Flash and bringing a trembling, too-small fist into his side. Flash Thompson, up-and-coming football star that he was, only stepped back a bit. But his attention was off Parker, and that’s all Mirabel needed.
He regarded her growling form with a shark-toothed grin. “You need a little girly to protect you, Puny Parker?”
The boy behind Mirabel said nothing, looking up at her with wide eyes. Mirabel stared at Flash, eyes narrowing behind her green, slightly crooked glasses. She readied her fist, prepared for a fight. She had never fought before—but she would not back down.
Flash’s grin fell. His eyes narrowed, and he drew himself up to stare at her. Mirabel felt a chilling, icy fear, and yet, she held steady, waiting for his reaction. She weaponised her determination to be noticed by her family, sharpening her patience into a fist that she would make sure would hurt.
“I’m ready.” She told him, squaring herself.
For a moment, time stood still as nobody in the confrontation moved. Mirabel felt beads of sweat work their way down her forehead as she stared at the larger boy.
“Pssh, w-whatever.” Flash said, trying to instill a sense of disinterest into his voice. But Mirabel saw the fury in his eyes—a fire that only grew stronger as he turned from the pair of them.
When he was gone, Mirabel collapsed. Her knees were shaking, all the fight drained from her. Hot, prickly tears leaked from her eyes. She stared at her fist, wincing at the bruise forming across her knuckles. While it hadn’t done anything to Flash, it sure worked against herself. What would Abuela say if she saw her now?
“H-hey...thanks.” The boy spoke, voice as quiet as her cousin Dolores. Mirabel whipped around to look at him. His eyes were still fearfully wide behind the glasses he wore and he was still clutching
When she said nothing, he continued. “M..my name is Peter. Peter Parker…um, what’s yours?”
For some reason, that spurned Mirabel into action. She reached over to grab his discarded lenses, quickly shoving them into his hands. Her homework fell to the ground in her haste. “Mirabel. Mirabel Madrigal.” Her voice was stilted. She winced, cursing as she thought about how she couldn't even get an introduction right.
And then her face screwed up as she realized the mistake she made. The Madrigals were famous, and now he would connect her with—with her family, and that would be…
But Peter wasn’t paying attention. “Woah, do you like science too?” His eyes were bright as he picked up the worksheet.
Mirabel’s eyes widened as she rushed to correct the misunderstanding. “N..no, that’s just my homework. Sorry. I was trying to find a teacher to help me with it…It doesn’t make any sense to me!” The agony blotted her voice as she spoke.
Peter stared at her, before he looked away, like he was suddenly filled with nerves. “I could…help you?” He questioned. “You know…for…” his voice trailed off, gesturing to his roughed up appearance and her bruised fist.
Mirabel eyed him suspiciously. Nobody had ever succeeded in making science make sense for Mirabel, and this boy her age thought he could do it? She voiced her apprehension to him.
Peter nodded. “Trust me, science is fun when you get it—but I guess you have to get it first, ha.” He held out a hand. Mirabel felt years of fear well up inside her—was this boy really serious? She remembered señorita perfecta Isabela promising to help her with her homework years ago, before she…changed. What if this boy was the same?
But as she held eye-contact with him, she felt that maybe she could trust once again. Mirabel shook his hand.
The following week, Mirabel had gone home with her first ever A and her first ever best friend. It wasn’t enough for logros diarios, but it was enough for her.
The reminiscence had blurred Mirabel’s vision further, but she could still make out the smile on May’s features. “You met Peter around the time we had lost Ben. And we—we were lost in a dark storm of grief, but you…you were the sun that helped break Peter out of it, Mirabel Madrigal. Before he met you, he had refused to say anything about the bullies. Oh, Ben and I thought that was what was happening, yes, but when Peter didn’t come to us, we couldn’t do anything about it. Lord, I wish we did.
And then, when we did lose Ben, Peter stopped smiling. I saw my nephew leave Ben’s funeral with a piece of his soul left behind—he was too young to know his parents, and it broke my heart to see him feel that loss after Ben died.”
May took a shuddering breath at the word died , and the grief and guilt of it all hit Mirabel once again. “But then I saw my Peter come home one day, roughed up but smiling so brightly. He told me he met a girl with glasses and curly hair who stood up for him, and that he helped her with her homework. He told me he made a friend .
“It was… wondrous, Mirabel. You put the light back in his eyes. Did you know…” she chuckled, and for the first time Mirabel didn’t sense any underlying despair in her voice. “He learned how to draw soon after he met you? He told me that his friend, Mirabel, had inspired him to learn because she was so good at art! Soon after—I met you, and we learned embroidery together.”
Mirabel blinked. She thought May had known how to sew and embroider before they had met. May had… learned with Mirabel?
Unclasping one of her hands, May returned it to Mirabel’s cheek. “You talked about how he was your hero on that podium, dearie…You were his, Mirabel. Ever since you saved him, you have always been Peter’s hero, and for that, you have been mine, too.”
Mirabel gasped, the pain and grief catching up to her in one final attack. That couldn’t be true—Mirabel never made an impact, she was the one who failed, the one who wasn’t enough, the one who…who killed —She surged forward, wrapping herself around May Parker like she was Mirabel's own mother—and not the aunt of the boy she let die.
They sat there for what felt like forever, in the empty church. May rubbed soothing circles in Mirabel’s back, holding the girl as she cried.
But times of waiting must come to an end. May turned towards the briefcase, placing it into Mirabel’s lap. She glanced at it, eyes widening at the post-it note with Peter’s terrible handwriting: For Mirabel. Her head whipped back up to look at May, silently looking for an explanation.
She shrugged. “I found this in his room—I haven’t looked in it, but I figured he'd want you to have it before they started giving all of his things away or filing it in some storage shed.”
Mirabel seized up, unsure if she should say anything—anything, that is, except to deny, deny, deny. She squished her eyes closed. “No…no, May, I couldn’t! I—”
I don’t deserve anything from him.
“Please, just take it!” May said, sounding a little too harsh and a little too much like Abuela. Mirabel flinched, opening her eyes.
May was shaking, finally showing the same raw emotion as Mirabel was, a stark opposite from her earlier quiet, restrained grief. “Please, Mirabel, dear, let me do this; if not for you, for me—I don’t know what Peter has in here, but I know I couldn't let him rest if I didn’t let you have this.” The pair's hands shook as the case was exchanged.
For a moment, nothing was said. They were alone in the church, which had gone from homey and packed to despondent, large, and intimidating. Mirabel was lost. But then May spoke.
“You are a wonder, Mirabel Madrigal.”
Mirabel didn’t trust herself to reply, so she gave a weary, blurry nod before sobbing into the older woman’s shoulders once again.
It was past midnight when Mirabel finally opened up the briefcase.both Luisa and Isabela were nowhere to be found, as usual on these weeknights, so Mirabel was completely alone. Her only companion was a dim lamp and an old desk where she sat.
It was an old, dusty thing—property of Benjamin Parker was engraved on the side, and Mirabel had to hold in her anguished gasp. Had May even realized she had given away property of her late husband? She wondered once again if she even had the right to look upon the object, let alone open it.
But her curiosity outweighed her guilt at that moment, so, squinting her eyes shut, bracing for— something she didn’t know, Mirabel opened the case quickly and harshly, like she was ripping off a band-aid.
A bright, pale blue light filled the room immediately, making Mirabel flinch and lean away from the device. Ever since the train, she had been careful to avoid quick changes in light. She stumbled backwards, nearly falling off the chair she was sitting in.
“Hello, Mirabel!”
The girl squinted at the source of the light, restraining her burning, burning hope. That couldn’t be Peter’s voice. But as she waited, white-knuckled, the light in the case seemed to swirl around and coalesce into the silhouette of a person. As her eyes adjusted, she was shocked to see that the projection had formed into a miniature, slightly transparent version of Peter Parker, her dead friend. The light projecting him came from a small disk. The rest of the case was empty—the bottom, in particular, was a dark panel flush with the rim of the suitcase.
“So…while I’ve been waiting for you, I whipped up this little surprise.” Pete’s voice chirped again. Mirabel, panicked, checked to make sure her sisters weren’t about to burst in through their door. When her sense didn’t go off, she breathed a wobbly sigh of relief.
Now, I don’t just mean this holographic projection of myself, although this is pretty cool! No, I mean…well, see for yourself, Mirabel.”
Her attention was guided to the dark panel beneath him. It folded away, revealing thin, rounded squares that Mirabel could only guess were cartridges of—
No.
“Yeah,” Peter sounded triumphant. “I made some more web-fluid! I didn’t give you that much the first time because I needed to see if it worked or not. And, well, when it did—when you saved the train, I was ecstatic. All of my available supply is included in here, along with a recorded set of instructions to make more. I figured, if you’re going to become a hero, it would get pretty inconvenient to keep coming to little old me for web-fluid.”
Mirabel choked. What she would give to even see him again. It would never be inconvenient, not to her.
Never again.
“Can I…be real with you for a sec? You’re so…special, you know? And sometimes you don’t see that. Actually, I don’t know if you ever truly have. But if these powers allow you to see yourself the way I do, then—go be the hero I know you are. The hero you always were.”
Mirabel gasped wetly, leaning into his image. Peter grinned sheepishly.
“Yeesh, that was corny. Anyways, I just…well, I thought this would be a fun little surprise. I’m excited to work with you, Spider-Moth.”
His model leaned forward, raising his hand to click something, and once again, the light that was Mirabel’s best friend disappeared from this world, leaving Mirabel alone.
But then the top popped open, too, and Mirabel’s eyes widened as the last issue of Spider-Man Peter had written, the one she had designed her suit off of, popped out. The comic book pages fluttered softly, whistling with dreams now taken away. Another note fell out— for my best friend written clumsily on its yellow paper.
She sat in the dark for a few minutes, the world silent with the unspoken invisible pain thrumming through the air. Mirabel felt a familiar wetness well up within her, and she fought the urge to sob loudly. She focused on the cartridges of web-fluid, biting her lip to keep everything in. Her hands ran across the comic in her hands, and for the first time in the week, she thought of Spider-Moth.
You have always been Peter’s hero, May’s voice echoed within her.
Did she really deserve this? This chance to be something that she wasn’t? Someone…something exceptional?
Mirabel frowned as she thought. No, she decided. No, I don’t deserve this. She knew what happened when she tried to be something she wasn’t.
Mirabel couldn’t believe that the day could bring her more tears, but even so, a few stained the panels of the comic book as she flipped through its pages. In her last moment with her best friend, she had yelled at Peter that she wasn’t Spider-Man. And that was still true.
She was Spider-Moth.
It didn’t matter that Mirabel Madrigal wasn’t enough for the Madrigals. It didn’t matter that New York had the Encanto, either, a team of heroes with so many members it was hard to count without a song. Under the watch of Spider-Moth, what happened to Peter Parker would happen to nobody else ever again. If Mirabel had to spend the rest of her days paying for her sin, then so be it.
With a renewed determination, she bolted towards the closet, maneuvering her way past all of Luisa and Isabela’s belongings and accomplishments, in search of the costume she had abandoned a week ago. She was not in this to be special . She was in this to take responsibility .
Ironically, her suit had started to accumulate cobwebs, and Mirabel shivered at the cold she felt as she slipped it back on. Unsurprisingly, the web-shooter slots were the only part that remained completely untouched—Peter had designed them well. Her fingers lightly brushed the silver projector with longing before yanking a pair of web-cartridges from the case.
They slipped in with a satisfying pop, solidifying her decision. Her wide, white lenses worked perfectly at cutting down her enhanced perception into something more manageable, and it was as if the dark of the night snapped into focus.
Mirabel’s hearing picked up the distinct sound of a police siren. It was time to get to work.
Spider-Moth turned around, thwipping the apartment window open. Steps as light as her namesake, she leapt from the ground and vaulted from her sisters’ opposing bedposts and dove out the window into the night of New York.
Florist’s thoughts were full of her youngest sister as she and the other third-generation Encanto members patrolled the streets. Fighting crooks and goons was her favorite way to destress, a fact that she hoped Alma Madrigal—Madame Miracle—would never hear. She was supposed to be the Flor del Encanto, she wasn’t allowed to find joy in combat.
But tonight, she needed the outlet. Luckily, it was a good night to think: crime had skyrocketed in the past week ever since the Goblin and Ursula incidents. When they weren’t on duty to help clean up the disaster in Manhattan—no, Camilo, Isabela didn’t believe his Spider-Moth story for a second—they were patrolling the streets at night constantly.
That meant countless crooks were trapped behind piles of bricks and petals ten times the size of their faces, winded by sound blasts and tripped up by shifting terrain. Now, they found themselves in a group again, gang members strewn about a street—the police would come there soon.
She left the scene swiftly, with Shaper, Soundstorm and Her-cules traveling right behind her. “Alright!” she channeled the command that came from being the favorite of Madame Miracle, holding up a fist. “Split up! Listen for the sound of sirens—if you come across something, send your usual signal, got it?” The signals they used were unique to each member:
An earth shattering leap from Her-cules. “You got it, sis!” She was carried off by her strength as she finished her affirmation.
A warping, pulsating building from Shaper. “It’s showtime!” Encanto’s youngest exclaimed before spreading his hands and burrowing his way beneath the pavement.
Two powerful sound blasts from Soundstorm. Before she turned away, though, the silent-but-violent member of the Encanto landed a concerned hand on her older cousin’s shoulder. “Are you alright, prima?”
The only one Isabela let herself be vulnerable around, Dolores had been with her since the beginning. They had trained to take up Abuela’s mantle together, and despite her sound-based powers not extending to her own ears, Dolores always seemed to know when something was up. Isabela guided her cousin’s hand down and squeezed. “I’m just…thinking about Mirabel.”
Soundstorm froze. “You know the rules, Isa.” Don’t talk about tío Bruno. And don’t ever, ever, tell Mirabel the truth. Isabela knew them by heart—they all did.
Before she could respond, though, the night sky behind them lit up like a carnival as the bricks of a nearby skyscraper pulsated and shifted into vibrant rainbow colors. Florist mentally cursed—Shaper had already found some trouble. You could usually count on him for that. “Let’s go,” she murmured to her teammate. Vines and booming sounds carried them across the skyline, infusing them with the soul of New York. And then they were there.
“Shaper—what did you get us into?” Florist barked as she sent flowers twisting between a pair of armed men, slamming them against the walls of the alley they had found themselves in. Their foes were few, but the weapons they carried—they seemed way too advanced for something a normal crook would pick up on the streets. The neon-purple weapons seemed to shift around as if they were controlled by Shaper himself—who was currently caught in a tango with two blade-wielding foes.
“I don’t know—geez, amigo, watch it!” he swiftly bent as the edge of a sword swept cleanly across his tuxedo, nicking the orange bowtie he wore. “Hey—that was expensive!” No, it wasn’t: the Encanto were given the suits the same way they were given their powers: through magic. They could be manipulated easily, allowing suit-ups at a single thought.
He was saved by a resounding punch from a now-arriving Her-cules, whose impact knocked a few more of the adversaries to the ground. “I’m here,” she huffed, twilight-blue tunic pulsing as she breathed heavily. Behind her mask, Isabela shot a look of concern towards Luisa: Encanto’s mightiest often carried the most out of all of them. If it wasn’t their duty-bound obligation, Isabela would wrap her sister up in vines and force her to take a break.
A flower bloomed out to guard Florist’s head from an incoming…plasma blast? That was surprising. Isabela allowed her vines to guide her around, flowing her body between the enemies that seemed to only grow in number the more that they attacked. Still, she held steady, sending sharpened petals at them and taking vindication at their yells of pain.
Mind clearing as the four fought, Isabela’s thoughts once again turned to the only member of the Madrigals who hadn’t become a member of the Encanto when she came of age. Isabela was no idiot. She saw the effect of staying away from Mirabel. Isabela saw the struggling grades, the betrayed looks, and the lonely way her sister sunk into herself. There was a time when Isabela wanted so badly to reach out. Her mamá told her that they all felt that at one point, but it was necessary to…keep Mira in the dark.
It was already customary to do that at the start for each member, during the before. Alma Madrigal’s rules. In case anything happens to us, she had explained after Isabela had found out. And so, before Mirabel had received her powers, she was left in the dark like usual. And then—well, something terrible happened.
A plasma blast scraped her cheek when Florist lost her focus at the memory. Redoubling her effort, a hefty stalk burst from the cracks of the road, lifting a yelping gunman by his foot and toying with him like a cat playing with his food. Shaper laughed from his position in molding the alley into one of his funhouses. “Woah, prima, you got some flower up your—” A flick of her free wrist and he was choking on dandelions.
Scoffing at Camilo’s antics—he had joined full time nearly a week after his birthday after shadowing for years. That had been a particularly stormy day, courtesy of Tempest. The Encanto had never been more exhausting since Camilo Madrigal got the power to Scapeshift.
Mirabel was the one who never got her powers. She touched the candle like they all had, oblivious to the bated breath sucked in all around her. Mirabel could care less when there was no spark, no… electricity awakened within her after her soft, pudgy fingers dusted the candle. She cheerfully asked for more cake once the candle was slowly and unsettlingly taken away from her, no blessings imparted by it.
Abuela had been so worried that day. Mirabel was shooed to bed, and Isabela would never forget the heartbroken face she wore as she was carted away. As the door was closed, Abuela demanded a vision of…the one they do not speak of, right there and then. She needed to know what it meant for the Encanto. And so, he did, and the dining room, still plated with Mirabel’s now-forgotten birthday cake, was drenched in green.
And what they saw…well, one thing was clear.
“Mirabel can never know,” Abuela declared in the ensuing, horrified silence. If this was what happened…if this was what a future of Mirabel knowing entailed—then a secret they would keep.
…His visions always came true—your fate was sealed when your prophecy was read, he had once told her, despondent. But Isabela would lie to her sister a thousand times if it meant something like this could be avoided. And that was the first rule they learned that night. Julieta hated that rule, but even she followed it to an extent.
The second rule was made when…he complained of a headache and locked himself in his room. Isabela had snuck after him, watching in surprise as his door burned green once again. He was having another vision? That…he never did that. He tried to restrict his clairvoyance, the one aspect of his powers he hated.
But then Isabela heard the most strangled sound come from behind his door. “No!” He had wailed, sounding like he was in pain.
He—no, Isabela corrected as she bloomed more stalks in a defensive formation. He had a name. Tío Bruno never came out of his room again.
We don’t talk about Bruno. That was the second rule.
As the years passed, Alma slowly coaxed them to let go of Mirabel. Isabela readily agreed with the plan—they would raise and house her, but the further away Mirabel was from the Madrigals and the Encanto, the safer she would be. They didn’t help her when she had homework, they didn’t hold her when she was sick, but she was safe.
Abuela professed Mirabel’s safety as a symbol of their strength. “She represents everything we’re doing as the Encanto,” Madame Miracle assured a younger Isabela when the two were patrolling alone. “Your sister’s well-being comes from our distance. Isabela, you know what will happen if we tell her.”
She did.
But even so, as Mirabel was freed from the pressures of the Encanto, Isabela had felt a weird resentment grow for her sister. She knew that telling Mira would be bad, she knew that Mirabel had every right to be innocent and safe and carefree—unlike the rest of them—but the jealousy and stress leaked into their daily interactions.
And then Mirabel never succeeded at being a Madrigal, either, and that was its own thing. Whatever had caused tío Bruno to run away, Mirabel surely had something to do with it. So Abuela tried her best to minimize her youngest granddaughter’s failures, trying to hide the fact that the impeccable, amazing Madrigals had a speck of dirt in their name. Abuelo Pedro’s sacrifice meant that both the Madrigals and the Encanto had to be perfect. And that had only fueled Isabela's resentment further.
Isabela had tried to project disinterest when Mirabel had come home one night as a middle schooler, screaming in joy about her new friend Peter Parker. But Isabela felt an unbelievable relief course its way through her: finally, someone who could value Mirabel, who could treat her the way she deserved.
A similar feeling passed through all of the Madrigals a week ago. Mirabel and basketball was an unexpected combination, to be sure, but if Mirabel found success in the sport, then finally everything would be perfect. Isabela even allowed herself to show some support that night.
But then Peter Parker died. Isabela felt devastation swallow her as she watched the small flame in her youngest sister go completely out right there at the breakfast table. She badly, badly wanted to reach out, say something—anything to Mira, but rule number one kept the words clogged in her throat.
When she did and it was thrown back in her face, her resolve re-solidified.
Mirabel and the Encanto could never mix.
A large bout of sound quaked its way past Isabela, blowing her stalks down and sending the rest of the attackers flying. “Florist! What is going on?” Soundstorm looked somewhere between angry and worried; Florist gave her teammate a hopefully perfect and prim smile, telegraphing that she was fine. But Dolores would ask later.
She almost collapsed as they finished knocking the bad guys out, before remembering who she was. “Alright,” she said, biting back a sigh of exhaustion, “that’s enough for tonight. Let’s…let’s go home.”
Four flashes of light and the team had dissolved into their civilian clothes. They all breathed sighs of relief as they emerged from the alley they had fought in. “Geez, what the hell happened? It’s like the same weapons dealer is delivering to all the gangs in New York!” Camilo muttered, taking out one of his emergency snacks.
Luisa wiped her brow. “The guys and I at the cleanup at Oscorp witnessed a bunch of raids this week. Someone is taking wreckage and…repurposing it. Damn it, I need more shifts.”
Isa came over to rub her sister’s infinitely knotted shoulders. “You know what mamá will say, Lu.” she admonished. “You know what I will say.”
Luisa whined but she didn’t say anything, knowing better.
“We know you want to do more, Luisa. It’s getting out of hand—we just need more help, honestly.” Isabela continued, rolling her own shoulders. At least they were done tonight. No more crime. They could go home to Mirabel, and maybe Isabela would rack up the courage and break rule one at least for one night.
But the city never sleeps.
The ensuing sirens that whipped past the four members made Isabela curse silently. Damn it, she just had to run her mouth. The police were chasing a runaway car into the distance, lighting up the night and the need to save the day in Isabela’s soul.
Theory took a moment to check that nobody was watching, and then in another second the four Encanto were back, triumphantly transformed into their costumes. As the buildings and vehicles that covered the streets of New York in traffic blitzed by, Isabela’s thoughts lingered on Mirabel again: how she hoped she was doing alright, how she hoped Mira was far from here, and how she hoped Mirabel would never find out the truth. She refocused herself, reminding herself of the reason she would be a hero.
But she was so exhausted. One more car chase, and tonight would be over with. She hissed angrily as her enervation slowed her down. The cars began to break away from them—Isabela’s flowery powers gave her no super-vision, so soon she was left with only intuition to guide her. Luckily, though, she could still hear the car. A shockwave alerted her to one of Her-cules’ powerful leaps as they continued to race: but Isabela could see that the hops were getting shorter.
Their cousins weren’t doing that well, either. Soundstorm’s blasts weren’t breaking any windows, and the ground was decidedly more firm than soft beneath Shaper’s touch. They were all losing steam, and they would lose this car, too. “ Encanto!” Florist yelled, summoning the final fringes of her strength. They had to make it!
But then…the strangest thing happened. The police sirens quieted, prompting Florist’s vines to stop their increasingly lethargic crawling. She couldn’t hear the sound of screeching tires that characterized the language of a car chase. It was as if the car was suddenly silenced, plucked from its race by a being in the sky. What could have caused this?
She got her answer when they followed the tire-marks into an abandoned alleyway.
Isabela gasped. It was a typical New York corridor, dirty and dark with every other light on. It was, for all intents and purposes, completely innocent of car chase contraband. There was nothing on the ground to indicate any hurried parking job or any cowardly escape by a pair of car thieves.
But then she looked up.
The brown, dirtied car was there the whole time. Turned over and suspended, the vehicle rested on…nothing, it seemed. Wait, no—Florist could make out webs through the light of a window. They looked identical to the stuff that was on the train. All thin and stringy to an unbelievable degree—certainly they didn’t look tough enough to hold up a car of that weight—even if it was battered and bruised. The crooks inside were also wrapped in the sticky substance, squirming in their seats.
Beside her, Shaper laughed triumphantly. “And you guys didn’t believe me for a second!”
Despite the situation, Isabela felt a sudden indignance well up within her. This wasn’t proof that he was right! Maybe it was just another freak that escaped from Oscorp, like a…giant spider or something. Maybe it was a…Spider-Pig, or something!
But then the window light twinkled in such a way that caught her eye—there was a sticky note on the underbelly of the car. Tuning her annoying cousin’s I told you sos out, she sent a lone vine weaving between the mess of webs to receive the note.
When she read it, she died a little inside at the sudden, horrifying realization that Camilo was right. The writing was drawn in brilliant flourishes, written in a nice blue ink against the pink of the post-it note.
Courtesy of your friendly neighborhood Spider-Moth.
P.S: You’re my favorite, Florist! Love the dress!
Well, at least she could hold that over Shaper’s head. That was one small comfort that helped Isabela against the storm of worry she felt because she had no idea what was to come. It all started with one million dollar question:
Who was Spider-Moth?