Spiderverse: A Miles Morales AU

Harry was beyond frustrated. The humiliation of being beaten by Miles and the newbies stung deeply, and he couldn't stand the thought of losing to them. He was ready to put his plan into motion, signaling his teammates with a sharp nod. They all knew what they had to do—they were ready to hurt Miles if it meant protecting their pride and titles as pros. Freddie, one of Harry's closest friends, was the first to act.

Freddie positioned himself strategically, waiting for the perfect opportunity. As soon as the ball was passed to him, he saw Miles standing close by, his target. Without hesitation, Freddie launched the ball with all the force he could muster, aiming it straight for Miles' face. The speed and intensity of the throw made it clear that this wasn't just about playing the game—it was meant to injure.

Miles saw the ball coming, but it was too fast, and Freddie was too close. He didn't have time to think, didn't have time to react. He knew it was going to hit him. Instinctively, he braced for impact, his eyes squeezing shut as he prepared for the worst. But just before the ball could smash into his face, something incredible happened. His hands shot up at lightning speed, snatching the ball out of the air with an almost inhuman reflex.

For a moment, Miles stood frozen, his eyes still closed, expecting the pain. When he realized there was none, he cautiously opened his eyes and stared in disbelief. His hands were gripping the ball tightly, holding it mere inches from his face. His mind raced—he hadn't even meant to move. How had he caught it? The reflex wasn't natural; it felt beyond anything he'd ever done before. His shock was evident as he stood there, trying to make sense of what just happened.

The gym went silent, every eye on Miles. Even his teammates seemed unsure of what they'd just witnessed. On the other side of the court, Harry's team, especially Freddie, looked utterly stunned. Freddie was certain that his throw should have hit Miles square in the face—the distance, the speed, everything was perfect. But somehow, Miles had managed to stop it, and not just by luck.

Freddie stared, his thoughts swirling. *That should've hurt him,* he thought to himself, still trying to process how Miles had reacted so quickly. It wasn't humanly possible, and that realization shook him.

Miles, sensing the tension in the air, quickly snapped out of his shock. He tossed the ball to one of his teammates, eager to keep the game going and brush off what had just happened. He didn't want to overthink it, but deep down, he knew something had changed in him. His body was reacting in ways he couldn't explain, and while it felt strange, it also felt powerful.

As the game resumed, the atmosphere was different. Everyone was on edge, waiting to see what would happen next.

Harry and his teammates weren't about to back down. Frustration and desperation clouded their judgment, and they quickly shifted their playstyle from competitive to downright dangerous. Forgetting that this was just a training session and that they were all part of the same team, the pros started playing aggressively, roughing up the newbies at every opportunity. The coach's repeated warnings fell on deaf ears as Harry's team was determined to assert their dominance, no matter the cost.

The pros had a clear physical advantage. They were bigger, more experienced, and had spent years honing their skills in competitions, winning numerous trophies under Harry's leadership. In contrast, the newbies were a mix of fresh students—many of whom had just started playing in school or at home. They want to be a part of the school basketball team go for competition but They lacked the experience and physicality of the pros, and soon enough, the rough play took its toll. One of the newbies, trying to make a basket, was hit hard and knocked down, leaving him injured and forced to leave the game.

As the aggressive tactics continued, the other newbies became visibly nervous, unsure of how to respond. They could see the shift in the pros' demeanor—it was no longer just about winning; they were out for blood. Fear began to settle in, and many of the newbies hesitated on the court, afraid of getting hurt. But one person didn't flinch—Miles.

Miles wasn't scared. In fact, the more aggressive the pros became, the more focused he felt. It was like a switch had flipped inside him. His senses sharpened, and he began to anticipate their moves in ways he didn't quite understand. During one play, as he tried to steal the ball from a pro, the player turned quickly, aiming his elbow right at Miles' face. The intent was clear—he was trying to knock Miles' teeth out, to make him bleed and force him off the court.

But just as the pro's elbow was about to make contact, Miles felt a sudden tingling sensation in his head. Without thinking, he instinctively moved, dodging the blow at the last second with a quick, almost supernatural reflex. The pro, expecting to land the hit, was stunned as Miles not only avoided the strike but also managed to steal the ball in one smooth, swift motion.

The pro stood there, dumbfounded. He had put all his force into that move, but somehow Miles had dodged it effortlessly and come out on top. It was becoming clear to everyone on the court that something was different about Miles. No matter how hard the pros tried to hurt him, they couldn't touch him.

As the game progressed, Miles continued to dominate. His movements were fluid and precise, dodging hits and making impossible shots. The pros, who were used to overpowering their opponents, found themselves helpless against him. Each time they tried to trap him or play rough, he slipped through their defenses, scoring basket after basket. The more they tried to break him, the stronger and more confident Miles became.

The pros were growing frustrated and exhausted. Every dirty trick, every aggressive move they threw at Miles, he countered with grace and skill. It was as if he had an invisible shield protecting him, and no

matter what they did, they couldn't hurt him. Miles was in the zone, and for the first time, the pros felt like they were the ones on the defensive.

Even Harry, the mastermind behind the plan, could feel his confidence crumbling. Miles had become an unstoppable force, and the harder Harry's team tried to knock him down, the more he rose above them. This wasn't just about basketball anymore—this was about proving something deeper, and Miles was winning, not just in the game, but in spirit.

Harry's frustration reached a boiling point. The humiliation of being outplayed by Miles was too much to bear, and he resolved to take matters into his own hands. With a fierce determination, he charged toward Miles, who was standing just outside the fray, the ball nowhere near him. Harry intended to shove him hard from behind, fully intending to assert his dominance.

But as he lunged, Miles felt that familiar tingling sensation wash over him again. In an instant, his body reacted on instinct, moving with incredible speed and agility. He dodged the attack by mere inches, leaving Harry stunned and unable to halt his momentum.

The collision that followed was unexpected. Freddie, who was standing directly in front of Miles, became the unfortunate target of Harry's reckless charge. The impact sent Freddie crashing to the ground with a sickening thud, and he landed awkwardly, dislocating his left arm. A piercing scream of pain erupted from him, cutting through the gym's noise like a knife.

Everyone froze, their eyes wide with shock. The confusion hung thick in the air. Why would Harry hurt Freddie? No one had witnessed Miles dodge the attack; it had all happened too quickly for anyone to understand the true sequence of events. The only visible outcome was Freddie writhing on the ground, clutching his arm.

Harry stood there, his expression shifting from anger to disbelief. He hadn't meant for this to happen, and yet the weight of his actions began to sink in. The whistle blew sharply, signaling the end of the game. The referee rushed toward Freddie, who was still screaming in pain, while the gym buzzed with anxious chatter.

"You've got some explaining to do, Harry," the coach said sternly as he approached. Harry's anger flared. "Come on, I didn't do it on purpose!" he protested, his voice rising in frustration.

The coach remained firm, shaking his head. "No, you didn't do it on purpose, but I saw you trying to hit Miles. You missed, and in the process, you hit Freddie instead. You have to take responsibility for your actions."

Harry's fists clenched at his sides, and he felt a mix of humiliation and rage. The reality of the situation hit him hard. He had let his emotions take control, and now a teammate who is also his best friend was hurt because of it. "You're making a mistake!" he shouted, but the coach's expression was unwavering.

"You're suspended," the coach reiterated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"You're making a mistake!" Harry shouted, but the coach's expression was unwavering. The weight of the suspension settled heavily on Harry's shoulders as he turned away, the reality of his actions crashing down around him. He hadn't just hurt Freddie; he had jeopardized his own position and credibility within the team.