Chapter Text
Everyone keeps telling me how my story is supposed to go. Nah. Imma do my own thing.
- Miles Morales, Spider-Man: Across the Spiderverse
Ekko Morales can benchpress a car. He can scale up the side of a building without breaking a sweat. Fight twenty guys to a standstill. Swing across chasms thirty storeys deep. Feel a bullet coming his way and move fast enough to get clear.
But seeing his father again, after all these years mourning the loss and wearing the grief like a permanent scar slashed across his heart, he falters. Wyeth Morales is not the same man who left him behind. He has crows feet extending from the outer corners of his eyes, and laugh lines etched into his cheeks. In this universe, the man had a chance to grow older.
It’s funny seeing him like this. Seeing him hug Ekko - the other son - like his life depended on it. He doesn’t know how he feels when they cling to each other, seeking out something he knows he’s lost years ago: peace. The grounding presence of a dad. The courage of a father. The strength of someone who would break down every wall in his way to keep him safe.
Fingers twitch, traitorously. He aches for it. He yearns to grab this man by the shoulders and tell him how unfair it is - that he’s left them behind. That his ghost still lingers behind the alley of Zaun’s Police Department; a remnant of his universe’s precious last moments of justice.
He almost turns away, fists clenched, unable to watch the scene unfold. A hand lands on his shoulder tentatively, and when he looks up to meet their eyes, it’s him.
They have the same strong jaw. The same almond-shaped brown eyes. The same slanting of his lower lip when he’s thinking of something tragic. Even across the boundaries of time and space, it’s almost comforting to know that the resemblance will always be uncanny, even if it isn’t his to behold.
“Heard you’ve been through a lot,” are the first words he hears from his - Ekko’s - father in years.
Ekko’s jaw tenses. “You could say that.”
Wyeth frowns. His hand doesn’t budge from his shoulder, only squeezing a little tighter, like he’s hoping the comfort will ease that chasm of separation and grief. This Wyeth isn’t his dad. But they have the same tight smile. The same strain in his voice when Ekko’s shutting him out, but not quite edging away.
Eventually, the silence ends. “How’s your mother?”
“She’s aight,” he says, too curtly. “Managing.”
He nods, just once, still frowning at his tone. “You’re mad at me.”
“Gee, Captain, what gave you that idea?” he replies, sardonically.
The look he sends Ekko is almost chastising. Ekko bristles, hating the way his body instantly straightens up in apology. Some things never change. Ekko braces himself for a scolding, just like old days when he’d get a stern lecture on proper etiquette and respecting his elders. He can almost recite it from memory - even readies himself for the inevitable onslaught…but something softens in Wyeth instead.
The old man releases his shoulder and shoves his hands into his pockets. His pride stops him from mourning the loss of contact.
“Did I ever tell you we used to scale the rooftops as kids?” he murmurs, eyes hazy, like he’s watching an old memory play out before his eyes. “Me and your mother - two reckless teens egging each other on every night.”
Ekko can’t stop the curiosity peeking through. Mum doesn’t talk much about him anymore. The only peeks he gets into his dead dad’s life are through old photographs and the occasional slip of her tongue when she feels like indulging him. He understands it, even if he’s itching to know more. The pain is too great to bear.
“You and Mum?” he snorts. “Roof-running?”
Wyeth chuckles. “Believe it. Where do you think you got it from?”
“Scar,” Ekko says haughtily, almost missing the way the laughter in Wyeth’s eyes dim a bit. They flicker to the other Ekko, who’s deep in conversation with Jinx, and meet his again. Ekko frowns. “Something happen to him here?”
“Much the same as me, I suppose,” Wyeth says quietly.
He crosses his arms and stares at the other Ekko, hard. That would explain…a lot.
“We used to dream of a better life,” Wyeth continues, more sombre now, “She’s the reason why I joined the PD. I wanted to make this city better - for everyone around us,” he makes a vague sweeping motion around the dilapidated warehouse, “and eventually…for you.”
His lips curl into a deeper frown. “A life dependent on you actually living,” he says, sharply, feeling something in him twinge when Wyeth flinches. “The city’s a mess run by a cartel. Mum spends more of her time watching her own back walking home from the hospital than breathing normally.”
The accusation isn’t fair, and Ekko knows it. It isn’t Wyeth’s fault he was in the wrong place that night, chasing a criminal and paying the price. But Ekko has never untangled the mystery of Wyeth Morales’ death. He doesn’t dare say that aloud here, but what he does know is that the city feels better with Wyeth in it. And the thought breeds resentment.
Wyeth doesn’t need to read his mind to know when Ekko’s walls slam shut.
“And you?” Wyeth fixes him with a hard stare. “In my absence, how did this…Prowler come about?”
“Hard times.”
Wyeth studies him for a long moment. Then his voice softens. “It won’t help, but I’m sorry you and your mother had to suffer. I’ve seen enough in the PD to know you did what you had to, just to survive.”
A heavy silence lingers. Ekko realizes he’s holding his breath. Wind whistles through the cracks in the warehouse walls.
“But you’ve got her fire and more of my stubbornness than I’ll ever admit. This city will try to convince you it’s only shadows. But there’s good here,” he places a hand on Ekko’s shoulder again, nudges his chin to the other Ekko laughing, to the others smiling and chattering in relief. “Good worth fighting for.”
“Easier said than done,” Ekko bites, though the bitterness doesn’t quite land.
Wyeth’s gaze holds steady. “You already did. And if you can’t believe in it for yourself…then believe that I believe in you.”
Something twists in his chest. He wants to scoff again, to shove the words away. But instead he finds himself whispering, almost against his will, “I don’t know if I can.”
Dad squeezes his shoulder. “Then that’s where we start.”
Earth-42
Four years later…
“So…you hear back from the Gazette, yet?”
Ekko grimaces. “Unfortunately, yes.”
Gert’s voice in his ear takes on an incredulous tone. “Unfortunately? You’ve been talking our ears off about it for months.”
“No I haven’t.”
He can practically hear Scar’s eye-roll from behind his mask. “Yes you have.”
He scowls. “Can we just-focus on the task at hand?”
“I’m good,” she says, at the same time that Scar concurs. “So why aren’t you good?”
Janna. Sue him for actually focusing on the mission. “Look, we’ve been setting up this operation for months. Countless hours studying the blueprints. Sleepless nights tracking her down, infiltrating and scouting for this very night…and you’re choosing now to ask about my grad program?”
There’s a brief silence on the other end. Scar blinks. He thinks. It’s hard to tell when his face is mostly covered in a rodent-looking skeletal mask. “Well…yeah.”
Ekko drags in a breath, forcing calm. They’re perched several storeys up, overlooking the entry to yet another abandoned warehouse - why are they always abandoned warehouses? - waiting for some snake-woman to show up at her semi-regular roosting spot so they can finally get a lead on the Cartel. His stress is already spiking.
And yeah, maybe it’s been years of chasing shadows between finals, college applications, and now grad school rejections he doesn’t want to relive. But if tonight works, they’ll be closer to figuring out who really runs this city. Closer to a world where he doesn’t have to multi-lock his doors and windows every night.
Which is why it’s insane that they’re asking about his application to the Gazette’s program now. Does it really matter, in the end? The Gazette’s the biggest paper in Zaun, only takes two brilliant geniuses per year, and he’s clearly from the wrong side of town. Even for Under-City standards.
…It does. It really does. His journalism degree cannot be wasted on writing for a gossip column. Please, no.
Seeing that Scar’s still staring him down, Ekko sighs. The breath fogs up his eyes behind his mask.
“Fine. I’m stressed, okay? They emailed to say they’re ‘still processing applicants’. Which basically means there’s too many people, which basically means I’m not in. Happy?”
Scar places a gloved hand on his shoulder. Ekko leans in, only fractionally.
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Obviously, you’re gonna get it,” Gert chimes in. “You’re a weapon with words. Hard hitting journalist Ekko Morales: delivering justice on the streets and literally on the sheets.”
“You say that every time,” Ekko says, a little abashed.
“Because it’s true. Don’t sell yourself short,” Scar shrugs. “Now stop whining about it and focus on the mission.”
Ekko gives him an incredulous look. “Wha-”
“Six o’clock,” Scar continues, ignoring him, pointing at the serpent Countess quite literally slithering into the warehouse.
His pulse steadies. “It’s go time.”
The warehouse lights sputter overhead, casting jagged shadows across cracked concrete. Ekko - Prowler now, mask locked and blades humming at his sides - shifts forward, every nerve on edge. Beside him, Scar’s rodent-skull mask gleams pale in the dark.
“Target just entered the south stairwell,” Gert’s voice crackles in their ears. “Careful. She’s packing more than scales. Watch the toxins.”
The air goes still. Too still. Ekko holds a hand out, ears pricked up high alert.
A voice slithers out of the dark, velvet and venom breaking the silence.
“Careful now,” Cassiopeia literally hisses. “I bite.”
A blur of scales. She strikes, fangs flashing as green mist bursts from canisters strapped at her side. Poison hisses outward, spreading low and hungry across the floor.
Ekko darts back, filters hissing as his mask seals. “Masks on,” he barks. Scar slides in front, spinning his spear to slash through a stray canister before it fully discharges. The explosion rocks the room, showering sparks and smoke.
Cassiopeia lungs, tail coiled, her movements sharp but tethered by her serpentine body. She hits hard. Ekko barely misses a strike as it lands against the concrete floor and sends debris flying. He dives low, green blades sparking against her armor, while Scar swings wide, keeping her penned in. She hisses, eyes flashing with poisonous gleam as another vial shatters against the ground, spraying acid across the wall.
“Left flank. She’s favoring it!” Gert calls in his ear, the clatter of a keyboard underscoring her urgency.
Ekko pivots, using the moment to slash across her shoulder. The serpent lady shrieks, scales tearing, twisting with frightening strength. It sends him flying into a stack of rusted pipes. His head rings.
Scar doesn’t flinch. He drives in with calm precision, each blow measured, forcing her back step by step. Ekko jumps up, shaking his head through the ringing, helping him push her into a corner. A final blast of toxin detonates from her belt, clouding the air in blinding green light. The mask filters are good. But a blast is a blast, and they’re forced to step back to reduce the acid concentration.
When it clears, she’s gone.
“Damn it!” Ekko snarls, fist slamming into the warehouse wall hard enough to crack brick. His chest heaves, anger boiling hotter than the poison still burning the air.
Scar, ever steady, kneels near where she’d fallen. He plucks up something crumpled on the ground: a torn scrap of paper. He straightens it, and brings the edges together before showing Ekko.
“Not entirely pointless,” Scar murmurs.
A black rose.
Relief crashes through Ekko in a dizzy wave. His fists unclench as he stares at the symbol, feeling something pricking away at the edges of his mind. He can’t place it, choosing to scan it in for Gert to examine instead. It’s the lead they’d been chasing for years now, tangible in his partner’s hand.
Finally.
They return back to home base - really, just his and Scar’s cramped shared apartment - with a little more promise than when they’d left. The perks of Cassiopeia’s quick escape is that they’d actually had time to scour the warehouse. Nothing had been too important for her to protect with her life, but to them, it’s a gold mine.
Laid out on their scratched-up coffee table is a torn invitation card, its lettering smudged beyond recognition but with the same black rose symbol embossed on the back. A slender vial of poison, pale green liquid catching the weak light of the desk lamp. And a coded ledger fragment, the paper scrawled with shorthand and symbols none of them can decipher.
Ekko sinks into the couch, mask discarded, elbows braced against his knees. His breath still feels tight in his lungs. “This…this can’t be all she left behind.”
Scar settles onto the floor, studying the card without a word. His mask stays on, but his stillness is telling.
Gert sits apart, the glow of her laptop screen the only sound aside from keys tapping. Her face is drawn, unusually quiet. “It’s scrubbed clean,” she murmurs. “Whoever she’s working for clearly doesn’t want anyone tracking them.”
Ekko eyes the vial, its liquid swirling faintly. “And that?”
“Not factory-made,” Gert says without looking up. “That’s custom. Which means suppliers. Which means trails.”
Scar sets the card back down. “We’re closer now than we were yesterday.”
Ekko lets out a breath, shaky, but it feels like something loosens in his chest. They might not have caught the Countess, but they hadn’t lost either. The black rose, the card, the poison, the ledger; all tangible threads leading…somewhere.
Scar leans back against the couch, voice steady. “See? Not pointless.”
Ekko closes his eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle around him. When he opens them again, his gaze fixes on the black rose lying on the table. Questions crowd his head, restless and sharp, scratching at the edges of his thoughts like they’re trying to tell him something he can’t quite hear.
He exhales slowly. “No. Not pointless.”
Home smells like spiced meat, freshly laundered sheets, and the faint tang of old newspapers and photographs lining the walls, their edges fraying with time.
Ekko visits every weekend, between his nightly escapades and a part-time job at the local deli he hopes to drop soon. Every time, he walks in with a basket of salamis and cheese, bread, and jams - gifts from Jericho, a thank-you for Inna taking care of his books back in the day.
And every time, without fail, Inna Morales greets him with a rare smile and a pinch of his left cheek. It hurts, every time.
“You gotta stop telling that man to gift us. He’ll run poor otherwise.”
Ekko thinks of the near-constant flow of people he has to check out, the shelves he stocks endlessly, and knows as well as she does that it’ll never happen. He’s the lifeblood of the Under-City. Everyone loves Jericho.
“Somehow, I don’t think he’ll listen.”
She scoffs, placing the food onto the counter anyway. “Are you staying here long?”
“Just the night,” he replies, regretful as he does every week. Inna’s smile dims slightly; the flat feels emptier without extra feet running around. “I’ll be back next week,” he adds.
“Okay,” she says, like clockwork.
Ekko sits at the table, watching his mother slice the loaf and slide it into the toaster. She hums, carrying the sounds of old Zaun through the kitchen, slapping his hand away whenever he reaches to help. He wonders, quietly, if she ever allows herself a moment to just…sit, to not go through the motions.
He toys with the words, feels them on the tip of his tongue. Words he never had the courage to say out loud four years ago. Words he isn’t sure he’s brave enough to say to her now.
Like clockwork, Inna butters the toast and sets the plate of salami in front of him, pouring their cups of black tea with a touch of milk and honey. Something inside him snaps.
“Hey…do you remember when I disappeared for a day a while ago?”
Inna looks up from her cup of tea, brows furrowed. “Which day? You’ve vanished more times than I can count, Ekko.”
“This one was different,” he says carefully. “I went somewhere, like…another version of our world.”
She sets the cup down, eyes sharp now, but calm. “Another universe?” She lets out a tired sigh. “Ekko, I know you’re waiting on the Gazette, but I’d hoped your ramblings on the multiverse were just…over.”
“First of all, not ramblings,” he says a little too sharply. “And secondly, there’s a literal snake-human hybrid in Piltover, and you’re skeptical that another universe exists?”
“Ekko, not tonight,” Inna says, a touch weary. “But I’ll humour you. What did you see?”
He purses his lips in protest, but swallows down his pride and continues anyway. “Well, I saw Dad. I talked to him.” He pauses. “Maybe not well. Pretty sure he was seconds away from telling me off. But he remembered when you both went roof-running. He said…he’s sorry we suffered, if that helps.”
Inna’s lips press into a thin line, and her fingers rest against her chest, steadying herself. Her disbelief hangs in the air, suspended, but for a heartbeat, Ekko swears he sees her softening. Only Wyeth could have known that detail. Only Wyeth could have said something so perfectly, so classically him, that even for a fleeting moment, Ekko feels certain mum believes him.
“Oh.” Her voice catches, but she tilts her chin upward, holding herself strong. “That-that’s…thank you.”
“I know it’s not the same,” he murmurs. “But seeing him alive made me realize that even if people are gone here, the things they care about, the things they leave behind…don’t just disappear. They shape how you live. I…wanted to bring that back to you. To remind you that you’re not alone in this.”
Inna reaches across the table, brushing that stray loc of hair from his forehead. Her touch is grounding. “You’re not either.”
“I’m sorry I took so long to tell you.”
“No, don’t be,” she brushes his cheek softly. “You’ve always had this way of carrying things that seem impossible, and somehow, you make them matter.”
He exhales, letting some of the weight in his chest ease. “He told me to keep seeing the good, even when it’s hard.”
She nods slowly, a faint, proud smile softening her features. “Exactly. You keep doing you, my boy. I know he’s looking down at us and proud of us for holding it together. Proud of you for going on despite it all.”
For a moment, they sit together in quiet, letting the smells of spiced meat, old papers, and freshly toasted bread fill the apartment. Shared grief weaves through the room, tangled with family roots and a peace he rarely allows himself to feel.
Ekko leans back, tracing the edge of the table with one hand. “I wish I could tell him you said that. That you’re proud of him too.”
Inna’s eyes glimmer, a mixture of sadness and strength. “Then you do it for me. That’s more than enough.”
And through watery eyes, Ekko lets himself believe it.
Living memories in the dreamscape are never easy. He’s tried countless times to shock himself awake, to stop himself from reliving the nightmare of finding his father’s body strewn in an alley. Sometimes it works. He wakes in a cold sweat, hair matted to his forehead, and stumbles to the sink to splash the pain away.
Most times, especially when he’s back home with Mum, the nightmares persist.
It’s the same every time. Ekko, fourteen, sees his dad’s police car parked outside an alley, empty. Blue and red streaks cut through the foggy night, eerie in their silence. The walkie-talkie crackles, requesting updates that will never come.
Young Ekko, mortified that his father has come to pick him up - expecting a loud, cheerful “I love you, Ekko!” from the police car - is frozen.
His mind remembers a lack of blood. A lack of anything particularly graphic. Almost as if Wyeth Morales had fallen asleep and never woken up, face down against the ground as he was. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly ajar as if drawing deep breaths, yet his chest was utterly motionless.
Young Ekko rolls his father onto his back, pinches his cheeks, and wills himself to wake up from this nightmare. Only he never does.
It’s real life. And in real life, a crumpled piece of paper bearing a black rose rests in Wyeth’s hand, worn and folded like he’s been puzzling over it for days. Even here, in death, it’s a whisper of something unresolved, a message meant to guide, to haunt, to demand that the living keep going.
When Ekko pulls himself awake in a cold sweat, he rifles through his drawers, deep into the sections he’d pushed away, out of sight and out of mind. And then, he finds it. So blaringly obvious now, he should’ve seen it sooner. Funny how the mind works when it’s trying to forget the past.
With shaky hands, Ekko unfolds his final clue for the night, written and scrawled around the rose in his Dad’s guiding hand.
Warehouse 4. East corner.
“You better have a good reason for calling me at this hour.”
“I-I-”
“...Ekko?”
“I got a lead.”
“...in the past twelve hours?”
“Crazier things have happened.”
A sigh. “Okay. Send it over.”
Second first time for everything!
- Ekko, [respawn]
Warehouse Four sits in a prime location, on the docks closer to the Bridge of Progress. It has a sordid history. What used to be a docking station for fishing boats, then turned into a manufacturing plant for when the Pilties needed closer and quicker supplies to fix the bridge. And when all that was done decades ago, as Uncle Benzo tells him, some sicko had taken over it and turned it into a drug factory.
No one’s really touched it for a decade. Not since an explosion rocked the Under-City and swore people away from the factory. Rumours say it’s still haunted by the three kids who were taken out by the blast, cursed to wander around the factory seeking retribution for their father for eternity. Ekko doesn’t believe in ghosts, but the Warehouse doesn’t need to be haunted to send chills down his spine.
He walks in, armed to his elbows, with Scar right behind. Gert’s steady voice crackles through the comms, a quiet anchor as they move deeper into the ruin. There’s a giant hole in the roof, no doubt from the explosion, that lets in a sliver of dim light. It barely illuminates anything; the rest of the room smells of ash and decay, unsettling and thick.
Ekko steps on a loose pipe, and it crumbles underfoot with a groan, releasing a cloud of putrid smoke. He recoils, willing the mask filters to do their job for the second time this week.
They’re guided into a dark room, all concrete surrounds and long-dead bulbs. Sparse and empty. His chest tightens. What if he’s too late? What if every lead had been erased years ago, relocated when Dad was taken out?
“Heat signature up ahead,” Gert’s voice pierces the tension. “One person. Female, armed. Tread carefully.”
Ekko exchanges a glance with Scar. His grip tightens on the green blade. Heart hammering, adrenaline coiling like a spring, he signals forward.
The next room plunges into complete darkness. Not a single light, only the sound of their breathing and Scar’s quiet footsteps. There’s a grim comfort in it; whoever they’re chasing is used to moving in shadows, comfortable with silence.
Then, light. A sudden flash from the corner of his vision.
Ekko surges forward, tracking the heat signature darting and firing bullets at him with deadly precision. He dodges, narrowly avoiding several shots. She’s skilled, clearly more agile than the serpent, and faster than he’d expected. His eyes adjust to the dark, and he makes out a slender figure with deadly poise.
Minutes drag on, and Ekko begins to feel it: fatigue settling into his shoulders, his arms heavier with every swing and parry. The adrenaline spikes, then dips, leaving his chest heaving and legs unsteady. He grits his teeth. Keep moving. Don’t let her escape.
Scar moves beside him like a shadow. Timing perfectly, he feints left and then sweeps the assailant’s weapon from her hands in a fluid motion. The gun clatters to the floor.
Ekko wastes no time. With a burst of energy, he closes the gap, catching her by the shoulders. He forces her backward against the wall, fingers gripping the edges of her…ski mask? The texture surprises him, but he pries it free with a sharp tug.
The mask falls to the floor. For a heartbeat, they both freeze, chests heaving, eyes locked. Scar watches silently, arms crossed but ready to intervene.
Ekko studies her face, adrenaline and exhaustion mixing into a sharp clarity. He knows this face. He’s seen these eyes - wide, sharp, and calculating. The curve of her lips, the electric blue hair that cuts even through the dim light. The fight isn’t over, but for a moment, everything slows.
And he can’t decide whether to be furious, or…something else entirely.
“Jinx?”