Mike stared at the blank page. He'd written a few panels and drawn some rough sketches, but his dialogue felt wooden and stale. He stared at it a little longer and then deleted it all.
Issue 8 should have been simple. The issue where Peter learns to deal with the aftermath of the kid he failed, growing to become an even better Spider-Man. Mike knew what it should look like at the end. He had a vision, but the words wouldn't come.
He tried again. Typed out dialogue.
Peter (internal): "I keep moving forward. That's all I can do."
He deleted it. It seemed too simple.
Peter: "I failed once. I'll fail again. But I have to try anyway."
He spammed the delete button. Mike pushed away from his desk. He'd been at this for six hours now with maybe half a page usable despite all that time. He knew what needed to happen.
The problem was making it seem authentic and real. He was writing about grief and human connection while sitting alone in his apartment with no one to talk to.
His characters grew through pain. Pain he didn't feel the same way anymore.
Mike walked to his window and looked out at Midway City waking up. Again. His sleep schedule was definitely not normal. He used to be part of that life in his original world. He had a wonderful place, an amazing job, friends and Eliza.
Here, he had none of that. He isolated himself and maintained the Sophist persona. He kept people at arm's length because connection wasted time he didn't know how much of he had.
Mike returned to his desk and looked at his phone contacts. All numbers, illegal information brokers, along with arms dealers. Every contact he needed to be Sophist. No friends and no one he could talk to. No one who knew who Mike Hayes was.
The extent of his human interaction was the barista at the coffee shop he frequented. Small talk and nothing else. Ever since he embarrassed himself when Shayera entered the same coffee shop, she's been giving him weird looks.
He chose this life for himself. He chose isolation over connection because his work needed focus and a delicate touch. The being dropped him in this world and told him an almighty threat would destroy every universe. Mike didn't know who the threat was, and he didn't know when it would arrive.
All he knew was that it was coming, and his job was to make sure the heroes here were ready for when it arrived. No time for friends. Just work.
Mike looked at his Spider-Man page. At Peter Parker struggling with grief. He was writing about things he no longer had. No wonder it all felt so hollow.
Then he remembered Eliza. Mike hadn't thought about her in months. It was pointless. After all, she was in a different universe now. But tonight the memory came anyway.
Eliza Reacher. They met at a comic convention four years before he died to a whale of all things. She had long, dark, straight hair and a sharp wit that made him laugh. Her laugh was just as intoxicating as the rest of her. They dated for almost three years. Mike remembered their apartment, smaller than this one and somehow messier.
They talked about marriage, moving somewhere cheaper and work issues. Normal problems.
Eliza didn't exist here. She was just continuing her life, assuming his world still existed. Mike tried not to think about it.
The loneliness. He even started to miss her again. Wanting to talk to someone, just to talk about his day. Eliza would have been horrified by Sophist. What he was doing.
Mike tried writing again. He got three sentences down before he deleted it all again. He pulled up his planning board as Sophist.
All of it keeps working as Sophist, instead of himself. His phone sat silent on the desk with no one to call or text.
Mike stood and paced around his room. He could change his life. He could go and make friends. Join a gym or find a bar. Just build a normal life. But when? With him being Sophist and writing Spider-Man, when could he?
Mike returned to his computer and stared at the blank page. Peter Parker had Aunt May, Mary Jane, Harry Osborn, and many more he had connections with.
Mike could create fictional relationships for Peter, yet he couldn't find any for Mike Hayes.
He understood heroes the most, and yet he couldn't be one. All he had was his work as an author and Sophist. Just his work and his mission.
Mike opened up issue 7 again and tried to write again.
Peter (internal): "I'm tired of being alone with this. Tired of carrying it by myself. But who can I tell? Who would understand?"
Mike continued to write, the words coming to him easier now. Mike was now writing from his own experience. The weight of responsibility. The wanting for connection. The secret you can't tell anyone.
Mike completed three pages in one hour. Good pages, with real emotion. The sun was now rising, and light streamed through his window.
Mike continued to write and make progress. He saved the file and leaned back in his chair. His phone still sat silent.
He thought about his time with Eliza. Whether or not he should try to build new connections in this world. He didn't decide just yet. That loneliness was a cost he was paying.
Mike stood and made himself some coffee, staring at the reflection in his bathroom mirror while he brushed his teeth. He looked older now, probably the stress ageing him.
He thought about calling someone, but who? He returned to his desk and pulled up his Sophist planning board.
He continued to work while he remained alone. Mike wasn't whole, and he wasn't sure he ever could be. He made his choice. Sophist was what the world needed. Everyone relied on him to prepare the world, even if it meant Mike Hayes ceased to exist.
Mike told himself that was enough, even when he knew it wasn't. Maybe when this was all over, he could talk to the very heroes he trained, not as Sophist. As Mike.