welcome! 👋 this is an independent, mutuals-only rp blog for miguel o'hara / spider-man 2099, based upon his portrayal in sony's across the spider-verse film & my own headcanons!
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"I see him now, born of rage and tragedy. Haunted by a sense of responsibility. Determined to prevent the same fate for others. Willing to do whatever it takes...no matter the cost."
Somewhere in my head, I'm still a white knight
Flying across the planes until my last fight
i'm back at work full time! please note that as a result, i tend to be more active on the weekends!
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I've worked 9 hours today, had to walk 30 mins from town to home in muggy, 25 degrees C heat, with a heavy work bag, and when i finally get home, I'm subjected to someone's shitty karaoke, at full blast.
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Traumatic/Dramatic Starters | Accepting @iobartach
( 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐔𝐌𝐀 ) ; our muses sit together after a traumatic experience. + ( 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 ) ; one muse holds the other’s hand while they’re in pain or panicking.
The scene she last remembered was being in that backstreet, fully of rage and bitterness and looking for prey before being interrupted, restrained, and then--a moment of lucidity--a swift bite to her own body to keep her from hurting him. Even lost in the thrall of her spider she still had the forethought to protect others rather than herself.
It showed in the way she had used her own poison to subdue and paralyze rather than inflict it as a killing blow on Miguel--Who in that haze of basic instinct was a competitor and a potential meal.
Now she lay in her bed, in the very same apartment she had hoisted the other spider to when he had been consumed by similar madness. Her body bruised and scraped from the various surfaces of buildings she had skittered over in her hunt, fingertips splotched with yellow and purple from the spindles that had extended from them. Hints of dried blood still present beneath her fingernails as shallow breaths rattled in her slow-rising chest. No doubt fractured or broken from the contortions and force she had put her body through. There had been a moment, a stirring in the blackness, where she thought she felt someone touch her. It had quickly faded back into the darkness where she wandered. She knew she wasn't dead, but with how much it hurt to breathe she wondered if she may as well have been.
Hinoka knew Miguel's presence, and the fact that it persisted confused her but it was to be expected. Why not finish her then and there? Was she not considered a threat now? Why bring her back in the first place and not to the Spider Society to be monitored?
Why...Why had he even come back in the first place?
Thoughts and instinct swirl around in the dark as she traipsed through nothingness. Only to slip back into familiar glimpses of that night and the hunt she had so desperately set herself on--only to flash and change back to various instances of her life.
Of course it was always the same loop of sensory overload and traumatic repetition. Her lab accident--the scent of flesh burning and the sensation of it falling from her body--Miguel laying her in the river as her lungs began to collapse. Hot tears running down her face from the pain and regret and the fear.
A silent scream, perhaps a cry, regardless it was a rasped rattle that foretold her awakening, only to descend into pained, hoarse coughing as she recoiled from torn muscle and overstretched ligaments. A harsh grimace cuts into the expression on her face as she clutched at her midsection. Her throat felt raw, likely from the concentration of her venom, but the ghostly hue of her eyes was gone. Everything all at once snaps to her and she tries to get her bearings despite struggling to get out of her own bed.
Reality assembles itself one jagged piece at a time, forming a mosaic of wretchedness that he would confess to wishing would self-destruct, on more than one occasion. If blame was at all to be attributable in this mess, then it would come to pass that it'd land squarely at his feet, uniquely to blame for... well, a whole car crash's worth of mistakes and fumbles.
Through poorly phrased exchanges of words, prioritising duty over sensitivities, he picked his side and stuck with it, leaving Hinoka to the work that she had settled for instead. Only, this decision in turn would be the cause of consequences most unfathomable, necessitating another visit that had started on the foot of objectivity, armed with a duty to fulfil and carry out, and... now?
He's no longer certain where he's ended up.
What he can report on is the fact that he's taken up residence on a familiar floor, posted outside a room that at one stage, he would've requested permission before answering. As it were, there hadn't been room for such politeness, not in the scramble performed in ferrying her across town to be tucked beneath blankets and... monitored, for what it was worth, alternating between checks of pulse and breathing stats, before retreating yet again.
Such was his lot, as a motionless sentinel, until the point that she began to stir anew, summoned forth by her coughing spirts with a cold glass of water in one hand and a container of over-the counter medication in the other. Thankfully, in a showing of acute awareness rather than abject buffoonery, Miguel makes certain to stand by until her coughing fit relented to offer her the water and meds, short on anything of consequence that was worth reserving until this very moment to say.
That being a succulent, and yet forever timeless; "I'm sorry."
THIS ONE WAS fiesty! did that come with the age, too? so serious, less joking around. he pulls a spot from his form, tossing it below to disappear within the hole that forms. “ you're doing great, really, but i'm looking for my spider-man! let's put a pin in this, revisit after i defeat him? it will feel like a much bigger challenge then. ”
It's all too easy to claim that it did, that it played a factor in his characteristically dour and serious attitude, but the truth was in fact more nuanced. A retort that, given the rapid pace of his present pursuit, goes unaired, replaced instead by a dissatisfied grunt that follows a failed bid to catch hold of his teleporting foe. "Can't let you do that." Primarily because he had a place reserved already in line for an encounter with the ever elusive Miles, remembered as a series of quickfooted steps bring Miguel within range of one of Spot's portals. "So stand. STILL!"
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The danger of his eyes snapped like piercing fangs to the other at the utterance of that despised word. The ever present disease of madness that gouged deep into the cortex itself branched towards the perimeter of deeply rooted Hate and Despair entwined like lovers upon a bed of neurons. Nails dug into the textured surface of metal beneath, the shape of the warrior anything but strong with a wide and low stance as if every ounce of remaining strength were spent merely keeping himself from falling to pieces upon the floor. Bulked muscle strained beneath the tightly woven skin, bunching beneath as veins popped along the lined intricacies marking the back of his hand.
A low, guttural growl permeated like frostbite, looming and leeching the air of any warmth. His flesh rattled with that loathing sensation of pressure trying to crush him beneath the weight of his own guilt festering at the confines of his wretched heart. The blackened iron ball wedged so deep within the pit of his gut that he'd dig out every single inch of his guts before he could reach what pained him so. Haggard breaths filtered hotly between a partly opened maw, sweat beading along the harsh ridge of a brow as the pressure only intensified and the agony pushed him deeper beneath the waves.
His spine arched, swinging his head side to side as if it'd dispel the horrendous feeling from him. Fingers dug like claws beneath.
It hurt.
Plain and simple.. but how does one begin to describe why and how when there are no marks to be seen on his flesh and his tongue was too stubborn to speak?
Without guilt, would he still be on the path to ruin? Would he still be breathing as he does right now? Would he-
The thought killed itself savagely like so many thoughts before. What he was raised with bit harshly into the experiences of how he's managed to survive upon Earth on his own, free from control but in a demented twist; he was Craving that numbness to spare him the torment of what had been done. Force him to forget it, spare not a single thought more and be left in the silent echo of his own mental prison in a cage far too small for him to exist without scratching his fingers bloody and raw.
No answer came from him, muscle locking up stiffly as his chest quivered with shortened gasps. The sensation of his presence felt like he was drifting out of control, flesh running cold within while outside it was festering with sweat and heat.
It took everything to not crumble like a star collapsing in on itself.
Pressed into the role of observer, cues became the medium of choice, lacking possession of the key what would unlock the vocal paralysis that had seemingly laid claim to the Brute this day. On the one hand, it gives rise to an unnerving amount of concern to see Broly seize up like this, a perfect, well-oiled machine of flesh and bone that was in some ways not used to the idleness brought about by a lack of mobility.
And yet, in lieu of the appropriate facilities to hand, guessing at the sort of mental conflict that appeared to blight the other to the point of non-function was... the only choice that currently stood available to the Spider. To say he disapproved was to put it kind, driven in part by a need to help the very Saiyan that he had fought alongside and shed blood with together in their adventures across the universe. No matter what, Miguel refused to leave Broly unattended whilst caught in this desolate.
A decision that ultimate lead to a shift in mindset, pivoting from finding a remedy to managing what symptoms were visible, and, therefore addressable, within a realistic time frame.
"Here, let's get you seated before you fall flat on your face or something." Eyes darting left and right, within a few minutes is a stool sturdy enough to support Broly's mass without breaking secured. Dragged into place by hooking one of its legs with a foot, Miguel then proceeds to place his hands on different spots along the man's chest and right shoulder, with a care that's more often seen reserved for newborns and items , rather than planet busters.
"I've got you." Such could easily be parsed as mere comfort dressing, but not so in this case as, in a rare display of might, Miguel draws upon the kind of strength residing within his core that's been used to right overturned trucks and tear the turret off of its platform.
"Stay put." He nearly felt compelled to tack on a please, but given the one-way nature of their current conversation, he decided to hold off from doing so, continuing with; "I'm going to fetch you a damp towel."
[Random Pre-Discussed Thing for @iobartach, because wouldn't ya know it this is where the muse goes ...]
Adrenaline was already high by the time they reached the roof. Windows in Alchemax Tower no longer opened, at least not on the executive floor - specifically the luxury pseudo-hotel suite that made up the office of Tyler Stone. Thera wouldn't mind a bet that there was some sort of Japanese-style secret bedroom hidden behind a wall, but that hadn't been what she and Miguel were looking for.
They can't yet put a finger on exactly what they're looking for, other than Stone's copies of his son's research notes - anything more precise will have to wait until they have a chance to read. Which isn't now, when the same security screens meant to protect Stone warned them that the bastard is, in fact, back early.
No opening windows leads to a run for the door, down the hallway to the stairs to the roof. Thera knows this is serious, knows that anything could happen if Tyler sees them. Knows they shouldn't have their hands linked by the time they reach the second flight, snickering like teens as they reach the exit door and stumble out into the rain.
And yes, it is raining. Thera's always a little surprised when 2099 does something as rampantly normal as breaking the heat with a rainstorm, but here they are. She steps out, quickly drenched through, laughs up at the sky with the sudden relief of their escape. She turns, aware of Miguel behind her, closer so than from their still joined hands alone.
Rain pounds, soaks their clothes. plasters their hair - but neither of them seem in any hurry to move. Maybe it's the adrenaline, the laughter, or a reminder of other places and times, but as Thera looks up at him her tongue touches lightly to her lips. "So ... Are you gonna Spider us down right away?"
There exists an appeal, as it were, in this form of trespassing. In touring the halls, rooms and offices reserved for the top executives at Alchemax. Territory that, be it just random luck, or the work of a deity with a sense of humour, was his to inherit... some day, anyway. Hopefully not any time soon.
As, rather than run (again) the company that he had once tried to quit, a whole lifetime ago, such a desire was far from his mind, given current company. A venture that had started out as an attempt to gather records that weren't retrievable by hacking, that were exclusively his own, no matter how much Stone dipped into them during board meetings.
In this regard, they had completed step one, seizing what could be piled into the waterproof gearbag resting against Miguel's hip, sporting intentions of making a return trip when... jammit! The autonomous systems that featured in so many establishments in this wretched city showed signs of life, functions starting up again after the powerlines that supplied this section of Alchemax headquarters with energy were ever so mysteriously snipped, rather than slashed! (He'd learnt that particular lesson the hard way!)
Nonetheless, realising their time was up, an exit is sought, the conventional sort, rather than an escape at... god-knows how many feet in the air, that undoubtedly would've left behind a trail comprised of broken glass. In place of this, Miguel runs alongside Thera, grinning all the way to the exit door and past it, soaked thoroughly in less time than it takes to verbalise his surprise.
"Jamn! Guess we forgot to check the forecast, huh?" Awash with mirth, he resigns himself to damp clothes and the inevitable drying off that'll arise later, a fate that leaves no noticeable mark or slackening of the hand he's dedicated himself to holding, keen to stay in her orbit at every hurdle encountered on this adventure together. Something that, in a surprising twist to himself, he starts to hope lasts for another while yet.
"Hmm... And put an end to matters so soon? Nah, not yet." Making a show of pretending that he was handling a decision of great importance, he falls in favour of commandeering the roof for an extended length of time, ready and willing to present reasons in favour of staying, if needed.
With rain streaming off his head, it occurs to him to add; "Something tells me you're in no rush to move on, either. Would that be a fair guess to make?"
Not having time to explain usually meant stuff was really really bad. It didn't help that he felt a tingle in the back of his head looking at the guy. He hadn't felt like that around other Morty's.
"I'm sure if Rick needs me he'll be able to find me" Morty told him, "or he'll just be there waiting for us and give some sort of drunken lecture." He frowned slightly.
"So does this have anything to do with that secret club-thing" Morty asked.
Of that he had no doubt that he would, popping up with such frequency that had idly caused Miguel to question at times why the kid continued to associate himself with such a family member. Then again, it wasn't his place to pass judgement, not with his own messy family to speak of, and so remained silent on the matter, concentrating his energies where they were needed the most.
"Definitely the secret club-thing, yeah." Almost as if by design, Miguel adapts to Morty's way of speaking, confirming what had been already suspected. Society business that required a crew of close to a dozen spiders to assemble, in the hopes of stabilising a reality that's in trouble.
With nothing of importance left to say, a few taps on his gizmo summons the hexagonal shaped vortex in front of them, paying little heed to their surroundings as it sucked up random objects and furnishings.
"Make sure you have what you need. This could take us a while to resolve."
She stabbed forward, only to be yanked back successfully. Her fingers splay out as best they can, spindles spread out like claws as Hinoka's body tries to wrench itself from Miguel's grip, legs kicking as she tries to thrash in his arms.
Their roles are now reversed, with him being the quieter of the two as she hissed and shrieked , head jerking side to side in another last ditch effort to break free. Her body is beginning to tire, the pauses in between each harsh attempt to struggle free from the larger spider's hold growing longer. The shrieks die down into furious hissing.
Then comes the sound of flesh being pierced by fang, and the woman's body goes rigid for a moment.
Miguel had gifted her the time to regain her senses long enough to envenomate with the large dose she had prepared for him. Normally it would do little, but in this tired frenzied state and with such a large quantity of her own poison it was enough. Hinoka's fangs slowly withdraw from where they had struck beneath their bottom lip, sinking back into her gums as she finally goes limp.
An eerie, almost death-like exhaling of breath wheezed past partially open lips as her eyes closed. The battle was over, with Miguel as the victor and his adversary now unconscious in the strong hold of his arms.
Patience is the order of the hour, waiting for a fight that, rather than challenge or test him, swerves in an unanticipated direction. Almost at once, he's quick to realise that something has gone dreadfully amiss, that the way all sense of fight fleeing her form was not only due to exhausted stamina, but caused by an additional means of harm.
It is, and will be his lasting regret that he doesn't line up the dots as quickly as he should, the reality of her self-envenomation dawning only in the seconds after she jerks and grows as stiff as a board, limbs locking in place until what could be thought of as the Spider responsible for piloting her form in such a frenzied manner before this point succumbs, shut down with the loss of consciousness.
Left open-mouthed by this, he passes on words to turn instead to a tighter hold, drawing her limp form closer against his chest as a voice, quiet and unopinionated, pitches a thought he hadn't considered before now; you were responsible for this. A blame that could be traced all the way back to the last conversation he had held with Hinoka, that ended with him taking his leave due to a crossroads reached. Driven by a need to accumulate numbers for the Society, in a climate that saw an increasing number of realities succumb to anomaly incursions, he could not afford to stick around and try to change the hearts and minds of his fellow Spiders, with pre-existing duties that mattered more than the Canon he was attempting to preserving.
Faced with this realisation, it doesn't take long before he's surging into motion once again, clearing the roofs of cars and other vehicles as he launches the both of them into the air, heading in the direction of Hinoka's apartment.
The one place in this world that he knew for a fact they will be safe, from prying eyes.
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"i can walk through lava and the void itself. i am not afraid of chemicals, spider." the mutant does not sound upset, just matter-of-factly, as he crouches down to pick up the glass with his bare hands. it is his nature by now to sound haughty even when he doesn't mean to. it helps this particular beaker had only a weak concoction but his gift works wonders against reacting chemicals.
there is no reaction if there is no energy. he can sap it from the source to make it inert. it also helps he can simply use his energy manipulation to shield himself from harm. many little things he does in the matter of seconds, with the barest thought, as he picks up his own mess.
he may be a brat but he was taught how to be proper, once.
for the wrong reasons, maybe, servant boy as he once was, but he picks up the pieces of the beaker and looks at his host. if miguel looks closely, the jagged bits of glass do not touch his skin with the orange-golden energy surrounding him.
In some ways, he half-expected to receive an answer like that, a response that was more truth than boast, as further proven by his willingness to pitch in and help. Welcoming to the extra set of hands, Miguel sweeps what he can into the dust pan, then holds it out to Gabriel with a gentle flick of wrist that intended to prompt him to place the remaining shards on it, only to stall for a moment.
Huh. That was new!
It pays to remind himself of the man's mutant gifts, a whole species that's gifted -- and cursed, depending on who you ask -- with abilities that tended to stretch the limits of science in a bid to explain. In Miguel's case, catching a glimpse of that sunset-gradiated energy in practice saw a slight smile tug at the corner of his lip, impressed.
"Here is fine." The dust pan is jostled for a second time, as he continued on talking. "Where possible, everything is reused. Right down to the automated robots you might see in parts of the megacity."
