2012-07-10 Spiders, Spiders, Quipping Lightly

Early morning and the futuristic Spider-Man is on the side of the Times Square Studios building, a few dozen stories up. Arms stretched behind him, hands twisted to point fingers up, letting him dig his claws into the building. Times Square is--electric, even in the bright and clear sunlight. So many people, so many cars. In some ways, it's not too unlike his own version. He watches the people pass, wondering if what he learned in history will happen here. A great cataclysm--but there's already so much that he recognizes as not being "his". Maybe this world will escape the fate of his own.

A few kernels of popcorn plop down on Spider-Man 2099 and there's a sound of munch-munch-munch and a hand digging in a bag. The classic version is a few floors above Miguel with his mask drawn up. He looks to be having a snack. "City's a real byoot, ain't she? I love this town."

"Jesus Christ!" exclaims the future Spider-Man, jerking his talons out by reflex. It's only with a twist and a half-frantic grab that he can gain purchase before falling. "...I really want to be mad at you for doing that /again/, but I can't," he says as he looks up into the white glass eye-discs of the classic costume, with the smile evident in his tone. "And if you really want to see something, wait about a century. Place is even bigger then."

"Welp," Spider-man says as he pulls his mask down and comes crawling down the side of the building like it ain't no thing, "By then I'll probably be dead. Unless I can get that handy dandy reanimation machine work." Pause. "Tiger blood. It's tiger's blood that's always the missing ingredient." He holds the bag of popcorn out to Miguel, "Popcorn?"

For a beat, Spider-Man 2099 just looks at the bag. Then, "I don't--popcorn?" What the hell. He pulls up his mask and hooks it over his nose, then tentatively reaches in to grab a single kernel. The mask shifts as he arches an eyebrow, studying the thing for a moment before popping it into his mouth. After a few experimental chews, he says, "Well, that's--something. Anyway--reanimation machine?"

Spider-Man shrugs his shoulders, "I have no idea. I was really just making it up on the spot. You know, for the sake of the conversation." He gives an upwards nod, but it's all relative when you're hanging sideways off of a building, "So, uhm. I don't really know how to ask this because like...it's kind of rude, and you seem like an alright guy, and maybe I should be taking this as a shout out or something like that but...this is embarrassing...my apologies, of course...uh...how do I say this...uh...What's your deal, bro?"

"...deal?" Spider-Man 2099 sounds rather confused. Slang does change in a near-century, so. "Oh, umm. Well.  How to explain it..." He launches into a long-winded explanation of--pretty much all of him. It takes a good ten minutes, and he ends with the machine one jack-ass named Jordan Boone invented. ...near as I could tell, he'd managed to use subspace harmonics to rip open a tear in space-time, and if pressed I'd think it used quantum-stabilized crystals to focus the harmonics, but that's just conjecture." A beat, partly to get breath.  "So--yeah. That's my, uh--'deal'."

"Whoa," Spider-Man says, staring at the man from the future for a long, long time. "So, one of three things is the case. You're lying. You're absolutely freegin insane, or you're telling the truth." His forefingers cup his chin; he's deep in thought. "Which shrink do you use? I'm thinking about trading mine in."

Hmm. He has to admit the original has a point. Well. Okay, then. He reaches up to pull off his mask, letting his Irish/Hispanic features be seen--with closed eyes, as he won't be blinding himself again any time soon, thanks. The mask gets tucked into his waistband, and he pulls out a pair of black and dark sunglasses--the only bit of his street clothes he keeps on him, just for situations like this. After slipping the sunglasses on, he says, "Name's Miguel O'Hara, and while I probably did inherit the crazy from my mother, everything I said is true."

Spider-man nods slowly, "I see. Well it's very nice to meet you, Miguel. My name is Spider-Man. He reaches out to shake the Man of Tomorrow's hand. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and believe you until I'm proven wrong. Because a) I like you and b) I think people with brown skin are sorely lacking in the superhero community and we need more salsa in our quesadilla. So, my questions to you are two: What are you going to do with yourself now that you're here? And...well, double that. What are you going to do with yourself while you're here times two."

"I--well--thanks?" says Spider-Man 2099 as he removes the sunglasses again, to slip them under his tunic so he can retrieve the mask. That gets pulled back on and straightened, then he says, "And, uh--not sure, yet, to be honest. Was going to try and see if there was a Stark Industries or Fujikawa Corporation, as they'd be the best bet to get me home, but--I kind of became responsible for someone else.  A--I don't know.  Mutant, I think.  Someone who can hurt a lot of people all too easily, but doesn't want to.  So now, I'm kind of trying to help her deal with her powers--to make her see the responsibility they give her.  It's--not easy, so I'm not sure I /can/ leave now, even if I want to." Somewhere, whichever deity likes inflicting spider-related powers on people, they're also laughing their butts off as they make said people worry about things like "responsibility"--and trying to achieve that at nearly any cost.

Images flash within Peter Parker, Spider-Man's brain. There's a mailbox, a letter, heading on top: STARK, internship. Inside the mask, Peter might be pursing his lips. "Listen, I'll tell you what. If I find anything...anything at all I'll try to help you get back to where you're going. And at the end of the day it'll be your choice. It's cool kicks that you're helping out mutants, bro. Here they need all the help they can get."

The future Spider-Man rubs his face and turns to wall-crouch in a more comfortable position. "Yeah. It's just--a bitch, sometimes.  She can--fuck with your head.  Anyone's head.  And part of her /wants/ to do it--so it makes it hard to reach the part that /doesn't/.  Not like I don't understand, but--shit, listen to me.  Here I am whining to a living legend." He looks back up to Classic Spider-Man. "Sorry for whining. I realize you probably don't need to hear it." There might be a touch of hero-worship in his voice. Maybe. Certainly a bit of surprise, maybe even awe, that he's still talking to someone who is, to him, a true legend.

"L.i.v.i.n.g..Leg," Spider-Man whispers quizzically. "Nah man, it's cool. Listen, if anyone knows how to whine it's me. It's kind of my past time. What's your cat's name?"

"I--don't have a cat," says Spider-Man 2099, canting his head just a little. "I had Lyla, a LYrate Life-form Approximation. Kind of--a hologram and a butler, I guess?  She ran the apartment.  I never had pets or the like..."

Spidey shakes his head, "No no no, I mean the mutant chick. I'm assuming she's yer woman too. Or maybe it's one of those plutonic things...Which I never understood because I thought Pluto got bizzy too. I dunno. But. What's her name?"

The mask shifts as Spider-Man 2099 knits his brows together, trying to decipher Classic Spider-Man. It's--not easy. He knew he was intelligent--or at least he /thought/ he was--but it's like the original is speaking in code, and he doesn't have the cipher key. He /thinks/ he figured it out enough. "Angela Hawkins. The Third, as it turns out," he says. "She's not--my woman. But I do feel responsible for her, now.  She's a decent girl, she is--just--" here he emits a soft and mirthless chuckle, "--fell backward into some strange powers.  And doesn't know how to control them."

"Heck, that's pretty much of all of us." Spider-Man chuckles and looks out over the city. "Well, I should probably get to work. You'd be surprised the rate at which hot dog stands in this town get knocked over without a dude watching out for them. They're the staple economy of the Eastern Seaboard, I don't know if you knew that."

"Hot dog stands go out of fashion in a century, so..." says Spider-Man 2099, making a small joke of his own. Well, small joke that doesn't involve profanity or sarcasm. The classic version is rubbing off. "Next time, don't sneak up, okay?" That's said with a lighter tone, and he reaches his hand up for a firm shake. Not one of the "testing strength" types, either--and he's really not thinking of anything /but/ a handshake, so no Spider-Bells and Whistles to go off.

Spider-Man returns the shake and then turns it it a hand clasp and then does like a confusing bump thing...I dunno. It looks jumbled. "Well, I'm glad I'll be dead. I do love me some hot dogs. And I won't sneak up on you again, don't worry. I'll bring a conch and trumpet out a melody to announce my arrival. Be good, broskis." THWIP! A web goes off across the street, "Be seein' ya." And he begins to swing away.