—right, I haven’t actually made an appearance yet, have I—
—feel like I should fix that—
—I’m an artificial intelligence and my designation is Lyrate Lifeform Approximation SP-4-2-blah-blah-blah, you don’t need to bother with the rest—
—my name, on the other hand, is Lyla—
—or Spaz—
—don’t call me Spaz—
—my friend and owner, Miguel O’Hara, was bitten by a radioactive corporation, and for the past three years he’s been the Once and Future Spiderman—
—don’t hyphenate, by the way, he hates it when people hyphenate—
—anyway, he does the hero stuff, I just go around tidying loose ends—
—like keeping watch over the multiverse, apparently—
—and hacking police broadcasts—
—and just hacking in general—
—and acting as a part-time therapist—
—and helping to build things—
—and projecting clothes for him to wear—
—oh yeah, you didn’t know?—
—he never takes his Spider-suit off—
—that tuxedo he’s wearing for the Boxing Day party, that’s all me—
—yeah, so’s the hyacinth, it’s an in-joke—
“Lyla, what are you doing?”
—monologuing—
“What’s to say? Guys, this is Lyla, she’s a souped-up standard-issue helper and an absolute shocking pain, and I trust her with my life and wouldn’t trade her for the world. The world stinks, anyway.”
—love you too, Miguel—
242. State
Countries don’t hold quite as much sway as they used to, these days. Mostly it’s corporations running the show. On the one hand, job security. On the other hand, security at your job. Private fiefdoms, basically. The world’s a lot more complicated than it used to be, and most of that complication has to do with trying to survive in a situation where “corporate espionage” now involves fully-fledged neo-ninjas and the occasional nuclear bomb.
Take New York, for example. Once a proud part of America, the shining jewel of the Atlantic Coast. Now? Most of the land that sunk below sea level was bought by a Chilean agriculture tycoon, Agustín Tenorio. He then built it up again and remade the whole place in his image, bigger and better. Nueva York is not New York. It’s tougher, shinier, more diverse, more dangerous...more. Alchemax and half a dozen other big gamers pay a land tax—in tenorios, in company stock, in, ahem, human resources—for a slice of living room and office space for themselves and their workers. You can try the stunted and sunken civil government on Staten Island, but what good is that when the social credit you rack up for every day of work covers whatever you need? Let someone use your body, and then more likely than not they’ll keep it in better condition than you could ever afford to. They say that with some of the new treatments lifespans could extend into the second century as a norm—if you let Alchemax have you for a while.
Just don’t scream. It’s bad for business.
243. Drink
“You’re free to terminate your contract whenever you want,” says Mr. Stone, genially as ever. “I know that last test can’t have been easy on you, son.”
“Sure, yeah, turning a guy into living soup is what every geneticist wants out of life,” scowls Miguel.
Tyler Stone’s face betrays nothing but sympathetic concern as he hands Miguel a drink and pours another for himself from the same decanter.
“It’s unfortunate. His husband and their children will be given the credits he earned, of course. They won’t do without.” He sighs. “But of course, you’re more worried about what you did. I assure you, you’re not going to prison for it. A mortality clause was included in his contract.” He pours a little packet labelled “Orange” into his lemon liquor.
“Maybe I should,” mutters Miguel. He downs his own glass. It tastes bittersweet.
“Oh, don’t say that, son. What use would it be? You’re under contract. So was he. And what use are those new grunts going to be in understanding what went wrong? Making sure it doesn’t happen again?”
“They can find someone else, Mr. Stone. You’re plenty capable of finding replacements.”
Stone sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Take a night off, Mr. O’Hara. Come back in the morning to make your final decision. Start the day with a clear head, that’s the best way to do this sort of thing. And like I said, you still have stock. We’d be happy to convert it into Chinese credits if need be.”
Miguel swallows the last of his drink. “Thank you for understanding, sir,” he says, not quite as coldly as before. “I’ll be back tomorrow with my answer.”
He rises. They shake hands.
“See you then, Miguel.”
Miguel is nearly out the door when Stone says, “Of course, Chinese credits are all well and good, but they won’t do a thing against Rapture.”
“The Sanity-Killer drug? What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Well, Alchemax is the only way of getting it, after all, it’s our own special blend for recovering from the common cold. And the withdrawal symptoms are unfortunately still very, very painful. Deadly, in most cases, which is why it’s an Alchemax-specific drug as of yet. And as dangerous as it can be to one’s health, and as easy as it is to neutralize before ingesting it, it’s even easier to disguise under the taste of lemon liquor and rum.”
In the time it takes Miguel to freeze, two guards clamp their hands on him. He tries to fight. It’s useless.
“I’ll see you tomorrow so you can make your decision, Mr. O’Hara.”
“Shock you!”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” says Tyler Stone, like he’s just been given the wrong dish at a restaurant instead of condemning Miguel to death. “I doubt you’d appreciate it much either.”
244. Slice
Carolyn Trainer has always been a dreamer. A daydreamer, in fact. Vivid daydreams. Part of her initial studies in holographic blending was to help create a self-administered cure for the psychosis. The arms? A physical interface. Hard-light holograms are still painful for humans to touch, after all, even with the nano-swarms that produce them providing a buffer, and she needed a way to manipulate them properly.
Carolyn Trainer is a genius. Not even an evil genius, just...misguided. Prone to forgetting the difference between real, holographic, and hallucination-induced people.
(The arms, with a mind of their own, don’t help with that.)
And also, Miguel thinks to himself as he silently swings along Anchovy (Ancha Way, because “Broadway” just isn’t good enough for these people) towards the giant sand-worm being driven by a figure with eight limbs, a drumming stick, and a gleeful expression, someone with way too much time for watching old movies.
—activating holosuit—
“Gee, that would be nice,” Miguel snarks, as his suit shimmers and seems to glow brighter. “It’s giving me pins and needles.”
—that’s the sensation of your skin being lightly fried—
—your healing factor should cover it plus any substantial damage during the fight—
—just try to shut it off as soon as possible before skin cancer sets in—
Miguel, as is customary, simply glares behind the mask, and moves in. His name is Spiderman, thank you very much.
“Are you mad? I know, I know, it’s the 2020s version, but hey, it’s a classic.”
Spare him from holographic cephalopod geeks...
245. Apparition
“Hey, Spiderman, ol’ buddy?” says El Porco. “Remind me again why these people seem to think you’re a god? I mean, not bad looking, but maybe still a bit mortal for that?”
“It’s a long story,” sighs Miguel behind the mask.
The Thorites keep clamouring around them.
“We’ve got time.”
“Maybe not space, though.”
“The fourth coming of the Spider-Man shall herald—”
“Fourth? Who were the first two?”
“Again, long story. Alright, folks, thank you, honestly, for this. Really makes me feel better. But we’d better be on our way, okay?”
“Praises be to the Spider-Man, who shall usher in a new age of heroes!”
“...how often does that happen?” asks Porquito, as they swing away.
“You mean being accosted by pilgrims from the Temple of Thor floating above Nevada somewhere? Not as regular as you might think.”
“Mmmm, more the talking in sync like that.”
“Oh, that they do all the time. They rehearse. I stumbled onto one of their practice sessions once.”
“You could put this stuff together into a comedy sketch, you know.”
“I’ll leave that to the actual funny people.”
246. Choice
Miguel O’Hara is a stone-cold genius, in a lab with some of the most advanced gene splicing equipment on the planet, with three days until the Rapture withdrawal sets in and twelve hours until he needs to go before that bastard Stone to choose either a long imprisonment or a slow suicide.
The original Alchemax experimental spiders were crude but effective. They’d been testing for ages, particularly under the work of one Kubra Al-Qamar (later removed from the record, although there’s an appendix in her file about reptile-mammal hybridization). And two spiders escaped; one bit Peter Parker, active for ten years, and the other bit Miles Morales, active for forty-seven years.
Miguel can’t afford to be picky. He selects the genetic profile of a third spider (notable mutations including increased size, limb regeneration, hyper-potent venom, structural rigidity, etc.) and gets to work. Can’t be too careful; he doesn’t want to be a hero, he just wants to stay alive.
It takes him three hours to prep the temporary cellular cocoon that will cure him.
It takes that idiot guard two minutes to wreck the thing and destroy what shreds remained of his life.
247. Ex
“So I was dating this girl Xina, known her since we were kids, which is how I got Lyla, she was an anniversary present—I got her a bonsai tree, I mean I literally created a new species of bonsai tree for her, which was utterly useless because it turned out she was allergic to this brand new species somehow—and then I meet my brother’s new girlfriend and our eyes met and it was just...magic, you know? But it was weird, because I didn’t want to hurt Gabe or Xina and she was still with Gabe, and...”
“How much did you give the guy to drink?” asks Noir.
“...it was like puppy love, I guess? It was safe. With Xina it was always like a competition, and even when I won it was still like a fight. With Dana it was softer. But...not quite right? If that makes sense? Like, we couldn’t stand up to one another, didn’t even want to...”
Peter shrugs helplessly. “Nothing. This is all sober. I think.”
“...but then it turns out they got back together when I went missing and I...I don’t even blame them? It’s all so shocking screwed up, man. Completely borked...”
“Bottom line, kid,” says Peter, gently but firmly. “If you met an alternate version of Xina right now, what would you say to her? Say she’s just asked you for, I don’t know, some more bread. But she doesn’t know it’s you. What do you say to her?”
“You know what I say? You know what I shocking say to her? I tell her that I am the most miserable screwup in the history of screwups and that she was lucky to get away before I turned myself into a freak. And that I miss her every single day and I got Lyla to pretend to malfunction more often so I could go over to get her repaired...and she doesn’t deserve that. She deserves someone who will be open and honest with her and who appreciates what a goddamn genius she is, and who will actually remember that she prefers Milky Way Shampoo instead of Bluebottle. She deserves...uh, she deserves some bread.”
“You’re kidding me, there’s two of them now?”
—pipe down, Miles, I wanna see what happens next—
248. Associates
For all that Miguel’s world is most similar to Miles’—to the point that Miles Morales actually existed at one point, and good grief if it isn’t weird that he basically ended up fighting a janky, naive, kiddy-sized version of his idol the first time they met—the so-called “B Team” are the ones who spend the most time in his world.
“Someone has to make sense of this Stone Age tech for the rest of the Spiders,” Peni insists, which Lyla takes great umbrage at.
“The city changes, the sin remains,” intones Detective, as they swing together.
“You don’t ever laugh,” says Porquito. “I take that as a personal challenge.”
It’s...nice, to have people who understand.
249. Convivial
When the Spiderman speaks, if he speaks at all, it’s harsh and gruff. He sounds like he’s snarling all the time, a deep sound reverberating around a larynx that doesn’t quite seem human anymore.
“If you know what’s good for you,” he growls now, “you’ll stay down, Venture.”
“Nice catch, kid!”
Is that a...flying pig? What the hell is Alchemax making these days?
“Porquito, we’ve talked about this, I’m not a kid.”
...what the shock, man.
Since when does the Spiderman have a rich light baritone voice? Since when does he whine?
“...am I imagining things?” asks the cyborg.
“Yes,” says the Spiderman. He’s back to normal.
“Oh. Thank goodness.”
250. Fraternal
Gabriel O’Hara has a complicated relationship with his big brother.
Admires him, absolutely. Resents him, certainly. Is confused by the fact that their father favoured Miguel while their mother favoured him, admittedly. Loves him, without a smidgen of doubt. Hates him, probably. Wishes he’d come over more, definitely.
The fact that he goes out in a Day of the Dead Costume to beat up criminals at night is weird enough.
That he now seems to have made friends with people from different dimensions? Even weirder.
Makes him almost wonder if he needs that Goblin costume he and Lyla worked on to join his brother in the air...
251. Growth
Nueva York isn’t perfect. But it has its own special, slightly glitzy beauty to it. Under the waters that flooded most of Brooklyn lie a network of tunnels used by antigrav cars, schools of fish flitting by. One level up are the Canals, the hyper-gondolas and catwalks from building to building, the apartment collectives controlled by Alchemax or Watchdog or Eco Central or Stark-Fujikawa or Oscorp but governed by private citizens banding together. Higher up, the Sky City, old skyscrapers mingling with antigrav barges hanging down like the mirror image of the towers and spires below. The air smells of the sea, and smoke, and oil, and that strange gingery woodpile smell the antigravity devices give off. Nueva York grows and grows like a great artificial Yggdrasil, with all the kingdoms of the world within its mighty trunk of stone and steel.
And in secret corners of that tree, a spider spins his webs and catches the mosquitos and wasps that would feed on its inhabitants. When he can. Or when they can, to be more realistic about it.
—...huh—
—you know what?—
—that was almost poetic—
“Yeah, well, maybe I’m just in the mood for it. Happens sometimes, you know.”
—not as often as you’d think—
—...it’s nice—
“...thanks, Lyla.”
—you planning on getting some sleep this decade?—
“Yes, Mom.”
—I’m all of four years old, Miguel, pretty sure I’m not your Mom—
“You’re already more of a parent than either of mine ever were. ...don’t know why I said that.”
The hologram’s face glitches into a soft smile.
—...it helps that you did—
—you’re more of a parent than I’d ever have expected—
—even if you really are kind of bad at it—
Miguel smiles back.
“G’night, Lyla.”
—sleep tight, Miguel—
252. Archives
Most of the videos about Miles Morales, the Spider-Man, from his early days are a bit tacky. The guy was literally break-dancing for the crowds in his spare time. Miguel, freshly be-spidered and hating every minute of it, wonders if he really has what it takes. He didn’t want these powers. He didn’t want to be Spiderman, or even Spider-Man. Not like this guy did. He didn’t have a hero who died; Miguel O’Hara has never had a hero in his life.
And then he realizes: that was him. Miles Morales, the lucky Spider-Man. He had those powers, and he had a mentor. He had Peter Parker, who in terms of Spider history can practically do no wrong. And he had a hero who died, whose legacy he felt he had to uphold because nobody else would.
And now he’s gone. Probably. Certainly he’s been retired for decades. But Miguel can hold onto those moments, later on. He can be Spiderman not because he wants to be, but because that is what his life has become.
He doesn’t have a choice, and he’s choosing not to have a choice. His power, his responsibility.
(His guilt, his reparations.)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
My new mcu oc Lana Rodríguez, she’s a Spider-Man and works along with Tobey!spiderman and she happens to be dating doc ock 😳🤨 they’ve been together way before the fusion disaster
