comicshavefailedme | LL cont’

[ It feels a little bit like he just got nailed. Seen, perceived, even. His knuckles tighten, and when he breathes out, the chilly air reveals it by puffing up. ]

Then they die and we get to make up our own shocking answers. Simple as that.

[ He's not addressing the coping part. Is there anything wrong with coping? No. Smart people cope. Wait, he's smart.

...well, whatever. ]

Yeah, real simple.

[Snorts. Assuming it doesn't all go to shit like it always does. But he's already wasted his breath pointing out how stupid it all was - but it's not like any better ideas have dawned on him. His own plans haven't been any more complex than (Mope on a roof) or (Be drunk again).

Trying to muster up an aura of unapproachability and menace, he perches onto the edge of the roof and looms over his former fiance. Addressing him by Rafael now just felt wrong.]

...So. What do I call you?

[ The words don't you call me your heart rises up like bile in his throat, burning and burning and bubbling over to remind him that no, he definitely does not call him that. Not anymore. Never again.

The metal railing he's holding onto starts making a sharp noise as he grips it so tightly it bends into the shape of his emotion.

Still, it doesn't feel right to call himself Miguel, even if it doesn't feel wrong either. A secret third thing, called "we have two full sets of memories in us, and even if Rafael wasn't my birth name, it still feels like it's my name." But eventually he gets it past the blockage in his chest. ]

...my name is Miguel.

[ A deep breath. This next part has to come out sometime, and there's no use hiding it either: ]

And I'm the Spider-man of the year 2099.

[Miguel might as well have said 'and I'm a clown from outer space' from the clone's reaction. His eyes bug out in pure incredulity.]

Shut up. What? That's-- so stupid.

[The possibility of time travel had never crossed his mind but now that it was? apparently? on the table, the absurdity of it all was throttling him. Why was this his life. He hates everything. Is Miguel like, a descendent of Peter? Had he been sleeping with-- NO HE WAS NOT FINISHING THAT TRAIN OF THOUGHT.]

[ And just as if he's parroting him, with a sharp narrow of his eyes: ]

Shut up. I know it's stupid. Your situation is probably stupid too.

[ How dare you, a clone, tell me, a time traveller, that something is stupid! ]

[Accusatory,]

Are you Peter's grandkid?

[YOU ARE LEGALLY OBLIGATED TO TELL ME IF YOU'RE PETER'S GRANDKID]

[ ALSO ACCUSATORY, ]

Do I LOOK like Peter's grandkid?!

[these are braincell hours]

I don't know, maybe you take after your @#$% mom!

...fine, you've got a shockin' point there.

[ Thank shocking god he doesn't look like Tyler. Holy shit. That would be the worst ever. ]

No, I'm not his grandkid. Don't say horrible things like that.

Then why the hell are you Spider-man!?

[Is he sounding a little possessive on Peter's behalf? Shut up you don't know what you're talking about. (Yes.)]

Take a wild guess! It's stupid too!

[He has an unkind sneer as he suggests,]

Delusional fan worship?

[Maybe he's just being mean now. But it doesn't feel out of the question - that Peter has a legacy, and that people in the future would want to be like him...]

Edited 2024-11-18 04:17 (UTC)

[ Huffs. ]

I was about to marry a real asshole, huh.

[ The moment it's spat out of his mouth, he regrets it, for more reasons than can be counted on both hands and both feet. If he could claw it back from the air, he would, but his body doesn't even move; standing by his equally awful retort. Maybe a worse retort. It feels worse.

It still hurts to think of about, too. About to marry a real asshole. His real asshole, who wasn't real. ]

[Critical hit. The clone's expression darkens, and it's hard to tell who he loathes more in the moment - Miguel or himself. It didn't matter that the people who were in love, Aracha and Rafael, they were completely different individuals. He was no more Aracha than Rafael was Santa Claus.

But it surely was true that the man behind the pretty lie was a hateful, ugly, cruel thing. Poison barbs his words as he return fires, trying not to let his voice crack,]

Yeah. Aren't you glad t'be free of that wretched fate.

[It must be such a relief! That he's gone! He's not wanted, not here or anywhere... carrying that miserable truth inside him, he turns and races out of view - back to the shadows where he belongs.]

[ Isn't it so funny... his type is people with an edge. Even Dana had hers, hidden by softness. Tempest is every bit the asshole Miguel is.

And he is, in fact, a huge one right now. So much so that he drops his head into his hands and groans. ]

Good one, Miggy.

[ Whatever he wanted from this wasn't to stick a knife in him. Maybe. Was it to stick a knife in them?

Maybe it was meant for himself.

He turns and sits himself facing the ocean until the sun starts to come up. Another sunrise after a miserable moment together.

He hopes... that the call for revenge will bring him back (to him). Miguel doesn't think he's going to answer the phone anytime soon—it was a miracle he got this chance from it.

Back to his little gazebo he goes, planting himself in a daybed face first. Can he stay there until the boat disembarkation (and thus, revenge) happens? Probably not.

But he wants to. ]

[So. Now that that interaction's basically been stomped on, crumpled up, dumped in a trashcan and lit on fire, he's back to (Mope on a roof) or (Be drunk again) as his only options. And the moping was sorely hampered by a pesky thing called daylight - thus, like the putrid vermin he is, the clone crawled back inside to seek out the Booze.

Didn't take long. Neither the finding of booze, nor the getting shitfaced. What a fucking joke all this was. Revenge? Don't make him laugh. At least he never actually said yes to throwing in with that piece of shit. Weird pretender fanboy historical re-enactment LARPer. Two fake Spider-men! Truly, they were God's cosmic joke.

He didn't want to ever see him again. That was the bitter thought doing laps in his head as he downed a truly brazen amount of whiskey - too blasted to even care that he was sitting in free view of everyone trying to eat in peace at the Lounge. Soon: passed out on the floor.

Fuck him. Fuck everything.]

[ Miguel trips over him.

Okay, there's a little more to it than that; after agonizing by himself, his stomach rumbling loudly, he'd crawled his pathetic way over to the lounge. He'll get the stupid shocking mega meatballs plate and suffocate his woes in them, all for the sake of revenge now. He can't just waste away, even if he'd like to.

Killing the one behind everything is getting more and more tempting, though. Maybe he'll forget about the hows and whys. What does it matter, if he's alone in this anyway—STUMBLE. ]

What t—

[ Aracha's arm (still Aracha, as he never got his name) is probably going to be a little sore if he ever comes to, because it's what Miguel stumbled over while trying to get towards the mountain of meat awaiting him.

...ohh he's twisting up inside; every part of him is equal parts "oh my god I have to get him somewhere better than this" and "oh my god what a dumbass" in the fondest and most annoyed way possible. ]

Idiot. [ He lands on, forgetting the idea of meatballs entirely. Wasting away it'll be. Crouching, he slings Aracha's torso over his shoulder and stands up. A weight that would be a huge struggle for Rafael is nothing to Miguel. ] If you puke on me, I'm leaving you here.

[ are you gonna puke, honey. ]

[The puking is a very near thing. He makes a pathetic moan of nausea and regret as he's brought upright and slung across Miguel's shoulder, in weak protest - or perhaps instinctively, a warning. To be in such a vulnerable state, even barely conscious, seems to make him defensive.

But as his head rolls against Miguel's collar, and he breathes in the scent of him - familiar, comforting and beloved, a connection already hardwired in his head - the clone relaxes. Safety - he craved it more than anything else. He wanted it to swallow him up and keep him stable, secure.

So if he suddenly gets much more clingy... well. Miguel will just have to live with it. There's suddenly a mental pressure radiating from the clone, maybe it's just his imagination? But it hangs like a subliminal message in the back of Miguel's head, an incessant command. A miserable plea.

help me... help... me]

[ The hands on Aracha tighten. He's not awake, is he? No... he's just imagining things. That he's needed. It'd be fine for anyone else to do this, he's sure.

But he's glad it is him. You don't go from being so interwoven with someone else, being such a large part of their life, to nothing... or maybe you're supposed to, but Miguel can't. Either way, he's glad he found his... whatever he is. ]

It's okay. I got you.

[ Miguel doesn't know if comforting is needed, wanted, but there it is anyway; he's heading back to Eonia's quarters now. Leaving a sick, unconscious guy anywhere else is... not about to happen. He has to jostle the door open, which is a real measure of his exceptional talents (juggling a big man and a phone!) and then he—ah.

Where... can he leave him. The couch? No, he knows Aracha wouldn't want to be left in public. And the idea of leaving him in Aracha's "new" room doesn't occur to him; he didn't see which one he used, anyway. The only option left to him is...

Their room. It was their room. ]

...shock me.

[ His curse is breathed out more than anything, then he's steeling himself, opening the door and trying to lay Aracha down on the bed as quickly as possible. As if spending too much time in there will hurt (because it will, it does already). He refuses to look at the furniture they moved around, the various things they won from performances, the clothes he hadn't come back to get. He puts Aracha down on his usual side of the bed and... the idea was to vanish.

But he doesn't.

Instead, Miguel sits next to him, reaching out a hand to feel Aracha's forehead, running a thumb along his brow. He murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like a "sorry" when he draws his hand back.

God, he's tired. He's so tired. Exhaustion lines every part of his body like fleece; it's been days since he's had a restful sleep, and with a lifetime of extra memories rolling around like marbles in his mind, he's not going to be surprised if he never relaxes again. How can he? Half of him is doubled and yet, missing such an important component.

He hates this. He still loves him. His vision sways, and... shit, the pillow looks so comfortable. He knows it's comfortable. He's slept on them for months, when he wasn't using Aracha as one.

That's his last thought as his head hits the pillow and he's out like a light. Whoops. ]

[Sleep comes. But there would be no rest.

These are not the dreams of a man. Men are not born like this: dripping from a chemical pod, powerful and muscled, but with the searching eyes of an infant, lost and scared. Choked by the fumes and reaching out to the only father he'd ever know for comfort, only to be met by loathing. The retribution he beats into the newborn is meant for another - not a man, but a vessel for hate.

Men are not kept in sterile, empty rooms, where the lights are always on and always too, too bright, making it impossible to track the days. There is no bed to sleep on, no clothes, no blankets. Only visitation marked by bland slop and needles, strange medicine that makes him sick and sweat and convulse with pain. He curls up in a fetal position in the far corner every time he hears footsteps grow near. Every time his father grow more disappointed in him. He doesn't know why - he's only a lab animal.

Men are not disposed of like trash. They don't have to claw their way out of a pit of bodies, all identical to his - all deteriorated with the same failure of the flesh. Their corpses crumble like chalk, a mirror of his own fate. He was meant to die. Just one more failure among hundreds. No one ever hears his plea to be saved - he escapes into the sewer alone, unwanted and incomplete. Garbage.

The world of man was never meant for him. He was never a man.]

[ He feels like he needs to find someone. Who, he's not sure—he never got a name, and their face is blurred out, sometimes familiar, sometimes a stranger. But in this dream, he knows—he's here for someone important to him.

In this... facility? Where pain has infected every inch? When he reaches out to any figure, to save them, the dream slips through his fingers. When the pile of corpses looms in front of him, he starts to dig—but it's endless. A loop of identical deaths, each face not the person he's looking for, while also somehow being familiar.

An eternity passes, and finally the bodies break away into a dark tunnel, water sloshing around his feet.

Finally, the only name he has left in him to call for rises out of his throat, escaping into the darkness as one last attempt to find him: ]

Aracha...?

[A face turns, not in recognition of the name, but towards the sound of a voice breaking the lonely silence - staring at Miguel with haunted, fearful eyes. This truly was Peter's clone... with his hair shorn short like this, it was unmistakable. The only difference was the diseased flesh sprawled across his face like a nasty scar, tendrils of failed tissue. A mirror of the decay that surely killed all the rest.

Like a cornered, feral animal, 'Aracha' pulls his rags around himself and bristles, unsure whether to fight or flee. His voice is hoarse, but grieving.]

Stay away! I'm warning you--!

[ His hands lift up on instinct. Not here to hurt, not on purpose, anyway. Here to care for. Miguel was never the softest partner one could have—Dana, for sure, deserved better than the cold shoulder she received when he was going through something they could have tackled together.

But half of him is burning away to reach out for this one. His love is hurting, so he has to get angry and tear apart whoever did it.

Including himself. Especially himself. ]

Hey. It's okay. I'm just here to get you out of... hell.

[ If hell exists, it has to be this. Rotting, existentially destructive, and your heart in shreds. ]

[His expression tenses with an uncertainty for how to respond. Mistrust is chief among them, but so is desperation. Did a world outside of hell even exist? It felt impossible to fathom.

...He seemed angry, but Miguel didn't look at him with hate in his eyes. He wasn't forcing himself on him. Maybe it was possible - he could be safe now. The clone's heart still beat with the longing of a child, to be protected and warm. It was new to the world.

Faltering, scared to hope, he ventures,]

You're here to... save me?

Yeah.

[ There's no hesitation; he'd save him if it cost him his life. Anyone would deserve saving, if this happened to them.

He swallows, then reaches out a hand to the guy. The guy who looks like Peter, but isn't. The guy who kind of looks like his... sort-of ex, but sort-of isn't. ]

I'm... Miguel. [ The hesitation, where he's not sure what his name is anymore. ] Let's get up to the surface. Figure out where we are.

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