Summary: Miguel O'Hara is a brilliant geneticist and one of Alchemax's best minds, but when an experiment to recreate the powers of the renowned Spider-Man goes awry, O'Hara finds himself an enemy of his employer and the state. Spider-Man has been reborn in the year 2099, and Alchemax is determined to have him for their own purposes.

A novelization and retelling of the original Spider-Man 2099 comics from 1992, written by Peter David and published by Marvel! A lot of the dialogue/description will be near identical to the original comic, especially in these first few chapters/issues, so I encourage you to check out the comic because it's way better than anything I could churn up haha, unless you want to avoid spoilers. However, further down the line I will be making many changes and omitting/adding material, so don't expect this to be a straight adaption.

Rating: T (for explicit language, violence, fictional drug use, and references to sex)

Hopefully this generates some interest because honestly SM 2099 is honestly one of my favourite comics of all time. Also I use a lot of Canadian spellings/British spellings as a heads up.

Prologue:

Nueva York...

In the year 2099...

Many things have changed.

There was once a golden age of heroes. Norse Gods and Men of Iron and a man who could swing on spider silk were but some of the wonders that graced that world. New York City was a haven for such exceptional individuals, legends now known to be taken for granted. The time of superheroes ended unceremoniously, inexplicably, and without warning, and now it is an age of new heroes for the masses to rely on.

Stark-Fujikawa, Green Globe, Horizon, Paragon Products, Chimera Corp, Roxxon, Synthia, and the greatest of all, Alchemax, to name a few. After the Disaster and the disappearances, these collective bodies thrived. In the sprawling metropolis that once housed so many superheroes, Alchemax reigns, stretching its hand across the entire eastern seaboard. To the west, its greatest rival, Stark-Fukijawa is kept at bay.

Over the decay of the old New York rose the towering monuments of the new world. Skyscrapers touched the sky and those who could afford the luxury of their heights prospered, leaving the rotting remnants of the poverty-stricken downtown behind. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying goes.

It is the time of the corporations, and they dominate all spheres of public and private life. Money is the mediating force. Like the superheroes of old, Alchemax will protect you, for a price. The Public Eye flyboys of uptown and the watchdog police of downtown operate on the same policy as any insurance company. Regular payments guarantee their intervention on your behalf, but otherwise, it is a world where one must fend for oneself, and be his or her own superhero.

Money has moved beyond base, physical bills, paper cheques, or even hand-held cards. Credit ID implants, colloquially known as "cards" broadcast the status of each person. Aluminum cards, gold cards, platinum cards, and black cards each carry benefits on the totem pole of society. With enough funds, the possession of a black card guarantees immunity from the law itself. Without sufficient funds, there is the status of decred, which blocks undesirables from certain shopping areas, parks, and even medical centres.

Many things may have changed, but on the other hand, there are some things that remain depressingly the same...

/

"We're gonna get caught."

"We're not gonna get caught."

Above the high-rises and mega malls soared a single, red convertible, technically restricted at this section of city. Inside, five sportive teenagers lounged on their leather seats, jesting and enjoying each others' company. Many feet below them wandered pedestrians going about their daily routine, shopping and returning from work. At this height they were like ants. Numerous lights flickered on in a seamless transition as night settled over the unsleeping city. To the side the teenagers passed the large, moving billboards for some sort of advertisement or another, all digital of course. For a moment the headlines of a local, non-Alchemax owned newsgroup filled a board. It read: ALCHEMAX MYSTERY EXPLOSION, then, SPONSORED BY COKE.

"I'm telling ya," the young driver interjected on behalf of his friend, scoffing. He was a red-head, pleased as a preening peacock to have his girlfriend with him for a night of fun on the town. His other passengers consisted of a second pair of boyfriend-girlfriend, and his friend's tag-along younger brother, a year their minor. "The flyboys never come up this high. They don't like the crosswinds. Just a buncha stoneless-"

"HEY!" It was the younger brother that interrupted him, stretching up in his seat and straining to point at something in the sky. "What the shock is that?!"

The rest of them turned in their seats to see what the fuss is about, and were rendered speechless. Whilst the driver was thus distracted, the hovering car swerved, nearly hitting a hotel. Impossibly, the silhouette of a man passed overheard, casting a shadow over the awe-stricken teenagers. Tailing him closely were at least three Public Eye officers, riding their signature airbikes and yelling amongst themselves like chickens with their heads cut off. In his surprise, one kid leaned so far out of the side of the vehicle that he nearly fell.

The man was just shy of six feet, wearing an outfit that was outlandish even by modern standards. It was dark, nearly black, and in the lights of the pursuing flyboys' cycles seemed to acquire a vibrant blue sheen. On his chest was a bright red logo, spider-like, but stylized as some sort of skull with leg-like protrusions. The top sides of the logo looped over his shoulders and down to his arms and the back of his hands like a ribbon of red. The visage of some sort of red mask design stared out of the material on the front of his head, like an angry, arachnid-esque face ready to pounce. From his back hung a fibrous fabric that fluttered behind him like silk. Dual pairs of spike-like protrusions were on the upper red area of his arms, and past that, the points of each finger seemed sharp, almost claw-like. Beneath the suit he was well built, body like a coil of tensed muscles about to spring. He was not flying, exactly, so much as jumping, which made it all the more impressive that he was evading the flyboys with seeming ease. No one escaped the Public Eye.

The nearest flyboy bellowed, "HALT!", but the mysterious man paid him no heed. "As authorized representatives of the Public Eye, we're ordering you to halt!" he continued, as though that would help.

Approaching fast from the rear, the third flyboy snapped, "Get those idiot kids out of the way!"

"You brats in the Whisper 3000 - vacate this area immediately!" His partner in the second closest flier was quick to take up the task, cutting across the teens in order to follow his quarry. "All such vehicles are forbidden in the inner city! Your registration has been noted! Return home at once, where your vehicle will be confiscated! MOVE!" he added almost as an afterthought. He was never one to neglect an opportunity to flex his civil power. The teenagers quickly vacated the scene, disappointment in every crease of their youthful faces at losing what was sure to be one hell of a show.

"This is your final warning! Surrender instantly or we will use deadly force!" screamed the first flyboy in an attempt at intimidation. The superhuman did not know that they were under orders to bring him alive to Alchemax, but then, he didn't need to know. Besides, while the Public Eye was technically subservient to their larger, father-company, they were known to rebel when excess brutality suited them, and these three flyboys were no exception.

Second flyboy swore when the man they were chasing landed on the hotel building and kicked off in a backflip. He was but a black-blue blur that filled his vision for a moment before disappearing above them. In a time without metahumans, seeing one up close was truly something to behold, and an experience that many would treasure. In the surviving videos from the heroic age, the fights between heroes and their adversaries had almost been a sort of performance, a ballet, even, in the case of the more agile ones; this person was no exception. There was a beauty to his movements, a sort of deadly grace that terrified and inspired.

"What the blazes-! How does he move that fast?!"

Regaining his composure, flyboy #1 barked back, "We're here to arrest him not admire him. He went between those buildings. Malik, with me. The rest of you, cut him off from the other side!"

A fourth flyboy joined them and paired off with #2. Flyboy #3, named Malik, cautiously charged into the shade cast by the adjacent buildings. Unnecessarily, his comrade began to advice him in a quiet, commanding voice, "Okay, Malik. Proceed with caution. Alchemax wants him alive if at all possible."

"I bet they do, Sarge," spat Malik bitterly, "And I want me alive if at all possible." But I'm sure they don't give a shit about that. He wisely left that last part unspoken. Alchemax was their boss, after all.

"Can the jokes, Malik," said Sarge sternly. As usual he kept his voice low, not wanting to alert the skittish superhuman to their presence, or at the very least wanting to avoid frightening him into fight-or-flight mode. "Watch the drafts, they're real nasty up here. Now, where did he-?"

"Sarge! Above you!"

Malik's eyes had caught the man first, and his mouth screamed out the warning as a gut reaction. He was perched above them, unmoving, his hands splayed out flat behind him for support. The fugitive visibly tensed as the flyboys' focus fell on him, their searchlights nearly blinding him.

Activating his communicator and tracking beacon, Sarge didn't waste a second to broadcast their success to their compatriots. "Target acquired! All units, converge on my signal!"

Like some sort of insect, the man scampered away with long strides that made use of all four of his limbs. Malik struggled to keep the high beams of his cycle on him as he moved.

"There he goes! On my mark and... FIRE!"

CHOOM CHOOM CHOOM

Stun bolts cut through the air, hitting everything but their intended target. The man leaned forward, continuing to crawl-run horizontally across the wall. One bolt nearly brushed across his back, but came up short.

"Those were warning shots!" said Malik, only half-lying. "Don't make us hurt you!"

The man turned his head sharply took them, and Malik felt a chill run down his spine. Somehow, he realized that their prey was tired of running. All creatures, when forced into a corner, eventually stood and fought. The man let go of the wall, his fall shortening the distance from Malik to a mere foot away. In his imagination, Malik fancied that he could feel the man's breath, but it was really the wind rushing past.

"Swing around! Malik, bring it around!"

Malik nearly squealed, but to his surprise the man just kept falling. His body was straight as an arrow and picking up speed rapidly. Malik couldn't stop staring, aghast.

"What's he doing?! He's in freefall! He'll kill himself!" he said, then paused. Maybe that's his goal, Malik realized to himself. He might have misjudged the man's intentions. Just because he was finished with running, that didn't mean that he was about to turn violent again. Good riddance, he thought, trying to convince himself that he was sincere. Instead, he just felt sort of... sad. It was like seeing a dumb, beautiful animal run into a road.

Sarge, being the more experienced of the pair and the one who'd been chasing this particular target the longest out of their entire group, came to a different conclusion.

"He's not killing himself, you idiot! Once he's dropped out of range he'll break his fall with those webbed airfoils of his. Puglisi! Estavez! Come in! Are any of you on him?"

The man flinched once more as a cycle roared towards him in answer to Sarge's question. Estavez's lips curled under his helmet, teeth bared almost bloodthirstily. There was no dodging now, not when in the middle of a free fall so fast that it was barely controlled.

"This is Estavez, Sarge! Target acquired! He's trying to change course, but I've got him in my si- OOF!"

The two men awkwardly slammed together, like a pair of meteorites on a collision course. The airbike was knocked off-kilter, swaying at a dangerous angle but eventually staying in place despite the drastic shift of weight and pitch. One of the man's legs was bent and resting against the area around Estavez's collarbone, while the other flailed outwards in order to regain his balance. Estavez's breath was pushed out of his throat and his chest ached where it had been struck. The gun he'd been holding, ready to fire, was flung from his hand as a result of the staggering impact. Their faces were an inch apart, and Estavez found himself unable to stare into the frightening mask at such close quarters. His heart hammered in his chest at the proximity, and he could feel the fugitive's heart fluttering too, either from fear, anger, or both.

"Don't play games with him, Estavez! Shoot!"

Once they'd gotten over their shock, the cycle twisted in the air as they grappled, nearly turning 90 degrees upside down. Estavez reached for his spare gun and grabbed it successfully, but as soon as the man saw it in his hand, his face twisted under the mask. The next movement was too fast to see with the naked eye, but Estavez's pain receptors clearly registered its results.

"ARRRH!"

Estavez's gun was a pile of sizzling cut-up components in his hand, tumbling away in the wind. His helmet had been tossed off his head at the force of the blow. No, not a blow, it'd been more than that. The man's hand did more than hit to hurt. It'd cut. In horror, Estavez felt bile rise in his throat as he grasped the fact that the three, searing lines of agony across his face were slash marks, and the the blood blinding his left eye was his own. A combination of the shock and blunt-force trauma from the event rendered Estavez limp, half-conscious, and rambling from that point forward in the scuffle.

Finally, the man spoke his first words during the entire encounter, proving that he did in fact have the ability. "Everyone out of the way!" He'd commandeered Estavez's vehicle and had it aimed at a walkway like a makeshift missile. It was too late to pull it up, even if he'd wanted too. Four mall patrons scattered like mice from its path at the man's warning.

"My face! I'm bleeding to death! You cut my face!" Estavez words were like a broken record of irrationality and panic. "You tried to kill me! You-!"

"Just shut up, wouldya, please?" And the small, ensuing explosion ensured that Estavez did just that. The man had leapt from the cycle prior to its crash, leaving its ruins behind but not the flyboy. He kept Estavez's uniform in the grasp of his adhering talons, showing a surprising amount of concern for his wellbeing considering his previous actions. A second, mighty leap sent both men to the entrance of a mega mall, marked with a massive "M". It was there that Estavez was dropped off before the man left him behind, diving into the cover that came with huge crowds.

Outside, mall patrons were excitable. The remaining Public Eye officers could hear snippets of their exclamations as they made their approach.

"Whoa! Check it!"

"Did you see it?"

"Holy shock-"

"Never saw a flyboy crash before."

"Public Eye got a black eye, if y'ask-"

"-Jumped all the way from there to here, and holding him. It was amazing."

The flyboys paid the spectators and occasional hecklers no heed as they advanced to their target's last known position. On the ground, they were joined by reinforcements posted at the shopping centre. One crouched bent beside Estavez's body, helping him to sit upright. Malik came up through the crowds, concerned.

"It's Estavez, awright!" announced the officer closest to him, grabbing Estavez's shoulders in support. "Get him to the nearest docs in a box! Where'd he go, Etsy?"

Dazed, and with a hand pressed over the left side of his bleeding and scarred face, Estavez gestured vaguely. "That way somewhere. I dunno."

The rest of the assembled Public Eye personnel clutched their weapons close, safeties sliding off in spite of the multitude of civilians milling about. Casualties were an unfortunate statistic, yes, but in a mission like this, it was best to put Alchemax's wishes first above all other concerns.

"Okay, men. Proceed with caution. He could be..." Only when inside the mall did it truly hit them how hopeless their plight now was. "...Anywhere," the Sarge finished, staring across a sea of shoppers, literally in the thousands. The sheer mass of bodies had undoubtedly made them lose him.

At the back, Malik muttered, "Aw shock."

/

Babylon Towers...

A subsidiary of Alchemax...

The door to his apartment slid open, granting access. Miguel O'Hara stepped inside, the rooms swathed in darkness. The motion sensors were swift to pick up on his presence, automatically making the lights switch on. This proved to be an inconvenience when the switch to brightness started his eyes a'stinging. He hissed and yelped, shoulders hunching as he flung his arms in front of his face as a shield.

"Lights to one quarter!" he ordered, and they dimmed drastically in accordance with his wishes.

"Hunh." Miguel let out a sigh, slumping over a table, one hand on it and the other holding the side of his aching head. "Better. Much better."

After he'd recovered enough to go to the bathroom, Miguel wearily made his way to his window-side armchair with intentions to just unwind. No sooner had he sat down that his home Artificial Intelligence activated. She materialized into the air in front of him, appearing as a yellow hologram modeled after an ancient movie star from the 20th century. A nonexistent updraft ruffled the skirt of her dress, and she tossed a slim, golden arm over her head to smooth her hair.

"Good evening, Miguel," 'Lyla' greeted him according to her typical programming. Her voice was smooth, high, and breathy. "The time is 0133 hours. Outdoor temperature is fifty-four degrees Fahrenheit. Air is partly breathable. Forecast for the next two days is occasional cloudiness with a fifty percent chance of rain."

"Fifty percent," Miguel repeated, dully. "That means maybe it'll rain, maybe it won't."

Lyla, unable to understand the intent or meaning of his words, ran a quick scan of him with what would equate to a machine's concern for her master's wellness. "Your personal bio-readings indicate an accelerated heartbeat and pulse rate above the norm. You've been exerting yourself."

"Tell me about it..."

"You have six messages pending, Miguel. Would you like to see them?" Lyla leaned forward, immaterial bosom heaving with fake breaths, pushed forward with her arms.

Wholly disinterested, Miguel murmured in a long-suffering way, "Sure, Lyla."

Those were the magic words. Immediately Lyla vanished, and in her place Miguel's hub projected the personage of Tyler Stone, Vice President and Director of Alchemax, and head of Research and Development. Most importantly, he was Miguel's boss, or rather ex-boss. The first holo message began to play, a scowl growing on Miguel's mouth with every word he heard. He bathed in the hatred, basked in it; it was glorious.

"Mike, I strongly suggest you come to me so we can work something out. You need the drug. You know it and I know it."

Deadpan, Miguel spoke as though the man could hear him. "Tyler, there's a train leaving at 0830. Be under it."

Ominously, Tyler Stone's holographic visage seemed to stare directly into Miguel's soul. "The sooner we can come to an accord, the better it will be for all of us."

"Tyler Stone, humanitarian," said Miguel dryly, undaunted by any veiled threat that Stone may or may not have intended. "Next, Lyla."

There was a short scrubbing sound in the audio. "Miguel, it's Gabe."

"Yeah, I know it's you, Gabe. Holos, remember?" Miguel eyed the 3D, yellow recording of his younger brother out of the corner of his eye. Physically Gabriel was like Miguel in a lot of ways. The brothers were of a similar height, though Gabriel was somewhat smaller in build, and their hair and eye colours were nigh identical. However, while Gabriel's face exuded a sort of kind, naive dopiness, Miguel's features were sharper, more cold, more handsome, even. In that way, Miguel differed from both his brother and his late father. Gabriel wore a striped scarf about his neck, and as usual his pair of signature goggles sat in their constant state above his head.

"Look, avoiding me isn't going to make things better. I stand by what I said before. The whole corporate raider program is a nasty piece of work, and you're a nasty part of it. But I still love ya, man. I-"

"Dump it and move on, Lyla." Miguel bent over dispassionately, hands clasped behind his neck. He lifted his gaze for a moment when the third voice started speaking. For a moment his eyes caught the swollen bruise on Dana D'Angelo's eye, and his throat clenched. His head was placed in his hands as he passively listened, not mockingly addressing her like he had the preceding messages.

"Miguel? Are you there? C'mon, honey, pick up. ...No? Look... Mig... I... I'm really frightened for you. The other day, when you were strung out on the drugs, I've never been so scared. And now it's... it's like you've vanished off the face of the Earth. Miguel, I'm your fiance. Don't leave me hanging after-"

"Dump it," said Miguel shortly.

"The remaining three are also from Dana."

"Dump 'em all."

His fiance's face was the final straw. He stood for a second, long enough to swipe aside the hologram of Dana while the reformed Lyla watched. Once the frustration was out of his system, the AI coeed, "Miguel, your present behaviour is not within normal programming parameters. You've diverted drastically from your standard pattern of domestic arrival activities. You've made no entries in your personal journal for five days, you-"

"My journal? My journal, huh? All right, Lyla, journal mode then."

Eager to be of assistance, the AI drew a yellow pair of glasses, a pen, and a notepad from thin air. She put on the glasses and professionally positioned the "pen" over the pad of paper in wait, ready to run her animation of jotting down notes as soon as Miguel started speaking.

Miguel intertwined his fingers together and placed them under his nose, gathering his jumbled thoughts. In his mind he felt himself falling, avoiding flyboys and bounty hunters, tripping out on the rapture, and the explosion. The last few days had been hard to process, let alone recall with coherent intelligibility. How to put it all into words... Eventually, the tale just tumbled out.

"Take this down."

End of Prologue