#[THIS IS NOT A ROLEPLAY STARTER. I REFUCKINGPEAT- NOT A STARTER.]

[spiderman2-99]

Here it is.

December 16th, 2099.

The day the leader of the Spider Society has been dreading ever since it popped up on his calendar. A looming spectre over his work. As inevitable and ever-present as mortality itself.

His day off.

No, seriously, he hates it. Especially now that he’s been given more of them in the wake of… 1610. (God, is it really delegated to a footnote now?)

Being aimless for a whole 24 hours, nothing to distract himself with— especially now that LYLA’s blocked any sort of paperwork that could come in— is legitimately close to a personal hell.

… okay, he’s being melodramatic.

Still. An itch thrums beneath Miguel’s skin to do- something. Anything. It’s not the productive kind— though he’s deep-cleaned his apartment twice over by 17:28 precisely. Nor is it the creative kind, or else the mere thought of having to sit down with his own hyperactive mind and force the spirals into some kind of direction wouldn’t leave him already weary before he starts.

No.

It’s a full-body urge to escape his own skin and mind; an understimulation that could only be rivaled by a bear in a concrete cage.

(Maybe that’s what he is.)

Downright potent when combined with lingering guilt that clings to him like dust on old furniture. The kind that only comes with living a life of constantly washing filth off his hands. Filth that’ll never come off.

There’s ways of dealing with it, of course; as much as sticking a band-aid on a hemorrhage is “dealing with it”. But he doesn’t quite have enough gumption to portal himself into the only gym that could support his strength— God knows what kind of ribbing he’d get— nor does the weather support those long, winding runs he’d take until he’d felt on the verge of passing out.

Times like this, Miguel almost wishes he were just Nueva York’s vigilante again. But no, he’s moved the stakes higher, and with them go his priorities.

… and of course, there’s liquid ways of dealing with it too.

Liquid ways that he’s been trying to cut back on lately. Got rid of the bottle and shot glasses hidden beneath his office desk and everything.

But here? In his apartment that he spends so little time at that it never really reflects his life choices anymore?

…

No.

No, no no no, no, absolutely not, you spineless imbecile.

It’s been, what, a week? And he’s already-

But what would just a little bit hurt? To take off the edge? The constant feeling of unease and too much, too loud, all at once? No.

Miguel made a plan, and he’s sticking with it, for shock’s sake. The hell kind of a man is he, folding so quickly just because he can’t escape his own stupid, ever-abusive mind? Besides. There’s… other things he could…

Probably….

Find to do…

Somewhere…

…

..

.

Al diablo con eso. He doesn’t deserve that.