SPIDER-MAN MEETS THE PROWLER 2099 UG #1
****
Written by Erik Burnham with help from Chris Burns
Plot by Erik Burnham
****

Barnaby Jacobs sleeps.

He sleeps the deep sleep of one deprived, one more
exhausted than words can come to describe.  In
layman's terms, the man is a log, dead to the world.

All that is about to change.

<<Help me!  HELP ME!  HELP! HELP! HEEEEEELP!!!>>

To some, a strange voice echoing through the
corridors of their mind - invading the only truly
private place available to a person - would seem
amiss...

....But not to Barnaby.  No, he was far too familiar
with this peculiar situation.  For nearly three
months now, he had been sharing his body with a
murdered man by the name of Quentin Broderick... a
man on a quest for vengeance and redemption.  A man
that was as neurotic and obsessed as they come.

He was also a man that took Barnaby's body as his own
from the moment the sun set on the horizon to the
first light of dawn every day.

Some people might think that such a thing was
extremely inconsiderate.  Barnaby was one of these
people.  But today was Saturday; he didn't have to
work.  He didn't have any appointments.  He didn't
have to do anything, save sleep.  Yes, today he'd
catch up on all those dreams he'd been meaning to
have.  Today he'd lull in the comfort and safety of
his own bed until the darkness fell, giving Quentin
control and calling forth the Prowler to skulk
through the streets of Minnepaul.

At least, that WAS the plan.

Barnaby couldn't help but wake up; after all the
screaming and calls for help had been a persistent
thorn in his psyche for... practically the whole
morning, now.  It was getting to be intolerable, even
to someone with Barnaby's talent for ignoring things.

<< "For crying out loud, Broderick!  Will you just
shut the shock up so I can get some much-needed,
well-deserved SLEEP?" >> Barnaby cried out to the
voice in his mind.

<< T-there's someone else there? >> Was the voice's
response.  It didn't sound like Quentin, Barnaby
thought.  But the man was beginning to gain notoriety
for finding new ways to annoy Barnaby - this fake
accent could just be the Next Big Thing. 

<< "Just shut up, would ya Broderick? You promised me
some rest," >> Barnaby said, fluffing his pillow.

<< My name isn't Broderick... who are you?  Where am
I? How did I get here? >>

<< "Quentin, this isn't funny anymore.  Now, I think
I've done a good job of humoring you up to this
point, but the JOKE IS WEARING THIN, all right?  Now
shut up and let me sleep." >>

<< My name is Miguel... Miguel O'Hara! >> The voice
said.

At that moment Barnaby shot up out of his bed, the
realization hitting him.  If it happened once...
Barnaby can do nothing other than put his face in his
hands.

"Another one?" Barnaby groans. "Not againÉ"

****
That same time, in New YorkÉ
****

"This is not right."  Quentin Broderick found himself
in the peculiar position of staring at a man's
reflection in a window.

It was not his own.  Of course, his body had long
since become fish food at the bottom of the
Mississippi River.  But this face wasn't Barnaby's,
either.

And something else was amiss.  Quentin could see,
behind him, the glint of the sun, reflecting off
another pane of glass in the distance.

The sun.

That would make it the daytime... something Quentin
had not experienced firsthand since his untimely
demise.

And that would mean... a new body.

"YES!" Quentin yelled out loud, prompting several
surprised glances from the people around him.

"Sorry," Quentin apologized.  "I just got a new body."

"Pervert," some old woman scolded before quickening
her pace.

<< "I can't believe this!  I CAN NOT shockin' believe
this!  Last night, I let Barnaby take some sleep; I
nodded off, and... I wake up here!">> Quentin was
beaming with all the intensity of the sun that he had
missed so when an itch attacked him.

It was one of those Godawful ones, the kind of itch
that nags and nags and nags until you scratch it; and
when Quentin reached beneath his shirt to alleviate
the irritation, he felt ... something.

<< "Hello, what's this?" >> Quentin wondered, lifting
his shirt for a better view.

What he saw blew his mind.  His eyes widened.  It was
part of a fairly recognizable death's head design...
bright red on a black background.

It was the garb of Spider-Man.

<< "Oh, man!  I musta done something' RIGHT!">>
Quentin thought, running off, looking for someplace
to change out of his clothes and experiment with his
new body.

Two blocks away, Quentin finally found the seclusion
he was searching for in a half-demolished building. 
He stripped off his outward clothing, revealing in
full the costume of New York's ever-amazing Spider-Man.

Have you ever had that feeling at Christmas, the
sensation that accompanies unwrapping gifts that you
never thought you'd get?  The pure joy of knowledge
that comes with unraveling the mystery of the gift,
the surprise, the unfettered excitement... was what
Quentin was experiencing the moment he pulled the
mask over his face.  His heart raced with pride as he
jumped a clear twenty feet into the air,
somersaulting back to the ground below, tumbling
about the room like a world-class gymnast.  

"Yes!" he sputtered in ecstasy.  He was alive - fully
alive - once more.

Spying a piece of rubble not far off, Quentin decided
to test his strength... he heaved it into the air
nearly effortlessly.  Quentin tossed it back down to
the ground.

"Just one more thing to check, here..." he said to
himself, pleased that his words were still more than
just a thought in another's mind.  Quentin raised his
arms, closed his eyes, and held his breath.

"Nothin' to it but to do it," he said, releasing a
strand of webbing straight up, latching it to the
ceiling.  Quentin shimmied up the strand and slowly,
like a child taking its first steps, eased himself
out onto the ceiling.  First his left leg, then his
right.  He seemed to be holding fine, but with the
strength in his new body, he could have just as
easily been holding on to the web by sheer arm
strength.

"GO!" Quentin grunted, suddenly letting go of his
safety line only to... stick.  He laughed, hanging
upside down nearly thirty feet in the air, sticking
like a fly on the wall.  Make that a spider...  A
Spider-Man.

****
<<"Miguel O'Hara, huh?">>

<< That's me. >>

<<"Why do I know that name?  O'Hara, O'Hara...
O'Hara!  Alchemax!  You tried to hire me once!">>

<< I... what? >>

<< "I recall Alchemax attempting to hire me out from
Equinico at one point.  Your name was on the
'official request.'" >>

<< Equinico?  That would make you... Jacobs? >>

The two paused under the weight of recognition long
enough to fully understand their predicament.

<< I'm in... >> Miguel started.

<< "...Hell." >> Barnaby finished.

<< "I can't believe this.  What did I do wrong? 
First I'm stuck with some psychotic ex-security
guard, now I get Alchemax's pet spicmick!" >>

You know the textbook definition of boiling rage? 
Miguel O'Hara has just surpassed it - and is being
tortured all the more, for he CAN'T DO ANYTHING ABOUT
IT!

<< Hey, you think I want to be here? >> Miggy said,
sounding calmer than he was.

<< "I don't care, buddy.  You're the gatecrasher
here, not me." >>

<< Like I wanted to be here. >>

<< "Feeling's mutual.  Any idea on how I can get rid
of you?" >>

<< We could try getting my body back. >>

<< "Brilliant.  And where is your body?" >>

<< Nueva York. >>

<< "NEW YORK?  I hate New York!  Geez, I... guh!" >>

<< What's wrong with it? >>

<< "Everything.  And to top it ALL off, the last time
I was there I had my butt kicked all over town by
Th... Uh... this really big dude!" >>

<< And I can't imagine why. >>

<< "Shut up, spicmick." >>

****
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaa-hoooooooo!"  Quentin Broderick,
Spider-Man, sailed through the concrete canyons of
New York's Downtown area, held aloft by a strand of
webbing, thin as silk, that he had brought forth via
the spinnerets in his forearms.  

The feeling - the FREEDOM - was indescribable! 
Quentin could feel the cool late-afternoon air, even
through the confines of his maskÉ the warmth of the
sun feeling good against his new body.

Did the original Spider-Man feel this way?  Did the
Spider-Man of 2099?  Quentin had always admired the
heroes - both of them.  They tended to inspire him,
even back when he was considered less than inspirable.

And nowÉ he was Spider-Man.  Spider-Man.  The
friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man.

That had a nice ring to it.


****
For the second time in as many months, Barnaby Jacobs
found himself at the Benjamin R. Richards
International Jetport - once again bound for the city
he loathed like none other - New York.  New York, the
Big Apple, an apple that's long since rotted to the
core, host to an entire cadre of worms that some
mistake for human beings.

New York!  The last time he was there, his body was
beaten about the city by a massive superhuman that
claimed to be Thor.  Not exactly the picture postcard
of reasons to return to somewhere, and if Barnaby had
his way, he wouldn't be returning.  But neither would
he be forever stuck with this joke that called
himself O'Hara.

<< Is it a long flight? >> Miguel asked as Barnaby
boarded the transport.

Speak of the devil.  

<< "Nope." >> Barnaby replied brusquely, dismissing
Miguel as completely as he could.

<< I'm just trying to make polite conversation. >>

<< "You wanna be polite?  Shut up until we get to New
York.  You wanna be a pain?  Keep talking." >>

<< Hey, your wish is my command.  So, you from
Minnesota originally? >>

<< "Yes.  Now leave me alone." >>
<< What the shock is wrong with you?  All I want to
do is chat!  Kill some time!  What's wrong with that?
>>

<< "Well, for starters, I don't want to chat - I want
to sleep.  I want to sleep and forget you ever
existed until we touch down in NYX.  And then, you
can point me in the most probable direction to find
you body..." >>

<< And then what?  We hot-wire it? >>

<< "Shut up, spicmick." >>

<< Will you STOP calling me that? >>

<< "Not in this lifetime, pal.  Now shut up so I can
get some sleep." >>

<< I don't think so, you fraggin'... Barnaby? 
Barnaby! >>

But it was too late.  The jet was in the air,
Barnaby's head was nestled into a pillow that was
most likely made out of recycled cardboard, and drool
was forming at the edge of his mouth.  Not even an
extremely ticked off Spider-Man could awaken him now.

****
"No, please!"  Edna Thomkins was almost sixty years
old, and had lived in Downtown for practically her
entire life.  Everyone and his brother knew she
didn't have anything worth taking - and even though
it was a rough world to live in, she had survived
quite nicely.  She'd never been bothered in any way,
other than the occasional verbal harassment.  She'd
always considered herself pretty lucky.

Tonight, her luck had run out.  Edna had been
kidnapped, taken from right off the streets, in broad
daylight!  No one had ever done that before - she
wasn't in a gang, she knew her way around, she knew
how to avoid trouble and not ruffle any feathers. 
But these two men just... they just ATTACKED her!

They didn't look like they belonged to any of the
gangs that were common to Downtown... these two young
boys with fleur-de-lis tattoos adorning their cheeks.
 They didn't look like anything short of demons...
but Edna was prejudiced in her assessments.  Fear had
a way of doing that to you.

"So whaddaya think we do to her?" One asked, glancing
over at the cornered Edna to ensure maximum terror.

His companion shrugged.

"Kill her, I suppose.  We could use the practice."

"Nah, you don't want to kill her.  Where's the
challenge in that?"

The two boys were shocked; no one in this most craven
section of the city would bother sticking their neck
out over some old lady.  Then the realization hit.  

The voice had come from above them.

****
The huge picture windows at NYX International Jetport
greeted Barnaby, as he stepped into the terminal,
with the most picturesque sunset that human eyes had
ever witnessed.  The beauty of the scene was somehow
lost on his cynical eyes. 

"Aww, shock."  Barnaby said, steeling himself for the
transformation he sensed was coming.

****
The two youths, slowly and in unison, lifted their
heads to see a man perched on a sheer wall, crossing
his arms and clicking his tongue, shaking his head as
though he were a disapproving parent.

One of the boys proceeded to wet his pants.

"Now, see, that's just not right," Quentin joked,
vaulting off the wall and across the alley to
another, keeping the high ground for now.  "I figure
that any criminals that'd stoop to murder would at
the very least be potty-trained."

"Don't kill us, S-Man... we didn't do nuthin'!" The
youth with the dry pants said, using all of his will
to keep them that way as he stared into the soulless
mask of the Spider-Man.

"Yet," Quentin said, staring at the tattoos on the
boys' cheeks.  "Hey, waitaminnit!  You two are Saints!"

The Saints were one of the gangs that were leftover
in Minnepaul after the War of the Twins.  They had a
reputation for chivalry, though - they did not kill
women and children (that were not members of another
gang.)  And here they were, a couple of thousand
miles away from home, breaking the rules of conduct
that their tattoos had assigned them.

"He knows us?"

"I told you we should'a got these things removedÉ
YAH!"  Spider-Man was face to face with the boys,
now.  They shivered, they shook, and they shimmied. 
Edna was transfixed by it all - she had never seen
the S-Man in person.

He was shorter than she expected.

****
<< Excuse me?  Excuse me - Jacobs.  Why did you stop
like that? >>

Barnaby saw the dark outside and had prepared for
Miguel to take control of his body - just as Quentin
always had.  But something was different.  He could
hear, feel, taste the air, and ultimately, move.  His
body was his own once more.  Full-time.  Barnaby sat
down at a nearby bench and smiled.  This is more than
he'd ever hoped for.

<< "I thought you were going to take over my body." >>

<< Take over your... right.  I'm trapped in the body
of a crazy man, here.  Why me? >>

<< "Shut up, spicmick - it's a long story.  Now
then," >> Barnaby said, standing.  << "Let's see if
we can't find your body." >>

With any luck, Barnaby thought, he'd be alone by
morning.

****