Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Drowning. 

Peter was drowning. Why was he drowning? 

He was just with Doctor Strange… Why was he with Doctor Strange? It was important. It was important… 

Why is he drowning? 

Panic surged through him as he thrashed, inhaling mouthfuls of something thick and acrid. It wasn’t water—it was something worse. The green liquid filled his mouth, his lungs. It was inside him, choking him, suffocating him. Peter was drowning in it.

getoutgetoutgetout

His mind screamed as he flailed, desperate for something solid, something that could save him. His hand grazed a surface, something cold and unyielding. He fumbled, but his limbs were heavy, numb, uncooperative. His legs felt like they were made of lead, sinking him deeper into the suffocating green.

Peter’s fingers searched frantically along the surface, but there was nothing—no hatch, no ridges, no sign of an escape. Just a smooth, cold wall that offered no mercy.

Green panic swirled, Peter’s search for an exit becoming desperate. 

The green panic inside him swelled, his thoughts scattering as his need for air became unbearable. Trembling, Peter cracked his eyes open, hoping for a miracle. Instead, he was met with a blinding, searing pain. The green liquid burned his eyes, his throat, his lungs—every breath, every swallow, was agony .

Jesus fucking Christ, that hurt .  

His body convulsed as the burning intensified, the green liquid seeping into every part of him, robbing him of breath, of thought, of hope. The idea of finding an exit, of escaping, slipped away as the pain consumed him. The burning in his lungs was unbearable, and his mind grew hazy from the lack of oxygen, from the relentless assault of the green .

He was going to drown. He was going to die here, suffocated by this toxic green hell.

GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT

Desperation took over, and Peter thrashed wildly, slamming his fists and feet against the smooth walls that confined him. The space was too small, too tight, the green pressing in on him from all sides. His movements were frantic, uncoordinated, but he didn’t care—he couldn’t stop. He had to fight, had to find a way out, even if it meant tearing himself apart.

Cracks spread, spiderwebbing outwards. 

Peter heard every crack of the glass and every vibration. It was overwhelming . 

As his vision spotted and his arms grew sluggish, the glass shattered. Peter was all but thrown out, catching on more than his fair share of jagged glass on the way out. 

He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring, but the adrenaline kept him moving. Peter shivered violently, his body reacting to the sudden cold as he felt around in a panic. For what, he wasn’t quite sure—something solid, something familiar, something that wasn’t green. Someone. He was looking for someone, he thought. But the thought slipped away as quickly as it came, drowned out by the all-consuming need to breathe.

He gasped, sputtering, and suddenly he was retching, hacking up mouthful after mouthful of the thick, acrid green goop that had filled his lungs. It clung to his throat, slimy and suffocating, and he damn near passed out before he finally managed to draw in his first breath of air. The taste in his mouth was revolting, a nauseating blend of bile and chemicals that made him gag.

Greedily, Peter gulped down the stale, musty air, his chest heaving as he lay there, too exhausted to move. Jagged pieces of glass dug into his skin, new homes found in the raw flesh exposed by his shredded clothes. The smell of stomach acid mixed with the pungent odor of the green liquid, a stench that made his head swim. But despite it all, despite the pain and the filth and the cold, he was just so tired—

getupgetoutGO

The command sliced through his haze of exhaustion, dragging him back to the present. He’d been operating on pure instinct, his eyes tightly shut against the world. But now, blinking rapidly, Peter tried to force his vision to clear.

Hissing, Peter rubbed his eyes harshly, only seeming to aid in the green water’s goal of burning his poor eyeballs. 

“Son of a—” he choked out, but the words were a mistake. His throat was still coated in that vile sludge, and the effort to speak sent him into another fit of coughing, each spasm more painful than the last.

Tears welled up, slipping down his face and mingling with the green, but they at least helped to wash some of it away. Slowly, painfully, his vision began to clear.

His sight cleared, but the green did not. 

Peter shakily sat up, taking each breath as though it were his last, he tried to clear his mind and make heads or tails of his situation. But the green haze persisted, swirling around him like a sinister fog. He coughed and sputtered, burning his throat as he wiped the remnants of the acrid goop from his mouth and eyes. 

Slowly, painfully , he pushed himself up, his muscles protesting with every movement. His head throbbed with a sharp pain, and his vision swam. 

badbadleavegonow

It took a moment for the fog of confusion to lift, but when it did, Peter's heart sank like a stone in his chest. 

He was supposed to be in Doctore Strange’s sanctum right now. They were doing something important, Peter thinks. 

Except… He wasn't in Doctor Strange's sanctum anymore. He wasn't anywhere familiar at all. Somewhere badnotgoodleave .

The room around him was dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of decay and neglect and green . Crumbling concrete walls surrounded him, and the hum of machinery reverberated through the air. It was some sort of lab, or at least something resembling one, judging by the various bits of scientific equipment scattered around. Peter's stomach churned with unease.

He staggered to his feet, the adrenaline coursing through his veins driving him forward despite the pain and disorientation. With each step, he struggled to shake off the remnants of his ordeal, but the memory of drowning in that thick, green substance lingered like a nightmare he couldn't escape.

Peter stumbled, hands flying out to steady himself, making contact with glass. He stuck himself there as his limbs shook with the effort it took to hold himself up. Letting out a breath once he was stable, Peter looked up. 

Straight into the eyes of a corpse. 

Peter froze, the air catching in his throat. The body in front of him was that of a girl—maybe nineteen or so—floating lifelessly in the same green liquid that had nearly drowned him. Her inhuman green eyes were open, staring unseeingly into the void, her skin pale and tinged with the same sickly green hue that filled the tube. Horror gripped Peter as he forced himself to look away, but everywhere he turned, he was met with the same sight—tube after tube, each containing a body suspended in the green liquid. All of them a teenager of younger, and all of them were silent, unmoving, trapped in this grotesque display.

And then he saw it—the one empty tube. The tube he had broken out of.

Peter panicked, and the more he panicked, the greener everything became. This— this wasn’t the sanctum? Why was he drowning? Where was Doctor Strange? Why were all these people in these tubes? What was happening? Where was he?

notsafebadleave

As Peter's panic threatened to overwhelm him, the green haze seemed to intensify, enveloping him in its sickly embrace. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing loudly in his ears as he struggled to make sense of the horrifying scene before him.

The girl in the tube floated eerily, suspended in the green substance like a macabre display. Her expression was serene, almost peaceful, but Peter couldn't shake the sense of dread that settled like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach.

With trembling hands, Peter reached out, his fingers hovering over the glass of another nearby tube. Inside, he could see the outline of another person, their features obscured by the murky liquid that surrounded them. They had a small silhouette— a child, barely seven, by the looks of it. 

A wave of nausea washed over him as he realized the extent of the horror that surrounded him. These people, trapped in these tubes like specimens in some twisted experiment... what had happened to them? 

Peter forced himself to listen, straining his enhanced senses to detect any sign of life within the room. But there was nothing. No shallow breaths, no muffled heartbeats, no sounds of movement. Only the cold, oppressive silence of death, punctuated by the relentless thumping of his own heartbeat, the only one left in this chamber of horrors.

Panic clawed at him, the walls closing in as the green haze began to blur his vision. His breathing grew ragged, his chest tightening as the realization settled over him—he was alone here. Whoever these people had been, whatever had happened to them, they were gone. He was the only one left.

But why? Why was he here? Why had he survived when they hadn’t?

The questions swirled in his mind, but he had no answers. All he knew was that he had to get out. He had to escape this place before whatever nightmare had claimed these lives claimed his as well. The green, the tubes, the dead—it was too much, too overwhelming. He needed to breathe, to think, to live .

Peter stumbled back, looking frantically around. Shards of glass made themselves known as Peter made his way toward a bin filled with— clothes? 

One sniff made it apparent they were dead people’s clothes. Peter glanced at the clothes, then to the bodies suspended in green, then at his own similarly undressed form. Man, that was… that was fucking dark . They— whoever was running this shitshow— kept a bunch of dead kids’ clothes? 

The realization fueled a surge of disgust and rage, a combination that made his skin crawl. His hand clenched around the edge of the counter, the metal creaking ominously before snapping beneath his grip. Peter barely managed to pull himself back from the brink, forcing deep breaths through clenched teeth as he counted backward from ten. But even that brought on a fit of coughing, the green sludge still clinging to his lungs like poison. (Jesus, Peter was going to be coughing up the green stuff for the next week .) 

Peter sighed, resigned in what he was about to do. 

He… He didn’t have any clothes. And there were clothes right in front of him. If Peter hadn’t vomited up everything he had in his stomach already, he’d have thrown up again. 

Gingerly sifting through the pile of clothes— they were clearly taken with no care, haphazardly ripped and thrown onto the table— he grabbed a shirt and a pair of sweats. They were big, way too big, swallowing his frame like he was a child. The shirt enveloped him, and he’d pulled the drawstrings on the sweats as tight as he could. In all honesty, they were hanging onto his frame by a thin piece of string and a prayer. 

Which was odd, because they were only a men’s medium. 

As he dressed, he made a silent vow. He’d give these poor souls a proper burial as soon as he could. Fresh, new clothes. A casket. A headstone. Flowers. Everything they deserved, everything they had been denied in this nightmare.

Peter fumbled with the glass in his feet, ripping them out, uncaring of the blood that came gushing out. That didn’t matter. He needed to get out and find Doctor Strange. And maybe alert the police. And… Something . He was forgetting something. 

Using the wall as support, Peter made his way to the only door in the room. He only stopped because he caught sight of something shiny hidden beneath some of the bloodier clothes. Upon looking closer, it was two red metal bracelets. Specifically, the red bracelets that made up the Iron Spider. The green in his chest reared its ugly head, mixed emotions swirling that left a sour taste in his mouth. 

With trembling hands and hope fluttering in his chest, Peter reached out, picking up the bracelets and clutching them tightly, as though they’d disappear. The bracelets were a reminder of who he was; a symbol of the hero he had become. And more importantly, they were the last thing he had to remember Mr. Stark by. Peter’s lip trembled as he slipped them on. At least he had this— a reminder he was Spider-man. He used that reminder to cool the green. He was Spider-Man .  

“Kar—” Peter delved into another coughing fit, his body convulsing with each hack.

“Karen?” A hoarse whisper was the best Peter could manage, staring hopefully at the bracelets. 

No response. 

Unsurprising, but it hurt nonetheless. 

Peter huffed, placating the green that had settled in his chest for the umpteenth time. He needs a working computer, with an outlet. Something to get Karen online and powered up. It’s unlikely the arc reactor powering the Iron Spider gave out that easily. Karen probably just needs a kickstart. 

Continuing the trek to leave this nightmare building, Peter stopped to listen every so often. No heartbeats. No people. At least, no one alive , anyway. He heard the faint sounds of a bustling city, as well as the hum of electricity in the room with the… tubes, but that was it. It was like this place was abandoned. Not that Peter is complaining! He was barely coordinated enough to walk while leaning on the wall, there was absolutely no chance he could have fought his way out. 

Small mercies, he supposed. 

The building was trashed, but not in a deliberate sense. It was dusty, clearly abandoned, with paper and trash littering the floor, but it was not like there was mold or signs of a struggle. It looked closer to a hasty evacuation than a subsequent abandonment. The paper looked vaguely important, but when Peter tried to read them, it all jumbled up into nonsense in his mind. He huffed in irritation, ditching the papers in favor of his first task: finding an exit. His Peter-tingl— spidey-sense quieted down after he left the green room, for the most part, mainly just a low hum of cautiouscarefulwary .  

After who-knows-how-long of wandering, (Karen would’ve known) , and a near endless staircase, Peter finally stumbled upon a door through which he could distinctly hear the aforementioned sounds of the city beyond. He only hesitated for a second before pushing this door open. 

A gust of city-polluted air rushed in, replacing the previously stale air. The light left Peter momentarily blinded, his sensitive eyesight taking the cloud-covered sun as though it were a flash grenade. 

Wincing, Peter covered his eyes until they adjusted. Cracking them open, Peter looked out onto a city.

A city that was not Queens, New York. 

nothomenothome nothome

Granted, the door had opened into an alleyway, which was absolutely disgusting, if all the smells Peter was bombarded with were what he thought they were, and he was pretty sure it was. The nasties . 

Peter promptly slammed it shut. His head swam, ears rang, and green swirled. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck ? Where was he? Why was he here? Wherever here was, anyway. 

Peter ran a hand down his face, massaging his temples. Fuck, shitballs, ok, this is fine. (Read: not fine) He’d survived being dusted. He died, he actually, legitimately, bit the dust. He could handle this. Until Strange found him, at least. Strange? 

Why was he here in the first place? 

He was forgetting something…

Braving the door, Peter stumbled down the stairs, glancing up at the sky. It was noon? Maybe? The gray clouds made it hard to tell, but that was Peter’s guess. 

Peter couldn’t explain how he knew this place wasn’t Queens, but he just knew. He had been in nearly every alleyway in New York, every corner and street and rooftop. This just… This wasn’t home. He knew it. He felt it. Peter feels like he’d earned the benefit of the doubt when it came to his feelings. They were generally right, not that Peter listened to them as often as he should’ve, but semantics . 

Peter made his way to the end of the alleyway, towards a not-quite bustling street, but it wasn’t empty either. It still grated on his ears. He was almost tempted to crawl his sorry-ass back into the nightmare-lab. So, definitely noon. Another reason this place wasn’t New York, because the street would’ve been packed to the absolute brim. 

The closer he got to the end of the alleyway, the louder his spidey-sense seemed to get. Which was odd, because weren’t these all just civilians? Why was his spidey-sense going off for civilians? Well, more than average. One does not simply live in New York, they survived New York. 

Stepping out, Peter got several snide looks from passing people. And was it just him, or was everyone… really tall? Peter’s eyebrows furrowed, looking down at himself, then back up to another passerby. That’s… Huh?

He called out to a couple passing people but was oh-so kindly told to fuck off. Three times! One was even in Spanish, although butchered by the local accent. Diversity ! 

cautiouswaryunsure

Peter chewed on his lips, tasting the dried remnants of green on his lips. He tried not to think about that. Looking around, Peter played a game of “Will they shank me?” with his spidey-sense, trying to find someone who looked less… stabby than everyone else. And would maybe, actually answer a question or 10 without telling him to get fucked by a three-legged chair. 

This wasn’t Queens, so Peter needed to find somewhere they'd let a grimy, homeless looking adult touch their mediocre computers so he could get Karen online. Peter doubted a computer cafe would even let him get through the doors before he was shooed out— or shot— so public library it was. 

He settled on a young lady— she was around 19 and lifeless, suspended in the green — minding her own business on the blockiest phone Peter’s seen in years . He decided against touching her, instead hesitantly waving in her peripherals to get her attention. 

niceokgood

She leveled him with an unimpressed glare. “What, kid?” 

And wow, was that an accent? Sounded Jersey to him, which, gag . Why was he in Jersey? Also rude, they were basically the same age, no need to call him a kid. Condescending much? Clearing his throat as best he could, Peter asked his question.  

“S—sorry, could you, um, point me in the direction of the public library?” Peter haorsley whispered, ducking his head, all the while giving her his best “I-mean-you-no-harm” eyes. His throat burned as he spoke, and he bet good money his breath smelled like that goop. He could feel his hair drying with the green, leaving it uncomfortably stiff and crunchy. Not to mention he was wearing dead people’s clothes . So, in short terms; he smelled and looked like death. 

She didn’t appear moved by his puppy eyes but answered anyways. “Go down this street as far as you can see, twice, then turn right. It’s the big building that doesn’t look like shit.” She put her earbuds back in, walking away, mumbling something about “Fucking New Yorkers,” .

Peter blinked. Those were certainly… directions, he supposed. Weirdest directions he’s ever received, but who is he to not listen to them? Peter rasped a small “ thanks ” as he hesitantly made his way in the direction she pointed, decidedly not acknowledging being called a New Yorker with the same amount of emotion Peter would’ve had about wet socks. 

Peter estimated where a normal person’s eyesight would end, and then walked (Read: stumbled) his way there. Halfway there, Peter had to stop to catch his breath, coughing up the equivalent of green phlegm. Wiping his mouth, Peter looked up, eyes catching on a decently reflective window.

What the fuck.

What the actual fuck. 

Head wiping around, Peter looked for the half-dead kid in the window, which couldn’t have been him. Because… What ? 

The green swirled in his chest. There’s no fucking way. 

Why the fuck did he look like his twelve-year-old self. 

Peter had dried off, for the most part, the green substance leaving his hair crunchy and dry, and a faint, greenish sheen on his skin. He looked sickly and pale, dwarfed in clothes that should’ve fit Peter. His hair was darker— basically black— with a big ol’ chunk of white hair right at Peter’s widow’s peak. 

Which, sure, this weird substance could’ve damaged his hair, and changed its color like the world’s shittiest dye, except Peter’s eyes . They were green . And not a pretty, natural green. Peter looked like he was some sort of Danny Phantom fanboy. 

Peter… Peter didn’t even look like himself . Sure, the facial shape of this body would eventually grow to be familiar, but what the fuck? You don’t just— deage ! With noticeable changes to characteristics that are otherwise unchangeable! Because last Peter checked, a spider bite may have changed his DNA, but he didn’t look any different! It was all internal ! 

Peter shook his head in disbelief, trying to make sense of the bizarre situation he found himself in. It was like a twisted nightmare came to life, leaving him feeling disoriented and unsettled. As he stared at his distorted reflection, a surge of frustration and anger welled up inside him. How could this be happening? Where the hel was Strange? Was he the cause of this? Was he part of this? 

With renewed vigor to get to the library, find Strange, and then throttle him, Peter pushed away from the window. Except, he must’ve pushed a little too hard, because Peter’s hand went straight through. The sound of glass shattering abused his sensitive ears. 

Peter paused, only momentarily, before very quickly moving on. Thankfully, it appeared this place was just another abandoned building, but Peter didn’t stick around to find out. People gave him odd and warry looks but otherwise did nothing. He hoped it was abandoned. He’d feel bad if he just broke some poor person’s window. 

Speed walking away, Peter shoved his hands in the pockets of his stolen sweats. It was freezing, and it hadn’t helped that he was still kind of damp when he’d stepped out. Hopefully the cold wouldn’t trigger a premature hibernation. That could land Peter in some trouble.  Peter’s walk didn’t have any more disruptions, aside from a couple people trying to pickpocket him, but since Peter literally has nothing, all they got was a handful of empty pockets. 

Coming to a stop, Peter looked up at the library. He could see what the girl meant. It really was the least shitty looking building around. 

Looking down, Peter flushed slightly in embarrassment. He looked and smelt like death, had no shoes on, and was wearing bloodied clothes. Maybe the library would kick him out… 

Worth a shot. Worst-case scenario, Peter… entered in less than legal ways after hours. 

Walking up, Peter got the sense of deja vu looking at everything. The green haze was still present in the back of his mind, and everything looked so big and overwhelming. And he felt off. Really off. Probably because he was, like, seven inches shorter than normal, with changed characteristics, and was in a completely different city. 

awaresharpwatch

Pushing open the door, Peter appreciated the blast of warm air and the relative silence of this building. Hesitantly walking up to the abnormally tall front desk (not tall— Peter was now just short, he reminded himself) Peter hesitantly waved to get the red-haired lady’s attention. She set off his spidey-sense, but she was also the only person upfront, so he took his chances. 

“Um, hi, can— can you point me in the direction of the computers?” Peter mumbled, throat protesting, eyes darting around before looking back up at her. He swallowed a cough that made his eyes water. He did not want to choke up a green loogie on this poor civilian-librarian-lady. 

The librarian turned to Peter with a smile, but it faltered slightly as soon as she saw him. She stared in… disbelief? Shock? Anger? Resentment? The green was not at all helping Peter decipher facial expressions and emotions. Did news of Peter being Spider-man reach Jersey too? Was that why? But wasn’t Strange supposed to… 

Strange was supposed to… 

“Sorry about that! I’m Barabara, the Librarian. Please sign in here, and then the computers are free to use until we close. They’re over there,” Barbara points over to a comfy-looking corner, with a couple of college students typing away like their lives depended on it. Probably did, in this economy. “And can I… help you with anything else?” 

It felt like there was more behind her question, but Peter wasn’t sure. 

Peter cleared his throat. This green phlegm was gonna be the end of him. “Oh, no, um, thank you, Miss Barbara.” Peter ducked his head, offering a small smile that felt more like a grimace. 

She was, quite literally, the first nice person Peter had talked to. Which only accounted for like, maybe seven people, but still . Reaching for a pen to sign himself in with, Peter fumbled for a second, his hand and brain not cooperating. It took him a couple of tries to read the sign-in sheet, and even more to get his hand to cooperate on the writing department, but he (probably) got the gist of it. He thinks. (He signed his name on the phone number line with the legibility of a seven year old.) 

She sent him a kind smile as Peter walked away. Peter wrung his hands together anxiously, glancing at the clunky computer, then back to his sleek bracelets that housed Karen. 

Dear Thor and Loki, and any other gods or demi-gods listening that might hold a smidgen of favor for him, he hoped this worked. 

— 

Barbara was in shock. 

Actually, shock might have been an understatement. Disbelief? Utter disbelief might have been more accurate. Yeah, yeah that sounded accurate. 

She’d felt a stab of sympathy first. This poor kid— Peter, read the sign-in sheet, on the wrong line— looked like he’d been to hell and back. Thrice. He was small, in the malnourished sense. Cheeks caved in, thin wrists and arms, a sickly sort of sheen to him, as well. He was tan in a way that was foreign to Gotham’s consistant cloud covered skies. Dark hair, that was probably wavy, if how it dried was any pointers. Baggy clothes that clearly didn’t fit him, blood dried on them, as well as the various cuts that marred his arms, with a good chance of even more injuries hidden under his weather-innapropriate clothes. She hadn’t seen his face too clearly, Peter’s eyes practically glued to the ground, but she thought they were green. A boyish face with freckles— he fit a certain broody man’s adoption criteria. 

Most notably, though, was the shock of white hair at his widow’s peak. He vaguely resembled Jason when he was that age. What with the matching tufts of white hair, which was a problem if it was what she thought it was. 

Barbara pursed her lips, watching Peter fiddle with the computer. His eyes darted around the room, never staying in one place too long.

Skittish. Unsure. Scared .

It was a conclusion not many would have jumped to. “This skittish kid must have died!” But she was god-damn Oracle , okay? She’d honed her senses over many years—along with dealing with this batshit family. She’d been around the block.

She’d thought Bruce had taken care of all the Lazarus Pits in Gotham. And, hell, he could’ve! Maybe that white streak is natural, but the odds of that were as slim as Harley turning in her hyenas for a pair of poodles. No, there was something about Peter Parker that didn't add up, and she wasn’t one to ignore her instincts.

It was something in the kid's nose, his eye shape, his face—hell! Even the dimples Barbara had caught a glimpse of screamed familiar.

Barbara pulled out her phone, typing furiously before deleting her message.

If she texted Bruce, he’d rush down here from the very important JL meeting he was peer-pressured into going to, and definitely overwhelm the kid. He’d try to immediately interrogate Peter, find out where the Pits were, and figure out how to dispose of them.

It would absolutely demolish any chance of Peter trusting them. And from what Barbara spied, he was a runner if the record of one Peter Benjamin Parker proved correct.

Thankfully, Peter had looked around the library when he walked in, straight into a camera. Face ID brought him up as one of the many missing kids in Gotham.

No one she texted in the manor would keep silent from Bruce, either. The poor kid would be ratted out within twenty-four hours.

(Probably adopted. The man is a genuine addict, and the kid fit the bill to a tee. Black hair? Check. More-than-likely traumatic backstory? Barbara was near certain.)

So Barbara messaged someone who didn’t live in the manor—and, more importantly—wouldn’t immediately run to Bruce with this information. Was it born of stubbornness and a desire to be an ass? Absolutely.

Barbara took a quick photo of Peter sitting at the computer, deep in concentration. His shirt was a little bloody, with a suspiciously knife-shaped hole on the side and random cuts along his forearms.

Hoodlum  
[1:12 PM]  

Babs: I need a favor. 

Jason: I’m not interested in doing your dirty work, Barbie. 

Babs: It's about the Lazarus Pits in Gotham. 

Jason: Didn’t B say he wiped those out? The hells happening?

Babs: [Image attached]

Babs: I’m not so sure about that anymore.
[read 1:27 PM]

Jason: Is that a kid? The hell happened to him?

Babs: Yeah. I know. 

Jason: If this is some kind of joke, it ain’t funny. Babs, the kid looks like he’s been through hell.

Babs: Trust me, it’s no joke. He came into the library looking like that.

Jason: Shit… Has B see this yet?

Babs: No. And I’d like to keep it that way for now. He’s too skittish. If Bruce charges in, we’ll lose him before we get any answers.
[read 1:34 PM]

Jason: Good. 

Jason: You think he’s been in a Lazarus Pit?

Babs: It's possible. Something about him doesn’t add up. I don’t want to risk scaring him off before we know more. 

Jason: I’ll keep an eye out for the kid. Try to see if I can dig anything up on my end. Keep me updated. 

Babs: Thanks, Jay. I appreciate it.
(Read at 1:42 PM) 

Barbara sighed as she put her phone away. If anyone could handle this without Bruce finding out too soon, it was Jason. He might be rough around the edges, but he understood what it was like to be young, lost, and scared. More importantly, he knew how to approach someone like Peter without spooking him.

He liked to deny it, push it off on Dick, say he was the emotional one. But Jason is a liar.

Underneath the sarcasm and the tough exterior, Jason had a heart that bled for people like Peter—kids who’d been through the wringer, who wore their trauma like a second skin. Jason could relate to that in a way none of the others could. Maybe it was the Lazarus Pit’s influence, maybe it was just who he was at his core, but Jason had a softness that he kept buried deep under layers of anger and bravado.

He’d scoff at the idea, roll his eyes and crack a joke to deflect, but Barbara knew better. She’d seen the way he was with the strays—human or otherwise—that crossed his path. He wasn’t as callous as he liked to pretend. And when it came to a kid like Peter, someone who was clearly in over their head, Jason’s protective instincts would kick in whether he admitted it or not.

Barbara knew she could count on him. Jason had a way of making people feel like they weren’t alone in their pain, like they had someone who truly understood. And that was exactly what Peter needed right now—someone who could see through the cracks in his armor without trying to pry them open.

She glanced at Peter again, noticing the way his hands trembled ever so slightly as he typed. The kid was barely holding it together, and any wrong move could send him spiraling. Barbara wasn’t going to let that happen. Not on her watch. 

Jason might act like he was all guns and gritted teeth, but he had the ability to reach out to the lost and the broken in a way that even Bruce couldn’t. And that, more than anything, was why Barbara trusted him with this. Peter needed someone who wouldn’t judge him, who wouldn’t push him too hard or too fast.

Jason could be that person, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

Barbara just hoped it would be enough to keep Peter from slipping through their fingers before they could figure out what had really happened to him—and what it meant for Gotham.

Bruce would come down like a hammer eventually, but until then, she had to make sure Peter felt safe—at least as safe as anyone could feel in Gotham.

Chapter Text

The computers in the library were big and clunky, and honestly reminded Peter of the computers from his elementary school. Different brand, though. 

Peter pursed his lips, because… How is that name pronounced? Wayne? Like… Like Kanye? With a “W”? Way-an-ae? This is a terrible name. Why doesn’t this place have any Stark computers? They are way more efficient, plus a bunch of the older models just went on a huge sale.

Peter sighed, going to run his hand through his hair, but was immediately caught in all the tangles. He grimaced. He’ll definitely need to find somewhere to shower— and a change of clothes. And some shoes. Peter swallowed his groan of annoyance. While hygiene was, in fact, very important, Peter needed to figure out where specifically in Jersey he was first, and then where the hell Doctor Strange was. And then get Karen back up and online. 

Peter fidgeted anxiously as the computer booted up, the outdated fan spinning with all its might. Peter twitched at the squeak, the sound of someone grinding their teeth in front of him, and someone licking their fingers before turning the page of their book. Peter almost preferred the loudness of outside— at least then he wouldn’t hear every individual person's movement or annoying quirk in excruciating detail. It all blended together. Kind of. Fucking teeth grinders , Peter is looking at you . 

Peter’s eyebrow twitched in annoyance, the green only fueling his irritation. 

The computer lit up with the guest login, and Peter didn’t hesitate to open… Safari? Nobody uses Safari , what? And why did everything look so damn… Old ? Jesus, Peter knew that Jersey sucked, but was their funding that bad? 

Glancing down at the bottom right corner, Peter got the time. It was twenty past one, and it was… February third? 2015 ? That can’t be right. It was December. Christmas was right around the corner. Not to mention, it was 2023, last Peter checked. Were the computers broken, or something? They need to put a sign up for that, honestly. If the date wasn’t even correct, was the time? 

Glancing up at the clock hung on the wall across the library proved that, yes, it was indeed the right time. His spidey-sense tingled lightly. 

Safari loaded up— after taking its sweet, sweet time— and Peter didn’t hesitate to type in; 

current location|

Several results popped up, all about Gotham, New Jersey. Bingo! Peter was in Jersey! He knew a damn Jersey accent when he heard one. That’s right, Peter’s that good. (Peter was bullied by a kid from New Jersey in the fourth grade. Screw you, Joshua Lopez.) 

Peter had never heard of Gotham, but he also could not tell you where Illinois was on the map if you put a gun to his head. Peter missed most of his geography classes while out Spider-Manning, so his chances were dashed right from the start. (Still passed with a B-, though.)

Feeling a little lighter now that he’d answered one of the many questions swirling in his mind, Peter typed out his next query:

dr strange current location|

[no search results were found] 

Peter frowned as the search yielded no results. He tried again, typing more carefully this time.

dr strange last sighting|

[no search results were found]

Still, the search came up empty. Peter's frustration grew. Where was Doctor Strange? He was supposed to be there, helping Peter figure out what had happened and how to fix it.

Right, fix it… They were fixing something. That’s why Peter was with Dr. Strange. 

What… What were they fixing? 

Peter’s eyebrows furrowed even deeper. That’s, like, super weird. The internet keeps better tabs on superheroes than S.H.I.E.L.D half the time. There should’ve been thousands of results, even with this clunky computer. 

Maybe his last fight wasn’t recorded. Maybe that would help. They could’ve just not gotten a hold of the most recent fight. Maybe it hasn't been long enough yet. 

spider-man last sighting|

[no search results found] 

No search results found…

What ? 

What the fuck ? 

That’s not possible. Spider-Man hadn’t been out of the spotlight in years . 

Peter’s heart thundered in his chest as his fingers flew across the bulky keyboard. His fingers kept accidentally sticking in his panic, ripping keys off in his haste. 

peter parker| 

Peter let out a small breath as the search went through, multiple links popping up. He expected to see his meme accounts, maybe May’s facebook page filled with pictures of Peter, Ben, and her, maybe even some stuff about how he interned with Tony Stark, Savior of the Universe, and… There was more. Peter should’ve been all over the internet. For some reason.  

Instead, the first thing that popped up was a news article by someone named Vicki Vale. 

“Child Abduction Epidemic in Gotham: When Will Batman Step In?” 

Questions swirled as green festered. Child abduction? And who the hell was Batman ? A new vigilante on the scene? A furry? 

Peter had never read through something faster. 

This was… What? 

It was a pitifully short article, considering the severity and implications, but it seemed there was barely any information to even write about . It just addressed the surge in child disappearances, questioning when this “Batman” would step up and solve the case, before ending with a list of possible victims. That’s where Peter’s name was. Number twenty-seven of fifty-two. Peter clicked the link on his name, leading him to a separate site. 

There was a picture of him. Except it wasn’t him. 

It featured a dully smiling tween, with black hair and big brown eyes, decently tan and wearing baggy clothes. He had Peter’s same dimples and freckles, the same jawline and face shape, and wild curly hair, but his coloring was all wrong . His age was wrong. This was an eleven-year-old from foster care named Peter Benjamin Parker, but he wasn’t Peter Benjamin Parker . 

Opening a new tab, Peter had a new search. 

Clicking on anything relating to this doppelganger, the more Peter read, the more queasy he felt. 

Orphaned at five. Not from both parents, but rather from a single mother. No father in the picture, then. Instead of Peter’s dad and uncle being brothers, it was… Gotham Peter’s mom and aunt. May got custody of Peter after Mary’s death, and they moved from New York to New Jersey for Thor knows what reasons. This Aunt May never married, there wasn’t even a mention of Uncle Ben.

Peter pursed his lips in discomfort. What the hell kind of sick game was this?  

Clicking on the highlighted name of Maybelle Parker, Peter was disheartened when it led to her obituary. 

 May died in a building that exploded because of the Green Goblin— no, someone named… The Joker? 

Who the hell was letting a clown run around murdering people? And how had he not heard of a new up-and-rising supervillain? Peter would like to think, coupled with Karen and FRIDAY, that he kept well informed on the villain area. 

Peter clicked on the search bar again with a trembling hand. 

tony stark| 

[no search results found] 

stark industries| 

[no reach results found] 

the avengers|

[no search results found] 

thanos|

[no search results found] 

no search results found. 

nosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfoundnosearchresultsfound —

No search results found.

P eter’s throat was dry, eyes wide in disbelief as those damned four words taunted him. No search results found. Nothing familiar to Peter was here. It was like he was on an alien planet— 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Bile rose as Peter thought about those implications. 

Peter wasn’t just in a different state, he was in a different world . 

And, considering the likelihood of a planet existing, holding the exact same likeness to Earth, just missing a few key players, plus nothing on the blip and Thanos, Peter had a pretty good deduction of where he was. 

An alternate universe. 

Peter was in an alternate universe. 

The date wasn’t wrong. Peter was in an alternate universe, one whose timeline was behind his own. That’s why this body was eleven and not seventeen (and apparently dead ). Because this timeline was six years behind his own. 

Which explains his father’s and Uncle Ben’s apparent absence in Gotham Peter’s life. A little weird, as Peter would’ve assumed that his life story would’ve stayed consistent. The other Peters’ had an Uncle Ben, and powers, and lived in New York. They didn’t have a Tony Stark, though. Or an Avengers. Peter #3 had a weird romance going on with someone named Death Pool or something, and Peter #2 had literally bonded with an alien symbiote-suit thing, so differences between Peter Parkers weren’t new news. 

 Although, who is he to say, out of the trillions of possibilities in the supposed multiverse, that his story would be the baseline? The standard for Peter Parkers across the multiverse? He had, what? Three Peter Parkers out of a trillion, statistics-wise? For all he knew, Peter could be the multiversal outlier. 

Peter looked down at his tan hands. Young, small, but still calloused. Still sticky with his powers. 

The longer Peter looked, the more differences he spotted. Was he even in his own body? Did he fucking… body snatch this kid’s body? What the hell? How would that even work? He’d need, like, magic or something. 

Hold on. Magic? 

Doctor Strange… 

Doctor Strange? 

Doctor Strange.

Holy shit. 

Doctor Strange had sent him here, to an alternate universe. 

Doctor Strange had sent Peter to an alternate universe because he made a mistake and now he can never, ever go home. 

Going home would rip the multiverse apart.

Going home would kill everyone and everything he loved. Everything Mr. Stark— everything everyone fought so hard to protect; Peter would ruin it all. If he went home, Ned, MJ, Harley Happy, Pepper, Morgan— everyone left, they’d all die. 

At least Doctor Strange hadn’t left anything of Peter behind for them to mourn.

Peter Parker was dead back home too, it seemed. 

Man, Schrodinger would’ve loved Peter. He’s the real-life version of Schrodinger’s cat. (A quick search showed that it was actually Schrodinger’s dog here, so there’s that.) 

Peter leaned back slowly, staring up at the ceiling. He counted all the dips and bumps from an uneven paint job. 

It’s wild to think the multiverse was just a theory a week ago. It really did exist. With alternate versions of heroes, new heroes, and some completely gone. They had names like Batman and Superman , similar to Back Widow and Captain America, but with so many differences. Peter wasn’t sure if he found solace in their similarities or their differences. It would’ve been amazing, 

Too bad this proof came at the cost of his home. 

The keys unstuck from his fingertips, clattering to the carpeted ground. Huh. 

The confusion, disbelief, hurt, disappointment, and anger all swirled together, leaving Peter feeling hollow and numb. Peter wasn’t sure if that was better than feeling everything he otherwise would be feeling. 

He needed to leave. 

Peter needed to clear the computer's search history thoroughly, first. He was in an unfamiliar place, with unfamiliar villains and heroes. He didn’t want to chance anyone finding out about his dimension-hopping dilemma before he even had a meal and a nap. 

He glanced at the mutilated keys on the floor and counter. At least he was still sticky. If he had lost his home, his body and his powers to top it all off? Peter would’ve had a mental breakdown to rival The Greats. (Like that time Clint and Sam decided to prank everyone by replacing all the sugar in the Tower with salt. The chaos that followed was legendary—Bruce’s smoothie exploded, Tony’s coffee tasted like the ocean, and Steve, bless him, tried to be polite about his "salt pancakes" until he couldn’t take it anymore and quietly passed out in the gym. Clint and Sam were on dish duty for a month.)

Accessing the computer's operating system, his mind working absently to navigate through the system's files and directories. He bypassed any security measures with a series of deft keystrokes. 

As he delved deeper into the computer's system, Peter located the browser history files. With a few more commands, he selected the searches about anything from his reality, things that looked out of place, and deleted it.

But Peter didn't just want to delete the history; he wanted to ensure that it was completely erased, with no trace left behind. He wrote a custom script to overwrite the history files multiple times, effectively scrubbing them from the computer's memory.

With a blank stare, Peter executed the script, watching as the computer's screen filled with lines of code cascading down the monitor. He didn’t stick around to make sure it finished; he knew it would. Mr. Stark had taught him almost everything he knew about hacking. (sans Ned’s impromptu lessons, but Mr. Stark .) 

Peter stumbled out of the library absent. Unthinking. Detached. 

Where was he going? 

He wasn’t sure.

It wasn’t home, though. That was for sure. 

He’d never be able to go home again. 

Would he ever get another home?

He was a presumed-dead eleven-year-old in a crime-ridden city with no family or friends. 

Well, one friend. He looked down at the metal bands on his wrists meaningfully, heart swelling with emotions. He rubbed the deactivated bracelets, trying to find an iota of comfort in them. Peter isn’t sure what he’d do if he couldn’t get Karen back online. The green promised something bad, though. 

He’d go back to the library another time. Peter would figure it out— he always does, doesn’t he? He’d just— he couldn’t, not right now. He needed to leave; to collect himself. If he’d stayed there…

The streets grew darker as the people dissipated. How long had he been stuck in front of that computer? 

Looking around, Peter was unsurprised to find he had absolutely no clue where he was. He could, however, feel the stares from people. Not the curious kind, either. Predatory. Which, fair. They didn’t know a full-force punch from Peter packed more heat than most locally sold guns. 

Peter could literally crush a grown man's head with his bare hands. 

Not that he would! He abstains from excessive violence. 

But he could . 

A couple of dudes across the street, all of whom had very rapey vibes if you asked Peter, oriented their body in his direction.  

Ducking into an alleyway, Peter, feet still bloody and shoeless, walked up the side of the wall. It seems, even here, the safest place was in May’s arms on a rooftop. 

Perching himself on the edge of the building, Peter let his abused feet dangle off the edge. The roof was slightly damp— it had probably rained recently. It’d likely rain again tonight, judging by the smell and clouds. 

Looking out, Peter caught as the last of sunlight left the city's sky, ducking below the horizon. Huh. That’s it? No sunset? Just— there’s light, then suddenly there’s not? 

Distaste, longing, and irritation rose up, thick and green. New York was dirty, but Gotham was downright disgusting . The sunset sucked, the architecture was old and outdated by at least a century, and it was so heavily polluted even the sun hid itself away behind clouds and smog. 

Peter clenched his fists, taking a chunk of concrete with him. He threw it as far as he could. It hit a billboard— something about Way-an-ae Enterprises— going straight through. 

Fat tears rolled down Peter’s cheeks. He felt bad, now. Someone was going to have to come up and fix the hole he made. They didn’t deserve that.

Once they started, Peter couldn’t stop them. 

Before long, tears turned into silent sobs that wracked Peter's body, his shoulders trembling with each heave of his chest. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks, tracing crooked paths over the contours of his face as they mingled with the blood, sweat and grime that clung to his skin. His chest felt tight, as if a warehouse was on top of him, crushing him, squeezing out every last drop of his sorrow and despair. 

He was stuck in an alternate dimension. His home dimension’s memory of him, of Peter Benjamin Parker, was completely wiped. It wasn’t even wiped with all of the people he loved still alive. Ben and May and even Mr. Stark couldn’t escape the curse of “all-Peter’s-parental-figures-will-meet-a-premature-demise-one-way-or-another”. Honestly, Pepper is lucky he left when he did; she was next on the curse’s chopping block. 

Pepper and Morgan, Ned, MJ and Harley, too, they were alive. Alive, with no clue someone named Peter Parker was even a part of their life. Maybe it was better that way. At least now they were more likely to live . Get into MIT. Have successful careers, even start a family, without the stress of being involved with some stupid, teenage vigilante . 

Just being a part of Peter’s life can cut down an individual’s life expectancy by more than half. 

The longer you’re around him, the more death lurks.

Peter gasped for air, clawing at his stolen ripped, and bloodied shirt. 

It’s why his parents died. It’s why Uncle Ben died. It’s why Aunt May died. It’s why Mr. Stark, Iron Man, genius of the century, Savior Of The Universe, died.

Dead. 

They’re all dead. 

And Peter was alive. He was their killer; their casket. 

And yet, he walked. 

Every day he woke up, and every day they remained dead. 

Every day, he breathed, while they remained silent, their voices forever silenced by the cruel hand of fate. Peter carried the weight of their absence like a burden upon his soul, a constant reminder of the lives lost and the emptiness that filled his heart.

Their memories haunted him, their faces etched into his mind like a ghostly tableau of the past. He replayed their final moments over and over again, wondering if there was anything he could have done to save them. Perhaps, if he had simply never existed in the first place, they would have been spared. 

But the past remained immutable, a cold and unforgiving master. Peter was left to navigate a world devoid of their presence, a world that felt colder and darker than his ever had before. 

Here, they had existed, but not as Peter remembered them. Peter couldn’t reminisce with a stranger in a coffee line about the amazing Tony Stark; he didn’t even exist here. May never ran F.E.A.S.T. Ben had been a firefighter instead of a police officer here. Not to mention his father wasn’t even in the picture. 

Peter alone held the flickering torch of his loved one’s memories here.

Peter looked out into the night, eyes trailing down toward the empty street below him.

But there were plenty back home who did .  

It was a shitty, horrible, and downright cowardly thought. 

Peter didn’t deserve that kind of peace. 

But, oh , how he longed for it. 

How he longed for May’s warm embrace. Ben’s comforting and wise words. Mr. Stark’s playful banter. His Star Wars nights with Ned. Watching MJ draw. Seeing who could make the dumbest invention with Harley. Morgen coming home from school and giving Peter three new glitter-filled art pieces of her favorite hero; Spider-Man. Pepper’s successor lessons and their quiet moments of reminiscing about Mr. Stark and May. He wouldn’t get to graduate with all his friends and remaining family present. Never get into MIT, like Mr. Stark. Like his Dad. 

He missed it all so, so much. 

Why did his stupid Parker Luck have to ruin it all? 

Chapter Text

“Hey, kid? Yeah, I’m gonna need ya’ to step away from that ledge there.” 

A deep, definitely modulated voice came from behind Peter. 

Peter jumped, flinching towards the sound of the voice. 

Peter had been so distracted by his grief that he didn’t notice the total stranger landing on the roof. Didn’t notice the crunch of gravel under the man’s boots, or the slightly elevated heartbeat until the man dragged Peter from the confines of his mind. (His spidey-sense hadn’t signaled imminent danger, but this city kept it at an uncomfortable and constant buzz. It was hard to distinguish at times— times like this.) 

Peter cursed himself. When has the world ever allowed him a moment to rest? To grieve?   

He curled into himself, glaring defensively at the man. Hurriedly wiping his eyes so he could actually see. Now that Peter was somewhat back to the present (past?), he could smell gunpowder, blood, and death on the man. 

More specifically, the stench of death of the green . 

The man (who was built like a brick shit-house, by the way) put his hands up in the universal sign of “I-mean-no-harm”. (Except Green Goblin had said the same, and where had that gotten Peter? Where had that gotten May ?) The only reason Peter didn’t start swinging immediately was because his spidey-sense was relatively quiet. Peter gave the man the benefit of the doubt. 

(Even as green rolled behind his eyes, impatient and irritated.)

“Hey, kiddo, I mean no harm, I just want you to step away from the ledge, ok?” His voice took a softer tone. Well, as soft a tone as the voice modulator allowed. He inched forward, and if Peter could’ve seen his face, he was sure his eyes would’ve been darting back and forth from the ledge to Peter. 

Peter blinked, finally registering what this man in a red helmet was saying. (A red helmet, not too dissimilar to the Iron Man helmet. Peter’s heart ached .) 

"Huh? No, I— what? No, no— uh, no, sir, I wouldn’t… you've got it all wrong," Peter stammered, voice hoarse and dry as his cheeks flushing with color. "I wasn't... I swear, I wasn't going to... I mean, I'm not... jumping." His words came out in a jumble, his mind racing to come up with a plausible explanation. He tried to clear his throat, but it really only succeeded in making him look more suspicious, plus a nice reminder of what the green water tasted like. 

Peter hadn’t looked too far into it, not before he’d rushed out of the library, but he was fairly certain this was one of Gotham’s very own vigilantes. One of the older ones. There were two with the name “red” in the beginning half… Was this Red Robin, maybe? He didn’t seem like a Red Robin, but hey, not everyone was as committed to their gimmick as Spider-Man.

The red bird-like symbol emblazoned on his chest stood out vividly against the darkness, confirming some kind of affiliation, at least. The leather jacket, worn and weathered, spoke of countless battles fought and victories won. It exuded an aura of toughness and resilience, a testament to the man beneath it. 

But it was the military-grade pants and boots that caught Peter's attention the most. They were practical, functional, and designed for combat and survival. They spoke of discipline and training, of a life lived on the edge and in constant danger. They also looked really warm, and Peter was really cold. 

Peter couldn't help but feel a pang of envy as he glanced down at his own torn and bloodied clothes, a far cry from the sleek and formidable attire of the (hopefully, probably, maybe) vigilante. 

“You sure ‘bout that, kid? Cause’ to me, you looked like you were ‘bouta take a swan dive.” His voice was gruff, but not unkind. The man’s shoulders had lost a little of the tension he carried, slowly stalking towards Peter. His footsteps were unnaturally quiet for as big a man as he was, which was totally unfair. You don’t get to be that tall and intimidating along with being as quiet as a mouse on top, that’s just not how this works. 

Peter remained sitting in his spot, only dragging his legs up so he could curl around them, hoarding the little amount of warmth he could conjure. 

"I was just... uh... admiring the view," Peter continued, gesturing awkwardly to the city below. "Sitting up high is calming, you know? But jumping? No way, not me." He laughed, short and uncomfortably. Unconvincingly. 

lielielie

—

The kid tried to sound convincing, but the nervous tremor in his voice gave him away. He was small— in the malnourished way, not too dissimilar to Jason when Bruce originally abducted him. Barbara hadn’t wasted a second doing a reverse image search, running the picture and name through any and all databases. Peter Parker, orphaned twice and presumed dead. A little bit of a criminal record, having been busted a couple of times for stealing food from varying stores. As well as an extensive history of running away from foster homes, for which Jason doesn’t blame the kid. A tragic life befitting someone living in Gotham. Jason hoped for the kid’s sake his only problem was dying and coming back.

"I-I'm really sorry if I scared you," Peter added, his gaze darting nervously between Jason and the ground below. "I'll... I'll go, if that's okay. I promise, I won't cause any trouble." 

“‘S all good, kid.” He sat down, not next to Peter, but he could definitely reach over and grab him if he— ahem — fell. 

The red helmet covered any facial expression he might’ve had, allowing Jason to study the tween in front of him. He, honest to the gods Jason didn’t believe in, looked like shit. The picture Barbara sent made him look better than he actually was. Ripped and bloodied clothes, cuts, and bruises on all visible skin, and an overall disheveled appearance? It made green fester under Jason’s skin. 

Well, to be fair, he hadn’t been tear-stained and puffy-faced yet, but Jason’s point stood. 

They sat in silence for a moment, Peter studying Jason when he thought the larger man wasn’t looking. Thankfully, Jason had the helmet, so he had no such constraints. 

“So, what’s with the clothes, kid?” Jason asked once it was clear Peter wasn’t going to talk unprompted. 

Peter glanced down at his too-big shirt and sweats. They were bloody with multiple holes, looking like Peter fished them out of the garbage. (And, God , Jason hoped that was the case, because the alternative was much, much worse.) The shirt had a hole on the side, looking suspiciously knife-shaped with old blood staining the edges. The sweats were better, but not by much, with blood spattered about; old and new. At least there were no holes, he supposed.  

And all of that was without even getting started on all the cuts and bruises that littered Peter's visible arms and feet, and the lack of any form of protection for his feet. Not even socks! 

Peter casually plucked a small piece of glass jutting out of his arm as Jason’s heart physically, literally squeezed. Peter was tense, ready to run. Jason didn’t doubt he’d jump off the building to escape if he felt threatened. 

Which is unfortunate. Considering it’s the one thing Jason’s actually good at. Dick was the one who was good with kids, with people . Hell, even pit-mad assholes, like Jason! Dick is on a very exclusive list of “People Who Can Calm Jason Down”. Dick should be here, not him . 

But unfortunately, this was all Peter got. 

Peter didn’t respond. 

Jason didn’t press. 

“D’you have anywhere t’ stay?” He asked instead. Jason angled his head away to appear as though he wasn’t watching Peter. Better to move past questions Peter clearly wasn’t ready to deal with via a new subject. While Jason would like answers, Peter needed time; a moment to breathe, to process , whatever he’s been through. 

Jason had wished he’d gotten that, after the pit. 

Peter paused, sniffling. He wiped his eyes, embarrassed as he shook his head ‘no ’. 

“Got a name, kid?” 

Obviously, Jason knew the kid’s name. It was his very own middle name— which had, admittedly, thrown him through a little bit of a loop.

Peter paused, turning towards Jason with critical eyes. 

In that moment, the air was sucker punched straight out of Jason’s lungs. No wonder Babs had alerted him immediately. It was wrong, seeing the telltale aftereffects of corrupted Lazarus water. To see himself so vividly in a child. The unhealthy hue to the skin, the unnatural green eyes, and then stress streak of white hair. Everything . 

All the after-effects Jason has. 

Jason momentarily slipped up, tensing. Peter tensed up in response as well, eyes widening in alarm. It took the kid less than a second to pick up on that. Jason felt ashamed. 

He coughed, forcibly relaxing his muscles. 

Jason made sure to keep his body language open and hands where Peter could see them. He didn’t want to seem bad or aggressive, despite what the multiple guns on his person might say. 

“...Peter. It’s— uhm, you?” Peter fumbled, glancing anxiously at Jason. 

He gave Peter a weird look but responded nonetheless. “Nice to meet ya’, Peter. I’m Red Hood,” he paused “And since yer in my territory, it’s my job t’ take care of ya’.” Jason paused, giving Peter plenty of time to decline, make a request, tell him where he got revived, ask for candy, maybe. 

Peter stayed silent, pit-green eyes studying him closer than before.  

“It’s gonna storm tonight, so let me get ya’ t’ the shelter, yeah? It’s… Wayne funded, so it’s safe, y’know.” 

Peter shifted from left to right, wincing at the plethora of injuries he no doubt sported. 

Green tinted Jason’s vision, swirling angrily in his gut. When Jason found the fucker that did this to a kid . 

A scared and apprehensive little kid.

Jesus fuck, this was way out of Jason’s league. 

Ok. So he’s fresh out of the pits. How did Jason want to be treated after being revived? How had he wished he’d been comforted? 

Peter glanced up at the sky, lingering on the clouds, seemingly putting a lot of thought into Jason’s offer. He let him think. 

After a couple moments, Peter gave a small, barely there nod. 

“...Yeah, um, ok… ‘S long as it’s no trouble?” 

“Yer no trouble kid. Promise.” 

Red Hood stood up slowly, deliberately, nodding Peter over. 

Peter stood hesitantly, the gravel on the roof finding new homes in his wounded feet. He shuffled over, a little confused, to Red Hood. 

“I don’ know how ya’ got up here with yer feet in that condition, but t’ avoid you gettin’ tetanus from that rusty ladder over there, I’m gonna swing us down t’ my bike. Sound good?” Jason asked, making sure it was ok to pick Peter up. 

“...Can I just, uh… hang onto you?” Peter whispered, picking at the blood on his shirt anxiously. 

“‘Course, kid. ‘M not doin’ nothing you ain’t comfortable with, capiche?” Jason said casually as he turned around, getting down on a knee to allow Peter to climb up. Although, both actions were deliberate. 

He verbally reaffirmed they wouldn’t do anything Peter wasn’t comfortable with, no empty words of “you’re fine” or “you’re safe” because they were just that; empty words. Peter wasn’t fine, and he wasn’t safe. Saf er with Jason, yes, but not completely safe . And by turning his back to Peter, getting down on a knee, he’d hopefully drive home the fact he meant no harm to Peter. By showing vulnerability, Jason was hoping to earn some trust in return. 

Peter was skittish. He can’t just be whisked away in a single night and taken to the manor— or hell, even one of Jason’s many safe houses. Even if he did try and force the kid to come, Jason was wary of possible… enhancements caused by the Lazarus water. 

Although Jason could guess that Bruce would not be happy with Jason's executive decision, but he also didn’t give a shit. So. And he died, they’re not gonna argue with someone who died, right? (Yes, they would.) 

After a couple of silent moments, Peter hesitantly, as though testing the waters ( hah ), wrapped his arms loosely around Jason’s neck. His legs followed shortly after, only flinching slightly when Jason hooked one arm under his leg. 

“Alright, kiddo. Ready t’ swing?” Jason huffed, standing up with his grappling hook pulled out and ready. 

Something about Jason’s statement must’ve been funny, because it earned him a soft huff from Peter. Not quite a laugh, but Jason would take it. 

Jason made sure the grappling hook made contact before jumping off the roof; he didn’t want to spook Peter too badly. His bike was only parked a block away, fortunately. He’d take Peter the rest of the way to the shelter on bike. 

Peter stayed surprisingly relaxed as Jason swung from building to building. Which Jason is kind of grateful for. He didn’t want his cause of death to be “choked out midair by a zombie tween”. Damien would laugh at his funeral. 

Opting to lower himself gently, versus his usual harsh drop n’ roll, Jason gestured proudly towards his baby. 

“D’ you want front or back?” Jason asked, breaking the silence that had befallen them. Again. 

“...Back,” Peter cleared his throat “Please, Mr. Hood...” 

Jason’s lips twitched up. On the bright side, Peter must’ve warmed up to him, at least a little bit. On the downside, apparently that came with honorifics? 

“No “Mr. Hood”, that was my father. Just— just, Red, or Hood, or somethin’.” 

“Ok, Mr. Red Hood.” 

The kid had cheek. Jason smiled. Ok, yeah, he could work with that. 

—

It was late, around twelve at this point, but this wasn’t Jason’s first time dropping strays off at the shelter late at night. 

Knocking on the door, there was a pause. Probably someone looking through the peephole to make sure it wasn’t another robber. (Who robs a homeless shelter? Shitbags, that’s who.) 

Harper opened the door, leaning her weapon of choice— a bat, ironically— against the wall as she did so. 

“Hey, Blue. Needa favor.” 

“I can see that, Hood.” She deadpanned. 

“This is Peter,” Jason introduced, gesturing to Peter. He almost ruffled his hair (black, with that stress chunk of white hair. Like him.) but figured Peter had reached his quota of physical contact for the day. No need for any extra stress. 

Harper smiled at Peter, opening the door wider. “Nice to meet you, Peter. I’m Harper.” She introduced, smiling softly at him. 

Peter shuffled, opened his mouth, once, twice, before settling on a short, “Hi…” 

Jason definitely got some trust points racked up, then.  

“Fix him a nice hot shower, yeah?” Jason gently led Peter forward. 

Harper shot him a look, but otherwise nodded. 

Sure, the showering facilities technically ended at seven for the day, but Peter really needed it, and Jason was Red-fucking-Hood . He could pull a string or two to get a kid a shower. 

Plus, the fresher blood on Peter’s clothes? Totally Peter’s. 

Jason needed that. He’d have Harper collect it and pass it along to Babs. This was her mess, and she could figure out how to DNA test it without Tim (and by extension, Bruce) finding out. Her problem. (Jason was definitely getting dragged into said problem.) 

“I need t’ help with bats with somethin’, but—”

“You’re leaving?” Peter stopped dead in his tracks, making Jason stumble a little. He sounded scared and apprehensive again, looking around the building distrustfully. 

“I ‘ave to, kiddo. Got Bats’ to help, an’ bad guys to put back in Arkham.” Never mind the fact he was technically a crime lord. “I’ll come check in ya’ inna day er’ two, sound good?” 

Peter did not look comforted. 

Oh, shit, right. 

“Harper’s trustworthy, I swear on Batman’s name.” Peter relaxed slightly. Bingo. Man, this kid is gonna have major trust issues when he’s an adult. (Jason ignored the voice in the back of his head that said if he lived to be an adult.) 

Peter glanced back at Jason a couple more times before following Harper. 

Alright. 

Jason cracked his knuckles. 

Time to do some digging. 

—

Alright. So Peter was having some good luck, for a change. He had a mental breakdown on a rooftop, then a red vigilante found him, comforted him in an unorthodox manner, dropped him off at a homeless shelter, and ditched him like this universe’s Peter’s dad. Ok, well, he said he’d be back in a couple of days to visit him, but what if this Universe’s Peter’s (Man, that is a mouthful .) Dad had said that, too? Can’t trust no hoes these days. 

So, according to Parker Luck, Peter could expect something bad to happen in a week, two tops. 

In the meantime, Peter was going to enjoy the shower he had been promised. 

“So, Peter, where you from?” Harper asked conversationally, opening something resembling a powerbox and flipping a couple switches. Probably for the water. From what Peter remembered from May running F.E.A.S.T, they don’t keep water and whatnot 24/7. 

“Uh… New York.” Normally, Peter wasn’t so… Short. And rude. But he feels justified, given that he just lost him home, he feels very entitled to be a little snippy. 

“Cool! Which part? Like, New York, New York? Or the other places? Like… Honestly, New York is so commercialized that I only know New York.” Harper laughed quietly “Obviously I’m from Gotham, born and raised.” She nodded to herself proudly. 

“That’s… cool. I’m, uh— ‘M from Queens.” Peter murmured. Honest to Thor, the only thing keeping the green in check was the promise of a shower. Peter felt bad about the irritation filling him; Harper hadn’t done anything to deserve it. 

Peter took a breath. 

Harper chatted, mainly to herself, as they made their way to where Peter assumed the showers were. Peter mostly just nodded along, focusing on the cracks in the ground. The green had been… mostly ok with Red Hood, like a sort of camaraderie. He’d also smelt really… familiar. Both in an odd sense of green camaraderie and something… else. Peter couldn’t put his finger on it.  While Peter’s spidey-sense was but a mild hum with Harper, the green only served to worsen his mood, even though she hadn’t done anything. 

Opening a door with a key, Harper gestured inside. “Here's the showers! Aaaand here’s a toiletry basket with everything you’ll need. I took a guess with the clothes and some shoes, and took the liberty of throwing in some bandages— you look a little banged up, kid. I’ll be over by the front desk when you’re done, ‘K?” 

Peter hesitantly grabbed the toiletry basket, not wanting to take more than he needed, but bitterly remembering this was his reality now. 

Peter teared up, bottom lip quivering. 

Harper looked like she was about to say something, maybe an attempt at comfort, but Peter rushed to close the door. He mumbled a ‘thanks’, careful not to slam the door, even in his haste. 

Peter scrubbed his tears away stubbornly, tugging at his hair. Really ? Basic human kindness was reducing him to… this ? 

Setting the basket down, Peter started one of the many showers. He aimed to boil himself alive in that shower and scrub every drop of residue of the green and dirt away. 

Peeling away his sorry excuse for clothing, Peter blanched. 

There, in the mirror, was him, but… Gods , how had he not seen that before? In the lab? 

A giant Y-shaped scar adorned his chest, stark against his skin like a brand of some sort. 

‘An autopsy scar. ’ his brain numbly supplied.

He’d never sustained an injury that would scar like this… He didn’t scar permanently in the first place, either. His healing factor was too strong. Skin healed and melded together, briefly remaining as puffy pink skin before smoothing back out into pale skin, as though he were never hurt in the first place. 

Then again, this wasn’t his body. He had no clue what the actual Gotham Peter went through. 

Tracing the scarred skin, Peter noted how it was pale against his (now) tan skin. It was a huge scar, stretching from his shoulders, connecting at his sternum, and ending just above his pelvis. It was big , and stark and ugly . The green rolled, unidentifiable emotions melding into one big, green monster. 

A surge of questions flooded his mind, each one more urgent than the last. What had caused this scar? Who had inflicted such a wound, and why? This body seemed to have Peter’s powers, so why was the scar so deep? So big? So old? It should've healed before it’d gotten so old. It should have . 

So why was it still there? 

Peter balled his fists up, grit his teeth, his body tensed, and his lungs filled with green . 

And then he— 

Exhaled. 

Forcing his eyes away from the mirror, Peter stepped into the spray of the steaming hot water. 

Peter watched as the grime and water swirled together, disappearing down the drain. He robotically grabbed the soap, washing his hair once, twice, thrice. He got under his nails, and scrubbed his skin raw. Peter rinsed his mouth out of the green, and picked any remaining glass and gravel out of the cuts on his feet.  

Peter scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed . 

And if he shed a couple tears in the shower? Well, that was his own business. 

He stepped out of the shower numb. He couldn’t even properly appreciate the warmth and cleanliness because of the deep-seated, pure red rage boiling underneath his skin. He didn’t need whatever the green was to fuel his anger towards whoever would do this to a child . (It didn’t matter that he, himself was still a child as well.) 

In. 

Out.  

Going through the clothes Harper left him, he found a black shirt with a yellow bat silhouette, a red hoodie with a big, golden lighting bolt, two pairs of boxers, some socks and a pair of size seven shoes, and a nice, thick pair of sweatpants. 

Wasting no time, Peter bundled up in the provided clothes and ripped up and threw away his old ones. It felt liberating. They were baggy, but fit better than his previous clothes. Except for the hoodie. It was big, made out of thick cotton, and dwarfed him, falling way past his fingertips. He liked it, though. It was comforting. 

Sitting down, Peter took stock of his feet. And… Yikes, that was not pretty. They were puffy and red, with deep lacerations. Peter hoped the cuts didn’t get infected. He could feel his body trying to heal, but he was too undernourished to properly jumpstart his healing factor. 

Grabbing the bandages and ointment Harper put in the basket at some point, Peter took a breath before applying it. It was cool, and then it stung, before petering out back into a cool sensation. Smelled really bad, though. Peter wrapped his feet up as May had taught him, put his socks on over, and then the shoes. They were a little big, but were comfortable and a huge step up from being barefoot.  

The hoodie made him look young. Well, young er . And he was already in an eleven-year-old’s body— he didn’t need to look even more like a kid.

Peter looked in the mirror again, studying his new… body. 

His cheeks were sunken in, and his body was thin and malnourished. His hair was black, with that odd shock of white jutting out just at his widow's peak. The kid hadn’t had it in the pictures, so probably not natural. It didn’t look dyed, either. A side effect of multiversal travel, then? Seemed like the most plausible answer to Peter. His eyes were wide and so, so green . His skin was tan, with freckles smattered about, and the occasional cut. He was maybe a little under five feet tall, his hands were calloused, and… as similar as it was, the fact this wasn’t his body, that this wasn’t even really his home , really sunk in. 

He was all alone. 

Chapter Text

Peter cried himself to sleep that night. 

In the top bunk, in a room filled with a hundred other people, in a homeless shelter, so very far from home. 

He mourned for, well, everything. 

Did he deserve to mourn?

He mourned the broken promise he’d made to Tony; that he'd look after Morgen. Tony and Pepper had her during the Blip. She was— is? — Tony’s actual, blood child. In the videos Pepper showed Peter, he’d referred to Morgen as his little sister. 

Peter had soaked up every moment he spent with Morgen. She was such a bright and sweet kid, and she idolized Peter. Idolized Spider-Man . He was her favorite hero. And wasn’t that something? Peter was his little sister's favorite hero. 

Peter’s heart ached with a green amalgamation of guilt, sorrow, and loss. He felt like he had failed Tony, failed Pepper, and failed Morgan. He promised to protect her, to be there for her, and now he was stuck in this nightmare, unable to keep his word. Morgen had Pepper of course, but… But Peter had promised Tony. His favorite hero. His mentor. His father-figure. And what had he done as a big thank you , after Tony had invented time travel just to bring him back? Peter nearly broke the multiverse and fucked up Doctor Strange’s spell and ended up de-aged in some shitty alternate universe.  

He’d never have May’s horrible burnt food, he’d never say “I larb you” back to May, never have movie night and watch horrible romcoms with her, never… Never even see her again. Not in a post online or in a photograph. The thought weighed heavily on Peter's heart, a constant reminder of the gaping void left behind by May's absence. He could almost hear her laughter echoing in his mind, could almost feel the warmth of her embrace. But it was all just a cruel illusion, a fleeting memory of what once was.

Peter would never get to go to MIT with Ned and MJ. Never go on another date with MJ. Never debate with Ned that Star Trek was better than Star Wars. Never have a hackathon with Ned. Never get called a loser by MJ. 

He’d never have one of Mr. Delmar’s sandwiches, smushed real flat just the way he likes. Never visit his parents' grave again. Visit May and Ben’s grave. Go to school. Graduate . 

Instead, he was here. In an alternate version of fucking New Jersey . 

The weight of his failures pressed down on him, suffocating him in the darkness of the shelter. Pushing away one bad thought just let in another. He couldn’t shake the images of the other children he saw in the room where he’d woken up. 

Why were so many children there? What was the green water? What had happened to the Peter before him? 

Just thinking about it filled him with an insurmountable amount of… Something . 

The green fueled all his emotions. 

He wouldn’t have been here had he just killed Green Goblin. 

— 

Peter woke up with a start. 

It was the clanking in the kitchen and the smell of cooking eggs and… avocado toast? Man, that was so 2015. 

Oh. Right. It was 2015. 

Sitting up from where he’s curled around his backpack, which was filled with all his worldly possessions. (Otherwise known as the average handout at a homeless shelter.)

Sitting up, and looking around the big room, he noticed only three others awake. A pregnant lady with a toddler, an older man, and a lone teen. Everyone else was still asleep, their steady heartbeats equal parts comforting and overwhelming all at once. Making his bed, Peter took the opportunity to use the bathroom before it became crowded. 

By the time he’d gotten back, the beds were in the process of being stripped and pushed back to make room for tables. Peter watched for a moment, observing the process of both the employees and the tenets. It seemed to be a system somewhat reliant on help from the people currently taking refuge. Which, fair . But he also hadn’t really… expected the people of Gotham to do something like that. Although, he supposed a day in Gotham can’t reveal stuff like that. 

Peter’s… the body Peter currently inhabited , was sore. It wasn’t like the pleasant ache of swinging around Queens, but rather like his very bones were tired. Particularly Peter’s thoracic region. He can’t explain it, but it feels like it should be… hollow? Peter doesn’t know. It’s odd and uncomfortable. 

Peter scratches his chest, the scars, in a sad attempt at relieving the discomfort. 

(It doesn’t work.) 

Making his way to where servings were being handed out, Peter blushed slightly at the loud rumble his stomach let out. No one else seemed to hear it, or at least didn’t outwardly react to him. It was no wonder he was starving, seeing as most of his cuts had scabbed over during his meager hours of rest. Which left him rather unrested , but Peter didn’t have the luxury of sleeping in. 

(Usually, injuries so small and shallow would’ve been fully healed by now. At worst, leaving puffy pink line that would disappear within hours after eating. Nothing marred his body for long, not since the bite. And, Peter would assume that this body should’ve followed similar rules, but Peter lacks enough information to draw any proper conclusions. He would need to remedy this.)  

Ducking his head, Peter got in line behind the pregnant woman with the toddler. She offered him a small, concerned smile. 

“Don’t think I’ve seen you around before. I’m Lisa, and this is my son, Oscar.” The pregnant woman, now dubbed Lisa, introduced herself. 

Peter tried for a smile, but it just looked like a grimace. “..I’m Peter.” 

Lisa eyed him. “Red Hood drop ya off?” 

Peter nodded hesitantly. 

She nodded to herself. “He drops off strays sometimes.” 

Peter hadn’t had the chance to think about last night, about the fact he’d met one of Gotham’s elusive vigilantes on his first day stuck here. Peter doesn’t remember much from his little escapade to the public library, things got fuzzy as soon as he’d realized… as soon as he realized he wasn’t home. (Terrible coping mechanism, Peter knows. MJ told him off more than once.) But he had, admittedly, been more focused on other issues, and had only really spared a glance at Gotham’s vigilante list. ( Yes , this place apparently had a whole list .) 

The point is that Peter lacked information. Peter had taken a wild guess at which vigilante it was last night and didn’t even guess right the first time. And there were only two vigilante names with “red” in them! So that wasn’t saying much. 

He needed to start a mental list of things he needed to look up, along with the issue of getting Karen back online. 

“Yeah, he, uh...” Peter trailed off, unsure of how to finish that sentence. He wasn’t sure how much he could reveal, even to someone as seemingly kind as Lisa. (I needed some sort of cover story.)

Beck had seemed kind, too. 

Lisa gave him a sympathetic smile. “You don’t have to explain, kid. Just keep yer head down an’ stay safe. Gotham can be rough ‘round the edges, but there are good people here too.”

Peter nodded with a polite smile, but the amount of civilians with weapons in this room alone said otherwise.

Lisa seemed content with the silence as her son started tugging on her skirt, babbling away about something urgently and pointing. 

Peter nodded in thanks to the older woman loading up the trays as he grabbed his, mouth watering at the thought of eating. From what he could smell, very little seasoning. Just a simple breakfast burrito, a small bowl of fruits, and a (sealed) water bottle. 

He hoped that if sleep wouldn’t get rid of this killer headache, maybe a little bit of good ol’ food and water would. 

Sitting down at the first empty table, Peter dug in. His burrito barely survived five seconds in his hands before it disappeared into the bottomless pit posing as his stomach. Despite the lack of seasoning, it felt like a feast, up until his last bite. Disappointed in himself for eating so quickly, Peter put more effort into savoring the fruits, realizing that this might be all the food he gets all day. 

A couple of other people sat down at Peter’s table, the room quickly filling up with patrons. Thankfully, everyone else at the table was just as content with the silence as Peter, with muted conversations mumbled amongst one another. Lisa’s son even found a slightly older kid to make funny faces from across the table. It made Peter quirk a tired smile, finding it cute how despite their situation, children always managed to have some semblance of innocence and joy. 

Peter's smile faltered slightly as he watched the kids, a pang of longing hitting him. He missed those simpler times when the world wasn't so heavy, and his biggest worry was finishing his homework on time. The laughter of the children at the table was a bittersweet reminder of what he had lost. 

Peter chewed a piece of fruit slowly, the hunger gnawing at him more than he initially realized. He looked up and met Lisa’s eyes, who gave him an encouraging nod. 

“Feelin’ better?” she asked, striving for indifference. Her eyes were filled with a genuine, motherly sort of concern, though, so it gave her away. 

“Yeah,” Peter replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thanks.” 

He ducked his head, feeling bad for seeing one bad side of this place and assuming everyone was like that. 

What kind of hero does that?

It didn’t feel as much of a chore to respond. Maybe he was just cranky because he was hangry? Get a Snickers, Peter! You’re not you when you’re hungry. 

Lisa gave him a small, understanding nod before turning her attention back to her son, who was now engaged in an animated conversation with his new friend. 

As he savored his cantaloupe, Peter couldn't help but steal glances around the room, observing the other patrons of the shelter. Some were huddled together in small groups, engaged in quiet conversation or sharing whatever meager possessions they had. Others sat alone, lost in their thoughts, their expressions ranging from weary to resigned. It was a stark reminder of the harsh reality of homelessness, and Peter felt a pang of empathy for each person he saw. 

Peter had been homeless a couple of times, sure. The first time was after the battle of New York when May and Ben’s house had been collateral damage. Insurance had fought them tooth and nail to try and justify not covering the damages, and it wasn’t until Mr. Stark dropped several hundred millions on construction around the city that May and Ben even saw a penny . And even then, they had to downgrade from a house they mortgaged to an overpriced New York condo. 

The second time was after Ben had died. May couldn’t keep up with the payments, even with all the shifts she pulled at the hospital. They got booted and had to downgrade to a month-to-month rented apartment, but only after they had been homeless for two or three months. 

But even during those times, Peter had Ben or May, and they had jobs . They were adults , as demeaning as that admission was. They knew what food banks to go to, and which shelters were good and which weren’t. They had each other . Peter didn’t have anything . 

Peter didn’t feel anything like an adult. Turning seventeen had been huge for him; for May. He would have been off to college as a legal adult in a year. Able to make his own decisions, and, hell, even rent his very own apartment , if he wanted. When May or Pepper did something that made him feel particularly childish, he’d say “I’m almost an adult! You don’t need to do that!”.  

But now, standing in the middle of Gotham, lost and alone, he felt like anything but an adult. The weight of responsibility pressed down on him, heavier than any villain he had ever faced. He missed the days when his biggest worries were homework and keeping his secret identity from his classmates. 

Peter looked around the room again, seeing a little bit of himself in everyone he saw. The older woman with the weary eyes who reminded him of May, the young man with a nervous twitch who could have been anyone’s uncle, the children who were able to find joy amid hardship. It all hit too close to home. 

This time, Peter was truly alone. No safety net, no May to guide him, no familiar shoulders to lean on. The thought made him feel smaller, more vulnerable than he ever had while swinging between skyscrapers or facing down supervillains. Being Spider-Man gave him a sense of purpose, but in these moments of quiet desperation, the mask couldn't protect him from the cold reality of his situation.

He took another bite of cantaloupe, trying to focus on the simple pleasure of the fruit's sweetness. The tangy flavor was a small comfort in the sea of uncertainty that had become his life. He thought back to the times when he still had his parents, when he had Ben and May, remembering the warmth and safety he had felt. It felt like a different world, a different lifetime. 

‘Well, I guess that’s not entirely wrong. Alternate universe, and all that.’

Peter chewed thoughtfully, realizing he needed some sort of game plan. Take stock of his situation and all that jazz. 

The red bracelets on his wrist slid down, too big for the chicken wrists that belonged to this body. 

He needed to get Karen back up. She was secure, she’d keep him directed and with a destination. May had always said that Peter was in his head too much and that he needed to be more grounded.  

May had kept him grounded. 

Peter had run away from the library before he’d gotten the opportunity to try and get Karen back online. And, while he did have an identity here, Peter had no legal guardian. No official place of residence. This Peter Parker was eleven and in foster care and presumed dead . He can’t just show up back to whatever school this kid went to, looking completely different (and wasn’t that something?), after being declared legally dead. 

(That was another thing. Peter’s coloration. He had seen what this kid looked like. Or, what he was supposed to look like. Black hair and startling blue eyes, tan skin with freckles scattered about. Granted, most of his counterpart’s hair was still black, just that odd shock of white at his widow’s peak. By itself, it’d be inconspicuous. Hair dyed in this manner, back home anyway, wasn’t anything too odd. It was how this kid’s eyes changed from those bright, bright blues to a toxic green that practically glowed . 

However much hair and eyes changed, though, Peter was glad it was at least his face. He’s not sure how he would’ve reacted if he’d woken up in a different body, with a different name and a different family. Maybe this was Dr. Strange’s mercy.)

Then the police would get involved, and it’d turn into a big thing once they realized Peter didn’t know jackshit about Gotham because he wasn’t from here . And then they’d send him back to foster care, or— or— 

Peter twitched as green invaded his vision and a tingle ran down his back. 

badunstabledangerous  

He furrowed his brows, looking around. 

There was no threat or danger, and his spidey-sense didn’t seem to ping anyone as dangerous. He looked down at his lap, concerned, as his neck seemed to buzz. Confusion clouded him, looking away and then back to himself. 

unstableunpredictablecareful 

Was… Was Peter’s sixth sense, the one that alerted him to danger, pinging… himself ? He was the danger? 

The realization hit him like a freight train. Peter's heart raced as he grappled with the implications of what he was feeling. How could he be a danger to himself? Was he somehow a threat without even realizing it? 

His mind raced with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last. Had his powers somehow turned against him? Was he losing control? Oh, god, if he lost control —

Green threatened to consume him as he struggled with this revelation. Peter's chest tightened as the green sensation intensified, swirling within him like a tempest waiting to break free. Each breath he took seemed to stoke the emerald flames burning inside him, and with every exhale, it seemed as though a puff of sickly green mist escaped his lips. 

It was as if his very essence was being tainted by this overwhelming force, an alien power that threatened to engulf him entirely. 

He clutched at his chest, feeling as though he might burst apart at any moment. Fear surged through him, mixing with the strange sensation of electricity that seemed coursed through his veins. His thoughts spun in a whirlwind of confusion and panic, unable to comprehend what was happening to him.

Peter flexed his hand, his plastic fork bending till it snapped. A piece of plastic landed in his fruit cup. 

“—eter? You ok?” Lisa asked, concern lacing her words. 

If Peter tried hard enough, he could pretend Aunt May said those words. That she was sitting next to him, eating a breakfast she burned, insisting she had only looked away for a second. 

He closed his eyes, focusing on the smell of underripe fruit and the general funk the shelter had, allowing it to guide him back from the brink. Slowly, the green haze began to recede, dissipating like fog under the morning sun. And as the last traces of emerald faded away, Peter felt himself returning to control, to clarity, to himself once more. He inhaled oxygen and exhaled carbon dioxide. No green mist, just a normal chemical reaction. He was fine . 

Peter’s eyes trailed down to his fruit, where chunks of his plastic fork were sprinkled about. 

“Peter?” 

He looked up, confused. “S— sorry, uh, what’d you say, Miss Lisa?” 

Brown eyes looked at Peter with concern. Peter pursed his lips, looking away. 

“..You didn’t look too good for a second, is all.” She gave a tight smile, obviously biting her tongue from asking more. 

Peter searched for an excuse. “‘M tired, I guess,” He was tired. “Overwhelmed.” That too. It was loud in here, but that was because Peter’s hearing was dialed to 11 and he heard every decibel of sound as if it were a personal attack.  

“I’m— gonna head out, now. Have a good day, Miss Lisa.” Peter tried for another smile, and he thought this one was passable this time. 

Standing up, Peter collected his trash and his bag. 

Peter threw his trash and began towards the exit. The building was nice and almost new-looking, made out of sturdy materials, and seemed to be well-funded by this Wayne guy. You never see homeless shelters this nice, unless they were Stark-funded or a publicity stunt by whatever recent celebrity needed to cover up a scandal. 

watchingwatchingwatching

Peter heard footsteps coming up behind him as the hairs on his arms raised. 

“Hey, kid. You and your family new around here?” The man had phrased it like a question, but it was more condescending than naught. 

Peter’s spidey-sense gave a low thrum of notathreat and overconfident, and even without it, he could smell the insincerity of the man’s words. He was big, heavily tatted up and bald. Peter supposed, to a normal person, he’d be intimidating. 

“Well, we work wit Red Hood. Helpin’ clean up Crime Alley, n’ all that.” He tapped the table again, and it was really grating on Peter’s ears. ( Lielielie, his spidey-sense chanted.)

“But there’s a tax to be kept safe, ya see. It’s not cheap fightin’ off the otha gangs, ya know?” The man shrugged his arms, going for nonchalant and cool. And failing, miserably . 

Peter eyed him out of annoyance more than anything. He just wanted to get out of here, man. He’s blocking the exit right now! Totally uncool. 

“Okay…?” Peter raised an eyebrow as to where this was going. 

The man’s eyebrow twitched. “What I’m sayin’, kid, is that you needa pay us if you wanna stay safe.” 

Peter rolled his eyes, walking around the pushy man. “No thanks.” 

The man fumed, tensing like he was going to go after Peter, but stopped abruptly. He gave Peter a scathing look, with way more heat than Peter felt was necessary for the interaction.

“You ain’t understandin’, kid,” the man growled, stepping closer. “You think you can just waltz in here an’ ignore the rules?’

Peter didn’t know what “rules” this man was talking about, but it was obviously a big guy picks on little guy situation. 

He turned to face the man fully. Might as well use his appearance to his advantage. 

“You do realize you’re asking a kid for money right now? Isn’t that, I don’t know, a little embarrassing?” Peter was going for a disappointed May, but what had come out was… Angrier . 

Peter hadn’t meant to sound angry. He was going for a little light-hearted teasing, y’know, his usual shtick. Instead, without his permission, something… uglier had come out. 

cautiouscoiledmove  

The man’s face twisted in anger, and he moved to grab Peter’s arm. With a swift motion, he sidestepped the man’s grasp, causing him to stumble forward.

“Why, you!—”

A voice interrupted them, calm but authoritative. “Is there a problem here?”

Both Peter and the man turned to see a young woman with electric blue hair standing in the doorway. It was the lady Red Hood had left him with, the one he’d said was trustworthy. 

The man straightened up, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “Just a misunderstandin’. No problem at all.”

“Good,” the woman said, her eyes narrowing. “Because if I see you harassing anyone else here, you’re out. Understand?”

Harper! That was her name. She had been nice last night, asking subtly prying questions but moving on smoothly even when Peter didn’t respond. She seemed like a nice person, his spidey-sense pinging her as someone who could be dangerous, but probably didn’t mean Peter any harm. He didn’t know, he wasn’t sure. His sense had worked just fine with Red Hood, even pinging him as a friend , a comrade . But everyone else got mixed signals, of possiblygood , but uncertainuncertainuncertain . 

The man grumbled something under his breath but nodded. He shot Peter one last venomous look before slinking away. 

schemingcautiouscareful 

Harper turned her attention to Peter, her expression softening. “You good, squirt?”

Peter gave her a look, unappreciative of the nickname but also unable to refute it. “Yeah, thank you, Miss Harper.”

She gave him a grin, amusement twinkling in her eyes. “Do I look old enough to be a Miss? Just Harper, please.”

Peter tried to muster a light-hearted response, but the everpresent green haze at the edges of his vision and the gnawing sense of unease made it hard to feel sincere. “Sure thing, Miss Harper,” he said, forcing a small smile.

Harper chuckled, shaking her head with a tight smile. “Alright, wise guy. Just let me know if anyone else gives you trouble, okay?” She paused, giving Peter a side-eye. “And try not to antagonize anyone who does give you trouble.” 

Peter nodded, grateful for her intervention but still feeling off-kilter. He wanted to joke, to be his usual self, but everything felt muted. Distant. His laugh was forced.

“I’ll try. Thanks again, Miss Harper.”

She gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Stay safe, Peter.”

He offered her another strained smile and made his way towards the exit. 

He had terrible luck. He had Parker Luck. He wouldn’t stay safe for long; no matter what he did.  

Peter scratched his arms, willing away the raised hairs. For some reason, the interaction had left him feeling oddly… empty. Peter took a deep breath, hoping to clear his mind as he stepped out into the cool Gotham air. 

Gotham City’s ambiance was… Not quiet, per se, but nowhere near as loud as New York. Which Peter supposed he should have liked, but he hated it. It was wrong . It was overwhelming, but Peter tried to push through it, focusing on his next destination: the library. He needed to get his bearings, figure out his next steps, and maybe find a way to shake off this persistent feeling of unease.

As he walked, he couldn’t help but think about how different things were here compared to New York. The dangers were different, and even the air felt heavier, and the most unsettling were the unfamiliar faces. Peter had spent a lot of time and effort meeting and memorizing faces. It was his thing . He was the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man! 

So, to walk around a city that wasn’t his, and to see nothing even remotely familiar… It hurt. It made Peter angry. And the worst part? He didn’t even understand why . 

Also, the fashion sense in 2015 was certainly something . 

He walked quickly, keeping his head down and his senses alert. The green still nagged at him, but he tried to push it to the back of his mind. He needed to focus on the present, on getting Karen back. So, Peter did what he did best. 

He repressed. 

Pulling up his hood and stuffing his hands into his pockets, Peter eyed the neighborhood around the shelter. The people looked rundown and exhausted, and the architecture matched. The buildings were grimy and worn, with graffiti marking their surfaces and trash littering the streets. It was quite the contrast to the parts of New York he was used to, even the rougher areas he had patrolled as Spider-Man. 

Peter kept his head low as he walked, his senses alert for any signs of trouble. Although, it didn’t do a whole lot since every other person seemed to be armed with various guns and knives. He had a vague idea of where the library was, but he wasn’t completely sure. He ran from the library in a dissociative daze and then hitched a ride with a vigilante on a frickin’ motorcycle . 

But, on the bright side, Gotham's twisting alleys and chaotic layout must’ve been a criminal’s playground! 

Ok, not so much a “bright side” as an odd observation made by someone who had to deal with said criminals day in and day out, but Peter wasn’t wrong .

The green tinge in his vision had faded somewhat, but he still felt a lingering sense of unease. Every sound seemed amplified, every shadow a potential threat. He reminded himself to stay focused and calm; he couldn't afford to lose his cool, not here.

He took a left turn, hoping it would lead him in the right direction. He’d only been outside for twenty minutes, tops, but it felt like an eternity with his heightened senses picking up every little detail. The chatter of people, the distant wail of sirens, the clatter of footsteps behind him – it all blended into a cacophony that set his nerves on edge. He took deep breaths, trying to center himself and drown out the noise. 

He stepped aside to catch his breath when Peter caught sight of a crumpled paper on the ground. 

thistherehelp!

Peter furrowed his eyebrows. Crouching, Peter nabbed the map before someone stepped on it. Scratch that, before a douchebag purposely stomped on it. Asshole. 

He glanced at the crumpled map, trying to make sense of it as he walked. Y’know, in a world where Stark tech and Google maps existed, it’s not so unsurprising that Peter had no damn clue how to read a paper map.

Squinting at the offending piece of paper, Peter thought there’s no fucking way . Gotham wasn’t just in New Jersey. It was its own damn island . 

“Great. Just great ,” he muttered, tracing his finger along the unfamiliar streets. His finger kept catching, sticking, and unsticking to the paper. “Wouldn’t suppose Mister Stark designed a GPS for dimension-hopping...” 

Gotham’s layout was a labyrinth of intertwining streets and alleys, each with its own confusing and often misleading names. The map looked like it had been drawn by someone who had a personal vendetta against tourists. The tiny lines and symbols blurred together, making it hard for Peter to distinguish one area from another. Even with the enhanced eyesight, it did nothing to help him distinguish the mangled words from a bad printing job and multiple suspicious stains. 

In every “territory” of Gotham was at least one Wayne shelter, one of the few words on the map that was highlighted and legible. So, if Peter had been dropped off at a Wayne shelter, he just had to figure out which one. If he could just find a street name or some kind of landmark, he could figure out where the hell he was in what territory, and then find his way to the public library. Which was… somewhere on the map. Hopefully. 

Peter studied the map carefully, trying to stuff any important-looking names into his name bank. And by Thor, was there a lot . Peter had thought he was in a small city called Gotham, in the small state of New Jersey. Not on an island that was broken up into over a dozen parts, with even more chunks labeled with straight-up territories. It meant infrastructure planning for anyone who didn’t have a car (AKA; Peter ) sucked balls . (And sucked for any homeless people. Or low-income individuals who couldn’t afford a car. Or even tourists . But what’s new in America?)

Looking around, Peter spotted a familiar name. “Leslie’s Clinic” read in bold letter, unlit in Gotham’s version of daytime. Tracking down the name, Peter found he was in a place called Crime Alley . If anyone needed tips on how to scare off tourists, call whoever made this map. 

Which was… all the way across the island from the Public Library? 

Just put Peter down like he’s a dog with rabies, at this point. That looks like a solid… three to four-hour walk. Jesus Christ, how the hell had Peter ended up all the way over here ? 

Peter shifted uncomfortably, heavily disliking how he’d apparently lost hours to an aggressive episode of dissociation. 

He tried to trace his path from the shelter in Crime Alley, but the maze of dark lines made his head spin. Old Gotham, The Bowery, Burnley, Coventry… the names were as terrible as the state they were located in. His finger hovered over the sprawling area labeled "The Narrows," a place with one landmark labeled the Toxic Acres . Spooky. 

Wayne Tower, (a cruel parallel to the Avenger’s Tower?), stood tall in the center, acting as a kind of north star amidst the chaos. But the rest? A confusing mix of residential blocks, commercial areas, and industrial zones that bled into the more dangerous territories. Or so he guessed, given the vibes and spooky names. 

Peter sighed, folding the map with a frustrated huff. The map was more a simplified breakdown of the sections of Gotham, but it lacked any proper street names or paths, or even bus stops . Hence, why Peter had to find a landmark.

The steady hum of Gotham’s life buzzed around him: distant sirens, the chatter of hurried conversations, and the occasional rumble of the subway beneath his feet.

‘Okay ,’ he thought. ‘ Time to rely on good old-fashioned spidey-sense. And a bit of common sense.’

MJ might’ve argued he lacked the latter, but Peter digresses. 

Wandering through the streets, Peter kept his eyes peeled for anything familiar or useful. He passed dilapidated buildings with boarded-up windows, graffiti-covered walls, and the occasional market stall with vendors selling everything from fresh produce to dubious electronics. The occasional pick-pocket tried their hand, but Peter’s pockets were as empty as his chest should be as the  backpack strapped close to his chest. Did he possibly look like a dog with a resource-guarding issue? Mayhaps. Better than getting his stuff stolen, though. 

Every so often, his spidey-sense would give him a nudge of thiswaythisway , guiding him away from particularly dark alleys or groups of sketchy-looking individuals. It wasn’t the most efficient way to navigate, but it kept him safe.

Eventually, he spotted a sign for Park Row , which confused him, as he thought this area was called Crime Alley. A naming error? The sign looked pretty old though… It must’ve been the old name, then. Park Row sounded better, more civilized , but hey he didn’t name the place. Unfortunately for everyone. 

At the very least, he was heading in the right direction. If he could find his way out of the more dangerous parts, he might stumble upon some street signs or a helpful passerby who could point him toward a more direct path to the Library. 

He continued his trek, the streets ranging from nearly empty to bustling, depending on the vibes, which Peter deduced to be the crime rate. The deeper into Gotham he went, the more he noticed the shift in the city's atmosphere. The somber, oppressive air of Crime Alley gave way to a more bustling, if still grimy, part of the city. Neon signs flickered overhead, advertising everything from pawnshops to greasy diners. Granted, almost nothing smelled anywhere close to pleasant, but a burger place named Benny’s got the closest. 

Peter tried to commit the sights and landmarks to memory, hoping soon enough he could ditch the dingy map, but also dreading it. If he no longer needed the map, that meant he knew the city well. And if he knew the city well, like he knew Queens, that meant he was well and truly stuck here . The thought made his chest tighten, a pang of homesickness and ugly green washing over him. He shook his head, trying to focus on the task at hand. 

It was fine , he was fine with that. Better here and alive than home and dead, right? 

Right? 

uncertainwarycautious  

Peter’s spidey-sense pinged him once more.  

He turned down a side street, noting that the sidewalk lacked any cracks and the streets were the fullest he’d seen them yet. He must be in the… Fashion District! Almost to the Library! 

The streets were like a labyrinth, each alleyway looking eerily similar to the last. He tried to look for unique markers—a peculiar sign, a broken streetlamp, anything that could help him navigate. But the more he looked, the more lost he felt.

A loud honk startled Peter out of his thoughts. He glanced up to see a bus zooming past, splashing through a puddle and sending a spray of dirty water onto the sidewalk. Peter sighed, pulling his hood tighter around his head and quickening his pace. 

New York or not, people were still assholes.  

His stomach growled, a reminder of his barely sufficient breakfast and the long walk. Peter shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, trying to ignore the hunger pangs. As he walked, he passed by various shops and street vendors, the smell of hot dogs and pretzels wafting through the air, tempting him. 

If he were any less a man, he might’ve swiped one or two. 

He finally reached what looked like a small park. Benches lined the path, and a few trees provided some greenery amidst the concrete jungle. Peter paused, taking a seat on one of the benches to give his legs a rest a make sure all the walking hadn’t ruined his body’s hard work at healing his feet. A couple of scabs had fallen off, but the food this morning must’ve helped stitch his skin back together better than he’d thought. He unfolded the map again, tracing his finger along the streets and trying to figure out where he was. 

"Okay, if the library is… this general area, then I should be heading... that way?" Peter questioned, despairing over whatever nitwit made this map. No streets! Not one! Just vague placements of landmarks and gray lines that didn’t line up with any streets!! Who the hell makes a map without street names ? And then have the gall to call it a tourist guide ? 

This was a terrible learning experience when it came to reading maps. How would he ever recover from this traumatic event? 

He continued his trek, the buildings slowly starting to look more familiar. Peter passed by a coffee shop with a neon sign that flickered intermittently, and then a nail salon with a faded "Closed" sign hanging in the window. Finally, he saw the tall, imposing structure of the Gotham Public Library in the distance. He’d ended up coming in the opposite direction from when he’d initially found the library. Coming from the back of the library, instead of the front this time. 

Relief washed over him as he approached the entrance. The library seemed even grander than yesterday, with pillars and gargoyles galore. Peter had not noticed the gargoyles previously, otherwise he would’ve properly admired them. 

Pushing open the heavy oak doors, Peter winced, spotting some faint blood stains that were suspiciously foot-shaped. He’d have to apologize for the mess. Looking around, Peter noticed how… empty it was. It had been pretty vacant yesterday, but Peter’s hearing confirmed only five people in the expansive building today, which was pretty convenient for Peter’s sensitive senses, as long as no one here was a teeth grinder. Otherwise, Peter was going to have a problem . 

Stepping further inside, Peter thoroughly enjoyed the heating. It was cold here, sure, but at least it was on the way to getting warmer. Otherwise, Peter would not be in for a fun time, considering his lack of thermoregulation and the funds required for a jacket. Or a heated place to stay. 

Actually, this was something Peter was seriously going to need to look out for. Although it took his temperature dropping to below-freezing temperatures, it was not a fun time. It would be a huge problem if Peter fell asleep and started hibernating in a random place, or even just in general. The first time Peter hibernated, he scared Tony and May half to death. Thankfully, as long as Peter was warmed back up not long after he entered sleepy mode, he could wake up on his own after a couple of hours. Or days.  

There were also the requirements of having a good and hefty diet, otherwise, his body would have nothing to burn, and his body would essentially eat him alive. Or, at least that’s what Doctor Banner said. But he was also convinced Peter had the genetic potential to grow three more pairs of eyes and spinnerettes, so Peter wasn’t entirely sure how much he could trust these hypotheses. 

Not to mention Peter wasn’t the biggest fan of starving to death in his sleep, so he’d need to be careful. 

Passing the front desk, Peter noted Miss Barbara wasn’t there. Her scent was still fresh, so she was more than likely around here somewhere. Doing whatever it is a librarian does. He wasn’t sure. 

Peter found a nice little corner to stuff himself in, one where it would be hard for people to come up behind him and see the computer, as well as shielded from the cameras. Not entirely, unfortunately, but his screen at least wouldn’t be visible. He did not want to be questioned about why there was highly complex code on the public library's computer. Peter would not get away with it, he’s telling you now. 

Karen was in a dormant form right now. The two red bracelets were just compacted nanobots, and if Peter knew Mr. Stark, there were definitely protocols for Karen to have…

Yes! A port to manually connect her to a computer, even while dormant!

Feeling along the smooth surface of the nanotechnology-based alloy, Peter felt a groove. Pressing down, a slot opened up revealing multiple different possible ports. Mr. Stark… Ever the paranoid man Peter knew him to be. 

"Okay, let's see if this works," he muttered to himself, nabbing a cable someone left behind from the neighboring computer. He carefully connected one end to Karen and the other to the library's computer.

At first, the screen remained black, and Peter was worried Karen was more damaged than he initially thought. Peter could feel his heart in his throat as he waited, anxiously biting his nails. He must’ve checked the cable’s connection seven different times before—

The screen flickered for a moment, and Peter held his breath, waiting for another sign of life from Karen.

The computer screen lit up with a series of intricate code lines rapidly scrolling by. Peter's heart raced with anticipation as he watched, hoping to see a familiar interface pop up.

"Come on, Karen," he whispered, tapping his fingers nervously on the desk.

Suddenly, the scrolling code stopped, and a small window appeared on the screen. Peter had expected to hear Karen's voice, set to a volume that only Peter’s enhanced hearing could detect. But instead, fragmented text filled the small box.

"He#(@*llo, P*#t{er."

Peter let out a sigh of relief, possibly the first genuine smile since he’s been here spreading across his face. "Hey, Karen. Glad to have you back." He whispered and hoped the microphones weren’t too damaged. 

"$yst#ems... o...per&{:ating at 11% cap{\acit?y," 

Peter frowned, his mind racing through potential issues. It wasn't surprising that Karen's voice module was malfunctioning, but the extent of the corruption was concerning. It suggested deeper problems within her core systems. The error in her speech patterns indicated that the code governing her language processing was significantly compromised, possibly due to cross-dimensional interference or data corruption during the transition. It’d be hard to tell until he got a look at her code. 

"$e#v..er3l malf#unction$. Di*>agn0$tic an^d... re}{pa:’ir... in1;tiat#3d."

Peter's brow furrowed with concern. "Take your time, Karen. We'll get you back to full strength."

The library’s computer went dark as Karen worked on her self-repairs, Peter kept an eye on his surroundings. The process would’ve gone faster with Peter and Karen working at the same time, but the ominous whirling of the cooling fan warned against such action. It was a miracle this outdated hunk of junk was holding up so well in the first place. 

The library was relatively empty, but he didn't want to take any chances. He needed Karen back online not just for her vast array of capabilities, not even really for Spider-Man… But for the comfort her presence brought him. She was a piece of Mr. Stark, of home , and having her around made Peter feel a little less alone in this unfamiliar place. 

The screen lit back up as a soft chime from the computer signaled the completion of the initial diagnostic scan. The box of distorted text popped up once more. 

"Pr1m..#ary $y$t3m!s... $tabl3. $ev*eral... $eco}[ndary $y$t3/m$... man\[ual inp..^*ut... func>#tional1ty, " Karen informed him.

Peter nodded, already eyeing the code on the screen. "Looks like the groundwork for your coding mostly survived... there seems to be a lot of extra code... saved data?” He murmured, raising a brow. Peter didn’t recall using up so much memory? 

Curiously diving deeper into the extra data stored, his eyes widened as he discovered what Karen had managed to preserve. There were terabytes of saved data: an extensive cache of the internet, Stark's files, and—Peter's breath hitched— hundreds, thousands of saved video and photo files... The library computer wouldn’t be able to take Peter opening the files, but they were labeled. 

>Video_703_M.Parker

>IMG_159_T.Stark

>IMG_279_M.Parker

>Video_894_M.Stark

>IMG_472_R.Parker

>IMG_586_P.Potts

>IMG_428_M.Parker

>screenshot_943_M.J.Watson

>Video_612_R.Parker

Karen saved… everything. Every photo, every video, every cherished moment, every snapshot with Aunt May, Uncle Ben, Ned, MJ, Morgen, Pepper, Happy, Mr. Stark, even his parents… Everyone had been meticulously saved. 

"Karen... you did all this?" Peter whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He felt an overwhelming surge of gratitude and affection for the AI. Despite everything, despite the chaos and destruction, Karen had prioritized saving these irreplaceable memories.

"Pri#0ri[tiz^in(g... d}at^a... f0*r P;et#er's we^ll-bei<ng," Karen's distorted textbox managed to articulate, albeit with difficulty.

Peter’s lip wobbled as he swallowed thickly. The green receded, even if it was just slightly, and Peter was filled instead with overwhelming affection for Karen. She may have been code, an A.I., but Mr. Stark coded them while everything they needed to learn, grow and feel . 

Karen… She cared for Peter, genuinely. 

Peter would do anything to get her back up and healthy. 

However, the computer was struggling. The library's system lacked the power to handle the complexity of Karen's code. The screen flickered more frequently, and the fan inside the computer started to whine dangerously. This, unfortunately, alerted the librarian who had just exited the elevator. Her head snapped over to Peter and the computer who was trying it’s absolute best to not spontaneously combust. 

It would’ve been awkward to try and pretend the computer he was sitting at wasn’t acting up, so Peter threw on his best worried face and waved the redhead over. Peter saw her eyebrows furrow, nodding as she wheeled herself over. 

"Come on, just a little more," Peter muttered, silently cheering Karen on. This was going to look so suspicious if that code wasn’t gone by the time she was here. 

Concerned for the poor computer life, as well as his inability to pay for any damages, Peter pressed his hand against the boxy tower case. It was so hot it burned to the touch and even shocked Peter. Like, literally . Peter felt the shock travel up his arm, hair raising uncomfortably before it seemingly… rushed back out? 

tingleshock!

Peter flinched, small sparks reaching out, connecting Peter’s fingers to the overheating tower case. 

Peter ripped his hand back, hissing in pain as the screen went black. The computer made a sputtering sound before completely shutting down, a thin wisp of smoke rising from the vents. So not good. He hoped they wouldn’t bill, but knowing his luck… 

"Shit." Peter cursed, leaning back in his chair, defeated. His fingers twitched, feeling fuzzy; like static. The public library computer had been fried, and it tried to take Peter with it. Attempted murder via a public library computer. Unbelievable. 

Peter pursed his lips. He stuffed Karen into his pocket, taking the cord too. Just in case. Finders keepers, and all that. 

He had made some progress, but it wasn't enough. Karen was still only partially functional, and now he was without a working computer. Sure, there were more computers in the library, but he needed a higher-functioning computer. One that could take Karen’s code being worked on and not die on him. Or shock him in retaliation. 

Holy shit, was Karen and computer murderer now? Did she just kill a member of her own kind? Or does it not count, since it’s not sentient? Is this computer the equivalent to Peter stepping on a bug? Vaguely related, but not enough to really matter? 

He shook his head, trying to push aside the absurdity of his thoughts. "Okay, Peter, literally irrelevant. Focus please," he muttered to himself. 

He couldn't help but anthropomorphize Karen, seeing her as more than just a collection of code and circuits. Although, it made sense. Mr. Stark had worked it into her code to be as human as possible while remaining objective and smart. She was his companion, protector, and now, the savior of his precious memories. Peter would find a way to get her back up and running at 100%. 

As the librarian from yesterday approached— god, what was her name? Brianna? Barbie?— and Peter gestured helplessly to the computer. 

“I’m sorry, Miss… It was like— um, code? It started flashing all over the screen, and then it shocked me and turned off… I don’t know what happened, I swear, I wasn’t—” 

“Hey, it’s all good, Peter.” She waved him off with a laugh, inspecting the smoking machine. Her cheerful demeanor didn’t hide her sharp and calculating eyes. 

“These old machines do that sometimes. We’ve been meaning to upgrade, but you know how budgets are," she said with a sigh. Her tucked her bright red hair behind her ear, reminding Peter of his earlier dilemma with her name. 

‘Barbara. That was her name.’

Her eyes and face weren’t the same, not even the hair texture , not by a long shot, but she vaguely reminded Peter of Aunt May. Warm, sweet, with a strong personality and fiery red hair. 

Aunt May. She’s dead because of him. 

The more likely scenario was wishful thinking. Peter’s mind making connections where there were none. He didn’t even know Barbara, let alone her personality or whether she was warm and sweet and kind.

goodnicefriend!

That was not helping his point at all. 

“Um, I— I don’t have any money, but I could, um, work it off… Maybe?” Peter’s eyes suddenly found that ground to be very interesting. Barbara’s icy blue eyes were piercing, no matter how warm her smile was. Not cold or mean, just… Intense. 

—

She didn’t respond for a second, studying Peter. He was small, especially for his age, but he seemed genuine and sweet. Jason must’ve found him yesterday, despite how hectic the night was for everyone. (How he found the free time, Barbara had no idea.) Peter was in clean clothes, a red Wonder Woman hoodie replacing the torn and bloodied shirt he’d worn previously. His hair turned out to be quite fluffy and curly, which suited him. The flattened and, frankly, crunchy-looking hair from yesterday did Peter no favors. The sickly sheen of dried Lazarus water was gone, along with the smell. And thank the aliens that flew in the sky, he had shoes on. 

Overall, Peter Parker was already looking far better than he had yesterday. A little confused and jumpy, but the kid had absolutely impeccable control of the pit rage. It took Jason a year to even become conscious , so the fact this kid was walking around and functioning ? A damn miracle. 

(Barbara was glad Bruce was off-world for a Justice League mission, otherwise he no doubt would’ve scared the kid off, or tried to force-adopt him and build resentment. Jason and Tim (when she got around to telling him the situation, anyway) weren’t the most emotionally capable, but Tim was smart and Jason understood the pit rage the best. With Dick off on a mission with the Titans, they’d have to handle this carefully.

Great timing for Bruce to be gone, terrible timing for Dick to be gone. 

Barbara looked through Peter’s records, and it’s safe to say life hadn’t been kind to him. He wasn’t just going to trust them right off the bat, but they could build it.) 

Peter shifted nervously under her gaze, Barbara finally realizing how long she’d kept him waiting for a response. 

“Tell you what, how about you come keep me company for lunch instead? We’ll get you signed up for a library card, too.” Barbara smiled, throwing in a playful wink. 

Peter looked apprehensive, eyes checking the time before studying Barbara intently. She kept her body language open and expressive and her smile light.

“S—sorry, I have to, uh, get going…” Peter ducked his head, ears tinting red, “I need to, uhm, find a Wayne shelter before it gets too dark.” 

A flimsy excuse at best. The closest Wayne shelter was a twenty-minute walk away and didn’t close its doors until eight. It was barely four. 

Barbara smiled. He was a terrible liar. “That’s ok! Raincheck?” 

Peter avoided her eyes as she smiled, nodding hesitantly. “...Sure.”

He picked up his back, standing up as he adjusted it. Nice , Harper gave him some of the nicer handouts. 

Peter bit his lip as he nervously eyed the fried computer. “Sorry again, Miss Barbara… I’ll, uh— be going now?” 

“Stay safe, ok Peter?” Barbara smiled, waving Peter off. His lips twitched down when she said ‘stay safe’ , but he nodded all the same and left. 

His footsteps were light even with the ill-fitted shoes. He blended perfectly into the background, like if you weren’t looking for him you wouldn’t even know Peter Parker existed. 

Chapter Text

Leaving the library, Peter realized just how early in the day it still was. The cold of February clung to the city, a biting chill that seemed to seep into his bones. Gotham’s elusive sun seemed to have called in sick, leaving the day gray and chilly. 

It was so different from New York’s city heat it made Peter uncomfortable. The sky was a blanket of oppressive gray, pressing down on the city and suffocating any hope of warmth. Which he sorely needed, by the way. Thermoregulation left for milk with Gotham Peter’s dad. 

Peter let out a shuddering breath, watching as a cloud of mist left his lips. The cold was more than just uncomfortable; it was near debilitating. It left his limbs feeling heavy and tight, his brain sluggish and foggy, as if the cold had numbed more than just his skin. 

He glanced around, trying to gather his thoughts, but the world around him was so foreign and unwelcoming. He wasn't entirely sure what to do next…  

Superheroes always have a game plan, right? A contingency, a backup. Something to fall back on when things went sideways. That’s how it’s supposed to work. Mr. Stark always had a plan. He acted aloof and overconfident, like he was just winging it, but Peter knew better. Tony Stark planned for every conceivable outcome— and then some. 

But that wasn’t Peter. 

Peter was just a kid from Queens. A kid who had stumbled into a world too big, too dangerous, and now, too far from home. He wasn’t cut out to do this alone, without guidance, without someone like Mr. Stark or Doctor Strange or Aunt May to help him figure things out. 

What was he even hoping to accomplish here? In this strange, cold city that wasn’t his? Peter’s mind raced, breath speeding up as a thousand doubts flooded in. He wasn’t— 

tingleshock! 

Suddenly, a sharp jolt shot through his wrist, startling him out of his spiraling thoughts. He yelped, instinctively grabbing his wrist and looking down in confusion. 

The familiar hum of Karen’s interface flickered to life, a faint and broken connection, but still there. Peter huffed out a breath, a bemused smile tugging at his lips. In all the chaos, he'd forgotten that Karen wasn’t completely gone. She was still with him, even if she was damaged, even if she was barely holding on, she was still here . 

The reality of that hit him harder than he expected. Karen was a piece of home, a piece of his old life, of the days when he didn’t have to shoulder the weight of the world alone. She wasn’t just an AI; she was a friend, practically family . And in this strange, dark place, she was the only constant he had left. 

What about Spider-Man? 

Peter’s chest tightened with emotion, the weight of his situation crashing down on him all over again. But the faint, glitchy hum of Karen was enough to remind him that he wasn’t entirely alone. He wasn’t completely lost. 

He didn’t have a plan, not like Mr. Stark or Mr. Rogers would have, but he had Karen. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to get him through this. He wasn’t sure what to do next, but he knew he had to keep moving forward. He couldn’t afford to stop, not now. Not when there was still so much to figure out.

He couldn’t give up. Not yet.

Taking a breath, Peter made his way down the street. The area was noticeably nicer and cleaner than where he had come from— Crime Alley, if he recalled correctly. Not that this street was spotless; there was still plenty of litter, and Peter spotted more than one pickpocket at work. But it wasn’t nearly as bad as Crime Alley. Crime was literally around every corner. It left his spider-sense ringing endlessly until he left. 

But, to be fair at least there, people hadn’t spared Peter a glance. Over here, the people dressed better, looked better, and carried themselves with an air of superiority that rubbed Peter the wrong way. It was… kind of demeaning. 

It took Peter a second to realize why this street looked familiar. He was a multiversal tourist at this point— sue him for not remembering every detail. But then, as he passed an empty building with a big, red "For Sale" sign just above a window he shattered, something clicked in his memory.

‘If this is here, then over there should be…’

Just a couple of blocks down was the building Peter had woken up in yesterday.

Peter wished he could say it looked horrifying, rotting from the inside out and falling apart. That it screamed, “Child experimentation is happening here! Come and get them!”

But it looked so painstakingly normal .

Not too nice, not too run down. It looked like an unassuming vacant building, the kind with the potential to turn into a mom-and-pop shop or some small business. It was uncomfortable and jarring, the dissonance between the horrors he knew it contained and its outward appearance. The contrast made his skin crawl.

notgoodnotsafegoaway

Peter could feel his spidey-sense humming at the back of his neck as he got closer. It was subtle at first, a faint thrum of unease, but it grew stronger with each step.

‘Listen, I’m not a fan either, but I would like answers .’

His spidey-sense didn’t care. It kept thrumming the same warnings: unsafewaryleave . It wasn’t a voice, wasn’t sentient, but it was as clear in its opinions. His spidey-sense— Peter Tingle , as Aunt May liked to tease him with— was a mystery even among his fellow heroes. 

Peter sighed, rolling his eyes. "Okay, okay, I get it, Peter Tingle, you're not a fan of this place. But we both know I'm going in anyway, so can we just… not freak out until I actually do something stupid?"

It wasn’t sentient, or a split personality, or even someone invading his thoughts. And since Peter was the first and only person in his world to be bitten by a radioactive spider, there was absolutely no frame of reference. After months of (ethical) testing, Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner had given up trying to understand it, ultimately deeming it a leveled-up version of a spider’s filiform hairs— a kind of sensory adaptation. (And, at times, a sensory nightmare instead.) 

It was an underwhelming conclusion to months of poking, prodding, and testing. It only answered so many questions. It didn’t explain how Peter knew things he realistically shouldn’t— like if a bomb was present, or if someone was watching him from a tower, miles away.

Or, say, if someone was a bad person, despite seeming like a good guy.

That was until Ned had declared his Spidey-sense a built-in vibe checker. This, according to Ned, answered all questions and needed no further research. (Except maybe the extent of it, because Peter's vibe checker seemed to work even when he didn’t want it to.)

But as Peter stood there, facing that nondescript building, the hum at the back of his neck turned into a full-blown alarm. He clenched his fists, trying to steady himself against the rising tide of anxiety. He wasn’t a fan of going back inside that place either, but he wanted— no, needed answers. He needed to understand what was happening in Gotham, and what the hell had been done to the kid, this universe’s Peter, in that lab. What had happened to all those kids, and— figure out where to go from there. 

(A therapist might have argued he was fixating on something to distract himself from his unfortunate situation; putting off grieving. Could being a superhero be a bad coping mechanism?

…Nah.) 

With a deep breath, Peter pushed forward, spidey-sense ringing louder in his ears with every step. A part of him that was desperate for answers, the part that had been trained by years of being Spider-Man, wouldn’t let him walk away. He had to help.

If he didn’t help… that would make him no better than a villain. 

Right? 

He reached the building and hesitated at the entrance, the door bent noticeably, still slightly ajar from his escape. The darkness inside seemed to spill out, as if the building itself was trying to warn him away. Peter took one last breath, bracing himself, and stepped inside.

The air was thick and stale, the smell of chemicals and decay still lingering. The oppressive silence was almost suffocating, broken only by the faint hum of machinery deep within the building. Peter’s spidey-sense was screaming now, every fiber of his being urging him to turn back.

But Peter kept moving, driven by a desperate need to help. To find the truth about this place, about what had happened to those kids, and about the twisted experiments they had endured— experiments that they hadn’t been as fortunate as Peter to escape from.

And who knows? Maybe one of them had woken up, just like Peter did. Maybe they were out there, confused, terrified, and alone, just like him. Maybe Peter could help them. 

But he hadn’t heard any heartbeats.

The absence of life was a heavy weight on his chest. The place was just as trashed as it had been yesterday, and Peter breathed a small sigh of relief at that. The thought of someone coming back— whoever was running this place— realizing that someone had broken out, sent a shiver down his spine. 

Normally, Peter was all for a game of cat and mouse; he was fairly competent in a fight, after all. And whoever did this deserved the pummeling of a lifetime— but something deep inside him trembled at that thought. Something that didn’t fit quite right. It wasn’t his sixth sense, it wasn’t the green fog that clouded his mind, but it wasn’t entirely him, either. It was… uncomfortable. Wrong. 

Peter wiped his sweaty hands on his pants, trying to steady himself. ‘ Okay, I can do this. I’m calm, I’m chill, I got this in the bag. It’s like those covert ops I went on with Ms. Romanoff— get in, get the info, and get out. Nothing more to it.’ 

But this wasn’t like any mission he’d gone on before. This wasn’t just about gathering intel or stopping a bad guy. This was about children— innocent kids who had been taken, experimented on, and discarded like they were nothing. Peter felt a surge of anger, green, hot and sharp, as he crouched down to gather the scattered papers off the ground. His hands trembled as he picked up the first document, and he tried to focus on the task at hand, but the something other wouldn’t let him. Not fully, at least. 

The hallway was unnerving, every closed door a potential threat, every shadow a reminder of what could be lurking just out of sight. He moved quickly, wanting to get the hallway out of the way, to be anywhere but here, where he was out in the open and susceptible to an attack. 

As Peter gathered the scattered papers, the words on the pages blurred together in a nightmarish haze— genetic sequences, chemical compounds he didn’t recognize, and a few pages filled with choppy notes on DNA splicing. The more he read, the more disturbing it became, but at the same time, he realized something unsettling: by itself, this wasn’t even very incriminating.

It was mostly jargon, half-completed thoughts, and technical details that wouldn’t mean much to anyone without a background in genetic engineering. Which… made sense, Peter supposed. These people wouldn’t be careless enough to leave anything too damning just lying around. A random paper in the hallway wouldn’t immediately get them in trouble, nor would it give away their objective. No, the real dirt, the real evidence, was probably stored online, locked away in a secure server, if they were smart. And looking at these equations, these people were anything but stupid, unfortunately for Peter. 

Peter absent-mindedly scratched his arm. He wasn’t a slouch when it came to biology— in fact, it was kind of his family’s thing. With both of his parents being geneticists and Aunt May working as a nurse, Peter had been surrounded by this stuff since he was a baby. He worked with The Tony Stark and The Bruce Banner. Biology was his thing . 

Yet, even with all that knowledge, the documents in his hands were a tangled mess of advanced concepts and half-formed ideas, just enough to hint at something dark but not enough to piece it all together. It was like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. 

He knew he should be able to decipher this, to make sense of what they were doing here, but the information was just too fragmented. 

It almost felt like he was being led on. Breadcrumbs. 

Peter sighed, his frustration mounting. He could almost hear Aunt May’s voice in his head, reminding him to take a deep breath, to focus on what he did know. But it was hard not to feel overwhelmed when the stakes were this high.

Sure, he’d been around this stuff all his life, but these notes were in a league of their own— deliberately cryptic, intentionally incomplete, with foreign chemicals in an alternate universe. It kind of made him wish he had his dad’s mind or his mom’s precision to help him sort through it all. But they weren’t here, (hadn’t been here since the crash), and it was up to him to figure this out.

But, from what he could tell… the DNA splicing here was pretty rudimentary. The oldest paper so far dating back months — all the way to October 9th, 2014 . It gets progressively better (worse?) from thereon out. Equations are rewritten and improved— though Peter can’t tell exactly what the changes could’ve affected. 

He had to stop this. He had to find whoever was behind this and make sure they never hurt anyone ever again. He had to figure out how to take this operation down, how to make them pay for what they’d done. There were vigilantes here, right? Why hadn’t they done anything? This operation had been going on since October, possibly even longer, with no promises of this being the only location. 

It felt wrong to judge the vigilantes of this town. There was corruption everywhere, it was wrong to blame this on them when they must already have their hands full. 

It was sympathy Peter wished someone had shown him as Spider-Man. 

Maybe he could solve this for the heroes here? 

But the only way to stop this himself was… 

Peter pursed his lips. 

As he crouched there, surrounded by the remnants of countless shattered lives, Peter felt something else, too— guilt. Guilt that he had escaped when so many others hadn’t. Guilt that he hadn’t been able to save them. Guilt that he was even thinking about his own safety when there was so much suffering all around him.

Something in him whispered this was his fault, too. 

Gathering the last of the papers in the hallway, Peter stacked them into one big, somewhat organized pile. He bit his lip, glancing around, unsure what to do next. Should he report this to the police? That seemed like the logical thing to do, but… 

No.

In situations like this— mass abductions, human experimentation— in a city as big and corrupt as Gotham? There’s always someone on the inside. Whether it’s big businesses pulling the strings, the police turning a blind eye, or even everyday citizens complicit in the horror, it was hard to trust anyone. Peter had seen it before, back in New York. A couple of years ago, there had been a similar problem— only this time, it was a human trafficking ring that had its roots so deeply embedded in the city that it took the Avengers almost nine months to fully dismantle it and find the missing women.

Well, the ones that were still alive, anyway.

Peter had been thirteen, maybe fourteen, at the time. He was still running around in his homemade suits (improving them with every remake!) but he hadn’t been directly involved in the case. Still, he’d saved more than one woman from getting kidnapped, tipping off the police whenever he could. 

Which is exactly why he didn’t trust the police to handle this.

Peter clenched his fist at the memory. It had been his fault that the case took three months longer to solve. The police, the very people he had trusted to protect those women, had been actively involved in the kidnapping and trafficking. They were in deep— bribes, blackmail, and connections that ran all the way up the chain. And because of his misplaced trust, because his Uncle Ben had spoken so highly of policemen because he didn’t listen to his spidey-sense, so many women had been lost.

Spider-Man would never make that mistake again.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind, Peter reached for the nearest door in the hallway, unsure of what he would find behind it. The door creaked open, revealing a medium-sized room with a couple of workbenches and a large, outdated computer spanning the length of a whole wall . (Well, outdated by Peter’s standards.) The air was thick with the smell of dust, chemicals, and something more metallic— blood. Peter’s nose wrinkled at the scent, his spidey-sense tingling faintly as he took in the scene.

The room was in disarray. Papers were scattered across the floor and benches, detailing information on chemical compounds Peter had never even heard of, and something called "Lazarus Water ". The name alone sent a shiver down his spine. He wasn’t sure why— he’d never heard of it before, but it chilled something other reading those words. 

Peter’s eyes drifted to the scuff marks on the floor and the broken desk pushed against the wall. The computer had a crack in the corner of the screen and was powered off, looking like it hadn’t been touched in weeks. Whoever had been here last had left in a hurry, likely abandoning their work in the process. 

Peter set his growing stack of papers down with a huff, his breath stirring up the dust that had settled over everything. He crouched down, beginning to gather the rest of the loose papers scattered around the room. His fingers skimmed over the edges of diagrams and handwritten notes, his mind racing as he tried to piece together the puzzle that was this lab. 

These notes were a chaotic jumble of formulas and theories, some of them hastily scribbled as if in desperation while others were meticulously written down in careful letters. Mentions of failed experiments, unstable compounds, and test subjects who hadn’t survived the process. The term “Lazarus Water” kept appearing, alongside notes about its regenerative properties and the potential dangers benefits of using it in combination with DNA splicing. 

As Peter sifted through the papers, something caught his eye— a drawer left slightly ajar beneath one of the workbenches. He reached for it, hesitating for a moment before pulling it open. Inside, he found a small stash of cash, crumpled bills that had been hastily shoved to the back of the drawer. Peter counted it quickly— about twenty-two bucks, give or take.

It wasn’t much, but in his current situation, it felt like a jackpot. 

"Great, now I can afford exactly one New York hot dog. With no toppings." 

What? Just because something good happened doesn’t mean Peter would stop snarking. 

As Peter counted the crumpled bills, he couldn’t help but let out a dry chuckle. “Karen, remind me to open a savings account next time I’m in a parallel universe. I hear they’ve got great interest rates,” he quipped, stuffing the money into his pocket. He knew Karen wasn’t fully operational, but talking to her— even if she couldn’t respond— helped keep the air just a little bit lighter. 

Just as he finished speaking, his bracelet buzzed weakly, a flicker of life from Karen. Peter grinned, the small response lifting his spirits. “See? She agrees with me. Savings accounts, very important,” He nodded sagely. 

Continuing to rummage through the drawers, finding a few random knickknacks buried beneath the papers. A half-empty pack of mint gum (yuck), a pen that had long since run out of ink, a small keychain with the logo of some obscure tech company. There was also a locket, tarnished with age, but when Peter popped it open, there was no picture inside. Just an empty space where someone’s memory should have been. 

Peter’s fingers brushed against something cold and metallic at the back of the drawer. He pulled it out, revealing a small USB drive. It was unmarked, but Peter’s heart skipped a beat as he realized what it could contain. Data, records, something more concrete than the scattered papers he’d been collecting, and infinitely easier to hide. This drive could hold the key to unraveling the mystery of this place, to finding out who was behind these experiments and what their endgame was.

“Bingo! That’s what I’m talkin’ about, baby!” Peter couldn’t help but grin, holding up the USB like it was Simba.

He slipped the drive into his pocket, mentally cataloging it as a priority to investigate once he had the means to access it. His gaze drifted back to the large, cracked computer screen. If Karen were fully up and running, she could easily hack into the system, but in her current state, there was no way he could power it up and get it working. The computer was old, probably outdated, and who knew how secure its files were. But if he could find a way to fix Karen, he might be able to dig into whatever secrets this room was hiding.

Not that he couldn’t hack it without Karen’s help! The issue was the fact the computer was completely totaled— a jumpstart from Karen would be all he needed. Or a junkyard where he could knab a battery? Something with a real kick for a computer that size… 

He’s getting off track. 

Peter stood, surveying the room one last time. The disarray, the broken furniture, the blood— it all pointed to a struggle, a rushed exit. Whoever had been here had likely fled in the middle of something important, leaving behind the evidence of their work. But it was also a reminder that they could come back, and Peter wasn’t eager to stick around for a reunion.

He added the newly gathered papers to his growing stack, scrunching his nose up in concern. The pile was getting pretty thick, and the last thing he wanted was to damage the fragile documents with the other items crammed into his bag. Every piece of paper in this stack held vital information— clues to what had been done here, evidence that could expose the horrors committed in this place and bring it justice. He couldn't afford to lose any of it.

Peter sniffed the air. Even through the concrete walls, he could catch the faint scent of petrichor. It looked pretty cloudy earlier too… What if it rained on him? What if all this evidence was destroyed? The thought made his heart skip a beat. He didn’t have anywhere to go, no place where he could store this safely. Out in the open, he was vulnerable— not just to the elements, but to anyone who might be searching for him or the information he was carrying.

He felt the first drop of anxiety mix with the dread already pooling in his stomach. What was he supposed to do? He had no allies here, no safehouses, no Aunt May waiting with a warm hug and a cup of tea and an “I larb you” . No unwavering support of his unhinged friends, and even more unhinged father figure mentor. Peter really had no backup. 

No Avengers, no Stark tech, not even Karen at full capacity to help him figure out a plan.

His gaze fell back on the stack of papers, and he realized how fragile it all was— how easily it could be ruined, lost, taken. And if that happened, all those kids, all those lives… it would be like they never existed. Like their suffering never happened.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Peter’s mind raced as he considered his options. Maybe he could find an old locker somewhere, something he could lock and come back to later? Or a spot in an abandoned building— somewhere dry and concealed, where no one would think to look? But then again, leaving the papers meant losing access to them if he needed to act fast, or worse, someone finding them before he could return.

Peter heard as it began to lightly rain outside as if warning him to decide before it was too late. Peter cursed under his breath. He didn’t have time to overthink this. He needed a solution, and he needed it now.

Then, an idea hit him. The Wayne building he’d seen on his map! The one that dealt with technology, in…

Peter furrowed his brows, trying to remember. He’d passed through the area on his way to the library, he thinks. Pulling out his map, Peter mouthed the word “Wayne” until he found the specific building he was looking for. “WayneTech Innovation Center” in East End — which was, like, right next to the public library! (Kind of. A district or two over, he thinks.) 

It was purrfect !

If he could break in, he could fix Karen there. A tech lab, no matter if it’s 2015 or not, is bound to have a computer that could handle Karen. Once she was up and running, he could back up all these documents on Karen, like, quadruple times, then burn the papers! Or... at least that’s what spies do in the movies, right?

Mr. Stark loathed paper copies, but Mr. Rogers vehemently disagreed. Peter could almost hear Mr. Stark’s voice in his head: “Paper copies, Steve? What are you, 90?” And then Steve’s deadpan reply: “Actually, I’m 102.”

Peter laughed bitterly at the memory. " Yeah, maybe I’ll keep one paper copy. Just to mess with them."

He continued to sift through every room meticulously, snagging anything that looked handy. A pocket knife; the illegal kind (the kind that flips out faster than you can say, "Gotham is batshit" ), a half-full bottle of water— questionable, but it was better than nothing— a roll of duct tape (because, honestly, when was duct tape not useful?), and a flashlight that flickered but miraculously still worked.

Peter stuffed the knife into his pocket, muttering to himself, “Cool, now I’m armed and dangerous. Well, more like armed and slightly inconvenient.” 

He shook the flashlight a few times, trying to get it to stay on. "Come on, don't die on me now. I already have Karen pulling that stunt. Be better. Be original."

His words must have been scathing enough, as the flashlight flickered one last time before working perfectly. 

Peter snorted, throwing the flashlight into his bag with the rest of his new "gear," feeling like the world’s least prepared survivalist. At least he was building an eclectic collection. Now, if only he could find a car battery, a pack of non -mint gum, and maybe a snack that wasn’t rivaling Mr. Rogers in age, he might actually feel somewhat ready to take on whatever came next. Maybe even the government. Their bitch-ass was probably involved in this, Peter bets all thirty-three dollars and eleven cents to his name on this. 

Peter lit up as he found the only thing he actually wanted— a plastic ziplock bag! It was, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing Peter had seen in this bleak, creepy building. (And it only took Peter going down four floors before he found one!) He held it up like it was a rare artifact, practically hearing a heavenly choir in the background.

“Finally, something’s going right,” he muttered, carefully slipping the stack of papers into the ziplock bag. He sealed it with all the precision of someone defusing a bomb, then found another bag and double-bagged the precious documents. Just to be safe.

Satisfied but not yet done, Peter wrapped the whole package in his second set of clothes and tucked it at the very bottom of his surprisingly spacious backpack. He leaned back, feeling a rare moment of contentment.

"Well, at least something’s waterproof now," he mused, giving his bag a pat. "This officially makes me, like, 10% more prepared for this whole... whatever this is." 

Karen buzzed in agreement from her spot on his wrist. 

Peter left the room he was in— a laboratory-esque space that reeked of that rotting water. Vials filled with different shades of green liquid lined the shelves. Lazarus Water , Peter’s mind connected, the thought sending a shiver down his spine. It was nice to finally have a name for the nightmare liquid. 

He steeled himself as he moved toward the next room. This was it. The room he woke up in.

But as his fingers touched the dented doorknob, Peter hesitated. 

Something wasn’t right.

His spidey-sense was silent.

Peter froze, every muscle in his body going rigid with fear. 

Silent. 

It was silent, like when he’d ignored it before . When everything had gone horribly wrong. Uncomfortably empty, like it had been with Beck, when nothing made sense and everything was a lie . 

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t normal. His spidey-sense should be buzzing, screaming at him, something . It never shut up— quieted down, sure, but never absent . But there was nothing. Just a cold, hollow void where his instincts should have been.

Panic flooded his veins, his heart pounding in his chest. This place, this room— it wasn’t safe. He wasn’t safe. He shouldn’t go in there. 

He wouldn’t go in there.  

Without another thought, Peter turned and bolted, sprinting down the hallway, away from that unnerving silence. He didn’t ever want to experience the absence of his sixth sense again; not when the last time ended so disastrously. 

The emptiness in his senses was worse than any alarm, a void that threatened to swallow him whole. And Peter wasn’t going to stick around to see what filled it. 

For a second time, Peter ran out of the nightmare building.  

This time, Peter had the presence of mind to close the door behind him, his hands trembling as he did. The darkness of the alleyway swallowed him whole, so dark that he couldn’t even see the fog of his shallow breaths. His heart was still racing, each beat echoing in his ears like a drum.

Desperate for some sense of security, Peter’s eyes darted around until they landed on a discarded metal pipe. He grabbed it, the cold metal biting into his palms, and with a sharp breath, he bent it into a makeshift lock around the door. The metal groaned under the pressure, the rain making it slippery, but Peter didn’t stop until he was sure the door was sealed.

He stepped back, still shaking and filled with nervous energy. It wasn’t much, but at least it was something to soothe his nerves. There wasn’t anything in the room; nothing was alive in the building, after it. Peter knew it. But he… no, something other felt, well, in spider terms, hunted . 

Peter leaned against the wall, biting his lip. It was late, and this time he didn’t have a Red Hood to drop him off at a shelter. He needed to think, needed to figure out his next move, but all he could focus on was the terrifying silence that had overtaken his spidey-sense. 

He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the dampness from the rain clinging to it, and tried to think clearly. Every instinct told him to find a safe place to hunker down for the night, but where? The streets weren’t safe, not with his spidey-sense on the fritz. He needed a plan, needed to be smart about this, but green kept clouding his thoughts, making it hard to concentrate.

“Not now,” he whispered to himself, forcing down the panic. “You can freak out later, just... not now.” 

Pushing off the grimy wall, Peter pulled his hood up in a halfhearted attempt to keep at least somewhat dry. The rain was picking up, but that was the least of his worries. HissSpidey-sense was still uncomfortably silent, a void where there should have been that familiar tingle of danger. Even as he left the district behind, the emptiness gnawed at him, making him feel exposed; vulnerable in a way he hadn’t felt even when he found out he was stranded in an alternate universe. 

Peter was watching and listening with vigilance now. Every footstep, the microexpressions and body language of strangers he passed, the sound of rain falling. He felt naked without that extra sense, missing something he was so reliant on. His body was tense as he forced himself to use every bit of training he’d soaked up from Miss Romanoff to compensate for the loss. 

He tried to focus on her voice in his head— listen to your instincts, expect the unexpected. But listening to the instincts of Peter Parker, the kid from Queens, didn’t do a whole hell of a lot. Spider-Man was the one trained to fight, to dodge, to evade. Spider-Man was the one who had the spidey-sense, the built-in warning system that kept him alive when the odds were against him.

But now, it was just Peter. And without that tingle at the back of his neck, every movement felt wrong, every step uncertain. He tried to draw on what Miss. Romanoff had drilled into him: stay sharp, use your environment, trust what you know. But it was hard to trust anything when the one thing he’d always relied on decided to go on sabbatical. 

He kept moving, slipping through the shadows like she taught him, keeping his steps light and his senses sharp. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was a second too slow, a beat too late. It was like trying to see in the dark after spending years with night vision— everything was just that little bit off.

The rain picked up, droplets sliding off his hood. Peter wiped his hands on his damp pants, trying to shake the unease that clung to him. ‘Come on, Parker. Keep it together.’ He wasn’t Spider- Man right now, but that was fine. Peter Parker was smart, he could figure this out. He knew that meant being careful and not letting fear get the better of him.

Easier said than done. 

His skin itched. 

But the truth was, he was scared. Scared of what might be lurking in the shadows, of what might be waiting for him just around the corner. Scared of the anticipation. And without his spidey-sense, it felt like he was walking a tightrope without a safety net.

A shiver racked through Peter’s body, which was quickly becoming annoying. Normally, it took weather colder than this to send him into premature hibernation, but the damp chill of Gotham was still enough to mess with him. And that was the last thing he needed right now— to add hypothermia to his ever-growing list of problems. 

Getting out of the rain would be a small victory, and if Peter had pegged Gotham correctly, he should be fine to crash in an abandoned building for the night. There were plenty of them around— a lot, actually— partially destroyed or in the process of being repaired. Not to the level of the Battle of Manhatten, but maybe there had been a villain fight recently? It wasn’t exactly uncommon in a place like this. A place so like New York but so completely different. A place with vigilantes and superheroes was bound to have the corresponding villains, right? He hadn’t looked into the villains too much… Hopefully that didn’t bite him in the ass down the road. He’d have to research more at the library. As long as Miss Barbara was fine with that! 

Peter sucked on his teeth, glancing at a building that looked adequately unowned, but not too damaged either. He remembered those months he and Aunt May were homeless, switching between shelters and hiding out in places like this. May had always been hesitant to stay in unknown locations too often, but sometimes they didn’t have a choice.

After Ben’s death, they’d gotten better at finding safer places to stay. His spidey-sense had helped subtly steer May toward the less risky spots, a perk they hadn’t had the first time around. Back then, they relied more on Ben’s hulking presence to keep them safe— something that hadn’t always guaranteed peace but definitely made a difference. (He would’ve traded a sixth sense for his uncle any day of the week.) 

A thin smile tugged at the corners of Peter's lips. It was an odd thing to be happy about, but the memories made him like this place just a little bit more. He could almost feel the warmth of those nights spent cuddling up with May in a sleeping bag, the way she’d brush off his chattering teeth with a sad smile as he passed off his failing thermoregulation as just “running cold.” He could still hear her laughing, playfully scolding him when he’d sneak his freezing feet under her legs, trying to steal her warmth.

He missed cuddling her. 

For a moment, the memory chased away the cold reality of where he was, replacing it with a fleeting sense of comfort, as if those nights with May weren’t so far away after all. It was a small, bittersweet comfort. 

Hesitantly, Peter stepped into the building and paused, listening. The interior was as decrepit as he expected— chipping concrete, broken windows, and the faint scent of mold clinging to the air. But what he hadn’t expected was the low, rhythmic breathing coming from the shadows. A couple of crumbling walls separated the rooms, and in the dim light, Peter could make out the sleeping forms of what he assumed were other homeless people, huddled together for warmth and safety. It seemed he wasn’t the first to think of hunkering down here for the night. 

Peter relaxed, though only slightly, navigating the debris-strewn floor as quietly as he could, searching for his own “room” to camp out in. The familiarity of it all— the quiet shuffling, the careful steps— only served to bring up more memories. He was ok with that, though. The memories warded off the green. He was glad to have them. 

Maybe a good night's rest would bring his spidey-sense back…? 

He felt like a dead-beat husband praying for his bread-winning wife to take him back. 

Peter finally found a corner that seemed relatively isolated, shielded from the worst of the wind and rain. And, more importantly, separated from the buildings' other occupants. Peter dropped his bag, sighing in relief as he sat down on the cold, hard floor. The silence in his Spidey-sense still gnawed at him, but it’d come back, right? It was a part of him— it came back for the fight with Beck, right?  

It was part of him. This had to be similar to when your leg falls asleep. It’s not gone, but it feels like it is. 

Right? 

Peter wrapped his arms around his knees, slowing his breathing. It’s fine, he told himself . It’s just another abandoned building, just like the ones he and Aunt May stayed in before . But the damp cold soaked through his clothes, chilling him to the bone. Peter rubbed his arms, trying to warm up as best he could with the added bonus of scratching that incessant itch. 

‘I should’ve kept an eye on the time… I could have eaten and at least been in a sleeping bag by now.’ His stomach growled as if on cue, and Peter grimaced. ‘ My fault. I should’ve paid attention... or taken Barbara up on her offer for food. Or both. Both would’ve been good.’

His body shivered, but the numbing cold almost made it easier to drift off. Using his backpack as an impromptu pillow, Peter finally allowed himself to dip into sleep.

—+—

The world around him was shifting, distorted, colors bleeding into each other like ink in water. Everything felt... wrong, unstable, as if the ground beneath him could give way at any moment.

“Peter... the multiverse... un—unable... it can’t... hold... long…”

The voice was familiar, but distant— like it was being transmitted through a broken radio.

“Fa...lling apart... you... have to...”

Peter’s heart raced. He couldn’t see who was talking, but he felt the urgency. Their words were sad. Sad for… him? 

“I’m... sorry. You can’t…”

—+—

Peter gasped as he jolted awake, but no air came through. His chest felt tight, his lungs refusing to cooperate. Panic shot through him as his back throbbed painfully— like he’d just been hit with a metal pipe or something.

Before he could react, another sharp blow landed across his side. Peter hissed in pain, scrambling to his feet in a disoriented frenzy. 

“Whaddaya know, a kid! Oh, this hasta’ be my lucky day..." The voice was thick with a lazy drawl, slurred like the speaker hadn’t seen a sober moment in days. A homeless man stood over him, clutching a rusted pipe, his grin revealing several missing teeth. His clothes were torn, and he swayed slightly, either from the cold or intoxication.

Peter’s mind was still clouded from sleep, fuzzy memory already fading, disjointed words echoing in his head, but the reality of the situation hit fast. Pain radiated from his ribs where the man had struck him, but it served to help clear his mind more than anything. 

“Ya got anythin’ worth takin’, kid? 'Cause if not, I ain't got no problem puttin' ya to sleep ‘gain. They pay a n’ce coin for pr’tty youngins like you,” the man sneered, raising the pipe threateningly. His tone was casual, like this was just another day in the life.

Peter’s heart pounded in his ears as he assessed the situation. His Spidey-sense hadn’t warned him— oh. 

Right. 

His body was still groggy from sleep and the biting cold. Who the hell hits a guy just trying to sleep ? 

The man took a step closer, the pipe dragging along the ground. Peter flinched at the grating soun “Betcha thought this was a safe lil' hidey-hole, huh? Not when ol' Tommy's ‘round! Nah, nah, I see a scrawny kid like you, and I think... payday .” 

Peter’s mind raced, and anger built. He wasn’t Spider-Man here. No suit, no web-shooters, and worst of all, no spidey-sense to guide him. Just him, a rusty pipe-wielding man who’d likely done this before, and the crawling itch under his skin that wouldn’t stop . 

He wasn’t Spider-Man here.

This wasn’t his home.

He didn’t owe it anything— not like New York. 

And Peter certainly owned nothing to a man who hit him with a metal pipe, possibly gave him tetanus, then attempt to apparently sell him. 

“What? Not gunna hand tha’ bag over?” The man barked, skipping straight to the attack, swinging the rusted pipe recklessly. 

Peter’s skin itched with the vengeance of a thousand-bed bugs, a crawling sensation that made him want to scratch his skin off. He stepped back, ready to beat the ever-living shit out of this man— except the man stopped mid-swing. Tommy stumbled back, looking around the room, his eyes wide and wild with confusion

"Wha’ the— where’d tha’ brat go?!"

Peter blinked, anger bleeding into confusion. Is this guy tripping? He was right here. Peter took the chance to grab his bag, only… when he reached for his bag, his hands weren’t there. His heart skipped a beat. What the hell?

That itch under his skin worsened, like a thousand tiny needles pricking at his nerves instead. ‘I’m… invisible?’ His mind reeled, but there wasn’t really time to process that. Tommy was swinging wildly now, looking around in panic. 

"This ain’t funny! Show yerself, you little—"

Peter didn’t wait for the man to finish. He moved quickly, yanking the pipe out of Tommy’s hands with ease. The itch in his skin felt like it was burning now, spreading all over his body as if something inside him was fighting to get out. He bent the pipe in half, the metal folding like clay under his grip, and tossed it aside. 

Tommy’s eyes went wide with terror. “Wh—what tha hell? Wha’ kinda meta freak —”

Peter didn’t give him the chance to finish. He aimed a swift, precise punch to the side of Tommy’s head—nothing brutal, just enough to knock him out. The man crumpled to the floor, unconscious, as the itch still crawled beneath Peter's skin, refusing to let up.

Peter stood there, invisible, and confused. He glanced down at his hands— or rather, where his hands should be. Slowly, they started to reappear— not like the sleek, smooth cloaking of Stark tech. No, this was more like watching a heat mirage, his skin rippling and flickering in and out of existence, as if his body couldn’t quite decide whether it was there or not.

"What the…?" Peter blinked, shaking his hands as if that would somehow stabilize them. "This isn’t Karen, right? This is—" He wiggled his fingers, watching them shimmer back into view like a glitchy video game character. "Am I a walking mirage now? Did I unlock some weird superpower upgrade? Should I change my hero name to Mirage? "

That was the most important question, if Peter was honest with himself. 

The itching under his skin was still there, persistent and irritating, like a bug bite he couldn’t scratch. He flexed his fingers, watching them flicker before solidifying again. "Okay, cool, I guess. Except for the part where I have no idea what’s happening." He groaned, scratching his knuckles uselessly. "Of course, I get some glitchy invisibility— because life hasn’t been weird enough lately."

Studying his hands, he flexed and wiggled them until he finally stopped flickering, though the tingly sensation lingered, crawling up his arms. "Awesome," he muttered sarcastically. "At least I’m back to being visible... ish."

Adding humor to the situation has always been how Peter always coped. This wasn’t even the weirdest or scariest thing to happen to him, not by a long shot. But still… he wasn’t wrong. This was a different body, a different Peter Parker, with different powers. Like Peter Two who, apparently, had actual spinnerets in his actual wrists, and produced biological webs — this version of Peter, Gotham Peter, could turn invisible. 

When he thought about it like that, it didn’t sound as crazy.

‘Enhanced version of a spider’s natural camouflage, maybe?’ Peter wondered, trying to ground himself in something scientific. Like my filiform hairs, and the whole “sense vibrations in the air” thing? Maybe this body has a biological camouflage mechanism? Some spiders can blend into their environments, so it wouldn’t be totally out of the question… His mind raced with possibilities, trying to make sense of the bizarre turn his biology had taken.

‘I better not grow any extra limbs or eyes.’ Peter pursed his lips. ‘Or spinnerettes.’ Actually while he’s making that list, hopefully no more changes at all , how ‘bout that?’  

Peter couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. This kid— Gotham Peter —would’ve grown up to be one hell of a Spider-Man. He had potential, maybe more than Peter ever did. But now? Now that this body was stuck with him ?. 

‘I’m in his shoes, using his gifts. ’ 

He couldn’t help but feel infinitely bad for taking over someone else's life, even if it hadn’t been by choice.

‘He deserved his shot,’ Peter thought grimly, ‘and I’m here living it for him.’ 

Peter grabbed his bag and left. There was no point in sticking around any longer; he’d misjudged the building's safety. 

Still, the encounter had given him something useful— information .

The man— Tommy— had called Peter a “payday”. And while Peter couldn’t confirm it with absolute certainty, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what that meant. In Gotham, it seemed human trafficking wasn’t just a seedy underground operation; it was prevalent enough that even homeless people were trying to cash in on it. 

‘Great,’ Peter thought bitterly. ‘ As if this city wasn’t messed up enough.’ 

—+—

“Yer lucky I didn’ send ya’ to an early grave for this shit, Clarence Anderson ,” Red Hood growled, his voice low and dangerous. He crouched down, giving Clarence a menacing stare, his helmet reflecting the dim streetlights. He spun one of his pistols in his hand in a practiced motion— pure intimidation, no practicality. The move was calm, almost casual, but it radiated the promise of violence.

Clarence curled up on the ground, sobbed pitifully. “ Why ?” he whimpered, barely able to speak through his fear.

“Alright, let’s make a list together,” Red Hood echoed, stepping closer, his tone almost mocking. “Shall we?” 

 “First of all, you impersonated being one of my guys.” He delivered a swift kick to Clarence’s gut, causing him to gasp for air.

“Used my name to take advantage of others,” A second kick, harder than the first.

“Called the fucking CPS on a kid for not complying with your ridiculous demands,” A third kick landed, this one making Clarence choke on his breath.

“And finally,” Jason's boot met Clarence's ribs again, “you lost me my lead .” He paused, then delivered an extra kick for good measure. “That last one’s personal.”

"Hood, you need to calm down. We’ll find Peter," Oracle’s voice cut through the comm in his helmet, steady and calm. Easy for her to say— she was the last person to see Peter in person before he vanished. Harper had reported what happened that morning: how CPS got an anonymous call about an "unaccompanied child delinquent, " no name attached. Jason’s blood boiled thinking about it. 

Thankfully, Peter hadn’t come back to the shelter. But the kid had just… disappeared. He’d be on one camera, and they’d follow his route, only for him to literally vanish by the next one. It was disturbing. The last place he was spotted? East End. Catwoman’s territory.

“I know, but—” Jason sighed, frustration pouring out of him. He should’ve done more, been more proactive in helping Peter. The guilt gnawed at him.

“I can practically hear your thoughts, Hood. Look, Peter’s a priority, I get it. But we needed you at the docks. We still need you. Firefly slipped away, so we can probably expect bomb threats to roll in soon from copycats, too.” Oracle’s voice cut through the comms, steady and unrelenting as always.

The bomb threats only ever came from copycats. Firefly, unlike the Joker or Riddler, wasn’t interested in a game of cat and mouse. No, Firefly’s objective has always been the same. Cause as much damage and death as possible. 

Jason clenched his fists, jaw tight. She wasn’t wrong, but it didn’t make him feel any better. This was exactly why he hated working with the Bats sometimes. Duty this, responsibility that . A kid like him was somewhere out there, possibly in danger, and the idea of the kid slipping through the cracks of Gotham’s chaos left a bitter taste of green in his mouth. Jason shoved the green, creeping rage down before it could claw its way to the surface.

“Yeah, whatever,” Jason muttered, trying to sound casual, but his mind was still preoccupied with the gnawing guilt and green-tinged emotions he hated confronting. 

“Soooo… who we talkin’ about, guys?” Red Robin’s unconvincingly innocent voice crackled through the comms, cutting the tension like an annoying ringtone. Jason tensed at the same moment Barbara let out a weary sigh.

‘Great. Just what I needed.’

“Sorry, but vigilantes who disarm a bomb with less than ten seconds left on the timer— while bleeding out from a gut wound, by the way— don’t get the juicy case details,” Barbara teased, though the scolding was evident. Her tone carried that balance of affection and exasperation only she could pull off. 

“Hey! I kept the docks from exploding, didn’t I?” Tim retorted defensively. “Well… mostly .”

Barbara let out a weary sigh. 

“I know that sigh, so it is a case. What’s it about? Black Mask? Fighting ring? Missing kids? The Joker?” Tim fired off in rapid succession, his curiosity clearly getting the best of him. Jason rolled his eyes, fighting the urge to snap. Kid, this is not your problem. But knowing Red Robin, the more Jason pushed him away, the more Tim would dig in. That was Tim in a nutshell— he had a visceral needed to know everything.

“None of your business, Timbo,” Jason grumbled. The last thing he wanted was Tim getting involved in this mess. Peter was vulnerable enough without adding more complications (otherwise known as annoying stalker brothers) to the mix.

“Hey! No names in the field.” Tim chidded, knowing full well he’s benched to comm duty for getting stabbed in the gut. Twice . 

Jason grunted, rubbing his temples. “Whatever, you’re comm duty. Go do comm duty things.”

Tim ignored the jab, pressing on like he always did. “But come on , Jay, you can’t dangle a case in front of me and expect me not to be interested. I’ve been stuck going through possible places Firefly could attack for hours . Gimme something with flavor. ”

"Yeah? How about you flavor this with some silence, Red." Jason waved his hand, calling his men over to finish dealing with Clarence. They wouldn’t kill him, lest the Big Bat found out and made a big deal of it, but he certainly wouldn’t have a comfortable time, either.  

"Tempting," Tim quipped back without missing a beat, "but you know I’m the best at putting the pieces together. If this thing goes sideways, you’ll need me."

Jason rolled his eyes. 

“Hey, someone was gonna have to narrow those down, anyway. We’ve got two weeks, max , before Firefly tries something.”  Barbara chimed in. 

Tim huffed dramatically. “Fine, but this sounds like it's something big. When are you guys going to learn to include me from the start? You know I'll find out anyway.”

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to snap. “ This is why I hate group projects.”

“I know right? I always end up doing all the work.” Tim said far too smugly. 

“I gonna fuckin—” The comm beeped, letting Jason know Tim had left the private comm line he hacked to get into in the first place. 

“Keep me posted, O.” 

“Sure—” The comm beeped, signaling Jason left the comm line, too. “—thing,” she sighed. 

And these guys claimed they weren’t brothers. 

Chapter Text

Peter’s luck was officially shaking hands with the Kraken at the bottom of the ocean. 

All the homeless shelters were closed for the night. Every abandoned building that looked even remotely decent was already taken, and Peter wasn’t exactly eager to repeat the "getting beat with a pipe by a fellow squatter" incident. Once was enough.

So, what options did that leave him with?

Peter eyed a manhole cover. Well, it’s not terrible, and it wouldn’t be the first time… But, well… 

Resolutely, Peter stepped over it, considering his dignity for all of two seconds, before the sky let out a booming crack of thunder, followed by the telltale splatter of even more rain.

“You literally just stopped raining, too!" Peter groaned, staring at the cloudy night sky in betrayal. 

He looked back at the manhole, then back at the sky. Sewers or get soaked. 

Maybe the sewers weren’t so bad after all.

Resigned, Peter lifted the manhole cover and climbed down, bracing himself for the smell. It wasn’t pleasant— Gotham’s sewers were on par with New York’s— but at least it was kind of dry. "Yup, definitely caressing rock bottom right now," he muttered as he huddled into a corner, trying not to think too hard about where he was and how cold it was. 

Maybe eating would help with the cold? Peter had been trying to save the meager amount of food he had— six protein bars, if you were curious— but hunger gnawed at him. Too bad he missed his chance at a free dinner. With a sigh, he cracked open a protein bar and ate it quickly. It was dry and surprisingly peanut buttery. Actually, it wasn’t that bad. 

His stomach growled again. Peter’s face scrunched up in betrayal. He did love peanut butter…

Peter hesitated for a moment before grabbing a second one, devouring it just as quickly. But the gnawing hunger was still there, and the violent shivering never stopped. ‘ Great ,’ he thought, pulling his knees to his chest. ‘Two protein bars down and still feel like a human popsicle.’ 

Peter thought about eating a third granola bar and almost gave in, but figured he probably shouldn’t devour half his meager food supply in one go. Yeah, bad idea, even though his stomach growled in protest. He probably shouldn’t have eaten that second one, now that he thought about it. But he was so hungry .  

‘I could’ve sworn I had better impulse control than this,’ he thought, frowning at the wrapper in his hand. 

He wrapped his arms around himself, feeling a little defeated. Even his powers couldn’t keep the cold at bay.

What kind of hero had being cold as a weakness? 

He adjusted his backpack— which must’ve been water-resilient with how nicely it was holding up— and tried to get comfortable. As comfortable as one could get on the sewer floor, anyway. "At least I’m not getting hit with a pipe again," Peter mumbled, trying to stay positive. "Though if a giant reptile man or mutant turtle shows up, I’m so out of here."

Or maybe Peter could negotiate, split the sewers, have shared custody. Or something.

Peter rolled over. Why the hell is he trying to share custody of a sewer? He seriously needs some sleep. 

—+—

Peter couldn’t fall asleep.

The sewer might have been safer than an abandoned building, but it still felt too exposed, too open. Every echo and drip of water put him on edge, and the cold wasn’t helping. He was shivering so hard he might as well have been vibrating . Any colder and he might just vibrate through the floor! This is all without mentioning the smell . Uncomfortable didn’t even begin to describe it. 

After what felt like hours (it was forty minutes) of tossing and turning, Peter gave in to the unease and crawled up the wall, settling on the ceiling. It was weird— nothing had really changed except his position, but up there, clinging to the ceiling like a spider in a web, he felt... better. Safer. The tension in his muscles eased, his racing thoughts quieted, even if just slightly. 

Even after his move, Peter still spent hours tossing and turning, trying to find some semblance of warmth or comfort, but it was useless. His mind wouldn’t settle, and his body wouldn’t stop shaking. Logically, Peter knew he should’ve taken his damp clothes off and let them dry. But it was so… so jarring how different this body was compared to his own. 

Between the chattering teeth and grumbling stomach, Peter managed to nod off. Not for long, as he’d jolt awake every couple minutes. This was already shaping up to be a bad Sunday.

Or, well, Peter was pretty sure it was supposed to be Sunday? He was understandably having a hard time with, well, time . He’d been in this dimension for what— three days now? It felt a hell of a lot longer than that.

(A quiet, nagging voice in the back of Peter’s mind whispered, asking how long he’d really been in that tube. It was an uncomfortable thought, one that left him cold and green.) 

Frowning, Peter dropped down from the ceiling where he’d been perched. It had been more comfortable than the sewer floor— both in terms of hygiene and literal comfort. It was a little weird to admit. ‘Never thought I’d find a ceiling cozy .’ He could hear traffic picking up from above, meaning Gotham’s gray morning had come.

Patting down his still damp clothes, Peter climbed up the rickety ladder and pushed the manhole cover aside. Luckily, a conveniently placed dumpster blocked the alley entrance, sparing him from having to explain how an eleven-year-old just moved a metal manhole cover like it weighed nothing. ‘ If this world has superheroes, they definitely have mutants,’ Peter thought, stepping out cautiously.

And if there were mutants here, Peter knew all too well how ugly things could get. He'd seen it back home— the fear, the hatred, the way people turned on anyone who was different. It’s what had happened to him. It didn’t take long for paranoia to morph into violence. And if this world was anything like his own, then there was probably a black market for mutants, too. People hunting them, experimenting on them, turning them into tools or entertainment— exotic pets, fight rings, worse .

(Of course, Peter wasn’t a mutant, but rather a mutate . People were rarely educated enough to know the difference, however.)

Peter grimaced as he remembered Peter #2 mentioning that, back in his world, he’d fought in one of those underground rings. Not by choice— just to make ends meet. #2 had laughed it off, tried to make it sound like a joke, but there was something in his eyes when he’d brought it up. 

"Promise me you’ll never do the same," Peter #2 had said, his tone dead serious.

And Peter had promised. He’d meant it, too! There were a lot of lines he’d never cross, and that was definitely one of them. But the fact that it even needed to be said? It made his skin crawl.

Well, there were a lot of lines he thought he’d never cross. 

Besides foot traffic outside of the alley, Peter couldn’t hear anyone near the manhole. Peeking out, Peter was proved right by an empty alley. And, more importantly, he was pleasantly wrong. The sky was mostly blue! That’s a good sign, right? Maybe it’ll be a warm day. Maybe he can get some warm clothes, and a warm breakfast, and have a good day in general! Maybe Karen will fix herself, and he won’t even have to break into that Wayne place! 

…Too hopeful? 

Mr. Stark had often referred to him as somewhat of an optimist (derogatory), and Peter carried that… in mild offense, actually, but what’s he gonna do? Speak ill of the dead? 

He oriented himself, recalling his mental map of the city. His best bet right now was a thrift store— he needed more covert clothes, for his… surprise visit to Wayne Tech tonight. He’s taking a page out of his usual burglar's books. 

That’s right. 

He’s getting a ski mask. 

(Ms. Romanoff would be shaking her head in shame. On the bright side, Clint probably would’ve given him a crisp thumbs-up, so Peter has that going for him.)

It took a couple of wrong turns, getting distracted by a cute cat, and power walking past food vendors, but Peter made his way toward a thrift shop. Peter breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted the store was already open. While the streets certainly weren’t full or anything, it was also still decently early in the morning, and Peter wasn’t sure if Gotham was like New York when it came to shopping. 

The store was surprisingly clean. Not to take a shot at anyone, he just hadn’t really expected it from Gotham. (To be fair, though, he’s been in precisely two not abandoned buildings thus far, one of which was literally a homeless shelter.) Inside, there were two employees. One bustling about, setting up for the day. And the other by the cashier station, probably making sure they weren’t robbed during the night or something. The cashier glanced over at Peter with a hand hovering under the counter. Peter could feel the man’s suspicious glare follow him across the store. Not exactly rolling out the welcome wagon here. Peter gave an awkward wave because he definitely smelled a gun on the cashier.

‘Thirty-three bucks… I can stretch that. Just wish I knew the tax rate around here.’

He made his way over to the jacket section, scanning the prices. A nice, thick black hoodie caught his eye— it looked really warm and comfy... Which was irrelevant! He needed discreteness! 

His red thunderbolt hoodie, which had been a comfort at first, was now soggy. Like a sock and a melting ice cube. Uncomfortable enough to be considered a crime. He’d need to find a laundromat soon— no way was he risking smelling like mildew . He’d sooner go insane. Or, more accurately, he’d sooner smell like sewage. 

Peter had standards, thank you very much. Weird, arbitrary standards that no one could quite decipher, but standards nonetheless. 

As he browsed, he knew he’d need more than just clothes. Real shelter would be the next priority— somewhere no one else knew about, somewhere he could stash his stuff and maybe even stay for a while. At least, until he figured out how he was gonna do this. Living on the streets long-term wasn’t an option. He frowned, trying to think of how Aunt May would handle all of this. She’d always taken care of the money stuff back when they were scraping by.

The only money Peter ever had to handle was his lunch money. 

(and pre-bite, it was constantly stolen anyway)

‘Maybe I could create some kind of digital guardian for myself,’ he mused, brow furrowed. ‘How would I even start with that? Sounds hard…’ He was not confident in his ability to create a flawless fake identity. That sounded like something out of one of those spy movies he’d seen. Wiping a computer? Sure, easy-peasy. Forging legal documents, a paper trail, and then make them eligible to foster/adopt him? Iffy area. Peter was lucky enough to have spawned here with at least some pre existing evidence of existence. Plus, that was all without the other legal issue of him being declared missing and likely deceased.  

Peter would probably muck it up. Karen could do it, though.

Peter squinted at the price tag on another black hoodie. Fourteen bucks. In New York? That’d be a steal. But here? He wasn’t sure if that was the average. He’d have to compare prices, find a way to preserve as much of his looted money as possible. Maybe he’d get a job, or... become good enough at hacking to swipe a couple hundred from some corrupt millionaire?

The thought left a bad taste in his mouth. Stealing, as a hero?

But, then again, it wasn’t like Peter was Spider-Man right now either.

Was he ever a hero?

Peter sighed, shaking the thought off. If he could just get Karen fixed up properly, she’d have all the angles covered, especially on things like this. Mr. Stark had protocols for everything . For now, though, he had to be smart, careful— and maybe, if the universe didn’t mind doing him a solid, a wee bit lucky.

He held onto the hoodie and continued browsing, politely ignoring the workers burning a hole in his back. 

Peter made for a suspicious sight, fluttering about the small store, checking prices while noticeably damp and obviously carrying his life in a backpack. He’d be lucky if he leaves this place without CPS being called. 

Shirts and pants seemed to sit in the five to eight dollar range, and jackets and shoes in the ten to fifteen range. Peter winced. This was gonna hurt. 

He tracked down a thinner eleven-dollar black hoodie, and a two-dollar Halloween mask. The kind that only covered your lower mouth and was cloth. Peter was man enough to admit he picked it because it had faded white spider webs, but he really did need a… non-suspicious mask to buy. 

“Great,” he muttered, glancing at his reflection in the cracked mirror nearby. “Just enough disguise to look slightly sketchier.”

Gloves might have been an absolute must for some, but Peter wouldn’t need them. See, his stickiness came at the low, low prince of his fingerprint. Or, well, most of them. Peter uses some parts of his hand to stick more than others, but he still has some partial prints. Not nearly enough to be fingerprinted (he hoped, anyways. This world’s Peter Parker seemed to have a bit of a criminal record. One that was no doubt in order to survive, but hopefully he wasn’t fingerprinted just because of that. It’s a hit or miss, since he doesn’t exactly remember .) 

Lastly, Peter needed something to cover his eyes. 

If it was his choice, he’d be in a full face mask. His original plan for a suspicious-ass ski mask would’ve been great. But, get this , there was a statewide ban in New Jersey that prohibited the sale of ski masks or anything similar, due to the sheer amount of crime and robberies. They had a paper taped up on the window about it! 

Not that it would make people stop using them, or even stop crime, but it was kind of funny. 

Point was: Full masks solve every possible issue when committing a crime. Including, but not limited to, being a vigilante. 

It’d keep his DNA off everything, minimizing the chances of some Gotham vigilante snatching a strand of hair or some blood and unraveling his whole spider-person secret. DNA was a liability, and his experience fighting crime had taught him that every little strand, every tiny smear could be a ticking time bomb if left behind. (Case and point; Mr. Stark. The man pulled up to his apartment, charmed his aunt, and confronted Peter with video proof and asking which parent was the spider. Super awkward.) 

But he’d settle for a little Halloween spider mask, and some funky clunky goggles that were a little too big. Another two dollars. 

That makes the total fifteen, without tax. Ouch, Peter internally winced. 

Peter approached a register, waiting in a small line from the very few customers. 

With tax, he came out to sixteen twenty-one. Peter sighed. He only bought three things. 

Peter eyed the gas masks sold with sad eyes. He wasn’t sure why they just sold a whole wall worth of gas masks, but they would’ve done a much better job at being a functional mask than his cheap alternatives. The cheapest one was twenty-five dollars, though, and that number was big enough to scare Peter off. 

While paying, Peter’s hand might have shaken minutely. He was hungry, getting a headache, and about to spend money . Forgive his jitters. 

He shot the guy a friendly, awkward smile. “Hey, morning. Just here for the essentials.” He patted his jacket, mask, and goggles as if this would somehow make him seem less suspicious.

“Right,” the cashier said slowly, his eyes narrowing as he rang up Peter’s items. “ Essentials .”

Peter handed over his cash, carefully counted out, and shrugged with a forced grin. “I know. Big spender. It’s my day to treat myself.”

The cashier grunted, bagging the items and sliding them across the counter. “New York?” Peter must have misheard the disgust in his voice. 

“Yeah, just passing through,” Peter replied, nodding like he totally knew where he was going. “You know how it is. Gotham… lovely place. Great ambiance. Good lighting, if you’re into moody shadows.”

“Mm-hmm,” the cashier muttered, eyes hard. “Just… keep out of trouble, yeah? This city eats kids like you for breakfast.” It was concealed, but Peter caught the man’s concerned once over. While appreciated, Peter hoped he wasn’t an “activist” kind of concerned. He did not need to be hunted for sport by CPS, thank you very much. 

Peter held up his bag, giving the man (what he hoped) was a casual salute. “Oh, trouble? Not me. Low-profile’s practically my middle name!”

Peter coughed awkwardly as the cashier just stared at him, eyebrows raised in a look that screamed supremely unimpressed. The guy had the aura of a disappointed dad who’d seen it all and wasn’t buying a single excuse. Peter knew that look. In fact, it reminded him of—

Wait. Had he ever met his dad?

Peter’s face fell, and he blinked, suddenly thrown off. Yes. No. He… He’d definitely met his dad, right? He was a good man, from what he remembered. From the stories Uncle Ben told him. Fuzzy flashes of memories drifted in his mind— a laugh, being tucked in, his childhood nickname. 

Yeah, yeah he met his dad. He loved Peter. Ben made sure he knew that. How could he ever mix that up?

Rubbing his eyes, Peter tried to shake off the fog in his head. Man, he had to be more out of it than he realized. Not to mention hungry. His stomach grumbled in agreement, reminding him humans do actually have to eat. ‘ Get it together, man,’ he chided himself, gripping the bag a little tighter.

He forced a smile back onto his face, nodded at the cashier, and made his way out the door. He just gotta track down the homeless shelter in East End, and scarf down whatever was for breakfast. and clear his head. This wasn’t the time for memory problems. He’d been in Gotham less than a week, and the last thing he needed was to start spacing out.

Peter shoved his newly acquired thief apparel in his bag, fighting the zipper closed valiantly. Pulling out his trusty map, Peter began his march to his long-awaited destination. 

Breakfast. 

—+—

Peter walked into the shelter nervously, his steps hesitant, but he was pleasantly surprised to find the place relatively empty. Call Peter a bird, because it seems he was early! (Get it? C’mon, that had to be at least a little funny!) Red Hood had said the Wayne shelters were safe, and for once, Peter decided to trust someone else's word. He didn’t have a lot of options, or a spidey-sense to direct him. And more importantly, he needed to eat. That sealed the deal.

The smell of warm food hit his nose, and Peter's stomach growled audibly. A sound so comically loud that a couple of volunteers glanced his way. His face flushed, but the embarrassment didn’t stop him from being one of the first in line.

The lady who handed him his food had smiled kindly and added an extra scoop of potatoes to his plate, but her sad, pitying look had Peter's skin crawling. He appreciated the gesture, sure, but… He doesn’t know. Peter hates being pitied. It must be in his DNA or something. 

(Uncle Ben always said Peter got his smarts from his mom and his stubbornness from his dad. Then, in that classic Ben Parker way, he’d chuckle and add, “Bein’ stubborn is fine, kid— but sometimes it lands ya’ in a tight spot. That’s when you gotta lean on the smarts your mom gave ya’.” Peter wasn’t sure he’d ever really taken that advice to heart.)

Still, the food helped. His head felt a little less fuzzy now, and the meal's warmth settled in his stomach like a small comfort. He glanced around, surprised by how many people had trickled in while he was eating. Not all of them seemed homeless. Some looked like they worked nearby and just stopped in for breakfast. Others, like Peter, were clearly using the shelter to get by. For now! It… he related. He wished instead of needing the help, he could be on the other side of the counter, helping. 

After finishing, Peter lingered for a while. He didn’t really know what else to do with himself. He helped clean up, mostly as a way to keep his hands busy, and a lot of the older women volunteering at the shelter doted on him like he was a lost puppy. He smiled and nodded, accepting their compliments about how “darling” he was, but inwardly, he felt hollow. He wasn’t staying to be polite; he was… He wanted to feel useful. Like he’s done something or helped someone. He did it to make himself feel better. 

It’s what Spider-Man would’ve done, right? 

He scratched his arm absentmindedly as he wandered toward the door, his mind a jumble of thoughts. No school to go to. No homework to stress over. No friends to meet up with. No vigilante suit hidden under his locker. No Mr. Delmar to banter with. No picking up Morgan from school.

His skin began to itch.

Karen buzzed faintly in his ear, her presence a small comfort. At least he still had her. 

Was he always this... low ? Dependent ? Peter had always been the glass-half-full kind of guy, the one who cracked jokes and kept going no matter how bad things got. (Another thing his Uncle had said reminded him of his dad— not that Peter particularly remembered.) 

Lately, though, everything felt heavier. The negativity in his head was amplified, echoing louder than it ever had before. And, yeah, he’d lost a lot— everything, really. Not to throw himself a pity party, but almost everyone Peter had ever loved was either dead or got the equivalent to a magical car wash for brains. (Brain wash? Brain-wash? A brain that has been washed. To hyphen, or not to hyphen, that is the question. Everything is better with a hyphen...)

Peter went to use the bathroom and brush his teeth. This body still had baby teeth, after all. His musings continued. 

But it was more than that. He felt off . Like everything around him was moved two inches to the left. Did that make sense? Probably not. Was he losing it? Maybe. Was this Dr. Strange’s magic messing with his head? Or maybe the side effects of that green, goopy Lazarus water he’d been dunked in nonconsensually? 

‘God, I really hope being magicked to another universe doesn’t cause permanent damage,’ Peter thought, running a hand through his hair as he made his way out of the shelter. ‘Probably.’ is the answer he settled on. 

He tilted his head in thought, the word Lazarus echoing in his mind. A funky name for a chemical, sure, but it sounded familiar. Not the effects—those were wild, bringing people back from the brink of death — but the name itself. Lazarus, Lazarus, Lazarus…

“Ugh, I wish I had my phone right now,” he groaned, stuffing his hands into his (finally dry!) pockets.

Peter waved goodbye to the volunteers as he stepped out into the cold Gotham morning. The sun had just started to peek through the clouds, casting a faint golden glow over the East End. His finger itched for a camera. 

Peter squished his cheeks, forcing himself to concentrate. ‘ Focus, Peter,’ he told himself. ‘ You’ve got bigger problems than this! ‘

He felt a little guilty for planning to break into Wayne Tech, considering the fact he’s benefiting heavily from their shelters, but he’ll make it up to them! Somehow… 

Until then, he might as well check out the area, and find a nice place to sleep tonight! He’s got this, should be pretty simple, right? 

—+—

Reality check: not as simple as previously thought.

Peter found Wayne Tech— that part was easy. But then came the waiting. And waiting. And even more waiting. Who the hell was letting these people stay and work so freaking late ?

Like, excuse his French, but Jesus fucking Christ , do these people not have families? Hobbies? Literally anything better to do? He’d had enough time to explore more of East End, head back to the shelter for dinner, get lost, almost get mugged (again), and still make it back to the building across from Wayne Tech… only to see the lights still blazing and Gotham’s most hardcore overachievers grinding away like their lives depended on it.

Meanwhile, Peter was freezing his ass off in the winter cold, huddled in an alley and stalking this building like the world’s saddest burglar-in-training. His fingers burned from the chill, his layers doing absolutely nothing to block the wind, and, worst of all, he was starting to think he’d have to wait all night.

But at least Peter wasn’t idle— nope, he was putting his downtime to good use. Like trying to practice turning invisible, and see if he has any other additions. Like, perchance, cool bio spinnerets in his wrists like Peter #2. (It’d save him so much money on web supplies!) 

He’d done it a couple of times before, totally by accident, but now that he was actually trying to control it? Yeah… No dice. It reminded him of how hard it was to control his strength after the bite. 

He stared hard at his arm, willing himself to fade. “C’mon weird alternate powers, work with me,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes in concentration. “Invisible. Think stealthy thoughts. Blend into the shadows like a ninja. Black Widow training. Disappearing to get milk.”

Nothing. His arm stayed stubbornly visible, fingers and all.

Peter groaned, dropping his head back against the cold brick wall. ‘ How the hell do I trigger this?’ It had happened when he was freaked out before— like, super high-stress situations— but what was he supposed to do now? Start screaming until his body decides to cooperate? 

…Actually, that didn’t sound all bad. Sounds stress-relieving, too. 

“Real helpful, Spider-Powers,” he grumbled under his breath. “You pick the worst times to stop working.” Goes for double, now. First his spidey-sense, now this new random power? The only thing he can count on is his stickiness at this point! 

A gust of wind bit through his hoodies, and Peter shivered, pulling the fabric tighter around himself. He glanced back at Wayne Tech, his eyes narrowing as another worker strolled casually by the window. “If I ever figure this invisibility thing out, I’m gonna haunt every single one of you,” he muttered, flexing his fingers.

For now, though, he was stuck. Cold, visible, and debating whether or not to risk climbing the building while it was still lit up like a Christmas tree.

… 

‘Alright, screw it. ’

What’s the worst that can happen? 

Peter paced around the side of the building, glancing up at the walls as he ran through his options. He could just climb it. (Screw the cameras, and especially screw the people still inside.) Pop a window open, slip in, find any computer with enough processing power to handle Karen, and get this over with. 

The problem? This world seemed a little… behind. What were the odds Wayne Tech even had the tech he needed? What were the odds he’d have to do this again ?

“Gods, that’d suck so bad, ” Peter said to himself, like a sane person. 

He found himself near the back of the building, sticking close to a corner where the shadows were thickest. It wasn’t ideal, but maybe it’d keep him out of sight. Peter tilted his head, contemplating his next move as a soft gust of wind bit through his hoodie. Hoodies , plural. That’s right, he layered and he’s still cold. He hates Winter, if he hasn't already said that. 

Thankfully, the corners were properly reinforced and made out of concrete instead of glass windows. Being sticky is awesome, but not everything gets to enjoy being stuck to. 

“Alright, Parker,” he whispered to himself. “Time to do what you do best: wing it.” 

Peter crouched in the shadow of the building, breath fogging in the cold air, and rubbed his hands together for warmth. "Alright, Wayne Tech," he muttered, flexing his fingers before pressing them to the icy wall. "Let’s get this over with. I’m just here to fix Karen, not uncover some big Gotham conspiracy."

With a quiet grunt, he started scaling the building. The climb wasn’t hard, but man, it was cold. The wind cut through his layers, stinging his face and numbing his hands. He gritted his teeth, wishing for the hundredth time that he’d just bitten the bullet and bought some gloves. "Oh no, gloves’ll ruin the feel, " he mocked himself under his breath. "Great call. Now you have frozen meat sticks for fingers."

He clung to the side of the building, peeking into windows as he climbed. So far, nothing promising— just rows of cubicles and people still hunched over their desks. ‘ Like, no, seriously, who works this late?’ He kept moving, trying to stay low as he passed another lit window.

His luck held out until he made it to a larger window where a man in a rumpled suit sat typing furiously. Just as Peter began to climb past, the man stretched, turned, and locked eyes with him.

Peter froze.

There was a long, excruciating moment where they just stared at each other, neither moving. Peter could feel his heart hammering in his chest.

He scrambled upward, his hands and feet slipping on the cold glass as he haphazardly climbed. The icy wind stung his face, and the effort made his muscles scream, but he didn’t stop until he was three floors higher. Finally, he paused, pressing himself flat against the building.

“Oh, goodie,” he wallowed, panting slightly. “Totally inconspicuous. I’m sure he won’t mention the guy crawling up the building like a giant gecko.” Peter paused. “They better not start calling me Gecko-Man. Or worse, Geckoman .” 

The wind picked up again, howling between the skyscrapers, and Peter shivered, regretting the existence of winter. 

By the time he reached the forty-something floor, his arms felt like jelly, but the faint glow from one window caught his eye. He peeked inside and saw exactly what he needed— big, beefy computers humming softly in the dimly lit lab. ‘Like music to my ears.’

“Finally,” Peter huffed, arms shaky from climbing some forty odd floors. 

He stuck one hand to the glass and pressed down hard, using his free hand to pry the window open. Without his webs, it took a bit more elbow grease than usual, but after a few tries, the latch popped, and he slipped inside. The room was mercifully empty, the steady hum of machines the only sound.

Peter dropped his backpack onto a desk and pulled out Karen’s bracelet, wincing as his frozen fingers fumbled with the cable. "Alright, Karen, let’s get you doctored up," he said, plugging the drive into one of the computers. He tapped a few keys and waited as the screen flickered to life.

And waited.

And waited .

Man, what is with the waiting tonight? (He waited for four minutes.) 

“Karen?” he said, frowning at the sluggish progress bar. “You in there? Or is the tech so far behind you’re insulted?”

The screen finally blinked, white text appearing briefly. “System reboot initiated. Please wait.”

Well, at least the text wasn’t all jumbled like last time? 

Peter groaned, flopping into the nearest chair and rubbing his frozen hands together again. “Oh, take your time. It’s not like the police haven’t already been called. I just know that dude was a snitch.” He glanced back at the window, half expecting someone to burst through it. 

“Hmm, something like that, I suppose,” a voice purred from the shadows, smooth and teasing like silk brushing over steel. 

How did he not—? Right, spidey-silent treatment. Damn it, he jinxed it. 

Peter nearly jumped out of his skin, scrambling to his feet so fast he almost tripped over the chair. His heart hammered in his chest as his eyes darted around the dimly lit room, trying to pinpoint where the voice had come from. Peter subtly shifted into a better fighting stance as he spun around. 

His skin began to tingle. Bad timing, but better late than never? 

“Who’s—” his voice cracked embarrassingly, and he cleared his throat, trying again, “Who’s there?” Great. That’s exactly the tone you want when confronted by someone in Gotham. Very intimidating, guaranteed to send them packing in fear. 

A low, velvety chuckle slid out from the dark corner of the room, and Peter caught the faintest shimmer of light reflecting off black latex. Slowly, a woman stepped into view, moving with the kind of grace that made him feel like a clumsy toddler. Her goggles glinted in the low light, and the whip coiled at her hip was almost as menacing as the sharp smile she wore. 

His first thought was Ms. Romanoff, but she’s dead. She’s been dead.

Which, side note, but really ? Black latex? In winter ? Peter shivered just thinking about it. 

“You know,” she said, her voice light and teasing, “most people tend to avoid breaking into a Wayne building. Especially amateurs .” 

Peter swallowed hard, forcing himself to stand his ground, even though his legs felt like jelly and he was still rattled about not being able to sense her. “Yeah, well, the security isn’t so great,” he shot back, trying to sound braver than he felt. “And what can I say? I’m a big fan of bad decisions.”

She tilted her head, taking a slow step forward, her heels clicking softly against the floor. “Cute. But you set off every possible alarm, including a witness. Not the usual kind of thief,” She took another step, circling him now, her eyes sharp and predatory. “Too scruffy. Too nervous. And definitely too loud.”

Peter winced, thankful for his faded spider mask and oversized goggles. Ouch, and here he was thinking he had done an ok job (besides the witness) sneaking in. Ms. Romanoff would’ve been shaking her head in dismay at Peter’s impatience, he can see it now. 

Peter glanced at her head, spotting… cat ears? He’s only heard about birds and bats, since when was there a cat lady? She definitely moves like a cat, anyway. A mutant or a therian? It’s a hard call. (Or, well, what did they call mutants in this world? Meta, like facebook? Capitalism is everywhere .) 

Peter turned to keep her in his sights, the computer screen at his back now, Karen’s sluggish reboot progress taunting him. “Wow, thanks for the pep talk,” he said, trying to inject some bravado into his voice. “Are you gonna start handing out life advice next, or is the dramatic circling your whole thing?”

Cat lady laughed again, soft and throaty, like she was savoring a private joke at his expense. “Oh, I definitely like you,” she said, circling him slowly. Her boots made barely a sound on the polished floor, each step deliberate, her movements so smooth they put Peter’s nerves on high alert. “Quick with the mouth, even when you’re scared out of your wits. I bet you’re one of those people who talks when they’re nervous. Am I right?”

Peter bristled, forcing his arms to stay crossed even as his instincts screamed at him to bolt. “What can I say? It’s a gift,” he said, trying for casual and landing closer to defensive.

She stopped near the desk again, picking up a stray pen and idly twirling it between her gloved fingers. “So, what’s your angle here, kid? Breaking and entering for the thrill? Or are you after something… specific?” Her gaze flicked over him, assessing, before settling on the computer behind him.

Peter shuffled slightly, putting himself more squarely between her and the screen, though the sheer size of the thing made that a laughable attempt. At his silence, she shrugged, moving to a nearby desk and picking up a framed family photo, studying it critically before setting it down. Peter thought he saw her snag a pen, too.  

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, her tone light but pointed. “I’m not much for playing vigilante.” Her lips curled, like she was savoring some private amusement. “I’m more a fan of a good game of Bat and Cat .”

Peter frowned, tilting his head slightly. ‘ Is that a reference to the vigilantes here, or is this another difference like the Schrödinger's dog thing?’  

She straightened and began circling him again, her movements slow and deliberate, like a cat toying with its prey. The suit theme is really starting to make sense. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that. Skills aren’t bad, besides lying…” Cat lady hummed, leaning to the left as she appraised Peter. “Hmmm… Yeah, you’re lucky the Big Bad Bat is out of town.” What was that supposed to mean? Does the guy revel in beating up kids or something?

“You’ve got potential. A little rough around the edges, maybe, but… potential.” She was circling him again, her movements fluid and predatory, her gaze flicking between his face and the computer. “You’ve got guts, but that’ll only get you so far in Gotham.”

Peter crossed his arms tighter, his previous fear morphing into irritation. “I should hope I have guts, wouldn’t be very good if I didn’t,” he snarked, rolling his eyes for his own satisfaction more than anything.

She paused mid-step, her lips twitching as if she couldn’t decide whether to smirk or laugh outright. “You remind me of a certain bratty baby bird,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement over something Peter was clearly missing context for. “Cute.” 

Peter bristled at that. “I— cute !?” he blurted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

Peter was not cute! He was crafty and cool and part fricken spider . Cute shouldn’t be a descriptor, like, ever! 

That earned her full, rich laughter as she leaned back against the desk, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh, you’re definitely adorable,” she said, and Peter got the sinking feeling that she didn’t mean it so much as she just wanted to see him squirm. “Adorable and completely out of your depth. But hey, we all start somewhere.”

Peter huffed, his eyes darting briefly to the progress bar on the screen behind him. Still crawling. “Look, I don’t know what you’re after, but I’m kind of on a schedule here, so if you’re gonna call me names, can we speed it up? Maybe stick to something cooler, like… I don’t know, mysterious or dashing?”

Her grin widened, all teeth now, but her tone sharpened slightly, even as it stayed light. “Oh, I could think of a few more names for you, kid. But for now?” She straightened, her gloved hand brushing briefly against the whip at her hip. “Let’s make one thing clear— you don’t play cat burglar in the Cat’s territory. Got it?”

Peter blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “I’m not—” He hesitated, then shifted awkwardly. “I mean, technically, I’m not stealing anything!” 

Her head tilted, her smirk softening into something far more dangerous. “Maybe not tonight. But if I catch you prowling around my streets again, we’re going to have a much less charming conversation.”

He swallowed hard, his earlier bravado slipping. “Right. Message received. Loud and clear.” He awkwardly saluted, then promptly cringed. 

She took a step toward the window, her movements deliberate and fluid, like she had all the time in the world. “Gotham’s claws are sharper than mine, kid,” she said, her voice dropping lower, almost a purr. “Stick to your own web, or you’ll find out just how unforgiving this city can be.”

Peter watched as she slipped back into the shadows, her parting chuckle hanging in the air like smoke.

Peter felt dumb, the interaction being picked apart now that he wasn’t flustered. He treated the Cat lady (probably should’ve spent less rambling and more time asking her who the hell she was) like she was one of his rogues, and not a complete stranger and wild card. He doesn’t know her strengths or weaknesses, and he definitely doesn’t know her well enough to be playfully bantering . 

Like, sure, he’s a nervous rambler, but he fought in a war! He wrestled with Thanos! He died ! All he’s saying is he could’ve handled that interaction with way more finesse. 

Peter sniffed. 

He was Spider-Man . He wasn’t cute. 

Looking back at the progress bar, Peter sulked over to a spinny chair. 

‘Stupid Strange…’

 —+—

The Justice League’s meeting room hummed with quiet tension as the hastily assembled members sat around the long, gleaming table. Batman, seated at the head, tapped a finger against the smooth surface. What might have been a nervous tick from anyone else only served to heighten the room’s anxiety. His sharp eyes narrowed as they skimmed over the projection of reports floating in the air above the table— each one just as sparse, inconclusive, and utterly frustrating.

It had been a week since The Flash— along with the other speedsters— panickedly called an emergency meeting. A sort of… anomaly had sent an unprecedented ripple through the Speedforce, a shockwave that no one could explain. At first, they thought it might have been a fluke, something brief and contained, like when Impulse came around. But the Speedforce didn’t work that way, and The Flash’s frantic insistence ensured no one could treat this as trivial.

What had started as a ripple a week ago turned into something much worse. Seventy-two hours ago, a wave had come crashing through the Speedforce, an intense surge of energy that left the speedsters reeling. The aftershocks weren’t just felt by The Flash and the others—they could be tracked by seismic sensors, faint but detectable, like the world itself shuddered in response.

“This makes the fifth sweep,” Batman said, breaking the heavy silence. His voice was low and curt, the clipped tone underscoring his frustration. “No leads. Nothing to indicate what or who triggered this anomaly.”

The Flash, the only speedster present with Wally and Bart running literal circles around the world currently, leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table as his fingers laced together tightly. He looked tired, his normally vibrant energy dimmed by the weight of the past week. “And I’m telling you, it wasn’t just a ripple. It was like someone took the Speedforce, crumpled it up, and threw it back out of sync. Do you know how much power that takes? To disrupt the Speedforce without breaking everything ?”

He gestured toward the reports with one hand, frustration leaking into his voice. “All our timeline tethers are unaffected— practically untouched. That’s not supposed to be possible. Whatever’s happening is isolated to our timeline, and nothing is crossing over into the others. That doesn’t— that doesn’t just happen .”

Wonder Woman, seated near the center of the table, rested her chin on her interlaced fingers, her expression calm but analytical. “Could this be an internal anomaly? A disturbance caused by something within the Speedforce itself, or perhaps a rogue?”

The Flash shook his head vehemently. “No. The Speedforce doesn’t create this kind of chaos by itself. It’s reacting to something external— something that doesn’t belong. I can feel it, like a… like a crack in a dam that’s barely holding back the water. The problem is…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening as his irritation mounted. His brain working faster than he could get the words out, leaving him gesticulating frustratedly.

Superman leaned forward slightly, his posture steady and reassuring as his deep voice filled the space. “The problem is what, Flash?”

The Flash exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “The problem is, well, whatever’s causing this isn’t leaving a trace. I’ve checked the timeline tethers, the residual energies, the points of contact— everything’s clean. No breach. No entry point. It’s like it just… dropped in.”

Green Lantern, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying something powerful enough to knock the Speedforce around just popped in with no signs, no warnings, and no breadcrumbs? What is this, magic pixie dust?”

The Flash shot him an annoyed look. “Not pixie dust. And yes, it just dropped in. Like…” He trailed off helplessly, like the universe would plop the right words on his lap. 

Green Lantern smirked faintly, clearly enjoying getting a rise out of him. “Relax, Speedy, I’m just trying to keep up. You’re throwing out a lot of science-y gibberish for the rest of us mortals here.”

Batman’s glare cut through the banter, silencing Green Lantern with one sharp glance. Wonder Woman took the opportunity to press further. “You said it didn’t belong in our timeline. Are you certain?”

The Flash nodded, his brow furrowed. “Positive. It wasn’t just the ripple itself— it was the aftermath. It’s— uh, well, something foreign is sitting in the Speedforce, sort of… stabilizing it? I can feel it, like… a splinter stuck in a wound. It’s not destroying anything, but it’s not supposed to be there either.”

Superman’s brows drew together. “If it’s stable, at least temporarily, does that mean it could destabilize? Cause further damage?”

The Flash sighed, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the sucky part. It’s not causing major problems now, but the longer it’s there, the higher the chance it could throw things off balance again. And if magic is involved…”

Batman cut in, his voice sharper now. “Then we’re working blind. We can’t keep speculating. We need concrete leads.”

“Leads on what?” Aquaman asked, exasperation leaking into his voice. “We don’t even know if this thing’s a person, a machine, or some freak cosmic event!”

“Then we find out,” Batman said, standing abruptly. His shadow stretched across the room as his voice grew colder. “Because if this is a threat to the timeline— or to the Speedforce— it’s only a matter of time before it grows into something we can’t control.”

Superman raised a hand, his tone steady but firm. “Batman, we can’t treat this like an enemy without more information. If it’s something— or someone— displaced, we need to approach this with caution, not aggression.”

The Flash nodded in agreement. “Whatever caused the ripple isn’t outright malicious, or we’d have seen fallout already. It’s like it… it’s like—” Flash gestured wildly, no one really understanding except Superman, who nodded along like he made all the sense in the world.

“I don’t think it’s actively trying to mess with the Speedforce, is what I’m trying to say. It’s—”

“—Stabilizing itself, right? So it’s a… guest, not an invader?” He glanced around at the others. “Still doesn’t mean it won’t trash the place.” Green Lantern leaned forward, a skeptical look on his face.

Wonder Woman leaned forward, her voice calm but commanding. “Then we find it before it destabilizes, and before someone else has the chance to find it first.”

Batman’s jaw tightened, but he gave a curt nod. “Agreed.” He rose to his feet, his cape sweeping around him as he straightened, his presence commanding as ever. The rest of the League followed suit, their chairs scraping faintly against the polished floor as they stood.

“The Flash,” Batman began, his tone brisk and precise, “coordinate with the Flash and Impulse. Keep monitoring the Speedforce and report any fluctuations immediately. Superman,” he turned to the Kryptonian, “you’re already monitoring global frequencies. Expand your range. If this ripple has a physical manifestation, I want to know about it before anyone else.” 

Superman nodded. “Understood. I’ll keep my focus on regions with high-level energy signatures. Wonder Woman, I’d suggest you work with the Amazons to review their archives— see if there’s any historical precedent for a magical disturbance like this.”

Wonder Woman inclined her head. “I’ll send word immediately. If there’s anything buried in the texts, they’ll find it.”

Superman continued, his voice steady and deliberate. “Aquaman, you should have your people monitor for underwater anomalies. If this ripple is affecting both land and sea, Atlantis’s sensors might pick up something we’ve missed.”

Aquaman nodded, his expression serious. “I’ll handle it. If it’s in the ocean, we’ll find it.”

Batman gave a short nod, then straightened, his gaze sweeping across the table. “We need to send out an update to all available members with relevant expertise. That includes anyone with knowledge of magic, mystical artifacts, or interdimensional phenomena— Raven, Zatanna, Constantine, even Doctor Fate if he’s accessible.”

Green Lantern raised an eyebrow. “Constantine? You sure that’s a good idea? The guy’s not exactly a team player.”

“He doesn’t need to be,” Batman replied curtly. “He just needs to contribute.”

“While we’re at it, I want you to monitor anything that might indicate extraterrestrial involvement. Check the sectors under Lantern jurisdiction for anomalies— cosmic disturbances, uncharted objects, or movement through unmonitored spatial corridors. Anything unusual gets flagged and reported immediately.”

Green Lantern gave a lazy salute, but his tone stayed professional. “Got it. Alien weirdness is my specialty.”

Superman leaned slightly toward Batman, his tone inoffensive in the you’re-definitely-gonna-get-offended way. “What about Gotham? Your team there could—”

“No.” Batman cut him off, his voice sharp. “Gotham stays out of this.”

There was a beat of silence as the League exchanged uncertain glances. Wonder Woman tilted her head, her brows knitting slightly. “Bruce, you don’t think Nightwing, Batgirl, or even Red Robin might have insights to offer? They’ve dealt with magic before.”

“They’re not needed here,” Batman said, his tone brooking no argument. “This situation doesn’t involve Gotham, and I won’t pull them away from their assignments for something outside their scope.”

Green Lantern huffed, leaning back in his chair. “Translation: ‘ I’m emotionally constipated and don’t want anyone digging into my territory.’ Got it.” It’s a joke Flash would’ve normally laughed about with him, but he’s understandably running on fumes and pure mania. 

Batman ignored the jab, his expression as unreadable as ever. “This is a League matter. Gotham doesn’t need to be involved unless it becomes absolutely necessary. The update goes to relevant parties only.”

Superman exhaled quietly, clearly holding back another suggestion, before nodding. “Fine. I’ll draft the update and send it to the names we’ve listed.”

Batman shifted his attention back to his global statistics, checking to see if they’ve changed in the last four minutes. “I will be tracking magical disturbances.”

There was a beat of silence before The Flash frowned, pausing mid bite in confusion. “Wait— how are we supposed to monitor magical disturbances? No offense, but you’re not exactly Doctor Fate, y’know.”

Aquaman tilted his head, his confusion evident. “Yeah, Bruce. You got some kind of secret Bat-magic detector we don’t know about?”

Even Wonder Woman looked mildly puzzled, her brows drawing together as she waited for an explanation.

Batman stood motionless for a moment, the faintest shift in his posture betraying his response. It was one they’d received many a’time instead of an actual answer. 

Then, in a voice as dry and pointed as a blade, he said simply, “I’m Batman.”

Green Lantern blinked, staring at him. “... Yeah, should’ve expected that by now.”

“Works for me,” Superman said with a small, knowing smile.

Aquaman and Wonder Woman laughed lightly as they made their way to the Zeta tubes.

Batman ignored the comments, already turning on his heel. “Let’s move.”

—+—

Peter sneezed abruptly, nearly tumbling out of the spinny chair where he lay upside down. He glared at the computer, as if it might have the answer.

“Someone’s shit talking me. I can feel it.”