Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.