Chapter Text
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“You better go and say your goodbyes. You don’t have long.” Strange’s voice was gravelly, reluctant in a way Peter couldn’t quite place.
Peter’s throat tightened with emotion, his words thick with gratitude. “Thank you, sir.”
“Call me Stephen.” The weight of the moment wasn’t lost on either of them.
Peter swallowed hard, steadying his voice. “Thank you, Stephen.”
A chuckle, laced with sorrow, escaped Strange as he allowed a small smile. “Yeah... still feels weird.”
Peter mirrored the expression, a bittersweet grin tugging at his lips. “I’ll see you around.” With that, he turned and swung away.
Stephen watched him go, his hands clenching into fists as he swallowed the lump in his throat. “So long, kid,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind. And then, softer, almost to himself, “I’m sorry.”
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Peter woke up with a scream on his lips, his body seizing in pain. His back burned like it had been branded, his limbs ached from an impact he couldn’t remember, and a deep, sharp pang pulsed through his skull; as if something had been forcibly ripped away from him. His breaths came shallow and uneven, his fingers twitching against damp concrete.
He could feel the familiar burning itch of some of his lesser wounds stitching themselves back together once more.
Something was wrong.
The world around him felt foreign, the air thick with a quiet that gnawed at him. His spider-sense thrummed faintly beneath his skin, not a blaring alarm but a nagging discomfort, an itch that wouldn’t go away. There was no immediate danger. Still, the sensation of wrongness wouldn’t fade.
Careful-Beware-Danger
Peter forced himself upright, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. He braced a hand against the rough brick wall, breathing through clenched teeth. The roof around him was cold and unfamiliar, the air heavy with the stench of rain and something metallic. He blinked through the ache, his vision swimming before settling into focus—a cityscape, but not one he recognized. Not Queens. Not Manhattan. Buildings loomed taller and darker, their architecture unfamiliar. The skyline felt oppressive, its shadows longer, deeper.
He could hear glass shattering and yells from far off, the wind carrying the distant sounds to his ears like a whisper, a prayer begging for help.
The last thing he recalls before awaking on this cement roof, within a crater of his making, was his and Dr. Strange’s agreement, the goodbyes still ringing in his ears, fresh, raw. Then—nothing. A void in his memory, a black hole where certainty should be. Like a dream at the tips of your fingers, words on the edge of your tongue, a bird you can’t quite catch.
The thought that they would never remember him wounded him like a knife to the ribs. But, a thread of pitiful, bittersweet hope hung in his mind that maybe one day they’ll see his face in passing and be hit with a sense of familiarity, a teasing thought in their mind that no matter how much they grasp, they will never be able to put a name to his face but at least they will have the barest hint of remembrance.
Peter had agreed to be erased from existence, from their lives. He had come to terms with it, even though the thought of being forgotten by those he loved felt like a gaping wound tearing open in his chest. It bled grief and hopelessness, pouring out like an unrelenting river, washing away all that was left of him. The wound, an aching scar, was crudely stitched together—as if some dying soldier, with his last ounce of strength, had hastily tried to mend it; he was left to run back into the fray of a battlefield utterly alone. He had no team to back him up, no friends waiting in the wings.
He shook the thought away and forced himself upright, ignoring the way his body screamed in protest. He needed to move. He needed to figure out where he was.
Despite the pain ravaging his body, Peter knew he had to get down off of the roof. Thankfully, there was a fire escape, which he used to slowly descend the building. Peter winced as he landed hard. For a moment, the world spun, his knees buckling under the weight of pain. He took a steadying breath, gritting his teeth as he forced himself upright. The ache of his wounds reminded him too much of his last fight, the battle that had torn him apart. But, he couldn’t afford to stop and reminisce. Not now.
He checked himself once the pain died down to a dull, throbbing ache. His black hoodie was stiff against the cold, his jeans worn but functional. A crumpled twenty in his pocket. Some lint. A couple of coins that barely added up to thirty cents. Not much to work with.
He pulled his hood up and limped out of the alley. The city breathed differently than New York. People moved with a quiet wariness, shoulders hunched against the weight of something unseen. There was an unnatural stiffness to their movements, a quiet sort of resignation in their expressions. The air smelled damp, heavy with exhaust and an undercurrent of danger.
He stopped hobbling once he came in front of a newspaper that had been left on the ground. He shuffled toward it, hoping to find some clue about where he was. The papers were faded, and only a few headlines were still readable.
GOTHAM GAZETTE
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THE RIDDLER’S REIGN OF TERROR: WHEN WILL HE STRIKE AFTER HIS ESCAPE?
Peter stared. Gotham? That didn’t make sense. He had never heard of a city called Gotham—no news reports, no maps, nothing. The name meant absolutely nothing to him, and that alone was strange.
A crack of thunder split the sky, lightning flashing gold against the skyline. The first drops of rain were cold against his skin, soaking into his hoodie. The neon signs flickered, some buzzing weakly, others half-dead, their glow distorted in puddles on the pavement.
Peter glanced around, trying to find shelter from the storm. A building caught his eye—a small, slightly cleaner structure amidst the decay. He read the sign above the door: Gotham Public Library.
Peter paused. He was a nerd, always had been, and the idea of being surrounded by books; well Peter stood there as Eve stood in front of the glistening apple, temptation whispering in his ear, and who was Peter to refuse shelter from the storm brewing outside.
However, the building felt dim and hollow, its silence thick like a suffocating fog. He stepped quietly inside, the sharp sound of a woman’s voice cut through the stillness, her tone stern. There is the sound of the rapid clicking of a keyboard paired with the mystery woman, sharp and rhythmic, like a heartbeat in a lifeless place; if Peter hadn’t had enhanced hearing he doesn’t think he would have heard it.
But, May and Ben had taught him better than to judge a place by its looks. And god, his name still left a gaping hole in his chest, raw, jagged, and aching. But that pain was faint compared to the searing ache of her absence; her loss clung to him like a shadow, ingrained behind his eyelids. Her last breath still haunts him, reverberating in his ears like an unholy whisper, a reminder of who he couldn’t save.
His eyes scanned the room, landing on a sign that pointed him toward the computers. A jolt of excitement shot through him, quick and electric, as if his body couldn’t help but react to the possibility of something that might finally move him forward. He nearly broke into a run, only to stop abruptly when his gaze fell upon the tech—ancient, clunky machines that looked as if they’d been relics of another era. The thought crossed his mind that they might not even work, so worn down and forgotten they seemed.
With a resigned sigh, he slowly made his way over to the nearest desk, sitting down in the creaky chair, its worn cushions giving under his weight. He deliberately ignored the stale scent of dust and mildew that clung to the room, the air thick and suffocating. Reaching forward, he powered the machine on, only to be met with a cold, unyielding sign-in screen. His stomach twisted in frustration. If he didn’t know how to hack, he’d be stuck—forced to drag the mystery woman away from whatever she was doing in her office. And from the sharp edge in her voice, whatever she was working on, it was important, demanding her full attention.
Peter knew how to get past the barriers of signing in to something he definitely shouldn’t have access to, Ned would have laughed at him right now. It took barely two minutes before he was in. Once the screen opened, he clicked on a web browser he didn’t recognize and did what he did best: research.
He started with Gotham. From the first few results, it was clear the city was a disaster. Criminals, villains—this place seemed to be full of them, and the people living here seemed to be at the mercy of the chaos. He searched for heroes but found nothing that matched what he knew. No Avengers. No SHIELD.
A cold dread settled in his gut. His fingers moved faster now as he typed in names he knew. Nothing. No Iron Man. No Captain America. No Spider-Man.
Panic curled itself into a tight ball in his chest, a heaviness that pressed down on his lungs. Fear began to creep in, dulling his focus. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t the world he knew.
He quickly erased his history and shut off the computer, but the weight of what he’d just discovered felt suffocating. He wanted to move, to get out, but his body felt frozen. It was as though the blood within his veins had turned to stone, and he couldn’t escape.
Behind-worried-safe?
Peter spun around, instincts kicking in, his body tensing despite his spider-sense giving off only a mild warning. This woman wasn’t dangerous. He recognized her heartbeat as matching the one of the woman giving orders earlier. Her head was tilted, brows furrowed, a clear look of concern on her face as she scanned him.
“You look like you’re searching for something impossible.” The voice was smooth and casual, but there was an edge to it—a quiet kind of awareness.
Peter turned slowly. A woman sat before him in a wheelchair, expression sharp and assessing. A different form of shock flew through him; how hadn’t he heard her come over here?
“Uh, no,” Peter said quickly. “Just catching up on the news.”
She raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You don’t look like the type to be interested in local crime reports.”
Peter shrugged. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”
“Clearly.” Her eyes flicked toward him before glancing at the screen in front of him. “Name?”
There was a beat of hesitation before Peter answered, “Parker.”
Her gaze lingered. “Rough night?”
Peter stiffened. “Something like that.”
Barbara hummed, then leaned back slightly. “Well, Parker, if you ever need a quiet place, the library’s open late. No questions asked.”
He nodded, taking this chance to mumble a thanks and make his exit.
As soon as he was gone, Barbara pulled out her phone.
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🦇 Batchat 🦇
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Babs [13:06]: Met a kid today. Something’s off. Looked completely lost.
Duke [13:07]: Gotham ‘off’ or actual off?
Babs [13:08]: Definitely not local. NY accent. Said his name's Parker. Seemed like he had no idea where he was.
Steph [13:09]: Like, ‘I took the wrong train’ lost or ‘I don’t know where I am’ lost?
Damian [13:10]: Suspicious. Should I follow?
Tim [13:11]: Let’s not stalk the kid (yet). What else?
Babs [13:14]: Just a feeling. He seemed... disconnected. And you should have seen the bruise on his face, someone large had to have done it.
Duke [13:15]: Noted. I’ll keep an eye out.
Cass [13:16]: [👍]
Dick [13:17]: Think he’s dangerous?
Babs [13:18]: Not sure. Just stay alert.
Tim [13:19]: We always do.
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