Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

<<Wade>>

Wade was having a great day. Fantastic, really. He had a new job lined up—go kill some asshole. Easy. Simple. His specialty.

Except there was a problem.

The damn job was in New York.

Now normally, Wade liked New York. Decent pizza, plenty of rooftops to jump off without anyone calling the cops, and a whole lot of noise to cover up gunfire. But New York was also home to two very important people: his friends. Or, well, the two guys who occasionally tolerated him.

The Devil and the Spider.

Team Red. His idea, trademark pending. Merch line in progress. Still needed to figure out if “World’s Okayest Vigilantes” would sell on t-shirts.

Spider-kid—sorry, Spider-Man, Wade had to remind himself, because the kid really didn’t like being called a kid—he was the heart of it. Always tossing out jokes mid-fight, always carrying way too much guilt for one spandex-wearing body. But the kid had guts. Swing first, cry about it later. Wade respected that. Reminded him of… well, himself. If he had responsibility. Or morals. Or literally any filter at all.

And then there was Daredevil. Mr. Serious. The Bat without the Bat. Blind guy who heard everything, smelled everything, probably even knew when Wade was about to make a bad joke before he said it. Matt was the brains. The type who’d sit on a rooftop for three hours just to think about how to punch someone better. Wade had brains too, obviously—he saw them all the time when things got messy—but Matt used his for strategy. Unless you poked him enough to crack that stone face. Wade lived for those moments.

And Wade? He liked to think he was the glue. Or maybe duct tape. Not the good kind, the kind you find at the bottom of a toolbox covered in dust, but it still holds everything together. He annoyed them into teamwork. Accidentally pulled them in the same direction. They might not admit it, but without him, Team Red wouldn’t be half as fun.

Which brought him back to the problem.

His target was right in the middle of their territory.

And neither of them were exactly thrilled about his line of work. “No killing,” they said. They even had rules. Actual rules. Wade hated rules. But he’d agreed to them—most of the time—because keeping his little red family happy mattered. Even if it complicated jobs like this.

Team Red Rules
(a.k.a. the “No, Wade, You Can’t Do That” Guide)

Territory Rule
Whoever’s city we’re in runs the show. Matt in Hell’s Kitchen. Peter in Queens. Wade… Wade isn’t trusted with a city. Probably for good reason.

No Kill Rule
Matt and Peter: “We don’t kill.”
Wade: “I kill, but I’ll keep it to the bad guys.”
Compromise: Wade only kills if there’s no other option. Or if he’s far enough away that Matt can’t yell at him.

No Collateral Damage
Don’t wreck the place, don’t endanger civilians. Peter enforces this like it’s gospel. Wade calls it “No Fun Allowed.” Translation: keep innocents alive. Property damage doesn’t matter as long as it isn’t catastrophic.

Backup Rule
If one of us calls, the others show up. Drop everything. (Unless Wade’s in Tijuana. Then Wade’s screwed.)

Mask Rule
Civilian lives are off-limits. Identities stay secret. Wade doesn’t see the point since he talks about himself constantly.

Gadget Sharing Rule
Don’t mess with Peter’s tech. Don’t mess with Matt’s billy clubs. Don’t let Wade touch anything tagged “prototype.”

Disagreement Rule
If there’s a fight over tactics, the majority vote decides. Wade thinks dance-offs would be more efficient, but no one ever listens.

Moral Compass Rule
When things get murky, the fallback question is: “What would Peter do?”
Wade usually flips it into: “What wouldn’t Peter do?” and goes from there.

Exit Strategy Rule
Always have a way out. Preferably one that Wade hasn’t already blown up.

Family Rule
Team before mission. Always.

That last one was the real kicker. Sure, Wade could take the job—but that came with a catch. Daredevil and Spider-Man would almost certainly try to stop him if they caught him in the act. If they didn’t see it… well, technically, it wasn’t breaking any rules. Not that rules really mattered all that much to him.

And honestly? It’d be kind of nice to catch up with the team. He’d been out of New York for two months, and the city was calling his name. Plus, the Russian winter had been a nightmare. He’d lost more body parts to frostbite than he cared to count—seriously, some of those toes might never forgive him.

But business first. Target first, then friends later. Matt and Petey could wait a little while.

Wade flexed his fingers around the hilts of his blades, running them across the edge to get that satisfying bite of sharpness. Job first, reunion later. Simple plan, simple life.

Wade stared at the profile of his next target for the umpteenth time.

Full Name: Elias Kearne
Aliases: The Broker, Mr. K
Age: Mid-50s
Affiliation: Independent contractor, arms and information dealer
Official Occupation: Biotech mogul, CEO of Orpheus Labs

Normally, Wade didn’t bother with high-profile targets. Too much attention, too many moving parts, and honestly, a headache he could do without. But the paycheck for this one was ridiculous. After that fiasco in Russia—two months of sneaking around in the snow, zero results, and zero payment—he could use the cash.

And Kearne wasn’t exactly innocent. Illegal human experimentation, shady biotech deals, and who knew what else that would make most people squirm. Wade didn’t really do “squirm,” thanks to being about 99% cancer cells. Skin-crawly stuff didn’t stick anymore. Lucky him.

Wade had already staked out a spot across the street from Orpheus Labs, parked in a chair he didn’t even remember owning. Whatever—comfortable was comfortable. The plan was simple: wait for Elias Kearne to leave, follow him home, kill him. Easy. Quick. Roll credits.

Then, maybe, he’d swing by and catch up with Spidey or Daredevil. Rub it in. Classic Wade move.

Except… the sun was already dipping, and Kearne was still holed up in his stupid science dungeon. What was he doing in there, binge-watching Grey’s Anatomy? Wade wasn’t pulling an all-nighter for this guy. Not when Daredevil had a sixth sense for showing up just in time to hand him a “murder is bad” lecture. Boring. Hypocritical. Ugh.

Wade lifted his binoculars.
…Wait. No. Nope. You’ve got to be shitting me.

What the actual fuck were Daredevil AND Spider-Man doing here? There they were, rooftop across the street, all suited up and having what looked like a superhero book club. Without him. Didn’t even send a text.

And why the hell were they parked so close to Orpheus Labs?
Oh, no. No, no, no.

They weren’t about to steal his target, were they?

“Oh, come on!” Wade groaned, tossing his stuff together and climbing out of the chair. “Of course. Perfect. Wade’s luck strikes again.” He slung his gear over his shoulder. Fine. If they were here, might as well crash the party.

Matt noticed him first. Dammit. Wade was slipping—normally he could sneak a lot closer before the radar ears picked him up.

“Double-D,” Wade greeted, bouncing his tone. “And Spidey! My two absolute favourites. By the way, how dare you? A team-up and no invite for yours truly?”

“Oh—hi, Deadpool,” Spider-Man replied. “Didn’t know you were back in New York.”

Daredevil exhaled sharply through his nose. “You don’t reply to your texts. We haven’t heard from you in a month. I’d have thought you were dead, but apparently we’re not that lucky.”

Wade wagged a finger at him. “Tsk, tsk. Not very Catholic of you.”

“I’m sure what Daredevil means,” Spider-Man cut in quickly, “is that we’re glad you’re alright. You disappearing like that wasn’t exactly comforting.”

“Ohhh, right, yeah. About that,” Wade said with a shrug. “Lost my phone during a fight in the middle of the Russian wilderness. Long story. Chased by angry men with bad accents, yada yada, real hardcore action flick stuff. Anyway. What are you two doing staked out at Orpheus Labs?”

“What are you doing here?” Daredevil countered. “And yes, Wade, I noticed you across the street.”

Wade muttered, “Creepy blind senses,” before saying louder, “Why can’t I just enjoy a good sunset?”

Even Spider-Man scoffed at that.

Wade lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ve got a job, alright?”

“Assassinate Kearne?” Daredevil’s tone went flat, no hesitation.

“Whaaat?!” Wade dragged the word out like a bad sitcom actor. “Why would you assume that? Maybe I’m here to, I don’t know, steal something? Could be a very delicate liberation of corporate secrets kind of evening.”

“You know the rules,” Daredevil said, low and edged.

“Technically,” Wade shot back, “this isn’t Hell’s Kitchen. It’s barely Queens. And—newsflash—the plan was not to bump into you two.” He jabbed a finger between them. “So what the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m tracking stolen Oscorp tech,” Spider-Man said. Daredevil stayed quiet, so Spidey added, “And he was following some… uh, ninjas?”

“The Hand,” Daredevil corrected.

“Oh, I love ninjas,” Wade said, dragging out the word. “Except you. You’re a terrible one. No smoke bombs, no dramatic flips, no theme music. Pathetic.”

Spider-Man gave him a look. “But why are you already taking a job? You just got to New York. Didn’t you just spend, like, two months on something?”

Wade groaned so loud it could’ve counted as performance art. “Russia. Don’t even get me started. Frozen hellhole. Absolute waste of time. And now I’m broke. But killing Kearne? That’s my golden ticket. I’m talking six months of doing nothing. Maybe a Vegas run. Blackjack, Elvis chapels, regrettable tattoos—the works.”

“And who hired you?” Daredevil asked.

“My client’s information is highly confidential,” Wade said, crossing his arms like that made him look professional instead of petulant.

“He doesn’t know,” Spider-Man stage-whispered.

“Yeah,” Daredevil agreed.

Wade pointed at them both. “I would flip you off right now, but it’d be wasted on Daredevil, and Spidey here still has a developing little teenage brain. Don’t want to scar him.”

“Fuck you, Wade,” Spider-Man snapped. “I’m sixteen.”

Wade chuckled. Aw, the kid was growing teeth. Two years ago, little Petey was all Mr. Wilson this, Mr. Murdock that. Sometimes Mr. Deadpool and Mr. Daredevil, sir. Why did Matt get a “sir” and Wade didn’t? Was it the tie? The voice? Unfair.

“Don’t swear,” Wade said, clutching his chest in mock offence, exaggerating the motion like he was on some bargain-bin soap opera.

Daredevil let out a sharp sigh through his nose, already annoyed. “Can we focus?”

“I am focused,” Wade shot back. “Focused on going in there and putting a bullet through Kearne’s skull. Guy’s probably already halfway down the street.”

“He’s not,” Daredevil cut in flatly. “He’s still inside. He never left. And you can’t kill him.”

Not yet, Wade thought. Out loud, he said, “Fine, fine. No killing. But I can help. Provide a little back-up?”

Spidey gave a shrug, casual as ever. “Works for me. I’ve got a ton of work to do tomorrow, so the faster we wrap this up, the better. You good with it, Daredevil?”

There was a pause before the man gave a single, clipped nod. “Very well. Let’s move.”

Breaking into Orpheus Labs was easy—like really easy. Wade would’ve said it was all thanks to his unmatched talent in breaking and entering. Fine, fine, technically Spider-Man did the whole “crack the codes, disable the alarms” routine, but Wade was the one who knew Spider-Man. Which meant none of this would be happening without him. So, logically, this was Wade’s victory.

“So what are we looking for?” Wade asked, peering around the dim hallway.

“Shh,” Daredevil muttered, his head tilting as if he were listening to something below. “Kearne is downstairs and—” He stopped abruptly, going still.

Spider-Man’s voice cut in, quick and tense. “What is it?”

“There are no other heartbeats,” Daredevil said quietly.

Wade tapped the side of his mask. “Okayyy… and?”

Daredevil’s jaw tightened. “There are at least two other breaths besides Kearne’s.”

Wade perked up immediately. “Ohhh. Undead ninjas. Called it!”

Spider-Man let out a sigh. “Great. So what’s the plan?”

“Who’s de facto leader?” Wade asked.

“Not you,” Daredevil snapped.

“Rude. Accurate, but rude.” Wade shrugged.

Spider-Man glanced between them. “So are we focusing on the undead ninjas or the Oscorp tech?”

“Ninjas first,” Wade said firmly. “Then the tech. No point in grabbing shiny toys if we’re getting ambushed every five seconds.”

“Deadpool’s right,” Daredevil growled, clearly hating the admission.

Spider-Man tilted his head. “Approach?”

“Operation Ninja Naptime,” Wade declared proudly.

“It’s called Silent Sweep,” Daredevil corrected.

“Whatever, branding isn’t allowed to be my job,” Wade shot back.

“On three?” Spider-Man asked, already crawling across the ceiling.

“One,” Wade said.

And all three of them moved on two.

Spider-Man swung a web and yanked the nearest Hand operative into the corner, smothering the grunt that tried to escape. Daredevil dropped behind the second, twisting his arm until there was a soft snap. Wade winced. Ouch.

Ah, crap. They messed up.

Wade raised his gun at Kearne, who stood across the lab, frozen for only a second before his face twisted into a snarl.

“Don’t you dare,” Daredevil growled, low and sharp.

From the far side of the room, Elias Kearne’s voice cut through. “You fools don’t understand what you’re messing with!” His hand came up, a gun glinting in his grip.

“Can I shoot him now? He’s kind of a dick,” Wade said.

Spider-Man webbed up the other Hand ninja before he could reach Daredevil. “Wait—don’t shoot!”

“Fine, fine, I won’t kill him,” Wade said, sight still steady on Kearne. “But he does have a gun. So… shoulder shot? Maybe hand?”

“He’s probably bluffing,” Spider-Man said quickly.

“I’ll shoot,” Kearne barked.

“He’s not bluffing,” Daredevil said flatly.

“Okay, that’s not the point. Don’t shoot because—” Spider-Man started, but Kearne cut him off by actually raising his gun.

Wade didn’t think twice. He pulled the trigger.

The shot hit Kearne in the arm, making him stagger backward into the console. Metal clanged as he collapsed against it.

“Dammit!” Spider-Man shouted.

“I didn’t kill him!” Wade said, holding up a hand like that somehow made it better. Then he noticed the problem. Kearne’s elbow had smashed a glowing control panel on his way down.

And just like that, the air split open. A portal tore into existence in the centre of the lab, light and energy swirling out in a deafening rush.

Wade blinked at it. “Oh, perfect. I shoot one guy in the arm and suddenly we’re guest-starring on Stargate.”

“I TOLD YOU NOT TO SHOOT!” Spider-Man snapped, already moving to the controls.

“Yeah, well, you could’ve been a little clearer!” Wade yelled, aiming his gun but mostly yelling for effect. “Like, I don’t know, ‘Don’t shoot, it might open a GIANT PORTAL.’ Little important detail, don’t you think?”

“Shut up,” Daredevil snapped, voice sharp enough to cut. “Focus. Spidey, talk to me.”

Spider-Man was already at the console, hands flying across glowing buttons. “Shit. Shit—uhh, this isn’t shutting down.”

“Why the hell does a geneticist even have a portal machine?” Wade demanded, gesturing at the vortex tearing open in the middle of the lab. The noise was building, a steady roar pulling at the air. “Seriously, what is this? Multiverse? Time travel? Evil lair side hustle?”

“What’s it for?” Daredevil growled, hauling Kearne up by the collar.

“You idiots,” Kearne hissed, blood seeping through his sleeve. His tone alone made Wade want to put another bullet in him.

“Spidey, can you fix it?” Wade asked, trying to steady his footing as the pull of the vortex dragged at him.

“I’m trying!” Spider-Man snapped. His voice cracked with the effort.

“You can’t shut it down!” Kearne spat, eyes wild. “Not once it’s active!”

“Then how?” Daredevil demanded, shaking him.

“Not going to,” Kearne said with a bloody smile.

“Can I kill him now?” Wade asked hopefully.

“We might need him to close it,” Daredevil shot back.

“Fair point. But I think it’s too late.” Wade’s boots scraped across the floor as the pull grew stronger. His stomach lurched as something wrapped tight around his waist—Daredevil’s billy club cable. Understatement of the century. Wade and Spidey had once tried to steal those things just to see if they could. Matt had been so pissed they never risked it again.

“You better hold on!” Wade shouted, staring at Daredevil. The man had one hand braced around the line, the other clamped on a steel pole.

“I’m trying!” Daredevil hissed through clenched teeth. “Spidey, report!”

“I don’t know how this tech works!” Spider-Man’s voice barely cut through the roar. “This—this isn’t even—ah, shit—” He fired a webline at Kearne, who was sliding toward the vortex like a ragdoll. “Kearne! How do I shut it off?!”

Kearne didn’t answer.

“You’re going to die too, you idiot!” Spider-Man shouted.

Kearne just laughed. It was jagged, ugly—like he wanted to go out with the machine.

“Fuck this,” Wade muttered. He raised his gun and pulled the trigger. The crack snapped through the chaos, and Kearne’s head whipped back.

“Are you serious?!” Daredevil hissed, turning toward him.

Wade grinned, lowering the smoking gun. “Relax. Guy was dead weight.”

“Uh…” Spider-Man’s eyes darted frantically around the console. “Okay, maybe—maybe there’s an off switch on the machine itself. Hopefully. Okay, I’m gonna let go and—”

“ARE YOU INSANE?” Wade barked. “You’ll get sucked in!”

“He’s not wrong!” Daredevil snapped.

“Okay, okay—new plan,” Spider-Man said quickly. “DD, can you hold onto Wade?”

“Yes,” Daredevil said, jaw tight.

“Alright, Deadpool. I’m sticking to you with my webbing and swinging in toward the portal. Got it?”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Wade said, giving him a mock salute. Spider-Man shot a line to Wade, and Wade wrapped an arm around it. The portal’s pull was getting nastier by the second, the air tearing itself apart.

Spider-Man launched forward, web taut. “Okay, think balloon popping—except instead of air rushing out, everything rushes in. This isn’t just a dimensional rift, it’s a tear. If I don’t stabilize the oscillations, it could—”

The portal surged, spitting out a burst of energy that rocked the whole room.

Spider-Man’s voice cracked mid-sentence. “Oh. Oh no.”

And then he was gone—sucked straight into the fucking portal.

“SPIDEY!” Wade roared.

“Shit!” Daredevil spat.

“We gotta go after him,” Wade said without hesitation. “No one gets left behind.”

Daredevil cursed under his breath, let go of the support beam, and in the next instant, the portal swallowed them both.

<<Peter>>

Peter shot out a web at the last second, halting his fall before he could slam into the floor. His chest heaved with the sharp rush of adrenaline, but he had no time to catch his breath. His spider-sense flared—(Incoming!)—and before he could think, his arms moved on their own, firing webs that snagged both Deadpool and Daredevil mid-fall.

“Nice catch, Spidey!” Wade called, dangling upside down in the webbing. “But, uh… where are we?”

Peter adjusted his grip and glanced around. The space was wide, shadowy, and mostly empty. “Some kind of warehouse? A very empty warehouse.”

“Boooring,” Wade muttered.

Peter rolled his eyes but kept his focus, lowering the three of them carefully to the ground. The second his feet touched the concrete, the portal above gave a final spark and blinked out of existence. He glanced across the warehouse floor and froze. Kearne’s body lay sprawled on the ground, a dark pool spreading slowly from the wound in his head. Peter’s stomach tightened. Damn it, Wade.

“Hm.” He forced his voice steady, frowning up at the empty air where the portal had been. “That’s… not good.”

“Define ‘not good,’” Matt said, his tone calm but edged with sharpness.

Peter hesitated, shifting his weight. “Umm… well, it kind of depends.”

Wade threw his hands in the air. “Depends on what? Was that thing a teleportation device? Because I didn’t exactly pack for interdimensional travel.”

Ignoring him, Peter stepped forward, scanning the walls, windows, and the heavy shadows of the warehouse. Nothing about the place gave him comfort. “You two stay here. I’ll crawl up and check that window—see where we landed.”

“Be careful,” Matt said. His voice was steady, but Peter heard the warning underneath.

“Got it.”

Without another word, he leapt, fingers catching rough brick as his feet planted against the wall.  He reached the high window, pulled himself up, and crouched on the ledge outside. 

The air hit him first—thicker, heavier than anything back in New York. The city stretched out beneath him, older and darker than what he was used to. Gothic spires clawed at the sky, their stone gargoyles staring down like watchmen. No neon glow, no glass towers. Just stone, shadow, and a skyline that looked like it belonged in another century.

His spider-sense hummed low in the background, not warning him of immediate danger but buzzing with a steady unease. The city itself felt restless. Every rooftop looked worn, every alley seemed to hide something waiting. (Beware!)

“Okay,” Peter muttered under his breath. “Definitely not Queens. Not NY either. Definitely not New York.”

A siren wailed in the distance—lower, slower, and somehow more desperate than the ones he knew. Shaking it off, he slipped back inside the warehouse and dropped down beside Matt.

“Well?” Matt asked.

“We’re not in New York. No way. I did see a harbour, though… so maybe some kind of port city?”

Wade spread his arms like he was presenting a bad prize. “If Orpheus Labs went through all the trouble of building a fancy portal, why did it dump us in this dump instead of, I don’t know, another lab?”

“Good question,” Peter said. “My guess? The portal wasn’t finished. It was unstable, so it could’ve thrown us just about anywhere.”

Matt exhaled slowly. “Then we need to figure out where ‘anywhere’ is. And soon. Karen and Foggy are going to kill me if I miss court tomorrow.”

“You’re telling me. I’ve got a chemistry test.” Peter shook his head.

Wade crossed his arms. “Yeah, well, I’d just like to know if I’m still getting paid for that Kearne job.”

Peter glanced at the both of them. “So… what’s the plan? We can’t walk around in our suits.”

“I’d rather not run into any vigilantes in this city,” Matt said. “Or worse—any Avengers.”

“Ooh, I’d love to meet Cap!” Wade piped up immediately.

Peter sighed. “We need civvies. First thing.”

“I can go find us some clothes!” Wade announced. “No offence, DD, but I ain’t letting a blind guy pick my style.”

“Or I can do it,” Peter offered. “Most people probably think I’m just some kid running around in pyjamas anyway. Maybe there’s—”

He stopped, listening. Crates stacked in the corner. Dust thick in the air. The faint wail of sirens—

“Wait. Am I crazy, or are the sirens getting closer?” Peter asked.

“Nope,” Matt said evenly. “A couple police cars heading this way. Could be the portal made too much noise when it opened. Either way, we’ll have to move.”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice,” Wade said, already jogging toward the exit. Matt followed, and Peter fell in line after them.

The night air hit hard once they stepped outside. Matt froze first, his posture shifting. Peter felt it a heartbeat later—his own senses prickling, that familiar crawl of warning.

“What is it?” Wade whispered.

“Someone’s coming,” Matt said. He tilted his head, listening. “Oh. They’re good.” Then he broke into a sprint without another word.

Peter went after him. He could’ve easily passed both of them, but he stayed close, keeping pace.

“Define good,” Wade demanded.

“They’re very quiet,” Matt said, leaping onto a rooftop. “Hard to track.”

Peter swung up beside him. Wade followed, slower and grumbling.

“I need to invest in a grappling hook,” Wade muttered.

Peter’s senses spiked again. “He’s closing in fast. What’s the plan?”

“Lose them,” Matt answered. “But I don’t know this city. And with three of us—”

“I can lead them away,” Peter cut in, scanning the skyline until his eyes locked on a tall tower in the distance. He pointed. “Meet back up there?”

Matt gave a sharp nod. “Half an hour. An hour at most.”

“Works for me,” Peter said.

“Aye aye, Captain,” Wade chimed in, throwing a mock salute.

Peter didn’t waste another second. He swung out across the street, the wind whipping against his mask as the night opened up beneath him. Below, two figures moved with almost supernatural speed. One tall, imposing, armoured in black. The other smaller, a blur of green, red, and yellow.

They spotted him instantly. Peter waved—and they gave chase.

At first, he held back, letting them close, just enough to make it look like he wasn’t running from anyone in particular. But his spider-sense buzzed insistently, urging him to anticipate their every move. He couldn’t see their eyes under those masks, but the way they moved—smooth, precise, too coordinated for normal people—told him these weren’t just street-level thugs.

He ducked down an alley, flipping off a fire escape just as the smaller one followed, landing silently behind him. Peter cursed under his breath. “Okay… yeah, you move like someone taught you really well, whoever you are.”

Web-line out, he swung low, cutting across a courtyard, letting the taller one overshoot before vaulting over a wall. The city’s shadows became his playground—pipes, vents, neon signs—anything to break their line of sight. 

After a few blocks, he found an abandoned scaffolding frame near the edge of the rooftops. He paused, crouched, and let the shadows swallow him. The two pursuers slowed, scanning the streets below, seemingly unsure of his path. Peter’s spider-sense hummed low now, not warning of immediate danger but whispering that they were close. Close enough to see… or maybe too close to be seen.

He exhaled softly, letting the thrill settle. “Alright,” he muttered, brushing dust off his gloves. “Time to lose them.”

With a running leap and a flick of his web, he swung toward the opposite tower, twisting midair to vanish into the cityscape. The figures on the rooftops paused, then scanned again, hesitation in their movement—but Peter didn’t look back. Not yet.

Somewhere behind him, two shadows lingered on the skyline, searching—but for now, Peter was gone, lost among the city’s twisting spires and dark alleys.

Peter swung onto the roof of the agreed-upon building, landing beside Matt and Wade. “Sorry I took so long,” he said, brushing off the motion.

“All good,” Matt replied calmly. “We were followed too.”

Peter frowned. “But… by who?”

“Dunno,” Wade said with a shrug. “But oh boy… this city has a lot of vigilantes. And speaking of cities—check this out. I saw a sign. Gotham City. That’s where we are.”

Peter froze. “Gotham? I don’t recall any city called Gotham… at least not anywhere near New York. Oh no… it’s going to take forever to get back.”

“Ayyeee. Hold up a second, Spidey!” Wade called out, waving a hand. “There’s an even bigger issue!”

“What now?” Peter asked, his stomach sinking.

“Well, while we were being chased, I grabbed a newspaper. Always good to keep up with local news,” Wade said casually, humming a little tune.

Matt’s patience thinned. “Just spit it out already, Deadpool.”

Wade grinned, holding up the paper like it was the most important thing in the world. “Apparently… we’re several years in the past.”

Peter blinked. Then blinked again. “Several… years?”

“Yes,” Wade said, tapping the headline. “Past. Like, way past. Time travel, baby!”

Peter ran a hand through his hair, trying to process it. “You’ve got to be kidding me. So, not only are we stuck in some random city we’ve never heard of, but we’re also… in the past?”

“Bingo,” Wade said. “And don’t even get me started on what that means for—well, everything.”

Peter groaned, crouching on the edge of the roof. “This is going to be a long night.”

The night bled into morning, though not before Wade caused trouble.

“Wade!” Matt snapped.

“I didn’t rob anyone,” Wade hissed back. “They saw me, freaked out, and ran. Not my fault they dropped their phone!” He tossed the phone at Peter, who caught it without thinking.

“Dude! Don’t make me part of this!” Peter said, holding it like it might burn him.

“Relax. Just hack it or something so we can find the owner. Duh. And maybe we can use it to get some actual information.”

“Information on what?” Matt asked.

“Uh, I don’t know… maybe how we get back to our own time?” Wade said, like it should’ve been obvious.

Peter frowned, trying to piece it together. “I don’t exactly have resources on time travel… Maybe Reed would know. He could help. I was planning on attending his lecture on time travel next week. Which, I guess, is a few years from now for us, but current Reed should still have some knowledge—”

“Reed?” Matt cut in.

“Reed Richards. Mr. Fantastic,” Peter explained.

“When the hell did you meet him?” Wade demanded.

“I do stuff!” Peter snapped, defensive. “Now can you both shut up for a second so I can try getting into this phone?”

Wade mimed zipping his mouth and tossing away the key. Peter rolled his eyes behind the mask, then focused on the screen. Poor guy. Terrible cybersecurity, cracked display. Peter could probably fix the phone before returning it, but for now, easy work.

He opened the dialer and typed in the number.

“The number you have dialed does not exist,” the automated voice said.

“Okay.” Peter let out a low whistle. “Makes sense, I guess. We’re in the past.”

“What are our other options?” Matt asked.

“Well, I could always just, y’know, Google the current Fantastic Four hotline.” Peter shrugged. “Not a personal cell, but it could help.” He pulled up the browser, froze, then muttered, “Huh. This says ‘Goggle.’ Guess they’re using some off-brand search engine I’ve never heard of.”

“Sounds like a rip-off brand,” Wade said.

Peter ignored him and typed in Fantastic Four. Nothing. He tried again. Still nothing.

“Uh. The Fantastic Four does exist in this year, right? I mean, what, we’re only five years in the past? It’s 2019.”

“They definitely existed,” Matt said. “I remember Foggy going on and on about… Johnny Storm, I think? How hot he was when we first started our private practice. Although I still don’t know if he meant that literally or metaphorically, considering the guy can apparently turn into fire.”

“He’s certainly smokin’,” Wade added with a whistle.

“Gross.” Peter grimaced. He typed in Tony Stark. Nothing. Iron Man. Nothing. The Avengers. Nothing. Mutants. Nothing. His stomach dropped. “Fuuuu—”

“Language,” Matt warned.

Peter sucked in a sharp breath. “I think… I think we might be in another universe.”

“Fuck,” Matt muttered under his breath.

“Goddamn it,” Wade groaned, dragging the words out like it was the biggest inconvenience in the world. “Hasn’t the whole multiverse thing been done enough already? It’s stale. Boring. I wanted something original.”

“Oh no, no, no,” Peter said quickly, panic edging his voice. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Don’t you know anything about dimensional travel?” Wade asked, tilting his head like Peter had just failed a pop quiz.

“Only in a very basic, theoretical sense!” Peter shot back. “There’s been zero confirmed proof of dimensional travel or even the multiverse actually existing. I mean, sure, time travel is a theoretical possibility and somehow we’ve managed that, but—” He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair as he started pacing. “Unless the two universes run on different timelines? Or time dilation is involved? Ugh! This would be fascinating if we weren’t literally stuck in the middle of it!”

“Let’s all take a deep breath,” Matt said evenly. “We need to focus. One problem at a time. What’s the priority when you’re stranded somewhere unfamiliar?”

“Guns, money, and drugs,” Wade answered without hesitation.

Peter froze, staring at him. “What? No! It’s food, water, and shelter. Obviously.”

Wade shrugged like the difference didn’t matter.

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Basic survival. We figure out where we are, what resources are available, and whether the people here even… exist the way we expect them to.”

Matt nodded slightly, listening. “Good. So first step—information. We need to find out what kind of universe this is.”

“Right, yes,” Peter said quickly, his thoughts racing ahead of his words. “Could be similar to ours with minor changes—like historical divergence points—or it could be completely different. We don’t even know if the same people exist here. What if we run into alternate versions of ourselves? Or—” He stopped mid-sentence, groaning. “That’s so much worse. No, wait. Maybe not worse. Just… confusing.”

“I’d love to meet a second me,” Wade said cheerfully. “Double the charm, double the ass-kicking. Maybe we could get matching outfits. Oh! Or I could finally have a twin to blame crimes on.”

Peter’s head snapped toward him. “Do you ever not make things worse?”

“Rarely.” Wade winked.

“Peter,” Matt cut in, tone calm but firm. “Focus. You’re spiraling.”

Peter realised he was pacing again, his feet scuffing against the ground in a jittery rhythm. He forced himself to stop, arms folded tightly across his chest. His stomach twisted with nervous energy—he had no map, no plan, and no way to calculate the odds of survival here.

“Okay,” he muttered, more to himself than the others. “Food, water, shelter, information. One step at a time. We can figure this out. We have to.”

Wade clapped him on the back hard enough to nearly knock him forward. “That’s the spirit, kid. And hey—if this place has tacos, then this universe can’t be all bad.”

Peter groaned. 

Step one was finding clothes and getting out of costume. Wade had “found” some, which probably meant stolen, but Peter was too tired to care. He pulled on a plain shirt, a pair of pants, and shoes that were a little too big. At least he wasn’t running around in spandex anymore.

He walked back to where Wade and Matt were—and froze.

Wade was wearing sandals. Sandals. And a Hawaiian shirt splashed with neon flowers. On top of that, a wig.

“Wade… why do you have a wig?” Peter asked.

“Obviously to distract people from my handsome face!” Wade grinned, which only made the hole in his cheek stretch wider.

Peter’s eyes shifted to Matt and he slapped a hand over his mouth.

“Wade!” he said, muffled through his fingers. “What did you do?”

Matt stood stiffly in a neon pink shirt—an actual neon pink shirt. Peter had never seen him wear anything that wasn’t a suit or the Daredevil getup. The shirt had some kind of cartoon character printed across the front, though Peter couldn’t even tell what it was supposed to be. And the glasses—Peter almost lost it at the glasses. Big, round, and tinted pink.

Matt’s jaw tightened. “What did you do, Wade?” he growled.

“Relax, Red. Trust me, you look like Clark Kent after a midlife crisis.”

“Who’s Clark Kent?” Peter asked.

“Dunno,” Wade said with a shrug. “Point is, we’ve got disguises. What’s next on the agenda?”

“Water, food, and shelter,” Matt said, clearly trying to ignore the clothes.

Peter hesitated before speaking up. “We could… try a homeless shelter? I mean, I don’t know which ones in Gotham are safe, but we’d need to be careful choosing. Some shelters can be… really bad. At least, that’s how it is back home.”

Matt’s head turned toward him. “Why do you know so much about homeless shelters?”

“Oh, uh…” Peter winced. He could lie, but Matt would hear it in his voice. “Not really important right now, yeah?”

Before Matt could push, Wade clapped his hands once. “Great, good talk, we’ll circle back to Peter’s mysterious tragic past later. For now, how about you look it up, Petey?”

Peter let out a quiet sigh and pulled out his phone. He started with general research on Gotham itself before diving into shelters.

A short while later, he cleared his throat. “Okay, so… Gotham. If New York is a mess, this place is worse. Way worse.”

Matt raised a brow. “Translation?”

“Population’s massive, unemployment’s higher, and organised crime basically runs the city. The Falcone family, the Maronis, Sionis, Cobblepot—yeah, there’s actually a guy who goes by Penguin. I checked twice.”

Wade perked up, chewing on something Peter prayed wasn’t stolen. “Penguin? Like an actual penguin? Does he waddle? Is he short? Please tell me he waddles.”

Peter shook his head. “He runs clubs and crime rings. Doesn’t say if he waddles. Anyway, shelters here are overloaded. A lot of people end up on the streets. The Wayne Foundation tries to help, though. Billionaire with a heart of gold, apparently.”

Matt made a sceptical sound. “Or just good publicity.”

Peter scrolled further. “Villains. Uh, yeah, Gotham’s got plenty. Joker, Riddler, Scarecrow, Poison Ivy, Bane—it’s basically an entire rogues gallery. But creepier. And way less subtle.”

“Oooh,” Wade clapped, eyes bright. “Field trip! Let’s go say hi to Ivy. Always wanted an evil plant girlfriend.”

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose beneath the oversized glasses Wade had forced on him earlier. “Peter.”

“Right. Heroes.” Peter swiped to another page. “There’s someone called Batman. Could be one guy, could be a whole team. Then there’s Batgirl, Nightwing, Robin. Gotham’s basically crawling with vigilantes.”

“Batman?” Wade grinned. “Dibs on calling him Daddy.”

Peter groaned. “Please don’t.”

Matt folded his arms. “So, in summary: organised crime, costumed lunatics, and masked vigilantes who might not take kindly to outsiders.”

Peter tucked his phone back into his pocket. “Yup. Welcome to Gotham.”

Matt had started pacing now, the way he always did when he was trying to keep control of the situation. “First priority is food and water. After that, we’ll check out a shelter, see if they have room for us—”

“Oh sure,” Wade cut in, sitting cross-legged on a crate and running a cloth over one of his katanas. “Maybe they’ll take pity on the blind guy and the teenager. You’ll be the poster children for charity.”

Matt didn’t even flinch at the jab. “Then we circle back to that warehouse we were dumped in. Maybe we’ll find a trail, something that explains how we got pulled here. And maybe a way back. Which, for the record, might’ve been easier if you hadn’t killed Kearne—”

“Hold on,” Wade interrupted, pointing the katana at him like he was delivering a speech. “I didn’t expect us to get sucked into a damn portal. And I killed Kearne because he was useless, not because I wanted to spice up my day.”

Matt stopped pacing, his jaw tight. “Guess what, Wade?” His voice was sharp enough to cut. “We’re stuck now.”

Peter quickly stepped in between them before this turned into something worse. “Hey, enough. Let’s not start tearing each other apart. Wade, I’m not okay with you killing Kearne. We had rules. You broke them. That’s not cool.”

Wade leaned back with an exaggerated sigh. “I can break the rules if the situation calls for it—”

“Except it didn’t,” Matt snapped. “You did it because you felt like it.”

Wade tossed up his hands like the victim in all this. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry, geez. I’ll behave.” He paused, then grinned. “Okay, I’ll try to behave.” 

Better than nothing Peter supposed. 

<<Barbra, a few hours earlier>> 

Barbara adjusted her headset, eyes darting between the overlapping camera feeds on her monitors. Her fingers moved quickly across the keyboard, switching angles, enlarging windows, chasing the ghost of movement before the signal blinked out.

“Oracle to B,” she said, tone calm but clipped. “I’ve lost visual.”

“Batman here,” came the gravelled reply. “He slipped us, too. Some kind of metahuman—used webbing to escape. I’m bringing a sample back to the lab.”

Barbara’s brow furrowed. She rewound the footage, freezing on the faint blur of motion before the feed cut. “Webbing,” she repeated under her breath, scepticism lacing the word.

“Oh, god,” Nightwing’s voice broke through, equal parts frustration and disbelief. “Please don’t tell me Gotham’s trading Man-Bats for Man-Spiders. I came home for a holiday, not another freakshow.”

“Holidays don’t exist here,” Red Robin muttered dryly. “And just so you know, we lost the other two targets too. Whoever they are, they’re good.”

Barbara switched to another feed, running quick diagnostics. The readings spiked briefly—then vanished. “There was a large energy surge just before we lost them,” she reported. “Could’ve been tech, could’ve been something else. Either way, it’s gone. But their suits stood out enough—I’ll flag the patterns and track them if they pop up again.”

“Do we have an ID on the corpse yet?” Robin’s voice came through the comms.

Barbara paused, eyes flicking toward one of the open windows on her monitor. The frozen image of the alley filled the screen—dim, rain-slick pavement, the body half-lost to shadow. The harsh glare of crime scene lights caught only fragments of detail: a hand, pale against the wet concrete, the faint glint of something metallic near the victim’s boot.

“Not yet,” she replied, fingers still moving across the keyboard. The system ran another pass through the GCPD database, but the match percentage stayed low. “Do you think one of the three killed him, B?”

There was silence on the line. Then a low, unmistakable grunt.

“Pretty sure that’s a grunt of ‘maybe,’ Oracle,” Nightwing said dryly.

“Thanks, Nightwing,” Barbara answered, allowing herself the faintest hint of a smile. “But I know B’s grunts. I’ll cross-check with GCPD and see if any cameras closer to the East End caught a better angle. The webbing residue might give us something, but it doesn’t match anything I’ve seen before.”

“Copy that,” Batman’s voice replied, steady and controlled. Barbara could tell from his tone that he was already ten steps ahead, piecing together theories as he spoke.

“Webbing, glowing energy spikes, mystery corpses…” Nightwing muttered. “Real festive welcome home.”

“Focus,” Batman snapped.

“Still better than Blüdhaven,” Nightwing added under his breath before the soft click signalled his comm line cutting out.

“It is concerning,” Robin said after a moment. His tone was calm, though it carried an edge of quiet irritation. “Although I would like to duel the one with the swords. If we had gone after the other two instead, we would have succeeded.”

“Watch it, brat,” Red Hood shot back. “You lost your target too.”

“Enough,” Batman cut in, sharp enough to end the exchange. “Everyone meet in the Batcave. Immediately.”

“On my way,” Red Robin said.

“Same,” Nightwing chimed.

“Gonna pass on that,” Hood replied. “But I’ll keep eyes on our little mystery trio. Over and out.”

Barbara leaned back in her chair and set her headset aside. She picked up her coffee and took a slow sip. Another long night.

Chapter Text

<<Matt>> 

Matt adjusted his glasses. Pink. Wade had dressed him in pink. He couldn't decide if it made him furious or ridiculous; both felt equally true. Peter's chuckle told him which one Peter thought. Matt pictured Foggy and Karen already trading bets on how long it'd take him to get the stain out. He shoved his billy clubs together until they clicked into cane mode and listened to the faint metallic whisper.

“Soo, what are we doing with our costumes?” Peter asked, voice loose with amusement.

“Hide them in this building,” Matt said. “It’s been abandoned for a while.” He moved forward, tapping the cane against the floor in even, quick beats. The sound changed under his step—thinner, hollow in places—so he slowed, mapping by ear and the tiny give under his feet. He paused, bent, and scraped at a loose board until it gave. The rough grain rasped under his fingertips; a shallow cavity yawned beneath.

“We can stuff it in here,” he said.

“And if someone finds it?” Wade’s voice sharpened. “I do not want my guns or my swords stolen. They’re my babies.”

Peter laughed. “Your babies are loud and illegal.”

“Hmm.” Peter walked to the other side of the room. He pushed at something heavy; metal rasped on wood and then dragged. Matt tracked the slight change in echo and the soft thump as Peter set the weight down over the hole.

“Wait.” Matt said. “Wade—put the guns in the hole.”

Wade huffed. “But what if we run into trouble? I am not leaving my pieces behind.”

“We’re going to a shelter,” Matt said. “I’m not having us arrested because you couldn't keep your finger off a trigger.”

A long silence, then Wade: “Can I AT LEAST keep a knife?”

“Fine,” Matt said. “Hide it well.”

Wade moved to the hole, the scrape of leather and metal loud in the room. Matt felt the floor vibrate under his boots as Wade leaned in, felt the tiny clink as metal met wood. He reached down and arranged the plank back over the cavity, testing the fit with the tip of his cane. The board settled, then Peter set the heavy metal thing on top—definitely a cabinet, Matt decided from the hollow note it made when he rapped it with his knuckle.

They worked in an easy rhythm: Wade shoving, Peter heaving, Matt checking blind spots by sound and touch. Dust rose and stuck to the back of Matt’s throat; the stale smell of old paper and motor oil filled the space. Above them, a distant siren wound once and faded—too far. Matt listened for footsteps, voices, anything that didn't belong. The city noise was muffled; the room held its own small quiet, a pocket of safety.

Wade muttered about the weight of his “babies” and the injustice of surrender. Peter made a joke that landed as a snort. Matt smiled without looking—he could hear the grin in Peter's voice—and tapped the cane twice to signal they were done.

“Locked it?” Peter asked.

“Locked enough,” Matt said. He dragged his foot across a scatter of broken tile until the scrape matched the one he’d noted on the way in, then turned toward the door, cane moving ahead. Pink or not, he kept them on schedule.

Gotham was awful. Not in the way New York was awful—loud, crowded, alive—but in a way that made Matt’s head pound from the moment they set foot in it. The air was thick with chemicals and exhaust, heavy enough that he swore he could taste the metal clinging to his tongue. His lungs ached with every breath. The noise wasn’t better—sirens, arguments, engines rattling apart, footsteps in every direction. Too much at once. He hadn’t felt this overwhelmed in years.

The air tasted of metal and old smoke. Matt didn’t want to think about what it was doing to his lungs — he could feel the grit settling in his throat with every breath. Walking down the street felt like chewing through ash; he pictured his bronchi, imagined them raw. He pushed the image away and listened.

“Am I crazy, or is damn near everyone armed?” Peter’s voice was tight, frayed at the edges. 

Matt didn’t answer immediately. He had work to do. He catalogued sounds and textures the same way other people checked a map. The soft clink of a chain against a jacket. The hollow thunk of a magazine dropping into a holster. The muffled, lower rhythm from a block down — heavier, closer to a rifle than a pistol. A pocketed object that shifted as someone turned; a blade, folding slickly against fabric.

At least one weapon on every person within range. The rhythm of the street changed: hands brushed fabric, shoulders tightened, voices dipped.

He let the exhale out slowly. “You’re not crazy.”

Wade’s voice came back, almost gleeful. “Now this is my kinda city.”

“Let’s pick up the pace a bit, yeah?” Matt said.

“Fine by me.” Peter extended his arm. Matt slid his hand into the crook without thinking. The contact grounded him: temperature, pulse, the slight tremor in Peter’s forearm. Peter’s scent had lemon soap under it and something else — fear, clean and sharp.

All three of them moved faster. Footfalls shortened, cadence matching. Matt counted by sound and span: people passing left, people passing right, a cluster ahead moving slower. He didn’t need to look to know where pockets were full and where hands hovered near waistbands.

“Noticed them too?” Wade asked.

“Yep.” Matt kept his voice level. “I’m counting four.” 

“Plan?” Peter asked, breath hitching.

“We certainly can’t fight them out in the open,” Matt said, weighing options like he weighed everything: in quick, exact measures in his head. Alley, crowd, storefront — each had advantages and risks. The crowd would make things messy and loud. An alley could get them boxed in. Still—three trained vigilantes against some street thugs. Odds leaned the right way.

“Lose ’em or kill ’em, either’s fine by me,” Wade shrugged, voice loose.

“No killing.” Matt’s tone cut the air flat. He didn’t like the way Wade’s careless excitement sharpened the space between them. “Turn right here.” He moved; Peter hesitated a fraction, then followed the motion of Matt’s arm.

They slipped into an alley with one entrance and one exit. Damp stone pressed at Matt’s back. Trash clustered in the corners — bottles, a broken crate, a dented can that would throw with a satisfying ricochet if they needed a distraction. He let his ears map the place: a soft drip somewhere deep, the skitter of a rat, the distant thrum of a bus. Up close, the four ahead formed a loose diamond — three men, one woman. Low voices. A short, humourless bark of laughter.

“Give us all you got,” a man said, voice rough as gravel.

“Is this guy stupid?” Peter muttered.“We ain’t got nothin’.”

“Yeah, dude,” Wade said. “I mean, look at us!”

“Got a point there,” the woman sniffed. “They look awful. Especially that guy—looks like he was caught on the wrong side of Firefly’s flamethrower.”

“Ouch, my ego,” Wade answered, half-grin audible.

“Doesn’t matter,” the man grunted. “They must have something they’re hidin’. Let’s just take ’em down and—”

Matt counted them again, by breathing, by the small shuffle of weight. Three confident sets of breath, one tighter, sharper breath — the woman. He felt the building pressure behind Peter’s ribs: readiness, impatience. He put his cane-free hand on Peter’s shoulder and gave a slow shake. Don’t. Not yet.

Something else cut through the alley — a step behind the thugs, heavier, deliberate. Matt’s scalp prickled at the extra weight of presence. Guns: the metallic whisper of clips, the soft clink of a holster, the smell of oil and cheap powder. There were too many weapons on that newcomer for this to end cleanly. For a breath he allowed himself a private, useless prayer that it wouldn’t turn into a shoot-out.

He straightened, letting the wall at his back shape his posture, and focused. Every sound sharpened—the scrape of boots on concrete, the shift of nervous weight.

The thugs cursed, stumbling a step back.

Then the newcomer’s voice cut through. “Walk away.”

“Shit,” one of them muttered, low and sharp. “What’s Red Hood doing out here?”

“Does it matter? Let’s scram,” another hissed.

They hesitated, their hearts thudding fast and uneven. Matt caught one of them whispering about not crossing the Bats. A shuffle of retreat followed, shoes scuffing quick against the pavement until the alley emptied, leaving only the three of them and the stranger.

“…So,” Wade said brightly, filling the silence, “do we tip him, or does Gotham have, like, a Yelp review system for mysterious trench-coat gun guys?”

Matt kept his face neutral as he adjusted his glasses. The man carried the smell of gunpowder baked into leather and metal, his gear shifting with the weight of weapons. He didn’t trust men who lived in armor. Still, he inclined his head slightly.

“Relax,” the newcomer said. His voice was muffled-no changed under the helmet, rough but young. Not a cop.

Matt tilted his head, listening closer. The man’s heartbeat was steady—too steady. Calm, uninterested. Dangerous, but not directed at them.

Wade pushed off the wall, arms open in mock gratitude. “Aw, thanks, Red Power Ranger. Saved us from Gotham’s finest knife enthusiasts.”

The helmet turned toward him, silent for a beat. Then, flatly: “…Nice shirt.”

“Finally!” Wade clapped his hands. “Someone appreciates the tropical vibes I bring to this cesspool.”

Beside them, Peter shifted, awkward. His voice came quiet but polite: “Uh… thanks. For the help.”

The stranger gave a short nod. “You three shouldn’t be down here. Bad part of town.”

“Is it?” Wade drawled. “Well, we’re a bit new to the place.”

“We’re, uh… looking for a shelter,” Peter said, hesitant. “Just for today. Somewhere with food.”

“And you’re asking me?” the stranger said. “Shouldn’t trust everyone you meet, kid.”

Peter stood his ground, though his tone stayed cautious. “You did just save us. And I’m pretty sure you’re a vigilante. Red Hood, right?”

A quiet snort under the helmet, then a sigh. “Yeah. That’s me. Wouldn’t call myself a vigilante, though.” He paused. “Most shelters in Gotham aren’t worth the risk. But… Wayne shelters are about as good as you’ll get. They’re packed most days and nights, though.”

Peter’s stomach seemed to growl audibly at that. Matt felt bad, Peter had to eat a lot more than Wade and Matt, being mutant and all. 

Red hood seemed to take pity on this, “Uh look uhm… I could maybe set you up some food, but I suggest leaving Gotham as soon as possible.” He inclined his head for them to follow. “Come I’ll take you to a good burger place.” 

Wade and Peter both paused first, “Matt?” Peter whispered. 

“I won't hurt you, I promise.” said the Hood. 

Matt sighed heavily, “Very well.”  They followed the armed stranger. Foggy would murder him.

The place smelled of grease, salt, and burnt coffee—the kind of diner that hadn’t been renovated since the eighties. A sign buzzed overhead, half the letters dead, and the booths were patched with duct tape. Wade called it “ambience.”

They slid into a booth in the corner. Wade immediately claimed one side, sprawling like he owned it. Peter sat next to Matt, fidgeting with the laminated menu. Across from them, the man in the helmet leaned back against the booth, gunmetal fingers tapping the tabletop. He hadn’t removed the helmet. Fair enough. 

The silence stretched, the kind that made every shift of breath feel louder. Then Wade jabbed a finger at the menu.
“Cheeseburger deluxe. Extra pickles. And—” he flipped it over without hesitation, “—five milkshakes. Surprise me.”

Peter buried his face in his hands. Matt let out a quiet groan. They were taking charity from the man across the table, and Wade had to order five milkshakes. Five.

Peter ordered the cheapest burger on the menu, barely above a side of fries. Matt ordered one of the bigger ones, already planning to switch with him. Peter needed it more. They’d both end up stealing some of Wade’s milkshakes anyway.

The helmet tilted in their direction. When Red Hood spoke, his voice was calm but edged with curiosity.  “So. Out-of-towners?”

Matt leaned back, posture loose. He was listening closely, not just to the words but the cadence. The man wasn’t hostile. Not suspicious, either. Just curious—like he was trying to puzzle out why three strangers had landed in his city.

“You could say that,” Matt answered evenly.

“Not tourists,” Hood said. It wasn’t a question. “Tourists don’t wander into alleys in the Narrows. Unless they’re very, very stupid.”

A loud slurp cut through the air—Wade sucking from a straw that didn’t exist yet. “We’re adventurers. Urban explorers. Very trendy.”

The helmet shifted toward him. A pause. Then, flat:
“Right. So what’s the story? Teenager. Blind guy. And…” his head angled toward Wade, “…whatever that is. You a traveling circus?”

Peter stiffened beside him. Matt could feel the nervous energy ripple off him—the shift in posture, the quickened breath Peter was trying to control.

The waiter came then, saving him for a moment, clattering plates and setting down glasses. Peter immediately swiped two milkshakes from Wade, who made a noise of protest. Without a word, Peter slid one of them in front of Matt. When the waitress placed their burgers down, Matt “accidentally” reached for Peter’s instead, leaving him with the bigger one.

“We’re… friends,” Peter said.

“Friends,” Red Hood repeated, flat and skeptical. “Kid, no offence, but you look thirteen. He looks thirty. And the other one’s dressed like a walking felony.”

“Rude,” Wade said through a mouthful of food. “And you literally complimented my shirt earlier. Not cool, man.”

Hood didn’t even glance his way. His focus stayed fixed on Matt. Beneath the helmet, his breathing was even, controlled. The man was steady—too steady. Every word, every pause was deliberate. Matt had sat through enough interrogations to recognize one, even when it came wrapped in small talk.

“So,” Hood said. “What’s the real deal?”

Peter swallowed, the sound sharp in Matt’s ears, then wiped his hands on a napkin. “Well, I’m actually sixteen,” he said, voice steady. “And they’re my family.”

Wade choked on his milkshake.

“Family,” Hood repeated, head tilting slightly. “Right.”

Matt felt the urge to step in, to shield the kid from the weight in Hood’s tone, but Peter’s hand brushed his arm—light, brief, certain. Trust me.
So he did.

“Not related to me, obviously,” Peter went on. “But a few years ago they saved my life. Got me out of a rough situation. They’ve been taking care of me ever since.”
A small pause. “And I’ve been taking care of them too.”

“Aww, Petey,” Wade said, all fake emotion. “That might be the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
He clinked his milkshake glass against Peter’s before leaning over to tap it against Matt’s untouched one. When Matt didn’t react, Wade did it again, louder this time.

Matt sighed, lifted the glass, and took a sip.

“Bastard,” Wade muttered under his breath.

Matt hid his grin behind the rim.

“So your name’s Peter?” Red Hood asked. The tone was different now—less sharp, but still probing.

Peter’s heartbeat jumped, quick and uneven. The kid tried to sound calm, but the tiny hitch in his breath gave him away. Across from them, Wade shifted in his seat. The faint scrape of leather told Matt he’d slouched, guilt or discomfort written in the sound.

Matt cut in before Peter could trip over his own nerves. “I’m Matt,” he said evenly. “This is Peter. And the man responsible for making me look like a walking Valentine’s Day card is Wade.”

“Listen, Matt,” Wade said cheerfully, “if you could see yourself, you’d love it. Real heartthrob material.”

“Liar,” Matt said, flat and amused.

Hood didn’t laugh. “So what are you actually doing in Gotham?” he asked instead. “You’re not from here. New York, I’m guessing—from the accents.”

The shift was subtle but clear. His tone wasn’t conversational anymore—it was calculated.

Matt turned his head slightly, listening to the faint hum of the diner, the rain tapping against the window, the controlled rhythm of Hood’s breathing.

“Thank you for all your help,” he said finally, his voice polite but firm. “But we should probably be going.”

“When did you three get in?” Hood pressed.

“Early this morning,” Matt answered without hesitation.

Across the table, Wade noisily finished off the last of his third milkshake. He stood with a clatter, stretching.

“Bye, Mr. Red Hood, sir!” Peter said quickly, jumping up to follow.

Matt rose as well, his hand brushing Peter’s arm until the boy steadied for him.

“Good luck in Gotham,” Hood said after them. “City chews people up if you aren’t careful.”

<<Jason>> 

Jason watched the three of them slip into the streets until the crowd swallowed them up. Odds weren’t in their favor—people like that didn’t last long in Gotham. But something about them stuck. They weren’t ordinary, not in the way most strays in this city weren’t. He trusted his gut, and his gut told him they weren’t a threat.

They looked more lost than dangerous. Out of place, trying to keep their heads above water in a city that delighted in drowning people. He toyed with the thought they might be tied to last night’s mess, but it didn’t add up. A kid barely sixteen, a blind guy, and Wade? Sure, Wade screamed lunatic, but Gotham was full of lunatics. It’d be sloppy to pin anything on the first three oddballs he crossed paths with.

Still, he hoped they’d make it. Especially the kid. From the way the other two hovered around him, there was some kind of loyalty there. The kid… there was something so familiar about the kid. Like someone Jason had met before. 

His phone buzzed. Jason pulled it out, glanced at the screen. A message from Dick. Of course. He shoved the phone back into his pocket. Gotham wasn’t waiting on him to get sentimental. He had work to do.

Still… maybe he should check in with Barbara about those three. Just in case.

<<Wade>> 

They made it back to the abandoned building. Wade had been calling it the stash house—no, the safe house. Or maybe the trash house. Still deciding.

“So, uh, what’s the plan?” Peter asked, dropping his bag on the floor. “Are we actually staying here?”

“Looks like it,” Matt said, calm as ever. “Wait until nightfall, head back to the warehouse, and see what we can find.”

“Sounds good to me.” Wade cracked his neck. “Mind moving that cabinet, Pete? Gotta get to my babies.”

“You can wait a few more hours before we suit up,” Matt said. “Does that phone still have battery?”

Peter checked. “Yep. What are you thinking?”

“This city is crawling with vigilantes,” Matt said, turning his head slightly like he could feel them through the air. “We already ran into one. Red Hood.”

“He was really nice,” Wade cut in. “Also—fantastic physique.”

“I’m saying we need to avoid them as much as possible. We’re probably suspects in Kearne’s murder since we left his body behind.” Matt’s tone went sharp. “Which is unfortunately true, because you killed him.”

Yeah. Matt was pissed. Real pissed. Wade raised his hands. “I said sorry.”

“Anyway.” Matt pushed on. “We lay low. No trouble. But we still need to get back to that warehouse before everything useful is gone. Tonight, one of us goes. I’ll do it.”

“Uh, no offence, but if there’s anything scientific to figure out, I’m your guy,” Peter said. “And I don’t think splitting up is a good idea.”

“We can’t all three go,” Matt said. “That draws too much attention.”

“Well, Peter and I can go,” Wade offered. “You stay here, hold down the fort, light some candles, wait for us to come back.”

Matt tilted his head toward him. “You aren’t exactly… sneaky.”

Wade snorted. “I’m a professional mercenary, thank you. I’ve done plenty of assassinations. I can watch Peter while he does the science mambo-jumbo.”

“I don’t like it,” Matt said flatly.

“I won’t kill anyone,” Wade promised. “Not unless I absolutely have to. And I won’t touch any vigilantes. Cross my heart.”

A pause stretched between them. Then Matt said, “Fine.”

“Hell yeah!” Wade spun toward Peter. “Spidey and Deadpool team-up. Give the fans what they want.” He held out his fist.

Peter sighed but bumped it anyway.

Matt’s voice came next—steady, practical. “I don’t know how long we’ll be stuck here. If it’s for a while, what do we need?”

“Basics, I guess,” Peter said. “Food, water, shelter.”

“We’re also going to need IDs and money,” Wade added.

He watched Peter fumble for words like always, thoughts tripping over themselves on the way out. “If I had a computer, I could probably whip some up,” Peter said hopefully.

Wade clicked his tongue. “Kids these days. Don’t worry, I can probably score us some if you give me the afternoon.”

Peter’s face tightened. “Can you return the guy’s phone you stole first?”

“Not yet,” Matt cut in, his tone calm but firm. Even without sight, he had that voice that made Wade pause mid-smirk. “I’ve got research for you to do first.”

Wade gave an exaggerated salute. “Aye aye, captain. I’ll head out and grab some stuff. Though… I’m gonna need my things.”

“You can’t kill people!” Peter said, more exasperated than shocked, like he’d already had this argument in his head a dozen times.

“How else do you expect me to make money?” Wade shrugged. “Relax, kid. I won’t rob or steal from the innocent. I’ll be a real Robin Hood—just with better hair.”

Matt’s reply was sharp and even. “No killing. No getting caught. Don’t draw attention.”

Wade held up both hands. “I. Will. Try. My. Best.”

He moved toward the battered cabinet against the wall. Peter shoved it open, metal scraping loud enough to make Wade wince. Inside sat the familiar pieces of himself.

He lifted his pistols first, kissing each one before setting them aside. His fingers brushed over the smooth curve of his katanas, and then the suit — folded and worn, faintly smelling of motor oil and iron. He ran his thumb across the fabric like it might wake up if he asked nicely.

“Leave the guns behind,” Matt said.

Wade froze, a pistol halfway out of its case. “Why?”

“Because you used your guns to kill Kearne, and it’s best not to leave a trail.” Matt’s voice was even, but Wade heard the anger behind it. 

“I told you I wasn’t going to kill anyone,” Wade muttered, more to himself than to Matt.

“Then you don’t need the guns,” Matt said. “And what if you fire at a wall or something? No. The guns stay.”

Wade blew out a breath, annoyed but obeying. “Fineee.” He set the pistols back in their slots with exaggerated care, as if the guns were insulted. He slid the katana into its sheath and tucked it behind his pack. The suit he folded over his arm and shoved into his duffel. He kept a small knife in his boot — nobody noticed things in boots — and a ziplock of lockpicking bits in an inner pocket. Small things. Practical things.

“I’ve got other toys.” He tapped the duffel, then looked at Matt. “Anything else, blind-man-in-chief?”

Matt made a small sound. A smile that wasn’t a smile. “Be careful. And don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Wade rolled his eyes but met Matt’s tone with a flash of respect. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He slung the duffel over his shoulder, felt the fabric scrape against his palm, and headed for the door. Peter called after him with another pile of instructions and half-formed worries. Wade answered with jokes and a couple of lies, the way you do when you don’t want to admit you’re listening. As he closed the door behind him, he left the pistols in the hole, exactly where Matt wanted them.

Sunlight slanted through grimy windows, casting the kind of streaks that made the smoke in the air look like theatrical fog. Perfect. Totally cinematic.

Wade leaned against the chipped doorframe, katana strapped across his back, mask in place. Jackpot. A whole room full of mob types, counting chips, puffing cigars, and thinking today was a safe, boring Thursday.

Wrong.

He pushed the door open with a dramatic flourish, letting it swing back so it banged against the wall. Heads turned. Eyebrows raised. Phones dropped. A guy actually spit his drink halfway across the room. Beautiful.

“Hey, everyone! How’s it hanging?” Wade chirped, spinning one katana in his hand like a baton. “I’m just here for a casual chat… and maybe your wallets. Cool?”

Someone near the far table cleared his throat, tried to look intimidating. “Who the hell—?”

“Name’s Deadpool. World’s most charming chaos agent. And you, my fine fellas, are about to become slightly lighter in the coin department.”

He twirled the second katana. One swing—just a little slice through a hanging banner—sends smoke from the neon “Lucky Seven” sign flickering. Perfect misdirection.

The mobsters fumbled for weapons. Too slow. Wade ducked behind a poker table, snagging chips as he went. “Oh-ho-ho! Yes! Jackpot! Don’t mind me, just liberating some cash for… uh, charity! Yeah. Totally charity. Don’t ask questions.”

One guy made a move toward him with a shotgun. Wade leaned casually on the table like he wasn’t about to be blown to pieces. “Buddy, you brought that thing into a katana fight. Rookie mistake.” He sliced the barrel in half midair, leaving the guy blinking at the shredded metal like a confused pigeon.

He jumped onto the dealer’s table next, scattering cards everywhere. “Ooooh, I love poker nights! So much fun! Who’s up for—” He stabbed a chip stack through the table leg and winked at the nearest thug. “—winning my way?”

Within three minutes, the room was chaos. Smoke, toppled chairs, screaming. And Wade? Wade had collected more than enough chips, cash, and a few unidentifiable paper slips (which he pocketed for later). He paused at the door, twirling a katana lazily.

“Thanks for playing, kiddies! Daylight robbery, literally! Try to get some sun now—you’ll need it.”

And with that, he strutted out into the Gotham streets, coins jingling in his pocket like applause. What else did he need? Ah—right.

He pushed into an electronics store, katana clanking against the glass door, mask still on. The reaction was immediate: a few gasps, one scream, and a kid dropping his GameBoy knockoff like it had personally offended him. Bonus points.

“Hi! I’m here for a laptop. One nice, functional, definitely-not-stolen laptop,” he announced, pulling out a fistful of cash with just the right amount of flair. “Also, if you’ve got a discount on laser-guided coffee makers, I’m listening. Not required, but highly encouraged.”

The clerk blinked. “Sir… do you have an appointment?”

“An appointment?” Wade tilted his head, pretending to think. “Oh yeah—my appointment with destiny. But sure, we can call this one too.”

He rested a katana over his shoulder like it weighed nothing, the blade glinting under the store lights. “Cash is king, my good man. All freshly earned from a very respectable, daylight-appropriate gambling establishment. Totally legal. Probably.”

That seemed to be enough for the poor clerk, who wisely decided to stop asking questions. Wade wandered the aisles until he found a mid-range laptop—extra RAM, shiny touchscreen, enough ports to make a tech nerd weep with joy.

“You know,” he said to no one in particular, “this is what civic engagement looks like. I’m stimulating the economy. And, uh, stimulating my shopping addiction. But mostly the economy.”

Receipt printed. Laptop bagged. Wade tossed the cash into some random pocket—definitely not the same one he’d pulled it from—and gave the clerk a jaunty salute before heading out.

Outside, he spun dramatically in the middle of the sidewalk, katana balanced on his shoulder, laptop in hand like it was Excalibur itself.

“Ah, Gotham!” he declared to the smog and sirens. “You’re filthy, weird, and I adore you. Now—let’s see if the fam likes surprises.”

“Ta-da!” he announced, plopping the laptop on the table like he’d just won the lottery. “Gifts for everyone! And by everyone, I mean me. But also Peter, and… well, technically you too, Matt!” 

Peter’s eyes went wide. “Uh… is that—did you buy a—where did you get—”

Wade raised a finger dramatically. “Details, details, kid! All you need to know is I’m awesome, and we now have a laptop. High-tech, very fancy, probably capable of launching nukes. Maybe. I haven’t tested yet.”

“Wade,” Matt said evenly, voice low and dangerous. “I specifically told you not to—”

“Oh, I remember!” Wade interrupted, wagging a finger, “You said, ‘Don’t cause a commotion.’ And I totally interpreted that as, ‘Do it, but make it cinematic.’”

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you even listen?”

Peter snorted, trying not to laugh. “Okay, okay—he did get a laptop and some money. That counts as a win, right? And, like, nobody died? Nobody died right?”

“Nope!” said Wade, “Maybe some ego’s though.”

Matt’s hand shot out to the laptop, but his voice carried that quiet, icy edge Wade had learned to mildly fear. “Wade. I specifically told you not to attract attention. Not a peep. Not a commotion. Not a daylight robbery, Wade. Not… any of that.”

Wade leaned on the table, peering at Matt through his mirrored lenses. “Relax, Matt. I handled it. Problem solved. Drama optional.”

“Handled it?” Matt hissed, voice tight. “You literally walked into a public space swinging swords in broad daylight. You attracted attention. The last thing we need in Gotham is someone noticing us.”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “He does have a point, Wade. But… he got the laptop. That’s kind of useful.”

Wade winked. “See? Win-win. Chaos, comedy, tech acquisition. All under budget!”

Matt exhaled slowly. “Next time,” he said, voice low but edged, “I’ll personally make sure you’re disarmed before you even step off the curb.”

Wade snapped a salute. “Noted. I’ll try to resist temptation. No promises.”

“You’re not coming tonight,” Matt continued. “I’ll go with Peter. You’re staying here.”

Wade groaned, throwing his head back. “Aw, come on! That’s not fair. And who exactly made you team leader? Gotham belongs to nobody. Majority vote. I vote I go. Peter, back me up.”

Peter shifted, hesitant, then said, “I mean… Wade did get the stuff. And he didn’t get caught. And nobody got hurt.”

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose.

“And it’s Wade,” Peter added quickly. “Maybe it’s better if all three of us stick together. Sure, we’re capable of handling things alone, but this isn’t our city. All we’ve got is each other.”

Wade grinned. “Rousing speech, Petey. Love the passion.”

“Not another word out of you, Wade,” Matt muttered, his tone flat. “For at least an hour. If we’re going, I need this headache gone first.”

“Thank you, Matty. I could kiss you,” Wade said brightly.

“Please don’t.”

<<Dick>>

Dick dropped down from the fire escape, boots landing on the cracked concrete outside the gambling den. The front doors hung crooked on their hinges. Chairs overturned. Tables split down the middle like someone had dragged a blade straight through. Chips and cards littered the floor.

He stepped carefully through the wreckage, escrima sticks resting light in his hands. It looked like a war zone—but not the usual kind Gotham spat out every week. This wasn’t Bane breaking bones for cash or Black Mask squeezing a territory.

This was chaos. Showy chaos.

One of the dealers was pressed against the wall, shaking. Dick crouched down, voice even. “What happened here?”

The guy stammered, gesturing vaguely with trembling fingers. “Red mask. Two swords. He just—he just walked in, like it was—like it was his place. Cracked jokes, took everything, left.”

“Red mask,” Dick repeated. He looked at the wall where one of the neon signs had been sliced clean through, sparks still faintly twitching in the wiring. “Not Red Hood?”

The dealer shook his head frantically. “No. Not him. Different voice. Different build. This guy—he didn’t threaten. He… performed. Like he thought he was on a stage.”

That earned a sharp exhale from Dick, half frustration, half reluctant amusement. A stage. Of course. Gotham always attracted the dramatics.

His comm pinged. Oracle’s voice crackled through. “You’re going to want to hear this. GCPD just had three calls in the last ten minutes about a ‘red masked guy with katanas’ buying a laptop on the east side. Broad daylight. Didn’t hurt anyone. Just walked in, bought tech, and left.”

Dick pinched the bridge of his nose beneath the helmet. “Great. So he’s not just a thief—he’s a thief who shops… legitimately”

Oracle snorted softly. “If he’s dangerous, he doesn’t match anyone in our files. He’s not subtle. He’s not quiet. And he clearly doesn’t care about staying under the radar.”

“No kidding,” Dick muttered, giving the room one last sweep. Every detail of the break-in screamed performance. Whoever this was, they weren’t hiding. They wanted Gotham to notice.

He straightened, rolling one escrima stick in his palm. “Alright. Red mask, katanas. Think he’s one of the three from last night?”

“Most likely,” Red Hood cut in. “Though if you go by descriptions, you’d almost think it was Deathstroke. Except Deathstroke doesn’t usually leave survivors. Or… whatever the hell this guy did.”

“Close name, though,” Dick said. “One of the witnesses swore he called himself Deadpool.”

“Deadpool?” Jason muttered. “That’s ridiculous.”

Dick vaulted back up to the rooftops, landing light on the ledge. Gotham didn’t need another loudmouth with guns, blades, or bad jokes. That shelf was already full.

<<Peter>> 

Peter swung onto the roof of the warehouse, boots hitting the metal with a dull thud that echoed in the still night. Matt landed a moment later, quiet as ever, barely stirring the air. Wade followed last, tumbling forward in a clumsy roll that ended with him teetering dangerously close to the edge.

“Is it safe?” Wade whispered, crouching low.

Peter tilted his head, letting his senses stretch out. The air was thick with the smell of rust and old oil, the faint hum of city life far beyond the dock. “Nothing’s moving,” he said quietly. “No heartbeats, no footsteps. Just us.”

“Same here,” Matt murmured. His voice was steady, calm in a way that always grounded Peter.

Peter moved to the skylight, the glass cracked and coated in grime. He pried it open carefully, wincing at the faint screech of metal. One by one, they slipped inside — Peter first, lowering himself with a thin webline until his boots met the ground with barely a sound.

The warehouse stretched wide and hollow. Broken crates were scattered across the concrete, old machinery rusted into stillness, strips of police tape fluttering lazily from a draft that carried the faint scent of mildew.

“If there was anything worth finding, the cops probably cleared it out,” Peter said, scanning the shadows. “I don’t think Kearne’s portal meant to drop us here.”

Matt’s voice came from behind him. “So what do you think — wrong place, or wrong universe entirely?”

Peter opened his mouth to answer—then froze. His senses flared, sharp and blinding, the kind of warning that didn’t leave room for thought.

(Move!)

He ducked and rolled just as a knife sliced past his head and embedded itself in a concrete pillar, splintering stone.

Peter shot a webline and vaulted upward, perching on a rusted beam as another blade whistled through the air below him. His heart hammered, every nerve on edge.

The man below moved with eerie precision, silent and mechanical. He didn’t breathe, didn’t blink.

Matt stood his ground in the middle of the floor, his cane split into twin batons. The sharp clang of metal rang out as he deflected strike after strike, each movement controlled and exact.

“Can I shoot this guy?” Wade yelled from behind a crate.

“Something’s off,” Matt said through his teeth, twisting to block another blow. “His heartbeat— it’s wrong.”

“Wrong how?” Wade asked. “Like jazz-wrong or serial-killer wrong?”

“Neither.” Matt landed a clean hit to the attacker’s jaw. The man didn’t react. “He’s not alive.”

“What, like Hand-zombie not alive?” Wade called out, voice muffled by cover. “Those guys exist here?”

Peter fired a web and yanked a loose pipe from the ceiling, swinging it toward the attacker. “He’s wearing an owl mask,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Pretty sure the Hand’s not big on bird themes.”

“He doesn’t fight like them either,” Matt said, sidestepping another blow.

“Oh great, so another kind of undead ninja,” Wade said, drawing his pistols. “What are we thinking here? Zombie-not-alive or robot-not-alive?”

“I’m leaning zombie,” he added, firing off a few rounds.

The figure moved again — faster than before — grabbing Wade by the collar and throwing him through a table with bone-snapping force.

Peter reacted on instinct, shooting two webs that hit the attacker square in the chest. He yanked hard, tearing part of the coat away. Beneath it, the skin wasn’t pale. It was gray. Cold.

Peter froze. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Definitely zombie.”

“Plan?” Wade groaned from the floor.

Peter’s web-shooters clicked as he reset them. “Don’t die,” he said. “That’s step one.”

Matt moved in from behind, fast and precise. He caught the thing’s arm, twisted—there was a crack, sharp and wrong. For a heartbeat, it went still. Then its arm rotated back with a wet pop, bones snapping back into place like nothing had happened.

Peter’s stomach turned. “...That’s new.”

“Back!” Matt barked.

Peter didn’t hesitate. He pulled Wade out of the way just as Matt drove both batons into the thing’s chest. Peter fired a web blast that hit square and sent it crashing through a rusted wall. Metal screamed and sparks lit up the dark.

“Is it dead?” Wade asked.

Matt tilted his head, listening. His face went grim. “No.”

Peter’s spider-sense flared—(behind!)

“Down!” he shouted, tackling both of them to the floor as a blade sliced through the air where Wade’s neck had been a second earlier.

They hit the ground hard. Peter rolled to his feet, grabbed the first thing he could reach—a broken pipe—and threw it. It clanged off the figure’s shoulder. “Man, Gotham is weird! What is this thing?”

The attacker stepped forward through the debris, silent, eyes burning faintly yellow beneath the cowl. Its movements were clean—no hesitation, no pain. Just purpose.

Matt shifted his weight, readying himself again. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t stop.”

Wade cocked his gun with a groan. “Yeah? Let’s see how it feels about being disassembled.”

Peter barely had time to say, “Wait—” before the gunfire started.

“Okay, RoboZombie—let’s see how you feel about hollow points!” Wade shouted.

The warehouse filled with the sound of automatic fire. Brass casings scattered across the concrete. The figure jerked under each hit—once, twice—then straightened again. Each bullet that should’ve dropped a normal person barely slowed it down.

Peter stared. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Wade grinned as he reloaded. “Guess he’s not a fan of modern art.”

“Wade,” Matt snapped, voice sharp. His head tilted toward the faint, even sound of the thing’s footsteps. “He’s not even winded.”

Peter felt the warning crawl up his neck, his spider-sense spiking. “It’s coming again—”

The Talon moved before he could finish. A blur of motion. Matt twisted aside, barely avoiding the blade that tore open his sleeve. Peter fired webs at its legs, pulled hard—but the strands shredded apart like paper.

“Okay, plan B!” Peter shouted.

“Was there a plan A?” Wade called back.

“Contain!” Matt ordered. “We can’t kill it—restrain it!”

“On it!”

Peter fired two webs upward, vaulted off a crate, flipped over the attacker, and shot another line mid-air. The web wrapped around its arm and he pulled with all his strength. Matt caught the other arm, hooking it with his billy clubs and locking it behind its back.

The thing fought like a machine—silent, precise, unnervingly strong. Peter’s wrists burned as the webs stretched under the strain.

“Wade!” Matt shouted. “Now!”

Wade snatched a length of chain off the ground and wrapped it around the attacker’’s legs. He kicked the loop tight. “You’re lucky I left my duct tape in the other pair of pants,” he grunted, bracing himself.

Peter fired another web for support, and Wade tossed him the end of the chain. Peter swung upward, catching the ceiling beam, and hauled hard. The attacker went up with it, thrashing until it hung upside down from the rafters, bound in webbing and steel.

Peter dropped lightly back to the ground, chest heaving.

Wade stared up at the thing, its faint yellow eyes still glowing behind the mask even as it dangled. “Who’s willing to bet this guy has some connection to our late scientist?”

Peter once again opened his mouth to respond but was once again interrupted by his spidey-sense (incoming!) Couldn’t he ever finish a thought? Peter’s hand shot out and grabbed the object. A bat-shaped metal object like a shuriken or something. “Whoa this is really cool, what’s this made of-” 

“Spidey throw it!” yelled Matt.

Peter threw it without question just in time for it to explode. “It explodes? That’s so awesome! What’s the trigger? Is it on a timer?” Peter turned around, to see the two intruders. 

“Whoah, who’s the kid?” asked Wade. 

“Pretty sure that’s Batman and Robin.” said Peter. 

“Isn’t it past your bed-time kid?” said Wade. 

Robin sneered and drew his sword, the metal catching the dim light. Batman didn’t waste time with words—he moved, fast.

Peter didn’t even have time to blink before the man was on them. For someone that big, Batman moved like he was made of pure precision and intent.

“Double-D, left!” Peter shouted, diving backward just as Batman’s gauntlet smashed into the wall where his head had been.

Matt twisted at the sound, blocking the next hit with his club. Metal cracked against metal, echoing through the warehouse. “He’s good,” Matt said tightly.

“Good?” Wade barked, shoving back against the smaller one—the kid with the sword. “The little gremlin just tried to slice me in half!”

“That’s Robin!” Peter yelled, flipping over a crate as a bat-shaped blade whizzed past his leg. He recognized it now—batarangs. Great. “They’re vigilantes! You know, maybe we can not fight?”

Batman didn’t respond. He just moved again—relentless, fast, forcing Matt back with sharp, efficient strikes. Peter could feel the pressure in the air, every hit sending a shock through the concrete. Batman fought like someone who’d already planned the whole thing three moves ahead.

Peter fired a web at his arm and yanked, but Batman didn’t budge. Instead, he pulled back hard, dragging Peter across the floor like he weighed nothing. Peter hit the ground, rolled, and barely dodged a punch that cracked into the floor beside him.

“Okay—wow! Strong guy! That’s—yeah, good for you—ow!”

Robin lunged again, sword flashing. Peter twisted away and webbed the hilt, yanking it free. “Seriously? A sword? Who even brings a sword to—”

Robin flipped midair, caught the weapon, and landed smoothly, smirking. “Never mind,” Peter muttered, “cool sword.”

Wade fired a round into the ceiling, the sound booming through the space. “Alright! Timeout! I’m too pretty to die by puberty over there!”

Batman’s head turned sharply toward him—no expression, no hesitation. A small device hit the ground, and a moment later the room filled with thick smoke.

Peter coughed, waving his hand in front of his face. His spider-sense spiked—he dropped instantly as something sliced through the air above him. A kick followed, fast and unseen; he barely caught it, the impact shuddering through his arms.

Matt’s voice cut through the noise. “They’re not trying to kill us.”

“Yeah, probably,” Peter shot back, ducking another swing. “But we could still talk this out!”

He fired a web toward the sound of a grappling hook and tensed. A second later, a heavy weight crashed into his back—Batman again. The guy moved like he could read Peter’s mind, every move met before it even landed.

Peter had sparred with Matt before. He knew how this went—feel, react, don’t think. He twisted, caught Batman’s wrist, and shoved back. The tension between them locked tight, neither giving an inch.

For a heartbeat, Peter met the black of the cowl. His reflection blinked back at him, small and pale against the void. Nothing else stared back—no anger, no emotion. Just control.

“Kid,” Batman said, voice steady and low. “You’re out of your depth.”

Peter’s grip tightened. “Yeah,” he panted. “That’s kinda my brand.”

He shifted his weight, flipped Batman over his shoulder, and fired a web that pinned the man’s gauntlet to the floor. Then he turned and bolted, lungs burning, toward where Matt and Wade were waiting.

“Plan?” he called.

“Not too interested in fighting these guys,” Matt said, his head tilting slightly.

Peter scanned the smoke-filled space. Nothing. “Where’d he—”

“He’s gone,” Matt said sharply.

“Motherf—ugh,” Wade snapped. “Tiny Angry and Big Angry are regrouping!”

Peter fired a web at the ceiling. “So since we’re not fighting, I’m guessing we’re running?”

“Yep,” Matt said, his batons clicking together before he fired his own grappling line toward the exit.

“Gonna need a lift here, Spidey!” Wade yelled.

“On it!” Peter grabbed him by the side and swung hard, the two of them bursting through a shattered window. The night air hit like a wave as the warehouse shrank beneath them.

“We better move—Batsy’s looking real pissed!” Wade shouted.

A batarang sliced past Peter’s face, close enough to cut a thread from his mask.

“Yup,” he muttered, pumping out another webline. “Definitely pissed.”