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He felt his body being divided, the phantom pain of a body that was no longer even around him; he had died, he was dead... Now it was just an ethereal being, a shadow of what once represented its identity... His mind couldn't fully awaken before feeling how his strange state was being recreated, atom by atom joining in a specific bond. When his body stopped being forcibly joined, limb by limb, he could feel the burning in his throat, the pain of drowning in chemicals that tore at his airways; the phantom pain still haunted him; he wasn't getting a moment's respite from the pain, it was consuming him like a living fire.
The capsule in which Peter was located opened; his body fell forward along with the liquid that burned his lungs. Peter convulsed on the floor, coughing and gasping for the air he had been so deprived of; his knees had no strength to lift him, he kept coughing, and his vision was blurry. The pain still hammered his muscles; it took him a while to be able to regulate his own breathing and other senses. His vision gradually improved, but he could never forget the pain that had manifested in his tense and newly recovered muscles.
Peter looked around, and the sight of an unfamiliar place only made his fatalistic thoughts scatter around him, enveloping his mind and freezing his body in fear. He was in a strange place, there was nothing familiar to calm him... The memories of Dr. Stephen Strange hit him, the events he had lived through over the past 5 years (not counting the time he was 'dead' from the Blip), the memories of Beck, Ned, MJ, Tony, May... Everything hit him like a wrecking ball seeking to end the trembling disaster that was his new body... His body screamed for a bit of rest, his muscles tense and ready to be used in self-defense; his whole body still trembled slightly from the pain.
Peter resisted crying; it was unacceptable to throw himself on the ground to mourn May's death, for the loss of all those he had ever considered family or friends. He was in unfamiliar territory, and his spider-sense was raising the hairs on the back of his neck; this meant it was not appropriate to distract himself with his internal pain. The alerts caused a minimal tingling in his enhanced senses, a perceptible but not immediate risk. Peter needed to ensure that he was protected before mourning his enormous loss; he needed to find shelter to take refuge, food and drink to heal the still perceptible wounds on his body. If he managed to get food, his accelerated healing would complete the job for him in no time.
He felt his body being torn apart, the phantom pain of a body that wasn’t even around him anymore; he had died, he was dead… Now he was just an ethereal being, a mere trace of what his identity had once been… His mind couldn’t fully awaken before he felt his strange state being recreated, atom by atom joining in a specific bond. When his body was forcibly reassembled, limb by limb, he could feel the burning in his throat, the pain of choking on chemicals that tore at his airways; the phantom pain still haunted him; he couldn’t catch a break from the agony, which consumed him like a raging fire.
The capsule in which Peter was held opened; his body fell forward along with the liquid that burned his lungs. Peter convulsed on the floor, coughing and gasping for the air he had been so long deprived of; his knees were too weak to lift him, he kept coughing, and his vision was blurred. The pain still hammered at his muscles; it took him a while to regulate his breathing and other senses. His vision gradually improved, but he could never forget the pain that flared in his tense, newly recovered muscles.
Peter looked around, and the sight of an unfamiliar place only made his fatalistic thoughts scatter around him, enveloping his mind and freezing his body in fear. He was in a strange place; there was nothing familiar to reassure him... Dr. Stephen Strange’s memories hit him—the events he’d experienced over the past four years (not counting the five years he’d been “dead” from the Snap), the memories of Beck, Ned, Harry, Uncle Ben, MJ, his classmates, Deadpool, Daredevil, Tony, May… It all hit him like a wrecking ball, seeking to demolish the trembling disaster that was his new body… His body was screaming for a bit of rest, his tense muscles poised for self-defense; his entire frame still trembled slightly from the pain.
Peter resisted crying; it was unacceptable for him to throw himself to the ground to mourn May’s death, to grieve the loss of everyone he had once considered family or friends. He was in unfamiliar territory, and his spider-sense was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end; this meant it wasn’t appropriate to get distracted by his inner pain. The alerts caused a faint tingling in his enhanced senses, a perceptible but not immediate threat. Peter needed to make sure he was safe before mourning his enormous loss; he needed to find shelter, food, and drink to heal the wounds still perceptible on his body. If he could get food, his accelerated healing would finish the job for him in no time.
Peter tried to pull himself together, stand up, and get started on his search right away. He didn’t have much time if this lab wasn’t as abandoned as he thought. Peter can’t hear any heartbeats within about 58 square meters, which gives him a huge advantage in investigating his surroundings. The first thing Peter notices is that his own body feels different; something is wrong, but he can’t quite put his finger on it and attributes it all to Strange’s spell, the spell that killed him and brought him back here.
The cracks in the sky glowed with a vibrant purple hue, fragments of celestial bodies peeking through the fissure; ghostly, whitish silhouettes stood poised to cross the portal/rift that heralded an apocalypse for this world. Peter 2 was tending to Peter 3’s wound; they had eliminated the threat posed by Norman. Peter 1 (the native of this earth) still couldn’t fully grasp that the Green Goblin was the interdimensional father of his best friend since preschool, Harry Osborn, who, curiously, had been in Europe for two years already (not counting the Snap, since he too had turned to dust as far as Peter 1 knew).
—"Am I seeing things, or am I dying?" — Peter 3 looked a bit pale and said that with an airy tone, but he still insisted he was fine after being stabbed.
—Oh yeah, you see right, this is real. — Peter 2 replied, trying to dissuade his companion from his rambling thoughts about bleeding out.
—There are… People in the sky??
Peter 3 didn’t get an immediate response this time; the three arachnids watched in horror as the sky cracked. Peter 1 knew he had to help the wizard who was now struggling to keep his universe together, a universe that with each passing second seemed to tear apart like old fabric.
—I have to go.
— "Yes, yes, I'll take care of him"
Peter 2 said quickly, allowing his partner Peter 1 to go support the sorcerer without the guilt of leaving them behind for a moment. Peter 1 swung and gained momentum with his webs. Just as he was leaving, he only managed to hear some murmurs.
— “And what if everyone forgot who I am?”
— "What?" — Strange seemed confused, but the horror he felt at that statement was evident in his pupils.
— “They’re coming because of me, aren’t they? Because I’m Peter Parker, cast a new spell, but this time make everyone forget who Peter Parker is, make everyone forget me… me.” — Peter’s voice didn’t waver; he was willing to make that sacrifice, to endure that pain, but he didn’t want to keep carrying the guilt of having destroyed his own universe over a stupid mistake.
—No… — Strange seemed pained at the mere thought of making EVERYONE forget a boy as sweet as Peter, of leaving him to fend for himself in the middle of the world.
— But it would work, right? — Peter needed the slightest bit of hope to keep from collapsing under the guilt, the fear, and the regrets that were trying to seize his body and tear it to pieces right there.
— Yes, it would work, but understand that it would mean everyone who knows and loves you wouldn’t… We wouldn’t have any memories of you… as if you’d never existed.— Strange had tears welling in his eyes; the very idea of casting this spell seemed devastating… but they had no more time and there wasn’t much else to do.
—I know… Do it. — Peter kept his gaze fixed; he didn’t want to be the cause of his entire planet’s death, he didn’t want to be the disgrace, the monster, the murderer people claimed he was after the Beck incident.
Stephen took a breath. This was the same boy who, just a few years ago, had fought alongside him, Tony’s protégé. He knew that, wherever he was, Stark would be cursing Strange’s name for agreeing to such an idea. He knew it would be unfair to the little boy, but they had no other ideas and time was not on their side. Stephen had to summon all his self-control to keep from refusing; he knew it was the most logical course, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept or carry out, especially when he considered that the sacrifice for their victory would be a child left adrift on his own in a hostile world like the one they lived in.
— "Okay, go say goodbye; you don't have much time…" — Strange tried to keep his voice from wavering as he spoke.
—Thank you, sir.
—Tell me, Stephen. — At least for now, he’ll try to be as sweet as possible with the boy who’s just seconds away from losing everything.
—Thank you, Stephen. — Peter’s eyes shone with a hint of sadness and admiration as he realized that this was probably one of the last times they would be able to talk.
—Haha… Yes, it still sounds really bad. — The mocking tone was soft, almost nonexistent, but in this case it was necessary; sadness wanted to sweep away both bodies, and both, like warriors, had to stay on their feet no matter what.
—See you later. — Peter swung out of Strange’s sight, heading straight for his friends to say one last goodbye, a goodbye that would hurt him like a knife to the heart.
—See you later, kid… — Strange’s regret was audible in his voice; he kept telling himself he had no other choice, but what if he could save this child’s life? It was a foolish idea, one that would be impossible without risking the delicate fabric of his dimension.
The spell went terribly wrong… Again.
Peter begins by looking at the tables next to the strange machine in which he woke up; almost everything in the lab was covered in a thin layer of dust, showing that it had been uninhabited for some time. There was nothing interesting, and everything was in disarray, as if important papers had been hastily removed; apparently, this place had already been ransacked a bit before Peter woke up. Peter continues searching thru the drawers and soon finds a key. He scans the room for a door that might be locked, and just as he was about to lose the last bit of hope he had, he quickly finds what he was looking for. He approaches the door with the key, inserts it into the lock, and needs to kick the door with a bit of force to open it, since it was somewhat stuck due to its age.
If the previous lab had a light layer of dust, the dust in this new room had increased by 15%; some surfaces already looked pale and slightly more whitish than they should have been originally. It was a hospital room, or at least it gave the illusion of being one; it had gurneys, curtains, pulse monitors, cabinets that might contain something he could use (using the Iron Spider wasn’t the most discreet option in a new, unfamiliar environment), bedside tables, first-aid kits, and a door that presumably led to a bathroom. Peter was grateful that Parker Luck had been merciful to him at least once on this journey.
Peter took a breath; the place seemed to have been used before being evacuated in an astonishing rush. There were still pill bottles on some of the tables, and he couldn’t help but notice a black backpack on one of them. He thot it was rude and wrong to steal, but given his current situation and knowing that this place had been abandoned for who knows how long, Peter decided to “borrow” the backpack. When he opened it, he found an old cell phone—it looked several generations older than the one he was used to with S.I. The backpack also contained a charger with a somewhat damaged cable, but nothing Peter—Stark’s protégé—couldn’t fix. He found a couple of notebooks, some sticky notes, pens, and headphones. Peter picked up the backpack, put everything back inside, and continued rummaging thru its pockets, but that was all that was important and still useful. There was a bag of candy, but it wasn’t safe to eat; he didn’t know what year it was or how long it had been abandoned.
He continued his search, slinging the backpack over his shoulder for a moment, but first he grabbed one of the emergency first-aid kits. He wanted to make sure he could use at least one of the items inside. He opened it and found hydrogen peroxide, a bottle of water, sealed gauze pads, tweezers, bandages, some painkillers (which wouldn’t work on Peter thanks to his super metabolism), and other supplies useful in a natural disaster. In particular, they could help him treat the wounds still on his skin, or at least clean them a bit and remove the dried blood that still clung to them. Peter set the backpack and the first-aid kit on a gurney before approaching the closet. He flung it open, and a cloud of dust assaulted his lungs. He coughed and took a moment to compose himself. Inside, there was nothing extraordinary or luxurious: just a couple of garments that looked somewhat worn and were mostly black. He picked up a T-shirt with a bat logo that was supposedly his size but seemed strangely too large; a coat that was several sizes too big; a pair of somewhat dirty, worn-out shoes with a yellow lightning bolt logo; and a pair of cargo pants that were a bit faded but still functional.
Peter left the clothes on the cot; he first needed to make sure it was safe to change in the bathroom or in this very room. He opened the door once more, with a bit of force due to its age, and it creaked loudly before swinging wide open. The interior was acceptable: a toilet, a shower, a sink, soap, and a mirror. Nothing seemed particularly special. Peter considered checking the cabinets, but what his eyes saw froze him, chilling his blood from his extremities to his heart. That wasn’t his reflection; that wasn’t him. It was impossible. Peter had never had a white streak in his hair, nor green eyes, and his hair looked darker than his usual chestnut brown. This visit made him shudder. He looked younger; more inexperienced. His eyes had an unusual, radioactive glow. He approached the mirror and began to examine his own appearance. What else had changed about him?
It took Peter a few minutes to realize that the person he was seeing in the mirror was indeed himself; he looked younger, about 14 or 15 instead of the 18—almost 19—he’d been when Strange cast the spell, tho to be fair, he’d always had a baby face. The obvious white streak had no explanation, and that worried him: was it a side effect of the spell? His green eyes also disturb him; they were a vibrant green that he couldn’t help but be reminded of the Green Goblin or Mysterio. A bubbling rage rose within him without explanation at the mere mental mention of Norman and Beck. The green color at the edges of his vision warned him of an ominous sign. Peter took four deep breaths; he knew they weren’t there, there was no point in feeling angry. Norman had been cured and returned to his dimension, Beck died, and no one even remembers who Spider-Man is.
Peter realized that Karen was disturbingly silent. She didn’t speak when Peter was waking up and nearly drowning, nor when he started investigating. The fear of having lost the AI that Mr. Stark had designed for him was overwhelming; Peter’s voice came out trembling.
—K-Karen? —
Before he could panic, a voice even more robotic than Karen’s responded.
[Warning: the suit’s primary power source has been damaged; please temporarily charge the suit at the nearest power source.]
Peter couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief: Karen was just out of power and didn’t have enough energy to actively converse with him; in fact, she probably only had enough battery left to carry out the most basic commands. Peter thot it would be a good idea to change clothes as soon as possible and find an outlet to charge his friend.
—Karen, retract the suit, please. —
The nanobot suit began to retract, shrinking into a spider pin approximately 15x15 cm in size. Peter placed it on the stretcher and grabbed the first-aid kit, pulling out the water bottle and some gauze. He didn’t trust using the hydrogen peroxide without knowing whether its 2016 expiration date posed any danger; he didn’t even know what year it was or where he was, and he couldn’t take the risk.
Peter spent the next hour cleaning some of the blood from his wounds; some were already practically healed, which was a good sign—it meant his accelerated healing was still working. But there was another disturbing detail on his arms and hands: almost imperceptible cracks. They didn’t appear to be open wounds; in fact, if it weren’t for Peter’s enhanced vision, he wouldn’t have noticed them. They looked like fissures, cracks that formed patterns similar to the dust he’d turned into almost seven years ago when the Snap occurred. Peter didn’t want to think about it too much at that moment; dying and coming back still gave him nightmares, and Tony’s death and the fight against Thanos would always send shivers down his spine. He packed up everything he hadn’t used and stowed it in his backpack, grabbed the clothes, and put them on without much trouble—they were loose-fitting, but better that than too tight.
Peter approached one of the outlets to see if there was a viable power source to give Karen at least a minimal charge; fortunately, there was, and Peter could feel the relief of knowing that Karen would soon be able to talk to him. Exhaustion hit the young man, and he figured it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to catch a little sleep on the gurney; after all, he deserved a brief rest to heal his wounds and process everything that had just happened.
[5 hours after Lazarus’s machine was opened]
Peter wakes up on his own. The short rest made him feel somewhat better; the burning in his throat was no longer so suffocating, his wounds no longer hurt, and his muscles had managed to rest a bit after the fight. Peter disconnected Karen and tried to talk to her.
"Karen, can you hear me?" Peter's voice wavered slightly, leaving Karen on the gurney where he had been lying before.
[Loud and clear, how are you, Peter?]
—Thank God… — Peter whispered that in a low voice before answering the question; he was sitting cross-legged on the gurney.
—I’m fine, Karen, thanks for asking… umm—how’s your battery? Can you connect to the Stark network? —Peter had so many questions, and his voice stammered from time to time; he tried to distract himself from his fears by touching the sheets on the gurney.
[With this provisional charge, I’ll be able to stay online for at least two weeks. I’m running diagnostics to see which parts of the suit are compromised; however, I don’t know how long it might take. As for your other question, I was unable to connect to the network. I suggest you go to a public space and manually connect me to an electronic device.]
The flood of information took a moment to process; Peter felt his mind trying to calm down and make sense of it all, but the fear and paranoia of being in that strange place were overwhelming, with no way to contact anyone he knew, no way to ask Dr. Strange for help, and above all, the pain of his decision.
…
It took Peter a moment to realize what he had just done: he had made the entire world—every acquaintance, every friend, every person who could help him right now—forget him. Everyone had forgotten Peter Parker’s existence. Despair began to grip his mind. What could he do? He was lost, in an unfamiliar place, with no chance of help even if he could call Happy or Pepper; no one would come to his aid, no one would care about him. His existence was now nothing more than a zero, he didn’t even have legal papers—he didn’t legally exist. He couldn’t go to a hospital, he had no home, no food, no May, no Happy, no one to help him. Peter’s breathing began to quicken, waves of pessimism washed over his mind, and he felt his heart pounding rapidly, even faster than a normal human’s thanks to his modified anatomy. Soon he was gasping for air, feeling like he was drowning; his skin was incredibly sensitive to the touch of his clothes, he couldn’t concentrate, and his enhanced hearing quickly began to pound in his head. He could hear the drops falling from a faucet, distant footsteps, the heartbeats of people passing by on the sidewalk outside the building, rats scurrying thru the vents, gunshots followed by cries for help—but he couldn’t move. He was trembling, everything felt dizzy, he was being painfully overstimulated, his sensory nerves vibrated in agony, his mind couldn’t process it all, and he felt cold metal creeping up his arm toward his ear.
Suddenly everything went silent. Peter was still trembling and felt overwhelmed by the sensations, but at least the noise was gone; they were no longer hammering his brain with unintelligible information.
[Peter, inhale gently for four seconds, hold your breath for five, and exhale for four seconds.]
Karen’s voice broke the silence; Peter could feel tears threatening to fill his eyes, but he obeyed what she asked of him.
[1… 2… 3… 4…]
Peter hears Karen helping him count as he inhales; she isn’t speaking in her usual tone of voice but in a lower one, almost whispering. Peter is immensely grateful for her gesture of not talking or shouting when he’s so stimulated. He holds his breath for five seconds and exhales over four.
[1… 2… 3… 4…]
They stayed like that for several minutes, Karen occasionally offering Peter small, reassuring phrases like: “I’m here,” “You’re going to be okay,” “Tony would be very proud of you.” Minutes passed, and Peter calmed down; he felt better, but the urge to lie down and cry wouldn’t go away. He wanted to cry for May, for Happy, even for Tony, but he couldn’t—not now, when he was lost and homeless, without food or protection.
[Your heartbeat has returned to normal.]
— Y-yes, thank you, Karen—Peter’s voice came out hoarse, but he couldn’t care less now.
— We have to make a plan; I can’t stay in this… laboratory(? forever, I don’t even know what it is, but I can’t stay for more than a week. Now it’s just you and me; no one can help us…
[…In that case, let’s make a plan. First, we need to meet your basic needs: food, water, shelter, and warmth.]
As if in response, Peter’s stomach let out a hungry growl. He blushed slightly but nodded calmly. He took a breath and became aware of his surroundings again. He had discreet wireless earbuds in his ears; that was probably why Karen had been able to block out all the noise overstimulation. The rest of the suit had gone from a spider pin to a pair of wristbands on his arm. They looked cheap and unremarkable, but featured a blue-and-red color pattern. Peter smiled at the detail.