Chapter Text
Morning light filtered lazily through the windows of the abandoned building Peter found himself in. He rose from the floor with a feeble yawn, wincing as the discomfort in his back grew. He couldn't believe his carelessness- last night, somewhere along his journey, he felt his eyes closing rapidly. The only place to rest was here, a dingy room, and from what Peter assumed, was abandoned ages ago. He literally fell asleep in his suit.
"Good morning, Peter," Karen's voice rang out as Peter groggily rubbed his eyes. "Karen... where are we?"
"No idea, Peter. Would you like me to scan for landmarks?"
"N-No, it's fine." He steeled himself, taking a deep breath.
Last night's headache. The memory replayed in his head like a broken record; it was as if something inside Peter was changing, as if he had unlocked something he was not supposed to. These headaches.. they seemed to cause memory loss, too. Or from what Peter gathered, at least some sort of extreme disorientation; in last night's moment, the sensory overload was so vigorous he couldn't even steel himself. Peter got on his feet, dusting himself off and checking the condition of his suit.
"Hey Karen?" Peter mused into the open air.
"Yes, Peter?"
"Can you check all functions of my suit, please?"
"Of course. Scanning..."
There was an uncomfortable silence as Peter looked down at his battered body. Most of last night's injuries healed nicely, though he winced every time he drew in deeper breath, and the discomfort in his back elicited a hefty sigh.
"Scanning finished. Suit damage: 56 percent. Damages sustained: back armor, shoulder blades, critical damage to waldoes, web wings tattered," Karen was still droning on, yet Peter cut in.
"Thank you, Karen." He said curtly, yet not impolite.
"Yes. You seem.. Uncomfortable. Would you like me to recommend beginner's yoga classes?"
"No, no Karen," Peter stifled a chuckle, and he stretched his arms long above his head, easing some of the tension running through the top of his spine. "Just the nearest shelter, please. I need a change of outfit."
Peter Parker found himself standing in line at a homeless shelter for free clothes. Shirtless, his suit folded into a big pocket in.. Juicy Couture pants? Well, it's not something he voluntarily chose to wear- they were hanging out on a clothesline, and coincidentally his only hope for concealing his identity. He had used the familiar excuse of concealing his identity and chalked it up to the greater good to justify... whatever this experience had been.
. . .
So Peter walked out into the Gotham grey, adjusting the cuffs of his new scraggly jacket. The air was smoky, and rattling coughs filled what little air he could breathe. He had finally gained his composure, every sense on alert, though the thrum in base of his skull continued to throb after the first head ache. That ache... it reminded him of..
Peter's vision flicked in and out of consciousness. . . The sensory overload exploded in his brain as if a sonic boom. . . ear splitting frequencies it seemed only the spider could hear blared off desperately in his head. . .
He shook his head. Doctor Strange said being sent here would reverse all of the damage- it couldn't be his cells destroying themselves. But if that wasn't the case, then what was going on? He was still contemplating this, ignoring that nagging feeling, when a parade of stars exploded in his vision. He stumbled, instinctively reaching out for a wall to steady himself against. It felt like something deep, something deep and primal burning right beneath his corneas. He blinked, and for a second, only emptiness greeted him. Then, his hand randomly brushed against a passerby. Caught in the crowd of walking people, he was crudely pushed, then pushed again; stuck in a loop of push and pull, he could only sway helplessly among them. His consciousness slipping, falling back through his clutches... He breathed heavy, ragged, bordering something raw and hungry- unrestrained.
He caught the shoulder of a man dressed impeccably, though Peter found it hard notice, stuck in his haze. It was as if his soul was out of his body, as if he was experiencing something distant and so, so far away. For a moment, he leaned into this feeling. Let the darkness swallow him, let the roar of his thoughts drown out the memories. God, he hated the memories.
"If you expect disappointment, then you can never really get disappointed. . ." MJ's voice a soothing balm, but something defensive. "Come on. It'll be a fresh start. And we'll all be together. . ."
"I brought you flowers," He smiled crookedly at his aunt. Tubes stretched around her. Her voice was weak, stretched thin. "a-"
"Are you alright, kid?" A pair of strong hands clasped him by the shoulders. The voice behind them was soft, a little stiff. "You look pretty out of it." They kept their voice light, and a chuckle escaped the stranger's lips. Peter's mouth moved automatically, before his brain found the words to.
"I’m fine, sir. Just a little headache. I-I must've been distracted and bumped into you. So sorry." He spoke quickly, and his voice came out shaky. Regaining his bearings, his eyes focused onto the stranger with his typical analytical focus. The man standing before him was tall, broad-shouldered. He had sunglasses on, which Peter found strange, a black fedora, and an impossibly unwrinkled white polo. His belt was high, hoisted tightly, and he wore a pair of slacks and clogs. The man clearly had somewhere to be, and Peter cleared the way for him, signaling him to go ahead.
"Really? What's your name?" The man made no attempt in hiding his curiosity, and Peter accepted that- he preferred people like that, the ones unafraid to ask questions. For a moment, he hesitated. A fake name? That seemed the most logical answer.
"Uh-Uhm, it's Ben. Ben.. Ben Leeds." He responded, though Peter caught the look of suspicion on the stranger's face. He dropped his gaze to the floor, finding sudden interest in his secondhand sneakers. His spider sense screamed danger, screamed at him to run or hide or go do something
to escape from this man's piercing gaze
"I.. have to go.. See you later, sir?" He nearly tripped over his shoelaces about to run, still caught momentarily off guard. Yet something kept him rooted in place, and the man put a hand on his shoulder.
"I understand. But, before you go," the voice was a husked tone verging between something low and somehow friendly,
"what's your real name?"
Peter's body locked. The air left his lungs. His spider sense had built to a crescendo, yet fizzled away, as if unsure of what to do next. He no longer found a harm in telling this strangely intuitive man- what was the point? What was the use in lying when the man standing before him wouldn't take running for an answer?
"It's Peter. Peter Parker." This time, his voice only shook slightly. He took a deep breath in. "And yours..?"
"Bruce Wayne. Pleased to meet you... Peter."
. . .
Deep in the underground of Wayne Manor, Batman sat idly at his computer.
Peter Parker
Who is Peter Parker?
Peter Parker Government Records
But again and again, he was met with nothing. No results on the Batcomputer- the thing literally designed to scour for information out of the public eye.
"Perhaps he's given you another fake name?" Alfred, poised and proper as ever, entered the Batcave holding a tray of French onion soup and hot tea. Batman only turned slightly at his suggestion, gingerly taking the tea from him; he watched out of the corner of his eye as Alfred adjusted the lapels of his suit-jacket.
"Hm."
He knew not to trust sincerity in others, but the kid was a different story.
"And you're sure he's the one you saw yesterday night?" Alfred straightened, waiting for his response before he would take the soup away.
"Not exactly." Batman countered, pausing to sip his tea. Before he could finish his thought, a familiar voice sounded from the entrance.
“Hey, Bruce, what're you doing down here so early?” Duke Thomas strolled into the Batcave, sporting a soft smile. It was late afternoon, later than his usual patrol time- his sleep schedule was still recovering after having to patrol at night for multiple days on end.
“Well? Who’s caught your attention?”
He walked past Alfred with a nod to stand beside Bruce at the Batcomputer. Alfred, intoned and quiet, said a quick greeting.
"Good afternoon, Master Duke."
“Duke,” Bruce acknowledged the presence of his ward and turned his attention back to the blank file in front of him; the heading stated ‘Peter Parker’ at the top. Duke hummed, walking towards the locker room.
“What’d the kid do, old man?” His voice echoed across the cave as he yelled from the locker room. "Or are you just too paranoid?"
Bruce didn’t reply- just grunted quietly and let the silence simmer.
. . .
Peter grunted, his head a mess. Flashbacks–fast, choppy–wormed their way into his mind.
"What's your real name?"
The exchange. He slightly regretted being truthful, and watched helplessly as Bruce dispersed into the crowd. Peter had made a run for it, sprinting through Gotham alleys until his head cleared. When he was settled, but still shaken, he placed a spasming hand against the nearest brick wall. . .
Rivulets of water flowed down Peter's sculpted body; the droplets were piercing, clarifying, and Peter accepted the coldness easily. As he drew ragged intakes of breath, he thought back. The man... He had to know more about him. Furthermore, what was causing the damn headache?
Peter emerged from the shower, walking quietly through the darkened church. He was careful as to not make any noise. Peter had broken into the church earlier in the evening, slipping through an opened window about two floors up. He knew it was wrong- yet he'd done worse living homeless in Queens, and the boy desperately needed a shower. He donned his spider suit next, ready to vanish into the night at a moment's notice. Then he perched on the nearest windowsill, opening it wide.
"Karen?" Peter asked, voice hushed. It came out a hoarse whisper.
"Yes, Peter?" Karen activated and made sure to match his tone of voice.
"You said the web wings were tattered, right? Can I still use them?"
"It's quite dangerous. Would you like me to calculate the margin of risk and error?"
"Yes." He grunted out.
"You have a 72 percent chance of failure. Proceed anyway?"
"Yes. And retract them after 5 seconds pass, please."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. activate them."
"Activating now..." He felt the hum in his sides as Karen activated the torn gliders, and abruptly he bulleted himself out of the window.
He flew with surprising efficiency, as if a torpedo in the Gotham sky. Below him, the city was quiet; night ruled, a star-speckled blanket.
"Five seconds over. Deactivating now..."
As soon as the gliders retracted, and Peter felt himself falling fast, felt the air falling through his splayed fingers, he thwipped both web shooters– attached to the roof of a tall apartment building– and sent himself flinging through the air.
"A close one, Spider-man." Said Karen, the GUI embedded in his lenses flashing between a red and the usual blue, displaying the condition of the web wings.
"You no longer are able to use them- they're almost completely broken."
"It's fine,"
"I’m used to being broken." He quipped, and he let a sarcastic laugh escape his lips.
As he pondered, suspended in midair, his right hand shot out. He promptly webbed around a building's cupola, which was clearly unmaintained and grimy from age. Allowing himself to spin around the thin structure for a moment, he then smoothly let go and swung forward with his left, attaching to an overhanging frame of another edifice.
"Hey, Karen?"
"Yes?"
"Does camouflage mode still work?"
"It's currently malfunctioning- my apologies."
"No worries," Peter started, but didn't say anything further due to the strenuous pace he set. He focused on calculating- where to go, the exact angle to shoot the web, how to stay either too above or too below the skyline to avoid attention.
Peter Parker could calculate; Peter Parker had a genius brain; Peter Parker could do anything but bear watching the downfall of those he could not save. For what would come if he didn't shoot the next web? What would come if he let himself propel downward? What would've happened if he had just been able to save everyone?
"Everyone out!" Nurses and doctors clambered around her hospital bed.
"No! Let me see her! Let me... Let me see her! That's my aunt!"
The flatline.
A weeping form sat over the man with a hole through his body. "Uncle Ben!" He choked, his sobs and gasps filling the empty air.
The next web shot out. The fall never came. He wouldn't let the ones he lost equate to nothing. So he stayed steady, stayed alive, because that's the only thing he could do- besides from the angles in his head, all calculating and no soft edges.
Peter Parker had rounded into one hell of a man.
. . .
"You know, Dick is back in town." Batman's son, Tim Drake, stated as he revolved in a spinning chair. "He's doing patrols tonight."
Batman grunted a sound of agreement, surveying his work area: littered coffee cups were scattered around the Batcomputer, and Tim held a glass as well. He had run every check on Peter Parker- background checks in the hundreds, any government filing or criminal records... He had spent all day searching, and found absolutely nothing.
To the average person, 'Peter Parker' simply did not exist.
. . .
Power was clear under every careful step. Nightwing moved through Gotham with a reserved aplomb, a lightness opposing the rippling muscles that caught beautifully under dim lamplight. It was no longer his city, yet he patrolled with purpose, every turn down an alley or flip off of the walls deliberate. But something was amiss, and if Nightwing felt it in the air, he didn't make it known. He just kept advancing through the streets, searching for crime.
It didn't take long to find it. Gotham had its fair share no matter the time of day.
His lips tugged into a frown as he watched from a distance- one unlucky woman, probably on her way back from an event, was held at knifepoint by a masked criminal. Another man stood, keeping guard, and clearly not well enough. Nightwing sighed lightly, and, with an acrobatic flourish, vaulted over with stunning speed. He immediately went to handle the man with the knife, disarming him in a fluid motion. Then, pressing firm fingers onto the pressure point on his neck, the mugger fell unconscious quickly, and Nightwing grinned, boyish and charming. Before the other could escape, he executed a flawless aerial handspring around the nearest pole and delivered a strong kick to the man's jaw.
"That looks like it hurts. Need some ice on it?" He teased, dodging effortlessly when the man attempted a punch in the gut.
"So tell me this," he growled, his face twisting into a disgusted sneer,
"You thought you could rob somebody and get away with it? Really? It's honestly kind of pathetic."
The man was sent flying against a brick wall, groaning in pain. Nightwing didn't let up, and punched the man unconscious. The lady was frozen, locked in place with terror, as if the events that had just occurred had took time to register and found purchase in her memory.
"Are you okay?" His smile was gentle, and he walked forward, ready to walk the lady safely to her home and then handle the unconscious thugs. But the woman still shook.
"Behind you.." She whispered.
Nightwing lost his easy charm. He whipped around to see a third criminal wielding a baton, about to crush open his hea-
THWIP!
The criminal was blasted out of Nightwing's way with... A web?
Restrained and flailing, the man shout out a string of expletives, yet he didn't get very far before receiving another to the mouth.
Both amazed and amused, Nightwing looked around to look for the culprit. But the figure had already disappeared into the night. Huh, he mused, Looks like we've got a spider in Gotham. He took out a vial from his utility belt, and scooped up some of the web entrails left behind.
"Come on, no need to worry anymore." He was charming, taking the lady's hand in his. "Let's get you home- I’m dealing with them later."
. . .
Peter sat on top of a building, watching the overcast gray sky. He watched until it was late– well, early– until the sun rose in hues of bruised purple that were covered by smog.
"What was that guy's name?" He swung his legs, looking down at the dormant city below.
"He goes by Nightwing." Karen explained.
"He's a masked vigilante working with Batman."
"Batman, huh." Peter thought about it for a bit, then jumped up. He thought back to Nightwing and how he himself had quickly helped before running away. "They're like a real bat family of vigilantes. That's sick." Without anything further, he loped off.
But the next headache was worse.
. . .
Back at the Batcave, Nightwing didn't enter until about an hour after collecting the web sample. By then, something weird had happened–the web–once sturdy and incredibly sticky– had begun transforming into mush. He spun it around in the vial, watching as the structural integrity of the webs caved on themself, leaving a bit of liquid at the bottom.
"This is weird. Come take a look, Bruce." He gestured, and Batman, perplexed but imposing, progressed to the man's side. When Batman was watching intently, he spun it around again- more gently dissolved and joined the puddle. He had already told his mentor about his elusive savior.
"Hm... Interesting," Batman gruffed out. Nightwing handed the vial to him.
"Can you check what it's made of?" Nightwing questioned, and Batman nodded his head. They got fast results.
"Woah! He got kevlar?" Nightwing watched as the results on their scanner materialized. The webs were made of some sort of mix between a stretchy material– probably nylon– and kevlar, but due to them already half melted, he didn't know how the mechanism worked; he'd have to get Oracle for that. "Whoever this is.. he's impressive. Seriously saved my guts back there, Bruce. I don't think he's a villain."
Batman contemplated for a moment, inspecting the vial in his hand. "If he's not a villain, then who is he?"
"A goddamn spider!" Nightwing chuckled, shaking his head fondly. "Imagine having some sort of spider-meta on our team!" Nightwing's expression turned serious when he saw the grim look on Batman's face- how could he have forgot? "Oh. Right; you don't do metas." He paused. "But seriously, consider it. I've worked with the Titans– still do– and they're great. Not all metas are bad, Brucie."
"I mean, Duke is a meta!" Nightwing was planning to continue his speech, ready to argue against Bruce, but Bruce held up a finger.
"I'll consider it."
Nightwing grinned. "Well then, I guess we're patrolling tomorrow." His beam was crooked. "It's time to catch a spider."
. . .
Peter couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. A surge of something familiar yet foreign coursed through his veins.
He was laying on a random rooftop, his mask scrunched up beside him. "You can't save them." He whispered, his mantra. He heard everything. Heard his own heart beat, strong as an ox. Heard the hum of Gotham, heard faucets running and curses, yelling and crying, heard some man at his job had a very bad day.
He rose to his feet. But it was... different. Jumping up caused miniature craters where his feet landed. He felt this kind of strength in every flex of his fingers. He tugged his mask over his head, and he was overcome with... Anger? He roared, and the city below him instantly fell quiet. He had this sudden urge, this sudden, intoxicating pull to destroy. To let go- to stop controlling, stop pulling back every punch. He wanted to rage. He wanted to break. He wanted to kill.
He wasn't thinking straight; couldn't think straight. For a fleeting second, Peter Parker was unrestrained. Dangerous. Peter Parker had always been powerful, yes, but never deadly.
He's the friendly neighborhood Spider-man. He's the man who risks his life time and time again. For what? What purpose did it bring him- what hole did it fill- did the joy ever reach past his smile, reach past his defenses- and land squarely in his heart? Could it bring back the ones he couldn't save?
So Peter let himself go- he didn't have much of a choice. He ran, long, bounding strides that crumbled the concrete beneath him. You're dangerous, hissed the voice living inside him, the same voice that had once told him to keep it in control. When he blinked, his vision was different, enhanced. His eyes underneath the mask were jet black. His heartbeat stormed in his ears, a crashing tsunami.
It didn't go completely unbothered by the people of Gotham, either, wondering why a guy in a costume was jumping building to building and roaring with the force of a hurricane. Some hid, few continued daily life, and others stood locked in fear– they had seen enough villains in Gotham.
"No..." He grunted, and everything stopped. He blinked again; back to normal. The dust settled. The waves were quieter now, gently lapping each other. "I am.. not.. dangerous.." It came out a whisper, jagged, rocky cliffs threatening to push Peter over the edge. Peter experienced it all. His labored breaths slowed before finding contentment at a consistent pace. His sight transitioned to normal. "I am... Peter... Parker." His voice was even quieter now, strained. Beneath it laid exhaustion, stripped bare of his usual performance. Without his charm, his friendly bravado to act as a barrier between realities, the realization of what just happened hit him like a truck. Something was changing; and if he didn't figure it out? Then Peter would truly lose the restraint he's depended on his entire life.
By the time the flare-up was over, he was seeking shelter in another abandoned complex. He peeked through one of the windows as the people of Gotham, solemn but relieved, realized no danger was coming to them. He sighed in relief as well, though he couldn't lie to himself any longer. He was scared. The spider was utterly, devastatingly afraid... of himself.
If he would ever be honest with himself, he'd admit that he was always afraid. Afraid of losing one more person. He'd already lost Tony. Lost Aunt May. It seemed he also lost everyone else. Mj. It brung tears, fresh and hot, to his eyes.
"Come on, it'll be a fresh start, and we'll all be together."
"All be together. What a lie." Peter wiped his nose, wincing when he saw the small trail of blood. He scoffed to hide the way he trembled, and sneered to hide the hiccup in his throat. "Come on, you're Spider-man..." He muttered, forcing a flimsy simper onto his bleeding face.
If he would ever be honest with himself, he was always scared of himself after discovering his new strength. One small slip up, and everyone would hate him. People would die. And Peter knew if he didn't have Spider-man, he had nothing left.
If Peter truly had nothing left, then he would've drove his body off the Empire State Building a long time ago.
"Peter? Are you alright?" Karen said it in a way that was cautious. God, even Karen's afraid of me.
"Karen..." He rasped. "W-whats happening to me?"
"Conducting scan..." Sensors revved to life as Peter stood perfectly still, forcing the shake out of his shoulders. He underwent the scan briefly before Karen answered.
"Your arachnid DNA is currently overriding your human DNA due to what can only be described as a severe hormonal imbalance."
"Why is this happening to me?" Peter sputtered, his mind spinning with possibilities.
"It seems that due to rigorous emotional and physical trauma has spurred on this unique mutation, triggered with Doctor Stephen's spell. Might I recommend emotion-regulating counseling?"
"N-No!" Stammered Peter, who placed his hands on his head and tried to comprehend it. "I just need to get in control- ... What the hell?!" He only watched in horror as his web shooters began to visibly wriggle, as if Peter's very essence had rejected them. They physically ejected themselves off of his wrists, crashing against the plastered wall with a clunk that made Peter sick to his stomach.
Peter sensed it in his wrists before it happened. His spider sense had already been going haywire all day, beating incessantly- either a second heartbeat or the drums of war.
It was a physical discomfort in his very veins.
Webs wormed their way through the tough interior of his suit and made symmetrical twin holes. He was intrigued yet ultimately disgusted as webs excreted themselves out of them. They were spewing, not shooting.
"What kind of sick joke is this.." He groaned, feeling even more helpless than before.
"You've developed web glands! Quite interesting." Karen reported.
"I can see that."
His mind drifted back to Peter 2. He had organic webbing; he was cool; Peter convinced himself he could do it too.
He made the iconic hand sign, waiting for them to shoot out dramatically. But the spinnerets weren't amused, practically refusing to comply. "Come on, web! Shoot!" He made the gesture again.
And again.
And again.
No luck. "Hey, aren't spiders supposed to do this at will? I said shoot!"
A barrage of silk shot straight from his wrists, and Peter felt as if a triumphant victor.
"Web stop!" He commanded... to no avail. They just keep shooting, each net a unique pattern and consistency. If Peter didn't get this under control soon, he would be seriously worried.
The barren room was nearly covered head to toe i’m webs by the time Peter got it to stop. "Well... What do you say, Karen? Shall we take a test run?" He opened a weathered window.
"Laying low." Karen warned.
"I guess you're right... Tonight it is."
♢ ♢ ♢