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For three days, Peter had attempted to track down Lyman, and for three days, the killer had managed to evade him. But tonight, Peter swore to himself that would not be the case.
He landed almost silently on the roof of the warehouse, the impact sending the metal’s reverberations through the soles of his shoes. Discretion was of the utmost importance. He crawled over to the windows, opening one very slowly before creeping through.
The warehouse was abandoned, the only evidence it had ever been used the old shipping crates scattered across the floor. It was illuminated by a half-dozen flickering lightbulbs, the electricity humming much louder than would be expected for such a low output. Dust coated the rafters Peter was perched on and stained his black gloves a light gray.
Below him was what looked like a cage, hastily constructed and containing no fewer than a dozen people. There was no one feature unifying the captives. They were young and old, male and female, of all races. Seemingly, they had been picked at random, probably at Lyman’s convenience. The man himself was seated at a table far away from his victims, unmoved by their cries. He slowly polished a revolver, white light reflecting off the dark metal.
Lyman. Of all the monsters Peter had faced, he was one of the worst. He didn’t have elaborate plans like Goblin, or legions of brunos like Crime Master, but what he did have was a lack of remorse. Of humanity. The news had nicknamed him “Massacre”, because the lives of those around him were nothing more than things, ready to be snuffed out at his whim. In the past three days, he had racked up just shy of twenty kills, and with the dozen-odd people Peter saw trapped in the warehouse, he knew that if he wasn’t careful that count would go up drastically.
He crept down the wall, keeping half an eye out for Lyman. One of the dames in the cages saw him and opened her mouth to scream, but the doll next to her slapped her hand across her mouth. That got the attention of the other prisoners, however, and now all eyes were fixed on Peter.
Peter motioned for them to be silent, and crept over to the cages, flashing a quick glance over to Lyman, who seemed oblivious to what was going on. Hopefully, he would stay that way.
Peter examined the cages carefully, looking for an obvious flaw to exploit. Nothing. He didn’t want to bend the bars, and unlocking the cages could be risky. But there was another way.
Carefully, Peter ran his fingers around the lower outside edge of the cage. It didn’t seem to be bolted down. Because there was no bottom of the cage, if he were to lift it up, it should be possible for the hostages to escape under it and slip out a back door…
He would be very exposed as he did so, that he knew. But this was the only way the prisoners could escape before they were caught in the crossfire.
He motioned for the captives to back up, and slowly lifted the edge, wincing as a scraping noise echoed in the warehouse. It seemed the sound wasn’t as loud as he had feared, because Lyman still hadn’t noticed his prisoners were escaping.
One by one, the hostages escaped the cage, dashing towards the back of the warehouse and fumbling at the door. Just as the last prisoner had escaped their prison and Peter set it quietly back on the ground, one of them finally managed to tear open the back door, which had been rusted shut. A deafening screech of metal on metal tore through the warehouse.
Dammit. So much for being quiet.
Lyman stopped polishing his gun and whirled toward the noise, his eyes, even in the dark, immediately picking out his hostages escaping. He whipped around and opened fire, sending both men and women screaming and diving for cover.
Peter felt his sixth-sense flare up, and he ducked, a bullet lodging in the wall where his head had been moments earlier. In the chaos, a few more of the former hostages had managed to slip out of the warehouse. Maybe one of them would have the forethought to call the coppers.
Peter drew his revolver from its holster and fired a few shots back, knowing that none connected but needing to buy time for the other hostages to escape. Lyman ducked behind a crate before firing off a few more shots, and Peter returned fire.
“You fellas need to get outta here,” Peter ordered, ducking behind one of the warehouse supports as bullets pinged off of it. One of the men nodded frantically, grabbing a woman’s arm before slipping out the door.
There was only one more hostage still in the warehouse, and she seemed to be frozen in fear. She was just a kid, not much younger than Peter himself, trembling violently and overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of Chicago lightning.
Since none of the other hostages had deigned to help the kid out, it was up to him to get the kid out of here. In the middle of a gunfight. With a man who had killed nearly twenty people.
Damn Parker luck.
Peter fired at Lyman, and when the man ducked away, he ran to the kid’s side. He pulled her behind a crate before the man could open fire again.
“You okay, doll?” he asked.
The girl shook her head, tears budding in her eyes. Peter struggled to muffle his sigh.
“Alright, I’m gonna need you to be brave for me. See that door over there?” He pointed to the back door, and the dame nodded. “I need you to make a run for it.”
“But-” the girl began, then cut herself off as a bullet hit the crate, followed by the sound of splintering wood.
Peter placed his hand on her shoulder. “Trust me. I won’t let that goon hurt you.”
She sniffled and wiped at her nose before nodding. Peter peeked out around the crate, then shot at Lyman until the man ducked back into cover.
“Go,” he ordered.
She sprinted across the warehouse floor, and Peter followed her, firing at Lyman and trying to keep the man’s attention on him. Lyman seemed to realize his plan, because he slipped around to the other side of the shipping crate and, after lining up, shot at the kid.
Even though Peter’s senses, and the rational part of his brain, screamed at him not to, Peter dove at the dame, knocking her out of the path of the bullet. Fortunately, she was fine, and she quickly bounced back up and ran out the back door. The warehouse was finally clear.
On a more unfortunate note, the bullet had hit him instead.
He had felt it tear through his back before contacting one of his ribs, the impact had enough to bruise the bone. The bullet remained lodged in his upper back, just out of reach, and he could feel blood beginning to trail from the wound. Ignoring the pain for now, he stumbled to hide behind a crate, pulling his hand away from where he had been pressing on the injury.
He was met by the sight of red staining his glove.
In his black and white universe, red only meant one thing. Death. It was the color most commonly associated with corpses, lying in the gutter in a pool of their own blood. Some even heralded it as a sign of the Reaper, though Peter didn’t believe in any such superstition.
Swearing under his breath, Peter carefully shot a web out of his wrist to cover the wound. It would function as a bandage for the time being. Glancing over at his gun, which had skittered from his grasp after he had been shot, Peter wondered if he could retrieve it, but ultimately decided against it. He would be too exposed. Which meant he had to deal with Lyman without a weapon.
Lyman had stopped firing, and that would have been good, if Peter had known where he was hiding. The faint buzzing in the back of his brain said Lyman hadn’t left, but where…?
All of a sudden, his sixth sense screamed at him to move, and he did, leaping to the rafters in the ceiling. The muscles in his side pulled uncomfortably, but he pushed the sensation down and scanned the warehouse below for Lyman.
He found the man as Lyman opened fire, hoping to fill Peter with daylight. Peter moved on instinct, dodging the bullets while also inching closer to Lyman’s location. He felt one graze his shoulder, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it.
As Lyman halted shooting to reload, Peter leapt down from the rafters and socked him, knocking the heater out of Lyman’s hand. He swept Lyman’s legs out from underneath him, but as Lyman fell, he pulled out a shiv and stabbed the blade into Peter’s leg.
There was more pain, setting Peter’s nerves alight, and blood pouring from the wound. Sloppy. He shouldn’t have left himself exposed like that. He supposed that was a logical result of not sleeping in three days.
His leg buckled, and now he and Lyman were grappling on the floor, clothes being stained by dust and blood. Lyman managed to land a solid hit on Peter’s jaw, then took advantage of that opening to stab at him again. Peter managed to deflect his stab enough that it missed his eye, but still left a deep gouge above his eyebrow.
Because of his action, Lyman was off balance, and Peter used that split-second before he recovered to swing his elbow at the side of Lyman’s head. Lyman collapsed to the ground, and when he didn’t move for the next few seconds, Peter allowed a sigh to slip out of his lips.
Muscles protesting, Peter stood, and the spots dancing in his vision nearly forced him to sit back down. He pushed them down, like he did the pain. Peter swiped a hand across his forehead, trying to wipe away the blood dripping into his eye, and examined Lyman.
The man was unconscious, that was for sure. His eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell regularly. How long he would be out, Peter didn’t know, but Peter knew he needed to get out of here before the coppers showed. He could hear them approaching, and they would ask questions he didn’t want to answer.
Soon, the coppers would have the warehouse surrounded. There was no way Peter could climb out of here without being shot at, and that was something he wanted to avoid, especially because he was beginning to feel light-headed from blood loss.
“We know you’re in there, Lyman! Come out with your hands above your head, nice and easy!”
Since Lyman wasn’t coming out, Peter knew the authorities would be coming in. As a precaution, Peter shot a web at Lyman, sticking his arms to his body. That would prevent him from fighting back when the coppers dragged him away.
Now, to get out of here.
Peter pulled back his sleeve and began pressing buttons on the device affixed to his wrist. Peni had distributed them two weeks after they had prevented Miles’ New York from being sucked into a black hole, calling them “Dimensional Stabilizers”. Apparently, they would allow whoever wore them to travel between Earths and not suffer any ill effects.
It was all fine and dandy, so long as Peter could remember how to work the damn thing.
He swiped the blood away from his eye again and studied the screen, scanning the names and locations pre-programmed in. His eyes finally settled on Parker’s Apartment, Earth-616. Parker probably wouldn’t mind if he dropped by for a little bit, at least until things calmed down on his Earth.
Peter selected the location and a portal blossomed in front of him, offering a glimpse into Parker’s apartment. Without hesitation, he stepped through, hoping the transition would be a lot smoother than the last time he was transported between Earths.
He appeared in the middle of Parker’s living room, which was pitch black except for the ambient New York City light drifting in the windows. There was a couch no more than three steps away, and Peter limped over to it gratefully, favoring his injured leg. He was pretty sure Parker wouldn’t mind if he sat down, though he’d probably object to Peter bleeding on his couch.
Peter collapsed on the couch, his aching muscles seeming to sigh in relief. Now that the immediate danger was gone, all of the sensations he had blocked came flooding back to the forefront of his consciousness.
First, pain. His injuries were throbbing, especially the bullet lodged in his back. He knew he should take care of it, but sensation number two, exhaustion, was beginning to take control. He was just so tired. He hadn’t slept in three days, and his body was taking the opportunity it was given to scream at him to rest.
Peter knew he shouldn’t. He’d lost a lot of blood. If he fell asleep now, he might not wake up…
Regardless, his eyes were drifting shut, and he couldn’t find the strength to fight against them. He half-consciously shifted his body to lie more comfortably on the couch and tilted the brim of his hat down to cover his eyes before he passed out entirely.
Darkness encroached upon his vision, and sleep took him.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
“Peter! Peter, wake up!”
Peter’s eyes snapped open, alertness replacing unconsciousness in an instant. He reached for his revolver only to remember he had left it on the floor of the warehouse. Tensing up, ready to fight, Peter found himself locking eyes with Parker, clad in a ratty t-shirt, sweatpants, and a bathrobe.
His posture instantly relaxed. “Parker.” Peter sat up, wincing and rubbing at his back, where he had been shot the night before. The webbing he had hastily treated the wound with had dissolved, and he would definitely need to remove the bullet so he would heal properly.
“Not to be rude, but what are you doing here, Pete? You don’t seem like the kind of guy to drop in unannounced.” Parker grabbed his coffee mug and took a sip.
“I needed a place to lie low,” he admitted.
“Police?”
“Yeah.”
The conversation lulled for a moment, the only sounds the slight hum of electric lighting and coffee brewing in the kitchen.
“May I inquire as to where your restroom is?” Peter asked abruptly. He needed to assess the state of his injuries, and he’d rather Parker not know the other reason he’d decided to drop in.
“Yeah. It’s down the hall on the left.” Parker gestured towards a door which was just barely visible around the corner. Peter nodded, then entered the restroom, closing the door behind him.
The first thing Peter did was pull off his mask, setting it, his goggles, and his fedora down on the vanity. He fished his round-rimmed glasses over his coat and put them on before running a hand through his unruly black hair. He pulled it away from his forehead before examining the cut above his eye. It had bled more than he expected, the red a stark contrast to his white skin. The blood had managed to smear across most of his forehead, which was unfortunate, but would be easily taken care off.
He shrugged off his overcoat and vest, letting them fall to the floor along with his shirt, before turning to look at where the bullet had grazed his arm. The injury wasn’t too bad, at least that he could tell, but it would require stitches. From what he could tell, the wound on his leg, while deeper, just needed to be washed out and stitched up as well.
Now, for his back. While his healing process had attempted to begin to knit together his flesh, the bullet embedded in his flesh had hindered the process. He’d have to cut it out himself, which meant a long and painstaking process considering the only time he could actually see the wound was in the mirror.
Peter sighed. He’d save that for last.
Peter turned on the faucet and cupped his hands under it, letting the water overflow a bit before splashing it on his face. Bloodstained water dripped into the sink basin as Peter carefully wiped at his face, trying to eliminate any trace of the injury. He quietly opened the cabinet underneath the sink, digging around before pulling out a first-aid kit. Inside were various types of bandages, including what Peter saw labeled as “butterfly closures”. He carefully extricated them, as well as a needle, thread, rubbing alcohol, cotton balls, and a roll of gauze and medical tape. Parker had shown him how to use some of the more modern bandages the last time Miles had gotten himself hurt, and at the moment, Peter couldn’t be anything but grateful.
After taking out a few of the butterfly closures, Peter dabbed at the cut on his forehead with a cotton ball soaked in rubbing alcohol. It stung, but it was better than the wound getting infected. Had he just gone home from the warehouse, it was even more likely it would have, considering he had slim to no supplies.
Peter leaned over the sink and affixed the butterfly closures over his eye. They would heal the wound shut while it healed, and while Peter wouldn’t need them for long, it was better to be safe than sorry.
Taking another alcohol-soaked cotton ball, he cleaned the wound on his arm, a slight hiss escaping through his teeth. He deemed it clean after a moment, then threaded the needle and began stitching the wound closed.
He was just tying it off when Parker burst into the room, a tad dramatically and in the middle of a conversation Peter supposed he had been having with himself.
“-blood on my couch and if Miles or Gwen or Peni got themselves hurt and swung by and didn’t tell me I swear to God I’ll find out who hurt them and-” Parker cut himself off, his eyes meeting Peter’s. There was no small amount of confusion on his face.
Peter knew that Parker had never seen him without his mask before. None of the Spiders had. For the first time, he was seeing Peter’s face, his eyes, his glasses. The monochrome of his world reflected on his person.
The scars crisscrossing his skin.
“Pete, how old are you?” Parker finally asked. Neither of them had moved for the past minute.
“Seventeen,” Peter mumbled.
“What?”
Peter’s gaze fell to the floor. “Seventeen,” he repeated, louder.
Parker was silent.
Peter shifted his weight to his non-injured leg, wondering if he should leave. He’d never seen Parker like this before. He couldn’t judge whether Parker was mad at him, or at the world in general, but he didn’t want to be around while Parker figured it out.
Slowly, Peter gathered his clothes, only sliding his overcoat on. Quietly, he stated, “I’ll be heading back.”
He hadn’t expected a reply from Parker, but was surprised when he got one. “I thought you were older.”
“Come again?”
Parker looked over at him. There was a hint of something Peter couldn’t quite place in his voice. “I thought you were in your thirties, mid-twenties at least. But seventeen…” Parker trailed off. “You never spoke much about your Earth, beyond that it was in the middle of the Great Depression. But to be seventeen and Spider-Man, and going through all that… I can’t even imagine.”
“It’s not a big deal.” Standing was beginning to hurt, but Peter refused to let it show. “I’m fine, I’m handling it. I’m going to head back-”
“It was your blood on the couch, wasn’t it?”
Peter hesitated a moment before nodding.
“What happened?”
“I got in a tussle with a fella by the name of Lyman. Guy managed to rough me up pretty good, but I knocked him out and left him to the coppers.”
“Where’d he get you?”
Peter sighed. “Stabbed me with a shiv in the leg, cut me above the eye, a bullet grazed my arm. He also buried a bullet in my back.”
“Have you taken care of any of it yet?”
“Just my forehead and arm.”
“Want any help?”
Peter bit back the instinctual “no”. If he was being honest with himself, it would make things a lot easier if Parker were the one to deal with his back. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you in the living room in a little bit. Just give me a second to collect some things.”
Slowly, Peter limped back to the couch, half-collapsing on it. He hated being open like this. He hated being vulnerable. Right now it was for the best, he knew, but it didn’t make it any easier.
Before he could dwell on it further, Parker was back with the medical supplies Peter had left lying on the counter. “Ready?”
Peter stripped himself of his overcoat. “Go at it.”
He couldn’t see what Parker was doing behind him, but he could feel him digging around in his back, sharp pain followed by release as the bullet slipped out. Parker cleaned the wound and stitched it up before moving on to Peter’s leg, which took a bit more time, but soon enough, all of Peter’s injuries had been addressed.
Experimentally, Peter flexed his muscles, careful to stop whenever he felt a pull. His motion wasn’t as limited as he thought it would be, but it was nowhere near his usual range. It wouldn’t be long before he recovered completely.
Parker yawned, then made his way into the kitchen. “You want some coffee?”
“Please.”
“Cream or sugar?”
“Just black is fine.”
Parker returned holding two mugs, handing one to Peter before pulling up a chair and sitting across from him. Peter had the feeling that Parker was about to have a “talk” with him, and that made the prospect of leaving much more attractive, but at this point, it was too late.
“So, Pete, why are you really here? Not that being hurt isn’t a good enough reason, I just know me well enough to know that, if you’d had any other choice, you wouldn’t be here right now.”
Peter rubbed him mug where the handle met the cup with his thumb. “I told you. I needed a place to lie low and lick my wounds.”
“And? You could have gone to your version of Aunt May for that.”
Averting his eyes, Peter suddenly found his coffee very interesting. Parker seemed to realize he’d hit a sore spot.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that she was dead in your universe.”
Peter sighed. “She’s still alive, but… she disowned me. After what happened with the Vulture and I told her I was Spider-Man, she kicked me out. I have a place, but money’s tight. I can barely afford the rent, anything more than that I have to get selective.”
He wondered for a moment why he was telling Parker all of this. He hadn’t told anyone any of this before. It seemed that with Parker and the rest of the Spiders, his barriers lowered, and he wasn’t quite sure whether it was conscious or not.
“Have you been eating?”
“When I can,” Peter admitted. “I’ve been prioritizing medical supplies the past couple weeks, so I’ve had to cut down to a meal or two a day.” Seeing the look on Parker’s face, he added, “It’s fine, though. I’m not starving.”
“You do realize you can come to me, to any of the Spiders, if you need help, Pete. If you need food or supplies, you can just ask.”
“Really, it’s not a big deal-”
“Pete, please.” Parker’s voice made him pause. “You don’t have to do this alone anymore. None of us do. That’s the one gift we can say Kingpin gave us.”
“I know, just…” Peter fell silent, mulling over possible replies. Anyone I care about is taken away from me. It’s safer for everyone if I stay away. “I don’t want to burden you.”
“Kid, no one can make my life worse than I have already made it. And it’s not a burden if I want to help you, right?”
“I guess.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, drinking their coffees. Parker was the first to finish, and he set his mug aside. He leaned forward and examined Peter’s spectacles.
“Glasses, huh? I would’ve thought the spider bite would’ve improved the eyesight as well.”
Peter shrugged. “No such luck, I’m afraid.”
“That sucks, kid. If your eyesight is anything like mine was – which I’m assuming it is, considering we’re the same person – you must be completely blind without them.”
“As a bat.” Peter took his glasses off and rubbed at them with the edge of his overcoat before sliding them back on. “It’s not easy being Spider-Man when you can barely see.”
Parker nodded. “I bet it’s not. I’d offer to get you fitted for contacts, but that probably wouldn’t transfer well into your world. Even so, I think I still have a few pairs of glasses in storage somewhere, if you want them.”
“I’m fine for now.”
“If you say so.” Parker glanced at his watch and proceeded to mutter an impressive string of expletives. “Pete, I have to go get ready for work. But I need you to promise me, if you need anything, you’ll come to me, okay? I know what it’s like to be a Spider-Man without a support system, and I don’t want you to have to go through that. Promise me.”
Peter set his coffee mug down. “I promise.”
“Okay.” Parker stood and straightened his bathrobe. “Now, I really have to get going, or Jameson is going to kill me. You’re welcome to stay, if you want to-”
“No, I really should be headed back.” Peter pressed a few buttons on his dimensional wristband, and a portal opened in front of him. He hesitated a moment, turning back to Parker.
“Thank you. For everything.”
Without waiting for Parker’s response, Peter took two steps back towards the portal, snapped off a salute, and fell through.