Chapter Text
Peter’s never seen anything as beautiful as this.
It’s almost like the void - the same void he saw the day the Spider-God cursed him with his powers, but this version of the void doesn’t feel so ominous. The brief slivers of light he can glimpse, the way it tangles within itself, feels more welcoming than the darkness that surrounded her undefined form.
It’s peaceful. More peaceful than he’s felt in years.
His mind can vaguely conjure up images of home - of Aunt May ( i don’t think much of that vigilante ), of Felicia ( they killed lippy ), of Mysterio ( the wrath of the spider-god must be appeased ) - and yet they feel so distant. He can remember breaking free of Mysterio’s trap, freeing Felicia from her restraints on the stage ( sorry god i’m so sorry ) but after that it starts to get hazy. It feels all at once like something that happened years ago, and yet only moments ago at the same time.
The word peaceful floats across his mind again, and he can’t help but think that it’s an apt description.
And then the tugging sensation returns. Suddenly the lights are whirling around him again, dark bubbles encroaching on his vision and then everything goes white.
He’s vaguely aware of a pounding ache in his head, and then he opens his eyes to see the sky. Except, the sky doesn’t look anything like it should. The city lights around him are bright , bright enough that Peter has to squeeze his eyes shut from their blinding glare. He’s never been particularly fond of bright lights, but these ones are different. These lights are shining with something he doesn’t recognise.
“Hey, you alright, man?” The unexpected voice sends a jolt of panic running through him, and Peter stumbles clumsily to his feet. Suddenly aware of the busy street around him, he lets his years worth of honed senses guide him out of the crowd, senses sparking each time he gets too close to one of the people crowding the street. It’s harder than usual due to the storm of warnings swirling in his head - but that’s not enough to stop him from registering his instinct to get out .
He darts into an alleyway to get himself out of the path of the people walking by. The voice follows him. “You sorta… fell out of the sky?” Even if the words make no sense, Peter latches onto it. Talking is normal - a voice is normal, even if he’s too shaken up to identify where it’s coming from.
That is, until the person who is presumably the source of this mysterious voice places a firm hand on his shoulder. Distantly, Peter registers the voice speaking up again, but the words are filtered out by the way his mind zeroes in on the pressure on his shoulder - threat - and he reacts on instinct. In the same moment that he spins around his hand slips beneath his coat to his belt and, gun at the ready, he brushes the hand off his shoulder and shifts to a defensive pose.
“Woah!” Peter identifies the source of the voice - a man wearing oddly shaded clothes, his hands raised in a submissive gesture. “ Jesus, sorry man, I thought you were hurt!”
Dimly, Peter recognises that the threat he perceived may be less imminent than he’d thought. Most villains he goes up against don’t tend to start off their banter with something along the lines of ‘hey man, you okay?’ after all.
Taking a deep breath to try and ground his thoughts, Peter lowers the gun. “Sorry.”
The man surveys him with wary eyes. “Okay. I’m gonna…” He points with a thumb to the entrance of the alley and then, taking Peter’s silence as permission, retreats from the scene.
Well. That could’ve gone better. It also could have gone worse.
Now would be a good time for him to start taking stock of the situation, figure out where he is and what’s going on, but his head still feels like it’s full of static and his thoughts are still racing, so Peter retreats into the familiar darkness of the alley. He reaches out to the wall and, once he finds it through his foggy vision, lowers himself gingerly to the ground. Every movement feels uncomfortably acute. Even the usually protective feeling of the wall against his back feels too present , and he tries to remedy that oppressive feeling by pulling his legs up to his chest and resting his head on his knees. It’s never helped much, but it’s better than nothing.
All of a sudden everything feels too real, and yet not real enough. His chest is tight as he curls in on himself, trying all at once to take in everything around him and to get away from it all . Distantly the thought crosses his mind that this, this is exactly the type of thing that’s going to get him killed one day. This unnecessary show of… what? Panic? He’s not panicking. Everything is just too much . He’s experienced these breaks from reality before, but never on this scale. Hell, this doesn’t even look like his home .
For a moment the only thing he can focus on is the harsh whirl of his head, and then another voice cuts through the haze.
“Hey, buddy. Everything okay?”
Peter isn’t eager to talk, and much less eager to have a repeat of the earlier situation if this new stranger also tries to touch him, so he doesn’t respond, besides the automatic tensing of his body in anticipation of a threat.
The new voice isn’t deterred by this. “Look, this is weird for me too. But I figured, if I’m not the only weirdly dressed guy to get - unceremoniously, I might add - dumped in this unnatural alternate timeline, then maybe we can help each other!” There’s a pause where the voice seems to be waiting for him to speak, and then, “Uh, maybe that wasn’t the best way to introduce myself. Let’s start over. Look-” Another pause interspersed by some sort of rummaging sound - “I can see you’re having a bit of a hard time. Sounds were hard for me too after-” the voice turns conspiratorial - “well, y’know .”
Peter’s not sure he does know, but given that this stranger hasn’t tried to touch him yet, he’s willing to try and hear them out. Even if he’s not quite caught up with everything they’re saying.
“Here. Check this out.” The words are followed by an expectant pause and, reluctantly, Peter lifts his head, preparing for his senses to be assaulted again. The darkness of the alleyway makes it a bit easier to focus on what’s in front of him over the cacophony of sounds back in the street, at least. He finds himself face-to-face with… a costumed pig? Dressed in blood-soaked clothes?
He blinks once. Okay. This is a weird hallucination. That, at least, is familiar. He can work with this.
The pig blinks, still looking at him fervently. In his hands is a cube covered in strangely shaded squares. Distantly, Peter recognises red; why some of the squares are stained with that is anyone’s guess.
“My aunt gave it to me!” he elaborates at Peter’s confused stare, as if that clarifies anything. “She said it’d help ground me. Funnily enough, it actually did. Who would’ve guessed? Here, take a look at this.” Peter’s surprised to find that the cube transforms as the strangely dressed pig spins it in his hands. “See?” He says when he’s finished, holding it up proudly. When Peter doesn’t say anything, he holds the cube out again. “Here you go.”
Normally, Peter doesn’t make a habit of taking strange items from potential hallucinations. Who knows what he might be cursed with this time. But funnily enough, instead of the usual foreboding feeling that comes with something like this, all he feels is an undeniable sense of safety. The sounds of the city, only moments before too loud, suddenly seem muted. It almost feels that, with this stranger’s arrival, came a sort of bubble of security. Before he can reconsider his thoughts, he reaches out and takes the cube in his hands.
It’s solid. But unlike the wall pressed against his back, it doesn’t feel overwhelming. He mirrors the motions the pig used to spin the sides, muddling the variety of shaded squares even further. When he twists it again, he notes that the movement leaves a neat line of squares of the same shade together. He brushes a thumb over one of the red squares, noting that it comes away clean.
“There you go!” The pig’s voice chimes in, sounding proud. “Look, the aim of the game is to match the colours to each side.” Leaning in, he adds in a whispered voice, “Between you and me - I had to follow the instructions on the website. I could never figure it out on my own. May tried to teach me but - I guess Rubix Cubes were never meant to be a part of my skillset.”
Peter barely registers his words, entranced as he is with the strange cube he now holds in his hands. He twists it again, the motion acting as a tether for his disorganised mind. Unlike the city sounds and lights around him that are affecting his movements, this cube is bound to whatever he chooses to do with it. It’s bound to what he chooses .
The pig stays silent as he spins the sides of the cube, slowly at first and then slightly faster as his hands adjust to the movements. Gradually, the sounds of the city - the honks of car horns, the chatter he can hear faintly from the people on the street - filter back into his consciousness, but this time they don’t feel so overwhelming. He feels less constricted by the feeling of the wall against his back - the familiar feeling that means someone can’t sneak up behind him becomes more prominent than the pressure that was there earlier. He takes a deep breath.
With a strange sort of reluctance, he takes his focus off the cube to hand it back to its owner and, right as their hands brush, his senses light up, that feeling of safety returning with even more strength than before. “You’re like me,” he says, surprised at how easily the words come to him.
“Yeah,” the pig says, his voice suddenly soft. “I thought as much.” When Peter continues to offer the cube, he waves a hand dismissively. “Y’know what? Keep it. I’ve got, like, twenty-three back home.”
The oddly specific number chases away any doubts Peter might have had. He tucks the cube safely into his coat pocket, noting with a bit of frustration that his hands are still slightly shaky. “I thought I was the only one,” he says, unwilling to acknowledge the feeling of warmth at the stranger’s generosity.
“Hell, so did I!” the pig exclaims, his voice no longer containing that softness that marked his earlier reply. It's only years worth of honing his skills that allows Peter to register this over the speech bubble of miscellaneous symbols that materialises over his head. What the hell is going on?
The only acknowledgement the pig makes of this is by batting it away as if this is an everyday occurrence for him. He straightens up as if he’s about to say something important and Peter waits in anticipation for whatever the next strange words that come out of his mouth will be when suddenly his expression is overtaken by something like shock. “Wait. I can swear ?”
“Can you not usually?” Peter asks, because apparently this is the weirdest thing he’s gotten out of what this talking pig can say.
“Hey, I’m a family friendly program, pal,” the pig says snarkily, drawing himself up in offense. “The most I get to say is a good old heck on late school nights when the kids aren’t watching.” Apparently believing that this sentence should make perfect sense, he holds out a (sweaty) hand to Peter. “The name’s Peter Porker, but you can call me Spider-Ham. And you are?”
For a moment, he can only stare at the pig’s outstretched hand. He thinks he’s starting to catch on to whatever the hell’s going on. He’s in New York, but not his New York. He’s bumping gums with a talking pig in a spider-themed costume. Still confusing, but the behaviour of this ‘Peter Porker’ might be even more confusing. The fella just hands out his secret identity to any old Joe he meets on the street? Back home he’d guarded his identity with every weapon he had in his arsenal. The only living person who’d ever known who the Spider-Man was under the mask was Felicia, and look how that turned out for her.
As Peter is hesitating, considering Porker’s hand offered in greeting, that same resonance from before happens again - something that feels like trust. Maybe this pig isn’t just any old Joe after all.
“Well?” Porker says, his tone encouraging. “Don’t leave me hangin’.”
Peter hesitates for a moment more, before he slowly reaches out to shake his hand. “Peter Parker. The Spider-Man.”
“ The Spider-Man?” Porker says with a raised eyebrow. “No descriptors? Classy.”
Peter blinks. He might have somewhat more of a handle on this situation, but he still feels distinctly off-footed. “Is… is there supposed to be descriptors?”
Porker seems to light up. “The Spectacular Spider-Ham, at your service!” he declares with an exaggerated bow. Peter half expects some fantastical music to start playing to accompany it.
As Porker straightens up, his expression suddenly becomes serious. “Uh, now that you’re back on this channel,” he says with a glance towards the alley entrance, “maybe we should get outta here before the cops show up? You know, since you pointed a gun at that guy and all.”
“Oh.” Honestly, Peter had been too shaken up to consider that possibility, and he finds himself surprised that Porker had stuck around to wait for him to calm down despite that risk. “Sorry about that,” he says as he climbs to his feet.
“Eh,” Porker says dismissively. “He shoulda known better than to touch someone having a panic attack without their permission.”
“I wasn’t-” Peter starts to say, but his new companion clearly isn’t listening - Porker launches himself off the ground and scales the wall. After taking a brief moment to contemplate what, exactly, he’s getting himself into, Peter follows.
“Alright,” Porker says once they’re safely perched on the roof, out of sight of anyone on the street below. “What’s our plan?”
If he’s honest, Peter’s usual method is to work on instincts rather than a concrete plan. To cover the fact that he has no idea what to do next, he says, “Gimme the lowdown. What, exactly, is going on?”
“Well, I thought you’d never ask!” Porker says enthusiastically. He continues in a dramatic voice, “Here’s the sitch - there I am, trying to escape Doctor Crawdaddy’s mad laboratory, just so I can eat my lunch in peace! The guy has no respect for the art of the hot dog, lemme tell ya.” He looks at Peter as if he’s expecting a response, so Peter nods in affirmation despite the fact that none of the words his new companion is putting together make any sense whatsoever. “Anyway. I’d finally bested him and I was looking forward to snacking on my delicious hot dog, when out of nowhere this crazy portal opens!”
Okay. That sounds familiar. “Whirl of bubbles?” he says anyway, just to confirm.
“Exactly!” Porker replies, the words accompanied by a finger-gun in Peter’s direction. “And now I’m here! My best guess is that I’ve been unceremoniously transported to another movie’s timeline to act as the wacky comedy relief character with a penchant for aggravated assault with various miscellaneous items,” he says breezily, as if he’s talking about the weather.
“...Uh-huh,” Peter says.
“But that’s just an idea!” Porker says, turning to him expectantly. “What about you, pal? What’s your story?”
Warily, Peter studies his new companion. “Back home it’s nothing like this,” he says finally, when his senses don’t ring any alarm bells. Despite the fact that they tell him nothing else than to trust Porker, he can’t quash the instinctive urge to guard his words. “No silver screens on the buildings, no…” He looks at his hands helplessly, grasping for the words to describe the way everything in this world shines with something he can’t name. “ Light .”
Porker squints in confusion for a moment, but then his eyes snap back open in what looks like recognition. “Oh! You mean the colours? Is that why you’re all… dark ?”
Peter shrugs. “I suppose.” Clenching his fists experimentally, he says, “Where I come from it’s all gray. And black.”
“Hmm.” Porker places a hand under his chin, considering Peter’s words. “What else is different to back home?”
“It’s always raining back home,” Peter offers. “And being here feels… it’s got more of an edge to it, than my New York.”
“How so?”
Peter gestures vaguely to his head. “Everything’s fuzzy.”
“Hmm,” Porker says again. “What year is it in your dimension?”
“1933,” Peter responds, and in the moment that he says it everything falls into place. “We’re in the future.”
“Correction,” Porker says jauntily. “You’re in the future.”
“What year is it in your dimension?” Peter asks.
“Well, it’s… it’s, uhh…” Porker’s voice trails off, before he starts over, “You know, don’t concern yourself with something as silly as timelines! Knowing what year it was has never done me any good.” There’s a brief pause where Peter feels like he’s supposed to say something witty in return, but then Porker continues, “The 30s, huh? What’s it like back then?”
“It’s…” For a moment Peter finds himself lost for words. “… Dark,” he settles on.
“Fair enough.” Peter expects his new companion to ask for more, but surprisingly enough he initiates a change of topic. “How’d you get here, then?”
“I was trying to help a… friend,” Peter says, the word coming out weaker than he’d like. “Some fella calling himself Mysterio used her as bait to draw me out for this blood sacrifice to appease the Spider-God. I punched him in the face.”
Porker blinks, for once falling silent. “Right,” he says finally. “That’s fair. Can’t fault you for that.” He pauses again. “Is your friend alright?”
It’s clear Porker doesn’t mean any harm by the question, but Peter can’t help the way his shoulders slump, his posture suddenly tense. “I don’t know,” he admits quietly. “She doesn’t… We haven’t talked in a while.”
“I see,” Porker says succinctly. After a moment he adds, “Well, all the more reason to work out how to get back home and sort out your interpersonal relationships! Now,” he declares, taking a step closer as if it will make their conversation anymore confidential when they’re on a rooftop , “Here’s the plan. When I was warped into this dimension, my hot dog was tragically left behind! And boy, am I hungry! So, I propose we get our hands on some food and then reconsider our next move!”
Peter considers this logic. “Okay,” he says finally, because it’s not like he has any better ideas.
He’s in a whole other world. Sure, he’s got experience in the whole ‘unbelievable event happens that shakes your faith in reality’ department, but this? This might be a whole other level of weird.
Porker seems satisfied with his agreement, anyway. He beckons him to the edge of the rooftop. Peter acquiesces, crouching down beside him as Porker leans forward to view the city below.
“I may have cased out the place before I found you,” he admits. “Always good to know what you’re up against. But back to the point - down there,” he declares, pointing down into the crowd. Peter follows his gaze. “Now I’ll admit, this is a strange alternate timeline. But one thing I would know anywhere is New Yorkshire street vendors!”
Peter considers it a testament to how adjusted to this madness he’s become that he doesn’t feel a sense of whiplash at the phrase ‘ New Yorkshire’ ’. Unaware of his inner turmoil, Porker continues. “Our target,” he declares empathetically, “is him .”
Peter studies the unsuspecting man that his companion is referring to. Does he know that his night is about to be ruined by a talking pig? “And where do I come in?” he asks, already anticipating being exhausted by the end of this venture.
“You, my good fellow,” Porker says conspiratorially, “will act as a distraction. While you’re playing your part, I will swoop in and use my fantastic spider abilities to nab us a couple of mouth-watering hot dogs.”
“You want to steal from his food stand?”
“ What ?” Porker says in a scandalized voice. “Of course not! I’m not completely heartless!” Peter regrets expecting to hear something normal come out of his mouth when he continues on with, “I’ll leave him some trinket from my timeline, something he can sell for a ton of cash. Even the five dollar bill I’ve got stashed should be worth a fortune in this world. He’ll make a profit from this!” He looks at Peter expectantly, awaiting his response.
Peter’s first thought is that this is ridiculous. They’re in a whole other dimension and Porker’s first thought is food ? Along with the fact that, despite his promise to leave something in return, Peter has no idea what that might entail for the poor man below. And yet, a small part of him is curious to see just what his new companion will do next. It’s this curiosity that prompts him to say, “Okay.”
Porker’s expression turns serious. “I knew I could count on you.” Ushering Peter closer, he continues, “So here’s our plan. We approach the hot dog stand. Your job is to inquire about something normal, like the weather.” Peter nods. That sounds simple enough. “Then, while you’re distracting him, I’ll swing in. It’ll be easy as pie.”
And that's how Peter ends up back in the street below, strolling up to Porker's selected target, trying to project a confidence he's not sure he feels.
He’s not sure he’s had a proper social conversation that wasn’t work-related in weeks. Wasn’t it early November when he and Mary Jane went out for dinner? Does that count as a social event when the main topic of conversation was, “May misses you, why don’t you swing by the welfare centre sometime?”
He thinks back to Porker’s suggested topic. The weather. He can work with that.
“So,” he says smoothly as he pauses beside the stand in a move calculated to draw the vendor’s gaze away from his prized hot dogs, “how about this weather, huh?”
He can almost hear Porker’s defeated sigh from here.
Usually he’s better at this sorta thing. He’s been working as a private eye since 1931, after all.
Apparently his abysmal attempt at a conversation starter doesn’t deter the vendor, though. “Lovely night, isn’t it?” he responds lightly, turning to face Peter, noticeably looking away from the hot dogs. So far, a success. “You never know what you’re gonna get in this city. Hey, that’s some get-up you’re wearing,” he continues as he looks Peter up and down. “You headed for a costume party or somethin’?”
“Yeah,” Peter says, figuring that will result in the least amount of questions. He’s not thirty seconds into playing his part as a distraction and already he regrets agreeing to Porker’s schemes.
“Man, what’s the theme?” With a chuckle, the vendor adds, “You look like one of those guys from those old detective films they made in the 40s.”
Peter’s response is cut short by his companion swinging in, landing silently on the top of the stand. Porker shoots him the universal gesture of “don’t say anything”, before he drops from the roof to land down beside the hot dogs.
The momentary distraction is interrupted by the vendor holding out his hand, a smile on his face. “Name’s Charlie. You from around here?”
Peter responds to this handshake more quickly than the last. It’s easier; more impersonal. “Peter,” he says, ignoring the way the name tastes like ash in his mouth. The sooner this is over, the better. “And no.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Charlie says, easy smile still on his face. Peter wonders how easy it really is. “You get all sorts ‘round here. So where are ya from?”
Peter weighs up his options. Is it better to be honest, or would saying the name of a random place in New York be just as likely to be wrong? “Queens,” he says finally, deciding it’ll be easier to keep his story straight if he goes with the truth.
“ Queens? ” Charlie’s voice is incredulous. “That’s not far at all.”
Shrugging, Peter says, “I don’t travel much.”
Charlie hums, apparently accepting the answer. “Well, welcome to Brooklyn, Peter.”
Meanwhile, Porker has thankfully been hard at work selecting the perfect hot dog. With two in hand, he pulls out a wad of Lincolns from the pocket he apparently has (and is that a cat where Lincoln’s face should be?) and deposits it in the hot dogs’ place. Peter has just enough time to feel relief as Porker spins around in preparation to leave, before that feeling of relief is shot down by him promptly tripping over the sauces with a crash.
Charlie spins around. It takes him all of two seconds to notice Porker sprawled on the pavement, hot dogs damningly in hand.
Peter sighs heavily, preparing to have a lot of explaining to do. Instead, all Charlie says is, “Is that a dog dressed up as Spider-Man?”
Peter’s about to correct him with, “He’s a pig, actually,” because what else does he have to lose, when a shout from the street behind him sends a spark of panic up his spine. He spins around, hand going instinctively to his hip.
He’s glad he doesn’t follow through this time, because running up the street towards them is a girl dressed in what looks like it might be another dimension’s version of a school uniform. “Hey!” she shouts again before she skids to a stop beside him, eyes darting over him and then Porker, who’s still sprawled on the ground. “Oh, thank goodness you found him!’
Peter blinks, following her gaze to Porker, who’s picking himself up off the ground, gazing forlornly at the hot dogs in his hands. “Found him?”
“Yeah!” The girl blinks up at him, her eyes bright. “It was really nice of you to offer to help me find my dog.” Turning to Charlie, she continues, “He ran off back on Maple Street. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to find him again, but Peter here offered to help!”
“Oh,” Peter says eloquently, before he looks down at Porker, who’s wearing a comical look of confusion. “Right.” He bends down to pick him up, ignoring the glare as he passes him to the girl. “Here’s your dog, kiddo.”
“Thanks!” she says with a gratitude that seems all too genuine. She scratches the top of Porker’s head - it does nothing to lessen the death glare he’s sending Peter’s way. “I’m sorry about the hot dogs. I think this should cover it?” She offers forward the same wad of dough Porker had only moments earlier; Peter briefly wonders when she managed to get her hands on it.
Charlie looks uncertain, but he takes the bills from her hands, thumbing through them delicately. “With this sorta money you could buy my whole stand!” he exclaims, but the girl’s not listening anymore, turning away decisively and grabbing Peter’s hand.
“Thanks, bye!”
Letting her pull him along, he meets Porker’s gaze questioningly. The pig only shrugs, before seeming to resign himself to his new life.
Their saviour continues on her determined path, weaving through the crowd before pulling them into yet another alleyway.
“That settles it,” Peter says the moment they’re safely tucked into the darkness. “Porker, you’re not offering up any more suggestions.”
“Hey,” Porker says indignantly, shooting him a glare. “We got the hot dogs, didn’t we?” He takes a bite to accentuate his victory. “Also, Porker? You couldn’t come up with a better nickname for me?”
“I was trying to be professional,” he says in his own defense, even if he agrees that the pig has a point.
The girl, apparently finished with her ruse, shoves Porker into his arms. Peter deposits him safely on top of a trashcan before he turns back to her.
She’s looking them over with studious eyes, some emotion gleaming there that he can’t place. “You’re like me.”
“Well, whattaya know!” Porker exclaims, his eyes widening with excitement. “Looks like we’re not the only Spiders around after all!”
“Thank goodness for that,” the girl says derisively, but there’s a laugh in her voice. “What were you thinking?”
“That I was crazy, mostly,” Peter says honestly. Porker huffs indignantly beside him.
The girl laughs. “I’m not sure it’s very spider-like of you to steal hot dogs from a hard-working street vendor.”
“I’m a pig,” Porker shoots back, followed by a bite of his newly acquired hot dog. “The spider thing is a gimmick. Well, kinda. Besides , you helped us! And I left him enough money to afford his own mansion. More or less. Who knows what the economy in this world is like.”
“So how did you guys get here?” the girl interrupts, apparently satisfied with or ignoring Porker’s justification for his antics. “An Interdimensional rift?”
“Edge here called it a ‘whirl of bubbles’,” Porker offers.
“I thought as much,” she says, looking vindicated. “Finding you two means I can fine-tune my calculations. If there’s three of us here, then there’s gotta be a reason.”
“Calculations?” Peter repeats curiously.
His answer comes in the form of a robot fitted with the same shades as Porker’s outfit. The girl swiftly enters a hidden compartment, settling into the seat with a boldness that speaks of familiarity. “Tell me about your dimensions. What’s different?”
Peter simply gestures to his companion in general rather than say anything specific.
“I’m a cartoon,” Porker offers helpfully. “He’s from the 30s,” he adds, elbowing Peter in the side from his spot on the trashcan. He uses this opportunity to slide one of the hot dogs into Peter’s hand. When Peter gives him a look of confusion, he only says, “You’ve earned this.”
The girl, however, looks at him blankly. “Which 30s?”
“What do you mean which 30s? What other 30s are there?” Porker says indignantly.
“A lot,” Peter interjects tonelessly, distantly wondering if eating an otherworldly hot dog will cause any further harm to his well-being. “In my universe it’s 1933,” he clarifies at her curious stare.
“ 1933 ? Man, you’re old,” she says, her voice tinged with surprise. Peter thinks he should probably be offended by this but honestly, he’s heard worse. “It’s 3145 in my universe. The 1930s were like, over a thousand years ago.”
Porker blinks. “You mean aliens haven’t taken over the planet in the next thousand years?”
“Well,” she says, drawing out the syllables in a way that doesn’t sound promising. “It was a bit touch and go for a while there.”
“ I knew it .” Porker sounds vindicated.
“Anyway,” she says, apparently eager to move on from the alien invasion topic, “the point I was trying to make is: our dimensions couldn’t be more different. But we’re all here.” Now that she’s back on the topic of what brought them here, her voice is all business. “So, that means there’s a reason it’s us .”
Peter nods. “Makes sense.”
“If we can figure out that reason,” she continues, “then we’d be one step closer to figuring out a way back home. I’ve got my suspicious, but I’ll need more data to be sure. I’m Peni, by the way. Peni Parker.” She places a hand on the dash of her robot, and a small black spider marked with blood-red lines crawls onto her arm. “This is SP//dr. They’re my partner. They help me control the mech.”
Peter resolutely ignores the way his skin prickles. He hasn’t been comfortable with spiders, regular or not, since he saw Her. “Swell to meet you, doll,” he replies, tipping his hat politely. “Name’s Peter Parker.”
“Peter Porker, the spectacular Spider-Ham, at your service,” Porker declares. He turns to Peter, eyes zeroing in on the hot dog that, honestly, Peter forgot he was holding. “Hey, you gonna eat that?”
Wordlessly, Peter hands it over.
“You’re both named Peter?” Peni says, sounding unreasonably distressed. “I can’t call you both Peter!”
“Hey, no worries,” Porker says dismissively, clearly more focused on his hot dog. “You can call me Ham. It’s even in the codename.”
“Ham,” Peni repeats, like she’s trying to commit the name to memory. It’s not much better than Porker, but Peter makes a mental note of his own. “But I can’t just nickname one of you. That’s not fair either. And it’d probably be better not to broadcast your real names.” She looks Peter up and down. “What about you? What’s your codename?”
Peter shrugs. “The papers call me the Spider-Man.”
Peni squints, looking contemplative. “Well, that’s not much to work with.” She tilts her head, considering him. “You’re from the 30s, right?” At Peter’s nod, she says, “Okay, then how about… Noir? In my history class last year we studied a bunch of old black and white films, and for a couple weeks we did those old film noir movies that got popular in the 1940s. You’re dressed in black and white, so it makes sense.”
Peter considers it. Noir . “It’s fitting, I suppose,” he says. “Where I come from, everything’s black and white.”
Peni blinks curiously. “Really? That sounds cool. It’d be interesting to study.”
It’s sad , Noir wants to say, but instead he settles for, “Probably.”
“Well,” Peni says, turning back to her screens. “We’re one step closer. Our names might be a little different, but it’s the same concept. That means what’s tying us together is us . We’re here because we are who we are.”
“You mean because we’re interdimensional counterparts of each other?” Ham queries, seeming to focus now that there’s no hot dogs in sight. “So we’ve got the same gimmick: spider-themed heroes.” Hero might be a strong word, Peter thinks privately, but he supposes Ham’s more or less correct. “That’s why we’re here.”
“Exactly,” Peni says enthusiastically. “So that leaves the question: why are we here ?”
Ham adopts his thinking pose, considering the question. “Well, if we want to answer that, then we need to know where here is!” Jumping to his feet, he says, “Here’s my suggestion!”
Before Ham can make his declaration, Peter comments, “I thought we banned you from suggesting things.”
“Correction,” Ham responds. “ You banned me from suggesting things. Don’t act like the Hot Dog Heist wasn’t a good bonding experience between Spiders. Anyway, before I was so rudely interrupted: we need to investigate. Edge here knows what I mean,” he says with a gesture to Peter. “Comes with the whole detective gig.” When Peter shoots him a glance, trying to pinpoint when he revealed that information to him, Ham says, “Oh, come on, she’s totally right about you looking like you stepped right out of one of those old black and white detective movies. I’ll eat my hat if that’s not what you do for a living.”
“You’re not wearing a hat,” Peter says. “But you’re on the beam.”
“I don’t know what that means but I’ll take it!” Ham says brightly. “But I digress. We’ve laid low so far-” Peter privately questions his definition of ‘laying low’ if the so-called Hot Dog Heist is an example of it - “but now it’s time to face our problem head-on and show it who’s boss! What do you say?”
Since Ham is seemingly finished with his rousing speech, Peter exchanges a glance with Peni. She gives a tiny shrug, the whispers of a smile on her face. “He’s got a point. Noir?”
That’s two votes in favour. Resolutely, Peter nods. “Sounds like a plan.”
Peni hops back into the seat of her robot, tapping a few buttons that bring up more screens. “Well, what’re we waiting for?”
They scale the building easily. Peter only lets himself consider how strange it is having other people working with him as The Spider-Man for a moment - right now it’s of the utmost importance that he keeps his wits about him. He’s in an unfamiliar world, full of things he doesn’t understand, and while Peni and Ham seem trustworthy enough, he’s been wrong before. A wrong move here could prove just as fatal as back home.
He can’t quash the wonder he feels as he stands on the edge of the rooftop though, gazing out over the city, bright with people and noise and light . What was it Ham said earlier, colours ? There’s traces of red on the advertisements peppered against the sides of buildings - clearly it doesn’t have the same meaning here that it does in his dimension.
It’s peaceful. He’s always found it comforting to be up here, looking down over the city, and apparently that carries over to this dimension as well.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Ham says quietly from beside him.
Peter jumps slightly, having been so entranced by the lights that he didn’t notice him approach. The instinctual feeling of defensiveness rises, but Ham’s looking out into the city with a soft expression, no judgement on his face. “I always liked coming up to the roof whenever it got too crazy down in the streets.” He turns back to Peter, and Peter can’t help but think that, if he wasn’t wearing the mask, he’d be smiling. “It’s quieter, up here.”
Looking back out into the streets, Peter considers his words. “Yeah,” he says softly, hoping his voice is steadier than it feels.
Their tender bonding moment is interrupted by Peni’s voice, tinged with a note of distress. “Guys, I think you should see this.”
Letting his gaze linger for a moment longer, Peter turns to find her. She’s climbed out of her robot, standing with her back to them at the opposite side of the rooftop. He steps up beside her, following her gaze to pinpoint a breaking news show on the wall of the building in front of them.
NEW YORK’S HERO, SPIDER-MAN, FOUND DEAD AT 26.
“Oh,” Peter says, his voice barely a whisper. “That’s why we’re here.”
“Yeesh,” Ham comments. “That’s not ominous at all.”
Peni’s silent. Peter spares her a concerned glance, before his eyes are drawn back to the screen.
A version of his own face stares unblinkingly back. It’s not as disconcerting as it should be - he’s avoided his reflection for long enough that even his own face feels unfamiliar now.
This version of Peter Parker looks younger. Less scars. He could almost laugh at the fact that this Peter is - was - supposedly three years older than him.
“You alright, Edge?” Ham’s voice is quiet once again, like he’s afraid of shattering something if he speaks too loud. When Peter manages a nod, he looks to Peni. “You okay, kiddo?”
Peni’s gaze is still zeroed in on the news screen, her eyes shining. “This wasn’t here before.” Her voice is shaky. “This must be what brought us here.”
“I hate to say it,” Ham says softly, “but I think you’re right, kid.” He peers forlornly up at the screen. “I think this brings us one step closer to the answers. As morbid as it is, I’ve got an idea of where to go next.”
There’s a note of fondness in his voice that surprises Peter. He tears his eyes away from the screen. “Where’s that?”
Ham turns to him, expression grave. “The place any Spider goes when they face a challenge they can’t beat alone. Aunt May’s.”