Chapter Text
The multiverse existed. That was one of many things that he was forced to quickly come to terms with in the wake of -Dr Strange's- Stephen's spells. It was something he had accepted quickly; from the way the world hummed with power, even more than what he'd grown accustomed to from the residue of the snaps. And the people and crowds he met and encountered were the exact same. His world thrummed with it's energy, but the world was large, and it most definately was not alone in its universe. And in just the same manner, there were more worlds and universes that allinged and didn't with his own.
The multiverse existed, and maybe that should've have been a sign to Peter that the universe is not above being petty, or wanting revenge or proving that Quinten Beck was right in his at least one more thing.
He hated the fact that he knew it was real, that there were all these possibilities and worlds out there, some without him even. But he couldn't do much more than just accept it and move on. Even dead, Beck was still right about many things. That was something he had time to think about after everything. And that realisation hurt, just like everything else in his life.
Was he right about Tony's death being his fault?
Was he right about the responsibility?
Did he want to be the next Iron Man?
That last one was always going to be a no, Peter could never hope, or wish to be Tony Stark. In all his glory, or all his mistakes. He had to accept it as it was though, that he only had one option provided to him at current. He just had to accept the circumstances, pack his things into a duffle and a backpack, and then run for the hills or the next safe space he knew.
After everything though. After Tony and Stark Industries. After Thanos. After May.
There were no more safe spaces or places to go. The cafe he would hang out with in with MJ and Ned was far too heartbreaking. Alot of things hurt to think or look at. Alot of things, including the torn up and damaged nanotechnology suit he kept in a small and right bundle in the bottom of the duffle he carried throughout the city.
And that was it. The city was all that was left for him to claim as his. But that was Spiderman's territory, not Peter Parker's.
---
He ends up dragged through a glowing hole in the wall, a backpack full of his belongings with him as he gets spat out in the sky, a startling way to wake up from his quiet nap in a hidden cranny of the city.
But he falls very much the same through a sky so much grayer and darker than the midday light he had been just bathing in from atop a building. His senses scream at him with an immediate 'danger, height, danger' and the very loud sound of bullets raining down on someone or something a few blocks away from his very sudden, and very bad landing.
Nicholas would be offended by his ability, even May would probably agree with his decision regarding the man's address, considering that the man's actions had more that stripped him of that respect in Peter's mind. Although, maybe it would be more of a reflection of the man who felt it acceptable to not correct anyone on a fake acting in his stead, or sending off a 16 year old with a random person to save the world with no other support.
It had hurt. And with the universe just laughing at him and starting to rain as the grazes on his arms and knees healed and his fingers sealed over whatever cuts he got from the desperate clawing at building's walls as he tumbled down onto the ashfelt road. He could swear that there was the taste of chalk dust or ash on his tongue as he tried to reorient himself with the screaming headache he had. The sound of the shots had stopped ringing in his head at least.
He supposed that the good thing was that he lacked road burns or entry wounds from the portal thing on top of the fall and the tumble^tm. And as the wounds healed over to smooth skin as he stared and stood still looking up at the gray, gray sky.
And instead of life and sounds echoing in proximity around him as he refocused his senses away from the endless 'wrong, run, go, leave' of the spider sense, it is silent. The bullets firing from whenever it was that he fell had stopped, a very quiet and distant mutter of conversations and attempted organisation of a crime scene instead meet his ears, distorted over the space and many turns of the city that surrounded him.
And all his search for stimulus does is leave him with the unease of the sense at the base of his neck. He knows from it's meanings that there is nothing he can currently do to avoid the danger it feels, so he makes a choice, pivoting on his foot to walk away from the direction of sirens.
---
It's a dark city. Which is absolutely wonderful. It is dark and gloomy and feels like it's mourning something crucial to it's being, Peter gets the feeling that maybe it's not just the way that the rain patters down onto barely lit streets, or how rooftops overhang and statues watch him as he wanders the city's streets. It's something to do with the way the few people he sees are huddled together, and exchanging words and plans for illegal activities that Peter would normally seek to stop, or act unaware of. It's the way that there's a shadow above him that seems far too aware of him walking down the streets, looking for something. His shadow hovers briefly, as though concerned, as he searchs for maybe a bit more than somewhere to sit, and not get his socks further wet as his senses adapt to his location.
He just doesn't get that far. Because of course he doesn't, Parker luck isn't that merciful. So his lack of suprise is a given as someone pulls him down a barely lit alley way, before he finds something being pulled over his mouth that smells and tastes slightly familiar in all but a good way, if he could tell from the screaming of his spider sense. But the loudness if the internal alarm muffles whatever message his senses are trying to tell him. It reminds him a bit of the chemical storage space in high school.
And oh, he very belatedly realises, its chloroform.
---
He wakes up with rope around his hands, a headache trying to make him aware of the danger he is in, and an overwhelming amount of stimuli. The rate his heart is beating at is far enough from normal that he is very lucky no one is checking it because he would be immediately outed as something other than normal. But, he tries his best not to loose himself in the spiral of smells and sounds of the mass of people around him. Or, the way things could have gone if his luck wasn't being terrible at the moment, and that's a thought he doesn't really want to think about or consider because it means it is going to get so much worse soon.
So he tries to focs on something else, something positive. At least he wasn't dead yet. Which definitely makes him pause his spiral of anxiety, 'While that is true, it is also not helpful, brain.'
But the smell of dampness and mold and sweat and tears around him sure do make him breifly consider it and just how positive it might be.
But he thinks maybe that trying to 'find something positive, in an unknown situation where he has been kidnapped, and bound, and blindfolded, and shoved into a room, no, it's moving and the echo is wrong? so a truck, or maybe a shipping container on wheels? Wait, no that's still a truck Peter.' But the echo is weird and distorted from his own heartbeat which makes him pause, or more accurately get stuck on a thought and spend a minute focusing on specifically his hearing. His hearing, which is muffled by the heartbeat in his chest, it is still unbearably loud and a constant in the pulses under his skin, but he can still hear others around him.
Which, wow, he should've noticed sooner, so a concussion?
'Focus Peter.'
That might explain a bit more of why the pounding sense of danger matches up with the heartbeat felt down to his fingers and toes. 'Is he bleeding? A head wound?' he thinks, and it's due his experience that his focus on the thrumming sense in his head shows change in some sort of reply.
'So, Yep. A head wound. One that's bleeding and cannot currently be bandaged or cared for in his current circumstances. Wonderful.'
He ends up staying quiet, definately not doing the exact wrong thing with a concussion, and falling asleep, nope.
---
Their journey ends eventually, and he finds himself awake, and aware, and in mildly less pain and oversensitivty as they get herded off the truck, the blind-fold over his face is now much obviously not a blind fold but a very old fashion and cliche heshen bag.
---
It's a trafficking or smuggling thing, which becomes pretty apparent to Peter as the process is repeated a few times. Everyone loaded into the truck, a few extras joining in before they then all are locked in and moved. And then they're all herded out blindly into a building or room, and given a thick and hard piece of bread to eat before then being shepherded out into another vehical.
And it repeats with some people coming and going, until they're at what's probably max capacity in the back of the truck, which makes him nervous. Or more nervous than he was before. Maybe it's also the fact that the ache of his wound is gone, no more extra warnings from his spider sense, other than the people who move and feed them for the days and maybe week of their transit. He looses count sometime after the 12th vehical, his body slowing down, preserving energy as best it can.
And then, at some point, they all stop and get out at a building in the middle of the desert. That would explain the heat he has been feeling in the past few hours, although he had thought it had just been the, now 30 or so people trapped in an enclosed space together for a travel.
---
He knows there were screams, not his own, never his own. There was blood of the men and women hired to transport them, it was on his arms and his jeans. He knows it wasn't just theirs that he was soaked in though. He can tell in the from the size of the bodies in darkened rooms that he passes thorugh as he regains his control and motor movements.
He wills himself to not think too hard on it, or the possibilites. So he just searches for survivors, and finds only a regretful number of 7. A few fellow teenagers, and two much younger children, he tries to lead them through the building the least messy way, it's pretty futile. But the chain of hands linking him to the others as he leads them through the dark, they burn and make him overly aware of the way the blood is drying to his palms, and very slowly falling off in flakes with every single drawn-out movement.
They don't part ways outside. No matter how much he wished they wouldn't see him fully in the dawn's light. Instead, the chain of hands continues as minimal speaking occurs, or maybe it's just background to the constant reassurance of checking for their heartbeats that has Peter not hearing them, as one of the others checks out the car left alone in the chaos shed around them.
It's barely any time later that he blinks and finds himself bundelled up in back seat of the vehical, alongside the various others who seem to be staring at him in both worry and concern, maybe some awe or wonder if he is infact interpretting their expressions correctly. He thinks maybe that's enough for him to focus on, other than the beats of their hearts as he closes his eyes and just breaths.
---
Peter doesn't know which way they go once they reach the main road, but he trusts the tingling at the back of his neck, if not for him but for the others.
He's more awake when they start having to deal with the lowering quantity of fuel left in their impromptu transport. By deal with it, he means have a panicked discussion as the vehical slows down and then peaters to a stop.
So they start a very long walk.
It is bleak and lacking much conversation, Peter doesn't have it in him to particularly care when they're all hungry from a lack of any proper meals. It's why he ends up carrying a 10 year on his back and half dragging along a stubborn 11 year old who is apparently their older brother.
---
They find a fuel station before any more roads or vehicles cross their path. The young adult half asleep inside greets them on what must be impulse before startling out of their trance once Ethan (Peter thinks he's overheard the 17 year old be called that) steps forward to ask for a phone, or a way to call for help.
Peter's just glad to be able to focus not on what to do in what's definately not his world, a fact that becomes obvious as they get dragged off to the nearest city. The name of which has him pausing and looking confused enough to be checked by the few paramedics accompanying them.
He does not have a concussion apparently.
But who would call a city, Central City?