Chapter Text
Peter walks into his apartment building after school. A little tired, but excited to change into his "uniform" and swing through the city tonight. It's a day like any other, nothing particularly interesting going on, though he did make plans to hang out with Harry after school tomorrow.
His first week of being a Freshman in high school hasn't been too terrible so far, even if he's only a few days in. For extra moral support he even decided to wear his totally awesome Iron Man hoodie that Aunt May thrifted for him. Its black and made of thick material with pockets and several artistic renderings of the Iron Man armor on the front. The rest of his outfit is simple, jeans, worn sneakers and a solid blue t-shirt under the hoodie.
He waves to a neighbor he passes on the stairs who is talking with passion into the phone, and thinks about what he and May are going to have for dinner tonight. The stairway echoes with every step.
Uh oh!
His spider sense rings. Peter stops in his tracks, looking around. At first it seems like there's nothing unusual, but then he smells it.
A waft of maple trees, dirt, a forest.
Some kind of fog sets into his mind, and he moves on autopilot. He becomes tired so quickly as he removes his school books from his backpack. He's in his room now. He doesn't quite remember getting there.
He has no idea why he is doing this, only that it's urgent. As he grabs his Spider-Man uniform and webshooters he realizes that just a minute ago when he walked in the door to their apartment, Aunt May might have spoken to him. And if that were the case, it stands to reason he must have ignored her completely.
The fog in his head is thickening to the point of making him dizzy. A small, logical part of his brain that is swiftly falling asleep tells him that he was rude to her. That something is wrong. But he can't stop. It didn't matter anyway. If he is dreaming as he is coming to suspect, then all he has to do is get ready.
He has no idea what he is getting ready for, but he has to pack. Pack light, and be quick. Everything is spinning, distorting, ... hurry.
Extra clothes. Money. Extra web fluid. Web dissolver. Laptop. Wallet. Phone and charger. Toiletries, enough for two.
"Gah!" Peter gasps like he's been punched in the chest. Only for the pain to vanish half a second later.
He thinks he smells trees. But it's hard to tell whats real.
He turns his attention to the bathroom. He doesn't remember walking to the bathroom, but he opens the upper cabinet to look at their medicine.
Allergy relief? No.
Cold and flu? No.
Dramamine, for motion sickness? Yes.
Echinacea, for lungs and immune system? Yes.
Gauze and ace bandages? Yes.
Peter doesn't know why he's choosing what. A cold chill of terror shoots down his spine as he realizes he is not in control of his actions, he pauses gripping a bottle. That thought is crushed like an ant under a semi truck.
His spider sense is starting to fall asleep, it's been going off for several minutes throughout this confusing blur, going from a low hum to nothing. Not because danger has passed, but because the sensation is being suppressed. He knows that that should bother him, but it just doesn't.
He continues, also grabbing different strengths of pain relief and his old asthma inhaler, putting everything they need in the backpack. 'They'...? Hurry.
Peter turns to the doorway to see May, standing confused and watching him. Neither of them speak, which would be odd if he was thinking clearly. He slings the bag over one shoulder, having everything he needs, or at least everything within reason that he can carry.
He hugs his Aunt May as hard as he dares and as gentle as if she were made of glass. She squeezes him back, one hand combing through his hair.
"I feel strange, Peter. Do you know what's going on?"
"No. But someone is in trouble. Someone only I can help." He doesn't know where those words come from. They aren't his. "I have to go, but please remember," he pulls back to look into her eyes, which are glistening with tears behind her glasses. "I love you, and I will do everything I can to come back to you. So until then, please be safe." That part at least, is him.
"Okay. I love you too, Peter."
And he's gone. His apartment and May vanish into a void. There's no sensation of falling or of being pulled away. Everything just disappears, like a TV screen being turned off.
Whatever was allowing him to stay there collapses in exhaustion. A whimper of barely disguised pain enters his ears. He can't see it. Everything is dark, just like in a dream. He can't tell if his eyes are open or not. He can't even see his own hand. He reaches out to either side of himself trying to feel something, anything, but there's nothing.
He reaches out again anyway, with one hand and something connects. Not something physical, but a delicate tendril power, like completing an electric circuit. It makes him feel safer.
"Sorry if I scared you, Peter." A female voice. Young, timid, and struggling. Struggling with what, he cannot know. The voice is coming from everywhere, and nowhere, and his own head. "I'm scared... I don't know... I'm sorry I can't stop it. All I could do was buy you a few minutes to gather supplies and say goodbye." The voice scoffs, self deprecating and tight with effort and exhaustion, "Some hero I am, right? Not like you, you're a real hero. I just hope this can help and maybe..." the voice hitches, is she crying? "I know you have no reason to trust me Peter, but please. Please save me." The last part is nearly a whisper. So frail and delicate it's hard to hear.
Peter loses consciousness.
◇◇◇
The first thing Peter is able to process is pain and nausea. It's not the worst pain he's been in, similar to muscle cramps, but its uncomfortable. Like he's been on a long roller coaster and he has to remember where the ground is.
Peter tries to turn his senses outwards, which brings his attention to the reverberating ringing in his ears. Thankfully that subsides after a moment.
A car horn honking. The smell of trash, cigarette smoke, blood, gunpowder. People's voices, walking by. So many things happening that he doesn't want to think about. He can feel the backpack straps on his shoulders, though the bulk of it is high enough to support his head as he lays on his back.
He just wants to go back to sleep. Despite the attempt though, his brain is starting to wake up. Just a few more minutes...
"Peter," a small voice whispers near his ear. His eyes shoot open, he jerks back so fast that he knocks the back of his head against a cement wall. He looks around and finds himself in an unfamiliar alley. It's narrow and dark, filled with the disgusting scent of ripe garbage. His spider sense is buzzing a warning from almost every direction, wherever this is, its super dangerous.
Sitting at his side is a girl, probably no older than 8. Her hands hovering as if wanting to help him, but not quite touching him.
Peter notices his own hands are covered in scabbing scratch marks. Front and back, and crisscrossing his fingers, too. His muscles and joints still ache as if he's been wrung out like a wet towel. At least the headache and ringing have calmed down.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," her eyes are wide and puffy. She's been crying. She's thin and wearing a stained shirt that's too big for her, which only draws more attention to her knobbly joints. Her skin is slightly tan, but covered in dirt and ugly scabbing wounds. Its much worse than the scratches on his hands, and they're covering most of her body. None of them are actively bleeding, but he can tell they're recent. Her torn pants are bunched at what looks like a rope holding them up around her waist.
"Who are you? Where are we?" Peter feels the back of his head with his fingers. A small bump, but that will heal quickly.
"I am Noelle," she looks around, her shoulder length brown hair whipping side to side. "And I think we're in an alley," she states, dead serious. As sarcastic as that sounds, she seems completely genuine, as if she's just trying to help. He resists the urge to throw a witty comeback.
"No, I mean, this doesn't look like New York."
"You don't remember?" Noelle tilts her head, reminding Peter of a puppy.
"Well, I think I had this strange dream. But I don't remember what happened in it."
"Oh. Just a guess, could be wrong." Her dark eyes look down as she fidgets with her hands. "Another world, gotta go." Her tiny hands grip one arm and make a futile attempt to help him stand.
"Wait, what? Another world?" This is definitely not what Peter was expecting. As Spider-Man sure, but Peter Parker? Of all the times he's woken up confused in an alley, this might be the most serious.
"I know, lots of... explaining to do. Really... know a little more than you, important thing is, not an accident. Dragged here. Didn't care if we got hurt." Her speech pattern is strange and broken up. Like it's a challenge to get the right words out.
"And how do you know that?" Peter is super suspicious.
Noelle furrows her brows in frustrated concentration. After a moment she looks at him and taps her chest as she says, "Magic. Not control good- well! Not control well, but know you're," she leans in to whisper, "Spider-Man. And know bad guy is looking for us now!" She seems desperate and terrified making her speech skills deteriorate.
Peter leans back in shock, his eyes narrow in suspicion at her. Is this a trick?
"Please, lets just... find safe place and Noelle tell everything, OK?"
He looks at her again. Young, injured, trembling. He should help her. Its only right. Peter puts his hands on the ground avoiding shards of broken glass to help himself stand up, the rough ground unpleasant on his tender scabs.
"Fine. Just give me a second." He walks to the entrance of the alley to scout their surroundings and adjusts his backpack. The first thing he notices is that only one street light he can see is working properly. Two of them are flickering like you would see in a horror movie, the rest are dark. From what he can see of the sky, it must be late evening and nearly dark. But its so cloudy and there's so much light pollution from the city he could be wrong.
There are some people walking by, as well as the occasional car, but each one makes his spider sense spike with alarm. Even on seemingly normal people, he can smell the firearms without needing to see them.
Noelle waits where she is seated until Peter tells her to follow him. She's so small and is very careful to stay right behind him but also trying very hard not to run into him. Her level of concentration is adorable. As they walk Peter is struck with the image of a mama duck and a duckling.
Everywhere they look there is graffiti, and windows and doors smashed in. Every abandoned building has signs of people breaking in or squatting. He makes sure to give a wide berth when a building smells of overpowering drugs or people aren't bothering to hide baseball bats and guns. The city alone makes Peter nervous, but the kid he's found himself protecting is making that feeling of dread in his stomach worse.
Noelle struggles to keep up, running out of breath within minutes even though they're just walking. Her hands are shaking. He wants to pick her up, but if they get attacked he wouldn't be able to act quickly. It seems like more than just a kid struggling to keep pace with an enhanced teenager, but he's got to wait to ask questions until they're safe. He's not walking fast enough to draw attention, let alone use his powers, but the longer they're out in the open, the bigger the chance they'll be attacked. He feels bad for her, but they can't slow down.
It takes over an hour before they find a building that Peter deems safe. Noelle somehow keeps up despite the heavy breathing he can hear behind him. The building Peter eventually settles on is an abandoned theater. Old, decrepit and boarded up, but sporting no signs of any break-ins. He makes sure no one is around, then takes Noelle by the hand and leads her to the back of the building. There are planks of wood nailed on all the windows of the first and second floors. He smirks, the third story windows have no such obstruction.
"Put this on," Peter shrugs off the backpack and holds it out.
Noelle hesitates. "... alright."
She grimaces as the weight of the straps brush over fresh wounds, but looks back to Peter with determination. He feels increasingly bad for her, but in an area this nasty, anything can get stolen in a second. He'd rather not have to take his eyes off of her, or their supplies.
He turns his back to Noelle and crouches, offering a piggyback ride to the window. "Hop on, kiddo. As soon as we're inside and I've made sure no ones around, we can relax."
She nods with a hum and climbs onto his back, gripping the front of his shirt with little hands. Peter stands and uses his powers to stick her to him, so even if she were to let go, she wouldn't fall. She sighs and he can feel her relax, resting the side of her face on his shoulder.
He unhooks his arms from holding her legs which stay secure against his sides thanks to spider-stickiness, and places a hand on the brick wall. The climb is easy and he barely registers the extra weight. It only takes a moment for him to reach the third story window, crouching to the side of it.
He puts one hand on the glass pane, sticking his hand to it and lifting up. Nothing happens. He figured it would be locked from the inside. He adds an extra bit of spider strength and hears something metal snap, followed by the window sliding up.
Peter pulls himself through as smooth as a gymnast and gingerly steps onto the wooden floor inside. The only light is the dull ambiance coming through the window. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust so everything doesn't just look like dark blobs. It kind of reminds him of when he needed glasses, before the spider bite. Once the dark shapes become more focused he sees that the room is covered in dust and cobwebs, there are two couches facing a coffee table under white sheets.
Peter shuts the window behind him and for the first time since he woke up in that alley, his spider sense calms. He lets out an involuntary sigh at the sensation. He'll look around the building anyway, but just to get a lay of the land.
"Hey Noelle, you can-," Peter trails off, noticing her breathing has evened out, her fingers are completely relaxed. He smiles and resists the urge to say 'aww' out loud. Is being near him that comforting? They don't even know each other! Or is she just that exhausted?
Now careful to be quiet, Peter removes a dusty white sheet from one of the couches. Even doing it slow and folding it in on itself to contain the dust, Peter has enhanced senses and sneezes a few times until the air is settled. The couch is brown and fuzzy to the touch, old but as clean as they're gonna get. And thankfully dry, his spider sense is quiet.
He sets Noelle on the edge of the couch, and she's still asleep despite his litany of sneezes. He picks up one of her arms, sliding the backpack strap off of it and does the same on the other side. Setting the bag on the ground he lays Noelle down. She curls onto her side in her sleep and presses her back into the soft back of the couch.
A quick scan of the building reveals green rooms, costume closets, sewing rooms, rehearsal areas, and such. All covered in a layer of undisturbed dust, other than the occasional tiny footprints of mice. The biggest room is a dilapidated stage and an auditorium big enough to seat at least a few hundred people. It must have been a nice theater at some point, fancy and elegant. He probably could never have afforded to see a performance here when it was used, even accounting for inflation.
He finds the boiler room, and discovers the heat is not working, add that to his list of repairs. He also finds the fuse box and tries to turn on the power... this going to be a long list.
Everything seems structurally sound, and it's a good space, if in desperate need of cleaning and repair. Peter wonders why its abandoned. Deeming their hideout secure enough for tonight, his spider sense not so much as giving a peep warning him of danger, Peter meanders his way back to the 'couch room' where Noelle is sleeping. She's still out like a light when he pokes his head in. He sighs, desperately wishing to fall asleep on the empty couch across from her.
He thinks about it for approximately ten more seconds before giving up and removing the white sheet as quiet as he can. Collapsing onto the fluffy surface, the ache in his bones and joints becomes easier to focus on. It's a different kind of soreness from working long hours as a vigilante and getting beat up. It's something deeper, but he can't place it and is to exhausted to care.
He ignores it and promptly falls asleep.
◇◇◇
Oracle, known to her friends as Babs, types up her report. Date, August 23, 1991. She clicks away, currently listing villain encounters, fling field reports with their respective investigations. It's a long, detailed, monotonous process, but it keeps things organized.
She would normally work remotely from The Belfry, but Dick asked her to come to the Batcave in person to help with his Blockbuster case, and Alfred insisted she stay for dinner. And one does not simply refuse food from Alfred.
So here she sits, in her wheelchair in front of the Batcomputer. A once tight pony tail full of red hair now slightly loose and sagging a bit.
Last time she checked the clock was when Damian passed through after patrol. And while one in the morning is usually way earlier than a bat typically turns in for the night, his grumbling reflecting that sentiment. But it's the first week of school, and all of Bruce's younger apprentices always get stricter patrol hours to help adjust to the more strained sleeping hours. Even though tomorrow is a Saturday, it's good to be consistent when possible.
It's been a while since then, and Babs sits alone, continuing her work despite the familiar ache growing in her neck.
Tim walks down the stairs from the manor to the platform where she's working. "Hey, did you read my report?" He's wearing soft pajamas, one sock, and carrying, based on the lack of steam, a stone-cold mug of coffee. "Shouldn't you be in bed? Its...," Babs moves her document on the screen out of the way of the clock. "Five thirty in the morning."
"Yeah, yeah, my report?"
Seeing as Tim is clearly fixated, and too tired to provide a proper excuse, Babs sighs and turns her wheelchair to face him.
"Yes, Tim. It seems very intriguing."
"I looked through the Batcomputer's entire database of energy signatures, and it came up 'unknown'! Nothing! Isn't that alarming?"
"Yes Tim, as we just established, I read your report."
Tim huffs, "Really? A completely unknown energy pops up in Crime Alley. Not even in a known Rogue occupied building, or any building at all, but a random alley! Why aren't you more interested?"
Babs is interested. In the dark, puffy circles under the teenagers eyes and slight tremor in the hand holding his mug. To appease him, and hopefully convince him to go to bed, Babs turns back to her screen and pulls up a digital map of Gotham. She also pulls up the energy reading and zooms in on it. A small circle, but popping up in bright blue-ish purple, in a dead end alley between two unnoteworthy buildings. Its a small, but dense energy pocket to produce such a bright color on their scans. They both watch the recording of the reading even though both of them have already seen it.
It appeared at 4:17 pm, pulsed, only lasting just over a minute, before disappearing.
"Tim, listen. I agree that we should look into this. But we've got a lot going on right now. I'm helping everyone in this family with cases, including you, and there's no camera's on this entire street for me to look through. Besides Jason would throw a fit if we started poking around his turf while he's away with the Outlaws."
"Babs. We don't know what this is. It could be nothing, it could be the end of the world! Who knows!" Tim rants, sounding almost manic as he takes a dramatic gulp of his lukewarm coffee and bangs it back down on the desk for dramatic affect.
They both stare at the mug for a moment. Tim immediately realizing he just brought a drink way too close to the Batcomputer and could get in a lot of trouble just for that, even though it didn't spill. Lucky for him it's almost empty.
He drags it off the desk, bringing the offending object back into his hands and resuming the conversation.
"We can't not know, Babs."
Her eyebrows come together in a mix of worry and understanding. After all, the compulsive need for knowledge and control has been drilled into everyone trained by the bat. And in the field it saves lives, but at times like this, it just adds to everyone's stress.
"Tim, look at me." The teen brings his eyes to hers. "I agree that this is important. But no one has gotten hurt, we have no reports of strange activity on that street. You're exhausted. I'm exhausted. We can't help anyone if we don't take care of ourselves first. Tomorrow, we'll tackle this like we always do, OK?"
Tim narrows his eyes. Though if he's trying to come up with a rebuttal or his eyelids are attempting to force themselves shut, she can't tell.
After a moment Tim yawns and nods. "I'm going to that alley the second I wake up tomorrow."
She smiles and pushes up her glasses, "Great. Now off to bed with you."
Tim trudges his way back towards the manor. Once he's gone Babs goes right back to work as if she was never interrupted. She also texts Jason to ask when he'll be back and that Tim wants to investigate an anomaly in Crime Alley.
Click, clack, click, clack.
Jason replies quickly that he'll 'be back tomorrow afternoon if all goes well', and that 'that little twerp better not do anything stupid'.
That's when she catches what she's doing.
She sets her glasses and phone next to the keyboard and puts her head in her hand leaning her weight into the elbow on the desk.
"I'm such a hypocrite."