Chapter Text
Peter Parker--recently called Peter Three--appears in a swirl of golden light, the chill morning air replaced with something stagnant and sterile. He blinks, shaking off the golden light, and realizes he's not where he should be.
He's in a cell box suspended in a void, surrounded by other clear cells filled with people of all shapes, sizes, and, potentially, species. A few look distinctly alien and while he has no personal experiences with that type of person, he feels reasonably secure in giving a few of the other inhabitants that label.
He walks around the cell, exhausted and confused, pressing against the clear walls. A high tech gondola being guided along by an alien that almost looks like Peter Two’s Green Goblin slides into view. A bald man in a tailored business suit stands behind the alien, scrolling on his phone, idly drinking some coffee.
Peter politely knocks on the wall separating them.
The bald man looks at Peter, pauses, and frowns slightly. He taps the alien with his phone, and the gondola stops in front of Peter’s cell.
“I don’t remember putting you here,” he says, his tone mildly puzzled.
“That’s because you didn’t. I kind of just ended up here,” Peter says. “Could you--”
“That’s horrible luck,” the man says, blinking. He takes in Peter’s suit, narrows his eyes slightly, shrugs, and adds, “Well, get comfortable.”
“Are you--you’re serious.”
“Oh, yeah, totally,” the man replies, in the kind of exaggerated good humor that only exists in people pretending to be friendly. There’s something very corporate about the man. He’s all flash, no substance. “You’re in my super secret ‘between the universes’ prison. Sorry, dude.”
Peter, already exhausted from the fight on the Statue of Liberty, lets his shoulders slump. “Man, come on, I’m just trying to get home after helping out my little brother--”
The man's phone lets out a ping and he swipes the screen with his thumb, checking a series of messages scrolling across it. He idly taps his foot against the back of the alien creature's leg. The unspoken command forces the alien to push on the handles in front of it, the space gondola gently pushing away from Peter’s cell.
“Don’t care, bye,” the man calls out to him. “Kind of busy right now, I've got a big project about to go live. But hey, I’ll come back later to get some blood and DNA samples off of you. That could be fun.”
He disappears into the darkness.
“What the fuck?” Peter says helplessly.
No one answers him.
* * *
After that, things get boring, then ugly. He picks out a few important details about who the bald man is, who he built this prison for, what he’s trying to do. How utterly, pathetically petty the man is.
He has no idea how long he’s been in this clear box when the gondola returns. This time, the sleek businessman is all but preening, standing outside of another cell. Two men are inside the cell: a man in a red and blue suit, writhing in agony as another man made of rock covered flesh holds a glowing green crystal over him. There’s movement in the cell next to Peter’s: a lightly armored guard, holding a baby in his arms, pistol at his side. Peter doesn’t like the look of that. And he likes the look of the gondola floating down the central lane between the cell blocks less.
Lex Luthor has finally captured Superman. He’s gloating, practically preening over his victory. It's an honest emotion, probably the first true emotion the man has ever felt, and it's an ugly thing to see. All the petty, vicious hate of Green Goblin, with none of the redemption. Peter watches silently: the elemental man holding the green crystal, glancing at the cell next to Peter’s, Superman growing paler and sicker by the second, Lex all but dancing. It doesn’t take a genius to solve that math problem.
“Hi, still here, can you let me go now?” Peter calls out, interrupting their conversation.
Of course, he’s not going to just leave if Lex does let him out. Everything about this is monstrous, horrifying. He can’t tolerate letting it exist. This isn’t his universe, it’s not even New York, but he’s not going to sit idly by.
Unfortunately, Lex is probably well aware of that.
“Not happening, buddy, sorry,” Lex says. He sounds anything but. “You are a curiosity, something to be taken off the shelf to look at later, when I’m not so busy with my current projects. Little bit of advice: stay on my good side. Toodles.”
He leaves again.
Peter mulls over his current predicament.
This sucks.
He hopes Dr. Connors and Max aren’t here with him.
* * *
Things only get worse from there. Lex returns.
Another man stands near him, with wildly unkempt hair, a well made but poorly worn suit, and the wild, bright eyed glee of a vicious child.
They bracket a thin man tied to a chair. Just a regular man: khaki pants, striped shirt, dark hair. A regular man with wide, terrified eyes, who cringes from the wild haired man who keeps grinning at him with hateful glee as the gondola glides to a stop in front of Superman’s cell. Superman recognizes the man, and his face twists with terror.
Peter watches as Lex Luthor brandishes a huge silver revolver, calmly loading the weapon. The man in the chair trembles in fear. Lex is saying something, but Peter’s attention is on the man.
“I just ate his falafel once. Let him go,” Superman croaks. He coughs, struggling to push himself up, to fight against the poisonous rock being held above him.
“Don’t tell him anything! I have nothing, no one, no family,” the man calls out. Peter’s heart clenches.
Lex aims, then shoots next to, but not at, the man. The man jumps in his seat, flinching in terror as far as the restraints allow.
“Okay. Let’s make a game out of this. Who took you in?” Lex asks.
“Superman,” the man says urgently, shaking his head.
“I can’t tell you that,” Superman gasps out.
Lex pulls the trigger a second time.
The gun fires with a clapping thunder. The man jerks again, then slumps.
There’s a second bang shortly after the gunshot from Peter’s fist cracking into the cell wall. The wall is thick, and ludicrously strong. Microscopic cracks appear in Peter’s cell, neatly hidden in the light, but visible to him. Peter’s blood is boiling, his fist tingling from punching the wall.
Lex looks over his shoulder at him, briefly amused by his little outburst before turning back to Superman.
“Well, this ended way sooner than I expected,” Lex says idly. “I’ll be back with someone else. Maybe that reporter you keep interviewing?”
Superman’s eyes never leave Malik’s body. He looks sick to his soul with guilt and rage. And whatever that green rock is poisoning him with.
Lex calls out just before he disappears from view: “Oh, and if the weird guy hits his cell again, shoot him. Or gas him. Whichever is easiest, I trust your judgement!”
* * *
Superman is talking to the elemental guy. Peter can’t hear it, but he can see the expression on the man’s face, the horrified guilt shifting to something pensive, with quick little glances across to the cell next to Peter’s. He leans down towards Superman. The conversation is muffled by the cell walls, but he can hear Superman make a promise to the man. He gently rolls over, bracing himself, preparing to launch himself at the cell wall.
That’s when Superman first notices him. He takes in Peter’s suit, a brief expression of confusion crossing his face before he focuses back on the elemental man. The man gives one short, sharp nod and the green crystal on his hand withdraws. Superman looks back to Peter. Peter glances at the elemental man, then back to Superman, tilting his head in question. Superman flicks his eyes towards the guard, a look of wary hope on his face.
Distract him, give me time.
Peter flashes him a thumbs up and saunters over to the cell wall separating him from the man with the baby. The guard eyes him through the wall, bored but not entirely stupid. Which is a shame.
“Hey, man,” he says, casually leaning against the transparent wall between them. “Got a quick question.”
The guard sighs, already annoyed.
“What?” he asks.
“What’d you do to piss off your boss?” Peter asks.
“What?” the guard asks, confused. “Mr. Luthor isn't mad at me.”
“He literally has you locked inside a cell holding a gun to an infant’s head,” Peter points out. “Come on, man, you did something. You don’t get that job without either being a sociopath or a fuck up. Or both.”
The guy shifts awkwardly, glancing down as if he’s just noticed his predicament.
“I dunno if this thing counts as a baby--”
“Okay, wow.”
“--and he’s not mad at me.”
“Buddy. You're in a cell.”
It seems to catch this time, but before the guy can think too hard about it, there’s a brilliant flash of sunlight across from them. The light is so bright that Peter has to shield his eyes.
The cracking thunder of a shattering cell wall is quickly followed by two others: one when Superman flashes across the void to grab the elemental man's baby, and second one when Superman shatters the wall of Peter’s cell. He gives Peter one painfully grateful look before disappearing with the baby.
Peter doesn’t hesitate. He pulls on his mask, leaps into the void, and swings in the opposite direction. The swarm of guards chasing Superman is too thick, too deadly, and he knows the man will risk himself to save Peter if it comes to that.
He opts for the opposite route, and ends up finding his own way into through a rickety portal exit left abandoned in a far part of the facility. He floats between universes for an uncomfortably long moment before being dumped off into an old warehouse. A quick jump and crawling skitter through the skylight brings him outside, and with it knowledge of where he is.
Metropolis.
Where the fuck is that?
* * *
Things get hectic, then scary, and finally utterly horrifying. A rip in space time slowly tears itself towards the heart of Metropolis. The scientific consequences of that could fill a library, but Peter is too busy for that.
He helps as much as he can. He can’t not help. People are in danger. This isn’t his neighborhood, but he’s still going to help. He helps people escape crumbling buildings, pushes cars and bikes out of the widening path of the dimensional tear. At one point, he uses his webs and enhanced strength to sling a bus full of terrified people to a safer road, hauling it up with one arm while swinging across with the other. It's exhausting, painful, and at some point during the ordeal he loses one of his suit's boots. He's not even sure how he manages to pull that off. But the bus driver gives him a thankful look before speeding away, Peter considers that worth the effort.
He’s well and truly worn down by the time the dimensional tear reverses itself and the world is mended. What started as a normal patrol back in his home universe turned into a marathon panic when he was dropped into Peter One’s universe and then a prison nightmare after being dumped here, in Superman’s universe.
He slumps down on the roof of the Daily Planet, taking shelter under the spinning globe statue, and closes his eyes for a moment.
He wakes up to a blanket and a note:
Thank you. Find me later, let's talk.
-Superman
Well, that was nice of him.
* * *
Life goes back to normal in Metropolis at a shockingly fast pace. People come back from the evacuation, pick up where they left off, and move along like dimensional tears and a horrifying amount of property damage happens every day. Maybe it does in this universe. Peter slips into the cracks of this new world.
He finds some clothes in a donation bin. It’s technically stealing, but he’s also technically homeless, so whatever, it evens out. He spends his days wandering the city, listening for rumors about Dr. Connors and Max, trying to think of how to get home.
Maybe he could find a way to flag down that Dr. Strange guy from Peter Three’s universe? That would be embarrassing, but at this point it might be necessary. Or the Justice Gang. Dorky name aside, they might be able to help him. He’s not sure how to approach either. Dr. Strange due to the fact that he’s in a completely separate plane of existence (which, holy shit), and the Justice Gang because...
Well, they’re a bit much. Maybe he’s just too used to being the only fish in a very big pond, but the idea that there are a lot of people like him is still mindblowing to Peter. He’s too used to being a weird footnote in New York City, a street level hero that helps keep the city a little brighter than it would otherwise be. Aliens, portals to other worlds...he doesn’t know what to do with those.
And he’s not sure corporate funded superheroes would have any interest or ability to help him. He could steal and rebuild one of Lex Luthor’s interdimensional portal machines, but that entails issues of its own. First, because the last time one was used the world was nearly destroyed. And the second problem is Superman, who would definitely notice and likely punch first and ask questions later if he found some spidery weirdo skittering around Metropolis with dangerous portal technology.
He’s probably wrong about that, but to be fair, the only other superpowered people he’s met are his multiversal brothers and people who want to kill him.
And what would he be going home to, anyway? He’s spent the last several years spiraling down into a grief driven rage, fueled by the guilt of Gwen’s death. He’s started to recognize how terrible that’s been for him after saving MJ, but he can’t undo years of self destructive rage with a field trip into the worst day of his little brother’s life.
He ruminates over the problem, keeping his head down, hands shoved into his pockets as he walks down the street. He looks homeless and people give him a wide berth, most of them looking past him entirely.
Except for one guy.
A heavyset, middle aged man standing beside two food carts effortlessly works both, pausing only to serve the occasional customer. He looks up when a few people move away from Peter, his eyes sharp and curious. Peter tenses, ready to be chased off--
“Hey, pal!” he shouts. “You hungry?”
Peter stops, frowns. “What?”
“You look hungry. C’mere,” the man says, waving him over. When Peter walks over to him, still mildly confused, he’s even more confused when the man shoves a big hand at him. “I’m Reggie.”
“Peter.”
“Rough day?”
Peter scoffs. Rough day? Rough month. “How can you tell?”
“You don’t have any shoes.”
Peter pauses, glances down. He lost one of his suit boots during the city collapse and tucked away the other one in his pocket. “A little rougher than most, but not my most rough, believe it or not.”
“Tough life,” Reggie says. He nods at the carts. “What would you like?”
“I don’t have cash.”
“I don’t remember asking,” Reggie shoots back.
Peter grins. “I wouldn’t say no to some falafel.”
“Good taste,” Reggie says, pleased. “You want a job? I’m keeping this one going for a friend, but I need someone to man my cart. Wanna give it a shot, see how it works out for you today?”
Peter pauses. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I would.”
Reggie grins.
* * *
Reggie is fun. He grumps and complains, but underneath it all is a heart of gold. That first week, he not only gives Peter a job, he pays for Peter’s hotel room, gets him clothes, and as much food as he wants. He asks nothing for it, brushes Peter off entirely when he offers to pay him back.
Peter finds an apartment near the more dangerous part of the city, near the food cart he works at with Reggie. It’s small, and bare, and kind of not great, but it’s better than nothing. The fact that he’s going to be sleeping on the sleeping bag he has tucked under his arm won’t make it much better.
He has the unfortunate luck of running into his neighbor while moving in. Everything he owns is in his hands when a dark haired woman ducks out of the apartment beside his. She startles when she sees him there, looks at him, the door to his apartment, and the sleeping bag and duffel bag full of everything else he owns in this world tucked under his free arm.
“Hey, you’re the new neighbor?” she asks.
“Yeah, I just got the key today,” he says. He shuffles some things around, holds out his hand. “Peter Parker.”
“Lois Lane,” she says, taking his hand. Her handshake is sharp, quick, just strong enough to make a point. “Is that all you’ve got?”
“Ah, lost everything else during the whole dimensional...thing,” Peter says. Which is kind of true. “You know.”
Her eyes soften at that. “You know, Maxwell Lord is funding a restitution program for people who need it. I’ll bring some of the paperwork by tonight for you.”
“Oh--oh, you don’t have to--” Peter starts.
Lois checks her watch, hisses a curse, brushes past him.
“Don’t worry about it,” Lois calls back. “Nice meeting you! If you see a giant man breaking into my apartment, it’s probably just my boyfriend!”
“I’ll keep that in mind?” Peter says after her.
* * *
A few days after he moves into his own apartment, Reggie buys a copy of the Daily Planet’s latest edition. Malik, the man Lex Luthor had killed in front of Superman, is on the front page, his grin wide and happy.
“You knew him,” Reggie says.
He can still hear the gunshot, the almost silent slump of the body, Superman’s wail of rage. The sound of his own fist ineffectually slamming into the cell wall in front of him. Malik isn't the first good man he's seen die a senseless death, but he is the most recent, and that carries its own grief.
“I watched him protect Superman,” Peter says after a long moment. “I was in the cells near Superman’s.”
Reggie says nothing to him. He simply claps a hand on Peter’s shoulder.
After a moment, he says, “Malik would be happy to know you’re helping me keep his cart running. He’d like that.”
That helps a little.
The morning rush passes them by. A few people stop by to grab a soda or hot meal.
A tall, bumbling sort of guy shuffles through the crowd while awkwardly waving his suitcase above his head, trying not to bump into anyone. His hair is a mess, and he has a slightly worried, befuddled look on his face.
Until he sees Peter.
Something like recognition flashes across his expression, there and gone in an instant, and he walks over to Peter with perfect confidence. He smiles, the expression so genuine that Peter briefly wonders if they’ve met before. The big man offers Peter his hand.
“Hi, friend,” he says. “Can I ask you something somewhat personal?”
Peter glances at Reggie in confusion but takes the man’s hand. “Um, yeah, sure.”
“My name is Clark Kent, I work for the Daily Planet,” the man says.
Peter glances at the newspaper on Reggie's cart. “You do good work, man. That story about Malik was nice.”
Something odd happens when Peter compliments him. Clark doesn't quite flinch, doesn't quite shrink from it, but his shoulders hunch.
Guilt.
Okay, that's interesting.
“I'm working on a story about Lex Luthor’s private prison, and the people he had locked in there,” Clark explains. “A few of them described a man that looks like you. I was wondering if I could interview you?”
Eh, why not.
“Sure, Mr. Kent, I’ll do an interview.”
Clark Kent grins. “Great! Come with me, please. I need to ask a few questions--”