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When Peter first opened his eyes, he was half delirious, blinking up at bright lights that made his eyes hurt and they shut again. The last thing he remembered was Doctor Strange, and the words of a spell that would have changed his life forever.
He thought it was a product of deliriousness at first, when he managed to filter the light out through squinting, and saw owls staring back at him. Creepy. Peter blinked slowly for what seemed like hours, before he realized that they were masks.
White and beady-eyed, hiding human faces; there were at least five of them from what he could see. Even more creepy. Was this a dream? Ned had gotten really into spiritual stuff for a few months that said that dreams were supposed to tell you something about yourself. What was this telling him? That Peter had a subconscious fear of owls that he should check out?
Every noise felt muffled, like earbuds kept playing white noise in his head. The masked-people were talking above him eagerly. Hungrily.
“...He’s perfect, Dr. Haas. You’ve outdone yourself.”
“I didn’t quite expect spider dna to stabilize it so well. It’s a shame we only managed to obtain one of the mutated types.”
“We’ll just have to perfect this one. He almost looks exactly like the Gray Son.”
Spider? Grayson? Peter tried to make out what that meant, but everything was swimming away from him.
He's met by darkness before he can say a word.
It took one day to realize it wasn’t a dream, a week to realize this was a nightmare in real life. Peter didn’t know where the heck Doctor Strange had sent him, but he would’ve taken anywhere else that wasn’t here. His spider-senses still worked to some degree, so at least that didn’t change. But it felt muted, buried deep wherever this was.
His breath came out uneasy behind the mask covering his face. The same one that covered the faces of the people he’d met in this odd, underground compound, and the man in front of him. Peter’s hands clenched repeatedly, eyes subconsciously flicking downwards to where the knife marks were hidden behind the armor they made him wear.
His body still ached. Horrendously. Peter had bled so much these past four days, he hadn’t realized it was even possible. The smaller body didn’t help, either.
Somehow, Strange’s magic had turned him twelve years old. Not that he had time to worry about that when he was stuck in this weird owl cult. But when he was twelve for the first time, Peter had been building stuff and playing video games as Aunt May supervised him. Whenever he thought about her, his stomach churned.
He looked up at the sound of a neutral voice that was becoming too familiar. “Are you ready for your training, Gray Son?”
Peter didn’t know who Gray Son was or why they kept calling him that. He wasn’t whoever they’d probably mistaken him for. He was Peter Benjamin Parker. But they didn’t care about that. In fact, they’d probably hurt him more if he tried to voice it.
I want to go home. He wanted to say, thinking about the bandages wrapped around his arms and legs from yesterday’s training.
“Yes.” Peter said instead.
As the throwing knives came hurdling towards him, all he could think about was how much he missed Aunt May.
When Peter attempted to escape for the first time after a month, they send him to the labyrinth. He’d quickly learned that who they called Talons were practically murderous super soldiers. Peter kicked and struggled, but the drugs they’d pumped throughout his system made his mind go fuzzy until he was deposited onto the ground.
When he was finally at least a little bit aware of his surroundings, all he could see was marble around him. Everywhere Peter looked, it was miles high around him. Even sitting down, he could tell that they’d stuck him somewhere in a maze.
“It’s fine! Totally fine.” He said to himself as he slowly dragged himself up. “Can’t be worse than the arena.”
Peter breathed in the air, and tried to listen to the outside of this place using his senses. Whatever material they used in this weird place must be the same one they use in the compound, because Peter couldn’t hear a thing. He could at least tell that there was a sewer stench coming from somewhere.
This was fine! It was fine. They probably wouldn’t kill him. Right? This was meant to be a punishment. So, Peter steeled himself. The only way to get out was to find the exit.
As he went further and further through the walls surrounding him, the more he wished he could climb the walls. But he didn’t want to risk any further poking and prodding. It was clear that the people who ran this place weren’t above taking people apart when they were conscious. Peter’s heard enough screaming from rooms he’s passed to get to his to tell.
The more time went on, the more his stomach began to ache. He’d probably been wandering around for maybe a day, with no clue of where he was in sight. Even the lighting didn’t change throughout the hours, the same bright light he woke up to the first day. It was clear that they weren’t going to send him food, but at the very least there was water. Peter was like, fifty-percent sure it was drugged.
The drugged part soon became apparent when he was too tired to walk. He sunk against the marble wall, his aching legs like jelly. M.J would’ve loved to analyze this place, if she could get the chance.
Peter was just about to close his eyes when he heard it.
“Kid.”
He shot up, wiping his eyes furiously. Peter knew that voice. He knew it! “...Mister Stark?”
“Did you miss me?” His voice was just like Peter remembered it. Teasing, but warm. He’d played old recordings of it everyday after Tony died. Somedays, it felt like he couldn’t breathe. It was like losing Uncle Ben all over again.
“Yeah.” Peter choked on a sob, smiling widely. He wasn’t thinking about the logistics of Tony being dead at the moment. All he knew was that Mister Stark was here. He was here. He had to be. “Man, do I have stories to tell you. Wait, do you know how to get out of here? You found me, after all.”
There was a sigh. Disappointed. “Oh, Peter. We’re trapped here, and it’s all your fault again.”
Suddenly, he felt cold. The marble’s texture became more apparent from where it was pressed against his skin. He croaked, taken aback. “What?”
Why was Mister Stark saying this? He knew he messed up. A lot. On a lot of things. But Mister Stark always encouraged him to do better. Except, it…it really was his fault this time. Everything was. If he’d just listened to Doctor Strange at the start, Aunt May, M.J. and Ned would be here with him instead of being stuck inside this lonely place. All his fault. Would’ve been better if he’d never exist–
“Look at me.” Tony sounded angrier now. He’s never sounded that way towards Peter before. Never.
Peter didn’t want to look, to see the furious look on Tony’s face. But his head was numb and he was hungry, and it made him feel like he had to grasp onto what he could listen to. A mumbled “Okay.” came tumbling out of his mouth.
His gaze lifted, and Peter screamed.
it couldn’t be Tony. It didn’t look like Tony, didn’t smell like that fancy cologne he always wore because he told Peter that Pepper loved it. Smelled burnt. Tony’s skin was pale, blue and purple and veins visible beneath the skin and his body was charred, black and skin peeling and blisters and, and the gauntlet–
“You did this to me, Peter.” Tony whispered gently.
“No,” Peter cried, scrambling back against the wall. He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Tony. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
He’s not sure how long he sat on the floor like that, pleading and crying and apologizing and self-hatred and everything ugly swirling inside of him. Maybe hours. Maybe days. All he could sense was charred, burning flesh.
Tony’s not the last person he saw as Peter tripped over his feet and walked and walked.
They pull him out of the labyrinth, eventually. He doesn’t know how many times he’s thrown up nothing, and his body felt like he’d used every muscle inside of it. Peter’s still crying when they throw him into the arena only hours later to train.
Peter’s strapped to a table once more.
It might be the same one from the first day. He can’t tell, and he can’t bring himself to focus on it. They’ve drugged him with a higher dosage though, because Peter couldn’t stop screaming. It’s only been a week since then, but he’s too reminded of the water from the labyrinth and the neverending voices.
He’s not sure if it’s the same people as last time, but white owl masks hover above him. Peter’s own was discarded somewhere along the line. Maybe they like watching him suffer.
If his mind worked, maybe he would’ve started struggling when he saw the needle above him. Way larger than the ones when May would take him to get flu shots. Dionesium, they call it. They’re going to stick it in Peter.
He’s scared of what it will do. It felt like he’d been scared for years, but it’s only been a month stuck in this weird owl cult. Lost, maybe, before that.
Peter’s eyes fluttered shut as the needle came closer.
It doesn’t pierce his skin. Instead, there’s a crashing noise. Then yelling. More crashing noises. The noises make him want to pull at the metal strapping his wrists to the table, but the dull feeling in his head said otherwise.
“You told me this was supposed to be fucking lookout.” A new voice. Usually Talons or members try to act like they can’t feel emotions. “Doin’ a real good job of convincing me to come to family dinners.”
“Oh, come on Little Wing.” Guy–er, Person two huffed. They sounded…familiar. Another hallucination? That couldn’t be possible. The water was drugged with something else, they’d just given him something to make him sleepy this time. “Besides, I knew the Court was up to something–"
“Holy shit.”
“What?”
“Use your eyes.” Person one snorted, and Peter got the distinct sense that they were gesturing towards him.
“What do you–oh.” The footsteps became louder, until he could tell that there was someone above him. Again. “What the hell?”
Person one laughed. “Congrats, Dickhead. Everybody knows only the famous superheroes get cloned.”
Cloned? What?
“Haha. Very funny. Seriously, it’s like looking into the old photos that Bruce kept of me. How old is he?” Person two asked. The he was definitely referring to Peter. He wanted to open his eyes, but it was like there was a weight on them making them stay shut
There’s a rustle of papers coming from up ahead where Person one probably is. The sound of fingers sorting through papers for a minute, before it stopped abruptly. “According to the files, twelve. They used some insect dna to stabilize him, but it’s mostly yours.”
A sigh, “Just great.” then, a hand reaching towards Peter. He can feel it about to touch his skin, and Peter can’t help it. A strangled noise left his throat, panic rising in his chest. He heard intakes of breath, but he didn’t focus on it as he struggled against the table. His eyes opened at the sudden burst of adrenaline, but he’s looking straight up at the face of whoever–
…Whoever.
No, he knew.
Suddenly, the voice being familiar made sense. May and Ben had old videos of him from when he was born to six, where he would hear his parents laugh and sing to him. See their faces in old photographs too. He used to spend all day looking at them after they died.
The face above him might’ve been covered by a weird looking mask and blurry, but he knew it anywhere. The only possible explanation was that he was dead, or he was hallucinating again.
Because looking down at him was Richard Parker.
“Dad?” Peter asked, breath hitching. Maybe this hallucination was a nice one, and when he blinked, Dad wouldn’t turn into a corpse in front of his very eyes while he was strapped to a table.
Dad made a noise above him at his words, and Peter blinked back tears. It was useless. He was tired. So tired. And the next thing he knew, he was crying and bawling. It felt hard to breathe; he didn’t want crying to be the first thing he did when he met his dad again, but it was all he could do.
Then, Dad is shushing him. Peter hadn’t realized that the straps holding him down had been undone, until he’s held in warm arms. His first role model before Mister Stark, before Uncle Ben.
“You’re okay. It’s okay, I promise.” Dad soothed. Maybe he could sleep without dreaming of crumbling buildings and his body dissolving into thin air and corpses saying all your fault.
Peter buried his face into his dad’s shoulder, closing his eyes once more. The tides of sleep washed over him, and he was melting into the embrace. Thoughts came apart into fragments as the world around him grew distant and muffled and the fluorescent lights were no longer above him.
Somewhere in that blur, he stopped noticing movements pass. Just the gentle rock of arms.
“Did you just adopt yourself? Even Bruce hasn’t achieved that level yet.”
“Can you blame me? Just look at him.”
Then, there was nothing.