Chapter Text
Pain flared across Peter’s body. It felt like his skin was recovering from a wicked burn, taut and painful to the touch, but everything beneath his skin felt as though he was thoroughly bruised. A long, pained groan was drawn out of his mouth.
Up.
Whispered his spider-sense. Peter’s hand twitched, and even that hurt. He let out a pathetic noise of pain, squeezing his eyes tighter.
Up! Danger. Not safe. Bad people. Green.
It said, this time more insistently. Peter lifted his head. His cheek was pressed into asphalt in some grimy backstreet. His whole body protested the movement, but he pushed through the pain to sit up.
Just like that, the pain shifted. It didn’t go away, but it became a dull, tingling feeling. That was a lot easier to manage.
Peter turned, looking around. He was sitting between two buildings. One was made of red brick, and the other looked more like concrete. It was a road he was sitting on, one that led to an open space behind him, but Peter got the feeling this road hadn’t been used in a long time. Not only because the road was blocked off by trash cans and dumpsters, but because the wall of stores behind him reeked of abandonment.
Grunting in effort, he pushed himself up. Where the hell was he? What was triggering his spider-sense?
After a moment of looking around, he saw a dark shadow move inside one of the abandoned stores. The feeling of being watched spiked up and sent goosebumps up and down his arms and neck.
He couldn’t stay here. Peter got the distinct feeling that whoever was lurking in the shadows of these buildings wasn’t teenage urban explorers. He took a step, feeling the strain in his legs as if he’d aggravated bruises, and immediately grabbed his ribs when he felt a sharp sting. Whatever happened to him left him worse for wear.
Pushing past the dumpsters, he made his way out into the street. He must be a sight to see, a shambling, confused teen, staggering down the street with a limp. It honestly wasn’t surprising that people shot him sympathetic or reproachful looks.
Once again, he asked himself where he was. This place didn’t smell like New York. It was hard to describe other than it smelled older, and the distinct smell of petrichor seemed to be soaked into the very stone. It was late into the afternoon, and the sun was threatening to abandon the sky and leave him in the dark city alone. A few of the streetlights were already flickering to life, buzzing like flies. They were distinctly NOT New York streetlights; they were black and fancy as opposed to the plain grey metal poles he was used to. In fact, everything here seemed darker and more intricate.
He, almost unthinkingly, stumbles into a thrift store. The smell of old linens and synthetic fabric hits him, bringing a wave of nostalgia. Some of the tension bleeds from his shoulders.
Behind the counter was a woman. Every inch of visible skin from her collarbones and lower was covered in tattoos. She had angel fangs and multiple piercings in her ears, and adorning her face was a very ‘over it’ expression. She was ringing up items for an older lady, so Peter stood there patiently.
“Excuse me, Ms.,” Peter said when the other lady left. The cashier looked over at him. Her mildly annoyed expression softened at the sight of him. “Is there a bathroom?”
Her eyes flick up and down his body. Then, she opened a drawer and pulled out a wooden slab with a key on a ribbon drilled into it. “Yeah. Here’s the key.” She handed it to him. “At the back of the store near the kids' toys.”
“Ok, thank you.”
“No problem.”
Peter limped towards the back of the store, weaving around racks and going through aisles. Eventually, he found a whole section full of kids' toys. Baskets were full of small odds and ends, little rubber animals and wooden people, things that beeped and sang. It was such a familiar sight that Peter couldn’t help but smile.
But his smile dropped when he got into the bathroom and got a look at himself. Dry blood leaked down the side of his face from a cut hidden in his hair; his body was covered in what were either bruises or burns. Red, purple, and greenish-yellow dappled his skin. He couldn’t help but think that he looked like a zombie like this. No wonder he was getting so many concerned looks.
He turned on the sink, splashing water into his face and using his hand to scrub away the blood. He tentatively poked the cut on his head and winced. Now that he was focusing on it, he could feel his heartbeat throbbing behind the injury.
“Ok, ok, I’m alright. I just have to- um… Ok, I need a plan.” He said to himself, barely a whisper at first, then rising to a steady indoor voice. “A plan, a plan, um… Well… First, I guess I need food.”
His healing factor burned LOTS of calories. If he wanted to heal up so people would stop looking at him like that, he needed to eat. On top of that, he’d be able to think more clearly when his stomach stopped rumbling. That should be priority one.
But that’s easier said than done. He felt around his pockets only to realize he had no phone and no wallet. He had his backpack with him, but judging by how light it was, it wouldn’t be much help. Still, he set it on the bathroom floor to rummage through it.
Inside was a textbook for science class, a handful of crumbled papers, and his Spider-Man outfit. He checked all the other pockets and found nothing else other than a novelty pencil. Which meant he had no wallet, no money, no phone, no change of clothes, and no way to get help.
Anxiety twisted in his stomach. He felt helpless and trapped. What was he supposed to do? He was stuck in an unknown place with no way to survive.
Shaking, he dried his face and hands before he made his way back out to the woman. He mumbled another thanks to her as he passed the key back over. The woman tucked it into the drawer and gave him another painfully concerned stare.
“It’s no prob. Um… Do you… Need to borrow my phone to make a call?” She asked. “I’m sure your folks can come pick you up.”
Peter swallowed hard and nodded. He needed someone, anyone, to reassure him he was ok and they’d be here to pick him up. Whatever happened to mess him up so badly must’ve wiped his memory. Maybe it was a fight with a villain or something. Regardless, they could hopefully fill in the blanks in his memory.
The woman hands her phone over before turning to help another customer. Peter shuffled out of the way and typed in the number for Tony’s personal number. He put the phone to his ear, glancing around anxiously.
“The number you have dialed is not in service.” Said an automated voice.
Peter’s face wrinkled in confusion. He looked down at the phone, scanning each number to see if he’d made a mistake. No, it looked right. Wait, was it? Now he was doubting himself.
Ok, well, one number he did know by heart was Happy’s number. He had to call him all the time for a ride. So, he types it in. It rings four times before someone picks up.
“Hello?” Peter said.
“Um… Hello?” Said a female voice. “Who is this?”
“Uh, is Happy there...?”
“No?”
“Oh, um, sorry.” He hangs up, heart thudding in his chest. His face went red in embarrassment. How did he end up calling the wrong number?
Once again, he checked the number, mumbling each one out loud to be sure. No, that HAD to be the right number, it had to be. Right? Anxiously, he dials Aunt May’s number even though he’s very unsure about it.
“The number you have dialed is not in service.”
“What…?” He mumbled.
Why couldn’t he get in contact with anyone? Was he really just dialing the wrong numbers? That had to be it. It had to be. But the hairs on the back of his neck seemed to disagree.
He went back to the woman behind the counter and handed her the phone. “Didya get ahold of someone?” The woman asked.
“Uh, yes.” Peter lied. “They should be here soon.”
“Cool.” She said. “What’s your name?”
“Peter. What’s yours?” He asked before, immediately blushing. It was right there on her name badge: Ashley. But surprisingly…
“People call me Asphodel.” She said.
“Oh, ok. Nice to meet you, Ms. Asphodel.”
Her face wrinkles. “Cut that shit out, kid, you’re making me feel old.”
“I’m just being polite.” He said.
Ms. Asphodel huffs and rolls her eyes. Before she can say anything else, a family of six comes over with their cart filled to the brim. Peter wanders away to let her do her job.
He lingers around the shoes section, near the front door and the counter. He stares at the shoes, but his mind is far away. What was he supposed to do? What was his next course of action? Food was his top priority right now, but how was he supposed to get it? Maybe he could find a soup kitchen or something.
“Hey, kid.” Ms. Asphodel calls. He looks over. She turns around and picks up a restaurant cup from the table behind her. “You want this? I got it free with my meal, but I don’t want it. I didn’t drink any.”
He made his way over and looked into the cup. It was a chocolate milkshake. Want clawed up from his stomach and into his throat, making it burn.
“Are you sure?”
“Yup. It’d just sit here until it went bad, so why not take it?”
He took the cup. The cold felt good against his hands. “Thank you.”
“No prob.”
Peter lingered around for a while, taking sips of the shake. At least it was something. As Aunt May used to tell him, something is better than nothing.
After a while, he knew he couldn’t stay. So he waved goodbye to Ms. Asphodel and made his way back onto the street. The streets were darker and emptier now, only adding to the feeling of hopelessness that was brewing like a storm in Peter’s mind.
His footsteps, the buzzing of streetlights, and the cars that occasionally zipped by were the only sounds. As Peter walked, he thought about maybe finding shelter instead. After all, he wouldn’t starve overnight, especially because of Ms. Asphodel’s gift, and more places would be open during the day.
It took him a while to realize that the area was getting rougher and rougher as he went. More buildings had boarded-up windows and graffiti, and the people who WERE still out and about had grim expressions, and he could smell the gunpowder from their concealed weapons. He swallowed hard, getting antsy to find a place to hide out.
He turned the corner and continued down the dark street. There was only one streetlight on in this stretch of the city, and it was flickering weakly. Peter picked up the pace as his spider-sense grew from a hum to a roar.
“Hey, kid.” A voice said. He looked up, his shoulders relaxing slightly when he saw two police officers. “What’re you doing out so late?”
“I’m heading home, sir,” Peter said.
“Oh, ‘sir’.” The other said. Peter blinked, surprised by the mocking tone. “You’re awfully polite for a street rat.”
“Uh… What?” Peter stilled.
Danger! Danger, run!
Screamed his spider-sense as the two men approached him. “Don’t you know there is a curfew? It’s to stop snot-nosed brats like you from selling your molly or crack.”
“Yeah, I know what a curfew is,” Peter said before he could stop himself.
The older man’s hand lashed out, grabbing him by the wrist and yanking him closer. Peter cried out in fear, dropping the milkshake on the ground where it splattered. “Hand it over. Give us your money and your phone, and we won’t throw your ass in the hole.”
“I don’t have anything on me!” Peter said, loud and desperate. He squirmed to free himself, but he knew he couldn’t use his super strength, not while he was out of costume.
“Shh! Shut the fuck up.” The other hissed, roughly grabbing his shoulder to hold him still. His other hand moved to Peter’s pockets and then snaked towards his backpack.
His face paled as he realized how bad this could be if they opened his backpack and saw his costume. With his identity at risk either way, Peter made a hasty decision. He kicked the officer holding his wrist in the stomach, sending him stumbling backwards, right as he lashed out with his arm and clubbed the other in the side of the head.
The second officer’s grip slipped just enough for Peter to yank his arm free and run. As he bolted for the nearest alley, he heard one of them unholster their firearm. Peter’s heart dropped into his stomach. They were going to shoot him over being out after curfew?!
One of the officers was shouting into their radio while the other called for him to stop. Peter didn’t. He ran as fast as his legs could tolerate. Twisting left, then right, then right again. He ran across roads and down side streets. Thundering footsteps and shouting followed him, but he could hardly hear them over his pounding heart and heavy breathing.
Eventually, he runs into an alley that ends in a wall. Peter whips around, making sure the officers can’t see him, and then he runs straight up the wall. His balance adjusts as soon as he’s vertical, and he runs up the bricks until he’s on top of the roof, then he ducks behind the small lip, pressing himself as low as he can, pulling his arms and legs in.
Heavy footsteps and panting aren’t far behind. They make it to the wall before they’re forced to stop. “What the fuck?” The officer pants.
“The suspect has left our line of sight. We’re at the corner of Jubilee Lane and 3rd.” The other said to the radio.
“Copy that, alerting other officers to be on watch.”
“Where the hell could he have gone?”
“Must’ve made a different turn. Come on, let’s catch the brat before he cries to his mommy.”
Peter lay there, both hands pressed to his mouth to muffle his breathing, until long after the officers left. And then, he turned onto his back, looking at the cloudy sky, and tears gathered in his eyes. He wanted to go home. He never wanted any of this. All Peter could think about was curling up in his bed and sleeping away this awful dream.
He stood, arms folded over his chest, and walked to the other side of the building. He leapt onto the next building, a slightly smaller roof, and then jumped to the next and had to climb the side. He didn’t know where he was going; he was just trying to get away. God, how could this day get any worse?
As if the very thought doomed him, about ten minutes of roof-hopping later, a raindrop landed on his hand. “Are you serious?” He said. He tipped his head towards the clouds, shouting at whatever divine figure was watching him and mocking him. “I didn’t even say it out loud!”
His whole body slumped, head tipping to look at the ground. He stood there, watching as one droplet became three, then three became sixteen, then sixteen grew to a few thousand. The icy cold rain immediately soaked him to the bone and left him shivering.
Shuffling over to the walls that made up the roof access, he tried to shelter his body against it, but it didn’t stop him from getting wet. It blocked a lot of the wind, which was nice, but he feared nothing would stop him from drowning in the rain and the self-pity that seemed hellbent on sinking him.
When he realized that huddling like this was useless, he made his way to the edge of the building. He walked right up to the ledge and looked down at the city. He’d never been terribly afraid of height, and now that he had his powers, they were even less intimidating. In fact, he liked looking down at the city and seeing people go about their lives.
Now that the rain had started, the streets were completely empty. Cars still zipped by without a care in the world, plowing through the quickly forming puddles, their light shining through the droplets and casting them in gold or red. Most of the windows were dark now, but in some, he could see people moving inside their homes. What he wouldn’t give to be at home right now, admiring the view from the comfort of a shelter.
“That’s a very unsafe place to stand.” Said a voice. Peter jolted and whipped around. There was a man standing there. He was just as soaked as Peter was, jet black hair sticking to his face. He was wearing a black and blue spandex suit with a mask that didn’t really do much to hide his face. “Especially when wet. Y’know… Slippery.”
“You’re probably right,” Peter mumbled.
Was this another vigilante? That’s the only thing that made sense. Halloween was still two months off, a villain probably wouldn’t start a conversation like that (or at all), and they definitely weren’t a government-sanctioned hero because Peter had never heard of this guy before.
They stood there for a second. There was tension in the man’s stance. Slowly, it dawned on Peter that they were worried about something. He shifted his stance a little and watched the vigilante flinch, as if they were about to bolt over to him, but stopped themself.
Peter tipped his head a little. He steps closer to the vigilante, further from the edge, and watches the man relax. “You got acrophobia or something?” Peter asked.
“No, not at all. It’s just… This is a pretty popular spot for people to… Y’know… Take a willing plunge.” He said.
He blinks for a moment before he realizes what the other meant. “Oh. Oh! No, no, no, I-I didn’t come here to- no, no, I just uh-” He couldn’t say he was running from the law, lost in a strange city with no memory of how he got here. “I like looking down at the city at night.”
They hum. “In the rain?”
“I was up here before the rain started, thank you very much.” He said, turning his head to glare at the rain clouds above. “And I’m not gonna let my sightseeing be ruined by some bad weather.”
“I don’t think the rain cares about your plans.” They say. They reach out to grab Peter’s arm, making him wince slightly. The vigilante either doesn’t notice or ignores it as he leads Peter away from the edge and back to the roof access. He leans against it casually. “So. What brings you to Gotham? Most people don’t come here just for ‘sightseeing’. Especially not Crime Alley.”
Gotham? Like, Gotham, New Jersey? How in the name of all things holy did he get here? And in-, wait, what was this place called?
“I’m sorry, Crime Alley?”
“Yup.” The vigilante said, popping the p. “The section of the city with the highest crime rate, unemployment rate, suicide rate, and teen pregnancy rate. All wonderful things.”
“Jeez… Well, um, yeah. I’m from Queens, and I’m here because-” He hesitates. “Because my dad has a job here, and the rent is cheap. We’ll be heading back to Queens soon, though.”
The vigilante huffs a laugh. “Shoulda known you were from New York with that accent.” Peter rolled his eyes.
“I could’ve guessed you were from New Jersey, blindfolded and deaf.” Peter playfully jeered back.
The vigilante huffs a laugh. “I see how it is, pizza rat.”
“Jersey Boy.” Peter shoots back, full-on grinning for the first time since waking up here. “Ey, I’m wolkin’ ‘ere!”
The older man laughs, a deep belly laugh. “Is that-” he gasps for breath between laughs. “Is that your best Jersey accent?”
“Let's hear you do a better one for me.”
“Alright, fine.” They said, clearing their throat. “60,000 bucks per month for a studio apartment? What a deal!” He said while using the most stereotypical and god-awful New York accent. Peter groaned, face palming. “Pretty good if I do say so myself.”
“That was the most atrocious NYC accent I’ve ever heard.”
“Aw, come on, it wasn’t as bad as ‘eh, I’m wolkin’ ‘ere’.”
Peter scoffed and rolled his eyes again. Then, he shivers. He was so, SO cold out here. The wind blew against his wet skin, making him curl in on himself.
“You should get inside.” They said.
“Yeah… I probably should.” He mumbled. He needed to find shelter soon. “Um… Oh! I’m Peter, by the way.”
“Nightwing.” He said, holding his hand out for Peter to shake. He took the other’s hand, giving him a firm handshake like Tony taught him. “But you probably already knew that.”
“Uh, yeah, sure.” He said.
Nightwing blinked in surprise. “You’ve never heard of me?”
“Nope.” He said. Nightwing blinked at Peter, jaw slack. He shrugged. “I’m not very involved in the vigilante/villain scene.” He lied.
“Oh. Well, now I feel egotistical.”
“Just a little.” Peter laughed. “Uh… I need to get going, and I’m sure you have vigilante things to do.”
“Well, I’m just patrolling. Not on a mission or anything.” Nightwing shrugged. “I could walk you home if you want.”
“Oh. Um… Uh…” Peter froze. He couldn’t let this vigilante know he was homeless right now. How fucking embarrassing is that? “Well, uh-”
Danger! Watch out.
Half a second later, the ground rumbled, and orange light flared in the distance. Peter sucked in a gasp and looked in that direction. Nightwing whipped around, staring at the new flaming building several streets away.
“Shit.” Nightwing hissed.
“You jinxed yourself.”
“Ugh, I shouldn’t have said that. Lesson learned.” Nightwing said. He hurried to the edge of the building, turning around to wave at the teen. “Bye, Peter, get home before you catch a cold.”
“Alright, see ya, Jersey Boy.”
“See ya, Yorkie.”
He produced a grappling hook from his utility belt and used it to swing away. Peter watched him go until he disappeared behind some buildings. Then, he sighed and made his way to the opposite edge of the building to climb down.
Peter navigated the streets, cautious of the police that might be patrolling, but he surprisingly didn’t run into any more trouble. He passed tons of abandoned places, relying heavily on his spider-sense. If he detected anything even slightly off, he’d pass the building without hesitation. But eventually, he finds one.
It was once an apartment building, but it had been abandoned for so long that nature had begun reclaiming it. Vines crawled up the walls, grasses and plants grew through the pavement and front porch, and blocking the front entrance was a sizable bush. The foliage was so thick in some places that you couldn’t see the wall beneath it.
He walked around the building until he spotted an open window on the third floor. Peter gently brushes the vines aside, pressing his hand against the grey stones to stick to them. He makes his way up the wall slowly, careful not to kill any plants. After all, this was their space now; he was just a visitor.
Peter crawled through the window, glad to be out of the wind and rain. He looked around the dark place. It was relatively intact and, as far as abandoned places went, it was pretty nice. Sure, there was debris from the peeling walls, and moss covered the walls, but at least the ceiling was sturdy enough to block the rain.
Each step made the floor creak and groan. No one had been here for a long time. He made his way into the bedroom. The bed was covered in debris and what Peter assumed was mold, but the floor was clean enough to lie on, and there was no draft in here. So, he set his backpack on the floor and peeled his shirt from his body. He was tempted to take off his pants too, but he felt too uncomfortable to do so. In the bathroom, he hung his shirt up on the shower rod so it could hopefully dry off.
He searched around a little, but he was just so cold and tired. Taking a sheet from the linen closet, he went back into the bedroom and lay down, burrito-ing himself in the fabric. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
Peter lay there in the dark, listening to rain hit the window and wind making the apartment sing. Sometimes, he could swear the muttering rain and chattering wind sounded like voices, and he’d blink his eyes open again. But his spider-sense remained quiet, and the voices were gone when he looked around. Tomorrow, he’d need to figure out a game plan to get home. Maybe he’d find a bus to see if they’d take him back to the city. Who knows? But for now, he let himself fall asleep in this place that nature was taking back.
After all, it was better than nothing.
-
Bat-Boys (and girls), August 27th
Dicko Mode:
Guys, wehn i was starting my patrol, i saw this kid. Looked beat up, and he was on a roof in crime alley. He seems cool, but im pretty sure hes homeless. Keep an eye out for him if you can, please.
(Sent 12:56 am)
Sigma (Signal):
Omg, no way you're gonna pull a Bruce and adopt a rando from the streets
(Sent 12:57 am)
Dicko Mode:
Dont tempt me. >:)
(Sent 12:57 am)
Steph:
Must be genetic
(somehoe)
somehow*
(Sent 12:57 am)
Timbo:
Wdym ‘beat up’?
(Sent 12:59 am)
Dicko Mode:
I mean he was covered in bruises.
It was dark, so it was kind of hard to see how bad the damage was.
Also, he was soaked.
Real skinny kid. 16 maybe, about 5’5 ish. Probably about 120 pounds. Brown hair brown eyes. He’s a yorkie.
Standing on a roof in crime alley, thirty minutes past curfew.
(Sent 1:01 am)
Sigma (Signal):
We’ll keep an eye out
(Sent 1:01 am)
Dicko Mode:
Thanks, your the best.
(Sent 1:02 am)
Sigma (SIgnal):
You’re*
(Sent 1:02 am)
Dicko Mode:
I take it back.
You suck.
(Sent 1:02 am)
Sigma (Signal):
:)
(Sent 1:02 am)
-
It was so bright that Peter’s eyes stung. The sky was almost unnaturally blue, so much so that Peter was forced to look away only after a few seconds of staring into the infinite azure. The sun beat its fists against the sand, intent on turning the rolling dunes into brilliant fields of glass.
He glanced around. All around him for miles and miles was nothing but endless dunes. The wind had blown patterns into the sand, but otherwise, the desert was unmarked. It hadn’t been touched by humans in a long time.
Peter takes a staggering step forward, already boiling in this insufferable heat. Underfoot, the sand shifted with his weight in a way he’d never felt before. Even when he went to the beach with his uncle, the sand hadn’t felt quite like this. And Peter knew that was because beneath him, the sand went down and down and down for miles as opposed to the thin sandy beaches back home.
As he made it to the top of the dune, not without getting sand in his shoes and nearly falling over, he froze. Before him was a field of household objects. Anything someone might find in a home was here. From chairs to blankets caked in sand to TVs and lamps. Discarded children's toys, trash like bottles and wrappers, and priceless objects like jewelry all scattered about and left to be torn apart by harsh desert storms.
Peter staggered down the hill to walk among the abandoned things. The age and wear varied from object to object. Some things looked as if they’d just been dropped here, plucked straight from a home and dropped into boundless sand. But other objects looked as though they’d been there for years. Horribly sunbleached, damaged beyond repair. Some things were torn apart to the point that Peter couldn’t tell what they originally were. Now it was just shreds of fabric and splintered bits of wood remaining.
But as he walked through the wasteland of forgotten things, the objects became more personal. Now, it wasn’t just a fridge or a couch. It was now Aunt May’s fridge, or the couch in Stark Tower. Soon enough, it was no longer random scattered things stolen from the homes of strangers; instead, he could match every piece of clothing and every shattered picture frame to a memory from his life. He remembered these things. He remembered playing video games with his Uncle Ben on that Game Boy; he remembered chatting with Sam on those barstools.
Seeing all these things taken from their places to be left in this strange place should’ve been alarming. It should’ve stirred anxiety in his chest, but instead, another feeling began to loom over him. He felt alone. Painfully, and miserably alone.
-
Peter woke up on the floor of the apartment, warmer than he had been when he went to sleep and yet still not really comfortable. He sat up with a grunt, popping his back. Today, his body hurts less than it did yesterday. Now it only ached if he put weight on a bruise.
Getting up, he shivered in disgust at the feeling of wet fabric clinging to his legs. He needed to get out of these pants as soon as he could. And so, he hurried to the bathroom.
His shirt was still hanging where he left it. It was drier than it had been last night, but it still didn’t feel ready to be worn. He sighed, more than a little frustrated. What was he supposed to do if he couldn’t wear his clothes? He still had his Spider-Man costume, but it's not like he could walk around the streets wearing that.
Lacking another option, he pulled his shirt off the shower rod and put it on. He didn’t really need his backpack right now, so he took it to the window and hung it out to dry, securing it to the wall with some webs. Once he was sure the bag wouldn’t fall (for a while), he jumped out the window and landed at the side of the building.
He had to get back home. This place kind of sucks, and he was getting really, REALLY hungry. His stupid heightened metabolism would spell his death if he didn’t get something to eat soon.
After a while of walking around, he spotted a library. Goth Public Library. Hope blossomed in his chest. They ought to have computers in the library! He could use those to look up the number for Stark Tower. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than nothing.
Peter trots up the steps and pauses at the door. The sign said they open at 8 am and close at 10 pm. Was it 8 am right now? Hesitantly, he reached for the door, sighing in relief when it opened without resistance.
He made his way inside. Peter’s shoulders slumped in relief when the warmth from the heaters embraced him. Maybe he should stay in here until he dries off.
The library was nice. It had a lot of space, including a wide open foyer with a desk, and two sections of the library that were split between fiction and non-fiction. No one was behind the desk, but he could hear a voice coming from the back room.
Peter looked left and right before choosing to go to the non-fiction section first. He walked among towering bookshelves, idly glancing at the spines of the books as he passed. And then, he made it to the other side. Along the wall were desks. Every other desk had a computer on it.
He makes his way to the nearest computer and sits down. Clicking on the guest profile, he paused when he saw the icon on the desktop. SilverMoon? What the hell was SilverMoon? He couldn’t see an icon for Google, Firefox, or anything like that. Curiously, he clicked it. On the left margin, there was a slow scrolling feed of the latest local news. Straight in the middle was the search engine’s name and logo, a moon with a cat’s eye in the middle, and at the top was the search bar.
Deeply confused, he types into the search bar ‘Stark Tower’ and hits enter. He expects to find the website that he’d scrolled through a million times. Instead, he finds completely unrelated websites dedicated to a game called Star Tower, from wikis to fan forums. He checked the search bar, triple-checking to make sure he’d spelled Stark correctly.
“What the…” He mumbled. Ok? Well, maybe they changed the website’s name? Instead, he searched for Tony Stark.
Tony Stark
(Did you mean Tony Steven?)
Underneath that were links to random social media profiles with the name either Tony or Stark, but not anything relating to the Tony Stark he knew. With his confusion growing and dread building up, he searched for Google. Maybe this strange search engine he’d never heard of was broken or limited or something.
(Did you mean Goggles?)
Peter stared at the screen, slack-jawed. Desperately, he searched for Iron Man. Surely, there had to be something about Iron Man at least. But all he got was the search engine trying to suggest ‘Iron Maiden’ and the images tab showing OCs of metal characters completely unrelated to Iron Man. Not one article or picture of the man or the suit.
He sat back in his chair, wide-eyed, with stress building. He ran his hand through his hair, tugging at it for a moment as his mind raced. Why couldn’t he find anything relating to his friends? Even seeing a dumb hit-piece about Iron Man would be a relief at this point because it’d be confirmation he wasn’t insane. But there was nothing. It’s like Tony Stark, Iron Man- like The Avengers never existed. Tentatively, he cleared the bar and searched for his own name. Surely, there had to be his own social media here. But instead, he found profiles for Peters and Parkers, but none for Peter Parker himself.
Belatedly, he realized the main social media platform popping up wasn’t Instagram, it was some site called Safron48. He’d thought it was Instagram because of the similar coloring for the icon. But no, it seemed like a completely different platform on a completely different search engine in a totally new world.
New world.
That realization made his throat tighten. He leaned forward, curling in on himself and hiding his face in his hands. Panic and dread were screaming in his ears, flooding his mind with nonsensical shouting.
‘Take a deep breath, kid.’ Tony’s voice said. It cut through the noise enough to let him think. ‘Hyperventilating doesn’t solve problems. Think hard. Make a plan. Do things step by step, put out small fires as you go, that’s what you’re good at.’
Right. He can’t freak out. He needed a plan, he needed to do something, and sitting here panicking didn’t count.
If he was trapped in another world, which seemed to be the only thing that made sense right now, what did he need to do? He lifted his head, staring blankly at the screen. What did Rhodey say before? Shelter, temperature, hydration, and food. In an emergency, you have to prioritize things in that order.
He had shelter. It wasn’t great; he really needed to find ways to improve it, but it was better than nothing. Temperature, meaning to get warm when cold and to get cold when warm. That was a bit harder. Sure, he had shelter to hide in from the elements, but his clothes were soaked and ill-suited for the weather as autumn crept in. He needed to focus on that first, or he’d freeze. Hydration was next. Oh god, what was he going to do about his food and water situation?
“Oh! You startled me!” Said a woman. He twists around to see a woman in a wheelchair with red hair near him. She had a stack of books on her lap and a shy grin on her face. “You’re here a little early.”
“Am I? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize- aren’t you open at eight?”
“Yes, but it’s only 7:40.”
Peter went wide-eyed. He scrambled to get up and turn off the computer. “I’m so sorry, I’ll wait outside until-”
“No, it’s alright, don’t worry.” She wheeled herself closer and held out her hand. “I’m Barbra. People just call me Barb or Babs.”
“Nice to meet you. Mrs. Barbra. I’m Peter Parker.”
“Oh, stop it. Mrs. Barbra? You’re so polite.” She said.
“I try to be.”
“What were you doing over here? Studying for school?”
“Uh, no. I’m…” He thinks for a moment. “I’m new around here, so I was learning about the area.” Now that he said it, he realized that was a good idea.
“I thought you sounded like a New Yorker.” She accused playfully. “I went there once on a field trip in High School, it was pretty cool. Did you like New York?”
“Oh, I loved it!” Peter said without hesitation. “The city is part of me. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”
She gave him a strange look. “Oh. Well then… Why are you in Gotham?”
Peter decided to stick with his lie from last night. He smiles sheepishly. “Unfortunately, it’s not my choice. My dad is here for work, so we’ll be around for a while.”
“I see… Well, I hope you can find a way to enjoy your time in Gotham.”
“I’m sure I will.”
Barbra gives him a kind smile. “I need to put these back where they belong. You’re free to use the computers and read to your heart’s content; we’re open every day of the week.”
And with that, she goes about her way. Peter smiled. It’s good to know there were nice people even in such a crime-ridden city.
He sat back down at the desk. If he was going to be staying here, he really should get to know what was going on here at this place. The vigilantes and villains, the history, and maybe a rough layout of the town. Because who knows?
Maybe this city needs some red and blue.
-
Bat Boys (and girls), August 27th
Babs:
I think I found your guy, Dick.
(Sent 7:47 am)
Dicko Mode:
Cool.
Is he ok?
(Sent 7:50 am)
Babs:
He's still in his wet clothes from last night and of course still bruised, but he seems to be in good spirits.
(Sent 7:50 am)
Dicko Mode:
Thats good, Ill try to talk to him again tonight.
For now, Im going to bed.
(Sent 7:51 am)
Timbo:
Sleep is for the weak
(Sent 7:52 am)
Sigma (Signal):
Says the guy who is about to fall asleep standing, lol.
(Sent 7:52 am)
Timbo:
Stfu
(Sent 7:52 am)
Batty:
Watch your language.
(Sent 7:53 am)
Timbo:
:(
(Sent 7:53 am)