Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

As with most things, it all began with a black screen. A green text flashed somewhere near the corner of his vision, but the resolution of the pixels was lacking, blurring each character into the next one. The more he tried to focus, the clearer it became, but the lines of code were shifting between each other too quickly to take proper notice of them. The only consistent attribute he could see was a loading cog, rotating insistently and gaining a grainy colour as the seconds went by.

MODEL PB4215

SERIAL NUMBER .......... N/A

BIOS 1.6 REVISION 1704

MEMORY STATUS .......... OK

RUNNING SYSTEM CHECK....

[PASS]
[PASS]
[PASS]

ALL SYSTEMS OK

ON STANDBY.
_

The green text banished suddenly, instead replaced with a carefully crafted white grid; perfect horizontal and vertical lines with small numbered dots on each junction. Only it wasn't long till another text appeared, this one much clearer and purposeful.

His eyes were closed, he suddenly realised. Except, it was more like he was told his eyes were closed, but still made no attempt to open them. It wasn't contradictory, actually; it was exceptionally smooth. He didn't know what he was waiting for, but he also had no doubt he'd find out soon enough.

 OPTICAL FIBER....OK

And just like that, he opened his eyes. It was a sudden movement, precise almost to the millimetre, but his eyelids were stiff, offering the faintest resistance.

At first, he was greeted with a still image, dotted with noise and notoriously grey scale. He was seeing, but he wasn't sure what he was seeing— nothing made sense, nothing lined up. Thankfully, in a matter of seconds, the white grid shifted, the dots migrating and the lines bending to accommodate the different shades of black and white, and the visual information was finally computed.

He was in a room, but the details were lost to the low resolution. There were people in the room with him, and they were staring at him pointedly. Waiting for something.

He blinked once, twice, three times, and each time the image in front of him updated, morphing from the grainy specks of light into a defined shape, augmenting the contrast between shadows for optimal reach into even the darkest corners of the room— not that there were any, the room seemed well lit with a comfortable ambient light from various lamps.

By the fourth blink, the grey is gone, replaced by an array of blue, red or green pixels, each one so small it was a wonder he could even identify them.

Digitalization complete

But the world wasn't just green, blue or red— he knew that much. So he patiently waited for the interpolation system to do its work. It was slower than what he'd wanted, but it was merely a first-time calibration. Or at least he thought so. That would be a tedious process if he had to go through all of this every time he opened his eyes.

Colour drenched over the whole room— warm light bathing the space and a darkness creeping in from the big window to his left, blue walls and white trims, his own red sneakers tapping against the floor insistently.

The people in the room, all dressed almost too informally, as if they were purposely trying to seem inconspicuous, weren't looking at him anymore. They seemed too engrossed in their tablets and notepads, turning to each other to murmur things his ears weren't capable of reaching. Funnily enough, he didn't seem to have a panel for hearing— no code or hardware he could access.

It must be a prototype malfunction; they must be testing the systems, making a failure report.

Almost as if they could hear his internal processing— and maybe they could, maybe one of those tablets was monitoring the running of the code— one of the men stepped in front of him. Not just in front, but directly symmetrical to his line of sight, almost mechanically, before asking.

"What's your name?"

He didn't know— or at least he shouldn't know. Why would he? It was the first time his components were tested, the first time he was 'powered on' for the most banal of terms. Still, his mouth parts, eager to answer.

"Peter Parker," He uttered, and his own voice sounded too familiar, too identifiable, despite not quite understanding what he was saying.

His tone hadn't been satisfactory enough, it seemed, as the man mumbled something under his breath before scribbling something impatiently on the notepad.

"Who are you?"

"I am Ben and May Parker's nephew," he answered again, and as soon as he said it, he recognised it as true.

It sounded outlandish, impossible, for a cyberlife prototype to be in any way related to a human civilian, but his voice wasn't lying. One quick check to his memory told him the exact same thing, alongside a very detailed log of a whole life he hadn't experienced but could remember in a very vivid, very much first-person manner.

"How old are you?"

There were only seven years logged in his memory—not the human kind, but files upon files of data remotely imported during manufacturing. It wasn't much, since no machine could store that many videos and photos, so most of them were just concepts. It was like being told a story in a binary series, except once everything was told and accessed, his own processor incorporated it as his own story, his own life.

"Thirteen," He wet his lips experimentally, "I am thirteen years old."

A swift silence settled over the room, only the tapping of screens and scrawl of pens offering some white noise to hinder his own discomfort. This was a test after all, and something told him he wasn't measuring up to what was expected of him.

His eyes wandered away from the reminder of possible failure, and instead landed on his hands, all pale knuckles and fingers resting idly over his thighs. There's an attempt to clench his fists, but he couldn't quite get it right. He knew how to, in theory, but remembering how to ride a bike is one thing, and actually getting on the bike and pedalling is another, completely different one.

The hands didn't feel alien to him, but they were nothing like his vision. He couldn't control it from the main panel— as far as the system cared, he was merely an amalgamation of a main computer system, visual sensors, ventilation lungs and a heart pump. But even then, there was no recollection of blue blood or fuel components, so the pump's purpose remained a mystery.

Despite most of his sensory organs not being connected, he still had them. He could hear without the auditory processor, could smell without an olfactory system, and judging by the rough texture of his jeans, he could also feel through every expanse of his skin.

He could move his limbs, but it wasn't a call and response of a system's signal— it seemed to have more to do with memory and electrical impulses. He knew how to close his fingers, how to lift his arm and tap his foot, but it felt like trying to peek at something through a fogged-up mirror, cloudy beyond repair due to moisture creeping in behind it. He had one of those in his bathroom, which only added to the list of impossible truths, but there the memory was, not fully formed or particularly visual, of staring into the fog on tired mornings.

"Where am I?" He asked tentatively, and his voice was easy to get used to; it felt fitting, warm and slightly squeaky.

The whole room ignored him, disregarding him without even a glance his way. Surprisingly, the lack of acknowledgement didn't stir any offence in him, but rather a sort of expected compliance. If he needed to know, they would tell him. They didn't owe anything to him, and he was in no position to start demanding answers since he had a clear purpose to fulfil— or at least he should have one. Maybe his brain was still trying to catch up to the unusual circumstances. He hoped so— he doubted he could ask these apathetic men about it.

Instead, he clapped his hands together tightly to stop them from fidgeting so much. Turned out, once he'd gotten the hang of movement, the jittering tickles on his thumbs were constantly picking and prodding at his skin without his consent. One scan around the room offered him a clear map of the space; cosy, all warm tones and low lighting with one dark window and the single bed he was sitting on, plush and comfortable but not that spacious. It didn't look like a typical guest's bedroom, but it definitely looked staged, with oddly placed dated posters of classic sci-fi franchises, and a far too organised, unused desk with various trinkets.

With every poster or picture he scanned, he received a visual cue of the movie they belonged to, the game they were promoting, with some even labelled in a more personal way: 'beach day with uncle Ben and aunt May', 'ice cream after school', 'road trip with the whole family'.

He didn't know the space, or at least wasn't supposed to. There was nothing in his memory about it, but still the space registered as safe, as familiar. He allowed his shoulders to relax without really meaning to, an involuntary response despite the intimidating circumstances.

Too suddenly, the same guy who'd asked him all the questions turned towards the wooden door, and with a single nod, the man closest to it scampered to open it. It seemed he had the highest authority in the room, but authority for what was still unclear to him. Was this a test run? Was he an experimental model? The questions kept piling up.

Thankfully, a sense of clarity engulfed him as the door opened and two figures filtered shushly through the door. A man and a woman, the same couple from most of the pictures, perched in the room. Aunt May, a petite redhead with frantic yet kind eyes, and Uncle Ben, notably taller and gruffer but with an undoubtedly warm gaze. He knew these people— on very objective, basic terms. They were in his database, but most importantly, they were in his memories— they were the main thing in his memories, often a source of happy snippets and homely retells.

And even though his whole body melted in content at seeing them, even though his leg stopped bouncing and he was overcome with a sense of safety and calmness, he didn't hold any tangible emotion towards them. Of course, emotion was a strong word for someone like him, but it was hard to ignore the notion that he was supposed to feel some type of connection to them. So far, the only clue he had was a purpose, an order to be of use to the Parkers, to fulfil his job, perform accordingly. That and the involuntary reaction his body had to their presence. Things had gotten confusing again.

"Good news is the memory system seems to have fully integrated into the model, and there seems to be little discrepancy between the vessel and the allocated lens."

The man's words fell flat between the newcomers, and rightfully so, since the couple looked like they'd just seen a ghost. The woman— May— was scanning over every part of him, not so much to substantiate a doubt but rather to take in everything, to commit it to memory as if it were her last chance to do so. Uncle Ben wasn't that far off, with an underlying air of terrifying relief, most of it buried behind a stoic frown. It still felt strange to call him uncle, but he supposed that was part of his purpose here, so he'd better get with the program soon.

Ha, get it? Get with the program? Yeah…

"What does that mean?" Ben asked, one hand resting on May's shoulder, not protective but supportive. Her expression remained haunted and firm.

"That means this model here is your nephew in every aspect except for human. By all accounts, physically, personality, and memories, he takes after him."

The man gestures to Peter, trailing off as if he could explain everything left unsaid. He couldn't. He could barely understand it himself; there was no protocol, no explanation guide, nothing that could explain what he had been brought into expect for this vague pull towards uncle Ben and aunt May. He felt terribly small. How could he not? He was meant to messure up to someone, to be someone they'd known, but despite presumably being built for that sole purpose, he didn't know how to.

May's expression made much more sense now. She was expecting to see someone else in that bed, someone she missed dearly, and instead was handed him. He was misplaced, clearly, but his shoulders were too timid to even attempt to sit up straight and stare a challenge straight on. Huh, that must be what the guy was talking about… a sort of personality androids weren't supposed to have, only his was moulded to resemble someone else.

"If i may…" that same man tried, waiting for Ben's nod of approval before taking a step fowards towards Peter, "as i've explained previously, the prototype doesn't actually retain any of the emotional links the late child did, seeing as it has no real experiences but mere memories artificially crafted, so what we've found works best for families is to give it a few weeks, in which his interphace will fully merge with the memories and as a result began performing acoordingly to the program."

Okay, well, that would've been helpful to know ten minutes ago. Maybe even reassuring, since the fogginess and utter confusion would fade during the next couple of weeks. But then again, why would they bother comforting an android? His program would've figured itself out eventually— dynamic thinking and all that entailed was a world of wonders.

"But he can't really love us…" May bit, and it was sharp. Not mean, not resentful, but final, a reminder for herself, or maybe a plea.

It was a pity, really. He had failed from the very beginning. Well, at least he knew now what they wanted from him. He could work on it, he could get really good at loving them— or at least pretend.

Ben squeezed her shoulder, all attention turning to her distraught tone, and after a beat of uncofmrtable silence from the… scientists? They really didn't look like scientist, they were too fidgety, too hurried and almost desperate. Maybe salesmen. Yeah, let's go with salesmen. After a beat of uncofmrtable silence from the salesmen, a new person spoke up, seemingly ready to take on the burden of a difficult conversation.

"Not in essence, no. But I assure you, ma'am, that the emulator has been perfected down to the most minuscule detail."

"He eats, sleeps and breathes, just like any human," a younger man chimed in from further away, but was abruptly cut short by a glare from the previous man.

"Not helpful, Jerry," he bit, and with a quick sigh turned to address the couple again, "I know that's not what you are worried about. We've already gone over all the android's needs and maintenance procedures, I trust you'll take good care of it… or should I say him?"

The genuineness of the question took Peter off guard, because the more his interface woke up, the more he could remember feeling like a real person.

Why would they call me 'it'? Oh, right, I'm not the real Peter Parker, I'm just an android model.

He found that, despite the rationalisation, it still hurt. Maybe it was supposed to. Maybe they'd given him this need to please if only to ensure he fulfilled his purchased purpose. Or maybe Peter had always been that way, an engraved personality trait now burned onto a chip inside him. He supposed there was no way of really knowing.

"Him," May was quick with her clarification, finally averting his eyes from Peter to stare down the man in front of her, despite measuring half a head smaller than him, "He is our nephew."

"Very well," the man smiled apologetically, and Peter knew it hadn't been meant ill-spirited, but simply procedural in his field of work— after all, why would you humanise a machine if you worked with thousands of them, "In any case, we've been extremely transparent with you both, Mr and Mrs Parker, and you know very well he is, in its most basic components, a machine. He needs to eat, to breathe, to sleep, but he operates out of a software, a software that emulates human feelings. Those procedures are similar to the ones you'd find on your typical household android, only they were dialled to the max and tailored to the original child's identity. There will be an adaptation period, but testing has shown that once it settles, the relationship becomes as seamless as with any other human child."

Peter could attest to that. Honestly, with every passing minute, the fog around his brain seemed to lift, and everything became clearer. There was still some lingering confusion, but it was no longer a dense nebula clouding his thoughts; rather, it was more like a morning mist clinging to him.

The conversation moved on to lighter, more procedural topics— although, from what Peter understood of their business model, they must have a hundred similar conversations with all clients. As the attention moved away from him, he felt his own body deflate and further slouch into his bed. He couldn't wait for all these people to leave his room

His. This room was his, his space, his bed, his posters, his clothes.

Eventually, the salesmen funnelled out of the small room, taking a bunch of suitcases and notepads with them, until only the main men remained. He handed Ben a card, presumably a business card from its sleek design and sharp edges, but his retinas weren't fast enough to scan the details.

"If anything were to happen, I've left you my personal number. Cyberlife's channels can take a long time, and since these types of models are personalised, it's better if you contact me to deal with anything relating to Peter."

"We will," Ben nods definitely, pocketing the card into a small bifold.

However, before the man could get through the door's threshold, he was stopped by May's words.

"Thank you…" A silence settled as May cocooned her hands over her chest, "Thank you for returning our nephew to us."

"That's what we do," He smiled, but the gesture made Peter sqeuamish.

It was certainly strange to have his body react without him fully understanding the reason— especially when his software reported no anomaly— but it must be what's known as instinct. He just needed to tune into it, give it a week like the salesmen said, and hopefully he'd be able to get his own body under control.

The silence inside the room was deafening. It was just his uncle and aunt, so why did it feel so heavy? He felt the strangest of things, a clawing tightness in his chest, not sharp but with enough pressure to wrack a frown out of him. A quick check of his systems offered no clarity, as there was nothing wrong— Well, there was still stuff that was missing on the display, but no warning of internal pressure or pump usage flashed the visual screen.

There it was again, his body was trying to tell him something, to signal some sort of discomfort or need, but he was completely oblivious to it. It wasn't as confusing as it was distressing, especially since the tightness in his chest only seemed to grow the more he stared at his family. It was spreading, climbing up his throat in uncomfortable lumps, almost like stubborn hiccups he didn't know how to get rid of. What was wrong with him? Why were his hands shaking? He'd learned how to move them, but now they seemed to have a mind of their own. Why was his vision getting blurry? Why was Uncle Ben standing so far away? Why wasn't Aunt May hugging him? Did he do something wrong already?

A gasp from the other side of the room made him jump. It was May, covering her mouth with both hands as she looked at Peter. Long gone was the haunted look he'd first received, instead replaced with a concerned tilt of eyebrows and rounded eyes.

"Oh, Peter," She cooed, and her feet were incredibly light, almost careful as she approached him, "What's wrong?"

That only made him more distraught— He had no clue. His body was aching for something, yet he had no way of knowing. He had no autonomy over it, as everything happened arbitiarily and almost autonomously.

He couldn't even answer before May reached the bed, hurriedly sitting beside him, yet being mindful to leave enough space between them. That only made it worse, the hesitance to touch, the walls being perched up between someone who was supposed to love him.

Uncle Ben approached as well, and Peter could feel the air stuck in his throat, humid and dense, but everything was so confusing, so frustrating. It was too much; it was not something he was supposed to feel, it was not something his program was supposed to feel.

Wordlessly, Ben offered him his handkerchief—a red, square-patterned cloth— and just like that it all comes crashing down on him, washing over his shoulders and snapping any resolution he still had.

He was crying.

He wasn't supposed to be able to cry. Androids can't cry, it's just not part of the hardware design.

But oh, was he crying now— sobbing as he finally registered the tears falling down his cheeks, leaving them wet and cold. He took the handkerchief, clutching onto it as he tried and failed to stop the tears. He couldn't, and he wasn't sure it was even helping him calm down, judging by the way his breathing was picking up.

"Peter, honey, you need to breathe," May tried again, this time allowing her hand to hover over Peter's shoulder.

Without any warning, Peter's throat choked on a sob, but the moment was forgotten as he started babbling, "I'm sorry, I don't— I can't stop it, I'm sorry, I don't know what I'm doing."

"It's okay, you can cry all you want, Pete." Her words were incredibly warm against the big lump in his throat, but her closeness helped ease the pressure on his chest.

He wasn't just apologising for the crying. It was about everything, about the disappointment they'd face once they realised he couldn't measure up to what they needed, about the distance between them, about how he wouldn't be able to love them the same way they did, but somehow couldn't stomach the fact of not having their affection.

He didn't clarify. He couldn't. He was selfish and let May shuffle closer to him, let her get closer until she was draping an arm over his shoulder, until he was safely under her care.

"What's got you so upset?" Uncle Ben asked, and Peter, between blurry eyes, was surprised to find he had kneeled in front of him, eyes levelled with his, reflecting an openness he hadn't seen from him yet.

"I— I don't—, It's just—" Peter was stammering, thoughts too ruffled and tongue too tied to make any sense of what he was feeling, let alone communicating it. He was confused, frustrated, and lost despite being in a room with the two people who were supposed to be safe. But why?

"I think I… I don't know what's going on," he admitted, half ashamed at his failure and half desperate to get an explanation.

"Oh," May exhaled, somehow relieved. Her calmness alone helped ease some of his turmoil, but his confusion must have been clear enough for her to continue, "I guess they didn't care to explain anything to you, did they?"

He wasn't sure if it was a rhetorical question, not with the way May seemed to bite the venom of the words, but he shook his head nonetheless.

"Those pricks could use some bedside manner, I'll tell you that much," she muttered, more to herself than anything.

"Well, then, let's start with the basics," Ben placed his hand over Peter's right, and the pressure gave him something to focus on rather than his rapid breathing. "Do you know why you are here?"

"I am… your nephew?" It wasn't a direct answer, but it was the only start his mind could come up with.

"That's right," Ben nodded solemnly, as if he were remembering something painful, "You were— are my brother's son."

"I was built to resemble Peter," Peter swallowed, not comfortable with the implications of talking about a him that presumably died, "I have his memories."

A silence settled, and Peter knew he was missing the big final piece of the puzzle. He had the what, the how, the who, even, but was missing the why. Nobody ever knew the why, but the confusion needed a reason nonetheless. Peter caught the tail end of a silent conversation between his aunt and uncle— a frown, a grimace, a lift of an eyebrow, before Ben gathered his breath to speak.

"We will tell you the whole story, you deserve to know," his shoulders squared with courage and an excessive deep breath, "My brother Richard—

"Your father," May interrupted, clutching his shoulder to make a point.

"Right, well, he and your mother, Mary, had planned a road trip through the East Coast over the summer holidays. We were supposed to go as well, but May had a last-minute emergency in the ER, so we couldn't go. We said we'd catch up with you there, we had the itinerary and the stops they had planned… but we never got the chance."

A sombre gloom takes hold of his eyes, and even without his retinas adjusting to the low light, Peter can tell how deeply engraved that sorrow had carved itself.

"We were packing the bags when I received a call from a hospital in Connecticut. They said there had been a car crash, that all three of you had been badly injured. I tried to reach the hospital before it was too late…"

The silence spoke volumes, and sensing it, May's free hand moved to rest on Ben's thigh, allowing the pressure to comfort him the same way it did Peter. A choked breath made itself known, but despite the pause stretching as Ben tried to compose himself, May never once attempted to take over. She was as deeply scarred by the loss, but knew it was the man's story to tell.

"There was nothing they could've done," Ben admitted, and it sounded like he'd said that sentence, had heard that string of words, a thousand times, "Richard had apparently died on impact, and you and your mother died shortly after being admitted."

His parents were dead. They had both died in that car crash, and in a very morbid way, despite not being the whole truth, not even the right timeline of events, Peter was the only one to survive. Could survivor's guilt be programmed? Something told him the emulator would be responsible for it. However, it wasn't as devastating as he thought. He'd gathered his parents weren't in the picture; he was smart enough to recognise it, yet he'd expected the revelation to drive the knife deeper. Then again, most of his memories weren't centred around Richard and Mary Parker. As a matter of fact, the memories were so blurry that, had he not had his brain pull up an image of them, he wouldn't have quite remembered their features.

"They were all we had, you were all we had, no other family, barely any friends," May rushed to explain, and something about the insistence in her tone was testament enough of how many times they'd had this conversation, "And we had lost all of you, just like that."

May's hug wasn't unexpected, but it was new. Soon he was engulfed in her arms, warm but not suffocatingly so, and after a moment of hesitation, Peter's arms came up to embrace her as well. It was Peter's first hug ever, and he felt warm all over to know it had been with Aunt May, even if it was for all the wrong reasons of grief and painful memories.

"That was almost two years ago," she confessed, her cheek resting against Peter's shoulder and her voice barely above a whisper, "We tried grieving. We dealt with the funeral, with the inheritance, everything made us feel more hollow."

"That was until our grief counsellor brought this pamphlet to us," Ben interjects, taking a crumpled piece of paper from his jeans' back pocket.

The brochure is nothing too flashy, mostly white and shades of blue in true cyberlife fashion, with the logo in the top-right corner and a picture of a family of three at the bottom. In big bold letters, it read "Memories you can hold again". The contact information was smaller than everything else, but still clear enough. The rest was a pretty average explanation of the services they provided, alongside disclaimers and a detailed description of the process.

All that fine print actually explained a bunch of what had gotten him so tripped up. He is not an actual android. Well, not in the normal sense at least, since he still has a 'computer for a brain' as the pamphlet called it— although it was much more than just a computer, it was a complex binary connection of— you know what, that wasn't actually the important part. The more pressing part was that he actually had cells in his body. It was a very meticulous and complex process of bioengineering with Peter Parker as the marker, whilst merging his biological parameters with the android parts in a bidirectional manner, making the interaction seamless. On top of that, his emulator software was supposed to mimic actual human behaviour, down to the processing and preserving, instead of the usual software equipped on commercial Androids.

Holy shit, he would grow up? It said his biocomponents were designed in a specific way to accommodate growth all the way into adulthood? That explained why his systems were lacking most of his body— he wasn't actually made out of plastic, he was actual, real human flesh? That freaked him out a bit… he was mushy….

"Technology has surely come far, huh?" Ben quipped, clearly uncomfortable the more Peter stared in disbelief at the paper.

"We were sceptical at first," May took the lead, trying to steer Peter's attention away from the pamphlet but not forcing him to, "Cyberlife had made waves with their household androids, but a child android… let alone one of our own nephew… that's a whole other ballpark," She paused, swallowing hard before her next admission, "but we couldn't keep going like that, we were missing a part of our family, we needed you back."

So it was as he'd thought. He'd been built to fulfil the shoes of someone, someone he would never know but also would know intrinsically better than anyone ever it seemed. How could he ensure he was being truthful to Peter? How would he fill in that role when his own system was still scrambled with his own dichotomy? He had been an expensive project, the pamphlet was very clear about that, and Ben and May depended on him to keep them emotionally afloat after their terrible loss— but how could he be the best version? Or even yet, the version of Peter they needed?

"I can see you worrying already, Peter, but don't," Ben sighed, rubbing his temple as if he'd done this before, "Trust me, we don't need you to be anything, just having you here is enough for us."

Thankfully, his words do ease the panic building in the base of his throat, especially when his tone felt so genuine and familiar. There was a vague need to impress him, to take his advice and make something great out of it, to make him proud.

"Everything takes time, honey," May whispered into the safe fort they had built around the three of them, "it'll feel awkward for a while, but you are our family, you belong here with us."

Those words ease the final tension, residual energy from the hectic afternoon, from his bones— He's got those now— and there's no underlying need to prove anything to her, unlike with Ben. No, instead there's a deeper ache to be held, to be comforted, to wrap each other up in warm blankets and binge some TV.

"Welcome home, Peter."