Chapter Text
The first thing Frank Castle becomes aware of is rain.
It strikes his face in a cold, steady rhythm and soaks into the collar of his shirt, which tells him that wherever he is, he has apparently been lying there long enough for the weather to become a problem. His head hurts badly enough that opening his eyes seems like an unreasonable demand, and for several seconds he remains still while he tries to remember exactly how he ended up on wet pavement.
Nothing comes.
Frank remembers New York.
He remembers Peter.
There is something else after that, something important enough that his instincts are screaming at him to remember it, but every time he reaches for the memory, it seems to slide sideways before he can get hold of it.
There was a building.
Maybe a laboratory.
A man.
No. More than that.
Frank closes his eyes again and searches through the haze, but all he gets is an impression of machinery and painfully bright light before the memory dissolves.
He opens his eyes.
Brick walls rise on either side of him, forming a narrow alley cluttered with overflowing dumpsters, rusted fire escapes, and enough accumulated garbage to make him immediately reconsider breathing too deeply. Rainwater runs along cracked pavement toward a clogged storm drain, while the only light comes from a flickering fixture above a metal service door and the distant glow of the street beyond the alley mouth.
Frank doesn’t recognize the place.
That means very little by itself. There are plenty of alleys in New York he’s never seen before, and most of them look exactly as unpleasant as this one.
His headache is more concerning.
Frank pushes himself upright and immediately stops when the world tilts.
“Shit.”
He presses a hand against the side of his head and waits until the dizziness passes. Nothing feels broken, and he can’t find blood when he checks the back of his skull, but his thoughts are sluggish in a way he doesn’t like.
Something happened.
He just can’t remember what.
Frank forces himself to work through what he does know instead.
His name is Frank Castle. He knows where he was earlier that day, although the details become strangely uncertain when he tries to follow them too far forward. He remembers Peter talking incessantly about something while Frank repeatedly told him to focus, and somewhere underneath the haze he remembers—
A machine.
Frank’s brow furrows.
There was definitely a machine.
After that, there is nothing except fractured impressions of blue-white light and the feeling of holding onto something while an enormous force tried to rip it away from him.
Frank lowers his hand.
“Pete.”
The name comes out before he consciously understands why.
Something moves several feet away.
Frank is on his feet immediately.
His balance isn’t perfect, but training and instinct carry him through the motion as he turns toward the sound.
There is someone lying near the opposite wall.
At first Frank only registers that it’s a kid, probably no older than nine or ten, half-hidden beneath a pile of red-and-blue material that looks like clothing several sizes too large for him. Dark brown hair is plastered against the boy’s forehead by the rain, and one bare hand rests against the pavement.
Frank looks around the alley again.
There aren’t any adults nearby, and he can’t see an open door or any obvious explanation for why someone dumped an unconscious kid beside him.
He approaches cautiously and crouches.
“Hey.”
The kid doesn’t move.
Frank reaches for his shoulder before noticing the fabric beneath his hand.
Red and blue.
Something about it bothers him.
Frank pulls more of the material away from the kid and finds black webbing printed across red fabric.
His stomach drops.
“No.”
He looks at the boy’s face again.
The features are younger and softer than they should be, but now that Frank knows what he’s looking for, he sees it immediately.
“Pete?”
The boy groans.
Frank goes completely still.
Peter’s eyes slowly open.
For several seconds, he merely stares upward through the rain with an unfocused expression. Then his gaze finds Frank.
“Frank?”
The voice is wrong.
Too high. Too young.
But the exhausted confusion behind it belongs unmistakably to Peter Parker.
Frank stares at him.
Peter blinks rain out of his eyes.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Frank has absolutely no idea how to answer.
Peter apparently decides that waiting for one isn’t worth the effort because he plants a hand against the pavement and starts pushing himself upright.
The movement immediately goes wrong.
His arm straightens sooner than he expects, his balance shifts somewhere it absolutely should not be, and Peter makes a startled noise as he pitches sideways. Frank catches him beneath the arms before his face can meet the pavement.
“What the hell?” Peter mutters.
Frank sets him upright but doesn’t let go.
Peter looks down.
The silence that follows lasts long enough that Frank can practically watch the realization work its way through Peter’s brain.
The Spider-Man suit hangs around him like someone has dressed a child in an adult Halloween costume. The torso bunches around his waist, the legs extend well beyond his feet, and one sleeve has swallowed his hand entirely. Whatever happened to Peter hasn’t affected the suit at all.
Peter slowly raises his visible hand.
It is unmistakably the hand of a child.
His fingers flex.
He turns it over.
Then he looks at Frank.
“Why is my hand small?”
Frank’s expression remains carefully neutral. “Think there’s a bigger question than your hand.”
Peter looks down again.
For several seconds he doesn’t move.
Then he grabs the waistband of his suit before gravity can drag it any lower.
“Oh, no.”
“Pete—”
“No, no, this isn’t—” Peter twists around as though a different viewing angle might somehow fix the situation, nearly trips over the excess fabric around his feet, and catches himself against Frank’s knee. “Why are my legs so short?”
Frank almost tells him to calm down, thinks better of it, and instead keeps one hand ready in case Peter falls again.
Peter touches his face.
His eyes widen.
“Frank.”
“Yeah.”
“My face is wrong.”
“Wouldn’t say wrong.”
Peter glares up at him. “This is not the time to protect my self-esteem.”
“Wasn’t.”
“Then why am I short?”
“Don’t know.”
“How short am I?”
Frank looks him over.
Peter narrows his eyes.
“Don’t estimate.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
“Because you do that military thing where you look at something for two seconds and somehow know its height, weight, distance, wind speed and probably tax bracket.”
Frank ignores that. “You look about ten.”
Peter stares at him.
“Ten?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m twenty-two.”
“Yeah.”
“I cannot be ten.”
Frank gestures toward him.
Peter looks personally offended.
“That proves nothing.”
“It proves something.”
“It proves I’m currently experiencing a height-related emergency.”
“Pete.”
Peter’s expression shifts as some of the frantic energy drains away.
“I know.”
Frank crouches again so Peter doesn’t have to crane his neck quite as far.
“You remember what happened?”
Peter opens his mouth and then stops.
His eyebrows draw together.
“I…” He looks toward the mouth of the alley, although his eyes aren’t really focused on anything there. “We were doing something.”
“Yeah.”
“You were there.”
“Yeah.”
“There was…” Peter squeezes his eyes shut. “God, why can’t I remember?”
“Don’t force it.”
“I remember a machine.”
“So do I.”
Peter’s eyes open immediately. “You do?”
“Pieces.”
“Big?”
Frank considers the fragments he has. “Yeah.”
“Glowy?”
“Think so.”
Peter points at him. “See, that’s never good.”
Frank’s mouth twitches despite himself.
Peter doesn’t notice. He’s already searching his own memory again, his expression becoming increasingly frustrated.
“There was someone else. A guy, I think. We were trying to stop…” Peter presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Something.”
Frank reaches over and pulls one of Peter’s hands away from his face.
“Don’t push.”
“But it’s right there.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re gonna get it by giving yourself an aneurysm.”
“I don’t think I can have an aneurysm.”
“Not testing it.”
Peter starts to answer, only to flinch so violently that Frank immediately reaches for him.
“What?”
Peter doesn’t respond.
His head snaps toward the alley entrance.
A car passes on the street beyond it.
Peter recoils.
“Ow.”
Frank’s attention sharpens. “What happened?”
“That car.”
“What about it?”
“It was loud.”
Frank looks toward the street.
The car is already gone.
“It wasn’t that loud.”
Peter frowns.
Then his face changes.
He can hear rain striking the metal fire escape three floors above them with such clarity that every individual impact seems separate. Water gurgles through a pipe inside the building to his left. A television plays somewhere beyond the brick wall behind Frank, and although Peter can’t make out every word, he can hear two people arguing over it.
A rat scratches beneath a dumpster.
Someone coughs from an apartment above them.
An engine turns over somewhere down the block.
Frank’s heart beats steadily several feet away.
Peter’s own heartbeat suddenly seems thunderous.
“Frank.”
Frank is already watching him. “What?”
“I can hear your heart.”
That gets a pause.
“My what?”
“Your heartbeat.”
Peter’s eyes widen as awareness spreads across his face.
Another car drives past the alley.
Peter jerks and clamps his hands over his ears.
“Okay, that’s bad.”
Frank moves closer. “Pete.”
“Everything’s too loud.”
The rain becomes unbearable now that Peter is paying attention to it. Every drop striking metal, brick, glass, plastic, and standing water reaches him at once, layered beneath engines, voices, plumbing, electrical systems and dozens of other noises his brain has no idea how to filter.
Peter bends forward and squeezes his eyes shut.
“Make it stop.”
Frank’s hand settles between his shoulders.
“Tell me what to do.”
“I don’t know.”
“You got anything for this?”
Peter shakes his head before abruptly stopping.
“Wait.”
He reaches into the folds of his oversized suit.
Frank watches him search frantically through fabric that no longer sits where Peter expects anything to be.
“What’re you looking for?”
“Something I haven’t used in a while.”
“Helpful.”
“Thank you, Frank, your support during my horrible child transformation means everything to me.”
Frank ignores that too.
Peter finally finds what he’s searching for tucked into a concealed compartment inside the suit. He pulls out a compact piece of technology, and the moment Frank sees the metallic surface, he recognizes it.
“Haven’t seen that in a while.”
“Yeah.”
Peter turns it over in his tiny hand.
For all his urgency a moment ago, he hesitates now.
Frank notices.
“You good?”
Peter looks down at the device.
“I just haven’t needed her.”
Frank understands enough not to ask why Peter kept carrying something he didn’t need.
Peter presses his thumb against the activation point.
The response is immediate.
Nanotechnology spills over his hand in a smooth metallic wave, adjusting almost instantly when it encounters proportions very different from the ones stored in its old configurations. The material travels around Peter’s wrist and forms itself into a compact watch.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then a familiar voice speaks.
“Hello, Peter.”
Peter goes completely still.
Frank watches his expression soften.
“Hey, Karen.”
“It has been some time since my previous activation.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“An apology is unnecessary. I am, however, detecting several significant discrepancies in your current biological readings.”
Peter looks down at himself.
“You’re gonna have to narrow that down.”
There is a brief pause while Karen scans him.
“Your physical development appears to have regressed substantially. Preliminary measurements place your biological age between nine and eleven years.”
Peter makes a wounded sound.
Frank folds his arms.
Peter points at him. “Don’t.”
“Didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Wasn’t.”
“Liar.”
Karen continues before Peter can pursue the argument.
“Your genetic profile remains consistent with previous records, including all known post-mutation markers. Your enhanced abilities appear to remain intact.”
Peter’s expression changes.
“My powers are okay?”
“Preliminary readings indicate that they are. A more extensive diagnostic will be required.”
Peter exhales.
Frank notices how much tension leaves him at that answer.
Then Karen adds, “Your auditory sensitivity, however, is substantially higher than my previous baseline.”
Peter winces as another vehicle passes.
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“The increase appears significant enough that ordinary neurological filtering may currently be insufficient.”
“Can you help?”
“Yes.”
Nanotechnology separates from the watch and flows across Peter’s wrist in two narrow streams. It gathers in his palm, forming two tiny devices.
Peter stares down at them.
“Hearing aids?”
“More accurately, adaptive auditory filters. They will reduce overwhelming frequencies and environmental noise while preserving speech, threat detection, and other relevant auditory information.”
Peter picks one up.
“You had these programmed?”
“I have had considerable time to develop contingency protocols.”
Peter’s mouth curves into a small smile.
“Of course you have.”
Frank watches while Peter puts the first device into his ear. His smaller fingers fumble with the second, and after watching him struggle twice, Frank holds out his hand.
Peter looks at it.
“I can do it.”
“Didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“You’ve got that face.”
“What face?”
“The dad face.”
Frank’s expression goes flat.
Peter’s eyebrows rise.
“Wow. Okay. Apparently that’s still dangerous territory.”
“Give me the damn thing.”
Peter grumbles but places the second hearing aid into Frank’s palm.
Frank carefully fits it into Peter’s ear.
Karen adjusts the filters.
The effect is immediate.
Peter’s shoulders drop.
The roar of the city retreats into layers he can actually distinguish. He can still hear far more than he used to, but Karen places distance between him and the sounds that had been crushing together inside his head.
Peter closes his eyes.
“Oh, that’s so much better.”
“I will continue adjusting the filtration parameters as I gather additional data.”
“Thanks, Karen.”
Frank straightens.
“She staying on?”
Peter looks at the watch around his wrist.
His answer comes without hesitation.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
Peter glances at him.
Frank doesn’t elaborate.
He doesn’t need to.
Peter looks down at his suit again.
“Okay. Next problem.”
“The clothes.”
“The fact that I’m ten.”
“Clothes first.”
Peter looks offended. “I think the spontaneous de-aging deserves priority.”
“Can’t fix that standing in an alley.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You got a machine in your pocket that makes you twenty-two again?”
Peter opens his mouth.
Then closes it.
“No.”
“Then clothes.”
“Fine.”
Peter tries to take a step and immediately catches his foot in the excess material around his ankles.
Frank catches him by the upper arm before he hits the pavement.
Peter stares at the ground.
Frank stares at Peter.
“We never speak of that.”
“Sure.”
“I’m serious.”
“Course.”
Peter gathers the legs of the suit and attempts to work out how to move without losing either the suit or his dignity.
Frank gives him about five seconds.
Then he crouches.
Peter’s eyes narrow.
“What are you doing?”
“Get on.”
“No.”
“Pete.”
“I am not getting carried.”
“You’re gonna trip.”
“I have superhuman balance.”
“You just fell standing still.”
“My proportions changed!”
“Yeah. Get on.”
Peter stares at Frank’s back as though personally betrayed by the universe.
“I’m an adult.”
“Then make the adult decision not to faceplant in a Gotham alley.”
Peter freezes.
Frank freezes too.
For several seconds, neither of them says anything.
Peter slowly turns his head.
“What did you just say?”
Frank straightens.
“Gotham.”
“No. Why did you say Gotham?”
Frank’s brow furrows. “I…”
He looks toward the mouth of the alley.
The word had simply come to him.
Not from a memory.
From somewhere nearby.
Peter hears it a second later through Karen’s filters.
A television is playing through an open window several floors above them.
The newscaster’s voice is faint but clear to Peter.
“…Gotham residents are advised to avoid the East End while GCPD responds…”
Peter stops breathing for a second.
“Karen.”
“Yes, Peter?”
“Replay the last five seconds of external audio.”
Karen does.
The newscaster’s voice sounds again through Peter’s hearing aids.
Gotham residents.
Peter stares at Frank.
Frank stares back.
“No,” Peter says.
Frank’s expression hardens.
Peter shakes his head.
“No, because that’s not possible.”
“Apparently neither is you being ten.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet!”
Peter gathers his suit around himself and hurries toward the mouth of the alley as quickly as his shortened legs allow.
Frank catches up immediately.
“Slow down.”
“I need to see.”
“See what?”
“Anything.”
They stop before stepping onto the sidewalk.
The city beyond the alley isn’t New York.
Peter knows that immediately.
The architecture is wrong. Gothic stonework crowds beside modern buildings, gargoyles stare down from rooftops, and the streets seem somehow darker despite the abundance of neon and streetlights. Old elevated tracks cut between buildings farther down the street, while the skyline rises beneath heavy clouds that seem determined to smother every trace of moonlight.
Frank stands beside him, taking in the same view.
Peter’s stomach sinks.
“This looks like Gotham.”
“Yeah.”
“But Gotham isn’t real.”
Frank glances at him. “Neither are aliens from outer space, according to most of the stuff I watched growing up.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.”
Peter looks at him.
“How much DC stuff have you actually read?”
Frank shrugs. “Some comics when I was younger. Shows. Movies.”
Peter blinks.
“Seriously?”
“I’m older than you, not Amish.”
Peter makes a noise that is dangerously close to laughter.
Frank looks at him.
“Something funny?”
“No, it’s just…” Peter presses his lips together, loses the battle, and laughs anyway. “I don’t know why that’s the thing that’s getting me right now.”
“Glad you’re having fun.”
“I’m physically ten, I woke up in an alley, my hearing apparently leveled up while I was unconscious, neither of us remembers how we got here, and now there’s a very real possibility that Batman exists. I think I’m allowed to laugh.”
Frank can’t really argue with that.
Peter’s laughter fades as the last part catches up with him.
“Batman exists.”
“Maybe.”
“No, Frank, if this is actually Gotham, Batman exists.”
“Yeah.”
“And if Batman exists, then—”
“Don’t.”
Peter looks at him.
“We don’t know what version.”
That stops him.
Peter slowly nods.
“Right.”
Their knowledge isn’t reality anymore. Comics contradict one another constantly, movies change details, shows invent their own histories, and universes get rewritten often enough that Peter has personally complained about it while reading them.
Knowing stories about Gotham doesn’t mean they know this Gotham.
Frank reaches the same conclusion.
“Assume nothing.”
“Verify everything.”
Frank nods.
Peter looks back toward the street.
A police cruiser passes the intersection.
The lettering on the side reads GCPD.
“Well,” Peter murmurs, “we’ve verified one thing.”
Frank follows his gaze.
“Yeah.”
Peter adjusts the folds of his enormous Spider-Man suit around himself.
“We’re in Gotham.”
“And you’re ten.”
Peter immediately glares at him.
“Why was that necessary?”
“Establishing facts.”
“I’m still twenty-two.”
“Sure.”
“Frank.”
“Pete.”
Karen interrupts through Peter’s hearing aids before the argument can continue.
“Peter, I believe finding shelter should be considered a priority. Your current body temperature is decreasing.”
Peter looks down at himself.
The rain has soaked almost completely through his suit.
Frank’s attention sharpens immediately.
“Cold?”
“A little.”
Frank takes off his jacket.
Peter sees what he’s doing.
“No.”
“Arms up.”
“Frank, your jacket is going to be enormous on me.”
“That’s the point.”
“I already have one oversized clothing problem.”
“Arms.”
Peter mutters something deeply uncomplimentary but obeys.
Frank wraps the jacket around him, and Peter disappears into it so completely that only his head and the bottoms of his oversized Spider-Man suit remain visible.
Peter looks down at himself.
“This is humiliating.”
“You’re dry.”
“I’m damp.”
“Drier.”
“I hate that you’re technically right.”
“Get used to it.”
Peter looks toward the unfamiliar city again, and whatever response he was about to make dies before reaching his mouth.
They don’t know how they got here.
They don’t know what happened to Peter.
They don’t know whether anyone else came through with them, assuming there was even something to come through.
Peter can remember flashes of a machine, while Frank remembers holding onto something he suspects was Peter, but everything beyond those scattered fragments remains frustratingly out of reach.
Somewhere behind that missing stretch of memory is the answer.
For now, though, Peter has Frank beside him, Karen speaking quietly through his hearing aids, and enough of his powers intact that the situation doesn’t feel entirely hopeless.
Frank puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder.
“We find somewhere safe. Then we figure out what happened.”
Peter nods.
“And maybe pants.”
Frank looks down at the suit Peter is clutching around his waist.
“Pants first.”
Peter sighs.
“Fine. Pants first.”
Together, they step out of the alley and into Gotham.