Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter’s luck was officially shaking hands with the Kraken at the bottom of the ocean. 

All the homeless shelters were closed for the night. Every abandoned building that looked even remotely decent was already taken, and Peter wasn’t exactly eager to repeat the "getting beat with a pipe by a fellow squatter" incident. Once was enough.

So, what options did that leave him with?

Peter eyed a manhole cover. Well, it’s not terrible, and it wouldn’t be the first time… But, well… 

Resolutely, Peter stepped over it, considering his dignity for all of two seconds, before the sky let out a booming crack of thunder, followed by the telltale splatter of even more rain.

“You literally just stopped raining, too!" Peter groaned, staring at the cloudy night sky in betrayal. 

He looked back at the manhole, then back at the sky. Sewers or get soaked. 

Maybe the sewers weren’t so bad after all.

Resigned, Peter lifted the manhole cover and climbed down, bracing himself for the smell. It wasn’t pleasant— Gotham’s sewers were on par with New York’s— but at least it was kind of dry. "Yup, definitely caressing rock bottom right now," he muttered as he huddled into a corner, trying not to think too hard about where he was and how cold it was. 

Maybe eating would help with the cold? Peter had been trying to save the meager amount of food he had— six protein bars, if you were curious— but hunger gnawed at him. Too bad he missed his chance at a free dinner. With a sigh, he cracked open a protein bar and ate it quickly. It was dry and surprisingly peanut buttery. Actually, it wasn’t that bad. 

His stomach growled again. Peter’s face scrunched up in betrayal. He did love peanut butter…

Peter hesitated for a moment before grabbing a second one, devouring it just as quickly. But the gnawing hunger was still there, and the violent shivering never stopped. ‘ Great ,’ he thought, pulling his knees to his chest. ‘Two protein bars down and still feel like a human popsicle.’ 

Peter thought about eating a third granola bar and almost gave in, but figured he probably shouldn’t devour half his meager food supply in one go. Yeah, bad idea, even though his stomach growled in protest. He probably shouldn’t have eaten that second one, now that he thought about it. But he was so hungry .  

‘I could’ve sworn I had better impulse control than this,’ he thought, frowning at the wrapper in his hand. 

He wrapped his arms around himself, feeling a little defeated. Even his powers couldn’t keep the cold at bay.

What kind of hero had being cold as a weakness? 

He adjusted his backpack— which must’ve been water-resilient with how nicely it was holding up— and tried to get comfortable. As comfortable as one could get on the sewer floor, anyway. "At least I’m not getting hit with a pipe again," Peter mumbled, trying to stay positive. "Though if a giant reptile man or mutant turtle shows up, I’m so out of here."

Or maybe Peter could negotiate, split the sewers, have shared custody. Or something.

Peter rolled over. Why the hell is he trying to share custody of a sewer? He seriously needs some sleep. 

—+—

Peter couldn’t fall asleep.

The sewer might have been safer than an abandoned building, but it still felt too exposed, too open. Every echo and drip of water put him on edge, and the cold wasn’t helping. He was shivering so hard he might as well have been vibrating . Any colder and he might just vibrate through the floor! This is all without mentioning the smell . Uncomfortable didn’t even begin to describe it. 

After what felt like hours (it was forty minutes) of tossing and turning, Peter gave in to the unease and crawled up the wall, settling on the ceiling. It was weird— nothing had really changed except his position, but up there, clinging to the ceiling like a spider in a web, he felt... better. Safer. The tension in his muscles eased, his racing thoughts quieted, even if just slightly. 

Even after his move, Peter still spent hours tossing and turning, trying to find some semblance of warmth or comfort, but it was useless. His mind wouldn’t settle, and his body wouldn’t stop shaking. Logically, Peter knew he should’ve taken his damp clothes off and let them dry. But it was so… so jarring how different this body was compared to his own. 

Between the chattering teeth and grumbling stomach, Peter managed to nod off. Not for long, as he’d jolt awake every couple minutes. This was already shaping up to be a bad Sunday.

Or, well, Peter was pretty sure it was supposed to be Sunday? He was understandably having a hard time with, well, time . He’d been in this dimension for what— three days now? It felt a hell of a lot longer than that.

(A quiet, nagging voice in the back of Peter’s mind whispered, asking how long he’d really been in that tube. It was an uncomfortable thought, one that left him cold and green.) 

Frowning, Peter dropped down from the ceiling where he’d been perched. It had been more comfortable than the sewer floor— both in terms of hygiene and literal comfort. It was a little weird to admit. ‘Never thought I’d find a ceiling cozy .’ He could hear traffic picking up from above, meaning Gotham’s gray morning had come.

Patting down his still damp clothes, Peter climbed up the rickety ladder and pushed the manhole cover aside. Luckily, a conveniently placed dumpster blocked the alley entrance, sparing him from having to explain how an eleven-year-old just moved a metal manhole cover like it weighed nothing. ‘ If this world has superheroes, they definitely have mutants,’ Peter thought, stepping out cautiously.

And if there were mutants here, Peter knew all too well how ugly things could get. He'd seen it back home— the fear, the hatred, the way people turned on anyone who was different. It’s what had happened to him. It didn’t take long for paranoia to morph into violence. And if this world was anything like his own, then there was probably a black market for mutants, too. People hunting them, experimenting on them, turning them into tools or entertainment— exotic pets, fight rings, worse .

(Of course, Peter wasn’t a mutant, but rather a mutate . People were rarely educated enough to know the difference, however.)

Peter grimaced as he remembered Peter #2 mentioning that, back in his world, he’d fought in one of those underground rings. Not by choice— just to make ends meet. #2 had laughed it off, tried to make it sound like a joke, but there was something in his eyes when he’d brought it up. 

"Promise me you’ll never do the same," Peter #2 had said, his tone dead serious.

And Peter had promised. He’d meant it, too! There were a lot of lines he’d never cross, and that was definitely one of them. But the fact that it even needed to be said? It made his skin crawl.

Well, there were a lot of lines he thought he’d never cross. 

Besides foot traffic outside of the alley, Peter couldn’t hear anyone near the manhole. Peeking out, Peter was proved right by an empty alley. And, more importantly, he was pleasantly wrong. The sky was mostly blue! That’s a good sign, right? Maybe it’ll be a warm day. Maybe he can get some warm clothes, and a warm breakfast, and have a good day in general! Maybe Karen will fix herself, and he won’t even have to break into that Wayne place! 

…Too hopeful? 

Mr. Stark had often referred to him as somewhat of an optimist (derogatory), and Peter carried that… in mild offense, actually, but what’s he gonna do? Speak ill of the dead? 

He oriented himself, recalling his mental map of the city. His best bet right now was a thrift store— he needed more covert clothes, for his… surprise visit to Wayne Tech tonight. He’s taking a page out of his usual burglar's books. 

That’s right. 

He’s getting a ski mask. 

(Ms. Romanoff would be shaking her head in shame. On the bright side, Clint probably would’ve given him a crisp thumbs-up, so Peter has that going for him.)

It took a couple of wrong turns, getting distracted by a cute cat, and power walking past food vendors, but Peter made his way toward a thrift shop. Peter breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted the store was already open. While the streets certainly weren’t full or anything, it was also still decently early in the morning, and Peter wasn’t sure if Gotham was like New York when it came to shopping. 

The store was surprisingly clean. Not to take a shot at anyone, he just hadn’t really expected it from Gotham. (To be fair, though, he’s been in precisely two not abandoned buildings thus far, one of which was literally a homeless shelter.) Inside, there were two employees. One bustling about, setting up for the day. And the other by the cashier station, probably making sure they weren’t robbed during the night or something. The cashier glanced over at Peter with a hand hovering under the counter. Peter could feel the man’s suspicious glare follow him across the store. Not exactly rolling out the welcome wagon here. Peter gave an awkward wave because he definitely smelled a gun on the cashier.

‘Thirty-three bucks… I can stretch that. Just wish I knew the tax rate around here.’

He made his way over to the jacket section, scanning the prices. A nice, thick black hoodie caught his eye— it looked really warm and comfy... Which was irrelevant! He needed discreteness! 

His red thunderbolt hoodie, which had been a comfort at first, was now soggy. Like a sock and a melting ice cube. Uncomfortable enough to be considered a crime. He’d need to find a laundromat soon— no way was he risking smelling like mildew . He’d sooner go insane. Or, more accurately, he’d sooner smell like sewage. 

Peter had standards, thank you very much. Weird, arbitrary standards that no one could quite decipher, but standards nonetheless. 

As he browsed, he knew he’d need more than just clothes. Real shelter would be the next priority— somewhere no one else knew about, somewhere he could stash his stuff and maybe even stay for a while. At least, until he figured out how he was gonna do this. Living on the streets long-term wasn’t an option. He frowned, trying to think of how Aunt May would handle all of this. She’d always taken care of the money stuff back when they were scraping by.

The only money Peter ever had to handle was his lunch money. 

(and pre-bite, it was constantly stolen anyway)

‘Maybe I could create some kind of digital guardian for myself,’ he mused, brow furrowed. ‘How would I even start with that? Sounds hard…’ He was not confident in his ability to create a flawless fake identity. That sounded like something out of one of those spy movies he’d seen. Wiping a computer? Sure, easy-peasy. Forging legal documents, a paper trail, and then make them eligible to foster/adopt him? Iffy area. Peter was lucky enough to have spawned here with at least some pre existing evidence of existence. Plus, that was all without the other legal issue of him being declared missing and likely deceased.  

Peter would probably muck it up. Karen could do it, though.

Peter squinted at the price tag on another black hoodie. Fourteen bucks. In New York? That’d be a steal. But here? He wasn’t sure if that was the average. He’d have to compare prices, find a way to preserve as much of his looted money as possible. Maybe he’d get a job, or... become good enough at hacking to swipe a couple hundred from some corrupt millionaire?

The thought left a bad taste in his mouth. Stealing, as a hero?

But, then again, it wasn’t like Peter was Spider-Man right now either.

Was he ever a hero?

Peter sighed, shaking the thought off. If he could just get Karen fixed up properly, she’d have all the angles covered, especially on things like this. Mr. Stark had protocols for everything . For now, though, he had to be smart, careful— and maybe, if the universe didn’t mind doing him a solid, a wee bit lucky.

He held onto the hoodie and continued browsing, politely ignoring the workers burning a hole in his back. 

Peter made for a suspicious sight, fluttering about the small store, checking prices while noticeably damp and obviously carrying his life in a backpack. He’d be lucky if he leaves this place without CPS being called. 

Shirts and pants seemed to sit in the five to eight dollar range, and jackets and shoes in the ten to fifteen range. Peter winced. This was gonna hurt. 

He tracked down a thinner eleven-dollar black hoodie, and a two-dollar Halloween mask. The kind that only covered your lower mouth and was cloth. Peter was man enough to admit he picked it because it had faded white spider webs, but he really did need a… non-suspicious mask to buy. 

“Great,” he muttered, glancing at his reflection in the cracked mirror nearby. “Just enough disguise to look slightly sketchier.”

Gloves might have been an absolute must for some, but Peter wouldn’t need them. See, his stickiness came at the low, low prince of his fingerprint. Or, well, most of them. Peter uses some parts of his hand to stick more than others, but he still has some partial prints. Not nearly enough to be fingerprinted (he hoped, anyways. This world’s Peter Parker seemed to have a bit of a criminal record. One that was no doubt in order to survive, but hopefully he wasn’t fingerprinted just because of that. It’s a hit or miss, since he doesn’t exactly remember .) 

Lastly, Peter needed something to cover his eyes. 

If it was his choice, he’d be in a full face mask. His original plan for a suspicious-ass ski mask would’ve been great. But, get this , there was a statewide ban in New Jersey that prohibited the sale of ski masks or anything similar, due to the sheer amount of crime and robberies. They had a paper taped up on the window about it! 

Not that it would make people stop using them, or even stop crime, but it was kind of funny. 

Point was: Full masks solve every possible issue when committing a crime. Including, but not limited to, being a vigilante. 

It’d keep his DNA off everything, minimizing the chances of some Gotham vigilante snatching a strand of hair or some blood and unraveling his whole spider-person secret. DNA was a liability, and his experience fighting crime had taught him that every little strand, every tiny smear could be a ticking time bomb if left behind. (Case and point; Mr. Stark. The man pulled up to his apartment, charmed his aunt, and confronted Peter with video proof and asking which parent was the spider. Super awkward.) 

But he’d settle for a little Halloween spider mask, and some funky clunky goggles that were a little too big. Another two dollars. 

That makes the total fifteen, without tax. Ouch, Peter internally winced. 

Peter approached a register, waiting in a small line from the very few customers. 

With tax, he came out to sixteen twenty-one. Peter sighed. He only bought three things. 

Peter eyed the gas masks sold with sad eyes. He wasn’t sure why they just sold a whole wall worth of gas masks, but they would’ve done a much better job at being a functional mask than his cheap alternatives. The cheapest one was twenty-five dollars, though, and that number was big enough to scare Peter off. 

While paying, Peter’s hand might have shaken minutely. He was hungry, getting a headache, and about to spend money . Forgive his jitters. 

He shot the guy a friendly, awkward smile. “Hey, morning. Just here for the essentials.” He patted his jacket, mask, and goggles as if this would somehow make him seem less suspicious.

“Right,” the cashier said slowly, his eyes narrowing as he rang up Peter’s items. “ Essentials .”

Peter handed over his cash, carefully counted out, and shrugged with a forced grin. “I know. Big spender. It’s my day to treat myself.”

The cashier grunted, bagging the items and sliding them across the counter. “New York?” Peter must have misheard the disgust in his voice. 

“Yeah, just passing through,” Peter replied, nodding like he totally knew where he was going. “You know how it is. Gotham… lovely place. Great ambiance. Good lighting, if you’re into moody shadows.”

“Mm-hmm,” the cashier muttered, eyes hard. “Just… keep out of trouble, yeah? This city eats kids like you for breakfast.” It was concealed, but Peter caught the man’s concerned once over. While appreciated, Peter hoped he wasn’t an “activist” kind of concerned. He did not need to be hunted for sport by CPS, thank you very much. 

Peter held up his bag, giving the man (what he hoped) was a casual salute. “Oh, trouble? Not me. Low-profile’s practically my middle name!”

Peter coughed awkwardly as the cashier just stared at him, eyebrows raised in a look that screamed supremely unimpressed. The guy had the aura of a disappointed dad who’d seen it all and wasn’t buying a single excuse. Peter knew that look. In fact, it reminded him of—

Wait. Had he ever met his dad?

Peter’s face fell, and he blinked, suddenly thrown off. Yes. No. He… He’d definitely met his dad, right? He was a good man, from what he remembered. From the stories Uncle Ben told him. Fuzzy flashes of memories drifted in his mind— a laugh, being tucked in, his childhood nickname. 

Yeah, yeah he met his dad. He loved Peter. Ben made sure he knew that. How could he ever mix that up?

Rubbing his eyes, Peter tried to shake off the fog in his head. Man, he had to be more out of it than he realized. Not to mention hungry. His stomach grumbled in agreement, reminding him humans do actually have to eat. ‘ Get it together, man,’ he chided himself, gripping the bag a little tighter.

He forced a smile back onto his face, nodded at the cashier, and made his way out the door. He just gotta track down the homeless shelter in East End, and scarf down whatever was for breakfast. and clear his head. This wasn’t the time for memory problems. He’d been in Gotham less than a week, and the last thing he needed was to start spacing out.

Peter shoved his newly acquired thief apparel in his bag, fighting the zipper closed valiantly. Pulling out his trusty map, Peter began his march to his long-awaited destination. 

Breakfast. 

—+—

Peter walked into the shelter nervously, his steps hesitant, but he was pleasantly surprised to find the place relatively empty. Call Peter a bird, because it seems he was early! (Get it? C’mon, that had to be at least a little funny!) Red Hood had said the Wayne shelters were safe, and for once, Peter decided to trust someone else's word. He didn’t have a lot of options, or a spidey-sense to direct him. And more importantly, he needed to eat. That sealed the deal.

The smell of warm food hit his nose, and Peter's stomach growled audibly. A sound so comically loud that a couple of volunteers glanced his way. His face flushed, but the embarrassment didn’t stop him from being one of the first in line.

The lady who handed him his food had smiled kindly and added an extra scoop of potatoes to his plate, but her sad, pitying look had Peter's skin crawling. He appreciated the gesture, sure, but… He doesn’t know. Peter hates being pitied. It must be in his DNA or something. 

(Uncle Ben always said Peter got his smarts from his mom and his stubbornness from his dad. Then, in that classic Ben Parker way, he’d chuckle and add, “Bein’ stubborn is fine, kid— but sometimes it lands ya’ in a tight spot. That’s when you gotta lean on the smarts your mom gave ya’.” Peter wasn’t sure he’d ever really taken that advice to heart.)

Still, the food helped. His head felt a little less fuzzy now, and the meal's warmth settled in his stomach like a small comfort. He glanced around, surprised by how many people had trickled in while he was eating. Not all of them seemed homeless. Some looked like they worked nearby and just stopped in for breakfast. Others, like Peter, were clearly using the shelter to get by. For now! It… he related. He wished instead of needing the help, he could be on the other side of the counter, helping. 

After finishing, Peter lingered for a while. He didn’t really know what else to do with himself. He helped clean up, mostly as a way to keep his hands busy, and a lot of the older women volunteering at the shelter doted on him like he was a lost puppy. He smiled and nodded, accepting their compliments about how “darling” he was, but inwardly, he felt hollow. He wasn’t staying to be polite; he was… He wanted to feel useful. Like he’s done something or helped someone. He did it to make himself feel better. 

It’s what Spider-Man would’ve done, right? 

He scratched his arm absentmindedly as he wandered toward the door, his mind a jumble of thoughts. No school to go to. No homework to stress over. No friends to meet up with. No vigilante suit hidden under his locker. No Mr. Delmar to banter with. No picking up Morgan from school.

His skin began to itch.

Karen buzzed faintly in his ear, her presence a small comfort. At least he still had her. 

Was he always this... low ? Dependent ? Peter had always been the glass-half-full kind of guy, the one who cracked jokes and kept going no matter how bad things got. (Another thing his Uncle had said reminded him of his dad— not that Peter particularly remembered.) 

Lately, though, everything felt heavier. The negativity in his head was amplified, echoing louder than it ever had before. And, yeah, he’d lost a lot— everything, really. Not to throw himself a pity party, but almost everyone Peter had ever loved was either dead or got the equivalent to a magical car wash for brains. (Brain wash? Brain-wash? A brain that has been washed. To hyphen, or not to hyphen, that is the question. Everything is better with a hyphen...)

Peter went to use the bathroom and brush his teeth. This body still had baby teeth, after all. His musings continued. 

But it was more than that. He felt off . Like everything around him was moved two inches to the left. Did that make sense? Probably not. Was he losing it? Maybe. Was this Dr. Strange’s magic messing with his head? Or maybe the side effects of that green, goopy Lazarus water he’d been dunked in nonconsensually? 

‘God, I really hope being magicked to another universe doesn’t cause permanent damage,’ Peter thought, running a hand through his hair as he made his way out of the shelter. ‘Probably.’ is the answer he settled on. 

He tilted his head in thought, the word Lazarus echoing in his mind. A funky name for a chemical, sure, but it sounded familiar. Not the effects—those were wild, bringing people back from the brink of death — but the name itself. Lazarus, Lazarus, Lazarus…

“Ugh, I wish I had my phone right now,” he groaned, stuffing his hands into his (finally dry!) pockets.

Peter waved goodbye to the volunteers as he stepped out into the cold Gotham morning. The sun had just started to peek through the clouds, casting a faint golden glow over the East End. His finger itched for a camera. 

Peter squished his cheeks, forcing himself to concentrate. ‘ Focus, Peter,’ he told himself. ‘ You’ve got bigger problems than this! ‘

He felt a little guilty for planning to break into Wayne Tech, considering the fact he’s benefiting heavily from their shelters, but he’ll make it up to them! Somehow… 

Until then, he might as well check out the area, and find a nice place to sleep tonight! He’s got this, should be pretty simple, right? 

—+—

Reality check: not as simple as previously thought.

Peter found Wayne Tech— that part was easy. But then came the waiting. And waiting. And even more waiting. Who the hell was letting these people stay and work so freaking late ?

Like, excuse his French, but Jesus fucking Christ , do these people not have families? Hobbies? Literally anything better to do? He’d had enough time to explore more of East End, head back to the shelter for dinner, get lost, almost get mugged (again), and still make it back to the building across from Wayne Tech… only to see the lights still blazing and Gotham’s most hardcore overachievers grinding away like their lives depended on it.

Meanwhile, Peter was freezing his ass off in the winter cold, huddled in an alley and stalking this building like the world’s saddest burglar-in-training. His fingers burned from the chill, his layers doing absolutely nothing to block the wind, and, worst of all, he was starting to think he’d have to wait all night.

But at least Peter wasn’t idle— nope, he was putting his downtime to good use. Like trying to practice turning invisible, and see if he has any other additions. Like, perchance, cool bio spinnerets in his wrists like Peter #2. (It’d save him so much money on web supplies!) 

He’d done it a couple of times before, totally by accident, but now that he was actually trying to control it? Yeah… No dice. It reminded him of how hard it was to control his strength after the bite. 

He stared hard at his arm, willing himself to fade. “C’mon weird alternate powers, work with me,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes in concentration. “Invisible. Think stealthy thoughts. Blend into the shadows like a ninja. Black Widow training. Disappearing to get milk.”

Nothing. His arm stayed stubbornly visible, fingers and all.

Peter groaned, dropping his head back against the cold brick wall. ‘ How the hell do I trigger this?’ It had happened when he was freaked out before— like, super high-stress situations— but what was he supposed to do now? Start screaming until his body decides to cooperate? 

…Actually, that didn’t sound all bad. Sounds stress-relieving, too. 

“Real helpful, Spider-Powers,” he grumbled under his breath. “You pick the worst times to stop working.” Goes for double, now. First his spidey-sense, now this new random power? The only thing he can count on is his stickiness at this point! 

A gust of wind bit through his hoodies, and Peter shivered, pulling the fabric tighter around himself. He glanced back at Wayne Tech, his eyes narrowing as another worker strolled casually by the window. “If I ever figure this invisibility thing out, I’m gonna haunt every single one of you,” he muttered, flexing his fingers.

For now, though, he was stuck. Cold, visible, and debating whether or not to risk climbing the building while it was still lit up like a Christmas tree.

… 

‘Alright, screw it. ’

What’s the worst that can happen? 

Peter paced around the side of the building, glancing up at the walls as he ran through his options. He could just climb it. (Screw the cameras, and especially screw the people still inside.) Pop a window open, slip in, find any computer with enough processing power to handle Karen, and get this over with. 

The problem? This world seemed a little… behind. What were the odds Wayne Tech even had the tech he needed? What were the odds he’d have to do this again ?

“Gods, that’d suck so bad, ” Peter said to himself, like a sane person. 

He found himself near the back of the building, sticking close to a corner where the shadows were thickest. It wasn’t ideal, but maybe it’d keep him out of sight. Peter tilted his head, contemplating his next move as a soft gust of wind bit through his hoodie. Hoodies , plural. That’s right, he layered and he’s still cold. He hates Winter, if he hasn't already said that. 

Thankfully, the corners were properly reinforced and made out of concrete instead of glass windows. Being sticky is awesome, but not everything gets to enjoy being stuck to. 

“Alright, Parker,” he whispered to himself. “Time to do what you do best: wing it.” 

Peter crouched in the shadow of the building, breath fogging in the cold air, and rubbed his hands together for warmth. "Alright, Wayne Tech," he muttered, flexing his fingers before pressing them to the icy wall. "Let’s get this over with. I’m just here to fix Karen, not uncover some big Gotham conspiracy."

With a quiet grunt, he started scaling the building. The climb wasn’t hard, but man, it was cold. The wind cut through his layers, stinging his face and numbing his hands. He gritted his teeth, wishing for the hundredth time that he’d just bitten the bullet and bought some gloves. "Oh no, gloves’ll ruin the feel, " he mocked himself under his breath. "Great call. Now you have frozen meat sticks for fingers."

He clung to the side of the building, peeking into windows as he climbed. So far, nothing promising— just rows of cubicles and people still hunched over their desks. ‘ Like, no, seriously, who works this late?’ He kept moving, trying to stay low as he passed another lit window.

His luck held out until he made it to a larger window where a man in a rumpled suit sat typing furiously. Just as Peter began to climb past, the man stretched, turned, and locked eyes with him.

Peter froze.

There was a long, excruciating moment where they just stared at each other, neither moving. Peter could feel his heart hammering in his chest.

He scrambled upward, his hands and feet slipping on the cold glass as he haphazardly climbed. The icy wind stung his face, and the effort made his muscles scream, but he didn’t stop until he was three floors higher. Finally, he paused, pressing himself flat against the building.

“Oh, goodie,” he wallowed, panting slightly. “Totally inconspicuous. I’m sure he won’t mention the guy crawling up the building like a giant gecko.” Peter paused. “They better not start calling me Gecko-Man. Or worse, Geckoman .” 

The wind picked up again, howling between the skyscrapers, and Peter shivered, regretting the existence of winter. 

By the time he reached the forty-something floor, his arms felt like jelly, but the faint glow from one window caught his eye. He peeked inside and saw exactly what he needed— big, beefy computers humming softly in the dimly lit lab. ‘Like music to my ears.’

“Finally,” Peter huffed, arms shaky from climbing some forty odd floors. 

He stuck one hand to the glass and pressed down hard, using his free hand to pry the window open. Without his webs, it took a bit more elbow grease than usual, but after a few tries, the latch popped, and he slipped inside. The room was mercifully empty, the steady hum of machines the only sound.

Peter dropped his backpack onto a desk and pulled out Karen’s bracelet, wincing as his frozen fingers fumbled with the cable. "Alright, Karen, let’s get you doctored up," he said, plugging the drive into one of the computers. He tapped a few keys and waited as the screen flickered to life.

And waited.

And waited .

Man, what is with the waiting tonight? (He waited for four minutes.) 

“Karen?” he said, frowning at the sluggish progress bar. “You in there? Or is the tech so far behind you’re insulted?”

The screen finally blinked, white text appearing briefly. “System reboot initiated. Please wait.”

Well, at least the text wasn’t all jumbled like last time? 

Peter groaned, flopping into the nearest chair and rubbing his frozen hands together again. “Oh, take your time. It’s not like the police haven’t already been called. I just know that dude was a snitch.” He glanced back at the window, half expecting someone to burst through it. 

“Hmm, something like that, I suppose,” a voice purred from the shadows, smooth and teasing like silk brushing over steel. 

How did he not—? Right, spidey-silent treatment. Damn it, he jinxed it. 

Peter nearly jumped out of his skin, scrambling to his feet so fast he almost tripped over the chair. His heart hammered in his chest as his eyes darted around the dimly lit room, trying to pinpoint where the voice had come from. Peter subtly shifted into a better fighting stance as he spun around. 

His skin began to tingle. Bad timing, but better late than never? 

“Who’s—” his voice cracked embarrassingly, and he cleared his throat, trying again, “Who’s there?” Great. That’s exactly the tone you want when confronted by someone in Gotham. Very intimidating, guaranteed to send them packing in fear. 

A low, velvety chuckle slid out from the dark corner of the room, and Peter caught the faintest shimmer of light reflecting off black latex. Slowly, a woman stepped into view, moving with the kind of grace that made him feel like a clumsy toddler. Her goggles glinted in the low light, and the whip coiled at her hip was almost as menacing as the sharp smile she wore. 

His first thought was Ms. Romanoff, but she’s dead. She’s been dead.

Which, side note, but really ? Black latex? In winter ? Peter shivered just thinking about it. 

“You know,” she said, her voice light and teasing, “most people tend to avoid breaking into a Wayne building. Especially amateurs .” 

Peter swallowed hard, forcing himself to stand his ground, even though his legs felt like jelly and he was still rattled about not being able to sense her. “Yeah, well, the security isn’t so great,” he shot back, trying to sound braver than he felt. “And what can I say? I’m a big fan of bad decisions.”

She tilted her head, taking a slow step forward, her heels clicking softly against the floor. “Cute. But you set off every possible alarm, including a witness. Not the usual kind of thief,” She took another step, circling him now, her eyes sharp and predatory. “Too scruffy. Too nervous. And definitely too loud.”

Peter winced, thankful for his faded spider mask and oversized goggles. Ouch, and here he was thinking he had done an ok job (besides the witness) sneaking in. Ms. Romanoff would’ve been shaking her head in dismay at Peter’s impatience, he can see it now. 

Peter glanced at her head, spotting… cat ears? He’s only heard about birds and bats, since when was there a cat lady? She definitely moves like a cat, anyway. A mutant or a therian? It’s a hard call. (Or, well, what did they call mutants in this world? Meta, like facebook? Capitalism is everywhere .) 

Peter turned to keep her in his sights, the computer screen at his back now, Karen’s sluggish reboot progress taunting him. “Wow, thanks for the pep talk,” he said, trying to inject some bravado into his voice. “Are you gonna start handing out life advice next, or is the dramatic circling your whole thing?”

Cat lady laughed again, soft and throaty, like she was savoring a private joke at his expense. “Oh, I definitely like you,” she said, circling him slowly. Her boots made barely a sound on the polished floor, each step deliberate, her movements so smooth they put Peter’s nerves on high alert. “Quick with the mouth, even when you’re scared out of your wits. I bet you’re one of those people who talks when they’re nervous. Am I right?”

Peter bristled, forcing his arms to stay crossed even as his instincts screamed at him to bolt. “What can I say? It’s a gift,” he said, trying for casual and landing closer to defensive.

She stopped near the desk again, picking up a stray pen and idly twirling it between her gloved fingers. “So, what’s your angle here, kid? Breaking and entering for the thrill? Or are you after something… specific?” Her gaze flicked over him, assessing, before settling on the computer behind him.

Peter shuffled slightly, putting himself more squarely between her and the screen, though the sheer size of the thing made that a laughable attempt. At his silence, she shrugged, moving to a nearby desk and picking up a framed family photo, studying it critically before setting it down. Peter thought he saw her snag a pen, too.  

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, her tone light but pointed. “I’m not much for playing vigilante.” Her lips curled, like she was savoring some private amusement. “I’m more a fan of a good game of Bat and Cat .”

Peter frowned, tilting his head slightly. ‘ Is that a reference to the vigilantes here, or is this another difference like the Schrödinger's dog thing?’  

She straightened and began circling him again, her movements slow and deliberate, like a cat toying with its prey. The suit theme is really starting to make sense. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that. Skills aren’t bad, besides lying…” Cat lady hummed, leaning to the left as she appraised Peter. “Hmmm… Yeah, you’re lucky the Big Bad Bat is out of town.” What was that supposed to mean? Does the guy revel in beating up kids or something?

“You’ve got potential. A little rough around the edges, maybe, but… potential.” She was circling him again, her movements fluid and predatory, her gaze flicking between his face and the computer. “You’ve got guts, but that’ll only get you so far in Gotham.”

Peter crossed his arms tighter, his previous fear morphing into irritation. “I should hope I have guts, wouldn’t be very good if I didn’t,” he snarked, rolling his eyes for his own satisfaction more than anything.

She paused mid-step, her lips twitching as if she couldn’t decide whether to smirk or laugh outright. “You remind me of a certain bratty baby bird,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement over something Peter was clearly missing context for. “Cute.” 

Peter bristled at that. “I— cute !?” he blurted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

Peter was not cute! He was crafty and cool and part fricken spider . Cute shouldn’t be a descriptor, like, ever! 

That earned her full, rich laughter as she leaned back against the desk, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh, you’re definitely adorable,” she said, and Peter got the sinking feeling that she didn’t mean it so much as she just wanted to see him squirm. “Adorable and completely out of your depth. But hey, we all start somewhere.”

Peter huffed, his eyes darting briefly to the progress bar on the screen behind him. Still crawling. “Look, I don’t know what you’re after, but I’m kind of on a schedule here, so if you’re gonna call me names, can we speed it up? Maybe stick to something cooler, like… I don’t know, mysterious or dashing?”

Her grin widened, all teeth now, but her tone sharpened slightly, even as it stayed light. “Oh, I could think of a few more names for you, kid. But for now?” She straightened, her gloved hand brushing briefly against the whip at her hip. “Let’s make one thing clear— you don’t play cat burglar in the Cat’s territory. Got it?”

Peter blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “I’m not—” He hesitated, then shifted awkwardly. “I mean, technically, I’m not stealing anything!” 

Her head tilted, her smirk softening into something far more dangerous. “Maybe not tonight. But if I catch you prowling around my streets again, we’re going to have a much less charming conversation.”

He swallowed hard, his earlier bravado slipping. “Right. Message received. Loud and clear.” He awkwardly saluted, then promptly cringed. 

She took a step toward the window, her movements deliberate and fluid, like she had all the time in the world. “Gotham’s claws are sharper than mine, kid,” she said, her voice dropping lower, almost a purr. “Stick to your own web, or you’ll find out just how unforgiving this city can be.”

Peter watched as she slipped back into the shadows, her parting chuckle hanging in the air like smoke.

Peter felt dumb, the interaction being picked apart now that he wasn’t flustered. He treated the Cat lady (probably should’ve spent less rambling and more time asking her who the hell she was) like she was one of his rogues, and not a complete stranger and wild card. He doesn’t know her strengths or weaknesses, and he definitely doesn’t know her well enough to be playfully bantering . 

Like, sure, he’s a nervous rambler, but he fought in a war! He wrestled with Thanos! He died ! All he’s saying is he could’ve handled that interaction with way more finesse. 

Peter sniffed. 

He was Spider-Man . He wasn’t cute. 

Looking back at the progress bar, Peter sulked over to a spinny chair. 

‘Stupid Strange…’

 —+—

The Justice League’s meeting room hummed with quiet tension as the hastily assembled members sat around the long, gleaming table. Batman, seated at the head, tapped a finger against the smooth surface. What might have been a nervous tick from anyone else only served to heighten the room’s anxiety. His sharp eyes narrowed as they skimmed over the projection of reports floating in the air above the table— each one just as sparse, inconclusive, and utterly frustrating.

It had been a week since The Flash— along with the other speedsters— panickedly called an emergency meeting. A sort of… anomaly had sent an unprecedented ripple through the Speedforce, a shockwave that no one could explain. At first, they thought it might have been a fluke, something brief and contained, like when Impulse came around. But the Speedforce didn’t work that way, and The Flash’s frantic insistence ensured no one could treat this as trivial.

What had started as a ripple a week ago turned into something much worse. Seventy-two hours ago, a wave had come crashing through the Speedforce, an intense surge of energy that left the speedsters reeling. The aftershocks weren’t just felt by The Flash and the others—they could be tracked by seismic sensors, faint but detectable, like the world itself shuddered in response.

“This makes the fifth sweep,” Batman said, breaking the heavy silence. His voice was low and curt, the clipped tone underscoring his frustration. “No leads. Nothing to indicate what or who triggered this anomaly.”

The Flash, the only speedster present with Wally and Bart running literal circles around the world currently, leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table as his fingers laced together tightly. He looked tired, his normally vibrant energy dimmed by the weight of the past week. “And I’m telling you, it wasn’t just a ripple. It was like someone took the Speedforce, crumpled it up, and threw it back out of sync. Do you know how much power that takes? To disrupt the Speedforce without breaking everything ?”

He gestured toward the reports with one hand, frustration leaking into his voice. “All our timeline tethers are unaffected— practically untouched. That’s not supposed to be possible. Whatever’s happening is isolated to our timeline, and nothing is crossing over into the others. That doesn’t— that doesn’t just happen .”

Wonder Woman, seated near the center of the table, rested her chin on her interlaced fingers, her expression calm but analytical. “Could this be an internal anomaly? A disturbance caused by something within the Speedforce itself, or perhaps a rogue?”

The Flash shook his head vehemently. “No. The Speedforce doesn’t create this kind of chaos by itself. It’s reacting to something external— something that doesn’t belong. I can feel it, like a… like a crack in a dam that’s barely holding back the water. The problem is…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening as his irritation mounted. His brain working faster than he could get the words out, leaving him gesticulating frustratedly.

Superman leaned forward slightly, his posture steady and reassuring as his deep voice filled the space. “The problem is what, Flash?”

The Flash exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “The problem is, well, whatever’s causing this isn’t leaving a trace. I’ve checked the timeline tethers, the residual energies, the points of contact— everything’s clean. No breach. No entry point. It’s like it just… dropped in.”

Green Lantern, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying something powerful enough to knock the Speedforce around just popped in with no signs, no warnings, and no breadcrumbs? What is this, magic pixie dust?”

The Flash shot him an annoyed look. “Not pixie dust. And yes, it just dropped in. Like…” He trailed off helplessly, like the universe would plop the right words on his lap. 

Green Lantern smirked faintly, clearly enjoying getting a rise out of him. “Relax, Speedy, I’m just trying to keep up. You’re throwing out a lot of science-y gibberish for the rest of us mortals here.”

Batman’s glare cut through the banter, silencing Green Lantern with one sharp glance. Wonder Woman took the opportunity to press further. “You said it didn’t belong in our timeline. Are you certain?”

The Flash nodded, his brow furrowed. “Positive. It wasn’t just the ripple itself— it was the aftermath. It’s— uh, well, something foreign is sitting in the Speedforce, sort of… stabilizing it? I can feel it, like… a splinter stuck in a wound. It’s not destroying anything, but it’s not supposed to be there either.”

Superman’s brows drew together. “If it’s stable, at least temporarily, does that mean it could destabilize? Cause further damage?”

The Flash sighed, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the sucky part. It’s not causing major problems now, but the longer it’s there, the higher the chance it could throw things off balance again. And if magic is involved…”

Batman cut in, his voice sharper now. “Then we’re working blind. We can’t keep speculating. We need concrete leads.”

“Leads on what?” Aquaman asked, exasperation leaking into his voice. “We don’t even know if this thing’s a person, a machine, or some freak cosmic event!”

“Then we find out,” Batman said, standing abruptly. His shadow stretched across the room as his voice grew colder. “Because if this is a threat to the timeline— or to the Speedforce— it’s only a matter of time before it grows into something we can’t control.”

Superman raised a hand, his tone steady but firm. “Batman, we can’t treat this like an enemy without more information. If it’s something— or someone— displaced, we need to approach this with caution, not aggression.”

The Flash nodded in agreement. “Whatever caused the ripple isn’t outright malicious, or we’d have seen fallout already. It’s like it… it’s like—” Flash gestured wildly, no one really understanding except Superman, who nodded along like he made all the sense in the world.

“I don’t think it’s actively trying to mess with the Speedforce, is what I’m trying to say. It’s—”

“—Stabilizing itself, right? So it’s a… guest, not an invader?” He glanced around at the others. “Still doesn’t mean it won’t trash the place.” Green Lantern leaned forward, a skeptical look on his face.

Wonder Woman leaned forward, her voice calm but commanding. “Then we find it before it destabilizes, and before someone else has the chance to find it first.”

Batman’s jaw tightened, but he gave a curt nod. “Agreed.” He rose to his feet, his cape sweeping around him as he straightened, his presence commanding as ever. The rest of the League followed suit, their chairs scraping faintly against the polished floor as they stood.

“The Flash,” Batman began, his tone brisk and precise, “coordinate with the Flash and Impulse. Keep monitoring the Speedforce and report any fluctuations immediately. Superman,” he turned to the Kryptonian, “you’re already monitoring global frequencies. Expand your range. If this ripple has a physical manifestation, I want to know about it before anyone else.” 

Superman nodded. “Understood. I’ll keep my focus on regions with high-level energy signatures. Wonder Woman, I’d suggest you work with the Amazons to review their archives— see if there’s any historical precedent for a magical disturbance like this.”

Wonder Woman inclined her head. “I’ll send word immediately. If there’s anything buried in the texts, they’ll find it.”

Superman continued, his voice steady and deliberate. “Aquaman, you should have your people monitor for underwater anomalies. If this ripple is affecting both land and sea, Atlantis’s sensors might pick up something we’ve missed.”

Aquaman nodded, his expression serious. “I’ll handle it. If it’s in the ocean, we’ll find it.”

Batman gave a short nod, then straightened, his gaze sweeping across the table. “We need to send out an update to all available members with relevant expertise. That includes anyone with knowledge of magic, mystical artifacts, or interdimensional phenomena— Raven, Zatanna, Constantine, even Doctor Fate if he’s accessible.”

Green Lantern raised an eyebrow. “Constantine? You sure that’s a good idea? The guy’s not exactly a team player.”

“He doesn’t need to be,” Batman replied curtly. “He just needs to contribute.”

“While we’re at it, I want you to monitor anything that might indicate extraterrestrial involvement. Check the sectors under Lantern jurisdiction for anomalies— cosmic disturbances, uncharted objects, or movement through unmonitored spatial corridors. Anything unusual gets flagged and reported immediately.”

Green Lantern gave a lazy salute, but his tone stayed professional. “Got it. Alien weirdness is my specialty.”

Superman leaned slightly toward Batman, his tone inoffensive in the you’re-definitely-gonna-get-offended way. “What about Gotham? Your team there could—”

“No.” Batman cut him off, his voice sharp. “Gotham stays out of this.”

There was a beat of silence as the League exchanged uncertain glances. Wonder Woman tilted her head, her brows knitting slightly. “Bruce, you don’t think Nightwing, Batgirl, or even Red Robin might have insights to offer? They’ve dealt with magic before.”

“They’re not needed here,” Batman said, his tone brooking no argument. “This situation doesn’t involve Gotham, and I won’t pull them away from their assignments for something outside their scope.”

Green Lantern huffed, leaning back in his chair. “Translation: ‘ I’m emotionally constipated and don’t want anyone digging into my territory.’ Got it.” It’s a joke Flash would’ve normally laughed about with him, but he’s understandably running on fumes and pure mania. 

Batman ignored the jab, his expression as unreadable as ever. “This is a League matter. Gotham doesn’t need to be involved unless it becomes absolutely necessary. The update goes to relevant parties only.”

Superman exhaled quietly, clearly holding back another suggestion, before nodding. “Fine. I’ll draft the update and send it to the names we’ve listed.”

Batman shifted his attention back to his global statistics, checking to see if they’ve changed in the last four minutes. “I will be tracking magical disturbances.”

There was a beat of silence before The Flash frowned, pausing mid bite in confusion. “Wait— how are we supposed to monitor magical disturbances? No offense, but you’re not exactly Doctor Fate, y’know.”

Aquaman tilted his head, his confusion evident. “Yeah, Bruce. You got some kind of secret Bat-magic detector we don’t know about?”

Even Wonder Woman looked mildly puzzled, her brows drawing together as she waited for an explanation.

Batman stood motionless for a moment, the faintest shift in his posture betraying his response. It was one they’d received many a’time instead of an actual answer. 

Then, in a voice as dry and pointed as a blade, he said simply, “I’m Batman.”

Green Lantern blinked, staring at him. “... Yeah, should’ve expected that by now.”

“Works for me,” Superman said with a small, knowing smile.

Aquaman and Wonder Woman laughed lightly as they made their way to the Zeta tubes.

Batman ignored the comments, already turning on his heel. “Let’s move.”

—+—

Peter sneezed abruptly, nearly tumbling out of the spinny chair where he lay upside down. He glared at the computer, as if it might have the answer.

“Someone’s shit talking me. I can feel it.”