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Chapter Text

Nightwatch.   Nineth hour. Transcribing recording…

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O319: 42            RW17      At three eighteen west side clear over

O319: 45            RW12     Just getting in through um east entrance over

O319: 46            RW9       East side clear have visual on RW12 Mirano over

O319: 49            RW17    RW8 please report over

O319: 53            RW8      Here RW8 Lewis over

O319: 54            RW8      North clear over

O320: 05            RW14    Here RW14 Rivera beginning first round at three twenty over

O321: 34            RW9      Moving to north side through east over

O322: 11            RW17    Is east side unsupervised over

O322: 13            RW12    RW12 Mirano in position beginning watch at three twenty-two over

O322: 50            RW9      RW8 Lewis what color is your flashlight over

O322: 54            RW8      White light ah faded over

O322: 56            RW9      Approaching your position northeast clear over

O322: 49            RW8      I have visual RW9 Porter

O322: 57            RW17    Anyone has visual on northwest over

O323: 02            RW8      Negative a tree knocked over the streetlight on the corner of ah right at                        the northwest corner sharp over

O323: 15            RW17    W14 Rivera do copy over

O323: 17            RW14    Here RW14 Rivera I copy over

O323: 19            RW17    Move to the blind point RW14 report any activity over

O323: 21            RW14    Copy that RW17 moving to northwest from section c over

O324: 38            RW12    Is anyone um near the ah north entrance over

O324: 41            RW8      Ah negative RW12 over

O324: 42            RW17    Negative over

O324: 47            RW14    RW12 please repeat

O324: 50            RW12    Anyone near the north side entrance I hear some noise over

O324: 53            RW17   [Unintelligible] and report over

O324: 58            RW9    Here RW9 Porter now moving to section b through northeast RW17 please repeat over

O325: 01            RW17   Keep a watch for animals and report over

O325: 09            RW12   No animals here over

O325: 12            RW8     Racoons could be coming back [Unintelligible]

O325: 16            RW17   RW8 repeat we couldn’t hear you over

O325: 19            RW8     I hear some scratching very subtly, but [Unintelligible] section C clear we have some wind tonight

O325: 23            RW17   Copy that over

0326                   …

0327                   …

0328                   …

0329                   …

0330                   …

0331                   …

0332                   …

O332: 14            RW12    RW14 please report position over

O332: 18            RW14    Here RW14 Rivera blind spot secure mild noise but almost sure to be the wind now eh moving near north entrance through section d over

O332: 25            RW12    Copy that signal when you get there over

0333                   …

0334                   …

0335                   …

O336: 39            RW8    Still hearing some noises if you see anything please report over

O336: 42            RW12  What kind of noises over

O336: 45            RW8    Uh I don’t know if it could be echo or a noise from the street over

O336: 48            RW17  RW8 please describe the noise over

O336: 52            RW8     Like a thud eh [Unintelligible] machinery over

O336: 57            RW12   Do you see anything over

O337: 03            RW8     Negative over

0338                  …

0339                  …

0340                  …

0341                  …

0342                  …

0341                  …

0343                  …

0344                  …

O345: 44            RW14      [Unintelligible]

0346                  …

0347                  …

0348                  …

0349                  …

0350                  …

O351: 08            RW17    Seems like the bats are going home over

O351: 09            RW9      Copy that over

O351: 11            RW8      Copy RW17 over

O351: 14            RW12    Any incidents tonight over

O351: 16           RW17    Negative over

0352                  …

0353                  …

O354: 18            RW12     Anyone checked the weather tonight over

O354: 25            RW8      [Unintelligible] clear day over

O354: 28            RW12    It's a little dark could it rain over

O354: 32            RW8     Negative RW12 I don’t think so

0355                  …

0356                  …

O357: 09            RW12      RW14 I see you

0358                  …

O359: 34            RW17      RW14 anything to report over

O359: 43            RW12      Eh Rivera is a little indisposed hell take five over

O359: 45            RW17      Did something happen over

O359: 48            RW12      Negative ah [Unintelligible]

O359: 49            RW17      RW12 what is happening

O359: 54            RW12      All good I’ll stay with him over

O359: 58            RW17      Report in five over

 End of tape.

 Nightwatch.   Tenth hour. Transcribing recording…

O406: 34           RW9       RW8 do you have a jacket I could borrow it getting cold here over

O406: 39            RW8       I do are you near me over

O406: 58            RW17    More wind coming maybe a storm everyone make sure to be well covered over

O407: 11            RW9      RW8 approaching your position please walk towards me over

O407: 45            RW12    Here RW12 Mirano with um RW14 Rivera we are a little cold but Rivera is better over

O407: 48            RW8      What’s wrong with him over

O407: 58            RW14    RW14 here alive and okey over

O408: 01            RW9      Why do you sound agitated

O408: 06            RW14    I just got spooked babygirl don’t worry about me

O408: 09            RW17    Please stick to protocol RW14 Rivera over

O408: 12            RW14    Right I mean eh copy that RW17 over

O408: 15            RW17    What spooked you RW14 over

O408: 19            RW14    Um some noise I thought it was a voice I don’t know I felt someone was following me but I’m pretty sure it’s just this weird weather over

O408: 22            RW17    Okey RW14 stay watchful over

0409                  …

0410                  …

0411                  …

0412                  …

O413: 14            RW12     I’m feeling the rain coming [Unintelligible] feels heavy over

O413: 18            RW17    [Unintelligible] confirm I repeat everyone confirm [Unintelligible] have cover over

O413: 19            RW12    This isn’t rain its [Unintelligible] over the clouds where is the wind coming from

O413: 21            RW8      RW9 do you hear me I repeat do you [Unintelligible]

O413: 22            RW12    Can anyone tell me where the wind is coming from

O413: 22            RW9      Lewis I can’t see you

O413: 23            RW17    RW8 Lewis confirm position [Unintelligible]

O413: 25            RW8      I’m not imagining this I hear something the wind won’t

O413: 27            RW9     Signal with your flashlight Lewis don’t move

O413: 28            RW17   RW8 please repeat

O413: 29            RW12   Are we being attacked someone answer please are we being attacked

O413: 31            RW17   [Unintelligible] don’t panic RW12 stay in [Unintelligible]

O413: 32           RW9      Lewis I’m near you Lewis stand [Unintelligible]

O413: 34            RW14   Coming to your position Lewis what’s happening talk man [Unintelligible]

O413: 36            RW8     [Unintelligible]

O413: 38            RW17   RW8 we don’t hear you

O413: 42            RW14   Lewis I see  [Unintelligible]

O413: 45            RW8     [Unintelligible] near north entrance I don’t [Unintelligible] what the fuck is that

O413: 45            RW14   [Unintelligible]

O413: 49            RW14   Help us central help [Unintelligible] es un puto muerto es un puto muerto [Unintelligible]

O413: 51            RW17   Rivera position Rivera Rivera

O413: 51            RW12   What the hell was that

O413: 52            RW17   Rivera answer Lewis answer calling [Unintelligible] please anwnser

O413: 53            RW9     [Unintelligible]

End of recording.

Transcript                                                                                                                        (  August 10,  4: 15: 22 )

Dispatcher 5: 911, where's your emergency?

Caller: I hear kids screaming um, I thought they were just some junkies but…

Dispatcher 5: Sir where are you calling from

Caller: Gotham Cemetery, well, I live out front, the oposite sidewalk, they have flashlights and they’re all running maybe something— I can’t go down there, my leg is bad

Dispatcher 5: Okey sir, we’re sending someone to check it out. Can you still see the kids?

Caller: Yeah.

Dispatcher 5: You know how many are there?

Caller: At least three I think— it’s so— it’s not raining is it?

Dispatcher 5: Excuse me?

Caller: I— something’s wrong please send someone

Dispatcher 5: Sir?

Transcript                                                                                                                        (  August 10,  4: 15: 28 )

Dispatcher 7: 911, where's your emergency?

Caller: I don’t know if it’s an emergency, we’re down at the Narrows hearing a lot of noise. My— my wife thinks it’s coming from the cemetery we just, we don’t want to get too close

Dispatcher 7: Okey sir we are sending someone right now I do advice you stay where you are

Caller: Okey. Thank you.

Dispatcher 7: You're welcome.

Transcript                                                                                                                        (  August 10,  4: 15: 35 )

Dispatcher 4: 911, where's your emergency?

Caller: Hey um, are you aware of some noise here in the Narrows?

Dispatcher 4: We are sir, someone is doing a check in a few moments.

Caller: It’s, ah, getting pretty cold too like— weird cold, lady, like something messing with the temperature.

Dispatcher 4: Okey sir, stay calm someone should be getting there soon.

Caller: I’m going to get inside now

Transcript                                                                                                                        (  August 10,  4: 15: 42 )

Dispatcher 9: 911, where's your emergency?

Caller: I think some gangs are fighting at the cemetery people are screaming there’s a lot of smoke I can see right from my window

Dispatcher 9: Ma’am, I can’t confirm this is about gang violence but please step away from the window and remain inside. The police have been alerted.

Dispatcher 4: Okey, okey. Please hurry.

Transcript                                                                                                                        (  August 10,  4: 15: 47 )

Dispatcher 7: 911, where's your emergency?

Caller: Is Batman fighting someone? Is this one of the bats or like—? Gotham, Gotham cemetery!

Dispatcher 9: We are aware of this incident and the police are on their way sir.

Caller: What is this? It— is it gas? It looks like a weather machine or— could it explode?

Dispatcher 9: Sir, we are working on it, I can’t confirm what it is right now I advise you try to remain calm and—

Caller: I have my son in here do I need to get him out? Please!

Dispatcher 9: Sir, do not panic we are—

Signal error.

Transcript                                                                                                                        (  August 10,  4: 15: 48 )

Dispatcher 5: 911, where's your emergency?

Caller: I just saw a— a creature coming from the cemetery! It’s making like a storm and it crawled out of the cemetery!

Dispatcher 5: Sir, I need you to try and remain calm, do you see the creature, can you describe it?

Caller: It’s like— it looks human, oh god, with like goo, or I don’t know what the fuck, mud. It just— is it a zombie? It looks like a zombie!

Signal error.

Transcript                                                                                                                        (  August 10,  4: 15: 52 )

Dispatcher 4: 911, where's your emergency?

Caller: ¡Soy Mario Rivera, somos la Robin Watch y acabo de ver un muerto salir de la tumba, un pinche muerto! Un muerto— A fucking dead body!

Dispatcher 4: Sir, I don’t—

Caller: A dead body just crawled out a grave and chased us! A fucking— a monster!

Signal error.

***

The static fills the air. It’s extraordinarily eerie for a sound they’re so familiar with. For what feels like a long time, it freezes them like a lighting just struck.

“Bruce? Are you reading it?” Duke says through the phone. “Did you— I didn’t know who else to call, my knee hasn’t healed yet.”

“You did the right thing.”

“I send it to Oracle too.”

“Yeah, I got it,” Barb says from the com in his ear. “Are you seeing this Bruce—? 911 hasn’t been able to receive calls for like ten minutes straight.”

“Do what you can for them, I’m turning back there.”

“What do you think this is?” Barb says, trying to conceal the concern in her voice. “When has— could it be a prank?”

“Perhaps.”

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Duke asks, panicky. “Bruce, please; I send those kids there, I need to know they’re okey.”

Bruce increases speed. The Robin Watch are good kids, troubled no doubt, but eager to help, surprisingly organized. They wouldn’t do a prank like this; cause this level of panic for some laughs. And Bruce can’t avoid thinking what a great coincidence it is that something happens to them the exact week The Signal can’t come to their rescue. Sounds premediated, insidious.  

“I though I put them in safe zones Bruce…” Duke says. “I promised them they would be safe.”

Bruce has no time right now to ease his guilt, but has a brief, guilty thought of his own.

There is no safe place, son.

“You’ve done what you could, Duke, don’t let it eat you away,” is all he says. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Okey.”

He sounds defeated. Bruce hears Barbara’s breath, her fingers tapping at full speed.  He is getting into the Narrows.

“Batman, do I call Red Hood?” Barb asks. “He’s close; if this is big you may need assistance.”

Bruce can still hear Duke trying to calm himself over the phone and Bruce gathers patience. He can save the kid from the trouble of pleading him not to go alone. Besides, even if Jason is mad at him, he would do anything for Duke, for the kids.

“Call him,” Bruce finally says. “And send him everything.”

If he is not asleep, he probably already noticed something is off. Bruce already feels it, even speeding through the streets inside the batmovile. A chill deep into his core.

A dead body, crawling out of it's grave.  

Jesus, it’s like a nightmare made for them.

***

Peter Parker doesn’t know many things right now.

Where is he? He can’t tell, it’s too dark.

Why is he here? The answer feels at the tip of his tongue, but his mind is scrambled eggs from the dizziness.

Should he be here? Well, that’s a strange question, not that he has the answer though.

No, I shouldn’t be here.

Where is he, again? Well, he ran here, Peter thinks. But also, here in a more general sense feels… off.

Why is he here? There is an answer, for sure. He just… can’t remember right now.

Wherever here is, it feels terribly, awfully, wrong. It feels too far away from wherever he was before.

And where was I before?

Oh, right.

I was dead.

Or more like, he was dying. Turning into dust, fading into nothing, or into everything, or however it is infinity stones work. He still feels the cold, the dark, the stabbing, paralyzing pain that had crawled all over him until… until.

He remembers now. The suffocation. The desperate, animalistic fight for air. The screams and the blood and the bones breaking and reattaching. In the box, all his senses could focus on were the sounds of this mangled body pulling itself back together. The blood, suddenly and violently starting to course through his veins again.

The rise up.

Against a mountain of dirt and mud that got into his ears and mouth and eyes and then— air, real air, restarting his lungs back into functioning. Rain, humid air, darkness. And then a light, hurting his eyes, forcing them to move and adjust.

A terrified face, holding a flashlight.

What are you afraid of? Peter had thought, confused. Is something behind me?

Peter had turned, coughing out blood and dirt, and seen probably the most upsetting thing he has ever seen in his life. A tombstone.

Here Lies Peter R. Parker.

A Joy to All who Met Him.

May He Rest in Peace

Screams, loud and bloodcurdling. His own, but other people’s too. And the panic to run as fast as he could, stumbling and climbing through walls to get somewhere safe.

He found it, apparently. Here. It’s dark: but it’s indoors, it’s quiet, he is alone. He can breathe. He can rest. Maybe tomorrow, he can think.

I was dead. Peter thinks. Why am I not dead?

Just my luck at it again, I guess.

Chapter Text

Batman has only been on the site for a minute when the police sirens echo in the distance. This entire minute, he’s been unable to do anything else other than stare at the destroyed ruins of this tombstone, haunted by a dread deep in his chest he can’t ignore. It's much more harrowing than the bad feeling he had on his way here.

Many crime scenes he has seen in his lifetime. Some have left their mark on the Dark Night. Horrors that chill him and choke him, and remind him the rage that built The Batman wasn’t all unfounded. That reminds him of his own impotence.

Some terrors, he can never defeat.

He doesn’t say anything when someone approaches slowly from behind.  A choked breath next to him.

“What in the—.” Red Hood flashes the place with the light of his gun, in shock. “Could it have been just some lunatic desecrating the grave—?

His voice dies down and sounds so unconvinced by his own theory that Batman doesn’t see the need to correct him out loud. He just shakes his head.

“So, the body really is—” Jason gets closer, hesitant.

“Gone,” Batman says. “The coffin was— completely destroyed from the inside.”

Jason steps back, frozen.

“I wouldn’t have called you for this if— I thought another pair of hands would ease Duke’s mind,” Batman says, in a reconciler tone.

Red Hood turns his head to him. It’s difficult to read him with the helmet on, but the stiffness of his body, and the slight shake of his hand, don’t go unnoticed by Bruce.

“Whatever, I’m not made of glass,” Jason finally says.  He looks around. “There were some kids here?”

“Yes. The Robin Watch, a small surveillance group of teens supervised by The Signal.”

“I think I’ve seen them, they’re like thirteen; why were they doing rounds in the cemetery?”

“Duke put them in strategic locations where we considered the risk of them getting into danger was low.”

“We?” Jason mutters.

The police are starting to close in on them, they can hear them entering the cemetery, the light slowly returning into the zone they’re in.

Batman scans the site, making a digital image that will go directly into Oracle’s computer. At the same time, he analyzes with his own eyes. The weeds are shallow around the grave to begin with, but there’s enough of them to notice the pattern something has made in them. Strange.

“Why does it look like a lightning bolt struck here?” Jason says.

“Hmm.” Batman looks at the sky, but there are no clouds, it’s as much of a clear night right now as it was when he started patrol earlier. Yet, there are wet spots of dirt here, the cold humidity still palpable.

In the recordings, wind, cold, and rain were mentioned. Unusual weather.  Bruce gathers a sample of dirt from the grave and sees the sharp, bloody pieces of wood scattered around it. He takes one as well, and Jason just watches from the corner of his eye.

The device finishes the scan, and Batman turns, quickly looking away from the grave to not keep being chased by memories and regrets. Jason does the same but turns his head back just before they start running out of the cemetery, chased by a very different kind of feeling.

Peter R. Parker.

He can’t afford to forget his name. 

***

“It’s my day off, but I can help I guess.” Tim smiles. “I heard the word zombie being thrown around.”

“For the record, this isn’t helping,” Duke says.

“Sure, sure,” Tim says, taking a dramatic breath in. “So, is it a zombie or not?”

“The last thing I need is a zombie dude.”

Tim shrugs. “Doesn’t mean it can’t be true though.”

“It’s not a zombie!” Duke exclaims. He stares at the files printed next to Tim, and grimaces. “It’s not. Right?

“Zombie, not a zombie, this may be more of a definition problem.” Tim twirls in the chair, biting his pen. “What else do you call a reanimated corpse?”

Duke hides his head between his legs. “Hm hum u.”

“What’s that?”

“I hate you,” Duke says, getting up to throw the pillow on his wheelchair at Tim. “This is very serious, jackass.”

“Man, this is obviously an elaborate prank.” Tim picks up the papers from the printer. “A weather machine, wind, and storm, a dead rising, lightning bolts! I’m pretty sure this is the plot of a bad 80’s monster movie.”

“It is not! Are you even listening to me?”

“Sucks for Jason though, he is gonna freak out.”

“Tim, I know those kids. They are not pulling a prank like this, what if something really happened to them?”

“Okey, okey!” He lifts his arms, like surrendering, and has to bite his lip to not laugh. “I’m sorry, I may be a little high on morphine.”

“Why on earth—?”

“I got shot; Bruce insisted.”

“What? When did you— you know what, I don’t care.” Duke massages his temples, signing. “You’re alive. I don’t care.”

Tim sits back down, passing through the transcriptions and reading more carefully. If this is a prank, it is impressively well-calculated. It follows a coherent narrative, with details that get lost in the panic and chaos near the end. Mentions of noise, something apart from the screams and, presumably, from the ones the creature made on its way out.

Interesting.

“Do you have the recording so I can—?”

“Signal, are you there?”

They both turn sharply toward the computer. It’s Oracle. Duke tries to get his chair closer to respond, but Tim beats him to it.

“Go Oracle, what is it?” Tim says.

“I thought you were indisposed, Red Robin.”

“Yeah, see, I—”

“He is.” Duke pulls the mic towards himself, rolling his eyes. “What happened?”

“Batman and Red Hood scanned the area, I’ll let them tell you all the fun details of that; the Robin Watch are okay, a good samaritan living across the sidewalk let them hide inside his apartment.  Batman and Red Hood are with them right now, they seem unharmed, just really scared.”

“Damnit. Those kids are never gonna trust me again.”

Tim gets close, putting a heavy hand over his shoulder. “Duke, you weren’t the one to come out of a grave and attack them.”

Duke stares, narrowing his eyes. “Oh my god, you are so high.” 

“I am not. Oracle, send us the pictures please.”

“Knock yourself out.”

Slowly, an image starts to download into the computer. Tim clicks on it without a second thought.

And there it is. They both stare in disbelief, trying to process… this.

A desecrated grave, torn to pieces down to even the engraved stone, split into four crumbling pieces. It almost looks like something exploded there, lifting the earth and the mud off the ground. Traces of blood around the deep hole; allows them to see part of the wooden coffin at the bottom.

Tim knows immediately, with a chill shocking him to the bones, that nobody could have staged this. It’s written all over it. Something dragged itself through the ground. Something ripped the coffin open from the inside. Someone. 

Peter R. Parker.

***

“If you feel you could be in danger, contact The Signal. If he can’t come to you, I will.”

The girl nods, still shaky. Her little wrinkled lips tremble out of control. The Batman puts a blanket over her shoulders, and she clings to it. Jason is staring hard, without realizing it.

“We will come to you,” Batman adds, glancing at Jason. He looks away.

Jonh Byler’s little apartment is currently cramped by terrified kids and vigilantes. Spoiler being the most recent one to join them. Bright purple and easy attitude, Stephanie is currently sitting on the couch talking to three of the kids who think she is the coolest person in the world. The girl especially, is clinging to her arm and looking at Stephanie like she is a rockstar. It has settled the uneasiness somewhat, but the city is still in chaos, they can feel it in the police sirens that keep arriving at the cemetery.

Jason’s eye catches a boy crouching behind the kitchen counter, not wanting to be noticed, and he gets close.

The boy stares almost shyly and pretends to be nonchalant. He avoids eye contact and instead looks at the gun on Jason’s belt. Jason pulls his gun out and puts it way on the counter.

“Hey, how are you doing?” Jason says. “You’re Mario, right? You’re the one who called 911.”

The kid just shrugs. Jason passes him a cup of water, and when Mario takes it, his hands are shaking.

“You did well tonight,” Jason says. The boy scoffs, angry.

“I just ran. Like a coward.”

“And what else were you supposed to do, huh?” Jason answers. “You survived, that’s what’s important.”

Mario rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

“We have the recording of your radios kid; it didn’t sound like you were a coward to me.”

The kid grips the glass of water harder, looking at the floor.

“I knew something was wrong,” Mario says, and almost sounds apologetic, like a kid confessing a bad deed to their parents. “I heard it, and I didn’t say anything because I knew they wouldn’t have believed me because I’m always acting like a clown.”

“Hey, hey, easy.” Jason takes the glass from him, gripping his shoulder to keep him grounded. “There is no bigger clown than me, kid. It makes me make mistakes sometimes, sure, but it doesn’t make me incompetent, it doesn’t make me a coward.”

Mario bites his lip, too proud to cry.

Jason points at Spoiler, who is trying to convince the kids that she can lift them all with one arm. “See her? The biggest clown I know, and the farthest thing from a coward. She is still mad cool, and mad strong; something tells me you are too. What I heard on that recording was that your friends were not responding and you ran to help them, that’s the part I care about. And so should you.”

The kid swallows, and when he takes a breath, it seems like a burden is slowly lifting off him. “Okay.”

Jason nods. “Drink some water, I’ll get you a blanket, partner.”

Mario smiles, and Jason sees an old bruise in the corner of his mouth. He feels pitting in his stomach.

As soon as Jason wraps the boy with the blanket, Spoiler nudges him.

“Hey, Big Bat says he has something to show us.”

Jonh Byers lets them have his guest room for some privacy and closes the door promising to keep the kids away from it. They wait for the noise of the kids talking to return, and Batman connects them to the Batcave.

“Hey guys, it's Red Robin,” the voice comes through their comms. “And yes, before you say anything, I am supposed to be resting, you’re welcome.”

“If your wound re-opens I’m killing you myself,” Stephanie says.

“This is definitely more important than my wound, Spoiler,” Tim says. “I looked at the scan Batman sent of the open grave, and before I say anything, are we operating on the assumption this is, in fact, a person coming back to life?”

Batman meditates his response carefully, and Stephanie looks at Jason.

“Yes,” Jason says, without giving Batman any chance to respond. “It's not like it’s unprecedented.”

Batman keeps his expression blank. “I agree, but we will be looking into more evidence. We can’t discard anything.”

“Okay,” Tim responds, taking a second to find the next words. “I looked up the name engraved on the tombstone, Peter R. Parker.”

Jason holds his breath.

“Peter Richard Parker was born in Gotham City to a single mother, Mary Fitzpatrick. She died when Peter was seven months old after an attack from Clayface reduced the office where she worked to dust. No family ever claimed him, and he grew up in an orphanage and very short stays at foster homes, with— uh, several unnamed health and behavioral issues— his records aren’t too detailed. Listed as his last foster parent is a Dr. Karl Heathwood. Six months ago, Peter died from a seizure in his sleep, he— he was eight years old.”

Tim breathes heavily into the mic, and in that dark dusty guest room, nobody moves a muscle.

“He’s a kid; he’s just a kid.”

Jason feels his head spinning. He might throw up. He can’t think, can’t breathe well. Something is squeezing his chest so hard it feels like it will snap his ribs like candy.

“Thanks, Red Robin, get some rest,” Stephanie says when she notices the other two have been left speechless.

“Sure, eh, report anything.”

The communication ends, and Steph looks between them, like waiting for them to gain some composure before saying anything.

“I could—”

“Look, Bruce,” Jason says, trying to hide the crack in his voice with something that almost sounds like anger. “What happened last week— I’ll let it go. I’m in this case with you, okay? I’m not negociating.”

Bruce stares, firm, serious. Something heavy in his eyes Jason can’t quite place.

“Okay,” is all he says, before turning to Spoiler. “Can you stay with the kids until their parents get here?”

“Sure.”

“We need to scan the area and see if we can find anything. If this is indeed Peter Parker, a distressed young boy couldn’t have gone far on his own. We have a chance to find him.”

“I'll talk with the kids again, maybe now that they're less scared they remember more what it— what he looked like," Steph adds.

“Good idea.”

Jason grips the holt of his gun.

He tries.

And he tries.

And tries not to think of a little eight-year-old boy, clawing and mangling his fingers trying to free himself, terrified in the dark, like he had been.

“Let’s go.”

***

Peter remembers a field. Long weeds and soft mud, the humid heat that made his hands sticky, and the heavy stale scent of a swamp. Reeds that sat impassive above the water. He remembers a night so dark that every noise the trees made sounded like a monster. A wooden floor, itching on his cheek.

And he remembers the patio full of screeching children, a rainbow of little flags everywhere. Soap bubbles floating, shiny and magical, between the plastic pools and the nuns handing out homemade candy. Remembers his heart racing when a crowd of kids ran screaming to the back of the small, dirty soccer field, where someone had just landed doing a backflip.

His hair was black; he had a blue bird on his chest. His smile shone brighter than the sun.

“Hey guys, would it be cool if I joined your game?”

The kids screamed, he gave a high five to every single one of them and carried a kid with a broken ankle on his shoulders. He remembers a cold spreading into his ribs, when the guy noticed him, and smiled from afar.

Dad.

A longing. A sadness. So complex, so close, so familiar. Peter doesn't understand it.

And now, as the memories dissolve like thin paper on water, Peter sees grass.

Nice, green mowed grass. It’s early morning, but very well-illuminated, birds are starting to chirp in the distance. Peter tries to walk, and suddenly he is speeding through the tall grass like this is a video game and he just left his finder on the running button. The edges are blurry. Ahead, a gigantic wooden structure rises.

Even for him, this is too strange not to question it.

Is this a dream? Peter thinks. Yeah, that makes more sense.

He expects something weird to happen now that he is lucid. For the dream to collapse, or something. But it doesn’t.

Whatever, it’s a dream.

He advances again, with that strange speedy movement, almost like he is— crawling? It’s so weird. Everything is so much bigger than it should like he has suddenly stepped into the barn of a giant. Yeah, it's a barn. A giant shovel resting on the giant wall next to a giant sack of grains.

Or maybe, I’m just really small.

Yes! That’s it! He’s a small creature here. Maybe a mouse. Or a really tiny kitten. A rat? A baby squirrel?

Meh, I’ve had weirder dreams.

He hears steps, and the earth rumbles a little at every step. A voice. He thinks of running, but some instinct tells him to stay quiet and still. Even in a dream, he wouldn’t like to die.

A giant shoe steps in front of him, connected to a giant leg with pajama pants. The giant— he has to stop calling it that— steps back, startled. It’s a— a boy.

The boy blinks at him.

“Hello, are you going to hurt my animals?”

It’s just a dream, so Peter shakes his head.

The boy opens his eyes wide, like he didn’t expect an actual answer. After a moment of consideration, he puts both hands behind his back, in a formal manner.

“You understand me?”

Peter nods. The boy opens his eyes even more, in wonder.

“I always knew arachnids were intelligent creatures,” the boy says smugly like he is being proven right.

Wait, arachnids?

“But I’ve never met a creature like you, would you like to come inside?”

I mean, it is kind of chilly here. And Peter is now curious how this could end. He nods again, advancing towards the boy, who lays his palm on the ground for Peter to climb to it.

“My name is Damian Wayne, I hope you like my home.”

Chapter Text

Peter wakes up face against the cold floor. Every single bone and muscle hurting, a kind of crushed-by-the-rubble-of-an-entire-building kind of pain. It takes several tries to finally begin to move somewhat, as if his body suddenly weighed ten times what it should. He coughs, blinks, and feels dirtier than he has ever felt in his life.

He looks around.  The place is still gloomy, but some faint sunlight filters through the blinds of the window, allowing Peter to make out what seems to be a house in really poor conditions. Half the panels on the low ceiling are falling off, exposing the burned-out mess of tangled cables behind them. The paint on the walls is cracked, slowly withering away and, in some places, it’s littered with spots of black mold. The floor creaks painfully underneath him when Peter moves.

No furniture, no leftover décor, no sign of anything other than the deepest abandonment. Everything is covered in dust. Peter tries to support himself up with his arms and cuts his hand with a broken piece of glass. He tries to put pressure on it with his other hand, but the pain returns to his hands in a blaze that leaves him shaking. The tips of his fingers are completely messed up, broken bloody nails and mangled skin covered with splinters. Peter looks away, still trying to fully grasp what is happening.

When Peter finally manages to ignore the pain and peel himself off the sticky floor, he realizes he is completely covered in dirt and dry mud, half-naked, with only a few torn rags still sticking to his body.

“What the hell is happening—?”

He was dreaming about something, something about a barn and bubbles and— dirt. Fear. Violence.

That wasn’t a dream, was it?

That was— he was underground. He’d had to dig himself out, tear out wood, and drag himself through mud not to suffocate— it was dark, he couldn’t breathe. And all the other memories suddenly fall over him in a wave that slaps him back into consciousness.  

He died. They fought, they lost, Tony tried to help him, and Peter died all the same.

When he came back, he was in a grave. He was in a cemetery. He was in strange streets, running from the screams and the shock and the fear and the grave with his name on it.

This makes no sense.  

After a while, Peter gathers enough sanity to very slowly get up from the floor. He puts his face against the window and sees an overgrown lawn, an empty street, and milky early light peaking through the line of the buildings surrounded by a haze of pollution and morning fog.

This isn’t New York.

Every hair on his body stands on end, like his spider sense is proving him right. Something about this place is deeply, profoundly off. Peter looks around the house again and finds a cramped pile of old newspapers scattered on the floor.

GOTHAM GAZETTE

Gotham City, New Jersey.

RED ROBIN WARNS AGAINST THE USE OF ILLICITLY MADE GAS MASKS

“They don’t work,” our local young vigilante declared when one of our reporters intercepted him after he responded to an altercation in the Iceberg Lauge…

Okay, weird. The pages are all glued to each other from the humidity, he can’t read much else. Gotham City, New Jersey? Is that what his place is called?

Below the faded headline, it’s a blurry picture. What seems to be a young man in an impressive black and red costume, cape and all, and a domino mask over his eyes. He seems to be running away from the photographer.

A vigilante? Gas masks?  This has bad feelings all over it.

He is no expert in New Jersey, but Peter is pretty sure that if a place called Gotham City with a gas mask problem existed in the state of New Jersey he would know about it. And a vigilante known enough to not need an introduction on the front page of a newspaper? With how hot the topic of illegal superheroes has been in the current climate? Absolutely no way he’s never heard about this.

Peter leans against the wall, trying to think.

Option number one: He is still dreaming. Um, no, it doesn’t seem likely. Last time he checked, his spider sense doesn’t translate to dreams.

Option number two: He time-traveled to the future. He met a wizard with time powers, he met aliens, and he saw jewels that held the power of existence within them (hell, he was probably killed by them), it wouldn’t be that far off. Peter looks at the paper again, but the date is from before Peter even— well, died.  So, time travel seems less likely.

Option number three: He traveled to an alternate universe, one where Gotham City, New Jersey, and all its weird characteristics exist.

Dammit.

Doctor Strange mentioned multiple futures. If he was able to see them, those diverting realities must exist at some quantum level, right?

He feels crazy even just considering this, but what other option is there? His spider sense is telling him he doesn’t belong here entirely; he feels it deep in his bones. Something about this place is fundamentally different from any place he has been before.

Then, there is the most pressing fact he has: he was buried alive.

In his world, his body disappeared. Like Doctor Strange and The Guardians before him. He may not remember what happened after he died, but he felt his existence dissolving, as weird as it may sound. He is pretty sure there wouldn’t have been anything left to bury. But here, someone buried him, a physical body…

Here Lies Peter R. Parker

His knees are failing. Peter sits back on the floor, dizzy, cramping the piece of paper with his bloody hands. The weight of this possibility seems enough to crush him, all its horrible implications.

He starts to remember, piece by terrifying piece. He couldn’t move when he woke up. He felt his limbs snapping back into place, his heart struggling to beat again, restarting the flow of blood; flesh and muscle growing back around the bones. He heard every gory detail. Something, some supernatural power, transmuting this corpse into something Peter could use.

Peter looks at his hands again, shaky, looking for a distinct burn mark on his right middle finger. He got it when he was nine or ten years old, the very first time May and Ben had left him alone in the house. He’d gotten hungry and tried making scrambled eggs on the stove. Peter panicked when the eggs started to burn and tried to grab the pan with his bare hand, it tore the skin right off. The scar never disappeared, ever so faded below his fingernail.

And just like he remembered it, the scar is there. Peter passes his finger over it with his other hand to be convinced it’s real, relieved.

But then he notices another scar, long and at least a couple of years old, going from the back of his left hand halfway up his arm. It’s clear that when it was fresh, it required stitches.

That’s not his.

Here Lies Peter R. Parker

That’s not his.

He would remember it.

Peter looks at the floor, concentrating on a dark spot in it, trying to control his shallow breaths to not have a full-on panic attack. After a while, he achieves a semi-normal breathing pattern, and ignoring the pressure on his chest Peter quickly gets up, determined to not be stuck in this abandoned house any longer.

Okay.

So, he is in an alternate universe. In both universes, he died. For some unfathomable reason, he has come back to life. He is alone and as of now, he has no way of coming back. As far as he knows, nobody who could come to his rescue has a way to even know he survived. He can’t even know if Tony survived, he may as well have turned to ash right after he did. This is up to him.

And despite the hollowness he feels right now at the shock, he is grateful not to be dead.

He may also be possessing the corpse of an alternative version of himself.

But Peter knows he can’t afford to open that can of worms right now. He needs to move; he needs to remain alive. He is wounded, hungry, cold. He needs information, something to confirm he hasn’t just lost his mind. His heart is pounding in his chest, the sound in a strange sync with his spider sense, like urging him to keep fighting.

Survive.

Pull it together.

Survive.

He walks to the door and opens it, squinting at the daylight. As he expected, the street is empty, but he can still hear noises nearby. Heartbeats inside a couple of the other ramshackle houses on the block.

With not much other thought, Peter picks the emptiest-looking direction and starts running as fast as he can.

All his heightened senses suddenly awake with extraordinary clarity, fueled by the adrenaline. Peter lets those instincts completely take over, as he passes this strange place in the most surreal of blurs. Hyperaware of every little detail like he is watching everything in slow motion; and at the same time, watching it flash in a second as he runs from every eye in proximity.

Gotham City.

The atmosphere is tainted with the soft gold of a sun that can’t get past the heavy mass of gray clouds floating above buildings resembling something out of an old syfy novel. Simultaneously stuck in a dusty image of the past and a futurism Peter couldn’t have imagined in his wildest dreams.

He passes streets about to awake and dirty corners with passed-out drunks, jumps through dusty lawns and runs tripping up and down stairs, crosses shallow waters under a bridge, and slips through every nook and cranny, watching everything from afar. He sees the pigeons flying off their nests in the power lines and hears the voices of bus drivers cursing each other. Tall art deco buildings tower over filthy alleys and streets marked by shadows.

Peter sees colossal office complexes as austere as prisons and countless unfinished structures covered by graffiti. Gargoyles crumble on top of neogothic gold and gray skyscrapers. He hears the everyday noise of children screaming, food flying on the stove, car horns, workers walking, motorcycles, construction sites, and the whistle of a high-tech train that shines against the sun as it crosses the city on its high rails.

A decaying, alive, gritty, surreal urban jungle.

This is most definitely, not his world.

Peter stops behind the trashcans of a narrow space between buildings and tries to think of what to do. It’s a miracle he has remained unseen this whole time, it’s his luck this city has a unique amount of shadows where he can hide. As the morning progresses and he gets closer to what seems to be downtown, the streets are filled with people.

First things first, he needs to blend in, at least somewhat. Not attract too much attention so he can have a chance to come up with a plan long term. Clothes would be the ideal start, then, clean the mud off. The wounds, he can worry about them later as long as they’re not too visible.

In front of him, it’s a semi-busy avenue, and behind him the stinky back door of what Peter can only assume is a restaurant of some kind, based on the smell. His stomach growls, and Peter adds food to his list of priorities.

He figures his best change is at the restaurant. He carefully gets close, dogging boxes full of trash and taking a quick listen to the employees on the other side. The sounds of the stove, air conditioner, and the electric buzz of the refrigerator only allow him to make out a few shouts. Either way, it sounds like they’re busy, and none of them close to the back door.

The door handle comes right off when Peter pulls it, and he slides inside before thinking too much about what he is doing. To his right, there are a couple of storage shelves with canned ingredients separating him from the kitchen. To his left, there’s an old couch surrounded by bags and backpacks, most likely belonging to the employees.

Peter sighs and mentally apologizes to the workers, beginning to sack the backpack closest to him. He finds sports shorts, a cap, and half a package of butter cookies. Glancing nervously at the cooks running around the kitchen, Peter opens another one. This time he finds an old shirt that is far too big for him, and Peter slides himself into it with no hesitation. Okay, he can open one more. This time he reaches for the biggest one, a gym bag, and finds sweatpants, a sleeveless shirt, and a plastic water bottle.

Sweatpants on, bottle under one arm, cap over his head and cookies in his pocket, Peter retrieves back into the alley, not bothering to try and close the door he just broke. When he hears steps getting closer, he walks fast into the street, merging with the crowd. With his head down and hands in his pockets, nobody even spares him a glance.

He wanders through the streets until he reaches the next empty building with busted windows to hide inside. Peter drinks one half of the water bottle and uses the other to give his hands a quick wash and soak the sleeveless shirt he took, using it to rub the mud off his face and neck. When he’s done, he feels a little better.

His fingers still hurt and itch far too much, and Peter wishes he had something to at least bandage them, he’s gonna need a lot more than water for the discomfort to ease. Peter chews on a cookie as he steps back into the street. Damn, he should’ve taken some food from the storage shelves as well.

He is in a much nicer part of the city than the place he woke up in. As he passes an outlandish building with silver windows, Peter pauses for a moment to see his reflection.

He looks— terrible, definitely. But also—

As he expected, he still looks absolutely filthy, haggard, and pale, his hair a tangled sticky mess. But that’s not the thing that throws him off the most. Peter steps back, a pressure constricting his chest.

His eyes are changed. One of them almost looks like it normally would, irritated and sunken, sure, but like his eye; except when Peter blinks, a silver shimmer flashes on it and Peter really hopes he is imagining this.

But the other eye is unmistakably and horribly wrong. Completely back, with a pearly white, glowing iris.

Peter R. Parker

May He Rest In Peace

He never thought he could find his own reflection so viscerally eerie. Peter feels like he is suffocating again, with the horrific understanding that whatever brought him back did this to him. Modify him. Left him trapped inside this.

He only snaps out of his shock when he sees behind him someone else’s face, staring horrified at him.

Once again, Peter runs.

***

Tim takes a deep breath, collecting patience, and taps anxiously on the arm of his chair. He hears Jason’s heavy boots getting off the bike; Batman is close behind him.

Jason says nothing and throws his helmet over the workshop, heading upstairs clearly upset. Tim watches as Bruce removes his cowl, sighing.

“Nothing?”

“Not a trace,” Bruce answers. “You’re not resting.”

“I’m fine; Dick is coming tomorrow— no, in a few hours, to help. I can rest during the day.”

“You told him of this case?”

“Not really, didn’t wanna explain it on the phone; but Duke and I are out of commission for now, and all of this has you two distracted enough.”

Bruce almost makes a face at that but doesn’t mention it. “Duke?”

“I told him to sleep a little. He was insisting on going to check on the kids.”

Bruce deepens his brows.

“I told him not to, obviously.” Tim looks at Bruce's belt. “What you got there?”

“Samples of dirt and blood from the grave. I’m hoping to retrieve some DNA from them.”

Bruces comes, getting a chair to sit next to Tim. He is trying to hide it, but Tim knows him well enough to notice something uncharacteristically vulnerable in his expression. He is moodier than usual, seems almost... sad.

“Let me do it,” Tim says, and sensing a protest, he interrupts him. “I won’t be able to patrol for a few days, Damian isn’t talking to me and all my friends are busy; help me out, I’m gonna go insane in here.”

Tim tries to smile, and lighten the mood at least a little. Bruce nods.

“Don’t overexert yourself,” he says, passing Tim the two vials. Tim stares at the one with the bloody piece of wood, mildly disturbed.

“And in general, I want in on this case,” Tim adds.

“Are you sure?” Bruce says.

“No offense, quite the contrary actually, but something tells me you and Jason— and Dick when he inevitably gets involved— won’t have the clearest head for this.”

Bruce looks at the ground, the ghost of a sad smile flashing on his face.

“I'm alright, Tim.”

“Sure. Because an orphan eight-year-old boy named Richard isn’t bringing any of you any memories,” Tim says. “Plus, you know—"

They both unconsciously stare at the vials. Tim wonders what Bruce is thinking, but he can almost guess, even if he’s making an effort to deflect.

“Why isn’t Damian talking to you?” Bruce says after a minute.

Tim shrugs. “It's nothing. I made a stupid joke about his hair, he got upset. It’s our thing, we only get along on sporadic periods of time.”

“Mn.”

“You should go see him though, he came looking for you a few hours ago and said it was important, but not end of the world important, more like, regular important for eleven-year-old’s standards.”

Bruce almost looks endeared by it, and he nods. With all that is happening, Tim almost finds it endearing too. He may find the brat annoying most of the time, but still.

“We should both get some rest,” Bruce says, getting up and putting a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Anything else?”

Tim looks at the computer.

"Just another really messed up fact,” he says. Bruce stares, expectant. “It’s Peter’s birthday.”

Chapter Text

Transcript                                ( August 10, 14: 23: 09 )

Dispatcher 7: 911, where's your emergency?

Caller: Hey, so eh, some— I don’t know

Dispatcher 7: Okey ma’am, can you describe the reason you called?

Caller: Eh, yeah. I just saw like— something, someone I’m pretty sure it was a meta, his eyes were glowing I don’t know if— it ran pretty fast when I saw him it, well, I didn’t saw where it went but I thought I'd report it

Dispatcher 7: Alright ma’am, can you tell me where this was?

Caller: Colfax Avenue, it looked like a beggar, but it was weird, okey?

Dispatcher 7: Okey ma’am, could I get your name?

Caller: I just— forget I called, it’s an anonymous report, thank you

Fine. So, he needs sunglasses. It’s fine, no big deal.

Peter steals them from the first empty touristy store he finds, right under the nose of a tired twenty-year-old behind the counter who won’t look away from her book for anything. Peter gets inside, pretending to look at the postcards, and slips the glasses under his shirt when the view of the street is relatively empty.

“Hey, can you tell me if there are any pharmacies nearby?” Peter asks the girl, looking down so she can’t quite see his face.

He doesn’t notice the slow realization the girl goes through when she finally fixes her eyes on him.

“I don’t know,” she answers harshly, almost angrily.

Peter starts to walk out of the store, muttering a strained “thank you.” But then, he hears the girl’s heart rate picking up faster as he moves away.

“There's a free clinic seven blocks north,” she says quickly. When Peter turns, she is back to hiding her face behind the book. “They have a rehab center— and everything too, you can work out the payment later.”

Peter keeps facing the floor. He thinks about explaining himself, but really, what would be the point?

“Okay,” Peter answers. “Thank you.”

He gets back onto the busy street and feels the girl’s eyes on the back of his neck. Peter decides he needs to attract even less attention than this.

The plan to steal a first aid kit from a pharmacy was already a wonky, terrible one. So, Peter doesn’t think too much and heads in the direction the girl mentioned. With sunglasses on, the view is a little disorienting. He is already distracted by the pain and hunger, already confused by the composition of this city, and the eternally gray ambiance doesn’t help.

It doesn’t take long for him to get a little lost. He asks a taxi driver for directions, and the guy refuses to answer when he realizes Peter can’t pay for the ride. Frustrated, Peter keeps walking, but the streets keep looking the same. He thinks about asking for directions again, but most people look at him with disgust or pretend not to notice him, and there’s a general air of hostility Peter can’t ignore.

I’m a New Yorker, Peter thinks. This can’t stop me.

He retraces his steps a few blocks and gets to an emptier but less grimy-looking street. He has a view of a canal here; the buildings are smaller. Peter spots a group of girls in outlandish fur clothes smoking in front of a convenience store. He combs his hair back as best he can and approaches with a calmer demeanor.

“Hey, ladies,” he starts, smiling, and immediately regrets his choice of words. The girls stare at him, and Peter clears his throat. “Um, do you happen to know where the free clinic is?”

One looks up and down at him, suspicious. The other two pretend not to see him, and the last one looks at him with something that seems like pity.

"Oh, yes honey, two blocks to the left, then two to the right,” she answers. “You new in town?”

Good question, Peter thinks. Is he?

His self from this universe— god, that’s weird to say— was buried here. So, he must not have been that new to town, maybe he was even born here. But— Peter is not quite him, is he? Is he not quite himself— or him? Him himself. Damn.

Peter blinks, realizing he has just been standing there in silence.

“Yeah,” he decides. “I’m not quite myself—."

Peter freezes.

“I mean— I’m not quite settled yet.”

Now they’re all staring with a mixture of confusion and sympathy. Should he smile? Laugh? Would that make it less awkward?

“Come on, baby, we’ll take you,” one of them says suddenly. Is the one who looks older, the one who initially looked at him with more distrust. Peter can’t read her expression, but he does catch her two friends looking at her with wide eyes, like saying. “Are you serious?”

“What? We can,” she repeats.

“Lily—”

“What’s the problem, Ti? I’ll walk him if you don’t wanna. Also, I have a gun.” She turns to Peter, clutching her purse. “I have a gun.”

Peter puts his hands in the air.

They all end up walking with him to the clinic. The girls kept loudly talking with one another and laughing, Peter kind of just following behind them. Seems like he wasn’t that far off, the girls led him through a couple of shortcut alleys to get into the right street, but advise him not to take them at night.

“The clinic is at the back of the hospital, it opens four days a week, you got lucky today,” the youngest girl says, grabbing him by the arm so he is walking with them. Peter puts no resistance. “How old are you?”

“Ahh— nineteen.” Peter smiles as casually as he can. “I have a baby face, I know.”

The girl looks at the oldest, Lily, like they’re having some silent understanding.

“You alone?”

Peter has a feeling that saying “no” will sound like the most obvious lie he has ever told.

“Eh, you know, I’m an independent soul,” he answers. But Lily stares rather harshly, like she is suspicious, so Peter decides to inject some truth to make it more believable. “I was living with my uncle in New York, but he passed away and I wanted to— change scenery.”

The girl’s eyes soften, sympathetic, all traces of doubt gone. Sorry Uncle Ben, keep saving me and all that.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” another girl says. The others nod in agreement.

“Thanks, I’m alright.”

God, they’re being so nice.

They walk in silence for a bit, and then the youngest smiles, ear to ear.

“If you don’t have a place to stay tonight, stick to the shelter in the ninth. It’s the street where you found us.”

“Okay, yeah, thanks. For everything.”

They reach the busy door of the clinic. There are two white tents outside, with what seems like volunteers grouping people depending on how urgent their care is. The girl pats him on the back and pushes him forward.

“See you around,” Lily says. The other girls wave and turn around.

The youngest bites her nails, and Peter thinks she is pretty, reminds him of MJ, with her dark curls and long eyelashes. “I’m Maya, what’s your name?”

“Peter.”

“Okay, Peter. Don’t be a stranger.”

Peter smiles back. With a little laugh, Maya turns to Lily, walking away quickly, back into the alley.

He looks at the tents. Despite everything else, it seems like it really is his lucky day. There aren’t that many people here. Peter sucks air in and gets in line.

***

Jason isn’t sure how long he’s been sleeping when the faint echo of noises reaches him. He gets up, over the tangled, stiff sheets, in the gloom. It’s clearly well into the day, but the heavy curtains block almost all sunlight. His head feels heavy, face strained and crushed by the restless sleep.

Someone knocks, and Duke pushes the door before he has a chance to answer.

“You awake?” He asks, struggling with the wheelchair, to go past the threshold. Jason nods vaguely. “Why didn’t you sleep in your room?”

Jason shrugs. “Stay there, you’ll never get those wheels out of this carpet.”

“Okay.” Duke stops, scratching his neck. “How are you doing?”

Jason attempts to come up with a decent thought. The headache almost gets worse.

“I don’t know.” Then, he looks at Duke, the bags under his eyes. “Fine. I’ve been worse.”

“Great answer, man, I’m not worried at all.”

Jason scoffs. Getting up, he realizes what a bad idea it was to sleep in the armor. He was too upset to move last night, but now the heavy gear and the pressure it made it’s starting to take its toll. The painful itch grows all over his side like he is being electrocuted, tiny needle stabs burning under his skin.

He gets the armor off, staying just in his undershirt and biting his lip through the pain.

“I heard someone got shot.”

Duke rolls his eyes. “Tim. Just a scrape, he says. He’ll be fine.”

“Yeah. We will all be fine,” Jason says, shaking his head. It sounds a bit too mean, but Duke gives him an intense stare.

“Hell yeah, we will.” Duke backs up his wheelchair, trying to turn. “Take a shower, Alfred made beef subs.”

“For breakfast?”

“It's lunch time, zombie boy.” Jason just stares, kind of out of it. Duke flinches. “Sorry, too soon?”

He mutters a ‘whatever’ under his breath. Almost as soon as Duke leaves, Jason’s phone rings. He blinks, looking at the name shining in the dim light. He is so tired and considers not answering. But his fingers almost move on it’s own.

“Hey.”

At first, all he gets as an answer is a breath.

“You decent?” He can hear her smile, even if tinged with some tension. And he is grateful for her attempt to lighten the mood.

“Please, when am I ever decent?”

Barb chuckles. “I can see you through the cameras, you know?”

“Really?” He knows she is half kidding, but he can’t help the impulse to look around the room, feeling watched.

“And I know you haven’t taken your meds.”

“Girl, I just woke up.”

“I know.”

“Though apparently it's the middle of the day.”

“I know.”

“Yeah, right.” Jason gets up, looking through the closet of the guest room, finding nothing but the most basic sportswear set. “Aren’t you still hiding in your cave?”

“I’ll have you know, Jay, that I have a life.”

“Sure. Nobody who calls me has a life.”

“Mm. You’re deflecting, Jason.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah, I still don’t see you taking your meds.”

Jason tries not to flinch when putting the shirt on, but the electrifying sensation makes him groan. Great. She definitely heard that.

“Don’t even say it, I’ll ask Alfred for some pills till I get to my place, okay?” he says. But Barbara doesn’t say anything, and that’s almost worse.

“I can get you an appointment with the acupuncture girl again,” she finally says, after a while. The signal sounds a bit worse now.

“Yeah, maybe.” Is he being too dismissive? “Did that ever help you?”

“It did. More than I expected.”

“Alright. Where are you?”

“At my new work. Phone reception is— poor.”

“I can tell.”

“Are you sure you’re alright, Jason?” Her tone is abruptly serious, almost like a scold. The question sits heavy, and Jason leans back in the bed again, tense.

“You know? I don’t even remember most of it. The— dying.” The words quickly pour out of his mouth. “I think it’s getting blurrier the more time passes.”

“I know,” she says, more gently this time.

“I have enough reminders anyway.”

Then, silence. Jason looks at the open door, the clear light from the hallway. He hears as Barb takes a drink from something, and she sighs.

“Jason?”

“Um?”

“Don’t go dark on me again.”

Jason doesn’t fully understand what she means. But it conveys just enough for him to get a glimpse of it, feel a cold nagging at his chest.

“Sure.”

“And please take a pill, I can practically hear you squirming like a worm under your clothes.”

“Thought you were watching me, babygirl.”

“Uff. Please call me that when Dick is around.”

“Gladly.”

“In any other context, don’t ever disrespect me like that again.”

“Sorry, Barbie.”

He heads to the door and hears some commotion downstairs. When he peeks out of the hallway, he sees Duke still there, at the top of the stairs. Jason hides inside the room again, leaning against the door.

“Any news on the case?”

“Not yet.”

Jason isn’t sure any other answer would have made him feel better.

“Barbs, I don’t know what I'll do when I find him,” he confesses. Is not a question of if to him. He is determined to find him. But this feels too much like an open wound. “Who the hell does that to a little boy?”

“One step at a time, Jason,” she answers. “You’ll figure it out. You aren’t alone in this— and don’t make any face— because you’re not, okay?”

"Okay." Sounds half convincing, at least. "I have to go."

"I'll keep you updated. Say hi to Dick for me."

"Wait, what?"

She hangs up.

***

Damian stays very still, keeping his head high. He blinks, intently looking into the creature's eyes. He can almost see his reflection in its dark surface. 

The creature doesn't move an inch. Even for him, it's a little eerie. 

"This is my room," Damian declares, clearing his throat. "I find it more than adequate; I should expect you to do too."

He looks back at it. The spider is frozen in place where Damian placed it over his drawer. It's so incredibly still; for a moment, Damian fears it may be dead. He waits. And waits. 

Is it sleep? Is it petrified by fear? Unlikely. It had shown incredible intelligence when they first met. It answered to questions, it had known to stay hidden while Damian snuck it inside the manor. Surely it knew by now he had no ill intentions.

Damian turns to it, leaning closer to observe for any sign of life.

Suddenly, it moves a leg. 

Damian jumps back, startled. Eyeing curiously as the creature slowly moves, like stretching each leg and then walking towards the edge of the drawer. It raises its head, like taking in the room. 

It's strange. The way it moves, its presence, seems to have changed in some way. More somber? Or maybe more in tune with itself. Confident, calmer. No longer pretending to act like other animals. Yes, that was probably it.

Damian can understand that. He hates not being treated according to his true intellect. He'll do his best not to do this creature that disservice. 

As he thinks of his next question, the spider seems to finish its assessment of the bedroom. It turns to Damian and nods, and Damian could have sworn there was almost a glint of some sort in those little eyes. 

Damian can't help but smile. It's still as impressive as it was the first time.

"Do you have a name?" On the way here, Damian has already thought of a few suggestions, in case it doesn't have one.

The creature looks around, then back at him. Maybe it's confused. He is about to repeat the question when the spider shakes its head slowly. 

Interesting. So it's likely a no, but there was evidently something else to the answer. He has to think of a better way to communicate. 

The spider seems to agree. It looks around, looking for something, and then speeds crawling down the furniture, through the carpet, and stops at the bottom of the bookcase. Damian follows.

"You have knowledge of books?" 

The spider jumps at the books, crawling and jumping between them like looking for something. It finally stops in front of a large tome getting dusty in a corner, and the spider taps at it.

A dictionary.

Brilliant! Damian pulls the book out and sits on the floor, displaying the index that marks on which pages the letters start and end.

The spider crawls over the page, and points with its leg to the letter I.

Damian considers. The spider taps on it again.

"Would you like me to go to the section "I'" of the dictionary?"

The spider shakes its head.

"Do you wish to spell out a message?"

The spider nods and then taps once more on the letter "I". Alright, Damian thinks. Straight to the point, it may be convenient.

Damian reaches for his sketchbook and a pen, preparing. Once he writes down the "I," the spider quickly moves to tap at another letter. This time, it is "N". Damian writes, almost as fast as the spider moves, letter by letter.

After a few of them, Damian starts to understand the basis of the message, but patiently writes down until the spider stops. 

Once again, it does something surprising. It raises its four front legs towards Damian, like giving him the cue. Damian looks at the full message. 

INEEDANEWNAME

"I need a new name," Damian reads. Cool. The message implies this creature used to have a name, but for whatever reason, it won't do anymore. He makes a mental note of that.

The spider then makes the same gesture as before, stretching its legs, pointing at Damian. 

Damian sits straight. "Do you wish for me to help you find a new name?"

The spider nods, emphasising its movements. Then it comes closer and places a leg over Damian's hand.

"Very well," Damian smiles. "I have a few ideas."

Chapter Text

“I hear you got a good night's sleep.”

“Don’t be too excited about it, Alf.”

“Mn.”

Jason puts Duke’s wheelchair back down on the carpet. Duke, from his place on Jason’s back, arms around his neck, waves at Alfred.

“There are sandwiches for you and master Duke on the counter.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Do you care for milkshakes? Master Tim’s idea.”

“Sure, thank you.”

Looking through the windows, diffused sunlight manages to peak through the layers of soft gray clouds that gather slowly. It’s still nice enough weather for Gotham, but in a couple of hours, it may turn into rain. Once Duke is back in his wheelchair, Jason hears voices in the living room and flees to the kitchen.

He finds someone else sitting at the counter.

“Oh, great.”

“Real subtle, Jay. Glad to know you missed me.”

Dick. Leaning against the counter, he has a casual button-up shirt and a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. He is smiling, that stupid goofy half smile that so many people find charming— people who don’t know him, in Jason’s opinion— but his voice has some acid to it, so familiar. So damn familiar. Dick pulls the chair next to him, inviting him to sit.

“Ugh.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t eat your sandwich.”

Begrudgingly, Jason sits. “Who told you to come?”

“You’re being more hostile than usual,” Dick responds, taking a bite.

“Am I really?”

Jason reaches for his own sandwich, suddenly very hungry, and starts to unwrap it, refusing to turn to look at Dick. But he can still feel his eyes.

“How are you doing?”

“Oh, here we go—”

“It’s a normal adult question, Jason; you could just answer me.”

“This isn’t any of your business, Dickard.”

“And who decides whose business it is, huh? Batman?” Dick sighs. “Like you listen to what he says.”

Jason bristles, hunching on his hoodie and threatening to crush his sandwich into a mush.

“What exactly is it that you want?”

“See? Hostile.”

“Oh, you little shi—!”

“You may find it hard to believe, but what I want is exactly what I said. I want to know how you’re doing.”

His voice is firm and somehow still gentle, and Jason finds it incredibly annoying. He looks away, taking an aggressive bite.

“Yeah, right,” Jason mutters, and shakes his head. “Who told you?”

“Tim.”

“And you just had to run back here.”

“If you’re pissed off about me learning all your secrets, save it. I don’t actually know what this is about or what has you in such a bad mood. I came to assist; I don’t know any details.”

Dick gets up to put his plate on the sink, and for a solid few seconds, Jason doesn’t know what else to say, staring at Dick’s back. Deep down, Jason feels he may be being too harsh, but he prefers it to— something else. Anything else that he is feeling.

He rests his forehead on the palm of his hand. The words almost pour out of his mouth by themselves.

“Last night, some kids reported something was chasing them at the cemetery. It was a dead body that crawled out of its grave.”

From his seat, Jason can practically feel Dick’s heartbeat slow down, the gears turning in his head. He still has his back to him.

“An eight-year-old boy came back to life, and it's god knows where roaming the city.”

Dick turns to him. He is keeping a serene expression, but Jason knows him well enough to see through the façade. He is making an effort to be the calm in the storm, the good listener, so Jason has the impulse to make an effort himself and not spit out what he really wants to say.

Tell me you have something to find him or fuck off.

“Come on, Dicky. I know you’re dying to ask more.”

“Are you gonna tell me to fuck off if I do?”

“Maybe.”

“Right,” Dick says, staring him down. “What’s his name?”

“What?”

“The boy’s name. Can I know?” Dick crosses his arms. “I’ll keep an eye out on patrol.”

This time, Jason isn’t even sure why he is angry. There’s a knot on his stomach.

“Peter Richard Parker.”

He memorized it, but still feels hollow saying it out loud. Jason is staring at his sandwich, but hears the way Dick practically stops breathing. When he looks up, Dick is blinking, still taken aback.

“I’m sure Tim will give you the file.”

“You would be correct.”

They both turn at the same time to the door, where Tim is leaning on the doorway, fixing his hair with pajamas still on.

“Were you spying on us, creep?”

“There is no way you are calling me a creep, Jason.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“How about you just say hello next time, Tim?” Dick says, shaking his head with a smile. “You told me to come early and weren’t even here when I arrived.”

“Sorry, I was sleeping.” Tim slices the folder through the counter for Dick to catch. “We need to talk.”

Whatever resemblance to casual conversation in the room completely stops. Tim heats his sandwich in the microwave as he waits for Dick to quickly read through the file, and then he sits, taking an aspirin dry before speaking.

“Okay, so I looked the kid up. There is almost nothing in his public records, at least not anything we would be able to hack,” he says, looking at Jason. “We really should look into his caregivers; I have a list of people whom we could talk to.”

Tim opens the file and signals with his fingers. “Rafaela Oliva, she’s one of the full-time volunteer workers at San Jeronimo Orphanage, where Peter was for most of his life.”

“She paid for his medical expenses,” Dick adds, reading from his own file.

“Yeah, she also wrote him an obituary.”

Jason grabs the file, and needs to gather himself when he catches the picture of Peter on the first page.

Jesus. He is so little. Scrawny and little even for his age, he can’t be more than five in that picture. With little bottle glasses that are too big for his face, and dirty chestnut wavy hair. His clothes look cheap, the picture is low quality. And Jason recognizes the format.

“That uh— background,” he says, clearing his throat. “I have a picture like that; it’s from an old lady in Crime Alley that takes cheap photos for IDs.”

Dick and Tim don’t say anything, but Tim writes it down. When he looks up, Jason finds Dick just as fixated on the picture as he is, tense.

“What about his foster parent? That doctor,” Jason says, looking away.

“Here is another quicker; he is in the wind. Nobody has seen Doctor Karl Heathwood since Peter died. Hasn’t used any credit cards, put his name in anything, I even ran him through facial recognition to see if any camera had picked him up, and nothing. It’s like he disappeared.”

“We need to find him.”

“I agree, he may have been the last person to see Peter alive, and— well, we have to consider the possibility there is more to his death. Or even if he had nothing to do with it, Peter could be looking for him too.”

“It says here he died of a seizure, you don’t think that’s true?” Dick asks.

“I don’t know. Like I said, his records are suspiciously short. At first, it looks like, as badly as it sounds, Peter was just another insignificant orphan. But it’s more than that, it’s almost like someone tried to wipe out any information on him.”

“This has Gotham’s fine science use all over it,” Jason says, shaking his head. “We’ve dealt with these evil scientists before; we know how far they go. And I want to know what sick fuck brought an eight-year-old back to life.”

“And maybe killed him,” Dick says, his expression is grim and heavy. And like suddenly nauseated by what he said, Dick puts the file down carefully.

For a few seconds, there is silence.

“You said you had a list,” Jason says. “Who else is in it?

“Peters' foster parents before Dr. Heathwood; he stayed with them for almost a year. Their address is actually on Crime Alley; they may be the ones who paid for that photo.”

“How do they seem?”

Tim shrugs. “Normal, middle-aged couple, both teachers. Declared Peter just never adapted with them, would try to run away or leave the house at night. There was no suspicion of mistreatment, but you never know.”

“If you don’t mind my help, I could stop by, talk to them,” Dick says, slowly, glancing at Jason.

For a second, it seems Jason may protest, but he just nods, lowering his head.

“Barb is working on finding us a trail,” Tim says. “In the meantime, this is what we have. I say we divide and stay in communication. I already debriefed Duke; his friends are keeping an eye on the streets, and he will be assisting with the tracking programs on the computer.”

“What criteria?”

“Facial recognition, mentions of dead, zombies, unattended children, Peter's name, 911 calls, police radios, search engines... We got it covered.”

“I talk to Rafaela,” Jason declares, grimacing and quickly washing his plate. “See you tonight.”

He storms off. Tim sighs, sitting in the silence and trying not to stare at Dick. He is pretending to read the file, but really, Tim can see he is dissociating.

“What are you thinking?”

“That I’m tempted to hate this city sometimes,” Dick answers quietly, keeping a finger on Peter’s picture. Tim doesn’t mention it, but he thinks he hears the clogged emotion in his throat.

***

“Kid?”

Peter jolts at touch. The clinic’s sudden white light in his eyes, even with the sunglasses on, makes his headache worse. He blinks, shaking his head to wake up. He was practically falling off the chair.

The doctor gives him a tense smile. “Sorry for the long wait. I can check you now.”

“No problem.”

She leads him to an examination room. The clinic is busier now, commotion and noise completely encapsulating them as the doctor closes the curtains and turns to him with a smile.

“They already pre-examined you, right?” Peter flashes his yellow bracelet as an answer. “Alright, Peter Benson, huh?”

Peter nods.

She takes his hands to examine them and eyes Peter with severity, like she wants to scold him. Peter tries to remain still as she removes the splinters with some tweezers, struggling through the sleepiness.

He was dreaming about something, right? About a giant kid, again. He'd dreamed that before, after coming back to life. Yeah, grass and bubbles and—

His dad.

He had dreamed something about his dad. Or maybe— more like a fleeting thought, right? It had to be.

He can kind of remember; it's as fuzzy and feels as abstract and confusing as a dream can be. But still— it had felt familiar somehow. But it takes him aback now. Peter hadn't dreamed about his dad for a long, long time.

“Can I ask how this happened?” the doctor suddenly asks.

His mind races for a split second. Wood, splinters, coffin— he can't say that.

“Eh... I got trapped in a closet at work last night, and—.” Peter swallows. “I kind of panicked, I know it was stupid, and I tried to break the door with my bear hands.”

He laughs awkwardly. Like that's gonna make it more believable.

“It was a really old door,” he adds.

She sighs, and Peter comforts himself, thinking she has probably heard worse excuses before. The doctor starts to apply some antiseptic on his hands, and the relief is almost instant.

“Are you on anything?”

“Like meds? No.”

“Don't play dumb with me, kid.”

“I'm not! I'm not on anything— I don't take drugs, I swear.”

“Any other injury you're hiding?”

“No ma'am.”

“Is something wrong with your eyes then?”

Peter looks away immediately, which he is quick to realize looks really bad.

“Okay, maybe I smoked some— uh, weed? My eyes are irritated still— it was last night.”

There, believable. Something a teenager would lie about, slightly embarrassing. With some luck, she’ll drop it.

The doctor shakes her head, tired.

“I can only prescribe you aspirin, do you want it?”

“Sure.”

“You told the intern you’re nineteen, but I know you can’t be more than seventeen, so I’m gonna need either the name of a guardian or an ID.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“It is if you want a shower and some clothes from the donation box; I assumed you do.” She roughly finishes bandaging his fingers and starts to open the curtains.

“Um, could I borrow your phone? I want to call my aunt,” Peter says, after some consideration. The doctor hands him her phone and goes to get the forms, just a few steps in front of him. From time to time, she turns to eye him.

Peter keeps the phone in his ear, pretending to call, and considers his options. A shower would be nice; this may be his only chance to get one in a while. He needs to blend in; if he wants to have any hope of returning home, he is gonna need resources, some outside help. But he doesn’t have a guardian to name, right? Or maybe he did— his other self. If he gave his real name, would an alternate Aunt May get a call?

God— so unsettling. These are all possibilities he hadn’t had time to consider. How alike is he to this other Peter? Could he get recognized in the street?  Did he have friends— or family? Who had to bury him in that cemetery? Don’t they deserve to know he— came back?

When he was a kid, he had imagined it, sometimes. The possibilities. The what ifs. What if his dad had never gone on that business trip, and his mom with him? What if they, or even just one of them, had survived the accident? How would his life have turned out if he hadn’t grown up with Ben and May?

Now that he is older, it is unthinkable. His life was, well, his own. He, his aunt and uncle. It made sense. But already so much is different here; he didn’t even live in New York! What are the chances this other Peter’s life turned out even remotely close to his?

He had assumed he was on his own— as usual— but he’s never been completely on his own, has he? Even at his lowest, after Ben died, there was May. There was Ned. There were neighbors who recognized him. There were classmates who didn’t completely hate him.

And Jesus, he is starting to miss them. All of it, and it’s making him think if there could be any resemblance of them in this place. But Peter guesses the real question eating him inside is— who are they, here? His people.

Is there someone in this world, right now, who misses him?

What choice does he have then? Give his real name? Admit having— what? Come back from the dead? What then? Would he be turned into a science project for the government to study? Would anyone even believe him?

But I’m not him (am I?)

I can’t do that to them.

Maybe he really is on his own then. Peter still feels curious about it, though. What would happen if he admitted who he is.  

What he needs is information about this world, about himself. Maybe then, he can decide. He discreetly looks at the doctor. She is distracted talking with the nurses, and Peter uses the chance to access the internet with the phone.

First, he looks up his own name, the name on the grave he woke up in. Peter R. Parker.

Nothing. A bunch of useless results that happen to have those words there. Okay, so he is not famous, good. Then, he adds “Gotham” to the search. Again, the first ones don’t seem to be relevant. Suddenly, a result catches his attention, and he can already see from the preview of the website that someone mentioned the full name.

It’s the web portal of Gotham City’s Saint Jeronimo Orphanage for Young Boys.

Peter feels cold, taking over his chest. He can’t help the slight disappointment, the dread, a, if brief, heavy sadness.  His heart is racing as he starts to skim through the page, and the bad feeling gets worse when Peter realizes what he is reading is his obituary.

Dammit, does he even want to read this?

Peter Richard Parker passed away peacefully in his sleep on this third of Mars, at age eight.

He was the son of Mary Fitzpatrick, a smart young woman and single mother who too left this world at a young age when Peter was a baby. Peter was raised thanks to the Lord's mercy at Saint Jeronimo and other foster homes. He enjoyed reading and learning, was a smart, sweet boy, and will be greatly missed by all of us who had the fortune of knowing him.

May he rest with the angels.

Peter is frozen in place when the doctor returns, and he has to force his hands to put the phone down and act as nonchalant as possible. But he is shaking.

“Are you done with your call?”

Peter nods, returning the phone and burying his face on the papers the doctor offered him. The doctor pretends not to be watching him, and in autopilot, Peter pretends to answer the forms.

What the actual—?

He died at eight years old? He grew up in an orphanage? Did he have no other family? What about Ben and May? Do they not exist here? Did they not want him? Are they dead?

And then there’s— his mom.

He hasn’t thought much about her either, for years. Once, Ben told him that when he was little, he had missed her a lot. But as he grew up, it became more difficult. He just didn’t remember enough about her; as far as he was concerned, May was the closest thing he had to a mom. And most of the time, that was enough.

And his dad? What about him? He is not even mentioned. Did he die too?

He has the Parker last name; his second name is Richard. That has to mean something; it can’t be a coincidence.

Here, it seems he didn’t even have any memories of either of them. He’s been an orphan since he was a baby. What is he supposed to do with that? Where is he supposed to go now?

Peter stops writing, overwhelmed. The doctor tells him to go deliver the form to the nurse station, but Peter can’t move.

“Can I use the bathroom?” he finally says.

“Of course.”

That shower will have to wait.

Third is the charmer. As soon as he is out of sight of the doctor, Peter, once again, flees through the shadows.  

Chapter Text

“Why are we here?”

Bruce sits down next to Tim. He doesn’t look up from his laptop, still in his posh black suit from the office.

“Damian said he was working on something and wants to show it to us. We will listen,” Bruce answers calmly.

“Right—.”

“Damian wanted to show something to— all of us?” Jason says, circling everyone with his finger. Tim raises an eyebrow.

“He hasn’t come out of his room all day,” Dick says. “Do we think it's something dangerous or something normal?”

“Definitely dangerous,” Tim answers.

“I believe,” Bruce says, finally putting his laptop down. “It’s an art project.”

“What makes you think that?”

“There is an art show in two weeks at the Youth Center for charity, and Damian showed interest in it. And he asked Alfred for some black fabric three hours ago.”

“Fabric?”

“Again, Damian said he wanted to see all of us?” Jason insists, crossing his arms.

“If you must know, Jason, his exact words were that he wished to formally show something to the family. Hence why I called— the family.”

“Ugh.”

“Formally?” Tim asks.

“Okay, whatever it is, it’s obviously exciting for him; we can all be nice about it, right?” Dick says, looking intently towards Tim and Jason. They just vaguely shrug.

“Whatever. We should tell him we are leaving soon,” Tim says.

“We? Where exactly do you think you are going, Tim? May I remind you that you got shot?” Jason says.

“It was a figure of speech.”

“How was that figure of speech?”

“Ahem.”

Damian is suddenly at one of the entrances of the living room, and they all turn in unison. From where he came from, it’s gloomy, they can’t see him very well. But there is just enough light to notice Damian has his Robin suit on already.

Jason looks at Tim. Tim looks at Dick. Dick looks at Bruce. Very briefly, Bruce turns an eye to them. Nobody moves.

“Ahem,” Damian repeats. “Good, I suppose, that you are all here. I have an announcement.”

“Oh my god,” Tim murmurs through his teeth. “Did he become a theater kid?”

Dick discreetly puts his finger over his mouth, telling him to shut up. Bruce seems ready to intervene when Damian speaks again.

“Father, others,” Damian says solemnly, stepping into the light. “I would like to introduce you to Rick, the Spider.”

“Rick the wha—? What the hell is that—!”

Everyone stares, incredulously, as a giant spider crawls from Damian’s back slowly, extending its twisted legs to stand still on his shoulder. It’s dark blue, with little red dots in its smooth, shiny exoskeleton and very long feet that make it look even taller than it already is. It’s almost the size of Damian’s face; they can see each and every one of its many cold black eyes.

Tim thinks he may be dreaming when he notices the monstrous spider is wearing a tiny domino mask, matching Damian's.

“Where in the devil's name,” Tim says, shuddering and clawing at his clothes. “Did you get that thing from?”

“And why are you letting it touch you? Wha— why did you bring it inside?” Jason says.

Damian clenches his jaw, angry.  “Rick the Spider is an outstanding creature, and it will be staying—"

“Damian,” Bruce says. Damian stops, looking up at his father and biting his lip. “Where did the spider come from?”

“The woods, father. He was seeking shelter at the barn.”

“Oh, right. And you just thought 'That’s normal, I’m gonna invite the mutant spider for tea and make it a mask,' ” Tim says.

Dick bursts out laughing. Damian feels himself getting flustered and draws back, clutching his fists.

“That’s— well, it’s obviously not dangerous, right? Damian has been with it all day, so—” Dick starts, with an awkward smile. “Nice to meet you, Rick?”

To its absolutely bewildered audience, the spider raises a leg.

Jason steps back. “I swear, I’m gonna shoot that thing if it comes near me.”

“Please don’t shoot anything inside the house, Jason,” Bruce says, keeping composure. “Damian, are you sure this— creature— poses no danger to you?”

Damian straightens, raising his head proudly.

“I am sure Father, Rick doesn’t have fangs or venom, and as I said, it’s of an outstanding intelligence, which I can’t say for the other members of this hou—"

“Alright,” Bruce says, getting up. “The spider may stay, but I will be giving Rick a look myself to understand its— nature. That is my condition.”

“Are you serious?” Tim asks.

“I trust Damian's judgment.”

Damian smiles, smugly raising his head. Tim sits back down on the couch, taking a long, deep breath.

“It’s the bat-spider gonna go on patrol too?” Tim asks.

“He does not appreciate that name.”

“Alright.” Tim nods. “How did you know Rick is a he?”

“He told me so.”

“He told you?”

“Yes.”

“Right, of course. I’ll look for any news of labs or zoos losing an exotic spider.”

“Suit yourself.”

Jason shakes his head, twisting his mouth into something that resembles a smile. He waves at the spider as he heads out.

“You’re crazier than me, kid,” he whispers to Damian, and Damian doesn’t know whether or not to take it as a compliment.

Dick crosses his legs on the couch, relaxing, and taps the seat next to him. Damian sits, crossing his arms with Rick the Spider still attached to his shoulder.

“So Rick, huh?” Dick says. Damian shrugs.

“I suggested the name Richard, but he preferred to be called Rick.” Dick smiles from ear to ear.

“Really?”

“He said it sounded “cooler”, though I told Rick not to concern himself with that kind of petty categories.”

Dick nods, like it makes perfect sense, and ruffles Damian's hair, making him grimace.

“You’re sticking with me tonight, Robin,” Dick says. “But Rick can't go, he is untrained!”

***

It’s dark when Peter returns to the cemetery.

Before his eyes, the city has transformed. Noises have more echo to it; Peter can sense more chaos all around him. The high train he saw hours ago has been swallowed by darkness, but Peter can still hear its whistle in the distance. The shadows have taken over the tall buildings and crooked ups and downs with a certain familiarity, the shapes seeming more natural at the golden light that pours out the windows and a series of zeppelins that float ominously over the hustle of the city, casting their vigilant reflectors like little beacons everywhere, constantly fighting off the darkness.

It’s almost like this is the city’s natural form.

Peter isn’t sure why he has returned here. It was practically instinctual. One minute, he was running from the clinic. Next, he was stopping at the rusty metal fence, staring at the sea of graves on the other side.

Have I been here before? He thinks. It certainly feels like it.

Not when he woke up in that grave, but before. Like once again, there is something inexplicably familiar about this stale, humid air. This quiet, these trees moving their branches in the dark. As if he had been here many, many times before.

Peter covers himself in the hoodie and climbs over the fence without much trouble. It’s not the main entrance; the metal is covered by weeds, and the grass is yellow and overgrown. Good, fewer chances of someone seeing him.

He starts walking, seemingly without direction, trying to remember where his grave was. After a while, he realizes he actually does know where he is going, as if his body moved on its own, and a near-paralyzing fear takes hold of his mind. Still, he can’t stop walking.

But when he reaches his destination, Peter suddenly knows why he is here. A little grave sits in front of him, nothing but a metal cross and a little glass bottle with dusty paraffin roses.

Mary Fitzpatrick

Peter sits on the grass, staring, and can’t, for the life of him, figure out what it is he is feeling. Peter hasn’t missed his mom in many, many years. But right now, he kind of does. He kind of wishes his memories of her were clearer, brighter. He wishes he could remember better that song she sang to him whenever he had a nightmare, just enough to sing it out loud. But he doesn’t, it’s just the shadow of a shapeless melody, buried too far back.

Mom.

The word buzzes over his head, haunting, and Peter loses track of time. It soon gets so dark he can barely see the cross. All he can feel is the cold wind burning the tip of his nose and his cheeks.

“Hey, Mom,” he feels the need to whisper, after a while. So quietly, only the two of them could hear it.

Right here, in this silence, Peter can almost hear her voice.

When he feels too close to crying, Peter buries his face between his knees. It’s stupid, how devastating it is that not even in this strange alternate universe did he get to remember his mom. It’s like grieving her all over again, and Mary Fitzpatrick remains as much of a stranger as she always has.

He wishes May were here. Once again, Peter wonders what he is supposed to do next.

“You wouldn’t want any of this for me, would you?” Peter says, and he almost wants to laugh. It feels like it would be as easy as crying right now. “But I guess you’ve known all these years, right? I’ve always kind of been a loser.”

Always his goddam luck.

Suddenly, Peter remembers Ned. He can’t even remember the context, but he is suddenly overcome with the memory of Ned patting him on the back with a half-smile. “We've always been losers. When has that ever stopped us?”

“When has that ever stopped me?” he whispers, managing to smile.

A noise pops the bubble of time Peter was suspended in. Every hair on his body stands on end, and Peter looks around. It’s so dark he can barely distinguish the outlines of the trees. But it wasn’t the regular background noises of the cemetery he had been listening to this entire time; this was something else.

He quickly pinpoints where it’s coming from. Steps. A voice, someone panting. Peter gets up as quietly as he can and slides there, trying to be as stealthy as he is when being Spider-Man. It’s not far, and soon he sees the light of a flashlight moving in the distance.

Peter follows it, trying to make out who it is. At first, he thinks it's some kind of night guard, but soon realizes it’s a kid. Twelve, fourteen at most. He seems terrified, shaky, and nervous, turning in fear at every little sound. Peter thinks about coming out to ask if he needs help, but then realizes where the kid is standing.

It’s here. His grave.

It’s a jarring sight. All open and destroyed. It’s now surrounded by yellow tape, which the kid slips under to look closer. Behind the kid, Peter can see the broken tombstone. Why did he even come back here? He doesn’t need to see this.

The kid is staring in shock, too. Peter can’t see his face very well, but he seems... familiar. What could he be doing here? Did he know Peter?

At that very moment, the wind moves the branches of the trees with a powerful blast, raising the dust from the ground. When Peter is done rubbing his eyes, the kid is gone.

Peter looks around and catches a figure fleeing in the dark, running to the cemetery gates. Without much thought, Peter runs after him.

***

Rafaela doesn’t sleep much these days. So even though work starts early tomorrow, she can’t even find the energy to close her eyes or even move from her place next to the kitchen window, staring through the curtain at the murky black sky and waiting for the off chance of it clearing enough to see a star.

The ice is melting in the glass of liquor in her hand. The candles at the altar have consumed almost entirely. The heaviness and darkness that have plagued her are almost unbearable today.

The knock on the door frightens her from the beginning, and Rafaela pulls a pocketknife from under the table. She has nobody who could visit her late at night. The knock sounds again, not too strong, strangely patient. She gets close to see through the bullseye and points the knife as she opens the door.

Red Hood doesn’t move an inch, seemingly unfazed by her weapon; his presence is threatening enough. She blinks at him, like slowly realizing this isn’t a dream.

“Hood. I know you.” She has a thick accent. She isn’t pointing the blade at him anymore, but keeps a firm grip on it, nonetheless.

“Sorry to intrude,” he answers.

Red Hood steps inside and closes the door behind himself, without waiting for an invitation. When she turns, Batman materializes from the shadows of the curtains.

“Me cago en mi… how did you get inside?”

“Your bedroom window is open,” Batman answers. She laughs, bitter.

Red Hood takes her in as they corner her on the couch. She is bony, thin, brown skin, a large nose and big, severe eyes. There is something to her face and facial expressions that almost makes her look like a bird. There is a light bruising under her eyes, clear even in the scarce light of the lamp.

“What do you want?” she asks, and sits down, tired.

Batman looks at Red Hood and sits on the couch in front of her, actively trying to appear less threatening. Red Hood does the same, pulling his gun and putting it down on the floor. Rafaela is refusing to look them in the eye.

“We just wanna talk. We have questions about Peter.”

Red Hood lays two ID pictures of Peter on the coffee table, and another of the broken tombstone. Rafaela doesn’t react at first, her face this perfectly crafted stone wall.

“What about him?” she asks, and sounds strangely collected despite the tremble in her lip. “You want to know how he died?”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” Red Hood says. “How did you meet Peter?”

“What does that matter?” Her voice suddenly cracks. “Why— why is it broken?”

“Rafaela, we need you to tell us about Peter, its important,” Batman says.

“I’m not stupid,” Rafaela spats at him. “Why are you here now?”

Batman considers, looking at Red Hood again, who nods.

“There was an incident at the cemetery last night. Peter's body is missing.”

Rafaela looks down, clinging hard to the sleeves of her sweater.  A tear falls down her chin, then another, silent. Red Hood sees a little package of tissues in the kitchen table, next to the liquor and the cold plate of food. He goes to get them and passes one to her. It's then that he notices the altar to the Virgin Mary in the corner, the tablecloth covered in wax, and the bright picture sitting next to the statue.

It's nothing like the other pictures they’ve seen of Peter. This one is bright, spontaneous. The image is shaky, a movement miraculously captured. Peter is looking up at the camera as he has a lizard on his hand, laughing with the biggest smile.

“What do you want to know?” Rafaela finally says.

“Everything you can give us,” Red Hood says. “It all matters.”

“I knew Peter since he was three.” Rafaela wipes her nose quickly, anxiously crumpling the tissue with her fingers. “I came to work with the children in Saint Jeronimo through this exchange program— it doesn’t matter, I had worked with special needs children before. So, they got me working with the kids that had the most trouble adapting.

“Peter was one of them?”

“Yes. He was this— very angry little boy.” She shakes her head. “Got into fights, waved scissors at people, didn’t have any friends. I worked with him every week, and he got better, but— I’m not a professional, and there were so many other kids…”

“We know you paid for a lot of medical bills, why?” Red Hood asks.

“Yes, I did. He was a very sickly kid.” Rafaela gets up suddenly and walks to a little desk next to the door, searching through piles of papers. “And reckless too… clumsy. When he wasn’t breaking a wrist or getting stitches on the cheek, he had headaches, he had pneumonia, he needed a new pair of glasses. Not to mention all his therapy appointments.”

She hands Red Hood a cramped folder with Peter's name. Inside, he finds medical prescriptions and receipts.

“The orphanage tried to pay for it at first, but we didn’t have enough money. There was a doctor who thought he may have had head trauma from when he was a baby, but the tests were so expensive. I tried getting him government assistance, and the process took too long; by the time they had approved it, he… well.”

She looks at the ground, eyes numb, and Batman can tell she is holding back the tears.

“You tried to adopt him,” Batman says. It’s not a question, and for a moment, she seems surprised that they know that, but then her eyes light up with anger.

“He wasn’t dead when they approved the assistance. He just wasn’t here; it was when that doctor fostered him and took him south.”

“Go back,” Red Hood says. “Elaborate.”

“Peter didn’t want any parents. It’s not rare for these kids, everything the system puts them through… they learn not to trust anyone. He didn’t trust me in the first years. As he grew up, he got more— shy and focused. Found other ways to spend his energy. He was a gifted kid; he was probably smarter than me, I have all these science awards he won… it doesn’t—,” Rafaela sighs. “Peter found out I was um— half Romani and suddenly wanted to ask me all these questions, that’s the only reason we got close. He said his father was Romani, and that’s why he was so interested in me. Asked me to teach him, but I don’t know any words. I grew up in Spain; my father died when I was two. Peter kept saying he would come for him one day, you know? His father.”

“Peter knew his father?” Batman asks.

“He said he wanted to learn for when his father came for him, he was so insistent. I thought it was a story he had made up. Nobody ever came for him; nobody visited.”

“And Doctor Heathwood?” Red Hood asks.

“He wasn’t Peter's father, if that’s what you’re thinking. He convinced Peter that he could cure him, that he would be able to run and not get sick anymore—,” Rafaela says, and she is choking on her words again. “All my little boy wanted was to be perfect for when his father came to get him. He was very smart, but that rat of a doctor was too.”

“You think he hurt Peter?”

“He said he was taking him to see if he qualified for a medical trial, so he took Peter south; they never told me where. But when he came back, he came to visit the orphanage for the easter festival, all the kids had water guns and Peter's shirt got wet. I gave him a new one, and his back was lined with this— estrellitas, como— like stickers, stickers of little stars, but he had put them on to hide needle holes. Nobody took me seriously. I reported it, and they just said they would do a check. The doctor insisted it was from that trial, that it wasn’t a big deal, and they just let him take Peter again.”

Rafaela bites her lip, hard, and her entire face is tense with anger. Red Hood looks up at Batman, but like him, he isn’t moving. They both just wait until she finds her voice again.

“I tracked you down,” she says to Batman, her eyes are brimming with tears. “For two weeks, I followed your tracks. I thought, if the system won’t do anything, maybe Batman can. But by the time I almost had you… My poor little boy was dead. And that doctor was nowhere to be found, didn’t even bother to bury him.”

She grabs the picture of the tombstone.

“I paid for this, for the funeral. I wrote that because it’s true. It’s what he was, a joy.”

Rafaela curls into herself. After a few seconds, Batman extends a hand towards her, as carefully as if she were a scared animal, and for a moment, it almost seems like she could really retaliate by biting his hand off. Batman’s hand rests gently on her hand. Rafaela just shivers, staring blankly at the ground.

“I’m sorry,” Batman says.

“I didn’t save him,” she whispers. “He’s dead.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Batman answers. “I’m sorry, Rafaela. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when Peter needed me.”

Rafaela lets go and covers her eyes with her hands. Her fingers are lined with elaborate plastic rings, little teddy bears, hearts, and flowers. Red Hood stares, imagining how popular those must be with the little kids.

“I know that doctor did something to him,” Rafaela says, and looks between them. “You didn’t save him, are you going to avenge him?”  

“That’s a promise,” Jason says.

Rafaela is still crying when they leave through the window. The night is windy and cold, and when they get out, they can barely hear anything over the roar of the wind. Red Hood kicks at the concrete and then sits on the rooftop. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, but forces his mind to pull some pieces together.

Batman just stands, waiting behind him.

“It was a good call,” Red Hood says. “We shouldn’t give her false hope.”

But bitterness is corroding his throat. He wishes he hadn’t left her that way, that they could promise to bring Peter back to her. But really, he doesn’t know. Maybe Peter doesn’t even know who he is anymore.

Like a sudden reminder of the world, a police siren is heard in the distance.

“I have somewhere to be,” Red Hood says, but still doesn’t move. “That kid from the Robin gang, Mario, how well do you know him?”

“Mario Rivera, thirteen, immigrated from Mexico when he was nine. Lives in Acacia 409—”

“Yeah, I know,” Red Hood interrupts. “He had a bruise on his mouth. Duke says he’s seen it before, but he never gives a clear story on what happened. I’m gonna pay him a visit.”

Batman doesn’t say anything, and for once, Jason is grateful. He just nods, and Red Hood leaves.

Chapter Text

Peter is flying.

It’s hard to remember when he got here, but he's flying through the buildings with the wind rushing in his ear and noticing every little detail the nightly city lights reach.

Hush! And he swings again between the buildings. It's as secure and natural as he remembers, with his trusted webs. The blood rushes through his veins, accelerating; the thrill makes him feel alive again. Wow, he missed this.

The view is something to be envied. It's one of his favorite side perks of being Spider-Man. To be able to look at the city like this, in all the towering size of buildings and the way every little shrine, scream, hush, horn, grinding, puff, and huff make an orchestra that echoes in every corner; Peter has learned to swim through it to find where he is needed.

Except this time, something feels different.

The buildings, he doesn’t recognize them. Some of these streets almost look like something he knows. But still, Peter has no trouble navigating them; it’s as easy as letting himself go with a current. He feels— oddly light too. Pulled to one side or the other by muscle memory. How extraordinary of his body to be able to do that.

Peter takes a turn and sees figures in front of him, flying as swiftly as he is against the dark sky and the drowsy glow of the neon lights. They rush from building to building like living shadows. And maybe it's the way everything is covered by a fait haze, but everything looks so supernaturally massive.

This city is almost pretty like this.

Oh, he gets it now. Right. He is following them! They're going in the same direction; Peter is letting them lead the way. They're fast and agile, apparently much more in tune with the city's composition than Peter is.

But they're not more agile than Spider-Man. Peter impels with his feet, jumping ahead and flying above an entire block, sending a web to catch himself from the protrusion of a very particular skyscraper. It's one of the tallest, with stylized lines and exuberant ornamentation at various points of its elongated structure. At the top, it seems to have a sort of dome, with ostentatious stone gargoyles around it.

Midair, Peter has a presentiment just before the rain starts to fall, cold, fast, and unforgiving. He starts to shiver, and Peter impulsively heads toward the skyscraper, perched to the side. On the rooftop of the opposite building, the two figures seem to have finally noticed him. One of them is much shorter than the other, and it looks directly at Peter. The wind blows the little one's cape, and though they don't move, Peter waves at them.

There's no danger here.

It's getting so cold. Peter's heart is racing, and he feels his chest moving, trying to breathe properly through the rain. He feels his whole body moving, actually. He is agitated; his legs are— Peter blinks, and the figures and the skyscrapers and the overview of the city disappear.

He isn't flying. He's running. Under the rain, yes, down a dark street, still following the kid from the cemetery.  He must have been dreaming (daydreaming?). Lost consciousness for a second. The kid takes a turn, and Peter tries his best to follow through the increasing storm. The sky quickly breaks into thunder.

What am I doing? He thinks in a blink. But he doesn’t stop, and Peter quickly realizes his spider sense is urging him to keep moving. It’s kind of scary, how intuitive it is sometimes. A second consciousness so ingrained into some mysterious part of his mind that it’s hard to recognize sometimes. Peter lets it guide him.

He stops behind an old car, catching his breath, and then peeks out at the house a few meters away, glowing like a beacon in the haze, where the kid rushed to escape from the rain. The storm gets stronger every second Peter second-guesses here. The rain quickly slips inside his clothes, he has no shoes, and he lost his sunglasses somewhere. Maybe he should look for shelter instead of whatever he is doing—

Danger.

Commotion is heard inside the house. And even before Peter hears the voices through the rain, his spider sense is already alerting him with a chill that shocks him from head to toe. Peter slips through the front yard, climbing to the porch to take a look through the front window.  

“...you want to fight smartass?”

An adult, screaming with so much anger that it puts Peter instantly on edge. He can't see much through the curtains— the corner of a plastic tablecloth, a chair, the arm of a couch— and Peter changes position to find a better opening.

“What did you say, boy? What did you say! Say it like a man! I'ma bury your face in the pavement!”

He sees him now. Tall, skinny man, maybe forty years old. Haggard eyes, not athletic, long arms, dirty blond hair.  The man throws a chair out of his way, raising his fist and towering over— a kid.

The kid.

In a second, Peter understands. Everything happens in a blink; he has no time to react before the man swings at the boy, but at the exact same time his fist touches him, Peter is already jumping, shattering the window open before the kid is done falling into the ground.

Like an explosion, glass flies and rain and wind blast the inside with full force. The cold rain collides with the hot, unstable light bulb, making it explode and drowning the room in darkness.

***

All Mario sees from the floor, still covering his face from the wind and the glass, is a shifting shadow that suddenly rises from behind the collapsed curtains, and even before the fear rises from his stomach all the way into his scalp, the shadow has disappeared.

Thunder drowns every sound. A second ago, he could hear his stepdad, Dave, panting, but when the thunder stops, there is only silence under the constant, numbing murmur of the rain. Mario covers his mouth, desperately trying not to make a sound.

A lightning bolt breaks the sky and, for a second, allows Mario to see. Something looms over Dave as it has him completely subdued. Dave's eyes are so wide with fear that they look about to pop out of their sockets, and he wriggles like a worm trying to free himself. But this thing doesn’t move an inch.

Darkness.

In the next lighting, the shadow takes form, a hooded figure; they grab Dave by the wrists and push them down so hard the wooden floor cracks under them. Mario tries to drag himself back to get away, but when darkness returns, he doesn’t dare to move.

“Ah! Wait— wait! Please, please, man! I didn’t— I—”

Dave. Scary, world-ending anger, heavy hands Dave, transformed into a blabbering mess begging for mercy.

Bum!

A thud. Dave has gone silent.

Mario's heartbeat rings in his ears, and he bites his lips, struggling to contain the terrified sob that’s about to come out of his mouth.

Light.

The figure is standing over Dave’s limp body. Mario sees hands wrapped in bloody bandages, bare feet covered in mud, and the bottom of sweatpants dripping.  And just when the light goes out, it turns directly to Mario. A white, glowing eye shines softly, haunting through the dark like the shifting flame of a candle.  

He can’t escape.

El Muerto. El muerto vino por mí.

It came for him; it followed him home. Mario shuts his eyes, not wanting to feel the blow coming, and wonders if there’s any use in begging like Dave did. Mario braces, hugging himself, and—

“Hey, there.”

A shiver runs down his spine. He can’t believe the voice was this soft, almost a whisper, almost— human.

“I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Slowly, maybe by some instinct that can’t bear the uncertainty of the dark any longer, Mario opens his eyes. He jumps; the hooded figure is now crouching in front of him, much closer, still directing at him that terrifying white eye that shimmers unnaturally like its iris is made of liquid pearls. He holds his breath, and the figure— smiles?

“Don't be scared. Are you alright?”

It's… kind, patient. Another brief light gives Mario a chance to look at it— at him better. He is young, can’t be that much older than him. The kid's mouth stammers, trying to answer, but he is too in shock to do it.

“Okay, you don't have to answer me, um, sorry for the window. What's your name?”

“Ma-Mario.”

"Mario, alright. I’m— a friend, I was trying to help; I don’t want to hurt you, alright? Here, take this.”

The friend takes out his hoodie, and though the cold clearly hits his bare chest, he tries not to flinch, handing the clothes to Mario. Mario realizes he is shaking, but can’t react just yet to the offer, fixed on the glaring scars that cover the chest of the guy. When he continues not reacting, the guy gets up and slowly places the hoodie over his shoulders.

Suddenly, he whips his head like a cat, listening to something Mario can’t hear, and looks around the room.

“Do you know who I am, Mario?” he asks, returning his attention to him. Mario looks at him, and even though he can’t see him that well in the dark, the answer is clear.

“No.”

“Okay,” the guy answers, calmer than Mario expected. Resigned. “Do you have a pen?”

***

Red Hood is five blocks away when he hears the firetruck speeding down the street in the exact same direction he is going. From where he is, he can't see any obvious emergencies yet, but the rain may be making it difficult.

“Oracle? Do you have my location?”  

"Of course, Red Hood.”

“Are there any emergencies near me?”

“Three nine-one-one calls about a house window breaking, possible shots, or maybe just the wind blew something up. Adress is Acacia 40-”

“Goddamnit.”

Red Hood speeds through the rooftops, practically trying to outrun the fire truck with the grappling hook. The storm is making everything more difficult to navigate, even slowing the truck down at an intersection. Red Hood quickly takes advantage, landing in no time on Acacia Street.

The street is small, somewhat secluded, and unusually quiet. At night, it has turned into a surreal corridor of dizzy street lights and dark corners. He spots the house immediately, the only one with the lights completely out, and as he gets close, sees the shattered window.

At first, he can’t see anything other than the corner of a living room, the curtains waving in the wind. Red Hood steps in front of the opening, scanning with his night vision, and that’s when he registers two figures in a corner.

One small, sitting on the floor, and another one, slightly bigger, standing in front of it. The second one turns to him immediately, and Jason meets two white eyes.

Jason pulls his gun, but the other guy reacts faster. It throws a pen to his hand so hard it digs into his flesh like an arrow, and in the two seconds Jason takes to pull it out, the stranger is gone. He looks around, frenetic, and has no time to respond when something grabs his ankle from behind and jerks it to make him fall.

But Red Hood doesn’t budge, quickly getting his balance back and kicking behind, but his attacker is gone again. The rain is getting worse, but Red Hood tries to concentrate, isolating the sounds; this guy is slippery, but Jason is good in the dark.

Above him.

Red Hood pulls the gun, pointing it to the ceiling— the ceiling?

It’s there. Right on top of the kitchen cabinet, arms and legs perched against the wall like an insect. It's bare-chested, soaking wet. Jason feels his pulse getting quicker. The lighting still won't let him make out a face, but those two eyes are pierced in him. Jason slowly moves a finger over the surface of the gun, and in perfect synchrony, the other guy moves a hand; the realization settles on Jason. The second he makes an offensive, they’re going to disappear again.

So, Jason holds his breath and watches as they slowly crawl on the ceiling, following with his gun. Suddenly, they stop, and Jason puts his finger on the trigger.  

“No! Wait!”

Someone jumps in front of his gun, and Jason puts it down immediately, heart pulsing in his throat. Mario.

“Mario?”

“He won’t hurt me, man!” Mario exclaims, looking up, and Jason realizes he is not talking to him. “It's Red Hood, man! Look, it’s Red Hood! He's a good guy! He won’t hurt me, he is a good guy!”

“Mario, stand back!”

The figure has vanished again. Jason looks at every corner, paranoid. At that very moment, the siren of the firetruck is heard speeding down the street, and for just a second, Jason makes the mistake of letting it distract him.

He feels it like a breeze on the back of his neck, and Jason tenses, frozen. He feels the warmth of their breath against his skin; they're that close. The voice makes every hair on his body stand on end.

“I’ll know if he’s not,” it whispers. The tone is almost mocking, teasing him. A voice so normal and relaxed, the contradiction is almost scarier than anything else. “Be nice to my friend, will you?”

In one swift move, Red Hood turns with his weapon, shielding Mario with his body, but all he sees is a shadow running in the rain so fast he instantly knows no bullet will catch it. In a second, it has disappeared into the night.

Jason's senses cloud momentarily when the fire truck pulls onto the sidewalk. Mario wobbly walks to him, gripping as best he can the sleeves of a hoodie he has over his shoulders, and Jason comes back to reality when he sees Mario's hands are tied with a piece of cloth.

“Hood?”

He looks like he can’t believe anything that is happening, and Jason can't blame him. Red Hood grabs his shoulders, checking for any injuries and trying to untie him.

“What happened?” He asks, immediately noticing the bruises on his face. “Are you hurt?”

Mario shakes his head and looks like he is about to cry. “He— he came... he followed me home.”

“Who, Mario?” Red Hood grunts when the knot tying Mario won’t budge, and recognizes it’s a special, sophisticated one, made to be practically impossible to untie by hand. Red Hood pulls a knife to cut the fabric.

“No!” Mario exclaims. “He— said the police should take a picture of it.”

“Of your hands tied?” Red Hood says, incredulous. “Who is he, Mario? Who was that?”

A big lightning bolt briefly illuminates the block; It’s then that what’s behind Mario catches Red Hoods’ attention.

Out the back, in a corner of the narrow living room, it’s a man tied up to a chair, with the same white cloth wrapped tightly around his body like a cocoon. He is unconscious, and it looks like he has a piece of paper on his chest.

What the—?

“It’s my stepdad,” Mario says. “He was pissed off that I didn’t make dinner again, I got angry too, I guess.”

Red Hood doesn’t take long to piece some things together, and he pulls the kid to himself with one arm, trying to comfort him. Mario barely reacts at first, but slowly slumps into Red Hood, too.

“I didn’t— it wasn’t me,” Mario whispers. “It was the zombie.”

“What?”

Jason's skin crawls, and he looks at the shattered glass around the lawn and the man tied up on the chair. Then, sees a stark mark on the wood of the floor, a sink like a heavy object fell on it, and it's shaped almost like— a person.

“Mario, tell me what happened.”

Mario blinks. “He pushed Dave out of me, knocked him out like it was nothing, and then…” he hesitates. “I’m not making any sense, am I? It doesn’t make any sense…”

“Kid, focus.”

“Right, right.”

Red Hood removes the wet hoodie from Mario's back and takes off his own red jacket to cover him. Two firemen run towards them, but they stop in their tracks when they see Red Hood. Jason raises a finger to them, silently requesting they grant him a minute. The oldest fireman, a middle-aged man with a dirty gray beard, nods in agreement, telling his fellow men to back up.

In whatever struggle happened here, the couch was turned over, and Jason turns it back on its feet to sit with Mario, rubbing his arms to give him some heat back. The rain has turned into nothing but a light drizzle for now.

“He gave me his hoodie,” Mario says, like he just suddenly remembered. “I thought he wanted to hurt me, that he had come to kill me and my family for disturbing his grave. But he helped me, he was— trying to be nice, y’know? He left Dave for the police to take.”

“The zombie?” Mario nods, and Red Hood swallows. “H—he tied your hands?

“Yeah, so the police didn’t think I did it. 'This is a Boy Scouts professional knot,' he said. It’s impossible to do it on yourself.” Mario frowns. "Said everything would be okay, that he was sorry about what was happening. I thought it was the zombie, but he didn’t— he didn’t seem like one. I mean, he was talking.”

“What did he seem like, then?”

“I dunno. Something else.”

They sit in silence until Mario’s teeth stop chattering so much, and Jason sees the firemen slowly trying to approach again.

“He told me to tell the police what happened, to tell them the truth about—" Mario looks back to where Dave is. “What do I do now?”

“Where is your mom? Did she know this was happening?”

“I guess not. She works all day.”

Jesus.

“Tell them like it happened, but don't mention a zombie for now, okay? Can you do that?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Red Hood gets up and adjusts the jacket over Mario. “He won’t hurt you again, I promise. You’ll be alright.”

He signals to the firemen that they can approach now and tells the kid to stay put while he checks the inside of the house, but nevertheless, Mario follows him.

From the way the window is shattered, Red Hood can guess something broke it from the outside. Most of the shards of glass ended up on the inside, but strangely, the biggest ones are now lumped on the side, in a neat little pile.

“Did you clean this up?” Red Hood asks Mario.

“Nah, the other guy did.”

Huh.

Red Hood gets close to the stepdad. What did he say the scum's name was? Dave. He is unconscious, and like he had imagined, has a piece of paper duct-taped on his chest with a message scribbled on it.

This man was hurting his stepson; I saw him hitting Mario and stopped him in his defense. He should be charged with child abuse. I tied him up so he wouldn’t escape.

                     -A friend

What the hell is going on?