A world without Home
Peter Parker had been thrown through the multiverse before. He had crashed through realities, met alternate versions of himself, and somehow always managed to find his way back home.
But this time felt different.
He hit the ground hard, air pushed out of his lungs as he rolled across the damp pavement of an alleyway. His head was still spinning, his body aching from the fights he put himself into after everyone forgot him. This time it was the Spot, or Jonathan Ohnn, it’s really rare for him to show up and he wasn’t prepared for it. Maybe he is getting rusty. But can you blame him after everything that happened? Anyways, they were fighting and the next he knew he was being sucked into one of his ugly lack portals, he was getting sick of this.
Now here he was, groaning while trying to stand up in an dark alley. Actually, now that he thinks about it, this alley was too dark for New York. It feels... wrong, in some way, different from anywhere he’s ever been to or even seen. This wasn’t the Queens or New York. It smelled like gasoline, rain and something metallic he couldn’t quite place. The buildings loomed taller, their gothic architecture casting sharp shadows. Somewhere in the distance, a siren could be heard, but it wasn’t the usual NYPD blare. The pitch was different. Harsher.
Where the hell was he?
Checking his suit, Peter winced. His mask was torn at the side, the reinforced fabric struggling to keep up with whatever energy had just ripped through him. At least he still had his backpack with his civilian clothes. His fingers fumbled for his phone that was somewhere in the pocket of the pants in his backpack, but the screen flickered and died the moment he tapped it.
"Great," he muttered. "Multiversal travel does not come with a good data plan." He didn’t know Spot could do that?
A noise from above made him tense. Footsteps. Not the hurried, panicked steps of a civilian, but something measured. Calculated.
Then, he heard a voice—low, gravely, and unmistakably not friendly.
"Who are you?"
Peter barely had time to react before a figure dropped from the fire escape above, landing with predatory silence. A cape fluttered behind him like wings, and glowing white eyes stared out from beneath a pointed cowl.
Batman.
A feared vigilante from a comic he read as a kid. Was he in an alternative universe where the Justice League and everyone exists? All of this was just starting to freak him out more. And goddamnit why didn’t he remember anything from it?! It wasn’t that long since he last read it.
When Peter focused back on what was happening, he was met with a ready-to-fight looking Batman ( he had met enough alternate versions of heroes to recognize the stance of a man ready for a fight). His spider-sense prickled at the back of his skull, warning him that the Dark Knight was already sizing him up as a potential threat.
"Uh, hey there," Peter tried, raising his hands in what he hoped was a non-threatening manner. "Listen, I know this looks bad, but I swear I'm not—"
Batman moved fast. Too fast. One second he was standing a few feet away, and the next Peter barely managed to dodge the strike aimed for his ribs. He flipped backward, landing in a crouch as the Bat followed, no hesitation in his attacks.
"Okay! So we’re doing this first, then talking, cool—"
A batarang flew past his ear, and Peter dodged to the side, instincts taking over. He shot a web at the wall behind Batman and yanked himself up, hoping to put some distance between them.
Did he mention how much he hated fighting guys with capes? They always had this dramatic flair that made it really hard to take them seriously.
"Look, man, I really don’t want to fight you!" Peter called out, dodging another strike. "Can we just—"
A sudden, sharp pain shot through his body as something wrapped around his ankle mid-swing. Peter yelped as he was yanked downward, slamming hard into the pavement before he could catch himself. His vision blurred for a moment, and when it cleared, he found himself staring up at the Bat looming over him.
"You have five seconds to explain yourself," Batman said, voice cold. "Who are you? Why are you in my city?"
Peter groaned, his head pounding. "Man, you really don’t do small talk, do you?" He coughed, trying to regain some composure. "Okay, okay! My name's Peter Parker. I go by Spider-Man. And as for why I’m here? That’s… kind of a long story."
Batman’s glare didn’t waver. The weight of it pressed down on Peter like a building ready to collapse. Then, after a beat of silence, Batman spoke again.
"Then start talking."
Peter swallowed. The words felt heavier than usual. Because this time, there was no going home.
Back in his world, no one remembered him. His best friend, his girlfriend—his MJ—they had all forgotten who he was. He had spent weeks watching from a distance, longing to say something, to remind them, but the cost of their happiness was his own loneliness.
He had no one left. And now, he wasn’t even in his own reality.
A lump formed in his throat. He forced himself to breathe, to push back the grief that threatened to consume him. He’d lost everything once. He could survive losing it again.
But a small, broken part of him whispered otherwise.
And standing before the Dark Knight, in a world where no one knew his name, Peter Parker had never felt more alone.