Chapter 1
When Doctor Stephen strange had first attempted the memory wiping spell Peter had interfered. Of course, Peter luck had messed it up, and the very multiverse had begun to unravel, which was bad. Very bad, Peter knows because Dr. Strange told him so, and also because his very universe is falling apart. So, like any logical person, he had gone back to Dr. Strange and attempted to fix his mistake.
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Peter was tired. His skin itched. His lungs itched. Peter isn't sure where he is, and his eyelids are far too heavy for him to lift right now. It's so cold, Peter has been cold before, but never this cold. It's like standing in the fridge isle of a large store, and he's only wearing a tank and some shorts. That is to say, Peter is really cold. And tired. That felt really important to note, because Peter just really wants to take a nap, a long...quiet...
Peter can't get to sleep, everything hurts too bad, and Peter thinks he should really be worried about that, about the way he feels as if he's been chewed up and spat back out, and whatever hypothetical creature that had gotten its fangs on him had very caustic saliva. He groaned, finally peeling his eyes open and looking around. His first thought is OWW! because whatever is in the air, and something is definitely in the air, is really irritating his eyes, the sensation only exasperates his pounding headache. His second is more relaxed, more relavant to his situation.
Peter is in an alley, the buildings are tall, but not New York tall, and the architecture is old even if most of the buildings look relatively new. Trash clutters the alley, used needles and broken bottles and bullets litter the pavement. Not to far up the alley, maybe 5 meters, a splatter of blood desecrates the side of the large building next to him, a residential building, or at least Peter thinks that's what the building is for. A gun, damaged slightly and also blood stained, sits abandoned half under a dumpster, and Peter thinks he might hear a few rats scuttling around nearby, it's kind of hard to make out over the pounding of his heart, echoing around in his skull.
Sitting up takes more effort than Peter would have liked, but for some reason he just can't muster up the energy to be more worried about such a thing. "Mr Stark? Dr Strange? Karen?" The last inquiry is the only one to receive a response, a sharp static buzz coming from seemingly every direction and Peter slams his hands over his ears with a pained yelp, "Stop! Stop!" The noise does stop and Peter fights to get to his feet, leaning against the wall as he takes stock of himself. He tugs his mask off his head, the cold air hitting him in the face, and his next inhale makes him wheeze, lungs aflame, as he chokes on the air hands clasping his suddenly very sore throat.
It takes a few minutes but eventually the air stops burning on the way in, instead it aches slightly, like crisp icy air does, a sting in the back of your throat that you can't forget. Peter wipes the tears from his eyes and looks around again. Now that he's standing up he can see further up and down the alley, it's long, and dark, a lot darker than Peter had originally thought it was. The place where he stood was distinctly more scattered than the rest of the alley, like something had crashed into it, making a mess. With the way his body aches Peter suspects that that is exactly what had happened. He looks down at his clothes and almost winces, the outfit at least does jog his memory a little and things become slightly clearer.
His Spidey Suit, thankfully intact as far as he can tell, worn under a pair of loose joggers and a long sleeve t-shirt and hoodie, and obviously his lucky shoes. He looks disheveled, and if Peter could smell anything past the acrid air he is forcing himself to inhale he's sure he must stink like the rubbish he'd been slumped against. A pat of his pockets confirms he still has his phone, keys, and wallet, and Peter is very grateful that Dr. Strange had suggested bringing cash for when he did the spell, because Peter really needs some water.
....Right. The spell. Dr. Strange hadn't been too specific on he details, but if what he'd said was true then...then...oh.
Peters eyes well up again and he clutches his mask in a tight grip. Right. Dr. Strange had promised to fix everything, to mend his universe, and save the people in it. To do so he had to remove the problem, the tear in the multiverse that was causing it to collapse. Doing so was easy, Dr. Strange had promised, Peter had torn his universe apart, and all the other Peter's where colliding together, so Peter just had to go somewhere where the was no Peter. Which means...wherever he is right now, he doesn't exist, will never exist, his birth will not occur here, either that or the time has already passed without his conception.
Peter wipes his eyes, easing his mask back on. "Karen?" The static returns, albeit quieter, then a scratchy artificial voice projects through his suit speaker. "Hello Peter. Please connect to a nearby satellite- please- Hello Peter- Stark Industries not connected- please-" it cuts off for a moment and when Karen speaks again she sounds much more stable. "Hello Peter, apologies for the inconvenience, it appears that Stark Industries does not, or has yet to, exist, as such I am unable to connect to SI issue satellites. Would you like me to attempt to connect to a different satellite?"
Peter swallows hard, the lump in his throat almost too much to manage. "Y-yeah, Karen, do that," he says, his voice cracking. He tries to ignore the way her words punch through his gut. Stark Industries doesn’t exist here, Mr. Stark doesn't exist here. That shouldn’t surprise him, but it does. It feels like someone took the last tangible thread of home and yanked it from his hands.
Karen goes quiet for a moment, a soft hum emanating from his suit as she processes his request. Peter takes the opportunity to try and steady himself. He moves slowly, his legs trembling as he shuffles forward, deeper into the alley. His eyes flick back to the gun under the dumpster, the smear of blood on the wall. A pit forms in his stomach. Whatever happened here, it wasn’t good.
“Connection established,” Karen chimes, startling him out of his thoughts. “Partial access to local communications networks achieved. Would you like me to gather additional data?”
“Yes,” Peter says quickly. He has no idea where, or when, he is, and information feels like the only weapon he has right now. “Karen, can you figure out where I am? Or, uh, what year it is?”
“Analyzing,” she responds, her voice calm and measured. Peter envies how detached she sounds. It’s the opposite of how he feels, his pulse erratic and body aching, his mind racing through worst-case scenarios.
While Karen processes, Peter steps toward the end of the alley, peeking out cautiously. The street beyond is dimly lit, illuminated by flickering street lamps that cast uneven patches of light across cracked pavement. A few people shuffle by, heads down, wrapped tightly in thick coats. The air smells faintly of rust and oil and something acidic, though Peter can’t tell if that’s the city or just the alley clinging to him.
“Peter,” Karen interrupts, “current location is Gotham City. Year: 2015.”
Peter freezes. Gotham? Peter doesn't recognise the city name, then again it's not like he knows every city in the world, he does know that there is no Gotham in New York though.
“Gotham?” he whispers to himself. He leans against the cold brick wall, trying to process. This place doesn’t feel right—not like home, not like Queens. It’s darker, grimmer. Even the few people he sees seem weighed down by something invisible. "What state? Am I still even in the US?"
“Gotham, New Jersey” Karen confirms. “Notable features include high crime rates, pervasive corruption, and frequent reports of vigilante activity.”
Vigilante activity. That part catches Peter’s attention. His Spidey-sense tingles faintly, a warning he can’t quite interpret. “Karen, what kind of vigilantes?”
“One moment.” There’s a brief pause before Karen continues, “Gotham’s primary vigilante is referred to as ‘Batman.’ Alias and identity unknown. Secondary reports suggest a network of associated individuals operating under aliases such as ‘Signal,’ ‘Robin,’ and ‘Batgirl.’ Would you like more details?”
Peter exhales shakily. Batman, that doesn't sound to different from Spider-Man, maybe he has bat powers? Like wings, and echolocation?
“Karen,” Peter says slowly, “do we know if this Batman guy is…you know, friendly?”
“Reports are inconclusive,” Karen replies. “However, public opinion varies widely. Gotham residents appear to view Batman as both a protector and a source of fear. Sources state that Batman has a no foreign meta rule in Gotham. Meta appears to refer to a powered individual."
“That’s… not good,” Peter mutters, running a hand through his messy hair. He steps out of the alley cautiously, sticking to the shadows. His muscles ache, his body begging for rest, but he pushes forward. He needs a plan, and he needs it fast.
“Karen, can you find me some kind of map?” he asks. “I need to figure out where I can lay low. And where I can access supplies, a library too."
“Accessing local data…” Karen pauses, then continues, “A number of abandoned warehouses and buildings are located within a three-mile radius. Would you like me to guide you to one?”
Peter grimaces. He hates the idea of holing up in a creepy old building, but his options are limited, not when he knows so little, not when he technically doesn't exist. “Yeah. Let’s go with the closest one.”
Karen provides directions, her calm voice guiding him through the unfamiliar streets. The city looms around him, oppressive and unfamiliar. Every sound, the crackle of a distant radio, the crunch of broken glass underfoot, and the odd hail of bullets, puts him on edge. He keeps his head down, his hoodie pulled tight over his head, mask lifted so it reveals his face but still allows Karen to communicate, hoping to avoid attracting attention.
As he rounds a corner, Peter catches a glimpse of something in the distance: a figure perched on a rooftop, silhouetted against the faint glow of the moon. His Spidey-sense flares, sharper this time, and he ducks back into the shadows instinctively.
“Karen,” he whispers, “do you see that?”
“I cannot detect anything unusual,” she responds, though her tone remains neutral. "Reviewing footage does indicate a human life form however no forms of life are immediately traceable in that area as of this moment, apologies for my inability to confirm, the technology of this world is far behind that of Stark Industries."
Peter glances back toward the rooftop, but the figure is gone. His heart pounds in his chest. Wherever he is, whatever this place is, he’s not alone. And Peter has a feeling his problems are just beginning.