A house is not a home. A warehouse is not a house.
Peter moves quickly, his legs still sore from whatever crash landed him here, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins pushes him forward. He doesn’t know what he’s walking into, but the empty streets and the looming shadow of Gotham have him on high alert, the missing figure from the roof only pushing him faster. The warehouse Karen directed him to is on the edge of the industrial district, tucked away behind a row of vacant buildings. He doesn’t see any signs of life, but he doesn’t trust that this place is as abandoned as it seems.
It’s an old structure, large and imposing, a place that hasn’t seen use in years. The faded brick walls are marred by layers of graffiti, broken windows gaping like empty eyes. A chill cuts through the night air, and Peter pulls his hoodie tighter around himself, wishing for a more substantial jacket as he approaches the side of the building, his suit can only provide so much warmth and if he didn't find an energy source that took would die.
Karen’s voice cuts through the silence in his ear. “Peter, the interior scans show multiple entry points. I recommend the shattered window on your left."
He nods, grateful for the guidance. The broken window is high up, but not out of reach. His muscles groan in protest as he crouches, his fingertips brushing the cracked glass. With a soft grunt, he leaps, hands splaying as they stick to the wall as he climbs upward. The window’s jagged edges catch on his clothes as he slips through, landing silently on the cold concrete floor inside.
The warehouse is dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the cracked windows high above and the occasional flicker of neon lights from the distant street. The floor is covered in dust, and the air smells faintly of rust and something more pungent—probably mold. It’s empty, and eerily quiet, only old wooden crates cluttering up the space.
“Okay, Karen,” Peter mutters, pushing himself up. “This place is... nice, I guess. You wouldn’t happen to have a coffee maker in here, would you?”
“I regret to inform you that there are no coffee makers in this warehouse, Peter, even if there was I would have to inform you that Tony Stark has recommended you stay away from coffee,” Karen responds, her voice light as always. “However, there are several containers that may be moved into an arrangement that could serve as makeshift room. Would you like me to locate a water source nearby?”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks, Karen.” Peter runs a hand through his hair, exhaustion beginning to take its toll. He might not be able to sleep yet—he’s too wired for that—but he can at least try to make himself more comfortable.
He surveys the space. It’s large, open, with a second floor where various crates and rusted metal scaffolding are scattered. There’s a thick layer of dust everywhere, the remnants of whatever used to happen here long gone. Peter winces as he walks further into the warehouse, careful not to make any unnecessary noise.
The main area is filled with discarded bits of equipment: broken tools, empty crates, and a collection of old industrial machines that look like they haven’t run in years.
“Okay, let’s get to work,” Peter mutters to himself. His arms ache as he begins rearranging, moving scrap into a pile then pushing the wooden crates to create a box, the wind unable to reach him in this small alcove and he covers the whole thing with a large tarp he found, almost like a tent.
Karen's voice chimes in again. "Peter, I’ve found a nearby water source. It is a mile east of your location, sources state that the shelter provides food and water to those in needs as funded by an organisation called Wayne Enterprises, my research indicates that this company is Gothams equivalent of Stark Industries. Would you like me to guide you to the shelter?"
Peter glances at the phone. He’s tempted to go grab water, but he decides against it for now. "I’ll get it later, Karen. For now, let’s figure out what’s going on here. Anything in the area I should be worried about?"
“Gotham is known for its high crime rates, Peter. There are several gangs that operate in this district. I advise caution.”
"Several gangs? Do the heros not do anything about them? Karen," he says, tapping at his phone screen showing zero bars of signal. "What can you tell me about Gotham’s heroes, besides Batman?"
There’s a brief pause before Karen responds. "Gotham has several vigilantes operating in its streets. Batman is the most prominent, but there are also individuals who have taken on the mantle of 'Robin,' 'Nightwing,' 'Signal,' 'Red Robin,' 'Spoiler,' and 'Black Bat.' Their relationship with Batman is complex. Some of them act independently, while others work together under his direction. The primary goal of these vigilantes seems to be the elimination of Gotham’s criminal underworld."
"Sounds like they’re busy," Peter mutters, looking at his surroundings again. "And that’s not even counting the bad guys, right?"
“Correct,” Karen confirms. “There are numerous criminal organizations operating in the city. The largest factions are the Joker, the Red Hood, the Black Mask, and the Penguin’s criminal syndicate. They have a history of violent rivalry.”
Peter exhales sharply. Great. He doesn’t even know who the Penguin is, but it doesn’t sound like someone he wants to get on the bad side of, a criminal syndicate? No thank you.
"Karen, add to tomorrows to-do list, find water, find food, visit library, research relavant authorities, craft a proper identity." The familiar chime of Karen updating his to-do list follows him into his tent-bedroom structure, and he curls up, finally getting the rest his body has been fighting to get since he woke up here in Gotham.