Chapter 2
Gotham was a maze, and Peter Parker was hopelessly lost. He’d been wandering for hours, trying to find something familiar—or at least something that didn’t have a shadowy figure lurking around every corner. He’d walked through Gotham’s alleyways, climbed a few rooftops, and even accidentally stumbled into a mob meeting (which he escaped without anyone noticing—thank you very much). But nothing made him feel like he was getting closer to any answers.
“I need a break,” Peter muttered to himself, wiping the rainwater off his forehead. His Spider-Sense was buzzing, but it wasn’t the usual warning of an impending threat. It was a dull, persistent hum, the kind that told him something was off with the very fabric of the city. Gotham wasn’t just dark in the literal sense—it was dark in every sense.
He needed somewhere quiet. Somewhere that wasn’t a potential battleground. Somewhere to think, or at least gather some information.
And then, as if on cue, something caught his eye. A small, unassuming building nestled between two towering skyscrapers. The sign above the door read: Gotham City Public Library.
The library looked old, its stone walls weathered by time, but sturdy—an anchor in the midst of Gotham’s chaos. There were no flashy neon lights, no oversized advertisements. Just a simple, old-school library.
“Okay, that sounds… safe,” Peter muttered to himself.
He pushed open the door, the musty air immediately welcoming him with the scent of aged paper and the faint sound of shuffling pages. It was warm inside, a welcome contrast to the cold, rain-soaked streets of Gotham. The first thing he noticed was the silence. It wasn’t empty—there were people, but they moved quietly, absorbed in their work. No loud arguments, no mobsters plotting, no fighting. Just a peaceful calm that seemed out of place in a city like Gotham.
Peter let out a sigh of relief. This was exactly what he needed: a break from the chaos.
The library’s interior was vast. Tall shelves of dusty books stretched up to high ceilings, and the dim light from tall windows cast a soft glow over the old wooden floors. Peter wandered through the aisles, letting his fingers graze the spines of the books as he passed. There were history books, novels, and a surprising number of volumes on detective work and criminal law.
Peter wasn’t here for a novel, though. He was looking for something more—anything that might help him understand where he was and, more importantly, a safe place for him to sleep.
He reached the back of the library, where a row of computers sat beneath a large circular desk. A woman, her red hair spilling over her shoulders, sat at the desk, typing away on her own computer. Glasses perched on the end of her nose, and her focused expression made it clear she was in the middle of something important.
“Excuse me,” Peter said, stepping up hesitantly. “Sorry to bother you, um, ma’am.”
She looked up, giving him a bright smile that immediately made Peter relax a little.
“How can I help you?” she asked, her eyes scanning him with a quiet intensity.
Peter hesitated. “I was wondering if I could use the computers? Just need to do some research.”
“Of course,” she replied, and without another word, she moved to the computer next to her and began typing something into the system. A few moments later, the sound of a printer hummed to life, and she handed Peter a slip of paper.
“That’s your guest code. It’ll give you an hour of computer time,” she said.
“Thanks, ma’am.” Peter smiled awkwardly as he took the slip.
“Please, call me Barbara,” she said, her smile widening slightly.
Peter nodded, giving her one last smile before he walked over to the row of computers. As he sat down, he couldn’t help but feel like Barbara’s gaze was still on him. His Spider-Sense tingled, but it wasn’t the usual warning of danger—it felt more like an assessment, as though she were trying to figure out who he was, what he was doing.
Shaking it off, Peter turned his attention back to the screen and logged in. The computer’s interface was old, but functional. He started with a basic searches, shelters, state (he was in New Jersey, gross) then began to look into Gotham City History.
The search results for Gotham City returned a dizzying list of articles—most of them about Gotham’s notorious criminals, the rise and fall of infamous mob bosses, and a particularly disturbing trend of murder and corruption that had stained the city’s legacy. He was beginning to worry that he was even farther away from home than he initially thought. He kept scrolling through the articles learning about Gotham's heroes he never knew existed (come to think of it he never even knew Gotham existed) But then something caught his eye: A name.
Richard Grayson.
Peter’s fingers froze on the keyboard. He blinked, rereading the name. Richard Grayson. The name was unfamiliar, but his Spider-Sense had flared—a quiet, insistent tug he couldn’t ignore—he felt an eerie connection. Something about the name Richard Grayson felt too close. Too familiar. He clicked the link, and the article opened, revealing a brief but significant history about one of Gotham’s most important figures.
Richard Grayson, also known as Richie Wayne. A name that had become synonymous with Gotham’s legacy. The oldest of Bruce Wayne's adopted children, Richie was known for his charismatic charm.
None of this seemed important to Peter in any way until he finally scrolled down to an image attached to the article. The man in the image was smiling, standing on what appeared to be a red carpet, wearing a sharp tuxedo, his posture relaxed yet confident. He had a playful gleam in his eye, a charisma that practically radiated from the image.
But it wasn’t just the image that caused Peter’s heart to stop.
It was the realization that this man—this stranger in the picture—was his father. Richard Parker.
Peter’s mind spun as the weight of the discovery settled over him. He quickly re-read the text beneath the photo, his eyes jumping across the words.
"Richard Grayson, also known as Richie Wayne," the article read. "The eldest adopted child of Bruce Wayne, heir to the Wayne fortune, and a prominent figure in Gotham’s high society. Often seen attending galas and charity events, Richard is also one of Gotham’s most well-known philanthropists. He is known for his charm, wit, and unwavering commitment to improving the city. However, many details about his past are shrouded in mystery—especially his ties to the Wayne family."
The words blurred as Peter’s mind grappled with the implications. This wasn’t his universe. He knew it, deep down. Everything about it screamed that it couldn’t be. He was truly farther from home than he has ever been before, and that is saying something, seeing as he has travel to a whole other planet before.
Peter’s breath came in jagged gasps as he fought to control the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. His hand trembled as he wiped at his face, trying to stop the tears, but they came anyway. Silent, relentless. He felt the pressure in his chest tighten, like the very air in the library had become thick with grief. It was too much. The weight of the discovery, the realization that his father—the man in the picture, the smiling stranger—was alive here, while his own father had been dead for so long, was something Peter couldn’t reconcile.
The room felt like it was closing in on him, the flickering light of the old computer screen casting long, harsh shadows across his face. Everything around him seemed to fade as the memories came rushing back: Aunt May and Uncle Ben, their quiet sacrifices, their warmth, the way they had raised him after his parents died. He remembered MJ’s smile, Ned’s loyalty, the way his friends had stood by him through everything. The faces of those he had lost. The people he had lost.
His head spun as a sob escaped him. Peter had tried so hard to bury the grief, to keep moving forward despite the loss. But now, the grief had surfaced again, louder, more ferocious than ever. The anger, the confusion, the guilt, and the sorrow—it all crashed in on him at once. He wanted to scream, to hit something, to run, but the reality was inescapable: He was alone.
He tried to breathe, to steady himself. But the pain of loss refused to be silenced, refused to be hidden away anymore. He couldn’t ignore it anymore. The loss wasn’t just about his father; it was about everything. Every single person who had come into his life and left too soon, every piece of himself that had been chipped away by the weight of responsibility, of being Spider-Man. The endless cycle of heroism that demanded his sacrifice. Every life lost in the wake of his mistakes. Every face he couldn’t save.
May—his Aunt May, who had given him the love of a mother. Ben, the uncle who had been his father’s stand-in, who taught him the lessons of responsibility. The people who had died for him, who had sacrificed everything so he could keep fighting. And then, there was MJ—his first love, his one constant. He couldn’t forget her face, the way she had smiled at him, the way they had hoped for a future. Ned, his best friend, his guy in the chair. They were all gone.
Peter clenched his fists at his sides, as if by doing so, he could force the ache in his chest to subside. But it didn’t work.
His mind couldn’t stop turning, chasing circles around itself. He didn’t know if he could do this anymore. If he could fight, if he could survive, just to watch everything he loves be taken away again.
The tears came again, quiet but relentless, like a storm he couldn’t outrun. He couldn’t hold it in anymore. His body trembled, and the world around him felt distant, disconnected, as though everything was happening far too fast for him to comprehend. All the fear, all the grief, all the weight of loss, was choking him.
“Can you hear me?” The voice was soft but stern, enough to bring him slightly back to earth, “I need you to focus, three things you can feel kid, come on. You can do this.”
Peter squeezed his eyes close, willing his mind to anchor on the voice speaking out to him.
“Three things you can feel,” the voice repeated, softer now but still with that quiet urgency.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to block out the overwhelming flood of emotions, the confusion, the suffocating grief. He focused on the voice, trying to latch onto something solid in this strange, disorienting reality. Focus, focus, he told himself.
"Three things..." he muttered to himself, his voice shaky. “Okay. Okay...”
His hands were trembling, but he forced himself to focus on what he could feel. The cold, hard surface of the wooden desk beneath his fingertips. The dampness of his hoodie from the rain outside. The steady rhythm of his breath, though ragged, as it filled his lungs.
“One,” Peter whispered, his voice raw. “The desk. It’s solid. It’s real.”
He focused on the feeling, the pressure of his palms on the wood, the smooth texture of the surface against his skin. The familiarity of it grounded him, just a little.
“Two,” he continued, forcing the words out through his clenched teeth. “My hoodie… it’s wet. It’s real.”
“Three,” he said, his voice quivering now. "My… my chest. I can feel my heartbeat. It’s there. It’s... still there.”
Peter exhaled slowly, his breathing catching as he opened his eyes again, blinking away the tears. The weight hadn’t lifted, but something had shifted. His mind wasn’t as scattered, not as lost in the storm of his emotions. He was still drowning in grief, but now, there was a sliver of space—just enough to let him breathe, to think.
“That’s good, kid,” the voice cut through the fog, calm but steady. It was Miss Barbara. “Now, try to match my breathing if you can.”
Peter opened his eyes again, and he saw her just to the side sitting in a wheel chair, her posture relaxed and controlled. She exaggerated her deep breaths for him to follow. Inhale, hold, exhale. The rhythm was soothing, and Peter mimicked it, drawing in air slowly, letting it fill his lungs, then pushing it out in a long, controlled exhale. He followed her pace, letting his mind slow, his heart gradually returning to something like normal.
It wasn’t instant. It wasn’t magic. But it worked. Peter’s breath steadied. His hands stopped trembling. The world didn’t feel as crushingly heavy as it had before.
When he felt calmer, more centered, he finally spoke, the words coming out in a quiet murmur. “Sorry.” His voice sounded strange to him—hoarse.
“Please, kid,” Miss Barbara replied with a soft chuckle, though her eyes were full of a quiet understanding. “Gotham’s a rough place. You’re hardly the first panic attack we’ve seen in here.”
Peter forced a small smile, though it felt hollow. He wasn’t sure how to process the sympathy in her tone, or the kindness in her eyes. He didn’t need this. Not now. Not when everything was so upside down.
As quickly as the calm had come, the familiar urge to run crept in. To hide. To pretend that nothing was wrong. The need to protect everyone from the curse that was Peter Parker.
His gaze flicked toward the clock on the computer. His session had timed out. He didn’t want to be here any longer. He couldn’t risk staying in one place for too long.
Peter faked a grimace, pretending to stretch as he stood up. “I have to get going,” he said, his voice more casual than he felt. “My parents are going to worry if I’m not home soon.”
The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but he forced it out. He was used to lying, to pretending, to spinning stories for the sake of keeping himself safe. He needed to get away from here, from this moment, from the crushing weight of everything that had been thrown at him.
Miss Barbara looked at him for a moment, her gaze sharp, like she saw through him—but she didn’t press. She didn’t push for more answers. Instead, she gave him a long, measuring look before nodding slowly.
“Okay, kid. Just… be careful out there, alright?” Her tone was soft, but there was a level of concern in her voice that made Peter’s stomach twist uncomfortably.
He nodded, a little too quickly. “I will.”
He didn’t wait for another word from her. Instead, he walked toward the door, his mind already elsewhere. He had to get away. Had to process everything before he cracked under the pressure. Gotham was dangerous. His father was alive here—but not his father. The grief, the anger, the confusion, all of it, it was more than he could handle in a single day. Maybe even in a lifetime.
As he stepped outside, the cold Gotham air hit him like a slap to the face, and the rain seemed to intensify again, like the city itself was mourning with him. But Peter didn’t have time for mourning. Not yet. There were still things that needed to be done. He needed food, he needed shelter. Luckily, before the gut wrenching revelation of the day, Peter had looked up the local homeless shelters, and began to head towards what was coined as the only safe shelter in the city.
As he walked down the rain-soaked streets of Gotham, he realized there was no going back. His life had been altered, his reality had shifted in ways he couldn’t yet understand. But one thing was clear: Peter Parker, the Spider-Man, had a purpose in this Gotham. And he was going to find it.
He just had to survive first.