Chapter 8
Peter was constantly being watched. The feeling gnawed at him, just beyond the edge of his vision, an itch he could never quite scratch. His spider-sense offered no peace, buzzing like a relentless alarm every waking moment.
At least he’d managed a minor upgrade in his life—a backpack to replace the worn toiletry bag and hoodie pocket that had once held all his belongings. It had been an unintentional gift from an elderly woman he’d helped with her groceries. Initially, she’d thought he was trying to steal them and had smacked him a few times with her purse before realizing her mistake. She’d apologized profusely, even insisting he take the coat he now wore as a gesture of gratitude.
The backpack wasn’t just an improvement—it was essential. It kept him mobile, and mobility was everything when you were being stalked. The constant vigilance had, surprisingly, brought one unintended benefit: he wasn’t sleeping enough to dream. For most people, that might seem tragic; for Peter, it was a much-needed relief.
He also had an identity now—a paper-thin one cobbled together but better than nothing. Another small upgrade in a life otherwise dominated by survival.
Gotham wasn’t kind to its inhabitants, least of all to those without a roof over their heads. Peter felt it in every interaction, every cold glance, and every unspoken threat. Though he could see the faint possibility of carving out a life here, the thought of leaving tugged at him. New York was familiar, but he feared it might not be the city he remembered—and just as rough as Gotham in this universe, if not worse. Not to mention he didn’t have the money to get there.
Still, Gotham had one upside. His research confirmed that Dick Grayson—the man he so desperately wanted to avoid—was currently in Blüdhaven. Also, thankfully, avoiding the rest of the Wayne family wasn’t hard; their kind of wealth never interacted with the homeless on a personal level. Peter knew that from experience.
He still admired Tony Stark, of course. Tony was Iron Man—how could he not? But he wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t the type to show up in soup kitchens or work directly with the homeless unless there was a camera nearby. His help came in the form of checks and PR campaigns, which seemed eerily similar to Bruce Wayne's approach, as far as Peter could tell. At least Tony had the extra point of donning a war suit and saving the world.
Peter knew he wouldn’t have lasted a single day in Gotham without his spider-sense. It had saved his life repeatedly. His second night in the city, he set up camp in an abandoned building, only for it to burn down the next morning. The sheer volume of crime was overwhelming—nothing like New York. One night, he stumbled upon a mafia-like shakedown straight out of The Sopranos, and the next, he was face-to-face with a terrifying owl-like creature.
That encounter had almost been the end of him. The thing—a relentless, brutal force of nature—had come straight for him, and no amount of web-slinging or quick thinking seemed to slow it down. If it hadn’t been for a girl with a baseball bat—her strikes as fierce as her attitude—Peter was certain he wouldn’t have survived. Gotham was chaos incarnate, and Peter was barely scraping by.
A few nights had passed since then, but the memory lingered like a bruise. It had taught him to stay vigilant, always on the lookout for rabid owl creatures and the other horrors this city seemed to spawn. Still, the sun continued to rise, and another day forced itself upon him.
He was heading into a small bodega, one he frequented often enough that the owners usually greeted him with a nod, which was a novelty in Gotham. Just as he stepped inside, a voice cut through the city noise behind him.
“Hey, do I know you?”
Peter stopped in his tracks, the jingling of the bodega doorbell fading behind him. The voice was unmistakably playful, tinged with curiosity and mischief. He turned toward the source, his gaze landing on a woman heading towards him.
Her blonde hair was tied into messy pigtails, dyed pink and blue at the tips, and she wore a jacket that looked like it had been through a rock concert and a brawl in equal measure. In her hand was a half-eaten bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, crumbs dusting her fingers.
Peter hesitated, his spider-sense giving a faint but persistent buzz. “Uh… I don’t think so,” he said, his tone cautious but polite.
The woman tilted her head, narrowing her eyes as if trying to place him. “Nah, nah, I know that face,” she said, pointing at him with the sandwich. “You’re… lemme think… one of those capes? Or maybe just a wannabe?” She grinned, her voice lilting with amusement. “C’mon, don’t keep me in suspense!”
Peter forced a chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. “No capes here. Just a regular guy looking for a sandwich.”
The woman squinted at him, her eyes narrowing with mock scrutiny. “No, no, I’ve seen ya somewhere. I just can’t place it.” She tapped a finger against her chin thoughtfully before snapping her fingers. “You look too young to have been one of Mistah J’s goons, so I don’t know ya from there. Say, you ever put on one of those Robin outfits? Run around with the Bat at night?”
Peter stiffened, trying to keep his nerves from showing. “No, ma’am. I’m actually pretty new to Gotham.”
Her eyes lit up with sudden realization. “Are ya now? I thought your accent sounded a little funny!” she exclaimed, pointing at him with her sandwich. “You’re a New Yorker, right?”
Peter blinked, caught off guard by her quick deduction. “Uh, yeah. Born and raised,” he admitted cautiously.
Peter narrowed his eyes, studying the woman more closely. The way she casually swung her half-eaten sandwich around, her posture, her voice—it all clicked into place.
“You’re the woman from the alleyway!” he blurted out, pointing at her. “The one who saved my life from that crazy owl thing. I never got a chance to thank you.”
The woman tilted her head, her grin widening. “Oh, that’s where your from! That was a wild night, huh? Those Court of Owls folks are a real pain in the keister.” She took a big bite of her sandwich, speaking through a mouthful of food. “What’re ya doin’ wanderin’ around Gotham at night, anyway? You got a death wish or somethin’?”
Peter rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Not exactly. I was just… in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
She snorted, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Kid, in this town, every place is the wrong place. You’re lucky I happened to be around. I don’t usually make a habit of savin’ random guys from murder-birds.”
“Well, I’m really grateful,” Peter said earnestly. “You didn’t have to help, but you did. I owe you one.”
She waved him off with her sandwich-free hand, smirking. “Eh, don’t sweat it. Tell ya what—lemme buy you a sandwich, kid. Or maybe two. You’re all skin and bones. You live in them alleys or somethin’?” Peter hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. Instead of answering, he said, “I should be the one buying you food.”
“Well, you’re a lil’ late for that!” she laughed, waving her half-eaten sandwich playfully in his face. “Besides, you look like you could use a good meal.”
Peter gave her a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m fine, really. But thanks.”
She arched an eyebrow at him, her grin turning sly. “Fine, huh? You don’t look ‘fine.’ You look like you could pass out if the wind hit ya wrong.”
Peter couldn’t help but chuckle. “Okay, maybe I’m a little hungry. But seriously, I can take care of myself.”
She leaned in closer, mockingly whispering, “Kid, this is Gotham. Nobody takes care of themselves here. They either get help, or they get gone.”
Peter swallowed hard, her words hitting closer to home than he liked. Before he could respond, she straightened up and patted his shoulder.
“Tell ya what,” she said. “Next time I save your life from a homicidal owl—or whatever’s chasin’ ya—you can buy me a sandwich. Deal?”
Peter cracked a grin. “Deal.”
The woman ended up buying Peter four sandwiches. No matter how much he protested, she’d just return with another, waving him off with a bright smile and saying, “Don’t you worry your little head about it, sweetheart.”
Peter couldn’t help but appreciate her kindness, even if her enthusiasm was a bit overwhelming. She was nice—eccentric, sure, but genuinely kind.
She’d introduced herself as Harley, grinning as she told him to give her a holler if he ever saw her around. The name sparked something in Peter’s memory, though he couldn’t quite place where he’d heard it before.
As he left the bodega, his stomach full, he couldn’t help but feel more optimistic about the day. It was amazing how much a full stomach could change your outlook on life.