1.1 - Tonight's issues.
—
When Peter asked Dr. Strange to erase everyone's memories, he felt like he was getting his heart ripped out of his chest. May was gone, so was Tony—and he was about to lose everyone else too. He was always applauded for his genius, but he felt as useless as a child. His goodbyes to Michelle and Ned went by too fast for comfort, and then it was time for his life to be over.
In spite of himself, he wondered how May would have done if she forgot he existed. She was always so strong—maybe she could get a better house, work less, maybe. Would she have been happier if Peter had just died with his parents? Ben would still be around, so she wouldn't be alone… a small part of Peter began hoping that after the spell May would be back.
Very few could ever say they’d have magic done for them—Peter as the ever scientific mind he was, couldn't help but be curious about the logistics of being a sorcerer: how would it feel to be able to bend reality with the flick of a hand? But as Dr. Strange finished the spell, a sinking feeling grew in his stomach.
It felt like his intestines were being twisted with the force of his gut feeling; not to mention his spidey-sense hammering the back of his head with the force of the danger he was in. Peter's eyes flew around crazily, trying to find the oncoming danger.
“Stephen—somethings wrong!” Peter forced out, despite the cold fear running through his veins. He watched as the wizard paused for a second, curious as to what he meant. “I have a feeling—something bad is going to happen.”
“...We can figure it out after the spell is finished Peter—the multiverse is at stake here!” Dr. Strange yelled back, an obvious annoyance in his voice. He did a few more of his cryptic hand movements, and finished the spell. It was then that Peter realized what the issue was.
As Stephen's hands fell from the spell, his fearful eyes fell on the teenager in front of him. “Peter…?” But Peter couldn't hear him, he was too preoccupied with the banging in his head and the twisting of his gut… Karen began screaming at him for the countless abrasions surfacing on his skin. It felt like he was being dusted again, even with its common appearances in his nightmares, he didn't remember it feeling like this.
Just as Peter was about to vomit up his guts, the world went black, the assault on his mind and body falling to a subtle hum. It felt like his body was being thrown at speeds that should have ripped him apart, his healing on hyperdrive to save his body ripping in half. Part of Peter was glad it was him that got discovered, if anyone else went through this, they’d have been ripped to shreds by the force of the unseeable danger.
He tried to open his eyes—but they remained closed. It felt like he was trapped in a lucid nightmare, aware that he needs to wake up but lacking the ability to before it's too late. If he could move his body he would have tried to rip off his skin, to vomit up the blood that was choking him—filling his lungs until he could do nothing but gasp at the air that couldn't get deep enough.
He felt like he was dying.
—
Peter could only guess it had been hours by the time the sensation of falling stopped—even as the coarse ground wrapped around his fingers it took a while for Peter to begin to try and open his eyes. His stomach was still spinning, and he could feel his body sewing his broken limbs back together. It hurts—it hurts so badly.
“K—r…n” A broken voice echoed out, it was choked and weak… Peter could only guess it was his own. But Karen didn't respond to his broken plea. “K’r’n?” Again, no response. Despite the overwhelming dizziness, Peter opened his eyes. The second he tried to sit up, he kneeled over and vomited. The taste of iron assaulted his rough throat as his lungs rejected the blood filling them, a dark mass flowing onto the unfamiliar ground.
His mind grew overwhelmed as his senses recovered—the stabbing discomfort beneath his skin made him want to rip it off. The sounds of gunshots and screams echoed through his bones, police sirens—the footsteps—the wretched smell attacking his nose—the laughter—it was all so—wrong.
Where was he?
It was all too much. He wanted to go home. He wanted to wake up, and find out it was all okay. Peter wanted Aunt May back, he wanted her to rant while watching news about the latest issues with society, or to be able to watch her get enraptured with a shitty TV show she swore she hated. It was so cold, his body felt rubbery—he felt so downright fucked.
But he didn't wake up, he only grew more lucid, and regained the ability to think. He was in an alley somewhere, surrounded by his own bloody vomit with a few worrying chunks in them, there weren't any people near here, at least not that he could sense. The buildings at his sides were American built, but they seemed darker than at home. Wherever he was, it wasn't New York.
While Queens smelt of smog and the sound of traffic, Peter could smell the fear in the air, and the screams—the crunches of bones that filled every corner of the city. Peter surveyed his body, he couldn't feel much, but there was obvious damage to his legs—he’d have to take off the suit to properly assess them.
The suit.
Karen.
Shit.
“Karen?” Peter asked slowly, with the blood gone from his throat, the feeling of drowning was negated, and his weak voice was at least legible. “Karen? Can you hear me?” This had to be a sick joke.
Karen couldn't have left him too—magic was strong but surely it wouldn't wipe out an AI as well as every memory of him? He slowly took off his suit, but it was all wrong. It was too slow, there wasn't any power behind it. Something had happened to his suit—but he had bigger things to worry about right now.
He needed to find out where the hell he was, and what happened. Leaning on too-shaky legs, he fumbled off his mask and limped out of the alley. His foot was definitely broken, the searing pain whenever he put weight on his was clearly portraying that fact. Even if he was a fast healer, his body was too tired to do much but try to survive, so that would have to stick around for a while.
Even as he hobbled down the street, a bloodied teenager didn't seem to draw as much attention as it did at home. People just kept their head down, speed walking to where they needed to go without bothering to stop for anything. Peter would have asked someone for help, but the citizens of this place were pretty good at not speaking to anyone. Finally he managed to hobble to what he assumed to be an abandoned building, by the boarded up windows and the graffitied walls.
The moon was still high in the sky, so it couldn't have been that long since he got here. The wood was rough on his fingers as he ripped a few boards of wood away, slinking into the building quietly. He couldn't feel any heartbeats or hear any breaths, so he was golden. The floor creaked under his feet, and the air smelt of dust and age. Spiderwebs hid in corners and furniture was covered in sheets. All in all, it wasn't a total shithole, ignoring the holes in the roof, the cold in the air, and the smell of rot that permeated throughout the place.
He wandered upstairs after a few close calls with broken steps—he found himself in a bedroom. It was lacking a bed, but there was still a wooden dresser and a few shelves on the wall. On the far wall, through the shattered window and the slivers of light the boards let through he could make out a green-flowered accent wall.
Peter chose to ignore the hunger settling in his stomach, or the dryness of his throat begging for water. The second he leaned against the wall, his knees up to his chest, his brown eyes fluttered closed and he passed out.
It will be tomorrow Peter's job to figure everything out, tonight Peter's job is to sleep.
—
When Jason Todd came across a bloodsoaked alley, vomit and iron filling the air, bloodied footsteps leaning into the streets where their trace ran cold after a few steps into a Gotham puddle, he knew something was about to go down. As his eyes ran over the outline of a spider burnt into the ground, he did the only thing he could think of.
He called Batman.