Dark Matter

Diana’s memories are fuzzy things, the shape of which can’t fully see. One moment she’s near a traumatized child, battling a sorcerer. A bolt of blue strikes her. Darkness. And now she’s in a cell, chained to every surface imaginable with a material that does not crack against her strength. She’s practically wrapped in a metal cocoon. A blindfold is wrapped tightly around her eyes. Unlike the chains, it’s simple cloth. There’s no need to become extravagant when she can’t free her hands to remove it.

“I see they’ve been forced to use rather extreme methods for you,” a prim voice says somewhere in the dark.

Diana scowls. She feels sluggish, slow. Drunk and weary.

“Who’s there?” she asks. The words are heavy and slow, completely lacking the commanding snap to her tone she intended to use.

“And they’ve bespelled you on top of it. I suppose I would do the same in their place if I were foolish enough to anger a warrior goddess,” the man muses. He hums. “Pardon the intrusion. This won’t take but a moment.”

The blindfold is removed, and something green flashes behind her eyelids, chasing away the weariness. Diana’s eyes sting at the sudden light, but they adjust quickly and she focuses her attention on the source of the voice. A man with shoulder length black hair stands in front of her. He’s wearing fine leather armor, marked out in Nordic runes, and he’s watching her curiously and expectantly. A red thread is wrapped around one finely made boot. Her sword, lasso, and shield are neatly stacked at his feet. There are signs of battle in this tiny cell, and she recalls fighting--something. Someone. Monsters. Creatures with bat shaped faces and deadly claws.

“Who are you?” she growls, straining against the chains. They creak, but do not break. Not yet. She’ll need time to tear free of them. “What is this place?”

“This is one of the Black Order’s prison planets. The one where Thanos keeps his most promising and most dangerous potential slaves. You meet that criteria, I suppose. As for who I am? Right now, I am the nearest thing to a friend you’ll find here,” the man replies, light and lofty. He raises one hand, snaps his fingers, and the chains fall away from her as if neatly cut. Diana staggers forward, then catches her balance and uses her forward momentum to snatch up the sword and shield at his feet.

She tests both, finds their weight satisfactory, and then grabs the lasso, clipping it to its proper spot on her belt. She eyes the man warily. “I was with two others.”

He takes a few very prudent steps back when she grabs her weapons, keeping his empty hands in view. “They are both far beyond your reach at the moment, I’m afraid.” He hesitates and then adds, “I have a favor to ask of you.”

She watches him for a moment, then nods.

“When you meet my brother, tell him that I intend to keep my promise. And that Asgard will shine once more,” he says. And then he taps the red thread with the toe of his boot.

A flash of red and gold fills the room, blinding her. When her eyes recover, she finds herself standing inside a cell alone, clutching sword and shield in hand. She is confused. She is lost. More than that, she is furious that someone would think to kidnap her. That they would do the same to Superman, a dear friend, and Peter, an innocent she had tried and failed to protect. With the fury comes knowledge and memories hidden by their foul magic. Memories of what they tried to do to her. Memories of what they did to Clark. The fury chases away the rest of her confusion and exhaustion, and fills her with an icy determination.

The Black Order does not yet know what a great and terrible enemy they’ve made.

They are about to learn.

* * *

Clark Kent knows three things.

The first is that he’s laying in a field outside of Metropolis, in full costume, at the bottom of a crater the size of a small house. He must have fallen from a very great height to carve a hole this deep into the earth’s crust. He makes a mental note to fill it in later when he’s feeling better. And to leave an apology note to the farmer for damaging his field.

The second is that time has passed since he was last here. The fields outside of Metropolis had been the golden yellow color typical of late summer when he was last here, and the trees had been a verdant green, with the air thick with the smell of summer. The field he’s in now is a dull brown, the tree limbs are bare, and the air smells of icy rain. He’s lost several months of his life to...something. Somewhere.

And that’s the third thing: his head is absolutely throbbing. His thoughts are a jumbled mess, and his memories are even worse. He feels uncharacteristically weak and off kilter, as if he’s been strapped to a kryptonite mountain.

No, not straps. Chains. He vividly remembers chains. And a dark place. Flashes of multicolored stones, glowing and pulsing with power. Someone calling his name. Someone important, a friend, one bound in chains, one he raced to help--

The half formed memory glows red and crumbles like ashes in his mind before he sees the full shape of it. The pain in his head grows sharper and threatens a migraine, something he hasn’t experienced since he was a child growing into his powers. He struggles to retain the memory, to pull it back.

It doesn’t come. Something else does instead; a half remembered thing more dreamlike than anything based in reality: Diana asking him to help her look into a death cult stealing items of power from her museum. He had agreed, of course, and right away. And they---

His eyes flash blue, though none are around to see it. His migraine raises into a sharp crescendo, overwhelming him. And he struggles again with the memory that crumbles like sand in his grip.

No, he hadn’t agreed. He was busy. With something. He can’t recall it now, but it must have been vitally important if he had pushed aside a request for help from Wonder Woman. Someone else asked him for help. Then he had a pleasant conversation with them, and they asked him for a favor, though they would not tell him what it was when he asked. Only that he would know when he saw it. They needed help finding someone with a Stone. Capital ‘S’ stone. He isn’t sure what they mean.

But he had promised to help the man with the golden glove. The memory around that feels sandlike and crumbles at the edges as well. In his mind, he sees a pleasant conversation between two godlike beings who understand one another. But his body trembles with unremembered torture and pain and fruitless rebellion.

After that, he met a man with a red cloak, who said something earnestly important to him before wrapping a red thread around his hand. Blinding red and gold light filled his vision after.

And now he’s here.

Odd.

Something to consider another time. He can’t stay here.

He pushes himself up with a groan, shocked at how heavy his limbs feel, and lifts himself into the air with a thought. He rises slowly, unsteadily, and then collapses back into the dirt, breathing hard. The ground sways beneath him, and he tries to push himself up again. He hears the familiar sound of Bruce’s jet close in and land, and feels a sudden wave of relief. The relief only builds when he hears Bruce gracefully leap over the side of the crater and slide towards him.

“Clark?” he asks, dropping beside him. He takes in the sight of Clark and hesitates. “You’re hurt.”

“Head feels like it’s been torn open and scrambled like eggs,” Clark rasps. “Hurts. Help me.”

And then he collapses into the dirt, unconscious before he fully hits the ground.

* * *

BATCHAT

Barbara (06:12pm): So good news, bad news time, guys.

Duke (06:13pm): it’s never good when you put that into the chat

Tim (06:14pm): agreed

Steph (06:15pm): what’ve you got for us, Babs?

Barbara (06:17pm): Bruce found Clark. That’s who fell out of the sky last night.

Dick (6:18pm): But?

Barbara (06:19pm): He’s hurt. Bruce didn’t say how bad, but he’s staying in Metropolis for awhile.

Dick (06:21pm): If he isn’t giving us details, it’s bad.

Jason (06:22pm): What the fuck is going on lately? The bat monsters, the Arkham break out, gangs working together, the fucking Joker getting friendly with every other big name in the criminal underworld, Superman and Wonder Woman disappearing, then Superman comes back fucked up bad enough that Bruce won’t talk about it.

Jason (06:23pm): It all feels connected somehow and I don’t like it.

* * *

Peter swings by the playground during his patrol, pauses mid swing, and then drops down beside the Red Hood on a rooftop looking over the playground.

“You know, I’m starting to think you guys are following me,” Peter remarks. “A guy could get nervous when a bunch of weirdos in bat costumes follow him around.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. We know you come by here to keep this place safe,” Red Hood says. He pauses and then adds, “We all switch off looking after the playground when you’re busy, too.”

“Oh. Huh.” Peter doesn’t know what to say about that. He’s touched, honored even, that the Bats would go out of their way to help keep this little piece of Crime Alley peaceful. Especially with how busy they’ve all been.

“Anyway, this isn’t a social call. I need some back up, and right now, you’re the only one available,” Red Hood says, turning to face Peter. “Black Mask is moving his people around en masse, and I’d like to squash a few of his hideouts. You in?”

“Sure, why not,” Peter says, shrugging.

“Try to keep up,” Red Hood says before launching himself off of the roof, swinging down into the alley below where a red and black motorcycle sits in the shadows. He practically lands on top of it, dropping into the seat with practiced ease before turning it on and revving the engine.

Peter scoffs at the dramatics, but grins at the implied challenge. Red Hood wants to see if he can keep up? Fine. He can do that.

Red Hood revs his engine once more before tearing out of the alley and down the street. Peter swings behind him, keeping pace despite the speed.

* * *

Peter peers through the window of the hideout--a dingy old dive bar tucked away into one of the back corners of Crime Alley--taking stock of the situation inside. Red Hood stands in the shadows of the alley beneath him, sheltered from the wind and rain that cuts through Peter’s suit. He watches for a few minutes, then leaps across the alley to the other wall and skitters over to Red Hood. Like Batman, Red Hood is deeply disturbed by how spidery Peter can be.

“Okay,” Peter says quietly. “There’s twelve guys, all of them big and mean, and a lot of high powered rifles between them.

He shoots out a web, sticks the gun in Red Hood’s hand, and casually flings it across the alley where it lands with a clatter. “No guns.”

“Hey. Do you know how much money I stole from Bruce Wayne to customize that?” Red Hood asks.

“Does everyone just steal from Bruce Wayne in this city?” Peter asks, tossing a metal pipe Red Hood’s way. “No murdering anyone. Got it?”

Red Hood snatches the pipe out of the air and somehow manages to give off the impression he’s rolling his eyes at Peter behind his mask. “No promises. Stick with me and don’t get killed. I don’t need Nightwing giving me shit for getting his sidekick’s ass kicked.”

He’s through the doors of the old dive bar before Peter has a chance to be offended.

* * *

Twelve guys is nothing, really. Peter’s taken on higher odds than that before, though it was by accident and earned him a scathing lecture from Tony (“think before you act!”) and a grounding from May (“Peter, you could have gotten killed.”). And that was back when he was new at this sort of thing. He’s not new anymore, and Gotham is basically superhero Hard Mode, so he can handle this.

Except he can’t. Because he and Red Hood aren’t fighting run of the mill bad guys. Peter’s first indication that something is wrong occurs when one of the biggest men presses one meaty thumb against a button. The next three indications follow: Peter notices the thin, nearly invisible translucent tubes weaving into the man’s flesh. The tubes fill with a blue tinged liquid. And then the man grows in size and bulges with muscle, snarling ferally at Peter, ripping a knife out of his pocket.

The next thing Peter knows, he has a knife sticking through his right arm and roughly two hundred pounds of rabid henchman pounding him into the dirt. The guy isn’t pulling any punches either; each strike to his face and chest hits him like a hammer, stunning him.

“Get out from under him!” Bucky orders. “Web him!”

Oh, yeah. That’s a good idea. Peter’s right arm isn’t responding thanks to the knife, but sets loose a massive glob of web fluid into the big man’s face. The man yells in frustration, reeling back off of Peter to claw at the web fluid covering his eyes. Peter takes the opportunity to hit him with more webbing, trapping his hands against his face before driving both heels into the man’s midsection to send him skidding across the ground.

Peter rolls back onto his feet, webbing up a few more of the henchmen. Red Hood is handling the fight much better than Peter; it looks like the man is used to going up against unfair odds and coming out the winner. Still, Peter makes sure to web up the men sneaking up behind him. He leaves the last two to Red Hood and considers the knife sticking through his arm.

“That needs medical treatment,” Shuri says. “Leave the knife in--”

Peter rips the knife out and idly tosses it across the room. He can feel the horrified silence that follows that, as well as the aching, burning itch when his healing factor kicks in. He has to fight the urge to scratch at the wound like a dog; the itch is always sharpest when it first starts to heal.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t notice one of Red Hood’s foes has shifted his attention to Peter until the man’s fist lands squarely in Peter’s face, knocking him back down. Red Hood is on the man with a furious snarl, beating him with the metal pipe Peter gave him just outside. His strikes are hard enough to bend the metal, though they seem more annoying than anything else to the man.

Peter webs the man’s arms and feet up from his position on the ground. The man curses a blue streak at Red Hood and Peter both until Peter sends another glob of web fluid across the man’s mouth. Red Hood idly kicks the man when he’s down and stalks over to Peter.

"Man, those guys hit way harder than usual," Peter says with a groan.

"Venom," Red Hood says sourly. He reaches down and hauls Peter back onto his feet, not quite hovering protectively. "Bane must be sharing his secret recipe with Black Mask. Which makes no fucking sense."

"What's venom?" Peter asks. He checks the stab wound in his forearm and is thoroughly annoyed to find it still there. It should have healed.

"Think steroids, but super powered," Red Hood says. He pauses. "You got hit."

"Just a stab wound,” Peter says, shrugging.

“Yeah, through your forearm. All of the tendons controlling your fingers are there, genius. We need to get you to a doctor.”

“I’m fine, mom,” Peter replies, digging out a pen and sticky note pad from his utility belt.

“The hell you are, mouthy punk,” Red Hood mutters. He stares at Peter. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Leaving a note for the cops,” Peter says, pulling a sheet free and sticking it to the wall near the door. He clicks his pen open and starts to do exactly that. With a few bonus doodles.

“You can’t be serious,” Red Hood says.

“Serious as a heart attack,” Peter replies, quickly scribbling out a note for GCPD. He adds a small doodle of himself and Red Hood for good measure. “Commissioner Gordon likes ‘em. He says they help. Also he likes the doodles. Who am I to deny my adoring audience their joy?”

Red Hood looks over his shoulder and scoffs. “I look way cooler than that.”

“You aren’t allowed to look cooler than me on my post-it notes to the police, Red,” Peter replies, adding stink lines to Red Hood just to be petty.

“Whatever, spider-dork,” Red Hood says, lightly shoving the side of Peter’s head before guiding him towards the exit leading back into the alley. “Let’s go. We need to get that arm looked at.”

“I’m, uh, a little short on cash these days--” Peter starts.

“You won’t need cash,” Red Hood says. straddling his motorcycle. He pulls off the spare helmet hanging off the back of his bike and tosses it Peter’s way. “Dr. Thompkins has an arrangement with Batman.”

“Right,” Peter says, catching the helmet. He hesitates, briefly considers fleeing into the night, but decides against it. He pulls the helmet on and sits on the bike.

Red Hood waits until he’s settled, revs the engine, and then darts out onto the Gotham streets, winding a labyrinthine path through the streets.

* * *

“Oh, this isn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was,” Dr. Leslie Thompkins says over Peter’s arm. She’s a thin woman in her mid thirties with long brown hair and thick rimmed glasses, and she’s apparently quite used to superheroes stumbling into her clinic and bleeding all over her floors. She had taken one look at Peter and Red Hood and ushered them both into the exam room.

“Not bad at all,” she says idly. She cleans off the blood around the wound and presses a clean bandage to the wound. It doesn’t even count as a stab wound now; the extra food has kicked his healing factor into overdrive, and the wound is nothing more than a large cut. “We won’t even need stitches. Just a good cleaning and a bandage.”

The clinic is small, but very well maintained. The polished floors gleam in the bright light, and the exam room is full of supplies. Which is a strange sight to see in Crime Alley; most of the clinics Peter’s seen in Crime Alley are far more run down and sketchy looking.

“I told Red Hood this was nothing to get upset about,” Peter says. “He’s a worrier.”

“Hey, I’m not trying to get Nightwing’s mini-me killed,” Red Hood retorts.

“Nightwing wishes he was as cool as me,” Peter says.

Dr. Thompkins fights back a smile. “Boys, behave.”

Red Hood and Peter resort to flipping each other off behind Dr. Thompkins’ head for a few moments before Peter resumes looking around the clinic room. His eyes fall on a row of bright orange packets marked with a clown face and a red circle with a diagonal line crossing over it. They look like needles meant to treat allergic reactions. Dr. Thompkins glances up from her work to see what has his interest.

"That's the antidote for the latest version of the Joker's toxin," she says, wrapping a tight bandage around Peter’s arm. "It’s fully effective as long as the victim is given the antidote within the first half hour. After that, it's still effective, but there might be side effects."

“Side effects?”

“The side effects are different for each person,” she says with a sigh. “Even some antidote is better than none, but if twenty four hours has passed, there’s nothing that can be done.”

He files that away for a later date. “Oh. Good to know.”

“Has Batman given you any?” she asks him, looking up from her work.

“No, I don’t think so,” Peter admits. “I haven’t seen him that much.”

“Batman’s working a case in Metropolis,” Red Hood says. “He hasn’t been able to outfit the newbie yet.

“I also don’t need him to do that,” Peter adds.

Dr. Thompkins hums to herself, ties off the bandage around Peter’s arm, and stands up. She grabs one of the packets and holds it up. “Tear open the packet, press the tip of the syringe against the outside of your thigh, and hit the plunger. And hold your hand in place. It takes time for the antidote to deploy. Got it?”

“Got it,” Peter says.

She tosses the packet over to him. “Good. Now get out of there. I’ve got a hot date with the inventory sheets in my office.”

“Later, doc,” Red Hood says as he and Peter head for the door.

“Be safe,” she calls out after them.

* * *

Peter and Red Hood are back to the rooftops after their little trip to the clinic. Peter is perched on the wall near Red Hood, idly poking his stab wound, much to the man’s disgust and annoyance.

“Quit that,” Red Hood says.

“If I did that, I wouldn’t be able to annoy you,” Peter retorts.

“I will throw you off this building,” Red Hood says.

Peter is about to respond when a grappling hook latches onto the building ledge. A few seconds later, Black Cat flips herself up onto the roof. Her eyes are well hidden behind the opaque yellow goggles of her suit, which looks insulated and more than capable of handling the frigid Gotham air.

“What the fuck,” Red Hood says, staring at her.

“Hi, I need to borrow your sidekick,” Felicia says to Red Hood. The man looks between Peter and Felicia, then snorts.

“Gross,” Red Hood replies. “Have fun, use protection.”

And then he leaps off of the building. Peter glowers at Felicia. “Sidekick?”

“What? I’m not wrong. You’re the unofficial sidekick for all of the bats in town. Everybody knows that,” she replies. She holds up a manilla folder that’s been tied shut with a black ribbon. “And focus. I need you to look at this. I found it in the Joker’s hideout.”

“What the hell were you doing in the Joker’s hideout?” he asks, horrified.

“I didn’t know it was his hideout. He doesn’t plaster a clown face on all of his places, you know. Just the ones he wants Batman and his crew to find. And, again, focus,” she replies primly, lightly bapping his nose with the folder before handing it to him.

He huffs, but takes the folder, opening it up and taking a look inside. He pauses, frowns, and squints down at the paper. He trails a finger along one page, the eyes of his mask narrowing as he squints. “These are blueprints, but I don’t recognize what they’re for. They’re using the focusing crystal that was stolen from the power company, and materials that I don’t recognize.”

“Yeah, but what is it?” Felicia asks, peering over his shoulder, bracing herself against it for balance. The warmth of her hands and presence is a welcome break from the freezing wind, and Peter fights against leaning back against her.

“A dispersal device,” he says finally. “For a gas? Maybe? It’s supposed to release a chemical into the sky that will mix with the clouds. The rain will dilute whatever it is--maybe, I’m not sure, I need to see what they’re trying to release--and spread it across the city.”

“So I’m going to go ahead and guess that it’s not good that Joker has these blueprints, huh,” Felicia says.

“Not at all, no,” Peter says with a sigh. “Can I keep these? I can hand them off to Nightwing. He’ll know what to do with them.”

“Sure thing, sidekick,” Felicia says, winking at him through her mask before leaning back to give him space. “I’m going to head home.”

“Try not to rob anyone on your way home,” Peter remarks dryly, closing the folder and tying it shut again with the ribbon.

“You’re in luck, I’m giving up the criminal life for the rest of the week,” Felicia retorts. “There’s a blizzard coming in a few days. I’m not interested in dealing with all of that.”

“A blizzard?” Peter asks.

“One of the big ones,” Felicia says, strolling towards the roof edge and pulling out her grappling gun. “They cancelled school for next week, so it must be bad. Later, spider!”

She leaps off of the building and swings away into the night. The bitter winter wind hits Peter full force again and he sighs, flipping on his ear piece.

“Oracle? I’ve got something for Nightwing,” he says.

* * *

“I’d love to come meet with you, Spider-Man, but I’m a little busy,” Nightwing says. He does sound apologetic. And the sound of shouting, gunfire, and vague explosions proves that isn’t a lie.

“This is important,” Peter says.

“Give me the details,” Nightwing says.

“Are you sure? It sounds like you’re getting shot at.”

“That’s not really new for me,” Nightwing says. “Go on.”

Peter gives Nightwing a brief overview of his night, and the plans Felicia brought him. For a moment, Nightwing is silent, busy as he is with dealing with several heavily armed men. Three solid, meaty thumps fill the line, followed by a pained groan, and Nightwing speaks again.

“Okay, yeah, that’s weird. I want to look at that. Listen, I’m going to be busy here for a little while, but we’ve got an apartment safehouse set up in Old Gotham. Can you take the file there?”

Peter looks up at the sky. The clouds are gathering for another round of freezing rain, his arm hurts, and he’s really starting to get hungry. But this is important. “Yeah. I can do that.”

“Awesome,” Nightwing says. He rattles off an address to Peter. “Oracle will let you in. Let me know when you drop it off, all right?”

“You got it,” Peter says.

* * *

The apartment is actually a penthouse at the top of Wayne Towers. It’s also locked up tight, with a fully engaged security system. Peter, tired and thoroughly soaked by the rain, waves up at the security cameras when he gets close. Oracle unlocks the door for him and he steps inside, glad to be out of the rain. He pauses and looks around the room. It’s sparsely decorated.

Actually, it’s not really decorated at all. It’s mostly empty, and looks more like a lab than a penthouse. One of the strange machines he, Spoiler, and Black Bat found a few weeks ago rests in the middle of it. Peter eyes the machine warily as he walks past it, setting the manilla folder Felicia found on a nearby table.

“This place is. Something,” Peter says. “What’s with the giant thing in the middle of the room? The machine.”

“That’s a Lazarus Machine. It’s broken. Red Robin’s been taking it apart and trying to figure out how it works in his spare time,” Nightwing says. He doesn’t seem entirely pleased that Red Robin is doing this, judging by his tone.

"What's a Lazarus Machine do?" Peter asks, peering into the tube. The smell of the green liquid, sharp and tangy, hits him, and he reels back as if struck, fighting off a wave of memories more felt than seen.

“Ground yourself,” Bucky says quietly.

"Lazarus pits bring back the dead. Someone built a machine that does the same thing. And they used it, which is something of a problem," Nightwing says.

Peter stops to consider the ramifications of such a machine. “Is it? I mean, as long as the person who was brought back isn’t evil, it’s good news, right?”

"There are side effects,” Nightwing says.

"Yeah?"

"You can come back wrong. Usually the mind doesn’t survive. Victims suffer from insanity, depression, memory loss, uncontrollable anger, all to varying degrees," Nightwing says, distracted. "There are also physical changes. They're more subtle, but not by much."

"Like what?" Peter asks, looking over the machine. It sets off his spider senses; a constant electric buzz that crawls across the back of his neck and the inside of his ear, agitating him.

"The eyes, for one. Your eyes will turn slightly green and your hair--" He stops. The line goes dead silent.

Peter looks up. "Nightwing?"

"Your hair," he says, as if in realization of something. "Green eyes. A white streak of hair. Depression, anger, and confusion. How did I not notice--" He curses. “I know who came out of the machine.”

Peter suddenly notices the time. "If I see anyone who matches the description of a season one anime villain, I'll let you know. But it's way past my bedtime. I'll catch you later, Nightwing.

"Spidey, wait, I need you to go by that rooftop I showed you--"

Peter clicks off his headset. He considers turning it back on--Nightwing sounded oddly upset--but he’s exhausted. Oracle will be more useful.

* * *

BATCHAT

Dick (11:38pm): I know who came out of the Lazarus Machine.

Dick (11:39pm): Everyone meet up at the cave ASAP.

* * *

Peter strolls into the fire station just as the rain begins to turn to sleet, pulling off his mask and wringing it out over the floor. A depressing amount of water falls from it and Peter sighs. He really needs to make this suit waterproof. What he wouldn’t give for five minutes alone in FRIDAY’s lab.

He changes out of his wet suit and leaves it out to dry inside the bathroom. He pulls on every warm piece of clothing he can find and crawls into his bed, sore and exhausted, but in a way that follows a good workout. He stretches his arms and legs,

He did some good tonight: he helped Red Hood clear out a hideout, he met a new ally, he delivered some important information to Nightwing, and now he can relax. His bed starts to warm up, chasing the chill out of his bones. He starts to close his eyes in a half doze, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly--

A flash of green light wakes him.

A thick piece of parchment, more cloth than paper, gently drops onto his chest. Peter picks it up, confused, and then the memory comes to him. The letter. The one Dr. Strange gave him and told to keep hold of for safekeeping. God only knows where it’s been this entire time, but it’s here now. It could be instructions on how to get back home or a way to even talk to home.

Peter sits up, his heart thumping against his chest, exhaustion forgotten. He flips the letter over in his hands and then pops the wax seal, unfolding the parchment with trembling hands. He starts to read.

Peter,

I am writing this while standing behind you on Titan. There is much I wish to say to prepare you for the things to come. Time is, unfortunately, too short for that. I will be as brief as I can. The letter will not survive in this universe for long. It will crumble into ash when the spells maintaining it begin to fail. I must be careful with what I share with you. Please know that I am keeping some things to myself, that I have my reasons, and that it is for the best of both worlds.

If you are reading this, then I am dead. Thanos has won and our universe is lost to you. There is no going back. Not for you. It is very likely that your aunt, your friends, and most of the Avengers did not survive his use of the Infinity Stones. I cannot tell for sure. In most of the timelines I witnessed, they died quickly, if not peacefully, and did not suffer. I know this is a cold comfort, but it is all I can give.

By all rights, you should be dead as well. I used a very powerful spell to change your fate, one that has not been used in millenia, and the consequences of its use are not fully understood. There is a chance you’ll arrive near good people who will help you. There is a much larger chance that you will not. I apologize for the pain this will and has caused you. There was no other way.

Find a home in this universe. You are an Avenger, one of Earth’s mightiest heroes. You can do a lot of good in this world. Do so. You need to marshal your strength.

There will be an unequal exchange in your future. You will suffer a great loss and make an even greater sacrifice. This is true in every future I witnessed.

I am sorry.

-Dr. Strange

PS: As the Red Hood has undoubtedly already told you: You are not alone. Remember that above all else.

Peter sets down the letter and stares straight ahead. His mind is a whirlwind of mixed emotions--confusion, followed by disbelief, mostly. He stares at the letter, reading and re-reading it, over and over, until the edges of it begin to curl and crumble into ash. A cold wind blows the ashes away, and Peter is left to stare at nothing.

He does not move for a long time. And then it hits him full force: most of the Avengers are dead. His friends are dead. Aunt May is--

That's what breaks him. He feels a lump form in his throat, and his sight blurs with tears.

They failed.

Ned, MJ, all of his classmates are gone.

The Avengers are dead. No one is coming for him.

Aunt May is gone.

That above all else is what breaks him. He crumples, just like he did at the police station after Ben was murdered, covering his face. May, the one steady influence in his life, gone for good. Because they failed. Because he failed. And now he’s alone, trapped in a universe not his own.

He wails. He clutches his hair and screams. He sobs. He loses his mind to grief and pain and rage and the unfairness of it all.

All it does is exhaust him.

He falls asleep sometime after midnight, curled up in a ball on his bed, quietly weeping, even in his sleep.

A flash of gold briefly illuminates the room, and a hand outlined in red energy reaches out to grab his blanket. It gently pulls the blanket over Peter’s sleeping form before fading away.