Dark Matter

BATCHAT

Bruce (09:10am): Status report.

Barbara (09:12am): Jason, Dick, and Duke have gone dark. I can’t find any of them. Cass and Steph are suiting up now.

Bruce (09:13am): The alley Jason disappeared in shows signs of fire. Not just ash; incendiary weapons.

Barbara (09:14am): He did take a few grenades from the cave earlier.

Barbara (09:15am): More earthquakes centered around Crime Alley. As well as the sky thing that I’m sure you can see from wherever you’re at.

Bruce (09:16am): They aren’t earthquakes. The buildings are being moved.

* * *

The manor is in a state of organized chaos. He grabs breakfast, but finds himself gently shoo’d away while event workers bustle in and out of the kitchen, beginning food preparations. Somewhere around lunchtime, Peter realizes that the gala isn’t actually going to happen until later that night. Somehow, that never quite occurred to him, even though it should have. In what world does a billionaire wake up at the same time as everyone else?

Somewhat at a loss of what to do, he wanders the manor, listening to the storm outside, and the distant buzz of the staff downstairs. To his mild surprise, the floor where the majority of the family sleeps is almost entirely empty. The door to Tim’s room is open, but Peter can hear the sound of gentle snoring coming from inside and makes sure to pass by it as silently as he can. Duke’s room is empty, so is Dick’s, even Damian’s. Bruce’s room is down the hall, the door locked shut; the walls and door to that room are so thick that Peter can’t hear anything beyond them. He assumes Bruce is still asleep.

Did they all sneak out so only the new kid ends up going? Peter wonders. A shadow of his earlier annoyance from the previous day begins to rise, simmering and green. Thinking back to his last experience with galas, he wouldn’t necessarily blame them, but c’mon. Throw the new guy a bone.

Just as he’s thinking that, a slim, dark form slips out of one of the rooms at the end of the hall. A young woman dressed in sleek black clothes steps into the hallway, a battered gym bag slung over one shoulder, and freezes when she sees Peter at the other end of it. The two stare at one another, and Peter idly wonders where he recognizes her from. The portraits downstairs, yes, but--

The memory comes to him. “You’re the girl from Omar and Sophia’s restaurant. The one that left the big tip after I threw out that drunk guy.”

She is. The still, confident girl that had left him a large enough tip to feed him for a week. The one that had reminded him of Natasha. She tilts her head, giving him a gentle nod before raising her hand to give him an easy, friendly wave before hesitating, as if trying to decide how to proceed.

“Thank you for that. You don’t know how much that helped me,” Peter says. He vaguely remembers distant advice from Aunt May--talk to people at the level they’re comfortable talking to you--and returns her wave. “What’s your name?”

She hesitates, clearly debating with herself, and then begins to sign at him, slowly and carefully. That may not help. Peter knows a few basic signs, and only because Aunt May needed someone to practice with for her work with FEAST. And there’s no promise that she’s using ASL or even that his version of ASL matches this universe; there are plenty of common phrases in Gotham that wouldn’t mean anything at all in his universe.

Fortunately, the alphabet seems to be the same. She spells out her name, then follows up with a another sign, quick and easily done. Her name sign. He squints, mimics her sign, and doesn’t quite make a mess of it.

Fortunately, she doesn’t seem offended, just amused. She pulls out her phone, waves it at him briefly, and then taps out a quick message.

Cass:This might be easier 😁

Peter: for now, yeah. Sorry if I messed up your name!

Cass: We’ll practice it later 😊 have fun at the gala!

Peter glances up from his phone, blinking at her. “You’re not staying?”

Cass shakes her head, looking vaguely amused. His disappointment must be blatantly obvious, because she closes the distance between them and gently pats his shoulder as she moves past him down the hall towards one of the stairwells leading to the kitchen. His phone lets out a gentle buzz a few moments after she disappears from view.

Cass:you’ll be fine. Heading back to work. Talk soon! 😎

Peter sighs, glances at his phone, and then heads back downstairs. Maybe there’s a side or back entrance he missed earlier.

* * *

BATCHAT

Barbara (11:08am): The storm is clearing for now.

Barbara (11:09am): The buildings in the center of Crime Alley have been shifted around.

Barbara (11:09am): also the sky is bleeding, which is probably what Dick saw before he stopped answering the radio.

Bruce (11:10am): The buildings are being shoved together to form a spire beneath the hole in the sky.

Bruce (11:10am): Keep everyone away from Crime Alley. Perimeter work only. No exceptions.

Bruce (11:11am): I’m not losing anyone else.

* * *

Peter’s phone pings right around the time his senses rise from a steady hum to a sharp siren. He flinches, his nerves suddenly raw and oversensitive, startling a few of the event workers. One of the workers gives him a sympathetic look and moves away to give him some space. He manages a weak, awkward grin as they leave and pours some distance between himself and the workers on his own, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he moves.

Felicia:I am officially no longer asking

Felicia:you need to be in Crime Alley asap

Peter: i can't just disappear

Felicia: oh i can arrange for you to disappear

Peter:terrifying

Peter:how?

Felicia:Selina won’t notice her car going missing if I bring it back before she comes home

That will have to work. Peter lets out a low sigh, the tension in his shoulders easing as he finally has a plan to get out of the manor and into the city.

A thought occurs to him.

Peter: you know how to drive?

Felicia: kinda. how hard can it be?

Before he can think of a way to reply to that, she follows up:

Felicia:i’ll come get you.

Felicia:be ready

Peter pockets his phone, half relieved, half stressed. Felicia’s going to help him, which is nice, but her timing is a little off. The gala is supposed to start later. Can he really just disappear like that? Won’t someone notice if the newest addition to the Wayne family has disappeared?

He considers his predicament, tugging on his tie as he slips around the various event workers moving around the ballroom. There isn’t really a choice to be made here: he has to get to Crime Alley, no matter what. Felicia wouldn’t steal a car just to--

He stops himself there and resets.

Felicia wouldn’t steal Selina’s car just to come get him if the situation wasn’t serious. She clearly has a lot of respect for the woman who took her in, and even thieves have standards. Apparently.

Okay, that last part might’ve been a little unfair to Felicia. She has plenty of standards. They’re just different from his. And maybe he’s still a little put out she took his anti-grav puck from him awhile back.

Peter keeps to the edge of the ballroom and entrance hall, making sure to avoid the heavily trafficked areas for now. He watches the main and side entrances, contemplating how best to sneak out to meet Felicia when he notices a stranger standing to the side of the main entrances.

The man is bald, tall, slim, and dressed in a tailor made casual business suit. Dark tones cut from the finest cloth, tailored to accentuate his shoulders and height; everything about the man is a subtle show of power and confidence, and something about him reminds Peter of Norman Osborn. The man has a phone in one hand, bulkier than the standard cell phone made today, with a holoscreen projecting from it.

Curious, Peter wanders closer, peering at the phone and the holoscreen projecting from it. The holoscreen is sleek, but the image flickers and rolls, and dims at random, as if struggling to maintain the power necessary to keep a crisp image. Not really surprising; even Tony’s phone struggles to do the same. This one isn’t quite as bright as Tony’s phone, but it also isn’t far off. Pretty impressive for a piece of tech that isn’t running on a battery created by Stark Industries.

The man, whoever he is, is designing a suit. Similar to an Iron Man suit, but heavier, lined with lead and powered by a crystal, rather than an Arc Reactor. The lead has him confused, but the crystal power source--whatever it is--fascinates him. Peter peers over the man’s shoulder, briefly overcoming his usual social awkwardness and the low hum of his danger sense to look at the various formulas the man is running through over and over on the screen.

“Your suit is too top heavy. You need to boost the power by fifty percent,” Peter tells him after watching four or five simulations fail. “It’ll stabilize the suit in flight.”

Well, mostly. The suit won’t win against gravity for very long; it’s almost as clunky as the Hulkbuster suit Tony had shown him once. A lot of the armor has been replaced with repulsors, as if the man intends to build a personal jet suit.

The man startles in place, as if suddenly aware of the fact that he’s not alone. A strange reaction top have, considering the event staff moving around the manor. After a moment, the man says, “You seem pretty confident.”

“I know what I’m doing," Peter says. "Run the simulation. Check the results."

“Hm.” The man gives him a cold, curious look with just a hint of challenge, and enters the calculation. It works (no surprise there), and the man’s expression turns thoughtful, the challenge draining away from his expression. “Well. Very good.”

He says that in a tone specifically reserved for very intelligent dogs, and Peter has the distinct feeling that’s what the man thinks of him. Or maybe not; it isn’t like being filthy rich makes you good at socializing, and this guy seems to lean more towards the ‘genius’ rich guy rather than ‘charming schmoozer’ side. More Norman Osbnorn than the Roxxon CEO he met at Tony’s gala. The man closes down the holoscreen and gives Peter his full attention. Peter’s senses briefly spike, and he has to fight against the urge to fidget. The guy is intense.

He offers Peter his hand. “I”m Lex Luthor.”

Ah. That explains a few things. Peter’s shoulders relax a bit. Lex Luthor is the guy obsessed with alien invasions; it’s possible he’s building a suit as a preventative measure. A tall order for someone who doesn’t have an arc reactor, but the crystals seemed to put out quite a bit of power themselves.

He shakes Lex’s hand. “Peter Parker.”

Recognition flashes behind the man’s eyes as he shakes Peter’s hand and releases it. It’s a perfect handshake. "I know most of the Wayne children tend to take after their father. I wondered if you’d be the exception to the rule, and you seem to be so far.”

"Because I'm from Crime Alley?"

"Because you haven't been able to live up to your potential due to circumstances beyond your control," Lex clarifies, a glint forming in his eye. He squares his shoulders. “Don’t waste the opportunity Mr. Wayne has given you. Hopefully you’ll be less of a disappointment than the rest of his brood.”

“Uh, right,” Peter says slowly, suddenly unsure of how to navigate this conversation. It feels like he’s drifted into dangerous waters by sheer coincidence. He decides to try and pivot the conversation to safer waters. “You’re here pretty early, Mr. Luthor. I don’t think the gala is supposed to start for awhile.”

“Yes, I know. I decided to come in early and pay my respects before heading back to Metropolis,” Lex says. “Unfortunately, I have too much on my plate to enjoy one of Mr. Wayne’s frivolous parties.”

“Memorial, sir,” Alfred corrects politely, stepping past them. Peter can see the butler watching Lex carefully from the corner of his eye as he directs a crew of contractors around the ballroom.

“Memorial party, then. Not that I’m personally inclined to donate much to Spider-Man’s memory when he’s caused me so much trouble,” Lex says sourly. “My office building downtown is full of bullet holes, which is to be expected in Gotham, but I never expect a crane to be tied to it in some kind of rope.”

“Is that really so bad?” Peter asks. “I mean, it kept the crane from landing on people on the street--”

“Yes, yes, he saved lives, good for him,” Lex says, rolling his eyes. “Every cape in the country does that. However, none of them have yet used some cheap biochemical glue to create a massive web hammock anchored to my very expensive building. It froze in the blizzard and now I have to pay a premium to get it removed and have the building inspected by city authorities, not including the bribes necessary to get anything done in this city. Skyscrapers are an engineering balancing act and they aren’t meant to catch several tons of machinery on a whim during a blizzard strong enough to ground most flights in the state."

Okay, yeah, that’s a good point. Whoops.

“Which means I’m laying off the entire Gotham division,” Lex continues, his tone bored and dry. “It’s not worth the hassle to keep them on when they can’t work, and there aren’t any other buildings to move them to that meet my standards.”

“That seems pretty harsh,” Peter says, frowning at him. “Your employees didn’t do anything wrong.”

“If they want gainful employment they can move somewhere else with the money I’ve already paid them. We rehire laid off employees all the time,” Lex replies. “Gotham is a sinkhole. It’s painful knowing how much of the taxes from my business have gone into this money pit. If Wayne wants to throw his fortune away, he’s free to do it. But billionaires don’t stay that way bailing out a sinking ship, and everyone knows Gotham’s eventual fate.”

“If you feel that way, then why did you come?” Peter asks, tilting his head. “I mean, this is a memorial for Spider-Man.”

“Because every news rag in the nation will happily plaster the names and faces of everyone who failed to show up to a Wayne fundraiser, and I don’t need that kind of attention,” Lex replies dryly. “It’s easier to cut a check for good PR and skip the party altogether. I have much more important things to do and Wayne gets his cash. It doesn’t hurt my company’s reputation, either. In fact, if the donation is big enough, no one will pay any attention to the layoffs. The media loves to softball people of a certain level of wealth.”

Peter can’t really think of anything to say to that. He’s suddenly glad that everyone thinks Spider-Man is dead. Lex Luthor looks like the type of guy who would happily sue a superhero into the ground. He’s about to say something when he notices a shadowed figure standing in the entrance hallway.

Tim Drake isn’t really an imposing figure--he’s about equal to Peter’s height, but his build is more of a marathon runner’s than anything else--but with the way he’s staring daggers at Lex, standing half in shadow, sends a chill down Peter’s spine. Something sharp glints in his hand.

“He’s about to do something stupid,” Bucky says. “Steve’s had looks like that before.”

“Uh, right,” Peter says. “It was nice talking to you, but I’d better go finish a few things around the manor for Alfred.”

“Yes, yes, be on your way,” Lex says, idly giving him a dismissive wave of his hand. “It was interesting meeting you, Peter.”

“Yeah, you too,” Peter says, moving past Lex towards Tim.

Lex barely reacts as Peter passes him, which is good, or he’d see Tim half hidden in the shadows behind him. There’s an intensity to Tim’s gaze that bothers Peter, and he briefly weighs his options before reaching to grab TIm’s arm as he draws close.

“What are you doing--” Tim hisses, shifting in such a way that he almost slips out of Peter’s grip. If Peter wasn’t naturally a touch more strong and significantly more sticky than the average teenager, he would’ve slipped free easily. The fact that he doesn’t break free startles Tim, and he pauses midword, confused.

“Keeping you from upsetting Alfred,” Peter says, herding him out of the entrance hall and back towards the stairs. When they’re back in the bedroom hallway, Peter lets go of him. "What the hell were you doing back there? It looked like you were about to jump the guy."

“Luthor is one of the top suspects for Conner’s disappearance. It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Tim says.

“Him? Why? I thought you said Conner lives on some farm out in the middle of nowhere,” Peter says, frowning. “How does someone our age end up making an enemy out of a multinational corporation’s billionaire owner?”

Peter has some ideas how, personally, but unless Tim’s friend is capable of zipping across the nation to go slap Lex Luthor in the face every other week, it really isn’t possible.

“Maybe he’s living there to stay hidden,” Bucky says.

True. Why else would someone choose to move to Kansas from Gotham? At least, Peter assumes Conner’s from Gotham; it’s where Tim is from so--

“It’s complicated,” Tim says. He starts to say something, and his expression shifts, losing focus. He shakes his head. “It’s just that his disappearance makes no sense. He was seen going into his room, and then he wasn't seen again. The Kents went into his room and found ashes, but they didn't smell anything burning--"

"Ashes?" Peter asks sharply.

“Yeah. Ashes,” Tim says. He pauses and focuses on Peter, and the intensity of his gaze could match Batman’s for the intimidation factor alone. “Why?”

Peter’s stomach drops; he can feel his heart speed up, and his face grow cold. He feels sick. “I need to go.”

“Why? What’s so significant about ashes?” Tim asks. He pauses and frowns. “Wait. You panicked at school once. Because pieces of an eraser landed on your page. Is it because they looked like ashes to you?”

“I can’t tell you,” Peter says, looking past Tim, his mind racing.

“Can’t or won’t?” Tim asks, stepping into Peter’s view. He’s starting to crowd Peter, shoulders squared as if ready for a fight.

“It isn’t safe for you to know,” Peter retorts, steel in his voice. Tim blinks at the tone, taken off guard by it. “I need to go.”

Tim is watching him steadily. “Are you in trouble?”

“Maybe. Look, I can’t tell you right now,” Peter says quickly. “I’d love to, Tim, really, but now isn’t the best time. Just do me a favor and cover for me at the gala.”

“What?” Tim asks.

“I have to go. Cover for me with Alfred and Dick,” Peter says, pushing past him to head for his bedroom. He keeps his pace brisk, hoping that Tim won’t follow him. He doesn’t hear any footsteps behind him and counts it as a victory.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out as he moves.

Felicia:here

Peter: where?

Felicia: your room

Peter:terrifying, on my way

* * *

BATCHAT

Steph (01:00pm): Cass and I are officially done with the bombs. The tipster was legit. Where do you need us? Since it looks like Crime Alley now has a giant tower made of most of the warehouse district poking up.

Barbara (01:01pm): Perimeter control. Nightwing, Signal, and Red Hood have gone dark; Batman doesn’t want to take any chances.

Steph (01:02pm): So he’s aware of Clayface, Bane, Electrocutioner, and about two dozen manbats speeding towards the spire in a truck?

Barbara (01:03pm): Well, he is now. What do they have?

Steph (01:03pm): A weapon? A machine. They’re moving too fast for us to run and talk at the same time. But whatever this is plus the spire, plus the portal, and the monsters is bad. That’s usually more than B-man can handle on his own.

Barbara (01:04pm): Your call, Batman.

Bruce (01:07pm): Tail them. Stay in constant contact.

* * *

Peter ducks into his bedroom, shutting the door gently behind himself before tugging the tie off. He glances around the room and finds Felicia standing on the balcony outside his window, dressed comfortably. She opens the doors for him as he gets close.

He blinks. “I thought those were locked.”

“They were,” she says.

Right, cat burglar. Peter tosses his tie back onto the bed, taking a deep breath. The air smells...odd. Thick and heavy, like a summer storm. The storm hasn’t left Gotham, even though the wind and rain have stopped; ominous dark clouds hover above Gotham’s skyline, centered above Crime Alley. He can’t make out the details from here, but Crime Alley’s skyline looks weird. Off.

And there’s a hole in the sky above it.

“What the fuck?” Peter says.

“Yeah, that wasn’t there until this morning,” Felicia tells him. “It looks like the portal from New York but bigger. And it kind of bleeds off this weird red energy every now and then.”

It does look like the portal. The thought makes his stomach turn. Peter frowns at the sky above Crime Alley. He turns to Felicia. “I’m guess you don’t have a suit or a mask or something I could borrow when I get there?”

Felicia pulls out a brown paper grocery bag from her pocket. With eye holes cut out. She wiggles it at him, and shrugs.

“Are you serious.”

“I broke my goggles during my last heist. And I don’t have a spare set or I’d let you borrow them,” she admits. “I realized you needed a mask, but I didn’t have anything on hand except for this, so...”

Another wiggle of the bag. It crackles in the wind.

“Great. Your friendly neighborhood hero is swinging in to save the day,” Peter says dryly. “Evildoers beware, the Bagman is coming for you.”

“We’ll call it dumpster chic. The tailored shirt and pants will make up for it. And I’ve got a sharpie in the car. If you’d like, we can add angry eyebrows over the eye holes,” Felicia says helpfully.

One of the ghosts near Peter snorts back a laugh. Peter ignores it, glancing over Felicia’s shoulder to the sky above Crime Alley. The storm is beginning to move; the clouds are swirling around the portal, slowly, but gradually picking up speed. The movement is setting Peter’s teeth on edge. He eyes the center of the swirling clouds, feeling his spider sense grow more and more tense with each passing moment.

Peter shrugs off his suit jacket, and starts for the balcony ledge. His highly polished dress shoes would normally have almost no traction on the smooth balcony, but his sticky powers counter that easily. He really misses his suit, but he’ll just have to go without it for now. “We need to go now,” Peter tells Felicia. “Before--”

“Before what?” Tim asks from his bedroom doorway.

Peter nearly jumps out of his skin, whirling around to face Tim. “What--when did you--”

“He came in a few seconds after you did,” Felicia says helpfully from her perch on the balcony railing.

“And you didn’t say anything?” Peter asks her. She shrugs in reply and he sighs before turning back to Tim. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Yes, it is,” Felicia says.

“Felicia--”

“I mean, it’s not like we can tell him we’re not sneaking you out of the manor,” she points out. “He’s not stupid.”

“What are you hiding?” Tim asks Peter. There’s a steady intensity to his tone that Peter has never heard before. In fact, it--

It almost sounds like Red Robin.

“I’m not--” Tim scoffs. Peter doesn’t blame him. He sounds anything but convincing. “I know you probably have a few questions, but--”

“I thought Lex had something to do with Connor’s disappearance, but I actually think it’s you. I just focused on Lex instead. Followed the wrong clues,” Tim says. “That happens, but it doesn’t happen often. And it’s happened a lot more lately. Ever since we met, in fact.”

“I didn’t do anything to your friend, Tim,” Peter says.

“I know. And I know you’re in the middle of whatever this is, too. I know that they’re connected somehow,” Tim says, pointing at the hole in the sky. He continues, his voice growing sharper, flirting with the edge of fury. “I know that. I just don’t know how! Every time I start to piece things together, one or two facts drift away from me. I literally forget the words midthought. Do you know what that’s like for someone like me? To think they’re losing their mind? That isn’t allowed to happen.”

Peter takes a step back from Tim, suddenly on edge for an entirely different reason than he was a moment ago. Tim matches him step for step, not quite crowding, but sending a very clear message all the same: you aren’t getting out of this. The thing is, Tim is probably right, but Peter has no idea how to even begin to explain all of this without earning himself a one way trip to Arkham Asylum. He opens his mouth--

Something in the sky above them screams. Peter’s head snaps up just as Felicia lets out a hissing gasp and Tim curses. Six bat monsters have broken through the cloud cover above the manor. These bat monsters aren’t like the ones he fought outside the bus with Lou months ago. They’re much bigger, bristling with muscle, and covered in sleek black armor. All six of them are focused on Peter.

Time takes on that weird, sluggish slowness when his senses spike. Peter thinks fast. He can’t fight them in the manor. There are too many people inside who will get hurt. He can’t fight them on the balcony; it’s too small, and Tim and Felicia can’t possibly run fast enough to avoid the monsters. The only thing he can do is leap up and meet them head on. Given that there are six of them, he doesn’t think the odds will be in his favor. It isn’t the most sound tactical decision, but it’s all he has. Peter grits his teeth and prepares to leap directly into their claws.

And then Tim does something utterly unforgivable.

He saves Peter’s life.

Tim slams his shoulder against Peter’s, knocking him out of the way of the monster swooping down from above. He moves so quickly that Peter doesn’t realize it’s happening until he’s knocked into the balcony railing beside Felicia. The monsters are forced to abandon their deadly dive, clumsily swooping left or right, a couple of them flying into each other and shrieking at one another in frustration.

That doesn’t keep Tim safe, however. One of the monsters grabs him and lifts him up and off of the balcony in one fell swoop. Peter hears Tim grunt in pain and curse quietly under his breath as the monster sweeps back up into the sky. Peter steps on to the railing and leaps off of it, pressing down hard enough to crack the iron railing of the balcony under his foot. He can jump pretty high with his enhanced strength, but he barely makes it onto the monster’s back.

The monster isn’t prepared for Peter’s weight; it starts to fall, burdened by both Tim and Peter. If Peter times this right, he can distract the thing enough that it drops Tim. Peter can dive off of its back and catch him before he falls--

“Behind you!” Felicia shouts, just as his senses spike.

He dodges the first monster swooping towards him. He doesn’t quite make it out of range of the second. It slams into his side, throwing him off balance and ultimately off of the first monster’s back. He falls past Tim, who gives him a startled, open mouthed look of horror as he sails past.

Dammit, this would be so easy if he had his web shooters! Peter flips in midair, controlling his fall, trying to think of a back up plan.

He doesn’t get the chance. One of the other monsters snatches him from the air, laboriously beating its wings as it arcs back into the sky and takes its place between two others: one carrying Tim to his left, and another carrying Felicia to his right. The whole flock is headed towards the city, gaining both speed and height as they move. The thing’s hands are like steel vices clamped around his shoulders, and the strength in those arms are more than evident. He manages to wrench an arm free, reeling back to strike at the black steel armor. If he can get his hand on it, he might be able to use his sticky powers to rip it off and give himself an opening--

The creature lets out a frustrated grunt, dips it’s flight a bit lower, and slams Peter’s head against one of the cranes resting on top of one of Gotham’s skyscrapers. The metal dents from the impact and lets out a resounding clong noise, disorienting Peter. He manages one clumsy, ineffective swing before the monster backhands him with an armored fist, sending his vision into darkness.

* * *

BATCHAT

Barbara (01:19pm): Heads up, guys. The manor’s sensors just went off. Cameras show six of those monsters.

Barbara (01:20pm): They’ve got Tim and Peter, and someone I don’t recognize.

Steph (01:21pm): When it rains, it pours.

Bruce (01:22pm): Where are they taking them?

Barbara (01:23pm): The spire beneath the portal.

Barbara (01:24pm): Tim has his tracer on him, but it isn’t active yet.

Barbara (01:25pm): Once he figures out a way to trigger it, we’ll get his location. And hear everything he hears.

* * *

“Peter, wake up,” Sam says urgently. “Wake up!”

Peter’s vision returns gradually. His ears ring, and his head throbs with pain. Something warm and sticky has trailed down the side of his head and along his neck; a shallow wound from when the bat creature punched him. It’s already healed, but it fucking hurts. He’s hanging in mid air, and it takes him a moment to realize he’s been practically cocooned in thick, rusty chains. Great.

“Peter?” Felicia whispers from somewhere nearby. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Kinda,” Peter mutters, keeping his voice as low as hers. He opens his eyes, taking in his surroundings.

They’re inside what looks like a warehouse. Or what used to be a warehouse. The walls are tilted at odd angles, meshing with cement foundations and ceiling supports in ways that make absolutely no sense. It’s also much larger than any warehouse Peter has ever seen; it’s huge. Massive. Intersected by steel catwalks, some leading to dead drops into what looks like the subway, with lights haphazardly strung along the walls and ceiling. It’s as if someone has clumped a dozen buildings together and then stretched them out into the shape of a spire like clay, paying no attention to what parts of a particular building went where. Massive steel vats of something that smells like rotting lavender and gasoline are slowly rising from the ground towards an opening at the top of the building, their contents sloshing over the sides of a few. The opening leads to a portal, and something else: a machine, half finished, pointing towards the clouds.

So they’re inside the weird thing in the middle of Crime Alley. Okay, not how he wanted to get here, but he can work with that. Peter shifts, pressing against the chains with his strength. They press back, twice as hard, and he lets out a quiet wheeze as they shift across him like pythons.

“Don’t struggle. They’re like fingertraps,” Felicia says. “You’ll just hurt yourself.”

“A binding spell,” Dr. Strange mutters. “Simple, but effective.”

Peter glances at Felicia. She’s just as trapped, suspended in the air nearby. Between them and a little behind, Tim is also bound in chains. He’s still fighting against his, though it looks like he’s puzzling out a weakness rather than blindly struggling like Peter. He also has several chains wrapped tightly around his mouth.

“Why is Tim gagged?” Peter asks her quietly, keeping very still.

“He kept drawing the bad guys’ attention away from Signal. And us,” Felicia says, quietly. “They had to zap him to get him to calm down and then they put that metal clamp over his mouth.”

Figures. Peter would’ve done the exact same thing, and apparently he and Tim have the same chronic hero syndrome. That’s something he’s going to have to talk to the guy about if they get out of this alive. It’s all well and good for Peter to fling himself into almost certain death, but it’s a completely different matter if one of Bruce Wayne’s kids feels the need to do the same thing. He’s the Avenger, Tim isn’t.

As if that matters anymore.

“Those bat things are way bigger than the ones I ran into before,” Peter says, eyeing the walls and ceiling of the shifting building. There are dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. And there’s room for a lot more in the shadowy corners of the building.

“They look like Outriders,” Felicia says.

“How do you know what those are?” Peter asks.

“They invaded Wakanda after you got sucked into that weird ship,” Felicia says. “The Avengers went to Wakanda and helped Black Panther and his army fight them off. The news showed Cap and Black Panther charging into an army of them. These have wings though. Which is weird.”

“They hit like a truck,” Peter mutters.

“No shit,” Felicia says. “The whole world watched Cap and Black Panther get steamrolled by them through illegal video streams. They could have torn us to shreds in a second.”

“But they didn’t. Which is probably bad,” Peter says, staring at the nearest group of the mutant creatures.

“As if there’s anything worse than being torn apart by mutant Outriders,” Felicia mutters.

“There is,” Peter says grimly. She blinks at him, frowning.

Between them and a little behind them, Tim watches as they talk, eyes darting back and forth between them, obviously soaking in every word they’re saying. Add another note to an increasingly awkward future conversation they’re going to have at the manor later.

Peter looks around the room again, and pauses when he finally notices a cell settled on a black steel platform above them. The cell looks like an oversized Lazarus machine he found in Red Robin’s clock tower hide out weeks ago, but extra large. It would need to be: it’s holding both Nightwing and a distinctly singed looking Red Hood inside of it. They’re both staring at Peter, Felicia, and Tim, and it’s clear they can hear them. Great.

Directly below the opening is a cement floor, where Signal stands alone, surrounded by bat monsters, and other dark figures Peter can’t quite make out from this distance. He recognizes the Black Order. The weird Squidward looking guy that Tony fought on the ship, the big guy with the chain hammer, and two others: a man holding a crescent shaped spear and a tall woman with horns curled above her head.

This is bad.

Peter sends a desperate thought towards the ghosts: Can you help me?

A pause follows, and a feeling of frustration and fear rolls back towards him over their strange connection.

“We aren’t back to full strength,” Wanda says quietly.

“At most, we can be a distraction. And only if we have a turn of good luck,” Dr. Strange says. He emphasizes that last word, just a bit.

“Whatever happens next will fall to you,” T’Challa adds.

Figures. He’s rested, and healed, but that doesn’t mean the ghosts in the stone have had a chance to fully recover, even after that little trip down memory lane. That’s fine. He can figure this out. Some of his best thinking happens when he’s in a vague state of panic.

He keeps his eyes narrowed, listening and watching the world around him, thinking furiously and doing his best to stay still and not draw attention to himself. He watches the aliens, the outriders, and the bats.

Off to the side of signal, another platform floats in the air. Something dark and metallic rests on top of it, half hidden by the shadows of the warped building. The horned woman, apparently growing bored of whatever the others are discussing, wanders over towards it.

"You haven't yet opened this?" the woman asks. After a moment, her name comes to him from one of the ghosts: Proxima Midnight.

"There is no need,” Squidward says. His name follows, likely from one of the Guardians: Ebony Maw.

The big alien (Cull Obsidian, another ghost tells him) in back snarls and grumbles. The woman turns to face him and then turns back to Ebony Maw, smirking at him.

"Ah. You can't open it. Stark has bested you again. Without even being present."

Ebony Maw snarls. "He has not beaten me. It is one little toybox full of childish traps. I have been too busy to deal with it."

“I had thought you more clever than Tony Stark,” the goblin man remarks. Corvus.

“Enough,” Ebony Maw snaps. “Focus. The portal has gone dark. Something is wrong.”

Proxima Midnight rolls her eyes, but moves away from the pod. “It has gone dark before.”

“Not like this. Thanos should have passed through the portal by now,” Ebony Maw insists. He turns to face Signal, who stares at him from behind his own chains with the steady, furious disdain that only a Bat can properly show. “We will need to use this one’s eyes to peer into the other dimension.”

Peter frowns at the pod. The metal object has the Avengers emblem across the side and 17-A stenciled on top. A sleek Stark Industries is stenciled into the corner. That tugs at the back of his mind. He’s seen this before. He recognizes it. But the memory is fuzzy, as if he last heard the words 17-A while half conscious--

And then the memory strikes him.

The ship. The lack of oxygen. The fall.

Tony’s voice, steady, but with a thread of stress and panic poorly hidden beneath the surface, the way he tends to get whenever Peter is in over his head. “Pete, I’m gonna catch you, just hang on. FRIDAY, release 17-A!”

The suit catching him. His suit. 17-A. The Iron Spider.

His suit is here.

Peter grins.

"Why are you grinning like that?" Felicia asks.

Peter twists in his restraints, turning to face her, the grin still on his face. “Felicia, I’m going to do something very stupid and I need your help.”

“Why?” she asks, drawing the word out.

“Because it’ll save us.” Probably. Maybe. “I need you to use your luck powers. Can you give me good luck for, like, two seconds?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Felicia whispers, keeping a wary eye on the aliens surrounding them. None of them are paying them any kind of attention; their muted conversation is overshadowed by the storm, the shifting walls, and whatever is happening between Signal and the Black Order. Right now it sounds like Signal is mocking the Order. “I curse people with bad luck, I don’t give them good luck. There isn't, like, a reverse switch for it. And your luck is so weird that I’m not sure I want to use it on you at all. It could backfire and makes things worse.”

“Have you tried giving someone good luck before?” Peter asks.

She frowns. “I--well, no, I haven’t.”

“Reverse curse me for two seconds. That’s all I need,” Peter says.

Felicia stares at him, at the Bats trapped in their separate prisons, at the Black Order and their mutant foot soldiers, and then at the giant machine. She sighs, and gives a shaky nod.

“Okay, I’ll try,” she says quietly. “Just give me a second. I need something to focus it on and I need to make sure none of those guys notice I’m trying to do it.”

“I can do that,” Peter says brightly. From the corner of his eye, he sees Tim make a pained expression. Judging by the equally pinched look on Nightwing’s face, he and Red Hood don’t seem overly enthused by his plan either.

Whatever.

“Allow me the use of your eyes and your death will be quick and painless,” Ebony Maw tells Signal. His tone is one of restrained fury. “Continue to defy me and I will--”

“What? Kill me?” Signal demands. He scoffs. “You’ve already kidnapped me. And you just said you’d kill me anyway! You’re not very good at bargains, are you?”

"You will pay for your insolence in blood and pain," Ebony Maw hisses at Signal. Signal, for his part, doesn’t seem all that impressed by the threat. "I will personallysee to it that--"

"Man, did you really have to go and do this on a Friday?" Peter calls out, pitching his voice more towards the center of the room rather than at Ebony Maw directly.

The Stark pod reacts; the edges flicker once, twice, and then gradually grow into the steady blue light that marks every Stark suit. The same shade as Tony’s old Arc Reactor. It doesn’t last long. Two seconds at most. The light races along the edges of the pod, focuses on Peter, and then disappears. FRIDAY’s processing time is near instantaneous. She knows exactly what’s going on right now. More importantly, she’s awake and able to respond to voice commands. Their odds of survival just rose astronomically.

The room has gone utterly silent save for the storm. If looks could kill, Peter would be dead three times over judging by the mirrored expressions of furious horror on Felicia, Tim, and Nightwing’s faces. Even Red Hood looks pissed as hell, and his face is hidden behind his red helmet. Peter ignores them all, adding a jaunty little swing in his restraints, jangling the chains as loudly and obnoxiously as possible in order to maximize the attention drawn his way. It works: all of the Black Order and even a few fo the mutated Outriders turn to give him an annoyed look.

“Come on, man,” Peter calls out, adding a whining lilt to his voice. “I had plans tonight!”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, kid,” Sam says quietly.

Ebony Maw turns to face Peter, his expression one of pure shock.

And recognition.

“You,” Ebony Maw breathes, his fury redirected and fully reignited. “You should be dead.”

Peter has just enough time to wonder if he’s tested his luck too much before the building shifts, the bricks rippling like water. The floor Ebony Maw is standing on rises, then crosses the distance between Signal and Peter in short order. Peter is yanked lower, the ceiling above him dropping down to move him away from Tim and Felicia, until he’s dangling at head height to Ebony Maw. The alien stares at him, an expression caught somewhere between fury and disbelief warring across his features.

Felicia, I’m counting on you, Peter thinks.

“Hi, Squidward,” he says, grinning at Ebony Maw. There’s more teeth and challenge to his tone than genuine pleasure, though he is hamming it up just a bit. Ebony Maw’s scowl grows just a bit deeper. “Funny meeting you here, huh?”