Chapter 4
Distant groans of vibrations float through consciousness. It fades out, comes back, fades, and then returns with a higher intensity. The vibrations shape into indistinct sounds. The sounds alight a nerve in his brain, his mind pulsing with information and sensations.
The sounds string together in a symphony of voices. No. One single voice, overlapping itself.
The repeated voice—a deep, resonating sound—flows through his ear and travels down his ear canal before drumming against his eardrum.
It repeats.
Finally, like his ears have been unclogged, the voice stops overlapping and starts to focus into a single sentence before repeating again.
"Can you hear me?"
A seed of thought plants in his brain, and then travels to his diaphragm. The diaphragm contracts and pushes air into his lungs and out to his larynx, making his vocal chords vibrate. Like clay, he molds the sound in his mouth and lifts his heavy tongue.
"Yes."
The word lingers in space before the sound waves smooth over.
"Do you know who you are?"
He reaches into the back files of his mind. Nothing comes up. There's no memories, no recollection, no remnants of any life. He digs further, only to be pushed back, like he hit the bottom.
He tries again. Gets pushed back.
"That is okay, do not grow frustrated," the voice says, soothing him. "We believe you will know soon, it is only a matter of time."
"Who are you?"
"I am Eternity. I am accompanied by Infinity."
A second voice, this one slightly lighter and warmer, chimes in, "Greetings, Parker. It is an honor to speak with you. Our sister Death would join us, but she is currently in her realm to recover from the battle."
"A battle?"
"Yes, a battle that was fought three Earth months ago. Death has been recovering ever since," Infinity's disembodied voice replies.
Eternity adds, "She has physically healed a while ago, but the emotional toll the events of the battle . . . That is not so easily healed. However, I have a feeling once she discovers that you have returned, she will finally emerge from her pit of despair."
"I don't understand. Where did I go?"
"It is more complicated than simply leaving a physical place," Eternity explains. "You do not remember this yet, but you sacrificed your soul for me. Our twisted brother called Oblivion struck you with his powers to wipe you out of existence."
"Then how am I communicating with you? What's going on?"
"It is . . . complicated," Infinity says. "All remnants of you have been wiped from this universe, including all memories of you. Being cosmic entities means that only we were able to remember you, so we brought our memories of you to god in an attempt to bring your soul back. Unfortunately, we were unable to reverse all affects, but we were able to salvage enough memories to resurrect your soul and rebuild your body."
All this information pours into is brain at a rate too fast to process. It gets stuck in the gears of his mind like sticky gum. "Where is Oblivion? Did he get away?"
Eternity's deep voice answers. "After your sacrifice, Death and I fought back against Oblivion. Death seemed to be able to hold her own, so I went to Infinity for reinforcements. Thanks to your selfless act, we were able to work three-against-one and overpower our fallen brother. He has since been banished to a fate worse than hell."
Before he can ask another question, Infinity prompts, "Do you recall who you are now?"
Pressure builds in the front of his mind. A flash of . . . something. Light? A flicker of a scene, and an echo of an unintelligible voice. "Something's coming back, but I can't remember . . . W-What is my name?"
"Peter Benjamin Parker."
"Peter Benjamin Parker, you open this door right now!"
The voice—so familiar, but the name and face out of reach—cuts through his mind like a firecracker.
"You are a human living in the Earth city of New York."
"New York. Queens. It's a rough borough, but hey, it's home."
"Who are you talking to?"
"You are Spider-Man."
The dam collapses.
•
Peter bolts upright, inhaling sharply. He squints against the bright sun and lifts a hand to shield his eyes. Blinking, his mind reels as he tries to process . . . whatever just happened. Everything that happened in the last twenty four hours, really.
Sunshine . . . Outside. He's outside. Where is he?
Wait.
He lowers his arm and tilts his head as he turns over his hands, inspecting them. He's solid again He's in his body, wearing his suit and mask. Clenching his fists, he looks up and scans his surroundings.
He's sitting in a large field of grass surrounded by tall buildings. Birds chirp as they fly overhead. Peter's eyes follow them, then land on a group of kids throwing around a frisbee. There's a couple sitting on a picnic blanket to their left. They're talking, smiles lighting up their features, and one of them throws back her head to laugh.
The background noise of honking cars and echoing construction connect the dots in his mind.
Central Park.
His hands drop to the ground beside him and tug at the grass.
His head is pounding with the events of the day before. No, what had Eternity—or was it Infinity—that said? Three months ago?
He squeezes his eyes shut. It's impossible. How has three months passed without him even knowing? How has he just not existed for three whole months? One minute he was in a debrief with the Avengers, the next he was having a play date with Death, then he just blipped out of existence.
Is this what it feels like to wake up with a hangover?
He can't stay here, he decides, looking around at the people carrying on with their lives, acting like nothing is out of the ordinary because—for them—it is just another ordinary day. For Peter, he was just brought back into existence. He still can't comprehend what that even means.
So, yeah, he can't stay here, pretending like everything is peachy. But where does he go?
A pit forms in his stomach. He can't go to Aunt May, Ned, Mr. Stark, Happy—anybody. They don't know who he is. To them, they never knew him.
He's completely, utterly alone.
His peach-fuzz neck hairs prickle a second before one of the kids runs straight into him trying to catch the frisbee that flies way over their heads.
Peter's back hits the ground and he lets out a huff as the kid scrambles back to his feet.
"Sorry, didn't see you there!" he chirps. Peter sits up and watches him lean over to grab the frisbee that has landed on the grass a few feet behind them before jogging back to meet up with his friends. When the kid throws it back, it flies sideways and two kids go chasing after it.
"It's fine," he murmurs, despite being out of earshot.
His brow furrows. Well, if he can't stay here, and he can't go to any of his friends or family, then where does he go? What now?
What's even the point of existing again if he doesn't exist to anyone important to him?
Peter pushes himself up to his feet and wipes the dirt from his suit. A few people offer him odd glances—probably because of his suit—but otherwise don't pay him much attention. It's better than being a ghost, though. As fun and weird as that experience had been, Peter would much rather be alive and tangible.
Too bad he can't relay his story to anyone without sounding like a lunatic.
Walking out of the center of the park and towards the streets, Peter checks his web-shooters. Left: 72%. Right: 45%. He should probably go make some more after he figures out how to get his hands on the supplies.
The thought hits him hard in the stomach.
He can't even go to school anymore. They'd have no records of him ever being a student here. His lab partner for chemistry would be with someone else, and his locker would be vacant.
He never thought he'd miss the idea of going to school so much until now.
Heck, he'd be willing to endure Flash's mediocre bullying if it meant he could go to school with his friends.
Some preteens snicker as they pass Peter in the street. He doesn't really mind; there are definitely weirder things on the streets of Manhattan than a guy dressed up in fancy spandex.
"Where to go, where to go," he mumbles under his breath.
He scans the alleys and abandoned buildings he passes, looking for some place to hang out for a night with literally no money to his name. Or a name that has anything tied to it, really.
"Hey, Karen?" Peter tries as he crosses into the north side of Brooklyn. "You there?"
Nothing.
He doesn't know why he's disappointed; it's not like he expected her to respond to him. Tony made her for him, she probably doesn't even exist anymore. At least he gets to keep the suit, though.
By the time the sun gets low and the sky is a watercolor of oranges and purples, Peter realizes that his legs have been talking him to his apartment in Queens. Aunt May's apartment. He doesn't live there anymore.
The longing in his chest outweighs his sense of logic and he finds himself scaling the side of the brick building up to his bedroom window.
The curtain is pulled aside. However, when he peers in, it looks nothing like his room. There's no bunk bed, just a desk with a laptop on it with a small bookshelf shoved in the corner. His Star Wars posters are gone. His old Avengers action figures, gone. The Stark Expo hat on his dresser, gone.
It's like what Infinity said—every remnant of him is gone. There's nothing left that shows any signs of Peter Parker ever existing.
Before anyone can see him looking into the apartment, he climbs up the rest of the brick up to the roof.
As soon as he's up there, he tears his mask off and sucks in a large gulp of air that gets caught in his throat.
His face crumples. Pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, he whispers desperately, "What am I supposed to do?"
His eyes sting. A lump in his throat appears and he struggles to breathe around it.
Arms falling to his sides, Peter looks out across the city silhouetted by the sunset.
"Can any . . . cosmic entities hear me?" he asks, ignoring how rough his voice sounds. "Infinity, Eternity? Death?"
The breeze whistles past him. Car horns beep, a siren wails down in the streets somewhere. But no response.
He huffs out a heavy breath and steps over to the western edge, carefully sitting on the ledge as his feet dangle below him.
"Well, Death, if you can hear me, I had fun with you yester—I mean, three months ago." He sniffs. "We should . . . We should hang out again sometime. Whenever you're free, though, of course. But you should take another day off sometime, or maybe just an afternoon; it's not good to be constantly working without any breaks."
His gaze falls to the street below. The people walking past him are oblivious to his watching. Oblivious to his existence.
"I heard you got hurt in that battle, and that you aren't feeling too great," he adds. "I hope you're okay."
His eyes lift to the sunset across the horizon broken up by skyscrapers. He imagines what the Avengers are doing, what Ned is doing, and what Aunt May is doing. Maybe the Avengers just got done with another mission and are celebrating. Maybe . . . maybe Thor and Hulk are there now, who knows? Ned's probably doing homework. It's not even May anymore, it's August. Peter missed out on finals and his entire summer break—not that he's ever going to be able to go back to school, anyways. And Aunt May is probably alone in her apartment watching soap operas eating a microwave dinner. Hopefully, without Peter's mouth to feed or school fees to pay off, she has a little more money to afford nicer things, like that jacket she was eyeing a while back.
Peter sighs. In a softer voice, he says, "I hope you're all okay."
There's no response.
He wasn't expecting one, but it still hurts.
Chewing on his bottom lip, Peter decides that he can't stay there on the rooftop all night. It may be August, but nights can still get chilly, especially since he doesn't have anything other than his suit.
He pulls the mask back on. Through his burning eyes, Peter sets his focus on a taller building and aims. His hand is shaky as he shoots a web. Without a moment's hesitation, he leaps off the roof.
There is no clear destination in his mind as he lands on the pavement and starts walking through the city. He's homeless now—he needs to accept the fact—and he needs to adapt. As much as he wants to knock on Aunt May's door and explain everything to her, he knows he can't. That's not even an option.
So, he winds up settling for the cramped and smelly space behind a Japanese restaurant's dumpster in a dingy alley. It'll keep him from sight and keep him mostly covered if it decides to rain during the night.
He sits with his back to the rough exterior of the Japanese restaurant and his knees pulled to his chest. He leans his head against the dumpster to his right but immediately pulls back when his temple touches something sticky.
Sighing, he lies his forehead against his knees and allows his eyes to close. For not existing for three months, he sure is exhausted. He's not so sure how much rest he'll be able to get all curled up next to the dumpster, though.
It's only temporary, he tells himself, squeezing his eyes shut. It's just for tonight. I'll find a better place tomorrow.
Then, barely audible, he promises, "Tomorrow will be better."