Images battered Peter’s mind - he was stuck in a mirror world, fighting himself.
Then he was back in his old suit, and… and he didn’t know what was real, what was fake, what was Mysterio, what was not.
“Maybe Tony would still be alive” - and then he was, he was, he was, his beloved mentor had been raised up like some half-dead zombie, crawling towards Peter, crazed with a need to raze his protege, to live again.
His face, his mask , filled Peter’s vision, and then it turned into Mysterio - hundreds of Mysterios, telling him that deep down, he knew Beck was right, he had to choose -
A shot cracked through the air and the illusions; all at once, everything blinked back to reality, and Nick Fury was suddenly on the scene, striding towards Peter with the speed of a man who had been pulled from his Very Important Meeting™.
“Fury!” Peter called, stumbling towards the man. His head was spinning, his vision a little blurry - too many hits to the head, he supposed.
“-didja tell?”
“What?”
“I need to know who’s been compromised - who did you tell, just tell me!” Fury yelled, getting louder and more urgent and louder and-
“AH!” Peter cried, the pain a bit much. He gripped his head, the agony nearly taking over. “Okay, okay… I told Ned and MJ (actually she figured it out) from my class and Ned may have told his girlfriend but that’s it!”
“You… are so gullible.”
Peter blinked hard, thinking his hearing might have been damaged, too. “Wha-?”
He staggered a step, his footing as unsure as his present state of mind.
Fury said something else, and then he wasn’t Fury anymore - he was Beck, a smirking Beck. “Now, all your friends have to die.”
And the illusions came back again - lockers falling - “It’s easy to fool people who are already fooling themselves-” cinder blocks crashing - “For what it’s worth, Peter… I really am sorry-” and then it all stopped.
Peter gasped. Could Fury have actually made it this time?
But no… a slight tingle to his right, a noise -
A train bashed into Peter’s right side, carrying him away down the tracks.
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In the tunnel, lights flashed. Peter had somehow gained purchase on the side of the train. Crying with pain, he pulled himself into a car, shoving the door open - empty. The whole train was probably empty, was hopefully empty.
Peter stumbled to a window seat, tearing off his mask, gasping and hiccuping for air. He needed to breath, he needed to breath. He leaned into the seat but quickly arched his back again; something must have stabbed him in the fight, his shoulders were on fire.
Beck's face filled his vision - all your friends must die, Parker. And you will, too.
But he was just so, so tired, he needed to lean back. Peter coughed a little more, the only way he could breath. Broken ribs, he thought. Probably all of them . He grasped his side, his vision blurring from the pain. Gotta stay awake, gotta get somewhere safe, gotta…
Peter’s eyes began to shut, and he coughed to wake himself up again. But it was too much, and his eyes rolled back in his head while his head lolled down to his chest as he finally succumbed to the agony of the battle.
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The old conductor walked through the train, his name tag dubbing him “Stan.” He had been conducting since he was eighteen; he had recently gotten his seventieth year badge, a feat never achieved before. People told him to retire, but he just loved the stories people told. He lived through their lives, he liked to say.
As Stan walked through another empty car, he suddenly stopped. He could have sworn that in the corner of his eye he had seen… Stan backtracked, and peeked into a row of seats to see a teenaged boy lying so still he looked dead. The boy was dressed in black, holding a mask that looked like it belonged to that Night Monkey guy he had seen on the news. The kid’s curls hung into his face, which was bleeding from a cut on his cheek.
Stan leaned over and shook the boy, trying to rouse him. He didn’t move. The old conductor sat next to the boy, putting his hand in front of the kid’s nose to check for breathing. A faint flutter hit his hand; good, the boy was alive, at least.
Turning on his radio, Stan said, “We have a stow-away on the train; some kid who’s unconscious and bleeding all over the seats. What do you want me to do?”
“Stay with him, we’ll pick him up at the next stop,” said the dispatcher. “Anyone else on the train, Stan?”
“No, he’s the only one.”
The boy started to shiver violently, spasms rocking his body. His eyes fluttered, and Stan’s spirits lifted - perhaps the kid wasn’t as bad off as he thought. Instead of waking up, though, the boy’s eyes shut tighter than before, and he cried out.
“Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark!” he yelled, startling Stan. “Come back, please, please come back, we won, we won , but I can’t win-” he broke for a moment with a sob- “but I can’t win without you.”
Stan put an arm around the boy. “It’s alright son, just wake up, it’s just a dream.”
The kid spasmed again, this time hitting his head on the window, knocking himself out fully again.
Sighing, Stan said, “Well, I suppose you’ll be fine to just stay here by yourself, now.”
The old man stood up and walked to the front of the train and pulled the brake, as they were now at the station. He hoped the dispatch had gotten someone there quick to deal with the poor kid.
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“Stan! Good ride?” asked Margie, the head of station security. “I heard you have an unconscious one in the back, there.”
“Yeah, he’s been asleep the whole time. Are you going to take him to the police holding?”
“You betcha. That’s the only thing we can do with people like him.” Margie stepped into the train, gesturing for Stan to lead the way.
As Margie’s eyes alighted on the boy, she clucked in dismay. “Oh, he really is just a little boy. And he’s been out the whole time? Oh, and bleeding from his face, good gosh.”
Stan nodded in confirmation (he decided it was best to leave out the part where the kid had yelled out for a dead superhero).
“Oh, I’ll just carry him out of here, he looks light as a feather.” Margie swooped down and plucked the boy from his seat as she would a tulip from the field, carrying him in front of her like a baby. He was indeed light, or Margie was just strong. She was a former Olympic shot-putter, and she imagined the boy didn't weight much more than a standard ball.
Stan waved at her as she walked off the platform with the kid. She strode briskly out of the station, and plopped him in the back seat of the patrol car waiting in the street. She buckled the boy in, then stepped back.
Officer Hotry nodded at her, getting into the front seat. Margie hoped the kid would be okay.
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It felt like Peter had just closed his eyes when he jerked awake again. His vision was still blurry, and there was a clanging in his head. Something so bright was in his eyes-
“Hi!” said a voice. Peter jerked back, confused by the voice - its proximity, loudness, and the fact that the orange thing next to him was speaking.
“Where am I?” he mumbled quietly, trying to get his bearings.
“Municipal holding-” said another orange blob, before Peter’s hearing cut out again. He blinked hard, focusing on the man’s pleasing accent.
“-found you unconscious at the train yard?” Peter heard from the first. The man smiled. “Very dangerous.”
“We gave you the shirt because you seemed a bit cold,” came another voice, now from his right.
Peter jerked away from it, eyes widening at the apparent man next to him. So, that hadn’t been a wall he was leaning on. “Tha- thanks,” he said, still breathy from his cracked ribs, feeling the shirt for the first time. “You guys are nice… speak really good English.”
Was this just another illusion?
“Welcome to the Netherlands,” said the three, smiling like Peter was the king.
Peter was confused. “Am I in the Netherlands right now?”
This is an illusion is it real is it an illusion is it real-
“Yah!” came the response.
“I- dyAH,” Peter grunted, almost falling on his face as he got up. He had forgotten his leg was hurt, too. “Guard?”
“-on a break-”
“-pregnant-”
He was leaning on the bars, but was fading. He needed to get out, fast, before the illusion changed again-
Lockers falling on his limbs; Tony’s face, but not his face, his helmet, his mask-
The cell door blurred in front of him. Peter couldn’t afford to wait for the guard; he ripped the lock from the door and flipped the bar, walking out.
His head was on the guard’s head- no, no, just his mask-
Peter ran out, throwing on the shirt, his head spinning. Goats bleated outside, he stepped in something that wasn’t solid, still limping…
“Excuse me, sir, can… can I borrow your phone?”
The man looked up, kindness in his eyes, or maybe that was just the concussion. “Yah.”
“Everyone is so nice here…”
This is fake get out get out it’s NOT REAL-
“Uh…” Who to call? Numbers were hard right now, what was Tony’s…? Tony was gone, what would he do? Happy .
“Hey, HEY.” Peter raked his hand through his hair. “Look, I really messed up… where am I?” It occurred to Peter that he wasn’t in Queens. Was that… a goat over there?
He turned to a man he saw next to him. “Hey, where am I?”
The man said something that flew right over Peter’s head. He blinked hard, hoping to not pass out. A moment passed, and Peter realized he should have been saying something.
“Uh… here, just-”
The man said the name of the city again. Peter thanked him, hoping Happy’s ears were working better than his own.
Get out GET OUT something bad will happen-
Lockers falling cinder blocks breaking MJ’s face as she is dropped from a building Tony’s dead suit-
He walked out of the little marketplace, hoping Happy could find him somewhere nearby.
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Happy set the plane down in a field of tulips; he probably hadn’t crushed too many. He walked down the stairs and saw the kid, calling, “Peter? Are you okay?” Whatever the kid said though, he was not okay. He was holding his right leg and wincing everytime he took a step. The kid looked like he was mostly dead and had only just woken up.
“Happy? Is that you?” Peter’s voice was higher than Happy had remembered, but maybe it was just pain.
“Is that me?” he scoffed. “Yeah, of course it’s me!” What was that kid on?
“STOP!” Peter yelled, his hand out, looking like he was one breeze away from tipping over. Something was very wrong with the kid. His eyes were huge, and not as clear as normal. There was a big cut on his face; he looked like a cornered animal. “Tell me something only you would know.”
“Something…” Ah, yes. There was that time in Germany… gosh, it must have been close to eight years ago now… of course only about two or three for the kid… but Peter had pay-per-viewed some movie, not something a fifteen-year-old should have been watching, and Happy had jokingly called him out on it, and Peter had been so confused-
“OKAY, okay, okay, fine, fine, it’s you. Stop,” Peter’s voice cracked. He started walking over again, whimpering with each step.
The kid had never been one for affection towards Happy, but he threw his arms around him. Or maybe he literally just collapsed.
“So good to see you,” Peter breathed, closing his eyes.
“Peter, Peter. You’re gonna have to tell me what the hell is going on here.”
The kid didn’t move.
“Peter?” Happy pulled the kid away from himself, but Peter almost fell out of his arms; he was limp, unconscious. “Oh buddy, what am I gonna do with you? I can’t just drag you on the plane, I can barely hold you right now...”
Happy slapped Peter’s face lightly, and the kid woke right up.
“Sorry! Sorry,” he yelled. “Long... long day.”
“Alright, sorry kid. But how about we get on the plane first and then you tell me about it, okay?”
“I- okay, okay.”
Placing his arms under the kids abdomen and over his shoulders, Happy tried to half-carry Peter into the plane. Apparently those were bad places to put his hands, though because the kid jerked on each step, coughing and whimpering.
They finally got into the plane and Peter collapsed against a seat, totally exhausted. His eyes shut and his head slumped to his chest, his breathing lighter than before. Happy leaned him forward and peeled back his collar, spying a nasty slash over his shoulders. He also lifted up the boy’s shirt to look at his stomach, which was totally bruised, as he expected.
“Cuts everywhere, something wrong with your thigh, broken ribs, a cut on the face, probably a concussion… you need the rest.” Happy shook his head, setting a timer on his phone. “Five minutes, and then you’ll tell me everything, okay?”
Peter didn’t say anything, still fully asleep. Happy sighed. The kid might be a pain sometimes, but he was Tony’s pain, so Happy would take care of him the best he could.