Chapter Text
Sick of his own boredom, Peter fought to supress yet another yawn. Seventy-five percent of working nightshifts at a gas station seemed to include idling around behind the store counter, desperately torn between wishing for customers and wishing they would just go away. The other twenty-five percent turned out to be occasionally pumping gas, cleaning windows, processing payments and the majority of station upkeep, like emptying trash bins and sweeping floors.
Still, putting aside mind-numbing boredom and the splitting sensory headaches at the end of each shift, the job was decent pay for such an effortless job.
. . . okay, so the pay was shit but out of all the places Peter had ‘applied’ to, the decrepit little gas station with horrible lighting just down the street from the abandoned SRO Hotel was the only one that was willing to take him on.
Turns out some (most) people aren’t very keen to hire a fresh-faced high school drop out unwilling to provide them any form of reference or identification.
Over the course of a week, Peter had gone to upward of 30 places, but each story was the same:
No papers? No job.
Honestly, it was understandable. Businesses couldn’t afford to take in every sad looking teenager that limps their way. This wouldn’t even be the first time in recent months that Peter had to build his identity back from the ground up. It just- it wasn’t fair. Everything was so much harder in this city. He tried, he really did, but he had less than nothing to his name. If he could’ve gotten himself the paperwork through legal (or slightly illegal) means he absolutely would have, but he couldn’t so…
Sketchy attendant gig at a gas station where no questions is the golden rule? As close to good as he was going to get.
In the meantime, he’d work on it.
Besides, Peter was decently certain the only reason he got hired at the station is because the ‘supervisor’ was running a meth lab in the back room and needed someone he could sacrifice into the flames if things got too hot. For employers like him, nothing says ‘hireable scapegoat’ more than some kid who came of the woodworks with not even birth certificate.
Peter drummed his fingers against the counter, head propped up by his other hand as he counted each tick of the clock.
Tick.
749.
Tick.
750.
Tick.
751.
He glanced away from the riveting display of discount jerry cans to check the clock. Roughly 13 minutes had passed since he’d last looked (a personal record of restraint). His last customer had been near an hour ago.
Tick.
756.
Tick.
757.
Tick.
7–
Peter smothered his head into arms and made a futile effort to drown out the oppressive ticking. It failed of course.
Normally the sound wouldn’t grate his sensitive hearing this much (not since his baby days of being Spider-Man), but every inch of him had been on edge since–
since–
He took a measured breath and let the thought go.
The door jingled open, flooding the room with the scent of rain and tobacco. Peter struggled with a strong desire to melt behind the counter and never emerge again.
“Parker! The fuck are you doin’?”
“Attending the station, Capt’n,” Peter replied in an undertone with (barely) passable Scottish accent. Careful to avoid pulling at stitches holding his throat together, the teen reluctantly raising his head from its crude cocoon and eyed his ‘supervisor’ wearily.
Evan, last name unknown, was the shady gas station’s manager supreme, best described in three words as twitchy, tall and weaselly.
He was also a bit of a dick.
Also-also, Evan happened to be the sole reason Peter had been graced the dubious honour of being the sole graveyard-shift worker. No reference, no papers, not even a damn library card, but Evan still hired him. Peter was aware this was less a reflection of Evan’s kind heart and more an indication of criminal activity the area but. . . a small part of him remained grateful. He’d barely–
breathe Peter, breathe
Given that Peter was new addition to their wonderful team, Evan usually brought it upon himself to ‘check in’ on him once or twice a week.
Peter thinks, from the sound and smell of things, the more likely reason Evan swung by was to check on his meth lab. He was almost certain the man had gotten caught up in a Ponzi scheme of some sort and was now trying to make up the money any way he can.
(Peter thought he’d feel a little bit more vindictive pleasure at the thought, but honestly it was just a bit sad. He would wonder when become so bitter and jaded, but he’d figured out pretty quickly that this city is a giant feedback loop of negative emotion.)
But Peter could stand to handle a bit of dickishness.
his hands twitched, the movement pulling at barely healed skin
It was better than–
it killed him to stand by and watch, but he couldn’t
he couldn’t
he-
“Well?” Evan demanded. He was twitchy, kept glancing around the room, searching the shadows for a team of rouge cops.
Or maybe someone scarier.
“I’m hard away at work,” answered Peter in a louder voice. As if providing solid proof, Peter nudged the box of Bic lighters (wrongly labelled: ‘Zippo lighters’) from the right side of the counter to the left.
Well done, Peter thought with a tired sort of humour. He’d give himself an A for Effort and a solid C+ for will to live.
“Good, good,” Evan muttered, already scurrying past the counter and into the back room. “Carry on.”
The door shut before Peter could reply.
He did so anyway in half-hearted spite.
“Sir, yes sir,” he muttered, moving the box of zippo’s back to the right. “I’m ever yours to command, Capt’n.”
The overhead lights buzzed obnoxiously, flickering in a repeating pattern.
The shitty back-wall refrigerators (a generous title to label, truth be told) hummed.
The clock ticked.
Gunshots sounded from a few streets over.
From his slumped position, Peter somehow managed to hunch into himself even more. He debated turning on the tv but couldn’t be bothered finding the remote. Instead, he kept his eyes trained obediently on the ice-cream display.
He went back to counting the clock.
Tick.
1.
Tick.
2.
Tick.
3–
BANG!
BANG! B
–ANG! BANG BANG! BANG!
“Hey, Spiderkid! Stop mov
– if you – wo – get hit!”
“They’re not
– highly – the–! –let them – hit you with –eir.”
“
–?”
“
–ook – nothing – has to be–”
“Spider-Man?”
C r a c k.
“Spider-Man!”
Peter’s fingertips tingled and he inhaled sharply, suddenly fighting for control over his lungs. His hands spasmed with the urge to grip the counter, but he held himself back knowing he’d just be inviting more pain. Every breath heaving through his lungs was agony on his throat, the stitches holding him together protesting violently.
Given his current area of residence and work, it was a miserable twist of fate that the sound of rapid gunshots were now enough to send Peter into fight or flight.
Whatever happened that night. . .
He tried breathing through it most days, but sometimes the combination of sightsoundsmell overwhelmed him completely.
Peter wouldn’t call it exactly fear, although a small part of him would always be filled with dread at crack of a gun. He. It just- it felt like there was. . . something. In his mind. Half-blurred memories trying to break through his subconscious and tell him something important. Something about that day. Something had happened, something big, something his mind couldn’t comprehend but was trying to anyway, and the sightsoundsmell of gunfire triggered his faulty memory like the world worst game of cat and mouse.
He was sure–
Peter thinks (with a hateful sort of frustration) that handing this whole situation would be a whole lot easier if he could just–
ę̷̗̘̪̱͉͖̻̮̩̫̃̑̆́ͮͧ͊̅ͮ̕ͅ_̧̛̲̗̟͆̃̾ͮ͆͟v̴̢̡̢̬͈̖͍̎ͥ̆̀e̶͈͖͙̹ͣ̌͜r̴̶̦͙̠̠ͯ̅̇͗͊̓̇̓̽ͪ͗͠ͅ s̵̫͎̟̻̜͚̎̒ͣ͑̄ͨ̊i̴̴̢̘͑͋̆ͮͅ_̠̪̟ͪ͑͑̂ͩͧ̔ͪ̚̕͘͟͡͠ñ̶̨̧̨̫̝͇̗̮͔͔̣̰̆́̈͑̽ͣ̓̍̉͂ͧ̋͊ͥ̂̚ç̵̵̵̸̫͈͓̟̖̖̳̰̰̮͉̰ͭ͐ͦ͋̒͐͐̎́ͦ̿ͥ͆̾ͮͤ͐̚͘͜͡͡͞e̴͍̗̦̬͎̫̲͇͇̹ͮ̄ͣ̅̅̊ͨͭ̑ͥͧ͟͠ y̷̧̡̛̗̜̦͙͎̙͓͈͈͚͖̼̫̞̼͕̱̣ͯ̀̅ͪ̌̓ͨ́́̓̃̑ͣ̆̃̓̊̊ͨ̔͞͡͠ǫ̻͈̞̘ͭͣ̋ͪͭ̽̊̿͑̀̚͝ǔ̸̢̱̳͚̪͖̗̟̻̿͆̌̀̍̂̉͠ b̴̧̛̭͓ͧͧͨo̼ͪͧ̈͑t̸̛͔̠͖̦̱̟̉ͮ̃͊̉͗̿̌̚͜͞ch̘̙̤ͣ̒̃̿͢_̵̴̸̣̣̜̦̙̣ͯ̏̽̏͂ͫ͊̈́͢͟͡ͅ_̡̺̮͓͇͋ͬͦ̿͂͐ͯ̅̅̒͞è̺̞̣̪̥̫̬̠̙̱ͩ̾̋͐ͦ̐̑͊ͤ̕͘͟ͅd͗̎̇́̆ͧ t̡̠̮̖̰͙̼͇͎̩̹̩̯̜̲͌ͦ̆̇̉͌ͯ̇̔̇ͥ́̑̊ͥͦ͆̍ͧ̌ͦͦ̚͘͜͞͞͞ͅḩ̵̶̣̳͍̼̙̖͇̃̿͋͂̓́͆͑ͥ̎͡ã̹͕̗ẗ̵̬̖̗̗̥̿͒͟͠͝ s̶̱̥̲͎̿̐́̒ͦ͠p̴̫͋ͩ̓ͫ̿͜ȩ̵̴͉͍͎̫̯͕̰̞̥͚̣̗͕̼͎̭̬̾̋ͭ̑͊ͮͯ̔ͭ̇́̀ͦ͊͆̏̚͘͟͜͡ļ̴̷̢͚̫̭̰̮̩̩̜̜͇̭ͪͩ̑̒̆ͧ̿̀ͮ̓͌̇ͤͨͩ͘̕͟͡ͅļ̶̛̬̼̟̲͛̓̂͌̅ w̢̡̛͕̩̺͉̲͇̼͚̲̬͎̹̙̙͎ͧ̈ͥͤ͛́ͫ̌ͨͮ̎̅ͥ͛̀̄ͨͪͧ̚͘̕̚͢͞ͅȟ̶̴̵̡̛͚̟̘͍̘ͬ͌̾̎̈́͘̚͞͠ē̛̛̺̗͚̼̺̣͕͗̽͑̄̾̓̉́ͪ́ͫ̾̆̎̑͢͝͞͞r̸͎ͮe̴̦̻̝͚̅͆̾̈̄̋̕͜ e̓̓v̶ͤ̉̄̈̏ͅę̸̛̺͕̮̳̯̥͉̟̞̼͙̦̫͖̇͌̀ͣ͂́̈ͣͭ̒̐̀͌ͤ̕͘͢ͅ_̮̝ͥr͍͉̣̐̏_̼̕y͖̒̈_̨͍͙͎͕̤͇̝̯͙͊̑̎̑̀̃ͣ̋̔͗͘͜_̹̳̲̟̺̐͐͆̀́ͅo̝͆́̽͠ņ̴̷̢̝̳͉͔͈̝̊ͤͤ͗̇̉̔ͫ̒͑̓͢͠͡e͕ f̸̢̖̠̭̗̘̜͔͇̰̈́ͯ̾̐̀͆͋͛̏ͩ̃̚ơ̵̧̢̟̺̻̱̗͙͔̜̖͉̟͚̞̬͕̞̻̠͙ͮ̒̊ͬ̏̋ͯ̋̇̈́̀̾̔̆͋̍͌̇͘̕ͅŗ̰̭͈͋g͚̮̿ͮ_̨̧̛̟̜̹͍̹͕̘̙̲̟ͦ̋͛̔̒̍̅ͫ̿͂ͥ̓̂̌̄͜͟e̥͓̖͇̿ͪͨͤ̇͊̀̍̌ͩ̓͟͠_̷̺̅͊̈ͤt̴͓̭̟̻̹̻̰͔͔͈͎̠̘̻͍̩̣̆̾͂ͫ͗ͫ̐ͩ̍̓̃ͪ͗̾͌͜͡͞ś̹͙̲͜͢_̠̖ͫ̂ͪ̉̏́̄́ ţ̷̸̵̴̰̤͕̣̠̪͎̟͓̖̟̬̹̽ͭ̔̃ͭ̑ͫ́͗͆ͩͬ̚͠ḩa̗t̵̗͇̭͋_̵̵̵̢̜͇̻̼̳ͫ̐͆́̿̃̓̑ͭ̑̊͛ͮ͟͟ P̨̢̛̰̹̗̦̙͕͎̫͉ͦ͗ͣ͂́̍̈̎ͦ̑͡͡ę̶̴͇̙̙̗̱̥̟̲̖̯͈͆ͨ͗ͨͯ̎͌ͥͮ́̈́͋̆̐̈́͞͠ţ̷̴̢̢͉̯͚̪̩̞͈̞̤̲͙͇͆ͥ̈́͂ͤ͛͘̕͢͟͝ę̷̵̛̠̺͍̼͍̝̩͉̦̯͎͍͉̱̭̘ͥͬͧ̄̒̽̿ͧ̂͐͆͛ͯ͒̒ͭ̉͌̑͆ͧͯ̿͢͜͝ͅr̡͖͔̪̯̀̉͂ P̶̣̬͚̻̪̮̟̬̘̜̹̱̹͍͕̺̞͛ͬ̉́̄̉̔ͯͧ̋ͣͣ̔̀͊͒ͣ̐ͨ͢a̷̛̛̳͚̣̯̤͍̫̫̺̥̭̘̜̠̻͙̖̫͍ͤͥ̓͆̋ͣ̽ͭͥ̋̇̾̀̍ͥ̽̂͛ͧ̎͟͢͟ͅr̢̻̜̤̘̟̔̎́k̴̵̢̨̖̙̭͇̳͇̱̣̼̫̝͚̮͙̳̈́ͥͧ̅̌̌ͥͫ͗̿́͆̾̂ͤ͆̎͘̚͞͡ĕ̶̢͕̞͙̩ͧͪr̡̡̯̩͇̠͎̰͉̰͖͚̠͕̯͉̭͚ͧ͐͋ͭ͗ͯ͗ͭͮͣ̉̆́ͫ̎̀͘͢͟͠ i̷̷̞͚̎_̸̵̢̨̨̢̦̭͍̲̬̥̖̫̯͎̦͐́́ͮ̏ͦ̍̔̑̇ͤ͑̓̾͌́͌̉͘͡s̯̭ͤ͊̅̄̕_̷̥͙̫͋̔̍͆́͊ͦ͐ͩ͛̌͟ S̨̝̰̪͙̥̮͚̬ͥ̃͌ͧͫͧ͆̇ͯ͌͠͠p̸̢̢̡̬̖͉̣̜͕̹͕͙̙͇͓ͧ̈̌̏͌͆ͦͩ̔̀̀́̑͋̄ͣ͜͠͠i͇̯̘̔̓ͬ̊̀͘ḑ̢̡̛̖͕̫̯͇͇̤̦̔ͥ̎͛ͫ͊͆ͮ̾̿̄̿̀̾̃ͅè͊̂̅̕ȓ͈̯̂̈-̵̠͘M̘̺̳͚͗ͩ̍ͭ͜͡a̙̞ͯ͘n̶̴̸̹̱͔̪̪̱̻͙͍̪̰̣̣̓ͣ̅̿́ͤ̄́͛̀̀͂ͯ͋̌̓͊̿̚͘͡,̸̡͇̣͕̘͉̬͙͖͎͙̟̽ͮ̑ͪ̿ͦ͂̎͆͘_̲͒ ŵ̶̵̪͇̙̥̀̇͊ͦͦ͋̽̿̄͊ͦ͘͘_̥͕̦̗̪̎̾̽̕̕è̴͈̼͉̦̜͙̜̝̩̲͈̠̙͔̬̩͍́͐̒́͛ͦ́͂̒̆ͣ͗̄̈́̅͛́͛̚̚͝ͅ s̷̸̶̨̢̛̟̪̘̟͖͚̥̬͈̣̩̪͉͍̗̟̒ͯ̓̒̈͂̾ͣ̃ͣͣͥ̽͛̄̄̅́́̚͢͡͞t̶̡̛̟̣͇̪͈͇̹͖̺̼͖̟͚͖̝̜ͫ̏̑͗ͯ̓͑̊ͣ̏͗ͧ̈̓̈̕̕͝ͅȧ̶̶̷͈̖̻̗͉̺̖̤̭͈̳͊ͤ̈́ͯ̋́̀̇ͬͬ͑̃͊̋ͬͤ̚͢͟͞r̟̼͉͙̬̳͍͋t̹̝̥̼̫̂̋̑͛̒̐ͪ̑ͭ͑̕͟͜ͅed̟̤̘̺̙̗̠͖̣̞̒ͧ͌̀ͤ̈́͒̅͆͌̇͆͗͆̅̅̄́͘͜͜͝͞ g̷̢̣̱͚̫̬͖̋ͨ̌́̓͂̒̏ͬ̕͢͞͝ę̴̯͉̝̪̻̂ͯͩ̿ͧͨ́́̕͝͞ţ̵̶̷̨̢̡͉̤͉̫̻̯̙̰̺̤͕̀́ͯͮ͂͐ͤ̀ͦͥ̀̍͌͟͟͟t̷̗͉̺̞͕̙́ͨ̀ͅ_̵̡͔̟͖̲͖͋̏̿̄̾̏̄ͬ͊̃̿̾͂̕͜͠ͅͅḭ̛͔͔̻̦̜̍̿ͫ̀ͣn̷͔̯ͨ͢g̶̦̲ͧ̽̌̒͟ v̴͍̥͇̘̱͙͇͇̭̯͉̲̺̙̪̺́͑ͦ͒ͭ͐͌ͪ̑̊́̿̆ͫ̔͛ͩ̚͟i̢̛̯̜͓̳͆̋ͥ̐͋ͮs̟͇ͮ͠į̸̸̼̗̻̦̓͋ͨͪ͠_͍̌̌ͮ̔ͨͧ̄ͨ̍ͫͩͨ͜͝t̶̡̡̨̯͖͎͎͕͙̜̣̣̫͓̪̟̟̑̆͂̏͋̂ͨ̿̈́ͭͭͫ͊͊ͤ̍ͭ̾ͧ͐̅̐ͪ̕͟͜ó̺̹͉͐ͣͨ͛̓ͫ͘ŗ̴̵̨̩̯̥͖̯̘̣̲͕̲̳̻̣̬̘̏ͬ̇́̀͑͂͌̃ͤ͊̎̾͑ͣ̅͠͠ͅs̟̬͚̹̆͡
It had started like this, with the air rushing past him and the knowledge that he wouldn’t fall.
Whistling, howling in his ears as he swung to the apex and let go, rapidly nosediving before snapping out his arm to release more webs and start swinging again. His body twisting and arching through the air for maximum momentum, eyes kept safe from sun, dust, and wind by the plastic lenses of his mask.
out of all the things he’d gained the day he got bitten,
flying would always be his favourite.
swinging through the city, the moment of
pure weightlessness after releasing his webs,
the way his heart jumped into his throat,
blood pumping and stomaching dropping
as he free-fell to the ground.
Exhilaration.
Freedom.
Peter remembered feeling that same joy, marvelling that he could still feel that way after everything.
. . . at least, he had been having fun. Call him prudent, but he much preferred taking down a criminal empire while mid-flight without getting shot at.
Peter reassessed that sentence with a snort. Okay, he amended, so it hadn’t exactly a criminal empire. A more apt description for them would be: just a low-tier gang with lots of firepower intent on taking over the Briarwood underground, which. . . . . why?
And if Peter found himself backtracking incredulously on that thought, mildly concerned that he’d used the word ‘just’ before describing a group of people actively trying to kill him, well. No one had to know.
he could feel the vibrations of something big
exploding a few streets away
Peter remembered–
breathe, just breath
–pondering about sudden rise of new street gangs in New York. He remembered likening them to an infestation of common houseflies. For the most part they didn’t last past the 2-month mark and were usually taken down by the hand of their own stupidity faster than Peter or his friends in blue could get to them. In a very morbid way, it was kind of funny.
On top of the astronomical rise in organised crime in the post-blip world, things had been difficult since–
Peter had spent Christmas alone for the first time ever.
he’d spent it watching the Time square celebrations
from the top of the Time building, dreading his eventual return
to the shitty one room apartment.
the New Year had past now and he cant-
–Peter was simply trying to say that New York is a very busy place, alright? It seemed like every other week that some big or mediocre small bad decided to vacation in New York, trashing up the place and spilling their mess everywhere for everyone else to clean up (re: Peter and his merry band of small-time vigilantes).
Thinking on it, Peter supposes that would make him the housekeeper of Queens (or more accurately, a moderately well-decorated New York janitor) and the big bad’s of the month the unruly Air BnB guests that are nye impossible to kick out. Would that make the gangs and everyday do-wrongers the opportunistic roaches scurrying to-and-fro to feast on the scapes of destruction?
Peter winced at himself. The metaphor had run away from him now. He could admit, to himself at least, that it had become a thin guise for a dark need to inflict pain. He knew better than to allow his thoughts to fester like that; just as not every Samaritan was good, not every criminal was evil.
No matter how bitter he may be, Peter couldn’t allow it to colour his world.
He could be better than that.
Aunt May said he already was b–ANG!
BANG BANG!
Peter–
BANG BANG!
–shut his eyes tight. He could remember–
BANG!
stay on track
count your steps, count your breaths
what happened Peter?
what happened?
BANG!
–he could remember drawing the gang members out of the subway and into the open.
Spider-Man flung himself through the air and they kept–
BANG BANG! BANG BANG BANG! BANG!
–shooting. He aborted for cover- no. He’d swung to. . . get someone to safety.
A kid, he thinks.
The details-
BANG BANG BANG!
–were overlapping each other. If he pressed his mind hard, he could almost hear-
“Hey, Spiderkid! Stop mov– if you – wo – get hit!”
“They’re not – highly – the–! –let them – hit you with –eir.”
“–?”
“–ook – nothing – has to be–”
“Spider-Man?”
–but then he’d remember a terrible
C r a c k.
and he
ę̷̗̘̪̱͉͖̻̮̩̫̃̑̆́ͮͧ͊̅ͮ̕ͅ_̧̛̲̗̟͆̃̾ͮ͆͟v̴̢̡̢̬͈̖͍̎ͥ̆̀e̶͈͖͙̹ͣ̌͜r̴̶̦͙̠̠ͯ̅̇͗͊̓̇̓̽ͪ͗͠ͅ s̵̫͎̟̻̜͚̎̒ͣ͑̄ͨ̊i̴̴̢̘͑͋̆ͮͅ_̠̪̟ͪ͑͑̂ͩͧ̔ͪ̚̕͘͟͡͠ñ̶̨̧̨̫̝͇̗̮͔͔̣̰̆́̈͑̽ͣ̓̍̉͂ͧ̋͊ͥ̂̚ç̵̵̵̸̫͈͓̟̖̖̳̰̰̮͉̰ͭ͐ͦ͋̒͐͐̎́ͦ̿ͥ͆̾ͮͤ͐̚͘͜͡͡͞e̴͍̗̦̬͎̫̲͇͇̹ͮ̄ͣ̅̅̊ͨͭ̑ͥͧ͟͠ y̷̧̡̛̗̜̦͙͎̙͓͈͈͚͖̼̫̞̼͕̱̣ͯ̀̅ͪ̌̓ͨ́́̓̃̑ͣ̆̃̓̊̊ͨ̔͞͡͠ǫ̻͈̞̘ͭͣ̋ͪͭ̽̊̿͑̀̚͝ǔ̸̢̱̳͚̪͖̗̟̻̿͆̌̀̍̂̉͠ b̴̧̛̭͓ͧͧͨo̼ͪͧ̈͑t̸̛͔̠͖̦̱̟̉ͮ̃͊̉͗̿̌̚͜͞ch̘̙̤ͣ̒̃̿͢_̵̴̸̣̣̜̦̙̣ͯ̏̽̏͂ͫ͊̈́͢͟͡ͅ_̡̺̮͓͇͋ͬͦ̿͂͐ͯ̅̅̒͞è̺̞̣̪̥̫̬̠̙̱ͩ̾̋͐ͦ̐̑͊ͤ̕͘͟ͅd͗̎̇́̆ͧ t̡̠̮̖̰͙̼͇͎̩̹̩̯̜̲͌ͦ̆̇̉͌ͯ̇̔̇ͥ́̑̊ͥͦ͆̍ͧ̌ͦͦ̚͘͜͞͞͞ͅḩ̵̶̣̳͍̼̙̖͇̃̿͋͂̓́͆͑ͥ̎͡ã̹͕̗ẗ̵̬̖̗̗̥̿͒͟͠͝ s̶̱̥̲͎̿̐́̒ͦ͠p̴̫͋ͩ̓ͫ̿͜ȩ̵̴͉͍͎̫̯͕̰̞̥͚̣̗͕̼͎̭̬̾̋ͭ̑͊ͮͯ̔ͭ̇́̀ͦ͊͆̏̚͘͟͜͡ļ̴̷̢͚̫̭̰̮̩̩̜̜͇̭ͪͩ̑̒̆ͧ̿̀ͮ̓͌̇ͤͨͩ͘̕͟͡ͅļ̶̛̬̼̟̲͛̓̂͌̅ w̢̡̛͕̩̺͉̲͇̼͚̲̬͎̹̙̙͎ͧ̈ͥͤ͛́ͫ̌ͨͮ̎̅ͥ͛̀̄ͨͪͧ̚͘̕̚͢͞ͅȟ̶̴̵̡̛͚̟̘͍̘ͬ͌̾̎̈́͘̚͞͠ē̛̛̺̗͚̼̺̣͕͗̽͑̄̾̓̉́ͪ́ͫ̾̆̎̑͢͝͞͞r̸͎ͮe̴̦̻̝͚̅͆̾̈̄̋̕͜ e̓̓v̶ͤ̉̄̈̏ͅę̸̛̺͕̮̳̯̥͉̟̞̼͙̦̫͖̇͌̀ͣ͂́̈ͣͭ̒̐̀͌ͤ̕͘͢ͅ_̮̝ͥr͍͉̣̐̏_̼̕y͖̒̈_̨͍͙͎͕̤͇̝̯͙͊̑̎̑̀̃ͣ̋̔͗͘͜_̹̳̲̟̺̐͐͆̀́ͅo̝͆́̽͠ņ̴̷̢̝̳͉͔͈̝̊ͤͤ͗̇̉̔ͫ̒͑̓͢͠͡e͕ f̸̢̖̠̭̗̘̜͔͇̰̈́ͯ̾̐̀͆͋͛̏ͩ̃̚ơ̵̧̢̟̺̻̱̗͙͔̜̖͉̟͚̞̬͕̞̻̠͙ͮ̒̊ͬ̏̋ͯ̋̇̈́̀̾̔̆͋̍͌̇͘̕ͅŗ̰̭͈͋g͚̮̿ͮ_̨̧̛̟̜̹͍̹͕̘̙̲̟ͦ̋͛̔̒̍̅ͫ̿͂ͥ̓̂̌̄͜͟e̥͓̖͇̿ͪͨͤ̇͊̀̍̌ͩ̓͟͠_̷̺̅͊̈ͤt̴͓̭̟̻̹̻̰͔͔͈͎̠̘̻͍̩̣̆̾͂ͫ͗ͫ̐ͩ̍̓̃ͪ͗̾͌͜͡͞ś̹͙̲͜͢_̠̖ͫ̂ͪ̉̏́̄́ ţ̷̸̵̴̰̤͕̣̠̪͎̟͓̖̟̬̹̽ͭ̔̃ͭ̑ͫ́͗͆ͩͬ̚͠ḩa̗t̵̗͇̭͋_̵̵̵̢̜͇̻̼̳ͫ̐͆́̿̃̓̑ͭ̑̊͛ͮ͟͟ P̨̢̛̰̹̗̦̙͕͎̫͉ͦ͗ͣ͂́̍̈̎ͦ̑͡͡ę̶̴͇̙̙̗̱̥̟̲̖̯͈͆ͨ͗ͨͯ̎͌ͥͮ́̈́͋̆̐̈́͞͠ţ̷̴̢̢͉̯͚̪̩̞͈̞̤̲͙͇͆ͥ̈́͂ͤ͛͘̕͢͟͝ę̷̵̛̠̺͍̼͍̝̩͉̦̯͎͍͉̱̭̘ͥͬͧ̄̒̽̿ͧ̂͐͆͛ͯ͒̒ͭ̉͌̑͆ͧͯ̿͢͜͝ͅr̡͖͔̪̯̀̉͂ P̶̣̬͚̻̪̮̟̬̘̜̹̱̹͍͕̺̞͛ͬ̉́̄̉̔ͯͧ̋ͣͣ̔̀͊͒ͣ̐ͨ͢a̷̛̛̳͚̣̯̤͍̫̫̺̥̭̘̜̠̻͙̖̫͍ͤͥ̓͆̋ͣ̽ͭͥ̋̇̾̀̍ͥ̽̂͛ͧ̎͟͢͟ͅr̢̻̜̤̘̟̔̎́k̴̵̢̨̖̙̭͇̳͇̱̣̼̫̝͚̮͙̳̈́ͥͧ̅̌̌ͥͫ͗̿́͆̾̂ͤ͆̎͘̚͞͡ĕ̶̢͕̞͙̩ͧͪr̡̡̯̩͇̠͎̰͉̰͖͚̠͕̯͉̭͚ͧ͐͋ͭ͗ͯ͗ͭͮͣ̉̆́ͫ̎̀͘͢͟͠ i̷̷̞͚̎_̸̵̢̨̨̢̦̭͍̲̬̥̖̫̯͎̦͐́́ͮ̏ͦ̍̔̑̇ͤ͑̓̾͌́͌̉͘͡s̯̭ͤ͊̅̄̕_̷̥͙̫͋̔̍͆́͊ͦ͐ͩ͛̌͟ S̨̝̰̪͙̥̮͚̬ͥ̃͌ͧͫͧ͆̇ͯ͌͠͠p̸̢̢̡̬̖͉̣̜͕̹͕͙̙͇͓ͧ̈̌̏͌͆ͦͩ̔̀̀́̑͋̄ͣ͜͠͠i͇̯̘̔̓ͬ̊̀͘ḑ̢̡̛̖͕̫̯͇͇̤̦̔ͥ̎͛ͫ͊͆ͮ̾̿̄̿̀̾̃ͅè͊̂̅̕ȓ͈̯̂̈-̵̠͘M̘̺̳͚͗ͩ̍ͭ͜͡a̙̞ͯ͘n̶̴̸̹̱͔̪̪̱̻͙͍̪̰̣̣̓ͣ̅̿́ͤ̄́͛̀̀͂ͯ͋̌̓͊̿̚͘͡,̸̡͇̣͕̘͉̬͙͖͎͙̟̽ͮ̑ͪ̿ͦ͂̎͆͘_̲͒ ŵ̶̵̪͇̙̥̀̇͊ͦͦ͋̽̿̄͊ͦ͘͘_̥͕̦̗̪̎̾̽̕̕è̴͈̼͉̦̜͙̜̝̩̲͈̠̙͔̬̩͍́͐̒́͛ͦ́͂̒̆ͣ͗̄̈́̅͛́͛̚̚͝ͅ s̷̸̶̨̢̛̟̪̘̟͖͚̥̬͈̣̩̪͉͍̗̟̒ͯ̓̒̈͂̾ͣ̃ͣͣͥ̽͛̄̄̅́́̚͢͡͞t̶̡̛̟̣͇̪͈͇̹͖̺̼͖̟͚͖̝̜ͫ̏̑͗ͯ̓͑̊ͣ̏͗ͧ̈̓̈̕̕͝ͅȧ̶̶̷͈̖̻̗͉̺̖̤̭͈̳͊ͤ̈́ͯ̋́̀̇ͬͬ͑̃͊̋ͬͤ̚͢͟͞r̟̼͉͙̬̳͍͋t̹̝̥̼̫̂̋̑͛̒̐ͪ̑ͭ͑̕͟͜ͅed̟̤̘̺̙̗̠͖̣̞̒ͧ͌̀ͤ̈́͒̅͆͌̇͆͗͆̅̅̄́͘͜͜͝͞ g̷̢̣̱͚̫̬͖̋ͨ̌́̓͂̒̏ͬ̕͢͞͝ę̴̯͉̝̪̻̂ͯͩ̿ͧͨ́́̕͝͞ţ̵̶̷̨̢̡͉̤͉̫̻̯̙̰̺̤͕̀́ͯͮ͂͐ͤ̀ͦͥ̀̍͌͟͟͟t̷̗͉̺̞͕̙́ͨ̀ͅ_̵̡͔̟͖̲͖͋̏̿̄̾̏̄ͬ͊̃̿̾͂̕͜͠ͅͅḭ̛͔͔̻̦̜̍̿ͫ̀ͣn̷͔̯ͨ͢g̶̦̲ͧ̽̌̒͟ v̴͍̥͇̘̱͙͇͇̭̯͉̲̺̙̪̺́͑ͦ͒ͭ͐͌ͪ̑̊́̿̆ͫ̔͛ͩ̚͟i̢̛̯̜͓̳͆̋ͥ̐͋ͮs̟͇ͮ͠į̸̸̼̗̻̦̓͋ͨͪ͠_͍̌̌ͮ̔ͨͧ̄ͨ̍ͫͩͨ͜͝t̶̡̡̨̯͖͎͎͕͙̜̣̣̫͓̪̟̟̑̆͂̏͋̂ͨ̿̈́ͭͭͫ͊͊ͤ̍ͭ̾ͧ͐̅̐ͪ̕͟͜ó̺̹͉͐ͣͨ͛̓ͫ͘ŗ̴̵̨̩̯̥͖̯̘̣̲͕̲̳̻̣̬̘̏ͬ̇́̀͑͂͌̃ͤ͊̎̾͑ͣ̅͠͠ͅs̟̬͚̹̆͡
Peter. . .
Peter wasn’t exactly sure what had happened.
He thinks he can remember closing his eyes,
but
he just didn’t know because
his perception
of
reality
s t r e t c h e d
and
twisted
before
exploding.
He
fell
For a time, Peter couldn’t feel himself. Sound (at least, that’s what Peter thought it was) shifted rapidly between a grinding screech and a quietude that drove him mad. Colours he’d never seen rushing by in a nauseating kaleidoscope of light. It was. . .
When Peter had come-to, it was with a confused panic. He didn’t know where he was, or what had happened, only that the ground was hard and sharp. Without opening his eyes, Peter had realised quickly he had landed (appeared? been dumped?) in an indoor garbage tip, the lack of a breeze and overwhelmingly putrid stench causing him to gag.
His neck and throat felt like, breath rattling in his ribcage. He couldn’t hear the men or their guns or the rush of traffic. He felt like his skin was burning, every point of contact with his suit a livewire of pain.
He–
His suit was burning.
Disorientated and still fighting for control over his sense, Peter scrambled frantically at the fabric. It sparked and flickered and disintegrated beneath his hands, ashes searing his flesh. Within seconds, the suit was gone.
Things got blurry again after that.
He numbly recalled standing, tripping and falling over mounds of garbage, burnt hands grasping clumsily at (what he soon realised) a gaping neck wound. He must’ve snagged some fabric (rotted bedsheets he thinks) during one of his falls, having gone from naked and cold to covered and still gagging from the smell. The more frantically he moved, the more pain he caused but he had been too desperate for answers.
The next thing he could remember, Peter found himself on the roof frozen in horror, staring blankly at the completely unrecognisable city-skyline. A giant billboard in the distance declared:
Welcome to Gotham City!
Home to America’s Greatest!
Delirium and blood loss had him uttering something like; “not in Kansas anymore are we, Toto,” in a grisly croak.
He had no idea what to do.
He didn’t have a plan of action.
Peter didn’t even have a Toto.
Suddenly all that mattered, his only objective, was get home.
But home didn’t exist anymore.
Outside the store, the gunfire finally stopped.
Peter exhaled.
Welcome to Gotham City indeed.
