Archive of Our Own ^beta

Peter woke up with a scream. A scream that came out as a wheeze because his throat was clogged with dust. Dust his body was becoming. Ghost hands were pinning him down. They were holding him. Mr Stark was hugging him.

He woke up.

He was not supposed to. He was sure of it.

“Mr Stark..?” he croaked, feeling his erratic heartbeat in his throat.

His limbs were heavy. Peter could not move. Something was pressing down on his chest.

“Peter, you need to take a deep breath. In for—” Karen. It was Karen’s voice. Why was it so staticky? “—two, three, four. Peter, focus on my voice. Out for one, two, three—”

Peter started coughing, breathing was painful. Karen just started counting again. He took in as deep of a breath as possible, trying to concentrate on anything other than dust. Dust was everywhere. Dust that was him.

“K…Ka…ren,” Peter croaked, sitting up in bed, holding one hand to his chest. It hurt like that time some guy had punched him in the solar plexus. “Where… where am I?” He looked around.

The room was small and almost clinically clean. The air was stale. Why was it so loud? His Peter Tingle was ringing in the back of his mind without a pause. It was as if he stepped into Hell’s Kitchen on a night when Daredevil was out of commission.

“You are in a city called Gotham,” Karen calmly informed him. “The year is 2015,” she continued. Was it anxiety he could hear? “I do not think you were misplaced just in time, Peter. I… I cannot find any information on the existence of Tony Stark or Avengers. However, I fo—” It was suddenly very hard to breathe again.

Peter closed his eyes and slowly took in a breath, concentrating on the smell and noise around him — two people, a woman and a young girl above were cooking macaroni and cheese; a teen, maybe his age, was in the apartment below deep cleaning with bleach; the sound of gunfire and the stink of the sewers came from outside, and, finally, Karen’s even tone.

“Peter, I enacted the ‘Jumanji’ protocol and, after some research, the ‘Alice In Wonderland’ as well.” Karen showed him three different folders with the name of the city and state he was in as well as the date.

Only then did he realize that he was wearing the mask of his new suit. Why was he in the mask? He wasn’t wearing it on Titan.

“Karen, can I take off the Iron Spider?” Peter slowly stood up and went to try to find a kitchen.

“Yes, but you do not have a case to safely store the nanobots. I can integrate them with your web-shooters or Starkwatch instead, though the latter option is preferable,” She suggested.

Peter nodded and the nanobots of his usual Spider suit moved to his watch in the mere seconds it took him to find a sink. He didn’t realize how thirsty he was. Peter pulled the mask up over his nose so he could drink freely. He grabbed a mug on the counter that smelled clean.

“I don’t believe tap water is drinkable here.” Karen showed him a chemical analysis that had been done recently by a company named W.E. 

Peter stared.

“Why are LSD and adrenaline¹ in—” he paused. “Is that strychninum²?!” 

Peter put down the mug, feeling his heart rate pick up again. He tasted dirt, blood, and dust. 

“There might be bottled water in the fridge,” Karen’s voice cut through his panic. Peter noticed that she had closed the analysis report of the city’s water.

It really was worse than Hell’s Kitchen.

And he had yet to even step outside.

There were sealed bottles in the fridge. Peter drank one, reached for a second, and chugged it too, retching a little afterward. 

“Ok,” Peter took another deep breath, trying to will away his nausea, “ok,” he closed the fridge. “K, do I need to take my earpiece out, or can you talk through my watch? I… I,” Peter thought of the dried blood and grime from Titan that covered his Spider suit.

“The nanobots will allow you to hear me without your suit on,” Karen answered.

Peter pulled the rest of the mask off his face. He tapped the spider icon on his suit and watched it fall to the kitchen floor. He realized he was still in the clothes he had worn on the field trip; they were now wrinkled.

He was in another dimension — alternate reality? — three years in the past, in a city that was somehow even worse than the worst parts of Daredevil’s territory. There were no Avengers, no Mr. Stark, no Aunt May. He was in someone’s home. In someone’s house that had pictures of him — Peter froze, unable to look away from the photo he did not remember being taken. It was him. A young him. 

His hair was terribly styled with too little gel to actually tame his curls; Flash bullied him for them when he was twelve. Peter was thirteen in 2015. Right now was 2015. 

“The Taylor-Kanye phone call didn’t happen yet,” Peter mumbled, forcing himself to stop looking at the photo. He shivered, feeling unsettled. He tried to think of something else. “Is there even Taylor Swift here? Or Kanye? Are they musicians? Or—” Peter choked. His chest ached. He forgot to breathe again.

“Peter, I think it’ll be best if you lay down,” Karen recommended with a touch of concern in her voice. “The apartment is under you and your guardian’s names.”

“Who...who’s my guardian?” Peter went to the room he had woken up in on shaky legs, completely forgetting about his Spider suit sitting in a heap near the fridge. He felt numb. His ears were ringing. His Peter Tingle would not shut up. It would if he were dead.

He was not. Somehow. Against all odds. He knew he had been turned to dust. However, here he was.

He did not know where ‘here’ was. 

“Jimmy Clark⁴ is your guardian. Though Mr Clark’s not in Gotham and hasn't been for the last five months, so I’m inclined to think that you live alone for the most part,” Karen informed him.

“I—” Peter grabbed the door frame with too much force, breaking wood and a small part of the wall around his fist. Drywall dust filled the air. “I don’t know him.”

“I made a file on him, Peter, but right now you need to sit down.”

Somehow, he made it to the bed. He stared at his hand, now tinted grey from the drywall dust. He did not remember anything after it.

‘Peter Richard Parker’ was staring at him from his — this Peter’s? — birth certificate. Why was his — this Peter’s — second name Richard? Why was it not Benjamin? Was he — this Peter — named after his dad? Or was his — this Peter’s — dad just Uncle Ben in this universe?

“Karen, who are my—” Peter paused, sighing deeply, “this Peter’s parents? What are their names?”

“Your mother’s name is Mary. Unfortunately, I cannot find anything more regarding the name or the last name of your father.”

“My dad’s name’s Richard,” Peter said sharply, looking at his birth date. It said he was born in the year 2000 on August 10th. Two years before he had actually been born. If he were actually to be this ‘Peter Richard Parker,’ he would be fourteen in this universe. Karen had said he was. She explained how and why, but Peter still needed time to process. Or, more likely, brainstorm how those magic stones and the multiverse theory are connected.

“Should I call this version of you Peter two?”

“Call him Dick.”

“Peter, I am not going to insult this universe’s you, not knowing what type of person he was. Moreover, I was created—”

“No! No, sorry, Karen, I meant, like, short for Richard.”

Peter thought Karen might be slightly embarrassed because she did not answer right away.

“I wasn’t able to find more on Richard’s parents,” Karen said. “I can expand my search; if I am to hack into the Watchtower—”

“Don’t,” Peter shook his head. “You said yourself that the ‘Alice In Wonderland’ is for when we’re in a situation where the technology we’re up against is at a more advanced level than Stark’s.” He skeptically glanced at the iPhone lying beside him on the floor. “Let’s not risk it just yet.” He looked away, catching sight of his suit on the floor. “Show me info on Gotham.” Peter flicked his wrist, making his web-shooters visible so Karen could display the file in question.

His stomach growled. Peter reached for some stale crackers he had found around three days ago after he had run out of food in the fridge. It was not a surprise to see the package empty.

“Peter, you need to go buy food that will be more nutritious than the processed things you’ve been consuming for the past five days,” Karen showed a route to the nearest bodega instead of what he had asked for.

“Karen,” Peter squeezed his eyes shut, “I’d have to shower to go out and the water here is… it’s radioactive⁵!” He knew, logically, it had to be safe to take a shower because his upstairs and downstairs neighbours had been regularly doing so for the past however long he had been here in the apartment. Peter had been using wipes he found to stay clean instead.

“Peter,” Karen’s voice became gentle.

“I know,” Peter cut her off. “I know... I just—” He stood up from the floor. “Ok. Ok,” Peter went to his — this Pete… Dick’s? Richard’s? Ric’s? — closet to find a fresh set of clothes. “Can you tell me Gotham’s key points while I shower?”

It was good to finally wash away all the dirt — Peter did not smell Titan’s soil anymore; he did not smell Mr Stark’s blood; he did not smell death; but he still felt dust that was under his fingernails, in his throat, in his eyes — Karen’s voice was soothing. The stuff she had been telling him less so, though Peter found most of it somewhat hilarious, especially:

“So, K, you think this Brucie Wayne is like pre-Iron Man Mr. Stark? Like—” Peter tried to choose one thing from all the wildest stuff he had heard about Mr Stark to explain his point, “— you know,” he helplessly shrugged, pulling a black t-shirt on along with a worn-out but well cared for hoodie with a ‘W’ on the chest. 

“I think Mr. Wayne’s parties are more… extravagant.” Peter did not miss the slight pause in her speech.

He huffed, remembering the gala — was it a gala? Or fundraiser? Or just fancy dinner? Peter did not really know the difference between them — she had just told him about with handcuffed Brucie Wayne, flaming shots, and a villain named Two-Face.

Yeah, maybe Gotham and this universe were not that bad.

Gotham was a shithole. Peter could not find even an ounce of strength or care not to use profanity. He went out two more times, and he hated it. He hated this city. Its dirty alleyways. Its polluted air. The constant sound of gunshots. He hated that all of those made him feel alive, made his Peter Tingle buzz in the back of his mind, reminding him he had not become — had not stayed — dust.

“Karen, do you think I should start going out as Spider-Man here?” Peter looked at the door leading to the kitchen where his Spider suit had been lying since his first day in this universe. 

It still smelt like machine oil and Aunt May’s perfume, along with Titan and blood.

“Do you wish to, Peter?” 

“I don’t… I don’t know, K, but all these people here, they need hope. They need someone other than Robin, who’s here every other week,” Peter thought back to the reports Karen had gathered for him on crime in this city. The epicenter of it was Park Row, the place where he now lived. “I just don’t get why—” he shook his head, that Batman guy had to have a good reason for overlooking this part of the city. “People don’t ask for help here, I… Karen, I smiled and said ‘thank you’ to the cashier and he reached for what was definitely a gun! People try to mug me almost every time I turn a corner! Not to mention the pick-pocketing!” Peter went to the room he was occupying to put down bags full of pens, notebooks, and sticky notes. “I can at least try to make Park Row a little safer.”

“Then you should start reading my research on heroes and villains,” Karen’s voice turned slightly mischievous, “right after you wash up your Spider suit.”