Chapter 2

Okay. Find a place, hunker down, wait for someone to find him. He can’t be the only person to make it here from his universe, right? The Guardians might be somewhere nearby. Maybe Dr. Strange, too. He just has to find a place and standby until someone finds him. And they will find him.

Because the thought of being the only one to survive Titan, the only one to end up here, is too much for Peter to bear.

The rain starts to pick up when he leaves the burned out store, plastering his hair to his head and washing the ash and blood off of himself. There’s an added bonus to the rain: it helps dim his enhanced senses. He can still smell the city itself–the exhaust fumes, the oil embedded in the broken asphalt, the moldering garbage–but the rain mutes those scents. And it smothers sound, as well. Which is a bonus; the streets are as busy as any city, and the wind and water mutes the sound of heartbeats, conversations, and other ambient noise in the city.

He really wishes his earbuds had made the transfer between universes. And his phone. And his suit, for that matter. He can still feel his wallet in his pocket, but that’s almost useless. Nothing electronic made the jump between universes, just the clothes Peter was wearing beneath his suit. Maybe that was a limit to Dr. Strange’s spell? But why? Human bodies are a trillion times more difficult than electronics. One would think he could manage it.

“One would be wrong,” a dry voice says somewhere on the street behind him. It sounds a lot like Dr. Strange.

Okay. Focus. The sun is setting behind the rain clouds, and he doesn’t want to be caught outside after dark. He is definitely in the bad part of town; the roads are cracked and pock marked with potholes, the streetlights either don’t work or barely work at all, and the police look just as hardened and rough as the obvious criminals slinking along the alleyway entrances. More than a few eye him warily or speculatively as he passes by, and his spider senses twinge at each one.

In fact, most of this street seems to be dive bars, pawn shops, shady warehouses, and abandoned buildings. The few office buildings dotting the street somehow seem even more malicious than the bars; more than half of those are abandoned outright, with smashed in windows and boarded up entrances. His spider senses set off at a low hum, an anxiety inducing buzz that runs down the back of his neck. He can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from. There’s just an overall sense of danger-bad-careful running on loop in the back of his mind.

It spikes, suddenly, and footsteps come pounding up the alley towards his side. Peter’s barely begun to turn when something heavy and metallic snaps across his shoulders and the back of his neck, sending him face first into the ground for the second time in an hour. His head bounces off of the cracked sidewalk, sending stars across his vision.

“Jeez, you didn’t have to hit him that hard,” a voice says, amused. “It’s not like a skinny twerp like this is any threat.”

“Shut up and grab his wallet, idiot,” another snarls.

Someone rifles through his pockets and grabs his wallet from his pocket. “All right, let’s see–”

“Hold it right there!” a third voice yells out.

“Fuck, the cops,” one of the men hisses. He drops Peter’s wallet and sprints down an alley, his friend close behind. They disappear into the shadows and rain in seconds.

Peter lets out a quiet sigh of relief, reaching out to grab his wallet as the cop steps into view. “Hey, thanks–”

The cop snaps his baton across the back of Peter’s hand, knocking the wallet back out of his hand. There’s a slight crack and an explosion of pain that numbs his hand and shoots up his arm. Peter curses and curls up around his hand, fighting back a wave of nausea.

“Didn’t save you out of the goodness of my heart, kid,” the cop says dryly. He snatches up Peter’s wallet, peeks inside, and sighs loudly before flinging it into a puddle.

“No cash, no cards, just a transit pass and a driver’s license. I should’ve left you to the wolves,” he says, kicking the wallet at Peter. “Run home. There’s a curfew in a few hours. I’ll beat you twice as hard as those guys if I have to deal with your shit after it starts.”

With that, he turns around and leaves, disappearing into the shadowed street as smoothly as the men who mugged Peter. Peter lays on the ground for a moment, contemplating his life, and then sighs.

“So to recap my life so far: I died, got thrown into an alternate universe, zapped by an evil wizard, mugged, and now I’ve got a broken hand from a crooked cop,” Peter mutters darkly. He flexes his hand, winces, and then grabs his wallet with his good hand and shoves it into his pocket. “I’m so throwing rocks at Dr. Strange’s house when this is all over. I’m going to make a huge scene of it, too.”

God, will he ever. Right now, he mostly feels like huddling into a corner and crying.

“Hey, kid! Over here.” A man in a line cook’s outfit flags him down further down the street. He’s standing outside of one of the few decent looking buildings on the block.

Peter stares at him warily, then mentally shrugs and heads over to him. What’s the worst that can happen? It’s not like he can die again, right?

“New on the streets?” the guy asks, motioning for Peter to follow him inside the building. It’s a restaurant; the outside is as weathered as the rest of the block, but the inside is clean and furnished well. The man leads him into a kitchen.

“Yeah, you could say that, I guess,” Peter mumbles, cradling his hand. It’s definitely broken, but the bones are fusing back together already. It’ll heal, but it’s one discomfort piled on top of another.

The kitchen is brightly lit and smells like fresh bread and cooked clove and sumac. A young woman is cleaning a workstation when the two of them walk in, and only spares Peter and the man a brief look before continuing her work. The man points to a small alcove where an old formica table sits. Overturned crates serve as chairs. Peter drops down on one and winces when he jostles his hand.

“I could tell,” the man says, tired. He’s young, maybe twenty two at the most, but sounds much older. He hands Peter a towel to dry himself off with and grabs a first aid kit off the wall. He starts to clean and bandage Peter’s hand. “Officer Brady’s a massive prick. Most of the cops in the Bowery are crooked. You got off light.”

“Great,” Peter mutters.

“Avoid the homeless shelters, too,” the man continues, tying off the splint he’s put on Peter’s hand and wrist. “The city closed down all of the decent ones and bussed most of the homeless population out of the city. The ones that are left are not safe.”

“Oh. Good to know.” He hadn’t even considered that.

The man eyes him carefully, frowning. “When was the last time you ate?”

He shrugs, opting for honesty. “Uh, Tuesday?”

The man’s frown deepens, and he turns towards the woman finishing up her work and says something to her in Arabic; Peter knows a few basic phrases, but he can’t track what the man says. The woman stops, frowns, then sets her cleaning cloth aside to wash her hands and turn on the oven.

“Oh, she doesn’t–you don’t need to cook anything–“

“It won’t take any time. And yes, we do. You are a guest in our home, and you haven’t eaten in three days.” He offers his hand to Peter. “I’m Omar.”

Peter takes his hand. “Peter.”

“I’m Sophia,” the woman says, appearing at his side. She sets down a bowl in front of him. “Eat. Omar, you get to clean.”

“That’s fair,” Omar answers. He watches Peter eat for a moment. “You can’t be older than fifteen.”

He’s sixteen, actually, but his baby face hides it. Much to his annoyance. “Sixteen.”

“You’re young enough that a year makes a big difference to you,” Omar retorts. “Do you have a place to stay?”

No. “Yes.”

His lie must not be very convincing. Omar’s frown grows deeper.

“I have a place. Promise. My, uh, uncle’s coming to town soon. I’m leaving town in a few days,” Peter says, desperately hoping that’s true. If Happy showed up right now, he would hug the man. Same for Rhodey. Honestly, even Vision would get a giant bearhug. “I just got lost in the bad part of town.”

“You’re in Crime Alley, Peter. The worst part of the most dangerous area of the city. Not even Batman comes here anymore,” Omar says. “You really got lost.”

“Yeah, well. It’s a new place, you know?” Peter says, picking up the bowl in front of himself. It looks delicious.

Omar considers him for another moment, then stands up. “Enjoy your meal, Peter. Meet me at the door when you’re ready to leave, but stay as long as you need.”

He leaves the kitchen alcove. Peter practically inhales his meal, suddenly aware of how hungry he is. In all fairness, he’s had a pretty busy day. He’s halfway through his meal when Sophia sets another bowl down on the table.

“We’re closing for the night,” she says by way of explanation. “And you look like you could use the food. Eat up.”

Peter does, infinitely thankful for the kindness from these two strangers. The first people to show him any since he was blasted sideways into the city. Which isn’t saying much, really, since he’s been here less than a day.

Omar hands him a faded red backpack. Peter takes it, opening it and taking a peek inside. He stares at it for a moment then looks up at Omar. “I can’t–”

“You can,” Omar says. “There’s clothes, a sleeping bag, gloves, a coat, and several pairs of socks. Toiletries, too. And food.” He sighs. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay here? The city’s curfew is about to start and… Well, we don’t have much, but Sophia and I can stretch things for a week or two.”

The last thing Peter wants to do is be a burden.

“No, I won’t be in Gotham for very long. Thank you, Omar,” Peter says, zipping the backpack up and shrugging it on. “Seriously, you have no idea.”

“I used to volunteer at the Wayne Foundation homeless shelter down the block. They closed it a few weeks back, so I’m sort of doing it freelance these days. If you need anything, please come find us,” he says. “Even if it’s just to get a meal. Promise me you will.”

“I promise,” Peter replies, oddly touched. He walks towards the back exit with Omar.

“Good luck, Peter,” Omar says.

Peter gives Omar a friendly wave, before stepping back out into the street.

He makes a point to avoid alleys after that. And keeps a wary eye out for any figures lurking in the dark. He won’t be caught unaware again.

---

He regrets leaving the restaurant behind almost immediately. The rain, which had lessened some while he was in the restaurant, comes back full force. He again finds himself wandering Gotham’s dingy streets in the rain, with night falling soon. It’s the ‘nicer part’ of Crime Alley, at least–not that that means much, really–with less people around. It’s all but abandoned, in fact. He can’t hear any nearby heartbeats. At least, nothing larger than rats.

He’s in an old business district. Something that could have been the heart of a booming commercial district, judging by the half finished skyscrapers, abandoned office buildings, and empty cafes that dot the street. There’s a single convenience store lit up like a beacon at the far corner, and that’s it. Which suits Peter just fine, though it’s a bit eerie. He can hole up here for a night.

He finds, of all things, an abandoned fire station in the heart of the block. It’s ancient by today’s standards; the architecture clearly harkens back to an earlier 20th century design. Two storeys tall, with a single garage that’s been boarded up along with most of the windows and the entrance. Only a single window on the second floor is intact, with a window air conditioning unit settled in it.

Peter glances back and forth, listening closely to make sure no one’s nearby, then begins to climb up the wall to the window. It’s tricky; between his hand and the rain, he’s forced to move slower than he’d like. Still, he’s at the window in seconds. He braces himself on the bricks near the window and roughly shoves it upwards before hauling himself inside and out of the rain.

The inside is damp, dark, and dusty, but it’s warm. And it’ll keep him off the street. He swipes rain from his eyes, pushing back his hair, and slowly explores the building. The room he’s in must have been the dorm for the firefighters stationed here; he can see where the bunks had been bolted to the hardwood floor. A door nearby leads into a large bathroom, and another, hanging off of its hinges, leads to the stairs to the floor below. Peter shuts the door leading to the stairs before entering the bathroom.

Okay, shelter acquired. Now for step two of Rhodey’s survival tips: water. The rain isn’t going to last forever, and Peter has the distinct feeling that drinking rainwater in Gotham is the equivalent to licking sewage pipes; the air smells of smog and pollution even in the rain. Peter shrugs off his backpack and sets it on the dusty tiled floor before approaching one of the shower stalls. This probably won’t work, but what the hell. He turns on one of the showers and is surprised to find clear, clean and freezing cold water shoots from the spout. It pegs him right in the face and he sputters, blindly flailing into the stall and turning it off.

He huffs, pushing his newly damp hair away from his face. “Okay, water. Yay.”

Step two complete, apparently.

He grabs the driest part of his shirt and wipes his face, shuffling over to the mirror mounted on the wall. He glances up, catches sight of himself in the mirror and freezes. He pushes back a few strands of hair, leaning in to get a closer look. The hair just above his right temple is bone white, in direct contrast with the rest of his hair. It’s a perfect streak, too. Peter touches it, then sighs and leans back. His hair didn’t look like that before Thanos dusted him. All things being equal, if that’s the only thing that’s different about him after coming back to life, he got off light.

He doesn’t think it’s the only thing that’s different, however.

He considers that for a few moments, then shakes his head and grabs his backpack, moving back into the dorm room. He’s tired. It’s late. And he needs sleep. He drops the backpack on the floor, flops down on the ground beside it, and drops his head on the backpack. It makes for a poor pillow, but it’s better than nothing.

Despite the chill and the rain, he falls asleep almost immediately.

---

He dreams of a city made of gold and metal, with technology far outside of his own reckoning. The streets are empty, and there’s a strange sense of grief that seems to hover around the empty buildings. Peter’s standing in a grand plaza, surrounded by gleaming buildings that stand silent in the sunlight.

“You’ve ruined everything,” a man says behind him.

He turns around and finds himself the subject of scrutiny from Loki Odinson. The man watches him coldly, annoyance and disgust clear on his features.

Peter stares at him, confused. “What?”

“I had a plan, you see. Not the most clever plan I’ve come up with, but one that would work given the circumstances. And you ruined it.”

“Uh. How did I do that?”

“I found a place a long time ago that allows me to hide away my soul until I can conjure a new body,” Loki explains, using the tone one would use around a particularly slow child. “I found it on Vormir, and I’ve used it to keep myself essentially deathless and immortal since long before your people began bathing on a daily basis. And you broke it.”

Peter, beyond helpless, frowns at him. “I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“My plan was simple. I was going to hide away in the Soul Stone, then erupt out of it just as Thanos used the gauntlet. A well placed knife would have done the trick. I would’ve reclaimed the gauntlet as my own and used it to bring back Asgard for my brother.” He glowers at Peter. “And yet, that didn’t happen. My pocket dimension has been overrun by the souls of those Thanos killed. Not all of them, mind. Just the ones who failed to stop Thanos. Just the Avengers.”

Peter can’t think of a worse idea than giving Loki the Infinity Gauntlet. “How is this my fault? I got dusted!”

Loki stares at him for a long moment and then laughs. “You really don’t know what you’ve done, do you? Oh, this will be interesting.” He shakes his head. “You’ll find out soon enough, I suppose. Run along. I need to speak with your sorcerer.”

He snaps his fingers.

Peter startles awake on the floor, unnerved by his dreams. The images and words fade away within seconds of waking, the way all dreams do, and he’s left puzzled and ill at ease. He rubs his eyes, sitting up with a wince. He tests his hand, gently flexing it. It stings and burns, but the pain disappears quickly; his broken hand has upgraded itself to a mild sprain. He leaves it in the splint Omar made just to be safe.

The rain has stopped, but the sky is cloudy and dim. He might as well get up.

He finally opens the backpack and sorts out his supplies. He has a sleeping bag (which he should’ve used last night), a flashlight (not necessary), a dozen breakfast meal bars, three t-shirts that look half a size too large, socks, two pairs of sweatpants, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and more meal replacement bars along with a jar of peanut butter. And a note from Omar and Sophie, asking him to come back if he needs anything.

Peter folds the note back up and keeps it in his wallet. It’s nice to know that there are good people in the worst places. And it’s a good idea to keep those reminders nearby. Karen told him as much at one point.

He grabs a breakfast bar (strawberry and cream flavored), and scarfs it down before standing up. He spends that first day exploring the firehouse completely. He finds a kitchen in complete shambles on the ground floor, a set of old tools in the garage, and a half broken radio sitting on a desk in an office. He grabs the tools and radio and takes them upstairs. There are other things on the first floor–old tires, hoses, lockers–that he might yet find use for, but right now he’d feel safer if the first floor is blocked off completely.

By the end of the day (which isn’t as long as he’d expect; he must have slept half the day away), he’s ready to settle in and wait. And hope that someone finds him.

---

Days pass. His food disappears bit by bit.

---

He can only stay in one place for so long. He leaves the firehouse on the fourth night to get a better look at the city. The easiest way to do that  is by staying high and out of sight, moving during the evening dusk.

His hand is fully healed by now and he reaches the top of the building quickly and easily. It’s late–he doesn’t know how late–and the city is lit up beneath him. He’s not standing on the tallest building in the district; it’s only about twenty floors tall. It should give him a bird’s eye view of things.

He strolls along the edge of the building, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, leaning over the edge to look over the city. A lot of it is in disrepair; more than he expected. And there’s a lot more blight than he expected. He can see and hear over two dozen red and blue lights and sirens tracing the city streets, each moving in a different direction. A distant spotlight shines against the clouds with the image of a bat set in the middle. It reminds Peter of the ‘spider signal’ Tony built into his suit.

Peter can hear the distant crack of gunfire nearby. It seems to come from every direction, varying in distance and intensity, but it’s also near constant. The whole city must sound like a warzone. No wonder Batman–whoever that is–hasn’t been through this part of town recently. Even if he had a full crew on hand, they’d have to work nonstop just to keep things from falling apart in the rest of the city. The man clearly has his hands full.

There’s a low rumble, and then a larger pop, as a building erupts into flames across a distant river, near what looks to be a port. More sirens begin, and Peter can see helicopters fly towards the fire. He focuses on that area of town. Something inside of him is pulling at him in that direction. Not his spider senses. Something else. It feels golden? Or orange. He’s not sure. The longer he looks, the more he leans over the ledge, trying to pinpoint where it’s coming from–

“Hey, I’d appreciate it if you took a few steps back from that ledge,” a voice says behind him, calm and gentle.

Peter startles, jumping in place, and whirls around to find himself face to face with a masked man in a black suit with blue, stylized wings spread across the chest. There’s a small earpiece tucked away in his ear. Peter can just barely make out the sound of radio traffic coming from it.

“How did–where did you come from?” Peter asks.

“The next building over,” the man says, carefully walking over to Peter. He stands just within arm’s reach and offers his hand. “I’m Nightwing.”

“Uh, Peter,” Peter says, automatically reaching out to grip Nightwing’s hand. He yelps when the man pulls him away from the edge and spins them around so that Nightwing stands on the ledge and Peter stands more towards the center of the roof. “Dude, what the—“

“There. Better.” He lets go of Peter’s hand. “You alright? Actually, I guess that’s not the best question. If you were all right, you wouldn’t be up here at two in the morning.”

Peter frowns at him, utterly confused. And then it clicks. “Oh! You thought I was—no, I-I just came up here to think. That’s all.”

Nightwing frowns at him. “Lots of people come up to buildings to think. Do you want to talk for a little bit?”

“Nightwing,” the radio says. “We need you. Now.”

Nightwing frowns, but gives no indication that he heard his own radio. His focus remains on Peter completely.

“You have way more important things to do,” Peter says. He doesn’t want to keep Nightwing away from whatever he should be doing. “I’m fine. Honest. I really did just come up here to think. Also I kind of think abandoned buildings are cool, you know? Just…doing some urban exploring. You know.”

“Nightwing,” the radio says again.

Nightwing sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He glances at the raging fire at the docks, then turns back to Peter. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, man. I’m fine. Go do your superhero thing. I can find my own way down,” Peter says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to the door leading inside the building. He has no intention of actually going inside, but he doesn’t want Nightwing to think he’s going to launch himself off the top of the building either.

“Okay,” Nightwing says hesitantly. His radio kicks in again, this time in a burst of traffic full of shouting, gunfire, and cursing. “Just be careful, Peter.”

“Sure,” Peter says.

Nightwing gives him one last lingering look, then leaps silently off of the side of the building. Peter can just barely see a dark shape swing between the silent office buildings that surround them. He waits for another five minutes before crawling down the side of the building and walking back towards the firehouse.

That night, before he falls asleep, he wonders if he should have taken the time to talk to Nightwing.