Chapter 3

Three days pass, and Peter takes a moment to fully consider his situation. If someone’s coming for him, then they’re taking their sweet time with it. He’s almost out of food, and he’s rapidly running out of clean clothes. Also he’s bored out of his mind.

And lonely. He misses May. And Ned. And MJ. All three of them have become a near constant presence in his life, and now he’s gone several days without seeing any of them. Peter feels incomplete without them. Especially May and Ned. He feels naked without a phone in Gotham, but he doesn’t miss it much. It’s not like he can shoot a message to Ned across whatever divides parallel realities or send MJ a picture of a cafe she hasn’t gone to yet.

It’s weird to go to bed and wake up without chatting with May, texting her some silly gif or joke, or eating dinner with her. His days feel incomplete without her, and it’s starting to drag at him. Sure, he misses Ned and MJ, and Tony. But he misses her most of all. He wishes she were here to help. Even if it’s just for a little while. He’d been in such a rush the day of the field trip that he forgot to give her his usual hug on the way out. He regrets that; the guilt of it–of something that small–weighs on his mind more than it should.

It doesn’t help that he’s tired, cold, and almost constantly hungry. It doesn’t help that no one’s come to find him. And it really doesn’t help that his hand still aches painfully in the morning, stiff and tense in a way that hints at an ongoing problem that will haunt him for awhile yet.

All in all, he’s in a pretty low mood. The loneliness is the worst part of it. And that’s what ultimately drives him up to the rooftops most nights. It helps him think, and it gets him out of the firehouse. Sometimes it helps keep the nightmares at bay. Not always, but sometimes.

He sits at the edge of the rooftop, building a mental map of the city; he quickly pinpoints where the sirens are in the city, where they start, end, and what neighborhoods they avoid entirely. The worst neighborhoods never see the police, and he makes a mental note to scope those places out when he gets the chance. He also waits to see if that tug he felt a few days ago starts up again. It hasn’t yet, and he’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

His senses twinge for a moment–a brief flash he otherwise wouldn’t notice in the constant drone of the city–and he hears someone swing through the air behind him and land on the rooftop.

“Hey, Peter,” Nightwing says behind him, strolling up to the roof’s edge. He drops down beside Peter, holding a paper sack. He pulls out a couple of hamburgers and offers the larger one to Peter. “Hungry?”

“Dude, yes, you have no idea,” Peter replies, perking up and taking the offered burger. It’s huge and takes both hands for Peter to hold. It’s worth more than its weight in gold, too. Peter’s food stocks are starting to become worryingly thin. “Where’d you get this?”

“Burger joint around the corner,” Nightwing answers, grabbing his own burger. It’s much smaller. “I don’t go there very often. It’s a guilty pleasure, and I’m using you as an excuse.”

“Sweet,” Peter says, taking a bite out of his burger.

They sit in companionable silence, eating their respective burgers. The city is relatively peaceful for once. It’s a pleasant change from the past week. Gotham almost seems nice.

Peter makes short work of his burger, sighs, and leans back from the roof ledge. “Where’d you learn to swing like that? You’re really smooth.”

Nightwing grins. “The circus.”

Peter stares at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Okay, show me a trick, then.”

Nightwing thinks, shrugs, and then stands up. He balances himself on the edge of the roof with his hand, bumps himself up on the tips of his fingers, and then finally balances on just two fingers. He holds the pose for a minute before jumping back onto his feet. There isn’t one wasted ounce of energy; it’s smooth and agile. Peter’s a little jealous of how easily he moves.

Which just brings out his competitive streak. “Huh. I could do that.”

“Yeah? Show me,” Nightwing says. He pauses for a moment. “Away from the roof edge.”

Peter rolls his eyes but stands up and wanders over to the center of the roof. Peter leans down, braces his fist against the rooftop, then pushes himself up on two fingers while pushing his legs off of the roof. He holds the pose for about ten seconds, subtly adjusting his balance. And then he overcorrects, flails his legs, overcorrects again, and falls flat on his back.

Nightwing pops into view, grinning down at him.

“Okay, so, you may have caught me on a bad day,” Peter says after a moment of silence.

Nightwing laughs, offering Peter a hand up. “That was pretty impressive.”

“Come on.”

“No, really!” Nightwing says earnestly. “You just need to work on your core a little more. Where’d you learn to do that anyway?”

Peter almost says ‘from being Spider-Man’ but stops at the last second, racks his brain and says, “From, uh, ballet, actually.”

“Huh. I should look into that one day,” Nightwing says. In the distance, the bat signal lights up, and he focuses on it. “Duty calls. Guess break time is over.”

“I thought that signal was for Batman,” Peter says.

Nightwing pauses. “Usually, yes. But Bats is a little under the weather. The crew is handling things for now.”

“Oh,” Peter says, thoughtful.

Wonder Woman and Superman had mentioned Batman, hadn’t they? He should ask Nightwing about that. He starts to speak when Nightwing’s radio sounds off. Peter can hear static and muffled words.

“Right. I’m on it,” Nightwing says to his radio. He strolls towards the edge of the roof. “I better go handle that. Later, Peter!”

“Later, Nightwing! Thanks for the burger!”

Nightwing gives him an easy salute, leaping off of the side of the building and into the night below.

Peter waits for a few minutes and then crawls down the side of the building. He feels a little less lonely now, at least.

He sleeps well that night.

---

Two days after the visit from Nightwing, Peter takes stock himself and his situation.

First of all, parallel dimensions exist. Multiple universes exist. Holy shit. The scientific ramifications are absolutely limitless, especially for physics. If he wasn’t currently trapped here, he’d be shrieking at the very idea of researching the concept with Ned. Tony Stark wouldn’t be capable of keeping him out of the lab at the Compound; he’d be stuck with a feral, terminally nerdy child literally bouncing off of his walls for months on end, moving from one experiment to the next.

That’s something for later. It’s starting to look like he’s the only person from his universe to end up here, and he can’t stay here forever. He has to get home. The problem with that is rather obvious. Magic brought him here, not science as he understands it. As cool as that is, it puts him at a severe disadvantage.

But maybe he could figure it out? Not magic, but the science fueling it. Everything functions under a set of laws, even magic. He gets up, and starts to pace the firehouse dorm floor. The movement helps him organize his thoughts.

Magic is just science people don’t understand, isn’t it? Show a medieval serf a videochat on your phone and they would consider it magic. Also you’d be called a witch and burned at the stake, but that’s neither here nor there.

He needs more information. He needs access to scientific research.

Well, he’s getting ahead of himself. He needs food. Clothes. A way to gather the information he needs. He can’t just saunter around town looking for it, either. Not with that weird truancy law. His baby face is still in full effect; he’s sixteen and looks it. The cops will be on him in seconds if he starts wandering the streets during school time, and he’d really rather avoid Gotham’s juvenile halls if he can help it. God only knows how horrible those places are.

School or juvie. School gives him regular meals, a shower that isn’t made of ice, and a place to gather information.

Well, time for him to get back to school, then.

Which means he needs to enroll himself.

Which means he needs a computer.

He thinks for a moment, then practically slaps himself in the forehead.

The library. Duh.

---

It takes him most of the morning to find a library. The Bowery has none, which isn’t a surprise, so he takes to hopping the subway and heads for Old Gotham. The trip is a long one, and he spends most of it bored out of his mind. A few times he sees flashes of people he recognizes out of the corner of his eye as he makes his way towards the library. He sees Sam Wilson walking beside him. He sees Bucky Barnes squinting suspiciously at a rough looking group of guys near an alley. He sees Dr. Strange’s cloak flutter past. They disappear every time he turns to get a closer look.

He must be losing his mind. He’s dreaming up people from his own universe. And two out of the three don’t even like him! God, that’s some luckless loser nonsense.

“You’re not that bad, kid,” Sam says.

Whatever. Peter ignores them, moving down the street. The sky is overcast, the air damp and chill, and the people of Old Gotham are only slightly less surly than the people in the Bowery. The buildings, however, are absolutely beautiful; every building on this street is built with old carved stone, complete with gargoyles in some areas, and old trees line narrow streets. It’s a nice break from the blight and despair in the Bowery.

He finds the library soon enough (and can, in fact, see it from almost two blocks away; it’s huge), and jogs up the stairs to the massive front doors. He’s about to walk inside when he sees a red haired woman in a wheelchair out of the corner of his eye. She presses the automatic door button, waits for a few moments, then presses it again.

“God, you have got to be kidding me,” she mutters.

Peter walks away from the door he was about to use and heads over to her. He opens the door for her, propping it open so she can go inside ahead of him.

“Hey, thanks,” the woman says, wheeling herself through easily. She’s strong; Peter can see toned muscles moving smoothly beneath her shirt.

“Anytime,” Peter replies, holding the door open for her. “I guess the button’s broken.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. The mayor’s a notorious cheapskate.” She smiles at him, offering her hand. “I’m Barbara.”

Peter takes her hand. “Peter.”

For a moment, there’s a flash of recognition in her eyes. It passes quickly, and her smile becomes a touch more friendly. “What brings you to the library today?”

“Uh, getting a card and enrolling for school. You know. Before I commit a felony by existing outside of it.”

Barbara smirks, leading him over to the main desk. “It’ll take a few days to get your card–again, the mayor’s a cheapskate–but I can sign you in as my guest and help you get signed up. You can use my login on the computers.”

“Oh, that’d be awesome,” Peter says, walking beside her. She moves behind the desk and grabs a few forms for him to fill out, and he takes to his task eagerly. If nothing else, he can at least borrow a few books to pass the time at the firehouse.

“Here,” Barbara says, handing him her card. “Just plug it into one of the computers. It’ll unlock it for you.”

Peter takes it, a little surprised by how helpful she’s being, but he’s not going to look too hard into it. “Thanks, I won’t take long.”

Barbara hums in agreement, looking over the form he filled out. He leaves her to her task and heads to the nearest bank of computers. He drops into a seat, plugs the card in, and all but sighs in relief when the internet browser pops up. He would never describe himself as a screen addict, but he’d also be lying if he said he didn’t miss the internet at all since leaving Earth. His Earth, at least.

Time to start some research. He starts looking for articles about recent alien appearances (if the Guardians popped into existence, they’d definitely warrant a news story or three) or sightings of a strange man wearing a living cloak. He finds neither, which doesn’t surprise him, but it is disappointing.

So back to his original plan, then. Finding a school to go to.

He could try to enroll in a public school, but there’s a very good chance he won’t find the chemicals he needs for his web fluid there. Public schools tend to have much more stringent budgets for chemical compounds than Midtown, at least back in his universe, and his refined recipe requires a few of the less common ones. Looking at Gotham, there doesn’t seem to be a heavy focus on the sciences in any capacity in the public sector.

But there is a private school in town. Gotham Prep, where the city’s best, brightest, and richest children go. Peter can’t afford the tuition, but there are full ride scholarships. A few even come with stipends, but they require a bank account belonging to a parent. Peter sorely lacks both.

Well, he lacks both right now. Ned’s taught him a few tricks. Hacking into a banking system to create an account probably breaks several federal laws all at once, but whatever. The bank has laughably terrible security anyway. He’s inside their system within minutes–from a library computer, no less–and quietly appalled by how easy it is to create a fake account under Tony Stark’s name. He doesn’t want May’s name associated with this; it feels wrong to involve her in the seven felonies he’s currently committing and the two more that will soon follow. Tony probably wouldn’t mind.

He registers for an academic scholarship to Gotham Prep, one of the mid tier ones that offers one hundred dollars a week as well as tuition. It requires an entrance exam, but that’s not much of a hurdle. He can take the entrance exam easily enough, and it might even help calm his guilty conscience somewhat. The registration takes no time at all.

He can hear Tony’s voice in the back of his mind while he gets to work.

“If you ever have to steal, do it to a rich man. The old money kind like me. New money is obsessed with wealth and counts every dime they have. They’ll notice. Old money is so used to playing fast and loose with their budgets that they’ll never realize it’s a few thousand shorter than it should be. And if they find out about it, there’s even odds they’ll just be amused. Rich people crave new experiences, trust me.”

At the time, Peter had been deeply offended by the very idea of stealing something that doesn’t belong to him. Uncle Ben would never do that. That goes triple for Aunt May.

But he’s homeless, penniless, and close to helpless. He’ll make it up to Bruce somehow. Or at least leave a very apologetic letter somewhere for him to find. Given that Bruce Wayne is basically an airheaded version of Tony Stark, he may not even notice the money was stolen in the first place. Which would be ideal, since he’s using Barbara’s login to commit a few felonies right now.

Getting a PO box at a post office is easy enough. His first objective is completed within minutes, and it’s almost offensive how easy it is. He sets up a bank account under Tony’s name, using the PO box as an address, arranges for bank cards, and then does the most dangerous part: he hacks into Bruce Wayne’s bank account.

He doesn’t take much; only five hundred dollars. Enough to get him new clothes at a thrift shop, his new uniform (maybe a cocky move, but he’s never met an entrance exam he can’t pass), food, and a public transit pass. Plus a few extra things. Bruce probably won’t even notice it’s gone, honestly.

At least, he hopes so.

He makes sure to clean up after himself, masking his digital trail with tricks Ned taught him during their last hackathon. A genius cyber sleuth will notice the intrusion eventually, but the trail will be cold by then. They won’t  find him. And besides, how many genius hackers can Gotham possibly have?

Hopefully none.

He’d feel a lot better about this if Bruce Wayne turned out to be some massive asshole that kicks orphans through windows or something. He checks Twitter (which apparently exists, albeit with the old interface from the mid 2000s), half out of curiosity, half as a way to assuage his own guilt.

And finds utter nonsense.

Wonderful day out at Memorial Park! one tweet says, with quite possibly the most tilted picture of an old oak in existence.

A bird stole my phone! is the follow up to that.

Peter scrolls on.

And Alfred said I couldn’t cook. An image is attached to this one. The noodles look burned beyond all recognition. Peter is pretty sure Alfred isn’t paid enough to deal with this shit.

You know, it’s been too long since I’ve had a nice party with Wayne’s Girls! Throwing one this weekend. Invitations are being sent out today. 😉

Gross.

Dozens of tweets, all of them empty of meaning, most of them dull beyond comprehension. At first glance, Bruce Wayne is Tony Stark without a brain; nothing but parties, women, and selfies with celebrities. His company is under the control of a board, and he only occasionally stops in to check on it. He really hasn’t done anything with his life outside of the odd philanthropy fund. Which, well, isn’t nothing, but it could be a lot more.

Maybe Peter’s being overly judgemental and unfair in order to justify stealing from him.

Someone really should take away Bruce’s twitter privileges however. The man waxes poetic over a houseplant at least once a week, ending each one with #Metropolis for some reason.

“Catching up on celebrity gossip?” Barbara asks behind him. She peers over his shoulder. “Oh, Bruce Wayne. He’s a favorite of mine.”

“Why did he describe the sun shining on his houseplant for four tweets?” Peter asks. “Actually, how does he have thousands of likes for those tweets? How is he anybody’s favorite?”

“Bruce Wayne is an enigma in most things, but this? He’s doing it to tease a friend in Metropolis. And he’s something of an institution in Gotham,” she replies, grinning as if laughing at some private joke. “He grows on you.”

“So does fungus.” What the fuck is a Metropolis. That’s a place? They might as well have named it City. This universe is weird.

Barbara’s grin grows wider. “You might change your tune someday, Peter.”

“Doubtful,” Peter says, logging out. He stands up and stretches; if he hurries, he can reach the post office closest to the firehouse and pick up his key for the PO box. And then go to bed early; the entrance exam is tomorrow. “Thanks for letting me mooch off of you, Barbara.”

“Anytime, Peter. Don’t forget to come back for your card in a few days, okay?”

“I will! Thank you again!” Peter says with a casual wave.

He strolls towards the library exit, unaware of the puzzled, curious expression that crosses Barbara’s face when she logs into her own computer.

---

He sleeps terribly that night, his dreams flitting from one scene to another. He dreams of Titan, of waking up inside glass tubes, of death and failure. He dreams of a Stark Industries missile landing inside his living room when he’s very small. He dreams of a bomb exploding while his father(?) makes a speech. He dreams of a friend falling to his death, just out of reach. He hears people murmuring near him, around him, but he can’t make out their words. They sound alarmed.

“He can see our memories,” Dr. Strange says. It feels as though Peter flies past him at great speed.

More sights, sounds, words, and places flash by him. None of them are pleasant.

At the end of it, he lies face down in a pool of shallow water, in a place made of dingy, orange light.

Peter startles awake sometime before dawn, breathing hard, and covered in sweat. He runs a shaking hand down his face, getting his bearings. It’s early; he can hear distant gunshots (miles away), the buzz of the streetlights outside, and the all persistent drone of traffic. Nothing else. No voices.

He sighs, pushes himself up on his good hand, and goes to shower. The nightmares fade, but the vague unease they caused linger.

---

Showered, dressed, and mostly fed, Peter makes his way to the nearest subway station. And there’s where he runs into his first problem: how the hell is he going to get to the rich part of town?

Gotham’s subway system is a Lovecraftian nightmare knot of lines, transfers, and dead ends that don’t seem to follow any logical pattern whatsoever. The route to the library from the Bowery is straightforward. The route to the rich part of town is very much not, and the map is laughably unhelpful. And, for a bonus, half the lines are currently down for maintenance or renovations. He has no idea where to go, and no one nearby seems eager to help. The lady standing at the ticket booth looks ready to murder anyone who speaks to her and the nearby transit cops are people he avoids on principle. So he does the best thing he can think of.

He stands in front of the subway map and stares at it in blatant confusion. And, just like in New York, it works. An older man in a suit, wearing a tan overcoat, stops beside him. Everything about the man screams cop: from the flat haircut to the graying mustache and the way he carries himself. Not a beat cop, either. Someone higher up in the ranks.

“You lost, son?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah,” Peter says, wary of the man. His first experience with Gotham law enforcement hadn’t been a good one. “I’ve gotta get to Gotham Prep for an entrance exam but…uh.”

He gestures towards the map helplessly and the man chuckles.

“The subway’s a nightmare right now. Normally I’d say to take the W line, but it’s under repair. Your best bet is the J line, then grabbing a transfer over to the L.” He stops and checks his watch. “You know what, I’m headed that way anyway. Come on, I’ll show you.”

He turns and walks towards the nearest train. Peter looks at him, then back at the map, and shrugs. He might as well take his chances with this old guy. Peter follows him onto the train and grabs a handhold beside him.

“I’m James Gordon,” the man says.

“Peter,” Peter says. “Are the subways usually this, uh…”

“Trashed?” Gordon finishes. “No, not usually. There was a gas attack at the main transit hub. That’s why everything’s been out of service for so long. It takes a long time to decontaminate these things.”

“A gas attack?”

“Yeah, the Scarecrow finally made an appearance,” Gordon says, as if that should mean something to Peter. “Whatever his new formula is, it’s potent and he’s got a lot of it.”

“Oh,” Peter says. “I guess that’s what Nightwing was dealing with a few days back?”

“Nightwing’s been dealing with a lot. So has Red Robin, Signal, Black Bat, and Spoiler. They’ve all been working to the bone these days.”

Peter stares at him. “Exactly how many superheroes live in this city?”

“Too many and not enough,” Gordon says. The train pulls to a stop, Gordon checks his watch again. It’s an old analog watch, and one that’s seen years of use. “Come on. Your next train leaves in five minutes.”

They hurry off of the train, and Gordon guides him over to another terminal. “This one will take you straight there. It’s the next stop.”

“Right,” Peter says, looking around and committing the place to memory. He’s homeless, but he’d like to stay inside that firehouse if possible.

“Good luck on your exam, Peter.”

“Thanks, Mr. Gordon,” Peter says, jogging towards the benches. He can feel Gordon watching him for a few seconds before moving on.

Well, at least there’s one nice cop in Gotham, Peter thinks.

---

The train ride passes in a blur. The walk from the subway to Gotham Prep passes by in a similar manner. The buildings here are modern, gorgeous, and speak to a level of wealth he’ll never see in his life. He tries to walk like he belongs here, and isn’t sure he pulls it off.

Peter’s a bit out of place at the testing hall, but most of the kids here aren’t dressed any better than he is (thank god), so he doesn’t automatically stick out like a sore thumb. Most of the kids separate off into their own cliques and ignore him completely which suits him just fine. He ends up wandering into the testing hall early and sitting down. He’s been on his feet plenty enough for the past few days.

Soon enough, the tests are passed out along with a simple calculator, two pencils, and several sheets of scrap paper. Peter falls back into ‘school’ mode almost immediately, and finishes his test early. The only part that gives him trouble is History and Literature, which doesn’t surprise him. Those weren’t exactly his best subjects at Midtown, either.

An alarm goes off and one of the test proctors silences it. “All right, people! Pencils down, chairs back. Leave your tests where they are. We’ll pick them up. You’ll get a letter about the scholarship in a few days. Please, leave in an orderly fashion. Thank you.”

Murmurs and mumbling follow the announcement. Peter is quick to take his leave.

---

Two days later, a letter appears in the PO box address to himself and Tony. He pulls it out and opens it.

Inside is a brief letter:

Dear Mr. Parker,

I am pleased to award you the Thomas and Martha Wayne Scholarship Fund, which includes full tuition to Gotham Prep and an academic stipend of one hundred dollars a week. Your classes will begin on September 8, and you will be required to meet with a guidance counselor at least one week before to select your classes.

Congratulations!

-Bruce Wayne

The letter seems pretty boilerplate, but it’s a massive relief to Peter. He won’t starve for awhile yet, apparently.

It’s strange, though. Peter’s seen form letters before on Tony’s desk, and all of them have Tony’s signature printed at the bottom. This letter looks like it was signed by Bruce Wayne himself.

Odd.