Disclaimer: Characters and places belong to DC and MCU unless otherwise stated. Plot belongs to MarkTwainTwo (hi!).

Note: This is a short chapter. Consider it Prologue-ified.

Note #2: This story is also on Wattpad, where I go by KnockoutReader, but I'll likely update this more often.

-Peter-

If someone had told him, when he was thirteen, that in a few short days he'd get bitten by a spider and gain the ability to stick to walls, then lose his uncle and run across rooftops in his PJs, beating up drug dealers for fun, he'd have laughed in their face. Or, hid behind MJ and then quietly snicker at their obliviousness, because he was so shy back then he wouldn't beat up a mosquito for fear it would bite him.

But it happened.

If someone had told him, when he was fourteen, that in a few short weeks he'd meet Tony Stark, steal Captain-freaking-America's shield, save New York from being turned into lizards, and nearly get crushed under a building by his sort-of-girlfriend's dad, he'd have openly laughed in their face and maybe delivered them swiftly to a mental hospital.

But that, too, happened.

If someone told him, when he was fifteen, that in a few short months half the world would be nearly dusted, Tony Stark would die and he would save the world trying and failing to save said Stark, Quentin Beck would reveal his identity, Aunt May would die, and he'd have to get Doctor Strange to erase everyone's memories of him, and... well, at that point he'd probably give a short, unamused bark of laughter and try and mentally prepare himself. At that point, he'd be used to the fact that everyone (Gwen, Harry, everyone) he loved would die, but still hope otherwise.

Of course, all that also happened.

So, if someone told him, a few months before his sixteenth birthday, that he would be zapped by some bright light just after incapacitating an oddly-dressed character by the name of Bubbles, and promptly find himself going splat on concrete in an entirely different reality-

Well.

Just blame it on Parker Luck, he supposes.

-/-

Lights. Purple lights.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stark."

Dust. Everything- no, half of everything -dust.

"Kid-"

Black. No more lights, just black.

("I've got it," came from the end of a long tunnel.)

Farms. Wheat, corn, as far as the eye could see. For a second.

"-ook, there's Superman...!"

Buildings. Starting nice. Then... not.

"...and we've just got a report on another Arkham breakou-"

Crumbling. Not to dust, but everything was crumbling.

"Hey! No, please! I've only got ten-"

Sad. That was the only way to describe the people, the buildings, everything.

It all went by in a flash, but it slowed down.

Oh, hello ground.

Ow.

-/-

-Nightwing-

He'd been on his fifth round of the city, and getting bored. For the life of him, though, he couldn't remember why he'd decided Crime-Freaking-Alley would be a good choice to alleviate such boredom. It certainly wasn't boring at least, what with the muggers and vandalisms and fights every which way, plus the man that fell out of the sky.

...the man that fell out of the sky.

Nightwing nearly fell off a building with the surprise. The man hadn't been trying to... do anything on purpose, that much was clear. He'd come from much too high- above the tallest building for at least a block in any direction -to have jumped. It was as if he was a less-built Superman who changed his costume to a onesie and got rid of the cape, suddenly encountering a wall of Kryptonite and falling from the sky mid-flight.

It wasn't Superman, on closer inspection, or a weird mini-Superman-with-a-onesie either. This dude had a spider and web design on his onesie, and Nightwing was fairly certain that didn't mean anything in Kryptonian. Of course, this immediately brought on the worry that spider-pajama-superman-knockoff was dead, but upon even closer inspection the newcomer was still, in fact, breathing.

With a heavy sigh that came from nowhere and had Nightwing leaping back about ten feet, superman-knockoff pushed himself to his knees and promptly sat back, cross-legged and scowling, which Nightwing could somehow see even with the mask. "Ow," he declared. "That hurt."

"Are you okay?" Nightwing asked hesitantly, and could have smacked himself. Superman-knockoff fell out of the sky onto his face, why would he be okay?

But Superman-knockoff, after eyeing Nightwing critically, just groaned, "Yeah, just remind me next time I get pushed through a super-space wormhole to grab onto something that flies, wouldja?"

Nightwing blinked, and was about to respond with one of his many questions when Superman-knockoff did a double-take and looked at him again. The eyes of his mask widened almost comically. "Oh," he said, which Nightwing found was an understatement, but he also found that the only response he was capable of giving back was a startled, "Um..."

Superman-knockoff scrambled to his feet and looked up at the sky like a UFO might come and beam him up. Then he looked back at Nightwing. "Where am I?" he asked, very seriously, and Nightwing got the feeling he wasn't just asking about the street name.

"...Gotham city, in Crime Alley, why?" he said, slowly, as if talking to a toddler.

Maybe the man was a drunk meta.

Superman-knockoff sucked in a breath. "Okay, okay, okay," he said to himself. "I can deal with this. Just gotta contact Iron Man, let him know I'm alive... Wait, no, ohmygosh, this is bad. Okay Mr. Blue-Bat-Stick-Man, I'm sorry to drop in on you like this so I'll really just be going now bye!"

And before Nightwing could try to take THAT sentence apart (For one, Mr. Blue-Bat-Stick-Man? Seriously?), Superman-knockoff shot some sort of white grapple at a building and disappeared around a corner.

...Nightwing needed some sleep.