Peter 1

When I was sixteen, I was in the biggest battle of my life to date.

I had just blipped back into existence, Mr. Stark was gone, but Doctor Strange explained that we had been dust for five whole years.

He opened a portal and next thing I knew, I was swinging into a humongous lineup of heroes, facing against Thanos's evil alien army complete with leviathans, a few aliens that we had already killed, and a couple of hundreds of nasty space dogs.

Thanos was here for the gauntlet. Instead of wiping out half the population, he wanted to annihilate the entire universe to its last atom.

The next hour or so turned into a giant game of keep-away and hot potato.

Keep away because we were keeping the gauntlet away from Thanos and hot potato because whoever had the gauntlet was suddenly a target from all of the biggest, baddest, nastiest aliens ever.

Black Panther had the gauntlet at one point. He was getting swarmed, so I snatched it out of his hands and raced across the battlefield, while all these aliens came after me.

Next thing I knew, I was the one getting swarmed by all the space dogs.

I was running out of options. In my hands was the most powerful object in the universe. If I didn't act quickly, I would get killed and trillions more would die.

So what did I do?

Activated instant kill and started stabbing like my life depended on it.

I did it without hesitation.

Spider-Man doesn't kill people. That's not what we do.

But it happens sometimes and it weighs down on our conscience until we think we're gonna blow.

To me, these were just mindless aliens who were henchmen for a crazy alien.

My kill count was piling up, but at least the gauntlet was safe.

Now it was so much harder.

I had thought I saw the ugly side of war. I had been in one after all. I saw people die. I saw my life flash before my eyes. I thought I was prepared.

The war against Thanos was people against aliens.

This war was people against people.

And I hated it.

We were ambushed on our march.

The Nazis came from the trees with their machine guns and tanks.

Soon, a quiet, country road morphed into a ravaged battlefield.

Screams of men mingled with explosions and gunfire.

If you hear guns going off for a certain amount of time, you discover a rhythm to it.

Tat-tat-tat-tat.

The guy next to me goes down.

Tat-tat-tat-tat.

I pull him into a ditch.

Tat-tat-tat-tat.

He pulls out a cross. His lips move, but I can't hear him.

He closes his eyes with an expression of pain mixed with peace.

Tat-tat-tat-tat.

Someone drags me away. I was back on the field.

A grenade lands nearby. It goes off like a firecracker.

I land on my stomach while commands and explosions whirl around me.

"Retreat!"

"Fall back!"

"Get a medic!"

I can't tell who's shouting what. Everything's masked by smoke.

A higher-ranking officer yanks me to my feet.

"You idiot! Start shooting!"

Spider-Man doesn't kill. We never liked guns for that reason.

With punching, kicking, and webbing people up, you protect yourself. With guns, it's a little more final.

But if I didn't like guns, then why did I have a standard-issue pistol in a holster at my hip and a rifle slung across my shoulder?

I didn't want to kill.

I wasn't here to kill Nazis. I was here to fight for my country and try to save the multiverse at the same time.

Then again, fighting can involve killing.

So I took my rifle in my hands. Loaded the cartridges like they taught us in bootcamp and began to shoot.

I'm not shooting to kill. I'm firing aimlessly.

I'm losing track of time. I'm losing sense of where I am.

A shout brings me to my senses sort of.

"Peter!"

Peter 2 and 3 dash over to me.

"We're retreating! We have to get out of here!" one of them says.

"Get down!"

I'm not sure who says that, but a nearby bomb goes off, we fall into a ditch.

When we come to, it's too late.

Our guys are long gone.

Huge panzer tanks screech across the ground.

Nazi soldiers surround us, pointing guns at us, screaming commands in German.

We put our hands up. Our weapons are taken away.

We're forced into a long line of other American soldiers.

Prisoners of War. That's what we are now.

In a low voice, Peter 2 tells us to stay close.

We're told to march. So we do.

With enemy soldiers and metal tanks never out of sight.

With our hands high up in the air until our arms lose feeling.

We aren't given any food or rest for hours upon hours.

Wounded men pass out. Some are prodded back onto their feet. Others are left behind.

You can tell who the stronger ones are.

They're the ones that end up at the front of the line of weary soldiers.

They're the ones that are holding up others.

They're the ones that still have the guts and energy to look at the new Hydra soldiers in their masked eyes and say, "Well, that was fun." after at least twenty-four hours of walking.

Those are us Peters.

It gets one of us a punch to the face.

After a few days in a packed cell with other POW's, we get taken to a lab.

They saw our endurance. They saw our strength. They have questions.

Pain. Inexplicable Pain.

The long walk to the prison camp was awful, but it was a walk in Central Park compared to this. I grip onto the operation table so hard that it crushes the metal.

The scientist with glasses nods and scrawls notes on his clipboard like I'm some kind of lab rat.

His eyes wander to both Peters, who are bound on other cold, metal tables, writhing in pain and shrieking at the same ear-splitting pitch I am.

Earlier, they were checking our vitals and stuff like that. Innocent doctor's check-ups. Now we were their test guinea pigs.

My screams are swallowed up by the piece of plastic they shoved in my mouth to keep me from biting off my own tongue.

At this point, I'm ready to bite it off if it'll make the pain go away. I've been screaming so much, my vocal chords are ready to crack.

Tears streak down my soot-covered face as I look to the Hydra scientist, begging for mercy.

Just as I'm ready to give out, it fades away like a big machine powering down. That was the scientist cutting off the supply of liquid being forced into my blood via IV.

My screams turn to groans.

"Yes." says the scientist, scrawling down more notes. He glances at another researcher. "The same dosage as before, but this time, add in pervitin. I want to see how they react on little sleep."

Whatever he injected in my arm is replaced with anger.

I ball up my fists and strain my muscles until the shackles snap.

I pounce on top of the scientist, ready to break his nose and blacken both eyes.

I had never been this hungry or savage since Norman Osbourne.

Both times, I was sleep deprived and broken. A deadly combination.

But the more sane, reasonable part of my brain kicks in.

I've seen this guy's face before….in a museum….suddenly, it clicks.

This scientist is Dr. Arnim Zola, a Hydra scientist that would later work for SHIELD.

"What did you put in us?" I seethe.

Two guards tear me away before I can get my answer.

Dr. Zola is helped to his feet. He straightens his tie.

"That is none of your concern…."

He pauses to read my dog tag still dangling from my neck.

"Private Holland." he reads.

"Leave them out of this." Peter 2 pleads. They took his plastic mouthpiece out. "You'll get better results out of me, whatever it is you're doing."

"Are you mad?" Dr. Zola says with a cruel smile. "With three subjects, I'll be able to compare different drugs and treatments." He turns to an assistant. "As I said before, add pervitin. And tighten the younger one's bonds. He's a fighter."

I'm strapped down again and the shindig of fury resumes.

Three days.

That's how long they kept us awake with some kind of drug.

Three painful days.

Seventy-two hours of being tested, injected, getting blood drawn, and laying there, feeling like you just downed ten cans of Red Bull. All while they inject more drugs into you.

Eventually, they forced nasty ration porridge down our throats and sent us into a private whatever drugs they gave us had finally worn off.

Two guards locked the door and finally, we were alone.

Peter 2 gave a tired sigh.

"Peter?" he said. "I don't feel so good…"

Peter's knees gave out from under him.

I caught him before he hit the floor.

I looked to Peter 3 for help. He shook his head wearily.

"Sorry, Pete. I need to help you. I want to help you. But they just pushed me to the breaking point…."

He collapsed on the ground, asleep. Poor guy. We had been pushed to the breaking point. I was ready to give out. The promise of a dreamless sleep called out to me. The gnawing pain in my stomach reminded me that after everything that happened, I deserved it.

But Peter 2 needed my help.

I thought I could just set him down, but he was still kind of conscious and the floor was filthy.

I had always looked up to the other Peters. They were the versions of me with more experience under their belts. Something I could aspire to become.

But I was holding Peter 2 like he was the kid and I was the adult.

The cell was bathed in cold moonlight that streamed in from the prison bars.

Peter 2's blue eyes were vacant.

Something in them showed that he had given up. Something in his face said, they sucked every piece of life out of me.

And then the next thing he said confirmed my fears.

"Peter, remind me what we did before we enlisted?"

My heart quickened. He forgot? How could he forget? How much did he forget?

I hoped he was just playing. So I waited for him to add something to it. Maybe a quip or a dry complaint.

But he didn't say anything.

He couldn't forget. If he forgot, that meant Zola and his cronies scarred his soul in a way that no one could fix.

And if Peter 2 was so badly damaged, how could I keep going?

"Hey," I tried to smile, hoping for the last time that it was a joke. "You remember, don't you?"

"Just…jog my memory."

I held him tighter, cradling him like a baby. I looked up, hoping that someone could help me. But no one was there. The only person that could help Peter 2 was me.

"You're Spider-Man. You, me, Peter 3, we're all Spider-Man. We're all Peter Parker. Maguire is just an alias."

A smile spread across his face.

"Spider-Man….Yeah…."

"See? You remember. We're all from the future. Us Peters, Wanda, Strange, Loki…."

That was the last straw for me.

I broke down and cried. No way were the guards going to have the pleasure of knowing I was hurt, so I muffled my sobs in Peter 2's chest.

I wasn't just upset that we were in prison.

These were all the tears I had hidden deep inside of me for months and they were coming out.

This felt too similar to when Aunt May died. I was holding another loved one as they were slowly giving out.

"Will you be okay?" Peter 2 asked, looking at me, concerned.

I looked at him with red eyes.

"I don't know." I whispered.

Maybe Peter wasn't giving up. But I was ready to. I was ready to lose all hope.

Luckily, he spoke up.

"Tell me about Mom."

"What?" I said, choking on tears.

He still had a sleepy smile.

"Your Mom. My Mom. Our mother. Is she named Mary too?"

I forced a nod, not sure why he was talking about this.

"Yeah-Yeah. Her name was Mary Fitzgerald Parker."

"And our Dad was named Richard."

He must've been so drained and confused that he couldn't get our parents straight.

"No, Peter." I corrected him. "We have different Dads."

He changed the subject.

"Did I ever tell you I've always wanted brothers?"

I smiled.

"Peter 3 said that, you know."

But I had always wanted brothers too. Someone to watch cartoons with, someone to build lego sets with, someone to talk to.

Ned had filled that vacant space, but it just wasn't the same.

"But it never happened." Peter 2 added. "Mom and Dad…"

"They didn't live long enough." I finished for him. Tears were rolling down my face. "They were killed."

"She was an angel." Peter muttered sleepily.

I nodded. "She was."

A wave of memories rushed through me.

Mom measuring my height, telling me how tall I was getting. Mom packing lunch for me. Mom and Dad reading science picture books to me at bedtime.

They were my world.

I've heard people say that after Thanos's snapped, it felt impossible for half the world to disappear within seconds.

It wasn't impossible. Years earlier, my entire world had died within minutes. No halves about it.

Peter 3 had woken up.

He crawled over to us.

"They were both amazing."

The cold night air gave him a sickly rasp.

He laid a frail arm on our shoulders.

I put my arms around them.

"You guys are my best friends." Peter 3 said, smiling. "The best friends in the world."

"The best friends in the multiverse." Peter 2 added.

"No." I squeezed them tightly. "We're brothers, guys." Okay? We're all we have left. So don't go out on me."

The two Peters were keeping me up emotionally. I was supporting them physically.

Peter 2 let out a wheezy laugh.

"No chance of that, Pete."

Ever since the mind-wiping spell, I had been so used to carrying alone. When I went with Dr. Strange and the others on this crazy mission, I wasn't ready to believe that I wasn't alone anymore. Because I was bracing myself for when everyone had to go their separate ways. Or worse, when someone would get killed.

But today, on the darkest day since we left, I realized I wasn't alone.

I had never been alone. I had my two best friends, no, my brothers beside me.

It would be alright.

Thanks for reading! Constructive feedback and reviews are appreciated.

Happy Halloween if you live in the United States.