Robbie Robertson had seen things. There wasn't much in the world that could faze him anymore—nothing short of the most horrific acts of violence that only minds of exceptional moral turpitude would dare to conceive could even make him flinch. This remains true to this day, and likely would until the end of his life. It was his own sort of press badge; a way to distinguish himself from the shallow and callow reporters of the latter information age.
Whenever these young reporters inquired as to his composure, they always made the assumption that he had only amassed this sort of experience in New York City. It was a strange place, full of miracles and strife, most especially in the last few years. Surely this was where he had made those sometimes wonderful, often haunting discoveries.
Yes, there were great beauties and horrors in the city that never sleeps, but Robbie would always tell them that it wasn't just the city.
The truth was, there was nothing the man had seen in his time reporting in New York that he can say he'd never seen or thought couldn't occur elsewhere. And, while he hasn't had near enough experience with the supernatural and extraterrestrial, he'd wager that the same goes for the rest of the universe. This was, empirically, the way things just seemed to work. Whether it was desperate men climbing over desperate men, halting progress for the tantalizing lure of the dollar, or just plain old human cruelty, bad things happened everywhere.
So no, the bad things weren't what made New York special. They never would be, even on a day like this.
It's Tuesday, May fifteenth. 'SPIDERMAN' trends on social media. A video is viewed and shared a million times over. Robbie Robertson had seen things. He could unsee them too, with time. But he might never forget the sound.
The Daily Bugle was caught in a state of disarray not seen in decades; a dissonant din of gossip and terror made its way through the room like a disease. Jameson yells something about printing a retraction in Betty's ear and Hoffman's at his desk, trying to come up with a witty headline.' Robbie feels for the kids. Spider-Man saved their lives not six weeks ago, all of them. To do this, to swarm on such a tragedy like the rapacious vultures they were, felt distinctly and viscerally wrong.
"Does anyone have a name?" someone says. Robbie can't quite tell who.
"On the body or the asshole in the coat?"
"They're still ID'ing the body," replies Betty, voice tremulous, choking back something fierce.
"They took him to Mount Sinai and are just—I don't know. I can't. I can't."
Jonah stomps about the room, red in the face, feigning indifference as Betty retreats to the restroom. Robbie can tell he's hurting, always able to read the subtle changes in his expression from years of peering over his shoulder. Jameson gets to work yelling, "Goddamnit, we need a name! We can't publish without a friggin' name!"
"We got something. We got it. His name's—"
"And for God's sake, can someone call Parker for pictures!"
"—Peter Parker. His name was Peter Parker."
C'mon, Pete. You're tough. Tougher than this. You're Spider-Man. Big-time superhero, remember?
You've beaten worse, and worse has beaten you. Get on up. Just work through the pain and fight back.
C'mon, Pete. You're tough. Tougher than
what?
You've beaten worse, and worse has beaten... You… Where are you? Where am I? Where am I? Where am I?
Oh my God! Ohmigodohmigod! Why can't I open my eyes? Did someone take my eyes? I'm going to throw up. I can't feel my stomach. Oh God.
What happened? Am I still
"He'll be fine."
"You're sure?"
Who is that?! Who are you?!
"'course. It's the least we can do."
"So you just expect them to—"
"He deserves this."
Please! Please just—just listen to me. I can hear you, why can't you hear me? I'm scared. I don't know what to do. I can't feel anything. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Ple
Peter Parker wakes with a start. The sun renders him briefly blind and for a second he honest to goodness thinks it's the light of his bedroom lamp that he must have left on before sleeping. Any illusions of that being true were crushed when all he felt beneath him was damp concrete. His blurry vision clears and his hearing returns, and it's only then that he hears his ragged breathing.
Then he finds that he's still wearing his costume, and that's a whole other issue.
Now, this wasn't the first time he's been in a situation like this; rarely did he ever wake up with his mask still on, but it was a relief on the few occasions he happened to. Though it often meant something far worse was yet to come, and he wasn't exactly prepared for anything right now.
Peter gets his bearings and takes stock of his surroundings; buildings, fire escapes, grimey trash cans with Asian characters decorating them. The sun hangs overhead so it must be around midday, and the muted sounds of chattering citizens and car horns told him he must be in the city.
"Oy," he groans, standing to full height, a strange fatigue making his blood run like wet cement. Every movement is uncharacteristically labored, and he can't help but wonder just what he must have been doing the night before to put him in such a state.
Peter thinks aloud, "Ugh, must've gotten hit with something heavy last night. A truck? The Rhino? Fisk's left thigh? God, gross. Why'd I even think that last one?" Grimacing, he tilts his head down to examine his costume. It was nothing out of the ordinary; the frayed tears and bloodstains that often decorated it after a hard-fought battle were nowhere to be seen. Instead, the usual amateur stitching and web pattern decorated the red of his costume, with the once bright blue still darkened by slumming it with supervillains in the filthiest places no citizen of New York would venture to for money. His lenses weren't even cracked.
Eventually, he makes it to the end of the alley, breaching the threshold into the streets of the city. Soon he finds it's not the city at all.
Well, not his city. Peter had swung over and around New York enough to recognize the littlest things. Made it easier to travel without a GPS tracking his erratic and unnatural movement or having to look at street signs and maps while he's racing downtown to apprehend whatever villain of the week it was. The subtlest details in the brickwork, the frequency of businesses as opposed to residential buildings—it was sort of a requirement, all things considered.
Wherever this is, it wasn't Manhattan. Hell, it wasn't even Staten Island, and he's only been there once. And that was almost a more unpleasant experience than whatever this was.
The yet unnamed city he's found himself in is one very much like New York. Similar enough in the way of architecture, with very obvious differences in its arrangement. The skyscrapers didn't desperately stretch to the skies, but the buildings he could see stood tall enough to call it a metropolis. There was a train system, electricity, signs with characters he couldn't even begin to understand, and billboards with colorful figures so unlike anything he's seen before. A guy with a wooden face, some broad-chested blonde fellow that smiles with too many teeth, a cowboy. They looked like characters meant to be plastered on the side of a cereal box, which they might as well have been given the products they seemed to be advertising.
"Wish I had a Cairn Terrier to whisper to," he says, ambling into the crowded sidewalk full of strange faces, most of which didn't even bat an eye at his appearance. "Or a yellow brick road to follow."
Peter moves with the crowd for a minute, trying to get a sense of things. He supposed wherever this was, it wasn't anywhere hostile to people like him, given some of the oddball things he's spotted in the brief time he's been walking. People with green skin, horns, sixteen differently colored eyes, and too-long nails walking around freely, bearing those features that would get them yelled off the street back home.
It's a good sign, in a way, but it doesn't exactly help his situation. Plus, no one around seemed to speak any sort of English, so it wasn't like approaching anyone he saw at random and hoping they were bilingual was the best use of his time.
Regardless of all that, he finds that his web shooters are loaded and blessedly functional. In one fluid motion, followed by mildly surprised gasps from the crowd, he takes to the air and scurries up the facade of a building. Then, bouncing off a light post, Peter pivots on his hand in a half-circle and fires a web at something that'll hold.
"Alright, let's get some air and see what else is around. Hope someone down there's recording." With incredible balance and amazing agility, he glides over the streets of this strange city like he's lived in it his whole life. Another web is fired, latching onto a water tower and carrying him swiftly forward. "Maybe good ol' Fury'll catch me on his timeline and send for someone to take my handsome heinie back home. And then he can explain how the heck I even got here."
The question ate away at him as he swung; what happened?
"Alright Pete, let's retrace your steps. Yesterday you woke up, had a small breakfast. Aunt May salted the eggs just a little bit too much," murmurs Peter, ricocheting off some rooftop railing before firing a web again. "You tried taking the bus to class, QM12. It was crowded, morning rush. Then about three stops in—just your luck—some total yutz who was stupid enough to cover himself in molten metal was causing a roadblock. You go in, do your thing, get whisked all the way to the Bronx before conking the guy hard enough on the head for him to go night-night, and arrive to class late. And have to change in the nurse's office
"Third period. You get there just in time to hear Mr. Harrington send Kong to the principal's office for saying something gross or whatever. You're late, yadda yadda. Detention. Liz got real kvetchy about you missing debate club again, but whatever. Soon as you're in there, MJ texts you about something weird happening down in Bryant Park… Yeah. Bryant right? Sneak out when Harrington's napping and she gives you the extra costume she keeps in her bag—the one you're wearing. Standard procedure.
"I… I offered to swing her close by so she wouldn't have to take the train. So she could… Watch? Watch me do what? Right, the weird guy. The guy in the…"
He fires another web…
"The guy in the coat."
Yet he loses his grip.
Spider-Man deftly lands on some nondescript apartment complex, almost desperately tearing his mask off and resting his hand on his forehead.
The guy in the coat. The one with the—the eyes. His eyes were yellow. Why were they yellow? You… I hit him but he just wouldn't budge. He told me I was going to die like the rest of them and—and I didn't know what he meant. I was scared.
The boy's legs quiver and give out under him. Some great, ineffable weight bears down on him, and he holds his head in both hands as some feeble attempt to shield himself from something terrible.
Hit me so hard I couldn't breathe. Too fast. Too much. I called him a goth and he just hit me harder and… And I couldn't get up. God, I saw her in the park. MJ was watching and I just couldn't get up.
Despite his best efforts, a sob manages to escape. Then another. Memories flood into his mind and are washed out as tears stream down his cheeks, dampening the collar of his costume.
And he grabbed me. He grabbed me and choked me and said—he said my name. He called me Peter and he…
He was killed. Neck pathetically snapped, gurgling vomit or blood or whatever else, forced to stare into a crowd of terrified New Yorkers, unable to fight back. The tall man bit into his neck and everything became so weightless and fuzzy and dark. Peter has to wonder, did he try to forget? Did he want to forget? Now he's hyperventilating. Peter's head is spinning and he might just faint if he doesn't get himself together right this instant.
In lieu of fainting, he vomits. This is especially unusual because he's sure he didn't have anything in his stomach to empty in the first place.
Peter stays still for a long, long time. The sun falls to the westward horizon and the spew bakes and dries in the heat and light. Laid there, unbothered by the foul smell and the discomfort of the concrete rooftop floor.
It takes a lot to process the fact that he's dead. He'd always known it might happen someday. Whether it was Fisk or Eddie or even Electro; any one of them would've done it months ago given the chance. On eerily quiet and lonely nights, he imagined what would happen in the immediate aftermath. What the world would look like without Peter Parker. Without Spider-Man.
Aunt May, bereaved as she already was at the loss of her husband, might never really recover. Not after something like this. Not after learning he lied to her face for months and put himself in danger for nothing. Maybe her heart would give out or she'd simply live in solitude for the rest of her days; the sweetest woman in the world forgotten as soon as the press stopped picking at her nephew's corpse. It pained him to no end.
Mary Jane would grieve, certainly. She'd be the first person everyone at school talks to about that weirdo Parker and they would ask if she knew he was Spider-Man. They might ask her to write some kind of speech to give at some half-baked assembly where everyone who ever asked him for Algebra homework might pretend he was friends with them once.
Jameson might get a laugh out of it. Who would have thought that the kid he got to take mediocre photos for dirt pay was being slandered on the news using those very pictures? Peter thinks he might find some way to procure his camera as some sort of sick trophy. A final victory over 'that Wall-Crawling Menace' or whatever derisive sobriquet he might come up with that day.
The thought makes him angry. No, more than angry—it infuriates him. It's a rage that burns fast and hot, the kindling being the image of Jameson's hideously smug grin and the proclamation that the city was saved because Spider-Man was gone. The thought makes him involuntarily clench his fist until he feels the seams in his glove stretch and tear. That feeling gives him pause.
The anger, his heartbeat, the texture of the ground under him. All of it is so real. So familiar and tactile. This wasn't an illusion from Mysterio or some kind of hallucination made by his dying mind, it can't be. He's hungry and angry and incredibly dizzy but that means he's alive! Peter Parker's a living, breathing person after all!
"Ha!" Spider-Man hops to his feet, quick and nimble as ever, and cheers. "I'm not dead! I mean, I totally don't know what I am, but I know it isn't dead! Haha!" Not even bothering to slip his mask back on, he somersaults like an acrobat off a trapeze straight off the side of the building, letting gravity do its work. The wind in his hair, the sibilant sound of it pushing against his body, whooshing against his ears, and the breathless feeling of falling just like he had experienced so many times was more evidence supporting his hypothesis: he was alive!
Spider-Man fires another gossamer line, the web going taut just two yards before he impacts the ground. Gasps and what he can only assume are curses are heard from below, but he pays them no mind. For now, he escapes into the light-studded dark of the city.
"Alright, I'm alive! Obviously." Peter lands, perching up on a water tower and surveying the streets. "But I'm not in New York, obviously! Or anywhere on Earth, because I'm pretty sure I'd have heard about a place like this if it existed. Either I'm dead and this is Heaven which… Nah. Heaven would not lack a Wendy's. I mean, if they know what's good for them. But this obviously isn't the U.S. given, well, everything. And if it isn't Earth then it sure looks and feels enough like it. Which might mean… Well, it might mean I'm on a whole different Earth."
He'd read a few papers on this sort of thing, but nothing substantial enough for him to know what to do if he ever found himself in a situation like this. Reed Richards would have probably built a way home with scrap metal from that trash can in the alleyway by now, but Peter was still a high schooler. One with a proclivity for an exceptionally comprehensive understanding of the sciences, yes, but ultimately a precocious fifteen-year-old fresh sophomore.
It occurred to him, however, that someone on this Earth might just know how to get him home. And if he's lucky, it's a parallel world with its very own Reed Richards. As far as he was concerned, a scientific community without the top mind in theoretical physics is no scientific community worth addressing.
"I can't exactly throw together an interdimensional transporter, but I can find someone who can do it for me. I mean, if they'll believe me. Someone'll have to, right?" Pacing down the side of the tower, impossibly balanced horizontally on a beam, Spider-Man looks pensive. It also occurs to him that this must be a bizarre sight, especially without his mask on, but he can't find it in himself to care.
"Peter Parker wouldn't have any birth records or photos or—anything! I don't exist here. They'd sort of have to believe me. Soon as I find someone that I can communicate with… Well, that's assuming anyone speaks English here. Oh man, does New York even exist? I didn't consider that. Different world, different history," he says, performing an almost perfunctory flip onto a nearby fire escape, "different everything! There might not even be an America! Which, y'know, not the worst thing for everyone here, but pretty bad for third-wave ska musicians."
He stops, gazing off into the expanse of the city. It had never really occurred to him until now, but he'd never been anywhere but New York. Uncle Ben and Aunt May weren't typically the vacationing types, and it wasn't like they could ever afford it. There's a part of him that wishes he'd kept his camera on his person, just so he could show the photos to May or Mary once he got home.
"And, uhm, me. Pretty bad for me." Shoulders slumping, he dips his head down and closes his eyes, dejected.
The sound of patrol car sirens breaks Spider-Man from his doleful doldrums, as it always does. Whirling his head around towards the sound, he catches sight of the flashing red and blue lights from the city streets below, quickly moving further and further away at a high speed. Then another comes on, louder and closer, heading in the same direction. Another two follow, and it's then that Peter puts two and two together.
"Huh, guess Robbie was right," he sighs, almost wistfully. After reflexively pulling his mask over his face, Peter propels himself into the air and fires a webline, swinging in hot pursuit of danger and excitement. "It's really no different anywhere you look."
Within a dense perimeter of panicked police officers around a public square was a man with coral pink skin, matching slick back hair, and sharp, chiseled features. He stood just around seven feet tall by Peter's reckoning and sported deltoids so large and positively turgid they put football shoulder pads to shame. His costume, if Peter could call it that, looked about as silly as his shoulders, with a bright orange line that stretched from his groin to his collar decorating a yellow bodysuit that stretched and strained against the size of his muscles.
From his point of espial high atop a nearby building, Spider-Man is incredulous. Civilians remain dangerously close to the scene like they were watching a public performance, sitting in an amphitheater. It was bizarre, to say the least.
Okay, it can be at least a little different, he thinks, watching it all unfold before him. The police force seems to function almost identically to those of his home dimension—anthropomorphic toad people aside—and seems to be equally as ineffectual when it came to handling superhuman threats. One got in a bit closer, pulled a megaphone, and started saying something Peter couldn't hope to understand, though some words seemed vaguely familiar. And is that… Japanese? Yeah! Wasn't paying much attention to what people were saying earlier but that's totally Japanese. Thank you Liz Allen for watching those funny cartoons in the rec center so much.
The villain took a step forward after the officer stopped speaking, looking fiercer than before. The police force seemed fearful but stood steadfast in his way.
Hoped he was as harmless as he looked. But, given their reactions, that doesn't seem to be—
Every muscle in Peter's body tenses at the feeling of his Spider-Sense prodding at the edges of his mind. Just then, the villain runs his foot across the pavement like a bull, ready to charge. The police look concerned, and before Spider-Man can even think to move the villain breaks into a mad sprint, levering out stone and bricks in his path by sheer force and speed. He twists, charging with his left shoulder in front of him, and bursts through the officers' defenses, sending cars and barricades flying alongside stone and raised dust. Civilians scramble out of the way, fortunately creating enough distance between themselves and the danger before Peter has to step in.
When the villain's done, there is bedlam and fire left in his wake. The battered car bodies and bent frames are strewn about the street, and the few officers that haven't cowered in fear have begun opening fire. But the volley of bullets doesn't so much as make the man flinch, much less stop him; they fragment and flatten and fall at his feet.
He smirks, taking heavy steps towards the trembling troopers. Swiping his foot across the ground yet again, he leans forward and prepares to charge…
"So are you supposed to be like a supervillain?"
Before none other than Spider-Man arrives with an earth-shattering kick to the head!
His entrance is a flourish, combining his incredible speed, acrobatics and web-swinging skills such that it seemed as though he appeared from thin air! The villain goes tumbling to the ground, nursing an ache in his jaw that would not heal for another week at most, and turns to face his assailant.
"I mean, as far as supervillains go, you're the least subtle I've ever met." Spider-Man lands crouched, braced and ready to move at the first sign of danger. "And man, have I seen some whackos. But as far as superpowered numbskulls with no fashion sense go, you're definitely the funniest looking."
The villain replies in Japanese, and Peter remembers where he is. Or rather, where he isn't.
"Right, language barrier," Spider-Man says, watching as the villain stands and prepares to charge yet again. "Never learned to filibuster in another language. I'd ask an interpreter to step outta the crowd for me but I'm just afraid someone'll bite."
Huffing, the villain swipes his foot on the pavement again and makes a mad dash for the masked hero. But Spider-Man's too quick and too nimble, leaping over and around the lunging lawbreaker with superhuman grace and finesse. And though the hero is out of trouble, the citizens crowding around them certainly weren't!
"Olé! Hey so, I'm kinda running on fumes, so do yourself a favor." Spider-Man fires a blast of webbing, covering enough surface area to latch onto the fleeing villain's entire back and chest, and with his other hand he creates a short but resilient line clinging to the pavement. "Pull the brakes on this—"
The man was slowed momentarily, but quickly began gaining speed despite the webs wrapping around his torso. A chunk of the ground is plucked from the street like a flower, and both it and Spider-Man go sailing off behind the criminal, faster and faster down the one-way street and further away from the terrified faces of the civilians.
"Pal, I am working on an empty stomach here! I did not want to have to give you the ol' one-two! But here it is! The ol' one-two! Coming in—hng! Just one second!" With his incredible spider-strength, he swings the hunk of rock right into the man's side. But it was to no effect, the stone shattering on impact with his massive bicep.
Grunting, Spider-Man's mind raced for a solution. As cars swerved out of the way and officers scrambled to create an opening that the villain could tear through without hurting a soul, Peter was haplessly ragdolled down the street, still clinging steadfast to his web like it was the last tangible thing in the world. After a minute of this, the proverbial lightbulb came to life. But his victory would come at a cost.
Twisting his body around, he turns his chest towards the sky and drives his right foot into the asphalt street, immediately feeling the earth shatter, then his left. Both appendages tore through the rock and acted as anchors almost instantly achieving the desired result. The villain was brought to a terribly abrupt halt, so much so that the momentum sends his legs flying forward and out from under him.
"Football gag." With all of his might, Spider-Man swings the villain overhead in an arch, yanking him right back down face-first into the street. The impact makes a startling noise—that of pavement cracking against what would certainly be some terribly shattered ribs. "Gets'em every time."
The adrenaline fades away, and in its wake comes the inevitable pain. Driving both feet into solid rock while being dragged at right around seventy miles per hour down the street may not have been the most painless option, but it was the first one that came to mind. Slowly, he pulls his trembling limbs from the ground and, miraculously, manages to keep standing.
Never doing that again. I can feel my achilles tendon packing its bags and drafting a goodbye letter. Stupid, Pete. Very very stupid.
Hearing the villain groan from his place embedded in the street brought Peter some relief. Had he misjudged just how much punishment the man could take, things might have gone terribly wrong. At least now he hoped the authorities wouldn't try to shoot at him as much. Though he had to wonder if they even would; as far as he could gather, anti-mutant sentiments didn't seem to exist. He could only hope they weren't anti-superhero, either.
Soon, a crowd of officers and civilians alike gathered around the site where the villain was thwarted. Though his desire was to take to the rooftops out of any potential threat of harm or arrest, he chose to stay and gauge what the people of this world were all about. Given his past experience, it came as a shock when the gathered civilians started to clap and cheer for him, lavishing him with praise he couldn't understand. The police, however, gave him more than a few funny looks as they loaded the villain into an armored truck, but didn't seem to make any advances.
Turning to the crowd, he starts, "Uhm, hello? Does—Does anyone here speak English? Anyone at all? Or have an ice pack on hand?"
He receives no helpful response. They only smile and chatter amongst themselves, a few snapping unsolicited photos of him as he stands there and bristles at the lack of cooperation. Not that he hadn't just made a spectacle of himself, but Spider-Man isn't particularly partial to being treated like a spectacle. Especially by a crowd of people he couldn't understand. The self-conscious part of him wondered if they were mocking an embarrassing tear in his costume he hadn't yet noticed.
While Spider-Man poses before the public gallery, someone approaches from behind; Peter catches it when he notices the crowd turning their attention to something else. Looking over his shoulder, he descries two colorful characters who he could only assume were a pair of this world's very own superheroes. Turning on his heel, slow so as to indicate he had no intention of retreating, he measures up these two supposed heroes to see what they're all about.
One he recognized, albeit vaguely: the hero with the wooden helmet and the wooden arms and wooden shoes to boot. The other, a blonde woman in a purple and beige bodysuit, who seemed to be grousing about something or other to her quietly solemn colleague. They stalk towards him with a purpose that makes Peter question his decision to stick around, and the crowd's cheers increase in volume at their arrival. Whoever they were, they were big time, and Spider-Man wasn't sure if that was a good thing anymore.
The man with the wooden helmet says something that Peter can't quite parse as inquisitive or authoritative. His tone is stiff, but lively, each word spoken like he was reciting a creed. He concludes with a cursory nod, as though acknowledging something Peter had no idea of, and ceases. Though his gaze did not break from Spider-Man's mask, it was a moment later that Peter realized the man was awaiting a reply.
"Oh, I don't speak the language," Peter admits, eliciting mildly surprised looks from both costumed crusaders. Supposing that meant they at least got the message, he continues,"Like, at all. Not even a little bit. None of what you just said got through to me."
"Excuse me," a voice says, the three turning to the source. Before them stood a man in a police ensemble with an orange tabby cat's head and a little bell around his neck. Were this not one of the most bizarre and bewildering sights Spider-Man had ever laid eyes upon, he might call it adorable. "I can interpret for you, sir."
The cat and the wooden hero exchange a few words. The blonde lady makes a few inscrutable faces at Peter, though he soon gathered that she was using the reflection in his mask's lenses to check her make-up.
This is the craziest, most whacko place ever. I'd say I was dreaming but I don't think I'm even capable of coming up with any of whatever this is. Cripes.
"Excuse me," the cat-cop starts, catching Peter's attention, "Kamui Woods would like to know if you are a recently licensed student. He has not seen nor heard of you, though he appreciates your assistance in dealing with this criminal and apologizes that they could not arrive on time to apprehend him themselves. This was due to a complication with the villain's accomplice a few miles from here."
"Uhm, no problem. I understand and uh… Licensed?"
The cat-cop seems bemused at Peter's response, turning to the other hero and exchanging words for far longer than Peter was comfortable with. Finally, after what felt like forever, the cat-cop turns back to the boy and says, "He said that what you did here was heroic, but a violation of the law if you're without a license in the nation of Japan. We'd like it if you came with us. We mean to ask some questions that might elucidate your present circumstances."
Now, this wasn't necessarily the worst thing. Of course, he did break the law, but they just wanted to make sure he understood the consequences of his actions, right? Give him a slap on the wrist and send him off.
But then they'd ask too many questions, like his name and where he's from and what he thinks he's doing clashing red and blue the way he is. He could be honest and risk being treated like a potentially insane homeless foreign minor who snuck into the country, claims to have died and come back to life, and decided to break the law. Or they could call him on whatever lies he manages to improvise and he'd seem even more suspicious than he already is. And maybe it's his limited experience dealing with the likes of Nick Fury and S.H.I.E.L.D, but sterile offices and just about any figures of authority typically set him off nowadays.
"No thanks." Faster than anyone can react, Spider-Man flips into the air and lands on a light post, clinging to it while looking down at the shocked heroes. "I'll find someone to talk to that isn't gonna cuff me to a table, thank you very much! Catch you on the flip side, you cartoon gaggle of yahoos."
He prepares to fire a web and swing off into the night, but is halted by a wooden tendril wrapping around his arm! Alert, Spider-Man turns to the hero that dared lay a branch on him, more than ready to get a message across with action as opposed to words. Spider-Man jerks his hand away, the wood snapping and splintering at his strength, momentarily surprising Kamui. With the little time it buys him Spider-Man takes to the rooftops, scurrying up the wall and dazzling the throngs of people gathered to witness this flagrant display of power. Kamui Woods leaps into the air, causing an even greater stir in the crowd. Soon enough, it becomes all too clear: the chase is on!
"Hey barkbrain, you might wanna head back to that girlfriend of yours! Trust me, chicks do not dig getting deserted like that! It is so the opposite of chivalry!" Peter yells, sprinting and springing across the rooftops of the city with a hero hot on his heels. "That's coming from experience, man! Also, chasing down a teenager in the dead of night? Not a good look at all!"
Kamui provides no reply, certainly not understanding a word Peter said. Instead, he raises his arm, the wooden limb stretching towards the young vigilante with intent to capture! Spider-Man moves to leap out of its trajectory, hurling himself across the street and atop another building. Smiling to himself, Peter had to admit that one of the perks of being shorter than the average fifteen year old was how difficult of a target he was to hit at range.
But the older hero's not about to let that slow him down. Arm shooting towards a water tower and wrapping tight around a beam, Kamui leaps and swings towards the fleeing vigilante, swinging his leg around in an arc to catch the boy with a kick. Then, as if the young lad had eyes in the back of his mask, he dodges simply by tilting his head a few inches to the right at the very last second, taking Kamui by surprise. Any further advances are evaded with the same ease and confidence, and their back-and-forth dance takes them all the way downtown, where the skyscrapers are high and the rent prices are almost certainly higher.
Finally, Spider-Man leaps towards the facade of the tallest building he could get to, one that reaches towards the heavens and nearly disappears in the dark of the night sky. And, coming as an even greater shock to the older hero, the boy lands feet-first, oriented horizontally, and sprints up the side like he's moving on even ground. Try as he might, Kamui's slower moving vertically than he'd like to admit, and in no time the petulant, slippery vigilante makes it to the roof of the supertall structure before he does.
When Kamui finally reaches the rooftop, he finds the strangest thing of all: the boy he hoped would have cornered himself seems to have vanished into thin air. Even peering down to the streets below he's unable to spot anything even remotely resembling the red and blue miscreant who had caused him so much trouble.
It would have to go into his report later as something to put a pin on, Kamui decides. If the boy meant no harm to the populace, then it was of no particular concern to him yet. What was, however, was how angry Mt. Lady was going to be about him abandoning her on a small one-way street with the police and paparazzi.
Meanwhile, hundreds of feet below in a dank and sordid alleyway lit only by neon signs and starlight, Spider-Man hurriedly changes into a threadbare sweater about three sizes too big.
Am I on the run now? I guess I am. Definitely not going to look good on job applications.
Leaning against the wall of a rooftop entrance, Peter stared up at the big beautiful moon hanging in the sky and remembers just how much of a dilemma he's in. This painful reality hits him once more when he takes note of the fact that the moon is different.
Maybe it was the rush of a hard fought battle, or the thrill of a super powered chase up a massive building, but Peter hadn't stopped to look up at the sky until now. The constellations were, as far as he could tell, arranged mostly the same. Each star sat in the rich black firmament right where they were supposed to. It made him wonder if everything else is in the same place. All those fossils and amber in the ground, mountains and glacial erratics and quartz deposits buried deep in the sweltering earth—were they the same, too? If you took Peter Parker to some random, barely explored mountain range in this world, and put him in the very same spot in his home world, would he even be able to tell the difference without seeing the moon first?
Maybe. He has no way of knowing. Peter just wants to know why the moon is different. Did someone do something to it? Is it just turned around? Billions of years ago, when it was still just an impossibly hot massive hunk of conglomerate stone, what was just slightly out of place that changed it so drastically? Something must have gone wrong.
But he supposes it isn't really wrong. Just different. It's all just so different. He wonders if, years from now, when he's home and content, he'll be able to remember what the moon looked like here.
Peter falls asleep on that rooftop, dreaming of astronauts and little talking cats dropping him off on the driveway of his house. He opens the front door. Everyone's there, having waited for him all that time. Welcoming him home, radiant and with open arms.
End.
Many thanks to my friend and co-writer Smacktabular for proofing and brainstorming with me during the writing process. Chapter 2 is finished and will be coming soon.
