Snow started to fall on the day before Christmas Eve, just as Peter left his building. It had taken a while to come this year, but it always did eventually. The wind, already cold before, was now leaving behind a white frozen fog after every gust.
He was happy to have found a place before the blizzard came. It was hard enough to get out with only a hoodie and a scarf to protect him, he couldn't imagine having to sleep out there.
His heart went out to everyone who wasn't lucky enough to have meta abilities to fall back on during hard times. Even when he first came to this universe, with no one and nothing he knew in it, he had been able to have some level of comfort and safety. He had no idea how bad it could truly get for others who were as unprepared as he had been when they ended up on the streets.
And the streets themselves were going to become more and more dangerous. He felt powerless to help in this situation and it frustrated him endlessly. Those issues were beyond what a vigilante could accomplish on their own.
Time as Spider-Man, talking to and meeting New-Yorkers from all walks of life, had taught him that every homeless person had a different story and different needs. Most of them did not have anyone left and those who did tended to have a complicated relationship with whoever they still had. Helping them was a delicate tasks for someone as uneducated as he was about the very adult issues many of them were going through.
Mental illness was common among the homeless, going from depression to schizophrenia. He remembered spending long nights reading studies and testimonies, trying to understand. It was hard for him, back then. He had only been sixteen.
Today, it was still hard. Mental health was not something he was very educated about, they just didn't really talk about it at school, outside of the one time a doctor had come to talk to the whole class. May and him had had a lot of long talks about death and self worth, after Uncle Ben died, but she wasn't that much more informed than he was. Like him, most of her knowledge came from personal experience.
Often, he wished he knew more about the subject, but he never really had the time to learn in depth about it. There was always something else to do, some cataclysm to stop.
Blasts of icy wind made their way through the thin fabric of his hoodie and started seeping into his skin, dragging him away from his thoughts.
He wished he had enough money to get himself a coat but he had spent almost all of last night's salary on rent for the next two weeks. The few bills he had left were barely enough for some food and water. He hadn't originally intended to buy the later but reading up on Gotham's villain had revealed a disturbingly large amount of cases of poisoning the city's water supplies. He still didn't know how vulnerable he was to those types of poisons and he wanted to be careful.
Scarecrow, apparently, was known to try and sneak his "fear toxin" into the underground water system. The Joker had also been known to do it, a couple of times. Those might not work as intended on him, a lot of medications did not after all, but he had no way of being sure of it.
If he had the means, Peter would try and test the water from his faucet but, as it was, he simply didn't have the budget for it. He would just have to trust his gut and, if the water started to taste weird, fall back on the bottles he intended to buy.
It wasn't the safest option, nor the smartest, but he didn't have a choice.
As he headed towards the closest convenience store, he found himself thinking about Harley and what he had gotten involved himself into a few nights earlier. The itch he had felt then had disappeared almost as fast as it had come, leaving him uneasy and confused. It hadn't been as strong as his Spider Sense but, still, it had seemed familiar.
Now it was completely gone again, and he had no way of knowing if it had been a fluke or not. What he had agreed to, however, seemed to be more and more of a mistake as time went on.
It was too late, now. Harley didn't strike him as the kind of woman who would take well to him backing off and he wouldn't have any idea of which order would be hers, since Marco's didn't take names.
In other words, he was doomed to go through with her plan. Hopefully, the underground ring was as private as she had assured him. He didn't want his future to be ruined.
Still regretting his impulsivity, Peter pushed the door of the convenience store, barely blinking when the shopkeeper pulled a gun on him before setting it back down quickly. Everyone outside was tense, it only made sense that people working inside would be too.
He spent his meager 15$ on a box of eggs, a few pounds of rice and two gallons of water. Food prices had gone up slightly in the span of a few days and he could see that a lot of products were missing off the shelves.
Should he start stockpiling food as well? He didn't know enough about Gotham to figure out if it was typical doomsday panic buying or a smart survival move. New York had never needed him to stock up on food like this. The only major event he could think of where it could have been useful was the Invasion… but that had been sudden.
He remembered the few months of chaos after it, the military rations and the uncertainty. The awe, too. The Avengers was the name on everyone's lips. The very first super hero team!
Things had soured, later on. Public opinion had shifted. Peter still remembered those days with an odd mix of fondness and sadness.
Then, Ben and the bite. Everything had changed so suddenly once again and, starting from then, his life had never truly stopped being chaotic. From his fourteenth birthday to his seventeenth, it had all been a constant flow of action and danger and duty.
And loss.
He shook his head, paying for his purchases and heading back out into the freezing streets. Dark thoughts were something he had to avoid. He would not let himself crumble.
By the time he was in front of his building, snow had started to pile up on the sidewalk, covering everything with a thin white layer. It muffled a bit of the edge of Gotham, making trash and bloodstains disappear under its cold blanket.
He wasn't a fool, though. He remembered winters spent without heating. Snow might be beautiful, but it was a killer. The humidity it brought when it melted made the wind bite much harder.
Once again, he felt bad for the ones in Gotham who couldn't get shelter. People would die from the cold, he knew it. As Spider-Man, he used to walk around at the beginning and end of each winter patrol to spot people who had fallen asleep without protection from the elements.
Sometimes, he made them emergency tents out of web fluid and whatever else they could find. Most of the time, he would have to carry them to an emergency room or a clinic that partnered with charities. They would make sure they wouldn't let them die.
Of course, they often ended back up on the street right after. It always made him feel powerless.
He didn't have webs to move as fast as he did back then but he promised himself to keep an eye out during his shift. Maybe he could use some of his salary to get emergency heat blankets and some hand warmers that he could bring out with him.
He was so focused on thinking about this project that he almost bumped into his landlady. Thankfully, she stepped away right in time, giving him enough time to regain his balance and notice what was going on around him.
They were in front of his apartment, he had climbed the stairs robotically, lost in his own mind and she…
… was coming from the apartment in front of his?
"You should pay more attention to your surroundings." The older woman scolded him, dusting the sleeves of her dress. She was wearing a tight bun, that day, and he could smell a gun hidden under her clothes.
"Sorry…" He apologized, feeling embarrassed. "Uh… is something happening?"
She sniffed, looking equally annoyed and sour. He shuffled uneasily up the last step to leave her space if she wanted to head down. She chose to answer him, though.
"Yes. You are most likely going to get a neighbor very soon. I have known your boss for a long time, he can be quite predictable." She said it in a long suffering way, shaking her head slightly.
Uh. She was right, though. The kind of people who would accept a job as dangerous as delivering pizza at night in Gotham's most violent neighborhoods were often either desperate or foolish. Peter himself was a bit of both. There was a high likelihood most people who would answer the job offer would have less than ideal housing situations.
Probably not as bad as his back then, considering they would at least have to have a ride. Sleeping in a car did sound a lot more comfortable than sleeping under a broken roof.
He knew MJ and her family had had to sleep in her parents' car, back when she was a child and the New York Reconstruction project was still ongoing. She had told him a bit about it, but never any details. Like most people, she had lost someone in the incident and those times were always harder to talk about. He understood.
His landlady had turned her back on him as he reminisced. Suddenly, as she was walking down the first step, he remembered in a flash that he has meant to ask her a question. Before he could second guess himself, he blurted out:
"Wait please! I uh… I have a question, ma'am."
She stopped mid-step then, slowly, turned to look at him. She looked mildly surprised that he would call her back so unceremoniously.
Peter cleared his throat.
"Hum… hypothetically… if … would you … uh …"
It was so hard to get the words out. He could see the woman's eyes start to darken with impatience and he tried his best to ask his question without having his heart burst out of his chest.
"Hypothetically if I needed to… hm… buy some… identification … paper… would you know where to… uh… how much… well…"
His sentence devolved into a string of mumbling as his cheeks grew warm. He couldn't believe he was asking this to his landlady!
Unfortunately, she was the only person he suspected had some form of knowledge into the administrative side of the underworld, due to the kind of business she ran. Marco might too, but he didn't really want to get him involved.
"Straighten up, boy." Miss Xiuying snapped, her patience running out. "You cannot act indecisive when asking this type of questions."
"Sorry." He muttered, shuffling on his spot. "But do you?"
She narrowed her eyes at him.
"I do not partake in free counseling work. If you want to ask me for information, you will have to pay for my time."
That was awkward. He had spent the rest of his money on food for the week. There was nothing left in his savings, which was a huge oversight. He should have planned for something like this. What if there was an emergency?
He needed to start keeping a stash of cash for emergency. He was an idiot not to have though of it in the first place, especially since he had known for a while that his aunt and uncle both took great pain to save what little money they had left at the end of the month… If they did have any.
"I… uh… don't have money right now. I gave it to you for rent."
She smirked, cold amusement in her eyes.
"Rent is rent, child. Information is something else entirely, especially in Gotham."
She sighed, shaking her head slowly.
"You might think me greedy, but I see it as a service to you. Nothing is free, here. It's a lesson you need to learn." She started making her way down the stairs then stopped and turned back one last time. "Bring me two hundred. I will answer any question you have about this type of business when you do. Take all the time you need."
Peter watched her disappear down the stairs, feeling a mix of disappointment and relief. He hadn't been wrong, she did have inside information, she was able to help him. Only thing was she wouldn't do it for free.
After all why would she? She didn't know him personally. Their relationship was purely transactional.
Two hundred, though. That was a significant amount of money for him. Of course, if Harley's business idea did turn out in his favor, he would be able to easily pay for it and perhaps even some of what came after. If it didn't, it would take him forever to scrap enough funds. He had to think about more important things than papers right now, and that was his priority, budget-wise.
Marco had said it would take an average of two months for the Joker to let loose whatever he was planning on Gotham. That placed the event around late February to early March. The very end of winter on this side of the United States.
He locked his door behind him, storing his food into the now empty ramen cardboard box. He would have to think about a more airtight container for the rice, to avoid attracting insects or mice, but more expenses was the last thing he wanted to think about.
Absently, he turned his radio on, carefully taking the remains of the Iron Spider out of his locker. He should probably be doing more research right now, but there were so many things he had to think about that he was finding it hard to focus on one of them. Automatically, he defaulted to what he had been doing the day before.
As he carefully dislodged part of the metal frame, he started listening to the radio. He had tuned in to a Gotham News station, which was cheerfully going through advertisements as he readied his workspace.
"Weeeeeelcome back Gotham! Vicki back on the mic for today's daily dose of 'What the flying fuck is going on in this godforsaken town?!', every family's favorite program."
Peter frowned at that. Radio broadcast in this city was very unlike anything he had experienced before. People just started not to care that much about political correctness, when their safety kept being endangered, it seemed.
"News on the Firefly investigation : our beloved and bemustached GCPD Commissioner, Jim Gordon, has handed over the reigns of the case to Captain Harvey Bullock and his team. Although he hasn't made it official, many-our station included- believe he is intending to take the lead on the most recent Arkham break-out.
By the way! In case you haven't gotten to pick up the phone to answer the calls of your distressed relatives, yet, I would like to let you know that Joker is -once again- free and out in Gotham!"
Peter had to cut away some part of the frame to be able to detach it from the rest of the body, something that was surprisingly hard to do. Titanium was only a fraction of the alliage but even the trace amount present there made the thing as solid as diamond.
"Now a little reminder as to basic safety rules during Joker break-outs. First of all, follow GCPD updates religiously, we still don't know where the man is located, which isn't good for anyone!"
He now started working on the outer layers of the thigh, further away from the skin. The armor was much more resistant there, stronger metals pieces enter-twinned so precisely they looked like fabric from far away. He could probably use some of this material to protect his vital spots, splitting it in between various suits.
He was itching to start working on his new suit. Especially as the broadcaster kept listing all of the dangers associated with the Joker, which was painting a darker picture by the minute.
"Most importantly, do not let any child or vulnerable person alone, either outside or inside, whether it be at night or during the day. Keep in touch with your loved ones and remember, only go out after dusk if it's an absolute emergency.
I cannot recommend the use of firearm without a proper license but if you live in North or East Gotham, remember you can get an air gun without one, and as long as you are of age, you can also buy a taser or a pepper spray."
Carefully, Peter pried out a dozen nanopods, cursing when one of them fell out of the tweezers and crashed on the floor. He didn't even have to check it to know it was broken. Without energy to keep them active, the microscopic robots were dreadfully simple to damage.
The Joker sounded more dangerous than he had expected. The kind of man to prey on the weak, from what he could understand. It was a far cry from the villains he was used to fighting but in line with what he had experienced in Gotham.
"Lighter news now! This year's cast of 'Gotham's Greatest Game', our yearly celebrity torture fest has dropped. You'll never guess who finally accepted to join in- No I'm not talking about Gordon, that one will take a few more years- … The one and only Bruce Wayne! So if you have ever wanted to see a billionaire humiliated live on television, tune in to the show, I for sure will!
Honestly, who in Gotham hasn't dreamed of seeing good ol' Brucie on that stage? I for sure will be watching-and laughing."
Wayne, that name again. The man seemed deeply involved in the mythos of the city, like Tony Stark had been back in New York. Unlike Tony, though, "good ol' Brucie" was not a hero, nor one of the founding members of a superhero organization. His importance to the city must come from somewhere else, then.
He did remember that his company, Wayne Industries, had been involved in funding a lot of the projects he had come across. A philanthropist, that was the proper word to describe this type of behavior. Peter really hoped he wouldn't see the man spectating at the underground fighting ring. He had been lucky once, when it came to billionaires, there was a high likelihood that the next one he met wouldn't be this well intentioned.
He spent the rest of the day listening to relatively inane news, sometimes interrupted by a string of useful information. The Riddler still hadn't been caught, the host said, but the GCPD was considering him one of its two highest priorities.
She didn't have to explain what was the other.
That night, as he stepped onto the roofs, the snow was thick enough to go up to his ankle and the downpour had no sign of slowing down. He shivered violently, eager to start running so he could warm up.
He had to be even more careful than usual as well, since ice had started to set in under the few inches of snow. His suit's boots had been useful, sheltering him from the cold and allowing him to keep sticking to surfaces. The cheap sneakers he was wearing did not afford him such luxury, however, which made the risk of slipping and falling much more real.
Several times, he had to slam his hands on various walls and floors to keep from losing his balance. Not having access to his usual outfit was slowing him down during this kind of weather.
This, however, wasn't helping his fingers, which were starting to turn worryingly red. He could barely feel them anymore, the bitter cold digging into them like needles. He needed to get himself proper gloves… but if he did, how would he right himself if he fell?
Awkwardly, he tried to slide down a sloped roof, snow flowing around him as he moved. As long as he was paying attention to what was happening, he could use his unnatural sense of balance to keep straight.
He almost crashed into the building at the end of the roof, a taller residential tower, but managed to stick his hands to it and turn his momentum upwards, flinging himself up, twisting, then resting his feet and palms on the stone.
He scrambled up the icy building, the exercise not strenuous enough to warm up his body. He needed better gear, winter was only starting and it would most likely get worse.
He didn't see anyone out in the snow other than the usual criminal crowd as he got closer to the pizzeria. He didn't know if that was a good or bad sign, Gotham and it's people were still mostly enigmas to him.
Marco looked just as tired as he had the previous day when he sent him out. He spent the whole of their interaction shuffling through a stack of paperwork-job applications maybe?- and barely looking up at him. His phone kept buzzing.
The warmth of the pizza bag made him feel more alive, at least. Despite it, he couldn't help but be anxious before every single one of his deliveries, fearing that it would bring him back to Harley and her ridiculous schemes. It took him longer than it usually would to get to each spot, snow having turned to ice on some buildings.
Relief filled his body as he reached the last delivery spot, a few minutes past midnight, and he didn't spot the woman. He had been anxious at first, since this last pizza took him to one of the least habitable parts of East End, brimming with criminal activity, brothels and armed thugs.
It really wasn't any better than the Bowery, especially now that the police was distracted from every day crime. The blizzard, as cold as it was, helped him this time around, allowing him to sneak past trouble easily.
He found the client inside of what appeared to have once been an European themed bar, most likely Irish. She was sitting on the counter, legs crossed, busy typing something on what looked like a heavily customized smartphone. Its case was covered by little flowers and vines, it had likely been made by an artisan.
The bar itself had long been abandoned, Peter noticed. Plants and moss had started taking over the main room, somehow thriving despite the raging blizzard outside.
His neck started itching. The feeling lasted barely a second before it faded into nothingness, leaving him confused, standing in the middle of the odd bar, his almost empty pizza bag sagging against his back.
"Oh." The woman noticed, looking briefly up at him. "It's you."
Her eyes were bright green, cutting through the air to stare into him with an intensity he hadn't expected. She slowly slid down to the ground, red hair cascading behind her, smooth and luscious. Her face was fair, like a model's, except she didn't appear to be wearing any make up.
His heart skipped a beat as, somehow, her beauty seemed to magnify with every passing second. How could he have lived without having her with him? He needed to serve her and protect her, obey her every orders.
Peter felt his mouth dry up. She was the most beautiful person he had ever had the privilege to look at. He wasn't worthy of such an honor, he-
"How old are you?" The goddess, his goddess, asked, raising an exquisite eyebrow at him.
"S-seventeen." He managed to stammer out.
She nodded, her every movement a thing of infinite beauty. He almost felt like tearing up from how gorgeous she-
He blinked.
His nose was itching, and his neck was tingling in a familiar way. He took a few steps back, raising his hands in front of him. Something was wrong. His stomach rolled, nauseous. He could feel bile rise up his throat.
"Too young for this type of game." The redhead tutted. He blinked dazedly at her, legs shaking slightly. She still looked beautiful but the ethereal quality she had earlier had completely disappeared.
She now appeared to be an exceptionally gorgeous woman, but one with a dangerous edge to her gaze. He felt very cold and small as she looked down at him from the top of her high-heeled boots.
"W-what was…" Peter stopped in his track, coughing violently. Something sticky came out of his throat and crashed on the ground. Pollen? He had never encountered that kind before…
"Shh…" The woman whispered, patting him on the shoulder. "Don't ask questions, I hate it."
"But-"
"Hush, I said." She snapped and he felt a wave of dizziness overcome him. He stumbled back once again, bringing his hands up to his head. This wasn't normal. He couldn't think properly, but he was sure of it. Something was off.
The woman slid the pizza bag off of his back, taking great care to avoid touching his skin as she did so, as if it would burn her. He felt frozen, unable to move, feeling too nauseous to even-
"I see why Harley likes you." The odd lady hummed, taking the last pizza box out. She flicked it open and let its content fall to the ground with a sneer. "Trash." She whispered.
Peter blinked, trying to make sense of the words he was hearing. His mind was so slow, so muddy. His lungs felt weird, so did his throat, as if something was blocking them.
"You-…" He coughed out, "You're… Harley's girlfriend?"
She glared at him and he started choking, his throat swelling and burning.
"No questions." She hissed. "I do not trust you, little boy. I am only here as a favor to her."
Peter collapsed to his knees, scratching at his chest with his nails, trying to make the burning stop if only for a moment. Black spots started appearing in front of his eyes. He still couldn't think properly.
"S-S…" He mouthed, gagging. "S-sorry."
She sighed in annoyance and he felt the pressure on his airways lessen, the heat slowly fading away. He could feel tears and snot on his face, as well as bile on his tongue. He had been dry-heaving, without even noticing it.
"I despise children." The woman, definitely either a powerful Metahuman or a master of poisons, informed him. "Get up. We have somewhere to be."
"It's only been two days." He protested, still dragging himself back to his feet. He didn't want to go through another round of choking on poisonous pollen. Maybe he needed to make that toxin resistant suit earlier than he had expected…
"The situation is urgent." His fellow meta replied. "We need to have you introduced before Christmas Eve."
"That's tomorrow." He stammered, dizzy and wavering where he stood.
"Exactly."
Dropping his bag to the ground, she headed out of the bar. As she walked away, plants started to whither and yellow. Alright. Metahuman for sure, then.
He grabbed his pizza backpack from the dusty wood floor before following her. Evidently, Harley's girlfriend was just as unhinged as she was. It had only be a single day since he accepted the woman's offer and he was already supposed to be okay with fighting into a ring? People in this city ad absolutely no chill or common sense.
Well, with a bit of luck, he would just be shown the location of the fights, not actually thrown into one.
He was, however, strongly doubting it.
"Do not," the redhead hissed at him, as he fell into step next to her, "mention anything about Harley to anyone. If you do, I will learn about it and I will end your life."
She said it in such a confident way that Peter could do nothing but nod, cold sweat running down his back. What kind of people was he involving himself with in the name of intel and money?
He was regretting every single one of his recent decisions right now.
"Do you know who I am?" His dangerous guide asked him, as they left East End and walked south towards the docks.
He shook his head, not trusting her not to attempt to murder him if he said something she didn't like. This, for some reason, earned him a laugh.
"Yes… this is why she likes you. Foolish boy." She shook her head. "Unless you are powerful enough to afford this level of idiocy, you will not live to see this summer."
They went down a flight of stairs that seemed to lead straight into the water of the Gotham Bay but suddenly curved and led into a tunnel just before it reached its surface. Harley's girlfriend did not appear the least bothered as they made their way down a damp, dark waterway.
The smell, barely noticeable back at the entrance, became more and overpowering. They were in the sewers, Peter realized. He remembered that those were considered a dangerous place in the city, due to the amount of rogues who liked hiding out there.
They turned again and again until they reached what appeared to be a locked gate. They stopped in front of it and his guide, still perfectly calm in appearance, knocked on it rhythmically. One. One-Two. One. One-Two-Three-Four. One-Two.
Slowly, the door cracked open and a face peered through. A man in his twenties was standing on the other side, frowning in their direction.
"No more spectat- Oh shit." His eyes looked about to pop out of his skull as they landed on Peter's companion. "Fuck. Sorry Ivy. Uh… ma'am. I uh…"
He cleared his throat and opened the door, stepping aside and bowing his head. Now that he was fully visible, his body armor was on full display. It was a step above what one would usually find on the streets. The weapons he was wearing also looked in better shape that what Peter had encountered during his shifts. This man wasn't a common street thug.
Ivy -that name sounded familiar but he couldn't quite remember why-, ignored the spluttering criminal and walked past him, heels clicking on the now dry floor. The area past the gate appeared much cleaner than the rest of the sewers, it made him feel extremely uneasy. He had no business being there.
He followed Ivy though, anxiety spiking. The man had mentioned spectators, were the fights already on? He didn't dare ask anything, not wanting to make the woman angry.
Chattering reached him from the end of the corridor, which was closed off by a large steel gate, itself guarded by two more armed men. The older of them stepped forward, sweat visible on his brow.
"Welcome miss. We're honored to have you with us." His voice was shaking slightly as he spoke, hands clutching his rifle.
Ivy ignored him, pointing at Peter instead.
"I came to sponsor the boy. I want him to compete tomorrow."
This seemed to startle the guard slightly but he quickly recovered. Apparently the woman's short temper was somewhat well-known around town.
Where had he heard her name again?
Or maybe… did he read it?
"Ah. Of course!" The guard laughed uneasily. "Any… affiliations?"
It took Peter a few second to realize he was being spoken to directly. He coughed and straightened up, trying to look confident but knowing he was utterly failing.
"No… sir… I uh…"
"He won't be competing as part of a group but as a meta." Ivy cut in, sounding supremely annoyed.
The man who until then had been regarding Peter with something between pity and amusement, narrowed his eyes. He shifted slightly, obviously reassessing the situation he was in. The poor guy was facing not one but two metas and, considering who had introduced him, he probably expected him to be as dangerous as her.
"Very… Very well. Narrows?"
"Just get on with it." Ivy snapped, glaring. The poor guard's breath caught in his throat and he started rubbing it, looking more distressed by the second.
"He'll have to fight a group tonight, make sure the show is good." The man warned after taking a few deep, visibly painful breaths. "A thousand if he wins but you have to dispose of the body yourself if he doesn't."
Ah. Lovely.
Peter really, really missed his home. It had been so much easier when he had his aunt and his friends. He felt so out of his depths it wasn't even funny anymore. His neck hadn't stopped itching since they had stepped into the sewers, which only disquieted him more. What kind of powers did this woman have exactly?
"Schedule him soon, I am not fond of waiting." Ivy hissed, tapping her foot impatiently.
They were ushered in quickly after she said that, the two guards bowing politely as she walked past them. Peter's nausea was getting worse by the minute.
"You better qualify." Ivy whispered as they made their way past the men. "A thousand is not enough."
"I keep half." He reminded her.
Surprisingly, that didn't earn him another trip to pollentown but, instead, a nod.
"I know." His companion said. "Either way, it's not enough. The Christmas Eve show will be worth more, there are always metas there."
He grimaced. He was expected to fight a meta tomorrow? He had no idea how powerful he was compared to the people of this world. This was a mistake. This was a terrible, foolish mistake.
It was all happening too fast. The corridor they were in slowly gave way to what appeared to be an arena dug into the stone. Every seat was filled with all kind of people, although a lot of them wore gang-related outfits. Hundreds and hundreds of them, all focused on the center of the room in which a large cage had been set up.
It was bigger than Peter's apartment, several dozen feet wide and currently occupied by what looked like a complete free for all, people punching and kicking. The crowd screamed and surged every time one of the fighters hit the ground, blood was flying everywhere.
He felt dizzy.
"No weapons." A woman, dressed in all black except for a two-toned jacket informed him as he approached the stairs leading down to the cage. "We will provide the outfit to make sure you don't sneak any in. You're entering as a meta, right?"
Peter was too busy watching the absolute massacre that was happening in the arena to answer right away. It seemed like there were two opposing groups in there, each trying to bring the other down. Every fighter was, however, wearing the same non descript black shorts, sneakers and sleeveless shirts. It made the splash of blood on their fists and faces that much more striking. Red and black.
He felt like vomiting.
"You are entering as a meta?" The woman pressed him. Although he could tell she was irritated, she was still trying to be polite.
"Y-yeah." He breathed out, watching in horror as a man kicked a woman in the face, sending teeth flying. This was not anything like the boxing matches he had seen on TV, back when Uncle Ben was still alive. This was brutal.
"Epsilon? Delta?" She asked him, scribbling notes into a small book he hadn't even noticed she was carrying.
"I… I don't know…"
She snorted. "Guess we'll see. Moved to the Narrows, uh? Got lucky there, kid."
His demeanor was apparently not intimating enough for him to be treated with the same amount of respect as Ivy, who had now disappeared. He didn't even realize she was gone until now. The sounds, smells and emotions around him were overwhelming. It was hard to keep calm, to think straight.
What was he doing here?
"You're going next." The notebook woman informed him. "You'll be up against the Black Masks. If you survive, you'll get a slot at tomorrow's exhibition, during the beginner round."
This criminal underground fighting ring was oddly organized for something that had started only a couple days ago. That said a lot about the efficiency of the underworld in Gotham. Everything worked like a well oiled machine.
He was directed to a changing room, left of the arena, opposite from the entrance. There, several versions of the same outfit were laid down on benches, as well as keys to different lockers. The furniture in the room looked old-school, dusty. It was the only detail he had spotted so far that indicated the arena had been shut down until recently.
He could still hear the crowd yelling, voiced mixing with each other, turning into a muddled cacophony of sounds. He tried to plug his ears with his fingers, closing his eyes and breathing in.
It was useless. Even if the sound was muffled, his hyper-sensitive skin still detected every vibration. It ran up and down his body like insects, making him shiver.
Too much noise.
Slowly, he changed into the new clothes, feeling himself become more and more detached emotionally. He felt as if he was looking at himself from the outside as he moved, just a spectator to some bad, ridiculous movie.
What was he doing?
There was a mirror inside of the room, cracked and dirty. Someone a punched a hole in it, shattering most of it. In the shards that remained, he could see himself. Wearing all black, looking like he was about to go to gym class.
He felt like screaming.
What was he doing?
He walked towards the door, back into the arena, arms hanging limply at his sides. He was about to fight people in front of an audience full of criminals.
The crowd was still roaring, making his ears hurt and his head swim. It had happened too fast, everything seemed completely out of control.
Peter descended the stairs as if he was in a dream, or perhaps a nightmare, barely noticing people moving around him. They were jumping in their seats, shaking their fists, some of them cursing.
In the cage, one group had overtaken the other, two battered fighters standing over a heap of groaning bodies. They screamed together in exultation. He didn't understand.
How could they be so happy when there was so much blood?
He reached the bottom step, still feeling dizzy and disconnected from his body. Someone cussed him out from blocking their line of sight before stopping and staring at me.
"On your own?" They asked, their face a blur in the midst of the surrounding chaos. "You a meta?"
The word was picked up by the people sitting next to him, spreading into the crowd. His face was uncovered, visible to all. He couldn't breathe.
The gate to the cage opened, letting out the two victors. Their grins were marred with blood and grime, lines of sweat slithering down their faces.
What was he doing?
They walked past him, their eyes crossing for a moment. They didn't look anything like the kind of people he was used to hanging out with. They looked cruel. Cold.
He wanted to go home.
He wanted to go home so bad.
Peter started walking towards the open gate, side-stepping the arena staff dragging the unconscious bodies out. One of them was not breathing.
One of them was not breathing.
He had just witnessed a murder.
Oh what was he doing here?
The brand new sneakers he was wearing squeaked as he stepped onto the stone floor inside of the cage. Blood, teeth and various bodily fluids were already spattered everywhere in dots or puddles. The night was getting late-
Oh no.
Oh no.
Marco was still waiting for him.
His heart sunk into his chest. It was too late to go back, though, he could already hear the footsteps of a group of adults, all heavier than him, approaching behind him. Making it past the gates. Only a few dozen feet away.
The crowd yelled in excitement. "META" some of them roared. Harley was right, superpowers were considered highly valuable in this place.
His cheat was hurting. He was so anxious.
"NEXT FIGHT" A voice cut through the fog of screams, flickering through speakers that hadn't been used in months, perhaps years. "BLACK MASKS VERSUS META KID"
Meta kid? Really? Was that the best they could come up with? The indignation dragged him out of his stupor, bringing him back to the moment.
Suddenly, it all came crashing down on him. Where he was, what was about to happen. Time, which until then had seemed to trickle down slowly, regained its normal speed. His heart was beating way too fast.
He needed to focus.
He couldn't waste his time spacing out like this, he had to get himself back together. He was going to get in a fight. He-
The fight had already started.
Peter was so panicked, he has missed the starting bell. Reality crashed into him once again as a fist slammed in his chest. It wasn't strong enough to hurt but still, it shocked him into action.
He acted by instinct, grabbing the wrist of his attacker and twisting it, making them yell out in pain. He was about to follow that with a knee to the gut, finishing off the grunt for good, when something slammed against his back.
Of course. They were ganging up on him.
He looked around, twisting back to block another blow. Five of them, without any weapons or armor.
Well, that seemed hardly fair.
Still, he couldn't let himself lose, even if he wasn't in danger. His earlier panic subsided a bit as he let his instincts take over. No sticking, he thought over and over again like a mantra, only strength and speed.
The guy he had sent on the ground was getting back up, he could feel it, and the woman who had hit his back was still wailing down on him.
The other three thugs were circling him, ready to pounce.
He wouldn't give them the time.
The woman feinted for his head and tried to take him by surprise by kicking his stomach. His back foot slid on the stone as he pivoted on his front leg, narrowly dodging the assault. Faster than any human could ever hope to move, he shot his left hand forward, grabbing her ankle and tightening his grip around it.
Peter finished his rotation and swung her around, holding her by the foot. She slammed into the first assaillant, who had been slowly getting into position to tackle him from behind.
It took less than a heartbeat. They collapsed in a heap, blessedly still breathing.
The thugs circling him cursed and jumped in.
At least… two of them did.
The last one stayed back, gasping, face deathly pale. Peter could barely hear the crowd's roar but he could hear the man panting, smell his fear.
"That's the fucking pizza guy!" The man screamed as his two fellow grunts reached Peter. "He- He did it again!"
His voice faded into the background as a first punch came in, followed immediately by a kick. Those two were trying to attack at the same time.
Dodging the blows were easy, even without his webs. Their movements seemed slow to him, simple to read. He ducked under the fist and diverted the leg away from him with the palm of his hand.
Too easy.
It made him feel strange, dispatching opponents in this way, without any struggle. The fight was completely unfair, rigged in his favor. Unless they had enhanced strength or a whole lot of training nobody could hurt him with their body alone. His skin was too resistant to shock, his healing too fast.
His fingers joined into a fist that he pushed into the chest of the kicker, who was still unbalanced, as he had thrown his whole body behind his leg. Beginner's mistake. Those guys were street punks, little fry. No wonder the poor scared guy had recognized him : those were exactly the kind of low level thugs that would sell on the streets, one the lowest ranks in the criminal hierarchy.
Peter twisted his fist up, lifting the unfortunate grunt off the ground. He snapped his fist back to his side and, once again moving faster than humanly possible, planted his foot into his chest.
The guy went flying, rolling into the dirt for a few feet before slumping completely, out cold. His heart was still beating.
Meanwhile, the fourth assaillant, the one who had tried to punch him, was still finishing his attack, unaware of what had happened next to him. That kind of speed was not something he would have encountered in person. He was too low ranked for that.
Before the thug could get his bearings, Peter brought his foot back from its kicking position and shot towards him. His elbow slammed into the man's ribs with a foreboding crunch. Too hard. He needed to hold back more.
The last of the four opponents who had tried to go against him slid to the ground, gasping. He didn't get back up.
On the other side of the arena, the young man had rushed to the gate and was trying to get it to open. It wouldn't budge. Everyone had to be down on one side of the fight for it to end.
Peter slowly walked towards him, hating himself as he could hear the man's racing heartbeat, smell the terror coming off of him. He felt like a monster.
This wasn't who he was.
This wasn't who his aunt had raised him to be.
He could see the mobster's face clearly now that he didn't have to focus on taking out other assaillants. The man was barely older than him, probably still a teenager, his nose had been recently broken, twisted and blue, and Peter suddenly remembered Crime Alley and one of the fights he had gotten into there. Was this guy the one he had kicked in the face? It had been too dark for him to be sure but, considering the reaction he was getting, it seemed likely.
Wanting to end it once and for all, Peter surged forwards, closing the distance in between them in an instant. He reached out and grabbed the man's shirt, dragging him with him.
For a moment, they were close to each other, he used those precious few seconds to lean forward and whisper :
"Pretend to be in pain."
Not wanting to have the exchange last too long and be spotted, Peter didn't wait for a sign that the man had understood and, instead, lifted him off the ground by his shirt, which immediately started ripping. The momentum wasn't lost, though, and the man went flying, rolling and tumbling away.
He leaped after him, landing next to the prone, groaning grunt. He hadn't been slammed hard enough against the ground to be injured, but the stone was hard and it must have still been quite unpleasant.
Hoping that the few seconds he had to whisper his idea to the man had been enough, Peter brought his hand back and pretended to punch his defenseless opponent in the stomach. The crowd, which he had almost entirely forgotten by now, covered up the lack of noise as he stopped his hand before it hit skin.
It seemed like he had been understood. On the ground, the man yelled out in fake agony, twisting and curling his arms around his stomach protectively. It was a very convincing display.
And, just like that, Peter was left the only one standing in the cage.
It had taken only a couple minutes for him to dispose of the five attackers. He hadn't even broken into a sweat, his breathing was even. In fact, he was still feeling cold.
Slowly, his eyes reached up towards the crowd, which was losing its mind over the display. He could see people yelling at him, cheering and cursing. Faces blended together, sounds clashed to become unrecognizable.
He kept looking, further above. There, a couple dozen feet above the last row of stone seats, an alcove had been dug into the cavernous walls. A flash of red caught his attention and he focused on the area more, noting more details as he did so. A buffet had been set up there, a small group gathering around it.
They were only a handful, talking between themselves. Peter could see Ivy there, sipping on a flute of what he assumed was champagne. Every other person around her was a complete stranger to him but he still tried to memorize their face. Clearly, this was were all of the important figures of the underworld gathered to spectate the fights. This what the intel he was there for.
An older man was standing apart from the tiny gathering, staring straight at the cage -at him. Behind him, the higher ranked criminals socialized and laughed. One of them had an odd hat on, another one was dressed like she came straight out of a costume store, with bunny ears and a skintight bodysuit. Another, yet, had a tight, cat themed outfit on.
All along, the crowd rumbled with excitement. It dawned upon him that he had won, and quite spectacularly at that.
Harley's plan had worked. He proved that he was a meta to whatever criminal enterprise was in charge of organizing the event, and he would be getting his prize. Five hundred dollars, all for him.
It was dizzying. He had never really thought about using his abilities to get money in such a way, although one of his alternate self, the oldest one, had mentioned having to do something similar when starting out. He had assumed it was a joke but now he was almost certain the man had been perfectly serious.
Normal humans didn't stand a chance against metas like him, not when they weren't allowed to carry weapons.
It was odd, Peter expected to feel something a bit stronger, once the fight ended. Now that he was calming down, however, he found himself overtaken by a single, overpowering feeling.
Emptiness.
He stood there, listening to the crowd roar and the announcer declare his victory.
He stood there and he felt empty.
Alone.