Spider-Bat: New Way Home
Chapter 27: Got to Begin Again
Disaster seemed to shadow Peter Wayne Parker's every step. In just a short time, his world had unraveled completely. His adopted parents, Martha and Thomas Wayne, had been murdered. His older brother, Bruce Wayne, had fled to France to train with Henri Ducard, leaving Gotham behind. And now, just as Peter began to uncover pieces of his own identity, the people who could help him the most seemed to vanish or fall away.
Recently, Peter had met the Kent family for the first time, hoping to learn more about his birth parents and the mysterious research they had been involved in. He had barely begun to form a connection with Jonathan Kent and his teenage son, Clark, when everything fell apart. Lobo and Wolverine had arrived out of nowhere, taking Clark away for reasons no one fully explained. The stress of the encounter proved too much for Jonathan, who tragically suffered a fatal heart attack shortly after.
Now Peter felt more alone than ever. The questions about his birth parents and his enhanced abilities, further amplified by the spider bite, remained unanswered. And just when he thought things couldn't get worse, he learned that Tony Stark had been paralyzed during a violent incident with Doctor Bruce Banner transforming into the Hulk while visiting Reed Richards and his team.
If that weren't enough, Peter had been informed he could no longer stay at Wayne Manor. Martha and Thomas had forged the adoption papers, leaving him legally unclaimed. Now, he was being sent to New York to live with relatives he had never met—his Aunt May and Uncle Ben, a modest couple in Queens.
Packing his belongings alongside Alfred, the only family he had left in Gotham, was heartbreaking. As Peter gathered his things, Alfred discovered an unexpected mess in the manor's pantry—packets of food torn open, cracker crumbs scattered across the floor, and other signs of an intruder. "A raccoon, no doubt," Alfred muttered, shaking his head as he swept the crumbs into a dustpan.
Peter barely registered Alfred's words, his mind preoccupied with the upheaval of his life. He stuffed his backpack with the last of his essentials, pausing as he clutched an old photo of himself with Martha and Thomas. He tucked it carefully into his bag, determined not to forget them.
A sharp knock on the door broke the silence. Alfred opened it to reveal Captain James Gordon, accompanied by two other men. Gordon offered Alfred a respectful nod before stepping inside. Peter walked to the doorway, instantly recognizing Gordon but casting suspicious glances at the other two men.
"Peter," Gordon began, "this is Captain George Stacy, from the 19th precinct in New York City. And this is FBI Agent Frank Castle. Frank and I started together at the police academy in Chicago. He plans on relocating him and his family to New York soon."
Peter's sharp eyes narrowed further. Every police officer he had encountered recently seemed to have ties to Norman Osborn. For all he knew, these men could be no different. Gordon must have noticed the distrust in Peter's expression, as he quickly added, "I know what you're thinking, Peter. But I promise you, George and Frank are two of the most honest men I've ever had the pleasure of working with."
Stacy offered Peter a warm smile and extended his hand. "It's good to meet you, Peter. I've heard a lot about you. Your aunt and uncle are wonderful people. They're excited to meet you."
Castle, on the other hand, gave Peter a curt nod, his expression unreadable, as if he were sizing Peter up. "I'm just here to make sure everything goes smoothly," he said in a gravelly voice.
Peter reluctantly shook Stacy's hand, but avoided eye contact with Castle. His instincts screamed at him not to trust anyone—especially someone with Castle's intimidating demeanor. He glanced back at Gordon, whose earnest gaze seemed to silently plead with Peter to give these men a chance.
"Fine," Peter said finally, his voice low. "Let's just get this over with."
Alfred stepped forward, his hands clasped tightly together, as though reluctant to let Peter go. "Master Peter, your Aunt May and Uncle Ben are good people. You'll be safe with them."
Peter looked back at Alfred, his hardened exterior softening slightly. "I'll miss you, Alfred."
"And I, you," Alfred replied, his voice trembling slightly.
With a deep breath, Peter shouldered his backpack and followed the men to the waiting car. As he climbed in, he cast one last look at Wayne Manor, the only home he'd ever known, now reduced to nothing more than a painful memory.
The drive to Queens felt longer than it should have, especially with the suffocating silence inside the car. Captain Stacy had tried a few times to make small talk, asking Peter about his interests or if he'd ever visited New York before, but Peter's curt responses quickly shut the conversation down. Frank Castle, sitting in the front passenger seat, didn't even bother. He stared out the window, his face carved in stone, leaving Peter alone with his swirling thoughts.
When the car finally rolled to a stop in front of a modest two-story house in a quiet Queens neighborhood, Peter couldn't help but feel underwhelmed. Compared to the grandeur of Wayne Manor, this place looked downright ordinary. The house had a small, neatly kept lawn and a white picket fence, as though it were pulled straight out of a postcard from a simpler time.
Stacy stepped out first, gesturing toward the house. "Here we are. Your Aunt May and Uncle Ben are waiting inside. They're good folks, Peter. You'll like them."
Peter grabbed his backpack and slid out of the car without a word. As he approached the front door, he noticed the curtains twitch slightly. Someone had been watching for him. Before he could knock, the door swung open, and an older woman with a warm smile stepped out.
"You must be Peter," she said, her voice soft and welcoming. She looked like the kind of person who baked cookies just for the smell of it—short, slightly round, with silvering hair pulled into a loose bun. She immediately pulled Peter into a gentle hug, surprising him.
"I'm May," she continued, releasing him and holding him at arm's length to get a better look. "Oh, you're so much taller than I expected. Ben, come say hello!"
From behind her, a man in his early sixties emerged. He was lean, with weathered hands and a kind face that carried years of wisdom. He wiped his hands on a rag, as though he'd just been working on something in the garage.
"So, you're Peter," he said, extending a hand. "Welcome, kid. We've heard a lot about you."
Peter shook his hand reluctantly, feeling the calluses on Ben's palm. "Thanks," he muttered.
May ushered him inside, and Peter immediately felt the warmth of the home. It wasn't just the temperature—it was the atmosphere. The walls were adorned with framed family photos, some faded with age. The smell of something delicious wafted from the kitchen, and a cozy couch sat in the middle of the living room, with a handmade quilt draped over the backrest.
"Dinner's almost ready," May said cheerfully, heading toward the kitchen. "I made pot roast. I hope you like it."
Peter set his backpack down by the door, glancing around awkwardly. "Yeah, sure. Thanks."
Ben clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You're gonna be just fine here, kid. We're glad to have you."
Peter gave a faint smile but didn't respond. He wasn't sure how to feel about all of this. These people seemed nice—too nice. After everything he'd been through, it was hard to believe anyone's kindness could be genuine.
As they sat down for dinner, May and Ben tried to make him feel at home, asking about his interests and what he wanted to do now that he was in New York. Peter answered with as few words as possible, keeping his guard up.
It wasn't until the conversation shifted to Thomas and Martha Wayne that Peter's defenses began to crack.
"They really cared about you, didn't they?" May asked gently.
Peter looked down at his plate, his appetite suddenly gone. "Yeah," he said quietly.
Ben nodded, his expression serious. "Well, we may not be the Waynes, but we'll do our best to give you a good home, Peter. You're family now."
For the first time in a long while, Peter felt a lump rise in his throat. He quickly masked it by taking a sip of water, unwilling to let them see how much their words affected him.
After dinner, Peter excused himself to his new room—a small, tidy space with a twin bed, a desk, and a window overlooking the street. It was simple, but it was his. As he unpacked his things, he found the photo of himself with Martha and Thomas. He placed it on the nightstand and sat on the bed, staring at it for a long moment.
"I'll figure it out," he whispered to himself. "I'll figure out what they were working on... and I'll figure out who I am."
He lay down, staring at the ceiling as the quiet hum of Brooklyn settled in around him. For the first time in weeks, Peter didn't feel entirely alone.
A few days later, for the first time in decades, Wayne Manor felt utterly empty. The halls that once echoed with laughter, footsteps, and life now stood silent, save for the faint creaks of old wood settling and the distant hum of the wind outside. Alfred Pennyworth sat at the kitchen table, his hands clasped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold.
He had endured so much loss in his life. Martha and Thomas Wayne's brutal murders had shattered his world, forcing him to become a father figure overnight to young Bruce. Then Bruce left—off to France, off to Henri Ducard, off to find himself, leaving Alfred behind to carry the weight of an empty manor. And now, Peter, the last connection to the Waynes, had been taken away, sent to live with his Aunt May and Uncle Ben in Queens.
Alfred had always known loneliness, but this... this was different. This was a void.
He placed the teacup down, resting his elbows on the table and pressing his palms to his face. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to cry. No one was here to see, no one was here to comfort him. It was just him and the sprawling emptiness of the manor.
Suddenly, a faint rustling noise broke the silence. Alfred lifted his head, frowning. The sound was coming from the pantry. Wiping his eyes, he stood and grabbed the broom he had been using earlier. "Not again," he muttered under his breath, his voice shaky with both grief and irritation.
He opened the pantry door to find two sets of small, curious eyes staring back at him. A raccoon and an otter sat among the shelves, surrounded by the remnants of cracker boxes and opened food packets.
"Oh, you little devils!" Alfred exclaimed, raising the broom like a sword. "Out! Out, I say!"
The raccoon scowled and crossed his tiny arms, not moving an inch. "Hey! Watch it, pal!"
Alfred froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. His hand trembled on the broom handle as he took a step back. "W-what in heaven's name...?"
The raccoon climbed onto one of the lower shelves, standing tall as if trying to meet Alfred's height. "Yeah, that's right. I talk. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't try to hit me with that broom, grandpa."
The otter, who had been nibbling on a piece of bread, looked up and tilted her head. "Rocket, be nice," she said gently, her voice soft and melodic.
Alfred blinked, lowering the broom slightly. "I must be going mad..." he muttered. "I knew the emptiness would get to me eventually."
"You're not mad," Rocket said, leaping down to the floor. "You're just slow. We've been watching you mope around this place for days. Figured we should finally introduce ourselves."
The otter approached cautiously, her large, kind eyes meeting Alfred's. "We're sorry for the mess in your pantry," she said. "We didn't mean to upset you. We were just hungry. My name's Lylla, and this is Rocket."
Alfred stared at them, slack-jawed. "Raccoons... and otters... do not talk!"
Rocket shrugged. "Yeah, well, neither do humans where I come from, but here we are."
After a few more moments of stunned silence, Alfred set the broom aside and straightened his posture. "Very well, then. Suppose I believe you're... talking animals. Care to explain how you came to be in my pantry?"
Rocket grinned. "Our ship went down in your backyard," he said matter-of-factly.
"My... backyard?" Alfred repeated, skepticism creeping into his voice.
Rocket nodded. "Yep. It's hidden, though. We stashed the wreckage in a cave behind a waterfall. Nice spot, by the way. Real scenic."
Alfred furrowed his brow. "Waterfall? I've lived here for decades, and I've never seen any cave behind that waterfall."
"You weren't looking hard enough," Rocket said with a smirk.
Lylla stepped forward, her voice calm and reassuring. "We didn't mean to intrude, Mr. Pennyworth. We're stranded for the time being, and we're trying to fix our ship. We didn't think anyone lived here anymore... not until we saw you."
Alfred took a deep breath, his initial shock giving way to a cautious curiosity. "So, let me get this straight. You're aliens?"
Rocket placed his hands on his hips. "Yeah, more or less. You're catching on, grandpa."
Alfred frowned. "Don't call me that."
The raccoon shrugged. "Fair enough. What do we call you, then?"
"Alfred," he replied firmly.
"Well, Alfred," Lylla said with a small smile, "it seems we've all been feeling a little lost lately. Maybe we can help each other."
Alfred looked between the two unlikely companions, his heart softening despite himself. For the first time in days, he didn't feel quite so alone.
"Very well," he said finally, crossing his arms. "Let's take a look at this ship of yours."
Rocket and Lylla exchanged a glance, then led Alfred out to the backyard. As they approached the wooded area near the waterfall, Alfred noticed small divots in the ground, evidence of something heavy having been dragged. When they reached the waterfall, Rocket pointed to a narrow path that wound behind the cascading water.
"There," he said.
Alfred followed them cautiously, his shoes crunching on the damp ground. Sure enough, behind the waterfall was a hidden cave, and inside was the wreckage of a spacecraft unlike anything Alfred had ever seen.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Alfred allowed himself a small smile. Perhaps the emptiness of Wayne Manor wouldn't be so unbearable after all.
Meanwhile... John Jameson's heart pounded in his chest as he dismounted his motorcycle, the echoes of its engine fading into the stillness of the secluded area. He had no idea why he was here, why he felt so drawn to this remote, hidden cave at an undisclosed location. It was as though something deep inside him—or rather, something attached to him—was pulling the strings.
The symbiote controlling him provided no explanation as it guided his body into the cave's shadowy entrance. The air was damp and cool, and the faint hum of unseen machinery vibrated through the stone walls. After a few moments of walking deeper into the cavern, John stopped abruptly, staring at the obstacle before him.
A massive metal door, seamless and imposing, blocked his path. Without hesitation, it slid open, revealing an illuminated chamber beyond. The room was filled with advanced scientific equipment: lasers, microscopes, computers, and lab tables. John's eyes darted around, taking in the surreal sight, but what held his attention most were two large glass cubes standing in the center of the room.
The cubes were filled with a strange, greenish liquid that bubbled faintly, and wires and tubes extended from them like veins. Suspended in one cube was a man with a rugged appearance, his body littered with scars that seemed to speak of countless battles. In the other floated someone younger, with a calm, almost serene face, his physique radiating power even in unconsciousness. A reddish glow seemed to keep the young man subdued.
John stepped closer, his eyes locked on the strange sight, when a voice echoed from the shadows:
"Glad to see you could make it."
Startled, John spun around, searching for the source, but there was no one to be seen. "Who's there?" he demanded. "What am I doing here?"
The voice replied, sharp and dismissive. "I wasn't talking to you."
John froze as his body stiffened unnaturally. The symbiote tightened its grip, silencing John's consciousness in an instant and taking over entirely.
"Why have you summoned us?" the symbiote asked, its voice alien and guttural.
From the darkness emerged a figure with a grotesquely enlarged, green-skinned head—a man who once was Samuel Sterns, now known as The Leader. His intellect had already been unmatched, but now, enhanced by Brainiac's technology, his presence exuded a terrifying mixture of genius and malice.
The Leader stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, a smirk playing across his elongated face. "You're here," he said to the symbiote, "because you're going to be part of something... bigger. Something the universe will tremble before. That is why Brainiac saved you just before the space shuttle, which was carrying Richard and Mary Parker, exploded."
The symbiote shifted uneasily, glancing at the glass cubes. "And them?" it asked, its voice wary.
The Leader turned toward the cubes, his grin widening. "Ah, yes. These two are the keys to everything." He gestured to the younger man. "This one is Kal-El. The alien your progenitor, the All-Black symbiote, hitched a ride with when Klyntar and Krypton were destroyed. His body houses powers beyond comprehension, far greater than any human could imagine."
He then motioned to the scarred man in the other tube. "And this... is Logan. A mutant with an extraordinary healing factor and the perfect host for what we're about to create. With Brainiac's ingenuity and Trask's relentless pursuit of perfection, they'll become the foundation for weapons unlike anything this world has ever seen."
The symbiote's tendrils twitched as it processed the information. "And what do I have to do with this?" it hissed.
The Leader turned back, his gaze narrowing as he stepped closer to the symbiote-possessed John. "You," he said, "are the missing piece. The All-Black symbiote may be gone, but its legacy lives on in you. When fused with Logan's body, your power will grow exponentially. You'll become unstoppable—a weapon no army, no hero, no god can match."
The symbiote paused, its host body still as it considered the proposition. "You're saying... if I take over Logan's body, I'll be the strongest being on the planet?"
"Stronger than that," the Leader replied, his tone dripping with conviction. "You'll be the strongest in the universe."
The symbiote fell silent, its tendrils quivering with anticipation as it turned its attention back to the glass cubes. The possibilities were intoxicating.