Chapter Text
“You know… if this cat had shown up back when I was living with May, she probably would’ve thought it was adorable,” he says, voice low, drifting somewhere between tired and almost amused. “But she also would’ve told me we couldn’t keep it. I mean… maybe if it was cute enough. Or if it insisted like it is doing now.”
“Dude, she would’ve folded in like five minutes. Don’t even try to argue that. She probably would’ve given it your room and told you to figure your life out from the fire escape.”
He lets out a quiet breath that almost passes for a laugh. “Wow. Okay. Rude. You think they would’ve let it stay?”
“Me? Nah, man. You’ve seen how my Lola gets with animals. She pretends she’s fine with them, but give it a day and she’s already done. We wouldn’t even get past day one.”
“…Yeah. That sounds about right.” His gaze drifts for a second, unfocused. “I swear, one more meow and I’m gonna end up doing something I don’t want to do.”
“Oh, now I’m curious. What’s the plan? What’s the big, scary, morally questionable Peter Parker gonna do about a crying cat?”
“I’ll go outside and be a responsible adult and talk to the first person I see.”
“…Peter. Be serious for a second. You wouldn’t talk to the first person you see even if they paid you.”
“…Yeah, no, you’re right.” He exhales again, longer this time, like he’s trying to push something out with it. “But I’m actually losing it. It won’t shut up.”
“…Peter. You’re talking to yourself. You have already lost it.”
“…We’re not gonna focus on that.”
The conversation dies there, or maybe he just lets it die. Hard to tell the difference. Gotham fills the space anyway. It always does. There’s never real silence here, not the kind that lets you breathe. Just layers of noise stacked on top of each other, distant sirens, people yelling somewhere down the street, something metal crashing against something else, the city constantly reminding anyone who’s still listening that it’s not done yet. And underneath all of that, somehow louder than it should be, the cat.
Peter spends the entire night stretched out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling like there’s something up there worth paying attention to. There isn’t. Just stains, cracks, and the occasional shadow shifting when something outside moves. He doesn’t sleep. Not even close. It’s not like he doesn’t need it, his body is already starting to complain in quiet, steady ways, but sleep isn’t really an option. Not the kind that actually lets you rest.
When he’s awake, the memories come in flashes. Quick, sharp, manageable if he keeps his focus somewhere else. If he keeps his eyes open, keeps moving, keeps thinking about literally anything else. When he sleeps… it’s different. Slower. Heavier. There’s no way around it, no way to look away or interrupt it halfway through. It just plays out, over and over, like it has all the time in the world. So he doesn’t sleep. He just waits. Lets his body wear itself down instead, like that’s somehow the better option. It probably isn’t. It’s probably making everything worse, inch by inch. But at least this way he gets to choose when to deal with it.
And then there’s the cat.
That fucking cat.
It’s been going all night. No breaks, no pauses, no sign of getting tired or losing interest. The burned couch in the other room clearly isn’t good enough for it. No, apparently it has standards. High ones. Probably expecting something nice, soft blankets, maybe a pillow, maybe someone to gently wake it up in the morning with breakfast already prepared. A whole luxury experience in the middle of Gotham. Makes sense.
At this point, the sound has settled into his brain so deeply it barely even feels separate anymore. Just another layer of noise, like the sirens or the distant shouting. Honestly, if it suddenly stopped, that would probably be worse. He’d notice immediately. It would mean something went wrong.
So yeah, the cat keeps going.
Good for it, he guesses.
Ned shows up earlier than expected. Or maybe not earlier. Maybe he just lost track of time again. That’s been happening a lot. Usually there’s a bit of a gap, enough space to pretend things are normal for a minute, to go through the motions in his head like grabbing coffee, waking up properly, easing into the day like a person who actually has somewhere to be. Not that he has coffee. Or a clock. Or any real way to tell what time it is.
For all he knows, it could still be the middle of the night.
But Ned’s here, which probably means it isn’t.
Or maybe it just means his brain decided it was time for company.
Either way, it’s not like he gets a say in it.
Up until now, he hadn’t really decided which one was worse. When the hallucinations screamed at him, cursed him out, dragged every single mistake back into the light and made sure he looked at it from every possible angle… or when they didn’t do any of that at all. When they just stood there. Watching. Waiting. Talking to him like nothing had changed, like they were still there, like he could just get up, rush out the door, and catch the subway because being late was practically a personality trait at that point. Like he could still make it to Midtown, sit through classes, pretend to focus, and then go out later and be Spider-Man like everything was still in place. Like everything that happened was just some long, messed-up nightmare he hadn’t fully woken up from yet.
Because that’s what they did. Ned, MJ, May. They didn’t scream. Not like the others. Not like those green eyes or the brown ones that never seemed to get tired of throwing the same words at him over and over again. No, Ned just talked. Normal. Casual. Like they could pick up right where they left off, like there were still unfinished Lego builds waiting for them somewhere, like it all still mattered in that simple, stupid way that used to feel important. MJ… she was just MJ. There wasn’t really another way to put it. She’d probably sit there, sketching him like she always did, capturing that exact expression he had the day everything fell apart, like she wanted to freeze it and study it later. And she’d stay. Quiet, but there. Like she always was. And May… May would complain. Of course she would. About his choices, his habits, the way he kept running himself into the ground—but never in a way that actually hurt. Always soft, always careful, like every word was wrapped in something warm. Like no matter what he did, no matter how badly he screwed things up, she was still there. Still worrying. Still caring.
And honestly, that’s worse.
Way worse.
He’d rather they screamed. He’d rather they tore into him, told him exactly what he already knows, reminded him that he ruined everything, that he crossed a line so badly there’s no coming back from it. That would make sense. That would fit. Because no matter what happens from here on out, he messed up. Not just a little. Not something you fix with time or effort or a half-assed apology. He messed up on a level that sticks, that stains everything that comes after it. Nuclear-level screw-up. The kind you don’t get forgiven for. So yeah, the insults, the anger, the blame, it fits. It keeps things clear. Keeps him from forgetting what he did, what he turned into.
But instead, he gets this.
Kind words. Quiet voices. The kind of comfort he hasn’t earned and doesn’t deserve. He gets hugs that feel real enough to mess with his head, like if he just focused a little harder they’d actually be there. He gets warmth from people who shouldn’t be offering it anymore. And that… that’s the part that doesn’t sit right. That’s the part that lingers.
He’s thought about it more than he’d like to admit. Turned it over enough times to almost convince himself there’s an answer. Maybe this is just how he remembers them. Maybe this is what they’d actually do if they were still here, if things hadn’t gone the way they did. They wouldn’t yell. They wouldn’t hate him. They’d try to understand. They’d try to help.
And he doesn’t deserve that.
Not even a little.
So maybe this is the punishment. Not the screaming, not the guilt, not the constant replay of everything that went wrong, but this. Knowing that he’ll never get any of it back. That even if he somehow fixed everything, somehow survived all of this, it still wouldn’t be the same. Those moments are gone. Locked somewhere he can’t reach anymore. And all he’s left with are these… versions. Close enough to hurt. Not real enough to matter.
Yeah. That tracks.
Still, there’s no point in diving headfirst into that kind of spiral right now. He’s done enough of that for a lifetime. So instead, he shifts his focus, forces it somewhere else. Somewhere easier to deal with.
Present Peter.
Present Peter, who hasn’t had a normal conversation with an actual, real person in… what, a couple of years now? Something like that. Time gets weird after a while. Blurry. Hard to measure.
And no, the Suicide Squad doesn’t count. Not even a little. That whole group is completely insane, and there’s a reason they were the ones sent on that mission in the first place. Nobody remotely normal would’ve survived that. Hell, he barely talked to most of them anyway, at least at the beginning. Mostly kept to himself, stayed out of the way, did what he had to do and nothing more.
Except for Harley.
Because apparently, Harley doesn’t believe in leaving people alone. Especially not the depressed, sleep-deprived, clearly-going-through-something kind. She talked. A lot. From the moment the mission started, she was right there, filling every bit of silence like it offended her. Didn’t matter if he answered or not. Didn’t matter if he tried to ignore her. She just… kept going.
And he can’t even say he hated it.
Which is kind of pathetic, honestly.
It was probably one of the most normal interactions he’s had in a long time, and that’s setting the bar extremely low. Like, unbelievably low. Almost embarrassing. But it helped. In a weird, roundabout way, it helped just enough to keep him from completely losing it. From snapping and making a run for it like an idiot. Because if he had… yeah, that wouldn’t have ended well. Best case scenario, he wouldn’t have made it very far. Worst case, there’d be a very unpleasant mess somewhere involving a window and what used to be his head.
So yeah. It helped.
But that’s not the problem.
The problem is that it was forced. Temporary. She talked enough for both of them, filled in the gaps, made it easy to just exist without actually participating. He didn’t have to try. Didn’t have to figure out what to say or how to say it.
Now she’s not here.
Now there’s no one to cover for him, no one to carry the conversation while he stands there pretending he knows how this works. And apparently, if he wants something as simple as a job, he has to talk. Communicate. Interact like a normal human being.
Which is, honestly, the worst requirement he’s heard in a while.
It’s not even that he hates people. Not really. That would be easier. Simpler. It’s just that he’s not… that anymore. Not the version of himself that could hold a conversation without overthinking every word. And he wasn’t great at it before. He used to trip over his own sentences, stumble through explanations, fill the gaps with awkward jokes that barely landed.
Now it’s worse.
Not because he stutters more.
But because he doesn’t even know what to say anymore.
And sure, he could just rot in this building and call it a life. Stay here, let time pass, turn into some half-forgotten ghost no one notices until the place finally collapses on top of him. A nice, quiet hermit situation until the end of time. Very peaceful. Very stable. Except there are two small problems with that plan. First, hunger is a bitch, and it doesn’t really care about his desire to disappear. Second… Gotham doesn’t shut up.
The city has a sound to it. Not just noise, not just background chaos, but something sharper, something that sticks. Screams, distant crashes, the kind of desperation that carries if you know how to listen. And he does. Spending that long as Spider-Man wires something into you, whether you like it or not. His body reacts before his brain even gets a say, like it’s waiting for permission that isn’t coming anymore. Move. Go. Help. Do something. That instinct doesn’t just go away because he decided, or was forced, to stop.
Except he’s not Spider-Man anymore. Not here. Not anywhere, if he’s being honest with himself. People are better off without him. Cities are better off without him. Gotham especially. It’s already a mess, it doesn’t need him making it worse.
The problem is, sitting still doesn’t help either. Staying in this building, not sleeping, not doing anything, just thinking, it makes the noise louder. The screams don’t fade into the background, they get closer, sharper, harder to ignore. And that’s worse. Way worse. So yeah, leaving and trying to get some kind of money, somehow, that’s the plan. Not a good one, not a solid one, but it’s something.
Before he can do that, though, he needs direction. Walking around aimlessly isn’t exactly smart when your face is probably taped to half the city. So he moves to the center of the main room and sits down, legs crossing loosely as he finally stops holding himself back. For the first time since he got to Gotham, he lets his hearing go. Fully. No filtering, no dampening, no trying to keep it manageable.
It’s… a lot.
Jumping between dimensions apparently doesn’t just mess with where you are, it messes with what you are. His powers changed. Shifted. Now the webs are organic, which would be great under normal circumstances, except right now he barely has enough nutrients in his system to function, let alone produce something strong enough to hold his weight at high speed. One bad swing and he’d end up as a very unfortunate spider-shaped stain on the pavement. Not exactly the comeback story he’s going for. On top of that, his senses got sharper. Much sharper. Which is usually helpful, sure, but when you can hear everything, all at once, it stops being helpful and starts being a problem.
Right now, though, it’s useful.
“Peter, didn’t you say you had contacts? You know, people who could get you an illegal job, no questions asked, good pay, nothing that ruins innocent lives?”
“Ned, you’re way too smart for your own good. And yeah, I do. I know plenty of people in Gotham with… less than honorable jobs.”
“So then—”
“No, Ned. I’m not calling them. The second they see my face, I’m turning into spider kebab and getting sold at a discount in some back-alley market.”
“Is it because—”
“Yes, Ned. It’s because of that. But hey, nice try.”
Not talking to actual people for this long does things to you. Mostly boring, frustrating things. So now, whenever he talks to Ned, he starts messing with his voice without even thinking about it. Different accents, different tones. One second he sounds like he’s in a cheap commercial, the next like some half-committed cowboy. Not his fault. It just… happens. At least Ned doesn’t complain about most of them. The really bad ones, though? Yeah, those get called out immediately. No mercy.
After what feels like a couple of minutes, definitely not a couple of hours, even though that’s exactly what it is, something finally stands out. A conversation, somewhere in the mess of overlapping sounds, something useful. Not a job, that would be asking too much, but a place. A lead. Somewhere he can go and maybe figure out his next move.
Bingo.
“I’ll be back in a bit, Ned. Don’t let the screamy one in, and don’t leave food on the stove—”
“Peter, please, just once—”
“—this place is already burned enough as it is—”
“That was ONE TIME and we were watching a movie—”
“—it doesn’t need help getting worse.”
He pushes himself up, grabbing his bag without much thought. The plan isn’t great, but it’s better than sitting here doing nothing. And with that, he heads out.
He knows he already said he wouldn’t do anything illegal. He remembers it very clearly, actually. Made the whole speech to himself and everything. But in his defense, whatever’s going on inside the place he’s about to sneak into is way more illegal than what he’s doing right now, so really, this feels like a smaller crime in comparison. Almost responsible, if you look at it from the right angle. Not that he would be doing this at all if he had literally any other option, but getting into that place costs money, and right now he’s broke in a very real, very embarrassing way. So yeah. This is happening.
The question is why that place, specifically. Simple. It’s where people with money gather to sit around, drink, and watch others beat the hell out of each other for entertainment. Underground fights, no rules worth mentioning, bones breaking included in the experience. Not the only place like it in Gotham, not even close, but definitely one of the better ones if you’re looking for actual money. And unfortunately, that’s exactly what he’s looking for.
Getting in isn’t as simple as just showing up, though. You either have a sponsor backing you, someone willing to vouch for you and probably profit off you, or you pay your own way in. And paying means putting money down upfront, which acts as a guarantee that you’re not completely useless. Because if you suck, people lose money watching you fail, and apparently that’s unacceptable. Fair enough, he guesses. Nobody likes wasting money on disappointment.
The part that makes it worse is that the people who actually need the money the most are the least likely to get in through the front door. Funny how that works. There are smaller places, though. Lower-level fights, less money, fewer eyes. You prove yourself there, get lucky, catch the attention of the right person, and maybe they pull you into a place like this. That’s where the real money moves. Where people stop pretending this is anything other than a business built on violence.
So yeah, he knows all of this.
Because he has contacts here.
And that’s exactly why he didn’t want to come.
If he runs into the wrong person, this whole thing gets a lot more complicated than it needs to be. But as long as he keeps his head down, avoids familiar voices, stays out of sight, it should be fine. In theory. He could’ve just stayed outside and listened, picked up information that way, but no—of course not. Because people figured out how to block that too. The walls are lined with something that keeps sound from getting through, probably because of all the metahumans running around these days. Can’t have people like him just eavesdropping from a distance. Smart move. Annoying as hell, but smart.
So now he’s stuck doing this the old-fashioned way.
The fighters use the back entrance. Less attention, less security in the obvious sense, but still locked down. You need a badge to get through, which honestly feels like a joke. A badge. Something you can lose, drop, or get stolen in five seconds. Great system. Really solid thinking there.
He considers taking one.
It would be easy enough. Wait for someone, knock them out, take the badge, done. But that defeats the whole point of staying unnoticed. A knocked-out fighter missing his access card is exactly the kind of thing that gets attention, and attention is the last thing he needs right now.
So instead, he goes for the panel.
He’s done worse. Way worse. Breaking into a system like this isn’t exactly new territory. It’s basically the same principle as getting out of places he wasn’t supposed to leave. The downside is that it takes time. And time means standing here, exposed, hoping no one shows up while he’s halfway through the process.
Which is not ideal.
Still, waiting around won’t make it better, so he crouches down and pulls out his small kit, setting it up quickly as he gets to work. His movements are fast, practiced, but there’s a tension there, something tighter than usual. Every few seconds, he glances over his shoulder, checking, listening, making sure he’s still alone.
So far, so good.
Then he pauses.
One of the tools is missing.
He frowns, shifting through the kit again, a little faster this time. No. Not there. He checks his pockets, the ground, the edges of the bag. Nothing. Did it fall? Did he drop it somewhere on the way here? Are you serious right now—
“Hey, who the hell are—”
“FUCK—”
He reacts before thinking, body moving on instinct, and his fist connects with something solid. There’s a sharp crack, followed by a very clear, very human sound of pain.
…Yeah.
Not his best moment.
He freezes for half a second, then slowly looks up at the guy he just hit. And of course, of course, it’s a fighter. Built like one, dressed like one, now in the ground with his nose like it might not be attached anymore.
Great.
Fanfuckingtastic.
Every single time he tries to follow a plan, something like this happens. Because apparently he’s just incapable of doing things the easy way.
He exhales, already knowing this just got more complicated than it needed to be.
“...Yeah, that one’s on me.”
Plans change. Again. Now it’s not about sneaking in clean, it’s about improvising without making it worse. Which, at this point, feels like a losing game, but he works with what he’s got. The badge has to go, and so does the mask, because apparently that’s the main thing people recognize about this guy. Of course it is. He takes one look at it and immediately regrets every decision that led him here.
It’s a squirrel.
A squirrel.
He actually pauses for a second, just staring at it like maybe it’ll make more sense if he gives it time. It doesn’t. It’s ugly in a very committed way too, like someone really sat down and thought, yeah, this is it, this is the look. He could’ve picked anything. Literally anything. An elephant, a wolf, a snake, hell, even a zebra would’ve been better. But no. Squirrel.
And then there’s the name.
Fuzzy Knuckles.
He has to physically stop himself from saying it out loud, it gives him the ick. Ugh.
What kind of name is that? He can come up with at least twenty better ones on the spot and he’s not even trying. Nutcrusher. Rabies McGee. Anything with even a little dignity. Instead, this guy went with the dumbest thing imaginable and somehow committed to it enough to print it on an official badge. Incredible. Truly.
The faster he gets what he needs, the faster he can throw this stupid squirrel mask into the nearest trash can and pretend this never happened.
He drags the unconscious body, Mr. Fuzzy Knuckles, apparently, behind a couple of dumpsters, doing just enough to keep him out of sight. It’s not a perfect job, not even close, but it’ll do. The guy’s not getting up anytime soon anyway. He hit him pretty hard, even while holding back. Not his problem.
Getting inside changes everything almost immediately. The air feels different, heavier, louder in a way that presses in from all sides. He moves through a narrow hallway lined with doors, probably locker rooms or prep spaces for the fighters, places where people wait, stretch, get patched up, or mentally prepare to get the hell beaten out of them. Even from here, the noise carries. Not muffled, not distant, clear. People screaming, shouting, cheering like they’re watching something worth celebrating. And under that, the sharper sounds. Impacts. Bodies hitting the ground. Bones cracking in ways that don’t leave much room for interpretation.
Charming place.
The lighting hits him next. Too bright, almost aggressive. It bounces off every surface, making everything feel harsher than it already is. Honestly, the mask might be doing him a favor there. Without it, his eyes would probably be screaming right along with the crowd.
The space opens up into multiple arenas, split up depending on how important the fights are. Smaller rings scattered around for the lower-tier matches, less attention, less money. Then there’s the main one, bigger, louder, where the real show happens. That’s where the serious bets go down.
He doesn’t head there.
Too much attention.
Instead, Peter, or, unfortunately, Fuzzy Knuckles for the time being, sticks close to one of the smaller arenas. Fewer eyes, less interest, easier to blend in. He positions himself just off to the side, close enough to hear, far enough to not stand out, and lets his focus shift again.
Listening.
Most of what he picks up is exactly what he expected. People yelling over each other, cheering, cursing, losing their minds over fights that probably won’t matter in an hour. There’s anger, excitement, the occasional argument getting a little too heated. Someone’s crying somewhere, which somehow doesn’t even stand out that much. And then there are the bets. Constant. Numbers, odds, names being thrown around like currency.
He ignores most of it.
That’s not why he’s here.
He filters through the noise, pushing past the obvious stuff until he finds what he actually needs. Conversations that don’t match the rest. Quieter. More focused. People talking business.
That’s where it gets interesting.
Some of it is exactly what you’d expect. Bodyguard work. Protection gigs for people who probably deserve whatever’s coming to them. Then there are the less subtle ones. Jobs where “getting rid of someone” isn’t even dressed up to sound better. Straight to the point. Efficient. Ugly.
None of that interests him.
Not even close.
But then there are others. Smaller things. Less direct. People looking for muscle to clean up after something already happened. Moving things that don’t ask questions. Not clean work, not legal, but not… that. Not the worst of it. It sits somewhere in the middle, right on that uncomfortable line he keeps finding himself walking.
As long as it’s not tied to someone like the Joker or any of Gotham’s regular nightmares, it might be manageable.
Two conversations stand out more than the rest.
The first one sounds promising at first. Moving cargo. Decent pay, not a lot of details, which usually means it’s something they don’t want said out loud. Probably drugs. Maybe worse. He listens a little longer, trying to catch a name.
He gets one.
Roman Sionis.
And that’s enough.
Yeah, no. Hard pass. He’s not touching anything connected to Black Mask if he can help it. That’s the kind of job that starts simple and ends with you not making it out at all.
The second one is… different.
Reconstruction work. Buildings that need fixing, places that probably shouldn’t even exist on paper. No legal contracts, no official hiring, just people showing up and getting paid under the table. It’s shady, sure, but it’s not immediately tied to hurting someone. Just fixing things that were already broken.
That… he can work with.
It’s not great. It’s not clean. But it’s something.
They mention a day. A time. A place to show up if you’re interested. Fighters get priority, apparently. Or at least people who look like they can handle themselves.
Good thing he’s currently wearing a squirrel mask and a stolen identity.
Yeah. That should go over well.
He’s so focused on filtering through conversations, tuning out the noise and locking onto anything remotely useful, that when someone grabs his shoulders he almost reacts on pure instinct. For a split second, his body is already moving, ready to break something, probably a nose, again, but he stops himself just in time. Barely. He jerks away instead, shoving the hands off him a little harder than necessary.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
The girl in front of him doesn’t even flinch. She just stares at him with that very specific kind of tired that says she’s been dealing with idiots all night and has officially run out of patience. The kind of look that screams one more word and I might actually stab you just to feel something. Honestly, valid.
“You’re Fuzzy Knuckles,” she says flatly, like that’s already enough explanation. Then she jerks her head toward one of the screens hanging above the arena. “And if you bothered to look over there, you’d see that you are supposed to be fighting in arena three. God, I hate new guys. If you’re not gonna take this seriously, just quit.”
He opens his mouth, fully ready to say exactly that, yeah, no, he quits, have fun, good luck, never seeing him again, but she doesn’t even give him the chance.
“And if you’re gonna quit, do it after the fight,” she adds, already turning halfway away like she’s done with him. “It’s about to start. So you either walk, or I drag you.”
Fanfuckingtastic x2
He considers just… leaving. The second she looks away, just slipping out, disappearing back into the crowd, pretending this never happened. That was the plan. That was the plan.
Except he doesn’t get the chance.
She grabs his shoulders again, seriously, what is it with people and grabbing him tonight—and this time she doesn’t hesitate. She shoves him forward, steering him straight toward the nearest arena like he’s already agreed to this.
He could’ve reacted. Probably should’ve. Could’ve stepped back, twisted out of it, vanished before anyone noticed. Could’ve even broken her nose out of reflex if he wasn’t holding back so hard. But everything moves too fast, and by the time his brain catches up, he’s already being pushed through the entrance and out into the open.
And just like that, he’s in the arena.
Amazing.
This is exactly what he needed.
He exhales slowly, forcing himself to stay still, to not make it worse. Because yeah, he could cause a scene, but that would bring attention. And attention means security. And security means a lot of very large, very angry people deciding he’s a problem that needs to be dealt with immediately. Violence against staff clearly isn’t new here, judging by the vibe, it’s probably part of the nightly entertainment—but that doesn’t mean it would end well for him.
So he stays.
Because of course he does.
He finally looks up at his opponent.
And wow.
Okay.
The guy is huge. Not just big, built. The kind of muscle that looks like it was put together with intention, like every part of him exists to hit hard and not go down. He carries himself like he’s done this before too, like this isn’t his first fight, not even close. Comfortable. Confident. Probably already picturing how this is gonna go.
Stonefist Steve.
He actually has to take a second to process that.
Stonefist. Steve.
…Yeah, no.
He exhales through his nose, shaking his head just slightly under the mask. “Captain America, I’m so sorry,” he mutters under his breath. “I’m never gonna hear ‘Steve’ again without thinking about this guy.” ...Stoneass Steve. Yeah, the image won't leave his mind in a couple of hours.
Seriously, what is with these names? Fuzzy Knuckles. Stonefist Steve. Who is approving this? Is there a meeting? Do they sit around and decide this together? Because if so, that entire process needs to be shut down immediately.
At this point, they’d be better off not having names at all.
Just numbers.
Or vibes.
Anything would be better than this.
For the sake of the fight, because apparently this is happening now, he considers throwing in the towel before it even properly starts. Just walk away, save everyone the trouble, keep what’s left of his dignity. Unfortunately, that option disappears the second Stonefist Steve starts swinging like he’s trying to punch the air into submission.
And wow.
Those “stone fists” might be the only thing this guy has going for him, because the technique is… questionable. Fast, sure, especially for someone built like a brick wall, but controlled? Not even close. The punches come wild, wide, like he’s hoping one of them eventually runs into something. Peter barely has to try. A shift of his weight, a step to the side, a slight lean back, nothing flashy, nothing exaggerated. If this were before, if he were still Spider-Man, he’d probably already be flipping over him, throwing in unnecessary spins just because he could. Three flips, a joke mid-air, land behind him like it’s a performance.
Not anymore.
Now it’s simple. Efficient. Almost boring.
Still… the feeling is there.
That familiar rhythm. The way his body moves without thinking, the way everything slows down just enough for him to react. And honestly, paired with that ridiculous name? Yeah, there’s no way he’s staying quiet.
He might be rusty, sure. It’s been a while since he’s actually talked shit mid-fight. But muscle memory applies to that too, apparently.
“You ever actually land one of those,” he calls out, ducking under another swing, “or is this more for show? Have you considered ballet? They would really appreciate your art ”
Steve answers with a growl. Not even words. Just pure, frustrated noise as he speeds up, throwing punches faster now, harder.
Okay. No fun.
“I mean, seriously,” Peter adds, stepping back just enough to let another hit miss by inches, “if I slowed down any more, I’d start moving backwards, like your thoughts.”
He hops back, creating space, forcing Steve to come to him again. Let him burn out. Big guys like this always do.
“I’ve seen statues with better hip movement,” he continues, tilting his head slightly. “You sure your mom wasn’t made out of the same rock? Might explain a lot of what happened last night with her.”
Yeah, that one hits.
Not physically, obviously, Steve still hasn’t managed that, but emotionally? Oh, definitely. Maybe his mom is in the crowd. The guy snaps, charging forward like thinking is no longer part of the plan, throwing himself into it like he’s trying to tackle and punch at the same time.
Predictable.
Peter steps in instead of away, grabs his arm mid-motion, and uses the momentum against him. One smooth movement, over the shoulder, and—
Steve hits the ground hard.
“You made that way too easy,” Peter says, already straightening up, brushing his hands off like he actually did something impressive. “You always this cooperative, or am I just special? Here—” he mimics placing something on Steve’s head, “gold star for effort.”
He even gives a little tap, like he’s sticking it there.
Yeah, he’s definitely rusty.
He turns his back, because of course he does. Not because it’s smart—he knows better—but because he’s already over it. The noise, the crowd, the whole setup. It’s getting old fast.
And he knows it’s not over.
Guys like this don’t stay down that easily.
Sure enough, there’s movement behind him. Fast, heavy footsteps rushing in. Steve’s back up, swinging for the back of his neck like that’s somehow going to fix things.
Peter doesn’t even turn around.
He just shifts, lifts his leg, and kicks back, clean, quick, right into Steve’s head.
The impact sends him flying straight into the metal fencing around the arena with a loud, ugly crash.
…Okay, maybe that was a little more force than necessary.
Oops.
“And the winner is… FUZZY KNUCKLES!”
God.
Hearing it out loud somehow makes it worse. Way worse. The way the announcer drags it out, the way the crowd picks it up—yeah, no, this is officially the worst thing that’s happened to him today, and that’s saying something.
He exhales, already done with this entire situation. Fight’s over, nothing else useful came out of it, and he’s not exactly planning to stick around for an encore. Time to leave. Quietly. Quickly. Preferably without anyone stopping him.
So that’s it.
End of his very short, very unfortunate career as Fuzzy Knuckles.
…Or at least, that’s what he thinks.
Because then he hears it.
A voice.
Familiar in the worst possible way.
He glances toward the edge of the arena and, yeah. There he is. The actual Fuzzy Knuckles, looking very much conscious now, very much pissed off, and very much not alone. Surrounded by what he can only assume is his crew Alvin, Simon and Theodore.
Fanfuckingtastic x3, that’s a record.
They’re all staring at him. Just… locked in. Waiting. Probably for him to step down so they can have a nice, calm, totally reasonable conversation about identity theft and assault.
He squints slightly behind the mask.
“…Cool.”
Because yeah, that’s not a fight he wants.
And unless this turns into a heartfelt moment where they all bond, forgive him, and break into a song about friendship, which, honestly, seems unlikely, he needs to get out of here.
The second he steps down from the arena, it’s like he just flipped some invisible switch. People close in almost immediately, a handful at first, then more, circling him with that same look, interested, calculating, already trying to figure out what they can get out of him. Sponsors, probably. Or wannabe sponsors. Guys with money, or at least enough to pretend they have it, looking for someone new to bet on, someone fresh to throw into the grinder.
Figures.
“Hey, squirrel, who’s backing you?”
“You fight like that again, I’ll make it worth your time.”
“You taking offers or what?”
Yeah, no.
He doesn’t even slow down. Doesn’t answer, doesn’t acknowledge them, just keeps moving like they’re part of the background noise. Which, to be fair, they kind of are. He’d love to stick around long enough to collect whatever cash came with that fight but that would require staying in one place for more than five seconds, and right now that sounds like a terrible idea.
Because somewhere behind him are the real Fuzzy Knuckles and the chipmunks not in a forgiving mood.
So yeah, priorities.
He shifts direction, slipping into the thicker parts of the crowd, moving along the edges of the arena where people are packed tighter. Harder to track, easier to disappear. His body moves on instinct again, quick steps, slight turns, shoulders angling just enough to avoid bumping into people. His senses do most of the work, picking up movement before it happens, letting him slide past without breaking stride. It’s messy, but it works.
Still… this isn’t enough.
They’ll catch up. Or someone will. Or he’ll run into security. Or all of the above, because clearly today is all about bad decisions stacking on top of each other.
He needs a distraction.
A big one.
Something fast, loud, and preferably not directly tied to him.
And then it hits him.
Oh, this is stupid. I’m about to embarrass myself, aren’t I?
Anyways...
He slows just enough to blend into a cluster of people, lowers his head like he’s just another face in the crowd, and then—
“BATMAN’S HERE!”
It cuts through everything.
And for a split second…
Nothing.
The noise drops. Not completely, but enough to feel wrong. Conversations pause mid-sentence. Movement stalls. People look at each other, confused, waiting for someone else to confirm it.
It’s almost awkward.
Then Peter nudges things along when he spots a stack of boxes near one of the side exits, badly placed, unstable, practically begging to be useful, and with a quick shove, he sends them crashing down. Loud. Messy. Perfect.
That’s all it takes.
Panic spreads fast.
Someone shouts. Then another. And suddenly it’s chaos. People start moving all at once, shoving past each other, rushing toward exits like staying even one second longer might get them all arrested, or worse. Because yeah, illegal fights are one thing, but Batman showing up? That’s a whole different level of problem.
And honestly? Fair.
Same, bro.
If Batman actually walked in right now, he’d be out of here too, probably faster than all of them, Flash would look fucking slow next to him the second Batman is within a kilometer .
He doesn’t waste the moment. While everyone’s busy losing their minds, he slips through the mess, moving with the crowd instead of against it. Less noticeable that way. Less chance of someone grabbing him or trying to stop him.
As he moves, he yanks the squirrel mask off his head, not even bothering to be gentle about it. One quick glance at it, still just as ugly as before, and he drops it straight to the ground, stepping on it as he passes.
Good riddance.
He blends in with the rest of the people pouring out of the place, just another body trying to get as far away as possible, just another face in a city full of them.
And just like that, he’s out.
He exhales once he’s clear, not stopping, not slowing down yet. Not until there’s enough distance between him and that whole mess.
Well.
That was productive.
Got information. Didn’t die. Accidentally stole someone’s identity and probably made an enemy out of a guy named Fuzzy Knuckles and sang a song with the Chipmunks.
Solid day.
He just hopes Mr. Fuzzy doesn’t hold a grudge.