Chapter Text
Peter had been exposed for who he truly was, his identity and backstory broadcasted to the world. They’d turned on him, called him a villain, a killer, a monster even after all the good he had done.
He had been a hero for 8 years and it all meant nothing, they didn’t care about all the good he had done, only the bad he’d been raised to do.
Hydra to be more specific, Peter didn’t know how or by who, but it was discovered that Peter was born and raised by Hydra. Raised to be a killing machine, and despite saving the world from Thanos he was considered Public Enemy #1.
Someone dangerous, someone to run from, someone who needed to be put down.
He knew how to hide, he’d been raised by Hydra, it was one of the first things he was taught. How to hide, to sneak around and not be spotted so there would be no trace of the killer.
Of him.
That’s what he had been taught. But, he didn’t kill, not anymore, unless strictly necessary anyway, and this. This was bullshit.
He had spent 8 years turning himself into a hero, righting the wrongs he had committed. It wasn’t his fault he’d been raised by Hydra, he didn’t get a choice in the matter, but no-one cared, they only saw an enemy.
Perhaps he should have cared, should have felt hurt and betrayed that after everything he’d done for his country, for the world, they turned on him so quickly but he was too tired to care.
He was tired of saving the world, tired of constantly pushing himself to prove to himself that he was good.
He was so fucking tired.
So he decided to leave, what good would come from staying anyway? He was considered a criminal now, New York would have to survive without him.
His only regret was that he wouldn't be there to witness the inevitable downfall of New York.
And he did, leave that is, Peter called in every favour that he was owed from all across the globe until he was finally ready.
He had made a device that would transport him from this universe into an alternate one, there was only so much he could do in terms of which universe but it was enough.
He’d made sure that it was inhabited by humans, that he would be able to survive in that universe and that he would be accepted; that the universe wouldn’t try to kick him out.
The multiverse was a fickle thing, one wrong move and he’d destroy two universes with his jump.
It was a friday night when Peter made the jump from his universe to the next, 3 months since he’d outed as an ex-asset of Hydra. He didn’t say goodbye to anyone, not that there were many to say goodbye to anyway.
He’s sure Wade and Matt would understand, the three of them had never been any good with feelings, so they simply didn’t. It was best they didn’t start now, so alone in a random abandoned building he was squatting in, Peter turned the device on and the world went black.
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Green, it's the first thing Peter sees, it's all he sees. A bright, fluorescent green consuming his field of vision. He doesn’t panic, it would do him no good so he relaxes with practised ease, and assesses the situation.
He’s floating in some kind of liquid, his lungs sorely lacking oxygen, but beyond the green there’s some sort of glass and further beyond that… a lab.
He felt sick, memories of a darker time flashing through his mind.
Peter had been 6 when they strapped him to the table, not that he had been Peter then.
No, he was just asset.
Nothing more.
He’d learnt by then to stop struggling, to make no noise unless required. To no disobey. So he hadn’t, he’d lay there as he was injected again and again, the white of the walls near blinding in comparison to his cell room.
He didn’t make a noise, even as pain coursed through his body, hot and blinding, he didn’t scream or yell or sob even though he’d wanted to.
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop the tears from running down his face, and dripping onto the table.
“I’m disappointed in you asset,” Dr. Zaigraev had said, “Good soldier’s don’t cry,”
He had tried to stop crying, to force the tears back but no matter how hard he tried they wouldn't stop.
He felt as if he was dying, his stomach ached, his lungs burned, his heart thumped desperately.
And he, he was afraid, afraid of what was going to happen, of what was going to happen to him, of what death would be like.
He hadn’t died, he’d passed out and woke up in excruciating pain once more, he felt this pain for a week.
A week of constant agonising pain coursing through every fibre of his being. He could barely stand, unable to move more than to eat and sleep, not that he could keep any food down anyway.
They didn’t care, they never did, they’d simply left him in his cell room and bought him minimal food. If he survived they could keep using him, if he didn’t, he was easily replaceable.
He knew this, he knew he wasn’t anything special, nothing was great about him.
He wasn’t a good soldier, he had cried, he could barely fight, he was nothing but a failure. After a week of torturous pain, he had felt better, he was able to stand and walk and eat and he felt good.
Better than, he felt strong.
The next day Dr. Zaigraev had taken him to the white room where he was pricked and prodded, nothing more than an asset who was now of use.
Over the next 6 years he was there, he was taken to the white room, as he’d dubbed it, and more and more tests were done on him. He had blood taken, bones broken, knives stabbed in him, guns shot at him, and that was just the surface of it.
He hadn’t complained, he lay there and let them do whatever they wanted, he was after all, nothing but an asset.
A soldier who had to do what was told of him. He was supposed to be emotionless.
He wasn’t a good soldier because he felt fear. He feared the white room, feared the man who stood in there with a sick smile on his face, he was scared.
Soldiers weren’t supposed to be scared.
But he was.
And it was that fear, fear and anger that led him to escaping, he was angry at being used as nothing more than a tool. Angry at being constantly hurt to see how quickly he healed, to try and make another soldier just like him. Angry at being trained to spy, hunt and kill.
He was fucking angry.
He made sure that Dr. Zaigraev had a slow and painful death. He had seen just how much the man had liked being the experiment this time.
He hadn’t.
The man had screamed and pleaded and begged, endless apologies falling from his lips.
The man was lying.
He didn’t think the man had suffered nearly enough but the white walls were threatening to swallow him whole, so he snapped the man's neck and left, blowing up the base as he did so.
He hadn’t felt any better but he was free, and vowed to never let anyone control him again.
Peter thrust his arm through the liquid and shattered the glass in front of him, he would never be someone's lab rat.
Not again.
He threw himself out as the liquid rushed from its containment and he fell to the floor gasping for air. Not even given himself a moment, Peter’s eyes, ears and sixth sense searched.
For what? Anything and everything.
He could see that he was in a lab, filled with test tubes and chemicals, though it appeared to be abandoned based on the amount of dust accumulated.
This was confirmed by the lack of noise, he couldn’t hear anything in the building. No footsteps, no breathing, nothing, not even the beep of a computer.
His sixth sense had sensed the dangerous properties of whatever he’d been submerged in and Peter was quick to move away from the pool of liquid. He didn’t know what it could do or what it had already done.
He’d had enough of experiments for a lifetime.
Regardless of the lack of people or working machinery, Peter was still wary, he always was, having been taught to never let his guard down and even now, 8 years since he escaped Hydra, he still fell into his old trainings.
But as much as he hated to admit it, they were useful, he wouldn't have survived as long as he had without them.
They had trained him well, he may not have been the best soldier emotionally, but they didn’t know that. He posed the picture of the perfect soldier, emotionless, smart, silent and deadly.
He was perfect, and they’d underestimated him.
That was their final mistake.
Peter slipped into the shadows, working his way through the adjoining room, keeping himself blank of emotions; now wasn’t the time to get worked up and emotional, he needed to keep a level and clear head, needed to keep the memories at bay.
He had gotten good at slipping into an instinctual state, disconnecting himself from his body and mind; it was easier that way.
It was never as bad when he left his body, instead watching as his body was mutilated by the Doctor rather than feel it.
Now though, he watched as his body moved through the building, climbing the stairs and out into the dark night.
When he’d gotten far enough from the building he’d been trapped in, Peter felt himself returning to his body, his sixth sense settling.
He’d taken note of his surroundings as he walked, disconnected or not, he wouldn't be caught by surprise, by anything or anyone.
A forest to his left, a road to his right and judging by the sound of it, not too far from a city.
Thus, he began walking.
In the end, it took Peter an hour to reach the city he’d heard, having used the time to assess his own body, trying to figure out what that green liquid had done to him.
It was to no avail, he couldn’t figure out what it had done, but he knew something had happened to him, his sixth sense warning him of it.
The city was cold, and not just in temperature. There was no late night bustle of people chatting happily, only the sound of gunshots ringing through the air, of punches being thrown and screams of terror.
There was a sense of foreboding, as if the city was waiting for something to happen, the next shoe to drop so to speak. It seemed like whatever universe Peter had landed in was dark and depressing.
Huh, seems he’d fit right in.
He learnt the city that night, found important landmarks and buildings. He had kept to the shadows, staying away from conflict and shouts, he wasn’t Spider-man here… and he didn’t know if he wanted to be.
Peter decided to take to the rooftops, they had always been his friend, both as Spider-man and Peter.
To him, the rooftops signified freedom, he had lived underground for 12 years of his life, he wouldn’t be shackled down like that again.
He could see everything from the rooftops as the breeze swept through his hair; it reminded him he was free.
As he leapt between roofs, he noted the number of heroes that were out that night. He had avoided all of them, no need for them to discover his existence, but he had observed.
Silent, as he always was, Peter had watched as they swung from grapple hooks and leapt from buildings. There were a lot of them, having seen four tonight alone, there certainly hadn’t been that many in New York; not that New York appreciated his work anyway.
But, four, was this universe so bad that they needed four heroes in one night to protect it?
Honestly, he wasn’t surprised by the fact, if anyone was to land in a universe as bad as this one appeared, it would be him. The number of people screaming and fighting that Peter heard throughout the city certainly cemented his idea on how bad that city really was.
The heroes didn’t spot him, he made sure of that. Peter debated following them more, seeing what they were doing and even finding out their identities but thought better.
There was no point in discovering the identity of heroes if he didn’t even understand the universe he was in.
He could come back to that at a later date, when he’d mapped out the city and had less pressing matter to attend to.
Like finding out whoever the fuck put him in that lab and why.
When he found them, he’d decide what to do with them, if he would kill them or not. But for now, Peter continued making his way through the city and making a mental map in his head.
Hydra really had taught him well.