Chapter Text
In less than two months, it would already be three years since Peter Benjamin Parker had seen his life, his very existence, erased from the world.
And those nearly three years had been anything but easy. After all, how could they have been, after his entire life had been reduced to nothing? Or at least Peter Parker’s life, because Spider-Man still existed.
It was surely one of the few things, if not the only one, that had kept him going until now.
He had known that his decision to wipe himself from the memory of every person in the world would be devastating for him, but he hadn’t really had much of a choice. It was his fault that so many problems had been caused. It was because of him and his naive selfishness that Dr. Strange had lost control of a spell that Peter had quickly realized was dangerous. It was because of him and his unbearably stubborn nature, always wanting to save everyone, always seeing the good in people, that supervillains had been given the freedom to roam freely in a world that wasn’t theirs and thus cause trouble. But he had succeeded, it was the only thing he had managed to accomplish that day, because he had been able to save them, to ‘heal’ them of their various problems.
He didn’t even know if it had made any difference in the end.
And it was that stupid, so stupid, decision to help that had reduced his life to ruins. That had caused his Aunt May’s death, the destruction of the Statue of Liberty construction site, and had nearly caused the multiverse to collapse… or at least part of it; he’d never really known what would have actually happened if he hadn’t asked the wizard to solve the problem by casting his spell again.
It was the only solution, and as the person responsible for all these screw-ups, it was up to him to take responsibility, even if the price he had to pay for it was greater than he could have imagined.
And how great it was…
Because Peter was no one anymore. To anyone.
The first realization, a terrible realization, of his new life had come when he hadn’t even been able to attend the funeral of the last remaining member of his family. Apparently there had been a lot of people there, but no family… The poor woman hadn’t had any since Ben’s death. At least, that’s what people thought.
Visiting her grave later hadn’t helped his grieving, it had simply made him realize just how alone he was, and that all of this was very real. That he would never see her again, that she had died because of him.
He had visited her grave many times over the years, and even though the wound of her death had healed a little, it would never truly fade, always festering in his mind, reminding him of how she had died in his arms.
He had seen Happy there a few times, another person he had cared about, and who didn’t have a single memory of him. Peter forced himself to ignore how painfully his heart clenched every time he saw him. Perhaps the worst part was that the other man was convinced Peter was just a poor street kid May had helped and who owed her a debt of gratitude, not the nephew she had raised for most of his sad life.
He had even asked him once why he was there so often, as if he knew her more than that.
Peter hadn’t known how to respond, and after that he’d started spacing out his visits a bit, relying on his instincts to avoid and flee the presence of other people whenever he went there. It was truly sad that he’d been reduced to running away from a man whom Tony and he had trusted completely.
Thinking about Tony hurt him too, deeply, even though that wound was even older. But it was hard to forget the man he’d seen as a father figure, who’d taken him under his wing and helped him so many times.
Peter had stopped counting the number of times he’d cried his eyes out for those two people.
But a small part of him, a part he cursed so deeply inside and did his best to silence, was 'glad' that they had died before the end of this whole conflict of villains and magic. It was a detestable thought, but Peter knew perfectly well that he wouldn’t have survived if his father Tony and his Aunt May had been among those who had forgotten him completely. It would have shattered him into a million pieces, impossible to put back together.
That MJ and Ned had forgotten him was already far too painful, even though, with time, he had eventually gotten over it a little, though he still mourned what their lives could have been.
But unlike his, theirs hadn’t stopped there, because they were free to live their dreams and learn at their ideal school. Free from him, and from the curse of being close to him. That was also why he had, with great difficulty, made the decision not to tell them the truth, thus breaking his promise, not wanting to involve them again in his troubled life… and anyway, why would they have believed him?
Another major problem he had quickly faced, having his existence erased, was the fact that… well, he no longer existed. At all. Which was literally the goal, of course, but this spell had affected far more than just people’s memories, also impacting documents, digital data, and even artificial intelligence.
Peter Parker had never existed.
No identification papers, which he’d had a hard time recreating.
No money, or support from Stark Enterprises, not that he’d wanted to involve them again in the farce that was his life, not after all the trouble he’d caused them with the E.D.I.T.H. and Mysterio fiasco.
No more suit.
He wouldn’t have been able to keep it anyway, not with the blood on it, and all the horrible memories associated with it. He’d gotten rid of it a week after the events at the top of the Statue of Liberty, having put off the inevitable until then, too busy crying until he collapsed from exhaustion. He threw it into a trash can in the middle of a small New York alley, which he set on fire, standing there for hours watching a part of his life go up in smoke before his eyes.
The lack of any papers, no Social Security number, no school records, no ID, had been a particularly annoying problem when Peter had to take back what little was left of his life into his own hands. Finding an apartment and a job, in particular, because it was impossible for him to enroll in further studies, despite his desire to learn and study more… impossible when you didn’t exist before that. He’d struggled for weeks, living on rooftops or in alleys he tried to find that seemed safe, before finding a small apartment.
The one he found was, so to speak… shabby. In poor condition, with mold, dust, broken wooden planks… in short, a whole bunch of really not-so-great things. But he took it anyway, not only because he had no other alternative, but also because the landlord was the type who didn’t require any paperwork and didn’t ask too many questions.
Another major problem had been money, or, to be more precise, food. Ever since he’d been bitten by that spider, his metabolism had required a huge amount of food to keep him going, both to sustain his superhuman abilities and to support his healing abilities. Needless to say, Peter hadn’t been able to meet all his food needs for several months, which had also impacted his work as a hero.
Being Spider-Man allowed him to take his mind off things and not have to think about anything else. To be able to ignore how alone he still was and that, in the end, there would be no one waiting for him at home or wanting to make sure he was okay. He felt useful, and as his aunt had said, he couldn’t just sit around doing nothing when he had all his powers. He had to help people. So sure, his civilian life was far from idyllic, but that didn’t stop him from saving innocent lives and solving problems on the streets of his city.
Being Spider-Man allowed him to take his mind off things and not have to think about anything else. To be able to ignore how alone he still was and that, in the end, there would be no one waiting for him at home or wanting to make sure he was okay. He felt useful, and as his aunt had said, he couldn’t just sit around doing nothing when he had all his powers. He had to help people. So sure, his civilian life was far from idyllic, but that didn’t stop him from saving innocent lives and solving problems on the streets of his city.
Since his old suit had turned to ash and Mr. Stark’s wouldn’t respond to him no matter how hard he tried, he hadn’t really had any other option. Indeed, the nanobots had also been affected by the spell, no longer even recognizing him as their owner. So even though his new suit itched and tore a little too easily, it did the job.
But he deserved all of this, all these problems, deep down. Many people had been hurt because of him, both by the drones in London, when he’d foolishly given the glasses to Mysterio, and by the events involving villains from other universes. He had no right to complain, no matter how terrible his situation was.
He would continue to do his duty.
To string together shabby jobs, barely enough to pay the rent on his small, run-down apartment, and feed himself just enough to get through the day.
And to keep saving lives, fighting villains, thieves, and all kinds of threats… on his own small scale, at least.
As for his current situation, it was hardly the kind of threat he was the ideal hero to handle. He had faced many enemies over the past few years, ranging from a villain resembling a rhinoceros to simple thieves with advanced technology, but shadows? Never.
When he started his day this morning, he never would have imagined that New York would be engulfed in darkness in the middle of the afternoon, for no apparent reason. He had just helped an old woman by pinning down a man who had stolen her purse, the kind of job perfect for the friendly neighborhood spider, when screams rang out from down the street.
He had rushed over, just in time to see entire buildings being engulfed by a darkness that seemed almost alive, swallowing everything in its path. He hadn’t been able to save everyone, watching in horror as their bodies were reduced to mere stains, mere outlines of their shadows. Like those silhouettes on the ground, the aftermath of bomb blasts, that he had seen in documentaries.
He had rushed over, just in time to see entire buildings being engulfed by a darkness that seemed almost alive, swallowing everything in its path. He hadn’t been able to save everyone, watching in horror as their bodies were reduced to mere stains, mere outlines of their shadows. Like those silhouettes on the ground, the aftermath of bomb blasts, that he had seen in documentaries.
He was surprised to open his eyes, what seemed like a few seconds later. Everything around him was slightly dark, like a photo filter. He quickly scanned his surroundings, uneasy because his senses seemed slightly panicked, yet also almost muted, echoing in the back of his mind.
Peter felt his blood run cold the moment he saw where he was.
For he knew this place.
It was one of the things he often saw in his nightmares, much to his misfortune.
Everything was just as he remembered it: the debris of the battlefield, the ground covered with the corpses of their comrades who had perished at the hands of the Mad Titan’s army, and the vast amount of ash that had once been that army. The other heroes were there too, surrounding… Oh God…
Tony was there too.
Peter couldn’t help but flinch at the sight of the scene. Everything was so similar to that day, and he felt sick at the sight of his mentor’s half-charred body, his hollow gaze.
What the hell was this?
Where was he?
Peter turned away from the scene, closing his eyes and ignoring the sobs of the people there, having quickly realized that none of them could see him, at least not the current him. He took a few steps forward, still wary of this strange illusion, which reminded him a little of the work of Mysterio, and approached himself. His younger self, at least.
It was strange to be able to look at his own face like that. The younger Peter’s face was covered in tears and ash, seeping into small cuts, his body wounded and his gaze shattered by the death of his hero. Peter didn’t know why he was there or what kind of power was making him see these things, but it seemed so real. He approached his other self, wanting to comfort him a little, as foolish as that might be, because that was what he would have wanted someone to do for him, as selfish as that had been. The moment his fingers touched the other man’s arm, he didn’t have time to react before being violently thrown to the ground, his breath knocked out of him.
“He’s dead because of you,” Pepper declared coldly as she approached him, followed by the other heroes surrounding them. Peter swallowed nervously as he saw the hatred and anger in their eyes.
This wasn’t real.
Was it?
“You’re weak. A poison to everyone. Look what you’ve done,” his other self spat softly, his eyes brimming with tears, holding him firmly to the ground, raising his fist as if to strike him. “He would never have died if you hadn’t let go of that gauntlet." No, that wasn’t true. “He would never have died if he hadn’t been desperate to save you. What a waste.”
Peter knew it was all a lie and surely just a complex illusion planted in his mind, but those words hurt him, tearing at a wound that had never healed.
“That’s not true…” he began to say softly, despite his burning throat and his eyes starting to sting. Damn it. But he was immediately cut off mid-sentence when his counterpart’s fist struck his cheek with full force.
Peter opened his eyes again, a little dazed by the impact, to see that the other Peter and the people around him were back in their original positions, mourning Tony Stark and his sacrifice. It was like a film reel rewound.
What the hell?
He struggled to his feet, forcing himself not to look at Tony’s corpse or the other people there, forcing himself to ignore the younger hero, and tried to walk away from the scene. He didn’t get very far, blocked by a thick, dark wall that he knew perfectly well hadn’t been there during the final battle against Thanos. Between that, the strange scene that had never played out this way, and the ink-black sky, he could conclude that something was seriously wrong.
He ignored the others again when his attention was drawn to a small light near some debris, not far from where Falcon stood, watching the aftermath from a distance. He approached slowly and felt his breath catch when he saw…
A rune.
That was what it was called, at least he thought so; he was by no means an expert in magic. The runes of Kof-Kof… or something like that. Kof-Kol? But he recognized this thing, and an emotion he had long forgotten began to take root within him, more than one, in fact. A mixture of hope and rage. If the person responsible for all this was toying with him by reminding him of his sacrifice, it wasn’t funny at all.
Fragments of these runes were right there before his eyes, glowing with the same orange light characteristic of Doctor Strange’s magic, etched into the rock of a battlefield from years ago.
It made no sense.
There was even something strange about them. The kind of darkness that had engulfed New York was visible here as well, and seemed to be trying to cover the runes, clashing with the magic, without either force managing to gain the upper hand.
Taking a deep breath, Peter stood up, and without giving it a second thought, struck the rock, shattering it repeatedly, and felt the ground give way beneath his feet, causing him to fall painfully onto his back amidst another rubble.
This scene was worse than the previous one.
He had confirmation that someone had indeed taken pleasure in sifting through his worst memories, but at what cost?
He ran with all his might, crossing the room to try to stand between his Aunt May and the monster responsible for her death. He knew it was pointless, that these events had already happened and that he couldn’t change anything, but he refused to let things go the way they had last time.
The moment his foot made contact with the buffoon's face, sending him crashing into the wall, Peter felt himself breathe again. A feeling that was short-lived when debris from the floor came to life and struck him in the ribs, pinning him against the wall, in perfect view to watch his aunt… No!
It was cruel.
For the scene resumed as if he weren’t even there, Norman destroying the ground floor, young Peter not realizing he was about to lose the most important person in his life, and May dying.
Peter let out a cry of rage, feeling the emotions he’d felt on that terrible day welling up inside him once more.
Damn it all to hell.
He struggled violently against the debris, managing to free his right arm, which he used to free himself completely. He tried to convince himself again not to look, but his gaze was hopelessly drawn to the scene, to the final moments of May’s life. He had already begun to forget her face… how terrible was that?
He hadn’t been able to save her.
And now, there was the proof right in front of him again. He was no hero. What kind of hero let his family die like that?
He closed his eyes tightly and looked away as the morbid scene from his worst memory began again, just as the previous memory had, and felt like the worst person on Earth for doing nothing to prevent the outcome from being the same. Because it wouldn’t change anything; this place would see to that, one way or another.
He searched for a few minutes, hoping that the small glimmer of hope in his heart wouldn’t be violently extinguished, and let out a sigh of relief when he saw, here too, orange runes engraved on a wall in the room, the same darkness battling against their light, causing orange and black sparks to flare up at times.
That wasn’t normal.
Just like last time, he struck with all his might, feeling his knuckles bruise, and managed to break through the wall, revealing another scene, yet another of his greatest shameful moments. That was the purpose of this cursed place, after all, wasn’t it? He understood that all too well.
He cast one last glance toward the memory of his aunt, and let a tear roll down his cheek as he stepped into the next ‘room’.
He was so sorry.
The transition into this new memory was brutal, with Peter caught in the middle of the worst fight of his life. Not because of his opponent’s strength, he’d faced far worse, but because of the pure hatred that had consumed him during that fight, the sheer intensity with which he’d wanted to kill his opponent. He watched himself, filled with rage, striking Norman Osborn again and again. The other man took the blow, then another, then yet another, as Peter’s fury exploded without restraint. This was no fight or any kind of justice; every blow carried everything he had accumulated: loss, guilt, and his crushing helplessness. He struck as if to erase the pain, as if to rewrite history with blows of violence, as if destroying the one he hated could repair what had been broken.
Peter sometimes thought back on it and wondered what would have happened if Peter (the one from another universe) hadn’t been there to stop him before he committed the irreparable. Because he would have killed him, he knew he would have. And if he had, Spider-Man would have died that day as well.
This time, he saw the runes right away, because they were everywhere.
And even more unstable than in his previous nightmares. They covered the ground, the sky, and even the few people here. It was so strange; they pulsed with a strong, flickering light, the darkness growing around him, trying to contain and swallow this foreign force, to no avail.
This room was so dark and cold compared to the others.
The moment his fingers touched one of the runes, the darkness surged a little more, clinging to him, and the shock was so powerful that Peter immediately lost consciousness, his mind blank, except for a faint ‘fuck’.
Peter Parker
Robert "Bob" Reynolds
Wanda Maximoff
Franklin Richards
