Chapter Text
The guy whose story we're about to tell is Peter Parker, and he was bitten by a radioactive spider—wait, we can get to that later.
"Hey, I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to have that. Where did you even get it?" Peter said to the second of the three guys in front of him. He addressed the second guy because he had already punched the first one out cold the second he saw him—you're very welcome.
Launching himself into the air, he delivered a momentum-fueled kick, pinning the second guy hard against the wall. He figured the man was done for, but just in case, he shot a web at him, securing him in place.While he was busy with the task in front of him, the third guy didn't just stand there waiting, obviously; that only happens in the movies. So, imagine Peter's shock when he turned his head and saw the third guy wielding a glowing whip.
Just as Peter yelled, "Hey—" the guy swung the nearly two-meter-long whip right at him. Peter realized the danger a second too late. As he shot a web to his right to dodge, the whip struck him, leaving a burning trail from his left arm across his chest. He hissed in pain the moment the strike ended. "That," he began, shooting a web to the building above and launching himself high into the air, dropping squarely onto the guy's shoulders before the thug could even process what was happening. As the man crumpled beneath him, Peter muttered, "That wasn't nice."
He brought a heavy strike down on the guy's head—still holding back most of his super-strength, of course—and as the man passed out, Peter fell to the ground with him, but quickly rolled and got back to his feet. Whether it was from the roll or because the adrenaline of the fight was wearing off, fresh waves of pain started radiating from his arm and chest.
Peter knew it was a tough injury before he even looked at it. Healing from this was going to be a nightmare. Mainly because it was caused by a magical whip, which was still incredibly weird. Plus, due to Peter's recent malnutrition, even a simple knife wound was taking way longer to heal than his super-healing factor usually allowed. Anyway, looking on the bright side, how many people could say they got lashed by a glowing, magical whip? That was another one crossed off the bucket list, right?
Oh, right, there's also the whole magical whip detail. Where did these ninja-wannabe thugs even get a magical weapon? Had the New York underground traded gun and drug running for magical whip trafficking? With these thoughts swirling in his head, Peter wrapped all the guys he had caught into a web cocoon and looked around. The guy they were trying to mug was long gone. Peter scoffed. After all he did for the people of New York, he couldn't even get a 'thank you.' Rude. Hopefully, the guy at least called the cops like Peter told him to. Because Peter didn't have Karen anymore. He was still working on that.
Before finishing the web cocoon, he squinted at the weapon the third guy had dropped. Thank God the whip had stopped glowing the moment it slipped from the guy's hand when he went down. Fearing it might trigger something again, Peter picked it up gingerly, but nothing happened. Huh.
He turned it over and examined it carefully because, at the end of the day, he was a curious spider, and everything that happened to him was a direct result of that fatal flaw. On the right side of the handle, there was something carved in a mystical script that Peter struggled to read. He highly doubted it was even English. But all this flashing magic and mystical handwriting reminded him of only one person: Doctor Stephen Strange.
His old friend. Friend was a bit of a stretch, sure, but they definitely had some history. Well, at least until Peter had himself erased from everyone's minds. Nobody remembered him now. Including Strange. As these thoughts surfaced, Peter forcefully pushed away his past.
The past he tried to outrun. The one that flooded his mind every time he looked in the mirror, slipping past every distraction he built just to keep himself sane. Avoidance wasn't the healthiest coping mechanism, but it was a mechanism. And right now, it was all Peter had. At least until he tried to sleep at night. So, before giving himself the chance to overthink, Peter grabbed the whip and headed toward Strange's Sanctum—or whatever it was called.
Along the way, he tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his arm and chest, but having to use both arms to swing made that increasingly difficult. He swung through the city in the dark New York night. Just another ordinary evening, minus the magical whip. Hopefully, Strange wouldn't mind him dropping by at 11 PM. Strange might not remember him, but he remembered Spider-Man, so Peter figured he wouldn't be treated like an enemy. Strange knew Spider-Man was on the good side, after all.
He was just going to go there, talk to Strange, and hand the whip over to the doctor so it wouldn't fall into the wrong hands again. Maybe they'd discuss how such a mystical artifact ended up in the hands of street thugs. That was it. He would say his goodbyes and leave. Keep it strictly business. Yes, exactly that. Nothing else. Period.
This train of thought ended with a stumbling landing—more of a crash, really—right in front of the Sanctum. The searing pain from his wound was starting to cloud his movements and his brain. The edges of his vision were getting fuzzy and unusually colorful. God, the whip couldn't have been poisoned, right?
Glancing right and left, he noticed the street and the fronts of the neighboring buildings were empty, so he knocked softly on the heavy doors. Once, twice. No answer. Peter was losing his patience and still a little out of his mind, so he pushed the door a bit too hard and accidentally broke the lock. "Oops," he muttered to himself, but hey, at least the door was open.
He stepped inside slowly and cautiously. He fully expected some magical alarm to blare and to get violently thrown out, but surprisingly, even after he took five steps inside—yes, he counted—nothing happened. Maybe it was because he'd been here before. Sure, he had been wiped from people's minds, but ancient, sentient magic wouldn't just forget him, right? Peter had come here as an ally before, and he and Strange knew each other. That must have earned him some inherent trust with the Sanctum. Earning the trust of a building? Had he really fallen this low? But as he stumbled blindly down the empty, dark hallway, he decided that was far better than nothing.
"Mr. Strange? Stephen? Sir?" Peter called out hesitantly. The only answer he received was the howling wind. In an enclosed building. With his spider-sense buzzing, Peter used his enhanced senses to pinpoint the source of the wind and slowly began to make his way toward it. The path led him down an increasingly narrow corridor.
Things started to get interesting from here on out. Because one moment he was walking down a seemingly endless hallway, lowered his head, and the next moment he looked up, the corridor had abruptly ended a step in front of him, replaced by a door. Stopping short thanks to his spider-sense, Peter muttered to himself in the sudden shock of the situation, "Holy shit!" Spinning around, he saw that he was in a square, box-like hallway.
He felt completely mind-blown, though the hazy intoxication caused by his injury prevented him from fully grasping the gravity of the situation.
Still, he wasn't an idiot, and his first instinct was to look for a way out of the tiny room. He even checked the ceiling, because despite the pain from his wound, he could still jump up and climb out. Of course, there was nothing. Thanks, Parker Luck.
Trouble always had a way of finding him anyway.
His only wish had been to drop the whip off with Strange and get the hell out of there. But... here we are. Left with no other choice, Peter slowly approached the door and grasped the handle. Hesitantly, at a turtle's pace, he tested whether the door would open, and of course, it did. If it were somewhere he needed to go, it would have been locked tight, but he was an absolute master at finding places he was supposed to stay away from and wandering right in. Go figure.
Opening the door with trepidation, Peter tried to gather his focus as much as possible. The brown door was old. And when it creaked open, the sound grated violently against Peter's heightened senses. In stark contrast to the dim light of the hallway, the room beyond the door was bright and glowed with a golden light. It was a massive room filled with odds and ends everywhere, and Peter's eyes widened. After scanning the area for any sign of people he pulled off his mask and took in the sight before him, so he could breathe easy.
It looked like a place ripped straight out of a movie or a book. It felt like a scene from Harry Potter or The Lord of the Rings. Like that scene where they break into Bellatrix's vault in Gringotts, and everything is overflowing with magical artifacts. Except, there were three major differences. First was how brightly lit the room was. Second, everything was neatly organized rather than scattered in chaos. And third, the items here didn't look financially valuable; they looked ancient.
Peter's brain was screaming at him to just leave the whip here and get out immediately, without messing with anything else. Just find the exit. But he couldn't exactly claim he always listened to his brain. So, he decided to place the whip in an empty spot on the middle shelf of the most eye-catching bookcase. However, as he reached out, a sudden, blinding wave of pain flared in his chest, making him groan. Unable to catch himself, he grabbed onto the shelf for support.
As he did, a few items from the top shelves came crashing down right over his head with a loud clatter, and Peter barely dodged them at the last second.
As fate would have it, one of the fallen items looked just like Hufflepuff's cup, along with a few similar silver trinkets. But what truly caught Peter's attention and made him swallow hard was a rather large, black vase. It had absolutely no color on it; it was pitch black. It had tipped over onto its side. Because its mouth was wide open, a box inside had slid out and was now resting right in front of him.
Peter gulped and quickly looked around. The door he had entered through was closed, and there was no sign of anyone else. He moved toward the door and tried to open it, but it was no use. Despite using his super-strength, he couldn't get the door to budge even a fraction of an inch.
Stranded, Peter turned back to where the vase was, crouched down, and picked up the box, almost as if he had lost control of his own limbs. It was a navy blue box, about the size of Peter's palm. It was covered in incredibly intricate carvings. Peter stared at it and, as if mesmerized, opened the lid without being able to stop himself. Beneath the lid lay a stone that sparkled like a diamond but was the deep red of a ruby. It looked flawless, and for a few seconds, Peter did nothing but hold his breath and stare at it. A moment later, knowing damn well he shouldn't, he involuntarily picked the stone up. It was as if he were a puppet, and some feeling, something, was controlling him.
When he picked it up, the stone fit perfectly in his palm, and Peter's spider-sense started to prickle. It felt like there was a massive, churning dam inside it, and the water was just waiting to burst out. As he stared at the stone, unable to tear his eyes away, a sensation crept over Peter, starting from his hand and spreading straight to his heart. It was like the phrase "butterflies in your stomach," except it was agonizing, nowhere near his stomach, and felt like it was crushing his heart.Sucking in a sharp, painful breath and letting out a small, strangled cry, Peter threw the stone to the floor and backed away without looking back.
He refused to look at where the stone had fallen.
Because if he turned back, he feared he would do one of two things. Either he would pick the stone up to put it back and suffer that agonizing pain again—which terrified him—or he would pick it up and never be able to let it go, because the stone was impossibly intoxicating. Both scenarios required Peter to touch the stone again, and Peter was terrified that if he did, the second option would win out.
So, without even cleaning up the mess he made, Peter sprinted to the door and twisted the handle with all his might. But the door swung open effortlessly, as if to mock him for overreacting. Though he hesitated for a split second, Peter stepped out without looking back, slamming the door shut behind him and leaning heavily against it. He closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing.
Thankfully, the cool outside air was helping him calm down. Wait—
Peter's eyes snapped open. He was back out on the street outside the Sanctum.
What the fuck was going on?
The door he had entered from a random hallway—a magical hallway, sure—had literally just opened to the outside. Peter looked around in sheer bewilderment. Then, he quickly pulled himself together and yanked his mask back on. Even if his head was spinning and his entire body ached, he had learned the importance of protecting his secret identity the hardest way possible.
Mask secured, he decided to just go home.
To pretend none of this had ever happened.
He had gone to drop off the whip, and he had dropped it off. The mess he made didn't matter unless Strange came looking for him to ask about it. And even if the wizard did come wanting to interrogate Spider-Man, he could just tell the story exactly as it happened. The box holding the stone hadn't opened when it fell.
Peter hadn't opened it. In the past, he would never have been able to keep up a lie like that, but the sixteen-year-old Peter Parker, who hadn't had anyone in the world for the last four months, could lie now.Maybe it was just easier because the people he was lying to didn't actually know him, because if it were May or Mr. Stark—
No.
Don't think about them.
Not now.
And so, comforting himself with the thought that nothing bad was going to happen, Peter swung his way back to his "home"—or as much of a home as it could be called. Nothing was going to happen to him. He was going to forget this whole incident. How could it possibly affect him anyway, right? If Strange showed up, they'd talk it out and that would be the end of it. But the gnawing feeling in his gut told him the exact opposite; Peter simply chose to ignore it.
To be completely honest and put the superhero ego aside, he was tired. He was exhausted.
As it neared two in the morning—how had time passed so quickly? Peter slipped through the window into the cramped, run-down, one-room apartment he called home. The building had zero soundproofing. Because of this, he had to be extra careful not to disturb the other tenants. However, the pain from the whip wound across his arm and chest seemed to be steadily growing, making it nearly impossible to close the window quietly.
Stumbling further inside, he quickly peeled off his suit. With a wince, he made his way to the closet and grabbed the first-aid kit he had barely managed to scrape together the money for. Considering his apartment consisted of exactly one room plus a bathroom, he didn't have to walk far. He ignored the fact that he could barely even afford the rent for this place. Ironic. He pulled out what he needed from the kit. Staring at the wound in the dusty mirror that barely offered a reflection, he let out a heavy sigh.
He was well-acquainted with injuries, but when it came to magical wounds, he was way out of his depth. With nothing else to do, he began to dress the wound as best as he could. The gash was quite deep and bloody, trailing from the middle of his left arm straight across the center of his chest.
Deciding it needed stitches, Peter swallowed hard and picked up the needle and thread. Normally, he could heal a wound like this in a day or two, but... lately, due to his financial situation, he couldn't exactly say he'd been eating right or taking care of himself. So, yeah. Stitches.
After finishing the agonizing but all-too-familiar ordeal of cleaning and suturing the wound, he quickly threw on a pair of gray sweatpants and a second-hand t-shirt. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed with a sigh of relief, picking up his suit to assess the damage.
Yeah, it didn't look great, but he had sewn up so much battle damage by now that he practically qualified as a tailor—okay, he was exaggerating, he still wasn't very good at it, but he would never admit that. He could fix it in a day or two. If he was going on patrol tomorrow, he could even stitch it up in the morning during the day. If he could find a gap between work and patrol, anyway. Just as he was about to set the suit aside, he noticed a weight in one of the handy pockets he'd designed for himself, realizing he hadn't taken his phone out.
He was reaching for it when his eyes flicked to the desk; he suddenly remembered he had forgotten his phone there when he left tonight, and sure enough, it was sitting innocently right on the table. He reached into the pocket slowly and pulled out its contents. He had probably shoved something random in there and forgotten about it—maybe a kid had given him a gift, maybe—maybe—
When he pulled his hand out of the pocket, he was staring at a sparkling, ruby-red stone.
Normally, Peter would spit out a curse and chuck the stone across the room. Maybe that was exactly what he should have done. But he couldn't. He just stared at it, completely speechless. He was absolutely certain he hadn't taken the stone.
Yes, there was no way he took it.
Because when he threw the stone to the ground, he had run out of the room. He hadn't even looked back. So how was it here?
For a while, Peter just stared at the stone without blinking, without even breathing. Waiting for it to hurt him again. But it never did.
The stone was mesmerizing; it definitely had an aura of its own, a magnetic pull that drew you in.
But deep down, Peter felt something entirely different. There was something wrong with this stone. Peter couldn't decide if it was influencing him or terrifying him.
Maybe it was both.
With a deep sigh, Peter collapsed back onto the bed, utterly spent from the pain in his shoulder and the exhaustion of the day. He knew he had to take the stone back. He knew this was wrong, or at the very least, shouldn't be happening. Because he had left the stone, and yet, here it was. But with his mind scrambled and his body running on fumes, Peter couldn't bring himself to let it go right then.
First thing in the morning, he would wake up, put on his suit—damaged as it was—and head straight to the Sanctum. He would find someone and hand the stone over, preferably Strange. The stone would stay with him for just one day. Just one little day. What's the worst that could happen?!
He took another deep breath; he could forget about the stone for now, it was a problem for tomorrow, after all. He just needed to put it on the desk and try to sleep.
But. But...
He still couldn't let go of it. It was as if he were locked in place. Even though holding it set off warning bells in his mind, he was being swept away by it. Peter knew he was smarter than this. He definitely was. But right now, it felt like his access to reason had been severed. He absolutely should have put the stone down, but instead, he brought the hand clutching the jewel to his chest. He settled deep into the mattress, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.
No matter how exhausted he was, he knew the outcome of his attempts to fall asleep wouldn't change. Because every night, he struggled to sleep. Whenever he tried to sleep, whenever he closed his eyes, the ghosts of his past would haunt him. Ben, May, Mr. Stark... Tony...
The mistakes he had made would swirl inside his head as violent, agonizing whispers, torturing him. The ones left behind were ghosts now, too. Because everyone had forgotten him, hadn't they... Even Ned. Everyone. No, they hadn't forgotten Spider-Man, they had forgotten Peter Parker.
He had never been someone well-known anyway. He was always the nerdy kid. The one who got picked on, called names, mocked. He had never been popular a day in his life.
So what hurt so damn much then?
The fact that he couldn't even remain as a memory? Or the fact that he was absolutely no one to anybody?
He had saved the universe and the world from monsters about to bleed in from parallel universes, right? But he had saved other people's universe.
Not his own.
His own had been destroyed, his world long since shattered to pieces. How had everything come to this?
According to Doctor Strange—another person who had forgotten him—there were many parallel universes. Why was he trapped in this one? No matter how much he deluded himself, he knew the truth. He was starting to lose his own sense of self. Everyone had forgotten him, their memories with him, everything about him.
And that was causing Peter to start forgetting himself. Yes, he truly meant that.
Could a person forget their past self?
The past?
That life, his past, was just a dream.
The people we see in our dreams and the things we experience with them feel real to us, but when we wake up, those people don't even know it happened. Even if those dreams were perfect to you. And then, as life goes on, you inevitably forget the vast majority of those dreams, remembering only the most special ones.
Peter, too, was beginning to forget his past life.
He had no one left to remind him of those memories.
No one?
Existing?
Did he exist?
For whom?
Life?
What did that even mean?
Spider-Man?
Yes, he was Spider-Man. He knew the importance of helping people; he knew that was what made him him. It was the only thing keeping him going anymore. His reason to wake up the next day.
But sometimes, especially at night when he got into bed and was enveloped by these thoughts, it just wasn't enough anymore. He loved saving people. He had chosen this. Not just a choice, it was his responsibility. He had great power. And with great power must also come great responsibility.
But he needed someone to save Peter Parker so badly...
Desperately.
He was on the verge of fading away. And he was so terrified of fading away. No, not as Spider-Man, the famous hero of Queens. He was trembling with fear as a sixteen-year-old kid who wasn't even a fully grown adult yet. And he would never admit it.
For New York.
For Ben.
For May.
And for Tony.
He had to be strong. He had to bury the nightmares he saw in bed every night and every second he spent shaking. He was Spider-Man, and he couldn't afford to be weak for even a single second. Right?
But tonight, he was absolutely shivering with fear.
He couldn't stop it. Or maybe it was from his wound. Or from the stone he held in his hand, seeping deeper into him with every passing second. He didn't know, because his mind was starting to slip away.
And just as he did every night before falling asleep, he thought, he wondered, he wished.
Was there another way?
A possibility that could change everything?
If it were up to him, despite having already lost everything, he would lay whatever he had left on the line and beg for another chance. But no, he might not be an adult yet, but he wasn't a child enough to pin his hopes on impossible thoughts and what-ifs.
Still, he desired it so deeply.
A way he could change everything. Finally, the exhaustion won out, and Peter drifted into the murky waters of sleep. He didn't know.
He didn't know that the red stone he still held tightly in his hand had begun to glow.
He didn't know he was hearing someone's voice.
In fact, this someone had been hearing him from the very beginning. He didn't know that when he woke up, he would have a chance to either fix everything or ruin it even further.
His world began to change.
But, completely unaware of it all, he just slept.