Chapter Text
Prologue:
14 years ago
Dusk was settling early upon the streets of Gotham, the ever-present smog and stench of the city magnified by the hot early summer weather. As the sun dipped below the skyline and the shadows lengthened upon Crime Alley, a figure wrapped in a simple coat whose visage was hidden by a hood made their way down the infamous street. The person carried a bundle in their arms; fear was evident upon their form as they glanced fretfully at every shadow, wary of all they may contain.
It didn’t take very long for the figure to make its way toward their destination, the Thomas Wayne Memorial free clinic. The figure glanced at the plaque adorning the wall before pulling their hood back, revealing the woman underneath. She looked down at the bundle in her arms, a soft, sad smile upon her lips as she rocked the infant she carried. The baby was soundly asleep. Afraid of waking him up, the woman spoke softly, her raven hair gently tickling the baby’s nose.
“I’m sorry, little one, I wish there were another way. One day, if I can, I will find you, I promise.” She whispered, her last words catching in her throat with the grief of their upcoming separation.
She took a deep breath and looked around, making sure she was unobserved as she approached the door of the clinic. She laid the baby down on the steps leading to the entrance, and then, after straightening up, she knocked on the old wooden door.
She did not wait and turned around, quickly vanishing down the streets and darkened alleyways.
Less than a minute later, the door was opened by a woman in a doctor’s coat, her hair greying prematurely from stress. She looked on either side of the entrance, a frown marring her features, trying to catch a glimpse of who may have knocked on her door.
An annoyed snort escaped her nose as she shook her head. “Damn kids,” she muttered aloud, preparing to close the door when a sound attracted her gaze downward.
Her pupils widened in surprise as she spotted the infant wrapped in a red blanket.
She bent down quickly and carefully picked up the baby. “What the–” she muttered as she looked at the child.
oOo
Half an hour later, doctor Leslie Thompkins sighed as she finished giving the infant child a checkup. She still couldn’t believe that anyone would be foolish enough to abandon a baby here, of all places.
Of all the wretched places in Gotham, none were worse than Crime Alley, a place mostly abandoned even by the bats.
Leslie knew what she had to do. Over the years, she had cared for a few orphaned children, including, for a time, the famous Bruce Wayne. She knew she would have to contact the Child Protective Services, even if CPS was, much like any other institution in Gotham, riddled with corruption.
The infant had been left at her doorstep without even a note. As such it was now her responsibility to choose a name for the child, which she would then remand in the care of CPS.
Minutes dragged on as she thought quietly while rocking the sleeping baby in her arms. By tradition, foundlings were to be named after the place where they were found, and she snorted in amusement at the idea of calling the child Thomas Wayne.
“Hmm,” she hummed as she glanced at a calendar. June 29th. “Yes, that might work, let’s see. Peter Thomas Row.” She shook her head. “No, that’s not quite right.”
She smiled down at the infant, a soft, sad smile. She hoped it would not be an omen of bad luck to call the child after Crime Alley, officially Park Row.
“Not Row… Park, let’s go with... Park, no Parker. Peter Parker.”
oOo
Present day:
Peter looked up at the sky as the first snowflakes of the year softly fell, dancing in the wind. He let out a sigh and wrapped the old ratty grey coat that he wore over a purple hoodie and simple jeans. He started walking, heading toward an alley in Old Gotham with a pronounced limp, courtesy of a beating he got years ago that had broken his right knee. His hands were buried in the pockets of his coat to try and stave off the cold.
Slowly, he made his way to a simple nook in a wall behind a dumpster at the dead end of the alley. It was hidden from view and too small for the adult homeless population to contest.
Peter suspected the nook was the result of an explosion, a sadly all too frequent occurrence in this city. Regardless, the wall had been damaged, but not so much that it compromised the structure of the building. It simply offered a small amount of protection from the elements, with the dumpster hiding it from view. Accessing the nook was difficult, requiring him to slide between the small space between the wall and the rusted metal edge of the dumpster a feat the teen could barely accomplish due to his small size, courtesy of years of malnourishment
His hidey-hole was extremely claustrophobic, with barely enough space for him to sit. He had arranged the place as best he could, laying down some rags and old newspapers on the ground to get at least a little insulation from the cold. He’d also scrounged an old thermal blanket with a few tears through it that would help to keep him warm at night.
Today had not been a good day for Peter. He’d looked around town to try and pick up what little cash he could find and rummaged through trash unsuccessfully for half-spoiled food. All in all, he had barely managed to scrounge up a couple dollars.
His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he had not eaten his fill in weeks. Peter felt weak and tired. Perhaps someone else in his situation would have sought out one of the many homeless shelters that dotted the city, but Peter knew that if he ever made his way to one of those places he would be picked up by CPS again. This would be an absolute last resort for him.
He gently massaged his knee, trying to work out the pain of the poorly healed break he had gotten at one of the many foster homes he had bounced around in. While the beating his foster parents at the time had given him had resulted in the disability, it was hardly an unusual occurrence; regardless of where he ended up, Peter always seemed to end up beaten for one reason or another.
It wasn’t like he was a problem child. He always tried to stick to the rules he was given by whatever family he ended up being dumped on by CPS. He tried to be a good kid, to stay away from trouble, to keep quiet and out of the way. But he was different from other kids, different enough that he inevitably attracted more than his fair share of violence.
He’d been called special needs, autistic. He didn’t really understand social cues and felt uncomfortable talking or even looking people in the eyes. As a result, he came across as rude to most people and ended up being beaten.
Peter gently started rocking back and forth, both in an effort to stay warm and to soothe his own frayed nerves. The repetitive motion helped a little.
He knew that he had few alternatives to CPS. Plenty of kids in a similar situation ended up joining a gang, or even the Robin Army that had started making noise again, but no gangs or wannabe vigilantes would ever accept a kid like him into their ranks. Lame, quiet, acting strange. No, Peter was pretty much forced to go at it completely alone.
As night fell, Peter wrapped himself in his thermal blanket, using his arm as a pillow. Maybe tomorrow his luck would turn and he would find some food, he told himself. He held back the tears that always seemed to threaten to burst out of him once he was forced to stop and was left alone with his thoughts.
Maybe with the arrival of winter, Peter's troubles would be over. Freezing to death in his sleep didn’t seem like such a bad way to go, really. He hated that a part of him wished for this to happen. He didn’t want to die, not really, but he wanted to escape from his horrible situation, and what escape was more final than death?
Chapter 1: A day in the life
Peter woke up shivering. Despite the thermal blanket he had wrapped himself in, the biting cold of Gotham’s winter had driven all the heat away from him.
It took several moments for the teen to gather the will necessary to get up and fold his blanket, putting it back into the backpack he carried with him.
While the nook he had arranged for himself was hidden from view, experience had taught Peter that it would be foolish to leave any of his actual possessions behind.
As he stepped from behind the dumpster, he noticed the snow on the ground. He let out a heavy sigh and slowly shook his head, this day was already shaping up to be a potential disaster. The trudge through the snow would slow him down, and the cold would make it difficult to rummage through the garbage for food or things he might find useful.
Nevertheless, he had little choice and started his usual routine.
oOo
Peter’s first stop on his journey was to Gotham’s cathedral where the Martha Wayne Kitchen for the Disenfranchised set up every day to distribute free breakfast for the homeless and the struggling population of Gotham.
Peter was vaguely aware that the operation had gathered some criticism from the richer and more pompous section of the population who would rather not see the throng of dirty, unwashed destitutes gather around such a prestigious part of town.
They would have been much happier to relegate the homeless population uptown entirely, and in large part they had succeeded in their efforts. However, Peter as well as a few dozen others regularly made their way or lived in the rest of Gotham.
Gotham’s geography was relatively complex, composed of three main islands as well as a few smaller islands dotted around it, all joined by a network of bridges and tunnels. The northern island, uptown, housed the vast majority of the poor population of Gotham, and was home to the most crime ridden districts such as Crime Alley and the Bowery.
The central island, midtown, represented a gradual shift toward more wealth, with middle class families mixing with more affluent citizens. The southern island, downtown, was a rather stark mix of extreme wealth and abject poverty. Close to the center island were several high end companies, luxury boutiques as well as city hall and G.C.P.D headquarters.
Toward the southern tip of downtown Gotham however sat Old Gotham. The oldest part of the city, and one whose character was defined by overly gothic architecture. That part of town was also home to a small homeless population who found it easy to lose themselves among the maze of old streets and alleys.
All in all, it wasn’t the worst possible location for Peter to have chosen. He was homeless, yes, but proximity to wealth and G.C.P.D headquarters allowed some degree of safety, away from the gangs that regularly haunted the rest of Gotham.
Peter joined the crowd of the homeless, trying to avoid attracting attention. While he was relatively safe for the moment since no one wanted to fight and disrupt the meal, that didn’t mean he couldn’t attract undue attention from the Kitchen’ staff.
People volunteering at the Kitchen were far less likely to report Peter to CPS than homeless shelters would be, but their kind and helpful nature would still try to take care of such a young teenager. Peter found their attention cloying and did his level best to interact with them as little as possible. Years of abuse and violence, as well as his own nature, had ensured that Peter shied away from other people as much as possible.
“Hey Peter !” glancing up, the young teenager spotted a small group of people he was somewhat acquainted with and made his slow limping way toward them. While he was, by choice, a loner, that didn’t mean that Peter didn’t recognize the value of sticking with a group when necessary. And eating with others would slightly decrease the odds of him being singled out.
Marcus had been the one to shout and wave at Peter to attract his attention. He was an older white man. Peter guessed in his early fifties by the salt and pepper hair he sported but it was hard to judge under the layer of grime that made everyone appear older than they were. Sitting in front of him at the communal table were Kali and Miguel. Kali was a young woman of indian descent, a few years older than Peter, she never spoke a word and Peter was unsure if she was mute or simply closed off. However, Miguel talked more than enough for the both of them. Mid thirties, the man was an immigrant, but Peter had never pried enough to know from where exactly. It didn’t matter to him.
Miguel was engaged in an animated conversation with Marcus “I’m telling you, more and more people are vanishing” he told the older man who simply sighed. “I know Miguel, but people disappear all the time in Gotham, there was a breakout at Arkham not long ago. I guess one of the rogues is responsible”.
Peter tuned out the conversation for a while and made his way to the food truck the kitchen used to distribute breakfast. Simple oatmeal and a fruit, apple today, on the edge of being fresh. Peter wouldn’t complain about the food, it was better fare than he could generally scrounge up on his own and was the only reliable meal he got most days.
Making his way back to the group he sat down and mechanically started eating. Marcus turned toward him and leaned closer, yet careful not to touch the teen. “Peter,” he started speaking, “you heard ? You have to be careful. People have gone missing, so make sure you pay attention”.
Peter nodded but said nothing. What else was new in Gotham ? People always went missing or got arrested, or sent to the hospital or morgue by one of the gangs. Sometimes even the bats would join in and beat a poor schmuck who got desperate enough to resort to crime.
oOo
Once his meal was finished, Peter made his way further north toward the diamond district. It was a risk, to be seen so close to wealth, but that was also where the best trash could be found.
Restaurant and high end shops would dump some food or clothes once in a while, and because of the wealth and number of cops patrolling, it was harder for the homeless to get at said trash and food. If you knew what you were doing you could potentially get enough to last you a while. But if you were unlucky, you’d be picked up by corrupt cops who’d steal from you, beat you up, and drag you to jail or dump you somewhere uptown where you belonged (according to them at least).
Peter however was both desperate enough to take the chance, and relatively confident in not being spotted. His small frame allowed him to hide more easily and his relatively clean coat, while ratty, would not attract too much attention.
And so, for a few hours, Peter rummaged through trash. He found some day-old food he carefully wrapped in a plastic bag for later, and even a new pair of shoes.
The sneakers were a bit on the ostentatious side, with neon green soles, but they were of such good quality that he didn’t hesitate to swap. He had no doubt the soles would soon be all but hidden, covered in grime and mud anyway.
In a stroke of luck, the teenager found a 5 dollar bill crumpled on the ground as he exited the alley after packaging the food he’d found. His reddened fingers closed around the bill tightly and he quickly stepped away from the oncoming foot traffic to contemplate what he would do with this money.
oOo
Peter made his way toward a corner store back in Old Gotham where he would be less likely to be chased away on sight. Upon entering the cashier looked up at him from behind a bulletproof glass enclosure. The bored and sleepy looking woman had one of her hands under the counter. Peter wasn’t sure whether it was because she had her finger upon a silent alarm button, or a gun. In Gotham there was quite a good chance of either, or even both, being true.
Shoulder hunched, Peter quickly moved down the aisles toward his target. He was careful to keep his eyes from wandering to the various candy and snacks, he simply couldn’t indulge himself. Instead he quickly grabbed something that was utterly essential in Gotham, a plastic bottle of water.
The reason this was an essential item was that it ensured he had at least 2 liters of clean fresh water. It wasn’t too hard to find a working faucet in any number of abandoned buildings, but no Gothamites would willingly drink water from the city water system unless they had no other choices. Too many instances of the rogues poisoning the water with fear toxin, joker venom or other assorted nastiness for anyone to take the chance.
Of course, being homeless Peter had far too often had to drink from a faucet anyway. So far he’d been lucky but because of the risk he always tried to drink as little as possible, leaving him chronically dehydrated.
Peter approached the counter, making sure to keep his hands visible. The cashier looked him over and relaxed upon seeing him holding nothing but the water bottle and a fiver. Before long, Peter’s purchase was rung out and he exited the corner shop, quickly stashing the bottle into his backpack.
And so, with purchase made, he made his back toward his nook with a little pep in his step. This had been a good day, if arduous because of the light layer of snow on the ground. He’d even found an old pair of headphones he could use to muffle the sound of the city. The cars, the all too frequent sound of gunshots, even the occasional scream for help. The noise level could easily be overwhelming for him so he was quite glad to have found the headphones. Although not as glad as he was to have been able to buy a water bottle.
Perhaps because of the headphones, or perhaps because the good day had made him lower his vigilance, Peter didn’t realize that a van had been following him down a narrow street as the sun set. Before he could realize what was happening, he’d been grabbed and a black bag had been tossed over his head before the shock of a powerful taser made him pass out.