Chapter Text
Eyes bleary and vision unfocused, head pounding up a storm, Peter can only stare up at the blurry gray mass looming above his head. His brain starts jumping through hoops in an (admittedly piss poor) attempt to figure out what the hell he is looking at.
Concrete, perhaps? His chest tightens at the notion. All at once, his vision clearing into something at least marginally decipherable is no longer a leisure but a necessity and—!
—and there is too much of a breeze for him to be indoors. Underground. Buried beneath a building. Peter lets out a shaky breath as his vision finally (finally!!!) focuses. The bleakness above him is, impossibly enough, the sky.
So… not concrete.
A half-hearted Huh is all Peter can manage at the realization. It’s only the slightest exhale of sound, but even that small movement sends his ribs screaming. It probably says something unpleasant about Peter’s mental state that it takes pain for him to feel any sense of urgency.
Not the unfamiliar sky or the strange and foreign smell in the air (like metal and ash and cigarettes and the circus?? somehow?). Not the way his senses are screaming red alarms (they always are, nowadays), but that he is waking up with a new type of pain.
New being the most important part of that sentence. A critical addition.
Old pains were old pains. Irrelevant. They might be from his latest fight, screwup, or bad dodge. He tends to ignore those until they leave. They always do, even if he doesn’t deserve it.
Peter can admit, if only to himself, that he might not be holding it together very well.
(and on that point, what was “it”? his life? his mental state? his hopes? how about checking all of the above.)
But! At the very least (the very-bare-fucking-minimum!), Peter can control his pain. He can track where each ache originates from and ignore them in the aftermath. But new pain. Pain he doesn’t remember. That is a cause for concern.
If Peter doesn’t know anything else in the world (such as: where his next meal is coming from, if anyone will ever remember him (don’t go there, Parker! grab a hold of yourself!), if Jameson will buy his photos…blah, blah, trauma, blah, blah, et cetera, and so on), then he can at least know his body.
For practical purposes, of course. Fighting reason. Vigilante shit.
Definitely not because everything else in his life feels so far out of control that his physical body is the last thing Peter can reliably-ish rely on.
Certainly not.
Point being, Peter’s ribs were not a sneeze away from broken when he went to bed in his own apartment last night, so the fact that they are now raises some harrowing concerns.
Although his sixth sense is going off, it isn’t any more urgent than usual. So, in a rare moment of self-care, Peter lets himself sink down into his bones and attempts to figure out what the hell happened to him.
Or, at the very least, what his injuries are.
Wiggling his fingers and toes, Peter takes stock of his body. He’s not any more tired and hungry than he had been before going to bed. Most of the aches are old except for increasingly more tolerable pain in his ribs (as long as he takes shallow breaths) and a headache with a bitterly numbing edge to it that most likely means a concussion.
Which, Peter thinks to himself, probably explains the blurry vision.
Moving slowly, Peter moves his head from side to side, testing the state of his neck. No additional pain flares, just a vague rush of nausea that confirms his concussion theory.
His neck thankfully un-broken, Peter lets his head turn fully to the side, resting it against the ground. The cold, rough texture that scrapes against his temple has Peter realizing two things:
One) that while there is no concrete above him, there is some below. The coolness of the ground is soothing against his aching head, but as much as Peter relishes the feeling his momentary relief is overtaken by a rush of pure fear.
Because two) where the fuck is his mask?
Sitting up far too quickly, Peter forces himself to finally take stock of the situation around him while he simultaneously checks what items he has on him.
The findings on both are far from reassuring.
Peter is on top of a building—maybe six stories high—which overlooks a city that is most definitely not Queens. Even at its worst Queens could never touch the level of disrepair and doom and gloom that this place oozes with a nauseating ease. The city (or cesspit? that might be a more accurate analysis) looks like nothing Peter has seen before.
His findings on what items he actually has with him are hardly better. Maybe even worse. He could be in an empty field after all. And how would Spider-Man, the web-slinging bastard, move around there? Running? Certainly not.
That being said, he can at least recognize the clothes he fell asleep in, even if they aren’t particularly useful.
Peter had gone straight back to his apartment (not home—you don’t get to have that) after another joyous day of feeling miserable for himself, taking advantage of the library's free computers to apply for jobs he probably won’t get, and haggling Jameson on the price of his Spider-Man photos. After getting home, he had thrown himself onto his bed, not even bothering to change, since he’d planned on heading out on patrol after a few hours of shut-eye anyway.
How plans change! Turns out he’d gone on patrol while getting a few hours of shut-eye. Or something.
Thankfully (and for once paranoia was helpful!) Peter still has his web shooters. Since they were masquerading as a pair of funky bracelets, he never has to take them off. Peter also has shoes (yay!) and a sweater that he is growing to appreciate with increasing fondness, considering the sharp chill in the air.
The overall takeaways are as such: Peter is never going to fall asleep without his wallet on him again. Even though it had been uncomfortable to lay on, causing him to throw it carelessly to the side in the aftermath of his disgruntled face plant…
Well. This is not a situation that Peter wants to risk repeating. His phone survived the unfortunate purging, being safe in his back pocket, while his other pockets offer up a gum wrapper, fifteen cents, and dryer lint.
Wonderful.
Peter shoves all of the trinkets back into his pockets, partially because he feels bad about littering and partially because a horribly possessive part of him whispers at Peter to gather anything and everything and stockpile it ‘just in case.’ To be entirely fair to that part of him, Peter is regretting not doing that prior to now. He’d kill for a granola bar.
While out-of-date, his flip phone’s unobtrusive size had saved it, so Peter decides it is now his most cherished possession. Aside, of course, from his web-shooters, shoes, sweater, and pants. Always good to have pants.
He flips the phone open and—
Peter stalls, like an engine running out of steam.
Who would he even call?
His contacts include: The Bugle, the elderly neighbor that lives in the apartment next door to Peter, whose groceries he helps with occasionally, and… that’s it.
This is not to say that Peter hasn’t memorized countless other phone numbers. He knows May’s like he knows pi up to six-hundred digits, most notably, but also MJ’s, Ned’s, and Happy’s. He would really appreciate a private-jet-pickup from Happy right about now. That guy already crossed the world for Peter once before. That kind of loyalty tends to stick with people.
Which then extends to their phone numbers.
But considering none of them know him anymore (or are dead), calling them would be quite pointless.
Unless…
Unless this isn’t a Peter Parker issue.
After all, being transported by someone (something?) in his sleep and ending up on the roof of a six-story building in the middle of who-knows-where sounds like quite a ‘Spider-Man’ style of conundrum. Which means that Peter calling him would be totally warranted!
Self-justifications made, Peter types the number, holds his breath… and feels like crying when the call is picked up in seconds.
Before the other person can hang up or tell him to wait, Peter lets everything out in one big rush.
He (the callee) has a tendency to do that (aka: hang up) whenever Peter—or, more accurately, whenever Spider-Man—calls and doesn’t get to the point fast enough. This is probably because he can tell that ‘Spider-Man’ knows more than he is letting on (say, his secret identity, for example) and that makes the guy uneasy.
Which—fair enough. Peter also gets quite uneasy about people knowing his secret identity (mostly because the first time ended up going so badly).
(your fault.)
“Hey, so. Haha. Hypothetically, what would you do if you woke up somewhere strange. Like, say, on top of a building in a city you don’t recognize at all. That kind of strange. But also the last thing you remember is falling asleep in your bed,” Peter pauses. Adds, maybe unnecessarily, “In your civilian ID. Because you didn’t fall asleep in your suit. In this hypothetical. Um. Yeah.”
Peter stands up, head pulsing briefly. He walks to the edge of the roof and peaks over the side. “And the only way you see to get down or up is to either one) fly or two) jump, but it's also six stories high and now that I’m saying all this out loud, how the hell did someone get me up here!?” Peter’s voice rises along with his distress and confusion.
He fights to lower it, lest he give off the vibe that he’s just a terrified nineteen-year-old who’s been alone for way too long and not the Totally Well Adjusted twenty-some person Daredevil (his lawyer, from Before, Matt Murdock!!) totally thinks Spider-Man is.
For sure.
Daredevil (who hasn’t hung up! and is there! Peter can still hear him breathing!!!) is taking his sweet time replying, which… okay. Peter did just dump a very large hypothetical on him, which Daredevil definitely knows isn’t actually a hypothetical but will understand due to his forays into lawyership.
And by ‘forays’ Peter means his job as a lawyer.
Finally, Daredevil responds: “What the fuck?”
Alarmed, Peter pulls the phone away from his ear. He checks the number once, twice, a solid three times with the one from his foggy, mildly concussed memory: a number Daredevil told him to memorize six-ish months ago.
It had been after a quick team-up. Not necessarily unusual, but not common for them either. An up-and-coming drug ring had nestled itself on the edges of Hell’s Kitchen (not willing to get close enough to her Devil) and been venturing too far into Queens for Peter’s comfort. As such, they’d decided to go at it together.
Overall everything had gone well and by the end Peter had been ready to head home and hit the hay.
Then Daredevil decided to ruin his post-fight wall-lean, saying something along the lines of, “I can hear your bullet wound.”
To which Peter had replied, “And I can feel it. We done here?”
There’d been a creaking of fists and a shuffle just out of his field of vision. A devil-horned mask swayed into his periphery. Daredevil poked at the wound.
“Just a graze,” he announced. “Didn’t hit anything important.”
Peter batted his hand away. “I think I’d realize if it did.”
Scoffing, Daredevil got closer, pushing aside the fabric of the Spider-Man suit and out of the burning path of the bullet. Peter knew that scoff. It meant Daredevil thought he was lying but that Peter’s heart rate wasn’t erratic enough to prove it.
Batting his hand away again, Peter risked a glance at the injury. It wasn’t awful. Not great, but not awful. “Eh. Not bad. I splurged on this nice first aid kit recently. Good news—I can test it out. See what it’s missing.”
But Peter already knew the game was lost. His heart rate had kicked up at the sight of the graze. Daredevil sighed.
“I know a nurse,” he said, “if things are ever really bad. But I can patch this up.”
It was never really worth it—arguing with Daredevil, that is. Because that meant arguing with Matt (who he wasn’t supposed to know), and that meant arguing with a lawyer. And Peter was really, really bad at coming up with actual defenses and not just dodging questions.
They’d traveled a few buildings over, where Daredevil propped Peter up against a wall (wall leaning time!!) and vanished for a few minutes. Peter had strongly considered leaving. For some reason, he hadn’t.
Cleaning and patching up the graze took no time at all. Peter let his mind drift (who knew it was possible to miss someone stitching him up?) and was only shaken out of his thoughts when Daredevil handed him a burner phone and told him to memorize the number.
For some reason, he did.
With a totally normal amount of shame, Peter could quietly admit he had called the number before. And Daredevil had answered.
So why, pray tell, is that not Daredevil’s voice?
“Whoops,” Peter laughs awkwardly, its pitch rising sharply as his anxiety spikes. “Uh… Any chance this isn’t actually your phone and you just happened to pick it up for a friend? A friend that is maybe nearby so I don’t have to repeat my totally hypothetical situation again, because I dunno if I have that sort of emotional willpower right now?”
Sue him. Peter rambles when he’s nervous.
“Fucking hell! This is my phone,” Not-Daredevil snarls, “and I want to know how the hell you got ahold of—!”
Peter hangs up on him.
So Daredevil isn’t an option. Great.
“What’s the saying?” Peter mumbles to himself in a chattery attempt at self-assurance. “‘If at first you don’t succeed, try and try again…’ Am I right, or what?”
Daredevil didn’t pick up (and maybe got his burner phone stolen, which is alarming in far too many ways to count), but Peter knows other people.
Totally! Johnny Storm, for example. And maybe Johnny won’t have any answers, but he’d at least be a familiar voice, right?
Right?
And if anything, Johnny knows a bunch of geniuses who are probably smart enough to figure out where the hell Peter is based off of a few landmarks.
Though Johnny is technically a friend of Spider-Man’s (no one is friends with you, Peter Parker. not anymore), Peter never saved his phone number anywhere other than the old memory-bank. The one in his head.
If that wasn’t clear.
…
Anyway, Peter hadn’t saved the number because on the off chance someone got hold of his phone, Peter did not want to have to explain why he had the Human Torch’s contact information.
Johnny had given Peter his main line (and was also freakily possessive about ‘his’ things, sometimes. is that what it means to grow up stupidly rich?), which means there is no chance that Johnny would have impulsively changed his phone number, lost his phone, or done anything that would result in the same mess that happened with Daredevil’s number.
(“I don’t do burners, Spidey. I’m the one that burns.” Johnny had delivered the horrible two-liner with a straight face, aside from an exaggerated wink that made it look like he had an eyelash in his eye. but in all honesty, Peter could really use that type of humor right now.)
While typing in Johnny’s number, Peter firmly declines three different calls from Not-Daredevil’s number. Weirdo. Who calls back a wrong number?
When the call to Johnny connects, Peter makes sure to not start spilling his guts about all of his hypothetical issues right off the bat. Just, y’know. To be cautious.
“Heyy, Johnny,” Peter drawls. “So, funny story, heard it from a friend, wanted to ask for your thoughts on the matter. Now, how alarmed would you be about waking up in a totally different place than where you fell asleep?”
There. Friend of a friend, totally unsuspicious. Also: not all of Peter’s issues. Just some!
“How different are we talking?”
Johnny’s voice sounds off, but Peter’s senses aren’t tingling any more than they have been this entire time. Maybe Peter woke the guy up?
Scuffing his shoe against the concrete roof, Peter says, “Well, I mean, I’m—uhhh, I mean, they were on top of a six-story high building with no roof access in an area… they’ve never been to before. So. Yeah. Y’know, casual New Yorker moment, am I right? Finding new burrows all the time? Think they could’ve jumped? Or sleep-walked?” Peter laughs so that he doesn’t cry instead. Mumbling, he adds, “Maybe I should jump too.”
Humor gone, the person who is definitely not Johnny asks, “What the hell? Who are you? Some kid from Tim's schoo—”
Peter bristles, instinctively tuning the person out. He hasn’t been a kid in a long time. However, his frustration quickly fizzles out at the realization that Johnny’s phone number isn’t connecting to Johnny’s phone. He quickly tunes back into what the stranger is saying, limbs sticky with a slowly dawning horror.
“—what type of prank this is, but one, joking about jumping off of buildings isn’t funny. And secondly, at least get your states right. This is New Jersey.”
“The hell?” Peter snaps. “First off, if you are going to be delivering your points in one-two format, don’t mix ‘one’ with ‘secondly.’ That’s fucking dumb. Second…” Peter doesn’t have a second thing to say. He makes one up on the spot because he’s trying to make a point here. “I’m trying to figure out how the fuck someone gets up a building without a clearly delineated way to do so! So if you can’t help me there, suck it and fuck it, phone-stealing-stranger.”
Wait—what? Is he trying to figure out how someone got him up onto a roof?
No, he isn’t! He wants to know how alarmed Johnny would have theoretically been about waking up in a new location! Stupid phone-guy. Derailing the conversation like this. Peter has problems to solve and a lack of answers to contemplate.
It’s like he’s suddenly doused in cold water, remembering where he is and why he’s calling in the first place.
Peter keeps snarking back in a wild attempt to hide a growing anxiety, “Third—and not three, dumb-shit—I hope you never become a first responder or anything like that because your ability to listen is really bad. You brought me so far off topic!”
“Hey!” Rude-Not-Johnny exclaims. “I—!”
Peter doesn’t let him finish, “And I’m not the idiot here; check the area code, jerkwad.”
Before Peter can hang up, the stranger (who has Johnny’s phone number, who isn’t Johnny, who should be Johnny, why the hell isn’t he Johnny?) quickly responds back in a tone that edges too far into genuine concern for Peter to feel comfortable with.
“The number you’re calling from has a Gotham area code. Kid, where are you? You said there was no roof access?”
“Haha, just kidding, you caught me. Wow,” Peter deadpans, then hangs up.
“So that was a total failure.”
At least saying it out loud helps because those phone calls sure didn’t. In fact, they only confirmed the worst sort of panic-stricken ideas that have been looming in a space of Peter’s mind he calls “The Irrational Panic Zone.”
The Irrational Panic Zone (Peter almost wants to trademark it) includes thoughts such as: “Everyone actually remembers me but pretends that they don’t because they hate me,” and, “I killed my aunt,” and, “Your neighbor is actually a spy for Nick Fury because he knows everything and is a horrible, horrible person,” and, “It’s your fault Thanos won the first time,” and, most recently, “This is not your universe.”
Y’know. Thoughts that would send him into a totally rational panic at any given moment, making it therefore irrational to think about them. It all works out. The “IPZ” also sounds like a really cool organization.
(Mr. Stark—Tony, maybe he would have liked that—would have made the acronym a name. but Peter doesn’t want to add salt to his numerous wounds, especially when he thinks about panicking, so he pointedly hadn’t made it a name…
… but maybe he would have liked “Irrational Aversion Neighborhood.” IAN. a simple name, but Tony probably would have still liked it, if Peter came up with it.
don’t think about that, don’t think about him, don’t—)
Peter picks himself up off the ground. Can’t quite remember how he got there.
He then picks up his phone. His phone with a ‘Gotham’ area code, whatever that means.
The newly dubbed (as in, just now) “Caller Number One” has apparently kept calling him (as had the second, but “kid” still rankles in a way that Peter doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to verbalize) and Peter really doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts right now.
One is calling again.
“Yello,” Peter greets, as though he hadn’t just had a panic attack on a roof. “How may I help you?”
“How the hell did you get this number?”
“May I remind you that you called me?” Peter says with faux lightness, just to be a little shit.
He brushes off his jeans. It is going to be morning soon and it would probably be in his best interest to be on the ground in a strange city before the sun rises and highlights his precarious location to passersby.
The voice on the other side of the line is not amused. “This is a private phone. You shouldn’t have this number,” he practically growls out through gritted teeth.
“Well, Caller Number One—”
As it turns out, Peter’s boldness extends beyond his life beneath the mask. Apparently, all he needs is for his face to be hidden.
(does that make him one of those online bullies Captain America would joltingly reprimand, mouth slipping weirdly around the syllables, unused to words like “cyberbullying” and “online chat rooms”? the ones who only grow the balls to say shit when their real identity isn’t out there?)
“—you kinda screwed yourself over here, because for all I could have known, I might have typed the wrong number.”
It’s unlikely that he would ever call a wrong number. Impossible, actually. Even Peter’s foggy memory is better than the average person’s.
“Or I might have thought it was a burner phone and never called again.”
More likely.
“Or at the very least,” Peter says sagely, nodding even though Caller Number One can’t see him, “I wouldn’t have known how important this phone number is to you.”
(sounding vaguely like a villain threatening a loved one there now, Parker. might be good to tone it back a little.)
“Anyhoo,” Peter continues, “I won’t call you back after this and can block the number. Or you could grow some balls and block me. Either works.”
Peter sandwiches the flip phone between his head and shoulder, shaking out his hands and flexing his fingers. Since he isn’t sure where he is (aside from Gotham, New Jersey, apparently, but what universe Gotham, New Jersey is in is slightly questionable), Peter wants to avoid leaving anything traceable back to him. Including, but not limited to, the gum wrapper in his pocket, his lint, and his webs.
Sadly, leaving fingerprints is unavoidable, but considering Peter may not even have an identity here (or anywhere), that is not one of his primary concerns. Plus, the building is made of concrete and stone, which won’t show obvious fingerprints like glass.
“Ass,” Caller Number One grouches. “What do you want?”
Peter raises his eyebrows.
“I don’t want anything,” he says simply. “At least, not from you. I could probably go for a hamburger or even, like, a granola bar, but I’m not bargaining with you for your privacy. It isn’t a hostage situation.”
Peter slowly lowers himself over the side of the building, supported only by his arms. His head cranes at an awkward angle, making sure the phone stays safe and snug. Foolishly, he keeps his shoes on rather than use his feet to stick.
Normally, this wouldn’t an issue. However, this time, Peter winces as he feels the strain on his (oh right!) semi-broken ribs. But it’s manageable, so Peter keeps going. The person on the other side of the line stays oddly quiet. Which, while helpful for the dull headache and his concentration, is not helpful for keeping Peter from spiraling.
“So….” Peter draws out the word. He’s level with the fourth story now. “Are you gonna… hang up? Or block me? Or something? ‘Cause you’re sending off a lot of mixed signals right now.”
“Why is your voice muffled?”
Eh? Oh. His sweater must be interfering with the phone’s audio intake.
“Oh, sorry,” Peter apologizes. “I’m climbing down the building right now, so the phone is wedged on my shoulder weirdly. My clothes must be—”
“You’re what?!” Caller Number One yelps. His voice is two octaves too high and he coughs as though forcefully wrestling it back into its reluctant grumble. “What the hell do you mean you’re climbing down the building?”
“I may have been exaggerating about how hypothetical my situation was earlier?” Peter offers, completely unrepentant. “I mean if you’re surprised it’s totally your own fault. You totally knew I was lying. It was super obvious. And I already said that the only two ways down were flying or jumping. So. Yeah. As it was kinda implied earlier by my surprise, I can’t fly. And jumping down six stories would suck ass. So: climbing.”
“I— but you have a phone??” Caller Number One says incredulously. “Why wouldn’t you call 911?”
“How the hell was I supposed to explain how I got up there? Huh?” Peter retorts. “Did you want me to go: ‘Hey Ms. Policewoman and/or Firefighter! I was on top of a building I shouldn’t have been able to get on top of. Please don’t press charges or ask why I was there?’ Like c’mon, dude, cut me some slack here.”
There is a muffled grunt of laughter on the other end of the line.
At least, Peter thinks there was a muffled grunt of laughter. His shoulder had gotten too relaxed while bantering, causing his phone to start slipping. All of Peter’s attention is diverted from the maybe-laugh. With a yelp, Peter thanks his quick reflexes as his arm shoots out to grab the phone before it can fall too far and shatter.
Although, to be fair, flip phones are nearly indestructible and he’s only two stories up now. Speaking of…
With a quick hop and a softly pained exhale at the landing, Peter puts the phone back up to his ear as he begins looking around the dank (and dark! and very, very spooky!) alleyway.
“—lo? Hello? Fuck. Fuck! Hello???”
“Oh, hi!” Peter greets cheekily.
He’s met with a heavy exhale of relief, although the stranger quickly snaps, “What the Penguin’s balls was that?”
That’s a new one. Penguin’s balls? For his own sanity, Peter elects to ignore the odd phrase.
“I almost dropped my phone. Well. I did drop it, actually. But don’t worry! I caught it!” Peter reassures sunnily.
He makes the decision that, at least in this city, he will wait on exploring the scary and dark alleyways. Something (that ‘thing’ being both his sixth sense and his common sense) tells him that this is not the time for an adventure. Peter exits the alleyway.
“And then I jumped the rest of the way down,” Peter explains. “It wasn’t that far. I just think my ribs are maybe-almost-broken, so it hurt more than I was expecting. Sorry for worrying you, weird stranger.”
The slew of cursing and swearing and yelling that suddenly barrages its way through the phone has Peter’s concussed brain fighting between the sentiments of get rid of the awful sound! and don’t be alone with your thoughts!
In the end, Peter’s hatred for being yelled at takes the reins and makes the decision for him. Holding the phone an arm’s length away, Peter loudly and, with a deceptive amount of sweetness, not-so-politely informs Caller Number One of something very important: “I’m not going to stand here and be yelled at. Call again when you feel less angry. Toodles!”
And with that, there is blessed silence (aside from the sounds of the city, but this strange place is almost eerily quiet compared to New York). Peter meanders his way down the sidewalk, making it a point to look at the buildings that surround him and take note of where he’s going.
A few things stand out to him.
Even though it’s still early morning, the sidewalks were still so… desolate. There is hardly anyone walking around for such a large city. It’s strange. Eerie.
That’s not even taking into account the strange shadows that seem to pulse like a heartbeat, looking thicker and more suffocating the deeper he peeks into the corners of Gotham. Their presence sends the hairs on the back of Peter’s neck scattering, even as he can’t sense a specific point of malicious intent.
The last major thing Peter notices is that even as the morning creeps in, beating back the dawn, the sky hardly becomes any lighter. It’s like a concrete slab has been suspended over them all, just waiting to crush the ant-like people that scurry in the streets below.
As is always best in unknown circumstances (especially when one is potentially in a creepy murder-city), Peter hunches his shoulders high and tucks his chin down, though he tries to keep an eye out for a library or some type of shelter.
Mid-stride, his lungs squeeze in the way that he’s learned to associate with look. What he’s looking for, Peter doesn’t know.
Then—he sees it. Them. A person.
Their body flies between buildings at a blink-and-miss-it speed. Almost like Peter’s web swings, but less fluid. More mechanical. Still professional. Fast. Instinctive.
What the hell is this place? This city?
Peter shakes his head, an attempt to break away from any external stimuli that doesn’t immediately lead to food and shelter. He instantly regrets the movement as nausea wells up in his gut. Thankfully, Peter is used to concussions and it only takes a few seconds of deep breathing to beat the sensation back.
(can’t keep hiding. can’t hold it all in forever.)
Lips pressing firmly together, face carefully blank, Peter attempts to skirt the edges of passersby’s attention. While he has more than enough questions to kill a small horse, even looking in their direction sends all sorts of alarm bells screeching through Peter's mind.
He’s desperate; not stupid.
(he’s terrified, not reckless. not yet, at least.)
…
Whenever this all inevitably blows up in his face, he might just have to rename the IPZ to the IPR: the Irrational Panic Region. After all, zoning laws dictate he can’t keep more than ten world-ending conclusions and possible theories about the multiverse in one location.
Peter shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, feeling the gum wrapper crinkle beneath his fingers and the smooth surface of his flip phone. If this is all he has left… Peter hastens his walking speed.
A library would be very nice right about now.