Chapter Text
If Peter had been asked to describe the hardest decision he'd ever made, it'd be to allow his friends and loved ones to forget him for the betterment of the universe. It'd be to tell someone that he was the reason the universe almost collapsed into itself.
It'd be that, despite everything he's tried, luck always seemed eager to prove him wrong.
It felt like a sick joke.
"I'm sorry, Peter."
Were the first words Dr. Strange whispered to him since Peter's memory had been burned away just three months prior. Words that Dr. Strange shouldn't have been able to recall or even manage to say.
The sky crackled mockingly.
"I," Peter's mouth was dry, "I don't understand, Dr. Strange. What's wrong?"
"Your ending isn't meant to be here," The older mans gaze tore through the young teenager, "I should have... no, I couldn't have told you sooner, Peter. It would have... it would have not been the right time."
Had there been a point for everything in the end? Was there a reason it was him to be bitten by that radioactive spider?
"The right time for what?" A confused, heartbroken look washed over Peter's face as the sky glowed an angry golden color. "What haven't you told me?"
When Peter decided to allow the world to forget his name, to scrub his existence clean from the universe, was there any point of him sticking around?
Was there a point even before then? Did he have to be a child soldier who fought in wars that no one would fill him in on because, despite being a loyal ally they had no quarrels allowing on the battle field, he was too young to fully understand what was happening?
"You deserved better." Dr. Strange's voice ripped the floor from under Peter, raw and regretful. He carried himself like he needed Peter to forgive him, but his eyes were more resolute. "It just couldn't be from here."
It was sharp, clashing against his skull when Peter felt it appear. The timing of the portal almost seemed scheduled. Peter didn't see Dr. Strange summon it, but there it was, on the ground behind him.
"What are—" Peter mumbled, tearing his eyes away from the golden spiral. His eyes widen. "What are you doing?"
Dr. Strange was no longer a few yards away from Peter, he was closer now. The feeling of grief rolling off of him in harsh waves beating against Peter through his Spidey-Sense. It made it difficult to concentrate.
Peter could see the skyline of New York behind the sorcerer, he could see home encased in the golden glow of the portals encasing the sky. Buildings he used to run across coated in a sickly orange, flashing lights and panicked movements crowded the streets. Stark Tower, what used to be Avengers Tower, was almost the center point from where Peter and Dr. Strange stood, it hurt the most to see it bathing in the chaos.
The home he used to love only drew a sickly sob from deep within his chest.
"I am sorry, Peter." Dr. Strange said again, this time with more conviction and acceptance than he did at the start. "That I could not find a better way to keep you safe."
Peter was thrown back.
Dr. Strange didn't even have to raise his hand to full height.
"Dr. Strange!" Peter cried, his arms flailing as he fell back-first through the golden portal.
The overwhelming feeling of nothingness was almost blissful compared to what came next. The inside of the portal—the inner work of the multiverse—was both everything and nothing, a dark, murky yet vibrant landscape that encased him like water. Golden threads almost blended in with the dark, black expanse so much so that Peter didn't know if they were truly there.
And then the pain rippled through Peter's core.
The mechanisms of the multiverse noticed Peter's arrival in it's domain. Screeching rammed into Peter's head like a lead pipe, he couldn't breathe. The searing pain of Peter's body trying to tear itself apart from the inside out was worse than when he had been dusted.
Did he have vocal chords left to scream?
Peter always knew death would be in the cards for him, he just didn't expect it to happen again so soon. For the sake of the universe, he had to die? Was that right? Peter Parker could never have a happy ending on Earth L-616.
The pain was mind-numbing.
He didn't know how long he spent drifting, or if he had even moved since entering the in-between of the multiverse. He couldn't make sense of the space around him, he didn't know if he had eyes. Peter Parker felt both dead and alive, and for once he really wished death would just come already.
A harsh chill tore through Peter's body, wringing a sharp, fluid gasp from lungs he hadn't expected to still own. The shock to his system forced a violent, hacking cough from his chest.
He gagged, shuddering as his body rejected the remnants of the dark, turbulent void that he could still feel course along his body like he had never left. It clung to him, still, seared into his senses as his head seemed boom against his gags, desperate from a fresh gasp of air that didn't hurt him.
Every inhale was a cruel gamble, each one threatening to spiral him even deeper. Yet the alternative—stopping—was unthinkable. If Peter wasn't breathing, he'd slip under again, and this time, he might not get to breathe.
For the sake of the universe was the only thought Peter could cling to, the only thing he could remember while he choked on his own phlegm and bile. It was for the sake of the universe. His chest seized as he choked, the wet rasp of his breathing loud and desperate. He could handle this. It was for the betterment of the universe.
Peter could feel hands scratch into his skin, every inhale like sandpaper raking down his throat. It burned—a raw, searing agony that felt almost alive.
When the hacking began to calm down it was quickly joined by, what Peter could only assume, was his Spidey-Senses warning him that he was doomed.
Danger.
Something was after him.
Danger.
Everything was after him.
Danger.
His head screamed at him to respond, urging him to run, but no direction was a safe one; if Peter stayed in place he'd die, if he ran away he'd die, there was no winning solution, no game plan he could do to cheat the impending death that laid in wait for Peter in this place. The problem, the puzzle, in front of Peter was in impossible game, rigged for his defeat.
Peter wheezed. He gulped every breath of cool air he could take, forcing himself to breathe out in small, shaky breathes. He registered the nails tearing into his skin as his own. He had to calm down. He had to focus. Focus?
Forcing his hands to a stop, he flung them in different directions, raking his fingers through... dirt? That wasn't right. There was no dirt. There couldn't be any dirt.
Right?
Peter slammed his eyes shut. His senses were too overwhelmed, trying to make sense of everything and anything until it was pointless to try, and were not helping. Peter had to breathe, he had to calm down.
There was an audible whimper coming from... somewhere.
"...Fuck." He coughed, his throat searing in regretful pain. Clumps of dirt gathered in his palms, spilling out past his fingers as he groped at the ground underneath his back. Peter's voice couldn't raise higher than a whisper as he shakily mumbled again, "...Fuck."
His chest wheezed between every whispered curse word, every inhale sent his system into another round of shock.
Peter was almost too scared to pry open his eyes, to look and just find he never left the winding pool of the multiverse—that all he could see was vibrant darkness. His head buzzed with warning, that there was danger near by and he had to leave. Peter's eyes fluttered open.
The first thing Peter noticed in front of him was the moon. A tiny sliver of the moon.
Peter wrenched his gaze away, forcing himself to peel the band-aid and make or break his mind. There's always the chance for hallucinations. Peter knew this. His eyes burned and his chest tightened anyway.
A puff of air escaped his lips as he stared at what laid before him. He choked back a sob.
A sick, bitter feeling lodged itself in his chest. Peter knew where he had to be when he saw it. A headstone. Old, broken, and untaken care of among many others the bared a similar resemblance. The grass, overgrown, covered any text that may have remained from the angle Peter laid at.
Peter Parker was in a Cemetery.
Everything began to hit Peter all at once, muddying his thoughts and overwhelming his senses.
The air was heavy, it lingered in his lungs against every exhale. Dirty, polluted. Peter didn't remember New York being this bad. The aching of his lungs, the lingering burning sensation of his throat mingled and mixed into the jagged, raw wounds torn across his torso. Every beat of his heart forced the deep scratch marks to pulse with it, pooling warmth almost distracted Peter from the copper scent in the air that lingered around him.
Peter used the hands he had lodged into the ground underneath him and pushed his shaking body up, his hair, damp and dirty, fell against his forehead obscuring parts of his vision. His head throbbed uncomfortably, adjusting to the different position. Legs splayed out uncomfortably, Peter was covered in dirt, grim, and some green substance he couldn't put a name to.
The specific plot of dirt Peter was on seemed to be fresh, or newly dug apart. There was no grass, there were no weeds. It was lop-sided and odd compared to the headstone Peter had been staring at—out of place. It wasn't connected to a headstone, and if it had been then it's been long since missing. More of the green substance, gooey, was mixed where his hands were placed and Peter can only assume there's more underneath him, it seemed to glow, ever so slightly under the soft moonlight. There were more graves around Peter, each one more overgrown than the next but lacking the green goo that covered Peter, and if this cemetery was taken care of then this part had been neglected for far longer than it deserved. Most of the headstones were broken beyond repair, while the rest long hid their words covered in moss and dirt.
Peter's clothes were worse for wear than they had been when he remembered putting them on. Though, being homeless in Queens didn't really set a high bar. There are new tears in the jeans he acquired just a few weeks ago (He thinks it was a few weeks ago, but Peter isn't sure how long it's been since he last saw Dr. Strange), one knee was almost completely exposed—ripped like he slid against rocks—but there was no blood or sign of injury. His shoes, cheap and low quality from a dollar store, were reduced to a few threads that just barely looked the part, exposing mismatching dark socks, wet and caked with dirt and drying mud. The soles were gone, how was that even possible? His shirt, which had used to be goodwill merchandise from a community college in Maine, was unfortunately also beyond repair. Ignoring the rips and tears caused by Peter's own nails, and ignoring the blood, mud seeped into the threads of the fabric and mingled with the green goo completely sheltering what words used to be read. There was no amount of washing in the river to save this shirt.
Dirt cascaded off Peter's hands as he tore them out from the ground, damp from both water and blood. Near the graves was a run down, old looking path that added a break between the buried bodies for easier on foot travel. Pushing himself up to a stand, sounds of heartbeats and traffic made themselves well known within the distance, only vaguely being muffled by the way his Spidey-Sense knocked against his skull. Small, frantic heartbeats of small wildlife critters fell into the gentle swaying of tree leaves against bursts of wind.
Peter had expected the feeling of danger to get worse as he walked closer toward the noises, but it stayed a stable, constant thrumming that, as it continued, became a little more tolerable to bare.
The smog felt disgusting on his skin, his thoughts and Spidey-Senses didn't help. Socked feet scraped against loose rocks, each step having an audible crunch. The further Peter walked, the better shape the headstones seemed to become, while many continued to be unreadable there were some that, if the year was anything to go by, relatively new.
The tree leaves shook more aggressively, the cool winds picking up speed, waves of danger shooting down Peter's spine.
For a while, large tree trunks and giant, expensive headstones were the only landmarks Peter could see. Soon, though, the entrance was as a clear as day. Illuminated by street lamps, close enough to make the metal glow from the front but difficult for Peter to spot at long distance, was the large, metal and stone fencing. Sharp aches fluttered against the soles of his feet didn't matter to Peter as he broke into a light jog, faster than the normal human, toward the signed entrance gate.
Whatever name Peter was expecting to be attached to the cemetery didn't make its appearance, instead he stood in front of the gate, next to the currently deserted road on the sidewalk, and was met with a name he'd never heard before:
Gotham Cemetery.
Peter stood there, staring, for much longer than he'd like to admit to himself. Gotham? Peter wouldn't call himself well-versed on cemeteries or graveyards in New York, but he'd like to imagine he'd at least be knowledgeable of nearby locations.
But, as Peter turned to take in the view of the city the cemetery was attached to, maybe he wasn't in New York anymore.
The city was large and old, Peter could tell that much by looking at the old architecture and gargoyles that littered almost every single building. It was the type of city that Peter only ever saw in movies or described in books, every building looked like it'd cost a fortune despite the cracks and breaks that developed over time.
Nothing screamed, "Welcome to New York!" to Peter.
This wasn't New York, and if it was it certainly wasn't his New York. The moon was falling fast, daylight would arrive in only a few minutes, and all Peter could do was gawk at the unique architecture that ripped the hopeful feeling of being home away from him.
Wet footprints were left behind as Peter stalked his way into the winding roads of the city, early morning commutes buzzed in his ear as the world began to wake up.
Early morning joggers didn't pay the frail, sickly-looking teenager any mind. Their gazes were pointedly in front of them, never straying from where they intended to end up. It was smart, they were less likely to get mugged or stopped for looking at something they shouldn't, but it made Peter feel horrible.
Peter thought the feeling of being unknown, forgotten, would get better over time, but it didn't. He didn't think it ever would. But, there was no point to stand on the side of the road and sob, so he stalked forward without a destination.
Street lamps loomed overheard, much taller than necessary, shrouding the street in a soft, yellow glow, the only flashing lights Peter could make out were red and blue. The occasional expensive looking car, an early worker for some company if he had to guess, soared past Peter.
He walked aimlessly into the morning. The streets had become crowded as minutes, maybe hours, passed. Peter walked without purpose, something that may have been freeing two years ago but left him with an empty pit in his stomach—and it wasn't just the starvation.
Between the breaks of the city buildings came the small, yet powerful rays of the rising morning sun, only slightly covered the dark clouds haunting the sky waiting for it at full rise.
Any type of relief to feel the sun hit his skin was diminished with the memory of how he looked to anyone awake at this hour. He was no longer trailing muddy foot prints against the dark, slate sidewalks, but he was still dirty. The dirt and blood on his hands had long since dried, he scrubbed with his nails to try and make them appear cleaner than they were but now all he was left with were red, dirty scratch marks that ached with his throat and head.
Early workers had begun to crowd the sidewalks, journeying short distances to their long commutes while muttering under their breaths about the state of public transit, while the rest were stuck in a long line of traffic, honking their horns unhelpfully.
The city was overwhelming. Not because of his Spidey-Sense constantly signaling him that he wasn't safe, but it was a very large factor, but it was the people. The large, towering buildings of a city that Peter was never supposed to see. The cars that were made obsolete by Stark Tech. Everything that was reminiscent of Earth L-616 sent an icy chill down Peter's spine and his feet would turn and run.
So, he kept his head toward the ground.
The occasional working man bumped into Peter. Most not even sparing a glance toward the teenager, but the ones who did sneered in his direction for getting dirt on their sleeves. Peter noticed woman and children, sometimes paired together, would gravitate away from the teen but didn't outwardly avoid him.
It was like the civilians were used to this.
That thought didn't reassure Peter's senses, but he didn't have to focus on them for long.
"Papers! Get your papers!"
A man, a decade or so older than Peter, waved a newspaper around on a street corner, shouting louder than needed, "Exclusive articles by Vicki Vale! Read all about it, you won't get this online! Just seventy-five cents, Wayne Enterprises' price! Papers! Get your papers!"
A flock of business men looked angrily at the man, flailing his arms surrounded by large stacks of newspaper tied together with twine. The cover of today's paper displayed neatly in a plastic container, locked away from sticky hands but placed to be interesting enough for loose pockets.
"All the latest news on our at-home vigilantes! Paper-exclusive coverage of the Bats! The cheapest paper in Gotham!" The mans hair was a medium length, not long enough to touch his shoulders but fell loosely past his ears, and disheveled, clothes two sizes too big with dull-looking shoes, but his grin said he had enough money to eat well. He turned toward an older looking woman and a young girl, "New photos of Robin on page four to five! Take a look at an exclusive quote from the bird child at the scene of the Banner Manor fire from the eighth and inner scope written by Vicki Vale! The working man and children alike will find it a must read! Just seventy-five cents, Wayne Enterprises' price! Buy from the Gotham Gazette, Gotham City's most trustworthy news source on all things Batman!"
There was that word—no, name—again. Gotham.
The woman and her daughter dropped a few coins into the hands of the paper salesman, they hurriedly hobbled away, paper in hand, when they noticed Peter stalking closer to read the cover headline: Red Robin, A Danger in Disguise?
The subline detailed a few lines of questions on the safety concerns of 'The Bats' interrogation technique, and just what 'The Batman' was teaching his protege's to do.
A large, grainy black and white photo of a costumed teenager at a far away angle was the centerpiece of the cover. In front of him dangled a large man, suit and tie barely distinguishable from the dark background, off the side of a tall building, upside-down attached to some type of rope by the legs, dark flecks seemed to float away from the pair, carried by the wind but too distorted from the artistic media to make any real sense of. The photo composition was amateur, but did its job.
Before Peter could make a joke about the restaurant, Red Robin, his eyes drew toward the publishing date: July 12th, 2024.
Nine months into the future than it should have been, and Peter didn't know what to do about this. Maybe he should panic, or maybe he should cry. A burning numbness tickled under his skin. There were two, smaller headlines on the cover but Peter's attention was a universe away, so he stared at the date willing it to change.
"You're scaring away the buyers, kid!" A voice latched on and dragged Peter's thoughts back to his body. The newspaper salesman was no longer grinning when Peter turned to look at him again, his voice, quiet and harsh, was directed at Peter and left room for little discussion. "Cough up some change to buy a paper or scram! You're not getting more than what you've been viewing."
"S—Sorry!" Peter stuttered out, his voice, small and hoarse from coughing up a lung in the cemetery, was barely a whisper. He wasn't sure the man in front of him heard it.
The newspaper salesman began to get antsy at Peter's prolonged presence.
"I don't have time ta' be dealin' wit' tha' likes of yous," A more natural accent slipped out of the salesman's mouth, it didn't seem to bother him, "Fuckin' street rats, thinkin' they can just run tha' place."
A hot flash mingled in with the lingering alert of danger, a burst of adrenaline Peter didn't know what do with. Eyebrows furrowed, Peter's head snapped toward the older man whose skin, when up close, seemed too clean then someone who should be selling papers on the street.
Peter may look a bit worse for wear, but that wasn't any reason to treat him like — like shit.
The way the salesman spoke made Peter's skin crawl.
He wanted to do something about it.
Peter inhaled sharply, tearing his head out from his thoughts and gave the salesman an apologetic smile. His hands twitched defiantly, an overwhelming urge. For what? Peter wasn't sure, but he didn't want to figure it out. His smile must've not been very convincing as the salesman's sneer deepened, his arm flung out to the side and pointed with a roll of newspaper down the street.
Whatever pull the newspaper had on him was torn away, Peter shrank into himself and stiffly ran down the street. His Spidey-Sense wasn't helpful, he didn't know which way was dangerous or if it was safe, and Peter had to narrowly avoid crashing into ordinary civilians like he couldn't control his legs.
On an empty stomach, Peter's legs almost gave out as he neared the street corner two blocks over, catching himself on cement and iron fencing to a small apartment complex. He couldn't help but notice how the fence bent with the added weight.
That didn't happen before.
Peter's eyes snapped up, searching for a camera he couldn't pin-point with his Spidey-Senses incapacitated. Mildly lightened, Peter put as much distance between him and the now ruined fence as he could without making himself look suspicious. The accidental display of super strength had either been missed or ignored by the few lone passerby's near Peter and he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. It's not like they knew Peter any more than he knew them.
Peter was on the very edge of the sidewalk, one step away from being in the road. A puddle, a large one to the side of the road from a previous, yet recent, downpour, ripped Peter's attention from out of his head. Like the date on the newspaper, Peter was entranced.
The puddle only slightly rippled in reaction to wind, now harsh, battering against the earth and stared at the teenager who looked back.
Peter's loose, curly hair stuck to his head unattractively, clumped together with dirt and grim. His hair had already been neglected—knotted—by the time he saw Dr. Strange, but it hadn't gotten this bad. The few, loose strands in front of his face had tracked mud across his cheeks. From the side of Peter's face to the nape of his neck, disappearing underneath the torn fabric of his shirt, was dirt and grim. There was blood smeared on the corners of his mouth, now dry, and dark circles under his eyes, Peter looked like he crawled out of his grave.
This wasn't what made him freeze.
He almost missed it, against the dirt and against the grim. Peter scraped chunks of dried mud with his nails to confirm what his eyes saw. From his temple to the back of his ear was a pale, white strand of hair he hadn't had before. It stuck to the side of his neck, splayed against his natural brown hair like it was laughing at him.
Nail marks scattered across his upper torso and bled onto his arms. Most of the blood had soaked into the fabric of his shirt, mingling with the dirt and grim caked onto his frame and into his wounds. The green substance had hardened against his skin, no longer giving off a slight glow. Peter's wounds had already began to heal, but he looks horrifying. The fact passerby's did not go running for the hills seeing him in such a sorry state was a miracle at best. A puddle wasn't the best mirror, especially in the dim streetlamps of this unknown city, but Peter's skin was a pallor that he didn't think possible, like a real life zombie.
He looked and felt like Frankenstein's Monster.
Peter didn't recognize himself.
Peter's days on the streets seemed to blend into each other, long nights filled with horrible sounds and scents, his veins pumping themselves with adrenaline in response to his Spidey-Sense rising and lowering with the moon. He avoided the civilians on the streets, kept to himself holed up in the deep cracks of Gotham's architecture that normal people wouldn't be able to reach, let alone think to check.
The first night in Gotham, Peter had discovered that the multiverse hadn't completely stolen all of his outer-worldly possessions while wedged into the roof in the entranceway of a small supermarket. A relatively secure location, but Peter doesn't want to do that more than a few times.
What Peter had left on him wasn't anything useful like his phone (He missed Karen) or, even better, his wallet, but loose change and a locket, with no chain attached, that he had picked off the side of the road one morning in Queens. The loose change, unfortunately, wasn't enough to grab an article from the Gotham Gazette with 'Wayne Enterprises price.'
A pity.
Within the first week of Peter's stay in Gotham he had discovered a Goodwill clothing drop off, and Peter wasn't exactly fond of his destroyed and tattered clothing. So, naturally, he helped himself. There had been a lot of shirts and pants to choose from, too many if he had to be honest, and many had odd symbols and phrases that Peter didn't understand. So, he had stuck to finding a plain shirt and plain jeans to replace his old ones—well, tried to.
Peter didn't know how he ended up with a shirt that said, "I heart NY." But he did, it was a little reassuring that New York did in fact exist where he was, and he had to survive with it.
It was raining. Constantly. The rain didn't completely surprise Peter, the scent of rain had been prominent since Gotham Cemetery, but he hadn't expected most hours of the incoming days to be rained away. Summer was one of Peter's favorite months (Getting bitten by a radioactive spider made him run cold), and even though the rain kept him from getting heat stroke and dying, it was sad not to be able to see the sun as often as he used to.
He tried to stay out of the rain as much as possible, which helped to conserve energy, but occasionally needed the odd impromptu shower the world yearned to give him just to stretch his legs. Gotham citizens, or Gothamites (That's what he thinks he heard people refer to themselves as), seemed less inclined to avoid Peter like the plague since the rain washed away the dirt and blood. The scratch marks that lined Peter's chest, now covered, hadn't fully healed (A consequence of his high metabolism running on empty) yet, but they were making a slow recovery. It was a miracle, Peter hadn't bothered to try and take care of them in the slightest. His hair was still disgusting, he was homeless, and he avoided looking into puddles and particularly reflective windows.
Fortunately, how Peter looked wasn't a priority of his, it's not like he'd recognize the teenager staring back.
Unfortunately, there were priorities.
Peter didn't want to get into trouble in Gotham, a city whose state he didn't know, when he had just gotten here, but sometimes he decides he should be nice to himself and goes to find something to eat. More often than not, Peter found his next meal in a dumpster behind some type of restaurant. There were soup kitchens, but Peter didn't want to steal food from people who really needed it.
Sometimes Gothamites, who left restaurants with their leftovers, caught Peter halfway in a dumpster, and occasionally the ones who did took enough pity on Peter that they 'threw away' their food next to him.
So it can't be said that Peter was starving himself, he could get food. He's eating, that's what matters the most, right?
Aunt May and Tony would be sad.
Peter had lodged himself underneath one of the buildings many large gargoyles, one of the drier spots he had found to could sleep in, when the overwhelming darkness of Gotham's night began to creep overhead. He held his hands against his ears and tried to block out the sounds of Gotham's criminal underbelly, falling into a restless slumber.
Gotham was still raining long into the night when Peter woke up to the sound of heavy footsteps overheard, his body jumping to high alert before stilling. Whoever it was wouldn't know he was here.
Although tempted to see who managed to scale the building, there wasn't a fire latter up to the roof top, the small nook of space was warm enough to keep him from freezing in the cool, rainy night and he was only a little damp from earlier. He didn't need to be soaking wet. Peter cowered more into the darkness making himself as small as possible.
So, he let himself eavesdrop.
"Red Robin," A deep, robot-y voice greeted, the lack of enthusiasm was evident even to Peter, "To what do I owe the pleasure? I'm sure you've noticed you're in Crime Alley."
Red Robin, who Peter instantly recognized as the name on the Newspaper from however many days prior, didn't reply instantaneously. The only reason Peter knew there was second person actually there was because he could hear their heart beat. Then a second set of feet dropped onto the roof top.
"Red Hood. A woman was murdered on 58th. I have reason to believe she had ties to one of your rival gangs, ties that got her killed." Red Robin's voice wasn't modulated like the first voice—Red Hood, he sounded young but his voice carried the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. "Her name was Amanda Falster, records date her to be twenty-eight. She used to work the streets under a John that you had killed approximately three months ago, Argo Banks."
There was a pause.
"Why do you think I'd know anything about her?"
"She's the one who sold out Argo Banks." Something small shuffled above as Red Robin spoke, only slightly muffled by the pouring rain, "This is her. Do you recognize her?"
Another pause.
"Only in passing. What do you want from me, Replacement?"
"It only seemed fitting I'd seek out Crime Alley's favorite son." Red Robin's tone lifted, teasing. "I'm well aware you're keeping your distance with us, Hood, however you have connections and know these streets better than any of us. Will you be able to help me with this?"
"I thought B's mini-me would rather work alone?"
"It's not like I can't," Red Robin mused, "But as long as I'm in Crime Alley you'll shadow me anyway. Might as well kill two birds with one stone and just straight out ask you to team up with me while I'm here."
"Maybe you are as smart as the papers say." Red Hood's voice modulator made a buzzing noise, almost humming. "How far are you expecting this case to lead?"
"At least one of us are leaving with a new bullet wound, and maybe a collapsed building. Y'know, the usual."
"Sounds interesting." Red Hood paused, and then continued, "Ya' gonna try an' make me use rubber bullets?"
"Please, we both know B is talking nonsense about that." Red Robin let out an exasperated sigh. "The peaceful dove act would only end poorly for you. He'll figure it out eventually if he doesn't want to lose his World's Greatest Detective status to me."
There was a lull in the conversation, neither moved from where they stood.
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"I'll see where this leads, but if you start acting like B you're getting left behind, Replacement."
There was a static buzz Peter couldn't quite make out.
"Heartwarming. I'll fill you in as we head over there, Oracle is connecting you to comms."
The only reply was a static grunt. They stood there for a second longer before there was a loud zipping noise that cut through the pouring ran, and then a second one. It took only seconds before the heartbeats were already fading into the distance. The only sounds remaining were the occasional small, fluttering heartbeat of a bird mixed with the harsh downpour overhead.
Peter was left with more questions than answers regarding the Gotham vigilantes.