Chapter Text
It’s been seven months since Peter Parker was erased from existence. He’s doing pretty well for himself, all things considered.
Peter knows his chances of getting into MIT are entirely gone. His records of attending a STEM school are flawed at best, and he has no record of interning at Stark Industries. He also doesn’t have any recommendations from teachers or past employers. He knows his dream of making it into a private university on a full-ride scholarship is over, but sometimes he still fantasizes about how he and Ned and MJ could all be going to their dream school together. He’d still have his girlfriend and best friend to pick up the pieces when things got rough as Spider-Man. He’d have them hold him as he cried about Aunt May.
Still, he‘s doing pretty well for himself. He finished his GED by the end of June and applied to Empire State University. They accepted him with a decent scholarship. They could cover a little more than half of his tuition. Peter was ecstatic that they would cover anything at all.
College would start in mid-August, so he had to work as many hours as he could right now. He’d start the day at Lucy’s Diner in the Bronx, get off for lunch around midday, then take a bus over to the Bronx. He’d then work the late afternoon to midnight shift as a server in a club.
Between his jobs, there’s very little time for Spider-Man. He’s disappointed that he’s had to take a break from helping people, but he knows he can’t run himself into the ground anymore. Nobody depends on Peter Parker. Nobody looks at Peter Parker longer than he’s standing directly in front of them. But people depend on Spider-Man. Spider-Man needs to be able to function and think straight when he goes out. He’s been hit hard with that realization in the last few weeks.
Guilt churns in his stomach, weighing him down as he walks through the chip aisle of a grocery store. Fire is unforgiving, and Peter Parker is always too late.
He still sees her burnt face behind his eyelids, haunting him every time he closes his eyes. Melanie Espinosa was twelve and home alone, probably watching TV or doing her summer reading, when a fire broke out in her apartment building. It had spread faster than most fires and led to the collapse of the apartment building. Peter had heard her and the other trapped occupants of the building call out for help a few blocks over as he walked out of his morning shift.
She had begged for a hero, but there was nobody but useless Peter Parker to hear her pleas.
Spider-Man pulled the body of a 12-year-old girl from the hot rubble. The left side of her face had burned, her skin curdled and black. Her frail arms were red and raw. Her chest and right leg were crushed from the collapse. He knew it was too late, but he rushed her to the paramedics all the same.
It was a few days later when the news revealed that she had died from smoke inhalation before the building collapsed.
Spider-Man heard her choke and cry from the story below as he crashed through a window out into the street, holding onto a young couple.
Spider-Man was no hero in that moment.
He knew the second the mother realized it was her daughter who hadn’t made it out. “No,” She screamed as she ran over to the ambulance. “No, no, please, not my baby. Not my baby.” Her husband held her as sobs racked her body. It only took a glance at their daughter before he began to cry too.
“You should go, Spider-Man. You’ve helped enough,” said the paramedic he’d handed the girl off to.
Spider-Man left, only looking back once.
The guilt found him at work, in bed, even when he’s making late-night grocery runs.
Peter breathed a heavy sigh as he placed his items into plastic bags. He hadn’t expected the newspaper to still cover the story of his failure, but it was staring straight at him from the shelf next to the self-checkout. He pays and puts all his thin plastic bags into a heavy-duty grocery bag. He’d bought it after one too many cheap bags spilled his groceries all over the sidewalk.
He began the trek home, pulling the bag up onto his shoulder and tucking the handles under his backpack strap. He put in his earbuds to help dull the sounds of Manhattan. He stopped playing music on his walks home recently. He doesn’t want to miss a scream or cry because his music is playing too loudly.
His spidey sense tingles at the base of his skull. He knows what the different feelings mean now, and thankfully, this one isn’t screaming danger danger. Whatever’s about to happen isn’t going to hurt, but it’ll be annoying.
He entirely blames his heightened anxiety he calls a superpower for this. He didn’t move because normal people don’t know when they’re going to be hit by a laser from a piece of alien technology. Peter is unamused by the universe’s latest attempt to ruin his day. It didn’t even throw him into the middle of a fight.
Peter looks around and finds three teenagers staring at him, mouths agape. Sending them a small, confused smile, he asks, “Umm…hi? Where am I?”
The three exchanged looks and stood, falling into defensive stances. The blond with a black stripe in his hair mutters something to the other two and runs out of the room. Peter puts his hands up in a placating gesture, “I’m not gonna hurt anyone. I’m here on accident, promise.”
His words don’t help. The kids seem to brace when he raises his hands, and Peter’s heart clenches. Why are they so scared? He can hear their hearts pick up pace as he lowers his hands, their eyes following every movement he makes. Peter sighs and takes in the kids, particularly the boy with the oddly-shaped elbows. A school for mutants, maybe? Or some kind of housing?
Two men walk in, followed by the blond boy from earlier, and motion for the other two to move behind them. The red-haired boy grabs his friend and almost bodily drags him from where Peter could easily see them. “あなたは誰ですか?”
Peter’s mouth forms an o as he realizes what could’ve been the issue earlier. “Um, I don’t understand. Sorry…” He feels slightly embarrassed; he should’ve been able to tell the other two didn’t understand him. He can usually tell when people need him to change how he communicates.
I’m really losing my touch, wow.
The blond man sighs, frowning deeper, “Who are you?” He asks in accented English. Peter lets a small, placating smile spread across his lips, “My name is Peter. I’m here by accident, and I don’t mean any harm towards anyone.” The man looks him up and down, the scowl on his face dropping the slightest bit.
“What’s in your bags?” The other man asks. Slowly, Peter reaches up and slides the bag down his arm and opens it, showing off his bag full of groceries. Well, full is a little generous. “And the other one?” Peter hesitates this time; his suit is in his backpack. He hopes they don’t look too close and recognize the false bottom. He lets the bag fall to the ground and unzips it, pulling out textbooks, pens, and his server uniform. He leaves the empty bag on the ground next to the grocery bag and moves away from it.
The black haired man walks forward slowly, staring Peter down, and sifts through both bags. He sees nothing suspicious in his belongings, apparently, because he stands back up and shoves his hands in his pockets.
Peter can tell he’s still ready to spring into a fight; his muscles coiled despite the seemingly relaxed stance he’s fallen into. “Quirk accident?” Peter pauses, confused, and tilts his head, “Quirk? Uh, maybe. I was hit in the back. I’m pretty sure it was a beam from a weird gun, though, not whatever a quirk is.”
Something Peter had said had not been the right thing. The man’s relaxed and non-caring expression breaks and lets through a sliver of suspicion. Unease settles in the back of Peter’s mind. “We’re gonna need to take you somewhere more secure for questioning. I would recommend your cooperation.” The man motions toward Peter’s belongings, “We’ll put your things somewhere safe, but don’t expect to see them returned to you right away.”
Peter’s heart drops into his stomach. They’re going to find his suit, and then they’ll arrest him and turn him back over to America. Spider-Man has regained the trust of many, but there are still people who hate vigilantes and the enhanced. “Are you sure I can’t take anything with me? I wouldn’t want to lose anything,” Peter turns his gaze down, “These are kinda the only bags I’ve got, so,” he looks back up at the man in front of him, putting on his most pitiful expression, “I’m sorry, it’s stupid. I’ll just leave it. I know a lot is going on right now. Sorry.”
The man softens his expression, his shoulders dropping along with his small scowl, and reaches down to pick up Peter’s backpack. “Look,” he starts, “you can take the bag back, but you can’t take the things inside of it. If there’s anything else in there, get it out now.”
Peter nods, glad he could finally put his poverty to good use.
He pulls out his wallet and phone. The man holds his hand out, expectant. Hesitantly, Peter places both items into his hand. He flips the phone over, examining every edge, before snooping through the wallet. Peter has a total of $8.37 in there, spare change included. The man pulls out his license and compares the Peter on the card to the one in front of him. He shrugs and hands both items back to Peter, who shoves them into the backpack.
“Follow me,” the man nods toward the front doors, “We need to get going.”
The car ride is silent, except for the sounds of the road and the occasional noise seeping in from the life outside. “I’m Shota Aizawa, a pro hero in Japan. I go by Eraserhead. Sorry for not introducing myself earlier.” Peter shrugs, “You weren’t sure what my deal was. I get it, stranger danger and stuff.” He looks over at the man, trying to gauge why he had felt the need to share. Peter can only assume it was an attempt at making him more comfortable, thanks to his earlier exaggeration of his poverty.
Something heavy settles in his stomach at the memory. He shouldn’t have done that, now this guy—a pro hero, a hero that actually helps people—is feeling like he needs to make Peter comfortable. He doesn’t, he shouldn’t. Peter doesn’t need comfort. It’s his fault he’s even here right now. He could’ve moved, but he didn’t. He chose to get hit because that’s what normal people do. But Peter knows he isn’t normal.
A realization strikes Peter, his chest clenching. People are going to get hurt because he decided the stand there like an idiot. He could’ve stopped the attack right as it started. But he didn’t. He disappeared. And now, when he’s home, he’s going to be too late again. People will die just like everyone else in his life because he isn’t fast enough.
A hand lands softly on his shoulder. Peter looks over to the man driving, breath caught in his throat. His eyes and chest burn. His fingers have dug themselves into his arms, gripping tightly around his biceps.
The man, Eraserhead, Peter reminds himself, has put the car in park in front of a two-story-tall building. He’s staring at Peter with an out-of-place, concerned expression, making Peter’s gut twist with guilt. Peter’s already underfoot, and he hasn’t even been here for an hour. Peter lets out a small breath, looking out the windshield, then back to the hero, “Are we gonna go in?”
Aizawa nods, but his hand stays in place. He sighs a little, “I’m not trying to put you into a bad spot, kid. I want to help you, and I know it can be nerve-wracking being somewhere you’ve never been before, but I’m not going to leave you alone.” He pulls his hand away. “I’m going to make sure you’re okay.”
Peter nods and looks away, reaching for the door handle.
The inside of the building looks like two police stations’ worth of officers had been crammed into a single floor. Peter looks at the receptionist and has to physically stop himself from letting his mouth open in shock. The woman in front of him has scales spreading down from her temples, across her cheekbones, and some spreading from her hairline to her nose. Peter can’t help but be surprised, but he’s glad that she’s being accepted in the professional world. Other parts of the world must be more socially accepting than I thought.
Aizawa seems to notice his reaction and raises an eyebrow at Peter. He turns and speaks to the woman in a language Peter doesn’t understand. The teen huffs to himself. He needs to cool it with his open reactions to people with mutant abilities. America’s lack of acceptance shouldn’t be his reason for gawking at people minding their business.
Not long after being seated in a row of chairs next to Aizawa, they’re taken into the back of the floor and led through a series of hallways. Peter feels a sense of deja vu overcome him when he sees the interrogation room, one similar to the room he was held in when his identity was revealed to the world. Another man, taller but thinner than Aizawa, sits down across from him. Aizawa is lingering behind the man, leaning back on the wall with his arms crossed. Peter feels only slightly intimidated by the scene.
“Hello, I am Chief Tsukauchi. I will be asking you some questions today, okay?”
Peter nods back at him, and the man takes that as his cue to begin. “Alright,” he starts, “could you state your name for the record?”
“Peter Parker.”
“Thank you, Parker. Where are you from?”
“I’m from America. New York, specifically.”
Tsukauchi nods, “How did you end up at UA High School this evening?”
“I was hit in the back by a gun. It shot a laser or something.”
Chief Tsukauchi hums and nods again, “Were you sent to harm any of the students?”
Peter shakes his head vigorously, “No, it was entirely an accident. I don’t want to hurt anyone, especially some kids.” The chief nods once more, a small smile on his lips, “Is there anyone you’d like us to contact for you? We’ll have to talk with the American embassy about getting your flight covered if you cannot provide a ticket for yourself.”
The teen cringes slightly. He would prefer if no form of government snooped through his legal papers. Sure, he left a paper trail that made sense and has all of the required paperwork, but he’s sure that someone will be able to see through all of his hard work and know that his papers are fake. However, he also knows that he doesn’t have the money for a cross-country flight. “Um, no, there isn’t anyone. I can’t afford a flight back home, either. Sorry,” he finishes lamely.
Chief Tsukauchi hums again, writing something down on the notepad next to him. “We will do our best to help you home, Parker, but I cannot guarantee that your flight will be covered. If you do have to pay for it, I’m sure we can find a way to get it discounted to a price you can manage.” Peter highly doubts he can make a plane ticket cost $8.37, but he appreciates Tsukauchi’s hope.
He and Aizawa exchange a few words before he leaves, and Aizawa sits across from Peter once it’s just the two of them. They don’t talk much beyond the single assurance Aizawa gives him as he sits down. Peter lays his head down on his arms, worn out from his emotionally draining day.
He isn’t sure when he fell asleep, but he’s being shaken awake by Aizawa. The man has a different look in his eyes than he did when he sat down, but Peter can’t figure out what it means. Chief Tsukauchi is back, too. His face is pinched with confusion, “Parker,” his tone low, “did you lie to me earlier?”
Peter’s heart drops into his stomach, suddenly much more awake. “No,” he voices, “I didn’t lie to you about anything.” He thinks back to their short conversation earlier, replaying the questions in his mind. “My name is Peter Parker, I’m from America, I ended up here by accident, I don’t want to harm anybody, and there’s nobody for you to call for me. I’m telling the truth.” The man’s brows furrow, “I know you’re telling the truth.” Peter’s shoulders drop in relief.
“The thing is, Parker, you don’t exist.”
Peter’s eyes widen, feeling genuinely scared for the first time in a long time. “I-I don’t…what do you mean?” Peter knows exactly what he means; his entire existence was erased to save the multiverse, which meant there could be no physical proof of his existence alongside the universal-wide memory wipe. Tsukauchi sighs, “You don’t exist on paper. There is no Peter Parker in New York that matches your description. Your license number belongs to a man in his 40s.” The man leans forward on his elbows, hesitating before he speaks again, “Do you know what a quirk is, Parker?”
That word again, quirk, he knows what it literally means, but he can tell the chief isn’t asking for a definition. “I don’t think I know it in the context you’re thinking of it in,” Peter answers, hopeful he made the right decision.
Aizawa, who has now moved back to his first position on the wall, hums. “Parker, a quirk is a special ability that a person has. America might refer to them more commonly as a ‘superpower,’ but I know that terminology is still used in educational settings. Do you know how common it is to have a quirk?”
Peter is growing more confused by the second. The word quirk is never used in an educational setting, and schools certainly don’t teach about how the X-gene was discovered. People also aren’t so kind in their description of abilities. “No,” Peter says, his voice growing weaker.
“The statistic in America, I believe,” Chief Tsukauchi puts forth, “Is 87% of people are quirked and 13% are not. Does this sound at all familiar to you?”
Peter shakes his head, gaze dropping down to the table. “There are people with abilities, but it’s not 87% of people.” Peter is fairly sure the statistic he’s familiar with is that 8% of people have abilities across the world. Dread is starting to creep up his spine at the implications of everything he’s been told.
“Okay, Parker, I think you’ve been displaced farther than just countries. Could you tell us the date?”
“It’s July 15th, 2025.”
The two men exchange a look. “Could you tell us a little about any major events? Or possibly a famous hero that we might be able to trace back to?”
“Uh, probably Iron Man. He kinda saved everyone from being turned back to dust by Thanos after the Hulk brought everyone back. I think it’s being referred to as the ‘Infinity War’ or something by the media.”
“I’m sorry,” Aizawa remarks, “what do you mean by turned back to dust? That has never happened, and the date you gave us is in the past.”
Peter wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He does not want to recount being turned into dust by people he met maybe two hours ago. “Thanos,” he starts slowly, “he turned half the universe to dust ‘cause he wanted balance or something. He used these magic rocks.”
Tsukauchi looks back at Aizawa, eyebrows raised. “Okay, Parker,” he says as he turns back around, “you’ve given us plenty to work with. Thank you.” Aizawa follows him as he leaves the room this time, face stony.
Peter waits, alone, for what feels like another hour before anyone comes back in. Tsukauchi and Aizawa are followed by a woman who sets Peter on edge immediately. Her eyes, unblinking and staring straight at him, send chills down his spine. Peter can feel his walls going up. The three exchange words again. The woman reaches out to him, quickly, grabbing onto his wrists.
Peter shoots out of the chair, forcing it to fall backwards, and scrambles away from the woman. “What the fuck,” he mutters, “What’s going on?” He poses the question to Aizawa, but it’s Tsukauchi who answers. “She has a quirk that allows her to trace the origin of an object or person by making physical contact. We tend to utilize her quirk when there’s physical evidence that seems out of place. We want to see when and where you’re from, Parker. It will help us get an idea of how to send you home.”
Peter hesitantly moves forward, picking the chair back up, attempting to calm his racing heart. He sits back down and places one hand on the table, letting the woman grab onto him.
Her eyes begin to glow, and she looks upward. She scrunches her nose and starts to look around. Peter can tell she isn’t seeing the room around her, eyes gazing at things that aren’t there. Suddenly, she gasps and releases Peter’s arm. She looks at him, “あなたはこの世界の人ではありません.”
Peter looks at Aizawa, who’s staring straight back at him.