Chapter Text
Peter watches as the sky begins to crack. “What’s happening?”
Dr. Strange’s hands glow with power, but for once his expression isn’t indifferent — it’s afraid.
“They’re starting to come through, and I can’t stop them!”
“There’s gotta be something we can do! Can’t you just cast the spell again? The original way, before I screwed it up?”
Strange looks at him, guilt and panic etched across his face.
“We’re too late for that. They’re here!” His voice tightens. “They’re here because of you.”
For a moment, everything goes silent between them.
Peter swallows hard, then looks up with sudden resolve.
“What if everyone forgot who I was?”
Strange’s head snaps toward him. “What?!”
“They’re coming here because of me, right? Because I’m Peter Parker. So cast a new spell — but this time, make everyone forget who Peter Parker is. Make everyone forget… me.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp.
Peter meets Strange’s eyes. “But it would work, right?”
Strange hesitates. His voice is rough when he finally speaks.
“Yeah… it would work. But you need to understand — it won’t just be the people of this world. Everyone who knows and loves you will forget. The universe itself will forget you. It could send you somewhere else entirely. You might die, and even if you survive… I won’t remember you to bring you back.”
Peter gives him a sad, quiet smile. “It’s okay.”
Strange nods — reluctantly, painfully. “You’d better go say your goodbyes. You don’t have long.”
Peter nods. “Thank you, sir.”
“Call me Stephen.”
Peter stops mid-step, moved by the gesture. “Thank you… Stephen.”
Strange huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah… still feels weird.”
Peter laughs with him and runs off to find Ned and MJ, not seeing the single tear that slips down the magician’s face.
The last thing Peter remembers is the magic swirling overhead — then the sensation of falling through a pixelated, mirror-like dimension — before everything goes black.
When Peter wakes up, he’s in his spider-suit… except it looks more like a onesie than the battle-ready suit he knows. His hands are tiny. Smaller than they should be.
Panicking, he pats himself down and finds his phone.
He turns it on — no signal. No network. No connection.
“Kar…en?”
There’s no reply. The AI interface doesn’t activate. As he stares at the screen, realization sinks in.
Karen is disabled. And without a signal or a computer, he has no way to fix her.
It takes Peter a moment to collect himself. When he finally sits up, he looks around slowly, blinking heavy, unfocused toddler eyes.
He seems to be inside a building — maybe an attic, if he had to guess. Everything smells like dust and old wood. He listens carefully. Inside the building: no heartbeats but his own. Outside? When he lets his hearing stretch… a city. A loud one. A dangerous one, judging by the distant sirens and the occasional gunshot echoing through the night.
His eyes catch on a small window covered by a sheet. He waddles over on unsteady little legs and lifts the fabric to peek outside. It’s dark. He doesn’t recognize anything — not the skyline, not the street signs, not the lights.
He decides checking the rest of the building is more important.
Peter climbs down from the attic and explores room by room. The whole place looks abandoned, like an old shelter no one’s used in years. Dust. Broken furniture. Water stains. Drafty walls.
He heads to what might’ve been a kitchen once, pulls open the cupboards…
and freezes.
Inside are cans. Actual real food.
Beans. Peas. Corn. Peaches. Spam.
A full-body wiggle of pure joy escapes him before he can stop it.
“JACT POT!” he squeaks — the words slurred in that frustrating, four-year-old way his mouth still can’t keep up with.
He hurries back upstairs to grab the sheet he saw earlier, dragging it down the steps to load all his treasures onto it. After that, he continues exploring the rest of the building, checking every room. He finds more sheets — dusty, but usable — and even a pillow still sealed in its plastic wrapping. Score.
Once he’s collected everything and dragged it all back to the attic, he starts arranging his new supplies carefully. Then he secures the space as best a four-year-old can, pushing old boxes in front of weak spots and making sure the trapdoor is shut tight.
Feeling satisfied and oddly proud of himself, Peter climbs back up into the attic and flops onto his new pillow. He lets out a tiny, tired breath.
A well-deserved nap.
He’ll explore the city in the morning.
Peter woke up to a sunbeam slipping through the window. Sitting up with a tiny groan, he grabbed one of the cans of peaches and pried it open for breakfast. After eating, he climbed onto the windowsill, checked the alley carefully, and slipped outside, sticking to the shadows as he made his way down the building.
He looked around the alley he’d landed in, then stepped out far enough to get a view of the whole building. He needed to memorize every detail — he couldn’t afford to lose his shelter. He’d been lucky to wake up in it, and he wasn’t planning on giving it up now.
Scanning the street, he watched the people passing by, waiting for someone whose presence didn’t spike his spidey-sense. Eventually, he spotted a woman in a black dress and jean jacket struggling to free her heel from a metal grate.
Peter waddled over and tapped her leg. When she looked down, he gently pushed her foot down and forward, freeing the heel easily.
The woman blinked at him. “Thanks, kid. Uh… are you lost?”
Peter stared up at her with wide innocent eyes.
“Yesh… wh—where is… ear?”
The woman frowned. “This is Crime Alley, kid. It’s not safe for you to be wandering around alone. Where are your parents?”
Peter kept looking at her innocently.
Internally, though, he was screaming.
Crime Alley? She can’t mean THAT Crime Alley. Okay, Peter, calm down. Just answer her question. What are the odds this is the same Crime Alley from the Batman comics I read with Dad and Uncle Ben? …Welp, only one way to find out.
“Nw J–rsey?” he asked.
“That’s right, kiddo. But where’s your mommy?”
Okay, Peter, just say she’s away. You got this.
“Mommy went bye-bye.”
Fuck. That’s not what I wanted to say.
The woman’s face softened with pity, and Peter decided that was enough human interaction for one morning.
“Bye-bye, Mss lady,” he mumbled, already backing up.
Unsure how to respond, the woman simply gave a small wave as Peter turned and ran.
He needed a nap. And a quiet place to have a breakdown.
Why did it have to be fucking Jersey?