Chapter Text
For a second,
A single one,
Peter felt good.
A light without color, neither cold nor warm — a perfect equilibrium. A shred of deliverance. For just a second, this light was a part of him.
He was that light. That flash, that memory. A life snatched away in a blink, leaving no other trace on Earth than the flutter of an eyelid. He existed, for a time. Then, no more.
Then, he gasped. Everything slowed down. Everything hastened.
His eyes snapped open like a bandage ripped from a wound. Suddenly, the light was no longer nice. It was wrong. Inside his chest, his frantic heart hammered against his ribs. Peter staggered. Every step felt like missing a step on a staircase. A tiny fall without hitting the ground.
Tony, his heart pounded. Tony!
He spun around, his gaze wild and wide, like a hunted beast. The man was no longer there. Even so, his stomach twisted into intricate knots. He looked for that hand Tony had stretched out toward him, just before—
He was alone.
Goosebumps crept up his arms. Instinctively, his gaze darted toward the window, where he discovered a sky more gray than blue. Something had changed, though the boy couldn't put his finger on it. There was only this horrible foreboding that made him dizzy, this gripping nausea threatening to unhinge his mind.
The trees stood bare. No more leaves on their old branches. No green, no life. He had missed green so much. Now, it was already all gone. Had he imagined it all?
The thought sent a sob into his throat. Right then, a cold, biting gust whipped against the window. He stumbled back, until he bumped into a piece of furniture. His eyes caught the thin layer of dust coating its wood. His finger traced a line through it.
How long... ?
A frown creased the space between his eyebrows. On the bed, the ropes were gone. The sheets were neatly tucked. The room looked frozen, like a museum display.
Peter began to count his fingers. He checked all ten of them. He was awake. This wasn't a dream.
"T-Tony?" Peter's voice echoed, small and unsure.
He couldn't tell if he was calling for him to confirm his absence, or his presence. Both scenarios terrified him.
Only the roaring of the blood in his ears answered. Peter rushed out of the room, and found himself in a narrow hallway. He ignored every single door on his way. His legs carried him to a staircase, which he descended almost in a single bound. Suddenly, a foul stench turned his stomach upside down. Peter paused to inspect the fridge. He yanked it open only to gag. Everything inside was a rotten mass.
What the hell?
He couldn't think straight. His thoughts tangled in his head like a chaotic swarm.
Peter groaned, rubbing his forehead.
"This can't be real…" the candle, the fire, the green and living trees, the ropes, and now — now what?
"Tony…" he whimpered, sniffing miserably.
The outside world was only a few steps away. The opportunity was right there. Yet, a voice in his head whispered to wait. To stay calm. Tony hated it when he got worked up. There were rules to follow, a protocol…
But a familiar face then flashed in his memory, like a distant but happy recollection. Long brown hair, a smile as warm as spring sunshine, her laughing voice, always a tease ready, and eyes capable of banishing the very idea of harm.
May.
Peter didn't understand what was happening. He had more questions than answers. But one thing remained absolutely certain: there was someone out there, beyond this awful place, whom he desperately needed to find. This woman was his family, and he had abandoned her for far too long. God, he missed her. So much that it physically hurt.
Without a single glance over his shoulder, Peter left the cabin behind.
.
Outside, the air was bitter cold. It was nothing like the radioactive winter Tony had described to him. Peter was freezing, and it felt magnificent. His skin tightened like a molt grown too small, and his eyes welled with tears. Yet, his heart leaped with pure frenzy. He was out.
He plunged into the heart of the woods, his slender silhouette quickly swallowed by the wilderness. He burned through his very last drop of adrenaline to sprint through the sleeping trees, forcing his exhausted, numb body to put as much distance as possible between himself and… well. That place.
Their bunker.
His throat tightened. For the love of god, he used to call it “home”. Now, it was a blackhole in the ground, sucking in any soul foolish enough to get near it. So, Peter ran faster, ignoring the fire in his lungs and his limbs.
A year underground had turned him into a meagre worm. He used to swing among skyscrapers. Now, running amidst oaks and pines was blurring the edges of his vision.
Eventually, the adrenaline began to run low.
Only then did he realize that he was barefoot, and the boy was forced to bite his lip against the sharp stones and splinters. Peter didn’t stop. May had waited long enough. He could endure the loss of a few drops of blood.
As the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, Peter recognized a sound he thought he’d never hear again.
No, his heart cried. Yet his legs betrayed him, drawing him straight toward the source. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as his feet hit the hard, rough surface of asphalt. Every step left a crimson footprint behind. He hissed with pain.
That was when it appeared, with its twin globes of yellow light and mechanical purr. A car.
Instinctively, he wanted to throw his arms up and scream at the top of his lungs, begging whoever was on that road for help, pleading with them to take him far from this place, before Tony could catch up with him. But as the car slowed down, Peter froze like a deer.
Tony.
The name lodged in his chest. He swallowed hard and took a step back. The car whooshed past him. Peter watched it drive away, dazed.
Why?
Why hadn't he seized that chance?
He thought of the stranger's face behind the wheel. He remembered thinking that humanity was extinct.
Peter had forgotten how to talk to people. He knew Tony. But that person wasn't Tony, and Tony…
Tony used to be his whole world. His everything. To see another soul wandering here, now, was his idea of the end of the world. It wasn’t right. Ironic, he told himself. Hope was blooming, but fear was gnawing what was left of his courage. The last time he had trusted someone, his life had turned into a nightmare.
What If Tony sent this car to drag him back down there?
Peter would have wept right there, in the middle of nowhere, crushed by exhaustion and betrayal, if only another car hadn’t pulled up. A second chance he hadn't dared hope for.
Peter crossed his arms as he took in the pickup truck, which looked like a relic from the previous century. The rims were coated in caked mud and rust. A few strands of straw were wedged beneath the windshield wipers. It was hard to believe this hunk of junk was even capable of running. Yet, a face appeared through the rolled-down window. A man, undoubtedly just as old as his vehicle, widened his eyes.
"Sweet Jesus, you poor boy!"
Peter swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Where was Spider-Man?
"What—what happened to you?" the old man asked, scanning him from head to toe. "Looks like a mountain fell on your head. Oh, your feet—"
Mud and blood. Peter winced as he noticed the deep cuts running between his toes. It looked painful. It felt painful. Would he even be able to walk to the next town? The mere thought made him want to cry.
"Please, I need help," Peter croaked, his voice hollow, sounding foreign.
The man ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper beard. "Poor boy," he muttered to himself. "You need a ride or somethin’?"
May and her lazy smile flashed through his mind.
"Y-yes! Yes, sir, please. I gotta go home, I… I gotta…"
Sobs crept from his lungs to his throat. It took him by surprise. His emotions finally overtook him. Shame burnt his cheeks as tears left his face raw.
"I wanna go home."
"Now, now. I’m gonna help you. Hop in. Just tell me where to go, son."
The sheer simplicity of the offer made Peter melt from the inside out. Or perhaps it was the prospect of taking shelter inside the truck, escaping the vicious cold that was slashing at his skin.
The pickup groaned as Peter hoisted himself into the passenger seat. He was hit by the smell of motor oil and chewing tobacco. He never thought he’d smell that ever again, not in this lifetime. He had come to believe that his old life was gone forever, and that nothing was left but dust, dirt, and mustiness.
It was almost too much. Almost.
He bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a wince. The old man’s eyes lingered on his frail frame.
"I’m Dale."
Peter let out a shaky breath. Dale. Someone other than Tony. Another human being. That was insane. Unbelivable. Then, the vehicle started moving, and Peter had to close his eyes to hold back new tears. It had been an eternity since his last car ride. The motion felt…
Nostalgic.
"You’re frozen solid. Look at you, shaking like you might break into pieces!" The old man shot him a curious glance. "The heater’s busted, I’m sorry about that, son. You want my jacket? Here—"
He shrugged off his coat, but Peter shook his head.
"No! It's fine. It's fine. I’m okay."
Tony’s betrayal was too fresh. A outstretched hand was still just a hand ; capable of hurting him. So, as futile as it might be, he refused to accept a stranger's kindness so easily. It was a ridiculous way to set boundaries and protect himself, especially since he had already gotten into the man's truck. Anything could happen now.
"Oh… suit yourself, kid. Sorry," Dale said, chewing on his long mustache.
The cold in the bunker had felt timeless, despite the blankets, despite Tony’s naked body, which he used to curl up against at night. But out here, it was different. The air was freezing, for sure. But the loneliness was worse. Peter wanted to shrink into himself and get lost in the warmth of a memory.
The landscape rolled past at a steady pace. Trees and tarmac. The boy could have fallen asleep right then and there, cradled by the jolts of the car and the hum of the engine, if Dale’s voice hadn’t broken through his thoughts like a metal ruler on a chalkboard.
"Son… did you take something? Did, uh… did someone hurt you?"
Peter rubbed his face with one hand.
"I’m fine."
"Nonsense. My sixteen-year-old blind pug is in better shape than you!" Dale protested, wagging a finger.
Peter bounced his leg. Dale wasn't buying it. For God's sake, tears were still clinging to his eyelashes — who did he think he was fooling?
"Is there someone I should call? Maybe the police—"
"I said I'm fine!" Peter snapped.
He froze.
Dale flinched, and Peter’s heart plummeted. Suddenly, he was back underground, in the bunker with its dusty atmosphere, cowering as a furious Tony vented all his frustration on him. Too many questions always led to outbursts. Asking was wrong. Shouting back was worse.
"I… I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to…"
The car didn't stop. Dale gave him a smile that reached his eyes. "It's alright, son. I'm not mad. Folks need to look out for each other, you know… now more than ever. Nothing makes sense anymore, the world is going crazy…"
Peter sank into his seat. Everything felt wrong. Dale’s ramblings faded into the background, and the boy's gaze drifted into the void.
What was left to say? Iron Man kidnapped him, locked him away in a fake fallout shelter, and manipulated him to the point where he had opened his thighs. Who would even buy his side of the story? Dale would eventually assume it was all about nasty drugs, and Peter might as well believe it himself.
Was there still a chance that all of this had been nothing but a terrible misunderstanding?
"Peter," he whispered. "My name is Peter."
"Nice to meet you, Peter. I reckon you were heading down to the city?"
Peter nodded.
Anywhere but back there.
"Heh, the city. Everyone wants to go to the city, until they experience the peace of a life in the country." Dale nodded, his nose crinkling. "New York. That mad city doesn't love anyone."
Dale glanced at Peter, leaning in slightly as if to share a secret.
"It’s been even worse these past few months. Nothing is like it used to be, and nothing ever will be again."
New York. A wave of relief washed over Peter at the mention of his hometown. They were going to where his real home was. Where May was.
Then the memory of the bunker pierced his skull, driving itself in like a nail under a hammer. Home.
Get a hold of yourself, Parker.
Dale’s rambling went on. "All those dead people…”. The old man caught his gaze. "Sorry, lad. I know the past should stay in the past, but I’m still… shaken… you know, we all lost someone that day." he paused, his face clouded with sadness. "The day God’s anger fell upon us."
The furrow between Peter’s brows deepened. Then, Dale reached over, ruffling his messy hair. Peter's breath froze in his lungs, yet he didn't dare pull away from the unfamiliar touch.
"But we’re gonna make it, as long as there’s still some goodness left in this world. That’s how things are."
Peter sniffled. Without really knowing why, he nodded.
.
The woods were soon nothing but a landscape over his shoulder. Before Peter even had time to sort out his thoughts, trees turned into houses, into buildings, and the chirping of birds mutated into furious car horns. In the distance, the first skyscrapers came into view. Peter’s throat made an audible gulp.
New York was standing tall, as proud as ever. Tony had described utter destruction to him. But what he saw now reminded him every single second of everything that had been stolen from him. And Peter had believed every single one of those heinous lies.
Now that he was looking at the very place where he had grown up, Peter struggled to accept that this was real. Just yesterday, he had believed this city was dead.
Dale cut the engine. Downtown was still far away. Even so, Peter could see the faces of nameless people from where he sat. So many lives the apocalypse hadn’t taken. Peter felt tiny in his seat. The hustle of the city called to him as much as it repelled him.
"I can't go any further, sorry kid," Dale said with a guilty sigh.
"No, it's—it's perfect. Thank you so much, sir."
He would never have made it this far alone, considering the state of his feet. Dale had saved him.
"You… you remind me of my son, you know? He was a good boy. I can't go back into that cursed city, not since… well... it's too early. Five years isn't enough to forget."
Grief. He knew that feeling all too well. What was there to say? What had people told him back when Ben died?
"I'm sorry." he whispered.
"It's not your fault, son, if God chose him out of the billions."
"Chose... him?"
Confusion washed over Dale's face. "Good Lord, boy. You really are out of it, aren't you? You gotta get a grip! Go on, now, and find someone you can trust."
Blinking slowly, Peter opened the door with a loud creak and stepped down. Another creak echoed as he slammed the door behind him.
"And don't go loitering in the woods anymore! That's no place for a nice boy like you!"
Peter smiled, waving his hand. He still had a long way to go, but he wouldn't forget old Dale; the first survivor – no, the first person – he had crossed paths with since Tony Stark’s imaginary bombings.
.
Walking was painful. The streets of New York weren’t exactly what anyone would call clean. Peter felt as though he were leaving a small piece of himself behind on the asphalt with every single step.
Every now and then, he would glance over his shoulder, half-expecting Tony to appear at any moment. He anticipated meeting his disappointed gaze at every street corner. It had always been that way. Tony knew everything. Tony saw everything. Why would that suddenly change now? He wasn’t the type of man to give up his power.
As houses turned into buildings and buildings gave way to storefronts, Peter pulled his head down between his shoulders. The crowd swarmed around him, buzzing with the relentless hum of their conversations. Outbursts of voices echoed from every direction. Whenever he dared to look up, the boy was suddenly seized with vertigo at the sheer sight of so many faces. Humanity was right there, right in front of him. Vibrant, dynamic, loud. Caring about nothing but itself.
God, they were so loud…!
With a sob catching in his throat, Peter wondered if he had done the right thing by coming back here. His head was spinning so violently that he feared he might collapse. But there was so much to see, so much to hear, to smell… the boy was light-years away from the bleak stillness of the bunker.
A car sped down the street; Peter winced at the blare of its siren and the harsh glow of its flashing lights, catching the distant sound of crying and screaming. He knew instantly that this ambient distress didn’t come from him. At least, not entirely. A raw emotion saturated the air. Without even realizing it, Peter quickened his pace, as if a dulled instinct were coming back to life inside him.
His Peter-tingle.
The memory brought stinging tears to his eyes.
Someone jostled his shoulder. "Sorry!" The stranger was gone before Peter could even ask a question.
Another police car sped past him. So Peter ran, blending into the panicked mass of humanity. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins like liquid fire. Where? the Peter-tingle asked. Danger, it probed.
Soon, people were shoving one another, swept up in the chaos. Peter let himself be carried along as best he could. His gaze hungrily scanned the frantic crowd, searching for whatever could possibly be tormenting the residents of New York this badly.
The streets were becoming familiar.
The route to the movie theater where he had watched Harry Potter with Ben. The bench where he used to sit and wait for the bus. The alleyway where his shoes had been stolen. But there wasn't a single second to savor his homecoming. New York was weeping.
Peter was startled to see a dog wandering without a master, its leash dragging behind it. A few paces away, a woman was crying, holding a blood-soaked tissue against her forehead with one hand while furiously typing a text on her phone with the other. Before Peter even had time to approach her, a man grabbed him by the arm. "My son?! Have you seen my son?"
"W-What?"
"My son! I was taking him to school and all of a sudden—oh, Lord." He looked around, his eyes wide with sheer panic. "I think I must have passed out, because he wasn't there anymore when I came to… I… I have to find him!"
And just like that, he was gone. Peter let out a shaky breath, his arms dropping heavily against his hollow ribs.
An overturned car over there; people coming to blows inside a neighborhood bakery, seemingly fighting over the space behind the counter; others sitting on the ground, their expressions completely vacant.
Peter wandered among them, his arms hanging limp. He felt like a smudge on a blank page. When the last of his strength finally failed him, the boy slid down against a wall. He needed to catch his breath. But no matter how tightly he squeezed his eyes shut, no matter how hard he tried to focus, nothing could replace the silence of his bunker. He wondered if he would ever find that kind of stillness again.
The hum of the ventilation. The screech of bolts turning under a screwdriver. The rustle of rice grains as he counted them one by one for the hundredth time during his darkest moments.
His eyes snapped open when a hand landed on his shoulder. Peter flinched so violently that the man leaped back.
"Easy there."
An order, rather than a comfort.
Peter took in the firefighter’s uniform. "Sorry, I—" He swallowed hard.
"Did you just come back?"
The color drained from Peter's face. "What?"
"Are you one of the missing? You need to head to the assembly areas. You’ll be registered there, and measures are being taken to stabilize the situation. Please remain calm."
The words were rattled off like a speech learned by heart.
"Rations will also be distributed: a meal and bottled water, along with blankets until you’re assigned a residence. If you have any complaints, you'll have to wait until—uh… wait. Parker?"
Peter blinked, lightheaded.
"Peter Parker?"
The firefighter frowned, leaning in toward him. A flash of recognition crossed his gaze.
"Parker. It’s you. Holy shit."
Peter gasped. A head taller than him, a muscular chest beneath his uniform, a shaved head with a faint shadow of regrowth, skin tanned by the last summer heat… Peter, in turn, was struck by the sudden realization. He knew him. But—it was impossible—
"F-Flash?" he hiccuped.
"Dude." Flash ran a hand over his shaved head. "It's not possible… it’s really you. It’s really you?"
"Flash?"
His classmate, the one who used to live for the sole purpose of tormenting him every single minute of the day. The last time he had seen him, it was…
Good Lord.
He had stolen Flash's car to go after the Vulture.
But this Flash—
No. It wasn't possible. Flash wasn't tall or muscular, and where had that three-day stubble come from? No one could change that much in a single year. He looked nothing like a teenager. He was in a uniform.
They stared at each other, both of them in a state that went far beyond mere confusion. Finally, Flash broke the silence with words that rooted Peter to the spot.
"You're dead."
Half an assertion, half a question. Peter wasn't supposed to be here. This truth was written in plain sight within the stunned gaze of his former bully.
The hairs on the back of Peter's neck stood on end. Out of nowhere, a swarm of drones flooded the streets of New York. The swarm split into two groups, which subdivided, scattering from one street to the next. Above their heads, the drones emitted a high-pitched whine, broadcasting an audio message through their speakers to the citizens below.
Peter heard none of it. His ears were ringing.
There was only the name engraved on their silver metal.
"STARK."