My Fanfic Stash and Favorite online quests

Words: 21k+

Links: https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/spider-man-restitutions.1197242/

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60423760/

(After a long and brutal career as Spider-Man, Peter Parker has hit rock bottom.

His old universe is gone, his family is gone, and he's abandoned in an alternate timeline where he'd never been born.

On the streets and left as a living ghost, he hasn't given up on being Spider-Man. He hasn't given up on other people.

He's only given up on himself, and that's still a tragedy. But even at his lowest, he's always what every hero aspires to be. It doesn't hurt that both Dr. Doom and the Incredible Hulk are stuck in the same mess.

A slow burn superhero story about Peter Parker starting from the lowest point I can possibly put him in, and battling his way to the very top.

This is going to be a long one, and while it starts off in a sad place, the overall direction will always be to somewhere more positive.

There will be setbacks. Not everything will work out. But my promise is that he'll always be in a better place than where he started.)

Notes:

I can honestly say that the Amazing Spider-Man comics have been in a pretty bad place for a while, and this fic is partly a reaction to that despite incorporating very little from the more recent works.

This work has partially been my coping mechanism for the last several years, where I'd simply decided that if I could not get the kind of Spider-Man story that I always wanted to read, then I would simply write it.

And my favorite stories are about protagonists starting off in the worst places possible and battling their way to a happy ending, one struggle at a time.

I realize this premise may turn some people off.

Peter Parker is in a very bad place in his comics already, after all, and they can charitably be described as misery porn. What makes this different is that this story is about seeing him climb out of the hole that I started him in.

I've liked a lot of Spider-Man fanfic over the last few years, mostly as a way to wash out the taste of the more recent comic runs.

But I always felt these works leaned too heavily into wish fulfillment, repaired everything far too quickly, or else glossed over just how much of an uphill battle it can be from going from rock bottom to something better.

I think that it neglects something very compelling, and I want something that's more gradual but also feels deeper.

We're going to see that even at his lowest point Peter Parker is still the greatest goddamn hero there is, and it's only going even further up from there.

I hope you guys enjoy, and stick with this. The point is not to revel in the tragedy, but to feel invested as it's overcome.

Some caveats are that there will be setbacks, and not everything will work out. At times, he will get knocked down again only to climb back up.

But it is my firmest promise that he'll never be as bad off as where he started, and that he'll continue to move forward instead of staying stuck.

That's simply something the comics haven't been able to do for me, and that's what I want to make happen with this.

Just some other caveats: this fic was begun before Hickman's Ultimate Spider-Man was announced, and I really do love it a lot. It's one of the best Spider-Man books in the last decade, but I'm also grateful that my approach to this story was from a different direction.

Also, this fic isn't going to be set in the mainline 616 comics universe, simply because I haven't read every marvel comic in existence and won't be able to stick to canon flawlessly.

But for the purposes of this story, you should assume that the broad strokes of everything in the 616 Marvel up to Clone Saga, and then from there the broad strokes of the MC2 Marvel Universe, took place.

That is, up until I matter-of-factly introduce curveball after curveball that contradicts all of this and turns everything upside down.

I'm hoping that it ends up being interesting, and provokes people's curiosity about the setting and Peter's life before the story begins, rather than simply frustrating.

This is going to be a very long one, and I really might not finish it given how ambitious I'm being here.

But at the very least, I already have enough of a backlog to update this story on a weekly to bi-weekly basis for the better part of a year.

The only downside to this is that I won't really be able to respond to feedback as much as some readers might hope, but I will at least say that my writing continually evolves alongside this story.

New York's night sky was an angry and accursed thing. Lightning flared and thunder rumbled amidst the clouds, but there wasn't a drop of rain to accompany it. All fury and no grief. Peter frowned beneath the tattered remnants of his mask. The weather never seemed to echo his own sentiments.

Or, maybe it did now, and he didn't want to accept that.

He trudged up the hill, dead grass faltering beneath his footsteps. He'd spent so long on the ground these days that he tended to lope rather than swing, but though he was among buildings again the cemetery was too far out of the way. It was an innocuous, and lonely place. It suited them.

They were the only ones in the world that were as he had left them, now. So, he'd come here first, before he went anywhere else. He could try to figure out the whys of it later.

Benjamin and Maybelle Parker. Precisely as he remembered them, and silent beneath the earth. Except the dates on their headstones were wrong, and his heart grew just a little more sick. It was a shame, he thought, as he hunched before May's grave and compared his uncle's and aunt's dates with his own memories.

The end of Ben's life was precisely where it should have been, to a combination of both his recurring shame and yet temporary relief. He had, at least, not made things worse. Even though he had never been there to begin with, there was still no-one there who was willing or able to stop the man who took his uncle's life. Even if he was never born this time around, his life had at least not made things worse. The difference…

The difference was that May's death came so soon after Ben's. His aunt was sick, he recalled. Somehow the two of them powered through, and he scraped together the money for the treatments and the bills. When she passed it was years after that, with a smile on her face and holding his daughter's hand. Without him, she couldn't have possibly survived that long. Her friend Anna, next door, could only have helped so much. And May could only have accepted so much.

But even with this in mind a dark voice, his own voice, still murmured in his head. The dates were still wrong, and this time around May Parker had passed less than a month after her husband did.

He gave a weak and ghostly smile, because it wouldn't do to sob. "You hung on that long, just for me?" he asked. He was still sane enough to not expect an answer.

"It's as if every time I see you, you're a bit more amazing. A bit more spectacular," he whispered.

He cleared his throat as he stood straighter, his voice ringing more clearly in the empty graveyard. His own private moment. "I've… been away for a while," he began, hesitantly. "Or maybe, I think it's more likely that I was never here to begin with."

"Where I come from, Ben's brother Richard had a son with his wife Mary. And… that would have been me. Peter Benjamin Parker. After Richard and Mary passed, I'd have been raised by the both of you." If the graves had anything to say, they remained silent on the matter. Flickers of white lightning blazed in the sky.

"In his darker moments… one of many… Nick Fury once confided in me that if it weren't for the two of you, and then MJ, and then the kids… that I'd really be a terror. That if I wasn't so burdened by a combination of guilt and sentiment, I'd end up as some sort of monster." Peter sighed, as thunder crashed.

He trembled, but with what? Sorrow? Anger? Was there any difference between those two feelings for him anymore? "And now, here I am. Unfettered, apparently. Unleashed. There's nobody left anymore, there's no more me anymore, and now I'm a bullet loosed." He knelt and gripped the twin tombstones, as if he were gripping their shoulders.

"But no," he said, smiling a little again. "Nothing's changed at all. That's how precious the two of you were to me. Even if you never had those moments, I still did. So, I'll keep doing right by you both, even if I'm a stranger now." He stood up. That was enough time for a bit of self-pity and catharsis.

"It was nice meeting you both. And goodbye." He gathered the remnants of his red and black jacket to himself, while the rains permitted themselves to fall. New York's skyline still glittered through the murk, and it had been too long since he'd seen it.

---

​It must not have been that long, Peter surmised. It must have only felt like forever, with how quickly he was returning to himself. His web-shooters were improvised and jury-rigged things these days, and the last pair had broken down before he could replace them. But his agility and his clinginess remained, as he indulged in one of the few unambiguous perks of being Spider-Man. He simply ran sideways along a high-rise, only a flickering shadow amidst Times Square. It was time to shake the rust off and get his bearings again.

Avengers Tower and the Baxter Building had returned, which made welcome sights despite himself. But he halted when he saw Fisk Tower, still proudly bearing the Kingpin's name. It was only years ago, as Peter remembered it, when Matt Murdock had been pushed too far and did the unthinkable, destroying himself along with the Kingpin. In his memories Wilson Fisk was buried and the building became another arm of Roxxon, and then Hammer Industries, and then finally Stark. So what year was this?

It'd been too long since he'd fed himself, again. The hunger pains were practically background noise for him, and he'd lost weight. But compared to the wasteland that he'd somehow departed, New York was a smorgasbord of wasted food, leftovers, and discarded newspapers.

By now he'd eaten far worse than the discarded but still fresh hot-dog in his hands, and it seemed that one of his less utilized spider-powers was a far stronger stomach. Whatever slurry of meats comprised his meal, he didn't need to catch and cook it himself, and now it came with condiments besides. Things were already looking up.

He leafed through the various detritus he was able to gather on his reunion with the city. He casually flung aside discarded copies of the Times and the Globe back to the streets below before getting his sticky fingers on an old favorite. The Daily Bugle, once again. Though he couldn't tell how recent the issue was, at the very least it was reassuring that all of them were dated well before the year he remembered leaving behind.

He might have more time to work with than he'd hoped.

For once, he was not a front-page topic. Unsurprising, given the circumstances. Instead… there was an article by Fredrick Foswell? Foswell was still alive? And Chief Editor J Jonah Jameson, who could never possibly die. It was a typical tirade for the Bugle, but the subject matter was different.

"The Slingers, Well Meaning Misfits or Teenage Terrors?" Peter mused to himself. These were new, yet very familiar, faces.

'Well, there goes a potential plan of calling myself something other than Spider-Man this time around. You kids are lucky that I can't sue people behind a mask,' he thought to himself, his mind wandering to strange places again. 'No, claiming intellectual property theft from an alternate timeline wouldn't work either.'

The rest of his brain was turning in a much more serious direction. He'd made four other identities over the years, as part of a convoluted quadruple bluff after being framed for murder… by Norman Osborn… who was also likely to be alive doing who-knows-what…

'One thing at a time. Don't rush.'

The four identities were retired when he was able to clear his name… Prodigy, Hornet, Dusk, and Ricochet. But then a group of four later appeared that seemingly appropriated those discarded identities and reputations. And apparently, they still existed in this timeline, even though he was never around to create those identities in the first place. They were a mystery to him even the first time around, but at the time were simply something he chose not to investigate further.

But now it was clear that they were more than just a group of teenage imitators.

'Curioser and curioser.'

They were, at least, making more of a name for themselves this time around. To the extent that the Bugle could be objective, they were at least giving the likes of Boomerang and Stilt-Man a hard time. Which was worthwhile, and inherently funny besides.

'Focus.'

The faces that were absent were more important than the ones that were present. He needed to run the list and see who was missing.

The Fantastic Four and the Avengers were as he remembered them, which was both a relief and a shame. He'd at least have liked to have Johnny Storm or Captain America to lean on.

Daredevil was still around, and apparently hadn't snapped. 'I need to watch for him-,' he thought before he shook his head. 'I need to watch OUT for him. I've got to make Fisk a higher priority, make sure he's sorted out before he drives Matt insane this time.'

'Sort him out how, Peter?' a dark voice, his own voice, asked him.

He crushed that thought mercilessly. He'd already been forced to do worse than several of the plans that ran through his head to deal with Fisk. And all those potential plans agreed that the first thing Peter needed to do was to get on Fisk's radar and make him angrier at Spider-Man than he ever was at Daredevil.

'Good. Proceed.'

---

​New York was still a hellhole, but it was also still his hellhole. He still needed a pair of web-shooters for quicker traversal but could easily leap from roof to roof with sheer muscle-power amidst the rain. It was a familiar feeling for him, something he'd often needed to resort to after over-extending himself and running out of web-fluid in his younger years, before revisions in his formula and his improved accuracy made that mostly a thing of the past. It was a sweet feeling, one that evoked a sense of nostalgia and lost youth.

Then it was shattered by someone's scream.

Hesitation had been flensed from him a long time ago. The same thing happened to fear and panicked impulsivity. He simply homed in on the cries, quickened the pace, and set his mind and body to work. He was a machine again, running on a routine he'd practiced hundreds of times. A surgeon with a scalpel.

'First. Get vertical and get a visual.'

He crested the top of a building and leapt as high as he could, while quickly homing in on the source of the screaming. As he plummeted during his descent, he had a better visual on the figures below. Three figures were below him. Even his vision was bad in this much rain but there was clearly one woman being advanced on by two men.

'Assess.'

He couldn't make out whether any of the involved parties were armed at this time. As he couldn't rule out whether guns were in play, he needed to assume that potentially everyone was. Which meant he needed to intervene as quickly as possible rather than wait and assess further.

'Interpose and interrupt.'

No one engaged in a fight ever expected a third party to suddenly fall out of the sky and leap into the middle of a situation. Even a professional gunman would hesitate for a couple of crucial seconds as their brain tried to make sense of a sudden and surprising development. And most of New York's armed and dangerous were anything but professional, or even remotely accurate. True to form, the two men reeled back.

'Check hands, then faces.'

The two men in front of him were armed with knives, not guns, while the woman was at best brandishing a purse as a shield while stumbling back. He'd identified the aggressors and the civilian, and now that he'd pegged the civilian as a minimal threat at best he focused on the aggressors. They were unmasked, wide-eyed, and clearly taken aback.

'Disarm.'

He'd been stabbed enough times to not take even kitchen utensils lightly. In the brief window of time where their autonomic nervous systems were just starting to process a new threat, both of Peter's hands simply encircled and then crushed their wrists. Their knives—

'Switchblades.'

Their switchblades clattered to the ground, as he both felt and heard their wrists fracture amidst their howls of agony.

'Given grip strength and bone density, the average expected recovery time is eight weeks.'

He squeezed a little harder.

'The average expected recovery time is now twelve weeks.'

Good enough. Unless you were on SHIELD's payroll or an Avenger, it was hard for a man in a costume to ever make an arrest stick. In his younger years, he felt that if nobody died, then he'd have done his job.

'But now you always make sure to break a bone, you old pro!'

Putting these men in cells long-term was next to impossible, even if there wasn't a masked man with superpowers muddying the waters further. Getting them off the streets for at least three months while they rethought their lives was the best that he could manage. A mere concussion would take a little over a week to recover from. Thus the most veteran vigilantes, who therefore were also the most cynical vigilantes, always emphasized limb dislocation.

Or else they'd long since lost their minds and cut loose in the style of Punisher or Wolverine.

'Reassess and clear the scene.'

The fight had left the two men, whose faces carried a combination of agony and terror. They fled out into the streets, leaving their weapons behind them. He didn't let his guard down and focused on the woman. He'd had enough scared victims take swings at him over the years that he couldn't assume he was in the clear just yet.

"T-thank you," the woman said. A clear sign as any that the situation had deescalated, and his Spider-Sense was at ease.

'The time to resolution was roughly eight seconds, rounding up...'

That was good if he was operating on a normal person's scale, but sloppy for someone with enhanced reflexes like his. He needed to shake the rust off. If the weather were clear and he still had web shooters, he could've resolved everything in less than half the time.

'Lastly, reassure.'

"Are you okay?" he asked. "Do you need help getting home?"

It took a while for the woman's mouth to form the right words. She was somewhat on the younger side, in her twenties to early thirties. She hardly looked wealthy, which meant that she was likely local to this part of the city.

"No, I-I'm fine. What do I do? Do I call the cops?" She was confused, disoriented, and uneasy.

"Just get home." Nobody was going to care about an aborted mugging in Mott Haven, least of all NYPD.

She nodded her head, looking both relieved and exhausted before she rushed off into the rain. "Thank you, Ricochet!" she called back, one last time.

Peter blinked, beneath his mask "Actually it's Spider—" but she'd already left, "—Man."

It was stupid for him to feel even a little bit bothered by that.

---

​He was on foot now, pulling off his mask and tightening his jacket, vaguely wondering why he was suddenly starting to worry about his secret identity again, when even Peter Parker was now an enigma.

'Because it's familiar, you're feeling nostalgic, and you're sort of an idiot.'

His tendency to self-deprecate was also returning to him, like a welcome old friend. From the frowns and grimaces of the pedestrians nearby he looked every bit as homeless as he felt and smelled like it besides.

'Water was very hard to come by for a while, people,' Peter thought, defensively.

His enhanced senses were already able to point him to enough loose change to pay his way to a few hours in an internet café. Compared to what he was dealing with before, being homeless in New York City was a walk in the park for Spider-Man.

'To think you used to dread eviction.'

"Awh come on, guy, not tonight," said the greasy looking kid at the reception. "At least come back during someone else's shift…" he pleaded. At this time, it was always better to be polite than confrontational.

He looked him in the eye, making best use of a fatherly tone of voice that he'd never gotten to use since—

'Don't get distracted.'

"Sorry son. It's just e-mail and a few job applications tonight, I promise," he said, in a tone that was smoother and more articulate than most of NYC's hopeless cases.

The kid's face set into a line. "It's not porn, right? We've got all those sites blocked, and I'm gonna call the cops if you-"

Peter tried not to grin as he imagined what sort of insanity someone running an internet café this late in the night would have to deal with. There was always someone worse off than him, at least. "I promise."

"Hokay." The kid seemed to relax, at least a little. Peter guessed that he didn't seem to be all that shady, as far as a homeless person went. "I've got some coffee ready, if—"

"I won't be able to pay," Peter said quickly.

"Yes, obviously," the kid said testily. "But I'm making more than I need anyways. So."

"Sounds good," Peter said, shoving the loose change into the kid's hands. "You never say no to anything free in my line of work," Peter said wryly.

"I'm this close to giving the hobo life a try," the kid chuckled back. This time it was Peter's turn to smile. He was enjoying this. He was finally having a casual conversation with someone that wasn't some life-or-death matter. Somehow, he was homeless, forgotten, alone… and yet, absolutely thrilled. Life was, in the tiniest way, starting to look up again.

It seemed to show on his face, as the kid, Gregory (he looked just like how a Gregory would, Peter thought), continued to engage him in casual conversation even though Peter was a reeking mess. The stench of homelessness paled before Peter's genuine and unfaked interest in a kid named Gregory.

"So, how'd you get to this point, Pete?" Gregory asked, as he handed him a cup of coffee.

"A long series of bad decisions and worse luck. And none of them were even drug related," Peter said, as he absently fed all the names he could remember into several search engines and scanned as much as he could.

"That's alarmingly vague," the kid said… mostly for humor, but Peter could pick up traces of unease. Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Hobo or not, it was late at night and Peter was still strange. And every night the news reported on another death caused by one mutate or another, costumed or not.

He let some seriousness enter his voice, as he told at least a partial truth. "I used to be a CEO for a while."

"Ah…" Gregory said sagely, accepting that as an explanation Peter would rather not elaborate on.

In truth, Peter would happily joke about the rise and fall of Parker Industries. There were other things that he would rather not get into. "You like superheroes, Greg?" They were already good enough friends that they could call one another Pete and Greg.

"Nnnnot when you're one of the ones caught up in it, y'know? I'm not a paranoiac who reads the Bugle, but I'd say that I usually see them as a sign to run like hell." Greg said with a shrug. His was a common and, to be fair, entirely rational sentiment.

'You're a little scared of yourself too now, aren't you?'

"Same," Peter admitted. "But they're still fun to talk about. Better than celebrity drama."

"You're not looking up the right drama then, man! Hear what happened with Mary Jane Watson?" It felt like a knife had rammed itself into Peter's heart. He wasn't ready for this, so suddenly.

"Let's not talk about celebrities right now, okay?" Peter said, trying to keep his voice sounding more bored and indifferent rather than cold.

Greg shrugged. "Okay, yeah. It's just the same old stuff for her anyways. How about-"

"She's doing okay though, right? MJ Watson?" Peter said, suddenly finding himself searching her name. The knife in his heart was now twisting, he was definitely ready for this now, he decided. He desperately needed to know everything.

"Uh…" Greg seemed weirded out before he took another sip of coffee. Peter wracked his brain, deciding he'd rather not lose out on more conversation right now.

"I used to know her…" Peter confided, in a whisper. "CEO, right? I was a much bigger deal than I used to be now."

"Oh, shit. For real? Did you and her…?" A slightly suggestive note entered Greg's voice. What was his previously dead wife up to these days, Peter wondered.

'When had I become Cyclops?'

Peter wasn't sure how to answer the question. A sequence of phonemes vaguely like "Ye- ugh, um, nnngghhh…" came out of his mouth before he noncommittally waved his hand side to side.

Not even he was sure how he was supposed to answer that now.

"Sounds pretty complicated…" says a bemused Greg.

"She lived nearby, we dated for a while," Peter said, finally electing for another half-truth. "I… when it ended, it wasn't the best time," he finished, lamely. All technically true. "It's part of why I've hit rock bottom right now."

"Whatever the story is behind that, I think you could sell it to the Bugle," Greg finally said.

"Right, so, back to interesting things about Mary Jane and away from me." Peter said, desperate to move on.

Feeling pressured, Greg blurted it out. "She broke things off with the Human Torch, and he burnt her apartment down!"

"What?" Peter changed his mind. This was a much worse hell than the one he left behind.

"W-well, the Fantastic Four's press release says it was the Wizard, and her press release says that she broke things off after Torch burnt the place down fighting the Wizard, but the Globe says…"

Peter let Greg's voice fade into background noise as he clicked through the articles. Mary Jane's place burnt down and that was bad, and she was dating Johnny Storm at the time, which was arguably worse. But at the very least, that seemed to all end in the sort of catastrophe where nobody died or tweeted something completely insane online. And there were pictures of the Wizard, Bentley Whittman, getting dragged off in cuffs in the aftermath.

"Well, better the Wizard than Doctor Doom," Peter muttered absently.

"Doctor who?" Gregory asked.

"No, that's a TV show." Peter said, his mouth once again moving faster than his brain.

His brain was too busy panicking.

A quick search for Doctor Doom or Victor von Doom or even Latveria itself turned up next to nothing, which was a far cry from a man that was far more likely to one day start a nuclear war than Kim Jong Un. All he could find were searches related to Latveria, an obscure Balkan polity that was folded into Socialist Yugoslavia before getting split between Romania and Symkaria, after all the various wars and ethnic cleansings the Balkans suffered during the 90's.

Victor von Doom had also returned with him from hell, and therefore he also no longer existed in this timeline. And neither did Latveria.

And that meant that Doctor Doom was also out there, and likely not coping well.

"Thanks Greg!" Peter said abruptly. The smile he gave the kid was still more sincere than fake. As starved for human connection as he was, he genuinely appreciated the help and the chance to talk to someone. "You here again tomorrow?"

"Yeah…?" Greg said.

"That's good. I've still got a lot to catch up on, and I'd rather have someone willing to share coffee with me than not." Greg smiled at that, despite himself.

'He has poor self-esteem,' Peter thought. 'He doesn't think people would want him around. He's grateful that the weird homeless man liked him.'

That, while sad, was nothing to hold against him. Peter was the weird homeless man who chose to like him, after all.

"If I'm ever on my feet again, I'll pay you back for the coffee," Peter said firmly. He'd meant it, even if Greg didn't think he did.

Now though, he somehow had to reunite himself with Doctor Doom. And with no Latverian castle to hole up in, there were only a handful of places that the misanthropic shut-in could be reliably found. Especially if he also woke up in New York.

Chapter 2: Doc

"YOU DARED TO FORGET!? THEN DOOM SHALL REMIND YOU!" Doctor Victor von Doom, the closest thing Peter still had to a friend in this world besides Greg at the internet café, was ranting madly at the top of his lungs across the street from the Baxter Building. He was exactly where Peter expected to find him, and the self-proclaimed Sorcerer, Scientist, and Sovereign Supreme didn't cut nearly as imposing a figure as he did in his heyday. Armageddon had taken its toll on Peter and Victor both.

'At least the rain stopped.'

The man stood in a ragged green cloak, while his metal armor was rusted, cracked, and occasionally sparking ominously. Portions of Doom's hideously scarred face, long hidden behind his iron mask, were now partially exposed and only reinforced his image of desperate vagrancy.

That and the psychotic ranting.

"THE UNIVERSE NEED ONLY RECALL THE TERROR IT SO DESPERATELY SOUGHT TO FORSAKE! SO SHALL I SCAR MY NAME ONCE AGAIN UPON THE FACE OF HISTORY ITSELF! UPON REALITY ITSELF! DO YOU HEAR ME, YOU PRETENDERS!? DO YOU HEAR ME, RICHARDS!?" Doom certainly retained the charisma, at least. Judging by how many had their phones out, the man's delusional ranting would crack at least five-digit figures on YouTube views.

Peter watched mutely from a rooftop above. He really should stop this, but he wasn't completely certain as to whether Victor would attempt to kill him or not if he dared to intervene.

'Just bide your time, Peter. Watch the show and wait for your cue.'

"DOOM DEFIES YOU!" he cried out again, with Doom's badly damaged armor practically creaking as he pointed a gauntleted finger at the giant number four outside the Baxter Building. And then a burst of flame simply flew from his hands and struck the side of the building for negligible damage, at best. A bit of soot, and Peter knew for a fact that Johnny had managed to do more damage to the place by accident.

But since Doom threw the equivalent of the first punch the doors to the Baxter building swung open, like curtains pulling back, and a handful of security guards shuffled out while staring fixedly at the ground beneath them. They were a decidedly high-tech bunch, dressed up in light-weight ceramics that almost resembled an inferior version of Doom's own gear… albeit in good working order, with little number fours on their lapels. But they looked embarrassed to even come out of the building. It was the opening of a farce.

'That means it's definitely your cue, stupid.'

He simply took a step off the side of the roof and walked down its side at a ninety-degree angle from the ground. Nobody noticed the bizarre sight, because as always Dr. Doom stole the show. His feet were firmly on the ground by the time Peter was close enough to hear. Close enough to intervene.

"Sir. Uh, sir, you really need to leave. You're disturbing the people inside the building, and—"

'That sort of attitude is only going to annoy Doom further.'

Doom's usual tone of voice was not quite like ice, Peter reflected. It was more bombastic and booming, like a glacier cracking. But the tone Victor was adopting now was more dangerous. Like acid, beginning to bubble.

"You will unhand Doom now, lackey," he said, in a voice that left even Peter a bit disquieted.

Peter crouched, still hidden amidst the crowd. He needed Doom as an ally… but he couldn't tolerate an ally starting a massacre, either. That thought of his took him aback. His logic was sound, and sane. But it was awfully cold for the likes of him.

'You're all heart these days, aren't you Peter?'

Peter shook his head, deciding to keep his faith in what remained of Victor von Doom's sanity. Peter had ended up trusting Doom, at least a little, after surviving the end of the world as reluctant allies. He knew that for all of Victor's many faults, he wasn't impulsive. He wouldn't fly into a murderous rage just because his ego was briefly bruised.

But the man could nurse one hell of a grudge for a long, long time.

"Sir, you're going to have to leave, or we'll call the police. We are authorized to use force in a security context—" the security guard said, more for the benefit of the people recording them than the man they were escorting out. He gripped Doom by the arm, only to find out that even in an unpowered suit of armor, the man was immovable.

Dr. Doom's armor began to glow ominously, as runes flickered to life around his gear. "You WILL unhand Doom now, wretch," he warned, only for the glow around his armor to abruptly die, leaving even Doom briefly taken aback.

"Power surge neutralized!" a second guard cried out, holding up a device of his own, which seemed to leech away all the accumulated energies Doom's armor was amassing.

"You dare?" Victor said, his voice sounding genuinely appalled. "YOU DARE!?" he demanded again, and Peter could practically hear the interrobang at the end of the man's sentence. A sure sign that Dr. Doom was about to lose his composure.

Peter rushed into action… or at least, he tried to, as he found himself repelled. It was as if the air itself had hardened around Doom and the security guards, slowing his progress down considerably. A further wrinkle was that the crowd itself was beginning to grow disquieted, easily able to sense the increase in tension as Victor von Doom brought forth the barest smatterings of his sorcery.

"Kneel! KNEEL BEFORE DOOM!" the warlord cried out, and the security guards found themselves forced to their knees as the gravity around them was amplified while the barrier around them all hardened even further. Even Peter felt shocked to find himself pushed back a step.

'Even at his lowest, the guy was always a weight class above yours. Do you really think you can get this narcissist to work with you?'

He was about to cry out to Victor, before the doors of the Baxter building suddenly swung open again.

"Oh fer the love of—" Ben Grimm marched out, a rocky golem who was the color of a rotten orange, wearing his wildly contrasting blue leotard. He appeared to be the same stand-up guy Peter remembered. Brusque, gruff, and introverted. No matter the context or the situation, he always seemed like someone who was too tired to deal with this crap.

Only the bad guys ever felt wholly comfortable with calling him 'The Thing.'

"The Thing!" Doom shouted, half with rage and half with glee. "So, Richards sends a higher tier of thug! Come at me if you dare, Benjamin!"

"That's enough outta you, jackass," Grimm's voice rumbled. Peter could feel Doom attempt to bring his A-game to bear, as purple waves of energy emanated from Doom's gauntlets. A few of the crowd behind him were suddenly thrown off their feet… but Ben Grimm was only weighed down minutely before he gave Doom a single solid punch to the gut. And just like that, it was over, Doom on the ground clutching his abdomen.

---

​It was just earlier in the day that the Wizard burnt down the apartment of Johnny Storm's latest little girlfriend, who'd had enough and decided that she was now his ex-girlfriend. The Thing grimaced. Johnny must have had a dozen failed relationships by now, and if the celebrity rags were any indication Mary Jane Watson had about twice as many at that point. But because it was the Wizard and because the other three of the Frightful Four were vowing revenge over yet another petty spat, Ben Grimm had to play security guard for everyone else's sake. Again.

This guy, this Man in the Iron Mask guy, he was just another lunatic in a city full of them. Not even remotely on Ben's radar, someone either completely new to the costumed life or else never amounted to anything more than D-list at best. A hobo, but with a few cheap superpowers besides. It was quite a light show, but it was nothing to write home about. Judging by the state of the man's face beneath the armor, he seemed like yet another poor dumb shmuck who ended up as a lab experiment or yet another janitor who rolled around in toxic waste and lost his goddamn mind.

'Brother, I can relate,' Grimm thought, as he readied another punch, this time to the guy's head. It was a love tap, practically, but the poor bastard could end up with a concussion if the Thing wasn't careful.

'Then again, it's been a real shitty week, and his armor looks solid enough.'

Ben lifted him up by the scruff of the man's tattered green cloak and readied a hammer blow before suddenly finding that something had stopped his fist mid-air.

Well, okay.

Maybe this was more dangerous than he first assumed.

Yet while someone with super-strength had managed to halt his blow mid-air, the man didn't follow up with another punch. "Hey!" a smaller guy called out, more as a hello than as a reproach. He was a skinny fellow in a tattered red mask, but the muscles in his arms were the real deal, as Ben had yet to break his grip even after getting a bit more serious. And like the other guy Ben was grabbing, he smelled like he hadn't had a bath in weeks.

"He's down, man. You don't need to hit someone who's already down," the guy admonished gently. Ben grunted, before relaxing his fist and gently letting it fall to his side. It honestly sounded like something he would say to Johnny. Whatever this was, this wasn't an ambush.

"There's a trade union for a bunch of superpowered hobos now?" said Ben Grimm, raising an eyebrow. Well, not a literal eyebrow per se, but one thing to say for his ugly mug is that it was surprisingly expressive and good at disarming people.

He thought he could see the cheekbones adjust beneath the tattered mask. A bit of a smile. But just a bit. "The two of us, we aren't friends… but we've been through a lot."

Ben's eyes narrowed as he recalled a few rumors. "Did Wilson Fisk do this to you?"

The man's reaction was surprised. But was it surprise that Ben picked up on it quickly, or was he just shocked that Ben suspected Fisk's involvement in the first place? There were always rumors about Fisk, with the biggest and most open secret in New York being that he was the city's Kingpin. But other, more sinister rumors trailed along behind the fat man too. Illegal mob experiments, using synthetic drugs with Mutant Growth Hormone…

"Why do you think Fisk did something to me?" the man's voice was low. A little angry, but Ben could hardly tell from what place that was coming from.

"Heard rumors about the homeless getting snatched by his guys off the streets. Listen," Ben said, reaching into a pocket in his leotard for a card, "whoever's science experiment you and him are, whether it's Kingpin or HYDRA or freakin' Oscorp, you just give us a ring if you need help, okay? Whoever it was must've fried your buddy's brains really bad," he says, motioning to the more belligerent one in green.

"No, he was… he was always like that," the red masked guy said, sounding very tired.

"Sounds like he's been through a lot of crap too," Ben said, his voice rumbling sympathetically. The armored guy had a face that well, only someone like Ben could love. "We ain't exactly a shelter but uh, there's a few places. FEAST is good."

"FEAST is good…" red mask agreed, as he gingerly picked up the green cloak. "Thanks man."

Ben tried not to roll his eyes. Everyone seemed so surprised whenever he tried to be nice, even before he got turned into a whatever-the-hell-he-was now. "Fer the record, keep your buddy away from us, fer his own good. If the hothead were here—"

"Speak of the devil?" came a somewhat playful voice from right behind Ben.

Now Ben rolled his eyes.

---

​Doom was only half conscious when Peter picked him up off the ground. Peter had no idea whether Victor would be happy or angry to see him, once he came back to himself. In their time together Peter knew that there was never any telling with him, which never failed to exasperate.

'Speaking of the exasperating…' Peter thought, perhaps uncharitably, as he saw the Human Torch descend, going from a blindingly iridescent fireball to a nearly as blindingly iridescent blonde.

"Everything all right, Bennie? Is this a serious thing, or just something like a Yancy Street thing?" Johnny had, for better or worse, also not changed in the slightest. He was all smiles, in a way that most would think was condescending, but Peter realized long ago was merely a friendly sort of obliviousness.

"Yancy Street hobos that have superpowers," Ben grumbled.

Johnny blinked. "So, does that mean this is a big thing or a small thing?"

"A small thing! Hopefully even after you showed up!" Ben groused.

"Hey, no biggie then. All right Ben, keep up the good work!" Johnny then proceeded to do finger-guns at Ben Grimm.

Peter found himself glaring at the Human Torch from underneath his mask. And for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why. This was Johnny Storm, one of his oldest friends, seemingly back from the dead. So why was he-

It took a moment before Peter remembered that Johnny was dating Mary Jane and had burnt her apartment down.

By accident.

Supposedly.

"Hey, Lucha Libre! Kid Ricochet! You all right in there?" Johnny noticed Peter was staring at him, and in response Johnny was waving his goddamned hands right in front of Peter's face.

Peter briefly imagined himself sucker-punching Johnny before engaging in his own Doom-like rant. 'You DARE date the BRIDE of SPIDER-MAN, you insipid CANDLE-FLAME???' he thought.

The thought itself was enough to ease the anger, and make Peter realize he was being stupid. He never existed in this new timeline, Mary Jane was bound to find someone else, and—

And he didn't want to shatter himself all over again just by watching her die alongside their children. Peter Parker was gone now, and everyone else was better off without him adding to their problems.

For all that he mulled over the years of one day giving up on being Spider-Man to be Peter Parker, or else giving up on being Peter Parker to be Spider-Man, the moment was bittersweet.

"Take care of yourself, Johnny," Peter said gently to the Torch, before leaving with Doom over his shoulder. He was once again grateful for the mask, and simply didn't look back again as he departed with Doom.

'No more looking back, Peter.'

---

​With a show over, the crowd shuffled away and the security guards collected themselves. The Thing and the Human Torch shuffled into the Baxter Building. "Was that a threat or something?" Johnny whispered to Ben, still his usual clueless self. Ben gave him a dumbfounded look.

"Generally, Johnny, people don't sound like they've just had their dog shot when delivering a threat! No, I think that was sincere advice. He a friend of yours?" Ben asked.

"No, I uh, don't recall. Just, he seemed really mad at me before all that," Johnny said, defensively.

"Everyone's really mad at you most of the time, Johnny. That don't mean they still don't love you," Ben mused.

Johnny smiled. "Aww, you're great too, Ben. Maybe he was a fan, then?"

Ben chuckled. "How does someone as self-centered as you get so many girls, kid?"

Johnny's face grew uncharacteristically serious. "By having just as many breakups," he said, in a wooden, somewhat bitter tone of voice.

The Thing sighed. "You and MJ both knew it wasn't a serious thing. It was a career fling. You get seen, you get some buzz on social media, and then you get a messy breakup. I know this because you told me this a month ago, in those words!"

"A month is a lifetime ago, Ben." Johnny said ruefully… but the playful undercurrent was returning. Good, Ben thought. A depressed Johnny Storm would get everyone down.

"You're just mad she broke up with you first," Ben ribbed, only for Johnny to shake his head in a defensive gesture.

"Not mad! I'm not mad. It was just… you know, weird. She hardly cared about the superhero thing when we were just trying things out. But suddenly, Whately of all people storms into her place—"

"And her apartment was collateral damage—" Ben added, only for Johnny to wave his hands aside.

"She's A-list, she's got two more just like it. They're like extra pairs of shoes for her, she ignores them aside from the lease and getting them cleaned once a month. Anyway, my point is that she was her usual bubbly self-right up until I suggested we make this a regular thing instead of just an on again and off again thing. The moment I sounded like I wanted to get serious, that's when she got cold, man. She's got problems."

Ben could only vaguely wonder why Johnny was giving him a play-by-play on his relationship drama, before shrugging. "I always liked her better than that agent of hers."

Johnny winced. "God, yeah. Did you know that she had me sign a contract before I started dating MJ? She's got more issues than the both of us, and probably you too."

"Her nickname for me was Igor, and I'm never letting that one go," Ben said sourly. He got sensitive whenever the insults were novel.

"Anyways," said Johnny, clearly desperate to change the subject away from Mary Jane's psychotic agent, "what was the deal with the two super-hobos?"

Ben grunted. "There's been rumors that the Kingpin's been playing Mengele on the homeless. I think they're true. And I think they're part of the fallout."

"So, you just let them go?" Johnny said, eyes bulging.

Ben waved him away. "Why not? I'm not gonna shove them into OUR lab and say, 'trust us, it's fer yer own good this time!' Poor bastards. Nah, this sort of thing needs to be cut off at the source."

"Easy for you to say. 'Take out the Kingpin and you'll just let in someone worse,' is the sermon we keep getting, isn't it? That and 'he's the devil we know,'" Johnny said, doing his best impression of Daredevil's voice.

"It's what we tell ourselves to sleep at night, kid. Just saying, if we can get to the bottom of this and out Fisk for running honest-to-god unsanctioned superpower experiments? On freakin' US soil in the middle of New York? He'll go from super-criminal to domestic terrorist overnight as far as SHIELD is concerned. He'll be on a one-way trip to the Negative Zone no matter how much his fancy lawyers bitch and moan." Ben was getting into this.

Everyone and their mother were well and truly sick of Wilson Fisk.

"All I'm saying is, whatever we did to make budget Iron Man back there mad, I doubt he'll let it go. And once we deal with that, we need to make sure his friendlier little pal, Kid Ricochet or whoever, helps us get to the bottom of what Fisk is up to," Ben Grimm said, his face now firmly set and stoic.

"Pretty sure the thing at Fisk's bottom is his fat ass," Johnny said with a smarmy grin. Ben chuckled, despite himself.

---

​They were standing on yet another nondescript New York rooftop. It didn't take long for Dr. Doom to regain consciousness. And it didn't take long for Dr. Doom to surprise Peter yet again, for that matter. The literal tinpot dictator of Latveria simply extended his hand towards Spider-Man, as if he insisted that Peter take it.

"Comrades once more then, Peter?" said Doom, chuckling. Despite the expressionless death mask that Doom never removed, the man's grim visage somehow still seemed bemused.

'I've got to ask him how he does that, someday,' Peter thought, before affirming yet another ill-thought Faustian bargain and taking Doom's hand.

"Comrades again," Peter affirmed. Though Peter's grip was hard, and this time Doom's failing armor couldn't project nearly as much strength for this handshake. In the end it was Doom who gave a little cough before Peter relaxed his grip.

"It is good that you survived as well, Arachnid. Have you taken stock? What are we to make of all this?" Almost all of Doom's questions were rhetorical. He just wanted to judge Peter's comprehension of the situation and 'correct' any misconceptions that might have developed. It was one tiresome trait out of many for Victor von Doom, but Peter had been so starved for allies at this point that he had long since gotten used to accommodating Doom's massive ego.

But things were different now. Before, there wasn't any point in being Doom's enemy. There was simply nothing left for the likes of Doom to ruin, and all grand ambitions and ideology gave way to what was simply termed their Science of Survival. But now? Now there was something worth saving, and Doom's stunt with the Fantastic Four proved that even if Peter was willing to make a clean break with his past, Doom had not nearly made as much progress with his issues.

'But don't burn bridges yet. The fact that he knows what you know is invaluable. The fact that he wants to survive what's coming, and wants his grand ambitions to survive it, is invaluable too.'

He couldn't forsake this Faustian bargain, just yet.

"To summarize: we don't exist anymore. During that… lengthy… window of time between when the world ended then and when it was remade just now, we didn't die. Whatever cycle this process was a part of, we've somehow cut ourselves out of it. For all practical purposes we've seemingly been transported to an alternate timeline where neither of us ever existed, but that isn't quite the case. We're exactly as we were, it's everything else that changed abruptly," Peter said, with stern finality.

"Very good. This was a revelation that Doom found… difficult to process, at first," von Doom said diplomatically. Peter coughed. "But nevertheless, it seems that my Latveria is gone. My past is gone. It is all gone. Worse, what Doom had desperately hoped to reclaim, or at least rebuild, now never was."

Peter shook his head. "Any dashed optimism was on us and our flawed expectations. We're still in a much better position than we were just a little while ago. Resources are far more plentiful and thus far easier to obtain. The world is… still mostly as we knew it. Compared to that hellscape, we've now got a world that's worth saving."

"Your logic remains sound, if stark and bleak," Doom conceded. "We are seemingly at a far earlier point in time compared to when the end of the world began in our original cycle, giving us hope that if such an event were to again recur, we would now be in a position to prevent it. And the soul of Cynthia von Doom, she who would have been mother to Victor von Doom, yet unfairly languishes in Hell. Yes, we do have goals in mind. And scores to settle."

Peter pulled off his mask, exposing his scarred and ragged face, his hard and cold eyes, to better glare at his only remaining friend. "Leave your grudge with the Fantastic Four behind, Doom."

Doom didn't balk, even with that display. "Against the Fantastic Four? Certainly. But my animosity towards Richards will last beyond worlds, Peter. Beyond lifetimes. That I cannot forsake, even for the sake of peace between us."

"Then just let it wait!" Peter said, his voice scornful, before softening. "We've got all the time in the world to settle scores. We can last a bit longer before we're all enemies again."

"So be it," Doom said, enunciating every syllable. "Though let it be known that you now bear responsibility for any innocents victimized by the madness of Reed Richards, Peter. In the end you will realize that you have only heaped more guilt upon your ragged conscience."

It was rapidly becoming clear to Peter that Doom was hopelessly insane, especially where Reed was concerned. Peter was coming to realize that the seeming revival of their Earth only made Doom harder to deal with, not easier. Reed and the rest of the Fantastic Four had the bad luck of dying early on when everything ended, leaving Doom seemingly directionless… and far more open to considering changes in direction.

'Now he's back at square one. You've got to placate him, Peter. Somehow.'

"We're still comrades, Victor. I'll help you get your mother's soul out of Mephisto's realm, however I can," Peter vowed.

Doom nodded magnanimously, only somewhat mollified. But he was, nevertheless, satisfied with Peter's response. "So, what is our next step? What does your Science of Survival dictate, Arachnid?"

"Food and shelter, then followed by sufficient resources to go on offensive while we consider our approach to the problem," Peter decided.

"Resources, yes… as you can see, Doom is not as he was. Even in the deplorable state of affairs we were in just before, Doom's sorcery was not so diminished. It appears that things have changed, Peter, not merely spatially but also temporally. Not since his childhood has Doom's magic ever been so… flaccid," Doom muttered from beneath his mask.

"My powers are working just fine," Peter said, contemplatively. He was stronger than he was when he was younger, and more experienced besides. He'd lost quite a bit of muscle due to malnutrition, but before everything went to hell he was at his best. A training regimen put together by Shang-Chi and Iron Fist proved that he had far more untapped potential than just what the radioactive spider bite gave him. Mary Jane had seemed thrilled by the improvement as well.

He shook off the memories, growing a little frustrated with how much they kept on dogging him. How much they kept on haunting him. That sort of sentimentality was useless to him when he now had to be better than he ever was before.

'A Superior Spider-Man?' Peter thought to himself… before shuddering inwardly and brushing off a few more painful memories as he tried to pay attention to Doom.

"Your powers are… an intrinsic matter, Arachnid. Much of Doom's abilities were either wrested from others or negotiated for. The pacts and bargains that Doom had struck with the universe's higher and lower powers are apparently not valid as of this new universe. Even as the world changed to an approximation of its original state, Doom's strength was wrested away from him." There was anger, buried underneath Doom's laconic drawl. The universe would be paying for that, apparently.

Peter crossed his arms. "So, you're hardly Sorcerer Supreme right now."

"The consequences of being a self-made man, rather than a pawn of destiny," Doom said evenly. "And without the resources of Latveria to call upon, Doom's scientific genius remains purely within the realm of the theoretical."

Peter asserted himself then. "If you're not much of a magician or a scientist now, what good are you to me? Why don't I just figure out how to go to Dr. Strange or even Mr. Fantastic for help?" If he said something like that to any other person, it would have been cruel, or even petty. But even more than having his pride pandered to, Peter understood that Doom appreciated blunt, remorseless, and sensible logic.

'At least, the kind of logic that someone as bizarre as Doom would consider sensible.'

And as predicted, Doom gave a slight bow, as if he were acknowledging a fencer who struck a good blow. "Doom is willing to curb his… tendencies for the sake of partnership, Arachnid. You have proven capable and trustworthy. Consider, Peter, that as I am the closest thing you have to a friend, you are also now the closest thing Doom has to a peer. You alone, in the entirety of this new world, are the only one who can come close to comprehending Doom and the depths of his grief. For Victor von Doom has lost a nation and a people, and Peter Parker has lost a world and a family." Doom let his words trail into a meaningful, ponderous silence.

Doom gave Peter only a moment to contemplate the man's words, before Doom hung his head low. It was a surprising display of vulnerability. "No man is an island, Peter. If you were to be lost, so too would I lose the only being that remains who yet comprehends Victor von Doom."

What was more poignant was what Doom left unsaid, and what Peter picked up on. 'And the same goes for you too, doesn't it, Peter? He's the only one in the world right now besides you who remembers Mayday, and Annie, and Benjy… and your Mary Jane, the real Mary Jane, not whatever ghost is filling your dead wife's shoes now.'

It wasn't petty narcissism on Doom's part this time, Peter realized. It was something more intrinsic, more desperately needed by the two of them. A simple desire to be understood by someone, and to have them know that you're still sane.

God damn it. He was finding Doom far too relatable these days. Victor wasn't a monster, or a sociopath. Just utterly and completely insane.

'But you don't have room to talk, do you?' asked a dark voice. His own voice.

"Like I said. We're comrades again," Peter affirmed. That was, apparently, all he needed to say.

"Do you still have Hercules's—" Doom began, before Peter cut him off.

'And yet Doom accepted being cut off. You're probably the only person in the world who could get away with something like that right now too.' Peter didn't finish the thought, his mouth moving faster than his brain again.

"—It doesn't work. Hercules was on the wrong track, before the end." Peter finished.

"If you are certain…" Doom said civilly… but also somewhat skeptically.

"Let's not dwell on my past failures, please," Peter pleaded. Hercules's last moments were just one more sore subject out of thousands, but it was much more recent, and the wound there was just a bit more fresh. His last proclamation to Peter, and the final bequeathment of his bracers, was an even more bitter thing besides. "Is it just you and me? Who else made it out of there?"

"There was one of us whose survival was virtually guaranteed, Arachnid. Think on it," Doom said, defaulting to quizzing Peter on conclusions that he had already made.

Peter tried not to feel annoyed, and just took confidence in the fact that he was sharp enough to grasp whatever Doom was getting at quickly. The person who was guaranteed to not die… was a person who couldn't die… which could only mean…

'Oh no.'

Peter sighed. "We're going to have to find the Hulk and somehow get him on board."

Doom chuckled. "Yes. My armor's functions are limited, but it can still pick up a characteristic signal when scanning for gamma radiation. He's not trying to hide away as Banner, and we are enshrouded in the depths of night. That means one of his… darker personalities are in play. I hope you have a strong stomach Peter, for whatever horror we have in store."

In silent anticipation, and tense dread… the two reluctant allies by circumstance stalked off into the night, ready for just about anything.