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Dozens of tweets, all of them empty of meaning, most of them dull beyond comprehension. At first glance, Bruce Wayne is Tony Stark without a brain; nothing but parties, women, and selfies with celebrities. His company is under the control of a board, and he only occasionally stops in to check on it.

He really hasn't done anything with his life outside of the odd philanthropy fund. Someone really should take away Bruce's twitter privileges however. The man waxes poetic over a houseplant at least once a week, ending each one with Metropolis for some reason. She peers over his shoulder. He's a favorite of mine.

That's a place? They might as well have named it City. This universe is weird. He stands up and stretches; if he hurries, he can reach the post office closest to the firehouse and pick up his key for the PO box.

And then go to bed early; the entrance exam is tomorrow. He sleeps terribly that night, his dreams flitting from one scene to another. He dreams of Titan, of waking up inside glass tubes, of death and failure. He dreams of a bomb exploding while his father?

He dreams of a friend falling to his death, just out of reach. They sound alarmed. Strange says. It feels as though Peter flies past him at great speed.

At the end of it, he lies face down in a pool of shallow water, in a place made of dingy, orange light. Peter startles awake sometime before dawn, breathing hard, and covered in sweat. He runs a shaking hand down his face, getting his bearings. Nothing else. No voices. He sighs, pushes himself up on his good hand, and goes to shower.

The nightmares fade, but the vague unease they caused linger. Showered, dressed, and mostly fed, Peter makes his way to the nearest subway station. The route to the library from the Bowery is straightforward. The route to the rich part of town is very much not, and the map is laughably unhelpful. And, for a bonus, half the lines are currently down for maintenance or renovations. He has no idea where to go, and no one nearby seems eager to help.

The lady standing at the ticket booth looks ready to murder anyone who speaks to her and the nearby transit cops are people he avoids on principle.

So he does the best thing he can think of. He stands in front of the subway map and stares at it in blatant confusion. And, just like in New York, it works. An older man in a suit, wearing a tan overcoat, stops beside him.

Everything about the man screams cop : from the flat haircut to the graying mustache and the way he carries himself. Not a beat cop, either. Someone higher up in the ranks. His first experience with Gotham law enforcement hadn't been a good one. Normally I'd say to take the W line, but it's under repair.

Your best bet is the J line, then grabbing a transfer over to the L. He turns and walks towards the nearest train. Peter looks at him, then back at the map, and shrugs. He might as well take his chances with this old guy. Peter follows him onto the train and grabs a handhold beside him. There was a gas attack at the main transit hub. It takes a long time to decontaminate these things. The train pulls to a stop, Gordon checks his watch again. Your next train leaves in five minutes.

They hurry off of the train, and Gordon guides him over to another terminal. He can feel Gordon watching him for a few seconds before moving on.

The train ride passes in a blur. The walk from the subway to Gotham Prep passes by in a similar manner. Most of the kids separate off into their own cliques and ignore him completely which suits him just fine.

He ends up wandering into the testing hall early and sitting down. Soon enough, the tests are passed out along with a simple calculator, two pencils, and several sheets of scrap paper.

An alarm goes off and one of the test proctors silences it. Pencils down, chairs back. Leave your tests where they are. Please, leave in an orderly fashion. Thank you. Two days later, a letter appears in the PO box address to himself and Tony. He pulls it out and opens it. I am pleased to award you the Thomas and Martha Wayne Scholarship Fund, which includes full tuition to Gotham Prep and an academic stipend of one hundred dollars a week.

Your classes will begin on September 8, and you will be required to meet with a guidance counselor at least one week before to select your classes.

This letter looks like it was signed by Bruce Wayne himself. Rich people will pay top dollar for bottom barrel quality, apparently. He and Aunt May could make better quality uniforms with a sewing machine and a weekend. He uses the remainder of his cash at a secondhand shop to pick up more clothes and a few threadbare blankets then visits a generic big box store to pick up a roll of tarp and the cheapest camp stove he can find, plus camping utensils.

The sturdy kind that somehow manage to be three separate things at once. Room temperature peanut butter is starting to get stale and depressing as a meal. That essentially wipes out his bank account until the stipend deposit on Friday.

His sleeping bag and blankets are tucked inside it, with his backpack serving as a pillow. The beans and rice are kept inside the backpack to keep them out of reach of the mice that live in the walls of the firehouse. It takes him two days to get his living space in order. It's comfortable enough. The tarp traps in heat he would otherwise lose, the bag of rice inside his backpack makes a decent enough pillow, and the extra blankets help soften the otherwise rock hard floor. Not bad. And then the second worst part of absolute poverty hits him: the absolute boredom and loneliness.

As before, the boredom drives him to the rooftops. He wanders over and leans against a rusted HVAC system. Nightwing always tenses when Peter wanders too near to it. Nightwing loses just a bit of tension to his shoulders as Peter walks away from the ledge.

I'm bored out of my mind. They start simple. Peter's balance is impeccable when he's not balancing himself on one hand. He takes to Nightwing's lessons like a fish to water, mastering the simpler concepts easily. By the end of it, he can jump and run over and along obstacles without losing speed.

A pretty handy skill to learn for someone lacking their web shooters. Peter flops back against the HVAC system. Probably the Killicorn. You seemed a little down. Nightwing watches him, and Peter can all but hear the man weighing his words. Peter shakes his head. I just miss New York. Best sandwiches in Queens. God , he misses those sandwiches. Barely any oil and vinegar, but a ton of peppers and meat. The stipend deposits into his account that Friday and unfortunately it doesn't go as far as he'd hoped.

It's enough for food for his higher metabolism, trips to a laundromat, and a few toiletries, but only barely. It becomes very clear that his budget margins will be razor thin for his stay in Gotham. He skips a meal or a two to pick up some electronics.

The best part about starving is that you can get used to it. That also happens to be the worst part, but whatever. He'll live. Rice and beans for every meal is starting to get boring anyway. He gets lucky and finds an electronics shop near the firehouse. He picks up a small solar panel, a soldering iron, wires, a charging cable, a battery pack and a rechargeable LED lamp. It's enough to give some light, but the battery is cheap and not efficient in the least. Even when he tightens his belt, skips a few meals, and shells out for a supposedly top of the line battery, he's sorely disappointed.

It lasts four hours, and sometimes not even then. It's better than nothing, though. And the light brightens his mood and makes the place look less dreary. Another week passes him by. He uses his stipend for an airtight bucket to keep his food inside. The bucket doubles as a stool, which he uses at the desk in the dilapidated office. Bored and terribly lonely, he takes apart the broken radio and begins to fix it.

It's vintage, with smooth wood and chrome along the outside. The receiver inside is busted beyond repair, but that's an easy fix with his leftover electronics. It's actually soothing working on a project like this. It reminds him of the Compound, and Tony's lab, and the memory forms in his mind. I want to see how your brain works before I give you access to all the highly advanced lab tools.

The memory is a familiar one. It's the first step Tony took to really become Peter's mentor, and the first time they found true common ground between them. Tony had been nervous and unsure, but encouraging. The nervousness disappeared, and the tips and tricks of the trade came out in full force. They spent hours on that radio. Not because it was a difficult task, but because they would both be sidetracked by conversation and the different tricks they used in their own separate processes.

Peter had given him that radio at the end of the day, and Tony had kept it on his desk in the lab. Peter sinks into the memory with ease. It seems clearer than usual. And he's pretty sure Dr. Strange, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes, and other various people weren't there at the time. They crowd the edges of the memory, some watching curiously, others facing away as if to give him privacy.

He finishes with the radio by sunset, snapping out of his work groove, and leans back to look over the result. What had been a scratched, broken mess is now an art deco style radio with the word Stark across the front of it.

He turns it on, and the Stark lights up, flickering in time with the static. It's not his mp3 player, but it is nice to hear some music again, even if he only hears one song for every five ads that play over the air. He leaves it on that channel and listens to it while he gets ready for school tomorrow.

He needs to get up early if he wants to catch the train on time. In Midtown, Peter is known as a loser; a dork among dorks. His clothes are unfashionable at best, his movements awkward first by nature and then because he overthinks trying to look normal , and he carries a reputation for being a flake. Still, he can blend into a crowd among his fellow students and no one gives him a second look or thought.

In Gotham Prep, he sticks out like a sore thumb. Sure, there's a uniform, but that just means flashes of wealth shift to the quality of fabric for the uniform, then jewelry, then--the most obvious show of wealth--shoes. His shoes, scuffed and a dirt tinged grey, are out of place among the polished leather shoes and flashy brand new sneakers others are wearing. That's to say nothing of his obvious hand-me-down uniform jacket, too big pants, and loose shirt.

He looks downright shabby compared to everyone else. Even the teachers look down their nose at him, and a fair few of the professors don't look much better than him.

For them, it's acceptable eccentricity or rebellion. For him, it's poverty. People have literally turned their nose up at him as he moves past them. Princess Shuri. You belong here. Yeah, except he quite literally doesn't. Still, he loses his self conscious slouch, straightening up into a confident stride he's seen Tony use before, and walks towards his locker. It opens easily, and he stashes his backpack inside just as the first bell sounds off.

School is school. By turns boring, exhausting, and interesting. Peter snaps out of his post lunch daze, suddenly aware of every other student staring at him expectantly. Oh god. Snickers erupt around the room. Who has the answer? Parker, I want an essay on the Justice League on my desk by Friday. Three pages minimum. Single spaced. The cafeteria is less cafeteria and more like a fancy buffet.

It smells heavenly. He covers his tray in food; roast beef, rolls, steamed vegetables, mashed potatoes, and anything he can get his hands on. He might as well be a well fed loser. It firmly marks him in the friendless loser strata of the school population, but whatever. Homeroom is right after lunch. He opts for a pass to the computer lab and starts looking up the Justice League. He should probably figure out a way to call that guy someday. For the first time in his life, Peter becomes just as interested in history as he usually is for chemistry or physics.

He prints off as many articles as he can find and even manages to sketch out an outline for his paper. The rest of his day is, fortunately, boring and peaceful.

His only real trial is staying awake after having a full meal during lunch. He grabs one of the bread rolls he smuggled home from lunch and starts to gnaw on it while getting ready to start on his report.

He's only halfway done with his paper when the LED lamp he put together blinks out and plunges him into darkness, too. It should last twelve hours.

Even the cheapest knock off uses some of Tony's design--". There's no Tony Stark in this universe, and aliens haven't invaded and left their tech behind for someone to tinker with and reverse engineer. Of course their power tech isn't what he's used to.

He sighs and rubs his forehead. All of the tech here is probably two decades or more behind. No Tony, no cheap and reliable energy sources," he says. He stares at his unfinished report, then looks outside. The streetlight outside is still on. One of those big sodium bulb lights that he's only seen in the oldest parts of New York. The light it gives off is a strange green tinged white, washing out everything beneath it and somehow making the street seem more sinister and lonely than if it were full dark.

He grabs his things, shrugs on his coat, and steps into the street. The wind hits him, hard and cold, and he ducks against it as he moves across the street. He sits beneath the lamp and starts on his homework again. The wind picks up, and the air becomes downright frigid after the sun fully sets. His hand is trembling and pale by the time he finishes, and his teeth are chattering.

But he finished. And he's honestly tired enough that he might sleep tonight. It is too cold out here for him. He shuffles back inside the fire station and tucks himself under the blankets, coat, shoes and all. The tarp has done its work; the wind doesn't quite reach his sleeping area, though a brief gust stirs the edges of it now and then. When the shivering ends, he falls into a restless doze.

A few minutes later, red energy in the shape of a hand materializes above him, presses against his forehead, and he enters true sleep for the first time since he woke up in that horrible machine. His sleep is horrific. He manages because what other choice does he have , but it's rough. The cement floor is freezing, the wind cuts right through his uniform blazer, and he spends most of the night shivering. Tony's impaled, crushed, turned to ash the way Peter did--every form of death his mind can dream of.

Sometimes Thanos stabs Peter. Sometimes the Guardians, sometimes Aunt May or Ned or At one point, he sees Star Lord crushed by rocks from the moon Thanos threw at Tony. Peter stares at his body, and is horrified when Star Lord snaps awake and glares at him. Peter freezes, stuck in a whirlwind of confusion and guilt. More voices shout around him, though he can only see Star Lord.

Star Lord's voice, distant and upset, cuts in. Figure it out! He whimpers, half asleep, tossing and turning, fingers bunching the thick fabric of his blanket He opens his eyes and looks down. The blanket is thick. Heavy, red and warm --and not a blanket at all. It's a cloak. When he looks up, he finds he isn't in the firehouse. He's in a library.

Bookshelves line the walls, stretching up to the ceiling, every inch of them weighed down by thick, leather bound tomes. The cloak follows his movements, keeping him warm, and he's forever grateful for that. This is a dream, and like a dream, it will fade when you wake up," Strange replies. We won't be able to do it every night, but we can intervene every now and then.

This is already a waste of your power, sorcerer. The child will not remember a moment of this when he wakes," another voice says, sneering and bored. A man steps out from the shadows, dressed in green robes. He has one of the larger leather bound tomes in his hands. Go on," he says, waving a dismissive hand. I won't interrupt. The exasperated look on Strange's face mimics Tony's annoyed expression so well that Peter is briefly thrown.

You'll wake in the morning, refreshed and comfortable. We're all going to take turns with this. Not until you begin to learn how to use the stone. Strange says slowly. You will wake rested. Until then, your dreams will seem much more lucid than normal. It feels as real as anything, but there's a subtle sheen to it around the far corners. Strange chuckles, and the book appears in Peter's hands. Loki looks up from his own book, frowning curiously. He finishes his report early, and turns it in ahead of time.

Peter becomes less of a target for hard questions, too. Which is nice. The rest of his classes pass by as usual.

His chemistry class only meets twice a week during block periods, but he manages to start the process for creating his web fluid, which is nice. He has yet to make a single friend. Or to be acknowledged by anyone but his teachers. His only real friend in Gotham is a guy in tights that leaps off of buildings for fun, who would also probably take him to jail if he knew Peter was a thief. The stipend deposits at the end of the week.

Peter could go get a decent dinner somewhere, or more electronics to toy with, but riding the train and walking several blocks from the subway to the school has worn him out. The last thing he needs is to lose a meal to a group of assholes hiding inside one of the many dark alleys that pepper the Bowery. Instead of dinner, he opts for the rooftops. Nightwing swings up to the rooftop and drops down beside him. He offers Peter a sandwich wrapped in parchment paper, pressed flat.

Oracle says there's a meteor shower that's supposed to start soon. This is supposed to be a big one. Peter shakes his head, turning to his sandwich. He takes his time eating it. In the original draft, Peter didn't meet Nightwing until chapter seven.

But that made a few of the later chapters less interesting. Another week passes without comment. Peter finds himself in a minor crisis when school lets out for the weekend. He loses access to the biggest meal of his day, which is starting to become an issue. The first dumpster he found was so foul he was gagging from three feet away. Still, the entire experience was enough to put him off the idea for now.

He felt oddly judged by the whole experience. Peter leaves the firehouse Saturday afternoon and finds his way back into the heart of Crime Alley, back at the restaurant where he met Omar and Sophia. The walk there is as hair-raising as it was when he first stumbled through it, but he manages to look just miserable and poor enough to avoid the attention of the gangs loitering on the street.

None of them even give him a second look. Thank god. He slips into the alley leading towards the restaurant and knocks on the door. He freezes when he sees Peter standing at the door, and a very brief, very awkward silence passes between them. Omar sets the bat down, and waves Peter inside. The dinner rush is always brutal.

Are tips okay? Manning a dishwasher at a busy restaurant is new to him, but he picks up the particulars of it quickly. Omar meets him at the door, just as exhausted as Peter.

You did great today, Peter. Can you make it tomorrow? Peter almost says no until he smells the food. Peter makes it home, showers, and sits down hard near his bed. He looks at the carryout bag, half asleep already, and wonders if he should bother with food at all.

The food will keep until tomorrow. Peter lets out a frustrated whine, but stirs awake. He did just put him six hours of hard labor for this meal. He might as well enjoy it. He demolishes his meal after that first bite, setting aside the empty cartons to throw away later. He crawls into his bed and flops across it bonelessly; full and exhausted. The next day is identical to the last; he spends hours working the dish pit, gets a meal and another fifty dollars for his trouble, and walks home exhausted.

His wrist is starting to give him trouble again; it aches and throbs in time with his heartbeat. He might have to buy a splint for it at some point. He takes his meal to the roof this time. Honestly, it felt like someone was shaking him awake every five seconds. Peter plops down on the edge of the roof and starts in on his meal.

He has to eat it carefully with his good hand. He turns to face Nightwing, grinning. This is the Signal. He freezes for a moment, looking around Peter in frank confusion. Signal pauses for a moment, then shakes his head, muttering under his breath. You want some food? You look like you could use a break. Signal pauses for a moment, obviously debating it, then shrugs and walks over to sit beside him.

He perks up when he catches the scent of the food Peter hands him. They eat in silence for a few moments. Signal demolishes his food in minutes, always looking at Peter from the corner of his eye.

Signal sighs. Oh, and Catwoman is back in town. The League is losing it. An explosion sets off in the city. A big one, judging by the fireball that lights up the sky. Signal is on his feet in a heartbeat. That was Arkham. Listen, I gotta go. He turns to face Peter, freezes for a moment, then shakes his head. He leaps off of the ledge and swings away into the night. Peter watches him, disturbed, and then crawls down and heads back into the firehouse.

Days pass by and grow colder, so Peter upgrades his transit pass for bus use and starts to catch the bus outside the subway. The stop he needs is only a mile away from the school. The problem is that he has to sprint from the subway to the bus stop in order to catch it in time. Gotham's public transit is laughably inefficient. The driver is a big man, soft around the middle, with a dour expression almost permanently fixed on his face.

Peter goes out of his way to leave the man alone. The only thing he says to the man is a quiet thank you on his way off the bus. It pays off. One day, when the autumn rain starts to come down hard, the bus driver stops him before he leaves. You got an umbrella? He pauses, takes another look at Peter. You'll catch your death of cold out there," the man replies gruffly. He reaches over to some compartment in his cubicle and pulls out a brand new umbrella and a scarf.

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