Chapter 216: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse

Location: Unknown.

Dimension: Unknown.

Peter hit the ground hard. When he opened his eyes, all he saw was darkness broken by the glow of neon signs and advertising screens.

"I hate these kinds of trips," he muttered, pulling himself upright with a groan as his joints cracked. "Where the hell am I?"

He walked to the edge of what he recognized as a rooftop and froze.

A massive screen on the opposite building displayed the face of a blond, blue-eyed man in a Spider-Man suit. Peter’s stomach dropped.

PETER PARKER — THE HERO, SPIDER-MAN — FOUND DEAD AT 26.

The memory clicked into place. He knew exactly where he was.

"Oh no," he breathed, rubbing his eyes against the headache already forming. "It cannot be."

Then he looked down and saw a child in Spider-Man merchandise dragging the body of a dead homeless man from a train.

"Oh, shit." He sighed. "I curse my stupid, absurd luck."

He tried to fire a web, but his launcher display read RECONFIGURING. Nanobots swarmed across the device, adapting to the dimensional energy overload. The unconventional method of his arrival had scrambled the calibrations. His upgraded launchers.....the ones built with interdimensional-grade materials.....were still back in the cave, awaiting field tests.

"Old-fashioned way, then."

He fired organic webbing from his fingertips, melted into the shadows, and began following the boy.

From the darkness, Peter observed everything.

He watched Miles Morales discover the unconscious body of Peter B. Parker.....a disheveled, overweight, mid-thirties version of Spider-Man from another dimension. He watched Miles drag him to a makeshift hideout. He watched their first conversation.

Peter B. was everything Peter expected.....tired, cynical, divorced, living on pizza, and completely unwilling to help. But beneath the apathy, the core was still there. The instinct to protect. The refusal to stay down.

Peter watched from the rooftop as Peter B. escaped his restraints, climbed out the window, and attempted to swing away.....only for his body to pixelate and send him crashing down a fire escape.

He watched Miles pull the webbing from his mouth and rush to check on the older Spider-Man.

He watched Peter B. reluctantly agree to help.....then immediately try to leave again.

He watched Miles make his case. The Collider. Kingpin. Billions of lives.

He watched Peter B. walk away.

And then he watched Peter B. stop at the top of the building, look down at Miles, open his mouth to say something.....and close it. A sigh. A glance at the sky. Another sigh.

Peter B. was not going to abandon the kid. He just needed a minute to accept it.

Peter decided he had seen enough.

Miles yelped as something yanked him off the wall and into the air.

Twip.

A figure in a dark Spider-Man suit landed on the rooftop beside Peter B., setting Miles down gently.

"Spider-Man!" Miles blurted. "There’s another one!"

"Great," Peter B. said flatly. "There’s another great one."

Peter set Miles on the ground and faced Peter B., who regarded him with bone-deep weariness. Despite the exhaustion, his body was coiled and ready to fight.

"I respect that you do not want to involve the child in this," Peter said in a flat, measured tone. "But you cannot do it alone. You need help. This is beyond your capabilities."

Peter B. scratched his head in irritation. Miles stared at the newcomer without blinking.

"Fine," Peter B. said. "Kid, you win. I will help. Let’s go. No time to waste."

"You heard him, Spider-Boy," Peter said, looking down at Miles. "Let’s go."

Miles’ face lit up at being called Spider-Boy instead of just boy.

Before he could ask a question, a thunderous growl echoed across the rooftop. All three turned toward the source.

Peter B. clutched his stomach. "First things first.....let us refuel the tank."

As they walked through the streets, Peter drew considerably more attention than he wanted. Several people stared. Others took photos.

"Nice butt, baby!" a woman called from across the street.

’That explains the attention,’ Peter thought dryly.

"Can you not just blend in?" Peter B. asked.

"You mean dress in a dirty jacket, sweatpants, and impractical shoes? In simple terms.....a bum?"

Miles was trying very hard not to laugh.

"I just want you to pass as someone more normal," Peter B. said.

Peter sighed, ducked into an alley, and reconfigured the nanosuit. The Spider-Man armor dissolved into a white dress shirt, vest, and tie. The remaining nanobots stored themselves in his web-shooters, which now resembled ordinary wristwatches.

When he emerged, Peter B. developed a nervous tic. Miles’ jaw dropped.

"Are you all models or what?!" Peter B. snapped, walking faster. "Because I am the most normal one here."

If they attracted attention before, it was worse now. Women smiled. Women winked. Peter returned the gestures casually, which made several of them blush.

"Can you stop?!" Peter B. demanded.

"It is not my fault. Once the magic happens, I do not know how to reverse it." He looked skyward. "Oh TOAA, please make me ugly."

Peter B. raised an eyebrow at the change in speech pattern now that the suit’s voice modulator was off.

"Yes!" Miles agreed. "Make him ugly!"

"Not so loud, Miles. TOAA can hear you."

Peter B. stopped dead in his tracks. The burger restaurant he had been leading them to was closed.

He stood in the street, staring at the shuttered sign like a man watching his last hope die. Miles and Peter exchanged a glance, sighed simultaneously, and helped the older Spider-Man off the ground.

"If you want to eat, let us try that place," Miles suggested.

"Anything will do," Peter said. "We just need to refuel."

Peter B. gave him a look that said I want a super burger.

They entered the nearly empty restaurant, took a table, and opened the menu. Peter B. and Miles both recoiled.

"Is there anything on this menu that is not tripe?" Miles asked.

"Heart, lung, hooves.....is there anything normal?" Peter B. added.

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. "If I find something normal, will you both stop complaining?"

"Yes," they said in unison.

Peter got up and headed for the kitchen, stepping aside as an angry woman stormed out of the back and through the front door.

"Excuse me, chef," Peter began. "I wanted to know if you had anything more.....conventional for my.....colleagues."

"You know what?!" the chef screamed. "I am tired of it! If you want something special, make it yourself! I quit! Nobody appreciates my delicious food! I am done!"

The chef vanished through the back exit. Peter blinked.

An elderly man appeared at the service window. "Three garlic bombs with bacon. Two stain removers. A plate of livers with sauce. Today’s special.....beef steak shaped like a dog. Any questions, young man?"

Peter opened his mouth to explain that he was not the chef. Then he saw the old man’s face.....warm, earnest, hopeful.

He did not have it in him to say no.

"Three dead-raising pills, two plates of stew, an order of viscera, and the dog turned into a bull. Got it."

The old man beamed. "Excellent."

Miles wandered into the kitchen fifteen minutes later. "What the hell are you doing?"

"The chef quit. I could not say no to the old man." Peter gestured at a free table with a spatula. "Bring Peter B. back here. I will cook for you."