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The sky over New York didn't just turn dark; it turned wrong.

Peter Parker stood on the roof of his cramped apartment, but the brick beneath his boots was beginning to lose its texture. The air tasted like ozone and static. He looked down at his hands, and his heart plummeted. His fingers were flickering—stuttering in and out of existence like a corrupted video file.

Doctor Strange’s spell had worked. The world had forgotten him. But the universe? The universe was a perfectionist, and it had found a loose thread. Peter Parker was a person who didn't belong anywhere, a ghost in the machinery of reality.

"Please," Peter whispered, his voice sounding like it was coming from a miles-long tunnel. "I’m still here."

The universe didn't care. With a sound like a pane of glass shattering across the cosmos, the rooftops of Manhattan vanished. Peter didn't fall; he was deleted.

The Void
In the space between spaces, Peter felt himself being unmade. It wasn't just his memories or his life being stripped away—it was his very history. The laws of physics scrubbed at his DNA, trying to wash him clean. He felt his bones soften, his limbs shorten, and his mind haze over with a strange, foggy warmth.

The "Spider" inside him—the part of him that was more than human—screamed in defiance. It curled around his core, protecting his memories like a shield, but it couldn't stop the clock from winding backward.

The man died. The child remained.

The Landing: Somewhere Else
Crime Alley, Gotham City.

Jason Todd was a ghost. He had no trail, no home, and a heart full of Lead. He was currently crouched on a damp fire escape, cleaning a custom Glock and wondering if he’d ever actually go back to the Manor or if he’d just stay dead this time. It was easier being a legend than a disappointment.

Suddenly, the alleyway below erupted in a flash of violet light. It wasn't an explosion; it was an implosion. The trash cans were crushed into tiny cubes by a sudden gravity surge, and the air rippled like water.

Jason was on the ground in a second, guns drawn, eyes narrowed behind his mask. "I swear to God, if this is a Boom Tube..."

The light faded, leaving behind a small, smoking crater in the asphalt. Jason crept forward, expecting a parademon or a cosmic assassin.

Instead, he found a boy.

He looked about five years old. He had a mop of messy dark hair and was wearing a tattered, oversized red-and-blue shirt that looked like it had been shredded by a blender. The kid was curled in a ball, shivering.

"Kid?" Jason growled, his voice modulated by his helmet.

The boy looked up. His eyes were huge—chocolate brown and filled with a terrifyingly adult level of grief. But as his gaze landed on Jason, something strange happened. Jason felt a literal thrum in his chest, a magnetic pull he couldn't explain. It felt like looking in a mirror he’d broken years ago.

The boy’s pupils suddenly dilated. Before Jason could react, the kid didn't run—he scrambled. With a wet thwip sound, a thin line of white silk shot from the boy's wrist, sticking to the brick wall, and he swung himself upward with the grace of a professional gymnast.

He landed on the side of the building, sticking to the vertical wall like a shadow. He looked down at Jason, his small face twisting. Then, he spoke.

"You're not a memory," the boy whispered, his voice high and tiny. "You're... real?"

Jason lowered his gun, his brain short-circuiting. The kid looked exactly like a miniature version of Dick Grayson—the same jawline, the same "Golden Boy" eyes—but there was a darkness there. A loneliness that matched Jason’s own.

"Yeah, kid," Jason said, reaching up to click off his helmet, exposing his own face and the shock of white hair at his temple. "I'm real. And you're currently standing on a wall. We should probably talk about that."

The boy stared at him for a long beat, then slowly crawled down. He didn't look scared of the weapons or the scars. He looked like he had finally found the one person in the multiverse who was just as "erased" as he was.

"I'm Peter," the boy said, his feet hitting the pavement.

Jason looked at the kid—really looked at him—and felt that strange, cosmic tether tighten. He thought of Bruce, who had never bothered to sign the adoption papers. He thought of Dick, who would lose his mind if he saw this kid's face.

Jason smirked, a dangerous, soft look. "Well, Peter. Looks like you and I are both dead to the world. Want to go get some actual food?"

The years between five and nine weren’t just about survival; they were about two "ghosts" learning how to be a family. Jason Todd, a man who had been defined by his death and his rage, suddenly found himself defined by school runs, organic webbing stuck to the ceiling, and the weight of a small, sleeping boy who refused to let go.

Snippet 1: The Legal Loophole (Age 6):

Jason sat in a dingy lawyer’s office in a city far from Gotham. He had used a combination of Bruce’s hidden offshore funds and some very convincing "Red Hood" intimidation to get his legal identity restored—not as Jason Wayne, but as Jason Peter Todd.

"Sir, the adoption papers are ready," the lawyer stammered, handing over the folder. "But... are you sure? There’s no mother on record, and your own history is... sparse."

"I'm sure," Jason snapped, signing his name in bold, jagged strokes.

Peter, sitting in the corner, was currently sticking to the underside of the mahogany chair, giggling as he watched a spider crawl across the floor. He looked up, his fangs peeking out in a wide grin. "Does this mean I'm officially a Todd?"

Jason looked at the kid—the kid who looked like a Grayson but acted like a gremlin. "Yeah, kid. You're mine. No billionaires, no Bat-rules. Just us."

Snippet 2: The Night Terrors (Age 7):

The screaming started at 3:00 AM. Jason was out of bed before his eyes were even open, a combat knife in hand, only to find Peter’s bedroom in chaos.

Peter wasn't in bed. He was stuck to the corner of the ceiling, his small body shaking, his "spider-legs" fully extended and twitching in a defensive posture. The room was crisscrossed with thick, messy webs.

"Peter! Pete, hey, look at me!" Jason called, standing in the centre of the web-minefield.

"They're forgetting!" Peter sobbed, his eyes wide but unseeing. "MJ... May... I’m slipping, Jason! I'm falling through the floor!"

Jason didn't care about the sticky webs ruining his shirt. He climbed up on the dresser and reached out, pulling the vibrating child into a bear hug. The extra spider-legs bristled against Jason's back, but he didn't flinch.

"I've got you," Jason murmured into the boy's hair. "I don't care who forgot. I'm right here. I’m not forgetting a single thing about you. You’re real, Peter Todd. You’re real."

Slowly, the legs retracted. Peter buried his face in Jason’s chest, his tiny fangs sinking slightly into Jason’s hoodie as he grounded himself. For the first time in his life, Jason felt like he was in control—not because he was winning a fight, but because he was someone’s entire world.

Snippet 3: The Quirky Meta (Age 8):

Life with Peter was weird. Jason once found him eating a literal bowl of raw steak because "the Spider was hungry." Another time, Peter tried to "help" Jason undercover by wall-crawling across a skyscraper in bright red pyjamas.

"I’m a ninja, Dad! Look!" Peter whispered, hanging upside down in front of Jason’s sniper perch.

"You’re a brightly coloured target, Pete. Get down before I tell the neighbours you’re a gargoyle."

The 9th Birthday: The Truth

They were in a small cabin in the mountains, away from prying eyes. Jason had bought Peter a high-end chemistry set and a brand-new camera. Peter had spent the day taking photos of Jason with a genuine, happy smile.

But as the sun set, Peter grew quiet. He sat across from Jason by the fire, his shadow on the wall looking monstrously large because of the four extra limbs swaying behind him.

"Jason?" Peter started, his voice more serious than a nine-year-old’s should be. "I need to tell you why I look like Richard Grayson. And why the sky turned purple when you found me."

Jason leaned back, crossing his arms. "I figured you weren't just a normal meta, Pete. Talk to me."

For the next three hours, Peter told him everything. He told him about the spider bite in Queens. He told him about Uncle Ben and the "Great Power" speech. He explained Tony Stark, the Avengers, and the Multiverse. He spoke about the spell—how he had sacrificed his entire existence to save a world that now didn't even know he’d been born.

"I was eighteen," Peter said, looking at his small, childish hands. "I was a hero. But the universe tried to delete me. I think... I think I ended up here because this universe didn't have a Peter Parker. It had a hole, and I filled it."

He looked up at Jason, his eyes brimming with tears. "I’m sorry I lied. I just... I didn't want you to think I was a freak. Or a ghost."

Jason was silent for a long time. Then, he stood up, walked over, and ruffed Peter’s hair.

"Kid," Jason said with a dry chuckle. "I was killed with a crowbar and dunked in a glowing green pit of madness. I'm a literal zombie. You think 'multiversal spider-hero' is where I draw the line?"

Peter sniffled. "You're not mad?"

"Mad? Pete, you just told me that Dick Grayson is technically your multiversal doppelganger. Do you know how much I can haunt him with that?" Jason’s eyes glinted with pure, unadulterated spite. "We’re going back to Gotham when you're older. We’re going to walk into that Manor, and you’re going to call me 'Dad' right in front of Bruce's face. It’ll be the greatest prank in the history of the world."

Peter laughed, a wet, genuine sound. "I'd like that, Dad."

The following four years weren't spent in hiding; they were spent in motion. Jason realised that if Peter was a "glitch" in the multiverse, the best way to keep him safe was to keep him moving until his molecules fully settled into this reality.

With the secret out in the open, the bond between them solidified into something unbreakable. Jason taught Peter how to be a survivor; Peter taught Jason how to actually enjoy the world he was trying to save.

The Grand Tour: From the Andes to the Orient

Peru & The High Peaks
They started in the Andes. Peter, now ten, found that his spider-physiology loved the thin, crisp air of the mountains. While Jason met with black-market contacts to establish "emergency safe-houses" in Lima, Peter made friends with the local kids in a small mountain village.

He didn't need a language to play soccer; he just had to pretend he wasn't three times faster than everyone else. One afternoon, Jason found Peter using his extra spider-legs to help an old woman carry heavy bundles of wool up a steep incline, the limbs hidden under a thick, colourful poncho. “Kid, you’re supposed to be low-profile,” Jason remarked, leaning against a stone wall. “I’m being a ‘local myth,’ Dad. There’s a difference,” Peter shot back with a cheeky grin.

China & Japan: The Training Arc

In the bustling neon streets of Tokyo and the quiet temples of China, Jason’s "connections" grew. He traded favours with underground information brokers, ensuring that if the name "Jason Todd" or "Peter Todd" ever flagged in a database, he’d know before the Bat-Computer did.

Peter, meanwhile, became obsessed with the local tech. He spent his nights in Akihabara, scavenging parts to build a camera that could track his movements. He made a friend—a teenage girl named Hana who worked in a robotics stall. She thought he was a child prodigy; he just liked that she didn't ask why his "backpack" sometimes twitched. Peter realised he didn't miss the Stark-tech anymore—he liked building things with his own two hands (and sometimes his four extra ones).

The Mediterranean Run: Spain, Rome, and Greece

By the time they hit Europe, Peter was twelve, going on thirteen. He was hitting a growth spurt that made him look eerily like a young Dick Grayson—the same athletic build and effortless charm.

In Spain, they spent nights eating tapas and watching Flamenco. Jason watched as Peter made friends with a group of street performers, joining their acrobatics and accidentally doing a quadruple back-flip that left the crowd silent for five seconds before erupting in cheers.

In Rome, Peter’s historical knowledge from his "old life" came out. He walked through the Colosseum, quietly telling Jason exactly how the architecture would have looked, his eyes wistful. “You okay, Pete?” Jason asked, buying him a gelato. “Yeah. Just... in my world, I never got to travel. I was too busy being the ‘Friendly Neighbourhood’ guy. I never realised how big the neighbourhood actually was.”

In Greece, they lived on a boat for three months. Jason taught Peter how to sail, and Peter taught Jason how to relax. It was here that Jason felt truly "grounded." He wasn't just a soldier or a failure; he was a father. He had contacts in every major port, a legal paper trail that was ironclad, and a son who was the strongest Meta he’d ever met.

The Eve of Return: Thirteen Years Later

Peter sat on the edge of a white-washed cliff in Santorini, his legs dangling over the Aegean Sea. He was thirteen now—physically a teenager, mentally a veteran, and emotionally a Todd.

"You sure about this?" Peter asked, not looking back as Jason approached. "Once we go to Gotham, the 'Ghost' act is over. Bruce is going to have a heart attack. And Dick... well, Dick might actually cry."

Jason stood beside him, looking out at the horizon. He looked healthier than he ever had—tan, scarred but steady. "I'm sure. I've spent thirteen years building a life that doesn't belong to Bruce Wayne. It’s time I show him that I didn't just survive—I won."

Peter stood up, his four spider-legs unfurling from his back like a dark, elegant crown, stretching in the salty air. His fangs glinted as he gave Jason that classic, mischievous Parker smirk.

"So, what's the plan, Dad? Do we just knock on the front door of the Manor?"

Jason laughed, a dark, joyous sound. "God, no. We’re going to wait for a Gala. I want the maximum amount of witnesses when I introduce my 'biological' son to his 'uncle' Dickie."

Peter retracted his legs, adjusted his camera bag, and shouldered his pack. "Copy that. Gotham won't know what hit it."

The air in Gotham wasn’t like the salt air of Greece or the crisp wind of the Andes. It tasted like exhaust, old rain, and secrets. As their matte-black SUV rolled across the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge, Peter pressed his forehead against the glass, his brown eyes tracking the dark, jagged silhouette of the Wayne Enterprises building.

"Home sweet hell-hole," Jason muttered, though there was a faint, tugging smirk on his face.

"It’s Gothic," Peter countered, his voice cracking slightly—a reminder that despite his cosmic history, he was still a thirteen-year-old hitting puberty. "It looks like a set from a monster movie. I kind of love it."

The New Base of Operations
Jason hadn't picked a penthouse in the Diamond District or a shack in the Narrows. He’d bought a sprawling, renovated brownstone in Old Gotham. It had thick stone walls (good for soundproofing), a massive basement (perfect for a lab), and high ceilings that Peter was already eyeing for web-hammocks.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Peter dropped his bags and let his four spider-legs burst from his back. They clicked against the hardwood floor, stretching out to their full span, helping him scurry up the wall to investigate the crown moulding.

"Dad, the acoustics in here are great," Peter called down, hanging upside down by a single thread of silk. "And the basement? I’ve been thinking. I saw some files on your drive about a guy named Waylon Jones. Killer Croc?"

Jason tossed his keys on the counter. "Yeah. Stay away from him, Pete. He’s not a 'friendly neighbour' type. He’s more of a 'eat your face' type."

"But that's the thing!" Peter dropped to the floor, his legs retracting smoothly. "The mutation is epidermal and hormonal. If I can get a blood sample, I bet I could use some of the gene-splicing theories I learned back in... well, back home. I could create a retro-viral suppressant. We could actually turn him human, or at least stop the regression. Imagine the look on Batman’s face if we start fixing his rogues' gallery before he even catches them."

Jason paused, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. "Fixing the villains Bruce couldn't save? Now that is the kind of petty I live for. You get the lab set up, I’ll get the equipment."

The Gala Strategy

"Okay, but first," Peter said, pivoting to the kitchen island, "the Gala. It’s in three days. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it with style. Are we going 'Classic Todd' or 'Chaos Todd'?"

"We are going 'High-Society Spite,'" Jason decided. "Black suits. Custom tailored. I want you looking like a million bucks so that when Dick sees your face, his brain does a literal 404 error."

"I was thinking a dark charcoal suit with a subtle web-pattern tie," Peter mused, tapping his chin. "And we should take the Aston Martin you stashed in Jersey. It screams 'I have my life together' while we’re actually about to drop a social nuclear bomb."

The Final Request

Peter lingered by the window, watching a small common house spider spin a web in the corner of the frame. He looked back at Jason with wide, pleading eyes—the same look that had convinced Jason to buy him a chemistry set in Rome and a Vespa in Spain.

"Dad? Since we have a permanent house now..."

"No," Jason said immediately.

"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"

"A pet. The answer is no. I’m already raising a kid who grows extra limbs and eats his weight in protein shakes."

"Not a dog! Just a spider," Peter hopped onto the counter, sitting cross-legged. "A Brazilian Wandering Spider. Or maybe a Gooty Sapphire Tarantula. They’re beautiful, and I could actually communicate with it! Think of the surveillance possibilities! A literal spy-der."

Jason groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He knew he was going to lose this argument. He always did. "If it escapes and bites a Wayne, I'm telling them it's yours."

"Deal!" Peter cheered, his fangs peeking out in a triumphant grin. "I'm gonna go claim the master attic for my lab. Gotham isn't ready for us, Dad."

The night of the Wayne Foundation Gala was exactly the kind of "Gotham Grey" that Peter had grown to recognize: humid, smelling of expensive perfume and rain-slicked asphalt, and thick with the tension of people pretending to like each other.

Outside the Bristol Hotel, the valet’s jaw dropped as a sleek, midnight-blue Aston Martin roared to the curb. Jason stepped out first, looking devastatingly sharp in a tailored black suit, his shock of white hair styled back with just enough defiance.

Then, he opened the door for Peter.

Peter, now thirteen, stepped out with a grace that was entirely too familiar to any Gotham socialite. He wore a slim-fit charcoal suit, his dark curls tamed, and his brown eyes bright with a mischievous spark. He looked so much like a young Dick Grayson that a nearby photographer actually dropped his camera.

"Remember the plan," Jason leaned in, his voice a low rumble. "Stay polite, stay charming, and let the existential dread sink in slowly."

"Got it, Dad," Peter smirked, his fangs hidden behind a perfect 'Golden Boy' smile.

The Entrance
The ballroom fell into a jagged silence as they walked in. Bruce Wayne was standing near the center of the room, flanked by Dick Grayson and Tim Drake.

Dick was mid-laugh, holding a flute of champagne, when his gaze landed on Peter. He froze. The glass didn't shatter, but it was a near thing. He looked at Jason, then at Peter, then back at Jason. He did the mental math—the jawline, the eyes, the way the kid stood—and his face went pale.

"Jason?" Bruce’s voice was like gravel, his eyes narrowing as he stepped forward, ignoring the socialites around him. "You’ve been... gone. For years."

"Travelled the world, Bruce. Had some soul-searching to do," Jason said, his hand resting firmly on Peter’s shoulder. He turned to the stunned crowd. "I realized I wanted to be more than just a 'ward.' I wanted to be a father. Bruce, Dick... meet my son, Peter Todd."

"Your son?" Tim Drake choked out, his detective brain already spiraling. "Jason, he’s—he’s thirteen. The timeline doesn't—"

"Biology is a funny thing, Timmy," Jason interrupted with a sharp, predatory grin. He looked at Dick, who was staring at Peter as if he were looking at a ghost of himself. "Right, Dick? He’s got the family eyes, doesn't he? It’s a shame I had to handle the legal adoption all by myself since I was 'dead' to the system."

The rest of the night was a masterpiece of chaos. Peter spent the evening politely discussing molecular biology with confused donors and watching Dick Grayson follow him around the room like a lost puppy, too terrified to ask the questions burning in his brain.

The First Run: Midnight over Gotham

Two hours later, back at the brownstone, the suits were off. Jason was downstairs pouring a glass of bourbon, satisfied with the carnage they'd left behind.

Upstairs, Peter felt the "Spider" under his skin humming. The Gotham air was calling. He slipped on a makeshift suit—a dark red hoodie, black tactical leggings, and a mask he’d stitched together from high-tensile carbon fiber.

He didn't use a door. He opened the attic window and lunged.

The feeling of swinging through Gotham was different than NYC. The buildings were closer, the shadows deeper. He felt incredible. His four extra legs snapped out from his back, gripping the side of a gargoyle as he perched high above the Narrows.

"Okay, New York was loud," Peter whispered to himself, his fangs extending as he tasted the air. "But this place is creepy."

Suddenly, his Spider-Sense flared—a sharp, cold spike at the base of his skull. He didn't move his head; he let his extra legs sense the vibration in the air.

Whoosh.

A yellow-lined cape fluttered in the wind. Robin (Damian Wayne) and Nightwing landed on the rooftop behind him. They had followed the "unidentified meta" signature from the moment he’d left the brownstone.

"Identify yourself," Damian barked, his sword already drawn. "This is a restricted sector for unsanctioned vigilantes."

Nightwing was quieter, his head tilted. He was looking at the way the stranger was perched—crouched on the edge of a spire in a way that should have been physically impossible. Then, he saw the four extra limbs swaying slowly behind the boy.

"Whoa," Nightwing said, holding up a hand to calm Damian. "Easy, D. Hey, kid. You're new. And... you've got a lot of legs. Are you a localised mutation, or are those mechanical?"

Peter felt the urge to prank them rise up like a tidal wave. He stayed in the shadows, his voice disguised by a slight mechanical modulator he’d built.

"Just a friendly neighborhood ghost," Peter chirped. He looked at Nightwing—his 'multiversal twin'—and couldn't resist. "Nice suit, by the way. Though the finger-stripes are a bit much, don't you think?"

"He’s mocking us!" Damian lunged.

Peter didn't fight back. He danced. He flipped over Damian with a grace that made Nightwing’s eyes widen. He used two of his spider-legs to parry Damian’s sword while his actual hands were busy waving a casual 'goodbye.'

"Wait!" Nightwing called out as Peter shot a line of organic webbing toward a higher crane. "Are you with the Red Hood?"

Peter paused, hanging upside down from the web-line, the moonlight catching his white-and-red mask. "I'm with my Dad. And tell the Big Bat he needs more gargoyles on the East side—the current ones are great for sitting, but they're terrible for grip."

With a final thwip, Peter vanished into the fog of the Gotham skyline, leaving a stunned Nightwing and a furious Robin behind.

The hunt for Waylon Jones was surprisingly easy when you could taste the chemical composition of the sewer runoff. Peter moved through the tunnels of Gotham, his four spider-legs acting as sensory probes, tapping against the damp stone walls to pick up vibrations.

The Sewer Encounter: Peter and Croc

"Waylon!" Peter’s voice echoed through the tunnels. He wasn't wearing his "prank" voice anymore. He sounded calm, scientific.

A massive, scaled shape rose from the murky water. Killer Croc looked more beast than man, his yellow eyes slitted with hunger. "Small snack... thinks he knows my name," Croc growled, his voice a tectonic rumble.

"I know you’re in pain," Peter said, dropping from the ceiling. His extra legs unfurled, making him look like a monstrous arachnid in the dim light. "The mutation is accelerating because of the toxins in this water. I’m not here to throw you in Blackgate. I’m here to fix your skin."

Croc roared, lunging with a speed that would have crushed a normal man. Peter didn't punch back; he used his agility to dance around the scales. With a precise movement, one of his spider-legs—tipped with a custom-built injector—snagged Croc’s shoulder.

"Just a sample, Waylon! I need to see the DNA sequence!"

The Batcave: The Morning After

While Peter was deep in the mud, the Batcave was a theater of high-tension silence.

Bruce sat at the console, three different facial recognition programs running simultaneously. One was for the boy at the Gala, one was for the "Spider-Meta," and one was a side-by-side comparison of Dick Grayson at age thirteen.

"The resemblance is... statistically impossible," Tim Drake muttered, rubbing his eyes. "I ran the Gala footage. Peter Todd has a 94% facial match with Dick. But Jason was 'dead' or missing for thirteen years. Unless Jason found a way to clone Dick—which, knowing Jason’s level of petty, isn't off the table—this doesn't make sense."

"He looked me in the eye, Bruce," Dick said, pacing the floor. He looked genuinely rattled. "He looked at me and smirked. It was like looking at a version of myself that was raised by a mercenary. And then that Meta last night... he was fast. Faster than me. And he had limbs."

"He was disrespectful," Damian hissed, sharpening a birdarang. "He parried my blade with a biological appendage. He is a freak that needs to be contained."

"Jason is hiding something," Bruce said, his voice a low vibration. "He claims the boy is his. He has legal papers from five different countries. He’s been building a paper trail for a decade. He wanted us to see him. He wanted us to—"

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The massive monitor shifted to a red alert. A proximity sensor in the sewers near Old Gotham had been tripped.

"Bio-signature detected," the computer's voice rang out. "Killer Croc is engaged in combat. Secondary signature: Unknown Meta-Human. Threat level: Extreme."

"That's him," Dick said, already grabbing his mask. "That's the spider-kid."

The Clash: The Family Arrives

By the time Batman, Nightwing, and Robin swung into the drainage hub, the scene was not what they expected.

Killer Croc wasn't dead, but he was pinned. Peter had used his organic webbing to create a massive, high-tensile net that held the giant against the wall. Peter was currently standing on Croc’s chest, one hand holding a tablet and a spider-leg holding a glowing blue vial near Croc’s neck.

"Hold still, Waylon! If the stabilizer doesn't bond with the leukocytes, you're going to have a massive rash, and then we both lose!"

"Get away from him!" Robin yelled, diving from the rafters with his cape flared.

Peter’s Spider-Sense didn't just tingle; it sang. Without looking, he used one of his back-legs to catch Damian’s boot mid-air, dangling the Boy Wonder upside down.

"Hey! We’re busy here!" Peter yelled, finally looking up. He saw the whole Bat-Family—Batman, Nightwing, and Robin—all staring at him in the sewer light.

"Let him go, kid," Batman growled, his shadow looming large.

Peter sighed, retracting the limb and dropping Damian unceremoniously into the shallow water. He turned to face them, his fangs visible through the gap in his mask as he breathed heavily.

"Look, I know you guys have a 'punch first, ask questions never' policy," Peter said, gesturing to the pinned, huffing Croc. "But I'm actually doing some science here. This is Waylon Jones. He’s a person, not a punching bag. And I’m pretty sure I just figured out how to stop his scales from burning him."

Nightwing stepped forward, his eyes landing on Peter’s suit—the one Jason had helped him "tactical-up." He looked at the extra legs, then at the kid's posture.

"Peter?" Dick whispered, the realization hitting him. "The kid from the Gala? You're Jason's... son?"

Peter tilted his head, the "Spider" limbs behind him mimicking his curiosity. "Took you long enough, "Uncle" Dick. I thought you were supposed to be the world's "greatest" detectives."

From the shadows of the tunnel entrance, a heavy pair of boots echoed. Jason Todd stepped into the light, wearing his Red Hood gear but with the helmet tucked under his arm. He was leaning against a pillar, a smug, satisfied look on his face.

"Told you he was a handful, Bruce," Jason said, his voice echoing with pure triumph. "And don't bother with the DNA test. I already encrypted the results. If you want to get to know your 'grandson,' you're going to have to do it the hard way."

The tension in the sewer was thick enough to choke a gargoyle. Bruce’s eyes moved from Jason—who looked entirely too smug—to Peter, who was currently hopping off Killer Croc’s chest with a tablet in one hand and a vial of Waylon’s blood in the other.

The Standoff: Custody vs. Chaos

"Jason," Bruce began, his voice dropping into that dangerous, low register he used for intergalactic threats. "This is beyond reckless. You brought a child—a Meta-human with unstable biological traits—into a combat zone against a Class-S threat. He needs to be in the Cave. He needs a full containment analysis."

"Containment?" Jason laughed, the sound bouncing off the damp stone walls. "He’s a kid, Bruce, not a specimen. And he’s a better scientist at thirteen than you were at thirty. He isn't going into one of your glass boxes so you can 'study' him."

"He has extra limbs, Jason!" Dick shouted, gesturing wildly at Peter’s back. "And he looks like... he looks like me! You can't just drop a 'biological son' bomb at a Gala and then let him play doctor with a cannibal in the sewers!"

"I’m standing right here," Peter chimed in, crossing two of his human arms while two of his spider-legs mimicked the gesture. "And for the record, Waylon isn't a cannibal by choice; it’s a side effect of the frontal lobe regression caused by his mutation. Which," he held up the blue vial, "I’ve just slowed down by 40%."

The "Friend" of the Beast

A low, wet sound came from the webbing behind them. It wasn't a roar—it was a groan of clarity.

Waylon Jones, the man known as Killer Croc, blinked. The yellow film over his eyes seemed to thin. He looked at his claws, then up at the small teenager standing in front of him. For the first time in years, the "hunger" wasn't screaming in his brain.

"Small... Spider..." Waylon rumbled. He didn't lung. Instead, he leaned his massive head forward, sniffing the air near Peter.

"Easy, Waylon," Peter said softly, reaching out a hand. "The burning in your skin—is it better?"

Croc let out a long, huffing breath. "Cold. It feels... cold. No more fire." He turned his gaze toward Batman, a flash of ancient resentment surfacing. "The Bat brings chains. The Boy brings... peace."

"He’s coming with us, Bruce," Jason said, stepping between Batman and Peter. "We’re going home. We’re going to have waffles, and then Peter is going to finish his gene-sequencing lab. If you want to talk, you know where the brownstone is. But if you bring a needle or a containment unit to my front door, I’ll show you exactly what thirteen years of 'ghosting' taught me about dismantling a Bat."

The Aftermath: A New Dynamic

Jason and Peter walked out of the sewers, leaving the Bat-family standing in the muck.

"Did he just call me 'Uncle Dick'?" Nightwing asked, looking at the empty tunnel. "And did he really just fix Croc’s brain with a chemistry set and some spider-legs?"

"He’s a Todd," Tim Drake sighed, already checking his phone. "Of course he’s going to be the most brilliant, frustrating person in the city. Also, Bruce? I just checked the legal filings again. Jason didn't just adopt him. He filed the paperwork in a way that makes Peter the legal heir to any 'undisclosed' Todd assets. He’s officially part of the line."

Back at the Brownstone
Peter was slumped on the sofa, his four spider-legs tucked neatly beneath him like a cushion. He was exhausted, but he had a look of pure satisfaction on his face.

"So," Peter said, looking at Jason. "I think Waylon likes me. He told me if I ever need help 'burying a body,' he knows a great spot in the swamp."

Jason snorted, tossing Peter a protein bar. "Don't take him up on that. At least not until you're sixteen."

"Dad?" Peter looked at the window, where the silhouette of a bat-shaped plane was circling in the distance. "Do you think they’ll ever believe the truth? About the other universe?"

Jason sat down next to him, resting an arm around the boy’s shoulders. "Honestly? Probably not. They’re too busy trying to figure out if you're a clone or a secret love child. Let 'em wonder, Pete. It keeps them on their toes. Besides..." Jason smirked. "It’s way funnier this way."

Peter leaned his head on Jason’s shoulder, his fangs retracting as he drifted toward sleep. He had been erased by one universe, but in this one—dark, gritty, and full of caped lunatics—he had finally found a place where he wasn't a ghost. He was a son.

The Swamp Lab: Peter and the King of the Sewers

A few miles outside the Gotham city limits, the air was thick with peat and the croaking of bullfrogs. Most people stayed away from the Blackgate Swamps, fearing the "Monster" that lived there.

Peter, however, was currently sitting on a cypress stump, his four spider-legs acting as a literal tripod to keep his laptop stable over the mud. Waylon Jones—Killer Croc—was submerged up to his nose in the brackish water, watching Peter with unblinking, reptilian eyes.

"The pH levels here are helping the serum stabilize," Peter explained, showing Waylon a 3D model of a DNA strand on his screen. "I’ve managed to isolate the regressive gene. If we keep up the injections every two weeks, your skin won't just stop burning—it’ll soften. You might even grow your fingernails back to human length."

Croc let out a long, bubbling sigh. "Why you do this, Little Spider? The Bat just wants me behind bars. The others just want to scream when they see me."

Peter stopped typing. He looked at his own hand—the way it flickered sometimes when he was stressed, a lingering ghost of the "Erasure" from his old world. "Because I know what it’s like to be something the world wants to delete, Waylon. We 'glitches' have to stick together."

Waylon grunted, a sound that might have been a laugh. He reached out a massive, clawed finger and gently poked one of Peter’s spider-legs. "You are a strange hatchling. But if anyone tries to hurt you... I will eat their head. Slowly."

"I'll put that in the 'pros' column of our friendship," Peter joked, packing his gear as his Spider-Sense gave a soft, familiar hum. "Heads up. My Dad’s home. And he’s got company."

The Brownstone: The Uninvited Guests

When Peter and Jason arrived back at the brownstone (Peter smelling faintly of swamp water and chemical reagents), they found two very expensive cars parked out front.

Inside, the living room was a theater of passive-aggression. Jason was leaning against the kitchen island, arms crossed, looking at Bruce, Dick, and Tim as if they were door-to-door salesmen he was about to pepper-spray.

"We aren't here to fight, Jason," Bruce said, though he was currently staring at a jar on the coffee table containing Peter’s new pet—the Gooty Sapphire Tarantula.

"Could have fooled me," Jason shot back. "You’ve got that 'I’m about to give a lecture' face on."

"We just..." Dick stepped forward, looking at Peter as the boy walked in. His eyes softened, that confusing 'Biological Twin' instinct kicking in again. "We wanted to do this right. No masks. No sewers. We’re having a formal dinner at the Manor on Sunday. We want you both there. Officially."

"An invitation to the Fortress of Solitude?" Peter chirped, his spider-legs tucking themselves neatly into his hoodie. "Is there going to be a seating chart? Do I get to sit next to the giant penny?"

"Damian is insisting on a combat trial," Tim muttered, "but Bruce told him no. Mostly."

Bruce looked at Peter, his gaze heavy and analytical, but for the first time, there was a flicker of something like respect. "Jason says you're a scientist. I have a lab that makes yours look like a high school closet. I thought... you might want to see it. And perhaps we can discuss your 'rehabilitation' of Waylon Jones."

Peter looked at Jason. Jason gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod—the 'It’s your call, kid' look.

"Fine," Peter said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "We’ll come. But I’m bringing a plus-one."

"A plus-one?" Dick asked nervously. "Like... a girlfriend?"

"No," Peter grinned, his fangs peeking out. "I’m bringing my research. And maybe some of my organic webbing. I’ve been meaning to see how strong those chandeliers in the ballroom actually are."

Jason smirked, clapping Peter on the shoulder. "Get ready, Bruce. You’ve spent years dealing with one 'failed' Robin. Now you’ve got a Todd-raised Parker. You're going to wish you just stayed in the sewer."

The Sunday of the Wayne Manor dinner was approached with the same tactical precision as a bank heist. Jason spent an hour making sure Peter’s tie was straight, mostly because he knew the more "perfect" Peter looked, the more it would mess with Dick’s head.

"Remember," Jason said, checking his reflection one last time. "Don't just be smart. Be annoyingly smart. If Bruce tries to talk about justice, talk about molecular biology. If Dick tries to be the fun uncle, tell him he looks like your younger brother."

"Got it, Dad," Peter grinned, his four spider-legs twitching excitedly under his custom-tailored blazer.

The Arrival at the Manor
The massive oak doors of Wayne Manor were opened by Alfred, who didn't flinch—not even for a second—at the sight of Jason or the boy who looked like a carbon copy of a young Master Richard.

"Master Jason. Master Peter," Alfred bowed slightly. "Welcome home. Or, at least, welcome to the madness."

As they entered the grand dining hall, the atmosphere was thick. Bruce sat at the head of the table. Dick and Tim were on one side, and Damian was on the other, already stabbing a piece of kale with a steak knife as if it were an enemy combatant.

"You're late," Damian snapped.

"A Todd is never late, kid," Jason remarked, pulling out a chair for Peter. "We just arrive exactly when the tension is highest."

The Meal: Science and Spite

Dinner began with a heavy silence, broken only by the clinking of silverware. Dick spent the first ten minutes staring at Peter, then at his own reflection in a silver spoon, then back at Peter.

"So, Peter," Dick finally blurted out. "Jason says you... you like photography?"

"I do," Peter said, leaning back with an easy charm that made Bruce's eye twitch. "I actually built my own camera. It has a high-frequency sensor that can track objects moving at Mach 1. I’ve been using it to track the vibrations in the Gotham underground. Did you know the foundations of this Manor are shifting three millimetres to the left every year?"

Tim Drake froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. "Wait—three millimetres? I thought the tectonic stabilization was holding."

"It would be," Peter said, launching into a "Science-Mode" lecture, "if you weren't using a lead-based alloy for the support struts in the lower levels of the... uh... basement. It reacts poorly with Gotham’s acidic soil. I have some schematics for a polymer-based reinforcement if you're interested."

Bruce leaned forward, his detective instincts warring with his curiosity. "You designed a polymer that can withstand Gotham’s soil acidity? That's a problem Wayne Enterprises has been throwing millions at for three years."

"I did it in my bedroom last Tuesday," Peter shrugged. "It’s not that hard when you understand the bond-breaking patterns of the local silt."

The Damian Showdown

Damian, feeling the spotlight shift away from his own excellence, slammed his hand on the table. "Enough with the 'science'! You are a Meta-human. You infiltrated a secure zone and interfered with a high-level arrest. I wish to know your combat capabilities."

"Damian, no," Bruce warned.

"I am merely curious, Father!" Damian stood up, pointing a finger at Peter. "You look like Grayson, but do you fight like him? Or are you just a parasite with extra limbs?"

Peter didn't get angry. He just smiled—a slow, spider-like smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You want to see what I can do, Damian? Catch."

Peter flicked a grape off his plate.

As Damian reached out to grab it, Peter’s four spider-legs burst from his back with a terrifying hiss. They moved faster than the human eye could follow. One leg caught the grape, another pinned Damian’s wrist to the table (gently but firmly), and the other two framed Peter’s head like a dark, chitinous crown.

The room went dead silent.

"I don't fight like Dick," Peter said softly, his fangs peeking out just enough to glint in the chandelier light. "And I don't fight like my Dad. I'm something else entirely."

The Breaking Point (and the Prank)

Dick finally broke. He stood up, looking like he was about to have an existential crisis. "Jason! Look at him! He just pinned a trained assassin with a limb that came out of his spine! And he has my face! He has my face!"

Jason took a long, slow sip of his wine, enjoying every second of the chaos. "I told you, Dick. He’s my son. Maybe there’s a reason he looks like you. Maybe the universe just decided one 'Golden Boy' wasn't enough, so it gave me one I could actually raise right."

"Is he a clone?" Tim asked, pulling out a hidden tablet. "I’m looking at the DNA markers—"

"He’s not a clone, Timmy," Peter laughed, retracting his legs back into his blazer as if nothing had happened. He looked at Bruce, who was watching him with a mixture of fear and pride. "I’m just Peter. And honestly? I think I’m the only one in this room who actually knows how to fix that giant penny in the cave. It’s starting to rust near the rim."

Bruce sighed, rubbing his temples. He looked at Jason—the son he’d lost, who had come back not as a villain, but as a father. "Jason... he's brilliant. And dangerous."

"He's a Todd," Jason said, his voice dropping the spite for a brief moment of genuine warmth. "What did you expect?"

The Aftermath: A New Legend

As they left the Manor that night, Jason and Peter walked toward the Aston Martin.

"So," Peter said, looking back at the dark towers of the Manor. "How did I do?"

"You made Dick cry, you made Tim question his own intelligence, and you made Damian look like a toddler," Jason said, opening the car door. "I’d say it’s a 10/10."

"And Bruce?"

Jason paused, looking at the shadow of Batman standing at the balcony, watching them leave. "Bruce is terrified, Pete. Because he knows that with you and me together... Gotham finally has a pair of heroes it can't control."

Peter hopped into the passenger seat, his spider-sense humming with the thrill of a new world. "Can we go check on Waylon now? I promised him I’d bring him some of Alfred’s leftovers."

"Sure, kid," Jason laughed, revving the engine. "Let's go feed the crocodile."

The following weeks in Gotham were a whirlwind of secret lab sessions and rooftop patrols. Under Peter’s care, Waylon Jones looked less like a monster and more like a massive, prehistoric man. His scales had smoothed into a shimmering, emerald-black leather, and his mind was sharper than it had been in decades.

But as Peter worked on the final 25% of the cure, Gotham’s most chaotic element decided to introduce himself.

The Swamp: The 75% Mark

Deep in the Blackgate marshes, Waylon sat on a submerged log. He was wearing a massive pair of custom trousers Jason had bought him. His face, once distorted and jagged, now looked almost human—thick-jawed and rugged, with intelligent, golden eyes.

"I can feel my toes, Little Spider," Waylon rumbled, looking at his hands. The claws were gone, replaced by thick, black nails. "The hunger... it’s just a whisper now. Not a scream."

Peter sat across from him, adjusting a centrifuge. "That’s the 75% mark, Waylon. Your neural pathways are repairing. You’re not a 'Croc' anymore. You’re just Waylon."

"The Bat came by yesterday," Waylon said, his voice gravelly but calm. "He didn't bring shackles. He brought a file. A job offer. Security for Wayne shipping docks."

Peter grinned. "See? I told you he’d come around."

Suddenly, Peter’s Spider-Sense didn't just hum—it screamed. It was a high-pitched, jagged vibration that felt like needles in his brain.

"Waylon, get back!" Peter yelled, his four spider-legs snapping out to hoist him into the canopy just as a canister of purple gas hissed into the clearing.

The Interaction: The Clown and the Spider

From the fog of the gas emerged a figure in a bleached-purple suit. The Joker stepped into the swamp, holding a handkerchief over his nose and a detonator in his other hand. He looked bored until he saw Peter clinging to the underside of a cypress branch.

"Oh... look at you," Joker giggled, the sound like glass grinding together. "Jason’s little secret. The 'New Grayson.' But you’ve got... oh, you’ve got so many bits and bobs sticking out of your back, don't you?"

Peter dropped down, his spider-legs clicking as they hit the mud. He didn't feel fear—he felt a cold, multiversal revulsion. This man felt like a "glitch" in the soul of the world.

"You must be the Joker," Peter said, his fangs sliding out. "My Dad told me about you. He said you were a 'one-hit wonder' who hit a kid with a crowbar because you weren't funny enough to get a real laugh."

The Joker’s smile didn't falter, but his eyes went cold. "Is that what he told you? How sweet. I was hoping for something more... theatrical. You look so much like the first bird, yet you smell like a bug. Tell me, Bug-Boy, does Jason know you're playing doctor with a lizard?"

"He knows I'm fixing what you and this city broke," Peter stepped forward, his extra legs arching over his head like a scorpion’s tail.

"Fixing things is boring!" Joker shrieked, suddenly pulling a snub-nosed revolver. "Laughter is about the break! Let's see how many of those legs I can snap before you cry for Daddy!"

Before Joker could pull the trigger, the water behind him erupted.

A 75%-healed Waylon Jones rose like a titan. He didn't roar like a beast; he moved with the calculated strength of a man who had regained his soul. He grabbed Joker’s arm, the bones crunching audibly under his massive grip.

"The Boy is under my protection, Clown," Waylon growled.

Peter didn't hesitate. He shot a strand of organic webbing, snatching the gun from Joker’s hand, then used two spider-legs to pin the Joker against a tree, his face inches from the villain's.

"I've seen monsters in my old world that would make you look like a birthday clown, Jack," Peter whispered, his voice vibrating with a hidden power. "You're not a force of nature. You're just a bully with bad makeup. If you ever come near this swamp again, I won't just web you up. I’ll let Waylon show you what 'nature' really looks like."

Waylon tossed the Joker into the muck like a piece of trash. Peter quickly webbed him into a cocoon that would take the GCPD hours to cut through.

The Official Team-Up: The Bat-Signal

An hour later, Peter and Jason were standing on a rooftop near the GCPD, watching the Bat-Signal cut through the clouds. Batman and Nightwing were already there, looking at a report on their tablets.

"You caught the Joker," Batman said, not turning around as Peter and Jason landed behind them. "In the swamp. With Waylon Jones."

"Waylon did most of the heavy lifting," Peter said, retracting his legs into his jacket. "I just did the interior decorating."

Nightwing walked over, looking at Peter with a grin. "The Joker’s jaw is dislocated, and he kept mumbling about a 'Spider-Demon' and a 'Golden Giant.' You did good, kid. Really good."

"He's ready," Bruce said, finally turning to Jason. "There’s a shipment of Scarecrow’s toxin moving through the East End tonight. We’re intercepting. We could use a... specialist."

Jason looked at Peter, then back at Bruce. "He’s a Todd-Parker, Bruce. He doesn't take orders."

"I'm not giving them," Bruce replied, a rare, microscopic ghost of a smile appearing on his face. "I'm asking for a partner."

Peter looked up at the Gotham skyline. He thought about the universe that had tried to erase him, and then he looked at his Dad, his 'Uncle' Dick, and the giant Bat.

"I'm in," Peter said, pulling his mask down. "But I get to drive the car on the way back."

"No," Batman and Jason said in perfect unison.

"Worth a shot!" Peter laughed, launching himself off the roof and into the dark, welcoming night of his new home.

The mission to the East End docks was the first time the "Spider of Gotham" truly integrated with the Bat-Family's tactical rhythm. It was a symphony of shadows, high-tech gadgets, and biological anomalies.

The Mission: The East End Docks
The air was thick with the smell of salt and a faint, chemical sweetness that made Peter’s Spider-Sense hum at a low, persistent frequency. Scarecrow’s men were loading crates of a new, aerosolized "Fear-Fog" onto a freighter.

"Targets in sight," Nightwing’s voice crackled over the comms. He was perched on a crane, silhouetted against the moon. "Twenty armed guards. Crane operator is twitchy. Scarecrow is in the center, checking the canisters."

"Peter, take the rafters," Batman’s voice was a low rumble. "Wait for my signal."

Peter didn't respond with words. He clicked his tongue, and his four spider-legs pushed him silently up the corrugated metal siding of the warehouse. He moved with a fluidity that made even Dick Grayson look clumsy. In the dark, with his dark-red-and-black suit, he looked less like a boy and more like a predatory shadow.

"Now," Batman commanded.

The warehouse exploded into chaos. Batman and Jason (Red Hood) dropped into the center of the crowd like twin hammers. But it was Peter who stole the show.

He dropped from the ceiling, his organic webbing snagging three canisters of toxin before they could be opened. His spider-legs acted as independent fighters—one parrying a crowbar, another tripping a guard, while Peter himself used his superhuman strength to web Scarecrow’s primary atomizer to the floor.

"Who... what are you?" Jonathan Crane hissed, his mask trembling as he looked up at Peter.

Peter tilted his head, his four extra limbs swaying menacingly behind him. "I'm the guy who’s about to put you in a very small, very dark box, Dr. Crane. And trust me—I've seen things way scarier than a guy in a burlap sack."

With a swift thwip-thwip, Scarecrow was cocooned. The mission was over in less than six minutes.

The Aftermath: The Proposal

As the GCPD arrived to haul away the unconscious guards, the four vigilantes stood on the pier. Jason was cleaning his gear, while Dick was busy trying to figure out how Peter had managed to web a guard to a moving crane without breaking the man's ribs.

"Impressive," Bruce said, walking over to Peter. He looked at the boy—really looked at him—and saw the potential Jason had been bragging about. "Your tactical awareness is... advanced."

"I've had practice," Peter said, retracting his legs. He looked at Jason, then back at Bruce. "And speaking of advanced, I finished the final stabilization for Waylon’s serum this morning. He’s 100% cognitively restored. The scales are permanent, but the 'Croc' is gone. He’s just Waylon now."

Bruce nodded slowly. "I heard about the Joker incident. Waylon showed remarkable restraint."

"He’s a good man, Bruce," Peter said, his voice earnest. "He just needs to know that people see him as one. Which is why..." Peter paused, a mischievous glint entering his eyes. "I think he should come over for lunch. At the Manor. This Sunday."

The silence that followed was so heavy you could have anchored a ship with it.

Dick choked on his own breath. "Wait—you want to bring Killer Croc to Alfred’s dining room? For a 'thank you' lunch?"

"He saved my life, Dick," Peter said, crossing his arms. "And he’s been a better friend to me in three months than most people were in my... well, in a long time. Plus, Alfred already told me he’s been wanting to try his new brisket recipe on someone with a 'hearty appetite.'"

Jason started laughing—a genuine, loud sound that echoed over the water. "Oh, please say yes, Bruce. I want to see the look on the neighbors' faces when a seven-foot-tall lizard-man in a custom suit walks up the driveway."

Bruce looked at Peter’s hopeful face, then at Jason’s goading smirk. He sighed, the sound of a man who knew he was about to lose another battle to a teenager.

"Sunday," Bruce muttered, turning toward the Batmobile. "But tell him... tell him to leave the swamp-water at the door. And Jason? If he eats the chandelier, it’s coming out of your inheritance."

"Deal!" Peter cheered, shooting a web-line into the night sky. "I'll go tell Waylon to get his suit ready! We’re going to the Manor, Dad!"

Jason watched Peter swing away, then looked at Bruce. "You're getting soft, old man."

"No," Bruce replied as the engine of the Batmobile roared to life. "I’m just outnumbered."

The Sunday "Thank You" lunch at Wayne Manor was destined to be a chapter in Gotham history—or at least a very long entry in Alfred’s private journal.

The Arrival of Waylon Jones

A custom-built, extra-wide black SUV pulled up the gravel driveway. Jason stepped out, looking like a smug bodyguard, and opened the rear door. Out stepped Waylon Jones. He was wearing a 5XL charcoal suit that Jason had commissioned from a tailor who was too terrified to ask for measurements.

Waylon looked magnificent and terrifying. His emerald-dark scales gleamed in the sunlight, and his golden eyes were calm. He adjusted his tie with a finger that could crush a bowling ball.

"Remember, Waylon," Peter said, hopping out beside him, looking sharp in a navy blazer. "If you get nervous, just talk about the brisket. Everyone loves the brisket."

"I am... dignified," Waylon rumbled, his voice no longer a growl, but a deep, resonant bass.

The door opened. Alfred stood there, his expression as unmoving as the Sphinx. "Mr. Jones. A pleasure. I have prepared a chair reinforced with titanium struts for your comfort."

Waylon nodded solemnly. "You are a man of taste, Butler."

The Lunch: Physics and Future Plans

The meal was a bizarre masterpiece. Bruce sat at the head of the table, watching a man he had punched into unconsciousness dozens of times politely use a custom-made oversized fork to eat salad.

"So," Peter said, breaking the tension as he used a spider-leg to grab a salt shaker from across the table without looking. "I’ve been thinking. Now that I’m 'legal' and the universe isn't trying to delete me anymore... I should probably do something about my education."

Bruce looked up. "I was going to suggest Gotham Academy. It’s the best preparatory school in the—"

"I was thinking of skipping it," Peter interrupted, mid-chew. "I’ve already got a high school diploma from... well, from where I came from. And honestly, Bruce, I’m currently gene-sequencing reptilian DNA and hacking encrypted Bat-servers. I think ninth-grade algebra might be a step back."

"He wants to go straight to University," Jason added, leaning back. "Gotham U or maybe Metropolis. He wants a dual degree in Biochemistry and Theoretical Physics."

"I want to meet the big players," Peter’s eyes sparked. "Specifically, I want to see how the 'Man of Steel' functions. The cellular density of a Kryptonian under a yellow sun... it's fascinating. And Wonder Woman? Her equipment is magical, right? I want to see if magic is just science we don't understand yet."

Bruce’s jaw tightened. "The Justice League is a serious organization, Peter. Not a science fair."

"I know," Peter grinned. "That's why I want to start with someone a bit more... corporate. I want to meet Lex Luthor."

The table went silent. Even Waylon stopped chewing his brisket.

"Luthor is a snake," Jason growled. "A smart one, but a snake."

"Exactly!" Peter said. "He thinks he's the smartest man in the world. I want to go to a LexCorp expo and just... talk to him. Maybe put his mind for a spin. I've read his papers on xenobiology. They're... okay. But he misses some very basic multiversal constants."

The LexCorp Encounter: The Baffling of a Billionaire

Two weeks later, Bruce (under intense pressure from Peter and Jason) arranged for "Peter Todd" to attend a private LexCorp tech showcase in Metropolis.

Lex Luthor stood on the stage, basking in the light of his new "Infinite Energy" generator. After the speech, he moved through the crowd of sycophants until he found himself in front of a teenage boy with messy hair and a very expensive suit.

"And who is this?" Lex asked, his voice smooth and condescending. "Another Wayne ward?"

"Peter Todd," Peter said, shaking Lex’s hand. He let his grip be just a fraction too firm, sensing the micro-vibrations of Lex's pulse. "I enjoyed your lecture, Mr. Luthor. Especially the part where you theorized that the sub-atomic particles in the generator were behaving according to the 4th Law of Thermodynamics."

Lex smirked. "I’m glad someone could follow along, child."

"The thing is," Peter continued, tilting his head with that classic Parker curiosity, "you're assuming a closed-loop system. But if you account for the Parker-Stark Constant—which, granted, hasn't been discovered in this reality yet—you’d realize that your generator is actually bleeding 15% of its potential into the 'Bleed' between dimensions. If you don't recalibrate the flux capacitors to a 1:4 ratio, this whole building is going to start vibrating at a frequency that turns glass into liquid in about... six months."

Lex’s smirk vanished. He stared at Peter. "The... what constant? Flux capacitors? That's science fiction."

"Is it?" Peter pulled out a small tablet and swiped a complex equation onto the screen. "Look at the way the electrons are clustering here. They aren't spinning; they're folding. You're trying to measure a 5D event with 3D tools, Lex. It’s like trying to catch the wind with a fork."

For the first time in his life, Lex Luthor looked genuinely baffled. He grabbed the tablet, his eyes scanning the math. The equations were beautiful, terrifying, and completely foreign.

"Who... who taught you this?" Lex whispered, his face pale.

"I’m self-taught," Peter lied effortlessly, giving a sharp, fanged grin. "But if you ever want a real challenge, you should come to Gotham. My Dad says you're the smartest man in the world, but I think you're just not looking at the big picture. Or the small one. Or the one that exists five inches to the left of reality."

As Peter walked away, he heard Lex barking at his assistants to "Get Bruce Wayne on the phone immediately."

Peter tapped his comms. "Did you catch that, Dad?"

"Every word, Pete," Jason’s voice chuckled in his ear. "I think you just gave the smartest man in the world a permanent headache."

"Good," Peter whispered, looking up as a streak of red and blue blurred across the Metropolis sky. "Now... let's see if I can flag down Superman. I have some questions about his heat vision."

Lex Luthor spent the next three days locked in his private lab, staring at a napkin Peter had doodled on, muttering about "multiversal constants" while his hair—if he had any—would have been falling out. But Peter had already moved on. He was done with the corporate sharks; he wanted to meet the "Gods."

The Mid-Air "Bump": The Flash

Peter wasn't in Metropolis just for the tech expo. He had heard rumors that the "Fastest Man Alive" often took the scenic route through the Midwest on his way back to Central City.

Peter found a high-altitude bridge near the border and waited. He wasn't swinging; he was perched on the very tip of a suspension cable, his four spider-legs tucked tight against his back to minimize wind resistance. Suddenly, his Spider-Sense didn't just tingle—it sounded like a choir hitting a high note.

Zip.

A streak of yellow lightning blurred across the bridge.

Peter didn't hesitate. He lunged, not at the streak, but ahead of it, shooting a high-tension web-line to a passing hawk (gently) and using the momentum to slingshot himself into the air.

"Hey! Quick question!" Peter yelled, his voice amplified by the sheer speed of his descent.

Barry Allen, the Flash, skidded to a halt so fast he left scorch marks on the asphalt. He looked up, eyes wide behind his cowl, as a teenager in a red-and-black suit landed in a perfect three-point crouch, four extra limbs unfurling like a crown.

"Whoa!" Barry blurred forward, circling Peter ten times in a second. "New hero? Mutation? Extra appendages? Are those biological or Stark-tech? Wait, who’s Stark? Why did I say that? You’re vibrating at a really weird frequency, kid!"

"That's exactly what I wanted to ask!" Peter chirped, his eyes bright. "So, the Speed Force—is it a kinetic energy reservoir or a sentient temporal dimension? And when you hit the chronal barrier, do you feel a shift in the Higgs Boson field, or does your mass just become purely energetic? Also, do you have to eat a literal ton of glucose to maintain your cellular ATP levels, or does the Force handle the caloric deficit for you?"

Barry blinked. Then he blinked again, faster. "I... uh... glucose? Usually just a lot of pizza. Wait, how do you know about the Higgs Boson field? And why are you 'leaking' chronal energy? You look like you’ve been through a blender made of reality."

"Long story," Peter grinned, his fangs peeking out. "I'm Peter. I'm a friend of the Red Hood. Tell your friends in the League I’m not a glitch—I’m a feature!"

Before Barry could ask another question, Peter shot a web and swung into the tree line, leaving the Flash standing in the middle of a cornfield, scratching his head and wondering if he’d finally run too fast and cracked his own brain.

The Farm: Meeting the Kents

Later that afternoon, Jason drove their SUV down a long, dusty road in Smallville. He’d made a few calls. Bruce had tried to stop them, but Clark Kent—the big blue boy scout himself—had overheard the conversation with his super-hearing and invited them over. He was curious about the "Spider-Todd" he’d heard so much about.

The Kents were waiting on the porch of the farmhouse. Clark looked like a normal farmer in flannel, but Peter’s Spider-Sense was humming a deep, harmonic bass note just being near him.

"Jason," Clark said, shaking Jason’s hand with a grip that could move mountains. "Good to see you back among the living. And this must be Peter."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Superman—I mean, Mr. Kent," Peter said, trying to be polite, though his spider-legs were twitching with the urge to take a DNA swab.

"Call me Clark," he smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made Peter feel like everything in the world was going to be okay. "This is my wife, Lois, and our son, Jon."

Jon Kent, about Peter's physical age, hovered a few inches off the porch. "Whoa! Are those real? The legs?"

"Totally real," Peter said. He let them out, and one of them reached out to high-five Jon. "They have their own sensory nodes. It’s like having six hands, but four of them can walk on walls."

The afternoon was the most "normal" Peter had felt since the MCU. They sat around a wooden table, eating Lois's famous pie. But Peter couldn't help himself.

"So, Clark," Peter started, leaning forward. "The yellow sun radiation—is it stored in your vacuoles, or is your entire cellular structure acting as a living photovoltaic cell? And the heat vision... is that a focused release of stored solar energy through the optic nerves, or are you actually tapping into a sub-dimension of pure heat? Because if it’s the latter, the thermal output should technically be melting your retinas unless you have a regenerative factor that works at the speed of light."

Lois choked on her tea, laughing. "I like him, Jason. He’s like a mini-Bruce, but with manners and... well, extra parts."

Clark chuckled, looking at Peter with genuine interest. "It’s more of a biological battery, Peter. But I’ve never thought about the optic nerve resonance before. Maybe we could head to the Fortress sometime? I have some Kryptonian archives that might answer those questions better than I can."

Peter’s eyes went wide. "The Fortress? Like, the one in the Arctic? With the crystals and the alien tech?"

"Only if your Dad says it's okay," Clark winked at Jason.

Jason sighed, looking at his son’s vibrating excitement. "Fine. But if he tries to rewire your sun-eater or whatever you’ve got up there, don't say I didn't warn you."

As the sun set over the cornfields, Peter sat on the porch with Jon, the two of them swapping stories about being "super-kids" in a world of humans. For the first time, Peter didn't feel like a "glitch" or an erased memory. He was a Todd, he was a Spider, and he was officially part of the biggest family in the universe.

The Watchtower was unusually loud for a Tuesday. Barry Allen was pacing so fast he was blurring into a red smudge, while Diana Prince stood with her arms crossed, her brow furrowed in deep thought.

In the centre of the room, Batman sat at the primary console, his stoic expression betraying nothing as the two heroes bombarded him with reports.

"He’s a scientific anomaly, Bruce!" Barry blurred to a halt, his hands gesturing wildly. "He asked me about Higgs Boson fields and ATP glucose levels mid-run. No thirteen-year-old knows that. Also, he’s leaking chronal energy like a cracked battery. He’s not just a meta; he’s a multiversal tourist!"

"And he is a warrior," Diana added, her voice resonant. "I spoke with Clark. He told me the boy’s instinctual movements are refined—ancient, almost. He moves with the grace of the Great Weaver. But Jason Todd calls him 'son'? We both know the math of that does not hold, Bruce."

"He is a Todd," Bruce said, his voice a low, final rumble. "That is all you need to know for now. He’s under my protection, and more importantly, he’s under Jason’s. If you want to interview him, you’ll have to go through the Red Hood. And I wouldn't recommend it."

The Fortress: The "Alien" Glitch

Meanwhile, at the North Pole, Peter was having the time of his life. He was standing in the heart of the Fortress of Solitude, surrounded by towering crystals that hummed with Kryptonian history.

Clark had brought him to the main terminal to see if the archives had any record of his specific mutation. Peter stepped onto the scanning platform, his four spider-legs twitching in curiosity as a pale blue light washed over him.

"SCAN COMPLETE," the crystalline voice of the Fortress echoed. "IDENTIFICATION: UNKNOWN BIOLOGICAL ENTITY. ORIGIN: EXTRA-DIMENSIONAL. CLASSIFICATION: ALIEN VAGABOND / TEMPORAL ANOMALY."

Peter burst out laughing, the sound echoing off the ice walls. "An alien vagabond? Did you hear that, Dad? I’m officially a legal alien! I should get a green card for the whole multiverse."

Jason, standing nearby in a heavy tactical parka, smirked. "Great. Now I’m raising an undocumented inter-dimensional spider. Just what I needed for my tax returns."

Clark, however, looked thoughtful. "The Fortress doesn't recognise your DNA at all, Peter. To this world, you are a complete blank slate. You’re not just from another planet; you’re from a different story."

"I like it," Peter said, jumping off the platform and sticking to the ceiling just to see if the Fortress would react. "It means the rules haven't been written for me yet."

The Return: The Ghost from the Past

The trip back to Gotham was quiet, with Peter buzzing about Kryptonian crystalline structures and Jason just happy to be heading back to a city that didn't require five layers of wool.

They arrived at Wayne Manor for a debrief, but the moment they stepped into the foyer, the air changed. Alfred wasn't there to greet them. Instead, Bruce was standing in the center of the room, looking more unsettled than Peter had ever seen him.

"Jason, Peter," Bruce said, his voice tight. "We have a... visitor. She’s been waiting in the library for three hours. She refused to speak to anyone but the 'Spider'."

"Who is it?" Jason’s hand moved instinctively toward his holster.

"She didn't give a name," Bruce replied. "But she said something. She said she was looking for the boy whose 'brother' used to call him the Man of Spiders."

Peter froze. His heart skipped a beat. Man of Spiders. That wasn't a DC name. That was a name from a world of Norse gods and golden portals. That was a name only one person had used—someone who saw the world in shades of mischief and magic.

Peter pushed past Bruce and ran toward the library, his spider-legs bursting from his back in his haste, clicking against the marble floor. He threw the doors open.

Sitting in a high-backed velvet chair, silhouetted by the fireplace, was a woman with long, dark hair and eyes that seemed to hold the secrets of a thousand worlds. She wore clothes that looked like high-fashion armour, shimmering with a faint, green iridescent light.

She turned, a sharp, knowing smile spreading across her face as she looked at Peter.

"Well," she said, her voice like silk and daggers. "You’ve grown. And you’ve found yourself a much grittier playground, haven't you, Peter Parker?"

Peter’s breath hitched. "You... how are you here? The spell... everyone forgot."

"The spells of a Midgardian wizard don't work on those of us who have walked the paths between the stars," she said, standing up. "My brother is... currently unavailable. But he sent me to find his favourite little weaver. He thought you might need an ally in a world full of 'Bats' and 'Men of Tomorrow'."

Jason stepped into the room, his eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

The woman looked at Jason, then back at Peter, her smile widening. "You can call me Hela. And I believe my brother, Loki, owes this child a debt for a certain 'glorious purpose' he once fulfilled."

The library of Wayne Manor felt significantly smaller with a Goddess of Death sitting in one of the armchairs. The air around Hela shimmered with a cold, green static that made the fine hairs on Bruce’s neck stand up.

"Peter," Bruce said, his voice dropping into his 'Batman' interrogation tone. "Explain. Now."

Peter looked at the Bat-family—Bruce, Dick, and Tim all looking like they were ready to initiate a containment protocol—and then at Jason, who looked like he was five seconds away from trying to shoot a Goddess.

"Everyone, chill! Seriously," Peter said, waving his hands (and two of his spider-legs) to get them to lower their guard. "This is Hela. She’s... well, she’s literally a Goddess of Death. But in my old world, she was more like... a really intense, terrifying God-Aunt."

"God-Aunt?" Dick choked out. "Peter, she looks like she could end the world with a thought."

"I could," Hela said smoothly, checking her fingernails. "But Peter is one of the few mortals my brother actually found... tolerable. Loki has a soft spot for outcasts and 'glitches' in the timeline."

The Conversation: Jason and the Goddess

Jason didn't lower his guard. He stepped forward, putting himself between Peter and Hela. "I don't care if you're a Goddess or the Queen of England. You're talking about my son like he’s a chess piece Loki left behind. What do you want with him?"

Hela looked at Jason, her eyes trailing over the white streak in his hair and the jagged scars of his past. She didn't look annoyed; she looked impressed.

"You have been through the veil of death yourself, haven't you, Little Ghost?" she purred. "I can smell the Lazarus pits on you. It’s a foul scent, but it gives you a certain... perspective."

She stood up, walking toward Jason until she was inches away. "I am not here to take him. My brother, Loki, has ascended to a position where he oversees the very threads of time. He saw Peter fall through the cracks of the MCU. He saw the universe try to delete him. And he saw you catch him."

Hela turned her gaze back to Peter. "Loki calls him the 'Man of Spiders' because he is the weaver who connects things that shouldn't be connected. Loki wants him to thrive here. He sent me to ensure that no 'Cosmic Janitors' come to finish the job the other universe started."

Peter’s Memory: The God of Mischief
Peter sat on the edge of a mahogany desk, his mind racing back to the moments before the "Great Erase." He remembered a quiet conversation with Loki during a multiversal tremor—the God of Mischief, dressed in fine Asgardian green, looking at Peter with a rare moment of sincerity.

"You are a brave little spider," Loki had said, his hand resting on Peter’s shoulder. "The universe is a cruel author, Peter Parker. If it tries to close your book, find another library."

"He really liked me," Peter whispered, a small smile forming. "He taught me that being a 'glitch' isn't a weakness. It means you’re the only person who can see the cracks in the wall."

The Plan
Hela looked at Bruce. "Your 'Justice League' is charming, Batman. But they deal with physical threats. Peter is a temporal anomaly. If the Universe decides to try and 'reset' Gotham to get rid of him, your Batarangs will be useless. I am here to provide the... mystical shielding."

"And what's the catch?" Jason asked, his arms crossed. "Gods don't do favors for free."

"The catch," Hela said, her form beginning to fade into a mist of green and black, "is that I find this city hilarious. It’s so dark, so miserable, so full of souls screaming for release. I think I’ll stay a while. Perhaps I'll open a gallery. Or a mortuary."

She looked at Peter one last time. "Grow strong, Little Weaver. My brother is watching. And Jason Todd? Try not to die again. It’s a nightmare filing the paperwork for a soul that won't stay put."

With a wink, she vanished, leaving the library smelling of ancient ozone and expensive perfume.

The Fallout
The room was silent for a long beat.

"So," Tim Drake said, finally breaking the silence. "Peter has a Goddess of Death as a babysitter, and a Time-God as a patron. Does this mean he's officially the most powerful person in Gotham?"

"It means," Bruce said, rubbing his temples, "that our 'Thank You' lunch with Killer Croc was actually the most normal thing that happened this week."

Peter looked at Jason. "Does this mean I still have to do my homework?"

Jason let out a long breath, finally holstering his gun. "Yeah, Pete. Especially history. I have a feeling you’re going to be making a lot of it."

Gotham was a city that specialized in "weird," but even by those standards, the arrival of a literal Goddess of Death and a teenage boy who was overqualified for physics was a lot to handle.

Hela’s Gallery: "The Underworld"

Hela didn't waste any time. Within a week, she had purchased a historic, crumbling cathedral in the Diamond District and turned it into The Underworld Art Gallery. It was filled with statues that looked a little too lifelike and paintings that seemed to bleed if you stared at them for too long.

Bruce tried to send undercover agents to monitor it, but Hela simply turned the hidden cameras into decorative gargoyles. She spent her afternoons sipping tea and critiquing the fashion choices of Gotham’s elite, while Bruce and Jason just hoped she wouldn't accidentally start an apocalypse because she was bored.

First Day at Gotham University (GU)
Peter, now officially enrolled as a prodigy student under the name Peter Todd, walked onto the campus of Gotham University. He wasn't wearing a cape or a mask; he had on a worn-out Midtown High sweatshirt (a relic he’d managed to recreate) and a backpack that sat suspiciously high on his back because his spider-legs were currently folded into a compact, dormant state.

Jason had dropped him off in the Aston Martin, leaning out the window to shout, "Don't get expelled on day one, Pete! And if anyone calls you a nerd, remember—you have a God-Aunt who can harvest their soul!"

Peter had just waved him off, face red with embarrassment.

The Interaction: The Lab
His first class was Advanced Theoretical Physics. The professor, a man named Dr. Miles, was halfway through a lecture on quantum entanglement that Peter had mastered when he was fifteen in his old world.

Peter sat in the back, scribbling notes—not about the lecture, but about a new web-fluid formula that could withstand Hela's mystical energy.

"Mr. Todd?" Dr. Miles called out, noticing Peter’s lack of attention. "Since you seem to find the Einstein-Podolsky-Rosen paradox so mundane, perhaps you can explain the decoherence of a subatomic particle in a non-vacuum state?"

The room went quiet. A few upperclassmen snickered. Peter blinked, looked at the board, and stood up.

"Well," Peter started, walking toward the chalkboard. "You’re using the standard Copenhagen interpretation, which is fine for a 101 class. But if you account for the Schrödinger-Stark variables," he paused, realizing Stark didn't exist here, "I mean... if you look at the way the wave function collapses in a multi-phasic environment, the decoherence isn't a loss of information. It’s a transition."

He grabbed a piece of chalk and began writing equations at a speed that made the chalk scream.

"You're treating the particle as a point," Peter said, his fangs peeking out in a small, confident smirk. "But it’s a fold. If you solve for the 'Ghost' frequency, the decoherence disappears."

He finished the equation and handed the chalk back to the stunned professor. "Also, your third line has a carry-over error. You forgot to square the constant."

The Interaction: New "Friends"
After class, Peter was swamped by a group of grad students.

"Where did you learn to calculate multi-phasic folds?" a girl named Steph asked, looking at him with wide eyes. "I'm a junior and I've been struggling with that for months."

"I had a really good mentor," Peter said, thinking of Tony and Loki. "He was a bit of an ego-maniac, but he knew his math."

"You're that Todd kid, right?" another guy asked. "The one who came out of nowhere at the Wayne Gala? People say you're Bruce Wayne’s secret nephew or something."

"Something like that," Peter laughed, feeling his Spider-Sense give a tiny, playful nudge. He felt a familiar presence. He looked toward the window and saw a crow perched on the ledge, its eyes glowing with a faint green light. Hela was "babysitting" again.

"Is that your bird?" Steph asked, following his gaze.

"That's my... uh... Aunt’s messenger," Peter said, adjusting his backpack. "Look, I have to go meet my Dad. He gets twitchy if I’m late for 'training.'"

The Evening: The Bridge Between Worlds
Later that night, Peter sat on the roof of Hela’s gallery, looking out at the Gotham skyline. Hela walked out onto the balcony below him, her dark robes trailing like smoke.

"How was your 'learning'?" she asked.

"Boring," Peter admitted, dropping down to sit on the railing near her. "But I think I'm starting to like it here. People are starting to forget I'm a 'glitch' and starting to think I'm just... a genius."

"You are both, Man of Spiders," Hela said, looking out at the city. "Loki was right. This world needed a bit of chaos to balance out the Bat’s order. And you? You're the perfect bridge."

Peter looked at his hands. They didn't flicker anymore. The universe had stopped trying to erase him. He had a Dad who would fight Gods for him, a family of caped lunatics who (mostly) liked him, and a Goddess of Death who kept the crows in check.

"I think I'm gonna stay for a while," Peter said, his spider-legs unfurling and stretching out into the cold Gotham air.

"Good," Hela purred. "I was worried I'd have to haunt your father to keep things interesting."

The day Peter Todd walked onto the Watchtower, he didn’t just enter a space station; he entered a lion’s den of parental instincts.

Because Bruce had been "slow-walking" the introduction, the rest of the Justice League had reached a fever pitch of curiosity. The moment the Zeta-Tube announced "Red Hood: 06, Spider-Todd: Guest," the main hall went silent.

Peter stepped out, his four spider-legs tucked into a sleek, Wayne-tech backpack, looking every bit the prodigy. Beside him, Jason stood with his arms crossed, looking like a protective pitbull in a leather jacket.

It took exactly three minutes for the League to lose their professional cool.

"Oh, he’s adorable," Black Canary whispered, her eyes softening. "He has the spirit of a champion," Diana said, already imagining the Amazonian training she could gift him. "I could teach him how to build a Hard-Light construct in an afternoon," Hal Jordan muttered, reaching for his ring.

It was a sea of "adoption eyes." Every hero in the room looked at Peter and saw a protege, a son, or a legacy. Jason growled, "Back off, the kid’s taken. One billionaire father-figure is enough trauma for any childhood."

The Kid in the Cape

While the adults were posturing, Peter’s Spider-Sense gave a weird, static-like hum. He turned to see a mountain of a man in a red suit with a glowing lightning bolt on his chest. Shazam.

Peter looked up, his eyes narrowing. "Wait a second..." he muttered, his extra legs unfurling slightly to sense the air around the hero. "Your bio-resonance... it doesn't match your physical mass. You’re displaced."

Shazam froze, looking around nervously. "Uh, what? No, I'm a big, strong adult man! See? Muscles!"

Peter walked a slow circle around him. "Your vocal cords are vibrating at a frequency consistent with a prepubescent male. Oh my god... are you my age?"

Shazam’s eyes went wide. He looked at Batman, who gave a nearly invisible nod. With a sudden, thunderous "SHAZAM!" a bolt of magical lightning struck the center of the Watchtower. When the smoke cleared, the seven-foot titan was gone. Standing there was a boy in a red hoodie and sneakers.

"I'm Billy," the boy said, grinning sheepishly. "Billy Batson."

Peter’s jaw dropped, then he broke into a massive, fanged grin. "I knew it! Dude, you’re a magical transformation! That is so much cooler than gene-splicing!"

The two boys immediately huddled in a corner, Peter explaining the physics of the Speed Force while Billy explained the Wisdom of Solomon (which, according to Billy, mostly helped him pass history tests). For the first time, Peter didn't just have family; he had a peer.

The Weaver’s Throne

Far beyond the Watchtower, beyond the reach of the New Gods or the Source Wall, a man sat upon a throne of golden threads. Loki, the God of Stories, watched the image of Peter and Billy laughing in the pool of a temporal well.

Loki ran a finger over a shimmering strand of reality—one that was dark, gritty, and smelled of Gotham rain. "The universe tried to close your book, little spider," Loki whispered, his voice full of a rare, genuine affection. "But a story this good doesn't end. It simply changes genres."

He watched as a piece of Peter's soul—the part that had been cold and jagged since the Erasure—finally snapped into place. "The first chapter is finished," Loki smiled. "Let us see what the sequel brings."

Back to the Manor: Nano-Tech and Star Wars

Back in Gotham, Peter was on a roll. He had Tim Drake cornered in the Batcave, three holographic screens open between them.

"No, Tim, listen! You’re using rigid micro-plating," Peter groaned, his spider-legs gesturing wildly. "If you switch to a self-assembling carbon-nanotube lattice, the suit won't just protect you—it’ll heal itself. I can show you how to program the sub-atomic 'brain' of the metal. It’s how Tony used to—" He caught himself. "It's how I think it should be done."

Tim was frantically taking notes, his eyes wide. "Peter, if this works, we could revolutionize the entire tactical line."

"Yeah, yeah, science is great," Peter said, bouncing on his heels as he saw Hela walking through the Cave, looking entirely too elegant for a basement. "But Aunt Hela! I have to finish my rant from earlier!"

Hela stopped, raising an eyebrow. "Is this about the 'Space Wizards' and the 'Laser Swords' again, Peter?"

"It's called Star Wars, Hela! And the science of a Kyber crystal is actually really interesting—"

"Peter," Hela interrupted, her voice cool and strangely nostalgic. "I’ve told you. That 'fiction' you enjoy? I’m fairly certain I met a race of light-wielding monks in the outer galaxies of the Great Void eons ago. They were insufferably moralistic, but their weapons were quite effective. I believe a few of their colonies are still hidden in the deep sectors of this universe."

Peter froze, his eyes dinner-plate large. "Wait... you think the Jedi are real? Like, in this galaxy?"

"I don't 'think' it, child. I know it. Perhaps when you're older, we'll take a trip."

The Crash of Thunder-
Before Peter could start hyperventilating from excitement, the sky over Wayne Manor turned a violent, bruised purple. A massive bolt of lightning—not magical like Billy’s, but raw, cosmic, and booming—slammed directly into Alfred’s prize-winning herb garden.

CRASH.

The Manor shook. Glass rattled. Jason was on his feet with his guns drawn in a second. Bruce lunged for his cowl.

"Uncle Thor!" Peter screamed, but it wasn't fear—it was pure, unadulterated joy. He sprinted out the back doors, his spider-legs propelling him over the patio furniture.

In the center of a smoking, charred crater of rosemary and thyme, a man stood. He was massive, with golden hair, a red cape that looked like it had seen the birth of stars, and a hammer that hummed with the power of the storm.

"PETER PARKER!" Thor roared, a grin breaking across his rugged face. He dropped Mjolnir (which cracked a flagstone) and scooped the boy up in a bone-crushing hug. "The All-Father told me you had found a new realm! It is much gloomier than Midgard, but the air tastes of destiny!"

Jason arrived at the edge of the crater, blinking at the literal Norse God hugging his son. "Thor? As in... the hammer guy? Peter, how many 'Uncles' do you have?!"

Hela stepped out onto the porch, her green eyes glinting. She looked at Bruce, who was staring at the destruction of his backyard with a look of profound physical pain.

"I hope you have a good supplier for hair dye, Batman," Hela purred, leaning against the doorframe. "By the time this child turns fifteen, your hair will be as white as Jason’s. The storm has only just begun."

"My lavender..." came a choked, heartbroken sob from the shadows. Alfred Pennyworth stood at the edge of the crater, clutching a silver tray, staring at the blackened remains of his garden. "Ten years of cultivation... gone in a flash of Asgardian arrogance."

"Is the Bat-Cow okay?!" Damian yelled, sprinting toward the barn. "If the lightning has agitated the feline population or the livestock, there will be blood!"

Peter, still being hoisted in the air by Thor, looked around at the chaos. He saw Jason arguing with a God, Alfred mourning his sage, Bruce contemplating his life choices, and Hela laughing at it all.

He felt the "Spider" inside him curl up in a warm, satisfied ball. He looked at the Gotham skyline, then back at his family—his real, messy, cosmic, dangerous family.

A tiny, evil glint entered his eye. He was Peter Todd-Parker. He was the Man of Spiders. He was a son, a brother, and a glitch.

I'm home, he thought, and for the first time in two universes, he knew it was the truth. And I dare anyone to try and take it away from me.