Blinded by the light

A spider a bird a cat

Peter understood the concept of infinite worlds on a basic level. He saw the effects of it every time he visited the spider hub and had to interact with infinite copies of himself.

(Or was he the copy? Was there an original? Would it make a difference?)

He's not stupid, logically he knew that there would be variants of the other people in his world.

He just-
He didn't take the time to think about exactly what that would mean.

So, when he's sent on a mission to extract a wayward sandman he's certainly not expecting to run into that universes Vulture.

His brain seems to shut down and a familiar anger he thought he left behind flares up. It burns his lungs and eyes and all he can focus on is bringing his fist to the Vulture's ugly toothy face over and over and over again. Peter feels something crack under his knuckles and still he doesn't stop. He can't stop, because if he does then he'll lose aunt may too and he can't see her torn apart like that, he can't.

Voices start to trickle through the sound of the Vulture's incessant monologue about how delicious Ben had been and his eagerness to devour another Parker. Hands gripped Peter's shoulders, yanking and manhandling him away from the Vulture's crumpled form.

The hands and voices eventually faded, replaced by the imposing figure of Miguel towering over him. Peter can't place the emotion in his voice, can't tell if the man is angry, annoyed, disappointed, or disgusted.

He looks down at his hands and finds them oddly colorful. Red. He realizes distantly. He watches his own black blood from his tourn knuckles mix with the vultures. He hopes it doesn't stain his gloves.

Miguel's yelling cuts into his thoughts.

"How can you be so irresponsible? Your job is to follow directions and neutralize anomalies! That's. It. You don't get to go around playing hero in other dimensions, and if you can't get that through you thick fucking skull, then I will send you back to your sad little monochrome world and you will not be allowed back."

Anger, then.

"Are you even listening to me? I said you're on thin ice."

Peter nods briefly before quickly turning away, desperate to escape the situation. A metallic taste lingers in his mouth, and he finds himself unable to express anything but the raw anger that claws at his throat. He doesn't want to be here and yelling won't make the situation any better.

——

The smog of his world is familiar while not quite a comfort after spending time somewhere with breathable air.

It's been nearly a day since he almost killed a random Vulture and he still hasn't brought himself to return to the society. He needs... more time. Time to cool down and not feel the bubbling anger at Miguel and the other spiders and every single vulture variant that chooses to exist and at himself for not successfully killing him again.

("I don't want to live in a world where people kill each other like dogs."

May's words echo faintly in the back of his skull.

She is angry. She was always angry. Taking her grief and fear and turning it into something more useful. Peter figures he gets his anger from her.)

(I don't want to live in a world where people kill each other like dogs.

Peter hasn't really been human for a long time.)

His brooding is suddenly interrupted by a small creature clawing its way up his back, snagging at his coat as it climbs toward his shoulders.

He twists around, trying to grab the furry intruder and pull it off, but it responds by batting his hand away and hoisting itself up even higher. It doesn't make a sound other than the occasional hiss when he attempts to dislodge its claws from his mask.
It's a cat—all black with striking light eyes and oddly large teeth, which it seems eager to use as it snaps at his fingers.

"Go. Get," he says, dropping the cat to the ground and attempting to shoo it away. To his annoyance, it has the audacity to glare at him. With a resigned sigh, he resumes his walk home, hoping the little menace will leave him alone.

It doesn't.

Instead, the cat trots alongside him, a smug expression plastered across its face. It follows him down three alleys, up and over two buildings, and even enters through his apartment window with him.

Peter comes to terms with the fact that the cat likely intends to make his apartment its permanent home, and there's little he can do about it. He leaves it to its business—making a nest and chewing holes in his blankets—and turns his attention to digging out some food for dinner.

Should he even feed the cat? It looks healthy enough, probably capable of hunting mice or whatever else it used to scavenge. Maybe it was just conning random passers by and he was the cat's latest victim? He really did not have the funds to regularly buy cat food. Maybe it would just stay the night and leave in the morning?

He glances back at the creature, its eyes peeking out from beneath his blanket.

It definitely not leaving in the morning.

He'll just... leave it be. The apartment is infested with rats anyway, and if it starts to look thin, he'll just have to figure something out.

Easy.

He cleans up, placing dishes in the sink and hanging up his goggles, jacket, mask, and hat. Sighing with annoyance, he finally tries to settle down in his own bed, which has now been claimed by this random feral animal. The cat's fur is surprisingly soft, and it is surprisingly quiet as it gnaws on his fingers.

The cat smells like rain, he realizes faintly as he starts to drift off. Peter decides not to spend too much time thinking about that, about what that could mean. He's long grown tired of whatever games the spider cooks up, if the cat ends up trying to kill him he'll just have to deal with it when it comes up. No point worrying about another thing he has no control over.