Open | I got a little raincloud, he's my best friend

[heartstumbles]

WHO: Peter Parker and you!
WHAT: Peter Parker arrives in Thedas after his multiverse experiences and learns to begin again in a new world.
WHEN: Bloomingtide
WHERE: In and around the Gallows.
NOTES: Possible mentions of death, loss, grieving, etc. I'll add more if they come up.

I. Arrival – Post-Rift Journey to Kirkwall

Peter Parker probably doesn’t have any right to be surprised when he finds that he’s fallen out of a dream in which he was forced to climb up the walls of his high school gym (again), uniform and all, and into another universe, and yet, here he is. He doesn’t expect the empty coffee cup, exactly the same kind used by MJ and the coffee shop she works at, and the Lego Palpatine figurine to follow him, either, and yet.

The rift through the air being green is a change of pace, at least. The demons he helps fight with the group of people calling themselves Riftwatch are also a kind of breath of fresh air, in a way. The ones that appear to be made out of lava and the ones that look like Dementors are definitely not the best to fight against in gym clothes though, oof, he thinks. He’s lucky he doesn’t end up significantly injured, though he can’t seem to stop shivering.

His luck proves not all terrible, as the members of Riftwatch explain to him that they aren’t too far from the city of Kirkwall, where their group operates

“And you guys can get me some new clothes in…was it Kirkwall, you said?” Peter asks, turning to the nearest member of Riftwatch, both genuinely curious and also trying not to think too much about the way his body still seems to be shifting between hot and cold after closing the rift.


II. Taking Notes and Quarantine

As Riftwatch helps Peter learn about this Thedas, the world he finds himself in, Peter finds himself fascinated. He wants to know more, to learn more, and he wants to study and immerse himself in this strange, kind of medieval universe. He can help people here; he can do good after messing up so badly in his own world.

He’ll have to be careful, he realizes, about using his abilities here. He doesn’t want to put people in danger just from knowing him again, after all. Still, Peter finds himself eager and ready to throw himself into Riftwatch; when they make the pitch to him about joining, he doesn’t hesitate. It seems only fair, after all, given how much they’ve already helped him.

Peter signs up for Research, though he’s sorely tempted by the Scouting Division, too. But he needs to pace himself; recent events back home have taught him that. And Research seems as good a place as any to start.

Peter sets himself to work; he finds a spot for himself in the library and surrounds himself with books of all kinds, both for his work in Research and to help himself learn more about Thedas. He’s determined to do better here; he has to, he tells himself. His growling stomach sometimes is the only reminder he listens to when he needs to eat.

As he’s quarantined within the Gallows for the time being, Peter takes to exploring all that he can of the place when he has the chance. He is fascinated by the laboratories and work rooms in the same tower as the library, and he asks questions of anyone who will humor him. He takes to walking around the open spaces of the Gallows as well, observing the areas for training and sparring. If he wants to be more active out in the field, he thinks, he should probably learn how to fight with the weapons Thedas has available. He’s particularly interested by the archers, and the way using bows and arrows reminds him, from a certain angle, of using his webs, though he’s also well aware that they’re entirely different skill sets.

Peter keeps to himself when he eats in the dining hall, tucked away in a corner, usually with his own notes. He’s trying to keep a record of his experiences in Thedas so far, for his own reference. It can’t hurt, he thinks.

When he isn’t studying, working, or observing, Peter tries to create and stick with an exercise routine for himself, to keep his body as sharp as his mind. He can be found in and around the sparring area, out of the way of people sparring, stretching and working out as best he can.


III. Wildcard

[If there’s anything specific you’d like to do with Peter, just let me know and I can put up a starter in the comments, or feel free to put up your own starter if you like!]

Comments

[portalling]

It’s a small verbal misstep — back home, back in your home — and enough for Strange to note it, vaguely, but then immediately discard it as not worthy of note. His hackles aren’t up and he’s not actively looking for any missing cracks or discrepancies in the boy’s story, not suspecting anything wrong. Because, like, why should he? (Why would anyone lie about this?)

“Different, unfortunately,” he says. “I was much more powerful back home — I could siphon multiversal energies, like tapping a fire hydrant of sheer arcane power — but here it’s all self-driven. My own well of energy, so to speak, and it runs out much faster. I get tired in order to do less.”

There’s a kind of crinkled disdain in Strange’s voice as he describes that. He hate being de-fanged like this, his metaphorical claws blunted. “I miss it. But, y’know. Lemons, lemonade.”

[heartstumbles]

Peter nods as he listens. In a way, this isn't entirely too different from the kind of conversation he'd have with Strange if he did remember him; he would still ask about magic and how the magic here differs from magic back home. The familiarity beneath his feeling like he's walking on egg shells helps ground Peter a little.

"You could...siphon multiversal energies?! Whoa!" The excitement that brightens Peter's eyes is genuine; he never before knew what kind of energy fueled Dr. Strange and his magic. "That is so cool!"

And then he describes how he only has his own well of energy here, and Peter frowns. "That sucks, that kind of...downgrade. But...you've been able to make it work here?"

[portalling]

“Yeah, about as much as a local mage would.” Strange says it politely enough, but Peter can recognise that slight bitterness on the tongue; it’s the exact same pitch and intonation when Strange had once said to him, he got it on a technicality. From Sorcerer Supreme of all of Earth, now demoted to just another generic local mage. Honestly. What a downgrade.

But because he’s still an innate showman, he snaps his fingers, flaring a small palmful of harmless light. He looks at it contemplatively, as if it’s a representation of all the eyewateringly powerful arcane abilities he’s now lost. Then he looks back at Peter.

“How about you? Got any tricks up your sleeve?”

He’d learned not to discount rifters from other modern-day worlds. Clarisse was a demi-god and Jude could turn into a wolf, so.

[heartstumbles]

Ouch, Peter thinks, hearing the bitterness in Strange's tone. He can't imagine what it must feel like, going from having so much magical energy at your disposal to...well. Having a limited supply. He imagines that it must be deeply frustrating.

"I'm sorry," he says, out of the habit of having grown close to Dr. Strange before he messed up his spell. "That seems like it must be...well. If it were me, I think it would drive me crazy."

Peter's own abilities, as far as he knows so far, have also been impacted, but he's not certain as to the extent of how much they've been impacted. He's been meaning to do experiments on that, in fact, but he wants to do it in a way that doesn't reveal to anyone else that he has powers. He is trying to uphold his secret identity intact this time.

At the question, Peter's eyes widen just a bit, caught off guard. He lets out a nervous bit of laughter.

"What? Like magic? No, no tricks here. Just your run of the mill nerd from Queens," he says, his words speeding up the way they do when he's nervous. "I've been told I've got good reflexes, though."

That's one word for it.

[portalling]

“If you’ve got good reflexes, maybe you can pick up archery or something.” Not that Strange is automatically in favour of enlisting the kid as a child soldier, but— they’ve got a war to win.

(It’s a little discomfiting, looking in at himself and realising how quickly his thoughts drifted to how can this teenager be made of use.)

“Not that you have to,” he adds after a moment. “But it’s useful to be prepared. Our work here isn’t exactly safe and boring at all times, and even Research isn’t permanently cooped up in the library. You’ll want to be able to defend yourself if you’re caught in it.”

[heartstumbles]

Peter nods. It's funny, he thinks. Having walked through the training area and observing some people training with various weapons, the bow and arrow spoke to him the most out of all the weapons he saw. He likes to think that maybe his experience with his own webshooters could help him with aiming.

"I was actually thinking of maybe learning to use a bow and arrows," he says. "I figure I probably need to pick a weapon for self-defense at some point."

He nods and smiles. "Yeah, I figure everyone here probably knows how to fight," he says. Or at least, they ought to, given the war going on. "And I'm considering maybe switching over to Scouting eventually."

He figures Research is a good starting point for a nerd like him. But he also kind of wants to be more...out in the thick of things. Keeping busy. Finding ways to use his powers without giving away his identity.

[portalling]

At least it’s Scouting and not Forces, Strange considers — that ought to keep him a little further out of harm’s way, maybe. Hopefully. Not everyone is Gwenaëlle in Forces, punching holes in people’s spines with a Tony Stark-made magic gauntlet.

“Well, for whatever tenure you’re here in Research, I’ll happily answer any questions I can. I’ve been here for…” A quick calculation and his brow faintly creased at the math, it’s always a mindfuck whenever he realises how time flies: “About eight months. Christ. Add on a bit more subjective time for that week where we spent months in a Fade illusion, and it feels like longer.”

At whatever look he gets from Peter at that bizarre sentence, the sorcerer adds, dryly, “You get used to it.”

[heartstumbles]

"Eight months? Wow," Peter says, shaking his head. That really does seem like a long time. Then again, as he knows from personal experience, a lot can happen in less time than that; sometimes all it takes is a single day (and screwing up a memory spell) to change the course of one's life.

He stares when he mentions getting caught in a Fade illusion.

"What's a Fade illusion? That sounds...not great."

The Fade, from what he understands of it so far, sounds fascinating but also terrifying.

[portalling]

There’s a kind of quick, offhand flippancy to the way Doctor Strange talks about these magical perils; it’s all so familiar, like a road they once walked together. Him dropping dire warnings about tearing apart the fabric of reality even as he walked Peter past humming washing machines and a grumbling fridge in the basement of the Sanctum. This mingling of the arcane and the banal. They have been here before.

He’s oblivious to it, though.

But Strange picks through the topic, trying to figure out how to describe a thing he’s still actively learning about, himself:

“When you’re in the Fade, much like finding yourself in a dream, it’s important to remember that it’s not real. The illusions and visions and worlds might look and feel and sound incredibly real, but they’re not. For expediency Riftwatch sometimes travels through a kind of nexus called The Crossroads, which is another dimension beyond the Fade, but there’s overlap. You’ll want to be mindful. We were caught in multiple illusions which felt like months, but in reality were only a few days.”

[heartstumbles]

Peter wants to keep his promise to Strange from back home; he wants to make sure he doesn't do anything to screw up fixing his original mistake. But it's hard, especially when Dr. Strange speaks about magic, and the various intricacies of it as well as the danger. The familiarity of it sticks in the back of Peter's throat like a piece of food he can't fully swallow; he has to focus for a moment to make sure he doesn't choke.

"Okay, nothing in the Fade is real," he nods. "I think I get that. It's like a dream, even when it's realistic. And the Crossroads isn't in the Fade, but is another dimension entirely, and Riftwatch uses it for short cuts."

He feels like he's back in school, repeating what his teachers just told him to make sure he has all the information he needs. That thought also hurts, considering that he never graduated from high school and, instead, pursued his GED. Midtown had been his refuge, and in screwing up the way he did, Peter lost that too.

[portalling]

There really is an eager, attentive quality to Peter’s undivided focus, like one of Kamar-Taj’s more avid students. Better than some of the novices which have gotten on Strange’s nerves, actually. Good kid, he thinks —

and that does stir something, not as far as a ripple of memory, just— more like an echo. That little flicker of Strange’s approval settling quicker into a well-worn groove, like putting on a pair of old shoes and finding they’re already worn to the shape of your body.

He blinks.

But the spell still holds.

(Stephen Strange is very good at his work, when he’s not biting off more than he can chew and trying to do too many things at once.)

So. “You’ve got it,” he says. Feels the inane urge to hand Peter a gold star. In lieu of that: “Any other pressing questions? There’s a lot to learn here, understandably, and a lot of history to this place. A lot to get settled. My last trips to other dimensions were much shorter than this.”

[heartstumbles]

Peter tries not to stare; he tries to wait and not let his hope for Strange to recognize him show on his face. He knows he needs to keep the spell intact; he can't break the Multiverse again, not after what happened last time. Still, Peter can't pretend that he hasn't felt the weight of what he lost, or that he's still adjusting to carrying around that weight, especially in a new place like this.

So when Strange blinks, Peter lets out a sigh of both relief and disappointment he didn't know he was holding.

"Well, I probably have like, a whole boatload of questions but I don't think even the docks here are big enough to hold all of them," he says, joking as a means of avoiding feeling the ache pulsing just underneath his skin. "So, um. Thanks for your help si - " He just barely manages to keep from calling Strange 'sir.'

wrap, or yours to close!

[portalling]

“Anytime. And you don’t have to call me sir,” Strange says. (Another faint echo—) “Here, they’re all saying ser this and serah that, it keeps making me think I should be bowing and scraping or people should be curtseying, it’s absurd. Just ‘Strange’ will suffice.”

It’s simple professional cordiality, the polite surnames and distance between colleagues he’s maintained with practically everyone here.

It’s not Stephen. It’s not the warm familiarity which came from saving half the universe together, from being jettisoned into space together, from dying together.

It’s a crisp, polite smile, and his attention already starting to drift away from the boy, sliding out his chair to leave. There’s some re-cataloguing which needs doing. There’s always work which needs doing.