Peter wakes to Alfred opening the curtains at exactly 6 AM.
"Good morning, Master Peter. Master Bruce requests your presence in the cave in twenty minutes. I've laid out athletic wear."
Peter groans into his pillow. "It's six in the morning."
"Indeed. Crime, however, does not respect sleep schedules." Alfred's tone is perfectly pleasant and utterly unyielding. "Breakfast will be waiting when you finish. I suggest you don't keep Master Bruce waiting."
He leaves before Peter can protest.
Twenty minutes later, Peter stumbles down to the cave wearing borrowed gym clothes that are too big on him. His body still aches from Dixon Docks. His shoulder throbs where the bullet grazed him. Even his enhanced healing has limits.
Bruce is already there, dressed in workout gear, standing in what looks like a training area Peter hadn't noticed before. Mats cover the floor. Weight equipment lines one wall. A sparring ring occupies the center.
"You're late," Bruce says without turning around.
Peter checks his phone. 6:19 AM. "By one minute."
"In Gotham, one minute is the difference between life and death." Bruce turns. His expression is unreadable. "We need to talk."
Peter's stomach sinks. "If this is about Dixon Docks—"
"It is. Partially." Bruce gestures to the mats. "Sit."
Peter sits. Bruce settles across from him, movements controlled and precise.
"I spoke with someone I trust," Bruce begins. "About your situation. About whether I should help you."
"And?"
"And I've decided to train you. Properly train you." Bruce's eyes are steady. "Not as a partner. Not as a replacement for anyone. But as someone who needs to survive in a world that wants to kill him."
Peter's heart jumps. "Really?"
"On conditions." Bruce holds up a hand. "You follow my instructions exactly. No improvising. No running off to play hero. You study this world—its criminals, its patterns, its dangers. You train every day, no exceptions. And if at any point I decide you're not ready, you don't go out. Period."
"But—"
"Those are the terms." Bruce's voice is iron. "Take them or leave them."
Peter thinks about Dixon Docks. About how close he came to dying. About the Penguin's men and the collapsing warehouse and how little he actually understood about what he was walking into.
"Okay," he says. "I'll follow your rules."
"Good." Bruce stands, offers his hand. Peter takes it, and Bruce pulls him to his feet. "Then we start now. First lesson: you need a new suit."
Peter looks down at himself. "What's wrong with my suit?"
"Everything." Bruce walks to a workstation, pulls up holographic displays. "Your suit is designed for a different world. A world where you were the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, where villains played by certain rules, where people trusted heroes." He pulls up damage reports from Dixon Docks. "Gotham isn't that world."
Peter's chest tightens. "That suit is all I have left of home."
"I know." Bruce's voice softens slightly. "Which is why we're preserving it. Storing it safely. But you can't wear it here. That suit represents hope, optimism, approachability. Gotham doesn't respond to those things. Gotham responds to fear."
He pulls up a new design on the hologram—something that makes Peter's breath catch.
"This is what you need in Gotham."
The suit rotating before him is nothing like Peter's classic design. It's a warrior's armor rendered in blood and shadow.
The base is form-fitting tactical plating, segmented for maximum mobility. Deep crimson dominates—the color of arterial blood, of violence, of consequence. But it's cut through with matte black that seems to absorb light, creating negative space that makes the red sections appear to float.
"The red isn't friendly anymore," Bruce explains, manipulating the hologram. "It's aggressive. Predatory. It says 'I'm dangerous.'"
The helmet is fully enclosed, sleek and streamlined. No exposed skin, no vulnerability. The eye lenses are sharp, angular, elongated into something almost reptilian. They sweep back from the face like blade edges.
"The lenses are larger than mine," Bruce notes. "More visible. But the shape—that's pure intimidation. Nothing friendly about those eyes."
Black markings extend downward from the eye lenses like fangs, like a predator's mask. They create negative space that makes the face look skeletal, inhuman.
Peter swallows. "It looks..."
"Terrifying. That's the point." Bruce zooms in on the chest. "But we need one element of recognition. Something that says 'this is Spider-Man' even in Gotham's context."
A massive white spider emblem dominates the chest—far larger and more aggressive than Peter's classic design. The legs flare outward and downward like blades, like the spider is about to strike. It's rendered in stark white that screams against the red and black background.
"White?" Peter asks.
"High contrast. Visible in darkness. Commands attention." Bruce highlights the emblem. "But more importantly—white is sterile. Clinical. It's the color of bones, of lab coats, of things that should be clean but have been corrupted. It makes people uneasy."
The torso features layered armor panels arranged to mimic musculature—technological and organic blended together. The black portions are bordered by thin red piping that accentuates every sculpted line, making the suit look simultaneously armored and anatomical.
"The armor is ballistic-weave composite," Bruce explains. "Carbon nanotube reinforcement, trauma-dissipating layers, energy-resistant coating. It can stop small arms fire, distribute impact force, and absorb significant amounts of kinetic energy."
The arms combine red plating on the outer surfaces with black ribbed segments on the forearms. The ribbing looks functional—like reinforced gauntlets or energy conduits.
"These sections house your upgraded web-shooters," Bruce indicates the ribbed areas. "Multiple firing modes, increased capacity, faster deployment. But the design makes them look like weapons, not tools. Like you're armed and dangerous."
The belt features a smaller white spider emblem as a buckle, visually connecting to the chest symbol. The lower body continues the red-and-black pattern—black dominating the hips and inner legs, red highlighting the outer thighs in aggressive angular patterns.
"The whole suit is designed on the principle of broken symmetry," Bruce continues. "The patterns create visual disruption—makes it harder for enemies to track your movement, harder to aim at center mass. But it also creates psychological impact. This isn't a costume. It's combat armor."
Peter stares at the design. It's beautiful and horrifying. It looks like something that would hunt criminals through Gotham's shadows. Something that belongs in this dark city.
It doesn't look like Spider-Man.
It looks like a predator.
"I don't know if I can wear that," Peter says quietly.
"Why not?"
"Because that's not me. I'm not... I'm not someone who scares people. I'm supposed to help them."
"You'll still help them." Bruce turns off the hologram. "But in Gotham, help comes from fear first. The criminals need to be afraid of you. The innocent need to know you're dangerous—but on their side."
"That's how you operate. Not how I operate."
"It's how you'll operate here, or you'll die." Bruce's voice is hard. "Your classic suit—bright colors, big friendly eyes, cheerful demeanor—that works in a world where people trust heroes. Gotham doesn't trust anyone. Wear that suit here, and criminals will see an easy target. They'll test you. They'll hurt you. They'll kill civilians to prove they're not afraid."
Peter's jaw clenches. "So I have to become something I'm not?"
"No. You have to adapt to the environment. You're still Peter Parker. Still Spider-Man. Still someone who wants to help people." Bruce's expression softens slightly. "But Gotham requires a different approach. This suit isn't who you are—it's armor. Protection. A tool that lets you survive long enough to actually help people."
Peter looks at the hologram again. At the angular eyes. The fanged mask. The aggressive spider emblem.
"What if I lose myself in it?" he asks quietly. "What if I put that on and forget who I was?"
"Then I'll remind you." Bruce meets his eyes. "That's why I'm training you. Not just to fight, but to stay human while doing it. To remember why you're wearing the armor in the first place."
Peter takes a shaky breath. "How long until it's ready?"
"Three days. The fabrication process is complex." Bruce saves the design. "In the meantime, you train. By the time the suit is finished, you'll be ready to wear it."
"And if I'm not?"
"Then we wait until you are." Bruce heads for the training mats. "But I don't think that will be a problem. You're stronger than you think, Peter. You survived your entire world dying. You'll survive this too."
---
The first day is assessment.
Bruce doesn't spar with him. Doesn't teach techniques. Just watches as Peter demonstrates what he can do.
"Show me your strength."
Peter lifts weights. Starts with 200 pounds—easy. Then 500. Then 1000. At 2000 pounds, he starts to strain. At 3000, he can barely manage a single rep.
Bruce makes notes. "About ten tons maximum. More than I expected."
"Is that good?"
"It's exceptional. But strength isn't everything." Bruce sets up an obstacle course. "Show me your agility."
Peter runs it. Wall-crawling, flipping, dodging. His Spider-Sense guides him through obstacles before they trigger. He completes the course in eighteen seconds.
Bruce makes more notes. "Precognitive awareness. Reaction time approximately .002 seconds. Impressive."
"You sound surprised."
"I'm recalibrating my training plan." Bruce pulls up a new hologram—a simulation of Gotham at night. "Your powers give you advantages I don't have. But they also create weaknesses."
"Like what?"
"Overconfidence." Bruce manipulates the simulation. "You trust your Spider-Sense. You let it guide your movements. But what happens when you face an enemy it can't predict?"
"That's never happened."
"It will." Bruce pulls up files—villains from his world. "Clayface can change shape faster than your danger sense can track. Scarecrow's toxins attack your mind, not your body—your sense won't warn you until it's too late. Poison Ivy can control you with pheromones. Your powers are tools, Peter. Not guarantees."
Peter stares at the files. At villains who bend reality, who attack in ways he's never encountered.
"How do I fight that?"
"By being smarter than they are. By planning. By never relying on powers alone." Bruce closes the files. "Tomorrow we start combat training. Today, you study."
He hands Peter a tablet loaded with files. Criminal profiles. Case studies. Patrol reports from the last five years.
"Read everything. Memorize threat levels. Understand what you're up against."
Peter looks at the tablet. There have to be hundreds of files.
"All of this?"
"By tomorrow." Bruce heads for the stairs. "Welcome to training, Peter. It's going to get worse before it gets better."
---
The second day is pain.
Bruce wakes him at 5 AM. They run—not around the estate, but through Gotham itself. Bruce sets a brutal pace. Peter keeps up easily at first. His enhanced stamina makes long distances trivial.
But Bruce doesn't run on flat ground. He runs across rooftops, scaling buildings, dropping into alleys, forcing Peter to parkour through the city at dawn. Three miles becomes five. Five becomes ten.
At mile twelve, Peter starts to flag.
"How much longer?" he gasps.
"Until you can't continue." Bruce doesn't even sound winded. "Endurance isn't just physical. It's mental. You need to know your limits."
They run until Peter's legs are shaking. Until even his healing factor can't keep up with the strain. Fifteen miles. Twenty.
At mile twenty-three, Peter stumbles.
Bruce catches him. "That's your limit. We'll push past it tomorrow."
Back at the cave, they spar.
Peter expects to dominate. He's stronger, faster, has a danger sense that warns him of attacks.
Bruce puts him on the mat in thirty seconds.
"How?" Peter gasps from the floor.
"You rely on instinct. I rely on technique." Bruce offers a hand up. "Again."
They spar for two hours. Bruce doesn't use strength—uses leverage, momentum, precise strikes to vulnerable points. Every time Peter attacks, Bruce redirects it. Every time Peter's Spider-Sense warns him, Bruce has already adapted.
"You're fighting your power," Bruce explains after Peter hits the mat for the dozenth time. "Your sense tells you where the danger is. But you're not listening to what it's telling you. You just react."
"That's what it's for!"
"No. It's early warning. You still have to decide how to respond." Bruce helps him up again. "Your sense told you I was attacking high. You blocked. But I changed mid-strike to go low. Your sense warned you—you felt the shift—but you'd already committed."
Peter rubs his bruised ribs. "So what do I do?"
"Trust the sense, but don't obey it. Use it as information, not instruction." Bruce demonstrates in slow motion. "Sense says danger from the right. You don't just block right—you analyze. Is it a feint? A setup? What comes after?"
They drill it. Over and over. Bruce attacks, Peter defends, and slowly—painfully—Peter starts to understand.
The Spider-Sense isn't a solution. It's data.
What he does with that data is still up to him.
By the end of day two, Peter can't lift his arms. His entire body is one giant bruise.
Alfred serves dinner in the cave. Peter inhales three plates of pasta.
"Better," Bruce says, reviewing footage of their sparring. "You're adapting. Tomorrow we add weapons."
"I don't use weapons."
"You use webs. Those are weapons." Bruce pulls up footage of Peter at the docks. "But you use them reactively. Webbing guns, catching hostages, creating shields. Tomorrow you learn to use them offensively."
Peter is too tired to argue.
---
Day three is strategy.
Bruce sets up scenarios—holographic simulations of Gotham crimes in progress. Bank robberies. Hostage situations. Gang warfare.
"You have thirty seconds to plan your approach," Bruce says. "Then you execute."
The first scenario: armed robbery, six gunmen, twelve hostages.
Peter charges in immediately.
"Stop." Bruce freezes the simulation. "What did you learn in those thirty seconds?"
"That there are six bad guys and twelve hostages?"
"What else? Guard positions. Sightlines. Exit routes. Civilian behavior—who's complying, who's panicking, who might try to be a hero and get shot." Bruce rewinds the scenario. "Look again. Really look."
Peter forces himself to study it. One gunman is standing away from the others. Two hostages are near the door. A third gunman is watching the street, not the hostages.
"The one by the window is their lookout," Peter says slowly. "Take him out first so they don't get warned. The two hostages near the door can escape once I engage. The isolated gunman is a sniper position—he's covering the others."
"Better. Now execute."
The simulation runs. Peter takes down the lookout silently, webs the sniper before he can fire, then crashes through the skylight to engage the others while the near-door hostages flee.
It works.
"Twelve seconds, zero casualties," Bruce says. "That's what planning gets you. Now do it again. Faster."
They run twenty scenarios. Peter fails half of them—too slow, too loud, too focused on the wrong threats. But he's learning.
Learning that heroism isn't just about powers and punching. It's about thinking. Adapting. Understanding that every decision ripples outward.
That evening, the new suit is ready.
Bruce presents it on a mannequin in the fabrication chamber. Under the cave's lighting, it looks even more intimidating than the hologram—the red seems to pulse, the black sections absorb light completely, and the white spider emblem practically glows.
"Try it on."
Peter changes in the cave's side room. The suit slides on like a second skin—heavier than his old one, but not much. The armor plating flexes with his movement. The helmet seals with a soft hiss, and suddenly his vision fills with tactical displays.
He looks in the mirror.
A predator looks back.
The angular eye lenses are terrifying. The fanged mask markings make him look inhuman. The aggressive spider emblem across his chest looks like a warning label. Every line of the suit screams danger, violence, consequence.
This isn't the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.
This is Gotham's avenging spider.
Peter's hands shake slightly.
"How does it feel?" Bruce asks when Peter emerges.
"Like I'm someone else."
"Good." Bruce hands him his web-shooters—upgraded, integrated into the suit's ribbed gauntlets. "Because you're not the same Spider-Man who died in your universe. You're a new version. Gotham's version."
Peter shoots a web at the cave ceiling. It holds perfectly—stronger, faster deployment than before.
"What are these other settings?" Peter notices additional indicators on his display.
"Taser web—conducts electricity. Impact web—compressed burst that hits like a punch. Foam web—expands to encase targets. Razor web—monofilament cutting line for severing supports or restraints." Bruce demonstrates each one on practice dummies. "Your webbing is versatile. These mods make it more so."
Peter practices each setting. The taser web crackles with energy. The impact web hits the dummy hard enough to knock it over. The foam web expands to coat an entire target in seconds. The razor web cuts through a steel bar like butter.
"This is incredible," Peter breathes. His voice through the helmet's modulator sounds deeper, more threatening.
"It's a start." Bruce pulls up a map of Gotham. "Tomorrow night, you patrol. With me. You follow my lead, watch how I work, learn the city's rhythms. No heroics. No charging in. Just observation."
"When do I get to actually help people?"
"When you're ready." Bruce's expression is firm. "I'm not sending you into Gotham unprepared, Peter. Jason died because I didn't train him well enough. I'm not making that mistake again."
The name hangs in the air.
Jason.
The son Bruce lost. The Robin who died because the Joker wanted to prove a point.
Peter understands, suddenly, why Bruce is so strict. Why every lesson is repeated until perfect. Why nothing is left to chance.
Bruce isn't training a partner.
He's trying to keep Peter alive.
"I'll follow your lead," Peter says quietly. The helmet's modulator makes even his gentle tone sound ominous. "I promise."
Bruce nods. "Good. Get some rest. Tomorrow, you see what Gotham really is."
Peter heads upstairs, still wearing the suit. He catches his reflection in the cave's polished surfaces—red and black armor, predatory eyes, the white spider blazing across his chest.
He looks dangerous.
He looks like he belongs in Gotham.
And that terrifies him more than anything else.
---
That night, Peter lies in bed, unable to sleep.
The new suit hangs in his closet. Dark. Armored. Ready.
He thinks about May. About what she'd say if she could see him now—wearing combat armor, preparing to fight crime in a city that makes New York look tame, becoming something harder and darker than the hero she raised.
She'd be worried. Terrified, probably.
But she'd also understand.
*With great power, there must also come great responsibility.*
The words echo in Peter's mind. But here in Gotham, responsibility looks different. Darker. More brutal.
Peter closes his eyes. Tomorrow, he becomes Gotham's Spider-Man.
A predator in red and black.
A protector wrapped in armor.
Something new. Something necessary.
Something that might help him survive long enough to find his way home.
If home even exists anymore.
---
The suit feels alive at night.
Peter stands on the cave's platform, the helmet's HUD feeding him environmental data, threat assessments, structural analysis of the buildings around them. The tactical displays make the world look like a video game, except the stakes are real and people can actually die.
"You're nervous," Bruce observes without looking up from his equipment check. He's already in the cowl, already transformed into Batman.
"The suit makes me feel... different." Peter flexes his hands, watching the red plating shift over the black ribbed gauntlets. "More aggressive."
"That's intentional. The armor provides psychological reinforcement—makes you move like you're dangerous because you look dangerous." Batman clips something to his belt. "But remember: the suit is a tool. You're still Peter Parker underneath. Don't let the armor change who you are."
"Then why make it so intimidating?"
"Because Gotham's criminals need to fear you before they'll respect you." Batman walks toward the Batmobile. "And because fear keeps them from testing you. Every fight you avoid through intimidation is a fight where no one gets hurt."
Peter follows, his boots silent on the cave floor despite the armor. "I usually try to make people feel safe, not scared."
"You'll make the innocent feel safe by making the guilty feel terror." Batman's voice echoes in the cave. "That's how Gotham works. Get in."
Peter climbs into the Batmobile's passenger seat. In the suit's polished surfaces, he catches glimpses of himself—angular eyes, fanged markings, the white spider emblem. He looks like something that hunts in the dark.
Maybe that's what Gotham needs.
The engine roars to life.
"Hold on."
They launch out of the cave like a missile.
---
Gotham at night is worse than Peter imagined.
From the rooftops during training, the city looked almost normal—just buildings and streets and lights. But down here, at street level, moving through it in armor that makes people scatter when they see his reflection, Peter understands what Bruce meant.
This city is *sick*.
They pass three muggings in the first ten minutes. Batman doesn't stop for any of them—just marks their locations on his tactical map, calls them in to GCPD.
"Why aren't we helping?" Peter asks, his modulated voice sounding harsh even to his own ears.
"We are. Police can handle street crime. We handle what they can't." Batman's white lenses reflect the passing streetlights. "You can't stop every crime in Gotham, Peter. You'd burn out in a week. You have to prioritize."
"That doesn't seem right."
"It's not right. It's necessary." Batman turns down an alley. "Gotham has approximately 30,000 violent crimes per year. That's eighty-two per day. Three per hour. If you tried to stop all of them, you'd never sleep, never eat, never live. The city would consume you."
Peter thinks about New York. About how he used to swing for hours, stopping every crime he saw. Helping every person who needed it.
But New York had the Avengers. Had SHIELD. Had infrastructure.
Gotham just has Batman.
And now, apparently, has a spider in red and black armor.
"So what do we prioritize?" Peter asks.
"Major crimes. Organized criminal activity. Anything involving Arkham escapees." Batman pulls up a map on the windshield display. "Gotham's underworld is controlled by several major players—Penguin, Two-Face, Black Mask, the Falcone family. They're at war constantly. That war creates civilian casualties. That's what we stop."
The Batmobile's computer beeps.
"Dispatch," a voice crackles. "Shots fired at Dixon Docks. Multiple casualties. Possible gang activity."
Dixon Docks. Where Peter fought the Penguin three days ago.
Batman's jaw tightens. "They're back already."
"Who?"
"Penguin's crew. Moving product again." Batman accelerates. "The warehouse you helped destroy was one of his major operations. He's re-establishing territory."
"So we stop him."
"We observe first." Batman's voice is firm. "Then we act. Remember the rules."
Peter nods, but his Spider-Sense is already humming through the suit's neural interface. Something wrong ahead. Something dangerous.
They arrive at the docks in under three minutes. Batman parks in the shadows, kills the engine.
"Rooftop access. Stay low, stay quiet." Batman's cape unfurls as he exits the vehicle. "And Peter? Don't engage unless I give the signal."
"What's the signal?"
"You'll know."
Batman fires a grapple and shoots upward. Peter follows with a web-line, the suit's enhanced strength making the pull effortless. He lands on the rooftop in a crouch—and in the suit's angular, armored profile, he looks like a gargoyle come to life.
The warehouse below is chaos.
Twenty, maybe thirty armed men. Trucks being loaded with crates. But there's something else—bodies on the ground. Blood pooling under flickering lights.
"They're executing someone," Peter whispers, his modulator turning it into a growl.
Batman's lenses narrow. He pulls out binoculars with night-vision, zooms in.
In the center of the warehouse, a man kneels. Hands bound. Bag over his head. The Penguin stands over him, umbrella in hand, speaking to his gathered crew.
"What's he saying?" Peter asks.
Batman taps his cowl. The suit's audio pickups enhance—suddenly Peter can hear everything, as if he's standing right there.
"—example must be made," the Penguin is saying, accent crisp and cold. "This man stole from me. From *us*. In Gotham, there are rules. Break the rules, face the consequences."
He raises the umbrella. The tip glows—that same energy weapon from before.
"No," Peter breathes.
Batman's hand shoots out, grabs Peter's wrist. The armored gauntlets click together. "Wait."
"He's going to kill him!"
"I know. Wait."
"For what?!"
"For the right moment." Batman's grip is iron. "If we go now, the others scatter. Penguin escapes. He kills someone else tomorrow, and the day after, and we're back here again. We need to take down the entire operation."
Peter's Spider-Sense *screams* through the neural interface.
The Penguin fires.
The man's body jerks. Falls. Doesn't move.
Peter's stomach churns behind the helmet. "You let him die."
"No. Penguin killed him. Remember the distinction." Batman releases Peter's wrist, pulls out what looks like a small device. "Now we move. Follow my lead exactly."
He drops something over the edge—a smoke grenade. It hits the warehouse floor and erupts in thick gray fog.
Chaos below. Shouts. Gunfire into the smoke.
Batman drops through the skylight like a demon, cape spread wide. Peter follows half a second later—and the thugs who see him emerge from the smoke scream.
Because what drops toward them isn't the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.
It's an armored predator in blood-red and shadow-black, eyes like knife blades, a white spider blazing across its chest like a warning.
It's everything Gotham taught them to fear.
And suddenly they're in the middle of it.
---
Peter's Spider-Sense guides him through the smoke. Danger left—he dodges, the suit's armor absorbing a glancing shot. Danger right—he shoots a taser web at a gunman, watches electricity arc through the man's body. Danger above—he looks up, sees a gunman on the catwalk, shoots a razor web that cuts through the support beam. The gunman crashes down with a scream.
But Batman is something else entirely.
He moves through the smoke like it's not there. Like he can see perfectly. Men go down with surgical precision—a strike here, a kick there, a batarang that somehow ricochets between three targets. No wasted movement. No hesitation.
It's terrifying and beautiful and Peter suddenly understands why criminals fear the Bat.
But he also understands something else.
When criminals look at Batman, they see death coming.
When they look at Peter in this suit, they see the same thing.
A thug emerges from the smoke, takes one look at Peter's angular eyes and fanged mask, and drops his gun.
"Please," the man gasps. "Please, I got kids—"
"Then go home to them," Peter says, his modulator making it sound like a command from something inhuman. "Run. Now."
The man runs.
Peter lets him go. Behind the helmet, he's shaking.
*Is this what I am now? Something that makes people beg?*
"Penguin's escaping!" Peter spots the rotund crime boss waddling toward a back exit. "I've got him!"
"Peter, wait—"
But Peter's already moving. The suit makes him faster, stronger. Web-line, swing, intercept. He lands in front of the exit in a crouch, armor plating clicking as he rises to full height.
The white spider emblem seems to glow in the dim light.
"Going somewhere?"
The Penguin's eyes widen. Then narrow. "Ah. Batman's new pet. I see he's dressed you for Gotham. How... appropriate."
"You murdered that man." Peter's hands clench into fists, the armored gauntlets whirring. "You're under arrest."
"Arrest?" The Penguin laughs. "My dear boy, look at yourself. You're wearing tactical armor designed to intimidate and destroy. You look like something out of a nightmare. Does that seem like 'arrest' to you?"
He raises his umbrella.
Peter's Spider-Sense explodes through the neural interface.
He jumps—the energy blast tears through where he was standing. Peter lands on the wall, the suit's enhanced adhesion making it effortless. He shoots an impact web at the umbrella. It hits like a battering ram, sends the weapon flying across the floor.
"Nice try," Peter says. "But I've fought guys way worse than—"
The floor erupts.
Not an explosion. Something else. The concrete cracks, splits, and something *massive* rises up.
A man. At least, it used to be a man. Now it's eight feet of muscle and gray skin and rage. It roars, and the sound rattles even through Peter's helmet.
"Meet Grundy," the Penguin says pleasantly. "He doesn't like spiders. Red ones especially."
The creature—Grundy—charges.
Peter dodges on instinct, the suit's armor making him faster. Grundy is *fast* for something so big. A fist the size of Peter's torso slams into the wall where Peter was standing. The concrete *explodes*.
"Okay, that's new!" Peter shoots a taser web at Grundy's chest. The electricity arcs across the creature's gray skin—and Grundy just roars louder, angrier.
Peter's Spider-Sense screams. He jumps as Grundy's fist grazes his ribs. Even through the armor plating, even with the energy-dispersing layers, Peter feels the impact. It drives the air from his lungs.
The suit's HUD flashes damage warnings.
"Batman!" Peter gasps. "Little help!"
"Busy!" Batman's voice crackles through the comms.
Peter looks—Batman is fighting seven men at once, systematically dismantling them. But he's too far away.
Grundy charges again.
Peter dodges, counters with a punch to the creature's jaw. The suit's enhanced strength connects solid—it's like punching reinforced concrete. Grundy's head snaps to the side.
For about half a second.
Then Grundy grabs Peter by the leg and *throws* him.
Peter crashes through a window, tumbles across the dock outside. The suit absorbs most of the impact, but the damage indicators spike. His leg throbs despite the armor. He barely manages to web-swing back to his feet.
Grundy follows, smashing through the wall like it's cardboard.
In the dim dock lights, Peter catches his reflection in a puddle—red and black armor, angular predator eyes, the white spider emblem blazing across his chest.
He looks like something that should be able to stop this monster.
He doesn't feel like it.
"Okay, new plan," Peter mutters. "Don't get hit."
He shoots multiple web types at once—taser webs to shock, foam webs to encase, impact webs to stagger. The suit's upgraded shooters fire faster than his old ones, overlapping attacks.
Grundy roars, breaks through the foam, staggers from the electricity. But keeps coming.
Too strong. Too durable. And Peter's running out of options.
His Spider-Sense flares. He jumps—something whistles past his helmet. A batarang, shaped differently than normal. It hits Grundy square in the chest and *explodes* in a burst of electricity.
Grundy roars, stumbles.
Batman appears beside Peter, cape billowing.
"Explosive batarang. Grundy's weakness is electricity—disrupts whatever magic animates him." Batman throws two more. Grundy staggers, drops to one knee. "Now—web him while he's down! Everything you have!"
Peter doesn't hesitate. He shoots every web setting at once—binding, foam, impact, razor webs to cut through any breaking points. The webbing cocoons Grundy in layers, hardening into a prison.
Grundy thrashes, but the combination of electricity and webbing holds.
For now.
"He won't stay down long," Batman says. "GCPD has a containment unit for him. They'll—"
"Batman!"
The Penguin. Peter whirls—the crime boss is at a speedboat, already pulling away from the dock. Even from here, Peter can see his satisfied smile.
"I've got him!" Peter shoots a web-line—
Batman grabs his wrist, the gauntlets clicking together again. "Let him go."
"What? Why?"
"Because we got what we came for." Batman gestures to the warehouse. The smoke has cleared. Penguin's men are webbed to walls, unconscious, or fleeing. The trucks are disabled. The stolen goods secured. "The operation is shut down. Penguin will rebuild, but it'll take time. Time we can use."
"But he killed someone!"
"And GCPD has the body. They have witnesses. They'll issue a warrant." Batman's voice is hard. "Sometimes, Peter, you have to accept incomplete victories. We can't catch everyone every time."
Peter watches the speedboat disappear into Gotham Harbor's darkness. The suit's enhanced optics could track it, target it, but Batman's hand is still on his wrist.
It feels wrong. Feels like failure.
But behind the intimidating helmet, Peter is exhausted. The suit absorbed most of Grundy's attacks, but not all. His ribs ache. His leg throbs. Even his enhanced healing has limits.
"Come on," Batman says. "GCPD will be here in three minutes. We need to be gone."
They grapple and web-swing to a neighboring rooftop. Below, sirens wail. Red and blue lights flood the docks.
Peter watches the police swarm the warehouse. Watches them find the body. Watches them try to contain Grundy, who's still thrashing in his web cocoon.
"First real patrol," Batman says quietly. "How do you feel?"
Peter looks down at his armored hands. Red plating over black ribbing. The white spider emblem reflected in the gauntlet's surface.
"Like I scared more people than I helped."
"You stopped a criminal operation. Prevented future deaths. Captured two dozen armed felons." Batman's voice is steady. "That thug you let run—the one with kids—you could have webbed him. Why didn't you?"
"He was terrified. He surrendered."
"Exactly. The suit made him afraid, but you made the choice to show mercy." Batman turns to face him. "The armor is a tool, Peter. What you do with it—that's still you."
Peter's helmet displays show his elevated heart rate, stress indicators, adrenaline levels. But they can't show the turmoil in his chest.
"That man Penguin executed," Peter says quietly. "We could have saved him."
"Maybe. Or maybe Penguin would have killed two hostages instead. Or triggered an explosion that killed everyone." Batman's expression is haunted. "I make those calculations every night. Every night I decide who lives and who dies based on incomplete information and impossible choices. And every night I live with the consequences."
"How?" Peter's voice cracks even through the modulator. "How do you live with that?"
"By remembering that I save more lives than I lose. By knowing that every criminal operation I shut down prevents future victims. By accepting that I'm human, and humans can't save everyone." Batman pauses. "And by having people around me who remind me why I do this. Alfred. Dick. Barbara. People who keep me grounded when the darkness gets too deep."
Peter thinks about May. About Uncle Ben. About everyone he lost when his world died.
"I don't have anyone anymore."
"You have me. And Alfred." Batman's voice softens slightly. "And you have yourself. The Peter Parker who let that thug run because he had kids. The Peter Parker who still wants to help people even when it hurts. Don't lose that person to the armor."
They stand in silence for a moment, watching Gotham's emergency services clean up the docks.
"We should go," Batman finally says. "GCPD will want to question anyone at the scene, even us."
They return to the Batmobile in silence. Peter's suit displays track their route, map the city, analyze threat patterns. The technology is incredible, but it feels like a barrier between him and the world.
Between him and himself.
---
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