Location: Earth-616 (Prime Reality)
Time Remaining Until Multiversal Collapse: 54:59:04
Arrival
Peter stepped through the veil between worlds, landing with a familiar thwump on a rooftop above midtown Manhattan. The sky was an indifferent gray. The city hummed with the same rhythm it always had—except...
No one looked up.
No one gasped.
No one said: "Hey, it's Spider-Man!"
Because here—this version of Earth-616—no one remembered.
Not Aunt May.
Not MJ.
Not Ned.
Not even the deli guy who used to give him free pickles.
Deadpool slid out of the portal behind him.
"Wow. It's like an iPhone update that deleted all your contacts."
Miguel and Billy followed, scanning the city. Miguel checked his chronoscanner.
"Temporal signature's intact. This is your world, alright. But the erasure spell is holding. The 'Peter Parker Protocol' is still active."
Peter stared down at the streets. "So even if I walk right past them… they won't know me."
Billy nuzzled him gently, sensing the weight.
Peter: "Let's go see what forgetting feels like."
Scene: The Coffee Shop
They entered a quiet corner café where the wifi was always weak, and the croissants were suspiciously good. Peter had sat here a thousand times, working on essays, scrolling memes, or just watching MJ laugh across the table.
Today, she was here again.
With Ned.
Laughing.
Living.
Peter froze.
Deadpool leaned close. "You sure this isn't your villain origin story?"
Peter forced himself forward. Ordered a black coffee. Sat at the window. No mask.
MJ looked right at him.
And…
Nothing.
No flicker. No gasp. No weird tension.
Just a polite smile and a glance away.
Peter's hand trembled slightly on the paper cup.
Miguel didn't say anything.
Deadpool didn't quip.
Even he knew this silence mattered more than any gag.
The Whisper in the Web
As they left the café, something strange happened.
The sky rippled for just a second.
Not visibly. Not even audibly.
But Peter felt it.
A twitch in the thread.
He looked toward a dark alley. Heard a child's voice humming the '60s Spider-Man cartoon theme.
He turned—but saw no one.
Just shadows.
Miguel caught up. "Your timeline's fraying again. Someone's poking at it."
Peter: "Who?"
Deadpool: "Three guesses. First two don't count. Third is a taco."
Peter scanned the skyline. Then checked his suit.
The Clause was glowing. Faintly. Reacting.
The web was trying to mend itself.
And somewhere in the city—someone did remember.
The Archive Beneath the Bugle
Jonah Jameson was yelling at no one again.
To be fair, his new podcast had exactly three subscribers—two of them bots—and one of them was just him, accidentally.
But he still recorded, every day, from the basement of the now-bankrupt Daily Bugle building.
"SPIDER-MENACE! If you're out there, I'll find you again, you web-wearing pestilence!"
He slammed a button, knocking over a microphone.
"...Even if I can't remember why I hate you!"
He stared at a blurry photo on the wall.
A figure in red and blue. Smudged. Half-erased.
Then the basement door creaked open.
Peter stepped in.
Jonah stood slowly. "Do I… know you?"
Peter didn't answer.
He walked over. Touched the photo.
The image sharpened slightly.
Jonah gasped. "Who are you?"
Deadpool poked in. "Someone you owe about six thousand unpaid op-eds."
Peter turned. "We need to use your archives."
Jonah blinked. "Why?"
Peter: "Because somewhere in those files, the web still exists. And if I can find the right moment—maybe I can get the city to remember."
The Whisper Grows
While Peter and Miguel dug through decades of old Bugle data, Billy roamed outside.
And saw something.
A mural on the side of a building.
Graffiti.
Fresh.
Of Spider-Man.
Pose perfect.
No name.
No tags.
But it was him.
Billy returned, bleating frantically.
Peter followed him through back alleys to see it.
And suddenly—they weren't alone.
A girl stepped out from the shadows.
She was maybe 12.
Wore an oversized red hoodie.
And stared right at Peter.
"You're real."
Peter froze. "What did you say?"
"You're not supposed to be here. But I remember. My dad said you saved us when the sky cracked open once."
Deadpool turned to Peter. "She's unforgotten."
Miguel scanned her. "She's immune. Temporal slip. Her memories phased around the spell."
Peter knelt beside her.
"What's your name?"
She hesitated. Then whispered:
"May."
He almost broke.
But nodded. "We need your help."
The Broadcast
Back in the Bugle, Peter hijacked the backup emergency transmitter.
One signal. One shot.
He wrote the script himself.
Just his voice.
Broadcasted across every old frequency.
To the city. To the world.
"You don't remember me.
But I remember all of you.
I was there when the bridge fell.
When the power went out.
When the sky opened.
When your child got home safe.
When your world didn't end.
My name doesn't matter.
What matters is this—
You knew someone would show up.
And I did. Every time.
Not for thanks. Not for fame.
For you."
Across the city, people paused.
Turned.
Listened.
The web twitched.
The spell cracked.
Peter whispered the last line:
"You don't need to remember who I am.
Just remember what I stood for.
Because if I go now—
I want to go having reminded you of that."
The City Responds
First, silence.
Then—
A siren wailed in the distance.
And stopped.
Then another.
Then voices.
One by one.
People looking up.
Pointing.
Remembering something.
Not the face. Not the name.
Just the feeling.
The comfort.
The swing.
The hope.
And the mural of Spider-Man? It now stretched across six stories.
Crowds gathered beneath it.
Peter looked out the window of the Bugle.
The web glowed faintly behind his eyes.
Miguel smiled. "You just reminded Earth-616 that the story isn't done."
Deadpool: "I cried a little. Just a single tear. It punched me in the feelings."
Peter nodded.
"Good. Because we're going to need them."
The Rising Threat
But miles beneath the city—
Beneath even the Subway Dimension—
In the old abandoned Sanctum Cellarum—
A voice stirred.
A twisted multiversal copy of Peter, stitched from corrupted memories and broken arcs.
Once cast into deletion.
Now…
Returning.
He whispered a name:
"Prime is gone.
The Clause has awakened.
That means…
I can be written again."