Peter Parker

The first thing Peter noticed when he regained consciousness was that he had the worst migraine in the history of migraines. It reminded him of the time he pulled an all-nighter studying for a final exam in History and he drank Aunt May's special homemade 'coffee' brew so he would stay awake. He ended up going home before the final due to massive migraine attacks caused by the drink. That was the last time he ever drank that poison.

However, the next thing he noticed, in that blissful moment of consciousness, was how he was still very much alive, and not dead as he thought he would be.

He couldn't open his eyes. There was darkness all around him, and his entire body felt limp. Every square inch of him was sore, and Peter could hardly breathe, feeling like the entire world was weighing down on his chest.

Wake up.

Peter's eyes flashed open and he let out an unearthly scream. His first instinct was to jump, run, and get away as fast as he could from anything that would hurt him. Not only that, but his spidey-senses were screaming at him, something they only did when he was in great peril. Peter leapt to his feet and stretched out his hand towards a large blurry shape on the distant horizon, hoping his webs would catch so he could swing his way out. There was noise coming from behind him, but Peter blocked it out, focusing on his task.

Just as he was about to activate his web-shooters, a pair of strong, burly arms wrapped themselves around Peter's torso, trapping his arms at his sides. Peter flailed about, trying to wiggle himself out of his attacker's grip. Do whatever it takes to get away from an attacker, Peter, his Aunt May had told him once when she had signed the pair up for self-defense classes. Just get away.

Try as hard as Peter might, his attacker merely grunted in frustration and tightened their grip. Peter choked back a sob of distress and let himself go limp. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying that whatever death was awaiting him in the next few minutes, that it would be swift and painless.

There was more noise coming directly from behind Peter; it was his attacker. He ignored his spidey-senses and allowed himself to hear what the person was saying.

"Kid's got spirit, I'll give him that," the attacker grunted. It was a male, mid-twenties. "Can someone please calm him down and convince him we're not the enemy?"

There was some more shuffling and Peter heard more footsteps coming towards the front of him. He gritted his teeth and took a shaky deep breath, mentally prepping himself for his death.

"Peter...open your eyes please. I promise you on my father's name, the great king T'Chaka, that we will not harm you."

Peter recognized that voice. Not only had he heard it on the radio and TV, but he had met the man in person.

He took a breath and began to flick his eyes open slowly. He winced and shut them almost immediately when sunlight crashed into his vision.

Wait, sunlight? Peter was now extremely confused and anxious. Was there even sunlight when someone was dead?

Peter tried again, trying to calm his nerves. His fingers danced anxiously at his sides and he rolled his shoulders, forcing his muscles to relax. This time, Peter was fully able to open his eyes. When he did, his jaw dropped open in awe.

He was surrounded by hills. Not ordinary hills, ones that were as tall as skyscrapers. They had the most luscious, green grass he had ever seen in his entire life. When he wiggled his toes, Peter could feel the soft and moist grass wiggling along with him. The scent of sweat and fresh rain mixed together in perfect harmony, creating a smell that tempted Peter back into sweet unconsciousness.

There was a loud cough behind him, and his spidey-senses shot up again. Peter flipped around, holding his hands up defensively. He was not prepared for the sight he encountered.

There were twelve people, both men and woman, human and alien, all gathered together in a clump. Why that surprised him, he didn't know. Something felt off in his brain, and Peter couldn't figure out how to turn it back on.

There was a man standing a few feet in front of him; Peter's mind quickly connected the dots and confirmed that it was the Black Panther, a creature considered a legend to the whole world besides the nation of Wakanda. The Black Panther still had his suit made of Vibranium on, his panther mask giving off a ferocious look that made Peter's spine tingle. At least some of Peter's brain still worked. He gave some serious thought to the idea of just running away right then, when the group thought he had finally calmed down. However, the man in front of him held up his arms in a friendly manner, not daring to move towards or away from Peter.

"Peter, do you remember who I am?" the man asked cautiously, an accent coming out full and strong. Peter could hear him stating his words clearly, as if he was speaking to a wild animal.

"Y-You're t-the B-Black P-Panther," Peter stuttered, suddenly aware of how raw his voice rounded. He licked his chapped lips and tried to coat his throat with some moisture. He swallowed hard. "You helped T-Tony and us d-during the fight at the a-airport against Captain A-America and his team."

The Black Panther nodded once. "That is correct, Peter. Now, I am going to take off my mask. Is that alright with you?" The man made a motion towards his head and Peter found himself giving the smallest of nods.

The Black Panther nodded his head thankfully before tapping the side of his mask with two fingers. It dissolved away, similar to that of Tony's newest suit made from nanotechnology. The man underneath the Black Panther suit was African, with a nicely trimmed goatee and short, curly black hair. His chocolate brown eyes were warm and friendly, and Peter found himself relaxing some more.

"Since I know your name, it is appropriate you know my own," the man said with a smile. He gestured with his hands towards his own chest. "My name is T'Challa. To some, I am the King of Wakanda."

"Y-Your Majesty," Peter stammered out, feeling sweat pooling on his forehead. How did one talk to a foreign leader again?

Instead, T'Challa let out a small, delighted laugh and shook his head. "There is no need for such delicacies here, Peter. Wherever...here...is, anyways."

There was movement behind T'Challa's shoulder and Peter instantly leapt back a few feet, moving into a crouch for better mobility. T'Challa raised his hands up, trying to calm Peter down, and Peter took a few deeps breaths, focusing on centering himself. Maybe he should have taken those yoga classes with May after all...

"Please, be calm, Peter," T'Challa insisted soothingly. "It is just our friends."

Peter licked his lips again and clenched his fists, but scooted to the side to get a clearer picture of what the people in the clump were doing. Most of them were either standing or crouching; all of them had been awake before he had. The couple he noticed the most was an android made of Vibranium (Peter could tell by the way the sunlight sparkled off of it) who was red, green, and gold, and a young women, in her late-twenties at the latest. She had beautiful auburn red hair, and she had on a red corset with a long, dark red leather jacket. The two of them were passionately embracing; the woman was crying profusely and the android was whispering kind words into her ear. Peter couldn't help but smile at the robot's gesture.

The rest of the group was divided up into pairs, and it was obvious to see it was whoever each other was most comfortable with:

-What looked like a human, an alien with little lights attached to her forehead that looked similar to those on Angler fishes, probably the most muscular alien Peter had ever seen in his entire life, and a walking, talking tree were all in a small huddle, standing more towards the side of the clump, but still within listening and conversing distance.

-An African-American man and a scruffy, long dark brown haired Caucasian man with a metal arm were standing close by the young woman and the android, their eyes flickering back and forth to the undergrowth merely a mile away, as if daring danger to come out and try to attack them.

-And then, there were two figures sitting by a roaring fireplace that Peter had somehow missed on his awakening. They were talking in low voices, not wanting to be overheard by the rest of the group. One was a beautiful young woman, perhaps a couple years the android's lover's senior. She had dark brown hair that was pulled back into a professional, yet messy bun. At her side was another darker skinned man (the color reminded Peter of the creamy chocolate balls that him and his Aunt May loved to get at their nearby deli shop), and from the way he was slouching, Peter had to guess he was her boss. He had a pitch-black eyepatch on his left eye and there was major scarring all around it.

-One man sat by himself, his legs folded into a criss-cross-applesauce position. His eyes were shut tightly and there was sweat forming on his forehead.

Peter froze when his gaze caught on the man by the fireplace. The sides of his hair were already graying, despite the fact that he looked like he was in his late-thirties. A deep red cloak was attached to his shoulders, and, though it was limp now, Peter knew what sort of damage it could actually do.

"D-Dr. Strange?" Peter whispered in shock.

The man's eyes shot open immediately and he stared up at the young man, his eyes widening in disbelief.

"Peter?" the man asked, unfolding himself and slowly rising to his feet. Dr. Strange looked healthy, albeit he was shaky from shock. "Are you alright? We were suspecting that you would not regain your memories for another..."

"You died."

There was silence. Every group stopped talking and simply stared down at their feet. The young woman by the android bit her lower lip and her eyes filled up with even more tears. Peter didn't realize he was crying until he had the urge to sniffle.

"You disappeared completely into dust," Peter continued, partially glad that his stammering was gone. Now if he could only stop crying. He wiped away a few tears that leaked out and added, "Right before I..."

His chest suddenly seized up and Peter clutched desperately at it, trying to find some breath. He had died. He remembered feeling the pain, the unease in his stomach. He remembered falling into Tony Stark's arms, crying about how he didn't want to leave...how he should have just stayed on the schoolbus.

His eyesight was beginning to grow dark on the edges, and he heard Dr. Strange yell, "He's having a panic attack!" before someone gently grabbed him, helping to ease him down onto the ground. Once he was safety deposited on the dirt, Peter sprawled out on his back, forcing himself to look up at the sky. He forced a deep breath in and forced a deep breath out. He started counting down the five senses. It was a trick that his Uncle Ben had taught him after Peter had experienced his first panic attack about the night his parents were killed. Starting with sight, find five things you could see, four you could hear, three you could touch, two you could taste, and one you could smell.

Five things he could see: the beautiful, fluffy clouds that reminded him of home, Dr. Strange's distressed face, T'Challa's back as the king paced back and forth, how the green land vastly contrasted from the blue sky, and the thick, dense forests at the edge of the clearing.

Four things he could hear: Dr. Strange insisting that he stayed awake and to continue whatever Peter was doing because it was helping him to calm down, T'Challa's labored breaths, Peter's own labored breaths, and someone cursing softly at the fireplace.

Three things he could touch: the grass that tickled the back of his neck, Dr. Strange's knee which happened to be right beside his hand, and Peter's own body.

Two things he could taste: the moisture in the air and that ridiculous deodorant that Dr. Strange was wearing. If it was so thick that Peter could taste it, then there was too much of it on.

One thing he could smell: that rain-sweat combination that he had first noticed when he woke up.

Peter gritted his teeth and took another breath, feeling relief wash over him when it came rather easily. Dr. Strange noticed it too, and let out a similar sigh. The older doctor held his hand out to Peter, who took it gratefully. With the help of Strange, Peter stood back onto his feet. All the group looked at him expectantly, as if they were waiting anxiously to hear if he was going to live or not. It confused him. He didn't know any of them, so why should they be concerned...?

Peter bit back a gasp of pain as something sharp hit the back of his head. He moaned and rubbed the spot tenderly. Dr. Strange shifted his hold on Peter, allowing the doctor to have better access to the back of Peter's head. Dr. Strange clicked his tongue disapprovingly and Peter shivered uncomfortably. What did that mean?

"You have a nasty cut there, Peter," Dr. Strange elaborated after seeing Peter's dazed expression. "With the addition of a concussion, based on your current symptoms. Normally, I wouldn't recommend sleep; it can cause the concussion to become worse. Unfortunately, in this situation, I feel like sleep would be the best option for you."

"B-But, I need some answers," Peter argued weakly as the doctor pulled him towards the fireplace. John Doe (the darker-skinned man standing the by the android), as Peter nicknamed him, walked over to Peter's other side, looping Peter's arm around the man's neck. "Please, Dr. Strange..."

"Peter, if we had any answers, we would give them to you," the doctor whispered softly, and even though he was standing right beside Peter, the young boy had to strain his ears just to pick up the words. "Please...rest. Hopefully, when you awake, we will be able to give you some of the answers you are desperate for."

Peter closed his mouth, his mind whirling with thoughts. He allowed the two men to gently set him down on the dirt by the fireplace, his body curling up into a loose ball upon impact. Dr. Strange got up and walked over to T'Challa after Peter was comfortably on the ground, but the other man, John, stayed kneeling by him.

"Y-You can go now," Peter stammered. The man looked at him with slight amusement in his eyes.

"I ain't going nowhere until you're asleep," the man promised him, moving so he was sitting comfortably on the ground beside Peter. "I have experienced PTSD before; I know how hard it is to try and fall asleep without someone beside you."

Peter gave the man a tiny smile before shifting a little. He tried to close his eyes, but his body tensed up and he found he couldn't breathe. All the memories of how he had died raced back to him, and he flung his eyes open, gritting his teeth angrily. It didn't help that he was still wearing his bloodied Spiderman uniform, the one that Tony Stark had upgraded for him.

So, instead, Peter turned his gaze towards the fire, focusing on how the embers crackled and popped. All of them moved harmoniously together whilst still being an individual spark. Somehow, amidst all that chaos, Peter was able to fall into sweet unconsciousness.

"I-I'm so s-sorry, Aunt May!" Peter sobbed, his arms wrapping tightly around his aunt. The youth was on his knees inside his aunt's cozy apartment, his face buried into the crook of her neck. The woman in told was also on her knees, clutching tightly to her nephew in return. "I-If only I hadn't been mad at him...maybe he wouldn't have s-stormed out of the house like he did...I-I killed him!"

"Peter Benjamin Parker!" his aunt gasped, pulling away from him. May cupped his tear-stained face with her hands and pulled it forward, so the two of them were resting foreheads against each other. "Don't you ever say that again! Your Uncle Ben would never have agreed with you. He made his choice to run after you. He gave his life up so that way yours would be spared."

"B-But..." Peter choked up, and May tightened her grip on him, pulling Peter into a fierce hug.

"No ifs, ands, or buts," May argued, squeezing him even tighter. "Peter...with great power comes great responsibility. Ben had the power to save you, and to him, that was his greatest responsibility."

Peter's eyes flashed open and he let out a loud gasp, bolting into an upright position in an instant. He was severely disoriented and, in addition to his many side effects, a new headache was raging on. Dr. Strange was right; his concussion probably had become worse. He rubbed his eyes wearily with his shaking hands. Peter glanced around the fireplace, keeping his hands pressed against his legs.

All the other members of the group were asleep, leaving Peter as the only one awake. T'Challa and Dr. Strange were resting against a tree stump near to where Peter was lying down, and John Doe had fallen asleep right at Peter's feet. Peter gave a soft, thankful smile towards the man, even though he was asleep still.

"You're awake."

Peter flinched and twisted around sharply. His headache protested and he winced, moaning as another fresh wave of pain hit him. He sat there for a moment, blinking his eyes until all the dark spots faded away. Once they did, he peered across the fireplace to see the scruffy Caucasian man sitting on a log, staring longingly into the fire. His hands were folded neatly in his lap, and his outfit consisted of tactical gear Peter had seen some soldiers wear in movies.

Scruffy, the man, spoke again. "Do you remember me?" He gave Peter a quizzing look. Peter's mind raced, like go-karts on a track, as he searched his thoughts. Scruffy did look familiar, but Peter couldn't pinpoint where exactly he knew him from. Scruffy had to be in his mid-twenties, with shoulder-length dark brown hair that almost looked black in the faint light. He looked as if he hadn't shaved in a couple of weeks. It looked uncomfortable to Peter.

Peter shook his head softly, and the man gave a little sigh before nodding thoughtfully. Peter felt shame rise to his face and he looked down towards the ground, feeling disappointed with himself. Should he know Scruffy?

"It's alright, Peter," Scruffy interrupted Peter's sulking. Peter looked back up towards the man and Scruffy gave him a knowing smile. "We're all experiencing a bit of amnesia. Yours is just the worse case we've seen so far. Must be what comes with the so-called 'death'." The man paused and he licked his lips before continued, "My name's Bucky."

Something clicked inside Peter's head and he could feel the neurons sparking to life. "Bucky Barnes?"

Scruffy froze and looked at him in disbelief, which Peter took as a good sign. Peter added, "I-I...I caught your fist during the fight at the airport...you have the metal arm..." Peter's eyes widened in disbelief and awe, and his mouth fell open slightly. "You have a metal arm! Man, that's so cool!"

Bucky held a finger up to his lips and Peter's face flushed with embarrassment. Peter slapped his own hands over his face, preventing any fangirling from coming out. Bucky chuckled, his voice low and quiet, shaking his head slightly at Peter's antics.

"Dude, I studied you in History class," Peter whispered hurriedly towards Bucky, his grin spreading wider and wider. "You and Steve Rogers. There was an entire unit about you guys and the Howling Commandos. I did my final thesis paper on what really happened to you and did you really die."

Peter's voice faltered, and he stopped, slowly looking down into the fire. Suddenly, it didn't seem as warm and fuzzy as it had been when he had fallen asleep. It was now weak, dull, barely able to continue on with its fiery life.

"B-Bucky," Peter stammered, clenching his hands together. He looked down at his lap, unable to meet the super soldier's eyes. "Do you know where we are?"

"Remember what Strange said," Bucky reminded him in a scolding yet gentle voice. "We'll let you know as soon as we figure out what the heck is going on. We're all confused."

Bucky fell silent and the two of them sat by the dying fire, watching as it puttered around, trying desperately to find little wood chips that it could bring down with it.

After a moment of silence, Peter asked, "Bucky...a-are we still dead?"

Bucky immediately shook his head, running his metal hand through his long, dark locks. The super soldier's leg began to bounce rapidly as Bucky took a deep breath. "To be completely honest, Pete, I don't think we ever died."

Peter's mouth dropped open in surprise and his chest tightened up. He found it a bit difficult to breathe and his shaky hands began to shake even more. "W-What do you m-mean? H-How are we n-not dead? We faded into dust!" Peter's headache was still raging hardcore, making him drowsy. However, he didn't feel like he could return to sleep. There were too many questions rushing around in his head.

"Since being the Winter Soldier for HYDRA," Bucky began, his leg still bouncing. "I have been able to determine what death is. I had to; it was an essential part of my job. I killed a whole lot, and I began to recognize death's ugly face and the trails it left behind. This," he gestured all around them, towards the bright green grass swaying softly in the wind to the healthy trees on the outskirts of the clearing, all as tall as four-story buildings, "is not it. Wherever we are: it's not Earth, but it's not death either. I think Thanos tried to kill us but we got teleported accidentally."

"It was no accident, James Buchanan Barnes."

Peter's spidey-senses rocket-fired. Peter let out a yelp of fright and jumped to his feet, accidentally stepping on John Doe in the process. The man let out a grunt of pain and Peter tripped over him in a frenzy to get away from the voice. Bucky was on his feet, pulling out a M4A1 Peter hadn't realized was on Bucky's person.

Peter looked around frantically, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice. It was none of the other members by the fireplace; they were all slowly being awoken by Bucky, who would walk a few feet, check to make sure the coast was clear, then nudge them awake.

T'Challa slowly crouched down beside Peter, and Peter was proud of himself that he didn't flinch at the sudden movement near him. The Vibranium armor was still on and the Black Panther helmet quickly reappeared atop T'Challa head.

"Peter, stay towards the fireplace," T'Challa ordered, his accented voice coming out slightly distorted from the helmet. "Now!"

The young man nodded, frog-leaping towards the fire that had mysterious died out. As if on cue, the rest of the group made a circle around Peter, blocking him from sight. Peter took that moment to yank up his mask, feeling more comfortable and at ease with the fabric pressed up against his face. He gently tapped the side piece attached to his mask and the night vision activated. Everything around him looked green and it disoriented himself just a bit. He swayed lightly then shook his head, canceling the night vision. Peter put a mental note down that night vision and concussions don't work well together.

"Come out with your hands held high!" Bucky barked out into the dead night air. He shouldered his weapon tighter and swerved around.

Peter placed his palms flat onto the cold, hard-packed earth underneath him. He closed his eyes and blocked out all the noise from the people around him and focused only on the vibrations. He knelt like that for what felt like hours, only paying attention to what he could feel.

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing.

"Bucky," Peter whispered tentatively. He didn't want to make a big deal about it, since he was new to the whole superhero deal, but Peter felt like it was slightly important. "Whoever it is, they aren't walking on foot. I can't feel any vibrations in the ground."

"You are correct, Peter Benjamin Parker. A being of my caliber does not simply...walk."

Then, Peter was blinded by an enormous light coming from directly in front of him.

A/N: Hey everyone! I just wanted to let you know that I edited this portion a little bit. I got really good constructive criticism from a Guest reviewer (THANK YOU WHOEVER YOU ARE) and will work harder in the future to keep it staying good :)