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Batman in Spider-Man's World: Chapter 1-4
🕑 Added 2025-09-28 21:57:12 +0000 UTCChapter 1: The Crossing
Gotham was always raining.
Batman melted into the night, standing atop a stone gargoyle, his expression unreadable as he looked out over the rain-soaked city.
Three hundred sixty days a year, this was routine. Tonight, something was different.
Without warning, the world spun like a kaleidoscope, dazzling and disorienting. Scene after scene flickered past his eyes like a carousel.
Catwoman, Harley, Zatanna, Wonder Woman, Talia… fleeting nights and stolen hours with each of them in different places, at different times.
Corrupt judges, bought-off psychiatrists, police who looked the other way, officials in bed with the mob.
Joker, Two-Face, Penguin, Scarecrow… villains repeating the endless cycle of crime, capture, and escape.
The rush of images made his head pound, but Batman stood firm, sharpening his awareness.
Then the scene shifted. A cramped, dingy apartment. An unfamiliar older man, stern-faced, speaking directly to him:
“If you have the power to help others, you have the moral responsibility to do it. That’s not a choice—it’s a duty. With great power comes great responsibility!”
A gunshot cracked. The man collapsed into a pool of blood, clutching Batman’s hand with fading strength.
“Peter…”
“Peter!”
The call yanked Batman back to reality. The name wasn’t his, but he turned instinctively toward the voice.
A slightly overweight man in a lab coat was watching him with worried eyes.
“Peter Parker, are you all right?”
Peter Parker?
Batman’s gaze snapped over the man. His sharp eyesight caught the name printed on the badge clipped to the lab coat:
Otto Gunther Octavius.
Who?
Questions piled in his mind. He looked down at himself—and froze. No Kevlar armor, no titanium plating. Just an ordinary plaid shirt.
And this wasn’t Gotham’s storm-soaked rooftops. It was a brightly lit laboratory.
“Scarecrow’s Fear Toxin? Or the Mad Hatter’s Mind Control?”
Batman didn’t panic. His eyes swept the room.
Pristine, orderly. Portraits of famous scientists lined the walls. Einstein, Newton—familiar. But others he didn’t recognize: Bruce Banner, Hank Pym. Among them, Otto Octavius.
Equipment filled the lab, and at the front stood a massive machine, an octopus of steel turned upside down. A whiteboard beside it was covered in equations.
“Otto Octavius, world-renowned nuclear physicist? That machine… a Tokamak device?”
He ignored Octavius for the moment, analyzing the whiteboard.
Wayne Enterprises had once pursued nuclear fusion to power Gotham. Unlike Octavius’s Tokamak, Wayne’s team had focused on Magnetic Confinement Fusion. The mathematics was entirely different.
After shutting down the project, Batman had studied the field himself. He knew Tokamak design well enough to spot a subtle error in one parameter. Aside from that, the equations were sound.
The formula was too precise, too advanced. Scarecrow and the Mad Hatter couldn’t fabricate knowledge they didn’t possess. That meant this wasn’t an illusion.
“Peter, you don’t look well. I suggest you go home and rest. Come back tomorrow,” Octavius said, frowning at his silence.
If Harry Osborn hadn’t personally vouched for him, Octavius would have thrown this young man out already.
Before Batman could reply, a sharp sting pierced the back of his neck. Cold spread like liquid ice, racing down his spine and into every nerve.
The world seemed to freeze, sounds warping—cloth rustling, glass shifting, his own heartbeat hammering loud and distorted.
The chill pulled his senses toward the Tokamak. That was the source.
An alarm blared, red warning lights flashing. Octavius rushed to the console, fingers flying over the controls. Within minutes, the lights dimmed back to white, the sirens silenced.
“As you can see, my fusion experiment still isn’t stable. I’ll need to check every step,” Octavius said with a smile. No trace of defeat.
Failure was part of science. Each setback was experience gained. Octavius wasn’t discouraged.
“That reaction… it felt like my instincts warning me of imminent danger,” Batman thought, eyes narrowing. He turned toward the scientist.
“Doctor, may I borrow your computer?”
He didn’t explain why. Octavius, already absorbed in troubleshooting, waved him off.
“Go ahead.”
Batman slid into a free workstation, booted it up, and his fingers blurred across the keys.
Illusion or not, the first priority was information. He hacked the local police database, pulling up every record on “Peter Parker.”
Name. Residence. School enrollment.
“So this is my identity? A junior at Empire State University. An orphan raised by Ben Parker.”
Expressionless, Batman logged out and scrubbed every trace of his intrusion. He excused himself and left.
Following the address listed in the system, he walked nearly an hour through the crowded New York streets until he reached the apartment.
He locked the door. Drew the curtains. Sat cross-legged in the living room and closed his eyes.
The walk had convinced him ninety-nine percent this wasn’t a dream. But one final test remained—meditation.
He had studied it under Zatanna, a defense against psychic assaults. It could cut through illusion.
Three hours passed. Darkness filled the apartment. Batman’s eyes snapped open.
“Not an illusion. But it could still be Barry Allen. A change in the timeline triggering a chain reaction.”
He rose to his feet, voice low and steady.
“I need to find out why my mind is inside this young stranger… and figure out how to get back to Gotham.”
“The fastest way is to find this world’s Bruce Wayne—if he even exists here.
“But knowing myself, there’s no way he’d believe Peter Parker’s body holds another Bruce Wayne’s soul. The best option would be to knock him out, lock him up, and keep him there until I figure out how to return to my own world.”
Batman’s eyes drifted to Peter Parker’s excuse for a computer—something cobbled together with mismatched parts, the case replaced by a shoebox.
It looked pathetic, but it ran smoothly enough. He pulled up a browser and began searching a string of keywords.
His face grew more grim with each keystroke. At last, he pushed back from the desk and moved to the window, staring down at the cars on the street below.
This world had no Gotham. No Metropolis. No Central City. And no wealthy heir named Bruce Wayne.
This wasn’t a parallel universe. It was something else—an entirely unfamiliar world.
No Kryptonian ship crash-landing in a Kansas field. No demigoddess from Paradise Island. But there was a man in red and blue spandex calling himself Spider-Man.
“Starting from zero. My return home just got pushed back indefinitely. But I’m Batman. This won’t stop me.
“I need money, a base, equipment, gear—and total mastery of this body.”
He clenched his fist. The memory of that sudden chill in Octavius’s lab—right before the alarms went off—flashed back.
He couldn’t allow any ability to exist outside his control. If he had to rebuild from nothing in this world, then everything would be under his command.
The fist tightened further. That’s when he noticed something else: this body was far stronger than any human peak he’d ever trained to.
Not on par with his Hellbat Armor, but easily twenty tons of raw strength.
The discovery didn’t thrill him. It unsettled him.
Precognition of danger. Strength beyond normal human limits. A soul displaced. Peter Parker’s missing consciousness. None of it was under his control.
He drew in a slow breath and began searching the apartment.
The internet painted Peter as nothing more than an ordinary college student. Batman needed more.
Soon, he had laid out several items across Parker’s messy desk: a red-and-blue bodysuit covered in web patterns, two wrist-mounted devices, a notebook, and a few chemical canisters.
The suit matched the one he’d seen online: Spider-Man’s costume. The devices were his Web-Shooters.
The notebook was chaotic, the front pages scribbled with formulas—drafts, really. Batman studied them closely and realized they were the exact formula for the web fluid. The chemical canisters were half-finished batches, ready to be mixed to completion.
The back pages were sketches—designs for Spider-Man’s suit.
Every piece of evidence pointed to one conclusion: Peter Parker was Spider-Man.
Night fell. Sleep was out of the question. Batman scanned a map and located an abandoned shipyard not far from the apartment. Dressed in Peter’s black clothes, he slipped out into the night.
“I need to fully map out this body’s speed, strength, reflexes, and senses. For now, I’ll focus on strength and speed.”
The shipyard was eerie in the dark, wind moaning through rusted steel and broken wood.
Rotten water seeped from pipes. Garbage piled in corners. Even vagrants avoided the place.
Batman’s luck held. He found an old gantry crane, its weights scattered on the ground.
Testing confirmed it: his baseline strength was twenty-five tons. At full sprint, his enhanced muscles carried him up to 190 kilometers per hour.
And no matter the terrain—obstacles, uneven ground—his reflexes let him navigate effortlessly.
He eyed the Web-Shooters he’d brought along.
He remembered the footage of Parker’s acrobatics, swinging across the city in exaggerated arcs. Batman’s mouth tightened. Still, after a moment of hesitation, he strapped them on.
Two minutes later, he tore them off with visible irritation. Even with his years of using the Grapple Gun, Parker’s flamboyant web-swinging was a style he couldn’t adapt to.
“With the right application of force techniques, I can push this body’s speed and strength even further.”
He filed the results away mentally and began drafting a training regimen.
He wouldn’t rely on borrowed power. Strength didn’t belong to him until it was forged through discipline.
Muscle memory. Reflex conditioning. Combat technique. Everything would be retrained.
For three days, he barely slept more than a couple hours each night. By day, he moved through New York, studying this world. By night, he trained relentlessly in the abandoned shipyard.
Using Parker’s student credentials, he even slipped into Empire State University’s labs, running bloodwork and testing every facet of his biology: healing rate, sensory acuity, everything.
The trail led him back to a single origin: a genetically altered spider.
Even that intangible danger sense—Peter Parker’s notes had named it the Spider-Sense.
“Scientifically, it’s the brain processing micro-environmental changes at subconscious speed, projecting them as warnings into conscious thought.
“If that’s true, then it can be trained.”
In the deepest warehouse of the shipyard, he cleared a space. On the wall, he pinned a massive map of New York.
More than fifty colored pins dotted its surface. Surrounding it were clipped articles and handwritten dossiers.
Crime families. Active gangs. The city’s power players.
Batman stood before the map, arms folded, staking a silent claim over the city as his hunting ground.
“To build the equipment that can pinpoint my way back, I’ll need resources. A fortune. A corporation to rival Wayne Enterprises.
“Octavius’s Nuclear Fusion Energy could be the key. But first, I need startup capital.
“My first fund will come from them—the gangs of New York.”
Chapter 2: Plan B
Back in Gotham, Batman had once shut down the Nuclear Fusion Energy project, scrapping billions in investment rather than let it fall into Bane’s hands.
At the time, his grasp of nuclear physics wasn’t deep. But after years of private study, he’d overturned his own judgment.
Neither Magnetic Confinement Fusion nor a Tokamak reactor was remotely practical as a weapon. Their size alone made the idea impossible.
To weaponize fusion, you’d have to turn it into fission—a complete impossibility. Even if criminals stole a device, Batman could destroy it easily with conventional means—explosives, firearms—without triggering a fusion reaction.
Controlled fusion was safe, clean energy. Which was why, instead of interfering with Dr. Octavius’s research, Batman had quietly folded it into his long-term strategy.
“It’s 2006. If I invest in Octavius and help him perfect Nuclear Fusion Energy, I can build the capital I need within two years and construct the instrument that will take me back to my world.
“But until then, I need a Plan B.”
His eyes moved from the pinned map of New York to the makeshift computer in the warehouse—a machine cobbled together from Peter Parker’s parts and rebuilt with Batman’s own upgrades.
He intended to hack into the nation’s most classified files to determine whether this world contained any superhuman powers. But this computer was still too underpowered.
Which meant one thing: he needed money.
The abandoned shipyard lay in Manhattan’s Lower East Side, not especially large but cluttered with rusted cranes and derelict ships. The terrain was a maze.
The homeless avoided it. Too dangerous, too heavy to clear a safe corner, too easy to get cut on corroded steel and die of tetanus.
Still, people came here—sometimes. Men with business to settle.
Tonight, that included Batman. And two rival gangs.
Caw—
The last light of dusk faded into thick, inky night. A crow perched atop a towering gantry crane, croaked twice, then flapped into the dark—oblivious to the silent figure crouched in its shadow.
Batman, clad in black, cloaked his presence completely. From here, the highest vantage in the yard aside from an upturned ship’s keel, he could see everything.
“Shhhk.”
Three vans pulled up outside the crumbling wall. Seven or eight men climbed out, dressed plainly in dark clothes. Their hands were empty, but their bulging waistbands left no doubt about concealed weapons.
Their leader, however, drew the eye.
A woman in a black, deep-cut leather bodysuit, curves straining against the fabric. Her pale skin seemed almost luminous, framed by a white fur collar and snow-colored hair. She exuded feral allure.
In Gotham, unusual costumes usually meant talent—and threat. Batman focused all his attention on her.
“Search the place thoroughly,” she ordered. “I want to hear one thing: that no one’s tampered with it.”
“Yes, Black Cat,” her men answered quietly before fanning out with practiced efficiency.
Batman wasn’t worried. His makeshift base in the warehouse was expertly disguised. Unless they went inside, they wouldn’t spot a thing. His training traces—like the tons of counterweights he’d lifted—had been meticulously covered.
“Everything’s clear, Black Cat,” a broad-shouldered man in a black suit reported after gathering his crew’s findings.
She gave a small nod, clearly pleased.
From his perch, Batman pieced together the night’s events. Earlier in the day, his street-level intel had pointed to a weapons deal between two gangs—right here, right now.
One side was already in place. Where was the other?
As the thought crossed his mind, an ice cream truck rolled up to the wall.
“Ding-ding-dong…”
The cheerful jingle clashed with the sight of five or six hard-faced thugs piling out.
Compared to Black Cat’s disciplined crew, these men looked like every cliché of gang muscle.
“You’re punctual, Joseph,” Black Cat greeted the leader, a square-jawed man in a baseball cap.
“Of course. I always am,” he said, tipping his brim. “Though I must admit, Miss Black Cat, showing up early… that’d melt any man’s heart if this were a date.”
“I don’t date men like you,” she smirked, tossing him a wink that drew hungry stares from his crew.
Joseph ignored her, his expression a grin without warmth. “We’re not on a date, Miss Black Cat. Where’s my shipment?”
She flicked her hand. Her men began unloading heavy wooden crates from the vans. Each thudded down, dense and weighty.
“The goods are here. Where’s the cash?”
She vaulted atop a crate, looking down at him from above.
Joseph muttered to one of his men, and soon a briefcase was brought forward. He popped it open, revealing neat stacks of bills.
Black Cat’s smile widened. “You’re true to your word. But one last question.”
Her gaze flicked to the single vehicle behind him.
“You came with just one truck. How do you plan to haul all this away?”
Her pistol appeared in her hand, leveled squarely at him.
“My guess? You planned to kill us, take the money back, and drive off with our vans. Am I right?”
Crash!
The moment Black Cat finished speaking, her silent crew pulled pistols in perfect unison, leveling them at Joseph and his men.
At the exact same time, Batman descended slowly from the frame of a gantry crane.
He couldn’t twist and swing on webs the way Peter Parker did—not because he lacked the skill, but because it was too flashy and awkward for him.
Still, before he had his Grapple Gun, the Web-Shooters filled most of that gap. They were surprisingly effective.
With their help, Batman slipped into position near the two gangs without anyone noticing.
“You’ve got the wrong idea, Black Cat,” Joseph said, a half-dozen muzzles pointed his way. Yet he showed no fear. “Look at us—empty-handed, not a single weapon. Isn’t that proof enough of my sincerity?”
He raised both hands, making sure she saw he carried nothing.
“You’ve got plenty of sincerity,” she said coldly, “but a minute ago you kept calling me ‘Miss Black Cat.’ Now it’s ‘Black Cat.’”
Her smile vanished in an instant. She flicked off the safety on her pistol. “That change in tone makes me want to pull the trigger.”
Under her breath, only for herself: “I’ll take your name and make an enemy of New York’s entire underworld, Kingpin. This is the first step in my revenge.”
A gust of wind swept through the shipyard. A rank, fishy stench filled the air, thick enough that her men glanced around in confusion, unsure where it came from.
Joseph and his crew smelled it too, but unlike Black Cat, he looked completely at ease.
“Little kitten, you trying to play gangland double-crosses like in the movies? Lucky for me, I hired a judge to preside over tonight’s deal… Squid-Man!”
The ground nearby burst open with a spray of sewage, splattering Joseph right in the face.
“Come on!” he shouted, disgusted.
Black Cat’s eyes widened as a slimy tentacle slithered out of the muck. Another followed, then another, until a human-sized squid with sickly green skin dragged itself upright, balancing on two thick appendages.
Four tentacles worked as limbs, the rest whipped and curled menacingly behind it. A grotesque humanoid squid stood before them.
Bang!
Black Cat fired. The bullet slid off Squid-Man’s slick body without leaving so much as a scratch, though it halted his advance.
“Full volley! Aim for the eyes!” she barked.
Silence.
Across the way, Joseph’s men looked rattled, fear plain on their faces.
Black Cat knew her own crew couldn’t be faring any better. She turned to repeat the order—
And froze.
Her men were gone.
Seconds ago they’d been silent, weapons steady, ready to shoot. Now the empty factory swallowed them whole, leaving only darkness.
Her spine prickled. “No… something’s wrong. Squid-Man’s Joseph’s muscle. Then why were his men terrified?”
The memory of their uneasy faces flashed in her mind, and dread sank in.
No time to think. A black shadow lunged at her. She spun, firing again and again.
Nothing hit.
She whipped the gun toward Joseph instead and squeezed the trigger. If she was going down, she’d take him with her.
Joseph—New York’s rising butcher, infamous for smashing skulls with a hammer—didn’t flinch. The bullet punched his forehead clean, and he dropped instantly. No fear. No hesitation. Just dead.
Black Cat barely had a chance to process it before a crushing force slammed her wrist. The gun clattered away. The shadow wrapped her tight, yanking her skyward.
She kicked hard, legs locking around the figure holding her. But her arms were pinned, and she could do nothing as she dangled helplessly.
A faint hiss. Then she realized she was strung up in midair, wrists bound in sticky strands. Her suitcase full of cash was ripped from her grasp. The shadow was gone.
On the ground, Joseph’s men panicked. One checked his boss and shouted, “He’s still breathing! He’s alive!”
In a rush, they hauled him up and bolted, abandoning the crates of guns entirely.
Squid-Man stood rooted, stunned. The battlefield had shifted so fast he couldn’t make sense of it. But he had seen one thing clearly—Black Cat’s entire crew disappearing into the dark, one by one.
Now, surrounded by looming industrial machines reduced to jagged black shapes, he suddenly felt like prey.
The so-called monster of the sewers, unsettled by the idea there might be something even worse lurking here.
He tried to move—and found his legs bound tight by invisible chains.
Panic flared. But he was still a squid. His slick body was built to escape. Straining, he slid free of the unseen grip.
Joseph had only paid him to break heads. No reason to die for a sinking ship. Survival came first.
“I’m going back to the sewers—wait, something’s coming straight at me—!”
A blur swooped from above. Instinct overrode thought. Squid-Man jerked back and snapped his siphon forward—his natural ink-spraying organ.
Splurt!
A thick cloud of black ink blasted into the air. Without looking back, he bolted. He didn’t stop until he burst out of the abandoned shipyard, running like death itself was at his heels.
“Holy shit! What the hell is that?!”
A young couple jogging nearby, phones raised for selfies, gaped at the humanoid squid sprinting past.
Squid-Man cast them one wild glance, then dove for a sewer grate. He yanked it open and vanished underground, leaving the couple frozen on the sidewalk.
“Did… did you get that on video?” the woman stammered.
“Yeah… but who’s gonna believe we saw a walking squid?”
“Idiot! Sell it to the Daily Bugle! We could make a fortune!”
Laughing, the two hurried off, oblivious to the shadows inside the shipyard—where Batman stood glaring at the manhole cover Squid-Man had disappeared into.
He didn’t follow. The Web-Shooters could only restrain Squid-Man for seconds, and his slick body slipped free too easily.
Next time, Batman would need preparation.
For now, he had another job: dealing with the gangsters he’d webbed up and strung around the shipyard like trapped flies.
Chapter 3: I Am Batman
Black Cat dangled upside down from the gantry crane, her flawless face flushed red. The shadow had her bound so tightly she couldn’t move an inch.
She still didn’t know whose hands she’d fallen into—or if they even belonged to a person at all. A flicker of despair gnawed at her chest.
“This was my first mission since joining Kingpin’s crew… and I blew it.”
It wasn’t failure that pained her most, but the fact that her plan for revenge had collapsed before it even began.
“Who is Kingpin? Why are you after him?”
The low voice came from nowhere, rumbling in her ear. Black Cat flinched.
She steadied herself, eyes darting around, trying to catch sight of the speaker in the limited slice of vision she had. Nothing. Just the empty, black void of the abandoned factory.
“Mmmph.”
She let out a muffled whimper. Her mouth was still sealed, unable to form words.
Suddenly the ropes around her body slackened. In a dizzying spin of vertigo she dropped—then landed safely, set down with careful strength.
The webbing over her mouth and limbs tore away. She was free again.
She flexed her arms and legs as if it were nothing, masking her unease with a casual stretch, even as her eyes scanned the shadows for the one who had saved her from Squid-Man.
“You just untie me like that? Not worried I’ll run?” she asked the empty air.
“Answer my question. Who is Kingpin? Why do you want revenge?” The voice was deep, like a demon whispering in a nightmare.
“You don’t know Kingpin? Then you’re not from New York. Or at least, you’re no gangster.” She kept her tone steady, feigning calm even as she tried to read this unseen figure. “But you still meddled in tonight’s deal. So what do you want?”
Boom!
A steel beam—at least five tons—rose upright and drove into the ground before her eyes.
Black Cat froze, stunned.
Everything tonight had already shattered her expectations. Now she realized she wasn’t facing a man at all, but something far stronger. Something… inhuman.
Her face betrayed a flicker of fear. But in her mind, a new thought formed.
“I can’t take on Kingpin alone. I need an ally. My plan was to antagonize the gangs, but now… maybe I’ve found something better.”
“This is your last warning. Answer me.”
The voice snapped her back. He still hadn’t shown himself, only kept to the shadows.
“Kingpin’s the boss of my crew. About a year ago he started expanding his territory all across New York. He says he’ll be the emperor of the entire criminal underworld. That’s why he calls himself Kingpin…”
Her words tumbled out quickly now, fear lending them speed.
“But there are over fifty major gangs in New York alone. Some of them have deep roots, families with decades of history. Like… like the Corleones from the mafia—”
“Like the Falcone Crime Family in Gotham,” Batman thought silently.
“…So his expansion hasn’t been smooth.” She finished, out of breath.
“Why revenge?” Batman asked.
The word stripped away her false fear. What replaced it was raw, unhidden hatred.
“Kingpin killed my father.
“My father was the world-famous cat burglar, The Cat. Six months ago, Kingpin came to him, demanded he steal something. My father refused.
“The next day he was found dead in an alley. I spent a month digging before I uncovered the truth—it was Kingpin’s men who murdered him.”
She waited. Silence. Then at last the voice came again.
“You’re telling the truth. Kingpin is on my list too. Do you want to work together?”
Batman didn’t need her answer to know. He’d been gathering intelligence nonstop for three days, and to not know Kingpin would’ve been an embarrassment.
In the depths of the abandoned shipyard, Kingpin’s portrait was already pinned at the center of Batman’s temporary war room.
If he wanted to return to Gotham, he needed to build an empire here first. And sooner or later, he’d clash with the city’s criminal elite.
Kingpin, to hide his empire, would use legitimate business as cover. Even if Batman ignored him, Kingpin would eventually come knocking.
The questions had been a test. He’d already overheard her whispered vow of revenge. She could hide it from her henchmen—but not from him.
At the mention of alliance, Black Cat’s lips curled faintly. This was the answer she’d been fishing for. Why this mysterious figure hated Kingpin didn’t matter. His goal and hers aligned. That was enough.
“Work together? Of course. What do you want me to do?” She crossed her arms under her chest, leaning into the curves of her body.
“Take a vacation. When it’s over, our partnership begins.”
She blinked. “Vacation? Where?”
“The New York Police Department.”
Her jaw dropped. “What? Why would I—no, wait! At least tell me what you are. Are you even human?”
The voice rumbled right in her ear this time.
“I’m Batman.”
Then everything went black.
When Black Cat woke, dawn was just breaking. She and her crew were tied up in ropes and chains, dumped outside an NYPD precinct in Manhattan.
The knots were child’s play. She’d been trained since childhood by The Cat himself. In moments, she slipped free and vanished down the street before sunrise.
As for her henchmen? She had no intention of helping Kingpin’s lackeys. If anything, she hoped they all rotted in police custody.
“Batman…” she whispered the name.
Hours later, Kingpin repeated it, the word rumbling deep in his massive chest. He tapped the polished floor with his cane as he rose, a wall of muscle and menace.
“He ruined my plan?”
Inside an office in Hell’s Kitchen, Black Cat nodded nervously.
“Yes. We were supposed to sell Joseph a batch of faulty guns. He’d pass them off to Manhattan’s smaller gangs, and tonight we’d wipe them out in one strike.
“But when I shot Joseph in the head, Squid-Man ran. He wasn’t about to keep working for a dead boss.”
She didn’t dare lie. Kingpin would know. But she hid the most important part—the alliance with Batman.
Kingpin could pry it out of Joseph’s men, if they’d survived.
“First Spider-Man, then Squid-Man, and now Batman.” Kingpin chuckled. “When did New York turn into a zoo?”
Close your eyes, and he could almost pass for a kindly uncle.
He picked up the morning edition of the Daily Bugle from his desk and tapped the front page photo of Squid-Man.
“This is him, isn’t it? Good. Then tell him—five million dollars for Batman’s head.”
Meanwhile, deep in the abandoned shipyard, Batman studied the same newspaper in silence.
Leaving Black Cat and the gangsters tied up outside the Manhattan precinct wasn’t pointless.
“If Black Cat couldn't escape, her clean record means she'd be released. Same for her men.
“If she had a long criminal history, then she wasn’t fit to be my ally anyway.
“And if she broke free before the cops processed her, that only means she’s resourceful enough for my next move.”
Batman set the Daily Bugle aside, the front page photo of Squid-Man exactly what he expected—taken by the young couple from last night.
“Judging from her micro-expressions, she hasn’t pinned all her revenge on me. If she broke free, she’d run straight back to Kingpin and report what happened. That’s the only way she keeps his trust.
“And Squid-Man… once Joseph went down, he had no fight left in him. He never even engaged me. Which means Black Cat and Kingpin still don’t have a clear measure of what I can do.
“But Kingpin will see me as an obstacle. He’ll move to eliminate me. Because I showed Black Cat I could drive a steel beam into the ground, he won’t waste regular muscle. He’ll hire Squid-Man to kill me.
“And that’s exactly what I want.”
He placed the paper neatly to the side, then opened a wooden crate at his feet and pulled out a revolver.
Setting it on the table, he unstrapped the Web-Shooters from his wrists.
“I’m going to merge the Grapple Gun with the Web-Shooters.”
His hands moved quickly, dismantling the revolver piece by piece. Within seconds, the weapon was nothing but parts spread across the table.
The night before, after dumping Black Cat’s crew at the precinct, he’d taken inventory of his spoils: five crates of military hardware. Revolvers, submachine guns, five or six varieties in total, forty-two guns altogether.
And a crate stuffed with cash—one hundred fifty thousand dollars.
“The Web-Shooters need to fire faster. I can adapt the Grapple Gun’s compressed-air principle for this. The heavy-duty cables it used can be swapped out for web fluid.
“And the webbing’s stickiness needs to be drastically increased. No matter the surface, it has to hold.”
Batman wasn’t sentimental. The Web-Shooters were just tools, nothing more. Leaving a tool unused was a waste.
The redesign would keep them compact, wrist-mounted. By using compressed inert gas, he could launch the webs at greater speed.
But that was still theory. The abandoned shipyard’s machines were rusted and useless. He couldn’t build it here.
“The best inert gas is nitrogen. With the Grapple Gun, volume wasn’t an issue, so I never used one particular technique. But combined with the Web-Shooters, where size and force matter, it’s perfect.
“The technique’s called a nitrogen spring.”
He rose at once, intent on heading to Williamsburg Bridge. A black-market factory nearby supplied ammo to half the gangs in New York. He’d use its equipment to forge what he needed.
But first, a detour. Batman cut across downtown Manhattan, to Peter Parker’s rented apartment.
He’d seen the footage of Parker swinging around New York in broad daylight. As far as Batman was concerned, it was as conspicuous as Superman parading around with his cape.
Sure, Parker tried to change back into his shy, flannel-wearing student persona in hidden corners, but that didn’t erase the risk. Someone sharp could connect Spider-Man to Peter Parker.
So Batman needed to scrub the NYPD’s systems—erase any videos that might expose Spider-Man’s movements, accent, or build. Leave only the blurry ones.
But before that, he had to do something else: clear out the apartment of every incriminating trace.
The red-and-blue Spider-Man suit. The notebook crammed with designs for the suit, the Web-Shooters, even notes on the Spider-Sense.
Those two things alone could unravel his cover.
He shut the door tight, drew the curtains, and worked fast. One by one, he packed the evidence into Parker’s backpack. When it was done, he caught his reflection in the mirror.
A strong nose, full lips, high cheekbones casting shadows, sideburns sharp by the ears, dark brown hair brushed back. A typical American face.
And beneath it, a trace of familiarity—Peter Parker looked a little like him. Just shorter. Five foot ten, one-seventy-eight centimeters. A whole head below Bruce Wayne’s six foot two.
“Different body. Even with my old techniques, there’ll be subtle differences. I need to adjust fast.”
He slung the backpack over his shoulder, ready to head for the factory and then back to the shipyard to train.
A sharp knock cut him off.
“Peter? Peter!”
His muscles tightened. “Who is it?”
“It’s me. Harry.”
Harry Osborn. According to Parker’s Empire State University records, they were inseparable. Best friends.
He was also the son of Norman Osborn, heir to the Osborn Corporation—a multinational biotech giant.
Batman instinctively disliked the idea of dealing with him. He had none of Parker’s memories. With someone this close, he risked exposure.
He’d already planned for this in Octavius’s lab: feign illness. Simple, effective.
And Bruce Wayne had spent years playing the role of a carefree billionaire without anyone suspecting the truth. His acting was flawless.
So when he opened the door and saw Harry, Batman said nothing. He just stepped forward and hugged him tight, wearing a mask of grief.
Harry had come to scold his friend—three days without classes, leaving him alone at school.
But staring at Peter’s pained face, the words died in his throat. He just patted his friend’s back gently and said,
“It’s okay, Peter. Whatever’s going on, I’ll always stand by you. Always.”
Chapter 4: Dr. Octavius’s Inspiration
In his lab, the world-renowned nuclear physicist Dr. Otto Octavius stared intently at the front page of the Daily Bugle. The headline featured none other than Squid-Man.
From school to his professional career, Octavius had always been at the very top. So exceptional, in fact, that he’d developed a kind of “idiot intolerance.” He simply couldn’t stand working with clumsy, second-rate minds.
Even those rare few who qualified as his assistants weren’t good enough for him. So when he focused on cracking the puzzle of nuclear fusion and clean energy, he kept no one around.
His only help came from several industrial-grade mechanical arms mounted on wheeled bases. They were sturdy, practical—like something out of a factory floor.
But for Octavius, they barely scratched the surface of what he needed. They weren’t true extensions of himself.
Now, looking at Squid-Man’s photo plastered on the Daily Bugle, Octavius felt a sudden jolt of inspiration. It was like a pillow landing right under his head as he started to doze.
If I had four mechanical arms directly mounted to my body, driven by my nervous system, my experiments would never have to stop when alarms went off. I’d have the bandwidth to instantly troubleshoot every fault that cropped up!
The more he thought about it, the brighter his eyes burned. Grabbing pen and paper, Octavius sketched furiously. Soon a stick figure appeared on the page, sprouting four extendable, radiation-proof, multifunctional arms from its back.
“Arms” didn’t feel like the right word. They looked more like the tentacles of an octopus.
To keep the strain from tearing his body apart, he added a simple but reliable support system: braces across the figure’s back, waist, and legs.
It was only a draft. There was so much left to refine. But Octavius couldn’t help chuckling at the sight of his creation.
The laugh had barely left his lips when a knock at the door interrupted him. Moments later, Harry Osborn stepped in, a young man Octavius vaguely recognized following behind.
“I remember you. Peter… Parker, isn’t it?”
Octavius quickly placed him—the kid in the plaid shirt. He gave him a friendly smile. Octavius wasn’t hard to get along with, so long as you didn’t sabotage his experiments.
“That’s right. Peter, my best buddy.”
Harry slung an arm around his friend’s shoulders.
I can’t abandon the identity of Peter Parker. I need it—for things Batman could never do. Just like I need Bruce Wayne’s identity.
That means I can’t cut Parker’s ties completely. I even have to maintain them—like keeping up with Dr. Octavius.
This way, when I eventually refine the fusion formula as Peter Parker and profit from it, it won’t look suspicious.
Thinking this through, Batman forced a small, slightly stiff smile and greeted Octavius.
The scientist responded with another kind smile and a nod. “This isn’t your first visit. As long as you don’t interfere with my work, you’re free to do as you like.”
Then, pulling Harry aside, Octavius lowered his voice. “Peter seems… off. Three days ago, in my lab, he suddenly looked like he’d lost his soul. He hasn’t snapped out of it since.”
Harry whispered back, “A month ago, Peter lost someone he loved more than anything.”
That was when Uncle Ben had died. Harry was certain that was the cause of Peter’s change.
Octavius’s eyebrows rose. Now the forced smile on Peter’s face made sense.
“As his friend, Harry, you need to help him through this. He’s a good kid. He’s got to pull himself together and keep moving forward.”
“That’s why I brought him back here,” Harry said. “So he can focus on something else.”
Octavius didn’t mind. As a boy, he’d suffered brutal beatings from his father. But his mother always shielded him, no matter what. When she died, his own collapse had been even worse than Peter’s.
He looked at Peter again, this time with a gentler gaze. “Seems he’s pretty interested in nuclear physics.”
Batman stood by one of the lab instruments, eyes locked on the streams of data. He suddenly spoke up, seizing the lull in their conversation:
“Dr. Octavius, I’ve found the mistake that triggered the last lab alarm.”
Both Octavius and Harry snapped their attention to him and hurried over.
That same alarm had once tripped Peter’s Spider-Sense. Batman took this chance to resolve it, laying the groundwork for correcting the formula later.
“I told you Peter’s a genius,” Harry said, grinning at Octavius.
They didn’t linger much longer. Soon, Harry and Batman left the lab together.
Standing by the street, Harry said, “Peter, I know you miss Uncle Ben. I do too. But you can’t go on like this. You’ve still got Aunt May. You’ve got me. You’ve got to live carrying Uncle Ben’s hopes with you.”
“I will,” Batman answered.
Harry said no more. He climbed into a modest-looking Cadillac that, to Batman’s eye, cost a small fortune, and drove off.
Now, to the black-market factory. Time to build my first piece of gear—nitrogen springs.
Batman watched the Cadillac vanish around the corner, then turned and strode toward the Williamsburg Bridge.
Beneath an unremarkable old building near the bridge lay a makeshift underground factory. Metal shavings, machine oil, and sweat blended into a pungent stench that made Batman wrinkle his nose the moment he stepped inside.
“Hey! Who the hell are you? Get the—”
A black man, his clothes smeared dark enough to look like bare skin, bared white teeth as he hefted a crowbar, ready to toss Batman out.
He didn’t get the chance. Batman’s fist smashed across his face, adding a vivid splash of red.
“Damn, the guy’s nuts!” the man screeched.
At once, other workers swarmed in, raising crude but very deadly firearms.
“Five thousand dollars. One hour of factory time.”
Batman didn’t wait for them to argue. He slapped a wad of bills into their hands. That shut them up fast.
Unlike the usual cylindrical nitrogen springs, Batman’s design was flat, curved—shaped more like a military canteen.
An hour later, he left quietly with three completed springs. At another shop, he had them filled with high-pressure nitrogen before returning to the abandoned shipyard.
Now all he needed to do was combine the Web-Shooters with the nitrogen springs. His first piece of equipment would be ready.
Nitrogen springs had plenty of advantages—small size, high elasticity, long lifespan. Useless for firearms, though. Even the old Grapple Gun couldn’t make proper use of them.
But paired with the Web-Shooters? Perfect. Especially the flat, canteen-shaped version Batman had made in the black-market factory, designed to fit snugly against his arm.
The redesigned Web-Shooters barely resembled the originals. Sleeker now, more like hidden wrist darts.
He strapped them to the outside of his forearms, triggering them with subtle muscle contractions. A tiny thunk echoed as liquid webbing blasted out, moving faster than most bullets, hardening midair before anchoring to a distant point.
The original Web-Shooters worked like compressed air cannons—already fast enough to rival a bullet. His Grapple Gun had used gunpowder or high-pressure gas to fire hooks at speeds well beyond that.
Now, combining the two, Batman had forged a new tool that carried the strengths of both.
“Black Cat’s not in police custody. I still don’t know if she’s ever had a record for arson or assault.”
Batman flexed his wrist, testing the dual Bat-Claws. As he did, his mind turned toward the next problem:
“Peter Parker’s computer’s useless. Barely good enough for a normal student. I need something on the level of Octavius’s lab machines—something that can handle virtual machines and intrusion software.”
He’d already tried upgrading Peter’s PC. It crashed the moment he attempted anything heavy-duty.
Recording the Bat-Claws’ performance data, he began planning his next steps. His path was clear:
Hit New York’s gangs to build capital. Use that to refine Octavius’s fusion formula and multiply his profits.
Then build his own corporate empire—one powerful enough to bankroll large-scale research into dimensional travel.
At the same time, he’d search for other ways home. And he’d never stop hunting criminals.
Fighting crime wasn’t just a habit. It was etched into his soul. Even here, in a world that wasn’t his, Batman refused to take a day off.
He christened the new weapon the Bat-Claw. At the same time, he finalized improvements to the web fluid formula.
The new compound adhered to anything, even slimy targets like Squid-Man. Last night’s humiliation—his webbing torn away—wouldn’t happen again.
And now, the webbing was black. White strands reflected light, exposed him in the dark. Black webs blended into the night, just like him.
It was still early. Too early to track down Squid-Man. He had other priorities first: spending money and dealing with weapons.
The one hundred fifty thousand dollars Joseph had handed him last night was more than enough to buy the parts for a high-performance computer and a few extra tools.
As for the guns Black Cat had dropped off, Batman discovered they came from Stark Industries. Someone had tampered with every single one.
The work was brilliant—subtle, technical. But Batman spotted the flaw instantly.
Every weapon jammed halfway through a magazine. Fixing them would take precision tools and expert gunsmithing. Without that? Scrap metal.
Taking those into a gang war was no different than carrying a squirt gun.
He dug a pit, buried the guns, and moved on. Later that day, wearing Peter Parker’s face, he bought computer parts and the tools he needed.
When the machine was assembled, he didn’t immediately crack into the NYPD system. Instead, he opened a sketch.
A portrait of Black Cat, drawn from memory with flawless precision. He scanned it into the computer.
It was the next step in his plan. He didn’t care whether she slipped free from the police or not. He’d go straight to the source—hack the NYPD and pull everything on her.
“Black Cat. Real name: Felicia Hardy. Age: twenty. Student at Empire State University. Father listed as a salesman…”
Batman read the screen word by word. Most of it matched what he knew. But the file listed her father as a salesman, not Walter Hardy—the Cat, a notorious master thief.
The system confirmed she did have a record. But nothing like arson or murder. Her only charge came from freshman year—when she shattered a classmate’s groin with a single kick after he tried to grope her.
“Statement: trained in multiple martial arts and combat techniques since childhood. A solid candidate for collaboration.”
Batman closed her file. Time to move on to the real objective.
Step one: erase every video or trace that could expose Spider-Man’s movements, voice, or body shape. He left only ambiguous footage behind.
With his counter-surveillance skills, there’d be nothing left to tie Batman to Peter Parker, or Spider-Man.
Step two: go bigger.
He turned his focus from the NYPD to one of the most powerful organizations in the world—the Central Intelligence Agency.
That was why he’d ranked the computer just below the Bat-Claw as his most important “equipment.” He needed access to systems at the CIA’s level.
He needed to know: did this world have other superhuman forces? Could any of them help him find his way back to Gotham?
“Squid-Man. Real name: Don Callahan. Born and raised in New York. Transformed through OsCorp’s Super Soldier Serum program. Works as a hitman for local gangs. Confirmed kills: seven…”
So the answer was yes. Supernatural power existed. His first target tonight was one of them.
“Powers: superhuman strength and speed. Near immunity to bullets. Able to breathe underwater. Capable of scaling glass walls. Extremely difficult to capture…”
Batman copied the CIA’s notes in full, then moved to the next entry.
“Hulk. Real name: Bruce Banner…”
Batman froze. The face was familiar. Banner’s photo hung on the wall of Octavius’s lab, right alongside Einstein.
“…last seen in 2003 after a battle with the military. Missing since.”
So far, the CIA listed only three living examples of enhanced humans: Squid-Man, the Hulk, and one confirmed lost—Captain America. Steve Rogers, the first man to survive the Super Soldier Serum.
As for non-human sources of power, the CIA listed only one: the Cosmic Cube.
Batman leaned forward, ready to dig deeper. But then he felt it—his intrusion had been detected. The CIA’s system was tracing him back, closing fast.
He killed the connection instantly, wiped every trace, and shut the system down.
Time to prepare for tonight. Squid-Man was waiting.
