Peter and Dick were at the cafeteria. Peter had a pie and salad while Dick settled on chicken nuggets and a burger.

“You have way too much cholesterol on that plate,” Peter noted, taking a bite out of his salad

“Alfred always makes something healthy at home,” Dick said. “So, the cholesterol is balanced out.”

Peter started eating his pie. “Sorry I couldn’t make it to Wayne Manor. Something came up and…”

“Don’t mention it,” Dick said. “Losing someone close to you is hard. Believe me I know.”

Dick took a bite out of his burger. “Take all the time you need, my friend. Besides, Bruce told me to give you this.” Dick shuffled through his pockets and pulled out a ruffled envelope. Peter opened it and, in the envelope, there was a bright blue ticket and written in a neat golden cursive was:

The Annual Wayne Charity Gala

Wayne Manor. Saturday 9 till Dawn

Win a chance for an exclusive drive with Bruce Wayne around Gotham. T and C’s apply

“That’s so awesome!” Peter said, grinning. “Can’t wait to tell May!”

Peter carefully tucked his envelope in his bag and was grinning from ear to ear.

“Still I can’t help but wonder,” Peter said. “Why me? I mean I’m not rich. Why does he want me to come to the gala?”

Dick sighed. “Do you want to see him or not? And please keep it down. I don’t want anyone to know I gave you a ticket. They’ll be at my throats.”

“Sorry,” Peter whispered. “But I mean what would Bruce Wayne want with some dorky kid from Queens? He’s a billionaire. Shouldn’t he be doing billionaire stuff?”

“He said your essay fed his ego,” Dick said. Inwardly, Dick sighed. He wanted to tell Peter the truth so badly. He didn’t want another person that, especially one he considered a friend to be dragged into their mess but he knew that if he did tell Peter they would be scolding from the big man.

“Oh,” Peter said.

“Yeah,” Dick said, smirking.

“Either way I’m glad to be meeting him,” Peter said. “He’s one of my childhood heroes.”

“You told me that before,” Dick said, taking another bite of his burger. “And let me tell you, you wouldn’t be saying that if you knew him as well as I did.”

Boy oh boy, if only you knew him like I did, Dick thought.

They had finished their lunch and left the cafeteria, talking about the classes they had next. They talked about various topics, like their subjects, Wayne Manor until the conversation finally steered to something Peter wanted to avoid talking about.

“Tell me Pete,” Dick said. “How are the girls here?”

Peter was taken aback by this question. “I-I…”

“You’re from New York, right?” Dick asked with a big grin on his face. “Tell me how these Gotham girls compare to the babes over at NYC?”

“I mean they’re fine,” Peter said. “I haven’t talked to any of them…”

“C’mon Pete,” Dick said. “A guy like you should be out there. You should be talking to all the girls you see.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Peter said. “You’re good-looking and athletic. Girls look at me and they scream.”

“No Pete,” Dick said. “The only reason they run is because of how low your confidence is.”

“Hi Peter,” said a sweet voice.

Peter turned to see a girl who almost exactly looked like MJ if it weren’t for her glasses. She had frizzy red hair and blue eyes, wearing a pair of scarlet glasses. Peter knew that she was Barbara Gordon. Commissioner Gordon’s daughter and one of the three students fighting for the top spot in their class, the other two being Dick and Peter himself.

“Hi, Dick,” said Barbara, though a little less sweetly. She was wearing a pink shirt and jeans that showed off a surprisingly lean body for a girl who spent most of her time in the science lab and typing away at computers.

“What did I say about calling me that?” Dick mumbled.

“You two know each other?” Peter asked, confused.

“Yeah we used to date,” Barbara said.

“Oh,” Peter said, his heart sinking.

“But we broke up,” Barbara said. “Now we’re just friends.”

Peter turned to Dick who, for a brief moment, Peter noticed a flash of sadness in his eyes before it was suddenly replaced by the familiar cockiness.

“So, what are you here for?” Dick asked. “Here to come begging me to come back?”

Barbara scoffed. “No, I’m here to talk to Peter.”

“M-me?” Peter stammered.

Barbara nodded. “Yes.” She suddenly had a serious look on her face. “I uh, I heard about your uncle.”

“Oh,” Peter said, a little dejected at the thought of Uncle Ben.

“I know you probably don’t want my pity or anything,” Barbara said. “But if you need anything, well my door’s open.”

Peter smiled. She looked like MJ and she also acted like MJ. When MJ wasn’t out hanging with her friends or flirting with the prettiest boy she could find, she would always joke around with Pete. And whenever Peter looked down in the dumps, she would always try her best to cheer him up. When she got the news that Uncle Ben had died, both her and Harry called him up the first opportunity they got to ask if he was okay.

“Thanks,” Peter said. “It means a lot.”

Barbara smiled brightly. “You’re welcome,” she checked her watch. “Oh shoot, I have biology. I’ll see you around, Peter.” The pleasant look on her face disappeared. “Dick.”

She waved at Dick and Peter, jogging off with a smile on her face.

After Barbara left, Peter turned to see Dick grinning at him.

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“Peter Parker has a crush,” Dick teased.

“Shut up,” Peter said, his face a little red.

“What was that about Gotham girls being “fine”?” Dick said, smirking.

“She was just nice to me, that’s all,” Peter said. “She seems cool a-and…”

“And?” Dick said, his grin growing wider and wider.

“Sweet,” Peter said quickly. “She seems sweet.”

Dick scoffed. “She’s like that at first. But take it from me once you get to know her, she’s well… fiery.”

“I don’t believe you,” Peter said.

Dick smirked. “You’ll believe me soon enough, Pete. Soon enough.”

…

“Bruce that’s insane!” Barbara exclaimed. “You’re putting a lot of lives in danger just for some test of yours!”

“It’s the only way to attract Cobblepot’s attention,” Bruce said. “Besides nobody at the gala will be in danger. I’ll lead Cobblepot away before it comes to it.”

“How can you be so sure of that, Bruce?” Barbara said. “You can’t predict criminals! They all get sent to an Asylum for a reason.”

Bruce remained quiet, the Batcomputer casting an ice-cold glow on Bruce.

“And what’s this about testing Peter?” Barbara asked. “He’s just a kid Bruce, he doesn’t deserve to be dragged down in our mess!”

“By that logic, that means you shouldn’t be Batgirl?” Bruce said, getting up from his seat. He cast a large shadow, like a mountain upon Barbara. His cape trailing behind him like a snake.

“That’s different Bruce!” Barbara objected. “He might not be doing this because he wants to!”

“That’s where you’re wrong Barbara,” Bruce said. News articles flashed on the large LED screens of the Batcomputer, articles about Spider-man stopping a drug sale, a mall robbery. Even one about how Spider-man alongside the Batman were all on the Falcone’s hitlist.

“If he didn’t want to, he wouldn’t be throwing himself into these dangerous situations.”

“So, what?” Barbara asked. “You want him to stop.”

“No,” Bruce said, sitting on his seat in front of the Batcomputer.

“I want to see just how much he can take,” Bruce said. And he said so calmly, his face like stone, his voice like ice that Barbara felt cold down to the pits of her stomach.

…

Peter Parker was having a good day. He managed to stop a few burglaries here and there, stop some goons from getting a little too friendly with a girl and had a few run ins with the Falcone family who were easily dispatched off. Not to mention he got an A plus in all his tests beat both Dick and Barbara by a half mark and he was invited to meet Bruce Wayne himself at Wayne Manor the following weekend. Things were looking good, very good and when things are going way too good for him, that’s when life always manages to pull the rug from underneath Peter.

The door was unlocked which caused a cold feeling in Peter’s gut. He remembered his apartment door being unlocked when his Uncle was shot. He remembered the flashing red and blue lights bouncing off the peeled off plaster of the apartment hallway, he remembered Aunt May crying into her hands, a blanket draped over her back and he remembered the kind commissioner giving him warm words of advice that fell through deaf ears cause the only thing Peter was feeling at the time was pure unbridled rage, rage he had never felt before.

Peter was glad to see it wasn’t anything that intense. The creaky door of the apartment squealed open and sitting on one of the sofas was the land-lord.

“I’m sorry about your loss, Mrs. Parker,” the land-lord said, his voice sympathetic. “I really am but please understand that if you don’t pay the rent, I’m afraid we’re going to have to evict you and your nephew.”

Peter was at the doorway so they hadn’t noticed him coming in yet. Uncle Ben used to be the breadwinner of their family, his job as a mechanic didn’t make him a millionaire but it was enough to put food on the table and pay the bills. Now that Uncle Ben was gone, all that was left was Aunt May and Peter and seeing as Aunt May was pretty old it would be pretty difficult for her to find a job.

Peter realised he would have to find a part-time job.

The land-lord let out a sigh. “You guys have not made much of a fuss so I can extend the due date to next month. But please Mrs. Parker, you have to pay.”

“No problem,” Aunt May said. ‘I understand, Mr. Lee.”

Before the land-lord could enter the doorway, Peter quickly left the apartment. The land-lord smiled at him.

“Ah Mr. Parker.”

Peter nodded. “Mr. Lee.”

And the land-lord was off. Peter entered.

“Evening May,” Peter said.

“Evening Peter,” Aunt May said with a warm smile. Aunt May was a sweet woman well into her mid-fifties but still had the energy of a twenty-year-old. You could see her age by the silver white hair she always up tied up in a bun and the few wrinkles that lined her face. From her pleasant smile and sweet voice, it would be easy to assume that May Parker was a lady who wouldn’t hurt a fly but Peter knew all to well never to miss curfew. “You’re here pretty late, Peter Parker.”

“I was… studying,” Peter lied. He put his bag in his room so that Aunt May didn’t check and find his costume and sat on the sofa. “I saw Mr. Lee at the door. Is… uh… anything the matter?”

Aunt May shook her head. “Nothing you should worry about,” she said. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Meatloaf.”

“We’re all out,” Aunt May said.

Peter groaned. “How about a burger?”

Aunt May nodded. “Alright.”

While May was frying the patties, they made small talk.

“How’s your friend?” Aunt May asked. “The Wayne boy?”

“He’s fine,” Peter said. He noticed a few papers buried underneath old photos and newspapers. Photos of a young Aunt May and Uncle Ben, photos of a 10-year-old Peter holding up a Captain America figurine while Ben tried getting him to do the chores. Underneath those photos, those doorways to a simpler time were wads of bills all stamped in an ugly red colour. “Did I tell you I was invited to a gala at Wayne Manor?”

Aunt May gasped. Even though she personally didn’t like Bruce Wayne, citing him as a bad example for children, especially teenagers she still was excited for Peter since even as a kid he would never stop going on about Mr. Wayne.

“My nephew Peter Parker is going to a gala!” Aunt May said, the excitement in her voice was very evident. “We’re going to have to get you a fancy suit and everything!”

Peter smiled. “I’ll settle for Uncle Ben’s suit.”

“That dusty old suit?” May scoffed. “No, we need to get you a tailor made one.”

“But I always thought that suit was cool,” Peter complained. And Peter did think it was cool. A navy-blue suit with a white waistcoat and navy- blue pants. Back in New York, him and Uncle Ben always used to go and try on that suit whenever he hit a growth spurt and every time it would fall over his shoulders. Now that he got his magic muscles from that spider maybe it would fit him. He wondered what Uncle Ben’s reaction would have been if he was alive to see it. “It was always so big for me. Maybe now it’ll fit.”

Aunt May groaned. “Fine, if you insist.”

“Maybe you can tell Bruce Wayne to pay our rent,” May suggested jokingly.

And Peter sighed. “About that…”

“What is it Peter?”

“I was thinking maybe I could get a part-time job?” Peter said. “Bring in some cash?”

“No,” Aunt May said firmly. “You should focus on your studies.”

“But I have time…”

“I said NO Peter,” Aunt May said firmly. Peter was taken aback by the sudden outburst. Aunt May had never shouted at him before, sure he had been scolded before but never shouted at. Aunt May shook her head and sighed.

“I’m sorry Peter,” May said.

“It’s…”

“No, no,” May said. “It isn’t. It’s just… Gotham is unsafe and dangerous and I…”

Aunt May looked like she was on the verge of tears. “I don’t want to lose someone else. I already lost my Ben and if I were to lose you…”

Tears started pouring down May’s face. Peter quickly rushed over to her and hugged her.

“I miss him so much, Peter,” May said through sobs.

“Yeah,” Peter said sadly. “Me too, May.”

In the corner of his eye, a piece of paper stared Peter square in his face as if challenging him. On that paper, written in big red letters was the word Overdue, stamped on that paper like an afterthought, it’s blood red ink almost dripping on the table and Peter’s mind was made.

…

Gotham Harbour

The Penguin was really living up to his name. Locked up in a cold fish cellar until the fuzz cleared out, huddled together with a bunch of smelly goons dressed in black and white who all smelled like salmon and shit all sitting atop crates upon crates of precious Vibranium weaponry, Oswald Cobblepot was truly living the life worthy of the last of the Cobblepots.

And then barged in Fisher. Cobblepot’s only connection with the outside world. A stupid, incapable buffoon who struggled to form a coherent sentence.

“T-the boss,” Fisher stuttered. “Where’s t-the b-boss?”

Fisher was holding a tattered blue paper in his hand and for some reason was shirtless, goose-bumps dotting his body like measles. The goons were used to it, the Penguin, not-so-much.

Penguin huddled through his men, scolding them if they stepped on his foot and hitting the others who were snickering across the head with his umbrella.

“What’s so bloody important?” Penguin asked with his clearly forced British accent.

“T-this,” Fisher stammered, holding up the crumpled blue paper. “I-I found it in my trash can. I r-rushed over when I saw what was on it.”

The Penguin was surprised this idiot could even read and snatched the paper away from his hand.

“For the love of god put a shirt on,” Penguin said. “Nobody wants to see your chest hairs.”

The Penguin uncrumpled the paper. It was an invitation to the Wayne Gala and whoever donated the most gets to have a…

The Penguin smirked. His parents may have been smart enough to steel his family’s fortune but boy was their child stupid.

The Penguin raised his cane, firing a bullet in the air attracting the attention of all of his goons.

“Better dress up fancy boys,” Penguin said. A grin forming across his face.

“We have ourselves a party to attend.”