String Theory

Chapter 1

Peter slows his chewing to a thoughtful pace and frowns. "Are you sure that's me? I'm— geez, how old am I, Karen?"

"Your vitals suggest you're in your late teens."

"So when were the Avengers formed? How could I be one if I'm just a kid?"

"I don't know. I don't have any records of that. I still can't recover any backup files." Karen sounds disappointed — almost wary, like she knows she's missing something.

Peter's frustrated. He waves his spoon absently. "So check the past news. There have to have been reports about it, right? We're not a secretagency, are we?"

"I've been locked out of all past news files and articles. Logically, the Avengers couldn't operate in stealth, so I would guess no, not a secret agency. However, the few files I do have are related to SHIELD, which often operated in covert operations, until they were destroyed by HYDRA."

He falls silent, and retreats to his bowl of cereal. What's SHIELD? What's HYDRA, for that matter? How could Karen know about SHIELD and HYDRA, but not know the year the Avengers were formed? And why can't she look at news reports? It doesn't make sense that she would be locked out. If Peter's real with himself, none of this makes sense. His entire memory is wiped, he wakes up wearing two dust-covered high-tech suits that he doesn't remember, and this place is ghost-town empty besides the magical ceiling lady. Something big happened to him. He's here for a reason. Maybe it was an experiment gone wrong, or this is some sort of... isolation prison. Maybe I'm dangerous, Peter thinks. Maybe I got brainwashed by Russians. Oh, man. What if I killed people, and that's what I can't remember? His cereal is less appetizing after that thought, and he rests his chin on his free hand, thinking.

All I had to do was snap my fingers.

Peter gives a jolt, and his body goes rigid with fear. The voice had been as clear as day in his mind, and he whips his head around, looking for someone else to be in the room— standing behind him, or in a doorway. The only thing that meets his eyes is the empty expanse of the kitchen. His voice wavers. "Was that— was that you, Karen? Did you say something?"

"It wasn't me," Karen replies softly. "What did you hear?"

He doesn't answer that. Maybe it wasn't real. Maybe it was just... leftover from the dream he had. When he lifts his spoon to take another bite, the handle's bent almost unrecognizably. Peter sighs and adjusts his grip. He's not startled by it; in fact, it hardly processes. The fear hasn't lifted from his mind, but instead, settles inside his ribs, weighing him down. He yawns widely, and gives a few tired blinks. He's exhausted, despite how much he slept.

"If you can't see the old news," he says quietly, "then what about current stuff? Is there any news right now?"

Karen's voice is hushed, nearly timid. "There's just this."

Across the kitchen, a clear screen flashes to life, and Peter lifts his head. A pleasant jingle of audio crackles through the speakers, and a woman in white appears against a gray background. 'ORTHUS' is spelled in bold lettering behind her, and she gives an over-whitened smile. Her face is framed neatly by straight black hair, and she tilts her head towards the camera.

"Good morning, New York," she chirps. "I'm Leslie Meyers, with Orthus United. It's Tuesday, May 8th. Today's a wonderful day to remember, isn't it?"

"Remember," Peter echoes. "Remember what?"

The recording doesn't answer his question. "It's going to be slightly overcast, with a high of 68 degrees. There's a chance of rain later in the evening, so if you're going to head out to one of our clinics, do it sooner, rather than later!"

Peter scowls and turns the volume up. "Be safe on the streets," Meyers continues. "Water and food distribution centers are swamped worldwide. Don't engage in physical violence; Orthus will care for your needs in due time. If you can't access a distribution center or there are no resources left for you, please make your way to the nearest alternative, and call the phone number below to notify us of the shortage." Her face grows serious, and she speaks with an exaggerated tone of concern. "If you haven't been able to restore your memories, please visit the nearest Orthus amnesia recovery clinic. We have all the resources you need to ease the pain, and continue your life with as little trouble as possible."

She pauses, and steps to the edge of the frame. The space next to her fades to display various images: a man robbing a convenience store, and dropping dead after a bullet hits the back of his head; a child crying for his parents, dirty and alone; a gang of drunken men harassing a woman who's begging for food. The backgrounds of these images are filthy, debris blowing, fires consuming buildings in the distance. Peter watches, cereal long forgotten, horrified at what he's seeing. Meyers' voice plays over the muffled audio of the clips. "This is a difficult time for the world. As many of you know, a solar flare caused a catastrophic reaction in the global satellite system. This reaction erased our memories. Some of us were lucky enough to keep a few of our memories, and most of us have begun to recover what we lost. It is important to remember that Orthus United is here to lend aid and assistance to those who are suffering worldwide."

The horrific images continue. A man tackles and beats another man's head in with a brick. Blood decorates the concrete, and Peter feels sick. "Be vigilant, be aware, be helpful. Society needs your help to return to order," Meyers continues. The images fade to people smiling and laughing, at a table. "If you need help, call the hotlines listed here." Several numbers scroll the screen beside her, before the camera focuses on her.

"Orthus," Meyers says, flashing a plastic smile. "For the people."

The screen fades to display ORTHUS in bold lettering, plays the same introductory jingle, and then the message starts over. "Turn it off," Peter murmurs hoarsely. Karen obliges, and Peter sits there for a long time, slumped in his chair. The silence in the compound is suffocating. Not even the birds are chirping outside, and Peter's becoming acutely aware of his heart, thumping rapidly in his chest.

So that's that, he thinks. The end of the world.

A sob rises in his throat, and Peter stifles it the best he can. His eyes are glossy, and his nose is turning pink with the effort to keep himself from crying. "Don't," he breathes, shutting his eyes. "Don't cry. Come on. Come on, Tony. You'll figure this out. You already know who you are. You just— you just gotta find people you know, or—"

"Tony? There's a transmission pending for you."

His eyes snap open, and he straightens up. "What? From who?"

"I'm... not sure. It's anonymous, and analog. You'll have to go to the lab to see it."

Peter stands so fast he almost knocks the chair over, and scrambles down the stairs to the lab, pulse racing. This time, though, he slows down enough to take in the surroundings of the lab. The concrete is freezing against his feet, and the lab lights flicker on when he enters. Last night's eeriness is no longer present; it's shifted to a familiar, almost homey feeling— the Iron Man suits and specialty cars around the perimeter of the lab seem like welcome furnishings, and the tools scattered around the workbenches are all familiar to him. In the corner, one of the computers is blinking quickly: (1) NEW MESSAGE!

Peter sits quickly. His stomach is in knots, and he can't tap the ENTER key fast enough. Seconds pass as the information downloads, and his heart skips a beat when he skims the message that's flashing at him in bright blue lettering. How the hell is Tony Stark supposed to handle this?

>> SECURE SERVER: 1028139001008...
>> DOWNLOADING CLIENT DATA...
>> INCOMING MESSAGE.
>> AG: Stark? _
>> AG: Are you receiving this? _
>> AG: Please respond. Our reality is in danger. We need your help. _