"Someone's actually doing this?!" Peter's voice rose several octaves, his shock genuine and complete.
He stared at John Jameson like the astronaut had just revealed the existence of a second moon. "Who spends that kind of money just to hear me called a public menace in newspapers and news broadcasts? That's insane!"
The implications were staggering. This wasn't just casual spite or journalistic bias. Someone with substantial resources had been funding a coordinated, long-term propaganda campaign specifically targeting Spider-Man. The sheer dedication required for that kind of sustained effort was almost impressive in its pettiness.
"Whoever it is," Peter continued, his mind already racing through possibilities, "they must have some kind of evil agenda. Nobody goes to that much trouble without an ulterior motive!"
He made a mental note to complain to Ben the moment he returned to Earth. They'd find this mysterious benefactor, drag them into the light, and then—Peter allowed himself a brief vindictive fantasy—wrap them head to toe in impact webbing before leaving them hanging from the Statue of Liberty for a few hours.
Maybe longer. Depending on how petty he felt.
Back on Earth, Ben Parker sneezed unexpectedly while reviewing mission reports.
"Who's thinking about me?" he muttered. "And why does it feel malicious?"
"Now then," Peter said, reaching for the rocket's control systems. "Let's turn this bird around and get you home safe. Mission abort protocols should—"
John's hand shot out, gripping Peter's wrist with surprising strength for a civilian. "Wait! Spider-Man, we can't turn back! My destination is Counter-Earth, not orbit. The mission isn't over yet—we can still complete it!"
Peter gently but firmly removed John's hand. "Sorry, John. I appreciate the dedication, but I'm not accountable to the American government. My authority comes from the Plumbers." He jerked his thumb toward the cargo bay where the unconscious mutants were secured. "I need to get these criminals into proper custody. Protocol matters."
"But the planet is right there!" John protested, his voice carrying an edge of desperation.
He'd spent years training for this mission. If he successfully landed on Counter-Earth and returned with valuable data, he'd be hailed as America's newest hero—a pioneer, an explorer, a symbol of human achievement. But if he slunk back to Earth now, tail between his legs, mission abandoned before even reaching the target... his reputation would be destroyed. The press would eviscerate him. His father would be disappointed.
"Aren't you even a little curious?" John pressed, leaning forward with manic enthusiasm. "A planet that might harbor intelligent life! A world potentially habitable for human colonization! This could be the most significant discovery in human history!"
"It's... fine, I guess?" Peter's response was remarkably blasé, his tone suggesting John had just offered him a mildly interesting sandwich.
Years ago, before the Plumbers, before the cosmic wars and multiversal conflicts, Peter would have been electrified by this opportunity. The chance to explore an alien world would have been the adventure of a lifetime.
But now? After witnessing the Chitauri invasion, after fighting in Sakaar's arenas, after literally blowing up an alternate Earth to prevent a multiversal collision, after meeting gods and cosmic entities and travelling through time itself... what was one more planet?
He'd seen parallel universes. He'd fought alongside Kryptonians. He'd personally detonated a world.
Counter-Earth just didn't seem that impressive by comparison.
"What if," John said slowly, his tone shifting to something more serious, "this planet is directly connected to Earth's safety? What if it represents a genuine threat?"
That got Peter's attention. "Explain."
"Based on the data transmitted by our initial probe," John said, pulling up holographic readouts on the backup display, "this planet's parameters are identical to Earth's. Not similar—identical. Same atmospheric composition, same gravity, same axial tilt, same orbital period. It's mathematically impossible for this to be natural coincidence."
He highlighted several data clusters, his fingers moving with practiced efficiency across the controls. "This planet was almost certainly artificially created. And if someone went to the trouble of building a perfect Earth duplicate and positioning it in deep space..."
John didn't finish the sentence, but Peter understood the implications immediately.
The creators of Counter-Earth had probably been watching Earth for a very long time. Studying it. Analyzing it. And people who built secret surveillance planets in remote star systems rarely had friendly intentions.
"I should contact Director Osborn first," Peter said, already reaching for his Plumber badge to establish quantum communication.
His spider-sense suddenly screamed.
Peter spun, his enhanced reflexes processing the threat in microseconds. One of the supposedly unconscious mutants—the fire manipulator he'd dismissed as neutralized—had recovered enough to summon a crackling ball of flame in his palm. The kid's face twisted with hate as he prepared to unleash the attack.
"Hey buddy," Peter said with forced cheerfulness, "didn't anyone tell you that playing with fire makes you wet the bed?"
"Go to hell, you bug!" the mutant snarled, charging forward with his flames raised high.
Peter's hand moved almost faster than human eyes could track. The web-shooter on his wrist shifted modes with an audible click, and a concentrated spray of chemical fire suppressant shot toward the approaching flames at high velocity.
The result was spectacular and immediate.
Fire suppressant mixing with open flame in an enclosed oxygen-rich environment created what any chemistry student could have predicted: a dust explosion. The concussive blast hurled the mutant backward like he'd been hit by a truck, slamming him into the far wall hard enough to leave a dent in the reinforced polymer.
Peter put both hands to his cheeks in mock surprise, his voice dripping with obviously fake concern. "Oh no! I'm so sorry! I could have sworn that was fire-extinguishing mode, not fire-exploding mode! My mistake!"
The quip died on his lips as he realized his spider-sense wasn't fading. If anything, the warning was intensifying, that peculiar tingle at the base of his skull growing into an alarm klaxon.
He glanced at the mutants sprawled across the deck. All of them were definitely unconscious now—some were barely breathing. None of them posed any threat.
So what was his danger sense warning him about?
"Wait..." Peter's eyes widened in horrified realization.
He lunged toward the control panel, his enhanced speed carrying him across the cockpit in a blur. "John! Emergency launch! Do it now—"
BOOM!
The explosion lit up the vacuum of space like a miniature sun, the Solaris-1 rocket detonating with enough force to vaporize its hull in seconds. Shrapnel and superheated gas expanded outward in a perfect sphere, glittering debris catching distant starlight as it tumbled through the void.
From a distance, it looked almost beautiful—like fireworks celebrating humanity's latest doomed attempt to reach the stars.
Counter-Earth
New Wundagore City - Central Command Tower
Inside a massive tower that dominated New Wundagore's cyberpunk skyline—all gleaming steel and holographic advertisements—several figures gathered around a tactical display. They wore elaborate armor that wouldn't have looked out of place in medieval Europe, though the technology integrated into the plate mail was centuries beyond anything human knights had possessed.
The figures themselves were distinctly non-human.
"The intruders have been eliminated," Lady Ursula announced with evident satisfaction, her armored gauntlet pressing a control that shut down the tracking display.
The ursine warrior stood nearly seven feet tall, her brown fur immaculately groomed beneath the ceremonial armor. Her voice carried the cultured accent of nobility combined with absolute military authority.
"They might not have been invaders at all." Lord Tyger's deep rumble carried genuine regret as he stared at the now-blank screen.
He was massive even by the standards of his anthropomorphic kin—a Bengal tiger who stood upright on digitigrade legs, his orange-and-black striped fur visible through gaps in his armor. One armored hand rested on the pommel of an enormous sword that would have required three humans to lift.
"Shooting down that ship so quickly seems... premature," he continued, his feline features creasing with concern. "What if they came in peace? What if they sought friendship, diplomacy, mutual understanding? Then everything we did was a terrible mistake."
"I've never heard of friendly neighbors who visit without knocking first," Lady Vermin interjected, her high-pitched voice sharp with contempt.
The white mouse stood barely four feet tall, but her position on the High Council meant her words carried weight. Her pointed snout twitched with agitation, whiskers quivering as she spoke.
"Moreover," she continued, adjusting her spectacles with one tiny paw, "the High Evolutionary created us for a specific purpose. Our duty—our sacred duty—is to defend our planet and eliminate any potential threats to its sovereignty!"
Her beady eyes glittered with fanatical conviction. "And speaking of threats, those inferior hairless humans continue their pathetic rebellion against our rightful rule! The resistance grows bolder with each passing day. We must locate their hidden bases and exterminate them all before their disease spreads further!"
Lady Ursula nodded enthusiastically, her expression darkening to match Lady Vermin's venom. "Agreed. The humans are vermin that must be cleansed from our perfect world."
Even Lord Tyger, despite his earlier reservations about shooting down the spacecraft, didn't contradict this assessment.
He walked slowly to the tower's massive windows, looking down at the sprawling metropolis below. New Wundagore stretched for miles in every direction—a gleaming testament to the evolved animals' technological prowess and architectural ambition.
Flying vehicles soared between buildings on anti-gravity drives, their sleek forms piloted by the planet's rulers. Anthropomorphic animals of every species moved through the streets below: wolves in business suits, elephants operating construction equipment, hawks gliding between skyscrapers on natural wings augmented by cybernetic enhancements.
The beastial had built paradise.
And in the corners of that paradise—in the dark, damp places beneath the shining towers—humanity survived like cockroaches in sewers. Hiding in the shadows, scavenging for scraps, living in constant fear of discovery and extermination.
The High Evolutionary, in his infinite wisdom, had deemed humans inferior. Unworthy. A failed experiment that needed to be replaced by something better.
It was The beastial 's sacred duty to enforce that judgment.
Wilderness - 200 Kilometers from New Wundagore
A yellow meteor streaked through Counter-Earth's atmosphere, its trajectory wildly unstable as it plummeted toward the surface. Friction heated its surface to glowing temperatures, leaving a blazing trail across the pale sky.
BOOM!!!
The impact crater formed instantly as the meteor struck wilderness hundreds of kilometers from the nearest city. Trees were flattened in concentric circles, earth and stone thrown skyward by the kinetic energy release.
Slowly, impossibly, the "meteor" began to unfold like a living thing—segments separating, protective panels retracting.
It was Peter and John.
Peter's Diamondhead form had encased them both in a protective shell of living crystal, shielding them from atmospheric reentry temperatures that would have vaporized unprotected human flesh in seconds. Now that shell was peeling back, revealing the two passengers within.
John's face was gray-green with nausea, his eyes unfocused. Severe tinnitus made the world sound like he was underwater, and vertigo turned his sense of balance into suggestions rather than reliable data.
"Heatblast!" Peter transformed mid-fall, his body igniting as he assumed the Pyronite form.
Flames erupted from his hands with controlled precision, the thermal updraft working against gravity to slow their descent. He cradled John in one arm like a firefighter carrying an unconscious victim, the flames carefully directed to avoid burning his passenger.
They settled toward the forest floor with agonizing slowness.
The Omnitrix beeped urgently—low power warning. Peter grimaced as the transformation failed, green light washing over him as he reverted to human form thirty feet above the ground.
"Oh crap—"
They crashed through the canopy in an undignified tumble of limbs and Spanish cursing, branches breaking their fall somewhat before they hit the forest floor in a graceless heap.
"Emergency landing successful!" Peter groaned from where he'd face-planted in the dirt.
He rolled onto his back, spitting out leaves and soil, then carefully arranged John into a recovery position on the relatively flat ground. The astronaut was breathing steadily—unconscious but alive.
Peter took stock of their situation while catching his breath.
"This is bad," he muttered, frowning as he examined his Plumber badge.
The sophisticated quantum communicator had been damaged beyond function during the rocket's explosion. Its display was dark, the casing cracked, internal components probably fused into slag.
"Why didn't Ben install a backup communication system in my watch?" Peter wondered aloud, glaring at the Omnitrix as if it had personally betrayed him. "Would that have been so hard? Just a little quantum radio? Some kind of emergency beacon?"
"Mmm..." John groaned, slowly regaining consciousness.
His eyes fluttered open, seeing familiar forest surroundings—trees, sky, breathable atmosphere. His mind was still foggy from the crash, neurons firing in confused patterns as they tried to make sense of recent events.
For a moment, he genuinely thought they'd somehow returned to Earth. Maybe the whole thing had been a nightmare. Maybe he was still in Florida, having dozed off during pre-launch preparations.
"Spider-Man?" His voice was hoarse. "Are we... are we saved?"
"Not exactly." Peter shook his head, his expression grim. "Like you said, this planet is seriously strange. Too similar to Earth, and extremely aggressive toward visitors."
He gestured at the surrounding wilderness with one hand. "But that's also potentially good news. If they have the technology to shoot down spacecraft from planetary defense installations, they probably have advanced enough systems that we can hijack something to escape."
Peter stood, brushing dirt from his suit, already forming tactical plans. "We need to find a way into whatever city they've built here, then locate and steal a ship capable of atmospheric escape. Simple."
"You're right," John said weakly, no longer caring about exploration or historical significance or becoming America's hero.
After experiencing what he was fairly certain had been actual death—or close enough that the distinction didn't matter—all John wanted was to return to Earth and embrace his father. Even Jameson's constant ranting seemed comforting in retrospect.
Peter glanced at John's civilian clothes, then down at his own Spider-Man suit. The red-and-blue fabric was scorched in places, torn in others, and covered in what might have been mutant blood or rocket fuel or both.
"Support from the Plumbers probably won't arrive quickly," he said, thinking aloud. "They don't even know where we are yet. Which means I'm going to be wearing this suit for a while."
The implications were unfortunate.
"I really hope I don't start to smell terrible," Peter sighed.
He offered John a hand, pulling the astronaut to his feet with enhanced strength that made the gesture effortless. "Come on. I spotted the city when we were falling—saw all those towers and flying vehicles. It's going to be a long walk, but don't worry."
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