A few minutes later, William Baker was lying on his back on the cold asphalt, the hazy orange glow of a streetlight swimming in his vision. A single, profound question echoed in the ringing silence of his mind: What just happened? One second, he was a man on the edge, making a desperate play to escape the collapsing world of New York City. The next, before he could even utter a threat, the world had violently tilted on its axis, and the unassuming, middle-aged man from the driver's seat had put him on the ground with a single, shockingly efficient movement.
Now, that same man stood over him, a foot planted firmly on his wrist, pinning his gun hand to the pavement. With a casual motion that seemed utterly disconnected from the reality of the situation, the man plucked the pistol from his grasp. Baker watched, dumbfounded, as the man's hands moved in a swift, intricate blur. There was a series of soft, metallic clicks, and the pistol simply… disassembled, its components—slide, barrel, spring, frame—clattering onto the ground in a neat little pile. The proficiency was so absolute, so practiced, it was terrifying.
You've got superhuman strength and you can field-strip a weapon in half a second? Are you Captain America? The thought screamed through Baker's brain. Is this even New York anymore? Since when does every random schmo on the street have a secret superpower?
"Well, I never thought I'd see the day," Aunt May said, stepping out of the car with a disappointed sigh. She looked down at the pathetic figure on the ground, shaking her head. "Getting carjacked in our own neighborhood in Queens."
Uncle Ben, however, wasn't surprised. "The trouble's spreading, May," he said, his voice grim. "When Hell's Kitchen imploded, all the vermin had to find new sewers to crawl into. They're fanning out across the whole city now." Still, it was rare. Most career criminals had learned to give Queens a wide berth. The reputation of the security forces at the nearby Primus Tower, and the formidable stories that circulated about them, served as a powerful deterrent.
Unfortunately for William Baker, he was fresh out of prison and hadn't yet received the new street-level memo.
Looking down at the man's miserable, desperate face, Uncle Ben felt a familiar pang of sympathy. He was certain this man had a story, a reason for his desperation. But reasons were not excuses. If it had been anyone else in this car tonight—anyone not enhanced by a perfected super-soldier serum—a life would have likely been lost over an old sedan and a wallet.
The wail of approaching sirens finally broke the tension. The police, followed by the bouncers from the boxing ring Baker had just robbed, arrived on the scene. After giving a brief statement, Ben Sr. and May handed the subdued criminal over and considered the matter closed.
"You again, William," a weary officer muttered, looking at the file as they loaded him into the back of the patrol car.
Baker said nothing. He hadn't had the chance to revert to his real identity yet.
"Out of prison for less than a day," the officer continued, shaking his head. "Armed robbery, assault, attempted murder… you'll be going away for a long time, pal. At least a few years."
Hearing those words, William Baker felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. He said nothing, simply lowering his head, letting his bitter face be swallowed by the shadows of the car. Years. He couldn't do years. He had to get out. My daughter's illness can't wait, he thought, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists. I have to pay for her treatment. I have to.
He glanced at the unsuspecting policeman in the front seat, his desperation hardening into a grim, dangerous resolve.
In the stark, silent future of 2099, Miguel O'Hara watched the scene play out on a vast, holographic display, his expression tight with frustration.
"Another deviation," he rumbled, the words echoing in the cavernous command center of the Spider-Society. "The Web continues to unravel."
He was referring to the Web of Life and Destiny, the impossibly complex cosmic lattice that connected every universe, its stability maintained by a series of fixed, unchangeable "canon events." Miguel was not the Web's creator, but its self-appointed warden, a role born from his greatest failure. He had once tried to find personal happiness by secretly replacing a deceased version of himself in a paradise-like alternate universe. His presence, an anomaly in the weave, had disrupted that reality's canon, causing the entire universe to decay and collapse into nothingness, taking his new family with it.
He had been atoning for that sin ever since. This base, this legion of Spider-People recruited from across the multiverse, was his penance—a desperate attempt to prevent another such catastrophe. He had flagged this particular universe—Earth-617—long ago. It was a glaring anomaly, the only known reality where Peter Parker had a cousin named Ben.
For years, this deviation had caused no significant ripples in the Web, so Miguel had relegated it to passive observation. But when this universe's Peter Parker finally became Spider-Man, he had initiated active monitoring. What he found had shaken his understanding of the multiverse to its core.
First, the anomaly, Ben Parker, had murdered Dennis Carradine, the man whose actions were supposed to be the catalyst for the canon event of Uncle Ben's death. This should have been a fatal blow to the timeline. Miguel had prepared for universal collapse. But nothing happened. The universe remained stable.
The paradox was maddening. Now, he had just witnessed a second, would-be canon event averted. According to the Web's calculus, an Earth with two Spider-Totems should have resulted in the deaths of both Ben Parker, Sr. and his wife May. Instead, a super-powered Uncle Ben had effortlessly neutralized the threat, contemptuously grinding the threads of fate under the heel of his shoe. The source of all this temporal chaos was undeniably Ben Parker.
"Tearing the Web is easy," Miguel muttered, pacing before the screens. "Any Spider could do it if they knew where to pull. But the consequence is always collapse. Always. So why is his universe immune? Ben Parker… what are you that allows you to defy causality itself?"
This anomaly was too dangerous to ignore. He had to intervene. He had to understand. But before he could even formulate a plan, reality took the choice out of his hands.
Back in Kamar-Taj, Ben stood in the sun-drenched courtyard, attempting to coax his inner mana into forming a coherent spell. Suddenly, the very air in front of him began to warp. Light and shadow twisted as if being wrung out like a wet towel, and a soundless tear in reality opened, revealing a swirling, kaleidoscopic tunnel of impossible colors.
Ben raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Well, that's not me."
"It originates from the multiverse," the Ancient One stated, appearing at his side with her customary silent grace.
A trans-dimensional portal punching its way into the heart of Kamar-Taj was no small matter. Ben shot her a sidelong, smirking glance. "Seems like a direct challenge to the Sorcerer Supreme, wouldn't you say? A bit of a slap in the face. If it were me, I couldn't possibly let that stand."
The Ancient One remained perfectly serene. "Occasionally, those who lack true wisdom do such things. Scientists are often the worst culprits, so obsessed with the infinite possibilities of the multiverse that they forget to be cautious. But see this not as an intrusion, but as an opportunity. Experiencing the multiverse firsthand will help you comprehend the true scale of your innate power."
Her meaning was cloaked in mysticism, but the instruction was clear: Go.
"You just want me to investigate this for you, don't you?" he prodded.
"The potential of your life-force is boundless, Ben," she replied, her voice holding the weight of ages. "If you truly wish for it to one day rival the great cosmic powers, you must first comprehend the scope of creation. Besides," she added, her eyes gaining a distant, knowing focus, "this summons is, indeed, for you."
That was all he needed to hear. He trusted her judgment, more or less. He stepped toward the shimmering rift, feeling a powerful, irresistible suction pull at him, like the gravity of a star. He braced himself and walked directly into the tunnel.
The world dissolved into a nauseating, psychedelic swirl. For a disorienting moment, Ben felt a strange, tingling energy wash over his skin, but before he could begin to analyze it, the journey abruptly ended.
The vibrant colors vanished, replaced by the roar of rushing wind. His stomach lurched as he found himself suspended in empty air, gravity reasserting its dominance with violent, terrifying force. He was falling, plunging from miles above a glittering city that could only be New York.
He glanced down, his expression one of mild annoyance rather than panic. "You know," he mused to the screaming wind, spreading his arms and enjoying the feeling of terminal velocity, "I'm not even surprised anymore. Aside from this wonderfully peaceful city, where else in the world would a person encounter mortal danger on a daily basis?"
A quick scan confirmed this wasn't his New York. His was still a patchwork of construction sites. This one was whole, healed, and brightly lit. He raised the Omnitrix, its green glow a stark contrast to the darkening sky.
"Okay, options, options," he muttered, the dial spinning through holographic silhouettes. "Heatblast is too flashy. Big Chill works. Jetray is fast…" The dial settled on a bulky, planetoid-like form. "Gravattack. Perfect."
Just as his thumb hovered over the faceplate, he heard a cry from above his head. He glanced up, surprised, to see a figure clad in white, black, and pink plummeting through the darkness in a desperate, arrow-straight dive.
No kidding, he thought with a flicker of genuine shock. Spider-Gwen. So this is her universe.
Moments ago, Gwen Stacy had been mid-swing, about to bring a world of hurt to a group of bank robbers. Then the world had dissolved, and now she was miles above the city she called home, the wind a deafening roar in her ears. Before she could even process the vertigo, she saw him—a boy, falling helplessly, no webs, no wings, no chance.
Instinct, raw and powerful, took over. Forgetting her own peril, she abandoned any thought of slowing her own descent and angled her body into a steep, reckless dive, rocketing toward him.
"Spread your arms! You need to create drag!" she screamed, but the wind tore the words from her mouth, rendering them meaningless. She fired a desperate web-line, but it flailed uselessly in the violent air current, falling far short.
She was falling too fast. He was falling too fast.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through her. The city rushed up to meet them, its familiar lights expanding with terrifying speed. They were already past the altitude where she could safely deploy her web-wings; the G-forces would tear her apart. Worse, she still wasn't closing the gap. A few meters—a mere handful of feet—still separated them. In this world of freefall, it was an impassable chasm.
No. Please, not again.
The memory, sharp as broken glass, lanced through her mind: Peter. Her Peter, his body twisted by the serum, dying in her arms, his confused eyes fading as she held him, helpless. She had failed him. She would not fail again. She would not watch another innocent person die because of her. He had to be an innocent, someone snatched up by whatever force had brought her here. His death would be on her hands.
Gwen squeezed her eyes shut and pushed every ounce of her will and strength into her dive. She stretched out her hands, her fingers straining, reaching, as if she could physically will the air to compress and propel her forward. They were two meteors, streaking toward a shared oblivion. She knew it was hopeless. But she refused to give up. She had watched her best friend die once. She would not see it happen a second time. Not even if it meant she would be shattered into a million pieces on the pavement below.
Ben watched her desperate, self-destructive heroism with a quiet, profound sense of respect. This was the core of it. This was the irrational, stubborn, beautiful kindness that defined the name Spider-Man. He, with his calculated plans and pragmatic solutions, could never truly be this. She, in this moment of selfless, suicidal sacrifice, was its purest embodiment.
He glanced down. The city was no longer a glittering abstraction. He could see individual cars on the streets. Time was up.
"If this goes on any longer," he stated calmly, "we're both going to be a red smear on Broadway."
He deliberately and firmly pressed the face of his watch. The world erupted in a flash of brilliant green light, illuminating Gwen's desperate, straining face in the split-second before the fundamental laws of physics were violently rewritten.
"GRAVATTACK!"
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