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Earth. New York. Midday.
The sun was bright. Reconstruction crews were working their way through the ruins block by block, the sound of heavy equipment mixing with the ordinary noise of a city getting back on its feet.
Then the shadows started moving.
Not clouds. Not an eclipse. Something was severing the light at a physical level — something so massive that its presence alone was enough to reshape the light reaching the surface, the shadows on the ground stretching and darkening not gradually but fast, the way a door closes.
Pedestrians stopped walking. Looked up.
Peter Parker was mid-swing between towers when his Spider-Sense detonated — not a tingle, not a warning ping, but the full-body electric shock of something catastrophically wrong arriving all at once. He missed his next web anchor and dropped onto the roof of an abandoned car, landing hard, the sensation still screaming through every nerve.
Doctor Strange pushed open the doors of the Sanctum Sanctorum, looked up at the sky, and the teacup in his hand hit the steps in pieces.
The sky had turned dark.
Not night. Not weather. The entire Solar System was being blockaded.
Outside Earth's atmosphere, the vacuum that had been empty and silent for the entirety of human history was being carved open.
Millions of azure cross-dimensional rifts tore through space simultaneously — not appearing so much as ripping into existence, slashing through the fabric of the vacuum like the space between dimensions had been turned into paper. And through each rift, squeezing out of the dimensional gap with the patient, grinding momentum of something enormous:
Circular warships. Ten kilometers in diameter each. Future-grade construction, built from materials and principles that no civilization in the current century had developed yet, their hull surfaces carrying weapons that were charged and ready and aimed downward.
Ten thousand. A hundred thousand.
A million.
They filled every available orbit between the Moon and Earth in overlapping layers, the formation so dense that the gaps between ships were measured in meters. The fleet extended outward past the Moon, past the orbital path of Mars, spread all the way to Jupiter's vicinity in overlapping waves of steel and quantum technology.
The sun disappeared behind them.
On Earth's surface, gravity went wrong. Not dramatically — not yet — but the combined mass of millions of warships hovering in formation above the planet was enough to make the crust strain, enough to set the ocean surface churning, the tidal forces pulling in patterns that hadn't existed this morning. A low, structural wail moved through the rock beneath people's feet as the Earth registered the weight being placed on the space above it.
Watcher Station. Main control room.
Every alarm in the building was active. The sound of them together was close to physical, the composite frequency pressing against the bulletproof glass of the control room windows.
"Warning — unknown spatial jump — mass detection event—"
"Enemy count: exceeds measurable threshold. Energy level: exceeds detection ceiling—"
Tony Stark stood at the holographic radar, his face lit by the screen's glow. The display was supposed to show individual contacts as red dots. The entire display was solid red — so many overlapping contacts that the software had stopped trying to count them and given up.
A yawn broke through the alarm noise.
Tony and Steve both turned.
Jake was leaning back in the throne with the posture of someone who had been waiting for a late delivery, one arm over the backrest, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He looked out the window at the wall of warships filling the space between the Watcher Station and Earth with the vague impatience of someone whose patience had been tested but not quite broken.
"Finally." He sat up. "I almost fell asleep."
Tony's expression ran through several stages.
"Jake." He pointed at the window. Carefully. "That is millions of warships. Their main cannon barrels are larger than this entire base."
"Yeah."
Jake stood up, rolled his neck — joints popping in sequence — and walked down the steps from the throne. He reached Gwen without hurrying and took her hand in an easy, natural motion.
He glanced at the White Spider Infinity Armor. "Come watch the fireworks with me."
The look on Tony's face was the look of a man trying to decide if he was witnessing bravery or a total psychological break.
Jake didn't activate a single defensive system. Didn't issue a combat order. Didn't look at the tactical display. He walked with Gwen to the airlock, and the door cycled open.
Chhhh—
Lunar surface. Hard vacuum. The kind of environment that would kill an unprotected human in seconds.
Gwen's armor generated its life-support field automatically. Jake stepped out and breathed the void the way a person breathes air, the Omnitrix's baseline genetic enhancement handling the exposure without any particular effort on his part.
He walked to the edge of a crater and looked up.
Millions of warships. Edge to edge. The full weight of the Kang Dynasty's assembled military force arrayed above a single blue planet, main cannons trained downward, quantum weapons charged and waiting. Jake was a figure standing on a rock, so small against the scale of the fleet above him that he wouldn't register as a blip on their targeting systems.
Vroom!!!
In space — transmitted not through air but directly into the nervous systems of every living thing in the Solar System via quantum broadcast, bypassing ears and atmosphere alike — a face appeared.
A holographic projection the size of a small moon materialized above the fleet formation: a man in purple-and-green armor, face obscured by a blue energy mask, eyes carrying the particular flatness of someone who has never once looked at a thing and considered it his equal.
Prime Kang.
"Lifeforms of Earth-616."
His voice arrived in every mind in the Solar System simultaneously, with the absolute authority of something that doesn't ask permission to speak.
"An intolerable variable has emerged in your universe. It has disrupted the equilibrium of the Multiverse and destroyed the walls between timelines."
The giant eyes behind the blue mask moved through the holographic projection and found Jake, standing on the lunar surface. The scale difference between them was absurd — a man the size of a dust particle, stared at by a face the size of a city.
"Surrender the variable."
"If you do not comply: the Kang Dynasty will erase this planet's physical existence. Its past, its future, every version of what it has ever been or could ever be — all of it will be unmade."
No negotiation. No timeline for a response. A direct sentence of execution, announced to the entire Solar System.
On the lunar surface.
Jake didn't step back. He didn't look for cover. He took one step forward, raised his left hand toward the vast blue face in the sky, and — very deliberately, very clearly — curled one finger in the most contemptuous gesture in the human vocabulary.
"Less talking."
The Omnitrix's translation function carried the words precisely back to Prime Kang's flagship.
"Fire. Right here. I'll wait."
The rage that moved behind Prime Kang's mask was brief and controlled, but it was there. He had expected this level of dimensional pressure to produce immediate surrender — had arranged the fleet specifically for psychological effect, for the weight of a million warships pressing down on a single small world. He had not anticipated being waved off like an annoyance.
"Fulfill his request."
Prime Kang's right hand came down hard.
"All fleets — charge main cannons. Full volley."
Vroom. Vroom. VROOM.
One million circular warships lit up simultaneously. The azure light of main cannon charging built across the entire formation at once — not in sequence but all at once — filling the space between the fleet and Earth with a cold, terrible luminescence that washed across the lunar surface and made the shadows of every crater razor-sharp.
A million star-destroying main cannons drawing quantum energy simultaneously. The stress on local spacetime was visible: black void rifts opening in the surrounding space as the warping energy pressure exceeded what the vacuum could absorb, reality itself developing cracks around the edges of the charging field.
Half a second.
That was all it would take. Half a second of discharge and there would be no Earth. No Moon. Not an atom of either. Just the empty space where they had been, cleaned out at the subatomic level by weapons built specifically to erase planets.
The light was almost blinding already.
Jake raised his left hand.
His right palm settled over the ultimate dual-fusion dial — the four metal spikes, the dark red ultimate dial — and rested there, steady, completely unhurried.
The smile on his face, lit by the lethal azure glow of a million charging cannons, was the smile of a man who has just been handed exactly what he wanted to play with.
"You want to compete on technology?"
His thumb found the dial.
"Let me show you what a computer virus actually looks like."
Snap!!!
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