Chapter Text
At New York city:
(The skyline of New York City was a jagged silhouette of fire and twisted rebar. A colossal automaton, forged from alien alloys and stolen Oscorp tech, roared with the mechanical screech of a thousand grinding gears. It reached into the foundations of a skyscraper, ripping out a ten-ton slab of concrete and hurling it into the clouds like a grotesque discus. Spider-Man swings into a double-footed dropkick against the monster's optical sensor, sparks showering his red-and-blue suit. The machine swivels its torso, a massive steel tail demolishing a bridge where civilians scramble for safety. Peter fires a massive, reinforced web-canopy to catch a falling air-conditioning unit before it crushes a newsstand. The monster emits a high-frequency blast; Peter recoils, clutching his mask as his equilibrium shattered. Spider-Man vaults over a cluster of heat-seeking missiles, redirecting one back into the monster's knee joint. The machine's pincer snaps shut around a fleeing yellow taxi, shaking it like a toy. Peter sprints up the side of the monster's leg, planting small "spider-tracer" explosives on its hydraulic lines. The monster creates a localized vacuum, pulling debris—and Peter—toward its grinding central core. A giant metallic hand slams Peter into a brick wall; the impact creates a crater, cracking the wall for three stories. Peter uses his webbing to pull two skyscrapers together, creating a "slingshot" to launch himself at the beast's head. A panel shifts on the monster's chest, revealing a pulsing, iridescent power source. The monster sprays liquid nitrogen; Peter barely dodges, his web-shooters momentarily icing over. Peter's breathing is ragged; his suit is shredded at the shoulder, revealing bruised skin beneath. The monster begins spinning, turning itself into a metallic tornado that levels a city block. In the swirling dust, the monster's pincer finds its true target—Mary Jane Watson, trapped on a crumbling fire escape.)
The monster hoisted Mary Jane high above the street, its mechanical grip tightening. "Peter!" she screamed. With a desperate, final surge of strength,
(Peter fired a web-line to her waist and yanked. The monster, seemingly bored, let her go. Peter caught her mid-air, swinging them both to the safety of a nearby rooftop.)
Landing hard, Peter pulled off his mask, his face covered in soot and sweat. "You okay?" he gasped.
"I am now," MJ whispered, clutching his hand. "Go get him, Tiger. Good luck." She said.
(Before Peter could replace his mask, a massive shadow loomed. The monster's hand didn't strike; it transformed. The fingers retracted, shifting into a gaping, obsidian-black barrel. With terrifying speed, the cannon-arm swept down, vacuuming the air with a deafening whoomph. Peter and MJ were sucked into the dark aperture instantly.)
"Bon voyage, lovers!" the machine's voice box crackled with a mocking, digitized sneer. "Enjoy the flight! It's one-way!" He yelled as The cannon fired with the force of a supernova. Peter and MJ were launched into the stratosphere screaming, two small dots trailing smoke, appearing to the city below as a single, fading star in the afternoon sky as they disappeared.
High above the clouds, the wind screamed. Peter and MJ clung to each other, screaming. Their bodies tumbling through the thin air. "Are we dead?!" MJ shrieked over the roar of the wind.
"Not yet!" Peter yelled back, pulling her closer against his chest. "I don't know how long we can stay up here!"
"Peter, I'm scared!" Mary Jane screamed
"Just hold on! Don't lose me, MJ! Whatever happens, don't let go!" Peter yelled as she nodded, burying her face in his suit as they streaked past the New York state line.
Suddenly, a flock of geese appeared in their flight path. "Birds!" they both shrieked, flailing their legs to tilt their trajectory. They missed the lead goose by inches. Seconds later, a news helicopter hovered in the distance, they both scream in horror, thinking that the choppers will kill them. but they zoomed past the cockpit, leaving the pilot spinning in their wake.
"Hey," Peter said, his voice trembling with a weak, hysterical giggle. "Look at us... we're like Superman!"
MJ punched him squarely in the chest. "Not the time, Peter! I don't have time for your jokes!" Mary Jane yelled.
"Sorry!" Peter yelled.
"Peter..." MJ turned pale. "I'm gonna be sick. The spinning... I'm gonna—"
"Hold it in! MJ, please, swallow it!" Peter shouted.
She gulped loudly, closing her eyes tight. "Okay. Okay. I'm sorry." She looked at him, her eyes softening despite the terror. "Peter? If this is it... if we die together... you'll always be in my heart."
"Always," Peter whispered.
(They squeezed their eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable impact, as they land in a huge thud.)
At the beach:
The impact wasn't concrete; it was soft, shifting sand. For twenty seconds, they lay intertwined, motionless. "We're dead," they whispered in unison. "We're dead," they said again. They repeated the phrase fifteen times, a rhythmic mantra of shock, until a cold, salty wave washed over them.
They jolted upright, gasping. "MJ? You okay?" Peter asked, frantically checking his pockets for his mask.
"I'm... I'm fine. Wet, but fine." Mary Jane breathed.
(They stood up and looked around. This wasn't the grey, industrial shore of Liberty Island. Ahead of them lay a sprawling boardwalk, a massive Ferris wheel glowing against a smoggy sunset, and palm trees swaying in a warm breeze.)
"Peter," MJ said slowly. "I don't think we're in New York anymore."
"I think you're right. But where are we?" Peter asked.
(MJ stepped on a discarded, damp newspaper. The headline read: "PROPERTY VICES: LOS SANTOS REAL ESTATE BUBBLE BURSTS.")
"Los Santos?" Peter frowned. "That sounds... weird."
"Everything about this is weird," MJ replied. "Let's just start walking. Put that mask away, Peter. We don't want to stand out."
As they reached the sidewalk of Vespucci Beach, a yellow cab sped past. "Taxi!" they yelled, but the driver flipped them off and sped away toward Rockford Hills.
"Okay," Peter sighed. "Only one way to travel." He grabbed MJ, and with a practiced flick of his wrist, they swung into the urban jungle.
(They landed on Ginger Street, ducking behind a supermarket to catch their breath.)
Suddenly, a muffled shout echoed from inside the store. "Give me the goddamn money! All of it! Move it, you plastic-faced prick!"
Peter and MJ ducked behind a red truck parked at the curb. "Don't make a sound," Peter whispered.
"Peter, you're Spider-Man!" MJ hissed. "Do something!"
"Does he have a gun?" Peter asked.
(Before she could answer, a man burst out of the store clutching a duffel bag. He was wearing a filthy, sweat-stained undershirt and had a crazed, manic energy in his eyes. He jumped into the red truck—Trevor Phillips. He revved the engine, screaming at a pigeon as he sped off.)
"That guy is completely insane," Peter muttered.
"Totally nuts," MJ agreed.
As they walked down the sidewalk, trying to plan a way back to New York, police sirens began to wail in the distance, chasing the red truck. They ignored the chaos—it seemed normal for this city—until a sleek black car swerved toward the curb. Inside were Michael and Amanda De Santa, arguing loudly.
"We're gonna be late for the Hotel Massacre premiere, Michael!" Amanda snapped.
"I told you, these pants were too tight! I looked like a stuffed sausage!" Michael yelled back, looking at her instead of the road. "And if you want those organic kale chips for the movie, we had to—" He is cut off.
"MICHAEL, LOOK OUT!" Amanda screeched in fear.
(Michael slammed on the brakes. The tires screeched, and the bumper lightly tapped Peter and MJ, knocking them back.)
"You idiot!" Amanda screamed.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Michael hopped out of the car. "Hey! Watch where you're walking, you—" He stopped dead. He looked at Peter, who was wearing a shredded spandex suit under a light jacket, and MJ, who looked like she'd just fallen from the sky.
"Amanda," Michael muttered. "You gotta see this."
"What?" she asked, stepping out. Her jaw dropped.
"Are you ok?" Peter asked MJ as he helped her up.
"Yeah." Mary Jane breathed, as they looked at the strangers staring at them.
"Why are you staring at us?" Peter asked nervously.
"Kid," Michael said, squinting. "Are you... are you that superhero guy? From the news? The one in Liberty City or whatever?"
Peter sighed, rubbing his neck. "I'm Spider-Man. Yeah."
Amanda gasped. "Oh my god. Jimmy is going to go ecstatic. He's gonna lose his mind."
"He'll go bonkers," Michael agreed.
"Listen," MJ said, trying to steer the conversation. "We just saw a red truck rob that store. A scary guy..."
"Oh, that's just Trevor." Michael waved a hand dismissively. "He's... a lot. I'm Michael, by the way. This is my wife, Amanda." Peter and MJ awkwardly shook their hands.
"Look, Spider-Guy—" Michael said.
"Man," Peter corrected.
"Right, whatever. Listen, if my son Jimmy sees you in that outfit, he's gonna follow you around taking 'Snapmatics' and posting them on Bleeter. It'll be a nightmare. You need real clothes." Michael pointed down the street. "There's a Binco or a Sub Urban nearby. Get changed. Meet me at the garment factory under the bridge in a few hours. I might know some people who can help you get a flight back East."
Peter and MJ looked at each other. This city was loud, violent, and strange, but it was their only lead. "Okay, We'll be there." Peter said.
(Michael and Amanda hopped back in their car and sped off, Michael already yelling about the movie's starting time.)
"He's right," MJ said, looking at Peter's tattered suit. "We need to blend in."
"Hold on," Peter said, offering his arm. They swung up toward the rooftops of Los Santos, the neon signs of the city flickering to life as they began their search for a clothing store in the heart of San Andreas.
To be continued..