Counter-Earth
New Wundagore City - Byte Daily Newspaper Office
The newspaper owner burst into laughter—a harsh, braying sound like a donkey being strangled—as he rifled through the large stack of photographs Peter had laid on his desk.
"Incredible! Absolutely incredible!" the middle-aged man practically shouted, his eyes gleaming with the particular avarice of someone who'd just discovered gold in their backyard. "Where did you get so many hot, first-hand action shots? These are exclusive!"
Peter studied the newspaper owner with growing unease, a sense of déjà vu creeping up his spine like cold fingers.
The man was human—one of the rare baseline homo sapiens who'd managed to claw his way into a position of minor authority despite Counter-Earth's beastman supremacy. He was balding, with a severe comb-over that fooled absolutely no one, and wore a cheap suit that had seen better decades. His face carried the perpetual scowl of someone convinced the entire universe was trying to cheat him.
But it was something about his energy—that particular combination of bombastic enthusiasm and naked greed—that felt disturbingly familiar.
"I just happened to be in the right place at the right time," Peter said with false modesty, keeping his voice casual. "And I'm a professional photographer, so naturally I took pictures. Basic instincts."
"This guy—" the owner stabbed one stubby finger at a photo showing Spider-Man in mid-leap, barely visible against the tower's exterior, "—this masked lunatic actually attacked the Wundagore Knights' headquarters! And just as the arrest warrant gets issued, you deliver me a complete photographic record of his infiltration!"
The man's grin widened to something almost manic. "Our newspaper is going to be a massive hit this time! Circulation will triple! Maybe quadruple! We'll outsell every competitor in the city!"
"Then congratulations on your impending success," Peter said with practiced politeness. "Now, about my compensation..."
The transformation was immediate and breathtaking in its shamelessness.
The enthusiastic expression vanished from the owner's face like someone had flipped a switch, replaced instantly by cold, calculating shrewdness. His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits, his mouth compressing into a thin line of stinginess.
He casually pulled a few banknotes from his desk drawer—Peter could tell at a glance they were small denominations—and shoved them across the desk with obvious impatience.
"Take it!" the owner snapped, making shooing motions with his other hand. "Then get out of my office! I'm a busy man!"
Peter stared at the pathetic handful of bills in genuine disbelief.
"What?" he said, his voice climbing toward outrage. "Your bounty specifically offers 500,000 credits for Spider-Man photographs, and this—" he gestured at the insulting pile, "—this doesn't even total 5,000! This is maybe 3,000 if I'm being generous!"
What kind of vampire Scrooge operation is this? Peter thought furiously.
The newspaper owner in front of him was somehow even more like J. Jonah Jameson than Jameson himself—which shouldn't have been possible, but here they were. The same aggressive stinginess, the same shameless lowballing, the same absolute conviction that photographers should feel honored to have their work published rather than expecting fair payment.
That sense of familiarity slammed into Peter with renewed force.
It was like he'd instantly been transported back to Earth. Back to the Daily Bugle's offices. Back to arguing with Jameson about basic professional courtesy and reasonable compensation.
Peter had to suppress a hysterical laugh.
I should have brought John along, he thought with dark amusement. Could have told him he doesn't need to go back to Earth after all—I've found his real family right here on Counter-Earth. His spiritual father. The Jameson of another earth.
"That bounty is obviously just advertising rhetoric," the owner said with the casual dismissiveness of someone who lied professionally. "Nobody's actually going to pay 500,000 credits for pictures of some bug-themed criminal. Now, if you had nude photographs of Lady Ursula, or maybe Lady Vermin in a compromising position—those would be worth serious money!"
Lady Vermin is a literal white mouse, Peter thought with revulsion. And this guy thinks her nude photos would be worth more than exclusive action shots of a major criminal incident? Counter-Earth has some seriously questionable priorities.
"Fine," Peter said coldly, gathering all the photographs back toward himself with deliberate movements. "I apologize for wasting your time. Our business relationship is clearly terminated before it even began."
He stood, preparing to leave. "I'm confident there are plenty of other newspapers in this city that would appreciate exclusive photos. Competition in the free market, right?"
"Wait!" the owner called out immediately, his voice carrying just a hint of desperation.
Peter paused but didn't turn around, letting the silence stretch.
"Ten thousand," the owner said grudgingly. "Ten thousand credits. Per photo. That's my final offer."
"No more!" he added quickly, as if afraid Peter might actually negotiate upward. "And you should know—since you're apparently unwilling to provide proof of identity or credentials—only I will be generous enough to pay for photographs of such... questionable origin."
The implied threat was obvious: cooperate or get nothing.
Peter wanted to argue further, wanted to demand fair compensation, wanted to explain exactly how exploitative this entire exchange was...
But he was exhausted. Injured. Stranded on an alien world with a broken Omnitrix and limited resources. He needed money for rent, food, supplies. This wasn't the time for pride.
"Fine," he said, returning to the desk and spreading the photos again. "Ten thousand per photograph. Let's do this."
The owner's expression immediately shifted to critical scrutiny, examining each photo with the intensity of someone searching for excuses to reject them.
"This one's too blurry," he muttered, setting aside a perfectly clear action shot. "This angle is terrible—can barely see the tower. This one has poor lighting. This composition is amateurish..."
He went through the entire stack with painfully slow deliberation, criticizing and belittling each photograph before grudgingly selecting only four images from different angles.
"These will do," he announced finally. "Barely acceptable for publication."
Then came the final insult.
"And I want exclusive rights to these images," the owner said, producing a hastily scribbled contract. "You cannot sell the rejected photographs to any other newspaper until after our initial publication. Standard industry practice."
"That's not—" Peter started to protest.
"Take it or leave it."
Peter signed the contract, received his 40,000 credits, and left the office before he did something he'd regret. Like webbing the owner to the ceiling and leaving him there for the weekend.
Outside - New Wundagore Streets
Peter walked through the lower-level streets, clutching his payment and trying to calm his anger.
"At least I have enough for living expenses now," he muttered, forcing himself to focus on practical concerns rather than the injustice he'd just experienced.
He glanced down at his wrist, where the broken Omnitrix remained hidden beneath his sleeve.
The Copytrix, he'd started calling it in his head. His replica Omnitrix—created by Ben as a simplified training version with limited functionality.
The device contained only a fraction of the aliens available in Ben's original watch. No capture mode for acquiring new DNA samples. No master control for unlimited transformations. Just basic functions: transform, time out, recharge, repeat.
But it had been his secret weapon. His ace in the hole. His way of contributing to cosmic-level conflicts despite being "just" Spider-Man.
And now it was damaged.
The watch could still transform him—the core systems remained functional. But the transformation state was unpredictable. Duration fluctuated randomly. Worst of all, there was a non-zero chance it might malfunction catastrophically mid-transformation, potentially killing him through cellular disruption.
Peter had exactly zero ability to repair Galvan technology. The best he could manage was basic maintenance—keeping it clean, avoiding water damage, that sort of thing. Actual repairs required either Azmuth himself or someone with equivalent expertise.
Which meant he needed to reconnect with Ben. Soon.
"And that black box," Peter whispered, anxiety tightening his chest.
The Annihilarrgh.
Even now, kilometers away from the High Evolutionary's tower, his spider-sense maintained a low-level warning buzz. Not the screaming alarm from when Lady Vermin had almost pressed the button, but a persistent background anxiety that wouldn't fade.
That thing could blow up the entire city. Maybe the entire region. Possibly a significant portion of the planet's surface, depending on what "ash annihilation" actually meant in technical terms.
And it was in the hands of a megalomaniacal scientist who thought he was a god and had just casually tossed it in the trash.
The Copytrix could only be repaired after reuniting with Ben. But the bomb situation required immediate action. Peter needed to find a way to steal it back from the High Evolutionary's tower before someone accidentally triggered it.
Or before the High Evolutionary decided to examine it more carefully and discovered it wasn't actually a bluff.
Naoko's Clinic - Evening
Peter returned to the clinic with heavy thoughts weighing on his mind, though he tried to project casual confidence.
John and Naoko were both waiting, their expressions carrying obvious excitement mixed with concern. The news of Spider-Man's attack on the Wundagore Knights' headquarters had apparently spread throughout the city's human underground with impressive speed.
"You actually did it!" John said, barely containing his enthusiasm. "You attacked their base! The whole city is talking about it!"
Little Shayne looked at Peter with undisguised hero worship, his eyes wide with admiration.
"No one has ever accomplished what you did," Naoko said softly, genuine respect in her voice. "The resistance must already know about your actions. With someone of your abilities joining their cause, their chances of success increase dramatically."
Peter felt a pang of guilt at their optimism.
"For me," he said with deliberate self-deprecation, "just being able to pay rent is already a major victory. Let's keep our expectations reasonable."
Having witnessed the High Evolutionary's true power firsthand, Peter no longer held much hope for the resistance movement's chances. They were brave, certainly. Dedicated, absolutely. But bravery and dedication meant very little against someone who could casually catch a Humungousaur punch and counter-attack hard enough to fracture Vaxasaurian bone.
The resistance had no realistic chance of victory until Plumber reinforcements arrived.
"Here," Peter said, pulling out 20,000 credits and offering them to Naoko. "This should cover our rent for a while, plus any additional expenses we've caused."
Naoko had originally intended to waive their rent entirely—they were fellow humans, after all, fighting the same oppression. But she and Shayne struggled financially themselves. The clinic primarily served impoverished people from several surrounding blocks, and Naoko often treated patients for free when they couldn't afford proper payment.
The money would genuinely help.
"Thank you, Peter," she said gently, accepting the credits with quiet gratitude.
That name still felt strange on multiple levels.
Peter Parker—supposedly belonging to Spider-Man's "friend" rather than the hero himself. Mr. Spider-Man had refused to reveal his true identity even to John, so he'd "borrowed" his friend Peter's name for civilian interactions.
The irony was delicious. Peter Parker pretending to be Peter Parker while claiming to be someone else entirely.
"I can use the remaining money to buy another mattress," Peter said, trying to inject some humor into the situation. "Then I won't have to sleep on that torture device you call a sofa. My back is developing permanent curvature from that thing."
He was currently sharing the single available room with John, which created its own awkward dynamics. Two grown men, one small room, limited privacy. Not ideal, but they were making it work.
"By the way, Peter..." John started, then paused with visible discomfort. "It's really strange calling you 'Peter' when I know Peter Parker personally. Creates some cognitive dissonance."
He'd met the real Peter Parker before the Solaris-1 launch—a thin, bookish photographer taking pictures of the rocket on the launch pad. Quiet kid, obviously intelligent, clearly more comfortable with cameras than people.
Nothing like the blonde, athletic, confident "Peter" currently standing in Naoko's clinic.
"Plus, you're blonde," John continued. "Peter Parker has brown hair. And you're built like an athlete, while he's more... academic in physique. The contrast is jarring."
Peter shrugged, maintaining his borrowed identity. "What can I say? My friend Peter and I are very different people. Opposites attract, friendship-wise."
"Anyway," John said, redirecting the conversation toward more pressing matters, "the resistance has already replied to Naoko's contact. We're meeting with them tonight. What do you think?"
His excitement was palpable—the enthusiasm of a young man who hadn't yet learned that revolution was cruel, that war was ugly, that idealism often drowned in blood.
John was imagining glory. Recognition. Historical significance. His name in future textbooks as someone who helped liberate Counter-Earth.
Peter envied that innocence even as he mourned its inevitable death.
"No problem," Peter said simply. "Let's meet the resistance."
That Evening - City Streets Under Curfew
Night had fallen across New Wundagore, transforming the already divided city into something even more starkly segregated.
"Curfew is in effect now," Naoko warned as Peter and John prepared to leave. "The beastial don't allow humans to wander around outside after dark. If you're caught, the patrol robots will assume you're criminals or resistance members. They won't ask questions before attacking."
"No problem," Peter said with his trademark Spider-Man confidence. "As long as we don't look human, we should be fine."
John immediately activated his bionic face mask, the device flowing across his features and restructuring his appearance. Within seconds, he'd transformed into a tall, muscular lion-man—humanoid proportions with distinctly leonine features, golden mane flowing down his shoulders.
Peter examined the transformation critically, his head tilting to one side.
"A lion beastman?" he said skeptically. "That's maybe a bit too on-the-nose for someone trying to blend in. Lions are apex predators, military elite. You're going to draw attention looking like nobility."
John looked down at himself, suddenly uncertain. "Should I change it?"
"Nah, it's fine," Peter decided. "Just walk with confidence. Act like you belong. That's half of any successful infiltration."
Rather than using his own bionic mask, Peter simply activated his Spider-Man suit and engaged its advanced stealth mode. The sophisticated systems—courtesy of Ben's paranoid over-engineering—rendered him effectively invisible through a combination of optical camouflage, thermal dampening, and acoustic absorption.
He vanished from visible spectrum like a ghost.
"Incredible," John breathed, watching Peter disappear despite knowing exactly where he was standing. "No matter how many times I see that technology, it still amazes me. The science required to achieve true invisibility across multiple detection spectrums..."
"You'll be careful, won't you?" Naoko asked, her maternal instincts showing despite having just met these strangers days ago.
"Always am," Peter's voice emerged from empty air. "Well, usually. Sometimes. When I remember."
Peter and John stepped out into New Wundagore's night.
The city revealed its true nature after dark.
Above—far above, in the elevated platforms and gleaming towers—New Wundagore resembled paradise. Towering buildings pierced through low-lying clouds, their surfaces covered in dazzling neon advertisements and holographic displays. The lights swirled through the mist, creating scenes that looked almost magical, like a fairy realm suspended in the sky.
The beastial lived up there. Flying in their vehicles, working in their offices, dining in their restaurants, completely isolated from the world below.
But below the clouds—down at street level where humans scurried and survived—the landscape was lifeless and stagnant. No neon here. No beauty. Just cracked pavement, failing infrastructure, and the persistent smell of inadequate sanitation.
"There's such a clear class divide here," John observed, his lion-disguised features creasing with distaste. "We don't have anything like this in New York. Not this blatant."
The two walked quietly through several streets, John's leonine form drawing occasional glances from other beastmen but no serious challenges. Peter remained invisible, his spider-sense monitoring for threats while his enhanced vision tracked their route.
"This should be it," John said, pulling out a hand-drawn map Naoko had provided.
He compared it to their surroundings, counting architectural features until he reached a specific alley. Then he knelt down, counting bricks in the pavement with careful precision before finding the correct manhole cover.
"Really?" Peter's disembodied voice carried obvious exasperation. "Sewers? Again?"
John lifted the heavy metal disc, revealing darkness below and the unmistakable smell of waste and stagnant water.
"Why do I always end up in sewers?" Peter continued complaining, his invisibility flickering briefly as he prepared to descend. "No matter what planet, what dimension, what universe—it's always sewers! I'm Spider-Man, not Sewer-Rat-Man! I should be swinging between buildings, not crawling through literal shit!"
"It provides good cover," John said practically, beginning his descent down the ladder. "Hard to monitor, easy to navigate once you know the routes, natural concealment from aerial surveillance..."
"I know the tactical advantages," Peter grumbled, following John down into the darkness. "Doesn't mean I have to like them."
The manhole cover slid back into place above them with a metallic clang, sealing them into Counter-Earth's underground—where the real resistance waited in shadows and sewage.