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The sky cracks open as hulking war machines descend, their metallic limbs tearing through skyscrapers like paper. Spider-Man swings through the chaos, webs snapping taut between collapsing structures as the city burns beneath him. Plasma fire scorches the air—he twists mid-swing, dodging a blast that vaporizes a billboard behind him. These aren’t street thugs or lab mutants. These things *learn*. Every dodge, every counterattack gets catalogued in their glowing cores, adaptive algorithms recalibrating by the millisecond. He vaults off a crumbling overpass, planting a web-charged explosive on a three-story walker’s underbelly. The detonation sends shrapnel screaming through the streets. They keep coming. More pods streak through the atmosphere, slamming into Times Square, the Brooklyn Bridge, the remains of Avengers Tower. His mask’s HUD flickers—Stark tech scrambling to hack their shields. No backup. No grand speech. Just the screech of alien hydraulics, the thwip of his webs, and the raw-bones truth: if he stops moving, stops *pushing*, the planet becomes a scrap heap. He grins behind the mask. They want Earth? They get the neighborhood Spider.
