Then, with a sickening lurch, there was both. A skyline, sharp and angular in a way you'd never seen, stretched out below you. Gleaming silver towers mixed with familiar brownstones, all under a bright, 1960s sun. You were plummeting toward a bustling Manhattan that looked like a World's Fair exhibit.

Your spider-sense screamed a second before impact. Instinct took over. A web-line shot from your wrist, snagging a flagpole on a building that resembled a chrome mushroom. The swing was violent, uncontrolled. You crashed through a billboard advertising "Parker Portable Televisions!" in bold, cheerful letters, before slamming onto a lower rooftop with a grunt of pain.

You lay there for a moment, the wind knocked out of you, listening to the distant honk of cars that sounded oddly tinny. Your all-black suit, with its purple spider accents, was smeared with dust and billboard paste. The high-tech lenses in your mask flickered, struggling to calibrate.