The Amazing Spider-Man
Livin' on the Edge 3/???
Mini-Arc: The Faces of the Chameleon 3/4
Chapter Nine: Party Crashers
The house on Ingram Street was quiet, cloaked in the heavy stillness that only comes late at night. A single bedroom light glowed behind drawn curtains. Inside, Peter Parker paced in front of his desk, fidgeting with the web cartridges at his belt.
Aunt May had gone to bed early, just like every night since the funeral. The weight of Uncle Ben's absence had left her changed—quieter, more distant, as if she were walking through the world behind a fogged window.
Peter tried to help where he could. Cleaning, cooking, even attempting to fix the leaky sink. Each effort was met with a tired but grateful smile, followed by the same words:
"Thank you, Peter. I just need… a little more time."
He understood. But it still hurt.
Peter turned to the window, fingers moving to unlatch it—when suddenly, a sharp beam of light struck him in the face.
"Going somewhere?"
MJ stood in her room across the street, leaning against her window with a flashlight pointed straight at him, one eyebrow arched.
Peter's heart skipped a beat. "I—I… uh…"
His brain scrambled for an excuse until one clicked. "I was going to, uh… try and get pictures. Of Spider-Man. For the Daily Bugle. They pay really well."
MJ crossed her arms, the flashlight pinning his guilty expression like a spotlight on stage. Silence stretched.
Then she sighed, her expression softening. "Take care, Peter. And good luck… taking pictures of Spider-Man." She made air quotes with her fingers.
Peter's mouth opened, shut, then opened again. "Wait—do you—?"
But she was already pulling her window closed. He stood frozen, pulse racing. Did she know?
Probably.
But there was no time to ask. He slipped out the window and into the night.
After Peter had vanished, MJ quietly pushed her window open again. She leaned against the frame and watched him swing away, silhouetted against the moonlight.
---
A few rooftops over, the smell of cheese and tomato sauce drifted through the cool night air.
"Took you long enough."
Cindy Moon sat cross-legged on top of a closed pizza shop, a half-empty box beside her. She was still in her makeshift web suit, mask pulled down just enough to eat.
Peter landed beside her, tugged his mask halfway up, and grinned. "You're the one with the amazing sense of smell. Pizza radar?"
Cindy smirked. "Spider radar. Way more advanced than yours."
They dug in, the city humming beneath them. Between bites, their earlier talk replayed in Peter's head — the agreement to work together, comparing notes on their powers. Peter was stronger and clung to walls more easily, but lacked her organic webs. Cindy's webs fascinated him — their structure, strength, the sheer potential. He wanted to run experiments, maybe even replicate them. But that would have to wait. First, there was pizza.
"Oh, by the way," Cindy said, wiping grease from her gloves, "I destroyed all my 'nests.' Except one near my place. I kinda… made them to practice with my powers. And, well, to get your attention. Didn't expect conspiracy theories to explode."
Peter raised a brow. "You made all of those?"
"I thought you'd notice sooner," she teased. "Took you long enough."
"I was a little busy chasing a copycat," he muttered, half-joking.
"Guess now we both are."
They finished the last slices, packed up, and pulled their masks back into place. Peter slung his backpack over one shoulder.
"So," he asked, "what's the plan?"
"Simple," Cindy said. "We hit the alleys where the faker showed up. Maybe he left something behind. Maybe we find a trail."
Peter smirked beneath the mask. "Back to where it all began. Classic."
---
They reached the alley from the first Daily Bugle photo, now sealed with yellow police tape. Graffiti scrawled across the brick walls. Trash fluttered in the breeze. No cops, no crowds—just stale air and secrets.
They searched for twenty minutes. Nothing. Peter felt frustration mounting. Every second the copycat stayed out there was another chance he'd strike again.
Down below, Cindy scrolled through her phone, pulling up old reports. "First victim was a woman hosting a gala," she murmured. "Second was some big-shot businessman… who just so happened to be going to the same gala." She frowned. "That's not a coincidence."
Meanwhile, Peter had climbed onto a nearby rooftop. That's when he spotted it: an envelope, tucked neatly against a vent. 'Spider-Man' written across the front.
He tore it open. Inside was a card, elegant and embossed with gold foil:
"The Kingpin cordially invites you to an exclusive society gala. Be sure to be on time so we can talk about business. We wouldn't want to scare our guests… until they drop dead."
At the bottom were directions to the event.
Peter dropped lightly back down, showing Cindy. They exchanged a look.
"Creepy much?" she muttered.
Peter's jaw tightened. "This has to be it. If he's trying to smear me, a room full of rich and powerful people is the perfect stage."
Cindy snapped her web-shooters into place. "Then we crash the party."
Peter nodded. "We crash the party."
---
The gala unfolded in an opulent estate just outside Manhattan—a neo-Gothic mansion ablaze with chandeliers, gold trim, and a guest list that read like a "who's who" of New York's elite.
The copycat's first victim lingered near the champagne table, visibly anxious. Above her, Peter and Cindy clung to the ballroom ceiling, hidden in the shadows after slipping in through an unlocked third-story window. Easier than expected. Which meant the copycat was definitely here.
Below, Norman Osborn swirled a glass of champagne with calculated ease. Wilson Fisk, dressed in a blinding white suit with a purple tie, stood like a king among laughing moguls. Even the enigmatic Ezekiel Sims lurked in the crowd.
Cindy nudged Peter. "Recognize him?"
Peter nodded. "Norman Osborn. Harry's dad. Billionaire scientist."
She pointed to Fisk. "And the big guy?"
Peter frowned. "No clue. But he looks like he should be playing linebacker, not running a company."
The chandeliers flickered. Then went black.
For a single breath, silence smothered the room.
Then a voice boomed through hidden speakers, mocking, theatrical:
"Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the new world order!"
The lights snapped back.
On the grand staircase stood Spider-Man—or rather, a twisted copy. Arms spread wide, his voice dripped venom:
"You've lived soft lives, cushioned by money and privilege. But Kingpin says it's time to pay. Bow to him… or feel the wrath of Spider-Man!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Then a webline lashed out, yanking the faker mid-sentence off the stairs—
—and the real Spider-Man came flying in feet-first, slamming him into the marble with a resounding CRACK.
"FAKER!" Peter roared.
Chaos erupted. The crowd screamed and surged for the exits. Cindy vaulted down, corralling guests with webbing, shielding them behind makeshift barricades.
The imposter staggered upright, shaking off the blow. He moved fast, agile, but not superhuman. "You're good," he rasped, fixing his chin into place. "But my boss says we don't have to fight. Work for Kingpin—money, protection, everything you want."
"Not interested," Peter snapped. The ballroom exploded into violence. Tables splintered, champagne bottles shattered. The fake fought dirty—tasers crackled, a sonic charge shrieked in Peter's ears—but Peter was stronger, faster, angrier. He slammed the imposter against a marble column, pinning him.
"Who are you?!" Peter demanded.
The faker hissed. "You weren't supposed to catch me yet."
Peter grabbed at his mask—accidentally hitting a hidden switch at the jawline.
The disguise shimmered. Dissolved.
Gasps tore through the guests as Spider-Man's double melted away, revealing a smooth, chalk-white face. Featureless. Sunken eyes like pits of ice.
Peter froze. His voice cracked in disbelief.
"…The Chameleon."
A name whispered in every dark corner of the underworld. A Cold War ghost, once a prized Russian asset, now a mercenary for the highest bidder.
And tonight, he was working for Kingpin.
"Too much attention for my liking," Chameleon growled. "This wasn't the deal."
He hurled a smoke bomb. The ballroom filled with choking white vapor—
—and when it cleared, he was gone.
Peter straightened, chest heaving. Cindy regrouped beside him.
"We blew his cover," she said. "But he's still out there."
"Yeah. But at least now people know he's not me."
The grand staircase lay in ruins—glass shards, champagne, toppled tables. And yet, one by one, people began to approach Spider-Man.
Norman Osborn stepped forward first, extending his hand. "Remarkable work. I don't think we've met—you have incredible abilities, Mr…?"
Peter deepened his voice, masking any trace of recognition. "Spider-Man is fine. No need for formalities."
Then came Wilson Fisk, massive in his white suit. He tapped Peter on the shoulder with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Grateful, yes—but testing him. Others followed: socialites, businessmen, influencers. Gratitude flowed. Whispers spread. The damage Chameleon had done was already being undone.
For now.
Peter caught Cindy's eye and gave a quick signal. Moments later, they slipped outside, scaling the mansion walls and launching into the night sky.
Back in New York, perched on a rooftop, Peter pulled out his battered camera. "Hey, Cindy?"
She glanced over, mask tugged halfway down.
"Mind snapping a shot of me? Swinging past the skyline. Bugle's paying."
Cindy grinned. "Only if I get a copy."
Peter vaulted into the air, webline singing as he arced across the glittering skyline. Cindy raised the camera—click.
A single moment, captured in mid-swing.
And somewhere in Manhattan, J. Jonah Jameson was about to receive the photo of a lifetime.
To Be Continued...