The Amazing Spider-Man
Livin' on the Edge 4/???
Mini-Arc: The Faces of the Chameleon 4/4
Chapter Ten: The Masks We Wear
The lunch bell echoed faintly from Midtown High, carried upward on the warm autumn wind. Up here on the roof, above lockers and classrooms and teenage noise, the city never stopped humming—restless, alive.
Peter Parker landed on the ledge with a soft thup, sweater pulled tight against the creeping winter chill. His webshooters were hidden, as always. Normally, he was careful—no powers where anyone could see. His Spider-Sense usually gave him a warning if someone was too close.
But not today.
Today, Peter didn't care. His face said it all—exhaustion etched deep, frustration heavy.
From across the rooftop, a straw slurped.
"Why the long face, Web-boy?" Cindy Moon sprawled on a makeshift web-hammock strung over an AC unit, smoothie in hand. Earbuds dangled from her neck as she grinned. "We cleared your name last night. That party's already legendary—'Spider-Man saves the day.' That's usually when the credits roll and the victory music plays."
Peter dropped his bag beside her and sat down with a sigh, shoulders slumping like the whole of Manhattan was on his back. "We did. Kind of. Sort of. Maybe not really."
Cindy arched an eyebrow, reaching into her pack. With a flourish, she unfolded the latest Daily Bugle. There in the front page the Spider-Man picture Cindy had taken yesterday stood, he frozen mid-swing against the New York skyline. A heroic silhouette. Clear. Bold. Impossible to miss. The headline read.
SPIDER-MAN NOT GUILTY?
Peter's lips curved into a small smirk. "You nailed the photo."
"I do my best." She nudged him with her shoulder.
"They paid me for it," he admitted. "A lot. More than I ever made fake-wrestling at that mall. I think… I might actually be a real freelance photographer now."
"So where's the problem?" Cindy asked, sipping her smoothie. "Front-page hero shot, cleared name, cash in your pocket. What else could possibly be chewing at you?"
"Jameson." Peter said with a sorrowful look on his face.
Cindy groaned. "Of course. Him."
Peter pulled out his phone, thumb tapping his podcast app. Jonah's gravelly growl roared instantly from the speaker.
"Yesterday's so-called 'heroics' were nothing but a staged hoax, my friends! A trick! Spider-Man clearly hired the infamous Russian, the Chameleon, to fake an attack and make himself look innocent! Don't be fooled! He's still working for the Kingpin, I guarantee it! And now—now there are TWO of them! That's right! Another masked menace! Spider-Woman? Spider-Girl? Spider-something, you know what I'll just call her 'Silk'. I say this, folks, what's next? A whole Spider-Army?! An infestation! The FBI better stop twiddling their thumbs before we're all stuck to the ceiling like flies in a web!"
Peter turned off the podcast with a grimace. "He went on for thirty minutes. Called me a 'masked metrosexual mutant with delusions of grandeur.' I'm pretty sure we don't qualify as mutants. He also called you a potential 'Silken sleeper agent.' Whatever that's supposed to mean."
Cindy snorted. "Okay, but… I gotta admit—'Silk' sounds cool. I might just take it."
Peter shot her a sideways glance. "Seriously?"
"Well, I do make my own webs." She wiggled her fingers. "You can't."
"Ouch." Peter clutched his chest in mock offense.
"Hey, you've got the muscles and the gadgets. Let me have my silk powers."
They both cracked up, the weight of Jameson's rant dissolving for a moment in laughter. Then the silence crept back in, softer this time, as they stared out across the skyline.
"Y'know," Cindy said quietly, "you can't please everyone. Even if you saved the president from a burning helicopter, somebody would still blame you for the fire."
Peter sighed. "Yeah. Doesn't make it easier."
Cindy checked her phone. "Lunch break's almost over. We should split before somebody notices we're not inside."
Peter stood, dusting off his sweater. "Right. Back to Algebra. My greatest nemesis."
With twin smirks, they slipped on their masks. A shared glance, a silent countdown—then they leapt from the roof, diving headlong into the school below, two streaks of webbing carrying them into the chaos and wonder of Midtown High.
---
Fisk Tower. Evening.
Wilson Fisk stood behind his marble desk, hands folded neatly behind his back, gazing out at the glittering city. The room was quiet but for the faint hum of the city below.
The doors opened. Dmitri Smerdyakov — the Chameleon — slipped inside. No disguise tonight. His pale, waxen face was unreadable, like an unfinished mask.
"You called," Dmitri said flatly.
"I did." Fisk didn't turn.
"I assume you've reconsidered my contract? Because I delivered. The public doubts him now. Spider-Man's reputation is in shreds."
At that, Fisk finally turned. Calm. Patient. Almost amused.
"Yes. And for that, your services… are no longer required."
Chameleon's eyes narrowed. "That would be a mistake. I can give you more. Smears, leaks, digital ghosts. Governments fall on less."
Fisk raised one hand, almost lazily, and gestured to a file folder on his desk. "You misunderstand, Dmitri. I am satisfied."
Chameleon stepped closer, opening the file. His eyes flicked over the stamped header:
"Mutant Activity Watchlist – Priority: Midtown High."
Inside: photos. Satellite sweeps. Thermal captures of patrol routes. Spider-Man's. And others — flagged signatures near the school.
Chameleon's lips curved faintly. "This is genuine."
Fisk inclined his head. "Your little performance drew more eyes than expected. The Bureau now believes Spider-Man is a mutant. They've marked his school. His friends. His home."
Dmitri chuckled under his breath, low and sharp. "So now… he's cornered."
Fisk turned back to the window, his reflection a towering shadow against the city lights.
"They don't know his name yet. But they will. And when they do, we extend him a choice."
Dmitri finished it for him, voice like a knife, "Serve you."
Fisk's reflection didn't move. His voice was cold stone. "Or be crushed like the insect he is."
---
The school day had dragged by like molasses in winter. The halls felt darker, the lockers more dented, even the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed and flickered as if they couldn't be bothered to shine.
By the final bell, the air outside had turned bitterly cold, a sharp wind chasing dead leaves across the pavement. Autumn had passed in a blink. Winter had arrived, the thin coat of snow outside serving as proof.
Peter lingered by the exit doors, watching students pour out in coats and scarves, laughter echoing as a few already lobbed snowballs across the yard. But he wasn't heading home. Not yet.
His eyes found MJ at the far end of the hallway.
She was finishing a conversation with her friends, only half listening. Her sharp, judgmental eyes kept darting his way, and Peter felt the weight of it. Yeah. He was in trouble. When her friends left, she crossed her arms and waited.
She already knew.
Peter gestured toward the stairwell, and without a word, she followed him up to the roof.
The wind was sharper up here, needling through their jackets, but the sight of Queens bathed in the orange glow of sunset almost made the cold worth it.
Peter's breath fogged in the air. He rubbed the back of his neck.
"…So," he finally said, "how long have you known?"
MJ leaned against the brick wall, her arms folded. "Since the night at the mall. When you fought Crusher Hogan."
Peter blinked. "That far back?"
She nodded, her face not smug—just disappointed. "Everyone else saw a masked guy flipping around like a ninja. I saw how you moved, Pete. I've been watching you run from bullies since we were nine. It was you."
Peter dragged a hand through his hair. "Guess I'm lucky you didn't tell anyone."
"You think I wanted to?" Her voice wasn't angry—just hurt. "We've known each other forever. I've seen you cry after your parents died. I've watched you sleep through class because you stayed up reading. And you couldn't trust me with this?"
Peter's chest tightened. "I wanted to. I just… didn't want anyone else caught in it. After Uncle Ben…"
That landed. The edge in her voice softened.
"For a while," she admitted, "after I saw you in the ring and later when you started doing heroic stuff I thought Spider-Man was your way to help others, your way to cope after Ben died, but after that news article about Spider-Man attacking someone came out I thought maybe you snapped. It scared me. But when I saw your reaction when I said he was behind the attacks… I knew you weren't him. Not the one I was looking at, anyway."
Peter stepped closer. "But you still didn't tell."
"Because I knew you'd come back," MJ said quietly. "And when I saw you fighting that copycat… it was like a weight lifted. I knew who you really were."
Peter held her gaze for a long moment. "…So, what now?"
"I want in," MJ said simply. "Not swinging around rooftops—I don't have radioactive blood. But I want to help. You're not doing this alone anymore." She added, a little sharper, "And I want to meet this Silk girl. Make sure she's actually on your side."
Peter blinked, then grinned. "Still mad at me?"
"Very." Her mouth curved into a teasing smirk. "But… you can make it up to me. Take me swinging a bit, and we'll call it even."
Peter laughed, stepping up onto the ledge. He held out a hand. "Then come on. Let's see if you like flying."
MJ slipped her hand into his without hesitation.
---
Fifteen minutes later, Peter and MJ touched down in a quiet corner near the school, the ride of her life complete. His cheeks were red—not from the cold, but from the sound of MJ's laughter still ringing in his ears as they zipped between rooftops. He'd never heard her laugh like that before. Her legs trembled, but she could walk. They said their goodbyes with smiles neither wanted to end.
As MJ headed for the bus stop near the front gate, duty called Peter—not the supervillain kind, but the high school kind. He still had to collect a project he and Harry had left behind. Too fragile to carry while web-slinging.
The mask waited in the arts and crafts room, a paper recreation of a Wakandan tribal design, painted in bold strokes and etched with faux markings. He and Harry had picked the subject after spotting a real mask in Norman Osborn's office, figuring it would be both impressive and easy to copy for their history project.
Peter tucked it carefully under his arm and started toward the exit. That's when a light tap landed on his shoulder.
He turned.
A girl stood there—red hair catching the dim hallway light, emerald eyes sharp with curiosity. Taller than MJ by a bit, her hair long and perfectly styled despite the wind outside. Her clothes looked like they belonged in a fashion spread, she wore a scarf, wool jacket, boots. Casual, but deliberate. She didn't look like any Midtown student Peter had ever seen.
"Sorry," she said, her voice calm, steady. "I might be lost. Could you help me?"
Peter blinked. "Uh… yeah, sure."
"I'm looking for the principal's office," she said. "New transfer. Got a little turned around."
Peter shifted the mask under his arm and pointed down the hall. "Right hallway, second left. Big glass door with all the plaques. You can't miss it."
She smiled—warm, but with something behind it. "Thanks. I'm Jean, by the way."
"Peter Parker," he replied, giving an awkward little wave.
Jean tilted her head, gaze lingering a second too long. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
"I'm sure we'll be seeing each other soon," she said.
And then she turned, her footsteps light, fading into the echo of the empty corridor—leaving Peter standing frozen in place. Confused. Uneasy. And more curious than he cared to admit.
To Be Continued…