The Amazing Spider-Man
Livin' on the Edge 5/???
Mini-Arc: Beware the Sandman 1/5
Chapter Eleven: Just the Facts
The Daily Bugle Building was a hive of noise and motion. Phones rang in sharp bursts. Editors barked over the clatter of keyboards. Interns darted between cubicles with trays of coffee, lenses, and notebooks that looked like they'd been run through a war zone.
The paper might've lost ground to the digital age, but the Bugle hadn't died. It had evolved—loudly, gracelessly, but it was very much still alive.
One entire floor had been converted into a sleek podcast-video studio, its walls plastered with red-and-black branding, Just the Facts with J. Jonah Jameson. The man's gravelly voice spilled from open doors and mounted speakers, spewing Spider-Man slander straight into the bloodstream of the internet. Viral clips, screaming thumbnails, rage-bait headlines—Jameson had turned himself into a one-man digital storm.
Peter Parker sat outside the elevators in the waiting area, shifting on a stiff plastic chair with his backpack by his feet. In his hands, an envelope stuffed with fresh prints. His fingers tapped against it, nerves ratcheting higher by the second.
"First impressions, Pete," he muttered under his breath. "Just don't babble."
"Talking to yourself?" came a smooth, amused voice.
Peter looked up.
A tall, middle-aged Black man in a navy blazer and crisp shirt approached with an easy smile. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, his wire-frame glasses catching the overhead lights.
Robbie Robertson. The Bugle's managing editor. Calm, professional, and famously one of the only voices of reason in a building otherwise dominated by J. Jonah Jameson's thunder.
"You must be the kid who shot that skyline photo," Robbie said, offering a hand. "Robertson. But everyone calls me Robbie."
Peter scrambled up to shake it. "Peter Parker. And yeah, that was me. Well—me and my friend Cindy. She kind of helped with the timing. She's, uh… really good with cameras."
Robbie nodded, impressed. "Don't undersell yourself. Clean action shots are hard enough. Getting one of Spider-Man in motion? That takes real talent. You said you've got more?"
Peter held up the envelope. "Yeah. Been practicing. I thought maybe… I could pitch these? To Jonah. Directly."
A light laugh cut in before Robbie could respond.
Betty Brant leaned around the corner, arms crossed, grinning. Early twenties, sharp blazer over high-waisted jeans, brown hair twisted into a messy bun. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a journalism school recruitment flyer—bright-eyed, fast-talking, already juggling too much.
"Hate to break it to you," she said, "but pitching Jonah directly is like trying to stop a hurricane with a notepad."
Robbie chuckled. "She's not wrong. But the timing's good. He's been desperate for Spider-Man content lately. Brock's been slacking."
Peter blinked. "Brock?"
"Eddie Brock," Betty said. "Staff photographer. Big arms, bigger ego. Thinks he's got a monopoly on Spider-Man shots. You'll meet him some day. But…" Her smirk widened. "From what I've seen? You might've just outshot him."
Peter sighed. He had to try. This was the only job that made sense — steady income, flexible hours, and a cover for why he was always taking Spider-Man photos. Even if they used those same photos to drag his name through the mud, it was worth it.
The elevator dinged.
Out strode J. Jonah Jameson like a storm front in human form — trench coat flaring, cigar clamped between his teeth, scowl carved into his jawline. Square build. Graying flat-top. Thin mustache. A man who looked like he'd been yelling since birth and had no plans to stop.
He muttered something under his breath, took a sharp corner toward his office—then stopped. His eyes locked onto Peter.
"Robbie," Jonah barked, voice like a shotgun blast. "Who's the kid? What is this, a daycare now?"
Robbie stepped forward, calm as ever. "This is Peter Parker. He's the one who sent in that Spider-Man skyline shot last week."
Jonah squinted. "Parker… This squirt?"
Peter sat up straighter. "Yes, sir."
Without another word, Jonah snatched the envelope from Peter's hands. He flipped through the photos like dealing cards, grunting low in his throat.
"…Not bad."
Peter blinked. "Wait, really?"
"Don't get cocky," Jonah snapped. "You're still green. But you're in luck. Brock can't find the Spider-Menace with a GPS and a magnifying glass. We need content. You got photos, we got money. Miss Brant, cut him a check."
Betty slipped off toward her desk, smirking.
"And you—Parker," Jonah continued, pointing the lit end of his cigar dangerously close, "—you got a computer brain? Know how to work one of those website things?"
Peter blinked. "Uh… yeah, I helped update my school's website. Why?"
"Good. Bugle website's a graveyard. Update it. Headlines. Graphics. Make it look like it wasn't built in the Stone Age. You still in school? Of course you are, look at you. After class, you work here. Capisce?"
"Yes, sir," Peter said quickly. Maybe working for Jonah wouldn't be so bad after all.
Betty returned with the check. Peter accepted it with trembling hands.
"And keep those Spider-Menace shots coming!" Jonah barked, jabbing his cigar like it was a weapon. "And if you see any sand-related attacks, get photos! People won't shut up about some Sandman running around—new menace every week, I swear!"
He stormed toward his office, trench coat whipping behind him. "Or the next check goes to someone else!" The door slammed.
The door slammed shut with a final bang.
Peter stared at the check as the elevator doors closed behind him to leave the building.
"…That went better than expected," Robbie said after Peter was gone.
Betty leaned in and whispered, "He never hires this fast."
Robbie's smile faded. He hesitated because he had remembered something, then walked back to his desk that was next to Betty's and pulled up a file on his monitor. Tilting the screen, he showed Betty.
It was an archived article.
"Tragic Loss: Ben Parker, Beloved Community Member, Killed by Mugger."
Survived by his wife May and nephew Peter.
By J. Jonah Jameson.
Betty's breath caught. "Is that... Peter? And Jonah, he wrote this one himself…"
Robbie nodded. "Every so often, he does that. Says it keeps him grounded."
They both glanced at the office door, where muffled shouting at some poor reporter had already resumed.
Betty whispered, almost to herself, "He's a lot of things. But sometimes…"
"Yeah," Robbie said quietly. "Sometimes he surprises you."
---
Outside, under the gray October sky, two figures leaned against the railing by the Bugle's loading zone, bundled in light winter clothes despite the early season chill.
MJ had her hands buried in her jacket pockets, her breath puffing in the air. Cindy had a scarf looped around her neck, one earbud dangling loose, the other still feeding her a quiet beat. The two of them were talking. Gossiping. Laughing.
When they'd first met, the tension had been thick enough to choke on. MJ had thought that getting introduced to each other it would help Peter—but instead, it had been ice cold smiles and stiff silence. A week later, something had shifted. Now? They were fast becoming friends.
Turns out, they both loved '90s alt-rock, both hated gym class, and—whether either would admit it or not—both cared way too much about Peter Parker.
"You actually saw them live?" MJ said, eyes wide. "I've been trying to catch them on tour since middle school."
Cindy grinned. "Second row. Drummer threw me his sticks. I caught one. The other nailed a security guard."
MJ burst out laughing.
The Bugle doors hissed open, cutting through their laughter. Peter walked out, check in hand, grinning like he'd just won the lottery.
"Well?" Cindy called.
Peter held up the check. "It went better than expected."
MJ tilted her head. "So… what now? School project? Or Kingpin?"
"School project," Peter said. "And still nothing new on Kingpin. No leads, no chatter, not even the shady forums whispering. It's like he vanished. At least he has been leaving me alone and no other copy cats have appeared"
"Then we dig," Cindy said, already thumbing notes into her phone.
The three of them turned and headed off down the street, a makeshift little crew bound together by circumstance and secrets.
None of them noticed the girl standing across the street.
Red hair catching in the streetlight. Hands folded calmly in front of her. Her gaze never left Peter.
She didn't speak. She didn't move.
But for just a flicker of a second, her green eyes glowed faintly.
To Be Continued...