The Amazing Spider-Man
Livin' on the Edge 6/???
Mini-Arc: Beware the Sandman 2/5
Chapter Twelve: Into the Sandstorm
It was early Monday morning at Midtown High. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Lockers clanged. Students shuffled like survivors of some apocalyptic weekend.
Peter Parker, hood pulled up, slouched in his usual back-row desk, eyes bloodshot and heavy. His head bobbed forward until his chin hit his chest. He jerked awake, only to start nodding off again seconds later.
Too many hours on patrol.
Didn't help that some C-list clown calling himself Paste Pot Pete had led him on a wild goose chase across Queens last night. Classic Spider-Man problem.
"Yo, Parker," Flash Thompson whispered, just loud enough for everyone around them. "You forget to recharge your batteries or what?"
Peter mumbled something unintelligible. Flash grinned. "Maybe if you didn't cry yourself to sleep about Spider-Man being cooler than you, you wouldn't be narcoleptic. Oh, and you want a shirt? Fan club just dropped a new one. Says No Copycats Allowed. Picture of Spider-Man as a cat. Adorable."
"Cut it out," Harry Osborn muttered, elbowing Peter just hard enough to snap him out of autopilot. "Wake up, man. You're about to miss something."
"Miss what…" Peter yawned, pushing his hood down.
The classroom door opened. Ms. Franklin, their relentlessly perky homeroom teacher, bounced inside with her usual too-bright smile. "Good morning, everyone! Hope you all had a restful weekend!"
Peter sank deeper into his chair, doing his best impression of awake.
Ms. Franklin clapped her hands. "We have a special treat today. Even though it's nearly the end of the semester, we're welcoming a new student!"
Half the class perked up with lazy curiosity. "Please give a warm Midtown welcome to… Jean Grey."
The girl stepped inside. Shoulders square. Long red hair catching the light. A tan coat, neat and stylish, straddling the line between prep-school chic and casual teen. Confidence radiated off her like it was effortless.
Peter bolted upright. Memory slammed into him — the art room, the tribal mask under his arm, her emerald eyes locking on his, the quiet, ominous, "I'm sure we'll be seeing each other soon."
And now she was here. Her gaze swept the room and landed directly on him. That same knowing smile. Peter almost flinched. Almost.
Ms. Franklin continued, oblivious. "Jean comes to us from a special boarding school in Westchester— the Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters. They're going through extensive renovations, so her headmaster, Professor Charles Xavier, reached out directly. After some quick paperwork… Midtown High gets to host her until June. So, let's welcome her with open arms!"
That name — Xavier — rang a bell, though Peter couldn't place where he'd heard it. Probably some science journal Aunt May left lying around. Either way, he made a mental note to Google it later.
Ms. Franklin gestured. "Jean, feel free to sit anywhere you'd like."
Immediately, Flash stood up, puffing his chest and throwing on a grin like he'd practiced in the mirror. "Yo! Over here. Seat's open right next to—"
Jean walked right past him without a word and dropped into the empty desk beside Peter.
Flash froze. Mouth hanging open. Half the class stifled laughs.
Peter blinked. "…Uh. Hey."
"Hey," Jean said, casual, confident. Then, softer, with a smile that felt way too knowing: "You remember me?"
Peter shifted in his chair. "Hard to forget someone so… particular. You're not spying on me, are you?"
Jean tilted her head, smiling like he wasn't wrong — but not saying he was right either.
Class started. Jean kept meticulous notes, handwriting sharp and crisp. She wasn't Peter-level obsessive with equations, but she was clearly one of the sharpest students in the room. Every so often, Peter caught her glancing his way. Not suspicious. More like… curious. Like she was waiting for him to start the conversation she wouldn't.
The bell rang, and lunch came.
Jean moved easily between groups, already chatting with a few upperclass girls. Peter couldn't decide if there was something strange about her or if she was just… effortlessly magnetic. Either way, he had bigger problems to stew on.
He sat with his half-eaten sandwich, staring out the cafeteria window, his mind already on tonight's patrol. The Kingpin trail had gone ice-cold. No chatter on the police scanners, no whispers on the street. But someone had to know something. Chameleon. Some hired muscle. A bad lead was better than no lead at all.
By the time the final bell rang, his brain was split in two directions.
Students poured out into the late afternoon chill.
Peter ducked into an alley a block away, stashed his backpack in its usual hidey-hole, and pulled the mask down over his face.
Moments later, Spider-Man shot into the skyline, swinging high through the city, the rhythm of the web-sling anchoring him. Midtown shrank below. The bag with his new camera bounced against his side.
Whatever Kingpin was planning, he wasn't done yet. And Peter wasn't giving up.
Not tonight.
But unbeknownst to Peter, he was being watched.
One of Midtown High's janitors lingered by the back exit, mop bucket forgotten beside him. From the darkened window, he watched Spider-Man leap across rooftops, the red-and-blue blur shrinking as it swung out into the city.
When the wall-crawler vanished behind a building, the "janitor" shimmered. His body rippled, distorting like glass flexing under heat.
Then he broke apart.
Grain by grain, his form reassembled into something rougher, heavier — a broad-shouldered man with a square jaw, his uniform coat dusted as if dragged through a desert.
His voice crackled low through a hidden earpiece. "Target confirmed. Spider-Man's tied to Midtown. Send it to Fisk."
He dug into his pocket. Pulled out a small, frayed photograph.
A girl's face smiled back at him, frozen in sunlight — her hair tied in pigtails, front teeth missing, the joy of summer forever captured in faded ink.
Marko's jaw tightened. His sand-shifting fingers traced the photo's edges with impossible gentleness.
"Let's wrap this up fast."
And then his body loosened, breaking apart into a rushing cloud of grit. The mop, the bucket, even his shadow dissolved into dust as he scattered upward into the wind — riding the current after the swinging spider.
---
Snowflakes drifted lazily across New York City, frosting rooftops and fire escapes in silver dust. The first storm of the season hushed the streets below, every honk and shout muffled beneath the cold veil.
Against the pale gray sky, a streak of red and blue cut through the air — Spider-Man, swinging fast and low. Alone tonight.
For weeks now, Cindy — "Silk," as she insisted on calling herself — had been his partner in the shadows. Her sharp eyes and sharper webs always seemed to catch what he missed. But tonight, college prep had her grounded.
So it was just Peter. Him, the city, and the voice in his ear.
"—and guess what," Peter said into the tiny mic clipped under his mask, the phone buzzing faintly against his ribs. "I got an A in history. That Wakandan ceremonial mask project? Total win. Harry even said his dad was impressed we could pull off a replica so fast."
MJ's laugh crackled warmly through the line. "Peter Parker — secret arts and crafts master. What's next, macaroni mosaics?"
"Guilty," Peter grinned, launching a perfect arc over an iced billboard.
Her tone softened. "Seriously though… how are you holding up? With everything."
He paused on a rooftop ledge, frost crackling under his boots, and watched the frozen glow of the city stretch out beneath him. "It's… okay. Better with you around. With all of you, really."
"Same here," MJ said. "Though I still don't get how you hacked into the police band. That's some NSA-level wizardry." She sighed. "And don't forget — we've still got our Halloween dance project. Or, with this weather, the Christmas-Halloween mashup spectacular. Pumpkins aren't supposed to come with snowcaps."
Peter chuckled, leaping off again. "Maybe we'll start a new trend. Pumpkin Ice. Limited edition."
"Gross," MJ teased.
Then Peter's body stiffened mid-swing. Screams. Wood splintering. A heavy, cracking impact.
The hairs on his neck stood straight — spider-sense flaring sharp and bright.
"MJ, gotta go," Peter muttered, cutting the call. He slipped the phone from his suit into a small web-slung pouch and stashed it in the shadows of a nearby ledge. His arc tightened, and he swung hard toward the sound — snow trailing behind him in a glittering wake.
A few blocks over, a run-down apartment building sagged like a wounded beast, bricks raining onto the street. Its walls groaned, giving way with a thunderous crack as plaster and beams crashed down in clouds of dust.
Spider-Man dove through a shattered window, weaving past collapsing stairwells. His hands fired instinctively — twin webs snapping out to snag two men trapped under a broken railing. With a heave, he yanked them clear and swung out just as the upper floors caved in behind him.
The men coughed violently, ash and dust clinging to their worn coats. One of them rasped, eyes wide with terror: "It… it wasn't natural. Something moved in there."
Before Peter could ask, the building stirred again. Peter entered quickly in case someone else was inside.
And then came the sand.
Grains spilled through the walls and floors, pooling into the old bedroom Peter landed in. They crawled upward, defying gravity, swirling into a rising cyclone. His spider-sense screamed. He vaulted back just in time to avoid a massive fist crashing down — a fist made of sand.
The thing rose higher, its body sculpting itself from endless shifting grains. A coarse face took shape, blunt and human, but unstable, constantly eroding and reforming.
Sandman.
The rumors Jameson had been ranting about weren't just real — they were standing right in front of him. Nobody knew where he came from. Mutant, accident, experiment gone wrong… didn't matter. Peter only knew two things he was real, and he was here.
Sandman loomed, taller than two men stacked, chest swelling like a storm-tide. His voice came low and rough, as if ground out of stone.
"You don't have to make this hard, Spider-Man," he said. "The Kingpin wants to talk. You can come the easy way…" His right arm twisted, collapsing and reshaping into a brutal spiked mace. "…or the hard way."
Peter planted his feet, firing a webline to a lamp post and yanking himself into a defensive crouch. "Sorry — my calendar's slammed. Try me again never."
"Wrong answer."
The room erupted. Sand lashed like tidal waves, walls folding into fists, spikes, and battering rams. Peter dodged, webs flinging him across beams, vaulting from swing to swing — but Sandman was everywhere, his body reforming with every strike.
A fist finally connected.
Sand exploded into a sphere, engulfing Peter midair. In seconds he was trapped, arms and legs pinned, grains pouring into every crevice. He thrashed, but every move only dragged him deeper into the shifting prison.
The suffocating orb hardened in Sandman's grasp. He hefted it with one massive hand, peering inside at his captive.
"You're tough, kid. But not tough enough for me," he growled, his voice echoing like a landslide. "Kingpin will be pleased."
---
On the street, civilians pressed behind police tape, their breath fogging in the cold air. Panic buzzed through the crowd.
At the very front, unnoticed among the frightened faces, a redhead stood still. Jean Grey.
Her eyes glowed faintly. No one saw it, but the buckling frame of the building stilled, as if by miracle. Invisible hands steadied crumbling beams and walls, buying precious seconds for the last of the crowd to escape.
Then—she felt it.
Sand. Not just falling rubble, but alive. Moving. A shape vaulting across rooftops with impossible speed. And clutched in its shifting grip—something else.
A frantic heartbeat. A desperate mind, thrashing, panicked.
Peter.
Her breath caught. The one she'd been sent here to quietly watch. To protect, from the shadows. And now—he was drowning in a prison of sand.
Jean's jaw tightened. This wasn't what she came here for. Xavier had told her: observe, keep close, do not interfere unless absolutely necessary.
But her eyes followed Sandman as he leapt away, Spider-Man trapped like prey in his fist. The snowstorm whirled around them, the city swallowed in cold silence.
And Jean Grey made a choice.
She wasn't here just to observe anymore.
To Be Continued…