Chapter 14 : The Daily Bugle
SCREECH—!
With an ear-splitting grind of rubber against asphalt, the massive truck skidded to a halt in the middle of the street, smoke curling from its tires.
The moment it stopped, noises erupted from the cargo container behind the cab.
"Looks like I still have some presents to unwrap," Spider-Man remarked as he brushed off his hands.
He slipped out of the cab with quick, easy movement and vaulted onto the roof of the truck.
Clang!
A heavy clang followed.
The cargo container door burst open under a powerful kick, and a whole group of men poured out, each carrying high-grade firearms.
"Looks like these guys aren't your everyday thugs," Spider-Man noted.
That level of equipment didn't come from a bargain bin.
"What the hell? This isn't the drop point," one of the gunmen said.
Before he could finish, a convoy of police cruisers swarmed in, lights flashing, sealing off the street.
"It's the cops," another gunman growled.
They lifted their guns, but none of them even got a shot off. Spider-Man was already moving.
Webbing flicked through the air with pinpoint accuracy, sticking to barrels and ripping guns clean out of their hands.
"Oops. New York's going gun-free today. I'll hang on to these for now. You can pick them up at the precinct after you get out of prison," Spider-Man said, leaping from the truck and landing amidst the group of thugs.
"Get him!"
The gang charged.
Spider-Man shot webs, covering the eyes of the first few men.
Blinded, the thugs stumbled and collided with each other, creating immediate chaos.
"Your teamwork could use work. Lucky for you, I know the perfect training facility. Ever seen the inside of a prison? I think it'll suit you fine," Spider-Man said.
A large, muscular thug stealthily approached Spider-Man from behind.
The brute threw a powerful punch aimed at Spider-Man's head.
A slight tilt of Spider-Man's body was all it took to let the blow whiff past.
"Nice try. Doc Ock's arms are ten times faster than you. Maybe twenty," Spider-Man said before spinning and dropping the brute with a clean punch.
By the time he turned back, the remaining gunmen had regrouped.
The ones blinded by webbing clawed uselessly at the sticky strands, some already knocked over by their own allies.
"Looks painful," Spider-Man commented at the pile of groaning bodies.
"Watch his web!"
The thugs circled him, tightening the ring.
"Surrounded? Haven't practiced this one since my S.H.I.E.L.D. days. Let's see if I've gotten rusty."
A strand of web shot out, snagging one of the gunmen. Spider-Man swung him around like a human flail.
The thugs surrounding Spider-Man were sent flying, crashing to the ground one after another.
After several rotations, no thugs remained standing; they all lay unconscious on the ground.
"Guess I'm still in shape."
Spider-Man dusted off his palms.
The officers stared, staggered by how effortlessly he dismantled the whole group.
"John… it looks like he really is here to help us," George whispered.
"Yeah. Took long enough, but it looks like we've finally got a hero," John murmured.
He hated dealing with powered individuals. New York wasn't short on them, but most worked for the crime syndicates.
Forget being heroes; the citizens of New York would be grateful if they didn't spend their time destroying the city.
"All good, officers. No need to thank me," Spider-Man called toward John.
John took a steadying breath. "I guess I misjudged you, Spider-Man. You're a hero,"
"A hero? Don't call me that. I'll get all shy."
"You saved everyone. I don't know how to thank you enough."
"Just make sure these guys end up behind bars. That's the best thanks you can give me."
"I will. They'll face the law. I swear it," John answered with firm resolve.
"I believe you, John."
With that, Spider-Man flicked a webline upward and swept into the air. His silhouette swung off between the tall buildings and vanished into the dark.
"He really is a hero," John whispered as he watched him disappear.
Once Spider-Man was gone, John and George gathered the other officers and rounded up the remaining gunmen.
Far above the city, perched on a high-rise, Spider-Man stood quietly watching the lights of New York flicker beneath him.
He had nowhere to go. Nowhere to sleep.
He pulled out his phone and opened his photo gallery. His thumb slid across the screen until he stopped at an image.
It was a group photo taken when Iron Fist and the others were living at his place. Everyone in the picture was smiling — carefree, warm, safe.
"I never imagined I'd be separated from them," he murmured.
"Today's experience felt like a nightmare. I really suspect if this is a nightmare arranged by Nightmare."
He didn't lie down. He simply leaned back against the steel frame of a huge billboard, staring at the photo until exhaustion finally dragged him into sleep. After so many battles in a row, his body had reached its limit.
Morning sunlight crept over him.
"Ugh…"
Spider-Man blinked awake, realizing he had slept the entire night on the billboard scaffold.
"I think I should find a job. Otherwise New York's beloved superhero might just starve to death," he muttered.
"But how am I supposed to find one? I don't exactly have a closet full of business casual. This suit is all I've got." He sighed.
Just then, he spotted someone tossing a bundle of filthy, discarded clothes into a trash bin in a nearby alley.
"Seriously? I hate dumpsters," he grumbled at the sight of the grimy clothes.
Five minutes later, Peter Parker emerged from the alley wearing those same shabby clothes.
"All right. Clothing crisis solved. Now for the bigger issue: finding a job," he said while brushing dirt off the sleeve.
"What kind of job can I even take? I still need time to be Spider-Man. Any normal job is going to get interrupted constantly. It needs to be flexible, and something I can slip in and out of whenever trouble shows up."
He paused.
"Does a job like that even exist?"
He felt ridiculous. He didn't even have proper identification in this universe. Who would hire him?
Just as Peter was at his wit's end, he noticed a newspaper in the hand of a passerby.
"The Daily Bugle is offering a large sum of money for photos of the strangely dressed individual who defeated the criminals last night."
Peter's eyes widened.
"A photographer. Of course… I can be a photographer!" He lit up with excitement.
It was perfect. Flexible hours. Easy excuses to vanish. And the Bugle was paying good money for Spider-Man photos. No one on Earth could get better shots than he could.
"I cannot believe this. I'm actually going to apply to the Daily Bugle. Spider-Man, working under J. Jonah Jameson — the guy who hates Spider-Man more than anyone. This is insane," Peter muttered to himself.
"Though… maybe the Jameson in this universe isn't like the one in mine. Maybe he actually likes Spider-Man. Okay, that sounds a bit too fantastical. But who knows."