The Amazing Spider-Man
Livin' on the Edge 9/???
Mini-Arc: Beware the Sandman 5/5
Chapter Fifteen: Truly Marvelous
Peter asked for headaches the way you'd ask for a light, quiet, precise, a small request tossed into the cart of chaos he was steering through Fisk Tower.
"Give Sandman a headache," Peter thought, breath tight behind the mask. "And one for the big man, as insurance. Make it slow. Annoying. Make it stick."
The voice in his head obliged immediately — not words so much as a presence, a warm brush at the back of his skull. Sandman sagged before Peter could react to it, lumps of sand collapsing like a river of coarse water. He tried to pull himself together, but each attempt failed. Kingpin's composure frayed at the edges of Peter's vision; the great white-suited man folded his hands to his temples and, inch by inch, sank to his knees. The face that made the room smaller crumpled as if someone had unstitched it.
Peter smiled, watching the Kingpin's goons stagger. They had been dumbfounded just seeing him, Spider-Man, faceless like a doll, but now confusion deepened at the sight of their boss and Sandman both kneeling, wrecked by invisible pain. As they wavered, Peter counted. Thirteen henchmen. No more, no less. He could work with that. The number sat in his chest like a rhythm to move by.
He started by webbing two of them into quick cocoons, fingers working on the muscle memory built from late-night practice sessions and too many bad decisions. The strands went out smooth and confident. He anchored the cocoons to the ceiling, and the two goons hung like ugly ornaments in a chandelier.
"Thanks for teaching me that Cindy," he thought, a flicker of surprise at the gratitude that felt like a secret.
The small voice in his head bright and too close spoke up. "Who is Cindy?" it asked, genuinely confused.
Peter's breath hitched. He wasn't used to anyone hearing the private, clumsy chatter that lived in his skull. "Oops, forgot I had company up here, I'm sure you gals will meet after all of this," he thought and nearly laughed at how ridiculous it sounded, even in his own mind.
But there was no time for that now. A guard leveled a rifle at him and fired, the polite mechanical promise of a bullet. Peter evaded gracefully thanks go his Spider-Sense as his hands shot out webs, with them he caught onto the gun's barrel and with a practiced flick, and a small curse from the goon, the weapon spun through the air and smacked its owner in the ribs, dropping him to the floor. Peter kept spinning the rifle, he whirled it like a dangerous satellite, and he was the planet. As he did that two more goons fell, one struck across the jaw, another across the temple, their bones meeting the rifle's stock with drumbeat echoes through the marble office.
Another man lunged at him, trying to tackle him. Spider-Sense flared, red and hot behind his eyes. Peter twisted aside, using the man's momentum to send him crashing into the waiting arms of another attacker. The two of the fell down, tangled in each other.
Peter quickly checked his web cartridges. One web-shooter nearly empty. The thought of rationing webbing felt like a math problem you could get wrong and lose everything. He counted again in his head, six left, six goons standing between him and a cleaner exit.
As Peter was planning his next move the henchmen opened fire in a spray, bullets for the chandelier, bullets for the desk, bullets for the expensive art, but none for him. His body moved before consciousness could: a practiced ballet of reaction. Each round sang past his mask, a few graced his costume, others tore through the curtains. The city had taught him how to duck. The city had taught him how to live.
When they stopped to reload, he moved, swiftly. With two quick jabs he finished two more goons, the hollow thunk of a jaw going slack. He seized the rifles of two others, bone catching on barrel, and bent the metal the way a spider might bend a twig. Strength he'd never needed to advertise did its quiet work, two more goons rendered useless in a heap.
Now two remained. They looked at each other and nodding they snapped out batons, the click of hidden switches like cigars flicked in the wrong room. The tips shimmered, a tiny electric promise. Peter stepped in, all brittle confidence and nerves. The first baton came down in a white arc. He dipped, rolled, and almost caught it. The second scraped across his ribs. Fire bloomed under the cloth, a fist of pain that made his fingers go light and his teeth grind.
Electricity is loud in your body. It speaks the language of panic. Still, the shock didn't own him. Adrenaline sat in his throat like a match. The sting sharpened his vision. He wrenched, muscle screaming, by complete instinct he ripped the baton from the nearest thug. The blunt end met a jaw with a sound like someone closing a heavy book. The man went limp. Then he turned his attention to the next one, a swing, then another and the second dropped beside him.
Peter stopped for a moment and breathed in. All thirteen thugs were down. He looked around, the office hummed, fluorescent and expensive and full of things that had never learned the meaning of no, some of them now destroyed by bullets.
The voice in his head, steady, calm, human, made a small noise. "You okay?" she asked, genuine concern threading through her tone.
Peter put his hands on his hips, a small sigh escaping him. Eleven goons lay sprawled across the floor; Sandman and the big man still writhed, clutching their heads in the worst pain of their lives. "Fine," he said. "Though it's on par with the worst days of my life."
The clock on Fisk's wall kept ticking. Peter's mask smelled faintly of sweat. He nodded at the two web-wrapped figures dangling from the light. He flexed his fingers until the tremor left them.
He was out of breath. Out of cheap jokes. He was, briefly himself.
"Tell me again you don't like being called Angel," he thought, and this time the voice answered before he could worry whether she'd heard.
"Told you already, a friend of mine goes by that name, it will be confusing if you call me that," she said. "And you're welcome for the headache. Keeping those two at bay and trying to get there at the same time is hard."
Peter let the grin creep through the fibers of his mask. The noise in the building had shifted; it was no longer just the scrape of sand or the plink of dropped guns. There was a new rhythm now, fragile, dangerous, and alive.
Only two remained now, the heavy hitters. The kind of enemies who made the air feel heavier just by standing there.
Kingpin, still massive even on his knees and Sandman, barely a man anymore, more like a storm in a bad mood waiting to happen.
The voice murmured in Peter's head again, this time strained, thinner around the edges. "I wasn't joking earlier, their minds are strong," she said. "I can't hold them both much longer. But something good came out of it. I looked inside Fisk's head while I could. His camera feeds, all the backups, every video of your face, they're on the floor I'm in. I'll handle those, erase everything. But you'll have to go without me for a while."
Peter's gut twisted. He'd gotten used to that voice, that weird warmth between chaos and blood pressure spikes. But he didn't have time to get sentimental. Not now.
His eyes flicked around the room, assessing, measuring, improvising. Kingpin was already trying to force himself upright despite the pounding in his skull, fury crackling in the air like heat off metal. Sandman, still kneeling, was trying to reform, grains of sand slithering back into shape, the weight of his mass settling into something human and hateful.
Peter's gaze caught on a row of sprinklers running along the ceiling, dull chrome circles gleaming under the light.
"Don't worry," he thought back, eyes narrowing behind the mask. "I know how to take care of Sandman. Then I'll keep Kingpin busy until you destroy the backups and get here."
The voice lingered for a heartbeat, then the headaches stopped. A quiet switch flipped. The sudden silence felt wrong, like a tensioned wire cut clean through.
Sandman's head snapped into shape again, his eyes mean and confused, trying to steady himself as though the world had tilted. Kingpin, on the other hand, was still on the floor, dizzy and struggling to rise. The confusion in Sandman's eyes didn't last long. He roared, a thick, gravelly sound that came from everywhere and nowhere at once, and hurled a massive sand fist across the room.
Peter's spider-sense screamed. He moved before thought could catch up, a blur, a flicker. Finally his Spider-Sense had caught up to the Sandman's attacks. The sand arm missed him by inches, exploding against the wall in a spray of grit.
He landed upside down on the ceiling, clinging like a shadow. His mind raced. He looked at the nearest sprinkler head, and grinned beneath the mask. "Sorry, Marco," he muttered. "Time for a quick shower."
He fired a webline, pulled, and the sprinkler snapped free. A hiss of pressure, then water burst outward, spraying across the room in chaotic arcs.
Sandman froze. The first droplets hit him, and Peter saw it, the panic behind the anger, the recognition of what was coming. He tried to retreat, but his own body betrayed him; his legs turned to mud, clumping, dragging. The proud storm of sand became something heavier, darker, pulling inward, collapsing.
Peter dropped from the ceiling, landing with a small splash beside what used to be a man. "Well," he said, shaking mud from his gloves, "guess you could say he… lost his grit."
He sighed. "Okay, even I hated that one."
He turned toward Kingpin, who was on his feet now, trembling with rage, still too disoriented to strike. The big man's breath was thunder in the silence.
Peter rolled his shoulders, checked his web cartridges nearly empty, just enough left for the trip home and maybe to the nearest pizza place. His body ached, his mind ringing with the ghost of that telepathic presence already fading into static.
"Alright, big guy," he muttered, settling into a stance, eyes narrowing behind the lenses. "Your turn."
Peter straightened, water dripping off his suit, the scent of ozone and wet marble clinging to the air. Kingpin stood at the far end of the ruined office, chest heaving, one massive hand gripping a gold-trimmed pistol, too ornate to be practical, the kind of weapon built for ego, not precision.
Kingpin turned in slow circles, surveying the destruction. His empire, reduced to puddles and unconscious bodies. His pride, soaked and dented.
And Spider-Man, standing there like the punchline to a very bad joke. Peter couldn't help himself. "You know, Fisk," he called out, "for a guy who eats New York for breakfast, I expected you to have a bigger bite."
The moment hung, then something broke in Kingpin. Fisk's rage ignited. He roared, the sound shaking the room, and charged. The floor cracked beneath his weight.
Peter fired a line of webbing straight at the man's face. That little bit of webbing might've delayed his trip to the pizza place, but it struck perfectly, a blindfold. Kingpin bellowed, flailing wildly, smashing furniture, ripping paintings, splintering what was left of his luxury. Each movement sent shockwaves through the floor, every swing a reminder that even blind, Fisk was a storm of muscle and will.
While he raged, Peter slipped past the chaos, sliding behind the massive mahogany desk, what was left of it. A folder marked FBI sat there, soaked but intact.
He snatched it up and tucked it under his suit. If I know what they know, he thought, it'll be easier to stay a ghost.
He glanced up. Fisk was tearing at the webbing now, nearly free. Peter grabbed the edge of the desk, heaved, and hurled it. The slab of wood slammed into Fisk's chest, shattering on impact. The webbing tore loose. Fisk's eyes blazed, he was done playing.
Then the floor trembled, a deep, rolling vibration that made the light fixtures sway.
The voice returned, fuzzy but triumphant, a bit timid. "Uhhh… I think I overdid it. But the camera records are gone. All of them."
Peter smirked beneath the mask. "Perfect timing. You should see Kingpin's face."
"I don't need to," the voice replied. "I can feel it. He's furious enough to kill you."
Peter's smirk faltered. Right. Good point. He thought fast. "Hey, can you make him see things? Like… many things?"
He didn't need to explain. She was already in his head, seeing what he was planning. A beat of hesitation. "I can try," she said. "But his mind's strong, it won't last long."
Peter smiled beneath the mask. "A minute's all I need."
Fisk, now free of the webs, raised his gun, finger trembling with fury. He fired at Spider-Man. Peter dodged. He fired again, missed. Then froze.
He blinked. There were dozens of Spider-Men. They moved in unison, a blur of red and blue across the flooded room, on walls, ceilings, desks, even reflections. Fisk's face twisted in disbelief. He swung the gun wildly, bullets tearing through illusions. Each miss fed his panic.
He threw the gun, roared, and started punching. Every illusion he struck vanished, replaced by three more in his periphery.
"Stop mocking me!" he bellowed, swinging at ghosts. Then one of the Spider-Men moved differently, sharper, closer, real.
Peter ducked under a wild swing, pivoted, and drove his fist upward, full force, into Fisk's jaw.
The sound was a dull, final crack. The giant staggered, stumbled, and crashed backward through the remains of his empire, the floor shaking one last time as he went down.
Peter stood there, chest heaving, surrounded by wreckage and echoes of illusion. He wiped mud from his glove and muttered, "Guess I'm a bigger fish than Fisk expected. Thanks, by the way… mysterious voice."
The voice didn't respond, Peter gathered his breath, the fight still ringing in his bones. Water dripped from his suit, mixing with the smell of wet concrete and gunpowder that clung stubbornly to the air. Fisk lay sprawled on the floor, unconscious, surrounded by the wreckage of what used to be his empire.
Peter turned toward the nearest window, time to vanish before security or, worse, the media arrived. He'd barely taken a step when the elevator chimed.
Ding.
He froze. Shoulders tensed. Knees bent. Web-shooters ready. The doors slid open and it wasn't more goons.
It was a girl about his age, stepping carefully over the debris like she didn't want to scuff her boots. She wore a yellow and blue bodysuit, retro in style, like something straight out of a golden-age Captain America comic. Black gloves, matching boots, and a half-cowl that framed sharp green eyes. A few loose strands of red hair caught the light as she stepped forward.
Simple outfit. Homemade, maybe. But on her, it worked. Peter blinked. No way. He recognized her, it was the exchange student. The quiet redhead from Westchester. Jean Grey.
And, judging by the flicker of recognition between them, she was also the mysterious voice that had been helping him through the whole ordeal with Fisk.
He didn't say her name out loud the walls might still be listening, he just nodded to her in recognition. Jean took in the chaos, shattered glass, henchmen withering in pain, puddles of wet sand trying to move, and the 300-pound crime lord knocked clean out on the floor, she gave a shy wave to the goons that hung from the ceiling. Her expression flickered somewhere between impressed and horrified.
"So, uh," she said, folding her arms, "I'm the one who's been helping you, and… is this a normal Tuesday for you?"
Peter shrugged, casual as ever. "Eh, depends on the week. Sometimes it's mobsters. Sometimes it's mutant sand guys. Sometimes… Paste Pot Pete."
Jean blinked. "That's not a real name."
"Oh, it is," Peter said. "And he's weirdly proud of it."
A small laugh escaped her, brief, but real. Then the tension crept back in. She scanned the wrecked office once more. "Now that this circus is over, maybe we should move somewhere a little less… crime scene?"
Peter nodded. "Yeah. Before the cops decide I'm the main attraction."
He crossed to the window and cracked it open. The night air rolled in, cool, wet, humming with neon energy. He looked back at her, extended a gloved hand. "Hope you're not afraid of heights."
Jean hesitated, just for a second, then smiled. There was a glint of excitement behind her calm composure as she took his hand.
"Lead the way, Spider-Man."
Peter's grin widened beneath the mask. "That's the plan."
Together, they stepped into the night, one swing, one heartbeat at a time, New York stretching out beneath them like a pulse of light and promise.
---
The silence after chaos was always heavier than the fight itself. Kingpin awoke to it.
His head throbbed, a deep, rhythmic pulse behind his eyes and jaw, but he didn't groan. He never groaned. The man who ruled New York's underworld didn't show pain; he catalogued it, studied it, and filed it away for later.
The office was unrecognizable. The marble floor was cracked. The chandelier hung by a single wire, swaying. His men, or what was left of them, were being tended to by medical staff. The air stank of cordite, wet concrete, and blood.
Sandman sat in a corner, still half mud, muttering to his phone in a voice like shifting gravel. "Yeah, honey… yeah, I'm fine. Daddy's just..." His face, still re-forming, sloughed apart mid-sentence. "just busy, sweetheart. I'll call you later."
One of Fisk's aides, pale and sweating, hurried up to him with a tablet in hand. "Sir, there's… there's been an incident."
Kingpin didn't answer, just turned his head slightly.
"The records room," the man continued, voice trembling. "The explosion, all security footage, backups, server clusters, everything from the last two weeks is gone."
Silence.
Fisk stared at him, blank and unreadable. Then he rose from his seat, a slow, terrible movement, like a mountain deciding to move.
He walked up to the aide, who stammered something about redundancies, firewalls, recovery drives...
Fisk's hand moved once.
Crack.
The sound was sharp, final. The aide fell in a boneless heap at his feet.
No one screamed. No one even breathed. The rest of the staff froze in place for half a heartbeat, then scattered, filing out of the room as quietly as possible.
Kingpin stood alone among the wreckage, staring out the floor-to-ceiling window that framed the city. New York glowed below him, indifferent, alive, defiant.
His reflection stared back from the glass, a titan brought low for a single night. He adjusted his tie, straightened his cufflinks, and said, quietly. "I won't underestimate the Spider-Man anymore."
Outside, thunder rolled, distant, patient. And for the first time in years, Wilson Fisk felt something like respect.
---
They landed softly on the rooftop above a small pizza place that smelled like melted cheese and late-night exhaustion, close enough to Queens for Peter to limp home, but far enough from Fisk Tower that it felt like another world.
The neon sign below flickered red and green, splashing shifting colors across the rooftop as Spider-Man set Jean down.
Peter exhaled, trying to shake the adrenaline still racing through his blood. "So…" he began, pulling his mask halfway up, "you're the exchange student, right? Jean, was it?"
He eyed her blue-and-yellow suit, retro, almost quaint and grinned. "Cool outfit. But I know a guy who makes suits that don't look like pajamas. I can give you his number."
Jean laughed softly, the sound cut through the city noise like something human and bright. She tugged her black mask off, red hair spilling free into the wind. The glow of a passing billboard turned it briefly to gold.
"I'm Jean Grey," she said, exhaling. "I'm one of the X-Men. And it's okay, Peter. I know who you are."
Peter blinked, pulling the rest of his mask off. "Wait, those X-Men? The ones who saved the president from Magneto and fought Namor's army last month?"
Jean looked faintly embarrassed. "Those X-Men," she admitted.
Peter gave a low whistle. "Wow. And I thought my weeks were weird."
She smiled, but her shoulders slumped a little. "The Professor, our leader, has contacts with the FBI. They've been monitoring Midtown High for suspected mutant activity."
Peter's expression hardened. He reached into his belt and pulled out the soaked folder he'd taken from Fisk's office, the one stamped Mutant Activity Watchlist of Midtown High. "These?" Peter asked.
Jean's eyes widened. "You… stole those?"
"Borrowed. Permanently from Kingpin," Peter said with a shrug. "If I know what they know, I can stay ahead."
Jean nodded. "We've got the same reports. That's why I was sent, to find mutants before the government, or someone like Fisk, does. Maybe convince them to transfer to my school, the Xavier Institute, before they're… exploited."
Peter frowned. "So they thought I was a mutant?"
Jean hesitated. "A lot of people do. Your powers don't exactly scream 'normal.' Strength, speed, wall-crawling, it fits the pattern."
Peter sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess I haven't been as subtle as I thought."
Jean smiled faintly. "The X-Gene can show up in weird ways. I'm a telepath, for example. You've probably figured that out."
Peter smirked. "Yeah, I kinda guessed, right after you gave those two the world's fastest migraine."
Her cheeks flushed. "I might have… read a few of your memories while you were bringing me here. I saw how you got your powers."
Peter groaned. "You what? There's private stuff in there! Some of it's embarrassing!"
"I didn't dig too deep," she said quickly, eyes darting aside, a small blush on her face. "But enough to know you're not a mutant. You're a mutate, someone whose DNA was altered by an outside source. Like the Hulk. Just… less angry."
Peter snorted. Jean laughed, a small, genuine sound. For the first time that night, the air between them felt easy.
"So," Peter said, leaning on the railing, "why tell me all this?"
"Because maybe we can help each other," she said simply. "You're not a mutant, but I'm new in town. You know the city, literally swing through it, and I need allies. Friends, even. At school, and out here." She mimed firing web-shooters, then laughed, embarrassed. "And in return, I can help you with… whatever this life of yours is."
Peter thought for a moment, then nodded. "Deal." He held out his hand. Jean looked at it, then took it, firm, warm, sure.
Then she smirked. "Though, you might want to come up with an excuse for my arrival. From what I've seen in your head, your other gal friends might not be thrilled about a new one swinging into your life."
Peter froze. "Oh no." He laughed weakly. "You really did go snooping."
Jean shrugged. "Telepath, remember?"
"Yeah, yeah…" Peter shook his head, chuckling. "In that case, you need a codename. Every hero's gotta have one."
Jean groaned. "I know, I know. Don't say An—"
Peter cut her off, eyes glinting. "You were marvelous tonight, if you don't mind me saying so. Maybe you should go by… Marvel Girl."
Jean blinked. The name hung there, glowing between them like a spark waiting to catch.
"Say that again," she murmured.
Peter fired a webline, stepping backward toward the city. "Marvel Girl!"
Jean laughed, the sound carried away by the wind as she joined him. The city below glittered like a living circuit board, endless, alive, electric.
And for now, just for tonight, they were two kids with powers, swinging through a world too big for either of them — trying, together, to make it make sense.
To Be Continued...