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Jameson's eyes narrowed as he studied Marcus, then turned his full attention to Peter.
"This kid can get Spider-Man photos?"
He looked Peter up and down skeptically. The boy was scrawny, young, completely unremarkable. Jameson had dozens of professional photographers on staff—seasoned veterans with years of experience—and almost none of them could get decent shots of Spider-Man.
Marcus was the exception, somehow managing to capture usable photos from time to time. That was the only reason Jameson tolerated his obvious slacking.
But this kid?
Peter didn't waste time with words. He handed over the folder of printed photographs.
Jameson took them. His expression shifted as he flipped through the images—clear, well-framed shots of Spider-Man in action. Swinging between buildings. Fighting criminals. Dynamic angles that made the masked figure look almost heroic.
These were good.
But Jameson wasn't about to admit that.
"Garbage," he declared, tossing the first photo aside. "Garbage. Garbage." He continued through the stack, dismissing each one with theatrical disdain.
"Your angles are amateur. Lighting's all wrong. I can offer you..." He pretended to calculate. "Two hundred dollars for the lot."
Peter's face fell. "That seems kind of low."
Marcus watched the negotiation with quiet amusement.
Jameson didn't blink. "If you think you can get better elsewhere, be my guest." He thrust the photos back toward Peter and picked up his phone, turning away dismissively.
Peter hesitated. He knew Jameson was bluffing—where else would he sell Spider-Man photos?—but he also knew he had leverage here.
He took the photos back and turned toward the door.
"Fine," he said. "I'll try somewhere else."
He made it three steps.
"Wait."
Peter stopped.
"Three hundred," Jameson said, phone still pressed to his ear. "Final offer."
Peter turned back. "I'll take the three hundred. But I want a job too."
Jameson's eyebrow twitched.
He glanced at Marcus, considering. Having another photographer who could actually capture Spider-Man would be useful—it would stop Marcus from thinking he was irreplaceable.
But Jameson wasn't about to pay this kid a regular salary.
"I'll hire you as a freelance contributor," Jameson said. "You bring me Spider-Man photos, I pay you per piece. No salary, no benefits, no desk. You're not an employee—you're a supplier."
Peter thought about it. Actually, that arrangement worked perfectly for him. He couldn't be a full-time photographer anyway—not with his night activities. Freelance meant flexibility.
"Deal."
They shook hands. Both smiled, each convinced they'd gotten the better end of the bargain.
Marcus helped Peter fill out the necessary paperwork, setting him up as an official freelance photographer for the Daily Bugle.
"Thanks for this, Mr. Reed," Peter said as he finished signing.
Marcus waved it off. "Don't mention it. We're colleagues now."
Peter nodded awkwardly and gathered his things to leave.
As he walked away, he felt an odd prickling sensation at the back of his neck. His spider-sense—subtle, not warning of danger exactly, but... awareness.
Marcus was watching him.
Peter couldn't explain it, but something about Marcus felt different. Not threatening, not hostile, just... strange. Like Marcus knew things he shouldn't.
Peter decided, without consciously thinking about it, to keep some distance.
Elsewhere in the city, Norman Osborn was having a very bad day.
The board meeting had been a disaster. The other shareholders had united against him, voting to sell Oscorp to Quest Aerospace. The deal was set to be finalized at the city's upcoming Unity Day Festival.
Norman had built this company from nothing. Poured his life into it. And now these ungrateful parasites wanted to strip it away from him.
They'll regret this, the voice in his head whispered. Make them pay.
Norman agreed completely.
Marcus had been in this world for over two months now.
He wasn't just killing time at the Daily Bugle. That job was cover—a way to stay close to Peter and monitor the Spider-Man situation.
His real focus was building infrastructure.
First, he'd hit the casinos. Card counting with a super-brain was embarrassingly easy. Tens of millions in a few weeks, all laundered through legitimate-looking investment accounts.
Then he'd established a shell company—nothing flashy, just enough to serve as a base of operations. He'd assembled computer hardware from commercially available parts and installed a Skynet subsystem.
The AI wasn't as powerful as the version back home, but it was enough to automate stock trading. With Skynet running algorithms, the stock market was basically an ATM.
Marcus needed money for his real goal: studying Spider-Man's abilities. If he was going to replicate or acquire the spider-sense, he'd need resources. Labs. Equipment. Research materials.
That all required capital.
Plus, when the Green Goblin attacked—which was going to happen any day now—Oscorp's stock would crash. Marcus intended to profit from that too.
The Unity Day Festival was a massive celebration.
Crowds packed the streets. Music blared from speakers. Balloons and banners decorated every surface.
Peter wandered through the festival with his camera, looking for photo opportunities. Officially, he was working—any good shots could be sold to the Bugle.
Unofficially, he was moping.
Because there, on a balcony overlooking the main square, stood Harry Osborn with his arm around Mary Jane.
They looked happy. Intimate.
Peter felt like someone had stabbed him through the chest.
Marcus spotted Peter from across the crowd. The kid looked absolutely miserable.
He walked over.
"Hey, Peter."
Peter turned, startled out of his brooding. "Oh. Hi, Mr. Reed."
Marcus followed Peter's gaze to the balcony, pretending not to know what was going on. "See something newsworthy up there?"
Peter forced a smile. "Just... covering the festival. Oscorp's signing a deal with Quest Aerospace today. Big story."
"Right." Marcus nodded seriously. "That's why I'm here too."
The Oscorp-Quest merger had been heavily publicized. Both companies' stocks had surged on the announcement.
Marcus knew exactly what was about to happen to those stocks.
His people were already positioned to buy the crash.
They made small talk for a few minutes—nothing important, just two colleagues killing time.
Then Marcus sensed something.
His telekinesis detected a fast-moving object approaching from the southeast. Small, metallic, emitting heat signatures consistent with advanced propulsion.
He didn't need to expand his range to know what it was.
At almost the same moment, Peter stiffened.
His spider-sense was going off.
Peter looked around, searching for the source of the warning. His gaze swept the crowd, the buildings, the sky—
There.
A figure on some kind of flying vehicle, coming fast. Green armor. Grotesque mask. Some kind of glider beneath its feet.
Other people in the crowd started noticing too. Pointing. Murmuring.
On the balcony above, Harry and the Oscorp executives saw it approaching.
"What is that?"
One of the board members recognized the equipment. "That's our glider! From the weapons division!"
The Green Goblin circled the square once, cackling through his mask's voice modulator.
"HAHAHAHA!"
Then he reached to his belt, pulled out something spherical, and threw it at the balcony.
The pumpkin bomb detonated on impact.
BOOM!
The explosion tore through the building's facade. Fire erupted. Stone and glass rained down.
The balcony collapsed.
People below screamed and ran, stampeding away from the destruction.
"AAAAHHH!!!"