Peter navigated the lunch rush with a plastic tray in his hand, hyper-aware of his newest shadow. Since it was Cindy's first day, she didn't know the layout of the cafeteria. He had to lead her to an empty table. This created an entirely new logistical nightmare: sitting across from her while she stared at him with unblinking, S.H.I.E.L.D.-trained focus.
Harry and Amadeus took one look at the situation, grabbed their trays, and deliberately sat three tables away.
Cindy set her fork down. "If my presence is a complication, you only need to state it."
"You transferred in today," Peter said, poking at his mystery meat. "You won't need me to play tour guide tomorrow. We're just surviving until the bell."
He prayed for an interruption. He figured Gwen or Jessica might drop by to save him. He didn't expect the voice that actually broke the silence.
"Hey, Peter," Mary Jane said, sliding into his peripheral vision. She carried her tray with easy confidence. "Can I talk to you about something? Oh, who's this?"
"This is Cindy," Peter said, gesturing vaguely. "Transfer student. The counselor asked me to show her the ropes."
Cindy gave a curt nod and went back to her food.
"Nice to meet you," MJ said. She sat down next to Cindy naturally, completely ignoring the awkward tension, and didn't wait for an invitation. She turned back to Peter. "Listen, I have a favor to ask. Could you take some photos for me?"
Peter paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "Photos? Why me?"
MJ raised an eyebrow. "Are you kidding? You're the guy who got the front-page shot on the Daily Bugle."
Peter froze. "When did that happen?"
"Wait, you didn't know?"
Peter pulled his phone out of his pocket and thumbed open his email. Sure enough, sitting in his inbox was an acceptance letter from the Daily Bugle. He hadn't expected them to actually run the shots he took during the Times Square fight. He had literally taped his father's old Canon camera to a scaffolding, set it on a timer, and swung into frame.
He opened the attachment. It was a perfect, dynamic shot. And more importantly, the email confirmed a five-hundred-dollar payout.
"I thought they rejected the batch," Peter muttered, doing the math on how many web-fluid chemicals that would buy. He looked up at MJ. "What kind of photos do you need?"
"I wanted to interview Spider-Man," MJ said, resting her chin on her hand. "But I couldn't exactly track him down. So, I went for the next best thing. J. Jonah Jameson agreed to let me interview him about his editorial stance on Spider-Man."
Peter blinked. "You got an interview with JJJ?"
"I need a photographer," MJ said. "Can you do it?"
Peter actually smiled. He had spent months listening to Jameson yell about him on the radio. Getting inside the Bugle and seeing the man face-to-face sounded incredibly entertaining. Peter genuinely wanted to understand JJJ from the inside. "Yeah, I'm in."
A plastic tray slapped onto the table.
Gwen stood there, looking between MJ, Peter, and the new girl. She raised an eyebrow. "MJ. You're sitting with Peter."
MJ didn't miss a beat. She gestured to Cindy, explaining the transfer student situation in two concise sentences, instantly defusing any weirdness. Then, she looked at Gwen with wide, innocent eyes. "Also, I need to borrow Peter for a Bugle assignment. Is that alright with you?"
Gwen's expression flatlined. "He's nobody to me. Why are you asking me?"
"Just making sure," MJ smiled. "I wouldn't want you to get mad."
"Why would I get mad?" Gwen asked, her voice dropping a fraction of a decibel.
"You wouldn't?" MJ hummed.
Peter grabbed his half-empty tray, stood up, and backed away. "I have to be literally anywhere else. Excuse me."
He abandoned the table. MJ smiled, adjusted her chair, and turned to Cindy. Gwen sat down opposite them, immediately interrogating MJ about what she meant. Cindy watched the two girls bicker, her unblinking gaze tracking the social crossfire.
Is this his actual daily life? Cindy thought, filing the data away. This is significantly more complicated than the briefing suggested.
Peter practically sprinted down the hallway to his locker. He was just spinning the combination dial when a heavy hand slammed onto his shoulder.
Peter hadn't felt his spider-sense tingle, so he didn't throw a punch. He just sighed, turned around, and looked up at Eugene "Flash" Thompson.
"Where have you been?!" Flash demanded.
"I was sick," Peter lied, leaning against the lockers. "What's wrong?"
Flash's eyes were wide with genuine, unbridled excitement. "That photo! The one on the Bugle cover! You took that! It was incredible!"
Flash grabbed Peter by the shoulders. "When are you taking the next one?!"
"Flash, I'm not his personal photographer," Peter said, gently peeling Flash's hands off his jacket. "I just got lucky. I don't know where Spider-Man is going to be."
Flash stared at him. The frantic energy drained out of his face. He nodded slowly, accepting this tragic reality with the deep, enduring patience of a true believer.
"I get it," Flash whispered. "I heard he stopped a carjacking yesterday. He's back. That's what matters. Sorry for yelling, Parker."
Flash turned and walked down the hall, his shoulders slumped in solemn reverence.
Peter shook his head, pulled out his phone, and opened a secured, encrypted channel to JARVIS.
He needed to clear the board. Herman Schultz and Quentin Beck were locked away, but neither of them had given up their boss. Peter had to trace the money another way. He pulled up the file on the gunman who had tried to shoot him in the Osborn Tech lab.
MacDonald Gargan. Private investigator. He was the one tracking Peter's identity.
Peter scanned the NYPD incident report. Gargan had shot himself with his own bullet. An ambulance took him to St. Luke's-Roosevelt Hospital.
Peter cross-referenced the hospital admission logs. Nothing.
Gargan wasn't there. Someone had walked into the hospital and extracted him.
Peter looked at the system architecture of the hospital's deleted files. The code was elegant, masking its own deletion. It matched the exact neural-interface programming algorithm Quentin Beck had used to hijack Tony Stark's missile targeting.
Beck didn't do it; he was in a cell. That meant whoever funded Beck had used his software to wipe the hospital grid.
But all this only lead to Kingpin.
Wilson Fisk kept Gargan alive and funded his extraction. If Fisk was funneling resources into a guy named Gargan, he was probably already running the Scorpion modification procedure.
The problem was the evidence. Peter had a hunch, a wiped hard drive, and a missing mercenary. He had no direct proof tying Fisk to Beck, Schultz, or Gargan.
He needed someone who knew how to build a case in Hell's Kitchen. Someone who had been tracking Fisk's laundered operations for months.
Peter closed the file and shoved his phone in his pocket.
It was time to pay a visit to blind lawyer.
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