Spider-Man Black and Blue (AU) Chapter 28: Electro

[Third Person POV] 


Damon was swinging away from The Hardy Foundation, his body moving rhythmically through the air as he pushed one hand in front of the other, releasing one strand of web and firing another in a seamless motion. The cool evening breeze whipped against his hoodie, the sounds of the bustling city echoing below him—cars honking, chatter from pedestrians, and the occasional siren in the distance. He was making his way toward his car, deciding to cut through the lower buildings, when something caught his attention.


Down on the street below, a boy was sprinting frantically, his small arms pumping at his sides as a group of older kids chased after him. Damon tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes behind the mask. He lowered his swing, angling closer to the street until the scene became clear. The boy darted into an alley, desperately trying to shake them off, but his escape came to a dead stop. A tall, chain-link fence blocked the other end, trapping him.


Damon perched himself on the side of a building, frowning as he saw the older boys surround the smaller one. They shoved him around, one of them yanking his backpack off his shoulders and unzipping it, spilling its contents across the dirty pavement. The boy stumbled, glasses nearly falling from his face, trying to grab at his belongings but being pushed back every time.


That was enough for Damon. He released his web and flipped down into the alley with practiced grace, landing right between the bullies and their target. His voice came out casual, though the slight edge in his tone made the older kids flinch.


“Come on now,” Damon said, tilting his head, “that isn’t very kid-friendly, don’t you think?”


The group froze. The little boy’s wide eyes sparkled with disbelief, his lips parting as his glasses slid down his nose.


“Spider-Man…” he whispered, voice trembling with awe.


The older kids exchanged uncertain looks, their confidence wavering. But one of them sneered as he took in Damon’s outfit—a simple white hoodie, black pants, and a mask.


“The hell are you wearing? Where’s your costume?”


Damon didn’t miss a beat. “Your mom’s washing it for me,” he shot back.


Some of the boys snickered, elbowing each other as they muttered “Oooh” under their breath, though the leader’s glare stayed firm. Damon strolled closer, casually tugging a cap down over one of the kids’ faces until it covered him completely, forcing him to let go of the younger boy to fix it.


“Now skedaddle, you little rascals,” Damon said, jerking his head toward the street. “I don’t want to see you bothering him again.”


The leader stepped forward, baring his teeth. “Or what?” he snarled.


“Or,” Damon replied dryly, “when I swing by to pick up my suit, I’ll stay a little longer and have a nice, long chat with your mother about your behavior.”


That did it. One of the others tugged on the leader’s sleeve nervously. “L-Let’s just go, man.” Reluctantly, the boy growled under his breath, but he allowed himself to be pulled back. They all scrambled out of the alley, muttering to themselves but clearly too rattled to press their luck.


The little boy’s glasses slipped again, but before they hit the ground, Damon snatched them out of the air with a quick flick of his wrist. He crouched down, gently placing them back on the boy’s face.


“Sup, little man,” Damon said softly, his tone shifting from teasing to reassuring. “Mind telling me your name?”


The boy fiddled with the glasses, his voice shy. “J-Jefferson.”


“Hey, Jefferson,” Damon said warmly, nodding. “I’m Spider-Man. Nice to meet you. Here, let me help you with that.”


He began scooping up the scattered items—pencils, a notebook, a couple of action figures—and placed them neatly back inside the backpack. When he zipped it shut and handed it over, Jefferson quickly slung it over his shoulders, looking a little less shaken now.


Damon rose to his full height and extended his hand. “Let’s go, Jefferson. I’ll walk you home, just in case those knuckleheads try anything again.”


Jefferson’s lips curved into a small smile, and without hesitation, he reached up and took hold of Spider-Man’s fingers. Side by side, they walked out of the alley, the boy holding his hero’s hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.


…


Damon landed lightly on the rooftop of a tall apartment building, his web line snapping free as his sneakers hit the gravel surface with a muffled thud. Without pausing, he strode toward the rooftop entrance, pushing the heavy door open and slipping inside. 


He tugged his mask off first, the fabric damp with sweat, and then yanked his white hoodie over his head, rolling it into a ball with practiced ease. As he descended the steps, he hopped on one foot while pulling off a sneaker, then switched feet and tugged the other one free, repeating the process with casual efficiency. His pants came next, peeled off to reveal a second pair of slimmer grey joggers underneath. Within seconds, Damon had bundled the mask, hoodie, and pants together, tossed his sneakers on top, and carried the whole pile tucked neatly under one arm.


By the time he slipped out through the building’s side exit, he was dressed down wearing only his socks on his feet, looking like any other student heading home after a late class. No one on the street even spared him a glance.


His car was parked along the curb, sliding into the driver’s seat, Damon tossed the bundle into the back, where an identical heap of discarded outfits already sat. From beneath it, he pulled out a small set of portable speakers, placing them one before reaching for the glove compartment. Inside sat a large manila envelope and a pair of sleek, black glasses. He slipped the glasses on, glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror, and gave himself a quick nod before starting the engine. With the hum of the car beneath him, Damon pulled out onto the street, merging into the flow of traffic on his way to the Daily Bugle.


The elevator doors slid open with a ding, and Damon stepped out into chaos. The newsroom was a whirlwind of activity: papers flying, phones ringing off their hooks, and reporters rushing from desk to desk with half-written drafts. The commanding voice of J. Jonah Jameson cut above the noise like a whip.


“Useless! You’re all useless!” Jameson’s booming voice rattled the glass panes of his office. “You mean to tell me that not a single one of you managed to get a picture of last night’s action?! Not one?! How am I supposed to make a story without a picture?”


Damon adjusted his glasses and smirked as he caught sight of Betty Brant at her desk. She was speaking with an older man—blond hair slicked back, a charming grin plastered on his face. Betty glanced up just in time to catch Damon’s eye. He lowered his glasses slightly and winked, earning a playful roll of her eyes. She subtly pointed her thumb toward Jameson’s office and mouthed, “Do something, please.”


Damon made the okay sign with his fingers and sauntered toward the lion’s den. Inside, Jameson was mid-rant, his voice echoing through the open door.


“Someone get me in contact with Damon! Maybe he won’t let me down like the rest of you clowns! We’re supposed to go to print in an hour! If I don’t have something, I swear to God, I’m firing somebody!”


“Yo! Big J, you called?” Damon said casually, peeking his head through the doorway.


“Drake!” Jameson nearly leapt out of his chair, relief flooding his features. “Am I glad to see you. Please—tell me you’ve got something. Anything!”


“Sorry, man…” Damon sighed, shaking his head. Jameson instantly deflated, plopping back into his chair with the expression of someone about to weep into his mustache.


Damon continued, producing the envelope with a flourish, “Unfortunately all I managed to get was four solid shots. Would’ve been six, but, well… things got a little chaotic.” He spread the photos across the desk.


Jameson’s mood did a complete one-eighty. “HAH!” he barked, springing to his feet. “I knew I could count on you, Drake! You’ve come through once again!”


He snatched up the pictures, holding one high for the entire room to see. “Unlike some people,” he added pointedly, glaring through the other photographers, who look absolutely done with the ordeal.


From across the office, Robbie Robertson, dressed sharply in his gray suit, arched an eyebrow. “Funny, isn’t it?” he said, his deep voice calm but curious. “Every time Spider-Man’s involved, somehow Damon’s always the one who manages to snag the shot. Almost makes you wonder…”


Damon didn’t so much as blink. He shrugged, leaning against the desk with casual confidence. “It’s all in the art of photography. Timing is everything. Right place, right time, and never letting the camera rest.”


Jameson grunted in approval, his attention fixed on one particular photo. Spider-Man caught mid-swing, saving Anastasia in front of her company building during the attack. Max Dillon—bright arcs of electricity crackling around him—was captured in the frame as well.


“Hmm…” Jameson hummed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Suddenly, his eyes lit up. “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed, holding the photo up to the light.


“Spider-Man and Electro! The Menaces of New York multiply!”


“Electro?” Damon repeated, brow furrowing behind his glasses.


“Yeah!” Jameson puffed out his chest proudly. “Just thought of it now. What do you think?”


Damon chuckled. “Whatever suits your fancy, Big J.”


“The title could use some work,” Robbie said diplomatically, adjusting his tie. “But ‘Electro’ isn’t too bad.”


Jameson beamed as if he’d just struck gold.