Hey-o! Look a Spider-Man story that isn't USM based! Huzzah! :D LOL

This was supposed to be a one-shot, but it got so much longer. So, ficlet! YAY!

This story is dedicated and written response to dragoscilvio's amazing prompt they left in one of their reviews! (on ff.net) Drago - consider my muse VERY pleased. ;D And I hope you enjoy my take on your prompt!

J. Jonah Jameson POV

There is something liberating about calling out the problems with society.

It was the core of his being. The motor to his engine, and the driving force of his purpose in life. It was why he became a servant of the news, to let the people know what was happening in their world, and it was a job he took as serious as producers to their ratings. Every inside-scoop was his to uncover, every detail put under the microscope to be analyzed, and every story at its full potential.

And J. Jonah Jameson didn't care who you were or what your opinion might be, Spider-Man was a menace and he'd defend that until his dying breath.

The web-slinger could have all of New York wrapped around his sticky, spandex-pinched fingers, but not Jameson. He refused to be roped into the twisting, snake pile of lies. He knew a no-good hooligan when he saw one, and that's all Spider-Man was.

A weird, web-slinging hooligan who had no respect for the law.

Vigilantism, in any form, was illegal and should be treated as such. None of this coddling and cooing that the people of this city were beginning to wean into. Just the other day someone tried to sell him a Spider-Man t-shirt – the blasted thing was the ugliest article of clothing he's ever had pushed into his hands, and that wasn't because it had red and blue hearts all over it.

As if there weren't enough hoodlums running around in capes and tights, flaunting their powers as they immersed themselves into criminal activity without proper jurisdiction, they just had to keep crawling out of the wood-works. At this rate, things were going to spiral out of control.

The biggest time-bomb Jameson had spotted out of the horde of "superheroes" was the tyrant in red and blue spandex. Swinging in and interfering with police business, making messes with those webs of his, causing property damage, it was a complete wonder to him why the citizens hadn't caught on yet. That bumbling fool was about as helpful as a toddler wearing footie-pajamas.

Still, despite the Wallcrawlers fans, Jameson was proud of his own established group of supporters who understood what he was talking about. A good bunch of well-rounded people who could tell a vigilante from an Avenger. But that group was getting smaller and smaller every time his news show aired, which grated on every one of his nerves.

Spider-Man was winning this city over and Jameson was not going to stand for it.

As he had elaborated as much in that nights' live show. He had touched on several points about the cities heap of vigilantes, and the ruckus they were causing, it managed to connect quite a few of Spider-Man's own bumbling "rescues."

Now, he stepped off the news set, adjusting his tie with a pleased smile. On top of his argument against a certain menace, he also brought up a recent incident that other media channels have been brushing over. Well, they might be a bunch of spineless saps, but he wasn't. If there was something the people should know about, he was going to tell them.

But judging by the frown on Robbie's face and the tight way he was pacing, Jameson could tell that his partner was far from convinced.

"Are you sure that was a good idea, Jameson?" He asked as soon as Jameson stepped in line with him. "I mean, I understand bringing up the attack, but is connecting it to the Wakandian summit really necessary?"

"Of course it is, Robbie," Jameson grunted, somewhat insulted as he grabbed his jacket from an intern waiting for him near the door. Once on, he rummaged around through the pockets for his keys. "There were Wakandian people spotted at the airport during the attack and the explosion that went off showed similar effects of ones used by that King of theirs. He may be considered an Avenger, but I won't brush off the facts. The Bugle won't be a lily-livered, yellow-bellied coward like every other news anchor."

Robbie gave him a dull look as they entered the elevator and pushed the down button without looking. "Spider-Man," he said, folding his arms.

"He was there too," Jameson said indignantly, already foreseeing where this conversation was going. Heaven knows he's already had this argument with Robbie a dozen other times that week. "That menace was right in the middle of the fray. Besides, he was caught helping the terrorists on camera."

"He pulled one of them out of the way of gunfire," Robbie said, rubbing his forehead. "You know Spider-Man doesn't let people die. There was a whole segment about it on CNN. Besides, he saved those airport cops from being blown up."

"Bah," Jameson waved him off. "Just trying to keep his façade up. He's working with them, Robbie, I tell ya," The elevator dinged, and they stepped off into a hall of concrete walls and cold floors, quickly turning down a small section of stairs. Robbie followed him with a huff, still looking ambivalent.

Jameson had his hand on the door that led down to the building garage when Robbie's hand grabbed his arm and stopped. With a heavy sigh, he turned back around, arms folded, and waited for Robbie to get his say in.

"Jameson, you know I support the Bugle. I always have. But I think you need to put this Spider-Man propaganda to rest. It's really getting to you, and people are starting to notice," he said, staring so earnestly it made him Jameson hesitate.

Sure, there have been a few media slanders about the Bugle and his apparent "obsession" with Spider-Man. But they were all wrong, dammit! Spider-Man was always in the middle of things, always seemed to have a connection to every villain he "fought," always managed to get away from the authorities. No one even knew who was behind that mask of his. He could be anybody. A drug lord, or a terrorist, or a human trafficker. The people knew absolutely nothing about this "hero" and yet they were willing to give him their trust? Just like that?

Not Jameson. At least with the Avengers and the X-Men they knew the people under those costumes. Did Spider-Man think he was a special case? That the people didn't have the right to know whose hands their lives were in? Absolutely not!

Regardless, he understood Robbie's concern. Robbie has always been there, supporting him and the Bugle in every way. He ran the Bugle just as much, if not more than Jameson did, and despite their very different views, Jameson could respect his insight no-less.

"I hear ya, Robbie," he said, clapping his partner on the shoulder. "I do. But I refuse to let Spider-Man make a fool of this city! You say he's a good guy, that he saved those airport cops, but no one's seen him since the terrorists slumped back into their hole. Where is he, then? Probably coming up with a new attack, no doubt! I won't have it."

Robbie sighed, but his shoulders slumped in a way that meant he would let Jameson win this time.

"That's – that's not all, J." He admitted. "You've been stressing on this terrorist group pretty heavily. I'm just – I'm just worried that they might start acting out. You need to tread lightly, Jonah. They seem serious."

Jameson puffed out his chest. "Exactly why it's our duty to spread the light, Robbie! I won't be intimidated into sniveling in my own news channel. That's the Globes' job," he cackled nastily to himself before he continued, "Don't you worry about me, it'll take a lot more than a few threats to bring Jameson down!"

"I know, I know," Robbie said, holding out his hands as if to placate his partner. "You'll be fine on your own. But maybe you should wait until I've finished my work tonight. I can drive you home, make sure you get there okay. Maybe you can come stay at my place-"

"And what'll that tell them?" Jameson demanded. "That I'm weary? That I'm scared? I'm sorry Robbie, but I won't let my reputation go to tarnishes. Besides, your neighborhood is probably more dangerous than mine."

"Please, Jonah," Robbie insisted. "You're my friend."

Jameson stuffed his hands in his coat and squared his shoulders. "I appreciate your concern Robbie," he said, clapping a hand over his friends' shoulder. "I really do. You're a pal. But I won't be run out of my own home. I'll see you tomorrow."

With that, he whirled on his heels and descended the steps into the underground garage. Behind him, Robbie sighed again, muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "Unless they step in," but the door closed with a soft clang as he left to finish his work for the night.

Jameson twisted his coat tighter around his frame and adjusted his hat. He found his car easily, likely because it was the oldest in the lot. But it was by far the best-looking one. A classic 1959 Mercedes Benz, with a shiny black coat and silver-trimmings. He'd had this car since his first step into a printing room, and he'd be damned if he didn't take care of it.

It was practically a relic at this point.

He stopped at the driver-side door to fish his keys out of his coat pocket once more, and pushed them eagerly into the key slot, already daydreaming about getting home, finding something warm to eat, and rewatching his broadcast to make sure no one cut out anything important. His hand curled around the door handle, and his eyes glanced up briefly over the top of the glossy car roof, where he noticed a dark figure at the end of the parking lot.

His grip on the handle faltered, and not a second passed before the lights in the garage went out.

"Blasted lights," he muttered to himself, doing his best to ignore the suddenly anxious patter of his heart. "Damn budgets and wires. Have to get someone to fix that. Tomorrow, though. Definitely tomorrow." He quickly yanked the door open and hastened into the driver's seat, slamming it shut behind him.

Hand-memory brought the key up to the ignition. As soon as the car rumbled to life, his hand found the gear-stick and he stuck it in reverse. Still grumbling, he flicked the headlights on and very nearly jumped through the roof when he did.

Standing right in front of his car was a person garbed in a dark black bodysuit that shone with old runes and archaic designs that seemed to glow in the light. Spitting a curse that would bloody the ears of any honest priest, Jameson's foot hit the gas and they lurched in reverse.

He barely got a few feet away when the dark figure tossed something on the hood of his car. From where he sat, it looked small and thin, loosely resembling an enlarged Othello piece. But as soon as it hit the hood, an arc of blue energy rippled throughout the car and seconds later everything went dead. The headlights blinked off as if a light switch had been thrown, and the figure was lost in darkness again.

"Dammit!" Jameson cursed, smacking the steering wheel. "C'mon work you damn hunk of rusty metal!" He hit the gas pedal harder, but the car stood stubbornly still.

A thud thumped against his door, followed by a metal shriek and a whoosh of cold air as the door was torn from its hinges.

"Now just hold on one damn minute-" Jameson started saying, just as a hand curled around his nicely buttoned shirt and dragged him out of his seat.

Through the hazy darkness, Jameson struggled against the iron grip, prying at the fingers with as much luck as a pair of tweezers had at bending a nail. Faintly, he could make out the glowing runes running throughout his attackers' suit, which if touch was anything to go by, was made out of some type of metal.

"Mr. Jameson," a gravelly voice greeted him with a banal gusto reeking of an accent he could recognize all too well. He's been doing broadcasts and discussion with and about Wakandians enough to recognize their modulation when he heard it. "I hope you can spare the time for a last-minute interview."

"Let me go you filthy terrorist - mmf!" was all Jameson managed to spit out when a cloth was pushed to his nose and he breathed in the heavy scent of chemicals.

Sometimes he hated how right Robbie could be.

                                                        -- THE INSIDE SCOOP  --

They could have at least had the decency to lock him up in a cleanroom.

When Jameson's eyes cracked open, it was to see nothing but darkness. He blinked several times to make sure he was truly awake, and when he groaned, he inhaled a strong, dusty breath of air that had him hacking so terribly, someone might've thought he was being strangled.

It took a moment before his eyes adjusted, and he squinted as he observed the dusty, deserted old room they'd thrown him in. The floor had a layer of grime so thick that in the places his skin touched it, it had piled like the skin foundation his wife wore. The sheer mustiness of the air made him feel as though he'd grown an entirely new set of skin, one that was dirtier than the last.

Still coughing up his gut, he scooted across the cold floor and leaned his back against the wall, using the filthy sleeve of his jacket to wipe away the grime on his face. It probably did more spreading than cleaning, though, and he dropped his arm just as quickly.

The only source of light the room had was slivers of white light from beneath the closed door across from him. There were no windows and judging by how hard the floor and walls were, the room was made out of something cold and rough. Concrete, it felt like.

Where had those terrorists taken him?

He could be out of the city. Out of the country, for all he knew. How long had he been out?

He rummaged around through his coat pockets, but his phone and wallet were missing. Even the old pocket-watch his son, John (the astronaut), got him for his 56th birthday.

"Shoulda listened to ya, Robbie," He muttered sourly to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Robbie was right, Jameson could be pretty hard-headed sometimes. But whatever these low-lives wanted with him, he wasn't going to give it! J. Jonah Jameson didn't help terrorists.

Nor would he lie down and take this. Using the wall, he got to his feet and shuffled cautiously through the dark. Thankfully, the room seemed mostly deserted, so he didn't have to worry about knocking into anything.

Once he got to the door, he rattled the doorknob, already figuring it would be locked. Which it was. He banged his fist against it, yelling loudly, "Hey! Whatever you bastards plan on doing to me, you better just get on with it!"

His response didn't come from anyone outside.

"Watch it, they might take you serious. Even with that stupid mustache."

Jameson froze for half a second, before whirling around with his back plastered to the door. "Who - who said that?"

"Over here, the ominous –" (a raspy cough) "- voice in the corner. Your conscience, if you couldn't tell."

That voice sounded familiar.

And not a good familiar.

Jameson inched away from the door, peering into the shadows skeptically. He squinted as he neared the corner of the room the voice had been coming from, blinking rapidly to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness faster.

Vaguely, he could make out the faint lines of another person sitting against the wall, wedged in the corner with their legs sprawled out, and an arm strewn across their stomach. Or, at least, he hoped it was an arm.

"Who are you?" He demanded.

The head shifted a little, and the feeble lines of light from the door flashed across the glossy surface of, what appeared to be, a mask lens. "Don't recognize me, J.J?" the voice said, it sounded playful, though it lacked real vitality. Another wheezing cough and the figure seemed to curl tighter in on themselves. "Ugh - that hurts almost as much as the rest of me."

A beam of realization shown through the muck of Jameson's mind and he recoiled. "No, it can't be..." His eyes were adjusting better now, and through the dusty, murky gloom, he could barely make out webbed lines and a spider on the man's chest.

"Hey, picklepuss," Spider-Man wheezed at him, turning so the light hit his bug-eyed lenses again. "Now would you –" (cough) "- stop moving? You're kicking up all the dust."

First chapter! Hoo-ha! A few things to know real quickly – I've been completely swamped as of late. I haven't had a lot of time to work on my stories and with one of my sisters getting married, things are only getting busier. For those of you who are reading my other fics, please be patient with me.

Thankfully, this fic is already 90% written! There will be 8 chapters in total, and 6-ish of them are already jotted down. I'll post a new chapter every Friday.

I'm mostly publishing this story now because I need a break from writing USM (cause as much as I love that fandom, sometimes I just need to take a breather from my USM fanfics). This story is very exciting to me and I can't wait to show you all what's in store!

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy what's to come! :D