A bulky, news van pulled to a jerky stop along the curb—paint peeling, satellite dish crooked, one tire making a sad wheezing sound. The door slammed open.
Jonah Jameson, in rolled-up sleeves and tactical suspenders, stormed out like the sidewalk had insulted him personally. Behind him stumbled a thin, nervous intern in a hoodie, lugging a shoulder rig camera like it was radioactive. "Boss," the intern said, panting, "we're literally an internet show now. Why do we even need a van?"
Jameson didn't miss a beat. He spun and smacked the back of the intern's head. "Perception! We look like real reporters! SUVs are for food bloggers. This—" he patted the van, which groaned in protest, "—says legacy media, dammit!"
The intern rubbed his head, grumbling, "We're literally about to interview an insane person who screams at windows."
"Shut up." Jameson turned, scanning the block. Glass storefronts reflected the afternoon glare—some still bore the evidence of recent vandalism. Painted over but not forgotten. Scrawled strange equations. Jameson muttered, "He should be here somewhere…" And then—"There he is!"
A figure shuffled along the sidewalk, barefoot, twitching, eyes wide with panic and reverence. He wore a patchy coat, the sleeves rolled unevenly, and a scarf that had clearly seen too many winters. The intern hit record. Jameson went full Street Interview Mode, adjusting his tie and grabbing his worn mic.
…
"This is J. Jonah Jameson, reporting from Manhattan, where a string of strange acts of vandalism—possibly prophetic, possibly psychotic—have been linked to this man here."
The camera zoomed slightly as Jameson approached the figure. The audio crackled, and the man's voice cut through. "The Monkey King…" His eyes darted wildly, looking not at Jameson but through him. "The loose golden headband… it has tightened. The day of judgment will come sooner. It rides the cloud and whispers to the blood."
Jameson, ever the professional, didn't flinch. "Excuse me, sir. Can we have a word?"
The man slowly turned his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, sunken, like he hadn't slept in days. He gripped the microphone like it was the last real thing in the world. "You want a word?" he croaked. "I gave the city words. I carved them into glass. I shouted in rain. You all—you all didn't listen."
Jameson offered a tight nod. "Right. Right. Can we get a name?"
The man leaned closer. And whisper-shouted into the mic. "It doesn't matter what my name is. The Monkey King has awakened. And none of you—none of you listened."
Then he fell to his knees. Right there on the concrete, arms limp at his side like a puppet whose strings had been cut. His head bowed, lips moving, barely audible. "It's coming. It's coming. The world bends where he walks. We thought it was myth. We called it legend. But he's real…"
The intern stared, lips parted, as if watching a ghost confess. Jameson stepped back slightly, lowering the mic. They stood there for a second, the sound of city traffic returning to fill the silence. The prophet wept quietly, a man crushed beneath truth too heavy for one mind to hold. And above them—somewhere out of sight—a cloud shifted.
Jonah Jameson crouched next to the man, the concrete cold beneath his knees, mic still in hand. The street prophet swayed slightly, arms limp, eyes half-lidded, but when Jameson spoke, he focused instantly—like a switch was flipped. "I'm listening," Jameson said, voice unusually steady. "So can we get a reason for the… glass thing? All this time—you've been vandalizing businesses."
The man's lips twitched, almost into a smile. "I'm not vandalizing," he murmured. "I'm archiving."
Jameson raised an eyebrow. "Archiving what, exactly?"
The man lifted one hand. It trembled, but he pointed across the street. There—a public CCTV camera sat atop a light post. Its lens pointed directly at a large pane of glass bearing faint, half-scrubbed markings. The marks were cryptic—half-runes, numbers, swirling arrows and shapes—but deliberate.
"Every pane I've written on," the man said, "faces one of those. The city records everything. If the Monkey King alters the world, it will ripple in the footage. Subtle bends. Changes in angle. Inconsistencies in shadows. Light distortion around his tail."
Jameson's grip on the mic tightened. "So you're using city surveillance… to detect metaphysical monkey-induced anomalies?"
The man didn't blink. "To prove them."
A pause.
Then Jameson asked, quietly. "Did you find the answer, sir?"
The man's head bowed further. "No. I'm halfway there. But there's a group. Suits. Clean shoes. Matching watches. They've been following me. They clean the glass. They reroute the feeds. They know what I'm close to."
Jameson started to reply—But the camera clicked off. The intern stood there awkwardly, shoulders tense. "Sir, can I… talk to you for a second?"
Jameson looked like he was about to boil over. "You better have a damn good reason for interrupting me mid-interview," he hissed, standing slowly.
The intern motioned him aside. Reluctantly, Jameson followed, leaving the man hunched alone near the curb. A few feet away, hushed. "Sir, listen—this guy doesn't need a mic in his face, he needs help. I mean, he's spiraling."
Jameson took a breath through his nose. His eye twitched. His voice dropped. "He's got something, kid. Look around—how many nutjobs quote cloud monkeys and cite camera angles?"
"Yeah, but—"
"No buts! We get back there, we finish the take, we cut the weird bits, and we post it. It's a story, damn it!"
They both turned back—And froze. The pavement was empty. The man was gone. No footsteps. No scuff marks. No figure walking away. Just an open street, a distant siren, and the same damned CCTV camera staring back. Jameson bolted forward, scanning the alley nearby, checking behind trash bins and parked cars. "HEY! HEY!!"
Nothing. He turned, face twisted in fury. "FUCK!" Then, without warning, he slapped the intern on the back of the head. "This is all because of you! You pulled me away! You ruined it!"
The intern flinched, holding the camera like a shield. "He was right there! That was a lead, not a lunatic!"
Jameson paced in a tight circle, fists clenched, jaw grinding. "We had something big. We had… something strange. And now it's gone."
Far above, a passing cloud rolled across the moon, casting a shadow that moved just a beat slower than it should have.
…
Perched atop his living cloud Zephyr, Jack Hou rode the wind like a throne, tail twitching behind him, black cheongsam fluttering as Manhattan rolled beneath him in glittering grids. He scanned the city below, searching. "Let's see… where's that green-on-green action…"
Then—A flash of movement below. Jack dipped his head. On the street, he spotted J. Jonah Jameson mid-interview with the muttering glass prophet—but something else caught his eye. "Huh."
A blacked-out SUV screeched to a stop near the curb. Two figures in suits stepped out. They moved fast. Too clean. Too quiet. Before Jameson even realized what was happening, the suited agents grabbed the prophet, shoved him into the vehicle, and peeled out.
Jack's eyes narrowed. "KIDNAPPED, huh? KEKEKE. Classic SHIELD."
He pulled a strand of hair free and flicked it like a dart. It curled midair and twisted into a clone, already half-crouched on Zephyr's flank. "Follow the van. Stealth mode. I want to know who they talk to and what brand of smug they wear." The clone saluted. "On it."
Then—BOOM. The sound came from the east. Jack turned fast. A distant shockwave rolled through the city—a deep echo that cracked the quiet. His face twisted. "Fuck… it's already starting."
He kicked off Zephyr, vanished into a blur—then reappeared, standing confidently on the cloud's crest as it rocketed south toward Harlem.
…
It looked like Hell was holding auditions in Harlem. Burning cars. Screaming civilians. Explosions. And at the center of it, a monster—Abomination—almost twice the size of Hulk, skin like razors and rot, roaring as he flung a crushed SUV into a laundromat.
Jack glided in above the chaos, arms folded, watching. "KEKEKEKE. Showtime." From above, a red-and-gold blur streaked by—Iron Man, diving and weaving through broken towers of smoke. "Heyyy! Metal Man!" Jack's voice rang out like a game show host's intro call. "Over here. Best view's from this angle."
Iron Man paused, adjusted course, then floated toward him. His helmet hissed open with a metallic flutter. Tony Stark, face still cocky. "Okay… how in God's Bluetooth are you sitting on a cloud?"
Jack grinned. "What, not scientific enough for you?"
"Not scientific at all."
Jack shrugged. "Well, neither is that." He pointed casually to where Abomination tore a chunk out of a building's support pillar and sent bricks raining.
Tony blinked. "Okay… fair."
"Not saving them?" he added, scanning below.
Jack rolled his eyes. "Who says I'm not?"
He clapped once. Below, dozens of Jack clones moved in a synchronized blur—evacuating civilians, shielding those caught behind wreckage, guiding people into sewer shelters.
Zephyr hummed faintly under Jack's feet. Jack gestured lazily. "Five kilometer radius. All clear. Thanks to me, myself, and I."
J.A.R.V.I.S. chimed in Tony's ear: "Confirmed. Civilian density has reduced by 92.3% in target zone."
Tony gawked. "You cleared Harlem in ten minutes?"
Jack's grin widened. "It's efficient when you do it yourself. Or, in my case… selves. KEKEKEKE." Then Jack cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted: "HEY, ROSS! DROP THE GREEN GUY IN! I WANNA SEE SOMETHING COOL!"
Above them, a helicopter circled. And sure enough—A figure jumped. Silhouette against the fire-glow of the Harlem skyline. Tony's face paled. "He's not gonna—" He lurched forward instinctively to catch the falling man—But Jack placed a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Don't." Tony froze. Jack's voice was calm. "I assure you… he's more than capable."
The moment stretched. Then—Jack let go. Tony looked down at his shoulder, where Jack had touched him. His Mark 8 armor—brand-new, ultra-alloyed—was dented at the spot where Jack's palm had pressed.
Tony blinked. "...Huh." He whispered to himself, "I really gotta find some more durable material." Below, the battle between Hulk and Abomination was about to begin. And Jack? He just laughed. "KEKEKEKE… This is going to be fun."
Bruce Banner fell. A blur of flesh and green and momentum, his body slammed into the asphalt, sending cracks spiraling outward like a lightning web across the road. Then—stillness. Dust. Shadows. Silence.
From above, Tony Stark hovered in midair beside Jack, armor gleaming, thrusters humming. He stared down. "He's dead."
Jack stood with a warm bag of popcorn in one hand, watching with his usual grin. "Nope. Just wait." He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a sealed popcorn bag, holding it up. "You got microwave parts in that fancy suit?"
Tony gave him a side glance, still tense. "You want me to cook you popcorn… during this?"
Jack shrugged. "What else are we gonna do until round two?"
Tony grumbled. "Fine. Hold it still."
He lifted his palm, repulsor flickering to a different setting—microwave radiation. A soft whir. POP. POP-POP. The bag inflated, then burst slightly at the top.
Jack opened it with a smile. "Ahhh, thank you. You're the best."
Then—a green hand shot up through the asphalt. Stone shattered. Debris flew. The Hulk roared, pulling himself free, muscles bulging, eyes glowing like wildfire.
Jack held up a popcorn kernel like a sports fan toasting his team. "YEEAAHHH! WOOO! GO GREEN!!"
Tony muttered, "Which one are you cheering for? They're both green."
Jack blinked. Chewed. Then smiled wider. "Oh yeah. KEKEKEKE… Go Bruce!"
Abomination charged. Hulk met him mid-sprint. Their punches collided mid-air.
BOOOOOM.
The impact sent a shockwave through the buildings—windows shattered, signs snapped, nearby parked cars tipped sideways from the force. Both monsters flew in opposite directions, slamming into walls, crashing through concrete like meteors made of muscle.
Jack clapped with one hand, popcorn in the other. "KEKEKEKE! So entertaining." He tossed another kernel in his mouth. "You're gonna reimburse all this damage, right?"
Tony's mask flicked down, then up again. "Why me?"
Jack leaned in like a guilty whisper. "Come on, you know they're not getting reimbursed by the government. Poor guy's gonna wake up tomorrow, no car, no coffee shop, can't even go to work."
Tony muttered, "They should've found a better home in the first place."
Jack raised a finger. "Ah-ah, don't victim-blame the bystanders."
Then—CLANG. Hulk had picked up two cars—one in each hand—and was using them like boxing gloves, pounding Abomination like a corrupted game of Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots. WHAM. WHAM. WHAM. The echo of each punch rolled through Harlem like drums from the underworld.
Jack and Tony watched, barely reacting—like two guys watching an underground fight club from VIP balcony seats. Then—a chunk of metal flew their way. Fast. Twisting. Car-sized. Tony lifted his gauntlet, launched a micro-missile that blew the metal into harmless shrapnel.
Another chunk flew. Jack spun his ever-shifting staff, which grew mid-air into a wide-bladed paddle, smacking the debris sideways like a baseball coach with divine reflexes. The rubble crashed harmlessly into a nearby rooftop.
Tony looked at him. "...Is that thing made of adaptive metal?"
Jack shrugged. "It's made of a little magic, a little legend, a pinch of punchline."
Tony sighed. "I hate vague answers."
Jack winked. "That's why I give them."
Below them, the brawl raged. Above them—two not-quite-heroes, not-quite-spectators, watching the world burn with popcorn in hand.
**A/N**
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**A/N**