Red and blue flashed before J. Jonah Jameson's eyes as he thumbed through Peter Parker's photos. The words of that faker he'd fired a couple months ago, Buchanan—or maybe it had been Blakely—came to mind.

"Photography is about lighting, composition, drama," he'd said. Whatever it was that made a picture good, Parker had it. Not that Jameson would ever say that to his face. There was nothing that ruined a perfectly good employee like a big ego. Brooks had taught him that.

There was one element missing from Parker's photos, though, and that was Spidey being anything but heroic. When Jameson got to the bottom of the stack, he tsked his tongue and glanced up at the kid.

"Is there something wrong, Mr. Jameson?" Parker sat up straighter in his chair.

Jameson suppressed a smile. He'd taken the bait.

"I have to admit, Parker," he started, dividing his attention between Peter and lighting a cigar, "I was hoping today would be the day you actually brought in something good."

He let the comment sit for half a second, watching Parker's eyebrows crease, before blurting, "Spider-Man caught up in some first-rate scandal! Where are those pictures?"

Peter's face relaxed. "I think you and I have different definitions of the word 'good.'"

"Maybe," said Jameson, "but I'm the one who's paying you, right? So whose definition really matters here?" He tapped his cigar on the rim of his empty coffee mug. It was proving to be a worthy ashtray.

"Mr. Jameson," Peter began. He could tell the kid was weighing his words, trying to be diplomatic. "No one's ever gotten a scandalous picture of Spider-Man. Not an undoctored one, anyway. Do you ever wonder if that's because he never does anything scandalous?"

"You're an optimist. I can admire that." Jameson still enunciated clearly with his cigar between his teeth. His ability to do so was one of the few things he prided himself on. "But I'm a realist." He puffed his cigar. "Vigilantism is a crime, which makes Spider-Man an insurgent! An outlaw! A troublemaking, crowd-stirring ruffian!"

Parker got halfway through rolling his eyes before catching himself. Jameson hardly noticed, as an idea had just struck him. He imagined this must have been what it felt like when Gutenberg had first thought up the printing press. He ripped his cigar out of his mouth and said, "I've got it. I think it's high time the people heard the voice of Spider-Man. 'Spidey Speaks.' How's that for a headline?" He swept his hand through the air, a trail of smoke from his cigar following it.

"I- Um-" Peter stuttered.

"A stroke of genius, sir," came Hoffman's bleat from the office doorway.

"Shut up, Hoffman," said Jameson without batting an eye. The rattle of the closing door came promptly after. "Parker, tell Spider-Man to come here, let me interview him. Scratch that—interrogate him."

"I- I'm not going to tell Spider-Man what to do."

It was a lame excuse, and they both knew it. Jameson doubled down. "Then I will. Tell me who he is. You know, don't you?"

Parker shook his head. "You'll twist anything he says."

"So you do know!"

Parker squirmed in his seat. "No, I-"

Jameson held up his hand. "I'm not looking to publish his identity, if that's what you're worried about. All I want is the interview."

They stared at each other for a few moments. Jameson could almost hear the cigar smouldering in his hand. He squinted. "What is it, Parker? You know something. I can smell it on you."

The kid stood suddenly, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Jameson."

Jameson pursed his lips, but nodded. He could play the long game any day of the week. "All right, Parker. But if you're not going to give me information on Spider-Man, then at least come back with some better pictures than these."

The tension in Parker's shoulders relaxed, and he moved for the door.

"Seriously!" Jameson called to his back. "My neighbor's highland terrier could take better photos with its eyes closed!"

Parker smiled vaguely as he shut the publisher's office door.

Ursula fit the rolls of dough into the pan, her hands as coated with flour as the pampushka buns themselves. She could almost feel her mother's hands guiding hers like they had the first time she'd done this. It must have been on a Christmas Eve; Mama hadn't bothered to make these more than once a year, even with her passion for baking. Ursula had woken up craving them, though, and hadn't had anything better to do with her day. It was laughable, really, how uneventful her life was compared to Peter's.

"That one's the runt," she whispered to herself, noticing she hadn't divided the dough equally as she brushed the egg wash over the top.

The heat of the oven wafted into her face when she opened it to set the pan inside. She hated that little oven, as familiar as she was with it—it never kept the right temperature. She was glad she didn't have to worry about what number it would do on these buns, because Tato and his friends would eat anything she put in front of them. Of course, Peter would too, but she cared what he thought of her.

She sighed and leaned back against the counter, smoothing an eyebrow with the back of her wrist. A constant flow of Ukrainian came from the table where Tato and his friends were playing poker. She watched the chips slide around, not comprehending much except that her father was losing money. She huffed and averted her gaze, angry at him, but more angry at herself because she knew she wasn't about to say anything to stop him.

She pulled out her mother's recipe to check how much garlic to chop up. The brown construction paper was wrinkly from water stains and dusted with flour, so much so that the black words were almost illegible in some parts.

Her mother's handwriting reminded Ursula of her even more than the pictures hanging around the apartment. Thin but not spindly, the letters were short and written with a determined hand—perhaps too determined, for several words in the recipe had been scribbled out and rewritten. Ursula could remember a time when Tato used to say Ursula had inherited that determination.

I must have left that in Ukraine. At Mama's grave. Ursula crushed the first clove of garlic.