Spider-man and Fubuki/Spider-Blizzard

34. I'm Done

Spider-man was staring at City-J on top of a tall church tower, perched on the edge at the weeping heavens, in a more depressing manner. He was 24 years old now and thinks weren't getting any better, not at all.

It had been a year since the Blizzard Groups death and the disappearance of Fubuki. There was no trace of what happened that night, not even the police couldn't figure out the cause of the slaughter house in the first place. The monster or unknown killer was slick and it must've gotten rid of any evidence or even a single hint of what it could've been and it must also have had something to do with Fubuki's disappearance.

He and others had searched every city in the country, every dark corner, every building, every sewer system and yet they weren't able to find anything at all.

Lily was in the same state as Spider-man but she was still trying to remain strong. Bang and Garou had decided to take her under their wing so that she can become a better fighter and help out however she can.

Spider-man had blamed himself for the disappearance of Fubuki, if he had just been with her the entire time she wouldn't have had to disappear like that. At this point, he thinks she was probably dead since they weren't any leads at all. Not one.

Spider-man lets out a tired sigh, he wasn't in the mood to talk to anybody at this point to be honest. He had practically shut everyone out of his life because he thinks that his existence alone makes bad things happen to people close to him. He was so done with the fact he still remained to be God's righteous punching bag.

Spider-man jumps down, swinging away as he accelerated the speed of his swings.

Spider-man leapt from rooftop to rooftop as he pursued the criminal. He didn't know who the criminal was, or what they had done, but it didn't matter to him. Nothing mattered.

He'd make them be beaten to the brink of near death.

With a leap that showed nothing more than total efficiency, no grace or flowing, just total concentration, Spider-man landed on top of the van that was being pursued.

Without a wasted motion, Spider-man smashed his fist against the windscreen, shattering it and showering the occupants with broken glass. Silently, he swing in and grabbed the hand of the criminal who was raising a gun, using his strength to crush the man's hand. The gun went off and Spider-man felt a line of fire up his arm, but he ignored the pain, it was, after all, only physical.

Two punches shattered the man's jaw. Spider-man noted almost absently that the lack of food was having an effect, it should have been just one punch. The driver had hit the brakes and was scrambling out of the van. Without a single wasted motion, Spider-man delivered a kick that sent him flying, landing on the ground with a crunch of breaking bone. As he lay there screaming, Spider-man pulled himself out of the van and perched temporarily on the roof, ignoring the blood he had left behind, or how the cuts from his earlier fights had reopened. After all, it was only physical.

Nothing mattered any more. He didn't view himself as a hero, he only fought crime ruthlessly to fight off the internal struggle. He would die fighting or just take a simple way out.

He leapt off the van and scrambled up the side of the skyscraper. A crack and a sudden splintering of a brick nearby told him that at least one of the cops had taken a shot at him, but he didn't care. Live. Die. It didn't matter. He ignored the cops and continued crawling until he was high enough to launch himself in a giant leap to the next skyscraper alone.

His eyes, reddened and empty, scanned the night as he continued to run across the walls and rooftops. A crime was happening somewhere, he would find it and stop it. He was not Spider-man. Not Michael, not a photographer. Not anymore. That life was gone. Dead. Just like the Blizzard Group and his family. He was just a average guy gifted with a course and a fucked up life.

Spider-man saw an explosion in the distance and changed course, ignoring the feeling of the cold night air across his cut and bruised skin, uncovered by the tears and holes in his suit. It didn't matter. He would fight. It was all he could do. Nothing mattered anymore, this would be his last night as a vigilante.

~~~

Spider-man landed on the balcony of his penthouse, he was tired after all the countless bad he had beaten down, close to the brink of death, he entered his home as he sat on his couch in the center of the room. He had dropped off Rover at Saitama's apartment so that he could take care of him from now on.

He groaned as he sat down, emotional trauma after another, there was nothing more that could be done. He felt empty. A broken shadow of his former playful, happy self, replaced by this stoic, miserable and depressed shell.

Michael did his best to do anything that could make him feel better...That included a few...recreational activities.

This didn't include drugs or anything. Michael would never try anything like that but...he did turn more to the bottle.

Michael felt what was really the harm. People did it all the time and it seemed like a great stress reliever. However, even he knew at that time that it was just a foolish hopeful voice at the back of his mind trying to do anything to cheer itself up.

A week turned into 2 and 1 to 2 beers would turn to 3 or 4. Soon, it switched up from beer to Whiskey and Vodka. It was higher than beers as one would expect so he had to start taking more cool shots of Spider-man for that.

The hero soon started developing a problem. He would drink cup after cup, trying anything, anything to get better but nothing ever did, no matter how strong. It only made him more sad, more depressed. He wanted to stop but it was too late. The drink had completely pulled him in and held a tight grip on him.

It was at this point in which he couldn't take this anymore. With everything that had happened, he wanted to end this pain so badly and he only knew one way how to do it. He debated himself about this for a long time and figured this was the best course of action to take for everybody involved. Michael would be at peace once and for all.

Writing down his last words in a black journal, he sets it down on the kitchen counter. He texted his friends one final message as he left his phone on the counter right next to the journal.

With everything he needed in hand, he was out for the rainy night and went into the streets in his civilian clothing. No caring about showing his face.

In an alleyway, he got dressed in full spider gear and left his civilian clothes behind in the bag. He put the object he took from the drawers carefully in his hands and shot his webs out to the streets of City-J.

Spider-man swung up to the top of a tall building. He looked around and saw that no one was around. He took an object from his other hand which turned out to be a sharp steak knife. He took a deep breath and slowly started to cut himself.

It hurt like crazy but Michael felt this was the only way he could keep himself from causing any more harm to either himself or those around him. It was better this way. Whether or not if Fubuki is really dead, he would be taking the easy way out from all the pain throughout the years of being Spider-man.

Michael cut about 4 times before his body started to become woozy. Around the sixth, he suddenly started feeling weak. When it came to around 8 cuts as he dropped the knife, he stopped, his body too weak to do anything more. He laid down on the floor as his back touched the rooftop, staring up at the dark sky.

His body getting soaked in the cold rain as his blood was getting drenched on the cold water. He just wants to die right here and now, nothing more. Nothing mattered anymore.

His vision started to become woozy as he was slowly slipping into unconscious giving out his last words in a weak voice as darkness was taking over, "Fubuki...Mom....Yuri....May...I'll see...you....soon."