A/N: Okay. Don't own anyone; they all belong to Marvel. At least I think they do. They do . . . right? Oh, btw, I dunno when this is set. It's waaaaaay AU, so . . . it's AU. Duh. . . . I'm gonna quit being stupid and just get on with it.

I watch the lithe figure through the scope of my custom-made sniper rifle. He—no, no, it—flies through the muggy summer night air of Manhattan, its life precariously hanging from a strand of fiber no thicker than a pencil. Its incredibly strong; and fast too. If I want to reach my goal tonight, I must be smart, strong, steady, and quick. I must also be patient. Of course, patience is no problem for me: I have waited long for this chance.

The chance to avenge my father's death.

The cold steel of the gun against my cheek jerks me from my reverie. I shake myself. Did I fall asleep? God, I did! But it's no big deal . . . I can still see my target. He seems to be coming to me. I smirk. He will be dead before the sun reflects off the Empire State Building.

And then my self-contented smirk fades into a frown. Yes. Yes, he's coming here. Panic swells in my chest as I realize that he wasn't happy with just my father's life. He doesn't just want to rip my father away from me, along with my sense of purpose. He wants something more.

He wants my life.

Rage forces bitter bile into my mouth, and I choke it down. That—that freak had the gall to think it could just waltz into my life, kill my father—the only parent I have—rip my heart to shreds, murder me, and say it fought crime?! "Bastard," I hiss between clenched teeth, my knuckles a stark white as they clench on the barrel of the rifle. "You—effing—BASTARD!"

I run up the stairs. It's heading for that attic up there, the one that's boarded up. Nobody ever goes up there but Peter, my roommate and buddy since middle school: obviously, the freak has been scoping the place out and figured that it was the best place to enter through. Wait. Peter. Peter's in the attic. Oh god, it'll kill him, it'll kill Peter. Peter won't move, he'll try to take damn pictures of it. Peter, Peter, Peter . . . "PETER!" I scream. "PETER, IT'S HIM! He's HERE!"

The only answer I hear is a muffled crash, a groan, and a thud.

I roar with pain and agony at the sound. Peter! "NOOOOO!" I scream, bodily forcing my way through the door. It crumbles easily from the impact of my shoulder—it must be at least 50 years old, I think hazily through my frenzied rampage—and I whip the barrel of the rifle around and shoot the hated freak at point-blank range.

The tranquilizer erupts from the rifle at a ridiculous speed and embeds itself in the right shoulder of the vaguely human form. Red liquid sprays from the wound and covers the floor and the shattered window. Blood. Red, hot blood. Human blood. I cock my head, an insane, tight, grim smile spreading itself across my jaw line. Funny. I thought its blood would be blue or black.

And then the sick reality of what I've done slaps me in the face. Oh my god. I just shot someone. I shake myself. It was in defense of Peter. Peter. Peter. I whirl, my eyes flicking around for the bookworm that's been like a kid brother to me for years. My search comes up clean, though, and I sigh. The sound must have been the freak coming through the window. And speaking of the freak, it was moving slowly. "Gahrghaaaarry," it slurs, the effects of the tranquilizer already seizing control of its system. It should—it has enough chemical-y junk to take down an elephant. "Whhharaaasuup?"

"Shut up," I snarl, grabbing a small knife from my belt. The freak pays me no mind and continues to babble on drunkenly. "Today is the day you die, freak!" I can't stop myself. I fly into a rage unparalleled by any rage ever felt by me ever before. I take the knife and stab. I stab, and stab. A red curtain descends upon my vision, coloring everything a horrifying crimson. Time passes, but hardly so.

"AaAARGH!" screams the freak, snapping me out of my berserker fury. It sounds so . . . human. So familiar.

I rock back on my heels, staring at the damage. It's bleeding from about a dozen wounds in it's chest, it's gut, and it's face; also, the tranquilizer is buried deeply in a vital spot. It's obvious to both me and the freak that it's going to die, and die soon. It moans, sounding remarkably human. I shake myself. No! It is not human! I will not allow myself to think that this—monster—has feelings! "You—are—not—HUMAN!" I grit out from between clenched teeth. I move to take off the mask, and then stop. The voice was slightly familiar. Did I know this guy? No, no, no! Of course not! "Not human," I mumble. I shake my head, and then rip off the mask, the mask that's hid my father's murderer for a year now, the horrible mask, the hated, loathed mask with the piercing silver eyes—

—and feel the blood drain from my face as I meet the equally piercing azure eyes of Peter.

"P-Peter?" I stutter. "You-you're . . . him?"

He smiles crookedly. "Yesh. Yesh I ahgm. Anghd it shucks," he added darkly, frowning slightly, which added a slight comic mask to this macabre scene. He coughs, and the liquid that dribbles from his mouth is a dark red, a blood red.

"You . . . you killed my father? AND NEVER TOLD ME?" I screamed, brandishing the bloody knife.

He whimpered, and winced with pain. "I'm shorry, Harrghy, I didn't know whaght to tell you . . ." he garbled in a small voice. "He attakghed me and hurght M.J. and alghmost killed my Aunt . . ." He whimpered again, fear shining in his eyes. Fear of death. Fear of me. Fear of what I've done to him. "Plchese don't hurght me, again . . . plchese."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, pain and rage and loss clawing at my heart. "I'm sorry." I repeat myself over and over again, as if that would make it right. As if that would atone for the horror I've committed. "I'm sorry, sorry, sorry . . . "

"Harry—"he coughed. The drug has worn off amazingly fast. "Harry . . . promise me that you'll take care of M.J. . . . "

Okay, maybe it hadn't.

"You take care of her!" I snap, looking him in the eyes. "You-you're—"

"I know what I am!" he growls back. "And I'm going to die. You . . . take care of her." His eyes grew foggy. "Take . . . care of . . . her . . . "

And just like that, Spiderman died.

It's eight o' clock in the morning when Mary Jane Watson comes in through the door, bearing doughnuts in a grease-soaked bag. "Harry?" she calls anxiously. "Peter?"

There is no reply.

"Harry . . . ?" she says again, waving the bag about. "I've got Krispy Kremes . . . "

Nothing.

"Huh," mutters M.J., unfazed. It's Saturday, and it's before noon . . . neither Peter or Harry should be awake, much less out and about. Nevertheless, Krispy Kremes should have brought them both running. "C'mon, guys, out of bed . . . "

She waits. And waits. And waits some more. Finally, after fifteen minutes, she gives up any patience she has left and runs up the stairs, saying, "C'mon, you guys, you're not that deaf!" and throwing open the door to Harry's room . . .

. . . finding nothing but Harry's usual mess. No Harry. Odd.

She checks Peter's room as well. Same mess, same lack of mess-inducer. The absence of the two young men disturbs her. For either of them to be up this—dare she say it—early in the morning, something must've happened. Something good . . . or something decidedly bad.

She pokes around for an hour, calling them both repeatedly. To her utter annoyance, she finds Harry's phone in his room, under a pile of jeans, socks, underwear, and other such bits of laundry. She searches both rooms from top to bottom and finds no notes as to their whereabouts. She raids the fridge for juice, calls Peter some more, then searches the rest of the house. A fruitless search later, she is in the stairwell to the attic, resting, about to just give up and call the police, when she calls Peter just one last time. And, to her amazement, hears his ringtone sounding in the attic.

She tears up the stairs, relief flooding through her entire body. She'll get up there, and Harry'll be furious with Peter, for the joke will be ruined by his phone. It was all a joke. She smiles, a sharp reprimand on her mind, a laugh on her lips—

—but it soon dies as she finds the broken door. She sees the pool of blood, and she knows. It is not a joke. It is deadly serious.

After a minute's horrified silence, she braces herself for whatever may be and enters.

On the police report, it says that Harry Osbourne killed Peter Parker, a.k.a., Spiderman with a dart gun and a knife, and then committed suicide shortly thereafter. Motive seemed to be to avenge his father's death, according to close friends of Osbourne. How Parker became Spiderman, nobody ever found out. But, after an extensive autopsy of the alleged Spiderman, they discovered that his DNA's molecular structure was drastically modified, and that it had taken a lot more than a knife and a dart to kill him. He had been returning from another battle with Doc Ock, and had several broken ribs, bruises, and a slight concussion.

Doc Ock is eventually killed, although he takes a quarter of the X-Men, one of the Fantastic Four, and Flash Gordon with him.

Mary Jane Watson never truly recovers from the shock of discovering not one but two of her friends dead by the same hand, and undergoes extensive therapy. Eventually, she settles down enough to live a productive life as a secretary, a job she loathes but never really gets a chance to quit. On the fifteenth anniversary of Peter Parker's and Harry Osbourne's deaths, she is run over by a drunken accountant driving way too fast. She dies in ICU two days later.

In the end, everyone dies. It is a truth we must all face. In reality, it matters not how we live . . .

. . . because, in the end, it doesn't even matter.

A/N: WOW. So much death! Depressing, ain't it? Death and horror and gore really isn't my cuppa tea, so this probably sucked. A lot. Well, only one way to let me know. There's a little button that says 'review'. Click it, and tell me your thoughts.