||[Oct. 30th, 2006|09:04 pm]
Cable x Deadpool
And once again, I make an ill-fated attempt at writing an actual series. It's Wade, it's Nate, and apparently, a big bucket of angst and general sniping going around. And eventually, just maybe a dollop of slash here and there beyond the subtext stages, unlike the way my pussyfootin' self usually works. Post-#33, but in a way that's hand-designed to ignore any and all canon to come after that. No fear of getting Nicieza'ed here, oh no.
THAT WILL NOT GO AWAY pt. 1:
Pay no mind what other voices say.
When he wakes up, his limbs feel heavy and his head is filled with a tell-tale emptiness. Drugged. He must have been drugged.
The third clue to prove the theorem is the fact that he's sprawled up against the wall with something heavy pressing into his wrists. Eyesight is... limited.
Dark. Dark and damp. That much he can make out. Slowly, shards of colour bleed into his vision, giving way to shapes and sounds. Dripping. He hears dripping. And footsteps, thudding dangerously on stone floors.
Everything in him screams danger. Who will it be?
It's best to risk it with someone else.
"Bodyslide by two," he says. And waits.
This may be a problem.
Footsteps are coming closer now. It's time to formulate a plan of attack. Break the chains, leap to his feet, take his captor down without harming him too badly. It's practically routine now. Ironic.
But it still comes as a surprise when the door slams open and light floods into the room. Shadows stain everything, from the tiled floor to the metal doors and his captor's face. Look at the floor. Don't let him see what you're planning.
"Nathan Dayspring Summers," the man in the doorway says. "It's a---guhk."
His head snaps up despite himself. It's futile, because all he sees are white slits, piercing violently through the darkness, and a faint sheen of blood on mottled skin. Reeking like death.
"Hey, Nate." Wade says, and it would almost seem callous if Nathan hadn't long since learned to respect the menace in his stance. "Long time no see. Wish it'd been longer, but as the Stones said, you can't always get what you want, right? Or was it the Beach Boys? Beegees? I always get 'em mixed up. What with the elderly and the stupid fashion sense and all."
A pool of blood is seeping towards his feet as life drains out of the dying body in front of him. He wonders if it was necessary.
Most likely not.
"Well, are you gonna sit there like a freakin' zombie or are you comin' out already? Heh. Comin' out. I slay me."
"Where are we?"
"A mental institution, looks like. They don't change much with the years. Wouldn't be the first time I break out of one. Or the second, for that matter. Now will you stop flapping your jaw at me and get up already?"
It takes him a moment to struggle to his feet. So weak. He can feel it in every bone, the... slowness. Sluggishness, even. It'll pass with the hours, but whatever they gave him feels like it was enough to put down an elephant.
"Wade?" he asks, not entirely sure what kind of answer he's expecting. Hopefully not another bullet in his head.
"No," Wade says, eyes flashing with something altogether unfamilliar. The cheerful rattle has broken away from his voice, and it's almost no surprise when he continues, "While we're in here, you call me Deadpool." It's the frantic sense of movement he usually has that's absent here, and for a moment, Nathan almost feels afraid. Not for himself, for... something else.
"Alright. Deadpool. Let's go."
He'd rather take his chances with Deadpool than with whatever surgically cut through all of his abilities, technological or otherwise.
Unless Wade's responsible for this.
He doubts it - it's not Wade's style - but he doesn't know what to expect from Wade. Not anymore. Perhaps even ever, really.
Through the door and out the hallway, scratched and dirty metal plastered against the hallways, the perpetual dripping of water down onto the ground. And Wade is quiet, just a mottled shade in the dark without his suit.
It's so unnerving he almost jumps when the first scream smashes violently into the air, full of pain, empty of fear. Resignation's cry. Somewhere in the distance, someone is suffering, and horribly so.
"We have to go there."
"And what? Put 'em out of their misery?" Wade acknowledges him only briefly with a twist of his head.
"I can help them."
"No. You can't."
"You wanna go back, save their bacon, carry them out into the light where the monsters can't get them like a regular Super Joe?" A full turn, now, and Wade is facing him, eyes dark and slits again. "You know it's never that freakin' simple. Best you can give 'em is a bullet."
"I told you," he begins to walk once more, his bare feet thudding omniously against the floor, "It's Deadpool."
"You're not the only one with a lifetime of violence on his conscience."
"Maybe," Wade says, and pauses momentarily to look at him. Thoroughly. Almost frighteningly so. "But you never spent more than a week in a place like this. So move it along, boyscout. I'm sure there's some frogs back home who need your help swimming. Or is that playing the ukelele? Amphibians these days, pheeew."
Things quiet, but only briefly so - and then there is another scream, and he won't let Wade's perpetual, dreary pessimism stop him this time.
He finds it hard to run, his muscles straining in protest - straining against the drugs, no doubt - but it's in him to pull open the door with enough force to slam it against the wall.
The scene is gruesome: A small man is strapped into a chair the Geneva Conventions would heartily condemn, and something - invisible, perhaps - is doing horrific things that make him scream and thrash into thin air. Something approaches the man's face, twisting rapidly, and laughter is embedded deeply into the very air.
It takes him seconds to get there, but when he hurls himself at the chair he finds himself skidding over the floor, smashing into the wall behind it.
"You can't do anything, Nate," Wade is leaning up against the door frame. He looks almost... remorseful. "All of this's already long done. Kind've figured that out a while ago, what with all the dead people walking."
And there it is again: that worrying quiet, the way Wade's arms wrap around themselves like a shield.
"How long were you out here, Wade?"
But Wade isn't looking at him.
"His name was Worm."
"The squirt over there. His name was Worm. Liked Mariah Carey a hell of a lot more than anyone has any right to." He looks up. "He called me a hero, the dumbass. He's getting his brain sliced to pieces by an attendant with a severe hate-on for yours truly and he's screaming 'Wade! HERO!' over and over again till he couldn't. What the fuck was that about?"
When he thinks about it, this is familliar - an encounter with Wade years before things became this complicated. When it began to complicate. It rots.
And he just walks away. No jokes. No drifting wisecracks in the night or mocking words about his legacy. There is something about this place that scares Deadpool.
"I figure this is all a figment of my imagination, right? Maybe I'm dreaming. Would explain why you're half-naked, anyway."
The words come in short bursts. He tries not to think about the implications too much.
"I'm fairly certain that I'm real, Wade." he says instead.
"Yeah, that's what you always say in these things. Don't think I'm not on to you."
It must be difficult. Not knowing which way your mind is stretching, not knowing what's hallucination and what's truth -- what little he remembers of his first and only incursion into Wade's brain: everything is a hallucination in degree. He wanted to reach out, then, and did, in his way. But he could have done more. (There is always more)
"Wade..." he says.
Well, that was quick.
"I know that tone of voice. No more sermons, Nate. This ain't the place, and I'm never giving you the time again, so give it up. Got no time for this bullshit, it's time to blow this popsicle stand. With guns, if at all possible."
He surpresses a sigh.
"So which way do we go?"
"You think I busted you out of there 'cause your face looked pretty? If I knew you were going to stand around like a freakin' Lurch wannabe I wouldn't have bothered."
"You don't know."
"Yeah, a hundred points to Captain Obvious with the steel-plated areola. Now go use your not-so-mutant mojo and get us the hell out of here so I can go back to ignoring you till you drift away like Mary freakin' Poppins!"