||[Nov. 10th, 2006|02:52 pm]
Cable x Deadpool
THAT WILL NOT GO AWAY
takes C&DP up to #33 and then runs cheerfully skipping into the woods of non-canon
pt. 2: Safe from pain and truth and choice and other poison devils
The hallway is long, lined with doors, and he's willing to wager that Wade's got a bad story behind each one of them. That's the twisted logic of this place, after all...
"Take my hand, disco man! Are you just a one night stand?!", deranged but fluid, the words drift through the air much like a large anvil. He rubs his brow.
At least something has returned to normal. Whatever fell over Wade in those first few minutes has dissipated, and Nate has to admit that his rambling presence is somewhat of a comfort.
Somewhat. Some things are hard to forget.
Wade warbles on, his voice missing notes as often as he hits them. It's not unlike a big, verbal bullseye - anyone could be lurking, waiting to take their shot. He could be lurking.
"Have I got something on my face? There's gotta be something on my face, 'cause you're staring at me. Or is it the pretty, pretty back of my noggin that's making you swoon like a schoolgirl?"
The melody's stopped, as has Wade, and only now he realises where his questioning gaze has been lingering. "Sorry," he says.
Turning, looking at him-- "So tell me, Nate," Wade says, conversationally, "Why haven't you offed me yet?"
That elects somewhat of a smile, despite himself. A warped one, but familliar. "Why haven't you?"
"Turnin' the question around isn't fair play, Gesundheit."
"No point to it, is there? I tried a couple've times, obviously didn't take." He points the gun he 'liberated' from its owner up in the air. "Pow," he says, grins in a macabre fashion, and gets back to walking. Singing, even. Nathan doesn't know whether to be relieved or irritated, but he finds he's quickly running out of patience with Wade's constant meandering.
"Deadpool. What happened?"
The figure in front of him doesn't miss a step. "Well, Nate, I'm glad you asked. It's been a while now, and your mother and I think it's about time we have a little talk--"
Askani preserve, that should teach him about asking Wade indirect questions. "What happened that took you here. All I remember is being on Providence, and then-- waking up."
"I dunno, Nate. I'm a doctor, not a... know-thingies-person. Actually, I'm not a doctor either, so hey. I knew a nurse once, though... she changes my diapers real nice." And then it's back to singing ("Have you crossed a bridge too far? Disco man! Jump in a cab and steal a car!").
Probably futile to press. It isn't something he'd have a problem with, but he's learned the hard way what pressing Wade leads to. Instead, he busies himself with his environment, counting doors, watching the hallway for any sign of an end. According to what little relevant information he's gotten out of Wade, there's bits and pieces of his memories strewn around this place ("It's like a freakin' 'This Is Your Life' out there," would have been the information granted; he's become an expert on Wadespeak by necessity and even found himself watching an episode of Help Me Help You when it first aired because Wade would not shut up about Ted Danson's jawline, and oh, he's osmosing Wade's ADD again).
A psychic trap, then.
But who would set one for Deadpool, of all people? And why is he here?
And how much longer is he going to let Wade lead him around to what appears to be nowhere at all?
"Maybe we should try another door."
"Yeah, no. I don't wanna throw open a door and have you come face to face with my grampy flogging me with a box of Cracker Jacks or something. It'd just be embarrassing."
"This passageway doesn't lead anywhere."
"No, but at least it smells minty-fresh."
Nate quirks an eyebrow.
"Gimme a break, I haven't slept in like four days, even the master's gotta reload to take the headshot."
"We need to get serious about this."
"I don't got to do anything, Nate."
And there is the tension. And the stopping. He's quickly learning to dislike the stopping.
"Well, this is my head, or some bizarro version of it - kinda Twilight Zone-y, really - I figure that gets me the right to call ball. Right? It isn't like you don't try and call the shots anywhere else."
"It won't be any use to either of us if we just wander around hoping something will happen, Wade."
"Dammit, Nate, it's freakin' Deadpool, alright? I shot you in the freaking HEAD to get away from this crap, but no, big daddy's gotta pop into my nightmare and give me the freaking Greek chorus."
"We don't have the time for this."
"You could've just, I dunno, left me unfixed, getting blanker every day until this, all of this, was just gone-- but no, you hadda go play Messiah again and now we're standin' in worse horseshit than Paris Hilton the last time she had a few too many and wandered into a PETA meeting."
Click. Clack. Gun in his face. Oh, none of this. "Put that away, Wade."
"Gimme a reason to."
"You need me."
The door splintering behind his back tells him that may not have been the best approach (apparently Wade still has his powers, his strength, his agility. Something isn't right here).
Wounds on his back are going to remind him about that in the morning. Lucky thing the gorillas are just an illusion, and the bars won't keep him in. He doesn't pay attention to the body on the floor. No doubt there are thousands in here.
His own blood again. Disgusting.
"That's the only hit you get," he tells Wade, (expecting mockery for his phrasing, getting none) and charges at him, smashing him up against the wall.
But Wade is fast, too damned fast all the time, slipping past him and using his strength to the maximum. In any other situation, Nate could take him, but his reflexes are slow and his muscles won't move like he should -- and there's another wall and there's another couple of bruises.
"There's no point to this, Wade." he says, pulling one arm free from Wade's death grip and smashing his way out.
"Really? 'Cause I kinda like doing it. You know, you sound just like Marlon Brando when you do that?" and he jumps-- "I used to think you aspired to be Justin but just didn't have the tenor... obviously, you're more of an oldies kinda guy." and comes at him feet first, "Or is that newies? Older oldies? Timetravel makes my brain hurt. It's gotta make yours want to explode." and swings at his head.
Let it fizzle into static let it fizzle into static use it and block Wade's strike and dive--
This is not an even fight by any means. Which is no excuse; he should be able to use it effectively enough (except it's Wade, isn't it? You never really know. And that bothers him) to win.
And he finds himself looking up at a little old lady sitting quietly on the floor. Big sunglasses, a floral dress, and above her head, something metal, something sharp. In the corner of his eyes, more metal, more sharpness. This is not good. Where is he? There's boards up against the wall and barely any light at all. A shack of some kind.
The old woman's face makes way for Wade's as he looms over him, eyes slit again, another kind of tension. "I don't want you pokin' around my head, Nate." he says, "So get the hell out."
He wipes the blood from his mouth. It soaks into the skin of his hand. Time to start treating Wade like a volatile animal, again.
"Okay," he says, and lets Wade pull him out of the room without prolonging the fight further.
"We're taking another door out," Wade says, so emphatically not looking that he knows the man is watching his every move. "But I get to check. No peeping. I know you're a pathetic windbag but that don't mean you get to use my memories of big pimping to get your jollies, alright? Just stay in the hallway like a good two hundred pound sad sack with delusions of Godhood. I'm sure you can find some ants to convert, or something. Heh. Kind of like that guy who could talk to ants. What kind of an idiot invents a device to talk to ants? Even I'm not that stupid."
Forget the words. Assess the situation.
First order of business: get out of here. He'll need Wade.
Second order of business: kill Wade. Permanently. He'll need Wade for that, too.
And the Cone of Silence.
"Fine," he says.