The black SUV rolled to a stop on the dirt road, its tires crunching on loose gravel. The engine purred softly as the four passengers inside surveyed the warehouse in the distance. It loomed like a forgotten relic of a bad Bond movie, rust eating away at its exterior, broken windows glinting in the sunlight like jagged teeth. The quiet was unnerving, broken only by the occasional distant chirp of birds and the hum of the SUV.
Deadpool was the first to step out, stretching as though he'd been cramped in there for hours. "Ah, Madrid air. Smells like wine, tapas, and questionable life choices. And that's just Logan." He sniffed exaggeratedly, then paused. "Wait. Do I smell... a hint of regret? Oh, right, that's coming from you, Angel." He pointed at Warren, grinning under his mask.
Logan stepped out next, lighting his cigar with the kind of flair that said, I've been through too much crap to care about your nonsense, Wade. He leaned against the SUV, taking a long drag before growling, "Focus, Wade. We're not here for your stand-up routine."
"Stand-up routine?" Wade gasped, clutching his chest as though mortally wounded. "Logan, how dare you? This is a one-man Broadway show, complete with interpretive dance and occasional nudity." He wiggled his hips for emphasis, his katanas jangling like the world's deadliest maracas.
Logan rolled his eyes, muttering, "I swear, one of these days…"
"No, no, don't finish that sentence," Wade interrupted, wagging a finger at him. "The 'one of these days, Wade' threat? Been there, heard that. Let's skip to the part where you sigh heavily and secretly admit you'd miss me if I was gone." He paused dramatically, staring directly at the readers. "See that, folks? This is what repression looks like. Logan's basically the poster boy for emotionally constipated badasses."
Alvarez stepped out next, smoothing his blazer like he was about to walk onto the set of a cologne commercial. "Are you always this exhausting?" he asked, his thick Spanish accent rolling off his tongue like honey.
Wade tilted his head, pretending to consider it. "Only on days ending in Y. But hey, you're looking good, Zorro. Tell me, is that jacket custom-made, or do you just wake up looking like the lovechild of Antonio Banderas and a bottle of Rioja?"
Alvarez smirked, clearly unimpressed. "At least I dress like a professional, not a clown escaped from Cirque du Soleil."
"Touché, Puss in Boots," Wade replied, finger guns blazing. "But let's not forget who the real star is here."
Before Alvarez could retort, a figure stepped out from the tree line. Her every movement was measured and precise, her dark ponytail swaying like it had choreography of its own. She wore a tactical jacket and jeans, and her piercing eyes scanned the group with the intensity of someone who didn't take crap from anyone.
Wade froze. "Oh. My. God." He clutched his heart. "Penélope Cruz? I loved you in Vicky Cristina Barcelona! And Blow! And Pirates of the Caribbean! Wait, are we doing a crossover with Jack Sparrow? Is Johnny Depp here? Is this the multiverse?"
The woman stopped, her sharp glare cutting through the air like a knife. "My name," she said slowly, her voice dripping with disdain, "is Agent Sofia Reyes. I've been surveilling the warehouse since last night, and I don't have time for your nonsense."
"Oh, she's spicy," Wade whispered to Logan, nudging him. "You see that? She's got that classic Cruz fire. I half expect her to pull out castanets and start dancing Flamenco."
Logan grunted, clearly unimpressed. "Wade, for once in your life, shut up."
Sofia ignored them both, turning her attention to Alvarez. "We have twelve confirmed guards inside," she said briskly, pulling up a tablet with a schematic of the warehouse. "Armed and on a rotating patrol. No sign of Francis Freeman, but the right-hand man, Mr. Smith, is inside. Likely upstairs."
"Figures," Logan muttered, puffing on his cigar. "The big fish always hides behind his goons."
Warren, ever the Boy Scout, flexed his wings and folded his arms. "We go in, grab Smith, and make him talk."
Sofia nodded. "That's the plan. The question is how to breach—"
"Uh…" Warren interrupted, looking around. "Where's Wade?"
The group froze. Logan's cigar paused halfway to his lips. Alvarez scanned the area, and Sofia tensed, her eyes narrowing.
"Son of a—" Logan growled, already turning toward the warehouse.
The sudden crackle of gunfire ripped through the quiet, followed by an ear-splitting BOOM! Then, as if scripted for maximum annoyance, Wade's voice echoed through the air. "SURPRISE, MOTHERF—!"
Logan's hand hit his forehead with a slap that could've shattered adamantium. "He didn't."
"Oh, he did," Warren said, sighing as he unfolded his wings. "He always does."
Sofia muttered something venomous in Spanish, her lips curling into a scowl. Wade would've translated it as "absolute idiot in a discount ninja suit."
Alvarez adjusted his rifle, his face grim. "New plan: follow the explosions."
Logan growled, flicking his cigar to the ground. "When I find that mouthy little bastard, I'm gonna shove that katana of his right up his—"
"Save it," Sofia interrupted, already moving. "We don't have time for your colorful threats."
"Oh, don't worry," Logan shot back, stalking toward the warehouse. "He's gonna feel this one."
And with that, the team set off, the faint sound of Wade's chaos growing louder with every step.
—
The warehouse looked like it had been plucked straight out of a "How to Be a Generic Henchman" training montage. Dim lighting? Check. Rusted metal everywhere? Double check. The faint stench of gun oil and crushed dreams? Oh yeah, we're cooking now. It was the kind of place where, if you licked a surface, you'd probably get tetanus and a bad Yelp review.
As Deadpool kicked the door off its hinges—it wasn't even locked, by the way—he turned to the camera (yes, you, dear reader).
"Okay, let's talk. You ever notice how bad guys always pick these creepy-ass warehouses? Like, what's the thought process here? 'Let's set up shop somewhere that screams, raid me, Daddy.' It's like they've never even seen an action movie. Or me. Which is a crime in itself, because, hello? Ryan Reynolds. But enough about their poor life choices. Let's ruin their lives."
Wade strolled in like he owned the place—probably because he was about to evict everyone in it via excessive violence. The first henchman—a wiry guy wielding a crowbar—charged at him with all the coordination of a baby deer on ice.
"Aw, look at you," Wade said, sidestepping the swing. "Trying so hard. It's almost adorable. Like when your grandma sends you $5 for Christmas, and you're like, 'Wow, this doesn't even cover a Starbucks.'"
Before the guy could take another swing, Wade ducked, kicked his legs out from under him, and jabbed the crowbar out of his hand with a katana.
"Here's a pro tip, my guy: when you come at someone holding two giant swords, maybe don't bring a stick to the knife fight." Wade leaned down, tapping the guy's forehead with his blade. "So, Francis. Where is he? And don't make me repeat myself; I have the attention span of a goldfish on Adderall."
The guy whimpered. "I—I don't know!"
Wade straightened, sighing dramatically. "Of course you don't. God forbid henchmen ever actually know anything. Seriously, what do they pay you for? Wait—do they pay you? Is this, like, an unpaid internship? Blink twice if you need a union rep."
When the henchman just stared in terror, Wade shrugged. "Fine. Guess I'll take your silence as a yes to violence." He kicked the guy into a stack of crates and turned back to the camera.
"Honestly, why do I even bother asking? These guys are more clueless than the plot of X-Men Origins: Wolverine. Remember that dumpster fire? Oh, wait! I was in it! Fun fact: I still have PTSD from having my mouth sewn shut. I mean, who does that to Ryan freakin' Reynolds?"
Deadpool approached a dude trying—and failing—to reload a shotgun. Wade tapped him on the shoulder, and the guy spun around, panicked.
"Whoa, easy there, Rambo," Wade said. "Relax, I'm not gonna hurt you." A pause. "Okay, that was a lie. I'm totally gonna hurt you. But first, let's play 20 Questions: Where's Francis?"
"I—I don't know!" the guy stammered, shaking so hard he dropped the shotgun.
"Okay, fine, Plan B," Wade said, pulling out a coin. "Heads, I let you live. Tails, I turn you into an extra in a Tarantino movie." He flipped the coin, caught it, and slapped it onto his wrist. "Heads. Lucky you. Now, let's spice things up."
Without waiting for an answer, Wade promptly punched the guy in the face, knocking him out cold. "What? I said you could live. I never said you'd keep all your teeth."
Wade crouched down, pulling out a Sharpie and scribbling "LOST AND DUMB" across the guy's forehead. "You know, sometimes I feel bad for them. But then I remember: henchmen choose this life. It's like signing up for jury duty, but with more blood and fewer snacks."
By now, the room was alive with the sounds of screaming, gunfire, and Wade humming a questionable rendition of Hit Me Baby One More Time. Two more henchmen ran at him from opposite sides. Wade rolled his eyes.
"Oh, look! It's Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-About-To-Die. What's the game plan here, boys? Gonna try the old 'rush him with no strategy' move? Classic. Let's see how it works out for you."
The first guy swung a bat. Wade caught it mid-swing, yanking it out of the guy's hands and tossing it behind him. It hit a vending machine, shattering the glass.
"Oooh, Snickers!" Wade said, momentarily distracted. "BRB, I need sugar."
As the second thug lunged with a knife, Wade sidestepped, pulled a katana free, and disarmed him—literally. The guy screamed as his knife (and a few fingers) hit the floor.
"Relax, Mr. Stabby," Wade said, patting the guy on the shoulder. "You'll live. Probably. Honestly, I'm not a doctor. Although, fun fact, I did once play one in a Deadpool fanfic. Yes, it was weird. Yes, I'm judging you for thinking about it now."
Deadpool strolled over to the vending machine, pulling out a wad of cash. "You know, people say I'm a monster, but at least I pay for my snacks. Take notes, henchmen."
He shoved a bill into the machine, punched a button, and waited. Nothing happened. Wade froze, staring at the machine like it had just insulted his mother.
"Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. Did you just… eat my dollar?" He slammed a fist against the glass. "Don't make me kill you too, Brenda."
Suddenly, more henchmen burst into the room, guns drawn. Wade turned, holding up a hand.
"Guys, I'm dealing with a vending machine betrayal. Can we reschedule this shootout? Like, tomorrow? Noonish? I'll bring bagels."
When they didn't lower their guns, Wade sighed. "Fine. Let's do this." He unsheathed his katanas, muttering under his breath. "Stupid vending machine. Stupid Francis. Stupid life choices."
As the room exploded into violence, Wade shouted over the chaos. "WHERE'S FRANCIS?!" He swung a katana, deflecting a bullet into a thug's leg. "WHERE'S MY FRANCI—oh, wait. Wrong movie." He decapitated another thug with a single stroke, then turned back to the camera.
"Bet you're wondering, 'Gee, Deadpool, why don't you just skip the henchmen and go straight to the big bad?' Well, because if I did that, we wouldn't have time for all this gratuitous bloodshed. And honestly, what's a Deadpool story without a little murder yoga? You're welcome."
And the carnage continued.
---
Outside the warehouse, the air was thick with tension and the unmistakable scent of impending chaos. The unmistakable sounds of gunfire, shouting, and the occasional explosion echoed from within, punctuating the sense that the situation was rapidly spiraling out of control.
Logan paused, his weathered face unreadable, as he took in a deep, measured breath. He could practically taste the blood in the air. "Yep. That's definitely Wade in there," he muttered, his voice gravelly and unmistakably tired, as if he'd already lived through this too many times to count.
Alvarez, his sharp eyes scanning the area with the precision of a seasoned operative, adjusted his dark leather jacket and pulled out his sidearm, his fingers flexing around the grip with casual confidence. "I take it this is... normal for him?" he asked, the question more rhetorical than anything, as though the answer was self-evident.
Logan chuckled darkly, the sound low and rough like the growl of a caged animal. "Normal?" He scoffed, shaking his head slowly. "Wade's about as 'normal' as a tequila-drunk mariachi band playing Metallica covers at a bar fight. I'm not even sure what normal is for him anymore. Hell, the guy probably thinks 'subtlety' is the name of a fancy cocktail."
Alvarez shot him a grin, the kind that always seemed to be hiding a few secrets behind it. "Ah, a charming lunatic, no? Think of him as a flamenco dancer: graceful, unpredictable, and liable to stab you in the face without warning."
Sofia, walking just behind them, arched an eyebrow, her lips curling into a playful yet exasperated smile. Her thick accent was thick with sarcasm. "Oh, wonderful," she said, casting a pointed glance at Alvarez. "So, we're working with a lunatic. Should have known."
"A charming lunatic, Sofia," Alvarez repeated, his tone light, as though repeating it would somehow make it truer. "But don't worry, I'll make sure he doesn't bite off more than he can chew."
Sofia gave him a withering look, her dark eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms. "If this lunatic gets us all killed, I'm blaming you, Alvarez," she said, her voice laced with more than a hint of danger.
Alvarez raised his hands defensively. "Blame me? Of course. I'm the one who decided to team up with him, after all." He chuckled under his breath, his charm never wavering. "But don't worry, we'll be fine. He's got a weird way of surviving, this one."
Warren, his wings twitching nervously at his back, peered over his shoulder toward the warehouse. He was still getting used to the whole "flying thing" but even so, his unease was palpable. "Shouldn't we, I don't know, stop him before he kills everyone?" Warren's voice cracked with concern, a hint of real worry in his eyes as he looked at the chaotic scene unfolding inside.
Logan took a long drag from the cigar hanging from his lips, his eyes barely leaving the warehouse door as he slowly exhaled, sending a cloud of smoke drifting into the wind. "Nah. Let him soften 'em up a little first. Gives me less work to do," he replied, his voice flat, almost bored, as if he was already mentally preparing for the inevitable cleanup.
He flicked the smoldering remains of his cigar to the ground, watching it smolder before kicking it away with a boot. "You guys can help if you want," he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "But I'm kinda hoping for a quiet night, and Wade's… well, Wade's Wade."
Sofia muttered something under her breath in rapid Spanish, clearly not impressed by Logan's nonchalant attitude toward the situation. If anything, it only seemed to add fuel to her already burning frustration.
She shot a glance at Warren, who was still fidgeting, and then back at Logan. "Do you ever take anything seriously?" she snapped, her tone sharp. "We're not just dealing with henchmen here, Logan. You don't think he's going to kill everyone inside?"
Logan just shrugged. "They signed up for this life. I'm just here to make sure they don't get too comfy in it. Besides," he added, turning to look over his shoulder with a lazy grin, "you should be more worried about me not killing them. That's the real challenge."
Alvarez, ever the smooth talker, threw a wink toward Sofia, clearly enjoying the banter. "Ah, you see? That's why I like you, Logan. Always so predictable, like a cat who's just waiting for his chance to scratch you." He patted Warren on the back. "But don't worry, hijo, the big guy's got it under control. Just wait 'til we get inside. The fun's about to begin."
Sofia sighed, but the faintest smirk tugged at her lips. "If we survive this," she muttered, "I'm going to need a vacation. A long vacation."
Alvarez chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the entire spectacle. "Oh, don't worry, Sofia. After this, we'll all deserve one. But first, let's make sure our favorite lunatic doesn't end up turning the entire warehouse into a disaster zone."
---
Inside the warehouse, Wade had decided the second floor needed a little personal touch—a touch that involved a lot of blood, screaming, and some ridiculously flashy swordplay.
He kicked in the door with the grace of a highly caffeinated ninja, sending two guards scrambling for their weapons. A loud bang echoed as one of the guards fired blindly at him, but Wade was already in motion—dodging, spinning, and just generally being a badass in ways that would make even Bruce Lee shake his head in disbelief.
"Knock, knock!" Wade called out, grinning like the Cheshire Cat after a particularly satisfying kill. "Who's there? Justice! Justice who? JUST US, and by 'us,' I mean my katanas and me! And guess what? You're SCREWED!"
He wasn't even being dramatic. Well, maybe a little, but who could blame him? When you looked this good while slicing people in half, it was basically your duty to show off. Wade lunged forward, expertly deflecting bullets with the smooth precision of a manic samurai. His katanas danced through the air, cutting through one guard's rifle like it was made of butter, and the other's kneecaps? Well, those were now nothing but hamburger meat.
"Alright, fellas, let's play a game!" Wade shouted, standing triumphantly over the two writhing henchmen. He wiped the blood off his blade with the sleeve of his suit, not giving a single crap about the hell he was going to have to explain to dry cleaning later. "It's called Where's Francis? You give me an answer, and I might let you keep one kneecap each. Deal?"
The first guy, clearly not a fan of kneecaps in general, whimpered, clutching his leg. "We don't know! Smith handles everything!"
Wade froze. The smile on his face faltered for the briefest second, but only long enough to make the audience (that's you, the lovely reader) think he was a little serious for a split second.
"Smith?" he repeated slowly, in a way that made the guard's heart rate probably quadruple. Wade tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. "Mr. Bald-and-Boring?"
He leaned in so close to the poor guy's face that they were practically making out at this point. Wade's grin was almost uncomfortable in its size. "And where's he?" he asked, almost mockingly sweet.
The guard winced. "End of the hall! Last office!"
Wade's eyes twinkled. "Gracias, amigo!" he cheered, clapping the guy on the cheek like a proud father giving his kid a high-five after scoring their first goal. "You're the first guy here to actually be helpful! I'm so proud of you right now, I might cry. But I won't because I'm too manly for that."
Then, just as casually as you would grab a snack from the fridge, Wade pulled out a syringe from his belt—a syringe that he definitely didn't have a medical license to use—and jabbed it into the man's neck. "Have a free nap on me," Wade said, grinning as the guy's eyes rolled back into his head, knocked out cold.
Wade strutted down the hallway, humming the theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly like he was in an old western. His steps were practically in sync with the soundtrack in his head, which had all the tension of a Tarantino movie. "Man, I wish they'd give me a proper soundtrack for all this," he mused aloud, making sure to stay just close enough to the mic so you—yes, you, the person reading this—could hear it. "You know, like those intense Dark Knight violin crescendos? Or—ooooh—maybe some badass mariachi music. I'm looking at you, Alvarez."
Wade waggled his katana in the air, making finger guns at an imaginary Alvarez. "Like I said, you know the good stuff."
It was then that he noticed he was dangerously close to an office door, the one the guard had mentioned. The door was slightly ajar, and Wade knew that behind it would be the elusive Smith. He smiled wider than a ridiculous romantic comedy lead, just before crashing through the door like it owed him money.
You know, just another typical Tuesday for Deadpool.
---
The group entered the warehouse with a mixture of reluctance and grim determination, stepping over a sea of unconscious and occasionally dismembered henchmen. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the faint smell of something that could only be described as "burnt idiot." It was the kind of atmosphere that made you question every life choice that led you to this point.
Sofia wrinkled her nose as she carefully stepped over a particularly mangled body, her heels clicking sharply on the concrete floor. "This is... barbaric," she remarked, her voice laced with disdain, though the slightest glint of amusement flickered in her eyes. It was hard to deny the absurdity of it all.
Alvarez, ever the professional, crouched down next to a downed goon, carefully checking for signs of life. "This one's still alive. Barely," he muttered, examining the man's pulse with a practiced hand. "He'll live to see another day... for now."
Logan, who had been silently observing the chaos with a cigar dangling from his mouth, sniffed the air and immediately extended his claws. "Wade's upstairs. Let's move," he grumbled, his voice low and gravelly, as if just talking about Wade's location made his blood pressure spike.
Sofia glanced at him, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Do we really need him alive?" she asked, her gaze flicking to the mess that Wade had left behind.
Logan rolled his eyes, flicking the ash from his cigar. "Unfortunately, yeah," he muttered. "Wade's the only one who knows what the hell we're looking for. And trust me, I'd rather have him on our side than not."
Before anyone could reply, a distant explosion rattled the warehouse, followed by Wade's unmistakable voice echoing down the stairwell. "BOOM, BABY! THAT'S HOW YOU MAKE AN ENTRANCE!"
Alvarez couldn't help but chuckle at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. "Unpredictable, like I said," he remarked, shaking his head with a grin that seemed to know exactly what they were in for.
Logan snarled under his breath, his eyes narrowing. "Unpredictable my ass. He's a walking disaster," he muttered, clearly not in the mood to deal with Wade's chaos.
Sofia glanced at the stairs, a knowing look crossing her face. "Well, someone has to keep him in check. And I don't think it's going to be you, Logan."
"Yeah, well, if I have to listen to him make one more cheesy movie quote, I might just throw myself off the roof," Logan grumbled, taking the lead as they made their way toward the stairs.
The group moved swiftly, boots thudding against the floor as they ascended the stairs, every step bringing them closer to the inevitable mess that Wade was about to create. No one needed to say it out loud: they were walking into a war zone. Wade might be a lot of things, but he was damn effective at clearing a path. The problem was, that path often looked like a scene out of a Michael Bay movie—overblown, chaotic, and a lot of collateral damage.
Sofia shook her head, muttering under her breath in Spanish. "I swear, if he sets off one more explosion, I'm going to kill him myself."
Logan smirked, flashing a toothy grin. "You'll have to wait in line. He's a pain in my ass, too."
Alvarez took the rear, keeping his gun ready. "And if he kills everyone before we get there, well, at least we won't have to clean up the mess."
Sofia gave him a sidelong glance, her voice sweet but deadly. "You're not helping, Alvarez."
"Hey, just speaking the truth, querida," Alvarez replied with a grin, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "It's better than what we're walking into."
As they reached the top of the stairs, the sound of chaos intensified. Wade's voice echoed through the building, a string of random quips and inappropriate jokes mixing with the sound of swords clashing and more explosions. It was clear that whatever mess awaited them at the top was already in full swing.
Logan cracked his knuckles and growled, his claws gleaming in the dim light. "Alright, team. Let's go see what kind of hell Wade's unleashed on these idiots."
With that, the group moved forward, bracing themselves for whatever insane, over-the-top disaster Deadpool had cooked up this time.
—
The team reached the landing at the top of the stairs, the air thick with tension. They stood just outside a small, dimly lit office. Inside, the only light came from a single flickering bulb above, casting eerie shadows on the walls.
Deadpool was standing in front of Mr. Smith, the man who allegedly ran this whole operation. But of course, he wasn't exactly standing in a way that screamed "serious interrogator." Wade was leaning casually against a desk, one arm draped over his katana like it was an accessory, and the other clutching a rubber chicken. Not a gun. Not a knife. A rubber chicken.
Wade grinned maniacally as he stared down Smith, who looked like he was about to pee himself. The man was trembling, his back pressed against the wall, eyes wide with fear.
"Okay, Smithy, here's the deal," Deadpool said, leaning way too close to the man's face. "I need one thing from you: Where. Is. Francis?" Wade's voice was disturbingly sweet, like he was asking for directions instead of playing Russian roulette with someone's sanity.
Smith swallowed hard, trying to remain brave despite the puddle of sweat forming on his brow. "I… I don't know where he is! I swear! He just… He just runs things from behind the scenes!"
Wade's eyes narrowed, lips curling into a grin that could only be described as dangerously playful. "Behind the scenes? You think I was born yesterday, Smith? I'm a deadpool—not a moron." He straightened up, giving a dramatic sigh. "Look, buddy, I'm trying to be nice. But when I'm patient, bad things happen. Real bad things. Like 'I can't believe I'm still standing after this' kind of bad things. Excruciating bad things." Wade cracked his knuckles, rotating his shoulders, the sound bone-chilling in its intent.
Wade then did what only Wade Wilson could do—he looked directly at the "camera," his eyes widening in mock horror.
"Guys, you might want to look away right now. This is gonna get ugly. And not in the 'oops-I-accidentally-slashed-my-own-leg' kind of ugly. No, no, this is more in the 'I'm-gonna-make-you-scream-like-a-teenager-who-went-on-a-roller-coaster-for-the-first-time' kind of ugly. Trust me, you do not want to see this. Just… just don't."
The camera, being a loyal servant of Wade's whim, promptly swung its POV to the team. Logan, Sofia, Alvarez, and Warren were all standing at the door, exchanging uneasy glances. They knew what Wade was capable of, and frankly, none of them were really in the mood for more Deadpool-induced chaos.
Logan was the first to speak, cracking his neck with a deep growl. "Let's just get this over with. Before Wade turns into a full-blown circus act." He was barely able to hide the frustration in his voice—he'd seen Wade do some strange things, but this was pushing it.
Sofia, her arms crossed tightly, shot a glance at Alvarez. "I don't think I'm gonna get used to this."
Alvarez's eyes remained steady, a slight smirk pulling at his lips. "Trust me, Sofia, I've seen worse. But the way he enjoys it... That is what makes it special."
Smith's voice cracked from inside the office, followed by a loud, terrified yelp as Wade's voice echoed back into the hallway.
"Alright, Smith," Wade chirped, almost too cheery for this kind of situation. "I'm giving you one last shot here. Where is Francis?"
Smith, barely holding himself together, tried to muster some semblance of bravado, though it wavered with each word. "I don't know! I-I swear! He keeps his location hidden! Please... you don't—"
"Oh, I hear you, Smith," Wade interrupted, his tone mockingly sweet. "But you're not listening. So let me show you something. It's called the power of persuasion."
The rubber chicken was raised high, like a scepter in the hand of a madman, and with a flourish, Wade began tapping it against his leg in a rhythm that was anything but reassuring.
"Now, I know what you're thinking, and trust me, I get it," Wade said, glancing over at the team, his voice suddenly lower, more sinister. "But this is about to get dark. And you might think you're ready for it, but… sweetie, you're so not."
Without warning, Wade launched into a disturbingly cheerful rendition of a children's rhyme, his voice completely at odds with the violence he was about to unleash.
"This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home—"
As Wade began his twisted little song, he gripped Smith's trembling hand, aligning each finger carefully, like an artist preparing his canvas. Smith's wide eyes darted from Wade to the door, but it was too late.
The rubber chicken tapped gently against the knuckles, a precursor to what was coming. "This little piggy had roast beef," Wade continued, his voice taking on an almost sing-song quality. "And this little piggy—" CRACK! Another snap, the sickening sound of bones giving way as Smith screamed in agony.
The camera, as directed by Wade, shifted back to the team. Logan's face was set in a grimace, his hands twitching in anticipation, claws threatening to extend. He didn't like it, but he understood that sometimes, Wade was the only way to get answers—however brutal.
Warren fidgeted nervously, his wings twitching behind him. "Does he ever not go too far?" he asked, though the words seemed to hang in the air, unanswered.
Sofia winced as Smith's scream intensified, her face hardening. "No, but I think he enjoys it." Her voice was steady, though there was an unmistakable edge to it—she wasn't exactly okay with this.
Alvarez, ever the pragmatic one, simply leaned against the doorframe with a nonchalant shrug. "Some of us have different methods. Wade's… unique. But he gets results."
The sound of another CRACK filled the hallway as Smith let out a final, gut-wrenching scream. Wade was still humming the song, tapping the rubber chicken as if it was all part of the dance.
"THIS little piggy cried 'wee, wee, wee' all the way home—" CRACK!
Smith's desperate wail faded as Wade cheerfully finished, "And THAT'S how we get to the good stuff."
Wade stepped back, wiping his hands theatrically as Smith collapsed, his face pale, eyes wide with terror, no longer able to offer any coherent response.
"There we go," Wade said, his voice almost sing-song as he clapped his hands. "Now, wasn't that better? So, tell me, Smith, where is Francis?"
Logan took a deep breath, clenching his fists as he stepped into the office, his claws retracting with a soft snikt. He shot a look at the group behind him. "We get what we need, and then we leave. Before Wade goes full Deadpool on this guy."
Warren's voice cracked with a faint chuckle, "Too late for that, Logan."
Sofia nodded, her lips tight. "Let's just hope we get the information we need before Wade really breaks something."
With that, they moved forward into the room, ready to face whatever horrors awaited them—and surely ready for a few more Deadpool-isms before it was over.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!