Robert's shout echoed through the large hall, cutting through the low groans and scattered mutterings like a blade. Several guards stationed near the perimeter glanced over.
They barely reacted.
Another one losing their mind.
That was the norm in this place.
In a hellhole like this, the screams of the broken were as common as the hum of flickering lights. Most guards didn't even flinch at sudden outbursts anymore. They gave Robert a disinterested look, muttered something to each other, and went back to their rounds.
Behind him, a raspy voice growled from the adjacent bed.
"Damn it, man. You just interrupted my date with Scarlett!"
Robert turned his head, still riding the rush of adrenaline from unlocking his immortality trait.
Next to him lay a pale, skinny white guy with wild eyes, scruffy beard, and a face that looked like it had forgotten what sunlight was. His high cheekbones made him look skeletal, and the hospital gown did nothing to hide how frail his body had become.
Robert blinked. "Scarlett?"
"Yeah, Scarlett Johansson," the man replied matter-of-factly. "We were just getting to the good part—then bam, you scared her away with your howling."
Robert raised an eyebrow. "You're hallucinating a hookup with Black Widow?"
"She prefers to be called Scarlett in my dreams," the man said with complete sincerity.
Robert sighed. "Wade, didn't you say you already have a girlfriend? Maybe stop dreaming about bubble baths with movie stars and start thinking about getting out of here before you wake up with a kid calling you 'Dad.'"
"Hey, screw you!"
Wade sat up slightly and scowled. "When I beat this cancer crap and get out of here, I'm going to find Vanessa again. And then you'll see—she's way hotter than Scarlett. Ten outta ten. No, eleven."
Robert couldn't help but chuckle. But deep down, the mention of Wade stirred something in his memory.
Wade Wilson.
Of course.
Deadpool.
This was the Wade Wilson—Marvel's infamous merc-with-a-mouth, known for his unkillable body and unbearable banter. Right now, he was just another terminal patient, voluntarily participating in the genetic enhancement experiments the lab offered. That's how he and Robert had met—two "patients," one fresh from another universe, the other running from death.
Though his mouth never stopped moving, Wade's skills as a mercenary were no joke. Robert had watched him spar during "physical assessments," and even now, weakened and sick, Wade was dangerous.
If he hadn't agreed to be here, the security of this lab probably wouldn't have held him for long.
Robert recalled the timeline.
In the movie, after being injected with the experimental serum, Wade's healing factor would kick in—and then he'd launch a rebellion. His escape attempt would set the facility ablaze, triggering a chain reaction of chaos. The whole place would collapse, giving the survivors a slim chance to flee in the confusion.
Until now, Robert had been hoping to survive long enough to ride that wave out—slip away during the chaos of Wade's explosion.
But things had changed.
With the "Super High School-Level Stuntman" title unlocked, Robert wasn't just a patient anymore. He had immortality.
His body had healed itself almost instantly. No scars, no signs of injury. In fact, he looked healthier than anyone in the lab.
And that was a problem.
If anyone noticed—especially Francis—they'd dissect him on the spot.
Which meant Robert no longer had the luxury of waiting for Wade's rebellion.
He needed to escape now, before his miraculous recovery raised suspicion.
…
As he mulled over his next move, Robert glanced at Wade, who was still mumbling about Scarlett's shampoo.
Then an idea hit him.
A wild, stupid, perfect idea.
"Hey, Wade," Robert said, lowering his voice. "You want to know a secret about Ajax?"
That got his attention.
Wade's head whipped around. "You know something about that jackass?"
Robert nodded slowly. "Yeah. And it's a big one. His name—'Ajax'? Total fake."
Wade leaned in, eyes gleaming. "I knew it. That smug son of a— What's his real name?"
"Francis," Robert said with a grin. "Swear to God. And get this—'Ajax' isn't some tough mercenary name. It's literally a brand of dish soap. He named himself after soap, Wade."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Wade exploded into laughter.
"Francis? Oh, that's too good!" He slapped the side of his cot, nearly falling off. "Dish soap?! That pretentious moron named himself after dish soap! What's next, calling yourself Mr. Bleach?!"
Robert leaned closer, eyes narrowing with mock seriousness. "Yeah. So keep it between us, alright? Francis doesn't like people knowing. He's real sensitive about it. Like, break-your-face sensitive."
"Please," Wade scoffed, still grinning ear to ear. "I'm a professional mercenary. I've been trained in the art of discretion. I can keep a secret better than a locked vault in Wakanda."
"I'm trusting you, Wade," Robert said, barely containing his smirk.
Wade practically saluted. "Scout's honor, bro."
…
The next day, Francis entered the hall.
It was his usual inspection routine—clipboard in hand, checking vitals, stats, and progress reports for every subject. These were his assets, after all. Any unexpected deaths or anomalies meant financial losses.
He moved from bed to bed, scribbling notes.
Eventually, he reached the row where Robert and Wade were kept.
Wade looked up. His eyes locked onto Francis.
And then—
"Pfffttt—"
A laugh escaped him. He clenched his jaw, trying to hold it in. But it was like trying to stop a tsunami with a paper cup.
He burst out in uncontrollable cackles, writhing on his bed.
"I'm sorry—I can't! Ajax! Hahaha! What kind of idiot names themselves after dish soap?! Francis, did you lose a bet?!"
Francis froze.
Robert, lying calmly in his cot, slowly turned his head toward Wade and whispered just loud enough for Francis to hear:
"Dude…"
Francis's expression went cold.
Very cold.
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