Chapter Text
It was probably the fifth or sixth most coldest day, in my entire life. Me and mom were eating fish, having a great time, when all of a sudden, she pushes me into the bushes, and tells me to be real quiet. She says, “I smell something,” so I started sniffing. There was something in the woods, running right toward us, getting closer and closer—
White: Stop!
What?
White: That is from Brother Bear.
It's not!
Yellow: It sure is! The author watched it last night.
Well, who is to say that I am not Koda?
Yellow: The tags, the title, and chapter name?
You guys are so not fun.
White: And you are trying to get sued by Disney.
Disney wouldn't sue me, they own my shiny ass.
Yellow: Somehow, that's worse.
White: I miss the old days when Disney didn't owned us.
First, she owns me. You guys aren't even acknowledged.
Yellow: So why are we here?
The author like how the Deadpool game used you two and wanted to try it.
Yellow: The game no one likes?
The author likes it.
White: Yeah, but they also like you, so their opinion is null.
The author—
Me!
— would like to say that they resent that. They said 'fair', but they still resent it. Anyway, what I was talking about?
Yellow: Being owned buy Disney?
Kinky. Wait, no, not kinky. It's Disney. But yeah, Disney owns me, so no suing. Besides, this a free to read fanfiction in a non-profit website, meaning: gray-area. You got to love the gray-areas.
Yellow: What is this story about anyway? The tags are confusing.
White: The author didn't even choose the tags yet.
Yellow: But they already know it's going to be confusing.
The meta is getting out of hand… Anyway, I bet you guys, my beautiful readers, are thinking, “What is Deadpool doing in the Batman's tag? Are they going to smash?” No, we're not going to smash. Not sorry this time, and I mean it. That would be creep in this particular scenario. But fear not, this place if full of creep and weird things, and if you really want to see me smashing Mister I'm An Ethical Billionaire But Only Because I'm Not Real Since There's No Such Thing As Ethical And Good Billionaires In Real Life, you should go read one of the only five stories in the Bruce Wayne/Wade Wilson tag—
We checked and there's truly only five. I must say, it's kinda sad. I could totally do Mister Wayne.
White: Can you stop talk about doing it with the guy that is supposed to be your father in this story?
Ow, White, you just gave up the plot!
White: I prefer to spoil the plot than read another line about you and Bruce Wayne.
Can I talk about Bruce Banner?
White: How about you focus on the story?
Yellow: Yeah, I'm trying to understand how you ended up as Bruce's kid. I would understand Petey-pie, those demigods or even the halfa kid, but you? That feels like an acid trip.
I don’t drugs.
I do!
Okay, so… The reason why I, Wade Winston Wilson, am not only in the DC universe but also in Gotham as Bruce Thomas Wayne's long lost child is because my real name is Brad.
That's it, I said.
I'm Brad Wayne.
Frat Kid Brad Wayne.
Bastard Son Brad Wayne.
Clueless Civilian Brad Wayne—
Yellow: You know that only chronic online people knows who Brad is, right?
White: Worse, only Tumblr Batfam knows him.
No bad mouthing the Batfam in this house!
White: Writes the writer that doesn't reads comic.
Yellow: He's trying to read more, but his visual snow is getting worse.
I'm seeing so much light spots right now.
Yellow: F the author sight.
F the author sight.
White: F the author sight.
Back to the plot, I'm Brad Wayne [White: You're not] and after I died a terrible death to tetanus of all things [Yellow: That was Dean Winchester], I was transport to the Marvel Universe where I lived a very long, happy and beautiful life as Wade Wilson [Not even you believed that one]. But now, as my life as Wade Winston Wilson comes to a peaceful and worth end, I am once more brought back to my original universe, where I will take my rightful place as the heir of the only and only Bruce Wayne and all his generational wealth that totally wasn't made through illicit ways [Grampa Tommy was shade as hell].
In order to do that, I, of course, need to first crawl my way out of my own grave—
White: That is Jason's plot.
Yellow: So is the green pool, and yet all the Peter in Gotham use it as plot device.
Well, it works, no?
White: I guess.
AS I CRAWL my way out of my grave, the first thing I see is nothing. Turns out I don't have eyes as they're eaten by the worm who first gnawed on the cold flesh of my corpse—
White: That’s Brás Cubas.
Yellow: Let him, he likes to pretend he's cultured.
I take a deep breath, smelling the rotting that lingers in the air [That is actually just you]. I can feel the shift of my bones as they snap back into place, just as I can hear my skin patching itself back together, scar over scar in an endless loop that never stops.
Then comes the pain— excruciating, hot, debilitating, and ever lasting.
Wade knows pain, they're old acquaintances. Since before the cancer, before even the army. But he isn't going in there, not now [Not never!]. The pain bothers him like an itchy he can't itch. But the itching is more like Brazilian Fire Ants running all over his body—
Yellow: Now the author ripping off the Woodpecker movies.
White: Also, they aren't called Brazilian Fire Ants.
Brazilian Fire Ants sounds better than RIFA/red imported fire ants. Now, quiet, they're setting the scene.
Screaming in pain until he loses his voice and the little sanity he has left sounded like the most compelling thing to do, but that would also be stupid since he didn't know where he was or who might be around, and one of the first things Wade has ever learned was to never give up his location—
White: Unfortunately, he almost never follows it.
Time and place, Whitey. Time and place.
Slowly, his eyes are remade, and the world Wade sees welding itself together before his blurry eyes isn't pretty (not that he would expect it to be). Wade is used to be buried not-quite-dead-but-definitely-not-yet-alive, therefore, he is also used to woke up in ugly places — mass graves, unmarked graves, indigenous cemeteries, drug houses, wastelands, Argentina, or in the sewage or literally buried neck deep on shit [Different occasion].
He's in a proper cemetery [Yellow: That is a new one] with graves and tombstone and weeping angel that faces down at him with their empty and hollow eyes, judging him for being in sacred soil. Over the horizon, against the dark sky, he sees the silhouette of a city. Big, bright, humming with life even in the later hour — if he pays proper attention, he can hear the familiar echoes of gunshots and the scream of the innocent souls crying for help that will never come.
Wade never thought he would ended in a cemetery, even before becoming essentially immortal. He's not the religious type (that would be Matt) nor he's the kind, good and deserving type (that would be Peter).
Wade is a soulless demon, devoid of the kindness of a proper death and a shroud—
Wrong! I'm more of a pure-bred wolverine. Look at these cuspids!
White: Stop quoting Brother Bear.
Yellow: Quoting isn't the problem, interrupting the reading flow is.
First because of his upbringing, second thanks to his time with the army. Finally, for all the choices he made and keeps on making. Or so he thought.
Matt and Peter wouldn't agree with him, not with this version of him, anyway. Logan could agree or not, it would depend on how much Wade pissed him before popping the question [Not that question, shut it, Wade].
But they aren't around, and Wade is alone with the voices in his head. Even if Yellow and White are much better than they usually were [White: The author is an uncultured peasant that only knows us from two fanfiction and a terrible game], being alone with his thoughts still isn't the best for him.
Getting up on broken legs, Wade holds his stand. It's not imposing or cinematic or badass—
I'm always a badass!
The image is pitiful, truly.
I fucking hate you.
AS STATED, his legs are still broken, with his right ankle twisted in the wrong direction. His left arm is missing, but already growing up [Baby hands!]. His head is caved in — head trauma, blunt force, brain half missing [White: So, nothing new]. His skin was scared and burned, not his regular scars and burns, but leftovers of whatever killed him last. Finally, his flesh was rotten and eaten away, which worms and maggots crawling under it, denouncing the time he stayed gone this time. But as Wade stands there and his body reshapes, regrows, and mends itself whole once more, his stares at the gray sky and laughs.
It's hollow, hoarse, and broke. Haunted in a way that only Wade could ever manage, as no one else would be able to laugh with their voice chords still missing and their throat still growing back.
If anyone heard him, he would be dub insane and dragged to the closest Asylum, however, what else he can do?
He is alive, and is funny.
Tragically so.
He can't remember what he was doing before dying, he barely remember if it was a self inflicted one or a some else's fault. Wade was doing better those past years; he wasn't sane or healed or mentally all there most of the time, but he has doing better. He had a support system, he had people on his corner, and even White and Yellow decided that helping him was marginally better than tormenting him.
He was doing good—
—until he wasn't.
Until Peter and Matt got caught in something. Big, messy, and time sensitive. Wade was out of town, a job somewhere in the Mediterranean. They couldn't wait for him to come back, so they went in only to never came out—
What the heck are you talking about?
White: It's to set the plot.
I don't give a bobba about it! This little bobba is fridging my Petey and Matty for plot reasons!
Yellow: Did you just said bobba?
White: Also, men can’t be fridged.
I can't even swear?! What the bobba?? Your bobba go to bobba! I will bobba bobba you! Bobba! Bobba! Bobba!
Their bodies are never found, and Wade worked himself to death [Literally, I bet] for the following sixteen months [Sixteen months? Are you kidding me?] until he finally got a clue that actually worth something.
The last thing he remembers after that is— waking up on his grave…
No fucking way you're giving me amnesia for plot reasons!
Do you know how hard it is to work with a character that can literally read the narrative and figure out the plot? I need to keep the mystery somehow.
I don't fucking care! I want to know what happened to Team Red!
Well, you aren't going to!
You don't know, do you?
Not a clue.
I fucking hate you.
Knowing it's going to take a while to get something to call a function, alive-ish, human-like body back, Wade decides to get out of the sight of curious eyes — both alive and dead. Limping away, he drags his twisted ankle behind him. The gray sky grows darker, and the wind howls like a hungry beast chasing its prey. Lightning cracks the sky, like the bad CGI at the end of No Way Home—
No shaming Petey’s movie!
Yellow: The CGI sucked, through.
White: Well, it's the MCU.
Thunder follows, mixing with the sounds of the city; the screams that never quiets down, the gunshots that never comes alone, and the collective breath that he can feel the whole city holding, as if they know something is about to happen.
Rain pours over him, soaking Wade to his bones, washing away the impurities that clings to his flesh, and burning him with its acid and toxicity.
There is a mausoleum to his left, big and haunted, guarded by angels that looked more like reapers, ready to come to life and smite him.
“You can try,” he teases the marble statues, “worse things had tried and failed.”
The name plate on the door says it belongs to the Arkham family. Wade doesn't know what kind of name is Arkham, but he's glad they're apparently important and rich enough for having the biggest house around.
The mahogany doors complains when he forces it open. The locks rusted, the wood aged, almost rotten. It doesn't take a genius to realise no one has opened the mausoleum in years—
Yellow: Maybe the whole family is already dead.
White: I hope, I'm not in the mood to deal with angry relatives because of some minor graving digging.
We're not digging anything.
Yet.
I hate you.
The air smells sour and mouldy, unlike the outside that at least had a petrichor undertone mixed with the smell of the decomposed bodies buried seven feet under. The cold air bites his overly sensitive skin, and turn his wet clothes unbearable to touch.
Suits aren't made for this kind of weather—
Why the hell I'm using a suit? Alright, I need time. I mean, c’mon! Sure, I died. I get it. I do it all the time. I'm in the DC universe, I'm in Gotham, that also kind of happens a lot. But a suit? Why I'm using a suit? I wouldn't be caught dead in a suit.
White: Use your big brain. Do you really think Bruce Wayne would just bury his child in Target’s clothes?
Yellow: The Bruce Wayne's kid thing was for real? He's actually his kid? For real? I thought it was a bit.
No, it's real. I saw it in a dream, literally.
Naughty! Say, I was naked?
You're a priest, actually. Well, a fake priest in a fake boat church.
White: How does it has anything to do with Bruce Wayne?
Before the crunch arch, he's being buddy with Damian and building bunk beds. No, wait. Before the church boat there was a five-star, GTA-style car chase with the cops, the bat-mobile and the classic Sonic map. The Damian and Wade as best buddies as before that and after the Jung Dae Hyun’s fan meeting.
Yellow: Your mind is a weird place.
Can we go back to the fact that I'm apparently a priest in your dreams? Because that seems too Hilda Furacão for me.
Wade trembles from cold, closing the door behind him. It doesn't help much. Marble by itself is cold as Cygnus Hyoga’s Diamond Dust—
At least it isn't the Aurora Explosion!
White: Doesn't the Diamond Dust reaches minus 240° Fahrenheit?
I don't know how low it is, I use the metric system like a civilized person.
White: Something close to minus 152° Celsius.
Well, thankfully this is just a hyperbole.
...
Fuck you!
Crawling to the corner, Wade stop fighting gravity, dropping to the ground like a bunch of ripe bananas. He took a deep breath, feeling the pain oozing through his body. His eyes are heavy, his breathe hallow, and his teeth are chattering from cold.
“Ha,” I let out a bitter snort. “Hypothermia.”
I'm dying from cold. Slowly, painful, and stupidly. I just woke up, just dug myself out of that fucking grave, only to die ten metres away in a new one.
“Well, at least this one is a bit nicer,” I say as I make my bed and lay in it. The farthest corner, watching the door, just in case.
As the cold chews my life away, I think about how much I would love to beat the shit out of the author.
Which one last violent thought about killing me, Wade closes his eyes for good (at least for the moment), succumbing to the hypothermia.