Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One: They Found the Hands

A scream tore from the mans throat, cutting at the sore muscle with new enthusiasm.  

The assassin stared at the screaming man, slinging his two matching swords- katanas -back into their matching covers, slung criss-cross on his back.

"Sorry."

The mans cried diminished in his throat as he glanced up at the monster above him. The monster that had, not twenty seconds ago, used his... Swords to cut off his hands. He had reduced the politician to a bleeding, handless, cowering mess. And now he was apologizing?

The man had been, not twenty seconds ago, a very powerful man. He was the leader of a group of politicians; the "main man" everyone either loved, or hated. There was no in between with him. People came to him for advice; people below him and above him in the tier of political power. But why he had been hunted down, hurt like this, he had no idea.

He clutched his bleeding stubs to his chest the best he could, his expensive jacket becoming drenched and stained with blood.

"W-what?" He stammered. He was becoming light headed from obvious blood loss.

The man above him was strange. He was wearing what seemed like latex, only thicker, and almost shiny, like leather and where the two colors, black and a dark, blood red, met, there were visible stitches. Almost as if the costume had ripped at the seams several times, and had been sewn back together by an inexperienced teenager.

It had a type of charm to it. Then the politician remembered he had cut off his hands.

The rest of the- for the lack of a better word -costume was just as rag tag. The man, the assassin he presumed (because who else would come kill him?), had a tool belt, laced with more weapons than the man could think if. Pistols, a couple of shiny, silver throwing knives, a twisted dagger... Plus the weapons on his back and a small, fist sized satchel hanging from a belt loop.

The masked man didn't answer his stuttered question, instead, he smoothing pulled something with a swish from the back of his belt.

A small stick of bamboo.

The man looked at him, confused. He could see something thin, and small- and pointy?- sticking out of the tip of the rod.

Slowly, as if not to scare the man about to faint, the man brought his hand and the stick to his mouth. Or where his mouth would be if his mask weren't covering his face.

His clothed fingers reached to his neck and found a seam, one unconnected. He pulled his mask upwards, setting it in the bridge if his nose.

The move revealed his neck and his mouth. And his skin. The politician sucked in a small breath, which made his bleeding wrists hurt even more- if possible.

The assassins face could only be described as... Well, the man couldn't chose. Marred, disgusting, scarred, horrible... Those were wonderful examples. His face- the part the politician could see at least- was covered in tons circular scars.

The skin, or what was left, was pink and looked as if it hurt. A lot.

If the killer saw him staring, he ignored it.

The bamboo rod was risen to his lips and they opened, a string of thin spit trailing between the scarred lines. The lips closed around the tube and the politician heard a whoosh.

Something pricked his neck. Unable to hold his neck in pain, the politician fell backwards, his vision darkening and his mind reeling.

The last thing he saw was the man pulling down his mask, and then calmly walking away.

Then he closed his eyes, and never opened them again.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

It was a dark night. 

 A dark man in a dark suit and hat was walking down the dark sidewalk.

Darkly.

He was going to meet someone. Someone dark. And that someone had a job for him.

A comically dark job.

The dark man's name was Wilson. Wade Winston Wilson to be exact. Otherwise know as Deadpool, master assassin, "Merc with a Mouth"; among other things that are not to be typed. And this talkative killing machine was on his way to meet up with an old pal (old pal meaning total stranger he's never even heard of) of his. A dark, old pal with a wad of cash burning a hole in his pocket. Cash especially for him.

Deadpool walked down the street, a street lamp flickering its lazy fluorescent bulb to his left and a couple of night-owl squirrels skittering in the sparse trees to his right.

Oh, how Wade loved the city. New York City: home of the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building as well as the dirtiest crooks and most vicious super villains, such as himself.

He chuckled lowly as a pair of voices in his head laughed as well.

Ah, the voices. How could one forget that? If anything it completes the whole Deadpool-package. Deadpool himself, however loathed them. Two dancing voices, one the persona of hate and one the persona of the shy side if Wade, always floating in his head, trying to start conversations with him, distracting him from his work and making him appear insane. The voices -the boxes (one yellow, one white) if you will- were always there.

It drove Wade positively batty.

As Wade was walking in amazing silence the first voice, the yellow box, was the first to speak up.

[So who ya gonna maim today? A baby panda?]

As usual, the box made almost zero sense and as usual, the white box just HAD to respond.

{Wade would never hurt a panda! Right, Wade?}

Wade ignored them both.

[See? Panda-maimer! Panda-maimer!]

Wades left eyelid twitched in irritation but he continued walking, ignoring White's cries and Yellow's taunts.

His black boots crunched against the leafy pavement, grinding the fine dust and small leaf pieces beneath him as he rounded a corner.

The last corner.

He almost sighed; no more time alone with his thoughts, he finally got to focus on something. Thank God.

[Hey! I heard that!]

Soon, as Wade traveled further into the alley he had turned into, a man appeared. He wasn't nearly as dark as Wade had expected. Instead of a traditional Mob Boss outfit or even a latex suit of some sort, he had on a white collared shirt, a green tie and khaki pants. Wade didn't like him.

{I like him!} White volunteered.

Wade ignored it.

When Wade finally reached the man and was in earshot, he spoke.

"Dr. Jassern, I presume?" He asked, his voice coming out not as the idiotic, obnoxious voice he put on in front of heroes, but deep and gravely, much like Wolverines. But less angry.

The man nodded. He was Dr. Jassern.

"And you're Deadpool?"

Had a hint of skepticism shone in his voice Wade would have kneecapped him right then and there, leaving him to bleed out and feed the rats for a couple of days. However, he didn't seem uncertain or even nervous when talking to him. And that immediately made Wade respect him.

He nodded.

"You called for a master assassin?"

The Doctor nodded as well. "I only hire the best."

Wade smirked under the brim of his hat. Was it a bowler hat or a fedora? Wade had no clue, but it had looked nice with his menacing atmosphere so he had bought it. Or more, acquired it. From a deadman.

" 'Preciate it, Doc. Who's gotten on your nerves?"

The Doctor didn't answer.

Instead he pulled a small purple thumb drive from his pants pocket and tossed it up at the assassin. He caught it flawlessly.

"Your fee will be wired into a bank account mention on that," Dr. Jassern gestured to the drive.

Not one for chit-chat then.

{Rude.}

"Mind me asking who it is? I know it's on here," the thumb drive spun around between his tightly gloved fingers like a baton,"But my author needs a suspenseful plot device. And he thinks you saying it would set an ominous tone."

[What fourth wall?]

 Dr. Jassern made a confused face- one where his right cheek seemed to go up and his eye squinted.

[Nice observation, Sherlock.]

White was silent.

However, the doctor had heard about Deadpool before, he knew he was "insane as shit" as some people had put it, and if was better just to agree with him.

So he complied.

"I want you to kill Spiderman."

[•]

 Three hours later Wade was in his expensive (and surprisingly clean) apartment (were no one knew him as Deadpool the insane murderer but as Wade the war veteran for reasons that won't be discussed here) with a paper box of take out in his lap and his large laptop on his knees.

{Ooh! I love lo mein!}

[You'll get even fatter if you keep eating like this, darling.]

The boxes were easily ignored.

Wade had a new job! A new person to unalive! And, finally, something to do but skulk around his apartment with marathons of murder mystery shows running in the background.

Wade was excited to say the least.

Wade had met Spiderman before: brief running intos at the Stark Tower or the Helicarrier, but never anything face-to-face. This was good. Wade always had a problem killing people he knew. Deadpool, however, had no such reservation.

Wade sighed, a deep breath smelling of the strawberry gum he had only a few hours ago passing through the white lines where his lips should of been.

Well, he had lips, of corse, but they could hardly be described as...

{Lippy?}

Lippy.

Sure. They could hardly be described as lippy. They were scarred- just like the rest of him- and extremely pale.

Definitely not lippy.

But, they made good enough lips, he supposed. They smiled (rarely) and ate (all the time) perfectly. So... What was he to complain? Some supervillains are born without lips.

Wait. He was off topic. He was SUPPOSE to be looking at Spiderman's file.

Instead he was discussing lips with himself.

[Loser.]

Wade sighed and pulled the purple rectangle from his pocket, twiddling it skillfully with his thumbs before slipping the shiny silver end into the side of his expensive PC.

A satisfying dih-duh ran through the room, signaling to Wade the thumb drive was, actually, a thumb drive and not another bomb.

His left hand carried tan and sesame seeded noodles to his lips as he kept his eyes focused on the screen and his right hands forefinger glided somewhat smoothly over the pad under the keyboard which he used as a mouse.

He slid his finger upwards, clicking OPEN FILE and waited, chewing some noodles, as the file popped up.

An {It's to quiet} from White was also easily ignored as Wade clicked the only thing- a word document- in the file.

It slowly popped up as well.

The top read this: KILL SPIDERMAN.

Wade hummed. Straight to the point, Dr. Jassern was.

Wade scrolled down.

KILL SPIDERMAN

CURRENT RESIDENCE: Stark Tower

SECRET IDENTITY: Peter Parker

AGE: 19 3/4

APPEARANCE: Short brown hair, muscular, right red and blue suit

REASON FOR ASSASSINATION: Classified.

Wade rolled his eyes.

First of all, duh, to just about everything ok that page- he was insane, not stupid!

Second of all, it would have take three seconds to say that! So why had Dr. Jassern gone through all of the trouble of making him a thumb drive and giving it to him?

[Maybe you should kill him instead.]

{No! He has the money!}

Wade, slightly annoyed, only briefly looked at the account information listed below the stupid file and shut his lap top loudly.

He was almost mad at Dr. Jassern. "Classified"? As if. He probably just thought Wade was too stupid. Just like everyone.

Had Wade Wilson been any other person, he would have ran a hand through his hair.

But Wade was not any other person.

Wade was very, very Wade.

So instead of preparing or mentally prepping, Wade simply strolled into his nice room, located his suit, and tugged it on. Then he latched on his weapons- most importantly the twin katanas he strapped around his chest and back- and climbed down the fire escape of his thirteen story window.

Thirty minutes later, Wade was scaling Stark Tower, peering through windows and ready to find his victim- and preferably kill him on site.

He'd have to be careful though; a murder charge from The Avengers was the last thing Deadpool needed.