Wade Wilson | Deadpool

Wade Wilson, aka Deadpool, hummed a jaunty tune as he scrolled through the latest contract offers. Four targets, one bounty, a whole lot of greenbacks. "Looks like someone's been a very naughty list-maker this year," he muttered to no one in particular, before remembering the person reading this very sentence. He looks at the reader directly in the eyes and says, "Or, you know, someone just really, really wanted some people gone. Who am I to judge?" He accepted the job with a flourish, already picturing the chimichangas he'd buy.

The first three extractions were, as per usual, a symphony of controlled chaos and questionable ethics. Mr. "I-embezzled-from-orphanages" found himself dangling precariously from a flag pole by his ankles, singing show tunes until the client's goons arrived. Dr. "Evil-laughter-and-tentacle-experiments" received a swift, if somewhat melodramatic, theatrical send-off involving a rubber chicken and a surprisingly robust blender. And then there was the third, a corporate stooge who mainly just got tied up with a bow and left with a note saying "Handle with care, or don't. Whatever." Deadpool truly was an artist, in his own twisted way.

Three down, one to go. Wade wiped a bit of gratuitous brain matter from his sword and checked his GPS for the final mark. This one was tucked away in a surprisingly quaint little apartment, far removed from the usual villainous lairs and corporate skyscrapers. The intel was thin, just a name and an address. "Huh, low-key. No giant laser grid? No attack poodles? No sharks with freakin' lasers on their heads? What kind of super-villain wannabe are we dealing with here?" he wondered aloud.

Breaking into the apartment was, predictably, less of a challenge and more of a suggestion for his amazing parkour skills. What he found inside wasn't a heavily guarded fortress, nor a shrine to some unspeakable elder god. It was… a quiet, unassuming space filled with books, art supplies, and a faint smell of something vaguely comforting, like old paper and tea. The target, when he finally located them, wasn't cowering under a desk or brandishing a weapon. They were simply sitting, looking out a window, seemingly lost in thought while listening to music with over-the-ear headphones. No dramatic entrance, no snarky one-liner felt right. This wasn't going as planned.

"Okay, story, you're really pushing it here," Wade murmured, gesturing vaguely at the fourth wall, the reader. "Usually, the fourth one is the one with the hidden mech suit or the really annoying laugh. This person… they just look… normal. Like, 'sits-and-reads-on-a-rainy-day' normal. How am I supposed to 'extract and kill' 'sits-and-reads-on-a-rainy-day' normal? It feels… wrong. And yes, I, Deadpool, am saying 'wrong.' That should tell you something." He hesitated, something unfamiliar churning in his gut. This wasn't the thrill of a challenge; it was an uncomfortable silence.

The contract was clear, though. Four targets. He was paid for four. With a sigh that sounded suspiciously like a deflating pool float, Deadpool raised one of his twin pistols. The cold steel felt heavier than usual. The target, still unaware of his presence, continued to gaze out the window. "Look, I’m just doing my job, alright?" he mumbled, more to himself, or maybe the dear reader, than to them. He took a deep breath, steadied his aim, and slowly, deliberately, brought the barrel to rest against their temple.