Chapter Text
The cab is filled with the low hum of the engine and the faint whiff of air freshener. You sit in the back, observing Deadpool as he fiddles with the window. He pulls out a crumpled pamphlet for ‘Haunted Segway Tours,’ examining it with exaggerated curiosity before folding it neatly and slipping it into his pocket. His fingers linger on the gum stuck to the ceiling, and he struggles to flick it away. The gum flies past you to land on the window you were leaning against. With a resigned sigh, he leans over you and peels it off, the sticky residue clinging to his fingers.
As you shift in your seat, your gaze catches a brief, shimmering ripple across your skin—a subtle distortion that’s barely noticeable but unsettling. You try to ignore it and focus on the conversation in the cab as Deadpool turns towards the front seat.
“Kinda lonesome back here,” Deadpool announces cheerfully, his head popping up from behind the driver’s seat.
What am I, chopped liver?, you think as you look over to where he is leaning halfway into your space to reach the front seats.
You catch his movement out of the corner of your eye, trying to maintain your composure as he pushes against you for leverage. Deadpool begins to clamber into the passenger seat, grunting with each awkward maneuver. His foot comes flying towards your face and you hit him out of the way.
“Little help?” he asks, his voice strained.
You roll your eyes, grimacing, “Why are you even getting into this poor man’s space?”
Dopinder, the driver, glances at you through the rearview mirror, confusion evident. “Sir, I have to keep my hands on the wheel.”
Deadpool grins and finally situates himself in the passenger seat, clearly satisfied. He extends a hand to Dopinder. “Pool. Dead.”
Dopinder hesitates but shakes Deadpool’s hand. His gaze shifts to the photograph of a woman on the dashboard, which you also notice—a snapshot of a smiling woman in traditional attire.
“Mmm. Nice,” Deadpool comments, his tone softening as he regards the picture.
Dopinder’s expression turns wistful. “Ah, yes. Gita. She would have made me a very agreeable wife, but she’s now with my cousin Bantu.”
You feel a slight twinge of sympathy for Dopinder, even as the subtle glitches on your skin continue. You chime in, trying to keep the conversation flowing. “Love and relationships can be complicated,” you say, your voice steady despite the internal turmoil.
Deadpool leans back, clearly intrigued by the story. “Dopinder, I’m starting to think there’s a reason I’m in this cab today.”
Dopinder, puzzled, nods. “Yes, sir, you called for it, remember?”
“No, my slender, brown friend. Love is a beautiful thing,” Deadpool continues, his tone becoming more philosophical. “When you find it, the whole world tastes like Daffodil Daydream.”
You feel a brief, familiar wave of discomfort as your appearance glitches again, but you force yourself to focus on the conversation. Deadpool’s odd metaphor seems oddly comforting in its own bizarre way.
“So you gotta hold onto love. Tight!” Deadpool exclaims, making a dramatic fist. Dopinder mimics the gesture, though his confusion remains.
“And never let go. Don’t make the same mistakes I did. Got it?” Deadpool’s concern is palpable.
Dopinder nods, his confusion giving way to determination. “Yes, sir.”
Deadpool adds with a grin, “Or else the whole world tastes like Mama June after hot yoga.”
Dopinder’s face contorts with discomfort. “Sir, what does Miss Mama June taste like?”
Deadpool’s response is both vivid and disturbing. “Like two hobos fucking in a shoe filled with piss.”
Dopinder’s face pales, his discomfort evident. “Okay, stop.”
The conversation shifts as Deadpool leans forward, his attention now fully on Dopinder.
“I can go all day, Dopinder. The point is, it’s bad,” Deadpool declares with a theatrical flourish.
Dopinder swallows hard, his discomfort palpable as he tries to process Deadpool’s vivid description. “It’s bad. Uh, why the fancy red suit, Mr. Pool?”
Deadpool’s eyes gleam with mischievous delight. “Oh, that’s because it’s Christmas Day, Dopinder. And I’m after someone on my naughty list. I’ve been waiting one year, three weeks, six days, and oh…” He checks his Adventure Time watch with exaggerated seriousness, his gloved fingers pausing dramatically.
“Fourteen minutes to make him fix what he did to me,” Deadpool finishes with a flourish.
You glance over at Dopinder, who looks increasingly bewildered. The cab’s interior hums softly, a stark contrast to the intensity of Deadpool’s stare. You see Dopinder's grip tighten on the steering wheel, his eyes flicking nervously between the road and Deadpool.
“And what did he do to you?” Dopinder asks, his voice barely concealing his anxiety.
Deadpool’s expression turns grim as he lifts his mask, revealing his horribly scarred face with a dramatic flourish. “This shit,” he says, his tone shifting to a dark humor.
As Deadpool lifts his mask, revealing his scarred face with a dramatic flourish, you feel a rush of anxiety tighten within you. The air in the cab seems to thicken with the weight of your mounting stress. Your organic material suit, a complex mesh of shifting colors and textures, begins to respond to your unease.
“Boo!” Deadpool adds, the dramatic reveal followed by a playful grin.
In that moment, Dopinder’s eyes widen in shock as he looks in the rear view mirror and notices the sudden change in you. Your human facade starts to peel back, revealing the chaotic entropy beneath. It’s as if your skin is dissolving like molten lava flowing down a mountainside, each wave of shimmer and heat making the surface appear less stable, more fluid. The illusion of solidity cracks and distorts, showing glimpses of a deeper, more chaotic form that pulses and undulates beneath.
The once smooth and human-like exterior now betrays its true nature—an ever-changing, almost alien texture that flows and shifts with an eerie fluidity. The surface of your skin appears to melt and reform, the fluid movement reminiscent of lava cascading down a volcanic slope. This unsettling display creates a stark contrast to the calm facade you’re trying to maintain, drawing Dopinder’s astonished gaze as he struggles to process the surreal transformation occurring before him.
——
It’s not long before Deadpool begins patting down his suit, clearly looking for something. He looks back to where you are sitting in the backseat.
Deadpool frantically leans into your space and rummages through the backseat of the cab, his movements are a chaotic blur. His hands sweep over fast-food wrappers, an old magazine, and an assortment of other items, each time producing a more irritated grunt. “Aw, shit! I forgot my ammo bag!” he exclaims, exasperated.
You catch a glimpse of his frustration through his mask as his front is practically in your lap and offer, “You could have just asked me to look for the bag?” Your tone is practical but laced with curiosity.
Dopinder, glancing nervously at the two of you, shifts uneasily in his seat. “Shall we turn back?” he asks, eyes darting between Deadpool’s frantic search and your calm demeanor.
“Nope, no time. Fuck it. I got this. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve bullets, or bust. We’re here!” Deadpool declares, slamming his hand on the window to punctuate his point. The cab screeches to a halt in the middle of a bridge, the sudden stop sending a jolt through the vehicle.
Dopinder, trying to maintain his composure, turns to Deadpool. “That’s, uh, twenty-seven fifty,” he states, clearly uncertain about how to handle the situation.
Deadpool, not missing a beat, grins and says, “I-I never carry a wallet while I’m working. Ruins the lines of my suit.” He gestures to his sleek, red-and-black ensemble with a flourish.
Dopinder looks perplexed but responds, “Oh.”
“You know what?” Deadpool’s face lights up with a sudden inspiration. “How ‘bout a crisp high-five!” He extends his hand dramatically, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You smirk and nod encouragingly at Dopinder. “Go on, it’s the least we can do,” you say, amused by the bizarre turn of events.
Dopinder hesitantly returns the high-five, his hand meeting Deadpool’s with a soft clap. “Okay.”
“Merry Christmas!” Deadpool exclaims, his voice ringing with exaggerated cheer.
Dopinder, still bewildered but trying to keep the mood light, replies, “And a convivial Tuesday in April to you too, Mr. Pool!”
With a theatrical wave, Deadpool leaps out of the cab and strides to the edge of the bridge. You follow him, stepping out onto the bridge as the city hums below. Deadpool plops down on the bridge’s edge, crossing his legs and pulling out a crayon and a sheet of paper. He starts furiously coloring, his focus intense as he draws a cartoonish rendition of himself shooting Francis.
You watch, your expression a mix of amusement and disbelief. Deadpool glances up from his artwork, grinning. “Hey, you see this?” he gestures to the crude drawing. “It’s my masterpiece!”
You shake your head, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Well, at least you’re keeping busy,” you comment, moving closer to the edge of the bridge to get a better view of his eccentric creation.
You watch as he turns his head to the side and seems to space out. After a few silent moments he turns back to you.
You stare down at him, “What was that?”
”What?” Deadpool turns away from the highway to look up at you.
“Where did you just go?”
You don’t get to finish that conversation as you notice Francis’ convoy appear below you. The convoy roars down the highway under the harsh midday sun, metal bodies glinting in the light. You, now in your natural form, harden your bones for the fall that you and Deadpool are about to experience. Your suit is a part of you, ever-shifting, its material appears molten-like, adapting to each movement with an almost eerie grace.
As the convoy approaches the bridge, you drop from above, landing effortlessly on the roof of one of the cars, creating a sizeable dent. The guards in the car stare in shock as your form shimmers and ripples like liquid metal, shifting through the body of the van to attack the men inside.
Inside the car, chaos erupts. As the guards scramble to defend themselves, your body absorbs the bullets into the hot metal of your flesh. The car lurches violently as you disarm one of the guards.
In a blur of motion, you extend your hand and it transforms into a small handgun, its sleek form catching the light. With precise aim, you fire at the guards, the bullets incapacitating them with clean, efficient shots. Your body’s molecular manipulation allows for seamless transitions, and you effortlessly switch the handgun into a blade, slicing through the driver to send the car careening to the side.
Another vehicle in the convoy swerves dangerously as you leap from the car, landing on the roof of the next one. The guards inside the car below are caught off guard as you drop through the roof. You take them out with swift, calculated hits, your punches carrying extra weight and heat.
A motorcycle rider speeds up alongside the convoy, opening fire. You react quickly, allowing your form to fall apart and throwing hot metal towards the guard. With a single, decisive shot, you hit the motorcycle's engine, causing it to explode in a fireball that sends the rider flying.
With the convoy in disarray, you continue your assault, seamlessly transitioning between various weapons and forms. Your molecular shifting makes you an unpredictable and formidable opponent, each weapon appearing and disappearing in a fluid dance of combat. The guards struggle to counter your relentlessness.
Just slightly ahead of you, as you approach a bridge, you see Deadpool fighting in another car. The car swerves, causing it to flip and crash. Everything happens so fast, a chain slicing through one of the bikers, another man sent flying from the car. Bodies are everywhere before the Deadpool’s car finally comes to a stop.
You roll your eyes at Deadpool’s antics as you run towards where he is hiding, “You’re such an asshole, Wade.”
”Thank you, I try,” he responds, not missing a beat.
As Deadpool stands on the roof of a car, he holds his arm up, revealing a bullet hole going straight through. Through the hole, he spots a motorcycle coming back.
"Mother fucker! Ten," Deadpool growls, shooting and missing. "Shit! Nine." He shoots again, missing once more. "Fuck! Eight." Another miss. "Shit fuck!"
He leaps over the car and takes aim, but loses his chance at a good shot. "Bad Deadpool," he mutters.
As Deadpool notices one of the men sneaking around the car, he shoots him in the head. "Seven. Good Deadpool."
Another man begins shooting at him. Deadpool hides behind a car. The man reloads, shoots some more, then jumps on top of the car to find Deadpool seductively posed. He tries to shoot, but his gun just clicks.
"Someone’s not counting," Deadpool quips before shooting the man in the head. "Six."
A pair of men approaches. One begins to throw a grenade. You form a small plasma rifle as soon as you notice them, taking quick aim and firing, hitting the grenade while it's still in the man's hand. It explodes, killing both men. Deadpool does a celebratory dance.
Someone sneaks up behind Deadpool and shoots him. He falls to the ground, pretending to be dead. The man approaches.
"Four," Deadpool says, shooting the man from between his legs. He gets up, groaning. "Ah! Right up main street."
You stand guard as Deadpool recovers, looking for any approaching thugs before looking down at your partner, “Come on, Wade. We don’t have all day.”
You, meanwhile, have shifted your arm into a pair of sleek katanas, similar to the two that Deadpool likes to keep on him. You rush towards another group of attackers, your movements fluid and precise. The first man doesn't even see you coming as you slice through his weapon, then his chest. The second one raises his gun, but adapt your hand to its liquid form once more, absorbing the bullets shot at you.
Deadpool walks up to the man he just shot and shoots him twice. "Three! Two! Stupid! Worth it."
More men begin shooting at him. He ducks behind another car. Three men approach. Deadpool jumps over the car and shoots a single bullet, which goes through all three of their heads. The casing says one. Deadpool smells the smoke from his guns. "Ooh. I’m touching myself tonight."
”Can we focus, please?” You snap, annoyed at his distraction.
You dispatch the last of your attackers with a swift, brutal efficiency. Your arm shifts back into its natural form as you stand amidst the wreckage.
Deadpool begins prancing through the wreckage and bodies. "Francis! Francis!" He searches one of the cars. "What the shit biscuit! Where you at, Francis?"
Behind him, one of the men he shot gets up. Deadpool turns around. "Ugh. You’re not Francis."
Rather than killing him, the bullet is just lodged in his forehead. He pulls it out and rolls up his sleeves.
"Really? Rolling up the sleeves?" Deadpool scoffs.
The man pulls out some knives and charges Deadpool. Deadpool takes out his swords and skewers the man.
.
.
.
It’s crazy to think how you got into this situation in the first place, as you watch Deadpool stare up at his most recent kill. For that, you have to go back to where it all started.