The Son of Mischief and Moonlight

The infirmary at the Xavier Institute looked like a cross between a hospital, a battlefield, and a circus. Honestly, it was the kind of place that Harry Lokison figured could only exist in one of those "alternate universes" that always popped up in superhero movies. You know, the ones where the characters don't know they're in a universe that's actually just a comic book, and things like being rescued from a secret Stryker facility by SHIELD teams with people who could teleport and punch through walls was just another Tuesday.

Not that Harry had any idea what a normal Tuesday was supposed to look like anymore.

He stood by the door, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold in front of him. It wasn't exactly a relaxing scene. SHIELD medics, all wearing their standard white suits like they were prepping for a science fair presentation on "How To Heal Mutants 101," rushed around checking on everyone. And by everyone, I mean the group of young mutants who'd barely made it out of that hellhole.

Piotr Rasputin was stretched out on a medical bed, looking like someone had melted a suit of armor and left him inside. His huge, metal body still gleamed in the fluorescent lights, and he muttered something in Russian that Harry was pretty sure was a complaint about his sister. Knowing Piotr, it was probably something like, "Why does Illyana always get the cool magic and I get… this?" Harry had a soft spot for the big guy. You couldn't not, especially with how powerfully he looked like a lumbering statue of a war hero who was just really into heavy metal.

"Mr. Rasputin," the SHIELD medic—who had that no-nonsense, I-know-you're-a-mutant-but-I-don't-care tone—said, "You're still running a bit hot. Rest. Don't make me tell you again."

Piotr's answer was a noncommittal grunt. "I'm resting. I'm… resting," he muttered, not entirely sure what the word resting meant in a body like his.

Across the room, Illyana was sitting cross-legged on her own cot, looking like someone had drained all the color out of her face but still kept the "ready to kill demons at any moment" vibe. She wasn't a stranger to battle fatigue, but the mental toll of using her actual magic sword? Yeah, that was a different story. Harry could almost hear her thinking, I'll rest, but only if I can teleport myself into a better situation.

And then there was Kurt Wagner, who had the type of face that was either too cute or too elfish to be taken seriously—depending on whether you were into blue, fuzzy Germans with glowing yellow eyes. Kurt was in the middle of some SHIELD check-up, looking like a kid who'd just gotten caught sneaking around in the kitchen after bedtime. His tail flicked nervously, and his usual mischievous grin was only half-there.

"Still thinking of pulling some stunt, Kurt?" Betsy Braddock asked. She was perched on the bed across from him, probably picking up every stray thought in his head (and judging by her expression, not all of them were PG-rated).

Kurt gave her a grin that was only a little sheepish. "What can I say? I like my stunts."

Betsy raised an eyebrow. "You're lucky that you've got the healing factor of a raccoon or something. Can't imagine it's fun being in the same room with all these medics."

"I'm not complaining. I can't remember the last time I was this tired," Kurt admitted. "Not even after the circus." He paused for a moment, his ears flicking. "That was a bad joke, wasn't it?"

Betsy rolled her eyes, which meant she wasn't that mad. When Betsy was really mad, she had this way of giving you a mental wedgie from halfway across the room.

Sam Guthrie, aka Cannonball, was sitting on a cot near Kurt, his arms folded over his chest like a big, tired Southern pancake. The guy looked like he'd just woken up from a nap, but Harry knew better. Sam was still healing from some serious burns his flight powers had given him during the escape, and though he was doing that "tough guy" routine, his face was tight with pain.

Nearby, his younger sister, Paige, was still looking like someone had just dragged her through a hedge. She had duplicated herself multiple times in the battle, and Harry could see the exhaustion in her eyes. Probably didn't help that she had also taken a few hits. Even the strongest of them could only keep up that level of intensity for so long.

"Hey, Sam," Kurt said, winking at the Southern guy. "You know, I think this might be the first time I've ever seen you not talking."

Sam's lips twitched, but that's all he gave—one of those little half-smiles that meant he was trying not to be too grumpy. "It's hard to talk when every inch of me feels like I've been hit with a flamethrower," he said.

"Right. I'd offer to heal you, but this is about as close as I get to reliable medicine," Kurt joked, making a little twirl motion with his fingers, and they both laughed. It was that kind of quiet, half-relieved chuckle that you get when you're on the edge of an emotional breakdown, but you don't want to do it in front of anyone.

Harry watched them, a tiny smile forming on his face. "Well, at least no one's dying," he muttered under his breath. He caught a SHIELD medic giving him a sidelong glance, but Harry just shrugged. "Can't keep these kids down."

"Tell that to my neck," said Clarice Ferguson, who was leaning against the far wall, arms folded. "It feels like someone hit me with a bus. And I'm done with buses." She hadn't said much since the escape, and her eyes were filled with that familiar anger Harry had seen on more than a few people who'd been through the wringer. But Harry figured if anyone needed a minute, it was Clarice. She was the one who had teleported them out of that hellhole. She'd bent reality to get them out. She could use a breather.

John Proudstar—who, if you didn't know him, would probably just look like a really tall guy in a shirt that almost fit—was staring out the window, his fists clenched at his sides. The dude could break the world with one punch, but sometimes, Harry thought, the emotional damage stuck with him more than any physical wound. He'd spent too many years trying to survive Stryker's hell, and the guilt wasn't just going to vanish.

James, John's brother, was sitting nearby, his expression dark and lost in thought. He wasn't so much physically broken (although, who could tell with him?), but Harry could see the thoughts behind those heavy eyes. They didn't make fun of James. Nobody did. His powers were seriously useful, but his mind was always running ten steps ahead of everyone else.

Tabitha Smith, AKA Boom-Boom, was sitting cross-legged in a bed, tapping her fingers to some invisible beat. "Yo, Cloud Boy," she said, catching his eye. "Just wanted to let you know that I'm totally ready to explode everything in sight right now. But I guess I'll hold off." She grinned, half-winking. "For now."

Harry returned her grin, but he felt the weight of everything pressing down on him. They're alive, he reminded himself. That's the important part. He let out a sigh, tapping his fingers against his temple, trying to remind himself he had to focus.

And just as he was about to speak, Piotr caught his eye, giving him a small, tired smile. "You're going to help them, aren't you?"

Harry gave a lopsided grin back, his fingers brushing against his cloak. "Yeah, I'm going to. They've earned it."

He turned back to the room of survivors, watching them slowly rebuild what had been shattered. There were still rough days ahead, but if these kids could survive the worst Stryker's facility had to offer, Harry knew one thing for sure: they were not going down without a fight. Not while he was around.

—

Harry had just started strolling out of the infirmary when he noticed the all-too-familiar figure in the doorway. Jean Grey. Yeah, of course it had to be her. With her red hair practically glowing under the fluorescent lights and that look on her face that screamed, I'm deep in thought, even though it was basically her default mode. If Harry had a galleon for every time she was deep in thought, he'd be able to buy a small island by now.

Of course, she wasn't trying to hide or anything, but Harry had spent enough time with her to recognize when someone was pretending to be subtle. Jean was looking at him like she was trying to sneak by without making it obvious. But let's be real—subtlety was not her strong suit. Especially when she was practically radiating psychic energy like a human Tesla coil.

Harry grinned and pushed open the door to step into the hallway. He was halfway to his next destination when he realized Jean wasn't alone. Surprise, surprise—there was a whole mini-gathering of mutants standing there, acting like they were just casually hanging around the infirmary, when in reality, they were probably plotting something. But Harry knew better than to be fooled by that.

First up was Scott Summers, aka Cyclops, who was trying so hard to look chill that it practically hurt to watch. The guy's posture was so straight it looked like someone had shoved a broomstick up his back. His red-tinted glasses perched on his face like he was wearing them as some sort of superhero badge. Harry had to hand it to Scott though—he was committed. Whether it was saving the world or looking like he was on the cover of a 'How to Impress Jean Grey for Dummies' book, Scott was all in.

"Jean," Scott said, clearing his throat in a way that would've been comical if it hadn't been so painfully awkward. "Uh, what do you think of the new kids? You think we've got a solid team here?"

Jean looked up, and Harry swore he saw her try not to laugh. She smiled, the kind of smile that everyone knew was her way of saying, I see exactly what you're doing, and it's adorable but also tragic. "I think we'll be just fine, Scott," she said, calm as ever, but Harry caught that twinkle in her eye. She wasn't fooling anyone.

Scott puffed up a little, clearly pleased with himself, like he had just scored a major win in some unspoken competition. "Right, yeah, just wanted to make sure you thought that. About the team, I mean." He gave Harry a quick glance, clearly trying to show off a little, too. "We're all really ready, you know... for anything."

Harry just nodded, trying (and failing) to suppress his grin. "Sounds like you've got it covered, man," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

At that exact moment, Remy LeBeau—aka Gambit—leaned lazily against the wall, looking like he had just walked off a 90s comic book cover. Dark, messy hair, an easygoing grin, and that aura of "I'm too cool for this" that made everyone else feel like they were trying way too hard. Remy didn't need to try. He just was.

"What's this?" Remy drawled, flicking a card between his fingers like it was no big deal. His accent could melt butter, and his smile could probably charm the pants off anyone, no effort required. "Scott here been tryin' to impress the lady again?"

Scott turned an alarming shade of red. "I'm not—"

"Don't worry, Summers," Remy said, giving him a wink. "I'm sure Jean's got plenty of time for your puppy dog talk later." He twirled a card in the air, making it vanish in a flash. "But maybe I should show the kid how it's really done."

Jean's lips twitched, her amusement barely contained. "You think you're ready for that, Remy?"

Remy gave her his signature lazy grin. "Jean, I was born ready." He said it with so much mock-seriousness that Harry wasn't sure if Remy was joking or genuinely convinced that he was the most important person in the room. Either way, it was definitely entertaining.

Before Scott could throw a single jab, Rogue's voice cut through the tension like a chainsaw through butter. Rogue was standing off to the side, arms crossed, looking like she'd just walked out of a battle royale and still had enough energy to lecture everyone. "Y'all gonna get it together? Or are we gonna keep standin' here like a bunch of confused puppies?"

"We're not puppies," Bobby Drake—aka Iceman—chirped from the corner. He was clearly the youngest of the group, barely hitting double digits in age, and his excitement for his ice powers was as obvious as a neon sign. The kid was practically bouncing off the walls. "I'm definitely not a puppy."

"Yeah, Bobby's more like a puppy on ice," Kitty Pryde piped up from behind him, giving a smirk as she adjusted her glasses. "You know, with ice powers? Get it?" She crossed her arms and looked totally unbothered, as if the entire situation was a casual Tuesday for her. "Remy's more of the bad-boy type. He's the one who'd have a motorcycle if he could."

Bobby made a face, all pouty and offended. "I could totally have a motorcycle. Just wait 'til I get this ice thing down." He kicked the floor and made a mini ice rink appear out of nowhere, looking proud of himself. "See?"

Remy raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You callin' that a motorcycle, kid?" he said, flicking one of his cards at the ice rink, making it disappear with a flash of energy. "Real motorcycle comes with the wind in your hair, not... this cold, slippery nonsense."

Jean smiled, her tone soft but teasing. "Don't worry, Bobby. He'll figure it out."

Rogue shot Remy a pointed look. "Well, if you'd stop distractin' him, maybe he'd be makin' progress."

"Now, now," Remy said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "No harm in lettin' the kid have some fun."

Lance Alvers, who had been standing at the back, arms crossed and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, spoke up. "Yeah, fun's great, but we're supposed to be checkin' on the new kids, right? Ain't that why we're all here?"

Jean nodded, finally shifting her attention back to the task at hand. "Right. We'll check on them in a minute. Just wanted to see how everyone's doing."

Harry stepped forward, flashing a grin. "So, is this the superhero team check-in or are we just here to stand awkwardly around each other?"

Scott squinted at Harry, clearly trying to give him a tough-guy stare. "We're just making sure the new kids are... prepared. You know, for whatever comes next."

Jean raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at her lips. "And you, Scott? Ready for whatever comes next?"

Scott puffed up like he'd just won the lottery. "You know it."

"Sure you do," Remy muttered, nudging Scott with his elbow. "Let's just hope you're ready for everything."

Jean's smile deepened, her eyes twinkling with that familiar Phoenix-like intensity. "We'll be ready for anything. Together."

And Harry? Well, he just stood there, taking in the chaos with a grin that could have lit up the whole damn room. This was gonna be fun.

—

As Harry approached the infirmary, his footsteps felt as heavy as if the whole of Asgard had dropped onto his shoulders. Maybe it was the lingering tension from the fight, or maybe it was the echoes of Stryker's crazy underground lab exploding in his head, but something about this hospital wing felt like the calm before another storm. Or maybe he was just overthinking it. Either way, the sterile, antiseptic smell of the place made him feel like he should be wearing a hazmat suit, but at least it wasn't another dimension full of angry titans.

Still, it was weird. Safe, yes. But weird.

Just as they crossed the threshold into the infirmary, a voice—familiar and way too chipper for Harry's mood—called out from behind them.

"Hold up! You didn't think you could get away that easily, did you?"

Harry froze, muscles tightening. Who the heck…?

Turning around, Harry's lips tugged into a grin he hadn't expected. There, standing in the doorway with his classic 'trouble magnet' vibe was none other than Luke Castellan, son of Hermes. Luke's hair was more of a mess than usual, his smile as wide as his trouble-making streak, and he was holding a half-eaten sandwich like it was the Holy Grail.

"Luke," Harry said, rolling his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. "You're worse than the Weasley twins."

Luke gave him a look of mock offense, eyebrow raised. "That's not fair. I mean, they didn't start raiding the pantry until the battle was over." He waved the sandwich dramatically. "Step one: snacks. Step two: check on the mutants. Save the world later, mate."

Behind Luke, Annabeth Chase, the daughter of Athena and voice of reason, couldn't help herself. "The mutants are fine, Harry. S.H.I.E.L.D. medics have already started working their magic." Her eyes flickered to Luke. "Mostly." She said the word like it was an afterthought, and it was pretty clear she didn't want Luke's snack raid to be the focal point.

Thalia Grace, standing next to Harry with her electric blue eyes flashing like a fuse ready to blow, couldn't wait to dive into the serious stuff. "Those collars they were wearing," she said, her voice tight with anger. "The ones that suppress their powers? That's just... messed up. How are we supposed to live like that?"

Clarisse, no-nonsense daughter of Ares, snorted in agreement. "Yeah. As if some stupid collar could stop me." She gave her spear a quick twirl, as if to emphasize the point. "Nobody messes with me."

Harry chuckled. "You're not wrong," he said, nudging the door open. "But right now? Let's make sure they're all stable. S.H.I.E.L.D. might have their fancy healing tech, but these kids are going to need more than just bandages and antiseptic."

As they walked into the infirmary, the sight of the mutant survivors hit them harder than Harry expected. Kids of all ages, lying in beds, pale and bruised from the battle. Medics hustled around, doing what they could, but Harry could see the hesitation in their movements. They weren't used to people like them needing help.

Silena Beauregard, always the soothing presence in any chaos, walked up to a young girl lying in a bed. The girl's eyes fluttered open, and Silena gave her a reassuring smile. "You'll be okay," she said in that soft, calm voice of hers. "You're safe now. We'll make sure of it."

Katie Gardner, ever the realist, crossed her arms and gave the room a once-over. "Pity's not going to help them," she muttered. "They need action. They need training. And that's why we're here."

The Stoll brothers, Travis and Connor, were already on the job, moving around the room like they'd been here a thousand times. "Hey," Travis called, holding up the half-sandwich he'd obviously 'liberated' from Luke's stash. "You're not gonna eat this, are you? Because we've got snacks to go."

Connor grinned. "Yeah, it's the rule: never too young for a snack break."

Charles Beckendorf, the smartest of the demigods when it came to mechanics, was focused on the medical tech. His eyes scanned the room, assessing. "They'll need more than combat training. They'll need something to center them, to help them focus. You know, like a craft project." He paused. "But, you know, a dangerous, life-saving craft project."

Annabeth stepped in, voice filled with pride. "Exactly. We're not just fighters. We're builders. We help people build something that lasts."

Kayla Knowles, who was about two seconds away from launching into a thousand questions about every single piece of technology she could see, was standing next to Yelena Belova, her arms crossed in that serious way she had. "They're alive. That's the most important part," Yelena said with that no-nonsense tone she always had. "But once they're stable? Then we teach them how to fight back."

Natasha Romanoff, standing beside her sister with her cold, calculating stare, nodded. "Tools first. Then training. But for now," she added with a glance around, "stabilize."

Yelena, as always, didn't miss a beat. "And don't trust anyone who looks too friendly," she said, shooting a wink at the mutant survivors. "That's your first lesson."

Harry watched his friends interact with the survivors, a sense of peace settling over him. The weight of the world was still there—he could feel it in his bones—but for the first time today, it didn't seem quite as heavy. They weren't just a bunch of demigods and mutants. They were a team. And with that, maybe, just maybe, they could make a real difference.

And yeah, they still had a long way to go. But Harry figured with this crew, they might just be able to save the world. Or at least survive trying.

—

The hum of Cerebro was like a constant buzzing in the background—kind of like that annoying fly you can never quite swat. It filled the room, making everything seem weirdly... important... or at least it would have, if Wade wasn't pacing around like a deranged puppy on Red Bull. The shadows in the room danced on the walls, courtesy of the eerie glow of Cerebro, which, no surprise, was still doing the thing that only Charles Xavier could do: search for a needle in a haystack. The needle? Francis Freeman—aka Ajax—the piece of human garbage who'd sold Wade out to Stryker. And, as a bonus, had Wade's girlfriend, Vanessa, currently sitting in a metaphorical holding cell somewhere.

Wade Wilson, dressed in his signature red and black costume, stood off to the side, arms crossed, pacing back and forth like a cat on meth. He was not impressed with the whole "waiting around for Charles to do his psychic wizardry" thing. His attention span was shorter than a ferret on a caffeine binge.

"Okay, okay, I've had enough of this," Wade started, slapping his hands together with the enthusiasm of a toddler in a candy store. "Here we are, again, chasing down the dickwad who turned me into an ugly mutant with a mouth that just won't shut up. The guy who ruined my life... but in a totally fun, 'You're gonna regret every second of this' kind of way. Oh, and if you even think about saying 'Vanessa' with a straight face, Logan, I swear to God, I will staple your beard to your chest and hang you out the window by your big toe. It's the right thing to do."

Logan, who had been looking at something invisible on the floor, grunted in response, clearly unfazed. He didn't even glance at Wade. He was like a walking wall of grumpy muscle and excessive body hair, with a side of "I really don't care about your bullshit right now."

"Whatever, kid," Logan muttered through a cloud of cigar smoke, one side of his mouth curling into a grin that was only half a grin because, well, it was Logan.

Wade stopped pacing and stared at him, genuinely offended. "Oh, you wound me, old man. I was gonna make us bond over all the traumatic stuff, but clearly, you're just a sad, grumpy bear that needs a good scratch behind the ears. Maybe I should get you a therapist or a new cigar supplier. You know, since your personality's about as smooth as a cactus."

Logan didn't flinch. He just took another slow drag from his cigar, the embers glowing like the last bit of his patience. "Yeah, yeah, Wade. Keep it up. I'll be over here, ignoring you like the professional I am."

Wade spun on his heel, giving Logan a mock salute before turning his attention to Nick Fury, who was standing by the door like some kind of one-eyed, high-ranking babysitter. Fury's stance was no-nonsense, arms crossed like a boss who was about to give you a lecture on "don't be an idiot."

"So, Nick, big man," Wade said, walking over with the kind of smug swagger that only he could pull off. "How's the eye? You ever get it checked out? You know, I could do a little surgery on it for you—something quick and painless, like a lobotomy, but less effective."

Fury's eye narrowed, but his voice stayed cool. "Wilson. I swear to God, if you say one more thing about my eye, I will personally—"

Wade cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Yeah, yeah, I know. You'll make me eat a bullet. Blah, blah, blah, tough guy talk. I get it, man. I do." He made a big production of rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "But seriously, you should get that checked. It's not just the eye, right? Maybe there's some deep psychological trauma going on there too? I'm a hell of a therapist, if you ever want to, like, talk it out. I'm all ears."

Fury didn't even respond. He just turned to look at Charles Xavier, who was concentrating so hard on Cerebro that he practically glowed with psychic energy. His fingers were moving across the control panel like a master pianist playing Beethoven's Fifth.

"Can you focus for a second, Wilson?" Fury snapped. "Let the man do his job, and try to... I dunno, be a normal human for five minutes."

Wade gave Fury a thumbs-up, his grin so wide it almost took up the whole room. "Yeah, yeah, you're right. Focus. Priorities. I gotcha." He turned to look at Charles. "So, Chuck, what's the word, my telepathic wonder-child? Found my favorite psychopath yet?"

Charles didn't even look at Wade. His voice was calm, almost bored at this point. "Wade, please, refrain from discussing your... very creative methods of retribution while I concentrate. I'm attempting to locate Ajax. Can we focus on that for a moment?"

Wade leaned in, flashing a grin. "Oh, don't worry, Chuck. I'm just letting off some steam. What I really wanna do to him? Well, let me just say... it's gonna be epic. I'm talking about grabbing him by the face, rubbing his head in some broken glass, and then forcing him to listen to the entire Titanic soundtrack on a loop. It's gonna be beautiful. Or I could just hang him by his toenails and slowly watch his mind break, but you know, whatever's easier for you. It's all about efficiency, right?"

Charles' eyes flickered with a tiny hint of irritation, but he remained calm. "Wade, please..."

Wade grinned and put his hands up in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, I get it. No violence... for now. But once we get him, then I'm gonna make him regret everything he's ever done in his miserable life. Trust me, it'll be like... a spa day, but with more blood and less calming music."

Logan finally looked up from his cigar, annoyance flashing in his eyes. "For the love of God, Wilson, will you shut up? Some of us are trying to save the world, not listen to your twisted fantasies."

Wade's face lit up, as if he'd just been handed the best joke of his life. "Oh, Logan. You wound me. You really do. You're just jealous 'cause I'm so much better at this than you. If I were you, I'd be trying to learn something here. I mean, you're basically a walking tantrum with claws at this point."

Logan snorted but didn't dignify Wade with an answer.

Fury, crossing his arms, gave them both an exasperated look. "I swear to God, I'm gonna start charging you for this therapy session."

Before Wade could start his next tirade, the hum of Cerebro suddenly spiked. The screen in front of Charles flashed, and the image of Ajax appeared, his location pinpointed in Madrid.

"I've got him," Charles said, his voice cool. "He's in Madrid. We need to act now."

Wade's eyes lit up like a kid who'd just been told it was finally Christmas morning. "Madrid? Oh baby, it's like the universe just handed me a vacation and a delicious revenge platter. We're gonna crash that party, and it's gonna be so worth it."

Logan stood up with a grunt, the sound of his claws snikting free from his knuckles. "About time."

Fury shot a look at Wade. "Don't kill anyone we need, Wilson. Got it?"

Wade grinned, his mask stretching in a way that made it almost seem too wide. "You got it, boss. But let's just say... if anyone looks like they deserve a bullet, I'm not making any promises."

With that, the team started gearing up. As they moved out, Wade stopped to look at Nick Fury one last time. "Oh, and Fury? If I do kill anyone important, I'll be sure to send you a card."

Fury didn't even flinch. "I'll be sure to burn it."

And with that, the group headed out to Madrid, each of them preparing for the hunt. And for Wade Wilson, well, it was just another day of bloody, messy revenge.

—

As the team geared up and prepared to head out, Wade Wilson couldn't help but take a moment to break the fourth wall. It was his thing, after all. He clapped his hands together, grinning as he looked straight into the reader's eyes, metaphorically speaking, of course.

"Alright, alright, I know what you're all thinking," he said, throwing a hand in the air dramatically, like some kind of motivational speaker. "You're sitting there, probably with a cup of coffee in one hand, and a smug look on your face because you're reading some epic fanfiction, and you've got your popcorn ready. You know, the one about Harry Potter being the lovechild of Loki and Artemis. Yeah, that one. Really stirring stuff, if I do say so myself. And trust me, I do say so. It's gonna be a wild ride."

Wade paused, dramatically shifting his stance like he was about to deliver a sermon. "Now, I know, I know. You're all here for some Harry Potter action, and you want all the cool magic, and you're totally waiting for that epic crossover with the Avengers or some other nonsense. And let's be real, you're probably hoping I'll pop up again later in the story, because, well... who doesn't love a good Deadpool cameo? But guess what? The next few chapters? Well, they're all about me getting my sweet, sweet revenge. And, spoiler alert—I'm getting my girl back, even if she totally doesn't recognize me anymore because, you know, I look like a pizza with way too many toppings now. Thanks, Ajax! You jerk."

He waggled his fingers in the air in an exaggerated, mock-spooky way. "But seriously, folks. It's revenge time, and who doesn't like a good revenge story, right? You get to root for the underdog, you get to see me do some ridiculously creative things to a guy who totally deserves it, and you get to laugh at all the totally appropriate (read: slightly unhinged) things I'm gonna do. That's right, it's gonna get messy. But don't worry. There's no way I'm going full psychopath... well, not too much. But I digress."

Wade adjusted his mask, making a face at it as if it was a complicated piece of clothing that had given him a wedgie. "So yeah, things are gonna veer off course for a bit here. But hang tight, alright? I mean, how could you not? You're reading this, aren't you? And, by the way, before you start whining about how this isn't part of the main story about Harry Potter being Loki and Artemis' love child—let me tell you something: this is my show now, baby. And it's gonna be fabulous. You're welcome."

He snapped his fingers, then adjusted his weapons with a proud grin. "Anyway, back to me. I've got a date with destiny. Or, well, with Ajax. But he won't know what hit him. I've got plans that are so diabolical, even I'm impressed with my own brain." Wade's smile widened, a dark, twisted glee taking over. "And Vanessa? Well, she's probably gonna run when she sees me, but that's not the point. The point is I'm going to make Ajax regret the day he ever thought he could sell me out. And after that, I'll be sure to serenade my beautiful, kind-hearted, not-at-all-psychotic lady love with some deep, poetic, and maybe a little too emotional speeches about how I'd love her even if I looked like a burned-up chicken nugget."

He winked. "But hey, that's me. Always the romantic. Or, y'know, something like that."

Turning back to the team, Wade threw a thumb over his shoulder. "Alright, alright. Let's go wreck some stuff. You guys coming, or do I have to do everything myself? Actually, who am I kidding? It's Deadpool time, baby. Let's go save the day, and possibly make some bad decisions along the way. You'll see. It'll be epic."

And with that, he sauntered off, leaving the rest of the team to trail behind him, knowing that whatever Wade had in mind, it wasn't going to be pretty, but it was going to be entertaining.

---

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