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primepool) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
diademlogs2026-04-09 08:40 pm
primepool) wrote in diademlogs2026-04-09 08:40 pmEntry tags:
primepool) wrote in diademlogs2026-04-09 08:40 pm
logan.
His Walkman, ever since it turned fucky-wucky on Wade's one attempt to find his roommate, belts out a staticky mashup of lyrics, interspersing between his thoughts that have become nothing more than ping-pong points of upsetti spaghetti. There's nothing where he used to lie --
Not some holy light.
There's no Dopinder going not agaaain, DP! or Peter trying to refocus his attentions on sexy body modifications. And, the worst: there's no dirty, stinky old lady apartment he can break into, collapse on the dusty floor, take a shuddering breath, and, for the third time, go I'm in so much pain as he waits for old, blind lady wisdom. Something, something, he has to feel pain to truly live in the first place. You know what? Maybe he's tired of all the living.
All the knowledge of comic canon in the world can't stop Wade's brain from telling him equal parts you were never going to be happy for long and why were you even happy in the first place? It's all for the drama. For the plot. For the enjoyment of one more issue of Deadpool's incredible adventures into self-defensive psychopathy, somewhere between several bouts of amnesia, false memories, and another break-up. (All I ask is can beauty come out of ashes? Jesus Christ, Walkman, that's personal.)
Though he's personally only had the one. And that one fucking ruined him enough to get Wolverine's corpse out of retirement. This is, sort of, a break-up, except he didn't even get to be the one who fucked up enough to cause it to happen. Sure. Inevitable he'll run into Cable down the line, whenever that X-Force movie gets off the ground, which it totally, definitely will.
Just like the Blade movie.
Inevitable.
You go back to her and I'll go back to --
Except inevitability leaves him with, what? Their room's been empty for over a week, Charles can't sense him, and sure, Nate's a big, saucy bastard, but even Wade thinks. He would've said something. Right? One last heroic moment for him before he fucked off somewhere else in the timeline. And at the end of it all, even if he wanted to think he was just out there, fucking about in the Fringes, Wade knows he's not. 'Cause there's a giant hole in him that matches the one that Vanessa left, but somehow, it goes deeper. It's not more important, not more devastating, but it's physically there in a way his break-up isn't. A core inside of him scooped out, melon-ball style. A cancer eating out his heart.
Black, black, black --
Anyway. Back to the breadcrumb beige: the only thing that has this motel wall still standing is Wade's already taken the mallet to the couch first. It's in chunks of splintered wood and mildewy cushion stuffing. (Wasn't really satisfying, and now he's out a couch.) His wall is just as it's been for weeks: dotted with various Polaroids of his fellow mutants, of his friends, and the one Peter Parker took of him, where Wade vaguely looks like he's constipated and confused. The part of the wall that has stopped him from getting started is as pristine as when Wade painted it: Wade and Nathan holding hands, shooting giant laser guns with their other arms, killing a bunch of parachuting bad guys, all drawn with the skill of a six-year-old with his first box of Crayolas.
And then Cable's addition: Slappy the cat in her own parachute, dropping down to join them. It's ugly as shit.
Only reason the bed's survived is since Nate disappeared, Slappy's been sleeping in his spot on the bed. Keeping it warm. She looks out the window, too, and sometimes she disappears for hours or days, probably... not fucking looking for him, because she's a cat and she's an asshole, but eating rats or something.
So Wade's on his own, made sure Slappy's not in the damn room because he's got several cans of severely overpriced gasolene in the corner he's gonna end it with. Because he doesn't have the money for barrels of it this time, and he knows he's just gonna put himself back together anyway, but the smaller his bits are, the longer he'll be somewhere else.
Then he'll crawl back to absolutely nothing but rubble and all the physical remains of his memories burned into nothing. Will he feel better?
Probably not.
Wade's pulled his mask on but he's just standing there, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a pair of boxers. True suicidal chic. He swings the mallet once, testing the weight, and hits the place where the Polaroid of himself hangs, the head going straight through concrete with the ease of a knife through wet paper. Gonna be the start of a very short night.
We're singing in the car, getting lost upstate. Oh, come the fuck on.]
karen.
Set the scene:
Dramatic, quiet violins that are ramping up with the toots of trumpets. A handful of armed gangbangers, armed to the teeth -- seven, eight, nine? Twelve. Quite the organized little gang, bursting through The Drifting Crumb's doors so hard the bell that tinkles every time someone comes in flies off towards the counter. Of course they're wearing masks (what good movie gang doesn't have them?) but they're an amalgamation of some creatures Panorama could be pridefully hosting as native creatures, making the masks look like a papier-mâché rendition stuck somewhere between big, bulbous-eyed squids and shark sphincters. The artistry is really one for the books, folks. Wade makes a note to grab one on his way out to put up somewhere. Maybe the new apartment he's been scoping out in the Sanctum. Something about his current frame of mind makes him really want to be everyone else's problem.
That's why he's letting this get so far. It's why he's on the tiled floor behind the diner's counter, wiggling his toes in his shoes as one of the masked guys starts slamming the butt of his gun into the cash register, and it's why he's quite literally worm-crawled his way across the floor to sit up next to Karen.]
How's it goin'? Not your first hold-up, I know. [They're both from the city. Like, come on. Just over the corner edge of the bar, someone gasps, collapsing -- hit across the face by another butt of a gun. Shots fired, but not into anyone's torsos. Yet. Wade typically doesn't bring his weapons to work, but he's never needed swords or guns to be deadly.
This has been a fun game, being a hostage. But now he's kinda hungry and he stops what he's about to say next as one of the people tied up with them -- a woman -- is dragged into the back groom, kicking against the ropes tying her legs together. Under the muffled sound of her screams, Wade hears what he's absolutely sure is the name of their boss.
And not in a threatening, where is that motherfucker, I'm gonna kill him and skullfuck his scalped head! way. Robbing the diner is one thing, but Wade's getting the real distinct feeling this isn't about the money in the register. This is the third person who's been dragged into the kitchen, and gunshots haven't followed up a single one.
Nope, they're inspecting. Collecting. Choosing who to keep.
He leans in closer to Karen, knocking his head against hers. Look, he's had his hands tied behind his back plenty of times, but he's never had the best balance with it. He sniffs, the glaze he took before his shift still giving him a buzz in the back of his head.] Think we're gonna have to kill these guys, Karebear. It's been a really bad fuckin' week. [Which, coming from Wade, is a real noticeable statement. There's not that usual tinkling amount of humour in his voice. He's not preparing himself to be clean or careful.] Think you can be on hostage-saving duty?
amy.
There's an even better reason not to stop in this parking lot, and it's the fully superhero-costumed man who's laying on the pavement with said boombox on top of him, whose cracked, watery voice joins in the lyrics. Mamma Mia! this isn't.]
Yooou are the daaaancing queen, yoooung and sweet, only seventeeen... Why is she only 17, anyway? How good could her dance moves even be at that point?
[A distant explosion erupts from under some of the rubble, shooting burned up wood and charcoal into the air by several hundred feet. Wood hits the tar like the beat of several, out of time tambourines.]
You can d-dance, you can jive, having the time -- the time of your liiife --
[Wade lifts his head, rolling his mask up high enough that he can scoop out a black, shiny liquid from a little container covered in kitty stickers, pulling out a glob to drop right into his mouth. The glaze dissolves under his tongue within seconds, but the high takes a little longer, even though he's been chasing it for hours and his supply's almost out.] This song's kinda problematic now I think about it. [He sobs, rolling his mask back down.] Nothing in this world is unproblematic, huh? She can't even... even fuckin' jive without me judging her...
[It's hard to say whether he recognizes or cares about a car, or its occupant, coming his way. Honest? He's kind of hoping it runs over him. Maybe he can throw his boombox out of the way before it gets pulverized.]
1/? i want complete silence dont say anything
But also, if nobody needs help, maybe there are things worth snatching up.
As he slowly pulls over, he squints hard to see a red shape with limbs akimbo in the parking lot — and the fire still raging behind him. Shit. Is that Wade Wilson? Is he in some kind of trouble?
... He should really get out and check on him.
It'd be the right thing to do.]
no subject
Is he sob-singing ABBA?]
no subject
4/4 okay done
So you are alive. I thought you might've gone out listening to — whatever this is.
[Okay, so Amy hadn't expected to pull over in her return from the scrap yard (hint: she got horribly turned around, and she's hoping Frank never finds out because he'll complain at her). But she also cannot help the allure of something that was once massively on fire. It's mostly just a pathetic smoldering wreckage, which is a shame; there could've been good stuff in there.
She doesn't seem too worried about the danger Wade might or might not pose.
In fact, she nudges him with the toe of her shoe. Just a little.]
Did you get your A-double-dollar-sign handed to you, or what?