Despite Peter's incredible strength—a punch that carried dozens of tons of force—the impact against the massive steel door only managed to flake away the white industrial paint coating its surface. When he pulled his fist back, the only evidence of his superhuman effort was a fist-sized indentation in the metal.
Hissss!
Deadpool unconsciously backed away, staring at the dent with newfound respect for his young companion.
"Holy guacamole on a chimichanga!" he exclaimed. "If you punched me with that, I'd be serving my own organs as hors d'oeuvres at my funeral reception! And people say I'm the dangerous one? You've got biceps that could qualify as weapons of mass destruction!"
As Peter prepared to launch another devastating strike, Deadpool quickly intervened. "Wait! I've got something better for this situation! Something that doesn't involve risking arthritis in your knuckles before you're even old enough to legally buy lottery tickets!"
With practiced efficiency, Wade produced what appeared to be a matte-black grenade from one of his many hidden pouches. The device was oddly textured, with alien-looking symbols etched into its surface. He affixed it to the steel door with magnetic precision and motioned for Peter to retreat.
"You might want to step back for this one, Spider-Kid. Unless you want to end up as a quirky side character in the next Guardians of the Galaxy movie."
They took several cautious steps backward, and Deadpool triggered the remote detonator.
"BOOM! Or should I say... SCHWOOMP!" he announced with theatrical hand gestures. "That's the sound effect I imagine for what's about to happen. The comics would use something like 'KRZZAP!' with squiggly letters. The reader would know."
Instead of the expected fiery explosion, the detonation produced a strangely muffled implosion. Before Peter's astonished eyes, a phenomenon resembling a miniature black hole materialized against the door. The swirling vortex hungrily devoured everything within a two-meter radius—steel, concrete, and reinforcements alike—tearing away at the massive barrier with terrifying efficiency.
Peter's jaw dropped behind his mask. "Holy shit! What the hell is that thing?"
Wade couldn't disguise the pride in his voice. "Pretty cool, right? It's called a black hole bomb—top-tier alien tech! Think of it as cosmic Drano for stubborn fortress doors. Acquiring this baby involved three severed limbs—all mine, unfortunately—two interdimensional bounty hunters with serious anger management issues, and one very angry space raccoon who does NOT appreciate trash panda jokes. Trust me on that last one."
He patted the device affectionately. "Worth every moment of excruciating pain! Would give it five stars on Space Amazon, if such a thing existed. Which it might! The multiverse is crazy like that."
The device's power finally exhausted itself, leaving behind a perfectly circular two-meter opening in the previously impenetrable barrier. Beyond the newly created entrance lay darkness, broken only by the distant sound of something that raised the hairs on the back of Peter's neck—a high-pitched, almost inhuman wail.
"What... what was that sound?" Peter whispered, his enhanced senses detecting subtle undertones of agony in the cry.
"Either someone's rewatching the Game of Thrones finale, or we're about to walk into something straight out of a director's cut of a horror movie," Deadpool remarked, his tone suddenly serious. "Arcane, activate illumination mode. Let there be dramatically ominous lighting!"
Peter quickly followed suit with the same command to his own suit.
Powerful beams of light projected from their costumes as they cautiously advanced through the opening. The scene that gradually materialized before them caused even the battle-hardened Deadpool to hesitate.
Lining the walls of the massive chamber were dozens of transparent containment units—some resembling high-tech sarcophagi, others more like standing cryo-chambers. Their contents varied in ways that turned Peter's stomach: disheveled, unconscious figures with obvious mutations; desiccated corpses with expressions frozen in terror; empty units still stained with dark reddish-brown fluid.
"Jesus tap-dancing Christ on a pogo stick," Deadpool murmured, his usually flippant tone replaced with genuine revulsion. "Looks like we found those missing mutants. This is like the world's most disturbing IKEA display section. 'MUTÄNTS - Now with 50% more existential horror, assembly required.'"
Peter approached one of the containers, his gloved hand hovering above the transparent surface. Inside, a young woman with bluish skin and gill-like structures on her neck floated unconscious in some kind of preservation fluid. Monitoring equipment displayed her vital signs—weak but present.
"Who could do something this horrible?" Peter whispered, a mixture of pity and rage building within him. "These are people, not lab specimens!"
Deadpool's response dripped with bitter cynicism. "Who else but the great Tony Stark, benevolent tech genius and newly minted philanthropist? You know, the guy who just established that massive charitable foundation with much fanfare? 'Look at me! I'm giving away millions while secretly harvesting mutants like a farmer collects heirloom tomatoes!'"
He gestured broadly at the nightmarish laboratory. "Let me tell you something about the ultra-wealthy, Spider-Boy—their public facade rarely matches what happens behind closed doors. It's like their Instagram versus reality, but the reality involves human experimentation instead of just bad lighting and no filters. The fortunes of the privileged are built on foundations drenched in blood and suffering. Good people don't become billionaires; the price is too high."
He paused dramatically before adding, "Except maybe Taylor Swift. She seems nice."
"You're kind of terrifying me right now, Uncle Wade," Peter admitted.
"Sorry to burst your idealistic bubble, but here's a life lesson: you'll never be truly rich unless you hit a multi-million lottery jackpot. And even then, that's just money—not power."
Deadpool paused, suddenly bending down to pick up a small coin from the floor. "Hey, look! Five cents! My luck's changing already! See? This is why I'm not a supervillain—I get way too excited about finding loose change in an evil laboratory. Priorities!"
He pocketed the coin with childlike satisfaction, the grim philosopher suddenly replaced by his more typical mercurial personality.
"You know what this reminds me of?" he asked, gesturing around the laboratory. "That movie—what was it called? The one with the blue people and the wheelchair guy? No, not Avatar. The other one. With the school for gifted youngsters? X-something?"
As they ventured deeper into the facility, the unsettling howling grew increasingly distinct. The acoustics suggested they were approaching an expansive open area—the echoes carried differently than in the confined corridors they'd traversed.
"Either we're approaching a giant cavern, or someone's built a really unnecessary echo chamber to practice their evil villain monologues," Deadpool observed. "Five bucks says it's the second one."
Upon reaching a massive set of sliding doors, Deadpool extracted another device from his arsenal—a high-intensity flash grenade.
"Cover your eyes for a sec. This is brighter than my future and that's saying something."
"BOOM!"
The explosive burst of light momentarily illuminated a chamber of staggering proportions. Peter estimated the ceiling had to be at least ten stories high. The scale made sense for what appeared to be the facility's central operation—a colossal machine complex stretching throughout the cavernous space, resembling some mechanical leviathan in both size and complexity.
"Well, someone's clearly compensating for something," Deadpool whispered. "This is what happens when you give engineering nerds unlimited budgets and zero oversight. Next thing you know, they're building Transformers in their basement."
The machine's purpose became horrifyingly clear as Peter's enhanced vision adjusted to the darkness. Giant mechanical arms methodically retrieved containment units similar to those they'd passed earlier. Each unit held an unconscious mutant, suspended in transparent preservative solution.
The automated system delivered these human specimens to a central processing area where an array of specialized robotic appendages descended upon them with surgical precision. Blood samples were extracted, bone marrow harvested, tissue biopsied—all while the subjects remained semiconscious.
Some awakened during the procedures, their screams reverberating throughout the chamber before they were swiftly sedated again. Once the sample collection finished, the mechanical arms transported the containers to different sections of the facility, presumably for storage or further experimentation.
"I've seen some messed-up shit in my time—and I mean really messed-up, 'need-to-bleach-your-brain-after' kind of stuff—but this?" Deadpool shook his head slowly. "This is giving me the heebie-jeebies, and I once found a family of raccoons living in my water heater. For three months."
Meanwhile, the harvested biological materials were automatically transferred to adjacent analysis stations. A massive central computer system processed the incoming data, its monitors displaying cascading streams of genetic code and biochemical formulas.
On one particularly large display, Peter observed several DNA helixes rotating in three-dimensional space. As they watched, segments were precisely excised from one strand and spliced into another, creating hybrid genetic sequences.
"Ooh, pretty light show!" Deadpool exclaimed, momentarily distracted by the colorful displays. "It's like those DNA testing commercials, but with way more 'crimes against humanity' vibes."
The resulting composite DNA was then simulated in a virtual embryonic environment. The monitor shifted to display a female figure—a digital representation of a pregnant woman with a fertilized egg visible in her womb.
Peter and Deadpool stood transfixed as the simulation accelerated through embryonic development stages. Cell division, tissue differentiation, organ formation—all proceeding at hundreds of times normal speed. A digital counter tracked the simulated months: one, two, three...
"Is it just me, or is this the worst episode of 'Look Who's Talking' ever?" Deadpool whispered. "Spoiler alert: I don't think we're getting a heart-warming ending with Bruce Willis's voice coming out of a baby."
By month eight, the fetus appeared completely normal—appropriate size, proportional limbs, recognizable facial features. For a brief moment, Peter thought the experiment might be benign.
Then everything changed.
A thin, reptilian tail began extending from the base of the fetus's spine. Teeth erupted prematurely through the gums, unnaturally sharp and numerous. Webbing formed between the fingers and toes as the skin texture transformed, developing a pattern of fine scales across the entire body.
"Aaand we've officially entered the 'Nope' zone," Deadpool commented, taking an involuntary step backward. "That's some real Alien meets Jurassic Park nightmare fuel right there. If that thing starts singing and dancing, I'm out."
The simulation continued past normal gestation: ten months, eleven, twelve...
By the sixteenth month, the mutated fetus had grown to monstrous proportions, nearly filling the womb. Its eyes suddenly snapped open—intelligent, predatory, aware. With a swift movement of newly-developed claws, it tore through the uterine wall and abdominal muscles, violently emerging from its host.
Bold red text flashed across the screen: "SIMULATION FAILED. MATERNAL SURVIVAL: 0%. SPECIMEN VIABILITY: 0.3%"
"Well that's just rude," Deadpool remarked, his joke falling especially flat against the horror they were witnessing. "Didn't even say 'thank you' to Mom on the way out. Kids these days have no manners."
Peter and Deadpool exchanged horrified glances, both swallowing hard at the implications.
"Spider-Boy, do you understand what we're looking at?" Wade asked, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. "Because I'm trying really hard to convince myself this is just some elaborate haunted house attraction that's gone way, way too far."
"I think so," Peter replied grimly. "This is a fully automated genetic research laboratory. They're harvesting mutant genes, trying to combine them to create some kind of... super-enhanced being."
He paused, connecting the horrifying dots. "If I'm right, they're attempting to engineer a mutant with multiple powerful abilities—essentially a god among mutants. All-powerful. Unstoppable."
"Fucking hell," Deadpool cursed under his breath. "With all these mutants here, how are we supposed to find Caliban and Purple Man? It's like looking for two specific needles in a haystack made of other needles. Needles that might eat us."
Peter shook his head slowly. "It doesn't matter anymore."
"What do you mean, it doesn't matter? Of course it matters! That was literally the whole point of our exceedingly poorly planned mission! Did you forget the part where we snuck into a prison, I killed like two dozen people, and you made a grown man pee himself? Because I feel like those are events we should acknowledge!"
"If those two were ever brought here, they've already had their genetic material extracted and cataloged. Their DNA sequences are now in the database." Peter gestured toward the central computer system. "Whoever is behind this could theoretically mass-produce individuals with their abilities."
Deadpool tilted his head skeptically. "Even if they could clone them, they'd still be babies, right? Not exactly threatening. 'Oh no, he's crawling menacingly toward us! Quick, distract him with car keys!'"
Peter gestured toward the countless containment units surrounding them. "Among all these captive mutants, what are the odds that at least one has accelerated growth as their power? While their attempts to combine dozens of mutations simultaneously appear to have failed, they could still successfully merge a handful of compatible genetic sequences."
The implications dawned on Deadpool. "You're saying we could soon face an army of Calibans and Purple Men? Like, a whole boy band of mind controllers? 'N Sync But Actually Mind Control'? That's... actually a pretty good band name. I'm writing that down for later."
"That's the optimistic scenario," Peter replied grimly. "From what I understand, Purple Man's abilities come from pheromones his body produces. They might not even need his complete genetic sequence—just isolate the compounds and synthesize them artificially. Anyone injected with the resulting serum could potentially control minds."
"Thank you for your generous gift! Thank you for your generous gift!" Wade repeated his bizarre catchphrase, this time with genuine alarm. "If Stark has this capability, regular people are basically screwed, right? Like, 'game over, man, game over!' screwed."
He paused to look directly at an invisible audience. "That was an Aliens reference, by the way. Classic Bill Paxton. Rest in peace, you magnificent bastard."
Peter nodded solemnly. "The fate of humanity would rest on the whims of whoever controls this technology. With a single thought, they could decide who lives or dies—who remains human and who becomes something else entirely."
His voice hardened with determination. "Uncle Deadpool, we have to destroy this entire facility and alert everyone! Stark has completely lost his mind! We need to stop him immediately, or he'll bring about the extinction of humanity as we know it!"
"Destroy the evil lab? Alert the world? Stop the megalomaniac? Did we just stumble into the third act of literally every superhero movie ever made?" Deadpool quipped, though his voice betrayed genuine concern beneath the humor. "I was hoping we'd at least get to the romantic subplot first. I had some real character development planned."
The declaration hung in the air for a brief moment before a calm, measured voice emerged from the shadows behind them.
"Why do you automatically assume I intend to destroy humanity instead of guiding it toward its next evolutionary leap forward?"
The voice was smooth, cultured, and carried an unsettling note of absolute confidence—as if its owner were discussing nothing more controversial than the weather forecast.
"And cue the villain monologue," Deadpool whispered to Peter. "Ten bucks says he explains his entire evil plan before trying to kill us. They always do. It's in the supervillain handbook, chapter three."
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