[A/N]: Alright folks, big chapter today to get everyone hyped! The next goal for a bonus chapter is 200 Power Stones š let's see if we can hit it quick! šŖ
Also, our comment ranking is way lower than our Power Stone ranking right now, so don't be shy. Drop your thoughts, reactions, or even random paragraph breakdowns in the comments. I love reading them, and it helps push the story up the charts! Let's see what you've got!
The abandoned warehouse in Belarus looked like shit. Taskmaster ran a whetstone along his blade, the scraping sound filling the empty space while ghosts haunted his thoughts.
The flashback hit without warning.
A baby in his arms. Birthday candles. A school uniform too big for small shoulders. A woman's laugh, her face a white blur where features should be. The images dissolved, leaving only the ache of something lost.
Taskmaster gasped. The blade clattered to the concrete floor. Sweat soaked through his tactical vest. These episodes were getting worse. Ever since that goddamn government experiment, since they'd pumped him full of cut-rate super soldier serum, his brain had become a warzone. Stolen skills versus his own memories, and the skills were winning.
The photographic reflexes worked perfectly. One glance at someone's fighting style and boomāhis muscles could replicate it flawlessly. Adaptive muscle memory turned him into a living weapon who could master any technique instantly.
But the cost? It ate at him daily.
To store all those martial arts, tactical knowledge, and combat expertise, his brain sacrificed his original memories like kindling to keep the fire burning.
He'd been Anthony Masters once. Had a daughter whose name sometimes whispered at the edges of his consciousness before slipping away. A wife whose smile he could almost remember. After his daughter was born, he'd worked for the agency for years before realizing what he was becoming.
So he'd fled. Destroyed every shred of evidence linking him to his past life. Killed everyone who knew about his family. Became Taskmaster, the mercenary who trained others and took any job that paid.
Now he couldn't find them even if he tried. No proof remained of his family. No memories to guide him home.
His phone buzzed. Another training contract from the Red Room, wanting him to whip their cheap knockoff into shape. He scoffed at the thought of their Taskmaster, some girl they'd saddled with his name like a hand-me-down coat.
The warehouse's upper windows exploded inward.
Glass and twisted metal rained down. A motorcycle with a sidecar crashed through, landing with a screech of abused tires. Deadpool rode the bike with manic glee. Masacre clung to the sidecar, priest collar flapping. Hit-Monkey perched on the handlebars like the world's most violent hood ornament.
"HONEY, WE'RE HOME!" Deadpool called out.
Taskmaster's heart dropped. Shit. He hated unpredictability. Couldn't copy what didn't follow patterns. And Wade Wilson? Wade Wilson was chaos incarnate, wrapped in red spandex and bad life choices. Add in that healing factor, and Taskmaster's usual advantages meant jack shit.
"Shit," Taskmaster muttered, snatching up his weapons.
What followed was violence choreographed by madness.
Masacre came in first, dual pistols blazing. "And the Lord said, 'Blessed are those who kick ass in His name!'"
Taskmaster's photographic reflexes kicked in. He'd fought Black Widow, Winter Soldier, half the gun-toting special agents in the Americas. Masacre's style was familiar. Predictable. He dodged left, grabbed a pipe, deflected three bullets with perfectly timed swings. Then he drove his boot into Masacre's gut hard enough to fold him like a lawn chair.
Hit-Monkey came next, chittering fury in a perfect Italian suit. The little bastard moved like John Wick on crack. But Taskmaster had studied that footage too. He matched the simian assassin move for move, reading the tells in his muscle tension, predicting his trajectory.
A thrown knife sent Hit-Monkey scrambling behind cover.
Then came Deadpool.
And the fight went sideways.
"So I was reading this fanfiction the other day," Wade said, dodging a blade aimed at his throat, "and the author really needs to learn about narrative pacing. Like, sure, have your training montages, but maybe don't make them longer than the Return of the King extended edition."
"Shut up!" Taskmaster snapped, pressing his advantage. He'd memorized Deadpool's style from their last three encounters.
The problem? Wade never fought the same way twice when it mattered.
"Oh, we're doing the strong silent type thing?" Wade blocked a strike with his katana. Steel rang through the warehouse. "That's cool, that's cool. Very brooding. Very mysterious. Really sells that 'I'm dead inside' vibe you've got going."
Taskmaster's frustration mounted. Every time he thought he had Wade's pattern down, the mercenary would throw in something random. A cartwheel. A pirouette. Once he just stopped mid-fight to adjust his mask.
The cuts and bruises accumulated. Wade's healing factor meant every injury Taskmaster inflicted was temporary. His own damage? That added up like interest on a bad loan.
"You know what your problem is?" Wade asked, ducking under a roundhouse kick. "You're too predictable. You fight like you're taking a test you already know the answers to. Where's the creativity? The pizzazz? The razzle-dazzle?"
"I don't need pizzazz," Taskmaster growled, landing a solid hit that would've killed a normal person. "I need efficiency."
"Boring!" Wade sing-songed. His ribs were already knitting back together. "No wonder you work alone. Probably sit in your sad warehouse eating sad microwave dinners, watching fight footage like it's porn."
Taskmaster's vision narrowed. The bastard was getting in his head. And worse? He was right.
Every move Taskmaster made was borrowed. Every technique stolen. He was a living greatest-hits compilation with no original material.
But then he remembered something. Those hand gestures Wade had made during their last encounter, right before reality seemed to bend around him. Taskmaster had dismissed it as showboating at the time.
But his photographic reflexes had captured every movement.
Maybe he could turn Deadpool's own tricks against him.
"You chumps think yer the only ones who can do fancy hand seals?" Taskmaster's voice took on a mocking tone. His hands moved in patterns that looked arcane and complex, forming the exaggerated mystical gestures he'd memorized.
Wade's head tilted. Confusion was evident even through his mask. "Wait, are you seriously trying to..."
"Let me show ya a super secret technique I learned offa watching YOU!" Taskmaster continued, pouring conviction into the bluff. His hands became a blur of impossible complexity, mimicking the nonsense Wade had performed.
Nothing happened.
No reality-bending effects.
Just Taskmaster standing there with his hands in weird positions, looking like an idiot.
Wade burst out laughing. The sound echoed through the warehouse. "Oh my God! You actually thought... you tried to copy my made-up bullshit! That's not even a real technique, you absolute walnut!"
"What?" Taskmaster's hands dropped.
"Dude, I was just messing around! Making anime references! There's no 'Domain Expansion: Aerican Style-GUN!' I can't do magic! I barely passed high school biology!" Wade was doubled over now, wheezing with laughter.
The humiliation hit harder than any physical blow. He'd been so desperate to find an edge, so focused on copying everything he saw, that he'd tried to replicate something that was never real in the first place.
His photographic reflexes had failed him in the worst possible way: by working exactly as intended.
In a desperate gambit, Taskmaster feinted left and drove his blade across Deadpool's face. The mask split.
Smooth skin underneath.
A handsome face healing instantly. Completely unlike the scarred nightmare that had haunted Taskmaster's previous encounters.
Taskmaster stumbled back. His weapon suddenly felt heavy. "What... who are you? Where's Deadpool?"
Wade's grin was radiant. Unscarred. Absolutely insufferable. He struck a pose like a model in a cologne ad. "All hail the Doctor! For he was the reason I got my beauty back!" His voice took on a mock-sermon quality. "Blessed be the Power Broker, who took pity on this poor disfigured soul and granted him the miracle of symmetrical features!"
"Not possible," Taskmaster whispered. "The ugly mug that gave me nightmares can never be this."
"Aww, you think about my face?" Wade clutched his chest. "That's so sweet and deeply disturbing! But mostly disturbing. You're just jealous now that I'm rocking this whole 'Ryan Reynolds' aesthetic."
The distraction cost Taskmaster. Wade moved with sudden precision, disarming him in a blur of motion that proved he'd been holding back earlier.
Within seconds, Taskmaster found himself tied up with steel chains. His weapons scattered across the warehouse floor.
Hit-Monkey chittered in approval, taking a swig from a flask he'd produced from his tiny suit jacket.
Wade pulled out his phone, dialing with theatrical flair. "Heya Domino, tell Boss Man we caught the big fish."
An hour and a half later, Jay and Domino walked through the warehouse's main door.
Jay surveyed the destruction. Bullet holes pocked the walls like metal acne. Scorch marks suggested at least one small explosion. A motorcycle was somehow embedded in the far wall.
"How is the police not here yet?"
"Mercenary rules," Domino said with a shrug. "You don't call the cops, cops don't come asking questions. Unspoken truce between professional criminals and lazy law enforcement."
Hit-Monkey sat atop some crates, methodically working through bottles of beer. Masacre stood over the bound Taskmaster, delivering a deeply unhinged sermon about redemption through violence. Wade still wore his full Deadpool suit, but the pristine face underneath the damaged mask was jarring.
Jay whistled low. "Looks like you're enjoying the bonus, Wade. Though your methods remain characteristically chaotic."
Deadpool snapped to attention like a soldier on parade, then immediately undercut it. "Boss Man gave Wade face, Wade happy! Wade give Boss Man Taskmaster, Boss Man happy?"
"Cut it out, Wade," Jay said, but amusement colored his tone.
Domino approached Wade, reaching out to touch his face like she was confirming reality. Her fingers traced his jawline, his unmarred cheek. "Damn! When you showed us those photos, we thought they were faked."
Wade gasped with mock offense. "You doubted me? EMOTIONAL DAMAGE!" He clutched his chest.
Jay ignored the banter and approached Taskmaster. The man looked broken in ways that went beyond physical damage. Jay pulled up a chair, positioning it so the dim warehouse lights backlit him. His face stayed in shadow except for his brown eyes.
His healing aura expanded outward. Diagnostic. Precise. Cracked ribs, internal bruising, minor concussion. Nothing life-threatening, but enough to keep the man cooperative. Jay let just enough healing energy flow to bring Taskmaster to full consciousness without relieving the pain.
Taskmaster's eyes snapped open. He struggled against his bonds, then froze when he recognized who sat before him.
The Power Broker.
The man who'd healed a nation and killed Victor von Doom on live television.
Taskmaster laughed. The sound was brittle. Slightly unhinged. "Damn, Wade. If I'd known the Power Broker himself wanted me, I would've come personally just to save my life. Better captured by you than hunted down by the Red Room. They want their Taskmaster to be the only one."
Jay kept his voice calm. Clinical. "Does it hurt, Anthony?"
The use of his real name was like a jolt of lightning. Anthony's struggles stopped completely. "How... how do you know that name? I erased it. I destroyed everything about me. Became a ghost. So how?"
"Yeah, you did, Anthony." Jay leaned forward slightly. "You sacrificed your identity to keep your daughter and wife safe, didn't you?"
Anthony began shaking. The bonds rattled against his sudden movement. "What are you talking about? What daughter? What wife? I don't..." His voice cracked. "Stop messing with my head!"
"Your powers are eating away at you," Jay continued. His voice stayed steady but not harsh. "Turning you into an empty husk who only knows stolen skills. No real thoughts left. No humanity." He paused, letting that sink in. "What do you think Mercedes and Jeanne will say when they find out you hollowed yourself out trying to protect them?"
The names broke something in Anthony. Tears ran down his face, unbidden and unstoppable. "What names did you just say? Why are they so familiar? Are they really..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Are they really my wife and kid? Did I forget about them?"
Jay's expression softened marginally. "I could give it back, you know. Give you your family back. Your memories buried under all those stolen skills. Even a safe haven under me." He paused, letting the offer sink in. "All of that, for your submission."
Anthony bowed his head. Still bound. Shaking with silent sobs. "Please. Please help me. I'll do anything."
"Show me proof of this loyalty," Jay said quietly.
"My powers." Anthony looked up, eyes red and desperate. "Take them. They're making me hollow anyway. Just give me back what I've lost."
Jay stood. He placed his hand on Anthony's bloodied face. The power theft was instant. Photographic reflexes and adaptive muscle memory flowed from Anthony to Jay like water finding a new channel.
Simultaneously, Jay's healing aura worked through the man's injuries. Knitting broken bones. Healing deep bruises.
The moment the powers left him, Anthony's mind flooded with reclaimed memories.
A baby's weight in his arms, and now he could see her face. Jeanne, with her mother's eyes and his stubborn chin. Birthday candles through the years. First day of school, her nervous smile. Mercedes, his wife, her face no longer a white blur but vivid and beautiful and his.
Their laughter. Their warmth. Their love.
Anthony cried again. But this time with joy and relief and grief for all the years he'd lost.
Domino stepped forward, pulling a single hair from her head. She concentrated, applying the tachyon field Jay had loaned her. The hair glowed with barely visible white energy threaded with black spots. She used it like a dart, cutting through the steel chains binding Anthony as easily as cutting paper.
The chains fell away with a metallic clatter.
Anthony rose to his feet. Unsteady but free. His voice, when he spoke, had changed. Before it had been flat, tactical, the voice of a man reading from someone else's script. Now it carried the weight of reclaimed humanity, rough with emotion.
"As long as my family is safe, I'll follow you to hell, Power Broker."
Jay's expression remained serious. "Don't be thankful so fast. Your daughter seems to have inherited powers similar to yours. You'll need to train her and monitor her closely for any negative effects like you experienced."
Anxiety flashed across Anthony's face, but before he could speak, Jay waved his hand dismissively. "No need to worry. If any side effects appear, I'll handle it. For now, go get your family and move them to District X under the Morlocks. They'll be safe there. The community I'm building, it's for people like you. Like Jeanne. People who need a fresh start. Wade and the rest will provide security. Your job is training the Morlocks to be self-sufficient in combat, especially against armed and stronger enemies."
The weight of information was almost too much. Anthony processed it all: reunion with his family, a new home, a purpose beyond survival, his daughter's safety.
Finally, he nodded. The motion carried the weight of a sacred oath.
Wade broke the heavy moment with characteristic timing. "This is beautiful and all, very Hallmark movie, but can we address the elephant in the room? Specifically, can we talk about how badass I looked with my new face during that fight? Because I feel like it's not getting enough attention."
Hit-Monkey chattered something insulting.
"What do you mean I fought the same as always? I had pizzazz! Razzle-dazzle! I was like Bruce Lee if he had better one-liners!"
Masacre made the sign of the cross. "Vanity is a sin, brother. Pride goeth before a fall."
"Yeah, but a handsome fall," Wade countered. "Which counts for something."
Anthony, still processing his memories, managed to speak. "Thank you. I know those words aren't enough, but thank you."
"Prove it through your work," Jay said simply. "That'll be thanks enough."
As Anthony disappeared into the night, Wade stretched dramatically. "Well, that was emotionally satisfying and character-developing! Now who wants to grab chimichangas? I'm buying, and by buying I mean Domino's buying because I spent all my money on skin care products that I don't need anymore, but bought anyway because I have impulse control issues!"
Hit-Monkey chittered his agreement, already halfway through his second bottle.
Jay teleported them back to New York in a ripple of blue energy. The Belarus warehouse was left behind with its scorch marks and bullet holes and the ghost of one man's reclaimed humanity.
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